phineas finn the irish member by anthony trollope first published in serial form in _st. paul's magazine_ beginning in and in book form in contents volume i i. phineas finn proposes to stand for loughshane ii. phineas finn is elected for loughshane iii. phineas finn takes his seat iv. lady laura standish v. mr. and mrs. low vi. lord brentford's dinner vii. mr. and mrs. bunce viii. the news about mr. mildmay and sir everard ix. the new government x. violet effingham xi. lord chiltern xii. autumnal prospects xiii. saulsby wood xiv. loughlinter xv. donald bean's pony xvi. phineas finn returns to killaloe xvii. phineas finn returns to london xviii. mr. turnbull xix. lord chiltern rides his horse bonebreaker xx. the debate on the ballot xxi. "do be punctual" xxii. lady baldock at home xxiii. sunday in grosvenor place xxiv. the willingford bull xxv. mr. turnbull's carriage stops the way xxvi. "the first speech" xxvii. phineas discussed xxviii. the second reading is carried xxix. a cabinet meeting xxx. mr. kennedy's luck xxxi. finn for loughton xxxii. lady laura kennedy's headache xxxiii. mr. slide's grievance xxxiv. was he honest? xxxv. mr. monk upon reform xxxvi. phineas finn makes progress xxxvii. a rough encounter volume ii xxxviii. the duel xxxix. lady laura is told xl. madame max goesler xli. lord fawn xlii. lady baldock does not send a card to phineas finn xliii. promotion xliv. phineas and his friends xlv. miss effingham's four lovers xlvi. the mousetrap xlvii. mr. mildmay's bill xlviii. "the duke" xlix. the duellists meet l. again successful li. troubles at loughlinter lii. the first blow liii. showing how phineas bore the blow liv. consolation lv. lord chiltern at saulsby lvi. what the people in marylebone thought lvii. the top brick of the chimney lviii. rara avis in terris lix. the earl's wrath lx. madame goesler's politics lxi. another duel lxii. the letter that was sent to brighton lxiii. showing how the duke stood his ground lxiv. the horns lxv. the cabinet minister at killaloe lxvi. victrix lxvii. job's comforters lxviii. the joint attack lxix. the temptress lxx. the prime minister's house lxxi. comparing notes lxxii. madame goesler's generosity lxxiii. amantium iræ lxxiv. the beginning of the end lxxv. p. p. c. lxxvi. conclusion volume i chapter i phineas finn proposes to stand for loughshane dr. finn, of killaloe, in county clare, was as well known in those parts,--the confines, that is, of the counties clare, limerick, tipperary, and galway,--as was the bishop himself who lived in the same town, and was as much respected. many said that the doctor was the richer man of the two, and the practice of his profession was extended over almost as wide a district. indeed the bishop whom he was privileged to attend, although a roman catholic, always spoke of their dioceses being conterminate. it will therefore be understood that dr. finn,--malachi finn was his full name,--had obtained a wide reputation as a country practitioner in the west of ireland. and he was a man sufficiently well to do, though that boast made by his friends, that he was as warm a man as the bishop, had but little truth to support it. bishops in ireland, if they live at home, even in these days, are very warm men; and dr. finn had not a penny in the world for which he had not worked hard. he had, moreover, a costly family, five daughters and one son, and, at the time of which we are speaking, no provision in the way of marriage or profession had been made for any of them. of the one son, phineas, the hero of the following pages, the mother and five sisters were very proud. the doctor was accustomed to say that his goose was as good as any other man's goose, as far as he could see as yet; but that he should like some very strong evidence before he allowed himself to express an opinion that the young bird partook, in any degree, of the qualities of a swan. from which it may be gathered that dr. finn was a man of common-sense. phineas had come to be a swan in the estimation of his mother and sisters by reason of certain early successes at college. his father, whose religion was not of that bitter kind in which we in england are apt to suppose that all the irish roman catholics indulge, had sent his son to trinity; and there were some in the neighbourhood of killaloe,--patients, probably, of dr. duggin, of castle connell, a learned physician who had spent a fruitless life in endeavouring to make head against dr. finn,--who declared that old finn would not be sorry if his son were to turn protestant and go in for a fellowship. mrs. finn was a protestant, and the five miss finns were protestants, and the doctor himself was very much given to dining out among his protestant friends on a friday. our phineas, however, did not turn protestant up in dublin, whatever his father's secret wishes on that subject may have been. he did join a debating society, to success in which his religion was no bar; and he there achieved a sort of distinction which was both easy and pleasant, and which, making its way down to killaloe, assisted in engendering those ideas as to swanhood of which maternal and sisterly minds are so sweetly susceptible. "i know half a dozen old windbags at the present moment," said the doctor, "who were great fellows at debating clubs when they were boys." "phineas is not a boy any longer," said mrs. finn. "and windbags don't get college scholarships," said matilda finn, the second daughter. "but papa always snubs phinny," said barbara, the youngest. "i'll snub you, if you don't take care," said the doctor, taking barbara tenderly by the ear;--for his youngest daughter was the doctor's pet. the doctor certainly did not snub his son, for he allowed him to go over to london when he was twenty-two years of age, in order that he might read with an english barrister. it was the doctor's wish that his son might be called to the irish bar, and the young man's desire that he might go to the english bar. the doctor so far gave way, under the influence of phineas himself, and of all the young women of the family, as to pay the usual fee to a very competent and learned gentleman in the middle temple, and to allow his son one hundred and fifty pounds per annum for three years. dr. finn, however, was still firm in his intention that his son should settle in dublin, and take the munster circuit,--believing that phineas might come to want home influences and home connections, in spite of the swanhood which was attributed to him. phineas sat his terms for three years, and was duly called to the bar; but no evidence came home as to the acquirement of any considerable amount of law lore, or even as to much law study, on the part of the young aspirant. the learned pundit at whose feet he had been sitting was not especially loud in praise of his pupil's industry, though he did say a pleasant word or two as to his pupil's intelligence. phineas himself did not boast much of his own hard work when at home during the long vacation. no rumours of expected successes,--of expected professional successes,--reached the ears of any of the finn family at killaloe. but, nevertheless, there came tidings which maintained those high ideas in the maternal bosom of which mention has been made, and which were of sufficient strength to induce the doctor, in opposition to his own judgment, to consent to the continued residence of his son in london. phineas belonged to an excellent club,--the reform club,--and went into very good society. he was hand in glove with the hon. laurence fitzgibbon, the youngest son of lord claddagh. he was intimate with barrington erle, who had been private secretary,--one of the private secretaries,--to the great whig prime minister who was lately in but was now out. he had dined three or four times with that great whig nobleman, the earl of brentford. and he had been assured that if he stuck to the english bar he would certainly do well. though he might fail to succeed in court or in chambers, he would doubtless have given to him some one of those numerous appointments for which none but clever young barristers are supposed to be fitting candidates. the old doctor yielded for another year, although at the end of the second year he was called upon to pay a sum of three hundred pounds, which was then due by phineas to creditors in london. when the doctor's male friends in and about killaloe heard that he had done so, they said that he was doting. not one of the miss finns was as yet married; and, after all that had been said about the doctor's wealth, it was supposed that there would not be above five hundred pounds a year among them all, were he to give up his profession. but the doctor, when he paid that three hundred pounds for his son, buckled to his work again, though he had for twelve months talked of giving up the midwifery. he buckled to again, to the great disgust of dr. duggin, who at this time said very ill-natured things about young phineas. at the end of the three years phineas was called to the bar, and immediately received a letter from his father asking minutely as to his professional intentions. his father recommended him to settle in dublin, and promised the one hundred and fifty pounds for three more years, on condition that this advice was followed. he did not absolutely say that the allowance would be stopped if the advice were not followed, but that was plainly to be implied. that letter came at the moment of a dissolution of parliament. lord de terrier, the conservative prime minister, who had now been in office for the almost unprecedentedly long period of fifteen months, had found that he could not face continued majorities against him in the house of commons, and had dissolved the house. rumour declared that he would have much preferred to resign, and betake himself once again to the easy glories of opposition; but his party had naturally been obdurate with him, and he had resolved to appeal to the country. when phineas received his father's letter, it had just been suggested to him at the reform club that he should stand for the irish borough of loughshane. this proposition had taken phineas finn so much by surprise that when first made to him by barrington erle it took his breath away. what! he stand for parliament, twenty-four years old, with no vestige of property belonging to him, without a penny in his purse, as completely dependent on his father as he was when he first went to school at eleven years of age! and for loughshane, a little borough in the county galway, for which a brother of that fine old irish peer, the earl of tulla, had been sitting for the last twenty years,--a fine, high-minded representative of the thorough-going orange protestant feeling of ireland! and the earl of tulla, to whom almost all loughshane belonged,--or at any rate the land about loughshane,--was one of his father's staunchest friends! loughshane is in county galway, but the earl of tulla usually lived at his seat in county clare, not more than ten miles from killaloe, and always confided his gouty feet, and the weak nerves of the old countess, and the stomachs of all his domestics, to the care of dr. finn. how was it possible that phineas should stand for loughshane? from whence was the money to come for such a contest? it was a beautiful dream, a grand idea, lifting phineas almost off the earth by its glory. when the proposition was first made to him in the smoking-room at the reform club by his friend erle, he was aware that he blushed like a girl, and that he was unable at the moment to express himself plainly,--so great was his astonishment and so great his gratification. but before ten minutes had passed by, while barrington erle was still sitting over his shoulder on the club sofa, and before the blushes had altogether vanished, he had seen the improbability of the scheme, and had explained to his friend that the thing could not be done. but to his increased astonishment, his friend made nothing of the difficulties. loughshane, according to barrington erle, was so small a place, that the expense would be very little. there were altogether no more than registered electors. the inhabitants were so far removed from the world, and were so ignorant of the world's good things, that they knew nothing about bribery. the hon. george morris, who had sat for the last twenty years, was very unpopular. he had not been near the borough since the last election, he had hardly done more than show himself in parliament, and had neither given a shilling in the town nor got a place under government for a single son of loughshane. "and he has quarrelled with his brother," said barrington erle. "the devil he has!" said phineas. "i thought they always swore by each other." "it's at each other they swear now," said barrington; "george has asked the earl for more money, and the earl has cut up rusty." then the negotiator went on to explain that the expenses of the election would be defrayed out of a certain fund collected for such purposes, that loughshane had been chosen as a cheap place, and that phineas finn had been chosen as a safe and promising young man. as for qualification, if any question were raised, that should be made all right. an irish candidate was wanted, and a roman catholic. so much the loughshaners would require on their own account when instigated to dismiss from their service that thorough-going protestant, the hon. george morris. then "the party,"--by which barrington erle probably meant the great man in whose service he himself had become a politician,--required that the candidate should be a safe man, one who would support "the party,"--not a cantankerous, red-hot semi-fenian, running about to meetings at the rotunda, and such-like, with views of his own about tenant-right and the irish church. "but i have views of my own," said phineas, blushing again. "of course you have, my dear boy," said barrington, clapping him on the back. "i shouldn't come to you unless you had views. but your views and ours are the same, and you're just the lad for galway. you mightn't have such an opening again in your life, and of course you'll stand for loughshane." then the conversation was over, the private secretary went away to arrange some other little matter of the kind, and phineas finn was left alone to consider the proposition that had been made to him. to become a member of the british parliament! in all those hot contests at the two debating clubs to which he had belonged, this had been the ambition which had moved him. for, after all, to what purpose of their own had those empty debates ever tended? he and three or four others who had called themselves liberals had been pitted against four or five who had called themselves conservatives, and night after night they had discussed some ponderous subject without any idea that one would ever persuade another, or that their talking would ever conduce to any action or to any result. but each of these combatants had felt,--without daring to announce a hope on the subject among themselves,--that the present arena was only a trial-ground for some possible greater amphitheatre, for some future debating club in which debates would lead to action, and in which eloquence would have power, even though persuasion might be out of the question. phineas certainly had never dared to speak, even to himself, of such a hope. the labours of the bar had to be encountered before the dawn of such a hope could come to him. and he had gradually learned to feel that his prospects at the bar were not as yet very promising. as regarded professional work he had been idle, and how then could he have a hope? and now this thing, which he regarded as being of all things in the world the most honourable, had come to him all at once, and was possibly within his reach! if he could believe barrington erle, he had only to lift up his hand, and he might be in parliament within two months. and who was to be believed on such a subject if not barrington erle? this was erle's special business, and such a man would not have come to him on such a subject had he not been in earnest, and had he not himself believed in success. there was an opening ready, an opening to this great glory,--if only it might be possible for him to fill it! what would his father say? his father would of course oppose the plan. and if he opposed his father, his father would of course stop his income. and such an income as it was! could it be that a man should sit in parliament and live upon a hundred and fifty pounds a year? since that payment of his debts he had become again embarrassed,--to a slight amount. he owed a tailor a trifle, and a bootmaker a trifle,--and something to the man who sold gloves and shirts; and yet he had done his best to keep out of debt with more than irish pertinacity, living very closely, breakfasting upon tea and a roll, and dining frequently for a shilling at a luncheon-house up a court near lincoln's inn. where should he dine if the loughshaners elected him to parliament? and then he painted to himself a not untrue picture of the probable miseries of a man who begins life too high up on the ladder,--who succeeds in mounting before he has learned how to hold on when he is aloft. for our phineas finn was a young man not without sense,--not entirely a windbag. if he did this thing the probability was that he might become utterly a castaway, and go entirely to the dogs before he was thirty. he had heard of penniless men who had got into parliament, and to whom had come such a fate. he was able to name to himself a man or two whose barks, carrying more sail than they could bear, had gone to pieces among early breakers in this way. but then, would it not be better to go to pieces early than never to carry any sail at all? and there was, at any rate, the chance of success. he was already a barrister, and there were so many things open to a barrister with a seat in parliament! and as he knew of men who had been utterly ruined by such early mounting, so also did he know of others whose fortunes had been made by happy audacity when they were young. he almost thought that he could die happy if he had once taken his seat in parliament,--if he had received one letter with those grand initials written after his name on the address. young men in battle are called upon to lead forlorn hopes. three fall, perhaps, to one who gets through; but the one who gets through will have the victoria cross to carry for the rest of his life. this was his forlorn hope; and as he had been invited to undertake the work, he would not turn from the danger. on the following morning he again saw barrington erle by appointment, and then wrote the following letter to his father:-- reform club, feb., --. my dear father, i am afraid that the purport of this letter will startle you, but i hope that when you have finished it you will think that i am right in my decision as to what i am going to do. you are no doubt aware that the dissolution of parliament will take place at once, and that we shall be in all the turmoil of a general election by the middle of march. i have been invited to stand for loughshane, and have consented. the proposition has been made to me by my friend barrington erle, mr. mildmay's private secretary, and has been made on behalf of the political committee of the reform club. i need hardly say that i should not have thought of such a thing with a less thorough promise of support than this gives me, nor should i think of it now had i not been assured that none of the expense of the election would fall upon me. of course i could not have asked you to pay for it. but to such a proposition, so made, i have felt that it would be cowardly to give a refusal. i cannot but regard such a selection as a great honour. i own that i am fond of politics, and have taken great delight in their study --("stupid young fool!" his father said to himself as he read this)--and it has been my dream for years past to have a seat in parliament at some future time. ("dream! yes; i wonder whether he has ever dreamed what he is to live upon.") the chance has now come to me much earlier than i have looked for it, but i do not think that it should on that account be thrown away. looking to my profession, i find that many things are open to a barrister with a seat in parliament, and that the house need not interfere much with a man's practice. ("not if he has got to the top of his tree," said the doctor.) my chief doubt arose from the fact of your old friendship with lord tulla, whose brother has filled the seat for i don't know how many years. but it seems that george morris must go; or, at least, that he must be opposed by a liberal candidate. if i do not stand, some one else will, and i should think that lord tulla will be too much of a man to make any personal quarrel on such a subject. if he is to lose the borough, why should not i have it as well as another? i can fancy, my dear father, all that you will say as to my imprudence, and i quite confess that i have not a word to answer. i have told myself more than once, since last night, that i shall probably ruin myself. ("i wonder whether he has ever told himself that he will probably ruin me also," said the doctor.) but i am prepared to ruin myself in such a cause. i have no one dependent on me; and, as long as i do nothing to disgrace my name, i may dispose of myself as i please. if you decide on stopping my allowance, i shall have no feeling of anger against you. ("how very considerate!" said the doctor.) and in that case i shall endeavour to support myself by my pen. i have already done a little for the magazines. give my best love to my mother and sisters. if you will receive me during the time of the election, i shall see them soon. perhaps it will be best for me to say that i have positively decided on making the attempt; that is to say, if the club committee is as good as its promise. i have weighed the matter all round, and i regard the prize as being so great, that i am prepared to run any risk to obtain it. indeed, to me, with my views about politics, the running of such a risk is no more than a duty. i cannot keep my hand from the work now that the work has come in the way of my hand. i shall be most anxious to get a line from you in answer to this. your most affectionate son, phineas finn. i question whether dr. finn, when he read this letter, did not feel more of pride than of anger,--whether he was not rather gratified than displeased, in spite of all that his common-sense told him on the subject. his wife and daughters, when they heard the news, were clearly on the side of the young man. mrs. finn immediately expressed an opinion that parliament would be the making of her son, and that everybody would be sure to employ so distinguished a barrister. the girls declared that phineas ought, at any rate, to have his chance, and almost asserted that it would be brutal in their father to stand in their brother's way. it was in vain that the doctor tried to explain that going into parliament could not help a young barrister, whatever it might do for one thoroughly established in his profession; that phineas, if successful at loughshane, would at once abandon all idea of earning any income,--that the proposition, coming from so poor a man, was a monstrosity,--that such an opposition to the morris family, coming from a son of his, would be gross ingratitude to lord tulla. mrs. finn and the girls talked him down, and the doctor himself was almost carried away by something like vanity in regard to his son's future position. nevertheless he wrote a letter strongly advising phineas to abandon the project. but he himself was aware that the letter which he wrote was not one from which any success could be expected. he advised his son, but did not command him. he made no threats as to stopping his income. he did not tell phineas, in so many words, that he was proposing to make an ass of himself. he argued very prudently against the plan, and phineas, when he received his father's letter, of course felt that it was tantamount to a paternal permission to proceed with the matter. on the next day he got a letter from his mother full of affection, full of pride,--not exactly telling him to stand for loughshane by all means, for mrs. finn was not the woman to run openly counter to her husband in any advice given by her to their son,--but giving him every encouragement which motherly affection and motherly pride could bestow. "of course you will come to us," she said, "if you do make up your mind to be member for loughshane. we shall all of us be so delighted to have you!" phineas, who had fallen into a sea of doubt after writing to his father, and who had demanded a week from barrington erle to consider the matter, was elated to positive certainty by the joint effect of the two letters from home. he understood it all. his mother and sisters were altogether in favour of his audacity, and even his father was not disposed to quarrel with him on the subject. "i shall take you at your word," he said to barrington erle at the club that evening. "what word?" said erle, who had too many irons in the fire to be thinking always of loughshane and phineas finn,--or who at any rate did not choose to let his anxiety on the subject be seen. "about loughshane." "all right, old fellow; we shall be sure to carry you through. the irish writs will be out on the third of march, and the sooner you're there the better." chapter ii phineas finn is elected for loughshane one great difficulty about the borough vanished in a very wonderful way at the first touch. dr. finn, who was a man stout at heart, and by no means afraid of his great friends, drove himself over to castlemorris to tell his news to the earl, as soon as he got a second letter from his son declaring his intention of proceeding with the business, let the results be what they might. lord tulla was a passionate old man, and the doctor expected that there would be a quarrel;--but he was prepared to face that. he was under no special debt of gratitude to the lord, having given as much as he had taken in the long intercourse which had existed between them;--and he agreed with his son in thinking that if there was to be a liberal candidate at loughshane, no consideration of old pill-boxes and gallipots should deter his son phineas from standing. other considerations might very probably deter him, but not that. the earl probably would be of a different opinion, and the doctor felt it to be incumbent on him to break the news to lord tulla. "the devil he is!" said the earl, when the doctor had told his story. "then i'll tell you what, finn, i'll support him." "you support him, lord tulla!" "yes;--why shouldn't i support him? i suppose it's not so bad with me in the country that my support will rob him of his chance! i'll tell you one thing for certain, i won't support george morris." "but, my lord--" "well; go on." "i've never taken much part in politics myself, as you know; but my boy phineas is on the other side." "i don't care a ---- for sides. what has my party done for me? look at my cousin, dick morris. there's not a clergyman in ireland stauncher to them than he has been, and now they've given the deanery of kilfenora to a man that never had a father, though i condescended to ask for it for my cousin. let them wait till i ask for anything again." dr. finn, who knew all about dick morris's debts, and who had heard of his modes of preaching, was not surprised at the decision of the conservative bestower of irish church patronage; but on this subject he said nothing. "and as for george," continued the earl, "i will never lift my hand again for him. his standing for loughshane would be quite out of the question. my own tenants wouldn't vote for him if i were to ask them myself. peter blake"--mr. peter blake was the lord's agent--"told me only a week ago that it would be useless. the whole thing is gone, and for my part i wish they'd disenfranchise the borough. i wish they'd disenfranchise the whole country, and send us a military governor. what's the use of such members as we send? there isn't one gentleman among ten of them. your son is welcome for me. what support i can give him he shall have, but it isn't much. i suppose he had better come and see me." the doctor promised that his son should ride over to castlemorris, and then took his leave,--not specially flattered, as he felt that were his son to be returned, the earl would not regard him as the one gentleman among ten whom the county might send to leaven the remainder of its members,--but aware that the greatest impediment in his son's way was already removed. he certainly had not gone to castlemorris with any idea of canvassing for his son, and yet he had canvassed for him most satisfactorily. when he got home he did not know how to speak of the matter otherwise than triumphantly to his wife and daughters. though he desired to curse, his mouth would speak blessings. before that evening was over the prospects of phineas at loughshane were spoken of with open enthusiasm before the doctor, and by the next day's post a letter was written to him by matilda, informing him that the earl was prepared to receive him with open arms. "papa has been over there and managed it all," said matilda. "i'm told george morris isn't going to stand," said barrington erle to phineas the night before his departure. "his brother won't support him. his brother means to support me," said phineas. "that can hardly be so." "but i tell you it is. my father has known the earl these twenty years, and has managed it." "i say, finn, you're not going to play us a trick, are you?" said mr. erle, with something like dismay in his voice. "what sort of trick?" "you're not coming out on the other side?" "not if i know it," said phineas, proudly. "let me assure you i wouldn't change my views in politics either for you or for the earl, though each of you carried seats in your breeches pockets. if i go into parliament, i shall go there as a sound liberal,--not to support a party, but to do the best i can for the country. i tell you so, and i shall tell the earl the same." barrington erle turned away in disgust. such language was to him simply disgusting. it fell upon his ears as false maudlin sentiment falls on the ears of the ordinary honest man of the world. barrington erle was a man ordinarily honest. he would not have been untrue to his mother's brother, william mildmay, the great whig minister of the day, for any earthly consideration. he was ready to work with wages or without wages. he was really zealous in the cause, not asking very much for himself. he had some undefined belief that it was much better for the country that mr. mildmay should be in power than that lord de terrier should be there. he was convinced that liberal politics were good for englishmen, and that liberal politics and the mildmay party were one and the same thing. it would be unfair to barrington erle to deny to him some praise for patriotism. but he hated the very name of independence in parliament, and when he was told of any man, that that man intended to look to measures and not to men, he regarded that man as being both unstable as water and dishonest as the wind. no good could possibly come from such a one, and much evil might and probably would come. such a politician was a greek to barrington erle, from whose hands he feared to accept even the gift of a vote. parliamentary hermits were distasteful to him, and dwellers in political caves were regarded by him with aversion as being either knavish or impractical. with a good conservative opponent he could shake hands almost as readily as with a good whig ally; but the man who was neither flesh nor fowl was odious to him. according to his theory of parliamentary government, the house of commons should be divided by a marked line, and every member should be required to stand on one side of it or on the other. "if not with me, at any rate be against me," he would have said to every representative of the people in the name of the great leader whom he followed. he thought that debates were good, because of the people outside,--because they served to create that public opinion which was hereafter to be used in creating some future house of commons; but he did not think it possible that any vote should be given on a great question, either this way or that, as the result of a debate; and he was certainly assured in his own opinion that any such changing of votes would be dangerous, revolutionary, and almost unparliamentary. a member's vote,--except on some small crotchety open question thrown out for the amusement of crotchety members,--was due to the leader of that member's party. such was mr. erle's idea of the english system of parliament, and, lending semi-official assistance as he did frequently to the introduction of candidates into the house, he was naturally anxious that his candidates should be candidates after his own heart. when, therefore, phineas finn talked of measures and not men, barrington erle turned away in open disgust. but he remembered the youth and extreme rawness of the lad, and he remembered also the careers of other men. barrington erle was forty, and experience had taught him something. after a few seconds, he brought himself to think mildly of the young man's vanity,--as of the vanity of a plunging colt who resents the liberty even of a touch. "by the end of the first session the thong will be cracked over his head, as he patiently assists in pulling the coach up hill, without producing from him even a flick of his tail," said barrington erle to an old parliamentary friend. "if he were to come out after all on the wrong side," said the parliamentary friend. erle admitted that such a trick as that would be unpleasant, but he thought that old lord tulla was hardly equal to so clever a stratagem. phineas went to ireland, and walked over the course at loughshane. he called upon lord tulla, and heard that venerable nobleman talk a great deal of nonsense. to tell the truth of phineas, i must confess that he wished to talk the nonsense himself; but the earl would not hear him, and put him down very quickly. "we won't discuss politics, if you please, mr. finn; because, as i have already said, i am throwing aside all political considerations." phineas, therefore, was not allowed to express his views on the government of the country in the earl's sitting-room at castlemorris. there was, however, a good time coming; and so, for the present, he allowed the earl to ramble on about the sins of his brother george, and the want of all proper pedigree on the part of the new dean of kilfenora. the conference ended with an assurance on the part of lord tulla that if the loughshaners chose to elect mr. phineas finn he would not be in the least offended. the electors did elect mr. phineas finn,--perhaps for the reason given by one of the dublin conservative papers, which declared that it was all the fault of the carlton club in not sending a proper candidate. there was a great deal said about the matter, both in london and dublin, and the blame was supposed to fall on the joint shoulders of george morris and his elder brother. in the meantime, our hero, phineas finn, had been duly elected member of parliament for the borough of loughshane. the finn family could not restrain their triumphings at killaloe, and i do not know that it would have been natural had they done so. a gosling from such a flock does become something of a real swan by getting into parliament. the doctor had his misgivings,--had great misgivings, fearful forebodings; but there was the young man elected, and he could not help it. he could not refuse his right hand to his son or withdraw his paternal assistance because that son had been specially honoured among the young men of his country. so he pulled out of his hoard what sufficed to pay off outstanding debts,--they were not heavy,--and undertook to allow phineas two hundred and fifty pounds a year as long as the session should last. there was a widow lady living at killaloe who was named mrs. flood jones, and she had a daughter. she had a son also, born to inherit the property of the late floscabel flood jones of floodborough, as soon as that property should have disembarrassed itself; but with him, now serving with his regiment in india, we shall have no concern. mrs. flood jones was living modestly at killaloe on her widow's jointure,--floodborough having, to tell the truth, pretty nearly fallen into absolute ruin,--and with her one daughter, mary. now on the evening before the return of phineas finn, esq., m.p., to london, mrs. and miss flood jones drank tea at the doctor's house. "it won't make a bit of change in him," barbara finn said to her friend mary, up in some bedroom privacy before the tea-drinking ceremonies had altogether commenced. "oh, it must," said mary. "i tell you it won't, my dear; he is so good and so true." "i know he is good, barbara; and as for truth, there is no question about it, because he has never said a word to me that he might not say to any girl." "that's nonsense, mary." "he never has, then, as sure as the blessed virgin watches over us;--only you don't believe she does." "never mind about the virgin now, mary." "but he never has. your brother is nothing to me, barbara." "then i hope he will be before the evening is over. he was walking with you all yesterday and the day before." "why shouldn't he,--and we that have known each other all our lives? but, barbara, pray, pray never say a word of this to any one!" "is it i? wouldn't i cut out my tongue first?" "i don't know why i let you talk to me in this way. there has never been anything between me and phineas,--your brother i mean." "i know whom you mean very well." "and i feel quite sure that there never will be. why should there? he'll go out among great people and be a great man; and i've already found out that there's a certain lady laura standish whom he admires very much." "lady laura fiddlestick!" "a man in parliament, you know, may look up to anybody," said miss mary flood jones. "i want phin to look up to you, my dear." "that wouldn't be looking up. placed as he is now, that would be looking down; and he is so proud that he'll never do that. but come down, dear, else they'll wonder where we are." mary flood jones was a little girl about twenty years of age, with the softest hair in the world, of a colour varying between brown and auburn,--for sometimes you would swear it was the one and sometimes the other; and she was as pretty as ever she could be. she was one of those girls, so common in ireland, whom men, with tastes that way given, feel inclined to take up and devour on the spur of the moment; and when she liked her lion, she had a look about her which seemed to ask to be devoured. there are girls so cold-looking,--pretty girls, too, ladylike, discreet, and armed with all accomplishments,--whom to attack seems to require the same sort of courage, and the same sort of preparation, as a journey in quest of the north-west passage. one thinks of a pedestal near the athenaeum as the most appropriate and most honourable reward of such courage. but, again, there are other girls to abstain from attacking whom is, to a man of any warmth of temperament, quite impossible. they are like water when one is athirst, like plovers' eggs in march, like cigars when one is out in the autumn. no one ever dreams of denying himself when such temptation comes in the way. it often happens, however, that in spite of appearances, the water will not come from the well, nor the egg from its shell, nor will the cigar allow itself to be lit. a girl of such appearance, so charming, was mary flood jones of killaloe, and our hero phineas was not allowed to thirst in vain for a drop from the cool spring. when the girls went down into the drawing-room mary was careful to go to a part of the room quite remote from phineas, so as to seat herself between mrs. finn and dr. finn's young partner, mr. elias bodkin, from ballinasloe. but mrs. finn and the miss finns and all killaloe knew that mary had no love for mr. bodkin, and when mr. bodkin handed her the hot cake she hardly so much as smiled at him. but in two minutes phineas was behind her chair, and then she smiled; and in five minutes more she had got herself so twisted round that she was sitting in a corner with phineas and his sister barbara; and in two more minutes barbara had returned to mr. elias bodkin, so that phineas and mary were uninterrupted. they manage these things very quickly and very cleverly in killaloe. "i shall be off to-morrow morning by the early train," said phineas. "so soon;--and when will you have to begin,--in parliament, i mean?" "i shall have to take my seat on friday. i'm going back just in time." "but when shall we hear of your saying something?" "never, probably. not one in ten who go into parliament ever do say anything." "but you will; won't you? i hope you will. i do so hope you will distinguish yourself;--because of your sister, and for the sake of the town, you know." "and is that all, mary?" "isn't that enough?" "you don't care a bit about myself, then?" "you know that i do. haven't we been friends ever since we were children? of course it will be a great pride to me that a person whom i have known so intimately should come to be talked about as a great man." "i shall never be talked about as a great man." "you're a great man to me already, being in parliament. only think;--i never saw a member of parliament in my life before." "you've seen the bishop scores of times." "is he in parliament? ah, but not like you. he couldn't come to be a cabinet minister, and one never reads anything about him in the newspapers. i shall expect to see your name, very often, and i shall always look for it. 'mr. phineas finn paired off with mr. mildmay.' what is the meaning of pairing off?" "i'll explain it all to you when i come back, after learning my lesson." "mind you do come back. but i don't suppose you ever will. you will be going somewhere to see lady laura standish when you are not wanted in parliament." "lady laura standish!" "and why shouldn't you? of course, with your prospects, you should go as much as possible among people of that sort. is lady laura very pretty?" "she's about six feet high." "nonsense. i don't believe that." "she would look as though she were, standing by you." "because i am so insignificant and small." "because your figure is perfect, and because she is straggling. she is as unlike you as possible in everything. she has thick lumpy red hair, while yours is all silk and softness. she has large hands and feet, and--" "why, phineas, you are making her out to be an ogress, and yet i know that you admire her." "so i do, because she possesses such an appearance of power. and after all, in spite of the lumpy hair, and in spite of large hands and straggling figure, she is handsome. one can't tell what it is. one can see that she is quite contented with herself, and intends to make others contented with her. and so she does." "i see you are in love with her, phineas." "no; not in love,--not with her at least. of all men in the world, i suppose that i am the last that has a right to be in love. i daresay i shall marry some day." "i'm sure i hope you will." "but not till i'm forty or perhaps fifty years old. if i was not fool enough to have what men call a high ambition i might venture to be in love now." "i'm sure i'm very glad that you've got a high ambition. it is what every man ought to have; and i've no doubt that we shall hear of your marriage soon,--very soon. and then,--if she can help you in your ambition, we--shall--all--be so--glad." phineas did not say a word further then. perhaps some commotion among the party broke up the little private conversation in the corner. and he was not alone with mary again till there came a moment for him to put her cloak over her shoulders in the back parlour, while mrs. flood jones was finishing some important narrative to his mother. it was barbara, i think, who stood in some doorway, and prevented people from passing, and so gave him the opportunity which he abused. "mary," said he, taking her in his arms, without a single word of love-making beyond what the reader has heard,--"one kiss before we part." "no, phineas, no!" but the kiss had been taken and given before she had even answered him. "oh, phineas, you shouldn't!" "i should. why shouldn't i? and, mary, i will have one morsel of your hair." "you shall not; indeed you shall not!" but the scissors were at hand, and the ringlet was cut and in his pocket before she was ready with her resistance. there was nothing further;--not a word more, and mary went away with her veil down, under her mother's wing, weeping sweet silent tears which no one saw. "you do love her; don't you, phineas?" asked barbara. "bother! do you go to bed, and don't trouble yourself about such trifles. but mind you're up, old girl, to see me off in the morning." everybody was up to see him off in the morning, to give him coffee and good advice, and kisses, and to throw all manner of old shoes after him as he started on his great expedition to parliament. his father gave him an extra twenty-pound note, and begged him for god's sake to be careful about his money. his mother told him always to have an orange in his pocket when he intended to speak longer than usual. and barbara in a last whisper begged him never to forget dear mary flood jones. chapter iii phineas finn takes his seat phineas had many serious, almost solemn thoughts on his journey towards london. i am sorry i must assure my female readers that very few of them had reference to mary flood jones. he had, however, very carefully packed up the tress, and could bring that out for proper acts of erotic worship at seasons in which his mind might be less engaged with affairs of state than it was at present. would he make a failure of this great matter which he had taken in hand? he could not but tell himself that the chances were twenty to one against him. now that he looked nearer at it all, the difficulties loomed larger than ever, and the rewards seemed to be less, more difficult of approach, and more evanescent. how many members were there who could never get a hearing! how many who only spoke to fail! how many, who spoke well, who could speak to no effect as far as their own worldly prospects were concerned! he had already known many members of parliament to whom no outward respect or sign of honour was ever given by any one; and it seemed to him, as he thought over it, that irish members of parliament were generally treated with more indifference than any others. there were o'b---- and o'c---- and o'd----, for whom no one cared a straw, who could hardly get men to dine with them at the club, and yet they were genuine members of parliament. why should he ever be better than o'b----, or o'c----, or o'd----? and in what way should he begin to be better? he had an idea of the fashion after which it would be his duty to strive that he might excel those gentlemen. he did not give any of them credit for much earnestness in their country's behalf, and he was minded to be very earnest. he would go to his work honestly and conscientiously, determined to do his duty as best he might, let the results to himself be what they would. this was a noble resolution, and might have been pleasant to him,--had he not remembered that smile of derision which had come over his friend erle's face when he declared his intention of doing his duty to his country as a liberal, and not of supporting a party. o'b---- and o'c---- and o'd---- were keen enough to support their party, only they were sometimes a little astray at knowing which was their party for the nonce. he knew that erle and such men would despise him if he did not fall into the regular groove,--and if the barrington erles despised him, what would then be left for him? his moody thoughts were somewhat dissipated when he found one laurence fitzgibbon,--the honourable laurence fitzgibbon,--a special friend of his own, and a very clever fellow, on board the boat as it steamed out of kingston harbour. laurence fitzgibbon had also just been over about his election, and had been returned as a matter of course for his father's county. laurence fitzgibbon had sat in the house for the last fifteen years, and was yet well-nigh as young a man as any in it. and he was a man altogether different from the o'b----s, o'c----s, and o'd----s. laurence fitzgibbon could always get the ear of the house if he chose to speak, and his friends declared that he might have been high up in office long since if he would have taken the trouble to work. he was a welcome guest at the houses of the very best people, and was a friend of whom any one might be proud. it had for two years been a feather in the cap of phineas that he knew laurence fitzgibbon. and yet people said that laurence fitzgibbon had nothing of his own, and men wondered how he lived. he was the youngest son of lord claddagh, an irish peer with a large family, who could do nothing for laurence, his favourite child, beyond finding him a seat in parliament. "well, finn, my boy," said laurence, shaking hands with the young member on board the steamer, "so you've made it all right at loughshane." then phineas was beginning to tell all the story, the wonderful story, of george morris and the earl of tulla,--how the men of loughshane had elected him without opposition; how he had been supported by conservatives as well as liberals;--how unanimous loughshane had been in electing him, phineas finn, as its representative. but mr. fitzgibbon seemed to care very little about all this, and went so far as to declare that those things were accidents which fell out sometimes one way and sometimes another, and were altogether independent of any merit or demerit on the part of the candidate himself. and it was marvellous and almost painful to phineas that his friend fitzgibbon should accept the fact of his membership with so little of congratulation,--with absolutely no blowing of trumpets whatever. had he been elected a member of the municipal corporation of loughshane, instead of its representative in the british parliament, laurence fitzgibbon could not have made less fuss about it. phineas was disappointed, but he took the cue from his friend too quickly to show his disappointment. and when, half an hour after their meeting, fitzgibbon had to be reminded that his companion was not in the house during the last session, phineas was able to make the remark as though he thought as little about the house as did the old-accustomed member himself. "as far as i can see as yet," said fitzgibbon, "we are sure to have seventeen." "seventeen?" said phineas, not quite understanding the meaning of the number quoted. "a majority of seventeen. there are four irish counties and three scotch which haven't returned as yet; but we know pretty well what they'll do. there's a doubt about tipperary, of course, but whichever gets in of the seven who are standing, it will be a vote on our side. now the government can't live against that. the uphill strain is too much for them." "according to my idea, nothing can justify them in trying to live against a majority." "that's gammon. when the thing is so equal, anything is fair. but you see they don't like it. of course there are some among them as hungry as we are; and dubby would give his toes and fingers to remain in." dubby was the ordinary name by which, among friends and foes, mr. daubeny was known: mr. daubeny, who at that time was the leader of the conservative party in the house of commons. "but most of them," continued mr. fitzgibbon, "prefer the other game, and if you don't care about money, upon my word it's the pleasanter game of the two." "but the country gets nothing done by a tory government." "as to that, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. i never knew a government yet that wanted to do anything. give a government a real strong majority, as the tories used to have half a century since, and as a matter of course it will do nothing. why should it? doing things, as you call it, is only bidding for power,--for patronage and pay." "and is the country to have no service done?" "the country gets quite as much service as it pays for,--and perhaps a little more. the clerks in the offices work for the country. and the ministers work too, if they've got anything to manage. there is plenty of work done;--but of work in parliament, the less the better, according to my ideas. it's very little that ever is done, and that little is generally too much." "but the people--" "come down and have a glass of brandy-and-water, and leave the people alone for the present. the people can take care of themselves a great deal better than we can take care of them." mr. fitzgibbon's doctrine as to the commonwealth was very different from that of barrington erle, and was still less to the taste of the new member. barrington erle considered that his leader, mr. mildmay, should be intrusted to make all necessary changes in the laws, and that an obedient house of commons should implicitly obey that leader in authorising all changes proposed by him;--but according to barrington erle, such changes should be numerous and of great importance, and would, if duly passed into law at his lord's behest, gradually produce such a whig utopia in england as has never yet been seen on the face of the earth. now, according to mr. fitzgibbon, the present utopia would be good enough,--if only he himself might be once more put into possession of a certain semi-political place about the court, from which he had heretofore drawn £ , per annum, without any work, much to his comfort. he made no secret of his ambition, and was chagrined simply at the prospect of having to return to his electors before he could enjoy those good things which he expected to receive from the undoubted majority of seventeen, which had been, or would be, achieved. "i hate all change as a rule," said fitzgibbon; "but, upon my word, we ought to alter that. when a fellow has got a crumb of comfort, after waiting for it years and years, and perhaps spending thousands in elections, he has to go back and try his hand again at the last moment, merely in obedience to some antiquated prejudice. look at poor jack bond,--the best friend i ever had in the world. he was wrecked upon that rock for ever. he spent every shilling he had in contesting romford three times running,--and three times running he got in. then they made him vice-comptroller of the granaries, and i'm shot if he didn't get spilt at romford on standing for his re-election!" "and what became of him?" "god knows. i think i heard that he married an old woman and settled down somewhere. i know he never came up again. now, i call that a confounded shame. i suppose i'm safe down in mayo, but there's no knowing what may happen in these days." as they parted at euston square, phineas asked his friend some little nervous question as to the best mode of making a first entrance into the house. would laurence fitzgibbon see him through the difficulties of the oath-taking? but laurence fitzgibbon made very little of the difficulty. "oh;--you just come down, and there'll be a rush of fellows, and you'll know everybody. you'll have to hang about for an hour or so, and then you'll get pushed through. there isn't time for much ceremony after a general election." phineas reached london early in the morning, and went home to bed for an hour or so. the house was to meet on that very day, and he intended to begin his parliamentary duties at once if he should find it possible to get some one to accompany him; he felt that he should lack courage to go down to westminster hall alone, and explain to the policeman and door-keepers that he was the man who had just been elected member for loughshane. so about noon he went into the reform club, and there he found a great crowd of men, among whom there was a plentiful sprinkling of members. erle saw him in a moment, and came to him with congratulations. "so you're all right, finn," said he. "yes; i'm all right,--i didn't have much doubt about it when i went over." "i never heard of a fellow with such a run of luck," said erle. "it's just one of those flukes that occur once in a dozen elections. any one on earth might have got in without spending a shilling." phineas didn't at all like this. "i don't think any one could have got in," said he, "without knowing lord tulla." "lord tulla was nowhere, my dear boy, and could have nothing to say to it. but never mind that. you meet me in the lobby at two. there'll be a lot of us there, and we'll go in together. have you seen fitzgibbon?" then barrington erle went off to other business, and finn was congratulated by other men. but it seemed to him that the congratulations of his friends were not hearty. he spoke to some men, of whom he thought that he knew they would have given their eyes to be in parliament;--and yet they spoke of his success as being a very ordinary thing. "well, my boy, i hope you like it," said one middle-aged gentleman whom he had known ever since he came up to london. "the difference is between working for nothing and working for money. you'll have to work for nothing now." "that's about it, i suppose," said phineas. "they say the house is a comfortable club," said the middle-aged friend, "but i confess that i shouldn't like being rung away from my dinner myself." at two punctually phineas was in the lobby at westminster, and then he found himself taken into the house with a crowd of other men. the old and young, and they who were neither old nor young, were mingled together, and there seemed to be very little respect of persons. on three or four occasions there was some cheering when a popular man or a great leader came in; but the work of the day left but little clear impression on the mind of the young member. he was confused, half elated, half disappointed, and had not his wits about him. he found himself constantly regretting that he was there; and as constantly telling himself that he, hardly yet twenty-five, without a shilling of his own, had achieved an entrance into that assembly which by the consent of all men is the greatest in the world, and which many of the rich magnates of the country had in vain spent heaps of treasure in their endeavours to open to their own footsteps. he tried hard to realise what he had gained, but the dust and the noise and the crowds and the want of something august to the eye were almost too strong for him. he managed, however, to take the oath early among those who took it, and heard the queen's speech read and the address moved and seconded. he was seated very uncomfortably, high up on a back seat, between two men whom he did not know; and he found the speeches to be very long. he had been in the habit of seeing such speeches reported in about a column, and he thought that these speeches must take at least four columns each. he sat out the debate on the address till the house was adjourned, and then he went away to dine at his club. he did go into the dining-room of the house, but there was a crowd there, and he found himself alone,--and to tell the truth, he was afraid to order his dinner. the nearest approach to a triumph which he had in london came to him from the glory which his election reflected upon his landlady. she was a kindly good motherly soul, whose husband was a journeyman law-stationer, and who kept a very decent house in great marlborough street. here phineas had lodged since he had been in london, and was a great favourite. "god bless my soul, mr. phineas," said she, "only think of your being a member of parliament!" "yes, i'm a member of parliament, mrs. bunce." "and you'll go on with the rooms the same as ever? well, i never thought to have a member of parliament in 'em." mrs. bunce really had realised the magnitude of the step which her lodger had taken, and phineas was grateful to her. chapter iv lady laura standish phineas, in describing lady laura standish to mary flood jones at killaloe, had not painted her in very glowing colours. nevertheless he admired lady laura very much, and she was worthy of admiration. it was probably the greatest pride of our hero's life that lady laura standish was his friend, and that she had instigated him to undertake the risk of parliamentary life. lady laura was intimate also with barrington erle, who was, in some distant degree, her cousin; and phineas was not without a suspicion that his selection for loughshane, from out of all the young liberal candidates, may have been in some degree owing to lady laura's influence with barrington erle. he was not unwilling that it should be so; for though, as he had repeatedly told himself, he was by no means in love with lady laura,--who was, as he imagined, somewhat older than himself,--nevertheless, he would feel gratified at accepting anything from her hands, and he felt a keen desire for some increase to those ties of friendship which bound them together. no;--he was not in love with lady laura standish. he had not the remotest idea of asking her to be his wife. so he told himself, both before he went over for his election, and after his return. when he had found himself in a corner with poor little mary flood jones, he had kissed her as a matter of course; but he did not think that he could, in any circumstances, be tempted to kiss lady laura. he supposed that he was in love with his darling little mary,--after a fashion. of course, it could never come to anything, because of the circumstances of his life, which were so imperious to him. he was not in love with lady laura, and yet he hoped that his intimacy with her might come to much. he had more than once asked himself how he would feel when somebody else came to be really in love with lady laura,--for she was by no means a woman to lack lovers,--when some one else should be in love with her, and be received by her as a lover; but this question he had never been able to answer. there were many questions about himself which he usually answered by telling himself that it was his fate to walk over volcanoes. "of course, i shall be blown into atoms some fine day," he would say; "but after all, that is better than being slowly boiled down into pulp." the house had met on a friday, again on the saturday morning, and the debate on the address had been adjourned till the monday. on the sunday, phineas determined that he would see lady laura. she professed to be always at home on sunday, and from three to four in the afternoon her drawing-room would probably be half full of people. there would, at any rate, be comers and goers, who would prevent anything like real conversation between himself and her. but for a few minutes before that he might probably find her alone, and he was most anxious to see whether her reception of him, as a member of parliament, would be in any degree warmer than that of his other friends. hitherto he had found no such warmth since he came to london, excepting that which had glowed in the bosom of mrs. bunce. lady laura standish was the daughter of the earl of brentford, and was the only remaining lady of the earl's family. the countess had been long dead; and lady emily, the younger daughter, who had been the great beauty of her day, was now the wife of a russian nobleman whom she had persisted in preferring to any of her english suitors, and lived at st. petersburg. there was an aunt, old lady laura, who came up to town about the middle of may; but she was always in the country except for some six weeks in the season. there was a certain lord chiltern, the earl's son and heir, who did indeed live at the family town house in portman square; but lord chiltern was a man of whom lady laura's set did not often speak, and phineas, frequently as he had been at the house, had never seen lord chiltern there. he was a young nobleman of whom various accounts were given by various people; but i fear that the account most readily accepted in london attributed to him a great intimacy with the affairs at newmarket, and a partiality for convivial pleasures. respecting lord chiltern phineas had never as yet exchanged a word with lady laura. with her father he was acquainted, as he had dined perhaps half a dozen times at the house. the point in lord brentford's character which had more than any other struck our hero, was the unlimited confidence which he seemed to place in his daughter. lady laura seemed to have perfect power of doing what she pleased. she was much more mistress of herself than if she had been the wife instead of the daughter of the earl of brentford,--and she seemed to be quite as much mistress of the house. phineas had declared at killaloe that lady laura was six feet high, that she had red hair, that her figure was straggling, and that her hands and feet were large. she was in fact about five feet seven in height, and she carried her height well. there was something of nobility in her gait, and she seemed thus to be taller than her inches. her hair was in truth red,--of a deep thorough redness. her brother's hair was the same; and so had been that of her father, before it had become sandy with age. her sister's had been of a soft auburn hue, and hers had been said to be the prettiest head of hair in europe at the time of her marriage. but in these days we have got to like red hair, and lady laura's was not supposed to stand in the way of her being considered a beauty. her face was very fair, though it lacked that softness which we all love in women. her eyes, which were large and bright, and very clear, never seemed to quail, never rose and sunk or showed themselves to be afraid of their own power. indeed, lady laura standish had nothing of fear about her. her nose was perfectly cut, but was rather large, having the slightest possible tendency to be aquiline. her mouth also was large, but was full of expression, and her teeth were perfect. her complexion was very bright, but in spite of its brightness she never blushed. the shades of her complexion were set and steady. those who knew her said that her heart was so fully under command that nothing could stir her blood to any sudden motion. as to that accusation of straggling which had been made against her, it had sprung from ill-natured observation of her modes of sitting. she never straggled when she stood or walked; but she would lean forward when sitting, as a man does, and would use her arms in talking, and would put her hand over her face, and pass her fingers through her hair,--after the fashion of men rather than of women;--and she seemed to despise that soft quiescence of her sex in which are generally found so many charms. her hands and feet were large,--as was her whole frame. such was lady laura standish; and phineas finn had been untrue to himself and to his own appreciation of the lady when he had described her in disparaging terms to mary flood jones. but, though he had spoken of lady laura in disparaging terms, he had so spoken of her as to make miss flood jones quite understand that he thought a great deal about lady laura. and now, early on the sunday, he made his way to portman square in order that he might learn whether there might be any sympathy for him there. hitherto he had found none. everything had been terribly dry and hard, and he had gathered as yet none of the fruit which he had expected that his good fortune would bear for him. it is true that he had not as yet gone among any friends, except those of his club, and men who were in the house along with him;--and at the club it might be that there were some who envied him his good fortune, and others who thought nothing of it because it had been theirs for years. now he would try a friend who, he hoped, could sympathise; and therefore he called in portman square at about half-past two on the sunday morning. yes,--lady laura was in the drawing-room. the hall-porter admitted as much, but evidently seemed to think that he had been disturbed from his dinner before his time. phineas did not care a straw for the hall-porter. if lady laura were not kind to him, he would never trouble that hall-porter again. he was especially sore at this moment because a valued friend, the barrister with whom he had been reading for the last three years, had spent the best part of an hour that sunday morning in proving to him that he had as good as ruined himself. "when i first heard it, of course i thought you had inherited a fortune," said mr. low. "i have inherited nothing," phineas replied;--"not a penny; and i never shall." then mr. low had opened his eyes very wide, and shaken his head very sadly, and had whistled. "i am so glad you have come, mr. finn," said lady laura, meeting phineas half-way across the large room. "thanks," said he, as he took her hand. "i thought that perhaps you would manage to see me before any one else was here." "well;--to tell the truth, i have wished it; though i can hardly tell why." "i can tell you why, mr. finn. but never mind;--come and sit down. i am so very glad that you have been successful;--so very glad. you know i told you that i should never think much of you if you did not at least try it." "and therefore i did try." "and have succeeded. faint heart, you know, never did any good. i think it is a man's duty to make his way into the house;--that is, if he ever means to be anybody. of course it is not every man who can get there by the time that he is five-and-twenty." "every friend that i have in the world says that i have ruined myself." "no;--i don't say so," said lady laura. "and you are worth all the others put together. it is such a comfort to have some one to say a cheery word to one." "you shall hear nothing but cheery words here. papa shall say cheery words to you that shall be better than mine, because they shall be weighted with the wisdom of age. i have heard him say twenty times that the earlier a man goes into the house the better. there is much to learn." "but your father was thinking of men of fortune." "not at all;--of younger brothers, and barristers, and of men who have their way to make, as you have. let me see,--can you dine here on wednesday? there will be no party, of course, but papa will want to shake hands with you; and you legislators of the lower house are more easily reached on wednesdays than on any other day." "i shall be delighted," said phineas, feeling, however, that he did not expect much sympathy from lord brentford. "mr. kennedy dines here;--you know mr. kennedy, of loughlinter; and we will ask your friend mr. fitzgibbon. there will be nobody else. as for catching barrington erle, that is out of the question at such a time as this." "but going back to my being ruined--" said phineas, after a pause. "don't think of anything so disagreeable." "you must not suppose that i am afraid of it. i was going to say that there are worse things than ruin,--or, at any rate, than the chance of ruin. supposing that i have to emigrate and skin sheep, what does it matter? i myself, being unencumbered, have myself as my own property to do what i like with. with nelson it was westminster abbey or a peerage. with me it is parliamentary success or sheep-skinning." "there shall be no sheep-skinning, mr. finn. i will guarantee you." "then i shall be safe." at that moment the door of the room was opened, and a man entered with quick steps, came a few yards in, and then retreated, slamming the door after him. he was a man with thick short red hair, and an abundance of very red beard. and his face was red,--and, as it seemed to phineas, his very eyes. there was something in the countenance of the man which struck him almost with dread,--something approaching to ferocity. there was a pause a moment after the door was closed, and then lady laura spoke. "it was my brother chiltern. i do not think that you have ever met him." chapter v mr. and mrs. low that terrible apparition of the red lord chiltern had disturbed phineas in the moment of his happiness as he sat listening to the kind flatteries of lady laura; and though lord chiltern had vanished as quickly as he had appeared, there had come no return of his joy. lady laura had said some word about her brother, and phineas had replied that he had never chanced to see lord chiltern. then there had been an awkward silence, and almost immediately other persons had come in. after greeting one or two old acquaintances, among whom an elder sister of laurence fitzgibbon was one, he took his leave and escaped out into the square. "miss fitzgibbon is going to dine with us on wednesday," said lady laura. "she says she won't answer for her brother, but she will bring him if she can." "and you're a member of parliament now too, they tell me," said miss fitzgibbon, holding up her hands. "i think everybody will be in parliament before long. i wish i knew some man who wasn't, that i might think of changing my condition." but phineas cared very little what miss fitzgibbon said to him. everybody knew aspasia fitzgibbon, and all who knew her were accustomed to put up with the violence of her jokes and the bitterness of her remarks. she was an old maid, over forty, very plain, who, having reconciled herself to the fact that she was an old maid, chose to take advantage of such poor privileges as the position gave her. within the last few years a considerable fortune had fallen into her hands, some twenty-five thousand pounds, which had come to her unexpectedly,--a wonderful windfall. and now she was the only one of her family who had money at command. she lived in a small house by herself, in one of the smallest streets of may fair, and walked about sturdily by herself, and spoke her mind about everything. she was greatly devoted to her brother laurence,--so devoted that there was nothing she would not do for him, short of lending him money. but phineas when he found himself out in the square thought nothing of aspasia fitzgibbon. he had gone to lady laura standish for sympathy, and she had given it to him in full measure. she understood him and his aspirations if no one else did so on the face of the earth. she rejoiced in his triumph, and was not too hard to tell him that she looked forward to his success. and in what delightful language she had done so! "faint heart never won fair lady." it was thus, or almost thus, that she had encouraged him. he knew well that she had in truth meant nothing more than her words had seemed to signify. he did not for a moment attribute to her aught else. but might not he get another lesson from them? he had often told himself that he was not in love with laura standish;--but why should he not how tell himself that he was in love with her? of course there would be difficulty. but was it not the business of his life to overcome difficulties? had he not already overcome one difficulty almost as great; and why should he be afraid of this other? faint heart never won fair lady! and this fair lady,--for at this moment he was ready to swear that she was very fair,--was already half won. she could not have taken him by the hand so warmly, and looked into his face so keenly, had she not felt for him something stronger than common friendship. he had turned down baker street from the square, and was now walking towards the regent's park. he would go and see the beasts in the zoological gardens, and make up his mind as to his future mode of life in that delightful sunday solitude. there was very much as to which it was necessary that he should make up his mind. if he resolved that he would ask lady laura standish to be his wife, when should he ask her, and in what manner might he propose to her that they should live? it would hardly suit him to postpone his courtship indefinitely, knowing, as he did know, that he would be one among many suitors. he could not expect her to wait for him if he did not declare himself. and yet he could hardly ask her to come and share with him the allowance made to him by his father! whether she had much fortune of her own, or little, or none at all, he did not in the least know. he did know that the earl had been distressed by his son's extravagance, and that there had been some money difficulties arising from this source. but his great desire would be to support his own wife by his own labour. at present he was hardly in a fair way to do that, unless he could get paid for his parliamentary work. those fortunate gentlemen who form "the government" are so paid. yes;--there was the treasury bench open to him, and he must resolve that he would seat himself there. he would make lady laura understand this, and then he would ask his question. it was true that at present his political opponents had possession of the treasury bench;--but all governments are mortal, and conservative governments in this country are especially prone to die. it was true that he could not hold even a treasury lordship with a poor thousand a year for his salary without having to face the electors of loughshane again before he entered upon the enjoyment of his place;--but if he could only do something to give a grace to his name, to show that he was a rising man, the electors of loughshane, who had once been so easy with him, would surely not be cruel to him when he showed himself a second time among them. lord tulla was his friend, and he had those points of law in his favour which possession bestows. and then he remembered that lady laura was related to almost everybody who was anybody among the high whigs. she was, he knew, second cousin to mr. mildmay, who for years had been the leader of the whigs, and was third cousin to barrington erle. the late president of the council, the duke of st. bungay, and lord brentford had married sisters, and the st. bungay people, and the mildmay people, and the brentford people had all some sort of connection with the palliser people, of whom the heir and coming chief, plantagenet palliser, would certainly be chancellor of the exchequer in the next government. simply as an introduction into official life nothing could be more conducive to chances of success than a matrimonial alliance with lady laura. not that he would have thought of such a thing on that account! no;--he thought of it because he loved her; honestly because he loved her. he swore to that half a dozen times, for his own satisfaction. but, loving her as he did, and resolving that in spite of all difficulties she should become his wife, there could be no reason why he should not,--on her account as well as on his own,--take advantage of any circumstances that there might be in his favour. as he wandered among the unsavoury beasts, elbowed on every side by the sunday visitors to the garden, he made up his mind that he would first let lady laura understand what were his intentions with regard to his future career, and then he would ask her to join her lot to his. at every turn the chances would of course be very much against him;--ten to one against him, perhaps, on every point; but it was his lot in life to have to face such odds. twelve months since it had been much more than ten to one against his getting into parliament; and yet he was there. he expected to be blown into fragments,--to sheep-skinning in australia, or packing preserved meats on the plains of paraguay; but when the blowing into atoms should come, he was resolved that courage to bear the ruin should not be wanting. then he quoted a line or two of a latin poet, and felt himself to be comfortable. "so, here you are again, mr. finn," said a voice in his ear. "yes, miss fitzgibbon; here i am again." "i fancied you members of parliament had something else to do besides looking at wild beasts. i thought you always spent sunday in arranging how you might most effectually badger each other on monday." "we got through all that early this morning, miss fitzgibbon, while you were saying your prayers." "here is mr. kennedy too;--you know him i daresay. he also is a member; but then he can afford to be idle." but it so happened that phineas did not know mr. kennedy, and consequently there was some slight form of introduction. "i believe i am to meet you at dinner on wednesday,"--said phineas,--"at lord brentford's." "and me too," said miss fitzgibbon. "which will be the greatest possible addition to our pleasure," said phineas. mr. kennedy, who seemed to be afflicted with some difficulty in speaking, and whose bow to our hero had hardly done more than produce the slightest possible motion to the top of his hat, hereupon muttered something which was taken to mean an assent to the proposition as to wednesday's dinner. then he stood perfectly still, with his two hands fixed on the top of his umbrella, and gazed at the great monkeys' cage. but it was clear that he was not looking at any special monkey, for his eyes never wandered. "did you ever see such a contrast in your life?" said miss fitzgibbon to phineas,--hardly in a whisper. "between what?" said phineas. "between mr. kennedy and a monkey. the monkey has so much to say for himself, and is so delightfully wicked! i don't suppose that mr. kennedy ever did anything wrong in his life." mr. kennedy was a man who had very little temptation to do anything wrong. he was possessed of over a million and a half of money, which he was mistaken enough to suppose he had made himself; whereas it may be doubted whether he had ever earned a penny. his father and his uncle had created a business in glasgow, and that business now belonged to him. but his father and his uncle, who had toiled through their long lives, had left behind them servants who understood the work, and the business now went on prospering almost by its own momentum. the mr. kennedy of the present day, the sole owner of the business, though he did occasionally go to glasgow, certainly did nothing towards maintaining it. he had a magnificent place in perthshire, called loughlinter, and he sat for a scotch group of boroughs, and he had a house in london, and a stud of horses in leicestershire, which he rarely visited, and was unmarried. he never spoke much to any one, although he was constantly in society. he rarely did anything, although he had the means of doing everything. he had very seldom been on his legs in the house of commons, though he had sat there for ten years. he was seen about everywhere, sometimes with one acquaintance and sometimes with another;--but it may be doubted whether he had any friend. it may be doubted whether he had ever talked enough to any man to make that man his friend. laurence fitzgibbon tried him for one season, and after a month or two asked for a loan of a few hundred pounds. "i never lend money to any one under any circumstances," said mr. kennedy, and it was the longest speech which had ever fallen from his mouth in the hearing of laurence fitzgibbon. but though he would not lend money, he gave a great deal,--and he would give it for almost every object. "mr. robert kennedy, m.p., loughlinter, £ ," appeared on almost every charitable list that was advertised. no one ever spoke to him as to this expenditure, nor did he ever speak to any one. circulars came to him and the cheques were returned. the duty was a very easy one to him, and he performed it willingly. had any amount of inquiry been necessary, it is possible that the labour would have been too much for him. such was mr. robert kennedy, as to whom phineas had heard that he had during the last winter entertained lord brentford and lady laura, with very many other people of note, at his place in perthshire. "i very much prefer the monkey," said phineas to miss fitzgibbon. "i thought you would," said she. "like to like, you know. you have both of you the same aptitude for climbing. but the monkeys never fall, they tell me." phineas, knowing that he could gain nothing by sparring with miss fitzgibbon, raised his hat and took his leave. going out of a narrow gate he found himself again brought into contact with mr. kennedy. "what a crowd there is here," he said, finding himself bound to say something. mr. kennedy, who was behind him, answered him not a word. then phineas made up his mind that mr. kennedy was insolent with the insolence of riches, and that he would hate mr. kennedy. he was engaged to dine on this sunday with mr. low, the barrister, with whom he had been reading for the last three years. mr. low had taken a strong liking to phineas, as had also mrs. low, and the tutor had more than once told his pupil that success in his profession was certainly open to him if he would only stick to his work. mr. low was himself an ambitious man, looking forward to entering parliament at some future time, when the exigencies of his life of labour might enable him to do so; but he was prudent, given to close calculation, and resolved to make the ground sure beneath his feet in every step that he took forward. when he first heard that finn intended to stand for loughshane he was stricken with dismay, and strongly dissuaded him. "the electors may probably reject him. that's his only chance now," mr. low had said to his wife, when he found that phineas was, as he thought, foolhardy. but the electors of loughshane had not rejected mr. low's pupil, and mr. low was now called upon to advise what phineas should do in his present circumstances. there is nothing to prevent the work of a chancery barrister being done by a member of parliament. indeed, the most successful barristers are members of parliament. but phineas finn was beginning at the wrong end, and mr. low knew that no good would come of it. "only think of your being in parliament, mr. finn," said mrs. low. "it is wonderful, isn't it?" said phineas. "it took us so much by surprise!" said mrs. low. "as a rule one never hears of a barrister going into parliament till after he's forty." "and i'm only twenty-five. i do feel that i've disgraced myself. i do, indeed, mrs. low." "no;--you've not disgraced yourself, mr. finn. the only question is, whether it's prudent. i hope it will all turn out for the best, most heartily." mrs. low was a very matter-of-fact lady, four or five years older than her husband, who had had a little money of her own, and was possessed of every virtue under the sun. nevertheless she did not quite like the idea of her husband's pupil having got into parliament. if her husband and phineas finn were dining anywhere together, phineas, who had come to them quite a boy, would walk out of the room before her husband. this could hardly be right! nevertheless she helped phineas to the nicest bit of fish she could find, and had he been ill, would have nursed him with the greatest care. after dinner, when mrs. low had gone up-stairs, there came the great discussion between the tutor and the pupil, for the sake of which this little dinner had been given. when phineas had last been with mr. low,--on the occasion of his showing himself at his tutor's chambers after his return from ireland,--he had not made up his mind so thoroughly on certain points as he had done since he had seen lady laura. the discussion could hardly be of any avail now,--but it could not be avoided. "well, phineas, and what do you mean to do?" said mr. low. everybody who knew our hero, or nearly everybody, called him by his christian name. there are men who seem to be so treated by general consent in all societies. even mrs. low, who was very prosaic, and unlikely to be familiar in her mode of address, had fallen into the way of doing it before the election. but she had dropped it, when the phineas whom she used to know became a member of parliament. "that's the question;--isn't it?" said phineas. "of course you'll stick to your work?" "what;--to the bar?" "yes;--to the bar." "i am not thinking of giving it up permanently." "giving it up," said mr. low, raising his hands in surprise. "if you give it up, how do you intend to live? men are not paid for being members of parliament." "not exactly. but, as i said before, i am not thinking of giving it up,--permanently." "you mustn't give it up at all,--not for a day; that is, if you ever mean to do any good." "there i think that perhaps you may be wrong, low!" "how can i be wrong? did a period of idleness ever help a man in any profession? and is it not acknowledged by all who know anything about it, that continuous labour is more necessary in our profession than in any other?" "i do not mean to be idle." "what is it you do mean, phineas?" "why simply this. here i am in parliament. we must take that as a fact." "i don't doubt the fact." "and if it be a misfortune, we must make the best of it. even you wouldn't advise me to apply for the chiltern hundreds at once." "i would;--to-morrow. my dear fellow, though i do not like to give you pain, if you come to me i can only tell you what i think. my advice to you is to give it up to-morrow. men would laugh at you for a few weeks, but that is better than being ruined for life." "i can't do that," said phineas, sadly. "very well;--then let us go on," said mr. low. "if you won't give up your seat, the next best thing will be to take care that it shall interfere as little as possible with your work. i suppose you must sit upon some committees." "my idea is this,--that i will give up one year to learning the practices of the house." "and do nothing?" "nothing but that. why, the thing is a study in itself. as for learning it in a year, that is out of the question. but i am convinced that if a man intends to be a useful member of parliament, he should make a study of it." "and how do you mean to live in the meantime?" mr. low, who was an energetic man, had assumed almost an angry tone of voice. phineas for awhile sat silent;--not that he felt himself to be without words for a reply, but that he was thinking in what fewest words he might best convey his ideas. "you have a very modest allowance from your father, on which you have never been able to keep yourself free from debt," continued mr. low. "he has increased it." "and will it satisfy you to live here, in what will turn out to be parliamentary club idleness, on the savings of his industrious life? i think you will find yourself unhappy if you do that. phineas, my dear fellow, as far as i have as yet been able to see the world, men don't begin either very good or very bad. they have generally good aspirations with infirm purposes;--or, as we may say, strong bodies with weak legs to carry them. then, because their legs are weak, they drift into idleness and ruin. during all this drifting they are wretched, and when they have thoroughly drifted they are still wretched. the agony of their old disappointment still clings to them. in nine cases out of ten it is some one small unfortunate event that puts a man astray at first. he sees some woman and loses himself with her;--or he is taken to a racecourse and unluckily wins money;--or some devil in the shape of a friend lures him to tobacco and brandy. your temptation has come in the shape of this accursed seat in parliament." mr. low had never said a soft word in his life to any woman but the wife of his bosom, had never seen a racehorse, always confined himself to two glasses of port after dinner, and looked upon smoking as the darkest of all the vices. "you have made up your mind, then, that i mean to be idle?" "i have made up my mind that your time will be wholly unprofitable,--if you do as you say you intend to do." "but you do not know my plan;--just listen to me." then mr. low did listen, and phineas explained his plan,--saying, of course, nothing of his love for lady laura, but giving mr. low to understand that he intended to assist in turning out the existing government and to mount up to some seat,--a humble seat at first,--on the treasury bench, by the help of his exalted friends and by the use of his own gifts of eloquence. mr. low heard him without a word. "of course," said phineas, "after the first year my time will not be fully employed, unless i succeed. and if i fail totally,--for, of course, i may fail altogether--" "it is possible," said mr. low. "if you are resolved to turn yourself against me, i must not say another word," said phineas, with anger. "turn myself against you! i would turn myself any way so that i might save you from the sort of life which you are preparing for yourself. i see nothing in it that can satisfy any manly heart. even if you are successful, what are you to become? you will be the creature of some minister, not his colleague. you are to make your way up the ladder by pretending to agree whenever agreement is demanded from you, and by voting whether you agree or do not. and what is to be your reward? some few precarious hundreds a year, lasting just so long as a party may remain in power and you can retain a seat in parliament! it is at the best slavery and degradation,--even if you are lucky enough to achieve the slavery." "you yourself hope to go into parliament and join a ministry some day," said phineas. mr. low was not quick to answer, but he did answer at last. "that is true, though i have never told you so. indeed, it is hardly true to say that i hope it. i have my dreams, and sometimes dare to tell myself that they may possibly become waking facts. but if ever i sit on a treasury bench i shall sit there by special invitation, having been summoned to take a high place because of my professional success. it is but a dream after all, and i would not have you repeat what i have said to any one. i had no intention to talk about myself." "i am sure that you will succeed," said phineas. "yes;--i shall succeed. i am succeeding. i live upon what i earn, like a gentleman, and can already afford to be indifferent to work that i dislike. after all, the other part of it,--that of which i dream,--is but an unnecessary adjunct; the gilding on the gingerbread. i am inclined to think that the cake is more wholesome without it." phineas did not go up-stairs into mrs. low's drawing-room on that evening, nor did he stay very late with mr. low. he had heard enough of counsel to make him very unhappy,--to shake from him much of the audacity which he had acquired for himself during his morning's walk,--and to make him almost doubt whether, after all, the chiltern hundreds would not be for him the safest escape from his difficulties. but in that case he must never venture to see lady laura standish again. chapter vi lord brentford's dinner no;--in such case as that,--should he resolve upon taking the advice of his old friend mr. low, phineas finn must make up his mind never to see lady laura standish again! and he was in love with lady laura standish;--and, for aught he knew, lady laura standish might be in love with him. as he walked home from mr. low's house in bedford square, he was by no means a triumphant man. there had been much more said between him and mr. low than could be laid before the reader in the last chapter. mr. low had urged him again and again, and had prevailed so far that phineas, before he left the house, had promised to consider that suicidal expedient of the chiltern hundreds. what a by-word he would become if he were to give up parliament, having sat there for about a week! but such immediate giving up was one of the necessities of mr. low's programme. according to mr. low's teaching, a single year passed amidst the miasma of the house of commons would be altogether fatal to any chance of professional success. and mr. low had at any rate succeeded in making phineas believe that he was right in this lesson. there was his profession, as to which mr. low assured him that success was within his reach; and there was parliament on the other side, as to which he knew that the chances were all against him, in spite of his advantage of a seat. that he could not combine the two, beginning with parliament, he did believe. which should it be? that was the question which he tried to decide as he walked home from bedford square to great marlborough street. he could not answer the question satisfactorily, and went to bed an unhappy man. he must at any rate go to lord brentford's dinner on wednesday, and, to enable him to join in the conversation there, must attend the debates on monday and tuesday. the reader may perhaps be best made to understand how terrible was our hero's state of doubt by being told that for awhile he thought of absenting himself from these debates, as being likely to weaken his purpose of withdrawing altogether from the house. it is not very often that so strong a fury rages between party and party at the commencement of the session that a division is taken upon the address. it is customary for the leader of the opposition on such occasions to express his opinion in the most courteous language, that his right honourable friend, sitting opposite to him on the treasury bench, has been, is, and will be wrong in everything that he thinks, says, or does in public life; but that, as anything like factious opposition is never adopted on that side of the house, the address to the queen, in answer to that most fatuous speech which has been put into her majesty's gracious mouth, shall be allowed to pass unquestioned. then the leader of the house thanks his adversary for his consideration, explains to all men how happy the country ought to be that the government has not fallen into the disgracefully incapable hands of his right honourable friend opposite; and after that the address is carried amidst universal serenity. but such was not the order of the day on the present occasion. mr. mildmay, the veteran leader of the liberal side of the house, had moved an amendment to the address, and had urged upon the house, in very strong language, the expediency of showing, at the very commencement of the session, that the country had returned to parliament a strong majority determined not to put up with conservative inactivity. "i conceive it to be my duty," mr. mildmay had said, "at once to assume that the country is unwilling that the right honourable gentlemen opposite should keep their seats on the bench upon which they sit, and in the performance of that duty i am called upon to divide the house upon the address to her majesty." and if mr. mildmay used strong language, the reader may be sure that mr. mildmay's followers used language much stronger. and mr. daubeny, who was the present leader of the house, and representative there of the ministry,--lord de terrier, the premier, sitting in the house of lords,--was not the man to allow these amenities to pass by without adequate replies. he and his friends were very strong in sarcasm, if they failed in argument, and lacked nothing for words, though it might perhaps be proved that they were short in numbers. it was considered that the speech in which mr. daubeny reviewed the long political life of mr. mildmay, and showed that mr. mildmay had been at one time a bugbear, and then a nightmare, and latterly simply a fungus, was one of the severest attacks, if not the most severe, that had been heard in that house since the reform bill. mr. mildmay, the while, was sitting with his hat low down over his eyes, and many men said that he did not like it. but this speech was not made till after that dinner at lord brentford's, of which a short account must be given. had it not been for the overwhelming interest of the doings in parliament at the commencement of the session, phineas might have perhaps abstained from attending, in spite of the charm of novelty. for, in truth, mr. low's words had moved him much. but if it was to be his fate to be a member of parliament only for ten days, surely it would be well that he should take advantage of the time to hear such a debate as this. it would be a thing to talk of to his children in twenty years' time, or to his grandchildren in fifty;--and it would be essentially necessary that he should be able to talk of it to lady laura standish. he did, therefore, sit in the house till one on the monday night, and till two on the tuesday night, and heard the debate adjourned till the thursday. on the thursday mr. daubeny was to make his great speech, and then the division would come. when phineas entered lady laura's drawing-room on the wednesday before dinner, he found the other guests all assembled. why men should have been earlier in keeping their dinner engagements on that day than on any other he did not understand; but it was the fact, probably, that the great anxiety of the time made those who were at all concerned in the matter very keen to hear and to be heard. during these days everybody was in a hurry,--everybody was eager; and there was a common feeling that not a minute was to be lost. there were three ladies in the room,--lady laura, miss fitzgibbon, and mrs. bonteen. the latter was the wife of a gentleman who had been a junior lord of the admiralty in the late government, and who lived in the expectation of filling, perhaps, some higher office in the government which, as he hoped, was soon to be called into existence. there were five gentlemen besides phineas finn himself,--mr. bonteen, mr. kennedy, mr. fitzgibbon, barrington erle, who had been caught in spite of all that lady laura had said as to the difficulty of such an operation, and lord brentford. phineas was quick to observe that every male guest was in parliament, and to tell himself that he would not have been there unless he also had had a seat. "we are all here now," said the earl, ringing the bell. "i hope i've not kept you waiting," said phineas. "not at all," said lady laura. "i do not know why we are in such a hurry. and how many do you say it will be, mr. finn?" "seventeen, i suppose," said phineas. "more likely twenty-two," said mr. bonteen. "there is colcleugh so ill they can't possibly bring him up, and young rochester is at vienna, and gunning is sulking about something, and moody has lost his eldest son. by george! they pressed him to come up, although frank moody won't be buried till friday." "i don't believe it," said lord brentford. "you ask some of the carlton fellows, and they'll own it." "if i'd lost every relation i had in the world," said fitzgibbon, "i'd vote on such a question as this. staying away won't bring poor frank moody back to life." "but there's a decency in these matters, is there not, mr. fitzgibbon?" said lady laura. "i thought they had thrown all that kind of thing overboard long ago," said miss fitzgibbon. "it would be better that they should have no veil, than squabble about the thickness of it." then dinner was announced. the earl walked off with miss fitzgibbon, barrington erle took mrs. bonteen, and mr. fitzgibbon took lady laura. "i'll bet four pounds to two it's over nineteen," said mr. bonteen, as he passed through the drawing-room door. the remark seemed to have been addressed to mr. kennedy, and phineas therefore made no reply. "i daresay it will," said kennedy, "but i never bet." "but you vote--sometimes, i hope," said bonteen. "sometimes," said mr. kennedy. "i think he is the most odious man that ever i set my eyes on," said phineas to himself as he followed mr. kennedy into the dining-room. he had observed that mr. kennedy had been standing very near to lady laura in the drawing-room, and that lady laura had said a few words to him. he was more determined than ever that he would hate mr. kennedy, and would probably have been moody and unhappy throughout the whole dinner had not lady laura called him to a chair at her left hand. it was very generous of her; and the more so, as mr. kennedy had, in a half-hesitating manner, prepared to seat himself in that very place. as it was, phineas and mr. kennedy were neighbours, but phineas had the place of honour. "i suppose you will not speak during the debate?" said lady laura. "who? i? certainly not. in the first place, i could not get a hearing, and, in the next place, i should not think of commencing on such an occasion. i do not know that i shall ever speak at all." "indeed you will. you are just the sort of man who will succeed with the house. what i doubt is, whether you will do as well in office." "i wish i might have the chance." "of course you can have the chance if you try for it. beginning so early, and being on the right side,--and, if you will allow me to say so, among the right set,--there can be no doubt that you may take office if you will. but i am not sure that you will be tractable. you cannot begin, you know, by being prime minister." "i have seen enough to realise that already," said phineas. "if you will only keep that little fact steadily before your eyes, there is nothing you may not reach in official life. but pitt was prime minister at four-and-twenty, and that precedent has ruined half our young politicians." "it has not affected me, lady laura." "as far as i can see, there is no great difficulty in government. a man must learn to have words at command when he is on his legs in the house of commons, in the same way as he would if he were talking to his own servants. he must keep his temper; and he must be very patient. as far as i have seen cabinet ministers, they are not more clever than other people." "i think there are generally one or two men of ability in the cabinet." "yes, of fair ability. mr. mildmay is a good specimen. there is not, and never was, anything brilliant in him. he is not eloquent, nor, as far as i am aware, did he ever create anything. but he has always been a steady, honest, persevering man, and circumstances have made politics come easy to him." "think of the momentous questions which he has been called upon to decide," said phineas. "every question so handled by him has been decided rightly according to his own party, and wrongly according to the party opposite. a political leader is so sure of support and so sure of attack, that it is hardly necessary for him to be even anxious to be right. for the country's sake, he should have officials under him who know the routine of business." "you think very badly then of politics as a profession." "no; i think of them very highly. it must be better to deal with the repeal of laws than the defending of criminals. but all this is papa's wisdom, not mine. papa has never been in the cabinet yet, and therefore of course he is a little caustic." "i think he was quite right," said barrington erle stoutly. he spoke so stoutly that everybody at the table listened to him. "i don't exactly see the necessity for such internecine war just at present," said lord brentford. "i must say i do," said the other. "lord de terrier took office knowing that he was in a minority. we had a fair majority of nearly thirty when he came in." "then how very soft you must have been to go out," said miss fitzgibbon. "not in the least soft," continued barrington erle. "we could not command our men, and were bound to go out. for aught we knew, some score of them might have chosen to support lord de terrier, and then we should have owned ourselves beaten for the time." "you were beaten,--hollow," said miss fitzgibbon. "then why did lord de terrier dissolve?" "a prime minister is quite right to dissolve in such a position," said lord brentford. "he must do so for the queen's sake. it is his only chance." "just so. it is, as you say, his only chance, and it is his right. his very possession of power will give him near a score of votes, and if he thinks that he has a chance, let him try it. we maintain that he had no chance, and that he must have known that he had none;--that if he could not get on with the late house, he certainly could not get on with a new house. we let him have his own way as far as we could in february. we had failed last summer, and if he could get along he was welcome. but he could not get along." "i must say i think he was right to dissolve," said lady laura. "and we are right to force the consequences upon him as quickly as we can. he practically lost nine seats by his dissolution. look at loughshane." "yes; look at loughshane," said miss fitzgibbon. "the country at any rate has gained something there." "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, mr. finn," said the earl. "what on earth is to become of poor george?" said mr. fitzgibbon. "i wonder whether any one knows where he is. george wasn't a bad sort of fellow." "roby used to think that he was a very bad fellow," said mr. bonteen. "roby used to swear that it was hopeless trying to catch him." it may be as well to explain that mr. roby was a conservative gentleman of great fame who had for years acted as whip under mr. daubeny, and who now filled the high office of patronage secretary to the treasury. "i believe in my heart," continued mr. bonteen, "that roby is rejoiced that poor george morris should be out in the cold." "if seats were halveable, he should share mine, for the sake of auld lang syne," said laurence fitzgibbon. "but not to-morrow night," said barrington erle; "the division to-morrow will be a thing not to be joked with. upon my word i think they're right about old moody. all private considerations should give way. and as for gunning, i'd have him up or i'd know the reason why." "and shall we have no defaulters, barrington?" asked lady laura. "i'm not going to boast, but i don't know of one for whom we need blush. sir everard powell is so bad with gout that he can't even bear any one to look at him, but ratler says that he'll bring him up." mr. ratler was in those days the whip on the liberal side of the house. "unfortunate wretch!" said miss fitzgibbon. "the worst of it is that he screams in his paroxysms," said mr. bonteen. "and you mean to say that you'll take him into the lobby," said lady laura. "undoubtedly," said barrington erle. "why not? he has no business with a seat if he can't vote. but sir everard is a good man, and he'll be there if laudanum and bath-chair make it possible." the same kind of conversation went on during the whole of dinner, and became, if anything, more animated when the three ladies had left the room. mr. kennedy made but one remark, and then he observed that as far as he could see a majority of nineteen would be as serviceable as a majority of twenty. this he said in a very mild voice, and in a tone that was intended to be expressive of doubt; but in spite of his humility barrington erle flew at him almost savagely,--as though a liberal member of the house of commons was disgraced by so mean a spirit; and phineas found himself despising the man for his want of zeal. "if we are to beat them, let us beat them well," said phineas. "let there be no doubt about it," said barrington erle. "i should like to see every man with a seat polled," said bonteen. "poor sir everard!" said lord brentford. "it will kill him, no doubt, but i suppose the seat is safe." "oh, yes; llanwrwsth is quite safe," said barrington, in his eagerness omitting to catch lord brentford's grim joke. phineas went up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after dinner, and was eagerly desirous of saying a few more words,--he knew not what words,--to lady laura. mr. kennedy and mr. bonteen had left the dining-room first, and phineas again found mr. kennedy standing close to lady laura's shoulder. could it be possible that there was anything in it? mr. kennedy was an unmarried man, with an immense fortune, a magnificent place, a seat in parliament, and was not perhaps above forty years of age. there could be no reason why he should not ask lady laura to be his wife,--except, indeed, that he did not seem to have sufficient words at command to ask anybody for anything. but could it be that such a woman as lady laura could accept such a man as mr. kennedy because of his wealth, and because of his fine place,--a man who had not a word to throw to a dog, who did not seem to be possessed of an idea, who hardly looked like a gentleman;--so phineas told himself. but in truth mr. kennedy, though he was a plain, unattractive man, with nothing in his personal appearance to call for remark, was not unlike a gentleman in his usual demeanour. phineas himself, it may be here said, was six feet high, and very handsome, with bright blue eyes, and brown wavy hair, and light silken beard. mrs. low had told her husband more than once that he was much too handsome to do any good. mr. low, however, had replied that young finn had never shown himself to be conscious of his own personal advantages. "he'll learn it soon enough," said mrs. low. "some woman will tell him, and then he'll be spoilt." i do not think that phineas depended much as yet on his own good looks, but he felt that mr. kennedy ought to be despised by such a one as lady laura standish, because his looks were not good. and she must despise him! it could not be that a woman so full of life should be willing to put up with a man who absolutely seemed to have no life within him. and yet why was he there, and why was he allowed to hang about just over her shoulders? phineas finn began to feel himself to be an injured man. but lady laura had the power of dispelling instantly this sense of injury. she had done it effectually in the dining-room by calling him to the seat by her side, to the express exclusion of the millionaire, and she did it again now by walking away from mr. kennedy to the spot on which phineas had placed himself somewhat sulkily. "of course you'll be at the club on friday morning after the division," she said. "no doubt." "when you leave it, come and tell me what are your impressions, and what you think of mr. daubeny's speech. there'll be nothing done in the house before four, and you'll be able to run up to me." "certainly i will." "i have asked mr. kennedy to come, and mr. fitzgibbon. i am so anxious about it, that i want to hear what different people say. you know, perhaps, that papa is to be in the cabinet if there's a change." "is he indeed?" "oh yes;--and you'll come up?" "of course i will. do you expect to hear much of an opinion from mr. kennedy?" "yes, i do. you don't quite know mr. kennedy yet. and you must remember that he will say more to me than he will to you. he's not quick, you know, as you are, and he has no enthusiasm on any subject;--but he has opinions, and sound opinions too." phineas felt that lady laura was in a slight degree scolding him for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of mr. kennedy; and he felt also that he had committed himself,--that he had shown himself to be sore, and that she had seen and understood his soreness. "the truth is i do not know him," said he, trying to correct his blunder. "no;--not as yet. but i hope that you may some day, as he is one of those men who are both useful and estimable." "i do not know that i can use him," said phineas; "but if you wish it, i will endeavour to esteem him." "i wish you to do both;--but that will all come in due time. i think it probable that in the early autumn there will be a great gathering of the real whig liberals at loughlinter;--of those, i mean, who have their heart in it, and are at the same time gentlemen. if it is so, i should be sorry that you should not be there. you need not mention it, but mr. kennedy has just said a word about it to papa, and a word from him always means so much! well;--good-night; and mind you come up on friday. you are going to the club, now, of course. i envy you men your clubs more than i do the house;--though i feel that a woman's life is only half a life, as she cannot have a seat in parliament." then phineas went away, and walked down to pall mall with laurence fitzgibbon. he would have preferred to take his walk alone, but he could not get rid of his affectionate countryman. he wanted to think over what had taken place during the evening; and, indeed, he did so in spite of his friend's conversation. lady laura, when she first saw him after his return to london, had told him how anxious her father was to congratulate him on his seat, but the earl had not spoken a word to him on the subject. the earl had been courteous, as hosts customarily are, but had been in no way specially kind to him. and then mr. kennedy! as to going to loughlinter, he would not do such a thing,--not though the success of the liberal party were to depend on it. he declared to himself that there were some things which a man could not do. but although he was not altogether satisfied with what had occurred in portman square, he felt as he walked down arm-in-arm with fitzgibbon that mr. low and mr. low's counsels must be scattered to the winds. he had thrown the die in consenting to stand for loughshane, and must stand the hazard of the cast. "bedad, phin, my boy, i don't think you're listening to me at all," said laurence fitzgibbon. "i'm listening to every word you say," said phineas. "and if i have to go down to the ould country again this session, you'll go with me?" "if i can i will." "that's my boy! and it's i that hope you'll have the chance. what's the good of turning these fellows out if one isn't to get something for one's trouble?" chapter vii mr. and mrs. bunce it was three o'clock on the thursday night before mr. daubeny's speech was finished. i do not think that there was any truth in the allegation made at the time, that he continued on his legs an hour longer than the necessities of his speech required, in order that five or six very ancient whigs might be wearied out and shrink to their beds. let a whig have been ever so ancient and ever so weary, he would not have been allowed to depart from westminster hall that night. sir everard powell was there in his bath-chair at twelve, with a doctor on one side of him and a friend on the other, in some purlieu of the house, and did his duty like a fine old briton as he was. that speech of mr. daubeny's will never be forgotten by any one who heard it. its studied bitterness had perhaps never been equalled, and yet not a word was uttered for the saying of which he could be accused of going beyond the limits of parliamentary antagonism. it is true that personalities could not have been closer, that accusations of political dishonesty and of almost worse than political cowardice and falsehood could not have been clearer, that no words in the language could have attributed meaner motives or more unscrupulous conduct. but, nevertheless, mr. daubeny in all that he said was parliamentary, and showed himself to be a gladiator thoroughly well trained for the arena in which he had descended to the combat. his arrows were poisoned, and his lance was barbed, and his shot was heated red,--because such things are allowed. he did not poison his enemies' wells or use greek fire, because those things are not allowed. he knew exactly the rules of the combat. mr. mildmay sat and heard him without once raising his hat from his brow, or speaking a word to his neighbour. men on both sides of the house said that mr. mildmay suffered terribly; but as mr. mildmay uttered no word of complaint to any one, and was quite ready to take mr. daubeny by the hand the next time they met in company, i do not know that any one was able to form a true idea of mr. mildmay's feelings. mr. mildmay was an impassive man who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and no doubt sat with his hat low down over his eyes in order that no man might judge of them on that occasion by the impression on his features. "if he could have left off half an hour earlier it would have been perfect as an attack," said barrington erle in criticising mr. daubeny's speech, "but he allowed himself to sink into comparative weakness, and the glory of it was over before the end."--then came the division. the liberals had votes to for the conservatives, and therefore counted a majority of . it was said that so large a number of members had never before voted at any division. "i own i'm disappointed," said barrington erle to mr. ratler. "i thought there would be twenty," said mr. ratler. "i never went beyond that. i knew they would have old moody up, but i thought gunning would have been too hard for them." "they say they've promised them both peerages." "yes;--if they remain in. but they know they're going out." "they must go, with such a majority against them," said barrington erle. "of course they must," said mr. ratler. "lord de terrier wants nothing better, but it is rather hard upon poor daubeny. i never saw such an unfortunate old tantalus." "he gets a good drop of real water now and again, and i don't pity him in the least. he's clever of course, and has made his own way, but i've always a feeling that he has no business where he is. i suppose we shall know all about it at brooks's by one o'clock to-morrow." phineas, though it had been past five before he went to bed,--for there had been much triumphant talking to be done among liberal members after the division,--was up at his breakfast at mrs. bunce's lodgings by nine. there was a matter which he was called upon to settle immediately in which mrs. bunce herself was much interested, and respecting which he had promised to give an answer on this very morning. a set of very dingy chambers up two pairs of stairs at no. , old square, lincoln's inn, to which mr. low had recommended him to transfer himself and all his belongings, were waiting his occupation, should he resolve upon occupying them. if he intended to commence operations as a barrister, it would be necessary that he should have chambers and a clerk; and before he had left mr. low's house on sunday evening he had almost given that gentleman authority to secure for him these rooms at no. . "whether you remain in parliament or no, you must make a beginning," mr. low had said; "and how are you even to pretend to begin if you don't have chambers?" mr. low hoped that he might be able to wean phineas away from his parliament bauble;--that he might induce the young barrister to give up his madness, if not this session or the next, at any rate before a third year had commenced. mr. low was a persistent man, liking very much when he did like, and loving very strongly when he did love. he would have many a tug for phineas finn before he would allow that false westminster satan to carry off the prey as altogether his own. if he could only get phineas into the dingy chambers he might do much! but phineas had now become so imbued with the atmosphere of politics, had been so breathed upon by lady laura and barrington erle, that he could no longer endure the thought of any other life than that of a life spent among the lobbies. a desire to help to beat the conservatives had fastened on his very soul, and almost made mr. low odious in his eyes. he was afraid of mr. low, and for the nonce would not go to him any more;--but he must see the porter at lincoln's inn, he must write a line to mr. low, and he must tell mrs. bunce that for the present he would still keep on her rooms. his letter to mr. low was as follows:-- great marlborough street, may, --. my dear low, i have made up my mind against taking the chambers, and am now off to the inn to say that i shall not want them. of course, i know what you will think of me, and it is very grievous to me to have to bear the hard judgment of a man whose opinion i value so highly; but, in the teeth of your terribly strong arguments, i think that there is something to be said on my side of the question. this seat in parliament has come in my way by chance, and i think it would be pusillanimous in me to reject it, feeling, as i do, that a seat in parliament confers very great honour. i am, too, very fond of politics, and regard legislation as the finest profession going. had i any one dependent on me, i probably might not be justified in following the bent of my inclination. but i am all alone in the world, and therefore have a right to make the attempt. if, after a trial of one or two sessions, i should fail in that which i am attempting, it will not even then be too late to go back to the better way. i can assure you that at any rate it is not my intention to be idle. i know very well how you will fret and fume over what i say, and how utterly i shall fail in bringing you round to my way of thinking; but as i must write to tell you of my decision, i cannot refrain from defending myself to the best of my ability. yours always faithfully, phineas finn. mr. low received this letter at his chambers, and when he had read it, he simply pressed his lips closely together, placed the sheet of paper back in its envelope, and put it into a drawer at his left hand. having done this, he went on with what work he had before him, as though his friend's decision were a matter of no consequence to him. as far as he was concerned the thing was done, and there should be an end of it. so he told himself; but nevertheless his mind was full of it all day; and, though he wrote not a word of answer to phineas, he made a reply within his own mind to every one of the arguments used in the letter. "great honour! how can there be honour in what comes, as he says, by chance? he hasn't sense enough to understand that the honour comes from the mode of winning it, and from the mode of wearing it; and that the very fact of his being member for loughshane at this instant simply proves that loughshane should have had no privilege to return a member! no one dependent on him! are not his father and his mother and his sisters dependent on him as long as he must eat their bread till he can earn bread of his own? he will never earn bread of his own. he will always be eating bread that others have earned." in this way, before the day was over, mr. low became very angry, and swore to himself that he would have nothing more to say to phineas finn. but yet he found himself creating plans for encountering and conquering the parliamentary fiend who was at present so cruelly potent with his pupil. it was not till the third evening that he told his wife that finn had made up his mind not to take chambers. "then i would have nothing more to say to him," said mrs. low, savagely. "for the present i can have nothing more to say to him." "but neither now nor ever," said mrs. low, with great emphasis; "he has been false to you." "no," said mr. low, who was a man thoroughly and thoughtfully just at all points; "he has not been false to me. he has always meant what he has said, when he was saying it. but he is weak and blind, and flies like a moth to the candle; one pities the poor moth, and would save him a stump of his wing if it be possible." phineas, when he had written his letter to mr. low, started off for lincoln's inn, making his way through the well-known dreary streets of soho, and through st. giles's, to long acre. he knew every corner well, for he had walked the same road almost daily for the last three years. he had conceived a liking for the route, which he might easily have changed without much addition to the distance, by passing through oxford street and holborn; but there was an air of business on which he prided himself in going by the most direct passage, and he declared to himself very often that things dreary and dingy to the eye might be good in themselves. lincoln's inn itself is dingy, and the law courts therein are perhaps the meanest in which equity ever disclosed herself. mr. low's three rooms in the old square, each of them brown with the binding of law books and with the dust collected on law papers, and with furniture that had been brown always, and had become browner with years, were perhaps as unattractive to the eye of a young pupil as any rooms which were ever entered. and the study of the chancery law itself is not an alluring pursuit till the mind has come to have some insight into the beauty of its ultimate object. phineas, during his three years' course of reasoning on these things, had taught himself to believe that things ugly on the outside might be very beautiful within; and had therefore come to prefer crossing poland street and soho square, and so continuing his travels by the seven dials and long acre. his morning walk was of a piece with his morning studies, and he took pleasure in the gloom of both. but now the taste of his palate had been already changed by the glare of the lamps in and about palatial westminster, and he found that st. giles's was disagreeable. the ways about pall mall and across the park to parliament street, or to the treasury, were much pleasanter, and the new offices in downing street, already half built, absorbed all that interest which he had hitherto been able to take in the suggested but uncommenced erection of new law courts in the neighbourhood of lincoln's inn. as he made his way to the porter's lodge under the great gateway of lincoln's inn, he told himself that he was glad that he had escaped, at any rate for a while, from a life so dull and dreary. if he could only sit in chambers at the treasury instead of chambers in that old court, how much pleasanter it would be! after all, as regarded that question of income, it might well be that the treasury chambers should be the more remunerative, and the more quickly remunerative, of the two. and, as he thought, lady laura might be compatible with the treasury chambers and parliament, but could not possibly be made compatible with old square, lincoln's inn. but nevertheless there came upon him a feeling of sorrow when the old man at the lodge seemed to be rather glad than otherwise that he did not want the chambers. "then mr. green can have them," said the porter; "that'll be good news for mr. green. i don't know what the gen'lemen 'll do for chambers if things goes on as they're going." mr. green was welcome to the chambers as far as phineas was concerned; but phineas felt nevertheless a certain amount of regret that he should have been compelled to abandon a thing which was regarded both by the porter and by mr. green as being so desirable. he had however written his letter to mr. low, and made his promise to barrington erle, and was bound to lady laura standish; and he walked out through the old gateway into chancery lane, resolving that he would not even visit lincoln's inn again for a year. there were certain books,--law books,--which he would read at such intervals of leisure as politics might give him; but within the precincts of the inns of court he would not again put his foot for twelve months, let learned pundits of the law,--such for instance as mr. and mrs. low,--say what they might. he had told mrs. bunce, before he left his home after breakfast, that he should for the present remain under her roof. she had been much gratified, not simply because lodgings in great marlborough street are less readily let than chambers in lincoln's inn, but also because it was a great honour to her to have a member of parliament in her house. members of parliament are not so common about oxford street as they are in the neighbourhood of pall mall and st. james's square. but mr. bunce, when he came home to his dinner, did not join as heartily as he should have done in his wife's rejoicing. mr. bunce was in the employment of certain copying law-stationers in carey street, and had a strong belief in the law as a profession;--but he had none whatever in the house of commons. "and he's given up going into chambers?" said mr. bunce to his wife. "given it up altogether for the present," said mrs. bunce. "and he don't mean to have no clerk?" said mr. bunce. "not unless it is for his parliament work." "there ain't no clerks wanted for that, and what's worse, there ain't no fees to pay 'em. i'll tell you what it is, jane;--if you don't look sharp there won't be nothing to pay you before long." "and he in parliament, jacob!" "there ain't no salary for being in parliament. there are scores of them parliament gents ain't got so much as'll pay their dinners for 'em. and then if anybody does trust 'em, there's no getting at 'em to make 'em pay as there is at other folk." "i don't know that our mr. phineas will ever be like that, jacob." "that's gammon, jane. that's the way as women gets themselves took in always. our mr. phineas! why should our mr. phineas be better than anybody else?" "he's always acted handsome, jacob." "there was one time he could not pay his lodgings for wellnigh nine months, till his governor come down with the money. i don't know whether that was handsome. it knocked me about terrible, i know." "he always meant honest, jacob." "i don't know that i care much for a man's meaning when he runs short of money. how is he going to see his way, with his seat in parliament, and this giving up of his profession? he owes us near a quarter now." "he paid me two months this morning, jacob; so he don't owe a farthing." "very well;--so much the better for us. i shall just have a few words with mr. low, and see what he says to it. for myself i don't think half so much of parliament folk as some do. they're for promising everything before they's elected; but not one in twenty of 'em is as good as his word when he gets there." mr. bunce was a copying journeyman, who spent ten hours a day in carey street with a pen between his fingers; and after that he would often spend two or three hours of the night with a pen between his fingers in marlborough street. he was a thoroughly hard-working man, doing pretty well in the world, for he had a good house over his head, and always could find raiment and bread for his wife and eight children; but, nevertheless, he was an unhappy man because he suffered from political grievances, or, i should more correctly say, that his grievances were semi-political and semi-social. he had no vote, not being himself the tenant of the house in great marlborough street. the tenant was a tailor who occupied the shop, whereas bunce occupied the whole of the remainder of the premises. he was a lodger, and lodgers were not as yet trusted with the franchise. and he had ideas, which he himself admitted to be very raw, as to the injustice of the manner in which he was paid for his work. so much a folio, without reference to the way in which his work was done, without regard to the success of his work, with no questions asked of himself, was, as he thought, no proper way of remunerating a man for his labours. he had long since joined a trade union, and for two years past had paid a subscription of a shilling a week towards its funds. he longed to be doing some battle against his superiors, and to be putting himself in opposition to his employers;--not that he objected personally to messrs. foolscap, margin, and vellum, who always made much of him as a useful man;--but because some such antagonism would be manly, and the fighting of some battle would be the right thing to do. "if labour don't mean to go to the wall himself," bunce would say to his wife, "labour must look alive, and put somebody else there." mrs. bunce was a comfortable motherly woman, who loved her husband but hated politics. as he had an aversion to his superiors in the world because they were superiors, so had she a liking for them for the same reason. she despised people poorer than herself, and thought it a fair subject for boasting that her children always had meat for dinner. if it was ever so small a morsel, she took care that they had it, in order that the boast might be maintained. the world had once or twice been almost too much for her,--when, for instance, her husband had been ill; and again, to tell the truth, for the last three months of that long period in which phineas had omitted to pay his bills; but she had kept a fine brave heart during those troubles, and could honestly swear that the children always had a bit of meat, though she herself had been occasionally without it for days together. at such times she would be more than ordinarily meek to mr. margin, and especially courteous to the old lady who lodged in her first-floor drawing-room,--for phineas lived up two pairs of stairs,--and she would excuse such servility by declaring that there was no knowing how soon she might want assistance. but her husband, in such emergencies, would become furious and quarrelsome, and would declare that labour was going to the wall, and that something very strong must be done at once. that shilling which bunce paid weekly to the union she regarded as being absolutely thrown away,--as much so as though he cast it weekly into the thames. and she had told him so, over and over again, making heart-piercing allusions to the eight children and to the bit of meat. he would always endeavour to explain to her that there was no other way under the sun for keeping labour from being sent to the wall;--but he would do so hopelessly and altogether ineffectually, and she had come to regard him as a lunatic to the extent of that one weekly shilling. she had a woman's instinctive partiality for comeliness in a man, and was very fond of phineas finn because he was handsome. and now she was very proud of him because he was a member of parliament. she had heard,--from her husband, who had told her the fact with much disgust,--that the sons of dukes and earls go into parliament, and she liked to think that the fine young man to whom she talked more or less every day should sit with the sons of dukes and earls. when phineas had really brought distress upon her by owing her some thirty or forty pounds, she could never bring herself to be angry with him,--because he was handsome and because he dined out with lords. and she had triumphed greatly over her husband, who had desired to be severe upon his aristocratic debtor, when the money had all been paid in a lump. "i don't know that he's any great catch," bunce had said, when the prospect of their lodger's departure had been debated between them. "jacob," said his wife, "i don't think you feel it when you've got people respectable about you." "the only respectable man i know," said jacob, "is the man as earns his bread; and mr. finn, as i take it, is a long way from that yet." phineas returned to his lodgings before he went down to his club, and again told mrs. bunce that he had altogether made up his mind about the chambers. "if you'll keep me i shall stay here for the first session i daresay." "of course we shall be only too proud, mr. finn; and though it mayn't perhaps be quite the place for a member of parliament--" "but i think it is quite the place." "it's very good of you to say so, mr. finn, and we'll do our very best to make you comfortable. respectable we are, i may say; and though bunce is a bit rough sometimes--" "never to me, mrs. bunce." "but he is rough,--and silly, too, with his radical nonsense, paying a shilling a week to a nasty union just for nothing. still he means well, and there ain't a man who works harder for his wife and children;--that i will say of him. and if he do talk politics--" "but i like a man to talk politics, mrs. bunce." "for a gentleman in parliament of course it's proper; but i never could see what good it could do to a law-stationer; and when he talks of labour going to the wall, i always ask him whether he didn't get his wages regular last saturday. but, lord love you, mr. finn, when a man as is a journeyman has took up politics and joined a trade union, he ain't no better than a milestone for his wife to take and talk to him." after that phineas went down to the reform club, and made one of those who were buzzing there in little crowds and uttering their prophecies as to future events. lord de terrier was to go out. that was certain. whether mr. mildmay was to come in was uncertain. that he would go to windsor to-morrow morning was not to be doubted; but it was thought very probable that he might plead his age, and decline to undertake the responsibility of forming a ministry. "and what then?" said phineas to his friend fitzgibbon. "why, then there will be a choice out of three. there is the duke, who is the most incompetent man in england; there is monk, who is the most unfit; and there is gresham, who is the most unpopular. i can't conceive it possible to find a worse prime minister than either of the three;--but the country affords no other." "and which would mildmay name?" "all of them,--one after the other, so as to make the embarrassment the greater." that was mr. fitzgibbon's description of the crisis; but then it was understood that mr. fitzgibbon was given to romancing. chapter viii the news about mr. mildmay and sir everard fitzgibbon and phineas started together from pall mall for portman square,--as both of them had promised to call on lady laura,--but fitzgibbon turned in at brooks's as they walked up st. james's square, and phineas went on by himself in a cab. "you should belong here," said fitzgibbon as his friend entered the cab, and phineas immediately began to feel that he would have done nothing till he could get into brooks's. it might be very well to begin by talking politics at the reform club. such talking had procured for him his seat at loughshane. but that was done now, and something more than talking was wanted for any further progress. nothing, as he told himself, of political import was managed at the reform club. no influence from thence was ever brought to bear upon the adjustment of places under the government, or upon the arrangement of cabinets. it might be very well to count votes at the reform club; but after the votes had been counted,--had been counted successfully,--brooks's was the place, as phineas believed, to learn at the earliest moment what would be the exact result of the success. he must get into brooks's, if it might be possible for him. fitzgibbon was not exactly the man to propose him. perhaps the earl of brentford would do it. lady laura was at home, and with her was sitting--mr. kennedy. phineas had intended to be triumphant as he entered lady laura's room. he was there with the express purpose of triumphing in the success of their great party, and of singing a pleasant paean in conjunction with lady laura. but his trumpet was put out of tune at once when he saw mr. kennedy. he said hardly a word as he gave his hand to lady laura,--and then afterwards to mr. kennedy, who chose to greet him with this show of cordiality. "i hope you are satisfied, mr. finn," said lady laura, laughing. "oh yes." "and is that all? i thought to have found your joy quite irrepressible." "a bottle of soda-water, though it is a very lively thing when opened, won't maintain its vivacity beyond a certain period, lady laura." "and you have had your gas let off already?" "well,--yes; at any rate, the sputtering part of it. nineteen is very well, but the question is whether we might not have had twenty-one." "mr. kennedy has just been saying that not a single available vote has been missed on our side. he has just come from brooks's, and that seems to be what they say there." so mr. kennedy also was a member of brooks's! at the reform club there certainly had been an idea that the number might have been swelled to twenty-one; but then, as phineas began to understand, nothing was correctly known at the reform club. for an accurate appreciation of the political balance of the day, you must go to brooks's. "mr. kennedy must of course be right," said phineas. "i don't belong to brooks's myself. but i was only joking, lady laura. there is, i suppose, no doubt that lord de terrier is out, and that is everything." "he has probably tendered his resignation," said mr. kennedy. "that is the same thing," said phineas, roughly. "not exactly," said lady laura. "should there be any difficulty about mr. mildmay, he might, at the queen's request, make another attempt." "with a majority of nineteen against him!" said phineas. "surely mr. mildmay is not the only man in the country. there is the duke, and there is mr. gresham,--and there is mr. monk." phineas had at his tongue's end all the lesson that he had been able to learn at the reform club. "i should hardly think the duke would venture," said mr. kennedy. "nothing venture, nothing have," said phineas. "it is all very well to say that the duke is incompetent, but i do not know that anything very wonderful is required in the way of genius. the duke has held his own in both houses successfully, and he is both honest and popular. i quite agree that a prime minister at the present day should be commonly honest, and more than commonly popular." "so you are all for the duke, are you?" said lady laura, again smiling as she spoke to him. "certainly;--if we are deserted by mr. mildmay. don't you think so?" "i don't find it quite so easy to make up my mind as you do. i am inclined to think that mr. mildmay will form a government; and as long as there is that prospect, i need hardly commit myself to an opinion as to his probable successor." then the objectionable mr. kennedy took his leave, and phineas was left alone with lady laura. "it is glorious;--is it not?" he began, as soon as he found the field to be open for himself and his own manoeuvring. but he was very young, and had not as yet learned the manner in which he might best advance his cause with such a woman as lady laura standish. he was telling her too clearly that he could have no gratification in talking with her unless he could be allowed to have her all to himself. that might be very well if lady laura were in love with him, but would hardly be the way to reduce her to that condition. "mr. finn," said she, smiling as she spoke, "i am sure that you did not mean it, but you were uncourteous to my friend mr. kennedy." "who? i? was i? upon my word, i didn't intend to be uncourteous." "if i had thought you had intended it, of course i could not tell you of it. and now i take the liberty;--for it is a liberty--" "oh no." "because i feel so anxious that you should do nothing to mar your chances as a rising man." "you are only too kind to me,--always." "i know how clever you are, and how excellent are all your instincts; but i see that you are a little impetuous. i wonder whether you will be angry if i take upon myself the task of mentor." "nothing you could say would make me angry,--though you might make me very unhappy." "i will not do that if i can help it. a mentor ought to be very old, you know, and i am infinitely older than you are." "i should have thought it was the reverse;--indeed, i may say that i know that it is," said phineas. "i am not talking of years. years have very little to do with the comparative ages of men and women. a woman at forty is quite old, whereas a man at forty is young." phineas, remembering that he had put down mr. kennedy's age as forty in his own mind, frowned when he heard this, and walked about the room in displeasure. "and therefore," continued lady laura, "i talk to you as though i were a kind of grandmother." "you shall be my great-grandmother if you will only be kind enough to me to say what you really think." "you must not then be so impetuous, and you must be a little more careful to be civil to persons to whom you may not take any particular fancy. now mr. kennedy is a man who may be very useful to you." "i do not want mr. kennedy to be of use to me." "that is what i call being impetuous,--being young,--being a boy. why should not mr. kennedy be of use to you as well as any one else? you do not mean to conquer the world all by yourself." "no;--but there is something mean to me in the expressed idea that i should make use of any man,--and more especially of a man whom i don't like." "and why do you not like him, mr. finn?" "because he is one of my dr. fells." "you don't like him simply because he does not talk much. that may be a good reason why you should not make of him an intimate companion,--because you like talkative people; but it should be no ground for dislike." phineas paused for a moment before he answered her, thinking whether or not it would be well to ask her some question which might produce from her a truth which he would not like to hear. then he did ask it. "and do you like him?" he said. she too paused, but only for a second. "yes,--i think i may say that i do like him." "no more than that?" "certainly no more than that;--but that i think is a great deal." "i wonder what you would say if any one asked you whether you liked me," said phineas, looking away from her through the window. "just the same;--but without the doubt, if the person who questioned me had any right to ask the question. there are not above one or two who could have such a right." "and i was wrong, of course, to ask it about mr. kennedy," said phineas, looking out into the square. "i did not say so." "but i see you think it." "you see nothing of the kind. i was quite willing to be asked the question by you, and quite willing to answer it. mr. kennedy is a man of great wealth." "what can that have to do with it?" "wait a moment, you impetuous irish boy, and hear me out." phineas liked being called an impetuous irish boy, and came close to her, sitting where he could look up into her face; and there came a smile upon his own, and he was very handsome. "i say that he is a man of great wealth," continued lady laura; "and as wealth gives influence, he is of great use,--politically,--to the party to which he belongs." "oh, politically!" "am i to suppose you care nothing for politics? to such men, to men who think as you think, who are to sit on the same benches with yourself, and go into the same lobby and be seen at the same club, it is your duty to be civil both for your own sake and for that of the cause. it is for the hermits of society to indulge in personal dislikings,--for men who have never been active and never mean to be active. i had been telling mr. kennedy how much i thought of you,--as a good liberal." "and i came in and spoilt it all." "yes, you did. you knocked down my little house, and i must build it all up again." "don't trouble yourself, lady laura." "i shall. it will be a great deal of trouble,--a great deal, indeed; but i shall take it. i mean you to be very intimate with mr. kennedy, and to shoot his grouse, and to stalk his deer, and to help to keep him in progress as a liberal member of parliament. i am quite prepared to admit, as a friend, that he would go back without some such help." "oh;--i understand." "i do not believe that you do understand at all, but i must endeavour to make you do so by degrees. if you are to be my political pupil, you must at any rate be obedient. the next time you meet mr. kennedy, ask him his opinion instead of telling him your own. he has been in parliament twelve years, and he was a good deal older than you when he began." at this moment a side door was opened, and the red-haired, red-bearded man whom phineas had seen before entered the room. he hesitated a moment, as though he were going to retreat again, and then began to pull about the books and toys which lay on one of the distant tables, as though he were in quest of some article. and he would have retreated had not lady laura called to him. "oswald," she said, "let me introduce you to mr. finn. mr. finn, i do not think you have ever met my brother, lord chiltern." then the two young men bowed, and each of them muttered something. "do not be in a hurry, oswald. you have nothing special to take you away. here is mr. finn come to tell us who are all the possible new prime ministers. he is uncivil enough not to have named papa." "my father is out of the question," said lord chiltern. "of course he is," said lady laura, "but i may be allowed my little joke." "i suppose he will at any rate be in the cabinet," said phineas. "i know nothing whatever about politics," said lord chiltern. "i wish you did," said his sister,--"with all my heart." "i never did,--and i never shall, for all your wishing. it's the meanest trade going i think, and i'm sure it's the most dishonest. they talk of legs on the turf, and of course there are legs; but what are they to the legs in the house? i don't know whether you are in parliament, mr. finn." "yes, i am; but do not mind me." "i beg your pardon. of course there are honest men there, and no doubt you are one of them." "he is indifferent honest,--as yet," said lady laura. "i was speaking of men who go into parliament to look after government places," said lord chiltern. "that is just what i'm doing," said phineas. "why should not a man serve the crown? he has to work very hard for what he earns." "i don't believe that the most of them work at all. however, i beg your pardon. i didn't mean you in particular." "mr. finn is such a thorough politician that he will never forgive you," said lady laura. "yes, i will," said phineas, "and i'll convert him some day. if he does come into the house, lady laura, i suppose he'll come on the right side?" "i'll never go into the house, as you call it," said lord chiltern. "but, i'll tell you what; i shall be very happy if you'll dine with me to-morrow at moroni's. they give you a capital little dinner at moroni's, and they've the best château yquem in london." "do," said lady laura, in a whisper. "oblige me." phineas was engaged to dine with one of the vice-chancellors on the day named. he had never before dined at the house of this great law luminary, whose acquaintance he had made through mr. low, and he had thought a great deal of the occasion. mrs. freemantle had sent him the invitation nearly a fortnight ago, and he understood there was to be an elaborate dinner party. he did not know it for a fact, but he was in hopes of meeting the expiring lord chancellor. he considered it to be his duty never to throw away such a chance. he would in all respects have preferred mr. freemantle's dinner in eaton place, dull and heavy though it might probably be, to the chance of lord chiltern's companions at moroni's. whatever might be the faults of our hero, he was not given to what is generally called dissipation by the world at large,--by which the world means self-indulgence. he cared not a brass farthing for moroni's château yquem, nor for the wondrously studied repast which he would doubtless find prepared for him at that celebrated establishment in st. james's street;--not a farthing as compared with the chance of meeting so great a man as lord moles. and lord chiltern's friends might probably be just the men whom he would not desire to know. but lady laura's request overrode everything with him. she had asked him to oblige her, and of course he would do so. had he been going to dine with the incoming prime minister, he would have put off his engagement at her request. he was not quick enough to make an answer without hesitation; but after a moment's pause he said he should be most happy to dine with lord chiltern at moroni's. "that's right; . sharp,--only i can tell you you won't meet any other members." then the servant announced more visitors, and lord chiltern escaped out of the room before he was seen by the new comers. these were mrs. bonteen and laurence fitzgibbon, and then mr. bonteen,--and after them mr. ratler, the whip, who was in a violent hurry, and did not stay there a moment, and then barrington erle and young lord james fitz-howard, the youngest son of the duke of st. bungay. in twenty or thirty minutes there was a gathering of liberal political notabilities in lady laura's drawing-room. there were two great pieces of news by which they were all enthralled. mr. mildmay would not be prime minister, and sir everard powell was--dead. of course nothing quite positive could be known about mr. mildmay. he was to be with the queen at windsor on the morrow at eleven o'clock, and it was improbable that he would tell his mind to any one before he told it to her majesty. but there was no doubt that he had engaged "the duke,"--so he was called by lord james,--to go down to windsor with him, that he might be in readiness if wanted. "i have learned that at home," said lord james, who had just heard the news from his sister, who had heard it from the duchess. lord james was delighted with the importance given to him by his father's coming journey. from this, and from other equally well-known circumstances, it was surmised that mr. mildmay would decline the task proposed to him. this, nevertheless, was only a surmise,--whereas the fact with reference to sir everard was fully substantiated. the gout had flown to his stomach, and he was dead. "by ---- yes; as dead as a herring," said mr. ratler, who at that moment, however, was not within hearing of either of the ladies present. and then he rubbed his hands, and looked as though he were delighted. and he was delighted,--not because his old friend sir everard was dead, but by the excitement of the tragedy. "having done so good a deed in his last moments," said laurence fitzgibbon, "we may take it for granted that he will go straight to heaven." "i hope there will be no crowner's quest, ratler," said mr. bonteen; "if there is i don't know how you'll get out of it." "i don't see anything in it so horrible," said mr. ratler. "if a fellow dies leading his regiment we don't think anything of it. sir everard's vote was of more service to his country than anything that a colonel or a captain can do." but nevertheless i think that mr. ratler was somewhat in dread of future newspaper paragraphs, should it be found necessary to summon a coroner's inquisition to sit upon poor sir everard. while this was going on lady laura took phineas apart for a moment. "i am so much obliged to you; i am indeed," she said. "what nonsense!" "never mind whether it's nonsense or not;--but i am. i can't explain it all now, but i do so want you to know my brother. you may be of the greatest service to him,--of the very greatest. he is not half so bad as people say he is. in many ways he is very good,--very good. and he is very clever." "at any rate i will think and believe no ill of him." "just so;--do not believe evil of him,--not more evil than you see. i am so anxious,--so very anxious to try to put him on his legs, and i find it so difficult to get any connecting link with him. papa will not speak with him,--because of money." "but he is friends with you." "yes; i think he loves me. i saw how distasteful it was to you to go to him;--and probably you were engaged?" "one can always get off those sort of things if there is an object." "yes;--just so. and the object was to oblige me;--was it not?" "of course it was. but i must go now. we are to hear daubeny's statement at four, and i would not miss it for worlds." "i wonder whether you would go abroad with my brother in the autumn? but i have no right to think of such a thing;--have i? at any rate i will not think of it yet. good-bye,--i shall see you perhaps on sunday if you are in town." phineas walked down to westminster with his mind very full of lady laura and lord chiltern. what did she mean by her affectionate manner to himself, and what did she mean by the continual praises which she lavished upon mr. kennedy? of whom was she thinking most, of mr. kennedy, or of him? she had called herself his mentor. was the description of her feelings towards himself, as conveyed in that name, of a kind to be gratifying to him? no;--he thought not. but then might it not be within his power to change the nature of those feelings? she was not in love with him at present. he could not make any boast to himself on that head. but it might be within his power to compel her to love him. the female mentor might be softened. that she could not love mr. kennedy, he thought that he was quite sure. there was nothing like love in her manner to mr. kennedy. as to lord chiltern, phineas would do whatever might be in his power. all that he really knew of lord chiltern was that he had gambled and that he had drunk. chapter ix the new government in the house of lords that night, and in the house of commons, the outgoing ministers made their explanations. as our business at the present moment is with the commons, we will confine ourselves to their chamber, and will do so the more willingly because the upshot of what was said in the two places was the same. the outgoing ministers were very grave, very self-laudatory, and very courteous. in regard to courtesy it may be declared that no stranger to the ways of the place could have understood how such soft words could be spoken by mr. daubeny, beaten, so quickly after the very sharp words which he had uttered when he only expected to be beaten. he announced to his fellow-commoners that his right honourable friend and colleague lord de terrier had thought it right to retire from the treasury. lord de terrier, in constitutional obedience to the vote of the lower house, had resigned, and the queen had been graciously pleased to accept lord de terrier's resignation. mr. daubeny could only inform the house that her majesty had signified her pleasure that mr. mildmay should wait upon her to-morrow at eleven o'clock. mr. mildmay,--so mr. daubeny understood,--would be with her majesty to-morrow at that hour. lord de terrier had found it to be his duty to recommend her majesty to send for mr. mildmay. such was the real import of mr. daubeny's speech. that further portion of it in which he explained with blandest, most beneficent, honey-flowing words that his party would have done everything that the country could require of any party, had the house allowed it to remain on the treasury benches for a month or two,--and explained also that his party would never recriminate, would never return evil for evil, would in no wise copy the factious opposition of their adversaries; that his party would now, as it ever had done, carry itself with the meekness of the dove, and the wisdom of the serpent,--all this, i say, was so generally felt by gentlemen on both sides of the house to be "leather and prunella" that very little attention was paid to it. the great point was that lord de terrier had resigned, and that mr. mildmay had been summoned to windsor. the queen had sent for mr. mildmay in compliance with advice given to her by lord de terrier. and yet lord de terrier and his first lieutenant had used all the most practised efforts of their eloquence for the last three days in endeavouring to make their countrymen believe that no more unfitting minister than mr. mildmay ever attempted to hold the reins of office! nothing had been too bad for them to say of mr. mildmay,--and yet, in the very first moment in which they found themselves unable to carry on the government themselves, they advised the queen to send for that most incompetent and baneful statesman! we who are conversant with our own methods of politics, see nothing odd in this, because we are used to it; but surely in the eyes of strangers our practice must be very singular. there is nothing like it in any other country,--nothing as yet. nowhere else is there the same good-humoured, affectionate, prize-fighting ferocity in politics. the leaders of our two great parties are to each other exactly as are the two champions of the ring who knock each other about for the belt and for five hundred pounds a side once in every two years. how they fly at each other, striking as though each blow should carry death if it were but possible! and yet there is no one whom the birmingham bantam respects so highly as he does bill burns the brighton bully, or with whom he has so much delight in discussing the merits of a pot of half-and-half. and so it was with mr. daubeny and mr. mildmay. in private life mr. daubeny almost adulated his elder rival,--and mr. mildmay never omitted an opportunity of taking mr. daubeny warmly by the hand. it is not so in the united states. there the same political enmity exists, but the political enmity produces private hatred. the leaders of parties there really mean what they say when they abuse each other, and are in earnest when they talk as though they were about to tear each other limb from limb. i doubt whether mr. daubeny would have injured a hair of mr. mildmay's venerable head, even for an assurance of six continued months in office. when mr. daubeny had completed his statement, mr. mildmay simply told the house that he had received and would obey her majesty's commands. the house would of course understand that he by no means meant to aver that the queen would even commission him to form a ministry. but if he took no such command from her majesty it would become his duty to recommend her majesty to impose the task upon some other person. then everything was said that had to be said, and members returned to their clubs. a certain damp was thrown over the joy of some excitable liberals by tidings which reached the house during mr. daubeny's speech. sir everard powell was no more dead than was mr. daubeny himself. now it is very unpleasant to find that your news is untrue, when you have been at great pains to disseminate it. "oh, but he is dead," said mr. ratler. "lady powell assured me half an hour ago," said mr. ratler's opponent, "that he was at that moment a great deal better than he had been for the last three months. the journey down to the house did him a world of good." "then we'll have him down for every division," said mr. ratler. the political portion of london was in a ferment for the next five days. on the sunday morning it was known that mr. mildmay had declined to put himself at the head of a liberal government. he and the duke of st. bungay, and mr. plantagenet palliser, had been in conference so often, and so long, that it may almost be said they lived together in conference. then mr. gresham had been with mr. mildmay,--and mr. monk also. at the clubs it was said by many that mr. monk had been with mr. mildmay; but it was also said very vehemently by others that no such interview had taken place. mr. monk was a radical, much admired by the people, sitting in parliament for that most radical of all constituencies, the pottery hamlets, who had never as yet been in power. it was the great question of the day whether mr. mildmay would or would not ask mr. monk to join him; and it was said by those who habitually think at every period of change that the time has now come in which the difficulties to forming a government will at last be found to be insuperable, that mr. mildmay could not succeed either with mr. monk or without him. there were at the present moment two sections of these gentlemen,--the section which declared that mr. mildmay had sent for mr. monk, and the section which declared that he had not. but there were others, who perhaps knew better what they were saying, by whom it was asserted that the whole difficulty lay with mr. gresham. mr. gresham was willing to serve with mr. mildmay,--with certain stipulations as to the special seat in the cabinet which he himself was to occupy, and as to the introduction of certain friends of his own; but,--so said these gentlemen who were supposed really to understand the matter,--mr. gresham was not willing to serve with the duke and with mr. palliser. now, everybody who knew anything knew that the duke and mr. palliser were indispensable to mr. mildmay. and a liberal government, with mr. gresham in the opposition, could not live half through a session! all sunday and monday these things were discussed; and on the monday lord de terrier absolutely stated to the upper house that he had received her majesty's commands to form another government. mr. daubeny, in half a dozen most modest words,--in words hardly audible, and most unlike himself,--made his statement in the lower house to the same effect. then mr. ratler, and mr. bonteen, and mr. barrington erle, and mr. laurence fitzgibbon aroused themselves and swore that such things could not be. should the prey which they had won for themselves, the spoil of their bows and arrows, be snatched from out of their very mouths by treachery? lord de terrier and mr. daubeny could not venture even to make another attempt unless they did so in combination with mr. gresham. such a combination, said mr. barrington erle, would be disgraceful to both parties, but would prove mr. gresham to be as false as satan himself. early on the tuesday morning, when it was known that mr. gresham had been at lord de terrier's house, barrington erle was free to confess that he had always been afraid of mr. gresham. "i have felt for years," said he, "that if anybody could break up the party it would be mr. gresham." on that tuesday morning mr. gresham certainly was with lord de terrier, but nothing came of it. mr. gresham was either not enough like satan for the occasion, or else he was too closely like him. lord de terrier did not bid high enough, or else mr. gresham did not like biddings from that quarter. nothing then came from this attempt, and on the tuesday afternoon the queen again sent for mr. mildmay. on the wednesday morning the gentlemen who thought that the insuperable difficulties had at length arrived, began to wear their longest faces, and to be triumphant with melancholy forebodings. now at last there was a dead lock. nobody could form a government. it was asserted that mr. mildmay had fallen at her majesty's feet dissolved in tears, and had implored to be relieved from further responsibility. it was well known to many at the clubs that the queen had on that morning telegraphed to germany for advice. there were men so gloomy as to declare that the queen must throw herself into the arms of mr. monk, unless mr. mildmay would consent to rise from his knees and once more buckle on his ancient armour. "even that would be better than gresham," said barrington erle, in his anger. "i'll tell you what it is," said ratler, "we shall have gresham and monk together, and you and i shall have to do their biddings." mr. barrington erle's reply to that suggestion i may not dare to insert in these pages. on the wednesday night, however, it was known that everything had been arranged, and before the houses met on the thursday every place had been bestowed, either in reality or in imagination. the _times_, in its second edition on the thursday, gave a list of the cabinet, in which four places out of fourteen were rightly filled. on the friday it named ten places aright, and indicated the law officers, with only one mistake in reference to ireland; and on the saturday it gave a list of the under secretaries of state, and secretaries and vice-presidents generally, with wonderful correctness as to the individuals, though the offices were a little jumbled. the government was at last formed in a manner which everybody had seen to be the only possible way in which a government could be formed. nobody was surprised, and the week's work was regarded as though the regular routine of government making had simply been followed. mr. mildmay was prime minister; mr. gresham was at the foreign office; mr. monk was at the board of trade; the duke was president of the council; the earl of brentford was privy seal; and mr. palliser was chancellor of the exchequer. barrington erle made a step up in the world, and went to the admiralty as secretary; mr. bonteen was sent again to the admiralty; and laurence fitzgibbon became a junior lord of the treasury. mr. ratler was, of course, installed as patronage secretary to the same board. mr. ratler was perhaps the only man in the party as to whose destination there could not possibly be a doubt. mr. ratler had really qualified himself for a position in such a way as to make all men feel that he would, as a matter of course, be called upon to fill it. i do not know whether as much could be said on behalf of any other man in the new government. during all this excitement, and through all these movements, phineas finn felt himself to be left more and more out in the cold. he had not been such a fool as to suppose that any office would be offered to him. he had never hinted at such a thing to his one dearly intimate friend, lady laura. he had not hitherto opened his mouth in parliament. indeed, when the new government was formed he had not been sitting for above a fortnight. of course nothing could be done for him as yet. but, nevertheless, he felt himself to be out in the cold. the very men who had discussed with him the question of the division,--who had discussed it with him because his vote was then as good as that of any other member,--did not care to talk to him about the distribution of places. he, at any rate, could not be one of them. he, at any rate, could not be a rival. he could neither mar nor assist. he could not be either a successful or a disappointed sympathiser,--because he could not himself be a candidate. the affair which perhaps disgusted him more than anything else was the offer of an office,--not in the cabinet, indeed, but one supposed to confer high dignity,--to mr. kennedy. mr. kennedy refused the offer, and this somewhat lessened finn's disgust, but the offer itself made him unhappy. "i suppose it was made simply because of his money," he said to fitzgibbon. "i don't believe that," said fitzgibbon. "people seem to think that he has got a head on his shoulders, though he has got no tongue in it. i wonder at his refusing it because of the right honourable." "i am so glad that mr. kennedy refused," said lady laura to him. "and why? he would have been the right hon. robert kennedy for ever and ever." phineas when he said this did not as yet know exactly how it would have come to pass that such honour,--the honour of the enduring prefix to his name,--would have come in the way of mr. kennedy had mr. kennedy accepted the office in question; but he was very quick to learn all these things, and, in the meantime, he rarely made any mistake about them. "what would that have been to him,--with his wealth?" said lady laura. "he has a position of his own and need not care for such things. there are men who should not attempt what is called independence in parliament. by doing so they simply decline to make themselves useful. but there are a few whose special walk in life it is to be independent, and, as it were, unmoved by parties." "great akinetoses! you know orion," said phineas. "mr. kennedy is not an akinetos," said lady laura. "he holds a very proud position," said phineas, ironically. "a very proud position indeed," said lady laura, in sober earnest. the dinner at moroni's had been eaten, and phineas had given an account of the entertainment to lord chiltern's sister. there had been only two other guests, and both of them had been men on the turf. "i was the first there," said phineas, "and he surprised me ever so much by telling me that you had spoken to him of me before." "yes; i did so. i wish him to know you. i want him to know some men who think of something besides horses. he is very well educated, you know, and would certainly have taken honours if he had not quarrelled with the people at christ church." "did he take a degree?" "no;--they sent him down. it is best always to have the truth among friends. of course you will hear it some day. they expelled him because he was drunk." then lady laura burst out into tears, and phineas sat near her, and consoled her, and swore that if in any way he could befriend her brother he would do so. mr. fitzgibbon at this time claimed a promise which he said that phineas had made to him,--that phineas would go over with him to mayo to assist at his re-election. and phineas did go. the whole affair occupied but a week, and was chiefly memorable as being the means of cementing the friendship which existed between the two irish members. "a thousand a year!" said laurence fitzgibbon, speaking of the salary of his office. "it isn't much; is it? and every fellow to whom i owe a shilling will be down upon me. if i had studied my own comfort, i should have done the same as kennedy." chapter x violet effingham it was now the middle of may, and a month had elapsed since the terrible difficulty about the queen's government had been solved. a month had elapsed, and things had shaken themselves into their places with more of ease and apparent fitness than men had given them credit for possessing. mr. mildmay, mr. gresham, and mr. monk were the best friends in the world, swearing by each other in their own house, and supported in the other by as gallant a phalanx of whig peers as ever were got together to fight against the instincts of their own order in compliance with the instincts of those below them. lady laura's father was in the cabinet, to lady laura's infinite delight. it was her ambition to be brought as near to political action as was possible for a woman without surrendering any of the privileges of feminine inaction. that women should even wish to have votes at parliamentary elections was to her abominable, and the cause of the rights of women generally was odious to her; but, nevertheless, for herself, she delighted in hoping that she too might be useful,--in thinking that she too was perhaps, in some degree, politically powerful; and she had received considerable increase to such hopes when her father accepted the privy seal. the earl himself was not an ambitious man, and, but for his daughter, would have severed himself altogether from political life before this time. he was an unhappy man;--being an obstinate man, and having in his obstinacy quarrelled with his only son. in his unhappiness he would have kept himself alone, living in the country, brooding over his wretchedness, were it not for his daughter. on her behalf, and in obedience to her requirements, he came yearly up to london, and, perhaps in compliance with her persuasion, had taken some part in the debates of the house of lords. it is easy for a peer to be a statesman, if the trouble of the life be not too much for him. lord brentford was now a statesman, if a seat in the cabinet be proof of statesmanship. at this time, in may, there was staying with lady laura in portman square a very dear friend of hers, by name violet effingham. violet effingham was an orphan, an heiress, and a beauty; with a terrible aunt, one lady baldock, who was supposed to be the dragon who had violet, as a captive maiden, in charge. but as miss effingham was of age, and was mistress of her own fortune, lady baldock was, in truth, not omnipotent as a dragon should be. the dragon, at any rate, was not now staying in portman square, and the captivity of the maiden was therefore not severe at the present moment. violet effingham was very pretty, but could hardly be said to be beautiful. she was small, with light crispy hair, which seemed to be ever on the flutter round her brows, and which yet was never a hair astray. she had sweet, soft grey eyes, which never looked at you long, hardly for a moment,--but which yet, in that half moment, nearly killed you by the power of their sweetness. her cheek was the softest thing in nature, and the colour of it, when its colour was fixed enough to be told, was a shade of pink so faint and creamy that you would hardly dare to call it by its name. her mouth was perfect, not small enough to give that expression of silliness which is so common, but almost divine, with the temptation of its full, rich, ruby lips. her teeth, which she but seldom showed, were very even and very white, and there rested on her chin the dearest dimple that ever acted as a loadstar to mens's eyes. the fault of her face, if it had a fault, was in her nose,--which was a little too sharp, and perhaps too small. a woman who wanted to depreciate violet effingham had once called her a pug-nosed puppet; but i, as her chronicler, deny that she was pug-nosed,--and all the world who knew her soon came to understand that she was no puppet. in figure she was small, but not so small as she looked to be. her feet and hands were delicately fine, and there was a softness about her whole person, an apparent compressibility, which seemed to indicate that she might go into very small compass. into what compass and how compressed, there were very many men who held very different opinions. violet effingham was certainly no puppet. she was great at dancing,--as perhaps might be a puppet,--but she was great also at archery, great at skating,--and great, too, at hunting. with reference to that last accomplishment, she and lady baldock had had more than one terrible tussle, not always with advantage to the dragon. "my dear aunt," she had said once during the last winter, "i am going to the meet with george,"--george was her cousin, lord baldock, and was the dragon's son,--"and there, let there be an end of it." "and you will promise me that you will not go further," said the dragon. "i will promise nothing to-day to any man or to any woman," said violet. what was to be said to a young lady who spoke in this way, and who had become of age only a fortnight since? she rode that day the famous run from bagnall's gorse to foulsham common, and was in at the death. violet effingham was now sitting in conference with her friend lady laura, and they were discussing matters of high import,--of very high import, indeed,--to the interests of both of them. "i do not ask you to accept him," said lady laura. "that is lucky," said the other, "as he has never asked me." "he has done much the same. you know that he loves you." "i know,--or fancy that i know,--that so many men love me! but, after all, what sort of love is it? it is just as when you and i, when we see something nice in a shop, call it a dear duck of a thing, and tell somebody to go and buy it, let the price be ever so extravagant. i know my own position, laura. i'm a dear duck of a thing." "you are a very dear thing to oswald." "but you, laura, will some day inspire a grand passion,--or i daresay have already, for you are a great deal too close to tell;--and then there will be cutting of throats, and a mighty hubbub, and a real tragedy. i shall never go beyond genteel comedy,--unless i run away with somebody beneath me, or do something awfully improper." "don't do that, dear." "i should like to, because of my aunt. i should indeed. if it were possible, without compromising myself, i should like her to be told some morning that i had gone off with the curate." "how can you be so wicked, violet!" "it would serve her right, and her countenance would be so awfully comic. mind, if it is ever to come off, i must be there to see it. i know what she would say as well as possible. she would turn to poor gussy. 'augusta,' she would say, 'i always expected it. i always did.' then i should come out and curtsey to her, and say so prettily, 'dear aunt, it was only our little joke.' that's my line. but for you,--you, if you planned it, would go off to-morrow with lucifer himself if you liked him." "but failing lucifer, i shall probably be very humdrum." "you don't mean that there is anything settled, laura?" "there is nothing settled,--or any beginning of anything that ever can be settled, but i am not talking about myself. he has told me that if you will accept him, he will do anything that you and i may ask him." "yes;--he will promise." "did you ever know him to break his word?" "i know nothing about him, my dear. how should i?" "do not pretend to be ignorant and meek, violet. you do know him,--much better than most girls know the men they marry. you have known him, more or less intimately, all your life." "but am i bound to marry him because of that accident?" "no; you are not bound to marry him,--unless you love him." "i do not love him," said violet, with slow, emphatic words, and a little forward motion of her face, as though she were specially eager to convince her friend that she was quite in earnest in what she said. "i fancy, violet, that you are nearer to loving him than any other man." "i am not at all near to loving any man. i doubt whether i ever shall be. it does not seem to me to be possible to myself to be what girls call in love. i can like a man. i do like, perhaps, half a dozen. i like them so much that if i go to a house or to a party it is quite a matter of importance to me whether this man or that will or will not be there. and then i suppose i flirt with them. at least augusta tells me that my aunt says that i do. but as for caring about any one of them in the way of loving him,--wanting to marry him, and have him all to myself, and that sort of thing,--i don't know what it means." "but you intend to be married some day," said lady laura. "certainly i do. and i don't intend to wait very much longer. i am heartily tired of lady baldock, and though i can generally escape among my friends, that is not sufficient. i am beginning to think that it would be pleasant to have a house of my own. a girl becomes such a bohemian when she is always going about, and doesn't quite know where any of her things are." then there was a silence between them for a few minutes. violet effingham was doubled up in a corner of a sofa, with her feet tucked under her, and her face reclining upon one of her shoulders. and as she talked she was playing with a little toy which was constructed to take various shapes as it was flung this way or that. a bystander looking at her would have thought that the toy was much more to her than the conversation. lady laura was sitting upright, in a common chair, at a table not far from her companion, and was manifestly devoting herself altogether to the subject that was being discussed between them. she had taken no lounging, easy attitude, she had found no employment for her fingers, and she looked steadily at violet as she talked,--whereas violet was looking only at the little manikin which she tossed. and now laura got up and came to the sofa, and sat close to her friend. violet, though she somewhat moved one foot, so as to seem to make room for the other, still went on with her play. "if you do marry, violet, you must choose some one man out of the lot." "that's quite true, my dear, i certainly can't marry them all." "and how do you mean to make the choice?" "i don't know. i suppose i shall toss up." "i wish you would be in earnest with me." "well;--i will be in earnest. i shall take the first that comes after i have quite made up my mind. you'll think it very horrible, but that is really what i shall do. after all, a husband is very much like a house or a horse. you don't take your house because it's the best house in the world, but because just then you want a house. you go and see a house, and if it's very nasty you don't take it. but if you think it will suit pretty well, and if you are tired of looking about for houses, you do take it. that's the way one buys one's horses,--and one's husbands." "and you have not made up your mind yet?" "not quite. lady baldock was a little more decent than usual just before i left baddingham. when i told her that i meant to have a pair of ponies, she merely threw up her hands and grunted. she didn't gnash her teeth, and curse and swear, and declare to me that i was a child of perdition." "what do you mean by cursing and swearing?" "she told me once that if i bought a certain little dog, it would lead to my being everlastingly--you know what. she isn't so squeamish as i am, and said it out." "what did you do?" "i bought the little dog, and it bit my aunt's heel. i was very sorry then, and gave the creature to mary rivers. he was such a beauty! i hope the perdition has gone with him, for i don't like mary rivers at all. i had to give the poor beasty to somebody, and mary rivers happened to be there. i told her that puck was connected with apollyon, but she didn't mind that. puck was worth twenty guineas, and i daresay she has sold him." "oswald may have an equal chance then among the other favourites?" said lady laura, after another pause. "there are no favourites, and i will not say that any man may have a chance. why do you press me about your brother in this way?" "because i am so anxious. because it would save him. because you are the only woman for whom he has ever cared, and because he loves you with all his heart; and because his father would be reconciled to him to-morrow if he heard that you and he were engaged." "laura, my dear--" "well." "you won't be angry if i speak out?" "certainly not. after what i have said, you have a right to speak out." "it seems to me that all your reasons are reasons why he should marry me;--not reasons why i should marry him." "is not his love for you a reason?" "no," said violet, pausing,--and speaking the word in the lowest possible whisper. "if he did not love me, that, if known to me, should be a reason why i should not marry him. ten men may love me,--i don't say that any man does--" "he does." "but i can't marry all the ten. and as for that business of saving him--" "you know what i mean!" "i don't know that i have any special mission for saving young men. i sometimes think that i shall have quite enough to do to save myself. it is strange what a propensity i feel for the wrong side of the post." "i feel the strongest assurance that you will always keep on the right side." "thank you, my dear. i mean to try, but i'm quite sure that the jockey who takes me in hand ought to be very steady himself. now, lord chiltern--" "well,--out with it. what have you to say?" "he does not bear the best reputation in this world as a steady man. is he altogether the sort of man that mammas of the best kind are seeking for their daughters? i like a roué myself;--and a prig who sits all night in the house, and talks about nothing but church-rates and suffrage, is to me intolerable. i prefer men who are improper, and all that sort of thing. if i were a man myself i should go in for everything i ought to leave alone. i know i should. but you see,--i'm not a man, and i must take care of myself. the wrong side of a post for a woman is so very much the wrong side. i like a fast man, but i know that i must not dare to marry the sort of man that i like." "to be one of us, then,--the very first among us;--would that be the wrong side?" "you mean that to be lady chiltern in the present tense, and lady brentford in the future, would be promotion for violet effingham in the past?" "how hard you are, violet!" "fancy,--that it should come to this,--that you should call me hard, laura. i should like to be your sister. i should like well enough to be your father's daughter. i should like well enough to be chiltern's friend. i am his friend. nothing that any one has ever said of him has estranged me from him. i have fought for him till i have been black in the face. yes, i have,--with my aunt. but i am afraid to be his wife. the risk would be so great. suppose that i did not save him, but that he brought me to shipwreck instead?" "that could not be!" "could it not? i think it might be so very well. when i was a child they used to be always telling me to mind myself. it seems to me that a child and a man need not mind themselves. let them do what they may, they can be set right again. let them fall as they will, you can put them on their feet. but a woman has to mind herself;--and very hard work it is when she has a dragon of her own driving her ever the wrong way." "i want to take you from the dragon." "yes;--and to hand me over to a griffin." "the truth is, violet, that you do not know oswald. he is not a griffin." "i did not mean to be uncomplimentary. take any of the dangerous wild beasts you please. i merely intend to point out that he is a dangerous wild beast. i daresay he is noble-minded, and i will call him a lion if you like it better. but even with a lion there is risk." "of course there will be risk. there is risk with every man,--unless you will be contented with the prig you described. of course there would be risk with my brother. he has been a gambler." "they say he is one still." "he has given it up in part, and would entirely at your instance." "and they say other things of him, laura." "it is true. he has had paroxysms of evil life which have well-nigh ruined him." "and these paroxysms are so dangerous! is he not in debt?" "he is,--but not deeply. every shilling that he owes would be paid;--every shilling. mind, i know all his circumstances, and i give you my word that every shilling should be paid. he has never lied,--and he has told me everything. his father could not leave an acre away from him if he would, and would not if he could." "i did not ask as fearing that. i spoke only of a dangerous habit. a paroxysm of spending money is apt to make one so uncomfortable. and then--" "well." "i don't know why i should make a catalogue of your brother's weaknesses." "you mean to say that he drinks too much?" "i do not say so. people say so. the dragon says so. and as i always find her sayings to be untrue, i suppose this is like the rest of them." "it is untrue if it be said of him as a habit." "it is another paroxysm,--just now and then." "do not laugh at me, violet, when i am taking his part, or i shall be offended." "but you see, if i am to be his wife, it is--rather important." "still you need not ridicule me." "dear laura, you know i do not ridicule you. you know i love you for what you are doing. would not i do the same, and fight for him down to my nails if i had a brother?" "and therefore i want you to be oswald's wife;--because i know that you would fight for him. it is not true that he is a--drunkard. look at his hand, which is as steady as yours. look at his eye. is there a sign of it? he has been drunk, once or twice, perhaps,--and has done fearful things." "it might be that he would do fearful things to me." "you never knew a man with a softer heart or with a finer spirit. i believe as i sit here that if he were married to-morrow, his vices would fall from him like old clothes." "you will admit, laura, that there will be some risk for the wife." "of course there will be a risk. is there not always a risk?" "the men in the city would call this double-dangerous, i think," said violet. then the door was opened, and the man of whom they were speaking entered the room. chapter xi lord chiltern the reader has been told that lord chiltern was a red man, and that peculiarity of his personal appearance was certainly the first to strike a stranger. it imparted a certain look of ferocity to him, which was apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. women are not actuated in the same way, and are accustomed to look deeper into men at the first sight than other men will trouble themselves to do. his beard was red, and was clipped, so as to have none of the softness of waving hair. the hair on his head also was kept short, and was very red,--and the colour of his face was red. nevertheless he was a handsome man, with well-cut features, not tall, but very strongly built, and with a certain curl in the corner of his eyelids which gave to him a look of resolution,--which perhaps he did not possess. he was known to be a clever man, and when very young had had the reputation of being a scholar. when he was three-and-twenty grey-haired votaries of the turf declared that he would make his fortune on the race-course,--so clear-headed was he as to odds, so excellent a judge of a horse's performances, and so gifted with a memory of events. when he was five-and-twenty he had lost every shilling of a fortune of his own, had squeezed from his father more than his father ever chose to name in speaking of his affairs to any one, and was known to be in debt. but he had sacrificed himself on one or two memorable occasions in conformity with turf laws of honour, and men said of him, either that he was very honest or very chivalric,--in accordance with the special views on the subject of the man who was speaking. it was reported now that he no longer owned horses on the turf;--but this was doubted by some who could name the animals which they said that he owned, and which he ran in the name of mr. macnab,--said some; of mr. pardoe,--said others; of mr. chickerwick,--said a third set of informants. the fact was that lord chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon the turf. but all the world knew that he drank. he had taken by the throat a proctor's bull-dog when he had been drunk at oxford, had nearly strangled the man, and had been expelled. he had fallen through his violence into some terrible misfortune at paris, had been brought before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals. after that he had fought a ruffian at newmarket, and had really killed him with his fists. in reference to this latter affray it had been proved that the attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that he had not been drunk. after a prolonged investigation he had come forth from that affair without disgrace. he would have done so, at least, if he had not been heretofore disgraced. but we all know how the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil repute may not look over a hedge. it was asserted widely by many who were supposed to know all about everything that lord chiltern was in a fit of delirium tremens when he killed the ruffian at newmarket. the worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total estrangement which now existed between lord brentford and his son. lord brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter more sinned against than sinning. "such things do not happen to other men's sons," he said, when lady laura pleaded for her brother. lady laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far prevailed that no sentence of banishment was pronounced against lord chiltern. there was nothing to prevent the son sitting at his father's table if he so pleased. he never did so please,--but nevertheless he continued to live in the house in portman square; and when he met the earl, in the hall, perhaps, or on the staircase, would simply bow to him. then the earl would bow again, and shuffle on,--and look very wretched, as no doubt he was. a grown-up son must be the greatest comfort a man can have,--if he be his father's best friend; but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort. as it was in this house, the son was a constant thorn in his father's side. "what does he do when we leave london?" lord brentford once said to his daughter. "he stays here, papa." "but he hunts still?" "yes, he hunts,--and he has a room somewhere at an inn,--down in northamptonshire. but he is mostly in london. they have trains on purpose." "what a life for my son!" said the earl. "what a life! of course no decent person will let him into his house." lady laura did not know what to say to this, for in truth lord chiltern was not fond of staying at the houses of persons whom the earl would have called decent. general effingham, the father of violet, and lord brentford had been the closest and dearest of friends. they had been young men in the same regiment, and through life each had confided in the other. when the general's only son, then a youth of seventeen, was killed in one of our grand new zealand wars, the bereaved father and the earl had been together for a month in their sorrow. at that time lord chiltern's career had still been open to hope,--and the one man had contrasted his lot with the other. general effingham lived long enough to hear the earl declare that his lot was the happier of the two. now the general was dead, and violet, the daughter of a second wife, was all that was left of the effinghams. this second wife had been a miss plummer, a lady from the city with much money, whose sister had married lord baldock. violet in this way had fallen to the care of the baldock people, and not into the hands of her father's friends. but, as the reader will have surmised, she had ideas of her own of emancipating herself from baldock thraldom. twice before that last terrible affair at newmarket, before the quarrel between the father and the son had been complete, lord brentford had said a word to his daughter,--merely a word,--of his son in connection with miss effingham. "if he thinks of it i shall be glad to see him on the subject. you may tell him so." that had been the first word. he had just then resolved that the affair in paris should be regarded as condoned,--as among the things to be forgotten. "she is too good for him; but if he asks her let him tell her everything." that had been the second word, and had been spoken immediately subsequent to a payment of twelve thousand pounds made by the earl towards the settlement of certain doncaster accounts. lady laura in negotiating for the money had been very eloquent in describing some honest,--or shall we say chivalric,--sacrifice which had brought her brother into this special difficulty. since that the earl had declined to interest himself in his son's matrimonial affairs; and when lady laura had once again mentioned the matter, declaring her belief that it would be the means of saving her brother oswald, the earl had desired her to be silent. "would you wish to destroy the poor child?" he had said. nevertheless lady laura felt sure that if she were to go to her father with a positive statement that oswald and violet were engaged, he would relent and would accept violet as his daughter. as for the payment of lord chiltern's present debts;--she had a little scheme of her own about that. miss effingham, who had been already two days in portman square, had not as yet seen lord chiltern. she knew that he lived in the house, that is, that he slept there, and probably eat his breakfast in some apartment of his own;--but she knew also that the habits of the house would not by any means make it necessary that they should meet. laura and her brother probably saw each other daily,--but they never went into society together, and did not know the same sets of people. when she had announced to lady baldock her intention of spending the first fortnight of her london season with her friend lady laura, lady baldock had as a matter of course--"jumped upon her," as miss effingham would herself call it. "you are going to the house of the worst reprobate in all england," said lady baldock. "what;--dear old lord brentford, whom papa loved so well!" "i mean lord chiltern, who, only last year,--murdered a man!" "that is not true, aunt." "there is worse than that,--much worse. he is always--tipsy, and always gambling, and always-- but it is quite unfit that i should speak a word more to you about such a man as lord chiltern. his name ought never to be mentioned." "then why did you mention it, aunt?" lady baldock's process of jumping upon her niece,--in which i think the aunt had generally the worst of the exercise,--went on for some time, but violet of course carried her point. "if she marries him there will be an end of everything," said lady baldock to her daughter augusta. "she has more sense than that, mamma," said augusta. "i don't think she has any sense at all," said lady baldock;--"not in the least. i do wish my poor sister had lived;--i do indeed." lord chiltern was now in the room with violet,--immediately upon that conversation between violet and his sister as to the expediency of violet becoming his wife. indeed his entrance had interrupted the conversation before it was over. "i am so glad to see you, miss effingham," he said. "i came in thinking that i might find you." "here i am, as large as life," she said, getting up from her corner on the sofa and giving him her hand. "laura and i have been discussing the affairs of the nation for the last two days, and have nearly brought our discussion to an end." she could not help looking, first at his eye and then at his hand, not as wanting evidence to the truth of the statement which his sister had made, but because the idea of a drunkard's eye and a drunkard's hand had been brought before her mind. lord chiltern's hand was like the hand of any other man, but there was something in his eye that almost frightened her. it looked as though he would not hesitate to wring his wife's neck round, if ever he should be brought to threaten to do so. and then his eye, like the rest of him, was red. no;--she did not think that she could ever bring herself to marry him. why take a venture that was double-dangerous, when there were so many ventures open to her, apparently with very little of danger attached to them? "if it should ever be said that i loved him, i would do it all the same," she said to herself. "if i did not come and see you here, i suppose that i should never see you," said he, seating himself. "i do not often go to parties, and when i do you are not likely to be there." "we might make our little arrangements for meeting," said she, laughing. "my aunt, lady baldock, is going to have an evening next week." "the servants would be ordered to put me out of the house." "oh no. you can tell her that i invited you." "i don't think that oswald and lady baldock are great friends," said lady laura. "or he might come and take you and me to the zoo on sunday. that's the proper sort of thing for a brother and a friend to do." "i hate that place in the regent's park," said lord chiltern. "when were you there last?" demanded miss effingham. "when i came home once from eton. but i won't go again till i can come home from eton again." then he altered his tone as he continued to speak. "people would look at me as if i were the wildest beast in the whole collection." "then," said violet, "if you won't go to lady baldock's or to the zoo, we must confine ourselves to laura's drawing-room;--unless, indeed, you like to take me to the top of the monument." "i'll take you to the top of the monument with pleasure." "what do you say, laura?" "i say that you are a foolish girl," said lady laura, "and that i will have nothing to do with such a scheme." "then there is nothing for it but that you should come here; and as you live in the house, and as i am sure to be here every morning, and as you have no possible occupation for your time, and as we have nothing particular to do with ours,--i daresay i shan't see you again before i go to my aunt's in berkeley square." "very likely not," he said. "and why not, oswald?" asked his sister. he passed his hand over his face before he answered her. "because she and i run in different grooves now, and are not such meet playfellows as we used to be once. do you remember my taking you away right through saulsby wood once on the old pony, and not bringing you back till tea-time, and miss blink going and telling my father?" "do i remember it? i think it was the happiest day in my life. his pockets were crammed full of gingerbread and everton toffy, and we had three bottles of lemonade slung on to the pony's saddlebows. i thought it was a pity that we should ever come back." "it was a pity," said lord chiltern. "but, nevertheless, substantially necessary," said lady laura. "failing our power of reproducing the toffy, i suppose it was," said violet. "you were not miss effingham then," said lord chiltern. "no,--not as yet. these disagreeable realities of life grow upon one; do they not? you took off my shoes and dried them for me at a woodman's cottage. i am obliged to put up with my maid's doing those things now. and miss blink the mild is changed for lady baldock the martinet. and if i rode about with you in a wood all day i should be sent to coventry instead of to bed. and so you see everything is changed as well as my name." "everything is not changed," said lord chiltern, getting up from his seat. "i am not changed,--at least not in this, that as i loved you better than any being in the world,--better even than laura there,--so do i love you now infinitely the best of all. do not look so surprised at me. you knew it before as well as you do now;--and laura knows it. there is no secret to be kept in the matter among us three." "but, lord chiltern,--" said miss effingham, rising also to her feet, and then pausing, not knowing how to answer him. there had been a suddenness in his mode of addressing her which had, so to say, almost taken away her breath; and then to be told by a man of his love before his sister was in itself, to her, a matter so surprising, that none of those words came at her command which will come, as though by instinct, to young ladies on such occasions. "you have known it always," said he, as though he were angry with her. "lord chiltern," she replied, "you must excuse me if i say that you are, at the least, very abrupt. i did not think when i was going back so joyfully to our childish days that you would turn the tables on me in this way." "he has said nothing that ought to make you angry," said lady laura. "only because he has driven me to say that which will make me appear to be uncivil to himself. lord chiltern, i do not love you with that love of which you are speaking now. as an old friend i have always regarded you, and i hope that i may always do so." then she got up and left the room. "why were you so sudden with her,--so abrupt,--so loud?" said his sister, coming up to him and taking him by the arm almost in anger. "it would make no difference," said he. "she does not care for me." "it makes all the difference in the world," said lady laura. "such a woman as violet cannot be had after that fashion. you must begin again." "i have begun and ended," he said. "that is nonsense. of course you will persist. it was madness to speak in that way to-day. you may be sure of this, however, that there is no one she likes better than you. you must remember that you have done much to make any girl afraid of you." "i do remember it." "do something now to make her fear you no longer. speak to her softly. tell her of the sort of life which you would live with her. tell her that all is changed. as she comes to love you, she will believe you when she would believe no one else on that matter." "am i to tell her a lie?" said lord chiltern, looking his sister full in the face. then he turned upon his heel and left her. chapter xii autumnal prospects the session went on very calmly after the opening battle which ousted lord de terrier and sent mr. mildmay back to the treasury,--so calmly that phineas finn was unconsciously disappointed, as lacking that excitement of contest to which he had been introduced in the first days of his parliamentary career. from time to time certain waspish attacks were made by mr. daubeny, now on this secretary of state and now on that; but they were felt by both parties to mean nothing; and as no great measure was brought forward, nothing which would serve by the magnitude of its interests to divide the liberal side of the house into fractions, mr. mildmay's cabinet was allowed to hold its own in comparative peace and quiet. it was now july,--the middle of july,--and the member for loughshane had not yet addressed the house. how often had he meditated doing so; how he had composed his speeches walking round the park on his way down to the house; how he got his subjects up,--only to find on hearing them discussed that he really knew little or nothing about them; how he had his arguments and almost his very words taken out of his mouth by some other member; and lastly, how he had actually been deterred from getting upon his legs by a certain tremor of blood round his heart when the moment for rising had come,--of all this he never said a word to any man. since that last journey to county mayo, laurence fitzgibbon had been his most intimate friend, but he said nothing of all this even to laurence fitzgibbon. to his other friend, lady laura standish, he did explain something of his feelings, not absolutely describing to her the extent of hindrance to which his modesty had subjected him, but letting her know that he had his qualms as well as his aspirations. but as lady laura always recommended patience, and more than once expressed her opinion that a young member would be better to sit in silence at least for one session, he was not driven to the mortification of feeling that he was incurring her contempt by his bashfulness. as regarded the men among whom he lived, i think he was almost annoyed at finding that no one seemed to expect that he should speak. barrington erle, when he had first talked of sending phineas down to loughshane, had predicted for him all manner of parliamentary successes, and had expressed the warmest admiration of the manner in which phineas had discussed this or that subject at the union. "we have not above one or two men in the house who can do that kind of thing," barrington erle had once said. but now no allusions whatever were made to his powers of speech, and phineas in his modest moments began to be more amazed than ever that he should find himself seated in that chamber. to the forms and technicalities of parliamentary business he did give close attention, and was unremitting in his attendance. on one or two occasions he ventured to ask a question of the speaker, and as the words of experience fell into his ears, he would tell himself that he was going through his education,--that he was learning to be a working member, and perhaps to be a statesman. but his regrets with reference to mr. low and the dingy chambers in old square were very frequent; and had it been possible for him to undo all that he had done, he would often have abandoned to some one else the honour of representing the electors of loughshane. but he was supported in all his difficulties by the kindness of his friend, lady laura standish. he was often in the house in portman square, and was always received with cordiality, and, as he thought, almost with affection. she would sit and talk to him, sometimes saying a word about her brother and sometimes about her father, as though there were more between them than the casual intimacy of london acquaintance. and in portman square he had been introduced to miss effingham, and had found miss effingham to be--very nice. miss effingham had quite taken to him, and he had danced with her at two or three parties, talking always, as he did so, about lady laura standish. "i declare, laura, i think your friend mr. finn is in love with you," said violet to lady laura one night. "i don't think that. he is fond of me, and so am i of him. he is so honest, and so naïve without being awkward! and then he is undoubtedly clever." "and so uncommonly handsome," said violet. "i don't know that that makes much difference," said lady laura. "i think it does if a man looks like a gentleman as well." "mr. finn certainly looks like a gentleman," said lady laura. "and no doubt is one," said violet. "i wonder whether he has got any money." "not a penny, i should say." "how does such a man manage to live? there are so many men like that, and they are always mysteries to me. i suppose he'll have to marry an heiress." "whoever gets him will not have a bad husband," said lady laura standish. phineas during the summer had very often met mr. kennedy. they sat on the same side of the house, they belonged to the same club, they dined together more than once in portman square, and on one occasion phineas had accepted an invitation to dinner sent to him by mr. kennedy himself. "a slower affair i never saw in my life," he said afterwards to laurence fitzgibbon. "though there were two or three men there who talk everywhere else, they could not talk at his table." "he gave you good wine, i should say," said fitzgibbon, "and let me tell you that that covers a multitude of sins." in spite, however, of all these opportunities for intimacy, now, nearly at the end of the session, phineas had hardly spoken a dozen words to mr. kennedy, and really knew nothing whatsoever of the man, as one friend,--or even as one acquaintance knows another. lady laura had desired him to be on good terms with mr. kennedy, and for that reason he had dined with him. nevertheless he disliked mr. kennedy, and felt quite sure that mr. kennedy disliked him. he was therefore rather surprised when he received the following note:-- albany, z , july , --. my dear mr. finn, i shall have some friends at loughlinter next month, and should be very glad if you will join us. i will name the th august. i don't know whether you shoot, but there are grouse and deer. yours truly, robert kennedy. what was he to do? he had already begun to feel rather uncomfortable at the prospect of being separated from all his new friends as soon as the session should be over. laurence fitzgibhon had asked him to make another visit to county mayo, but that he had declined. lady laura had said something to him about going abroad with her brother, and since that there had sprung up a sort of intimacy between him and lord chiltern; but nothing had been fixed about this foreign trip, and there were pecuniary objections to it which put it almost out of his power. the christmas holidays he would of course pass with his family at killaloe, but he hardly liked the idea of hurrying off to killaloe immediately the session should be over. everybody around him seemed to be looking forward to pleasant leisure doings in the country. men talked about grouse, and of the ladies at the houses to which they were going and of the people whom they were to meet. lady laura had said nothing of her own movements for the early autumn, and no invitation had come to him to go to the earl's country house. he had already felt that every one would depart and that he would be left,--and this had made him uncomfortable. what was he to do with the invitation from mr. kennedy? he disliked the man, and had told himself half a dozen times that he despised him. of course he must refuse it. even for the sake of the scenery, and the grouse, and the pleasant party, and the feeling that going to loughlinter in august would be the proper sort of thing to do, he must refuse it! but it occurred to him at last that he would call in portman square before he wrote his note. "of course you will go," said lady laura, in her most decided tone. "and why?" "in the first place it is civil in him to ask you, and why should you be uncivil in return?" "there is nothing uncivil in not accepting a man's invitation," said phineas. "we are going," said lady laura, "and i can only say that i shall be disappointed if you do not go too. both mr. gresham and mr. monk will be there, and i believe they have never stayed together in the same house before. i have no doubt there are a dozen men on your side of the house who would give their eyes to be there. of course you will go." of course he did go. the note accepting mr. kennedy's invitation was written at the reform club within a quarter of an hour of his leaving portman square. he was very careful in writing to be not more familiar or more civil than mr. kennedy had been to himself, and then he signed himself "yours truly, phineas finn." but another proposition was made to him, and a most charming proposition, during the few minutes that he remained in portman square. "i am so glad," said lady laura, "because i can now ask you to run down to us at saulsby for a couple of days on your way to loughlinter. till this was fixed i couldn't ask you to come all the way to saulsby for two days; and there won't be room for more between our leaving london and starting to loughlinter." phineas swore that he would have gone if it had been but for one hour, and if saulsby had been twice the distance. "very well; come on the th and go on the th. you must go on the th, unless you choose to stay with the housekeeper. and remember, mr. finn, we have got no grouse at saulsby." phineas declared that he did not care a straw for grouse. there was another little occurrence which happened before phineas left london, and which was not altogether so charming as his prospects at saulsby and loughlinter. early in august, when the session was still incomplete, he dined with laurence fitzgibbon at the reform club. laurence had specially invited him to do so, and made very much of him on the occasion. "by george, my dear fellow," laurence said to him that morning, "nothing has happened to me this session that has given me so much pleasure as your being in the house. of course there are fellows with whom one is very intimate and of whom one is very fond,--and all that sort of thing. but most of these englishmen on our side are such cold fellows; or else they are like ratler and barrington erle, thinking of nothing but politics. and then as to our own men, there are so many of them one can hardly trust! that's the truth of it. your being in the house has been such a comfort to me!" phineas, who really liked his friend laurence, expressed himself very warmly in answer to this, and became affectionate, and made sundry protestations of friendship which were perfectly sincere. their sincerity was tested after dinner, when fitzgibbon, as they two were seated on a sofa in the corner of the smoking-room, asked phineas to put his name to the back of a bill for two hundred and fifty pounds at six months' date. "but, my dear laurence," said phineas, "two hundred and fifty pounds is a sum of money utterly beyond my reach." "exactly, my dear boy, and that's why i've come to you. d'ye think i'd have asked anybody who by any impossibility might have been made to pay anything for me?" "but what's the use of it then?" "all the use in the world. it's for me to judge of the use, you know. why, d'ye think i'd ask it if it wasn't any use? i'll make it of use, my boy. and take my word, you'll never hear about it again. it's just a forestalling of my salary; that's all. i wouldn't do it till i saw that we were at least safe for six months to come." then phineas finn with many misgivings, with much inward hatred of himself for his own weakness, did put his name on the back of the bill which laurence fitzgibbon had prepared for his signature. chapter xiii saulsby wood "so you won't come to moydrum again?" said laurence fitzgibbon to his friend. "not this autumn, laurence. your father would think that i want to live there." "bedad, it's my father would be glad to see you,--and the oftener the better." "the fact is, my time is filled up." "you're not going to be one of the party at loughlinter?" "i believe i am. kennedy asked me, and people seem to think that everybody is to do what he bids them." "i should think so too. i wish he had asked me. i should have thought it as good as a promise of an under-secretaryship. all the cabinet are to be there. i don't suppose he ever had an irishman in his house before. when do you start?" "well;--on the th or th. i believe i shall go to saulsby on my way." "the devil you will. upon my word, phineas, my boy, you're the luckiest fellow i know. this is your first year, and you're asked to the two most difficult houses in england. you have only to look out for an heiress now. there is little vi effingham;--she is sure to be at saulsby. good-bye, old fellow. don't you be in the least unhappy about the bill. i'll see to making that all right." phineas was rather unhappy about the bill; but there was so much that was pleasant in his cup at the present moment, that he resolved, as far as possible, to ignore the bitter of that one ingredient. he was a little in the dark as to two or three matters respecting these coming visits. he would have liked to have taken a servant with him; but he had no servant, and felt ashamed to hire one for the occasion. and then he was in trouble about a gun, and the paraphernalia of shooting. he was not a bad shot at snipe in the bogs of county clare, but he had never even seen a gun used in england. however, he bought himself a gun,--with other paraphernalia, and took a license for himself, and then groaned over the expense to which he found that his journey would subject him. and at last he hired a servant for the occasion. he was intensely ashamed of himself when he had done so, hating himself, and telling himself that he was going to the devil headlong. and why had he done it? not that lady laura would like him the better, or that she would care whether he had a servant or not. she probably would know nothing of his servant. but the people about her would know, and he was foolishly anxious that the people about her should think that he was worthy of her. then he called on mr. low before he started. "i did not like to leave london without seeing you," he said; "but i know you will have nothing pleasant to say to me." "i shall say nothing unpleasant certainly. i see your name in the divisions, and i feel a sort of envy myself." "any fool could go into a lobby," said phineas. "to tell you the truth, i have been gratified to see that you have had the patience to abstain from speaking till you had looked about you. it was more than i expected from your hot irish blood. going to meet mr. gresham and mr. monk,--are you? well, i hope you may meet them in the cabinet some day. mind you come and see me when parliament meets in february." mrs. bunce was delighted when she found that phineas had hired a servant; but mr. bunce predicted nothing but evil from so vain an expense. "don't tell me; where is it to come from? he ain't no richer because he's in parliament. there ain't no wages. m.p. and m.t.,"--whereby mr. bunce, i fear, meant empty,--"are pretty much alike when a man hasn't a fortune at his back." "but he's going to stay with all the lords in the cabinet," said mrs. bunce, to whom phineas, in his pride, had confided perhaps more than was necessary. "cabinet, indeed," said bunce; "if he'd stick to chambers, and let alone cabinets, he'd do a deal better. given up his rooms, has he,--till february? he don't expect we're going to keep them empty for him!" phineas found that the house was full at saulsby, although the sojourn of the visitors would necessarily be so short. there were three or four there on their way on to loughlinter, like himself,--mr. bonteen and mr. ratler, with mr. palliser, the chancellor of the exchequer, and his wife,--and there was violet effingham, who, however, was not going to loughlinter. "no, indeed," she said to our hero, who on the first evening had the pleasure of taking her in to dinner, "unfortunately i haven't a seat in parliament, and therefore i am not asked." "lady laura is going." "yes;--but lady laura has a cabinet minister in her keeping. i've only one comfort;--you'll be awfully dull." "i daresay it would be very much nicer to stay here," said phineas. "if you want to know my real mind," said violet, "i would give one of my little fingers to go. there will be four cabinet ministers in the house, and four un-cabinet ministers, and half a dozen other members of parliament, and there will be lady glencora palliser, who is the best fun in the world; and, in point of fact, it's the thing of the year. but i am not asked. you see i belong to the baldock faction, and we don't sit on your side of the house. mr. kennedy thinks that i should tell secrets." why on earth had mr. kennedy invited him, phineas finn, to meet four cabinet ministers and lady glencora palliser? he could only have done so at the instance of lady laura standish. it was delightful for phineas to think that lady laura cared for him so deeply; but it was not equally delightful when he remembered how very close must be the alliance between mr. kennedy and lady laura, when she was thus powerful with him. at saulsby phineas did not see much of his hostess. when they were making their plans for the one entire day of this visit, she said a soft word of apology to him. "i am so busy with all these people, that i hardly know what i am doing. but we shall be able to find a quiet minute or two at loughlinter,--unless, indeed, you intend to be on the mountains all day. i suppose you have brought a gun like everybody else?" "yes;--i have brought a gun. i do shoot; but i am not an inveterate sportsman." on that one day there was a great riding party made up, and phineas found himself mounted, after luncheon, with some dozen other equestrians. among them were miss effingham and lady glencora, mr. ratler and the earl of brentford himself. lady glencora, whose husband was, as has been said, chancellor of the exchequer, and who was still a young woman, and a very pretty woman, had taken lately very strongly to politics, which she discussed among men and women of both parties with something more than ordinary audacity. "what a nice, happy, lazy time you've had of it since you've been in," said she to the earl. "i hope we have been more happy than lazy," said the earl. "but you've done nothing. mr. palliser has twenty schemes of reform, all mature; but among you you've not let him bring in one of them. the duke and mr. mildmay and you will break his heart among you." "poor mr. palliser!" "the truth is, if you don't take care he and mr. monk and mr. gresham will arise and shake themselves, and turn you all out." "we must look to ourselves, lady glencora." "indeed, yes;--or you will be known to all posterity as the fainéant government." "let me tell you, lady glencora, that a fainéant government is not the worst government that england can have. it has been the great fault of our politicians that they have all wanted to do something." "mr. mildmay is at any rate innocent of that charge," said lady glencora. they were now riding through a vast wood, and phineas found himself delightfully established by the side of violet effingham. "mr. ratler has been explaining to me that he must have nineteen next session. now, if i were you, mr. finn, i would decline to be counted up in that way as one of mr. ratler's sheep." "but what am i to do?" "do something on your own hook. you men in parliament are so much like sheep! if one jumps at a gap, all go after him,--and then you are penned into lobbies, and then you are fed, and then you are fleeced. i wish i were in parliament. i'd get up in the middle and make such a speech. you all seem to me to be so much afraid of one another that you don't quite dare to speak out. do you see that cottage there?" "what a pretty cottage it is!" "yes;--is it not? twelve years ago i took off my shoes and stockings and had them dried in that cottage, and when i got back to the house i was put to bed for having been out all day in the wood." "were you wandering about alone?" "no, i wasn't alone. oswald standish was with me. we were children then. do you know him?" "lord chiltern;--yes, i know him. he and i have been rather friends this year." "he is very good;--is he not?" "good,--in what way?" "honest and generous!" "i know no man whom i believe to be more so." "and he is clever?" asked miss effingham. "very clever. that is, he talks very well if you will let him talk after his own fashion. you would always fancy that he was going to eat you;--but that is his way." "and you like him?" "very much." "i am so glad to hear you say so." "is he a favourite of yours, miss effingham?" "not now,--not particularly. i hardly ever see him. but his sister is the best friend i have, and i used to like him so much when he was a boy! i have not seen that cottage since that day, and i remember it as though it were yesterday. lord chiltern is quite changed, is he not?" "changed,--in what way?" "they used to say that he was--unsteady you know." "i think he is changed. but chiltern is at heart a bohemian. it is impossible not to see that at once. he hates the decencies of life." "i suppose he does," said violet. "he ought to marry. if he were married, that would all be cured;--don't you think so?" "i cannot fancy him with a wife," said phineas, "there is a savagery about him which would make him an uncomfortable companion for a woman." "but he would love his wife?" "yes, as he does his horses. and he would treat her well,--as he does his horses. but he expects every horse he has to do anything that any horse can do; and he would expect the same of his wife." phineas had no idea how deep an injury he might be doing his friend by this description, nor did it once occur to him that his companion was thinking of herself as the possible wife of this red indian. miss effingham rode on in silence for some distance, and then she said but one word more about lord chiltern. "he was so good to me in that cottage." on the following day the party at saulsby was broken up, and there was a regular pilgrimage towards loughlinter. phineas resolved upon sleeping a night at edinburgh on his way, and he found himself joined in the bands of close companionship with mr. ratler for the occasion. the evening was by no means thrown away, for he learned much of his trade from mr. ratler. and mr. ratler was heard to declare afterwards at loughlinter that mr. finn was a pleasant young man. it soon came to be admitted by all who knew phineas finn that he had a peculiar power of making himself agreeable which no one knew how to analyse or define. "i think it is because he listens so well," said one man. "but the women would not like him for that," said another. "he has studied when to listen and when to talk," said a third. the truth, however, was, that phineas finn had made no study in the matter at all. it was simply his nature to be pleasant. chapter xiv loughlinter phineas finn reached loughlinter together with mr. ratler in a post-chaise from the neighbouring town. mr. ratler, who had done this kind of thing very often before, travelled without impediments, but the new servant of our hero's was stuck outside with the driver, and was in the way. "i never bring a man with me," said mr. ratler to his young friend. "the servants of the house like it much better, because they get fee'd; you are just as well waited on, and it don't cost half as much." phineas blushed as he heard all this; but there was the impediment, not to be got rid of for the nonce, and phineas made the best of his attendant. "it's one of those points," said he, "as to which a man never quite makes up his mind. if you bring a fellow, you wish you hadn't brought him; and if you don't, you wish you had." "i'm a great deal more decided in my ways that that," said mr. ratler. loughlinter, as they approached it, seemed to phineas to be a much finer place than saulsby. and so it was, except that loughlinter wanted that graceful beauty of age which saulsby possessed. loughlinter was all of cut stone, but the stones had been cut only yesterday. it stood on a gentle slope, with a greensward falling from the front entrance down to a mountain lake. and on the other side of the lough there rose a mighty mountain to the skies, ben linter. at the foot of it, and all round to the left, there ran the woods of linter, stretching for miles through crags and bogs and mountain lands. no better ground for deer than the side of ben linter was there in all those highlands. and the linter, rushing down into the lough through rocks which, in some places, almost met together above its waters, ran so near to the house that the pleasant noise of its cataracts could be heard from the hall door. behind the house the expanse of drained park land seemed to be interminable; and then, again, came the mountains. there were ben linn and ben lody;--and the whole territory belonging to mr. kennedy. he was laird of linn and laird of linter, as his people used to say. and yet his father had walked into glasgow as a little boy,--no doubt with the normal half-crown in his breeches pocket. "magnificent;--is it not?" said phineas to the treasury secretary, as they were being driven up to the door. "very grand;--but the young trees show the new man. a new man may buy a forest; but he can't get park trees." phineas, at the moment, was thinking how far all these things which he saw, the mountains stretching everywhere around him, the castle, the lake, the river, the wealth of it all, and, more than the wealth, the nobility of the beauty, might act as temptations to lady laura standish. if a woman were asked to have the half of all this, would it be possible that she should prefer to take the half of his nothing? he thought it might be possible for a girl who would confess, or seem to confess, that love should be everything. but it could hardly be possible for a woman who looked at the world almost as a man looked at it,--as an oyster to be opened with such weapon as she could find ready to her hand. lady laura professed to have a care for all the affairs of the world. she loved politics, and could talk of social science, and had broad ideas about religion, and was devoted to certain educational views. such a woman would feel that wealth was necessary to her, and would be willing, for the sake of wealth, to put up with a husband without romance. nay; might it not be that she would prefer a husband without romance? thus phineas was arguing to himself as he was driven up to the door of loughlinter castle, while mr. ratler was eloquent on the beauty of old park trees. "after all, a scotch forest is a very scrubby sort of thing," said mr. ratler. there was nobody in the house,--at least, they found nobody; and within half an hour phineas was walking about the grounds by himself. mr. ratler had declared himself to be delighted at having an opportunity of writing letters,--and no doubt was writing them by the dozen, all dated from loughlinter, and all detailing the facts that mr. gresham, and mr. monk, and plantagenet palliser, and lord brentford were in the same house with him. phineas had no letters to write, and therefore rushed down across the broad lawn to the river, of which he heard the noisy tumbling waters. there was something in the air which immediately filled him with high spirits; and, in his desire to investigate the glories of the place, he forgot that he was going to dine with four cabinet ministers in a row. he soon reached the stream, and began to make his way up it through the ravine. there was waterfall over waterfall, and there were little bridges here and there which looked to be half natural and half artificial, and a path which required that you should climb, but which was yet a path, and all was so arranged that not a pleasant splashing rush of the waters was lost to the visitor. he went on and on, up the stream, till there was a sharp turn in the ravine, and then, looking upwards, he saw above his head a man and a woman standing together on one of the little half-made wooden bridges. his eyes were sharp, and he saw at a glance that the woman was lady laura standish. he had not recognised the man, but he had very little doubt that it was mr. kennedy. of course it was mr. kennedy, because he would prefer that it should be any other man under the sun. he would have turned back at once if he had thought that he could have done so without being observed; but he felt sure that, standing as they were, they must have observed him. he did not like to join them. he would not intrude himself. so he remained still, and began to throw stones into the river. but he had not thrown above a stone or two when he was called from above. he looked up, and then he perceived that the man who called him was his host. of course it was mr. kennedy. thereupon he ceased to throw stones, and went up the path, and joined them upon the bridge. mr. kennedy stepped forward, and bade him welcome to loughlinter. his manner was less cold, and he seemed to have more words at command than was usual with him. "you have not been long," he said, "in finding out the most beautiful spot about the place." "is it not lovely?" said laura. "we have not been here an hour yet, and mr. kennedy insisted on bringing me here." "it is wonderfully beautiful," said phineas. "it is this very spot where we now stand that made me build the house where it is," said mr. kennedy, "and i was only eighteen when i stood here and made up my mind. that is just twenty-five years ago." "so he is forty-three," said phineas to himself, thinking how glorious it was to be only twenty-five. "and within twelve months," continued mr. kennedy, "the foundations were being dug and the stone-cutters were at work." "what a good-natured man your father must have been," said lady laura. "he had nothing else to do with his money but to pour it over my head, as it were. i don't think he had any other enjoyment of it himself. will you go a little higher, lady laura? we shall get a fine view over to ben linn just now." lady laura declared that she would go as much higher as he chose to take her, and phineas was rather in doubt as to what it would become him to do. he would stay where he was, or go down, or make himself to vanish after any most acceptable fashion; but if he were to do so abruptly it would seem as though he were attributing something special to the companionship of the other two. mr. kennedy saw his doubt, and asked him to join them. "you may as well come on, mr. finn. we don't dine till eight, and it is not much past six yet. the men of business are all writing letters, and the ladies who have been travelling are in bed, i believe." "not all of them, mr. kennedy," said lady laura. then they went on with their walk very pleasantly, and the lord of all that they surveyed took them from one point of vantage to another, till they both swore that of all spots upon the earth loughlinter was surely the most lovely. "i do delight in it, i own," said the lord. "when i come up here alone, and feel that in the midst of this little bit of a crowded island i have all this to myself,--all this with which no other man's wealth can interfere,--i grow proud of my own, till i become thoroughly ashamed of myself. after all, i believe it is better to dwell in cities than in the country,--better, at any rate, for a rich man." mr. kennedy had now spoken more words than phineas had heard to fall from his lips during the whole time that they had been acquainted with each other. "i believe so too," said laura, "if one were obliged to choose between the two. for myself, i think that a little of both is good for man and woman." "there is no doubt about that," said phineas. "no doubt as far as enjoyment goes," said mr. kennedy. he took them up out of the ravine on to the side of the mountain, and then down by another path through the woods to the back of the house. as they went he relapsed into his usual silence, and the conversation was kept up between the other two. at a point not very far from the castle,--just so far that one could see by the break of the ground where the castle stood, kennedy left them. "mr. finn will take you back in safety, i am sure," said he, "and, as i am here, i'll go up to the farm for a moment. if i don't show myself now and again when i am here, they think i'm indifferent about the 'bestials'." "now, mr. kennedy," said lady laura, "you are going to pretend to understand all about sheep and oxen." mr. kennedy, owning that it was so, went away to his farm, and phineas with lady laura returned towards the house. "i think, upon the whole," said lady laura, "that that is as good a man as i know." "i should think he is an idle one," said phineas. "i doubt that. he is, perhaps, neither zealous nor active. but he is thoughtful and high-principled, and has a method and a purpose in the use which he makes of his money. and you see that he has poetry in his nature too, if you get him upon the right string. how fond he is of the scenery of this place!" "any man would be fond of that. i'm ashamed to say that it almost makes me envy him. i certainly never have wished to be mr. robert kennedy in london, but i should like to be the laird of loughlinter." "'laird of linn and laird of linter,--here in summer, gone in winter.' there is some ballad about the old lairds; but that belongs to a time when mr. kennedy had not been heard of, when some branch of the mackenzies lived down at that wretched old tower which you see as you first come upon the lake. when old mr. kennedy bought it there were hardly a hundred acres on the property under cultivation." "and it belonged to the mackenzies." "yes;--to the mackenzie of linn, as he was called. it was mr. kennedy, the old man, who was first called loughlinter. that is linn castle, and they lived there for hundreds of years. but these highlanders, with all that is said of their family pride, have forgotten the mackenzies already, and are quite proud of their rich landlord." "that is unpoetical," said phineas. "yes;--but then poetry is so usually false. i doubt whether scotland would not have been as prosaic a country as any under the sun but for walter scott;--and i have no doubt that henry v owes the romance of his character altogether to shakspeare." "i sometimes think you despise poetry," said phineas. "when it is false i do. the difficulty is to know when it is false and when it is true. tom moore was always false." "not so false as byron," said phineas with energy. "much more so, my friend. but we will not discuss that now. have you seen mr. monk since you have been here?" "i have seen no one. i came with mr. ratler." "why with mr. ratler? you cannot find mr. ratler a companion much to your taste." "chance brought us together. but mr. ratler is a man of sense, lady laura, and is not to be despised." "it always seems to me," said lady laura, "that nothing is to be gained in politics by sitting at the feet of the little gamaliels." "but the great gamaliels will not have a novice on their footstools." "then sit at no man's feet. is it not astonishing that the price generally put upon any article by the world is that which the owner puts on it?--and that this is specially true of a man's own self? if you herd with ratler, men will take it for granted that you are a ratlerite, and no more. if you consort with greshams and pallisers, you will equally be supposed to know your own place." "i never knew a mentor," said phineas, "so apt as you are to fill his telemachus with pride." "it is because i do not think your fault lies that way. if it did, or if i thought so, my telemachus, you may be sure that i should resign my position as mentor. here are mr. kennedy and lady glencora and mrs. gresham on the steps." then they went up through the ionic columns on to the broad stone terrace before the door, and there they found a crowd of men and women. for the legislators and statesmen had written their letters, and the ladies had taken their necessary rest. phineas, as he was dressing, considered deeply all that lady laura had said to him,--not so much with reference to the advice which she had given him, though that also was of importance, as to the fact that it had been given by her. she had first called herself his mentor; but he had accepted the name and had addressed her as her telemachus. and yet he believed himself to be older than she,--if, indeed, there was any difference in their ages. and was it possible that a female mentor should love her telemachus,--should love him as phineas desired to be loved by lady laura? he would not say that it was impossible. perhaps there had been mistakes between them;--a mistake in his manner of addressing her, and another in hers of addressing him. perhaps the old bachelor of forty-three was not thinking of a wife. had this old bachelor of forty-three been really in love with lady laura, would he have allowed her to walk home alone with phineas, leaving her with some flimsy pretext of having to look at his sheep? phineas resolved that he must at any rate play out his game,--whether he were to lose it or to win it; and in playing it he must, if possible, drop something of that mentor and telemachus style of conversation. as to the advice given him of herding with greshams and pallisers, instead of with ratlers and fitzgibbons,--he must use that as circumstances might direct. to him, himself, as he thought of it all, it was sufficiently astonishing that even the ratlers and fitzgibbons should admit him among them as one of themselves. "when i think of my father and of the old house at killaloe, and remember that hitherto i have done nothing myself, i cannot understand how it is that i should be at loughlinter." there was only one way of understanding it. if lady laura really loved him, the riddle might be read. the rooms at loughlinter were splendid, much larger and very much more richly furnished than those at saulsby. but there was a certain stiffness in the movement of things, and perhaps in the manner of some of those present, which was not felt at saulsby. phineas at once missed the grace and prettiness and cheery audacity of violet effingham, and felt at the same time that violet effingham would be out of her element at loughlinter. at loughlinter they were met for business. it was at least a semi-political, or perhaps rather a semi-official gathering, and he became aware that he ought not to look simply for amusement. when he entered the drawing-room before dinner, mr. monk and mr. palliser, and mr. kennedy and mr. gresham, with sundry others, were standing in a wide group before the fireplace, and among them were lady glencora palliser and lady laura and mrs. bonteen. as he approached them it seemed as though a sort of opening was made for himself; but he could see, though others did not, that the movement came from lady laura. "i believe, mr. monk," said lady glencora, "that you and i are the only two in the whole party who really know what we would be at." "if i must be divided from so many of my friends," said mr. monk, "i am happy to go astray in the company of lady glencora palliser." "and might i ask," said mr. gresham, with a peculiar smile for which he was famous, "what it is that you and mr. monk are really at?" "making men and women all equal," said lady glencora. "that i take to be the gist of our political theory." "lady glencora, i must cry off," said mr. monk. "yes;--no doubt. if i were in the cabinet myself i should not admit so much. there are reticences,--of course. and there is an official discretion." "but you don't mean to say, lady glencora, that you would really advocate equality?" said mrs. bonteen. "i do mean to say so, mrs. bonteen. and i mean to go further, and to tell you that you are no liberal at heart unless you do so likewise; unless that is the basis of your political aspirations." "pray let me speak for myself, lady glencora." "by no means,--not when you are criticising me and my politics. do you not wish to make the lower orders comfortable?" "certainly," said mrs. bonteen. "and educated, and happy and good?" "undoubtedly." "to make them as comfortable and as good as yourself?" "better if possible." "and i'm sure you wish to make yourself as good and as comfortable as anybody else,--as those above you, if anybody is above you? you will admit that?" "yes;--if i understand you." "then you have admitted everything, and are an advocate for general equality,--just as mr. monk is, and as i am. there is no getting out of it;--is there, mr. kennedy?" then dinner was announced, and mr. kennedy walked off with the french republican on his arm. as she went, she whispered into mr. kennedy's ear, "you will understand me. i am not saying that people are equal; but that the tendency of all law-making and of all governing should be to reduce the inequalities." in answer to which mr. kennedy said not a word. lady glencora's politics were too fast and furious for his nature. a week passed by at loughlinter, at the end of which phineas found himself on terms of friendly intercourse with all the political magnates assembled in the house, but especially with mr. monk. he had determined that he would not follow lady laura's advice as to his selection of companions, if in doing so he should be driven even to a seeming of intrusion. he made no attempt to sit at the feet of anybody, and would stand aloof when bigger men than himself were talking, and was content to be less,--as indeed he was less,--than mr. bonteen or mr. ratler. but at the end of a week he found that, without any effort on his part,--almost in opposition to efforts on his part,--he had fallen into an easy pleasant way with these men which was very delightful to him. he had killed a stag in company with mr. palliser, and had stopped beneath a crag to discuss with him a question as to the duty on irish malt. he had played chess with mr. gresham, and had been told that gentleman's opinion on the trial of mr. jefferson davis. lord brentford had--at last--called him finn, and had proved to him that nothing was known in ireland about sheep. but with mr. monk he had had long discussions on abstract questions in politics,--and before the week was over was almost disposed to call himself a disciple, or, at least, a follower of mr. monk. why not of mr. monk as well as of any one else? mr. monk was in the cabinet, and of all the members of the cabinet was the most advanced liberal. "lady glencora was not so far wrong the other night," mr. monk said to him. "equality is an ugly word and shouldn't be used. it misleads, and frightens, and is a bugbear. and she, in using it, had not perhaps a clearly defined meaning for it in her own mind. but the wish of every honest man should be to assist in lifting up those below him, till they be something nearer his own level than he finds them." to this phineas assented,--and by degrees he found himself assenting to a great many things that mr. monk said to him. mr. monk was a thin, tall, gaunt man, who had devoted his whole life to politics, hitherto without any personal reward beyond that which came to him from the reputation of his name, and from the honour of a seat in parliament. he was one of four or five brothers,--and all besides him were in trade. they had prospered in trade, whereas he had prospered solely in politics; and men said that he was dependent altogether on what his relatives supplied for his support. he had now been in parliament for more than twenty years, and had been known not only as a radical but as a democrat. ten years since, when he had risen to fame, but not to repute, among the men who then governed england, nobody dreamed that joshua monk would ever be a paid servant of the crown. he had inveighed against one minister after another as though they all deserved impeachment. he had advocated political doctrines which at that time seemed to be altogether at variance with any possibility of governing according to english rules of government. he had been regarded as a pestilent thorn in the sides of all ministers. but now he was a member of the cabinet, and those whom he had terrified in the old days began to find that he was not so much unlike other men. there are but few horses which you cannot put into harness, and those of the highest spirit will generally do your work the best. phineas, who had his eyes about him, thought that he could perceive that mr. palliser did not shoot a deer with mr. ratler, and that mr. gresham played no chess with mr. bonteen. bonteen, indeed, was a noisy pushing man whom nobody seemed to like, and phineas wondered why he should be at loughlinter, and why he should be in office. his friend laurence fitzgibbon had indeed once endeavoured to explain this. "a man who can vote hard, as i call it; and who will speak a few words now and then as they're wanted, without any ambition that way, may always have his price. and if he has a pretty wife into the bargain, he ought to have a pleasant time of it." mr. ratler no doubt was a very useful man, who thoroughly knew his business; but yet, as it seemed to phineas, no very great distinction was shown to mr. ratler at loughlinter. "if i got as high as that," he said to himself, "i should think myself a miracle of luck. and yet nobody seems to think anything of ratler. it is all nothing unless one can go to the very top." "i believe i did right to accept office," mr. monk said to him one day, as they sat together on a rock close by one of the little bridges over the linter. "indeed, unless a man does so when the bonds of the office tendered to him are made compatible with his own views, he declines to proceed on the open path towards the prosecution of those views. a man who is combating one ministry after another, and striving to imbue those ministers with his convictions, can hardly decline to become a minister himself when he finds that those convictions of his own are henceforth,--or at least for some time to come,--to be the ministerial convictions of the day. do you follow me?" "very clearly," said phineas. "you would have denied your own children had you refused." "unless indeed a man were to feel that he was in some way unfitted for office work. i very nearly provided for myself an escape on that plea;--but when i came to sift it, i thought that it would be false. but let me tell you that the delight of political life is altogether in opposition. why, it is freedom against slavery, fire against clay, movement against stagnation! the very inaccuracy which is permitted to opposition is in itself a charm worth more than all the patronage and all the prestige of ministerial power. you'll try them both, and then say if you do not agree with me. give me the full swing of the benches below the gangway, where i needed to care for no one, and could always enjoy myself on my legs as long as i felt that i was true to those who sent me there! that is all over now. they have got me into harness, and my shoulders are sore. the oats, however, are of the best, and the hay is unexceptionable." chapter xv donald bean's pony phineas liked being told that the pleasures of opposition and the pleasures of office were both open to him,--and he liked also to be the chosen receptacle of mr. monk's confidence. he had come to understand that he was expected to remain ten days at loughlinter, and that then there was to be a general movement. since the first day he had seen but little of mr. kennedy, but he had found himself very frequently with lady laura. and then had come up the question of his projected trip to paris with lord chiltern. he had received a letter from lord chiltern. dear finn, are you going to paris with me? yours, c. there had been not a word beyond this, and before he answered it he made up his mind to tell lady laura the truth. he could not go to paris because he had no money. "i've just got that from your brother," said he. "how like oswald. he writes to me perhaps three times in the year, and his letters are just the same. you will go i hope?" "well;--no." "i am sorry for that." "i wonder whether i may tell you the real reason, lady laura." "nay;--i cannot answer that; but unless it be some political secret between you and mr. monk, i should think you might." "i cannot afford to go to paris this autumn. it seems to be a shocking admission to make,--though i don't know why it should be." "nor i;--but, mr. finn, i like you all the better for making it. i am very sorry, for oswald's sake. it's so hard to find any companion for him whom he would like and whom we,--that is i,--should think altogether--; you know what i mean, mr. finn." "your wish that i should go with him is a great compliment, and i thoroughly wish that i could do it. as it is, i must go to killaloe and retrieve my finances. i daresay, lady laura, you can hardly conceive how very poor a man i am." there was a melancholy tone about his voice as he said this, which made her think for the moment whether or no he had been right in going into parliament, and whether she had been right in instigating him to do so. but it was too late to recur to that question now. "you must climb into office early, and forego those pleasures of opposition which are so dear to mr. monk," she said, smiling. "after all, money is an accident which does not count nearly so high as do some other things. you and mr. kennedy have the same enjoyment of everything around you here." "yes; while it lasts." "and lady glencora and i stand pretty much on the same footing, in spite of all her wealth,--except that she is a married woman. i do not know what she is worth,--something not to be counted; and i am worth,--just what papa chooses to give me. a ten-pound note at the present moment i should look upon as great riches." this was the first time she had ever spoken to him of her own position as regards money; but he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she had been left a fortune altogether independent of her father. the last of the ten days had now come, and phineas was discontented and almost unhappy. the more he saw of lady laura the more he feared that it was impossible that she should become his wife. and yet from day to day his intimacy with her became more close. he had never made love to her, nor could he discover that it was possible for him to do so. she seemed to be a woman for whom all the ordinary stages of love-making were quite unsuitable, of course he could declare his love and ask her to be his wife on any occasion on which he might find himself to be alone with her. and on this morning he had made up his mind that he would do so before the day was over. it might be possible that she would never speak to him again;--that all the pleasures and ambitious hopes to which she had introduced him might be over as soon as that rash word should have been spoken! but, nevertheless, he would speak it. on this day there was to be a grouse-shooting party, and the shooters were to be out early. it had been talked of for some day or two past, and phineas knew that he could not escape it. there had been some rivalry between him and mr. bonteen, and there was to be a sort of match as to which of the two would kill most birds before lunch. but there had also been some half promise on lady laura's part that she would walk with him up the linter and come down upon the lake, taking an opposite direction from that by which they had returned with mr. kennedy. "but you will be shooting all day," she said, when he proposed it to her as they were starting for the moor. the waggonet that was to take them was at the door, and she was there to see them start. her father was one of the shooting party, and mr. kennedy was another. "i will undertake to be back in time, if you will not think it too hot. i shall not see you again till we meet in town next year." "then i certainly will go with you,--that is to say, if you are here. but you cannot return without the rest of the party, as you are going so far." "i'll get back somehow," said phineas, who was resolved that a few miles more or less of mountain should not detain him from the prosecution of a task so vitally important to him. "if we start at five that will be early enough." "quite early enough," said lady laura. phineas went off to the mountains, and shot his grouse, and won his match, and eat his luncheon. mr. bonteen, however, was not beaten by much, and was in consequence somewhat ill-humoured. "i'll tell you what i'll do," said mr. bonteen, "i'll back myself for the rest of the day for a ten-pound note." now there had been no money staked on the match at all,--but it had been simply a trial of skill, as to which would kill the most birds in a given time. and the proposition for that trial had come from mr. bonteen himself. "i should not think of shooting for money," said phineas. "and why not? a bet is the only way to decide these things." "partly because i'm sure i shouldn't hit a bird," said phineas, "and partly because i haven't got any money to lose." "i hate bets," said mr. kennedy to him afterwards. "i was annoyed when bonteen offered the wager. i felt sure, however, you would not accept it." "i suppose such bets are very common." "i don't think men ought to propose them unless they are quite sure of their company. maybe i'm wrong, and i often feel that i am strait-laced about such things. it is so odd to me that men cannot amuse themselves without pitting themselves against each other. when a man tells me that he can shoot better than i, i tell him that my keeper can shoot better than he." "all the same, it's a good thing to excel," said phineas. "i'm not so sure of that," said mr. kennedy. "a man who can kill more salmon than anybody else, can rarely do anything else. are you going on with your match?" "no; i'm going to make my way to loughlinter." "not alone?" "yes, alone." "it's over nine miles. you can't walk it." phineas looked at his watch, and found that it was now two o'clock. it was a broiling day in august, and the way back to loughlinter, for six or seven out of the nine miles, would be along a high road. "i must do it all the same," said he, preparing for a start. "i have an engagement with lady laura standish; and as this is the last day that i shall see her, i certainly do not mean to break it." "an engagement with lady laura," said mr. kennedy. "why did you not tell me, that i might have a pony ready? but come along. donald bean has a pony. he's not much bigger than a dog, but he'll carry you to loughlinter." "i can walk it, mr. kennedy." "yes; and think of the state in which you'd reach loughlinter! come along with me." "but i can't take you off the mountain," said phineas. "then you must allow me to take you off." so mr. kennedy led the way down to donald bean's cottage, and before three o'clock phineas found himself mounted on a shaggy steed, which, in sober truth, was not much bigger than a large dog. "if mr. kennedy is really my rival," said phineas to himself, as he trotted along, "i almost think that i am doing an unhandsome thing in taking the pony." at five o'clock he was under the portico before the front door, and there he found lady laura waiting for him,--waiting for him, or at least ready for him. she had on her hat and gloves and light shawl, and her parasol was in her hand. he thought that he had never seen her look so young, so pretty, and so fit to receive a lover's vows. but at the same moment it occurred to him that she was lady laura standish, the daughter of an earl, the descendant of a line of earls,--and that he was the son of a simple country doctor in ireland. was it fitting that he should ask such a woman to be his wife? but then mr. kennedy was the son of a man who had walked into glasgow with half-a-crown in his pocket. mr. kennedy's grandfather had been,--phineas thought that he had heard that mr. kennedy's grandfather had been a scotch drover; whereas his own grandfather had been a little squire near ennistimon, in county clare, and his own first cousin once removed still held the paternal acres at finn grove. his family was supposed to be descended from kings in that part of ireland. it certainly did not become him to fear lady laura on the score of rank, if it was to be allowed to mr. kennedy to proceed without fear on that head. as to wealth, lady laura had already told him that her fortune was no greater than his. her statement to himself on that head made him feel that he should not hesitate on the score of money. they neither had any, and he was willing to work for both. if she feared the risk, let her say so. it was thus that he argued with himself; but yet he knew,--knew as well as the reader will know,--that he was going to do that which he had no right to do. it might be very well for him to wait,--presuming him to be successful in his love,--for the opening of that oyster with his political sword, that oyster on which he proposed that they should both live; but such waiting could not well be to the taste of lady laura standish. it could hardly be pleasant to her to look forward to his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary before she could establish herself in her home. so he told himself. and yet he told himself at the same time that it was incumbent on him to persevere. "i did not expect you in the least," said lady laura. "and yet i spoke very positively." "but there are things as to which a man may be very positive, and yet may be allowed to fail. in the first place, how on earth did you get home?" "mr. kennedy got me a pony,--donald bean's pony." "you told him, then?" "yes; i told him why i was coming, and that i must be here. then he took the trouble to come all the way off the mountain to persuade donald to lend me his pony. i must acknowledge that mr. kennedy has conquered me at last." "i am so glad of that," said lady laura. "i knew he would,--unless it were your own fault." they went up the path by the brook, from bridge to bridge, till they found themselves out upon the open mountain at the top. phineas had resolved that he would not speak out his mind till he found himself on that spot; that then he would ask her to sit down, and that while she was so seated he would tell her everything. at the present moment he had on his head a scotch cap with a grouse's feather in it, and he was dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knickerbockers; and was certainly, in this costume, as handsome a man as any woman would wish to see. and there was, too, a look of breeding about him which had come to him, no doubt, from the royal finns of old, which ever served him in great stead. he was, indeed, only phineas finn, and was known by the world to be no more; but he looked as though he might have been anybody,--a royal finn himself. and then he had that special grace of appearing to be altogether unconscious of his own personal advantages. and i think that in truth he was barely conscious of them; that he depended on them very little, if at all; that there was nothing of personal vanity in his composition. he had never indulged in any hope that lady laura would accept him because he was a handsome man. "after all that climbing," he said, "will you not sit down for a moment?" as he spoke to her she looked at him and told herself that he was as handsome as a god. "do sit down for one moment," he said. "i have something that i desire to say to you, and to say it here." "i will," she said; "but i also have something to tell you, and will say it while i am yet standing. yesterday i accepted an offer of marriage from mr. kennedy." "then i am too late," said phineas, and putting his hands into the pockets of his coat, he turned his back upon her, and walked away across the mountain. what a fool he had been to let her know his secret when her knowledge of it could be of no service to him,--when her knowledge of it could only make him appear foolish in her eyes! but for his life he could not have kept his secret to himself. nor now could he bring himself to utter a word of even decent civility. but he went on walking as though he could thus leave her there, and never see her again. what an ass he had been in supposing that she cared for him! what a fool to imagine that his poverty could stand a chance against the wealth of loughlinter! but why had she lured him on? how he wished that he were now grinding, hard at work in mr. low's chambers, or sitting at home at killaloe with the hand of that pretty little irish girl within his own! presently he heard a voice behind him,--calling him gently. then he turned and found that she was very near him. he himself had then been standing still for some moments, and she had followed him. "mr. finn," she said. "well;--yes: what is it?" and turning round he made an attempt to smile. "will you not wish me joy, or say a word of congratulation? had i not thought much of your friendship, i should not have been so quick to tell you of my destiny. no one else has been told, except papa." "of course i hope you will be happy. of course i do. no wonder he lent me the pony!" "you must forget all that." "forget what?" "well,--nothing. you need forget nothing," said lady laura, "for nothing has been said that need be regretted. only wish me joy, and all will be pleasant." "lady laura, i do wish you joy, with all my heart,--but that will not make all things pleasant. i came up here to ask you to be my wife." "no;--no, no; do not say it." "but i have said it, and will say it again. i, poor, penniless, plain simple fool that i am, have been ass enough to love you, lady laura standish; and i brought you up here to-day to ask you to share with me--my nothingness. and this i have done on soil that is to be all your own. tell me that you regard me as a conceited fool,--as a bewildered idiot." "i wish to regard you as a dear friend,--both of my own and of my husband," said she, offering him her hand. "should i have had a chance, i wonder, if i had spoken a week since?" "how can i answer such a question, mr. finn? or, rather, i will, answer it fully. it is not a week since we told each other, you to me and i to you, that we were both poor,--both without other means than those which come to us from our fathers. you will make your way;--will make it surely; but how at present could you marry any woman unless she had money of her own? for me,--like so many other girls, it was necessary that i should stay at home or marry some one rich enough to dispense with fortune in a wife. the man whom in all the world i think the best has asked me to share everything with him;--and i have thought it wise to accept his offer." "and i was fool enough to think that you loved me," said phineas. to this she made no immediate answer. "yes, i was. i feel that i owe it you to tell you what a fool i have been. i did. i thought you loved me. at least i thought that perhaps you loved me. it was like a child wanting the moon;--was it not?" "and why should i not have loved you?" she said slowly, laying her hand gently upon his arm. "why not? because loughlinter--" "stop, mr. finn; stop. do not say to me any unkind word that i have not deserved, and that would make a breach between us. i have accepted the owner of loughlinter as my husband, because i verily believe that i shall thus do my duty in that sphere of life to which it has pleased god to call me. i have always liked him, and i will love him. for you,--may i trust myself to speak openly to you?" "you may trust me as against all others, except us two ourselves." "for you, then, i will say also that i have always liked you since i knew you; that i have loved you as a friend;--and could have loved you otherwise had not circumstances showed me so plainly that it would be unwise." "oh, lady laura!" "listen a moment. and pray remember that what i say to you now must never be repeated to any ears. no one knows it but my father, my brother, and mr. kennedy. early in the spring i paid my brother's debts. his affection to me is more than a return for what i have done for him. but when i did this,--when i made up my mind to do it, i made up my mind also that i could not allow myself the same freedom of choice which would otherwise have belonged to me. will that be sufficient, mr. finn?" "how can i answer you, lady laura? sufficient! and you are not angry with me for what i have said?" "no, i am not angry. but it is understood, of course, that nothing of this shall ever be repeated,--even among ourselves. is that a bargain?" "oh, yes. i shall never speak of it again." "and now you will wish me joy?" "i have wished you joy, lady laura. and i will do so again. may you have every blessing which the world can give you. you cannot expect me to be very jovial for awhile myself; but there will be nobody to see my melancholy moods. i shall be hiding myself away in ireland. when is the marriage to be?" "nothing has been said of that. i shall be guided by him,--but there must, of course, be delay. there will be settlements and i know not what. it may probably be in the spring,--or perhaps the summer. i shall do just what my betters tell me to do." phineas had now seated himself on the exact stone on which he had wished her to sit when he proposed to tell his own story, and was looking forth upon the lake. it seemed to him that everything had been changed for him while he had been up there upon the mountain, and that the change had been marvellous in its nature. when he had been coming up, there had been apparently two alternatives before him: the glory of successful love,--which, indeed, had seemed to him to be a most improbable result of the coming interview,--and the despair and utter banishment attendant on disdainful rejection. but his position was far removed from either of these alternatives. she had almost told him that she would have loved him had she not been poor,--that she was beginning to love him and had quenched her love, because it had become impossible to her to marry a poor man. in such circumstances he could not be angry with her,--he could not quarrel with her; he could not do other than swear to himself that he would be her friend. and yet he loved her better than ever;--and she was the promised wife of his rival! why had not donald bean's pony broken his neck? "shall we go down now?" she said. "oh, yes." "you will not go on by the lake?" "what is the use? it is all the same now. you will want to be back to receive him in from shooting." "not that, i think. he is above those little cares. but it will be as well we should go the nearest way, as we have spent so much of our time here. i shall tell mr. kennedy that i have told you,--if you do not mind." "tell him what you please," said phineas. "but i won't have it taken in that way, mr. finn. your brusque want of courtesy to me i have forgiven, but i shall expect you to make up for it by the alacrity of your congratulations to him. i will not have you uncourteous to mr. kennedy." "if i have been uncourteous i beg your pardon." "you need not do that. we are old friends, and may take the liberty of speaking plainly to each other;--but you will owe it to mr. kennedy to be gracious. think of the pony." they walked back to the house together, and as they went down the path very little was said. just as they were about to come out upon the open lawn, while they were still under cover of the rocks and shrubs, phineas stopped his companion by standing before her, and then he made his farewell speech to her. "i must say good-bye to you. i shall be away early in the morning." "good-bye, and god bless you," said lady laura. "give me your hand," said he. and she gave him her hand. "i don't suppose you know what it is to love dearly." "i hope i do." "but to be in love! i believe you do not. and to miss your love! i think,--i am bound to think that you have never been so tormented. it is very sore;--but i will do my best, like a man, to get over it." "do, my friend, do. so small a trouble will never weigh heavily on shoulders such as yours." "it will weigh very heavily, but i will struggle hard that it may not crush me. i have loved you so dearly! as we are parting give me one kiss, that i may think of it and treasure it in my memory!" what murmuring words she spoke to express her refusal of such a request, i will not quote; but the kiss had been taken before the denial was completed, and then they walked on in silence together,--and in peace, towards the house. on the next morning six or seven men were going away, and there was an early breakfast. there were none of the ladies there, but mr. kennedy, the host, was among his friends. a large drag with four horses was there to take the travellers and their luggage to the station, and there was naturally a good deal of noise at the front door as the preparations for the departure were made. in the middle of them mr. kennedy took our hero aside. "laura has told me," said mr. kennedy, "that she has acquainted you with my good fortune." "and i congratulate you most heartily," said phineas, grasping the other's hand. "you are indeed a lucky fellow." "i feel myself to be so," said mr. kennedy. "such a wife was all that was wanting to me, and such a wife is very hard to find. will you remember, finn, that loughlinter will never be so full but what there will be a room for you, or so empty but what you will be made welcome? i say this on lady laura's part and on my own." phineas, as he was being carried away to the railway station, could not keep himself from speculating as to how much kennedy knew of what had taken place during the walk up the linter. of one small circumstance that had occurred, he felt quite sure that mr. kennedy knew nothing. chapter xvi phineas finn returns to killaloe phineas finn's first session of parliament was over,--his first session with all its adventures. when he got back to mrs. bunce's house,--for mrs. bunce received him for a night in spite of her husband's advice to the contrary,--i am afraid he almost felt that mrs. bunce and her rooms were beneath him. of course he was very unhappy,--as wretched as a man can be; there were moments in which he thought that it would hardly become him to live unless he could do something to prevent the marriage of lady laura and mr. kennedy. but, nevertheless, he had his consolations. these were reflections which had in them much of melancholy satisfaction. he had not been despised by the woman to whom he had told his love. she had not shown him that she thought him to be unworthy of her. she had not regarded his love as an offence. indeed, she had almost told him that prudence alone had forbidden her to return his passion. and he had kissed her, and had afterwards parted from her as a dear friend. i do not know why there should have been a flavour of exquisite joy in the midst of his agony as he thought of this;--but it was so. he would never kiss her again. all future delights of that kind would belong to mr. kennedy, and he had no real idea of interfering with that gentleman in the fruition of his privileges. but still there was the kiss,--an eternal fact. and then, in all respects except that of his love, his visit to loughlinter had been pre-eminently successful. mr. monk had become his friend, and had encouraged him to speak during the next session,--setting before him various models, and prescribing for him a course of reading. lord brentford had become intimate with him. he was on pleasant terms with mr. palliser and mr. gresham. and as for mr. kennedy,--he and mr. kennedy were almost bosom friends. it seemed to him that he had quite surpassed the ratlers, fitzgibbons, and bonteens in that politico-social success which goes so far towards downright political success, and which in itself is so pleasant. he had surpassed these men in spite of their offices and their acquired positions, and could not but think that even mr. low, if he knew it all, would confess that he had been right. as to his bosom friendship with mr. kennedy, that of course troubled him. ought he not to be driving a poniard into mr. kennedy's heart? the conventions of life forbade that; and therefore the bosom friendship was to be excused. if not an enemy to the death, then there could be no reason why he should not be a bosom friend. he went over to ireland, staying but one night with mrs. bunce, and came down upon them at killaloe like a god out of the heavens. even his father was well-nigh overwhelmed by admiration, and his mother and sisters thought themselves only fit to minister to his pleasures. he had learned, if he had learned nothing else, to look as though he were master of the circumstances around him, and was entirely free from internal embarrassment. when his father spoke to him about his legal studies, he did not exactly laugh at his father's ignorance, but he recapitulated to his father so much of mr. monk's wisdom at second hand,--showing plainly that it was his business to study the arts of speech and the technicalities of the house, and not to study law,--that his father had nothing further to say. he had become a man of such dimensions that an ordinary father could hardly dare to inquire into his proceedings; and as for an ordinary mother,--such as mrs. finn certainly was,--she could do no more than look after her son's linen with awe. mary flood jones,--the reader i hope will not quite have forgotten mary flood jones,--was in a great tremor when first she met the hero of loughshane after returning from the honours of his first session. she had been somewhat disappointed because the newspapers had not been full of the speeches he had made in parliament. and indeed the ladies of the finn household had all been ill at ease on this head. they could not imagine why phineas had restrained himself with so much philosophy. but miss flood jones in discussing the matter with the miss finns had never expressed the slightest doubt of his capacity or his judgment. and when tidings came,--the tidings came in a letter from phineas to his father,--that he did not intend to speak that session, because speeches from a young member on his first session were thought to be inexpedient, miss flood jones and the miss finns were quite willing to accept the wisdom of this decision, much as they might regret the effect of it. mary, when she met her hero, hardly dared to look him in the face, but she remembered accurately all the circumstances of her last interview with him. could it be that he wore that ringlet near his heart? mary had received from barbara finn certain hairs supposed to have come from the head of phineas, and these she always wore near her own. and moreover, since she had seen phineas she had refused an offer of marriage from mr. elias bodkin,--had refused it almost ignominiously,--and when doing so had told herself that she would never be false to phineas finn. "we think it so good of you to come to see us again," she said. "good to come home to my own people?" "of course you might be staying with plenty of grandees if you liked it." "no, indeed, mary. it did happen by accident that i had to go to the house of a man whom perhaps you would call a grandee, and to meet grandees there. but it was only for a few days, and i am very glad to be taken in again here, i can assure you." "you know how very glad we all are to have you." "are you glad to see me, mary?" "very glad. why should i not be glad, and barbara the dearest friend i have in the world? of course she talks about you,--and that makes me think of you." "if you knew, mary, how often i think about you." then mary, who was very happy at hearing such words, and who was walking in to dinner with him at the moment, could not refrain herself from pressing his arm with her little fingers. she knew that phineas in his position could not marry at once; but she would wait for him,--oh, for ever, if he would only ask her. he of course was a wicked traitor to tell her that he was wont to think of her. but jove smiles at lovers' perjuries;--and it is well that he should do so, as such perjuries can hardly be avoided altogether in the difficult circumstances of a successful gentleman's life. phineas was a traitor, of course, but he was almost forced to be a traitor, by the simple fact that lady laura standish was in london, and mary flood jones in killaloe. he remained for nearly five months at killaloe, and i doubt whether his time was altogether well spent. some of the books recommended to him by mr. monk he probably did read, and was often to be found encompassed by blue books. i fear that there was a grain of pretence about his blue books and parliamentary papers, and that in these days he was, in a gentle way, something of an impostor. "you must not be angry with me for not going to you," he said once to mary's mother when he had declined an invitation to drink tea; "but the fact is that my time is not my own." "pray don't make any apologies. we are quite aware that we have very little to offer," said mrs. flood jones, who was not altogether happy about mary, and who perhaps knew more about members of parliament and blue books than phineas finn had supposed. "mary, you are a fool to think of that man," the mother said to her daughter the next morning. "i don't think of him, mamma; not particularly." "he is no better than anybody else that i can see, and he is beginning to give himself airs," said mrs. flood jones. mary made no answer; but she went up into her room and swore before a figure of the virgin that she would be true to phineas for ever and ever, in spite of her mother, in spite of all the world,--in spite, should it be necessary, even of himself. about christmas time there came a discussion between phineas and his father about money. "i hope you find you get on pretty well," said the doctor, who thought that he had been liberal. "it's a tight fit," said phineas,--who was less afraid of his father than he had been when he last discussed these things. "i had hoped it would have been ample," said the doctor. "don't think for a moment, sir, that i am complaining," said phineas. "i know it is much more than i have a right to expect." the doctor began to make an inquiry within his own breast as to whether his son had a right to expect anything;--whether the time had not come in which his son should be earning his own bread. "i suppose," he said, after a pause, "there is no chance of your doing anything at the bar now?" "not immediately. it is almost impossible to combine the two studies together." mr. low himself was aware of that. "but you are not to suppose that i have given the profession up." "i hope not,--after all the money it has cost us." "by no means, sir. and all that i am doing now will, i trust, be of assistance to me when i shall come back to work at the law. of course it is on the cards that i may go into office,--and if so, public business will become my profession." "and be turned out with the ministry!" "yes; that is true, sir. i must run my chance. if the worst comes to the worst, i hope i might be able to secure some permanent place. i should think that i can hardly fail to do so. but i trust i may never be driven to want it. i thought, however, that we had settled all this before." then phineas assumed a look of injured innocence, as though his father was driving him too hard. "and in the mean time your money has been enough?" said the doctor, after a pause. "i had intended to ask you to advance me a hundred pounds," said phineas. "there were expenses to which i was driven on first entering parliament." "a hundred pounds." "if it be inconvenient, sir, i can do without it." he had not as yet paid for his gun, or for that velvet coat in which he had been shooting, or, most probably, for the knickerbockers. he knew he wanted the hundred pounds badly; but he felt ashamed of himself in asking for it. if he were once in office,--though the office were but a sorry junior lordship,--he would repay his father instantly. "you shall have it, of course," said the doctor; "but do not let the necessity for asking for more hundreds come oftener than you can help." phineas said that he would not, and then there was no further discourse about money. it need hardly be said that he told his father nothing of that bill which he had endorsed for laurence fitzgibbon. at last came the time which called him again to london and the glories of london life,--to lobbies, and the clubs, and the gossip of men in office, and the chance of promotion for himself; to the glare of the gas-lamps, the mock anger of rival debaters, and the prospect of the speaker's wig. during the idleness of the recess he had resolved at any rate upon this,--that a month of the session should not have passed by before he had been seen upon his legs in the house,--had been seen and heard. and many a time as he had wandered alone, with his gun, across the bogs which lie on the other side of the shannon from killaloe, he had practised the sort of address which he would make to the house. he would be short,--always short; and he would eschew all action and gesticulation; mr. monk had been very urgent in his instructions to him on that head; but he would be especially careful that no words should escape him which had not in them some purpose. he might be wrong in his purpose, but purpose there should be. he had been twitted more than once at killaloe with his silence;--for it had been conceived by his fellow-townsmen that he had been sent to parliament on the special ground of his eloquence. they should twit him no more on his next return. he would speak and would carry the house with him if a human effort might prevail. so he packed up his things, and started again for london in the beginning of february. "good-bye, mary," he said with his sweetest smile. but on this occasion there was no kiss, and no culling of locks. "i know he cannot help it," said mary to herself. "it is his position. but whether it be for good or evil, i will be true to him." "i am afraid you are unhappy," babara finn said to her on the next morning. "no; i am not unhappy,--not at all. i have a deal to make me happy and proud. i don't mean to be a bit unhappy." then she turned away and cried heartily, and barbara finn cried with her for company. chapter xvii phineas finn returns to london phineas had received two letters during his recess at killaloe from two women who admired him much, which, as they were both short, shall be submitted to the reader. the first was as follows:-- saulsby, october , --. my dear mr. finn, i write a line to tell you that our marriage is to be hurried on as quickly as possible. mr. kennedy does not like to be absent from parliament; nor will he be content to postpone the ceremony till the session be over. the day fixed is the rd of december, and we then go at once to rome, and intend to be back in london by the opening of parliament. yours most sincerely, laura standish. our london address will be no. , grosvenor place. to this he wrote an answer as short, expressing his ardent wishes that those winter hymeneals might produce nothing but happiness, and saying that he would not be in town many days before he knocked at the door of no. , grosvenor place. and the second letter was as follows:-- great marlborough street, december, --. dear and honoured sir, bunce is getting ever so anxious about the rooms, and says as how he has a young equity draftsman and wife and baby as would take the whole house, and all because miss pouncefoot said a word about her port wine, which any lady of her age might say in her tantrums, and mean nothing after all. me and miss pouncefoot's knowed each other for seven years, and what's a word or two as isn't meant after that? but, honoured sir, it's not about that as i write to trouble you, but to ask if i may say for certain that you'll take the rooms again in february. it's easy to let them for the month after christmas, because of the pantomimes. only say at once, because bunce is nagging me day after day. i don't want nobody's wife and baby to have to do for, and 'd sooner have a parliament gent like yourself than any one else. yours umbly and respectful, jane bunce. to this he replied that he would certainly come back to the rooms in great marlborough street, should he be lucky enough to find them vacant, and he expressed his willingness to take them on and from the st of february. and on the rd of february he found himself in the old quarters, mrs. bunce having contrived, with much conjugal adroitness, both to keep miss pouncefoot and to stave off the equity draftsman's wife and baby. bunce, however, received phineas very coldly, and told his wife the same evening that as far as he could see their lodger would never turn up to be a trump in the matter of the ballot. "if he means well, why did he go and stay with them lords down in scotland? i knows all about it. i knows a man when i sees him. mr. low, who's looking out to be a tory judge some of these days, is a deal better;--because he knows what he's after." immediately on his return to town, phineas found himself summoned to a political meeting at mr. mildmay's house in st. james's square. "we're going to begin in earnest this time," barrington erle said to him at the club. "i am glad of that," said phineas. "i suppose you heard all about it down at loughlinter?" now, in truth, phineas had heard very little of any settled plan down at loughlinter. he had played a game of chess with mr. gresham, and had shot a stag with mr. palliser, and had discussed sheep with lord brentford, but had hardly heard a word about politics from any one of those influential gentlemen. from mr. monk he had heard much of a coming reform bill; but his communications with mr. monk had rather been private discussions,--in which he had learned mr. monk's own views on certain points,--than revelations on the intention of the party to which mr. monk belonged. "i heard of nothing settled," said phineas; "but i suppose we are to have a reform bill." "that is a matter of course." "and i suppose we are not to touch the question of ballot." "that's the difficulty," said barrington erle. "but of course we shan't touch it as long as mr. mildmay is in the cabinet. he will never consent to the ballot as first minister of the crown." "nor would gresham, or palliser," said phineas, who did not choose to bring forward his greatest gun at first. "i don't know about gresham. it is impossible to say what gresham might bring himself to do. gresham is a man who may go any lengths before he has done. planty pall,"--for such was the name by which mr. plantagenet palliser was ordinarily known among his friends,--"would of course go with mr. mildmay and the duke." "and monk is opposed to the ballot," said phineas. "ah, that's the question. no doubt he has assented to the proposition of a measure without the ballot; but if there should come a row, and men like turnbull demand it, and the london mob kick up a shindy, i don't know how far monk would be steady." "whatever he says, he'll stick to." "he is your leader, then?" asked barrington. "i don't know that i have a leader. mr. mildmay leads our side; and if anybody leads me, he does. but i have great faith in mr. monk." "there's one who would go for the ballot to-morrow, if it were brought forward stoutly," said barrington erle to mr. ratler a few minutes afterwards, pointing to phineas as he spoke. "i don't think much of that young man," said ratler. mr. bonteen and mr. ratler had put their heads together during that last evening at loughlinter, and had agreed that they did not think much of phineas finn. why did mr. kennedy go down off the mountain to get him a pony? and why did mr. gresham play chess with him? mr. ratler and mr. bonteen may have been right in making up their minds to think but little of phineas finn, but barrington erle had been quite wrong when he had said that phineas would "go for the ballot" to-morrow. phineas had made up his mind very strongly that he would always oppose the ballot. that he would hold the same opinion throughout his life, no one should pretend to say; but in his present mood, and under the tuition which he had received from mr. monk, he was prepared to demonstrate, out of the house and in it, that the ballot was, as a political measure, unmanly, ineffective, and enervating. enervating had been a great word with mr. monk, and phineas had clung to it with admiration. the meeting took place at mr. mildmay's on the third day of the session. phineas had of course heard of such meetings before, but had never attended one. indeed, there had been no such gathering when mr. mildmay's party came into power early in the last session. mr. mildmay and his men had then made their effort in turning out their opponents, and had been well pleased to rest awhile upon their oars. now, however, they must go again to work, and therefore the liberal party was collected at mr. mildmay's house, in order that the liberal party might be told what it was that mr. mildmay and his cabinet intended to do. phineas finn was quite in the dark as to what would be the nature of the performance on this occasion, and entertained some idea that every gentleman present would be called upon to express individually his assent or dissent in regard to the measure proposed. he walked to st. james's square with laurence fitzgibbon; but even with fitzgibbon was ashamed to show his ignorance by asking questions. "after all," said fitzgibbon, "this kind of thing means nothing. i know as well as possible, and so do you, what mr. mildmay will say,--and then gresham will say a few words; and then turnbull will make a murmur, and then we shall all assent,--to anything or to nothing;--and then it will be over." still phineas did not understand whether the assent required would or would not be an individual personal assent. when the affair was over he found that he was disappointed, and that he might almost as well have stayed away from the meeting,--except that he had attended at mr. mildmay's bidding, and had given a silent adhesion to mr. mildmay's plan of reform for that session. laurence fitzgibbon had been very nearly correct in his description of what would occur. mr. mildmay made a long speech. mr. turnbull, the great radical of the day,--the man who was supposed to represent what many called the manchester school of politics,--asked half a dozen questions. in answer to these mr. gresham made a short speech. then mr. mildmay made another speech, and then all was over. the gist of the whole thing was, that there should be a reform bill,--very generous in its enlargement of the franchise,--but no ballot. mr. turnbull expressed his doubt whether this would be satisfactory to the country; but even mr. turnbull was soft in his tone and complaisant in his manner. as there was no reporter present,--that plan of turning private meetings at gentlemen's houses into public assemblies not having been as yet adopted,--there could be no need for energy or violence. they went to mr. mildmay's house to hear mr. mildmay's plan,--and they heard it. two days after this phineas was to dine with mr. monk. mr. monk had asked him in the lobby of the house. "i don't give dinner parties," he said, "but i should like you to come and meet mr. turnbull." phineas accepted the invitation as a matter of course. there were many who said that mr. turnbull was the greatest man in the nation, and that the nation could be saved only by a direct obedience to mr. turnbull's instructions. others said that mr. turnbull was a demagogue and at heart a rebel; that he was un-english, false and very dangerous. phineas was rather inclined to believe the latter statement; and as danger and dangerous men are always more attractive than safety and safe men, he was glad to have an opportunity of meeting mr. turnbull at dinner. in the meantime he went to call on lady laura, whom he had not seen since the last evening which he spent in her company at loughlinter,--whom, when he was last speaking to her, he had kissed close beneath the falls of the linter. he found her at home, and with her was her husband. "here is a darby and joan meeting, is it not?" she said, getting up to welcome him. he had seen mr. kennedy before, and had been standing close to him during the meeting at mr. mildmay's. "i am very glad to find you both together." "but robert is going away this instant," said lady laura. "has he told you of our adventures at rome?" "not a word." "then i must tell you;--but not now. the dear old pope was so civil to us. i came to think it quite a pity that he should be in trouble." "i must be off," said the husband, getting up. "but i shall meet you at dinner, i believe." "do you dine at mr. monk's?" "yes, and am asked expressly to hear turnbull make a convert of you. there are only to be us four. au revoir." then mr. kennedy went, and phineas found himself alone with lady laura. he hardly knew how to address her, and remained silent. he had not prepared himself for the interview as he ought to have done, and felt himself to be awkward. she evidently expected him to speak, and for a few seconds sat waiting for what he might say. at last she found that it was incumbent on her to begin. "were you surprised at our suddenness when you got my note?" "a little. you had spoken of waiting." "i had never imagined that he would have been impetuous. and he seems to think that even the business of getting himself married would not justify him staying away from parliament. he is a rigid martinet in all matters of duty." "i did not wonder that he should be in a hurry, but that you should submit." "i told you that i should do just what the wise people told me. i asked papa, and he said that it would be better. so the lawyers were driven out of their minds, and the milliners out of their bodies, and the thing was done." "who was there at the marriage?" "oswald was not there. that i know is what you mean to ask. papa said that he might come if he pleased. oswald stipulated that he should be received as a son. then my father spoke the hardest word that ever fell from his mouth." "what did he say?" "i will not repeat it,--not altogether. but he said that oswald was not entitled to a son's treatment. he was very sore about my money, because robert was so generous as to his settlement. so the breach between them is as wide as ever." "and where is chiltern now?" said phineas. "down in northamptonshire, staying at some inn from whence he hunts. he tells me that he is quite alone,--that he never dines out, never has any one to dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a week,--and reads at night." "that is not a bad sort of life." "not if the reading is any good. but i cannot bear that he should be so solitary. and if he breaks down in it, then his companions will not be fit for him. do you ever hunt?" "oh yes,--at home in county clare. all irishmen hunt." "i wish you would go down to him and see him. he would be delighted to have you." phineas thought over the proposition before he answered it, and then made the reply that he had made once before. "i would do so, lady laura,--but that i have no money for hunting in england." "alas, alas!" said she, smiling. "how that hits one on every side!" "i might manage it,--for a couple of days,--in march." "do not do what you think you ought not to do," said lady laura. "no; certainly. but i should like it, and if i can i will." "he could mount you, i have no doubt. he has no other expense now, and keeps a stable full of horses. i think he has seven or eight. and now tell me, mr. finn; when are you going to charm the house? or is it your first intention to strike terror?" he blushed,--he knew that he blushed as he answered. "oh, i suppose i shall make some sort of attempt before long. i can't bear the idea of being a bore." "i think you ought to speak, mr. finn." "i do not know about that, but i certainly mean to try. there will be lots of opportunities about the new reform bill. of course you know that mr. mildmay is going to bring it in at once. you hear all that from mr. kennedy." "and papa has told me. i still see papa almost every day. you must call upon him. mind you do." phineas said that he certainly would. "papa is very lonely now, and i sometimes feel that i have been almost cruel in deserting him. and i think that he has a horror of the house,--especially later in the year,--always fancying that he will meet oswald. i am so unhappy about it all, mr. finn." "why doesn't your brother marry?" said phineas, knowing nothing as yet of lord chiltern and violet effingham. "if he were to marry well, that would bring your father round." "yes,--it would." "and why should he not?" lady laura paused before she answered; and then she told the whole story. "he is violently in love, and the girl he loves has refused him twice." "is it with miss effingham?" asked phineas, guessing the truth at once, and remembering what miss effingham had said to him when riding in the wood. "yes;--with violet effingham; my father's pet, his favourite, whom he loves next to myself,--almost as well as myself; whom he would really welcome as a daughter. he would gladly make her mistress of his house, and of saulsby. everything would then go smoothly." "but she does not like lord chiltern?" "i believe she loves him in her heart; but she is afraid of him. as she says herself, a girl is bound to be so careful of herself. with all her seeming frolic, violet effingham is very wise." phineas, though not conscious of anything akin to jealousy, was annoyed at the revelation made to him. since he had heard that lord chiltern was in love with miss effingham, he did not like lord chiltern quite as well as he had done before. he himself had simply admired miss effingham, and had taken pleasure in her society; but, though this had been all, he did not like to hear of another man wanting to marry her, and he was almost angry with lady laura for saying that she believed miss effingham loved her brother. if miss effingham had twice refused lord chiltern, that ought to have been sufficient. it was not that phineas was in love with miss effingham himself. as he was still violently in love with lady laura, any other love was of course impossible; but, nevertheless, there was something offensive to him in the story as it had been told. "if it be wisdom on her part," said he, answering lady laura's last words, "you cannot find fault with her for her decision." "i find no fault;--but i think my brother would make her happy." lady laura, when she was left alone, at once reverted to the tone in which phineas finn had answered her remarks about miss effingham. phineas was very ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart almost upon his sleeve. "can it be possible that he cares for her himself?" that was the nature of lady laura's first question to herself upon the matter. and in asking herself that question, she thought nothing of the disparity in rank or fortune between phineas finn and violet effingham. nor did it occur to her as at all improbable that violet might accept the love of him who had so lately been her own lover. but the idea grated against her wishes on two sides. she was most anxious that violet should ultimately become her brother's wife,--and she could not be pleased that phineas should be able to love any woman. i must beg my readers not to be carried away by those last words into any erroneous conclusion. they must not suppose that lady laura kennedy, the lately married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the young man who had loved her. though she had probably thought often of phineas finn since her marriage, her thoughts had never been of a nature to disturb her rest. it had never occurred to her even to think that she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence to her husband. she would have hated herself had any such idea presented itself to her mind. she prided herself on being a pure high-principled woman, who had kept so strong a guard upon herself as to be nearly free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other women made shipwreck of their happiness. she took pride in this, and would then blame herself for her own pride. but though she so blamed herself, it never occurred to her to think that to her there might be danger of such shipwreck. she had put away from herself the idea of love when she had first perceived that phineas had regarded her with more than friendship, and had accepted mr. kennedy's offer with an assured conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her own happiness and for that of all those concerned. she had felt the romance of the position to be sweet when phineas had stood with her at the top of the falls of the linter, and had told her of the hopes which he had dared to indulge. and when at the bottom of the falls he had presumed to take her in his arms, she had forgiven him without difficulty to herself, telling herself that that would be the alpha and the omega of the romance of her life. she had not felt herself bound to tell mr. kennedy of what had occurred,--but she had felt that he could hardly have been angry even had he been told. and she had often thought of her lover since, and of his love,--telling herself that she too had once had a lover, never regarding her husband in that light; but her thoughts had not frightened her as guilty thoughts will do. there had come a romance which had been pleasant, and it was gone. it had been soon banished,--but it had left to her a sweet flavour, of which she loved to taste the sweetness though she knew that it was gone. and the man should be her friend, but especially her husband's friend. it should be her care to see that his life was successful,--and especially her husband's care. it was a great delight to her to know that her husband liked the man. and the man would marry, and the man's wife should be her friend. all this had been very pure and very pleasant. now an idea had flitted across her brain that the man was in love with some one else,--and she did not like it! but she did not therefore become afraid of herself, or in the least realise at once the danger of her own position. her immediate glance at the matter did not go beyond the falseness of men. if it were so, as she suspected,--if phineas had in truth transferred his affections to violet effingham, of how little value was the love of such a man! it did not occur to her at this moment that she also had transferred hers to robert kennedy, or that, if not, she had done worse. but she did remember that in the autumn this young phoebus among men had turned his back upon her out upon the mountain that he might hide from her the agony of his heart when he learned that she was to be the wife of another man; and that now, before the winter was over, he could not hide from her the fact that his heart was elsewhere! and then she speculated, and counted up facts, and satisfied herself that phineas could not even have seen violet effingham since they two had stood together upon the mountain. how false are men!--how false and how weak of heart! "chiltern and violet effingham!" said phineas to himself, as he walked away from grosvenor place. "is it fair that she should be sacrificed because she is rich, and because she is so winning and so fascinating that lord brentford would receive even his son for the sake of receiving also such a daughter-in-law?" phineas also liked lord chiltern; had seen or fancied that he had seen fine things in him; had looked forward to his regeneration, hoping, perhaps, that he might have some hand in the good work. but he did not recognise the propriety of sacrificing violet effingham even for work so good as this. if miss effingham had refused lord chiltern twice, surely that ought to be sufficient. it did not occur to him that the love of such a girl as violet would be a great treasure--to himself. as regarded himself, he was still in love,--hopelessly in love, with lady laura kennedy! chapter xviii mr. turnbull it was a wednesday evening and there was no house;--and at seven o'clock phineas was at mr. monk's hall door. he was the first of the guests, and he found mr. monk alone in the dining-room. "i am doing butler," said mr. monk, who had a brace of decanters in his hands, which he proceeded to put down in the neighbourhood of the fire. "but i have finished, and now we will go up-stairs to receive the two great men properly." "i beg your pardon for coming too early," said finn. "not a minute too early. seven is seven, and it is i who am too late. but, lord bless you, you don't think i'm ashamed of being found in the act of decanting my own wine! i remember lord palmerston saying before some committee about salaries, five or six years ago now, i daresay, that it wouldn't do for an english minister to have his hall door opened by a maid-servant. now, i'm an english minister, and i've got nobody but a maid-servant to open my hall door, and i'm obliged to look after my own wine. i wonder whether it's improper? i shouldn't like to be the means of injuring the british constitution." "perhaps if you resign soon, and if nobody follows your example, grave evil results may be avoided." "i sincerely hope so, for i do love the british constitution; and i love also the respect in which members of the english cabinet are held. now turnbull, who will be here in a moment, hates it all; but he is a rich man, and has more powdered footmen hanging about his house than ever lord palmerston had himself." "he is still in business." "oh yes;--and makes his thirty thousand a year. here he is. how are you, turnbull? we were talking about my maid-servant. i hope she opened the door for you properly." "certainly,--as far as i perceived," said mr. turnbull, who was better at a speech than a joke. "a very respectable young woman i should say." "there is not one more so in all london," said mr. monk; "but finn seems to think that i ought to have a man in livery." "it is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said mr. turnbull. "i am one of those who never think of such things." "nor i either," said mr. monk. then the laird of loughlinter was announced, and they all went down to dinner. mr. turnbull was a good-looking robust man about sixty, with long grey hair and a red complexion, with hard eyes, a well-cut nose, and full lips. he was nearly six feet high, stood quite upright, and always wore a black swallow-tail coat, black trousers, and a black silk waistcoat. in the house, at least, he was always so dressed, and at dinner tables. what difference there might be in his costume when at home at staleybridge few of those who saw him in london had the means of knowing. there was nothing in his face to indicate special talent. no one looking at him would take him to be a fool; but there was none of the fire of genius in his eye, nor was there in the lines of his mouth any of that play of thought or fancy which is generally to be found in the faces of men and women who have made themselves great. mr. turnbull had certainly made himself great, and could hardly have done so without force of intellect. he was one of the most popular, if not the most popular politician in the country. poor men believed in him, thinking that he was their most honest public friend; and men who were not poor believed in his power, thinking that his counsels must surely prevail. he had obtained the ear of the house and the favour of the reporters, and opened his voice at no public dinner, on no public platform, without a conviction that the words spoken by him would be read by thousands. the first necessity for good speaking is a large audience; and of this advantage mr. turnbull had made himself sure. and yet it could hardly be said that he was a great orator. he was gifted with a powerful voice, with strong, and i may, perhaps, call them broad convictions, with perfect self-reliance, with almost unlimited powers of endurance, with hot ambition, with no keen scruples, and with a moral skin of great thickness. nothing said against him pained him, no attacks wounded him, no raillery touched him in the least. there was not a sore spot about him, and probably his first thoughts on waking every morning told him that he, at least, was totus teres atque rotundus. he was, of course, a thorough radical,--and so was mr. monk. but mr. monk's first waking thoughts were probably exactly the reverse of those of his friend. mr. monk was a much hotter man in debate than mr. turnbull;--but mr. monk was ever doubting of himself, and never doubted of himself so much as when he had been most violent, and also most effective, in debate. when mr. monk jeered at himself for being a cabinet minister and keeping no attendant grander than a parlour-maid, there was a substratum of self-doubt under the joke. mr. turnbull was certainly a great radical, and as such enjoyed a great reputation. i do not think that high office in the state had ever been offered to him; but things had been said which justified him, or seemed to himself to justify him, in declaring that in no possible circumstances would he serve the crown. "i serve the people," he had said, "and much as i respect the servants of the crown, i think that my own office is the higher." he had been greatly called to task for this speech; and mr. mildmay, the present premier, had asked him whether he did not recognise the so-called servants of the crown as the most hard-worked and truest servants of the people. the house and the press had supported mr. mildmay, but to all that mr. turnbull was quite indifferent; and when an assertion made by him before three or four thousand persons at manchester, to the effect that he,--he specially,--was the friend and servant of the people, was received with acclamation, he felt quite satisfied that he had gained his point. progressive reform in the franchise, of which manhood suffrage should be the acknowledged and not far distant end, equal electoral districts, ballot, tenant right for england as well as ireland, reduction of the standing army till there should be no standing army to reduce, utter disregard of all political movements in europe, an almost idolatrous admiration for all political movements in america, free trade in everything except malt, and an absolute extinction of a state church,--these were among the principal articles in mr. turnbull's political catalogue. and i think that when once he had learned the art of arranging his words as he stood upon his legs, and had so mastered his voice as to have obtained the ear of the house, the work of his life was not difficult. having nothing to construct, he could always deal with generalities. being free from responsibility, he was not called upon either to study details or to master even great facts. it was his business to inveigh against existing evils, and perhaps there is no easier business when once the privilege of an audience has been attained. it was his work to cut down forest-trees, and he had nothing to do with the subsequent cultivation of the land. mr. monk had once told phineas finn how great were the charms of that inaccuracy which was permitted to the opposition. mr. turnbull no doubt enjoyed these charms to the full, though he would sooner have put a padlock on his mouth for a month than have owned as much. upon the whole, mr. turnbull was no doubt right in resolving that he would not take office, though some reticence on that subject might have been more becoming to him. the conversation at dinner, though it was altogether on political subjects, had in it nothing of special interest as long as the girl was there to change the plates; but when she was gone, and the door was closed, it gradually opened out, and there came on to be a pleasant sparring match between the two great radicals,--the radical who had joined himself to the governing powers, and the radical who stood aloof. mr. kennedy barely said a word now and then, and phineas was almost as silent as mr. kennedy. he had come there to hear some such discussion, and was quite willing to listen while guns of such great calibre were being fired off for his amusement. "i think mr. mildmay is making a great step forward," said mr. turnbull. "i think he is," said mr. monk. "i did not believe that he would ever live to go so far. it will hardly suffice even for this year; but still coming from him, it is a great deal. it only shows how far a man may be made to go, if only the proper force be applied. after all, it matters very little who are the ministers." "that is what i have always declared," said mr. monk. "very little indeed. we don't mind whether it be lord de terrier, or mr. mildmay, or mr. gresham, or you yourself, if you choose to get yourself made first lord of the treasury." "i have no such ambition, turnbull." "i should have thought you had. if i went in for that kind of thing myself, i should like to go to the top of the ladder. i should feel that if i could do any good at all by becoming a minister, i could only do it by becoming first minister." "you wouldn't doubt your own fitness for such a position?" "i doubt my fitness for the position of any minister," said mr. turnbull. "you mean that on other grounds," said mr. kennedy. "i mean it on every ground," said mr. turnbull, rising on his legs and standing with his back to the fire. "of course i am not fit to have diplomatic intercourse with men who would come to me simply with the desire of deceiving me. of course i am unfit to deal with members of parliament who would flock around me because they wanted places. of course i am unfit to answer every man's question so as to give no information to any one." "could you not answer them so as to give information?" said mr. kennedy. but mr. turnbull was so intent on his speech that it may be doubted whether he heard this interruption. he took no notice of it as he went on. "of course i am unfit to maintain the proprieties of a seeming confidence between a crown all-powerless and a people all-powerful. no man recognises his own unfitness for such work more clearly than i do, mr. monk. but if i took in hand such work at all, i should like to be the leader, and not the led. tell us fairly, now, what are your convictions worth in mr. mildmay's cabinet?" "that is a question which a man may hardly answer himself," said mr. monk. "it is a question which a man should at least answer for himself before he consents to sit there," said mr. turnbull, in a tone of voice which was almost angry. "and what reason have you for supposing that i have omitted that duty?" said mr. monk. "simply this,--that i cannot reconcile your known opinions with the practices of your colleagues." "i will not tell you what my convictions may be worth in mr. mildmay's cabinet. i will not take upon myself to say that they are worth the chair on which i sit when i am there. but i will tell you what my aspirations were when i consented to fill that chair, and you shall judge of their worth. i thought that they might possibly leaven the batch of bread which we have to bake,--giving to the whole batch more of the flavour of reform than it would have possessed had i absented myself. i thought that when i was asked to join mr. mildmay and mr. gresham, the very fact of that request indicated liberal progress, and that if i refused the request i should be declining to assist in good work." "you could have supported them, if anything were proposed worthy of support," said mr. turnbull. "yes; but i could not have been so effective in taking care that some measure be proposed worthy of support as i may possibly be now. i thought a good deal about it, and i believe that my decision was right." "i am sure you were right," said mr. kennedy. "there can be no juster object of ambition than a seat in the cabinet," said phineas. "sir, i must dispute that," said mr. turnbull, turning round upon our hero. "i regard the position of our high ministers as most respectable." "thank you for so much," said mr. monk. but the orator went on again, regardless of the interruption:-- "the position of gentlemen in inferior offices,--of gentlemen who attend rather to the nods and winks of their superiors in downing street than to the interest of their constituents,--i do not regard as being highly respectable." "a man cannot begin at the top," said phineas. "our friend mr. monk has begun at what you are pleased to call the top," said mr. turnbull. "but i will not profess to think that even he has raised himself by going into office. to be an independent representative of a really popular commercial constituency is, in my estimation, the highest object of an englishman's ambition." "but why commercial, mr. turnbull?" said mr. kennedy. "because the commercial constituencies really do elect their own members in accordance with their own judgments, whereas the counties and the small towns are coerced either by individuals or by a combination of aristocratic influences." "and yet," said mr. kennedy, "there are not half a dozen conservatives returned by all the counties in scotland." "scotland is very much to be honoured," said mr. turnbull. mr. kennedy was the first to take his departure, and mr. turnbull followed him very quickly. phineas got up to go at the same time, but stayed at his host's request, and sat for awhile smoking a cigar. "turnbull is a wonderful man," said mr. monk. "does he not domineer too much?" "his fault is not arrogance, so much as ignorance that there is, or should be, a difference between public and private life. in the house of commons a man in mr. turnbull's position must speak with dictatorial assurance. he is always addressing, not the house only, but the country at large, and the country will not believe in him unless he believe in himself. but he forgets that he is not always addressing the country at large. i wonder what sort of a time mrs. turnbull and the little turnbulls have of it?" phineas, as he went home, made up his mind that mrs. turnbull and the little turnbulls must probably have a bad time of it. chapter xix lord chiltern rides his horse bonebreaker it was known that whatever might be the details of mr. mildmay's bill, the ballot would not form a part of it; and as there was a strong party in the house of commons, and a very numerous party out of it, who were desirous that voting by ballot should be made a part of the electoral law, it was decided that an independent motion should be brought on in anticipation of mr. mildmay's bill. the arrangement was probably one of mr. mildmay's own making; so that he might be hampered by no opposition on that subject by his own followers if,--as he did not doubt,--the motion should be lost. it was expected that the debate would not last over one night, and phineas resolved that he would make his maiden speech on this occasion. he had very strong opinions as to the inefficacy of the ballot for any good purposes, and thought that he might be able to strike out from his convictions some sparks of that fire which used to be so plentiful with him at the old debating clubs. but even at breakfast that morning his heart began to beat quickly at the idea of having to stand on his legs before so critical an audience. he knew that it would be well that he should if possible get the subject off his mind during the day, and therefore went out among the people who certainly would not talk to him about the ballot. he sat for nearly an hour in the morning with mr. low, and did not even tell mr. low that it was his intention to speak on that day. then he made one or two other calls, and at about three went up to portman square to look for lord chiltern. it was now nearly the end of february, and phineas had often seen lady laura. he had not seen her brother, but had learned from his sister that he had been driven up to london by the frost, he was told by the porter at lord brentford's that lord chiltern was in the house, and as he was passing through the hall he met lord brentford himself. he was thus driven to speak, and felt himself called upon to explain why he was there. "i am come to see lord chiltern," he said. "is lord chiltern in the house?" said the earl, turning to the servant. "yes, my lord; his lordship arrived last night." "you will find him upstairs, i suppose," said the earl. "for myself i know nothing of him." he spoke in an angry tone, as though he resented the fact that any one should come to his house to call upon his son; and turned his back quickly upon phineas. but he thought better of it before he reached the front door, and turned again. "by-the-bye," said he, "what majority shall we have to-night, finn?" "pretty nearly as many as you please to name, my lord," said phineas. "well;--yes; i suppose we are tolerably safe. you ought to speak upon it." "perhaps i may," said phineas, feeling that he blushed as he spoke. "do," said the earl. "do. if you see lord chiltern will you tell him from me that i should be glad to see him before he leaves london. i shall be at home till noon to-morrow." phineas, much astonished at the commission given to him, of course said that he would do as he was desired, and then passed on to lord chiltern's apartments. he found his friend standing in the middle of the room, without coat and waistcoat, with a pair of dumb-bells in his hands. "when there's no hunting i'm driven to this kind of thing," said lord chiltern. "i suppose it's good exercise," said phineas. "and it gives me something to do. when i'm in london i feel like a gipsy in church, till the time comes for prowling out at night. i've no occupation for my days whatever, and no place to which i can take myself. i can't stand in a club window as some men do, and i should disgrace any decent club if i did stand there. i belong to the travellers, but i doubt whether the porter would let me go in." "i think you pique yourself on being more of an outer bohemian than you are," said phineas. "i pique myself on this, that whether bohemian or not, i will go nowhere that i am not wanted. though,--for the matter of that, i suppose i'm not wanted here." then phineas gave him the message from his father. "he wishes to see me to-morrow morning?" continued lord chiltern. "let him send me word what it is he has to say to me. i do not choose to be insulted by him, though he is my father." "i would certainly go, if i were you." "i doubt it very much, if all the circumstances were the same. let him tell me what he wants." "of course i cannot ask him, chiltern." "i know what he wants very well. laura has been interfering and doing no good. you know violet effingham?" "yes; i know her," said phineas, much surprised. "they want her to marry me." "and you do not wish to marry her?" "i did not say that. but do you think that such a girl as miss effingham would marry such a man as i am? she would be much more likely to take you. by george, she would! do you know that she has three thousand a year of her own?" "i know that she has money." "that's about the tune of it. i would take her without a shilling to-morrow, if she would have me,--because i like her. she is the only girl i ever did like. but what is the use of my liking her? they have painted me so black among them, especially my father, that no decent girl would think of marrying me." "your father can't be angry with you if you do your best to comply with his wishes." "i don't care a straw whether he be angry or not. he allows me eight hundred a year, and he knows that if he stopped it i should go to the jews the next day. i could not help myself. he can't leave an acre away from me, and yet he won't join me in raising money for the sake of paying laura her fortune." "lady laura can hardly want money now." "that detestable prig whom she has chosen to marry, and whom i hate with all my heart, is richer than ever croesus was; but nevertheless laura ought to have her own money. she shall have it some day." "i would see lord brentford, if i were you." "i will think about it. now tell me about coming down to willingford. laura says you will come some day in march. i can mount you for a couple of days and should be delighted to have you. my horses all pull like the mischief, and rush like devils, and want a deal of riding; but an irishman likes that." "i do not dislike it particularly." "i like it. i prefer to have something to do on horseback. when a man tells me that a horse is an armchair, i always tell him to put the brute into his bedroom. mind you come. the house i stay at is called the willingford bull, and it's just four miles from peterborough." phineas swore that he would go down and ride the pulling horses, and then took his leave, earnestly advising lord chiltern, as he went, to keep the appointment proposed by his father. when the morning came, at half-past eleven, the son, who had been standing for half an hour with his back to the fire in the large gloomy dining-room, suddenly rang the bell. "tell the earl," he said to the servant, "that i am here and will go to him if he wishes it." the servant came back, and said that the earl was waiting. then lord chiltern strode after the man into his father's room. "oswald," said the father, "i have sent for you because i think it may be as well to speak to you on some business. will you sit down?" lord chiltern sat down, but did not answer a word. "i feel very unhappy about your sister's fortune," said the earl. "so do i,--very unhappy. we can raise the money between us, and pay her to-morrow, if you please it." "it was in opposition to my advice that she paid your debts." "and in opposition to mine too." "i told her that i would not pay them, and were i to give her back to-morrow, as you say, the money that she has so used, i should be stultifying myself. but i will do so on one condition. i will join with you in raising the money for your sister, on one condition." "what is that?" "laura tells me,--indeed she has told me often,--that you are attached to violet effingham." "but violet effingham, my lord, is unhappily not attached to me." "i do not know how that may be. of course i cannot say. i have never taken the liberty of interrogating her upon the subject." "even you, my lord, could hardly have done that." "what do you mean by that? i say that i never have," said the earl, angrily. "i simply mean that even you could hardly have asked miss effingham such a question. i have asked her, and she has refused me." "but girls often do that, and yet accept afterwards the men whom they have refused. laura tells me that she believes that violet would consent if you pressed your suit." "laura knows nothing about it, my lord." "there you are probably wrong. laura and violet are very close friends, and have no doubt discussed this matter between them. at any rate, it may be as well that you should hear what i have to say. of course i shall not interfere myself. there is no ground on which i can do so with propriety." "none whatever," said lord chiltern. the earl became very angry, and nearly broke down in his anger. he paused for a moment, feeling disposed to tell his son to go and never to see him again. but he gulped down his wrath, and went on with his speech. "my meaning, sir, is this;--that i have so great faith in violet effingham, that i would receive her acceptance of your hand as the only proof which would be convincing to me of amendment in your mode of life. if she were to do so, i would join with you in raising money to pay your sister, would make some further sacrifice with reference to an income for you and your wife, and--would make you both welcome to saulsby,--if you chose to come." the earl's voice hesitated much and became almost tremulous as he made the last proposition. and his eyes had fallen away from his son's gaze, and he had bent a little over the table, and was moved. but he recovered himself at once, and added, with all proper dignity, "if you have anything to say i shall be glad to hear it." "all your offers would be nothing, my lord, if i did not like the girl." "i should not ask you to marry a girl if you did not like her, as you call it." "but as to miss effingham, it happens that our wishes jump together. i have asked her, and she has refused me. i don't even know where to find her to ask her again. if i went to lady baldock's house the servants would not let me in." "and whose fault is that?" "yours partly, my lord. you have told everybody that i am the devil, and now all the old women believe it." "i never told anybody so." "i'll tell you what i'll do. i will go down to lady baldock's to-day. i suppose she is at baddingham. and if i can get speech of miss effingham--" "miss effingham is not at baddingham. miss effingham is staying with your sister in grosvenor place. i saw her yesterday." "she is in london?" "i tell you that i saw her yesterday." "very well, my lord. then i will do the best i can. laura will tell you of the result." the father would have given the son some advice as to the mode in which he should put forward his claim upon violet's hand, but the son would not wait to hear it. choosing to presume that the conference was over, he went back to the room in which he had kept his dumb-bells, and for a minute or two went to work at his favourite exercise. but he soon put the dumb-bells down, and began to prepare himself for his work. if this thing was to be done, it might as well be done at once. he looked out of his window, and saw that the streets were in a mess of slush. white snow was becoming black mud, as it will do in london; and the violence of frost was giving way to the horrors of thaw. all would be soft and comparatively pleasant in northamptonshire on the following morning, and if everything went right he would breakfast at the willingford bull. he would go down by the hunting train, and be at the inn by ten. the meet was only six miles distant, and all would be pleasant. he would do this whatever might be the result of his work to-day;--but in the meantime he would go and do his work. he had a cab called, and within half an hour of the time at which he had left his father, he was at the door of his sister's house in grosvenor place. the servants told him that the ladies were at lunch. "i can't eat lunch," he said. "tell them that i am in the drawing-room." "he has come to see you," said lady laura, as soon as the servant had left the room. "i hope not," said violet. "do not say that." "but i do say it. i hope he has not come to see me;--that is, not to see me specially. of course i cannot pretend not to know what you mean." "he may think it civil to call if he has heard that you are in town," said lady laura, after a pause. "if it be only that, i will be civil in return;--as sweet as may to him. if it be really only that, and if i were sure of it, i should be really glad to see him." then they finished their lunch, and lady laura got up and led the way to the drawing-room. "i hope you remember," said she, gravely, "that you might be a saviour to him." "i do not believe in girls being saviours to men. it is the man who should be the saviour to the girl. if i marry at all, i have the right to expect that protection shall be given to me,--not that i shall have to give it." "violet, you are determined to misrepresent what i mean." lord chiltern was walking about the room, and did not sit down when they entered. the ordinary greetings took place, and miss effingham made some remark about the frost. "but it seems to be going," she said, "and i suppose that you will soon be at work again?" "yes;--i shall hunt to-morrow," said lord chiltern. "and the next day, and the next, and the next," said violet, "till about the middle of april;--and then your period of misery will begin!" "exactly," said lord chiltern. "i have nothing but hunting that i can call an occupation." "why don't you make one?" said his sister. "i mean to do so, if it be possible. laura, would you mind leaving me and miss effingham alone for a few minutes?" lady laura got up, and so also did miss effingham. "for what purpose?" said the latter. "it cannot be for any good purpose." "at any rate i wish it, and i will not harm you." lady laura was now going, but paused before she reached the door. "laura, will you do as i ask you?" said the brother. then lady laura went. "it was not that i feared you would harm me, lord chiltern," said violet. "no;--i know it was not. but what i say is always said awkwardly. an hour ago i did not know that you were in town, but when i was told the news i came at once. my father told me." "i am so glad that you see your father." "i have not spoken to him for months before, and probably may not speak to him for months again. but there is one point, violet, on which he and i agree." "i hope there will soon be many." "it is possible,--but i fear not probable. look here, violet,"--and he looked at her with all his eyes, till it seemed to her that he was all eyes, so great was the intensity of his gaze;--"i should scorn myself were i to permit myself to come before you with a plea for your favour founded on my father's whims. my father is unreasonable, and has been very unjust to me. he has ever believed evil of me, and has believed it often when all the world knew that he was wrong. i care little for being reconciled to a father who has been so cruel to me." "he loves me dearly, and is my friend. i would rather that you should not speak against him to me." "you will understand, at least, that i am asking nothing from you because he wishes it. laura probably has told you that you may make things straight by becoming my wife." "she has,--certainly, lord chiltern." "it is an argument that she should never have used. it is an argument to which you should not listen for a moment. make things straight indeed! who can tell? there would be very little made straight by such a marriage, if it were not that i loved you. violet, that is my plea, and my only one. i love you so well that i do believe that if you took me i should return to the old ways, and become as other men are, and be in time as respectable, as stupid,--and perhaps as ill-natured as old lady baldock herself." "my poor aunt!" "you know she says worse things of me than that. now, dearest, you have heard all that i have to say to you." as he spoke he came close to her, and put out his hand,--but she did not touch it. "i have no other argument to use,--not a word more to say. as i came here in the cab i was turning it over in my mind that i might find what best i should say. but, after all, there is nothing more to be said than that." "the words make no difference," she replied. "not unless they be so uttered as to force a belief. i do love you. i know no other reason but that why you should be my wife. i have no other excuse to offer for coming to you again. you are the one thing in the world that to me has any charm. can you be surprised that i should be persistent in asking for it?" he was looking at her still with the same gaze, and there seemed to be a power in his eye from which she could not escape. he was still standing with his right hand out, as though expecting, or at least hoping, that her hand might be put into his. "how am i to answer you?" she said. "with your love, if you can give it to me. do you remember how you swore once that you would love me for ever and always?" "you should not remind me of that. i was a child then,--a naughty child," she added, smiling; "and was put to bed for what i did on that day." "be a child still." "ah, if we but could!" "and have you no other answer to make me?" "of course i must answer you. you are entitled to an answer. lord chiltern, i am sorry that i cannot give you the love for which you ask." "never?" "never." "is it myself personally, or what you have heard of me, that is so hateful to you?" "nothing is hateful to me. i have never spoken of hate. i shall always feel the strongest regard for my old friend and playfellow. but there are many things which a woman is bound to consider before she allows herself so to love a man that she can consent to become his wife." "allow herself! then it is a matter entirely of calculation." "i suppose there should be some thought in it, lord chiltern." there was now a pause, and the man's hand was at last allowed to drop, as there came no response to the proffered grasp. he walked once or twice across the room before he spoke again, and then he stopped himself closely opposite to her. "i shall never try again," he said. "it will be better so," she replied. "there is something to me unmanly in a man's persecuting a girl. just tell laura, will you, that it is all over; and she may as well tell my father. good-bye." she then tendered her hand to him, but he did not take it,--probably did not see it, and at once left the room and the house. "and yet i believe you love him," lady laura said to her friend in her anger, when they discussed the matter immediately on lord chiltern's departure. "you have no right to say that, laura." "i have a right to my belief, and i do believe it. i think you love him, and that you lack the courage to risk yourself in trying to save him." "is a woman bound to marry a man if she love him?" "yes, she is," replied lady laura impetuously, without thinking of what she was saying; "that is, if she be convinced that she also is loved." "whatever be the man's character;--whatever be the circumstances? must she do so, whatever friends may say to the contrary? is there to be no prudence in marriage?" "there may be a great deal too much prudence," said lady laura. "that is true. there is certainly too much prudence if a woman marries prudently, but without love." violet intended by this no attack upon her friend,--had not had present in her mind at the moment any idea of lady laura's special prudence in marrying mr. kennedy; but lady laura felt it keenly, and knew at once that an arrow had been shot which had wounded her. "we shall get nothing," she said, "by descending to personalities with each other." "i meant none, laura." "i suppose it is always hard," said lady laura, "for any one person to judge altogether of the mind of another. if i have said anything severe of your refusal of my brother, i retract it. i only wish that it could have been otherwise." lord chiltern, when he left his sister's house, walked through the slush and dirt to a haunt of his in the neighbourhood of covent garden, and there he remained through the whole afternoon and evening. a certain captain clutterbuck joined him, and dined with him. he told nothing to captain clutterbuck of his sorrow, but captain clutterbuck could see that he was unhappy. "let's have another bottle of 'cham,'" said captain clutterbuck, when their dinner was nearly over. "'cham' is the only thing to screw one up when one is down a peg." "you can have what you like," said lord chiltern; "but i shall have some brandy-and-water." "the worst of brandy-and-water is, that one gets tired of it before the night is over," said captain clutterbuck. nevertheless, lord chiltern did go down to peterborough the next day by the hunting train, and rode his horse bonebreaker so well in that famous run from sutton springs to gidding that after the run young piles,--of the house of piles, sarsnet, and gingham,--offered him three hundred pounds for the animal. "he isn't worth above fifty," said lord chiltern. "but i'll give you the three hundred," said piles. "you couldn't ride him if you'd got him," said lord chiltern. "oh, couldn't i!" said piles. but mr. piles did not continue the conversation, contenting himself with telling his friend grogram that that red devil chiltern was as drunk as a lord. chapter xx the debate on the ballot phineas took his seat in the house with a consciousness of much inward trepidation of heart on that night of the ballot debate. after leaving lord chiltern he went down to his club and dined alone. three or four men came and spoke to him; but he could not talk to them at his ease, nor did he quite know what they were saying to him. he was going to do something which he longed to achieve, but the very idea of which, now that it was so near to him, was a terror to him. to be in the house and not to speak would, to his thinking, be a disgraceful failure. indeed, he could not continue to keep his seat unless he spoke. he had been put there that he might speak. he would speak. of course he would speak. had he not already been conspicuous almost as a boy orator? and yet, at this moment he did not know whether he was eating mutton or beef, or who was standing opposite to him and talking to him, so much was he in dread of the ordeal which he had prepared for himself. as he went down to the house after dinner, he almost made up his mind that it would be a good thing to leave london by one of the night mail trains. he felt himself to be stiff and stilted as he walked, and that his clothes were uneasy to him. when he turned into westminster hall he regretted more keenly than ever he had done that he had seceded from the keeping of mr. low. he could, he thought, have spoken very well in court, and would there have learned that self-confidence which now failed him so terribly. it was, however, too late to think of that. he could only go in and take his seat. he went in and took his seat, and the chamber seemed to him to be mysteriously large, as though benches were crowded over benches, and galleries over galleries. he had been long enough in the house to have lost the original awe inspired by the speaker and the clerks of the house, by the row of ministers, and by the unequalled importance of the place. on ordinary occasions he could saunter in and out, and whisper at his ease to a neighbour. but on this occasion he went direct to the bench on which he ordinarily sat, and began at once to rehearse to himself his speech. he had in truth been doing this all day, in spite of the effort that he had made to rid himself of all memory of the occasion. he had been collecting the heads of his speech while mr. low had been talking to him, and refreshing his quotations in the presence of lord chiltern and the dumb-bells. he had taxed his memory and his intellect with various tasks, which, as he feared, would not adjust themselves one with another. he had learned the headings of his speech,--so that one heading might follow the other, and nothing be forgotten. and he had learned verbatim the words which he intended to utter under each heading,--with a hope that if any one compact part should be destroyed or injured in its compactness by treachery of memory, or by the course of the debate, each other compact part might be there in its entirety, ready for use;--or at least so many of the compact parts as treachery of memory and the accidents of the debate might leave to him; so that his speech might be like a vessel, watertight in its various compartments, that would float by the buoyancy of its stern and bow, even though the hold should be waterlogged. but this use of his composed words, even though he should be able to carry it through, would not complete his work;--for it would be his duty to answer in some sort those who had gone before him, and in order to do this he must be able to insert, without any prearrangement of words or ideas, little intercalatory parts between those compact masses of argument with which he had been occupying himself for many laborious hours. as he looked round upon the house and perceived that everything was dim before him, that all his original awe of the house had returned, and with it a present quaking fear that made him feel the pulsations of his own heart, he became painfully aware that the task he had prepared for himself was too great. he should, on this the occasion of his rising to his maiden legs, have either prepared for himself a short general speech, which could indeed have done little for his credit in the house, but which might have served to carry off the novelty of the thing, and have introduced him to the sound of his own voice within those walls,--or he should have trusted to what his wit and spirit would produce for him on the spur of the moment, and not have burdened himself with a huge exercise of memory. during the presentation of a few petitions he tried to repeat to himself the first of his compact parts,--a compact part on which, as it might certainly be brought into use let the debate have gone as it might, he had expended great care. he had flattered himself that there was something of real strength in his words as he repeated them to himself in the comfortable seclusion of his own room, and he had made them so ready to his tongue that he thought it to be impossible that he should forget even an intonation. now he found that he could not remember the first phrases without unloosing and looking at a small roll of paper which he held furtively in his hand. what was the good of looking at it? he would forget it again in the next moment. he had intended to satisfy the most eager of his friends, and to astound his opponents. as it was, no one would be satisfied,--and none astounded but they who had trusted in him. the debate began, and if the leisure afforded by a long and tedious speech could have served him, he might have had leisure enough. he tried at first to follow all that this advocate for the ballot might say, hoping thence to acquire the impetus of strong interest; but he soon wearied of the work, and began to long that the speech might be ended, although the period of his own martyrdom would thereby be brought nearer to him. at half-past seven so many members had deserted their seats, that phineas began to think that he might be saved all further pains by a "count out." he reckoned the members present and found that they were below the mystic forty,--first by two, then by four, by five, by seven, and at one time by eleven. it was not for him to ask the speaker to count the house, but he wondered that no one else should do so. and yet, as the idea of this termination to the night's work came upon him, and as he thought of his lost labour, he almost took courage again,--almost dreaded rather than wished for the interference of some malicious member. but there was no malicious member then present, or else it was known that lords of the treasury and lords of the admiralty would flock in during the speaker's ponderous counting,--and thus the slow length of the ballot-lover's verbosity was permitted to evolve itself without interruption. at eight o'clock he had completed his catalogue of illustrations, and immediately mr. monk rose from the treasury bench to explain the grounds on which the government must decline to support the motion before the house. phineas was aware that mr. monk intended to speak, and was aware also that his speech would be very short. "my idea is," he had said to phineas, "that every man possessed of the franchise should dare to have and to express a political opinion of his own; that otherwise the franchise is not worth having; and that men will learn that when all so dare, no evil can come from such daring. as the ballot would make any courage of that kind unnecessary, i dislike the ballot. i shall confine myself to that, and leave the illustration to younger debaters." phineas also had been informed that mr. turnbull would reply to mr. monk, with the purpose of crushing mr. monk into dust, and phineas had prepared his speech with something of an intention of subsequently crushing mr. turnbull. he knew, however, that he could not command his opportunity. there was the chapter of accidents to which he must accommodate himself; but such had been his programme for the evening. mr. monk made his speech,--and though he was short, he was very fiery and energetic. quick as lightning words of wrath and scorn flew from him, in which he painted the cowardice, the meanness, the falsehood of the ballot. "the ballot-box," he said, "was the grave of all true political opinion." though he spoke hardly for ten minutes, he seemed to say more than enough, ten times enough, to slaughter the argument of the former speaker. at every hot word as it fell phineas was driven to regret that a paragraph of his own was taken away from him, and that his choicest morsels of standing ground were being cut from under his feet. when mr. monk sat down, phineas felt that mr. monk had said all that he, phineas finn, had intended to say. then mr. turnbull rose slowly from the bench below the gangway. with a speaker so frequent and so famous as mr. turnbull no hurry is necessary. he is sure to have his opportunity. the speaker's eye is ever travelling to the accustomed spots. mr. turnbull rose slowly and began his oration very mildly. "there was nothing," he said, "that he admired so much as the poetic imagery and the high-flown sentiment of his right honourable friend the member for west bromwich,"--mr. monk sat for west bromwich,--"unless it were the stubborn facts and unanswered arguments of his honourable friend who had brought forward this motion." then mr. turnbull proceeded after his fashion to crush mr. monk. he was very prosaic, very clear both in voice and language, very harsh, and very unscrupulous. he and mr. monk had been joined together in politics for over twenty years;--but one would have thought, from mr. turnbull's words, that they had been the bitterest of enemies. mr. monk was taunted with his office, taunted with his desertion of the liberal party, taunted with his ambition,--and taunted with his lack of ambition. "i once thought," said mr. turnbull,--"nay, not long ago i thought, that he and i would have fought this battle for the people, shoulder to shoulder, and knee to knee;--but he has preferred that the knee next to his own shall wear a garter, and that the shoulder which supports him shall be decked with a blue ribbon,--as shoulders, i presume, are decked in those closet conferences which are called cabinets." just after this, while mr. turnbull was still going on with a variety of illustrations drawn from the united states, barrington erle stepped across the benches up to the place where phineas was sitting, and whispered a few words into his ear. "bonteen is prepared to answer turnbull, and wishes to do it. i told him that i thought you should have the opportunity, if you wish it." phineas was not ready with a reply to erle at the spur of the moment. "somebody told me," continued erle, "that you had said that you would like to speak to-night." "so i did," said phineas. "shall i tell bonteen that you will do it?" the chamber seemed to swim round before our hero's eyes. mr. turnbull was still going on with his clear, loud, unpleasant voice, but there was no knowing how long he might go on. upon phineas, if he should now consent, might devolve the duty, within ten minutes, within three minutes, of rising there before a full house to defend his great friend, mr. monk, from a gross personal attack. was it fit that such a novice as he should undertake such a work as that? were he to do so, all that speech which he had prepared, with its various self-floating parts, must go for nothing. the task was exactly that which, of all tasks, he would best like to have accomplished, and to have accomplished well. but if he should fail! and he felt that he would fail. for such work a man should have all his senses about him,--his full courage, perfect confidence, something almost approaching to contempt for listening opponents, and nothing of fear in regard to listening friends. he should be as a cock in his own farmyard, master of all the circumstances around him. but phineas finn had not even as yet heard the sound of his own voice in that room. at this moment, so confused was he, that he did not know where sat mr. mildmay, and where mr. daubeny. all was confused, and there arose as it were a sound of waters in his ears, and a feeling as of a great hell around him. "i had rather wait," he said at last. "bonteen had better reply." barrington erle looked into his face, and then stepping back across the benches, told mr. bonteen that the opportunity was his. mr. turnbull continued speaking quite long enough to give poor phineas time for repentance; but repentance was of no use. he had decided against himself, and his decision could not be reversed. he would have left the house, only it seemed to him that had he done so every one would look at him. he drew his hat down over his eyes, and remained in his place, hating mr. bonteen, hating barrington erle, hating mr. turnbull,--but hating no one so much as he hated himself. he had disgraced himself for ever and could never recover the occasion which he had lost. mr. bonteen's speech was in no way remarkable. mr. monk, he said, had done the state good service by adding his wisdom and patriotism to the cabinet. the sort of argument which mr. bonteen used to prove that a man who has gained credit as a legislator should in process of time become a member of the executive, is trite and common, and was not used by mr. bonteen with any special force. mr. bonteen was glib of tongue and possessed that familiarity with the place which poor phineas had lacked so sorely. there was one moment, however, which was terrible to phineas. as soon as mr. bonteen had shown the purpose for which he was on his legs, mr. monk looked round at phineas, as though in reproach. he had expected that this work should fall into the hands of one who would perform it with more warmth of heart than could be expected from mr. bonteen. when mr. bonteen ceased, two or three other short speeches were made and members fired off their little guns. phineas having lost so great an opportunity, would not now consent to accept one that should be comparatively valueless. then there came a division. the motion was lost by a large majority,--by any number you might choose to name, as phineas had said to lord brentford; but in that there was no triumph to the poor wretch who had failed through fear, and who was now a coward in his own esteem. he left the house alone, carefully avoiding all speech with any one. as he came out he had seen laurence fitzgibbon in the lobby, but he had gone on without pausing a moment, so that he might avoid his friend. and when he was out in palace yard, where was he to go next? he looked at his watch, and found that it was just ten. he did not dare to go to his club, and it was impossible for him to go home and to bed. he was very miserable, and nothing would comfort him but sympathy. was there any one who would listen to his abuse of himself, and would then answer him with kindly apologies for his own weakness? mrs. bunce would do it if she knew how, but sympathy from mrs. bunce would hardly avail. there was but one person in the world to whom he could tell his own humiliation with any hope of comfort, and that person was lady laura kennedy. sympathy from any man would have been distasteful to him. he had thought for a moment of flinging himself at mr. monk's feet and telling all his weakness;--but he could not have endured pity even from mr. monk. it was not to be endured from any man. he thought that lady laura kennedy would be at home, and probably alone. he knew, at any rate, that he might be allowed to knock at her door, even at that hour. he had left mr. kennedy in the house, and there he would probably remain for the next hour. there was no man more constant than mr. kennedy in seeing the work of the day,--or of the night,--to its end. so phineas walked up victoria street, and from thence into grosvenor place, and knocked at lady laura's door. "yes; lady laura was at home; and alone." he was shown up into the drawing-room, and there he found lady laura waiting for her husband. "so the great debate is over," she said, with as much of irony as she knew how to throw into the epithet. "yes; it is over." "and what have they done,--those leviathans of the people?" then phineas told her what was the majority. "is there anything the matter with you, mr. finn?" she said, looking at him suddenly. "are you not well?" "yes; i am very well." "will you not sit down? there is something wrong, i know. what is it?" "i have simply been the greatest idiot, the greatest coward, the most awkward ass that ever lived!" "what do you mean?" "i do not know why i should come to tell you of it at this hour at night, but i have come that i might tell you. probably because there is no one else in the whole world who would not laugh at me." "at any rate, i shall not laugh at you," said lady laura. "but you will despise me." "that i am sure i shall not do." "you cannot help it. i despise myself. for years i have placed before myself the ambition of speaking in the house of commons;--for years i have been thinking whether there would ever come to me an opportunity of making myself heard in that assembly, which i consider to be the first in the world. to-day the opportunity has been offered to me,--and, though the motion was nothing, the opportunity was great. the subject was one on which i was thoroughly prepared. the manner in which i was summoned was most flattering to me. i was especially called on to perform a task which was most congenial to my feelings;--and i declined because i was afraid." "you had thought too much about it, my friend," said lady laura. "too much or too little, what does it matter?" replied phineas, in despair. "there is the fact. i could not do it. do you remember the story of conachar in the 'fair maid of perth;'--how his heart refused to give him blood enough to fight? he had been suckled with the milk of a timid creature, and, though he could die, there was none of the strength of manhood in him. it is about the same thing with me, i take it." "i do not think you are at all like conachar," said lady laura. "i am equally disgraced, and i must perish after the same fashion. i shall apply for the chiltern hundreds in a day or two." "you will do nothing of the kind," said lady laura, getting up from her chair and coming towards him. "you shall not leave this room till you have promised me that you will do nothing of the kind. i do not know as yet what has occurred to-night; but i do know that that modesty which has kept you silent is more often a grace than a disgrace." this was the kind of sympathy which he wanted, she drew her chair nearer to him, and then he explained to her as accurately as he could what had taken place in the house on this evening,--how he had prepared his speech, how he had felt that his preparation was vain, how he perceived from the course of the debate that if he spoke at all his speech must be very different from what he had first intended; how he had declined to take upon himself a task which seemed to require so close a knowledge of the ways of the house and of the temper of the men, as the defence of such a man as mr. monk. in accusing himself he, unconsciously, excused himself, and his excuse, in lady laura's ears, was more valid than his accusation. "and you would give it all up for that?" she said. "yes; i think i ought." "i have very little doubt but that you were right in allowing mr. bonteen to undertake such a task. i should simply explain to mr. monk that you felt too keen an interest in his welfare to stand up as an untried member in his defence. it is not, i think, the work for a man who is not at home in the house. i am sure mr. monk will feel this, and i am quite certain that mr. kennedy will think that you have been right." "i do not care what mr. kennedy may think." "why do you say that, mr. finn? that is not courteous." "simply because i care so much what mr. kennedy's wife may think. your opinion is all in all to me,--only that i know you are too kind to me." "he would not be too kind to you. he is never too kind to any one. he is justice itself." phineas, as he heard the tones of her voice, could not but feel that there was in lady laura's words something of an accusation against her husband. "i hate justice," said phineas. "i know that justice would condemn me. but love and friendship know nothing of justice. the value of love is that it overlooks faults, and forgives even crimes." "i, at any rate," said lady laura, "will forgive the crime of your silence in the house. my strong belief in your success will not be in the least affected by what you tell me of your failure to-night. you must await another opportunity; and, if possible, you should be less anxious as to your own performance. there is violet." as lady laura spoke the last words, there was a sound of a carriage stopping in the street, and the front door was immediately opened. "she is staying here, but has been dining with her uncle, admiral effingham." then violet effingham entered the room, rolled up in pretty white furs, and silk cloaks, and lace shawls. "here is mr. finn, come to tell us of the debate about the ballot." "i don't care twopence about the ballot," said violet, as she put out her hand to phineas. "are we going to have a new iron fleet built? that's the question." "sir simeon has come out strong to-night," said lady laura. "there is no political question of any importance except the question of the iron fleet," said violet. "i am quite sure of that, and so, if mr. finn can tell me nothing about the iron fleet, i'll go to bed." "mr. kennedy will tell you everything when he comes home," said phineas. "oh, mr. kennedy! mr. kennedy never tells one anything. i doubt whether mr. kennedy thinks that any woman knows the meaning of the british constitution." "do you know what it means, violet?" asked lady laura. "to be sure i do. it is liberty to growl about the iron fleet, or the ballot, or the taxes, or the peers, or the bishops,--or anything else, except the house of commons. that's the british constitution. good-night, mr. finn." "what a beautiful creature she is!" said phineas. "yes, indeed," said lady laura. "and full of wit and grace and pleasantness. i do not wonder at your brother's choice." it will be remembered that this was said on the day before lord chiltern had made his offer for the third time. "poor oswald! he does not know as yet that she is in town." after that phineas went, not wishing to await the return of mr. kennedy. he had felt that violet effingham had come into the room just in time to remedy a great difficulty. he did not wish to speak of his love to a married woman,--to the wife of the man who called him friend,--to a woman who he felt sure would have rebuked him. but he could hardly have restrained himself had not miss effingham been there. but as he went home he thought more of miss effingham than he did of lady laura; and i think that the voice of miss effingham had done almost as much towards comforting him as had the kindness of the other. at any rate, he had been comforted. chapter xxi "do be punctual" on the very morning after his failure in the house of commons, when phineas was reading in the _telegraph_,--he took the _telegraph_ not from choice but for economy,--the words of that debate which he had heard and in which he should have taken a part, a most unwelcome visit was paid to him. it was near eleven, and the breakfast things were still on the table. he was at this time on a committee of the house with reference to the use of potted peas in the army and navy, at which he had sat once,--at a preliminary meeting,--and in reference to which he had already resolved that as he had failed so frightfully in debate, he would certainly do his duty to the utmost in the more easy but infinitely more tedious work of the committee room. the committee met at twelve, and he intended to walk down to the reform club, and then to the house. he had just completed his reading of the debate and of the leaders in the _telegraph_ on the subject. he had told himself how little the writer of the article knew about mr. turnbull, how little about mr. monk, and how little about the people,--such being his own ideas as to the qualifications of the writer of that leading article,--and was about to start. but mrs. bunce arrested him by telling him that there was a man below who wanted to see him. "what sort of a man, mrs. bunce?" "he ain't a gentleman, sir." "did he give his name?" "he did not, sir; but i know it's about money. i know the ways of them so well. i've seen this one's face before somewhere." "you had better show him up," said phineas. he knew well the business on which the man was come. the man wanted money for that bill which laurence fitzgibbon had sent afloat, and which phineas had endorsed. phineas had never as yet fallen so deeply into troubles of money as to make it necessary that he need refuse himself to any callers on that score, and he did not choose to do so now. nevertheless he most heartily wished that he had left his lodgings for the club before the man had come. this was not the first he had heard of the bill being overdue and unpaid. the bill had been brought to him noted a month since, and then he had simply told the youth who brought it that he would see mr. fitzgibbon and have the matter settled. he had spoken to his friend laurence, and laurence had simply assured him that all should be made right in two days,--or, at furthest, by the end of a week. since that time he had observed that his friend had been somewhat shy of speaking to him when no others were with them. phineas would not have alluded to the bill had he and laurence been alone together; but he had been quick enough to guess from his friend's manner that the matter was not settled. now, no doubt, serious trouble was about to commence. the visitor was a little man with grey hair and a white cravat, some sixty years of age, dressed in black, with a very decent hat,--which, on entering the room, he at once put down on the nearest chair,--with reference to whom, any judge on the subject would have concurred at first sight in the decision pronounced by mrs. bunce, though none but a judge very well used to sift the causes of his own conclusions could have given the reasons for that early decision. "he ain't a gentleman," mrs. bunce had said. and the man certainly was not a gentleman. the old man in the white cravat was very neatly dressed, and carried himself without any of that humility which betrays one class of uncertified aspirants to gentility, or of that assumed arrogance which is at once fatal to another class. but, nevertheless, mrs. bunce had seen at a glance that he was not a gentleman,--had seen, moreover, that such a man could have come only upon one mission. she was right there too. this visitor had come about money. "about this bill, mr. finn," said the visitor, proceeding to take out of his breast coat-pocket a rather large leathern case, as he advanced up towards the fire. "my name is clarkson, mr. finn. if i may venture so far, i'll take a chair." "certainly, mr. clarkson," said phineas, getting up and pointing to a seat. "thankye, mr. finn, thankye. we shall be more comfortable doing business sitting, shan't we?" whereupon the horrid little man drew himself close in to the fire, and spreading out his leathern case upon his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper after another, as though he were uncertain in what part of his portfolio lay this identical bit which he was seeking. he seemed to be quite at home, and to feel that there was no ground whatever for hurry in such comfortable quarters. phineas hated him at once,--with a hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty which his friend fitzgibbon had brought upon him. "here it is," said mr. clarkson at last. "oh, dear me, dear me! the third of november, and here we are in march! i didn't think it was so bad as this;--i didn't indeed. this is very bad,--very bad! and for parliament gents, too, who should be more punctual than anybody, because of the privilege. shouldn't they now, mr. finn?" "all men should be punctual, i suppose," said phineas. "of course they should; of course they should. i always say to my gents, 'be punctual, and i'll do anything for you.' but, perhaps, mr. finn, you can hand me a cheque for this amount, and then you and i will begin square." "indeed i cannot, mr. clarkson." "not hand me a cheque for it!" "upon my word, no." "that's very bad;--very bad indeed. then i suppose i must take the half, and renew for the remainder, though i don't like it;--i don't indeed." "i can pay no part of that bill, mr. clarkson." "pay no part of it!" and mr. clarkson, in order that he might the better express his surprise, arrested his hand in the very act of poking his host's fire. "if you'll allow me, i'll manage the fire," said phineas, putting out his hand for the poker. but mr. clarkson was fond of poking fires, and would not surrender the poker. "pay no part of it!" he said again, holding the poker away from phineas in his left hand. "don't say that, mr. finn. pray don't say that. don't drive me to be severe. i don't like to be severe with my gents. i'll do anything, mr. finn, if you'll only be punctual." "the fact is, mr. clarkson, i have never had one penny of consideration for that bill, and--" "oh, mr. finn! oh, mr. finn!" and then mr. clarkson had his will of the fire. "i never had one penny of consideration for that bill," continued phineas. "of course, i don't deny my responsibility." "no, mr. finn; you can't deny that. here it is;--phineas finn;--and everybody knows you, because you're a parliament gent." "i don't deny it. but i had no reason to suppose that i should be called upon for the money when i accommodated my friend, mr. fitzgibbon, and i have not got it. that is the long and the short of it. i must see him and take care that arrangements are made." "arrangements!" "yes, arrangements for settling the bill." "he hasn't got the money, mr. finn. you know that as well as i do." "i know nothing about it, mr. clarkson." "oh yes, mr. finn; you know; you know." "i tell you i know nothing about it," said phineas, waxing angry. "as to mr. fitzgibbon, he's the pleasantest gent that ever lived. isn't he now? i've know'd him these ten years. i don't suppose that for ten years i've been without his name in my pocket. but, bless you, mr. finn, there's an end to everything. i shouldn't have looked at this bit of paper if it hadn't been for your signature. of course not. you're just beginning, and it's natural you should want a little help. you'll find me always ready, if you'll only be punctual." "i tell you again, sir, that i never had a shilling out of that for myself, and do not want any such help." here mr. clarkson smiled sweetly. "i gave my name to my friend simply to oblige him." "i like you irish gents because you do hang together so close," said mr. clarkson. "simply to oblige him," continued phineas. "as i said before, i know that i am responsible; but, as i said before also, i have not the means of taking up that bill. i will see mr. fitzgibbon, and let you know what we propose to do." then phineas got up from his seat and took his hat. it was full time that he should go down to his committee. but mr. clarkson did not get up from his seat. "i'm afraid i must ask you to leave me now, mr. clarkson, as i have business down at the house." "business at the house never presses, mr. finn," said mr. clarkson. "that's the best of parliament. i've known parliament gents this thirty years and more. would you believe it--i've had a prime minister's name in that portfolio; that i have; and a lord chancellor's; that i have;--and an archbishop's too. i know what parliament is, mr. finn. come, come; don't put me off with parliament." there he sat before the fire with his pouch open before him, and phineas had no power of moving him. could phineas have paid him the money which was manifestly due to him on the bill, the man would of course have gone; but failing in that, phineas could not turn him out. there was a black cloud on the young member's brow, and great anger at his heart,--against fitzgibbon rather than against the man who was sitting there before him. "sir," he said, "it is really imperative that i should go. i am pledged to an appointment at the house at twelve, and it wants now only a quarter. i regret that your interview with me should be so unsatisfactory, but i can only promise you that i will see mr. fitzgibbon." "and when shall i call again, mr. finn?" "perhaps i had better write to you," said phineas. "oh dear, no," said mr. clarkson. "i should much prefer to look in. looking in is always best. we can get to understand one another in that way. let me see. i daresay you're not particular. suppose i say sunday morning." "really, i could not see you on sunday morning, mr. clarkson." "parliament gents ain't generally particular,--'speciaily not among the catholics," pleaded mr. clarkson. "i am always engaged on sundays," said phineas. "suppose we say monday,--or tuesday. tuesday morning at eleven. and do be punctual, mr. finn. at tuesday morning i'll come, and then no doubt i shall find you ready." whereupon mr. clarkson slowly put up his bills within his portfolio, and then, before phineas knew where he was, had warmly shaken that poor dismayed member of parliament by the hand. "only do be punctual, mr. finn," he said, as he made his way down the stairs. it was now twelve, and phineas rushed off to a cab. he was in such a fervour of rage and misery that he could hardly think of his position, or what he had better do, till he got into the committee room; and when there he could think of nothing else. he intended to go deeply into the question of potted peas, holding an equal balance between the assailed government offices on the one hand, and the advocates of the potted peas on the other. the potters of the peas, who wanted to sell their article to the crown, declared that an extensive,--perhaps we may say, an unlimited,--use of the article would save the whole army and navy from the scourges of scurvy, dyspepsia, and rheumatism, would be the best safeguard against typhus and other fevers, and would be an invaluable aid in all other maladies to which soldiers and sailors are peculiarly subject. the peas in question were grown on a large scale in holstein, and their growth had been fostered with the special object of doing good to the british army and navy. the peas were so cheap that there would be a great saving in money,--and it really had seemed to many that the officials of the horse guards and the admiralty had been actuated by some fiendish desire to deprive their men of salutary fresh vegetables, simply because they were of foreign growth. but the officials of the war office and the admiralty declared that the potted peas in question were hardly fit for swine. the motion for the committee had been made by a gentleman of the opposition, and phineas had been put upon it as an independent member. he had resolved to give it all his mind, and, as far as he was concerned, to reach a just decision, in which there should be no favour shown to the government side. new brooms are proverbial for thorough work, and in this committee work phineas was as yet a new broom. but, unfortunately, on this day his mind was so harassed that he could hardly understand what was going on. it did not, perhaps, much signify, as the witnesses examined were altogether agricultural. they only proved the production of peas in holstein,--a fact as to which phineas had no doubt. the proof was naturally slow, as the evidence was given in german, and had to be translated into english. and the work of the day was much impeded by a certain member who unfortunately spoke german, who seemed to be fond of speaking german before his brethren of the committee, and who was curious as to agriculture in holstein generally. the chairman did not understand german, and there was a difficulty in checking this gentleman, and in making him understand that his questions were not relevant to the issue. phineas could not keep his mind during the whole afternoon from the subject of his misfortune. what should he do if this horrid man came to him once or twice a week? he certainly did owe the man the money. he must admit that to himself. the man no doubt was a dishonest knave who had discounted the bill probably at fifty per cent; but, nevertheless, phineas had made himself legally responsible for the amount. the privilege of the house prohibited him from arrest. he thought of that very often, but the thought only made him the more unhappy. would it not be said, and might it not be said truly, that he had incurred this responsibility,--a responsibility which he was altogether unequal to answer,--because he was so protected? he did feel that a certain consciousness of his privilege had been present to him when he had put his name across the paper, and there had been dishonesty in that very consciousness. and of what service would his privilege be to him, if this man could harass every hour of his life? the man was to be with him again in a day or two, and when the appointment had been proposed, he, phineas, had not dared to negative it. and how was he to escape? as for paying the bill, that with him was altogether impossible. the man had told him,--and he had believed the man,--that payment by fitzgibbon was out of the question. and yet fitzgibbon was the son of a peer, whereas he was only the son of a country doctor! of course fitzgibbon must make some effort,--some great effort,--and have the thing settled. alas, alas! he knew enough of the world already to feel that the hope was vain. he went down from the committee room into the house, and he dined at the house, and remained there until eight or nine at night; but fitzgibbon did not come. he then went to the reform club, but he was not there. both at the club and in the house many men spoke to him about the debate of the previous night, expressing surprise that he had not spoken,--making him more and more wretched. he saw mr. monk, but mr. monk was walking arm in arm with his colleague, mr. palliser, and phineas could do no more than just speak to them. he thought that mr. monk's nod of recognition was very cold. that might be fancy, but it certainly was a fact that mr. monk only nodded to him. he would tell mr. monk the truth, and then, if mr. monk chose to quarrel with him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their friendship. from the reform club he went to the shakspeare, a smaller club to which fitzgibbon belonged,--and of which phineas much wished to become a member,--and to which he knew that his friend resorted when he wished to enjoy himself thoroughly, and to be at ease in his inn. men at the shakspeare could do as they pleased. there were no politics there, no fashion, no stiffness, and no rules,--so men said; but that was hardly true. everybody called everybody by his christian name, and members smoked all over the house. they who did not belong to the shakspeare thought it an elysium upon earth; and they who did, believed it to be among pandemoniums the most pleasant. phineas called at the shakspeare, and was told by the porter that mr. fitzgibbon was up-stairs. he was shown into the strangers room, and in five minutes his friend came down to him. "i want you to come down to the reform with me," said phineas. "by jingo, my dear fellow, i'm in the middle of a rubber of whist." "there has been a man with me about that bill." "what;--clarkson?" "yes, clarkson," said phineas. "don't mind him," said fitzgibbon. "that's nonsense. how am i to help minding him? i must mind him. he is coming to me again on tuesday morning." "don't see him." "how can i help seeing him?" "make them say you're not at home." "he has made an appointment. he has told me that he'll never leave me alone. he'll be the death of me if this is not settled." "it shall be settled, my dear fellow. i'll see about it. i'll see about it and write you a line. you must excuse me now, because those fellows are waiting. i'll have it all arranged." again as phineas went home he thoroughly wished that he had not seceded from mr. low. chapter xxii lady baldock at home about the middle of march lady baldock came up from baddingham to london, coerced into doing so, as violet effingham declared, in thorough opposition to all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her friends and relatives. her friends and relatives, so miss effingham insinuated, were unanimous in wishing that lady baldock should remain at baddingham park, and therefore,--that wish having been indiscreetly expressed,--she had put herself to great inconvenience, and had come to london in march. "gustavus will go mad," said violet to lady laura. the gustavus in question was the lord baldock of the present generation, miss effingham's lady baldock being the peer's mother. "why does not lord baldock take a house himself?" asked lady laura. "don't you know, my dear," violet answered, "how much we baddingham people think of money? we don't like being vexed and driven mad, but even that is better than keeping up two households." as regarded violet, the injury arising from lady baldock's early migration was very great, for she was thus compelled to move from grosvenor place to lady baldock's house in berkeley square. "as you are so fond of being in london, augusta and i have made up our minds to come up before easter," lady baldock had written to her. "i shall go to her now," violet had said to her friend, "because i have not quite made up my mind as to what i will do for the future." "marry oswald, and be your own mistress." "i mean to be my own mistress without marrying oswald, though i don't see my way quite clearly as yet. i think i shall set up a little house of my own, and let the world say what it pleases. i suppose they couldn't make me out to be a lunatic." "i shouldn't wonder if they were to try," said lady laura. "they could not prevent me in any other way. but i am in the dark as yet, and so i shall be obedient and go to my aunt." miss effingham went to berkeley square, and phineas finn was introduced to lady baldock. he had been often in grosvenor place, and had seen violet frequently. mr. kennedy gave periodical dinners,--once a week,--to which everybody went who could get an invitation; and phineas had been a guest more than once. indeed, in spite of his miseries he had taken to dining out a good deal, and was popular as an eater of dinners. he could talk when wanted, and did not talk too much, was pleasant in manners and appearance, and had already achieved a certain recognised position in london life. of those who knew him intimately, not one in twenty were aware from whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his means of living. he was a member of parliament, a friend of mr. kennedy's, was intimate with mr. monk, though an irishman did not as a rule herd with other irishmen, and was the right sort of person to have at your house. some people said he was a cousin of lord brentford's, and others declared that he was lord chiltern's earliest friend. there he was, however, with a position gained, and even lady baldock asked him to her house. lady baldock had evenings. people went to her house, and stood about the room and on the stairs, talked to each other for half an hour, and went away. in these march days there was no crowding, but still there were always enough of people there to show that lady baldock was successful. why people should have gone to lady baldock's i cannot explain;--but there are houses to which people go without any reason. phineas received a little card asking him to go, and he always went. "i think you like my friend, mr. finn," lady laura said to miss effingham, after the first of these evenings. "yes, i do. i like him decidedly." "so do i. i should hardly have thought that you would have taken a fancy to him." "i hardly know what you call taking a fancy," said violet. "i am not quite sure i like to be told that i have taken a fancy for a young man." "i mean no offence, my dear." "of course you don't but, to speak truth, i think i have rather taken a fancy to him. there is just enough of him, but not too much. i don't mean materially,--in regard to his inches; but as to his mental belongings. i hate a stupid man who can't talk to me, and i hate a clever man who talks me down. i don't like a man who is too lazy to make any effort to shine; but i particularly dislike the man who is always striving for effect. i abominate a humble man, but yet i love to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and youth, and all that kind of thing." "you want to be flattered without plain flattery." "of course i do. a man who would tell me that i am pretty, unless he is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. but a man who can't show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it, is a lout. now in all those matters, your friend, mr. finn, seems to know what he is about. in other words, he makes himself pleasant, and, therefore, one is glad to see him." "i suppose you do not mean to fall in love with him?" "not that i know of, my dear. but when i do, i'll be sure to give you notice." i fear that there was more of earnestness in lady laura's last question than miss effingham had supposed. she had declared to herself over and over again that she had never been in love with phineas finn. she had acknowledged to herself, before mr. kennedy had asked her hand in marriage, that there had been danger,--that she could have learned to love the man if such love would not have been ruinous to her,--that the romance of such a passion would have been pleasant to her. she had gone farther than this, and had said to herself that she would have given way to that romance, and would have been ready to accept such love if offered to her, had she not put it out of her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity to her brother. then she had thrust the thing aside, and had clearly understood,--she thought that she had clearly understood,--that life for her must be a matter of business. was it not the case with nine out of every ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of romance? of course she could not marry mr. finn, knowing, as she did, that neither of them had a shilling. of all men in the world she esteemed mr. kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be his wife. had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she would not have gone to loughlinter. having put aside all romance as unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as mr. kennedy's wife. she would teach herself to love him. nay,--she had taught herself to love him. she was at any rate so sure of her own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the confidence he placed in her. and yet there was something sore within her when she thought that phineas finn was fond of violet effingham. it was lady baldock's second evening, and phineas came to the house at about eleven o'clock. at this time he had encountered a second and a third interview with mr. clarkson, and had already failed in obtaining any word of comfort from laurence fitzgibbon about the bill. it was clear enough now that laurence felt that they were both made safe by their privilege, and that mr. clarkson should be treated as you treat the organ-grinders. they are a nuisance and must be endured. but the nuisance is not so great but what you can live in comfort,--if only you are not too sore as to the annoyance. "my dear fellow," laurence had said to him, "i have had clarkson almost living in my rooms. he used to drink nearly a pint of sherry a day for me. all i looked to was that i didn't live there at the same time. if you wish it, i'll send in the sherry." this was very bad, and phineas tried to quarrel with his friend; but he found that it was difficult to quarrel with laurence fitzgibbon. but though on this side phineas was very miserable, on another side he had obtained great comfort. mr. monk and he were better friends than ever. "as to what turnbull says about me in the house," mr. monk had said, laughing; "he and i understand each other perfectly. i should like to see you on your legs, but it is just as well, perhaps, that you have deferred it. we shall have the real question on immediately after easter, and then you'll have plenty of opportunities." phineas had explained how he had attempted, how he had failed, and how he had suffered;--and mr. monk had been generous in his sympathy. "i know all about it," said he, "and have gone through it all myself. the more respect you feel for the house, the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it when you have mastered this difficulty." the first person who spoke to phineas at lady baldock's was miss fitzgibbon, laurence's sister. aspasia fitzgibbon was a warm woman as regarded money, and as she was moreover a most discreet spinster, she was made welcome by lady baldock, in spite of the well-known iniquities of her male relatives. "mr. finn," said she, "how d'ye do? i want to say a word to ye. just come here into the corner." phineas, not knowing how to escape, did retreat into the corner with miss fitzgibbon. "tell me now, mr. finn;--have ye been lending money to laurence?" "no; i have lent him no money," said phineas, much astonished by the question. "don't. that's my advice to ye. don't. on any other matter laurence is the best creature in the world,--but he's bad to lend money to. you ain't in any hobble with him, then?" "well;--nothing to speak of. what makes you ask?" "then you are in a hobble? dear, dear! i never saw such a man as laurence;--never. good-bye. i wouldn't do it again, if i were you;--that's all." then miss fitzgibbon came out of the corner and made her way down-stairs. phineas immediately afterwards came across miss effingham. "i did not know," said she, "that you and the divine aspasia were such close allies." "we are the dearest friends in the world, but she has taken my breath away now." "may a body be told how she has done that?" violet asked. "well, no; i'm afraid not, even though the body be miss effingham. it was a profound secret;--really a secret concerning a third person, and she began about it just as though she were speaking about the weather!" "how charming! i do so like her. you haven't heard, have you, that mr. ratler proposed to her the other day?" "no!" "but he did;--at least, so she tells everybody. she said she'd take him if he would promise to get her brother's salary doubled." "did she tell you?" "no; not me. and of course i don't believe a word of it. i suppose barrington erle made up the story. are you going out of town next week, mr. finn?" the week next to this was easter-week. "i heard you were going into northamptonshire." "from lady laura?" "yes;--from lady laura." "i intend to spend three days with lord chiltern at willingford. it is an old promise. i am going to ride his horses,--that is, if i am able to ride them." "take care what you are about, mr. finn;--they say his horses are so dangerous!" "i'm rather good at falling, i flatter myself." "i know that lord chiltern rides anything he can sit, so long as it is some animal that nobody else will ride. it was always so with him. he is so odd; is he not?" phineas knew, of course, that lord chiltern had more than once asked violet effingham to be his wife,--and he believed that she, from her intimacy with lady laura, must know that he knew it. he had also heard lady laura express a very strong wish that, in spite of these refusals, violet might even yet become her brother's wife. and phineas also knew that violet effingham was becoming, in his own estimation, the most charming woman of his acquaintance. how was he to talk to her about lord chiltern? "he is odd," said phineas; "but he is an excellent fellow,--whom his father altogether misunderstands." "exactly,--just so; i am so glad to hear you say that,--you who have never had the misfortune to have anything to do with a bad set. why don't you tell lord brentford? lord brentford would listen to you." "to me?" "yes;--of course he would,--for you are just the link that is wanting. you are chiltern's intimate friend, and you are also the friend of big-wigs and cabinet ministers." "lord brentford would put me down at once if i spoke to him on such a subject." "i am sure he would not. you are too big to be put down, and no man can really dislike to hear his son well spoken of by those who are well spoken of themselves. won't you try, mr. finn?" phineas said that he would think of it,--that he would try if any fit opportunity could be found. "of course you know how intimate i have been with the standishes," said violet; "that laura is to me a sister, and that oswald used to be almost a brother." "why do not you speak to lord brentford;--you who are his favourite?" "there are reasons, mr. finn. besides, how can any girl come forward and say that she knows the disposition of any man? you can live with lord chiltern, and see what he is made of, and know his thoughts, and learn what is good in him, and also what is bad. after all, how is any girl really to know anything of a man's life?" "if i can do anything, miss effingham, i will," said phineas. "and then we shall all of us be so grateful to you," said violet, with her sweetest smile. phineas, retreating from this conversation, stood for a while alone, thinking of it. had she spoken thus of lord chiltern because she did love him or because she did not? and the sweet commendations which had fallen from her lips upon him,--him, phineas finn,--were they compatible with anything like a growing partiality for himself, or were they incompatible with any such feeling? had he most reason to be comforted or to be discomfited by what had taken place? it seemed hardly possible to his imagination that violet effingham should love such a nobody as he. and yet he had had fair evidence that one standing as high in the world as violet effingham would fain have loved him could she have followed the dictates of her heart. he had trembled when he had first resolved to declare his passion to lady laura,--fearing that she would scorn him as being presumptuous. but there had been no cause for such fear as that. he had declared his love, and she had not thought him to be presumptuous. that now was ages ago,--eight months since; and lady laura had become a married woman. since he had become so warmly alive to the charms of violet effingham he had determined, with stern propriety, that a passion for a married woman was disgraceful. such love was in itself a sin, even though it was accompanied by the severest forbearance and the most rigid propriety of conduct. no;--lady laura had done wisely to check the growing feeling of partiality which she had admitted; and now that she was married, he would be as wise as she. it was clear to him that, as regarded his own heart, the way was open to him for a new enterprise. but what if he were to fail again, and be told by violet, when he declared his love, that she had just engaged herself to lord chiltern! "what were you and violet talking about so eagerly?" said lady laura to him, with a smile that, in its approach to laughter, almost betrayed its mistress. "we were talking about your brother." "you are going to him, are you not?" "yes; i leave london on sunday night;--but only for a day or two." "has he any chance there, do you think?" "what, with miss effingham?" "yes;--with violet. sometimes i think she loves him." "how can i say? in such a matter you can judge better than i can do. one woman with reference to another can draw the line between love and friendship. she certainly likes chiltern." "oh, i believe she loves him. i do indeed. but she fears him. she does not quite understand how much there is of tenderness with that assumed ferocity. and oswald is so strange, so unwise, so impolitic, that though he loves her better than all the world beside, he will not sacrifice even a turn of a word to win her. when he asks her to marry him, he almost flies at her throat, as an angry debtor who applies for instant payment. tell him, mr. finn, never to give it over;--and teach him that he should be soft with her. tell him, also, that in her heart she likes him. one woman, as you say, knows another woman; and i am certain he would win her if he would only be gentle with her." then, again, before they parted, lady laura told him that this marriage was the dearest wish of her heart, and that there would be no end to her gratitude if phineas could do anything to promote it. all which again made our hero unhappy. chapter xxiii sunday in grosvenor place mr. kennedy, though he was a most scrupulously attentive member of parliament, was a man very punctual to hours and rules in his own house,--and liked that his wife should be as punctual as himself. lady laura, who in marrying him had firmly resolved that she would do her duty to him in all ways, even though the ways might sometimes be painful,--and had been perhaps more punctilious in this respect than she might have been had she loved him heartily,--was not perhaps quite so fond of accurate regularity as her husband; and thus, by this time, certain habits of his had become rather bonds than habits to her. he always had prayers at nine, and breakfasted at a quarter past nine, let the hours on the night before have been as late as they might before the time for rest had come. after breakfast he would open his letters in his study, but he liked her to be with him, and desired to discuss with her every application he got from a constituent. he had his private secretary in a room apart, but he thought that everything should be filtered to his private secretary through his wife. he was very anxious that she herself should superintend the accounts of their own private expenditure, and had taken some trouble to teach her an excellent mode of book-keeping. he had recommended to her a certain course of reading,--which was pleasant enough; ladies like to receive such recommendations; but mr. kennedy, having drawn out the course, seemed to expect that his wife should read the books he had named, and, worse still, that she should read them in the time he had allocated for the work. this, i think, was tyranny. then the sundays became very wearisome to lady laura. going to church twice, she had learnt, would be a part of her duty; and though in her father's household attendance at church had never been very strict, she had made up her mind to this cheerfully. but mr. kennedy expected also that he and she should always dine together on sundays, that there should be no guests, and that there should be no evening company. after all, the demand was not very severe, but yet she found that it operated injuriously upon her comfort. the sundays were very wearisome to her, and made her feel that her lord and master was--her lord and master. she made an effort or two to escape, but the efforts were all in vain. he never spoke a cross word to her. he never gave a stern command. but yet he had his way. "i won't say that reading a novel on a sunday is a sin," he said; "but we must at any rate admit that it is a matter on which men disagree, that many of the best of men are against such occupation on sunday, and that to abstain is to be on the safe side." so the novels were put away, and sunday afternoon with the long evening became rather a stumbling-block to lady laura. those two hours, moreover, with her husband in the morning became very wearisome to her. at first she had declared that it would be her greatest ambition to help her husband in his work, and she had read all the letters from the macnabs and macfies, asking to be made gaugers and landing-waiters, with an assumed interest. but the work palled upon her very quickly. her quick intellect discovered soon that there was nothing in it which she really did. it was all form and verbiage, and pretence at business. her husband went through it all with the utmost patience, reading every word, giving orders as to every detail, and conscientiously doing that which he conceived he had undertaken to do. but lady laura wanted to meddle with high politics, to discuss reform bills, to assist in putting up mr. this and putting down my lord that. why should she waste her time in doing that which the lad in the next room, who was called a private secretary, could do as well? still she would obey. let the task be as hard as it might, she would obey. if he counselled her to do this or that, she would follow his counsel,--because she owed him so much. if she had accepted the half of all his wealth without loving him, she owed him the more on that account. but she knew,--she could not but know,--that her intellect was brighter than his; and might it not be possible for her to lead him? then she made efforts to lead her husband, and found that he was as stiff-necked as an ox. mr. kennedy was not, perhaps, a clever man; but he was a man who knew his own way, and who intended to keep it. "i have got a headache, robert," she said to him one sunday after luncheon. "i think i will not go to church this afternoon." "it is not serious, i hope." "oh dear no. don't you know how one feels sometimes that one has got a head? and when that is the case one's armchair is the best place." "i am not sure of that," said mr. kennedy. "if i went to church i should not attend," said lady laura. "the fresh air would do you more good than anything else, and we could walk across the park." "thank you;--i won't go out again to-day." this she said with something almost of crossness in her manner, and mr. kennedy went to the afternoon service by himself. lady laura when she was left alone began to think of her position. she was not more than four or five months married, and she was becoming very tired of her life. was it not also true that she was becoming tired of her husband? she had twice told phineas finn that of all men in the world she esteemed mr. kennedy the most. she did not esteem him less now. she knew no point or particle in which he did not do his duty with accuracy. but no person can live happily with another,--not even with a brother or a sister or a friend,--simply upon esteem. all the virtues in the calendar, though they exist on each side, will not make a man and woman happy together, unless there be sympathy. lady laura was beginning to find out that there was a lack of sympathy between herself and her husband. she thought of this till she was tired of thinking of it, and then, wishing to divert her mind, she took up the book that was lying nearest to her hand. it was a volume of a new novel which she had been reading on the previous day, and now, without much thought about it, she went on with her reading. there came to her, no doubt, some dim, half-formed idea that, as she was freed from going to church by the plea of a headache, she was also absolved by the same plea from other sunday hindrances. a child, when it is ill, has buttered toast and a picture-book instead of bread-and-milk and lessons. in this way, lady laura conceived herself to be entitled to her novel. while she was reading it, there came a knock at the door, and barrington erle was shown upstairs. mr. kennedy had given no orders against sunday visitors, but had simply said that sunday visiting was not to his taste. barrington, however, was lady laura's cousin, and people must be very strict if they can't see their cousins on sunday. lady laura soon lost her headache altogether in the animation of discussing the chances of the new reform bill with the prime minister's private secretary; and had left her chair, and was standing by the table with the novel in her hand, protesting this and denying that, expressing infinite confidence in mr. monk, and violently denouncing mr. turnbull, when her husband returned from church and came up into the drawing-room. lady laura had forgotten her headache altogether, and had in her composition none of that thoughtfulness of hypocrisy which would have taught her to moderate her political feeling at her husband's return. "i do declare," she said, "that if mr. turnbull opposes the government measure now, because he can't have his own way in everything, i will never again put my trust in any man who calls himself a popular leader." "you never should," said barrington erle. "that's all very well for you, barrington, who are an aristocratic whig of the old official school, and who call yourself a liberal simply because fox was a liberal a hundred years ago. my heart's in it." "heart should never have anything to do with politics; should it?" said erle, turning round to mr. kennedy. mr. kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on a sunday, nor yet did he wish to say before barrington erle that he thought it wrong to do so. and he was desirous of treating his wife in some way as though she were an invalid,--that she thereby might be, as it were, punished; but he did not wish to do this in such a way that barrington should be aware of the punishment. "laura had better not disturb herself about it now," he said. "how is a person to help being disturbed?" said lady laura, laughing. "well, well; we won't mind all that now," said mr. kennedy, turning away. then he took up the novel which lady laura had just laid down from her hand, and, having looked at it, carried it aside, and placed it on a book-shelf which was remote from them. lady laura watched him as he did this, and the whole course of her husband's thoughts on the subject was open to her at once. she regretted the novel, and she regretted also the political discussion. soon afterwards barrington erle went away, and the husband and wife were alone together. "i am glad that your head is so much better," said he. he did not intend to be severe, but he spoke with a gravity of manner which almost amounted to severity. "yes; it is," she said, "barrington's coming in cheered me up." "i am sorry that you should have wanted cheering." "don't you know what i mean, robert?" "no; i do not think that i do, exactly." "i suppose your head is stronger. you do not get that feeling of dazed, helpless imbecility of brain, which hardly amounts to headache, but which yet--is almost as bad." "imbecility of brain may be worse than headache, but i don't think it can produce it." "well, well;--i don't know how to explain it." "headache comes, i think, always from the stomach, even when produced by nervous affections. but imbecility of the brain--" "oh, robert, i am so sorry that i used the word." "i see that it did not prevent your reading," he said, after a pause. "not such reading as that. i was up to nothing better." then there was another pause. "i won't deny that it may be a prejudice," he said, "but i confess that the use of novels in my own house on sundays is a pain to me. my mother's ideas on the subject are very strict, and i cannot think that it is bad for a son to hang on to the teaching of his mother." this he said in the most serious tone which he could command. "i don't know why i took it up," said lady laura. "simply, i believe, because it was there. i will avoid doing so for the future." "do, my dear," said the husband. "i shall be obliged and grateful if you will remember what i have said." then he left her, and she sat alone, first in the dusk and then in the dark, for two hours, doing nothing. was this to be the life which she had procured for herself by marrying mr. kennedy of loughlinter? if it was harsh and unendurable in london, what would it be in the country? chapter xxiv the willingford bull phineas left london by a night mail train on easter sunday, and found himself at the willingford bull about half an hour after midnight. lord chiltern was up and waiting for him, and supper was on the table. the willingford bull was an english inn of the old stamp, which had now, in these latter years of railway travelling, ceased to have a road business,--for there were no travellers on the road, and but little posting--but had acquired a new trade as a dépôt for hunters and hunting men. the landlord let out horses and kept hunting stables, and the house was generally filled from the beginning of november till the middle of april. then it became a desert in the summer, and no guests were seen there, till the pink coats flocked down again into the shires. "how many days do you mean to give us?" said lord chiltern, as he helped his friend to a devilled leg of turkey. "i must go back on wednesday," said phineas. "that means wednesday night. i'll tell you what we'll do. we've the cottesmore to-morrow. we'll get into tailby's country on tuesday, and fitzwilliam will be only twelve miles off on wednesday. we shall be rather short of horses." "pray don't let me put you out. i can hire something here, i suppose?" "you won't put me out at all. there'll be three between us each day, and we'll run our luck. the horses have gone on to empingham for to-morrow. tailby is rather a way off,--at somerby; but we'll manage it. if the worst comes to the worst, we can get back to stamford by rail. on wednesday we shall have everything very comfortable. they're out beyond stilton and will draw home our way. i've planned it all out. i've a trap with a fast stepper, and if we start to-morrow at half-past nine, we shall be in plenty of time. you shall ride meg merrilies, and if she don't carry you, you may shoot her." "is she one of the pulling ones?" "she is heavy in hand if you are heavy at her, but leave her mouth alone and she'll go like flowing water. you'd better not ride more in a crowd than you can help. now what'll you drink?" they sat up half the night smoking and talking, and phineas learned more about lord chiltern then than ever he had learned before. there was brandy and water before them, but neither of them drank. lord chiltern, indeed, had a pint of beer by his side from which he sipped occasionally. "i've taken to beer," he said, "as being the best drink going. when a man hunts six days a week he can afford to drink beer. i'm on an allowance,--three pints a day. that's not too much." "and you drink nothing else?" "nothing when i'm alone,--except a little cherry-brandy when i'm out. i never cared for drink;--never in my life. i do like excitement, and have been less careful than i ought to have been as to what it has come from. i could give up drink to-morrow, without a struggle,--if it were worth my while to make up my mind to do it. and it's the same with gambling. i never do gamble now, because i've got no money; but i own i like it better than anything in the world. while you are at it, there is life in it." "you should take to politics, chiltern." "and i would have done so, but my father would not help me. never mind, we will not talk about him. how does laura get on with her husband?" "very happily, i should say." "i don't believe it," said lord chiltern. "her temper is too much like mine to allow her to be happy with such a log of wood as robert kennedy. it is such men as he who drive me out of the pale of decent life. if that is decency, i'd sooner be indecent. you mark my words. they'll come to grief. she'll never be able to stand it." "i should think she had her own way in everything," said phineas. "no, no. though he's a prig, he's a man; and she will not find it easy to drive him." "but she may bend him." "not an inch;--that is if i understand his character. i suppose you see a good deal of them?" "yes,--pretty well. i'm not there so often as i used to be in the square." "you get sick of it, i suppose. i should. do you see my father often?" "only occasionally. he is always very civil when i do see him." "he is the very pink of civility when he pleases, but the most unjust man i ever met." "i should not have thought that." "yes, he is," said the earl's son, "and all from lack of judgment to discern the truth. he makes up his mind to a thing on insufficient proof, and then nothing will turn him. he thinks well of you,--would probably believe your word on any indifferent subject without thought of a doubt; but if you were to tell him that i didn't get drunk every night of my life and spend most of my time in thrashing policemen, he would not believe you. he would smile incredulously and make you a little bow. i can see him do it." "you are too hard on him, chiltern." "he has been too hard on me, i know. is violet effingham still in grosvenor place?" "no; she's with lady baldock." "that old grandmother of evil has come to town,--has she? poor violet! when we were young together we used to have such fun about that old woman." "the old woman is an ally of mine now," said phineas. "you make allies everywhere. you know violet effingham of course?" "oh yes. i know her." "don't you think her very charming?" said lord chiltern. "exceedingly charming." "i have asked that girl to marry me three times, and i shall never ask her again. there is a point beyond which a man shouldn't go. there are many reasons why it would be a good marriage. in the first place, her money would be serviceable. then it would heal matters in our family, for my father is as prejudiced in her favour as he is against me. and i love her dearly. i've loved her all my life,--since i used to buy cakes for her. but i shall never ask her again." "i would if i were you," said phineas,--hardly knowing what it might be best for him to say. "no; i never will. but i'll tell you what. i shall get into some desperate scrape about her. of course she'll marry, and that soon. then i shall make a fool of myself. when i hear that she is engaged i shall go and quarrel with the man, and kick him,--or get kicked. all the world will turn against me, and i shall be called a wild beast." "a dog in the manger is what you should be called." "exactly;--but how is a man to help it? if you loved a girl, could you see another man take her?" phineas remembered of course that he had lately come through this ordeal. "it is as though he were to come and put his hand upon me, and wanted my own heart out of me. though i have no property in her at all, no right to her,--though she never gave me a word of encouragement, it is as though she were the most private thing in the world to me. i should be half mad, and in my madness i could not master the idea that i was being robbed. i should resent it as a personal interference." "i suppose it will come to that if you give her up yourself," said phineas. "it is no question of giving up. of course i cannot make her marry me. light another cigar, old fellow." phineas, as he lit the other cigar, remembered that he owed a certain duty in this matter to lady laura. she had commissioned him to persuade her brother that his suit with violet effingham would not be hopeless, if he could only restrain himself in his mode of conducting it. phineas was disposed to do his duty, although he felt it to be very hard that he should be called upon to be eloquent against his own interest. he had been thinking for the last quarter of an hour how he must bear himself if it might turn out that he should be the man whom lord chiltern was resolved to kick. he looked at his friend and host, and became aware that a kicking-match with such a one would not be pleasant pastime. nevertheless, he would be happy enough to be subject to lord chiltern's wrath for such a reason. he would do his duty by lord chiltern; and then, when that had been adequately done, he would, if occasion served, fight a battle for himself. "you are too sudden with her, chiltern," he said, after a pause. "what do you mean by too sudden?" said lord chiltern, almost angrily. "you frighten her by being so impetuous. you rush at her as though you wanted to conquer her by a single blow." "so i do." "you should be more gentle with her. you should give her time to find out whether she likes you or not." "she has known me all her life, and has found that out long ago. not but what you are right. i know you are right. if i were you, and had your skill in pleasing, i should drop soft words into her ear till i had caught her. but i have no gifts in that way. i am as awkward as a pig at what is called flirting. and i have an accursed pride which stands in my own light. if she were in this house this moment, and if i knew she were to be had for asking, i don't think i could bring myself to ask again. but we'll go to bed. it's half-past two, and we must be off at half-past nine, if we're to be at exton park gates at eleven." phineas, as he went up-stairs, assured himself that he had done his duty. if there ever should come to be anything between him and violet effingham, lord chiltern might quarrel with him,--might probably attempt that kicking encounter to which allusion had been made,--but nobody could justly say that he had not behaved honourably to his friend. on the next morning there was a bustle and a scurry, as there always is on such occasions, and the two men got off about ten minutes after time. but lord chiltern drove hard, and they reached the meet before the master had moved off. they had a fair day's sport with the cottesmore; and phineas, though he found that meg merrilies did require a good deal of riding, went through his day's work with credit. he had been riding since he was a child, as is the custom with all boys in munster, and had an irishman's natural aptitude for jumping. when they got back to the willingford bull he felt pleased with the day and rather proud of himself. "it wasn't fast, you know," said chiltern, "and i don't call that a stiff country. besides, meg is very handy when you've got her out of the crowd. you shall ride bonebreaker to-morrow at somerby, and you'll find that better fun." "bonebreaker? haven't i heard you say he rushes like mischief?" "well, he does rush. but, by george! you want a horse to rush in that country. when you have to go right through four or five feet of stiff green wood, like a bullet through a target, you want a little force, or you're apt to be left up a tree." "and what do you ride?" "a brute i never put my leg on yet. he was sent down to wilcox here, out of lincolnshire, because they couldn't get anybody to ride him there. they say he goes with his head up in the air, and won't look at a fence that isn't as high as his breast. but i think he'll do here. i never saw a better made beast, or one with more power. do you look at his shoulders. he's to be had for seventy pounds, and these are the sort of horses i like to buy." again they dined alone, and lord chiltern explained to phineas that he rarely associated with the men of either of the hunts in which he rode. "there is a set of fellows down here who are poison to me, and there is another set, and i am poison to them. everybody is very civil, as you see, but i have no associates. and gradually i am getting to have a reputation as though i were the devil himself. i think i shall come out next year dressed entirely in black." "are you not wrong to give way to that kind of thing?" "what the deuce am i to do? i can't make civil little speeches. when once a man gets a reputation as an ogre, it is the most difficult thing in the world to drop it. i could have a score of men here every day if i liked it,--my title would do that for me;--but they would be men i should loathe, and i should be sure to tell them so, even though i did not mean it. bonebreaker, and the new horse, and another, went on at twelve to-day. you must expect hard work to-morrow, as i daresay we shan't be home before eight." the next day's meet was in leicestershire, not far from melton, and they started early. phineas, to tell the truth of him, was rather afraid of bonebreaker, and looked forward to the probability of an accident. he had neither wife nor child, and nobody had a better right to risk his neck. "we'll put a gag on 'im," said the groom, "and you'll ride 'im in a ring,--so that you may well-nigh break his jaw; but he is a rum un, sir." "i'll do my best," said phineas. "he'll take all that," said the groom. "just let him have his own way at everything," said lord chiltern, as they moved away from the meet to pickwell gorse; "and if you'll only sit on his back, he'll carry you through as safe as a church." phineas could not help thinking that the counsels of the master and of the groom were very different. "my idea is," continued lord chiltern, "that in hunting you should always avoid a crowd. i don't think a horse is worth riding that will go in a crowd. it's just like yachting,--you should have plenty of sea-room. if you're to pull your horse up at every fence till somebody else is over, i think you'd better come out on a donkey." and so they went away to pickwell gorse. there were over two hundred men out, and phineas began to think that it might not be so easy to get out of the crowd. a crowd in a fast run no doubt quickly becomes small by degrees and beautifully less; but it is very difficult, especially for a stranger, to free himself from the rush at the first start. lord chiltern's horse plunged about so violently, as they stood on a little hill-side looking down upon the cover, that he was obliged to take him to a distance, and phineas followed him. "if he breaks down wind," said lord chiltern, "we can't be better than we are here. if he goes up wind, he must turn before long, and we shall be all right." as he spoke an old hound opened true and sharp,--an old hound whom all the pack believed,--and in a moment there was no doubt that the fox had been found. "there are not above eight or nine acres in it," said lord chiltern, "and he can't hang long. did you ever see such an uneasy brute as this in your life? but i feel certain he'll go well when he gets away." phineas was too much occupied with his own horse to think much of that on which lord chiltern was mounted. bonebreaker, the very moment that he heard the old hound's note, stretched out his head, and put his mouth upon the bit, and began to tremble in every muscle. "he's a great deal more anxious for it than you and i are," said lord chiltern. "i see they've given you that gag. but don't you ride him on it till he wants it. give him lots of room, and he'll go in the snaffle." all which caution made phineas think that any insurance office would charge very dear on his life at the present moment. the fox took two rings of the gorse, and then he went,--up wind. "it's not a vixen, i'll swear," said lord chiltern. "a vixen in cub never went away like that yet. now then, finn, my boy, keep to the right." and lord chiltern, with the horse out of lincolnshire, went away across the brow of the hill, leaving the hounds to the left, and selected, as his point of exit into the next field, a stiff rail, which, had there been an accident, must have put a very wide margin of ground between the rider and his horse. "go hard at your fences, and then you'll fall clear," he had said to phineas. i don't think, however, that he would have ridden at the rail as he did, but that there was no help for him. "the brute began in his own way, and carried on after in the same fashion all through," he said afterwards. phineas took the fence a little lower down, and what it was at which he rode he never knew. bonebreaker sailed over it, whatever it was, and he soon found himself by his friend's side. the ruck of the men were lower down than our two heroes, and there were others far away to the left, and others, again, who had been at the end of the gorse, and were now behind. our friends were not near the hounds, not within two fields of them, but the hounds were below them, and therefore could be seen. "don't be in a hurry, and they'll be round upon us," lord chiltern said. "how the deuce is one to help being in a hurry?" said phineas, who was doing his very best to ride bonebreaker with the snaffle, but had already began to feel that bonebreaker cared nothing for that weak instrument. "by george, i should like to change with you," said lord chiltern. the lincolnshire horse was going along with his head very low, boring as he galloped, but throwing his neck up at his fences, just when he ought to have kept himself steady. after this, though phineas kept near lord chiltern throughout the run, they were not again near enough to exchange words; and, indeed, they had but little breath for such purpose. lord chiltern rode still a little in advance, and phineas, knowing his friend's partiality for solitude when taking his fences, kept a little to his left. he began to find that bonebreaker knew pretty well what he was about. as for not using the gag rein, that was impossible. when a horse puts out what strength he has against a man's arm, a man must put out what strength he has against the horse's mouth. but bonebreaker was cunning, and had had a gag rein on before. he contracted his lip here, and bent out his jaw there, till he had settled it to his mind, and then went away after his own fashion. he seemed to have a passion for smashing through big, high-grown ox-fences, and by degrees his rider came to feel that if there was nothing worse coming, the fun was not bad. the fox ran up wind for a couple of miles or so, as lord chiltern had prophesied, and then turned,--not to the right, as would best have served him and phineas, but to the left,--so that they were forced to make their way through the ruck of horses before they could place themselves again. phineas found himself crossing a road, in and out of it, before he knew where he was, and for a while he lost sight of lord chiltern. but in truth he was leading now, whereas lord chiltern had led before. the two horses having been together all the morning, and on the previous day, were willing enough to remain in company, if they were allowed to do so. they both crossed the road, not very far from each other, going in and out amidst a crowd of horses, and before long were again placed well, now having the hunt on their right, whereas hitherto it had been on their left. they went over large pasture fields, and phineas began to think that as long as bonebreaker would be able to go through the thick grown-up hedges, all would be right. now and again he came to a cut fence, a fence that had been cut and laid, and these were not so pleasant. force was not sufficient for them, and they admitted of a mistake. but the horse, though he would rush at them unpleasantly, took them when they came without touching them. it might be all right yet,--unless the beast should tire with him; and then, phineas thought, a misfortune might probably occur. he remembered, as he flew over one such impediment, that he rode a stone heavier than his friend. at the end of forty-five minutes bonebreaker also might become aware of the fact. the hounds were running well in sight to their right, and phineas began to feel some of that pride which a man indulges when he becomes aware that he has taken his place comfortably, has left the squad behind, and is going well. there were men nearer the hounds than he was, but he was near enough even for ambition. there had already been enough of the run to make him sure that it would be a "good thing", and enough to make him aware also that probably it might be too good. when a run is over, men are very apt to regret the termination, who a minute or two before were anxiously longing that the hounds might pull down their game. to finish well is everything in hunting. to have led for over an hour is nothing, let the pace and country have been what they might, if you fall away during the last half mile. therefore it is that those behind hope that the fox may make this or that cover, while the forward men long to see him turned over in every field. to ride to hounds is very glorious; but to have ridden to hounds is more glorious still. they had now crossed another road, and a larger one, and had got into a somewhat closer country. the fields were not so big, and the fences were not so high. phineas got a moment to look about him, and saw lord chiltern riding without his cap. he was very red in the face, and his eyes seemed to glare, and he was tugging at his horse with all his might. but the animal seemed still to go with perfect command of strength, and phineas had too much work on his own hands to think of offering quixotic assistance to any one else. he saw some one, a farmer, as he thought, speak to lord chiltern as they rode close together; but chiltern only shook his head and pulled at his horse. there were brooks in those parts. the river eye forms itself thereabouts, or some of its tributaries do so; and these tributaries, though small as rivers, are considerable to men on one side who are called by the exigencies of the occasion to place themselves quickly on the other. phineas knew nothing of these brooks; but bonebreaker had gone gallantly over two, and now that there came a third in the way, it was to be hoped that he might go gallantly over that also. phineas, at any rate, had no power to decide otherwise. as long as the brute would go straight with him he could sit him; but he had long given up the idea of having a will of his own. indeed, till he was within twenty yards of the brook, he did not see that it was larger than the others. he looked around, and there was chiltern close to him, still fighting with his horse;--but the farmer had turned away. he thought that chiltern nodded to him, as much as to tell him to go on. on he went at any rate. the brook, when he came to it, seemed to be a huge black hole, yawning beneath him. the banks were quite steep, and just where he was to take off there was an ugly stump. it was too late to think of anything. he stuck his knees against his saddle,--and in a moment was on the other side. the brute, who had taken off a yard before the stump, knowing well the danger of striking it with his foot, came down with a grunt, and did, i think, begin to feel the weight of that extra stone. phineas, as soon as he was safe, looked back, and there was lord chiltern's horse in the very act of his spring,--higher up the rivulet, where it was even broader. at that distance phineas could see that lord chiltern was wild with rage against the beast. but whether he wished to take the leap or wished to avoid it, there was no choice left to him. the animal rushed at the brook, and in a moment the horse and horseman were lost to sight. it was well then that that extra stone should tell, as it enabled phineas to arrest his horse and to come back to his friend. the lincolnshire horse had chested the further bank, and of course had fallen back into the stream. when phineas got down he found that lord chiltern was wedged in between the horse and the bank, which was better, at any rate, than being under the horse in the water. "all right, old fellow," he said, with a smile, when he saw phineas. "you go on; it's too good to lose." but he was very pale, and seemed to be quite helpless where he lay. the horse did not move,--and never did move again. he had smashed his shoulder to pieces against a stump on the bank, and was afterwards shot on that very spot. when phineas got down he found that there was but little water where the horse lay. the depth of the stream had been on the side from which they had taken off, and the thick black mud lay within a foot of the surface, close to the bank against which lord chiltern was propped. "that's the worst one i ever was on," said lord chiltern; "but i think he's gruelled now." "are you hurt?" "well;--i fancy there is something amiss. i can't move my arms; and i catch my breath. my legs are all right if i could get away from this accursed brute." "i told you so," said the farmer, coming and looking down upon them from the bank. "i told you so, but you wouldn't be said." then he too got down, and between them both they extricated lord chiltern from his position, and got him on to the bank. "that un's a dead un," said the farmer, pointing to the horse. "so much the better," said his lordship. "give us a drop of sherry, finn." he had broken his collar-bone and three of his ribs. they got a farmer's trap from wissindine and took him into oakham. when there, he insisted on being taken on through stamford to the willingford bull before he would have his bones set,--picking up, however, a surgeon at stamford. phineas remained with him for a couple of days, losing his run with the fitzwilliams and a day at the potted peas, and became very fond of his patient as he sat by his bedside. "that was a good run, though, wasn't it?" said lord chiltern as phineas took his leave. "and, by george, phineas, you rode bonebreaker so well, that you shall have him as often as you'll come down. i don't know how it is, but you irish fellows always ride." chapter xxv mr. turnbull's carriage stops the way when phineas got back to london, a day after his time, he found that there was already a great political commotion in the metropolis. he had known that on easter monday and tuesday there was to be a gathering of the people in favour of the ballot, and that on wednesday there was to be a procession with a petition which mr. turnbull was to receive from the hands of the people on primrose hill. it had been at first intended that mr. turnbull should receive the petition at the door of westminster hall on the thursday; but he had been requested by the home secretary to put aside this intention, and he had complied with the request made to him. mr. mildmay was to move the second reading of his reform bill on that day, the preliminary steps having been taken without any special notice; but the bill of course included no clause in favour of the ballot; and this petition was the consequence of that omission. mr. turnbull had predicted evil consequences, both in the house and out of it, and was now doing the best in his power to bring about the verification of his own prophecies. phineas, who reached his lodgings late on the thursday, found that the town had been in a state of ferment for three days, that on the wednesday forty or fifty thousand persons had been collected at primrose hill, and that the police had been forced to interfere,--and that worse was expected on the friday. though mr. turnbull had yielded to the government as to receiving the petition, the crowd was resolved that they would see the petition carried into the house. it was argued that the government would have done better to have refrained from interfering as to the previously intended arrangement. it would have been easier to deal with a procession than with a mob of men gathered together without any semblance of form. mr. mildmay had been asked to postpone the second reading of his bill; but the request had come from his opponents, and he would not yield to it. he said that it would be a bad expedient to close parliament from fear of the people. phineas found at the reform club on the thursday evening that members of the house of commons were requested to enter on the friday by the door usually used by the peers, and to make their way thence to their own house. he found that his landlord, mr. bunce, had been out with the people during the entire three days;--and mrs. bunce, with a flood of tears, begged phineas to interfere as to the friday. "he's that headstrong that he'll be took if anybody's took; and they say that all westminster is to be lined with soldiers." phineas on the friday morning did have some conversation with his landlord; but his first work on reaching london was to see lord chiltern's friends, and tell them of the accident. the potted peas committee sat on the thursday, and he ought to have been there. his absence, however, was unavoidable, as he could not have left his friend's bed-side so soon after the accident. on the wednesday he had written to lady laura, and on the thursday evening he went first to portman square and then to grosvenor place. "of course he will kill himself some day," said the earl,--with a tear, however, in each eye. "i hope not, my lord. he is a magnificent horseman; but accidents of course will happen." "how many of his bones are there not broken, i wonder?" said the father. "it is useless to talk, of course. you think he is not in danger?" "certainly not." "i should fear that he would be so liable to inflammation." "the doctor says that there is none. he has been taking an enormous deal of exercise," said phineas, "and drinking no wine. all that is in his favour." "what does he drink, then?" asked the earl. "nothing. i rather think, my lord, you are mistaken a little about his habits. i don't fancy he ever drinks unless he is provoked to do it." "provoked! could anything provoke you to make a brute of yourself? but i am glad that he is in no danger. if you hear of him, let me know how he goes on." lady laura was of course full of concern. "i wanted to go down to him," she said, "but mr. kennedy thought that there was no occasion." "nor is there any;--i mean in regard to danger. he is very solitary there." "you must go to him again. mr. kennedy will not let me go unless i can say that there is danger. he seems to think that because oswald has had accidents before, it is nothing. of course i cannot leave london without his leave." "your brother makes very little of it, you know." "ah;--he would make little of anything. but if i were ill he would be in london by the first train." "kennedy would let you go if you asked him." "but he advises me not to go. he says my duty does not require it, unless oswald be in danger. don't you know, mr. finn, how hard it is for a wife not to take advice when it is so given?" this she said, within six months of her marriage, to the man who had been her husband's rival! phineas asked her whether violet had heard the news, and learned that she was still ignorant of it. "i got your letter only this morning, and i have not seen her," said lady laura. "indeed, i am so angry with her that i hardly wish to see her." thursday was lady baldock's night, and phineas went from grosvenor place to berkeley square. there he saw violet, and found that she had heard of the accident. "i am so glad to see you, mr. finn," she said. "do tell me;--is it much?" "much in inconvenience, certainly; but not much in danger." "i think laura was so unkind not to send me word! i only heard it just now. did you see it?" "i was close to him, and helped him up. the horse jumped into a river with him, and crushed him up against the bank." "how lucky that you should be there! had you jumped the river?" "yes;--almost unintentionally, for my horse was rushing so that i could not hold him. chiltern was riding a brute that no one should have ridden. no one will again." "did he destroy himself?" "he had to be killed afterwards. he broke his shoulder." "how very lucky that you should have been near him,--and, again, how lucky that you should not have been hurt yourself!" "it was not likely that we should both come to grief at the same fence." "but it might have been you. and you think there is no danger?" "none whatever,--if i may believe the doctor. his hunting is done for this year, and he will be very desolate. i shall go down again to him in a few days, and try to bring him up to town." "do;--do. if he is laid up in his father's house, his father must see him." phineas had not looked at the matter in that light; but he thought that miss effingham might probably be right. early on the next morning he saw mr. bunce, and used all his eloquence to keep that respectable member of society at home;--but in vain. "what good do you expect to do, mr. bunce?" he said, with perhaps some little tone of authority in his voice. "to carry my point," said bunce. "and what is your point?" "my present point is the ballot, as a part of the government measure." "and you expect to carry that by going out into the streets with all the roughs of london, and putting yourself in direct opposition to the authority of the magistrates? do you really believe that the ballot will become the law of the land any sooner because you incur this danger and inconvenience?" "look here, mr. finn; i don't believe the sea will become any fuller because the piddle runs into it out of the dorsetshire fields; but i do believe that the waters from all the countries is what makes the ocean. i shall help; and it's my duty to help." "it's your duty as a respectable citizen, with a wife and family, to stay at home." "if everybody with a wife and family was to say so, there'd be none there but roughs, and then where should we be? what would the government people say to us then? if every man with a wife and family was to show hisself in the streets to-night, we should have the ballot before parliament breaks up, and if none of 'em don't do it, we shall never have the ballot. ain't that so?" phineas, who intended to be honest, was not prepared to dispute the assertion on the spur of the moment. "if that's so," said bunce, triumphantly, "a man's duty's clear enough. he ought to go, though he'd two wives and families." and he went. the petition was to be presented at six o'clock, but the crowd, who collected to see it carried into westminster hall, began to form itself by noon. it was said afterwards that many of the houses in the neighbourhood of palace yard and the bridge were filled with soldiers; but if so, the men did not show themselves. in the course of the evening three or four companies of the guards in st. james's park did show themselves, and had some rough work to do, for many of the people took themselves away from westminster by that route. the police, who were very numerous in palace yard, had a hard time of it all the afternoon, and it was said afterwards that it would have been much better to have allowed the petition to have been brought up by the procession on wednesday. a procession, let it be who it will that proceeds, has in it, of its own nature something of order. but now there was no order. the petition, which was said to fill fifteen cabs,--though the absolute sheets of signatures were carried into the house by four men,--was being dragged about half the day and it certainly would have been impossible for a member to have made his way into the house through westminster hall between the hours of four and six. to effect an entrance at all they were obliged to go round at the back of the abbey, as all the spaces round st. margaret's church and canning's monument were filled with the crowd. parliament street was quite impassable at five o clock, and there was no traffic across the bridge from that hour till after eight. as the evening went on, the mob extended itself to downing street and the front of the treasury chambers, and before the night was over all the hoardings round the new government offices had been pulled down. the windows also of certain obnoxious members of parliament were broken, when those obnoxious members lived within reach. one gentleman who unfortunately held a house in richmond terrace, and who was said to have said that the ballot was the resort of cowards, fared very badly;--for his windows were not only broken, but his furniture and mirrors were destroyed by the stones that were thrown. mr. mildmay, i say, was much blamed. but after all, it may be a doubt whether the procession on wednesday might not have ended worse. mr. turnbull was heard to say afterwards that the number of people collected would have been much greater. mr. mildmay moved the second reading of his bill, and made his speech. he made his speech with the knowledge that the houses of parliament were surrounded by a mob, and i think that the fact added to its efficacy. it certainly gave him an appropriate opportunity for a display which was not difficult. his voice faltered on two or three occasions, and faltered through real feeling; but this sort of feeling, though it be real, is at the command of orators on certain occasions, and does them yeoman's service. mr. mildmay was an old man, nearly worn out in the service of his country, who was known to have been true and honest, and to have loved his country well,--though there were of course they who declared that his hand had been too weak for power, and that his services had been naught;--and on this evening his virtues were remembered. once when his voice failed him the whole house got up and cheered. the nature of a whig prime minister's speech on such an occasion will be understood by most of my readers without further indication. the bill itself had been read before, and it was understood that no objection would be made to the extent of the changes provided in it by the liberal side of the house. the opposition coming from liberal members was to be confined to the subject of the ballot. and even as yet it was not known whether mr. turnbull and his followers would vote against the second reading, or whether they would take what was given, and declare their intention of obtaining the remainder on a separate motion. the opposition of a large party of conservatives was a matter of certainty; but to this party mr. mildmay did not conceive himself bound to offer so large an amount of argument as he would have given had there been at the moment no crowd in palace yard. and he probably felt that that crowd would assist him with his old tory enemies. when, in the last words of his speech, he declared that under no circumstances would he disfigure the close of his political career by voting for the ballot,--not though the people, on whose behalf he had been fighting battles all his life, should be there in any number to coerce him,--there came another round of applause from the opposition benches, and mr. daubeny began to fear that some young horses in his team might get loose from their traces. with great dignity mr. daubeny had kept aloof from mr. turnbull and from mr. turnbull's tactics; but he was not the less alive to the fact that mr. turnbull, with his mob and his big petition, might be of considerable assistance to him in this present duel between himself and mr. mildmay. i think mr. daubeny was in the habit of looking at these contests as duels between himself and the leader on the other side of the house,--in which assistance from any quarter might be accepted if offered. mr. mildmay's speech did not occupy much over an hour, and at half-past seven mr. turnbull got up to reply. it was presumed that he would do so, and not a member left his place, though that time of the day is an interesting time, and though mr. turnbull was accustomed to be long. there soon came to be but little ground for doubting what would be the nature of mr. turnbull's vote on the second reading. "how may i dare," said he, "to accept so small a measure of reform as this with such a message from the country as is now conveyed to me through the presence of fifty thousand of my countrymen, who are at this moment demanding their measure of reform just beyond the frail walls of this chamber? the right honourable gentleman has told us that he will never be intimidated by a concourse of people. i do not know that there was any need that he should speak of intimidation. no one has accused the right honourable gentleman of political cowardice. but, as he has so said, i will follow in his footsteps. neither will i be intimidated by the large majority which this house presented the other night against the wishes of the people. i will support no great measure of reform which does not include the ballot among its clauses." and so mr. turnbull threw down the gauntlet. mr. turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the debate was adjourned till the monday. the adjournment was moved by an independent member, who, as was known, would support the government, and at once received mr. turnbull's assent. there was no great hurry with the bill, and it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside. enough had been done for glory when mr. mildmay moved the second reading, and quite enough in the way of debate,--with such an audience almost within hearing,--when mr. turnbull's speech had been made. then the house emptied itself at once. the elderly, cautious members made their exit through the peers' door. the younger men got out into the crowd through westminster hall, and were pushed about among the roughs for an hour or so. phineas, who made his way through the hall with laurence fitzgibbon, found mr. turnbull's carriage waiting at the entrance with a dozen policemen round it. "i hope he won't get home to dinner before midnight," said phineas. "he understands all about it," said laurence. "he had a good meal at three, before he left home, and you'd find sandwiches and sherry in plenty if you were to search his carriage. he knows how to remedy the costs of mob popularity." at that time poor bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the vicinity of mr. turnbull's carriage. phineas and fitzgibbon made their way out, and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into parliament street. mr. turnbull had been somewhat behind them in coming down the hall, and had not been without a sense of enjoyment in the ovation which was being given to him. there can be no doubt that he was wrong in what he was doing. that affair of the carriage was altogether wrong, and did mr. turnbull much harm for many a day afterwards. when he got outside the door, where were the twelve policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers endeavoured to shake hands with him. among them was the devoted bunce. but the policemen seemed to think that mr. turnbull was to be guarded, even from the affection of his friends, and were as careful that he should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as though he had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment. mr. turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were crowding close upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into his carriage. he said a word or two in a loud voice. "thank you, my friends. i trust you may obtain all your just demands." but he did not pause to speak. indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the policemen were manifestly in a hurry. the carriage was got away at a snail's pace;--but there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood the makings of a very pretty street row. bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero,--bunce and some other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself. the police were very determinate that there should be no such interruption to their programme for getting mr. turnbull off the scene. mr. bunce, who had his own ideas as to his right to shake hands with any gentleman at westminster hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way, and expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. now a london policeman in a political row is, i believe, the most forbearing of men. so long as he meets with no special political opposition, ordinary ill-usage does not even put him out of temper. he is paid for rough work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly. but he feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power as opposed to civil rights, and he won't stand what he calls "jaw." trip up a policeman in such a scramble, and he will take it in good spirit; but mention the words "habeas corpus," and he'll lock you up if he can. as a rule, his instincts are right; for the man who talks about "habeas corpus" in a political crowd will generally do more harm than can be effected by the tripping up of any constable. but these instincts may be the means of individual injustice. i think they were so when mr. bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner. his wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared that he'd be "took" if any one was "took." bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like himself,--decent men, who meant no harm, but who thought that as men they were bound to show their political opinions, perhaps at the expense of a little martyrdom,--and was carried into a temporary stronghold, which had been provided for the necessities of the police, under the clock-tower. "keep me, at your peril!" said bunce, indignantly. "we means it," said the sergeant who had him in custody. "i've done no ha'porth to break the law," said bunce. "you was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men, as i saw you," said the sergeant. "i've upset nobody," said bunce. "very well," rejoined the sergeant; "you can say it all before the magistrate, to-morrow." "and am i to be locked up all night?" said bunce. "i'm afraid you will," replied the sergeant. bunce, who was not by nature a very talkative man, said no more; but he swore in his heart that there should be vengeance. between eleven and twelve he was taken to the regular police-station, and from thence he was enabled to send word to his wife. "bunce has been taken," said she, with something of the tragic queen, and something also of the injured wife in the tone of her voice, as soon as phineas let himself in with the latchkey between twelve and one. and then, mingled with, and at last dominant over, those severer tones, came the voice of the loving woman whose beloved one was in trouble. "i knew how it'd be, mr. finn. didn't i? and what must we do? i don't suppose he'd had a bit to eat from the moment he went out;--and as for a drop of beer, he never thinks of it, except what i puts down for him at his meals. them nasty police always take the best. that's why i was so afeard." phineas said all that he could to comfort her, and promised to go to the police-office early in the morning and look after bunce. no serious evil would, he thought, probably come of it; but still bunce had been wrong to go. "but you might have been took yourself," argued mrs. bunce, "just as well as he." then phineas explained that he had gone forth in the execution of a public duty. "you might have been took, all the same," said mrs. bunce, "for i'm sure bunce didn't do nothing amiss." chapter xxvi "the first speech" on the following morning, which was saturday, phineas was early at the police-office at westminster looking after the interests of his landlord; but there had been a considerable number of men taken up during the row, and our friend could hardly procure that attention for mr. bunce's case to which he thought the decency of his client and his own position as a member of parliament were entitled. the men who had been taken up were taken in batches before the magistrates; but as the soldiers in the park had been maltreated, and a considerable injury had been done in the neighbourhood of downing street, there was a good deal of strong feeling against the mob, and the magistrates were disposed to be severe. if decent men chose to go out among such companions, and thereby get into trouble, decent men must take the consequences. during the saturday and sunday a very strong feeling grew up against mr. turnbull. the story of the carriage was told, and he was declared to be a turbulent demagogue, only desirous of getting popularity. and together with this feeling there arose a general verdict of "serve them right" against all who had come into contact with the police in the great turnbull row; and thus it came to pass that mr. bunce had not been liberated up to the monday morning. on the sunday mrs. bunce was in hysterics, and declared her conviction that mr. bunce would be imprisoned for life. poor phineas had an unquiet time with her on the morning of that day. in every ecstasy of her grief she threw herself into his arms, either metaphorically or materially, according to the excess of her agony at the moment, and expressed repeatedly an assured conviction that all her children would die of starvation, and that she herself would be picked up under the arches of one of the bridges. phineas, who was soft-hearted, did what he could to comfort her, and allowed himself to be worked up to strong parliamentary anger against the magistrates and police. "when they think that they have public opinion on their side, there is nothing in the way or arbitrary excess which is too great for them." this he said to barrington erle, who angered him and increased the warmth of his feeling by declaring that a little close confinement would be good for the bunces of the day. "if we don't keep the mob down, the mob will keep us down," said the whig private secretary. phineas had no opportunity of answering this, but declared to himself that barrington erle was no more a liberal at heart than was mr. daubeny. "he was born on that side of the question, and has been receiving whig wages all his life. that is the history of his politics!" on the sunday afternoon phineas went to lord brentford's in portman square, intending to say a word or two about lord chiltern, and meaning also to induce, if possible, the cabinet minister to take part with him against the magistrates,--having a hope also, in which he was not disappointed, that he might find lady laura kennedy with her father. he had come to understand that lady laura was not to be visited at her own house on sundays. so much indeed she had told him in so many words. but he had come to understand also, without any plain telling, that she rebelled in heart against this sabbath tyranny,--and that she would escape from it when escape was possible. she had now come to talk to her father about her brother, and had brought violet effingham with her. they had walked together across the park after church, and intended to walk back again. mr. kennedy did not like to have any carriage out on a sunday, and to this arrangement his wife made no objection. phineas had received a letter from the stamford surgeon, and was able to report favourably of lord chiltern. "the man says that he had better not be moved for a month," said phineas. "but that means nothing. they always say that." "will it not be best for him to remain where he is?" said the earl. "he has not a soul to speak to," said phineas. "i wish i were with him," said his sister. "that is, of course, out of the question," said the earl. "they know him at that inn, and it really seems to me best that he should stay there. i do not think he would be so much at his ease here." "it must be dreadful for a man to be confined to his room without a creature near him, except the servants," said violet. the earl frowned, but said nothing further. they all perceived that as soon as he had learned that there was no real danger as to his son's life, he was determined that this accident should not work him up to any show of tenderness. "i do so hope he will come up to london," continued violet, who was not afraid of the earl, and was determined not to be put down. "you don't know what you are talking about, my dear," said lord brentford. after this phineas found it very difficult to extract any sympathy from the earl on behalf of the men who had been locked up. he was moody and cross, and could not be induced to talk on the great subject of the day. violet effingham declared that she did not care how many bunces were locked up; nor for how long,--adding, however, a wish that mr. turnbull himself had been among the number of the prisoners. lady laura was somewhat softer than this, and consented to express pity in the case of mr. bunce himself; but phineas perceived that the pity was awarded to him and not to the sufferer. the feeling against mr. turnbull was at the present moment so strong among all the upper classes, that mr. bunce and his brethren might have been kept in durance for a week without commiseration from them. "it is very hard certainly on a man like mr. bunce," said lady laura. "why did not mr. bunce stay at home and mind his business?" said the earl. phineas spent the remainder of that day alone, and came to a resolution that on the coming occasion he certainly would speak in the house. the debate would be resumed on the monday, and he would rise to his legs on the very first moment that it became possible for him to do so. and he would do nothing towards preparing a speech;--nothing whatever. on this occasion he would trust entirely to such words as might come to him at the moment;--ay, and to such thoughts. he had before burdened his memory with preparations, and the very weight of the burden had been too much for his mind. he had feared to trust himself to speak, because he had felt that he was not capable of performing the double labour of saying his lesson by heart, and of facing the house for the first time. there should be nothing now for him to remember. his thoughts were full of his subject. he would support mr. mildmay's bill with all his eloquence, but he would implore mr. mildmay, and the home secretary, and the government generally, to abstain from animosity against the populace of london, because they desired one special boon which mr. mildmay did not think that it was his duty to give them. he hoped that ideas and words would come to him. ideas and words had been free enough with him in the old days of the dublin debating society. if they failed him now, he must give the thing up, and go back to mr. low. on the monday morning phineas was for two hours at the police-court in westminster, and at about one on that day mr. bunce was liberated. when he was brought up before the magistrate, mr. bunce spoke his mind very freely as to the usage he had received, and declared his intention of bringing an action against the sergeant who had detained him. the magistrate, of course, took the part of the police, and declared that, from the evidence of two men who were examined, bunce had certainly used such violence in the crowd as had justified his arrest. "i used no violence," said bunce. "according to your own showing, you endeavoured to make your way up to mr. turnbull's carriage," said the magistrate. "i was close to the carriage before the police even saw me," said bunce. "but you tried to force your way round to the door." "i used no force till a man had me by the collar to push me back; and i wasn't violent, not then. i told him i was doing what i had a right to do,--and it was that as made him hang on to me." "you were not doing what you had a right to do. you were assisting to create a riot," said the magistrate, with that indignation which a london magistrate should always know how to affect. phineas, however, was allowed to give evidence as to his landlord's character, and then bunce was liberated. but before he went he again swore that that should not be the last of it, and he told the magistrate that he had been ill-used. when liberated, he was joined by a dozen sympathising friends, who escorted him home, and among them were one or two literary gentlemen, employed on those excellent penny papers, the _people's banner_ and the _ballot-box_. it was their intention that mr. bunce's case should not be allowed to sleep. one of these gentlemen made a distinct offer to phineas finn of unbounded popularity during life and of immortality afterwards, if he, as a member of parliament, would take up bunce's case with vigour. phineas, not quite understanding the nature of the offer, and not as yet knowing the profession of the gentleman, gave some general reply. "you come out strong, mr. finn, and we'll see that you are properly reported. i'm on the _banner_, sir, and i'll answer for that." phineas, who had been somewhat eager in expressing his sympathy with bunce, and had not given very close attention to the gentleman who was addressing him, was still in the dark. the nature of the _banner_, which the gentleman was on, did not at once come home to him. "something ought to be done, certainly," said phineas. "we shall take it up strong," said the gentleman, "and we shall be happy to have you among us. you'll find, mr. finn, that in public life there's nothing like having a horgan to back you. what is the most you can do in the 'ouse? nothing, if you're not reported. you're speaking to the country;--ain't you? and you can't do that without a horgan, mr. finn. you come among us on the _banner_, mr. finn. you can't do better." then phineas understood the nature of the offer made to him. as they parted, the literary gentleman gave our hero his card. "mr. quintus slide." so much was printed. then, on the corner of the card was written, "_banner_ office, , fetter lane." mr. quintus slide was a young man, under thirty, not remarkable for clean linen, and who always talked of the "'ouse." but he was a well-known and not undistinguished member of a powerful class of men. he had been a reporter, and as such knew the "'ouse" well, and was a writer for the press. and, though he talked of "'ouses" and "horgans", he wrote good english with great rapidity, and was possessed of that special sort of political fervour which shows itself in a man's work rather than in his conduct. it was mr. slide's taste to be an advanced reformer, and in all his operations on behalf of the _people's banner_ he was a reformer very much advanced. no man could do an article on the people's indefeasible rights with more pronounced vigour than mr. slide. but it had never occurred to him as yet that he ought to care for anything else than the fight,--than the advantage of having a good subject on which to write slashing articles. mr. slide was an energetic but not a thoughtful man; but in his thoughts on politics, as far as they went with him, he regarded the wrongs of the people as being of infinitely greater value than their rights. it was not that he was insincere in all that he was daily saying;--but simply that he never thought about it. very early in life he had fallen among "people's friends," and an opening on the liberal press had come in his way. to be a "people's friend" suited the turn of his ambition, and he was a "people's friend." it was his business to abuse government, and to express on all occasions an opinion that as a matter of course the ruling powers were the "people's enemies." had the ruling powers ceased to be the "people's enemies," mr. slide's ground would have been taken from under his feet. but such a catastrophe was out of the question. that excellent old arrangement that had gone on since demagogues were first invented was in full vigour. there were the ruling powers and there were the people,--devils on one side and angels on the other,--and as long as a people's friend had a pen in his hand all was right. phineas, when he left the indignant bunce to go among his friends, walked to the house thinking a good deal of what mr. slide had said to him. the potted peas committee was again on, and he had intended to be in the committee room by twelve punctually: but he had been unable to leave mr. bunce in the lurch, and it was now past one. indeed, he had, from one unfortunate circumstance after another, failed hitherto in giving to the potted peas that resolute attention which the subject demanded. on the present occasion his mind was full of mr. quintus slide and the _people's banner_. after all, was there not something in mr. slide's proposition? he, phineas, had come into parliament as it were under the wing of a government pack, and his friendships, which had been very successful, had been made with ministers, and with the friends of ministers. he had made up his mind to be whig ministerial, and to look for his profession in that line. he had been specially fortified in this resolution by his dislike to the ballot,--which dislike had been the result of mr. monk's teaching. had mr. turnbull become his friend instead, it may well be that he would have liked the ballot. on such subjects men must think long, and be sure that they have thought in earnest, before they are justified in saying that their opinions are the results of their own thoughts. but now he began to reflect how far this ministerial profession would suit him. would it be much to be a lord of the treasury, subject to the dominion of mr. ratler? such lordship and such subjection would be the result of success. he told himself that he was at heart a true liberal. would it not be better for him to abandon the idea of office trammels, and go among them on the _people's banner_? a glow of enthusiasm came over him as he thought of it. but what would violet effingham say to the _people's banner_ and mr. quintus slide? and he would have liked the _banner_ better had not mr. slide talked about the 'ouse. from the committee room, in which, alas! he took no active part in reference to the potted peas, he went down to the house, and was present when the debate was resumed. not unnaturally, one speaker after another made some allusion to the row in the streets, and the work which had fallen to the lot of the magistrates. mr. turnbull had declared that he would vote against the second reading of mr. mildmay's bill, and had explained that he would do so because he could consent to no reform bill which did not include the ballot as one of its measures. the debate fashioned itself after this speech of mr. turnbull's, and turned again very much upon the ballot,--although it had been thought that the late debate had settled that question. one or two of mr. turnbull's followers declared that they also would vote against the bill,--of course, as not going far enough; and one or two gentlemen from the conservative benches extended a spoken welcome to these new colleagues. then mr. palliser got up and addressed the house for an hour, struggling hard to bring back the real subject, and to make the house understand that the ballot, whether good or bad, had been knocked on the head, and that members had no right at the present moment to consider anything but the expediency or inexpediency of so much reform as mr. mildmay presented to them in the present bill. phineas was determined to speak, and to speak on this evening if he could catch the speaker's eye. again the scene before him was going round before him; again things became dim, and again he felt his blood beating hard at his heart. but things were not so bad with him as they had been before, because he had nothing to remember. he hardly knew, indeed, what he intended to say. he had an idea that he was desirous of joining in earnest support of the measure, with a vehement protest against the injustice which had been done to the people in general, and to mr. bunce in particular. he had firmly resolved that no fear of losing favour with the government should induce him to hold his tongue as to the buncean cruelties. sooner than do so he would certainly "go among them" at the _banner_ office. he started up, wildly, when mr. palliser had completed his speech; but the speaker's eye, not unnaturally, had travelled to the other side of the house, and there was a tory of the old school upon his legs,--mr. western, the member for east barsetshire, one of the gallant few who dared to vote against sir robert peel's bill for repealing the corn laws in . mr. western spoke with a slow, ponderous, unimpressive, but very audible voice, for some twenty minutes, disdaining to make reference to mr. turnbull and his politics, but pleading against any reform, with all the old arguments. phineas did not hear a word that he said;--did not attempt to hear. he was keen in his resolution to make another attempt at the speaker's eye, and at the present moment was thinking of that, and of that only. he did not even give himself a moment's reflection as to what his own speech should be. he would dash at it and take his chance, resolved that at least he would not fail in courage. twice he was on his legs before mr. western had finished his slow harangue, and twice he was compelled to reseat himself,--thinking that he had subjected himself to ridicule. at last the member for east barset sat down, and phineas was conscious that he had lost a moment or two in presenting himself again to the speaker. he held his ground, however, though he saw that he had various rivals for the right of speech. he held his ground, and was instantly aware that he had gained his point. there was a slight pause, and as some other urgent member did not reseat himself, phineas heard the president of that august assembly call upon himself to address the house. the thing was now to be done. there he was with the house of commons at his feet,--a crowded house, bound to be his auditors as long as he should think fit to address them, and reporters by tens and twenties in the gallery ready and eager to let the country know what the young member for loughshane would say in this his maiden speech. phineas finn had sundry gifts, a powerful and pleasant voice, which he had learned to modulate, a handsome presence, and a certain natural mixture of modesty and self-reliance, which would certainly protect him from the faults of arrogance and pomposity, and which, perhaps, might carry him through the perils of his new position. and he had also the great advantage of friends in the house who were anxious that he should do well. but he had not that gift of slow blood which on the former occasion would have enabled him to remember his prepared speech, and which would now have placed all his own resources within his own reach. he began with the expression of an opinion that every true reformer ought to accept mr. mildmay's bill, even if it were accepted only as an instalment,--but before he had got through these sentences, he became painfully conscious that he was repeating his own words. he was cheered almost from the outset, and yet he knew as he went on that he was failing. he had certain arguments at his fingers' ends,--points with which he was, in truth, so familiar that he need hardly have troubled himself to arrange them for special use,--and he forgot even these. he found that he was going on with one platitude after another as to the benefit of reform, in a manner that would have shamed him six or seven years ago at a debating club. he pressed on, fearing that words would fail him altogether if he paused;--but he did in truth speak very much too fast, knocking his words together so that no reporter could properly catch them. but he had nothing to say for the bill except what hundreds had said before, and hundreds would say again. still he was cheered, and still he went on; and as he became more and more conscious of his failure there grew upon him the idea,--the dangerous hope, that he might still save himself from ignominy by the eloquence of his invective against the police. he tried it, and succeeded thoroughly in making the house understand that he was very angry,--but he succeeded in nothing else. he could not catch the words to express the thoughts of his mind. he could not explain his idea that the people out of the house had as much right to express their opinion in favour of the ballot as members in the house had to express theirs against it; and that animosity had been shown to the people by the authorities because they had so expressed their opinion. then he attempted to tell the story of mr. bunce in a light and airy way, failed, and sat down in the middle of it. again he was cheered by all around him,--cheered as a new member is usually cheered,--and in the midst of the cheer would have blown out his brains had there been a pistol there ready for such an operation. that hour with him was very bad. he did not know how to get up and go away, or how to keep his place. for some time he sat with his hat off, forgetful of his privilege of wearing it; and then put it on hurriedly, as though the fact of his not wearing it must have been observed by everybody. at last, at about two, the debate was adjourned, and then as he was slowly leaving the house, thinking how he might creep away without companionship, mr. monk took him by the arm. "are you going to walk?" said mr. monk. "yes", said phineas; "i shall walk." "then we may go together as far as pall mall. come along." phineas had no means of escape, and left the house hanging on mr. monk's arm, without a word. nor did mr. monk speak till they were out in palace yard. "it was not much amiss," said mr. monk; "but you'll do better than that yet." "mr. monk," said phineas, "i have made an ass of myself so thoroughly, that there will at any rate be this good result, that i shall never make an ass of myself again after the same fashion." "ah!--i thought you had some such feeling as that, and therefore i was determined to speak to you. you may be sure, finn, that i do not care to flatter you, and i think you ought to know that, as far as i am able, i will tell you the truth. your speech, which was certainly nothing great, was about on a par with other maiden speeches in the house of commons. you have done yourself neither good nor harm. nor was it desirable that you should. my advice to you now is, never to avoid speaking on any subject that interests you, but never to speak for above three minutes till you find yourself as much at home on your legs as you are when sitting. but do not suppose that you have made an ass of yourself,--that is, in any special degree. now, good-night." chapter xxvii phineas discussed lady laura kennedy heard two accounts of her friend's speech,--and both from men who had been present. her husband was in his place, in accordance with his constant practice, and lord brentford had been seated, perhaps unfortunately, in the peers' gallery. "and you think it was a failure?" lady laura said to her husband. "it certainly was not a success. there was nothing particular about it. there was a good deal of it you could hardly hear." after that she got the morning newspapers, and turned with great interest to the report. phineas finn had been, as it were, adopted by her as her own political offspring,--or at any rate as her political godchild. she had made promises on his behalf to various personages of high political standing,--to her father, to mr. monk, to the duke of st. bungay, and even to mr. mildmay himself. she had thoroughly intended that phineas finn should be a political success from the first; and since her marriage, she had, i think, been more intent upon it than before. perhaps there was a feeling on her part that having wronged him in one way, she would repay him in another. she had become so eager for his success,--for a while scorning to conceal her feeling,--that her husband had unconsciously begun to entertain a dislike to her eagerness. we know how quickly women arrive at an understanding of the feelings of those with whom they live; and now, on that very occasion, lady laura perceived that her husband did not take in good part her anxiety on behalf of her friend. she saw that it was so as she turned over the newspaper looking for the report of the speech. it was given in six lines, and at the end of it there was an intimation,--expressed in the shape of advice,--that the young orator had better speak more slowly if he wished to be efficacious either with the house or with the country. "he seems to have been cheered a good deal," said lady laura. "all members are cheered at their first speech," said mr. kennedy. "i've no doubt he'll do well yet," said lady laura. "very likely," said mr. kennedy. then he turned to his newspaper, and did not take his eyes off it as long as his wife remained with him. later in the day lady laura saw her father, and miss effingham was with her at the time. lord brentford said something which indicated that he had heard the debate on the previous evening, and lady laura instantly began to ask him about phineas. "the less said the better," was the earl's reply. "do you mean that it was so bad as that?" asked lady laura. "it was not very bad at first;--though indeed nobody could say it was very good. but he got himself into a mess about the police and the magistrates before he had done, and nothing but the kindly feeling always shown to a first effort saved him from being coughed down." lady laura had not a word more to say about phineas to her father; but, womanlike, she resolved that she would not abandon him. how many first failures in the world had been the precursors of ultimate success! "mildmay will lose his bill," said the earl, sorrowfully. "there does not seem to be a doubt about that." "and what will you all do?" asked lady laura. "we must go to the country, i suppose," said the earl. "what's the use? you can't have a more liberal house than you have now," said lady laura. "we may have one less liberal,--or rather less radical,--with fewer men to support mr. turnbull. i do not see what else we can do. they say that there are no less than twenty-seven men on our side of the house who will either vote with turnbull against us, or will decline to vote at all." "every one of them ought to lose his seat," said lady laura. "but what can we do? how is the queen's government to be carried on?" we all know the sad earnestness which impressed itself on the earl's brow as he asked these momentous questions. "i don't suppose that mr. turnbull can form a ministry." "with mr. daubeny as whipper-in, perhaps he might," said lady laura. "and will mr. finn lose his seat?" asked violet effingham. "most probably," said the earl. "he only got it by an accident." "you must find him a seat somewhere in england," said violet. "that might be difficult," said the earl, who then left the room. the two women remained together for some quarter of an hour before they spoke again. then lady laura said something about her brother. "if there be a dissolution, i hope oswald will stand for loughton." loughton was a borough close to saulsby, in which, as regarded its political interests, lord brentford was supposed to have considerable influence. to this violet said nothing. "it is quite time," continued lady laura, "that old mr. standish should give way. he has had the seat for twenty-five years, and has never done anything, and he seldom goes to the house now." "he is not your uncle, is he?" "no; he is papa's cousin; but he is ever so much older than papa;--nearly eighty, i believe." "would not that be just the place for mr. finn?" said violet. then lady laura became very serious. "oswald would of course have a better right to it than anybody else." "but would lord chiltern go into parliament? i have heard him declare that he would not." "if we could get papa to ask him, i think he would change his mind," said lady laura. there was again silence for a few moments, after which violet returned to the original subject of their conversation. "it would be a thousand pities that mr. finn should be turned out into the cold. don't you think so?" "i, for one, should be very sorry." "so should i,--and the more so from what lord brentford says about his not speaking well last night. i don't think that it is very much of an accomplishment for a gentleman to speak well. mr. turnbull, i suppose, speaks well; and they say that that horrid man, mr. bonteen, can talk by the hour together. i don't think that it shows a man to be clever at all. but i believe mr. finn would do it, if he set his mind to it, and i shall think it a great shame if they turn him out." "it would depend very much, i suppose, on lord tulla." "i don't know anything about lord tulla," said violet; "but i'm quite sure that he might have loughton, if we manage it properly. of course lord chiltern should have it if he wants it, but i don't think he will stand in mr. finn's way." "i'm afraid it's out of the question," said lady laura, gravely. "papa thinks so much about the borough." the reader will remember that both lord brentford and his daughter were thorough reformers! the use of a little borough of his own, however, is a convenience to a great peer. "those difficult things have always to be talked of for a long while, and then they become easy," said violet. "i believe if you were to propose to mr. kennedy to give all his property to the church missionaries and emigrate to new zealand, he'd begin to consider it seriously after a time." "i shall not try, at any rate." "because you don't want to go to new zealand;--but you might try about loughton for poor mr. finn." "violet," said lady laura, after a moment's pause;--and she spoke sharply; "violet, i believe you are in love with mr. finn." "that's just like you, laura." "i never made such an accusation against you before, or against anybody else that i can remember. but i do begin to believe that you are in love with mr. finn." "why shouldn't i be in love with him, if i like?" "i say nothing about that;--only he has not got a penny." "but i have, my dear." "and i doubt whether you have any reason for supposing that he is in love with you." "that would be my affair, my dear." "then you are in love with him?" "that is my affair also." lady laura shrugged her shoulders. "of course it is; and if you tell me to hold my tongue, of course i will do so. if you ask me whether i think it a good match, of course i must say i do not." "i don't tell you to hold your tongue, and i don't ask you what you think about the match. you are quite welcome to talk as much about me as you please;--but as to mr. phineas finn, you have no business to think anything." "i shouldn't talk to anybody but yourself." "i am growing to be quite indifferent as to what people say. lady baldock asked me the other day whether i was going to throw myself away on mr. laurence fitzgibbon." "no!" "indeed she did." "and what did you answer?" "i told her that it was not quite settled; but that as i had only spoken to him once during the last two years, and then for not more than half a minute, and as i wasn't sure whether i knew him by sight, and as i had reason to suppose he didn't know my name, there might, perhaps, be a delay of a week or two before the thing came off. then she flounced out of the room." "but what made her ask about mr. fitzgibbon?" "somebody had been hoaxing her. i am beginning to think that augusta does it for her private amusement. if so, i shall think more highly of my dear cousin than i have hitherto done. but, laura, as you have made a similar accusation against me, and as i cannot get out of it with you as i do with my aunt, i must ask you to hear my protestation. i am not in love with mr. phineas finn. heaven help me;--as far as i can tell, i am not in love with any one, and never shall be." lady laura looked pleased. "do you know," continued violet, "that i think i could be in love with mr. phineas finn, if i could be in love with anybody?" then lady laura looked displeased. "in the first place, he is a gentleman," continued violet. "then he is a man of spirit. and then he has not too much spirit;--not that kind of spirit which makes some men think that they are the finest things going. his manners are perfect;--not chesterfieldian, and yet never offensive. he never browbeats any one, and never toadies any one. he knows how to live easily with men of all ranks, without any appearance of claiming a special status for himself. if he were made archbishop of canterbury to-morrow, i believe he would settle down into the place of the first subject in the land without arrogance, and without false shame." "you are his eulogist with a vengeance." "i am his eulogist; but i am not in love with him. if he were to ask me to be his wife to-morrow, i should be distressed, and should refuse him. if he were to marry my dearest friend in the world, i should tell him to kiss me and be my brother. as to mr. phineas finn,--those are my sentiments." "what you say is very odd." "why odd?" "simply because mine are the same." "are they the same? i once thought, laura, that you did love him;--that you meant to be his wife." lady laura sat for a while without making any reply to this. she sat with her elbow on the table and with her face leaning on her hand,--thinking how far it would tend to her comfort if she spoke in true confidence. violet during the time never took her eyes from her friend's face, but remained silent as though waiting for an answer. she had been very explicit as to her feelings. would laura kennedy be equally explicit? she was too clever to forget that such plainness of speech would be, must be more difficult to lady laura than to herself. lady laura was a married woman; but she felt that her friend would have been wrong to search for secrets, unless she were ready to tell her own. it was probably some such feeling which made lady laura speak at last. "so i did, nearly--" said lady laura; "very nearly. you told me just now that you had money, and could therefore do as you pleased. i had no money, and could not do as i pleased." "and you told me also that i had no reason for thinking that he cared for me." "did i? well;--i suppose you have no reason. he did care for me. he did love me." "he told you so?" "yes;--he told me so." "and how did you answer him?" "i had that very morning become engaged to mr. kennedy. that was my answer." "and what did he say when you told him?" "i do not know. i cannot remember. but he behaved very well." "and now,--if he were to love me, you would grudge me his love?" "not for that reason,--not if i know myself. oh no! i would not be so selfish as that." "for what reason then?" "because i look upon it as written in heaven that you are to be oswald's wife." "heaven's writings then are false," said violet, getting up and walking away. in the meantime phineas was very wretched at home. when he reached his lodgings after leaving the house,--after his short conversation with mr. monk,--he tried to comfort himself with what that gentleman had said to him. for a while, while he was walking, there had been some comfort in mr. monk's words. mr. monk had much experience, and doubtless knew what he was saying,--and there might yet be hope. but all this hope faded away when phineas was in his own rooms. there came upon him, as he looked round them, an idea that he had no business to be in parliament, that he was an impostor, that he was going about the world under false pretences, and that he would never set himself aright, even unto himself, till he had gone through some terrible act of humiliation. he had been a cheat even to mr. quintus slide of the _banner_, in accepting an invitation to come among them. he had been a cheat to lady laura, in that he had induced her to think that he was fit to live with her. he was a cheat to violet effingham, in assuming that he was capable of making himself agreeable to her. he was a cheat to lord chiltern when riding his horses, and pretending to be a proper associate for a man of fortune. why,--what was his income? what his birth? what his proper position? and now he had got the reward which all cheats deserve. then he went to bed, and as he lay there, he thought of mary flood jones. had he plighted his troth to mary, and then worked like a slave under mr. low's auspices,--he would not have been a cheat. it seemed to him that he had hardly been asleep when the girl came into his room in the morning. "sir," said she, "there's that gentleman there." "what gentleman?" "the old gentleman." then phineas knew that mr. clarkson was in his sitting-room, and that he would not leave it till he had seen the owner of the room. nay,--phineas was pretty sure that mr. clarkson would come into the bedroom, if he were kept long waiting. "damn the old gentleman," said phineas in his wrath;--and the maid-servant heard him say so. in about twenty minutes he went out into the sitting-room, with his slippers on and in his dressing-gown. suffering under the circumstances of such an emergency, how is any man to go through the work of dressing and washing with proper exactness? as to the prayers which he said on that morning, i think that no question should be asked. he came out with a black cloud on his brow, and with his mind half made up to kick mr. clarkson out of the room. mr. clarkson, when he saw him, moved his chin round within his white cravat, as was a custom with him, and put his thumb and forefinger on his lips, and then shook his head. "very bad, mr. finn; very bad indeed; very bad, ain't it?" "you coming here in this way at all times in the day is very bad," said phineas. "and where would you have me go? would you like to see me down in the lobby of the house?" "to tell you the truth, mr. clarkson, i don't want to see you anywhere." "ah; yes; i daresay! and that's what you call honest, being a parliament gent! you had my money, and then you tell me you don't want to see me any more!" "i have not had your money," said phineas. "but let me tell you," continued mr. clarkson, "that i want to see you;--and shall go on seeing you till the money is paid." "i've not had any of your money," said phineas. mr. clarkson again twitched his chin about on the top of his cravat and smiled. "mr. finn," said he, showing the bill, "is that your name?" "yes, it is." "then i want my money." "i have no money to give you." "do be punctual now. why ain't you punctual? i'd do anything for you if you were punctual. i would indeed." mr. clarkson, as he said this, sat down in the chair which had been placed for our hero's breakfast, and cutting a slice off the loaf, began to butter it with great composure. "mr. clarkson," said phineas, "i cannot ask you to breakfast here. i am engaged." "i'll just take a bit of bread and butter all the same," said clarkson. "where do you get your butter? now i could tell you a woman who'd give it you cheaper and a deal better than this. this is all lard. shall i send her to you?" "no," said phineas. there was no tea ready, and therefore mr. clarkson emptied the milk into a cup and drank it. "after this," said phineas, "i must beg, mr. clarkson, that you will never come to my room any more. i shall not be at home to you." "the lobby of the house is the same thing to me," said mr. clarkson. "they know me there well. i wish you'd be punctual, and then we'd be the best of friends." after that mr. clarkson, having finished his bread and butter, took his leave. chapter xxviii the second reading is carried the debate on the bill was prolonged during the whole of that week. lord brentford, who loved his seat in the cabinet and the glory of being a minister, better even than he loved his borough, had taken a gloomy estimate when he spoke of twenty-seven defaulters, and of the bill as certainly lost. men who were better able than he to make estimates,--the bonteens and fitzgibbons on each side of the house, and above all, the ratlers and robys, produced lists from day to day which varied now by three names in one direction, then by two in another, and which fluctuated at last by units only. they all concurred in declaring that it would be a very near division. a great effort was made to close the debate on the friday, but it failed, and the full tide of speech was carried on till the following monday. on that morning phineas heard mr. ratler declare at the club that, as far as his judgment went, the division at that moment was a fair subject for a bet. "there are two men doubtful in the house," said ratler, "and if one votes on one side and one on the other, or if neither votes at all, it will be a tie." mr. roby, however, the whip on the other side, was quite sure that one at least of these gentlemen would go into his lobby, and that the other would not go into mr. ratler's lobby. i am inclined to think that the town was generally inclined to put more confidence in the accuracy of mr. roby than in that of mr. ratler; and among betting men there certainly was a point given by those who backed the conservatives. the odds, however, were lost, for on the division the numbers in the two lobbies were equal, and the speaker gave his casting vote in favour of the government. the bill was read a second time, and was lost, as a matter of course, in reference to any subsequent action. mr. roby declared that even mr. mildmay could not go on with nothing but the speaker's vote to support him. mr. mildmay had no doubt felt that he could not go on with his bill from the moment in which mr. turnbull had declared his opposition; but he could not with propriety withdraw it in deference to mr. turnbull's opinion. during the week phineas had had his hands sufficiently full. twice he had gone to the potted peas inquiry; but he had been at the office of the _people's banner_ more often than that. bunce had been very resolute in his determination to bring an action against the police for false imprisonment, even though he spent every shilling of his savings in doing so. and when his wife, in the presence of phineas, begged that bygones might be bygones, reminding him that spilt milk could not be recovered, he called her a mean-spirited woman. then mrs. bunce wept a flood of tears, and told her favourite lodger that for her all comfort in this world was over. "drat the reformers, i say. and i wish there was no parliament; so i do. what's the use of all the voting, when it means nothing but dry bread and cross words?" phineas by no means encouraged his landlord in his litigious spirit, advising him rather to keep his money in his pocket, and leave the fighting of the battle to the columns of the _banner_,--which would fight it, at any rate, with economy. but bunce, though he delighted in the _banner_, and showed an unfortunate readiness to sit at the feet of mr. quintus slide, would have his action at law;--in which resolution mr. slide did, i fear, encourage him behind the back of his better friend, phineas finn. phineas went with bunce to mr. low's chambers,--for mr. low had in some way become acquainted with the law-stationer's journeyman,--and there some very good advice was given. "have you asked yourself what is your object, mr. bunce?" said mr. low. mr. bunce declared he had asked himself that question, and had answered it. his object was redress. "in the shape of compensation to yourself," suggested mr. low. no; mr. bunce would not admit that he personally required any compensation. the redress wanted was punishment to the man. "is it for vengeance?" asked mr. low. no; it was not for vengeance, mr. bunce declared. "it ought not to be," continued mr. low; "because, though you think that the man exceeded in his duty, you must feel that he was doing so through no personal ill-will to yourself." "what i want is, to have the fellows kept in their proper places," said mr. bunce. "exactly;--and therefore these things, when they occur, are mentioned in the press and in parliament,--and the attention of a secretary of state is called to them. thank god, we don't have very much of that kind of thing in england." "maybe we shall have more if we don't look to it," said bunce stoutly. "we always are looking to it," said mr. low;--"looking to it very carefully. but i don't think anything is to be done in that way by indictment against a single man, whose conduct has been already approved by the magistrates. if you want notoriety, mr. bunce, and don't mind what you pay for it; or have got anybody else to pay for it; then indeed--" "there ain't nobody to pay for it," said bunce, waxing angry. "then i certainly should not pay for it myself if i were you," said mr. low. but bunce was not to be counselled out of his intention. when he was out in the square with phineas he expressed great anger against mr. low. "he don't know what patriotism means," said the law scrivener. "and then he talks to me about notoriety! it has always been the same way with 'em. if a man shows a spark of public feeling, it's all hambition. i don't want no notoriety. i wants to earn my bread peaceable, and to be let alone when i'm about my own business. i pays rates for the police to look after rogues, not to haul folks about and lock 'em up for days and nights, who is doing what they has a legal right to do." after that, bunce went to his attorney, to the great detriment of the business at the stationer's shop, and phineas visited the office of the _people's banner_. there he wrote a leading article about bunce's case, for which he was in due time to be paid a guinea. after all, the _people's banner_ might do more for him in this way than ever would be done by parliament. mr. slide, however, and another gentleman at the _banner_ office, much older than mr. slide, who announced himself as the actual editor, were anxious that phineas should rid himself of his heterodox political resolutions about the ballot. it was not that they cared much about his own opinions; and when phineas attempted to argue with the editor on the merits of the ballot, the editor put him down very shortly. "we go in for it, mr. finn," he said. if mr. finn would go in for it too, the editor seemed to think that mr. finn might make himself very useful at the _banner_ office. phineas stoutly maintained that this was impossible,--and was therefore driven to confine his articles in the service of the people to those open subjects on which his opinions agreed with those of the _people's banner_. this was his second article, and the editor seemed to think that, backward as he was about the ballot, he was too useful an aid to be thrown aside. a member of parliament is not now all that he was once, but still there is a prestige in the letters affixed to his name which makes him loom larger in the eyes of the world than other men. get into parliament, if it be but for the borough of loughshane, and the _people's banners_ all round will be glad of your assistance, as will also companies limited and unlimited to a very marvellous extent. phineas wrote his article and promised to look in again, and so they went on. mr. quintus slide continued to assure him that a "horgan" was indispensable to him, and phineas began to accommodate his ears to the sound which had at first been so disagreeable. he found that his acquaintance, mr. slide, had ideas of his own as to getting into the 'ouse at some future time. "i always look upon the 'ouse as my oyster, and 'ere's my sword," said mr. slide, brandishing an old quill pen. "and i feel that if once there i could get along. i do indeed. what is it a man wants? it's only pluck,--that he shouldn't funk because a 'undred other men are looking at him." then phineas asked him whether he had any idea of a constituency, to which mr. slide replied that he had no absolutely formed intention. many boroughs, however, would doubtless be set free from aristocratic influence by the redistribution of seats which must take place, as mr. slide declared, at any rate in the next session. then he named the borough of loughton; and phineas finn, thinking of saulsby, thinking of the earl, thinking of lady laura, and thinking of violet, walked away disgusted. would it not be better that the quiet town, clustering close round the walls of saulsby, should remain as it was, than that it should be polluted by the presence of mr. quintus slide? on the last day of the debate, at a few moments before four o'clock, phineas encountered another terrible misfortune. he had been at the potted peas since twelve, and had on this occasion targed two or three commissariat officers very tightly with questions respecting cabbages and potatoes, and had asked whether the officers on board a certain ship did not always eat preserved asparagus while the men had not even a bean. i fear that he had been put up to this business by mr. quintus slide, and that he made himself nasty. there was, however, so much nastiness of the kind going, that his little effort made no great difference. the conservative members of the committee, on whose side of the house the inquiry had originated, did not scruple to lay all manner of charges to officers whom, were they themselves in power, they would be bound to support and would support with all their energies. about a quarter before four the members of the committee had dismissed their last witness for the day, being desirous of not losing their chance of seats on so important an occasion, and hurried down into the lobby,--so that they might enter the house before prayers. phineas here was button-holed by barrington erle, who said something to him as to the approaching division. they were standing in front of the door of the house, almost in the middle of the lobby, with a crowd of members around them,--on a spot which, as frequenters know, is hallowed ground, and must not be trodden by strangers. he was in the act of answering erle, when he was touched on the arm, and on turning round, saw mr. clarkson. "about that little bill, mr. finn," said the horrible man, turning his chin round over his white cravat. "they always tell me at your lodgings that you ain't at home." by this time a policeman was explaining to mr. clarkson with gentle violence that he must not stand there,--that he must go aside into one of the corners. "i know all that," said mr. clarkson, retreating. "of course i do. but what is a man to do when a gent won't see him at home?" mr. clarkson stood aside in his corner quietly, giving the policeman no occasion for further action against him; but in retreating he spoke loud, and there was a lull of voices around, and twenty members at least had heard what had been said. phineas finn no doubt had his privilege, but mr. clarkson was determined that the privilege should avail him as little as possible. it was very hard. the real offender, the lord of the treasury, the peer's son, with a thousand a year paid by the country was not treated with this cruel persecution. phineas had in truth never taken a farthing from any one but his father; and though doubtless he owed something at this moment, he had no creditor of his own that was even angry with him. as the world goes he was a clear man,--but for this debt of his friend fitzgibbon. he left barrington erle in the lobby, and hurried into the house, blushing up to the eyes. he looked for fitzgibbon in his place, but the lord of the treasury was not as yet there. doubtless he would be there for the division, and phineas resolved that he would speak a bit of his mind before he let his friend out of his sight. there were some great speeches made on that evening. mr. gresham delivered an oration of which men said that it would be known in england as long as there were any words remaining of english eloquence. in it he taunted mr. turnbull with being a recreant to the people, of whom he called himself so often the champion. but mr. turnbull was not in the least moved. mr. gresham knew well enough that mr. turnbull was not to be moved by any words;--but the words were not the less telling to the house and to the country. men, who heard it, said that mr. gresham forgot himself in that speech, forgot his party, forgot his strategy, forgot his long-drawn schemes,--even his love of applause, and thought only of his cause. mr. daubeny replied to him with equal genius, and with equal skill,--if not with equal heart. mr. gresham had asked for the approbation of all present and of all future reformers. mr. daubeny denied him both,--the one because he would not succeed, and the other because he would not have deserved success. then mr. mildmay made his reply, getting up at about three o'clock, and uttered a prayer,--a futile prayer,--that this his last work on behalf of his countrymen might be successful. his bill was read a second time, as i have said before, in obedience to the casting vote of the speaker,--but a majority such as that was tantamount to a defeat. there was, of course, on that night no declaration as to what ministers would do. without a meeting of the cabinet, and without some further consideration, though each might know that the bill would be withdrawn, they could not say in what way they would act. but late as was the hour, there were many words on the subject before members were in their beds. mr. turnbull and mr. monk left the house together, and perhaps no two gentlemen in it had in former sessions been more in the habit of walking home arm-in-arm and discussing what each had heard and what each had said in that assembly. latterly these two men had gone strangely asunder in their paths,--very strangely for men who had for years walked so closely together. and this separation had been marked by violent words spoken against each other,--by violent words, at least, spoken against him in office by the one who had never contaminated his hands by the queen's shilling. and yet, on such an occasion as this, they were able to walk away from the house arm-in-arm, and did not fly at each other's throat by the way. "singular enough, is it not," said mr. turnbull, "that the thing should have been so close?" "very odd," said mr. monk; "but men have said that it would be so all the week." "gresham was very fine," said mr. turnbull. "very fine, indeed. i never have heard anything like it before." "daubeny was very powerful too," said mr. turnbull. "yes;--no doubt. the occasion was great, and he answered to the spur. but gresham's was the speech of the debate." "well;--yes; perhaps it was," said mr. turnbull, who was thinking of his own flight the other night, and who among his special friends had been much praised for what he had then done. but of course he made no allusion to his own doings,--or to those of mr. monk. in this way they conversed for some twenty minutes, till they parted; but neither of them interrogated the other as to what either might be called upon to do in consequence of the division which had just been effected. they might still be intimate friends, but the days of confidence between them were passed. phineas had seen laurence fitzgibbon enter the house,--which he did quite late in the night, so as to be in time for the division. no doubt he had dined in the house, and had been all the evening in the library,--or in the smoking-room. when mr. mildmay was on his legs making his reply, fitzgibbon had sauntered in, not choosing to wait till he might be rung up by the bell at the last moment. phineas was near him as they passed by the tellers, near him in the lobby, and near him again as they all passed back into the house. but at the last moment he thought that he would miss his prey. in the crowd as they left the house he failed to get his hand upon his friend's shoulder. but he hurried down the members' passage, and just at the gate leading out into westminster hall he overtook fitzgibbon walking arm-in-arm with barrington erle. "laurence," he said, taking hold of his countryman's arm with a decided grasp, "i want to speak to you for a moment, if you please." "speak away," said laurence. then phineas, looking up into his face, knew very well that he had been--what the world calls, dining. phineas remembered at the moment that barrington erle had been close to him when the odious money-lender had touched his arm and made his inquiry about that "little bill." he much wished to make erle understand that the debt was not his own,--that he was not in the hands of usurers in reference to his own concerns. but there was a feeling within him that he still,--even still,--owed something to his friendship to fitzgibbon. "just give me your arm, and come on with me for a minute," said phineas. "erle will excuse us." "oh, blazes!" said laurence, "what is it you're after? i ain't good at private conferences at three in the morning. we're all out, and isn't that enough for ye?" "i have been dreadfully annoyed to-night," said phineas, "and i wished to speak to you about it." "bedad, finn, my boy, and there are a good many of us are annoyed;--eh, barrington?" phineas perceived clearly that though fitzgibbon had been dining, there was as much of cunning in all this as of wine, and he was determined not to submit to such unlimited ill-usage. "my annoyance comes from your friend, mr. clarkson, who had the impudence to address me in the lobby of the house." "and serve you right, too, finn, my boy. why the devil did you sport your oak to him? he has told me all about it. there ain't such a patient little fellow as clarkson anywhere, if you'll only let him have his own way. he'll look in, as he calls it, three times a week for a whole season, and do nothing further. of course he don't like to be locked out." "is that the gentleman with whom the police interfered in the lobby?" erle inquired. "a confounded bill discounter to whom our friend here has introduced me,--for his own purposes," said phineas. "a very gentleman-like fellow," said laurence. "barrington knows him, i daresay. look here, finn, my boy, take my advice. ask him to breakfast, and let him understand that the house will always be open to him." after this laurence fitzgibbon and barrington erle got into a cab together, and were driven away. chapter xxix a cabinet meeting and now will the muses assist me while i sing an altogether new song? on the tuesday the cabinet met at the first lord's official residence in downing street, and i will attempt to describe what, according to the bewildered brain of a poor fictionist, was said or might have been said, what was done or might have been done, on so august an occasion. the poor fictionist very frequently finds himself to have been wrong in his description of things in general, and is told so, roughly by the critics, and tenderly by the friends of his bosom. he is moved to tell of things of which he omits to learn the nature before he tells of them--as should be done by a strictly honest fictionist. he catches salmon in october; or shoots his partridges in march. his dahlias bloom in june, and his birds sing in the autumn. he opens the opera-houses before easter, and makes parliament sit on a wednesday evening. and then those terrible meshes of the law! how is a fictionist, in these excited days, to create the needed biting interest without legal difficulties; and how again is he to steer his little bark clear of so many rocks,--when the rocks and the shoals have been purposely arranged to make the taking of a pilot on board a necessity? as to those law meshes, a benevolent pilot will, indeed, now and again give a poor fictionist a helping hand,--not used, however, generally, with much discretion. but from whom is any assistance to come in the august matter of a cabinet assembly? there can be no such assistance. no man can tell aught but they who will tell nothing. but then, again, there is this safety, that let the story be ever so mistold,--let the fiction be ever so far removed from the truth, no critic short of a cabinet minister himself can convict the narrator of error. it was a large dingy room, covered with a turkey carpet, and containing a dark polished mahogany dinner-table, on very heavy carved legs, which an old messenger was preparing at two o'clock in the day for the use of her majesty's ministers. the table would have been large enough for fourteen guests, and along the side further from the fire, there were placed some six heavy chairs, good comfortable chairs, stuffed at the back as well as the seat,--but on the side nearer to the fire the chairs were placed irregularly; and there were four armchairs,--two on one side and two on the other. there were four windows to the room, which looked on to st. james's park, and the curtains of the windows were dark and heavy,--as became the gravity of the purposes to which that chamber was appropriated. in old days it had been the dining-room of one prime minister after another. to pitt it had been the abode of his own familiar prandial penates, and lord liverpool had been dull there among his dull friends for long year after year. the ministers of the present day find it more convenient to live in private homes, and, indeed, not unfrequently carry their cabinets with them. but, under mr. mildmay's rule, the meetings were generally held in the old room at the official residence. thrice did the aged messenger move each armchair, now a little this way and now a little that, and then look at them as though something of the tendency of the coming meeting might depend on the comfort of its leading members. if mr. mildmay should find himself to be quite comfortable, so that he could hear what was said without a struggle to his ear, and see his colleagues' faces clearly, and feel the fire without burning his shins, it might be possible that he would not insist upon resigning. if this were so, how important was the work now confided to the hands of that aged messenger! when his anxious eyes had glanced round the room some half a dozen times, when he had touched each curtain, laid his hand upon every chair, and dusted certain papers which lay upon a side-table,--and which had been lying there for two years, and at which no one ever looked or would look,--he gently crept away and ensconced himself in an easy chair not far from the door of the chamber. for it might be necessary to stop the attempt of a rash intruder on those secret counsels. very shortly there was heard the ring of various voices in the passages,--the voices of men speaking pleasantly, the voices of men with whom it seemed, from their tone, that things were doing well in the world. and then a cluster of four or five gentlemen entered the room. at first sight they seemed to be as ordinary gentlemen as you shall meet anywhere about pall mall on an afternoon. there was nothing about their outward appearance of the august wiggery of statecraft, nothing of the ponderous dignity of ministerial position. that little man in the square-cut coat,--we may almost call it a shooting-coat,--swinging an umbrella and wearing no gloves, is no less a person than the lord chancellor,--lord weazeling,--who made a hundred thousand pounds as attorney-general, and is supposed to be the best lawyer of his age. he is fifty, but he looks to be hardly over forty, and one might take him to be, from his appearance,--perhaps a clerk in the war office, well-to-do, and popular among his brother-clerks. immediately with him is sir harry coldfoot, also a lawyer by profession, though he has never practised. he has been in the house for nearly thirty years, and is now at the home office. he is a stout, healthy, grey-haired gentleman, who certainly does not wear the cares of office on his face. perhaps, however, no minister gets more bullied than he by the press, and men say that he will be very willing to give up to some political enemy the control of the police, and the onerous duty of judging in all criminal appeals. behind these come our friend mr. monk, young lord cantrip from the colonies next door, than whom no smarter young peer now does honour to our hereditary legislature, and sir marmaduke morecombe, the chancellor of the duchy of lancaster. why sir marmaduke has always been placed in mr. mildmay's cabinets nobody ever knew. as chancellor of the duchy he has nothing to do,--and were there anything, he would not do it. he rarely speaks in the house, and then does not speak well. he is a handsome man, or would be but for an assumption of grandeur in the carriage of his eyes, giving to his face a character of pomposity which he himself well deserves. he was in the guards when young, and has been in parliament since he ceased to be young. it must be supposed that mr. mildmay has found something in him, for he has been included in three successive liberal cabinets. he has probably the virtue of being true to mr. mildmay, and of being duly submissive to one whom he recognises as his superior. within two minutes afterwards the duke followed, with plantagenet palliser. the duke, as all the world knows, was the duke of st. bungay, the very front and head of the aristocratic old whigs of the country,--a man who has been thrice spoken of as prime minister, and who really might have filled the office had he not known himself to be unfit for it. the duke has been consulted as to the making of cabinets for the last five-and-thirty years, and is even now not an old man in appearance;--a fussy, popular, clever, conscientious man, whose digestion has been too good to make politics a burden to him, but who has thought seriously about his country, and is one who will be sure to leave memoirs behind him. he was born in the semi-purple of ministerial influences, and men say of him that he is honester than his uncle, who was canning's friend, but not so great a man as his grandfather, with whom fox once quarrelled, and whom burke loved. plantagenet palliser, himself the heir to a dukedom, was the young chancellor of the exchequer, of whom some statesmen thought much as the rising star of the age. if industry, rectitude of purpose, and a certain clearness of intellect may prevail, planty pall, as he is familiarly called, may become a great minister. then came viscount thrift by himself;--the first lord of the admiralty, with the whole weight of a new iron-clad fleet upon his shoulders. he has undertaken the herculean task of cleansing the dockyards,--and with it the lesser work of keeping afloat a navy that may be esteemed by his countrymen to be the best in the world. and he thinks that he will do both, if only mr. mildmay will not resign;--an industrious, honest, self-denying nobleman, who works without ceasing from morn to night, and who hopes to rise in time to high things,--to the translating of homer, perhaps, and the wearing of the garter. close behind him there was a ruck of ministers, with the much-honoured grey-haired old premier in the midst of them. there was mr. gresham, the foreign minister, said to be the greatest orator in europe, on whose shoulders it was thought that the mantle of mr. mildmay would fall,--to be worn, however, quite otherwise than mr. mildmay had worn it. for mr. gresham is a man with no feelings for the past, void of historical association, hardly with memories,--living altogether for the future which he is anxious to fashion anew out of the vigour of his own brain. whereas, with mr. mildmay, even his love of reform is an inherited passion for an old-world liberalism. and there was with them mr. legge wilson, the brother of a peer, secretary at war, a great scholar and a polished gentleman, very proud of his position as a cabinet minister, but conscious that he has hardly earned it by political work. and lord plinlimmon is with them, the comptroller of india,--of all working lords the most jaunty, the most pleasant, and the most popular, very good at taking chairs at dinners, and making becoming speeches at the shortest notice, a man apparently very free and open in his ways of life,--but cautious enough in truth as to every step, knowing well how hard it is to climb and how easy to fall. mr. mildmay entered the room leaning on lord plinlimmon's arm, and when he made his way up among the armchairs upon the rug before the fire, the others clustered around him with cheering looks and kindly questions. then came the privy seal, our old friend lord brentford, last,--and i would say least, but that the words of no councillor could go for less in such an assemblage than will those of sir marmaduke morecombe, the chancellor of the duchy of lancaster. mr. mildmay was soon seated in one of the armchairs, while lord plinlimmon leaned against the table close at his elbow. mr. gresham stood upright at the corner of the chimney-piece furthest from mr. mildmay, and mr. palliser at that nearest to him. the duke took the armchair close at mr. mildmay's left hand. lord plinlimmon was, as i have said, leaning against the table, but the lord chancellor, who was next to him, sat upon it. viscount thrift and mr. monk occupied chairs on the further side of the table, near to mr. mildmay's end, and mr. legge wilson placed himself at the head of the table, thus joining them as it were into a body. the home secretary stood before the lord chancellor screening him from the fire, and the chancellor of the duchy, after waiting for a few minutes as though in doubt, took one of the vacant armchairs. the young lord from the colonies stood a little behind the shoulders of his great friend from the foreign office; and the privy seal, after moving about for a while uneasily, took a chair behind the chancellor of the duchy. one armchair was thus left vacant, but there was no other comer. "it is not so bad as i thought it would be," said the duke, speaking aloud, but nevertheless addressing himself specially to his chief. "it was bad enough," said mr. mildmay, laughing. "bad enough indeed," said sir marmaduke morecombe, without any laughter. "and such a good bill lost," said lord plinlimmon. "the worst of these failures is, that the same identical bill can never be brought in again." "so that if the lost bill was best, the bill that will not be lost can only be second best," said the lord chancellor. "i certainly did think that after the debate before easter we should not have come to shipwreck about the ballot," said mr. mildmay. "it was brewing for us all along," said mr. gresham, who then with a gesture of his hand and a pressure of his lips withheld words which he was nearly uttering, and which would not, probably, have been complimentary to mr. turnbull. as it was, he turned half round and said something to lord cantrip which was not audible to any one else in the room. it was worthy of note, however, that mr. turnbull's name was not once mentioned aloud at that meeting. "i am afraid it was brewing all along," said sir marmaduke morecombe gravely. "well, gentlemen, we must take it as we get it," said mr. mildmay, still smiling. "and now we must consider what we shall do at once." then he paused as though expecting that counsel would come to him first from one colleague and then from another. but no such counsel came, and probably mr. mildmay did not in the least expect that it would come. "we cannot stay where we are, of course," said the duke. the duke was privileged to say as much as that. but though every man in the room knew that it must be so, no one but the duke would have said it, before mr. mildmay had spoken plainly himself. "no," said mr. mildmay; "i suppose that we can hardly stay where we are. probably none of us wish it, gentlemen." then he looked round upon his colleagues, and there came a sort of an assent, though there were no spoken words. the sound from sir marmaduke morecombe was louder than that from the others;--but yet from him it was no more than an attesting grunt. "we have two things to consider," continued mr. mildmay,--and though he spoke in a very low voice, every word was heard by all present,--"two things chiefly, that is; the work of the country and the queen's comfort. i propose to see her majesty this afternoon at five,--that is, in something less than two hours' time, and i hope to be able to tell the house by seven what has taken place between her majesty and me. my friend, his grace, will do as much in the house of lords. if you agree with me, gentlemen, i will explain to the queen that it is not for the welfare of the country that we should retain our places, and i will place your resignations and my own in her majesty's hands." "you will advise her majesty to send for lord de terrier," said mr. gresham. "certainly;--there will be no other course open to me." "or to her," said mr. gresham. to this remark from the rising minister of the day, no word of reply was made; but of those present in the room three or four of the most experienced servants of the crown felt that mr. gresham had been imprudent. the duke, who had. ever been afraid of mr. gresham, told mr. palliser afterwards that such an observation should not have been made; and sir harry coldfoot pondered upon it uneasily, and sir marmaduke morecombe asked mr. mildmay what he thought about it. "times change so much, and with the times the feelings of men," said mr. mildmay. but i doubt whether sir marmaduke quite understood him. there was silence in the room for a moment or two after mr. gresham had spoken, and then mr. mildmay again addressed his friends. "of course it may be possible that my lord de terrier may foresee difficulties, or may find difficulties which will oblige him, either at once, or after an attempt has been made, to decline the task which her majesty will probably commit to him. all of us, no doubt, know that the arrangement of a government is not the most easy task in the world; and that it is not made the more easy by an absence of a majority in the house of commons." "he would dissolve, i presume," said the duke. "i should say so," continued mr. mildmay. "but it may not improbably come to pass that her majesty will feel herself obliged to send again for some one or two of us, that we may tender to her majesty the advice which we owe to her;--for me, for instance, or for my friend the duke. in such a matter she would be much guided probably by what lord de terrier might have suggested to her. should this be so, and should i be consulted, my present feeling is that we should resume our offices so that the necessary business of the session should be completed, and that we should then dissolve parliament, and thus ascertain the opinion of the country. in such case, however, we should of course meet again." "i quite think that the course proposed by mr. mildmay will be the best," said the duke, who had no doubt already discussed the matter with his friend the prime minister in private. no one else said a word either of argument or disagreement, and the cabinet council was broken up. the old messenger, who had been asleep in his chair, stood up and bowed as the ministers walked by him, and then went in and rearranged the chairs. "he has as much idea of giving up as you or i have," said lord cantrip to his friend mr. gresham, as they walked arm-in-arm together from the treasury chambers across st. james's park towards the clubs. "i am not sure that he is not right," said mr. gresham. "do you mean for himself or for the country?" asked lord cantrip. "for his future fame. they who have abdicated and have clung to their abdication have always lost by it. cincinnatus was brought back again, and charles v. is felt to have been foolish. the peaches of retired ministers of which we hear so often have generally been cultivated in a constrained seclusion;--or at least the world so believes." they were talking probably of mr. mildmay, as to whom some of his colleagues had thought it probable, knowing that he would now resign, that he would have to-day declared his intention of laying aside for ever the cares of office. mr. monk walked home alone, and as he went there was something of a feeling of disappointment at heart, which made him ask himself whether mr. turnbull might not have been right in rebuking him for joining the government. but this, i think, was in no way due to mr. mildmay's resignation, but rather to a conviction on mr. monk's part that that he had contributed but little to his country's welfare by sitting in mr. mildmay's cabinet. chapter xxx mr. kennedy's luck after the holding of that cabinet council of which the author has dared to attempt a slight sketch in the last chapter, there were various visits made to the queen, first by mr. mildmay, and then by lord de terrier, afterwards by mr. mildmay and the duke together, and then again by lord de terrier; and there were various explanations made to parliament in each house, and rivals were very courteous to each other, promising assistance;--and at the end of it the old men held their seats. the only change made was effected by the retirement of sir marmaduke morecombe, who was raised to the peerage, and by the selection of--mr. kennedy to fill his place in the cabinet. mr. kennedy during the late debate had made one of those speeches, few and far between, by which he had created for himself a parliamentary reputation; but, nevertheless, all men expressed their great surprise, and no one could quite understand why mr. kennedy had been made a cabinet minister. "it is impossible to say whether he is pleased or not," said lady laura, speaking of him to phineas. "i am pleased, of course." "his ambition must be gratified," said phineas. "it would be, if he had any," said lady laura. "i do not believe in a man lacking ambition." "it is hard to say. there are men who by no means wear their hearts upon their sleeves, and my husband is one of them. he told me that it would be unbecoming in him to refuse, and that was all he said to me about it." the old men held their seats, but they did so as it were only upon further trial. mr. mildmay took the course which he had indicated to his colleagues at the cabinet meeting. before all the explanations and journeyings were completed, april was over, and the much-needed whitsuntide holidays were coming on. but little of the routine work of the session had been done; and, as mr. mildmay told the house more than once, the country would suffer were the queen to dissolve parliament at this period of the year. the old ministers would go on with the business of the country, lord de terrier with his followers having declined to take affairs into their hands; and at the close of the session, which should be made as short as possible, writs should be issued for new elections. this was mr. mildmay's programme, and it was one of which no one dared to complain very loudly. mr. turnbull, indeed, did speak a word of caution. he told mr. mildmay that he had lost his bill, good in other respects, because he had refused to introduce the ballot into his measure. let him promise to be wiser for the future, and to obey the manifested wishes of the country, and then all would be well with him. in answer to this, mr. mildmay declared that to the best of his power of reading the country, his countrymen had manifested no such wish; and that if they did so, if by the fresh election it should be shown that the ballot was in truth desired, he would at once leave the execution of their wishes to abler and younger hands. mr. turnbull expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the minister's answers, and said that the coming election would show whether he or mr. mildmay were right. many men, and among them some of his colleagues, thought that mr. mildmay had been imprudent. "no man ought ever to pledge himself to anything," said sir harry coldfoot to the duke;--"that is, to anything unnecessary." the duke, who was very true to mr. mildmay, made no reply to this, but even he thought that his old friend had been betrayed into a promise too rapidly. but the pledge was given, and some people already began to make much of it. there appeared leader after leader in the _people's banner_ urging the constituencies to take advantage of the prime minister's words, and to show clearly at the hustings that they desired the ballot. "you had better come over to us, mr. finn; you had indeed," said mr. slide. "now's the time to do it, and show yourself a people's friend. you'll have to do it sooner or later,--whether or no. come to us and we'll be your horgan." but in those days phineas was something less in love with mr. quintus slide than he had been at the time of the great debate, for he was becoming more and more closely connected with people who in their ways of living and modes of expression were very unlike mr. slide. this advice was given to him about the end of may, and at that time lord chiltern was living with him in the lodgings in great marlborough street. miss pouncefoot had temporarily vacated her rooms on the first floor, and the lord with the broken bones had condescended to occupy them. "i don't know that i like having a lord," bunce had said to his wife. "it'll soon come to you not liking anybody decent anywhere," mrs. bunce had replied; "but i shan't ask any questions about it. when you're wasting so much time and money at your dirty law proceedings, it's well that somebody should earn something at home." there had been many discussions about the bringing of lord chiltern up to london, in all of which phineas had been concerned. lord brentford had thought that his son had better remain down at the willingford bull; and although he said that the rooms were at his son's disposal should lord chiltern choose to come to london, still he said it in such a way that phineas, who went down to willingford, could not tell his friend that he would be made welcome in portman square. "i think i shall leave those diggings altogether," lord chiltern said to him. "my father annoys me by everything he says and does, and i annoy him by saying and doing nothing." then there came an invitation to him from lady laura and mr. kennedy. would he come to grosvenor place? lady laura pressed this very much, though in truth mr. kennedy had hardly done more than give a cold assent. but lord chiltern would not hear of it. "there is some reason for my going to my father's house," said he, "though he and i are not the best friends in the world; but there can be no reason for my going to the house of a man i dislike so much as i do robert kennedy." the matter was settled in the manner told above. miss pouncefoot's rooms were prepared for him at mr. bunce's house, and phineas finn went down to willingford and brought him up. "i've sold bonebreaker," he said,--"to a young fellow whose neck will certainly be the sacrifice if he attempts to ride him. i'd have given him to you, phineas, only you wouldn't have known what to do with him." lord chiltern when he came up to london was still in bandages, though, as the surgeon said, his bones seemed to have been made to be broken and set again; and his bandages of course were a sufficient excuse for his visiting the house neither of his father nor his brother-in-law. but lady laura went to him frequently, and thus became acquainted with our hero's home and with mrs. bunce. and there were messages taken from violet to the man in bandages, some of which lost nothing in the carrying. once lady laura tried to make violet think that it would be right, or rather not wrong, that they two should go together to lord chiltern's rooms. "and would you have me tell my aunt, or would you have me not tell her?" violet asked. "i would have you do just as you pleased," lady laura answered. "so i shall," violet replied, "but i will do nothing that i should be ashamed to tell any one. your brother professes to be in love with me." "he is in love with you," said lady laura. "even you do not pretend to doubt his faith." "very well. in those circumstances a girl should not go to a man's rooms unless she means to consider herself as engaged to him, even with his sister;--not though he had broken every bone in his skin. i know what i may do, laura, and i know what i mayn't; and i won't be led either by you or by my aunt." "may i give him your love?" "no;--because you'll give it in a wrong spirit. he knows well enough that i wish him well;--but you may tell him that from me, if you please. he has from me all those wishes which one friend owes to another." but there were other messages sent from violet through phineas finn which she worded with more show of affection,--perhaps as much for the discomfort of phineas as for the consolation of lord chiltern. "tell him to take care of himself," said violet, "and bid him not to have any more of those wild brutes that are not fit for any christian to ride. tell him that i say so. it's a great thing to be brave; but what's the use of being foolhardy?" the session was to be closed at the end of june, to the great dismay of london tradesmen and of young ladies who had not been entirely successful in the early season. but before the old parliament was closed, and the writs for the new election were despatched, there occurred an incident which was of very much importance to phineas finn. near the end of june, when the remaining days of the session were numbered by three or four, he had been dining at lord brentford's house in portman square in company with mr. kennedy. but lady laura had not been there. at this time he saw lord brentford not unfrequently, and there was always a word said about lord chiltern. the father would ask how the son occupied himself, and phineas would hope,--though hitherto he had hoped in vain,--that he would induce the earl to come and see lord chiltern. lord brentford could never be brought to that; but it was sufficiently evident that he would have done so, had he not been afraid to descend so far from the altitude of his paternal wrath. on this evening, at about eleven, mr. kennedy and phineas left the house together, and walked from the square through orchard street into oxford street. here their ways parted, but phineas crossed the road with mr. kennedy, as he was making some reply to a second invitation to loughlinter. phineas, considering what had been said before on the subject, thought that the invitation came late, and that it was not warmly worded. he had, therefore, declined it, and was in the act of declining it, when he crossed the road with mr. kennedy. in walking down orchard street from the square he had seen two men standing in the shadow a few yards up a mews or small alley that was there, but had thought nothing of them. it was just that period of the year when there is hardly any of the darkness of night; but at this moment there were symptoms of coming rain, and heavy drops began to fall; and there were big clouds coming and going before the young moon. mr. kennedy had said that he would get a cab, but he had seen none as he crossed oxford street, and had put up his umbrella as he made his way towards park street. phineas as he left him distinctly perceived the same two figures on the other side of oxford street, and then turning into the shadow of a butcher's porch, he saw them cross the street in the wake of mr. kennedy. it was now raining in earnest, and the few passengers who were out were scudding away quickly, this way and that. it hardly occurred to phineas to think that any danger was imminent to mr. kennedy from the men, but it did occur to him that he might as well take some notice of the matter. phineas knew that mr. kennedy would make his way down park street, that being his usual route from portman square towards his own home, and knew also that he himself could again come across mr. kennedy's track by going down north audley street to the corner of grosvenor square, and thence by brook street into park street. without much thought, therefore, he went out of his own course down to the corner of the square, hurrying his steps till he was running, and then ran along brook street, thinking as he went of some special word that he might say to mr. kennedy as an excuse, should he again come across his late companion. he reached the corner of park street before that gentleman could have been there unless he also had run; but just in time to see him as he was coming on,--and also to see in the dark glimmering of the slight uncertain moonlight that the two men were behind him. he retreated a step backwards in the corner, resolving that when mr. kennedy came up, they two would go on together; for now it was clear that mr. kennedy was followed. but mr. kennedy did not reach the corner. when he was within two doors of it, one of the men had followed him up quickly, and had thrown something round his throat from behind him. phineas understood well now that his friend was in the act of being garrotted, and that his instant assistance was needed. he rushed forward, and as the second ruffian had been close upon the footsteps of the first, there was almost instantaneously a concourse of the four men. but there was no fight. the man who had already nearly succeeded in putting mr. kennedy on to his back, made no attempt to seize his prey when he found that so unwelcome an addition had joined the party, but instantly turned to fly. his companion was turning also, but phineas was too quick for him, and having seized on to his collar, held to him with all his power. "dash it all," said the man, "didn't yer see as how i was a-hurrying up to help the gen'leman myself?" phineas, however, hadn't seen this, and held on gallantly, and in a couple of minutes the first ruffian was back again upon the spot in the custody of a policeman. "you've done it uncommon neat, sir," said the policeman, complimenting phineas upon his performance. "if the gen'leman ain't none the worst for it, it'll have been a very pretty evening's amusement." mr. kennedy was now leaning against the railings, and hitherto had been unable to declare whether he was really injured or not, and it was not till a second policeman came up that the hero of the night was at liberty to attend closely to his friend. mr. kennedy, when he was able to speak, declared that for a minute or two he had thought that his neck had been broken; and he was not quite convinced till he found himself in his own house, that nothing more serious had really happened to him than certain bruises round his throat. the policeman was for a while anxious that at any rate phineas should go with him to the police-office; but at last consented to take the addresses of the two gentlemen. when he found that mr. kennedy was a member of parliament, and that he was designated as right honourable, his respect for the garrotter became more great, and he began to feel that the night was indeed a night of great importance. he expressed unbounded admiration at mr. finn's success in his own line, and made repeated promises that the men should be forthcoming on the morrow. could a cab be got? of course a cab could be got. a cab was got, and within a quarter of an hour of the making of the attack, the two members of parliament were on their way to grosvenor place. there was hardly a word spoken in the cab, for mr. kennedy was in pain. when, however, they reached the door in grosvenor place, phineas wanted to go, and leave his friend with the servants, but this the cabinet minister would not allow. "of course you must see my wife," he said. so they went up-stairs into the drawing-room, and then upon the stairs, by the lights of the house, phineas could perceive that his companion's face was bruised and black with dirt, and that his cravat was gone. "i have been garrotted," said the cabinet minister to his wife. "what?" "simply that;--or should have been, if he had not been there. how he came there, god only knows." the wife's anxiety, and then her gratitude, need hardly be described,--nor the astonishment of the husband, which by no means decreased on reflection, at the opportune re-appearance in the nick of time of the man whom three minutes before the attack he had left in the act of going in the opposite direction. "i had seen the men, and thought it best to run round by the corner of grosvenor square," said phineas. "may god bless you," said lady laura. "amen," said the cabinet minister. "i think he was born to be my friend," said lady laura. the cabinet minister said nothing more that night. he was never given to much talking, and the little accident which had just occurred to him did not tend to make words easy to him. but he pressed our hero's hand, and lady laura said that of course phineas would come to them on the morrow. phineas remarked that his first business must be to go to the police-office, but he promised that he would come down to grosvenor place immediately afterwards. then lady laura also pressed his hand, and looked--; she looked, i think, as though she thought that phineas would only have done right had he repeated the offence which he had committed under the waterfall of loughlinter. "garrotted!" said lord chiltern, when phineas told him the story before they went to bed that night. he had been smoking, sipping brandy-and-water, and waiting for finn's return. "robert kennedy garrotted!" "the fellow was in the act of doing it." "and you stopped him?" "yes;--i got there just in time. wasn't it lucky?" "you ought to be garrotted yourself. i should have lent the man a hand had i been there." "how can you say anything so horrible? but you are drinking too much, old fellow, and i shall lock the bottle up." "if there were no one in london drank more than i do, the wine merchants would have a bad time of it. and so the new cabinet minister has been garrotted in the street. of course i'm sorry for poor laura's sake." "luckily he's not much the worse for it;--only a little bruised." "i wonder whether it's on the cards he should be improved by it;--worse, except in the way of being strangled, he could not be. however, as he's my brother-in-law, i'm obliged to you for rescuing him. come, i'll go to bed. i must say, if he was to be garrotted i should like to have been there to see it." that was the manner in which lord chiltern received the tidings of the terrible accident which had occurred to his near relative. chapter xxxi finn for loughton by three o'clock in the day after the little accident which was told in the last chapter, all the world knew that mr. kennedy, the new cabinet minister, had been garrotted, or half garrotted, and that that child of fortune, phineas finn, had dropped upon the scene out of heaven at the exact moment of time, had taken the two garrotters prisoners, and saved the cabinet minister's neck and valuables,--if not his life. "bedad," said laurence fitzgibbon, when he came to hear this, "that fellow'll marry an heiress, and be secretary for oireland yet." a good deal was said about it to phineas at the clubs, but a word or two that was said to him by violet effingham was worth all the rest. "why, what a paladin you are! but you succour men in distress instead of maidens." "that's my bad luck," said phineas. "the other will come no doubt in time," violet replied; "and then you'll get your reward." he knew that such words from a girl mean nothing,--especially from such a girl as violet effingham; but nevertheless they were very pleasant to him. "of course you will come to us at loughlinter when parliament is up?" lady laura said the same day. "i don't know really. you see i must go over to ireland about my re-election." "what has that to do with it? you are only making out excuses. we go down on the first of july, and the english elections won't begin till the middle of the month. it will be august before the men of loughshane are ready for you." "to tell you the truth, lady laura," said phineas, "i doubt whether the men of loughshane,--or rather the man of loughshane, will have anything more to say to me." "what man do you mean?" "lord tulla. he was in a passion with his brother before, and i got the advantage of it. since that he has paid his brother's debts for the fifteenth time, and of course is ready to fight any battle for the forgiven prodigal. things are not as they were, and my father tells me that he thinks i shall be beaten." "that is bad news." "it is what i have a right to expect." every word of information that had come to phineas about loughshane since mr. mildmay had decided upon a dissolution, had gone towards making him feel at first that there was a great doubt as to his re-election, and at last that there was almost a certainty against him. and as these tidings reached him they made him very unhappy. since he had been in parliament he had very frequently regretted that he had left the shades of the inns of court for the glare of westminster; and he had more than once made up his mind that he would desert the glare and return to the shade. but now, when the moment came in which such desertion seemed to be compulsory on him, when there would be no longer a choice, the seat in parliament was dearer to him than ever. if he had gone of his own free will,--so he told himself,--there would have been something of nobility in such going. mr. low would have respected him, and even mrs. low might have taken him back to the friendship of her severe bosom. but he would go back now as a cur with his tail between his legs,--kicked out, as it were, from parliament. returning to lincoln's inn soiled with failure, having accomplished nothing, having broken down on the only occasion on which he had dared to show himself on his legs, not having opened a single useful book during the two years in which he had sat in parliament, burdened with laurence fitzgibbon's debt, and not quite free from debt of his own, how could he start himself in any way by which he might even hope to win success? he must, he told himself, give up all thought of practising in london and betake himself to dublin. he could not dare to face his friends in london as a young briefless barrister. on this evening, the evening subsequent to that on which mr. kennedy had been attacked, the house was sitting in committee of ways and means, and there came on a discussion as to a certain vote for the army. it had been known that there would be such discussion; and mr. monk having heard from phineas a word or two now and again about the potted peas, had recommended him to be ready with a few remarks if he wished to support the government in the matter of that vote. phineas did so wish, having learned quite enough in the committee room up-stairs to make him believe that a large importation of the potted peas from holstein would not be for the advantage of the army or navy,--or for that of the country at large. mr. monk had made his suggestion without the slightest allusion to the former failure,--just as though phineas were a practised speaker accustomed to be on his legs three or four times a week. "if i find a chance, i will," said phineas, taking the advice just as it was given. soon after prayers, a word was said in the house as to the ill-fortune which had befallen the new cabinet minister. mr. daubeny had asked mr. mildmay whether violent hands had not been laid in the dead of night on the sacred throat,--the throat that should have been sacred,--of the new chancellor of the duchy of lancaster; and had expressed regret that the ministry,--which was, he feared, in other respects somewhat infirm,--should now have been further weakened by this injury to that new bulwark with which it had endeavoured to support itself. the prime minister, answering his old rival in the same strain, said that the calamity might have been very severe, both to the country and to the cabinet; but that fortunately for the community at large, a gallant young member of that house,--and he was proud to say a supporter of the government,--had appeared upon the spot at the nick of time;--"as a god out of a machine," said mr. daubeny, interrupting him;--"by no means as a god out of a machine," continued mr. mildmay, "but as a real help in a very real trouble, and succeeded not only in saving my right honourable friend, the chancellor of the duchy, but in arresting the two malefactors who attempted to rob him in the street." then there was a cry of "name;" and mr. mildmay of course named the member for loughshane. it so happened that phineas was not in the house, but he heard it all when he came down to attend the committee of ways and means. then came on the discussion about provisions in the army, the subject being mooted by one of mr. turnbull's close allies. the gentleman on the other side of the house who had moved for the potted peas committee, was silent on the occasion, having felt that the result of that committee had not been exactly what he had expected. the evidence respecting such of the holstein potted peas as had been used in this country was not very favourable to them. but, nevertheless, the rebound from that committee,--the very fact that such a committee had been made to sit,--gave ground for a hostile attack. to attack is so easy, when a complete refutation barely suffices to save the minister attacked,--does not suffice to save him from future dim memories of something having been wrong,--and brings down no disgrace whatsoever on the promoter of the false charge. the promoter of the false charge simply expresses his gratification at finding that he had been misled by erroneous information. it is not customary for him to express gratification at the fact, that out of all the mud which he has thrown, some will probably stick! phineas, when the time came, did get on his legs, and spoke perhaps two or three dozen words. the doing so seemed to come to him quite naturally. he had thought very little about it beforehand,--having resolved not to think of it. and indeed the occasion was one of no great importance. the speaker was not in the chair, and the house was thin, and he intended to make no speech,--merely to say something which he had to say. till he had finished he hardly remembered that he was doing that, in attempting to do which he had before failed so egregiously. it was not till he sat down that he began to ask himself whether the scene was swimming before his eyes as it had done on former occasions; as it had done even when he had so much as thought of making a speech. now he was astonished at the easiness of the thing, and as he left the house told himself that he had overcome the difficulty just when the victory could be of no avail to him. had he been more eager, more constant in his purpose, he might at any rate have shown the world that he was fit for the place which he had presumed to take before he was cast out of it. on the next morning he received a letter from his father. dr. finn had seen lord tulla, having been sent for to relieve his lordship in a fit of the gout, and had been informed by the earl that he meant to fight the borough to the last man;--had he said to the last shilling he would have spoken with perhaps more accuracy. "you see, doctor, your son has had it for two years, as you may say for nothing, and i think he ought to give way. he can't expect that he's to go on there as though it were his own." and then his lordship, upon whom this touch of the gout had come somewhat sharply, expressed himself with considerable animation. the old doctor behaved with much spirit. "i told the earl," he said, "that i could not undertake to say what you might do; but that as you had come forward at first with my sanction, i could not withdraw it now. he asked me if i should support you with money; i said that i should to a moderate extent. 'by g----,' said the earl, 'a moderate extent will go a very little way, i can tell you.' since that he has had duggin with him; so, i suppose, i shall not see him any more. you can do as you please now; but, from what i hear, i fear you will have no chance." then with much bitterness of spirit phineas resolved that he would not interfere with lord tulla at loughshane. he would go at once to the reform club and explain his reasons to barrington erle and others there who would be interested. but he first went to grosvenor place. here he was shown up into mr. kennedy's room. mr. kennedy was up and seated in an arm-chair by an open window looking over into the queen's garden; but he was in his dressing-gown, and was to be regarded as an invalid. and indeed as he could not turn his neck, or thought that he could not do so, he was not very fit to go out about his work. let us hope that the affairs of the duchy of lancaster did not suffer materially by his absence. we may take it for granted that with a man so sedulous as to all his duties there was no arrear of work when the accident took place. he put out his hand to phineas, and said some word in a whisper,--some word or two among which phineas caught the sound of "potted peas,"--and then continued to look out of the window. there are men who are utterly prostrated by any bodily ailment, and it seemed that mr. kennedy was one of them. phineas, who was full of his own bad news, had intended to tell his sad story at once. but he perceived that the neck of the chancellor of the duchy was too stiff to allow of his taking any interest in external matters, and so he refrained. "what does the doctor say about it?" said phineas, perceiving that just for the present there could be only one possible subject for remark. mr. kennedy was beginning to describe in a long whisper what the doctor did think about it, when lady laura came into the room. of course they began at first to talk about mr. kennedy. it would not have been kind to him not to have done so. and lady laura made much of the injury, as it behoves a wife to do in such circumstances for the sake both of the sufferer and of the hero. she declared her conviction that had phineas been a moment later her husband's neck would have been irredeemably broken. "i don't think they ever do kill the people," said phineas. "at any rate they don't mean to do so." "i thought they did," said lady laura. "i fancy not," said phineas, eager in the cause of truth. "i think this man was very clumsy," whispered mr. kennedy. "perhaps he was a beginner," said phineas, "and that may make a difference. if so, i'm afraid we have interfered with his education." then, by degrees, the conversation got away to other things, and lady laura asked him after loughshane. "i've made up my mind to give it up," said he, smiling as he spoke. "i was afraid there was but a bad chance," said lady laura, smiling also. "my father has behaved so well!" said phineas. "he has written to say he'll find the money, if i determine to contest the borough. i mean to write to him by to-night's post to decline the offer. i have no right to spend the money, and i shouldn't succeed if i did spend it. of course it makes me a little down in the mouth." and then he smiled again. "i've got a plan of my own," said lady laura. "what plan?" "or rather it isn't mine, but papa's. old mr. standish is going to give up loughton, and papa wants you to come and try your luck there." "lady laura!" "it isn't quite a certainty, you know, but i suppose it's as near a certainty as anything left." and this came from a strong radical reformer! "lady laura, i couldn't accept such a favour from your father." then mr. kennedy nodded his head very slightly and whispered, "yes, yes." "i couldn't think of it," said phineas finn. "i have no right to such a favour." "that is a matter entirely for papa's consideration," said lady laura, with an affectation of solemnity in her voice. "i think it has always been felt that any politician may accept such an offer as that when it is made to him, but that no politician should ask for it. my father feels that he has to do the best he can with his influence in the borough, and therefore he comes to you." "it isn't that," said phineas, somewhat rudely. "of course private feelings have their weight," said lady laura. "it is not probable that papa would have gone to a perfect stranger. and perhaps, mr. finn, i may own that mr. kennedy and i would both be very sorry that you should not be in the house, and that that feeling on our part has had some weight with my father." "of course you'll stand?" whispered mr. kennedy, still looking straight out of the window, as though the slightest attempt to turn his neck would be fraught with danger to himself and the duchy. "papa has desired me to ask you to call upon him," said lady laura. "i don't suppose there is very much to be said, as each of you know so well the other's way of thinking. but you had better see him to-day or to-morrow." of course phineas was persuaded before he left mr. kennedy's room. indeed, when he came to think of it, there appeared to him to be no valid reason why he should not sit for loughton. the favour was of a kind that had prevailed from time out of mind in england, between the most respectable of the great land magnates, and young rising liberal politicians. burke, fox, and canning had all been placed in parliament by similar influence. of course he, phineas finn, desired earnestly,--longed in his very heart of hearts,--to extinguish all such parliamentary influence, to root out for ever the last vestige of close borough nominations; but while the thing remained it was better that the thing should contribute to the liberal than to the conservative strength of the house,--and if to the liberal, how was this to be achieved but by the acceptance of such influence by some liberal candidate? and if it were right that it should be accepted by any liberal candidate,--then, why not by him? the logic of this argument seemed to him to be perfect. he felt something like a sting of reproach as he told himself that in truth this great offer was made to him, not on account of the excellence of his politics, but because he had been instrumental in saving lord brentford's son-in-law from the violence of garrotters. but he crushed these qualms of conscience as being over-scrupulous, and, as he told himself, not practical. you must take the world as you find it, with a struggle to be something more honest than those around you. phineas, as he preached to himself this sermon, declared to himself that they who attempted more than this flew too high in the clouds to be of service to men and women upon earth. as he did not see lord brentford that day he postponed writing to his father for twenty-four hours. on the following morning he found the earl at home in portman square, having first discussed the matter fully with lord chiltern. "do not scruple about me," said lord chiltern; "you are quite welcome to the borough for me." "but if i did not stand, would you do so? there are so many reasons which ought to induce you to accept a seat in parliament!" "whether that be true or not, phineas, i shall not accept my father's interest at loughton, unless it be offered to me in a way in which it never will be offered. you know me well enough to be sure that i shall not change my mind. nor will he. and, therefore, you may go down to loughton with a pure conscience as far as i am concerned." phineas had his interview with the earl, and in ten minutes everything was settled. on his way to portman square there had come across his mind the idea of a grand effort of friendship. what if he could persuade the father so to conduct himself towards his son, that the son should consent to be a member for the borough? and he did say a word or two to this effect, setting forth that lord chiltern would condescend to become a legislator, if only his father would condescend to acknowledge his son's fitness for such work without any comments on the son's past life. but the earl simply waived the subject away with his hand. he could be as obstinate as his son. lady laura had been the mercury between them on this subject, and lady laura had failed. he would not now consent to employ another mercury. very little,--hardly a word indeed,--was said between the earl and phineas about politics. phineas was to be the saulsby candidate at loughton for the next election, and was to come to saulsby with the kennedys from loughlinter,--either with the kennedys or somewhat in advance of them. "i do not say that there will be no opposition," said the earl, "but i expect none." he was very courteous,--nay, he was kind, feeling doubtless that his family owed a great debt of gratitude to the young man with whom he was conversing; but, nevertheless, there was not absent on his part a touch of that high condescension which, perhaps, might be thought to become the earl, the cabinet minister, and the great borough patron. phineas, who was sensitive, felt this and winced. he had never quite liked lord brentford, and could not bring himself to do so now in spite of the kindness which the earl was showing him. but he was very happy when he sat down to write to his father from the club. his father had told him that the money should be forthcoming for the election at loughshane, if he resolved to stand, but that the chance of success would be very slight,--indeed that, in his opinion, there would be no chance of success. nevertheless, his father had evidently believed, when writing, that phineas would not abandon his seat without a useless and expensive contest. he now thanked his father with many expressions of gratitude,--declared his conviction that his father was right about lord tulla, and then, in the most modest language that he could use, went on to say that he had found another borough open to him in england. he was going to stand for loughton, with the assistance of lord brentford, and thought that the election would probably not cost him above a couple of hundred pounds at the outside. then he wrote a very pretty note to lord tulla, thanking him for his former kindness, and telling the irish earl that it was not his intention to interfere with the borough of loughshane at the next election. a few days after this phineas was very much surprised at a visit that was made to him at his lodgings. mr. clarkson, after that scene in the lobby of the house, called again in great marlborough street,--and was admitted. "you had better let him sit in your armchair for half an hour or so," fitzgibbon had said; and phineas almost believed that it would be better. the man was a terrible nuisance to him, and he was beginning to think that he had better undertake to pay the debt by degrees. it was, he knew, quite on the cards that mr. clarkson should have him arrested while at saulsby. since that scene in the lobby mr. clarkson had been with him twice, and there had been a preliminary conversation as to real payment. mr. clarkson wanted a hundred pounds down, and another bill for two hundred and twenty at three months' date. "think of my time and trouble in coming here," mr. clarkson had urged when phineas had objected to these terms. "think of my time and trouble, and do be punctual, mr. finn." phineas had offered him ten pounds a quarter, the payments to be marked on the back of the bill, a tender which mr. clarkson had not seemed to regard as strong evidence of punctuality. he had not been angry, but had simply expressed his intention of calling again,--giving phineas to understand that business would probably take him to the west of ireland in the autumn. if only business might not take him down either to loughlinter or to saulsby! but the strange visitor who came to phineas in the midst of these troubles put an end to them all. the strange visitor was miss aspasia fitzgibbon. "you'll be very much surprised at my coming to your chambers, no doubt," she said, as she sat down in the chair which phineas placed for her. phineas could only say that he was very proud to be so highly honoured, and that he hoped she was well. "pretty well, i thank you. i have just come about a little business, mr. finn, and i hope you'll excuse me." "i'm quite sure that there is no need for excuses," said phineas. "laurence, when he hears about it, will say that i've been an impertinent old fool; but i never care what laurence says, either this way or that. i've been to that mr. clarkson, mr. finn, and i've paid him the money." "no!" said phineas. "but i have, mr. finn. i happened to hear what occurred that night at the door of the house of commons." "who told you, miss fitzgibbon?" "never mind who told me. i heard it. i knew before that you had been foolish enough to help laurence about money, and so i put two and two together. it isn't the first time i have had to do with mr. clarkson. so i sent to him, and i've bought the bill. there it is." and miss fitzgibbon produced the document which bore the name of phineas finn across the front of it. "and did you pay him two hundred and fifty pounds for it?" "not quite. i had a very hard tussle, and got it at last for two hundred and twenty pounds." "and did you do it yourself?" "all myself. if i had employed a lawyer i should have had to pay two hundred and forty pounds and five pounds for costs. and now, mr. finn, i hope you won't have any more money engagements with my brother laurence." phineas said that he thought he might promise that he would have no more. "because, if you do, i shan't interfere. if laurence began to find that he could get money out of me in that way, there would be no end to it. mr. clarkson would very soon be spending his spare time in my drawing-room. good-bye, mr. finn. if laurence says anything, just tell him that he'd better come to me." then phineas was left looking at the bill. it was certainly a great relief to him,--that he should be thus secured from the domiciliary visits of mr. clarkson; a great relief to him to be assured that mr. clarkson would not find him out down at loughton; but nevertheless, he had to suffer a pang of shame as he felt that miss fitzgibbon had become acquainted with his poverty and had found herself obliged to satisfy his pecuniary liabilities. chapter xxxii lady laura kennedy's headache phineas went down to loughlinter early in july, taking loughton in his way. he stayed there one night at the inn, and was introduced to sundry influential inhabitants of the borough by mr. grating, the ironmonger, who was known by those who knew loughton to be a very strong supporter of the earl's interest. mr. grating and about half a dozen others of the tradesmen of the town came to the inn, and met phineas in the parlour. he told them he was a good sound liberal and a supporter of mr. mildmay's government, of which their neighbour the earl was so conspicuous an ornament. this was almost all that was said about the earl out loud; but each individual man of loughton then present took an opportunity during the meeting of whispering into mr. finn's ear a word or two to show that he also was admitted to the secret councils of the borough,--that he too could see the inside of the arrangement. "of course we must support the earl," one said. "never mind what you hear about a tory candidate, mr. finn," whispered a second; "the earl can do what he pleases here." and it seemed to phineas that it was thought by them all to be rather a fine thing to be thus held in the hand by an english nobleman. phineas could not but reflect much upon this as he lay in his bed at the loughton inn. the great political question on which the political world was engrossed up in london was the enfranchisement of englishmen,--of englishmen down to the rank of artisans and labourers;--and yet when he found himself in contact with individual englishmen, with men even very much above the artisan and the labourer, he found that they rather liked being bound hand and foot, and being kept as tools in the political pocket of a rich man. every one of those loughton tradesmen was proud of his own personal subjection to the earl! from loughton he went to loughlinter, having promised to be back in the borough for the election. mr. grating would propose him, and he was to be seconded by mr. shortribs, the butcher and grazier. mention had been made of a conservative candidate, and mr. shortribs had seemed to think that a good stand-up fight upon english principles, with a clear understanding, of course, that victory should prevail on the liberal side, would be a good thing for the borough. but the earl's man of business saw phineas on the morning of his departure, and told him not to regard mr. shortribs. "they'd all like it," said the man of business; "and i daresay they'll have enough of it when this reform bill is passed; but at present no one will be fool enough to come and spend his money here. we have them all in hand too well for that, mr. finn!" he found the great house at loughlinter nearly empty. mr. kennedy's mother was there, and lord brentford was there, and lord brentford's private secretary, and mr. kennedy's private secretary. at present that was the entire party. lady baldock was expected there, with her daughter and violet effingham; but, as well as phineas could learn, they would not be at loughlinter until after he had left it. there had come up lately a rumour that there would be an autumn session,--that the houses would sit through october and a part of november, in order that mr. mildmay might try the feeling of the new parliament. if this were to be so, phineas had resolved that, in the event of his election at loughton, he would not return to ireland till after this autumn session should be over. he gave an account to the earl, in the presence of the earl's son-in-law, of what had taken place at loughton, and the earl expressed himself as satisfied. it was manifestly a great satisfaction to lord brentford that he should still have a borough in his pocket, and the more so because there were so very few noblemen left who had such property belonging to them. he was very careful in his speech, never saying in so many words that the privilege of returning a member was his own; but his meaning was not the less clear. those were dreary days at loughlinter. there was fishing,--if phineas chose to fish; and he was told that he could shoot a deer if he was minded to go out alone. but it seemed as though it were the intention of the host that his guests should spend their time profitably. mr. kennedy himself was shut up with books and papers all the morning, and always took up a book after dinner. the earl also would read a little,--and then would sleep a good deal. old mrs. kennedy slept also, and lady laura looked as though she would like to sleep if it were not that her husband's eye was upon her. as it was, she administered tea, mr. kennedy not liking the practice of having it handed round by a servant when none were there but members of the family circle, and she read novels. phineas got hold of a stiff bit of reading for himself, and tried to utilise his time. he took alison in hand, and worked his way gallantly through a couple of volumes. but even he, more than once or twice, found himself on the very verge of slumber. then he would wake up and try to think about things. why was he, phineas finn, an irishman from killaloe, living in that great house of loughlinter as though he were one of the family, striving to kill the hours, and feeling that he was in some way subject to the dominion of his host? would it not be better for him to get up and go away? in his heart of hearts he did not like mr. kennedy, though he believed him to be a good man. and of what service to him was it to like lady laura, now that lady laura was a possession in the hands of mr. kennedy? then he would tell himself that he owed his position in the world entirely to lady laura, and that he was ungrateful to feel himself ever dull in her society. and, moreover, there was something to be done in the world beyond making love and being merry. mr. kennedy could occupy himself with a blue book for hours together without wincing. so phineas went to work again with his alison, and read away till he nodded. in those days he often wandered up and down the linter and across the moor to the linn, and so down to the lake. he would take a book with him, and would seat himself down on spots which he loved, and would pretend to read;--but i do not think that he got much advantage from his book. he was thinking of his life, and trying to calculate whether the wonderful success which he had achieved would ever be of permanent value to him. would he be nearer to earning his bread when he should be member for loughton than he had been when he was member for loughshane? or was there before him any slightest probability that he would ever earn his bread? and then he thought of violet effingham, and was angry with himself for remembering at that moment that violet effingham was the mistress of a large fortune. once before when he was sitting beside the linter he had made up his mind to declare his passion to lady laura;--and he had done so on the very spot. now, within a twelvemonth of that time, he made up his mind on the same spot to declare his passion to miss effingham, and he thought his best mode of carrying his suit would be to secure the assistance of lady laura. lady laura, no doubt, had been very anxious that her brother should marry violet; but lord chiltern, as phineas knew, had asked for violet's hand twice in vain; and, moreover, chiltern himself had declared to phineas that he would never ask for it again. lady laura, who was always reasonable, would surely perceive that there was no hope of success for her brother. that chiltern would quarrel with him,--would quarrel with him to the knife,--he did not doubt; but he felt that no fear of such a quarrel as that should deter him. he loved violet effingham, and he must indeed be pusillanimous if, loving her as he did, he was deterred from expressing his love from any fear of a suitor whom she did not favour. he would not willingly be untrue to his friendship for lady laura's brother. had there been a chance for lord chiltern he would have abstained from putting himself forward. but what was the use of his abstaining, when by doing so he could in no wise benefit his friend,--when the result of his doing so would be that some interloper would come in and carry off the prize? he would explain all this to lady laura, and, if the prize would be kind to him, he would disregard the anger of lord chiltern, even though it might be anger to the knife. as he was thinking of all this lady laura stood before him where he was sitting at the top of the falls. at this moment he remembered well all the circumstances of the scene when he had been there with her at his last visit to loughlinter. how things had changed since then! then he had loved lady laura with all his heart, and he had now already brought himself to regard her as a discreet matron whom to love would be almost as unreasonable as though he were to entertain a passion for the lord chancellor. the reader will understand how thorough had been the cure effected by lady laura's marriage and the interval of a few months, when the swain was already prepared to make this lady the depositary of his confidence in another matter of love. "you are often here, i suppose?" said lady laura, looking down upon him as he sat upon the rock. "well;--yes; not very often; i come here sometimes because the view down upon the lake is so fine." "it is the prettiest spot about the place. i hardly ever get here now. indeed this is only the second time that i have been up since we have been at home, and then i came to bring papa here." there was a little wooden seat near to the rock upon which phineas had been lying, and upon this lady laura sat down. phineas, with his eyes turned upon the lake, was considering how he might introduce the subject of his love for violet effingham; but he did not find the matter very easy. he had just resolved to begin by saying that violet would certainly never accept lord chiltern, when lady laura spoke a word or two which stopped him altogether. "how well i remember," she said, "the day when you and i were here last autumn!" "so do i. you told me then that you were going to marry mr. kennedy. how much has happened since then!" "much indeed! enough for a whole lifetime. and yet how slow the time has gone!" "i do not think it has been slow with me," said phineas. "no; you have been active. you have had your hands full of work. i am beginning to think that it is a great curse to have been born a woman." "and yet i have heard you say that a woman may do as much as a man." "that was before i had learned my lesson properly. i know better than that now. oh dear! i have no doubt it is all for the best as it is, but i have a kind of wish that i might be allowed to go out and milk the cows." "and may you not milk the cows if you wish it, lady laura?" "by no means;--not only not milk them, but hardly look at them. at any rate, i must not talk about them." phineas of course understood that she was complaining of her husband, and hardly knew how to reply to her. he had been sharp enough to perceive already that mr. kennedy was an autocrat in his own house, and he knew lady laura well enough to be sure that such masterdom would be very irksome to her. but he had not imagined that she would complain to him. "it was so different at saulsby," lady laura continued. "everything there seemed to be my own." "and everything here is your own." "yes,--according to the prayer-book. and everything in truth is my own,--as all the dainties at the banquet belonged to sancho the governor." "you mean," said he,--and then he hesitated; "you mean that mr. kennedy stands over you, guarding you for your own welfare, as the doctor stood over sancho and guarded him?" there was a pause before she answered,--a long pause, during which he was looking away over the lake, and thinking how he might introduce the subject of his love. but long as was the pause, he had not begun when lady laura was again speaking. "the truth is, my friend," she said, "that i have made a mistake." "a mistake?" "yes, phineas, a mistake. i have blundered as fools blunder, thinking that i was clever enough to pick my footsteps aright without asking counsel from any one. i have blundered and stumbled and fallen, and now i am so bruised that i am not able to stand upon my feet." the word that struck him most in all this was his own christian name. she had never called him phineas before. he was aware that the circle of his acquaintance had fallen into a way of miscalling him by his christian name, as one observes to be done now and again in reference to some special young man. most of the men whom he called his friends called him phineas. even the earl had done so more than once on occasions in which the greatness of his position had dropped for a moment out of his mind. mrs. low had called him phineas when she regarded him as her husband's most cherished pupil; and mrs. bunce had called him mr. phineas. he had always been phineas to everybody at killaloe. but still he was quite sure that lady laura had never so called him before. nor would she have done so now in her husband's presence. he was sure of that also. "you mean that you are unhappy?" he said, still looking away from her towards the lake. "yes, i do mean that. though i do not know why i should come and tell you so,--except that i am still blundering and stumbling, and have fallen into a way of hurting myself at every step." "you can tell no one who is more anxious for your happiness," said phineas. "that is a very pretty speech, but what would you do for my happiness? indeed, what is it possible that you should do? i mean it as no rebuke when i say that my happiness or unhappiness is a matter as to which you will soon become perfectly indifferent." "why should you say so, lady laura?" "because it is natural that it should be so. you and mr. kennedy might have been friends. not that you will be, because you are unlike each other in all your ways. but it might have been so." "and are not you and i to be friends?" he asked. "no. in a very few months you will not think of telling me what are your desires or what your sorrows;--and as for me, it will be out of the question that i should tell mine to you. how can you be my friend?" "if you were not quite sure of my friendship, lady laura, you would not speak to me as you are speaking now." still he did not look at her, but lay with his face supported on his hands, and his eyes turned away upon the lake. but she, where she was sitting, could see him, and was aided by her sight in making comparisons in her mind between the two men who had been her lovers,--between him whom she had taken and him whom she had left. there was something in the hard, dry, unsympathising, unchanging virtues of her husband which almost revolted her. he had not a fault, but she had tried him at every point and had been able to strike no spark of fire from him. even by disobeying she could produce no heat,--only an access of firmness. how would it have been with her had she thrown all ideas of fortune to the winds, and linked her lot to that of the young phoebus who was lying at her feet? if she had ever loved any one she had loved him. and she had not thrown away her love for money. so she swore to herself over and over again, trying to console herself in her cold unhappiness. she had married a rich man in order that she might be able to do something in the world;--and now that she was this rich man's wife she found that she could do nothing. the rich man thought it to be quite enough for her to sit at home and look after his welfare. in the meantime young phoebus,--her phoebus as he had been once,--was thinking altogether of some one else. "phineas," she said, slowly, "i have in you such perfect confidence that i will tell you the truth;--as one man may tell it to another. i wish you would go from here." "what, at once?" "not to-day, or to-morrow. stay here now till the election; but do not return. he will ask you to come, and press you hard, and will be hurt;--for, strange to say, with all his coldness, he really likes you. he has a pleasure in seeing you here. but he must not have that pleasure at the expense of trouble to me." "and why is it a trouble to you?" he asked. men are such fools;--so awkward, so unready, with their wits ever behind the occasion by a dozen seconds or so! as soon as the words were uttered, he knew that they should not have been spoken. "because i am a fool," she said. "why else? is not that enough for you?" "laura--," he said. "no,--no; i will have none of that. i am a fool, but not such a fool as to suppose that any cure is to be found there." "only say what i can do for you, though it be with my entire life, and i will do it." "you can do nothing,--except to keep away from me." "are you earnest in telling me that?" now at last he had turned himself round and was looking at her, and as he looked he saw the hat of a man appearing up the path, and immediately afterwards the face. it was the hat and face of the laird of loughlinter. "here is mr. kennedy," said phineas, in a tone of voice not devoid of dismay and trouble. "so i perceive," said lady laura. but there was no dismay or trouble in the tone of her voice. in the countenance of mr. kennedy, as he approached closer, there was not much to be read,--only, perhaps, some slight addition of gloom, or rather, perhaps, of that frigid propriety of moral demeanour for which he had always been conspicuous, which had grown upon him at his marriage, and which had been greatly increased by the double action of being made a cabinet minister and being garrotted. "i am glad that your headache is better," he said to his wife, who had risen from her seat to meet him. phineas also had risen, and was now looking somewhat sheepish where he stood. "i came out because it was worse," she said. "it irritated me so that i could not stand the house any longer." "i will send to callender for dr. macnuthrie." "pray do nothing of the kind, robert. i do not want dr. macnuthrie at all." "where there is illness, medical advice is always expedient." "i am not ill. a headache is not illness." "i had thought it was," said mr. kennedy, very drily. "at any rate, i would rather not have dr. macnuthrie." "i am sure it cannot do you any good to climb up here in the heat of the sun. had you been here long, finn?" "all the morning;--here, or hereabouts. i clambered up from the lake and had a book in my pocket." "and you happened to come across him by accident?" mr. kennedy asked. there was something so simple in the question that its very simplicity proved that there was no suspicion. "yes;--by chance," said lady laura. "but every one at loughlinter always comes up here. if any one ever were missing whom i wanted to find, this is where i should look." "i am going on towards linter forest to meet blane," said mr. kennedy. blane was the gamekeeper. "if you don't mind the trouble, finn, i wish you'd take lady laura down to the house. do not let her stay out in the heat. i will take care that somebody goes over to callender for dr. macnuthrie." then mr. kennedy went on, and phineas was left with the charge of taking lady laura back to the house. when mr. kennedy's hat had first appeared coming up the walk, phineas had been ready to proclaim himself prepared for any devotion in the service of lady laura. indeed, he had begun to reply with criminal tenderness to the indiscreet avowal which lady laura had made to him. but he felt now, after what had just occurred in the husband's presence, that any show of tenderness,--of criminal tenderness,--was impossible. the absence of all suspicion on the part of mr. kennedy had made phineas feel that he was bound by all social laws to refrain from such tenderness. lady laura began to descend the path before him without a word;--and went on, and on, as though she would have reached the house without speaking, had he not addressed her. "does your head still pain you?" he asked. "of course it does." "i suppose he is right in saying that you should not be out in the heat." "i do not know. it is not worth while to think about that. he sends me in, and so of course i must go. and he tells you to take me, and so of course you must take me." "would you wish that i should let you go alone?" "yes, i would. only he will be sure to find it out; and you must not tell him that you left me at my request." "do you think that i am afraid of him?" said phineas. "yes;--i think you are. i know that i am, and that papa is; and that his mother hardly dares to call her soul her own. i do not know why you should escape." "mr. kennedy is nothing to me." "he is something to me, and so i suppose i had better go on. and now i shall have that horrid man from the little town pawing me and covering everything with snuff, and bidding me take scotch physic,--which seems to increase in quantity and nastiness as doses in england decrease. and he will stand over me to see that i take it." "what;--the doctor from callender?" "no;--but mr. kennedy will. if he advised me to have a hole in my glove mended, he would ask me before he went to bed whether it was done. he never forgot anything in his life, and was never unmindful of anything. that i think will do, mr. finn. you have brought me out from the trees, and that may be taken as bringing me home. we shall hardly get scolded if we part here. remember what i told you up above. and remember also that it is in your power to do nothing else for me. good-bye." so he turned away towards the lake, and let lady laura go across the wide lawn to the house by herself. he had failed altogether in his intention of telling his friend of his love for violet, and had come to perceive that he could not for the present carry out that intention. after what had passed it would be impossible for him to go to lady laura with a passionate tale of his longing for violet effingham. if he were even to speak to her of love at all, it must be quite of another love than that. but he never would speak to her of love; nor,--as he felt quite sure,--would she allow him to do so. but what astounded him most as he thought of the interview which had just passed, was the fact that the lady laura whom he had known,--whom he had thought he had known,--should have become so subject to such a man as mr. kennedy, a man whom he had despised as being weak, irresolute, and without a purpose! for the day or two that he remained at loughlinter, he watched the family closely, and became aware that lady laura had been right when she declared that her father was afraid of mr. kennedy. "i shall follow you almost immediately," said the earl confidentially to phineas, when the candidate for the borough took his departure from loughlinter. "i don't like to be there just when the election is going on, but i'll be at saulsby to receive you the day afterwards." phineas took his leave from mr. kennedy, with a warm expression of friendship on the part of his host, and from lady laura with a mere touch of the hand. he tried to say a word; but she was sullen, or, if not, she put on some mood like to sullenness, and said never a word to him. on the day after the departure of phineas finn for loughton lady laura kennedy still had a headache. she had complained of a headache ever since she had been at loughlinter, and dr. macnuthrie had been over more than once. "i wonder what it is that ails you," said her husband, standing over her in her own sitting-room up-stairs. it was a pretty room, looking away to the mountains, with just a glimpse of the lake to be caught from the window, and it had been prepared for her with all the skill and taste of an accomplished upholsterer. she had selected the room for herself soon after her engagement, and had thanked her future husband with her sweetest smile for giving her the choice. she had thanked him and told him that she always meant to be happy,--so happy in that room! he was a man not much given to romance, but he thought of this promise as he stood over her and asked after her health. as far as he could see she had never been even comfortable since she had been at loughlinter. a shadow of the truth came across his mind. perhaps his wife was bored. if so, what was to be the future of his life and of hers? he went up to london every year, and to parliament, as a duty; and then, during some period of the recess, would have his house full of guests,--as another duty. but his happiness was to consist in such hours as these which seemed to inflict upon his wife the penalty of a continual headache. a shadow of the truth came upon him. what if his wife did not like living quietly at home as the mistress of her husband's house? what if a headache was always to be the result of a simple performance of domestic duties? more than a shadow of truth had come upon lady laura herself. the dark cloud created by the entire truth was upon her, making everything black and wretched around her. she had asked herself a question or two, and had discovered that she had no love for her husband, that the kind of life which he intended to exact from her was insupportable to her, and that she had blundered and fallen in her entrance upon life. she perceived that her father had already become weary of mr. kennedy, and that, lonely and sad as he would be at saulsby by himself, it was his intention to repudiate the idea of making a home at loughlinter. yes;--she would be deserted by everyone, except of course by her husband; and then-- then she would throw herself on some early morning into the lake, for life would be insupportable. "i wonder what it is that ails you," said mr. kennedy. "nothing serious. one can't always help having a headache, you know." "i don't think you take enough exercise, laura. i would propose that you should walk four miles every day after breakfast. i will always be ready to accompany you. i have spoken to dr. macnuthrie--" "i hate dr. macnuthrie." "why should you hate dr. macnuthrie, laura?" "how can i tell why? i do. that is quite reason enough why you should not send for him to me." "you are unreasonable, laura. one chooses a doctor on account of his reputation in his profession, and that of dr. macnuthrie stands high." "i do not want any doctor." "but if you are ill, my dear--" "i am not ill." "but you said you had a headache. you have said so for the last ten days." "having a headache is not being ill. i only wish you would not talk of it, and then perhaps i should get rid of it." "i cannot believe that. headache in nine cases out of ten comes from the stomach." though he said this,--saying it because it was the common-place common-sense sort of thing to say, still at the very moment there was the shadow of the truth before his eyes. what if this headache meant simple dislike to him, and to his modes of life? "it is nothing of that sort," said lady laura, impatient at having her ailment inquired into with so much accuracy. "then what is it? you cannot think that i can be happy to hear you complaining of headache every day,--making it an excuse for absolute idleness." "what is it that you want me to do?" she said, jumping up from her seat. "set me a task, and if i don't go mad over it, i'll get through it. there are the account books. give them to me. i don't suppose i can see the figures, but i'll try to see them." "laura, this is unkind of you,--and ungrateful." "of course;--it is everything that is bad. what a pity that you did not find it out last year! oh dear, oh dear! what am i to do?" then she threw herself down upon the sofa, and put both her hands up to her temples. "i will send for dr. macnuthrie at once," said mr. kennedy, walking towards the door very slowly, and speaking as slowly as he walked. "no;--do no such thing," she said, springing to her feet again and intercepting him before he reached the door. "if he comes i will not see him. i give you my word that i will not speak to him if he comes. you do not understand," she said; "you do not understand at all." "what is it that i ought to understand?" he asked. "that a woman does not like to be bothered." he made no reply at once, but stood there twisting the handle of the door, and collecting his thoughts. "yes," said he at last; "i am beginning to find that out;--and to find out also what it is that bothers a woman, as you call it. i can see now what it is that makes your head ache. it is not the stomach. you are quite right there. it is the prospect of a quiet decent life, to which would be attached the performance of certain homely duties. dr. macnuthrie is a learned man, but i doubt whether he can do anything for such a malady." "you are quite right, robert; he can do nothing." "it is a malady you must cure for yourself, laura;--and which is to be cured by perseverance. if you can bring yourself to try--" "but i cannot bring myself to try at all," she said. "do you mean to tell me, laura, that you will make no effort to do your duty as my wife?" "i mean to tell you that i will not try to cure a headache by doing sums. that is all that i mean to say at this moment. if you will leave me for awhile, so that i may lie down, perhaps i shall be able to come to dinner." he still hesitated, standing with the door in his hand. "but if you go on scolding me," she continued, "what i shall do is to go to bed directly you go away." he hesitated for a moment longer, and then left the room without another word. chapter xxxiii mr. slide's grievance our hero was elected member for loughton without any trouble to him or, as far as he could see, to any one else. he made one speech from a small raised booth that was called a platform, and that was all that he was called upon to do. mr. grating made a speech in proposing him, and mr. shortribs another in seconding him; and these were all the speeches that were required. the thing seemed to be so very easy that he was afterwards almost offended when he was told that the bill for so insignificant a piece of work came to £ s. d. he had seen no occasion for spending even the odd forty-seven pounds. but then he was member for loughton; and as he passed the evening alone at the inn, having dined in company with messrs. grating, shortribs, and sundry other influential electors, he began to reflect that, after all, it was not so very great a thing to be a member of parliament. it almost seemed that that which had come to him so easily could not be of much value. on the following day he went to the castle, and was there when the earl arrived. they two were alone together, and the earl was very kind to him. "so you had no opponent after all," said the great man of loughton, with a slight smile. "not the ghost of another candidate." "i did not think there would be. they have tried it once or twice and have always failed. there are only one or two in the place who like to go one way just because their neighbours go the other. but, in truth, there is no conservative feeling in the place!" phineas, although he was at the present moment the member for loughton himself, could not but enjoy the joke of this. could there be any liberal feeling in such a place, or, indeed, any political feeling whatsoever? would not messrs. grating and shortribs have done just the same had it happened that lord brentford had been a tory peer? "they all seemed to be very obliging," said phineas, in answer to the earl. "yes, they are. there isn't a house in the town, you know, let for longer than seven years, and most of them merely from year to year. and, do you know, i haven't a farmer on the property with a lease,--not one; and they don't want leases. they know they're safe. but i do like the people round me to be of the same way of thinking as myself about politics." on the second day after dinner,--the last evening of finn's visit to saulsby,--the earl fell suddenly into a confidential conversation about his daughter and his son, and about violet effingham. so sudden, indeed, and so confidential was the conversation, that phineas was almost silenced for awhile. a word or two had been said about loughlinter, of the beauty of the place and of the vastness of the property. "i am almost afraid," said lord brentford, "that laura is not happy there." "i hope she is," said phineas. "he is so hard and dry, and what i call exacting. that is just the word for it. now laura has never been used to that. with me she always had her own way in everything, and i always found her fit to have it. i do not understand why her husband should treat her differently." "perhaps it is the temper of the man." "temper, yes; but what a bad prospect is that for her! and she, too, has a temper, and so he will find if he tries her too far. i cannot stand loughlinter. i told laura so fairly. it is one of those houses in which a man cannot call his hours his own. i told laura that i could not undertake to remain there for above a day or two." "it is very sad," said phineas. "yes, indeed; it is sad for her, poor girl; and very sad for me too. i have no one else but laura,--literally no one; and now i am divided from her! it seems that she has been taken as much away from me as though her husband lived in china. i have lost them both now!" "i hope not, my lord." "i say i have. as to chiltern, i can perceive that he becomes more and more indifferent to me every day. he thinks of me only as a man in his way who must die some day and may die soon." "you wrong him, lord brentford." "i do not wrong him at all. why has he answered every offer i have made him with so much insolence as to make it impossible for me to put myself into further communion with him?" "he thinks that you have wronged him." "yes;--because i have been unable to shut my eyes to his mode of living. i was to go on paying his debts, and taking no other notice whatsoever of his conduct!" "i do not think he is in debt now." "because his sister the other day spent every shilling of her fortune in paying them. she gave him £ , ! do you think she would have married kennedy but for that? i don't. i could not prevent her. i had said that i would not cripple my remaining years of life by raising the money, and i could not go back from my word." "you and chiltern might raise the money between you." "it would do no good now. she has married mr. kennedy, and the money is nothing to her or to him. chiltern might have put things right by marrying miss effingham if he pleased." "i think he did his best there." "no;--he did his worst. he asked her to be his wife as a man asks for a railway-ticket or a pair of gloves, which he buys with a price; and because she would not jump into his mouth he gave it up. i don't believe he even really wanted to marry her. i suppose he has some disreputable connection to prevent it." "nothing of the kind. he would marry her to-morrow if he could. my belief is that miss effingham is sincere in refusing him." "i don't doubt her sincerity." "and that she will never change." "ah, well; i don't agree with you, and i daresay i know them both better than you do. but everything goes against me. i had set my heart upon it, and therefore of course i shall be disappointed. what is he going to do this autumn?" "he is yachting now." "and who are with him?" "i think the boat belongs to captain colepepper." "the greatest blackguard in all england! a man who shoots pigeons and rides steeple-chases! and the worst of chiltern is this, that even if he didn't like the man, and if he were tired of this sort of life, he would go on just the same because he thinks it a fine thing not to give way." this was so true that phineas did not dare to contradict the statement, and therefore said nothing. "i had some faint hope," continued the earl, "while laura could always watch him; because, in his way, he was fond of his sister. but that is all over now. she will have enough to do to watch herself!" phineas had felt that the earl had put him down rather sharply when he had said that violet would never accept lord chiltern, and he was therefore not a little surprised when lord brentford spoke again of miss effingham the following morning, holding in his hand a letter which he had just received from her. "they are to be at loughlinter on the tenth," he said, "and she purposes to come here for a couple of nights on her way." "lady baldock and all?" "well, yes; lady baldock and all. i am not very fond of lady baldock, but i will put up with her for a couple of days for the sake of having violet. she is more like a child of my own now than anybody else. i shall not see her all the autumn afterwards. i cannot stand loughlinter." "it will be better when the house is full." "you will be there, i suppose?" "well, no; i think not," said phineas. "you have had enough of it, have you?" phineas made no reply to this, but smiled slightly. "by jove, i don't wonder at it," said the earl. phineas, who would have given all he had in the world to be staying in the same country house with violet effingham, could not explain how it had come to pass that he was obliged to absent himself. "i suppose you were asked?" said the earl. "oh, yes, i was asked. nothing can be kinder than they are." "kennedy told me that you were coming as a matter of course." "i explained to him after that," said phineas, "that i should not return. i shall go over to ireland. i have a deal of hard reading to do, and i can get through it there without interruption." he went up from saulsby to london on that day, and found himself quite alone in mrs. bunce's lodgings. i mean not only that he was alone at his lodgings, but he was alone at his club, and alone in the streets. july was not quite over, and yet all the birds of passage had migrated. mr. mildmay, by his short session, had half ruined the london tradesmen, and had changed the summer mode of life of all those who account themselves to be anybody. phineas, as he sat alone in his room, felt himself to be nobody. he had told the earl that he was going to ireland, and to ireland he must go;--because he had nothing else to do. he had been asked indeed to join one or two parties in their autumn plans. mr. monk had wanted him to go to the pyrenees, and lord chiltern had suggested that he should join the yacht;--but neither plan suited him. it would have suited him to be at loughlinter with violet effingham, but loughlinter was a barred house to him. his old friend, lady laura, had told him not to come thither, explaining, with sufficient clearness, her reasons for excluding him from the number of her husband's guests. as he thought of it the past scenes of his life became very marvellous to him. twelve months since he would have given all the world for a word of love from lady laura, and had barely dared to hope that such a word, at some future day, might possibly be spoken. now such a word had in truth been spoken, and it had come to be simply a trouble to him. she had owned to him,--for, in truth, such had been the meaning of her warning to him,--that, though she had married another man, she had loved and did love him. but in thinking of this he took no pride in it. it was not till he had thought of it long that he began to ask himself whether he might not be justified in gathering from what happened some hope that violet also might learn to love him. he had thought so little of himself as to have been afraid at first to press his suit with lady laura. might he not venture to think more of himself, having learned how far he had succeeded? but how was he to get at violet effingham? from the moment at which he had left saulsby he had been angry with himself for not having asked lord brentford to allow him to remain there till after the baldock party should have gone on to loughlinter. the earl, who was very lonely in his house, would have consented at once. phineas, indeed, was driven to confess to himself that success with violet would at once have put an end to all his friendship with lord brentford;--as also to all his friendship with lord chiltern. he would, in such case, be bound in honour to vacate his seat and give back loughton to his offended patron. but he would have given up much more than his seat for violet effingham! at present, however, he had no means of getting at her to ask her the question. he could hardly go to loughlinter in opposition to the wishes of lady laura. a little adventure happened to him in london which somewhat relieved the dulness of the days of the first week in august. he remained in london till the middle of august, half resolving to rush down to saulsby when violet effingham should be there,--endeavouring to find some excuse for such a proceeding, but racking his brains in vain,--and then there came about his little adventure. the adventure was commenced by the receipt of the following letter:-- banner of the people office, rd august, --. my dear finn, i must say i think you have treated me badly, and without that sort of brotherly fairness which we on the public press expect from one another. however, perhaps we can come to an understanding, and if so, things may yet go smoothly. give me a turn and i am not at all adverse to give you one. will you come to me here, or shall i call upon you? yours always, q. s. phineas was not only surprised, but disgusted also, at the receipt of this letter. he could not imagine what was the deed by which he had offended mr. slide. he thought over all the circumstances of his short connection with the _people's banner_, but could remember nothing which might have created offence. but his disgust was greater than his surprise. he thought that he had done nothing and said nothing to justify quintus slide in calling him "dear finn." he, who had lady laura's secret in his keeping; he who hoped to be the possessor of violet effingham's affections,--he to be called "dear finn" by such a one as quintus slide! he soon made up his mind that he would not answer the note, but would go at once to the _people's banner_ office at the hour at which quintus slide was always there. he certainly would not write to "dear slide;" and, until he had heard something more of this cause of offence, he would not make an enemy for ever by calling the man "dear sir." he went to the office of the _people's banner_, and found mr. slide ensconced in a little glass cupboard, writing an article for the next day's copy. "i suppose you're very busy," said phineas, inserting himself with some difficulty on to a little stool in the corner of the cupboard. "not so particular but what i'm glad to see you. you shoot, don't you?" "shoot!" said phineas. it could not be possible that mr. slide was intending, after this abrupt fashion, to propose a duel with pistols. "grouse and pheasants, and them sort of things?" asked mr. slide. "oh, ah; i understand. yes, i shoot sometimes." "is it the th or th for grouse in scotland?" "the th," said phineas. "what makes you ask that just now?" "i'm doing a letter about it,--advising men not to shoot too many of the young birds, and showing that they'll have none next year if they do. i had a fellow here just now who knew all about it, and he put down a lot; but i forgot to make him tell me the day of beginning. what's a good place to date from?" phineas suggested callender or stirling. "stirling's too much of a town, isn't it? callender sounds better for game, i think." so the letter which was to save the young grouse was dated from callender; and mr. quintus slide having written the word, threw down his pen, came off his stool, and rushed at once at his subject. "well, now, finn," he said, "don't you know that you've treated me badly about loughton?" "treated you badly about loughton!" phineas, as he repeated the words, was quite in the dark as to mr. slide's meaning. did mr. slide intend to convey a reproach because phineas had not personally sent some tidings of the election to the _people's banner_? "very badly," said mr. slide, with his arms akimbo,--"very badly indeed! men on the press together do expect that they're to be stuck by, and not thrown over. damn it, i say; what's the good of a brotherhood if it ain't to be brotherhood?" "upon my word, i don't know what you mean," said phineas. "didn't i tell you that i had loughton in my heye?" said quintus. "oh--h!" "it's very well to say ho, and look guilty, but didn't i tell you?" "i never heard such nonsense in my life." "nonsense?" "how on earth could you have stood for loughton? what interest would you have there? you could not even have found an elector to propose you." "now, i'll tell you what i'll do, finn. i think you have thrown me over most shabby, but i won't stand about that. you shall have loughton this session if you'll promise to make way for me after the next election. if you'll agree to that, we'll have a special leader to say how well lord what's-his-name has done with the borough; and we'll be your horgan through the whole session." "i never heard such nonsense in my life. in the first place, loughton is safe to be in the schedule of reduced boroughs. it will be thrown into the county, or joined with a group." "i'll stand the chance of that. will you agree?" "agree! no! it's the most absurd proposal that was ever made. you might as well ask me whether i would agree that you should go to heaven. go to heaven if you can, i should say. i have not the slightest objection. but it's nothing to me." "very well," said quintus slide. "very well! now we understand each other, and that's all that i desire. i think that i can show you what it is to come among gentlemen of the press, and then to throw them over. good morning." phineas, quite satisfied at the result of the interview as regarded himself, and by no means sorry that there should have arisen a cause of separation between mr. quintus slide and his "dear finn," shook off a little dust from his foot as he left the office of the _people's banner_, and resolved that in future he would attempt to make no connection in that direction. as he returned home he told himself that a member of parliament should be altogether independent of the press. on the second morning after his meeting with his late friend, he saw the result of his independence. there was a startling article, a tremendous article, showing the pressing necessity of immediate reform, and proving the necessity by an illustration of the borough-mongering rottenness of the present system. when such a patron as lord brentford,--himself a cabinet minister with a sinecure,--could by his mere word put into the house such a stick as phineas finn,--a man who had struggled to stand on his legs before the speaker, but had wanted both the courage and the capacity, nothing further could surely be wanted to prove that the reform bill of required to be supplemented by some more energetic measure. phineas laughed as he read the article, and declared to himself that the joke was a good joke. but, nevertheless, he suffered. mr. quintus slide, when he was really anxious to use his thong earnestly, could generally raise a wale. chapter xxxiv was he honest? on the th of august, phineas finn did return to loughton. he went down by the mail train on the night of the th, having telegraphed to the inn for a bed, and was up eating his breakfast in that hospitable house at nine o'clock. the landlord and landlady with all their staff were at a loss to imagine what had brought down their member again so quickly to his borough; but the reader, who will remember that lady baldock with her daughter and violet effingham were to pass the th of the month at saulsby, may perhaps be able to make a guess on the subject. phineas had been thinking of making this sudden visit to loughton ever since he had been up in town, but he could suggest to himself no reason to be given to lord brentford for his sudden reappearance. the earl had been very kind to him, but he had said nothing which could justify his young friend in running in and out of saulsby castle at pleasure, without invitation and without notice. phineas was so well aware of this himself that often as he had half resolved during the last ten days to return to saulsby, so often had he determined that he could not do so. he could think of no excuse. then the heavens favoured him, and he received a letter from lord chiltern, in which there was a message for lord brentford. "if you see my father, tell him that i am ready at any moment to do what is necessary for raising the money for laura." taking this as his excuse he returned to loughton. as chance arranged it, he met the earl standing on the great steps before his own castle doors. "what, finn; is this you? i thought you were in ireland." "not yet, my lord, as you see." then he opened his budget at once, and blushed at his own hypocrisy as he went on with his story. he had, he said, felt the message from chiltern to be so all-important that he could not bring himself to go over to ireland without delivering it. he urged upon the earl that he might learn from this how anxious lord chiltern was to effect a reconciliation. when it occurred to him, he said, that there might be a hope of doing anything towards such an object, he could not go to ireland leaving the good work behind him. in love and war all things are fair. so he declared to himself; but as he did so he felt that his story was so weak that it would hardly gain for him an admittance into the castle. in this he was completely wrong. the earl, swallowing the bait, put his arm through that of the intruder, and, walking with him through the paths of the shrubbery, at length confessed that he would be glad to be reconciled to his son if it were possible. "let him come here, and she shall be here also," said the earl, speaking of violet. to this phineas could say nothing out loud, but he told himself that all should be fair between them. he would take no dishonest advantage of lord chiltern. he would give lord chiltern the whole message as it was given to him by lord brentford. but should it so turn out that he himself got an opportunity of saying to violet all that he had come to say, and should it also turn out,--an event which he acknowledged to himself to be most unlikely,--that violet did not reject him, then how could he write his letter to lord chiltern? so he resolved that the letter should be written before he saw violet. but how could he write such a letter and instantly afterwards do that which would be false to the spirit of a letter so written? could he bid lord chiltern come home to woo violet effingham, and instantly go forth to woo her for himself? he found that he could not do so,--unless he told the whole truth to lord chiltern. in no other way could he carry out his project and satisfy his own idea of what was honest. the earl bade him send to the hotel for his things. "the baldock people are all here, you know, but they go very early to-morrow." then phineas declared that he also must return to london very early on the morrow;--but in the meantime he would go to the inn and fetch his things. the earl thanked him again and again for his generous kindness; and phineas, blushing as he received the thanks, went back and wrote his letter to lord chiltern. it was an elaborate letter, written, as regards the first and larger portion of it, with words intended to bring the prodigal son back to the father's home. and everything was said about miss effingham that could or should have been said. then, on the last page, he told his own story. "now," he said, "i must speak of myself:"--and he went on to explain to his friend, in the plainest language that he could use, his own position. "i have loved her," he said, "for six months, and i am here with the express intention of asking her to take me. the chances are ten to one that she refuses me. i do not deprecate your anger,--if you choose to be angry. but i am endeavouring to treat you well, and i ask you to do the same by me. i must convey to you your father's message, and after doing so i cannot address myself to miss effingham without telling you. i should feel myself to be false were i to do so. in the event,--the probable, nay, almost certain event of my being refused,--i shall trust you to keep my secret. do not quarrel with me if you can help it;--but if you must i will be ready." then he posted the letter and went up to the castle. he had only the one day for his action, and he knew that violet was watched by lady baldock as by a dragon. he was told that the earl was out with the young ladies, and was shown to his room. on going to the drawing-room he found lady baldock, with whom he had been, to a certain degree, a favourite, and was soon deeply engaged in a conversation as to the practicability of shutting up all the breweries and distilleries by act of parliament. but lunch relieved him, and brought the young ladies in at two. miss effingham seemed to be really glad to see him, and even miss boreham, lady baldock's daughter, was very gracious to him. for the earl had been speaking well of his young member, and phineas had in a way grown into the good graces of sober and discreet people. after lunch they were to ride;--the earl, that is, and violet. lady baldock and her daughter were to have the carriage. "i can mount you, finn, if you would like it," said the earl. "of course he'll like it," said violet; "do you suppose mr. finn will object to ride with me in saulsby woods? it won't be the first time, will it?" "violet," said lady baldock, "you have the most singular way of talking." "i suppose i have," said violet; "but i don't think i can change it now. mr. finn knows me too well to mind it much." it was past five before they were on horseback, and up to that time phineas had not found himself alone with violet effingham for a moment. they had sat together after lunch in the dining-room for nearly an hour, and had sauntered into the hall and knocked about the billiard balls, and then stood together at the open doors of a conservatory. but lady baldock or miss boreham had always been there. nothing could be more pleasant than miss effingham's words, or more familiar than her manner to phineas. she had expressed strong delight at his success in getting a seat in parliament, and had talked to him about the kennedys as though they had created some special bond of union between her and phineas which ought to make them intimate. but, for all that, she could not be got to separate herself from lady baldock;--and when she was told that if she meant to ride she must go and dress herself, she went at once. but he thought that he might have a chance on horseback; and after they had been out about half an hour, chance did favour him. for awhile he rode behind with the carriage, calculating that by his so doing the earl would be put off his guard, and would be disposed after awhile to change places with him. and so it fell out. at a certain fall of ground in the park, where the road turned round and crossed a bridge over the little river, the carriage came up with the first two horses, and lady baldock spoke a word to the earl. then violet pulled up, allowing the vehicle to pass the bridge first, and in this way she and phineas were brought together,--and in this way they rode on. but he was aware that he must greatly increase the distance between them and the others of their party before he could dare to plead his suit, and even were that done he felt that he would not know how to plead it on horseback. they had gone on some half mile in this way when they reached a spot on which a green ride led away from the main road through the trees to the left. "you remember this place, do you not?" said violet. phineas declared that he remembered it well. "i must go round by the woodman's cottage. you won't mind coming?" phineas said that he would not mind, and trotted on to tell them in the carriage. "where is she going?" asked lady baldock; and then, when phineas explained, she begged the earl to go back to violet. the earl, feeling the absurdity of this, declared that violet knew her way very well herself, and thus phineas got his opportunity. they rode on almost without speaking for nearly a mile, cantering through the trees, and then they took another turn to the right, and came upon the cottage. they rode to the door, and spoke a word or two to the woman there, and then passed on. "i always come here when i am at saulsby," said violet, "that i may teach myself to think kindly of lord chiltern." "i understand it all," said phineas. "he used to be so nice;--and is so still, i believe, only that he has taught himself to be so rough. will he ever change, do you think?" phineas knew that in this emergency it was his especial duty to be honest. "i think he would be changed altogether if we could bring him here,--so that he should live among his friends." "do you think he would? we must put our heads together, and do it. don't you think that it is to be done?" phineas replied that he thought it was to be done. "i'll tell you the truth at once, miss effingham," he said. "you can do it by a single word." "yes;--yes;" she said; "but i do not mean that;--without that. it is absurd, you know, that a father should make such a condition as that." phineas said that he thought it was absurd; and then they rode on again, cantering through the wood. he had been bold to speak to her about lord chiltern as he had done, and she had answered just as he would have wished to be answered. but how could he press his suit for himself while she was cantering by his side? presently they came to rough ground over which they were forced to walk, and he was close by her side. "mr. finn," she said, "i wonder whether i may ask a question?" "any question," he replied. "is there any quarrel between you and lady laura?" "none." "or between you and him?" "no;--none. we are greater allies than ever." "then why are you not going to be at loughlinter? she has written to me expressly saying you would not be there." he paused a moment before he replied. "it did not suit," he said at last. "it is a secret then?" "yes;--it is a secret. you are not angry with me?" "angry; no." "it is not a secret of my own, or i should not keep it from you." "perhaps i can guess it," she said. "but i will not try. i will not even think of it." "the cause, whatever it be, has been full of sorrow to me. i would have given my left hand to have been at loughlinter this autumn." "are you so fond of it?" "i should have been staying there with you," he said. he paused, and for a moment there was no word spoken by either of them; but he could perceive that the hand in which she held her whip was playing with her horse's mane with a nervous movement. "when i found how it must be, and that i must miss you, i rushed down here that i might see you for a moment. and now i am here i do not dare to speak to you of myself." they were now beyond the rocks, and violet, without speaking a word, again put her horse into a trot. he was by her side in a moment, but he could not see her face. "have you not a word to say to me?" he asked. "no;--no;--no;" she replied, "not a word when you speak to me like that. there is the carriage. come;--we will join them." then she cantered on, and he followed her till they reached the earl and lady baldock and miss boreham. "i have done my devotions now," said miss effingham, "and am ready to return to ordinary life." phineas could not find another moment in which to speak to her. though he spent the evening with her, and stood over her as she sang at the earl's request, and pressed her hand as she went to bed, and was up to see her start in the morning, he could not draw from her either a word or a look. chapter xxxv mr. monk upon reform phineas finn went to ireland immediately after his return from saulsby, having said nothing further to violet effingham, and having heard nothing further from her than what is recorded in the last chapter. he felt very keenly that his position was unsatisfactory, and brooded over it all the autumn and early winter; but he could form no plan for improving it. a dozen times he thought of writing to miss effingham, and asking for an explicit answer. he could not, however, bring himself to write the letter, thinking that written expressions of love are always weak and vapid,--and deterred also by a conviction that violet, if driven to reply in writing, would undoubtedly reply by a refusal. fifty times he rode again in his imagination his ride in saulsby wood, and he told himself as often that the syren's answer to him,--her no, no, no,--had been, of all possible answers, the most indefinite and provoking. the tone of her voice as she galloped away from him, the bearing of her countenance when he rejoined her, her manner to him when he saw her start from the castle in the morning, all forbade him to believe that his words to her had been taken as an offence. she had replied to him with a direct negative, simply with the word "no;" but she had so said it that there had hardly been any sting in the no; and he had known at the moment that whatever might be the result of his suit, he need not regard violet effingham as his enemy. but the doubt made his sojourn in ireland very wearisome to him. and there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort, though he was not left even at this period of his life without a continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. and, first, i will say a word of his discomfort. he heard not a line from lord chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his lordship. from lady laura he did hear frequently. lady laura wrote to him exactly as though she had never warned him away from loughlinter, and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. she sent him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of the guests at loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word or two here and there of her husband. the letters were very good letters, and he preserved them carefully. it was manifest to him that they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved. in one of these, which he received about the end of november, she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the willingford bull, and that he had sent to portman square for all property of his own that had been left there. but there was no word in that letter of violet effingham; and though lady laura did speak more than once of violet, she always did so as though violet were simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. there was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part for miss effingham. he had thought that violet might probably tell her friend what had occurred at saulsby;--but if she did so, lady laura was happy in her powers of reticence. our hero was disturbed also when he reached home by finding that mrs. flood jones and miss flood jones had retired from killaloe for the winter. i do not know whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. but he was made to understand that mary flood jones had been taken away from killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. in the middle of the heat of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing feeling about poor mary. this he had answered petulantly. nothing more had been written to him about miss jones, and nothing was said to him when he reached home. he could not, however, but ask after mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made acquainted at some period of our lives. "i think, phineas," said his sister, "we had better say nothing about dear mary. she is not here at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with us." "what's all that about?" phineas had demanded,--understanding the whole matter thoroughly. then his sister had demurely refused to say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said about miss mary flood jones. they were at floodborough, living, he did not doubt, in a very desolate way,--and quite willing, he did not doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two occasions between him and the young lady. but how was he to do this with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? now that he was in ireland, he thought that he did love dear mary very dearly. he felt that he had two identities,--that he was, as it were, two separate persons,--and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very much in love with violet effingham in his position of man of fashion and member of parliament in england, and also warmly attached to dear little mary flood jones as an irishman of killaloe. he was aware, however, that there was a prejudice against such fulness of heart, and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant to miss effingham. how was it possible that he should marry dear mary,--he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands! it was not possible. he must abandon all thought of making dear mary his own. no doubt they had been right to remove her. but, still, as he took his solitary walks along the shannon, and up on the hills that overhung the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and dreamed of giving up parliament, of leaving violet to some noble suitor,--to lord chiltern, if she would take him,--and of going to floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to press mary to his heart. miss effingham would probably reject him at last; whereas mary, dear mary, would come to his heart without a scruple of doubt. dear mary! in these days of dreaming, he told himself that, after all, dear mary was his real love. but, of course, such days were days of dreaming only. he had letters in his pocket from lady laura kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in earnest of giving up parliament. and then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. there lived, or had lived, in the town of galway a very eccentric old lady, one miss marian persse, who was the aunt of mrs. finn, the mother of our hero. with this lady dr. finn had quarrelled persistently ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to interfere in the management of his family,--offering to purchase such right by favourable arrangements in reference to her will. this the doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. miss persse was not a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money. and now she died, leaving £ , to her nephew phineas finn. another sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a roman catholic seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided. "she couldn't have done better with it," said the old doctor; "and as far as we are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly unexpected." in these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by his son's success in life, and never said much about the law. phineas in truth did do some work during the autumn, reading blue-books, reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same time,--but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him. on the receipt of his legacy he at once offered to repay his father all money that had been advanced him over and above his original allowance; but this the doctor refused to take. "it comes to the same thing, phineas," he said. "what you have of your share now you can't have hereafter. as regards my present income, it has only made me work a little longer than i had intended; and i believe that the later in life a man works, the more likely he is to live." phineas, therefore, when he returned to london, had his £ , in his pocket. he owed some £ ; and the remainder he would, of course, invest. there had been some talk of an autumnal session, but mr. mildmay's decision had at last been against it. who cannot understand that such would be the decision of any minister to whom was left the slightest fraction of free will in the matter? why should any minister court the danger of unnecessary attack, submit himself to unnecessary work, and incur the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest? in the midst of the doubts as to the new and old ministry, when the political needle was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot, pointing now to one set of men as the coming government and then to another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful. and they were thrown out in all good faith. mr. mildmay, when he spoke on the subject to the duke, was earnest in thinking that the question of reform should not be postponed even for six months. "don't pledge yourself," said the duke;--and mr. mildmay did not pledge himself. afterwards, when mr. mildmay found that he was once more assuredly prime minister, he changed his mind, and felt himself to be under a fresh obligation to the duke. lord de terrier had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till february. the country did wait till february, somewhat to the disappointment of phineas finn, who had become tired of blue-books at killaloe. the difference between his english life and his life at home was so great, that it was hardly possible that he should not become weary of the latter. he did become weary of it, but strove gallantly to hide his weariness from his father and mother. at this time the world was talking much about reform, though mr. mildmay had become placidly patient. the feeling was growing, and mr. turnbull, with his friends, was doing all he could to make it grow fast. there was a certain amount of excitement on the subject; but the excitement had grown downwards, from the leaders to the people,--from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down, by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of growing upwards, from the dissatisfaction of the masses, till it expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people themselves. there was no strong throb through the country, making men feel that safety was to be had by reform, and could not be had without reform. but there was an understanding that the press and the orators were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of reform must be conceded to them. the sooner the concession was made, the less it might be necessary to concede. and all men of all parties were agreed on this point. that reform was in itself odious to many of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to be its promoters, was acknowledged. it was not only odious to lord de terrier and to most of those who worked with him, but was equally so to many of mr. mildmay's most constant supporters. the duke had no wish for reform. indeed it is hard to suppose that such a duke can wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be so salutary. workmen were getting full wages. farmers were paying their rent. capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the hundreds. nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant spirit of speculative commerce;--and there was nothing in reform to check that. why should the duke want reform? as for such men as lord brentford, sir harry coldfoot, lord plinlimmon, and mr. legge wilson, it was known to all men that they advocated reform as we all of us advocate doctors. some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. we may hardly hope to avoid it. but let us have as little of the doctor as possible. mr. turnbull, and the cheap press, and the rising spirit of the loudest among the people, made it manifest that something must be conceded. let us be generous in our concession. that was now the doctrine of many,--perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the day. let us be generous. let us at any rate seem to be generous. let us give with an open hand,--but still with a hand which, though open, shall not bestow too much. the coach must be allowed to run down the hill. indeed, unless the coach goes on running no journey will be made. but let us have the drag on both the hind wheels. and we must remember that coaches running down hill without drags are apt to come to serious misfortune. but there were men, even in the cabinet, who had other ideas of public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. mr. gresham was in earnest. plantagenet palliser was in earnest. that exceedingly intelligent young nobleman lord cantrip was in earnest. mr. mildmay threw, perhaps, as much of earnestness into the matter as was compatible with his age and his full appreciation of the manner in which the present cry for reform had been aroused. he was thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, and thoroughly ambitious that he should be written of hereafter as one who to the end of a long life had worked sedulously for the welfare of the people;--but he disbelieved in mr. turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart indulged an aristocratic contempt for the penny press. and there was no man in england more in earnest, more truly desirous of reform, than mr. monk. it was his great political idea that political advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people clamoured for them or did not clamour for them,--even whether they desired them or did not desire them. "you do not ask a child whether he would like to learn his lesson," he would say. "at any rate, you do not wait till he cries for his book." when, therefore, men said to him that there was no earnestness in the cry for reform, that the cry was a false cry, got up for factious purposes by interested persons, he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in obedience to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was a debt due to the people. our hero in the autumn had written to mr. monk on the politics of the moment, and the following had been mr. monk's reply:-- longroyston, october , --. my dear finn, i am staying here with the duke and duchess of st. bungay. the house is very full, and mr. mildmay was here last week; but as i don't shoot, and can't play billiards, and have no taste for charades, i am becoming tired of the gaieties, and shall leave them to-morrow. of course you know that we are not to have the autumn session. i think that mr. mildmay is right. could we have been sure of passing our measure, it would have been very well; but we could not have been sure, and failure with our bill in a session convened for the express purpose of passing it would have injured the cause greatly. we could hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. indeed, we must have resigned. and though i may truly say that i would as lief have a good measure from lord de terrier as from mr. mildmay, and that i am indifferent to my own present personal position, still i think that we should endeavour to keep our seats as long as we honestly believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good measure than are our opponents. i am astonished by the difference of opinion which exists about reform,--not only as to the difference in the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is needed,--but that there should be such a divergence of ideas as to the grand thing to be done and the grand reason for doing it. we are all agreed that we want reform in order that the house of commons may be returned by a larger proportion of the people than is at present employed upon that work, and that each member when returned should represent a somewhat more equal section of the whole constituencies of the country than our members generally do at present. all men confess that a £ county franchise must be too high, and that a borough with less than two hundred registered voters must be wrong. but it seems to me that but few among us perceive, or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing these things and reforming what is wrong without delay. one great authority told us the other day that the sole object of legislation on this subject should be to get together the best possible members of parliament. that to me would be a most repulsive idea if it were not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative. who shall say what is best; or what characteristic constitutes excellence in a member of parliament? if the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private character, or even excellence in patriotism, then i say that he is utterly wrong, and has never touched with his intellect the true theory of representation. one only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the excellence of likeness. as a portrait should be like the person portrayed, so should a representative house be like the people whom it represents. nor in arranging a franchise does it seem to me that we have a right to regard any other view. if a country be unfit for representative government,--and it may be that there are still peoples unable to use properly that greatest of all blessings,--the question as to what state policy may be best for them is a different question. but if we do have representation, let the representative assembly be like the people, whatever else may be its virtues,--and whatever else its vices. another great authority has told us that our house of commons should be the mirror of the people. i say, not its mirror, but its miniature. and let the artist be careful to put in every line of the expression of that ever-moving face. to do this is a great work, and the artist must know his trade well. in america the work has been done with so coarse a hand that nothing is shown in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline of the face. as you look from the represented to the representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness; --but there is in that portrait more of the body than of the mind. the true portrait should represent more than the body. with us, hitherto, there have been snatches of the countenance of the nation which have been inimitable,--a turn of the eye here and a curl of the lip there, which have seemed to denote a power almost divine. there have been marvels on the canvas so beautiful that one approaches the work of remodelling it with awe. but not only is the picture imperfect,--a thing of snatches,--but with years it becomes less and still less like its original. the necessity for remodelling it is imperative, and we shall be cowards if we decline the work. but let us be specially careful to retain as much as possible of those lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully representative of our nation. to give to a bare numerical majority of the people that power which the numerical majority has in the united states, would not be to achieve representation. the nation as it now exists would not be known by such a portrait;--but neither can it now be known by that which exists. it seems to me that they who are adverse to change, looking back with an unmeasured respect on what our old parliaments have done for us, ignore the majestic growth of the english people, and forget the present in their worship of the past. they think that we must be what we were,--at any rate, what we were thirty years since. they have not, perhaps, gone into the houses of artisans, or, if there, they have not looked into the breasts of the men. with population vice has increased, and these politicians, with ears but no eyes, hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance. and then they declare to themselves that this wicked, half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not represented. a wicked, half-barbarous, idle people may be controlled;--but not a people thoughtful, educated, and industrious. we must look to it that we do not endeavour to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from thoughtfulness and industry. i hope we shall find you helping at the good work early in the spring. yours, always faithfully, joshua monk. phineas was up in london before the end of january, but did not find there many of those whom he wished to see. mr. low was there, and to him he showed mr. monk's letter, thinking that it must be convincing even to mr. low. this he did in mrs. low's drawing-room, knowing that mrs. low would also condescend to discuss politics on an occasion. he had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and mrs. low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her husband's late pupil. she had condescended to congratulate him on becoming member for an english borough instead of an irish one, and had asked him questions about saulsby castle. but, nevertheless, mr. monk's letter was not received with that respectful admiration which phineas thought that it deserved. phineas, foolishly, had read it out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously from the husband and from the wife. "it is just the usual claptrap," said mr. low, "only put into language somewhat more grandiloquent than usual." "claptrap!" said phineas. "it's what i call downright radical nonsense," said mrs. low, nodding her head energetically. "portrait indeed! why should we want to have a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? what we all want is to have things quiet and orderly." "then you'd better have a paternal government at once," said phineas. "just so," said mr. low,--"only that what you call a paternal government is not always quiet and orderly. national order i take to be submission to the law. i should not think it quiet and orderly if i were sent to cayenne without being brought before a jury." "but such a man as you would not be sent to cayenne," said phineas, "my next-door neighbour might be,--which would be almost as bad. let him be sent to cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that he has deserved it. my idea of government is this,--that we want to be governed by law and not by caprice, and that we must have a legislature to make our laws. if i thought that parliament as at present established made the laws badly, i would desire a change; but i doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in parliament which reform will give us." "of course not," said mrs. low. "but we shall have a lot of beggars put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to." then phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or any woman on a point of politics,--not even though he who argues may have an eloquent letter from a philosophical cabinet minister in his pocket to assist him. chapter xxxvi phineas finn makes progress february was far advanced and the new reform bill had already been brought forward, before lady laura kennedy came up to town. phineas had of course seen mr. kennedy and had heard from him tidings of his wife. she was at saulsby with lady baldock and miss boreham and violet effingham, but was to be in london soon. mr. kennedy, as it appeared, did not quite know when he was to expect his wife; and phineas thought that he could perceive from the tone of the husband's voice that something was amiss. he could not however ask any questions excepting such as referred to the expected arrival. was miss effingham to come to london with lady laura? mr. kennedy believed that miss effingham would be up before easter, but he did not know whether she would come with his wife. "women," he said, "are so fond of mystery that one can never quite know what they intend to do." he corrected himself at once however, perceiving that he had seemed to say something against his wife, and explained that his general accusation against the sex was not intended to apply to lady laura. this, however, he did so awkwardly as to strengthen the feeling with phineas that something assuredly was wrong. "miss effingham," said mr. kennedy, "never seems to know her own mind." "i suppose she is like other beautiful girls who are petted on all sides," said phineas. "as for her beauty, i don't think much of it," said mr. kennedy; "and as for petting, i do not understand it in reference to grown persons. children may be petted, and dogs,--though that too is bad; but what you call petting for grown persons is i think frivolous and almost indecent." phineas could not help thinking of lord chiltern's opinion that it would have been wise to have left mr. kennedy in the hands of the garrotters. the debate on the second reading of the bill was to be commenced on the st of march, and two days before that lady laura arrived in grosvenor place. phineas got a note from her in three words to say that she was at home and would see him if he called on sunday afternoon. the sunday to which she alluded was the last day of february. phineas was now more certain than ever that something was wrong. had there been nothing wrong between lady laura and her husband, she would not have rebelled against him by asking visitors to the house on a sunday. he had nothing to do with that, however, and of course he did as he was desired. he called on the sunday, and found mrs. bonteen sitting with lady laura. "i am just in time for the debate," said lady laura, when the first greeting was over. "you don't mean to say that you intend to sit it out," said mrs. bonteen. "every word of it,--unless i lose my seat. what else is there to be done at present?" "but the place they give us is so unpleasant," said mrs. bonteen. "there are worse places even than the ladies' gallery," said lady laura. "and perhaps it is as well to make oneself used to inconveniences of all kinds. you will speak, mr. finn?" "i intend to do so." "of course you will. the great speeches will be mr. gresham's, mr. daubeny's, and mr. monk's." "mr. palliser intends to be very strong," said mrs. bonteen. "a man cannot be strong or not as he likes it," said lady laura. "mr. palliser i believe to be a most useful man, but he never can become an orator. he is of the same class as mr. kennedy,--only of course higher in the class." "we all look for a great speech from mr. kennedy," said mrs. bonteen. "i have not the slightest idea whether he will open his lips," said lady laura. immediately after that mrs. bonteen took her leave. "i hate that woman like poison," continued lady laura. "she is always playing a game, and it is such a small game that she plays! and she contributes so little to society. she is not witty nor well-informed,--not even sufficiently ignorant or ridiculous to be a laughing-stock. one gets nothing from her, and yet she has made her footing good in the world." "i thought she was a friend of yours." "you did not think so! you could not have thought so! how can you bring such an accusation against me, knowing me as you do? but never mind mrs. bonteen now. on what day shall you speak?" "on tuesday if i can." "i suppose you can arrange it?" "i shall endeavour to do so, as far as any arrangement can go." "we shall carry the second reading," said lady laura. "yes," said phineas; "i think we shall; but by the votes of men who are determined so to pull the bill to pieces in committee, that its own parents will not know it. i doubt whether mr. mildmay will have the temper to stand it." "they tell me that mr. mildmay will abandon the custody of the bill to mr. gresham after his first speech." "i don't know that mr. gresham's temper is more enduring than mr. mildmay's," said phineas. "well;--we shall see. my own impression is that nothing would save the country so effectually at the present moment as the removal of mr. turnbull to a higher and a better sphere." "let us say the house of lords," said phineas. "god forbid!" said lady laura. phineas sat there for half an hour and then got up to go, having spoken no word on any other subject than that of politics. he longed to ask after violet. he longed to make some inquiry respecting lord chiltern. and, to tell the truth, he felt painfully curious to hear lady laura say something about her own self. he could not but remember what had been said between them up over the waterfall, and how he had been warned not to return to loughlinter. and then again, did lady laura know anything of what had passed between him and violet? "where is your brother?" he said, as he rose from his chair. "oswald is in london. he was here not an hour before you came in." "where is he staying?" "at moroni's. he goes down on tuesday, i think. he is to see his father to-morrow morning." "by agreement?" "yes;--by agreement. there is a new trouble,--about money that they think to be due to me. but i cannot tell you all now. there have been some words between mr. kennedy and papa. but i won't talk about it. you would find oswald at moroni's at any hour before eleven to-morrow." "did he say anything about me?" asked phineas. "we mentioned your name certainly." "i do not ask from vanity, but i want to know whether he is angry with me." "angry with you! not in the least. i'll tell you just what he said. he said he should not wish to live even with you, but that he would sooner try it with you than with any man he ever knew." "he had got a letter from me?" "he did not say so;--but he did not say he had not." "i will see him to-morrow if i can." and then phineas prepared to go. "one word, mr. finn," said lady laura, hardly looking him in the face and yet making an effort to do so. "i wish you to forget what i said to you at loughlinter." "it shall be as though it were forgotten," said phineas. "let it be absolutely forgotten. in such a case a man is bound to do all that a woman asks him, and no man has a truer spirit of chivalry than yourself. that is all. look in when you can. i will not ask you to dine here as yet, because we are so frightfully dull. do your best on tuesday, and then let us see you on wednesday. good-bye." phineas as he walked across the park towards his club made up his mind that he would forget the scene by the waterfall. he had never quite known what it had meant, and he would wipe it away from his mind altogether. he acknowledged to himself that chivalry did demand of him that he should never allow himself to think of lady laura's rash words to him. that she was not happy with her husband was very clear to him;--but that was altogether another affair. she might be unhappy with her husband without indulging any guilty love. he had never thought it possible that she could be happy living with such a husband as mr. kennedy. all that, however, was now past remedy, and she must simply endure the mode of life which she had prepared for herself. there were other men and women in london tied together for better and worse, in reference to whose union their friends knew that there would be no better;--that it must be all worse. lady laura must bear it, as it was borne by many another married woman. on the monday morning phineas called at moroni's hotel at ten o'clock, but in spite of lady laura's assurance to the contrary, he found that lord chiltern was out. he had felt some palpitation at the heart as he made his inquiry, knowing well the fiery nature of the man he expected to see. it might be that there would be some actual personal conflict between him and this half-mad lord before he got back again into the street. what lady laura had said about her brother did not in the estimation of phineas make this at all the less probable. the half-mad lord was so singular in his ways that it might well be that he should speak handsomely of a rival behind his back and yet take him by the throat as soon as they were together, face to face. and yet, as phineas thought, it was necessary that he should see the half-mad lord. he had written a letter to which he had received no reply, and he considered it to be incumbent on him to ask whether it had been received and whether any answer to it was intended to be given. he went therefore to lord chiltern at once,--as i have said, with some feeling at his heart that there might be violence, at any rate of words, before he should find himself again in the street. but lord chiltern was not there. all that the porter knew was that lord chiltern intended to leave the house on the following morning. then phineas wrote a note and left it with the porter. dear chiltern, i particularly want to see you with reference to a letter i wrote to you last summer. i must be in the house to-day from four till the debate is over. i will be at the reform club from two till half-past three, and will come if you will send for me, or i will meet you anywhere at any hour to-morrow morning. yours, always, p. f. no message came to him at the reform club, and he was in his seat in the house by four o'clock. during the debate a note was brought to him, which ran as follows:-- i have got your letter this moment. of course we must meet. i hunt on tuesday, and go down by the early train; but i will come to town on wednesday. we shall require to be private, and i will therefore be at your rooms at one o'clock on that day.--c. phineas at once perceived that the note was a hostile note, written in an angry spirit,--written to one whom the writer did not at the moment acknowledge to be his friend. this was certainly the case, whatever lord chiltern may have said to his sister as to his friendship for phineas. phineas crushed the note into his pocket, and of course determined that he would be in his rooms at the hour named. the debate was opened by a speech from mr. mildmay, in which that gentleman at great length and with much perspicuity explained his notion of that measure of parliamentary reform which he thought to be necessary. he was listened to with the greatest attention to the close,--and perhaps, at the end of his speech, with more attention than usual, as there had gone abroad a rumour that the prime minister intended to declare that this would be the last effort of his life in that course. but, if he ever intended to utter such a pledge, his heart misgave him when the time came for uttering it. he merely said that as the management of the bill in committee would be an affair of much labour, and probably spread over many nights, he would be assisted in his work by his colleagues, and especially by his right honourable friend the secretary of state for foreign affairs. it was then understood that mr. gresham would take the lead should the bill go into committee;--but it was understood also that no resignation of leadership had been made by mr. mildmay. the measure now proposed to the house was very much the same as that which had been brought forward in the last session. the existing theory of british representation was not to be changed, but the actual practice was to be brought nearer to the ideal theory. the ideas of manhood suffrage, and of electoral districts, were to be as for ever removed from the bulwarks of the british constitution. there were to be counties with agricultural constituencies, purposely arranged to be purely agricultural, whenever the nature of the counties would admit of its being so. no artificer at reform, let him be conservative or liberal, can make middlesex or lancashire agricultural; but wiltshire and suffolk were to be preserved inviolable to the plough,--and the apples of devonshire were still to have their sway. every town in the three kingdoms with a certain population was to have two members. but here there was much room for cavil,--as all men knew would be the case. who shall say what is a town, or where shall be its limits? bits of counties might be borrowed, so as to lessen the conservatism of the county without endangering the liberalism of the borough. and then there were the boroughs with one member,--and then the groups of little boroughs. in the discussion of any such arrangement how easy is the picking of holes; how impossible the fabrication of a garment that shall be impervious to such picking! then again there was that great question of the ballot. on that there was to be no mistake. mr. mildmay again pledged himself to disappear from the treasury bench should any motion, clause, or resolution be carried by that house in favour of the ballot. he spoke for three hours, and then left the carcass of his bill to be fought for by the opposing armies. no reader of these pages will desire that the speeches in the debate should be even indicated. it soon became known that the conservatives would not divide the house against the second reading of the bill. they declared, however, very plainly their intention of so altering the clauses of the bill in committee,--or at least of attempting so to do,--as to make the bill their bill, rather than the bill of their opponents. to this mr. palliser replied that as long as nothing vital was touched, the government would only be too happy to oblige their friends opposite. if anything vital were touched, the government could only fall back upon their friends on that side. and in this way men were very civil to each other. but mr. turnbull, who opened the debate on the tuesday, thundered out an assurance to gods and men that he would divide the house on the second reading of the bill itself. he did not doubt but that there were many good men and true to go with him into the lobby, but into the lobby he would go if he had no more than a single friend to support him. and he warned the sovereign, and he warned the house, and he warned the people of england, that the measure of reform now proposed by a so-called liberal minister was a measure prepared in concert with the ancient enemies of the people. he was very loud, very angry, and quite successful in hallooing down sundry attempts which were made to interrupt him. "i find," he said, "that there are many members here who do not know me yet,--young members, probably, who are green from the waste lands and road-sides of private life. they will know me soon, and then, may be, there will be less of this foolish noise, less of this elongation of unnecessary necks. our rome must be aroused to a sense of its danger by other voices than these." he was called to order, but it was ruled that he had not been out of order,--and he was very triumphant. mr. monk answered him, and it was declared afterwards that mr. monk's speech was one of the finest pieces of oratory that had ever been uttered in that house. he made one remark personal to mr. turnbull. "i quite agreed with the right honourable gentleman in the chair," he said, "when he declared that the honourable member was not out of order just now. we all of us agree with him always on such points. the rules of our house have been laid down with the utmost latitude, so that the course of our debates may not be frivolously or too easily interrupted. but a member may be so in order as to incur the displeasure of the house, and to merit the reproaches of his countrymen." this little duel gave great life to the debate; but it was said that those two great reformers, mr. turnbull and mr. monk, could never again meet as friends. in the course of the debate on tuesday, phineas got upon his legs. the reader, i trust, will remember that hitherto he had failed altogether as a speaker. on one occasion he had lacked even the spirit to use and deliver an oration which he had prepared. on a second occasion he had broken down,--woefully, and past all redemption, as said those who were not his friends,--unfortunately, but not past redemption, as said those who were his true friends. after that once again he had arisen and said a few words which had called for no remark, and had been spoken as though he were in the habit of addressing the house daily. it may be doubted whether there were half-a-dozen men now present who recognised the fact that this man, who was so well known to so many of them, was now about to make another attempt at a first speech. phineas himself diligently attempted to forget that such was the case. he had prepared for himself a few headings of what he intended to say, and on one or two points had arranged his words. his hope was that even though he should forget the words, he might still be able to cling to the thread of his discourse. when he found himself again upon his legs amidst those crowded seats, for a few moments there came upon him that old sensation of awe. again things grew dim before his eyes, and again he hardly knew at which end of that long chamber the speaker was sitting. but there arose within him a sudden courage, as soon as the sound of his own voice in that room had made itself intimate to his ear; and after the first few sentences, all fear, all awe, was gone from him. when he read his speech in the report afterwards, he found that he had strayed very wide of his intended course, but he had strayed without tumbling into ditches, or falling into sunken pits. he had spoken much from mr. monk's letter, but had had the grace to acknowledge whence had come his inspiration. he hardly knew, however, whether he had failed again or not, till barrington erle came up to him as they were leaving the house, with his old easy pressing manner. "so you have got into form at last," he said. "i always thought that it would come. i never for a moment believed but that it would come sooner or later." phineas finn answered not a word; but he went home and lay awake all night triumphant. the verdict of barrington erle sufficed to assure him that he had succeeded. chapter xxxvii a rough encounter phineas, when he woke, had two matters to occupy his mind,--his success of the previous night, and his coming interview with lord chiltern. he stayed at home the whole morning, knowing that nothing could be done before the hour lord chiltern had named for his visit. he read every word of the debate, studiously postponing the perusal of his own speech till he should come to it in due order. and then he wrote to his father, commencing his letter as though his writing had no reference to the affairs of the previous night. but he soon found himself compelled to break into some mention of it. "i send you a _times_," he said, "in order that you may see that i have had my finger in the pie. i have hitherto abstained from putting myself forward in the house, partly through a base fear for which i despise myself, and partly through a feeling of prudence that a man of my age should not be in a hurry to gather laurels. this is literally true. there has been the fear, and there has been the prudence. my wonder is, that i have not incurred more contempt from others because i have been a coward. people have been so kind to me that i must suppose them to have judged me more leniently than i have judged myself." then, as he was putting up the paper, he looked again at his own speech, and of course read every word of it once more. as he did so it occurred to him that the reporters had been more than courteous to him. the man who had followed him had been, he thought, at any rate as long-winded as himself; but to this orator less than half a column had been granted. to him had been granted ten lines in big type, and after that a whole column and a half. let lord chiltern come and do his worst! when it wanted but twenty minutes to one, and he was beginning to think in what way he had better answer the half-mad lord, should the lord in his wrath be very mad, there came to him a note by the hand of some messenger. he knew at once that it was from lady laura, and opened it in hot haste it was as follows:-- dear mr. finn, we are all talking about your speech. my father was in the gallery and heard it,--and said that he had to thank me for sending you to loughton. that made me very happy. mr. kennedy declares that you were eloquent, but too short. that coming from him is praise indeed. i have seen barrington, who takes pride to himself that you are his political child. violet says that it is the only speech she ever read. i was there, and was delighted. i was sure that it was in you to do it. yours, l. k. i suppose we shall see you after the house is up, but i write this as i shall barely have an opportunity of speaking to you then. i shall be in portman square, not at home, from six till seven. the moment in which phineas refolded this note and put it into his breast coat-pocket was, i think, the happiest of his life. then, before he had withdrawn his hand from his breast, he remembered that what was now about to take place between him and lord chiltern would probably be the means of separating him altogether from lady laura and her family. nay, might it not render it necessary that he should abandon the seat in parliament which had been conferred upon him by the personal kindness of lord brentford? let that be as it might. one thing was clear to him. he would not abandon violet effingham till he should be desired to do so in the plainest language by violet effingham herself. looking at his watch he saw that it was one o'clock, and at that moment lord chiltern was announced. phineas went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his visitor. "chiltern," he said, "i am very glad to see you." but lord chiltern did not take his hand. passing on to the table, with his hat still on his head, and with a dark scowl upon his brow, the young lord stood for a few moments perfectly silent. then he chucked a letter across the table to the spot at which phineas was standing. phineas, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which he, in his great attempt to be honest, had written from the inn at loughton. "it is my own letter to you," he said. "yes; it is your letter to me. i received it oddly enough together with your own note at moroni's,--on monday morning. it has been round the world, i suppose, and reached me only then. you must withdraw it." "withdraw it?" "yes, sir, withdraw it. as far as i can learn, without asking any question which would have committed myself or the young lady, you have not acted upon it. you have not yet done what you there threaten to do. in that you have been very wise, and there can be no difficulty in your withdrawing the letter." "i certainly shall not withdraw it, lord chiltern." "do you remember--what--i once--told you,--about myself and miss effingham?" this question he asked very slowly, pausing between the words, and looking full into the face of his rival, towards whom he had gradually come nearer. and his countenance, as he did so, was by no means pleasant. the redness of his complexion had become more ruddy than usual; he still wore his hat as though with studied insolence; his right hand was clenched; and there was that look of angry purpose in his eye which no man likes to see in the eye of an antagonist. phineas was afraid of no violence, personal to himself; but he was afraid of,--of what i may, perhaps, best call "a row." to be tumbling over the chairs and tables with his late friend and present enemy in mrs. bunce's room would be most unpleasant to him. if there were to be blows he, too, must strike;--and he was very averse to strike lady laura's brother, lord brentford's son, violet effingham's friend. if need be, however, he would strike. "i suppose i remember what you mean," said phineas. "i think you declared that you would quarrel with any man who might presume to address miss effingham. is it that to which you allude?" "it is that," said lord chiltern. "i remember what you said very well. if nothing else was to deter me from asking miss effingham to be my wife, you will hardly think that that ought to have any weight. the threat had no weight." "it was not spoken as a threat, sir, and that you know as well as i do. it was said from a friend to a friend,--as i thought then. but it is not the less true. i wonder what you can think of faith and truth and honesty of purpose when you took advantage of my absence,--you, whom i had told a thousand times that i loved her better than my own soul! you stand before the world as a rising man, and i stand before the world as a man--damned. you have been chosen by my father to sit for our family borough, while i am an outcast from his house. you have cabinet ministers for your friends, while i have hardly a decent associate left to me in the world. but i can say of myself that i have never done anything unworthy of a gentleman, while this thing that you are doing is unworthy of the lowest man." "i have done nothing unworthy," said phineas. "i wrote to you instantly when i had resolved,--though it was painful to me to have to tell such a secret to any one." "you wrote! yes; when i was miles distant; weeks, months away. but i did not come here to bullyrag like an old woman. i got your letter only on monday, and know nothing of what has occurred. is miss effingham to be--your wife?" lord chiltern had now come quite close to phineas, and phineas felt that that clenched fist might be in his face in half a moment. miss effingham of course was not engaged to him, but it seemed to him that if he were now so to declare, such declaration would appear to have been drawn from him by fear. "i ask you," said lord chiltern, "in what position you now stand towards miss effingham. if you are not a coward you will tell me." "whether i tell you or not, you know that i am not a coward," said phineas. "i shall have to try," said lord chiltern. "but if you please i will ask you for an answer to my question." phineas paused for a moment, thinking what honesty of purpose and a high spirit would, when combined together, demand of him, and together with these requirements he felt that he was bound to join some feeling of duty towards miss effingham. lord chiltern was standing there, fiery red, with his hand still clenched, and his hat still on, waiting for his answer. "let me have your question again," said phineas, "and i will answer it if i find that i can do so without loss of self-respect." "i ask you in what position you stand towards miss effingham. mind, i do not doubt at all, but i choose to have a reply from yourself." "you will remember, of course, that i can only answer to the best of my belief." "answer to the best of your belief." "i think she regards me as an intimate friend." "had you said as an indifferent acquaintance, you would, i think, have been nearer the mark. but we will let that be. i presume i may understand that you have given up any idea of changing that position?" "you may understand nothing of the kind, lord chiltern." "why;--what hope have you?" "that is another thing. i shall not speak of that;--at any rate not to you." "then, sir,--" and now lord chiltern advanced another step and raised his hand as though he were about to put it with some form of violence on the person of his rival. "stop, chiltern," said phineas, stepping back, so that there was some article of furniture between him and his adversary. "i do not choose that there should be a riot here." "what do you call a riot, sir? i believe that after all you are a poltroon. what i require of you is that you shall meet me. will you do that?" "you mean,--to fight?" "yes,--to fight; to fight; to fight. for what other purpose do you suppose that i can wish to meet you?" phineas felt at the moment that the fighting of a duel would be destructive to all his political hopes. few englishmen fight duels in these days. they who do so are always reckoned to be fools. and a duel between him and lord brentford's son must, as he thought, separate him from violet, from lady laura, from lord brentford, and from his borough. but yet how could he refuse? "what have you to think of, sir, when such an offer as that is made to you?" said the fiery-red lord. "i have to think whether i have courage enough to refuse to make myself an ass." "you say that you do not wish to have a riot. that is your way to escape what you call--a riot." "you want to bully me, chiltern." "no, sir;--i simply want this, that you should leave me where you found me, and not interfere with that which you have long known i claim as my own." "but it is not your own." "then you can only fight me." "you had better send some friend to me, and i will name some one, whom he shall meet." "of course i will do that if i have your promise to meet me. we can be in belgium in an hour or two, and back again in a few more hours;--that is, any one of us who may chance to be alive. "i will select a friend, and will tell him everything, and will then do as he bids me." "yes;--some old steady-going buffer. mr. kennedy, perhaps." "it will certainly not be mr. kennedy. i shall probably ask laurence fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair." "perhaps you will see him at once, then, so that colepepper may arrange with him this afternoon. and let me assure you, mr. finn, that there will be a meeting between us after some fashion, let the ideas of your friend mr. fitzgibbon be what they may." then lord chiltern purposed to go, but turned again as he was going. "and remember this," he said, "my complaint is that you have been false to me,--damnably false; not that you have fallen in love with this young lady or with that." then the fiery-red lord opened the door for himself and took his departure. phineas, as soon as he was alone, walked down to the house, at which there was an early sitting. as he went there was one great question which he had to settle with himself,--was there any justice in the charge made against him that he had been false to his friend? when he had thought over the matter at saulsby, after rushing down there that he might throw himself at violet's feet, he had assured himself that such a letter as that which he resolved to write to lord chiltern, would be even chivalrous in its absolute honesty. he would tell his purpose to lord chiltern the moment that his purpose was formed;--and would afterwards speak of lord chiltern behind his back as one dear friend should speak of another. had miss effingham shown the slightest intention of accepting lord chiltern's offer, he would have acknowledged to himself that the circumstances of his position made it impossible that he should, with honour, become his friend's rival. but was he to be debarred for ever from getting that which he wanted because lord chiltern wanted it also,--knowing, as he did so well, that lord chiltern could not get the thing which he wanted? all this had been quite sufficient for him at saulsby. but now the charge against him that he had been false to his friend rang in his ears and made him unhappy. it certainly was true that lord chiltern had not given up his hopes, and that he had spoken probably more openly to phineas respecting them than he had done to any other human being. if it was true that he had been false, then he must comply with any requisition which lord chiltern might make,--short of voluntarily giving up the lady. he must fight if he were asked to do so, even though fighting were his ruin. when again in the house yesterday's scene came back upon him, and more than one man came to him congratulating him. mr. monk took his hand and spoke a word to him. the old premier nodded to him. mr. gresham greeted him; and plantagenet palliser openly told him that he had made a good speech. how sweet would all this have been had there not been ever at his heart the remembrance of his terrible difficulty,--the consciousness that he was about to be forced into an absurdity which would put an end to all this sweetness! why was the world in england so severe against duelling? after all, as he regarded the matter now, a duel might be the best way, nay, the only way out of a difficulty. if he might only be allowed to go out with lord chiltern the whole thing might be arranged. if he were not shot he might carry on his suit with miss effingham unfettered by any impediment on that side. and if he were shot, what matter was that to any one but himself? why should the world be so thin-skinned,--so foolishly chary of human life? laurence fitzgibbon did not come to the house, and phineas looked for him at both the clubs which he frequented,--leaving a note at each as he did not find him. he also left a note for him at his lodgings in duke street. "i must see you this evening. i shall dine at the reform club,--pray come there." after that, phineas went up to portman square, in accordance with the instructions received from lady laura. there he saw violet effingham, meeting her for the first time since he had parted from her on the great steps at saulsby. of course he spoke to her, and of course she was gracious to him. but her graciousness was only a smile and his speech was only a word. there were many in the room, but not enough to make privacy possible,--as it becomes possible at a crowded evening meeting. lord brentford was there, and the bonteens, and barrington erle, and lady glencora palliser, and lord cantrip with his young wife. it was manifestly a meeting of liberals, semi-social and semi-political;--so arranged that ladies might feel that some interest in politics was allowed to them, and perhaps some influence also. afterwards mr. palliser himself came in. phineas, however, was most struck by finding that laurence fitzgibbon was there, and that mr. kennedy was not. in regard to mr. kennedy, he was quite sure that had such a meeting taken place before lady laura's marriage, mr. kennedy would have been present. "i must speak to you as we go away," said phineas, whispering a word into fitzgibbon's ear. "i have been leaving notes for you all about the town." "not a duel, i hope," said fitzgibbon. how pleasant it was,--that meeting; or would have been had there not been that nightmare on his breast! they all talked as though there were perfect accord between them and perfect confidence. there were there great men,--cabinet ministers, and beautiful women,--the wives and daughters of some of england's highest nobles. and phineas finn, throwing back, now and again, a thought to killaloe, found himself among them as one of themselves. how could any mr. low say that he was wrong? on a sofa near to him, so that he could almost touch her foot with his, was sitting violet effingham, and as he leaned over from his chair discussing some point in mr. mildmay's bill with that most inveterate politician, lady glencora, violet looked into his face and smiled. oh heavens! if lord chiltern and he might only toss up as to which of them should go to patagonia and remain there for the next ten years, and which should have violet effingham for a wife in london! "come along, phineas, if you mean to come," said laurence fitzgibbon. phineas was of course bound to go, though lady glencora was still talking radicalism, and violet effingham was still smiling ineffably. volume ii chapter xxxviii the duel "i knew it was a duel;--bedad i did," said laurence fitzgibbon, standing at the corner of orchard street and oxford street, when phineas had half told his story. "i was sure of it from the tone of your voice, my boy. we mustn't let it come off, that's all;--not if we can help it." then phineas was allowed to proceed and finish his story. "i don't see any way out of it; i don't, indeed," said laurence. by this time phineas had come to think that the duel was in very truth the best way out of the difficulty. it was a bad way out, but then it was a way;--and he could not see any other. "as for ill treating him, that's nonsense," said laurence. "what are the girls to do, if one fellow mayn't come on as soon as another fellow is down? but then, you see, a fellow never knows when he's down himself, and therefore he thinks that he's ill used. i'll tell you what now. i shouldn't wonder if we couldn't do it on the sly,--unless one of you is stupid enough to hit the other in an awkward place. if you are certain of your hand now, the right shoulder is the best spot." phineas felt very certain that he would not hit lord chiltern in an awkward place, although he was by no means sure of his hand. let come what might, he would not aim at his adversary. but of this he had thought it proper to say nothing to laurence fitzgibbon. and the duel did come off on the sly. the meeting in the drawing-room in portman square, of which mention was made in the last chapter, took place on a wednesday afternoon. on the thursday, friday, monday, and tuesday following, the great debate on mr. mildmay's bill was continued, and at three on the tuesday night the house divided. there was a majority in favour of the ministers, not large enough to permit them to claim a triumph for their party, or even an ovation for themselves; but still sufficient to enable them to send their bill into committee. mr. daubeny and mr. turnbull had again joined their forces together in opposition to the ministerial measure. on the thursday phineas had shown himself in the house, but during the remainder of this interesting period he was absent from his place, nor was he seen at the clubs, nor did any man know of his whereabouts. i think that lady laura kennedy was the first to miss him with any real sense of his absence. she would now go to portman square on the afternoon of every sunday,--at which time her husband was attending the second service of his church,--and there she would receive those whom she called her father's guests. but as her father was never there on the sundays, and as these gatherings had been created by herself, the reader will probably think that she was obeying her husband's behests in regard to the sabbath after a very indifferent fashion. the reader may be quite sure, however, that mr. kennedy knew well what was being done in portman square. whatever might be lady laura's faults, she did not commit the fault of disobeying her husband in secret. there were, probably, a few words on the subject; but we need not go very closely into that matter at the present moment. on the sunday which afforded some rest in the middle of the great reform debate lady laura asked for mr. finn, and no one could answer her question. and then it was remembered that laurence fitzgibbon was also absent. barrington erle knew nothing of phineas,--had heard nothing; but was able to say that fitzgibbon had been with mr. ratler, the patronage secretary and liberal whip, early on thursday, expressing his intention of absenting himself for two days. mr. ratler had been wroth, bidding him remain at his duty, and pointing out to him the great importance of the moment. then barrington erle quoted laurence fitzgibbon's reply. "my boy," said laurence to poor ratler, "the path of duty leads but to the grave. all the same; i'll be in at the death, ratler, my boy, as sure as the sun's in heaven." not ten minutes after the telling of this little story, fitzgibbon entered the room in portman square, and lady laura at once asked him after phineas. "bedad, lady laura, i have been out of town myself for two days, and i know nothing." "mr. finn has not been with you, then?" "with me! no,--not with me. i had a job of business of my own which took me over to paris. and has phinny fled too? poor ratler! i shouldn't wonder if it isn't an asylum he's in before the session is over." laurence fitzgibbon certainly possessed the rare accomplishment of telling a lie with a good grace. had any man called him a liar he would have considered himself to be not only insulted, but injured also. he believed himself to be a man of truth. there were, however, in his estimation certain subjects on which a man might depart as wide as the poles are asunder from truth without subjecting himself to any ignominy for falsehood. in dealing with a tradesman as to his debts, or with a rival as to a lady, or with any man or woman in defence of a lady's character, or in any such matter as that of a duel, laurence believed that a gentleman was bound to lie, and that he would be no gentleman if he hesitated to do so. not the slightest prick of conscience disturbed him when he told lady laura that he had been in paris, and that he knew nothing of phineas finn. but, in truth, during the last day or two he had been in flanders, and not in paris, and had stood as second with his friend phineas on the sands at blankenberg, a little fishing-town some twelve miles distant from bruges, and had left his friend since that at an hotel at ostend,--with a wound just under the shoulder, from which a bullet had been extracted. the manner of the meeting had been in this wise. captain colepepper and laurence fitzgibbon had held their meeting, and at this meeting laurence had taken certain standing-ground on behalf of his friend, and in obedience to his friend's positive instruction;--which was this, that his friend could not abandon his right of addressing the young lady, should he hereafter ever think fit to do so. let that be granted, and laurence would do anything. but then that could not be granted, and laurence could only shrug his shoulders. nor would laurence admit that his friend had been false. "the question lies in a nutshell," said laurence, with that sweet connaught brogue which always came to him when he desired to be effective;--"here it is. one gentleman tells another that he's sweet upon a young lady, but that the young lady has refused him, and always will refuse him, for ever and ever. that's the truth anyhow. is the second gentleman bound by that not to address the young lady? i say he is not bound. it'd be a d----d hard tratement, captain colepepper, if a man's mouth and all the ardent affections of his heart were to be stopped in that manner! by jases, i don't know who'd like to be the friend of any man if that's to be the way of it." captain colepepper was not very good at an argument. "i think they'd better see each other," said colepepper, pulling his thick grey moustache. "if you choose to have it so, so be it. but i think it the hardest thing in the world;--i do indeed." then they put their heads together in the most friendly way, and declared that the affair should, if possible, be kept private. on the thursday night lord chiltern and captain colepepper went over by calais and lille to bruges. laurence fitzgibbon, with his friend dr. o'shaughnessy, crossed by the direct boat from dover to ostend. phineas went to ostend by dover and calais, but he took the day route on friday. it had all been arranged among them, so that there might be no suspicion as to the job in hand. even o'shaughnessy and laurence fitzgibbon had left london by separate trains. they met on the sands at blankenberg about nine o'clock on the saturday morning, having reached that village in different vehicles from ostend and bruges, and had met quite unobserved amidst the sand-heaps. but one shot had been exchanged, and phineas had been wounded in the right shoulder. he had proposed to exchange another shot with his left hand, declaring his capability of shooting quite as well with the left as with the right; but to this both colepepper and fitzgibbon had objected. lord chiltern had offered to shake hands with his late friend in a true spirit of friendship, if only his late friend would say that he did not intend to prosecute his suit with the young lady. in all these disputes the young lady's name was never mentioned. phineas indeed had not once named violet to fitzgibbon, speaking of her always as the lady in question; and though laurence correctly surmised the identity of the young lady, he never hinted that he had even guessed her name. i doubt whether lord chiltern had been so wary when alone with captain colepepper; but then lord chiltern was, when he spoke at all, a very plain-spoken man. of course his lordship's late friend phineas would give no such pledge, and therefore lord chiltern moved off the ground and back to blankenberg and bruges, and into brussels, in still living enmity with our hero. laurence and the doctor took phineas back to ostend, and though the bullet was then in his shoulder, phineas made his way through blankenberg after such a fashion that no one there knew what had occurred. not a living soul, except the five concerned, was at that time aware that a duel had been fought among the sand-hills. laurence fitzgibbon made his way to dover by the saturday night's boat, and was able to show himself in portman square on the sunday. "know anything about phinny finn?" he said afterwards to barrington erle, in answer to an inquiry from that anxious gentleman. "not a word! i think you'd better send the town-crier round after him." barrington, however, did not feel quite so well assured of fitzgibbon's truth as lady laura had done. dr. o'shaughnessy remained during the sunday and monday at ostend with his patient, and the people at the inn only knew that mr. finn had sprained his shoulder badly; and on the tuesday they came back to london again, via calais and dover. no bone had been broken, and phineas, though his shoulder was very painful, bore the journey well. o'shaughnessy had received a telegram on the monday, telling him that the division would certainly take place on the tuesday,--and on the tuesday, at about ten in the evening, phineas went down to the house. "by ----, you're here," said ratler, taking hold of him with an affection that was too warm. "yes; i'm here," said phineas, wincing in agony; "but be a little careful, there's a good fellow. i've been down in kent and put my arm out." "put your arm out, have you?" said ratler, observing the sling for the first time. "i'm sorry for that. but you'll stop and vote?" "yes;--i'll stop and vote. i've come up for the purpose. but i hope it won't be very late." "there are both daubeny and gresham to speak yet, and at least three others. i don't suppose it will be much before three. but you're all right now. you can go down and smoke if you like!" in this way phineas finn spoke in the debate, and heard the end of it, voting for his party, and fought his duel with lord chiltern in the middle of it. he did go and sit on a well-cushioned bench in the smoking-room, and then was interrogated by many of his friends as to his mysterious absence. he had, he said, been down in kent, and had had an accident with his arm, by which he had been confined. when this questioner and that perceived that there was some little mystery in the matter, the questioners did not push their questions, but simply entertained their own surmises. one indiscreet questioner, however, did trouble phineas sorely, declaring that there must have been some affair in which a woman had had a part, and asking after the young lady of kent. this indiscreet questioner was laurence fitzgibbon, who, as phineas thought, carried his spirit of intrigue a little too far. phineas stayed and voted, and then he went painfully home to his lodgings. how singular would it be if this affair of the duel should pass away, and no one be a bit the wiser but those four men who had been with him on the sands at blankenberg! again he wondered at his own luck. he had told himself that a duel with lord chiltern must create a quarrel between him and lord chiltern's relations, and also between him and violet effingham; that it must banish him from his comfortable seat for loughton, and ruin him in regard to his political prospects. and now he had fought his duel, and was back in town,--and the thing seemed to have been a thing of nothing. he had not as yet seen lady laura or violet, but he had no doubt but they both were as much in the dark as other people. the day might arrive, he thought, on which it would be pleasant for him to tell violet effingham what had occurred, but that day had not come as yet. whither lord chiltern had gone, or what lord chiltern intended to do, he had not any idea; but he imagined that he should soon hear something of her brother from lady laura. that lord chiltern should say a word to lady laura of what had occurred,--or to any other person in the world,--he did not in the least suspect. there could be no man more likely to be reticent in such matters than lord chiltern,--or more sure to be guided by an almost exaggerated sense of what honour required of him. nor did he doubt the discretion of his friend fitzgibbon;--if only his friend might not damage the secret by being too discreet. of the silence of the doctor and the captain he was by no means equally sure; but even though they should gossip, the gossiping would take so long a time in oozing out and becoming recognised information, as to have lost much of its power for injuring him. were lady laura to hear at this moment that he had been over to belgium, and had fought a duel with lord chiltern respecting violet, she would probably feel herself obliged to quarrel with him; but no such obligation would rest on her, if in the course of six or nine months she should gradually have become aware that such an encounter had taken place. lord chiltern, during their interview at the rooms in great marlborough street, had said a word to him about the seat in parliament;--had expressed some opinion that as he, phineas finn, was interfering with the views of the standish family in regard to miss effingham, he ought not to keep the standish seat, which had been conferred upon him in ignorance of any such intended interference. phineas, as he thought of this, could not remember lord chiltern's words, but there was present to him an idea that such had been their purport. was he bound, in circumstances as they now existed, to give up loughton? he made up his mind that he was not so bound unless lord chiltern should demand from him that he should do so; but, nevertheless, he was uneasy in his position. it was quite true that the seat now was his for this session by all parliamentary law, even though the electors themselves might wish to be rid of him, and that lord brentford could not even open his mouth upon the matter in a tone more loud than that of a whisper. but phineas, feeling that he had consented to accept the favour of a corrupt seat from lord brentford, felt also that he was bound to give up the spoil if it were demanded from him. if it were demanded from him, either by the father or the son, it should be given up at once. on the following morning he found a leading article in the _people's banner_ devoted solely to himself. "during the late debate,"--so ran a passage in the leading article,--"mr. finn, lord brentford's irish nominee for his pocket-borough at loughton, did at last manage to stand on his legs and open his mouth. if we are not mistaken, this is mr. finn's third session in parliament, and hitherto he has been unable to articulate three sentences, though he has on more than one occasion made the attempt. for what special merit this young man has been selected for aristocratic patronage we do not know,--but that there must be some merit recognisable by aristocratic eyes, we surmise. three years ago he was a raw young irishman, living in london as irishmen only know how to live, earning nothing, and apparently without means; and then suddenly he bursts out as a member of parliament and as the friend of cabinet ministers. the possession of one good gift must be acceded to the honourable member for loughton,--he is a handsome young man, and looks to be as strong as a coal-porter. can it be that his promotion has sprung from this? be this as it may, we should like to know where he has been during his late mysterious absence from parliament, and in what way he came by the wound in his arm. even handsome young members of parliament, fêted by titled ladies and their rich lords, are amenable to the laws,--to the laws of this country, and to the laws of any other which it may suit them to visit for a while!" "infamous scoundrel!" said phineas to himself, as he read this. "vile, low, disreputable blackguard!" it was clear enough, however, that quintus slide had found out something of his secret. if so, his only hope would rest on the fact that his friends were not likely to see the columns of the _people's banner_. chapter xxxix lady laura is told by the time that mr. mildmay's great bill was going into committee phineas was able to move about london in comfort,--with his arm, however, still in a sling. there had been nothing more about him and his wound in the _people's banner_, and he was beginning to hope that that nuisance would also be allowed to die away. he had seen lady laura,--having dined in grosvenor place, where he had been petted to his heart's content. his dinner had been cut up for him, and his wound had been treated with the tenderest sympathy. and, singular to say, no questions were asked. he had been to kent and had come by an accident. no more than that was told, and his dear sympathising friends were content to receive so much information, and to ask for no more. but he had not as yet seen violet effingham, and he was beginning to think that this romance about violet might as well be brought to a close. he had not, however, as yet been able to go into crowded rooms, and unless he went out to large parties he could not be sure that he would meet miss effingham. at last he resolved that he would tell lady laura the whole truth,--not the truth about the duel, but the truth about violet effingham, and ask for her assistance. when making this resolution, i think that he must have forgotten much that he had learned of his friend's character; and by making it, i think that he showed also that he had not learned as much as his opportunities might have taught him. he knew lady laura's obstinacy of purpose, he knew her devotion to her brother, and he knew also how desirous she had been that her brother should win violet effingham for himself. this knowledge should, i think, have sufficed to show him how improbable it was that lady laura should assist him in his enterprise. but beyond all this was the fact,--a fact as to the consequences of which phineas himself was entirely blind, beautifully ignorant,--that lady laura had once condescended to love himself. nay;--she had gone farther than this, and had ventured to tell him, even after her marriage, that the remembrance of some feeling that had once dwelt in her heart in regard to him was still a danger to her. she had warned him from loughlinter, and then had received him in london;--and now he selected her as his confidante in this love affair! had he not been beautifully ignorant and most modestly blind, he would surely have placed his confidence elsewhere. it was not that lady laura kennedy ever confessed to herself the existence of a vicious passion. she had, indeed, learned to tell herself that she could not love her husband; and once, in the excitement of such silent announcements to herself, she had asked herself whether her heart was quite a blank, and had answered herself by desiring phineas finn to absent himself from loughlinter. during all the subsequent winter she had scourged herself inwardly for her own imprudence, her quite unnecessary folly in so doing. what! could not she, laura standish, who from her earliest years of girlish womanhood had resolved that she would use the world as men use it, and not as women do,--could not she have felt the slight shock of a passing tenderness for a handsome youth without allowing the feeling to be a rock before her big enough and sharp enough for the destruction of her entire barque? could not she command, if not her heart, at any rate her mind, so that she might safely assure herself that, whether this man or any man was here or there, her course would be unaltered? what though phineas finn had been in the same house with her throughout all the winter, could not she have so lived with him on terms of friendship, that every deed and word and look of her friendship might have been open to her husband,--or open to all the world? she could have done so. she told herself that that was not,--need not have been her great calamity. whether she could endure the dull, monotonous control of her slow but imperious lord,--or whether she must not rather tell him that it was not to be endured,--that was her trouble. so she told herself, and again admitted phineas to her intimacy in london. but, nevertheless, phineas, had he not been beautifully ignorant and most blind to his own achievements, would not have expected from lady laura kennedy assistance with miss violet effingham. phineas knew when to find lady laura alone, and he came upon her one day at the favourable hour. the two first clauses of the bill had been passed after twenty fights and endless divisions. two points had been settled, as to which, however, mr. gresham had been driven to give way so far and to yield so much, that men declared that such a bill as the government could consent to call its own could never be passed by that parliament in that session. immediately on his entrance into her room lady laura began about the third clause. would the house let mr. gresham have his way about the--? phineas stopped her at once. "my dear friend," he said, "i have come to you in a private trouble, and i want you to drop politics for half an hour. i have come to you for help." "a private trouble, mr. finn! is it serious?" "it is very serious,--but it is no trouble of the kind of which you are thinking. but it is serious enough to take up every thought." "can i help you?" "indeed you can. whether you will or no is a different thing." "i would help you in anything in my power, mr. finn. do you not know it?" "you have been very kind to me!" "and so would mr. kennedy." "mr. kennedy cannot help me here." "what is it, mr. finn?" "i suppose i may as well tell you at once,--in plain language, i do not know how to put my story into words that shall fit it. i love violet effingham. will you help me to win her to be my wife?" "you love violet effingham!" said lady laura. and as she spoke the look of her countenance towards him was so changed that he became at once aware that from her no assistance might be expected. his eyes were not opened in any degree to the second reason above given for lady laura's opposition to his wishes, but he instantly perceived that she would still cling to that destination of violet's hand which had for years past been the favourite scheme of her life. "have you not always known, mr. finn, what have been our hopes for violet?" phineas, though he had perceived his mistake, felt that he must go on with his cause. lady laura must know his wishes sooner or later, and it was as well that she should learn them in this way as in any other. "yes;--but i have known also, from your brother's own lips,--and indeed from yours also, lady laura,--that chiltern has been three times refused by miss effingham." "what does that matter? do men never ask more than three times?" "and must i be debarred for ever while he prosecutes a hopeless suit?" "yes;--you of all men." "why so, lady laura?" "because in this matter you have been his chosen friend,--and mine. we have told you everything, trusting to you. we have believed in your honour. we have thought that with you, at any rate, we were safe." these words were very bitter to phineas, and yet when he had written his letter at loughton, he had intended to be so perfectly honest, chivalrously honest! now lady laura spoke to him and looked at him as though he had been most basely false--most untrue to that noble friendship which had been lavished upon him by all her family. he felt that he would become the prey of her most injurious thoughts unless he could fully explain his ideas, and he felt, also, that the circumstances did not admit of his explaining them. he could not take up the argument on violet's side, and show how unfair it would be to her that she should be debarred from the homage due to her by any man who really loved her, because lord chiltern chose to think that he still had a claim,--or at any rate a chance. and phineas knew well of himself,--or thought that he knew well,--that he would not have interfered had there been any chance for lord chiltern. lord chiltern had himself told him more than once that there was no such chance. how was he to explain all this to lady laura? "mr. finn," said lady laura, "i can hardly believe this of you, even when you tell it me yourself." "listen to me, lady laura, for a moment." "certainly, i will listen. but that you should come to me for assistance! i cannot understand it. men sometimes become harder than stones." "i do not think that i am hard." poor blind fool! he was still thinking only of violet, and of the accusation made against him that he was untrue to his friendship for lord chiltern. of that other accusation which could not be expressed in open words he understood nothing,--nothing at all as yet. "hard and false,--capable of receiving no impression beyond the outside husk of the heart." "oh, lady laura, do not say that. if you could only know how true i am in my affection for you all." "and how do you show it?--by coming in between oswald and the only means that are open to us of reconciling him to his father;--means that have been explained to you exactly as though you had been one of ourselves. oswald has treated you as a brother in the matter, telling you everything, and this is the way you would repay him for his confidence!" "can i help it, that i have learnt to love this girl?" "yes, sir,--you can help it. what if she had been oswald's wife;--would you have loved her then? do you speak of loving a woman as if it were an affair of fate, over which you have no control? i doubt whether your passions are so strong as that. you had better put aside your love for miss effingham. i feel assured that it will never hurt you." then some remembrance of what had passed between him and lady laura standish near the falls of the linter, when he first visited scotland, came across his mind. "believe me," she said with a smile, "this little wound in your heart will soon be cured." he stood silent before her, looking away from her, thinking over it all. he certainly had believed himself to be violently in love with lady laura, and yet when he had just now entered her drawing-room, he had almost forgotten that there had been such a passage in his life. and he had believed that she had forgotten it,--even though she had counselled him not to come to loughlinter within the last nine months! he had been a boy then, and had not known himself;--but now he was a man, and was proud of the intensity of his love. there came upon him some passing throb of pain from his shoulder, reminding him of the duel, and he was proud also of that. he had been willing to risk everything,--life, prospects, and position,--sooner than abandon the slight hope which was his of possessing violet effingham. and now he was told that this wound in his heart would soon be cured, and was told so by a woman to whom he had once sung a song of another passion. it is very hard to answer a woman in such circumstances, because her womanhood gives her so strong a ground of vantage! lady laura might venture to throw in his teeth the fickleness of his heart, but he could not in reply tell her that to change a love was better than to marry without love,--that to be capable of such a change showed no such inferiority of nature as did the capacity for such a marriage. she could hit him with her argument; but he could only remember his, and think how violent might be the blow he could inflict,--if it were not that she were a woman, and therefore guarded. "you will not help me then?" he said, when they had both been silent for a while. "help you? how should i help you?" "i wanted no other help than this,--that i might have had an opportunity of meeting violet here, and of getting from her some answer." "has the question then never been asked already?" said lady laura. to this phineas made no immediate reply. there was no reason why he should show his whole hand to an adversary. "why do you not go to lady baldock's house?" continued lady laura. "you are admitted there. you know lady baldock. go and ask her to stand your friend with her niece. see what she will say to you. as far as i understand these matters, that is the fair, honourable, open way in which gentlemen are wont to make their overtures." "i would make mine to none but to herself," said phineas. "then why have you made it to me, sir?" demanded lady laura. "i have come to you as i would to my sister." "your sister? psha! i am not your sister, mr. finn. nor, were i so, should i fail to remember that i have a dearer brother to whom my faith is pledged. look here. within the last three weeks oswald has sacrificed everything to his father, because he was determined that mr. kennedy should have the money which he thought was due to my husband. he has enabled my father to do what he will with saulsby. papa will never hurt him;--i know that. hard as papa is with him, he will never hurt oswald's future position. papa is too proud to do that. violet has heard what oswald has done; and now that he has nothing of his own to offer her for the future but his bare title, now that he has given papa power to do what he will with the property, i believe that she would accept him instantly. that is her disposition." phineas again paused a moment before he replied. "let him try," he said. "he is away,--in brussels." "send to him, and bid him return. i will be patient, lady laura. let him come and try, and i will bide my time. i confess that i have no right to interfere with him if there be a chance for him. if there is no chance, my right is as good as that of any other." there was something in this which made lady laura feel that she could not maintain her hostility against this man on behalf of her brother;--and yet she could not force herself to be other than hostile to him. her heart was sore, and it was he that had made it sore. she had lectured herself, schooling herself with mental sackcloth and ashes, rebuking herself with heaviest censures from day to day, because she had found herself to be in danger of regarding this man with a perilous love; and she had been constant in this work of penance till she had been able to assure herself that the sackcloth and ashes had done their work, and that the danger was past. "i like him still and love him well," she had said to herself with something almost of triumph, "but i have ceased to think of him as one who might have been my lover." and yet she was now sick and sore, almost beside herself with the agony of the wound, because this man whom she had been able to throw aside from her heart had also been able so to throw her aside. and she felt herself constrained to rebuke him with what bitterest words she might use. she had felt it easy to do this at first, on her brother's score. she had accused him of treachery to his friendship,--both as to oswald and as to herself. on that she could say cutting words without subjecting herself to suspicion even from herself. but now this power was taken away from her, and still she wished to wound him. she desired to taunt him with his old fickleness, and yet to subject herself to no imputation. "your right!" she said. "what gives you any right in the matter?" "simply the right of a fair field, and no favour." "and yet you come to me for favour,--to me, because i am her friend. you cannot win her yourself, and think i may help you! i do not believe in your love for her. there! if there were no other reason, and i could help you, i would not, because i think your heart is a sham heart. she is pretty, and has money--" "lady laura!" "she is pretty, and has money, and is the fashion. i do not wonder that you should wish to have her. but, mr. finn, i believe that oswald really loves her;--and that you do not. his nature is deeper than yours." he understood it all now as he listened to the tone of her voice, and looked into the lines of her face. there was written there plainly enough that spretæ injuria formæ of which she herself was conscious, but only conscious. even his eyes, blind as he had been, were opened,--and he knew that he had been a fool. "i am sorry that i came to you," he said. "it would have been better that you should not have done so," she replied. "and yet perhaps it is well that there should be no misunderstanding between us." "of course i must tell my brother." he paused but for a moment, and then he answered her with a sharp voice, "he has been told." "and who told him?" "i did. i wrote to him the moment that i knew my own mind. i owed it to him to do so. but my letter missed him, and he only learned it the other day." "have you seen him since?" "yes;--i have seen him." "and what did he say? how did he take it? did he bear it from you quietly?" "no, indeed;" and phineas smiled as he spoke. "tell me, mr. finn; what happened? what is to be done?" "nothing is to be done. everything has been done. i may as well tell you all. i am sure that for the sake of me, as well as of your brother, you will keep our secret. he required that i should either give up my suit, or that i should,--fight him. as i could not comply with the one request, i found myself bound to comply with the other." "and there has been a duel?" "yes;--there has been a duel. we went over to belgium, and it was soon settled. he wounded me here in the arm." "suppose you had killed him, mr. finn?" "that, lady laura, would have been a misfortune so terrible that i was bound to prevent it." then he paused again, regretting what he had said. "you have surprised me, lady laura, into an answer that i should not have made. i may be sure,--may i not,--that my words will not go beyond yourself?" "yes;--you may be sure of that." this she said plaintively, with a tone of voice and demeanour of body altogether different from that which she lately bore. neither of them knew what was taking place between them; but she was, in truth, gradually submitting herself again to this man's influence. though she rebuked him at every turn for what he said, for what he had done, for what he proposed to do, still she could not teach herself to despise him, or even to cease to love him for any part of it. she knew it all now,--except that word or two which had passed between violet and phineas in the rides of saulsby park. but she suspected something even of that, feeling sure that the only matter on which phineas would say nothing would be that of his own success,--if success there had been. "and so you and oswald have quarrelled, and there has been a duel. that is why you were away?" "that is why i was away." "how wrong of you,--how very wrong! had he been,--killed, how could you have looked us in the face again?" "i could not have looked you in the face again." "but that is over now. and were you friends afterwards?" "no;--we did not part as friends. having gone there to fight with him,--most unwillingly,--i could not afterwards promise him that i would give up miss effingham. you say she will accept him now. let him come and try." she had nothing further to say,--no other argument to use. there was the soreness at her heart still present to her, making her wretched, instigating her to hurt him if she knew how to do so, in spite of her regard for him. but she felt that she was weak and powerless. she had shot her arrows at him,--all but one,--and if she used that, its poisoned point would wound herself far more surely than it would touch him. "the duel was very silly," he said. "you will not speak of it." "no; certainly not." "i am glad at least that i have told you everything." "i do not know why you should be glad. i cannot help you." "and you will say nothing to violet?" "everything that i can say in oswald's favour. i will say nothing of the duel; but beyond that you have no right to demand my secrecy with her. yes; you had better go, mr. finn, for i am hardly well. and remember this,--if you can forget this little episode about miss effingham, so will i forget it also; and so will oswald. i can promise for him." then she smiled and gave him her hand, and he went. she rose from her chair as he left the room, and waited till she heard the sound of the great door closing behind him before she again sat down. then, when he was gone,--when she was sure that he was no longer there with her in the same house,--she laid her head down upon the arm of the sofa, and burst into a flood of tears. she was no longer angry with phineas. there was no further longing in her heart for revenge. she did not now desire to injure him, though she had done so as long as he was with her. nay,--she resolved instantly, almost instinctively, that lord brentford must know nothing of all this, lest the political prospects of the young member for loughton should be injured. to have rebuked him, to rebuke him again and again, would be only fair,--would at least be womanly; but she would protect him from all material injury as far as her power of protection might avail. and why was she weeping now so bitterly? of course she asked herself, as she rubbed away the tears with her hands,--why should she weep? she was not weak enough to tell herself that she was weeping for any injury that had been done to oswald. she got up suddenly from the sofa, and pushed away her hair from her face, and pushed away the tears from her cheeks, and then clenched her fists as she held them out at full length from her body, and stood, looking up with her eyes fixed upon the wall. "ass!" she exclaimed. "fool! idiot! that i should not be able to crush it into nothing and have done with it! why should he not have her? after all, he is better than oswald. oh,--is that you?" the door of the room had been opened while she was standing thus, and her husband had entered. "yes,--it is i. is anything wrong?" "very much is wrong." "what is it, laura?" "you cannot help me." "if you are in trouble you should tell me what it is, and leave it to me to try to help you." "nonsense!" she said, shaking her head. "laura, that is uncourteous,--not to say undutiful also." "i suppose it was,--both. i beg your pardon, but i could not help it." "laura, you should help such words to me." "there are moments, robert, when even a married woman must be herself rather than her husband's wife. it is so, though you cannot understand it." "i certainly do not understand it." "you cannot make a woman subject to you as a dog is so. you may have all the outside and as much of the inside as you can master. with a dog you may be sure of both." "i suppose this means that you have secrets in which i am not to share." "i have troubles about my father and my brother which you cannot share. my brother is a ruined man." "who ruined him?" "i will not talk about it any more. i will not speak to you of him or of papa. i only want you to understand that there is a subject which must be secret to myself, and on which i may be allowed to shed tears,--if i am so weak. i will not trouble you on a matter in which i have not your sympathy." then she left him, standing in the middle of the room, depressed by what had occurred,--but not thinking of it as of a trouble which would do more than make him uncomfortable for that day. chapter xl madame max goesler day after day, and clause after clause, the bill was fought in committee, and few men fought with more constancy on the side of the ministers than did the member for loughton. troubled though he was by his quarrel with lord chiltern, by his love for violet effingham, by the silence of his friend lady laura,--for since he had told her of the duel she had become silent to him, never writing to him, and hardly speaking to him when she met him in society,--nevertheless phineas was not so troubled but what he could work at his vocation. now, when he would find himself upon his legs in the house, he would wonder at the hesitation which had lately troubled him so sorely. he would sit sometimes and speculate upon that dimness of eye, upon that tendency of things to go round, upon that obtrusive palpitation of heart, which had afflicted him so seriously for so long a time. the house now was no more to him than any other chamber, and the members no more than other men. he guarded himself from orations, speaking always very shortly,--because he believed that policy and good judgment required that he should be short. but words were very easy to him, and he would feel as though he could talk for ever. and there quickly came to him a reputation for practical usefulness. he was a man with strong opinions, who could yet be submissive. and no man seemed to know how his reputation had come. he had made one good speech after two or three failures. all who knew him, his whole party, had been aware of his failure; and his one good speech had been regarded by many as no very wonderful effort. but he was a man who was pleasant to other men,--not combative, not self-asserting beyond the point at which self-assertion ceases to be a necessity of manliness. nature had been very good to him, making him comely inside and out,--and with this comeliness he had crept into popularity. the secret of the duel was, i think, at this time, known to a great many men and women. so phineas perceived; but it was not, he thought, known either to lord brentford or to violet effingham. and in this he was right. no rumour of it had yet reached the ears of either of these persons;--and rumour, though she flies so fast and so far, is often slow in reaching those ears which would be most interested in her tidings. some dim report of the duel reached even mr. kennedy, and he asked his wife. "who told you?" said she, sharply. "bonteen told me that it was certainly so." "mr. bonteen always knows more than anybody else about everything except his own business." "then it is not true?" lady laura paused,--and then she lied. "of course it is not true. i should be very sorry to ask either of them, but to me it seems to be the most improbable thing in life." then mr. kennedy believed that there had been no duel. in his wife's word he put absolute faith, and he thought that she would certainly know anything that her brother had done. as he was a man given to but little discourse, he asked no further questions about the duel either in the house or at the clubs. at first, phineas had been greatly dismayed when men had asked him questions tending to elicit from him some explanation of the mystery;--but by degrees he became used to it, and as the tidings which had got abroad did not seem to injure him, and as the questionings were not pushed very closely, he became indifferent. there came out another article in the _people's banner_ in which lord c----n and mr. p----s f----n were spoken of as glaring examples of that aristocratic snobility,--that was the expressive word coined, evidently with great delight, for the occasion,--which the rotten state of london society in high quarters now produced. here was a young lord, infamously notorious, quarrelling with one of his boon-companions, whom he had appointed to a private seat in the house of commons, fighting duels, breaking the laws, scandalising the public,--and all this was done without punishment to the guilty! there were old stories afloat,--so said the article--of what in a former century had been done by lord mohuns and mr. bests; but now, in --, &c. &c. &c. and so the article went on. any reader may fill in without difficulty the concluding indignation and virtuous appeal for reform in social morals as well as parliament. but phineas had so far progressed that he had almost come to like this kind of thing. certainly i think that the duel did him no harm in society. otherwise he would hardly have been asked to a semi-political dinner at lady glencora palliser's, even though he might have been invited to make one of the five hundred guests who were crowded into her saloons and staircases after the dinner was over. to have been one of the five hundred was nothing; but to be one of the sixteen was a great deal,--was indeed so much that phineas, not understanding as yet the advantage of his own comeliness, was at a loss to conceive why so pleasant an honour was conferred upon him. there was no man among the eight men at the dinner-party not in parliament,--and the only other except phineas not attached to the government was mr. palliser's great friend, john grey, the member for silverbridge. there were four cabinet ministers in the room,--the duke, lord cantrip, mr. gresham, and the owner of the mansion. there was also barrington erle and young lord fawn, an under-secretary of state. but the wit and grace of the ladies present lent more of character to the party than even the position of the men. lady glencora palliser herself was a host. there was no woman then in london better able to talk to a dozen people on a dozen subjects; and then, moreover, she was still in the flush of her beauty and the bloom of her youth. lady laura was there;--by what means divided from her husband phineas could not imagine; but lady glencora was good at such divisions. lady cantrip had been allowed to come with her lord;--but, as was well understood, lord cantrip was not so manifestly a husband as was mr. kennedy. there are men who cannot guard themselves from the assertion of marital rights at most inappropriate moments. now lord cantrip lived with his wife most happily; yet you should pass hours with him and her together, and hardly know that they knew each other. one of the duke's daughters was there,--but not the duchess, who was known to be heavy;--and there was the beauteous marchioness of hartletop. violet effingham was in the room also,--giving phineas a blow at the heart as he saw her smile. might it be that he could speak a word to her on this occasion? mr. grey had also brought his wife;--and then there was madame max goesler. phineas found that it was his fortune to take down to dinner,--not violet effingham, but madame max goesler. and, when he was placed at dinner, on the other side of him there sat lady hartletop, who addressed the few words which she spoke exclusively to mr. palliser. there had been in former days matters difficult of arrangement between those two; but i think that those old passages had now been forgotten by them both. phineas was, therefore, driven to depend exclusively on madame max goesler for conversation, and he found that he was not called upon to cast his seed into barren ground. up to that moment he had never heard of madame max goesler. lady glencora, in introducing them, had pronounced the lady's name so clearly that he had caught it with accuracy, but he could not surmise whence she had come, or why she was there. she was a woman probably something over thirty years of age. she had thick black hair, which she wore in curls,--unlike anybody else in the world,--in curls which hung down low beneath her face, covering, and perhaps intended to cover, a certain thinness in her cheeks which would otherwise have taken something from the charm of her countenance. her eyes were large, of a dark blue colour, and very bright,--and she used them in a manner which is as yet hardly common with englishwomen. she seemed to intend that you should know that she employed them to conquer you, looking as a knight may have looked in olden days who entered a chamber with his sword drawn from the scabbard and in his hand. her forehead was broad and somewhat low. her nose was not classically beautiful, being broader at the nostrils than beauty required, and, moreover, not perfectly straight in its line. her lips were thin. her teeth, which she endeavoured to show as little as possible, were perfect in form and colour. they who criticised her severely said, however, that they were too large. her chin was well formed, and divided by a dimple which gave to her face a softness of grace which would otherwise have been much missed. but perhaps her great beauty was in the brilliant clearness of her dark complexion. you might almost fancy that you could see into it so as to read the different lines beneath the skin. she was somewhat tall, though by no means tall to a fault, and was so thin as to be almost meagre in her proportions. she always wore her dress close up to her neck, and never showed the bareness of her arms. though she was the only woman so clad now present in the room, this singularity did not specially strike one, because in other respects her apparel was so rich and quaint as to make inattention to it impossible. the observer who did not observe very closely would perceive that madame max goesler's dress was unlike the dress of other women, but seeing that it was unlike in make, unlike in colour, and unlike in material, the ordinary observer would not see also that it was unlike in form for any other purpose than that of maintaining its general peculiarity of character. in colour she was abundant, and yet the fabric of her garment was always black. my pen may not dare to describe the traceries of yellow and ruby silk which went in and out through the black lace, across her bosom, and round her neck, and over her shoulders, and along her arms, and down to the very ground at her feet, robbing the black stuff of all its sombre solemnity, and producing a brightness in which there was nothing gaudy. she wore no vestige of crinoline, and hardly anything that could be called a train. and the lace sleeves of her dress, with their bright traceries of silk, were fitted close to her arms; and round her neck she wore the smallest possible collar of lace, above which there was a short chain of roman gold with a ruby pendant. and she had rubies in her ears, and a ruby brooch, and rubies in the bracelets on her arms. such, as regarded the outward woman, was madame max goesler; and phineas, as he took his place by her side, thought that fortune for the nonce had done well with him,--only that he should have liked it so much better could he have been seated next to violet effingham! i have said that in the matter of conversation his morsel of seed was not thrown into barren ground. i do not know that he can truly be said to have produced even a morsel. the subjects were all mooted by the lady, and so great was her fertility in discoursing that all conversational grasses seemed to grow with her spontaneously. "mr. finn," she said, "what would i not give to be a member of the british parliament at such a moment as this!" "why at such a moment as this particularly?" "because there is something to be done, which, let me tell you, senator though you are, is not always the case with you." "my experience is short, but it sometimes seems to me that there is too much to be done." "too much of nothingness, mr. finn. is not that the case? but now there is a real fight in the lists. the one great drawback to the life of women is that they cannot act in politics." "and which side would you take?" "what, here in england?" said madame max goesler,--from which expression, and from one or two others of a similar nature, phineas was led into a doubt whether the lady were a countrywoman of his or not. "indeed, it is hard to say. politically i should want to out-turnbull mr. turnbull, to vote for everything that could be voted for,--ballot, manhood suffrage, womanhood suffrage, unlimited right of striking, tenant right, education of everybody, annual parliaments, and the abolition of at least the bench of bishops." "that is a strong programme," said phineas. "it is strong, mr. finn, but that's what i should like. i think, however, that i should be tempted to feel a dastard security in the conviction that i might advocate my views without any danger of seeing them carried out. for, to tell you the truth, i don't at all want to put down ladies and gentlemen." "you think that they would go with the bench of bishops?" "i don't want anything to go,--that is, as far as real life is concerned. there's that dear good bishop of abingdon is the best friend i have in the world,--and as for the bishop of dorchester, i'd walk from here to there to hear him preach. and i'd sooner hem aprons for them all myself than that they should want those pretty decorations. but then, mr. finn, there is such a difference between life and theory;--is there not?" "and it is so comfortable to have theories that one is not bound to carry out," said phineas. "isn't it? mr. palliser, do you live up to your political theories?" at this moment mr. palliser was sitting perfectly silent between lady hartletop and the duke's daughter, and he gave a little spring in his chair as this sudden address was made to him. "your house of commons theories, i mean, mr. palliser. mr. finn is saying that it is very well to have far advanced ideas,--it does not matter how far advanced,--because one is never called upon to act upon them practically." "that is a dangerous doctrine, i think," said mr. palliser. "but pleasant,--so at least mr. finn says." "it is at least very common," said phineas, not caring to protect himself by a contradiction. "for myself," said mr. palliser gravely, "i think i may say that i always am really anxious to carry into practice all those doctrines of policy which i advocate in theory." during this conversation lady hartletop sat as though no word of it reached her ears. she did not understand madame max goesler, and by no means loved her. mr. palliser, when he had made his little speech, turned to the duke's daughter and asked some question about the conservatories at longroyston. "i have called forth a word of wisdom," said madame max goesler, almost in a whisper. "yes," said phineas, "and taught a cabinet minister to believe that i am a most unsound politician. you may have ruined my prospects for life, madame max goesler." "let me hope not. as far as i can understand the way of things in your government, the aspirants to office succeed chiefly by making themselves uncommonly unpleasant to those who are in power. if a man can hit hard enough he is sure to be taken into the elysium of the treasury bench,--not that he may hit others, but that he may cease to hit those who are there. i don't think men are chosen because they are useful." "you are very severe upon us all." "indeed, as far as i can see, one man is as useful as another. but to put aside joking,--they tell me that you are sure to become a minister." phineas felt that he blushed. could it be that people said of him behind his back that he was a man likely to rise high in political position? "your informants are very kind," he replied awkwardly, "but i do not know who they are. i shall never get up in the way you describe,--that is, by abusing the men i support." after that madame max goesler turned round to mr. grey, who was sitting on the other side of her, and phineas was left for a moment in silence. he tried to say a word to lady hartletop, but lady hartletop only bowed her head gracefully in recognition of the truth of the statement he made. so he applied himself for a while to his dinner. "what do you think of miss effingham?" said madame max goesler, again addressing him suddenly. "what do i think about her?" "you know her, i suppose." "oh yes, i know her. she is closely connected with the kennedys, who are friends of mine." "so i have heard. they tell me that scores of men are raving about her. are you one of them?" "oh yes;--i don't mind being one of sundry scores. there is nothing particular in owning to that." "but you admire her?" "of course i do," said phineas. "ah, i see you are joking. i do amazingly. they say women never do admire women, but i most sincerely do admire miss effingham." "is she a friend of yours?" "oh no;--i must not dare to say so much as that. i was with her last winter for a week at matching, and of course i meet her about at people's houses. she seems to me to be the most independent girl i ever knew in my life. i do believe that nothing would make her marry a man unless she loved him and honoured him, and i think it is so very seldom that you can say that of a girl." "i believe so also," said phineas. then he paused a moment before he continued to speak. "i cannot say that i know miss effingham very intimately, but from what i have seen of her, i should think it very probable that she may not marry at all." "very probably," said madame max goesler, who then again turned away to mr. grey. ten minutes after this, when the moment was just at hand in which the ladies were to retreat, madame max goesler again addressed phineas, looking very full into his face as she did so. "i wonder whether the time will ever come, mr. finn, in which you will give me an account of that day's journey to blankenberg?" "to blankenberg!" "yes;--to blankenberg. i am not asking for it now. but i shall look for it some day." then lady glencora rose from her seat, and madame max goesler went out with the others. chapter xli lord fawn what had madame max goesler to do with his journey to blankenberg? thought phineas, as he sat for a while in silence between mr. palliser and mr. grey; and why should she, who was a perfect stranger to him, have dared to ask him such a question? but as the conversation round the table, after the ladies had gone, soon drifted into politics and became general, phineas, for a while, forgot madame max goesler and the blankenberg journey, and listened to the eager words of cabinet ministers, now and again uttering a word of his own, and showing that he, too, was as eager as others. but the session in mr. palliser's dining-room was not long, and phineas soon found himself making his way amidst a throng of coming guests into the rooms above. his object was to meet violet effingham, but, failing that, he would not be unwilling to say a few more words to madame max goesler. he first encountered lady laura, to whom he had not spoken as yet, and, finding himself standing close to her for a while, he asked her after his late neighbour. "do tell me one thing, lady laura;--who is madame max goesler, and why have i never met her before?" "that will be two things, mr. finn; but i will answer both questions as well as i can. you have not met her before, because she was in germany last spring and summer, and in the year before that you were not about so much as you have been since. still you must have seen her, i think. she is the widow of an austrian banker, and has lived the greater part of her life at vienna. she is very rich, and has a small house in park lane, where she receives people so exclusively that it has come to be thought an honour to be invited by madame max goesler. her enemies say that her father was a german jew, living in england, in the employment of the viennese bankers, and they say also that she has been married a second time to an austrian count, to whom she allows ever so much a year to stay away from her. but of all this, nobody, i fancy, knows anything. what they do know is that madame max goesler spends seven or eight thousand a year, and that she will give no man an opportunity of even asking her to marry him. people used to be shy of her, but she goes almost everywhere now." "she has not been at portman square?" "oh no; but then lady glencora is so much more advanced than we are! after all, we are but humdrum people, as the world goes now." then phineas began to roam about the rooms, striving to find an opportunity of engrossing five minutes of miss effingham's attention. during the time that lady laura was giving him the history of madame max goesler his eyes had wandered round, and he had perceived that violet was standing in the further corner of a large lobby on to which the stairs opened,--so situated, indeed, that she could hardly escape, because of the increasing crowd, but on that very account almost impossible to be reached. he could see, also, that she was talking to lord fawn, an unmarried peer of something over thirty years of age, with an unrivalled pair of whiskers, a small estate, and a rising political reputation. lord fawn had been talking to violet through the whole dinner, and phineas was beginning to think that he should like to make another journey to blankenberg, with the object of meeting his lordship on the sands. when lady laura had done speaking, his eyes were turned through a large open doorway towards the spot on which his idol was standing. "it is of no use, my friend," she said, touching his arm. "i wish i could make you know that it is of no use, because then i think you would be happier." to this phineas made no answer, but went and roamed about the rooms. why should it be of no use? would violet effingham marry any man merely because he was a lord? some half-hour after this he had succeeded in making his way up to the place in which violet was still standing, with lord fawn beside her. "i have been making such a struggle to get to you," he said. "and now you are here, you will have to stay, for it is impossible to get out," she answered. "lord fawn has made the attempt half-a-dozen times, but has failed grievously." "i have been quite contented," said lord fawn;--"more than contented." phineas felt that he ought to give some special reason to miss effingham to account for his efforts to reach her, but yet he had nothing special to say. had lord fawn not been there, he would immediately have told her that he was waiting for an answer to the question he had asked her in saulsby park, but he could hardly do this in presence of the noble under-secretary of state. she received him with her pleasant genial smile, looking exactly as she had looked when he had parted from her on the morning after their ride. she did not show any sign of anger, or even of indifference at his approach. but still it was almost necessary that he should account for his search of her. "i have so longed to hear from you how you got on at loughlinter," he said. "yes,--yes; and i will tell you something of it some day, perhaps. why do you not come to lady baldock's?" "i did not even know that lady baldock was in town." "you ought to have known. of course she is in town. where did you suppose i was living? lord fawn was there yesterday, and can tell you that my aunt is quite blooming." "lady baldock is blooming," said lord fawn; "certainly blooming;--that is, if evergreens may be said to bloom." "evergreens do bloom, as well as spring plants, lord fawn. you come and see her, mr. finn;--only you must bring a little money with you for the female protestant unmarried women's emigration society. that is my aunt's present hobby, as lord fawn knows to his cost." "i wish i may never spend half-a-sovereign worse." "but it is a perilous affair for me, as my aunt wants me to go out as a sort of leading protestant unmarried female emigrant pioneer myself." "you don't mean that," said lord fawn, with much anxiety. "of course you'll go," said phineas. "i should, if i were you." "i am in doubt," said violet. "it is such a grand prospect," said he. "such an opening in life. so much excitement, you know; and such a useful career." "as if there were not plenty of opening here for miss effingham," said lord fawn, "and plenty of excitement." "do you think there is?" said violet. "you are much more civil than mr. finn, i must say." then phineas began to hope that he need not be afraid of lord fawn. "what a happy man you were at dinner!" continued violet, addressing herself to phineas. "i thought lord fawn was the happy man." "you had madame max goesler all to yourself for nearly two hours, and i suppose there was not a creature in the room who did not envy you. i don't doubt that ever so much interest was made with lady glencora as to taking madame max down to dinner. lord fawn, i know, intrigued." "miss effingham, really i must--contradict you." "and barrington erle begged for it as a particular favour. the duke, with a sigh, owned that it was impossible, because of his cumbrous rank; and mr. gresham, when it was offered to him, declared that he was fatigued with the business of the house, and not up to the occasion. how much did she say to you; and what did she talk about?" "the ballot chiefly,--that, and manhood suffrage." "ah! she said something more than that, i am sure. madame max goesler never lets any man go without entrancing him. if you have anything near your heart, mr. finn, madame max goesler touched it, i am sure." now phineas had two things near his heart,--political promotion and violet effingham,--and madame max goesler had managed to touch them both. she had asked him respecting his journey to blankenberg, and had touched him very nearly in reference to miss effingham. "you know madame max goesler, of course?" said violet to lord fawn. "oh yes, i know the lady;--that is, as well as other people do. no one, i take it, knows much of her; and it seems to me that the world is becoming tired of her. a mystery is good for nothing if it remains always a mystery." "and it is good for nothing at all when it is found out," said violet. "and therefore it is that madame max goesler is a bore," said lord fawn. "you did not find her a bore?" said violet. then phineas, choosing to oppose lord fawn as well as he could on that matter, as on every other, declared that he had found madame max goesler most delightful. "and beautiful,--is she not?" said violet. "beautiful!" exclaimed lord fawn. "i think her very beautiful," said phineas. "so do i," said violet. "and she is a dear ally of mine. we were a week together last winter, and swore an undying friendship. she told me ever so much about mr. goesler." "but she told you nothing of her second husband?" said lord fawn. "now that you have run into scandal, i shall have done," said violet. half an hour after this, when phineas was preparing to fight his way out of the house, he was again close to madame max goesler. he had not found a single moment in which to ask violet for an answer to his old question, and was retiring from the field discomfited, but not dispirited. lord fawn, he thought, was not a serious obstacle in his way. lady laura had told him that there was no hope for him; but then lady laura's mind on that subject was, he thought, prejudiced. violet effingham certainly knew what were his wishes, and knowing them, smiled on him and was gracious to him. would she do so if his pretensions were thoroughly objectionable to her? "i saw that you were successful this evening," said madame max goesler to him. "i was not aware of any success." "i call it great success to be able to make your way where you will through such a crowd as there is here. you seem to me to be so stout a cavalier that i shall ask you to find my servant, and bid him get my carriage. will you mind?" phineas, of course, declared that he would be delighted. "he is a german, and not in livery. but if somebody will call out, he will hear. he is very sharp, and much more attentive than your english footmen. an englishman hardly ever makes a good servant." "is that a compliment to us britons?" "no, certainly not. if a man is a servant, he should be clever enough to be a good one." phineas had now given the order for the carriage, and, having returned, was standing with madame max goesler in the cloak-room. "after all, we are surely the most awkward people in the world," she said. "you know lord fawn, who was talking to miss effingham just now. you should have heard him trying to pay me a compliment before dinner. it was like a donkey walking a minuet, and yet they say he is a clever man and can make speeches." could it be possible that madame max goesler's ears were so sharp that she had heard the things which lord fawn had said of her? "he is a well-informed man," said phineas. "for a lord, you mean," said madame max goesler. "but he is an oaf, is he not? and yet they say he is to marry that girl." "i do not think he will," said phineas, stoutly. "i hope not, with all my heart; and i hope that somebody else may,--unless somebody else should change his mind. thank you; i am so much obliged to you. mind you come and call on me,-- , park lane. i dare say you know the little cottage." then he put madame max goesler into her carriage, and walked away to his club. chapter xlii lady baldock does not send a card to phineas finn lady baldock's house in berkeley square was very stately,--a large house with five front windows in a row, and a big door, and a huge square hall, and a fat porter in a round-topped chair;--but it was dingy and dull, and could not have been painted for the last ten years, or furnished for the last twenty. nevertheless, lady baldock had "evenings," and people went to them,--though not such a crowd of people as would go to the evenings of lady glencora. now mr. phineas finn had not been asked to the evenings of lady baldock for the present season, and the reason was after this wise. "yes, mr. finn," lady baldock had said to her daughter, who, early in the spring, was preparing the cards. "you may send one to mr. finn, certainly." "i don't know that he is very nice," said augusta boreham, whose eyes at saulsby had been sharper perhaps than her mother's, and who had her suspicions. but lady baldock did not like interference from her daughter. "mr. finn, certainly," she continued. "they tell me that he is a very rising young man, and he sits for lord brentford's borough. of course he is a radical, but we cannot help that. all the rising young men are radicals now. i thought him very civil at saulsby." "but, mamma--" "well!" "don't you think that he is a little free with violet?" "what on earth do you mean, augusta?" "have you not fancied that he is--fond of her?" "good gracious, no!" "i think he is. and i have sometimes fancied that she is fond of him, too." "i don't believe a word of it, augusta,--not a word. i should have seen it if it was so. i am very sharp in seeing such things. they never escape me. even violet would not be such a fool as that. send him a card, and if he comes i shall soon see." miss boreham quite understood her mother, though she could never master her,--and the card was prepared. miss boreham could never master her mother by her own efforts; but it was, i think, by a little intrigue on her part that lady baldock was mastered, and, indeed, altogether cowed, in reference to our hero, and that this victory was gained on that very afternoon in time to prevent the sending of the card. when the mother and daughter were at tea, before dinner, lord baldock came into the room, and, after having been patted and petted and praised by his mother, he took up all the cards out of a china bowl and ran his eyes over them. "lord fawn!" he said, "the greatest ass in all london! lady hartletop! you know she won't come." "i don't see why she shouldn't come," said lady baldock;--"a mere country clergyman's daughter!" "julius cæsar conway;--a great friend of mine, and therefore he always blackballs my other friends at the club. lord chiltern; i thought you were at daggers drawn with chiltern." "they say he is going to be reconciled to his father, gustavus, and i do it for lord brentford's sake. and he won't come, so it does not signify. and i do believe that violet has really refused him." "you are quite right about his not coming," said lord baldock, continuing to read the cards; "chiltern certainly won't come. count sparrowsky;--i wonder what you know about sparrowsky that you should ask him here." "he is asked about, gustavus; he is indeed," pleaded lady baldock. "i believe that sparrowsky is a penniless adventurer. mr. monk; well, he is a cabinet minister. sir gregory greeswing; you mix your people nicely at any rate. sir gregory greeswing is the most old-fashioned tory in england." "of course we are not political, gustavus." "phineas finn. they come alternately,--one and one. "mr. finn is asked everywhere, gustavus." "i don't doubt it. they say he is a very good sort of fellow. they say also that violet has found that out as well as other people." "what do you mean, gustavus?" "i mean that everybody is saying that this phineas finn is going to set himself up in the world by marrying your niece. he is quite right to try it on, if he has a chance." "i don't think he would be right at all," said lady baldock, with much energy. "i think he would be wrong,--shamefully wrong. they say he is the son of an irish doctor, and that he hasn't a shilling in the world." "that is just why he would be right. what is such a man to do, but to marry money? he's a deuced good-looking fellow, too, and will be sure to do it." "he should work for his money in the city, then, or somewhere there. but i don't believe it, gustavus; i don't, indeed." "very well. i only tell you what i hear. the fact is that he and chiltern have already quarrelled about her. if i were to tell you that they have been over to holland together and fought a duel about her, you wouldn't believe that." "fought a duel about violet! people don't fight duels now, and i should not believe it." "very well. then send your card to mr. finn." and, so saying, lord baldock left the room. lady baldock sat in silence for some time toasting her toes at the fire, and augusta boreham sat by, waiting for orders. she felt pretty nearly sure that new orders would be given if she did not herself interfere. "you had better put by that card for the present, my dear," said lady baldock at last. "i will make inquiries. i don't believe a word of what gustavus has said. i don't think that even violet is such a fool as that. but if rash and ill-natured people have spoken of it, it may be as well to be careful." "it is always well to be careful;--is it not, mamma?" "not but what i think it very improper that these things should be said about a young woman; and as for the story of the duel, i don't believe a word of it. it is absurd. i dare say that gustavus invented it at the moment, just to amuse himself." the card of course was not sent, and lady baldock at any rate put so much faith in her son's story as to make her feel it to be her duty to interrogate her niece on the subject. lady baldock at this period of her life was certainly not free from fear of violet effingham. in the numerous encounters which took place between them, the aunt seldom gained that amount of victory which would have completely satisfied her spirit. she longed to be dominant over her niece as she was dominant over her daughter; and when she found that she missed such supremacy, she longed to tell violet to depart from out her borders, and be no longer niece of hers. but had she ever done so, violet would have gone at the instant, and then terrible things would have followed. there is a satisfaction in turning out of doors a nephew or niece who is pecuniarily dependent, but when the youthful relative is richly endowed, the satisfaction is much diminished. it is the duty of a guardian, no doubt, to look after the ward; but if this cannot be done, the ward's money should at least be held with as close a fist as possible. but lady baldock, though she knew that she would be sorely wounded, poked about on her old body with the sharp lances of disobedience, and struck with the cruel swords of satire, if she took upon herself to scold or even to question violet, nevertheless would not abandon the pleasure of lecturing and teaching. "it is my duty," she would say to herself, "and though it be taken in a bad spirit, i will always perform my duty." so she performed her duty, and asked violet effingham some few questions respecting phineas finn. "my dear," she said, "do you remember meeting a mr. finn at saulsby?" "a mr. finn, aunt! why, he is a particular friend of mine. of course i do, and he was at saulsby. i have met him there more than once. don't you remember that we were riding about together?" "i remember that he was there, certainly; but i did not know that he was a special--friend." "most especial, aunt. a , i may say;--among young men, i mean." lady baldock was certainly the most indiscreet of old women in such a matter as this, and violet the most provoking of young ladies. lady baldock, believing that there was something to fear,--as, indeed, there was, much to fear,--should have been content to destroy the card, and to keep the young lady away from the young gentleman, if such keeping away was possible to her. but miss effingham was certainly very wrong to speak of any young man as being a . fond as i am of miss effingham, i cannot justify her, and must acknowledge that she used the most offensive phrase she could find, on purpose to annoy her aunt. "violet," said lady baldock, bridling up, "i never heard such a word before from the lips of a young lady." "not as a ? i thought it simply meant very good." "a is a nobleman," said lady baldock. "no, aunt;--a is a ship,--a ship that is very good," said violet. "and do you mean to say that mr. finn is,--is,--is,--very good?" "yes, indeed. you ask lord brentford, and mr. kennedy. you know he saved poor mr. kennedy from being throttled in the streets." "that has nothing to do with it. a policeman might have done that." "then he would have been a of policemen,--though a does not mean a policeman." "he would have done his duty, and so perhaps did mr. finn." "of course he did, aunt. it couldn't have been his duty to stand by and see mr. kennedy throttled. and he nearly killed one of the men, and took the other prisoner with his own hands. and he made a beautiful speech the other day. i read every word of it. i am so glad he's a liberal. i do like young men to be liberals." now lord baldock was a tory, as had been all the lord baldocks,--since the first who had been bought over from the whigs in the time of george iii at the cost of a barony. "you have nothing to do with politics, violet." "why shouldn't i have something to do with politics, aunt?" "and i must tell you that your name is being very unpleasantly mentioned in connection with that of this young man because of your indiscretion." "what indiscretion?" violet, as she made her demand for a more direct accusation, stood quite upright before her aunt, looking the old woman full in the face,--almost with her arms akimbo. "calling him a , violet." "people have been talking about me and mr. finn, because i just now, at this very moment, called him a to you! if you want to scold me about anything, aunt, do find out something less ridiculous than that." "it was most improper language,--and if you used it to me, i am sure you would to others." "to what others?" "to mr. finn,--and those sort of people." "call mr. finn a to his face! well,--upon my honour i don't know why i should not. lord chiltern says he rides beautifully, and if we were talking about riding i might do so." "you have no business to talk to lord chiltern about mr. finn at all." "have i not? i thought that perhaps the one sin might palliate the other. you know, aunt, no young lady, let her be ever so ill-disposed, can marry two objectionable young men,--at the same time." "i said nothing about your marrying mr. finn." "then, aunt, what did you mean?" "i meant that you should not allow yourself to be talked of with an adventurer, a young man without a shilling, a person who has come from nobody knows where in the bogs of ireland." "but you used to ask him here." "yes,--as long as he knew his place. but i shall not do so again. and i must beg you to be circumspect." "my dear aunt, we may as well understand each other. i will not be circumspect, as you call it. and if mr. finn asked me to marry him to-morrow, and if i liked him well enough, i would take him,--even though he had been dug right out of a bog. not only because i liked him,--mind! if i were unfortunate enough to like a man who was nothing, i would refuse him in spite of my liking,--because he was nothing. but this young man is not nothing. mr. finn is a fine fellow, and if there were no other reason to prevent my marrying him than his being the son of a doctor, and coming out of the bogs, that would not do so. now i have made a clean breast to you as regards mr. finn; and if you do not like what i've said, aunt, you must acknowledge that you have brought it on yourself." lady baldock was left for a time speechless. but no card was sent to phineas finn. chapter xliii promotion phineas got no card from lady baldock, but one morning he received a note from lord brentford which was of more importance to him than any card could have been. at this time, bit by bit, the reform bill of the day had nearly made its way through the committee, but had been so mutilated as to be almost impossible of recognition by its progenitors. and there was still a clause or two as to the rearrangement of seats, respecting which it was known that there would be a combat,--probably combats,--carried on after the internecine fashion. there was a certain clipping of counties to be done, as to which it was said that mr. daubeny had declared that he would not yield till he was made to do so by the brute force of majorities;--and there was another clause for the drafting of certain superfluous members from little boroughs, and bestowing them on populous towns at which they were much wanted, respecting which mr. turnbull had proclaimed that the clause as it now stood was a fainéant clause, capable of doing, and intended to do, no good in the proper direction; a clause put into the bill to gull ignorant folk who had not eyes enough to recognise the fact that it was fainéant; a make-believe clause,--so said mr. turnbull,--to be detested on that account by every true reformer worse than the old philistine bonds and tory figments of representation, as to which there was at least no hypocritical pretence of popular fitness. mr. turnbull had been very loud and very angry,--had talked much of demonstrations among the people, and had almost threatened the house. the house in its present mood did not fear any demonstrations,--but it did fear that mr. turnbull might help mr. daubeny, and that mr. daubeny might help mr. turnbull. it was now may,--the middle of may,--and ministers, who had been at work on their reform bill ever since the beginning of the session, were becoming weary of it. and then, should these odious clauses escape the threatened turnbull-daubeny alliance,--then there was the house of lords! "what a pity we can't pass our bills at the treasury, and have done with them!" said laurence fitzgibbon. "yes, indeed," replied mr. ratler. "for myself, i was never so tired of a session in my life. i wouldn't go through it again to be made,--no, not to be made chancellor of the exchequer." lord brentford's note to phineas finn was as follows:-- house of lords, th may, --. my dear mr. finn, you are no doubt aware that lord bosanquet's death has taken mr. mottram into the upper house, and that as he was under-secretary for the colonies, and as the under-secretary must be in the lower house, the vacancy must be filled up. the heart of phineas finn at this moment was almost in his mouth. not only to be selected for political employment, but to be selected at once for an office so singularly desirable! under-secretaries, he fancied, were paid two thousand a year. what would mr. low say now? but his great triumph soon received a check. "mr. mildmay has spoken to me on the subject," continued the letter, "and informs me that he has offered the place at the colonies to his old supporter, mr. laurence fitzgibbon." laurence fitzgibbon! i am inclined to think that he could not have done better, as mr. fitzgibbon has shown great zeal for his party. this will vacate the irish seat at the treasury board, and i am commissioned by mr. mildmay to offer it to you. perhaps you will do me the pleasure of calling on me to-morrow between the hours of eleven and twelve. yours very sincerely, brentford. phineas was himself surprised to find that his first feeling on reading this letter was one of dissatisfaction. here were his golden hopes about to be realised,--hopes as to the realisation of which he had been quite despondent twelve months ago,--and yet he was uncomfortable because he was to be postponed to laurence fitzgibbon. had the new under-secretary been a man whom he had not known, whom he had not learned to look down upon as inferior to himself, he would not have minded it,--would have been full of joy at the promotion proposed for himself. but laurence fitzgibbon was such a poor creature, that the idea of filling a place from which laurence had risen was distasteful to him. "it seems to be all a matter of favour and convenience," he said to himself, "without any reference to the service." his triumph would have been so complete had mr. mildmay allowed him to go into the higher place at one leap. other men who had made themselves useful had done so. in the first hour after receiving lord brentford's letter, the idea of becoming a lord of the treasury was almost displeasing to him. he had an idea that junior lordships of the treasury were generally bestowed on young members whom it was convenient to secure, but who were not good at doing anything. there was a moment in which he thought that he would refuse to be made a junior lord. but during the night cooler reflections told him that he had been very wrong. he had taken up politics with the express desire of getting his foot upon a rung of the ladder of promotion, and now, in his third session, he was about to be successful. even as a junior lord he would have a thousand a year; and how long might he have sat in chambers, and have wandered about lincoln's inn, and have loitered in the courts striving to look as though he had business, before he would have earned a thousand a year! even as a junior lord he could make himself useful, and when once he should be known to be a good working man, promotion would come to him. no ladder can be mounted without labour; but this ladder was now open above his head, and he already had his foot upon it. at half-past eleven he was with lord brentford, who received him with the blandest smile and a pressure of the hand which was quite cordial. "my dear finn," he said, "this gives me the most sincere pleasure,--the greatest pleasure in the world. our connection together at loughton of course makes it doubly agreeable to me." "i cannot be too grateful to you, lord brentford." "no, no; no, no. it is all your own doing. when mr. mildmay asked me whether i did not think you the most promising of the young members on our side in your house, i certainly did say that i quite concurred. but i should be taking too much on myself, i should be acting dishonestly, if i were to allow you to imagine that it was my proposition. had he asked me to recommend, i should have named you; that i say frankly. but he did not. he did not. mr. mildmay named you himself. 'do you think,' he said, 'that your friend finn would join us at the treasury?' i told him that i did think so. 'and do you not think,' said he, 'that it would be a useful appointment?' then i ventured to say that i had no doubt whatever on that point;--that i knew you well enough to feel confident that you would lend a strength to the liberal government. then there were a few words said about your seat, and i was commissioned to write to you. that was all." phineas was grateful, but not too grateful, and bore himself very well in the interview. he explained to lord brentford that of course it was his object to serve the country,--and to be paid for his services,--and that he considered himself to be very fortunate to be selected so early in his career for parliamentary place. he would endeavour to do his duty, and could safely say of himself that he did not wish to eat the bread of idleness. as he made this assertion, he thought of laurence fitzgibbon. laurence fitzgibbon had eaten the bread of idleness, and yet he was promoted. but phineas said nothing to lord brentford about his idle friend. when he had made his little speech he asked a question about the borough. "i have already ventured to write a letter to my agent at loughton, telling him that you have accepted office, and that you will be shortly there again. he will see shortribs and arrange it. but if i were you i should write to shortribs and to grating,--after i had seen mr. mildmay. of course you will not mention my name," and the earl looked very grave as he uttered this caution. "of course i will not," said phineas. "i do not think you'll find any difficulty about the seat," said the peer. "there never has been any difficulty at loughton yet. i must say that for them. and if we can scrape through with clause we shall be all right;--shall we not?" this was the clause as to which so violent an opposition was expected from mr. turnbull,--a clause as to which phineas himself had felt that he would hardly know how to support the government, in the event of the committee being pressed to a division upon it. could he, an ardent reformer, a reformer at heart,--could he say that such a borough as loughton should be spared;--that the arrangement by which shortribs and grating had sent him to parliament, in obedience to lord brentford's orders, was in due accord with the theory of a representative legislature? in what respect had gatton and old sarum been worse than loughton? was he not himself false to his principle in sitting for such a borough as loughton? he had spoken to mr. monk, and mr. monk had told him that rome was not built in a day,--and had told him also that good things were most valued and were more valuable when they came by instalments. but then mr. monk himself enjoyed the satisfaction of sitting for a popular constituency. he was not personally pricked in the conscience by his own parliamentary position. now, however, --now that phineas had consented to join the government, any such considerations as these must be laid aside. he could no longer be a free agent, or even a free thinker. he had been quite aware of this, and had taught himself to understand that members of parliament in the direct service of the government were absolved from the necessity of free-thinking. individual free-thinking was incompatible with the position of a member of the government, and unless such abnegation were practised, no government would be possible. it was of course a man's duty to bind himself together with no other men but those with whom, on matters of general policy, he could agree heartily;--but having found that he could so agree, he knew that it would be his duty as a subaltern to vote as he was directed. it would trouble his conscience less to sit for loughton and vote for an objectionable clause as a member of the government, than it would have done to give such a vote as an independent member. in so resolving, he thought that he was simply acting in accordance with the acknowledged rules of parliamentary government. and therefore, when lord brentford spoke of clause , he could answer pleasantly, "i think we shall carry it; and, you see, in getting it through committee, if we can carry it by one, that is as good as a hundred. that's the comfort of close-fighting in committee. in the open house we are almost as much beaten by a narrow majority as by a vote against us." "just so; just so," said lord brentford, delighted to see that his young pupil,--as he regarded him,--understood so well the system of parliamentary management. "by-the-bye, finn, have you seen chiltern lately?" "not quite lately," said phineas, blushing up to his eyes. "or heard from him?" "no;--nor heard from him. when last i heard of him he was in brussels." "ah,--yes; he is somewhere on the rhine now. i thought that as you were so intimate, perhaps you corresponded with him. have you heard that we have arranged about lady laura's money?" "i have heard. lady laura has told me." "i wish he would return," said lord brentford sadly,--almost solemnly. "as that great difficulty is over, i would receive him willingly, and make my house pleasant to him, if i can do so. i am most anxious that he should settle, and marry. could you not write to him?" phineas, not daring to tell lord brentford that he had quarrelled with lord chiltern,--feeling that if he did so everything would go wrong,--said that he would write to lord chiltern. as he went away he felt that he was bound to get an answer from violet effingham. if it should be necessary, he was willing to break with lord brentford on that matter,--even though such breaking should lose him his borough and his place;--but not on any other matter. chapter xliv phineas and his friends our hero's friends were, i think, almost more elated by our hero's promotion than was our hero himself. he never told himself that it was a great thing to be a junior lord of the treasury, though he acknowledged to himself that to have made a successful beginning was a very great thing. but his friends were loud in their congratulations,--or condolements as the case might be. he had his interview with mr. mildmay, and, after that, one of his first steps was to inform mrs. bunce that he must change his lodgings. "the truth is, mrs. bunce, not that i want anything better; but that a better position will be advantageous to me, and that i can afford to pay for it." mrs. bunce acknowledged the truth of the argument, with her apron up to her eyes. "i've got to be so fond of looking after you, mr. finn! i have indeed," said mrs. bunce. "it is not just what you pays like, because another party will pay as much. but we've got so used to you, mr. finn,--haven't we?" mrs. bunce was probably not aware herself that the comeliness of her lodger had pleased her feminine eye, and touched her feminine heart. had anybody said that mrs. bunce was in love with phineas, the scandal would have been monstrous. and yet it was so,--after a fashion. and bunce knew it,--after his fashion. "don't be such an old fool," he said, "crying after him because he's six foot high." "i ain't crying after him because he's six foot high," whined the poor woman;--"but one does like old faces better than new, and a gentleman about one's place is pleasant." "gentleman be d----d," said bunce. but his anger was excited, not by his wife's love for phineas, but by the use of an objectionable word. bunce himself had been on very friendly terms with phineas, and they two had had many discussions on matters of politics, bunce taking up the cudgels always for mr. turnbull, and generally slipping away gradually into some account of his own martyrdom. for he had been a martyr, having failed in obtaining any redress against the policeman who had imprisoned him so wrongfully. the _people's banner_ had fought for him manfully, and therefore there was a little disagreement between him and phineas on the subject of that great organ of public opinion. and as mr. bunce thought that his lodger was very wrong to sit for lord brentford's borough, subjects were sometimes touched which were a little galling to phineas. touching this promotion, bunce had nothing but condolement to offer to the new junior lord. "oh yes," said he, in answer to an argument from phineas, "i suppose there must be lords, as you call 'em; though for the matter of that i can't see as they is of any mortal use." "wouldn't you have the government carried on?" "government! well; i suppose there must be government. but the less of it the better. i'm not against government;--nor yet against laws, mr. finn; though the less of them, too, the better. but what does these lords do in the government? lords indeed! i'll tell you what they do, mr. finn. they wotes; that's what they do! they wotes hard; black or white, white or black. ain't that true? when you're a 'lord,' will you be able to wote against mr. mildmay to save your very soul?" "if it comes to be a question of soul-saving, mr. bunce, i shan't save my place at the expense of my conscience." "not if you knows it, you mean. but the worst of it is that a man gets so thick into the mud that he don't know whether he's dirty or clean. you'll have to wote as you're told, and of course you'll think it's right enough. ain't you been among parliament gents long enough to know that that's the way it goes?" "you think no honest man can be a member of the government?" "i don't say that, but i think honesty's a deal easier away from 'em. the fact is, mr. finn, it's all wrong with us yet, and will be till we get it nigher to the great american model. if a poor man gets into parliament,--you'll excuse me, mr. finn, but i calls you a poor man." "certainly,--as a member of parliament i am a very poor man." "just so,--and therefore what do you do? you goes and lays yourself out for government! i'm not saying as how you're anyways wrong. a man has to live. you has winning ways, and a good physiognomy of your own, and are as big as a life-guardsman." phineas as he heard this doubtful praise laughed and blushed. "very well; you makes your way with the big wigs, lords and earls and them like, and you gets returned for a rotten borough;--you'll excuse me, but that's about it, ain't it?--and then you goes in for government! a man may have a mission to govern, such as washington and cromwell and the like o' them. but when i hears of mr. fitzgibbon a-governing, why then i says,--d----n it all." "there must be good and bad you know." "we've got to change a deal yet, mr. finn, and we'll do it. when a young man as has liberal feelings gets into parliament, he shouldn't be snapped up and brought into the governing business just because he's poor and wants a salary. they don't do it that way in the states; and they won't do it that way here long. it's the system as i hates, and not you, mr. finn. well, good-bye, sir. i hope you'll like the governing business, and find it suits your health." these condolements from mr. bunce were not pleasant, but they set him thinking. he felt assured that bunce and quintus slide and mr. turnbull were wrong. bunce was ignorant. quintus slide was dishonest. turnbull was greedy of popularity. for himself, he thought that as a young man he was fairly well informed. he knew that he meant to be true in his vocation. and he was quite sure that the object nearest to his heart in politics was not self-aggrandisement, but the welfare of the people in general. and yet he could not but agree with bunce that there was something wrong. when such men as laurence fitzgibbon were called upon to act as governors, was it not to be expected that the ignorant but still intelligent bunces of the population should--"d----n it all"? on the evening of that day he went up to mrs. low's, very sure that he should receive some encouragement from her and from her husband. she had been angry with him because he had put himself into a position in which money must be spent and none could be made. the lows, especially mrs. low, had refused to believe that any success was within his reach. now that he had succeeded, now that he was in receipt of a salary on which he could live and save money, he would be sure of sympathy from his old friends the lows! but mrs. low was as severe upon him as mr. bunce had been, and even from mr. low he could extract no real comfort. "of course i congratulate you," said mr. low coldly. "and you, mrs. low?" "well, you know, mr. finn, i think you have begun at the wrong end. i thought so before, and i think so still. i suppose i ought not to say so to a lord of the treasury, but if you ask me, what can i do?" "speak the truth out, of course." "exactly. that's what i must do. well, the truth is, mr. finn, that i do not think it is a very good opening for a young man to be made what they call a lord of the treasury,--unless he has got a private fortune, you know, to support that kind of life." "you see, phineas, a ministry is such an uncertain thing," said mr. low. "of course it's uncertain;--but as i did go into the house, it's something to have succeeded." "if you call that success," said mrs. low. "you did intend to go on with your profession," said mr. low. he could not tell them that he had changed his mind, and that he meant to marry violet effingham, who would much prefer a parliamentary life for her husband to that of a working barrister. "i suppose that is all given up now," continued mr. low. "just for the present," said phineas. "yes;--and for ever i fear," said mrs. low, "you'll never go back to real work after frittering away your time as a lord of the treasury. what sort of work must it be when just anybody can do it that it suits them to lay hold of? but of course a thousand a year is something, though a man may have it for only six months." it came out in the course of the evening that mr. low was going to stand for the borough vacated by mr. mottram, at which it was considered that the conservatives might possibly prevail. "you see, after all, phineas," said mr. low, "that i am following your steps." "ah; you are going into the house in the course of your profession." "just so," said mrs. low. "and are taking the first step towards being a tory attorney-general." "that's as may be," said mr. low. "but it's the kind of thing a man does after twenty years of hard work. for myself, i really don't care much whether i succeed or fail. i should like to live to be a vice-chancellor. i don't mind saying as much as that to you. but i'm not at all sure that parliament is the best way to the equity bench." "but it is a grand thing to get into parliament when you do it by means of your profession," said mrs. low. soon after that phineas took his departure from the house, feeling sore and unhappy. but on the next morning he was received in grosvenor place with an amount of triumph which went far to compensate him. lady laura had written to him to call there, and on his arrival he found both violet effingham and madame max goesler with his friend. when phineas entered the room his first feeling was one of intense joy at seeing that violet effingham was present there. then there was one of surprise that madame max goesler should make one of the little party. lady laura had told him at mr. palliser's dinner-party that they, in portman square, had not as yet advanced far enough to receive madame max goesler,--and yet here was the lady in mr. kennedy's drawing-room. now phineas would have thought it more likely that he should find her in portman square than in grosvenor place. the truth was that madame goesler had been brought by miss effingham,--with the consent, indeed, of lady laura, but with a consent given with much of hesitation. "what are you afraid of?" violet had asked. "i am afraid of nothing," lady laura had answered; "but one has to choose one's acquaintance in accordance with rules which one doesn't lay down very strictly." "she is a clever woman," said violet, "and everybody likes her; but if you think mr. kennedy would object, of course you are right." then lady laura had consented, telling herself that it was not necessary that she should ask her husband's approval as to every new acquaintance she might form. at the same time violet had been told that phineas would be there, and so the party had been made up. "'see the conquering hero comes,' said violet in her cheeriest voice. "i am so glad that mr. finn has been made a lord of something," said madame max goesler. "i had the pleasure of a long political discussion with him the other night, and i quite approve of him." "we are so much gratified, mr. finn," said lady laura. "mr. kennedy says that it is the best appointment they could have made, and papa is quite proud about it." "you are lord brentford's member; are you not?" asked madame max goesler. this was a question which phineas did not quite like, and which he was obliged to excuse by remembering that the questioner had lived so long out of england as to be probably ignorant of the myths, and theories, and system, and working of the british constitution. violet effingham, little as she knew of politics, would never have asked a question so imprudent. but the question was turned off, and phineas, with an easy grace, submitted himself to be petted, and congratulated, and purred over, and almost caressed by the three ladies, their good-natured enthusiasm was at any rate better than the satire of bunce, or the wisdom of mrs. low. lady laura had no misgivings as to phineas being fit for governing, and violet effingham said nothing as to the short-lived tenure of ministers. madame max goesler, though she had asked an indiscreet question, thoroughly appreciated the advantage of government pay, and the prestige of government power. "you are a lord now," she said, speaking, as was customary with her, with the slightest possible foreign accent, "and you will be a president soon, and then perhaps a secretary. the order of promotion seems odd, but i am told it is very pleasant." "it is pleasant to succeed, of course," said phineas, "let the success be ever so little." "we knew you would succeed," said lady laura. "we were quite sure of it. were we not, violet?" "you always said so, my dear. for myself i do not venture to have an opinion on such matters. will you always have to go to that big building in the corner, mr. finn, and stay there from ten till four? won't that be a bore?" "we have a half-holiday on saturday, you know," said phineas. "and do the lords of the treasury have to take care of the money?" asked madame max goesler. "only their own; and they generally fail in doing that," said phineas. he sat there for a considerable time, wondering whether mr. kennedy would come in, and wondering also as to what mr. kennedy would say to madame max goesler when he did come in. he knew that it was useless for him to expect any opportunity, then or there, of being alone for a moment with violet effingham. his only chance in that direction would be in some crowded room, at some ball at which he might ask her to dance with him; but it seemed that fate was very unkind to him, and that no such chance came in his way. mr. kennedy did not appear, and madame max goesler with violet went away, leaving phineas still sitting with lady laura. each of them said a kind word to him as they went. "i don't know whether i may dare to expect that a lord of the treasury will come and see me?" said madame max goesler. then phineas made a second promise that he would call in park lane. violet blushed as she remembered that she could not ask him to call at lady baldock's. "good-bye, mr. finn," she said, giving him her hand. "i'm so very glad that they have chosen you; and i do hope that, as madame max says, they'll make you a secretary and a president, and everything else very quickly,--till it will come to your turn to be making other people." "he is very nice," said madame goesler to violet as she took her place in the carriage. "he bears being petted and spoilt without being either awkward or conceited." "on the whole, he is rather nice," said violet; "only he has not got a shilling in the world, and has to make himself before he will be anybody." "he must marry money, of course," said madame max goesler. "i hope you are contented?" said lady laura, rising from her chair and coming opposite to him as soon as they were alone. "of course i am contented." "i was not,--when i first heard of it. why did they promote that empty-headed countryman of yours to a place for which he was quite unfit? i was not contented. but then i am more ambitious for you than you are for yourself." he sat without answering her for awhile, and she stood waiting for his reply. "have you nothing to say to me?" she asked. "i do not know what to say. when i think of it all, i am lost in amazement. you tell me that you are not contented;--that you are ambitious for me. why is it that you should feel any interest in the matter?" "is it not reasonable that we should be interested for our friends?" "but when you and i last parted here in this room you were hardly my friend." "was i not? you wrong me there;--very deeply." "i told you what was my ambition, and you resented it," said phineas. "i think i said that i could not help you, and i think i said also that i thought you would fail. i do not know that i showed much resentment. you see, i told her that you were here, that she might come and meet you. you know that i wished my brother should succeed. i wished it before i ever knew you. you cannot expect that i should change my wishes." "but if he cannot succeed," pleaded phineas. "who is to say that? has a woman never been won by devotion and perseverance? besides, how can i wish to see you go on with a suit which must sever you from my father, and injure your political prospects;--perhaps fatally injure them? it seems to me now that my father is almost the only man in london who has not heard of this duel." "of course he will hear of it. i have half made up my mind to tell him myself." "do not do that, mr. finn. there can be no reason for it. but i did not ask you to come here to-day to talk to you about oswald or violet. i have given you my advice about that, and i can do no more." "lady laura, i cannot take it. it is out of my power to take it." "very well. the matter shall be what you members of parliament call an open question between us. when papa asked you to accept this place at the treasury, did it ever occur to you to refuse it?" "it did;--for half an hour or so." "i hoped you would,--and yet i knew that i was wrong. i thought that you should count yourself to be worth more than that, and that you should, as it were, assert yourself. but then it is so difficult to draw the line between proper self-assertion and proper self-denial;--to know how high to go up the table, and how low to go down. i do not doubt that you have been right,--only make them understand that you are not as other junior lords;--that you have been willing to be a junior lord, or anything else for a purpose; but that the purpose is something higher than that of fetching and carrying in parliament for mr. mildmay and mr. palliser." "i hope in time to get beyond fetching and carrying," said phineas. "of course you will; and knowing that, i am glad that you are in office. i suppose there will be no difficulty about loughton." then phineas laughed. "i hear," said he, "that mr. quintus slide, of the _people's banner_, has already gone down to canvass the electors." "mr. quintus slide! to canvass the electors of loughton!" and lady laura drew herself up and spoke of this unseemly intrusion on her father's borough, as though the vulgar man who had been named had forced his way into the very drawing-room in portman square. at that moment mr. kennedy came in. "do you hear what mr. finn tells me?" she said. "he has heard that mr. quintus slide has gone down to loughton to stand against him." "and why not?" said mr. kennedy. "my dear!" ejaculated lady laura. "mr. quintus slide will no doubt lose his time and his money;--but he will gain the prestige of having stood for a borough, which will be something for him on the staff of the _people's banner_," said mr. kennedy. "he will get that horrid man vellum to propose him," said lady laura. "very likely," said mr. kennedy. "and the less any of us say about it the better. finn, my dear fellow, i congratulate you heartily. nothing for a long time has given me greater pleasure than hearing of your appointment. it is equally honourable to yourself and to mr. mildmay. it is a great step to have gained so early." phineas, as he thanked his friend, could not help asking himself what his friend had done to be made a cabinet minister. little as he, phineas, himself had done in the house in his two sessions and a half, mr. kennedy had hardly done more in his fifteen or twenty. but then mr. kennedy was possessed of almost miraculous wealth, and owned half a county, whereas he, phineas, owned almost nothing at all. of course no prime minister would offer a junior lordship at the treasury to a man with £ , a year. soon after this phineas took his leave. "i think he will do well," said mr. kennedy to his wife. "i am sure he will do well," replied lady laura, almost scornfully. "he is not quite such a black swan with me as he is with you; but still i think he will succeed, if he takes care of himself. it is astonishing how that absurd story of his duel with chiltern has got about." "it is impossible to prevent people talking," said lady laura. "i suppose there was some quarrel, though neither of them will tell you. they say it was about miss effingham. i should hardly think that finn could have any hopes in that direction." "why should he not have hopes?" "because he has neither position, nor money, nor birth," said mr. kennedy. "he is a gentleman." said lady laura; "and i think he has position. i do not see why he should not ask any girl to marry him." "there is no understanding you, laura," said mr. kennedy, angrily. "i thought you had quite other hopes about miss effingham." "so i have; but that has nothing to do with it. you spoke of mr. finn as though he would be guilty of some crime were he to ask violet effingham to be his wife. in that i disagree with you. mr. finn is--" "you will make me sick of the name of mr. finn." "i am sorry that i offend you by my gratitude to a man who saved your life." mr. kennedy shook his head. he knew that the argument used against him was false, but he did not know how to show that he knew that it was false. "perhaps i had better not mention his name any more," continued lady laura. "nonsense!" "i quite agree with you that it is nonsense, robert." "all i mean to say is, that if you go on as you do, you will turn his head and spoil him. do you think i do not know what is going on among you?" "and what is going on among us,--as you call it?" "you are taking this young man up and putting him on a pedestal and worshipping him, just because he is well-looking, and rather clever and decently behaved. it's always the way with women who have nothing to do, and who cannot be made to understand that they should have duties. they cannot live without some kind of idolatry." "have i neglected my duty to you, robert?" "yes,--you know you have;--in going to those receptions at your father's house on sundays." "what has that to do with mr. finn?" "psha!" "i begin to think i had better tell mr. finn not to come here any more, since his presence is disagreeable to you. all the world knows how great is the service he did you, and it will seem to be very ridiculous. people will say all manner of things; but anything will be better than that you should go on as you have done,--accusing your wife of idolatry towards--a young man, because--he is--well-looking." "i never said anything of the kind." "you did, robert." "i did not. i did not speak more of you than of a lot of others." "you accused me personally, saying that because of my idolatry i had neglected my duty; but really you made such a jumble of it all, with papa's visitors, and sunday afternoons, that i cannot follow what was in your mind." then mr. kennedy stood for awhile, collecting his thoughts, so that he might unravel the jumble, if that were possible to him; but finding that it was not possible, he left the room, and closed the door behind him. then lady laura was left alone to consider the nature of the accusation which her husband had brought against her; or the nature rather of the accusation which she had chosen to assert that her husband had implied. for in her heart she knew that he had made no such accusation, and had intended to make none such. the idolatry of which he had spoken was the idolatry which a woman might show to her cat, her dog, her picture, her china, her furniture, her carriage and horses, or her pet maid-servant. such was the idolatry of which mr. kennedy had spoken;--but was there no other worship in her heart, worse, more pernicious than that, in reference to this young man? she had schooled herself about him very severely, and had come to various resolutions. she had found out and confessed to herself that she did not, and could not, love her husband. she had found out and confessed to herself that she did love, and could not help loving, phineas finn. then she had resolved to banish him from her presence, and had gone the length of telling him so. after that she had perceived that she had been wrong, and had determined to meet him as she met other men,--and to conquer her love. then, when this could not be done, when something almost like idolatry grew upon her, she determined that it should be the idolatry of friendship, that she would not sin even in thought, that there should be nothing in her heart of which she need be ashamed;--but that the one great object and purport of her life should be the promotion of this friend's welfare. she had just begun to love after this fashion, had taught herself to believe that she might combine something of the pleasure of idolatry towards her friend with a full complement of duty towards her husband, when phineas came to her with his tale of love for violet effingham. the lesson which she got then was a very rough one,--so hard that at first she could not bear it. her anger at his love for her brother's wished-for bride was lost in her dismay that phineas should love any one after having once loved her. but by sheer force of mind she had conquered that dismay, that feeling of desolation at her heart, and had almost taught herself to hope that phineas might succeed with violet. he wished it,--and why should he not have what he wished,--he, whom she so fondly idolised? it was not his fault that he and she were not man and wife. she had chosen to arrange it otherwise, and was she not bound to assist him now in the present object of his reasonable wishes? she had got over in her heart that difficulty about her brother, but she could not quite conquer the other difficulty. she could not bring herself to plead his cause with violet. she had not brought herself as yet to do it. and now she was accused of idolatry for phineas by her husband,--she with "a lot of others," in which lot violet was of course included. would it not be better that they two should be brought together? would not her friend's husband still be her friend? would she not then forget to love him? would she not then be safer than she was now? as she sat alone struggling with her difficulties, she had not as yet forgotten to love him,--nor was she as yet safe. chapter xlv miss effingham's four lovers one morning early in june lady laura called at lady baldock's house and asked for miss effingham. the servant was showing her into the large drawing-room, when she again asked specially for miss effingham. "i think miss effingham is there," said the man, opening the door. miss effingham was not there. lady baldock was sitting all alone, and lady laura perceived that she had been caught in the net which she specially wished to avoid. now lady baldock had not actually or openly quarrelled with lady laura kennedy or with lord brentford, but she had conceived a strong idea that her niece violet was countenanced in all improprieties by the standish family generally, and that therefore the standish family was to be regarded as a family of enemies. there was doubtless in her mind considerable confusion on the subject, for she did not know whether lord chiltern or mr. finn was the suitor whom she most feared,--and she was aware, after a sort of muddled fashion, that the claims of these two wicked young men were antagonistic to each other. but they were both regarded by her as emanations from the same source of iniquity, and, therefore, without going deeply into the machinations of lady laura,--without resolving whether lady laura was injuring her by pressing her brother as a suitor upon miss effingham, or by pressing a rival of her brother,--still she became aware that it was her duty to turn a cold shoulder on those two houses in portman square and grosvenor place. but her difficulties in doing this were very great, and it may be said that lady baldock was placed in an unjust and cruel position. before the end of may she had proposed to leave london, and to take her daughter and violet down to baddingham,--or to brighton, if they preferred it, or to switzerland. "brighton in june!" violet had exclaimed. "would not a month among the glaciers be delightful!" miss boreham had said. "don't let me keep you in town, aunt," violet replied; "but i do not think i shall go till other people go. i can have a room at laura kennedy's house." then lady baldock, whose position was hard and cruel, resolved that she would stay in town. here she had in her hands a ward over whom she had no positive power, and yet in respect to whom her duty was imperative! her duty was imperative, and lady baldock was not the woman to neglect her duty;--and yet she knew that the doing of her duty would all be in vain. violet would marry a shoe-black out of the streets if she were so minded. it was of no use that the poor lady had provided herself with two strings, two most excellent strings, to her bow,--two strings either one of which should have contented miss effingham. there was lord fawn, a young peer, not very rich indeed,--but still with means sufficient for a wife, a rising man, and in every way respectable, although a whig. and there was mr. appledom, one of the richest commoners in england, a fine conservative too, with a seat in the house, and everything appropriate. he was fifty, but looked hardly more than thirty-five, and was,--so at least lady baldock frequently asserted,--violently in love with violet effingham. why had not the law, or the executors, or the lord chancellor, or some power levied for the protection of the proprieties, made violet absolutely subject to her guardian till she should be made subject to a husband? "yes, i think she is at home," said lady baldock, in answer to lady laura's inquiry for violet. "at least, i hardly know. she seldom tells me what she means to do,--and sometimes she will walk out quite alone!" a most imprudent old woman was lady baldock, always opening her hand to her adversaries, unable to control herself in the scolding of people, either before their faces or behind their backs, even at moments in which such scolding was most injurious to her own cause. "however, we will see," she continued. then the bell was rung, and in a few minutes violet was in the room. in a few minutes more they were up-stairs together in violet's own room, in spite of the openly-displayed wrath of lady baldock. "i almost wish she had never been born," said lady baldock to her daughter. "oh, mamma, don't say that." "i certainly do wish that i had never seen her." "indeed she has been a grievous trouble to you, mamma," said miss boreham, sympathetically. "brighton! what nonsense!" said lady laura. "of course it's nonsense. fancy going to brighton! and then they have proposed switzerland. if you could only hear augusta talking in rapture of a month among the glaciers! and i feel so ungrateful. i believe they would spend three months with me at any horrible place that i could suggest,--at hong kong if i were to ask it,--so intent are they on taking me away from metropolitan danger." "but you will not go?" "no!--i won't go. i know i am very naughty; but i can't help feeling that i cannot be good without being a fool at the same time. i must either fight my aunt, or give way to her. if i were to yield, what a life i should have;--and i should despise myself after all." "and what is the special danger to be feared now?" "i don't know;--you, i fancy. i told her that if she went, i should go to you. i knew that would make her stay." "i wish you would come to me," said lady laura. "i shouldn't think of it really,--not for any length of time." "why not?" "because i should be in mr. kennedy's way." "you wouldn't be in his way in the least. if you would only be down punctually for morning prayers, and go to church with him on sunday afternoon, he would be delighted to have you." "what did he say about madame max coming?" "not a word. i don't think he quite knew who she was then. i fancy he has inquired since, by something he said yesterday." "what did he say?" "nothing that matters;--only a word. i haven't come here to talk about madame max goesler,--nor yet about mr. kennedy." "whom have you come to talk about?" asked violet, laughing a little, with something of increased colour in her cheeks, though she could not be said to blush. "a lover of course," said lady laura. "i wish you would leave me alone with my lovers. you are as bad or worse than my aunt. she, at any rate, varies her prescription. she has become sick of poor lord fawn because he's a whig." "and who is her favourite now?" "old mr. appledom,--who is really a most unexceptionable old party, and whom i like of all things. i really think i could consent to be mrs. appledom, to get rid of my troubles,--if he did not dye his whiskers and have his coats padded." "he'd give up those little things if you asked him." "i shouldn't have the heart to do it. besides, this isn't his time of the year for making proposals. his love fever, which is of a very low kind, and intermits annually, never comes on till the autumn. it is a rural malady, against which he is proof while among his clubs!" "well, violet,--i am like your aunt." "like lady baldock?" "in one respect. i, too, will vary my prescription." "what do you mean, laura?" "just this,--that if you like to marry phineas finn, i will say that you are right." "heaven and earth! and why am i to marry phineas finn?" "only for two reasons; because he loves you, and because--" "no,--i deny it. i do not." "i had come to fancy that you did." "keep your fancy more under control then. but upon my word i can't understand this. he was your great friend." "what has that to do with it?" demanded lady laura. "and you have thrown over your brother, laura?" "you have thrown him over. is he to go on for ever asking and being refused?" "i do not know why he should not," said violet, "seeing how very little trouble it gives him. half an hour once in six months does it all for him, allowing him time for coming and going in a cab." "violet, i do not understand you. have you refused oswald so often because he does not pass hours on his knees before you?" "no, indeed! his nature would be altered very much for the worse before he could do that." "why do you throw it in his teeth then that he does not give you more of his time?" "why have you come to tell me to marry mr. phineas finn? that is what i want to know. mr. phineas finn, as far as i am aware, has not a shilling in the world,--except a month's salary now due to him from the government. mr. phineas finn i believe to be the son of a country doctor in ireland,--with about seven sisters. mr. phineas finn is a roman catholic. mr. phineas finn is,--or was a short time ago,--in love with another lady; and mr. phineas finn is not so much in love at this moment but what he is able to intrust his cause to an ambassador. none short of a royal suitor should ever do that with success." "has he never pleaded his cause to you himself?" "my dear, i never tell gentlemen's secrets. it seems that if he has, his success was so trifling that he has thought he had better trust some one else for the future." "he has not trusted me. he has not given me any commission." "then why have you come?" "because,--i hardly know how to tell his story. there have been things about oswald which made it almost necessary that mr. finn should explain himself to me." "i know it all;--about their fighting. foolish young men! i am not a bit obliged to either of them,--not a bit. only fancy, if my aunt knew it, what a life she would lead me! gustavus knows all about it, and i feel that i am living at his mercy. why were they so wrong-headed?" "i cannot answer that,--though i know them well enough to be sure that chiltern was the one in fault." "it is so odd that you should have thrown your brother over." "i have not thrown my brother over. will you accept oswald if he asks you again?" "no," almost shouted violet. "then i hope that mr. finn may succeed. i want him to succeed in everything. there;--you may know it all. he is my phoebus apollo." "that is flattering to me,--looking at the position in which you desire to place your phoebus at the present moment." "come, violet, i am true to you, and let me have a little truth from you. this man loves you, and i think is worthy of you. he does not love me, but he is my friend. as his friend, and believing in his worth, i wish for his success beyond almost anything else in the world. listen to me, violet. i don't believe in those reasons which you gave me just now for not becoming this man's wife." "nor do i." "i know you do not. look at me. i, who have less of real heart than you, i who thought that i could trust myself to satisfy my mind and my ambition without caring for my heart, i have married for what you call position. my husband is very rich, and a cabinet minister, and will probably be a peer. and he was willing to marry me at a time when i had not a shilling of my own." "he was very generous." "he has asked for it since," said lady laura. "but never mind. i have not come to talk about myself;--otherwise than to bid you not do what i have done. all that you have said about this man's want of money and of family is nothing." "nothing at all," said violet. "mere words,--fit only for such people as my aunt." "well then?" "well?" "if you love him--!" "ah! but if i do not? you are very close in inquiring into my secrets. tell me, laura;--was not this young crichton once a lover of your own?" "psha! and do you think i cannot keep a gentleman's secret as well as you?" "what is the good of any secret, laura, when we have been already so open? he tried his 'prentice hand on you; and then he came to me. let us watch him, and see who'll be the third. i too like him well enough to hope that he'll land himself safely at last." chapter xlvi the mousetrap phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador,--at second-hand. he had given no commission to lady laura, and was, as the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said on his behalf. he had asked no more from lady laura than an opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an enemy. he had read but little of the workings of lady laura's heart towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to give him. she had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she was willing also to sacrifice herself. nor, when she wrote to him one june morning and told him that violet would be found in portman square, alone, that afternoon,--naming an hour, and explaining that miss effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but that at such an hour she would be certainly alone,--did he even then know how much she was prepared to do for him. the short note was signed "l.," and then there came a long postscript. "ask for me," she said in a postscript. "i shall be there later, and i have told them to bid you wait. i can give you no hope of success, but if you choose to try,--you can do so. if you do not come, i shall know that you have changed your mind. i shall not think the worse of you, and your secret will be safe with me. i do that which you have asked me to do,--simply because you have asked it. burn this at once,--because i ask it." phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the moment that he had read it and re-read it. of course he would go to portman square at the hour named. of course he would take his chance. he was not buoyed up by much of hope;--but even though there were no hope, he would take his chance. when lord brentford had first told phineas of his promotion, he had also asked the new lord of the treasury to make a certain communication on his behalf to his son. this phineas had found himself obliged to promise to do;--and he had done it. the letter had been difficult enough to write,--but he had written it. after having made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it. "dear lord chiltern," he had commenced, "i will not think that there was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. i now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of our little affair." then he explained at length lord brentford's wishes as he understood them. "pray come home," he said, finishing his letter. "touching v. e., i feel that i am bound to tell you that i still mean to try my fortune, but that i have no ground for hoping that my fortune will be good. since the day on the sands, i have never met her but in society. i know you will be glad to hear that my wound was nothing; and i think you will be glad to hear that i have got my foot on to the ladder of promotion.--yours always, "phineas finn." now he had to try his fortune,--that fortune of which he had told lord chiltern that he had no reason for hoping that it would be good. he went direct from his office at the treasury to portman square, resolving that he would take no trouble as to his dress, simply washing his hands and brushing his hair as though he were going down to the house, and he knocked at the earl's door exactly at the hour named by lady laura. "miss effingham," he said, "i am so glad to find you alone." "yes," she said, laughing. "i am alone,--a poor unprotected female. but i fear nothing. i have strong reason for believing that lord brentford is somewhere about. and pomfret the butler, who has known me since i was a baby, is a host in himself." "with such allies you can have nothing to fear," he replied, attempting to carry on her little jest. "nor even without them, mr. finn. we unprotected females in these days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted. now with you,--what can i fear?" "nothing,--as i hope." "there used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other if they were left alone. but propriety is less rampant now, and upon the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of thing, have been the gainers. don't you think so?" "i am sure of it." "all the same, but i don't like to be caught in a trap, mr. finn." "in a trap?" "yes;--in a trap. is there no trap here? if you will say so, i will acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon." "i hardly know what you call a trap." "you were told that i was here?" he paused a moment before he replied. "yes, i was told." "i call that a trap." "am i to blame?" "i don't say that you set it,--but you use it." "miss effingham, of course i have used it. you must know,--i think you must know that i have that to say to you which has made me long for such an opportunity as this." "and therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend." "it is true." "in such matters you should never talk to any one, mr. finn. if you cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you." "miss effingham, do you remember our ride at saulsby?" "very well;--as if it were yesterday." "and do you remember that i asked you a question which you have never answered?" "i did answer it,--as well as i knew how, so that i might tell you a truth without hurting you." "it was necessary,--is necessary that i should be hurt sorely, or made perfectly happy. violet effingham, i have come to you to ask you to be my wife;--to tell you that i love you, and to ask for your love in return. whatever may be my fate, the question must be asked, and an answer must be given. i have not hoped that you should tell me that you loved me--" "for what then have you hoped?" "for not much, indeed;--but if for anything, then for some chance that you might tell me so hereafter." "if i loved you, i would tell you so now,--instantly. i give you my word of that." "can you never love me?" "what is a woman to answer to such a question? no;--i believe never. i do not think i shall ever wish you to be my husband. you ask me to be plain, and i must be plain." "is it because--?" he paused, hardly knowing what the question was which he proposed to himself to ask. "it is for no because,--for no cause except that simple one which should make any girl refuse any man whom she did not love. mr. finn, i could say pleasant things to you on any other subject than this,--because i like you." "i know that i have nothing to justify my suit." "you have everything to justify it;--at least i am bound to presume that you have. if you love me,--you are justified." "you know that i love you." "i am sorry that it should ever have been so,--very sorry. i can only hope that i have not been in fault." "will you try to love me?" "no;--why should i try? if any trying were necessary, i would try rather not to love you. why should i try to do that which would displease everybody belonging to me? for yourself, i admit your right to address me,--and tell you frankly that it would not be in vain, if i loved you. but i tell you as frankly that such a marriage would not please those whom i am bound to try to please." he paused a moment before he spoke further. "i shall wait," he said, "and come again." "what am i to say to that? do not tease me, so that i be driven to treat you with lack of courtesy. lady laura is so much attached to you, and mr. kennedy, and lord brentford,--and indeed i may say, i myself also, that i trust there may be nothing to mar our good fellowship. come, mr. finn,--say that you will take an answer, and i will give you my hand." "give it me," said he. she gave him her hand, and he put it up to his lips and pressed it. "i will wait and come again," he said. "i will assuredly come again." then he turned from her and went out of the house. at the corner of the square he saw lady laura's carriage, but did not stop to speak to her. and she also saw him. "so you have had a visitor here," said lady laura to violet. "yes;--i have been caught in the trap." "poor mouse! and has the cat made a meal of you?" "i fancy he has, after his fashion. there be cats that eat their mice without playing,--and cats that play with their mice, and then eat them; and cats again which only play with their mice, and don't care to eat them. mr. finn is a cat of the latter kind, and has had his afternoon's diversion." "you wrong him there." "i think not, laura. i do not mean to say that he would not have liked me to accept him. but, if i can see inside his bosom, such a little job as that he has now done will be looked back upon as one of the past pleasures of his life;--not as a pain." chapter xlvii mr. mildmay's bill it will be necessary that we should go back in our story for a very short period in order that the reader may be told that phineas finn was duly re-elected at loughton after his appointment at the treasury board. there was some little trouble at loughton, and something more of expense than he had before encountered. mr. quintus slide absolutely came down, and was proposed by mr. vellum for the borough. mr. vellum being a gentleman learned in the law, and hostile to the interests of the noble owner of saulsby, was able to raise a little trouble against our hero. mr. slide was proposed by mr. vellum, and seconded by mr. vellum's clerk,--though, as it afterwards appeared, mr. vellum's clerk was not in truth an elector,--and went to the poll like a man. he received three votes, and at twelve o'clock withdrew. this in itself could hardly have afforded compensation for the expense which mr. slide or his backers must have encountered;--but he had an opportunity of making a speech, every word of which was reported in the _people's banner_; and if the speech was made in the language given in the report, mr. slide was really possessed of some oratorical power. most of those who read the speech in the columns of the _people's banner_ were probably not aware how favourable an opportunity of retouching his sentences in type had been given to mr. slide by the fact of his connection with the newspaper. the speech had been very severe upon our hero; and though the speaker had been so hooted and pelted at loughton as to have been altogether inaudible,--so maltreated that in point of fact he had not been able to speak above a tenth part of his speech at all,--nevertheless the speech did give phineas a certain amount of pain. why phineas should have read it who can tell? but who is there that abstains from reading that which is printed in abuse of himself? in the speech as it was printed mr. slide declared that he had no thought of being returned for the borough. he knew too well how the borough was managed, what slaves the electors were;--how they groaned under a tyranny from which hitherto they had been unable to release themselves. of course the earl's nominee, his lacquey, as the honourable gentleman might be called, would be returned. the earl could order them to return whichever of his lacqueys he pleased.--there is something peculiarly pleasing to the democratic ear in the word lacquey! any one serving a big man, whatever the service may be, is the big man's lacquey in the _people's banner_.--the speech throughout was very bitter. mr. phineas finn, who had previously served in parliament as the lacquey of an irish earl, and had been turned off by him, had now fallen into the service of the english earl, and was the lacquey chosen for the present occasion. but he, quintus slide, who boasted himself to be a man of the people,--he could tell them that the days of their thraldom were coming to an end, and that their enfranchisement was near at hand. that friend of the people, mr. turnbull, had a clause in his breeches-pocket which he would either force down the unwilling throat of mr. mildmay, or else drive the imbecile premier from office by carrying it in his teeth. loughton, as loughton, must be destroyed, but it should be born again in a better birth as a part of a real electoral district, sending a real member, chosen by a real constituency, to a real parliament. in those days,--and they would come soon,--mr. quintus slide rather thought that mr. phineas finn would be found "nowhere," and he rather thought also that when he showed himself again, as he certainly should do, in the midst of that democratic electoral district as the popular candidate for the honour of representing it in parliament, that democratic electoral district would accord to him a reception very different from that which he was now receiving from the earl's lacqueys in the parliamentary village of loughton. a prettier bit of fiction than these sentences as composing a part of any speech delivered, or proposed to be delivered, at loughton, phineas thought he had never seen. and when he read at the close of the speech that though the earl's hired bullies did their worst, the remarks of mr. slide were received by the people with reiterated cheering, he threw himself back in his chair at the treasury and roared. the poor fellow had been three minutes on his legs, had received three rotten eggs, and one dead dog, and had retired. but not the half of the speech as printed in the _people's banner_ has been quoted. the sins of phineas, who in spite of his inability to open his mouth in public had been made a treasury hack by the aristocratic influence,--"by aristocratic influence not confined to the male sex,"--were described at great length, and in such language that phineas for a while was fool enough to think that it would be his duty to belabour mr. slide with a horsewhip. this notion, however, did not endure long with him, and when mr. monk told him that things of that kind came as a matter of course, he was comforted. but he found it much more difficult to obtain comfort when he weighed the arguments brought forward against the abominations of such a borough as that for which he sat, and reflected that if mr. turnbull brought forward his clause, he, phineas finn, would be bound to vote against the clause, knowing the clause to be right, because he was a servant of the government. the arguments, even though they appeared in the _people's banner_, were true arguments; and he had on one occasion admitted their truth to his friend lady laura,--in the presence of that great cabinet minister, her husband. "what business has such a man as that down there? is there a single creature who wants him?" lady laura had said. "i don't suppose anybody does want mr. quintus slide," phineas had replied; "but i am disposed to think the electors should choose the man they do want, and that at present they have no choice left to them." "they are quite satisfied," said lady laura, angrily. "then, lady laura," continued phineas, "that alone should be sufficient to prove that their privilege of returning a member to parliament is too much for them. we can't defend it." "it is defended by tradition," said mr. kennedy. "and by its great utility," said lady laura, bowing to the young member who was present, and forgetting that very useless old gentleman, her cousin, who had sat for the borough for many years. "in this country it doesn't do to go too fast," said mr. kennedy. "and then the mixture of vulgarity, falsehood, and pretence!" said lady laura, shuddering as her mind recurred to the fact that mr. quintus slide had contaminated loughton by his presence. "i am told that they hardly let him leave the place alive." whatever mr. kennedy and lady laura might think about loughton and the general question of small boroughs, it was found by the government, to their great cost, that mr. turnbull's clause was a reality. after two months of hard work, all questions of franchise had been settled, rating and renting, new and newfangled, fancy franchises and those which no one fancied, franchises for boroughs and franchises for counties, franchises single, dual, three-cornered, and four-sided,--by various clauses to which the committee of the whole house had agreed after some score of divisions,--the matter of the franchise had been settled. no doubt there was the house of lords, and there might yet be shipwreck. but it was generally believed that the lords would hardly look at the bill,--that they would not even venture on an amendment. the lords would only be too happy to let the matter be settled by the commons themselves. but then, after the franchise, came redistribution. how sick of the subject were all members of the government, no one could tell who did not see their weary faces. the whole house was sick, having been whipped into various lobbies, night after night, during the heat of the summer, for weeks past. redistribution! why should there be any redistribution? they had got, or would get, a beautiful franchise. could they not see what that would do for them? why redistribute anything? but, alas, it was too late to go back to so blessed an idea as that! redistribution they must have. but there should be as little redistribution as possible. men were sick of it all, and would not be exigeant. something should be done for overgrown counties;--something for new towns which had prospered in brick and mortar. it would be easy to crush up a peccant borough or two,--a borough that had been discovered in its sin. and a few boroughs now blessed with two members might consent to be blessed only with one. fifteen small clauses might settle the redistribution, in spite of mr. turnbull,--if only mr. daubeny would be good-natured. neither the weather, which was very hot, nor the tedium of the session, which had been very great, nor the anxiety of ministers, which was very pressing, had any effect in impairing the energy of mr. turnbull. he was as instant, as oratorical, as hostile, as indignant about redistribution as he had been about the franchise. he had been sure then, and he was sure now, that ministers desired to burke the question, to deceive the people, to produce a bill that should be no bill. he brought out his clause,--and made loughton his instance. "would the honourable gentleman who sat lowest on the treasury bench,--who at this moment was in sweet confidential intercourse with the right honourable gentleman now president of the board of trade, who had once been a friend of the people,--would the young lord of the treasury get up in his place and tell them that no peer of parliament had at present a voice in sending a member to their house of commons,--that no peer would have a voice if this bill, as proposed by the government, were passed in its present useless, ineffectual, conservative, and most dishonest form?" phineas, who replied to this, and who told mr. turnbull that he himself could not answer for any peers,--but that he thought it probable that most peers would, by their opinions, somewhat influence the opinions of some electors,--was thought to have got out of his difficulty very well. but there was the clause of mr. turnbull to be dealt with,--a clause directly disfranchising seven single-winged boroughs, of which loughton was of course one,--a clause to which the government must either submit or object. submission would be certain defeat in one way, and objection would be as certain defeat in another,--if the gentlemen on the other side were not disposed to assist the ministers. it was said that the cabinet was divided. mr. gresham and mr. monk were for letting the seven boroughs go. mr. mildmay could not bring himself to obey mr. turnbull, and mr. palliser supported him. when mr. mildmay was told that mr. daubeny would certainly go into the same lobby with mr. turnbull respecting the seven boroughs, he was reported to have said that in that case mr. daubeny must be prepared with a government. mr. daubeny made a beautiful speech about the seven boroughs;--the seven sins, and seven stars, and seven churches, and seven lamps. he would make no party question of this. gentlemen who usually acted with him would vote as their own sense of right or wrong directed them;--from which expression of a special sanction it was considered that these gentlemen were not accustomed to exercise the privilege now accorded to them. but in regarding the question as one of right and wrong, and in looking at what he believed to be both the wish of the country and its interests, he, mr. daubeny,--he, himself, being simply a humble member of that house,--must support the clause of the honourable gentleman. almost all those to whom had been surrendered the privilege of using their own judgment for that occasion only, used it discreetly,--as their chief had used it himself,--and mr. turnbull carried his clause by a majority of fifteen. it was then a.m., and mr. gresham, rising after the division, said that his right honourable friend the first lord of the treasury was too tired to return to the house, and had requested him to state that the government would declare their purpose at p.m. on the following evening. phineas, though he had made his little speech in answer to mr. turnbull with good-humoured flippancy, had recorded his vote in favour of the seven boroughs with a sore heart. much as he disliked mr. turnbull, he knew that mr. turnbull was right in this. he had spoken to mr. monk on the subject, as it were asking mr. monk's permission to throw up his office, and vote against mr. mildmay. but mr. monk was angry with him, telling him that his conscience was of that restless, uneasy sort which is neither useful nor manly. "we all know," said mr. monk, "and none better than mr. mildmay, that we cannot justify such a borough as loughton by the theory of our parliamentary representation,--any more than we can justify the fact that huntingdonshire should return as many members as the east riding. there must be compromises, and you should trust to others who have studied the matter more thoroughly than you, to say how far the compromise should go at the present moment." "it is the influence of the peer, not the paucity of the electors," said phineas. "and has no peer any influence in a county? would you disfranchise westmoreland? believe me, finn, if you want to be useful, you must submit yourself in such matters to those with whom you act." phineas had no answer to make, but he was not happy in his mind. and he was the less happy, perhaps, because he was very sure that mr. mildmay would be beaten. mr. low in these days harassed him sorely. mr. low was very keen against such boroughs as loughton, declaring that mr. daubeny was quite right to join his standard to that of mr. turnbull on such an issue. mr. low was the reformer now, and phineas found himself obliged to fight a losing battle on behalf of an acknowledged abuse. he never went near bunce; but, unfortunately for him, bunce caught him once in the street and showed him no mercy. "slide was a little 'eavy on you in the _banner_ the other day,--eh, mr. finn?--too 'eavy, as i told him." "mr. slide can be just as heavy as he pleases, bunce." "that's in course. the press is free, thank god,--as yet. but it wasn't any good rattling away at the earl's little borough when it's sure to go. of course it'll go, mr. finn." "i think it will." "the whole seven on 'em. the 'ouse couldn't but do it. they tell me it's all mr. mildmay's own work, sticking out for keeping on 'em. he's very old, and so we'll forgive him. but he must go, mr. finn." "we shall know all about that soon, bunce." "if you don't get another seat, mr. finn, i suppose we shall see you back at the inn. i hope we may. it's better than being member for loughton, mr. finn;--you may be sure of that." and then mr. bunce passed on. mr. turnbull carried his clause, and loughton was doomed. loughton and the other six deadly sins were anathematized, exorcised, and finally got rid of out of the world by the voices of the gentlemen who had been proclaiming the beauty of such pleasant vices all their lives, and who in their hearts hated all changes that tended towards popular representation. but not the less was mr. mildmay beaten; and, in accordance with the promise made by his first lieutenant immediately after the vote was taken, the prime minister came forward on the next evening and made his statement. he had already put his resignation into the hands of her majesty, and her majesty had graciously accepted it. he was very old, and felt that the time had come in which it behoved him to retire into that leisure which he thought he had, perhaps, earned. he had hoped to carry this bill as the last act of his political life; but he was too old, too stiff, as he said, in his prejudices, to bend further than he had bent already, and he must leave the completion of the matter in other hands. her majesty had sent for mr. gresham, and mr. gresham had already seen her majesty. mr. gresham and his other colleagues, though they dissented from the clause which had been carried by the united efforts of gentlemen opposite to him, and of gentlemen below him on his own side of the house, were younger men than he, and would, for the country's sake,--and for the sake of her majesty,--endeavour to carry the bill through. there would then, of course, be a dissolution, and the future government would, no doubt, depend on the choice of the country. from all which it was understood that mr. gresham was to go on with the bill to a conclusion, whatever might be the divisions carried against him, and that a new secretary of state for foreign affairs must be chosen. phineas understood, also, that he had lost his seat at loughton. for the borough of loughton there would never again be an election. "if i had been mr. mildmay, i would have thrown the bill up altogether," lord brentford said afterwards; "but of course it was not for me to interfere." the session was protracted for two months after that,--beyond the time at which grouse should have been shot,--and by the rd of august became the law of the land. "i shall never get over it," said mr. ratler to mr. finn, seated one terribly hot evening on a bench behind the cabinet ministers,--"never. i don't suppose such a session for work was ever known before. think what it is to have to keep men together in august, with the thermometer at °, and the river stinking like,--like the very mischief." mr. ratler, however, did not die. on the last day of the session laurence fitzgibbon resigned. rumours reached the ears of phineas as to the cause of this, but no certain cause was told him. it was said that lord cantrip had insisted upon it, laurence having by mischance been called upon for some official statement during an unfortunate period of absence. there was, however, a mystery about it;--but the mystery was not half so wonderful as the triumph to phineas, when mr. gresham offered him the place. "but i shall have no seat," said phineas. "we shall none of us have seats to-morrow," said mr. gresham. "but i shall be at a loss to find a place to stand for." "the election will not come on till november, and you must look about you. both mr. monk and lord brentford seem to think you will be in the house." and so the bill was carried, and the session was ended. chapter xlviii "the duke" by the middle of september there was assembled a large party at matching priory, a country mansion belonging to mr. plantagenet palliser. the men had certainly been chosen in reference to their political feelings and position,--for there was not a guest in the house who had voted for mr. turnbull's clause, or the wife or daughter, or sister of any one who had so voted. indeed, in these days politics ran so high that among politicians all social gatherings were brought together with some reference to the state of parties. phineas was invited, and when he arrived at matching he found that half the cabinet was there. mr. kennedy was not there, nor was lady laura. mr. monk was there, and the duke,--with the duchess, and mr. gresham, and lord thrift; mrs. max goesler was there also, and mrs. bonteen,--mr. bonteen being detained somewhere out of the way; and violet effingham was expected in two days, and lord chiltern at the end of the week. lady glencora took an opportunity of imparting this latter information to phineas very soon after his arrival; and phineas, as he watched her eye and her mouth while she spoke, was quite sure that lady glencora knew the story of the duel. "i shall be delighted to see him again," said phineas. "that is all right," said lady glencora. there were also there mr. and mrs. grey, who were great friends of the pallisers,--and on the very day on which phineas reached matching, at half an hour before the time for dressing, the duke of omnium arrived. now, mr. palliser was the duke's nephew and heir,--and the duke of omnium was a very great person indeed. i hardly know why it should have been so, but the duke of omnium was certainly a greater man in public estimation than the other duke then present,--the duke of st. bungay. the duke of st. bungay was a useful man, and had been so all his life, sitting in cabinets and serving his country, constant as any peer in the house of lords, always ready to take on his own shoulders any troublesome work required of him, than whom mr. mildmay, and mr. mildmay's predecessor at the head of the liberal party, had had no more devoted adherent. but the duke of omnium had never yet done a day's work on behalf of his country. they both wore the garter, the duke of st. bungay having earned it by service, the duke of omnium having been decorated with the blue ribbon,--because he was duke of omnium. the one was a moral, good man, a good husband, a good father, and a good friend. the other,--did not bear quite so high a reputation. but men and women thought but little of the duke of st. bungay, while the other duke was regarded with an almost reverential awe. i think the secret lay in the simple fact that the duke of omnium had not been common in the eyes of the people. he had contrived to envelope himself in something of the ancient mystery of wealth and rank. within three minutes of the duke's arrival mrs. bonteen, with an air of great importance, whispered a word to phineas. "he has come. he arrived exactly at seven!" "who has come?" phineas asked. "the duke of omnium!" she said, almost reprimanding him by her tone of voice for his indifference. "there has been a great doubt whether or no he would show himself at last. lady glencora told me that he never will pledge himself. i am so glad he has come." "i don't think i ever saw him," said phineas. "oh, i have seen him,--a magnificent-looking man! i think it is so very nice of lady glencora getting him to meet us. it is very rarely that he will join in a great party, but they say lady glencora can do anything with him since the heir was born. i suppose you have heard all about that." "no," said phineas; "i have heard nothing of the heir, but i know that there are three or four babies." "there was no heir, you know, for a year and a half, and they were all au désespoir; and the duke was very nearly quarrelling with his nephew; and mr. palliser--; you know it had very nearly come to a separation." "i don't know anything at all about it," said phineas, who was not very fond of the lady who was giving him the information. "it is so, i can assure you; but since the boy was born lady glencora can do anything with the duke. she made him go to ascot last spring, and he presented her with the favourite for one of the races on the very morning the horse ran. they say he gave three thousand pounds for him." "and did lady glencora win?" "no;--the horse lost; and mr. palliser has never known what to do with him since. but it was very pretty of the duke;--was it not?" phineas, though he had intended to show to mrs. bonteen how little he thought about the duke of omnium,--how small was his respect for a great peer who took no part in politics,--could not protect himself from a certain feeling of anxiety as to the aspect and gait and words of the man of whom people thought so much, of whom he had heard so often, and of whom he had seen so little. he told himself that the duke of omnium should be no more to him than any other man, but yet the duke of omnium was more to him than other men. when he came down into the drawing-room he was angry with himself, and stood apart;--and was then angry with himself again because he stood apart. why should he make a difference in his own bearing because there was such a man in the company? and yet he could not avoid it. when he entered the room the duke was standing in a large bow-window, and two or three ladies and two or three men were standing round him. phineas would not go near the group, telling himself that he would not approach a man so grand as was the duke of omnium. he saw madame max goesler among the party, and after a while he saw her retreat. as she retreated, phineas knew that some words from madame max goesler had not been received with the graciousness which she had expected. there was the prettiest smile in the world on the lady's face, and she took a corner on a sofa with an air of perfect satisfaction. but yet phineas knew that she had received a wound. "i called twice on you in london," said phineas, coming up close to her, "but was not fortunate enough to find you!" "yes;--but you came so late in the season as to make it impossible that there should be any arrangements for our meeting. what can any woman do when a gentleman calls on her in august?" "i came in july." "yes, you did; on the st. i keep the most accurate record of all such things, mr. finn. but let us hope that we may have better luck next year. in the meantime, we can only enjoy the good things that are going." "socially, or politically, madame goesler?" "oh, socially. how can i mean anything else when the duke of omnium is here? i feel so much taller at being in the same house with him. do not you? but you are a spoilt child of fortune, and perhaps you have met him before." "i think i once saw the back of a hat in the park, and somebody told me that the duke's head was inside it." "and you have never seen him but that once?" "never but that once,--till now." "and do not you feel elated?" "of course i do. for what do you take me, madame goesler?" "i do,--immensely. i believe him to be a fool, and i never heard of his doing a kind act to anybody in my life." "not when he gave the racehorse to lady glencora?" "i wonder whether that was true. did you ever hear of such an absurdity? as i was saying, i don't think he ever did anything for anybody;--but then, you know, to be duke of omnium! it isn't necessary,--is it,--that a duke of omnium should do anything except be duke of omnium?" at this moment lady glencora came up to phineas, and took him across to the duke. the duke had expressed a desire to be introduced to him. phineas, half-pleased and half-disgusted, had no alternative, and followed lady glencora. the duke shook hands with him, and made a little bow, and said something about the garrotters, which phineas, in his confusion, did not quite understand. he tried to reply as he would have replied to anybody else, but the weight of the duke's majesty was too much for him, and he bungled. the duke made another little bow, and in a moment was speaking a word of condescension to some other favoured individual. phineas retreated altogether disgusted,--hating the duke, but hating himself worse; but he would not retreat in the direction of madame max goesler. it might suit that lady to take an instant little revenge for her discomfiture, but it did not suit him to do so. the question with him would be, whether in some future part of his career it might not be his duty to assist in putting down dukes of omnium. at dinner phineas sat between mrs. bonteen and the duchess of st. bungay, and did not find himself very happy. at the other end of the table the duke,--the great duke, was seated at lady glencora's right hand, and on his other side fortune had placed madame max goesler. the greatest interest which phineas had during the dinner was in watching the operations,--the triumphantly successful operations of that lady. before dinner she had been wounded by the duke. the duke had not condescended to accord the honour of his little bow of graciousness to some little flattering morsel of wit which the lady had uttered on his behoof. she had said a sharp word or two in her momentary anger to phineas; but when fortune was so good to her in that matter of her place at dinner, she was not fool enough to throw away her chance. throughout the soup and fish she was very quiet. she said a word or two after her first glass of champagne. the duke refused two dishes, one after another, and then she glided into conversation. by the time that he had his roast mutton before him she was in full play, and as she eat her peach, the duke was bending over her with his most gracious smile. "didn't you think the session was very long, mr. finn?" said the duchess to phineas. "very long indeed, duchess," said phineas, with his attention still fixed on madame max goesler. "the duke found it very troublesome." "i daresay he did," said phineas. that duke and that duchess were no more than any other man and any other man's wife. the session had not been longer to the duke of st. bungay than to all the public servants. phineas had the greatest possible respect for the duke of st. bungay, but he could not take much interest in the wailings of the duchess on her husband's behalf. "and things do seem to be so very uncomfortable now," said the duchess,--thinking partly of the resignation of mr. mildmay, and partly of the fact that her own old peculiar maid who had lived with her for thirty years had retired into private life. "not so very bad, duchess, i hope," said phineas, observing that at this moment madame max goesler's eyes were brilliant with triumph. then there came upon him a sudden ambition,--that he would like to "cut out" the duke of omnium in the estimation of madame max goesler. the brightness of madame max goesler's eyes had not been thrown away upon our hero. violet effingham came at the appointed time, and, to the surprise of phineas, was brought to matching by lord brentford. phineas at first thought that it was intended that the earl and his son should meet and make up their quarrel at mr. palliser's house. but lord brentford stayed only one night, and phineas on the next morning heard the whole history of his coming and going from violet. "i have almost been on my knees to him to stay," she said. "indeed, i did go on my knees,--actually on my knees." "and what did he say?" "he put his arm round me and kissed me, and,--and,--i cannot tell you all that he said. but it ended in this,--that if chiltern can be made to go to saulsby, fatted calves without stint will be killed. i shall do all i can to make him go; and so must you, mr. finn. of course that silly affair in foreign parts is not to make any difference between you two." phineas smiled, and said he would do his best, and looked up into her face, and was just able to talk to her as though things were going comfortably with him. but his heart was very cold. as violet had spoken to him about lord chiltern there had come upon him, for the first time,--for the first time since he had known that lord chiltern had been refused,--an idea, a doubt, whether even yet violet might not become lord chiltern's wife. his heart was very sad, but he struggled on,--declaring that it was incumbent on them both to bring together the father and son. "i am so glad to hear you say so, mr. finn," said violet. "i really do believe that you can do more towards it than any one else. lord chiltern would think nothing of my advice,--would hardly speak to me on such a subject. but he respects you as well as likes you, and not the less because of what has occurred." how was it that violet should know aught of the respect or liking felt by this rejected suitor for that other suitor,--who had also been rejected? and how was it that she was thus able to talk of one of them to the other, as though neither of them had ever come forward with such a suit? phineas felt his position to be so strange as to be almost burdensome. he had told violet, when she had refused him, very plainly, that he should come again to her, and ask once more for the great gift which he coveted. but he could not ask again now. in the first place, there was that in her manner which made him sure that were he to do so, he would ask in vain; and then he felt that she was placing a special confidence in him, against which he would commit a sin were he to use her present intimacy with him for the purposes of making love. they two were to put their shoulders together to help lord chiltern, and while doing so he could not continue a suit which would be felt by both of them to be hostile to lord chiltern. there might be opportunity for a chance word, and if so the chance word should be spoken; but he could not make a deliberate attack, such as he had made in portman square. violet also probably understood that she had not now been caught in a mousetrap. the duke was to spend four days at matching, and on the third day,--the day before lord chiltern was expected,--he was to be seen riding with madame max goesler by his side. madame max goesler was known as a perfect horsewoman,--one indeed who was rather fond of going a little fast on horseback, and who rode well to hounds. but the duke seldom moved out of a walk, and on this occasion madame max was as steady in her seat and almost as slow as the mounted ghost in _don juan_. but it was said by some there, especially by mrs. bonteen, that the conversation between them was not slow. and on the next morning the duke and madame max goesler were together again before luncheon, standing on a terrace at the back of the house, looking down on a party who were playing croquet on the lawn. "do you never play?" said the duke. "oh yes;--one does everything a little." "i am sure you would play well. why do you not play now?" "no;--i shall not play now." "i should like to see you with your mallet." "i am sorry your grace cannot be gratified. i have played croquet till i am tired of it, and have come to think it is only fit for boys and girls. the great thing is to give them opportunities for flirting, and it does that." "and do you never flirt, madame goesler?" "never at croquet, duke." "and what with you is the choicest time?" "that depends on so many things,--and so much on the chosen person. what do you recommend?" "ah,--i am so ignorant. i can recommend nothing." "what do you say to a mountain-top at dawn on a summer day?" asked madame max goesler. "you make me shiver," said the duke. "or a boat on a lake on a summer evening, or a good lead after hounds with nobody else within three fields, or the bottom of a salt-mine, or the deck of an ocean steamer, or a military hospital in time of war, or a railway journey from paris to marseilles?" "madame max goesler, you have the most uncomfortable ideas." "i have no doubt your grace has tried each of them,--successfully. but perhaps, after all, a comfortable chair over a good fire, in a pretty room, beats everything." "i think it does,--certainly," said the duke. then he whispered something at which madame max goesler blushed and smiled, and immediately after that she followed those who had already gone in to lunch. mrs. bonteen had been hovering round the spot on the terrace on which the duke and madame max goesler had been standing, looking on with envious eyes, meditating some attack, some interruption, some excuse for an interpolation, but her courage had failed her and she had not dared to approach. the duke had known nothing of the hovering propinquity of mrs. bonteen, but madame goesler had seen and had understood it all. "dear mrs. bonteen," she said afterwards, "why did you not come and join us? the duke was so pleasant." "two is company, and three is none," said mrs. bonteen, who in her anger was hardly able to choose her words quite as well as she might have done had she been more cool. "our friend madame max has made quite a new conquest," said mrs. bonteen to lady glencora. "i am so pleased," said lady glencora, with apparently unaffected delight. "it is such a great thing to get anybody to amuse my uncle. you see everybody cannot talk to him, and he will not talk to everybody." "he talked enough to her in all conscience," said mrs. bonteen, who was now more angry than ever. chapter xlix the duellists meet lord chiltern arrived, and phineas was a little nervous as to their meeting. he came back from shooting on the day in question, and was told by the servant that lord chiltern was in the house. phineas went into the billiard-room in his knickerbockers, thinking probably that he might be there, and then into the drawing-room, and at last into the library,--but lord chiltern was not to be found. at last he came across violet. "have you seen him?" he asked. "yes;--he was with me half an hour since, walking round the gardens." "and how is he? come;--tell me something about him." "i never knew him to be more pleasant. he would give no promise about saulsby, but he did not say that he would not go." "does he know that i am here?" "yes;--i told him so. i told him how much pleasure i should have in seeing you two together,--as friends." "and what did he say?" "he laughed, and said you were the best fellow in the world. you see i am obliged to be explicit." "but why did he laugh?" phineas asked. "he did not tell me, but i suppose it was because he was thinking of a little trip he once took to belgium, and he perceived that i knew all about it." "i wonder who told you. but never mind. i do not mean to ask any questions. as i do not like that our first meeting should be before all the people in the drawing-room, i will go to him in his own room." "do, do;--that will be so nice of you." phineas sent his card up by a servant, and in a few minutes was standing with his hand on the lock of lord chiltern's door. the last time he had seen this man, they had met with pistols in their hands to shoot at each other, and lord chiltern had in truth done his very best to shoot his opponent. the cause of quarrel was the same between them as ever. phineas had not given up violet, and had no intention of giving her up. and he had received no intimation whatever from his rival that there was to be a truce between them. phineas had indeed written in friendship to lord chiltern, but he had received no answer;--and nothing of certainty was to be gathered from the report which violet had just made. it might well be that lord chiltern would turn upon him now in his wrath, and that there would be some scene which in a strange house would be obviously objectionable. nevertheless he had resolved that even that would be better than a chance encounter among strangers in a drawing-room. so the door was opened and the two men met. "well, old fellow," said lord chiltern, laughing. then all doubt was over, and in a moment phineas was shaking his former,--and present friend, warmly by the hand. "so we've come to be an under-secretary have we?--and all that kind of thing." "i had to get into harness,--when the harness offered itself," said phineas. "i suppose so. it's a deuce of a bore, isn't it?" "i always liked work, you know." "i thought you liked hunting better. you used to ride as if you did. there's bonebreaker back again in the stable for you. that poor fool who bought him could do nothing with him, and i let him have his money back." "i don't see why you should have done that." "because i was the biggest fool of the two. do you remember when that brute got me down under the bank in the river? that was about the nearest touch i ever had. lord bless me;--how he did squeeze me! so here you are;--staying with the pallisers,--one of a government party i suppose. but what are you going to do for a seat, my friend?" "don't talk about that yet, chiltern." "a sore subject,--isn't it? i think they have been quite right, you know, to put loughton into the melting-pot,--though i'm sorry enough for your sake." "quite right," said phineas. "and yet you voted against it, old chap? but, come; i'm not going to be down upon you. so my father has been here?" "yes;--he was here for a day or two." "violet has just been telling me. you and he are as good friends as ever?" "i trust we are." "he never heard of that little affair?" and lord chiltern nodded his head, intending to indicate the direction of blankenberg. "i do not think he has yet." "so violet tells me. of course you know that she has heard all about it." "i have reason to suppose as much." "and so does laura." "i told her myself," said phineas. "the deuce you did! but i daresay it was for the best. it's a pity you had not proclaimed it at charing cross, and then nobody would have believed a word about it. of course my father will hear it some day." "you are going to saulsby, i hope, chiltern?" "that question is easier asked than answered. it is quite true that the great difficulty has been got over. laura has had her money. and if my father will only acknowledge that he has wronged me throughout, from beginning to end, i will go to saulsby to-morrow;--and would cut you out at loughton the next day, only that loughton is not loughton any longer." "you cannot expect your father to do that." "no;--and therefore there is a difficulty. so you've had that awfully ponderous duke here. how did you get on with him?" "admirably. he condescended to do something which he called shaking hands with me." "he is the greatest old dust out," said lord chiltern, disrespectfully. "did he take any notice of violet?" "not that i observed." "he ought not to be allowed into the same room with her." after that there was a short pause, and phineas felt some hesitation in speaking of miss effingham to lord chiltern. "and how do you get on with her?" asked lord chiltern. here was a question for a man to answer. the question was so hard to be answered, that phineas did not at first make any attempt to answer it. "you know exactly the ground that i stand on," continued lord chiltern. "she has refused me three times. have you been more fortunate?" lord chiltern, as he asked his question, looked full into finn's face in a manner that was irresistible. his look was not one of anger nor even of pride. it was not, indeed, without a strong dash of fun. but such as it was it showed phineas that lord chiltern intended to have an answer. "no," said he at last, "i have not been more fortunate." "perhaps you have changed your mind," said his host. "no;--i have not changed my mind," said phineas, quickly. "how stands it then? come;--let us be honest to each other. i told you down at willingford that i would quarrel with any man who attempted to cut me out with violet effingham. you made up your mind that you would do so, and therefore i quarrelled with you. but we can't always be fighting duels." "i hope we may not have to fight another." "no;--it would be absurd," said lord chiltern. "i rather think that what we did was absurd. but upon my life i did not see any other way out of it. however, that is over. how is it to be now?" "what am i to say in answer to that?" asked phineas. "just the truth. you have asked her, i suppose?" "yes;--i have asked her." "and she has refused you?" "yes;--she has refused me." "and you mean to ask her again?" "i shall;--if i ever think that there is a chance. indeed, chiltern, i believe i shall whether i think that i have any chance or not." "then we start fairly, finn. i certainly shall do so. i believe i once told you that i never would;--but that was long before i suspected that you would enter for the same plate. what a man says on such a matter when he is down in the mouth goes for nothing. now we understand each other, and you had better go and dress. the bell rang nearly half an hour ago, and my fellow is hanging about outside the door." the interview had in one respect been very pleasant to phineas, and in another it had been very bitter. it was pleasant to him to know that he and lord chiltern were again friends. it was a delight to him to feel that this half-savage but high-spirited young nobleman, who had been so anxious to fight with him and to shoot him, was nevertheless ready to own that he had behaved well. lord chiltern had in fact acknowledged that though he had been anxious to blow out our hero's brains, he was aware all the time that our hero was a good sort of fellow. phineas understood this, and felt that it was pleasant. but with this understanding, and accompanying this pleasure, there was a conviction in his heart that the distance between lord chiltern and violet would daily grow to be less and still less,--and that lord chiltern could afford to be generous. if miss effingham could teach herself to be fond of lord chiltern, what had he, phineas finn, to offer in opposition to the claims of such a suitor? that evening lord chiltern took miss effingham out to dinner. phineas told himself that this was of course so arranged by lady glencora, with the express view of serving the saulsby interest. it was almost nothing to him at the moment that madame max goesler was intrusted to him. he had his ambition respecting madame max goesler; but that for the time was in abeyance. he could hardly keep his eyes off miss effingham. and yet, as he well knew, his observation of her must be quite useless. he knew beforehand, with absolute accuracy, the manner in which she would treat her lover. she would be kind, genial, friendly, confidential, nay, affectionate; and yet her manner would mean nothing, would give no clue to her future decision either for or against lord chiltern. it was, as phineas thought, a peculiarity with violet effingham that she could treat her rejected lovers as dear familiar friends immediately after her rejection of them. "mr. finn," said madame max goesler, "your eyes and ears are tell-tales of your passion." "i hope not," said phineas, "as i certainly do not wish that any one should guess how strong is my regard for you." "that is prettily turned,--very prettily turned; and shows more readiness of wit than i gave you credit for under your present suffering. but of course we all know where your heart is. men do not undertake perilous journeys to belgium for nothing." "that unfortunate journey to belgium! but, dear madame max, really nobody knows why i went." "you met lord chiltern there?" "oh yes;--i met lord chiltern there." "and there was a duel?" "madame max,--you must not ask me to criminate myself!" "of course there was, and of course it was about miss effingham, and of course the lady thinks herself bound to refuse both the gentlemen who were so very wicked, and of course--" "well,--what follows?" "ah! if you have not wit enough to see, i do not think it can be my duty to tell you. but i wished to caution you as a friend that your eyes and ears should be more under your command." "you will go to saulsby?" violet said to lord chiltern. "i cannot possibly tell as yet," said he, frowning. "then i can tell you that you ought to go. i do not care a bit for your frowns. what does the fifth commandment say?" "if you have no better arguments than the commandments, violet--" "there can be none better. do you mean to say that the commandments are nothing to you?" "i mean to say that i shan't go to saulsby because i am told in the twentieth chapter of exodus to honour my father and mother,--and that i shouldn't believe anybody who told me that he did anything because of the commandments." "oh, lord chiltern!" "people are so prejudiced and so used to humbug that for the most part they do not in the least know their own motives for what they do. i will go to saulsby to-morrow,--for a reward." "for what reward?" said violet, blushing. "for the only one in the world that could tempt me to do anything." "you should go for the sake of duty. i should not even care to see you go, much as i long for it, if that feeling did not take you there." it was arranged that phineas and lord chiltern were to leave matching together. phineas was to remain at his office all october, and in november the general election was to take place. what he had hitherto heard about a future seat was most vague, but he was to meet ratler and barrington erle in london, and it had been understood that barrington erle, who was now at saulsby, was to make some inquiry as to that group of boroughs of which loughton at this moment formed one. but as loughton was the smallest of four boroughs, and as one of the four had for many years had a representative of its own, phineas feared that no success would be found there. in his present agony he began to think that there might be a strong plea made for a few private seats in the house of commons, and that the propriety of throwing loughton into the melting-pot was, after all, open to question. he and lord chiltern were to return to london together, and lord chiltern, according to his present scheme, was to proceed at once to willingford to look after the cub-hunting. nothing that either violet or phineas could say to him would induce him to promise to go to saulsby. when phineas pressed it, he was told by lord chiltern that he was a fool for his pains,--by which phineas understood perfectly well that when lord chiltern did go to saulsby, he, phineas, was to take that as strong evidence that everything was over for him as regarded violet effingham. when violet expressed her eagerness that the visit should be made, she was stopped with an assurance that she could have it done at once if she pleased. let him only be enabled to carry with him the tidings of his betrothal, and he would start for his father's house without an hour's delay. but this authority violet would not give him. when he answered her after this fashion she could only tell him that he was ungenerous. "at any rate i am not false," he replied on one occasion. "what i say is the truth." there was a very tender parting between phineas and madame max goesler. she had learned from him pretty nearly all his history, and certainly knew more of the reality of his affairs than any of those in london who had been his most staunch friends. "of course you'll get a seat," she said as he took his leave of her. "if i understand it at all, they never throw over an ally so useful as you are." "but the intention is that in this matter nobody shall any longer have the power of throwing over, or of not throwing over, anybody." "that is all very well, my friend; but cakes will still be hot in the mouth, even though mr. daubeny turn purist, with mr. turnbull to help him. if you want any assistance in finding a seat you will not go to the _people's banner_,--even yet." "certainly not to the _people's banner_." "i don't quite understand what the franchise is," continued madame max goesler. "household in boroughs," said phineas with some energy. "very well;--household in boroughs. i daresay that is very fine and very liberal, though i don't comprehend it in the least. and you want a borough. very well. you won't go to the households. i don't think you will;--not at first, that is." "where shall i go then?" "oh,--to some great patron of a borough;--or to a club;--or perhaps to some great firm. the households will know nothing about it till they are told. is not that it?" "the truth is, madame max, i do not know where i shall go. i am like a child lost in a wood. and you may understand this;--if you do not see me in park lane before the end of january, i shall have perished in the wood." "then i will come and find you,--with a troop of householders. you will come. you will be there. i do not believe in death coming without signs. you are full of life." as she spoke, she had hold of his hand, and there was nobody near them. they were in a little book-room inside the library at matching, and the door, though not latched, was nearly closed. phineas had flattered himself that madame goesler had retreated there in order that this farewell might be spoken without interruption. "and, mr. finn;--i wonder whether i may say one thing," she continued. "you may say anything to me," he replied. "no,--not in this country, in this england. there are things one may not say here,--that are tabooed by a sort of consent,--and that without any reason." she paused again, and phineas was at a loss to think what was the subject on which she was about to speak. could she mean--? no; she could not mean to give him any outward plain-spoken sign that she was attached to him. it was the peculiar merit of this man that he was not vain, though much was done to him to fill him with vanity; and as the idea crossed his brain, he hated himself because it had been there. "to me you may say anything, madame goesler," he said,--"here in england, as plainly as though we were in vienna." "but i cannot say it in english," she said. then in french, blushing and laughing as she spoke,--almost stammering in spite of her usual self-confidence,--she told him that accident had made her rich, full of money. money was a drug with her. money she knew was wanted, even for householders. would he not understand her, and come to her, and learn from her how faithful a woman could be? he still was holding her by the hand, and he now raised it to his lips and kissed it. "the offer from you," he said, "is as high-minded, as generous, and as honourable as its acceptance by me would be mean-spirited, vile, and ignoble. but whether i fail or whether i succeed, you shall see me before the winter is over." chapter l again successful phineas also said a word of farewell to violet before he left matching, but there was nothing peculiar in her little speech to him, or in his to her. "of course we shall see each other in london. don't talk of not being in the house. of course you will be in the house." then phineas had shaken his head and smiled. where was he to find a requisite number of householders prepared to return him? but as he went up to london he told himself that the air of the house of commons was now the very breath of his nostrils. life to him without it would be no life. to have come within the reach of the good things of political life, to have made his mark so as to have almost insured future success, to have been the petted young official aspirant of the day,--and then to sink down into the miserable platitudes of private life, to undergo daily attendance in law-courts without a brief, to listen to men who had come to be much below him in estimation and social intercourse, to sit in a wretched chamber up three pairs of stairs at lincoln's inn, whereas he was now at this moment provided with a gorgeous apartment looking out into the park from the colonial office in downing street, to be attended by a mongrel between a clerk and an errand boy at s. d. a week instead of by a private secretary who was the son of an earl's sister, and was petted by countesses' daughters innumerable,--all this would surely break his heart. he could have done it, so he told himself, and could have taken glory in doing it, had not these other things come in his way. but the other things had come. he had run the risk, and had thrown the dice. and now when the game was so nearly won, must it be that everything should be lost at last? he knew that nothing was to be gained by melancholy looks at his club, or by show of wretchedness at his office. london was very empty; but the approaching elections still kept some there who otherwise would have been looking after the first flush of pheasants. barrington erle was there, and was not long in asking phineas what were his views. "ah;--that is so hard to say. ratler told me that he would be looking about." "ratler is very well in the house," said barrington, "but he is of no use for anything beyond it. i suppose you were not brought up at the london university?" "oh no," said phineas, remembering the glories of trinity. "because there would have been an opening. what do you say to stratford,--the new essex borough?" "broadbury the brewer is there already!" "yes;--and ready to spend any money you like to name. let me see. loughton is grouped with smotherem, and walker is a deal too strong at smotherem to hear of any other claim. i don't think we could dare to propose it. there are the chelsea hamlets, but it will take a wack of money." "i have not got a wack of money," said phineas, laughing. "that's the devil of it. i think, if i were you, i should hark back upon some place in ireland. couldn't you get laurence to give you up his seat?" "what! fitzgibbon?" "yes. he has not a ghost of a chance of getting into office again. nothing on earth would induce him to look at a paper during all those weeks he was at the colonial office; and when cantrip spoke to him, all he said was, 'ah, bother!' cantrip did not like it, i can tell you." "but that wouldn't make him give up his seat." "of course you'd have to arrange it." by which phineas understood barrington erle to mean that he, phineas, was in some way to give to laurence fitzgibbon some adequate compensation for the surrender of his position as a county member. "i'm afraid that's out of the question," said phineas. "if he were to go, i should not get it." "would you have a chance at loughshane?" "i was thinking of trying it," said phineas. "of course you know that morris is very ill." this mr. morris was the brother of lord tulla, and was the sitting member of loughshane. "upon my word i think i should try that. i don't see where we're to put our hands on a seat in england. i don't indeed." phineas, as he listened to this, could not help thinking that barrington erle, though he had certainly expressed a great deal of solicitude, was not as true a friend as he used to be. perhaps he, phineas, had risen too fast, and barrington erle was beginning to think that he might as well be out of the way. he wrote to his father, asking after the borough, and asking after the health of mr. morris. and in his letter he told his own story very plainly,--almost pathetically. he perhaps had been wrong to make the attempt which he had made. he began to believe that he had been wrong. but at any rate he had made it so far successfully, and failure now would be doubly bitter. he thought that the party to which he belonged must now remain in office. it would hardly be possible that a new election would produce a house of commons favourable to a conservative ministry. and with a liberal ministry he, phineas, would be sure of his place, and sure of an official income,--if only he could find a seat. it was all very true, and was almost pathetic. the old doctor, who was inclined to be proud of his son, was not unwilling to make a sacrifice. mrs. finn declared before her daughters that if there was a seat in all ireland, phineas ought to have it. and mary flood jones stood by listening, and wondering what phineas would do if he lost his seat. would he come back and live in county clare, and be like any other girl's lover? poor mary had come to lose her ambition, and to think that girls whose lovers stayed at home were the happiest. nevertheless, she would have walked all the way to lord tulla's house and back again, might that have availed to get the seat for phineas. then there came an express over from castlemorris. the doctor was wanted at once to see mr. morris. mr. morris was very bad with gout in his stomach. according to the messenger it was supposed that mr. morris was dying. before dr. finn had had an opportunity of answering his son's letter, mr. morris, the late member for loughshane, had been gathered to his fathers. dr. finn understood enough of elections for parliament, and of the nature of boroughs, to be aware that a candidate's chance of success is very much improved by being early in the field; and he was aware, also, that the death of mr. morris would probably create various aspirants for the honour of representing loughshane. but he could hardly address the earl on the subject while the dead body of the late member was lying in the house at castlemorris. the bill which had passed in the late session for reforming the constitution of the house of commons had not touched ireland, a future measure having been promised to the irish for their comfort; and loughshane therefore was, as to lord tulla's influence, the same as it had ever been. he had not there the plenary power which the other lord had held in his hands in regard to loughton;--but still the castlemorris interest would go a long way. it might be possible to stand against it, but it would be much more desirable that the candidate should have it at his back. dr. finn was fully alive to this as he sat opposite to the old lord, saying now a word about the old lord's gout in his legs and arms, and then about the gout in the stomach, which had carried away to another world the lamented late member for the borough. "poor jack!" said lord tulla, piteously. "if i'd known it, i needn't have paid over two thousand pounds for him last year;--need i, doctor?" "no, indeed," said dr. finn, feeling that his patient might perhaps approach the subject of the borough himself. "he never would live by any rule, you know," said the desolate brother. "very hard to guide;--was he not, my lord?" "the very devil. now, you see, i do do what i'm told pretty well,--don't i, doctor?" "sometimes." "by george, i do nearly always. i don't know what you mean by sometimes. i've been drinking brandy-and-water till i'm sick of it, to oblige you, and you tell me about--sometimes. you doctors expect a man to be a slave. haven't i kept it out of my stomach?" "thank god, yes." "it's all very well thanking god, but i should have gone as poor jack has gone, if i hadn't been the most careful man in the world. he was drinking champagne ten days ago;--would do it, you know." lord tulla could talk about himself and his own ailments by the hour together, and dr. finn, who had thought that his noble patient was approaching the subject of the borough, was beginning again to feel that the double interest of the gout that was present, and the gout that had passed away, would be too absorbing. he, however, could say but little to direct the conversation. "mr. morris, you see, lived more in london than you do, and was subject to temptation." "i don't know what you call temptation. haven't i the temptation of a bottle of wine under my nose every day of my life?" "no doubt you have." "and i don't drink it. i hardly ever take above a glass or two of brown sherry. by george! when i think of it, i wonder at my own courage. i do, indeed." "but a man in london, my lord--" "why the deuce would he go to london? by-the-bye, what am i to do about the borough now?" "let my son stand for it, if you will, my lord." "they've clean swept away brentford's seat at loughton, haven't they? ha, ha, ha! what a nice game for him,--to have been forced to help to do it himself! there's nobody on earth i pity so much as a radical peer who is obliged to work like a nigger with a spade to shovel away the ground from under his own feet. as for me, i don't care who sits for loughshane. i did care for poor jack while he was alive. i don't think i shall interfere any longer. i am glad it lasted jack's time." lord tulla had probably already forgotten that he himself had thrown jack over for the last session but one. "phineas, my lord," began the father, "is now under-secretary of state." "oh, i've no doubt he's a very fine fellow;--but you see, he's an out-and-out radical." "no, my lord." "then how can he serve with such men as mr. gresham and mr. monk? they've turned out poor old mildmay among them, because he's not fast enough for them. don't tell me." "my anxiety, of course, is for my boy's prospects. he seems to have done so well in parliament." "why don't he stand for marylebone or finsbury?" "the money, you know, my lord!" "i shan't interfere here, doctor. if he comes, and the people then choose to return him, i shall say nothing. they may do just as they please. they tell me lambert st. george, of mockrath, is going to stand. if he does, it's the d---- piece of impudence i ever heard of. he's a tenant of my own, though he has a lease for ever; and his father never owned an acre of land in the county till his uncle died." then the doctor knew that, with a little management, the lord's interest might be secured for his son. phineas came over and stood for the borough against mr. lambert st. george, and the contest was sharp enough. the gentry of the neighbourhood could not understand why such a man as lord tulla should admit a liberal candidate to succeed his brother. no one canvassed for the young under-secretary with more persistent zeal than did his father, who, when phineas first spoke of going into parliament, had produced so many good arguments against that perilous step. lord tulla's agent stood aloof,--desolate with grief at the death of the late member. at such a moment of family affliction, lord tulla, he declared, could not think of such a matter as the borough. but it was known that lord tulla was dreadfully jealous of mr. lambert st. george, whose property in that part of the county was now nearly equal to his own, and who saw much more company at mockrath than was ever entertained at castlemorris. a word from lord tulla,--so said the conservatives of the county,--would have put mr. st. george into the seat; but that word was not spoken, and the conservatives of the neighbourhood swore that lord tulla was a renegade. the contest was very sharp, but our hero was returned by a majority of seventeen votes. again successful! as he thought of it he remembered stories of great generals who were said to have chained fortune to the wheels of their chariots, but it seemed to him that the goddess had never served any general with such staunch obedience as she had displayed in his cause. had not everything gone well with him;--so well, as almost to justify him in expecting that even yet violet effingham would become his wife? dear, dearest violet! if he could only achieve that, no general, who ever led an army across the alps, would be his equal either in success or in the reward of success. then he questioned himself as to what he would say to miss flood jones on that very night. he was to meet dear little mary flood jones that evening at a neighbour's house. his sister barbara had so told him in a tone of voice which he quite understood to imply a caution. "i shall be so glad to see her," phineas had replied. "if there ever was an angel on earth, it is mary," said barbara finn. "i know that she is as good as gold," said phineas. "gold!" replied barbara,--"gold indeed! she is more precious than refined gold. but, phineas, perhaps you had better not single her out for any special attention. she has thought it wisest to meet you." "of course," said phineas. "why not?" "that is all, phineas. i have nothing more to say. men of course are different from girls." "that's true, barbara, at any rate." "don't laugh at me, phineas, when i am thinking of nothing but of you and your interests, and when i am making all manner of excuses for you because i know what must be the distractions of the world in which you live." barbara made more than one attempt to renew the conversation before the evening came, but phineas thought that he had had enough of it. he did not like being told that excuses were made for him. after all, what had he done? he had once kissed mary flood jones behind the door. "i am so glad to see you, mary," he said, coming and taking a chair by her side. he had been specially warned not to single mary out for his attention, and yet there was the chair left vacant as though it were expected that he would fall into it. "thank you. we did not happen to meet last year, did we,--mr. finn?" "do not call me mr. finn, mary." "you are such a great man now!" "not at all a great man. if you only knew what little men we understrappers are in london you would hardly speak to me." "but you are something--of state now;--are you not?" "well;--yes. that's the name they give me. it simply means that if any member wants to badger some one in the house about the colonies, i am the man to be badgered. but if there is any credit to be had, i am not the man who is to have it." "but it is a great thing to be in parliament and in the government too." "it is a great thing for me, mary, to have a salary, though it may only be for a year or two. however, i will not deny that it is pleasant to have been successful." "it has been very pleasant to us, phineas. mamma has been so much rejoiced." "i am so sorry not to see her. she is at floodborough, i suppose." "oh, yes;--she is at home. she does not like coming out at night in winter. i have been staying here you know for two days, but i go home to-morrow." "i will ride over and call on your mother." then there was a pause in the conversation for a moment. "does it not seem odd, mary, that we should see so little of each other?" "you are so much away, of course." "yes;--that is the reason. but still it seems almost unnatural. i often wonder when the time will come that i shall be quietly at home again. i have to be back in my office in london this day week, and yet i have not had a single hour to myself since i have been at killaloe. but i will certainly ride over and see your mother. you will be at home on wednesday i suppose." "yes,--i shall be at home." upon that he got up and went away, but again in the evening he found himself near her. perhaps there is no position more perilous to a man's honesty than that in which phineas now found himself;--that, namely, of knowing himself to be quite loved by a girl whom he almost loves himself. of course he loved violet effingham; and they who talk best of love protest that no man or woman can be in love with two persons at once. phineas was not in love with mary flood jones; but he would have liked to take her in his arms and kiss her;--he would have liked to gratify her by swearing that she was dearer to him than all the world; he would have liked to have an episode,--and did, at the moment, think that it might be possible to have one life in london and another life altogether different at killaloe. "dear mary," he said as he pressed her hand that night, "things will get themselves settled at last, i suppose." he was behaving very ill to her, but he did not mean to behave ill. he rode over to floodborough, and saw mrs. flood jones. mrs. flood jones, however, received him very coldly; and mary did not appear. mary had communicated to her mother her resolutions as to her future life. "the fact is, mamma, i love him. i cannot help it. if he ever chooses to come for me, here i am. if he does not, i will bear it as well as i can. it may be very mean of me, but it's true." chapter li troubles at loughlinter there was a dull house at loughlinter during the greater part of this autumn. a few men went down for the grouse shooting late in the season; but they stayed but a short time, and when they went lady laura was left alone with her husband. mr. kennedy had explained to his wife, more than once, that though he understood the duties of hospitality and enjoyed the performance of them, he had not married with the intention of living in a whirlwind. he was disposed to think that the whirlwind had hitherto been too predominant, and had said so very plainly with a good deal of marital authority. this autumn and winter were to be devoted to the cultivation of proper relations between him and his wife. "does that mean darby and joan?" his wife had asked him, when the proposition was made to her. "it means mutual regard and esteem," replied mr. kennedy in his most solemn tone, "and i trust that such mutual regard and esteem between us may yet be possible." when lady laura showed him a letter from her brother, received some weeks after this conversation, in which lord chiltern expressed his intention of coming to loughlinter for christmas, he returned the note to his wife without a word. he suspected that she had made the arrangement without asking him, and was angry; but he would not tell her that her brother would not be welcome at his house. "it is not my doing," she said, when she saw the frown on his brow. "i said nothing about anybody's doing," he replied. "i will write to oswald and bid him not come, if you wish it. of course you can understand why he is coming." "not to see me, i am sure," said mr. kennedy. "nor me," replied lady laura. "he is coming because my friend violet effingham will be here." "miss effingham! why was i not told of this? i knew nothing of miss effingham's coming." "robert, it was settled in your own presence last july." "i deny it." then lady laura rose up, very haughty in her gait and with something of fire in her eye, and silently left the room. mr. kennedy, when he found himself alone, was very unhappy. looking back in his mind to the summer weeks in london, he remembered that his wife had told violet that she was to spend her christmas at loughlinter, that he himself had given a muttered assent and that violet,--as far as he could remember,--had made no reply. it had been one of those things which are so often mentioned, but not settled. he felt that he had been strictly right in denying that it had been "settled" in his presence;--but yet he felt that he had been wrong in contradicting his wife so peremptorily. he was a just man, and he would apologise for his fault; but he was an austere man, and would take back the value of his apology in additional austerity. he did not see his wife for some hours after the conversation which has been narrated, but when he did meet her his mind was still full of the subject. "laura", he said, "i am sorry that i contradicted you." "i am quite used to it, robert." "no;--you are not used to it." she smiled and bowed her head. "you wrong me by saying that you are used to it." then he paused a moment, but she said not a word,--only smiled and bowed her head again. "i remember," he continued, "that something was said in my presence to miss effingham about her coming here at christmas. it was so slight, however, that it had passed out of my memory till recalled by an effort. i beg your pardon." "that is unnecessary, robert." "it is, dear." "and do you wish that i should put her off,--or put oswald off,--or both? my brother never yet has seen me in your house." "and whose fault has that been?" "i have said nothing about anybody's fault, robert. i merely mentioned a fact. will you let me know whether i shall bid him stay away?" "he is welcome to come,--only i do not like assignations for love-making." "assignations!" "clandestine meetings. lady baldock would not wish it." "lady baldock! do you think that violet would exercise any secrecy in the matter,--or that she will not tell lady baldock that oswald will be here,--as soon as she knows it herself?" "that has nothing to do with it." "surely, robert, it must have much to do with it. and why should not these two young people meet? the acknowledged wish of all the family is that they should marry each other. and in this matter, at any rate, my brother has behaved extremely well." mr. kennedy said nothing further at the time, and it became an understanding that violet effingham was to be a month at loughlinter, staying from the th of december to the th of january, and that lord chiltern was to come there for christmas,--which with him would probably mean three days. before christmas came, however, there were various other sources of uneasiness at loughlinter. there had been, as a matter of course, great anxiety as to the elections. with lady laura this anxiety had been very strong, and even mr. kennedy had been warmed with some amount of fire as the announcements reached him of the successes and of the failures. the english returns came first,--and then the scotch, which were quite as interesting to mr. kennedy as the english. his own seat was quite safe,--was not contested; but some neighbouring seats were sources of great solicitude. then, when this was over, there were the tidings from ireland to be received; and respecting one special borough in ireland, lady laura evinced more solicitude than her husband approved. there was much danger for the domestic bliss of the house of loughlinter, when things came to such a pass, and such words were spoken, as the election at loughshane produced. "he is in," said lady laura, opening a telegram. "who is in?" said mr. kennedy, with that frown on his brow to which his wife was now well accustomed. though he asked the question, he knew very well who was the hero to whom the telegram referred. "our friend phineas finn," said lady laura, speaking still with an excited voice,--with a voice that was intended to display excitement. if there was to be a battle on this matter, there should be a battle. she would display all her anxiety for her young friend, and fling it in her husband's face if he chose to take it as an injury. what,--should she endure reproach from her husband because she regarded the interests of the man who had saved his life, of the man respecting whom she had suffered so many heart-struggles, and as to whom she had at last come to the conclusion that he should ever be regarded as a second brother, loved equally with the elder brother? she had done her duty by her husband,--so at least she had assured herself;--and should he dare to reproach her on this subject, she would be ready for the battle. and now the battle came. "i am glad of this," she said, with all the eagerness she could throw into her voice. "i am, indeed,--and so ought you to be." the husband's brow grew blacker and blacker, but still he said nothing. he had long been too proud to be jealous, and was now too proud to express his jealousy,--if only he could keep the expression back. but his wife would not leave the subject. "i am so thankful for this," she said, pressing the telegram between her hands. "i was so afraid he would fail!" "you over-do your anxiety on such a subject," at last he said, speaking very slowly. "what do you mean, robert? how can i be over-anxious? if it concerned any other dear friend that i have in the world, it would not be an affair of life and death. to him it is almost so. i would have walked from here to london to get him his election." and as she spoke she held up the clenched fist of her left hand, and shook it, while she still held the telegram in her right hand. "laura, i must tell you that it is improper that you should speak of any man in those terms;--of any man that is a stranger to your blood." "a stranger to my blood! what has that to do with it? this man is my friend, is your friend;--saved your life, has been my brother's best friend, is loved by my father,--and is loved by me, very dearly. tell me what you mean by improper!" "i will not have you love any man,--very dearly." "robert!" "i tell you that i will have no such expressions from you. they are unseemly, and are used only to provoke me." "am i to understand that i am insulted by an accusation? if so, let me beg at once that i may be allowed to go to saulsby. i would rather accept your apology and retractation there than here." "you will not go to saulsby, and there has been no accusation, and there will be no apology. if you please there will be no more mention of mr. finn's name between us, for the present. if you will take my advice you will cease to think of him extravagantly;--and i must desire you to hold no further direct communication with him." "i have held no communication with him," said lady laura, advancing a step towards him. but mr. kennedy simply pointed to the telegram in her hand, and left the room. now in respect to this telegram there had been an unfortunate mistake. i am not prepared to say that there was any reason why phineas himself should not have sent the news of his success to lady laura; but he had not done so. the piece of paper which she still held crushed in her hand was in itself very innocent. "hurrah for the loughshanes. finny has done the trick." such were the words written on the slip, and they had been sent to lady laura by her young cousin, the clerk in the office who acted as private secretary to the under-secretary of state. lady laura resolved that her husband should never see those innocent but rather undignified words. the occasion had become one of importance, and such words were unworthy of it. besides, she would not condescend to defend herself by bringing forward a telegram as evidence in her favour. so she burned the morsel of paper. lady laura and mr. kennedy did not meet again till late that evening. she was ill, she said, and would not come down to dinner. after dinner she wrote him a note. "dear robert, i think you must regret what you said to me. if so, pray let me have a line from you to that effect. yours affectionately, l." when the servant handed it to him, and he had read it, he smiled and thanked the girl who had brought it, and said he would see her mistress just now. anything would be better than that the servants should know that there was a quarrel. but every servant in the house had known all about it for the last three hours. when the door was closed and he was alone, he sat fingering the note, thinking deeply how he should answer it, or whether he would answer it at all. no; he would not answer it;--not in writing. he would give his wife no written record of his humiliation. he had not acted wrongly. he had said nothing more than now, upon mature consideration, he thought that the circumstances demanded. but yet he felt that he must in some sort withdraw the accusation which he had made. if he did not withdraw it, there was no knowing what his wife might do. about ten in the evening he went up to her and made his little speech. "my dear, i have come to answer your note." "i thought you would have written to me a line." "i have come instead, laura. now, if you will listen to me for one moment, i think everything will be made smooth." "of course i will listen," said lady laura, knowing very well that her husband's moment would be rather tedious, and resolving that she also would have her moment afterwards. "i think you will acknowledge that if there be a difference of opinion between you and me as to any question of social intercourse, it will be better that you should consent to adopt my opinion." "you have the law on your side." "i am not speaking of the law." "well;--go on, robert. i will not interrupt you if i can help it." "i am not speaking of the law. i am speaking simply of convenience, and of that which you must feel to be right. if i wish that your intercourse with any person should be of such or such a nature it must be best that you should comply with my wishes." he paused for her assent, but she neither assented nor dissented. "as far as i can understand the position of a man and wife in this country, there is no other way in which life can be made harmonious." "life will not run in harmonies." "i expect that ours shall be made to do so, laura. i need hardly say to you that i intend to accuse you of no impropriety of feeling in reference to this young man." "no, robert; you need hardly say that. indeed, to speak my own mind, i think that you need hardly have alluded to it. i might go further, and say that such an allusion is in itself an insult,--an insult now repeated after hours of deliberation,--an insult which i will not endure to have repeated again. if you say another word in any way suggesting the possibility of improper relations between me and mr. finn, either as to deeds or thoughts, as god is above me, i will write to both my father and my brother, and desire them to take me from your house. if you wish me to remain here, you had better be careful!" as she was making this speech, her temper seemed to rise, and to become hot, and then hotter, till it glowed with a red heat. she had been cool till the word insult, used by herself, had conveyed back to her a strong impression of her own wrong,--or perhaps i should rather say a strong feeling of the necessity of becoming indignant. she was standing as she spoke, and the fire flashed from her eyes, and he quailed before her. the threat which she had held out to him was very dreadful to him. he was a man terribly in fear of the world's good opinion, who lacked the courage to go through a great and harassing trial in order that something better might come afterwards. his married life had been unhappy. his wife had not submitted either to his will or to his ways. he had that great desire to enjoy his full rights, so strong in the minds of weak, ambitious men, and he had told himself that a wife's obedience was one of those rights which he could not abandon without injury to his self-esteem. he had thought about the matter, slowly, as was his wont, and had resolved that he would assert himself. he had asserted himself, and his wife told him to his face that she would go away and leave him. he could detain her legally, but he could not do even that without the fact of such forcible detention being known to all the world. how was he to answer her now at this moment, so that she might not write to her father, and so that his self-assertion might still be maintained? "passion, laura, can never be right." "would you have a woman submit to insult without passion? i at any rate am not such a woman." then there was a pause for a moment. "if you have nothing else to say to me, you had better leave me. i am far from well, and my head is throbbing." he came up and took her hand, but she snatched it away from him. "laura," he said, "do not let us quarrel." "i certainly shall quarrel if such insinuations are repeated." "i made no insinuation." "do not repeat them. that is all." he was cowed and left her, having first attempted to get out of the difficulty of his position by making much of her alleged illness, and by offering to send for dr. macnuthrie. she positively refused to see dr. macnuthrie, and at last succeeded in inducing him to quit the room. this had occurred about the end of november, and on the th of december violet effingham reached loughlinter. life in mr. kennedy's house had gone quietly during the intervening three weeks, but not very pleasantly. the name of phineas finn had not been mentioned. lady laura had triumphed; but she had no desire to acerbate her husband by any unpalatable allusion to her victory. and he was quite willing to let the subject die away, if only it would die. on some other matters he continued to assert himself, taking his wife to church twice every sunday, using longer family prayers than she approved, reading an additional sermon himself every sunday evening, calling upon her for weekly attention to elaborate household accounts, asking for her personal assistance in much local visiting, initiating her into his favourite methods of family life in the country, till sometimes she almost longed to talk again about phineas finn, so that there might be a rupture, and she might escape. but her husband asserted himself within bounds, and she submitted, longing for the coming of violet effingham. she could not write to her father and beg to be taken away, because her husband would read a sermon to her on sunday evening. to violet, very shortly after her arrival, she told her whole story. "this is terrible," said violet. "this makes me feel that i never will be married." "and yet what can a woman become if she remain single? the curse is to be a woman at all." "i have always felt so proud of the privileges of my sex," said violet. "i never have found them," said the other; "never. i have tried to make the best of its weaknesses, and this is what i have come to! i suppose i ought to have loved some man." "and did you never love any man?" "no;--i think i never did,--not as people mean when they speak of love. i have felt that i would consent to be cut in little pieces for my brother,--because of my regard for him." "ah, that is nothing." "and i have felt something of the same thing for another,--a longing for his welfare, a delight to hear him praised, a charm in his presence,--so strong a feeling for his interest, that were he to go to wrack and ruin, i too, should, after a fashion, be wracked and ruined. but it has not been love either." "do i know whom you mean? may i name him? it is phineas finn." "of course it is phineas finn." "did he ever ask you,--to love him?" "i feared he would do so, and therefore accepted mr. kennedy's offer almost at the first word." "i do not quite understand your reasoning, laura." "i understand it. i could have refused him nothing in my power to give him, but i did not wish to be his wife." "and he never asked you?" lady laura paused a moment, thinking what reply she should make;--and then she told a fib. "no; he never asked me." but violet did not believe the fib. violet was quite sure that phineas had asked lady laura standish to be his wife. "as far as i can see," said violet, "madame max goesler is his present passion." "i do not believe it in the least," said lady laura, firing up. "it does not much matter," said violet. "it would matter very much. you know, you,--you; you know whom he loves. and i do believe that sooner or later you will be his wife." "never." "yes, you will. had you not loved him you would never have condescended to accuse him about that woman." "i have not accused him. why should he not marry madame max goesler? it would be just the thing for him. she is very rich." "never. you will be his wife." "laura, you are the most capricious of women. you have two dear friends, and you insist that i shall marry them both. which shall i take first?" "oswald will be here in a day or two, and you can take him if you like it. no doubt he will ask you. but i do not think you will." "no; i do not think i shall. i shall knock under to mr. mill, and go in for women's rights, and look forward to stand for some female borough. matrimony never seemed to me to be very charming, and upon my word it does not become more alluring by what i find at loughlinter." it was thus that violet and lady laura discussed these matters together, but violet had never showed to her friend the cards in her hand, as lady laura had shown those which she held. lady laura had in fact told almost everything that there was to tell,--had spoken either plainly with true words, or equally plainly with words that were not true. violet effingham had almost come to love phineas finn;--but she never told her friend that it was so. at one time she had almost made up her mind to give herself and all her wealth to this adventurer. he was a better man, she thought, than lord chiltern; and she had come to persuade herself that it was almost imperative on her to take the one or the other. though she could talk about remaining unmarried, she knew that that was practically impossible. all those around her,--those of the baldock as well as those of the brentford faction,--would make such a life impossible to her. besides, in such a case what could she do? it was all very well to talk of disregarding the world and of setting up a house for herself;--but she was quite aware that that project could not be used further than for the purpose of scaring her amiable aunt. and if not that,--then could she content herself to look forward to a joint life with lady baldock and augusta boreham? she might, of course, oblige her aunt by taking lord fawn, or oblige her aunt equally by taking mr. appledom; but she was strongly of opinion that either lord chiltern or phineas would be preferable to these. thinking over it always she had come to feel that it must be either lord chiltern or phineas; but she had never whispered her thought to man or woman. on her journey to loughlinter, where she then knew that she was to meet lord chiltern, she endeavoured to persuade herself that it should be phineas. but lady laura had marred it all by that ill-told fib. there had been a moment before in which violet had felt that phineas had sacrificed something of that truth of love for which she gave him credit to the glances of madame goesler's eyes; but she had rebuked herself for the idea, accusing herself not only of a little jealousy, but of foolish vanity. was he, whom she had rejected, not to speak to another woman? then came the blow from lady laura, and violet knew that it was a blow. this gallant lover, this young crichton, this unassuming but ardent lover, had simply taken up with her as soon as he had failed with her friend. lady laura had been most enthusiastic in her expressions of friendship. such platonic regards might be all very well. it was for mr. kennedy to look to that. but, for herself, she felt that such expressions were hardly compatible with her ideas of having her lover all to herself. and then she again remembered madame goesler's bright blue eyes. lord chiltern came on christmas eve, and was received with open arms by his sister, and with that painful, irritating affection which such a girl as violet can show to such a man as lord chiltern, when she will not give him that other affection for which his heart is panting. the two men were civil to each other,--but very cold. they called each other kennedy and chiltern, but even that was not done without an effort. on the christmas morning mr. kennedy asked his brother-in-law to go to church. "it's a kind of thing i never do," said lord chiltern. mr. kennedy gave a little start, and looked a look of horror. lady laura showed that she was unhappy. violet effingham turned away her face, and smiled. as they walked across the park violet took lord chiltern's part. "he only means that he does not go to church on christmas day." "i don't know what he means," said mr. kennedy. "we need not speak of it," said lady laura. "certainly not," said mr. kennedy. "i have been to church with him on sundays myself," said violet, perhaps not reflecting that the practices of early years had little to do with the young man's life at present. christmas day and the next day passed without any sign from lord chiltern, and on the day after that he was to go away. but he was not to leave till one or two in the afternoon. not a word had been said between the two women, since he had been in the house, on the subject of which both of them were thinking. very much had been said of the expediency of his going to saulsby, but on this matter he had declined to make any promise. sitting in lady laura's room, in the presence of both of them, he had refused to do so. "i am bad to drive," he said, turning to violet, "and you had better not try to drive me." "why should not you be driven as well as another?" she answered, laughing. chapter lii the first blow lord chiltern, though he had passed two entire days in the house with violet without renewing his suit, had come to loughlinter for the express purpose of doing so, and had his plans perfectly fixed in his own mind. after breakfast on that last morning he was up-stairs with his sister in her own room, and immediately made his request to her. "laura," he said, "go down like a good girl, and make violet come up here." she stood a moment looking at him and smiled. "and, mind," he continued, "you are not to come back yourself. i must have violet alone." "but suppose violet will not come? young ladies do not generally wait upon young men on such occasions." "no;--but i rank her so high among young women, that i think she will have common sense enough to teach her that, after what has passed between us, i have a right to ask for an interview, and that it may be more conveniently had here than in the wilderness of the house below." whatever may have been the arguments used by her friend, violet did come. she reached the door all alone, and opened it bravely. she had promised herself, as she came along the passages, that she would not pause with her hand on the lock for a moment. she had first gone to her own room, and as she left it she had looked into the glass with a hurried glance, and had then rested for a moment,--thinking that something should be done, that her hair might be smoothed, or a ribbon set straight, or the chain arranged under her brooch. a girl would wish to look well before her lover, even when she means to refuse him. but her pause was but for an instant, and then she went on, having touched nothing. she shook her head and pressed her hands together, and went on quick and opened the door,--almost with a little start. "violet, this is very good of you," said lord chiltern, standing with his back to the fire, and not moving from the spot. "laura has told me that you thought i would do as much as this for you, and therefore i have done it." "thanks, dearest. it is the old story, violet, and i am so bad at words!" "i must have been bad at words too, as i have not been able to make you understand." "i think i have understood. you are always clear-spoken, and i, though i cannot talk, am not muddle-pated. i have understood. but while you are single there must be yet hope;--unless, indeed, you will tell me that you have already given yourself to another man." "i have not done that." "then how can i not hope? violet, i would if i could tell you all my feelings plainly. once, twice, thrice, i have said to myself that i would think of you no more. i have tried to persuade myself that i am better single than married." "but i am not the only woman." "to me you are,--absolutely, as though there were none other on the face of god's earth. i live much alone; but you are always with me. should you marry any other man, it will be the same with me still. if you refuse me now i shall go away,--and live wildly." "oswald, what do you mean?" "i mean that i will go to some distant part of the world, where i may be killed or live a life of adventure. but i shall do so simply in despair. it will not be that i do not know how much better and greater should be the life at home of a man in my position." "then do not talk of going." "i cannot stay. you will acknowledge, violet, that i have never lied to you. i am thinking of you day and night. the more indifferent you show yourself to me, the more i love you. violet, try to love me." he came up to her, and took her by both her hands, and tears were in his eyes. "say you will try to love me." "it is not that," said violet, looking away, but still leaving her hands with him. "it is not what, dear?" "what you call,--trying." "it is that you do not wish to try?" "oswald, you are so violent, so headstrong. i am afraid of you,--as is everybody. why have you not written to your father, as we have asked you?" "i will write to him instantly, now, before i leave the room, and you shall dictate the letter to him. by heavens, you shall!" he had dropped her hands when she called him violent; but now he took them again, and still she permitted it. "i have postponed it only till i had spoken to you once again." "no, lord chiltern, i will not dictate to you." "but will you love me?" she paused and looked down, having even now not withdrawn her hands from him. but i do not think he knew how much he had gained. "you used to love me,--a little," he said. "indeed,--indeed, i did." "and now? is it all changed now?" "no," she said, retreating from him. "how is it, then? violet, speak to me honestly. will you be my wife?" she did not answer him, and he stood for a moment looking at her. then he rushed at her, and, seizing her in his arms, kissed her all over,--her forehead, her lips, her cheeks, then both her hands, and then her lips again. "by g----, she is my own!" he said. then he went back to the rug before the fire, and stood there with his back turned to her. violet, when she found herself thus deserted, retreated to a sofa, and sat herself down. she had no negative to produce now in answer to the violent assertion which he had pronounced as to his own success. it was true. she had doubted, and doubted,--and still doubted. but now she must doubt no longer. of one thing she was quite sure. she could love him. as things had now gone, she would make him quite happy with assurances on that subject. as to that other question,--that fearful question, whether or not she could trust him,--on that matter she had better at present say nothing, and think as little, perhaps, as might be. she had taken the jump, and therefore why should she not be gracious to him? but how was she to be gracious to a lover who stood there with his back turned to her? after the interval of a minute or two he remembered himself, and turned round. seeing her seated, he approached her, and went down on both knees close at her feet. then he took her hands again, for the third time, and looked up into her eyes. "oswald, you on your knees!" she said. "i would not bend to a princess," he said, "to ask for half her throne; but i will kneel here all day, if you will let me, in thanks for the gift of your love. i never kneeled to beg for it." "this is the man who cannot make speeches." "i think i could talk now by the hour, with you for a listener." "oh, but i must talk too." "what will you say to me?" "nothing while you are kneeling. it is not natural that you should kneel. you are like samson with his locks shorn, or hercules with a distaff." "is that better?" he said, as he got up and put his arm round her waist. "you are in earnest?" she asked. "in earnest. i hardly thought that that would be doubted. do you not believe me?" "i do believe you. and you will be good?" "ah,--i do not know that." "try, and i will love you so dearly. nay, i do love you dearly. i do. i do." "say it again." "i will say it fifty times,--till your ears are weary with it";--and she did say it to him, after her own fashion, fifty times. "this is a great change," he said, getting up after a while and walking about the room. "but a change for the better;--is it not, oswald?" "so much for the better that i hardly know myself in my new joy. but, violet, we'll have no delay,--will we? no shilly-shallying. what is the use of waiting now that it's settled?" "none in the least, lord chiltern. let us say,--this day twelvemonth." "you are laughing at me, violet." "remember, sir, that the first thing you have to do is to write to your father." he instantly went to the writing-table and took up paper and pen. "come along," he said. "you are to dictate it." but this she refused to do, telling him that he must write his letter to his father out of his own head, and out of his own heart. "i cannot write it," he said, throwing down the pen. "my blood is in such a tumult that i cannot steady my hand." "you must not be so tumultuous, oswald, or i shall have to live in a whirlwind." "oh, i shall shake down. i shall become as steady as an old stager. i'll go as quiet in harness by-and-by as though i had been broken to it a four-year-old. i wonder whether laura could not write this letter." "i think you should write it yourself, oswald." "if you bid me i will." "bid you indeed! as if it was for me to bid you. do you not know that in these new troubles you are undertaking you will have to bid me in everything, and that i shall be bound to do your bidding? does it not seem to be dreadful? my wonder is that any girl can ever accept any man." "but you have accepted me now." "yes, indeed." "and you repent?" "no, indeed, and i will try to do your biddings;--but you must not be rough to me, and outrageous, and fierce,--will you, oswald?" "i will not at any rate be like kennedy is with poor laura." "no;--that is not your nature." "i will do my best, dearest. and you may at any rate be sure of this, that i will love you always. so much good of myself, if it be good, i can say." "it is very good," she answered; "the best of all good words. and now i must go. and as you are leaving loughlinter i will say good-bye. when am i to have the honour and felicity of beholding your lordship again?" "say a nice word to me before i am off, violet." "i,--love,--you,--better,--than all the world beside; and i mean,--to be your wife,--some day. are not those twenty nice words?" he would not prolong his stay at loughlinter, though he was asked to do so both by violet and his sister, and though, as he confessed himself, he had no special business elsewhere. "it is no use mincing the matter. i don't like kennedy, and i don't like being in his house," he said to violet. and then he promised that there should be a party got up at saulsby before the winter was over. his plan was to stop that night at carlisle, and write to his father from thence. "your blood, perhaps, won't be so tumultuous at carlisle," said violet. he shook his head and went on with his plans. he would then go on to london and down to willingford, and there wait for his father's answer. "there is no reason why i should lose more of the hunting than necessary." "pray don't lose a day for me," said violet. as soon as he heard from his father, he would do his father's bidding. "you will go to saulsby," said violet; "you can hunt at saulsby, you know." "i will go to jericho if he asks me, only you will have to go with me." "i thought we were to go to,--belgium," said violet. "and so that is settled at last," said violet to laura that night. "i hope you do not regret it." "on the contrary, i am as happy as the moments are long." "my fine girl!" "i am happy because i love him. i have always loved him. you have known that." "indeed, no." "but i have, after my fashion. i am not tumultuous, as he calls himself. since he began to make eyes at me when he was nineteen--" "fancy oswald making eyes!" "oh, he did, and mouths too. but from the beginning, when i was a child, i have known that he was dangerous, and i have thought that he would pass on and forget me after a while. and i could have lived without him. nay, there have been moments when i thought i could learn to love some one else." "poor phineas, for instance." "we will mention no names. mr. appledom, perhaps, more likely. he has been my most constant lover, and then he would be so safe! your brother, laura, is dangerous. he is like the bad ice in the parks where they stick up the poles. he has had a pole stuck upon him ever since he was a boy." "yes;--give a dog a bad name and hang him." "remember that i do not love him a bit the less on that account;--perhaps the better. a sense of danger does not make me unhappy, though the threatened evil may be fatal. i have entered myself for my forlorn hope, and i mean to stick to it. now i must go and write to his worship. only think,--i never wrote a love-letter yet!" nothing more shall be said about miss effingham's first love-letter, which was, no doubt, creditable to her head and heart; but there were two other letters sent by the same post from loughlinter which shall be submitted to the reader, as they will assist the telling of the story. one was from lady laura kennedy to her friend phineas finn, and the other from violet to her aunt, lady baldock. no letter was written to lord brentford, as it was thought desirable that he should receive the first intimation of what had been done from his son. respecting the letter to phineas, which shall be first given, lady laura thought it right to say a word to her husband. he had been of course told of the engagement, and had replied that he could have wished that the arrangement could have been made elsewhere than at his house, knowing as he did that lady baldock would not approve of it. to this lady laura had made no reply, and mr. kennedy had condescended to congratulate the bride-elect. when lady laura's letter to phineas was completed she took care to put it into the letter-box in the presence of her husband. "i have written to mr. finn," she said, "to tell him of this marriage." "why was it necessary that he should be told?" "i think it was due to him,--from certain circumstances." "i wonder whether there was any truth in what everybody was saying about their fighting a duel?" asked mr. kennedy. his wife made no answer, and then he continued--"you told me of your own knowledge that it was untrue." "not of my own knowledge, robert." "yes;--of your own knowledge." then mr. kennedy walked away, and was certain that his wife had deceived him about the duel. there had been a duel, and she had known it; and yet she had told him that the report was a ridiculous fabrication. he never forgot anything. he remembered at this moment the words of the falsehood, and the look of her face as she told it. he had believed her implicitly, but he would never believe her again. he was one of those men who, in spite of their experience of the world, of their experience of their own lives, imagine that lips that have once lied can never tell the truth. lady laura's letter to phineas was as follows: loughlinter, december th, --. my dear friend, violet effingham is here, and oswald has just left us. it is possible that you may see him as he passes through london. but, at any rate, i think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him,--at last. if there be any pang in this to you, be sure that i will grieve for you. you will not wish me to say that i regret that which was the dearest wish of my heart before i knew you. lately, indeed, i have been torn in two ways. you will understand what i mean, and i believe i need say nothing more;--except this, that it shall be among my prayers that you may obtain all things that may tend to make you happy, honourable, and of high esteem. your most sincere friend laura kennedy. even though her husband should read the letter, there was nothing in that of which she need be ashamed. but he did not read the letter. he simply speculated as to its contents, and inquired within himself whether it would not be for the welfare of the world in general, and for the welfare of himself in particular, that husbands should demand to read their wives' letters. and this was violet's letter to her aunt:-- my dear aunt, the thing has come at last, and all your troubles will be soon over;--for i do believe that all your troubles have come from your unfortunate niece. at last i am going to be married, and thus take myself off your hands. lord chiltern has just been here, and i have accepted him. i am afraid you hardly think so well of lord chiltern as i do; but then, perhaps, you have not known him so long. you do know, however, that there has been some difference between him and his father. i think i may take upon myself to say that now, upon his engagement, this will be settled. i have the inexpressible pleasure of feeling sure that lord brentford will welcome me as his daughter-in-law. tell the news to augusta with my best love. i will write to her in a day or two. i hope my cousin gustavus will condescend to give me away. of course there is nothing fixed about time;--but i should say, perhaps, in nine years. your affectionate niece, violet effingham. loughlinter, friday. "what does she mean about nine years?" said lady baldock in her wrath. "she is joking," said the mild augusta. "i believe she would--joke, if i were going to be buried," said lady baldock. chapter liii showing how phineas bore the blow when phineas received lady laura kennedy's letter, he was sitting in his gorgeous apartment in the colonial office. it was gorgeous in comparison with the very dingy room at mr. low's to which he had been accustomed in his early days,--and somewhat gorgeous also as compared with the lodgings he had so long inhabited in mr. bunce's house. the room was large and square, and looked out from three windows on to st. james's park. there were in it two very comfortable arm-chairs and a comfortable sofa. and the office table at which he sat was of old mahogany, shining brightly, and seemed to be fitted up with every possible appliance for official comfort. this stood near one of the windows, so that he could sit and look down upon the park. and there was a large round table covered with books and newspapers. and the walls of the room were bright with maps of all the colonies. and there was one very interesting map,--but not very bright,--showing the american colonies, as they used to be. and there was a little inner closet in which he could brush his hair and wash his hands; and in the room adjoining there sat,--or ought to have sat, for he was often absent, vexing the mind of phineas,--the earl's nephew, his private secretary. and it was all very gorgeous. often as he looked round upon it, thinking of his old bedroom at killaloe, of his little garrets at trinity, of the dingy chambers in lincoln's inn, he would tell himself that it was very gorgeous. he would wonder that anything so grand had fallen to his lot. the letter from scotland was brought to him in the afternoon, having reached london by some day-mail from glasgow. he was sitting at his desk with a heap of papers before him referring to a contemplated railway from halifax, in nova scotia, to the foot of the rocky mountains. it had become his business to get up the subject, and then discuss with his principal, lord cantrip, the expediency of advising the government to lend a company five million of money, in order that this railway might be made. it was a big subject, and the contemplation of it gratified him. it required that he should look forward to great events, and exercise the wisdom of a statesman. what was the chance of these colonies being swallowed up by those other regions,--once colonies,--of which the map that hung in the corner told so eloquent a tale? and if so, would the five million ever be repaid? and if not swallowed up, were the colonies worth so great an adventure of national money? could they repay it? would they do so? should they be made to do so? mr. low, who was now a q.c. and in parliament, would not have greater subjects than this before him, even if he should come to be solicitor general. lord cantrip had specially asked him to get up this matter,--and he was getting it up sedulously. once in nine years the harbour of halifax was blocked up by ice. he had just jotted down the fact, which was material, when lady laura's letter was brought to him. he read it, and putting it down by his side very gently, went back to his maps as though the thing would not so trouble his mind as to disturb his work. he absolutely wrote, automatically, certain words of a note about the harbour, after he had received the information. a horse will gallop for some scores of yards, after his back has been broken, before he knows of his great ruin;--and so it was with phineas finn. his back was broken, but, nevertheless, he galloped, for a yard or two. "closed in - for thirteen days." then he began to be aware that his back was broken, and that the writing of any more notes about the ice in halifax harbour was for the present out of the question. "i think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him." these were the words which he read the oftenest. then it was all over! the game was played out, and all his victories were as nothing to him. he sat for an hour in his gorgeous room thinking of it, and various were the answers which he gave during the time to various messages;--but he would see nobody. as for the colonies, he did not care if they revolted to-morrow. he would have parted with every colony belonging to great britain to have gotten the hand of violet effingham for himself. now,--now at this moment, he told himself with oaths that he had never loved any one but violet effingham. there had been so much to make such a marriage desirable! i should wrong my hero deeply were i to say that the weight of his sorrow was occasioned by the fact that he had lost an heiress. he would never have thought of looking for violet effingham had he not first learned to love her. but as the idea opened itself out to him, everything had seemed to be so suitable. had miss effingham become his wife, the mouths of the lows and of the bunces would have been stopped altogether. mr. monk would have come to his house as his familiar guest, and he would have been connected with half a score of peers. a seat in parliament would be simply his proper place, and even under-secretaryships of state might soon come to be below him. he was playing a great game, but hitherto he had played it with so much success,--with such wonderful luck! that it had seemed to him that all things were within his reach. nothing more had been wanting to him than violet's hand for his own comfort, and violet's fortune to support his position; and these, too, had almost seemed to be within his grasp. his goddess had indeed refused him,--but not with disdain. even lady laura had talked of his marriage as not improbable. all the world, almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled, and seemed to think that in the real fight phineas finn would be the victor,--that the lucky pistol was in his hands. it had never occurred to any one to suppose,--as far as he could see,--that he was presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking violet effingham to be his wife. no;--he would trust his luck, would persevere, and would succeed. such had been his resolution on that very morning,--and now there had come this letter to dash him to the ground. there were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not believe the letter,--not that there was any moment in which there was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope. but he would tell himself that he would still persevere. violet might have been driven to accept that violent man by violent influence,--or it might be that she had not in truth accepted him, that chiltern had simply so asserted. or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds? the manly thing would be to persevere to the end. had he not before been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him? but he could buoy himself up with no real hope. even when these ideas were present to his mind, he knew,--he knew well,--at those very moments, that his back was broken. some one had come in and lighted the candles and drawn down the blinds while he was sitting there, and now, as he looked at his watch, he found that it was past five o'clock. he was engaged to dine with madame max goesler at eight, and in his agony he half-resolved that he would send an excuse. madame max would be full of wrath, as she was very particular about her little dinner-parties;--but, what did he care now about the wrath of madame max goesler? and yet only this morning he had been congratulating himself, among his other successes, upon her favour, and had laughed inwardly at his own falseness,--his falseness to violet effingham,--as he did so. he had said something to himself jocosely about lovers' perjuries, the remembrance of which was now very bitter to him. he took up a sheet of note-paper and scrawled an excuse to madame goesler. news from the country, he said, made it impossible that he should go out to-night. but he did not send the note. at about half-past five he opened the door of his private secretary's room and found the young man fast asleep, with a cigar in his mouth. "halloa, charles," he said. "all right!" charles standish was a first cousin of lady laura's, and, having been in the office before phineas had joined it, and being a great favourite with his cousin, had of course become the under-secretary's private secretary. "i'm all here," said charles standish, getting up and shaking himself. "i am going. just tie up those papers,--exactly as they are. i shall be here early to-morrow, but i shan't want you before twelve. good night, charles." "ta, ta," said his private secretary, who was very fond of his master, but not very respectful,--unless upon express occasions. then phineas went out and walked across the park; but as he went he became quite aware that his back was broken. it was not the less broken because he sang to himself little songs to prove to himself that it was whole and sound. it was broken, and it seemed to him now that he never could become an atlas again, to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders. what did anything signify? all that he had done had been part of a game which he had been playing throughout, and now he had been beaten in his game. he absolutely ignored his old passion for lady laura as though it had never been, and regarded himself as a model of constancy,--as a man who had loved, not wisely perhaps, but much too well,--and who must now therefore suffer a living death. he hated parliament. he hated the colonial office. he hated his friend mr. monk; and he especially hated madame max goesler. as to lord chiltern,--he believed that lord chiltern had obtained his object by violence. he would see to that! yes;--let the consequences be what they might, he would see to that! he went up by the duke of york's column, and as he passed the athenæum he saw his chief, lord cantrip, standing under the portico talking to a bishop. he would have gone on unnoticed, had it been possible; but lord cantrip came down to him at once. "i have put your name down here," said his lordship. "what's the use?" said phineas, who was profoundly indifferent at this moment to all the clubs in london. "it can't do any harm, you know. you'll come up in time. and if you should get into the ministry, they'll let you in at once." "ministry!" ejaculated phineas. but lord cantrip took the tone of voice as simply suggestive of humility, and suspected nothing of that profound indifference to all ministers and ministerial honours which phineas had intended to express. "by-the-bye," said lord cantrip, putting his arm through that of the under-secretary, "i wanted to speak to you about the guarantees. we shall be in the devil's own mess, you know--" and so the secretary of state went on about the rocky mountain railroad, and phineas strove hard to bear his burden with his broken back. he was obliged to say something about the guarantees, and the railway, and the frozen harbour,--and something especially about the difficulties which would be found, not in the measures themselves, but in the natural pugnacity of the opposition. in the fabrication of garments for the national wear, the great thing is to produce garments that shall, as far as possible, defy hole-picking. it may be, and sometimes is, the case, that garments so fabricated will be good also for wear. lord cantrip, at the present moment, was very anxious and very ingenious in the stopping of holes; and he thought that perhaps his under-secretary was too much prone to the indulgence of large philanthropical views without sufficient thought of the hole-pickers. but on this occasion, by the time that he reached brooks's, he had been enabled to convince his under-secretary, and though he had always thought well of his under-secretary, he thought better of him now than ever he had done. phineas during the whole time had been meditating what he could do to lord chiltern when they two should meet. could he take him by the throat and smite him? "i happen to know that broderick is working as hard at the matter as we are," said lord cantrip, stopping opposite to the club. "he moved for papers, you know, at the end of last session." now mr. broderick was a gentleman in the house looking for promotion in a conservative government, and of course would oppose any measure that could be brought forward by the cantrip-finn colonial administration. then lord cantrip slipped into the club, and phineas went on alone. a spark of his old ambition with reference to brooks's was the first thing to make him forget his misery for a moment. he had asked lord brentford to put his name down, and was not sure whether it had been done. the threat of mr. broderick's opposition had been of no use towards the strengthening of his broken back, but the sight of lord cantrip hurrying in at the coveted door did do something. "a man can't cut his throat or blow his brains out," he said to himself; "after all, he must go on and do his work. for hearts will break, yet brokenly live on." thereupon he went home, and after sitting for an hour over his own fire, and looking wistfully at a little treasure which he had,--a treasure obtained by some slight fraud at saulsby, and which he now chucked into the fire, and then instantly again pulled out of it, soiled but unscorched,--he dressed himself for dinner, and went out to madame max goesler's. upon the whole, he was glad that he had not sent the note of excuse. a man must live, even though his heart be broken, and living he must dine. madame max goesler was fond of giving little dinners at this period of the year, before london was crowded, and when her guests might probably not be called away by subsequent social arrangements. her number seldom exceeded six or eight, and she always spoke of these entertainments as being of the humblest kind. she sent out no big cards. she preferred to catch her people as though by chance, when that was possible. "dear mr. jones. mr. smith is coming to tell me about some sherry on tuesday. will you come and tell me too? i daresay you know as much about it." and then there was a studious absence of parade. the dishes were not very numerous. the bill of fare was simply written out once, for the mistress, and so circulated round the table. not a word about the things to be eaten or the things to be drunk was ever spoken at the table,--or at least no such word was ever spoken by madame goesler. but, nevertheless, they who knew anything about dinners were aware that madame goesler gave very good dinners indeed. phineas finn was beginning to flatter himself that he knew something about dinners, and had been heard to assert that the soups at the cottage in park lane were not to be beaten in london. but he cared for no soup to-day, as he slowly made his way up madame goesler's staircase. there had been one difficulty in the way of madame goesler's dinner-parties which had required some patience and great ingenuity in its management. she must either have ladies, or she must not have them. there was a great allurement in the latter alternative; but she knew well that if she gave way to it, all prospect of general society would for her be closed,--and for ever. this had been in the early days of her widowhood in park lane. she cared but little for women's society; but she knew well that the society of gentlemen without women would not be that which she desired. she knew also that she might as effectually crush herself and all her aspirations by bringing to her house indifferent women,--women lacking something either in character, or in position, or in talent,--as by having none at all. thus there had been a great difficulty, and sometimes she had thought that the thing could not be done at all. "these english are so stiff, so hard, so heavy!" and yet she would not have cared to succeed elsewhere than among the english. by degrees, however, the thing was done. her prudence equalled her wit, and even suspicious people had come to acknowledge that they could not put their fingers on anything wrong. when lady glencora palliser had once dined at the cottage in park lane, madame max goesler had told herself that henceforth she did not care what the suspicious people said. since that the duke of omnium had almost promised that he would come. if she could only entertain the duke of omnium she would have done everything. but there was no duke of omnium there to-night. at this time the duke of omnium was, of course, not in london. but lord fawn was there; and our old friend laurence fitzgibbon, who had--resigned his place at the colonial office; and there were mr. and mrs. bonteen. they, with our hero, made up the party. no one doubted for a moment to what source mr. bonteen owed his dinner. mrs. bonteen was good-looking, could talk, was sufficiently proper, and all that kind of thing,--and did as well as any other woman at this time of year to keep madame max goesler in countenance. there was never any sitting after dinner at the cottage; or, i should rather say, there was never any sitting after madame goesler went; so that the two ladies could not weary each other by being alone together. mrs. bonteen understood quite well that she was not required there to talk to her hostess, and was as willing as any woman to make herself agreeable to the gentlemen she might meet at madame goesler's table. and thus mr. and mrs. bonteen not unfrequently dined in park lane. "now we have only to wait for that horrible man, mr. fitzgibbon," said madame max goesler, as she welcomed phineas. "he is always late." "what a blow for me!" said phineas. "no,--you are always in good time. but there is a limit beyond which good time ends, and being shamefully late at once begins. but here he is." and then, as laurence fitzgibbon entered the room, madame goesler rang the bell for dinner. phineas found himself placed between his hostess and mr. bonteen, and lord fawn was on the other side of madame goesler. they were hardly seated at the table before some one stated it as a fact that lord brentford and his son were reconciled. now phineas knew, or thought that he knew, that this could not as yet be the case; and indeed such was not the case, though the father had already received the son's letter. but phineas did not choose to say anything at present about lord chiltern. "how odd it is," said madame goesler; "how often you english fathers quarrel with your sons!" "how often we english sons quarrel with our fathers rather," said lord fawn, who was known for the respect he had always paid to the fifth commandment. "it all comes from entail and primogeniture, and old-fashioned english prejudices of that kind," said madame goesler. "lord chiltern is a friend of yours, mr. finn, i think." "they are both friends of mine," said phineas. "ah, yes; but you,--you,--you and lord chiltern once did something odd together. there was a little mystery, was there not?" "it is very little of a mystery now," said fitzgibbon. "it was about a lady;--was it not?" said mrs. bonteen, affecting to whisper to her neighbour. "i am not at liberty to say anything on the subject," said fitzgibbon; "but i have no doubt phineas will tell you." "i don't believe this about lord brentford," said mr. bonteen. "i happen to know that chiltern was down at loughlinter three days ago, and that he passed through london yesterday on his way to the place where he hunts. the earl is at saulsby. he would have gone to saulsby if it were true." "it all depends upon whether miss effingham will accept him," said mrs. bonteen, looking over at phineas as she spoke. as there were two of violet effingham's suitors at table, the subject was becoming disagreeably personal; and the more so, as every one of the party knew or surmised something of the facts of the case. the cause of the duel at blankenberg had become almost as public as the duel, and lord fawn's courtship had not been altogether hidden from the public eye. he on the present occasion might probably be able to carry himself better than phineas, even presuming him to be equally eager in his love,--for he knew nothing of the fatal truth. but he was unable to hear mrs. bonteen's statement with indifference, and showed his concern in the matter by his reply. "any lady will be much to be pitied," he said, "who does that. chiltern is the last man in the world to whom i would wish to trust the happiness of a woman for whom i cared." "chiltern is a very good fellow," said laurence fitzgibbon. "just a little wild," said mrs. bonteen. "and never had a shilling in his pocket in his life," said her husband. "i regard him as simply a madman," said lord fawn. "i do so wish i knew him," said madame max goesler. "i am fond of madmen, and men who haven't shillings, and who are a little wild, could you not bring him here, mr. finn?" phineas did not know what to say, or how to open his mouth without showing his deep concern. "i shall be happy to ask him if you wish it," he replied, as though the question had been put to him in earnest; "but i do not see so much of lord chiltern as i used to do." "you do not believe that violet effingham will accept him?" asked mrs. bonteen. he paused a moment before he spoke, and then made his answer in a deep solemn voice,--with a seriousness which he was unable to repress. "she has accepted him," he said. "do you mean that you know it?" said madame goesler. "yes;--i mean that i know it." had anybody told him beforehand that he would openly make this declaration at madame goesler's table, he would have said that of all things it was the most impossible. he would have declared that nothing would have induced him to speak of violet effingham in his existing frame of mind, and that he would have had his tongue cut out before he spoke of her as the promised bride of his rival. and now he had declared the whole truth of his own wretchedness and discomfiture. he was well aware that all of them there knew why he had fought the duel at blankenberg;--all, that is, except perhaps lord fawn. and he felt as he made the statement as to lord chiltern that he blushed up to his forehead, and that his voice was strange, and that he was telling the tale of his own disgrace. but when the direct question had been asked him he had been unable to refrain from answering it directly. he had thought of turning it off with some jest or affectation of drollery, but had failed. at the moment he had been unable not to speak the truth. "i don't believe a word of it," said lord fawn,--who also forgot himself. "i do believe it, if mr. finn says so," said mrs. bonteen, who rather liked the confusion she had caused. "but who could have told you, finn?" asked mr. bonteen. "his sister, lady laura, told me so," said phineas. "then it must be true," said madame goesler. "it is quite impossible," said lord fawn. "i think i may say that i know that it is impossible. if it were so, it would be a most shameful arrangement. every shilling she has in the world would be swallowed up." now, lord fawn in making his proposals had been magnanimous in his offers as to settlements and pecuniary provisions generally. for some minutes after that phineas did not speak another word, and the conversation generally was not so brisk and bright as it was expected to be at madame goesler's. madame max goesler herself thoroughly understood our hero's position, and felt for him. she would have encouraged no questionings about violet effingham had she thought that they would have led to such a result, and now she exerted herself to turn the minds of her guests to other subjects. at last she succeeded; and after a while, too, phineas himself was able to talk. he drank two or three glasses of wine, and dashed away into politics, taking the earliest opportunity in his power of contradicting lord fawn very plainly on one or two matters. laurence fitzgibbon was of course of opinion that the ministry could not stay in long. since he had left the government the ministers had made wonderful mistakes, and he spoke of them quite as an enemy might speak. "and yet, fitz," said mr. bonteen, "you used to be so staunch a supporter." "i have seen the error of my way, i can assure you," said laurence. "i always observe," said madame max goesler, "that when any of you gentlemen resign,--which you usually do on some very trivial matter,--the resigning gentleman becomes of all foes the bitterest. somebody goes on very well with his friends, agreeing most cordially about everything, till he finds that his public virtue cannot swallow some little detail, and then he resigns. or some one, perhaps, on the other side has attacked him, and in the mêlée he is hurt, and so he resigns. but when he has resigned, and made his parting speech full of love and gratitude, i know well after that where to look for the bitterest hostility to his late friends. yes, i am beginning to understand the way in which politics are done in england." all this was rather severe upon laurence fitzgibbon; but he was a man of the world, and bore it better than phineas had borne his defeat. the dinner, taken altogether, was not a success, and so madame goesler understood. lord fawn, after he had been contradicted by phineas, hardly opened his mouth. phineas himself talked rather too much and rather too loudly; and mrs. bonteen, who was well enough inclined to flatter lord fawn, contradicted him. "i made a mistake," said madame goesler afterwards, "in having four members of parliament who all of them were or had been in office. i never will have two men in office together again." this she said to mrs. bonteen. "my dear madame max," said mrs. bonteen, "your resolution ought to be that you will never again have two claimants for the same young lady." in the drawing-room up-stairs madame goesler managed to be alone for three minutes with phineas finn. "and it is as you say, my friend?" she asked. her voice was plaintive and soft, and there was a look of real sympathy in her eyes. phineas almost felt that if they two had been quite alone he could have told her everything, and have wept at her feet. "yes," he said, "it is so." "i never doubted it when you had declared it. may i venture to say that i wish it had been otherwise?" "it is too late now, madame goesler. a man of course is a fool to show that he has any feelings in such a matter. the fact is, i heard it just before i came here, and had made up my mind to send you an excuse. i wish i had now." "do not say that, mr. finn." "i have made such an ass of myself." "in my estimation you have done yourself honour. but if i may venture to give you counsel, do not speak of this affair again as though you had been personally concerned in it. in the world now-a-days the only thing disgraceful is to admit a failure." "and i have failed." "but you need not admit it, mr. finn. i know i ought not to say as much to you." "i, rather, am deeply indebted to you. i will go now, madame goesler, as i do not wish to leave the house with lord fawn." "but you will come and see me soon." then phineas promised that he would come soon; and felt as he made the promise that he would have an opportunity of talking over his love with his new friend at any rate without fresh shame as to his failure. laurence fitzgibbon went away with phineas, and mr. bonteen, having sent his wife away by herself, walked off towards the clubs with lord fawn. he was very anxious to have a few words with lord fawn. lord fawn had evidently been annoyed by phineas, and mr. bonteen did not at all love the young under-secretary. "that fellow has become the most consummate puppy i ever met," said he, as he linked himself on to the lord, "monk, and one or two others among them, have contrived to spoil him altogether." "i don't believe a word of what he said about lord chiltern," said lord fawn. "about his marriage with miss effingham?" "it would be such an abominable shame to sacrifice the girl," said lord fawn. "only think of it. everything is gone. the man is a drunkard, and i don't believe he is any more reconciled to his father than you are. lady laura kennedy must have had some object in saying so." "perhaps an invention of finn's altogether," said mr. bonteen. "those irish fellows are just the men for that kind of thing." "a man, you know, so violent that nobody can hold him," said lord fawn, thinking of chiltern. "and so absurdly conceited," said mr. bonteen, thinking of phineas. "a man who has never done anything, with all his advantages in the world,--and never will." "he won't hold his place long," said mr. bonteen. "whom do you mean?" "phineas finn." "oh, mr. finn. i was talking of lord chiltern. i believe finn to be a very good sort of a fellow, and he is undoubtedly clever. they say cantrip likes him amazingly. he'll do very well. but i don't believe a word of this about lord chiltern." then mr. bonteen felt himself to be snubbed, and soon afterwards left lord fawn alone. chapter liv consolation on the day following madame goesler's dinner party, phineas, though he was early at his office, was not able to do much work, still feeling that as regarded the realities of the world, his back was broken. he might no doubt go on learning, and, after a time, might be able to exert himself in a perhaps useful, but altogether uninteresting kind of way, doing his work simply because it was there to be done,--as the carter or the tailor does his;--and from the same cause, knowing that a man must have bread to live. but as for ambition, and the idea of doing good, and the love of work for work's sake,--as for the elastic springs of delicious and beneficent labour,--all that was over for him. he would have worked from day till night, and from night till day, and from month till month throughout the year to have secured for violet effingham the assurance that her husband's position was worthy of her own. but now he had no motive for such work as this. as long as he took the public pay, he would earn it; and that was all. on the next day things were a little better with him. he received a note in the morning from lord cantrip saying that they two were to see the prime minister that evening, in order that the whole question of the railway to the rocky mountains might be understood, and phineas was driven to his work. before the time of the meeting came he had once more lost his own identity in great ideas of colonial welfare, and had planned and peopled a mighty region on the red river, which should have no sympathy with american democracy. when he waited upon mr. gresham in the afternoon he said nothing about the mighty region; indeed, he left it to lord cantrip to explain most of the proposed arrangements,--speaking only a word or two here and there as occasion required. but he was aware that he had so far recovered as to be able to save himself from losing ground during the interview. "he's about the first irishman we've had that has been worth his salt," said mr. gresham to his colleague afterwards. "that other irishman was a terrible fellow," said lord cantrip, shaking his head. on the fourth day after his sorrow had befallen him, phineas went again to the cottage in park lane. and in order that he might not be balked in his search for sympathy he wrote a line to madame goesler to ask if she would be at home. "i will be at home from five to six,--and alone.--m. m. g." that was the answer from marie max goesler, and phineas was of course at the cottage a few minutes after five. it is not, i think, surprising that a man when he wants sympathy in such a calamity as that which had now befallen phineas finn, should seek it from a woman. women sympathise most effectually with men, as men do with women. but it is, perhaps, a little odd that a man when he wants consolation because his heart has been broken, always likes to receive it from a pretty woman. one would be disposed to think that at such a moment he would be profoundly indifferent to such a matter, that no delight could come to him from female beauty, and that all he would want would be the softness of a simply sympathetic soul. but he generally wants a soft hand as well, and an eye that can be bright behind the mutual tear, and lips that shall be young and fresh as they express their concern for his sorrow. all these things were added to phineas when he went to madame goesler in his grief. "i am so glad to see you," said madame max. "you are very good-natured to let me come." "no;--but it is so good of you to trust me. but i was sure you would come after what took place the other night. i saw that you were pained, and i was so sorry for it." "i made such a fool of myself." "not at all. and i thought that you were right to tell them when the question had been asked. if the thing was not to be kept a secret, it was better to speak it out. you will get over it quicker in that way than in any other. i have never seen the young lord, myself." "oh, there is nothing amiss about him. as to what lord fawn said, the half of it is simply exaggeration, and the other half is misunderstood." "in this country it is so much to be a lord," said madame goesler. phineas thought a moment of that matter before he replied. all the standish family had been very good to him, and violet effingham had been very good. it was not the fault of any of them that he was now wretched and back-broken. he had meditated much on this, and had resolved that he would not even think evil of them. "i do not in my heart believe that that has had anything to do with it," he said. "but it has, my friend,--always. i do not know your violet effingham." "she is not mine." "well;--i do not know this violet that is not yours. i have met her, and did not specially admire her. but then the tastes of men and women about beauty are never the same. but i know she is one that always lives with lords and countesses. a girl who always lived with countesses feels it to be hard to settle down as a plain mistress." "she has had plenty of choice among all sorts of men. it was not the title. she would not have accepted chiltern unless she had--. but what is the use of talking of it?" "they had known each other long?" "oh, yes,--as children. and the earl desired it of all things." "ah;--then he arranged it." "not exactly. nobody could arrange anything for chiltern,--nor, as far as that goes, for miss effingham. they arranged it themselves, i fancy." "you had asked her?" "yes;--twice. and she had refused him more than twice. i have nothing for which to blame her; but yet i had thought,--i had thought--" "she is a jilt then?" "no;--i will not let you say that of her. she is no jilt. but i think she has been strangely ignorant of her own mind. what is the use of talking of it, madame goesler?" "none;--only sometimes it is better to speak a word, than to keep one's sorrow to oneself." "so it is;--and there is not one in the world to whom i can speak such a word, except yourself. is not that odd? i have sisters, but they have never heard of miss effingham, and would be quite indifferent." "perhaps they have some other favourites." "ah;--well. that does not matter, and my best friend here in london is lord chiltern's own sister." "she knew of your attachment?" "oh, yes." "and she told you of miss effingham's engagement. was she glad of it?" "she has always desired the marriage. and yet i think she would have been satisfied had it been otherwise. but of course her heart must be with her brother. i need not have troubled myself to go to blankenberg after all." "it was for the best, perhaps. everybody says you behaved so well." "i could not but go, as things were then." "what if you had--shot him?" "there would have been an end of everything. she would never have seen me after that. indeed i should have shot myself next, feeling that there was nothing else left for me to do." "ah;--you english are so peculiar. but i suppose it is best not to shoot a man. and, mr. finn, there are other ladies in the world prettier than miss violet effingham. no;--of course you will not admit that now. just at this moment, and for a month or two, she is peerless, and you will feel yourself to be of all men the most unfortunate. but you have the ball at your feet. i know no one so young who has got the ball at his feet so well. i call it nothing to have the ball at your feet if you are born with it there. it is so easy to be a lord if your father is one before you,--and so easy to marry a pretty girl if you can make her a countess. but to make yourself a lord, or to be as good as a lord, when nothing has been born to you,--that i call very much. and there are women, and pretty women too, mr. finn, who have spirit enough to understand this, and to think that the man, after all, is more important than the lord." then she sang the old well-worn verse of the scotch song with wonderful spirit, and with a clearness of voice and knowledge of music for which he had hitherto never given her credit. "a prince can mak' a belted knight, a marquis, duke, and a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, guid faith he mauna fa' that." "i did not know that you sung, madame goesler." "only now and then when something specially requires it. and i am very fond of scotch songs. i will sing to you now if you like it." then she sang the whole song,--"a man's a man for a' that," she said as she finished. "even though he cannot get the special bit of painted eve's flesh for which his heart has had a craving." then she sang again:-- "there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, who would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar." "but young lochinvar got his bride," said phineas. "take the spirit of the lines, mr. finn, which is true; and not the tale as it is told, which is probably false. i often think that jock of hazledean, and young lochinvar too, probably lived to repent their bargains. we will hope that lord chiltern may not do so." "i am sure he never will." "that is all right. and as for you, do you for a while think of your politics, and your speeches, and your colonies, rather than of your love. you are at home there, and no lord chiltern can rob you of your success. and if you are down in the mouth, come to me, and i will sing you a scotch song. and, look you, the next time i ask you to dinner i will promise you that mrs. bonteen shall not be here. good-bye." she gave him her hand, which was very soft, and left it for a moment in his, and he was consoled. madame goesler, when she was alone, threw herself on to her chair and began to think of things. in these days she would often ask herself what in truth was the object of her ambition, and the aim of her life. now at this moment she had in her hand a note from the duke of omnium. the duke had allowed himself to say something about a photograph, which had justified her in writing to him,--or which she had taken for such justification. and the duke had replied. "he would not," he said, "lose the opportunity of waiting upon her in person which the presentation of the little gift might afford him." it would be a great success to have the duke of omnium at her house,--but to what would the success reach? what was her definite object,--or had she any? in what way could she make herself happy? she could not say that she was happy yet. the hours with her were too long and the days too many. the duke of omnium should come,--if he would. and she was quite resolved as to this,--that if the duke did come she would not be afraid of him. heavens and earth! what would be the feelings of such a woman as her, were the world to greet her some fine morning as duchess of omnium! then she made up her mind very resolutely on one subject. should the duke give her any opportunity she would take a very short time in letting him know what was the extent of her ambition. chapter lv lord chiltern at saulsby lord chiltern did exactly as he said he would do. he wrote to his father as he passed through carlisle, and at once went on to his hunting at willingford. but his letter was very stiff and ungainly, and it may be doubted whether miss effingham was not wrong in refusing the offer which he had made to her as to the dictation of it. he began his letter, "my lord," and did not much improve the style as he went on with it. the reader may as well see the whole letter;-- railway hotel, carlisle, december , --. my lord, i am now on my way from loughlinter to london, and write this letter to you in compliance with a promise made by me to my sister and to miss effingham. i have asked violet to be my wife, and she has accepted me, and they think that you will be pleased to hear that this has been done. i shall be, of course, obliged, if you will instruct mr. edwards to let me know what you would propose to do in regard to settlements. laura thinks that you will wish to see both violet and myself at saulsby. for myself, i can only say that, should you desire me to come, i will do so on receiving your assurance that i shall be treated neither with fatted calves nor with reproaches. i am not aware that i have deserved either. i am, my lord, yours affect., chiltern. p.s.--my address will be "the bull, willingford." that last word, in which he half-declared himself to be joined in affectionate relations to his father, caused him a world of trouble. but he could find no term for expressing, without a circumlocution which was disagreeable to him, exactly that position of feeling towards his father which really belonged to him. he would have written "yours with affection," or "yours with deadly enmity," or "yours with respect," or "yours with most profound indifference," exactly in accordance with the state of his father's mind, if he had only known what was that state. he was afraid of going beyond his father in any offer of reconciliation, and was firmly fixed in his resolution that he would never be either repentant or submissive in regard to the past. if his father had wishes for the future, he would comply with them if he could do so without unreasonable inconvenience, but he would not give way a single point as to things done and gone. if his father should choose to make any reference to them, his father must prepare for battle. the earl was of course disgusted by the pertinacious obstinacy of his son's letter, and for an hour or two swore to himself that he would not answer it. but it is natural that the father should yearn for the son, while the son's feeling for the father is of a very much weaker nature. here, at any rate, was that engagement made which he had ever desired. and his son had made a step, though it was so very unsatisfactory a step, towards reconciliation. when the old man read the letter a second time, he skipped that reference to fatted calves which had been so peculiarly distasteful to him, and before the evening had passed he had answered his son as follows;-- saulsby, december , --. my dear chiltern, i have received your letter, and am truly delighted to hear that dear violet has accepted you as her husband. her fortune will be very material to you, but she herself is better than any fortune. you have long known my opinion of her. i shall be proud to welcome her as a daughter to my house. i shall of course write to her immediately, and will endeavour to settle some early day for her coming here. when i have done so, i will write to you again, and can only say that i will endeavour to make saulsby comfortable to you. your affectionate father, brentford. richards, the groom, is still here. you had perhaps better write to him direct about your horses. by the middle of february arrangements had all been made, and violet met her lover at his father's house. she in the meantime had been with her aunt, and had undergone a good deal of mild unceasing persecution. "my dear violet," said her aunt to her on her arrival at baddingham, speaking with a solemnity that ought to have been terrible to the young lady, "i do not know what to say to you." "say 'how d'you do?' aunt," said violet. "i mean about this engagement," said lady baldock, with an increase of awe-inspiring severity in her voice. "say nothing about it at all, if you don't like it," said violet. "how can i say nothing about it? how can i be silent? or how am i to congratulate you?" "the least said, perhaps, the soonest mended," and violet smiled as she spoke. "that is very well, and if i had no duty to perform, i would be silent. but, violet, you have been left in my charge. if i see you shipwrecked in life, i shall ever tell myself that the fault has been partly mine." "nay, aunt, that will be quite unnecessary. i will always admit that you did everything in your power to--to--to--make me run straight, as the sporting men say." "sporting men! oh, violet." "and you know, aunt, i still hope that i shall be found to have kept on the right side of the posts. you will find that poor lord chiltern is not so black as he is painted." "but why take anybody that is black at all?" "i like a little shade in the picture, aunt." "look at lord fawn." "i have looked at him." "a young nobleman beginning a career of useful official life, that will end in--; there is no knowing what it may end in." "i daresay not;--but it never could have begun or ended in my being lady fawn." "and mr. appledom!" "poor mr. appledom. i do like mr. appledom. but, you see, aunt, i like lord chiltern so much better. a young woman will go by her feelings." "and yet you refused him a dozen times." "i never counted the times, aunt; but not quite so many as that." the same thing was repeated over and over again during the month that miss effingham remained at baddingham, but lady baldock had no power of interfering, and violet bore her persecution bravely. her future husband was generally spoken of as "that violent young man," and hints were thrown out as to the personal injuries to which his wife might be possibly subjected. but the threatened bride only laughed, and spoke of these coming dangers as part of the general lot of married women. "i daresay, if the truth were known, my uncle baldock did not always keep his temper," she once said. now, the truth was, as violet well knew, that "my uncle baldock" had been dumb as a sheep before the shearers in the hands of his wife, and had never been known to do anything improper by those who had been most intimate with him even in his earlier days. "your uncle baldock, miss," said the outraged aunt, "was a nobleman as different in his manner of life from lord chiltern as chalk from cheese." "but then comes the question, which is the cheese?" said violet. lady baldock would not argue the question any further, but stalked out of the room. lady laura kennedy met them at saulsby, having had something of a battle with her husband before she left her home to do so. when she told him of her desire to assist at this reconciliation between her father and brother, he replied by pointing out that her first duty was at loughlinter, and before the interview was ended had come to express an opinion that that duty was very much neglected. she in the meantime had declared that she would go to saulsby, or that she would explain to her father that she was forbidden by her husband to do so. "and i also forbid any such communication," said mr. kennedy. in answer to which, lady laura told him that there were some marital commands which she should not consider it to be her duty to obey. when matters had come to this pass, it may be conceived that both mr. kennedy and his wife were very unhappy. she had almost resolved that she would take steps to enable her to live apart from her husband; and he had begun to consider what course he would pursue if such steps were taken. the wife was subject to her husband by the laws both of god and man; and mr. kennedy was one who thought much of such laws. in the meantime, lady laura carried her point and went to saulsby, leaving her husband to go up to london and begin the session by himself. lady laura and violet were both at saulsby before lord chiltern arrived, and many were the consultations which were held between them as to the best mode in which things might be arranged. violet was of opinion that there had better be no arrangement, that lord chiltern should be allowed to come in and take his father's hand, and sit down to dinner,--and that so things should fall into their places. lady laura was rather in favour of some scene. but the interview had taken place before either of them were able to say a word. lord chiltern, on his arrival, had gone immediately to his father, taking the earl very much by surprise, and had come off best in the encounter. "my lord," said he, walking up to his father with his hand out, "i am very glad to come back to saulsby." he had written to his sister to say that he would be at saulsby on that day, but had named no hour. he now appeared between ten and eleven in the morning, and his father had as yet made no preparation for him,--had arranged no appropriate words. he had walked in at the front door, and had asked for the earl. the earl was in his own morning-room,--a gloomy room, full of dark books and darker furniture, and thither lord chiltern had at once gone. the two women still were sitting together over the fire in the breakfast-room, and knew nothing of his arrival. "oswald!" said his father, "i hardly expected you so early." "i have come early. i came across country, and slept at birmingham. i suppose violet is here." "yes, she is here,--and laura. they will be very glad to see you. so am i." and the father took the son's hand for the second time. "thank you, sir," said lord chiltern, looking his father full in the face. "i have been very much pleased by this engagement," continued the earl. "what do you think i must be, then?" said the son, laughing. "i have been at it, you know, off and on, ever so many years; and have sometimes thought i was quite a fool not to get it out of my head. but i couldn't get it out of my head. and now she talks as though it were she who had been in love with me all the time!" "perhaps she was," said the father. "i don't believe it in the least. she may be a little so now." "i hope you mean that she always shall be so." "i shan't be the worst husband in the world, i hope; and i am quite sure i shan't be the best. i will go and see her now. i suppose i shall find her somewhere in the house. i thought it best to see you first." "stop half a moment, oswald," said the earl. and then lord brentford did make something of a shambling speech, in which he expressed a hope that they two might for the future live together on friendly terms, forgetting the past. he ought to have been prepared for the occasion, and the speech was poor and shambling. but i think that it was more useful than it might have been, had it been uttered roundly and with that paternal and almost majestic effect which he would have achieved had he been thoroughly prepared. but the roundness and the majesty would have gone against the grain with his son, and there would have been a danger of some outbreak. as it was, lord chiltern smiled, and muttered some word about things being "all right," and then made his way out of the room. "that's a great deal better than i had hoped," he said to himself; "and it has all come from my going in without being announced." but there was still a fear upon him that his father even yet might prepare a speech, and speak it, to the great peril of their mutual comfort. his meeting with violet was of course pleasant enough. now that she had succumbed, and had told herself and had told him that she loved him, she did not scruple to be as generous as a maiden should be who has acknowledged herself to be conquered, and has rendered herself to the conqueror. she would walk with him and ride with him, and take a lively interest in the performances of all his horses, and listen to hunting stories as long as he chose to tell them. in all this, she was so good and so loving that lady laura was more than once tempted to throw in her teeth her old, often-repeated assertions, that she was not prone to be in love,--that it was not her nature to feel any ardent affection for a man, and that, therefore, she would probably remain unmarried. "you begrudge me my little bits of pleasure," violet said, in answer to one such attack. "no;--but it is so odd to see you, of all women, become so love-lorn," "i am not love-lorn," said violet, "but i like the freedom of telling him everything and of hearing everything from him, and of having him for my own best friend. he might go away for twelve months, and i should not be unhappy, believing, as i do, that he would be true to me." all of which set lady laura thinking whether her friend had not been wiser than she had been. she had never known anything of that sort of friendship with her husband which already seemed to be quite established between these two. in her misery one day lady laura told the whole story of her own unhappiness to her brother, saying nothing of phineas finn,--thinking nothing of him as she told her story, but speaking more strongly perhaps than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness of her life at loughlinter, and of her inability to induce her husband to alter it for her sake. "do you mean that he,--ill-treats you?" said the brother, with a scowl on his face which seemed to indicate that he would like no task better than that of resenting such ill-treatment. "he does not beat me, if you mean that." "is he cruel to you? does he use harsh language?" "he never said a word in his life either to me or, as i believe, to any other human being, that he would think himself bound to regret." "what is it then?" "he simply chooses to have his own way, and his way cannot be my way. he is hard, and dry, and just, and dispassionate, and he wishes me to be the same. that is all." "i tell you fairly, laura, as far as i am concerned, i never could speak to him. he is antipathetic to me. but then i am not his wife." "i am;--and i suppose i must bear it." "have you spoken to my father?" "no." "or to violet?" "yes." "and what does she say?" "what can she say? she has nothing to say. nor have you. nor, if i am driven to leave him, can i make the world understand why i do so. to be simply miserable, as i am, is nothing to the world." "i could never understand why you married him." "do not be cruel to me, oswald." "cruel! i will stick by you in any way that you wish. if you think well of it, i will go off to loughlinter to-morrow, and tell him that you will never return to him. and if you are not safe from him here at saulsby, you shall go abroad with us. i am sure violet would not object. i will not be cruel to you." but in truth neither of lady laura's councillors was able to give her advice that could serve her. she felt that she could not leave her husband without other cause than now existed, although she felt, also, that to go back to him was to go back to utter wretchedness. and when she saw violet and her brother together there came to her dreams of what might have been her own happiness had she kept herself free from those terrible bonds in which she was now held a prisoner. she could not get out of her heart the remembrance of that young man who would have been her lover, if she would have let him,--of whose love for herself she had been aware before she had handed herself over as a bale of goods to her unloved, unloving husband. she had married mr. kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was then a nobody;--almost nobody. it was not mr. kennedy's money that had bought her. this woman in regard to money had shown herself to be as generous as the sun. but in marrying mr. kennedy she had maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own people,--among the first socially and among the first politically. but had she married phineas,--had she become lady laura finn,--there would have been a great descent. she could not have entertained the leading men of her party. she would not have been on a level with the wives and daughters of cabinet ministers. she might, indeed, have remained unmarried! but she knew that had she done so,--had she so resolved,--that which she called her fancy would have been too strong for her. she would not have remained unmarried. at that time it was her fate to be either lady laura kennedy or lady laura finn. and she had chosen to be lady laura kennedy. to neither violet effingham nor to her brother could she tell one half of the sorrow which afflicted her. "i shall go back to loughlinter," she said to her brother. "do not, unless you wish it," he answered. "i do not wish it. but i shall do it. mr. kennedy is in london now, and has been there since parliament met, but he will be in scotland again in march, and i will go and meet him there. i told him that i would do so when i left." "but you will go up to london?" "i suppose so. i must do as he tells me, of course. what i mean is, i will try it for another year." "if it does not succeed, come to us." "i cannot say what i will do. i would die if i knew how. never be a tyrant, oswald; or at any rate, not a cold tyrant. and remember this, there is no tyranny to a woman like telling her of her duty. talk of beating a woman! beating might often be a mercy." lord chiltern remained ten days at saulsby, and at last did not get away without a few unpleasant words with his father,--or without a few words that were almost unpleasant with his mistress. on his first arrival he had told his sister that he should go on a certain day, and some intimation to this effect had probably been conveyed to the earl. but when his son told him one evening that the post-chaise had been ordered for seven o'clock the next morning, he felt that his son was ungracious and abrupt. there were many things still to be said, and indeed there had been no speech of any account made at all as yet. "that is very sudden," said the earl. "i thought laura had told you." "she has not told me a word lately. she may have said something before you came here. what is there to hurry you?" "i thought ten days would be as long as you would care to have me here, and as i said that i would be back by the first, i would rather not change my plans." "you are going to hunt?" "yes;--i shall hunt till the end of march." "you might have hunted here, oswald." but the son made no sign of changing his plans; and the father, seeing that he would not change them, became solemn and severe. there were a few words which he must say to his son,--something of a speech that he must make;--so he led the way into the room with the dark books and the dark furniture, and pointed to a great deep arm-chair for his son's accommodation. but as he did not sit down himself, neither did lord chiltern. lord chiltern understood very well how great is the advantage of a standing orator over a sitting recipient of his oratory, and that advantage he would not give to his father. "i had hoped to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you about the future," said the earl. "i think we shall be married in july," said lord chiltern. "so i have heard;--but after that. now i do not want to interfere, oswald, and of course the less so, because violet's money will to a great degree restore the inroads which have been made upon the property." "it will more than restore them altogether." "not if her estate be settled on a second son, oswald, and i hear from lady baldock that that is the wish of her relations." "she shall have her own way,--as she ought. what that way is i do not know. i have not even asked about it. she asked me, and i told her to speak to you." "of course i should wish it to go with the family property. of course that would be best." "she shall have her own way,--as far as i am concerned." "but it is not about that, oswald, that i would speak. what are your plans of life when you are married?" "plans of life?" "yes;--plans of life. i suppose you have some plans. i suppose you mean to apply yourself to some useful occupation?" "i don't know really, sir, that i am of much use for any purpose." lord chiltern laughed as he said this, but did not laugh pleasantly. "you would not be a drone in the hive always?" "as far as i can see, sir, we who call ourselves lords generally are drones." "i deny it," said the earl, becoming quite energetic as he defended his order. "i deny it utterly. i know no class of men who do work more useful or more honest. am i a drone? have i been so from my youth upwards? i have always worked, either in the one house or in the other, and those of my fellows with whom i have been most intimate have worked also. the same career is open to you." "you mean politics?" "of course i mean politics." "i don't care for politics. i see no difference in parties." "but you should care for politics, and you should see a difference in parties. it is your duty to do so. my wish is that you should go into parliament." "i can't do that, sir." "and why not?" "in the first place, sir, you have not got a seat to offer me. you have managed matters among you in such a way that poor little loughton has been swallowed up. if i were to canvass the electors of smotherem, i don't think that many would look very sweet on me." "there is the county, oswald." "and whom am i to turn out? i should spend four or five thousand pounds, and have nothing but vexation in return for it. i had rather not begin that game, and indeed i am too old for parliament. i did not take it up early enough to believe in it." all this made the earl very angry, and from these things they went on to worse things. when questioned again as to the future, lord chiltern scowled, and at last declared that it was his idea to live abroad in the summer for his wife's recreation, and somewhere down in the shires during the winter for his own. he would admit of no purpose higher than recreation, and when his father again talked to him of a nobleman's duty, he said that he knew of no other special duty than that of not exceeding his income. then his father made a longer speech than before, and at the end of it lord chiltern simply wished him good night. "it's getting late, and i've promised to see violet before i go to bed. good-bye." then he was off, and lord brentford was left there, standing with his back to the fire. after that lord chiltern had a discussion with violet, which lasted nearly half the night; and during the discussion she told him more than once that he was wrong. "such as i am you must take me, or leave me," he said, in anger. "nay; there is no choice now," she answered. "i have taken you, and i will stick by you,--whether you are right or wrong. but when i think you wrong, i shall say so." he swore to her as he pressed her to his heart that she was the finest, grandest, sweetest woman that ever the world had produced. but still there was present on his palate, when he left her, the bitter taste of her reprimand. chapter lvi what the people in marylebone thought phineas finn, when the session began, was still hard at work upon his canada bill, and in his work found some relief for his broken back. he went into the matter with all his energy, and before the debate came on, knew much more about the seven thousand inhabitants of some hundreds of thousands of square miles at the back of canada, than he did of the people of london or of county clare. and he found some consolation also in the good-nature of madame goesler, whose drawing-room was always open to him. he could talk freely now to madame goesler about violet, and had even ventured to tell her that once, in old days, he had thought of loving lady laura standish. he spoke of those days as being very old; and then he perhaps said some word to her about dear little mary flood jones. i think that there was not much in his career of which he did not say something to madame goesler, and that he received from her a good deal of excellent advice and encouragement in the direction of his political ambition. "a man should work," she said,--"and you do work. a woman can only look on, and admire and long. what is there that i can do? i can learn to care for these canadians, just because you care for them. if it was the beavers that you told me of, i should have to care for the beavers." then phineas of course told her that such sympathy from her was all and all to him. but the reader must not on this account suppose that he was untrue in his love to violet effingham. his back was altogether broken by his fall, and he was quite aware that such was the fact. not as yet, at least, had come to him any remotest idea that a cure was possible. early in march he heard that lady laura was up in town, and of course he was bound to go to her. the information was given to him by mr. kennedy himself, who told him that he had been to scotland to fetch her. in these days there was an acknowledged friendship between these two, but there was no intimacy. indeed, mr. kennedy was a man who was hardly intimate with any other man. with phineas he now and then exchanged a few words in the lobby of the house, and when they chanced to meet each other, they met as friends. mr. kennedy had no strong wish to see again in his house the man respecting whom he had ventured to caution his wife; but he was thoughtful; and thinking over it all, he found it better to ask him there. no one must know that there was any reason why phineas should not come to his house; especially as all the world knew that phineas had protected him from the garrotters. "lady laura is in town now," he said; "you must go and see her before long." phineas of course promised that he would go. in these days phineas was beginning to be aware that he had enemies,--though he could not understand why anybody should be his enemy now that violet effingham had decided against him. there was poor laurence fitzgibbon, indeed, whom he had superseded at the colonial office, but laurence fitzgibbon, to give merit where merit was due, felt no animosity against him at all. "you're welcome, me boy; you're welcome,--as far as yourself goes. but as for the party, bedad, it's rotten to the core, and won't stand another session. mind, it's i who tell you so." and the poor idle irishman, in so speaking, spoke the truth as well as he knew it. but the ratlers and the bonteens were finn's bitter foes, and did not scruple to let him know that such was the case. barrington erle had scruples on the subject, and in a certain mildly apologetic way still spoke well of the young man, whom he had himself first introduced into political life only four years since;--but there was no earnestness or cordiality in barrington erle's manner, and phineas knew that his first staunch friend could no longer be regarded as a pillar of support. but there was a set of men, quite as influential,--so phineas thought,--as the busy politicians of the club, who were very friendly to him. these were men, generally of high position, of steady character,--hard workers,--who thought quite as much of what a man did in his office as what he said in the house. lords cantrip, thrift, and fawn were of this class,--and they were all very courteous to phineas. envious men began to say of him that he cared little now for any one of the party who had not a handle to his name, and that he preferred to live with lords and lordlings. this was hard upon him, as the great political ambition of his life was to call mr. monk his friend; and he would sooner have acted with mr. monk than with any other man in the cabinet. but though mr. monk had not deserted him, there had come to be little of late in common between the two. his life was becoming that of a parliamentary official rather than that of a politician;--whereas, though mr. monk was in office, his public life was purely political. mr. monk had great ideas of his own which he intended to hold, whether by holding them he might remain in office or be forced out of office; and he was indifferent as to the direction which things in this respect might take with him. but phineas, who had achieved his declared object in getting into place, felt that he was almost constrained to adopt the views of others, let them be what they might. men spoke to him, as though his parliamentary career were wholly at the disposal of the government,--as though he were like a proxy in mr. gresham's pocket,--with this difference, that when directed to get up and speak on a subject he was bound to do so. this annoyed him, and he complained to mr. monk; but mr. monk only shrugged his shoulders and told him that he must make his choice. he soon discovered mr. monk's meaning. "if you choose to make parliament a profession,--as you have chosen,--you can have no right even to think of independence. if the country finds you out when you are in parliament, and then invites you to office, of course the thing is different. but the latter is a slow career, and probably would not have suited you." that was the meaning of what mr. monk said to him. after all, these official and parliamentary honours were greater when seen at a distance than he found them to be now that he possessed them. mr. low worked ten hours a day, and could rarely call a day his own; but, after all, with all this work, mr. low was less of a slave, and more independent, than was he, phineas finn, under-secretary of state, the friend of cabinet ministers, and member of parliament since his twenty-fifth year! he began to dislike the house, and to think it a bore to sit on the treasury bench;--he, who a few years since had regarded parliament as the british heaven on earth, and who, since he had been in parliament, had looked at that bench with longing envious eyes. laurence fitzgibbon, who seemed to have as much to eat and drink as ever, and a bed also to lie on, could come and go in the house as he pleased, since his--resignation. and there was a new trouble coming. the reform bill for england had passed; but now there was to be another reform bill for ireland. let them pass what bill they might, this would not render necessary a new irish election till the entire house should be dissolved. but he feared that he would be called upon to vote for the abolition of his own borough,--and for other points almost equally distasteful to him. he knew that he would not be consulted,--but would be called upon to vote, and perhaps to speak; and was certain that if he did so, there would be war between him and his constituents. lord tulla had already communicated to him his ideas that, for certain excellent reasons, loughshane ought to be spared. but this evil was, he hoped, a distant one. it was generally thought that, as the english reform bill had been passed last year, and as the irish bill, if carried, could not be immediately operative, the doing of the thing might probably be postponed to the next session. when he first saw lady laura he was struck by the great change in her look and manner. she seemed to him to be old and worn, and he judged her to be wretched,--as she was. she had written to him to say that she would be at her father's house on such and such a morning, and he had gone to her there. "it is of no use your coming to grosvenor place," she said. "i see nobody there, and the house is like a prison." later in the interview she told him not to come and dine there, even though mr. kennedy should ask him. "and why not?" he demanded. "because everything would be stiff, and cold, and uncomfortable. i suppose you do not wish to make your way into a lady's house if she asks you not." there was a sort of smile on her face as she said this, but he could perceive that it was a very bitter smile. "you can easily excuse yourself." "yes, i can excuse myself." "then do so. if you are particularly anxious to dine with mr. kennedy, you can easily do so at your club." in the tone of her voice, and the words she used, she hardly attempted to conceal her dislike of her husband. "and now tell me about miss effingham," he said. "there is nothing for me to tell." "yes there is;--much to tell. you need not spare me. i do not pretend to deny to you that i have been hit hard,--so hard, that i have been nearly knocked down; but it will not hurt me now to hear of it all. did she always love him?" "i cannot say. i think she did after her own fashion." "i sometimes think women would be less cruel," he said, "if they knew how great is the anguish they can cause." "has she been cruel to you?" "i have nothing to complain of. but if she loved chiltern, why did she not tell him so at once? and why--" "this is complaining, mr. finn." "i will not complain. i would not even think of it, if i could help it. are they to be married soon?" "in july;--so they now say." "and where will they live?" "ah! no one can tell. i do not think that they agree as yet as to that. but if she has a strong wish oswald will yield to it. he was always generous." "i would not even have had a wish,--except to have her with me." there was a pause for a moment, and then lady laura answered him with a touch of scorn in her voice,--and with some scorn, too, in her eye:--"that is all very well, mr. finn; but the season will not be over before there is some one else." "there you wrong me." "they tell me that you are already at madame goesler's feet." "madame goesler!" "what matters who it is as long as she is young and pretty, and has the interest attached to her of something more than ordinary position? when men tell me of the cruelty of women, i think that no woman can be really cruel because no man is capable of suffering. a woman, if she is thrown aside, does suffer." "do you mean to tell me, then, that i am indifferent to miss effingham?" when he thus spoke, i wonder whether he had forgotten that he had ever declared to this very woman to whom he was speaking, a passion for herself. "psha!" "it suits you, lady laura, to be harsh to me, but you are not speaking your thoughts." then she lost all control of herself, and poured out to him the real truth that was in her. "and whose thoughts did you speak when you and i were on the braes of loughlinter? am i wrong in saying that change is easy to you, or have i grown to be so old that you can talk to me as though those far-away follies ought to be forgotten? was it so long ago? talk of love! i tell you, sir, that your heart is one in which love can have no durable hold. violet effingham! there may be a dozen violets after her, and you will be none the worse." then she walked away from him to the window, and he stood still, dumb, on the spot that he had occupied. "you had better go now," she said, "and forget what has passed between us. i know that you are a gentleman, and that you will forget it." the strong idea of his mind when he heard all this was the injustice of her attack,--of the attack as coming from her, who had all but openly acknowledged that she had married a man whom she had not loved because it suited her to escape from a man whom she did love. she was reproaching him now for his fickleness in having ventured to set his heart upon another woman, when she herself had been so much worse than fickle,--so profoundly false! and yet he could not defend himself by accusing her. what would she have had of him? what would she have proposed to him, had he questioned her as to his future, when they were together on the braes of loughlinter? would she not have bid him to find some one else whom he could love? would she then have suggested to him the propriety of nursing his love for herself,--for her who was about to become another man's wife,--for her after she should have become another man's wife? and yet because he had not done so, and because she had made herself wretched by marrying a man whom she did not love, she reproached him! he could not tell her of all this, so he fell back for his defence on words which had passed between them since the day when they had met on the braes. "lady laura," he said, "it is only a month or two since you spoke to me as though you wished that violet effingham might be my wife." "i never wished it. i never said that i wished it. there are moments in which we try to give a child any brick on the chimney top for which it may whimper." then there was another silence which she was the first to break. "you had better go," she said. "i know that i have committed myself, and of course i would rather be alone." "and what would you wish that i should do?" "do?" she said. "what you do can be nothing to me." "must we be strangers, you and i, because there was a time in which we were almost more than friends?" "i have spoken nothing about myself, sir,--only as i have been drawn to do so by your pretence of being love-sick. you can do nothing for me,--nothing,--nothing. what is it possible that you should do for me? you are not my father, or my brother." it is not to be supposed that she wanted him to fall at her feet. it is to be supposed that had he done so her reproaches would have been hot and heavy on him; but yet it almost seemed to him as though he had no other alternative. no!--he was not her father or her brother;--nor could he be her husband. and at this very moment, as she knew, his heart was sore with love for another woman. and yet he hardly knew how not to throw himself at her feet, and swear, that he would return now and for ever to his old passion, hopeless, sinful, degraded as it would be. "i wish it were possible for me to do something," he said, drawing near to her. "there is nothing to be done," she said, clasping her hands together. "for me nothing. i have before me no escape, no hope, no prospect of relief, no place of consolation. you have everything before you. you complain of a wound! you have at least shown that such wounds with you are capable of cure. you cannot but feel that when i hear your wailings, i must be impatient. you had better leave me now, if you please." "and are we to be no longer friends?" he asked. "as far as friendship can go without intercourse, i shall always be your friend." then he went, and as he walked down to his office, so intent was he on that which had just passed that he hardly saw the people as he met them, or was aware of the streets through which his way led him. there had been something in the later words which lady laura had spoken that had made him feel almost unconsciously that the injustice of her reproaches was not so great as he had at first felt it to be, and that she had some cause for her scorn. if her case was such as she had so plainly described it, what was his plight as compared with hers? he had lost his violet, and was in pain. there must be much of suffering before him. but though violet were lost, the world was not all blank before his eyes. he had not told himself, even in his dreariest moments, that there was before him "no escape, no hope, no prospect of relief, no place of consolation." and then he began to think whether this must in truth be the case with lady laura. what if mr. kennedy were to die? what in such case as that would he do? in ten or perhaps in five years time might it not be possible for him to go through the ceremony of falling upon his knees, with stiffened joints indeed, but still with something left of the ardour of his old love, of his oldest love of all? as he was thinking of this he was brought up short in his walk as he was entering the green park beneath the duke's figure, by laurence fitzgibbon. "how dare you not be in your office at such an hour as this, finn, me boy,--or, at least, not in the house,--or serving your masters after some fashion?" said the late under-secretary. "so i am. i've been on a message to marylebone, to find what the people there think about the canadas." "and what do they think about the canadas in marylebone?" "not one man in a thousand cares whether the canadians prosper or fail to prosper. they care that canada should not go to the states, because,--though they don't love the canadians, they do hate the americans. that's about the feeling in marylebone,--and it's astonishing how like the maryleboners are to the rest of the world." "dear me, what a fellow you are for an under-secretary! you've heard the news about little violet." "what news?" "she has quarrelled with chiltern, you know." "who says so?" "never mind who says so, but they tell me it's true. take an old friend's advice, and strike while the iron's hot." phineas did not believe what he had heard, but though he did not believe it, still the tidings set his heart beating. he would have believed it less perhaps had he known that laurence had just received the news from mrs. bonteen. chapter lvii the top brick of the chimney madame max goesler was a lady who knew that in fighting the battles which fell to her lot, in arranging the social difficulties which she found in her way, in doing the work of the world which came to her share, very much more care was necessary,--and care too about things apparently trifling,--than was demanded by the affairs of people in general. and this was not the case so much on account of any special disadvantage under which she laboured, as because she was ambitious of doing the very uttermost with those advantages which she possessed. her own birth had not been high, and that of her husband, we may perhaps say, had been very low. he had been old when she had married him, and she had had little power of making any progress till he had left her a widow. then she found herself possessed of money, certainly; of wit,--as she believed; and of a something in her personal appearance which, as she plainly told herself, she might perhaps palm off upon the world as beauty. she was a woman who did not flatter herself, who did not strongly believe in herself, who could even bring herself to wonder that men and women in high position should condescend to notice such a one as her. with all her ambition, there was a something of genuine humility about her; and with all the hardness she had learned there was a touch of womanly softness which would sometimes obtrude itself upon her heart. when she found a woman really kind to her, she would be very kind in return. and though she prized wealth, and knew that her money was her only rock of strength, she could be lavish with it, as though it were dirt. but she was highly ambitious, and she played her game with great skill and great caution. her doors were not open to all callers;--were shut even to some who find but few doors closed against them;--were shut occasionally to those whom she most specially wished to see within them. she knew how to allure by denying, and to make the gift rich by delaying it. we are told by the latin proverb that he who gives quickly gives twice; but i say that she who gives quickly seldom gives more than half. when in the early spring the duke of omnium first knocked at madame max goesler's door, he was informed that she was not at home. the duke felt very cross as he handed his card out from his dark green brougham,--on the panel of which there was no blazon to tell the owner's rank. he was very cross. she had told him that she was always at home between four and six on a thursday. he had condescended to remember the information, and had acted upon it,--and now she was not at home! she was not at home, though he had come on a thursday at the very hour she had named to him. any duke would have been cross, but the duke of omnium was particularly cross. no;--he certainly would give himself no further trouble by going to the cottage in park lane. and yet madame max goesler had been in her own drawing-room, while the duke was handing out his card from the brougham below. on the next morning there came to him a note from the cottage,--such a pretty note!--so penitent, so full of remorse,--and, which was better still, so laden with disappointment, that he forgave her. my dear duke, i hardly know how to apologise to you, after having told you that i am always at home on thursdays; and i was at home yesterday when you called. but i was unwell, and i had told the servant to deny me, not thinking how much i might be losing. indeed, indeed, i would not have given way to a silly headache, had i thought that your grace would have been here. i suppose that now i must not even hope for the photograph. yours penitently, marie m. g. the note-paper was very pretty note-paper, hardly scented, and yet conveying a sense of something sweet, and the monogram was small and new, and fantastic without being grotesque, and the writing was of that sort which the duke, having much experience, had learned to like,--and there was something in the signature which pleased him. so he wrote a reply,-- dear madame max goesler, i will call again next thursday, or, if prevented, will let you know. yours faithfully, o. when the green brougham drew up at the door of the cottage on the next thursday, madame goesler was at home, and had no headache. she was not at all penitent now. she had probably studied the subject, and had resolved that penitence was more alluring in a letter than when acted in person. she received her guest with perfect ease, and apologised for the injury done to him in the preceding week, with much self-complacency. "i was so sorry when i got your card," she said; "and yet i am so glad now that you were refused." "if you were ill," said the duke, "it was better." "i was horribly ill, to tell the truth;--as pale as a death's head, and without a word to say for myself. i was fit to see no one." "then of course you were right." "but it flashed upon me immediately that i had named a day, and that you had been kind enough to remember it. but i did not think you came to london till the march winds were over." "the march winds blow everywhere in this wretched island, madame goesler, and there is no escaping them. youth may prevail against them; but on me they are so potent that i think they will succeed in driving me out of my country. i doubt whether an old man should ever live in england if he can help it." the duke certainly was an old man, if a man turned of seventy be old;--and he was a man too who did not bear his years with hearty strength. he moved slowly, and turned his limbs, when he did turn them, as though the joints were stiff in their sockets. but there was nevertheless about him a dignity of demeanour, a majesty of person, and an upright carriage which did not leave an idea of old age as the first impress on the minds of those who encountered the duke of omnium. he was tall and moved without a stoop; and though he moved slowly, he had learned to seem so to do because it was the proper kind of movement for one so high up in the world as himself. and perhaps his tailor did something for him. he had not been long under madame max goesler's eyes before she perceived that his tailor had done a good deal for him. when he alluded to his own age and to her youth, she said some pleasant little word as to the difference between oak-trees and currant-bushes; and by that time she was seated comfortably on her sofa, and the duke was on a chair before her,--just as might have been any man who was not a duke. after a little time the photograph was brought forth from his grace's pocket. that bringing out and giving of photographs, with the demand for counter photographs, is the most absurd practice of the day. "i don't think i look very nice, do i?" "oh yes,--very nice, but a little too old; and certainly you haven't got those spots all over your forehead. these are the remarks which on such occasions are the most common. it may be said that to give a photograph or to take a photograph without the utterance of some words which would be felt by a bystander to be absurd, is almost an impossibility. at this moment there was no bystander, and therefore the duke and the lady had no need for caution. words were spoken that were very absurd. madame goesler protested that the duke's photograph was more to her than the photographs of all the world beside; and the duke declared that he would carry the lady's picture next to his heart,--i am afraid he said for ever and ever. then he took her hand and pressed it, and was conscious that for a man over seventy years of age he did that kind of thing very well. "you will come and dine with me, duke?" she said, when he began to talk of going. "i never dine out." "that is just the reason you should dine with me. you shall meet nobody you do not wish to meet." "i would so much rather see you in this way,--i would indeed. i do dine out occasionally, but it is at big formal parties, which i cannot escape without giving offence." "and you cannot escape my little not formal party,--without giving offence." she looked into his face as she spoke, and he knew that she meant it. and he looked into hers, and thought that her eyes were brighter than any he was in the habit of seeing in these latter days. "name your own day, duke. will a sunday suit you?" "if i must come--" "you must come." as she spoke her eyes sparkled more and more, and her colour went and came, and she shook her curls till they emitted through the air the same soft feeling of a perfume that her note had produced. then her foot peeped out from beneath the black and yellow drapery of her dress, and the duke saw that it was perfect. and she put out her finger and touched his arm as she spoke. her hand was very fair, and her fingers were bright with rich gems. to men such as the duke, a hand, to be quite fair, should be bright with rich gems. "you must come," she said,--not imploring him now but commanding him. "then i will come," he answered, and a certain sunday was fixed. the arranging of the guests was a little difficulty, till madame goesler begged the duke to bring with him lady glencora palliser, his nephew's wife. this at last he agreed to do. as the wife of his nephew and heir, lady glencora was to the duke all that a woman could be. she was everything that was proper as to her own conduct, and not obtrusive as to his. she did not bore him, and yet she was attentive. although in her husband's house she was a fierce politician, in his house she was simply an attractive woman. "ah; she is very clever," the duke once said, "she adapts herself. if she were to go from any one place to any other, she would be at home in both." and the movement of his grace's hand as he spoke seemed to indicate the widest possible sphere for travelling and the widest possible scope for adaptation. the dinner was arranged, and went off very pleasantly. madame goesler's eyes were not quite so bright as they were during that morning visit, nor did she touch her guest's arm in a manner so alluring. she was very quiet, allowing her guests to do most of the talking. but the dinner and the flowers and the wine were excellent, and the whole thing was so quiet that the duke liked it. "and now you must come and dine with me," the duke said as he took his leave. "a command to that effect will be one which i certainly shall not disobey," whispered madame goesler. "i am afraid he is going to get fond of that woman." these words were spoken early on the following morning by lady glencora to her husband, mr. palliser. "he is always getting fond of some woman, and he will to the end," said mr. palliser. "but this madame max goesler is very clever." "so they tell me. i have generally thought that my uncle likes talking to a fool the best." "every man likes a clever woman the best," said lady glencora, "if the clever woman only knows how to use her cleverness." "i'm sure i hope he'll be amused," said mr. palliser innocently. "a little amusement is all that he cares for now." "suppose you were told some day that he was going--to be married?" said lady glencora. "my uncle married!" "why not he as well as another?" "and to madame goesler?" "if he be ever married it will be to some such woman." "there is not a man in all england who thinks more of his own position than my uncle," said mr. palliser somewhat proudly,--almost with a touch of anger. "that is all very well, plantagenet, and true enough in a kind of way. but a child will sacrifice all that it has for the top brick of the chimney, and old men sometimes become children. you would not like to be told some morning that there was a little lord silverbridge in the world." now the eldest son of the duke of omnium, when the duke of omnium had a son, was called the earl of silverbridge; and mr. palliser, when this question was asked him, became very pale. mr. palliser knew well how thoroughly the cunning of the serpent was joined to the purity of the dove in the person of his wife, and he was sure that there was cause for fear when she hinted at danger. "perhaps you had better keep your eye upon him," he said to his wife. "and upon her," said lady glencora. when madame goesler dined at the duke's house in st. james's square there was a large party, and lady glencora knew that there was no need for apprehension then. indeed madame goesler was no more than any other guest, and the duke hardly spoke to her. there was a duchess there,--the duchess of st. bungay, and old lady hartletop, who was a dowager marchioness,--an old lady who pestered the duke very sorely,--and madame max goesler received her reward, and knew that she was receiving it, in being asked to meet these people. would not all these names, including her own, be blazoned to the world in the columns of the next day's _morning post_? there was no absolute danger here, as lady glencora knew; and lady glencora, who was tolerant and begrudged nothing to madame max except the one thing, was quite willing to meet the lady at such a grand affair as this. but the duke, even should he become ever so childish a child in his old age, still would have that plain green brougham at his command, and could go anywhere in that at any hour in the day. and then madame goesler was so manifestly a clever woman. a duchess of omnium might be said to fill,--in the estimation, at any rate, of english people,--the highest position in the world short of royalty. and the reader will remember that lady glencora intended to be a duchess of omnium herself,--unless some very unexpected event should intrude itself. she intended also that her little boy, her fair-haired, curly-pated, bold-faced little boy, should be earl of silverbridge when the sand of the old man should have run itself out. heavens, what a blow would it be, should some little wizen-cheeked half-monkey baby, with black brows, and yellow skin, be brought forward and shown to her some day as the heir! what a blow to herself;--and what a blow to all england! "we can't prevent it if he chooses to do it," said her husband, who had his budget to bring forward that very night, and who in truth cared more for his budget than he did for his heirship at that moment. "but we must prevent it," said lady glencora. "if i stick to him by the tail of his coat, i'll prevent it." at the time when she thus spoke, the dark green brougham had been twice again brought up at the door in park lane. and the brougham was standing there a third time. it was may now, the latter end of may, and the park opposite was beautiful with green things, and the air was soft and balmy, as it will be sometimes even in may, and the flowers in the balcony were full of perfume, and the charm of london,--what london can be to the rich,--was at its height. the duke was sitting in madame goesler's drawing-room, at some distance from her, for she had retreated. the duke had a habit of taking her hand, which she never would permit for above a few seconds. at such times she would show no anger, but would retreat. "marie," said the duke, "you will go abroad when the summer is over." as an old man he had taken the privilege of calling her marie, and she had not forbidden it. yes, probably; to vienna. i have property in vienna you know, which must be looked after. "do not mind vienna this year. come to italy." "what; in summer, duke?" "the lakes are charming in august. i have a villa on como which is empty now, and i think i shall go there. if you do not know the italian lakes, i shall be so happy to show them to you." "i know them well, my lord. when i was young i was on the maggiore almost alone. some day i will tell you a history of what i was in those days." "you shall tell it me there." "no, my lord, i fear not. i have no villa there." "will you not accept the loan of mine? it shall be all your own while you use it." "my own,--to deny the right of entrance to its owner?" "if it so pleases you." "it would not please me. it would so far from please me that i will never put myself in a position that might make it possible for me to require to do so. no, duke; it behoves me to live in houses of my own. women of whom more is known can afford to be your guests." "marie, i would have no other guest than you." "it cannot be so, duke." "and why not?" "why not? am i to be put to the blush by being made to answer such a question as that? because the world would say that the duke of omnium had a new mistress, and that madame goesler was the woman. do you think that i would be any man's mistress;--even yours? or do you believe that for the sake of the softness of a summer evening on an italian lake, i would give cause to the tongues of the women here to say that i was such a thing? you would have me lose all that i have gained by steady years of sober work for the sake of a week or two of dalliance such as that! no, duke; not for your dukedom!" how his grace might have got through his difficulty had they been left alone, cannot be told. for at this moment the door was opened, and lady glencora palliser was announced. chapter lviii rara avis in terris "come and see the country and judge for yourself," said phineas. "i should like nothing better," said mr. monk. "it has often seemed to me that men in parliament know less about ireland than they do of the interior of africa," said phineas. "it is seldom that we know anything accurately on any subject that we have not made matter of careful study," said mr. monk, "and very often do not do so even then. we are very apt to think that we men and women understand one another; but most probably you know nothing even of the modes of thought of the man who lives next door to you." "i suppose not." "there are general laws current in the world as to morality. 'thou shalt not steal,' for instance. that has necessarily been current as a law through all nations. but the first man you meet in the street will have ideas about theft so different from yours, that, if you knew them as you know your own, you would say that this law and yours were not even founded on the same principle. it is compatible with this man's honesty to cheat you in a matter of horseflesh, with that man's in a traffic of railway shares, with that other man's as to a woman's fortune; with a fourth's anything may be done for a seat in parliament, while the fifth man, who stands high among us, and who implores his god every sunday to write that law on his heart, spends every hour of his daily toil in a system of fraud, and is regarded as a pattern of the national commerce!" mr. monk and phineas were dining together at mr. monk's house, and the elder politician of the two in this little speech had recurred to certain matters which had already been discussed between them. mr. monk was becoming somewhat sick of his place in the cabinet, though he had not as yet whispered a word of his sickness to any living ears; and he had begun to pine for the lost freedom of a seat below the gangway. he had been discussing political honesty with phineas, and hence had come the sermon of which i have ventured to reproduce the concluding denunciations. phineas was fond of such discussions and fond of holding them with mr. monk,--in this matter fluttering like a moth round a candle. he would not perceive that as he had made up his mind to be a servant of the public in parliament, he must abandon all idea of independent action; and unless he did so he could be neither successful as regarded himself, or useful to the public whom he served. could a man be honest in parliament, and yet abandon all idea of independence? when he put such questions to mr. monk he did not get a direct answer. and indeed the question was never put directly. but the teaching which he received was ever of a nature to make him uneasy. it was always to this effect: "you have taken up the trade now, and seem to be fit for success in it. you had better give up thinking about its special honesty." and yet mr. monk would on an occasion preach to him such a sermon as that which he had just uttered! perhaps there is no question more difficult to a man's mind than that of the expediency or inexpediency of scruples in political life. whether would a candidate for office be more liable to rejection from a leader because he was known to be scrupulous, or because he was known to be the reverse? "but putting aside the fourth commandment and all the theories, you will come to ireland?" said phineas. "i shall be delighted." "i don't live in a castle, you know." "i thought everybody did live in a castle in ireland," said mr. monk. "they seemed to do when i was there twenty years ago. but for myself, i prefer a cottage." this trip to ireland had been proposed in consequence of certain ideas respecting tenant-right which mr. monk was beginning to adopt, and as to which the minds of politicians were becoming moved. it had been all very well to put down fenianism, and ribandmen, and repeal,--and everything that had been put down in ireland in the way of rebellion for the last seventy-five years. england and ireland had been apparently joined together by laws of nature so fixed, that even politicians liberal as was mr. monk,--liberal as was mr. turnbull,--could not trust themselves to think that disunion could be for the good of the irish. they had taught themselves that it certainly could not be good for the english. but if it was incumbent on england to force upon ireland the maintenance of the union for her own sake, and for england's sake, because england could not afford independence established so close against her own ribs,--it was at any rate necessary to england's character that the bride thus bound in a compulsory wedlock should be endowed with all the best privileges that a wife can enjoy. let her at least not be a kept mistress. let it be bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, if we are to live together in the married state. between husband and wife a warm word now and then matters but little, if there be a thoroughly good understanding at bottom. but let there be that good understanding at bottom. what about this protestant church; and what about this tenant-right? mr. monk had been asking himself these questions for some time past. in regard to the church, he had long made up his mind that the establishment in ireland was a crying sin. a man had married a woman whom he knew to be of a religion different from his own, and then insisted that his wife should say that she believed those things which he knew very well that she did not believe. but, as mr. monk well knew, the subject of the protestant endowments in ireland was so difficult that it would require almost more than human wisdom to adjust it. it was one of those matters which almost seemed to require the interposition of some higher power,--the coming of some apparently chance event,--to clear away the evil; as a fire comes, and pestilential alleys are removed; as a famine comes, and men are driven from want and ignorance and dirt to seek new homes and new thoughts across the broad waters; as a war comes, and slavery is banished from the face of the earth. but in regard to tenant-right, to some arrangement by which a tenant in ireland might be at least encouraged to lay out what little capital he might have in labour or money without being at once called upon to pay rent for that outlay which was his own, as well as for the land which was not his own,--mr. monk thought that it was possible that if a man would look hard enough he might perhaps be able to see his way as to that. he had spoken to two of his colleagues on the subject, the two men in the cabinet whom he believed to be the most thoroughly honest in their ideas as public servants, the duke and mr. gresham. there was so much to be done;--and then so little was known upon the subject! "i will endeavour to study it," said mr. monk. "if you can see your way, do;" said mr. gresham,--"but of course we cannot bind ourselves." "i should be glad to see it named in the queen's speech at the beginning of the next session," said mr. monk. "that is a long way off as yet," said mr. gresham, laughing. "who will be in then, and who will be out?" so the matter was disposed of at the time, but mr. monk did not abandon his idea. he rather felt himself the more bound to cling to it because he received so little encouragement. what was a seat in the cabinet to him that he should on that account omit a duty? he had not taken up politics as a trade. he had sat far behind the treasury bench or below the gangway for many a year, without owing any man a shilling,--and could afford to do so again. but it was different with phineas finn, as mr. monk himself understood;--and, understanding this, he felt himself bound to caution his young friend. but it may be a question whether his cautions did not do more harm than good. "i shall be delighted," he said, "to go over with you in august, but i do not think that if i were you, i would take up this matter." "and why not? you don't want to fight the battle singlehanded?" "no; i desire no such glory, and would wish to have no better lieutenant than you. but you have a subject of which you are really fond, which you are beginning to understand, and in regard to which you can make yourself useful." "you mean this canada business?" "yes;--and that will grow to other matters as regards the colonies. there is nothing so important to a public man as that he should have his own subject;--the thing which he understands, and in respect of which he can make himself really useful." "then there comes a change." "yes;--and the man who has half learned how to have a ship built without waste is sent into opposition, and is then brought back to look after regiments, or perhaps has to take up that beautiful subject, a study of the career of india. but, nevertheless, if you have a subject, stick to it at any rate as long as it will stick to you." "but," said phineas, "if a man takes up his own subject, independent of the government, no man can drive him from it." "and how often does he do anything? look at the annual motions which come forward in the hands of private men,--maynooth and the ballot for instance. it is becoming more and more apparent every day that all legislation must be carried by the government, and must be carried in obedience to the expressed wish of the people. the truest democracy that ever had a chance of living is that which we are now establishing in great britain." "then leave tenant-right to the people and the cabinet. why should you take it up?" mr. monk paused a moment or two before he replied. "if i choose to run a-muck, there is no reason why you should follow me. i am old and you are young. i want nothing from politics as a profession, and you do. moreover, you have a congenial subject where you are, and need not disturb yourself. for myself, i tell you, in confidence, that i cannot speak so comfortably of my own position." "we will go and see, at any rate," said phineas. "yes," said mr. monk, "we will go and see." and thus, in the month of may, it was settled between them that, as soon as the session should be over, and the incidental work of his office should allow phineas to pack up and be off, they two should start together for ireland. phineas felt rather proud as he wrote to his father and asked permission to bring home with him a cabinet minister as a visitor. at this time the reputation of phineas at killaloe, as well in the minds of the killaloeians generally as in those of the inhabitants of the paternal house, stood very high indeed. how could a father think that a son had done badly when before he was thirty years of age he was earning £ , a year? and how could a father not think well of a son who had absolutely paid back certain moneys into the paternal coffers? the moneys so repaid had not been much; but the repayment of any such money at killaloe had been regarded as little short of miraculous. the news of mr. monk's coming flew about the town, about the county, about the diocese, and all people began to say all good things about the old doctor's only son. mrs. finn had long since been quite sure that a real black swan had been sent forth out of her nest. and the sisters finn, for some time past, had felt in all social gatherings they stood quite on a different footing than formerly because of their brother. they were asked about in the county, and two of them had been staying only last easter with the molonys,--the molonys of poldoodie! how should a father and a mother and sisters not be grateful to such a son, to such a brother, to such a veritable black swan out of the nest! and as for dear little mary flood jones, her eyes became suffused with tears as in her solitude she thought how much out of her reach this swan was flying. and yet she took joy in his swanhood, and swore that she would love him still;--that she would love him always. might he bring home with him to killaloe, mr. monk, the cabinet minister! of course he might. when mrs. finn first heard of this august arrival, she felt as though she would like to expend herself in entertaining, though but an hour, the whole cabinet. phineas, during the spring, had, of course, met mr. kennedy frequently in and about the house, and had become aware that lady laura's husband, from time to time, made little overtures of civility to him,--taking him now and again by the button-hole, walking home with him as far as their joint paths allowed, and asking him once or twice to come and dine in grosvenor place. these little advances towards a repetition of the old friendship phineas would have avoided altogether, had it been possible. the invitation to mr. kennedy's house he did refuse, feeling himself positively bound to do so by lady laura's command, let the consequences be what they might. when he did refuse, mr. kennedy would assume a look of displeasure and leave him, and phineas would hope that the work was done. then there would come another encounter, and the invitation would be repeated. at last, about the middle of may, there came another note. "dear finn, will you dine with us on wednesday, the th? i give you a long notice, because you seem to have so many appointments. yours always, robert kennedy." he had no alternative. he must refuse, even though double the notice had been given. he could only think that mr. kennedy was a very obtuse man and one who would not take a hint, and hope that he might succeed at last. so he wrote an answer, not intended to be conciliatory. "my dear kennedy, i am sorry to say that i am engaged on the th. yours always, phineas finn." at this period he did his best to keep out of mr. kennedy's way, and would be very cunning in his manoeuvres that they should not be alone together. it was difficult, as they sat on the same bench in the house, and consequently saw each other almost every day of their lives. nevertheless, he thought that with a little cunning he might prevail, especially as he was not unwilling to give so much of offence as might assist his own object. but when mr. kennedy called upon him at his office the day after he had written the above note, he had no means of escape. "i am sorry you cannot come to us on the th," mr. kennedy said, as soon as he was seated. phineas was taken so much by surprise that all his cunning failed him. "well, yes," said he; "i was very sorry;--very sorry indeed." "it seems to me, finn, that you have had some reason for avoiding me of late. i do not know that i have done anything to offend you." "nothing on earth," said phineas. "i am wrong, then, in supposing that anything beyond mere chance has prevented you from coming to my house?" phineas felt that he was in a terrible difficulty, and he felt also that he was being rather ill-used in being thus cross-examined as to his reasons for not going to a gentleman's dinner. he thought that a man ought to be allowed to choose where he would go and where he would not go, and that questions such as these were very uncommon. mr. kennedy was sitting opposite to him, looking more grave and more sour than usual;--and now his own countenance also became a little solemn. it was impossible that he should use lady laura's name, and yet he must, in some way, let his persecuting friend know that no further invitation would be of any use;--that there was something beyond mere chance in his not going to grosvenor place. but how was he to do this? the difficulty was so great that he could not see his way out of it. so he sat silent with a solemn face. mr. kennedy then asked him another question, which made the difficulty ten times greater. "has my wife asked you not to come to our house?" it was necessary now that he should make a rush and get out of his trouble in some way. "to tell you the truth, kennedy, i don't think she wants to see me there." "that does not answer my question. has she asked you not to come?" "she said that which left on my mind an impression that she would sooner that i did not come." "what did she say?" "how can i answer such a question as that, kennedy? is it fair to ask it?" "quite fair,--i think." "i think it quite unfair, and i must decline to answer it. i cannot imagine what you expect to gain by cross-questioning me in this way. of course no man likes to go to a house if he does not believe that everybody there will make him welcome." "you and lady laura used to be great friends." "i hope we are not enemies now. but things will occur that cause friendships to grow cool." "have you quarrelled with her father?" "with lord brentford?--no." "or with her brother,--since the duel i mean?" "upon my word and honour i cannot stand this, and i will not. i have not as yet quarrelled with anybody; but i must quarrel with you, if you go on in this way. it is quite unusual that a man should be put through his facings after such a fashion, and i must beg that there may be an end of it." "then i must ask lady laura." "you can say what you like to your own wife of course. i cannot hinder you." upon that mr. kennedy formally shook hands with him, in token that there was no positive breach between them,--as two nations may still maintain their alliance, though they have made up their minds to hate each other, and thwart each other at every turn,--and took his leave. phineas, as he sat at his window, looking out into the park, and thinking of what had passed, could not but reflect that, disagreeable as mr. kennedy had been to him, he would probably make himself much more disagreeable to his wife. and, for himself, he thought that he had got out of the scrape very well by the exhibition of a little mock anger. chapter lix the earl's wrath the reader may remember that a rumour had been conveyed to phineas,--a rumour indeed which reached him from a source which he regarded as very untrustworthy,--that violet effingham had quarrelled with her lover. he would probably have paid no attention to the rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached itself to any tidings as to a matter so full of interest to him, had it not been repeated to him in another quarter. "a bird has told me that your violet effingham has broken with her lover," madame goesler said to him one day. "what bird?" he asked. "ah, that i cannot tell you. but this i will confess to you, that these birds which tell us news are seldom very credible,--and are often not very creditable, you must take a bird's word for what it may be worth. it is said that they have quarrelled. i daresay, if the truth were known, they are billing and cooing in each other's arms at this moment." phineas did not like to be told of their billing and cooing,--did not like to be told even of their quarrelling. though they were to quarrel, it would do him no good. he would rather that nobody should mention their names to him;--so that his back, which had been so utterly broken, might in process of time get itself cured. from what he knew of violet he thought it very improbable that, even were she to quarrel with one lover, she would at once throw herself into the arms of another. and he did feel, too, that there would be some meanness in taking her, were she willing to be so taken. but, nevertheless, these rumours, coming to him in this way from different sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out the truth. he began to think that his broken back was not cured;--that perhaps, after all, it was not in the way of being cured, and was it not possible that there might be explanations? then he went to work and built castles in the air, so constructed as to admit of the possibility of violet effingham becoming his wife. this had been in april, and at that time all that he knew of violet was, that she was not yet in london. and he thought that he knew the same as to lord chiltern. the earl had told him that chiltern was not in town, nor expected in town as yet; and in saying so had seemed to express displeasure against his son. phineas had met lady baldock at some house which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to find himself graciously received by the old woman. she had said not a word of violet, but had spoken of lord chiltern,--mentioning his name in bitter wrath. "but he is a friend of mine," said phineas, smiling. "a friend indeed! mr. finn. i know what sort of a friend. i don't believe that you are his friend. i am afraid he is not worthy of having any friend." phineas did not quite understand from this that lady baldock was signifying to him that, badly as she had thought of him as a suitor for her niece, she would have preferred him,--especially now when people were beginning to speak well of him,--to that terrible young man, who, from his youth upwards, had been to her a cause of fear and trembling. of course it was desirable that violet should marry an elder son, and a peer's heir. all that kind of thing, in lady baldock's eyes, was most desirable. but, nevertheless, anything was better than lord chiltern. if violet would not take mr. appledom or lord fawn, in heaven's name let her take this young man, who was kind, worthy, and steady, who was civilised in his manners, and would no doubt be amenable in regard to settlements. lady baldock had so far fallen in the world that she would have consented to make a bargain with her niece,--almost any bargain, so long as lord chiltern was excluded. phineas did not quite understand all this; but when lady baldock asked him to come to berkeley square, he perceived that help was being proffered to him where he certainly had not looked for help. he was frequently with lord brentford, who talked to him constantly on matters connected with his parliamentary life. after having been the intimate friend of the daughter and of the son, it now seemed to be his lot to be the intimate friend of the father. the earl had constantly discussed with him his arrangements with his son, and had lately expressed himself as only half satisfied with such reconciliation as had taken place. and phineas could perceive that from day to day the earl was less and less satisfied. he would complain bitterly of his son,--complain of his silence, complain of his not coming to london, complain of his conduct to violet, complain of his idle indifference to anything like proper occupation; but he had never as yet said a word to show that there had been any quarrel between violet and her lover, and phineas had felt that he could not ask the question. "mr. finn," said the earl to him one morning, as soon as he entered the room, "i have just heard a story which has almost seemed to me to be incredible." the nobleman's manner was very stern, and the fact that he called his young friend "mr. finn", showed at once that something was wrong. "what is it you have heard, my lord?" said phineas. "that you and chiltern went over,--last year to,--belgium, and fought,--a duel there!" now it must have been the case that, in the set among which they all lived,--lord brentford and his son and daughter and phineas finn,--the old lord was the only man who had not heard of the duel before this. it had even penetrated to the dull ears of mr. kennedy, reminding him, as it did so, that his wife had,--told him a lie! but it was the fact that no rumour of the duel had reached the earl till this morning. "it is true," said phineas. "i have never been so much shocked in my life;--never. i had no idea that you had any thought of aspiring to the hand of miss effingham." the lord's voice as he said this was very stern. "as i aspired in vain, and as chiltern has been successful, that need not now be made a reproach against me." "i do not know what to think of it, mr. finn. i am so much surprised that i hardly know what to say. i must declare my opinion at once, that you behaved,--very badly." "i do not know how much you know, my lord, and how much you do not know; and the circumstances of the little affair do not permit me to be explicit about them; but, as you have expressed your opinion so openly you must allow me to express mine, and to say that, as far as i can judge of my own actions, i did not behave badly at all." "do you intend to defend duelling, sir?" "no. if you mean to tell me that a duel is of itself sinful, i have nothing to say. i suppose it is. my defence of myself merely goes to the manner in which this duel was fought, and the fact that i fought it with your son." "i cannot conceive how you can have come to my house as my guest, and stood upon my interest for my borough, when you at the time were doing your very best to interpose yourself between chiltern and the lady whom you so well knew i wished to become his wife." phineas was aware that the earl must have been very much moved indeed when he thus permitted himself to speak of "his" borough. he said nothing now, however, though the earl paused;--and then the angry lord went on. "i must say that there was something,--something almost approaching to duplicity in such conduct." "if i were to defend myself by evidence, lord brentford, i should have to go back to exact dates,--and dates not of facts which i could verify, but dates as to my feelings which could not be verified,--and that would be useless. i can only say that i believe i know what the honour and truth of a gentleman demand,--even to the verge of self-sacrifice, and that i have done nothing that ought to place my character as a gentleman in jeopardy. if you will ask your son, i think he will tell you the same." "i have asked him. it was he who told me of the duel." "when did he tell you, my lord?" "just now; this morning." thus phineas learned that lord chiltern was at this moment in the house,--or at least in london. "and did he complain of my conduct?" "i complain of it, sir. i complain of it very bitterly. i placed the greatest confidence in you, especially in regard to my son's affairs, and you deceived me." the earl was very angry, and was more angry from the fact that this young man who had offended him, to whom he had given such vital assistance when assistance was needed, had used that assistance to its utmost before his sin was found out. had phineas still been sitting for loughton, so that the earl could have said to him, "you are now bound to retreat from this borough because you have offended me, your patron," i think that he would have forgiven the offender and allowed him to remain in his seat. there would have been a scene, and the earl would have been pacified. but now the offender was beyond his reach altogether, having used the borough as a most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties, and having so used it just at the time when he was committing this sin. there was a good fortune about phineas which added greatly to the lord's wrath. and then, to tell the truth, he had not that rich consolation for which phineas gave him credit. lord chiltern had told him that morning that the engagement between him and violet was at an end. "you have so preached to her, my lord, about my duties," the son had said to his father, "that she finds herself obliged to give me your sermons at second hand, till i can bear them no longer." but of this phineas knew nothing as yet. the earl, however, was so imprudent in his anger that before this interview was over he had told the whole story. "yes;--you deceived me," he continued; "and i can never trust you again." "was it for me, my lord, to tell you of that which would have increased your anger against your own son? when he wanted me to fight was i to come, like a sneak at school, and tell you the story? i know what you would have thought of me had i done so. and when it was over was i to come and tell you then? think what you yourself would have done when you were young, and you may be quite sure that i did the same. what have i gained? he has got all that he wanted; and you have also got all that you wanted;--and i have helped you both. lord brentford, i can put my hand on my heart and say that i have been honest to you." "i have got nothing that i wanted," said the earl in his despair. "lord chiltern and miss effingham will be man and wife." "no;--they will not. he has quarrelled with her. he is so obstinate that she will not bear with him." then it was all true, even though the rumours had reached him through laurence fitzgibbon and madame max goesler. "at any rate, my lord, that has not been my fault," he said, after a moment's hesitation. the earl was walking up and down the room, angry with himself at his own mistake in having told the story, and not knowing what further to say to his visitor. he had been in the habit of talking so freely to phineas about his son that he could hardly resist the temptation of doing so still; and yet it was impossible that he could swallow his anger and continue in the same strain. "my lord," said phineas, after a while, "i can assure you that i grieve that you should be grieved. i have received so much undeserved favour from your family, that i owe you a debt which i can never pay. i am sorry that you should be angry with me now; but i hope that a time may come when you will think less severely of my conduct." he was about to leave the room when the earl stopped him. "will you give me your word," said the earl, "that you will think no more of miss effingham?" phineas stood silent, considering how he might answer this proposal, resolving that nothing should bring him to such a pledge as that suggested while there was yet a ledge for hope to stand on. "say that, mr. finn, and i will forgive everything." "i cannot acknowledge that i have done anything to be forgiven." "say that," repeated the earl, "and everything shall be forgotten." "there need be no cause for alarm, my lord," said phineas. "you may be sure that miss effingham will not think of me." "will you give me your word?" "no, my lord;--certainly not. you have no right to ask it, and the pursuit is open to me as to any other man who may choose to follow it. i have hardly a vestige of a hope of success. it is barely possible that i should succeed. but if it be true that miss effingham be disengaged, i shall endeavour to find an opportunity of urging my suit. i would give up everything that i have, my seat in parliament, all the ambition of my life, for the barest chance of success. when she had accepted your son, i desisted,--of course. i have now heard, from more sources than one, that she or he or both of them have changed their minds. if this be so, i am free to try again." the earl stood opposite to him, scowling at him, but said nothing. "good morning, my lord." "good morning, sir." "i am afraid it must be good-bye, for some long days to come." "good morning, sir," and the earl as he spoke rang the bell. then phineas took up his hat and departed. as he walked away his mind filled itself gradually with various ideas, all springing from the words which lord brentford had spoken. what account had lord chiltern given to his father of the duel? our hero was a man very sensitive as to the good opinion of others, and in spite of his bold assertion of his own knowledge of what became a gentleman, was beyond measure solicitous that others should acknowledge his claim at any rate to that title. he thought that he had been generous to lord chiltern; and as he went back in his memory over almost every word that had been spoken in the interview that had just passed, he fancied that he was able to collect evidence that his antagonist at blankenberg had not spoken ill of him. as to the charge of deceit which the earl had made against him, he told himself that the earl had made it in anger. he would not even think hardly of the earl who had been so good a friend to him, but he believed in his heart that the earl had made the accusation out of his wrath and not out of his judgment. "he cannot think that i have been false to him," phineas said to himself. but it was very sad to him that he should have to quarrel with all the family of the standishes, as he could not but feel that it was they who had put him on his feet. it seemed as though he were never to see lady laura again except when they chanced to meet in company,--on which occasions he simply bowed to her. now the earl had almost turned him out of his house. and though there had been to a certain extent a reconciliation between him and lord chiltern, he in these days never saw the friend who had once put him upon bonebreaker; and now,--now that violet effingham was again free,--how was it possible to avoid some renewal of enmity between them? he would, however, endeavour to see lord chiltern at once. and then he thought of violet,--of violet again free, of violet as again a possible wife for himself, of violet to whom he might address himself at any rate without any scruple as to his own unworthiness. everybody concerned, and many who were not concerned at all, were aware that he had been among her lovers, and he thought that he could perceive that those who interested themselves on the subject, had regarded him as the only horse in the race likely to run with success against lord chiltern. she herself had received his offers without scorn, and had always treated him as though he were a favoured friend, though not favoured as a lover. and now even lady baldock was smiling upon him, and asking him to her house as though the red-faced porter in the hall in berkeley square had never been ordered to refuse him a moment's admission inside the doors. he had been very humble in speaking of his own hopes to the earl, but surely there might be a chance. what if after all the little strain which he had had in his back was to be cured after such a fashion as this! when he got to his lodgings, he found a card from lady baldock, informing him that lady baldock would be at home on a certain night, and that there would be music. he could not go to lady baldock's on the night named, as it would be necessary that he should be in the house;--nor did he much care to go there, as violet effingham was not in town. but he would call and explain, and endeavour to curry favour in that way. he at once wrote a note to lord chiltern, which he addressed to portman square. "as you are in town, can we not meet? come and dine with me at the ---- club on saturday." that was the note. after a few days he received the following answer, dated from the bull at willingford. why on earth should chiltern be staying at the bull at willingford in may? the old shop at w----, friday. dear phineas, i can't dine with you, because i am down here, looking after the cripples, and writing a sporting novel. they tell me i ought to do something, so i am going to do that. i hope you don't think i turned informer against you in telling the earl of our pleasant little meeting on the sands. it had become necessary, and you are too much of a man to care much for any truth being told. he was terribly angry both with me and with you; but the fact is, he is so blindly unreasonable that one cannot regard his anger. i endeavoured to tell the story truly, and, so told, it certainly should not have injured you in his estimation. but it did. very sorry, old fellow, and i hope you'll get over it. it is a good deal more important to me than to you. yours, c. there was not a word about violet. but then it was hardly to be expected that there should be words about violet. it was not likely that a man should write to his rival of his own failure. but yet there was a flavour of violet in the letter which would not have been there, so phineas thought, if the writer had been despondent. the pleasant little meeting on the sands had been convened altogether in respect of violet. and the telling of the story to the earl must have arisen from discussions about violet. lord chiltern must have told his father that phineas was his rival. could the rejected suitor have written on such a subject in such a strain to such a correspondent if he had believed his own rejection to be certain? but then lord chiltern was not like anybody else in the world, and it was impossible to judge of him by one's experience of the motives of others. shortly afterwards phineas did call in berkeley square, and was shown up at once into lady baldock's drawing-room. the whole aspect of the porter's countenance was changed towards him, and from this, too, he gathered good auguries this had surprised him; but his surprise was far greater, when, on entering the room, he found violet effingham there alone. a little fresh colour came to her face as she greeted him, though it cannot be said that she blushed. she behaved herself admirably, not endeavouring to conceal some little emotion at thus meeting him, but betraying none that was injurious to her composure. "i am so glad to see you, mr. finn," she said. "my aunt has just left me, and will be back directly." he was by no means her equal in his management of himself on the occasion; but perhaps it may be acknowledged that his position was the more difficult of the two. he had not seen her since her engagement had been proclaimed to the world, and now he had heard from a source which was not to be doubted, that it had been broken off. of course there was nothing to be said on that matter. he could not have congratulated her in the one case, nor could he either congratulate her or condole with her on the other. and yet he did not know how to speak to her as though no such events had occurred. "i did not know that you were in town," he said. "i only came yesterday. i have been, you know, at rome with the effinghams; and since that i have been--; but, indeed, i have been such a vagrant that i cannot tell you of all my comings and goings. and you,--you are hard at work!" "oh yes;--always." "that is right. i wish i could be something, if it were only a stick in waiting, or a door-keeper. it is so good to be something." was it some such teaching as this that had jarred against lord chiltern's susceptibilities, and had seemed to him to be a repetition of his father's sermons? "a man should try to be something," said phineas. "and a woman must be content to be nothing,--unless mr. mill can pull us through! and now, tell me,--have you seen lady laura?" "not lately." "nor mr. kennedy?" "i sometimes see him in the house." the visit to the colonial office of which the reader has been made aware had not at that time as yet been made. "i am sorry for all that," she said. upon which phineas smiled and shook his head. "i am very sorry that there should be a quarrel between you two." "there is no quarrel." "i used to think that you and he might do so much for each other,--that is, of course, if you could make a friend of him." "he is a man of whom it is very hard to make a friend," said phineas, feeling that he was dishonest to mr. kennedy in saying so, but thinking that such dishonesty was justified by what he owed to lady laura. "yes;--he is hard, and what i call ungenial. we won't say anything about him,--will we? have you seen much of the earl?" this she asked as though such a question had no reference whatever to lord chiltern. "oh dear,--alas, alas!" "you have not quarrelled with him too?" "he has quarrelled with me. he has heard, miss effingham, of what happened last year, and he thinks that i was wrong." "of course you were wrong, mr. finn." "very likely. to him i chose to defend myself, but i certainly shall not do so to you. at any rate, you did not think it necessary to quarrel with me." "i ought to have done so. i wonder why my aunt does not come." then she rang the bell. "now i have told you all about myself," said he; "you should tell me something of yourself." "about me? i am like the knife-grinder, who had no story to tell,--none at least to be told. we have all, no doubt, got our little stories, interesting enough to ourselves." "but your story, miss effingham," he said, "is of such intense interest to me." at that moment, luckily, lady baldock came into the room, and phineas was saved from the necessity of making a declaration at a moment which would have been most inopportune. lady baldock was exceedingly gracious to him, bidding violet use her influence to persuade him to come to the gathering. "persuade him to desert his work to come and hear some fiddlers!" said miss effingham. "indeed i shall not, aunt. who can tell but what the colonies might suffer from it through centuries, and that such a lapse of duty might drive a province or two into the arms of our mortal enemies?" "herr moll is coming," said lady baldock, "and so is signor scrubi, and pjinskt, who, they say, is the greatest man living on the flageolet. have you ever heard pjinskt, mr. finn?" phineas never had heard pjinskt. "and as for herr moll, there is nothing equal to him, this year, at least." lady baldock had taken up music this season, but all her enthusiasm was unable to shake the conscientious zeal of the young under-secretary of state. at such a gathering he would have been unable to say a word in private to violet effingham. chapter lx madame goesler's politics it may be remembered that when lady glencora palliser was shown into madame goesler's room, madame goesler had just explained somewhat forcibly to the duke of omnium her reasons for refusing the loan of his grace's villa at como. she had told the duke in so many words that she did not mean to give the world an opportunity of maligning her, and it would then have been left to the duke to decide whether any other arrangements might have been made for taking madame goesler to como, had he not been interrupted. that he was very anxious to take her was certain. the green brougham had already been often enough at the door in park lane to make his grace feel that madame goesler's company was very desirable,--was, perhaps, of all things left for his enjoyment, the one thing the most desirable. lady glencora had spoken to her husband of children crying for the top brick of the chimney. now it had come to this, that in the eyes of the duke of omnium marie max goesler was the top brick of the chimney. she had more wit for him than other women,--more of that sort of wit which he was capable of enjoying. she had a beauty which he had learned to think more alluring than other beauty. he was sick of fair faces, and fat arms, and free necks. madame goesler's eyes sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle, and there was something of the vagueness of mystery in the very blackness and gloss and abundance of her hair,--as though her beauty was the beauty of some world which he had not yet known. and there was a quickness and yet a grace of motion about her which was quite new to him. the ladies upon whom the duke had of late most often smiled had been somewhat slow,--perhaps almost heavy,--though, no doubt, graceful withal. in his early youth he remembered to have seen, somewhere in greece, such a houri as was this madame goesler. the houri in that case had run off with the captain of a russian vessel engaged in the tallow trade; but not the less was there left on his grace's mind some dreamy memory of charms which had impressed him very strongly when he was simply a young mr. palliser, and had had at his command not so convenient a mode of sudden abduction as the russian captain's tallow ship. pressed hard by such circumstances as these, there is no knowing how the duke might have got out of his difficulties had not lady glencora appeared upon the scene. since the future little lord silverbridge had been born, the duke had been very constant in his worship of lady glencora, and as, from year to year, a little brother was added, thus making the family very strong and stable, his acts of worship had increased; but with his worship there had come of late something almost of dread,--something almost of obedience, which had made those who were immediately about the duke declare that his grace was a good deal changed. for, hitherto, whatever may have been the duke's weaknesses, he certainly had known no master. his heir, plantagenet palliser, had been always subject to him. his other relations had been kept at such a distance as hardly to be more than recognised; and though his grace no doubt had had his intimacies, they who had been intimate with him had either never tried to obtain ascendancy, or had failed. lady glencora, whether with or without a struggle, had succeeded, and people about the duke said that the duke was much changed. mr. fothergill,--who was his grace's man of business, and who was not a favourite with lady glencora,--said that he was very much changed indeed. finding his grace so much changed, mr. fothergill had made a little attempt at dictation himself, but had receded with fingers very much scorched in the attempt. it was indeed possible that the duke was becoming in the slightest degree weary of lady glencora's thraldom, and that he thought that madame max goesler might be more tender with him. madame max goesler, however, intended to be tender only on one condition. when lady glencora entered the room, madame goesler received her beautifully. "how lucky that you should have come just when his grace is here!" she said. "i saw my uncle's carriage, and of course i knew it," said lady glencora. "then the favour is to him," said madame goesler, smiling. "no, indeed; i was coming. if my word is to be doubted in that point, i must insist on having the servant up; i must, certainly. i told him to drive to this door, as far back as grosvenor street. did i not, planty?" planty was the little lord silverbridge as was to be, if nothing unfortunate intervened, who was now sitting on his granduncle's knee. "dou said to the little house in park lane," said the boy. "yes,--because i forgot the number." "and it is the smallest house in park lane, so the evidence is complete," said madame goesler. lady glencora had not cared much for evidence to convince madame goesler, but she had not wished her uncle to think that he was watched and hunted down. it might be necessary that he should know that he was watched, but things had not come to that as yet. "how is plantagenet?" asked the duke. "answer for papa," said lady glencora to her child. "papa is very well, but he almost never comes home." "he is working for his country," said the duke. "your papa is a busy, useful man, and can't afford time to play with a little boy as i can." "but papa is not a duke." "he will be some day, and that probably before long, my boy. he will be a duke quite as soon as he wants to be a duke. he likes the house of commons better than the strawberry leaves, i fancy. there is not a man in england less in a hurry than he is." "no, indeed," said lady glencora. "how nice that is," said madame goesler. "and i ain't in a hurry either,--am i, mamma?" said the little future lord silverbridge. "you are a wicked little monkey," said his grand-uncle, kissing him. at this moment lady glencora was, no doubt, thinking how necessary it was that she should be careful to see that things did turn out in the manner proposed,--so that people who had waited should not be disappointed; and the duke was perhaps thinking that he was not absolutely bound to his nephew by any law of god or man; and madame max goesler,--i wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the prospects of that handsome bold-faced little boy. lady glencora rose to take her leave first. it was not for her to show any anxiety to force the duke out of the lady's presence. if the duke were resolved to make a fool of himself, nothing that she could do would prevent it. but she thought that this little inspection might possibly be of service, and that her uncle's ardour would be cooled by the interruption to which he had been subjected. so she went, and immediately afterwards the duke followed her. the interruption had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from making the highest bid for the pleasure of madame goesler's company at como. the duke went down with the little boy in his hand, so that there was not an opportunity for a single word of interest between the gentleman and the lady. madame goesler, when she was alone, seated herself on her sofa, tucking her feet up under her as though she were seated somewhere in the east, pushed her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then placed her two hands to her sides so that her thumbs rested lightly on her girdle. when alone with something weighty on her mind she would sit in this form for the hour together, resolving, or trying to resolve, what should be her conduct. she did few things without much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, she walked warily. she often told herself that such success as she had achieved could not have been achieved without much caution. and yet she was ever discontented with herself, telling herself that all that she had done was nothing, or worse than nothing. what was it all, to have a duke and to have lords dining with her, to dine with lords or with a duke itself, if life were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy! life with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy. and what if she caught this old man, and became herself a duchess,--caught him by means of his weakness, to the inexpressible dismay of all those who were bound to him by ties of blood,--would that make her life happier, or her hours less tedious? that prospect of a life on the italian lakes with an old man tied to her side was not so charming in her eyes as it was in those of the duke. were she to succeed, and to be blazoned forth to the world as duchess of omnium, what would she have gained? she perfectly understood the motive of lady glencora's visit, and thought that she would at any rate gain something in the very triumph of baffling the manoeuvres of so clever a woman. let lady glencora throw her ægis before the duke, and it would be something to carry off his grace from beneath the protection of so thick a shield. the very flavour of the contest was pleasing to madame goesler. but, the victory gained, what then would remain to her? money she had already; position, too, she had of her own. she was free as air, and should it suit her at any time to go off to some lake of como in society that would personally be more agreeable to her than that of the duke of omnium, there was nothing to hinder her for a moment. and then came a smile over her face,--but the saddest smile,--as she thought of one with whom it might be pleasant to look at the colour of italian skies and feel the softness of italian breezes. in feigning to like to do this with an old man, in acting the raptures of love on behalf of a worn-out duke who at the best would scarce believe in her acting, there would not be much delight for her. she had never yet known what it was to have anything of the pleasure of love. she had grown, as she often told herself, to be a hard, cautious, selfish, successful woman, without any interference or assistance from such pleasure. might there not be yet time left for her to try it without selfishness,--with an absolute devotion of self,--if only she could find the right companion? there was one who might be such a companion, but the duke of omnium certainly could not be such a one. but to be duchess of omnium! after all, success in this world is everything;--is at any rate the only thing the pleasure of which will endure. there was the name of many a woman written in a black list within madame goesler's breast,--written there because of scorn, because of rejected overtures, because of deep social injury; and madame goesler told herself often that it would be a pleasure to her to use the list, and to be revenged on those who had ill-used and scornfully treated her. she did not readily forgive those who had injured her. as duchess of omnium she thought that probably she might use that list with efficacy. lady glencora had treated her well, and she had no such feeling against lady glencora. as duchess of omnium she would accept lady glencora as her dearest friend, if lady glencora would admit it. but if it should be necessary that there should be a little duel between them, as to which of them should take the duke in hand, the duel must of course be fought. in a matter so important, one woman would of course expect no false sentiment from another. she and lady glencora would understand each other;--and no doubt, respect each other. i have said that she would sit there resolving, or trying to resolve. there is nothing in the world so difficult as that task of making up one's mind. who is there that has not longed that the power and privilege of selection among alternatives should be taken away from him in some important crisis of his life, and that his conduct should be arranged for him, either this way or that, by some divine power if it were possible,--by some patriarchal power in the absence of divinity,--or by chance even, if nothing better than chance could be found to do it? but no one dares to cast the die, and to go honestly by the hazard. there must be the actual necessity of obeying the die, before even the die can be of any use. as it was, when madame goesler had sat there for an hour, till her legs were tired beneath her, she had not resolved. it must be as her impulse should direct her when the important moment came. there was not a soul on earth to whom she could go for counsel, and when she asked herself for counsel, the counsel would not come. two days afterwards the duke called again. he would come generally on a thursday,--early, so that he might be there before other visitors; and he had already quite learned that when he was there other visitors would probably be refused admittance. how lady glencora had made her way in, telling the servant that her uncle was there, he had not understood. that visit had been made on the thursday, but now he came on the saturday,--having, i regret to say, sent down some early fruit from his own hot-houses,--or from covent garden,--with a little note on the previous day. the grapes might have been pretty well, but the note was injudicious. there were three lines about the grapes, as to which there was some special history, the vine having been brought from the garden of some villa in which some ill-used queen had lived and died; and then there was a postscript in one line to say that the duke would call on the following morning. i do not think that he had meant to add this when he began his note; but then children, who want the top brick, want it so badly, and cry for it so perversely! of course madame goesler was at home. but even then she had not made up her mind. she had made up her mind only to this,--that he should be made to speak plainly, and that she would take time for her reply. not even with such a gem as the duke's coronet before her eyes, would she jump at it. where there was so much doubt, there need at least be no impatience. "you ran away the other day, duke, because you could not resist the charm of that little boy," she said, laughing. "he is a dear little boy,--but it was not that," he answered. "then what was it? your niece carried you off in a whirl-wind. she was come and gone, taking you with her, in half a minute." "she had disturbed me when i was thinking of something," said the duke. "things shouldn't be thought of,--not so deeply as that." madame goesler was playing with a bunch of his grapes now, eating one or two from a small china plate which had stood upon the table, and he thought that he had never seen a woman so graceful and yet so natural. "will you not eat your own grapes with me? they are delicious;--flavoured with the poor queen's sorrows." he shook his head, knowing that it did not suit his gastric juices to have to deal with fruit eaten at odd times. "never think, duke. i am convinced that it does no good. it simply means doubting, and doubt always leads to error. the safest way in the world is to do nothing." "i believe so," said the duke. "much the safest. but if you have not sufficient command over yourself to enable you to sit in repose, always quiet, never committing yourself to the chance of any danger,--then take a leap in the dark; or rather many leaps. a stumbling horse regains his footing by persevering in his onward course. as for moving cautiously, that i detest." "and yet one must think;--for instance, whether one will succeed or not." "take that for granted always. remember, i do not recommend motion at all. repose is my idea of life;--repose and grapes." the duke sat for a while silent, taking his repose as far as the outer man was concerned, looking at his top brick of the chimney, as from time to time she ate one of his grapes. probably she did not eat above half-a-dozen of them altogether, but he thought that the grapes must have been made for the woman, she was so pretty in the eating of them. but it was necessary that he should speak at last. "have you been thinking of coming to como?" he said. "i told you that i never think." "but i want an answer to my proposition." "i thought i had answered your grace on that question." then she put down the grapes, and moved herself on her chair, so that she sat with her face turned away from him. "but a request to a lady may be made twice." "oh, yes. and i am grateful, knowing how far it is from your intention to do me any harm. and i am somewhat ashamed of my warmth on the other day. but still there can be but one answer. there are delights which a woman must deny herself, let them be ever so delightful." "i had thought,--" the duke began, and then he stopped himself. "your grace was saying that you thought,--" "marie, a man at my age does not like to be denied." "what man likes to be denied anything by a woman at any age? a woman who denies anything is called cruel at once,--even though it be her very soul." she had turned round upon him now, and was leaning forward towards him from her chair, so that he could touch her if he put out his hand. he put out his hand and touched her. "marie," he said, "will you deny me if i ask?" "nay, my lord; how shall i say? there is many a trifle i would deny you. there is many a great gift i would give you willingly." "but the greatest gift of all?" "my lord, if you have anything to say, you must say it plainly. there never was a woman worse than i am at the reading of riddles." "could you endure to live in the quietude of an italian lake with an old man?" now he touched her again, and had taken her hand. "no, my lord;--nor with a young one,--for all my days. but i do not know that age would guide me." then the duke rose and made his proposition in form. "marie, you know that i love you. why it is that i at my age should feel so sore a love, i cannot say." "so sore a love!" "so sore, if it be not gratified. marie, i ask you to be my wife." "duke of omnium, this from you!" "yes, from me. my coronet is at your feet. if you will allow me to raise it, i will place it on your brow." then she went away from him, and seated herself at a distance. after a moment or two he followed her, and stood with his arm upon her shoulder. "you will give me an answer, marie?" "you cannot have thought of this, my lord." "nay; i have thought of it much." "and your friends?" "my dear, i may venture to please myself in this,--as in everything. will you not answer me?" "certainly not on the spur of the moment, my lord. think how high is the position you offer me, and how immense is the change you propose to me. allow me two days, and i will answer you by letter. i am so fluttered now that i must leave you." then he came to her, took her hand, kissed her brow, and opened the door for her. chapter lxi another duel it happened that there were at this time certain matters of business to be settled between the duke of omnium and his nephew mr. palliser, respecting which the latter called upon his uncle on the morning after the duke had committed himself by his offer. mr. palliser had come by appointment made with mr. fothergill, the duke's man of business, and had expected to meet mr. fothergill. mr. fothergill, however, was not with the duke, and the uncle told the nephew that the business had been postponed. then mr. palliser asked some question as to the reason of such postponement, not meaning much by his question,--and the duke, after a moment's hesitation, answered him, meaning very much by his answer. "the truth is, plantagenet, that it is possible that i may marry, and if so this arrangement would not suit me." "are you going to be married?" asked the astonished nephew. "it is not exactly that,--but it is possible that i may do so. since i proposed this matter to fothergill, i have been thinking over it, and i have changed my mind. it will make but little difference to you; and after all you are a far richer man than i am." "i am not thinking of money, duke," said plantagenet palliser. "of what then were you thinking?" "simply of what you told me. i do not in the least mean to interfere." "i hope not, plantagenet." "but i could not hear such a statement from you without some surprise. whatever you do i hope will tend to make you happy." so much passed between the uncle and the nephew, and what the uncle told to the nephew, the nephew of course told to his wife. "he was with her again, yesterday," said lady glencora, "for more than an hour. and he had been half the morning dressing himself before he went to her." "he is not engaged to her, or he would have told me," said plantagenet palliser. "i think he would, but there is no knowing. at the present moment i have only one doubt,--whether to act upon him or upon her." "i do not see that you can do good by going to either." "well, we will see. if she be the woman i take her to be, i think i could do something with her. i have never supposed her to be a bad woman,--never. i will think of it." then lady glencora left her husband, and did not consult him afterwards as to the course she would pursue. he had his budget to manage, and his speeches to make. the little affair of the duke and madame goesler, she thought it best to take into her own hands without any assistance from him. "what a fool i was," she said to herself, "to have her down there when the duke was at matching!" madame goesler, when she was left alone, felt that now indeed she must make up her mind. she had asked for two days. the intervening day was a sunday, and on the monday she must send her answer. she might doubt at any rate for this one night,--the saturday night,--and sit playing, as it were, with the coronet of a duchess in her lap. she had been born the daughter of a small country attorney, and now a duke had asked her to be his wife,--and a duke who was acknowledged to stand above other dukes! nothing at any rate could rob her of that satisfaction. whatever resolution she might form at last, she had by her own resources reached a point of success in remembering which there would always be a keen gratification. it would be much to be duchess of omnium; but it would be something also to have refused to be a duchess of omnium. during that evening, that night, and the next morning, she remained playing with the coronet in her lap. she would not go to church. what good could any sermon do her while that bauble was dangling before her eyes? after church-time, about two o'clock, phineas finn came to her. just at this period phineas would come to her often;--sometimes full of a new decision to forget violet effingham altogether, at others minded to continue his siege let the hope of success be ever so small. he had now heard that violet and lord chiltern had in truth quarrelled, and was of course anxious to be advised to continue the siege. when he first came in and spoke a word or two, in which there was no reference to violet effingham, there came upon madame goesler a strong wish to decide at once that she would play no longer with the coronet, that the gem was not worth the cost she would be called upon to pay for it. there was something in the world better for her than the coronet,--if only it might be had. but within ten minutes he had told her the whole tale about lord chiltern, and how he had seen violet at lady baldock's,--and how there might yet be hope for him. what would she advise him to do? "go home, mr. finn," she said, "and write a sonnet to her eyebrow. see if that will have any effect." "ah, well! it is natural that you should laugh at me; but somehow, i did not expect it from you." "do not be angry with me. what i mean is that such little things seem to influence this violet of yours." "do they? i have not found that they do so." "if she had loved lord chiltern she would not have quarrelled with him for a few words. if she had loved you, she would not have accepted lord chiltern. if she loves neither of you, she should say so. i am losing my respect for her." "do not say that, madame goesler. i respect her as strongly as i love her." then madame goesler almost made up her mind that she would have the coronet. there was a substance about the coronet that would not elude her grasp. late that afternoon, while she was still hesitating, there came another caller to the cottage in park lane. she was still hesitating, feeling that she had as yet another night before her. should she be duchess of omnium or not? all that she wished to be, she could not be;--but to be duchess of omnium was within her reach. then she began to ask herself various questions. would the queen refuse to accept her in her new rank? refuse! how could any queen refuse to accept her? she had not done aught amiss in life. there was no slur on her name; no stain on her character. what though her father had been a small attorney, and her first husband a jew banker! she had broken no law of god or man, had been accused of breaking no law, which breaking or which accusation need stand in the way of her being as good a duchess as any other woman! she was sitting thinking of this, almost angry with herself at the awe with which the proposed rank inspired her, when lady glencora was announced to her. "madame goesler," said lady glencora, "i am very glad to find you." "and i more than equally so, to be found," said madame goesler, smiling with all her grace. "my uncle has been with you since i saw you last?" "oh yes;--more than once if i remember right. he was here yesterday at any rate." "he comes often to you then?" "not so often as i would wish, lady glencora. the duke is one of my dearest friends." "it has been a quick friendship." "yes;--a quick friendship," said madame goesler. then there was a pause for some moments which madame goesler was determined that she would not break. it was clear to her now on what ground lady glencora had come to her, and she was fully minded that if she could bear the full light of the god himself in all his glory, she would not allow herself to be scorched by any reflected heat coming from the god's niece. she thought she could endure anything that lady glencora might say; but she would wait and hear what might be said. "i think, madame goesler, that i had better hurry on to my subject at once," said lady glencora, almost hesitating as she spoke, and feeling that the colour was rushing up to her cheeks and covering her brow. "of course what i have to say will be disagreeable. of course i shall offend you. and yet i do not mean it." "i shall be offended at nothing, lady glencora, unless i think that you mean to offend me." "i protest that i do not. you have seen my little boy." "yes, indeed. the sweetest child! god never gave me anything half so precious as that." "he is the duke's heir." "so i understand." "for myself, by my honour as a woman, i care nothing. i am rich and have all that the world can give me. for my husband, in this matter, i care nothing. his career he will make for himself, and it will depend on no title." "why all this to me, lady glencora? what have i to do with your husband's titles?" "much;--if it be true that there is an idea of marriage between you and the duke of omnium." "psha!" said madame goesler, with all the scorn of which she was mistress. "it is untrue, then?" asked lady glencora. "no;--it is not untrue. there is an idea of such a marriage." "and you are engaged to him?" "no;--i am not engaged to him." "has he asked you?" "lady glencora, i really must say that such a cross-questioning from one lady to another is very unusual. i have promised not to be offended, unless i thought that you wished to offend me. but do not drive me too far." "madame goesler, if you will tell me that i am mistaken, i will beg your pardon, and offer to you the most sincere friendship which one woman can give another." "lady glencora, i can tell you nothing of the kind." "then it is to be so! and have you thought what you would gain?" "i have thought much of what i should gain:--and something also of what i should lose." "you have money." "yes, indeed; plenty,--for wants so moderate as mine." "and position." "well, yes; a sort of position. not such as yours, lady glencora. that, if it be not born to a woman, can only come to her from a husband. she cannot win it for herself." "you are free as air, going where you like, and doing what you like." "too free, sometimes," said madame goesler. "and what will you gain by changing all this simply for a title?" "but for such a title, lady glencora! it may be little to you to be duchess of omnium, but think what it must be to me!" "and for this you will not hesitate to rob him of all his friends, to embitter his future life, to degrade him among his peers,--" "degrade him! who dares say that i shall degrade him? he will exalt me, but i shall no whit degrade him. you forget yourself, lady glencora." "ask any one. it is not that i despise you. if i did, would i offer you my hand in friendship? but an old man, over seventy, carrying the weight and burden of such rank as his, will degrade himself in the eyes of his fellows, if he marries a young woman without rank, let her be ever so clever, ever so beautiful. a duke of omnium may not do as he pleases, as may another man." "it may be well, lady glencora, for other dukes, and for the daughters and heirs and cousins of other dukes, that his grace should try that question. i will, if you wish it, argue this matter with you on many points, but i will not allow you to say that i should degrade any man whom i might marry. my name is as unstained as your own." "i meant nothing of that," said lady glencora. "for him;--i certainly would not willingly injure him. who wishes to injure a friend? and, in truth, i have so little to gain, that the temptation to do him an injury, if i thought it one, is not strong. for your little boy, lady glencora, i think your fears are premature." as she said this, there came a smile over her face, which threatened to break from control and almost become laughter. "but, if you will allow me to say so, my mind will not be turned against this marriage half so strongly by any arguments you can use as by those which i can adduce myself. you have nearly driven me into it by telling me i should degrade his house. it is almost incumbent on me to prove that you are wrong. but you had better leave me to settle the matter in my own bosom. you had indeed." after a while lady glencora did leave her,--to settle the matter within her own bosom,--having no other alternative. chapter lxii the letter that was sent to brighton monday morning came and madame goesler had as yet written no answer to the duke of omnium. had not lady glencora gone to park lane on the sunday afternoon, i think the letter would have been written on that day; but, whatever may have been the effect of lady glencora's visit, it so far disturbed madame goesler as to keep her from her writing-table. there was yet another night for thought, and then the letter should be written on the monday morning. when lady glencora left madame goesler she went at once to the duke's house. it was her custom to see her husband's uncle on a sunday, and she would most frequently find him just at this hour,--before he went up-stairs to dress for dinner. she usually took her boy with her, but on this occasion she went alone. she had tried what she could do with madame goesler, and she found that she had failed. she must now make her attempt upon the duke. but the duke, perhaps anticipating some attack of the kind, had fled. "where is his grace, barker?" said lady glencora to the porter. "we do not know, your ladyship. his grace went away yesterday evening with nobody but lapoule." lapoule was the duke's french valet. lady glencora could only return home and consider in her own mind what batteries might yet be brought to bear upon the duke, towards stopping the marriage, even after the engagement should have been made,--if it were to be made. lady glencora felt that such batteries might still be brought up as would not improbably have an effect on a proud, weak old man. if all other resources failed, royalty in some of its branches might be induced to make a request, and every august relation in the peerage should interfere. the duke no doubt might persevere and marry whom he pleased,--if he were strong enough. but it requires much personal strength,--that standing alone against the well-armed batteries of all one's friends. lady glencora had once tried such a battle on her own behalf, and had failed. she had wished to be imprudent when she was young; but her friends had been too strong for her. she had been reduced, and kept in order, and made to run in a groove,--and was now, when she sat looking at her little boy with his bold face, almost inclined to think that the world was right, and that grooves were best. but if she had been controlled when she was young, so ought the duke to be controlled now that he was old. it is all very well for a man or woman to boast that he,--or she,--may do what he likes with his own,--or with her own. but there are circumstances in which such self-action is ruinous to so many that coercion from the outside becomes absolutely needed. nobody had felt the injustice of such coercion when applied to herself more sharply than had lady glencora. but she had lived to acknowledge that such coercion might be proper, and was now prepared to use it in any shape in which it might be made available. it was all very well for madame goesler to laugh and exclaim, "psha!" when lady glencora declared her real trouble. but should it ever come to pass that a black-browed baby with a yellow skin should be shown to the world as lord silverbridge, lady glencora knew that her peace of mind would be gone for ever. she had begun the world desiring one thing, and had missed it. she had suffered much, and had then reconciled herself to other hopes. if those other hopes were also to be cut away from her, the world would not be worth a pinch of snuff to her. the duke had fled, and she could do nothing to-day; but to-morrow she would begin with her batteries. and she herself had done the mischief! she had invited this woman down to matching! heaven and earth!--that such a man as the duke should be such a fool!--the widow of a jew banker! he, the duke of omnium,--and thus to cut away from himself, for the rest of his life, all honour, all peace of mind, all the grace of a noble end to a career which, if not very noble in itself, had received the praise of nobility! and to do this for a thin, black-browed, yellow-visaged woman with ringlets and devil's eyes, and a beard on her upper lip,--a jewess,--a creature of whose habits of life and manners of thought they all were absolutely ignorant; who drank, possibly; who might have been a forger, for what any one knew; an adventuress who had found her way into society by her art and perseverance,--and who did not even pretend to have a relation in the world! that such a one should have influence enough to intrude herself into the house of omnium, and blot the scutcheon, and,-- what was worst of all,--perhaps be the mother of future dukes! lady glencora, in her anger, was very unjust to madame goesler, thinking all evil of her, accusing her in her mind of every crime, denying her all charm, all beauty. had the duke forgotten himself and his position for the sake of some fair girl with a pink complexion and grey eyes, and smooth hair, and a father, lady glencora thought that she would have forgiven it better. it might be that madame goesler would win her way to the coronet; but when she came to put it on, she should find that there were sharp thorns inside the lining of it. not a woman worth the knowing in all london should speak to her;--nor a man either of those men with whom a duchess of omnium would wish to hold converse. she should find her husband rated as a doting fool, and herself rated as a scheming female adventuress. and it should go hard with lady glencora, if the duke were not separated from his new duchess before the end of the first year! in her anger lady glencora was very unjust. the duke, when he left his house without telling his household whither he was going, did send his address to,--the top brick of the chimney. his note, which was delivered at madame goesler's house late on the sunday evening, was as follows:--"i am to have your answer on monday. i shall be at brighton. send it by a private messenger to the bedford hotel there. i need not tell you with what expectation, with what hope, with what fear i shall await it.--o." poor old man! he had run through all the pleasures of life too quickly, and had not much left with which to amuse himself. at length he had set his eyes on a top brick, and being tired of everything else, wanted it very sorely. poor old man! how should it do him any good, even if he got it? madame goesler, when she received the note, sat with it in her hand, thinking of his great want. "and he would be tired of his new plaything after a month," she said to herself. but she had given herself to the next morning, and she would not make up her mind that night. she would sleep once more with the coronet of a duchess within her reach. she did do so; and woke in the morning with her mind absolutely in doubt. when she walked down to breakfast, all doubt was at an end. the time had come when it was necessary that she should resolve, and while her maid was brushing her hair for her she did make her resolution. "what a thing it is to be a great lady," said the maid, who may probably have reflected that the duke of omnium did not come here so often for nothing. "what do you mean by that, lotta?" "the women i know, madame, talk so much of their countesses, and ladyships, and duchesses. i would never rest till i had a title in this country, if i were a lady,--and rich and beautiful." "and can the countesses, and the ladyships, and the duchesses do as they please?" "ah, madame;--i know not that." "but i know. that will do, lotta. now leave me." then madame goesler had made up her mind; but i do not know whether that doubt as to having her own way had much to do with it. as the wife of an old man she would probably have had much of her own way. immediately after breakfast she wrote her answer to the duke, which was as follows:-- park lane, monday. my dear duke of omnium, i find so great a difficulty in expressing myself to your grace in a written letter, that since you left me i have never ceased to wish that i had been less nervous, less doubting, and less foolish when you were present with me here in my room. i might then have said in one word what will take so many awkward words to explain. great as is the honour you propose to confer on me, rich as is the gift you offer me, i cannot accept it. i cannot be your grace's wife. i may almost say that i knew it was so when you parted from me; but the surprise of the situation took away from me a part of my judgment, and made me unable to answer you as i should have done. my lord, the truth is, that i am not fit to be the wife of the duke of omnium. i should injure you; and though i should raise myself in name, i should injure myself in character. but you must not think, because i say this, that there is any reason why i should not be an honest man's wife. there is none. i have nothing on my conscience which i could not tell you,--or to another man; nothing that i need fear to tell to all the world. indeed, my lord, there is nothing to tell but this,--that i am not fitted by birth and position to be the wife of the duke of omnium. you would have to blush for me, and that no man shall ever have to do on my account. i will own that i have been ambitious, too ambitious, and have been pleased to think that one so exalted as you are, one whose high position is so rife in the eyes of all men, should have taken pleasure in my company. i will confess to a foolish woman's silly vanity in having wished to be known to be the friend of the duke of omnium. i am like the other moths that flutter near the light and have their wings burned. but i am wiser than they in this, that having been scorched, i know that i must keep my distance. you will easily believe that a woman, such as i am, does not refuse to ride in a carriage with your grace's arms on the panels without a regret. i am no philosopher. i do not pretend to despise the rich things of the world, or the high things. according to my way of thinking a woman ought to wish to be duchess of omnium;--but she ought to wish also to be able to carry her coronet with a proper grace. as madame goesler i can live, even among my superiors, at my ease. as your grace's wife, i should be easy no longer; --nor would your grace. you will think perhaps that what i write is heartless, that i speak altogether of your rank, and not at all of the affection you have shown me, or of that which i might possibly bear towards you. i think that when the first flush of passion is over in early youth men and women should strive to regulate their love, as they do their other desires, by their reason. i could love your grace, fondly, as your wife, if i thought it well for your grace or for myself that we should be man and wife. as i think it would be ill for both of us, i will restrain that feeling, and remember your grace ever with the purest feeling of true friendship. before i close this letter, i must utter a word of gratitude. in the kind of life which i have led as a widow, a life which has been very isolated as regards true fellowship, it has been my greatest effort to obtain the good opinion of those among whom i have attempted to make my way. i may, perhaps, own to you now that i have had many difficulties. a woman who is alone in the world is ever regarded with suspicion. in this country a woman with a foreign name, with means derived from foreign sources, with a foreign history, is specially suspected. i have striven to live that down, and i have succeeded. but in my wildest dreams i never dreamed of such success as this,--that the duke of omnium should think me the worthiest of the worthy. you may be sure that i am not ungrateful,--that i never will be ungrateful. and i trust it will not derogate from your opinion of my worth, that i have known what was due to your grace's highness. i have the honour to be, my lord duke, your most obliged and faithful servant, marie max goesler. "how many unmarried women in england are there would do the same?" she said to herself, as she folded the paper, and put it into an envelope, and sealed the cover. the moment that the letter was completed she sent it off, as she was directed to send it, so that there might be no possibility of repentance and subsequent hesitation. she had at last made up her mind, and she would stand by the making. she knew that there would come moments in which she would deeply regret the opportunity that she had lost,--the chance of greatness that she had flung away from her. but so would she have often regretted it, also, had she accepted the greatness. her position was one in which there must be regret, let her decision have been what it might. but she had decided, and the thing was done. she would still be free,--marie max goesler,--unless in abandoning her freedom she would obtain something that she might in truth prefer to it. when the letter was gone she sat disconsolate, at the window of an up-stairs room in which she had written, thinking much of the coronet, much of the name, much of the rank, much of that position in society which she had flattered herself she might have won for herself as duchess of omnium by her beauty, her grace, and her wit. it had not been simply her ambition to be a duchess, without further aim or object. she had fancied that she might have been such a duchess as there is never another, so that her fame might have been great throughout europe, as a woman charming at all points. and she would have had friends, then,--real friends, and would not have lived alone as it was now her fate to do. and she would have loved her ducal husband, old though he was, and stiff with pomp and ceremony. she would have loved him, and done her best to add something of brightness to his life. it was indeed true that there was one whom she loved better; but of what avail was it to love a man who, when he came to her, would speak to her of nothing but of the charms which he found in another woman! she had been sitting thus at her window, with a book in her hand, at which she never looked, gazing over the park which was now beautiful with its may verdure, when on a sudden a thought struck her. lady glencora palliser had come to her, trying to enlist her sympathy for the little heir, behaving, indeed, not very well, as madame goesler had thought, but still with an earnest purpose which was in itself good. she would write to lady glencora and put her out of her misery. perhaps there was some feeling of triumph in her mind as she returned to the desk from which her epistle had been sent to the duke;--not of that triumph which would have found its gratification in boasting of the offer that had been made to her, but arising from a feeling that she could now show the proud mother of the bold-faced boy that though she would not pledge herself to any woman as to what she might do or not do, she was nevertheless capable of resisting such a temptation as would have been irresistible to many. of the duke's offer to her she would have spoken to no human being, had not this woman shown that the duke's purpose was known at least to her, and now, in her letter, she would write no plain word of that offer. she would not state, in words intelligible to any one who might read, that the duke had offered her his hand and his coronet. but she would write so that lady glencora should understand her. and she would be careful that there should be no word in the letter to make lady glencora think that she supposed herself to be unfit for the rank offered to her. she had been very humble in what she had written to the duke, but she would not be at all humble in what she was about to write to the mother of the bold-faced boy. and this was the letter when it was written:-- my dear lady glencora, i venture to send you a line to put you out of your misery;--for you were very miserable when you were so good as to come here yesterday. your dear little boy is safe from me;--and, what is more to the purpose, so are you and your husband,--and your uncle, whom, in truth, i love. you asked me a downright question which i did not then choose to answer by a downright answer. the downright answer was not at that time due to you. it has since been given, and as i like you too well to wish you to be in torment, i send you a line to say that i shall never be in the way of you or your boy. and now, dear lady glencora, one word more. should it ever again appear to you to be necessary to use your zeal for the protection of your husband or your child, do not endeavour to dissuade a woman by trying to make her think that she, by her alliance, would bring degradation into any house, or to any man. if there could have been an argument powerful with me, to make me do that which you wished to prevent, it was the argument which you used. but my own comfort, and the happiness of another person whom i value almost as much as myself, were too important to be sacrificed even to a woman's revenge. i take mine by writing to you and telling you that i am better and more rational and wiser than you took me to be. if, after this, you choose to be on good terms with me, i shall be happy to be your friend. i shall want no further revenge. you owe me some little apology; but whether you make it or not, i will be contented, and will never do more than ask whether your darling's prospects are still safe. there are more women than one in the world, you know, and you must not consider yourself to be out of the wood because you have escaped from a single danger. if there arise another, come to me, and we will consult together. dear lady glencora, yours always sincerely, marie m. g. there was a thing or two besides which she longed to say, laughing as she thought of them. but she refrained, and her letter, when finished, was as it is given above. on the day following, lady glencora was again in park lane. when she first read madame goesler's letter, she felt herself to be annoyed and angry, but her anger was with herself rather than with her correspondent. ever since her last interview with the woman whom she had feared, she had been conscious of having been indiscreet. all her feelings had been too violent, and it might well have been that she should have driven this woman to do the very thing that she was so anxious to avoid. "you owe me some little apology," madame goesler had said. it was true,--and she would apologise. undue pride was not a part of lady glencora's character. indeed, there was not enough of pride in her composition. she had been quite ready to hate this woman, and to fight her on every point as long as the danger existed; but she was equally willing to take the woman to her heart now that the danger was over. apologise! of course she would apologise. and she would make a friend of the woman if the woman wished it. but she would not have the woman and the duke at matching together again, lest, after all, there might be a mistake. she did not show madame goesler's letter to her husband, or tell him anything of the relief she had received. he had cared but little for the danger, thinking more of his budget than of the danger; and would be sufficiently at his ease if he heard no more rumours of his uncle's marriage. lady glencora went to park lane early on the tuesday morning, but she did not take her boy with her. she understood that madame goesler might perhaps indulge in a little gentle raillery at the child's expense, and the mother felt that this might be borne the more easily if the child were not present. "i have come to thank you for your letter, madame goesler," said lady glencora, before she sat down. "oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal?" said madame goesler, standing up from her chair and laughing, as she sang the lines. "certainly not to dance at your bridal," said lady glencora. "alas! no. you have forbidden the banns too effectually for that, and i sit here wearing the willow all alone. why shouldn't i be allowed to get married as well as another woman, i wonder? i think you have been very hard upon me among you. but sit down, lady glencora. at any rate you come in peace." "certainly in peace, and with much admiration,--and a great deal of love and affection, and all that kind of thing, if you will only accept it." "i shall be too proud, lady glencora;--for the duke's sake, if for no other reason." "and i have to make my apology." "it was made as soon as your carriage stopped at my door with friendly wheels. of course i understand. i can know how terrible it all was to you,--even though the dear little plantagenet might not have been in much danger. fancy what it would be to disturb the career of a plantagenet! i am far too well read in history, i can assure you." "i said a word for which i am sorry, and which i should not have said." "never mind the word. after all, it was a true word. i do not hesitate to say so now myself, though i will allow no other woman to say it,--and no man either. i should have degraded him,--and disgraced him." madame goesler now had dropped the bantering tone which she had assumed, and was speaking in sober earnest. "i, for myself, have nothing about me of which i am ashamed. i have no history to hide, no story to be brought to light to my discredit. but i have not been so born, or so placed by circumstances, as make me fit to be the wife of the duke of omnium. i should not have been happy, you know." "you want nothing, dear madame goesler. you have all that society can give you." "i do not know about that. i have much given to me by society, but there are many things that i want;--a bright-faced little boy, for instance, to go about with me in my carriage. why did you not bring him, lady glencora?" "i came out in my penitential sheet, and when one goes in that guise, one goes alone. i had half a mind to walk." "you will bring him soon?" "oh, yes. he was very anxious to know the other day who was the beautiful lady with the black hair." "you did not tell him that the beautiful lady with the black hair was a possible aunt, was a possible--? but we will not think any more of things so horrible." "i told him nothing of my fears, you may be sure." "some day, when i am a very old woman, and when his father is quite an old duke, and when he has a dozen little boys and girls of his own, you will tell him the story. then he will reflect what a madman his great-uncle must have been, to have thought of making a duchess out of such a wizened old woman as that." they parted the best of friends, but lady glencora was still of opinion that if the lady and the duke were to be brought together at matching, or elsewhere, there might still be danger. chapter lxiii showing how the duke stood his ground mr. low the barrister, who had given so many lectures to our friend phineas finn, lectures that ought to have been useful, was now himself in the house of commons, having reached it in the legitimate course of his profession. at a certain point of his career, supposing his career to have been sufficiently prosperous, it becomes natural to a barrister to stand for some constituency, and natural for him also to form his politics at that period of his life with a view to his further advancement, looking, as he does so, carefully at the age and standing of the various candidates for high legal office. when a man has worked as mr. low had worked, he begins to regard the bench wistfully, and to calculate the profits of a two years' run in the attorney-generalship. it is the way of the profession, and thus a proper and sufficient number of real barristers finds its way into the house. mr. low had been angry with phineas because he, being a barrister, had climbed into it after another fashion, having taken up politics, not in the proper way as an assistance to his great profession, but as a profession in itself. mr. low had been quite sure that his pupil had been wrong in this, and that the error would at last show itself, to his pupil's cost. and mrs. low had been more sure than mr. low, having not unnaturally been jealous that a young whipper-snapper of a pupil,--as she had once called phineas,--should become a parliament man before her husband, who had worked his way up gallantly, in the usual course. she would not give way a jot even now,--not even when she heard that phineas was going to marry this and that heiress. for at this period of his life such rumours were afloat about him, originating probably in his hopes as to violet effingham and his intimacy with madame goesler. "oh, heiresses!" said mrs. low. "i don't believe in heiresses' money till i see it. three or four hundred a year is a great fortune for a woman, but it don't go far in keeping a house in london. and when a woman has got a little money she generally knows how to spend it. he has begun at the wrong end, and they who do that never get themselves right at the last." at this time phineas had become somewhat of a fine gentleman, which made mrs. low the more angry with him. he showed himself willing enough to go to mrs. low's house, but when there he seemed to her to give himself airs. i think that she was unjust to him, and that it was natural that he should not bear himself beneath her remarks exactly as he had done when he was nobody. he had certainly been very successful. he was always listened to in the house, and rarely spoke except on subjects which belonged to him, or had been allotted to him as part of his business. he lived quite at his ease with people of the highest rank,--and those of his own mode of life who disliked him did so simply because they regarded with envy his too rapid rise. he rode upon a pretty horse in the park, and was careful in his dress, and had about him an air of comfortable wealth which mrs. low thought he had not earned. when her husband told her of his sufficient salary, she would shake her head and express her opinion that a good time was coming. by which she perhaps meant to imply a belief that a time was coming in which her husband would have a salary much better than that now enjoyed by phineas, and much more likely to be permanent. the radicals were not to have office for ever, and when they were gone, what then? "i don't suppose he saves a shilling," said mrs. low. "how can he, keeping a horse in the park, and hunting down in the country, and living with lords? i shouldn't wonder if he isn't found to be over head and ears in debt when things come to be looked into." mrs. low was fond of an assured prosperity, of money in the funds, and was proud to think that her husband lived in a house of his own. "£ s. ground-rent to the portman estate is what we pay, mr. bunce," she once said to that gallant radical, "and that comes of beginning at the right end. mr. low had nothing when he began the world, and i had just what made us decent the day we married. but he began at the right end, and let things go as they may he can't get a fall." mr. bunce and mrs. low, though they differed much in politics, sympathised in reference to phineas. "i never believes, ma'am, in nobody doing any good by getting a place," said mr. bunce. "of course i don't mean judges and them like, which must be. but when a young man has ever so much a year for sitting in a big room down at whitehall, and reading a newspaper with his feet up on a chair, i don't think it honest, whether he's a parliament man or whether he ain't." whence mr. bunce had got his notions as to the way in which officials at whitehall pass their time, i cannot say; but his notions are very common notions. the british world at large is slow to believe that the great british housekeeper keeps no more cats than what kill mice. mr. low, who was now frequently in the habit of seeing phineas at the house, had somewhat changed his opinions, and was not so eager in condemning phineas as was his wife. he had begun to think that perhaps phineas had shown some knowledge of his own aptitudes in the career which he had sought, and was aware, at any rate, that his late pupil was somebody in the house of commons. a man will almost always respect him whom those around him respect, and will generally look up to one who is evidently above himself in his own daily avocation. now phineas was certainly above mr. low in parliamentary reputation. he sat on a front bench. he knew the leaders of parties. he was at home amidst the forms of the house. he enjoyed something of the prestige of government power. and he walked about familiarly with the sons of dukes and the brothers of earls in a manner which had its effect even on mr. low. seeing these things mr. low could not maintain his old opinion as stoutly as did his wife. it was almost a privilege to mr. low to be intimate with phineas finn. how then could he look down upon him? he was surprised, therefore, one day when phineas discussed the matter with him fully. phineas had asked him what would be his chance of success if even now he were to give up politics and take to the bar as the means of earning his livelihood. "you would have uphill work at first, as a matter of course," said mr. low. "but it might be done, i suppose. to have been in office would not be fatal to me?" "no, not fatal, nothing of the kind need be fatal. men have succeeded, and have sat on the bench afterwards, who did not begin till they were past forty. you would have to live down a prejudice created against yourself; that is all. the attorneys do not like barristers who are anything else but barristers." "the attorneys are very arbitrary, i know," said phineas. "yes;--and there would be this against you--that it is so difficult for a man to go back to the verdure and malleability of pupildom, who has once escaped from the necessary humility of its conditions. you will find it difficult to sit and wait for business in a vice-chancellor's court, after having had vice-chancellors, or men as big as vice-chancellors, to wait upon you." "i do not think much of that." "but others would think of it, and you would find that there were difficulties. but you are not thinking of it in earnest?" "yes, in earnest." "why so? i should have thought that every day had removed you further and further from any such idea." "the ground i'm on at present is so slippery." "well, yes. i can understand that. but yet it is less slippery than it used to be." "ah;--you do not exactly see. what if i were to lose my seat?" "you are safe at least for the next four years, i should say." "ah;--no one can tell. and suppose i took it into my head to differ from the government?" "you must not do that. you have put yourself into a boat with these men, and you must remain in the boat. i should have thought all that was easy to you." "it is not so easy as it seems. the very necessity of sitting still in the boat is in itself irksome,--very irksome. and then there comes some crisis in which a man cannot sit still." "is there any such crisis at hand now?" "i cannot say that;--but i am beginning to find that sitting still is very disagreeable to me. when i hear those fellows below having their own way, and saying just what they like, it makes me furious. there is robson. he tried office for a couple of years, and has broken away; and now, by george, there is no man they think so much of as they do of robson. he is twice the man he was when he sat on the treasury bench." "he is a man of fortune;--is he not?" "i suppose so. of course he is, because he lives. he never earns anything. his wife had money." "my dear finn, that makes all the difference. when a man has means of his own he can please himself. do you marry a wife with money, and then you may kick up your heels, and do as you like about the colonial office. when a man hasn't money, of course he must fit himself to the circumstances of a profession." "though his profession may require him to be dishonest." "i did not say that." "but i say it, my dear low. a man who is ready to vote black white because somebody tells him, is dishonest. never mind, old fellow. i shall pull through, i daresay. don't go and tell your wife all this, or she'll be harder upon me than ever when she sees me." after that mr. low began to think that his wife's judgment in this matter had been better than his own. robson could do as he liked because he had married a woman with money. phineas told himself that that game was also open to him. he, too, might marry money. violet effingham had money;--quite enough to make him independent were he married to her. and madame goesler had money;--plenty of money. and an idea had begun to creep upon him that madame goesler would take him were he to offer himself. but he would sooner go back to the bar as the lowest pupil, sooner clean boots for barristers,--so he told himself,--than marry a woman simply because she had money, than marry any other woman as long as there was a chance that violet might be won. but it was very desirable that he should know whether violet might be won or not. it was now july, and everybody would be gone in another month. before august would be over he was to start for ireland with mr. monk, and he knew that words would be spoken in ireland which might make it indispensable for him to be, at any rate, able to throw up his office. in these days he became more anxious than he used to be about miss effingham's fortune. he had never spoken as yet to lord brentford since the day on which the earl had quarrelled with him, nor had he ever been at the house in portman square. lady laura he met occasionally, and had always spoken to her. she was gracious to him, but there had been no renewal of their intimacy. rumours had reached him that things were going badly with her and her husband; but when men repeated such rumours in his presence, he said little or nothing on the subject. it was not for him, at any rate, to speak of lady laura's unhappiness. lord chiltern he had seen once or twice during the last month, and they had met cordially as friends. of course he could ask no question from lord chiltern as to violet; but he did learn that his friend had again patched up some reconciliation with his father. "he has quarrelled with me, you know," said phineas. "i am very sorry, but what could i do? as things went, i was obliged to tell him." "do not suppose for a moment that i am blaming you. it is, no doubt, much better that he should know it all." "and it cannot make much difference to you, i should say." "one doesn't like to quarrel with those who have been kind to one," said phineas. "but it isn't your doing. he'll come right again after a time. when i can get my own affairs settled, you may be sure i'll do my best to bring him round. but what's the reason you never see laura now?" "what's the reason that everything goes awry?" said phineas, bitterly. "when i mentioned your name to kennedy the other day, he looked as black as thunder. but it is not odd that any one should quarrel with him. i can't stand him. do you know, i sometimes think that laura will have to give it up. then there will be another mess in the family!" this was all very well as coming from lord chiltern; but there was no word about violet, and phineas did not know how to get a word from any one. lady laura could have told him everything, but he could not go to lady laura. he did go to lady baldock's house as often as he thought he could with propriety, and occasionally he saw violet. but he could do no more than see her, and the days and weeks were passing by, and the time was coming in which he would have to go away, and be with her no more. the end of the season, which was always to other men,--to other working men such as our hero,--a period of pleasurable anticipation, to him was a time of sadness, in which he felt that he was not exactly like to, or even equal to, the men with whom he lived in london. in the old days, in which he was allowed to go to loughlinter or to saulsby, when all men and women were going to their loughlinters and their saulsbys, it was very well with him; but there was something melancholy to him in his yearly journey to ireland. he loved his father and mother and sisters as well as do other men; but there was a falling off in the manner of his life which made him feel that he had been in some sort out of his own element in london. he would have liked to have shot grouse at loughlinter, or pheasants at saulsby, or to have hunted down at willingford,--or better still, to have made love to violet effingham wherever violet effingham might have placed herself. but all this was closed to him now; and there would be nothing for him but to remain at killaloe, or to return to his work in downing street, from august to february. mr. monk, indeed, was going with him for a few weeks; but even this association did not make up for that sort of society which he would have preferred. the session went on very quietly. the question of the irish reform bill was postponed till the next year, which was a great thing gained. he carried his bill about the canada railway, with sundry other small bills appertaining to it, through the house in a manner which redounded infinitely to his credit. there was just enough of opposition to give a zest to the work, and to make the affair conspicuous among the affairs of the year. as his chief was in the other house, the work fell altogether into his hands, so that he came to be conspicuous among under-secretaries. it was only when he said a word to any leaders of his party about other matters,--about irish tenant-right, for instance, which was beginning to loom very large, that he found himself to be snubbed. but there was no room for action this year in reference to irish tenant-right, and therefore any deep consideration of that discomfort might be legitimately postponed. if he did by chance open his mouth on the subject to mr. monk, even mr. monk discouraged him. in the early days of july, when the weather was very hot, and people were beginning to complain of the thames, and members were becoming thirsty after grouse, and the remaining days of parliamentary work were being counted up, there came to him news,--news that was soon known throughout the fashionable world,--that the duke of omnium was going to give a garden party at a certain villa residence on the banks of the thames above richmond. it was to be such a garden party as had never been seen before. and it would be the more remarkable because the duke had never been known to do such a thing. the villa was called the horns, and had, indeed, been given by the duke to lady glencora on her marriage; but the party was to be the duke's party, and the horns, with all its gardens, conservatories, lawns, shrubberies, paddocks, boat-houses, and boats, was to be made bright and beautiful for the occasion. scores of workmen were about the place through the three first weeks of july. the world at large did not at all know why the duke was doing so unwonted a thing,--why he should undertake so new a trouble. but lady glencora knew, and madame goesler shrewdly guessed, the riddle. when madame goesler's unexpected refusal had reached his grace, he felt that he must either accept the lady's refusal, or persevere. after a day's consideration, he resolved that he would accept it. the top brick of the chimney was very desirable; but perhaps it might be well that he should endeavour to live without it. then, accepting this refusal, he must either stand his ground and bear the blow,--or he must run away to that villa at como, or elsewhere. the running away seemed to him at first to be the better, or at least the more pleasant, course; but at last he determined that he would stand his ground and bear the blow. therefore he gave his garden party at the horns. who was to be invited? before the first week in july was over, many a bosom in london was fluttering with anxiety on that subject. the duke, in giving his short word of instruction to lady glencora, made her understand that he would wish her to be particular in her invitations. her royal highness the princess, and his royal highness the prince, had both been so gracious as to say that they would honour his fête. the duke himself had made out a short list, with not more than a dozen names. lady glencora was employed to select the real crowd,--the five hundred out of the ten thousand who were to be blessed. on the duke's own private list was the name of madame goesler. lady glencora understood it all. when madame goesler got her card, she thought that she understood it too. and she thought also that the duke was behaving in a gallant way. there was, no doubt, much difficulty about the invitations, and a considerable amount of ill-will was created. and they who considered themselves entitled to be asked, and were not asked, were full of wrath against their more fortunate friends, instead of being angry with the duke or with lady glencora, who had neglected them. it was soon known that lady glencora was the real dispenser of the favours, and i fancy that her ladyship was tired of her task before it was completed. the party was to take place on wednesday, the th of july, and before the day had come, men and women had become so hardy in the combat that personal applications were made with unflinching importunity; and letters were written to lady glencora putting forward this claim and that claim with a piteous clamour. "no, that is too bad," lady glencora said to her particular friend, mrs. grey, when a letter came from mrs. bonteen, stating all that her husband had ever done towards supporting mr. palliser in parliament,--and all that he ever would do. "she shan't have it, even though she could put plantagenet into a minority to-morrow." mrs. bonteen did not get a card; and when she heard that phineas finn had received one, her wrath against phineas was very great. he was "an irish adventurer," and she regretted deeply that mr. bonteen had ever interested himself in bringing such an upstart forward in the world of politics. but as mr. bonteen never had done anything towards bringing phineas forward, there was not much cause for regret on this head. phineas, however, got his card, and, of course, accepted the invitation. the grounds were opened at four. there was to be an early dinner out in tents at five; and after dinner men and women were to walk about, or dance, or make love--or hay, as suited them. the haycocks, however, were ready prepared, while it was expected that they should bring the love with them. phineas, knowing that he should meet violet effingham, took a great deal with him ready made. for an hour and a half lady glencora kept her position in a saloon through which the guests passed to the grounds, and to every comer she imparted the information that the duke was on the lawn;--to every comer but one. to madame goesler she said no such word. "so glad to see you, my dear," she said, as she pressed her friend's hand: "if i am not killed by this work, i'll make you out again by-and-by." then madame goesler passed on, and soon found herself amidst a throng of acquaintance. after a few minutes she saw the duke seated in an arm-chair, close to the river-bank, and she bravely went up to him, and thanked him for the invitation. "the thanks are due to you for gracing our entertainment," said the duke, rising to greet her. there were a dozen people standing round, and so the thing was done without difficulty. at that moment there came a notice that their royal highnesses were on the ground, and the duke, of course, went off to meet them. there was not a word more spoken between the duke and madame goesler on that afternoon. phineas did not come till late,--till seven, when the banquet was over. i think he was right in this, as the banqueting in tents loses in comfort almost more than it gains in romance. a small picnic may be very well, and the distance previously travelled may give to a dinner on the ground the seeming excuse of necessity. frail human nature must be supported,--and human nature, having gone so far in pursuit of the beautiful, is entitled to what best support the unaccustomed circumstances will allow. therefore, out with the cold pies, out with the salads, and the chickens, and the champagne. since no better may be, let us recruit human nature sitting upon this moss, and forget our discomforts in the glory of the verdure around us. and dear mary, seeing that the cushion from the waggonet is small, and not wishing to accept the too generous offer that she should take it all for her own use, will admit a contact somewhat closer than the ordinary chairs of a dining-room render necessary. that in its way is very well;--but i hold that a banquet on narrow tables in a tent is displeasing. phineas strolled into the grounds when the tent was nearly empty, and when lady glencora, almost sinking beneath her exertions, was taking rest in an inner room. the duke at this time was dining with their royal highnesses, and three or four others, specially selected, very comfortably within doors. out of doors the world had begun to dance,--and the world was beginning to say that it would be much nicer to go and dance upon the boards inside as soon as possible. for, though of all parties a garden party is the nicest, everybody is always anxious to get out of the garden as quick as may be. a few ardent lovers of suburban picturesque effect were sitting beneath the haycocks, and four forlorn damsels were vainly endeavouring to excite the sympathy of manly youth by playing croquet in a corner. i am not sure, however, that the lovers beneath the haycocks and the players at croquet were not actors hired by lady glencora for the occasion. phineas had not been long on the lawn before he saw lady laura kennedy. she was standing with another lady, and barrington erle was with them. "so you have been successful?" said barrington, greeting him. "successful in what?" "in what? in getting a ticket. i have had to promise three tide-waiterships, and to give deep hints about a bishopric expected to be vacant, before i got in. but what matters? success pays for everything. my only trouble now is how i'm to get back to london." lady laura shook hands with phineas, and then as he was passing on, followed him for a step and whispered a word to him. "mr. finn," she said, "if you are not going yet, come back to me presently. i have something to say to you. i shall not be far from the river, and shall stay here for about an hour." phineas said that he would, and then went on, not knowing exactly where he was going. he had one desire,--to find violet effingham, but when he should find her he could not carry her off, and sit with her beneath a haycock. chapter lxiv the horns while looking for violet effingham, phineas encountered madame goesler, among a crowd of people who were watching the adventurous embarkation of certain daring spirits in a pleasure-boat. there were watermen there in the duke's livery, ready to take such spirits down to richmond or up to teddington lock, and many daring spirits did take such trips,--to the great peril of muslins, ribbons, and starch, to the peril also of ornamental summer white garments, so that when the thing was over, the boats were voted to have been a bore. "are you going to venture?" said phineas to the lady. "i should like it of all things if i were not afraid for my clothes. will you come?" "i was never good upon the water. i should be sea-sick to a certainty. they are going down beneath the bridge too, and we should be splashed by the steamers. i don't think my courage is high enough." thus phineas excused himself, being still intent on prosecuting his search for violet. "then neither will i," said madame goesler. "one dash from a peccant oar would destroy the whole symmetry of my dress. look. that green young lady has already been sprinkled." "but the blue young gentleman has been sprinkled also," said phineas, "and they will be happy in a joint baptism." then they strolled along the river path together, and were soon alone. "you will be leaving town soon, madame goesler?" "almost immediately." "and where do you go?" "oh,--to vienna. i am there for a couple of months every year, minding my business. i wonder whether you would know me, if you saw me;--sometimes sitting on a stool in a counting-house, sometimes going about among old houses, settling what must be done to save them from tumbling down. i dress so differently at such times, and talk so differently, and look so much older, that i almost fancy myself to be another person." "is it a great trouble to you?" "no,--i rather like it. it makes me feel that i do something in the world." "do you go alone?" "quite alone. i take a german maid with me, and never speak a word to any one else on the journey." "that must be very bad," said phineas. "yes; it is the worst of it. but then i am so much accustomed to be alone. you see me in society, and in society only, and therefore naturally look upon me as one of a gregarious herd; but i am in truth an animal that feeds alone and lives alone. take the hours of the year all through, and i am a solitary during four-fifths of them. and what do you intend to do?" "i go to ireland." "home to your own people. how nice! i have no people to go to. i have one sister, who lives with her husband at riga. she is my only relation, and i never see her." "but you have thousands of friends in england." "yes,--as you see them,"--and she turned and spread out her hands towards the crowded lawn, which was behind them. "what are such friends worth? what would they do for me?" "i do not know that the duke would do much," said phineas laughing. madame goesler laughed also. "the duke is not so bad," she said. "the duke would do as much as any one else. i won't have the duke abused." "he may be your particular friend, for what i know," said phineas. "ah;--no. i have no particular friend. and were i to wish to choose one, i should think the duke a little above me." "oh, yes;--and too stiff, and too old, and too pompous, and too cold, and too make-believe, and too gingerbread." "mr. finn!" "the duke is all buckram, you know." "then why do you come to his house?" "to see you, madame goesler." "is that true, mr. finn?" "yes;--it is true in its way. one goes about to meet those whom one likes, not always for the pleasure of the host's society. i hope i am not wrong because i go to houses at which i like neither the host nor the hostess." phineas as he said this was thinking of lady baldock, to whom of late he had been exceedingly civil,--but he certainly did not like lady baldock. "i think you have been too hard upon the duke of omnium. do you know him well?" "personally? certainly not. do you? does anybody?" "i think he is a gracious gentleman," said madame goesler, "and though i cannot boast of knowing him well, i do not like to hear him called buckram. i do not think he is buckram. it is not very easy for a man in his position to live so as to please all people. he has to maintain the prestige of the highest aristocracy in europe." "look at his nephew, who will be the next duke, and who works as hard as any man in the country. will he not maintain it better? what good did the present man ever do?" "you believe only in motion, mr. finn;--and not at all in quiescence. an express train at full speed is grander to you than a mountain with heaps of snow. i own that to me there is something glorious in the dignity of a man too high to do anything,--if only he knows how to carry that dignity with a proper grace. i think that there should be breasts made to carry stars." "stars which they have never earned," said phineas. "ah;--well; we will not fight about it. go and earn your star, and i will say that it becomes you better than any glitter on the coat of the duke of omnium." this she said with an earnestness which he could not pretend not to notice or not to understand. "i too may be able to see that the express train is really greater than the mountain." "though, for your own life, you would prefer to sit and gaze upon the snowy peaks?" "no;--that is not so. for myself, i would prefer to be of use somewhere,--to some one, if it were possible. i strive sometimes." "and i am sure successfully." "never mind. i hate to talk about myself. you and the duke are fair subjects for conversation; you as the express train, who will probably do your sixty miles an hour in safety, but may possibly go down a bank with a crash." "certainly i may," said phineas. "and the duke, as the mountain, which is fixed in its stateliness, short of the power of some earthquake, which shall be grander and more terrible than any earthquake yet known. here we are at the house again. i will go in and sit down for a while." "if i leave you, madame goesler, i will say good-bye till next winter." "i shall be in town again before christmas, you know. you will come and see me?" "of course i will." "and then this love trouble of course will be over,--one way or the other;--will it not?" "ah!--who can say?" "faint heart never won fair lady. but your heart is never faint. farewell." then he left her. up to this moment he had not seen violet, and yet he knew that she was to be there. she had herself told him that she was to accompany lady laura, whom he had already met. lady baldock had not been invited, and had expressed great animosity against the duke in consequence. she had gone so far as to say that the duke was a man at whose house a young lady such as her niece ought not to be seen. but violet had laughed at this, and declared her intention of accepting the invitation. "go," she had said; "of course i shall go. i should have broken my heart if i could not have got there." phineas therefore was sure that she must be in the place. he had kept his eyes ever on the alert, and yet he had not found her. and now he must keep his appointment with lady laura kennedy. so he went down to the path by the river, and there he found her seated close by the water's edge. her cousin barrington erle was still with her, but as soon as phineas joined them, erle went away. "i had told him," said lady laura, "that i wished to speak to you, and he stayed with me till you came. there are worse men than barrington a great deal." "i am sure of that." "are you and he still friends, mr. finn?" "i hope so. i do not see so much of him as i did when i had less to do." "he says that you have got into altogether a different set." "i don't know that. i have gone as circumstances have directed me, but i have certainly not intended to throw over so old and good a friend as barrington erle." "oh,--he does not blame you. he tells me that you have found your way among what he calls the working men of the party, and he thinks you will do very well,--if you can only be patient enough. we all expected a different line from you, you know,--more of words and less of deeds, if i may say so;--more of liberal oratory and less of government action; but i do not doubt that you are right." "i think that i have been wrong," said phineas. "i am becoming heartily sick of officialities." "that comes from the fickleness about which papa is so fond of quoting his latin. the ox desires the saddle. the charger wants to plough." "and which am i?" "your career may combine the dignity of the one with the utility of the other. at any rate you must not think of changing now. have you seen mr. kennedy lately?" she asked the question abruptly, showing that she was anxious to get to the matter respecting which she had summoned him to her side, and that all that she had said hitherto had been uttered as it were in preparation of that subject. "seen him? yes; i see him daily. but we hardly do more than speak," "why not?" phineas stood for a moment in silence, hesitating. "why is it that he and you do not speak?" "how can i answer that question, lady laura?" "do you know any reason? sit down, or, if you please, i will get up and walk with you. he tells me that you have chosen to quarrel with him, and that i have made you do so. he says that you have confessed to him that i have asked you to quarrel with him." "he can hardly have said that." "but he has said it,--in so many words. do you think that i would tell you such a story falsely?" "is he here now?" "no;--he is not here. he would not come. i came alone." "is not miss effingham with you?" "no;--she is to come with my father later. she is here no doubt, now. but answer my question, mr. finn;--unless you find that you cannot answer it. what was it that you did say to my husband?" "nothing to justify what he has told you." "do you mean to say that he has spoken falsely?" "i mean to use no harsh word,--but i think that mr. kennedy when troubled in his spirit looks at things gloomily, and puts meaning upon words which they should not bear." "and what has troubled his spirit?" "you must know that better than i can do, lady laura. i will tell you all that i can tell you. he invited me to his house and i would not go, because you had forbidden me. then he asked me some questions about you. did i refuse because of you,--or of anything that you had said? if i remember right, i told him that i did fancy that you would not be glad to see me,--and that therefore i would rather stay away. what was i to say?" "you should have said nothing." "nothing with him would have been worse than what i did say. remember that he asked me the question point-blank, and that no reply would have been equal to an affirmation. i should have confessed that his suggestion was true." "he could not then have twitted me with your words." "if i have erred, lady laura, and brought any sorrow on you, i am indeed grieved." "it is all sorrow. there is nothing but sorrow. i have made up my mind to leave him." "oh, lady laura!" "it is very bad,--but not so bad, i think, as the life i am now leading. he has accused me--, of what do you think? he says that you are my lover!" "he did not say that,--in those words?" "he said it in words which made me feel that i must part from him." "and how did you answer him?" "i would not answer him at all. if he had come to me like a man,--not accusing me, but asking me,--i would have told him everything. and what was there to tell? i should have broken my faith to you, in speaking of that scene at loughlinter, but women always tell such stories to their husbands when their husbands are good to them, and true, and just. and it is well that they should be told. but to mr. kennedy i can tell nothing. he does not believe my word." "not believe you, lady laura?" "no! because i did not blurt out to him all that story about your foolish duel,--because i thought it best to keep my brother's secret, as long as there was a secret to be kept, he told me that i had,--lied to him!" "what!--with that word?" "yes,--with that very word. he is not particular about his words, when he thinks it necessary to express himself strongly. and he has told me since that because of that he could never believe me again. how is it possible that a woman should live with such a man?" but why did she come to him with this story,--to him whom she had been accused of entertaining as a lover;--to him who of all her friends was the last whom she should have chosen as the recipient for such a tale? phineas as he thought how he might best answer her, with what words he might try to comfort her, could not but ask himself this question. "the moment that the word was out of his mouth," she went on to say, "i resolved that i would tell you. the accusation is against you as it is against me, and is equally false to both. i have written to him, and there is my letter." "but you will see him again?" "no;--i will go to my father's house. i have already arranged it. mr. kennedy has my letter by this time, and i go from hence home with my father." "do you wish that i should read the letter?" "yes,--certainly. i wish that you should read it. should i ever meet him again, i shall tell him that you saw it." they were now standing close upon the river's bank, at a corner of the grounds, and, though the voices of people sounded near to them, they were alone. phineas had no alternative but to read the letter, which was as follows:-- after what you have said to me it is impossible that i should return to your house. i shall meet my father at the duke of omnium's, and have already asked him to give me an asylum. it is my wish to remain wherever he may be, either in town or in the country. should i change my purpose in this, and change my residence, i will not fail to let you know where i go and what i propose to do. you i think must have forgotten that i was your wife; but i will never forget it. you have accused me of having a lover. you cannot have expected that i should continue to live with you after such an accusation. for myself i cannot understand how any man can have brought himself to bring such a charge against his wife. even had it been true the accusation should not have been made by your mouth to my ears. that it is untrue i believe you must be as well aware as i am myself. how intimate i was with. mr. finn, and what were the limits of my intimacy with him you knew before i married you. after our marriage i encouraged his friendship till i found that there was something in it that displeased you,--and, after learning that, i discouraged it. you have said that he is my lover, but you have probably not defined for yourself that word very clearly. you have felt yourself slighted because his name has been mentioned with praise;--and your jealousy has been wounded because you have thought that i have regarded him as in some way superior to yourself. you have never really thought that he was my lover,--that he spoke words to me which others might not hear, that he claimed from me aught that a wife may not give, that he received aught which a friend should not receive. the accusation has been a coward's accusation. i shall be at my father's to-night, and to-morrow i will get you to let my servant bring to me such things as are my own,--my clothes, namely, and desk, and a few books. she will know what i want. i trust you may be happier without a wife, than ever you have been with me. i have felt almost daily since we were married that you were a man who would have been happier without a wife than with one. yours affectionately, laura kennedy. "it is at any rate true," she said, when phineas had read the letter. "true! doubtless it is true," said phineas, "except that i do not suppose he was ever really angry with me, or jealous, or anything of the sort,--because i got on well. it seems absurd even to think it." "there is nothing too absurd for some men. i remember your telling me that he was weak, and poor, and unworthy. i remember your saying so when i first thought that he might become my husband. i wish i had believed you when you told me so. i should not have made such a shipwreck of myself as i have done. that is all i had to say to you. after what has passed between us i did not choose that you should hear how i was separated from my husband from any lips but my own. i will go now and find papa. do not come with me. i prefer being alone." then he was left standing by himself, looking down upon the river as it glided by. how would it have been with both of them if lady laura had accepted him three years ago, when she consented to join her lot with that of mr. kennedy, and had rejected him? as he stood he heard the sound of music from the house, and remembered that he had come there with the one sole object of seeing violet effingham. he had known that he would meet lady laura, and it had been in his mind to break through that law of silence which she had imposed upon him, and once more to ask her to assist him,--to implore her for the sake of their old friendship to tell him whether there might yet be for him any chance of success. but in the interview which had just taken place it had been impossible for him to speak a word of himself or of violet. to her, in her great desolation, he could address himself on no other subject than that of her own misery. but not the less when she was talking to him of her own sorrow, of her regret that she had not listened to him when in years past he had spoken slightingly of mr. kennedy, was he thinking of violet effingham. mr. kennedy had certainly mistaken the signs of things when he had accused his wife by saying that phineas was her lover. phineas had soon got over that early feeling; and as far as he himself was concerned had never regretted lady laura's marriage. he remained down by the water for a few minutes, giving lady laura time to escape, and then he wandered across the grounds towards the house. it was now about nine o'clock, and though there were still many walking about the grounds, the crowd of people were in the rooms. the musicians were ranged out on a verandah, so that their music might have been available for dancing within or without; but the dancers had found the boards pleasanter than the lawn, and the duke's garden party was becoming a mere ball, with privilege for the dancers to stroll about the lawn between the dances. and in this respect the fun was better than at a ball,--that let the engagements made for partners be what they might, they could always be broken with ease. no lady felt herself bound to dance with a cavalier who was displeasing to her; and some gentlemen were left sadly in the lurch. phineas felt himself to be very much in the lurch, even after he had discovered violet effingham standing up to dance with lord fawn. he bided his time patiently, and at last he found his opportunity. "would she dance with him?" she declared that she intended to dance no more, and that she had promised to be ready to return home with lord brentford before ten o'clock. "i have pledged myself not to be after ten," she said, laughing. then she put her hand upon his arm, and they stepped out upon the terrace together. "have you heard anything?" she asked him, almost in a whisper. "yes," he said. "i have heard what you mean. i have heard it all." "is it not dreadful?" "i fear it is the best thing she can do. she has never been happy with him." "but to be accused after that fashion,--by her husband!" said violet. "one can hardly believe it in these days. and of all women she is the last to deserve such accusation." "the very last," said phineas, feeling that the subject was one upon which it was not easy for him to speak. "i cannot conceive to whom he can have alluded," said violet. then phineas began to understand that violet had not heard the whole story; but the difficulty of speaking was still very great. "it has been the result of ungovernable temper," he said. "but a man does not usually strive to dishonour himself because he is in a rage. and this man is incapable of rage. he must be cursed with one of those dark gloomy minds in which love always leads to jealousy. she will never return to him." "one cannot say. in many respects it would be better that she should," said phineas. "she will never return to him," repeated violet,--"never. would you advise her to do so?" "how can i say? if one were called upon for advice, one would think so much before one spoke." "i would not,--not for a minute. what! to be accused of that! how are a man and woman to live together after there have been such words between them? poor laura! what a terrible end to all her high hopes! do you not grieve for her?" they were now at some distance from the house, and phineas could not but feel that chance had been very good to him in giving him his opportunity. she was leaning on his arm, and they were alone, and she was speaking to him with all the familiarity of old friendship. "i wonder whether i may change the subject," said he, "and ask you a word about yourself?" "what word?" she said sharply. "i have heard--" "what have you heard?" "simply this,--that you are not now as you were six months ago. your marriage was then fixed for june." "it has been unfixed since then," she said. "yes;--it has been unfixed. i know it. miss effingham, you will not be angry with me if i say that when i heard it was so, something of a hope,--no, i must not call it a hope,--something that longed to form itself into hope returned to my breast, and from that hour to this has been the only subject on which i have cared to think." "lord chiltern is your friend, mr. finn?" "he is so, and i do not think that i have ever been untrue to my friendship for him." "he says that no man has ever had a truer friend. he will swear to that in all companies. and i, when it was allowed to me to swear with him, swore it too. as his friend, let me tell you one thing,--one thing which i would never tell to any other man,--one thing which i know i may tell you in confidence. you are a gentleman, and will not break my confidence?" "i think i will not." "i know you will not, because you are a gentleman. i told lord chiltern in the autumn of last year that i loved him. and i did love him. i shall never have the same confession to make to another man. that he and i are not now,--on those loving terms,--which once existed, can make no difference in that. a woman cannot transfer her heart. there have been things which have made me feel,--that i was perhaps mistaken,--in saying that i would be,--his wife. but i said so, and cannot now give myself to another. here is lord brentford, and we will join him." there was lord brentford with lady laura on his arm, very gloomy,--resolving on what way he might be avenged on the man who had insulted his daughter. he took but little notice of phineas as he resumed his charge of miss effingham; but the two ladies wished him good night. "good night, lady laura," said phineas, standing with his hat in his hand,--"good night, miss effingham." then he was alone,--quite alone. would it not be well for him to go down to the bottom of the garden, and fling himself into the quiet river, so that there might be an end of him? or would it not be better still that he should create for himself some quiet river of life, away from london, away from politics, away from lords, and titled ladies, and fashionable squares, and the parties given by dukes, and the disappointments incident to a small man in attempting to make for himself a career among big men? there had frequently been in the mind of this young man an idea that there was something almost false in his own position,--that his life was a pretence, and that he would ultimately be subject to that ruin which always comes, sooner or later, on things which are false; and now as he wandered alone about lady glencora's gardens, this feeling was very strong within his bosom, and robbed him altogether of the honour and glory of having been one of the duke of omnium's guests. chapter lxv the cabinet minister at killaloe phineas did not throw himself into the river from the duke's garden; and was ready, in spite of violet effingham, to start for ireland with mr. monk at the end of the first week in august. the close of that season in london certainly was not a happy period of his life. violet had spoken to him after such a fashion that he could not bring himself not to believe her. she had given him no hint whether it was likely or unlikely that she and lord chiltern would be reconciled; but she had convinced him that he could not be allowed to take lord chiltern's place. "a woman cannot transfer her heart," she had said. phineas was well aware that many women do transfer their hearts; but he had gone to this woman too soon after the wrench which her love had received; he had been too sudden with his proposal for a transfer; and the punishment for such ill judgment must be that success would now be impossible to him. and yet how could he have waited, feeling that miss effingham, if she were at all like other girls whom he had known, might have promised herself to some other lover before she would return within his reach in the succeeding spring? but she was not like some other girls. ah;--he knew that now, and repented him of his haste. but he was ready for mr. monk on the th of august, and they started together. something less than twenty hours took them from london to killaloe, and during four or five of those twenty hours mr. monk was unfitted for any conversation by the uncomfortable feelings incidental to the passage from holyhead to kingstown. nevertheless, there was a great deal of conversation between them during the journey. mr. monk had almost made up his mind to leave the cabinet. "it is sad to me to have to confess it," he said, "but the truth is that my old rival, turnbull, is right. a man who begins his political life as i began mine, is not the man of whom a minister should be formed. i am inclined to think that ministers of government require almost as much education in their trade as shoemakers or tallow-chandlers. i doubt whether you can make a good public servant of a man simply because he has got the ear of the house of commons." "then you mean to say," said phineas, "that we are altogether wrong from beginning to end, in our way of arranging these things?" "i do not say that at all. look at the men who have been leading statesmen since our present mode of government was formed,--from the days in which it was forming itself, say from walpole down, and you will find that all who have been of real use had early training as public servants." "are we never to get out of the old groove?" "not if the groove is good," said mr. monk, "those who have been efficient as ministers sucked in their efficacy with their mother's milk. lord brock did so, and lord de terrier, and mr. mildmay. they seated themselves in office chairs the moment they left college. mr. gresham was in office before he was eight-and-twenty. the duke of st. bungay was at work as a private secretary when he was three-and-twenty. you, luckily for yourself, have done the same." "and regret it every hour of my life." "you have no cause for regret, but it is not so with me. if there be any man unfitted by his previous career for office, it is he who has become, or who has endeavoured to become, a popular politician,--an exponent, if i may say so, of public opinion. as far as i can see, office is offered to such men with one view only,--that of clipping their wings." "and of obtaining their help." "it is the same thing. help from turnbull would mean the withdrawal of all power of opposition from him. he could not give other help for any long term, as the very fact of his accepting power and patronage would take from him his popular leadership. the masses outside require to have their minister as the queen has hers; but the same man cannot be minister to both. if the people's minister chooses to change his master, and to take the queen's shilling, something of temporary relief may be gained by government in the fact that the other place will for a time be vacant. but there are candidates enough for such places, and the vacancy is not a vacancy long. of course the crown has this pull, that it pays wages, and the people do not." "i do not think that that influenced you," said phineas. "it did not influence me. to you i will make bold to state so much positively, though it would be foolish, perhaps, to do so to others. i did not go for the shilling, though i am so poor a man that the shilling is more to me than it would be to almost any man in the house. i took the shilling, much doubting, but guided in part by this, that i was ashamed of being afraid to take it. they told me,--mr. mildmay and the duke,--that i could earn it to the benefit of the country. i have not earned it, and the country has not been benefited,--unless it be for the good of the country that my voice in the house should be silenced. if i believe that, i ought to hold my tongue without taking a salary for holding it. i have made a mistake, my friend. such mistakes made at my time of life cannot be wholly rectified; but, being convinced of my error, i must do the best in my power to put myself right again." there was a bitterness in all this to phineas himself of which he could not but make plaint to his companion. "the truth is," he said, "that a man in office must be a slave, and that slavery is distasteful." "there i think you are wrong. if you mean that you cannot do joint work with other men altogether after your own fashion the same may be said of all work. if you had stuck to the bar you must have pleaded your causes in conformity with instructions from the attorneys." "i should have been guided by my own lights in advising those attorneys." "i cannot see that you suffer anything that ought to go against the grain with you. you are beginning young, and it is your first adopted career. with me it is otherwise. if by my telling you this i shall have led you astray, i shall regret my openness with you. could i begin again, i would willingly begin as you began." it was a great day in killaloe, that on which mr. monk arrived with phineas at the doctor's house. in london, perhaps, a bishop inspires more awe than a cabinet minister. in killaloe, where a bishop might be seen walking about every day, the mitred dignitary of the church, though much loved, was thought of, i fear, but lightly; whereas a cabinet minister coming to stay in the house of a townsman was a thing to be wondered at, to be talked about, to be afraid of, to be a fruitful source of conversation for a year to come. there were many in killaloe, especially among the elder ladies, who had shaken their heads and expressed the saddest doubts when young phineas finn had first become a parliament man. and though by degrees they had been half brought round, having been driven to acknowledge that he had been wonderfully successful as a parliament man, still they had continued to shake their heads among themselves, and to fear something in the future,--until he appeared at his old home leading a cabinet minister by the hand. there was such assurance in this that even old mrs. callaghan, at the brewery, gave way, and began to say all manner of good things, and to praise the doctor's luck in that he had a son gifted with parts so excellent. there was a great desire to see the cabinet minister in the flesh, to be with him when he ate and drank, to watch the gait and countenance of the man, and to drink water from this fountain of state lore which had been so wonderfully brought among them by their young townsman. mrs. finn was aware that it behoved her to be chary of her invitations, but the lady from the brewery had said such good things of mrs. finn's black swan, that she carried her point, and was invited to meet the cabinet minister at dinner on the day after his arrival. mrs. flood jones and her daughter were invited also to be of the party. when phineas had been last at killaloe, mrs. flood jones, as the reader may remember, had remained with her daughter at floodborough,--feeling it to be her duty to keep her daughter away from the danger of an unrequited attachment. but it seemed that her purpose was changed now, or that she no longer feared the danger,--for both mary and her mother were now again living in killaloe, and mary was at the doctor's house as much as ever. a day or two before the coming of the god and the demigod to the little town, barbara finn and her friend had thus come to understand each other as they walked along the shannon side. "i am sure, my dear, that he is engaged to nobody," said barbara finn. "and i am sure, my dear," said mary, "that i do not care whether he is or is not." "what do you mean, mary?" "i mean what i say. why should i care? five years ago i had a foolish dream, and now i am awake again. think how old i have got to be!" "yes;--you are twenty-three. what has that to do with it?" "it has this to do with it;--that i am old enough to know better. mamma and i quite understand each other. she used to be angry with him, but she has got over all that foolishness now. it always made me so vexed;--the idea of being angry with a man because,--because--! you know one can't talk about it, it is so foolish. but that is all over now." "do you mean to say you don't care for him, mary? do you remember what you used to swear to me less than two years ago?" "i remember it all very well, and i remember what a goose i was. as for caring for him, of course i do,--because he is your brother, and because i have known him all my life. but if he were going to be married to-morrow, you would see that it would make no difference to me." barbara finn walked on for a couple of minutes in silence before she replied. "mary," she said at last, "i don't believe a word of it." "very well;--then all that i shall ask of you is, that we may not talk about him any more. mamma believes it, and that is enough for me." nevertheless, they did talk about phineas during the whole of that day, and very often talked about him afterwards, as long as mary remained at killaloe. there was a large dinner party at the doctor's on the day after mr. monk's arrival. the bishop was not there, though he was on terms sufficiently friendly with the doctor's family to have been invited on so grand an occasion; but he was not there, because mrs. finn was determined that she would be taken out to dinner by a cabinet minister in the face of all her friends. she was aware that had the bishop been there, she must have taken the bishop's arm. and though there would have been glory in that, the other glory was more to her taste. it was the first time in her life that she had ever seen a cabinet minister, and i think that she was a little disappointed at finding him so like other middle-aged gentlemen. she had hoped that mr. monk would have assumed something of the dignity of his position; but he assumed nothing. now the bishop, though he was a very mild man, did assume something by the very facts of his apron and knee-breeches. "i am sure, sir, it is very good of you to come and put up with our humble way of living," said mrs. finn to her guest, as they sat down at table. and yet she had resolved that she would not make any speech of the kind,--that she would condescend to no apology,--that she would bear herself as though a cabinet minister dined with her at least once a year. but when the moment came, she broke down, and made this apology with almost abject meekness, and then hated herself because she had done so. "my dear madam," said mr. monk, "i live myself so much like a hermit that your house is a palace of luxury to me." then he felt that he had made a foolish speech, and he also hated himself. he found it very difficult to talk to his hostess upon any subject, until by chance he mentioned his young friend phineas. then her tongue was unloosed. "your son, madam," he said, "is going with me to limerick and back to dublin. it is a shame, i know, taking him so soon away from home, but i should not know how to get on without him." "oh, mr. monk, it is such a blessing for him, and such an honour for us, that you should be so good to him." then the mother spoke out all her past fears and all her present hopes, and acknowledged the great glory which it was to her to have a son sitting in parliament, holding an office with a stately name and a great salary, and blessed with the friendship of such a man as mr. monk. after that mr. monk got on better with her. "i don't know any young man," said he, "in whose career i have taken so strong an interest." "he was always good," said mrs. finn, with a tear forcing itself into the corner of each eye. "i am his mother, and of course i ought not to say so,--not in this way; but it is true, mr. monk." and then the poor lady was obliged to raise her handkerchief and wipe away the drops. phineas on this occasion had taken out to dinner the mother of his devoted mary, mrs. flood jones. "what a pleasure it must be to the doctor and mrs. finn to see you come back in this way," said mrs. flood jones. "with all my bones unbroken?" said he, laughing. "yes; with all your bones unbroken. you know, phineas, when we first heard that you were to sit in parliament, we were afraid that you might break a rib or two,--since you choose to talk about the breaking of bones." "yes, i know. everybody thought i should come to grief; but nobody felt so sure of it as i did myself." "but you have not come to grief." "i am not out of the wood yet, you know, mrs. flood jones. there is plenty of possibility for grief in my way still." "as far as i can understand it, you are out of the wood. all that your friends here want to see now is, that you should marry some nice english girl, with a little money, if possible. rumours have reached us, you know." "rumours always lie," said phineas. "sometimes they do, of course; and i am not going to ask any indiscreet questions. but that is what we all hope. mary was saying, only the other day, that if you were once married, we should all feel quite safe about you. and you know we all take the most lively interest in your welfare. it is not every day that a man from county clare gets on as you have done, and therefore we are bound to think of you." thus mrs. flood jones signified to phineas finn that she had forgiven him the thoughtlessness of his early youth,--even though there had been something of treachery in that thoughtlessness to her own daughter; and showed him, also, that whatever mary's feelings might have been once, they were not now of a nature to trouble her. "of course you will marry?" said mrs. flood jones. "i should think very likely not," said phineas, who perhaps looked farther into the mind of the lady than the lady intended. "oh, do," said the lady. "every man should marry as soon as he can, and especially a man in your position." when the ladies met together in the drawing-room after dinner, it was impossible but that they should discuss mr. monk. there was mrs. callaghan from the brewery there, and old lady blood, of bloodstone,--who on ordinary occasions would hardly admit that she was on dining-out terms with any one in killaloe except the bishop, but who had found it impossible to decline to meet a cabinet minister,--and there was mrs. stackpoole from sixmiletown, a far-away cousin of the finns, who hated lady blood with a true provincial hatred. "i don't see anything particularly uncommon in him, after all," said lady blood. "i think he is very nice indeed," said mrs. flood jones. "so very quiet, my dear, and just like other people," said mrs. callaghan, meaning to pronounce a strong eulogium on the cabinet minister. "very like other people indeed," said lady blood. "and what would you expect, lady blood?" said mrs. stackpoole. "men and women in london walk upon two legs, just as they do in ennis." now lady blood herself had been born and bred in ennis, whereas mrs. stackpoole had come from limerick, which is a much more considerable town, and therefore there was a satire in this allusion to the habits of the men of ennis which lady blood understood thoroughly. "my dear mrs. stackpoole, i know how the people walk in london quite as well as you do." lady blood had once passed three months in london while sir patrick had been alive, whereas mrs. stackpoole had never done more than visit the metropolis for a day or two. "oh, no doubt," said mrs. stackpoole; "but i never can understand what it is that people expect. i suppose mr. monk ought to have come with his stars on the breast of his coat, to have pleased lady blood." "my dear mrs. stackpoole, cabinet ministers don't have stars," said lady blood. "i never said they did," said mrs. stackpoole. "he is so nice and gentle to talk to," said mrs. finn. "you may say what you will, but men who are high up do very often give themselves airs. now i must say that this friend of my son's does not do anything of that kind." "not the least," said mrs. callaghan. "quite the contrary," said mrs. stackpoole. "i dare say he is a wonderful man," said lady blood. "all i say is, that i didn't hear anything wonderful come out of his mouth; and as for people in ennis walking on two legs, i have seen donkeys in limerick doing just the same thing." now it was well known that mrs. stackpoole had two sons living in limerick, as to neither of whom was it expected that he would set the shannon on fire. after this little speech there was no further mention of mr. monk, as it became necessary that all the good-nature of mrs. finn and all the tact of mrs. flood jones and all the energy of mrs. callaghan should be used, to prevent the raging of an internecine battle between mrs. stackpoole and lady blood. chapter lxvi victrix mr. monk's holiday programme allowed him a week at killaloe, and from thence he was to go to limerick, and from limerick to dublin, in order that, at both places, he might be entertained at a public dinner and make a speech about tenant-right. foreseeing that phineas might commit himself if he attended these meetings, mr. monk had counselled him to remain at killaloe. but phineas had refused to subject himself to such cautious abstinence. mr. monk had come to ireland as his friend, and he would see him through his travels. "i shall not, probably, be asked to speak," said phineas, "and if i am asked, i need not say more than a few words. and what if i did speak out?" "you might find it disadvantageous to you in london." "i must take my chance of that. i am not going to tie myself down for ever and ever for the sake of being under-secretary to the colonies." mr. monk said very much to him on the subject,--was constantly saying very much to him about it; but in spite of all that mr. monk said, phineas did make the journey to limerick and dublin. he had not, since his arrival at killaloe, been a moment alone with mary flood jones till the evening before he started with mr. monk. she had kept out of his way successfully, though she had constantly been with him in company, and was beginning to plume herself on the strength and valour of her conduct. but her self-praise had in it nothing of joy, and her glory was very sad. of course she would care for him no more,--more especially as it was so very evident that he cared not at all for her. but the very fact of her keeping out of his way, made her acknowledge to herself that her position was very miserable. she had declared to her mother that she might certainly go to killaloe with safety,--that it would be better for her to put herself in the way of meeting him as an old friend,--that the idea of the necessity of shutting herself up because of his approach, was the one thing that gave her real pain. therefore her mother had brought her to killaloe and she had met him; but her fancied security had deserted her, and she found herself to be miserable, hoping for something she did not know what, still dreaming of possibilities, feeling during every moment of his presence with her that some special conduct was necessary on her part. she could not make further confession to her mother and ask to be carried back to floodborough; but she knew that she was very wretched at killaloe. as for phineas, he had felt that his old friend was very cold to him. he was in that humour with reference to violet effingham which seemed especially to require consolation. he knew now that all hope was over there. violet effingham could never be his wife. even were she not to marry lord chiltern for the next five years, she would not, during those five years, marry any other man. such was our hero's conviction; and, suffering under this conviction, he was in want of the comfort of feminine sympathy. had mary known all this, and had it suited her to play such a part, i think she might have had phineas at her feet before he had been a week at home. but she had kept aloof from him and had heard nothing of his sorrows. as a natural consequence of this, phineas was more in love with her than ever. on the evening before he started with mr. monk for limerick, he managed to be alone with her for a few minutes. barbara may probably have assisted in bringing about this arrangement, and had, perhaps, been guilty of some treachery,--sisters in such circumstances will sometimes be very treacherous to their friends. i feel sure, however, that mary herself was quite innocent of any guile in the matter. "mary," phineas said to her suddenly, "it seems to me that you have avoided me purposely ever since i have been at home." she smiled and blushed, and stammered and said nothing. "has there been any reason for it, mary?" "no reason at all that i know of," she said. "we used to be such great friends." "that was before you were a great man, phineas. it must necessarily be different now. you know so many people now, and people of such a different sort, that of course i fall a little into the background." "when you talk in that way, mary, i know that you are laughing at me." "indeed, indeed i am not." "i believe there is no one in the whole world," he said, after a pause, "whose friendship is more to me than yours is. i think of it so often, mary. say that when we come back it shall be between us as it used to be." then he put out his hand for hers, and she could not help giving it to him. "of course there will be people," he said, "who talk nonsense, and one cannot help it; but i will not put up with it from you." "i did not mean to talk nonsense, phineas!" then there came some one across them, and the conversation was ended; but the sound of his voice remained on her ears, and she could not help but remember that he had declared that her friendship was dearer to him than the friendship of any one else. phineas went with mr. monk first to limerick and then to dublin, and found himself at both places to be regarded as a hero only second to the great hero. at both places the one subject of debate was tenant-right;--could anything be done to make it profitable for men with capital to put their capital into irish land? the fertility of the soil was questioned by no one,--nor the sufficiency of external circumstances, such as railroads and the like;--nor the abundance of labour;--nor even security for the wealth to be produced. the only difficulty was in this, that the men who were to produce the wealth had no guarantee that it would be theirs when it was created. in england and elsewhere such guarantees were in existence. might it not be possible to introduce them into ireland? that was the question which mr. monk had in hand; and in various speeches which he made both before and after the dinners given to him, he pledged himself to keep it well in hand when parliament should meet. of course phineas spoke also. it was impossible that he should be silent when his friend and leader was pouring out his eloquence. of course he spoke, and of course he pledged himself. something like the old pleasures of the debating society returned to him, as standing upon a platform before a listening multitude, he gave full vent to his words. in the house of commons, of late he had been so cabined, cribbed, and confined by office as to have enjoyed nothing of this. indeed, from the commencement of his career, he had fallen so thoroughly into the decorum of government ways, as to have missed altogether the delights of that wild irresponsible oratory of which mr. monk had spoken to him so often. he had envied men below the gangway, who, though supporting the government on main questions, could get up on their legs whenever the house was full enough to make it worth their while, and say almost whatever they pleased. there was that mr. robson, who literally did say just what came uppermost; and the thing that came uppermost was often ill-natured, often unbecoming the gravity of the house, was always startling; but men listened to him and liked him to speak. but mr. robson had--married a woman with money. oh, why,--why, had not violet effingham been kinder to him? he might even yet, perhaps, marry a woman with money. but he could not bring himself to do so unless he loved her. the upshot of the dublin meeting was that he also positively pledged himself to support during the next session of parliament a bill advocating tenant-right. "i am sorry you went so far as that," mr. monk said to him almost as soon as the meeting was over. they were standing on the pier at kingstown, and mr. monk was preparing to return to england. "and why not i as far as you?" "because i had thought about it, and i do not think that you have. i am prepared to resign my office to-morrow; and directly that i can see mr. gresham and explain to him what i have done, i shall offer to do so." "he won't accept your resignation." "he must accept it, unless he is prepared to instruct the irish secretary to bring in such a bill as i can support." "i shall be exactly in the same boat." "but you ought not to be in the same boat;--nor need you. my advice to you is to say nothing about it till you get back to london, and then speak to lord cantrip. tell him that you will not say anything on the subject in the house, but that in the event of there being a division you hope to be allowed to vote as on an open question. it may be that i shall get gresham's assent, and if so we shall be all right. if i do not, and if they choose to make it a point with you, you must resign also." "of course i shall," said phineas. "but i do not think they will. you have been too useful, and they will wish to avoid the weakness which comes to a ministry from changing its team. good-bye, my dear fellow; and remember this,--my last word of advice to you is to stick by the ship. i am quite sure it is a career which will suit you. i did not begin it soon enough." phineas was rather melancholy as he returned alone to killaloe. it was all very well to bid him stick to the ship, and he knew as well as any one could tell him how material the ship was to him; but there are circumstances in which a man cannot stick to his ship,--cannot stick, at least, to this special government ship. he knew that whither mr. monk went, in this session, he must follow. he had considerable hope that when mr. monk explained his purpose to the prime minister, the prime minister would feel himself obliged to give way. in that case phineas would not only be able to keep his office, but would have such an opportunity of making a speech in parliament as circumstances had never yet given to him. when he was again at home he said nothing to his father or to the killaloeians as to the danger of his position. of what use would it be to make his mother and sisters miserable, or to incur the useless counsels of the doctor? they seemed to think his speech at dublin very fine, and were never tired of talking of what mr. monk and phineas were going to do; but the idea had not come home to them that if mr. monk or phineas chose to do anything on their own account, they must give up the places which they held under the crown. it was september when phineas found himself back at killaloe, and he was due to be at his office in london in november. the excitement of mr. monk's company was now over, and he had nothing to do but to receive pouches full of official papers from the colonial office, and study all the statistics which came within his reach in reference to the proposed new law for tenant-right. in the meantime mary was still living with her mother at killaloe, and still kept herself somewhat aloof from the man she loved. how could it be possible for him not to give way in such circumstances as those? one day he found himself talking to her about himself, and speaking to her of his own position with more frankness than he ever used with his own family. he had begun by reminding her of that conversation which they had had before he went away with mr. monk, and by reminding her also that she had promised to return to her old friendly ways with him. "nay, phineas; there was no promise," she said. "and are we not to be friends?" "i only say that i made no particular promise. of course we are friends. we have always been friends." "what would you say if you heard that i had resigned my office and given up my seat?" he asked. of course she expressed her surprise, almost her horror, at such an idea, and then he told her everything. it took long in the telling, because it was necessary that he should explain to her the working of the system which made it impossible for him, as a member of the government, to entertain an opinion of his own. "and do you mean that you would lose your salary?" she asked. "certainly i should." "would not that be very dreadful?" he laughed as he acknowledged that it would be dreadful. "it is very dreadful, mary, to have nothing to eat and drink. but what is a man to do? would you recommend me to say that black is white?" "i am sure you will never do that." "you see, mary, it is very nice to be called by a big name and to have a salary, and it is very comfortable to be envied by one's friends and enemies;--but there are drawbacks. there is this especial drawback." then he paused for a moment before he went on. "what especial drawback, phineas?" "a man cannot do what he pleases with himself. how can a man marry, so circumstanced as i am?" she hesitated for a moment, and then she answered him,--"a man may be very happy without marrying, i suppose." he also paused for many moments before he spoke again, and she then made a faint attempt to escape from him. but before she succeeded he had asked her a question which arrested her. "i wonder whether you would listen to me if i were to tell you a history?" of course she listened, and the history he told her was the tale of his love for violet effingham. "and she has money of her own?" mary asked. "yes;--she is rich. she has a large fortune." "then, mr. finn, you must seek some one else who is equally blessed." "mary, that is untrue,--that is ill-natured. you do not mean that. say that you do not mean it. you have not believed that i loved miss effingham because she was rich." "but you have told me that you could love no one who is not rich." "i have said nothing of the kind. love is involuntary. it does not often run in a yoke with prudence. i have told you my history as far as it is concerned with violet effingham. i did love her very dearly." "did love her, mr. finn?" "yes;--did love her. is there any inconstancy in ceasing to love when one is not loved? is there inconstancy in changing one's love, and in loving again?" "i do not know," said mary, to whom the occasion was becoming so embarrassing that she no longer was able to reply with words that had a meaning in them. "if there be, dear, i am inconstant." he paused, but of course she had not a syllable to say. "i have changed my love. but i could not speak of a new passion till i had told the story of that which has passed away. you have heard it all now, mary. can you try to love me, after that?" it had come at last,--the thing for which she had been ever wishing. it had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of her prudence. when she had heard him to the end she was not a whit angry with him,--she was not in the least aggrieved,--because he had been lost to her in his love for this miss effingham, while she had been so nearly lost by her love for him. for women such episodes in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. mary, upon the whole, had liked the story,--had thought that it had been finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe. but, nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply. "have you no answer to give me, mary?" he said, looking up into her eyes. i am afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer,--as it would be good that all lovers should do. "you must vouchsafe me some word, mary." when she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb. she could not get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word. she did not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which impeded all utterance. she was as happy as earth,--as heaven could make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy. and yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she was to him for his goodness. he still sat looking at her, and now by degrees he had got her hand in his. "mary," he said, "will you be my wife,--my own wife?" when half an hour had passed, they were still together, and now she had found the use of her tongue. "do whatever you like best," she said. "i do not care which you do. if you came to me to-morrow and told me you had no income, it would make no difference. though to love you and to have your love is all the world to me,--though it makes all the difference between misery and happiness,--i would sooner give up that than be a clog on you." then he took her in his arms and kissed her. "oh, phineas!" she said, "i do love you so entirely!" "my own one!" "yes; your own one. but if you had known it always! never mind. now you are my own,--are you not?" "indeed yes, dearest." "oh, what a thing it is to be victorious at last." "what on earth are you two doing here these two hours together?" said barbara, bursting into the room. "what are we doing?" said phineas. "yes;--what are you doing?" "nothing in particular," said mary. "nothing at all in particular," said phineas. "only this,--that we have engaged ourselves to marry each other. it is quite a trifle,--is it not, mary?" "oh, barbara!" said the joyful girl, springing forward into her friend's arms; "i do believe i am the happiest creature on the face of this earth!" chapter lxvii job's comforters before phineas had returned to london his engagement with mary flood jones was known to all his family, was known to mrs. flood jones, and was indeed known generally to all killaloe. that other secret of his, which had reference to the probability of his being obliged to throw up his office, was known only to mary herself. he thought that he had done all that honour required of him in telling her of his position before he had proposed;--so that she might on that ground refuse him if she were so minded. and yet he had known very well that such prudence on her part was not to be expected. if she loved him, of course she would say so when she was asked. and he had known that she loved him. "there may be delay, mary," he said to her as he was going; "nay, there must be delay, if i am obliged to resign." "i do not care a straw for delay if you will be true to me," she said. "do you doubt my truth, dearest?" "not in the least. i will swear by it as the one thing that is truest in the world." "you may, dearest. and if this should come to pass i must go to work and put my shoulder to the wheel, and earn an income for you by my old profession before i can make you my wife. with such a motive before me i know that i shall earn an income." and thus they parted. mary, though of course she would have preferred that her future husband should remain in his high office, that he should be a member of parliament and an under-secretary of state, admitted no doubt into her mind to disturb her happiness; and phineas, though he had many misgivings as to the prudence of what he had done, was not the less strong in his resolution of constancy and endurance. he would throw up his position, resign his seat, and go to work at the bar instantly, if he found that his independence as a man required him to do so. and, above all, let come what might, he would be true to mary flood jones. december was half over before he saw lord cantrip. "yes,--yes;" said lord cantrip, when the under-secretary began to tell his story; "i saw what you were about. i wish i had been at your elbow." "if you knew the country as i know it, you would be as eager about it as i am." "then i can only say that i am very glad that i do not know the country as you know it. you see, finn, it's my idea that if a man wants to make himself useful he should stick to some special kind of work. with you it's a thousand pities that you should not do so." "you think, then, i ought to resign?" "i don't say anything about that. as you wish it, of course i'll speak to gresham. monk, i believe, has resigned already." "he has written to me, and told me so," said phineas. "i always felt afraid of him for your sake, finn. mr. monk is a clever man, and as honest a man as any in the house, but i always thought that he was a dangerous friend for you. however, we will see. i will speak to gresham after christmas. there is no hurry about it." when parliament met the first great subject of interest was the desertion of mr. monk from the ministry. he at once took his place below the gangway, sitting as it happened exactly in front of mr. turnbull, and there he made his explanation. some one opposite asked a question whether a certain right honourable gentleman had not left the cabinet. then mr. gresham replied that to his infinite regret his right honourable friend, who lately presided at the board of trade, had resigned; and he went on to explain that this resignation had, according to his ideas, been quite unnecessary. his right honourable friend entertained certain ideas about irish tenant-right, as to which he himself and his right honourable friend the secretary for ireland could not exactly pledge themselves to be in unison with him; but he had thought that the motion might have rested at any rate over this session. then mr. monk explained, making his first great speech on irish tenant-right. he found himself obliged to advocate some immediate measure for giving security to the irish farmer; and as he could not do so as a member of the cabinet, he was forced to resign the honour of that position. he said something also as to the great doubt which had ever weighed on his own mind as to the inexpediency of a man at his time of life submitting himself for the first time to the trammels of office. this called up mr. turnbull, who took the opportunity of saying that he now agreed cordially with his old friend for the first time since that old friend had listened to the blandishments of the ministerial seducer, and that he welcomed his old friend back to those independent benches with great satisfaction. in this way the debate was very exciting. nothing was said which made it then necessary for phineas to get upon his legs or to declare himself; but he perceived that the time would rapidly come in which he must do so. mr. gresham, though he strove to speak with gentle words, was evidently very angry with the late president of the board of trade; and, moreover, it was quite clear that a bill would be introduced by mr. monk himself, which mr. gresham was determined to oppose. if all this came to pass and there should be a close division, phineas felt that his fate would be sealed. when he again spoke to lord cantrip on the subject, the secretary of state shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "i can only advise you," said lord cantrip, "to forget all that took place in ireland. if you will do so, nobody else will remember it." "as if it were possible to forget such things," he said in the letter which he wrote to mary that night. "of course i shall go now. if it were not for your sake, i should not in the least regret it." he had been with madame goesler frequently in the winter, and had discussed with her so often the question of his official position that she had declared that she was coming at last to understand the mysteries of an english cabinet. "i think you are quite right, my friend," she said,--"quite right. what--you are to be in parliament and say that this black thing is white, or that this white thing is black, because you like to take your salary! that cannot be honest!" then, when he came to talk to her of money,--that he must give up parliament itself, if he gave up his place,--she offered to lend him money. "why should you not treat me as a friend?" she said. when he pointed out to her that there would never come a time in which he could pay such money back, she stamped her foot and told him that he had better leave her. "you have high principle," she said, "but not principle sufficiently high to understand that this thing could be done between you and me without disgrace to either of us." then phineas assured her with tears in his eyes that such an arrangement was impossible without disgrace to him. but he whispered to this new friend no word of the engagement with his dear irish mary. his irish life, he would tell himself, was a thing quite apart and separate from his life in england. he said not a word about mary flood jones to any of those with whom he lived in london. why should he, feeling as he did that it would so soon be necessary that he should disappear from among them? about miss effingham he had said much to madame goesler. she had asked him whether he had abandoned all hope. "that affair, then, is over?" she had said. "yes;--it is all over now." "and she will marry the red-headed, violent lord?" "heaven knows. i think she will. but she is exactly the girl to remain unmarried if she takes it into her head that the man she likes is in any way unfitted for her." "does she love this lord?" "oh yes;--there is no doubt of that." and phineas, as he made this acknowledgment, seemed to do so without much inward agony of soul. when he had been last in london he could not speak of violet and lord chiltern together without showing that his misery was almost too much for him. at this time he received some counsel from two friends. one was laurence fitzgibbon, and the other was barrington erle. laurence had always been true to him after a fashion, and had never resented his intrusion at the colonial office. "phineas, me boy," he said, "if all this is thrue, you're about up a tree." "it is true that i shall support monk's motion." "then, me boy, you're up a tree as far as office goes. a place like that niver suited me, because, you see, that poker of a young lord expected so much of a man; but you don't mind that kind of thing, and i thought you were as snug as snug." "troubles will come, you see, laurence." "bedad, yes. it's all throubles, i think, sometimes. but you've a way out of all your throubles." "what way?" "pop the question to madame max. the money's all thrue, you know." "i don't doubt the money in the least," said phineas. "and it's my belief she'll take you without a second word. anyways, thry it, phinny, my boy. that's my advice." phineas so far agreed with his friend laurence that he thought it possible that madame goesler might accept him were he to propose marriage to her. he knew, of course, that that mode of escape from his difficulties was out of the question for him, but he could not explain this to laurence fitzgibbon. "i am sorry to hear that you have taken up a bad cause," said barrington erle to him. "it is a pity;--is it not?" "and the worst of it is that you'll sacrifice yourself and do no good to the cause. i never knew a man break away in this fashion, and not feel afterwards that he had done it all for nothing." "but what is a man to do, barrington? he can't smother his convictions." "convictions! there is nothing on earth that i'm so much afraid of in a young member of parliament as convictions. there are ever so many rocks against which men get broken. one man can't keep his temper. another can't hold his tongue. a third can't say a word unless he has been priming himself half a session. a fourth is always thinking of himself, and wanting more than he can get. a fifth is idle, and won't be there when he's wanted. a sixth is always in the way. a seventh lies so that you never can trust him. i've had to do with them all, but a fellow with convictions is the worst of all." "i don't see how a fellow is to help himself," said phineas. "when a fellow begins to meddle with politics they will come." "why can't you grow into them gradually as your betters and elders have done before you? it ought to be enough for any man, when he begins, to know that he's a liberal. he understands which side of the house he's to vote, and who is to lead him. what's the meaning of having a leader to a party, if it's not that? do you think that you and mr. monk can go and make a government between you?" "whatever i think, i'm sure he doesn't." "i'm not so sure of that. but look here, phineas, i don't care two straws about monk's going. i always thought that mildmay and the duke were wrong when they asked him to join. i knew he'd go over the traces,--unless, indeed, he took his money and did nothing for it, which is the way with some of those radicals. i look upon him as gone." "he has gone." "the devil go along with him, as you say in ireland. but don't you be such a fool as to ruin yourself for a crotchet of monk's. it isn't too late yet for you to hold back. to tell you the truth, gresham has said a word to me about it already. he is most anxious that you should stay, but of course you can't stay and vote against us." "of course i cannot." "i look upon you, you know, as in some sort my own child. i've tried to bring other fellows forward who seemed to have something in them, but i have never succeeded as i have with you. you've hit the thing off, and have got the ball at your foot. upon my honour, in the whole course of my experience i have never known such good fortune as yours." "and i shall always remember how it began, barrington," said phineas, who was greatly moved by the energy and solicitude of his friend. "but, for god's sake, don't go and destroy it all by such mad perversity as this. they mean to do something next session. morrison is going to take it up." sir walter morrison was at this time secretary for ireland. "but of course we can't let a fellow like monk take the matter into his own hands just when he pleases. i call it d----d treachery." "monk is no traitor, barrington." "men will have their own opinions about that. it's generally understood that when a man is asked to take a seat in the cabinet he is expected to conform with his colleagues, unless something very special turns up. but i am speaking of you now, and not of monk. you are not a man of fortune. you cannot afford to make ducks and drakes. you are excellently placed, and you have plenty of time to hark back, if you'll only listen to reason. all that irish stump balderdash will never be thrown in your teeth by us, if you will just go on as though it had never been uttered." phineas could only thank his friend for his advice, which was at least disinterested, and was good of its kind, and tell him that he would think of it. he did think of it very much. he almost thought that, were it to do again, he would allow mr. monk to go upon his tour alone, and keep himself from the utterance of anything that so good a judge as erle could call stump balderdash. as he sat in his arm-chair in his room at the colonial office, with despatch-boxes around him, and official papers spread before him,--feeling himself to be one of those who in truth managed and governed the affairs of this great nation, feeling also that if he relinquished his post now he could never regain it,--he did wish that he had been a little less in love with independence, a little quieter in his boastings that no official considerations should ever silence his tongue. but all this was too late now. he knew that his skin was not thick enough to bear the arrows of those archers who would bend their bows against him if he should now dare to vote against mr. monk's motion. his own party might be willing to forgive and forget; but there would be others who would read those reports, and would appear in the house with the odious tell-tale newspapers in their hands. then he received a letter from his father. some good-natured person had enlightened the doctor as to the danger in which his son was placing himself. dr. finn, who in his own profession was a very excellent and well-instructed man, had been so ignorant of parliamentary tactics, as to have been proud at his son's success at the irish meetings. he had thought that phineas was carrying on his trade as a public speaker with proper energy and continued success. he had cared nothing himself for tenant-right, and had acknowledged to mr. monk that he could not understand in what it was that the farmers were wronged. but he knew that mr. monk was a cabinet minister, and he thought that phineas was earning his salary. then there came some one who undeceived him, and the paternal bosom of the doctor was dismayed. "i don't mean to interfere," he said in his letter, "but i can hardly believe that you really intend to resign your place. yet i am told that you must do so if you go on with this matter. my dear boy, pray think about it. i cannot imagine you are disposed to lose all that you have won for nothing." mary also wrote to him. mrs. finn had been talking to her, and mary had taught herself to believe that after the many sweet conversations she had had with a man so high in office as phineas, she really did understand something about the british government. mrs. finn had interrogated mary, and mary had been obliged to own that it was quite possible that phineas would be called upon to resign. "but why, my dear? heaven and earth! resign two thousand a year!" "that he may maintain his independence," said mary proudly. "fiddlestick!" said mrs. finn. "how is he to maintain you, or himself either, if he goes on in that way? i shouldn't wonder if he didn't get himself all wrong, even now." then mrs. finn began to cry; and mary could only write to her lover, pointing out to him how very anxious all his friends were that he should do nothing in a hurry. but what if the thing were done already! phineas in his great discomfort went to seek further counsel from madame goesler. of all his counsellors, madame goesler was the only one who applauded him for what he was about to do. "but, after all, what is it you give up? mr. gresham may be out to-morrow, and then where will be your place?" "there does not seem to be much chance of that at present." "who can tell? of course i do not understand,--but it was only the other day when mr. mildmay was there, and only the day before that when lord de terrier was there, and again only the day before that when lord brock was there." phineas endeavoured to make her understand that of the four prime ministers whom she had named, three were men of the same party as himself, under whom it would have suited him to serve. "i would not serve under any man if i were an english gentleman in parliament," said madame goesler. "what is a poor fellow to do?" said phineas, laughing. "a poor fellow need not be a poor fellow unless he likes," said madame goesler. immediately after this phineas left her, and as he went along the street he began to question himself whether the prospects of his own darling mary were at all endangered by his visits to park lane; and to reflect what sort of a blackguard he would be,--a blackguard of how deep a dye,--were he to desert mary and marry madame max goesler. then he also asked himself as to the nature and quality of his own political honesty if he were to abandon mary in order that he might maintain his parliamentary independence. after all, if it should ever come to pass that his biography should be written, his biographer would say very much more about the manner in which he kept his seat in parliament than of the manner in which he kept his engagement with miss mary flood jones. half a dozen people who knew him and her might think ill of him for his conduct to mary, but the world would not condemn him! and when he thundered forth his liberal eloquence from below the gangway as an independent member, having the fortune of his charming wife to back him, giving excellent dinners at the same time in park lane, would not the world praise him very loudly? when he got to his office he found a note from lord brentford inviting him to dine in portman square. chapter lxviii the joint attack the note from lord brentford surprised our hero not a little. he had had no communication with the earl since the day on which he had been so savagely scolded about the duel, when the earl had plainly told him that his conduct had been as bad as it could be. phineas had not on that account become at all ashamed of his conduct in reference to the duel, but he had conceived that any reconciliation between him and the earl had been out of the question. now there had come a civilly-worded invitation, asking him to dine with the offended nobleman. the note had been written by lady laura, but it had purported to come from lord brentford himself. he sent back word to say that he should be happy to have the honour of dining with lord brentford. parliament at this time had been sitting nearly a month, and it was already march. phineas had heard nothing of lady laura, and did not even know that she was in london till he saw her handwriting. he did not know that she had not gone back to her husband, and that she had remained with her father all the winter at saulsby. he had also heard that lord chiltern had been at saulsby. all the world had been talking of the separation of mr. kennedy from his wife, one half of the world declaring that his wife, if not absolutely false to him, had neglected all her duties; and the other half asserting that mr. kennedy's treatment of his wife had been so bad that no woman could possibly have lived with him. there had even been a rumour that lady laura had gone off with a lover from the duke of omnium's garden party, and some indiscreet tongue had hinted that a certain unmarried under-secretary of state was missing at the same time. but lord chiltern upon this had shown his teeth with so strong a propensity to do some real biting, that no one had ventured to repeat that rumour. its untruth was soon established by the fact that lady laura kennedy was living with her father at saulsby. of mr. kennedy, phineas had as yet seen nothing since he had been up in town. that gentleman, though a member of the cabinet, had not been in london at the opening of the session, nor had he attended the cabinet meetings during the recess. it had been stated in the newspapers that he was ill, and stated in private that he could not bear to show himself since his wife had left him. at last, however, he came to london, and phineas saw him in the house. then, when the first meeting of the cabinet was summoned after his return, it became known that he also had resigned his office. there was nothing said about his resignation in the house. he had resigned on the score of ill-health, and that very worthy peer, lord mount thistle, formerly sir marmaduke morecombe, came back to the duchy of lancaster in his place. a prime minister sometimes finds great relief in the possession of a serviceable stick who can be made to go in and out as occasion may require; only it generally happens that the stick will expect some reward when he is made to go out. lord mount thistle immediately saw his way to a viscount's coronet, when he was once more summoned to the august councils of the ministers. a few days after this had been arranged, in the interval between lord brentford's invitation and lord brentford's dinner, phineas encountered mr. kennedy so closely in one of the passages of the house that it was impossible that they should not speak to each other, unless they were to avoid each other as people do who have palpably quarrelled. phineas saw that mr. kennedy was hesitating, and therefore took the bull by the horns. he greeted his former friend in a friendly fashion, shaking him by the hand, and then prepared to pass on. but mr. kennedy, though he had hesitated at first, now detained his brother member. "finn," he said, "if you are not engaged i should like to speak to you for a moment." phineas was not engaged, and allowed himself to be led out arm-in-arm by the late chancellor of the duchy into westminster hall. "of course you know what a terrible thing has happened to me," said mr. kennedy. "yes;--i have heard of it," said phineas. "everybody has heard of it. that is one of the terrible cruelties of such a blow." "all those things are very bad of course. i was very much grieved,--because you have both been intimate friends of mine." "yes,--yes; we were. do you ever see her now?" "not since last july,--at the duke's party, you know." "ah, yes; the morning of that day was the last on which i spoke to her. it was then she left me." "i am going to dine with lord brentford to-morrow, and i dare say she will be there." "yes;--she is in town. i saw her yesterday in her father's carriage. i think that she had no cause to leave me." "of course i cannot say anything about that." "i think she had no cause to leave me." phineas as he heard this could not but remember all that lady laura had told himself, and thought that no woman had ever had a better reason for leaving her husband. "there were things i did not like, and i said so." "i suppose that is generally the way," replied phineas. "but surely a wife should listen to a word of caution from her husband." "i fancy they never like it," said phineas. "but are we all of us to have all that we like? i have not found it so. or would it be good for us if we had?" then he paused; but as phineas had no further remark to make, he continued speaking after they had walked about a third of the length of the hall. "it is not of my own comfort i am thinking now so much as of her name and her future conduct. of course it will in every sense be best for her that she should come back to her husband's roof." "well; yes;--perhaps it would," said phineas. "has she not accepted that lot for better or for worse?" said mr. kennedy, solemnly. "but incompatibility of temper, you know, is always,--always supposed--. you understand me?" "it is my intention that she should come back to me. i do not wish to make any legal demand;--at any rate, not as yet. will you consent to be the bearer of a message from me both to herself and to the earl?" now it seemed to phineas that of all the messengers whom mr. kennedy could have chosen he was the most unsuited to be a mercury in this cause,--not perceiving that he had been so selected with some craft, in order that lady laura might understand that the accusation against her was, at any rate, withdrawn, which had named phineas as her lover. he paused again before he answered. "of course," he said, "i should be most willing to be of service, if it were possible. but i do not see how i can speak to the earl about it. though i am going to dine with him i don't know why he has asked me;--for he and i are on very bad terms. he heard that stupid story about the duel, and has not spoken to me since." "i heard that, too," said mr. kennedy, frowning blackly as he remembered his wife's duplicity. "everybody heard of it. but it has made such a difference between him and me, that i don't think i can meddle. send for lord chiltern, and speak to him." "speak to chiltern! never! he would probably strike me on the head with his club." "call on the earl yourself." "i did, and he would not see me." "write to him." "i did, and he sent back my letter unopened." "write to her." "i did;--and she answered me, saying only thus; 'indeed, indeed, it cannot be so.' but it must be so. the laws of god require it, and the laws of man permit it. i want some one to point out that to them more softly than i could do if i were simply to write to that effect. to the earl, of course, i cannot write again." the conference ended by a promise from phineas that he would, if possible, say a word to lady laura. when he was shown into lord brentford's drawing-room he found not only lady laura there, but her brother. lord brentford was not in the room. barrington erle was there, and so also were lord and lady cantrip. "is not your father going to be here?" he said to lady laura, after their first greeting. "we live in that hope," said she, "and do not at all know why he should be late. what has become of him, oswald?" "he came in with me half an hour ago, and i suppose he does not dress as quickly as i do," said lord chiltern; upon which phineas immediately understood that the father and the son were reconciled, and he rushed to the conclusion that violet and her lover would also soon be reconciled, if such were not already the case. he felt some remnant of a soreness that it should be so, as a man feels where his headache has been when the real ache itself has left him. then the host came in and made his apologies. "chiltern kept me standing about," he said, "till the east wind had chilled me through and through. the only charm i recognise in youth is that it is impervious to the east wind." phineas felt quite sure now that violet and her lover were reconciled, and he had a distinct feeling of the place where the ache had been. dear violet! but, after all, violet lacked that sweet, clinging, feminine softness which made mary flood jones so pre-eminently the most charming of her sex. the earl, when he had repeated his general apology, especially to lady cantrip, who was the only lady present except his daughter, came up to our hero and shook him kindly by the hand. he took him up to one of the windows and then addressed him in a voice of mock solemnity. "stick to the colonies, young man," he said, "and never meddle with foreign affairs;--especially not at blankenberg." "never again, my lord;--never again." "and leave all questions of fire-arms to be arranged between the horse guards and the war office. i have heard a good deal about it since i saw you, and i retract a part of what i said. but a duel is a foolish thing,--a very foolish thing. come;--here is dinner." and the earl walked off with lady cantrip, and lord cantrip walked off with lady laura. barrington erle followed, and phineas had an opportunity of saying a word to his friend, lord chiltern, as they went down together. "it's all right between you and your father?" "yes;--after a fashion. there is no knowing how long it will last. he wants me to do three things, and i won't do any one of them." "what are the three?" "to go into parliament, to be an owner of sheep and oxen, and to hunt in his own county. i should never attend the first, i should ruin myself with the second, and i should never get a run in the third." but there was not a word said about his marriage. there were only seven who sat down to dinner, and the six were all people with whom phineas was or had been on most intimate terms. lord cantrip was his official chief, and, since that connection had existed between them, lady cantrip had been very gracious to him. she quite understood the comfort which it was to her husband to have under him, as his representative in the house of commons, a man whom he could thoroughly trust and like, and therefore she had used her woman's arts to bind phineas to her lord in more than mere official bondage. she had tried her skill also upon laurence fitzgibbon,--but altogether in vain. he had eaten her dinners and accepted her courtesies, and had given for them no return whatever. but phineas had possessed a more grateful mind, and had done all that had been required of him;--had done all that had been required of him till there had come that terrible absurdity in ireland. "i knew very well what sort of things would happen when they brought such a man as mr. monk into the cabinet," lady cantrip had said to her husband. but though the party was very small, and though the guests were all his intimate friends, phineas suspected nothing special till an attack was made upon him as soon as the servants had left the room. this was done in the presence of the two ladies, and, no doubt, had been preconcerted. there was lord cantrip there, who had already said much to him, and barrington erle who had said more even than lord cantrip. lord brentford, himself a member of the cabinet, opened the attack by asking whether it was actually true that mr. monk meant to go on with his motion. barrington erle asserted that mr. monk positively would do so. "and gresham will oppose it?" asked the earl. "of course he will," said barrington. "of course he will," said lord cantrip. "i know what i should think of him if he did not," said lady cantrip. "he is the last man in the world to be forced into a thing," said lady laura. then phineas knew pretty well what was coming on him. lord brentford began again by asking how many supporters mr. monk would have in the house. "that depends upon the amount of courage which the conservatives may have," said barrington erle. "if they dare to vote for a thoroughly democratic measure, simply for the sake of turning us out, it is quite on the cards that they may succeed." "but of our own people?" asked lord cantrip. "you had better inquire that of phineas finn," said barrington. and then the attack was made. our hero had a bad half hour of it, though many words were said which must have gratified him much. they all wanted to keep him,--so lord cantrip declared, "except one or two whom i could name, and who are particularly anxious to wear his shoes," said barrington, thinking that certain reminiscences of phineas with regard to mr. bonteen and others might operate as strongly as any other consideration to make him love his place. lord brentford declared that he could not understand it,--that he should find himself lost in amazement if such a man as his young friend allowed himself to be led into the outer wilderness by such an ignis-fatuus of light as this. lord cantrip laid down the unwritten traditional law of government officials very plainly. a man in office,--in an office which really imposed upon him as much work as he could possibly do with credit to himself or his cause,--was dispensed from the necessity of a conscience with reference to other matters. it was for sir walter morrison to have a conscience about irish tenant-right, as no doubt he had,--just as phineas finn had a conscience about canada, and jamaica, and the cape. barrington erle was very strong about parties in general, and painted the comforts of official position in glowing colours. but i think that the two ladies were more efficacious than even their male relatives in the arguments which they used. "we have been so happy to have you among us," said lady cantrip, looking at him with beseeching, almost loving eyes. "mr. finn knows," said lady laura, "that since he first came into parliament i have always believed in his success, and i have been very proud to see it." "we shall weep over him, as over a fallen angel, if he leaves us," said lady cantrip. "i won't say that i will weep," said lady laura, "but i do not know anything of the kind that would so truly make me unhappy." what was he to say in answer to applications so flattering and so pressing? he would have said nothing, had that been possible, but he felt himself obliged to reply. he replied very weakly,--of course, not justifying himself, but declaring that as he had gone so far he must go further. he must vote for the measure now. both his chief and barrington erle proved, or attempted to prove, that he was wrong in this. of course he would not speak on the measure, and his vote for his party would probably be allowed to pass without notice. one or two newspapers might perhaps attack him; but what public man cared for such attacks as those? his whole party would hang by him, and in that he would find ample consolation. phineas could only say that he would think of it;--and this he said in so irresolute a tone of voice that all the men then present believed that he was gained. the two ladies, however, were of a different opinion. "in spite of anything that anybody may say, he will do what he thinks right when the time comes," said laura to her father afterwards. but then lady laura had been in love with him,--was perhaps almost in love with him still. "i'm afraid he is a mule," said lady cantrip to her husband. "he's a good mule up a hill with a load on his back," said his lordship. "but with a mule there always comes a time when you can't manage him," said lady cantrip. but lady cantrip had never been in love with phineas. phineas found a moment, before he left lord brentford's house, to say a word to lady laura as to the commission that had been given to him. "it can never be," said lady laura, shuddering;--"never, never, never!" "you are not angry with me for speaking?" "oh, no--not if he told you." "he made me promise that i would." "tell him it cannot be. tell him that if he has any instruction to send me as to what he considers to be my duty, i will endeavour to comply, if that duty can be done apart. i will recognize him so far, because of my vow. but not even for the sake of my vow, will i endeavour to live with him. his presence would kill me!" when phineas repeated this, or as much of this as he judged to be necessary, to mr. kennedy a day or two afterwards, that gentleman replied that in such case he would have no alternative but to seek redress at law. "i have done nothing to my wife," said he, "of which i need be ashamed. it will be sad, no doubt, to have all our affairs bandied about in court, and made the subject of comment in newspapers, but a man must go through that, or worse than that, in the vindication of his rights, and for the performance of his duty to his maker." that very day mr. kennedy went to his lawyer, and desired that steps might be taken for the restitution to him of his conjugal rights. chapter lxix the temptress mr. monk's bill was read the first time before easter, and phineas finn still held his office. he had spoken to the prime minister once on the subject, and had been surprised at that gentleman's courtesy;--for mr. gresham had the reputation of being unconciliatory in his manners, and very prone to resent anything like desertion from that allegiance which was due to himself as the leader of his party. "you had better stay where you are and take no step that may be irretrievable, till you have quite made up your mind," said mr. gresham. "i fear i have made up my mind," said phineas. "nothing can be done till after easter," replied the great man, "and there is no knowing how things may go then. i strongly recommend you to stay with us. if you can do this it will be only necessary that you shall put your resignation in lord cantrip's hands before you speak or vote against us. see monk and talk it over with him." mr. gresham possibly imagined that mr. monk might be moved to abandon his bill, when he saw what injury he was about to do. at this time phineas received the following letter from his darling mary:-- floodborough, thursday. dearest phineas, we have just got home from killaloe, and mean to remain here all through the summer. after leaving your sisters this house seems so desolate; but i shall have the more time to think of you. i have been reading tennyson, as you told me, and i fancy that i could in truth be a mariana here, if it were not that i am so quite certain that you will come;--and that makes all the difference in the world in a moated grange. last night i sat at the window and tried to realise what i should feel if you were to tell me that you did not want me; and i got myself into such an ecstatic state of mock melancholy that i cried for half an hour. but when one has such a real living joy at the back of one's romantic melancholy, tears are very pleasant;-- they water and do not burn. i must tell you about them all at killaloe. they certainly are very unhappy at the idea of your resigning. your father says very little, but i made him own that to act as you are acting for the sake of principle is very grand. i would not leave him till he had said so, and he did say it. dear mrs. finn does not understand it as well, but she will do so. she complains mostly for my sake, and when i tell her that i will wait twenty years if it is necessary, she tells me i do not know what waiting means. but i will,--and will be happy, and will never really think myself a mariana. dear, dear, dear phineas, indeed i won't. the girls are half sad and half proud. but i am wholly proud, and know that you are doing just what you ought to do. i shall think more of you as a man who might have been a prime minister than if you were really sitting in the cabinet like lord cantrip. as for mamma, i cannot make her quite understand it. she merely says that no young man who is going to be married ought to resign anything. dear mamma;--sometimes she does say such odd things. you told me to tell you everything, and so i have. i talk to some of the people here, and tell them what they might do if they had tenant-right. one old fellow, mike dufferty,--i don't know whether you remember him,--asked if he would have to pay the rent all the same. when i said certainly he would, then he shook his head. but as you said once, when we want to do good to people one has no right to expect that they should understand it. it is like baptizing little infants. i got both your notes;--seven words in one, mr. under-secretary, and nine in the other! but the one little word at the end was worth a whole sheet full of common words. how nice it is to write letters without paying postage, and to send them about the world with a grand name in the corner. when barney brings me one he always looks as if he didn't know whether it was a love letter or an order to go to botany bay. if he saw the inside of them, how short they are, i don't think he'd think much of you as a lover nor yet as an under-secretary. but i think ever so much of you as both;--i do, indeed; and i am not scolding you a bit. as long as i can have two or three dear, sweet, loving words, i shall be as happy as a queen. ah, if you knew it all! but you never can know it all. a man has so many other things to learn that he cannot understand it. good-bye, dear, dear, dearest man. whatever you do i shall be quite sure you have done the best. ever your own, with all the love of her heart, mary f. jones. this was very nice. such a man as was phineas finn always takes a delight which he cannot express even to himself in the receipt of such a letter as this. there is nothing so flattering as the warm expression of the confidence of a woman's love, and phineas thought that no woman ever expressed this more completely than did his mary. dear, dearest mary. as for giving her up, as for treachery to one so trusting, so sweet, so well beloved, that was out of the question. but nevertheless the truth came home to him more clearly day by day, that he of all men was the last who ought to have given himself up to such a passion. for her sake he ought to have abstained. so he told himself now. for her sake he ought to have kept aloof from her;--and for his own sake he ought to have kept aloof from mr. monk. that very day, with mary's letter in his pocket, he went to the livery stables and explained that he would not keep his horse any longer. there was no difficulty about the horse. mr. howard macleod of the treasury would take him from that very hour. phineas, as he walked away, uttered a curse upon mr. howard macleod. mr. howard macleod was just beginning the glory of his life in london, and he, phineas finn, was bringing his to an end. with mary's letter in his pocket he went up to portman square. he had again got into the habit of seeing lady laura frequently, and was often with her brother, who now again lived at his father's house. a letter had reached lord brentford, through his lawyer, in which a demand was made by mr. kennedy for the return of his wife. she was quite determined that she would never go back to him; and there had come to her a doubt whether it would not be expedient that she should live abroad so as to be out of the way of persecution from her husband. lord brentford was in great wrath, and lord chiltern had once or twice hinted that perhaps he had better "see" mr. kennedy. the amenities of such an interview, as this would be, had up to the present day been postponed; and, in a certain way, phineas had been used as a messenger between mr. kennedy and his wife's family. "i think it will end," she said, "in my going to dresden, and settling myself there. papa will come to me when parliament is not sitting." "it will be very dull." "dull! what does dulness amount to when one has come to such a pass as this? when one is in the ruck of fortune, to be dull is very bad; but when misfortune comes, simple dulness is nothing. it sounds almost like relief." "it is so hard that you should be driven away." she did not answer him for a while, and he was beginning to think of his own case also. was it not hard that he too should be driven away? "it is odd enough that we should both be going at the same time." "but you will not go?" "i think i shall. i have resolved upon this,--that if i give up my place, i will give up my seat too. i went into parliament with the hope of office, and how can i remain there when i shall have gained it and then have lost it?" "but you will stay in london, mr. finn?" "i think not. after all that has come and gone i should not be happy here, and i should make my way easier and on cheaper terms in dublin. my present idea is that i shall endeavour to make a practice over in my own country. it will be hard work beginning at the bottom;--will it not?" "and so unnecessary." "ah, lady laura,--if it only could be avoided! but it is of no use going through all that again." "how much we would both of us avoid if we could only have another chance!" said lady laura. "if i could only be as i was before i persuaded myself to marry a man whom i never loved, what a paradise the earth would be to me! with me all regrets are too late." "and with me as much so." "no, mr. finn. even should you resign your office, there is no reason why you should give up your seat." "simply that i have no income to maintain me in london." she was silent for a few moments, during which she changed her seat so as to come nearer to him, placing herself on a corner of a sofa close to the chair on which he was seated. "i wonder whether i may speak to you plainly," she said. "indeed you may." "on any subject?" "yes;--on any subject." "i trust you have been able to rid your bosom of all remembrances of violet effingham." "certainly not of all remembrances, lady laura." "of all hope, then?" "i have no such hope." "and of all lingering desires?" "well, yes;--and of all lingering desires. i know now that it cannot be. your brother is welcome to her." "ah;--of that i know nothing. he, with his perversity, has estranged her. but i am sure of this,--that if she do not marry him, she will marry no one. but it is not on account of him that i speak. he must fight his own battles now." "i shall not interfere with him, lady laura." "then why should you not establish yourself by a marriage that will make place a matter of indifference to you? i know that it is within your power to do so." phineas put his hand up to his breastcoat pocket, and felt that mary's letter,--her precious letter,--was there safe. it certainly was not in his power to do this thing which lady laura recommended to him, but he hardly thought that the present was a moment suitable for explaining to her the nature of the impediment which stood in the way of such an arrangement. he had so lately spoken to lady laura with an assurance of undying constancy of his love for miss effingham, that he could not as yet acknowledge the force of another passion. he shook his head by way of reply. "i tell you that it is so," she said with energy. "i am afraid not." "go to madame goesler, and ask her. hear what she will say." "madame goesler would laugh at me, no doubt." "psha! you do not think so. you know that she would not laugh. and are you the man to be afraid of a woman's laughter? i think not." again he did not answer her at once, and when he did speak the tone of his voice was altered. "what was it you said of yourself, just now?" "what did i say of myself?" "you regretted that you had consented to marry a man,--whom you did not love." "why should you not love her? and it is so different with a man! a woman is wretched if she does not love her husband, but i fancy that a man gets on very well without any such feeling. she cannot domineer over you. she cannot expect you to pluck yourself out of your own soil, and begin a new growth altogether in accordance with the laws of her own. it was that which mr. kennedy did." "i do not for a moment think that she would take me, if i were to offer myself." "try her," said lady laura energetically. "such trials cost you but little;--we both of us know that!" still he said nothing of the letter in his pocket. "it is everything that you should go on now that you have once begun. i do not believe in you working at the bar. you cannot do it. a man who has commenced life as you have done with the excitement of politics, who has known what it is to take a prominent part in the control of public affairs, cannot give it up and be happy at other work. make her your wife, and you may resign or remain in office just as you choose. office will be much easier to you than it is now, because it will not be a necessity. let me at any rate have the pleasure of thinking that one of us can remain here,--that we need not both fall together." still he did not tell her of the letter in his pocket. he felt that she moved him,--that she made him acknowledge to himself how great would be the pity of such a failure as would be his. he was quite as much alive as she could be to the fact that work at the bar, either in london or in dublin, would have no charms for him now. the prospect of such a life was very dreary to him. even with the comfort of mary's love such a life would be very dreary to him. and then he knew,--he thought that he knew,--that were he to offer himself to madame goesler he would not in truth be rejected. she had told him that if poverty was a trouble to him he need be no longer poor. of course he had understood this. her money was at his service if he should choose to stoop and pick it up. and it was not only money that such a marriage would give him. he had acknowledged to himself more than once that madame goesler was very lovely, that she was clever, attractive in every way, and as far as he could see, blessed with a sweet temper. she had a position, too, in the world that would help him rather than mar him. what might he not do with an independent seat in the house of commons, and as joint owner of the little house in park lane? of all careers which the world could offer to a man the pleasantest would then be within his reach. "you appear to me as a tempter," he said at last to lady laura. "it is unkind of you to say that, and ungrateful. i would do anything on earth in my power to help you." "nevertheless you are a tempter." "i know how it ought to have been," she said, in a low voice. "i know very well how it ought to have been. i should have kept myself free till that time when we met on the braes of loughlinter, and then all would have been well with us." "i do not know how that might have been," said phineas, hoarsely. "you do not know! but i know. of course you have stabbed me with a thousand daggers when you have told me from time to time of your love for violet. you have been very cruel,--needlessly cruel. men are so cruel! but for all that i have known that i could have kept you,--had it not been too late when you spoke to me. will you not own as much as that?" "of course you would have been everything to me. i should never have thought of violet then." "that is the only kind word you have said to me from that day to this. i try to comfort myself in thinking that it would have been so. but all that is past and gone, and done. i have had my romance and you have had yours. as you are a man, it is natural that you should have been disturbed by a double image;--it is not so with me." "and yet you can advise me to offer marriage to a woman,--a woman whom i am to seek merely because she is rich?" "yes;--i do so advise you. you have had your romance and must now put up with reality. why should i so advise you but for the interest that i have in you? your prosperity will do me no good. i shall not even be here to see it. i shall hear of it only as so many a woman banished out of england hears a distant misunderstood report of what is going on in the country she has left. but i still have regard enough,--i will be bold, and, knowing that you will not take it amiss, will say love enough for you,--to feel a desire that you should not be shipwrecked. since we first took you in hand between us, barrington and i, i have never swerved in my anxiety on your behalf. when i resolved that it would be better for us both that we should be only friends, i did not swerve. when you would talk to me so cruelly of your love for violet, i did not swerve. when i warned you from loughlinter because i thought there was danger, i did not swerve. when i bade you not to come to me in london because of my husband, i did not swerve. when my father was hard upon you, i did not swerve then. i would not leave him till he was softened. when you tried to rob oswald of his love, and i thought you would succeed,--for i did think so,--i did not swerve. i have ever been true to you. and now that i must hide myself and go away, and be seen no more, i am true still." "laura,--dearest laura!" he exclaimed. "ah, no!" she said, speaking with no touch of anger, but all in sorrow;--"it must not be like that. there is no room for that. nor do you mean it. i do not think so ill of you. but there may not be even words of affection between us--only such as i may speak to make you know that i am your friend." "you are my friend," he said, stretching out his hand to her as he turned away his face. "you are my friend, indeed." "then do as i would have you do." he put his hand into his pocket, and had the letter between his fingers with the purport of showing it to her. but at the moment the thought occurred to him that were he to do so, then, indeed, he would be bound for ever. he knew that he was bound for ever,--bound for ever to his own mary; but he desired to have the privilege of thinking over such bondage once more before he proclaimed it even to his dearest friend. he had told her that she tempted him, and she stood before him now as a temptress. but lest it might be possible that she should not tempt in vain,--that letter in his pocket must never be shown to her. in that case lady laura must never hear from his lips the name of mary flood jones. he left her without any assured purpose;--without, that is, the assurance to her of any fixed purpose. there yet wanted a week to the day on which mr. monk's bill was to be read,--or not to be read,--the second time; and he had still that interval before he need decide. he went to his club, and before he dined he strove to write a line to mary;--but when he had the paper before him he found that it was impossible to do so. though he did not even suspect himself of an intention to be false, the idea that was in his mind made the effort too much for him. he put the paper away from him and went down and eat his dinner. it was a saturday, and there was no house in the evening. he had remained in portman square with lady laura till near seven o'clock, and was engaged to go out in the evening to a gathering at mrs. gresham's house. everybody in london would be there, and phineas was resolved that as long as he remained in london he would be seen at places where everybody was seen. he would certainly be at mrs. gresham's gathering; but there was an hour or two before he need go home to dress, and as he had nothing to do, he went down to the smoking-room of his club. the seats were crowded, but there was one vacant; and before he had looked about him to scrutinise his neighbourhood, he found that he had placed himself with bonteen on his right hand and ratler on his left. there were no two men in all london whom he more thoroughly disliked; but it was too late for him to avoid them now. they instantly attacked him, first on one side and then on the other. "so i am told you are going to leave us," said bonteen. "who can have been ill-natured enough to whisper such a thing?" replied phineas. "the whispers are very loud, i can tell you," said ratler. "i think i know already pretty nearly how every man in the house will vote, and i have not got your name down on the right side." "change it for heaven's sake," said phineas. "i will, if you'll tell me seriously that i may," said ratler. "my opinion is," said bonteen, "that a man should be known either as a friend or foe. i respect a declared foe." "know me as a declared foe then," said phineas, "and respect me." "that's all very well," said ratler, "but it means nothing. i've always had a sort of fear about you, finn, that you would go over the traces some day. of course it's a very grand thing to be independent." "the finest thing in the world," said bonteen; "only so d----d useless." "but a man shouldn't be independent and stick to the ship at the same time. you forget the trouble you cause, and how you upset all calculations." "i hadn't thought of the calculations," said phineas. "the fact is, finn," said bonteen, "you are made of clay too fine for office. i've always found it has been so with men from your country. you are the grandest horses in the world to look at out on a prairie, but you don't like the slavery of harness." "and the sound of a whip over our shoulders sets us kicking;--does it not, ratler?" "i shall show the list to gresham to-morrow," said ratler, "and of course he can do as he pleases; but i don't understand this kind of thing." "don't you be in a hurry," said bonteen. "i'll bet you a sovereign finn votes with us yet. there's nothing like being a little coy to set off a girl's charms. i'll bet you a sovereign, ratler, that finn goes out into the lobby with you and me against monk's bill." phineas, not being able to stand any more of this most unpleasant raillery, got up and went away. the club was distasteful to him, and he walked off and sauntered for a while about the park. he went down by the duke of york's column as though he were going to his office, which of course was closed at this hour, but turned round when he got beyond the new public buildings,--buildings which he was never destined to use in their completed state,--and entered the gates of the enclosure, and wandered on over the bridge across the water. as he went his mind was full of thought. could it be good for him to give up everything for a fair face? he swore to himself that of all women whom he had ever seen mary was the sweetest and the dearest and the best. if it could be well to lose the world for a woman, it would be well to lose it for her. violet, with all her skill, and all her strength, and all her grace, could never have written such a letter as that which he still held in his pocket. the best charm of a woman is that she should be soft, and trusting, and generous; and who ever had been more soft, more trusting, and more generous than his mary? of course he would be true to her, though he did lose the world. but to yield such a triumph to the ratlers and bonteens whom he left behind him,--to let them have their will over him,--to know that they would rejoice scurrilously behind his back over his downfall! the feeling was terrible to him. the last words which bonteen had spoken made it impossible to him now not to support his old friend mr. monk. it was not only what bonteen had said, but that the words of mr. bonteen so plainly indicated what would be the words of all the other bonteens. he knew that he was weak in this. he knew that had he been strong, he would have allowed himself to be guided,--if not by the firm decision of his own spirit,--by the counsels of such men as mr. gresham and lord cantrip, and not by the sarcasms of the bonteens and ratlers of official life. but men who sojourn amidst savagery fear the mosquito more than they do the lion. he could not bear to think that he should yield his blood to such a one as bonteen. and he must yield his blood, unless he could vote for mr. monk's motion, and hold his ground afterwards among them all in the house of commons. he would at any rate see the session out, and try a fall with mr. bonteen when they should be sitting on different benches,--if ever fortune should give him an opportunity. and in the meantime, what should he do about madame goesler? what a fate was his to have the handsomest woman in london with thousands and thousands a year at his disposal! for,--so he now swore to himself,--madame goesler was the handsomest woman in london, as mary flood jones was the sweetest girl in the world. he had not arrived at any decision so fixed as to make him comfortable when he went home and dressed for mrs. gresham's party. and yet he knew,--he thought that he knew that he would be true to mary flood jones. chapter lxx the prime minister's house the rooms and passages and staircases at mrs. gresham's house were very crowded when phineas arrived there. men of all shades of politics were there, and the wives and daughters of such men; and there was a streak of royalty in one of the saloons, and a whole rainbow of foreign ministers with their stars, and two blue ribbons were to be seen together on the first landing-place, with a stout lady between them carrying diamonds enough to load a pannier. everybody was there. phineas found that even lord chiltern was come, as he stumbled across his friend on the first foot-ground that he gained in his ascent towards the rooms. "halloa,--you here?" said phineas. "yes, by george!" said the other, "but i am going to escape as soon as possible. i've been trying to make my way up for the last hour, but could never get round that huge promontory there. laura was more persevering." "is kennedy here?" phineas whispered. "i do not know," said chiltern, "but she was determined to run the chance." a little higher up,--for phineas was blessed with more patience than lord chiltern possessed,--he came upon mr. monk. "so you are still admitted privately," said phineas. "oh dear yes,--and we have just been having a most friendly conversation about you. what a man he is! he knows everything. he is so accurate; so just in the abstract,--and in the abstract so generous!" "he has been very generous to me in detail as well as in abstract," said phineas. "ah, yes; i am not thinking of individuals exactly. his want of generosity is to large masses,--to a party, to classes, to a people; whereas his generosity is for mankind at large. he assumes the god, affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres. but i have nothing against him. he has asked me here to-night, and has talked to me most familiarly about ireland." "what do you think of your chance of a second reading?" asked phineas. "what do you think of it?--you hear more of those things than i do." "everybody says it will be a close division." "i never expected it," said mr. monk. "nor i, till i heard what daubeny said at the first reading. they will all vote for the bill en masse,--hating it in their hearts all the time." "let us hope they are not so bad as that." "it is the way with them always. they do all our work for us,--sailing either on one tack or the other. that is their use in creation, that when we split among ourselves, as we always do, they come in and finish our job for us. it must be unpleasant for them to be always doing that which they always say should never be done at all." "wherever the gift horse may come from, i shall not look it in the mouth," said mr. monk. "there is only one man in the house whom i hope i may not see in the lobby with me, and that is yourself." "the question is decided now," said phineas. "and how is it decided?" phineas could not tell his friend that a question of so great magnitude to him had been decided by the last sting which he had received from an insect so contemptible as mr. bonteen, but he expressed the feeling as well as he knew how to express it. "oh, i shall be with you. i know what you are going to say, and i know how good you are. but i could not stand it. men are beginning already to say things which almost make me get up and kick them. if i can help it, i will give occasion to no man to hint anything to me which can make me be so wretched as i have been to-day. pray do not say anything more. my idea is that i shall resign to-morrow." "then i hope that we may fight the battle side by side," said mr. monk, giving him his hand. "we will fight the battle side by side," replied phineas. after that he pushed his way still higher up the stairs, having no special purpose in view, not dreaming of any such success as that of reaching his host or hostess,--merely feeling that it should be a point of honour with him to make a tour through the rooms before he descended the stairs. the thing, he thought, was to be done with courage and patience, and this might, probably, be the last time in his life that he would find himself in the house of a prime minister. just at the turn of the balustrade at the top of the stairs, he found mr. gresham in the very spot on which mr. monk had been talking with him. "very glad to see you," said mr. gresham. "you, i find, are a persevering man, with a genius for getting upwards." "like the sparks," said phineas. "not quite so quickly," said mr. gresham. "but with the same assurance of speedy loss of my little light." it did not suit mr. gresham to understand this, so he changed the subject. "have you seen the news from america?" "yes, i have seen it, but do not believe it," said phineas. "ah, you have such faith in a combination of british colonies, properly backed in downing street, as to think them strong against a world in arms. in your place i should hold to the same doctrine,--hold to it stoutly." "and you do now, i hope, mr. gresham?" "well,--yes,--i am not down-hearted. but i confess to a feeling that the world would go on even though we had nothing to say to a single province in north america. but that is for your private ear. you are not to whisper that in downing street." then there came up somebody else, and phineas went on upon his slow course. he had longed for an opportunity to tell mr. gresham that he could go to downing street no more, but such opportunity had not reached him. for a long time he found himself stuck close by the side of miss fitzgibbon,--miss aspasia fitzgibbon,--who had once relieved him from terrible pecuniary anxiety by paying for him a sum of money which was due by him on her brother's account. "it's a very nice thing to be here, but one does get tired of it," said miss fitzgibbon. "very tired," said phineas. "of course it is a part of your duty, mr. finn. you are on your promotion and are bound to be here. when i asked laurence to come, he said there was nothing to be got till the cards were shuffled again." "they'll be shuffled very soon," said phineas. "whatever colour comes up, you'll hold trumps, i know," said the lady. "some hands always hold trumps." he could not explain to miss fitzgibbon that it would never again be his fate to hold a single trump in his hand; so he made another fight, and got on a few steps farther. he said a word as he went to half a dozen friends,--as friends went with him. he was detained for five minutes by lady baldock, who was very gracious and very disagreeable. she told him that violet was in the room, but where she did not know. "she is somewhere with lady laura, i believe; and really, mr. finn, i do not like it." lady baldock had heard that phineas had quarrelled with lord brentford, but had not heard of the reconciliation. "really, i do not like it. i am told that mr. kennedy is in the house, and nobody knows what may happen." "mr. kennedy is not likely to say anything." "one cannot tell. and when i hear that a woman is separated from her husband, i always think that she must have been imprudent. it may be uncharitable, but i think it is most safe so to consider." "as far as i have heard the circumstances, lady laura was quite right," said phineas. "it may be so. gentlemen will always take the lady's part,--of course. but i should be very sorry to have a daughter separated from her husband,--very sorry." phineas, who had nothing now to gain from lady baldock's favour, left her abruptly, and went on again. he had a great desire to see lady laura and violet together, though he could hardly tell himself why. he had not seen miss effingham since his return from ireland, and he thought that if he met her alone he could hardly have talked to her with comfort; but he knew that if he met her with lady laura, she would greet him as a friend, and speak to him as though there were no cause for embarrassment between them. but he was so far disappointed, that he suddenly encountered violet alone. she had been leaning on the arm of lord baldock, and phineas saw her cousin leave her. but he would not be such a coward as to avoid her, especially as he knew that she had seen him. "oh, mr. finn!" she said, "do you see that?" "see what?" "look; there is mr. kennedy. we had heard that it was possible, and laura made me promise that i would not leave her." phineas turned his head, and saw mr. kennedy standing with his back bolt upright against a door-post, with his brow as black as thunder. "she is just opposite to him, where he can see her," said violet. "pray take me to her. he will think nothing of you, because i know that you are still friends with both of them. i came away because lord baldock wanted to introduce me to lady mouser. you know he is going to marry miss mouser." phineas, not caring much about lord baldock and miss mouser, took violet's hand upon his arm, and very slowly made his way across the room to the spot indicated. there they found lady laura alone, sitting under the upas-tree influence of her husband's gaze. there was a concourse of people between them, and mr. kennedy did not seem inclined to make any attempt to lessen the distance. but lady laura had found it impossible to move while she was under her husband's eyes. "mr. finn," she said, "could you find oswald? i know he is here." "he has gone," said phineas. "i was speaking to him downstairs." "you have not seen my father? he said he would come." "i have not seen him, but i will search." "no;--it will do no good. i cannot stay. his carriage is there, i know,--waiting for me." phineas immediately started off to have the carriage called, and promised to return with as much celerity as he could use. as he went, making his way much quicker through the crowd than he had done when he had no such object for haste, he purposely avoided the door by which mr. kennedy had stood. it would have been his nearest way, but his present service, he thought, required that he should keep aloof from the man. but mr. kennedy passed through the door and intercepted him in his path. "is she going?" he asked. "well. yes. i dare say she may before long. i shall look for lord brentford's carriage by-and-by." "tell her she need not go because of me. i shall not return. i shall not annoy her here. it would have been much better that a woman in such a plight should not have come to such an assembly." "you would not wish her to shut herself up." "i would wish her to come back to the home that she has left, and, if there be any law in the land, she shall be made to do so. you tell her that i say so." then mr. kennedy fought his way down the stairs, and phineas finn followed in his wake. about half an hour afterwards phineas returned to the two ladies with tidings that the carriage would be at hand as soon as they could be below. "did he see you?" said lady laura. "yes, he followed me." "and did he speak to you?" "yes;--he spoke to me." "and what did he say?" and then, in the presence of violet, phineas gave the message. he thought it better that it should be given; and were he to decline to deliver it now, it would never be given. "whether there be law in the land to protect me or whether there be none, i will never live with him," said lady laura. "is a woman like a head of cattle, that she can be fastened in her crib by force? i will never live with him though all the judges of the land should decide that i must do so." phineas thought much of all this as he went to his solitary lodgings. after all, was not the world much better with him than it was with either of those two wretched married beings? and why? he had not, at any rate as yet, sacrificed for money or social gains any of the instincts of his nature. he had been fickle, foolish, vain, uncertain, and perhaps covetous;--but as yet he had not been false. then he took out mary's last letter and read it again. chapter lxxi comparing notes it would, perhaps, be difficult to decide,--between lord chiltern and miss effingham,--which had been most wrong, or which had been nearest to the right, in the circumstances which had led to their separation. the old lord, wishing to induce his son to undertake work of some sort, and feeling that his own efforts in this direction were worse than useless, had closeted himself with his intended daughter-in-law, and had obtained from her a promise that she would use her influence with her lover. "of course i think it right that he should do something," violet had said. "and he will if you bid him," replied the earl. violet expressed a great doubt as to this willingness of obedience; but, nevertheless, she promised to do her best, and she did her best. lord chiltern, when she spoke to him, knit his brows with an apparent ferocity of anger which his countenance frequently expressed without any intention of ferocity on his part. he was annoyed, but was not savagely disposed to violet. as he looked at her, however, he seemed to be very savagely disposed. "what is it you would have me do?" he said. "i would have you choose some occupation, oswald." "what occupation? what is it that you mean? ought i to be a shoemaker?" "not that by preference, i should say; but that if you please." when her lover had frowned at her, violet had resolved,--had strongly determined, with inward assertions of her own rights,--that she would not be frightened by him. "you are talking nonsense, violet. you know that i cannot be a shoemaker." "you may go into parliament." "i neither can, nor would i if i could. i dislike the life." "you might farm." "i cannot afford it." "you might,--might do anything. you ought to do something. you know that you ought. you know that your father is right in what he says." "that is easily asserted, violet; but it would, i think, be better that you should take my part than my father's, if it be that you intend to be my wife." "you know that i intend to be your wife; but would you wish that i should respect my husband?" "and will you not do so if you marry me?" he asked. then violet looked into his face and saw that the frown was blacker than ever. the great mark down his forehead was deeper and more like an ugly wound than she had ever seen it; and his eyes sparkled with anger; and his face was red as with fiery wrath. if it was so with him when she was no more than engaged to him, how would it be when they should be man and wife? at any rate, she would not fear him,--not now at least. "no, oswald," she said. "if you resolve upon being an idle man, i shall not respect you. it is better that i should tell you the truth." "a great deal better," he said. "how can i respect one whose whole life will be,--will be--?" "will be what?" he demanded with a loud shout. "oswald, you are very rough with me." "what do you say that my life will be?" then she again resolved that she would not fear him. "it will be discreditable," she said. "it shall not discredit you," he replied. "i will not bring disgrace on one i have loved so well. violet, after what you have said, we had better part." she was still proud, still determined, and they did part. though it nearly broke her heart to see him leave her, she bid him go. she hated herself afterwards for her severity to him; but, nevertheless, she would not submit to recall the words which she had spoken. she had thought him to be wrong, and, so thinking, had conceived it to be her duty and her privilege to tell him what she thought. but she had no wish to lose him;--no wish not to be his wife even, though he should be as idle as the wind. she was so constituted that she had never allowed him or any other man to be master of her heart,--till she had with a full purpose given her heart away. the day before she had resolved to give it to one man, she might, i think, have resolved to give it to another. love had not conquered her, but had been taken into her service. nevertheless, she could not now rid herself of her servant, when she found that his services would stand her no longer in good stead. she parted from lord chiltern with an assent, with an assured brow, and with much dignity in her gait; but as soon as she was alone she was a prey to remorse. she had declared to the man who was to have been her husband that his life was discreditable,--and, of course, no man would bear such language. had lord chiltern borne it, he would not have been worthy of her love. she herself told lady laura and lord brentford what had occurred,--and had told lady baldock also. lady baldock had, of course, triumphed,--and violet sought her revenge by swearing that she would regret for ever the loss of so inestimable a gentleman. "then why have you given him up, my dear?" demanded lady baldock. "because i found that he was too good for me," said violet. it may be doubtful whether lady baldock was not justified, when she declared that her niece was to her a care so harassing that no aunt known in history had ever been so troubled before. lord brentford had fussed and fumed, and had certainly made things worse. he had quarrelled with his son, and then made it up, and then quarrelled again,--swearing that the fault must all be attributed to chiltern's stubbornness and chiltern's temper. latterly, however, by lady laura's intervention, lord brentford and his son had again been reconciled, and the earl endeavoured manfully to keep his tongue from disagreeable words, and his face from evil looks, when his son was present. "they will make it up," lady laura had said, "if you and i do not attempt to make it up for them. if we do, they will never come together." the earl was convinced, and did his best. but the task was very difficult to him. how was he to keep his tongue off his son while his son was daily saying things of which any father,--any such father as lord brentford,--could not but disapprove? lord chiltern professed to disbelieve even in the wisdom of the house of lords, and on one occasion asserted that it must be a great comfort to any prime minister to have three or four old women in the cabinet. the father, when he heard this, tried to rebuke his son tenderly, strove even to be jocose. it was the one wish of his heart that violet effingham should be his daughter-in-law. but even with this wish he found it very hard to keep his tongue off lord chiltern. when lady laura discussed the matter with violet, violet would always declare that there was no hope. "the truth is," she said on the morning of that day on which they both went to mrs. gresham's, "that though we like each other,--love each other, if you choose to say so,--we are not fit to be man and wife." "and why not fit?" "we are too much alike. each is too violent, too headstrong, and too masterful." "you, as the woman, ought to give way," said lady laura. "but we do not always do just what we ought." "i know how difficult it is for me to advise, seeing to what a pass i have brought myself." "do not say that, dear;--or rather do say it, for we have, both of us, brought ourselves to what you call a pass,--to such a pass that we are like to be able to live together and discuss it for the rest of our lives. the difference is, i take it, that you have not to accuse yourself, and that i have." "i cannot say that i have not to accuse myself," said lady laura. "i do not know that i have done much wrong to mr. kennedy since i married him; but in marrying him i did him a grievous wrong." "and he has avenged himself." "we will not talk of vengeance. i believe he is wretched, and i know that i am;--and that has come of the wrong that i have done." "i will make no man wretched," said violet. "do you mean that your mind is made up against oswald?" "i mean that, and i mean much more. i say that i will make no man wretched. your brother is not the only man who is so weak as to be willing to run the hazard." "there is lord fawn." "yes, there is lord fawn, certainly. perhaps i should not do him much harm; but then i should do him no good." "and poor phineas finn." "yes;--there is mr. finn. i will tell you something, laura. the only man i ever saw in the world whom i have thought for a moment that it was possible that i should like,--like enough to love as my husband,--except your brother, was mr. finn." "and now?" "oh;--now; of course that is over," said violet. "it is over?" "quite over. is he not going to marry madame goesler? i suppose all that is fixed by this time. i hope she will be good to him, and gracious, and let him have his own way, and give him his tea comfortably when he comes up tired from the house; for i confess that my heart is a little tender towards phineas still. i should not like to think that he had fallen into the hands of a female philistine." "i do not think he will marry madame goesler." "why not?" "i can hardly tell you;--but i do not think he will. and you loved him once,--eh, violet?" "not quite that, my dear. it has been difficult with me to love. the difficulty with most girls, i fancy, is not to love. mr. finn, when i came to measure him in my mind, was not small, but he was never quite tall enough. one feels oneself to be a sort of recruiting sergeant, going about with a standard of inches. mr. finn was just half an inch too short. he lacks something in individuality. he is a little too much a friend to everybody." "shall i tell you a secret, violet?" "if you please, dear; though i fancy it is one i know already." "he is the only man whom i ever loved," said lady laura. "but it was too late when you learned to love him," said violet. "it was too late, when i was so sure of it as to wish that i had never seen mr. kennedy. i felt it coming on me, and i argued with myself that such a marriage would be bad for us both. at that moment there was trouble in the family, and i had not a shilling of my own." "you had paid it for oswald." "at any rate, i had nothing;--and he had nothing. how could i have dared to think even of such a marriage?" "did he think of it, laura?" "i suppose he did." "you know he did. did you not tell me before?" "well;--yes. he thought of it. i had come to some foolish, half-sentimental resolution as to friendship, believing that he and i could be knit together by some adhesion of fraternal affection that should be void of offence to my husband; and in furtherance of this he was asked to loughlinter when i went there, just after i had accepted robert. he came down, and i measured him too, as you have done. i measured him, and i found that he wanted nothing to come up to the height required by my standard. i think i knew him better than you did." "very possibly;--but why measure him at all, when such measurement was useless?" "can one help such things? he came to me one day as i was sitting up by the linter. you remember the place, where it makes its first leap." "i remember it very well." "so do i. robert had shown it me as the fairest spot in all scotland." "and there this lover of ours sang his song to you?" "i do not know what he told me then; but i know that i told him that i was engaged; and i felt when i told him so that my engagement was a sorrow to me. and it has been a sorrow from that day to this." "and the hero, phineas,--he is still dear to you?" "dear to me?" "yes. you would have hated me, had he become my husband? and you will hate madame goesler when she becomes his wife?" "not in the least. i am no dog in the manger. i have even gone so far as almost to wish, at certain moments, that you should accept him." "and why?" "because he has wished it so heartily." "one can hardly forgive a man for such speedy changes," said violet. "was i not to forgive him;--i, who had turned myself away from him with a fixed purpose the moment that i found that he had made a mark upon my heart? i could not wipe off the mark, and yet i married. was he not to try to wipe off his mark?" "it seems that he wiped it off very quickly;--and since that he has wiped off another mark. one doesn't know how many marks he has wiped off. they are like the inn-keeper's score which he makes in chalk. a damp cloth brings them all away, and leaves nothing behind." "what would you have?" "there should be a little notch on the stick,--to remember by," said violet. "not that i complain, you know. i cannot complain, as i was not notched myself." "you are silly, violet." "in not having allowed myself to be notched by this great champion?" "a man like mr. finn has his life to deal with,--to make the most of it, and to divide it between work, pleasure, duty, ambition, and the rest of it as best he may. if he have any softness of heart, it will be necessary to him that love should bear a part in all these interests. but a man will be a fool who will allow love to be the master of them all. he will be one whose mind is so ill-balanced as to allow him to be the victim of a single wish. even in a woman passion such as that is evidence of weakness, and not of strength." "it seems, then, laura, that you are weak." "and if i am, does that condemn him? he is a man, if i judge him rightly, who will be constant as the sun, when constancy can be of service." "you mean that the future mrs. finn will be secure?" "that is what i mean;--and that you or i, had either of us chosen to take his name, might have been quite secure. we have thought it right to refuse to do so." "and how many more, i wonder?" "you are unjust, and unkind, violet. so unjust and unkind that it is clear to me he has just gratified your vanity, and has never touched your heart. what would you have had him do, when i told him that i was engaged?" "i suppose that mr. kennedy would not have gone to blankenberg with him." "violet!" "that seems to be the proper thing to do. but even that does not adjust things finally;--does it?" then some one came upon them, and the conversation was brought to an end. chapter lxxii madame goesler's generosity when phineas finn left mr. gresham's house he had quite resolved what he would do. on the next morning he would tell lord cantrip that his resignation was a necessity, and that he would take that nobleman's advice as to resigning at once, or waiting till the day on which mr. monk's irish bill would be read for the second time. "my dear finn, i can only say that i deeply regret it," said lord cantrip. "so do i. i regret to leave office, which i like,--and which indeed i want. i regret specially to leave this office, as it has been a thorough pleasure to me; and i regret, above all, to leave you. but i am convinced that monk is right, and i find it impossible not to support him." "i wish that mr. monk was at bath," said lord cantrip. phineas could only smile, and shrug his shoulders, and say that even though mr. monk were at bath it would not probably make much difference. when he tendered his letter of resignation, lord cantrip begged him to withdraw it for a day or two. he would, he said, speak to mr. gresham. the debate on the second reading of mr. monk's bill would not take place till that day week, and the resignation would be in time if it was tendered before phineas either spoke or voted against the government. so phineas went back to his room, and endeavoured to make himself useful in some work appertaining to his favourite colonies. that conversation had taken place on a friday, and on the following sunday, early in the day, he left his rooms after a late breakfast,--a prolonged breakfast, during which he had been studying tenant-right statistics, preparing his own speech, and endeavouring to look forward into the future which that speech was to do so much to influence,--and turned his face towards park lane. there had been a certain understanding between him and madame goesler that he was to call in park lane on this sunday morning, and then declare to her what was his final resolve as to the office which he held. "it is simply to bid her adieu," he said to himself, "for i shall hardly see her again." and yet, as he took off his morning easy coat, and dressed himself for the streets, and stood for a moment before his looking-glass, and saw that his gloves were fresh and that his boots were properly polished, i think there was a care about his person which he would have hardly taken had he been quite assured that he simply intended to say good-bye to the lady whom he was about to visit. but if there were any such conscious feeling, he administered to himself an antidote before he left the house. on returning to the sitting-room he went to a little desk from which he took out the letter from mary which the reader has seen, and carefully perused every word of it. "she is the best of them all," he said to himself, as he refolded the letter and put it back into his desk. i am not sure that it is well that a man should have any large number from whom to select a best; as, in such circumstances, he is so very apt to change his judgment from hour to hour. the qualities which are the most attractive before dinner sometimes become the least so in the evening. the morning was warm, and he took a cab. it would not do that he should speak even his last farewell to such a one as madame goesler with all the heat and dust of a long walk upon him. having been so careful about his boots and gloves he might as well use his care to the end. madame goesler was a very pretty woman, who spared herself no trouble in making herself as pretty as nature would allow, on behalf of those whom she favoured with her smiles; and to such a lady some special attention was due by one who had received so many of her smiles as had phineas. and he felt, too, that there was something special in this very visit. it was to be made by appointment, and there had come to be an understanding between them that phineas should tell her on this occasion what was his resolution with reference to his future life. i think that he had been very wise in fortifying himself with a further glance at our dear mary's letter, before he trusted himself within madame goesler's door. yes;--madame goesler was at home. the door was opened by madame goesler's own maid, who, smiling, explained that the other servants were all at church. phineas had become sufficiently intimate at the cottage in park lane to be on friendly terms with madame goesler's own maid, and now made some little half-familiar remark as to the propriety of his visit during church time. "madame will not refuse to see you, i am thinking," said the girl, who was a german. "and she is alone?" asked phineas. "alone? yes;--of course she is alone. who should be with her now?" then she took him up into the drawing-room; but, when there, he found that madame goesler was absent. "she shall be down directly," said the girl. "i shall tell her who is here, and she will come." it was a very pretty room. it may almost be said that there could be no prettier room in all london. it looked out across certain small private gardens,--which were as bright and gay as money could make them when brought into competition with london smoke,--right on to the park. outside and inside the window, flowers and green things were so arranged that the room itself almost looked as though it were a bower in a garden. and everything in that bower was rich and rare; and there was nothing there which annoyed by its rarity or was distasteful by its richness. the seats, though they were costly as money could buy, were meant for sitting, and were comfortable as seats. there were books for reading, and the means of reading them. two or three gems of english art were hung upon the walls, and could be seen backwards and forwards in the mirrors. and there were precious toys lying here and there about the room,--toys very precious, but placed there not because of their price, but because of their beauty. phineas already knew enough of the art of living to be aware that the woman who had made that room what it was, had charms to add a beauty to everything she touched. what would such a life as his want, if graced by such a companion,--such a life as his might be, if the means which were hers were at his command? it would want one thing, he thought,--the self-respect which he would lose if he were false to the girl who was trusting him with such sweet trust at home in ireland. in a very few minutes madame goesler was with him, and, though he did not think about it, he perceived that she was bright in her apparel, that her hair was as soft as care could make it, and that every charm belonging to her had been brought into use for his gratification. he almost told himself that he was there in order that he might ask to have all those charms bestowed upon himself. he did not know who had lately come to park lane and been a suppliant for the possession of those rich endowments; but i wonder whether they would have been more precious in his eyes had he known that they had so moved the heart of the great duke as to have induced him to lay his coronet at the lady's feet. i think that had he known that the lady had refused the coronet, that knowledge would have enhanced the value of the prize. "i am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, as she gave him her hand. "i was an owl not to be ready for you when you told me that you would come." "no;--but a bird of paradise to come to me so sweetly, and at an hour when all the other birds refuse to show the feather of a single wing." "and you,--you feel like a naughty boy, do you not, in thus coming out on a sunday morning?" "do you feel like a naughty girl?" "yes;--just a little so. i do not know that i should care for everybody to hear that i received visitors,--or worse still, a visitor,--at this hour on this day. but then it is so pleasant to feel oneself to be naughty! there is a bohemian flavour of picnic about it which, though it does not come up to the rich gusto of real wickedness, makes one fancy that one is on the border of that delightful region in which there is none of the constraint of custom,--where men and women say what they like, and do what they like." "it is pleasant enough to be on the borders," said phineas. "that is just it. of course decency, morality, and propriety, all made to suit the eye of the public, are the things which are really delightful. we all know that, and live accordingly,--as well as we can. i do at least." "and do not i, madame goesler?" "i know nothing about that, mr. finn, and want to ask no questions. but if you do, i am sure you agree with me that you often envy the improper people,--the bohemians,--the people who don't trouble themselves about keeping any laws except those for breaking which they would be put into nasty, unpleasant prisons. i envy them. oh, how i envy them!" "but you are free as air." "the most cabined, cribbed, and confined creature in the world! i have been fighting my way up for the last four years, and have not allowed myself the liberty of one flirtation;--not often even the recreation of a natural laugh. and now i shouldn't wonder if i don't find myself falling back a year or two, just because i have allowed you to come and see me on a sunday morning. when i told lotta that you were coming, she shook her head at me in dismay. but now that you are here, tell me what you have done." "nothing as yet, madame goesler." "i thought it was to have been settled on friday?" "it was settled,--before friday. indeed, as i look back at it all now, i can hardly tell when it was not settled. it is impossible, and has been impossible, that i should do otherwise. i still hold my place, madame goesler, but i have declared that i shall give it up before the debate comes on." "it is quite fixed?" "quite fixed, my friend." "and what next?" madame goesler, as she thus interrogated him, was leaning across towards him from the sofa on which she was placed, with both her elbows resting on a small table before her. we all know that look of true interest which the countenance of a real friend will bear when the welfare of his friend is in question. there are doubtless some who can assume it without feeling,--as there are actors who can personate all the passions. but in ordinary life we think that we can trust such a face, and that we know the true look when we see it. phineas, as he gazed into madame goesler's eyes, was sure that the lady opposite him was not acting. she at least was anxious for his welfare, and was making his cares her own. "what next?" said she, repeating her words in a tone that was somewhat hurried. "i do not know that there will be any next. as far as public life is concerned, there will be no next for me, madame goesler." "that is out of the question," she said. "you are made for public life." "then i shall be untrue to my making, i fear. but to speak plainly--" "yes; speak plainly. i want to understand the reality." "the reality is this. i shall keep my seat to the end of the session, as i think i may be of use. after that i shall give it up." "resign that too?" she said in a tone of chagrin. "the chances are, i think, that there will be another dissolution. if they hold their own against mr. monk's motion, then they will pass an irish reform bill. after that i think they must dissolve." "and you will not come forward again?" "i cannot afford it." "psha! some five hundred pounds or so!" "and, besides that, i am well aware that my only chance at my old profession is to give up all idea of parliament. the two things are not compatible for a beginner at the law. i know it now, and have bought my knowledge by a bitter experience." "and where will you live?" "in dublin, probably." "and you will do,--will do what?" "anything honest in a barrister's way that may be brought to me. i hope that i may never descend below that." "you will stand up for all the blackguards, and try to make out that the thieves did not steal?" "it may be that that sort of work may come in my way." "and you will wear a wig and try to look wise?" "the wig is not universal in ireland, madame goesler." "and you will wrangle, as though your very soul were in it, for somebody's twenty pounds?" "exactly." "you have already made a name in the greatest senate in the world, and have governed other countries larger than your own--" "no;--i have not done that. i have governed no country. "i tell you, my friend, that you cannot do it. it is out of the question. men may move forward from little work to big work; but they cannot move back and do little work, when they have had tasks which were really great. i tell you, mr. finn, that the house of parliament is the place for you to work in. it is the only place;--that and the abodes of ministers. am not i your friend who tell you this?" "i know that you are my friend." "and will you not credit me when i tell you this? what do you fear, that you should run away? you have no wife;--no children. what is the coming misfortune that you dread?" she paused a moment as though for an answer, and he felt that now had come the time in which it would be well that he should tell her of his engagement with his own mary. she had received him very playfully; but now within the last few minutes there had come upon her a seriousness of gesture, and almost a solemnity of tone, which made him conscious that he should in no way trifle with her. she was so earnest in her friendship that he owed it to her to tell her everything. but before he could think of the words in which his tale should be told, she had gone on with her quick questions. "is it solely about money that you fear?" she said. "it is simply that i have no income on which to live." "have i not offered you money?" "but, madame goesler, you who offer it would yourself despise me if i took it." "no;--i do deny it." as she said this,--not loudly but with much emphasis,--she came and stood before him where he was sitting. and as he looked at her he could perceive that there was a strength about her of which he had not been aware. she was stronger, larger, more robust physically than he had hitherto conceived. "i do deny it," she said. "money is neither god nor devil, that it should make one noble and another vile. it is an accident, and, if honestly possessed, may pass from you to me, or from me to you, without a stain. you may take my dinner from me if i give it you, my flowers, my friendship, my,--my,--my everything, but my money! explain to me the cause of the phenomenon. if i give to you a thousand pounds, now this moment, and you take it, you are base;--but if i leave it you in my will,--and die,--you take it, and are not base. explain to me the cause of that." "you have not said it quite all," said phineas hoarsely. "what have i left unsaid? if i have left anything unsaid, do you say the rest." "it is because you are a woman, and young, and beautiful, that no man may take wealth from your hands." "oh, it is that!" "it is that partly," "if i were a man you might take it, though i were young and beautiful as the morning?" "no;--presents of money are always bad. they stain and load the spirit, and break the heart." "and specially when given by a woman's hand?" "it seems so to me. but i cannot argue of it. do not let us talk of it any more." "nor can i argue. i cannot argue, but i can be generous,--very generous. i can deny myself for my friend,--can even lower myself in my own esteem for my friend. i can do more than a man can do for a friend. you will not take money from my hand?" "no, madame goesler;--i cannot do that." "take the hand then first. when it and all that it holds are your own, you can help yourself as you list." so saying, she stood before him with her right hand stretched out towards him. what man will say that he would not have been tempted? or what woman will declare that such temptation should have had no force? the very air of the room in which she dwelt was sweet in his nostrils, and there hovered around her an halo of grace and beauty which greeted all his senses. she invited him to join his lot to hers, in order that she might give to him all that was needed to make his life rich and glorious. how would the ratlers and the bonteens envy him when they heard of the prize which had become his! the cantrips and the greshams would feel that he was a friend doubly valuable, if he could be won back; and mr. monk would greet him as a fitting ally,--an ally strong with the strength which he had before wanted. with whom would he not be equal? whom need he fear? who would not praise him? the story of his poor mary would be known only in a small village, out beyond the channel. the temptation certainly was very strong. but he had not a moment in which to doubt. she was standing there with her face turned from him, but with her hand still stretched towards him. of course he took it. what man so placed could do other than take a woman's hand? "my friend," he said. "i will be called friend by you no more," she said. "you must call me marie, your own marie, or you must never call me by any name again. which shall it be, sir?" he paused a moment, holding her hand, and she let it lie there for an instant while she listened. but still she did not look at him. "speak to me! tell me! which shall it be?" still he paused. "speak to me. tell me!" she said again. "it cannot be as you have hinted to me," he said at last. his words did not come louder than a low whisper; but they were plainly heard, and instantly the hand was withdrawn. "cannot be!" she exclaimed. "then i have betrayed myself." "no;--madame goesler." "sir; i say yes! if you will allow me i will leave you. you will, i know, excuse me if i am abrupt to you." then she strode out of the room, and was no more seen of the eyes of phineas finn. he never afterwards knew how he escaped out of that room and found his way into park lane. in after days he had some memory that he remained there, he knew not how long, standing on the very spot on which she had left him; and that at last there grew upon him almost a fear of moving, a dread lest he should be heard, an inordinate desire to escape without the sound of a footfall, without the clicking of a lock. everything in that house had been offered to him. he had refused it all, and then felt that of all human beings under the sun none had so little right to be standing there as he. his very presence in that drawing-room was an insult to the woman whom he had driven from it. but at length he was in the street, and had found his way across piccadilly into the green park. then, as soon as he could find a spot apart from the sunday world, he threw himself upon the turf; and tried to fix his thoughts upon the thing that he had done. his first feeling, i think, was one of pure and unmixed disappointment;--of disappointment so bitter, that even the vision of his own mary did not tend to comfort him. how great might have been his success, and how terrible was his failure! had he taken the woman's hand and her money, had he clenched his grasp on the great prize offered to him, his misery would have been ten times worse the first moment that he would have been away from her. then, indeed,--it being so that he was a man with a heart within his breast,--there would have been no comfort for him, in his outlooks on any side. but even now, when he had done right,--knowing well that he had done right,--he found that comfort did not come readily within his reach. chapter lxxiii amantium iræ miss effingham's life at this time was not the happiest in the world. her lines, as she once said to her friend lady laura, were not laid for her in pleasant places. her residence was still with her aunt, and she had come to find that it was almost impossible any longer to endure lady baldock, and quite impossible to escape from lady baldock. in former days she had had a dream that she might escape, and live alone if she chose to be alone; that she might be independent in her life, as a man is independent, if she chose to live after that fashion; that she might take her own fortune in her own hand, as the law certainly allowed her to do, and act with it as she might please. but latterly she had learned to understand that all this was not possible for her. though one law allowed it, another law disallowed it, and the latter law was at least as powerful as the former. and then her present misery was enhanced by the fact that she was now banished from the second home which she had formerly possessed. hitherto she had always been able to escape from lady baldock to the house of her friend, but now such escape was out of the question. lady laura and lord chiltern lived in the same house, and violet could not live with them. lady baldock understood all this, and tortured her niece accordingly. it was not premeditated torture. the aunt did not mean to make her niece's life a burden to her, and, so intending, systematically work upon a principle to that effect. lady baldock, no doubt, desired to do her duty conscientiously. but the result was torture to poor violet, and a strong conviction on the mind of each of the two ladies that the other was the most unreasonable being in the world. the aunt, in these days, had taken it into her head to talk of poor lord chiltern. this arose partly from a belief that the quarrel was final, and that, therefore, there would be no danger in aggravating violet by this expression of pity,--partly from a feeling that it would be better that her niece should marry lord chiltern than that she should not marry at all,--and partly, perhaps, from the general principle that, as she thought it right to scold her niece on all occasions, this might be best done by taking an opposite view of all questions to that taken by the niece to be scolded. violet was supposed to regard lord chiltern as having sinned against her, and therefore lady baldock talked of "poor lord chiltern." as to the other lovers, she had begun to perceive that their conditions were hopeless. her daughter augusta had explained to her that there was no chance remaining either for phineas, or for lord fawn, or for mr. appledom. "i believe she will be an old maid, on purpose to bring me to my grave," said lady baldock. when, therefore, lady baldock was told one day that lord chiltern was in the house, and was asking to see miss effingham, she did not at once faint away, and declare that they would all be murdered,--as she would have done some months since. she was perplexed by a double duty. if it were possible that violet should relent and be reconciled, then it would be her duty to save violet from the claws of the wild beast. but if there was no such chance, then it would be her duty to poor lord chiltern to see that he was not treated with contumely and ill-humour. "does she know that he is here?" lady baldock asked her daughter. "not yet, mamma." "oh dear, oh dear! i suppose she ought to see him. she has given him so much encouragement!" "i suppose she will do as she pleases, mamma." "augusta, how can you talk in that way? am i to have no control in my own house?" it was, however, soon apparent to her that in this matter she was to have no control. "lord chiltern is down-stairs," said violet, coming into the room abruptly. "so augusta tells me. sit down, my dear." "i cannot sit down, aunt,--not just now. i have sent down to say that i would be with him in a minute. he is the most impatient soul alive, and i must not keep him waiting." "and you mean to see him?" "certainly i shall see him," said violet, as she left the room. "i wonder that any woman should ever take upon herself the charge of a niece!" said lady baldock to her daughter in a despondent tone, as she held up her hands in dismay. in the meantime, violet had gone down-stairs with a quick step, and had then boldly entered the room in which her lover was waiting to receive her. "i have to thank you for coming to me, violet," said lord chiltern. there was still in his face something of savagery,--an expression partly of anger and partly of resolution to tame the thing with which he was angry. violet did not regard the anger half so keenly as she did that resolution of taming. an angry lord, she thought, she could endure, but she could not bear the idea of being tamed by any one. "why should i not come?" she said. "of course i came when i was told that you were here. i do not think that there need be a quarrel between us, because we have changed our minds." "such changes make quarrels," said he. "it shall not do so with me, unless you choose that it shall," said violet. "why should we be enemies,--we who have known each other since we were children? my dearest friends are your father and your sister. why should we be enemies?" "i have come to ask you whether you think that i have ill-used you?" "ill-used me! certainly not. has any one told you that i have accused you?" "no one has told me so." "then why do you ask me?" "because i would not have you think so,--if i could help it. i did not intend to be rough with you. when you told me that my life was disreputable--" "oh, oswald, do not let us go back to that. what good will it do?" "but you said so." "i think not." "i believe that that was your word,--the harshest word that you could use in all the language." "i did not mean to be harsh. if i used it, i will beg your pardon. only let there be an end of it. as we think so differently about life in general, it was better that we should not be married. but that is settled, and why should we go back to words that were spoken in haste, and which are simply disagreeable?" "i have come to know whether it is settled." "certainly. you settled it yourself, oswald. i told you what i thought myself bound to tell you. perhaps i used language which i should not have used. then you told me that i could not be your wife;--and i thought you were right, quite right." "i was wrong, quite wrong," he said impetuously. "so wrong, that i can never forgive myself, if you do not relent. i was such a fool, that i cannot forgive myself my folly. i had known before that i could not live without you; and when you were mine, i threw you away for an angry word." "it was not an angry word," she said. "say it again, and let me have another chance to answer it." "i think i said that idleness was not,--respectable, or something like that, taken out of a copy-book probably. but you are a man who do not like rebukes, even out of copy-books. a man so thin-skinned as you are must choose for himself a wife with a softer tongue than mine." "i will choose none other!" he said. but still he was savage in his tone and in his gestures. "i made my choice long since, as you know well enough. i do not change easily. i cannot change in this. violet, say that you will be my wife once more, and i will swear to work for you like a coal-heaver." "my wish is that my husband,--should i ever have one,--should work, not exactly as a coal-heaver." "come, violet," he said,--and now the look of savagery departed from him, and there came a smile over his face, which, however, had in it more of sadness than of hope or joy,--"treat me fairly,--or rather, treat me generously if you can. i do not know whether you ever loved me much." "very much,--years ago, when you were a boy." "but not since? if it be so, i had better go. love on one side only is a poor affair at best." "a very poor affair." "it is better to bear anything than to try and make out life with that. some of you women never want to love any one." "that was what i was saying of myself to laura but the other day. with some women it is so easy. with others it is so difficult, that perhaps it never comes to them." "and with you?" "oh, with me--. but it is better in these matters to confine oneself to generalities. if you please, i will not describe myself personally. were i to do so, doubtless i should do it falsely." "you love no one else, violet?" "that is my affair, my lord." "by heavens, and it is mine too. tell me that you do, and i will go away and leave you at once. i will not ask his name, and i will trouble you no more. if it is not so, and if it is possible that you should forgive me--" "forgive you! when have i been angry with you?" "answer me my question, violet." "i will not answer you your question,--not that one." "what question will you answer?" "any that may concern yourself and myself. none that may concern other people." "you told me once that you loved me." "this moment i told you that i did so,--years ago." "but now?" "that is another matter." "violet, do you love me now?" "that is a point-blank question at any rate," she said. "and you will answer it?" "i must answer it,--i suppose." "well, then?" "oh, oswald, what a fool you are! love you! of course i love you. if you can understand anything, you ought to know that i have never loved any one else;--that after what has passed between us, i never shall love any one else. i do love you. there. whether you throw me away from you, as you did the other day,--with great scorn, mind you,--or come to me with sweet, beautiful promises, as you do now, i shall love you all the same. i cannot be your wife, if you will not have me; can i? when you run away in your tantrums because i quote something out of the copy-book, i can't run after you. it would not be pretty. but as for loving you, if you doubt that, i tell you, you are a--fool." as she spoke the last words she pouted out her lips at him, and when he looked into her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears. he was standing now with his arm round her waist, so that it was not easy for him to look into her face. "i am a fool," he said. "yes;--you are; but i don't love you the less on that account." "i will never doubt it again." "no;--do not; and, for me, i will not say another word, whether you choose to heave coals or not. you shall do as you please. i meant to be very wise;--i did indeed." "you are the grandest girl that ever was made." "i do not want to be grand at all, and i never will be wise any more. only do not frown at me and look savage." then she put up her hand to smooth his brow. "i am half afraid of you still, you know. there. that will do. now let me go, that i may tell my aunt. during the last two months she has been full of pity for poor lord chiltern." "it has been poor lord chiltern with a vengeance!" said he. "but now that we have made it up, she will be horrified again at all your wickednesses. you have been a turtle dove lately;--now you will be an ogre again. but, oswald, you must not be an ogre to me." as soon as she could get quit of her lover, she did tell her tale to lady baldock. "you have accepted him again!" said her aunt, holding up her hands. "yes,--i have accepted him again," replied violet. "then the responsibility must be on your own shoulders," said her aunt; "i wash my hands of it." that evening, when she discussed the matter with her daughter, lady baldock spoke of violet and lord chiltern, as though their intended marriage were the one thing in the world which she most deplored. chapter lxxiv the beginning of the end the day of the debate had come, and phineas finn was still sitting in his room at the colonial office. but his resignation had been sent in and accepted, and he was simply awaiting the coming of his successor. about noon his successor came, and he had the gratification of resigning his arm-chair to mr. bonteen. it is generally understood that gentlemen leaving offices give up either seals or a portfolio. phineas had been put in possession of no seal and no portfolio; but there was in the room which he had occupied a special arm-chair, and this with much regret he surrendered to the use and comfort of mr. bonteen. there was a glance of triumph in his enemy's eyes, and an exultation in the tone of his enemy's voice, which were very bitter to him. "so you are really going?" said mr. bonteen. "well; i dare say it is all very proper. i don't quite understand the thing myself, but i have no doubt you are right." "it isn't easy to understand; is it?" said phineas, trying to laugh. but mr. bonteen did not feel the intended satire, and poor phineas found it useless to attempt to punish the man he hated. he left him as quickly as he could, and went to say a few words of farewell to his late chief. "good-bye, finn," said lord cantrip. "it is a great trouble to me that we should have to part in this way." "and to me also, my lord. i wish it could have been avoided." "you should not have gone to ireland with so dangerous a man as mr. monk. but it is too late to think of that now." "the milk is spilt; is it not?" "but these terrible rendings asunder never last very long," said lord cantrip, "unless a man changes his opinions altogether. how many quarrels and how many reconciliations we have lived to see! i remember when gresham went out of office, because he could not sit in the same room with mr. mildmay, and yet they became the fastest of political friends. there was a time when plinlimmon and the duke could not stable their horses together at all; and don't you remember when palliser was obliged to give up his hopes of office because he had some bee in his bonnet?" i think, however, that the bee in mr. palliser's bonnet to which lord cantrip was alluding made its buzzing audible on some subject that was not exactly political. "we shall have you back again before long, i don't doubt. men who can really do their work are too rare to be left long in the comfort of the benches below the gangway." this was very kindly said, and phineas was flattered and comforted. he could not, however, make lord cantrip understand the whole truth. for him the dream of a life of politics was over for ever. he had tried it, and had succeeded beyond his utmost hopes; but, in spite of his success, the ground had crumbled to pieces beneath his feet, and he knew that he could never recover the niche in the world's gallery which he was now leaving. that same afternoon he met mr. gresham in one of the passages leading to the house, and the prime minister put his arm through that of our hero as they walked together into the lobby. "i am sorry that we are losing you," said mr. gresham. "you may be sure that i am sorry to be so lost," said phineas. "these things will occur in political life," said the leader; "but i think that they seldom leave rancour behind them when the purpose is declared, and when the subject of disagreement is marked and understood. the defalcation which creates angry feeling is that which has to be endured without previous warning,--when a man votes against his party,--or a set of men, from private pique or from some cause which is never clear." phineas, when he heard this, knew well how terribly this very man had been harassed, and driven nearly wild, by defalcation, exactly of that nature which he was attempting to describe. "no doubt you and mr. monk think you are right," continued mr. gresham. "we have given strong evidence that we think so," said phineas. "we give up our places, and we are, both of us, very poor men." "i think you are wrong, you know, not so much in your views on the question itself--which, to tell the truth, i hardly understand as yet." "we will endeavour to explain them." "and will do so very clearly, no doubt. but i think that mr. monk was wrong in desiring, as a member of a government, to force a measure which, whether good or bad, the government as a body does not desire to initiate,--at any rate, just now." "and therefore he resigned," said phineas. "of course. but it seems to me that he failed to comprehend the only way in which a great party can act together, if it is to do any service in this country. don't for a moment think that i am blaming him or you." "i am nobody in this matter," said phineas. "i can assure you, mr. finn, that we have not regarded you in that light, and i hope that the time may come when we may be sitting together again on the same bench." neither on the treasury bench nor on any other in that house was he to sit again after this fashion! that was the trouble which was crushing his spirit at this moment, and not the loss of his office! he knew that he could not venture to think of remaining in london as a member of parliament with no other income than that which his father could allow him, even if he could again secure a seat in parliament. when he had first been returned for loughshane he had assured his friends that his duty as a member of the house of commons would not be a bar to his practice in the courts. he had now been five years a member, and had never once made an attempt at doing any part of a barrister's work. he had gone altogether into a different line of life, and had been most successful;--so successful that men told him, and women more frequently than men, that his career had been a miracle of success. but there had been, as he had well known from the first, this drawback in the new profession which he had chosen, that nothing in it could be permanent. they who succeed in it, may probably succeed again; but then the success is intermittent, and there may be years of hard work in opposition, to which, unfortunately, no pay is assigned. it is almost imperative, as he now found, that they who devote themselves to such a profession should be men of fortune. when he had commenced his work,--at the period of his first return for loughshane,--he had had no thought of mending his deficiency in this respect by a rich marriage. nor had it ever occurred to him that he would seek a marriage for that purpose. such an idea would have been thoroughly distasteful to him. there had been no stain of premeditated mercenary arrangement upon him at any time. but circumstances had so fallen out with him, that as he won his spurs in parliament, as he became known, and was placed first in one office and then in another, prospects of love and money together were opened to him, and he ventured on, leaving mr. low and the law behind him,--because these prospects were so alluring. then had come mr. monk and mary flood jones,--and everything around him had collapsed. everything around him had collapsed,--with, however, a terrible temptation to him to inflate his sails again, at the cost of his truth and his honour. the temptation would have affected him not at all, had madame goesler been ugly, stupid, or personally disagreeable. but she was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most witty, and in many respects the most charming. she had offered to give him everything that she had, so to place him in the world that opposition would be more pleasant to him than office, to supply every want, and had done so in a manner that had gratified all his vanity. but he had refused it all, because he was bound to the girl at floodborough. my readers will probably say that he was not a true man unless he could do this without a regret. when phineas thought of it all, there were many regrets. but there was at the same time a resolve on his part, that if any man had ever loved the girl he promised to love, he would love mary flood jones. a thousand times he had told himself that she had not the spirit of lady laura, or the bright wit of violet effingham, or the beauty of madame goesler. but mary had charms of her own that were more valuable than them all. was there one among the three who had trusted him as she trusted him,--or loved him with the same satisfied devotion? there were regrets, regrets that were heavy on his heart;--for london, and parliament, and the clubs, and downing street, had become dear to him. he liked to think of himself as he rode in the park, and was greeted by all those whose greeting was the most worth having. there were regrets,--sad regrets. but the girl whom he loved better than the parks and the clubs,--better even than westminster and downing street, should never know that they had existed. these thoughts were running through his mind even while he was listening to mr. monk, as he propounded his theory of doing justice to ireland. this might probably be the last great debate in which phineas would be able to take a part, and he was determined that he would do his best in it. he did not intend to speak on this day, if, as was generally supposed, the house would be adjourned before a division could be obtained. but he would remain on the alert and see how the thing went. he had come to understand the forms of the place, and was as well-trained a young member of parliament as any there. he had been quick at learning a lesson that is not easily learned, and knew how things were going, and what were the proper moments for this question or that form of motion. he could anticipate a count-out, understood the tone of men's minds, and could read the gestures of the house. it was very little likely that the debate should be over to-night. he knew that; and as the present time was the evening of tuesday, he resolved at once that he would speak as early as he could on the following thursday. what a pity it was, that with one who had learned so much, all his learning should be in vain! at about two o'clock, he himself succeeded in moving the adjournment of the debate. this he did from a seat below the gangway, to which he had removed himself from the treasury bench. then the house was up, and he walked home with mr. monk. mr. monk, since he had been told positively by phineas that he had resolved upon resigning his office, had said nothing more of his sorrow at his friend's resolve, but had used him as one political friend uses another, telling him all his thoughts and all his hopes as to this new measure of his, and taking counsel with him as to the way in which the fight should be fought. together they had counted over the list of members, marking these men as supporters, those as opponents, and another set, now more important than either, as being doubtful. from day to day those who had been written down as doubtful were struck off that third list, and put in either the one or the other of those who were either supporters or opponents. and their different modes of argument were settled between these two allied orators, how one should take this line and the other that. to mr. monk this was very pleasant. he was quite assured now that opposition was more congenial to his spirit, and more fitting for him than office. there was no doubt to him as to his future sitting in parliament, let the result of this contest be what it might. the work which he was now doing, was the work for which he had been training himself all his life. while he had been forced to attend cabinet councils from week to week, he had been depressed. now he was exultant. phineas seeing and understanding all this, said but little to his friend of his own prospects. as long as this pleasant battle was raging, he could fight in it shoulder to shoulder with the man he loved. after that there would be a blank. "i do not see how we are to fail to have a majority after daubeny's speech to-night," said mr. monk, as they walked together down parliament street through the bright moonlight. "he expressly said that he only spoke for himself," said phineas. "but we know what that means. he is bidding for office, and of course those who want office with him will vote as he votes. we have already counted those who would go into office, but they will not carry the whole party." "it will carry enough of them." "there are forty or fifty men on his side of the house, and as many perhaps on ours," said mr. monk, "who have no idea of any kind on any bill, and who simply follow the bell, whether into this lobby or that. argument never touches them. they do not even look to the result of a division on their own interests, as the making of any calculation would be laborious to them. their party leader is to them a pope whom they do not dream of doubting. i never can quite make up my mind whether it is good or bad that there should be such men in parliament." "men who think much want to speak often," said phineas. "exactly so,--and of speaking members, god knows that we have enough. and i suppose that these purblind sheep do have some occult weight that is salutary. they enable a leader to be a leader, and even in that way they are useful. we shall get a division on thursday." "i understand that gresham has consented to that." "so ratler told me. palliser is to speak, and barrington erle. and they say that robson is going to make an onslaught specially on me. we shall get it over by one o'clock." "and if we beat them?" asked phineas. "it will depend on the numbers. everybody who has spoken to me about it, seems to think that they will dissolve if there be a respectable majority against them." "of course he will dissolve," said phineas, speaking of mr. gresham; "what else can he do?" "he is very anxious to carry his irish reform bill first, if he can do so. good-night, phineas. i shall not be down to-morrow as there is nothing to be done. come to me on thursday, and we will go to the house together." on the wednesday phineas was engaged to dine with mr. low. there was a dinner party in bedford square, and phineas met half-a-dozen barristers and their wives,--men to whom he had looked up as successful pundits in the law some five or six years ago, but who since that time had almost learned to look up to him. and now they treated him with that courteousness of manner which success in life always begets. there was a judge there who was very civil to him; and the judge's wife whom he had taken down to dinner was very gracious to him. the judge had got his prize in life, and was therefore personally indifferent to the fate of ministers; but the judge's wife had a brother who wanted a county court from lord de terrier, and it was known that phineas was giving valuable assistance towards the attainment of this object. "i do think that you and mr. monk are so right," said the judge's wife. phineas, who understood how it came to pass that the judge's wife should so cordially approve his conduct, could not help thinking how grand a thing it would be for him to have a county court for himself. when the guests were gone he was left alone with mr. and mrs. low, and remained awhile with them, there having been an understanding that they should have a last chat together over the affairs of our hero. "do you really mean that you will not stand again?" asked mrs. low. "i do mean it. i may say that i cannot do so. my father is hardly so well able to help me as he was when i began this game, and i certainly shall not ask him for money to support a canvass." "it's a thousand pities," said mrs. low. "i really had begun to think that you would make it answer," said mr. low. "in one way i have made it answer. for the last three years i have lived upon what i have earned, and i am not in debt. but now i must begin the world again. i am afraid i shall find the drudgery very hard." "it is hard no doubt," said the barrister, who had gone through it all, and was now reaping the fruits of it. "but i suppose you have not forgotten what you learned?" "who can say? i dare say i have. but i did not mean the drudgery of learning, so much as the drudgery of looking after work;--of expecting briefs which perhaps will never come. i am thirty years old now, you know." "are you indeed?" said mrs. low,--who knew his age to a day. "how the time passes. i'm sure i hope you'll get on, mr. finn. i do indeed." "i am sure he will, if he puts his shoulder to it," said mr. low. neither the lawyer nor his wife repeated any of those sententious admonitions, which had almost become rebukes, and which had been so common in their mouths. the fall with which they had threatened phineas finn had come upon him, and they were too generous to remind him of their wisdom and sagacity. indeed, when he got up to take his leave, mrs. low, who probably might not see him again for years, was quite affectionate in her manners to him, and looked as if she were almost minded to kiss him as she pressed his hand. "we will come and see you," she said, "when you are master of the rolls in dublin." "we shall see him before then thundering at us poor tories in the house," said mr. low. "he will be back again sooner or later." and so they parted. chapter lxxv p. p. c. on the thursday morning before phineas went to mr. monk, a gentleman called upon him at his lodgings. phineas requested the servant to bring up the gentleman's name, but tempted perhaps by a shilling the girl brought up the gentleman instead. it was mr. quintus slide from the office of the "banner of the people." "mr. finn," said quintus, with his hand extended, "i have come to offer you the calumet of peace." phineas certainly desired no such calumet. but to refuse a man's hand is to declare active war after a fashion which men do not like to adopt except on deliberation. he had never cared a straw for the abuse which mr. slide had poured upon him, and now he gave his hand to the man of letters. but he did not sit down, nor did he offer a seat to mr. slide. "i know that as a man of sense who knows the world, you will accept the calumet of peace," continued mr. slide. "i don't know why i should be asked particularly to accept war or peace," said phineas. "well, mr. finn,--i don't often quote the bible; but those who are not for us must be against us. you will agree to that. now that you've freed yourself from the iniquities of that sink of abomination in downing street, i look upon you as a man again." "upon my word you are very kind." "as a man and also a brother. i suppose you know that i've got the _banner_ into my own 'ands now." phineas was obliged to explain that he had not hitherto been made acquainted with this great literary and political secret. "oh dear, yes, altogether so. we've got rid of old rusty as i used to call him. he wouldn't go the pace, and so we stripped him. he's doing the _west of england art journal_ now, and he 'angs out down at bristol." "i hope he'll succeed, mr. slide." "he'll earn his wages. he's a man who will always earn his wages, but nothing more. well, now, mr. finn, i will just offer you one word of apology for our little severities." "pray do nothing of the kind." "indeed i shall. dooty is dooty. there was some things printed which were a little rough, but if one isn't a little rough there ain't no flavour. of course i wrote 'em. you know my 'and, i dare say." "i only remember that there was some throwing of mud." "just so. but mud don't break any bones; does it? when you turned against us i had to be down on you, and i was down upon you;--that's just about all of it. now you're coming among us again, and so i come to you with a calumet of peace." "but i am not coming among you." "yes you are, finn, and bringing monk with you." it was now becoming very disagreeable, and phineas was beginning to perceive that it would soon be his turn to say something rough. "now i'll tell you what my proposition is. if you'll do us two leaders a week through the session, you shall have a cheque for £ on the last day of every month. if that's not honester money than what you got in downing street, my name is not quintus slide." "mr. slide," said phineas,--and then he paused. "if we are to come to business, drop the mister. it makes things go so much easier." "we are not to come to business, and i do not want things to go easy. i believe you said some things of me in your newspaper that were very scurrilous." "what of that? if you mind that sort of thing--" "i did not regard it in the least. you are quite welcome to continue it. i don't doubt but you will continue it. but you are not welcome to come here afterwards." "do you mean to turn me out?" "just that. you printed a heap of lies--" "lies, mr. finn! did you say lies, sir?" "i said lies;--lies;--lies!" and phineas walked over at him as though he were going to pitch him instantly out of the window. "you may go and write as many more as you like. it is your trade, and you must do it or starve. but do not come to me again." then he opened the door and stood with it in his hand. "very well, sir. i shall know how to punish this." "exactly. but if you please you'll go and do your punishment at the office of the _banner_,--unless you like to try it here. you want to kick me and spit at me, but you will prefer to do it in print." "yes, sir," said quintus slide. "i shall prefer to do it in print,--though i must own that the temptation to adopt the manual violence of a ruffian is great, very great, very great indeed." but he resisted the temptation and walked down the stairs, concocting his article as he went. mr. quintus slide did not so much impede the business of his day but what phineas was with mr. monk by two, and in his place in the house when prayers were read at four. as he sat in his place, conscious of the work that was before him, listening to the presentation of petitions, and to the formal reading of certain notices of motions, which with the asking of sundry questions occupied over half an hour, he looked back and remembered accurately his own feelings on a certain night on which he had intended to get up and address the house. the ordeal before him had then been so terrible, that it had almost obliterated for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight. he had hardly been able to perceive what had been going on around him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy himself in recalling to his memory the words which he wished to pronounce. when the time for pronouncing them had come, he had found himself unable to stand upon his legs. he smiled as he recalled all this in his memory, waiting impatiently for the moment in which he might rise. his audience was assured to him now, and he did not fear it. his opportunity for utterance was his own, and even the speaker could not deprive him of it. during these minutes he thought not at all of the words that he was to say. he had prepared his matter but had prepared no words. he knew that words would come readily enough to him, and that he had learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly into language while standing with a crowd of listeners around him,--as a practised writer does when seated in his chair. there was no violent beating at his heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the ground was turning round under his feet. if only those weary vain questions would get themselves all asked, so that he might rise and begin the work of the night. then there came the last thought as the house was hushed for his rising. what was the good of it all, when he would never have an opportunity of speaking there again? but not on that account would he be slack in his endeavour now. he would be listened to once at least, not as a subaltern of the government but as the owner of a voice prominent in opposition to the government. he had been taught by mr. monk that that was the one place in the house in which a man with a power of speaking could really enjoy pleasure without alloy. he would make the trial,--once, if never again. things had so gone with him that the rostrum was his own, and a house crammed to overflowing was there to listen to him. he had given up his place in order that he might be able to speak his mind, and had become aware that many intended to listen to him while he spoke. he had observed that the rows of strangers were thick in the galleries, that peers were standing in the passages, and that over the reporter's head, the ribbons of many ladies were to be seen through the bars of their cage. yes;--for this once he would have an audience. he spoke for about an hour, and while he was speaking he knew nothing about himself, whether he was doing it well or ill. something of himself he did say soon after he had commenced,--not quite beginning with it, as though his mind had been laden with the matter. he had, he said, found himself compelled to renounce his happy allegiance to the first lord of the treasury, and to quit the pleasant company in which, humble as had been his place, he had been allowed to sit and act, by his unfortunate conviction in this great subject. he had been told, he said, that it was a misfortune in itself for one so young as he to have convictions. but his irish birth and irish connection had brought this misfortune of his country so closely home to him that he had found the task of extricating himself from it to be impossible. of what further he said, speaking on that terribly unintelligible subject, a tenant-right proposed for irish farmers, no english reader will desire to know much. irish subjects in the house of commons are interesting or are dull, are debated before a crowded audience composed of all who are leaders in the great world of london, or before empty benches, in accordance with the importance of the moment and the character of the debate. for us now it is enough to know that to our hero was accorded that attention which orators love,--which will almost make an orator if it can be assured. a full house with a promise of big type on the next morning would wake to eloquence the propounder of a canadian grievance, or the mover of an indian budget. phineas did not stir out of the house till the division was over, having agreed with mr. monk that they two would remain through it all and hear everything that was to be said. mr. gresham had already spoken, and to mr. palliser was confided the task of winding up the argument for the government. mr. robson spoke also, greatly enlivening the tedium of the evening, and to mr. monk was permitted the privilege of a final reply. at two o'clock the division came, and the ministry were beaten by a majority of twenty-three. "and now," said mr. monk, as he again walked home with phineas, "the pity is that we are not a bit nearer tenant-right than we were before." "but we are nearer to it." "in one sense, yes. such a debate and such a majority will make men think. but no;--think is too high a word; as a rule men don't think. but it will make them believe that there is something in it. many who before regarded legislation on the subject as chimerical, will now fancy that it is only dangerous, or perhaps not more than difficult. and so in time it will come to be looked on as among the things possible, then among the things probable;--and so at last it will be ranged in the list of those few measures which the country requires as being absolutely needed. that is the way in which public opinion is made." "it is no loss of time," said phineas, "to have taken the first great step in making it." "the first great step was taken long ago," said mr. monk,--"taken by men who were looked upon as revolutionary demagogues, almost as traitors, because they took it. but it is a great thing to take any step that leads us onwards." two days after this mr. gresham declared his intention of dissolving the house because of the adverse division which had been produced by mr. monk's motion, but expressed a wish to be allowed to carry an irish reform bill through parliament before he did so. he explained how expedient this would be, but declared at the same time that if any strong opposition were made, he would abandon the project. his intention simply was to pass with regard to ireland a measure which must be passed soon, and which ought to be passed before a new election took place. the bill was ready, and should be read for the first time on the next night, if the house were willing. the house was willing, though there were very many recalcitrant irish members. the irish members made loud opposition, and then twitted mr. gresham with his promise that he would not go on with his bill, if opposition were made. but, nevertheless, he did go on, and the measure was hurried through the two houses in a week. our hero who still sat for loughshane, but who was never to sit for loughshane again, gave what assistance he could to the government, and voted for the measure which deprived loughshane for ever of its parliamentary honours. "and very dirty conduct i think it was," said lord tulla, when he discussed the subject with his agent. "after being put in for the borough twice, almost free of expense, it was very dirty." it never occurred to lord tulla that a member of parliament might feel himself obliged to vote on such a subject in accordance with his judgment. this irish reform bill was scrambled through the two houses, and then the session was over. the session was over, and they who knew anything of the private concerns of mr. phineas finn were aware that he was about to return to ireland, and did not intend to reappear on the scene which had known him so well for the last five years. "i cannot tell you how sad it makes me," said mr. monk. "and it makes me sad too," said phineas. "i try to shake off the melancholy, and tell myself from day to day that it is unmanly. but it gets the better of me just at present." "i feel quite certain that you will come back among us again," said mr. monk. "everybody tells me so; and yet i feel quite certain that i shall never come back,--never come back with a seat in parliament. as my old tutor, low, has told me scores of times, i began at the wrong end. here i am, thirty years of age, and i have not a shilling in the world, and i do not know how to earn one." "only for me you would still be receiving ever so much a year, and all would be pleasant," said mr. monk. "but how long would it have lasted? the first moment that daubeny got the upper hand i should have fallen lower than i have fallen now. if not this year, it would have been the next. my only comfort is in this,--that i have done the thing myself, and have not been turned out." to the very last, however, mr. monk continued to express his opinion that phineas would come back, declaring that he had known no instance of a young man who had made himself useful in parliament, and then had been allowed to leave it in early life. among those of whom he was bound to take a special leave, the members of the family of lord brentford were, of course, the foremost. he had already heard of the reconciliation of miss effingham and lord chiltern, and was anxious to offer his congratulation to both of them. and it was essential to him that he should see lady laura. to her he wrote a line, saying how much he hoped that he should be able to bid her adieu, and a time was fixed for his coming at which she knew that she would meet him alone. but, as chance ruled it, he came upon the two lovers together, and then remembered that he had hardly ever before been in the same room with both of them at the same time. "oh, mr. finn, what a beautiful speech you made. i read every word of it," said violet. "and i didn't even look at it, old fellow," said chiltern, getting up and putting his arm on the other's shoulder in a way that was common with him when he was quite intimate with the friend near him. "laura went down and heard it," said violet. "i could not do that, because i was tied to my aunt. you can't conceive how dutiful i am during this last month." "and is it to be in a month, chiltern?" said phineas. "she says so. she arranges everything,--in concert with my father. when i threw up the sponge, i simply asked for a long day. 'a long day, my lord,' i said. but my father and violet between them refused me any mercy." "you do not believe him," said violet. "not a word. if i did he would want to see me on the coast of flanders again, i don't doubt. i have come to congratulate you both." "thank you, mr. finn," said violet, taking his hand with hearty kindness. "i should not have been quite happy without one nice word from you." "i shall try and make the best of it," said chiltern. "but, i say, you'll come over and ride bonebreaker again. he's down there at the bull, and i've taken a little box close by. i can't stand the governor's county for hunting." "and will your wife go down to willingford?" "of course she will, and ride to hounds a great deal closer than i can ever do. mind you come, and if there's anything in the stable fit to carry you, you shall have it." then phineas had to explain that he had come to bid them farewell, and that it was not at all probable that he should ever be able to see willingford again in the hunting season. "i don't suppose that i shall make either of you quite understand it, but i have got to begin again. the chances are that i shall never see another foxhound all my life." "not in ireland!" exclaimed lord chiltern. "not unless i should have to examine one as a witness. i have nothing before me but downright hard work; and a great deal of that must be done before i can hope to earn a shilling." "but you are so clever," said violet. "of course it will come quickly." "i do not mean to be impatient about it, nor yet unhappy," said phineas. "only hunting won't be much in my line." "and will you leave london altogether?" violet asked. "altogether. i shall stick to one club,--brooks's; but i shall take my name off all the others." "what a deuce of a nuisance!" said lord chiltern. "i have no doubt you will be very happy," said violet; "and you'll be a lord chancellor in no time. but you won't go quite yet." "next sunday." "you will return. you must be here for our wedding;--indeed you must. i will not be married unless you do." even this, however, was impossible. he must go on sunday, and must return no more. then he made his little farewell speech, which he could not deliver without some awkward stuttering. he would think of her on the day of her marriage, and pray that she might be happy. and he would send her a little trifle before he went, which he hoped she would wear in remembrance of their old friendship. "she shall wear it, whatever it is, or i'll know the reason why," said chiltern. "hold your tongue, you rough bear!" said violet. "of course i'll wear it. and of course i'll think of the giver. i shall have many presents, but few that i will think of so much." then phineas left the room, with his throat so full that he could not speak another word. "he is still broken-hearted about you," said the favoured lover as soon as his rival had left the room. "it is not that," said violet. "he is broken-hearted about everything. the whole world is vanishing away from him. i wish he could have made up his mind to marry that german woman with all the money." it must be understood, however, that phineas had never spoken a word to any one as to the offer which the german woman had made to him. it was on the morning of the sunday on which he was to leave london that he saw lady laura. he had asked that it might be so, in order that he might then have nothing more upon his mind. he found her quite alone, and he could see by her eyes that she had been weeping. as he looked at her, remembering that it was not yet six years since he had first been allowed to enter that room, he could not but perceive how very much she was altered in appearance. then she had been three-and-twenty, and had not looked to be a day older. now she might have been taken to be nearly forty, so much had her troubles preyed upon her spirit, and eaten into the vitality of her youth. "so you have come to say good-bye," she said, smiling as she rose to meet him. "yes, lady laura;--to say good-bye. not for ever, i hope, but probably for long." "no, not for ever. at any rate, we will not think so." then she paused; but he was silent, sitting with his hat dangling in his two hands, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. "do you know, mr. finn," she continued, "that sometimes i am very angry with myself about you." "then it must be because you have been too kind to me." "it is because i fear that i have done much to injure you. from the first day that i knew you,--do you remember, when we were talking here, in this very room, about the beginning of the reform bill;--from that day i wished that you should come among us and be one of us." "i have been with you, to my infinite satisfaction,--while it lasted." "but it has not lasted, and now i fear that it has done you harm." "who can say whether it has been for good or evil? but of this i am sure you will be certain,--that i am very grateful to you for all the goodness you have shown me." then again he was silent. she did not know what it was that she wanted, but she did desire some expression from his lips that should be warmer than an expression of gratitude. an expression of love,--of existing love,--she would have felt to be an insult, and would have treated it as such. indeed, she knew that from him no such insult could come. but she was in that morbid, melancholy state of mind which requires the excitement of more than ordinary sympathy, even though that sympathy be all painful; and i think that she would have been pleased had he referred to the passion for herself which he had once expressed. if he would have spoken of his love, and of her mistake, and have made some half-suggestion as to what might have been their lives had things gone differently,--though she would have rebuked him even for that,--still it would have comforted her. but at this moment, though he remembered much that had passed between them, he was not even thinking of the braes of linter. all that had taken place four years ago;--and there had been so many other things since which had moved him even more than that! "you have heard what i have arranged for myself?" she said at last. "your father has told me that you are going to dresden." "yes;--he will accompany me,--coming home of course for parliament. it is a sad break-up, is it not? but the lawyer says that if i remain here i may be subject to very disagreeable attempts from mr. kennedy to force me to go back again. it is odd, is it not, that he should not understand how impossible it is?" "he means to do his duty." "i believe so. but he becomes more stern every day to those who are with him. and then, why should i remain here? what is there to tempt me? as a woman separated from her husband i cannot take an interest in those things which used to charm me. i feel that i am crushed and quelled by my position, even though there is no disgrace in it." "no disgrace, certainly," said phineas. "but i am nobody,--or worse than nobody." "and i also am going to be a nobody," said phineas, laughing. "ah; you are a man and will get over it, and you have many years before you will begin to be growing old. i am growing old already. yes, i am. i feel it, and know it, and see it. a woman has a fine game to play; but then she is so easily bowled out, and the term allowed to her is so short." "a man's allowance of time may be short too," said phineas. "but he can try his hand again." then there was another pause. "i had thought, mr. finn, that you would have married," she said in her very lowest voice. "you knew all my hopes and fears about that." "i mean that you would have married madame goesler." "what made you think that, lady laura?" "because i saw that she liked you, and because such a marriage would have been so suitable. she has all that you want. you know what they say of her now?" "what do they say?" "that the duke of omnium offered to make her his wife, and that she refused him for your sake." "there is nothing that people won't say;--nothing on earth," said phineas. then he got up and took his leave of her. he also wanted to part from her with some special expression of affection, but he did not know how to choose his words. he had wished that some allusion should be made, not to the braes of linter, but to the close confidence which had so long existed between them; but he found that the language to do this properly was wanting to him. had the opportunity arisen he would have told her now the whole story of mary flood jones; but the opportunity did not come, and he left her, never having mentioned the name of his mary or having hinted at his engagement to any one of his friends in london. "it is better so," he said to himself. "my life in ireland is to be a new life, and why should i mix two things together that will be so different?" he was to dine at his lodgings, and then leave them for good at eight o'clock. he had packed up everything before he went to portman square, and he returned home only just in time to sit down to his solitary mutton chop. but as he sat down he saw a small note addressed to himself lying on the table among the crowd of books, letters, and papers, of which he had still to make disposal. it was a very small note in an envelope of a peculiar tint of pink, and he knew the handwriting well. the blood mounted all over his face as he took it up, and he hesitated for a moment before he opened it. it could not be that the offer should be repeated to him. slowly, hardly venturing at first to look at the enclosure, he opened it, and the words which it contained were as follows:-- i learn that you are going to-day, and i write a word which you will receive just as you are departing. it is to say merely this,--that when i left you the other day i was angry, not with you, but with myself. let me wish you all good wishes and that prosperity which i know you will deserve, and which i think you will win. yours very truly, m. m. g. sunday morning. should he put off his journey and go to her this very evening and claim her as his friend? the question was asked and answered in a moment. of course he would not go to her. were he to do so there would be only one possible word for him to say, and that word should certainly never be spoken. but he wrote to her a reply, shorter even than her own short note. thanks, dear friend. i do not doubt but that you and i understand each other thoroughly, and that each trusts the other for good wishes and honest intentions. always yours, p. f. i write these as i am starting. when he had written this, he kept it till the last moment in his hand, thinking that he would not send it. but as he slipped into the cab, he gave the note to his late landlady to post. at the station bunce came to him to say a word of farewell, and mrs. bunce was on his arm. "well done, mr. finn, well done," said bunce. "i always knew there was a good drop in you." "you always told me i should ruin myself in parliament, and so i have," said phineas. "not at all. it takes a deal to ruin a man if he's got the right sperrit. i've better hopes of you now than ever i had in the old days when you used to be looking out for government place;--and mr. monk has tried that too. i thought he would find the iron too heavy for him." "god bless you, mr. finn," said mrs. bunce with her handkerchief up to her eyes. "there's not one of 'em i ever had as lodgers i've cared about half as much as i did for you." then they shook hands with him through the window, and the train was off. chapter lxxvi conclusion we are told that it is a bitter moment with the lord mayor when he leaves the mansion house and becomes once more alderman jones, of no. , bucklersbury. lord chancellors going out of office have a great fall though they take pensions with them for their consolation. and the president of the united states when he leaves the glory of the white house and once more becomes a simple citizen must feel the change severely. but our hero, phineas finn, as he turned his back upon the scene of his many successes, and prepared himself for permanent residence in his own country, was, i think, in a worse plight than any of the reduced divinities to whom i have alluded. they at any rate had known that their fall would come. he, like icarus, had flown up towards the sun, hoping that his wings of wax would bear him steadily aloft among the gods. seeing that his wings were wings of wax, we must acknowledge that they were very good. but the celestial lights had been too strong for them, and now, having lived for five years with lords and countesses, with ministers and orators, with beautiful women and men of fashion, he must start again in a little lodging in dublin, and hope that the attorneys of that litigious city might be good to him. on his journey home he made but one resolution. he would make the change, or attempt to make it, with manly strength. during his last month in london he had allowed himself to be sad, depressed, and melancholy. there should be an end of all that now. nobody at home should see that he was depressed. and mary, his own mary, should at any rate have no cause to think that her love and his own engagement had ever been the cause to him of depression. did he not value her love more than anything in the world? a thousand times he told himself that he did. she was there in the old house at killaloe to greet him. her engagement was an affair known to all the county, and she had no idea that it would become her to be coy in her love. she was in his arms before he had spoken to his father and mother, and had made her little speech to him,--very inaudibly indeed,--while he was covering her sweet face with kisses. "oh, phineas, i am so proud of you; and i think you are so right, and i am so glad you have done it." again he covered her face with kisses. could he ever have had such satisfaction as this had he allowed madame goesler's hand to remain in his? on the first night of his arrival he sat for an hour downstairs with his father talking over his plans. he felt,--he could not but feel,--that he was not the hero now that he had been when he was last at killaloe,--when he had come thither with a cabinet minister under his wing. and yet his father did his best to prevent the growth of any such feeling. the old doctor was not quite as well off as he had been when phineas first started with his high hopes for london. since that day he had abandoned his profession and was now living on the fruits of his life's labour. for the last two years he had been absolved from the necessity of providing an income for his son, and had probably allowed himself to feel that no such demand upon him would again be made. now, however, it was necessary that he should do so. could his son manage to live on two hundred a-year? there would then be four hundred a-year left for the wants of the family at home. phineas swore that he could fight his battle on a hundred and fifty, and they ended the argument by splitting the difference. he had been paying exactly the same sum of money for the rooms he had just left in london; but then, while he held those rooms, his income had been two thousand a-year. tenant-right was a very fine thing, but could it be worth such a fall as this? "and about dear mary?" said the father. "i hope it may not be very long," said phineas. "i have not spoken to her about it, but your mother says that mrs. flood jones is very averse to a long engagement." "what can i do? she would not wish me to marry her daughter with no other income than an allowance made by you." "your mother says that she has some idea that you and she might live together;--that if they let floodborough you might take a small house in dublin. remember, phineas, i am not proposing it myself." then phineas bethought himself that he was not even yet so low in the world that he need submit himself to terms dictated to him by mrs. flood jones. "i am glad that you do not propose it, sir." "why so, phineas?" "because i should have been obliged to oppose the plan even if it had come from you. mothers-in-law are never a comfort in a house." "i never tried it myself," said the doctor. "and i never will try it. i am quite sure that mary does not expect any such thing, and that she is willing to wait. if i can shorten the term of waiting by hard work, i will do so." the decision to which phineas had come on this matter was probably made known to mrs. flood jones after some mild fashion by old mrs. finn. nothing more was said to phineas about a joint household; but he was quite able to perceive from the manner of the lady towards him that his proposed mother-in-law wished him to understand that he was treating her daughter very badly. what did it signify? none of them knew the story of madame goesler, and of course none of them would know it. none of them would ever hear how well he had behaved to his little mary. but mary did know it all before he left her to go up to dublin. the two lovers allowed themselves,--or were allowed by their elders, one week of exquisite bliss together; and during this week, phineas told her, i think, everything. he told her everything as far as he could do so without seeming to boast of his own successes. how is a man not to tell such tales when he has on his arm, close to him, a girl who tells him her little everything of life, and only asks for his confidence in return? and then his secrets are so precious to her and so sacred, that he feels as sure of her fidelity as though she were a very goddess of faith and trust. and the temptation to tell is so great. for all that he has to tell she loves him the better and still the better. a man desires to win a virgin heart, and is happy to know,--or at least to believe,--that he has won it. with a woman every former rival is an added victim to the wheels of the triumphant chariot in which she is sitting. "all these has he known and loved, culling sweets from each of them. but now he has come to me, and i am the sweetest of them all." and so mary was taught to believe of laura and of violet and of madame goesler,--that though they had had charms to please, her lover had never been so charmed as he was now while she was hanging to his breast. and i think that she was right in her belief. during those lovely summer evening walks along the shores of lough derg, phineas was as happy as he had ever been at any moment of his life. "i shall never be impatient,--never," she said to him on the last evening. "all i want is that you should write to me." "i shall want more than that, mary." "then you must come down and see me. when you do come they will be happy, happy days for me. but of course we cannot be married for the next twenty years." "say forty, mary." "i will say anything that you like;--you will know what i mean just as well. and, phineas, i must tell you one thing,--though it makes me sad to think of it, and will make me sad to speak of it." "i will not have you sad on our last night, mary." "i must say it. i am beginning to understand how much you have given up for me." "i have given up nothing for you." "if i had not been at killaloe when mr. monk was here, and if we had not,--had not,--oh dear, if i had not loved you so very much, you might have remained in london, and that lady would have been your wife." "never!" said phineas stoutly. "would she not? she must not be your wife now, phineas. i am not going to pretend that i will give you up." "that is unkind, mary." "oh, well; you may say what you please. if that is unkind, i am unkind. it would kill me to lose you." had he done right? how could there be a doubt about it? how could there be a question about it? which of them had loved him, or was capable of loving him as mary loved him? what girl was ever so sweet, so gracious, so angelic, as his own mary? he swore to her that he was prouder of winning her than of anything he had ever done in all his life, and that of all the treasures that had ever come in his way she was the most precious. she went to bed that night the happiest girl in all connaught, although when she parted from him she understood that she was not to see him again till christmas-eve. but she did see him again before the summer was over, and the manner of their meeting was in this wise. immediately after the passing of that scrambled irish reform bill, parliament, as the reader knows, was dissolved. this was in the early days of june, and before the end of july the new members were again assembled at westminster. this session, late in summer, was very terrible; but it was not very long, and then it was essentially necessary. there was something of the year's business which must yet be done, and the country would require to know who were to be the ministers of the government. it is not needed that the reader should be troubled any further with the strategy of one political leader or of another, or that more should be said of mr. monk and his tenant-right. the house of commons had offended mr. gresham by voting in a majority against him, and mr. gresham had punished the house of commons by subjecting it to the expense and nuisance of a new election. all this is constitutional, and rational enough to englishmen, though it may be unintelligible to strangers. the upshot on the present occasion was that the ministers remained in their places and that mr. monk's bill, though it had received the substantial honour of a second reading, passed away for the present into the limbo of abortive legislation. all this would not concern us at all, nor our poor hero much, were it not that the great men with whom he had been for two years so pleasant a colleague, remembered him with something of affectionate regret. whether it began with mr. gresham or with lord cantrip, i will not say;--or whether mr. monk, though now a political enemy, may have said a word that brought about the good deed. be that as it may, just before the summer session was brought to a close phineas received the following letter from lord cantrip:-- downing street, august , --. my dear mr. finn,-- mr. gresham has been talking to me, and we both think that possibly a permanent government appointment may be acceptable to you. we have no doubt, that should this be the case, your services would be very valuable to the country. there is a vacancy for a poor-law inspector at present in ireland, whose residence i believe should be in cork. the salary is a thousand a-year. should the appointment suit you, mr. gresham will be most happy to nominate you to the office. let me have a line at your early convenience. believe me, most sincerely yours, cantrip. he received the letter one morning in dublin, and within three hours he was on his route to killaloe. of course he would accept the appointment, but he would not even do that without telling mary of his new prospect. of course he would accept the appointment. though he had been as yet barely two months in dublin, though he had hardly been long enough settled to his work to have hoped to be able to see in which way there might be a vista open leading to success, still he had fancied that he had seen that success was impossible. he did not know how to begin,--and men were afraid of him, thinking that he was unsteady, arrogant, and prone to failure. he had not seen his way to the possibility of a guinea. "a thousand a-year!" said mary flood jones, opening her eyes wide with wonder at the golden future before them. "it is nothing very great for a perpetuity," said phineas. "oh, phineas; surely a thousand a-year will be very nice." "it will be certain," said phineas, "and then we can be married to-morrow." "but i have been making up my mind to wait ever so long," said mary. "then your mind must be unmade," said phineas. what was the nature of the reply to lord cantrip the reader may imagine, and thus we will leave our hero an inspector of poor houses in the county of cork. the original illustrations were generously provided by internet archive (https://archive.org). editorial note: _phineas redux_ was published first in serial form in the _graphic: an illustrated weekly newspaper_ from july, , to january, , and then in book form by chapman and hall in . the _graphic_ version contained illustrations by frank (francis montague) holl ( - ). twenty-four of those were published in the chapman and hall first edition and are included in this e-book. they can be seen by viewing the html version of this file. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original illustrations are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/phineasredux trolrich phineas redux by anthony trollope contents volume i i. temptation ii. harrington hall iii. gerard maule iv. tankerville v. mr. daubeny's great move vi. phineas and his old friends vii. coming home from hunting viii. the address ix. the debate x. the deserted husband xi. the truant wife xii. kÖnigstein xiii. "i have got the seat" xiv. trumpeton wood xv. "how well you knew!" xvi. copperhouse cross and broughton spinnies xvii. madame goesler's story xviii. spooner of spoon hall xix. something out of the way xx. phineas again in london xxi. mr. maule, senior xxii. "purity of morals, finn" xxiii. macpherson's hotel xxiv. madame goesler is sent for xxv. "i would do it now" xxvi. the duke's will xxvii. an editor's wrath xxviii. the first thunderbolt xxix. the spooner correspondence xxx. regrets xxxi. the duke and duchess in town xxxii. the world becomes cold xxxiii. the two gladiators xxxiv. the universe xxxv. political venom xxxvi. seventy-two xxxvii. the conspiracy xxxviii. once again in portman square xxxix. cagliostro xl. the prime minister is hard pressed volume ii xli. "i hope i'm not distrusted" xlii. boulogne xliii. the second thunderbolt xliv. the browborough trial xlv. some passages in the life of mr. emilius xlvi. the quarrel xlvii. what came of the quarrel xlviii. mr. maule's attempt xlix. showing what mrs. bunce said to the policeman l. what the lords and commons said about the murder li. "you think it shameful" lii. mr. kennedy's will liii. none but the brave deserve the fair liv. the duchess takes counsel lv. phineas in prison lvi. the meager family lvii. the beginning of the search for the key and the coat lviii. the two dukes lix. mrs. bonteen lx. two days before the trial lxi. the beginning of the trial lxii. lord fawn's evidence lxiii. mr. chaffanbrass for the defence lxiv. confusion in the court lxv. "i hate her!" lxvi. the foreign bludgeon lxvii. the verdict lxviii. phineas after the trial lxix. the duke's first cousin lxx. "i will not go to loughlinter" lxxi. phineas finn is re-elected lxxii. the end of the story of mr. emilius and lady eustace lxxiii. phineas finn returns to his duties lxxiv. at matching lxxv. the trumpeton feud is settled lxxvi. madame goesler's legacy lxxvii. phineas finn's success lxxviii. the last visit to saulsby lxxix. at last--at last lxxx. conclusion illustrations lady chiltern and her baby. chapter ii. "well, then, i won't mention her name again." chapter vi. adelaide palliser. chapter vii. the laird of loughlinter. chapter x. "i suppose i shall shake it off." chapter xv. "you know it's the keepers do it all." chapter xviii. he sat down for a moment to think of it all. chapter xix. "then, sir, you shall abide my wrath." chapter xxiii. "i would; i would." chapter xxv. "lady glen will tell you that i can be chapter xxx. very obstinate when i please." "i should have had some enjoyment, chapter xxxi. i suppose." "i must have one word with you." chapter xxxviii. "they seem to think that mr. bonteen must chapter xlv. be prime minister." "what is the use of sticking to a man who chapter xlviii. does not want you?" "he has been murdered," said mr. low. chapter xlix. "he may soften her heart." chapter lii. of course it was lady laura. chapter lv. lizzie eustace. chapter lix. "violet, they will murder him." chapter lxi. the boy who found the bludgeon. chapter lxvi. and she sat weeping alone in her chapter lxviii. father's house. lady laura at the glass. chapter lxx. "yes, there she is." chapter lxxiv. then she suddenly turned upon him, chapter lxxix. throwing her arms round his neck. volume i. chapter i. temptation. the circumstances of the general election of -- will be well remembered by all those who take an interest in the political matters of the country. there had been a coming in and a going out of ministers previous to that,--somewhat rapid, very exciting, and, upon the whole, useful as showing the real feeling of the country upon sundry questions of public interest. mr. gresham had been prime minister of england, as representative of the liberal party in politics. there had come to be a split among those who should have been his followers on the terribly vexed question of the ballot. then mr. daubeny for twelve months had sat upon the throne distributing the good things of the crown amidst conservative birdlings, with beaks wide open and craving maws, who certainly for some years previous had not received their share of state honours or state emoluments. and mr. daubeny was still so sitting, to the infinite dismay of the liberals, every man of whom felt that his party was entitled by numerical strength to keep the management of the government within its own hands. let a man be of what side he may in politics,--unless he be much more of a partisan than a patriot,--he will think it well that there should be some equity of division in the bestowal of crumbs of comfort. can even any old whig wish that every lord lieutenant of a county should be an old whig? can it be good for the administration of the law that none but liberal lawyers should become attorney-generals, and from thence chief justices or lords of appeal? should no conservative peer ever represent the majesty of england in india, in canada, or at st. petersburgh? so arguing, moderate liberals had been glad to give mr. daubeny and his merry men a chance. mr. daubeny and his merry men had not neglected the chance given them. fortune favoured them, and they made their hay while the sun shone with an energy that had never been surpassed, improving upon fortune, till their natural enemies waxed impatient. there had been as yet but one year of it, and the natural enemies, who had at first expressed themselves as glad that the turn had come, might have endured the period of spoliation with more equanimity. for to them, the liberals, this cutting up of the whitehall cake by the conservatives was spoliation when the privilege of cutting was found to have so much exceeded what had been expected. were not they, the liberals, the real representatives of the people, and, therefore, did not the cake in truth appertain to them? had not they given up the cake for a while, partly, indeed, through idleness and mismanagement, and quarrelling among themselves; but mainly with a feeling that a moderate slicing on the other side would, upon the whole, be advantageous? but when the cake came to be mauled like that--oh, heavens! so the men who had quarrelled agreed to quarrel no more, and it was decided that there should be an end of mismanagement and idleness, and that this horrid sight of the weak pretending to be strong, or the weak receiving the reward of strength, should be brought to an end. then came a great fight, in the last agonies of which the cake was sliced manfully. all the world knew how the fight would go; but in the meantime lord-lieutenancies were arranged; very ancient judges retired upon pensions; vice-royal governors were sent out in the last gasp of the failing battle; great places were filled by tens, and little places by twenties; private secretaries were established here and there; and the hay was still made even after the sun had gone down. in consequence of all this the circumstances of the election of -- were peculiar. mr. daubeny had dissolved the house, not probably with any idea that he could thus retrieve his fortunes, but feeling that in doing so he was occupying the last normal position of a properly-fought constitutional battle. his enemies were resolved, more firmly than they were resolved before, to knock him altogether on the head at the general election which he had himself called into existence. he had been disgracefully out-voted in the house of commons on various subjects. on the last occasion he had gone into his lobby with a minority of , upon a motion brought forward by mr. palliser, the late liberal chancellor of the exchequer, respecting decimal coinage. no politician, not even mr. palliser himself, had expected that he would carry his bill in the present session. it was brought forward as a trial of strength; and for such a purpose decimal coinage was as good a subject as any other. it was mr. palliser's hobby, and he was gratified at having this further opportunity of ventilating it. when in power, he had not succeeded in carrying his measure, awed, and at last absolutely beaten, by the infinite difficulty encountered in arranging its details. but his mind was still set upon it, and it was allowed by the whole party to be as good as anything else for the purpose then required. the conservative government was beaten for the third or fourth time, and mr. daubeny dissolved the house. the whole world said that he might as well have resigned at once. it was already the end of july, and there must be an autumn session with the new members. it was known to be impossible that he should find himself supported by a majority after a fresh election. he had been treated with manifest forbearance; the cake had been left in his hands for twelve months; the house was barely two years old; he had no "cry" with which to meet the country; the dissolution was factious, dishonest, and unconstitutional. so said all the liberals, and it was deduced also that the conservatives were in their hearts as angry as were their opponents. what was to be gained but the poor interval of three months? there were clever men who suggested that mr. daubeny had a scheme in his head--some sharp trick of political conjuring, some "hocus-pocus presto" sleight of hand, by which he might be able to retain power, let the elections go as they would. but, if so, he certainly did not make his scheme known to his own party. he had no cry with which to meet the country, nor, indeed, had the leaders of the opposition. retrenchment, army reform, navy excellence, mr. palliser's decimal coinage, and general good government gave to all the old-whig moderate liberals plenty of matter for speeches to their future constituents. those who were more advanced could promise the ballot, and suggest the disestablishment of the church. but the government of the day was to be turned out on the score of general incompetence. they were to be made to go, because they could not command majorities. but there ought to have been no dissolution, and mr. daubeny was regarded by his opponents, and indeed by very many of his followers also, with an enmity that was almost ferocious. a seat in parliament, if it be for five or six years, is a blessing; but the blessing becomes very questionable if it have to be sought afresh every other session. one thing was manifest to thoughtful, working, eager political liberals. they must have not only a majority in the next parliament, but a majority of good men--of men good and true. there must be no more mismanagement; no more quarrelling; no more idleness. was it to be borne that an unprincipled so-called conservative prime minister should go on slicing the cake after such a fashion as that lately adopted? old bishops had even talked of resigning, and knights of the garter had seemed to die on purpose. so there was a great stir at the liberal political clubs, and every good and true man was summoned to the battle. now no liberal soldier, as a young soldier, had been known to be more good and true than mr. finn, the irishman, who had held office two years ago to the satisfaction of all his friends, and who had retired from office because he had found himself compelled to support a measure which had since been carried by those very men from whom he had been obliged on this account to divide himself. it had always been felt by his old friends that he had been, if not ill-used, at least very unfortunate. he had been twelve months in advance of his party, and had consequently been driven out into the cold. so when the names of good men and true were mustered, and weighed, and discussed, and scrutinised by some active members of the liberal party in a certain very private room not far removed from our great seat of parliamentary warfare; and when the capabilities, and expediencies, and possibilities were tossed to and fro among these active members, it came to pass that the name of mr. finn was mentioned more than once. mr. phineas finn was the gentleman's name--which statement may be necessary to explain the term of endearment which was occasionally used in speaking of him. "he has got some permanent place," said mr. ratler, who was living on the well-founded hope of being a treasury secretary under the new dispensation; "and of course he won't leave it." it must be acknowledged that mr. ratler, than whom no judge in such matters possessed more experience, had always been afraid of phineas finn. "he'll lave it fast enough, if you'll make it worth his while," said the honourable laurence fitzgibbon, who also had his expectations. "but he married when he went away, and he can't afford it," said mr. bonteen, another keen expectant. "devil a bit," said the honourable laurence; "or, anyways, the poor thing died of her first baby before it was born. phinny hasn't an impidiment, no more than i have." "he's the best irishman we ever got hold of," said barrington erle--"present company always excepted, laurence." "bedad, you needn't except me, barrington. i know what a man's made of, and what a man can do. and i know what he can't do. i'm not bad at the outside skirmishing. i'm worth me salt. i say that with a just reliance on me own powers. but phinny is a different sort of man. phinny can stick to a desk from twelve to seven, and wish to come back again after dinner. he's had money left him, too, and 'd like to spend some of it on an english borough." "you never can quite trust him," said bonteen. now mr. bonteen had never loved mr. finn. "at any rate we'll try him again," said barrington erle, making a little note to that effect. and they did try him again. phineas finn, when last seen by the public, was departing from parliamentary life in london to the enjoyment of a modest place under government in his own country, with something of a shattered ambition. after various turmoils he had achieved a competency, and had married the girl of his heart. but now his wife was dead, and he was again alone in the world. one of his friends had declared that money had been left to him. that was true, but the money had not been much. phineas finn had lost his father as well as his wife, and had inherited about four thousand pounds. he was not at this time much over thirty; and it must be acknowledged in regard to him that, since the day on which he had accepted place and retired from london, his very soul had sighed for the lost glories of westminster and downing street. there are certain modes of life which, if once adopted, make contentment in any other circumstances almost an impossibility. in old age a man may retire without repining, though it is often beyond the power even of the old man to do so; but in youth, with all the faculties still perfect, with the body still strong, with the hopes still buoyant, such a change as that which had been made by phineas finn was more than he, or than most men, could bear with equanimity. he had revelled in the gas-light, and could not lie quiet on a sunny bank. to the palate accustomed to high cookery, bread and milk is almost painfully insipid. when phineas finn found himself discharging in dublin the routine duties of his office,--as to which there was no public comment, no feeling that such duties were done in the face of the country,--he became sick at heart and discontented. like the warhorse out at grass he remembered the sound of the battle and the noise of trumpets. after five years spent in the heat and full excitement of london society, life in ireland was tame to him, and cold, and dull. he did not analyse the difference between metropolitan and quasi-metropolitan manners; but he found that men and women in dublin were different from those to whom he had been accustomed in london. he had lived among lords, and the sons and daughters of lords; and though the official secretaries and assistant commissioners among whom his lot now threw him were for the most part clever fellows, fond of society, and perhaps more than his equals in the kind of conversation which he found to be prevalent, still they were not the same as the men he had left behind him,--men alive with the excitement of parliamentary life in london. when in london he had often told himself that he was sick of it, and that he would better love some country quiet life. now dublin was his tibur, and the fickle one found that he could not be happy unless he were back again at rome. when, therefore, he received the following letter from his friend, barrington erle, he neighed like the old warhorse, and already found himself shouting "ha, ha," among the trumpets. ---- street, th july, --. my dear finn, although you are not now immediately concerned in such trifling matters you have no doubt heard that we are all to be sent back at once to our constituents, and that there will be a general election about the end of september. we are sure that we shall have such a majority as we never had before; but we are determined to make it as strong as possible, and to get in all the good men that are to be had. have you a mind to try again? after all, there is nothing like it. perhaps you may have some irish seat in your eye for which you would be safe. to tell the truth we know very little of the irish seats--not so much as, i think, we ought to do. but if you are not so lucky i would suggest tankerville in durham. of course there would be a contest, and a little money will be wanted; but the money would not be much. browborough has sat for the place now for three parliaments, and seems to think it all his own. i am told that nothing could be easier than to turn him out. you will remember the man--a great, hulking, heavy, speechless fellow, who always used to sit just over lord macaw's shoulder. i have made inquiry, and i am told that he must walk if anybody would go down who could talk to the colliers every night for a week or so. it would just be the work for you. of course, you should have all the assistance we could give you, and molescroft would put you into the hands of an agent who wouldn't spend money for you. £ would do it all. i am very sorry to hear of your great loss, as also was lady laura, who, as you are aware, is still abroad with her father. we have all thought that the loneliness of your present life might perhaps make you willing to come back among us. i write instead of ratler, because i am helping him in the northern counties. but you will understand all about that. yours, ever faithfully, barrington erle. of course tankerville has been dirty. browborough has spent a fortune there. but i do not think that that need dishearten you. you will go there with clean hands. it must be understood that there shall not be as much as a glass of beer. i am told that the fellows won't vote for browborough unless he spends money, and i fancy he will be afraid to do it heavily after all that has come and gone. if he does you'll have him out on a petition. let us have an answer as soon as possible. he at once resolved that he would go over and see; but, before he replied to erle's letter, he walked half-a-dozen times the length of the pier at kingston meditating on his answer. he had no one belonging to him. he had been deprived of his young bride, and left desolate. he could ruin no one but himself. where could there be a man in all the world who had a more perfect right to play a trick with his own prospects? if he threw up his place and spent all his money, who could blame him? nevertheless, he did tell himself that, when he should have thrown up his place and spent all his money, there would remain to him his own self to be disposed of in a manner that might be very awkward to him. a man owes it to his country, to his friends, even to his acquaintance, that he shall not be known to be going about wanting a dinner, with never a coin in his pocket. it is very well for a man to boast that he is lord of himself, and that having no ties he may do as he pleases with that possession. but it is a possession of which, unfortunately, he cannot rid himself when he finds that there is nothing advantageous to be done with it. doubtless there is a way of riddance. there is the bare bodkin. or a man may fall overboard between holyhead and kingston in the dark, and may do it in such a cunning fashion that his friends shall think that it was an accident. but against these modes of riddance there is a canon set, which some men still fear to disobey. the thing that he was asked to do was perilous. standing in his present niche of vantage he was at least safe. and added to his safety there were material comforts. he had more than enough for his wants. his work was light; he lived among men and women with whom he was popular. the very fact of his past parliamentary life had caused him to be regarded as a man of some note among the notables of the irish capital. lord lieutenants were gracious to him, and the wives of judges smiled upon him at their tables. he was encouraged to talk of those wars of the gods at which he had been present, and was so treated as to make him feel that he was somebody in the world of dublin. now he was invited to give all this up; and for what? he answered that question to himself with enthusiastic eloquence. the reward offered to him was the thing which in all the world he liked best. it was suggested to him that he should again have within his reach that parliamentary renown which had once been the very breath of his nostrils. we all know those arguments and quotations, antagonistic to prudence, with which a man fortifies himself in rashness. "none but the brave deserve the fair." "where there's a will there's a way." "nothing venture nothing have." "the sword is to him who can use it." "fortune favours the bold." but on the other side there is just as much to be said. "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." "look before you leap." "thrust not out your hand further than you can draw it back again." all which maxims of life phineas finn revolved within his own heart, if not carefully, at least frequently, as he walked up and down the long pier of kingston harbour. but what matter such revolvings? a man placed as was our phineas always does that which most pleases him at the moment, being but poor at argument if he cannot carry the weight to that side which best satisfies his own feelings. had not his success been very great when he before made the attempt? was he not well aware at every moment of his life that, after having so thoroughly learned his lesson in london, he was throwing away his hours amidst his present pursuits in dublin? did he not owe himself to his country? and then, again, what might not london do for him? men who had begun as he begun had lived to rule over cabinets, and to sway the empire. he had been happy for a short twelvemonth with his young bride,--for a short twelvemonth,--and then she had been taken from him. had she been spared to him he would never have longed for more than fate had given him. he would never have sighed again for the glories of westminster had his mary not gone from him. now he was alone in the world; and, though he could look forward to possible and not improbable events which would make that future disposition of himself a most difficult question for him, still he would dare to try. as the first result of erle's letter phineas was over in london early in august. if he went on with this matter, he must, of course, resign the office for holding which he was now paid a thousand a year. he could retain that as long as he chose to earn the money, but the earning of it would not be compatible with a seat in parliament. he had a few thousand pounds with which he could pay for the contest at tankerville, for the consequent petition which had been so generously suggested to him, and maintain himself in london for a session or two should he be so fortunate as to carry his election. then he would be penniless, with the world before him as a closed oyster to be again opened, and he knew,--no one better,--that this oyster becomes harder and harder in the opening as the man who has to open it becomes older. it is an oyster that will close to again with a snap, after you have got your knife well into it, if you withdraw your point but for a moment. he had had a rough tussle with the oyster already, and had reached the fish within the shell. nevertheless, the oyster which he had got was not the oyster which he wanted. so he told himself now, and here had come to him the chance of trying again. early in august he went over to england, saw mr. molescroft, and made his first visit to tankerville. he did not like the look of tankerville; but nevertheless he resigned his place before the month was over. that was the one great step, or rather the leap in the dark,--and that he took. things had been so arranged that the election at tankerville was to take place on the th of october. when the dissolution had been notified to all the world by mr. daubeny an earlier day was suggested; but mr. daubeny saw reasons for postponing it for a fortnight. mr. daubeny's enemies were again very ferocious. it was all a trick. mr. daubeny had no right to continue prime minister a day after the decided expression of opinion as to unfitness which had been pronounced by the house of commons. men were waxing very wrath. nevertheless, so much power remained in mr. daubeny's hand, and the election was delayed. that for tankerville would not be held till the th of october. the whole house could not be chosen till the end of the month,--hardly by that time--and yet there was to be an autumn session. the ratlers and bonteens were at any rate clear about the autumn session. it was absolutely impossible that mr. daubeny should be allowed to remain in power over christmas, and up to february. mr. molescroft, whom phineas saw in london, was not a comfortable counsellor. "so you are going down to tankerville?" he said. "they seem to think i might as well try." "quite right;--quite right. somebody ought to try it, no doubt. it would be a disgrace to the whole party if browborough were allowed to walk over. there isn't a borough in england more sure to return a liberal than tankerville if left to itself. and yet that lump of a legislator has sat there as a tory for the last dozen years by dint of money and brass." "you think we can unseat him?" "i don't say that. he hasn't come to the end of his money, and as to his brass that is positively without end." "but surely he'll have some fear of consequences after what has been done?" "none in the least. what has been done? can you name a single parliamentary aspirant who has been made to suffer?" "they have suffered in character," said phineas. "i should not like to have the things said of me that have been said of them." "i don't know a man of them who stands in a worse position among his own friends than he occupied before. and men of that sort don't want a good position among their enemies. they know they're safe. when the seat is in dispute everybody is savage enough; but when it is merely a question of punishing a man, what is the use of being savage? who knows whose turn it may be next?" "he'll play the old game, then?" "of course he'll play the old game," said mr. molescroft. "he doesn't know any other game. all the purists in england wouldn't teach him to think that a poor man ought not to sell his vote, and that a rich man oughtn't to buy it. you mean to go in for purity?" "certainly i do." "browborough will think just as badly of you as you will of him. he'll hate you because he'll think you are trying to rob him of what he has honestly bought; but he'll hate you quite as much because you try to rob the borough. he'd tell you if you asked him that he doesn't want his seat for nothing, any more than he wants his house or his carriage-horses for nothing. to him you'll be a mean, low interloper. but you won't care about that." "not in the least, if i can get the seat." "but i'm afraid you won't. he will be elected. you'll petition. he'll lose his seat. there will be a commission. and then the borough will be disfranchised. it's a fine career, but expensive; and then there is no reward beyond the self-satisfaction arising from a good action. however, ruddles will do the best he can for you, and it certainly is possible that you may creep through." this was very disheartening, but barrington erle assured our hero that such was mr. molescroft's usual way with candidates, and that it really meant little or nothing. at any rate, phineas finn was pledged to stand. chapter ii. harrington hall. phineas, on his first arrival in london, found a few of his old friends, men who were still delayed by business though the session was over. he arrived on the th of august, which may be considered as the great day of the annual exodus, and he remembered how he, too, in former times had gone to scotland to shoot grouse, and what he had done there besides shooting. he had been a welcome guest at loughlinter, the magnificent seat of mr. kennedy, and indeed there had been that between him and mr. kennedy which ought to make him a welcome guest there still. but of mr. kennedy he had heard nothing directly since he had left london. from mr. kennedy's wife, lady laura, who had been his great friend, he had heard occasionally; but she was separated from her husband, and was living abroad with her father, the earl of brentford. has it not been written in a former book how this lady laura had been unhappy in her marriage, having wedded herself to a man whom she had never loved, because he was rich and powerful, and how this very phineas had asked her to be his bride after she had accepted the rich man's hand? thence had come great trouble, but nevertheless there had been that between mr. kennedy and our hero which made phineas feel that he ought still to be welcomed as a guest should he show himself at the door of loughlinter castle. the idea came upon him simply because he found that almost every man for whom he inquired had just started, or was just starting, for the north; and he would have liked to go where others went. he asked a few questions as to mr. kennedy from barrington erle and others, who had known him, and was told that the man now lived quite alone. he still kept his seat in parliament, but had hardly appeared during the last session, and it was thought that he would not come forward again. of his life in the country nothing was known. "no one fishes his rivers, or shoots his moors, as far as i can learn," said barrington erle. "i suppose he looks after the sheep and says his prayers, and keeps his money together." "and there has been no attempt at a reconciliation?" phineas asked. "she went abroad to escape his attempts, and remains there in order that she may be safe. of all hatreds that the world produces, a wife's hatred for her husband, when she does hate him, is the strongest." in september finn was back in ireland, and about the end of that month he made his first visit to tankerville. he remained there for three or four days, and was terribly disgusted while staying at the "yellow" inn, to find that the people of the town would treat him as though he were rolling in wealth. he was soon tired of tankerville, and as he could do nothing further, on the spot, till the time for canvassing should come on, about ten days previous to the election, he returned to london, somewhat at a loss to know how to bestir himself. but in london he received a letter from another old friend, which decided him:-- "my dear mr. finn," said the letter, of course you know that oswald is now master of the brake hounds. upon my word, i think it is the place in the world for which he is most fit. he is a great martinet in the field, and works at it as though it were for his bread. we have been here looking after the kennels and getting up the horses since the beginning of august, and have been cub-hunting ever so long. oswald wants to know whether you won't come down to him till the election begins in earnest. we were so glad to hear that you were going to appear again. i have always known that it would be so. i have told oswald scores of times that i was sure you would never be happy out of parliament, and that your real home must be somewhere near the treasury chambers. you can't alter a man's nature. oswald was born to be a master of hounds, and you were born to be a secretary of state. he works the hardest and gets the least pay for it; but then, as he says, he does not run so great a risk of being turned out. we haven't much of a house, but we have plenty of room for you. as for the house, it was a matter of course, whether good or bad. it goes with the kennels, and i should as little think of having a choice as though i were one of the horses. we have very good stables, and such a stud! i can't tell you how many there are. in october it seems as though their name were legion. in march there is never anything for any body to ride on. i generally find then that mine are taken for the whips. do come and take advantage of the flush. i can't tell you how glad we shall be to see you. oswald ought to have written himself, but he says--; i won't tell you what he says. we shall take no refusal. you can have nothing to do before you are wanted at tankerville. i was so sorry to hear of your great loss. i hardly know whether to mention it or to be silent in writing. if you were here of course i should speak of her. and i would rather renew your grief for a time than allow you to think that i am indifferent. pray come to us. yours ever most sincerely, violet chiltern. harrington hall, wednesday. phineas finn at once made up his mind that he would go to harrington hall. there was the prospect in this of an immediate return to some of the most charming pleasures of the old life, which was very grateful to him. it pleased him much that he should have been so thought of by this lady,--that she should have sought him out at once, at the moment of his reappearance. that she would have remembered him, he was quite sure, and that her husband, lord chiltern, should remember him also, was beyond a doubt. there had been passages in their joint lives which people cannot forget. but it might so well have been the case that they should not have cared to renew their acquaintance with him. as it was, they must have made close inquiry, and had sought him at the first day of his reappearance. the letter had reached him through the hands of barrington erle, who was a cousin of lord chiltern, and was at once answered as follows:-- fowler's hotel, jermyn street, october st. my dear lady chiltern, i cannot tell you how much pleasure the very sight of your handwriting gave me. yes, here i am again, trying my hand at the old game. they say that you can never cure a gambler or a politician; and, though i had very much to make me happy till that great blow came upon me, i believe that it is so. i am uneasy till i can see once more the speaker's wig, and hear bitter things said of this "right honourable gentleman," and of that noble friend. i want to be once more in the midst of it; and as i have been left singularly desolate in the world, without a tie by which i am bound to aught but an honourable mode of living, i have determined to run the risk, and have thrown up the place which i held under government. i am to stand for tankerville, as you have heard, and i am told by those to whose tender mercies i have been confided by b. e. that i have not a chance of success. your invitation is so tempting that i cannot refuse it. as you say, i have nothing to do till the play begins. i have issued my address, and must leave my name and my fame to be discussed by the tankervillians till i make my appearance among them on the th of this month. of course, i had heard that chiltern has the brake, and i have heard also that he is doing it uncommonly well. tell him that i have hardly seen a hound since the memorable day on which i pulled him out from under his horse in the brook at wissindine. i don't know whether i can ride a yard now. i will get to you on the th, and will remain if you will keep me till the th. if chiltern can put me up on anything a little quieter than bonebreaker, i'll go out steadily, and see how he does his cubbing. i may, perhaps, be justified in opining that bonebreaker has before this left the establishment. if so i may, perhaps, find myself up to a little very light work. remember me very kindly to him. does he make a good nurse with the baby? yours, always faithfully, phineas finn. i cannot tell you with what pleasure i look forward to seeing you both again. the next few days went very heavily with him. there had, indeed, been no real reason why he should not have gone to harrington hall at once, except that he did not wish to seem to be utterly homeless. and yet were he there, with his old friends, he would not scruple for a moment in owning that such was the case. he had fixed his day, however, and did remain in london till the th. barrington erle and mr. ratler he saw occasionally, for they were kept in town on the affairs of the election. the one was generally full of hope; but the other was no better than a job's comforter. "i wouldn't advise you to expect too much at tankerville, you know," said mr. ratler. "by no means," said phineas, who had always disliked ratler, and had known himself to be disliked in return. "i expect nothing." "browborough understands such a place as tankerville so well! he has been at it all his life. money is no object to him, and he doesn't care a straw what anybody says of him. i don't think it's possible to unseat him." "we'll try at least," said phineas, upon whom, however, such remarks as these cast a gloom which he could not succeed in shaking off, though he could summon vigour sufficient to save him from showing the gloom. he knew very well that comfortable words would be spoken to him at harrington hall, and that then the gloom would go. the comforting words of his friends would mean quite as little as the discourtesies of mr. ratler. he understood that thoroughly, and felt that he ought to hold a stronger control over his own impulses. he must take the thing as it would come, and neither the flatterings of friends nor the threatenings of enemies could alter it; but he knew his own weakness, and confessed to himself that another week of life by himself at fowler's hotel, refreshed by occasional interviews with mr. ratler, would make him altogether unfit for the coming contest at tankerville. he reached harrington hall in the afternoon about four, and found lady chiltern alone. as soon as he saw her he told himself that she was not in the least altered since he had last been with her, and yet during the period she had undergone that great change which turns a girl into a mother. she had the baby with her when he came into the room, and at once greeted him as an old friend,--as a loved and loving friend who was to be made free at once to all the inmost privileges of real friendship, which are given to and are desired by so few. "yes, here we are again," said lady chiltern, "settled, as far as i suppose we ever shall be settled, for ever so many years to come. the place belongs to old lord gunthorpe, i fancy, but really i hardly know. i do know that we should give it up at once if we gave up the hounds, and that we can't be turned out as long as we have them. doesn't it seem odd to have to depend on a lot of yelping dogs?" [illustration: lady chiltern and her baby.] "only that the yelping dogs depend on you." "it's a kind of give and take, i suppose, like other things in the world. of course, he's a beautiful baby. i had him in just that you might see him. i show baby, and oswald shows the hounds. we've nothing else to interest anybody. but nurse shall take him now. come out and have a turn in the shrubbery before oswald comes back. they're gone to-day as far as trumpeton wood, out of which no fox was ever known to break, and they won't be home till six." "who are 'they'?" asked phineas, as he took his hat. "the 'they' is only adelaide palliser. i don't think you ever knew her?" "never. is she anything to the other pallisers?" "she is everything to them all; niece and grand-niece, and first cousin and grand-daughter. her father was the fourth brother, and as she was one of six her share of the family wealth is small. those pallisers are very peculiar, and i doubt whether she ever saw the old duke. she has no father or mother, and lives when she is at home with a married sister, about seventy years older than herself, mrs. attenbury." "i remember mrs. attenbury." "of course you do. who does not? adelaide was a child then, i suppose. though i don't know why she should have been, as she calls herself one-and-twenty now. you'll think her pretty. i don't. but she is my great new friend, and i like her immensely. she rides to hounds, and talks italian, and writes for the _times_." "writes for the _times_!" "i won't swear that she does, but she could. there's only one other thing about her. she's engaged to be married." "to whom?" "i don't know that i shall answer that question, and indeed i'm not sure that she is engaged. but there's a man dying for her." "you must know, if she's your friend." "of course i know; but there are ever so many ins and outs, and i ought not to have said a word about it. i shouldn't have done so to any one but you. and now we'll go in and have some tea, and go to bed." "go to bed!" "we always go to bed here before dinner on hunting days. when the cubbing began oswald used to be up at three." "he doesn't get up at three now." "nevertheless we go to bed. you needn't if you don't like, and i'll stay with you if you choose till you dress for dinner. i did know so well that you'd come back to london, mr. finn. you are not a bit altered." "i feel to be changed in everything." "why should you be altered? it's only two years. i am altered because of baby. that does change a woman. of course i'm thinking always of what he will do in the world; whether he'll be a master of hounds or a cabinet minister or a great farmer;--or perhaps a miserable spendthrift, who will let everything that his grandfathers and grandmothers have done for him go to the dogs." "why do you think of anything so wretched, lady chiltern?" "who can help thinking? men do do so. it seems to me that that is the line of most young men who come to their property early. why should i dare to think that my boy should be better than others? but i do; and i fancy that he will be a great statesman. after all, mr. finn, that is the best thing that a man can be, unless it is given him to be a saint and a martyr and all that kind of thing,--which is not just what a mother looks for." "that would only be better than the spendthrift and gambler." "hardly better you'll say, perhaps. how odd that is! we all profess to believe when we're told that this world should be used merely as a preparation for the next; and yet there is something so cold and comfortless in the theory that we do not relish the prospect even for our children. i fancy your people have more real belief in it than ours." now phineas finn was a roman catholic. but the discussion was stopped by the noise of an arrival in the hall. "there they are," said lady chiltern; "oswald never comes in without a sound of trumpets to make him audible throughout the house." then she went to meet her husband, and phineas followed her out of the drawing-room. lord chiltern was as glad to see him as she had been, and in a very few minutes he found himself quite at home. in the hall he was introduced to miss palliser, but he was hardly able to see her as she stood there a moment in her hat and habit. there was ever so much said about the day's work. the earths had not been properly stopped, and lord chiltern had been very angry, and the owner of trumpeton wood, who was a great duke, had been much abused, and things had not gone altogether straight. "lord chiltern was furious," said miss palliser, laughing, "and therefore, of course, i became furious too, and swore that it was an awful shame. then they all swore that it was an awful shame, and everybody was furious. and you might hear one man saying to another all day long, 'by george, this is too bad.' but i never could quite make out what was amiss, and i'm sure the men didn't know." "what was it, oswald?" "never mind now. one doesn't go to trumpeton wood expecting to be happy there. i've half a mind to swear i'll never draw it again." "i've been asking him what was the matter all the way home," said miss palliser, "but i don't think he knows himself." "come upstairs, phineas, and i'll show you your room," said lord chiltern. "it's not quite as comfortable as the old 'bull,' but we make it do." phineas, when he was alone, could not help standing for awhile with his back to the fire thinking of it all. he did already feel himself to be at home in that house, and his doing so was a contradiction to all the wisdom which he had been endeavouring to teach himself for the last two years. he had told himself over and over again that that life which he had lived in london had been, if not a dream, at any rate not more significant than a parenthesis in his days, which, as of course it had no bearing on those which had gone before, so neither would it influence those which were to follow. the dear friends of that period of feverish success would for the future be to him as--nothing. that was the lesson of wisdom which he had endeavoured to teach himself, and the facts of the last two years had seemed to show that the lesson was a true lesson. he had disappeared from among his former companions, and had heard almost nothing from them. from neither lord chiltern or his wife had he received any tidings. he had expected to receive none,--had known that in the common course of things none was to be expected. there were many others with whom he had been intimate--barrington erle, laurence fitzgibbon, mr. monk, a politician who had been in the cabinet, and in consequence of whose political teaching he, phineas finn, had banished himself from the political world;--from none of these had he received a line till there came that letter summoning him back to the battle. there had never been a time during his late life in dublin at which he had complained to himself that on this account his former friends had forgotten him. if they had not written to him, neither had he written to them. but on his first arrival in england he had, in the sadness of his solitude, told himself that he was forgotten. there would be no return, so he feared, of those pleasant intimacies which he now remembered so well, and which, as he remembered them, were so much more replete with unalloyed delights than they had ever been in their existing realities. and yet here he was, a welcome guest in lord chiltern's house, a welcome guest in lady chiltern's drawing-room, and quite as much at home with them as ever he had been in the old days. who is there that can write letters to all his friends, or would not find it dreary work to do so even in regard to those whom he really loves? when there is something palpable to be said, what a blessing is the penny post! to one's wife, to one's child, one's mistress, one's steward if there be a steward; one's gamekeeper, if there be shooting forward; one's groom, if there be hunting; one's publisher, if there be a volume ready or money needed; or one's tailor occasionally, if a coat be required, a man is able to write. but what has a man to say to his friend,--or, for that matter, what has a woman? a horace walpole may write to a mr. mann about all things under the sun, london gossip or transcendental philosophy, and if the horace walpole of the occasion can write well and will labour diligently at that vocation, his letters may be worth reading by his mr. mann, and by others; but, for the maintenance of love and friendship, continued correspondence between distant friends is naught. distance in time and place, but especially in time, will diminish friendship. it is a rule of nature that it should be so, and thus the friendships which a man most fosters are those which he can best enjoy. if your friend leave you, and seek a residence in patagonia, make a niche for him in your memory, and keep him there as warm as you may. perchance he may return from patagonia and the old joys may be repeated. but never think that those joys can be maintained by the assistance of ocean postage, let it be at never so cheap a rate. phineas finn had not thought this matter out very carefully, and now, after two years of absence, he was surprised to find that he was still had in remembrance by those who had never troubled themselves to write to him a line during his absence. when he went down into the drawing-room he was surprised to find another old friend sitting there alone. "mr. finn," said the old lady, "i hope i see you quite well. i am glad to meet you again. you find my niece much changed, i dare say?" "not in the least, lady baldock," said phineas, seizing the proffered hand of the dowager. in that hour of conversation, which they had had together, lady chiltern had said not a word to phineas of her aunt, and now he felt himself to be almost discomposed by the meeting. "is your daughter here, lady baldock?" lady baldock shook her head solemnly and sadly. "do not speak of her, mr. finn. it is too sad! we never mention her name now." phineas looked as sad as he knew how to look, but he said nothing. the lamentation of the mother did not seem to imply that the daughter was dead; and, from his remembrance of augusta boreham, he would have thought her to be the last woman in the world to run away with the coachman. at the moment there did not seem to be any other sufficient cause for so melancholy a wagging of that venerable head. he had been told to say nothing, and he could ask no questions; but lady baldock did not choose that he should be left to imagine things more terrible than the truth. "she is lost to us for ever, mr. finn." "how very sad." "sad, indeed! we don't know how she took it." "took what, lady baldock?" "i am sure it was nothing that she ever saw at home. if there is a thing i'm true to, it is the protestant established church of england. some nasty, low, lying, wheedling priest got hold of her, and now she's a nun, and calls herself--sister veronica john!" lady baldock threw great strength and unction into her description of the priest; but as soon as she had told her story a sudden thought struck her. "oh, laws! i quite forgot. i beg your pardon, mr. finn; but you're one of them!" "not a nun, lady baldock." at that moment the door was opened, and lord chiltern came in, to the great relief of his wife's aunt. chapter iii. gerard maule. "why didn't you tell me?" said phineas that night after lady baldock was gone to bed. the two men had taken off their dress coats, and had put on smoking caps,--lord chiltern, indeed, having clothed himself in a wonderful chinese dressing-gown, and they were sitting round the fire in the smoking-room; but though they were thus employed and thus dressed the two younger ladies were still with them. "how could i tell you everything in two minutes?" said lady chiltern. "i'd have given a guinea to have heard her," said lord chiltern, getting up and rubbing his hands as he walked about the room. "can't you fancy all that she'd say, and then her horror when she'd remember that phineas was a papist himself?" "but what made miss boreham turn nun?" "i fancy she found the penances lighter than they were at home," said the lord. "they couldn't well be heavier." "dear old aunt!" "does she never go to see sister veronica?" asked miss palliser. "she has been once," said lady chiltern. "and fumigated herself first so as to escape infection," said the husband. "you should hear gerard maule imitate her when she talks about the filthy priest." "and who is gerard maule?" then lady chiltern looked at her friend, and phineas was almost sure that gerard maule was the man who was dying for adelaide palliser. "he's a great ally of mine," said lady chiltern. "he's a young fellow who thinks he can ride to hounds," said lord chiltern, "and who very often does succeed in riding over them." "that's not fair, lord chiltern," said miss palliser. "just my idea of it," replied the master. "i don't think it's at all fair. because a man has plenty of horses, and nothing else to do, and rides twelve stone, and doesn't care how he's sworn at, he's always to be over the scent, and spoil every one's sport. i don't call it at all fair." "he's a very nice fellow, and a great friend of oswald's. he is to be here to-morrow, and you'll like him very much. won't he, adelaide?" "i don't know mr. finn's tastes quite so well as you do, violet. but mr. maule is so harmless that no one can dislike him very much." "as for being harmless, i'm not so sure," said lady chiltern. after that they all went to bed. phineas remained at harrington hall till the ninth, on which day he went to london so that he might be at tankerville on the tenth. he rode lord chiltern's horses, and took an interest in the hounds, and nursed the baby. "now tell me what you think of gerard maule," lady chiltern asked him, the day before he started. "i presume that he is the young man that is dying for miss palliser." "you may answer my question, mr. finn, without making any such suggestion." "not discreetly. of course if he is to be made happy, i am bound at the present moment to say all good things of him. at such a crisis it would be wicked to tinge miss palliser's hopes with any hue less warm than rose colour." "do you suppose that i tell everything that is said to me?" "not at all; but opinions do ooze out. i take him to be a good sort of a fellow; but why doesn't he talk a bit more?" "that's just it." "and why does he pretend to do nothing? when he's out he rides hard; but at other times there's a ha-ha, lack a-daisical air about him which i hate. why men assume it i never could understand. it can recommend them to nobody. a man can't suppose that he'll gain anything by pretending that he never reads, and never thinks, and never does anything, and never speaks, and doesn't care what he has for dinner, and, upon the whole, would just as soon lie in bed all day as get up. it isn't that he is really idle. he rides and eats, and does get up, and i daresay talks and thinks. it's simply a poor affectation." "that's your rose colour, is it?" "you've promised secrecy, lady chiltern. i suppose he's well off?" "he is an eldest son. the property is not large, and i'm afraid there's something wrong about it." "he has no profession?" "none at all. he has an allowance of £ a year, which in some sort of fashion is independent of his father. he has nothing on earth to do. adelaide's whole fortune is four thousand pounds. if they were to marry what would become of them?" "that wouldn't be enough to live on?" "it ought to be enough,--as he must, i suppose, have the property some day,--if only he had something to do. what sort of a life would he lead?" "i suppose he couldn't become a master of hounds?" "that is ill-natured, mr. finn." "i did not mean it so. i did not indeed. you must know that i did not." "of course oswald had nothing to do, and, of course, there was a time when i wished that he should take to parliament. no one knew all that better than you did. but he was very different from mr. maule." "very different, indeed." "oswald is a man full of energy, and with no touch of that affectation which you described. as it is, he does work hard. no man works harder. the learned people say that you should produce something, and i don't suppose that he produces much. but somebody must keep hounds, and nobody could do it better than he does." "you don't think that i meant to blame him?" "i hope not." "are he and his father on good terms now?" "oh, yes. his father wishes him to go to saulsby, but he won't do that. he hates saulsby." saulsby was the country seat of the earl of brentford, the name of the property which must some day belong to this lord chiltern, and phineas, as he heard this, remembered former days in which he had ridden about saulsby woods, and had thought them to be anything but hateful. "is saulsby shut up?" he asked. "altogether, and so is the house in portman square. there never was anything more sad or desolate. you would find him altered, mr. finn. he is quite an old man now. he was here in the spring, for a week or two;--in england, that is; but he stayed at an hotel in london. he and laura live at dresden now, and a very sad time they must have." "does she write?" "yes; and keeps up all her interest about politics. i have already told her that you are to stand for tankerville. no one,--no other human being in the world will be so interested for you as she is. if any friend ever felt an interest almost selfish for a friend's welfare, she will feel such an interest for you. if you were to succeed it would give her a hope in life." phineas sat silent, drinking in the words that were said to him. though they were true, or at least meant to be true, they were full of flattery. why should this woman of whom they were speaking love him so dearly? she was nothing to him. she was highly born, greatly gifted, wealthy, and a married woman, whose character, as he well knew, was beyond the taint of suspicion, though she had been driven by the hard sullenness of her husband to refuse to live under his roof. phineas finn and lady laura kennedy had not seen each other for two years, and when they had parted, though they had lived as friends, there had been no signs of still living friendship. true, indeed, she had written to him, but her letters had been short and cold, merely detailing certain circumstances of her outward life. now he was told by this woman's dearest friend that his welfare was closer to her heart than any other interest! "i daresay you often think of her?" said lady chiltern. "indeed, i do." "what virtues she used to ascribe to you! what sins she forgave you! how hard she fought for you! now, though she can fight no more, she does not think of it all the less." "poor lady laura!" "poor laura, indeed! when one sees such shipwreck it makes a woman doubt whether she ought to marry at all." "and yet he was a good man. she always said so." "men are so seldom really good. they are so little sympathetic. what man thinks of changing himself so as to suit his wife? and yet men expect that women shall put on altogether new characters when they are married, and girls think that they can do so. look at this mr. maule, who is really over head and ears in love with adelaide palliser. she is full of hope and energy. he has none. and yet he has the effrontery to suppose that she will adapt herself to his way of living if he marries her." "then they are to be married?" "i suppose it will come to that. it always does if the man is in earnest. girls will accept men simply because they think it ill-natured to return the compliment of an offer with a hearty 'no.'" "i suppose she likes him?" "of course she does. a girl almost always likes a man who is in love with her,--unless indeed she positively dislikes him. but why should she like him? he is good-looking, is a gentleman, and not a fool. is that enough to make such a girl as adelaide palliser think a man divine?" "is nobody to be accepted who is not credited with divinity?" "the man should be a demigod, at least in respect to some part of his character. i can find nothing even demi-divine about mr. maule." "that's because you are not in love with him, lady chiltern." six or seven very pleasant days phineas finn spent at harrington hall, and then he started alone, and very lonely, for tankerville. but he admitted to himself that the pleasure which he had received during his visit was quite sufficient to qualify him in running any risk in an attempt to return to the kind of life which he had formerly led. but if he should fail at tankerville what would become of him then? chapter iv. tankerville. the great mr. molescroft himself came over to tankerville for the purpose of introducing our hero to the electors and to mr. ruddles, the local liberal agent, who was to be employed. they met at the lambton arms, and there phineas established himself, knowing well that he had before him ten days of unmitigated vexation and misery. tankerville was a dirty, prosperous, ungainly town, which seemed to exude coal-dust or coal-mud at every pore. it was so well recognised as being dirty that people did not expect to meet each other with clean hands and faces. linen was never white at tankerville, and even ladies who sat in drawing-rooms were accustomed to the feel and taste and appearance of soot in all their daintiest recesses. we hear that at oil city the flavour of petroleum is hardly considered to be disagreeable, and so it was with the flavour of coal at tankerville. and we know that at oil city the flavour of petroleum must not be openly declared to be objectionable, and so it was with coal at tankerville. at tankerville coal was much loved, and was not thought to be dirty. mr. ruddles was very much begrimed himself, and some of the leading liberal electors, upon whom phineas finn had already called, seemed to be saturated with the product of the district. it would not, however, in any event be his duty to live at tankerville, and he had believed from the first moment of his entrance into the town that he would soon depart from it, and know it no more. he felt that the chance of his being elected was quite a forlorn hope, and could hardly understand why he had allowed himself to be embarrassed by so very unprofitable a speculation. phineas finn had thrice before this been chosen to sit in parliament--twice for the irish borough of loughshane, and once for the english borough of loughton; but he had been so happy as hitherto to have known nothing of the miseries and occasional hopelessness of a contested election. at loughton he had come forward as the nominee of the earl of brentford, and had been returned without any chance of failure by that nobleman's influence. at loughshane things had nearly been as pleasant with him. he had almost been taught to think that nothing could be easier than getting into parliament if only a man could live when he was there. but loughton and loughshane were gone, with so many other comfortable things of old days, and now he found himself relegated to a borough to which, as it seemed to him, he was sent to fight, not that he might win, but because it was necessary to his party that the seat should not be allowed to be lost without fighting. he had had the pleasant things of parliamentary adventure, and now must undergo those which were unpleasant. no doubt he could have refused, but he had listened to the tempter, and could not now go back, though mr. ruddles was hardly more encouraging than mr. molescroft. "browborough has been at work for the last three days," said mr. ruddles, in a tone of reproach. mr. ruddles had always thought that no amount of work could be too heavy for his candidates. "will that make much difference?" asked mr. molescroft. "well, it does. of course, he has been among the colliers,--when we ought to have been before him." "i came when i was told," said phineas. "i'd have telegraphed to you if i'd known where you were. but there's no help for spilt milk. we must get to work now,--that's all. i suppose you're for disestablishing the church?" "not particularly," said phineas, who felt that with him, as a roman catholic, this was a delicate subject. "we needn't go into that, need we?" said mr. molescroft, who, though a liberal, was a good churchman. mr. ruddles was a dissenter, but the very strong opinion which mr. ruddles now expressed as to the necessity that the new candidate should take up the church question did not spring at all from his own religious convictions. his present duty called upon him to have a liberal candidate if possible returned for the borough with which he was connected, and not to disseminate the doctrines of his own sect. nevertheless, his opinion was very strong. "i think we must, mr. molescroft," said he; "i'm sure we must. browborough has taken up the other side. he went to church last sunday with the mayor and two of the aldermen, and i'm told he said all the responses louder than anybody else. he dined with the vicar of trinity on monday. he has been very loud in denouncing mr. finn as a roman catholic, and has declared that everything will be up with the state if tankerville returns a friend and supporter of the pope. you'll find that the church will be the cry here this election. you can't get anything by supporting it, but you may make a strong party by pledging yourself to disendowment." "wouldn't local taxation do?" asked mr. molescroft, who indeed preferred almost any other reform to disendowment. "i have made up my mind that we must have some check on municipal expenditure," said phineas. "it won't do--not alone. if i understand the borough, the feeling at this election will altogether be about the church. you see, mr. finn, your being a roman catholic gives them a handle, and they're already beginning to use it. they don't like roman catholics here; but if you can manage to give it a sort of liberal turn,--as many of your constituents used to do, you know,--as though you disliked church and state rather than cared for the pope, may be it might act on our side rather than on theirs. mr. molescroft understands it all." "oh, yes; i understand." mr. ruddles said a great deal more to the same effect, and though mr. molescroft did not express any acquiescence in these views, neither did he dissent. the candidate said but little at this interview, but turned the matter over in his mind. a seat in parliament would be but a barren honour, and he could not afford to offer his services for barren honour. honest political work he was anxious to do, but for what work he did he desired to be paid. the party to which he belonged had, as he knew, endeavoured to avoid the subject of the disendowment of the church of england. it is the necessary nature of a political party in this country to avoid, as long as it can be avoided, the consideration of any question which involves a great change. there is a consciousness on the minds of leading politicians that the pressure from behind, forcing upon them great measures, drives them almost quicker than they can go, so that it becomes a necessity with them to resist rather than to aid the pressure which will certainly be at last effective by its own strength. the best carriage horses are those which can most steadily hold back against the coach as it trundles down the hill. all this phineas knew, and was of opinion that the barrington erles and ratlers of his party would not thank him for ventilating a measure which, however certain might be its coming, might well be postponed for a few years. once already in his career he had chosen to be in advance of his party, and the consequences had been disastrous to him. on that occasion his feelings had been strong in regard to the measure upon which he broke away from his party; but, when he first thought of it, he did not care much about church disendowment. but he found that he must needs go as he was driven or else depart out of the place. he wrote a line to his friend erle, not to ask advice, but to explain the circumstances. "my only possible chance of success will lie in attacking the church endowments. of course i think they are bad, and of course i think that they must go. but i have never cared for the matter, and would have been very willing to leave it among those things which will arrange themselves. but i have no choice here." and so he prepared himself to run his race on the course arranged for him by mr. ruddles. mr. molescroft, whose hours were precious, soon took his leave, and phineas finn was placarded about the town as the sworn foe to all church endowments. in the course of his canvass, and the commotions consequent upon it, he found that mr. ruddles was right. no other subject seemed at the moment to have any attraction in tankerville. mr. browborough, whose life had not been passed in any strict obedience to the ten commandments, and whose religious observances had not hitherto interfered with either the pleasures or the duties of his life, repeated at every meeting which he attended, and almost to every elector whom he canvassed, the great shibboleth which he had now adopted--"the prosperity of england depends on the church of her people." he was not an orator. indeed, it might be hard to find a man, who had for years been conversant with public life, less able to string a few words together for immediate use. nor could he learn half-a-dozen sentences by rote. but he could stand up with unabashed brow and repeat with enduring audacity the same words a dozen times over--"the prosperity of england depends on the church of her people." had he been asked whether the prosperity which he promised was temporal or spiritual in its nature, not only could he not have answered, but he would not in the least have understood the question. but the words as they came from his mouth had a weight which seemed to ensure their truth, and many men in tankerville thought that mr. browborough was eloquent. phineas, on the other hand, made two or three great speeches every evening, and astonished even mr. ruddles by his oratory. he had accepted mr. ruddles's proposition with but lukewarm acquiescence, but in the handling of the matter he became zealous, fiery, and enthusiastic. he explained to his hearers with gracious acknowledgment that church endowments had undoubtedly been most beneficent in past times. he spoke in the interests of no special creed. whether in the so-called popish days of henry viii and his ancestors, or in the so-called protestant days that had followed, the state of society had required that spiritual teaching should be supplied from funds fixed and devoted to the purpose. the increasing intelligence and population of the country made this no longer desirable,--or, if desirable, no longer possible. could these endowments be increased to meet the needs of the increasing millions? was it not the fact that even among members of the church of england they were altogether inefficient to supply the wants of our great towns? did the people of tankerville believe that the clergymen of london, of liverpool, and of manchester were paid by endowments? the arguments which had been efficacious in ireland must be efficacious in england. he said this without reference to one creed or to another. he did believe in religious teaching. he had not a word to say against a protestant episcopal church. but he thought, nay he was sure, that church and state, as combined institutions, could no longer prevail in this country. if the people of tankerville would return him to parliament it should be his first object to put an end to this anomaly. the browboroughites were considerably astonished by his success. the colliers on this occasion did not seem to regard the clamour that was raised against irish papists. much dirt was thrown and some heads were broken; but phineas persevered. mr. ruddles was lost in admiration. they had never before had at tankerville a man who could talk so well. mr. browborough without ceasing repeated his well-worn assurance, and it was received with the loudest exclamations of delight by his own party. the clergymen of the town and neighbourhood crowded round him and pursued him, and almost seemed to believe in him. they were at any rate fighting their battle as best they knew how to fight it. but the great body of the colliers listened to phineas, and every collier was now a voter. then mr. ruddles, who had many eyes, began to perceive that the old game was to be played. "there'll be money going to-morrow after all," he whispered to finn the evening before the election. "i suppose you expected that." "i wasn't sure. they began by thinking they could do without it. they don't want to sacrifice the borough." "nor do i, mr. ruddles." "but they'll sooner do that than lose the seat. a couple of dozen of men out of the fallgate would make us safe." mr. ruddles smiled as he said this. and phineas smiled as he answered, "if any good can be done by talking to the men at the fallgate, i'll talk to them by the hour together." "we've about done all that," said mr. ruddles. then came the voting. up to two o'clock the polling was so equal that the numbers at mr. browborough's committee room were always given in his favour, and those at the liberal room in favour of phineas finn. at three o'clock phineas was acknowledged to be ten ahead. he himself was surprised at his own success, and declared to himself that his old luck had not deserted him. "they're giving £ _s._ a vote at the fallgate this minute," said ruddles to him at a quarter-past three. "we shall have to prove it." "we can do that, i think," said ruddles. at four o'clock, when the poll was over, browborough was declared to have won on the post by seven votes. he was that same evening declared by the mayor to have been elected sitting member for the borough, and he again assured the people in his speech that the prosperity of england depends on the church of her people. "we shall carry the seat on a scrutiny as sure as eggs," said mr. ruddles, who had been quite won by the gallant way in which phineas had fought his battle. chapter v. mr. daubeny's great move. the whole liberal party was taken very much by surprise at the course which the election ran. or perhaps it might be more proper to say that the parliamentary leaders of the party were surprised. it had not been recognised by them as necessary that the great question of church and state should be generally discussed on this occasion. it was a matter of course that it should be discussed at some places, and by some men. eager dissenters would, of course, take advantage of the opportunity to press their views, and no doubt the entire abolition of the irish church as a state establishment had taught liberals to think and conservatives to fear that the question would force itself forward at no very distant date. but it had not been expected to do so now. the general incompetence of a ministry who could not command a majority on any measure was intended to be the strong point of the liberal party, not only at the election, but at the meeting of parliament. the church question, which was necessarily felt by all statesmen to be of such magnitude as to dwarf every other, was not wanted as yet. it might remain in the background as the future standing-point for some great political struggle, in which it would be again necessary that every liberal should fight, as though for life, with his teeth and nails. men who ten years since regarded almost with abhorrence, and certainly with distrust, the idea of disruption between church and state in england, were no doubt learning to perceive that such disruption must come, and were reconciling themselves to it after that slow, silent, inargumentative fashion in which convictions force themselves among us. and from reconciliation to the idea some were advancing to enthusiasm on its behalf. "it is only a question of time," was now said by many who hardly remembered how devoted they had been to the established church of england a dozen years ago. but the fruit was not yet ripe, and the leaders of the liberal party by no means desired that it should be plucked. they were, therefore, surprised, and but little pleased, when they found that the question was more discussed than any other on the hustings of enthusiastically political boroughs. barrington erle was angry when he received the letter of phineas finn. he was at that moment staying with the duke of st. bungay, who was regarded by many as the only possible leader of the liberal party, should mr. gresham for any reason fail them. indeed the old whigs, of whom barrington erle considered himself to be one, would have much preferred the duke to mr. gresham, had it been possible to set mr. gresham aside. but mr. gresham was too strong to be set aside; and erle and the duke, with all their brethren, were minded to be thoroughly loyal to their leader. he was their leader, and not to be loyal was, in their minds, treachery. but occasionally they feared that the man would carry them whither they did not desire to go. in the meantime heavy things were spoken of our poor friend, finn. "after all, that man is an ass," said erle. "if so, i believe you are altogether responsible for him," said the duke. "well, yes, in a measure; but not altogether. that, however, is a long story. he has many good gifts. he is clever, good-tempered, and one of the pleasantest fellows that ever lived. the women all like him." "so the duchess tells me." "but he is not what i call loyal. he cannot keep himself from running after strange gods. what need had he to take up the church question at tankerville? the truth is, duke, the thing is going to pieces. we get men into the house now who are clever, and all that sort of thing, and who force their way up, but who can't be made to understand that everybody should not want to be prime minister." the duke, who was now a nestor among politicians, though very green in his age, smiled as he heard remarks which had been familiar to him for the last forty years. he, too, liked his party, and was fond of loyal men; but he had learned at last that all loyalty must be built on a basis of self-advantage. patriotism may exist without it, but that which erle called loyalty in politics was simply devotion to the side which a man conceives to be his side, and which he cannot leave without danger to himself. but if discontent was felt at the eagerness with which this subject was taken up at certain boroughs, and was adopted by men whose votes and general support would be essentially necessary to the would-be coming liberal government, absolute dismay was occasioned by a speech that was made at a certain county election. mr. daubeny had for many years been member for east barsetshire, and was as sure of his seat as the queen of her throne. no one would think of contesting mr. daubeny's right to sit for east barsetshire, and no doubt he might have been returned without showing himself to the electors. but he did show himself to the electors; and, as a matter of course, made a speech on the occasion. it so happened that the day fixed for the election in this division of the county was quite at the close of this period of political excitement. when mr. daubeny addressed his friends in east barsetshire the returns throughout the kingdom were nearly complete. no attention had been paid to this fact during the elections, but it was afterwards asserted that the arrangement had been made with a political purpose, and with a purpose which was politically dishonest. mr. daubeny, so said the angry liberals, had not chosen to address his constituents till his speech at the hustings could have no effect on other counties. otherwise,--so said the liberals,--the whole conservative party would have been called upon to disavow at the hustings the conclusion to which mr. daubeny hinted in east barsetshire that he had arrived. the east barsetshire men themselves,--so said the liberals,--had been too crass to catch the meaning hidden under his ambiguous words; but those words, when read by the light of astute criticism, were found to contain an opinion that church and state should be dissevered. "by g----! he's going to take the bread out of our mouths again," said mr. ratler. the speech was certainly very ambiguous, and i am not sure that the east barsetshire folk were so crass as they were accused of being, in not understanding it at once. the dreadful hint was wrapped up in many words, and formed but a small part of a very long oration. the bucolic mind of east barsetshire took warm delight in the eloquence of the eminent personage who represented them, but was wont to extract more actual enjoyment from the music of his periods than from the strength of his arguments. when he would explain to them that he had discovered a new, or rather hitherto unknown, conservative element in the character of his countrymen, which he could best utilise by changing everything in the constitution, he manipulated his words with such grace, was so profound, so broad, and so exalted, was so brilliant in mingling a deep philosophy with the ordinary politics of the day, that the bucolic mind could only admire. it was a great honour to the electors of that agricultural county that they should be made the first recipients of these pearls, which were not wasted by being thrown before them. they were picked up by the gentlemen of the press, and became the pearls, not of east barsetshire, but of all england. on this occasion it was found that one pearl was very big, very rare, and worthy of great attention; but it was a black pearl, and was regarded by many as an abominable prodigy. "the period of our history is one in which it becomes essential for us to renew those inquiries which have prevailed since man first woke to his destiny, as to the amount of connection which exists and which must exist between spiritual and simply human forms of government,--between our daily religion and our daily politics, between the crown and the mitre." the east barsetshire clergymen and the east barsetshire farmers like to hear something of the mitre in political speeches at the hustings. the word sounds pleasantly in their ears, as appertaining to good old gracious times and good old gracious things. as honey falls fast from the mouth of the practised speaker, the less practised hearer is apt to catch more of the words than of the sense. the speech of mr. daubeny was taken all in good part by his assembled friends. but when it was read by the quidnuncs on the following day it was found to contain so deep a meaning that it produced from mr. ratler's mouth those words of fear which have been already quoted. could it really be the case that the man intended to perform so audacious a trick of legerdemain as this for the preservation of his power, and that if he intended it he should have the power to carry it through? the renewal of inquiry as to the connection which exists between the crown and the mitre, when the bran was bolted, could only mean the disestablishment of the church. mr. ratler and his friends were not long in bolting the bran. regarding the matter simply in its own light, without bringing to bear upon it the experience of the last half-century, mr. ratler would have thought his party strong enough to defy mr. daubeny utterly in such an attempt. the ordinary politician, looking at mr. daubeny's position as leader of the conservative party, as a statesman depending on the support of the church, as a minister appointed to his present place for the express object of defending all that was left of old, and dear, and venerable in the constitution, would have declared that mr. daubeny was committing political suicide, as to which future history would record a verdict of probably not temporary insanity. and when the speech was a week old this was said in many a respectable household through the country. many a squire, many a parson, many a farmer was grieved for mr. daubeny when the words had been explained to him, who did not for a moment think that the words could be portentous as to the great conservative party. but mr. ratler remembered catholic emancipation, had himself been in the house when the corn laws were repealed, and had been nearly broken-hearted when household suffrage had become the law of the land while a conservative cabinet and a conservative government were in possession of dominion in israel. mr. bonteen was disposed to think that the trick was beyond the conjuring power even of mr. daubeny. "after all, you know, there is the party," he said to mr. ratler. mr. ratler's face was as good as a play, and if seen by that party would have struck that party with dismay and shame. the meaning of mr. ratler's face was plain enough. he thought so little of that party, on the score either of intelligence, honesty, or fidelity, as to imagine that it would consent to be led whithersoever mr. daubeny might choose to lead it. "if they care about anything, it's about the church," said mr. bonteen. "there's something they like a great deal better than the church," said mr. ratler. "indeed, there's only one thing they care about at all now. they've given up all the old things. it's very likely that if daubeny were to ask them to vote for pulling down the throne and establishing a republic they'd all follow him into the lobby like sheep. they've been so knocked about by one treachery after another that they don't care now for anything beyond their places." "it's only a few of them get anything, after all." "yes, they do. it isn't just so much a year they want, though those who have that won't like to part with it. but they like getting the counties, and the garters, and the promotion in the army. they like their brothers to be made bishops, and their sisters like the wardrobe and the bedchamber. there isn't one of them that doesn't hang on somewhere,--or at least not many. do you remember peel's bill for the corn laws?" "there were fifty went against him then," said bonteen. "and what are fifty? a man doesn't like to be one of fifty. it's too many for glory, and not enough for strength. there has come up among them a general feeling that it's just as well to let things slide,--as the yankees say. they're down-hearted about it enough within their own houses, no doubt. but what can they do, if they hold back? some stout old cavalier here and there may shut himself up in his own castle, and tell himself that the world around him may go to wrack and ruin, but that he will not help the evil work. some are shutting themselves up. look at old quin, when they carried their reform bill. but men, as a rule, don't like to be shut up. how they reconcile it to their conscience,--that's what i can't understand." such was the wisdom, and such were the fears of mr. ratler. mr. bonteen, however, could not bring himself to believe that the arch-enemy would on this occasion be successful. "it mayn't be too hot for him," said mr. bonteen, when he reviewed the whole matter, "but i think it'll be too heavy." they who had mounted higher than mr. ratler and mr. bonteen on the political ladder, but who had mounted on the same side, were no less astonished than their inferiors; and, perhaps, were equally disgusted, though they did not allow themselves to express their disgust as plainly. mr. gresham was staying in the country with his friend, lord cantrip, when the tidings reached them of mr. daubeny's speech to the electors of east barsetshire. mr. gresham and lord cantrip had long sat in the same cabinet, and were fast friends, understanding each other's views, and thoroughly trusting each other's loyalty. "he means it," said lord cantrip. "he means to see if it be possible," said the other. "it is thrown out as a feeler to his own party." "i'll do him the justice of saying that he's not afraid of his party. if he means it, he means it altogether, and will not retract it, even though the party should refuse as a body to support him. i give him no other credit, but i give him that." mr. gresham paused for a few moments before he answered. "i do not know," said he, "whether we are justified in thinking that one man will always be the same. daubeny has once been very audacious, and he succeeded. but he had two things to help him,--a leader, who, though thoroughly trusted, was very idle, and an ill-defined question. when he had won his leader he had won his party. he has no such tower of strength now. and in the doing of this thing, if he means to do it, he must encounter the assured conviction of every man on his own side, both in the upper and lower house. when he told them that he would tap a conservative element by reducing the suffrage they did not know whether to believe him or not. there might be something in it. it might be that they would thus resume a class of suffrage existing in former days, but which had fallen into abeyance, because not properly protected. they could teach themselves to believe that it might be so, and those among them who found it necessary to free their souls did so teach themselves. i don't see how they are to free their souls when they are invited to put down the state establishment of the church." "he'll find a way for them." "it's possible. i'm the last man in the world to contest the possibility, or even the expediency, of changes in political opinion. but i do not know whether it follows that because he was brave and successful once he must necessarily be brave and successful again. a man rides at some outrageous fence, and by the wonderful activity and obedient zeal of his horse is carried over it in safety. it does not follow that his horse will carry him over a house, or that he should be fool enough to ask the beast to do so." "he intends to ride at the house," said lord cantrip; "and he means it because others have talked of it. you saw the line which my rash young friend finn took at tankerville." "and all for nothing." "i am not so sure of that. they say he is like the rest. if daubeny does carry the party with him, i suppose the days of the church are numbered." "and what if they be?" mr. gresham almost sighed as he said this, although he intended to express a certain amount of satisfaction. "what if they be? you know, and i know, that the thing has to be done. whatever may be our own individual feelings, or even our present judgment on the subject,--as to which neither of us can perhaps say that his mind is not so made up that it may not soon be altered,--we know that the present union cannot remain. it is unfitted for that condition of humanity to which we are coming, and if so, the change must be for good. why should not he do it as well as another? or rather would not he do it better than another, if he can do it with less of animosity than we should rouse against us? if the blow would come softer from his hands than from ours, with less of a feeling of injury to those who dearly love the church, should we not be glad that he should undertake the task?" "then you will not oppose him?" "ah;--there is much to be considered before we can say that. though he may not be bound by his friends, we may be bound by ours. and then, though i can hint to you at a certain condition of mind, and can sympathise with you, feeling that such may become the condition of your mind, i cannot say that i should act upon it as an established conviction, or that i can expect that you will do so. if such be the political programme submitted to us when the house meets, then we must be prepared." lord cantrip also paused a moment before he answered, but he had his answer ready. "i can frankly say that i should follow your leading, but that i should give my voice for opposition." "your voice is always persuasive," said mr. gresham. but the consternation felt among mr. daubeny's friends was infinitely greater than that which fell among his enemies, when those wonderful words were read, discussed, criticised, and explained. it seemed to every clergyman in england that nothing short of disestablishment could be intended by them. and this was the man to whom they had all looked for protection! this was the bulwark of the church, to whom they had trusted! this was the hero who had been so sound and so firm respecting the irish establishment, when evil counsels had been allowed to prevail in regard to that ill-used but still sacred vineyard! all friends of the church had then whispered among themselves fearfully, and had, with sad looks and grievous forebodings, acknowledged that the thin edge of the wedge had been driven into the very rock of the establishment. the enemies of the church were known to be powerful, numerous, and of course unscrupulous. but surely this brutus would not raise a dagger against this cæsar! and yet, if not, what was the meaning of those words? and then men and women began to tell each other,--the men and women who are the very salt of the earth in this england of ours,--that their brutus, in spite of his great qualities, had ever been mysterious, unintelligible, dangerous, and given to feats of conjuring. they had only been too submissive to their brutus. wonderful feats of conjuring they had endured, understanding nothing of the manner in which they were performed,--nothing of their probable results; but this feat of conjuring they would not endure. and so there were many meetings held about the country, though the time for combined action was very short. nothing more audacious than the speaking of those few words to the bucolic electors of east barsetshire had ever been done in the political history of england. cromwell was bold when he closed the long parliament. shaftesbury was bold when he formed the plot for which lord russell and others suffered. walpole was bold when, in his lust for power, he discarded one political friend after another. and peel was bold when he resolved to repeal the corn laws. but in none of these instances was the audacity displayed more wonderful than when mr. daubeny took upon himself to make known throughout the country his intention of abolishing the church of england. for to such a declaration did those few words amount. he was now the recognised parliamentary leader of that party to which the church of england was essentially dear. he had achieved his place by skill, rather than principle,--by the conviction on men's minds that he was necessary rather than that he was fit. but still, there he was; and, though he had alarmed many,--had, probably, alarmed all those who followed him by his eccentric and dangerous mode of carrying on the battle; though no conservative regarded him as safe; yet on this question of the church it had been believed that he was sound. what might be the special ideas of his own mind regarding ecclesiastical policy in general, it had not been thought necessary to consider. his utterances had been confusing, mysterious, and perhaps purposely unintelligible; but that was matter of little moment so long as he was prepared to defend the establishment of the church of england as an institution adapted for english purposes. on that point it was believed that he was sound. to that mast it was supposed he had nailed his own colours and those of his party. in defending that fortress it was thought that he would be ready to fall, should the defence of it require a fall. it was because he was so far safe that he was there. and yet he spoke these words without consulting a single friend, or suggesting the propriety of his new scheme to a single supporter. and he knew what he was doing. this was the way in which he had thought it best to make known to his own followers, not only that he was about to abandon the old institution, but that they must do so too! as regarded east barsetshire itself, he was returned, and fêted, and sent home with his ears stuffed with eulogy, before the bucolic mind had discovered his purpose. on so much he had probably calculated. but he had calculated also that after an interval of three or four days his secret would be known to all friends and enemies. on the day after his speech came the report of it in the newspapers; on the next day the leading articles, in which the world was told what it was that the prime minister had really said. then, on the following day, the startled parsons, and the startled squires and farmers, and, above all, the startled peers and members of the lower house, whose duty it was to vote as he should lead them, were all agog. could it be that the newspapers were right in this meaning which they had attached to these words? on the day week after the election in east barsetshire, a cabinet council was called in london, at which it would, of course, be mr. daubeny's duty to explain to his colleagues what it was that he did purpose to do. in the meantime he saw a colleague or two. "let us look it straight in the face," he said to a noble colleague; "we must look it in the face before long." "but we need not hurry it forward." "there is a storm coming. we knew that before, and we heard the sound of it from every husting in the country. how shall we rule the storm so that it may pass over the land without devastating it? if we bring in a bill--" "a bill for disestablishing the church!" said the horror-stricken lord. "if we bring in a bill, the purport of which shall be to moderate the ascendancy of the church in accordance with the existing religious feelings of the population, we shall save much that otherwise must fall. if there must be a bill, would you rather that it should be modelled by us who love the church, or by those who hate it?" that lord was very wrath, and told the right honourable gentleman to his face that his duty to his party should have constrained him to silence on that subject till he had consulted his colleagues. in answer to this mr. daubeny said with much dignity that, should such be the opinion of his colleagues in general, he would at once abandon the high place which he held in their councils. but he trusted that it might be otherwise. he had felt himself bound to communicate his ideas to his constituents, and had known that in doing so some minds must be shocked. he trusted that he might be able to allay this feeling of dismay. as regarded this noble lord, he did succeed in lessening the dismay before the meeting was over, though he did not altogether allay it. another gentleman who was in the habit of sitting at mr. daubeny's elbow daily in the house of commons was much gentler with him, both as to words and manner. "it's a bold throw, but i'm afraid it won't come up sixes," said the right honourable gentleman. "let it come up fives, then. it's the only chance we have; and if you think, as i do, that it is essentially necessary for the welfare of the country that we should remain where we are, we must run the risk." with another colleague, whose mind was really set on that which the church is presumed to represent, he used another argument. "i am convinced at any rate of this," said mr. daubeny; "that by sacrificing something of that ascendancy which the establishment is supposed to give us, we can bring the church, which we love, nearer to the wants of the people." and so it came about that before the cabinet met, every member of it knew what it was that was expected of him. chapter vi. phineas and his old friends. phineas finn returned from tankerville to london in much better spirits than those which had accompanied him on his journey thither. he was not elected; but then, before the election, he had come to believe that it was quite out of the question that he should be elected. and now he did think it probable that he should get the seat on a petition. a scrutiny used to be a very expensive business, but under the existing law, made as the scrutiny would be in the borough itself, it would cost but little; and that little, should he be successful, would fall on the shoulders of mr. browborough. should he knock off eight votes and lose none himself, he would be member for tankerville. he knew that many votes had been given for browborough which, if the truth were known of them, would be knocked off; and he did not know that the same could be said of any one of those by which he had been supported. but, unfortunately, the judge by whom all this would be decided might not reach tankerville in his travels till after christmas, perhaps not till after easter; and in the meantime, what should he do with himself? as for going back to dublin, that was now out of the question. he had entered upon a feverish state of existence in which it was impossible that he should live in ireland. should he ultimately fail in regard to his seat he must--vanish out of the world. while he remained in his present condition he would not even endeavour to think how he might in such case best bestow himself. for the present he would remain within the region of politics, and live as near as he could to the whirl of the wheel of which the sound was so dear to him. of one club he had always remained a member, and he had already been re-elected a member of the reform. so he took up his residence once more at the house of a certain mr. and mrs. bunce, in great marlborough street, with whom he had lodged when he first became a member of parliament. "so you're at the old game, mr. finn?" said his landlord. "yes; at the old game. i suppose it's the same with you?" now mr. bunce had been a very violent politician, and used to rejoice in calling himself a democrat. "pretty much the same, mr. finn. i don't see that things are much better than they used to be. they tell me at the people's banner office that the lords have had as much to do with this election as with any that ever went before it." "perhaps they don't know much about it at the people's banner office. i thought mr. slide and the people's banner had gone over to the other side, bunce?" "mr. slide is pretty wide-awake whatever side he's on. not but what he's disgraced himself by what he's been and done now." mr. slide in former days had been the editor of the people's banner, and circumstances had arisen in consequence of which there had been some acquaintance between him and our hero. "i see you was hammering away at the church down at tankerville." "i just said a word or two." "you was all right, there, mr. finn. i can't say as i ever saw very much in your religion; but what a man keeps in the way of religion for his own use is never nothing to me;--as what i keeps is nothing to him." "i'm afraid you don't keep much, mr. bunce." "and that's nothing to you, neither, is it, sir?" "no, indeed." "but when we read of churches as is called state churches,--churches as have bishops you and i have to pay for, as never goes into them--" "but we don't pay the bishops, mr. bunce." "oh yes, we do; because, if they wasn't paid, the money would come to us to do as we pleased with it. we proved all that when we pared them down a bit. what's an ecclesiastical commission? only another name for a box to put the money into till you want to take it out again. when we hear of churches such as these, as is not kept up by the people who uses them,--just as the theatres are, mr. finn, or the gin shops,--then i know there's a deal more to be done before honest men can come by their own. you're right enough, mr. finn, you are, as far as churches go, and you was right, too, when you cut and run off the treasury bench. i hope you ain't going to sit on that stool again." mr. bunce was a privileged person, and mrs. bunce made up for his apparent rudeness by her own affectionate cordiality. "deary me, and isn't it a thing for sore eyes to have you back again! i never expected this. but i'll do for you, mr. finn, just as i ever did in the old days; and it was i that was sorry when i heard of the poor young lady's death; so i was, mr. finn; well, then, i won't mention her name never again. but after all there's been betwixt you and us it wouldn't be natural to pass it by without one word; would it, mr. finn? well, yes; he's just the same man as ever, without a ha'porth of difference. he's gone on paying that shilling to the union every week of his life, just as he used to do; and never got so much out of it, not as a junketing into the country. that he didn't. it makes me that sick sometimes when i think of where it's gone to, that i don't know how to bear it. well, yes; that is true, mr. finn. there never was a man better at bringing home his money to his wife than bunce, barring that shilling. if he'd drink it, which he never does, i think i'd bear it better than give it to that nasty union. and young jack writes as well as his father, pretty nigh, mr. finn, which is a comfort,"--mr. bunce was a journeyman scrivener at a law stationer's,--"and keeps his self; but he don't bring home his money, nor yet it can't be expected, mr. finn. i know what the young 'uns will do, and what they won't. and mary jane is quite handy about the house now,--only she do break things, which is an aggravation; and the hot water shall be always up at eight o'clock to a minute, if i bring it with my own hand, mr. finn." [illustration: "well, then, i won't mention her name again."] and so he was established once more in his old rooms in great marlborough street; and as he sat back in the arm-chair, which he used to know so well, a hundred memories of former days crowded back upon him. lord chiltern for a few months had lived with him; and then there had arisen a quarrel, which he had for a time thought would dissolve his old life into ruin. now lord chiltern was again his very intimate friend. and there had used to sit a needy money-lender whom he had been unable to banish. alas! alas! how soon might he now require that money-lender's services! and then he recollected how he had left these rooms to go into others, grander and more appropriate to his life when he had filled high office under the state. would there ever again come to him such cause for migration? and would he again be able to load the frame of the looking-glass over the fire with countless cards from countesses and ministers' wives? he had opened the oyster for himself once, though it had closed again with so sharp a snap when the point of his knife had been withdrawn. would he be able to insert the point again between those two difficult shells? would the countesses once more be kind to him? would drawing-rooms be opened to him, and sometimes opened to him and to no other? then he thought of certain special drawing-rooms in which wonderful things had been said to him. since that he had been a married man, and those special drawing-rooms and those wonderful words had in no degree actuated him in his choice of a wife. he had left all those things of his own free will, as though telling himself that there was a better life than they offered to him. but was he sure that he had found it to be better? he had certainly sighed for the gauds which he had left. while his young wife was living he had kept his sighs down, so that she should not hear them; but he had been forced to acknowledge that his new life had been vapid and flavourless. now he had been tempted back again to the old haunts. would the countesses' cards be showered upon him again? one card, or rather note, had reached him while he was yet at tankerville, reminding him of old days. it was from mrs. low, the wife of the barrister with whom he had worked when he had been a law student in london. she had asked him to come and dine with them after the old fashion in baker street, naming a day as to which she presumed that he would by that time have finished his affairs at tankerville, intimating also that mr. low would then have finished his at north broughton. now mr. low had sat for north broughton before phineas left london, and his wife spoke of the seat as a certainty. phineas could not keep himself from feeling that mrs. low intended to triumph over him; but, nevertheless, he accepted the invitation. they were very glad to see him, explaining that, as nobody was supposed to be in town, nobody had been asked to meet him. in former days he had been very intimate in that house, having received from both of them much kindness, mingled, perhaps, with some touch of severity on the part of the lady. but the ground for that was gone, and mrs. low was no longer painfully severe. a few words were said as to his great loss. mrs. low once raised her eyebrows in pretended surprise when phineas explained that he had thrown up his place, and then they settled down on the question of the day. "and so," said mrs. low, "you've begun to attack the church?" it must be remembered that at this moment mr. daubeny had not as yet electrified the minds of east barsetshire, and that, therefore, mrs. low was not disturbed. to mrs. low, church and state was the very breath of her nostrils; and if her husband could not be said to live by means of the same atmosphere it was because the breath of his nostrils had been drawn chiefly in the vice-chancellor's court in lincoln's inn. but he, no doubt, would be very much disturbed indeed should he ever be told that he was required, as an expectant member of mr. daubeny's party, to vote for the disestablishment of the church of england. "you don't mean that i am guilty of throwing the first stone?" said phineas. "they have been throwing stones at the temple since first it was built," said mrs. low, with energy; "but they have fallen off its polished shafts in dust and fragments." i am afraid that mrs. low, when she allowed herself to speak thus energetically, entertained some confused idea that the church of england and the christian religion were one and the same thing, or, at least, that they had been brought into the world together. "you haven't thrown the first stone," said mr. low; "but you have taken up the throwing at the first moment in which stones may be dangerous." "no stones can be dangerous," said mrs. low. "the idea of a state church," said phineas, "is opposed to my theory of political progress. what i hope is that my friends will not suppose that i attack the protestant church because i am a roman catholic. if i were a priest it would be my business to do so; but i am not a priest." mr. low gave his old friend a bottle of his best wine, and in all friendly observances treated him with due affection. but neither did he nor did his wife for a moment abstain from attacking their guest in respect to his speeches at tankerville. it seemed, indeed, to phineas that as mrs. low was buckled up in such triple armour that she feared nothing, she might have been less loud in expressing her abhorrence of the enemies of the church. if she feared nothing, why should she scream so loudly? between the two he was a good deal crushed and confounded, and mrs. low was very triumphant when she allowed him to escape from her hands at ten o'clock. but, at that moment, nothing had as yet been heard in baker street of mr. daubeny's proposition to the electors of east barsetshire! poor mrs. low! we can foresee that there is much grief in store for her, and some rocks ahead, too, in the political career of her husband. phineas was still in london, hanging about the clubs, doing nothing, discussing mr. daubeny's wonderful treachery with such men as came up to town, and waiting for the meeting of parliament, when he received the following letter from lady laura kennedy:-- dresden, november , ----. my dear mr. finn, i have heard with great pleasure from my sister-in-law that you have been staying with them at harrington hall. it seems so like old days that you and oswald and violet should be together,--so much more natural than that you should be living in dublin. i cannot conceive of you as living any other life than that of the house of commons, downing street, and the clubs. nor do i wish to do so. and when i hear of you at harrington hall i know that you are on your way to the other things. do tell me what life is like with oswald and violet. of course he never writes. he is one of those men who, on marrying, assume that they have at last got a person to do a duty which has always hitherto been neglected. violet does write, but tells me little or nothing of themselves. her letters are very nice, full of anecdote, well written,--letters that are fit to be kept and printed; but they are never family letters. she is inimitable in discussing the miseries of her own position as the wife of a master of hounds; but the miseries are as evidently fictitious as the art is real. she told me how poor dear lady baldock communicated to you her unhappiness about her daughter in a manner that made even me laugh; and would make thousands laugh in days to come were it ever to be published. but of her inside life, of her baby, or of her husband as a husband, she never says a word. you will have seen it all, and have enough of the feminine side of a man's character to be able to tell me how they are living. i am sure they are happy together, because violet has more common sense than any woman i ever knew. and pray tell me about the affair at tankerville. my cousin barrington writes me word that you will certainly get the seat. he declares that mr. browborough is almost disposed not to fight the battle, though a man more disposed to fight never bribed an elector. but barrington seems to think that you managed as well as you did by getting outside the traces, as he calls it. we certainly did not think that you would come out strong against the church. don't suppose that i complain. for myself i hate to think of the coming severance; but if it must come, why not by your hands as well as by any other? it is hardly possible that you in your heart should love a protestant ascendant church. but, as barrington says, a horse won't get oats unless he works steady between the traces. as to myself, what am i to say to you? i and my father live here a sad, sombre, solitary life, together. we have a large furnished house outside the town, with a pleasant view and a pretty garden. he does--nothing. he reads the english papers, and talks of english parties, is driven out, and eats his dinner, and sleeps. at home, as you know, not only did he take an active part in politics, but he was active also in the management of his own property. now it seems to him to be almost too great a trouble to write a letter to his steward; and all this has come upon him because of me. he is here because he cannot bear that i should live alone. i have offered to return with him to saulsby, thinking that mr. kennedy would trouble me no further,--or to remain here by myself; but he will consent to neither. in truth the burden of idleness has now fallen upon him so heavily that he cannot shake it off. he dreads that he may be called upon to do anything. to me it is all one tragedy. i cannot but think of things as they were two or three years since. my father and my husband were both in the cabinet, and you, young as you were, stood but one step below it. oswald was out in the cold. he was very poor. papa thought all evil of him. violet had refused him over and over again. he quarrelled with you, and all the world seemed against him. then of a sudden you vanished, and we vanished. an ineffable misery fell upon me and upon my wretched husband. all our good things went from us at a blow. i and my poor father became as it were outcasts. but oswald suddenly retricked his beams, and is flaming in the forehead of the morning sky. he, i believe, has no more than he has deserved. he won his wife honestly;--did he not? and he has ever been honest. it is my pride to think i never gave him up. but the bitter part of my cup consists in this,--that as he has won what he has deserved, so have we. i complain of no injustice. our castle was built upon the sand. why should mr. kennedy have been a cabinet minister;--and why should i have been his wife? there is no one else of whom i can ask that question as i can of you, and no one else who can answer it as you can do. of mr. kennedy it is singular how little i know, and how little i ever hear. there is no one whom i can ask to tell me of him. that he did not attend during the last session i do know, and we presume that he has now abandoned his seat. i fear that his health is bad,--or perhaps, worse still, that his mind is affected by the gloom of his life. i suppose that he lives exclusively at loughlinter. from time to time i am implored by him to return to my duty beneath his roof. he grounds his demand on no affection of his own, on no presumption that any affection can remain with me. he says no word of happiness. he offers no comfort. he does not attempt to persuade with promises of future care. he makes his claim simply on holy writ, and on the feeling of duty which thence ought to weigh upon me. he has never even told me that he loves me; but he is persistent in declaring that those whom god has joined together nothing human should separate. since i have been here i have written to him once,--one sad, long, weary letter. since that i am constrained to leave his letters unanswered. and now, my friend, could you not do for me a great kindness? for a while, till the inquiry be made at tankerville, your time must be vacant. cannot you come and see us? i have told papa that i should ask you, and he would be delighted. i cannot explain to you what it would be to me to be able to talk again to one who knows all the errors and all the efforts of my past life as you do. dresden is very cold in the winter. i do not know whether you would mind that. we are very particular about the rooms, but my father bears the temperature wonderfully well, though he complains. in march we move down south for a couple of months. do come if you can. most sincerely yours, laura kennedy. if you come, of course you will have yourself brought direct to us. if you can learn anything of mr. kennedy's life, and of his real condition, pray do. the faint rumours which reach me are painfully distressing. chapter vii. coming home from hunting. lady chiltern was probably right when she declared that her husband must have been made to be a master of hounds,--presuming it to be granted that somebody must be master of hounds. such necessity certainly does exist in this, the present condition of england. hunting prevails; hunting men increase in numbers; foxes are preserved; farmers do not rebel; owners of coverts, even when they are not hunting men themselves, acknowledge the fact, and do not dare to maintain their pheasants at the expense of the much better-loved four-footed animal. hounds are bred, and horses are trained specially to the work. a master of fox hounds is a necessity of the period. allowing so much, we cannot but allow also that lord chiltern must have been made to fill the situation. he understood hunting, and, perhaps, there was nothing else requiring acute intelligence that he did understand. and he understood hunting, not only as a huntsman understands it,--in that branch of the science which refers simply to the judicious pursuit of the fox, being probably inferior to his own huntsman in that respect,--but he knew exactly what men should do, and what they should not. in regard to all those various interests with which he was brought in contact, he knew when to hold fast to his own claims, and when to make no claims at all. he was afraid of no one, but he was possessed of a sense of justice which induced him to acknowledge the rights of those around him. when he found that the earths were not stopped in trumpeton wood,--from which he judged that the keeper would complain that the hounds would not or could not kill any of the cubs found there,--he wrote in very round terms to the duke who owned it. if his grace did not want to have the wood drawn, let him say so. if he did, let him have the earths stopped. but when that great question came up as to the gartlow coverts--when that uncommonly disagreeable gentleman, mr. smith, of gartlow, gave notice that the hounds should not be admitted into his place at all,--lord chiltern soon put the whole matter straight by taking part with the disagreeable gentleman. the disagreeable gentleman had been ill used. men had ridden among his young laurels. if gentlemen who did hunt,--so said lord chiltern to his own supporters,--did not know how to conduct themselves in a matter of hunting, how was it to be expected that a gentleman who did not hunt should do so? on this occasion lord chiltern rated his own hunt so roundly that mr. smith and he were quite in a bond together, and the gartlow coverts were re-opened. now all the world knows that the gartlow coverts, though small, are material as being in the very centre of the brake country. it is essential that a master of hounds should be somewhat feared by the men who ride with him. there should be much awe mixed with the love felt for him. he should be a man with whom other men will not care to argue; an irrational, cut and thrust, unscrupulous, but yet distinctly honest man; one who can be tyrannical, but will tyrannise only over the evil spirits; a man capable of intense cruelty to those alongside of him, but who will know whether his victim does in truth deserve scalping before he draws his knife. he should be savage and yet good-humoured; severe and yet forbearing; truculent and pleasant in the same moment. he should exercise unflinching authority, but should do so with the consciousness that he can support it only by his own popularity. his speech should be short, incisive, always to the point, but never founded on argument. his rules are based on no reason, and will never bear discussion. he must be the most candid of men, also the most close;--and yet never a hypocrite. he must condescend to no explanation, and yet must impress men with an assurance that his decisions will certainly be right. he must rule all as though no man's special welfare were of any account, and yet must administer all so as to offend none. friends he must have, but not favourites. he must be self-sacrificing, diligent, eager, and watchful. he must be strong in health, strong in heart, strong in purpose, and strong in purse. he must be economical and yet lavish; generous as the wind and yet obdurate as the frost. he should be assured that of all human pursuits hunting is the best, and that of all living things a fox is the most valuable. he must so train his heart as to feel for the fox a mingled tenderness and cruelty which is inexplicable to ordinary men and women. his desire to preserve the brute and then to kill him should be equally intense and passionate. and he should do it all in accordance with a code of unwritten laws, which cannot be learnt without profound study. it may not perhaps be truly asserted that lord chiltern answered this description in every detail; but he combined so many of the qualities required that his wife showed her discernment when she declared that he seemed to have been made to be a master of hounds. early in that november he was riding home with miss palliser by his side, while the huntsmen and whips were trotting on with the hounds before him. "you call that a good run, don't you?" [illustration: adelaide palliser.] "no; i don't." "what was the matter with it? i declare it seems to me that something is always wrong. men like hunting better than anything else, and yet i never find any man contented." "in the first place we didn't kill." "you know you're short of foxes at gartlow," said miss palliser, who, as is the manner with all hunting ladies, liked to show that she understood the affairs of the hunt. "if i knew there were but one fox in a county, and i got upon that one fox, i would like to kill that one fox,--barring a vixen in march." "i thought it very nice. it was fast enough for anybody." "you might go as fast with a drag, if that's all. i'll tell you something else. we should have killed him if maule hadn't once ridden over the hounds when we came out of the little wood. i spoke very sharply to him." "i heard you, lord chiltern." "and i suppose you thought i was a brute." "who? i? no, i didn't;--not particularly, you know. men do say such things to each other!" "he doesn't mind it, i fancy." "i suppose a man does not like to be told that directly he shows himself in a run the sport is all over and the hounds ought to be taken home." "did i say that? i don't remember now what i said, but i know he made me angry. come, let us trot on. they can take the hounds home without us." "good night, cox," said miss palliser, as they passed by the pack. "poor mr. maule! i did pity him, and i do think he does care for it, though he is so impassive. he would be with us now, only he is chewing the cud of his unhappiness in solitude half a mile behind us." "that is hard upon you." "hard upon me, lord chiltern! it is hard upon him, and, perhaps, upon you. why should it be hard upon me?" "hard upon him, i should have said. though why it shouldn't be the other way i don't know. he's a friend of yours." "certainly." "and an especial friend, i suppose. as a matter of course violet talks to me about you both." "no doubt she does. when once a woman is married she should be regarded as having thrown off her allegiance to her own sex. she is sure to be treacherous at any rate in one direction. not that lady chiltern can tell anything of me that might not be told to all the world as far as i am concerned." "there is nothing in it, then?" "nothing at all." "honour bright?" "oh,--honour as bright as it ever is in such matters as these." "i am sorry for that,--very sorry." "why so, lord chiltern?" "because if you were engaged to him i thought that perhaps you might have induced him to ride a little less forward." "lord chiltern," said miss palliser, seriously; "i will never again speak to you a word on any subject except hunting." at this moment gerard maule came up behind them, with a cigar in his mouth, apparently quite unconscious of any of that displeasure as to which miss palliser had supposed that he was chewing the cud in solitude. "that was a goodish thing, chiltern," he said. "very good." "and the hounds hunted him well to the end." "very well." "it's odd how the scent will die away at a moment. you see they couldn't carry on a field after we got out of the copse." "not a field." "considering all things i am glad we didn't kill him." "uncommon glad," said lord chiltern. then they trotted on in silence a little way, and maule again dropped behind. "i'm blessed if he knows that i spoke to him, roughly," said chiltern. "he's deaf, i think, when he chooses to be." "you're not sorry, lord chiltern." "not in the least. nothing will ever do any good. as for offending him, you might as well swear at a tree, and think to offend it. there's comfort in that, anyway. i wonder whether he'd talk to you if i went away?" "i hope that you won't try the experiment." "i don't believe he would, or i'd go at once. i wonder whether you really do care for him?" "not in the least." "or he for you." "quite indifferent, i should say; but i can't answer for him, lord chiltern, quite as positively as i can for myself. you know, as things go, people have to play at caring for each other." "that's what we call flirting." "just the reverse. flirting i take to be the excitement of love, without its reality, and without its ordinary result in marriage. this playing at caring has none of the excitement, but it often leads to the result, and sometimes ends in downright affection." "if maule perseveres then you'll take him, and by-and-bye you'll come to like him." "in twenty years it might come to that, if we were always to live in the same house; but as he leaves harrington to-morrow, and we may probably not meet each other for the next four years, i think the chance is small." then maule trotted up again, and after riding in silence with the other two for half an hour, he pulled out his case and lit a fresh cigar from the end of the old one, which he threw away. "have a baccy, chiltern?" he said. "no, thank you, i never smoke going home; my mind is too full. i've all that family behind to think of, and i'm generally out of sorts with the miseries of the day. i must say another word to cox, or i should have to go to the kennels on my way home." and so he dropped behind. gerard maule smoked half his cigar before he spoke a word, and miss palliser was quite resolved that she would not open her mouth till he had spoken. "i suppose he likes it?" he said at last. "who likes what, mr. maule?" "chiltern likes blowing fellows up." "it's a part of his business." "that's the way i look at it. but i should think it must be disagreeable. he takes such a deal of trouble about it. i heard him going on to-day to some one as though his whole soul depended on it." "he is very energetic." "just so. i'm quite sure it's a mistake. what does a man ever get by it? folks around you soon discount it till it goes for nothing." "i don't think energy goes for nothing, mr. maule." "a bull in a china shop is not a useful animal, nor is he ornamental, but there can be no doubt of his energy. the hare was full of energy, but he didn't win the race. the man who stands still is the man who keeps his ground." "you don't stand still when you're out hunting." "no;--i ride about, and chiltern swears at me. every man is a fool sometimes." "and your wisdom, perfect at all other times, breaks down in the hunting-field?" "i don't in the least mind your chaffing. i know what you think of me just as well as though you told me." "what do i think of you?" "that i'm a poor creature, generally half asleep, shallow-pated, slow-blooded, ignorant, useless, and unambitious." "certainly unambitious, mr. maule." "and that word carries all the others. what's the good of ambition? there's the man they were talking about last night,--that irishman." "mr. finn?" "yes; phineas finn. he is an ambitious fellow. he'll have to starve, according to what chiltern was saying. i've sense enough to know i can't do any good." "you are sensible, i admit." "very well, miss palliser. you can say just what you like, of course. you have that privilege." "i did not mean to say anything severe. i do admit that you are master of a certain philosophy, for which much may be said. but you are not to expect that i shall express an approval which i do not feel." "but i want you to approve it." "ah!--there, i fear, i cannot oblige you." "i want you to approve it, though no one else may." "though all else should do so, i cannot." "then take the task of curing the sick one, and of strengthening the weak one, into your own hands. if you will teach, perhaps i may learn." "i have no mission for teaching, mr. maule." "you once said that,--that--" "do not be so ungenerous as to throw in my teeth what i once said,--if i ever said a word that i would not now repeat." "i do not think that i am ungenerous, miss palliser." "i am sure you are not." "nor am i self-confident. i am obliged to seek comfort from such scraps of encouragement as may have fallen in my way here and there. i once did think that you intended to love me." "does love go by intentions?" "i think so,--frequently with men, and much more so with girls." "it will never go so with me. i shall never intend to love any one. if i ever love any man it will be because i am made to do so, despite my intentions." "as a fortress is taken?" "well,--if you like to put it so. only i claim this advantage,--that i can always get rid of my enemy when he bores me." "am i boring you now?" "i didn't say so. here is lord chiltern again, and i know by the rattle of his horse's feet that something is the matter." lord chiltern came up full of wrath. one of the men's horses was thoroughly broken down, and, as the master said, wasn't worth the saddle he carried. he didn't care a ---- for the horse, but the man hadn't told him. "at this rate there won't be anything to carry anybody by christmas." "you'll have to buy some more," said gerard maule. "buy some more!" said lord chiltern, turning round, and looking at the man. "he talks of buying horses as he would sugar plums!" then they trotted in at the gate, and in two minutes were at the hall door. chapter viii. the address. before the th of november, the day on which parliament was to meet, the whole country was in a hubbub. consternation and triumph were perhaps equally predominant, and equally strong. there were those who declared that now at length was great britain to be ruined in actual present truth; and those who asserted that, of a sudden, after a fashion so wholly unexpected as to be divine,--as great fires, great famines, and great wars are called divine,--a mighty hand had been stretched out to take away the remaining incubus of superstition, priestcraft, and bigotry under which england had hitherto been labouring. the proposed disestablishment of the state church of england was, of course, the subject of this diversity of opinion. and there was not only diversity, but with it great confusion. the political feelings of the country are, as a rule, so well marked that it is easy, as to almost every question, to separate the sheep from the goats. with but few exceptions one can tell where to look for the supporters and where for the opponents of one measure or of another. meetings are called in this or in that public hall to assist or to combat the minister of the day, and men know what they are about. but now it was not so. it was understood that mr. daubeny, the accredited leader of the conservatives, was about to bring in the bill, but no one as yet knew who would support the bill. his own party, to a man,--without a single exception,--were certainly opposed to the measure in their minds. it must be so. it could not but be certain that they should hate it. each individual sitting on the conservative side in either house did most certainly within his own bosom cry ichabod when the fatal news reached his ears. but such private opinions and inward wailings need not, and probably would not, guide the body. ichabod had been cried before, though probably never with such intensity of feeling. disestablishment might be worse than free trade or household suffrage, but was not more absolutely opposed to conservative convictions than had been those great measures. and yet the party, as a party, had swallowed them both. to the first and lesser evil, a compact little body of staunch commoners had stood forth in opposition,--but nothing had come of it to those true britons beyond a feeling of living in the cold shade of exclusion. when the greater evil arrived, that of household suffrage,--a measure which twenty years since would hardly have been advocated by the advanced liberals of the day,--the conservatives had learned to acknowledge the folly of clinging to their own convictions, and had swallowed the dose without serious disruption of their ranks. every man,--with but an exception or two,--took the measure up, some with faces so singularly distorted as to create true pity, some with an assumption of indifference, some with affected glee. but in the double process the party had become used to this mode of carrying on the public service. as poor old england must go to the dogs, as the doom had been pronounced against the country that it should be ruled by the folly of the many foolish, and not by the wisdom of the few wise, why should the few wise remain out in the cold,--seeing, as they did, that by so doing no good would be done to the country? dissensions among their foes did, when properly used, give them power,--but such power they could only use by carrying measures which they themselves believed to be ruinous. but the ruin would be as certain should they abstain. each individual might have gloried in standing aloof,--in hiding his face beneath his toga, and in remembering that rome did once exist in her splendour. but a party cannot afford to hide its face in its toga. a party has to be practical. a party can only live by having its share of garters, lord-lieutenants, bishops, and attorney-generals. though the country were ruined, the party should be supported. hitherto the party had been supported, and had latterly enjoyed almost its share of stars and garters,--thanks to the individual skill and strategy of that great english political von moltke mr. daubeny. and now what would the party say about the disestablishment of the church? even a party must draw the line somewhere. it was bad to sacrifice things mundane; but this thing was the very holy of holies! was nothing to be conserved by a conservative party? what if mr. daubeny were to explain some day to the electors of east barsetshire that an hereditary peerage was an absurdity? what if in some rural nook of his boeotia he should suggest in ambiguous language to the farmers that a republic was the only form of government capable of a logical defence? duke had already said to duke, and earl to earl, and baronet to baronet that there must be a line somewhere. bishops as a rule say but little to each other, and now were afraid to say anything. the church, which had been, which was, so truly beloved;--surely that must be beyond the line! and yet there crept through the very marrow of the party an agonising belief that mr. daubeny would carry the bulk of his party with him into the lobby of the house of commons. but if such was the dismay of the conservatives, how shall any writer depict the consternation of the liberals? if there be a feeling odious to the mind of a sober, hardworking man, it is the feeling that the bread he has earned is to be taken out of his mouth. the pay, the patronage, the powers, and the pleasure of government were all due to the liberals. "god bless my soul," said mr. ratler, who always saw things in a practical light, "we have a larger fighting majority than any party has had since lord liverpool's time. they have no right to attempt it. they are bound to go out." "there's nothing of honesty left in politics," said mr. bonteen, declaring that he was sick of the life. barrington erle thought that the whole liberal party should oppose the measure. though they were liberals they were not democrats; nor yet infidels. but when barrington erle said this, the great leaders of the liberal party had not as yet decided on their ground of action. there was much difficulty in reaching any decision. it had been asserted so often that the disestablishment of the church was only a question of time, that the intelligence of the country had gradually so learned to regard it. who had said so, men did not know and did not inquire;--but the words were spoken everywhere. parsons with sad hearts,--men who in their own parishes were enthusiastic, pure, pious, and useful,--whispered them in the dead of the night to the wives of their bosoms. bishops, who had become less pure by contact with the world at clubs, shrugged their shoulders and wagged their heads, and remembered comfortably the sanctity of vested interests. statesmen listened to them with politeness, and did not deny that they were true. in the free intercourse of closest friendships the matter was discussed between ex-secretaries of state. the press teemed with the assertion that it was only a question of time. some fervent, credulous friends predicted another century of life;--some hard-hearted logical opponents thought that twenty years would put an end to the anomaly:--a few stout enemies had sworn on the hustings with an anathema that the present session should see the deposition from her high place of this eldest daughter of the woman of babylon. but none had expected the blow so soon as this; and none certainly had expected it from this hand. but what should the liberal party do? ratler was for opposing mr. daubeny with all their force, without touching the merits of the case. it was no fitting work for mr. daubeny, and the suddenness of the proposition coming from such a quarter would justify them now and for ever, even though they themselves should disestablish everything before the session were over. barrington erle, suffering under a real political conviction for once in his life, was desirous of a positive and chivalric defence of the church. he believed in the twenty years. mr. bonteen shut himself up in disgust. things were amiss; and, as he thought, the evil was due to want of party zeal on the part of his own leader, mr. gresham. he did not dare to say this, lest, when the house door should at last be opened, he might not be invited to enter with the others; but such was his conviction. "if we were all a little less in the abstract, and a little more in the concrete, it would be better for us." laurence fitzgibbon, when these words had been whispered to him by mr. bonteen, had hardly understood them; but it had been explained to him that his friend had meant "men, not measures." when parliament met, mr. gresham, the leader of the liberal party, had not as yet expressed any desire to his general followers. the queen's speech was read, and the one paragraph which seemed to possess any great public interest was almost a repetition of the words which mr. daubeny had spoken to the electors of east barsetshire. "it will probably be necessary for you to review the connection which still exists between, and which binds together, the church and the state." mr. daubeny's words had of course been more fluent, but the gist of the expression was the same. he had been quite in earnest when addressing his friends in the country. and though there had been but an interval of a few weeks, the conservative party in the two houses heard the paragraph read without surprise and without a murmur. some said that the gentlemen on the treasury bench in the house of commons did not look to be comfortable. mr. daubeny sat with his hat over his brow, mute, apparently impassive and unapproachable, during the reading of the speech and the moving and seconding of the address. the house was very full, and there was much murmuring on the side of the opposition;--but from the government benches hardly a sound was heard, as a young gentleman, from one of the midland counties, in a deputy-lieutenant's uniform, who had hitherto been known for no particular ideas of his own, but had been believed to be at any rate true to the church, explained, not in very clear language, that the time had at length come when the interests of religion demanded a wider support and a fuller sympathy than could be afforded under that system of church endowment and state establishment for which the country had hitherto been so grateful, and for which the country had such boundless occasion for gratitude. another gentleman, in the uniform of the guards, seconded the address, and declared that in nothing was the sagacity of a legislature so necessary as in discerning the period in which that which had hitherto been good ceased to be serviceable. the status pupillaris was mentioned, and it was understood that he had implied that england was now old enough to go on in matters of religion without a tutor in the shape of a state church. who makes the speeches, absolutely puts together the words, which are uttered when the address is moved and seconded? it can hardly be that lessons are prepared and sent to the noble lords and honourable gentlemen to be learned by heart like a school-boy's task. and yet, from their construction, style, and general tone,--from the platitudes which they contain as well as from the general safety and good sense of the remarks,--from the absence of any attempt to improve a great occasion by the fire of oratory, one cannot but be convinced that a very absolute control is exercised. the gorgeously apparelled speakers, who seem to have great latitude allowed them in the matter of clothing, have certainly very little in the matter of language. and then it always seems that either of the four might have made the speech of any of the others. it could not have been the case that the hon. colonel mowbray dick, the member for west bustard, had really elaborated out of his own head that theory of the status pupillaris. a better fellow, or a more popular officer, or a sweeter-tempered gentleman than mowbray dick does not exist; but he certainly never entertained advanced opinions respecting the religious education of his country. when he is at home with his family, he always goes to church, and there has been an end of it. and then the fight began. the thunderbolts of opposition were unloosed, and the fires of political rancour blazed high. mr. gresham rose to his legs, and declared to all the world that which he had hitherto kept secret from his own party. it was known afterwards that in discussion with his own dearly-beloved political friend, lord cantrip, he had expressed his unbounded anger at the duplicity, greed for power, and want of patriotism displayed by his opponent; but he had acknowledged that the blow had come so quick and so unexpectedly that he thought it better to leave the matter to the house without instruction from himself. he now revelled in sarcasm, and before his speech was over raged into wrath. he would move an amendment to the address for two reasons,--first because this was no moment for bringing before parliament the question of the church establishment, when as yet no well-considered opportunity of expressing itself on the subject had been afforded to the country, and secondly because any measure of reform on that matter should certainly not come to them from the right honourable gentleman opposite. as to the first objection, he should withhold his arguments till the bill suggested had been presented to them. it was in handling the second that he displayed his great power of invective. all those men who then sat in the house, and who on that night crowded the galleries, remember his tones as, turning to the dissenters who usually supported him, and pointing over the table to his opponents, he uttered that well-worn quotation, _quod minime reris_,--then he paused, and began again; _quod minime reris,--graiâ pandetur ab urbe_. the power and inflexion of his voice at the word _graiâ_ were certainly very wonderful. he ended by moving an amendment to the address, and asking for support equally from one side of the house as from the other. when at length mr. daubeny moved his hat from his brow and rose to his legs he began by expressing his thankfulness that he had not been made a victim to the personal violence of the right honourable gentleman. he continued the same strain of badinage throughout,--in which he was thought to have been wrong, as it was a method of defence, or attack, for which his peculiar powers hardly suited him. as to any bill that was to be laid upon the table, he had not as yet produced it. he did not doubt that the dissenting interests of the country would welcome relief from an anomaly, let it come whence it might, even _graiâ ab urbe_, and he waved his hand back to the clustering conservatives who sat behind him. that the right honourable gentleman should be angry he could understand, as the return to power of the right honourable gentleman and his party had been anticipated, and he might almost say discounted as a certainty. then, when mr. daubeny sat down, the house was adjourned. chapter ix. the debate. the beginning of the battle as recorded in the last chapter took place on a friday,--friday, th november,--and consequently two entire days intervened before the debate could be renewed. there seemed to prevail an opinion during this interval that mr. gresham had been imprudent. it was acknowledged by all men that no finer speech than that delivered by him had ever been heard within the walls of that house. it was acknowledged also that as regarded the question of oratory mr. daubeny had failed signally. but the strategy of the minister was said to have been excellent, whereas that of the ex-minister was very loudly condemned. there is nothing so prejudicial to a cause as temper. this man is declared to be unfit for any position of note, because he always shows temper. anything can be done with another man,--he can be made to fit almost any hole,--because he has his temper under command. it may, indeed, be assumed that a man who loses his temper while he is speaking is endeavouring to speak the truth such as he believes it to be, and again it may be assumed that a man who speaks constantly without losing his temper is not always entitled to the same implicit faith. whether or not this be a reason the more for preferring the calm and tranquil man may be doubted; but the calm and tranquil man is preferred for public services. we want practical results rather than truth. a clear head is worth more than an honest heart. in a matter of horseflesh of what use is it to have all manner of good gifts if your horse won't go whither you want him, and refuses to stop when you bid him? mr. gresham had been very indiscreet, and had especially sinned in opposing the address without arrangements with his party. and he made the matter worse by retreating within his own shell during the whole of that saturday, sunday, and monday morning. lord cantrip was with him three or four times, and he saw both mr. palliser, who had been chancellor of the exchequer under him, and mr. ratler. but he went amidst no congregation of liberals, and asked for no support. he told ratler that he wished gentlemen to vote altogether in accordance with their opinions; and it came to be whispered in certain circles that he had resigned, or was resigning, or would resign, the leadership of his party. men said that his passions were too much for him, and that he was destroyed by feelings of regret, and almost of remorse. the ministers held a cabinet council on the monday morning, and it was supposed afterwards that that also had been stormy. two gentlemen had certainly resigned their seats in the government before the house met at four o'clock, and there were rumours abroad that others would do so if the suggested measure should be found really to amount to disestablishment. the rumours were, of course, worthy of no belief, as the transactions of the cabinet are of necessity secret. lord drummond at the war office, and mr. boffin from the board of trade, did, however, actually resign; and mr. boffin's explanations in the house were heard before the debate was resumed. mr. boffin had certainly not joined the present ministry,--so he said,--with the view of destroying the church. he had no other remark to make, and he was sure that the house would appreciate the course which had induced him to seat himself below the gangway. the house cheered very loudly, and mr. boffin was the hero of ten minutes. mr. daubeny detracted something from this triumph by the overstrained and perhaps ironic pathos with which he deplored the loss of his right honourable friend's services. now this right honourable gentleman had never been specially serviceable. but the wonder of the world arose from the fact that only two gentlemen out of the twenty or thirty who composed the government did give up their places on this occasion. and this was a conservative government! with what a force of agony did all the ratlers of the day repeat that inappropriate name! conservatives! and yet they were ready to abandon the church at the bidding of such a man as mr. daubeny! ratler himself almost felt that he loved the church. only two resignations;--whereas it had been expected that the whole house would fall to pieces! was it possible that these earls, that marquis, and the two dukes, and those staunch old tory squires, should remain in a government pledged to disestablish the church? was all the honesty, all the truth of the great party confined to the bosoms of mr. boffin and lord drummond? doubtless they were all esaus; but would they sell their great birthright for so very small a mess of pottage? the parsons in the country, and the little squires who but rarely come up to london, spoke of it all exactly as did the ratlers. there were parishes in the country in which mr. boffin was canonised, though up to that date no cabinet minister could well have been less known to fame than was mr. boffin. what would those liberals do who would naturally rejoice in the disestablishment of the church,--those members of the lower house, who had always spoken of the ascendancy of protestant episcopacy with the bitter acrimony of exclusion? after all, the success or failure of mr. daubeny must depend, not on his own party, but on them. it must always be so when measures of reform are advocated by a conservative ministry. there will always be a number of untrained men ready to take the gift without looking at the giver. they have not expected relief from the hands of greeks, but will take it when it comes from greeks or trojans. what would mr. turnbull say in this debate,--and what mr. monk? mr. turnbull was the people's tribune, of the day; mr. monk had also been a tribune, then a minister, and now was again--something less than a tribune. but there were a few men in the house, and some out of it, who regarded mr. monk as the honestest and most patriotic politician of the day. the debate was long and stormy, but was peculiarly memorable for the skill with which mr. daubeny's higher colleagues defended the steps they were about to take. the thing was to be done in the cause of religion. the whole line of defence was indicated by the gentlemen who moved and seconded the address. an active, well-supported church was the chief need of a prosperous and intelligent people. as to the endowments, there was some confusion of ideas; but nothing was to be done with them inappropriate to religion. education would receive the bulk of what was left after existing interests had been amply guaranteed. there would be no doubt,--so said these gentlemen,--that ample funds for the support of an episcopal church would come from those wealthy members of the body to whom such a church was dear. there seemed to be a conviction that clergymen under the new order of things would be much better off than under the old. as to the connection with the state, the time for it had clearly gone by. the church, as a church, would own increased power when it could appoint its own bishops, and be wholly dissevered from state patronage. it seemed to be almost a matter of surprise that really good churchmen should have endured so long to be shackled by subservience to the state. some of these gentlemen pleaded their cause so well that they almost made it appear that episcopal ascendancy would be restored in england by the disseverance of the church and state. mr. turnbull, who was himself a dissenter, was at last upon his legs, and then the ratlers knew that the game was lost. it would be lost as far as it could be lost by a majority in that house on that motion; and it was by that majority or minority that mr. daubeny would be maintained in his high office or ejected from it. mr. turnbull began by declaring that he did not at all like mr. daubeny as a minister of the crown. he was not in the habit of attaching himself specially to any minister of the crown. experience had taught him to doubt them all. of all possible ministers of the crown at this period, mr. daubeny was he thought perhaps the worst, and the most dangerous. but the thing now offered was too good to be rejected, let it come from what quarter it would. indeed, might it not be said of all the good things obtained for the people, of all really serviceable reforms, that they were gathered and garnered home in consequence of the squabbles of ministers? when men wanted power, either to grasp at it or to retain it, then they offered bribes to the people. but in the taking of such bribes there was no dishonesty, and he should willingly take this bribe. mr. monk spoke also. he would not, he said, feel himself justified in refusing the address to the crown proposed by ministers, simply because that address was founded on the proposition of a future reform, as to the expediency of which he had not for many years entertained a doubt. he could not allow it to be said of him that he had voted for the permanence of the church establishment, and he must therefore support the government. then ratler whispered a few words to his neighbour: "i knew the way he'd run when gresham insisted on poor old mildmay's taking him into the cabinet." "the whole thing has gone to the dogs," said bonteen. on the fourth night the house was divided, and mr. daubeny was the owner of a majority of fifteen. very many of the liberal party expressed an opinion that the battle had been lost through the want of judgment evinced by mr. gresham. there was certainly no longer that sturdy adherence to their chief which is necessary for the solidarity of a party. perhaps no leader of the house was ever more devoutly worshipped by a small number of adherents than was mr. gresham now; but such worship will not support power. within the three days following the division the ratlers had all put their heads together and had resolved that the duke of st. bungay was now the only man who could keep the party together. "but who should lead our house?" asked bonteen. ratler sighed instead of answering. things had come to that pass that mr. gresham was the only possible leader. and the leader of the house of commons, on behalf of the government, must be the chief man in the government, let the so-called prime minister be who he may. chapter x. the deserted husband. phineas finn had been in the gallery of the house throughout the debate, and was greatly grieved at mr. daubeny's success, though he himself had so strongly advocated the disestablishment of the church in canvassing the electors of tankerville. no doubt he had advocated the cause,--but he had done so as an advanced member of the liberal party, and he regarded the proposition when coming from mr. daubeny as a horrible and abnormal birth. he, however, was only a looker-on,--could be no more than a looker-on for the existing short session. it had already been decided that the judge who was to try the case at tankerville should visit that town early in january; and should it be decided on a scrutiny that the seat belonged to our hero, then he would enter upon his privilege in the following session without any further trouble to himself at tankerville. should this not be the case,--then the abyss of absolute vacuity would be open before him. he would have to make some disposition of himself, but he would be absolutely without an idea as to the how or where. he was in possession of funds to support himself for a year or two; but after that, and even during that time, all would be dark. if he should get his seat, then again the power of making an effort would at last be within his hands. he had made up his mind to spend the christmas with lord brentford and lady laura kennedy at dresden, and had already fixed the day of his arrival there. but this had been postponed by another invitation which had surprised him much, but which it had been impossible for him not to accept. it had come as follows:-- november th, loughlinter. dear sir, i am informed by letter from dresden that you are in london on your way to that city with the view of spending some days with the earl of brentford. you will, of course, be once more thrown into the society of my wife, lady laura kennedy. i have never understood, and certainly have never sanctioned, that breach of my wife's marriage vow which has led to her withdrawal from my roof. i never bade her go, and i have bidden her return. whatever may be her feelings, or mine, her duty demands her presence here, and my duty calls upon me to receive her. this i am and always have been ready to do. were the laws of europe sufficiently explicit and intelligible i should force her to return to my house,--because she sins while she remains away, and i should sin were i to omit to use any means which the law might place in my hands for the due control of my own wife. i am very explicit to you although we have of late been strangers, because in former days you were closely acquainted with the condition of my family affairs. since my wife left me i have had no means of communicating with her by the assistance of any common friend. having heard that you are about to visit her at dresden i feel a great desire to see you that i may be enabled to send by you a personal message. my health, which is now feeble, and the altered habits of my life render it almost impossible that i should proceed to london with this object, and i therefore ask it of your christian charity that you should visit me here at loughlinter. you, as a roman catholic, cannot but hold the bond of matrimony to be irrefragable. you cannot, at least, think that it should be set aside at the caprice of an excitable woman who is not able and never has been able to assign any reason for leaving the protection of her husband. i shall have much to say to you, and i trust you will come. i will not ask you to prolong your visit, as i have nothing to offer you in the way of amusement. my mother is with me; but otherwise i am alone. since my wife left me i have not thought it even decent to entertain guests or to enjoy society. i have lived a widowed life. i cannot even offer you shooting, as i have no keepers on the mountains. there are fish in the river doubtless, for the gifts of god are given let men be ever so unworthy; but this, i believe, is not the month for fishermen. i ask you to come to me, not as a pleasure, but as a christian duty. yours truly, robert kennedy. phineas finn, esq. as soon as he had read the letter phineas felt that he had no alternative but to go. the visit would be very disagreeable, but it must be made. so he sent a line to robert kennedy naming a day; and wrote another to lady laura postponing his time at dresden by a week, and explaining the cause of its postponement. as soon as the debate on the address was over he started for loughlinter. a thousand memories crowded on his brain as he made the journey. various circumstances had in his early life,--in that period of his life which had lately seemed to be cut off from the remainder of his days by so clear a line,--thrown him into close connection with this man, and with the man's wife. he had first gone to loughlinter, not as lady laura's guest,--for lady laura had not then been married, or even engaged to be married,--but on her persuasion rather than on that of mr. kennedy. when there he had asked lady laura to be his own wife, and she had then told him that she was to become the wife of the owner of that domain. he remembered the blow as though it had been struck but yesterday, and yet the pain of the blow had not been long enduring. but though then rejected he had always been the chosen friend of the woman,--a friend chosen after an especial fashion. when he had loved another woman this friend had resented his defection with all a woman's jealousy. he had saved the husband's life, and had then become also the husband's friend, after that cold fashion which an obligation will create. then the husband had been jealous, and dissension had come, and the ill-matched pair had been divided, with absolute ruin to both of them, as far as the material comforts and well-being of life were concerned. then he, too, had been ejected, as it were, out of the world, and it had seemed to him as though laura standish and robert kennedy had been the inhabitants of another hemisphere. now he was about to see them both again, both separately; and to become the medium of some communication between them. he knew, or thought that he knew, that no communication could avail anything. it was dark night when he was driven up to the door of loughlinter house in a fly from the town of callender. when he first made the journey, now some six or seven years since, he had done so with mr. ratler, and he remembered well that circumstance. he remembered also that on his arrival lady laura had scolded him for having travelled in such company. she had desired him to seek other friends,--friends higher in general estimation, and nobler in purpose. he had done so, partly at her instance, and with success. but mr. ratler was now somebody in the world, and he was nobody. and he remembered also how on that occasion he had been troubled in his mind in regard to a servant, not as yet knowing whether the usages of the world did or did not require that he should go so accompanied. he had taken the man, and had been thoroughly ashamed of himself for doing so. he had no servant now, no grandly developed luggage, no gun, no elaborate dress for the mountains. on that former occasion his heart had been very full when he reached loughlinter, and his heart was full now. then he had resolved to say a few words to lady laura, and he had hardly known how best to say them. now he would be called upon to say a few to lady laura's husband, and the task would be almost as difficult. the door was opened for him by an old servant in black, who proposed at once to show him to his room. he looked round the vast hall, which, when he had before known it, was ever filled with signs of life, and felt at once that it was empty and deserted. it struck him as intolerably cold, and he saw that the huge fireplace was without a spark of fire. dinner, the servant said, was prepared for half-past seven. would mr. finn wish to dress? of course he wished to dress. and as it was already past seven he hurried up stairs to his room. here again everything was cold and wretched. there was no fire, and the man had left him with a single candle. there were candlesticks on the dressing-table, but they were empty. the man had suggested hot water, but the hot water did not come. in his poorest days he had never known discomfort such as this, and yet mr. kennedy was one of the richest commoners of great britain. but he dressed, and made his way down stairs, not knowing where he should find his host or his host's mother. he recognised the different doors and knew the rooms within them, but they seemed inhospitably closed against him, and he went and stood in the cold hall. but the man was watching for him, and led him into a small parlour. then it was explained to him that mr. kennedy's state of health did not admit of late dinners. he was to dine alone, and mr. kennedy would receive him after dinner. in a moment his cheeks became red, and a flash of wrath crossed his heart. was he to be treated in this way by a man on whose behalf,--with no thought of his own comfort or pleasure,--he had made this long and abominable journey? might it not be well for him to leave the house without seeing mr. kennedy at all? then he remembered that he had heard it whispered that the man had become bewildered in his mind. he relented, therefore, and condescended to eat his dinner. a very poor dinner it was. there was a morsel of flabby white fish, as to the nature of which phineas was altogether in doubt, a beef steak as to the nature of which he was not at all in doubt, and a little crumpled-up tart which he thought the driver of the fly must have brought with him from the pastry-cook's at callender. there was some very hot sherry, but not much of it. and there was a bottle of claret, as to which phineas, who was not usually particular in the matter of wine, persisted in declining to have anything to do with it after the first attempt. the gloomy old servant, who stuck to him during the repast, persisted in offering it, as though the credit of the hospitality of loughlinter depended on it. there are so many men by whom the tenuis ratio saporum has not been achieved, that the caleb balderstones of those houses in which plenty does not flow are almost justified in hoping that goblets of gladstone may pass current. phineas finn was not a martyr to eating or drinking. he played with his fish without thinking much about it. he worked manfully at the steak. he gave another crumple to the tart, and left it without a pang. but when the old man urged him, for the third time, to take that pernicious draught with his cheese, he angrily demanded a glass of beer. the old man toddled out of the room, and on his return he proffered to him a diminutive glass of white spirit, which he called usquebaugh. phineas, happy to get a little whisky, said nothing more about the beer, and so the dinner was over. he rose so suddenly from his chair that the man did not dare to ask him whether he would not sit over his wine. a suggestion that way was indeed made, would he "visit the laird out o' hand, or would he bide awee?" phineas decided on visiting the laird out of hand, and was at once led across the hall, down a back passage which he had never before traversed, and introduced to the chamber which had ever been known as the "laird's ain room." here robert kennedy rose to receive him. phineas knew the man's age well. he was still under fifty, but he looked as though he were seventy. he had always been thin, but he was thinner now than ever. he was very grey, and stooped so much, that though he came forward a step or two to greet his guest, it seemed as though he had not taken the trouble to raise himself to his proper height. "you find me a much altered man," he said. the change had been so great that it was impossible to deny it, and phineas muttered something of regret that his host's health should be so bad. "it is trouble of the mind,--not of the body, mr. finn. it is her doing,--her doing. life is not to me a light thing, nor are the obligations of life light. when i married a wife, she became bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh. can i lose my bones and my flesh,--knowing that they are not with god but still subject elsewhere to the snares of the devil, and live as though i were a sound man? had she died i could have borne it. i hope they have made you comfortable, mr. finn?" "oh, yes," said phineas. "not that loughlinter can be comfortable now to any one. how can a man, whose wife has deserted him, entertain his guests? i am ashamed even to look a friend in the face, mr. finn." as he said this he stretched forth his open hand as though to hide his countenance, and phineas hardly knew whether the absurdity of the movement or the tragedy of the feeling struck him the more forcibly. "what did i do that she should leave me? did i strike her? was i faithless? had she not the half of all that was mine? did i frighten her by hard words, or exact hard tasks? did i not commune with her, telling her all my most inward purposes? in things of this world, and of that better world that is coming, was she not all in all to me? did i not make her my very wife? mr. finn, do you know what made her go away?" he had asked perhaps a dozen questions. as to the eleven which came first it was evident that no answer was required; and they had been put with that pathetic dignity with which it is so easy to invest the interrogatory form of address. but to the last question it was intended that phineas should give an answer, as phineas presumed at once; and then it was asked with a wink of the eye, a low eager voice, and a sly twist of the face that were frightfully ludicrous. "i suppose you do know," said mr. kennedy, again working his eye, and thrusting his chin forward. [illustration: the laird of loughlinter.] "i imagine that she was not happy." "happy? what right had she to expect to be happy? are we to believe that we should be happy here? are we not told that we are to look for happiness there, and to hope for none below?" as he said this he stretched his left hand to the ceiling. "but why shouldn't she have been happy? what did she want? did she ever say anything against me, mr. finn?" "nothing but this,--that your temper and hers were incompatible." "i thought at one time that you advised her to go away?" "never!" "she told you about it?" "not, if i remember, till she had made up her mind, and her father had consented to receive her. i had known, of course, that things were unpleasant." "how were they unpleasant? why were they unpleasant? she wouldn't let you come and dine with me in london. i never knew why that was. when she did what was wrong, of course i had to tell her. who else should tell her but her husband? if you had been her husband, and i only an acquaintance, then i might have said what i pleased. they rebel against the yoke because it is a yoke. and yet they accept the yoke, knowing it to be a yoke. it comes of the devil. you think a priest can put everything right." "no, i don't," said phineas. "nothing can put you right but the fear of god; and when a woman is too proud to ask for that, evils like these are sure to come. she would not go to church on sunday afternoon, but had meetings of belial at her father's house instead." phineas well remembered those meetings of belial, in which he with others had been wont to discuss the political prospects of the day. "when she persisted in breaking the lord's commandment, and defiling the lord's day, i knew well what would come of it." "i am not sure, mr. kennedy, that a husband is justified in demanding that a wife shall think just as he thinks on matters of religion. if he is particular about it, he should find all that out before." "particular! god's word is to be obeyed, i suppose?" "but people doubt about god's word." "then people will be damned," said mr. kennedy, rising from his chair. "and they will be damned." "a woman doesn't like to be told so." "i never told her so. i never said anything of the kind. i never spoke a hard word to her in my life. if her head did but ache, i hung over her with the tenderest solicitude. i refused her nothing. when i found that she was impatient i chose the shortest sermon for our sunday evening's worship, to the great discomfort of my mother." phineas wondered whether this assertion as to the discomfort of old mrs. kennedy could possibly be true. could it be that any human being really preferred a long sermon to a short one,--except the being who preached it or read it aloud? "there was nothing that i did not do for her. i suppose you really do know why she went away, mr. finn?" "i know nothing more than i have said." "i did think once that she was--" "there was nothing more than i have said," asserted phineas sternly, fearing that the poor insane man was about to make some suggestion that would be terribly painful. "she felt that she did not make you happy." "i did not want her to make me happy. i do not expect to be made happy. i wanted her to do her duty. you were in love with her once, mr. finn?" "yes, i was. i was in love with lady laura standish." "ah! yes. there was no harm in that, of course; only when any thing of that kind happens, people had better keep out of each other's way afterwards. not that i was ever jealous, you know." "i should hope not." "but i don't see why you should go all the way to dresden to pay her a visit. what good can that do? i think you had much better stay where you are, mr. finn; i do indeed. it isn't a decent thing for a young unmarried man to go half across europe to see a lady who is separated from her husband, and who was once in love with him;--i mean he was once in love with her. it's a very wicked thing, mr. finn, and i have to beg that you will not do it." phineas felt that he had been grossly taken in. he had been asked to come to loughlinter in order that he might take a message from the husband to the wife, and now the husband made use of his compliance to forbid the visit on some grotesque score of jealousy. he knew that the man was mad, and that therefore he ought not to be angry; but the man was not too mad to require a rational answer, and had some method in his madness. "lady laura kennedy is living with her father," said phineas. "pshaw;--dotard!" "lady laura kennedy is living with her father," repeated phineas; "and i am going to the house of the earl of brentford." "who was it wrote and asked you?" "the letter was from lady laura." "yes;--from my wife. what right had my wife to write to you when she will not even answer my appeals? she is my wife;--my wife! in the presence of god she and i have been made one, and even man's ordinances have not dared to separate us. mr. finn, as the husband of lady laura kennedy, i desire that you abstain from seeking her presence." as he said this he rose from his chair, and took the poker in his hand. the chair in which he was sitting was placed upon the rug, and it might be that the fire required his attention. as he stood bending down, with the poker in his right hand, with his eye still fixed on his guest's face, his purpose was doubtful. the motion might be a threat, or simply have a useful domestic tendency. but phineas, believing that the man was mad, rose from his seat and stood upon his guard. the point of the poker had undoubtedly been raised; but as phineas stretched himself to his height, it fell gradually towards the fire, and at last was buried very gently among the coals. but he was never convinced that mr. kennedy had carried out the purpose with which he rose from his chair. "after what has passed, you will no doubt abandon your purpose," said mr. kennedy. "i shall certainly go to dresden," said phineas. "if you have a message to send, i will take it." "then you will be accursed among adulterers," said the laird of loughlinter. "by such a one i will send no message. from the first moment that i saw you i knew you for a child of apollyon. but the sin was my own. why did i ask to my house an idolater, one who pretends to believe that a crumb of bread is my god, a papist, untrue alike to his country and to his saviour? when she desired it of me i knew that i was wrong to yield. yes;--it is you who have done it all, you, you, you;--and if she be a castaway, the weight of her soul will be doubly heavy on your own." to get out of the room, and then at the earliest possible hour of the morning out of the house, were now the objects to be attained. that his presence had had a peculiarly evil influence on mr. kennedy, phineas could not doubt; as assuredly the unfortunate man would not have been left with mastery over his own actions had his usual condition been such as that which he now displayed. he had been told that "poor kennedy" was mad,--as we are often told of the madness of our friends when they cease for awhile to run in the common grooves of life. but the madman had now gone a long way out of the grooves;--so far, that he seemed to phineas to be decidedly dangerous. "i think i had better wish you good night," he said. "look here, mr. finn." "well?" "i hope you won't go and make more mischief." "i shall not do that, certainly." "you won't tell her what i have said?" "i shall tell her nothing to make her think that your opinion of her is less high than it ought to be." "good night." "good night," said phineas again; and then he left the room. it was as yet but nine o'clock, and he had no alternative but to go to bed. he found his way back into the hall, and from thence up to his own chamber. but there was no fire there, and the night was cold. he went to the window, and raised it for a moment, that he might hear the well-remembered sound of the fall of linter. though the night was dark and wintry, a dismal damp november night, he would have crept out of the house and made his way up to the top of the brae, for the sake of auld lang syne, had he not feared that the inhospitable mansion would be permanently closed against him on his return. he rang the bell once or twice, and after a while the old serving man came to him. could he have a cup of tea? the man shook his head, and feared that no boiling water could be procured at that late hour of the night. could he have his breakfast the next morning at seven, and a conveyance to callender at half-past seven? when the old man again shook his head, seeming to be dazed at the enormity of the demand, phineas insisted that his request should be conveyed to the master of the house. as to the breakfast, he said he did not care about it, but the conveyance he must have. he did, in fact, obtain both, and left the house early on the following morning without again seeing mr. kennedy, and without having spoken a single word to mr. kennedy's mother. and so great was his hurry to get away from the place which had been so disagreeable to him, and which he thought might possibly become more so, that he did not even run across the sward that divided the gravel sweep from the foot of the waterfall. chapter xi. the truant wife. phineas on his return to london wrote a line to lady chiltern in accordance with a promise which had been exacted from him. she was anxious to learn something as to the real condition of her husband's brother-in-law, and, when she heard that phineas was going to loughlinter, had begged that he would tell her the truth. "he has become eccentric, gloomy, and very strange," said phineas. "i do not believe that he is really mad, but his condition is such that i think no friend should recommend lady laura to return to him. he seems to have devoted himself to a gloomy religion,--and to the saving of money. i had but one interview with him, and that was essentially disagreeable." having remained two days in london, and having participated, as far as those two days would allow him, in the general horror occasioned by the wickedness and success of mr. daubeny, he started for dresden. he found lord brentford living in a spacious house, with a huge garden round it, close upon the northern confines of the town. dresden, taken altogether, is a clean cheerful city, and strikes the stranger on his first entrance as a place in which men are gregarious, busy, full of merriment, and pre-eminently social. such is the happy appearance of but few towns either in the old or the new world, and is hardly more common in germany than elsewhere. leipsic is decidedly busy, but does not look to be social. vienna is sufficiently gregarious, but its streets are melancholy. munich is social, but lacks the hum of business. frankfort is both practical and picturesque, but it is dirty, and apparently averse to mirth. dresden has much to recommend it, and had lord brentford with his daughter come abroad in quest of comfortable easy social life, his choice would have been well made. but, as it was, any of the towns above named would have suited him as well as dresden, for he saw no society, and cared nothing for the outward things of the world around him. he found dresden to be very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer, and he liked neither heat nor cold; but he had made up his mind that all places, and indeed all things, are nearly equally disagreeable, and therefore he remained at dresden, grumbling almost daily as to the climate and manners of the people. phineas, when he arrived at the hall door, almost doubted whether he had not been as wrong in visiting lord brentford as he had in going to loughlinter. his friendship with the old earl had been very fitful, and there had been quarrels quite as pronounced as the friendship. he had often been happy in the earl's house, but the happiness had not sprung from any love for the man himself. how would it be with him if he found the earl hardly more civil to him than the earl's son-in-law had been? in former days the earl had been a man quite capable of making himself disagreeable, and probably had not yet lost the power of doing so. of all our capabilities this is the one which clings longest to us. he was thinking of all this when he found himself at the door of the earl's house. he had travelled all night, and was very cold. at leipsic there had been a nominal twenty minutes for refreshment, which the circumstances of the station had reduced to five. this had occurred very early in the morning, and had sufficed only to give him a bowl of coffee. it was now nearly ten, and breakfast had become a serious consideration with him. he almost doubted whether it would not have been better for him to have gone to an hotel in the first instance. he soon found himself in the hall amidst a cluster of servants, among whom he recognised the face of a man from saulsby. he had, however, little time allowed him for looking about. he was hardly in the house before lady laura kennedy was in his arms. she had run forward, and before he could look into her face, she had put up her cheek to his lips and had taken both his hands. "oh, my friend," she said; "oh, my friend! how good you are to come to me! how good you are to come!" and then she led him into a large room, in which a table had been prepared for breakfast, close to an english-looking open fire. "how cold you must be, and how hungry! shall i have breakfast for you at once, or will you dress first? you are to be quite at home, you know; exactly as though we were brother and sister. you are not to stand on any ceremonies." and again she took him by the hand. he had hardly looked her yet in the face, and he could not do so now because he knew that she was crying. "then i will show you to your room," she said, when he had decided for a tub of water before breakfast. "yes, i will,--my own self. and i'd fetch the water for you, only i know it is there already. how long will you be? half an hour? very well. and you would like tea best, wouldn't you?" "certainly, i should like tea best." "i will make it for you. papa never comes down till near two, and we shall have all the morning for talking. oh, phineas, it is such a pleasure to hear your voice again. you have been at loughlinter?" "yes, i have been there." "how very good of you; but i won't ask a question now. you must put up with a stove here, as we have not open fires in the bed-rooms. i hope you will be comfortable. don't be more than half an hour, as i shall be impatient." though he was thus instigated to haste he stood a few minutes with his back to the warm stove that he might be enabled to think of it all. it was two years since he had seen this woman, and when they had parted there had been more between them of the remembrances of old friendship than of present affection. during the last few weeks of their intimacy she had made a point of telling him that she intended to separate herself from her husband; but she had done so as though it were a duty, and an arranged part of her own defence of her own conduct. and in the latter incidents of her london life,--that life with which he had been conversant,--she had generally been opposed to him, or, at any rate, had chosen to be divided from him. she had said severe things to him,--telling him that he was cold, heartless, and uninterested, never trying even to please him with that sort of praise which had once been so common with her in her intercourse with him, and which all men love to hear from the mouths of women. she had then been cold to him, though she would make wretched allusions to the time when he, at any rate, had not been cold to her. she had reproached him, and had at the same time turned away from him. she had repudiated him, first as a lover, then as a friend; and he had hitherto never been able to gauge the depth of the affection for him which had underlaid all her conduct. as he stood there thinking of it all, he began to understand it. how natural had been her conduct on his arrival, and how like that of a genuine, true-hearted, honest woman! all her first thoughts had been for his little personal wants,--that he should be warmed, and fed, and made outwardly comfortable. let sorrow be ever so deep, and love ever so true, a man will be cold who travels by winter, and hungry who has travelled by night. and a woman, who is a true, genuine woman, always takes delight in ministering to the natural wants of her friend. to see a man eat and drink, and wear his slippers, and sit at ease in his chair, is delightful to the feminine heart that loves. when i heard the other day that a girl had herself visited the room prepared for a man in her mother's house, then i knew that she loved him, though i had never before believed it. phineas, as he stood there, was aware that this woman loved him dearly. she had embraced him, and given her face to him to kiss. she had clasped his hands, and clung to him, and had shown him plainly that in the midst of all her sorrow she could be made happy by his coming. but he was a man far too generous to take all this as meaning aught that it did not mean,--too generous, and intrinsically too manly. in his character there was much of weakness, much of vacillation, perhaps some deficiency of strength and purpose; but there was no touch of vanity. women had loved him, and had told him so; and he had been made happy, and also wretched, by their love. but he had never taken pride, personally, to himself because they had loved him. it had been the accident of his life. now he remembered chiefly that this woman had called herself his sister, and he was grateful. then he thought of her personal appearance. as yet he had hardly looked at her, but he felt that she had become old and worn, angular and hard-visaged. all this had no effect upon his feelings towards her, but filled him with ineffable regret. when he had first known her she had been a woman with a noble presence--not soft and feminine as had been violet effingham, but handsome and lustrous, with a healthy youth. in regard to age he and she were of the same standing. that he knew well. she had passed her thirty-second birthday, but that was all. he felt himself to be still a young man, but he could not think of her as of a young woman. when he went down she had been listening for his footsteps, and met him at the door of the room. "now sit down," she said, "and be comfortable--if you can, with german surroundings. they are almost always late, and never give one any time. everybody says so. the station at leipsic is dreadful, i know. good coffee is very well, but what is the use of good coffee if you have no time to drink it? you must eat our omelette. if there is one thing we can do better than you it is to make an omelette. yes,--that is genuine german sausage. there is always some placed upon the table, but the germans who come here never touch it themselves. you will have a cutlet, won't you? i breakfasted an hour ago, and more. i would not wait because then i thought i could talk to you better, and wait upon you. i did not think that anything would ever please me so much again as your coming has done. oh, how much we shall have to say! do you remember when we last parted;--when you were going back to ireland?" "i remember it well." "ah me; as i look back upon it all, how strange it seems. i dare say you don't remember the first day i met you, at mr. mildmay's,--when i asked you to come to portman square because barrington had said that you were clever?" "i remember well going to portman square." "that was the beginning of it all. oh dear, oh dear; when i think of it i find it so hard to see where i have been right, and where i have been wrong. if i had not been very wrong all this evil could not have come upon me." "misfortune has not always been deserved." "i am sure it has been so with me. you can smoke here if you like." this phineas persistently refused to do. "you may if you please. papa never comes in here, and i don't mind it. you'll settle down in a day or two, and understand the extent of your liberties. tell me first about violet. she is happy?" "quite happy, i think." "i knew he would be good to her. but does she like the kind of life?" "oh, yes." "she has a baby, and therefore of course she is happy. she says he is the finest fellow in the world." "i dare say he is. they all seem to be contented with him, but they don't talk much about him." "no; they wouldn't. had you a child you would have talked about him, phineas. i should have loved my baby better than all the world, but i should have been silent about him. with violet of course her husband is the first object. it would certainly be so from her nature. and so oswald is quite tame?" "i don't know that he is very tame out hunting." "but to her?" "i should think always. she, you know, is very clever." "so clever!" "and would be sure to steer clear of all offence," said phineas, enthusiastically. "while i could never for an hour avoid it. did they say anything about the journey to flanders?" "chiltern did, frequently. he made me strip my shoulder to show him the place where he hit me." "how like oswald!" "and he told me that he would have given one of his eyes to kill me, only colepepper wouldn't let him go on. he half quarrelled with his second, but the man told him that i had not fired at him, and the thing must drop. 'it's better as it is, you know,' he said. and i agreed with him." "and how did violet receive you?" "like an angel,--as she is." "well, yes. i'll grant she is an angel now. i was angry with her once, you know. you men find so many angels in your travels. you have been honester than some. you have generally been off with the old angel before you were on with the new,--as far at least as i knew." "is that meant for rebuke, lady laura?" "no, my friend; no. that is all over. i said to myself when you told me that you would come, that i would not utter one ill-natured word. and i told myself more than that!" "what more?" "that you had never deserved it,--at least from me. but surely you were the most simple of men." "i dare say." "men when they are true are simple. they are often false as hell, and then they are crafty as lucifer. but the man who is true judges others by himself,--almost without reflection. a woman can be true as steel and cunning at the same time. how cunning was violet, and yet she never deceived one of her lovers, even by a look. did she?" "she never deceived me,--if you mean that. she never cared a straw about me, and told me so to my face very plainly." "she did care,--many straws. but i think she always loved oswald. she refused him again and again, because she thought it wrong to run a great risk, but i knew she would never marry any one else. how little lady baldock understood her. fancy your meeting lady baldock at oswald's house!" "fancy augusta boreham turning nun!" "how exquisitely grotesque it must have been when she made her complaint to you." "i pitied her with all my heart." "of course you did,--because you are so soft. and now, phineas, we will put it off no longer. tell me all that you have to tell me about him." chapter xii. kÖnigstein. phineas finn and lady laura kennedy sat together discussing the affairs of the past till the servant told them that "my lord" was in the next room, and ready to receive mr. finn. "you will find him much altered," said lady laura, "even more than i am." "i do not find you altered at all." "yes, you do,--in appearance. i am a middle-aged woman, and conscious that i may use my privileges as such. but he has become quite an old man,--not in health so much as in manner. but he will be very glad to see you." so saying she led him into a room, in which he found the earl seated near the fireplace, and wrapped in furs. he got up to receive his guest, and phineas saw at once that during the two years of his exile from england lord brentford had passed from manhood to senility. he almost tottered as he came forward, and he wrapped his coat around him with that air of studious self-preservation which belongs only to the infirm. "it is very good of you to come and see me, mr. finn," he said. "don't call him mr. finn, papa. i call him phineas." "well, yes; that's all right, i dare say. it's a terrible long journey from london, isn't it, mr. finn?" "too long to be pleasant, my lord." "pleasant! oh, dear. there's no pleasantness about it. and so they've got an autumn session, have they? that's always a very stupid thing to do, unless they want money." "but there is a money bill which must be passed. that's mr. daubeny's excuse." "ah, if they've a money bill of course it's all right. so you're in parliament again?" "i'm sorry to say i'm not." then lady laura explained to her father, probably for the third or fourth time, exactly what was their guest's position. "oh, a scrutiny. we didn't use to have any scrutinies at loughton, did we? ah, me; well, everything seems to be going to the dogs. i'm told they're attacking the church now." lady laura glanced at phineas; but neither of them said a word. "i don't quite understand it; but they tell me that the tories are going to disestablish the church. i'm very glad i'm out of it all. things have come to such a pass that i don't see how a gentleman is to hold office now-a-days. have you seen chiltern lately?" after a while, when phineas had told the earl all that there was to tell of his son and his grandson, and all of politics and of parliament, lady laura suddenly interrupted them. "you knew, papa, that he was to see mr. kennedy. he has been to loughlinter, and has seen him." "oh, indeed!" "he is quite assured that i could not with wisdom return to live with my husband." "it is a very grave decision to make," said the earl. "but he has no doubt about it," continued lady laura. "not a shadow of doubt," said phineas. "i will not say that mr. kennedy is mad; but the condition of his mind is such in regard to lady laura that i do not think she could live with him in safety. he is crazed about religion." "dear, dear, dear," exclaimed the earl. "the gloom of his house is insupportable. and he does not pretend that he desires her to return that he and she may be happy together." "what for then?" "that we might be unhappy together," said lady laura. "he repudiates all belief in happiness. he wishes her to return to him chiefly because it is right that a man and wife should live together." "so it is," said the earl. "but not to the utter wretchedness of both of them," said lady laura. "he says," and she pointed to phineas, "that were i there he would renew his accusation against me. he has not told me all. perhaps he cannot tell me all. but i certainly will not return to loughlinter." "very well, my dear." "it is not very well, papa; but, nevertheless, i will not return to loughlinter. what i suffered there neither of you can understand." that afternoon phineas went out alone to the galleries, but the next day she accompanied him, and showed him whatever of glory the town had to offer in its winter dress. they stood together before great masters, and together examined small gems. and then from day to day they were always in each other's company. he had promised to stay a month, and during that time he was petted and comforted to his heart's content. lady laura would have taken him into the saxon switzerland, in spite of the inclemency of the weather and her father's rebukes, had he not declared vehemently that he was happier remaining in the town. but she did succeed in carrying him off to the fortress of königstein; and there as they wandered along the fortress constructed on that wonderful rock there occurred between them a conversation which he never forgot, and which it would not have been easy to forget. his own prospects had of course been frequently discussed. he had told her everything, down to the exact amount of money which he had to support him till he should again be enabled to earn an income, and had received assurances from her that everything would be just as it should be after a lapse of a few months. the liberals would, as a matter of course, come in, and equally as a matter of course, phineas would be in office. she spoke of this with such certainty that she almost convinced him. having tempted him away from the safety of permanent income, the party could not do less than provide for him. if he could only secure a seat he would be safe; and it seemed that tankerville would be a certain seat. this certainty he would not admit; but, nevertheless, he was comforted by his friend. when you have done the rashest thing in the world it is very pleasant to be told that no man of spirit could have acted otherwise. it was a matter of course that he should return to public life,--so said lady laura;--and doubly a matter of course when he found himself a widower without a child. "whether it be a bad life or a good life," said lady laura, "you and i understand equally well that no other life is worth having after it. we are like the actors, who cannot bear to be away from the gaslights when once they have lived amidst their glare." as she said this they were leaning together over one of the parapets of the great fortress, and the sadness of the words struck him as they bore upon herself. she also had lived amidst the gaslights, and now she was self-banished into absolute obscurity. "you could not have been content with your life in dublin," she said. "are you content with your life in dresden?" "certainly not. we all like exercise; but the man who has had his leg cut off can't walk. some can walk with safety; others only with a certain peril; and others cannot at all. you are in the second position, but i am in the last." "i do not see why you should not return." "and if i did what would come of it? in place of the seclusion of dresden, there would be the seclusion of portman square or of saulsby. who would care to have me at their houses, or to come to mine? you know what a hazardous, chancy, short-lived thing is the fashion of a woman. with wealth, and wit, and social charm, and impudence, she may preserve it for some years, but when she has once lost it she can never recover it. i am as much lost to the people who did know me in london as though i had been buried for a century. a man makes himself really useful, but a woman can never do that." "all those general rules mean nothing," said phineas. "i should try it." "no, phineas. i know better than that. it would only be disappointment. i hardly think that after all you ever did understand when it was that i broke down utterly and marred my fortunes for ever." "i know the day that did it." "when i accepted him?" "of course it was. i know that, and so do you. there need be no secret between us." "there need be no secret between us certainly,--and on my part there shall be none. on my part there has been none." "nor on mine." "there has been nothing for you to tell,--since you blurted out your short story of love that day over the waterfall, when i tried so hard to stop you." "how was i to be stopped then?" "no; you were too simple. you came there with but one idea, and you could not change it on the spur of the moment. when i told you that i was engaged you could not swallow back the words that were not yet spoken. ah, how well i remember it. but you are wrong, phineas. it was not my engagement or my marriage that has made the world a blank for me." a feeling came upon him which half-choked him, so that he could ask her no further question. "you know that, phineas." "it was your marriage," he said, gruffly. "it was, and has been, and still will be my strong, unalterable, unquenchable love for you. how could i behave to that other man with even seeming tenderness when my mind was always thinking of you, when my heart was always fixed upon you? but you have been so simple, so little given to vanity,"--she leaned upon his arm as she spoke,--"so pure and so manly, that you have not believed this, even when i told you. has it not been so?" "i do not wish to believe it now." "but you do believe it? you must and shall believe it. i ask for nothing in return. as my god is my judge, if i thought it possible that your heart should be to me as mine is to you, i could have put a pistol to my ear sooner than speak as i have spoken." though she paused for some word from him he could not utter a word. he remembered many things, but even to her in his present mood he could not allude to them;--how he had kissed her at the falls, how she had bade him not come back to the house because his presence to her was insupportable; how she had again encouraged him to come, and had then forbidden him to accept even an invitation to dinner from her husband. and he remembered too the fierceness of her anger to him when he told her of his love for violet effingham. "i must insist upon it," she continued, "that you shall take me now as i really am,--as your dearest friend, your sister, your mother, if you will. i know what i am. were my husband not still living it would be the same. i should never under any circumstances marry again. i have passed the period of a woman's life when as a woman she is loved; but i have not outlived the power of loving. i shall fret about you, phineas, like an old hen after her one chick; and though you turn out to be a duck, and get away into waters where i cannot follow you, i shall go cackling round the pond, and always have my eye upon you." he was holding her now by the hand, but he could not speak for the tears were trickling down his cheeks. "when i was young," she continued, "i did not credit myself with capacity for so much passion. i told myself that love after all should be a servant and not a master, and i married my husband fully intending to do my duty to him. now we see what has come of it." "it has been his fault; not yours," said phineas. "it was my fault,--mine; for i never loved him. had you not told me what manner of man he was before? and i had believed you, though i denied it. and i knew when i went to loughlinter that it was you whom i loved. and i knew too,--i almost knew that you would ask me to be your wife were not that other thing settled first. and i declared to myself that, in spite of both our hearts, it should not be so. i had no money then,--nor had you." "i would have worked for you." "ah, yes; but you must not reproach me now, phineas. i never deserted you as regarded your interests, though what little love you had for me was short-lived indeed. nay; you are not accused, and shall not excuse yourself. you were right,--always right. when you had failed to win one woman your heart with a true natural spring went to another. and so entire had been the cure, that you went to the first woman with the tale of your love for the second." "to whom was i to go but to a friend?" "you did come to a friend, and though i could not drive out of my heart the demon of jealousy, though i was cut to the very bone, i would have helped you had help been possible. though it had been the fixed purpose of my life that violet and oswald should be man and wife, i would have helped you because that other purpose of serving you in all things had become more fixed. but it was to no good end that i sang your praises. violet effingham was not the girl to marry this man or that at the bidding of any one;--was she?" "no, indeed." "it is of no use now talking of it; is it? but i want you to understand me from the beginning;--to understand all that was evil, and anything that was good. since first i found that you were to me the dearest of human beings i have never once been untrue to your interests, though i have been unable not to be angry with you. then came that wonderful episode in which you saved my husband's life." "not his life." "was it not singular that it should come from your hand? it seemed like fate. i tried to use the accident, to make his friendship for you as thorough as my own. and then i was obliged to separate you, because,--because, after all i was so mere a woman that i could not bear to have you near me. i can bear it now." "dear laura!" "yes; as your sister. i think you cannot but love me a little when you know how entirely i am devoted to you. i can bear to have you near me now and think of you only as the hen thinks of her duckling. for a moment you are out of the pond, and i have gathered you under my wing. you understand?" "i know that i am unworthy of what you say of me." "worth has nothing to do with it,--has no bearing on it. i do not say that you are more worthy than all whom i have known. but when did worth create love? what i want is that you should believe me, and know that there is one bound to you who will never be unbound, one whom you can trust in all things,--one to whom you can confess that you have been wrong if you go wrong, and yet be sure that you will not lessen her regard. and with this feeling you must pretend to nothing more than friendship. you will love again, of course." "oh, no." "of course you will. i tried to blaze into power by a marriage, and i failed,--because i was a woman. a woman should marry only for love. you will do it yet, and will not fail. you may remember this too,--that i shall never be jealous again. you may tell me everything with safety. you will tell me everything?" "if there be anything to tell, i will." "i will never stand between you and your wife,--though i would fain hope that she should know how true a friend i am. now we have walked here till it is dark, and the sentry will think we are taking plans of the place. are you cold?" "i have not thought about the cold." "nor have i. we will go down to the inn and warm ourselves before the train comes. i wonder why i should have brought you here to tell you my story. oh, phineas." then she threw herself into his arms, and he pressed her to his heart, and kissed first her forehead and then her lips. "it shall never be so again," she said. "i will kill it out of my heart even though i should crucify my body. but it is not my love that i will kill. when you are happy i will be happy. when you prosper i will prosper. when you fail i will fail. when you rise,--as you will rise,--i will rise with you. but i will never again feel the pressure of your arm round my waist. here is the gate, and the old guide. so, my friend, you see that we are not lost." then they walked down the very steep hill to the little town below the fortress, and there they remained till the evening train came from prague, and took them back to dresden. two days after this was the day fixed for finn's departure. on the intermediate day the earl begged for a few minutes' private conversation with him, and the two were closeted together for an hour. the earl, in truth, had little or nothing to say. things had so gone with him that he had hardly a will of his own left, and did simply that which his daughter directed him to do. he pretended to consult phineas as to the expediency of his returning to saulsby. did phineas think that his return would be of any use to the party? phineas knew very well that the party would not recognise the difference whether the earl lived at dresden or in london. when a man has come to the end of his influence as the earl had done he is as much a nothing in politics as though he had never risen above that quantity. the earl had never risen very high, and even phineas, with all his desire to be civil, could not say that the earl's presence would materially serve the interests of the liberal party. he made what most civil excuses he could, and suggested that if lord brentford should choose to return, lady laura would very willingly remain at dresden alone. "but why shouldn't she come too?" asked the earl. and then, with the tardiness of old age, he proposed his little plan. "why should she not make an attempt to live once more with her husband?" "she never will," said phineas. "but think how much she loses," said the earl. "i am quite sure she never will. and i am quite sure that she ought not to do so. the marriage was a misfortune. as it is they are better apart." after that the earl did not dare to say another word about his daughter; but discussed his son's affairs. did not phineas think that chiltern might now be induced to go into parliament? "nothing would make him do so," said phineas. "but he might farm?" "you see he has his hands full." "but other men keep hounds and farm too," said the earl. "but chiltern is not like other men. he gives his whole mind to it, and finds full employment. and then he is quite happy, and so is she. what more can you want for him? everybody respects him." "that goes a very great way," said the earl. then he thanked phineas cordially, and felt that now as ever he had done his duty by his family. there was no renewal of the passionate conversation which had taken place on the ramparts, but much of tenderness and of sympathy arose from it. lady laura took upon herself the tone and manners of an elder sister,--of a sister very much older than her brother,--and phineas submitted to them not only gracefully but with delight to himself. he had not thanked her for her love when she expressed it, and he did not do so afterwards. but he accepted it, and bowed to it, and recognised it as constituting one of the future laws of his life. he was to do nothing of importance without her knowledge, and he was to be at her command should she at any time want assistance in england. "i suppose i shall come back some day," she said, as they were sitting together late on the evening before his departure. "i cannot understand why you should not do so now. your father wishes it." "he thinks he does; but were he told that he was to go to-morrow, or next summer, it would fret him. i am assured that mr. kennedy could demand my return,--by law." "he could not enforce it." "he would attempt it. i will not go back until he consents to my living apart from him. and, to tell the truth, i am better here for awhile. they say that the sick animals always creep somewhere under cover. i am a sick animal, and now that i have crept here i will remain till i am stronger. how terribly anxious you must be about tankerville!" "i am anxious." "you will telegraph to me at once? you will be sure to do that?" "of course i will, the moment i know my fate." "and if it goes against you?" "ah,--what then?" "i shall at once write to barrington erle. i don't suppose he would do much now for his poor cousin, but he can at any rate say what can be done. i should bid you come here,--only that stupid people would say that you were my lover. i should not mind, only that he would hear it, and i am bound to save him from annoyance. would you not go down to oswald again?" "with what object?" "because anything will be better than returning to ireland. why not go down and look after saulsby? it would be a home, and you need not tie yourself to it. i will speak to papa about that. but you will get the seat." "i think i shall," said phineas. "do;--pray do! if i could only get hold of that judge by the ears! do you know what time it is? it is twelve, and your train starts at eight." then he arose to bid her adieu. "no," she said; "i shall see you off." "indeed you will not. it will be almost night when i leave this, and the frost is like iron." "neither the night nor the frost will kill me. do you think i will not give you your last breakfast? god bless you, dear." and on the following morning she did give him his breakfast by candle-light, and went down with him to the station. the morning was black, and the frost was, as he had said, as hard as iron, but she was thoroughly good-humoured, and apparently happy. "it has been so much to me to have you here, that i might tell you everything," she said. "you will understand me now." "i understand, but i know not how to believe," he said. "you do believe. you would be worse than a jew if you did not believe me. but you understand also. i want you to marry, and you must tell her all the truth. if i can i will love her almost as much as i do you. and if i live to see them, i will love your children as dearly as i do you. your children shall be my children;--or at least one of them shall be mine. you will tell me when it is to be." "if i ever intend such a thing, i will tell you." "now, good-bye. i shall stand back there till the train starts, but do not you notice me. god bless you, phineas." she held his hand tight within her own for some seconds, and looked into his face with an unutterable love. then she drew down her veil, and went and stood apart till the train had left the platform. "he has gone, papa," lady laura said, as she stood afterwards by her father's bedside. "has he? yes; i know he was to go, of course. i was very glad to see him, laura." "so was i, papa;--very glad indeed. whatever happens to him, we must never lose sight of him again." "we shall hear of him, of course, if he is in the house." "whether he is in the house or out of it we must hear of him. while we have aught he must never want." the earl stared at his daughter. the earl was a man of large possessions, and did not as yet understand that he was to be called upon to share them with phineas finn. "i know, papa, you will never think ill of me." "never, my dear." "i have sworn that i will be a sister to that man, and i will keep my oath." "i know you are a very good sister to chiltern," said the earl. lady laura had at one time appropriated her whole fortune, which had been large, to the payment of her brother's debts. the money had been returned, and had gone to her husband. lord brentford now supposed that she intended at some future time to pay the debts of phineas finn. chapter xiii. "i have got the seat." when phineas returned to london, the autumn session, though it had been carried on so near to christmas as to make many members very unhappy, had already been over for a fortnight. mr. daubeny had played his game with consummate skill to the last. he had brought in no bill, but had stated his intention of doing so early in the following session. he had, he said, of course been aware from the first that it would have been quite impossible to carry such a measure as that proposed during the few weeks in which it had been possible for them to sit between the convening of parliament and the christmas holidays; but he thought that it was expedient that the proposition should be named to the house and ventilated as it had been, so that members on both sides might be induced to give their most studious attention to the subject before a measure, which must be so momentous, should be proposed to them. as had happened, the unforeseen division to which the house had been pressed on the address had proved that the majority of the house was in favour of the great reform which it was the object of his ambition to complete. they were aware that they had been assembled at a somewhat unusual and inconvenient period of the year, because the service of the country had demanded that certain money bills should be passed. he, however, rejoiced greatly that this earliest opportunity had been afforded to him of explaining the intentions of the government with which he had the honour of being connected. in answer to this there arose a perfect torrent of almost vituperative antagonism from the opposite side of the house. did the right honourable gentleman dare to say that the question had been ventilated in the country, when it had never been broached by him or any of his followers till after the general election had been completed? was it not notorious to the country that the first hint of it had been given when the right honourable gentleman was elected for east barsetshire, and was it not equally notorious that that election had been so arranged that the marvellous proposition of the right honourable gentleman should not be known even to his own party till there remained no possibility of the expression of any condemnation from the hustings? it might be that the right honourable could so rule his own followers in that house as to carry them with him even in a matter so absolutely opposite to their own most cherished convictions. it certainly seemed that he had succeeded in doing so for the present. but would any one believe that he would have carried the country, had he dared to face the country with such a measure in his hands? ventilation, indeed! he had not dared to ventilate his proposition. he had used this short session in order that he might keep his clutch fastened on power, and in doing so was indifferent alike to the constitution, to his party, and to the country. harder words had never been spoken in the house than were uttered on this occasion. but the minister was successful. he had been supported on the address; and he went home to east barsetshire at christmas, perhaps with some little fear of the parsons around him; but with a full conviction that he would at least carry the second reading of his bill. london was more than usually full and busy this year immediately after christmas. it seemed as though it were admitted by all the liberal party generally that the sadness of the occasion ought to rob the season of its usual festivities. who could eat mince pies or think of twelfth night while so terribly wicked a scheme was in progress for keeping the real majority out in the cold? it was the injustice of the thing that rankled so deeply,--that, and a sense of inferiority to the cleverness displayed by mr. daubeny! it was as when a player is checkmated by some audacious combination of two pawns and a knight, such being all the remaining forces of the victorious adversary, when the beaten man has two castles and a queen upon the board. it was, indeed, worse than this,--for the adversary had appropriated to his own use the castles and the queen of the unhappy vanquished one. this church reform was the legitimate property of the liberals, and had not been as yet used by them only because they had felt it right to keep in the background for some future great occasion so great and so valuable a piece of ordnance. it was theirs so safely that they could afford to bide their time. and then,--so they all said, and so some of them believed,--the country was not ready for so great a measure. it must come; but there must be tenderness in the mode of producing it. the parsons must be respected, and the great church-of-england feeling of the people must be considered with affectionate regard. even the most rabid dissenter would hardly wish to see a structure so nearly divine attacked and destroyed by rude hands. with grave and slow and sober earnestness, with loving touches and soft caressing manipulation let the beautiful old church be laid to its rest, as something too exquisite, too lovely, too refined for the present rough manners of the world! such were the ideas as to church reform of the leading liberals of the day; and now this man, without even a majority to back him, this audacious cagliostro among statesmen, this destructive leader of all declared conservatives, had come forward without a moment's warning, and pretended that he would do the thing out of hand! men knew that it had to be done. the country had begun to perceive that the old establishment must fall; and, knowing this, would not the liberal backbone of great britain perceive the enormity of this cagliostro's wickedness,--and rise against him and bury him beneath its scorn as it ought to do? this was the feeling that made a real christmas impossible to messrs. ratler and bonteen. "the one thing incredible to me," said mr. ratler, "is that englishmen should be so mean." he was alluding to the conservatives who had shown their intention of supporting mr. daubeny, and whom he accused of doing so, simply with a view to power and patronage, without any regard to their own consistency or to the welfare of the country. mr. ratler probably did not correctly read the minds of the men whom he was accusing, and did not perceive, as he should have done with his experience, how little there was among them of concerted action. to defend the church was a duty to each of them; but then, so also was it a duty to support his party. and each one could see his way to the one duty, whereas the other was vague, and too probably ultimately impossible. if it were proper to throw off the incubus of this conjuror's authority, surely some wise, and great, and bold man would get up and so declare. some junto of wise men of the party would settle that he should be deposed. but where were they to look for the wise and bold men? where even for the junto? of whom did the party consist?--of honest, chivalrous, and enthusiastic men, but mainly of men who were idle, and unable to take upon their own shoulders the responsibility of real work. their leaders had been selected from the outside,--clever, eager, pushing men, but of late had been hardly selected from among themselves. as used to be the case with italian powers, they entrusted their cause to mercenary foreign generals, soldiers of fortune, who carried their good swords whither they were wanted; and, as of old, the leaders were ever ready to fight, but would themselves declare what should be and what should not be the _casus belli_. there was not so much meanness as mr. ratler supposed in the conservative ranks, but very much more unhappiness. would it not be better to go home and live at the family park all the year round, and hunt, and attend quarter sessions, and be able to declare morning and evening with a clear conscience that the country was going to the dogs? such was the mental working of many a conservative who supported mr. daubeny on this occasion. at the instance of lady laura, phineas called upon the duke of st. bungay soon after his return, and was very kindly received by his grace. in former days, when there were whigs instead of liberals, it was almost a rule of political life that all leading whigs should be uncles, brothers-in-law, or cousins to each other. this was pleasant and gave great consistency to the party; but the system has now gone out of vogue. there remain of it, however, some traces, so that among the nobler born liberals of the day there is still a good deal of agreeable family connection. in this way the st. bungay fitz-howards were related to the mildmays and standishes, and such a man as barrington erle was sure to be cousin to all of them. lady laura had thus only sent her friend to a relation of her own, and as the duke and phineas had been in the same government, his grace was glad enough to receive the returning aspirant. of course there was something said at first as to the life of the earl at dresden. the duke recollected the occasion of such banishment, and shook his head; and attempted to look unhappy when the wretched condition of mr. kennedy was reported to him. but he was essentially a happy man, and shook off the gloom at once when phineas spoke of politics. "so you are coming back to us, mr. finn?" "they tell me i may perhaps get the seat." "i am heartily glad, for you were very useful. i remember how cantrip almost cried when he told me you were going to leave him. he had been rather put upon, i fancy, before." "there was perhaps something in that, your grace." "there will be nothing to return to now beyond barren honours." "not for a while." "not for a long while," said the duke;--"for a long while, that is, as candidates for office regard time. mr. daubeny will be safe for this session at least. i doubt whether he will really attempt to carry his measure this year. he will bring it forward, and after the late division he must get his second reading. he will then break down gracefully in committee, and declare that the importance of the interests concerned demands further inquiry. it wasn't a thing to be done in one year." "why should he do it at all?" asked phineas. "that's what everybody asks, but the answer seems to be so plain! because he can do it, and we can't. he will get from our side much support, and we should get none from his." "there is something to me sickening in their dishonesty," said phineas energetically. "the country has the advantage; and i don't know that they are dishonest. ought we to come to a deadlock in legislation in order that parties might fight out their battle till one had killed the other?" "i don't think a man should support a measure which he believes to be destructive." "he doesn't believe it to be destructive. the belief is theoretic,--or not even quite that. it is hardly more than romantic. as long as acres are dear, and he can retain those belonging to him, the country gentleman will never really believe his country to be in danger. it is the same with commerce. as long as the three per cents. do not really mean four per cent.,--i may say as long as they don't mean five per cent.,--the country will be rich, though every one should swear that it be ruined." "i'm very glad, at the same time, that i don't call myself a conservative," said phineas. "that shows how disinterested you are, as you certainly would be in office. good-bye. come and see the duchess when she comes to town. and if you've nothing better to do, give us a day or two at longroyston at easter." now longroyston was the duke's well-known country seat, at which whig hospitality had been dispensed with a lavish hand for two centuries. on the th january phineas travelled down to tankerville again in obedience to a summons served upon him at the instance of the judge who was to try his petition against browborough. it was the special and somewhat unusual nature of this petition that the complainants not only sought to oust the sitting member, but also to give the seat to the late unsuccessful candidate. there was to be a scrutiny, by which, if it should be successful, so great a number of votes would be deducted from those polled on behalf of the unfortunate mr. browborough as to leave a majority for his opponent, with the additional disagreeable obligation upon him of paying the cost of the transaction by which he would thus lose his seat. mr. browborough, no doubt, looked upon the whole thing with the greatest disgust. he thought that a battle when once won should be regarded as over till the occasion should come for another battle. he had spent his money like a gentleman, and hated these mean ways. no one could ever say that he had ever petitioned. that was his way of looking at it. that shibboleth of his as to the prospects of england and the church of her people had, no doubt, made the house less agreeable to him during the last short session than usual; but he had stuck to his party, and voted with mr. daubeny on the address,--the obligation for such vote having inconveniently pressed itself upon him before the presentation of the petition had been formally completed. he had always stuck to his party. it was the pride of his life that he had been true and consistent. he also was summoned to tankerville, and he was forced to go, although he knew that the shibboleth would be thrown in his teeth. mr. browborough spent two or three very uncomfortable days at tankerville, whereas phineas was triumphant. there were worse things in store for poor mr. browborough than his repudiated shibboleth, or even than his lost seat. mr. ruddles, acting with wondrous energy, succeeded in knocking off the necessary votes, and succeeded also in proving that these votes were void by reason of gross bribery. he astonished phineas by the cool effrontery with which he took credit to himself for not having purchased votes in the fallgate on the liberal side, but phineas was too wise to remind him that he himself had hinted at one time that it would be well to lay out a little money in that way. no one at the present moment was more clear than was ruddles as to the necessity of purity at elections. not a penny had been misspent by the finnites. a vote or two from their score was knocked off on grounds which did not touch the candidate or his agents. one man had personated a vote, but this appeared to have been done at the instigation of some very cunning browborough partisan. another man had been wrongly described. this, however, amounted to nothing. phineas finn was seated for the borough, and the judge declared his purpose of recommending the house of commons to issue a commission with reference to the expediency of instituting a prosecution. mr. browborough left the town in great disgust, not without various publicly expressed intimations from his opponents that the prosperity of england depended on the church of her people. phineas was gloriously entertained by the liberals of the borough, and then informed that as so much had been done for him it was hoped that he would now open his pockets on behalf of the charities of the town. "gentlemen," said phineas, to one or two of the leading liberals, "it is as well that you should know at once that i am a very poor man." the leading liberals made wry faces, but phineas was member for the borough. the moment that the decision was announced, phineas, shaking off for the time his congratulatory friends, hurried to the post-office and sent his message to lady laura standish at dresden: "i have got the seat." he was almost ashamed of himself as the telegraph boy looked up at him when he gave in the words, but this was a task which he could not have entrusted to any one else. he almost thought that this was in truth the proudest and happiest moment of his life. she would so thoroughly enjoy his triumph, would receive from it such great and unselfish joy, that he almost wished that he could have taken the message himself. surely had he done so there would have been fit occasion for another embrace. he was again a member of the british house of commons,--was again in possession of that privilege for which he had never ceased to sigh since the moment in which he lost it. a drunkard or a gambler may be weaned from his ways, but not a politician. to have been in the house and not to be there was, to such a one as phineas finn, necessarily a state of discontent. but now he had worked his way up again, and he was determined that no fears for the future should harass him. he would give his heart and soul to the work while his money lasted. it would surely last him for the session. he was all alone in the world, and would trust to the chapter of accidents for the future. "i never knew a fellow with such luck as yours," said barrington erle to him, on his return to london. "a seat always drops into your mouth when the circumstances seem to be most forlorn." "i have been lucky, certainly." "my cousin, laura kennedy, has been writing to me about you." "i went over to see them, you know." "so i heard. she talks some nonsense about the earl being willing to do anything for you. what could the earl do? he has no more influence in the loughton borough than i have. all that kind of thing is clean done for,--with one or two exceptions. we got much better men while it lasted than we do now." "i should doubt that." "we did;--much truer men,--men who went straighter. by the bye, phineas, we must have no tricks on this church matter. we mean to do all we can to throw out the second reading." "you know what i said at the hustings." "d---- the hustings. i know what browborough said, and browborough voted like a man with his party. you were against the church at the hustings, and he was for it. you will vote just the other way. there will be a little confusion, but the people of tankerville will never remember the particulars." "i don't know that i can do that." "by heavens, if you don't, you shall never more be officer of ours,--though laura kennedy should cry her eyes out." chapter xiv. trumpeton wood. in the meantime the hunting season was going on in the brake country with chequered success. there had arisen the great trumpeton wood question, about which the sporting world was doomed to hear so much for the next twelve months,--and lord chiltern was in an unhappy state of mind. trumpeton wood belonged to that old friend of ours, the duke of omnium, who had now almost fallen into second childhood. it was quite out of the question that the duke should himself interfere in such a matter, or know anything about it; but lord chiltern, with headstrong resolution, had persisted in writing to the duke himself. foxes had always hitherto been preserved in trumpeton wood, and the earths had always been stopped on receipt of due notice by the keepers. during the cubbing season there had arisen quarrels. the keepers complained that no effort was made to kill the foxes. lord chiltern swore that the earths were not stopped. then there came tidings of a terrible calamity. a dying fox, with a trap to its pad, was found in the outskirts of the wood; and lord chiltern wrote to the duke. he drew the wood in regular course before any answer could be received,--and three of his hounds picked up poison, and died beneath his eyes. he wrote to the duke again,--a cutting letter; and then came from the duke's man of business, mr. fothergill, a very short reply, which lord chiltern regarded as an insult. hitherto the affair had not got into the sporting papers, and was simply a matter of angry discussion at every meet in the neighbouring counties. lord chiltern was very full of wrath, and always looked as though he desired to avenge those poor hounds on the duke and all belonging to him. to a master of hounds the poisoning of one of his pack is murder of the deepest dye. there probably never was a master who in his heart of hearts would not think it right that a detected culprit should be hung for such an offence. and most masters would go further than this, and declare that in the absence of such detection the owner of the covert in which the poison had been picked up should be held to be responsible. in this instance the condition of ownership was unfortunate. the duke himself was old, feeble, and almost imbecile. he had never been eminent as a sportsman; but, in a not energetic manner, he had endeavoured to do his duty by the country. his heir, plantagenet palliser, was simply a statesman, who, as regarded himself, had never a day to spare for amusement; and who, in reference to sport, had unfortunate fantastic notions that pheasants and rabbits destroyed crops, and that foxes were injurious to old women's poultry. he, however, was not the owner, and had refused to interfere. there had been family quarrels too, adverse to the sporting interests of the younger palliser scions, so that the shooting of this wood had drifted into the hands of mr. fothergill and his friends. now, lord chiltern had settled it in his own mind that the hounds had been poisoned, if not in compliance with mr. fothergill's orders, at any rate in furtherance of his wishes, and, could he have had his way, he certainly would have sent mr. fothergill to the gallows. now, miss palliser, who was still staying at lord chiltern's house, was niece to the old duke, and first cousin to the heir. "they are nothing to me," she said once, when lord chiltern had attempted to apologise for the abuse he was heaping on her relatives. "i haven't seen the duke since i was a little child, and i shouldn't know my cousin were i to meet him." "so much the more gracious is your condition," said lady chiltern,--"at any rate in oswald's estimation." "i know them, and once spent a couple of days at matching with them," said lord chiltern. "the duke is an old fool, who always gave himself greater airs than any other man in england,--and as far as i can see, with less to excuse them. as for planty pall, he and i belong so essentially to different orders of things, that we can hardly be reckoned as being both men." "and which is the man, lord chiltern?" "whichever you please, my dear; only not both. doggett was over there yesterday, and found three separate traps." "what did he do with the traps?" said lady chiltern. "i wasn't fool enough to ask him, but i don't in the least doubt that he threw them into the water--or that he'd throw palliser there too if he could get hold of him. as for taking the hounds to trumpeton again, i wouldn't do it if there were not another covert in the country." "then leave it so, and have done with it," said his wife. "i wouldn't fret as you do for what another man did with his own property, for all the foxes in england." "that is because you understand nothing of hunting, my dear. a man's property is his own in one sense, but isn't his own in another. a man can't do what he likes with his coverts." "he can cut them down." "but he can't let another pack hunt them, and he can't hunt them himself. if he's in a hunting county he is bound to preserve foxes." "what binds him, oswald? a man can't be bound without a penalty." "i should think it penalty enough for everybody to hate me. what are you going to do about phineas finn?" "i have asked him to come on the st and stay till parliament meets." "and is that woman coming?" "there are two or three women coming." "she with the german name, whom you made me dine with in park lane?" "madame max goesler is coming. she brings her own horses, and they will stand at doggett's." "they can't stand here, for there is not a stall." "i am so sorry that my poor little fellow should incommode you," said miss palliser. "you're a licensed offender,--though, upon my honour, i don't know whether i ought to give a feed of oats to any one having a connection with trumpeton wood. and what is phineas to ride?" "he shall ride my horses," said lady chiltern, whose present condition in life rendered hunting inopportune to her. "neither of them would carry him a mile. he wants about as good an animal as you can put him upon. i don't know what i'm to do. it's all very well for laura to say that he must be mounted." "you wouldn't refuse to give mr. finn a mount!" said lady chiltern, almost with dismay. "i'd give him my right hand to ride, only it wouldn't carry him. i can't make horses. harry brought home that brown mare on tuesday with an overreach that she won't get over this season. what the deuce they do with their horses to knock them about so, i can't understand. i've killed horses in my time, and ridden them to a stand-still, but i never bruised them and battered them about as these fellows do." "then i'd better write to mr. finn, and tell him," said lady chiltern, very gravely. "oh, phineas finn!" said lord chiltern; "oh, phineas finn! what a pity it was that you and i didn't see the matter out when we stood opposite to each other on the sands at blankenberg!" "oswald," said his wife, getting up, and putting her arm over his shoulder, "you know you would give your best horse to mr. finn, as long as he chose to stay here, though you rode upon a donkey yourself." "i know that if i didn't, you would," said lord chiltern. and so the matter was settled. at night, when they were alone together, there was further discussion as to the visitors who were coming to harrington hall. "is gerard maule to come back?" asked the husband. "i have asked him. he left his horses at doggett's, you know." "i didn't know." "i certainly told you, oswald. do you object to his coming? you can't really mean that you care about his riding?" "it isn't that. you must have some whipping post, and he's as good as another. but he shilly-shallies about that girl. i hate all that stuff like poison." "all men are not so--abrupt shall i say?--as you were." "i had something to say, and i said it. when i had said it a dozen times, i got to have it believed. he doesn't say it as though he meant to have it believed." "you were always in earnest, oswald." "i was." "to the extent of the three minutes which you allowed yourself. it sufficed, however;--did it not? you are glad you persevered?" "what fools women are." "never mind that. say you are glad. i like you to tell me so. let me be a fool if i will." "what made you so obstinate?" "i don't know. i never could tell. it wasn't that i didn't dote upon you, and think about you, and feel quite sure that there never could be any other one than you." "i've no doubt it was all right;--only you very nearly made me shoot a fellow, and now i've got to find horses for him. i wonder whether he could ride dandolo?" "don't put him up on anything very hard." "why not? his wife is dead, and he hasn't got a child, nor yet an acre of property. i don't know who is entitled to break his neck if he is not. and dandolo is as good a horse as there is in the stable, if you can once get him to go. mind, i have to start to-morrow at nine, for it's all eighteen miles." and so the master of the brake hounds took himself to his repose. lady laura kennedy had written to barrington erle respecting her friend's political interests, and to her sister-in-law, lady chiltern, as to his social comfort. she could not bear to think that he should be left alone in london till parliament should meet, and had therefore appealed to lady chiltern as to the memory of many past events. the appeal had been unnecessary and superfluous. it cannot be said that phineas and his affairs were matters of as close an interest to lady chiltern as to lady laura. if any woman loved her husband beyond all things lord chiltern's wife did, and ever had done so. but there had been a tenderness in regard to the young irish member of parliament, which violet effingham had in old days shared with lady laura, and which made her now think that all good things should be done for him. she believed him to be addicted to hunting, and therefore horses must be provided for him. he was a widower, and she remembered of old that he was fond of pretty women, and she knew that in coming days he might probably want money;--and therefore she had asked madame max goesler to spend a fortnight at harrington hall. madame max goesler and phineas finn had been acquainted before, as lady chiltern was well aware. but perhaps lady chiltern, when she summoned madame max into the country, did not know how close the acquaintance had been. madame max came a couple of days before phineas, and was taken out hunting on the morning after her arrival. she was a lady who could ride to hounds,--and who, indeed, could do nearly anything to which she set her mind. she was dark, thin, healthy, good-looking, clever, ambitious, rich, unsatisfied, perhaps unscrupulous,--but not without a conscience. as has been told in a former portion of this chronicle, she could always seem to be happy with her companion of the day, and yet there was ever present a gnawing desire to do something more and something better than she had as yet achieved. of course, as he took her to the meet, lord chiltern told her his grievance respecting trumpeton wood. "but, my dear lord chiltern, you must not abuse the duke of omnium to me." "why not to you?" "he and i are sworn friends." "he's a hundred years old." "and why shouldn't i have a friend a hundred years old? and as for mr. palliser, he knows no more of your foxes than i know of his taxes. why don't you write to lady glencora? she understands everything." "is she a friend of yours, too?" "my particular friend. she and i, you know, look after the poor dear duke between us." "i can understand why she should sacrifice herself." "but not why i do. i can't explain it myself; but so it has come to pass, and i must not hear the duke abused. may i write to lady glencora about it?" "certainly,--if you please; but not as giving her any message from me. her uncle's property is mismanaged most damnably. if you choose to tell her that i say so you can. i'm not going to ask anything as a favour. i never do ask favours. but the duke or planty palliser among them should do one of two things. they should either stand by the hunting, or they should let it alone;--and they should say what they mean. i like to know my friends, and i like to know my enemies." "i am sure the duke is not your enemy, lord chiltern." "these pallisers have always been running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. they are great aristocrats, and yet are always going in for the people. i'm told that planty pall calls fox-hunting barbarous. why doesn't he say so out loud, and stub up trumpeton wood and grow corn?" "perhaps he will when trumpeton wood belongs to him." "i should like that much better than poisoning hounds and trapping foxes." when they got to the meet, conclaves of men might be seen gathered together here and there, and in each conclave they were telling something new or something old as to the iniquities perpetrated at trumpeton wood. on that evening before dinner madame goesler was told by her hostess that phineas finn was expected on the following day. the communication was made quite as a matter of course; but lady chiltern had chosen a time in which the lights were shaded, and the room was dark. adelaide palliser was present, as was also a certain lady baldock,--not that lady baldock who had abused all papists to poor phineas, but her son's wife. they were drinking tea together over the fire, and the dim lights were removed from the circle. this, no doubt, was simply an accident; but the gloom served madame goesler during one moment of embarrassment. "an old friend of yours is coming here to-morrow," said lady chiltern. "an old friend of mine! shall i call my friend he or she?" "you remember mr. finn?" that was the moment in which madame goesler rejoiced that no strong glare of light fell upon her face. but she was a woman who would not long leave herself subject to any such embarrassment. "surely," she said, confining herself at first to the single word. "he is coming here. he is a great friend of mine." "he always was a good friend of yours, lady chiltern." "and of yours, too, madame max. a sort of general friend, i think, was mr. finn in the old days. i hope you will be glad to see him." "oh, dear, yes." "i thought him very nice," said adelaide palliser. "i remember mamma saying, before she was mamma, you know," said lady baldock, "that mr. finn was very nice indeed, only he was a papist, and only he had got no money, and only he would fall in love with everybody. does he go on falling in love with people, violet?" "never with married women, my dear. he has had a wife himself since that, madame goesler, and the poor thing died." "and now here he is beginning all over again," said lady baldock. "and as pleasant as ever," said her cousin. "you know he has done all manner of things for our family. he picked oswald up once after one of those terrible hunting accidents; and he saved mr. kennedy when men were murdering him." "that was questionable kindness," said lady baldock. "and he sat for lord brentford's borough." "how good of him!" said miss palliser. "and he has done all manner of things," said lady chiltern. "didn't he once fight a duel?" asked madame goesler. "that was the grandest thing of all," said his friend, "for he didn't shoot somebody whom perhaps he might have shot had he been as bloodthirsty as somebody else. and now he has come back to parliament, and all that kind of thing, and he's coming here to hunt. i hope you'll be glad to see him, madame goesler." "i shall be very glad to see him," said madame goesler, slowly; "i heard about his success at that town, and i knew that i should meet him somewhere." chapter xv. "how well you knew!" it was necessary also that some communication should be made to phineas, so that he might not come across madame goesler unawares. lady chiltern was more alive to that necessity than she had been to the other, and felt that the gentleman, if not warned of what was to take place, would be much more likely than the lady to be awkward at the trying moment. madame goesler would in any circumstances be sure to recover her self-possession very quickly, even were she to lose it for a moment; but so much could hardly be said for the social powers of phineas finn. lady chiltern therefore contrived to see him alone for a moment on his arrival. "who do you think is here?" "lady laura has not come!" "indeed, no; i wish she had. an old friend, but not so old as laura!" "i cannot guess;--not lord fawn?" "lord fawn! what would lord fawn do here? don't you know that lord fawn goes nowhere since his last matrimonial trouble? it's a friend of yours, not of mine." "madame goesler?" whispered phineas. "how well you knew when i said it was a friend of yours. madame goesler is here,--not altered in the least." "madame goesler!" "does it annoy you?" "oh, no. why should it annoy me?" "you never quarrelled with her?" "never!" "there is no reason why you should not meet her?" "none at all;--only i was surprised. did she know that i was coming?" "i told her yesterday. i hope that i have not done wrong or made things unpleasant. i knew that you used to be friends." "and as friends we parted, lady chiltern." he had nothing more to say in the matter; nor had she. he could not tell the story of what had taken place between himself and the lady, and she could not keep herself from surmising that something had taken place, which, had she known it, would have prevented her from bringing the two together at harrington. madame goesler, when she was dressing, acknowledged to herself that she had a task before her which would require all her tact and all her courage. she certainly would not have accepted lady chiltern's invitation had she known that she would encounter phineas finn at the house. she had twenty-four hours to think of it, and at one time had almost made up her mind that some sudden business should recall her to london. of course, her motive would be suspected. of course lady chiltern would connect her departure with the man's arrival. but even that, bad as it would be, might be preferable to the meeting! what a fool had she been,--so she accused herself,--in not foreseeing that such an accident might happen, knowing as she did that phineas finn had reappeared in the political world, and that he and the chiltern people had ever been fast friends! as she had thought about it, lying awake at night, she had told herself that she must certainly be recalled back to london by business. she would telegraph up to town, raising a question about any trifle, and on receipt of the answer she could be off with something of an excuse. the shame of running away from the man seemed to be a worse evil than the shame of meeting him. she had in truth done nothing to disgrace herself. in her desire to save a man whom she had loved from the ruin which she thought had threatened him, she had--offered him her hand. she had made the offer, and he had refused it! that was all. no; she would not be driven to confess to herself that she had ever fled from the face of man or woman. this man would be again in london, and she could not always fly. it would be only necessary that she should maintain her own composure, and the misery of the meeting would pass away after the first few minutes. one consolation was assured to her. she thoroughly believed in the man,--feeling certain that he had not betrayed her, and would not betray her. but now, as the time for the meeting drew near, as she stood for a moment before the glass,--pretending to look at herself in order that her maid might not remark her uneasiness, she found that her courage, great as it was, hardly sufficed her. she almost plotted some scheme of a headache, by which she might be enabled not to show herself till after dinner. "i am so blind that i can hardly see out of my eyes," she said to the maid, actually beginning the scheme. the woman assumed a look of painful solicitude, and declared that "madame did not look quite her best." "i suppose i shall shake it off," said madame goesler; and then she descended the stairs. [illustration: "i suppose i shall shake it off."] the condition of phineas finn was almost as bad, but he had a much less protracted period of anticipation than that with which the lady was tormented. he was sent up to dress for dinner with the knowledge that in half an hour he would find himself in the same room with madame goesler. there could be no question of his running away, no possibility even of his escaping by a headache. but it may be doubted whether his dismay was not even more than hers. she knew that she could teach herself to use no other than fitting words; but he was almost sure that he would break down if he attempted to speak to her. she would be safe from blushing, but he would assuredly become as red as a turkey-cock's comb up to the roots of his hair. her blood would be under control, but his would be coursing hither and thither through his veins, so as to make him utterly unable to rule himself. nevertheless, he also plucked up his courage and descended, reaching the drawing-room before madame goesler had entered it. chiltern was going on about trumpeton wood to lord baldock, and was renewing his fury against all the pallisers, while adelaide stood by and laughed. gerard maule was lounging on a chair, wondering that any man could expend such energy on such a subject. lady chiltern was explaining the merits of the case to lady baldock,--who knew nothing about hunting; and the other guests were listening with eager attention. a certain mr. spooner, who rode hard and did nothing else, and who acted as an unacknowledged assistant-master under lord chiltern,--there is such a man in every hunt,--acted as chorus, and indicated, chiefly with dumb show, the strong points of the case. "finn, how are you?" said lord chiltern, stretching out his left hand. "glad to have you back again, and congratulate you about the seat. it was put down in red herrings, and we found nearly a dozen of them afterwards,--enough to kill half the pack." "picked up nine," said mr. spooner. "children might have picked them up quite as well,--and eaten them," said lady chiltern. "they didn't care about that," continued the master. "and now they've wires and traps over the whole place. palliser's a friend of yours--isn't he, finn?" "of course i knew him,--when i was in office." "i don't know what he may be in office, but he's an uncommon bad sort of fellow to have in a county." "shameful!" said mr. spooner, lifting up both his hands. "this is my first cousin, you know," whispered adelaide, to lady baldock. "if he were my own brother, or my grandmother, i should say the same," continued the angry lord. "we must have a meeting about it, and let the world know it,--that's all." at this moment the door was again opened, and madame goesler entered the room. when one wants to be natural, of necessity one becomes the reverse of natural. a clever actor,--or more frequently a clever actress,--will assume the appearance; but the very fact of the assumption renders the reality impossible. lady chiltern was generally very clever in the arrangement of all little social difficulties, and, had she thought less about it, might probably have managed the present affair in an easy and graceful manner. but the thing had weighed upon her mind, and she had decided that it would be expedient that she should say something when those two old friends first met each other again in her drawing-room. "madame max," she said, "you remember mr. finn." lord chiltern for a moment stopped the torrent of his abuse. lord baldock made a little effort to look uninterested, but quite in vain. mr. spooner stood on one side. lady baldock stared with all her eyes,--with some feeling of instinct that there would be something to see; and gerard maule, rising from the sofa, joined the circle. it seemed as though lady chiltern's words had caused the formation of a ring in the midst of which phineas and madame goesler were to renew their acquaintance. "very well indeed," said madame max, putting out her hand and looking full into our hero's face with her sweetest smile. "and i hope mr. finn will not have forgotten me." she did it admirably--so well that surely she need not have thought of running away. but poor phineas was not happy. "i shall never forget you," said he; and then that unavoidable blush suffused his face, and the blood began to career through his veins. "i am so glad you are in parliament again," said madame max. "yes;--i've got in again, after a struggle. are you still living in park lane?" "oh, yes;--and shall be most happy to see you." then she seated herself,--as did also lady chiltern by her side. "i see the poor duke's iniquities are still under discussion. i hope lord chiltern recognises the great happiness of having a grievance. it would be a pity that so great a blessing should be thrown away upon him." for the moment madame max had got through her difficulty, and, indeed, had done so altogether till the moment should come in which she should find herself alone with phineas. but he slunk back from the gathering before the fire, and stood solitary and silent till dinner was announced. it became his fate to take an old woman into dinner who was not very clearsighted. "did you know that lady before?" she asked. "oh, yes; i knew her two or three years ago in london." "do you think she is pretty?" "certainly." "all the men say so, but i never can see it. they have been saying ever so long that the old duke of omnium means to marry her on his deathbed, but i don't suppose there can be anything in it." "why should he put it off for so very inopportune an occasion?" asked phineas. chapter xvi. copperhouse cross and broughton spinnies. after all, the thing had not been so very bad. with a little courage and hardihood we can survive very great catastrophes, and go through them even without broken bones. phineas, when he got up to his room, found that he had spent the evening in company with madame goesler, and had not suffered materially, except at the very first moment of the meeting. he had not said a word to the lady, except such as were spoken in mixed conversation with her and others; but they had been together, and no bones had been broken. it could not be that his old intimacy should be renewed, but he could now encounter her in society, as the fates might direct, without a renewal of that feeling of dismay which had been so heavy on him. he was about to undress when there came a knock at the door, and his host entered the room. "what do you mean to do about smoking?" lord chiltern asked. "nothing at all." "there's a fire in the smoking-room, but i'm tired, and i want to go to bed. baldock doesn't smoke. gerard maule is smoking in his own room, i take it. you'll probably find spooner at this moment established somewhere in the back slums, having a pipe with old doggett, and planning retribution. you can join them if you please." "not to-night, i think. they wouldn't trust me,--and i should spoil their plans." "they certainly wouldn't trust you,--or any other human being. you don't mind a horse that baulks a little, do you?" "i'm not going to hunt, chiltern." "yes, you are. i've got it all arranged. don't you be a fool, and make us all uncomfortable. everybody rides here;--every man, woman, and child about the place. you shall have one of the best horses i've got;--only you must be particular about your spurs." "indeed, i'd rather not. the truth is, i can't afford to ride my own horses, and therefore i'd rather not ride my friends'." "that's all gammon. when violet wrote she told you you'd be expected to come out. your old flame, madame max, will be there, and i tell you she has a very pretty idea of keeping to hounds. only dandolo has that little defect." "is dandolo the horse?" "yes;--dandolo is the horse. he's up to a stone over your weight, and can do any mortal thing within a horse's compass. cox won't ride him because he baulks, and so he has come into my stable. if you'll only let him know that you're on his back, and have got a pair of spurs on your heels with rowels in them, he'll take you anywhere. good-night, old fellow. you can smoke if you choose, you know." phineas had resolved that he would not hunt; but, nevertheless, he had brought boots with him, and breeches, fancying that if he did not he would be forced out without those comfortable appurtenances. but there came across his heart a feeling that he had reached a time of life in which it was no longer comfortable for him to live as a poor man with men who were rich. it had been his lot to do so when he was younger, and there had been some pleasure in it; but now he would rather live alone and dwell upon the memories of the past. he, too, might have been rich, and have had horses at command, had he chosen to sacrifice himself for money. on the next morning they started in a huge waggonette for copperhouse cross,--a meet that was suspiciously near to the duke's fatal wood. spooner had explained to phineas over night that they never did draw trumpeton wood on copperhouse cross days, and that under no possible circumstances would chiltern now draw trumpeton wood. but there is no saying where a fox may run. at this time of the year, just the beginning of february, dog-foxes from the big woods were very apt to be away from home, and when found would go straight for their own earths. it was very possible that they might find themselves in trumpeton wood, and then certainly there would be a row. spooner shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, and seemed to insinuate that lord chiltern would certainly do something very dreadful to the duke or to the duke's heir if any law of venery should again be found to have been broken on this occasion. the distance to copperhouse cross was twelve miles, and phineas found himself placed in the carriage next to madame goesler. it had not been done of fixed design; but when a party of six are seated in a carriage, the chances are that one given person will be next to or opposite to any other given person. madame max had remembered this, and had prepared herself, but phineas was taken aback when he found how close was his neighbourhood to the lady. "get in, phineas," said his lordship. gerard maule had already seated himself next to miss palliser, and phineas had no alternative but to take the place next to madame max. "i didn't know that you rode to hounds?" said phineas. "oh, yes; i have done so for years. when we met it was always in london, mr. finn; and people there never know what other people do. have you heard of this terrible affair about the duke?" "oh, dear, yes." "poor duke! he and i have seen a great deal of each other since,--since the days when you and i used to meet. he knows nothing about all this, and the worst of it is, he is not in a condition to be told." "lady glencora could put it all right." "i'll tell lady glencora, of course," said madame max. "it seems so odd in this country that the owner of a property does not seem at all to have any exclusive right to it. i suppose the duke could shut up the wood if he liked." "but they poisoned the hounds." "nobody supposes the duke did that,--or even the duke's servants, i should think. but lord chiltern will hear us if we don't take care." "i've heard every word you've been saying," exclaimed lord chiltern. "has it been traced to any one?" "no,--not traced, i suppose." "what then, lord chiltern? you may speak out to me. when i'm wrong i like to be told so." "then you're wrong now," said lord chiltern, "if you take the part of the duke or of any of his people. he is bound to find foxes for the brake hunt. it is almost a part of his title deeds. instead of doing so he has had them destroyed." "it's as bad as voting against the church establishment," said madame goesler. there was a very large meet at copperhouse cross, and both madame goesler and phineas finn found many old acquaintances there. as phineas had formerly sat in the house for five years, and had been in office, and had never made himself objectionable either to his friends or adversaries, he had been widely known. he now found half a dozen men who were always members of parliament,--men who seem, though commoners, to have been born legislators,--who all spoke to him as though his being member for tankerville and hunting with the brake hounds were equally matters of course. they knew him, but they knew nothing of the break in his life. or if they remembered that he had not been seen about the house for the last two or three years they remembered also that accidents do happen to some men. it will occur now and again that a regular denizen of westminster will get a fall in the political hunting-field, and have to remain about the world for a year or two without a seat. that phineas had lately triumphed over browborough at tankerville was known, the event having been so recent; and men congratulated him, talking of poor browborough,--whose heavy figure had been familiar to them for many a year,--but by no means recognising that the event of which they spoke had been, as it were, life and death to their friend. roby was there, who was at this moment mr. daubeny's head whip and patronage secretary. if any one should have felt acutely the exclusion of mr. browborough from the house,--any one beyond the sufferer himself,--it should have been mr. roby; but he made himself quite pleasant, and even condescended to be jocose upon the occasion. "so you've beat poor browborough in his own borough," said mr. roby. "i've beat him," said phineas; "but not, i hope, in a borough of his own." "he's been there for the last fifteen years. poor old fellow! he's awfully cut up about this church question. i shouldn't have thought he'd have taken anything so much to heart. there are worse fellows than browborough, let me tell you. what's all this i hear about the duke poisoning the foxes?" but the crowd had begun to move, and phineas was not called upon to answer the question. copperhouse cross in the brake hunt was a very popular meet. it was easily reached by a train from london, was in the centre of an essentially hunting country, was near to two or three good coverts, and was in itself a pretty spot. two roads intersected each other on the middle of copperhouse common, which, as all the world knows, lies just on the outskirts of copperhouse forest. a steep winding hill leads down from the wood to the cross, and there is no such thing within sight as an enclosure. at the foot of the hill, running under the wooden bridge, straggles the copperhouse brook,--so called by the hunting men of the present day, though men who know the country of old, or rather the county, will tell you that it is properly called the river cobber, and that the spacious old farm buildings above were once known as the cobber manor house. he would be a vain man who would now try to change the name, as copperhouse cross has been printed in all the lists of hunting meets for at least the last thirty years; and the ordnance map has utterly rejected the two b's. along one of the cross-roads there was a broad extent of common, some seven or eight hundred yards in length, on which have been erected the butts used by those well-known defenders of their country, the copperhouse volunteer rifles; and just below the bridge the sluggish water becomes a little lake, having probably at some time been artificially widened, and there is a little island and a decoy for ducks. on the present occasion carriages were drawn up on all the roads, and horses were clustered on each side of the brook, and the hounds sat stately on their haunches where riflemen usually kneel to fire, and there was a hum of merry voices, and the bright colouring of pink coats, and the sheen of ladies' hunting toilettes, and that mingled look of business and amusement which is so peculiar to our national sports. two hundred men and women had come there for the chance of a run after a fox,--for a chance against which the odds are more than two to one at every hunting day,--for a chance as to which the odds are twenty to one against the success of the individuals collected; and yet, for every horseman and every horsewoman there, not less than £ a head will have been spent for this one day's amusement. when we give a guinea for a stall at the opera we think that we pay a large sum; but we are fairly sure of having our music. when you go to copperhouse cross you are by no means sure of your opera. why is it that when men and women congregate, though the men may beat the women in numbers by ten to one, and though they certainly speak the louder, the concrete sound that meets the ears of any outside listener is always a sound of women's voices? at copperhouse cross almost every one was talking, but the feeling left upon the senses was that of an amalgam of feminine laughter, feminine affectation, and feminine eagerness. perhaps at copperhouse cross the determined perseverance with which lady gertrude fitzaskerley addressed herself to lord chiltern, to cox the huntsman, to the two whips, and at last to mr. spooner, may have specially led to the remark on this occasion. lord chiltern was very short with her, not loving lady gertrude. cox bestowed upon her two "my lady's," and then turned from her to some peccant hound. but spooner was partly gratified, and partly incapable, and underwent a long course of questions about the duke and the poisoning. lady gertrude, whose father seemed to have owned half the coverts in ireland, had never before heard of such enormity. she suggested a round robin and would not be at all ashamed to put her own name to it. "oh, for the matter of that," said spooner, "chiltern can be round enough himself without any robin." "he can't be too round," said lady gertrude, with a very serious aspect. at last they moved away, and phineas found himself riding by the side of madame goesler. it was natural that he should do so, as he had come with her. maule had, of course, remained with miss palliser, and chiltern and spooner had taken themselves to their respective duties. phineas might have avoided her, but in doing so he would have seemed to avoid her. she accepted his presence apparently as a matter of course, and betrayed by her words and manner no memory of past scenes. it was not customary with them to draw the forest, which indeed, as it now stood, was a forest only in name, and they trotted off to a gorse a mile and a half distant. this they drew blank,--then another gorse also blank,--and two or three little fringes of wood, such as there are in every country, and through which huntsmen run their hounds, conscious that no fox will lie there. at one o'clock they had not found, and the hilarity of the really hunting men as they ate their sandwiches and lit their cigars was on the decrease. the ladies talked more than ever, lady gertrude's voice was heard above them all, and lord chiltern trotted on close behind his hounds in obdurate silence. when things were going bad with him no one in the field dared to speak to him. phineas had never seen his horse till he reached the meet, and there found a fine-looking, very strong, bay animal, with shoulders like the top of a hay-stack, short-backed, short-legged, with enormous quarters, and a wicked-looking eye. "he ought to be strong," said phineas to the groom. "oh, sir; strong ain't no word for him," said the groom; "'e can carry a 'ouse." "i don't know whether he's fast?" inquired phineas. "he's fast enough for any 'ounds, sir," said the man with that tone of assurance which always carries conviction. "and he can jump?" "he can jump!" continued the groom; "no 'orse in my lord's stables can't beat him." "but he won't?" said phineas. "it's only sometimes, sir, and then the best thing is to stick him at it till he do. he'll go, he will, like a shot at last; and then he's right for the day." hunting men will know that all this was not quite comfortable. when you ride your own horse, and know his special defects, you know also how far that defect extends, and what real prospect you have of overcoming it. if he be slow through the mud, you keep a good deal on the road in heavy weather, and resolve that the present is not an occasion for distinguishing yourself. if he be bad at timber, you creep through a hedge. if he pulls, you get as far from the crowd as may be. you gauge your misfortune, and make your little calculation as to the best mode of remedying the evil. but when you are told that your friend's horse is perfect,--only that he does this or that,--there comes a weight on your mind from which you are unable to release it. you cannot discount your trouble at any percentage. it may amount to absolute ruin, as far as that day is concerned; and in such a circumstance you always look forward to the worst. when the groom had done his description, phineas finn would almost have preferred a day's canvass at tankerville under mr. ruddles's authority to his present position. when the hounds entered broughton spinnies, phineas and madame goesler were still together. he had not been riding actually at her side all the morning. many men and two or three ladies had been talking to her. but he had never been far from her in the ruck, and now he was again close by her horse's head. broughton spinnies were in truth a series of small woods, running one into another almost without intermission, never thick, and of no breadth. there was always a litter or two of cubs at the place, and in no part of the brake country was greater care taken in the way of preservation and encouragement to interesting vixens; but the lying was bad; there was little or no real covert; and foxes were very apt to travel and get away into those big woods belonging to the duke,--where, as the brake sportsmen now believed, they would almost surely come to an untimely end. "if we draw this blank i don't know what we are to do," said mr. spooner, addressing himself to madame goesler with lachrymose anxiety. "have you nothing else to draw?" asked phineas. "in the common course of things we should take muggery gorse, and so on to trumpeton wood. but muggery is on the duke's land, and chiltern is in such a fix! he won't go there unless he can't help it. muggery gorse is only a mile this side of the big wood." "and foxes of course go to the big wood?" asked madame max. "not always. they often come here,--and as they can't hang here, we have the whole country before us. we get as good runs from muggery as from any covert in the country. but chiltern won't go there to-day unless the hounds show a line. by george, that's a fox! that's dido. that's a find!" and spooner galloped away, as though dido could do nothing with the fox she had found unless he was there to help her. spooner was quite right, as he generally was on such occasions. he knew the hounds even by voice, and knew what hound he could believe. most hounds will lie occasionally, but dido never lied. and there were many besides spooner who believed in dido. the whole pack rushed to her music, though the body of them would have remained utterly unmoved at the voice of any less reverenced and less trustworthy colleague. the whole wood was at once in commotion,--men and women riding hither and thither, not in accordance with any judgment; but as they saw or thought they saw others riding who were supposed to have judgment. to get away well is so very much! and to get away well is often so very difficult! there are so many things of which the horseman is bound to think in that moment. which way does the wind blow? and then, though a fox will not long run up wind, he will break covert up wind, as often as not. from which of the various rides can you find a fair exit into the open country, without a chance of breaking your neck before the run begins? when you hear some wild halloa, informing you that one fox has gone in the direction exactly opposite to that in which the hounds are hunting, are you sure that the noise is not made about a second fox? on all these matters you are bound to make up your mind without losing a moment; and if you make up your mind wrongly the five pounds you have invested in that day's amusement will have been spent for nothing. phineas and madame goesler were in the very centre of the wood when spooner rushed away from them down one of the rides on hearing dido's voice; and at that time they were in a crowd. almost immediately the fox was seen to cross another ride, and a body of horsemen rushed away in that direction, knowing that the covert was small, and there the animal must soon leave the wood. then there was a shout of "away!" repeated over and over again, and lord chiltern, running up like a flash of lightning, and passing our two friends, galloped down a third ride to the right of the others. phineas at once followed the master of the pack, and madame goesler followed phineas. men were still riding hither and thither; and a farmer, meeting them, with his horse turned back towards the centre of the wood which they were leaving, halloaed out as they passed that there was no way out at the bottom. they met another man in pink, who screamed out something as to "the devil of a bank down there." chiltern, however, was still going on, and our hero had not the heart to stop his horse in its gallop and turn back from the direction in which the hounds were running. at that moment he hardly remembered the presence of madame goesler, but he did remember every word that had been said to him about dandolo. he did not in the least doubt but that chiltern had chosen his direction rightly, and that if he were once out of the wood he would find himself with the hounds; but what if this brute should refuse to take him out of the wood? that dandolo was very fast he soon became aware, for he gained upon his friend before him as they neared the fence. and then he saw what there was before him. a new broad ditch had been cut, with the express object of preventing egress or ingress at that point; and a great bank had been constructed with the clay. in all probability there might be another ditch on the other side. chiltern, however, had clearly made up his mind about it. the horse he was riding went at it gallantly, cleared the first ditch, balanced himself for half a moment on the bank, and then, with a fresh spring, got into the field beyond. the tail hounds were running past outside the covert, and the master had placed himself exactly right for the work in hand. how excellent would be the condition of finn if only dandolo would do just as chiltern's horse had done before him! and phineas almost began to hope that it might be so. the horse was going very well, and very willingly. his head was stretched out, he was pulling, not more, however, than pleasantly, and he seemed to be as anxious as his rider. but there was a little twitch about his ears which his rider did not like, and then it was impossible not to remember that awful warning given by the groom, "it's only sometimes, sir." and after what fashion should phineas ride him at the obstacle? he did not like to strike a horse that seemed to be going well, and was unwilling, as are all good riders, to use his heels. so he spoke to him, and proposed to lift him at the ditch. to the very edge the horse galloped,--too fast, indeed, if he meant to take the bank as chiltern's horse had done,--and then stopping himself so suddenly that he must have shaken every joint in his body, he planted his fore feet on the very brink, and there he stood, with his head down, quivering in every muscle. phineas finn, following naturally the momentum which had been given to him, went over the brute's neck head-foremost into the ditch. madame max was immediately off her horse. "oh, mr. finn, are you hurt?" but phineas, happily, was not hurt. he was shaken and dirty, but not so shaken, and not so dirty, but that he was on his legs in a minute, imploring his companion not to mind him but go on. "going on doesn't seem to be so easy," said madame goesler, looking at the ditch as she held her horse in her hand. but to go back in such circumstances is a terrible disaster. it amounts to complete defeat; and is tantamount to a confession that you must go home, because you are unable to ride to hounds. a man, when he is compelled to do this, is almost driven to resolve at the spur of the moment that he will give up hunting for the rest of his life. and if one thing be more essential than any other to the horseman in general, it is that he, and not the animal which he rides, shall be the master. "the best thing is to stick him at it till he do," the groom had said; and phineas resolved to be guided by the groom. but his first duty was to attend on madame goesler. with very little assistance she was again in her saddle, and she at once declared herself certain that her horse could take the fence. phineas again instantly jumped into his saddle, and turning dandolo again at the ditch, rammed the rowels into the horse's sides. but dandolo would not jump yet. he stood with his fore feet on the brink, and when phineas with his whip struck him severely over the shoulders, he went down into the ditch on all fours, and then scrambled back again to his former position. "what an infernal brute!" said phineas, gnashing his teeth. "he is a little obstinate, mr. finn; i wonder whether he'd jump if i gave him a lead." but phineas was again making the attempt, urging the horse with spurs, whip, and voice. he had brought himself now to that condition in which a man is utterly reckless as to falling himself,--or even to the kind of fall he may get,--if he can only force his animal to make the attempt. but dandolo would not make the attempt. with ears down and head outstretched, he either stuck obstinately on the brink, or allowed himself to be forced again and again into the ditch. "let me try it once, mr. finn," said madame goesler in her quiet way. she was riding a small horse, very nearly thoroughbred, and known as a perfect hunter by those who habitually saw madame goesler ride. no doubt he would have taken the fence readily enough had his rider followed immediately after lord chiltern; but dandolo had baulked at the fence nearly a dozen times, and evil communications will corrupt good manners. without any show of violence, but still with persistent determination, madame goesler's horse also declined to jump. she put him at it again and again, and he would make no slightest attempt to do his business. phineas raging, fuming, out of breath, miserably unhappy, shaking his reins, plying his whip, rattling himself about in the saddle, and banging his legs against the horse's sides, again and again plunged away at the obstacle. but it was all to no purpose. dandolo was constantly in the ditch, sometimes lying with his side against the bank, and had now been so hustled and driven that, had he been on the other side, he would have had no breath left to carry his rider, even in the ruck of the hunt. in the meantime the hounds and the leading horsemen were far away,--never more to be seen on that day by either phineas finn or madame max goesler. for a while, during the frantic efforts that were made, an occasional tardy horseman was viewed galloping along outside the covert, following the tracks of those who had gone before. but before the frantic efforts had been abandoned as utterly useless every vestige of the morning's work had left the neighbourhood of broughton spinnies, except these two unfortunate ones. at last it was necessary that the defeat should be acknowledged. "we're beaten, madame goesler," said phineas, almost in tears. "altogether beaten, mr. finn." "i've a good mind to swear that i'll never come out hunting again." "swear what you like, if it will relieve you, only don't think of keeping such an oath. i've known you before this to be depressed by circumstances quite as distressing as these, and to be certain that all hope was over;--but yet you have recovered." this was the only allusion she had yet made to their former acquaintance. "and now we must think of getting out of the wood." "i haven't the slightest idea of the direction of anything." "nor have i; but as we clearly can't get out this way we might as well try the other. come along. we shall find somebody to put us in the right road. for my part i'm glad it is no worse. i thought at one time that you were going to break your neck." they rode on for a few minutes in silence, and then she spoke again. "is it not odd, mr. finn, that after all that has come and gone you and i should find ourselves riding about broughton spinnies together?" chapter xvii. madame goesler's story. "after all that has come and gone, is it not odd that you and i should find ourselves riding about broughton spinnies together?" that was the question which madame goesler asked phineas finn when they had both agreed that it was impossible to jump over the bank out of the wood, and it was, of course, necessary that some answer should be given to it. "when i saw you last in london," said phineas, with a voice that was gruff, and a manner that was abrupt, "i certainly did not think that we should meet again so soon." "no;--i left you as though i had grounds for quarrelling; but there was no quarrel. i wrote to you, and tried to explain that." "you did;--and though my answer was necessarily short, i was very grateful." "and here you are back among us; and it does seem so odd. lady chiltern never told me that i was to meet you." "nor did she tell me." "it is better so, for otherwise i should not have come, and then, perhaps, you would have been all alone in your discomfiture at the bank." "that would have been very bad." "you see i can be quite frank with you, mr. finn. i am heartily glad to see you, but i should not have come had i been told. and when i did see you, it was quite improbable that we should be thrown together as we are now,--was it not? ah;--here is a man, and he can tell us the way back to copperhouse cross. but i suppose we had better ask for harrington hall at once." the man knew nothing at all about harrington hall, and very little about copperhouse; but he did direct them on to the road, and they found that they were about sixteen miles from lord chiltern's house. the hounds had gone away in the direction of trumpeton wood, and it was agreed that it would be useless to follow them. the waggonette had been left at an inn about two miles from copperhouse cross, but they resolved to abandon that and to ride direct to harrington hall. it was now nearly three o'clock, and they would not be subjected to the shame which falls upon sportsmen who are seen riding home very early in the day. to get oneself lost before twelve, and then to come home, is a very degrading thing; but at any time after two you may be supposed to have ridden the run of the season, and to be returning after an excellent day's work. then madame goesler began to talk about herself, and to give a short history of her life during the last two-and-a-half years. she did this in a frank natural manner, continuing her tale in a low voice, as though it were almost a matter of course that she should make the recital to so old a friend. and phineas soon began to feel that it was natural that she should do so. "it was just before you left us," she said, "that the duke took to coming to my house." the duke spoken of was the duke of omnium, and phineas well remembered to have heard some rumours about the duke and madame max. it had been hinted to him that the duke wanted to marry the lady, but that rumour he had never believed. the reader, if he has duly studied the history of the age, will know that the duke did make an offer to madame goesler, pressing it with all his eloquence, but that madame goesler, on mature consideration, thought it best to decline to become a duchess. of all this, however, the reader who understands madame goesler's character will be quite sure that she did not say a word to phineas finn. since the business had been completed she had spoken of it to no one but to lady glencora palliser, who had forced herself into a knowledge of all the circumstances while they were being acted. "i met the duke once at matching," said phineas. "i remember it well. i was there, and first made the duke's acquaintance on that occasion. i don't know how it was that we became intimate;--but we did, and then i formed a sort of friendship with lady glencora; and somehow it has come about that we have been a great deal together since." "i suppose you like lady glencora?" "very much indeed,--and the duke, too. the truth is, mr. finn, that let one boast as one may of one's independence,--and i very often do boast of mine to myself,--one is inclined to do more for a duke of omnium than for a mr. jones." "the dukes have more to offer than the joneses;--i don't mean in the way of wealth only, but of what one enjoys most in society generally." "i suppose they have. at any rate, i am glad that you should make some excuse for me. but i do like the man. he is gracious and noble in his bearing. he is now very old, and sinking fast into the grave; but even the wreck is noble." "i don't know that he ever did much," said phineas. "i don't know that he ever did anything according to your idea of doing. there must be some men who do nothing." "but a man with his wealth and rank has opportunities so great! look at his nephew!" "no doubt mr. palliser is a great man. he never has a moment to speak to his wife or to anybody else; and is always thinking so much about the country that i doubt if he knows anything about his own affairs. of course he is a man of a different stamp,--and of a higher stamp, if you will. but i have an idea that such characters as those of the present duke are necessary to the maintenance of a great aristocracy. he has had the power of making the world believe in him simply because he has been rich and a duke. his nephew, when he comes to the title, will never receive a tithe of the respect that has been paid to this old fainéant." "but he will achieve much more than ten times the reputation," said phineas. "i won't compare them, nor will i argue; but i like the duke. nay;--i love him. during the last two years i have allowed the whole fashion of my life to be remodelled by this intimacy. you knew what were my habits. i have only been in vienna for one week since i last saw you, and i have spent months and months at matching." "what do you do there?" "read to him;--talk to him;--give him his food, and do all that in me lies to make his life bearable. last year, when it was thought necessary that very distinguished people should be entertained at the great family castle,--in barsetshire, you know--" "i have heard of the place." "a regular treaty or agreement was drawn up. conditions were sealed and signed. one condition was that both lady glencora and i should be there. we put our heads together to try to avoid this; as, of course, the prince would not want to see me particularly,--and it was altogether so grand an affair that things had to be weighed. but the duke was inexorable. lady glencora at such a time would have other things to do, and i must be there, or gatherum castle should not be opened. i suggested whether i could not remain in the background and look after the duke as a kind of upper nurse,--but lady glencora said it would not do." "why should you subject yourself to such indignity?" "simply from love of the man. but you see i was not subjected. for two days i wore my jewels beneath royal eyes,--eyes that will sooner or later belong to absolute majesty. it was an awful bore, and i ought to have been at vienna. you ask me why i did it. the fact is that things sometimes become too strong for one, even when there is no real power of constraint. for years past i have been used to have my own way, but when there came a question of the entertainment of royalty i found myself reduced to blind obedience. i had to go to gatherum castle, to the absolute neglect of my business; and i went." "do you still keep it up?" "oh, dear, yes. he is at matching now, and i doubt whether he will ever leave it again. i shall go there from here as a matter of course, and relieve guard with lady glencora." "i don't see what you get for it all." "get;--what should i get? you don't believe in friendship, then?" "certainly i do;--but this friendship is so unequal. i can hardly understand that it should have grown from personal liking on your side." "i think it has," said madame goesler, slowly. "you see, mr. finn, that you as a young man can hardly understand how natural it is that a young woman,--if i may call myself young,--should minister to an old man." "but there should be some bond to the old man." "there is a bond." "you must not be angry with me," said phineas. "i am not in the least angry." "i should not venture to express any opinion, of course,--only that you ask me." "i do ask you, and you are quite welcome to express your opinion. and were it not expressed, i should know what you thought just the same. i have wondered at it myself sometimes,--that i should have become as it were engulfed in this new life, almost without will of my own. and when he dies, how shall i return to the other life? of course i have the house in park lane still, but my very maid talks of matching as my home." "how will it be when he has gone?" "ah,--how indeed? lady glencora and i will have to curtsey to each other, and there will be an end of it. she will be a duchess then, and i shall no longer be wanted." "but even if you were wanted--?" "oh, of course. it must last the duke's time, and last no longer. it would not be a healthy kind of life were it not that i do my very best to make the evening of his days pleasant for him, and in that way to be of some service in the world. it has done me good to think that i have in some small degree sacrificed myself. let me see;--we are to turn here to the left. that goes to copperhouse cross, no doubt. is it not odd that i should have told you all this history?" "just because this brute would not jump over the fence." "i dare say i should have told you, even if he had jumped over; but certainly this has been a great opportunity. do you tell your friend lord chiltern not to abuse the poor duke any more before me. i dare say our host is all right in what he says; but i don't like it. you'll come and see me in london, mr. finn?" "but you'll be at matching?" "i do get a few days at home sometimes. you see i have escaped for the present,--or otherwise you and i would not have come to grief together in broughton spinnies." soon after this they were overtaken by others who were returning home, and who had been more fortunate than they in getting away with the hounds. the fox had gone straight for trumpeton wood, not daring to try the gorse on the way, and then had been run to ground. chiltern was again in a towering passion, as the earths, he said, had been purposely left open. but on this matter the men who had overtaken our friends were both of opinion that chiltern was wrong. he had allowed it to be understood that he would not draw trumpeton wood, and he had therefore no right to expect that the earths should be stopped. but there were and had been various opinions on this difficult point, as the laws of hunting are complex, recondite, numerous, traditional, and not always perfectly understood. perhaps the day may arrive in which they shall be codified under the care of some great and laborious master of hounds. "and they did nothing more?" asked phineas. "yes;--they chopped another fox before they left the place,--so that in point of fact they have drawn trumpeton. but they didn't mean it." when madame max goesler and phineas had reached harrington hall they were able to give their own story of the day's sport to lady chiltern, as the remainder of the party had not as yet returned. chapter xviii. spooner of spoon hall. adelaide palliser was a tall, fair girl, exquisitely made, with every feminine grace of motion, highly born, and carrying always the warranty of her birth in her appearance; but with no special loveliness of face. let not any reader suppose that therefore she was plain. she possessed much more than a sufficiency of charm to justify her friends in claiming her as a beauty, and the demand had been generally allowed by public opinion. adelaide palliser was always spoken of as a girl to be admired; but she was not one whose countenance would strike with special admiration any beholder who did not know her. her eyes were pleasant and bright, and, being in truth green, might, perhaps with propriety, be described as grey. her nose was well formed. her mouth was, perhaps, too small. her teeth were perfect. her chin was somewhat too long, and was on this account the defective feature of her face. her hair was brown and plentiful; but in no way peculiar. no doubt she wore a chignon; but if so she wore it with the special view of being in no degree remarkable in reference to her head-dress. such as she was,--beauty or no beauty--her own mind on the subject was made up, and she had resolved long since that the gift of personal loveliness had not been bestowed upon her. and yet after a fashion she was proud of her own appearance. she knew that she looked like a lady, and she knew also that she had all that command of herself which health and strength can give to a woman when she is without feminine affectation. lady chiltern, in describing her to phineas finn, had said that she talked italian, and wrote for the _times_. the former assertion was, no doubt, true, as miss palliser had passed some years of her childhood in florence; but the latter statement was made probably with reference to her capability rather than her performance. lady chiltern intended to imply that miss palliser was so much better educated than young ladies in general that she was able to express herself intelligibly in her own language. she had been well educated, and would, no doubt, have done the _times_ credit had the _times_ chosen to employ her. she was the youngest daughter of the youngest brother of the existing duke of omnium, and the first cousin, therefore, of mr. plantagenet palliser, who was the eldest son of the second brother. and as her mother had been a bavilard there could be no better blood. but adelaide had been brought up so far away from the lofty pallisers and lofty bavilards as almost to have lost the flavour of her birth. her father and mother had died when she was an infant, and she had gone to the custody of a much older half-sister, mrs. atterbury, whose mother had been not a bavilard, but a brown. and mr. atterbury was a mere nobody, a rich, erudite, highly-accomplished gentleman, whose father had made his money at the bar, and whose grandfather had been a country clergyman. mrs. atterbury, with her husband, was still living at florence; but adelaide palliser had quarrelled with florence life, and had gladly consented to make a long visit to her friend lady chiltern. in florence she had met gerard maule, and the acquaintance had not been viewed with favour by the atterburys. mrs. atterbury knew the history of the maule family, and declared to her sister that no good could come from any intimacy. old mr. maule, she said, was disreputable. mrs. maule, the mother,--who, according to mr. atterbury, had been the only worthy member of the family,--was long since dead. gerard maule's sister had gone away with an irish cousin, and they were now living in india on the professional income of a captain in a foot regiment. gerard maule's younger brother had gone utterly to the dogs, and nobody knew anything about him. maule abbey, the family seat in herefordshire, was,--so said mrs. atterbury,--absolutely in ruins. the furniture, as all the world knew, had been sold by the squire's creditors under the sheriff's order ten years ago, and not a chair or a table had been put into the house since that time. the property, which was small,--£ , a year at the outside,--was, no doubt, entailed on the eldest son; and gerard, fortunately, had a small fortune of his own, independent of his father. but then he was also a spendthrift,--so said mrs. atterbury,--keeping a stable full of horses, for which he could not afford to pay; and he was, moreover, the most insufferably idle man who ever wandered about the world without any visible occupation for his hours. "but he hunts," said adelaide. "do you call that an occupation?" asked mrs. atterbury with scorn. now mrs. atterbury painted pictures, copied madonnas, composed sonatas, corresponded with learned men in rome, berlin, and boston, had been the intimate friend of cavour, had paid a visit to garibaldi on his island with the view of explaining to him the real condition of italy,--and was supposed to understand bismarck. was it possible that a woman who so filled her own life should accept hunting as a creditable employment for a young man, when it was admitted to be his sole employment? and, moreover, she desired that her sister adelaide should marry a certain count brudi, who, according to her belief, had more advanced ideas about things in general than any other living human being. adelaide palliser had determined that she would not marry count brudi; had, indeed, almost determined that she would marry gerard maule, and had left her brother-in-law's house in florence after something like a quarrel. mrs. atterbury had declined to authorise the visit to harrington hall, and then adelaide had pleaded her age and independence. she was her own mistress if she so chose to call herself, and would not, at any rate, remain in florence at the present moment to receive the attentions of signor brudi. of the previous winter she had passed three months with some relatives in england, and there she had learned to ride to hounds, had first met gerard maule, and had made acquaintance with lady chiltern. gerard maule had wandered to italy after her, appearing at florence in his desultory way, having no definite purpose, not even that of asking adelaide to be his wife,--but still pursuing her, as though he wanted her without knowing what he wanted. in the course of the spring, however, he had proposed, and had been almost accepted. but adelaide, though she would not yield to her sister, had been frightened. she knew that she loved the man, and she swore to herself a thousand times that she would not be dictated to by her sister;--but was she prepared to accept the fate which would at once be hers were she now to marry gerard maule? what could she do with a man who had no ideas of his own as to what he ought to do with himself? lady chiltern was in favour of the marriage. the fortune, she said, was as much as adelaide was entitled to expect, the man was a gentleman, was tainted by no vices, and was truly in love. "you had better let them fight it out somewhere else," lord chiltern had said when his wife proposed that the invitation to gerard maule should be renewed; but lady chiltern had known that if "fought out" at all, it must be fought out at harrington hall. "we have asked him to come back," she said to adelaide, "in order that you may make up your mind. if he chooses to come, it will show that he is in earnest; and then you must take him, or make him understand that he is not to be taken." gerard maule had chosen to come; but adelaide palliser had not as yet quite made up her mind. perhaps there is nothing so generally remarkable in the conduct of young ladies in the phase of life of which we are now speaking as the facility,--it may almost be said audacity,--with which they do make up their minds. a young man seeks a young woman's hand in marriage, because she has waltzed stoutly with him, and talked pleasantly between the dances;--and the young woman gives it, almost with gratitude. as to the young man, the readiness of his action is less marvellous than hers. he means to be master, and, by the very nature of the joint life they propose to lead, must take her to his sphere of life, not bind himself to hers. if he worked before he will work still. if he was idle before he will be idle still; and he probably does in some sort make a calculation and strike a balance between his means and the proposed additional burden of a wife and children. but she, knowing nothing, takes a monstrous leap in the dark, in which everything is to be changed, and in which everything is trusted to chance. miss palliser, however, differing in this from the majority of her friends and acquaintances, frightened, perhaps by those representations of her sister to which she would not altogether yield, had paused, and was still pausing. "where should we go and live if i did marry him?" she said to lady chiltern. "i suppose he has an opinion of his own on that subject?" "not in the least, i should think." "has he never said anything about it?" "oh dear no. matters have not got so far as that at all;--nor would they ever, out of his own head. if we were married and taken away to the train he would only ask what place he should take the tickets for when he got to the station." "couldn't you manage to live at maule abbey?" "perhaps we might; only there is no furniture, and, as i am told, only half a roof." "it does seem to be absurd that you two should not make up your mind, just as other people do," said lady chiltern. "of course he is not a rich man, but you have known that all along." "it is not a question of wealth or poverty, but of an utterly lack-a-daisical indifference to everything in the world." "he is not indifferent to you." "that is the marvellous part of it," said miss palliser. this was said on the evening of the famous day at broughton spinnies, and late on that night lord chiltern predicted to his wife that another episode was about to occur in the life of their friend. "what do you think spooner has just asked me?" "permission to fight the duke, or mr. palliser?" "no,--it's nothing about the hunting. he wants to know if you'd mind his staying here three or four days longer." "what a very odd request!" "it is odd, because he was to have gone to-morrow. i suppose there's no objection." "of course not if you like to have him." "i don't like it a bit," said lord chiltern; "but i couldn't turn him out. and i know what it means." "what does it mean?" "you haven't observed anything?" "i have observed nothing in mr. spooner, except an awe-struck horror at the trapping of a fox." "he's going to propose to adelaide palliser." "oswald! you are not in earnest." "i believe he is. he would have told me if he thought i could give him the slightest encouragement. you can't very well turn him out now." "he'll get an answer that he won't like if he does," said lady chiltern. miss palliser had ridden well on that day, and so had gerard maule. that mr. spooner should ride well to hounds was quite a matter of course. it was the business of his life to do so, and he did it with great judgment. he hated maule's style of riding, considering it to be flashy, injurious to hunting, and unsportsmanlike; and now he had come to hate the man. he had, of course, perceived how close were the attentions paid by mr. maule to miss palliser, and he thought that he perceived that miss palliser did not accept them with thorough satisfaction. on his way back to harrington hall he made some inquiries, and was taught to believe that mr. maule was not a man of very high standing in the world. mr. spooner himself had a very pretty property of his own,--which was all his own. there was no doubt about his furniture, or about the roof at spoon hall. he was spooner of spoon hall, and had been high sheriff for his county. he was not so young as he once had been;--but he was still a young man, only just turned forty, and was his own master in everything. he could read, and he always looked at the country newspaper; but a book was a thing that he couldn't bear to handle. he didn't think he had ever seen a girl sit a horse better than adelaide palliser sat hers, and a girl who rode as she did would probably like a man addicted to hunting. mr. spooner knew that he understood hunting, whereas that fellow maule cared for nothing but jumping over flights of rails. he asked a few questions that evening of phineas finn respecting gerard maule, but did not get much information. "i don't know where he lives;" said phineas; "i never saw him till i met him here." "don't you think he seems sweet upon that girl?" "i shouldn't wonder if he is." "she's an uncommonly clean-built young woman, isn't she?" said mr. spooner; "but it seems to me she don't care much for master maule. did you see how he was riding to-day?" "i didn't see anything, mr. spooner." "no, no; you didn't get away. i wish he'd been with you. but she went uncommon well." after that he made his request to lord chiltern, and lord chiltern, with a foresight quite unusual to him, predicted the coming event to his wife. there was shooting on the following day, and gerard maule and mr. spooner were both out. lunch was sent down to the covert side, and the ladies walked down and joined the sportsmen. on this occasion mr. spooner's assiduity was remarkable, and seemed to be accepted with kindly grace. adelaide even asked a question about trumpeton wood, and expressed an opinion that her cousin was quite wrong because he did not take the matter up. "you know it's the keepers do it all," said mr. spooner, shaking his head with an appearance of great wisdom. "you never can have foxes unless you keep your keepers well in hand. if they drew the spoon hall coverts blank i'd dismiss my man the next day." [illustration: "you know it's the keepers do it all."] "it mightn't be his fault." "he knows my mind, and he'll take care that there are foxes. they've been at my stick covert three times this year, and put a brace out each time. a leash went from it last monday week. when a man really means a thing, miss palliser, he can pretty nearly always do it." miss palliser replied with a smile that she thought that to be true, and mr. spooner was not slow at perceiving that this afforded good encouragement to him in regard to that matter which was now weighing most heavily upon his mind. on the next day there was hunting again, and phineas was mounted on a horse more amenable to persuasion than old dandolo. there was a fair run in the morning, and both phineas and madame max were carried well. the remarkable event in the day, however, was the riding of dandolo in the afternoon by lord chiltern himself. he had determined that the horse should go out, and had sworn that he would ride him over a fence if he remained there making the attempt all night. for two weary hours he did remain, with a groom behind him, spurring the brute against a thick hedge, with a ditch at the other side of it, and at the end of the two hours he succeeded. the horse at last made a buck leap and went over with a loud grunt. on his way home lord chiltern sold the horse to a farmer for fifteen pounds;--and that was the end of dandolo as far as the harrington hall stables were concerned. this took place on the friday, the th of february. it was understood that mr. spooner was to return to spoon hall on saturday, and on monday, the th, phineas was to go to london. on the th the session would begin, and he would once more take his seat in parliament. "i give you my word and honour, lady chiltern," gerard maule said to his hostess, "i believe that oaf of a man is making up to adelaide." mr. maule had not been reticent about his love towards lady chiltern, and came to her habitually in all his troubles. "chiltern has told me the same thing." "no!" "why shouldn't he see it, as well as you? but i wouldn't believe it." "upon my word i believe it's true. but, lady chiltern--" "well, mr. maule." "you know her so well." "adelaide, you mean?" "you understand her thoroughly. there can't be anything in it; is there?" "how anything?" "she can't really--like him?" "mr. maule, if i were to tell her that you had asked such a question as that i don't believe that she'd ever speak a word to you again; and it would serve you right. didn't you call him an oaf?" "i did." "and how long has she known him?" "i don't believe she ever spoke to him before yesterday." "and yet you think that she will be ready to accept this oaf as her husband to-morrow! do you call that respect?" "girls do such wonderful strange things. what an impudent ass he must be!" "i don't see that at all. he may be an ass and yet not impudent, or impudent and yet not an ass. of course he has a right to speak his mind,--and she will have a right to speak hers." chapter xix. something out of the way. the brake hounds went out four days a week, monday, wednesday, friday, and saturday; but the hunting party on this saturday was very small. none of the ladies joined in it, and when lord chiltern came down to breakfast at half-past eight he met no one but gerard maule. "where's spooner?" he asked. but neither maule nor the servant could answer the question. mr. spooner was a man who never missed a day from the beginning of cubbing to the end of the season, and who, when april came, could give you an account of the death of every fox killed. chiltern cracked his eggs, and said nothing more for the moment, but gerard maule had his suspicions. "he must be coming," said maule; "suppose you send up to him." the servant was sent, and came down with mr. spooner's compliments. mr. spooner didn't mean to hunt to-day. he had something of a headache. he would see lord chiltern at the meet on monday. maule immediately declared that neither would he hunt; but lord chiltern looked at him, and he hesitated. "i don't care about your knowing," said gerard. "oh,--i know. don't you be an ass." "i don't see why i should give him an opportunity." "you're to go and pull your boots and breeches off because he has not put his on, and everybody is to be told of it! why shouldn't he have an opportunity, as you call it? if the opportunity can do him any good, you may afford to be very indifferent." "it's a piece of d---- impertinence," said maule, with most unusual energy. "do you finish your breakfast, and come and get into the trap. we've twenty miles to go. you can ask spooner on monday how he spent his morning." at ten o'clock the ladies came down to breakfast, and the whole party were assembled. "mr. spooner!" said lady chiltern to that gentleman, who was the last to enter the room. "this is a marvel!" he was dressed in a dark-blue frock-coat, with a coloured silk handkerchief round his neck, and had brushed his hair down close to his head. he looked quite unlike himself, and would hardly have been known by those who had never seen him out of the hunting field. in his dress clothes of an evening, or in his shooting coat, he was still himself. but in the garb he wore on the present occasion he was quite unlike spooner of spoon hall, whose only pride in regard to clothes had hitherto been that he possessed more pairs of breeches than any other man in the county. it was ascertained afterwards, when the circumstances came to be investigated, that he had sent a man all the way across to spoon hall for that coat and the coloured neck-handkerchief on the previous day; and some one, most maliciously, told the story abroad. lady chiltern, however, always declared that her secrecy on the matter had always been inviolable. "yes, lady chiltern; yes," said mr. spooner, as he took a seat at the table; "wonders never cease, do they?" he had prepared himself even for this moment, and had determined to show miss palliser that he could be sprightly and engaging even without his hunting habiliments. "what will lord chiltern do without you?" one of the ladies asked. "he'll have to do his best." "he'll never kill a fox," said miss palliser. "oh, yes; he knows what he's about. i was so fond of my pillow this morning that i thought i'd let the hunting slide for once. a man should not make a toil of his pleasure." lady chiltern knew all about it, but adelaide palliser knew nothing. madame goesler, when she observed the light-blue necktie, at once suspected the execution of some great intention. phineas was absorbed in his observation of the difference in the man. in his pink coat he always looked as though he had been born to wear it, but his appearance was now that of an amateur actor got up in a miscellaneous middle-age costume. he was sprightly, but the effort was painfully visible. lady baldock said something afterwards, very ill-natured, about a hog in armour, and old mrs. burnaby spoke the truth when she declared that all the comfort of her tea and toast was sacrificed to mr. spooner's frock coat. but what was to be done with him when breakfast was over? for a while he was fixed upon poor phineas, with whom he walked across to the stables. he seemed to feel that he could hardly hope to pounce upon his prey at once, and that he must bide his time. out of the full heart the mouth speaks. "nice girl, miss palliser," he said to phineas, forgetting that he had expressed himself nearly in the same way to the same man on a former occasion. "very nice, indeed. it seems to me that you are sweet upon her yourself." "who? i! oh, no--i don't think of those sort of things. i suppose i shall marry some day. i've a house fit for a lady to-morrow, from top to bottom, linen and all. and my property's my own." "that's a comfort." "i believe you. there isn't a mortgage on an acre of it, and that's what very few men can say. as for miss palliser, i don't know that a man could do better; only i don't think much of those things. if ever i do pop the question, i shall do it on the spur of the moment. there'll be no preparation with me, nor yet any beating about the bush. 'would it suit your views, my dear, to be mrs. spooner?' that's about the long and the short of it. a clean-made little mare, isn't she?" this last observation did not refer to adelaide palliser, but to an animal standing in lord chiltern's stables. "he bought her from charlie dickers for a twenty pound note last april. the mare hadn't a leg to stand upon. charlie had been stagging with her for the last two months, and knocked her all to pieces. she's a screw, of course, but there isn't anything carries chiltern so well. there's nothing like a good screw. a man'll often go with two hundred and fifty guineas between his legs, supposed to be all there because the animal's sound, and yet he don't know his work. if you like schooling a young 'un, that's all very well. i used to be fond of it myself; but i've come to feel that being carried to hounds without much thinking about it is the cream of hunting, after all. i wonder what the ladies are at? shall we go back and see?" then they turned to the house, and mr. spooner began to be a little fidgety. "do they sit altogether mostly all the morning?" "i fancy they do." "i suppose there's some way of dividing them. they tell me you know all about women. if you want to get one to yourself, how do you manage it?" "in perpetuity, do you mean, mr. spooner?" "any way;--in the morning, you know." "just to say a few words to her?" "exactly that;--just to say a few words. i don't mind asking you, because you've done this kind of thing before." "i should watch my opportunity," said phineas, remembering a period of his life in which he had watched much and had found it very difficult to get an opportunity. "but i must go after lunch," said mr. spooner; "i'm expected home to dinner, and i don't know much whether they'll like me to stop over sunday." "if you were to tell lady chiltern--" "i was to have gone on thursday, you know. you won't tell anybody?" "oh dear no." "i think i shall propose to that girl. i've about made up my mind to do it, only a fellow can't call her out before half-a-dozen of them. couldn't you get lady c. to trot her out into the garden? you and she are as thick as thieves." "i should think miss palliser was rather difficult to be managed." phineas declined to interfere, taking upon himself to assure mr. spooner that attempts to arrange matters in that way never succeeded. he went in and settled himself to the work of answering correspondents at tankerville, while mr. spooner hung about the drawing-room, hoping that circumstances and time might favour him. it is to be feared that he made himself extremely disagreeable to poor lady chiltern, to whom he was intending to open his heart could he only find an opportunity for so much as that. but lady chiltern was determined not to have his confidence, and at last withdrew from the scene in order that she might not be entrapped. before lunch had come all the party knew what was to happen,--except adelaide herself. she, too, perceived that something was in the wind, that there was some stir, some discomfort, some secret affair forward, or some event expected which made them all uneasy;--and she did connect it with the presence of mr. spooner. but, in pitiable ignorance of the facts that were clear enough to everybody else, she went on watching and wondering, with a half-formed idea that the house would be more pleasant as soon as mr. spooner should have taken his departure. he was to go after lunch. but on such occasions there is, of course, a latitude, and "after lunch" may be stretched at any rate to the five o'clock tea. at three o'clock mr. spooner was still hanging about. madame goesler and phineas, with an openly declared intention of friendly intercourse, had gone out to walk together. lord and lady baldock were on horseback. two or three old ladies hung over the fire and gossiped. lady chiltern had retired to her baby;--when on a sudden adelaide palliser declared her intention of walking into the village. "might i accompany you, miss palliser?" said mr. spooner; "i want a walk above all things." he was very brave, and persevered though it was manifest that the lady did not desire his company. adelaide said something about an old woman whom she intended to visit; whereupon mr. spooner declared that visiting old women was the delight of his life. he would undertake to give half a sovereign to the old woman if miss palliser would allow him to come. he was very brave, and persevered in such a fashion that he carried his point. lady chiltern from her nursery window saw them start through the shrubbery together. "i have been waiting for this opportunity all the morning," said mr. spooner, gallantly. but in spite of his gallantry, and although she had known, almost from breakfast time, that he had been waiting for something, still she did not suspect his purpose. it has been said that mr. spooner was still young, being barely over forty years of age; but he had unfortunately appeared to be old to miss palliser. to himself it seemed as though the fountains of youth were still running through all his veins. though he had given up schooling young horses, he could ride as hard as ever. he could shoot all day. he could take "his whack of wine," as he called it, sit up smoking half the night, and be on horseback the next morning after an early breakfast without the slightest feeling of fatigue. he was a red-faced little man, with broad shoulders, clean shaven, with small eyes, and a nose on which incipient pimples began to show themselves. to himself and the comrades of his life he was almost as young as he had ever been; but the young ladies of the county called him old spooner, and regarded him as a permanent assistant unpaid huntsman to the brake hounds. it was not within the compass of miss palliser's imagination to conceive that this man should intend to propose himself to her as her lover. "i have been waiting for this opportunity all the morning," said mr. spooner. adelaide palliser turned round and looked at him, still understanding nothing. ride at any fence hard enough, and the chances are you'll get over. the harder you ride the heavier the fall, if you get a fall; but the greater the chance of your getting over. this had been a precept in the life of mr. spooner, verified by much experience, and he had resolved that he would be guided by it on this occasion. "ever since i first saw you, miss palliser, i have been so much taken by you that,--that,--in point of fact, i love you better than all the women in the world i ever saw; and will you,--will you be mrs. spooner?" he had at any rate ridden hard at his fence. there had been no craning,--no looking about for an easy place, no hesitation as he brought his horse up to it. no man ever rode straighter than he did on this occasion. adelaide stopped short on the path, and he stood opposite to her, with his fingers inserted between the closed buttons of his frock-coat. "mr. spooner!" exclaimed adelaide. "i am quite in earnest, miss palliser; no man ever was more in earnest. i can offer you a comfortable well-furnished home, an undivided heart, a good settlement, and no embarrassment on the property. i'm fond of a country life myself, but i'll adapt myself to you in everything reasonable." "you are mistaken, mr. spooner; you are indeed." "how mistaken?" "i mean that it is altogether out of the question. you have surprised me so much that i couldn't stop you sooner; but pray do not speak of it again." "it is a little sudden, but what is a man to do? if you will only think of it--" "i can't think of it at all. there is no need for thinking. really, mr. spooner, i can't go on with you. if you wouldn't mind turning back i'll walk into the village by myself." mr. spooner, however, did not seem inclined to obey this injunction, and stood his ground, and, when she moved on, walked on beside her. "i must insist on being left alone," she said. "i haven't done anything out of the way," said the lover. "i think it's very much out of the way. i have hardly ever spoken to you before. if you will only leave me now there shall not be a word more said about it." but mr. spooner was a man of spirit. "i'm not in the least ashamed of what i've done," he said. "but you might as well go away, when it can't be of any use." "i don't know why it shouldn't be of use. miss palliser, i'm a man of good property. my great-great-grandfather lived at spoon hall, and we've been there ever since. my mother was one of the platters of platter house. i don't see that i've done anything out of the way. as for shilly-shallying, and hanging about, i never knew any good come from it. don't let us quarrel, miss palliser. say that you'll take a week to think of it." "but i won't think of it at all; and i won't go on walking with you. if you'll go one way, mr. spooner, i'll go the other." then mr. spooner waxed angry. "why am i to be treated with disdain?" he said. "i don't want to treat you with disdain. i only want you to go away." "you seem to think that i'm something,--something altogether beneath you." and so in truth she did. miss palliser had never analysed her own feelings and emotions about the spooners whom she met in society; but she probably conceived that there were people in the world who, from certain accidents, were accustomed to sit at dinner with her, but who were no more fitted for her intimacy than were the servants who waited upon her. such people were to her little more than the tables and chairs with which she was brought in contact. they were persons with whom it seemed to her to be impossible that she should have anything in common,--who were her inferiors, as completely as were the menials around her. why she should thus despise mr. spooner, while in her heart of hearts she loved gerard maule, it would be difficult to explain. it was not simply an affair of age,--nor of good looks, nor altogether of education. gerard maule was by no means wonderfully erudite. they were both addicted to hunting. neither of them did anything useful. in that respect mr. spooner stood the higher, as he managed his own property successfully. but gerard maule so wore his clothes, and so carried his limbs, and so pronounced his words that he was to be regarded as one entitled to make love to any lady; whereas poor mr. spooner was not justified in proposing to marry any woman much more gifted than his own housemaid. such, at least, were adelaide palliser's ideas. "i don't think anything of the kind," she said, "only i want you to go away. i shall go back to the house, and i hope you won't accompany me. if you do, i shall turn the other way." whereupon she did retire at once, and he was left standing in the path. there was a seat there, and he sat down for a moment to think of it all. should he persevere in his suit, or should he rejoice that he had escaped from such an ill-conditioned minx? he remembered that he had read, in his younger days, that lovers in novels generally do persevere, and that they are almost always successful at last. in affairs of the heart, such perseverance was, he thought, the correct thing. but in this instance the conduct of the lady had not given him the slightest encouragement. when a horse balked with him at a fence, it was his habit to force the animal till he jumped it,--as the groom had recommended phineas to do. but when he had encountered a decided fall, it was not sensible practice to ride the horse at the same place again. there was probably some occult cause for failure. he could not but own that he had been thrown on the present occasion,--and upon the whole, he thought that he had better give it up. he found his way back to the house, put up his things, and got away to spoon hall in time for dinner, without seeing lady chiltern or any of her guests. [illustration: he sat down for a moment to think of it all.] "what has become of mr. spooner?" maule asked, as soon as he returned to harrington hall. "nobody knows," said lady chiltern, "but i believe he has gone." "has anything happened?" "i have heard no tidings; but, if you ask for my opinion, i think something has happened. a certain lady seems to have been ruffled, and a certain gentleman has disappeared. i am inclined to think that a few unsuccessful words have been spoken." gerard maule saw that there was a smile in her eye, and he was satisfied. "my dear, what did mr. spooner say to you during his walk?" this question was asked by the ill-natured old lady in the presence of nearly all the party. "we were talking of hunting," said adelaide. "and did the poor old woman get her half-sovereign?" "no;--he forgot that. we did not go into the village at all. i was tired and came back." "poor old woman;--and poor mr. spooner!" everybody in the house knew what had occurred, as mr. spooner's discretion in the conduct of this affair had not been equal to his valour; but miss palliser never confessed openly, and almost taught herself to believe that the man had been mad or dreaming during that special hour. chapter xx. phineas again in london. phineas, on his return to london, before he had taken his seat in the house, received the following letter from lady laura kennedy:-- dresden, feb. , . dear friend,-- i thought that perhaps you would have written to me from harrington. violet has told me of the meeting between you and madame goesler, and says that the old friendship seems to have been perfectly re-established. she used to think once that there might be more than friendship, but i never quite believed that. she tells me that chiltern is quarrelling with the pallisers. you ought not to let him quarrel with people. i know that he would listen to you. he always did. i write now especially because i have just received so dreadful a letter from mr. kennedy! i would send it you were it not that there are in it a few words which on his behalf i shrink from showing even to you. it is full of threats. he begins by quotations from the scriptures, and from the prayer-book, to show that a wife has no right to leave her husband,--and then he goes on to the law. one knows all that of course. and then he asks whether he ever ill-used me? was he ever false to me? do i think, that were i to choose to submit the matter to the iniquitous practices of the present divorce court, i could prove anything against him by which even that low earthly judge would be justified in taking from him his marital authority? and if not,--have i no conscience? can i reconcile it to myself to make his life utterly desolate and wretched simply because duties which i took upon myself at my marriage have become distasteful to me? these questions would be very hard to answer, were there not other questions that i could ask. of course i was wrong to marry him. i know that now, and i repent my sin in sackcloth and ashes. but i did not leave him after i married him till he had brought against me horrid accusations,--accusations which a woman could not bear, which, if he believed them himself, must have made it impossible for him to live with me. could any wife live with a husband who declared to her face that he believed that she had a lover? and in this very letter he says that which almost repeats the accusation. he has asked me how i can have dared to receive you, and desires me never either to see you or to wish to see you again. and yet he sent for you to loughlinter before you came, in order that you might act as a friend between us. how could i possibly return to a man whose power of judgment has so absolutely left him? i have a conscience in the matter, a conscience that is very far from being at ease. i have done wrong, and have shipwrecked every hope in this world. no woman was ever more severely punished. my life is a burden to me, and i may truly say that i look for no peace this side the grave. i am conscious, too, of continued sin,--a sin unlike other sins,--not to be avoided, of daily occurrence, a sin which weighs me to the ground. but i should not sin the less were i to return to him. of course he can plead his marriage. the thing is done. but it can't be right that a woman should pretend to love a man whom she loathes. i couldn't live with him. if it were simply to go and die, so that his pride would be gratified by my return, i would do it; but i should not die. there would come some horrid scene, and i should be no more a wife to him than i am while living here. he now threatens me with publicity. he declares that unless i return to him he will put into some of the papers a statement of the whole case. of course this would be very bad. to be obscure and untalked of is all the comfort that now remains to me. and he might say things that would be prejudicial to others,--especially to you. could this in any way be prevented? i suppose the papers would publish anything; and you know how greedily people will read slander about those whose names are in any way remarkable. in my heart i believe he is insane; but it is very hard that one's privacy should be at the mercy of a madman. he says that he can get an order from the court of queen's bench which will oblige the judges in saxony to send me back to england in the custody of the police, but that i do not believe. i had the opinion of sir gregory grogram before i came away, and he told me that it was not so. i do not fear his power over my person, while i remain here, but that the matter should be dragged forward before the public. i have not answered him yet, nor have i shown his letter to papa. i hardly liked to tell you when you were here, but i almost fear to talk to papa about it. he never urges me to go back, but i know that he wishes that i should do so. he has ideas about money, which seem singular to me, knowing, as i do, how very generous he has been himself. when i married, my fortune, as you knew, had been just used in paying chiltern's debts. mr. kennedy had declared himself to be quite indifferent about it, though the sum was large. the whole thing was explained to him, and he was satisfied. before a year was over he complained to papa, and then papa and chiltern together raised the money,--£ , ,--and it was paid to mr. kennedy. he has written more than once to papa's lawyer to say that, though the money is altogether useless to him, he will not return a penny of it, because by doing so he would seem to abandon his rights. nobody has asked him to return it. nobody has asked him to defray a penny on my account since i left him. but papa continues to say that the money should not be lost to the family. i cannot, however, return to such a husband for the sake of £ , . papa is very angry about the money, because he says that if it had been paid in the usual way at my marriage, settlements would have been required that it should come back to the family after mr. kennedy's death in the event of my having no child. but, as it is now, the money would go to his estate after my death. i don't understand why it should be so, but papa is always harping upon it, and declaring that mr. kennedy's pretended generosity has robbed us all. papa thinks that were i to return this could be arranged; but i could not go back to him for such a reason. what does it matter? chiltern and violet will have enough; and of what use would it be to such a one as i am to have a sum of money to leave behind me? i should leave it to your children, phineas, and not to chiltern's. he bids me neither see you nor write to you,--but how can i obey a man whom i believe to be mad? and when i will not obey him in the greater matter by returning to him it would be absurd were i to attempt to obey him in smaller details. i don't suppose i shall see you very often. his letter has, at any rate, made me feel that it would be impossible for me to return to england, and it is not likely that you will soon come here again. i will not even ask you to do so, though your presence gave a brightness to my life for a few days which nothing else could have produced. but when the lamp for a while burns with special brightness there always comes afterwards a corresponding dullness. i had to pay for your visit, and for the comfort of my confession to you at königstein. i was determined that you should know it all; but, having told you, i do not want to see you again. as for writing, he shall not deprive me of the consolation,--nor i trust will you. do you think that i should answer his letter, or will it be better that i should show it to papa? i am very averse to doing this, as i have explained to you; but i would do so if i thought that mr. kennedy really intended to act upon his threats. i will not conceal from you that it would go nigh to kill me if my name were dragged through the papers. can anything be done to prevent it? if he were known to be mad of course the papers would not publish his statements; but i suppose that if he were to send a letter from loughlinter with his name to it they would print it. it would be very, very cruel. god bless you. i need not say how faithfully i am your friend, l. k. this letter was addressed to phineas at his club, and there he received it on the evening before the meeting of parliament. he sat up for nearly an hour thinking of it after he read it. he must answer it at once. that was a matter of course. but he could give her no advice that would be of any service to her. he was, indeed, of all men the least fitted to give her counsel in her present emergency. it seemed to him that as she was safe from any attack on her person, she need only remain at dresden, answering his letter by what softest negatives she could use. it was clear to him that in his present condition she could take no steps whatever in regard to the money. that must be left to his conscience, to time, and to chance. as to the threat of publicity, the probability, he thought, was that it would lead to nothing. he doubted whether any respectable newspaper would insert such a statement as that suggested. were it published, the evil must be borne. no diligence on her part, or on the part of her lawyers, could prevent it. but what had she meant when she wrote of continual sin, sin not to be avoided, of sin repeated daily which nevertheless weighed her to the ground? was it expected of him that he should answer that portion of her letter? it amounted to a passionate renewal of that declaration of affection for himself which she had made at königstein, and which had pervaded her whole life since some period antecedent to her wretched marriage. phineas, as he thought of it, tried to analyse the nature of such a love. he also, in those old days, had loved her, and had at once resolved that he must tell her so, though his hopes of success had been poor indeed. he had taken the first opportunity, and had declared his purpose. she, with the imperturbable serenity of a matured kind-hearted woman, had patted him on the back, as it were, as she told him of her existing engagement with mr. kennedy. could it be that at that moment she could have loved him as she now said she did, and that she should have been so cold, so calm, and so kind; while, at that very moment, this coldness, calmness, and kindness was but a thin crust over so strong a passion? how different had been his own love! he had been neither calm nor kind. he had felt himself for a day or two to be so terribly knocked about that the world was nothing to him. for a month or two he had regarded himself as a man peculiarly circumstanced,--marked for misfortune and for a solitary life. then he had retricked his beams, and before twelve months were passed had almost forgotten his love. he knew now, or thought that he knew,--that the continued indulgence of a hopeless passion was a folly opposed to the very instincts of man and woman,--a weakness showing want of fibre and of muscle in the character. but here was a woman who could calmly conceal her passion in its early days and marry a man whom she did not love in spite of it, who could make her heart, her feelings, and all her feminine delicacy subordinate to material considerations, and nevertheless could not rid herself of her passion in the course of years, although she felt its existence to be an intolerable burden on her conscience. on which side lay strength of character and on which side weakness? was he strong or was she? and he tried to examine his own feelings in regard to her. the thing was so long ago that she was to him as some aunt, or sister, so much the elder as to be almost venerable. he acknowledged to himself a feeling which made it incumbent upon him to spend himself in her service, could he serve her by any work of his. he was,--or would be, devoted to her. he owed her a never-dying gratitude. but were she free to marry again to-morrow, he knew that he could not marry her. she herself had said the same thing. she had said that she would be his sister. she had specially required of him that he should make known to her his wife, should he ever marry again. she had declared that she was incapable of further jealousy;--and yet she now told him of daily sin of which her conscience could not assoil itself. "phineas," said a voice close to his ears, "are you repenting your sins?" "oh, certainly;--what sins?" it was barrington erle. "you know that we are going to do nothing to-morrow," continued he. "so i am told." "we shall let the address pass almost without a word. gresham will simply express his determination to oppose the church bill to the knife. he means to be very plain-spoken about it. whatever may be the merits of the bill, it must be regarded as an unconstitutional effort to retain power in the hands of the minority, coming from such hands as those of mr. daubeny. i take it he will go at length into the question of majorities, and show how inexpedient it is on behalf of the nation that any ministry should remain in power who cannot command a majority in the house on ordinary questions. i don't know whether he will do that to-morrow or at the second reading of the bill." "i quite agree with him." "of course you do. everybody agrees with him. no gentleman can have a doubt on the subject. personally, i hate the idea of church reform. dear old mildmay, who taught me all i know, hates it too. but mr. gresham is the head of our party now, and much as i may differ from him on many things, i am bound to follow him. if he proposes church reform in my time, or anything else, i shall support him." "i know those are your ideas." "of course they are. there are no other ideas on which things can be made to work. were it not that men get drilled into it by the force of circumstances any government in this country would be impossible. were it not so, what should we come to? the queen would find herself justified in keeping in any set of ministers who could get her favour, and ambitious men would prevail without any support from the country. the queen must submit to dictation from some quarter." "she must submit to advice, certainly." "don't cavil at a word when you know it to be true," said barrington, energetically. "the constitution of the country requires that she should submit to dictation. can it come safely from any other quarter than that of a majority of the house of commons?" "i think not." "we are all agreed about that. not a single man in either house would dare to deny it. and if it be so, what man in his senses can think of running counter to the party which he believes to be right in its general views? a man so burthened with scruples as to be unable to act in this way should keep himself aloof from public life. such a one cannot serve the country in parliament, though he may possibly do so with pen and ink in his closet." "i wonder then that you should have asked me to come forward again after what i did about the irish land question," said phineas. "a first fault may be forgiven when the sinner has in other respects been useful. the long and the short of it is that you must vote with us against daubeny's bill. browborough sees it plainly enough. he supported his chief in the teeth of all his protestations at tankerville." "i am not browborough." "nor half so good a man if you desert us," said barrington erle, with anger. "i say nothing about that. he has his ideas of duty, and i have mine. but i will go so far as this. i have not yet made up my mind. i shall ask advice; but you must not quarrel with me if i say that i must seek it from some one who is less distinctly a partisan than you are." "from monk?" "yes;--from mr. monk. i do think it will be bad for the country that this measure should come from the hands of mr. daubeny." "then why the d---- should you support it, and oppose your own party at the same time? after that you can't do it. well, ratler, my guide and philosopher, how is it going to be?" mr. ratler had joined them, but was still standing before the seat they occupied, not condescending to sit down in amicable intercourse with a man as to whom he did not yet know whether to regard him as a friend or foe. "we shall be very quiet for the next month or six weeks," said ratler. "and then?" asked phineas. "well, then it will depend on what may be the number of a few insane men who never ought to have seats in the house." "such as mr. monk and mr. turnbull?" now it was well known that both those gentlemen, who were recognised as leading men, were strong radicals, and it was supposed that they both would support any bill, come whence it might, which would separate church and state. "such as mr. monk," said ratler. "i will grant that turnbull may be an exception. it is his business to go in for everything in the way of agitation, and he at any rate is consistent. but when a man has once been in office,--why then--" "when he has taken the shilling?" said phineas. "just so. i confess i do not like a deserter." "phineas will be all right," said barrington erle. "i hope so," said mr. ratler, as he passed on. "ratler and i run very much in the same groove," said barrington, "but i fancy there is some little difference in the motive power." "ratler wants place." "and so do i." "he wants it just as most men want professional success," said phineas. "but if i understand your object, it is chiefly the maintenance of the old-established political power of the whigs. you believe in families?" "i do believe in the patriotism of certain families. i believe that the mildmays, fitzhowards, and pallisers have for some centuries brought up their children to regard the well-being of their country as their highest personal interest, and that such teaching has been generally efficacious. of course, there have been failures. every child won't learn its lesson however well it may be taught. but the school in which good training is most practised will, as a rule, turn out the best scholars. in this way i believe in families. you have come in for some of the teaching, and i expect to see you a scholar yet." the house met on the following day, and the address was moved and seconded; but there was no debate. there was not even a full house. the same ceremony had taken place so short a time previously, that the whole affair was flat and uninteresting. it was understood that nothing would in fact be done. mr. gresham, as leader of his side of the house, confined himself to asserting that he should give his firmest opposition to the proposed measure, which was, it seemed, so popular with the gentlemen who sat on the other side, and who supported the so-called conservative government of the day. his reasons for doing so had been stated very lately, and must unfortunately be repeated very soon, and he would not, therefore, now trouble the house with them. he did not on this occasion explain his ideas as to majorities, and the address was carried by seven o'clock in the evening. mr. daubeny named a day a month hence for the first reading of his bill, and was asked the cause of the delay by some member on a back bench. "because it cannot be ready sooner," said mr. daubeny. "when the honourable gentleman has achieved a position which will throw upon him the responsibility of bringing forward some great measure for the benefit of his country, he will probably find it expedient to devote some little time to details. if he do not, he will be less anxious to avoid attack than i am." a minister can always give a reason; and, if he be clever, he can generally when doing so punish the man who asks for it. the punishing of an influential enemy is an indiscretion; but an obscure questioner may often be crushed with good effect. mr. monk's advice to phineas was both simple and agreeable. he intended to support mr. gresham, and of course counselled his friend to do the same. "but you supported mr. daubeny on the address before christmas," said phineas. "and shall therefore be bound to explain why i oppose him now;--but the task will not be difficult. the queen's speech to parliament was in my judgment right, and therefore i concurred in the address. but i certainly cannot trust mr. daubeny with church reform. i do not know that many will make the same distinction, but i shall do so." phineas soon found himself sitting in the house as though he had never left it. his absence had not been long enough to make the place feel strange to him. he was on his legs before a fortnight was over asking some question of some minister, and of course insinuating as he did so that the minister in question had been guilty of some enormity of omission or commission. it all came back upon him as though he had been born to the very manner. and as it became known to the ratlers that he meant to vote right on the great coming question,--to vote right and to speak right in spite of his doings at tankerville,--everybody was civil to him. mr. bonteen did express an opinion to mr. ratler that it was quite impossible that phineas finn should ever again accept office, as of course the tankervillians would never replace him in his seat after manifest apostasy to his pledge; but mr. ratler seemed to think very little of that. "they won't remember, lord bless you;--and then he's one of those fellows that always get in somewhere. he's not a man i particularly like; but you'll always see him in the house;--up and down, you know. when a fellow begins early, and has got it in him, it's hard to shake him off." and thus even mr. ratler was civil to our hero. lady laura kennedy's letter had, of course, been answered,--not without very great difficulty. "my dear laura," he had begun,--for the first time in his life. she had told him to treat her as a brother would do, and he thought it best to comply with her instructions. but beyond that, till he declared himself at the end to be hers affectionately, he made no further protestation of affection. he made no allusion to that sin which weighed so heavily on her, but answered all her questions. he advised her to remain at dresden. he assured her that no power could be used to enforce her return. he expressed his belief that mr. kennedy would abstain from making any public statement, but suggested that if any were made the answering of it should be left to the family lawyer. in regard to the money, he thought it impossible that any step should be taken. he then told her all there was to tell of lord and lady chiltern, and something also of himself. when the letter was written he found that it was cold and almost constrained. to his own ears it did not sound like the hearty letter of a generous friend. it savoured of the caution with which it had been prepared. but what could he do? would he not sin against her and increase her difficulties if he addressed her with warm affection? were he to say a word that ought not to be addressed to any woman he might do her an irreparable injury; and yet the tone of his own letter was odious to him. chapter xxi. mr. maule, senior. the life of mr. maurice maule, of maule abbey, the father of gerard maule, had certainly not been prosperous. he had from his boyhood enjoyed a reputation for cleverness, and at school had done great things,--winning prizes, spouting speeches on speech days, playing in elevens, and looking always handsome. he had been one of those show boys of which two or three are generally to be found at our great schools, and all manner of good things had been prophesied on his behalf. he had been in love before he was eighteen, and very nearly succeeded in running away with the young lady before he went to college. his father had died when he was an infant, so that at twenty-one he was thought to be in possession of comfortable wealth. at oxford he was considered to have got into a good set,--men of fashion who were also given to talking of books,--who spent money, read poetry, and had opinions of their own respecting the tracts and mr. newman. he took his degree, and then started himself in the world upon that career which is of all the most difficult to follow with respect and self-comfort. he proposed to himself the life of an idle man with a moderate income,--a life which should be luxurious, refined, and graceful, but to which should be attached the burden of no necessary occupation. his small estate gave him but little to do, as he would not farm any portion of his own acres. he became a magistrate in his county; but he would not interest himself with the price of a good yoke of bullocks, as did mr. justice shallow,--nor did he ever care how a score of ewes went at any fair. there is no harder life than this. here and there we may find a man who has so trained himself that day after day he can devote his mind without compulsion to healthy pursuits, who can induce himself to work, though work be not required from him for any ostensible object, who can save himself from the curse of misusing his time, though he has for it no defined and necessary use; but such men are few, and are made of better metal than was mr. maule. he became an idler, a man of luxury, and then a spendthrift. he was now hardly beyond middle life, and he assumed for himself the character of a man of taste. he loved music, and pictures, and books, and pretty women. he loved also good eating and drinking; but conceived of himself that in his love for them he was an artist, and not a glutton. he had married early, and his wife had died soon. he had not given himself up with any special zeal to the education of his children, nor to the preservation of his property. the result of his indifference has been told in a previous chapter. his house was deserted, and his children were scattered about the world. his eldest son, having means of his own, was living an idle, desultory life, hardly with prospects of better success than had attended his father. mr. maule was now something about fifty-five years of age, and almost considered himself young. he lived in chambers on a flat in westminster, and belonged to two excellent clubs. he had not been near his property for the last ten years, and as he was addicted to no country sport there were ten weeks in the year which were terrible to him. from the middle of august to the end of october for him there was no whist, no society,--it may almost be said no dinner. he had tried going to the seaside; he had tried going to paris; he had endeavoured to enjoy switzerland and the italian lakes;--but all had failed, and he had acknowledged to himself that this sad period of the year must always be endured without relaxation, and without comfort. of his children he now took but little notice. his daughter was married and in india. his younger son had disappeared, and the father was perhaps thankful that he was thus saved from trouble. with his elder son he did maintain some amicable intercourse, but it was very slight in its nature. they never corresponded unless the one had something special to say to the other. they had no recognised ground for meeting. they did not belong to the same clubs. they did not live in the same circles. they did not follow the same pursuits. they were interested in the same property;--but, as on that subject there had been something approaching to a quarrel, and as neither looked for assistance from the other, they were now silent on the matter. the father believed himself to be a poorer man than his son, and was very sore on the subject; but he had nothing beyond a life interest in his property, and there remained to him a certain amount of prudence which induced him to abstain from eating more of his pudding,--lest absolute starvation and the poorhouse should befall him. there still remained to him the power of spending some five or six hundred a year, and upon this practice had taught him to live with a very considerable amount of self-indulgence. he dined out a great deal, and was known everywhere as mr. maule of maule abbey. he was a slight, bright-eyed, grey-haired, good-looking man, who had once been very handsome. he had married, let us say for love;--probably very much by chance. he had ill-used his wife, and had continued a long-continued liaison with a complaisant friend. this had lasted some twenty years of his life, and had been to him an intolerable burden. he had come to see the necessity of employing his good looks, his conversational powers, and his excellent manners on a second marriage which might be lucrative; but the complaisant lady had stood in his way. perhaps there had been a little cowardice on his part; but at any rate he had hitherto failed. the season for such a mode of relief was not, however, as yet clean gone with him, and he was still on the look out. there are women always in the market ready to buy for themselves the right to hang on the arm of a real gentleman. that mr. maurice maule was a real gentleman no judge in such matters had ever doubted. on a certain morning just at the end of february mr. maule was sitting in his library,--so-called,--eating his breakfast, at about twelve o'clock; and at his side there lay a note from his son gerard. gerard had written to say that he would call on that morning, and the promised visit somewhat disturbed the father's comfort. he was in his dressing-gown and slippers, and had his newspaper in his hand. when his newspaper and breakfast should be finished,--as they would be certainly at the same moment,--there were in store for him two cigarettes, and perhaps some new french novel which had just reached him. they would last him till two o'clock. then he would dress and saunter out in his great coat, made luxurious with furs. he would see a picture, or perhaps some china-vase, of which news had reached him, and would talk of them as though he might be a possible buyer. everybody knew that he never bought anything;--but he was a man whose opinion on such matters was worth having. then he would call on some lady whose acquaintance at the moment might be of service to him;--for that idea of blazing once more out into the world on a wife's fortune was always present to him. at about five he would saunter into his club, and play a rubber in a gentle unexcited manner till seven. he never played for high points, and would never be enticed into any bet beyond the limits of his club stakes. were he to lose £ or £ at a sitting his arrangements would be greatly disturbed, and his comfort seriously affected. but he played well, taking pains with his game, and some who knew him well declared that his whist was worth a hundred a year to him. then he would dress and generally dine in society. he was known as a good diner out, though in what his excellence consisted they who entertained him might find it difficult to say. he was not witty, nor did he deal in anecdotes. he spoke with a low voice, never addressing himself to any but his neighbour, and even to his neighbour saying but little. but he looked like a gentleman, was well dressed, and never awkward. after dinner he would occasionally play another rubber; but twelve o'clock always saw him back into his own rooms. no one knew better than mr. maule that the continual bloom of lasting summer which he affected requires great accuracy in living. late hours, nocturnal cigars, and midnight drinkings, pleasurable though they may be, consume too quickly the free-flowing lamps of youth, and are fatal at once to the husbanded candle-ends of age. but such as his days were, every minute of them was precious to him. he possessed the rare merit of making a property of his time and not a burden. he had so shuffled off his duties that he had now rarely anything to do that was positively disagreeable. he had been a spendthrift; but his creditors, though perhaps never satisfied, had been quieted. he did not now deal with reluctant and hard-tasked tenants, but with punctual, though inimical, trustees, who paid to him with charming regularity that portion of his income which he was allowed to spend. but that he was still tormented with the ambition of a splendid marriage it might be said of him that he was completely at his ease. now, as he lit his cigarette, he would have been thoroughly comfortable, were it not that he was threatened with disturbance by his son. why should his son wish to see him, and thus break in upon him at the most charming hour of the day? of course his son would not come to him without having some business in hand which must be disagreeable. he had not the least desire to see his son,--and yet, as they were on amicable terms, he could not deny himself after the receipt of his son's note. just at one, as he finished his first cigarette, gerard was announced. "well, gerard!" "well, father,--how are you? you are looking as fresh as paint, sir." "thanks for the compliment, if you mean one. i am pretty well. i thought you were hunting somewhere." "so i am; but i have just come up to town to see you. i find you have been smoking;--may i light a cigar?" "i never do smoke cigars here, gerard. i'll offer you a cigarette." the cigarette was reluctantly offered, and accepted with a shrug. "but you didn't come here merely to smoke, i dare say." "certainly not, sir. we do not often trouble each other, father; but there are things about which i suppose we had better speak. i'm going to be married!" "to be married!" the tone in which mr. maule, senior, repeated the words was much the same as might be used by any ordinary father if his son expressed an intention of going into the shoe-black business. "yes, sir. it's a kind of thing men do sometimes." "no doubt;--and it's a kind of thing that they sometimes repent of having done." "let us hope for the best. it is too late at any rate to think about that, and as it is to be done, i have come to tell you." "very well. i suppose you are right to tell me. of course you know that i can do nothing for you; and i don't suppose that you can do anything for me. as far as your own welfare goes, if she has a large fortune,--" "she has no fortune." "no fortune!" "two or three thousand pounds perhaps." "then i look upon it as an act of simple madness, and can only say that as such i shall treat it. i have nothing in my power, and therefore i can neither do you good or harm; but i will not hear any particulars, and i can only advise you to break it off, let the trouble be what it may." "i certainly shall not do that, sir." "then i have nothing more to say. don't ask me to be present, and don't ask me to see her." "you haven't heard her name yet." "i do not care one straw what her name is." "it is adelaide palliser." "adelaide muggins would be exactly the same thing to me. my dear gerard, i have lived too long in the world to believe that men can coin into money the noble blood of well-born wives. twenty thousand pounds is worth more than all the blood of all the howards, and a wife even with twenty thousand pounds would make you a poor, embarrassed, and half-famished man." "then i suppose i shall be whole famished, as she certainly has not got a quarter of that sum." "no doubt you will." "yet, sir, married men with families have lived on my income." "and on less than a quarter of it. the very respectable man who brushes my clothes no doubt does so. but then you see he has been brought up in that way. i suppose that you as a bachelor put by every year at least half your income?" "i never put by a shilling, sir. indeed, i owe a few hundred pounds." "and yet you expect to keep a house over your head, and an expensive wife and family, with lady's maid, nurses, cook, footman, and grooms, on a sum which has been hitherto insufficient for your own wants! i didn't think you were such an idiot, my boy." "thank you, sir." "what will her dress cost?" "i have not the slightest idea." "i dare say not. probably she is a horsewoman. as far as i know anything of your life that is the sphere in which you will have made the lady's acquaintance." "she does ride." "no doubt, and so do you; and it will be very easy to say whither you will ride together if you are fools enough to get married. i can only advise you to do nothing of the kind. is there anything else?" there was much more to be said if gerard could succeed in forcing his father to hear him. mr. maule, who had hitherto been standing, seated himself as he asked that last question, and took up the book which had been prepared for his morning's delectation. it was evidently his intention that his son should leave him. the news had been communicated to him, and he had said all that he could say on the subject. he had at once determined to confine himself to a general view of the matter, and to avoid details,--which might be personal to himself. but gerard had been specially required to force his father into details. had he been left to himself he would certainly have thought that the conversation had gone far enough. he was inclined, almost as well as his father, to avoid present discomfort. but when miss palliser had suddenly,--almost suddenly,--accepted him; and when he had found himself describing the prospects of his life in her presence and in that of lady chiltern, the question of the maule abbey inheritance had of necessity been discussed. at maule abbey there might be found a home for the married couple, and,--so thought lady chiltern,--the only fitting home. mr. maule, the father, certainly did not desire to live there. probably arrangements might be made for repairing the house and furnishing it with adelaide's money. then, if gerard maule would be prudent, and give up hunting, and farm a little himself,--and if adelaide would do her own housekeeping and dress upon forty pounds a year, and if they would both live an exemplary, model, energetic, and strictly economical life, both ends might be made to meet. adelaide had been quite enthusiastic as to the forty pounds, and had suggested that she would do it for thirty. the housekeeping was a matter of course, and the more so as a leg of mutton roast or boiled would be the beginning and the end of it. to adelaide the discussion had been exciting and pleasurable, and she had been quite in earnest when looking forward to a new life at maule abbey. after all there could be no such great difficulty for a young married couple to live on £ a year, with a house and garden of their own. there would be no carriage and no man servant till,--till old mr. maule was dead. the suggestion as to the ultimate and desirable haven was wrapped up in ambiguous words. "the property must be yours some day," suggested lady chiltern. "if i outlive my father." "we take that for granted; and then, you know--" so lady chiltern went on, dilating upon a future state of squirearchal bliss and rural independence. adelaide was enthusiastic; but gerard maule,--after he had assented to the abandonment of his hunting, much as a man assents to being hung when the antecedents of his life have put any option in the matter out of his power,--had sat silent and almost moody while the joys of his coming life were described to him. lady chiltern, however, had been urgent in pointing out to him that the scheme of living at maule abbey could not be carried out without his father's assistance. they all knew that mr. maule himself could not be affected by the matter, and they also knew that he had but very little power in reference to the property. but the plan could not be matured without some sanction from him. therefore there was still much more to be said when the father had completed the exposition of his views on marriage in general. "i wanted to speak to you about the property," said gerard. he had been specially enjoined to be staunch in bringing his father to the point. "and what about the property?" "of course my marriage will not affect your interests." "i should say not. it would be very odd if it did. as it is, your income is much larger than mine." "i don't know how that is, sir; but i suppose you will not refuse to give me a helping hand if you can do so without disturbance to your own comfort." "in what sort of way? don't you think anything of that kind can be managed better by the lawyer? if there is a thing i hate, it is business." gerard, remembering his promise to lady chiltern, did persevere, though the perseverance went much against the grain with him. "we thought, sir, that if you would consent we might live at maule abbey." "oh;--you did; did you?" "is there any objection?" "simply the fact that it is my house, and not yours." "it belongs, i suppose, to the property; and as--" "as what?" asked the father, turning upon the son with sharp angry eyes, and with something of real animation in his face. gerard was very awkward in conveying his meaning to his father. "and as," he continued,--"as it must come to me, i suppose, some day, and it will be the proper sort of thing that we should live there then, i thought that you would agree that if we went and lived there now it would be a good sort of thing to do." "that was your idea?" "we talked it over with our friend, lady chiltern." "indeed! i am so much obliged to your friend, lady chiltern, for the interest she takes in my affairs. pray make my compliments to lady chiltern, and tell her at the same time that, though no doubt i have one foot in the grave, i should like to keep my house for the other foot, though too probably i may never be able to drag it so far as maule abbey." "but you don't think of living there." "my dear boy, if you will inquire among any friends you may happen to know who understand the world better than lady chiltern seems to do, they will tell you that a son should not suggest to his father the abandonment of the family property, because the father may--probably--soon--be conveniently got rid of under ground." "there was no thought of such a thing," said gerard. "it isn't decent. i say that with all due deference to lady chiltern's better judgment. it's not the kind of thing that men do. i care less about it than most men, but even i object to such a proposition when it is made so openly. no doubt i am old." this assertion mr. maule made in a weak, quavering voice, which showed that had his intention been that way turned in his youth, he might probably have earned his bread on the stage. "nobody thought of your being old, sir." "i shan't last long, of course. i am a poor feeble creature. but while i do live, i should prefer not to be turned out of my own house,--if lady chiltern could be induced to consent to such an arrangement. my doctor seems to think that i might linger on for a year or two,--with great care." "father, you know i was thinking of nothing of the kind." "we won't act the king and the prince any further, if you please. the prince protested very well, and, if i remember right, the father pretended to believe him. in my weak state you have rather upset me. if you have no objection i would choose to be left to recover myself a little." "and is that all that you will say to me?" "good heavens;--what more can you want? i will not--consent--to give up--my house at maule abbey for your use,--as long as i live. will that do? and if you choose to marry a wife and starve, i won't think that any reason why i should starve too. will that do? and your friend, lady chiltern, may--go--and be d----d. will that do?" "good morning, sir." "good morning, gerard." so the interview was over, and gerard maule left the room. the father, as soon as he was alone, immediately lit another cigarette, took up his french novel, and went to work as though he was determined to be happy and comfortable again without losing a moment. but he found this to be beyond his power. he had been really disturbed, and could not easily compose himself. the cigarette was almost at once chucked into the fire, and the little volume was laid on one side. mr. maule rose almost impetuously from his chair, and stood with his back to the fire, contemplating the proposition that had been made to him. it was actually true that he had been offended by the very faint idea of death which had been suggested to him by his son. though he was a man bearing no palpable signs of decay, in excellent health, with good digestion,--who might live to be ninety,--he did not like to be warned that his heir would come after him. the claim which had been put forward to maule abbey by his son had rested on the fact that when he should die the place must belong to his son;--and the fact was unpleasant to him. lady chiltern had spoken of him behind his back as being mortal, and in doing so had been guilty of an impertinence. maule abbey, no doubt, was a ruined old house, in which he never thought of living,--which was not let to a tenant by the creditors of his estate, only because its condition was unfit for tenancy. but now mr. maule began to think whether he might not possibly give the lie to these people who were compassing his death, by returning to the halls of his ancestors, if not in the bloom of youth, still in the pride of age. why should he not live at maule abbey if this successful marriage could be effected? he almost knew himself well enough to be aware that a month at maule abbey would destroy him; but it is the proper thing for a man of fashion to have a place of his own, and he had always been alive to the glory of being mr. maule of maule abbey. in preparing the way for the marriage that was to come he must be so known. to be spoken of as the father of maule of maule abbey would have been fatal to him. to be the father of a married son at all was disagreeable, and therefore when the communication was made to him he had managed to be very unpleasant. as for giving up maule abbey,--! he fretted and fumed as he thought of the proposition through the hour which should have been to him an hour of enjoyment; and his anger grew hot against his son as he remembered all that he was losing. at last, however, he composed himself sufficiently to put on with becoming care his luxurious furred great coat, and then he sallied forth in quest of the lady. chapter xxii. "purity of morals, finn." mr. quintus slide was now, as formerly, the editor of the people's banner, but a change had come over the spirit of his dream. his newspaper was still the people's banner, and mr. slide still professed to protect the existing rights of the people, and to demand new rights for the people. but he did so as a conservative. he had watched the progress of things, and had perceived that duty called upon him to be the organ of mr. daubeny. this duty he performed with great zeal, and with an assumption of consistency and infallibility which was charming. no doubt the somewhat difficult task of veering round without inconsistency, and without flaw to his infallibility, was eased by mr. daubeny's newly-declared views on church matters. the people's banner could still be a genuine people's banner in reference to ecclesiastical policy. and as that was now the subject mainly discussed by the newspapers, the change made was almost entirely confined to the lauding of mr. daubeny instead of mr. turnbull. some other slight touches were no doubt necessary. mr. daubeny was the head of the conservative party in the kingdom, and though mr. slide himself might be of all men in the kingdom the most democratic, or even the most destructive, still it was essential that mr. daubeny's organ should support the conservative party all round. it became mr. slide's duty to speak of men as heaven-born patriots whom he had designated a month or two since as bloated aristocrats and leeches fattened on the blood of the people. of course remarks were made by his brethren of the press,--remarks which were intended to be very unpleasant. one evening newspaper took the trouble to divide a column of its own into double columns, printing on one side of the inserted line remarks made by the people's banner in september respecting the duke of ----, and the marquis of ----, and sir ---- ----, which were certainly very harsh; and on the other side remarks equally laudatory as to the characters of the same titled politicians. but a journalist, with the tact and experience of mr. quintus slide, knew his business too well to allow himself to be harassed by any such small stratagem as that. he did not pause to defend himself, but boldly attacked the meanness, the duplicity, the immorality, the grammar, the paper, the type, and the wife of the editor of the evening newspaper. in the storm of wind in which he rowed it was unnecessary for him to defend his own conduct. "and then," said he at the close of a very virulent and successful article, "the hirelings of ---- dare to accuse me of inconsistency!" the readers of the people's banner all thought that their editor had beaten his adversary out of the field. mr. quintus slide was certainly well adapted for his work. he could edit his paper with a clear appreciation of the kind of matter which would best conduce to its success, and he could write telling leading articles himself. he was indefatigable, unscrupulous, and devoted to his paper. perhaps his great value was shown most clearly in his distinct appreciation of the low line of public virtue with which his readers would be satisfied. a highly-wrought moral strain would he knew well create either disgust or ridicule. "if there is any beastliness i 'ate it is 'igh-faluting," he has been heard to say to his underlings. the sentiment was the same as that conveyed in the "point de zèle" of talleyrand. "let's 'ave no d----d nonsense," he said on another occasion, when striking out from a leading article a passage in praise of the patriotism of a certain public man. "mr. gresham is as good as another man, no doubt; what we want to know is whether he's along with us." mr. gresham was not along with mr. slide at present, and mr. slide found it very easy to speak ill of mr. gresham. mr. slide one sunday morning called at the house of mr. bunce in great marlborough street, and asked for phineas finn. mr. slide and mr. bunce had an old acquaintance with each other, and the editor was not ashamed to exchange a few friendly words with the law-scrivener before he was shown up to the member of parliament. mr. bunce was an outspoken, eager, and honest politician,--with very little accurate knowledge of the political conditions by which he was surrounded, but with a strong belief in the merits of his own class. he was a sober, hardworking man, and he hated all men who were not sober and hardworking. he was quite clear in his mind that all nobility should be put down, and that all property in land should be taken away from men who were enabled by such property to live in idleness. what should be done with the land when so taken away was a question which he had not yet learnt to answer. at the present moment he was accustomed to say very hard words of mr. slide behind his back, because of the change which had been effected in the people's banner, and he certainly was not the man to shrink from asserting in a person's presence aught that he said in his absence. "well, mr. conservative slide," he said, stepping into the little back parlour, in which the editor was left while mrs. bunce went up to learn whether the member of parliament would receive his visitor. "none of your chaff, bunce." "we have enough of your chaff, anyhow; don't we, mr. slide? i still sees the banner, mr. slide,--most days; just for the joke of it." "as long as you take it, bunce, i don't care what the reason is." "i suppose a heditor's about the same as a cabinet minister. you've got to keep your place;--that's about it, mr. slide." "we've got to tell the people who's true to 'em. do you believe that gresham 'd ever have brought in a bill for doing away with the church? never;--not if he'd been prime minister till doomsday. what you want is progress." "that's about it, mr. slide." "and where are you to get it? did you ever hear that a rose by any other name 'd smell as sweet? if you can get progress from the conservatives, and you want progress, why not go to the conservatives for it? who repealed the corn laws? who gave us 'ousehold suffrage?" "i think i've been told all that before, mr. slide; them things weren't given by no manner of means, as i look at it. we just went in and took 'em. it was hall a haccident whether it was cobden or peel, gladstone or disraeli, as was the servants we employed to do our work. but liberal is liberal, and conservative is conservative. what are you, mr. slide, to-day?" "if you'd talk of things, bunce, which you understand, you would not talk quite so much nonsense." at this moment mrs. bunce entered the room, perhaps preventing a quarrel, and offered to usher mr. slide up to the young member's room. phineas had not at first been willing to receive the gentleman, remembering that when they had last met the intercourse had not been pleasant,--but he knew that enmities are foolish things, and that it did not become him to perpetuate a quarrel with such a man as mr. quintus slide. "i remember him very well, mrs. bunce." "i know you didn't like him, sir." "not particularly." "no more don't i. no more don't bunce. he's one of them as 'd say a'most anything for a plate of soup and a glass of wine. that's what bunce says." "it won't hurt me to see him." "no, sir; it won't hurt you. it would be a pity indeed if the likes of him could hurt the likes of you." and so mr. quintus slide was shown up into the room. the first greeting was very affectionate, at any rate on the part of the editor. he grasped the young member's hand, congratulated him on his seat, and began his work as though he had never been all but kicked out of that very same room by its present occupant. "now you want to know what i'm come about; don't you?" "no doubt i shall hear in good time, mr. slide." "it's an important matter;--and so you'll say when you do hear. and it's one in which i don't know whether you'll be able to see your way quite clear." "i'll do my best, if it concerns me." "it does." so saying, mr. slide, who had seated himself in an arm-chair by the fireside opposite to phineas, crossed his legs, folded his arms on his breast, put his head a little on one side, and sat for a few moments in silence, with his eyes fixed on his companion's face. "it does concern you, or i shouldn't be here. do you know mr. kennedy,--the right honourable robert kennedy, of loughlinter, in scotland?" "i do know mr. kennedy." "and do you know lady laura kennedy, his wife?" "certainly i do." "so i supposed. and do you know the earl of brentford, who is, i take it, father to the lady in question?" "of course i do. you know that i do." for there had been a time in which phineas had been subjected to the severest censure which the people's banner could inflict upon him, because of his adherence to lord brentford, and the vials of wrath had been poured out by the hands of mr. quintus slide himself. "very well. it does not signify what i know or what i don't. those preliminary questions i have been obliged to ask as my justification for coming to you on the present occasion. mr. kennedy has i believe been greatly wronged." "i am not prepared to talk about mr. kennedy's affairs," said phineas gravely. "but unfortunately he is prepared to talk about them. that's the rub. he has been ill-used, and he has come to the people's banner for redress. will you have the kindness to cast your eye down that slip?" whereupon the editor handed to phineas a long scrap of printed paper, amounting to about a column and a half of the people's banner, containing a letter to the editor dated from loughlinter, and signed robert kennedy at full length. "you don't mean to say that you're going to publish this," said phineas before he had read it. "why not?" "the man is a madman." "there's nothing in the world easier than calling a man mad. it's what we do to dogs when we want to hang them. i believe mr. kennedy has the management of his own property. he is not too mad for that. but just cast your eye down and read it." phineas did cast his eye down, and read the whole letter;--nor as he read it could he bring himself to believe that the writer of it would be judged to be mad from its contents. mr. kennedy had told the whole story of his wrongs, and had told it well,--with piteous truthfulness, as far as he himself knew and understood the truth. the letter was almost simple in its wailing record of his own desolation. with a marvellous absence of reticence he had given the names of all persons concerned. he spoke of his wife as having been, and being, under the influence of mr. phineas finn;--spoke of his own former friendship for that gentleman, who had once saved his life when he fell among thieves, and then accused phineas of treachery in betraying that friendship. he spoke with bitter agony of the injury done him by the earl, his wife's father, in affording a home to his wife, when her proper home was at loughlinter. and then declared himself willing to take the sinning woman back to his bosom. "that she had sinned is certain," he said; "i do not believe she has sinned as some sin; but, whatever be her sin, it is for a man to forgive as he hopes for forgiveness." he expatiated on the absolute and almost divine right which it was intended that a husband should exercise over his wife, and quoted both the old and new testament in proof of his assertions. and then he went on to say that he appealed to public sympathy, through the public press, because, owing to some gross insufficiency in the laws of extradition, he could not call upon the magistracy of a foreign country to restore to him his erring wife. but he thought that public opinion, if loudly expressed, would have an effect both upon her and upon her father, which his private words could not produce. "i wonder very greatly that you should put such a letter as that into type," said phineas when he had read it all. "why shouldn't we put it into type?" "you don't mean to say that you'll publish it." "why shouldn't we publish it?" "it's a private quarrel between a man and his wife. what on earth have the public got to do with that?" "private quarrels between gentlemen and ladies have been public affairs for a long time past. you must know that very well." "when they come into court they are." "in court and out of court! the morale of our aristocracy,--what you call the upper ten,--would be at a low ebb indeed if the public press didn't act as their guardians. do you think that if the duke of ---- beats his wife black and blue, nothing is to be said about it unless the duchess brings her husband into court? did you ever know of a separation among the upper ten, that wasn't handled by the press one way or the other? it's my belief that there isn't a peer among 'em all as would live with his wife constant, if it was not for the press;--only some of the very old ones, who couldn't help themselves." "and you call yourself a conservative?" "never mind what i call myself. that has nothing to do with what we're about now. you see that letter, finn. there is nothing little or dirty about us. we go in for morals and purity of life, and we mean to do our duty by the public without fear or favour. your name is mentioned there in a manner that you won't quite like, and i think i am acting uncommon kind by you in showing it to you before we publish it." phineas, who still held the slip in his hand, sat silent thinking of the matter. he hated the man. he could not endure the feeling of being called finn by him without showing his resentment. as regarded himself, he was thoroughly well inclined to kick mr. slide and his banner into the street. but he was bound to think first of lady laura. such a publication as this, which was now threatened, was the misfortune which the poor woman dreaded more than any other. he, personally, had certainly been faultless in the matter. he had never addressed a word of love to mr. kennedy's wife since the moment in which she had told him that she was engaged to marry the laird of loughlinter. were the letter to be published he could answer it, he thought, in such a manner as to defend himself and her without damage to either. but on her behalf he was bound to prevent this publicity if it could be prevented;--and he was bound also, for her sake, to allow himself to be called finn by this most obnoxious editor. "in the ordinary course of things, finn, it will come out to-morrow morning," said the obnoxious editor. "every word of it is untrue," said phineas. "you say that, of course." "and i should at once declare myself willing to make such a statement on oath. it is a libel of the grossest kind, and of course there would be a prosecution. both lord brentford and i would be driven to that." "we should be quite indifferent. mr. kennedy would hold us harmless. we're straightforward. my showing it to you would prove that." "what is it you want, mr. slide?" "want! you don't suppose we want anything. if you think that the columns of the people's banner are to be bought, you must have opinions respecting the press of the day which make me pity you as one grovelling in the very dust. the daily press of london is pure and immaculate. that is, the morning papers are. want, indeed! what do you think i want?" "i have not the remotest idea." "purity of morals, finn;--punishment for the guilty;--defence for the innocent;--support for the weak;--safety for the oppressed;--and a rod of iron for the oppressors!" "but that is a libel." "it's very heavy on the old earl, and upon you, and upon lady laura;--isn't it?" "it's a libel,--as you know. you tell me that purity of morals can be supported by such a publication as this! had you meant to go on with it, you would hardly have shown it to me." "you're in the wrong box there, finn. now i'll tell you what we'll do,--on behalf of what i call real purity. we'll delay the publication if you'll undertake that the lady shall go back to her husband." "the lady is not in my hands." "she's under your influence. you were with her over at dresden not much more than a month ago. she'd go sharp enough if you told her." "you never made a greater mistake in your life." "say that you'll try." "i certainly will not do so." "then it goes in to-morrow," said mr. quintus slide, stretching out his hand and taking back the slip. "what on earth is your object?" "morals! morals! we shall be able to say that we've done our best to promote domestic virtue and secure forgiveness for an erring wife. you've no notion, finn, in your mind of what will soon be the hextent of the duties, privileges, and hinfluences of the daily press;--the daily morning press, that is; for i look on those little evening scraps as just so much paper and ink wasted. you won't interfere, then?" "yes, i will;--if you'll give me time. where is mr. kennedy?" "what has that to do with it? do you write over to lady laura and the old lord and tell them that if she'll undertake to be at loughlinter within a month this shall be suppressed. will you do that?" "let me first see mr. kennedy." mr. slide thought a while over that matter. "well," said he at last, "you can see kennedy if you will. he came up to town four or five days ago, and he's staying at an hotel in judd street." "an hotel in judd street?" "yes;--macpherson's in judd street. i suppose he likes to keep among the scotch. i don't think he ever goes out of the house, and he's waiting in london till this thing is published." "i will go and see him," said phineas. "i shouldn't wonder if he murdered you;--but that's between you and him." "just so." "and i shall hear from you?" "yes," said phineas, hesitating as he made the promise. "yes, you shall hear from me." "we've got our duty to do, and we mean to do it. if we see that we can induce the lady to go back to her husband, we shall habstain from publishing, and virtue will be its own reward. i needn't tell you that such a letter as that would sell a great many copies, finn." then, at last, mr. slide arose and departed. chapter xxiii. macpherson's hotel. phineas, when he was left alone, found himself greatly at a loss as to what he had better do. he had pledged himself to see mr. kennedy, and was not much afraid of encountering personal violence at the hands of that gentleman. but he could think of nothing which he could with advantage say to mr. kennedy. he knew that lady laura would not return to her husband. much as she dreaded such exposure as was now threatened, she would not return to loughlinter to avoid even that. he could not hold out any such hope to mr. kennedy;--and without doing so how could he stop the publication? he thought of getting an injunction from the vice-chancellor;--but it was now sunday, and he had understood that the publication would appear on the morrow, unless stopped by some note from himself. he thought of finding some attorney, and taking him to mr. kennedy; but he knew that mr. kennedy would be deterred by no attorney. then he thought of mr. low. he would see mr. kennedy first, and then go to mr. low's house. judd street runs into the new road near the great stations of the midland and northern railways, and is a highly respectable street. but it can hardly be called fashionable, as is piccadilly; or central, as is charing cross; or commercial, as is the neighbourhood of st. paul's. men seeking the shelter of an hotel in judd street most probably prefer decent and respectable obscurity to other advantages. it was some such feeling, no doubt, joined to the fact that the landlord had originally come from the neighbourhood of loughlinter, which had taken mr. kennedy to macpherson's hotel. phineas, when he called at about three o'clock on sunday afternoon, was at once informed by mrs. macpherson that mr. kennedy was "nae doubt at hame, but was nae willing to see folk on the saaboth." phineas pleaded the extreme necessity of his business, alleging that mr. kennedy himself would regard its nature as a sufficient justification for such sabbath-breaking,--and sent up his card. then there came down a message to him. could not mr. finn postpone his visit to the following morning? but phineas declared that it could not be postponed. circumstances, which he would explain to mr. kennedy, made it impossible. at last he was desired to walk up stairs, though mrs. macpherson, as she showed him the way, evidently thought that her house was profaned by such wickedness. macpherson in preparing his house had not run into that extravagance of architecture which has lately become so common in our hotels. it was simply an ordinary house, with the words "macpherson's hotel" painted on a semi-circular board over the doorway. the front parlour had been converted into a bar, and in the back parlour the macphersons lived. the staircase was narrow and dirty, and in the front drawing-room,--with the chamber behind for his bedroom,--mr. kennedy was installed. mr. macpherson probably did not expect any customers beyond those friendly scots who came up to london from his own side of the highlands. mrs. macpherson, as she opened the door, was silent and almost mysterious. such a breach of the law might perhaps be justified by circumstances of which she knew nothing, but should receive no sanction from her which she could avoid. so she did not even whisper the name. mr. kennedy, as phineas entered, slowly rose from his chair, putting down the bible which had been in his hands. he did not speak at once, but looked at his visitor over the spectacles which he wore. phineas thought that he was even more haggard in appearance and aged than when they two had met hardly three months since at loughlinter. there was no shaking of hands, and hardly any pretence at greeting. mr. kennedy simply bowed his head, and allowed his visitor to begin the conversation. "i should not have come to you on such a day as this, mr. kennedy--" "it is a day very unfitted for the affairs of the world," said mr. kennedy. "had not the matter been most pressing in regard both to time and its own importance." "so the woman told me, and therefore i have consented to see you." "you know a man of the name of--slide, mr. kennedy?" mr. kennedy shook his head. "you know the editor of the people's banner?" again he shook his head. "you have, at any rate, written a letter for publication to that newspaper." "need i consult you as to what i write?" "but he,--the editor,--has consulted me." "i can have nothing to do with that." "this mr. slide, the editor of the people's banner, has just been with me, having in his hand a printed letter from you, which,--you will excuse me, mr. kennedy,--is very libellous." "i will bear the responsibility of that." "but you would not wish to publish falsehood about your wife, or even about me." "falsehood! sir; how dare you use that word to me? is it false to say that she has left my house? is it false to say that she is my wife, and cannot desert me, as she has done, without breaking her vows, and disregarding the laws both of god and man? am i false when i say that i gave her no cause? am i false when i offer to take her back, let her faults be what they may have been? am i false when i say that her father acts illegally in detaining her? false! false in your teeth! falsehood is villany, and it is not i that am the villain." "you have joined my name in the accusation." "because you are her paramour. i know you now;--viper that was warmed in my bosom! will you look me in the face and tell me that, had it not been for you, she would not have strayed from me?" to this phineas could make no answer. "is it not true that when she went with me to the altar you had been her lover?" "i was her lover no longer, when she once told me that she was to be your wife." "has she never spoken to you of love since? did she not warn you from the house in her faint struggle after virtue? did she not whistle you back again when she found the struggle too much for her? when i asked you to the house, she bade you not come. when i desired that you might never darken my eyes again, did she not seek you? with whom was she walking on the villa grounds by the river banks when she resolved that she would leave all her duties and desert me? will you dare to say that you were not then in her confidence? with whom was she talking when she had the effrontery to come and meet me at the house of the prime minister, which i was bound to attend? have you not been with her this very winter in her foreign home?" "of course i have,--and you sent her a message by me." "i sent no message. i deny it. i refused to be an accomplice in your double guilt. i laid my command upon you that you should not visit my wife in my absence, and you disobeyed, and you are an adulterer. who are you that you are to come for ever between me and my wife?" "i never injured you in thought or deed. i come to you now because i have seen a printed letter which contains a gross libel upon myself." "it is printed then?" he asked, in an eager tone. "it is printed; but it need not, therefore, be published. it is a libel, and should not be published. i shall be forced to seek redress at law. you cannot hope to regain your wife by publishing false accusations against her." "they are true. i can prove every word that i have written. she dare not come here, and submit herself to the laws of her country. she is a renegade from the law, and you abet her in her sin. but it is not vengeance that i seek. 'vengeance is mine, saith the lord.'" "it looks like vengeance, mr. kennedy." "is it for you to teach me how i shall bear myself in this time of my great trouble?" then suddenly he changed; his voice falling from one of haughty defiance to a low, mean, bargaining whisper. "but i'll tell you what i'll do. if you will say that she shall come back again i'll have it cancelled, and pay all the expenses." "i cannot bring her back to you." "she'll come if you tell her. if you'll let them understand that she must come they'll give way. you can try it at any rate." "i shall do nothing of the kind. why should i ask her to submit herself to misery?" "misery! what misery? why should she be miserable? must a woman need be miserable because she lives with her husband? you hear me say that i will forgive everything. even she will not doubt me when i say so, because i have never lied to her. let her come back to me, and she shall live in peace and quiet, and hear no word of reproach." "i can have nothing to do with it, mr. kennedy." "then, sir, you shall abide my wrath." with that he sprang quickly round, grasping at something which lay upon a shelf near him, and phineas saw that he was armed with a pistol. phineas, who had hitherto been seated, leaped to his legs; but the pistol in a moment was at his head, and the madman pulled at the trigger. but the mechanism of the instrument required that some bolt should be loosed before the hammer would fall upon the nipple, and the unhandy wretch for an instant fumbled over the work so that phineas, still facing his enemy, had time to leap backwards towards the door. but kennedy, though he was awkward, still succeeded in firing before our friend could leave the room. phineas heard the thud of the bullet, and knew that it must have passed near his head. he was not struck, however; and the man, frightened at his own deed, abstained from the second shot, or loitered long enough in his remorse to enable his prey to escape. with three or four steps phineas leaped down the stairs, and, finding the front door closed, took shelter within mrs. macpherson's bar. "the man is mad," he said; "did you not hear the shot?" the woman was too frightened to reply, but stood trembling, holding phineas by the arm. there was nobody in the house, she said, but she and the two lasses. "nae doobt the laird's by ordinaire," she said at last. she had known of the pistol; but had not dared to have it removed. she and macpherson had only feared that he would hurt himself,--and had at last agreed, as day after day passed without any injury from the weapon, to let the thing remain unnoticed. she had heard the shot, and had been sure that one of the two men above would have been killed. [illustration: "then, sir, you shall abide my wrath."] phineas was now in great doubt as to what duty was required of him. his first difficulty consisted in this,--that his hat was still in mr. kennedy's room, and that mrs. macpherson altogether refused to go and fetch it. while they were still discussing this, and phineas had not as yet resolved whether he would first get a policeman or go at once to mr. low, the bell from the room was rung furiously. "it's the laird," said mrs. macpherson, "and if naebody waits on him he'll surely be shooting ane of us." the two girls were now outside the bar shaking in their shoes, and evidently unwilling to face the danger. at last the door of the room above was opened, and our hero's hat was sent rolling down the stairs. it was clear to phineas that the man was so mad as to be not even aware of the act he had perpetrated. "he'll do nothing more with the pistol," he said, "unless he should attempt to destroy himself." at last it was determined that one of the girls should be sent to fetch macpherson home from the scotch church, and that no application should be made at once to the police. it seemed that the macphersons knew the circumstances of their guest's family, and that there was a cousin of his in london who was the only one with whom he seemed to have any near connection. the thing that had occurred was to be told to this cousin, and phineas left his address, so that if it should be thought necessary he might be called upon to give his account of the affair. then, in his perturbation of spirit, he asked for a glass of brandy; and having swallowed it, was about to take his leave. "the brandy wull be saxpence, sir," said mrs. macpherson, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. having paid for his refreshment, phineas got into a cab, and had himself driven to mr. low's house. he had escaped from his peril, and now again it became his strongest object to stop the publication of the letter which slide had shown him. but as he sat in the cab he could not hinder himself from shuddering at the danger which had been so near to him. he remembered his sensation as he first saw the glimmer of the barrel of the pistol, and then became aware of the man's first futile attempt, and afterwards saw the flash and heard the hammer fall at the same moment. he had once stood up to be fired at in a duel, and had been struck by the ball. but nothing in that encounter had made him feel sick and faint through every muscle as he had felt just now. as he sat in the cab he was aware that but for the spirits he had swallowed he would be altogether overcome, and he doubted even now whether he would be able to tell his story to mr. low. luckily perhaps for him neither mr. low nor his wife were at home. they were out together, but were expected in between five and six. phineas declared his purpose of waiting for them, and requested that mr. low might be asked to join him in the dining-room immediately on his return. in this way an hour was allowed him, and he endeavoured to compose himself. still, even at the end of the hour, his heart was beating so violently that he could hardly control the motion of his own limbs. "low, i have been shot at by a madman," he said, as soon as his friend entered the room. he had determined to be calm, and to speak much more of the document in the editor's hands than of the attempt which had been made on his own life; but he had been utterly unable to repress the exclamation. "shot at?" "yes; by robert kennedy; the man who was chancellor of the duchy;--almost within a yard of my head." then he sat down and burst out into a fit of convulsive laughter. the story about the pistol was soon told, and mr. low was of opinion that phineas should not have left the place without calling in policemen and giving an account to them of the transaction. "but i had something else on my mind," said phineas, "which made it necessary that i should see you at once;--something more important even than this madman's attack upon me. he has written a most foul-mouthed attack upon his wife, which is already in print, and will i fear be published to-morrow morning." then he told the story of the letter. "slide no doubt will be at the people's banner office to-night, and i can see him there. perhaps when i tell him what has occurred he will consent to drop the publication altogether." but in this view of the matter mr. low did not agree with his visitor. he argued the case with a deliberation which to phineas in his present state of mind was almost painful. if the whole story of what had occurred were told to quintus slide, that worthy protector of morals and caterer for the amusement of the public would, mr. low thought, at once publish the letter and give a statement of the occurrence at macpherson's hotel. there would be nothing to hinder him from so profitable a proceeding, as he would know that no one would stir on behalf of lady laura in the matter of the libel, when the tragedy of mr. kennedy's madness should have been made known. the publication would be as safe as attractive. but if phineas should abstain from going to him at all, the same calculation which had induced him to show the letter would induce him to postpone the publication, at any rate for another twenty-four hours. "he means to make capital out of his virtue; and he won't give that up for the sake of being a day in advance. in the meantime we will get an injunction from the vice-chancellor to stop the publication." "can we do that in one day?" "i think we can. chancery isn't what it used to be," said mr. low, with a sigh. "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll go this very moment to pickering." mr. pickering at this time was one of the three vice-chancellors. "it isn't exactly the proper thing for counsel to call on a judge on a sunday afternoon with the direct intention of influencing his judgment for the following morning; but this is a case in which a point may be strained. when such a paper as the people's banner gets hold of a letter from a madman, which if published would destroy the happiness of a whole family, one shouldn't stick at a trifle. pickering is just the man to take a common-sense view of the matter. you'll have to make an affidavit in the morning, and we can get the injunction served before two or three o'clock. mr. septimus slope, or whatever his name is, won't dare to publish it after that. of course, if it comes out to-morrow morning, we shall have been too late; but this will be our best chance." so mr. low got his hat and umbrella, and started for the vice-chancellor's house. "and i tell you what, phineas;--do you stay and dine here. you are so flurried by all this, that you are not fit to go anywhere else." "i am flurried." "of course you are. never mind about dressing. do you go up and tell georgiana all about it;--and have dinner put off half-an-hour. i must hunt pickering up, if i don't find him at home." then phineas did go upstairs and tell georgiana--otherwise mrs. low--the whole story. mrs. low was deeply affected, declaring her opinion very strongly as to the horrible condition of things, when madmen could go about with pistols, and without anybody to take care against them. but as to lady laura kennedy, she seemed to think that the poor husband had great cause of complaint, and that lady laura ought to be punished. wives, she thought, should never leave their husbands on any pretext; and, as far as she had heard the story, there had been no pretext at all in the case. her sympathies were clearly with the madman, though she was quite ready to acknowledge that any and every step should be taken which might be adverse to mr. quintus slide. chapter xxiv. madame goesler is sent for. when the elder mr. maule had sufficiently recovered from the perturbation of mind and body into which he had been thrown by the ill-timed and ill-worded proposition of his son to enable him to resume the accustomed tenour of his life, he arrayed himself in his morning winter costume, and went forth in quest of a lady. so much was told some few chapters back, but the name of the lady was not then disclosed. starting from victoria street, westminster, he walked slowly across st. james's park and the green park till he came out in piccadilly, near the bottom of park lane. as he went up the lane he looked at his boots, at his gloves, and at his trousers, and saw that nothing was unduly soiled. the morning air was clear and frosty, and had enabled him to dispense with the costly comfort of a cab. mr. maule hated cabs in the morning,--preferring never to move beyond the tether of his short daily constitutional walk. a cab for going out to dinner was a necessity;--but his income would not stand two or three cabs a day. consequently he never went north of oxford street, or east of the theatres, or beyond eccleston square towards the river. the regions of south kensington and new brompton were a trouble to him, as he found it impossible to lay down a limit in that direction which would not exclude him from things which he fain would not exclude. there are dinners given at south kensington which such a man as mr. maule cannot afford not to eat. in park lane he knocked at the door of a very small house,--a house that might almost be called tiny by comparison of its dimensions with those around it, and then asked for madame goesler. madame goesler had that morning gone into the country. mr. maule in his blandest manner expressed some surprise, having understood that she had not long since returned from harrington hall. to this the servant assented, but went on to explain that she had been in town only a day or two when she was summoned down to matching by a telegram. it was believed, the man said, that the duke of omnium was poorly. "oh! indeed;--i am sorry to hear that," said mr. maule, with a wry face. then, with steps perhaps a little less careful, he walked back across the park to his club. on taking up the evening paper he at once saw a paragraph stating that the duke of omnium's condition to-day was much the same as yesterday; but that he had passed a quiet night. that very distinguished but now aged physician, sir omicron pie, was still staying at matching priory. "so old omnium is going off the hooks at last," said mr. maule to a club acquaintance. the club acquaintance was in parliament, and looked at the matter from a strictly parliamentary point of view. "yes, indeed. it has given a deal of trouble." mr. maule was not parliamentary, and did not understand. "why trouble,--except to himself? he'll leave his garter and strawberry-leaves, and all his acres behind him." "what is gresham to do about the exchequer when he comes in? i don't know whom he's to send there. they talk of bonteen, but bonteen hasn't half weight enough. they'll offer it to monk, but monk 'll never take office again." "ah, yes. planty pall was chancellor of the exchequer. i suppose he must give that up now?" the parliamentary acquaintance looked up at the unparliamentary man with that mingled disgust and pity which parliamentary gentlemen and ladies always entertain for those who have not devoted their minds to the constitutional forms of the country. "the chancellor of the exchequer can't very well sit in the house of lords, and palliser can't very well help becoming duke of omnium. i don't know whether he can take the decimal coinage question with him, but i fear not. they don't like it at all in the city." "i believe i'll go and play a rubber of whist," said mr. maule. he played his whist, and lost thirty points without showing the slightest displeasure, either by the tone of his voice or by any grimace of his countenance. and yet the money which passed from his hands was material to him. but he was great at such efforts as these, and he understood well the fluctuations of the whist table. the half-crowns which he had paid were only so much invested capital. he dined at his club this evening, and joined tables with another acquaintance who was not parliamentary. mr. parkinson seymour was a man much of his own stamp, who cared not one straw as to any difficulty which the prime minister might feel in filling the office of chancellor of the exchequer. there were men by dozens ready and willing, and no doubt able,--or at any rate, one as able as the other,--to manage the taxes of the country. but the blue riband and the lord lieutenancy of barsetshire were important things,--which would now be in the gift of mr. daubeny; and lady glencora would at last be a duchess,--with much effect on society, either good or bad. and planty pall would be a duke, with very much less capability, as mr. parkinson seymour thought, for filling that great office, than that which the man had displayed who was now supposed to be dying at matching. "he has been a fine old fellow," said mr. parkinson seymour. "very much so. there ain't many of that stamp left." "i don't know one," continued the gentleman, with enthusiasm. "they all go in for something now, just as jones goes in for being a bank clerk. they are politicians, or gamblers, or, by heaven, tradesmen, as some of them are. the earl of tydvil and lord merthyr are in partnership together working their own mines,--by the lord, with a regular deed of partnership, just like two cheesemongers. the marquis of maltanops has a share in a bitter beer house at burton. and the duke of discount, who married old ballance's daughter, and is brother-in-law to young george advance, retains his interest in the house in lombard street. i know it for a fact." "old omnium was above that kind of thing," said mr. maule. "lord bless you;--quite another sort of man. there is nothing left like it now. with a princely income i don't suppose he ever put by a shilling in his life. i've heard it said that he couldn't afford to marry, living in the manner in which he chose to live. and he understood what dignity meant. none of them understand that now. dukes are as common as dogs in the streets, and a marquis thinks no more of himself than a market-gardener. i'm very sorry the old duke should go. the nephew may be very good at figures, but he isn't fit to fill his uncle's shoes. as for lady glencora, no doubt as things go now she's very popular, but she's more like a dairy-maid than a duchess to my way of thinking." there was not a club in london, and hardly a drawing-room in which something was not said that day in consequence of the two bulletins which had appeared as to the condition of the old duke;--and in no club and in no drawing-room was a verdict given against the dying man. it was acknowledged everywhere that he had played his part in a noble and even in a princely manner, that he had used with a becoming grace the rich things that had been given him, and that he had deserved well of his country. and yet, perhaps, no man who had lived during the same period, or any portion of the period, had done less, or had devoted himself more entirely to the consumption of good things without the slightest idea of producing anything in return! but he had looked like a duke, and known how to set a high price on his own presence. to mr. maule the threatened demise of this great man was not without a peculiar interest. his acquaintance with madame goesler had not been of long standing, nor even as yet had it reached a close intimacy. during the last london season he had been introduced to her, and had dined twice at her house. he endeavoured to make himself agreeable to her, and he flattered himself that he had succeeded. it may be said of him generally, that he had the gift of making himself pleasant to women. when last she had parted from him with a smile, repeating the last few words of some good story which he had told her, the idea struck him that she after all might perhaps be the woman. he made his inquiries, and had learned that there was not a shadow of a doubt as to her wealth,--or even to her power of disposing of that wealth as she pleased. so he wrote to her a pretty little note, in which he gave to her the history of that good story, how it originated with a certain cardinal, and might be found in certain memoirs,--which did not, however, bear the best reputation in the world. madame goesler answered his note very graciously, thanking him for the reference, but declaring that the information given was already so sufficient that she need prosecute the inquiry no further. mr. maule smiled as he declared to himself that those memoirs would certainly be in madame goesler's hands before many days were over. had his intimacy been a little more advanced he would have sent the volume to her. but he also learned that there was some romance in the lady's life which connected her with the duke of omnium. he was diligent in seeking information, and became assured that there could be no chance for himself, or for any man, as long as the duke was alive. some hinted that there had been a private marriage,--a marriage, however, which madame goesler had bound herself by solemn oaths never to disclose. others surmised that she was the duke's daughter. hints were, of course, thrown out as to a connection of another kind,--but with no great vigour, as it was admitted on all hands that lady glencora, the duke's niece by marriage, and the mother of the duke's future heir, was madame goesler's great friend. that there was a mystery was a fact very gratifying to the world at large; and perhaps, upon the whole, the more gratifying in that nothing had occurred to throw a gleam of light upon the matter since the fact of the intimacy had become generally known. mr. maule was aware, however, that there could be no success for him as long as the duke lived. whatever might be the nature of the alliance, it was too strong to admit of any other while it lasted. but the duke was a very old,--or, at least, a very infirm man. and now the duke was dying. of course it was only a chance. mr. maule knew the world too well to lay out any great portion of his hopes on a prospect so doubtful. but it was worth a struggle, and he would so struggle that he might enjoy success, should success come, without laying himself open to the pangs of disappointment. mr. maule hated to be unhappy or uncomfortable, and therefore never allowed any aspiration to proceed to such length as to be inconvenient to his feelings should it not be gratified. in the meantime madame max goesler had been sent for, and had hurried off to matching almost without a moment's preparation. as she sat in the train, thinking of it, tears absolutely filled her eyes. "poor dear old man," she said to herself; and yet the poor dear old man had simply been a trouble to her, adding a most disagreeable task to her life, and one which she was not called on to perform by any sense of duty. "how is he?" she said anxiously, when she met lady glencora in the hall at matching. the two women kissed each other as though they had been almost sisters since their birth. "he is a little better now, but he was very uneasy when we telegraphed this morning. he asked for you twice, and then we thought it better to send." "oh, of course it was best," said madame goesler. chapter xxv. "i would do it now." though it was rumoured all over london that the duke of omnium was dying, his grace had been dressed and taken out of his bed-chamber into a sitting-room, when madame goesler was brought into his presence by lady glencora palliser. he was reclining in a great arm-chair, with his legs propped up on cushions, and a respectable old lady in a black silk gown and a very smart cap was attending to his wants. the respectable old lady took her departure when the younger ladies entered the room, whispering a word of instruction to lady glencora as she went. "his grace should have his broth at half-past four, my lady, and a glass and a half of champagne. his grace won't drink his wine out of a tumbler, so perhaps your ladyship won't mind giving it him at twice." "marie has come," said lady glencora. "i knew she would come," said the old man, turning his head round slowly on the back of his chair. "i knew she would be good to me to the last." and he laid his withered hand on the arm of his chair, so that the woman whose presence gratified him might take it within hers and comfort him. "of course i have come," said madame goesler, standing close by him and putting her left arm very lightly on his shoulder. it was all that she could do for him, but it was in order that she might do this that she had been summoned from london to his side. he was wan and worn and pale,--a man evidently dying, the oil of whose lamp was all burned out; but still as he turned his eyes up to the woman's face there was a remnant of that look of graceful fainéant nobility which had always distinguished him. he had never done any good, but he had always carried himself like a duke, and like a duke he carried himself to the end. "he is decidedly better than he was this morning," said lady glencora. "it is pretty nearly all over, my dear. sit down, marie. did they give you anything after your journey?" "i could not wait, duke." "i'll get her some tea," said lady glencora. "yes, i will. i'll do it myself. i know he wants to say a word to you alone." this she added in a whisper. but sick people hear everything, and the duke did hear the whisper. "yes, my dear;--she is quite right. i am glad to have you for a minute alone. do you love me, marie?" it was a foolish question to be asked by a dying old man of a young woman who was in no way connected with him, and whom he had never seen till some three or four years since. but it was asked with feverish anxiety, and it required an answer. "you know i love you, duke. why else should i be here?" "it is a pity you did not take the coronet when i offered it you." "nay, duke, it was no pity. had i done so, you could not have had us both." "i should have wanted only you." "and i should have stood aloof,--in despair to think that i was separating you from those with whom your grace is bound up so closely. we have ever been dear friends since that." "yes;--we have been dear friends. but--" then he closed his eyes, and put his long thin fingers across his face, and lay back awhile in silence, still holding her by the other hand. "kiss me, marie," he said at last; and she stooped over him and kissed his forehead. "i would do it now if i thought it would serve you." she only shook her head and pressed his hand closely. "i would; i would. such things have been done, my dear." [illustration: "i would; i would."] "such a thing shall never be done by me, duke." they remained seated side by side, the one holding the other by the hand, but without uttering another word, till lady glencora returned bringing a cup of tea and a morsel of toast in her own hand. madame goesler, as she took it, could not help thinking how it might have been with her had she accepted the coronet which had been offered. in that case she might have been a duchess herself, but assuredly she would not have been waited upon by a future duchess. as it was, there was no one in that family who had not cause to be grateful to her. when the duke had sipped a spoonful of his broth, and swallowed his allowance of wine, they both left him, and the respectable old lady with the smart cap was summoned back to her position. "i suppose he whispered something very gracious to you," lady glencora said when they were alone. "very gracious." "and you were gracious to him,--i hope." "i meant to be." "i'm sure you did. poor old man! if you had done what he asked you i wonder whether his affection would have lasted as it has done." "certainly not, lady glen. he would have known that i had injured him." "i declare i think you are the wisest woman i ever met, madame max. i am sure you are the most discreet. if i had always been as wise as you are!" "you always have been wise." "well,--never mind. some people fall on their feet like cats; but you are one of those who never fall at all. others tumble about in the most unfortunate way, without any great fault of their own. think of that poor lady laura." "yes, indeed." "i suppose it's true about mr. kennedy. you've heard of it of course in london." but as it happened madame goesler had not heard the story. "i got it from barrington erle, who always writes to me if anything happens. mr. kennedy has fired a pistol at the head of phineas finn." "at phineas finn!" "yes, indeed. mr. finn went to him at some hotel in london. no one knows what it was about; but mr. kennedy went off in a fit of jealousy, and fired a pistol at him." "he did not hit him?" "it seems not. mr. finn is one of those irish gentlemen who always seem to be under some special protection. the ball went through his whiskers and didn't hurt him." "and what has become of mr. kennedy?" "nothing, it seems. nobody sent for the police, and he has been allowed to go back to scotland,--as though a man were permitted by special act of parliament to try to murder his wife's lover. it would be a bad law, because it would cause such a deal of bloodshed." "but he is not lady laura's lover," said madame goesler, gravely. "that would make the law difficult, because who is to say whether a man is or is not a woman's lover?" "i don't think there was ever anything of that kind." "they were always together, but i dare say it was platonic. i believe these kind of things generally are platonic. and as for lady laura;--heavens and earth!--i suppose it must have been platonic. what did the duke say to you?" "he bade me kiss him." "poor dear old man. he never ceases to speak of you when you are away, and i do believe he could not have gone in peace without seeing you. i doubt whether in all his life he ever loved any one as he loves you. we dine at half-past seven, dear: and you had better just go into his room for a moment as you come down. there isn't a soul here except sir omicron pie, and plantagenet, and two of the other nephews,--whom, by the bye, he has refused to see. old lady hartletop wanted to come." "and you wouldn't have her?" "i couldn't have refused. i shouldn't have dared. but the duke would not hear of it. he made me write to say that he was too weak to see any but his nearest relatives. then he made me send for you, my dear;--and now he won't see the relatives. what shall we do if lady hartletop turns up? i'm living in fear of it. you'll have to be shut up out of sight somewhere if that should happen." during the next two or three days the duke was neither much better nor much worse. bulletins appeared in the newspapers, though no one at matching knew from whence they came. sir omicron pie, who, having retired from general practice, was enabled to devote his time to the "dear duke," protested that he had no hand in sending them out. he declared to lady glencora every morning that it was only a question of time. "the vital spark is on the spring," said sir omicron, waving a gesture heavenward with his hand. for three days mr. palliser was at matching, and he duly visited his uncle twice a day. but not a syllable was ever said between them beyond the ordinary words of compliments. mr. palliser spent his time with his private secretary, working out endless sums and toiling for unapproachable results in reference to decimal coinage. to him his uncle's death would be a great blow, as in his eyes to be chancellor of the exchequer was much more than to be duke of omnium. for herself lady glencora was nearly equally indifferent, though she did in her heart of hearts wish that her son should go to eton with the title of lord silverbridge. on the third morning the duke suddenly asked a question of madame goesler. the two were again sitting near to each other, and the duke was again holding her hand; but lady glencora was also in the room. "have you not been staying with lord chiltern?" "yes, duke." "he is a friend of yours." "i used to know his wife before they were married." "why does he go on writing me letters about a wood?" this he asked in a wailing voice, as though he were almost weeping. "i know nothing of lord chiltern. why does he write to me about the wood? i wish he wouldn't write to me." "he does not know that you are ill, duke. by-the-bye, i promised to speak to lady glencora about it. he says that foxes are poisoned at trumpeton wood." "i don't believe a word of it," said the duke. "no one would poison foxes in my wood. i wish you'd see about it, glencora. plantagenet will never attend to anything. but he shouldn't write to me. he ought to know better than to write letters to me. i will not have people writing letters to me. why don't they write to fothergill?" and then the duke began in truth to whimper. "i'll put it all right," said lady glencora. "i wish you would. i don't like them to say there are no foxes; and plantagenet never will attend to anything." the wife had long since ceased to take the husband's part when accusations such as this were brought against him. nothing could make mr. palliser think it worth his while to give up any shred of his time to such a matter as the preservation of foxes. on the fourth day the catastrophe happened which lady glencora had feared. a fly with a pair of horses from the matching road station was driven up to the door of the priory, and lady hartletop was announced. "i knew it," said lady glencora, slapping her hand down on the table in the room in which she was sitting with madame goesler. unfortunately the old lady was shown into the room before madame goesler could escape, and they passed each other on the threshold. the dowager marchioness of hartletop was a very stout old lady, now perhaps nearer to seventy than sixty-five years of age, who for many years had been the intimate friend of the duke of omnium. in latter days, during which she had seen but little of the duke himself, she had heard of madame max goesler, but she had never met that lady. nevertheless, she knew the rival friend at a glance. some instinct told her that that woman with the black brow and the dark curls was madame goesler. in these days the marchioness was given to waddling rather than to walking, but she waddled past the foreign female,--as she had often called madame max,--with a dignified though duck-like step. lady hartletop was a bold woman; and it must be supposed that she had some heart within her or she would hardly have made such a journey with such a purpose. "dear lady hartletop," said lady glencora, "i am so sorry that you should have had this trouble." "i must see him," said lady hartletop. lady glencora put both her hands together piteously, as though deprecating her visitor's wrath. "i must insist on seeing him." "sir omicron has refused permission to any one to visit him." "i shall not go till i've seen him. who was that lady?" "a friend of mine," said lady glencora, drawing herself up. "she is--, madame goesler." "that is her name, lady hartletop. she is my most intimate friend." "does she see the duke?" lady glencora, when expressing her fear that the woman would come to matching, had confessed that she was afraid of lady hartletop. and a feeling of dismay--almost of awe--had fallen upon her on hearing the marchioness announced. but when she found herself thus cross-examined, she resolved that she would be bold. nothing on earth should induce her to open the door of the duke's room to lady hartletop, nor would she scruple to tell the truth about madame goesler. "yes," she said, "madame goesler does see the duke." "and i am to be excluded!" "my dear lady hartletop, what can i do? the duke for some time past has been accustomed to the presence of my friend, and therefore her presence now is no disturbance. surely that can be understood." "i should not disturb him." "he would be inexpressibly excited were he to know that you were even in the house. and i could not take it upon myself to tell him." then lady hartletop threw herself upon a sofa, and began to weep piteously. "i have known him for more than forty years," she moaned, through her choking tears. lady glencora's heart was softened, and she was kind and womanly; but she would not give way about the duke. it would, as she knew, have been useless, as the duke had declared that he would see no one except his eldest nephew, his nephew's wife, and madame goesler. that evening was very dreadful to all of them at matching,--except to the duke, who was never told of lady hartletop's perseverance. the poor old woman could not be sent away on that afternoon, and was therefore forced to dine with mr. palliser. he, however, was warned by his wife to say nothing in the lady's presence about his uncle, and he received her as he would receive any other chance guest at his wife's table. but the presence of madame goesler made the chief difficulty. she herself was desirous of disappearing for that evening, but lady glencora would not permit it. "she has seen you, my dear, and asked about you. if you hide yourself, she'll say all sorts of things." an introduction was therefore necessary, and lady hartletop's manner was grotesquely grand. she dropped a very low curtsey, and made a very long face, but she did not say a word. in the evening the marchioness sat close to lady glencora, whispering many things about the duke; and condescending at last to a final entreaty that she might be permitted to see him on the following morning. "there is sir omicron," said lady glencora, turning round to the little doctor. but lady hartletop was too proud to appeal to sir omicron, who, as a matter of course, would support the orders of lady glencora. on the next morning madame goesler did not appear at the breakfast-table, and at eleven lady hartletop was taken back to the train in lady glencora's carriage. she had submitted herself to discomfort, indignity, fatigue, and disappointment; and it had all been done for love. with her broad face, and her double chin, and her heavy jowl, and the beard that was growing round her lips, she did not look like a romantic woman; but, in spite of appearances, romance and a duck-like waddle may go together. the memory of those forty years had been strong upon her, and her heart was heavy because she could not see that old man once again. men will love to the last, but they love what is fresh and new. a woman's love can live on the recollection of the past, and cling to what is old and ugly. "what an episode!" said lady glencora, when the unwelcome visitor was gone;--"but it's odd how much less dreadful things are than you think they will be. i was frightened when i heard her name; but you see we've got through it without much harm." a week passed by, and still the duke was living. but now he was too weak to be moved from one room to another, and madame goesler passed two hours each day sitting by his bedside. he would lie with his hand out upon the coverlid, and she would put hers upon it; but very few words passed between them. he grumbled again about the trumpeton woods, and lord chiltern's interference, and complained of his nephew's indifference. as to himself and his own condition, he seemed to be, at any rate, without discomfort, and was certainly free from fear. a clergyman attended him, and gave him the sacrament. he took it,--as the champagne prescribed by sir omicron, or the few mouthfuls of chicken broth which were administered to him by the old lady with the smart cap; but it may be doubted whether he thought much more of the one remedy than of the other. he knew that he had lived, and that the thing was done. his courage never failed him. as to the future, he neither feared much nor hoped much; but was, unconsciously, supported by a general trust in the goodness and the greatness of the god who had made him what he was. "it is nearly done now, marie," he said to madame goesler one evening. she only pressed his hand in answer. his condition was too well understood between them to allow of her speaking to him of any possible recovery. "it has been a great comfort to me that i have known you," he said. "oh no!" "a great comfort;--only i wish it had been sooner. i could have talked to you about things which i never did talk of to any one. i wonder why i should have been a duke, and another man a servant." "god almighty ordained such difference." "i'm afraid i have not done it well;--but i have tried; indeed i have tried." then she told him he had ever lived as a great nobleman ought to live. and, after a fashion, she herself believed what she was saying. nevertheless, her nature was much nobler than his; and she knew that no man should dare to live idly as the duke had lived. chapter xxvi. the duke's will. on the ninth day after madame goesler's arrival the duke died, and lady glencora palliser became duchess of omnium. but the change probably was much greater to mr. palliser than to his wife. it would seem to be impossible to imagine a greater change than had come upon him. as to rank, he was raised from that of a simple commoner to the very top of the tree. he was made master of almost unlimited wealth, garters, and lord-lieutenancies; and all the added grandeurs which come from high influence when joined to high rank were sure to be his. but he was no more moved by these things than would have been a god, or a block of wood. his uncle was dead; but his uncle had been an old man, and his grief on that score was moderate. as soon as his uncle's body had been laid in the family vault at gatherum, men would call him duke of omnium; and then he could never sit again in the house of commons. it was in that light, and in that light only, that he regarded the matter. to his uncle it had been everything to be duke of omnium. to plantagenet palliser it was less than nothing. he had lived among men and women with titles all his life, himself untitled, but regarded by them as one of themselves, till the thing, in his estimation, had come to seem almost nothing. one man walked out of a room before another man; and he, as chancellor of the exchequer, had, during a part of his career, walked out of most rooms before most men. but he cared not at all whether he walked out first or last,--and for him there was nothing else in it. it was a toy that would perhaps please his wife, but he doubted even whether she would not cease to be lady glencora with regret. in himself this thing that had happened had absolutely crushed him. he had won for himself by his own aptitudes and his own industry one special position in the empire,--and that position, and that alone, was incompatible with the rank which he was obliged to assume! his case was very hard, and he felt it;--but he made no complaint to human ears. "i suppose you must give up the exchequer," his wife said to him. he shook his head, and made no reply. even to her he could not explain his feelings. i think, too, that she did regret the change in her name, though she was by no means indifferent to the rank. as lady glencora she had made a reputation which might very possibly fall away from her as duchess of omnium. fame is a skittish jade, more fickle even than fortune, and apt to shy, and bolt, and plunge away on very trifling causes. as lady glencora palliser she was known to every one, and had always done exactly as she had pleased. the world in which she lived had submitted to her fantasies, and had placed her on a pedestal from which, as lady glencora, nothing could have moved her. she was by no means sure that the same pedestal would be able to carry the duchess of omnium. she must begin again, and such beginnings are dangerous. as lady glencora she had almost taken upon herself to create a rivalry in society to certain very distinguished, and indeed illustrious, people. there were only two houses in london, she used to say, to which she never went. the "never" was not quite true;--but there had been something in it. she doubted whether as duchess of omnium she could go on with this. she must lay down her mischief, and abandon her eccentricity, and in some degree act like other duchesses. "the poor old man," she said to madame goesler; "i wish he could have gone on living a little longer." at this time the two ladies were alone together at matching. mr. palliser, with the cousins, had gone to gatherum, whither also had been sent all that remained of the late duke, in order that fitting funeral obsequies might be celebrated over the great family vault. "he would hardly have wished it himself, i think." "one never knows,--and as far as one can look into futurity one has no idea what would be one's own feelings. i suppose he did enjoy life." "hardly, for the last twelve months," said madame goesler. "i think he did. he was happy when you were about him; and he interested himself about things. do you remember how much he used to think of lady eustace and her diamonds? when i first knew him he was too magnificent to care about anything." "i suppose his nature was the same." "yes, my dear; his nature was the same, but he was strong enough to restrain his nature, and wise enough to know that his magnificence was incompatible with ordinary interests. as he got to be older he broke down, and took up with mere mortal gossip. but i think it must have made him happier." "he showed his weakness in coming to me," said madame goesler, laughing. "of course he did;--not in liking your society, but in wanting to give you his name. i have often wondered what kind of things he used to say to that old lady hartletop. that was in his full grandeur, and he never condescended to speak much then. i used to think him so hard; but i suppose he was only acting his part. i used to call him the grand lama to plantagenet when we were first married,--before planty was born. i shall always call him silverbridge now instead of planty." "i would let others do that." "of course i was joking; but others will, and he will be spoilt. i wonder whether he will live to be a grand lama or a popular minister. there cannot be two positions further apart. my husband, no doubt, thinks a good deal of himself as a statesman and a clever politician,--at least i suppose he does; but he has not the slightest reverence for himself as a nobleman. if the dear old duke were hobbling along piccadilly, he was conscious that piccadilly was graced by his presence, and never moved without being aware that people looked at him, and whispered to each other,--'there goes the duke of omnium.' plantagenet considers himself inferior to a sweeper while on the crossing, and never feels any pride of place unless he is sitting on the treasury bench with his hat over his eyes." "he'll never sit on the treasury bench again." "no;--poor dear. he's an othello now with a vengeance, for his occupation is gone. i spoke to him about your friend and the foxes, and he told me to write to mr. fothergill. i will as soon as it's decent. i fancy a new duchess shouldn't write letters about foxes till the old duke is buried. i wonder what sort of a will he'll have made. there's nothing i care twopence for except his pearls. no man in england had such a collection of precious stones. they'd been yours, my dear, if you had consented to be mrs. o." the duke was buried and the will was read, and plantagenet palliser was addressed as duke of omnium by all the tenantry and retainers of the family in the great hall of gatherum castle. mr. fothergill, who had upon occasion in former days been driven by his duty to remonstrate with the heir, was all submission. planty pall had come to the throne, and half a county was ready to worship him. but he did not know how to endure worship, and the half county declared that he was stern and proud, and more haughty even than his uncle. at every "grace" that was flung at him he winced and was miserable, and declared to himself that he should never become accustomed to his new life. so he sat all alone, and meditated how he might best reconcile the forty-eight farthings which go to a shilling with that thorough-going useful decimal, fifty. but his meditations did not prevent him from writing to his wife, and on the following morning, lady glencora,--as she shall be called now for the last time,--received a letter from him which disturbed her a good deal. she was in her room when it was brought to her, and for an hour after reading it hardly knew how to see her guest and friend, madame goesler. the passage in the letter which produced this dismay was as follows:--"he has left to madame goesler twenty thousand pounds and all his jewels. the money may be very well, but i think he has been wrong about the jewellery. as to myself i do not care a straw, but you will be sorry; and then people will talk. the lawyers will, of course, write to her, but i suppose you had better tell her. they seem to think that the stones are worth a great deal of money; but i have long learned never to believe any statement that is made to me. they are all here, and i suppose she will have to send some authorised person to have them packed. there is a regular inventory, of which a copy shall be sent to her by post as soon as it can be prepared." now it must be owned that the duchess did begrudge her friend the duke's collection of pearls and diamonds. about noon they met. "my dear," she said, "you had better hear your good fortune at once. read that,--just that side. plantagenet is wrong in saying that i shall regret it. i don't care a bit about it. if i want a ring or a brooch he can buy me one. but i never did care about such things, and i don't now. the money is all just as it should be." madame goesler read the passage, and the blood mounted up into her face. she read it very slowly, and when she had finished reading it she was for a moment or two at a loss for her words to express herself. "you had better send one of garnett's people," said the duchess, naming the house of a distinguished jeweller and goldsmith in london. "it will hardly need," said madame goesler. "you had better be careful. there is no knowing what they are worth. he spent half his income on them, i believe, during part of his life." there was a roughness about the duchess of which she was herself conscious, but which she could not restrain, though she knew that it betrayed her chagrin. madame goesler came gently up to her and touched her arm caressingly. "do you remember," said madame goesler, "a small ring with a black diamond,--i suppose it was a diamond,--which he always wore?" "i remember that he always did wear such a ring." "i should like to have that," said madame goesler. "you have them all,--everything. he makes no distinction." "i should like to have that, lady glen,--for the sake of the hand that wore it. but, as god is great above us, i will never take aught else that has belonged to the duke." "not take them!" "not a gem; not a stone; not a shilling." "but you must." "i rather think that i can be under no such obligation," she said, laughing. "will you write to mr. palliser,--or i should say, to the duke,--to-night, and tell him that my mind is absolutely made up?" "i certainly shall not do that." "then i must. as it is, i shall have pleasant memories of his grace. according to my ability i have endeavoured to be good to him, and i have no stain on my conscience because of his friendship. if i took his money and his jewels,--or rather your money and your jewels,--do you think i could say as much?" "everybody takes what anybody leaves them by will." "i will be an exception to the rule, lady glen. don't you think that your friendship is more to me than all the diamonds in london?" "you shall have both, my dear," said the duchess,--quite in earnest in her promise. madame goesler shook her head. "nobody ever repudiates legacies. the queen would take the jewels if they were left to her." "i am not the queen. i have to be more careful what i do than any queen. i will take nothing under the duke's will. i will ask a boon which i have already named, and if it be given me as a gift by the duke's heir, i will wear it till i die. you will write to mr. palliser?" "i couldn't do it," said the duchess. "then i will write myself." and she did write, and of all the rich things which the duke of omnium had left to her, she took nothing but the little ring with the black stone which he had always worn on his finger. chapter xxvii. an editor's wrath. on that sunday evening in london mr. low was successful in finding the vice-chancellor, and the great judge smiled and nodded, listened to the story, and acknowledged that the circumstances were very peculiar. he thought that an injunction to restrain the publication might be given at once upon mr. finn's affidavit; and that the peculiar circumstances justified the peculiarity of mr. low's application. whether he would have said as much had the facts concerned the families of mr. joseph smith and his son-in-law mr. john jones, instead of the earl of brentford and the right honourable robert kennedy, some readers will perhaps doubt, and may doubt also whether an application coming from some newly-fledged barrister would have been received as graciously as that made by mr. low, q.c. and m.p.,--who would probably himself soon sit on some lofty legal bench. on the following morning phineas and mr. low,--and no doubt also mr. vice-chancellor pickering,--obtained early copies of the people's banner, and were delighted to find that mr. kennedy's letter did not appear in it. mr. low had made his calculation rightly. the editor, considering that he would gain more by having the young member of parliament and the standish family, as it were, in his hands than by the publication of a certain libellous letter, had resolved to put the document back for at least twenty-four hours, even though the young member neither came nor wrote as he had promised. the letter did not appear, and before ten o'clock phineas finn had made his affidavit in a dingy little room behind the vice-chancellor's court. the injunction was at once issued, and was of such potency that should any editor dare to publish any paper therein prohibited, that editor and that editor's newspaper would assuredly be crumpled up in a manner very disagreeable, if not altogether destructive. editors of newspapers are self-willed, arrogant, and stiff-necked, a race of men who believe much in themselves and little in anything else, with no feelings of reverence or respect for matters which are august enough to other men;--but an injunction from a court of chancery is a power which even an editor respects. at about noon vice-chancellor pickering's injunction was served at the office of the people's banner in quartpot alley, fleet street. it was done in duplicate,--or perhaps in triplicate,--so that there should be no evasion; and all manner of crumpling was threatened in the event of any touch of disobedience. all this happened on monday, march the first, while the poor dying duke was waiting impatiently for the arrival of his friend at matching. phineas was busy all the morning till it was time that he should go down to the house. for as soon as he could leave mr. low's chambers in lincoln's inn he had gone to judd street, to inquire as to the condition of the man who had tried to murder him. he there saw mr. kennedy's cousin, and received an assurance from that gentleman that robert kennedy should be taken down at once to loughlinter. up to that moment not a word had been said to the police as to what had been done. no more notice had been taken of the attempt to murder than might have been necessary had mr. kennedy thrown a clothes-brush at his visitor's head. there was the little hole in the post of the door with the bullet in it, just six feet above the ground; and there was the pistol, with five chambers still loaded, which macpherson had cunningly secured on his return from church, and given over to the cousin that same evening. there was certainly no want of evidence, but nobody was disposed to use it. at noon the injunction was served in quartpot alley, and was put into mr. slide's hands on his arrival at the office at three o'clock. that gentleman's duties required his attendance from three till five in the afternoon, and then again from nine in the evening till any hour in the morning at which he might be able to complete the people's banner for that day's use. he had been angry with phineas when the sunday night passed without a visit or letter at the office, as a promise had been made that there should be either a visit or a letter; but he had felt sure, as he walked into the city from his suburban residence at camden town, that he would now find some communication on the great subject. the matter was one of most serious importance. such a letter as that which was in his possession would no doubt create much surprise, and receive no ordinary attention. a people's banner could hardly ask for a better bit of good fortune than the privilege of first publishing such a letter. it would no doubt be copied into every london paper, and into hundreds of provincial papers, and every journal so copying it would be bound to declare that it was taken from the columns of the people's banner. it was, indeed, addressed "to the editor of the people's banner" in the printed slip which mr. slide had shown to phineas finn, though kennedy himself had not prefixed to it any such direction. and the letter, in the hands of quintus slide, would not simply have been a letter. it might have been groundwork for, perhaps, some half-dozen leading articles, all of a most attractive kind. mr. slide's high moral tone upon such an occasion would have been qualified to do good to every british matron, and to add virtues to the bench of bishops. all this he had postponed with some inadequately defined idea that he could do better with the property in his hands by putting himself into personal communication with the persons concerned. if he could manage to reconcile such a husband to such a wife,--or even to be conspicuous in an attempt to do so; and if he could make the old earl and the young member of parliament feel that he had spared them by abstaining from the publication, the results might be very beneficial. his conception of the matter had been somewhat hazy, and he had certainly made a mistake. but, as he walked from his home to quartpot alley, he little dreamed of the treachery with which he had been treated. "has phineas finn been here?" he asked as he took his accustomed seat within a small closet, that might be best described as a glass cage. around him lay the debris of many past newspapers, and the germs of many future publications. to all the world except himself it would have been a chaos, but to him, with his experience, it was admirable order. no; mr. finn had not been there. and then, as he was searching among the letters for one from the member for tankerville, the injunction was thrust into his hands. to say that he was aghast is but a poor form of speech for the expression of his emotion. he had been "done"--"sold,"--absolutely robbed by that wretchedly-false irishman whom he had trusted with all the confidence of a candid nature and an open heart! he had been most treacherously misused! treachery was no adequate word for the injury inflicted on him. the more potent is a man, the less accustomed to endure injustice, and the more his power to inflict it,--the greater is the sting and the greater the astonishment when he himself is made to suffer. newspaper editors sport daily with the names of men of whom they do not hesitate to publish almost the severest words that can be uttered;--but let an editor be himself attacked, even without his name, and he thinks that the thunderbolts of heaven should fall upon the offender. let his manners, his truth, his judgment, his honesty, or even his consistency be questioned, and thunderbolts are forthcoming, though they may not be from heaven. there should certainly be a thunderbolt or two now, but mr. slide did not at first quite see how they were to be forged. he read the injunction again and again. as far as the document went he knew its force, and recognised the necessity of obedience. he might, perhaps, be able to use the information contained in the letter from mr. kennedy, so as to harass phineas and lady laura and the earl, but he was at once aware that it must not be published. an editor is bound to avoid the meshes of the law, which are always infinitely more costly to companies, or things, or institutions, than they are to individuals. of fighting with chancery he had no notion; but it should go hard with him if he did not have a fight with phineas finn. and then there arose another cause for deep sorrow. a paragraph was shown to him in a morning paper of that day which must, he thought, refer to mr. kennedy and phineas finn. "a rumour has reached us that a member of parliament, calling yesterday afternoon upon a right honourable gentleman, a member of a late government, at his hotel, was shot at by the latter in his sitting room. whether the rumour be true or not we have no means of saying, and therefore abstain from publishing names. we are informed that the gentleman who used the pistol was out of his mind. the bullet did not take effect." how cruel it was that such information should have reached the hands of a rival, and not fallen in the way of the people's banner! and what a pity that the bullet should have been wasted! the paragraph must certainly refer to phineas finn and kennedy. finn, a member of parliament, had been sent by slide himself to call upon kennedy, a member of the late government, at kennedy's hotel. and the paragraph must be true. he himself had warned finn that there would be danger in the visit. he had even prophesied murder,--and murder had been attempted! the whole transaction had been, as it were, the very goods and chattels of the people's banner, and the paper had been shamefully robbed of its property. mr. slide hardly doubted that phineas finn had himself sent the paragraph to an adverse paper, with the express view of adding to the injury inflicted upon the banner. that day mr. slide hardly did his work effectively within his glass cage, so much was his mind affected, and at five o'clock, when he left his office, instead of going at once home to mrs. slide at camden town, he took an omnibus, and went down to westminster. he would at once confront the traitor who had deceived him. it must be acknowledged on behalf of this editor that he did in truth believe that he had been hindered from doing good. the whole practice of his life had taught him to be confident that the editor of a newspaper must be the best possible judge,--indeed the only possible good judge,--whether any statement or story should or should not be published. not altogether without a conscience, and intensely conscious of such conscience as did constrain him, mr. quintus slide imagined that no law of libel, no injunction from any vice-chancellor, no outward power or pressure whatever was needed to keep his energies within their proper limits. he and his newspaper formed together a simply beneficent institution, any interference with which must of necessity be an injury to the public. everything done at the office of the people's banner was done in the interest of the people,--and, even though individuals might occasionally be made to suffer by the severity with which their names were handled in its columns, the general result was good. what are the sufferings of the few to the advantage of the many? if there be fault in high places, it is proper that it be exposed. if there be fraud, adulteries, gambling, and lasciviousness,--or even quarrels and indiscretions among those whose names are known, let every detail be laid open to the light, so that the people may have a warning. that such details will make a paper "pay" mr. slide knew also; but it is not only in mr. slide's path of life that the bias of a man's mind may lead him to find that virtue and profit are compatible. an unprofitable newspaper cannot long continue its existence, and, while existing, cannot be widely beneficial. it is the circulation, the profitable circulation,--of forty, fifty, sixty, or a hundred thousand copies through all the arteries and veins of the public body which is beneficent. and how can such circulation be effected unless the taste of the public be consulted? mr. quintus slide, as he walked up westminster hall, in search of that wicked member of parliament, did not at all doubt the goodness of his cause. he could not contest the vice-chancellor's injunction, but he was firm in his opinion that the vice-chancellor's injunction had inflicted an evil on the public at large, and he was unhappy within himself in that the power and majesty and goodness of the press should still be hampered by ignorance, prejudice, and favour for the great. he was quite sure that no injunction would have been granted in favour of mr. joseph smith and mr. john jones. he went boldly up to one of the policemen who sit guarding the door of the lobby of our house of commons, and asked for mr. finn. the cerberus on the left was not sure whether mr. finn was in the house, but would send in a card if mr. slide would stand on one side. for the next quarter of an hour mr. slide heard no more of his message, and then applied again to the cerberus. the cerberus shook his head, and again desired the applicant to stand on one side. he had done all that in him lay. the other watchful cerberus standing on the right, observing that the intruder was not accommodated with any member, intimated to him the propriety of standing back in one of the corners. our editor turned round upon the man as though he would bite him;--but he did stand back, meditating an article on the gross want of attention to the public shown in the lobby of the house of commons. is it possible that any editor should endure any inconvenience without meditating an article? but the judicious editor thinks twice of such things. our editor was still in his wrath when he saw his prey come forth from the house with a card,--no doubt his own card. he leaped forward in spite of the policeman, in spite of any cerberus, and seized phineas by the arm. "i want just to have a few words," he said. he made an effort to repress his wrath, knowing that the whole world would be against him should he exhibit any violence of indignation on that spot; but phineas could see it all in the fire of his eye. "certainly," said phineas, retiring to the side of the lobby, with a conviction that the distance between him and the house was already sufficient. "can't you come down into westminster hall?" "i should only have to come up again. you can say what you've got to say here." "i've got a great deal to say. i never was so badly treated in my life;--never." he could not quite repress his voice, and he saw that a policeman looked at him. phineas saw it also. "because we have hindered you from publishing an untrue and very slanderous letter about a lady!" "you promised me that you'd come to me yesterday." "i think not. i think i said that you should hear from me,--and you did." "you call that truth,--and honesty!" "certainly i do. of course it was my first duty to stop the publication of the letter." "you haven't done that yet." "i've done my best to stop it. if you have nothing more to say i'll wish you good evening." "i've a deal more to say. you were shot at, weren't you?" "i have no desire to make any communication to you on anything that has occurred, mr. slide. if i stayed with you all the afternoon i could tell you nothing more. good evening." "i'll crush you," said quintus slide, in a stage whisper; "i will, as sure as my name is slide." phineas looked at him and retired into the house, whither quintus slide could not follow him, and the editor of the people's banner was left alone in his anger. "how a cock can crow on his own dunghill!" that was mr. slide's first feeling, as with a painful sense of diminished consequence he retraced his steps through the outer lobbies and down into westminster hall. he had been browbeaten by phineas finn, simply because phineas had been able to retreat within those happy doors. he knew that to the eyes of all the policemen and strangers assembled phineas finn had been a hero, a parliamentary hero, and he had been some poor outsider,--to be ejected at once should he make himself disagreeable to the members. nevertheless, had he not all the columns of the people's banner in his pocket? was he not great in the fourth estate,--much greater than phineas finn in his estate? could he not thunder every night so that an audience to be counted by hundreds of thousands should hear his thunder;--whereas this poor member of parliament must struggle night after night for an opportunity of speaking; and could then only speak to benches half deserted; or to a few members half asleep,--unless the press should choose to convert his words into thunderbolts. who could doubt for a moment with which lay the greater power? and yet this wretched irishman, who had wriggled himself into parliament on a petition, getting the better of a good, downright english john bull by a quibble, had treated him with scorn,--the wretched irishman being for the moment like a cock on his own dunghill. quintus slide was not slow to tell himself that he also had an elevation of his own, from which he could make himself audible. in former days he had forgiven phineas finn more than once. if he ever forgave phineas finn again might his right hand forget its cunning, and never again draw blood or tear a scalp. chapter xxviii. the first thunderbolt. it was not till after mr. slide had left him that phineas wrote the following letter to lady laura:-- house of commons, st march, --. my dear friend, i have a long story to tell, which i fear i shall find difficult in the telling; but it is so necessary that you should know the facts that i must go through with it as best i may. it will give you very great pain; but the result as regards your own position will not i think be injurious to you. yesterday, sunday, a man came to me who edits a newspaper, and whom i once knew. you will remember when i used to tell you in portman square of the amenities and angers of mr. slide,--the man who wanted to sit for loughton. he is the editor. he brought me a long letter from mr. kennedy himself, intended for publication, and which was already printed, giving an elaborate and, i may say, a most cruelly untrue account of your quarrel. i read the letter, but of course cannot remember the words. nor if i could remember them should i repeat them. they contained all the old charges with which you are familiar, and which your unfortunate husband now desired to publish in consummation of his threats. why mr. slide should have brought me the paper before publishing it i can hardly understand. but he did so;--and told me that mr. kennedy was in town. we have managed among us to obtain a legal warrant for preventing the publication of the letter, and i think i may say that it will not see the light. when mr. slide left me i called on mr. kennedy, whom i found in a miserable little hotel, in judd street, kept by scotch people named macpherson. they had come from the neighbourhood of loughlinter, and knew mr. kennedy well. this was yesterday afternoon, sunday, and i found some difficulty in making my way into his presence. my object was to induce him to withdraw the letter;--for at that time i doubted whether the law could interfere quickly enough to prevent the publication. i found your husband in a very sad condition. what he said or what i said i forget; but he was as usual intensely anxious that you should return to him. i need not hesitate now to say that he is certainly mad. after a while, when i expressed my assured opinion that you would not go back to loughlinter, he suddenly turned round, grasped a revolver, and fired at my head. how i got out of the room i don't quite remember. had he repeated the shot, which he might have done over and over again, he must have hit me. as it was i escaped, and blundered down the stairs to mrs. macpherson's room. they whom i have consulted in the matter, namely, barrington erle and my particular friend, mr. low,--to whom i went for legal assistance in stopping the publication,--seem to think that i should have at once sent for the police, and given mr. kennedy in charge. but i did not do so, and hitherto the police have, i believe, no knowledge of what occurred. a paragraph appeared in one of the morning papers to-day, giving almost an accurate account of the matter, but mentioning neither the place nor any of the names. no doubt it will be repeated in all the papers, and the names will soon be known. but the result will be simply a general conviction as to the insanity of poor mr. kennedy,--as to which they who know him have had for a long time but little doubt. the macphersons seem to have been very anxious to screen their guest. at any other hotel no doubt the landlord would have sent for the police;--but in this case the attempt was kept quite secret. they did send for george kennedy, a cousin of your husband's, whom i think you know, and whom i saw this morning. he assures me that robert kennedy is quite aware of the wickedness of the attempt he made, and that he is plunged in deep remorse. he is to be taken down to loughlinter to-morrow, and is,--so says his cousin,--as tractable as a child. what george kennedy means to do, i cannot say; but for myself, as i did not send for the police at the moment, as i am told i ought to have done, i shall now do nothing. i don't know that a man is subject to punishment because he does not make complaint. i suppose i have a right to regard it all as an accident if i please. but for you this must be very important. that mr. kennedy is insane there cannot now, i think, be a doubt; and therefore the question of your returning to him,--as far as there has been any question,--is absolutely settled. none of your friends would be justified in allowing you to return. he is undoubtedly mad, and has done an act which is not murderous only on that conclusion. this settles the question so perfectly that you could, no doubt, reside in england now without danger. mr. kennedy himself would feel that he could take no steps to enforce your return after what he did yesterday. indeed, if you could bring yourself to face the publicity, you could, i imagine, obtain a legal separation which would give you again the control of your own fortune. i feel myself bound to mention this; but i give you no advice. you will no doubt explain all the circumstances to your father. i think i have now told you everything that i need tell you. the thing only happened yesterday, and i have been all the morning busy, getting the injunction, and seeing mr. george kennedy. just before i began this letter that horrible editor was with me again, threatening me with all the penalties which an editor can inflict. to tell the truth, i do feel confused among them all, and still fancy that i hear the click of the pistol. that newspaper paragraph says that the ball went through my whiskers, which was certainly not the case;--but a foot or two off is quite near enough for a pistol ball. the duke of omnium is dying, and i have heard to-day that madame goesler, our old friend, has been sent for to matching. she and i renewed our acquaintance the other day at harrington. god bless you. your most sincere friend, phineas finn. do not let my news oppress you. the firing of the pistol is a thing done and over without evil results. the state of mr. kennedy's mind is what we have long suspected; and, melancholy though it be, should contain for you at any rate this consolation,--that the accusations made against you would not have been made had his mind been unclouded. twice while finn was writing this letter was he rung into the house for a division, and once it was suggested to him to say a few words of angry opposition to the government on some not important subject under discussion. since the beginning of the session hardly a night had passed without some verbal sparring, and very frequently the limits of parliamentary decorum had been almost surpassed. never within the memory of living politicians had political rancour been so sharp, and the feeling of injury so keen, both on the one side and on the other. the taunts thrown at the conservatives, in reference to the church, had been almost unendurable,--and the more so because the strong expressions of feeling from their own party throughout the country were against them. their own convictions also were against them. and there had for a while been almost a determination through the party to deny their leader and disclaim the bill. but a feeling of duty to the party had prevailed, and this had not been done. it had not been done; but the not doing of it was a sore burden on the half-broken shoulders of many a man who sat gloomily on the benches behind mr. daubeny. men goaded as they were, by their opponents, by their natural friends, and by their own consciences, could not bear it in silence, and very bitter things were said in return. mr. gresham was accused of a degrading lust for power. no other feeling could prompt him to oppose with a factious acrimony never before exhibited in that house,--so said some wretched conservative with broken back and broken heart,--a measure which he himself would only be too willing to carry were he allowed the privilege of passing over to the other side of the house for the purpose. in these encounters, phineas finn had already exhibited his prowess, and, in spite of his declarations at tankerville, had become prominent as an opponent to mr. daubeny's bill. he had, of course, himself been taunted, and held up in the house to the execration of his own constituents; but he had enjoyed his fight, and had remembered how his friend mr. monk had once told him that the pleasure lay all on the side of opposition. but on this evening he declined to speak. "i suppose you have hardly recovered from kennedy's pistol," said mr. ratler, who had, of course, heard the whole story. "that, and the whole affair together have upset me," said phineas. "fitzgibbon will do it for you; he's in the house." and so it happened that on that occasion the honourable laurence fitzgibbon made a very effective speech against the government. on the next morning from the columns of the people's banner was hurled the first of those thunderbolts with which it was the purpose of mr. slide absolutely to destroy the political and social life of phineas finn. he would not miss his aim as mr. kennedy had done. he would strike such blows that no constituency should ever venture to return mr. finn again to parliament; and he thought that he could also so strike his blows that no mighty nobleman, no distinguished commoner, no lady of rank should again care to entertain the miscreant and feed him with the dainties of fashion. the first thunderbolt was as follows:-- we abstained yesterday from alluding to a circumstance which occurred at a small hotel in judd street on sunday afternoon, and which, as we observe, was mentioned by one of our contemporaries. the names, however, were not given, although the persons implicated were indicated. we can see no reason why the names should be concealed. indeed, as both the gentlemen concerned have been guilty of very great criminality, we think that we are bound to tell the whole story,--and this the more especially as certain circumstances have in a very peculiar manner placed us in possession of the facts. it is no secret that for the last two years lady laura kennedy has been separated from her husband, the honourable robert kennedy, who, in the last administration, under mr. mildmay, held the office of chancellor of the duchy of lancaster; and we believe as little a secret that mr. kennedy has been very persistent in endeavouring to recall his wife to her home. with equal persistence she has refused to obey, and we have in our hands the clearest possible evidence that mr. kennedy has attributed her obstinate refusal to influence exercised over her by mr. phineas finn, who three years since was her father's nominee for the then existing borough of loughton, and who lately succeeded in ousting poor mr. browborough from his seat for tankerville by his impetuous promises to support that very measure of church reform which he is now opposing with that venom which makes him valuable to his party. whether mr. phineas finn will ever sit in another parliament we cannot, of course, say, but we think we can at least assure him that he will never again sit for tankerville. on last sunday afternoon mr. finn, knowing well the feeling with which he is regarded by mr. kennedy, outraged all decency by calling upon that gentleman, whose address he obtained from our office. what took place between them no one knows, and, probably, no one ever will know. but the interview was ended by mr. kennedy firing a pistol at mr. finn's head. that he should have done so without the grossest provocation no one will believe. that mr. finn had gone to the husband to interfere with him respecting his wife is an undoubted fact,--a fact which, if necessary, we are in a position to prove. that such interference must have been most heartrending every one will admit. this intruder, who had thrust himself upon the unfortunate husband on the sabbath afternoon, was the very man whom the husband accuses of having robbed him of the company and comfort of his wife. but we cannot, on that account, absolve mr. kennedy of the criminality of his act. it should be for a jury to decide what view should be taken of that act, and to say how far the outrageous provocation offered should be allowed to palliate the offence. but hitherto the matter has not reached the police. mr. finn was not struck, and managed to escape from the room. it was his manifest duty as one of the community, and more especially so as a member of parliament, to have reported all the circumstances at once to the police. this was not done by him, nor by the persons who keep the hotel. that mr. finn should have reasons of his own for keeping the whole affair secret, and for screening the attempt at murder, is clear enough. what inducements have been used with the people of the house we cannot, of course, say. but we understand that mr. kennedy has been allowed to leave london without molestation. such is the true story of what occurred on sunday afternoon in judd street, and, knowing what we do, we think ourselves justified in calling upon major mackintosh to take the case into his own hands. now major mackintosh was at this time the head of the london constabulary. it is quite out of the question that such a transaction should take place in the heart of london at three o'clock on a sunday afternoon, and be allowed to pass without notice. we intend to keep as little of what we know from the public as possible, and do not hesitate to acknowledge that we are debarred by an injunction of the vice-chancellor from publishing a certain document which would throw the clearest light upon the whole circumstance. as soon as possible after the shot was fired mr. finn went to work, and, as we think, by misrepresentations, obtained the injunction early on yesterday morning. we feel sure that it would not have been granted had the transaction in judd street been at the time known to the vice-chancellor in all its enormity. our hands are, of course, tied. the document in question is still with us, but it is sacred. when called upon to show it by any proper authority we shall be ready; but, knowing what we do know, we should not be justified in allowing the matter to sleep. in the meantime we call upon those whose duty it is to preserve the public peace to take the steps necessary for bringing the delinquents to justice. the effect upon mr. finn, we should say, must be his immediate withdrawal from public life. for the last year or two he has held some subordinate but permanent place in ireland, which he has given up on the rumour that the party to which he has attached himself is likely to return to office. that he is a seeker after office is notorious. that any possible government should now employ him, even as a tide-waiter, is quite out of the question; and it is equally out of the question that he should be again returned to parliament, were he to resign his seat on accepting office. as it is, we believe, notorious that this gentleman cannot maintain the position which he holds without being paid for his services, it is reasonable to suppose that his friends will recommend him to retire, and seek his living in some obscure, and, let us hope, honest profession. mr. slide, when his thunderbolt was prepared, read it over with delight, but still with some fear as to probable results. it was expedient that he should avoid a prosecution for libel, and essential that he should not offend the majesty of the vice-chancellor's injunction. was he sure that he was safe in each direction? as to the libel, he could not tell himself that he was certainly safe. he was saying very hard things both of lady laura and of phineas finn, and sailing very near the wind. but neither of those persons would probably be willing to prosecute; and, should he be prosecuted, he would then, at any rate, be able to give in mr. kennedy's letter as evidence in his own defence. he really did believe that what he was doing was all done in the cause of morality. it was the business of such a paper as that which he conducted to run some risk in defending morals, and exposing distinguished culprits on behalf of the public. and then, without some such risk, how could phineas finn be adequately punished for the atrocious treachery of which he had been guilty? as to the chancellor's order, mr. slide thought that he had managed that matter very completely. no doubt he had acted in direct opposition to the spirit of the injunction, but legal orders are read by the letter, and not by the spirit. it was open to him to publish anything he pleased respecting mr. kennedy and his wife, subject, of course, to the general laws of the land in regard to libel. the vice-chancellor's special order to him referred simply to a particular document, and from that document he had not quoted a word, though he had contrived to repeat all the bitter things which it contained, with much added venom of his own. he felt secure of being safe from any active anger on the part of the vice-chancellor. the article was printed and published. the reader will perceive that it was full of lies. it began with a lie in that statement that "we abstained yesterday from alluding to circumstances" which had been unknown to the writer when his yesterday's paper was published. the indignant reference to poor finn's want of delicacy in forcing himself upon mr. kennedy on the sabbath afternoon, was, of course, a tissue of lies. the visit had been made almost at the instigation of the editor himself. the paper from beginning to end was full of falsehood and malice, and had been written with the express intention of creating prejudice against the man who had offended the writer. but mr. slide did not know that he was lying, and did not know that he was malicious. the weapon which he used was one to which his hand was accustomed, and he had been led by practice to believe that the use of such weapons by one in his position was not only fair, but also beneficial to the public. had anybody suggested to him that he was stabbing his enemy in the dark, he would have averred that he was doing nothing of the kind, because the anonymous accusation of sinners in high rank was, on behalf of the public, the special duty of writers and editors attached to the public press. mr. slide's blood was running high with virtuous indignation against our hero as he inserted those last cruel words as to the choice of an obscure but honest profession. phineas finn read the article before he sat down to breakfast on the following morning, and the dagger went right into his bosom. every word told upon him. with a jaunty laugh within his own sleeve he had assured himself that he was safe against any wound which could be inflicted on him from the columns of the people's banner. he had been sure that he would be attacked, and thought that he was armed to bear it. but the thin blade penetrated every joint of his harness, and every particle of the poison curdled in his blood. he was hurt about lady laura; he was hurt about his borough of tankerville; he was hurt by the charges against him of having outraged delicacy; he was hurt by being handed over to the tender mercies of major mackintosh; he was hurt by the craft with which the vice-chancellor's injunction had been evaded; but he was especially hurt by the allusions to his own poverty. it was necessary that he should earn his bread, and no doubt he was a seeker after place. but he did not wish to obtain wages without working for them; and he did not see why the work and wages of a public office should be less honourable than those of any other profession. to him, with his ideas, there was no profession so honourable, as certainly there were none which demanded greater sacrifices or were more precarious. and he did believe that such an article as that would have the effect of shutting against him the gates of that dangerous paradise which he desired to enter. he had no great claim upon his party; and, in giving away the good things of office, the giver is only too prone to recognise any objections against an individual which may seem to relieve him from the necessity of bestowing aught in that direction. phineas felt that he would almost be ashamed to show his face at the clubs or in the house. he must do so as a matter of course, but he knew that he could not do so without confessing by his visage that he had been deeply wounded by the attack in the people's banner. he went in the first instance to mr. low, and was almost surprised that mr. low should not have yet even have heard that such an attack had been made. he had almost felt, as he walked to lincoln's inn, that everybody had looked at him, and that passers-by in the street had declared to each other that he was the unfortunate one who had been doomed by the editor of the people's banner to seek some obscure way of earning his bread. mr. low took the paper, read, or probably only half read, the article, and then threw the sheet aside as worthless. "what ought i to do?" "nothing at all." "one's first desire would be to beat him to a jelly." "of all courses that would be the worst, and would most certainly conduce to his triumph." "just so;--i only allude to the pleasure one would have, but which one has to deny oneself. i don't know whether he has laid himself open for libel." "i should think not. i have only just glanced at it, and therefore can't give an opinion; but i should think you would not dream of such a thing. your object is to screen lady laura's name." "i have to think of that first." "it may be necessary that steps should be taken to defend her character. if an accusation be made with such publicity as to enforce belief if not denied, the denial must be made, and may probably be best made by an action for libel. but that must be done by her or her friends,--but certainly not by you." "he has laughed at the vice-chancellor's injunction." "i don't think that you can interfere. if, as you believe, mr. kennedy be insane, that fact will probably soon be proved, and will have the effect of clearing lady laura's character. a wife may be excused for leaving a mad husband." "and you think i should do nothing?" "i don't see what you can do. you have encountered a chimney sweeper, and of course you get some of the soot. what you do do, and what you do not do, must depend at any rate on the wishes of lady laura kennedy and her father. it is a matter in which you must make yourself subordinate to them." fuming and fretting, and yet recognising the truth of mr. low's words, phineas left the chambers, and went down to his club. it was a wednesday, and the house was to sit in the morning; but before he went to the house he put himself in the way of certain of his associates in order that he might hear what would be said, and learn if possible what was thought. nobody seemed to treat the accusations in the newspaper as very serious, though all around him congratulated him on his escape from mr. kennedy's pistol. "i suppose the poor man really is mad," said lord cantrip, whom he met on the steps of one of the clubs. "no doubt, i should say." "i can't understand why you didn't go to the police." "i had hoped the thing would not become public," said phineas. "everything becomes public;--everything of that kind. it is very hard upon poor lady laura." "that is the worst of it, lord cantrip." "if i were her father i should bring her to england, and demand a separation in a regular and legal way. that is what he should do now in her behalf. she would then have an opportunity of clearing her character from imputations which, to a certain extent, will affect it, even though they come from a madman, and from the very scum of the press." "you have read that article?" "yes;--i saw it but a minute ago." "i need not tell you that there is not the faintest ground in the world for the imputation made against lady laura there." "i am sure that there is none;--and therefore it is that i tell you my opinion so plainly. i think that lord brentford should be advised to bring lady laura to england, and to put down the charges openly in court. it might be done either by an application to the divorce court for a separation, or by an action against the newspaper for libel. i do not know lord brentford quite well enough to intrude upon him with a letter, but i have no objection whatever to having my name mentioned to him. he and i and you and poor mr. kennedy sat together in the same government, and i think that lord brentford would trust my friendship so far." phineas thanked him, and assured him that what he had said should be conveyed to lord brentford. chapter xxix. the spooner correspondence. it will be remembered that adelaide palliser had accepted the hand of mr. maule, junior, and that she and lady chiltern between them had despatched him up to london on an embassy to his father, in which he failed very signally. it had been originally lady chiltern's idea that the proper home for the young couple would be the ancestral hall, which must be theirs some day, and in which, with exceeding prudence, they might be able to live as maules of maule abbey upon the very limited income which would belong to them. how slight were the grounds for imputing such stern prudence to gerard maule both the ladies felt;--but it had become essential to do something; the young people were engaged to each other, and a manner of life must be suggested, discussed, and as far as possible arranged. lady chiltern was useful at such work, having a practical turn of mind, and understanding well the condition of life for which it was necessary that her friend should prepare herself. the lover was not vicious, he neither drank nor gambled, nor ran himself hopelessly in debt. he was good-humoured and tractable, and docile enough when nothing disagreeable was asked from him. he would have, he said, no objection to live at maule abbey if adelaide liked it. he didn't believe much in farming, but would consent at adelaide's request to be the owner of bullocks. he was quite ready to give up hunting, having already taught himself to think that the very few good runs in a season were hardly worth the trouble of getting up before daylight all the winter. he went forth, therefore, on his embassy, and we know how he failed. another lover would have communicated the disastrous tidings at once to the lady; but gerard maule waited a week before he did so, and then told his story in half-a-dozen words. "the governor cut up rough about maule abbey, and will not hear of it. he generally does cut up rough." "but he must be made to hear of it," said lady chiltern. two days afterwards the news reached harrington of the death of the duke of omnium. a letter of an official nature reached adelaide from mr. fothergill, in which the writer explained that he had been desired by mr. palliser to communicate to her and the relatives the sad tidings. "so the poor old man has gone at last," said lady chiltern, with that affectation of funereal gravity which is common to all of us. "poor old duke!" said adelaide. "i have been hearing of him as a sort of bugbear all my life. i don't think i ever saw him but once, and then he gave me a kiss and a pair of earrings. he never paid any attention to us at all, but we were taught to think that providence had been very good to us in making the duke our uncle." "he was very rich?" "horribly rich, i have always heard." "won't he leave you something? it would be very nice now that you are engaged to find that he has given you five thousand pounds." "very nice indeed;--but there is not a chance of it. it has always been known that everything is to go to the heir. papa had his fortune and spent it. he and his brother were never friends, and though the duke did once give me a kiss i imagine that he forgot my existence immediately afterwards." "so the duke of omnium is dead," said lord chiltern when he came home that evening. "adelaide has had a letter to tell her so this afternoon." "mr. fothergill wrote to me," said adelaide;--"the man who is so wicked about the foxes." "i don't care a straw about mr. fothergill; and now my mouth is closed against your uncle. but it's quite frightful to think that a duke of omnium must die like anybody else." "the duke is dead;--long live the duke," said lady chiltern. "i wonder how mr. palliser will like it." "men always do like it, i suppose," said adelaide. "women do," said lord chiltern. "lady glencora will be delighted to reign,--though i can hardly fancy her by any other name. by the bye, adelaide, i have got a letter for you." "a letter for me, lord chiltern!" "well,--yes; i suppose i had better give it you. it is not addressed to you, but you must answer it." "what on earth is it?" "i think i can guess," said lady chiltern, laughing. she had guessed rightly, but adelaide palliser was still altogether in the dark when lord chiltern took a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. as he did so he left the room, and his wife followed him. "i shall be upstairs, adelaide, if you want advice," said lady chiltern. the letter was from mr. spooner. he had left harrington hall after the uncourteous reception which had been accorded to him by miss palliser in deep disgust, resolving that he would never again speak to her, and almost resolving that spoon hall should never have a mistress in his time. but with his wine after dinner his courage came back to him, and he began to reflect once more that it is not the habit of young ladies to accept their lovers at the first offer. there was living with mr. spooner at this time a very attached friend, whom he usually consulted in all emergencies, and to whom on this occasion he opened his heart. mr. edward spooner, commonly called ned by all who knew him, and not unfrequently so addressed by those who did not, was a distant cousin of the squire's, who unfortunately had no particular income of his own. for the last ten years he had lived at spoon hall, and had certainly earned his bread. the squire had achieved a certain credit for success as a country gentleman. nothing about his place was out of order. his own farming, which was extensive, succeeded. his bullocks and sheep won prizes. his horses were always useful and healthy. his tenants were solvent, if not satisfied, and he himself did not owe a shilling. now many people in the neighbourhood attributed all this to the judicious care of mr. edward spooner, whose eye was never off the place, and whose discretion was equal to his zeal. in giving the squire his due, one must acknowledge that he recognised the merits of his cousin, and trusted him in everything. that night, as soon as the customary bottle of claret had succeeded the absolutely normal bottle of port after dinner, mr. spooner of spoon hall opened his heart to his cousin. "i shall have to walk, then," said ned. "not if i know it," said the squire. "you don't suppose i'm going to let any woman have the command of spoon hall?" "they do command,--inside, you know." "no woman shall ever turn you out of this house, ned." "i'm not thinking of myself, tom," said the cousin. "of course you'll marry some day, and of course i must take my chance. i don't see why it shouldn't be miss palliser as well as another." "the jade almost made me angry." "i suppose that's the way with most of 'em. 'ludit exultim metuitque tangi'." for ned spooner had himself preserved some few tattered shreds of learning from his school days. "you don't remember about the filly?" "yes i do; very well," said the squire. "'nuptiarum expers.' that's what it is, i suppose. try it again." the advice on the part of the cousin was genuine and unselfish. that mr. spooner of spoon hall should be rejected by a young lady without any fortune seemed to him to be impossible. at any rate it is the duty of a man in such circumstances to persevere. as far as ned knew the world, ladies always required to be asked a second or a third time. and then no harm can come from such perseverance. "she can't break your bones, tom." there was much honesty displayed on this occasion. the squire, when he was thus instigated to persevere, did his best to describe the manner in which he had been rejected. his powers of description were not very great, but he did not conceal anything wilfully. "she was as hard as nails, you know." "i don't know that that means much. horace's filly kicked a few, no doubt." "she told me that if i'd go one way, she'd go the other!" "they always say about the hardest things that come to their tongues. they don't curse and swear as we do, or there'd be no bearing them. if you really like her--" "she's such a well-built creature! there's a look of blood about her i don't see in any of 'em. that sort of breeding is what one wants to get through the mud with." then it was that the cousin recommended a letter to lord chiltern. lord chiltern was at the present moment to be regarded as the lady's guardian, and was the lover's intimate friend. a direct proposal had already been made to the young lady, and this should now be repeated to the gentleman who for the time stood in the position of her father. the squire for a while hesitated, declaring that he was averse to make his secret known to lord chiltern. "one doesn't want every fellow in the country to know it," he said. but in answer to this the cousin was very explicit. there could be but little doubt that lord chiltern knew the secret already; and he would certainly be rather induced to keep it as a secret than to divulge it if it were communicated to him officially. and what other step could the squire take? it would not be likely that he should be asked again to harrington hall with the express view of repeating his offer. the cousin was quite of opinion that a written proposition should be made; and on that very night the cousin himself wrote out a letter for the squire to copy in the morning. on the morning the squire copied the letter,--not without additions of his own, as to which he had very many words with his discreet cousin,--and in a formal manner handed it to lord chiltern towards the afternoon of that day, having devoted his whole morning to the finding of a proper opportunity for doing so. lord chiltern had read the letter, and had, as we see, delivered it to adelaide palliser. "that's another proposal from mr. spooner," lady chiltern said, as soon as they were alone. "exactly that." "i knew he'd go on with it. men are such fools." "i don't see that he's a fool at all;" said lord chiltern, almost in anger. "why shouldn't he ask a girl to be his wife? he's a rich man, and she hasn't got a farthing." "you might say the same of a butcher, oswald." "mr. spooner is a gentleman." "you do not mean to say that he's fit to marry such a girl as adelaide palliser?" "i don't know what makes fitness. he's got a red nose, and if she don't like a red nose,--that's unfitness. gerard maule's nose isn't red, and i dare say therefore he's fitter. only, unfortunately, he has no money." "adelaide palliser would no more think of marrying mr. spooner than you would have thought of marrying the cook." "if i had liked the cook i should have asked her, and i don't see why mr. spooner shouldn't ask miss palliser. she needn't take him." in the meantime miss palliser was reading the following letter:-- spoon hall, th march, --. my dear lord chiltern,-- i venture to suppose that at present you are acting as the guardian of miss palliser, who has been staying at your house all the winter. if i am wrong in this i hope you will pardon me, and consent to act in that capacity for this occasion. i entertain feelings of the greatest admiration and warmest affection for the young lady i have named, which i ventured to express when i had the pleasure of staying at harrington hall in the early part of last month. i cannot boast that i was received on that occasion with much favour; but i know that i am not very good at talking, and we are told in all the books that no man has a right to expect to be taken at the first time of asking. perhaps miss palliser will allow me, through you, to request her to consider my proposal with more deliberation than was allowed to me before, when i spoke to her perhaps with injudicious hurry. so far the squire adopted his cousin's words without alteration. i am the owner of my own property,--which is more than everybody can say. my income is nearly £ , a year. i shall be willing to make any proper settlement that may be recommended by the lawyers,--though i am strongly of opinion that an estate shouldn't be crippled for the sake of the widow. as to refurnishing the old house, and all that, i'll do anything that miss palliser may please. she knows my taste about hunting, and i know hers, so that there need not be any difference of opinion on that score. miss palliser can't suspect me of any interested motives. i come forward because i think she is the most charming girl i ever saw, and because i love her with all my heart. i haven't got very much to say for myself, but if she'll consent to be the mistress of spoon hall, she shall have all that the heart of a woman can desire. pray believe me, my dear lord chiltern, yours very sincerely, thomas platter spooner. as i believe that miss palliser is fond of books, it may be well to tell her that there is an uncommon good library at spoon hall. i shall have no objection to go abroad for the honeymoon for three or four months in the summer. the postscript was the squire's own, and was inserted in opposition to the cousin's judgment. "she won't come for the sake of the books," said the cousin. but the squire thought that the attractions should be piled up. "i wouldn't talk of the honeymoon till i'd got her to come round a little," said the cousin. the squire thought that the cousin was falsely delicate, and pleaded that all girls like to be taken abroad when they're married. the second half of the body of the letter was very much disfigured by the squire's petulance; so that the modesty with which he commenced was almost put to the blush by a touch of arrogance in the conclusion. that sentence in which the squire declared that an estate ought not to be crippled for the sake of the widow was very much questioned by the cousin. "such a word as 'widow' never ought to go into such a letter as this." but the squire protested that he would not be mealy-mouthed. "she can bear to think of it, i'll go bail; and why shouldn't she hear about what she can think about?" "don't talk about furniture yet, tom," the cousin said; but the squire was obstinate, and the cousin became hopeless. that word about loving her with all his heart was the cousin's own, but what followed, as to her being mistress of spoon hall, was altogether opposed to his judgment. "she'll be proud enough of spoon hall if she comes here," said the squire. "i'd let her come first," said the cousin. we all know that the phraseology of the letter was of no importance whatever. when it was received the lady was engaged to another man; and she regarded mr. spooner of spoon hall as being guilty of unpardonable impudence in approaching her at all. "a red-faced vulgar old man, who looks as if he did nothing but drink," she said to lady chiltern. "he does you no harm, my dear." "but he does do harm. he makes things very uncomfortable. he has no business to think it possible. people will suppose that i gave him encouragement." "i used to have lovers coming to me year after year,--the same people,--whom i don't think i ever encouraged; but i never felt angry with them." "but you didn't have mr. spooner." "mr. spooner didn't know me in those days, or there is no saying what might have happened." then lady chiltern argued the matter on views directly opposite to those which she had put forward when discussing the matter with her husband. "i always think that any man who is privileged to sit down to table with you is privileged to ask. there are disparities of course which may make the privilege questionable,--disparities of age, rank, and means." "and of tastes," said adelaide. "i don't know about that.--a poet doesn't want to marry a poetess, nor a philosopher a philosopheress. a man may make himself a fool by putting himself in the way of certain refusal; but i take it the broad rule is that a man may fall in love with any lady who habitually sits in his company." "i don't agree with you at all. what would be said if the curate at long royston were to propose to one of the fitzhoward girls?" "the duchess would probably ask the duke to make the young man a bishop out of hand, and the duke would have to spend a morning in explaining to her the changes which have come over the making of bishops since she was young. there is no other rule that you can lay down, and i think that girls should understand that they have to fight their battles subject to that law. it's very easy to say, 'no.'" "but a man won't take 'no.'" "and it's lucky for us sometimes that they don't," said lady chiltern, remembering certain passages in her early life. the answer was written that night by lord chiltern after much consultation. as to the nature of the answer,--that it should be a positive refusal,--of course there could be no doubt; but then arose a question whether a reason should be given, or whether the refusal should be simply a refusal. at last it was decided that a reason should be given, and the letter ran as follows:-- my dear mr. spooner, i am commissioned to inform you that miss palliser is engaged to be married to mr. gerard maule. yours faithfully, chiltern. the young lady had consented to be thus explicit because it had been already determined that no secret should be kept as to her future prospects. "he is one of those poverty-stricken wheedling fellows that one meets about the world every day," said the squire to his cousin--"a fellow that rides horses that he can't pay for, and owes some poor devil of a tailor for the breeches that he sits in. they eat, and drink, and get along heaven only knows how. but they're sure to come to smash at last. girls are such fools nowadays." "i don't think there has ever been much difference in that," said the cousin. "because a man greases his whiskers, and colours his hair, and paints his eyebrows, and wears kid gloves, by george, they'll go through fire and water after him. he'll never marry her." "so much the better for her." "but i hate such d---- impudence. what right has a man to come forward in that way who hasn't got a house over his head, or the means of getting one? old maule is so hard up that he can barely get a dinner at his club in london. what i wonder at is that lady chiltern shouldn't know better." chapter xxx. regrets. madame goesler remained at matching till after the return of mr. palliser--or, as we must now call him, the duke of omnium--from gatherum castle, and was therefore able to fight her own battle with him respecting the gems and the money which had been left her. he brought to her with his own hands the single ring which she had requested, and placed it on her finger. "the goldsmith will soon make that all right," she said, when it was found to be much too large for the largest finger on which she could wear a ring. "a bit shall be taken out, but i will not have it reset." "you got the lawyer's letter and the inventory, madame goesler?" "yes, indeed. what surprises me is that the dear old man should never have spoken of so magnificent a collection of gems." "orders have been given that they shall be packed." "they may be packed or unpacked, of course, as your grace pleases, but pray do not connect me with the packing." "you must be connected with it." "but i wish not to be connected with it, duke. i have written to the lawyer to renounce the legacy, and, if your grace persists, i must employ a lawyer of my own to renounce them after some legal form. pray do not let the case be sent to me, or there will be so much trouble, and we shall have another great jewel robbery. i won't take it in, and i won't have the money, and i will have my own way. lady glen will tell you that i can be very obstinate when i please." [illustration: "lady glen will tell you that i can be very obstinate when i please."] lady glencora had told him so already. she had been quite sure that her friend would persist in her determination as to the legacy, and had thought that her husband should simply accept madame goesler's assurances to that effect. but a man who had been chancellor of the exchequer could not deal with money, or even with jewels, so lightly. he assured his wife that such an arrangement was quite out of the question. he remarked that property was property, by which he meant to intimate that the real owner of substantial wealth could not be allowed to disembarrass himself of his responsibilities or strip himself of his privileges by a few generous but idle words. the late duke's will was a very serious thing, and it seemed to the heir that this abandoning of a legacy bequeathed by the duke was a making light of the duke's last act and deed. to refuse money in such circumstances was almost like refusing rain from heaven, or warmth from the sun. it could not be done. the things were her property, and though she might, of course, chuck them into the street, they would no less be hers. "but i won't have them, duke," said madame goesler; and the late chancellor of the exchequer found that no proposition made by him in the house had ever been received with a firmer opposition. his wife told him that nothing he could say would be of any avail, and rather ridiculed his idea of the solemnity of wills. "you can't make a person take a thing because you write it down on a thick bit of paper, any more than if you gave it her across a table. i understand it all, of course. she means to show that she didn't want anything from the duke. as she refused the name and title, she won't have the money and jewels. you can't make her take them, and i'm quite sure you can't talk her over." the young duke was not persuaded, but had to give the battle up,--at any rate, for the present. on the th of march madame goesler returned to london, having been at matching priory for more than three weeks. on her journey back to park lane many thoughts crowded on her mind. had she, upon the whole, done well in reference to the duke of omnium? the last three years of her life had been sacrificed to an old man with whom she had not in truth possessed aught in common. she had persuaded herself that there had existed a warm friendship between them;--but of what nature could have been a friendship with one whom she had not known till he had been in his dotage? what words of the duke's speaking had she ever heard with pleasure, except certain terms of affection which had been half mawkish and half senile? she had told phineas finn, while riding home with him from broughton spinnies, that she had clung to the duke because she loved him, but what had there been to produce such love? the duke had begun his acquaintance with her by insulting her,--and had then offered to make her his wife. this,--which would have conferred upon her some tangible advantages, such as rank, and wealth, and a great name,--she had refused, thinking that the price to be paid for them was too high, and that life might even yet have something better in store for her. after that she had permitted herself to become, after a fashion, head nurse to the old man, and in that pursuit had wasted three years of what remained to her of her youth. people, at any rate, should not say of her that she had accepted payment for the three years' service by taking a casket of jewels. she would take nothing that should justify any man in saying that she had been enriched by her acquaintance with the duke of omnium. it might be that she had been foolish, but she would be more foolish still were she to accept a reward for her folly. as it was there had been something of romance in it,--though the romance of friendship at the bedside of a sick and selfish old man had hardly been satisfactory. even in her close connection with the present duchess there was something which was almost hollow. had there not been a compact between them, never expressed, but not the less understood? had not her dear friend, lady glen, agreed to bestow upon her support, fashion, and all kinds of worldly good things,--on condition that she never married the old duke? she had liked lady glencora,--had enjoyed her friend's society, and been happy in her friend's company,--but she had always felt that lady glencora's attraction to herself had been simply on the score of the duke. it was necessary that the duke should be pampered and kept in good humour. an old man, let him be ever so old, can do what he likes with himself and his belongings. to keep the duke out of harm's way lady glencora had opened her arms to madame goesler. such, at least, was the interpretation which madame goesler chose to give to the history of the last three years. they had not, she thought, quite understood her. when once she had made up her mind not to marry the duke, the duke had been safe from her;--as his jewels and money should be safe now that he was dead. three years had passed by, and nothing had been done of that which she had intended to do. three years had passed, which to her, with her desires, were so important. and yet she hardly knew what were her desires, and had never quite defined her intentions. she told herself on this very journey that the time had now gone by, and that in losing these three years she had lost everything. as yet,--so she declared to herself now,--the world had done but little for her. two old men had loved her; one had become her husband, and the other had asked to become so;--and to both she had done her duty. to both she had been grateful, tender, and self-sacrificing. from the former she had, as his widow, taken wealth which she valued greatly; but the wealth alone had given her no happiness. from the latter, and from his family, she had accepted a certain position. some persons, high in repute and fashion, had known her before, but everybody knew her now. and yet what had all this done for her? dukes and duchesses, dinner-parties and drawing-rooms,--what did they all amount to? what was it that she wanted? she was ashamed to tell herself that it was love. but she knew this,--that it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote herself to some one. all the elegancies and outward charms of life were delightful, if only they could be used as the means to some end. as an end themselves they were nothing. she had devoted herself to this old man who was now dead, and there had been moments in which she had thought that that sufficed. but it had not sufficed, and instead of being borne down by grief at the loss of her friend, she found herself almost rejoicing at relief from a vexatious burden. had she been a hypocrite then? was it her nature to be false? after that she reflected whether it might not be best for her to become a devotee,--it did not matter much in what branch of the christian religion, so that she could assume some form of faith. the sour strictness of the confident calvinist or the asceticism of st. francis might suit her equally,--if she could only believe in calvin or in st. francis. she had tried to believe in the duke of omnium, but there she had failed. there had been a saint at whose shrine she thought she could have worshipped with a constant and happy devotion, but that saint had repulsed her from his altar. mr. maule, senior, not understanding much of all this, but still understanding something, thought that he might perhaps be the saint. he knew well that audacity in asking is a great merit in a middle-aged wooer. he was a good deal older than the lady, who, in spite of all her experiences, was hardly yet thirty. but then he was,--he felt sure,--very young for his age, whereas she was old. she was a widow; he was a widower. she had a house in town and an income. he had a place in the country and an estate. she knew all the dukes and duchesses, and he was a man of family. she could make him comfortably opulent. he could make her mrs. maule of maule abbey. she, no doubt, was good-looking. mr. maule, senior, as he tied on his cravat, thought that even in that respect there was no great disparity between them. considering his own age, mr. maule, senior, thought there was not perhaps a better-looking man than himself about pall mall. he was a little stiff in the joints and moved rather slowly, but what was wanting in suppleness was certainly made up in dignity. he watched his opportunity, and called in park lane on the day after madame goesler's return. there was already between them an amount of acquaintance which justified his calling, and, perhaps, there had been on the lady's part something of that cordiality of manner which is wont to lead to intimate friendship. mr. maule had made himself agreeable, and madame goesler had seemed to be grateful. he was admitted, and on such an occasion it was impossible not to begin the conversation about the "dear duke." mr. maule could afford to talk about the duke, and to lay aside for a short time his own cause, as he had not suggested to himself the possibility of becoming pressingly tender on his own behalf on this particular occasion. audacity in wooing is a great virtue, but a man must measure even his virtues. "i heard that you had gone to matching, as soon as the poor duke was taken ill," he said. she was in mourning, and had never for a moment thought of denying the peculiarity of the position she had held in reference to the old man. she could not have been content to wear her ordinary coloured garments after sitting so long by the side of the dying man. a hired nurse may do so, but she had not been that. if there had been hypocrisy in her friendship the hypocrisy must be maintained to the end. "poor old man! i only came back yesterday." "i never had the pleasure of knowing his grace," said mr. maule. "but i have always heard him named as a nobleman of whom england might well be proud." madame goesler was not at the moment inclined to tell lies on the matter, and did not think that england had much cause to be proud of the duke of omnium. "he was a man who held a very peculiar position," she said. "most peculiar;--a man of infinite wealth, and of that special dignity which i am sorry to say so many men of rank among us are throwing aside as a garment which is too much for them. we can all wear coats, but it is not every one that can carry a robe. the duke carried his to the last." madame goesler remembered how he looked with his nightcap on, when he had lost his temper because they would not let him have a glass of curaçoa. "i don't know that we have any one left that can be said to be his equal," continued mr. maule. "no one like him, perhaps. he was never married, you know." "but was once willing to marry," said mr. maule, "if all that we hear be true." madame goesler, without a smile and equally without a frown, looked as though the meaning of mr. maule's words had escaped her. "a grand old gentleman! i don't know that anybody will ever say as much for his heir." "the men are very different." "very different indeed. i dare say that mr. palliser, as mr. palliser, has been a useful man. but so is a coal-heaver a useful man. the grace and beauty of life will be clean gone when we all become useful men." "i don't think we are near that yet." "upon my word, madame goesler, i am not so sure about it. here are sons of noblemen going into trade on every side of us. we have earls dealing in butter, and marquises sending their peaches to market. there was nothing of that kind about the duke. a great fortune had been entrusted to him, and he knew that it was his duty to spend it. he did spend it, and all the world looked up to him. it must have been a great pleasure to you to know him so well." madame goesler was saved the necessity of making any answer to this by the announcement of another visitor. the door was opened, and phineas finn entered the room. he had not seen madame goesler since they had been together at harrington hall, and had never before met mr. maule. when riding home with the lady after their unsuccessful attempt to jump out of the wood, phineas had promised to call in park lane whenever he should learn that madame goesler was not at matching. since that the duke had died, and the bond with matching no longer existed. it seemed but the other day that they were talking about the duke together, and now the duke was gone. "i see you are in mourning," said phineas, as he still held her hand. "i must say one word to condole with you for your lost friend." "mr. maule and i were now speaking of him," she said, as she introduced the two gentlemen. "mr. finn and i had the pleasure of meeting your son at harrington hall a few weeks since, mr. maule." "i heard that he had been there. did you know the duke, mr. finn?" "after the fashion in which such a one as i would know such a one as the duke, i knew him. he probably had forgotten my existence." "he never forgot any one," said madame goesler. "i don't know that i was ever introduced to him," continued mr. maule, "and i shall always regret it. i was telling madame goesler how profound a reverence i had for the duke's character." phineas bowed, and madame goesler, who was becoming tired of the duke as a subject of conversation, asked some question as to what had been going on in the house. mr. maule, finding it to be improbable that he should be able to advance his cause on that occasion, took his leave. the moment he was gone madame goesler's manner changed altogether. she left her former seat and came near to phineas, sitting on a sofa close to the chair he occupied; and as she did so she pushed her hair back from her face in a manner that he remembered well in former days. "i am so glad to see you," she said. "is it not odd that he should have gone so soon after what we were saying but the other day?" "you thought then that he would not last long." "long is comparative. i did not think he would be dead within six weeks, or i should not have been riding there. he was a burden to me, mr. finn." "i can understand that." "and yet i shall miss him sorely. he had given all the colour to my life which it possessed. it was not very bright, but still it was colour." "the house will be open to you just the same." "i shall not go there. i shall see lady glencora in town, of course; but i shall not go to matching; and as to gatherum castle, i would not spend another week there, if they would give it me. you haven't heard of his will?" "no;--not a word. i hope he remembered you,--to mention your name. you hardly wanted more." "just so. i wanted no more than that." "it was made, perhaps, before you knew him." "he was always making it, and always altering it. he left me money, and jewels of enormous value." "i am so glad to hear it." "but i have refused to take anything. am i not right?" "i don't know why you should refuse." "there are people who will say that--i was his mistress. if a woman be young, a man's age never prevents such scandal. i don't know that i can stop it, but i can perhaps make it seem to be less probable. and after all that has passed, i could not bear that the pallisers should think that i clung to him for what i could get. i should be easier this way." "whatever is best to be done, you will do it;--i know that." "your praise goes beyond the mark, my friend. i can be both generous and discreet;--but the difficulty is to be true. i did take one thing,--a black diamond that he always wore. i would show it you, but the goldsmith has it to make it fit me. when does the great affair come off at the house?" "the bill will be read again on monday, the first." "what an unfortunate day!--you remember young mr. maule? is he not like his father? and yet in manners they are as unlike as possible." "what is the father?" phineas asked. "a battered old beau about london, selfish and civil, pleasant and penniless, and i should think utterly without a principle. come again soon. i am so anxious to hear that you are getting on. and you have got to tell me all about that shooting with the pistol." phineas as he walked away thought that madame goesler was handsomer even than she used to be. chapter xxxi. the duke and duchess in town. at the end of march the duchess of omnium, never more to be called lady glencora by the world at large, came up to london. the duke, though he was now banished from the house of commons, was nevertheless wanted in london; and what funereal ceremonies were left might be accomplished as well in town as at matching priory. no old ministry could be turned out and no new ministry formed without the assistance of the young duchess. it was a question whether she should not be asked to be mistress of the robes, though those who asked it knew very well that she was the last woman in england to hamper herself by dependence on the court. up to london they came; and, though of course they went into no society, the house in carlton gardens was continually thronged with people who had some special reason for breaking the ordinary rules of etiquette in their desire to see how lady glencora carried herself as duchess of omnium. "do you think she's altered much?" said aspasia fitzgibbon, an elderly spinster, the daughter of lord claddagh, and sister of laurence fitzgibbon, member for one of the western irish counties. "i don't think she was quite so loud as she used to be." mrs. bonteen was of opinion that there was a change. "she was always uncertain, you know, and would scratch like a cat if you offended her." "and won't she scratch now?" asked miss fitzgibbon. "i'm afraid she'll scratch oftener. it was always a trick of hers to pretend to think nothing of rank;--but she values her place as highly as any woman in england." this was mrs. bonteen's opinion; but lady baldock, who was present, differed. this lady baldock was not the mother, but the sister-in-law of that augusta boreham who had lately become sister veronica john. "i don't believe it," said lady baldock. "she always seems to me to be like a great schoolgirl who has been allowed too much of her own way. i think people give way to her too much, you know." as lady baldock was herself the wife of a peer, she naturally did not stand so much in awe of a duchess as did mrs. bonteen, or miss fitzgibbon. "have you seen the young duke?" asked mr. ratler of barrington erle. "yes; i have been with him this morning." "how does he like it?" "he's bothered out of his life,--as a hen would be if you were to throw her into water. he's so shy, he hardly knows how to speak to you; and he broke down altogether when i said something about the lords." "he'll not do much more." "i don't know about that," said erle. "he'll get used to it, and go into harness again. he's a great deal too good to be lost." "he didn't give himself airs?" "what!--planty pall! if i know anything of a man he's not the man to do that because he's a duke. he can hold his own against all comers, and always could. quiet as he always seemed, he knew who he was, and who other people were. i don't think you'll find much difference in him when he has got over the annoyance." mr. ratler, however, was of a different opinion. mr. ratler had known many docile members of the house of commons who had become peers by the death of uncles and fathers, and who had lost all respect for him as soon as they were released from the crack of the whip. mr. ratler rather despised peers who had been members of the house of commons, and who passed by inheritance from a scene of unparalleled use and influence to one of idle and luxurious dignity. soon after their arrival in london the duchess wrote the following very characteristic letter:-- dear lord chiltern, mr. palliser-- [then having begun with a mistake, she scratched the word through with her pen.] the duke has asked me to write about trumpeton wood, as he knows nothing about it, and i know just as little. but if you say what you want, it shall be done. shall we get foxes and put them there? or ought there to be a special fox-keeper? you mustn't be angry because the poor old duke was too feeble to take notice of the matter. only speak, and it shall be done. yours faithfully, glencora o. madame goesler spoke to me about it; but at that time we were in trouble. the answer was as characteristic:-- dear duchess of omnium, thanks. what is wanted, is that keepers should know that there are to be foxes. when keepers know that foxes are really expected, there always are foxes. the men latterly have known just the contrary. it is all a question of shooting. i don't mean to say a word against the late duke. when he got old the thing became bad. no doubt it will be right now. faithfully yours, chiltern. our hounds have been poisoned in trumpeton wood. this would never have been done had not the keepers been against the hunting. upon receipt of this she sent the letter to mr. fothergill, with a request that there might be no more shooting in trumpeton wood. "i'll be shot if we'll stand that, you know," said mr. fothergill to one of his underlings. "there are two hundred and fifty acres in trumpeton wood, and we're never to kill another pheasant because lord chiltern is master of the brake hounds. property won't be worth having at that rate." the duke by no means intended to abandon the world of politics, or even the narrower sphere of ministerial work, because he had been ousted from the house of commons, and from the possibility of filling the office which he had best liked. this was proved to the world by the choice of his house for a meeting of the party on the th of march. as it happened, this was the very day on which he and the duchess returned to london; but nevertheless the meeting was held there, and he was present at it. mr. gresham then repeated his reasons for opposing mr. daubeny's bill; and declared that even while doing so he would, with the approbation of his party, pledge himself to bring in a bill somewhat to the same effect, should he ever again find himself in power. and he declared that he would do this solely with the view of showing how strong was his opinion that such a measure should not be left in the hands of the conservative party. it was doubted whether such a political proposition had ever before been made in england. it was a simple avowal that on this occasion men were to be regarded, and not measures. no doubt such is the case, and ever has been the case, with the majority of active politicians. the double pleasure of pulling down an opponent, and of raising oneself, is the charm of a politician's life. and by practice this becomes extended to so many branches, that the delights,--and also the disappointments,--are very widespread. great satisfaction is felt by us because by some lucky conjunction of affairs our man, whom we never saw, is made lord-lieutenant of a county, instead of another man, of whom we know as little. it is a great thing to us that sir samuel bobwig, an excellent liberal, is seated high on the bench of justice, instead of that time-serving conservative, sir alexander mcsilk. men and not measures are, no doubt, the very life of politics. but then it is not the fashion to say so in public places. mr. gresham was determined to introduce that fashion on the present occasion. he did not think very much of mr. daubeny's bill. so he told his friends at the duke's house. the bill was full of faults,--went too far in one direction, and not far enough in another. it was not difficult to pick holes in the bill. but the sin of sins consisted in this,--that it was to be passed, if passed at all, by the aid of men who would sin against their consciences by each vote they gave in its favour. what but treachery could be expected from an army in which every officer, and every private, was called upon to fight against his convictions? the meeting passed off without dissension, and it was agreed that the house of commons should be called upon to reject the church bill simply because it was proposed from that side of the house on which the minority was sitting. as there were more than two hundred members present on the occasion, by none of whom were any objections raised, it seemed probable that mr. gresham might be successful. there was still, however, doubt in the minds of some men. "it's all very well," said mr. ratler, "but turnbull wasn't there, you know." but from what took place the next day but one in park lane it would almost seem that the duchess had been there. she came at once to see madame goesler, having very firmly determined that the duke's death should not have the appearance of interrupting her intimacy with her friend. "was it not very disagreeable,"--asked madame goesler,--"just the day you came to town?" "we didn't think of that at all. one is not allowed to think of anything now. it was very improper, of course, because of the duke's death;--but that had to be put on one side. and then it was quite contrary to etiquette that peers and commoners should be brought together. i think there was some idea of making sure of plantagenet, and so they all came and wore out our carpets. there wasn't above a dozen peers; but they were enough to show that all the old landmarks have been upset. i don't think any one would have objected if i had opened the meeting myself, and called upon mrs. bonteen to second me." "why mrs. bonteen?" "because next to myself she's the most talkative and political woman we have. she was at our house yesterday, and i'm not quite sure that she doesn't intend to cut me out." "we must put her down, lady glen." "perhaps she'll put me down now that we're half shelved. the men did make such a racket, and yet no one seemed to speak for two minutes except mr. gresham, who stood upon my pet footstool, and kicked it almost to pieces." "was mr. finn there?" "everybody was there, i suppose. what makes you ask particularly about mr. finn?" "because he's a friend." "that's come up again, has it? he's the handsome irishman, isn't he, that came to matching, the same day that brought you there?" "he is an irishman, and he was at matching, that day." "he's certainly handsome. what a day that was, marie! when one thinks of it all,--of all the perils and all the salvations, how strange it is! i wonder whether you would have liked it now if you were the dowager duchess." "i should have had some enjoyment, i suppose." [illustration: "i should have had some enjoyment, i suppose."] "i don't know that it would have done us any harm, and yet how keen i was about it. we can't give you the rank now, and you won't take the money." "not the money, certainly." "plantagenet says you'll have to take it;--but it seems to me he's always wrong. there are so many things that one must do that one doesn't do. he never perceives that everything gets changed every five years. so mr. finn is the favourite again?" "he is a friend whom i like. i may be allowed to have a friend, i suppose." "a dozen, my dear;--and all of them good-looking. good-bye, dear. pray come to us. don't stand off and make yourself disagreeable. we shan't be giving dinner parties, but you can come whenever you please. tell me at once;--do you mean to be disagreeable?" then madame goesler was obliged to promise that she would not be more disagreeable than her nature had made her. chapter xxxii. the world becomes cold. a great deal was said by very many persons in london as to the murderous attack which had been made by mr. kennedy on phineas finn in judd street, but the advice given by mr. slide in the people's banner to the police was not taken. no public or official inquiry was made into the circumstance. mr. kennedy, under the care of his cousin, retreated to scotland; and, as it seemed, there was to be an end of it. throughout the month of march various smaller bolts were thrust both at phineas and at the police by the editor of the above-named newspaper, but they seemed to fall without much effect. no one was put in prison; nor was any one ever examined. but, nevertheless, these missiles had their effect. everybody knew that there had been a "row" between mr. kennedy and phineas finn, and that the "row" had been made about mr. kennedy's wife. everybody knew that a pistol had been fired at finn's head; and a great many people thought that there had been some cause for the assault. it was alleged at one club that the present member for tankerville had spent the greater part of the last two years at dresden, and at another that he had called on mr. kennedy twice, once down in scotland, and once at the hotel in judd street, with a view of inducing that gentleman to concede to a divorce. there was also a very romantic story afloat as to an engagement which had existed between lady laura and phineas finn before the lady had been induced by her father to marry the richer suitor. various details were given in corroboration of these stories. was it not known that the earl had purchased the submission of phineas finn by a seat for his borough of loughton? was it not known that lord chiltern, the brother of lady laura, had fought a duel with phineas finn? was it not known that mr. kennedy himself had been as it were coerced into quiescence by the singular fact that he had been saved from garotters in the street by the opportune interference of phineas finn? it was even suggested that the scene with the garotters had been cunningly planned by phineas finn, that he might in this way be able to restrain the anger of the husband of the lady whom he loved. all these stories were very pretty; but as the reader, it is hoped, knows, they were all untrue. phineas had made but one short visit to dresden in his life. lady laura had been engaged to mr. kennedy before phineas had ever spoken to her of his love. the duel with lord chiltern had been about another lady, and the seat at loughton had been conferred upon phineas chiefly on account of his prowess in extricating mr. kennedy from the garotters,--respecting which circumstance it may be said that as the meeting in the street was fortuitous, the reward was greater than the occasion seemed to require. while all these things were being said phineas became something of a hero. a man who is supposed to have caused a disturbance between two married people, in a certain rank of life, does generally receive a certain meed of admiration. a man who was asked out to dinner twice a week before such rumours were afloat, would probably receive double that number of invitations afterwards. and then to have been shot at by a madman in a room, and to be the subject of the venom of a people's banner, tends also to fame. other ladies besides madame goesler were anxious to have the story from the very lips of the hero, and in this way phineas finn became a conspicuous man. but fame begets envy, and there were some who said that the member for tankerville had injured his prospects with his party. it may be very well to give a dinner to a man who has caused the wife of a late cabinet minister to quarrel with her husband; but it can hardly be expected that he should be placed in office by the head of the party to which that late cabinet minister belonged. "i never saw such a fellow as you are," said barrington erle to him. "you are always getting into a mess." "nobody ought to know better than you how false all these calumnies are." this he said because erle and lady laura were cousins. "of course they are calumnies; but you had heard them before, and what made you go poking your head into the lion's mouth?" mr. bonteen was very much harder upon him than was barrington erle. "i never liked him from the first, and always knew he would not run straight. no irishman ever does." this was said to viscount fawn, a distinguished member of the liberal party, who had but lately been married, and was known to have very strict notions as to the bonds of matrimony. he had been heard to say that any man who had interfered with the happiness of a married couple should be held to have committed a capital offence. "i don't know whether the story about lady laura is true." "of course it's true. all the world knows it to be true. he was always there; at loughlinter, and at saulsby, and in portman square after she had left her husband. the mischief he has done is incalculable. there's a conservative sitting in poor kennedy's seat for dunross-shire." "that might have been the case anyway." "nothing could have turned kennedy out. don't you remember how he behaved about the irish land question? i hate such fellows." "if i thought it true about lady laura--" lord fawn was again about to express his opinion in regard to matrimony, but mr. bonteen was too impetuous to listen to him. "it's out of the question that he should come in again. at any rate if he does, i won't. i shall tell gresham so very plainly. the women will do all that they can for him. they always do for a fellow of that kind." phineas heard of it;--not exactly by any repetition of the words that were spoken, but by chance phrases, and from the looks of men. lord cantrip, who was his best friend among those who were certain to hold high office in a liberal government, did not talk to him cheerily,--did not speak as though he, phineas, would as a matter of course have some place assigned to him. and he thought that mr. gresham was hardly as cordial to him as he might be when they met in the closer intercourse of the house. there was always a word or two spoken, and sometimes a shaking of hands. he had no right to complain. but yet he knew that something was wanting. we can generally read a man's purpose towards us in his manner, if his purposes are of much moment to us. phineas had written to lady laura, giving her an account of the occurrence in judd street on the st of march, and had received from her a short answer by return of post. it contained hardly more than a thanksgiving that his life had not been sacrificed, and in a day or two she had written again, letting him know that she had determined to consult her father. then on the last day of the month he received the following letter:-- dresden, march th, --. my dear friend,-- at last we have resolved that we will go back to england,--almost at once. things have gone so rapidly that i hardly know how to explain them all, but that is papa's resolution. his lawyer, mr. forster, tells him that it will be best, and goes so far as to say that it is imperative on my behalf that some steps should be taken to put an end to the present state of things. i will not scruple to tell you that he is actuated chiefly by considerations as to money. it is astonishing to me that a man who has all his life been so liberal should now in his old age think so much about it. it is, however, in no degree for himself. it is all for me. he cannot bear to think that my fortune should be withheld from me by mr. kennedy while i have done nothing wrong. i was obliged to show him your letter, and what you said about the control of money took hold of his mind at once. he thinks that if my unfortunate husband be insane, there can be no difficulty in my obtaining a separation on terms which would oblige him or his friends to restore this horrid money. of course i could stay if i chose. papa would not refuse to find a home for me here. but i do agree with mr. forster that something should be done to stop the tongues of ill-conditioned people. the idea of having my name dragged through the newspapers is dreadful to me; but if this must be done one way or the other, it will be better that it should be done with truth. there is nothing that i need fear,--as you know so well. i cannot look forward to happiness anywhere. if the question of separation were once settled, i do not know whether i would not prefer returning here to remaining in london. papa has got tired of the place, and wants, he says, to see saulsby once again before he dies. what can i say in answer to this, but that i will go? we have sent to have the house in portman square got ready for us, and i suppose we shall be there about the th of next month. papa has instructed mr. forster to tell mr. kennedy's lawyer that we are coming, and he is to find out, if he can, whether any interference in the management of the property has been as yet made by the family. perhaps i ought to tell you that mr. forster has expressed surprise that you did not call on the police when the shot was fired. of course i can understand it all. god bless you. your affectionate friend, l. k. phineas was obliged to console himself by reflecting that if she understood him of course that was everything. his first and great duty in the matter had been to her. if in performing that duty he had sacrificed himself, he must bear his undeserved punishment like a man. that he was to be punished he began to perceive too clearly. the conviction that mr. daubeny must recede from the treasury bench after the coming debate became every day stronger, and within the little inner circles of the liberal party the usual discussions were made as to the ministry which mr. gresham would, as a matter of course, be called upon to form. but in these discussions phineas finn did not find himself taking an assured and comfortable part. laurence fitzgibbon, his countryman,--who in the way of work had never been worth his salt,--was eager, happy, and without a doubt. others of the old stagers, men who had been going in and out ever since they had been able to get seats in parliament, stood about in clubs, and in lobbies, and chambers of the house, with all that busy, magpie air which is worn only by those who have high hopes of good things to come speedily. lord mount thistle was more sublime and ponderous than ever, though they who best understood the party declared that he would never again be invited to undergo the cares of office. his lordship was one of those terrible political burdens, engendered originally by private friendship or family considerations, which one minister leaves to another. sir gregory grogram, the great whig lawyer, showed plainly by his manner that he thought himself at last secure of reaching the reward for which he had been struggling all his life; for it was understood by all men who knew anything that lord weazeling was not to be asked again to sit on the woolsack. no better advocate or effective politician ever lived; but it was supposed that he lacked dignity for the office of first judge in the land. that most of the old lot would come back was a matter of course. there would be the duke,--the duke of st. bungay, who had for years past been "the duke" when liberal administrations were discussed, and the second duke, whom we know so well; and sir harry coldfoot, and legge wilson, lord cantrip, lord thrift, and the rest of them. there would of course be lord fawn, mr. ratler, and mr. erle. the thing was so thoroughly settled that one was almost tempted to think that the prime minister himself would have no voice in the selections to be made. as to one office it was acknowledged on all sides that a doubt existed which would at last be found to be very injurious,--as some thought altogether crushing,--to the party. to whom would mr. gresham entrust the financial affairs of the country? who would be the new chancellor of the exchequer? there were not a few who inferred that mr. bonteen would be promoted to that high office. during the last two years he had devoted himself to decimal coinage with a zeal only second to that displayed by plantagenet palliser, and was accustomed to say of himself that he had almost perished under his exertions. it was supposed that he would have the support of the present duke of omnium,--and that mr. gresham, who disliked the man, would be coerced by the fact that there was no other competitor. that mr. bonteen should go into the cabinet would be gall and wormwood to many brother liberals; but gall and wormwood such as this have to be swallowed. the rising in life of our familiar friends is, perhaps, the bitterest morsel of the bitter bread which we are called upon to eat in life. but we do eat it; and after a while it becomes food to us,--when we find ourselves able to use, on behalf, perhaps, of our children, the influence of those whom we had once hoped to leave behind in the race of life. when a man suddenly shoots up into power few suffer from it very acutely. the rise of a pitt can have caused no heart-burning. but mr. bonteen had been a hack among the hacks, had filled the usual half-dozen places, had been a junior lord, a vice-president, a deputy controller, a chief commissioner, and a joint secretary. his hopes had been raised or abased among the places of £ , , £ , , or £ , a year. he had hitherto culminated at £ , , and had been supposed with diligence to have worked himself up to the top of the ladder, as far as the ladder was accessible to him. and now he was spoken of in connection with one of the highest offices of the state! of course this created much uneasiness, and gave rise to many prophecies of failure. but in the midst of it all no office was assigned to phineas finn; and there was a general feeling, not expressed, but understood, that his affair with mr. kennedy stood in his way. quintus slide had undertaken to crush him! could it be possible that so mean a man should be able to make good so monstrous a threat? the man was very mean, and the threat had been absurd as well as monstrous; and yet it seemed that it might be realised. phineas was too proud to ask questions, even of barrington erle, but he felt that he was being "left out in the cold," because the editor of the people's banner had said that no government could employ him; and at this moment, on the very morning of the day which was to usher in the great debate, which was to be so fatal to mr. daubeny and his church reform, another thunderbolt was hurled. the "we" of the people's banner had learned that the very painful matter, to which they had been compelled by a sense of duty to call the public attention in reference to the late member for dunross-shire and the present member for tankerville, would be brought before one of the tribunals of the country, in reference to the matrimonial differences between mr. kennedy and his wife. it would be in the remembrance of their readers that the unfortunate gentleman had been provoked to fire a pistol at the head of the member for tankerville,--a circumstance which, though publicly known, had never been brought under the notice of the police. there was reason to hope that the mystery might now be cleared up, and that the ends of justice would demand that a certain document should be produced, which they,--the "we,"--had been vexatiously restrained from giving to their readers, although it had been most carefully prepared for publication in the columns of the people's banner. then the thunderbolt went on to say that there was evidently a great move among the members of the so-called liberal party, who seemed to think that it was only necessary that they should open their mouths wide enough in order that the sweets of office should fall into them. the "we" were quite of a different opinion. the "we" believed that no minister for many a long day had been so firmly fixed on the treasury bench as was mr. daubeny at the present moment. but this at any rate might be inferred;--that should mr. gresham by any unhappy combination of circumstances be called upon to form a ministry, it would be quite impossible for him to include within it the name of the member for tankerville. this was the second great thunderbolt that fell,--and so did the work of crushing our poor friend proceed. there was a great injustice in all this; at least so phineas thought;--injustice, not only from the hands of mr. slide, who was unjust as a matter of course, but also from those who ought to have been his staunch friends. he had been enticed over to england almost with a promise of office, and he was sure that he had done nothing which deserved punishment, or even censure. he could not condescend to complain,--nor indeed as yet could he say that there was ground for complaint. nothing had been done to him. not a word had been spoken,--except those lying words in the newspapers which he was too proud to notice. on one matter, however, he was determined to be firm. when barrington erle had absolutely insisted that he should vote upon the church bill in opposition to all that he had said upon the subject at tankerville, he had stipulated that he should have an opportunity in the great debate which would certainly take place of explaining his conduct,--or, in other words, that the privilege of making a speech should be accorded to him at a time in which very many members would no doubt attempt to speak and would attempt in vain. it may be imagined,--probably still is imagined by a great many,--that no such pledge as this could be given, that the right to speak depends simply on the speaker's eye, and that energy at the moment in attracting attention would alone be of account to an eager orator. but phineas knew the house too well to trust to such a theory. that some preliminary assistance would be given to the travelling of the speaker's eye, in so important a debate, he knew very well; and he knew also that a promise from barrington erle or from mr. ratler would be his best security. "that will be all right, of course," said barrington erle to him on the evening the day before the debate: "we have quite counted on your speaking." there had been a certain sullenness in the tone with which phineas had asked his question as though he had been labouring under a grievance, and he felt himself rebuked by the cordiality of the reply. "i suppose we had better fix it for monday or tuesday," said the other. "we hope to get it over by tuesday, but there is no knowing. at any rate you shan't be thrown over." it was almost on his tongue,--the entire story of his grievance, the expression of his feeling that he was not being treated as one of the chosen; but he restrained himself. he liked barrington erle well enough, but not so well as to justify him in asking for sympathy. nor had it been his wont in any of the troubles of his life to ask for sympathy from a man. he had always gone to some woman;--in old days to lady laura, or to violet effingham, or to madame goesler. by them he could endure to be petted, praised, or upon occasion even pitied. but pity or praise from any man had been distasteful to him. on the morning of the st of april he again went to park lane, not with any formed plan of telling the lady of his wrongs, but driven by a feeling that he wanted comfort, which might perhaps be found there. the lady received him very kindly, and at once inquired as to the great political tournament which was about to be commenced. "yes; we begin to-day," said phineas. "mr. daubeny will speak, i should say, from half-past four till seven. i wonder you don't go and hear him." "what a pleasure! to hear a man speak for two hours and a half about the church of england. one must be very hard driven for amusement! will you tell me that you like it?" "i like to hear a good speech." "but you have the excitement before you of making a good speech in answer. you are in the fight. a poor woman, shut up in a cage, feels there more acutely than anywhere else how insignificant a position she fills in the world." "you don't advocate the rights of women, madame goesler?" "oh, no. knowing our inferiority i submit without a grumble; but i am not sure that i care to go and listen to the squabbles of my masters. you may arrange it all among you, and i will accept what you do, whether it be good or bad,--as i must; but i cannot take so much interest in the proceeding as to spend my time in listening where i cannot speak, and in looking when i cannot be seen. you will speak?" "yes; i think so." "i shall read your speech, which is more than i shall do for most of the others. and when it is all over, will your turn come?" "not mine individually, madame goesler." "but it will be yours individually;--will it not?" she asked with energy. then gradually, with half-pronounced sentences, he explained to her that even in the event of the formation of a liberal government, he did not expect that any place would be offered to him. "and why not? we have been all speaking of it as a certainty." he longed to inquire who were the all of whom she spoke, but he could not do it without an egotism which would be distasteful to him. "i can hardly tell;--but i don't think i shall be asked to join them." "you would wish it?" "yes;--talking to you i do not see why i should hesitate to say so." "talking to me, why should you hesitate to say anything about yourself that is true? i can hold my tongue. i do not gossip about my friends. whose doing is it?" "i do not know that it is any man's doing." "but it must be. everybody said that you were to be one of them if you could get the other people out. is it mr. bonteen?" "likely enough. not that i know anything of the kind; but as i hate him from the bottom of my heart, it is natural to suppose that he has the same feeling in regard to me." "i agree with you there." "but i don't know that it comes from any feeling of that kind." "what does it come from?" "you have heard all the calumny about lady laura kennedy." "you do not mean to say that a story such as that has affected your position." "i fancy it has. but you must not suppose, madame goesler, that i mean to complain. a man must take these things as they come. no one has received more kindness from friends than i have, and few perhaps more favours from fortune. all this about mr. kennedy has been unlucky,--but it cannot be helped." "do you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?" said madame goesler, almost laughing. "lord fawn, you know, is very particular. in sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. one's friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one." "lady laura is coming home?" "yes." "that will put an end to it." "there is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. nobody believes anything against lady laura." "i'm not so sure of that. i believe nothing against her." "i'm sure you do not, madame goesler. nor do i think that anybody does. it is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. good-bye. perhaps i shall see you when the debate is over." "of course you will. good-bye, and success to your oratory." then madame goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the duchess, respecting phineas finn. chapter xxxiii. the two gladiators. the great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. upon the present occasion london was full of clergymen. the specially clerical clubs,--the oxford and cambridge, the old university, and the athenaeum,--were black with them. the bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. when one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. but the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. they were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe,--not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end,--but that the evil one was to be made welcome upon the earth by act of parliament. it is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. if we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they,--especially they,--hold their own. this is so manifestly true with the bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. the personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. but if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! to the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. but as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. the fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest,--since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. we do believe,--the majority among us does so,--that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of god, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. but then the pastors and men of god can only be human,--cannot be altogether men of god; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. the torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. what is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a lord chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? what is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of god in his parish or district is so poor that no man of god fitted to teach him will come and take it? in no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that church and state together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. but to the parson himself,--to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men,--this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. the world has been broken to pieces in the same way often;--but extreme chaos does not come. the cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. the barristers are sure of chaos when the sanctity of benchers is in question. what utter chaos would be promised to us could any one with impunity contemn the majesty of the house of commons! but of all these chaoses there can be no chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the church. of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. he is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. but he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. and now disturbances,--ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about westminster in flocks with _"et tu, brute"_ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a pharisee? the speaker had been harassed for orders. the powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. the galleries were crowded. ladies' places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the house which madame goesler had expressed. two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the house in an irregular manner. peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from p.m. to the same hour on the following morning. at two in the afternoon the entrances to the house were barred, and men of all ranks,--deans, prebends, peers' sons, and baronets,--stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. the very ventilating chambers under the house were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate. a few minutes after four, in a house from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, mr. daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. he entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the house, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. mr. daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. but the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. you could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position,--with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. immediately after him mr. gresham bustled up the centre of the house amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. we have had many ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the house than the present leader of the opposition and late premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. on the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel,--the friends in order that so might these recreant tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy's indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. for, indeed, it never could be denied that as a prime minister mr. gresham could be very indiscreet. a certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature,--so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. and, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and mr. speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. all this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four mr. daubeny was on his legs. then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see mr. daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips. mr. daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. the subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of church reform. the right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. no doubt it was the question before the house, and he, himself,--the present speaker,--must unfortunately discuss it at some length. the right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. and it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. he, mr. daubeny, was the last man in england to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the church. that question was a very simple one, and might be put to the house in a very few words. coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form:--"that this house does think that i ought to be prime minister now, and as long as i may possess a seat in this house." it was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, mr. daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country. he made his point well; but he made it too often. and an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. a good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave,--but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. there was much neatness and some acuteness in mr. daubeny's satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. it had, however, the effect of irritating mr. gresham,--as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet. a man destined to sit conspicuously on our treasury bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. the need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. when two foes meet together in the same chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of state, which has come to be called a red republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. they may cut each other's throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. but when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. what is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? who desires among us to put down the queen, or to repudiate the national debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? when some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country,--so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it,--then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself liberal,--or by that which is termed conservative. the men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. it is the same in religion. the apostle of christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice. mr. daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of church reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. "see what we conservatives can do. in fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. 'quod minime reris graiâ pandetur ab urbe.'" it was exactly the reverse of the complaint which mr. gresham was about to make. on the subject of the church itself he was rather misty but very profound. he went into the question of very early churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of eli. the establishment of the levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. he was presumed to have alluded to the order of melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. he roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. the gist of his argument was to show that audacity in reform was the very backbone of conservatism. by a clearly pronounced disunion of church and state the theocracy of thomas à becket would be restored, and the people of england would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. by taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a minister's breath. as to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the bill which was now with the leave of the house to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new church synod. the details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. as long as he would abuse mr. gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. there was a raciness in the promise of so much church destruction from the chosen leader of the church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. there was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of hamelin;--and this made listening pleasant. but when mr. daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left,--with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before,--then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. but at the end of the minister's speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. he returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. he, during a prolonged parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. he would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the house, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. but never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the house; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. he felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the house, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. by these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by mr. gresham, he would again dissolve the house before he would resign. now it was very well understood that there were liberal members in the house who would prefer even the success of mr. daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents. mr. daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. the house had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. when this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o'clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. on the present occasion it was mr. gresham's intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. it was understood that mr. gresham would follow mr. daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the church bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. but to commence his speech at eight o'clock when the house was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. had mr. daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. but with mr. gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. it was not probable that mr. daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind. but mr. gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. he waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the speaker. a few members left the house;--gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of messrs. roby and ratler. but for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the house; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. he who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night. mr. gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. but the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. he soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. there was this difference between the two men,--that whereas mr. daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, mr. gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. he began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. the right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a greek. he would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from greeks had ever been considered dangerous. "it is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear," he said. the political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than dead sea apples. that such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that house, but of the country at large. would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself,--and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the government,--get up and declare that this measure of church reform, this severance of church and state, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? he accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. and as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction. he had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. if the house would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. it was based and built on majorities in that house, and supported solely by that power. there could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a minister in this country who should recommend her majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the house of commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the state. he threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. he indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an english subject. but he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that house, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. it had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority. he himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. he took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the house to a decision on that question. he himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of church and state from his hands. should the majority of the house differ from him and support the second reading of the bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through committee. but before doing that he would ask the house to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. it was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the house could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place. on the next morning it was generally considered that mr. daubeny had been too long and mr. gresham too passionate. there were some who declared that mr. gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the house of commons; and others who thought that mr. daubeny's lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past. chapter xxxiv. the universe. before the house met again the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that mr. gresham's speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. he would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the bill on its merits. mr. ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. there were very few liberals in the house who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in mr. daubeny. mr. turnbull, the great radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of church and state. on all such occasions as the present mr. turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the house. he was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might be doubted by none. it was nothing to him, he was wont to say, who called himself prime minister, or secretary here, or president there. but then there would be quite as much of this independence on the conservative as on the liberal side of the house. surely there would be more than two dozen gentlemen who would be true enough to the cherished principles of their whole lives to vote against such a bill as this! it was the fact that there were so very few so true which added such a length to the faces of the country parsons. six months ago not a country gentleman in england would have listened to such a proposition without loud protests as to its revolutionary wickedness. and now, under the sole pressure of one man's authority, the subject had become so common that men were assured that the thing would be done even though of all things that could be done it were the worst. "it is no good any longer having any opinion upon anything," one parson said to another, as they sat together at their club with their newspapers in their hands. "nothing frightens any one,--no infidelity, no wickedness, no revolution. all reverence is at an end, and the holy of holies is no more even to the worshipper than the threshold of the temple." though it became known that the bill would be lost, what comfort was there in that, when the battle was to be won, not by the chosen israelites to whom the church with all its appurtenances ought to be dear, but by a crew of philistines who would certainly follow the lead of their opponents in destroying the holy structure? on the friday the debate was continued with much life on the ministerial side of the house. it was very easy for them to cry faction! faction! and hardly necessary for them to do more. a few parrot words had been learned as to the expediency of fitting the great and increasing church of england to the growing necessity of the age. that the church of england would still be the church of england was repeated till weary listeners were sick of the unmeaning words. but the zeal of the combatants was displayed on that other question. faction was now the avowed weapon of the leaders of the so-called liberal side of the house, and it was very easy to denounce the new doctrine. every word that mr. gresham had spoken was picked in pieces, and the enormity of his theory was exhibited. he had boldly declared to them that they were to regard men and not measures, and they were to show by their votes whether they were prepared to accept such teaching. the speeches were, of course, made by alternate orators, but the firing from the conservative benches was on this evening much the louder. it would have seemed that with such an issue between them they might almost have consented to divide after the completion of the two great speeches. the course on which they were to run had been explained to them, and it was not probable that any member's intention as to his running would now be altered by anything that he might hear. mr. turnbull's two dozen defaulters were all known, and the two dozen and four true conservatives were known also. but, nevertheless, a great many members were anxious to speak. it would be the great debate of the session, and the subject to be handled,--that, namely, of the general merits and demerits of the two political parties,--was wide and very easy. on that night it was past one o'clock when mr. turnbull adjourned the house. "i'm afraid we must put you off till tuesday," mr. ratler said on the sunday afternoon to phineas finn. "i have no objection at all, so long as i get a fair place on that day." "there shan't be a doubt about that. gresham particularly wants you to speak, because you are pledged to a measure of disestablishment. you can insist on his own views,--that even should such a measure be essentially necessary--" "which i think it is," said phineas. "still it should not be accepted from the old church-and-state party." there was something pleasant in this to phineas finn,--something that made him feel for the moment that he had perhaps mistaken the bearing of his friend towards him. "we are sure of a majority, i suppose," he said. "absolutely sure," said ratler. "i begin to think it will amount to half a hundred,--perhaps more." "what will daubeny do?" "go out. he can't do anything else. his pluck is certainly wonderful, but even with his pluck he can't dissolve again. his church bill has given him a six months' run, and six months is something." "is it true that grogram is to be chancellor?" phineas asked the question, not from any particular solicitude as to the prospects of sir gregory grogram, but because he was anxious to hear whether mr. ratler would speak to him with anything of the cordiality of fellowship respecting the new government. but mr. ratler became at once discreet and close, and said that he did not think that anything as yet was known as to the woolsack. then phineas retreated again within his shell, with a certainty that nothing would be done for him. and yet to whom could this question of place be of such vital importance as it was to him? he had come back to his old haunts from ireland, abandoning altogether the pleasant safety of an assured income, buoyed by the hope of office. he had, after a fashion, made his calculations. in the present disposition of the country it was, he thought, certain that the liberal party must, for the next twenty years, have longer periods of power than their opponents; and he had thought also that were he in the house, some place would eventually be given to him. he had been in office before, and had been especially successful. he knew that it had been said of him that of the young debutants of latter years he had been the best. he had left his party by opposing them; but he had done so without creating any ill-will among the leaders of his party,--in a manner that had been regarded as highly honourable to him, and on departing had received expressions of deep regret from mr. gresham himself. when barrington erle had wanted him to return to his old work, his own chief doubt had been about the seat. but he had been bold and had adventured all, and had succeeded. there had been some little trouble about those pledges given at tankerville, but he would be able to turn them even to the use of his party. it was quite true that nothing had been promised him; but erle, when he had written, bidding him to come over from ireland, must have intended him to understand that he would be again enrolled in the favoured regiment, should he be able to show himself as the possessor of a seat in the house. and yet,--yet he felt convinced that when the day should come it would be to him a day of disappointment, and that when the list should appear his name would not be on it. madame goesler had suggested to him that mr. bonteen might be his enemy, and he had replied by stating that he himself hated mr. bonteen. he now remembered that mr. bonteen had hardly spoken to him since his return to london, though there had not in fact been any quarrel between them. in this condition of mind he longed to speak openly to barrington erle, but he was restrained by a feeling of pride, and a still existing idea that no candidate for office, let his claim be what it might, should ask for a place. on that sunday evening he saw bonteen at the club. men were going in and out with that feverish excitement which always prevails on the eve of a great parliamentary change. a large majority against the government was considered to be certain; but there was an idea abroad that mr. daubeny had some scheme in his head by which to confute the immediate purport of his enemies. there was nothing to which the audacity of the man was not equal. some said that he would dissolve the house,--which had hardly as yet been six months sitting. others were of opinion that he would simply resolve not to vacate his place,--thus defying the majority of the house and all the ministerial traditions of the country. words had fallen from him which made some men certain that such was his intention. that it should succeed ultimately was impossible. the whole country would rise against him. supplies would be refused. in every detail of government he would be impeded. but then,--such was the temper of the man,--it was thought that all these horrors would not deter him. there would be a blaze and a confusion, in which timid men would doubt whether the constitution would be burned to tinder or only illuminated; but that blaze and that confusion would be dear to mr. daubeny if he could stand as the centre figure,--the great pyrotechnist who did it all, red from head to foot with the glare of the squibs with which his own hands were filling all the spaces. the anticipation that some such display might take place made men busy and eager; so that on that sunday evening they roamed about from one place of meeting to another, instead of sitting at home with their wives and daughters. there was at this time existing a small club,--so called though unlike other clubs,--which had entitled itself the universe. the name was supposed to be a joke, as it was limited to ninety-nine members. it was domiciled in one simple and somewhat mean apartment. it was kept open only one hour before and one hour after midnight, and that only on two nights of the week, and that only when parliament was sitting. its attractions were not numerous, consisting chiefly of tobacco and tea. the conversation was generally listless and often desultory; and occasionally there would arise the great and terrible evil of a punster whom every one hated but no one had life enough to put down. but the thing had been a success, and men liked to be members of the universe. mr. bonteen was a member, and so was phineas finn. on this sunday evening the club was open, and phineas, as he entered the room, perceived that his enemy was seated alone on a corner of a sofa. mr. bonteen was not a man who loved to be alone in public places, and was apt rather to make one of congregations, affecting popularity, and always at work increasing his influence. but on this occasion his own greatness had probably isolated him. if it were true that he was to be the new chancellor of the exchequer,--to ascend from demi-godhead to the perfect divinity of the cabinet,--and to do so by a leap which would make him high even among first-class gods, it might be well for himself to look to himself and choose new congregations. or, at least, it would be becoming that he should be chosen now instead of being a chooser. he was one who could weigh to the last ounce the importance of his position, and make most accurate calculations as to the effect of his intimacies. on that very morning mr. gresham had suggested to him that in the event of a liberal government being formed, he should hold the high office in question. this, perhaps, had not been done in the most flattering manner, as mr. gresham had deeply bewailed the loss of mr. palliser, and had almost demanded a pledge from mr. bonteen that he would walk exactly in mr. palliser's footsteps;--but the offer had been made, and could not be retracted; and mr. bonteen already felt the warmth of the halo of perfect divinity. there are some men who seem to have been born to be cabinet ministers,--dukes mostly, or earls, or the younger sons of such,--who have been trained to it from their very cradles, and of whom we may imagine that they are subject to no special awe when they first enter into that august assembly, and feel but little personal elevation. but to the political aspirant not born in the purple of public life, this entrance upon the counsels of the higher deities must be accompanied by a feeling of supreme triumph, dashed by considerable misgivings. perhaps mr. bonteen was revelling in his triumph;--perhaps he was anticipating his misgivings. phineas, though disinclined to make any inquiries of a friend which might seem to refer to his own condition, felt no such reluctance in regard to one who certainly could not suspect him of asking a favour. he was presumed to be on terms of intimacy with the man, and he took his seat beside him, asking some question as to the debate. now mr. bonteen had more than once expressed an opinion among his friends that phineas finn would throw his party over, and vote with the government. the ratlers and erles and fitzgibbons all knew that phineas was safe, but mr. bonteen was still in doubt. it suited him to affect something more than doubt on the present occasion. "i wonder that you should ask me," said mr. bonteen. "what do you mean by that?" "i presume that you, as usual, will vote against us." "i never voted against my party but once," said phineas, "and then i did it with the approbation of every man in it for whose good opinion i cared a straw." there was insult in his tone as he said this, and something near akin to insult in his words. "you must do it again now, or break every promise that you made at tankerville." "do you know what promise i made at tankerville? i shall break no promise." "you must allow me to say, mr. finn, that the kind of independence which is practised by you and mr. monk, grand as it may be on the part of men who avowedly abstain from office, is a little dangerous when it is now and again adopted by men who have taken place. i like to be sure that the men who are in the same boat with me won't take it into their heads that their duty requires them to scuttle the ship." having so spoken, mr. bonteen, with nearly all the grace of a full-fledged cabinet minister, rose from his seat on the corner of the sofa and joined a small congregation. phineas felt that his ears were tingling and that his face was red. he looked round to ascertain from the countenances of others whether they had heard what had been said. nobody had been close to them, and he thought that the conversation had been unnoticed. he knew now that he had been imprudent in addressing himself to mr. bonteen, though the question that he had first asked had been quite commonplace. as it was, the man, he thought, had been determined to affront him, and had made a charge against him which he could not allow to pass unnoticed. and then there was all the additional bitterness in it which arose from the conviction that bonteen had spoken the opinion of other men as well as his own, and that he had plainly indicated that the gates of the official paradise were to be closed against the presumed offender. phineas had before believed that it was to be so, but that belief had now become assurance. he got up in his misery to leave the room, but as he did so he met laurence fitzgibbon. "you have heard the news about bonteen?" said laurence. "what news?" "he's to be pitchforked up to the exchequer. they say it's quite settled. the higher a monkey climbs--; you know the proverb." so saying laurence fitzgibbon passed into the room, and phineas finn took his departure in solitude. and so the man with whom he had managed to quarrel utterly was to be one in the cabinet, a man whose voice would probably be potential in the selection of minor members of the government. it seemed to him to be almost incredible that such a one as mr. bonteen should be chosen for such an office. he had despised almost as soon as he had known mr. bonteen, and had rarely heard the future manager of the finance of the country spoken of with either respect or regard. he had regarded mr. bonteen as a useful, dull, unscrupulous politician, well accustomed to parliament, acquainted with the bye-paths and back doors of official life,--and therefore certain of employment when the liberals were in power; but there was no one in the party he had thought less likely to be selected for high place. and yet this man was to be made chancellor of the exchequer, while he, phineas finn, very probably at this man's instance, was to be left out in the cold. he knew himself to be superior to the man he hated, to have higher ideas of political life, and to be capable of greater political sacrifices. he himself had sat shoulder to shoulder with many men on the treasury bench whose political principles he had not greatly valued; but of none of them had he thought so little as he had done of mr. bonteen. and yet this mr. bonteen was to be the new chancellor of the exchequer! he walked home to his lodgings in marlborough street, wretched because of his own failure;--doubly wretched because of the other man's success. he laid awake half the night thinking of the words that had been spoken to him, and after breakfast on the following morning he wrote the following note to his enemy:-- house of commons, th april, --. dear mr. bonteen, it is matter of extreme regret to me that last night at the universe i should have asked you some chance question about the coming division. had i guessed to what it might have led, i should not have addressed you. but as it is i can hardly abstain from noticing what appeared to me to be a personal charge made against myself with a great want of the courtesy which is supposed to prevail among men who have acted together. had we never done so my original question to you might perhaps have been deemed an impertinence. as it was, you accused me of having been dishonest to my party, and of having "scuttled the ship." on the occasion to which you alluded i acted with much consideration, greatly to the detriment of my own prospects,--and as i believed with the approbation of all who knew anything of the subject. if you will make inquiry of mr. gresham, or lord cantrip who was then my chief, i think that either will tell you that my conduct on that occasion was not such as to lay me open to reproach. if you will do this, i think that you cannot fail afterwards to express regret for what you said to me last night. yours sincerely, phineas finn. thos. bonteen, esq., m.p. he did not like the letter when he had written it, but he did not know how to improve it, and he sent it. chapter xxxv. political venom. on the monday mr. turnbull opened the ball by declaring his reasons for going into the same lobby with mr. daubeny. this he did at great length. to him all the mighty pomp and all the little squabbles of office were, he said, as nothing. he would never allow himself to regard the person of the prime minister. the measure before the house ever had been and ever should be all in all to him. if the public weal were more regarded in that house, and the quarrels of men less considered, he thought that the service of the country would be better done. he was answered by mr. monk, who was sitting near him, and who intended to support mr. gresham. mr. monk was rather happy in pulling his old friend, mr. turnbull, to pieces, expressing his opinion that a difference in men meant a difference in measures. the characters of men whose principles were known were guarantees for the measures they would advocate. to him,--mr. monk,--it was matter of very great moment who was prime minister of england. he was always selfish enough to wish for a minister with whom he himself could agree on the main questions of the day. as he certainly could not say that he had political confidence in the present ministry, he should certainly vote against them on this occasion. in the course of the evening phineas found a letter addressed to himself from mr. bonteen. it was as follows:-- house of commons, april th, --. dear mr. finn, i never accused you of dishonesty. you must have misheard or misunderstood me if you thought so. i did say that you had scuttled the ship;--and as you most undoubtedly did scuttle it,--you and mr. monk between you,--i cannot retract my words. i do not want to go to any one for testimony as to your merits on the occasion. i accused you of having done nothing dishonourable or disgraceful. i think i said that there was danger in the practice of scuttling. i think so still, though i know that many fancy that those who scuttle do a fine thing. i don't deny that it's fine, and therefore you can have no cause of complaint against me. yours truly, j. bonteen. he had brought a copy of his own letter in his pocket to the house, and he showed the correspondence to mr. monk. "i would not have noticed it, had i been you," said he. "you can have no idea of the offensive nature of the remark when it was made." "it's as offensive to me as to you, but i should not think of moving in such a matter. when a man annoys you, keep out of his way. it is generally the best thing you can do." "if a man were to call you a liar?" "but men don't call each other liars. bonteen understands the world much too well to commit himself by using any word which common opinion would force him to retract. he says we scuttled the ship. well;--we did. of all the political acts of my life it is the one of which i am most proud. the manner in which you helped me has entitled you to my affectionate esteem. but we did scuttle the ship. before you can quarrel with bonteen you must be able to show that a metaphorical scuttling of a ship must necessarily be a disgraceful act. you see how he at once retreats behind the fact that it need not be so." "you wouldn't answer his letter." "i think not. you can do yourself no good by a correspondence in which you cannot get a hold of him. and if you did get a hold of him you would injure yourself much more than him. just drop it." this added much to our friend's misery, and made him feel that the weight of it was almost more than he could bear. his enemy had got the better of him at every turn. he had now rushed into a correspondence as to which he would have to own by his silence that he had been confuted. and yet he was sure that mr. bonteen had at the club insulted him most unjustifiably, and that if the actual truth were known, no man, certainly not mr. monk, would hesitate to say that reparation was due to him. and yet what could he do? he thought that he would consult lord cantrip, and endeavour to get from his late chief some advice more palatable than that which had been tendered to him by mr. monk. in the meantime animosities in the house were waxing very furious; and, as it happened, the debate took a turn that was peculiarly injurious to phineas finn in his present state of mind. the rumour as to the future promotion of mr. bonteen, which had been conveyed by laurence fitzgibbon to phineas at the universe, had, as was natural, spread far and wide, and had reached the ears of those who still sat on the ministerial benches. now it is quite understood among politicians in this country that no man should presume that he will have imposed upon him the task of forming a ministry until he has been called upon by the crown to undertake that great duty. let the gresham or the daubeny of the day be ever so sure that the reins of the state chariot must come into his hands, he should not visibly prepare himself for the seat on the box till he has actually been summoned to place himself there. at this moment it was alleged that mr. gresham had departed from the reticence and modesty usual in such a position as his, by taking steps towards the formation of a cabinet, while it was as yet quite possible that he might never be called upon to form any cabinet. late on this monday night, when the house was quite full, one of mr. daubeny's leading lieutenants, a secretary of state, sir orlando drought by name,--a gentleman who if he had any heart in the matter must have hated this church bill from the very bottom of his heart, and who on that account was the more bitter against opponents who had not ceased to throw in his teeth his own political tergiversation,--fell foul of mr. gresham as to this rumoured appointment to the chancellorship of the exchequer. the reader will easily imagine the things that were said. sir orlando had heard, and had been much surprised at hearing, that a certain honourable member of that house, who had long been known to them as a tenant of the ministerial bench, had already been appointed to a high office. he, sir orlando, had not been aware that the office had been vacant, or that if vacant it would have been at the disposal of the right honourable gentleman; but he believed that there was no doubt that the place in question, with a seat in the cabinet, had been tendered to, and accepted by, the honourable member to whom he alluded. such was the rabid haste with which the right honourable gentleman opposite, and his colleagues, were attempting, he would not say to climb, but to rush into office, by opposing a great measure of reform, the wisdom of which, as was notorious to all the world, they themselves did not dare to deny. much more of the same kind was said, during which mr. gresham pulled about his hat, shuffled his feet, showed his annoyance to all the house, and at last jumped upon his legs. "if," said sir orlando drought,--"if the right honourable gentleman wishes to deny the accuracy of any statements that i have made, i will give way to him for the moment, that he may do so." "i deny utterly, not only the accuracy, but every detail of the statement made by the right honourable gentleman opposite," said mr. gresham, still standing and holding his hat in his hand as he completed his denial. "does the right honourable gentleman mean to assure me that he has not selected his future chancellor of the exchequer?" "the right honourable gentleman is too acute not to be aware that we on this side of the house may have made such selection, and that yet every detail of the statement which he has been rash enough to make to the house may be--unfounded. the word, sir, is weak; but i would fain avoid the use of any words which, justifiable though they might be, would offend the feelings of the house. i will explain to the house exactly what has been done." then there was a great hubbub--cries of "order," "gresham," "spoke," "hear, hear," and the like,--during which sir orlando drought and mr. gresham both stood on their legs. so powerful was mr. gresham's voice that, through it all, every word that he said was audible to the reporters. his opponent hardly attempted to speak, but stood relying upon his right. mr. gresham said he understood that it was the desire of the house that he should explain the circumstances in reference to the charge that had been made against him, and it would certainly be for the convenience of the house that this should be done at the moment. the speaker of course ruled that sir orlando was in possession of the floor, but suggested that it might be convenient that he should yield to the right honourable gentleman on the other side for a few minutes. mr. gresham, as a matter of course, succeeded. rights and rules, which are bonds of iron to a little man, are packthread to a giant. no one in all that assembly knew the house better than did mr. gresham, was better able to take it by storm, or more obdurate in perseverance. he did make his speech, though clearly he had no right to do so. the house, he said, was aware, that by the most unfortunate demise of the late duke of omnium, a gentleman had been removed from this house to another place, whose absence from their counsels would long be felt as a very grievous loss. then he pronounced a eulogy on plantagenet palliser, so graceful and well arranged, that even the bitterness of the existing opposition was unable to demur to it. the house was well aware of the nature of the labours which now for some years past had occupied the mind of the noble duke; and the paramount importance which the country attached to their conclusion. the noble duke no doubt was not absolutely debarred from a continuance of his work by the change which had fallen upon him; but it was essential that some gentleman, belonging to the same party with the noble duke, versed in office, and having a seat in that house, should endeavour to devote himself to the great measure which had occupied so much of the attention of the late chancellor of the exchequer. no doubt it must be fitting that the gentleman so selected should be at the exchequer, in the event of their party coming into office. the honourable gentleman to whom allusion had been made had acted throughout with the present noble duke in arranging the details of the measure in question; and the probability of his being able to fill the shoes left vacant by the accession to the peerage of the noble duke had, indeed, been discussed;--but the discussion had been made in reference to the measure, and only incidentally in regard to the office. he, mr. gresham, held that he had done nothing that was indiscreet,--nothing that his duty did not demand. if right honourable gentlemen opposite were of a different opinion, he thought that that difference came from the fact that they were less intimately acquainted than he unfortunately had been with the burdens and responsibilities of legislation. there was very little in the dispute which seemed to be worthy of the place in which it occurred, or of the vigour with which it was conducted; but it served to show the temper of the parties, and to express the bitterness of the political feelings of the day. it was said at the time, that never within the memory of living politicians had so violent an animosity displayed itself in the house as had been witnessed on this night. while mr. gresham was giving his explanation, mr. daubeny had arisen, and with a mock solemnity that was peculiar to him on occasions such as these, had appealed to the speaker whether the right honourable gentleman opposite should not be called upon to resume his seat. mr. gresham had put him down with a wave of his hand. an affected stateliness cannot support itself but for a moment; and mr. daubeny had been forced to sit down when the speaker did not at once support his appeal. but he did not forget that wave of the hand, nor did he forgive it. he was a man who in public life rarely forgot, and never forgave. they used to say of him that "at home" he was kindly and forbearing, simple and unostentatious. it may be so. who does not remember that horrible turk, jacob asdrubal, the old bailey barrister, the terror of witnesses, the bane of judges,--who was gall and wormwood to all opponents. it was said of him that "at home" his docile amiability was the marvel of his friends, and delight of his wife and daughters. "at home," perhaps, mr. daubeny might have been waved at, and have forgiven it; but men who saw the scene in the house of commons knew that he would never forgive mr. gresham. as for mr. gresham himself, he triumphed at the moment, and exulted in his triumph. phineas finn heard it all, and was disgusted to find that his enemy thus became the hero of the hour. it was, indeed, the opinion generally of the liberal party that mr. gresham had not said much to flatter his new chancellor of the exchequer. in praise of plantagenet palliser he had been very loud, and he had no doubt said that which implied the capability of mr. bonteen, who, as it happened, was sitting next to him at the time; but he had implied also that the mantle which was to be transferred from mr. palliser to mr. bonteen would be carried by its new wearer with grace very inferior to that which had marked all the steps of his predecessor. ratler, and erle, and fitzgibbon, and others had laughed in their sleeves at the expression, understood by them, of mr. gresham's doubt as to the qualifications of his new assistant, and sir orlando drought, in continuing his speech, remarked that the warmth of the right honourable gentleman had been so completely expended in abusing his enemies that he had had none left for the defence of his friend. but to phineas it seemed that this bonteen, who had so grievously injured him, and whom he so thoroughly despised, was carrying off all the glories of the fight. a certain amount of consolation was, however, afforded to him. between one and two o'clock he was told by mr. ratler that he might enjoy the privilege of adjourning the debate,--by which would accrue to him the right of commencing on the morrow,--and this he did at a few minutes before three. chapter xxxvi. seventy-two. on the next morning phineas, with his speech before him, was obliged for a while to forget, or at least to postpone, mr. bonteen and his injuries. he could not now go to lord cantrip, as the hours were too precious to him, and, as he felt, too short. though he had been thinking what he would say ever since the debate had become imminent, and knew accurately the line which he would take, he had not as yet prepared a word of his speech. but he had resolved that he would not prepare a word otherwise than he might do by arranging certain phrases in his memory. there should be nothing written; he had tried that before in old days, and had broken down with the effort. he would load himself with no burden of words in itself so heavy that the carrying of it would incapacitate him for any other effort. after a late breakfast he walked out far away, into the regent's park, and there, wandering among the uninteresting paths, he devised triumphs of oratory for himself. let him resolve as he would to forget mr. bonteen, and that charge of having been untrue to his companions, he could not restrain himself from efforts to fit the matter after some fashion into his speech. dim ideas of a definition of political honesty crossed his brain, bringing with him, however, a conviction that his thought must be much more clearly worked out than it could be on that day before he might venture to give it birth in the house of commons. he knew that he had been honest two years ago in separating himself from his colleagues. he knew that he would be honest now in voting with them, apparently in opposition to the pledges he had given at tankerville. but he knew also that it would behove him to abstain from speaking of himself unless he could do so in close reference to some point specially in dispute between the two parties. when he returned to eat a mutton chop at great marlborough street at three o'clock he was painfully conscious that all his morning had been wasted. he had allowed his mind to run revel, instead of tying it down to the formation of sentences and construction of arguments. he entered the house with the speaker at four o'clock, and took his seat without uttering a word to any man. he seemed to be more than ever disjoined from his party. hitherto, since he had been seated by the judge's order, the former companions of his parliamentary life,--the old men whom he had used to know,--had to a certain degree admitted him among them. many of them sat on the front opposition bench, whereas he, as a matter of course, had seated himself behind. but he had very frequently found himself next to some man who had held office and was living in the hope of holding it again, and had felt himself to be in some sort recognised as an aspirant. now it seemed to him that it was otherwise. he did not doubt but that bonteen had shown the correspondence to his friends, and that the ratlers and erles had conceded that he, phineas, was put out of court by it. he sat doggedly still, at the end of a bench behind mr. gresham, and close to the gangway. when mr. gresham entered the house he was received with much cheering; but phineas did not join in the cheer. he was studious to avoid any personal recognition of the future giver-away of places, though they two were close together; and he then fancied that mr. gresham had specially and most ungraciously abstained from any recognition of him. mr. monk, who sat near him, spoke a kind word to him. "i shan't be very long," said phineas; "not above twenty minutes, i should think." he was able to assume an air of indifference, and yet at the moment he heartily wished himself back in dublin. it was not now that he feared the task immediately before him, but that he was overcome by the feeling of general failure which had come upon him. of what use was it to him or to any one else that he should be there in that assembly, with the privilege of making a speech that would influence no human being, unless his being there could be made a step to something beyond? while the usual preliminary work was being done, he looked round the house, and saw lord cantrip in the peers' gallery. alas! of what avail was that? he had always been able to bind to him individuals with whom he had been brought into close contact; but more than that was wanted in this most precarious of professions, in which now, for a second time, he was attempting to earn his bread. at half-past four he was on his legs in the midst of a crowded house. the chance,--perhaps the hope,--of some such encounter as that of the former day, brought members into their seats, and filled the gallery with strangers. we may say, perhaps, that the highest duty imposed upon us as a nation is the management of india; and we may also say that in a great national assembly personal squabbling among its members is the least dignified work in which it can employ itself. but the prospect of an explanation,--or otherwise of a fight,--between two leading politicians will fill the house; and any allusion to our eastern empire will certainly empty it. an aptitude for such encounters is almost a necessary qualification for a popular leader in parliament, as is a capacity for speaking for three hours to the reporters, and to the reporters only,--a necessary qualification for an under-secretary of state for india. phineas had the advantage of the temper of the moment in a house thoroughly crowded, and he enjoyed it. let a man doubt ever so much his own capacity for some public exhibition which he has undertaken; yet he will always prefer to fail,--if fail he must,--before a large audience. but on this occasion there was no failure. that sense of awe from the surrounding circumstances of the moment, which had once been heavy on him, and which he still well remembered, had been overcome, and had never returned to him. he felt now that he should not lack words to pour out his own individual grievances were it not that he was prevented by a sense of the indiscretion of doing so. as it was, he did succeed in alluding to his own condition in a manner that brought upon him no reproach. he began by saying that he should not have added to the difficulty of the debate,--which was one simply of length,--were it not that he had been accused in advance of voting against a measure as to which he had pledged himself at the hustings to do all that he could to further it. no man was more anxious than he, an irish roman catholic, to abolish that which he thought to be the anomaly of a state church, and he did not in the least doubt that he should now be doing the best in his power with that object in voting against the second reading of the present bill. that such a measure should be carried by the gentlemen opposite, in their own teeth, at the bidding of the right honourable gentleman who led them, he thought to be impossible. upon this he was hooted at from the other side with many gestures of indignant denial, and was, of course, equally cheered by those around him. such interruptions are new breath to the nostrils of all orators, and phineas enjoyed the noise. he repeated his assertion that it would be an evil thing for the country that the measure should be carried by men who in their hearts condemned it, and was vehemently called to order for this assertion about the hearts of gentlemen. but a speaker who can certainly be made amenable to authority for vilipending in debate the heart of any specified opponent, may with safety attribute all manner of ill to the agglomerated hearts of a party. to have told any individual conservative,--sir orlando drought for instance,--that he was abandoning all the convictions of his life, because he was a creature at the command of mr. daubeny, would have been an insult that would have moved even the speaker from his serenity; but you can hardly be personal to a whole bench of conservatives,--to bench above bench of conservatives. the charge had been made and repeated over and over again, till all the orlando droughts were ready to cut some man's throat,--whether their own, or mr. daubeny's, or mr. gresham's, they hardly knew. it might probably have been mr. daubeny's for choice, had any real cutting of a throat been possible. it was now made again by phineas finn,--with the ostensible object of defending himself,--and he for the moment became the target for conservative wrath. some one asked him in fury by what right he took upon himself to judge of the motives of gentlemen on that side of the house of whom personally he knew nothing. phineas replied that he did not at all doubt the motives of the honourable gentleman who asked the question, which he was sure were noble and patriotic. but unfortunately the whole country was convinced that the conservative party as a body was supporting this measure, unwillingly, and at the bidding of one man;--and, for himself, he was bound to say that he agreed with the country. and so the row was renewed and prolonged, and the gentlemen assembled, members and strangers together, passed a pleasant evening. before he sat down, phineas made one allusion to that former scuttling of the ship,--an accusation as to which had been made against him so injuriously by mr. bonteen. he himself, he said, had been called impractical, and perhaps he might allude to a vote which he had given in that house when last he had the honour of sitting there, and on giving which he resigned the office which he had then held. he had the gratification of knowing that he had been so far practical as to have then foreseen the necessity of a measure which had since been passed. and he did not doubt that he would hereafter be found to have been equally practical in the view that he had expressed on the hustings at tankerville, for he was convinced that before long the anomaly of which he had spoken would cease to exist under the influence of a government that would really believe in the work it was doing. there was no doubt as to the success of his speech. the vehemence with which his insolence was abused by one after another of those who spoke later from the other side was ample evidence of its success. but nothing occurred then or at the conclusion of the debate to make him think that he had won his way back to elysium. during the whole evening he exchanged not a syllable with mr. gresham,--who indeed was not much given to converse with those around him in the house. erle said a few good-natured words to him, and mr. monk praised him highly. but in reading the general barometer of the party as regarded himself, he did not find that the mercury went up. he was wretchedly anxious, and angry with himself for his own anxiety. he scorned to say a word that should sound like an entreaty; and yet he had placed his whole heart on a thing which seemed to be slipping from him for the want of asking. in a day or two it would be known whether the present ministry would or would not go out. that they must be out of office before a month was over seemed to him the opinion of everybody. his fate,--and what a fate it was!--would then be absolutely in the hands of mr. gresham. yet he could not speak a word of his hopes and fears even to mr. gresham. he had given up everything in the world with the view of getting into office; and now that the opportunity had come,--an opportunity which if allowed to slip could hardly return again in time to be of service to him,--the prize was to elude his grasp! but yet he did not say a word to any one on the subject that was so near his heart, although in the course of the night he spoke to lord cantrip in the gallery of the house. he told his friend that a correspondence had taken place between himself and mr. bonteen, in which he thought that he had been ill-used, and as to which he was quite anxious to ask his lordship's advice. "i heard that you and he had been tilting at each other," said lord cantrip, smiling. "have you seen the letters?" "no;--but i was told of them by lord fawn, who has seen them." "i knew he would show them to every newsmonger about the clubs," said phineas angrily. "you can't quarrel with bonteen for showing them to fawn, if you intend to show them to me." "he may publish them at charing cross if he likes." "exactly. i am sure that there will have been nothing in them prejudicial to you. what i mean is that if you think it necessary, with a view to your own character, to show them to me or to another friend, you cannot complain that he should do the same." an appointment was made at lord cantrip's house for the next morning, and phineas could but acknowledge to himself that the man's manner to himself had been kind and constant. nevertheless, the whole affair was going against him. lord cantrip had not said a word prejudicial to that wretch bonteen; much less had he hinted at any future arrangements which would be comfortable to poor phineas. they two, lord cantrip and phineas, had at one period been on most intimate terms together;--had worked in the same office, and had thoroughly trusted each other. the elder of the two,--for lord cantrip was about ten years senior to phineas,--had frequently expressed the most lively interest in the prospects of the other; and phineas had felt that in any emergency he could tell his friend all his hopes and fears. but now he did not say a word of his position, nor did lord cantrip allude to it. they were to meet on the morrow in order that lord cantrip might read the correspondence;--but phineas was sure that no word would be said about the government. at five o'clock in the morning the division took place, and the government was beaten by a majority of . this was much higher than any man had expected. when the parties were marshalled in the opposite lobbies it was found that in the last moment the number of those conservatives who dared to rebel against their conservative leaders was swelled by the course which the debate had taken. there were certain men who could not endure to be twitted with having deserted the principles of their lives, when it was clear that nothing was to be gained by the party by such desertion. chapter xxxvii. the conspiracy. on the morning following the great division phineas was with his friend, lord cantrip, by eleven o'clock; and lord cantrip, when he had read the two letters in which were comprised the whole correspondence, made to our unhappy hero the following little speech. "i do not think that you can do anything. indeed, i am sure that mr. monk is quite right. i don't quite see what it is that you wish to do. privately,--between our two selves,--i do not hesitate to say that mr. bonteen has intended to be ill-natured. i fancy that he is an ill-natured--or at any rate a jealous--man; and that he would be willing to run down a competitor in the race who had made his running after a fashion different from his own. bonteen has been a useful man,--a very useful man; and the more so perhaps because he has not entertained any high political theory of his own. you have chosen to do so,--and undoubtedly when you and monk left us, to our very great regret, you did scuttle the ship." "we had no intention of that kind." "do not suppose that i blame you. that which was odious to the eyes of mr. bonteen was to my thinking high and honourable conduct. i have known the same thing done by members of a government perhaps half-a-dozen times, and the men by whom it has been done have been the best and noblest of our modern statesmen. there has generally been a hard contest in the man's breast between loyalty to his party and strong personal convictions, the result of which has been an inability on the part of the struggler to give even a silent support to a measure which he has disapproved. that inability is no doubt troublesome at the time to the colleagues of the seceder, and constitutes an offence hardly to be pardoned by such gentlemen as mr. bonteen." "for mr. bonteen personally i care nothing." "but of course you must endure the ill-effects of his influence,--be they what they may. when you seceded from our government you looked for certain adverse consequences. if you did not, where was your self-sacrifice? that such men as mr. bonteen should feel that you had scuttled the ship, and be unable to forgive you for doing so,--that is exactly the evil which you knew you must face. you have to face it now, and surely you can do so without showing your teeth. hereafter, when men more thoughtful than mr. bonteen shall have come to acknowledge the high principle by which your conduct has been governed, you will receive your reward. i suppose mr. daubeny must resign now." "everybody says so." "i am by no means sure that he will. any other minister since lord north's time would have done so, with such a majority against him on a vital measure; but he is a man who delights in striking out some wonderful course for himself." "a prime minister so beaten surely can't go on." "not for long, one would think. and yet how are you to turn him out? it depends very much on a man's power of endurance." "his colleagues will resign, i should think." "probably;--and then he must go. i should say that that will be the way in which the matter will settle itself. good morning, finn;--and take my word for it, you had better not answer mr. bonteen's letter." not a word had fallen from lord cantrip's friendly lips as to the probability of phineas being invited to join the future government. an attempt had been made to console him with the hazy promise of some future reward,--which however was to consist rather of the good opinion of good men than of anything tangible and useful. but even this would never come to him. what would good men know of him and of his self-sacrifice when he should have been driven out of the world by poverty, and forced probably to go to some new zealand or back canadian settlement to look for his bread? how easy, thought phineas, must be the sacrifices of rich men, who can stay their time, and wait in perfect security for their rewards! but for such a one as he, truth to a principle was political annihilation. two or three years ago he had done what he knew to be a noble thing;--and now, because he had done that noble thing, he was to be regarded as unfit for that very employment for which he was peculiarly fitted. but bonteen and co. had not been his only enemies. his luck had been against him throughout. mr. quintus slide, with his people's banner, and the story of that wretched affair in judd street, had been as strong against him probably as mr. bonteen's ill-word. then he thought of lady laura, and her love for him. his gratitude to lady laura was boundless. there was nothing he would not do for lady laura,--were it in his power to do anything. but no circumstance in his career had been so unfortunate for him as this affection. a wretched charge had been made against him which, though wholly untrue, was as it were so strangely connected with the truth, that slanderers might not improbably be able almost to substantiate their calumnies. she would be in london soon, and he must devote himself to her service. but every act of friendship that he might do for her would be used as proof of the accusation that had been made against him. as he thought of all this he was walking towards park lane in order that he might call upon madame goesler according to his promise. as he went up to the drawing-room he met old mr. maule coming down, and the two bowed to each other on the stairs. in the drawing-room, sitting with madame goesler, he found mrs. bonteen. now mrs. bonteen was almost as odious to him as was her husband. "did you ever know anything more shameful, mr. finn," said mrs. bonteen, "than the attack made upon mr. bonteen the night before last?" phineas could see a smile on madame goesler's face as the question was asked;--for she knew, and he knew that she knew, how great was the antipathy between him and the bonteens. "the attack was upon mr. gresham, i thought," said phineas. "oh, yes; nominally. but of course everybody knows what was meant. upon my word there is twice more jealousy among men than among women. is there not, madame goesler?" "i don't think any man could be more jealous than i am myself," said madame goesler. "then you're fit to be a member of a government, that's all. i don't suppose that there is a man in england has worked harder for his party than mr. bonteen." "i don't think there is," said phineas. "or made himself more useful in parliament. as for work, only that his constitution is so strong, he would have killed himself." "he should take thorley's mixture,--twice a day," said madame goesler. "take!--he never has time to take anything. he breakfasts in his dressing-room, carries his lunch in his pocket, and dines with the division bell ringing him up between his fish and his mutton chop. now he has got their decimal coinage in hand, and has not a moment to himself, even on sundays!" "he'll be sure to go to heaven for it,--that's one comfort." "and because they are absolutely obliged to make him chancellor of the exchequer,--just as if he had not earned it,--everybody is so jealous that they are ready to tear him to pieces!" "who is everybody?" asked phineas. "oh! i know. it wasn't only sir orlando drought. who told sir orlando? never mind, mr. finn." "i don't in the least, mrs. bonteen." "i should have thought you would have been so triumphant," said madame goesler. "not in the least, madame goesler. why should i be triumphant? of course the position is very high,--very high indeed. but it's no more than what i have always expected. if a man give up his life to a pursuit he ought to succeed. as for ambition, i have less of it than any woman. only i do hate jealousy, mr. finn." then mrs. bonteen took her leave, kissing her dear friend, madame goesler, and simply bowing to phineas. "what a detestable woman!" said phineas. "i know of old that you don't love her." "i don't believe that you love her a bit better than i do, and yet you kiss her." "hardly that, mr. finn. there has come up a fashion for ladies to pretend to be very loving, and so they put their faces together. two hundred years ago ladies and gentlemen did the same thing with just as little regard for each other. fashions change, you know." "that was a change for the worse, certainly, madame goesler." "it wasn't of my doing. so you've had a great victory." "yes;--greater than we expected." "according to mrs. bonteen, the chief result to the country will be that the taxes will be so very safe in her husband's hands! i am sure she believes that all parliament has been at work in order that he might be made a cabinet minister. i rather like her for it." "i don't like her, or her husband." "i do like a woman that can thoroughly enjoy her husband's success. when she is talking of his carrying about his food in his pocket she is completely happy. i don't think lady glencora ever cared in the least about her husband being chancellor of the exchequer." "because it added nothing to her own standing." "that's very ill-natured, mr. finn; and i find that you are becoming generally ill-natured. you used to be the best-humoured of men." "i hadn't so much to try my temper as i have now, and then you must remember, madame goesler, that i regard these people as being especially my enemies." "lady glencora was never your enemy." "nor my friend,--especially." "then you wrong her. if i tell you something you must be discreet." "am i not always discreet?" "she does not love mr. bonteen. she has had too much of him at matching. and as for his wife, she is quite as unwilling to be kissed by her as you can be. her grace is determined to fight your battle for you." "i want her to do nothing of the kind, madame goesler." "you will know nothing about it. we have put our heads to work, and mr. palliser,--that is, the new duke,--is to be made to tell mr. gresham that you are to have a place. it is no good you being angry, for the thing is done. if you have enemies behind your back, you must have friends behind your back also. lady cantrip is to do the same thing." "for heaven's sake, not." "it's all arranged. you'll be called the ladies' pet, but you mustn't mind that. lady laura will be here before it's arranged, and she will get hold of mr. erle." "you are laughing at me, i know." "let them laugh that win. we thought of besieging lord fawn through lady chiltern, but we are not sure that anybody cares for lord fawn. the man we specially want now is the other duke. we're afraid of attacking him through the duchess because we think that he is inhumanly indifferent to anything that his wife says to him." "if that kind of thing is done i shall not accept place even if it is offered me." "why not? are you going to let a man like mr. bonteen bowl you over? did you ever know lady glen fail in anything that she attempted? she is preparing a secret with the express object of making mr. ratler her confidant. lord mount thistle is her slave, but then i fear lord mount thistle is not of much use. she'll do anything and everything,--except flatter mr. bonteen." "heaven forbid that anybody should do that for my sake." "the truth is that he made himself so disagreeable at matching that lady glen is broken-hearted at finding that he is to seem to owe his promotion to her husband's favour. now you know all about it." "you have been very wrong to tell me." "perhaps i have, mr. finn. but i thought it better that you should know that you have friends at work for you. we believe,--or rather, the duchess believes,--that falsehoods have been used which are as disparaging to lady laura kennedy as they are injurious to you, and she is determined to put it right. some one has told mr. gresham that you have been the means of breaking the hearts both of lord brentford and mr. kennedy,--two members of the late cabinet,--and he must be made to understand that this is untrue. if only for lady laura's sake you must submit." "lord brentford and i are the best friends in the world." "and mr. kennedy is a madman,--absolutely in custody of his friends, as everybody knows; and yet the story has been made to work." "and you do not feel that all this is derogatory to me?" madame goesler was silent for a moment, and then she answered boldly, "not a whit. why should it be derogatory? it is not done with the object of obtaining an improper appointment on behalf of an unimportant man. when falsehoods of that kind are told you can't meet them in a straightforward way. i suppose i know with fair accuracy the sort of connection there has been between you and lady laura." phineas very much doubted whether she had any such knowledge; but he said nothing, though the lady paused a few moments for reply. "you can't go and tell mr. gresham all that; nor can any friend do so on your behalf. it would be absurd." "most absurd." "and yet it is essential to your interests that he should know it. when your enemies are undermining you, you must countermine or you'll be blown up." "i'd rather fight above ground." "that's all very well, but your enemies won't stay above ground. is that newspaper man above ground? and for a little job of clever mining, believe me, that there is not a better engineer going than lady glen;--not but what i've known her to be very nearly 'hoist with her own petard,'"--added madame goesler, as she remembered a certain circumstance in their joint lives. all that madame goesler said was true. a conspiracy had been formed, in the first place at the instance of madame goesler, but altogether by the influence of the young duchess, for forcing upon the future premier the necessity of admitting phineas finn into his government. on the wednesday following the conclusion of the debate,--the day on the morning of which the division was to take place,--there was no house. on the thursday, the last day on which the house was to sit before the easter holidays, mr. daubeny announced his intention of postponing the declaration of his intentions till after the adjournment. the house would meet, he said, on that day week, and then he would make his official statement. this communication he made very curtly, and in a manner that was thought by some to be almost insolent to the house. it was known that he had been grievously disappointed by the result of the debate,--not probably having expected a majority since his adversary's strategy had been declared, but always hoping that the deserters from his own standard would be very few. the deserters had been very many, and mr. daubeny was majestic in his wrath. nothing, however, could be done till after easter. the ratlers of the liberal party were very angry at the delay, declaring that it would have been much to the advantage of the country at large that the vacation week should have been used for constructing a liberal cabinet. this work of construction always takes time, and delays the business of the country. no one can have known better than did mr. daubeny how great was the injury of delay, and how advantageously the short holiday might have been used. with a majority of seventy-two against him, there could be no reason why he should not have at once resigned, and advised the queen to send for mr. gresham. nothing could be worse than his conduct. so said the liberals, thirsting for office. mr. gresham himself did not open his mouth when the announcement was made;--nor did any man, marked for future office, rise to denounce the beaten statesman. but one or two independent members expressed their great regret at the unnecessary delay which was to take place before they were informed who was to be the minister of the crown. but mr. daubeny, as soon as he had made his statement, stalked out of the house, and no reply whatever was made to the independent members. some few sublime and hot-headed gentlemen muttered the word "impeachment." others, who were more practical and less dignified, suggested that the prime minister "ought to have his head punched." it thus happened that all the world went out of town that week,--so that the duchess of omnium was down at matching when phineas called at the duke's house in carlton terrace on friday. with what object he had called he hardly knew himself; but he thought that he intended to assure the duchess that he was not a candidate for office, and that he must deprecate her interference. luckily,--or unluckily,--he did not see her, and he felt that it would be impossible to convey his wishes in a letter. the whole subject was one which would have defied him to find words sufficiently discreet for his object. the duke and duchess of st. bungay were at matching for the easter,--as also was barrington erle, and also that dreadful mr. bonteen, from whose presence the poor duchess of omnium could in these days never altogether deliver herself. "duke," she said, "you know mr. finn?" "certainly. it was not very long ago that i was talking to him." "he used to be in office, you remember." "oh yes;--and a very good beginner he was. is he a friend of your grace's?" "a great friend. i'll tell you what i want you to do. you must have some place found for him." "my dear duchess, i never interfere." "why, duke, you've made more cabinets than any man living." "i fear, indeed, that i have been at the construction of more governments than most men. it's forty years ago since lord melbourne first did me the honour of consulting me. when asked for advice, my dear, i have very often given it. it has occasionally been my duty to say that i could not myself give my slender assistance to a ministry unless i were supported by the presence of this or that political friend. but never in my life have i asked for an appointment as a personal favour; and i am sure you won't be angry with me if i say that i cannot begin to do so now." "but mr. finn ought to be there. he did so well before." "if so, let us presume that he will be there. i can only say, from what little i know of him, that i shall be happy to see him in any office to which the future prime minister may consider it to be his duty to appoint him." "to think," said the duchess of omnium afterwards to her friend madame goesler,--"to think that i should have had that stupid old woman a week in the house, and all for nothing!" "upon my word, duchess," said barrington erle, "i don't know why it is, but gresham seems to have taken a dislike to him." "it's bonteen's doing." "very probably." "surely you can get the better of that?" "i look upon phineas finn, duchess, almost as a child of my own. he has come back to parliament altogether at my instigation." "then you ought to help him." "and so i would if i could. remember i am not the man i used to be when dear old mr. mildmay reigned. the truth is, i never interfere now unless i'm asked." "i believe that every one of you is afraid of mr. gresham." "perhaps we are." "i'll tell you what. if he's passed over i'll make such a row that some of you shall hear it." "how fond all you women are of phineas finn." "i don't care that for him," said the duchess, snapping her fingers--"more than i do, that is, for any other mere acquaintance. the man is very well, as most men are." "not all." "no, not all. some are as little and jealous as a girl in her tenth season. he is a decently good fellow, and he is to be thrown over, because--" "because of what?" "i don't choose to name any one. you ought to know all about it, and i do not doubt but you do. lady laura kennedy is your own cousin." "there is not a spark of truth in all that." "of course there is not; and yet he is to be punished. i know very well, mr. erle, that if you choose to put your shoulder to the wheel you can manage it; and i shall expect to have it managed." "plantagenet," she said the next day to her husband, "i want you to do something for me." "to do something! what am i to do? it's very seldom you want anything in my line." "this isn't in your line at all, and yet i want you to do it." "ten to one it's beyond my means." "no, it isn't. i know you can if you like. i suppose you are all sure to be in office within ten days or a fortnight?" "i can't say, my dear. i have promised mr. gresham to be of use to him if i can." "everybody knows all that. you're going to be privy seal, and to work just the same as ever at those horrible two farthings." "and what is it you want, glencora?" "i want you to say that you won't take any office unless you are allowed to bring in one or two friends with you." "why should i do that? i shall not doubt any cabinet chosen by mr. gresham." "i'm not speaking of the cabinet; i allude to men in lower offices, lords, and under-secretaries, and vice-people. you know what i mean." "i never interfere." "but you must. other men do continually. it's quite a common thing for a man to insist that one or two others should come in with him." "yes. if a man feels that he cannot sustain his own position without support, he declines to join the government without it. but that isn't my case. the friends who are necessary to me in the cabinet are the very men who will certainly be there. i would join no government without the duke; but--" "oh, the duke--the duke! i hate dukes--and duchesses too. i'm not talking about a duke. i want you to oblige me by making a point with mr. gresham that mr. finn shall have an office." "mr. finn!" "yes, mr. finn. i'll explain it all if you wish it." "my dear glencora, i never interfere." "who does interfere? everybody says the same. somebody interferes, i suppose. mr. gresham can't know everybody so well as to be able to fit all the pegs into all the holes without saying a word to anybody." "he would probably speak to mr. bonteen." "then he would speak to a very disagreeable man, and one i'm as sick of as i ever was of any man i ever knew. if you can't manage this for me, plantagenet, i shall take it very ill. it's a little thing, and i'm sure you could have it done. i don't very often trouble you by asking for anything." the duke in his quiet way was an affectionate man, and an indulgent husband. on the following morning he was closeted with mr. bonteen, two private secretaries, and a leading clerk from the treasury for four hours, during which they were endeavouring to ascertain whether the commercial world of great britain would be ruined or enriched if twelve pennies were declared to contain fifty farthings. the discussion had been grievously burdensome to the minds of the duke's assistants in it, but he himself had remembered his wife through it all. "by the way," he said, whispering into mr. bonteen's private ear as he led that gentleman away to lunch, "if we do come in--" "oh, we must come in." "if we do, i suppose something will be done for that mr. finn. he spoke well the other night." mr. bonteen's face became very long. "he helped to upset the coach when he was with us before." "i don't think that that is much against him." "is he--a personal friend of your grace's?" "no--not particularly. i never care about such things for myself; but lady glencora--" "i think the duchess can hardly know what has been his conduct to poor kennedy. there was a most disreputable row at a public-house in london, and i am told that he behaved--very badly." "i never heard a word about it," said the duke. "i'll tell you just the truth," said mr. bonteen. "i've been asked about him, and i've been obliged to say that he would weaken any government that would give him office." "oh, indeed!" that evening the duke told the duchess nearly all that he had heard, and the duchess swore that she wasn't going to be beaten by mr. bonteen. chapter xxxviii. once again in portman square. on the wednesday in easter week lord brentford and lady laura kennedy reached portman square from dresden, and phineas, who had remained in town, was summoned thither by a note written at dover. "we arrived here to-day, and shall be in town to-morrow afternoon, between four and five. papa wants to see you especially. can you manage to be with us in the square at about eight? i know it will be inconvenient, but you will put up with inconvenience. i don't like to keep papa up late; and if he is tired he won't speak to you as he would if you came early.--l. k." phineas was engaged to dine with lord cantrip; but he wrote to excuse himself,--telling the simple truth. he had been asked to see lord brentford on business, and must obey the summons. he was shown into a sitting-room on the ground floor, which he had always known as the earl's own room, and there he found lord brentford alone. the last time he had been there he had come to plead with the earl on behalf of lord chiltern, and the earl had then been a stern self-willed man, vigorous from a sense of power, and very able to maintain and to express his own feelings. now he was a broken-down old man,--whose mind had been, as it were, unbooted and put into moral slippers for the remainder of its term of existence upon earth. he half shuffled up out of his chair as phineas came up to him, and spoke as though every calamity in the world were oppressing him. "such a passage! oh, very bad, indeed! i thought it would have been the death of me. laura thought it better to come on." the fact, however, had been that the earl had so many objections to staying at calais, that his daughter had felt herself obliged to yield to him. "you must be glad at any rate to have got home," said phineas. "home! i don't know what you call home. i don't suppose i shall ever feel any place to be home again." "you'll go to saulsby;--will you not?" "how can i tell? if chiltern would have kept the house up, of course i should have gone there. but he never would do anything like anybody else. violet wants me to go to that place they've got there, but i shan't do that." "it's a comfortable house." "i hate horses and dogs, and i won't go." there was nothing more to be said on that point. "i hope lady laura is well." "no, she's not. how should she be well? she's anything but well. she'll be in directly, but she thought i ought to see you first. i suppose this wretched man is really mad." "i am told so." "he never was anything else since i knew him. what are we to do now? forster says it won't look well to ask for a separation only because he's insane. he tried to shoot you?" "and very nearly succeeded." "forster says that if we do anything, all that must come out." "there need not be the slightest hesitation as far as i am concerned, lord brentford." "you know he keeps all her money." "at present i suppose he couldn't give it up." "why not? why shouldn't he give it up? god bless my soul! forty thousand pounds and all for nothing. when he married he declared that he didn't care about it! money was nothing to him! so she lent it to chiltern." "i remember." "but they hadn't been together a year before he asked for it. now there it is;--and if she were to die to-morrow it would be lost to the family. something must be done, you know. i can't let her money go in that way." "you'll do what mr. forster suggests, no doubt." "but he won't suggest anything. they never do. he doesn't care what becomes of the money. it never ought to have been given up as it was." "it was settled, i suppose." "yes;--if there were children. and it will come back to her if he dies first. but mad people never do die. that's a well-known fact. they've nothing to trouble them, and they live for ever. it'll all go to some cousin of his that nobody ever saw." "not as long as lady laura lives." "but she does not get a penny of the income;--not a penny. there never was anything so cruel. he has published all manner of accusations against her." "nobody believes a word of that, my lord." "and then when she is dragged forward by the necessity of vindicating her character, he goes mad and keeps all her money! there never was anything so cruel since the world began." this continued for half-an-hour, and then lady laura came in. nothing had come, or could have come, from the consultation with the earl. had it gone on for another hour, he would simply have continued to grumble, and have persevered in insisting upon the hardships he endured. lady laura was in black, and looked sad, and old, and careworn; but she did not seem to be ill. phineas could not but think at the moment how entirely her youth had passed away from her. she came and sat close by him, and began at once to speak of the late debate. "of course they'll go out," she said. "i presume they will." "and our party will come in." "oh, yes;--mr. gresham, and the two dukes, and lord cantrip,--with legge wilson, sir harry coldfoot, and the rest of them." "and you?" phineas smiled, and tried to smile pleasantly, as he answered, "i don't know that they'll put themselves out by doing very much for me." "they'll do something." "i fancy not. indeed, lady laura, to tell the truth at once, i know that they don't mean to offer me anything." "after making you give up your place in ireland?" "they didn't make me give it up. i should never dream of using such an argument to any one. of course i had to judge for myself. there is nothing to be said about it;--only it is so." as he told her this he strove to look light-hearted, and so to speak that she should not see the depth of his disappointment;--but he failed altogether. she knew him too well not to read his whole heart in the matter. "who has said it?" she asked. "nobody says things of that kind, and yet one knows." "and why is it?" "how can i say? there are various reasons,--and, perhaps, very good reasons. what i did before makes men think that they can't depend on me. at any rate it is so." "shall you not speak to mr. gresham?" "certainly not." "what do you say, papa?" "how can i understand it, my dear? there used to be a kind of honour in these things, but that's all old-fashioned now. ministers used to think of their political friends; but in these days they only regard their political enemies. if you can make a minister afraid of you, then it becomes worth his while to buy you up. most of the young men rise now by making themselves thoroughly disagreeable. abuse a minister every night for half a session, and you may be sure to be in office the other half,--if you care about it." "may i speak to barrington erle?" asked lady laura. "i had rather you did not. of course i must take it as it comes." "but, my dear mr. finn, people do make efforts in such cases. i don't doubt but that at this moment there are a dozen men moving heaven and earth to secure something. no one has more friends than you have." had not her father been present he would have told her what his friends were doing for him, and how unhappy such interferences made him; but he could not explain all this before the earl. "i would so much rather hear about yourself," he said, again smiling. "there is but little to say about us. i suppose papa has told you?" but the earl had told him nothing, and indeed, there was nothing to tell. the lawyer had advised that mr. kennedy's friends should be informed that lady laura now intended to live in england, and that they should be invited to make to her some statement as to mr. kennedy's condition. if necessary he, on her behalf, would justify her departure from her husband's roof by a reference to the outrageous conduct of which mr. kennedy had since been guilty. in regard to lady laura's fortune, mr. forster said that she could no doubt apply for alimony, and that if the application were pressed at law she would probably obtain it;--but he could not recommend such a step at the present moment. as to the accusation which had been made against her character, and which had become public through the malice of the editor of the people's banner, mr. forster thought that the best refutation would be found in her return to england. at any rate he would advise no further step at the present moment. should any further libel appear in the columns of the newspaper, then the question might be again considered. mr. forster had already been in portman square, and this had been the result of the conference. "there is not much comfort in it all,--is there?" said lady laura. "there is no comfort in anything," said the earl. when phineas took his leave lady laura followed him out into the hall, and they went together into the large, gloomy dining-room,--gloomy and silent now, but which in former days he had known to be brilliant with many lights, and cheerful with eager voices. "i must have one word with you," she said, standing close to him against the table, and putting her hand upon his arm. "amidst all my sorrow, i have been so thankful that he did not--kill you." [illustration: "i must have one word with you."] "i almost wish he had." "oh, phineas!--how can you say words so wicked! would you have had him a murderer?" "a madman is responsible for nothing." "where should i have been? what should i have done? but of course you do not mean it. you have everything in life before you. say some word to me more comfortable than that. you cannot think how i have looked forward to meeting you again. it has robbed the last month of half its sadness." he put his arm round her waist and pressed her to his side, but he said nothing. "it was so good of you to go to him as you did. how was he looking?" "twenty years older than when you saw him last." "but how in health?" "he was thin and haggard." "was he pale?" "no; flushed and red. he had not shaved himself for days; nor, as i believe, had he been out of his room since he came up to london. i fancy that he will not live long." "poor fellow;--unhappy man! i was very wrong to marry him, phineas." "i have never said so;--nor, indeed, thought so." "but i have thought so; and i say it also,--to you. i owe him any reparation that i can make him; but i could not have lived with him. i had no idea, before, that the nature of two human beings could be so unlike. i so often remember what you told me of him,--here; in this house, when i first brought you together. alas, how sad it has been!" "sad, indeed." "but can this be true that you tell me of yourself? "it is quite true. i could not say so before your father, but it is mr. bonteen's doing. there is no remedy. i am sure of that. i am only afraid that people are interfering for me in a manner that will be as disagreeable to me as it will be useless." "what friends?" she asked. he was still standing with his arm round her waist, and he did not like to mention the name of madame goesler. "the duchess of omnium,--whom you remember as lady glencora palliser." "is she a friend of yours?" "no;--not particularly. but she is an indiscreet woman, and hates bonteen, and has taken it into her stupid head to interest herself in my concerns. it is no doing of mine, and yet i cannot help it." "she will succeed." "i don't want assistance from such a quarter; and i feel sure that she will not succeed." "what will you do, phineas?" "what shall i do? carry on the battle as long as i can without getting into debt, and then--vanish." "you vanished once before,--did you not,--with a wife?" "and now i shall vanish alone. my poor little wife! it seems all like a dream. she was so good, so pure, so pretty, so loving!" "loving! a man's love is so easily transferred;--as easily as a woman's hand;--is it not, phineas? say the word, for it is what you are thinking." "i was thinking of no such thing." "you must think it--you need not be afraid to reproach me. i could bear it from you. what could i not bear from you? oh, phineas;--if i had only known myself then, as i do now!" "it is too late for regrets," he said. there was something in the words which grated on her feelings, and induced her at length to withdraw herself from his arm. too late for regrets! she had never told herself that it was not too late. she was the wife of another man, and therefore, surely it was too late. but still the word coming from his mouth was painful to her. it seemed to signify that for him at least the game was all over. "yes, indeed," she said,--"if our regrets and remorse were at our own disposal! you might as well say that it is too late for unhappiness, too late for weariness, too late for all the misery that comes from a life's disappointment." "i should have said that indulgence in regrets is vain." "that is a scrap of philosophy which i have heard so often before! but we will not quarrel, will we, on the first day of my return?" "i hope not." "and i may speak to barrington?" "no; certainly not." "but i shall. how can i help it? he will be here to-morrow, and will be full of the coming changes. how should i not mention your name? he knows--not all that has passed, but too much not to be aware of my anxiety. of course your name will come up?" "what i request,--what i demand is, that you ask no favour for me. your father will miss you,--will he not? i had better go now." "good night, phineas." "good night, dear friend." "dearest, dearest friend," she said. then he left her, and without assistance, let himself out into the square. in her intercourse with him there was a passion the expression of which caused him sorrow and almost dismay. he did not say so even to himself, but he felt that a time might come in which she would resent the coldness of demeanour which it would be imperative upon him to adopt in his intercourse with her. he knew how imprudent he had been to stand there with his arm round her waist. chapter xxxix. cagliostro. it had been settled that parliament should meet on the thursday in easter week, and it was known to the world at large that cabinet councils were held on the friday previous, on the monday, and on the tuesday; but nobody knew what took place at those meetings. cabinet councils are, of course, very secret. what kind of oath the members take not to divulge any tittle of the proceedings at these awful conferences, the general public does not know; but it is presumed that oaths are taken very solemn, and it is known that they are very binding. nevertheless, it is not an uncommon thing to hear openly at the clubs an account of what has been settled; and, as we all know, not a council is held as to which the editor of the people's banner does not inform its readers next day exactly what took place. but as to these three cabinet councils there was an increased mystery abroad. statements, indeed, were made, very definite and circumstantial, but then they were various,--and directly opposed one to another. according to the people's banner, mr. daubeny had resolved, with that enduring courage which was his peculiar characteristic, that he would not be overcome by faction, but would continue to exercise all the functions of prime minister until he had had an opportunity of learning whether his great measure had been opposed by the sense of the country, or only by the tactics of an angry and greedy party. other journals declared that the ministry as a whole had decided on resigning. but the clubs were in a state of agonising doubt. at the great stronghold of conservative policy in pall mall men were silent, embarrassed, and unhappy. the party was at heart divorced from its leaders,--and a party without leaders is powerless. to these gentlemen there could be no triumph, whether mr. daubeny went out or remained in office. they had been betrayed;--but as a body were unable even to accuse the traitor. as regarded most of them they had accepted the treachery and bowed their heads beneath it, by means of their votes. and as to the few who had been staunch,--they also were cowed by a feeling that they had been instrumental in destroying their own power by endeavouring to protect a doomed institution. many a thriving county member in those days expressed a wish among his friends that he had never meddled with the affairs of public life, and hinted at the chiltern hundreds. on the other side, there was undoubtedly something of a rabid desire for immediate triumph, which almost deserved that epithet of greedy which was then commonly used by conservatives in speaking of their opponents. with the liberal leaders,--such men as mr. gresham and the two dukes,--the anxiety displayed was, no doubt, on behalf of the country. it is right, according to our constitution, that the government should be entrusted to the hands of those whom the constituencies of the country have most trusted. and, on behalf of the country, it behoves the men in whom the country has placed its trust to do battle in season and out of season,--to carry on war internecine,--till the demands of the country are obeyed. a sound political instinct had induced mr. gresham on this occasion to attack his opponent simply on the ground of his being the leader only of a minority in the house of commons. but from among mr. gresham's friends there had arisen a noise which sounded very like a clamour for place, and this noise of course became aggravated in the ears of those who were to be displaced. now, during easter week, the clamour became very loud. could it be possible that the archfiend of a minister would dare to remain in office till the end of a hurried session, and then again dissolve parliament? men talked of rows in london,--even of revolution, and there were meetings in open places both by day and night. petitions were to be prepared, and the country was to be made to express itself. when, however, thursday afternoon came, mr. daubeny "threw up the sponge." up to the last moment the course which he intended to pursue was not known to the country at large. he entered the house very slowly,--almost with a languid air, as though indifferent to its performances, and took his seat at about half-past four. every man there felt that there was insolence in his demeanour,--and yet there was nothing on which it was possible to fasten in the way of expressed complaint. there was a faint attempt at a cheer,--for good soldiers acknowledge the importance of supporting even an unpopular general. but mr. daubeny's soldiers on this occasion were not very good. when he had been seated about five minutes he rose, still very languidly, and began his statement. he and his colleagues, he said, in their attempt to legislate for the good of their country had been beaten in regard to a very great measure by a large majority, and in compliance with what he acknowledged to be the expressed opinion of the house, he had considered it to be his duty--as his colleagues had considered it to be theirs--to place their joint resignations in the hands of her majesty. this statement was received with considerable surprise, as it was not generally known that mr. daubeny had as yet even seen the queen. but the feeling most predominant in the house was one almost of dismay at the man's quiescence. he and his colleagues had resigned, and he had recommended her majesty to send for mr. gresham. he spoke in so low a voice as to be hardly audible to the house at large, and then paused,--ceasing to speak, as though his work were done. he even made some gesture, as though stepping back to his seat;--deceived by which mr. gresham, at the other side of the table, rose to his legs. "perhaps," said mr. daubeny,--"perhaps the right honourable gentleman would pardon him, and the house would pardon him, if still, for a moment, he interposed between the house and the right honourable gentleman. he could well understand the impatience of the right honourable gentleman,--who no doubt was anxious to reassume that authority among them, the temporary loss of which he had not perhaps borne with all the equanimity which might have been expected from him. he would promise the house and the right honourable gentleman that he would not detain them long." mr. gresham threw himself back into his seat, evidently not without annoyance, and his enemy stood for a moment looking at him. unless they were angels these two men must at that moment have hated each other;--and it is supposed that they were no more than human. it was afterwards said that the little ruse of pretending to resume his seat had been deliberately planned by mr. daubeny with the view of seducing mr. gresham into an act of seeming impatience, and that these words about his opponent's failing equanimity had been carefully prepared. mr. daubeny stood for a minute silent, and then began to pour forth that which was really his speech on the occasion. those flaccid half-pronounced syllables in which he had declared that he had resigned,--had been studiously careless, purposely flaccid. it was his duty to let the house know the fact, and he did his duty. but now he had a word to say in which he himself could take some little interest. mr. daubeny could be fiery or flaccid as it suited himself;--and now it suited him to be fiery. he had a prophecy to make, and prophets have ever been energetic men. mr. daubeny conceived it to be his duty to inform the house, and through the house the country, that now, at last, had the day of ruin come upon the british empire, because it had bowed itself to the dominion of an unscrupulous and greedy faction. it cannot be said that the language which he used was unmeasured, because no word that he uttered would have warranted the speaker in calling him to order; but, within the very wide bounds of parliamentary etiquette, there was no limit to the reproach and reprobation which he heaped on the house of commons for its late vote. and his audacity equalled his insolence. in announcing his resignation, he had condescended to speak of himself and his colleagues; but now he dropped his colleagues as though they were unworthy of his notice, and spoke only of his own doings,--of his own efforts to save the country, which was indeed willing to be saved, but unable to select fitting instruments of salvation. "he had been twitted," he said, "with inconsistency to his principles by men who were simply unable to understand the meaning of the word conservatism. these gentlemen seemed to think that any man who did not set himself up as an apostle of constant change must therefore be bound always to stand still and see his country perish from stagnation. it might be that there were gentlemen in that house whose timid natures could not face the dangers of any movement; but for himself he would say that no word had ever fallen from his lips which justified either his friends or his adversaries in classing him among the number. if a man be anxious to keep his fire alight, does he refuse to touch the sacred coals as in the course of nature they are consumed? or does he move them with the salutary poker and add fresh fuel from the basket? they all knew that enemy to the comfort of the domestic hearth, who could not keep his hands for a moment from the fire-irons. perhaps he might be justified if he said that they had been very much troubled of late in that house by gentlemen who could not keep their fingers from poker and tongs. but there had now fallen upon them a trouble of a nature much more serious in its effects than any that had come or could come from would-be reformers. a spirit of personal ambition, a wretched thirst for office, a hankering after the power and privileges of ruling, had not only actuated men,--as, alas, had been the case since first the need for men to govern others had arisen in the world,--but had been openly avowed and put forward as an adequate and sufficient reason for opposing a measure in disapprobation of which no single argument had been used! the right honourable gentleman's proposition to the house had been simply this;--'i shall oppose this measure, be it good or bad, because i desire, myself, to be prime minister, and i call upon those whom i lead in politics to assist me in doing so, in order that they may share the good things on which we may thus be enabled to lay our hands!'" then there arose a great row in the house, and there seemed to be a doubt whether the still existing minister of the day would be allowed to continue his statement. mr. gresham rose to his feet, but sat down again instantly, without having spoken a word that was audible. two or three voices were heard calling upon the speaker for protection. it was, however, asserted afterwards that nothing had been said which demanded the speaker's interference. but all moderate voices were soon lost in the enraged clamour of members on each side. the insolence showered upon those who generally supported mr. daubeny had equalled that with which he had exasperated those opposed to him; and as the words had fallen from his lips, there had been no purpose of cheering him from the conservative benches. but noise creates noise, and shouting is a ready and easy mode of contest. for a while it seemed as though the right side of the speaker's chair was only beaten by the majority of lungs on the left side;--and in the midst of it all mr. daubeny still stood, firm on his feet, till gentlemen had shouted themselves silent,--and then he resumed his speech. the remainder of what he said was profound, prophetic, and unintelligible. the gist of it, so far as it could be understood when the bran was bolted from it, consisted in an assurance that the country had now reached that period of its life in which rapid decay was inevitable, and that, as the mortal disease had already shown itself in its worst form, national decrepitude was imminent, and natural death could not long be postponed. they who attempted to read the prophecy with accuracy were of opinion that the prophet had intimated that had the nation, even in this its crisis, consented to take him, the prophet, as its sole physician and to obey his prescription with childlike docility, health might not only have been re-established, but a new juvenescence absolutely created. the nature of the medicine that should have been taken was even supposed to have been indicated in some very vague terms. had he been allowed to operate he would have cut the tap-roots of the national cancer, have introduced fresh blood into the national veins, and resuscitated the national digestion, and he seemed to think that the nation, as a nation, was willing enough to undergo the operation, and be treated as he should choose to treat it;--but that the incubus of mr. gresham, backed by an unworthy house of commons, had prevented, and was preventing, the nation from having its own way. therefore the nation must be destroyed. mr. daubeny as soon as he had completed his speech took up his hat and stalked out of the house. it was supposed at the time that the retiring prime minister had intended, when he rose to his legs, not only to denounce his opponents, but also to separate himself from his own unworthy associates. men said that he had become disgusted with politics, disappointed, and altogether demoralized by defeat, and great curiosity existed as to the steps which might be taken at the time by the party of which he had hitherto been the leader. on that evening, at any rate, nothing was done. when mr. daubeny was gone, mr. gresham rose and said that in the present temper of the house he thought it best to postpone any statement from himself. he had received her majesty's commands only as he had entered that house, and in obedience to those commands, he should wait upon her majesty early to-morrow. he hoped to be able to inform the house at the afternoon sitting, what was the nature of the commands with which her majesty might honour him. "what do you think of that?" phineas asked mr. monk as they left the house together. "i think that our chatham of to-day is but a very poor copy of him who misbehaved a century ago." "does not the whole thing distress you?" "not particularly. i have always felt that there has been a mistake about mr. daubeny. by many he has been accounted as a statesman, whereas to me he has always been a political cagliostro. now a conjuror is i think a very pleasant fellow to have among us, if we know that he is a conjuror;--but a conjuror who is believed to do his tricks without sleight of hand is a dangerous man. it is essential that such a one should be found out and known to be a conjuror,--and i hope that such knowledge may have been communicated to some men this afternoon." "he was very great," said ratler to bonteen. "did you not think so?" "yes, i did,--very powerful indeed. but the party is broken up to atoms." "atoms soon come together again in politics," said ratler. "they can't do without him. they haven't got anybody else. i wonder what he did when he got home." "had some gruel and went to bed," said bonteen. "they say these scenes in the house never disturb him at home." from which conversations it may be inferred that mr. monk and messrs. ratler and bonteen did not agree in their ideas respecting political conjurors. chapter xl. the prime minister is hard pressed. it can never be a very easy thing to form a ministry. the one chosen chief is readily selected. circumstances, indeed, have probably left no choice in the matter. every man in the country who has at all turned his thoughts that way knows very well who will be the next prime minister when it comes to pass that a change is imminent. in these days the occupant of the throne can have no difficulty. mr. gresham recommends her majesty to send for mr. daubeny, or mr. daubeny for mr. gresham,--as some ten or a dozen years since mr. mildmay told her to send for lord de terrier, or lord de terrier for mr. mildmay. the prime minister is elected by the nation, but the nation, except in rare cases, cannot go below that in arranging details, and the man for whom the queen sends is burdened with the necessity of selecting his colleagues. it may be,--probably must always be the case,--that this, that, and the other colleagues are clearly indicated to his mind, but then each of these colleagues may want his own inferior coadjutors, and so the difficulty begins, increases, and at length culminates. on the present occasion it was known at the end of a week that mr. gresham had not filled all his offices, and that there were difficulties. it was announced that the duke of st. bungay could not quite agree on certain points with mr. gresham, and that the duke of omnium would do nothing without the other duke. the duke of st. bungay was very powerful, as there were three or four of the old adherents of mr. mildmay who would join no government unless he was with them. sir harry coldfoot and lord plinlimmon would not accept office without the duke. the duke was essential, and now, though the duke's character was essentially that of a practical man who never raised unnecessary trouble, men said that the duke was at the bottom of it all. the duke did not approve of mr. bonteen. mr. gresham, so it was said, insisted on mr. bonteen,--appealing to the other duke. but that other duke, our own special duke, planty pall that was, instead of standing up for mr. bonteen, was cold and unsympathetic. he could not join the ministry without his friend, the duke of st. bungay, and as to mr. bonteen, he thought that perhaps a better selection might be made. such were the club rumours which took place as to the difficulties of the day, and, as is generally the case, they were not far from the truth. neither of the dukes had absolutely put a veto on poor mr. bonteen's elevation, but they had expressed themselves dissatisfied with the appointment, and the younger duke had found himself called upon to explain that although he had been thrown much into communication with mr. bonteen he had never himself suggested that that gentleman should follow him at the exchequer. this was one of the many difficulties which beset the prime minister elect in the performance of his arduous duty. lady glencora, as people would still persist in calling her, was at the bottom of it all. she had sworn an oath inimical to mr. bonteen, and did not leave a stone unturned in her endeavours to accomplish it. if phineas finn might find acceptance, then mr. bonteen might be allowed to enter elysium. a second juno, she would allow the romulus she hated to sit in the seats of the blessed, to be fed with nectar, and to have his name printed in the lists of unruffled cabinet meetings,--but only on conditions. phineas finn must be allowed a seat also, and a little nectar,--though it were at the second table of the gods. for this she struggled, speaking her mind boldly to this and that member of her husband's party, but she struggled in vain. she could obtain no assurance on behalf of phineas finn. the duke of st. bungay would do nothing for her. barrington erle had declared himself powerless. her husband had condescended to speak to mr. bonteen himself, and mr. bonteen's insolent answer had been reported to her. then she went sedulously to work, and before a couple of days were over she did make her husband believe that mr. bonteen was not fit to be chancellor of the exchequer. this took place before mr. daubeny's statement, while the duke and duchess of st. bungay were still at matching,--while mr. bonteen, unconscious of what was being done, was still in the house. before the two days were over, the duke of st. bungay had a very low opinion of mr. bonteen, but was quite ignorant of any connection between that low opinion and the fortunes of phineas finn. "plantagenet, of all your men that are coming up, your mr. bonteen is the worst. i often think that you are going down hill, both in character and intellect, but if you go as low as that i shall prefer to cross the water, and live in america." this she said in the presence of the two dukes. "what has mr. bonteen done?" asked the elder, laughing. "he was boasting this morning openly of whom he intended to bring with him into the cabinet." truth demands that the chronicler should say that this was a positive fib. mr. bonteen, no doubt, had talked largely and with indiscretion, but had made no such boast as that of which the duchess accused him. "mr. gresham will get astray if he doesn't allow some one to tell him the truth." she did not press the matter any further then, but what she had said was not thrown away. "your wife is almost right about that man," the elder duke said to the younger. "it's mr. gresham's doing,--not mine," said the younger. "she is right about gresham, too," said the elder. "with all his immense intellect and capacity for business no man wants more looking after." that evening mr. bonteen was singled out by the duchess for her special attention, and in the presence of all who were there assembled he made himself an ass. he could not save himself from talking about himself when he was encouraged. on this occasion he offended all those feelings of official discretion and personal reticence which had been endeared to the old duke by the lessons which he had learned from former statesmen and by the experience of his own life. to be quiet, unassuming, almost affectedly modest in any mention of himself, low-voiced, reflecting always more than he resolved, and resolving always more than he said, had been his aim. conscious of his high rank, and thinking, no doubt, much of the advantages in public life which his birth and position had given him, still he would never have ventured to speak of his own services as necessary to any government. that he had really been indispensable to many he must have known, but not to his closest friend would he have said so in plain language. to such a man the arrogance of mr. bonteen was intolerable. there is probably more of the flavour of political aristocracy to be found still remaining among our liberal leading statesmen than among their opponents. a conservative cabinet is, doubtless, never deficient in dukes and lords, and the sons of such; but conservative dukes and lords are recruited here and there, and as recruits, are new to the business, whereas among the old whigs a halo of statecraft has, for ages past, so strongly pervaded and enveloped certain great families, that the power in the world of politics thus produced still remains, and is even yet efficacious in creating a feeling of exclusiveness. they say that "misfortune makes men acquainted with strange bedfellows." the old hereditary whig cabinet ministers must, no doubt, by this time have learned to feel themselves at home with strange neighbours at their elbows. but still with them something of the feeling of high blood, of rank, and of living in a park with deer about it, remains. they still entertain a pride in their cabinets, and have, at any rate, not as yet submitted themselves to a conjuror. the charles james fox element of liberality still holds its own, and the fragrance of cavendish is essential. with no man was this feeling stronger than with the duke of st. bungay, though he well knew how to keep it in abeyance,--even to the extent of self-sacrifice. bonteens must creep into the holy places. the faces which he loved to see,--born chiefly of other faces he had loved when young,--could not cluster around the sacred table without others which were much less welcome to him. he was wise enough to know that exclusiveness did not suit the nation, though human enough to feel that it must have been pleasant to himself. there must be bonteens;--but when any bonteen came up, who loomed before his eyes as specially disagreeable, it seemed to him to be a duty to close the door against such a one, if it could be closed without violence. a constant, gentle pressure against the door would tend to keep down the number of the bonteens. "i am not sure that you are not going a little too quick in regard to mr. bonteen," said the elder duke to mr. gresham before he had finally assented to a proposition originated by himself,--that he should sit in the cabinet without a portfolio. "palliser wishes it," said mr. gresham, shortly. "he and i think that there has been some mistake about that. you suggested the appointment to him, and he felt unwilling to raise an objection without giving the matter very mature consideration. you can understand that." "upon my word i thought that the selection would be peculiarly agreeable to him." then the duke made a suggestion. "could not some special office at the treasury be constructed for mr. bonteen's acceptance, having special reference to the question of decimal coinage?" "but how about the salary?" asked mr. gresham. "i couldn't propose a new office with a salary above £ , ." "couldn't we make it permanent," suggested the duke;--"with permission to hold a seat if he can get one?" "i fear not," said mr. gresham. "he got into a very unpleasant scrape when he was financial secretary," said the duke. but whither would'st thou, muse? unmeet for jocund lyre are themes like these. shalt thou the talk of gods repeat, debasing by thy strains effete such lofty mysteries? the absolute words of a conversation so lofty shall no longer be attempted, but it may be said that mr. gresham was too wise to treat as of no account the objections of such a one as the duke of st. bungay. he saw mr. bonteen, and he saw the other duke, and difficulties arose. mr. bonteen made himself very disagreeable indeed. as mr. bonteen had never absolutely been as yet more than a demigod, our muse, light as she is, may venture to report that he told mr. ratler that "he'd be d---- if he'd stand it. if he were to be thrown over now, he'd make such a row, and would take such care that the fat should be in the fire, that his enemies, whoever they were, should wish that they had kept their fingers off him. he knew who was doing it." if he did not know, his guess was right. in his heart he accused the young duchess, though he mentioned her name to no one. and it was the young duchess. then there was made an insidious proposition to mr. gresham,--which reached him at last through barrington erle,--that matters would go quieter if phineas finn were placed in his old office at the colonies instead of lord fawn, whose name had been suggested, and for whom,--as barrington erle declared,--no one cared a brass farthing. mr. gresham, when he heard this, thought that he began to smell a rat, and was determined to be on his guard. why should the appointment of mr. phineas finn make things go easier in regard to mr. bonteen? there must be some woman's fingers in the pie. now mr. gresham was firmly resolved that no woman's fingers should have anything to do with his pie. how the thing went from bad to worse, it would be bootless here to tell. neither of the two dukes absolutely refused to join the ministry; but they were persistent in their objection to mr. bonteen, and were joined in it by lord plinlimmon and sir harry coldfoot. it was in vain that mr. gresham urged that he had no other man ready and fit to be chancellor of the exchequer. that excuse could not be accepted. there was legge wilson, who twelve years since had been at the treasury, and would do very well. now mr. gresham had always personally hated legge wilson,--and had, therefore, offered him the board of trade. legge wilson had disgusted him by accepting it, and the name had already been published in connection with the office. but in the lists which had appeared towards the end of the week, no name was connected with the office of chancellor of the exchequer, and no office was connected with the name of mr. bonteen. the editor of the people's banner, however, expressed the gratification of that journal that even mr. gresham had not dared to propose mr. phineas finn for any place under the crown. at last mr. bonteen was absolutely told that he could not be chancellor of the exchequer. if he would consent to give his very valuable services to the country with the view of carrying through parliament the great measure of decimal coinage he should be president of the board of trade,--but without a seat in the cabinet. he would thus become the right honourable bonteen, which, no doubt, would be a great thing for him,--and, not busy in the cabinet, must be able to devote his time exclusively to the great measure above-named. what was to become of "trade" generally, was not specially explained; but, as we all know, there would be a vice-president to attend to details. the proposition very nearly broke the man's heart. with a voice stopped by agitation, with anger flashing from his eyes, almost in a convulsion of mixed feelings, he reminded his chief of what had been said about his appointment in the house. mr. gresham had already absolutely defended it. after that did mr. gresham mean to withdraw a promise that had so formally been made? but mr. gresham was not to be caught in that way. he had made no promise;--had not even stated to the house that such appointment was to be made. a very improper question had been asked as to a rumour,--in answering which he had been forced to justify himself by explaining that discussions respecting the office had been necessary. "mr. bonteen," said mr. gresham, "no one knows better than you the difficulties of a minister. if you can act with us i shall be very grateful to you. if you cannot, i shall regret the loss of your services." mr. bonteen took twenty-four hours to consider, and was then appointed president of the board of trade without a seat in the cabinet. mr. legge wilson became chancellor of the exchequer. when the lists were completed, no office whatever was assigned to phineas finn. "i haven't done with mr. bonteen yet," said the young duchess to her friend madame goesler. the secrets of the world are very marvellous, but they are not themselves half so wonderful as the way in which they become known to the world. there could be no doubt that mr. bonteen's high ambition had foundered, and that he had been degraded through the secret enmity of the duchess of omnium. it was equally certain that his secret enmity to phineas finn had brought this punishment on his head. but before the ministry had been a week in office almost everybody knew that it was so. the rumours were full of falsehood, but yet they contained the truth. the duchess had done it. the duchess was the bosom friend of lady laura kennedy, who was in love with phineas finn. she had gone on her knees to mr. gresham to get a place for her friend's favourite, and mr. gresham had refused. consequently, at her bidding, half-a-dozen embryo ministers--her husband among the number--had refused to be amenable to mr. gresham. mr. gresham had at last consented to sacrifice mr. bonteen, who had originally instigated him to reject the claims of phineas finn. that the degradation of the one man had been caused by the exclusion of the other all the world knew. "it shuts the door to me for ever and ever," said phineas to madame goesler. "i don't see that." "of course it does. such an affair places a mark against a man's name which will never be forgotten." "is your heart set upon holding some trifling appointment under a minister?" "to tell you the truth, it is;--or rather it was. the prospect of office to me was more than perhaps to any other expectant. even this man, bonteen, has some fortune of his own, and can live if he be excluded. i have given up everything for the chance of something in this line." "other lines are open." "not to me, madame goesler. i do not mean to defend myself. i have been very foolish, very sanguine, and am now very unhappy." "what shall i say to you?" "the truth." "in truth, then, i do not sympathise with you. the thing lost is too small, too mean to justify unhappiness." "but, madame goesler, you are a rich woman." "well?" "if you were to lose it all, would you not be unhappy? it has been my ambition to live here in london as one of a special set which dominates all other sets in our english world. to do so a man should have means of his own. i have none; and yet i have tried it,--thinking that i could earn my bread at it as men do at other professions. i acknowledge that i should not have thought so. no man should attempt what i have attempted without means, at any rate to live on if he fail; but i am not the less unhappy because i have been silly." "what will you do?" "ah,--what? another friend asked me that the other day, and i told her that i should vanish." "who was that friend?" "lady laura." "she is in london again now?" "yes; she and her father are in portman square." "she has been an injurious friend to you." "no, by heaven," exclaimed phineas. "but for her i should never have been here at all, never have had a seat in parliament, never have been in office, never have known you." "and might have been the better without any of these things." "no man ever had a better friend than lady laura has been to me. malice, wicked and false as the devil, has lately joined our names together to the incredible injury of both of us; but it has not been her fault." "you are energetic in defending her." "and so would she be in defending me. circumstances threw us together and made us friends. her father and her brother were my friends. i happened to be of service to her husband. we belonged to the same party. and therefore--because she has been unfortunate in her marriage--people tell lies of her." "it is a pity he should--not die, and leave her," said madame goesler slowly. "why so?" "because then you might justify yourself in defending her by making her your wife." she paused, but he made no answer to this. "you are in love with her," she said. "it is untrue." "mr. finn!" "well, what would you have? i am not in love with her. to me she is no more than my sister. were she as free as air i should not ask her to be my wife. can a man and woman feel no friendship without being in love with each other?" "i hope they may," said madame goesler. had he been lynx-eyed he might have seen that she blushed; but it required quick eyes to discover a blush on madame goesler's face. "you and i are friends." "indeed we are," he said, grasping her hand as he took his leave. volume ii. chapter xli. "i hope i'm not distrusted." gerard maule, as the reader has been informed, wrote three lines to his dearest adelaide to inform her that his father would not assent to the suggestion respecting maule abbey which had been made by lady chiltern, and then took no further steps in the matter. in the fortnight next after the receipt of his letter nothing was heard of him at harrington hall, and adelaide, though she made no complaint, was unhappy. then came the letter from mr. spooner,--with all its rich offers, and adelaide's mind was for a while occupied with wrath against her second suitor. but as the egregious folly of mr. spooner,--for to her thinking the aspirations of mr. spooner were egregiously foolish,--died out of her mind, her thoughts reverted to her engagement. why did not the man come to her, or why did he not write? she had received from lady chiltern an invitation to remain with them,--the chilterns,--till her marriage. "but, dear lady chiltern, who knows when it will be?" adelaide had said. lady chiltern had good-naturedly replied that the longer it was put off the better for herself. "but you'll be going to london or abroad before that day comes." lady chiltern declared that she looked forward to no festivities which could under any circumstances remove her four-and-twenty hours travelling distance from the kennels. probably she might go up to london for a couple of months as soon as the hunting was over, and the hounds had been drafted, and the horses had been coddled, and every covert had been visited. from the month of may till the middle of july she might, perhaps, be allowed to be in town, as communications by telegram could now be made day and night. after that, preparations for cub-hunting would be imminent, and, as a matter of course, it would be necessary that she should be at harrington hall at so important a period of the year. during those couple of months she would be very happy to have the companionship of her friend, and she hinted that gerard maule would certainly be in town. "i begin to think it would have been better that i should never have seen gerard maule," said adelaide palliser. this happened about the middle of march, while hunting was still in force. gerard's horses were standing in the neighbourhood, but gerard himself was not there. mr. spooner, since that short, disheartening note had been sent to him by lord chiltern, had not been seen at harrington. there was a harrington lawn meet on one occasion, but he had not appeared till the hounds were at the neighbouring covert side. nevertheless he had declared that he did not intend to give up the pursuit, and had even muttered something of the sort to lord chiltern. "i am one of those fellows who stick to a thing, you know," he said. "i am afraid you had better give up sticking to her, because she's going to marry somebody else." "i've heard all about that, my lord. he's a very nice sort of young man, but i'm told he hasn't got his house ready yet for a family." all which lord chiltern repeated to his wife. neither of them spoke to adelaide again about mr. spooner; but this did cause a feeling in lady chiltern's mind that perhaps this engagement with young maule was a foolish thing, and that, if so, she was in a great measure responsible for the folly. "don't you think you'd better write to him?" she said, one morning. "why does he not write to me?" "but he did,--when he wrote you that his father would not consent to give up the house. you did not answer him then." "it was two lines,--without a date. i don't even know where he lives." "you know his club?" "yes,--i know his club. i do feel, lady chiltern, that i have become engaged to marry a man as to whom i am altogether in the dark. i don't like writing to him at his club." "you have seen more of him here and in italy than most girls see of their future husbands." "so i have,--but i have seen no one belonging to him. don't you understand what i mean? i feel all at sea about him. i am sure he does not mean any harm." "certainly he does not." "but then he hardly means any good." "i never saw a man more earnestly in love," said lady chiltern. "oh yes,--he's quite enough in love. but--" "but what?" "he'll just remain up in london thinking about it, and never tell himself that there's anything to be done. and then, down here, what is my best hope? not that he'll come to see me, but that he'll come to see his horse, and that so, perhaps, i may get a word with him." then lady chiltern suggested, with a laugh, that perhaps it might have been better that she should have accepted mr. spooner. there would have been no doubt as to mr. spooner's energy and purpose. "only that if there was not another man in the world i wouldn't marry him, and that i never saw any other man except gerard maule whom i even fancied i could marry." about a fortnight after this, when the hunting was all over, in the beginning of april, she did write to him as follows, and did direct her letter to his club. in the meantime lord chiltern had intimated to his wife that if gerard maule behaved badly he should consider himself to be standing in the place of adelaide's father or brother. his wife pointed out to him that were he her father or her brother he could do nothing,--that in these days let a man behave ever so badly, no means of punishing was within reach of the lady's friends. but lord chiltern would not assent to this. he muttered something about a horsewhip, and seemed to suggest that one man could, if he were so minded, always have it out with another, if not in this way, then in that. lady chiltern protested, and declared that horsewhips could not under any circumstances be efficacious. "he had better mind what he is about," said lord chiltern. it was after this that adelaide wrote her letter:-- harrington hall, th april. dear gerard,-- i have been thinking that i should hear from you, and have been surprised,--i may say unhappy,--because i have not done so. perhaps you thought i ought to have answered the three words which you wrote to me about your father; if so, i will apologise; only they did not seem to give me anything to say. i was very sorry that your father should have "cut up rough," as you call it, but you must remember that we both expected that he would refuse, and that we are only therefore where we thought we should be. i suppose we shall have to wait till providence does something for us,--only, if so, it would be pleasanter to me to hear your own opinion about it. the chilterns are surprised that you shouldn't have come back, and seen the end of the season. there were some very good runs just at last;--particularly one on last monday. but on wednesday trumpeton wood was again blank, and there was some row about wires. i can't explain it all; but you must come, and lord chiltern will tell you. i have gone down to see the horses ever so often;--but i don't care to go now as you never write to me. they are all three quite well, and fan looks as silken and as soft as any lady need do. lady chiltern has been kinder than i can tell you. i go up to town with her in may, and shall remain with her while she is there. so far i have decided. after that my future home must, sir, depend on the resolution and determination, or perhaps on the vagaries and caprices, of him who is to be my future master. joking apart, i must know to what i am to look forward before i can make up my mind whether i will or will not go back to italy towards the end of the summer. if i do, i fear i must do so just in the hottest time of the year; but i shall not like to come down here again after leaving london,--unless something by that time has been settled. i shall send this to your club, and i hope that it will reach you. i suppose that you are in london. good-bye, dearest gerard. yours most affectionately, adelaide. if there is anything that troubles you, pray tell me. i ask you because i think it would be better for you that i should know. i sometimes think that you would have written if there had not been some misfortune. god bless you. gerard was in london, and sent the following note by return of post:-- ---- club, tuesday. dearest adelaide, all right. if chiltern can take me for a couple of nights, i'll come down next week, and settle about the horses, and will arrange everything. ever your own, with all my heart, g. m. "he will settle about his horses, and arrange everything," said adelaide, as she showed the letter to lady chiltern. "the horses first, and everything afterwards. the everything, of course, includes all my future happiness, the day of my marriage, whether to-morrow or in ten years' time, and the place where we shall live." "at any rate, he's coming." "yes;--but when? he says next week, but he does not name any day. did you ever hear or see anything so unsatisfactory?" "i thought you would be glad to see him." "so i should be,--if there was any sense in him. i shall be glad, and shall kiss him." "i dare say you will." "and let him put his arm round my waist and be happy. he will be happy because he will think of nothing beyond. but what is to be the end of it?" "he says that he will settle everything." "but he will have thought of nothing. what must i settle? that is the question. when he was told to go to his father, he went to his father. when he failed there the work was done, and the trouble was off his mind. i know him so well." "if you think so ill of him why did you consent to get into his boat?" said lady chiltern, seriously. "i don't think ill of him. why do you say that i think ill of him? i think better of him than of anybody else in the world;--but i know his fault, and, as it happens, it is a fault so very prejudicial to my happiness. you ask me why i got into his boat. why does any girl get into a man's boat? why did you get into lord chiltern's?" "i promised to marry him when i was seven years old;--so he says." "but you wouldn't have done it, if you hadn't had a sort of feeling that you were born to be his wife. i haven't got into this man's boat yet; but i never can be happy unless i do, simply because--" "you love him." "yes;--just that. i have a feeling that i should like to be in his boat, and i shouldn't like to be anywhere else. after you have come to feel like that about a man i don't suppose it makes any difference whether you think him perfect or imperfect. he's just my own,--at least i hope so;--the one thing that i've got. if i wear a stuff frock, i'm not going to despise it because it's not silk." "mr. spooner would be the stuff frock." "no;--mr. spooner is shoddy, and very bad shoddy, too." on the saturday in the following week gerard maule did arrive at harrington hall,--and was welcomed as only accepted lovers are welcomed. not a word of reproach was uttered as to his delinquencies. no doubt he got the kiss with which adelaide had herself suggested that his coming would be rewarded. he was allowed to stand on the rug before the fire with his arm round her waist. lady chiltern smiled on him. his horses had been specially visited that morning, and a lively report as to their condition was made to him. not a word was said on that occasion which could distress him. even lord chiltern when he came in was gracious to him. "well, old fellow," he said, "you've missed your hunting." "yes; indeed. things kept me in town." "we had some uncommonly good runs." "have the horses stood pretty well?" asked gerard. "i felt uncommonly tempted to borrow yours; and should have done so once or twice if i hadn't known that i should have been betrayed." "i wish you had, with all my heart," said gerard. and then they went to dress for dinner. in the evening, when the ladies had gone to bed, lord chiltern took his friend off to the smoking-room. at harrington hall it was not unusual for the ladies and gentlemen to descend together into the very comfortable pandemonium which was so called, when,--as was the case at present,--the terms of intimacy between them were sufficient to warrant such a proceeding. but on this occasion lady chiltern went very discreetly upstairs, and adelaide, with equal discretion, followed her. it had been arranged beforehand that lord chiltern should say a salutary word or two to the young man. maule began about the hunting, asking questions about this and that, but his host stopped him at once. lord chiltern, when he had a task on hand, was always inclined to get through it at once,--perhaps with an energy that was too sudden in its effects. "maule," he said, "you ought to make up your mind what you mean to do about that girl." "do about her! how?" "you and she are engaged, i suppose?" "of course we are. there isn't any doubt about it." "just so. but when things come to be like that, all delays are good fun to the man, but they're the very devil to the girl." "i thought it was always the other way up, and that girls wanted delay?" "that's only a theoretical delicacy which never means much. when a girl is engaged she likes to have the day fixed. when there's a long interval the man can do pretty much as he pleases, while the girl can do nothing except think about him. then it sometimes turns out that when he's wanted, he's not there." "i hope i'm not distrusted," said gerard, with an air that showed that he was almost disposed to be offended. "not in the least. the women here think you the finest paladin in the world, and miss palliser would fly at my throat if she thought that i said a word against you. but she's in my house, you see; and i'm bound to do exactly as i should if she were my sister." "and if she were your sister?" "i should tell you that i couldn't approve of the engagement unless you were prepared to fix the time of your marriage. and i should ask you where you intended to live." "wherever she pleases. i can't go to maule abbey while my father lives, without his sanction." "and he may live for the next twenty years." "or thirty." "then you are bound to decide upon something else. it's no use saying that you leave it to her. you can't leave it to her. what i mean is this, that now you are here, i think you are bound to settle something with her. good-night, old fellow." chapter xlii. boulogne. gerard maule, as he sat upstairs half undressed in his bedroom that night didn't like it. he hardly knew what it was that he did not like,--but he felt that there was something wrong. he thought that lord chiltern had not been warranted in speaking to him with a tone of authority, and in talking of a brother's position,--and the rest of it. he had lacked the presence of mind for saying anything at the moment; but he must say something sooner or later. he wasn't going to be driven by lord chiltern. when he looked back at his own conduct he thought that it had been more than noble,--almost romantic. he had fallen in love with miss palliser, and spoken his love out freely, without any reference to money. he didn't know what more any fellow could have done. as to his marrying out of hand, the day after his engagement, as a man of fortune can do, everybody must have known that that was out of the question. adelaide of course had known it. it had been suggested to him that he should consult his father as to living at maule abbey. now if there was one thing he hated more than another, it was consulting his father; and yet he had done it. he had asked for a loan of the old house in perfect faith, and it was not his fault that it had been refused. he could not make a house to live in, nor could he coin a fortune. he had £ a-year of his own, but of course he owed a little money. men with such incomes always do owe a little money. it was almost impossible that he should marry quite at once. it was not his fault that adelaide had no fortune of her own. when he fell in love with her he had been a great deal too generous to think of fortune, and that ought to be remembered now to his credit. such was the sum of his thoughts, and his anger spread itself from lord chiltern even on to adelaide herself. chiltern would hardly have spoken in that way unless she had complained. she, no doubt, had been speaking to lady chiltern, and lady chiltern had passed it on to her husband. he would have it out with adelaide on the next morning,--quite decidedly. and he would make lord chiltern understand that he would not endure interference. he was quite ready to leave harrington hall at a moment's notice if he were ill-treated. this was the humour in which gerard maule put himself to bed that night. on the following morning he was very late at breakfast,--so late that lord chiltern had gone over to the kennels. as he was dressing he had resolved that it would be fitting that he should speak again to his host before he said anything to adelaide that might appear to impute blame to her. he would ask chiltern whether anything was meant by what had been said over-night. but, as it happened, adelaide had been left alone to pour out his tea for him, and,--as the reader will understand to have been certain on such an occasion,--they were left together for an hour in the breakfast parlour. it was impossible that such an hour should be passed without some reference to the grievance which was lying heavy on his heart. "late; i should think you are," said adelaide laughing. "it is nearly eleven. lord chiltern has been out an hour. i suppose you never get up early except for hunting." "people always think it is so wonderfully virtuous to get up. what's the use of it?" "your breakfast is so cold." "i don't care about that. i suppose they can boil me an egg. i was very seedy when i went to bed." "you smoked too many cigars, sir." "no, i didn't; but chiltern was saying things that i didn't like." adelaide's face at once became very serious. "yes, a good deal of sugar, please. i don't care about toast, and anything does for me. he has gone to the kennels, has he?" "he said he should. what was he saying last night?" "nothing particular. he has a way of blowing up, you know; and he looks at one just as if he expected that everybody was to do just what he chooses." "you didn't quarrel?" "not at all; i went off to bed without saying a word. i hate jaws. i shall just put it right this morning; that's all." "was it about me, gerard?" "it doesn't signify the least." "but it does signify. if you and he were to quarrel would it not signify to me very much? how could i stay here with them, or go up to london with them, if you and he had really quarrelled? you must tell me. i know that it was about me." then she came and sat close to him. "gerard," she continued, "i don't think you understand how much everything is to me that concerns you." when he began to reflect, he could not quite recollect what it was that lord chiltern had said to him. he did remember that something had been suggested about a brother and sister which had implied that adelaide might want protection, but there was nothing unnatural or other than kind in the position which lord chiltern had declared that he would assume. "he seemed to think that i wasn't treating you well," said he, turning round from the breakfast-table to the fire, "and that is a sort of thing i can't stand." "i have never said so, gerard." "i don't know what it is that he expects, or why he should interfere at all. i can't bear to be interfered with. what does he know about it? he has had somebody to pay everything for him half-a-dozen times, but i have to look out for myself." "what does all this mean?" "you would ask me, you know. i am bothered out of my life by ever so many things, and now he comes and adds his botheration." "what bothers you, gerard? if anything bothers you, surely you will tell me. if there has been anything to trouble you since you saw your father why have you not written and told me? is your trouble about me?" "well, of course it is, in a sort of way." "i will not be a trouble to you." "now you are going to misunderstand me! of course, you are not a trouble to me. you know that i love you better than anything in the world." "i hope so." "of course i do." then he put his arm round her waist and pressed her to his bosom. "but what can a man do? when lady chiltern recommended that i should go to my father and tell him, i did it. i knew that no good could come of it. he wouldn't lift his hand to do anything for me." "how horrid that is!" "he thinks it a shame that i should have my uncle's money, though he never had any more right to it than that man out there. he is always saying that i am better off than he is." "i suppose you are." "i am very badly off, i know that. people seem to think that £ is ever so much, but i find it to be very little." "and it will be much less if you are married," said adelaide gravely. "of course, everything must be changed. i must sell my horses, and we must cut and run, and go and live at boulogne, i suppose. but a man can't do that kind of thing all in a moment. then chiltern comes and talks as though he were virtue personified. what business is it of his?" then adelaide became still more grave. she had now removed herself from his embrace, and was standing a little apart from him on the rug. she did not answer him at first; and when she did so, she spoke very slowly. "we have been rash, i fear; and have done what we have done without sufficient thought." "i don't say that at all." "but i do. it does seem now that we have been imprudent." then she smiled as she completed her speech. "there had better be no engagement between us." "why do you say that?" "because it is quite clear that it has been a trouble to you rather than a happiness." "i wouldn't give it up for all the world." "but it will be better. i had not thought about it as i should have done. i did not understand that the prospect of marrying would make you--so very poor. i see it now. you had better tell lord chiltern that it is--done with, and i will tell her the same. it will be better; and i will go back to italy at once." "certainly not. it is not done with, and it shall not be done with." "do you think i will marry the man i love when he tells me that by--marrying--me, he will be--banished to--bou--logne? you had better see lord chiltern; indeed you had." and then she walked out of the room. then came upon him at once a feeling that he had behaved badly; and yet he had been so generous, so full of intentions to be devoted and true! he had never for a moment thought of breaking off the match, and would not think of it now. he loved her better than ever, and would live only with the intention of making her his wife. but he certainly should not have talked to her of his poverty, nor should he have mentioned boulogne. and yet what should he have done? she would cross-question him about lord chiltern, and it was so essentially necessary that he should make her understand his real condition. it had all come from that man's unjustifiable interference,--as he would at once go and tell him. of course he would marry adelaide, but the marriage must be delayed. everybody waits twelve months before they are married; and why should she not wait? he was miserable because he knew that he had made her unhappy;--but the fault had been with lord chiltern. he would speak his mind frankly to chiltern, and then would explain with loving tenderness to his adelaide that they would still be all in all to each other, but that a short year must elapse before he could put his house in order for her. after that he would sell his horses. that resolve was in itself so great that he did not think it necessary at the present moment to invent any more plans for the future. so he went out into the hall, took his hat, and marched off to the kennels. at the kennels he found lord chiltern surrounded by the denizens of the hunt. his huntsman, with the kennelman and feeder, and two whips, and old doggett were all there, and the master of the hounds was in the middle of his business. the dogs were divided by ages, as well as by sex, and were being brought out and examined. old doggett was giving advice,--differing almost always from cox, the huntsman, as to the propriety of keeping this hound or of cashiering that. nose, pace, strength, and docility were all questioned with an eagerness hardly known in any other business; and on each question lord chiltern listened to everybody, and then decided with a single word. when he had once resolved, nothing further urged by any man then could avail anything. jove never was so autocratic, and certainly never so much in earnest. from the look of lord chiltern's brow it almost seemed as though this weight of empire must be too much for any mere man. very little notice was taken of gerard maule when he joined the conclave, though it was felt in reference to him that he was sufficiently staunch a friend to the hunt to be trusted with the secrets of the kennel. lord chiltern merely muttered some words of greeting, and cox lifted the old hunting-cap which he wore. for another hour the conference was held. those who have attended such meetings know well that a morning on the flags is apt to be a long affair. old doggett, who had privileges, smoked a pipe, and gerard maule lit one cigar after another. but lord chiltern had become too thorough a man of business to smoke when so employed. at last the last order was given,--doggett snarled his last snarl,--and cox uttered his last "my lord." then gerard maule and the master left the hounds and walked home together. the affair had been so long that gerard had almost forgotten his grievance. but now as they got out together upon the park, he remembered the tone of adelaide's voice as she left him, and remembered also that, as matters stood at present, it was essentially necessary that something should be said. "i suppose i shall have to go and see that woman," said lord chiltern. "do you mean adelaide?" asked maule, in a tone of infinite surprise. "i mean this new duchess, who i'm told is to manage everything herself. that man fothergill is going on with just the old game at trumpeton." "is he, indeed? i was thinking of something else just at that moment. you remember what you were saying about miss palliser last night." "yes." "well;--i don't think, you know, you had a right to speak as you did." lord chiltern almost flew at his companion, as he replied, "i said nothing. i do say that when a man becomes engaged to a girl, he should let her hear from him, so that they may know what each other is about." "you hinted something about being her brother." "of course i did. if you mean well by her, as i hope you do, it can't fret you to think that she has got somebody to look after her till you come in and take possession. it is the commonest thing in the world when a girl is left all alone as she is." "you seemed to make out that i wasn't treating her well." "i said nothing of the kind, maule; but if you ask me--" "i don't ask you anything." "yes, you do. you come and find fault with me for speaking last night in the most good-natured way in the world. and, therefore, i tell you now that you will be behaving very badly indeed, unless you make some arrangement at once as to what you mean to do." "that's your opinion," said gerard maule. "yes, it is; and you'll find it to be the opinion of any man or woman that you may ask who knows anything about such things. and i'll tell you what, master maule, if you think you're going to face me down you'll find yourself mistaken. stop a moment, and just listen to me. you haven't a much better friend than i am, and i'm sure she hasn't a better friend than my wife. all this has taken place under our roof, and i mean to speak my mind plainly. what do you propose to do about your marriage?" "i don't propose to tell you what i mean to do." "will you tell miss palliser,--or my wife?" "that is just as i may think fit." "then i must tell you that you cannot meet her at my house." "i'll leave it to-day." "you needn't do that either. you sleep on it, and then make up your mind. you can't suppose that i have any curiosity about it. the girl is fond of you, and i suppose that you are fond of her. don't quarrel for nothing. if i have offended you, speak to lady chiltern about it." "very well;--i will speak to lady chiltern." when they reached the house it was clear that something was wrong. miss palliser was not seen again before dinner, and lady chiltern was grave and very cold in her manner to gerard maule. he was left alone all the afternoon, which he passed with his horses and groom, smoking more cigars,--but thinking all the time of adelaide palliser's last words, of lord chiltern's frown, and of lady chiltern's manner to him. when he came into the drawing-room before dinner, lady chiltern and adelaide were both there, and adelaide immediately began to ask questions about the kennel and the huntsmen. but she studiously kept at a distance from him, and he himself felt that it would be impossible to resume at present the footing on which he stood with them both on the previous evening. presently lord chiltern came in, and another man and his wife who had come to stay at harrington. nothing could be more dull than the whole evening. at least so gerard found it. he did take adelaide in to dinner, but he did not sit next to her at table, for which, however, there was an excuse, as, had he done so, the new-comer must have been placed by his wife. he was cross, and would not make an attempt to speak to his neighbour, and, though he tried once or twice to talk to lady chiltern--than whom, as a rule, no woman was ever more easy in conversation--he failed altogether. now and again he strove to catch adelaide's eye, but even in that he could not succeed. when the ladies left the room chiltern and the new-comer--who was not a sporting man, and therefore did not understand the question--became lost in the mazes of trumpeton wood. but gerard maule did not put in a word; nor was a word addressed to him by lord chiltern. as he sat there sipping his wine, he made up his mind that he would leave harrington hall the next morning. when he was again in the drawing-room, things were conducted in just the same way. he spoke to adelaide, and she answered him; but there was no word of encouragement--not a tone of comfort in her voice. he found himself driven to attempt conversation with the strange lady, and at last was made to play whist with lady chiltern and the two new-comers. later on in the evening, when adelaide had gone to her own chamber, he was invited by lady chiltern into her own sitting-room upstairs, and there the whole thing was explained to him. miss palliser had declared that the match should be broken off. "do you mean altogether, lady chiltern?" "certainly i do. such a resolve cannot be a half-and-half arrangement." "but why?" "i think you must know why, mr. maule." "i don't in the least. i won't have it broken off. i have as much right to have a voice in the matter as she has, and i don't in the least believe it's her doing." "mr. maule!" "i do not care; i must speak out. why does she not tell me so herself?" "she did tell you so." "no, she didn't. she said something, but not that. i don't suppose a man was ever so used before; and it's all lord chiltern;--just because i told him that he had no right to interfere with me. and he has no right." "you and oswald were away together when she told me that she had made up her mind. oswald has hardly spoken to her since you have been in the house. he certainly has not spoken to her about you since you came to us." "what is the meaning of it, then?" "you told her that your engagement had overwhelmed you with troubles." "of course; there must be troubles." "and that--you would have to be banished to boulogne when you were married." "i didn't mean her to take that literally." "it wasn't a nice way, mr. maule, to speak of your future life to the girl to whom you were engaged. of course it was her hope to make your life happier, not less happy. and when you made her understand--as you did very plainly--that your married prospects filled you with dismay, of course she had no other alternative but to retreat from her engagement." "i wasn't dismayed." "it is not my doing, mr. maule." "i suppose she'll see me?" "if you insist upon it she will; but she would rather not." gerard, however, did insist, and adelaide was brought to him there into that room before he went to bed. she was very gentle with him, and spoke to him in a tone very different from that which lady chiltern had used; but he found himself utterly powerless to change her. that unfortunate allusion to a miserable exile at boulogne had completed the work which the former plaints had commenced, and had driven her to a resolution to separate herself from him altogether. "mr. maule," she said, "when i perceived that our proposed marriage was looked upon by you as a misfortune, i could do nothing but put an end to our engagement." "but i didn't think it a misfortune." "you made me think that it would be unfortunate for you, and that is quite as strong a reason. i hope we shall part as friends." "i won't part at all," he said, standing his ground with his back to the fire. "i don't understand it, by heaven i don't. because i said some stupid thing about boulogne, all in joke--" "it was not in joke when you said that troubles had come heavy on you since you were engaged." "a man may be allowed to know, himself, whether he was in joke or not. i suppose the truth is you don't care about me?" "i hope, mr. maule, that in time it may come--not quite to that." "i think that you are--using me very badly. i think that you are--behaving--falsely to me. i think that i am--very--shamefully treated--among you. of course i shall go. of course i shall not stay in this house. a man can't make a girl keep her promise. no--i won't shake hands. i won't even say good-bye to you. of course i shall go." so saying he slammed the door behind him. "if he cares for you he'll come back to you," lady chiltern said to adelaide that night, who at the moment was lying on her bed in a sad condition, frantic with headache. "i don't want him to come back; i will never make him go to boulogne." "don't think of it, dear." "not think of it! how can i help thinking of it? i shall always think of it. but i never want to see him again--never! how can i want to marry a man who tells me that i shall be a trouble to him? he shall never,--never have to go to boulogne for me." chapter xliii. the second thunderbolt. the quarrel between phineas finn and mr. bonteen had now become the talk of the town, and had taken many various phases. the political phase, though it was perhaps the best understood, was not the most engrossing. there was the personal phase,--which had reference to the direct altercation that had taken place between the two gentlemen, and to the correspondence between them which had followed, as to which phase it may be said that though there were many rumours abroad, very little was known. it was reported in some circles that the two aspirants for office had been within an ace of striking each other; in some, again, that a blow had passed,--and in others, further removed probably from the house of commons and the universe club, that the irishman had struck the englishman, and that the englishman had given the irishman a thrashing. this was a phase that was very disagreeable to phineas finn. and there was a third, --which may perhaps be called the general social phase, and which unfortunately dealt with the name of lady laura kennedy. they all, of course, worked into each other, and were enlivened and made interesting with the names of a great many big persons. mr. gresham, the prime minister, was supposed to be very much concerned in this matter. he, it was said, had found himself compelled to exclude phineas finn from the government, because of the unfortunate alliance between him and the wife of one of his late colleagues, and had also thought it expedient to dismiss mr. bonteen from his cabinet,--for it had amounted almost to dismissal,--because mr. bonteen had made indiscreet official allusion to that alliance. in consequence of this working in of the first and third phase, mr. gresham encountered hard usage from some friends and from many enemies. then, of course, the scene at macpherson's hotel was commented on very generally. an idea prevailed that mr. kennedy, driven to madness by his wife's infidelity, which had become known to him through the quarrel between phineas and mr. bonteen,--had endeavoured to murder his wife's lover, who had with the utmost effrontery invaded the injured husband's presence with a view of deterring him by threats from a publication of his wrongs. this murder had been nearly accomplished in the centre of the metropolis,--by daylight, as if that made it worse,--on a sunday, which added infinitely to the delightful horror of the catastrophe; and yet no public notice had been taken of it! the would-be murderer had been a cabinet minister, and the lover who was so nearly murdered had been an under-secretary of state, and was even now a member of parliament. and then it was positively known that the lady's father, who had always been held in the highest respect as a nobleman, favoured his daughter's lover, and not his daughter's husband. all which things together filled the public with dismay, and caused a delightful excitement, giving quite a feature of its own to the season. no doubt general opinion was adverse to poor phineas finn, but he was not without his party in the matter. to oblige a friend by inflicting an injury on his enemy is often more easy than to confer a benefit on the friend himself. we have already seen how the young duchess failed in her attempt to obtain an appointment for phineas, and also how she succeeded in destroying the high hopes of mr. bonteen. having done so much, of course she clung heartily to the side which she had adopted;--and, equally of course, madame goesler did the same. between these two ladies there was a slight difference of opinion as to the nature of the alliance between lady laura and their hero. the duchess was of opinion that young men are upon the whole averse to innocent alliances, and that, as lady laura and her husband certainly had long been separated, there was probably--something in it. "lord bless you, my dear," the duchess said, "they were known to be lovers when they were at loughlinter together before she married mr. kennedy. it has been the most romantic affair! she made her father give him a seat for his borough." "he saved mr. kennedy's life," said madame goesler. "that was one of the most singular things that ever happened. laurence fitzgibbon says that it was all planned,--that the garotters were hired, but unfortunately two policemen turned up at the moment, so the men were taken. i believe there is no doubt they were pardoned by sir henry coldfoot, who was at the home office, and was lord brentford's great friend. i don't quite believe it all,--it would be too delicious; but a great many do." madame goesler, however, was strong in her opinion that the report in reference to lady laura was scandalous. she did not believe a word of it, and was almost angry with the duchess for her credulity. it is probable that very many ladies shared the opinion of the duchess; but not the less on that account did they take part with phineas finn. they could not understand why he should be shut out of office because a lady had been in love with him, and by no means seemed to approve the stern virtue of the prime minister. it was an interference with things which did not belong to him. and many asserted that mr. gresham was much given to such interference. lady cantrip, though her husband was mr. gresham's most intimate friend, was altogether of this party, as was also the duchess of st. bungay, who understood nothing at all about it, but who had once fancied herself to be rudely treated by mrs. bonteen. the young duchess was a woman very strong in getting up a party; and the old duchess, with many other matrons of high rank, was made to believe that it was incumbent on her to be a phineas finnite. one result of this was, that though phineas was excluded from the liberal government, all liberal drawing-rooms were open to him, and that he was a lion. additional zest was given to all this by the very indiscreet conduct of mr. bonteen. he did accept the inferior office of president of the board of trade, an office inferior at least to that for which he had been designated, and agreed to fill it without a seat in the cabinet. but having done so he could not bring himself to bear his disappointment quietly. he could not work and wait and make himself agreeable to those around him, holding his vexation within his own bosom. he was dark and sullen to his chief, and almost insolent to the duke of omnium. our old friend plantagenet palliser was a man who hardly knew insolence when he met it. there was such an absence about him of all self-consciousness, he was so little given to think of his own personal demeanour and outward trappings,--that he never brought himself to question the manners of others to him. contradiction he would take for simple argument. strong difference of opinion even on the part of subordinates recommended itself to him. he could put up with apparent rudeness without seeing it, and always gave men credit for good intentions. and with it all he had an assurance in his own position,--a knowledge of the strength derived from his intellect, his industry, his rank, and his wealth,--which made him altogether fearless of others. when the little dog snarls, the big dog does not connect the snarl with himself, simply fancying that the little dog must be uncomfortable. mr. bonteen snarled a good deal, and the new lord privy seal thought that the new president of the board of trade was not comfortable within himself. but at last the little dog took the big dog by the ear, and then the big dog put out his paw and knocked the little dog over. mr. bonteen was told that he had--forgotten himself; and there arose new rumours. it was soon reported that the lord privy seal had refused to work out decimal coinage under the management, in the house of commons, of the president of the board of trade. mr. bonteen, in his troubled spirit, certainly did misbehave himself. among his closer friends he declared very loudly that he didn't mean to stand it. he had not chosen to throw mr. gresham over at once, or to make difficulties at the moment;--but he would not continue to hold his present position or to support the government without a seat in the cabinet. palliser had become quite useless,--so mr. bonteen said,--since his accession to the dukedom, and was quite unfit to deal with decimal coinage. it was a burden to kill any man, and he was not going to kill himself,--at any rate without the reward for which he had been working all his life, and to which he was fully entitled, namely, a seat in the cabinet. now there were bonteenites in those days as well as phineas finnites. the latter tribe was for the most part feminine; but the former consisted of some half-dozen members of parliament, who thought they saw their way in encouraging the forlorn hope of the unhappy financier. a leader of a party is nothing without an organ, and an organ came forward to support mr. bonteen,--not very creditable to him as a liberal, being a conservative organ,--but not the less gratifying to his spirit, inasmuch as the organ not only supported him, but exerted its very loudest pipes in abusing the man whom of all men he hated the most. the people's banner was the organ, and mr. quintus slide was, of course, the organist. the following was one of the tunes he played, and was supposed by himself to be a second thunderbolt, and probably a conclusively crushing missile. this thunderbolt fell on monday, the rd of may:-- early in last march we found it to be our duty to bring under public notice the conduct of the member for tankerville in reference to a transaction which took place at a small hotel in judd street, and as to which we then ventured to call for the interference of the police. an attempt to murder the member for tankerville had been made by a gentleman once well known in the political world, who,--as it is supposed,--had been driven to madness by wrongs inflicted on him in his dearest and nearest family relations. that the unfortunate gentleman is now insane we believe we may state as a fact. it had become our special duty to refer to this most discreditable transaction, from the fact that a paper, still in our hands, had been confided to us for publication by the wretched husband before his senses had become impaired,--which, however, we were debarred from giving to the public by an injunction served upon us in sudden haste by the vice-chancellor. we are far from imputing evil motives, or even indiscretion, to that functionary; but we are of opinion that the moral feeling of the country would have been served by the publication, and we are sure that undue steps were taken by the member for tankerville to procure that injunction. no inquiries whatever were made by the police in reference to that attempt at murder, and we do expect that some member will ask a question on the subject in the house. would such culpable quiescence have been allowed had not the unfortunate lady whose name we are unwilling to mention been the daughter of one of the colleagues of our present prime minister, the gentleman who fired the pistol another of them, and the presumed lover, who was fired at, also another? we think that we need hardly answer that question. one piece of advice which we ventured to give mr. gresham in our former article he has been wise enough to follow. we took upon ourselves to tell him that if, after what has occurred, he ventured to place the member for tankerville again in office, the country would not stand it;--and he has abstained. the jaunty footsteps of mr. phineas finn are not heard ascending the stairs of any office at about two in the afternoon, as used to be the case in one of those blessed downing street abodes about three years since. that scandal is, we think, over,--and for ever. the good-looking irish member of parliament who had been put in possession of a handsome salary by feminine influences, will not, we think, after what we have already said, again become a burden on the public purse. but we cannot say that we are as yet satisfied in this matter, or that we believe that the public has got to the bottom of it,--as it has a right to do in reference to all matters affecting the public service. we have never yet learned why it is that mr. bonteen, after having been nominated chancellor of the exchequer,--for the appointment to that office was declared in the house of commons by the head of his party,--was afterwards excluded from the cabinet, and placed in an office made peculiarly subordinate by the fact of that exclusion. we have never yet been told why this was done;--but we believe that we are justified in saying that it was managed through the influence of the member for tankerville; and we are quite sure that the public service of the country has thereby been subjected to grievous injury. it is hardly our duty to praise any of that very awkward team of horses which mr. gresham drives with an audacity which may atone for his incapacity if no fearful accident should be the consequence; but if there be one among them whom we could trust for steady work up hill, it is mr. bonteen. we were astounded at mr. gresham's indiscretion in announcing the appointment of his new chancellor of the exchequer some weeks before he had succeeded in driving mr. daubeny from office;--but we were not the less glad to find that the finances of the country were to be entrusted to the hands of the most competent gentleman whom mr. gresham has induced to follow his fortunes. but mr. phineas finn, with his female forces, has again interfered, and mr. bonteen has been relegated to the board of trade, without a seat in the cabinet. we should not be at all surprised if, as the result of this disgraceful manoeuvring, mr. bonteen found himself at the head of the liberal party before the session be over. if so, evil would have worked to good. but, be that as it may, we cannot but feel that it is a disgrace to the government, a disgrace to parliament, and a disgrace to the country that such results should come from the private scandals of two or three people among us by no means of the best class. chapter xliv. the browborough trial. there was another matter of public interest going on at this time which created a great excitement. and this, too, added to the importance of phineas finn, though phineas was not the hero of the piece. mr. browborough, the late member for tankerville, was tried for bribery. it will be remembered that when phineas contested the borough in the autumn, this gentleman was returned. he was afterwards unseated, as the result of a petition before the judge, and phineas was declared to be the true member. the judge who had so decided had reported to the speaker that further inquiry before a commission into the practices of the late and former elections at tankerville would be expedient, and such commission had sat in the months of january and february. half the voters in tankerville had been examined, and many who were not voters. the commissioners swept very clean, being new brooms, and in their report recommended that mr. browborough, whom they had themselves declined to examine, should be prosecuted. that report was made about the end of march, when mr. daubeny's great bill was impending. then there arose a double feeling about mr. browborough, who had been regarded by many as a model member of parliament, a man who never spoke, constant in his attendance, who wanted nothing, who had plenty of money, who gave dinners, to whom a seat in parliament was the be-all and the end-all of life. it could not be the wish of any gentleman, who had been accustomed to his slow step in the lobbies, and his burly form always quiescent on one of the upper seats just below the gangway on the conservative side of the house, that such a man should really be punished. when the new laws regarding bribery came to take that shape the hearts of members revolted from the cruelty,--the hearts even of members on the other side of the house. as long as a seat was in question the battle should of course be fought to the nail. every kind of accusation might then be lavished without restraint, and every evil practice imputed. it had been known to all the world,--known as a thing that was a matter of course,--that at every election mr. browborough had bought his seat. how should a browborough get a seat without buying it,--a man who could not say ten words, of no family, with no natural following in any constituency, distinguished by no zeal in politics, entertaining no special convictions of his own? how should such a one recommend himself to any borough unless he went there with money in his hand? of course, he had gone to tankerville with money in his hand, with plenty of money, and had spent it--like a gentleman. collectively the house of commons had determined to put down bribery with a very strong hand. nobody had spoken against bribery with more fervour than sir gregory grogram, who had himself, as attorney-general, forged the chains for fettering future bribers. he was now again attorney-general, much to his disgust, as mr. gresham had at the last moment found it wise to restore lord weazeling to the woolsack; and to his hands was to be entrusted the prosecution of mr. browborough. but it was observed by many that the job was not much to his taste. the house had been very hot against bribery,--and certain members of the existing government, when the late bill had been passed, had expressed themselves with almost burning indignation against the crime. but, through it all, there had been a slight undercurrent of ridicule attaching itself to the question of which only they who were behind the scenes were conscious. the house was bound to let the outside world know that all corrupt practices at elections were held to be abominable by the house; but members of the house, as individuals, knew very well what had taken place at their own elections, and were aware of the cheques which they had drawn. public-houses had been kept open as a matter of course, and nowhere perhaps had more beer been drunk than at clovelly, the borough for which sir gregory grogram sat. when it came to be a matter of individual prosecution against one whom they had all known, and who, as a member, had been inconspicuous and therefore inoffensive, against a heavy, rich, useful man who had been in nobody's way, many thought that it would amount to persecution. the idea of putting old browborough into prison for conduct which habit had made second nature to a large proportion of the house was distressing to members of parliament generally. the recommendation for this prosecution was made to the house when mr. daubeny was in the first agonies of his great bill, and he at once resolved to ignore the matter altogether, at any rate for the present. if he was to be driven out of power there could be no reason why his attorney-general should prosecute his own ally and follower,--a poor, faithful creature, who had never in his life voted against his party, and who had always been willing to accept as his natural leader any one whom his party might select. but there were many who had felt that as mr. browborough must certainly now be prosecuted sooner or later,--for there could be no final neglecting of the commissioners' report,--it would be better that he should be dealt with by natural friends than by natural enemies. the newspapers, therefore, had endeavoured to hurry the matter on, and it had been decided that the trial should take place at the durham spring assizes, in the first week of may. sir gregory grogram became attorney-general in the middle of april, and he undertook the task upon compulsion. mr. browborough's own friends, and mr. browborough himself, declared very loudly that there would be the greatest possible cruelty in postponing the trial. his lawyers thought that his best chance lay in bustling the thing on, and were therefore able to show that the cruelty of delay would be extreme,--nay, that any postponement in such a matter would be unconstitutional, if not illegal. it would, of course, have been just as easy to show that hurry on the part of the prosecutor was cruel, and illegal, and unconstitutional, had it been considered that the best chance of acquittal lay in postponement. and so the trial was forced forward, and sir gregory himself was to appear on behalf of the prosecuting house of commons. there could be no doubt that the sympathies of the public generally were with mr. browborough, though there was as little doubt that he was guilty. when the evidence taken by the commissioners had just appeared in the newspapers,--when first the facts of this and other elections at tankerville were made public, and the world was shown how common it had been for mr. browborough to buy votes,--how clearly the knowledge of the corruption had been brought home to himself,--there had for a short week or so been a feeling against him. two or three london papers had printed leading articles, giving in detail the salient points of the old sinner's criminality, and expressing a conviction that now, at least, would the real criminal be punished. but this had died away, and the anger against mr. browborough, even on the part of the most virtuous of the public press, had become no more than lukewarm. some papers boldly defended him, ridiculed the commissioners, and declared that the trial was altogether an absurdity. the people's banner, setting at defiance with an admirable audacity all the facts as given in the commissioners' report, declared that there was not one tittle of evidence against mr. browborough, and hinted that the trial had been got up by the malign influence of that doer of all evil, phineas finn. but men who knew better what was going on in the world than did mr. quintus slide, were well aware that such assertions as these were both unavailing and unnecessary. mr. browborough was believed to be quite safe; but his safety lay in the indifference of his prosecutors,--certainly not in his innocence. any one prominent in affairs can always see when a man may steal a horse and when a man may not look over a hedge. mr. browborough had stolen his horse, and had repeated the theft over and over again. the evidence of it all was forthcoming,--had, indeed, been already sifted. but sir gregory grogram, who was prominent in affairs, knew that the theft might be condoned. nevertheless, the case came on at the durham assizes. within the last two months browborough had become quite a hero at tankerville. the church party had forgotten his broken pledges, and the radicals remembered only his generosity. could he have stood for the seat again on the day on which the judges entered durham, he might have been returned without bribery. throughout the whole county the prosecution was unpopular. during no portion of his parliamentary career had mr. browborough's name been treated with so much respect in the grandly ecclesiastical city as now. he dined with the dean on the day before the trial, and on the sunday was shown by the head verger into the stall next to the chancellor of the diocese, with a reverence which seemed to imply that he was almost as graceful as a martyr. when he took his seat in the court next to his attorney, everybody shook hands with him. when sir gregory got up to open his case, not one of the listeners then supposed that mr. browborough was about to suffer any punishment. he was arraigned before mr. baron boultby, who had himself sat for a borough in his younger days, and who knew well how things were done. we are all aware how impassionately grand are the minds of judges, when men accused of crimes are brought before them for trial; but judges after all are men, and mr. baron boultby, as he looked at mr. browborough, could not but have thought of the old days. it was nevertheless necessary that the prosecution should be conducted in a properly formal manner, and that all the evidence should be given. there was a cloud of witnesses over from tankerville,--miners, colliers, and the like,--having a very good turn of it at the expense of the poor borough. all these men must be examined, and their evidence would no doubt be the same now as when it was given with so damnable an effect before those clean-sweeping commissioners. sir gregory's opening speech was quite worthy of sir gregory. it was essentially necessary, he said, that the atmosphere of our boroughs should be cleansed and purified from the taint of corruption. the voice of the country had spoken very plainly on the subject, and a verdict had gone forth that there should be no more bribery at elections. at the last election at tankerville, and, as he feared, at some former elections, there had been manifest bribery. it would be for the jury to decide whether mr. browborough himself had been so connected with the acts of his agents as to be himself within the reach of the law. if it were found that he had brought himself within the reach of the law, the jury would no doubt say so, and in such case would do great service to the cause of purity; but if mr. browborough had not been personally cognisant of what his agents had done, then the jury would be bound to acquit him. a man was not necessarily guilty of bribery in the eye of the law because bribery had been committed, even though the bribery so committed had been sufficiently proved to deprive him of the seat which he would otherwise have enjoyed. nothing could be clearer than the manner in which sir gregory explained it all to the jury; nothing more eloquent than his denunciations against bribery in general; nothing more mild than his allegations against mr. browborough individually. in regard to the evidence sir gregory, with his two assistants, went through his work manfully. the evidence was given,--not to the same length as at tankerville before the commissioners,--but really to the same effect. but yet the record of the evidence as given in the newspapers seemed to be altogether different. at tankerville there had been an indignant and sometimes an indiscreet zeal which had communicated itself to the whole proceedings. the general flavour of the trial at durham was one of good-humoured raillery. mr. browborough's counsel in cross-examining the witnesses for the prosecution displayed none of that righteous wrath,--wrath righteous on behalf of injured innocence,--which is so common with gentlemen employed in the defence of criminals; but bowed and simpered, and nodded at sir gregory in a manner that was quite pleasant to behold. nobody scolded anybody. there was no roaring of barristers, no clenching of fists and kicking up of dust, no threats, no allusions to witnesses' oaths. a considerable amount of gentle fun was poked at the witnesses by the defending counsel, but not in a manner to give any pain. gentlemen who acknowledged to have received seventeen shillings and sixpence for their votes at the last election were asked how they had invested their money. allusions were made to their wives, and a large amount of good-humoured sparring was allowed, in which the witnesses thought that they had the best of it. the men of tankerville long remembered this trial, and hoped anxiously that there might soon be another. the only man treated with severity was poor phineas finn, and luckily for himself he was not present. his qualifications as member of parliament for tankerville were somewhat roughly treated. each witness there, when he was asked what candidate would probably be returned for tankerville at the next election, readily answered that mr. browborough would certainly carry the seat. mr. browborough sat in the court throughout it all, and was the hero of the day. the judge's summing up was very short, and seemed to have been given almost with indolence. the one point on which he insisted was the difference between such evidence of bribery as would deprive a man of his seat, and that which would make him subject to the criminal law. by the criminal law a man could not be punished for the acts of another. punishment must follow a man's own act. if a man were to instigate another to murder he would be punished, not for the murder, but for the instigation. they were now administering the criminal law, and they were bound to give their verdict for an acquittal unless they were convinced that the man on his trial had himself,--wilfully and wittingly,--been guilty of the crime imputed. he went through the evidence, which was in itself clear against the old sinner, and which had been in no instance validly contradicted, and then left the matter to the jury. the men in the box put their heads together, and returned a verdict of acquittal without one moment's delay. sir gregory grogram and his assistants collected their papers together. the judge addressed three or four words almost of compliment to mr. browborough, and the affair was over, to the manifest contentment of every one there present. sir gregory grogram was by no means disappointed, and everybody, on his own side in parliament and on the other, thought that he had done his duty very well. the clean-sweeping commissioners, who had been animated with wonderful zeal by the nature and novelty of their work, probably felt that they had been betrayed, but it may be doubted whether any one else was disconcerted by the result of the trial, unless it might be some poor innocents here and there about the country who had been induced to believe that bribery and corruption were in truth to be banished from the purlieus of westminster. mr. roby and mr. ratler, who filled the same office each for his own party, in and out, were both acquainted with each other, and apt to discuss parliamentary questions in the library and smoking-room of the house, where such discussions could be held on most matters. "i was very glad that the case went as it did at durham," said mr. ratler. "and so am i," said mr. roby. "browborough was always a good fellow." "not a doubt about it; and no good could have come from a conviction. i suppose there has been a little money spent at tankerville." "and at other places one could mention," said mr. roby. "of course there has;--and money will be spent again. nobody dislikes bribery more than i do. the house, of course, dislikes it. but if a man loses his seat, surely that is punishment enough." "it's better to have to draw a cheque sometimes than to be out in the cold." "nevertheless, members would prefer that their seats should not cost them so much," continued mr. ratler. "but the thing can't be done all at once. that idea of pouncing upon one man and making a victim of him is very disagreeable to me. i should have been sorry to have seen a verdict against browborough. you must acknowledge that there was no bitterness in the way in which grogram did it." "we all feel that," said mr. roby,--who was, perhaps, by nature a little more candid than his rival,--"and when the time comes no doubt we shall return the compliment." the matter was discussed in quite a different spirit between two other politicians. "so sir gregory has failed at durham," said lord cantrip to his friend, mr. gresham. "i was sure he would." "and why?" "ah;--why? how am i to answer such a question? did you think that mr. browborough would be convicted of bribery by a jury?" "no, indeed," answered lord cantrip. "and can you tell me why?" "because there was no earnestness in the matter,--either with the attorney-general or with any one else." "and yet," said mr. gresham, "grogram is a very earnest man when he believes in his case. no member of parliament will ever be punished for bribery as for a crime till members of parliament generally look upon bribery as a crime. we are very far from that as yet. i should have thought a conviction to be a great misfortune." "why so?" "because it would have created ill blood, and our own hands in this matter are not a bit cleaner than those of our adversaries. we can't afford to pull their houses to pieces before we have put our own in order. the thing will be done; but it must, i fear, be done slowly,--as is the case with all reforms from within." phineas finn, who was very sore and unhappy at this time, and who consequently was much in love with purity and anxious for severity, felt himself personally aggrieved by the acquittal. it was almost tantamount to a verdict against himself. and then he knew so well that bribery had been committed, and was so confident that such a one as mr. browborough could have been returned to parliament by none other than corrupt means! in his present mood he would have been almost glad to see mr. browborough at the treadmill, and would have thought six months' solitary confinement quite inadequate to the offence. "i never read anything in my life that disgusted me so much," he said to his friend, mr. monk. "i can't go along with you there." "if any man ever was guilty of bribery, he was guilty!" "i don't doubt it for a moment." "and yet grogram did not try to get a verdict." "had he tried ever so much he would have failed. in a matter such as that,--political and not social in its nature,--a jury is sure to be guided by what it has, perhaps unconsciously, learned to be the feeling of the country. no disgrace is attached to their verdict, and yet everybody knows that mr. browborough had bribed, and all those who have looked into it know, too, that the evidence was conclusive." "then are the jury all perjured," said phineas. "i have nothing to say to that. no stain of perjury clings to them. they are better received in durham to-day than they would have been had they found mr. browborough guilty. in business, as in private life, they will be held to be as trustworthy as before;--and they will be, for aught that we know, quite trustworthy. there are still circumstances in which a man, though on his oath, may be untrue with no more stain of falsehood than falls upon him when he denies himself at his front door though he happen to be at home." "what must we think of such a condition of things, mr. monk?" "that it's capable of improvement. i do not know that we can think anything else. as for sir gregory grogram and baron boultby and the jury, it would be waste of power to execrate them. in political matters it is very hard for a man in office to be purer than his neighbours,--and, when he is so, he becomes troublesome. i have found that out before to-day." with lady laura kennedy, phineas did find some sympathy;--but then she would have sympathised with him on any subject under the sun. if he would only come to her and sit with her she would fool him to the top of his bent. he had resolved that he would go to portman square as little as possible, and had been confirmed in that resolution by the scandal which had now spread everywhere about the town in reference to himself and herself. but still he went. he never left her till some promise of returning at some stated time had been extracted from him. he had even told her of his own scruples and of her danger,--and they had discussed together that last thunderbolt which had fallen from the jove of the people's banner. but she had laughed his caution to scorn. did she not know herself and her own innocence? was she not living in her father's house, and with her father? should she quail beneath the stings and venom of such a reptile as quintus slide? "oh, phineas," she said, "let us be braver than that." he would much prefer to have stayed away,--but still he went to her. he was conscious of her dangerous love for him. he knew well that it was not returned. he was aware that it would be best for both that he should be apart. but yet he could not bring himself to wound her by his absence. "i do not see why you should feel it so much," she said, speaking of the trial at durham. "we were both on our trial,--he and i." "everybody knows that he bribed and that you did not." "yes;--and everybody despises me and pats him on the back. i am sick of the whole thing. there is no honesty in the life we lead." "you got your seat at any rate." "i wish with all my heart that i had never seen the dirty wretched place," said he. "oh, phineas, do not say that." "but i do say it. of what use is the seat to me? if i could only feel that any one knew--" "knew what, phineas?" "it doesn't matter." "i understand. i know that you have meant to be honest, while this man has always meant to be dishonest. i know that you have intended to serve your country, and have wished to work for it. but you cannot expect that it should all be roses." "roses! the nosegays which are worn down at westminster are made of garlick and dandelions!" chapter xlv. some passages in the life of mr. emilius. the writer of this chronicle is not allowed to imagine that any of his readers have read the wonderful and vexatious adventures of lady eustace, a lady of good birth, of high rank, and of large fortune, who, but a year or two since, became almost a martyr to a diamond necklace which was stolen from her. with her history the present reader has but small concern, but it may be necessary that he should know that the lady in question, who had been a widow with many suitors, at last gave her hand and her fortune to a clergyman whose name was joseph emilius. mr. emilius, though not an englishman by birth,--and, as was supposed, a bohemian jew in the earlier days of his career,--had obtained some reputation as a preacher in london, and had moved,--if not in fashionable circles,--at any rate in circles so near to fashion as to be brought within the reach of lady eustace's charms. they were married, and for some few months mr. emilius enjoyed a halcyon existence, the delights of which were, perhaps, not materially marred by the necessity which he felt of subjecting his young wife to marital authority. "my dear," he would say, "you will know me better soon, and then things will be smooth." in the meantime he drew more largely upon her money than was pleasing to her and to her friends, and appeared to have requirements for cash which were both secret and unlimited. at the end of twelve months lady eustace had run away from him, and mr. emilius had made overtures, by accepting which his wife would be enabled to purchase his absence at the cost of half her income. the arrangement was not regarded as being in every respect satisfactory, but lady eustace declared passionately that any possible sacrifice would be preferable to the company of mr. emilius. there had, however, been a rumour before her marriage that there was still living in his old country a mrs. emilius when he married lady eustace; and, though it had been supposed by those who were most nearly concerned with lady eustace that this report had been unfounded and malicious, nevertheless, when the man's claims became so exorbitant, reference was again made to the charge of bigamy. if it could be proved that mr. emilius had a wife living in bohemia, a cheaper mode of escape would be found for the persecuted lady than that which he himself had suggested. it had happened that, since her marriage with mr. emilius, lady eustace had become intimate with our mr. bonteen and his wife. she had been at one time engaged to marry lord fawn, one of mr. bonteen's colleagues, and during the various circumstances which had led to the disruption of that engagement, this friendship had been formed. it must be understood that lady eustace had a most desirable residence of her own in the country,--portray castle in scotland,--and that it was thought expedient by many to cultivate her acquaintance. she was rich, beautiful, and clever; and, though her marriage with mr. emilius had never been looked upon as a success, still, in the estimation of some people, it added an interest to her career. the bonteens had taken her up, and now both mr. and mrs. bonteen were hot in pursuit of evidence which might prove mr. emilius to be a bigamist. when the disruption of conjugal relations was commenced, lady eustace succeeded in obtaining refuge at portray castle without the presence of her husband. she fled from london during a visit he made to brighton with the object of preaching to a congregation by which his eloquence was held in great esteem. he left london in one direction by the p.m. express train on saturday, and she in the other by the limited mail at . . a telegram, informing him of what had taken place, reached him the next morning at brighton while he was at breakfast. he preached his sermon, charming the congregation by the graces of his extempore eloquence,--moving every woman there to tears,--and then was after his wife before the ladies had taken their first glass of sherry at luncheon. but her ladyship had twenty-four hours' start of him,--although he did his best; and when he reached portray castle the door was shut in his face. he endeavoured to obtain the aid of blacksmiths to open, as he said, his own hall door,--to obtain the aid of constables to compel the blacksmiths, of magistrates to compel the constables,--and even of a judge to compel the magistrates; but he was met on every side by a statement that the lady of the castle declared that she was not his wife, and that therefore he had no right whatever to demand that the door should be opened. some other woman,--so he was informed that the lady said,--out in a strange country was really his wife. it was her intention to prove him to be a bigamist, and to have him locked up. in the meantime she chose to lock herself up in her own mansion. such was the nature of the message that was delivered to him through the bars of the lady's castle. how poor lady eustace was protected, and, at the same time, made miserable by the energy and unrestrained language of one of her own servants, andrew gowran by name, it hardly concerns us now to inquire. mr. emilius did not succeed in effecting an entrance; but he remained for some time in the neighbourhood, and had notices served on the tenants in regard to the rents, which puzzled the poor folk round portray castle very much. after a while lady eustace, finding that her peace and comfort imperatively demanded that she should prove the allegations which she had made, fled again from portray castle to london, and threw herself into the hands of the bonteens. this took place just as mr. bonteen's hopes in regard to the chancellorship of the exchequer were beginning to soar high, and when his hands were very full of business. but with that energy for which he was so conspicuous, mr. bonteen had made a visit to bohemia during his short christmas holidays, and had there set people to work. when at prague he had, he thought, very nearly unravelled the secret himself. he had found the woman whom he believed to be mrs. emilius, and who was now living somewhat merrily in prague under another name. she acknowledged that in old days, when they were both young, she had been acquainted with a certain yosef mealyus, at a time in which he had been in the employment of a jewish moneylender in the city; but,--as she declared,--she had never been married to him. mr. bonteen learned also that the gentleman now known as mr. joseph emilius of the london chapel had been known in his own country as yosef mealyus, the name which had been borne by the very respectable jew who was his father. then mr. bonteen had returned home, and, as we all know, had become engaged in matters of deeper import than even the deliverance of lady eustace from her thraldom. mr. emilius made no attempt to obtain the person of his wife while she was under mr. bonteen's custody, but he did renew his offer to compromise. if the estate could not afford to give him the two thousand a year which he had first demanded, he would take fifteen hundred. he explained all this personally to mr. bonteen, who condescended to see him. he was very eager to make mr. bonteen understand how bad even then would be his condition. mr. bonteen was, of course, aware that he would have to pay very heavily for insuring his wife's life. he was piteous, argumentative, and at first gentle; but when mr. bonteen somewhat rashly told him that the evidence of a former marriage and of the present existence of the former wife would certainly be forthcoming, he defied mr. bonteen and his evidence,--and swore that if his claims were not satisfied, he would make use of the power which the english law gave him for the recovery of his wife's person. and as to her property,--it was his, not hers. from this time forward if she wanted to separate herself from him she must ask him for an allowance. now, it certainly was the case that lady eustace had married the man without any sufficient precaution as to keeping her money in her own hands, and mr. emilius had insisted that the rents of the property which was hers for her life should be paid to him, and on his receipt only. the poor tenants had been noticed this way and noticed that till they had begun to doubt whether their safest course would not be to keep their rents in their own hands. but lately the lawyers of the eustace family,--who were not, indeed, very fond of lady eustace personally,--came forward for the sake of the property, and guaranteed the tenants against all proceedings until the question of the legality of the marriage should be settled. so mr. emilius,--or the reverend mealyus, as everybody now called him,--went to law; and lady eustace went to law; and the eustace family went to law;--but still, as yet, no evidence was forthcoming sufficient to enable mr. bonteen, as the lady's friend, to put the gentleman into prison. it was said for a while that mealyus had absconded. after his interview with mr. bonteen he certainly did leave england and made a journey to prague. it was thought that he would not return, and that lady eustace would be obliged to carry on the trial, which was to liberate her and her property, in his absence. she was told that the very fact of his absence would go far with a jury, and she was glad to be freed from his presence in england. but he did return, declaring aloud that he would have his rights. his wife should be made to put herself into his hands, and he would obtain possession of the income which was his own. people then began to doubt. it was known that a very clever lawyer's clerk had been sent to prague to complete the work there which mr. bonteen had commenced. but the clerk did not come back as soon as was expected, and news arrived that he had been taken ill. there was a rumour that he had been poisoned at his hotel; but, as the man was not said to be dead, people hardly believed the rumour. it became necessary, however, to send another lawyer's clerk, and the matter was gradually progressing to a very interesting complication. mr. bonteen, to tell the truth, was becoming sick of it. when emilius, or mealyus, was supposed to have absconded, lady eustace left mr. bonteen's house, and located herself at one of the large london hotels; but when the man came back, bolder than ever, she again betook herself to the shelter of mr. bonteen's roof. she expressed the most lavish affection for mrs. bonteen, and professed to regard mr. bonteen as almost a political god, declaring her conviction that he, and he alone, as prime minister, could save the country, and became very loud in her wrath when he was robbed of his seat in the cabinet. lizzie eustace, as her ladyship had always been called, was a clever, pretty, coaxing little woman, who knew how to make the most of her advantages. she had not been very wise in her life, having lost the friends who would have been truest to her, and confided in persons who had greatly injured her. she was neither true of heart or tongue, nor affectionate, nor even honest. but she was engaging; she could flatter; and could assume a reverential admiration which was very foreign to her real character. in these days she almost worshipped mr. bonteen, and could never be happy except in the presence of her dearest darling friend mrs. bonteen. mr. bonteen was tired of her, and mrs. bonteen was becoming almost sick of the constant kisses with which she was greeted; but lizzie eustace had got hold of them, and they could not turn her off. "you saw the people's banner, mrs. bonteen, on monday?" lady eustace had been reading the paper in her friend's drawing-room. "they seem to think that mr. bonteen must be prime minister before long." [illustration: "they seem to think that mr. bonteen must be prime minister."] "i don't think he expects that, my dear." "why not? everybody says the people's banner is the cleverest paper we have now. i always hated the very name of that phineas finn." "did you know him?" "not exactly. he was gone before my time; but poor lord fawn used to talk of him. he was one of those conceited irish upstarts that are never good for anything." "very handsome, you know," said mrs. bonteen. "was he? i have heard it said that a good many ladies admired him." "it was quite absurd; with lady laura kennedy it was worse than absurd. and there was lady glencora, and violet effingham, who married lady laura's brother, and that madame goesler, whom i hate,--and ever so many others." "and is it true that it was he who got mr. bonteen so shamefully used?" "it was his faction." "i do so hate that kind of thing," said lady eustace, with righteous indignation; "i used to hear a great deal about government and all that when the affair was on between me and poor lord fawn, and that kind of dishonesty always disgusted me. i don't know that i think so much of mr. gresham after all." "he is a very weak man." "his conduct to mr. bonteen has been outrageous; and if he has done it just because that duchess of omnium has told him, i really do think that he is not fit to rule the nation. as for mr. phineas finn, it is dreadful to think that a creature like that should be able to interfere with such a man as mr. bonteen." this was on wednesday afternoon,--the day on which members of parliament dine out,--and at that moment mr. bonteen entered the drawing-room, having left the house for his half-holiday at six o'clock. lady eustace got up, and gave him her hand, and smiled upon him as though he were indeed her god. "you look so tired and so worried, mr. bonteen." "worried;--i should think so." "is there anything fresh?" asked his wife. "that fellow finn is spreading all manner of lies about me." "what lies, mr. bonteen?" asked lady eustace. "not new lies, i hope." "it all comes from carlton terrace." the reader may perhaps remember that the young duchess of omnium lived in carlton terrace. "i can trace it all there. i won't stand it if it goes on like this. a clique of stupid women to take up the cudgels for a coal-heaving sort of fellow like that, and sting one like a lot of hornets! would you believe it?--the duke almost refused to speak to me just now--a man for whom i have been working like a slave for the last twelve months!" "i would not stand it," said lady eustace. "by the bye, lady eustace, we have had news from prague." "what news?" said she, clasping her hands. "that fellow pratt we sent out is dead." "no!" "not a doubt but what he was poisoned; but they seem to think that nothing can be proved. coulson is on his way out, and i shouldn't wonder if they served him the same." "and it might have been you!" said lady eustace, taking hold of her friend's arm with almost frantic affection. yes, indeed. it might have been the lot of mr. bonteen to have died at prague--to have been poisoned by the machinations of the former mrs. mealyus, if such really had been the fortune of the unfortunate mr. pratt. for he had been quite as busy at prague as his successor in the work. he had found out much, though not everything. it certainly had been believed that yosef mealyus was a married man, but he had brought the woman with him to prague, and had certainly not married her in the city. she was believed to have come from cracow, and mr. bonteen's zeal on behalf of his friend had not been sufficient to carry him so far east. but he had learned from various sources that the man and woman had been supposed to be married,--that she had borne the man's name, and that he had taken upon himself authority as her husband. there had been written communications with cracow, and information was received that a man of the name of yosef mealyus had been married to a jewess in that town. but this had been twenty years ago, and mr. emilius professed himself to be only thirty-five years old, and had in his possession a document from his synagogue professing to give a record of his birth, proving such to be his age. it was also ascertained that mealyus was a name common at cracow, and that there were very many of the family in galicia. altogether the case was full of difficulty, but it was thought that mr. bonteen's evidence would be sufficient to save the property from the hands of the cormorant, at any rate till such time as better evidence of the first marriage could be obtained. it had been hoped that when the man went away he would not return; but he had returned, and it was now resolved that no terms should be kept with him and no payment offered to him. the house at portray was kept barred, and the servants were ordered not to admit him. no money was to be paid to him, and he was to be left to take any proceedings at law which he might please,--while his adversaries were proceeding against him with all the weapons at their disposal. in the meantime his chapel was of course deserted, and the unfortunate man was left penniless in the world. various opinions prevailed as to mr. bonteen's conduct in the matter. some people remembered that during the last autumn he and his wife had stayed three months at portray castle, and declared that the friendship between them and lady eustace had been very useful. of these malicious people it seemed to be, moreover, the opinion that the connection might become even more useful if mr. emilius could be discharged. it was true that mrs. bonteen had borrowed a little money from lady eustace, but of this her husband knew nothing till the jew in his wrath made the thing public. after all it had only been a poor £ , and the money had been repaid before mr. bonteen took his journey to prague. mr. bonteen was, however, unable to deny that the cost of that journey was defrayed by lady eustace, and it was thought mean in a man aspiring to be chancellor of the exchequer to have his travelling expenses paid for him by a lady. many, however, were of opinion that mr. bonteen had been almost romantic in his friendship, and that the bright eyes of lady eustace had produced upon this dragon of business the wonderful effect that was noticed. be that as it may, now, in the terrible distress of his mind at the political aspect of the times, he had become almost sick of lady eustace, and would gladly have sent her away from his house had he known how to do so without incurring censure. chapter xlvi. the quarrel. on that wednesday evening phineas finn was at the universe. he dined at the house of madame goesler, and went from thence to the club in better spirits than he had known for some weeks past. the duke and duchess had been at madame goesler's, and lord and lady chiltern, who were now up in town, with barrington erle, and,--as it had happened,--old mr. maule. the dinner had been very pleasant, and two or three words had been spoken which had tended to raise the heart of our hero. in the first place barrington erle had expressed a regret that phineas was not at his old post at the colonies, and the young duke had re-echoed it. phineas thought that the manner of his old friend erle was more cordial to him than it had been lately, and even that comforted him. then it was a delight to him to meet the chilterns, who were always gracious to him. but perhaps his greatest pleasure came from the reception which was accorded by his hostess to mr. maule, which was of a nature not easy to describe. it had become evident to phineas that mr. maule was constant in his attentions to madame goesler; and, though he had no purpose of his own in reference to the lady,--though he was aware that former circumstances, circumstances of that previous life to which he was accustomed to look back as to another existence, made it impossible that he should have any such purpose,--still he viewed mr. maule with dislike. he had once ventured to ask her whether she really liked "that old padded dandy." she had answered that she did like the old dandy. old dandies, she thought, were preferable to old men who did not care how they looked;--and as for the padding, that was his affair, not hers. she did not know why a man should not have a pad in his coat, as well as a woman one at the back of her head. but phineas had known that this was her gentle raillery, and now he was delighted to find that she continued it, after a still more gentle fashion, before the man's face. mr. maule's manner was certainly peculiar. he was more than ordinarily polite,--and was afterwards declared by the duchess to have made love like an old gander. but madame goesler, who knew exactly how to receive such attentions, turned a glance now and then upon phineas finn, which he could now read with absolute precision. "you see how i can dispose of a padded old dandy directly he goes an inch too far." no words could have said that to him more plainly than did these one or two glances;--and, as he had learned to dislike mr. maule, he was gratified. of course they all talked about lady eustace and mr. emilius. "do you remember how intensely interested the dear old duke used to be when we none of us knew what had become of the diamonds?" said the duchess. "and how you took her part," said madame goesler. "so did you,--just as much as i; and why not? she was a most interesting young woman, and i sincerely hope we have not got to the end of her yet. the worst of it is that she has got into such--very bad hands. the bonteens have taken her up altogether. do you know her, mr. finn?" "no, duchess;--and am hardly likely to make her acquaintance while she remains where she is now." the duchess laughed and nodded her head. all the world knew by this time that she had declared herself to be the sworn enemy of the bonteens. and there had been some conversation on that terribly difficult question respecting the foxes in trumpeton wood. "the fact is, lord chiltern," said the duke, "i'm as ignorant as a child. i would do right if i knew how. what ought i to do? shall i import some foxes?" "i don't suppose, duke, that in all england there is a spot in which foxes are more prone to breed." "indeed. i'm very glad of that. but something goes wrong afterwards, i fear." "the nurseries are not well managed, perhaps," said the duchess. "gipsy kidnappers are allowed about the place," said madame goesler. "gipsies!" exclaimed the duke. "poachers!" said lord chiltern. "but it isn't that we mind. we could deal with that ourselves if the woods were properly managed. a head of game and foxes can be reared together very well, if--" "i don't care a straw for a head of game, lord chiltern. as far as my own tastes go, i would wish that there was neither a pheasant nor a partridge nor a hare on any property that i own. i think that sheep and barn-door fowls do better for everybody in the long run, and that men who cannot live without shooting should go beyond thickly-populated regions to find it. and, indeed, for myself, i must say the same about foxes. they do not interest me, and i fancy that they will gradually be exterminated." "god forbid!" exclaimed lord chiltern. "but i do not find myself called upon to exterminate them myself," continued the duke. "the number of men who amuse themselves by riding after one fox is too great for me to wish to interfere with them. and i know that my neighbours in the country conceive it to be my duty to have foxes for them. i will oblige them, lord chiltern, as far as i can without detriment to other duties." "you leave it to me," said the duchess to her neighbour, lord chiltern. "i'll speak to mr. fothergill myself, and have it put right." it unfortunately happened, however, that lord chiltern got a letter the very next morning from old doggett telling him that a litter of young cubs had been destroyed that week in trumpeton wood. barrington erle and phineas went off to the universe together, and as they went the old terms of intimacy seemed to be re-established between them. "nobody can be so sorry as i am," said barrington, "at the manner in which things have gone. when i wrote to you, of course, i thought it certain that, if we came in, you would come with us." "do not let that fret you." "but it does fret me,--very much. there are so many slips that of course no one can answer for anything." "of course not. i know who has been my friend." "the joke of it is, that he himself is at present so utterly friendless. the duke will hardly speak to him. i know that as a fact. and gresham has begun to find something is wrong. we all hoped that he would refuse to come in without a seat in the cabinet;--but that was too good to be true. they say he talks of resigning. i shall believe it when i see it. he'd better not play any tricks, for if he did resign, it would be accepted at once." phineas, when he heard this, could not help thinking how glorious it would be if mr. bonteen were to resign, and if the place so vacated, or some vacancy so occasioned, were to be filled by him! they reached the club together, and as they went up the stairs, they heard the hum of many voices in the room. "all the world and his wife are here to-night," said phineas. they overtook a couple of men at the door, so that there was something of the bustle of a crowd as they entered. there was a difficulty in finding places in which to put their coats and hats,--for the accommodation of the universe is not great. there was a knot of men talking not far from them, and among the voices phineas could clearly hear that of mr. bonteen. ratler's he had heard before, and also fitzgibbon's, though he had not distinguished any words from them. but those spoken by mr. bonteen he did distinguish very plainly. "mr. phineas finn, or some such fellow as that, would be after her at once," said mr. bonteen. then phineas walked immediately among the knot of men and showed himself. as soon as he heard his name mentioned, he doubted for a moment what he would do. mr. bonteen when speaking had not known of his presence, and it might be his duty not to seem to have listened. but the speech had been made aloud, in the open room,--so that those who chose might listen;--and phineas could not but have heard it. in that moment he resolved that he was bound to take notice of what he had heard. "what is it, mr. bonteen, that phineas finn will do?" he asked. mr. bonteen had been--dining. he was not a man by any means habitually intemperate, and now any one saying that he was tipsy would have maligned him. but he was flushed with much wine, and he was a man whose arrogance in that condition was apt to become extreme. _"in vino veritas!"_ the sober devil can hide his cloven hoof; but when the devil drinks he loses his cunning and grows honest. mr. bonteen looked phineas full in the face a second or two before he answered, and then said,--quite aloud--"you have crept upon us unawares, sir." "what do you mean by that, sir?" said phineas. "i have come in as any other man comes." "listeners at any rate never hear any good of themselves." then there were present among those assembled clear indications of disapproval of bonteen's conduct. in these days,--when no palpable and immediate punishment is at hand for personal insolence from man to man,--personal insolence to one man in a company seems almost to constitute an insult to every one present. when men could fight readily, an arrogant word or two between two known to be hostile to each other was only an invitation to a duel, and the angry man was doing that for which it was known that he could be made to pay. there was, or it was often thought that there was, a real spirit in the angry man's conduct, and they who were his friends before became perhaps more his friends when he had thus shown that he had an enemy. but a different feeling prevails at present;--a feeling so different, that we may almost say that a man in general society cannot speak even roughly to any but his intimate comrades without giving offence to all around him. men have learned to hate the nuisance of a row, and to feel that their comfort is endangered if a man prone to rows gets among them. of all candidates at a club a known quarreller is more sure of blackballs now than even in the times when such a one provoked duels. of all bores he is the worst; and there is always an unexpressed feeling that such a one exacts more from his company than his share of attention. this is so strong, that too often the man quarrelled with, though he be as innocent as was phineas on the present occasion, is made subject to the general aversion which is felt for men who misbehave themselves. "i wish to hear no good of myself from you," said phineas, following him to his seat. "who is it that you said,--i should be after?" the room was full, and every one there, even they who had come in with phineas, knew that lady eustace was the woman. everybody at present was talking about lady eustace. "never mind," said barrington erle, taking him by the arm. "what's the use of a row?" "no use at all;--but if you heard your name mentioned in such a manner you would find it impossible to pass it over. there is mr. monk;--ask him." mr. monk was sitting very quietly in a corner of the room with another gentleman of his own age by him,--one devoted to literary pursuits and a constant attendant at the universe. as he said afterwards, he had never known any unpleasantness of that sort in the club before. there were many men of note in the room. there was a foreign minister, a member of the cabinet, two ex-members of the cabinet, a great poet, an exceedingly able editor, two earls, two members of the royal academy, the president of a learned society, a celebrated professor,--and it was expected that royalty might come in at any minute, speak a few benign words, and blow a few clouds of smoke. it was abominable that the harmony of such a meeting should be interrupted by the vinous insolence of mr. bonteen, and the useless wrath of phineas finn. "really, mr. finn, if i were you i would let it drop," said the gentleman devoted to literary pursuits. phineas did not much affect the literary gentleman, but in such a matter would prefer the advice of mr. monk to that of any man living. he again appealed to his friend. "you heard what was said?" "i heard mr. bonteen remark that you or somebody like you would in certain circumstances be after a certain lady. i thought it to be an ill-judged speech, and as your particular friend i heard it with great regret." "what a row about nothing!" said mr. bonteen, rising from his seat. "we were speaking of a very pretty woman, and i was saying that some young fellow generally supposed to be fond of pretty women would soon be after her. if that offends your morals you must have become very strict of late." there was something in the explanation which, though very bad and vulgar, it was almost impossible not to accept. such at least was the feeling of those who stood around phineas finn. he himself knew that mr. bonteen had intended to assert that he would be after the woman's money and not her beauty; but he had taste enough to perceive that he could not descend to any such detail as that. "there are reasons, mr. bonteen," he said, "why i think you should abstain from mentioning my name in public. your playful references should be made to your friends, and not to those who, to say the least of it, are not your friends." when the matter was discussed afterwards it was thought that phineas finn should have abstained from making the last speech. it was certainly evidence of great anger on his part. and he was very angry. he knew that he had been insulted,--and insulted by the man whom of all men he would feel most disposed to punish for any offence. he could not allow mr. bonteen to have the last word, especially as a certain amount of success had seemed to attend them. fate at the moment was so far propitious to phineas that outward circumstances saved him from any immediate reply, and thus left him in some degree triumphant. expected royalty arrived, and cast its salutary oil upon the troubled waters. the prince, with some well-known popular attendant, entered the room, and for a moment every gentleman rose from his chair. it was but for a moment, and then the prince became as any other gentleman, talking to his friends. one or two there present, who had perhaps peculiarly royal instincts, had crept up towards him so as to make him the centre of a little knot, but, otherwise, conversation went on much as it had done before the unfortunate arrival of phineas. that quarrel, however, had been very distinctly trodden under foot by the prince, for mr. bonteen had found himself quite incapacitated from throwing back any missile in reply to the last that had been hurled at him. phineas took a vacant seat next to mr. monk,--who was deficient perhaps in royal instincts,--and asked him in a whisper his opinion of what had taken place. "do not think any more of it," said mr. monk. "that is so much more easily said than done. how am i not to think of it?" "of course i mean that you are to act as though you had forgotten it." "did you ever know a more gratuitous insult? of course he was talking of that lady eustace." "i had not been listening to him before, but no doubt he was. i need not tell you now what i think of mr. bonteen. he is not more gracious in my eyes than he is in yours. to-night i fancy he has been drinking, which has not improved him. you may be sure of this, phineas,--that the less of resentful anger you show in such a wretched affair as took place just now, the more will be the blame attached to him and the less to you." "why should any blame be attached to me?" "i don't say that any will unless you allow yourself to become loud and resentful. the thing is not worth your anger." "i am angry." "then go to bed at once, and sleep it off. come with me, and we'll walk home together." "it isn't the proper thing, i fancy, to leave the room while the prince is here." "then i must do the improper thing," said mr. monk. "i haven't a key, and i musn't keep my servant up any longer. a quiet man like me can creep out without notice. good night, phineas, and take my advice about this. if you can't forget it, act and speak and look as though you had forgotten it." then mr. monk, without much creeping, left the room. the club was very full, and there was a clatter of voices, and the clatter round the prince was the noisiest and merriest. mr. bonteen was there, of course, and phineas as he sat alone could hear him as he edged his words in upon the royal ears. every now and again there was a royal joke, and then mr. bonteen's laughter was conspicuous. as far as phineas could distinguish the sounds no special amount of the royal attention was devoted to mr. bonteen. that very able editor, and one of the academicians, and the poet, seemed to be the most honoured, and when the prince went,--which he did when his cigar was finished,--phineas observed with inward satisfaction that the royal hand, which was given to the poet, to the editor, and to the painter, was not extended to the president of the board of trade. and then, having taken delight in this, he accused himself of meanness in having even observed a matter so trivial. soon after this a ruck of men left the club, and then phineas rose to go. as he went down the stairs barrington erle followed him with laurence fitzgibbon, and the three stood for a moment at the door in the street talking to each other. finn's way lay eastward from the club, whereas both erle and fitzgibbon would go westwards towards their homes. "how well the prince behaves at these sort of places!" said erle. "princes ought to behave well," said phineas. "somebody else didn't behave very well,--eh, finn, my boy?" said laurence. "somebody else, as you call him," replied phineas, "is very unlike a prince, and never does behave well. to-night, however, he surpassed himself." "don't bother your mind about it, old fellow," said barrington. "i tell you what it is, erle," said phineas. "i don't think that i'm a vindictive man by nature, but with that man i mean to make it even some of these days. you know as well as i do what it is he has done to me, and you know also whether i have deserved it. wretched reptile that he is! he has pretty nearly been able to ruin me,--and all from some petty feeling of jealousy." "finn, me boy, don't talk like that," said laurence. "you shouldn't show your hand," said barrington. "i know what you mean, and it's all very well. after your different fashions you two have been true to me, and i don't care how much you see of my hand. that man's insolence angers me to such an extent that i cannot refrain from speaking out. he hasn't spirit enough to go out with me, or i would shoot him." "blankenberg, eh!" said laurence, alluding to the now notorious duel which had once been fought in that place between phineas and lord chiltern. "i would," continued the angry man. "there are times in which one is driven to regret that there has come an end to duelling, and there is left to one no immediate means of resenting an injury." as they were speaking mr. bonteen came out from the front door alone, and seeing the three men standing, passed on towards the left, eastwards. "good night, erle," he said. "good night, fitzgibbon." the two men answered him, and phineas stood back in the gloom. it was about one o'clock and the night was very dark. "by george, i do dislike that man," said phineas. then, with a laugh, he took a life-preserver out of his pocket, and made an action with it as though he were striking some enemy over the head. in those days there had been much garotting in the streets, and writers in the press had advised those who walked about at night to go armed with sticks. phineas finn had himself been once engaged with garotters,--as has been told in a former chronicle,--and had since armed himself, thinking more probably of the thing which he had happened to see than men do who had only heard of it. as soon as he had spoken, he followed mr. bonteen down the street, at the distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards. "they won't have a row,--will they?" said erle. "oh, dear, no; finn won't think of speaking to him; and you may be sure that bonteen won't say a word to finn. between you and me, barrington, i wish master phineas would give him a thorough good hiding." chapter xlvii. what came of the quarrel. on the next morning at seven o'clock a superintendent of police called at the house of mr. gresham and informed the prime minister that mr. bonteen, the president of the board of trade, had been murdered during the night. there was no doubt of the fact. the body had been recognised, and information had been taken to the unfortunate widow at the house mr. bonteen had occupied in st. james's place. the superintendent had already found out that mr. bonteen had been attacked as he was returning from his club late at night,--or rather, early in the morning, and expressed no doubt that he had been murdered close to the spot on which his body was found. there is a dark, uncanny-looking passage running from the end of bolton row, in may fair, between the gardens of two great noblemen, coming out among the mews in berkeley street, at the corner of berkeley square, just opposite to the bottom of hay hill. it was on the steps leading up from the passage to the level of the ground above that the body was found. the passage was almost as near a way as any from the club to mr. bonteen's house in st. james's place; but the superintendent declared that gentlemen but seldom used the passage after dark, and he was disposed to think that the unfortunate man must have been forced down the steps by the ruffian who had attacked him from the level above. the murderer, so thought the superintendent, must have been cognizant of the way usually taken by mr. bonteen, and must have lain in wait for him in the darkness of the mouth of the passage. the superintendent had been at work on his inquiries since four in the morning, and had heard from lady eustace,--and from mrs. bonteen, as far as that poor distracted woman had been able to tell her story,--some account of the cause of quarrel between the respective husbands of those two ladies. the officer, who had not as yet heard a word of the late disturbance between mr. bonteen and phineas finn, was strongly of opinion that the reverend mr. emilius had been the murderer. mr. gresham, of course, coincided in that opinion. what steps had been taken as to the arrest of mr. emilius? the superintendent was of opinion that mr. emilius was already in custody. he was known to be lodging close to the marylebone workhouse, in northumberland street, having removed to that somewhat obscure neighbourhood as soon as his house in lowndes square had been broken up by the running away of his wife and his consequent want of means. such was the story as told to the prime minister at seven o'clock in the morning. at eleven o'clock, at his private room at the treasury chambers, mr. gresham heard much more. at that time there were present with him two officers of the police force, his colleagues in the cabinet, lord cantrip and the duke of omnium, three of his junior colleagues in the government, lord fawn, barrington erle, and laurence fitzgibbon,--and major mackintosh, the chief of the london police. it was not exactly part of the duty of mr. gresham to investigate the circumstances of this murder; but there was so much in it that brought it closely home to him and his government, that it became impossible for him not to concern himself in the business. there had been so much talk about mr. bonteen lately, his name had been so common in the newspapers, the ill-usage which he had been supposed by some to have suffered had been so freely discussed, and his quarrel, not only with phineas finn, but subsequently with the duke of omnium, had been so widely known,--that his sudden death created more momentary excitement than might probably have followed that of a greater man. and now, too, the facts of the past night, as they became known, seemed to make the crime more wonderful, more exciting, more momentous than it would have been had it been brought clearly home to such a wretch as the bohemian jew, yosef mealyus, who had contrived to cheat that wretched lizzie eustace into marrying him. as regarded yosef mealyus the story now told respecting him was this. he was already in custody. he had been found in bed at his lodgings between seven and eight, and had, of course, given himself up without difficulty. he had seemed to be horror-struck when he heard of the man's death,--but had openly expressed his joy. "he has endeavoured to ruin me, and has done me a world of harm. why should i sorrow for him?"--he said to the policeman when rebuked for his inhumanity. but nothing had been found tending to implicate him in the crime. the servant declared that he had gone to bed before eleven o'clock, to her knowledge,--for she had seen him there,--and that he had not left the house afterwards. was he in possession of a latch-key? it appeared that he did usually carry a latch-key, but that it was often borrowed from him by members of the family when it was known that he would not want it himself,--and that it had been so lent on this night. it was considered certain by those in the house that he had not gone out after he went to bed. nobody in fact had left the house after ten; but in accordance with his usual custom mr. emilius had sent down the key as soon as he had found that he would not want it, and it had been all night in the custody of the mistress of the establishment. nevertheless his clothes were examined minutely, but without affording any evidence against him. that mr. bonteen had been killed with some blunt weapon, such as a life-preserver, was assumed by the police, but no such weapon was in the possession of mr. emilius, nor had any such weapon yet been found. he was, however, in custody, with no evidence against him except that which was afforded by his known and acknowledged enmity to mr. bonteen. so far, major mackintosh and the two officers had told their story. then came the united story of the other gentlemen assembled,--from hearing which, however, the two police officers were debarred. the duke and barrington erle had both dined in company with phineas finn at madame goesler's, and the duke was undoubtedly aware that ill blood had existed between finn and mr. bonteen. both erle and fitzgibbon described the quarrel at the club, and described also the anger which finn had expressed against the wretched man as he stood talking at the club door. his gesture of vengeance was remembered and repeated, though both the men who heard it expressed their strongest conviction that the murder had not been committed by him. as erle remarked, the very expression of such a threat was almost proof that he had not at that moment any intention on his mind of doing such a deed as had been done. but they told also of the life-preserver which finn had shown them, as he took it from the pocket of his outside coat, and they marvelled at the coincidences of the night. then lord fawn gave further evidence, which seemed to tell very hardly upon phineas finn. he also had been at the club, and had left it just before finn and the two other men had clustered at the door. he had walked very slowly, having turned down to curzon street and bolton row, from whence he made his way into piccadilly by clarges street. he had seen nothing of mr. bonteen; but as he crossed over to clarges street he was passed at a very rapid pace by a man muffled in a top coat, who made his way straight along bolton row towards the passage which has been described. at the moment he had not connected the person of the man who passed him with any acquaintance of his own; but he now felt sure,--after what he had heard,--that the man was mr. finn. as he passed out of the club finn was putting on his overcoat, and lord fawn had observed the peculiarity of the grey colour. it was exactly a similar coat, only with its collar raised, that had passed him in the street. the man, too, was of mr. finn's height and build. he had known mr. finn well, and the man stepped with mr. finn's step. major mackintosh thought that lord fawn's evidence was--"very unfortunate as regarded mr. finn." "i'm d---- if that idiot won't hang poor phinny," said fitzgibbon afterwards to erle. "and yet i don't believe a word of it." "fawn wouldn't lie for the sake of hanging phineas finn," said erle. "no;--i don't suppose he's given to lying at all. he believes it all. but he's such a muddle-headed fellow that he can get himself to believe anything. he's one of those men who always unconsciously exaggerate what they have to say for the sake of the importance it gives them." it might be possible that a jury would look at lord fawn's evidence in this light; otherwise it would bear very heavily, indeed, against phineas finn. then a question arose as to the road which mr. bonteen usually took from the club. all the members who were there present had walked home with him at various times,--and by various routes, but never by the way through the passage. it was supposed that on this occasion he must have gone by berkeley square, because he had certainly not turned down by the first street to the right, which he would have taken had he intended to avoid the square. he had been seen by barrington erle and fitzgibbon to pass that turning. otherwise they would have made no remark as to the possibility of a renewed quarrel between him and phineas, should phineas chance to overtake him;--for phineas would certainly go by the square unless taken out of his way by some special purpose. the most direct way of all for mr. bonteen would have been that followed by lord fawn; but as he had not turned down this street, and had not been seen by lord fawn, who was known to walk very slowly, and had often been seen to go by berkeley square,--it was presumed that he had now taken that road. in this case he would certainly pass the end of the passage towards which lord fawn declared that he had seen the man hurrying whom he now supposed to have been phineas finn. finn's direct road home would, as has been already said, have been through the square, cutting off the corner of the square, towards bruton street, and thence across bond street by conduit street to regent street, and so to great marlborough street, where he lived. but it had been, no doubt, possible for him to have been on the spot on which lord fawn had seen the man; for, although in his natural course thither from the club he would have at once gone down the street to the right,--a course which both erle and fitzgibbon were able to say that he did not take, as they had seen him go beyond the turning,--nevertheless there had been ample time for him to have retraced his steps to it in time to have caught lord fawn, and thus to have deceived fitzgibbon and erle as to the route he had taken. when they had got thus far lord cantrip was standing close to the window of the room at mr. gresham's elbow. "don't allow yourself to be hurried into believing it," said lord cantrip. "i do not know that we need believe it, or the reverse. it is a case for the police." "of course it is;--but your belief and mine will have a weight. nothing that i have heard makes me for a moment think it possible. i know the man." "he was very angry." "had he struck him in the club i should not have been much surprised; but he never attacked his enemy with a bludgeon in a dark alley. i know him well." "what do you think of fawn's story?" "he was mistaken in his man. remember;--it was a dark night." "i do not see that you and i can do anything," said mr. gresham. "i shall have to say something in the house as to the poor fellow's death, but i certainly shall not express a suspicion. why should i?" up to this moment nothing had been done as to phineas finn. it was known that he would in his natural course of business be in his place in parliament at four, and major mackintosh was of opinion that he certainly should be taken before a magistrate in time to prevent the necessity of arresting him in the house. it was decided that lord fawn, with fitzgibbon and erle, should accompany the police officer to bow street, and that a magistrate should be applied to for a warrant if he thought the evidence was sufficient. major mackintosh was of opinion that, although by no possibility could the two men suspected have been jointly guilty of the murder, still the circumstances were such as to justify the immediate arrest of both. were yosef mealyus really guilty and to be allowed to slip from their hands, no doubt it might be very difficult to catch him. facts did not at present seem to prevail against him; but, as the major observed, facts are apt to alter considerably when they are minutely sifted. his character was half sufficient to condemn him;--and then with him there was an adequate motive, and what lord cantrip regarded as "a possibility." it was not to be conceived that from mere rage phineas finn would lay a plot for murdering a man in the street. "it is on the cards, my lord," said the major, "that he may have chosen to attack mr. bonteen without intending to murder him. the murder may afterwards have been an accident." it was impossible after this for even a prime minister and two cabinet ministers to go about their work calmly. the men concerned had been too well known to them to allow their minds to become clear of the subject. when major mackintosh went off to bow street with erle and laurence, it was certainly the opinion of the majority of those who had been present that the blow had been struck by the hand of phineas finn. and perhaps the worst aspect of it all was that there had been not simply a blow,--but blows. the constables had declared that the murdered man had been struck thrice about the head, and that the fatal stroke had been given on the side of his head after the man's hat had been knocked off. that finn should have followed his enemy through the street, after such words as he had spoken, with the view of having the quarrel out in some shape, did not seem to be very improbable to any of them except lord cantrip;--and then had there been a scuffle, out in the open path, at the spot at which the angry man might have overtaken his adversary, it was not incredible to them that he should have drawn even such a weapon as a life-preserver from his pocket. but, in the case as it had occurred, a spot peculiarly traitorous had been selected, and the attack had too probably been made from behind. as yet there was no evidence that the murderer had himself encountered any ill-usage. and finn, if he was the murderer, must, from the time he was standing at the club door, have contemplated a traitorous, dastardly attack. he must have counted his moments;--have returned slyly in the dark to the corner of the street which he had once passed;--have muffled his face in his coat;--and have then laid wait in a spot to which an honest man at night would hardly trust himself with honest purposes. "i look upon it as quite out of the question," said lord cantrip, when the three ministers were left alone. now lord cantrip had served for many months in the same office as phineas finn. "you are simply putting your own opinion of the man against the facts," said mr. gresham. "but facts always convince, and another man's opinion rarely convinces." "i'm not sure that we know the facts yet," said the duke. "of course we are speaking of them as far as they have been told to us. as far as they go,--unless they can be upset and shown not to be facts,--i fear they would be conclusive to me on a jury." "do you mean that you have heard enough to condemn him?" asked lord cantrip. "remember what we have heard. the murdered man had two enemies." "he may have had a third." "or ten; but we have heard of but two." "he may have been attacked for his money," said the duke. "but neither his money nor his watch were touched," continued mr. gresham. "anger, or the desire of putting the man out of the way, has caused the murder. of the two enemies one,--according to the facts as we now have them,--could not have been there. nor is it probable that he could have known that his enemy would be on that spot. the other not only could have been there, but was certainly near the place at the moment,--so near that did he not do the deed himself, it is almost wonderful that it should not have been interrupted in its doing by his nearness. he certainly knew that the victim would be there. he was burning with anger against him at the moment. he had just threatened him. he had with him such an instrument as was afterwards used. a man believed to be him is seen hurrying to the spot by a witness whose credibility is beyond doubt. these are the facts such as we have them at present. unless they can be upset, i fear they would convince a jury,--as they have already convinced those officers of the police." "officers of the police always believe men to be guilty," said lord cantrip. "they don't believe the jew clergyman to be guilty," said mr. gresham. "i fear that there will be enough to send mr. finn to a trial," said the duke. "not a doubt of it," said mr. gresham. "and yet i feel as convinced of his innocence as i do of my own," said lord cantrip. chapter xlviii. mr. maule's attempt. about three o'clock in the day the first tidings of what had taken place reached madame goesler in the following perturbed note from her friend the duchess:--"have you heard what took place last night? good god! mr. bonteen was murdered as he came home from his club, and they say that it was done by phineas finn. plantagenet has just come in from downing street, where everybody is talking about it. i can't get from him what he believes. one never can get anything from him. but i never will believe it;--nor will you, i'm sure. i vote we stick to him to the last. he is to be put in prison and tried. i can hardly believe that mr. bonteen has been murdered, though i don't know why he shouldn't as well as anybody else. plantagenet talks about the great loss; i know which would be the greatest loss, and so do you. i'm going out now to try and find out something. barrington erle was there, and if i can find him he will tell me. i shall be home by half-past five. do come, there's a dear woman; there is no one else i can talk to about it. if i'm not back, go in all the same, and tell them to bring you tea. "only think of lady laura,--with one mad and the other in newgate! g. p." this letter gave madame goesler such a blow that for a few minutes it altogether knocked her down. after reading it once she hardly knew what it contained beyond a statement that phineas finn was in newgate. she sat for a while with it in her hands, almost swooning; and then with an effort she recovered herself, and read the letter again. mr. bonteen murdered, and phineas finn,--who had dined with her only yesterday evening, with whom she had been talking of all the sins of the murdered man, who was her special friend, of whom she thought more than of any other human being, of whom she could not bring herself to cease to think,--accused of the murder! believe it! the duchess had declared with that sort of enthusiasm which was common to her, that she never would believe it. no, indeed! what judge of character would any one be who could believe that phineas finn could be guilty of a midnight murder? "i vote we stick to him." "stick to him!" madame goesler said, repeating the words to herself. "what is the use of sticking to a man who does not want you?" how can a woman cling to a man who, having said that he did not want her, yet comes again within her influence, but does not unsay what he had said before? nevertheless, if it should be that the man was in real distress,--in absolutely dire sorrow,--she would cling to him with a constancy which, as she thought, her friend the duchess would hardly understand. though they should hang him, she would bathe his body with her tears, and live as a woman should live who had loved a murderer to the last. [illustration: "what is the use of sticking to a man who does not want you?"] but she swore to herself that she would not believe it. nay, she did not believe it. believe it, indeed! it was simply impossible. that he might have killed the wretch in some struggle brought on by the man's own fault was possible. had the man attacked phineas finn it was only too probable that there might have been such result. but murder, secret midnight murder, could not have been committed by the man she had chosen as her friend. and yet, through it all, there was a resolve that even though he should have committed murder she would be true to him. if it should come to the very worst, then would she declare the intensity of the affection with which she regarded the murderer. as to mr. bonteen, what the duchess said was true enough; why should not he be killed as well as another? in her present frame of mind she felt very little pity for mr. bonteen. after a fashion a verdict of "served him right" crossed her mind, as it had doubtless crossed that of the duchess when she was writing her letter. the man had made himself so obnoxious that it was well that he should be out of the way. but not on that account would she believe that phineas finn had murdered him. could it be true that the man after all was dead? marvellous reports, and reports marvellously false, do spread themselves about the world every day. but this report had come from the duke, and he was not a man given to absurd rumours. he had heard the story in downing street, and if so it must be true. of course she would go down to the duchess at the hour fixed. it was now a little after three, and she ordered the carriage to be ready for her at a quarter past five. then she told the servant, at first to admit no one who might call, and then to come up and let her know, if any one should come, without sending the visitor away. it might be that some one would come to her expressly from phineas, or at least with tidings about this affair. then she read the letter again, and those few last words in it stuck to her thoughts like a burr. "think of lady laura, with one mad and the other in newgate." was this man,--the only man whom she had ever loved,--more to lady laura kennedy than to her; or rather, was lady laura more to him than was she herself? if so, why should she fret herself for his sake? she was ready enough to own that she could sacrifice everything for him, even though he should be standing as a murderer in the dock, if such sacrifice would be valued by him. he had himself told her that his feelings towards lady laura were simply those of an affectionate friend; but how could she believe that statement when all the world were saying the reverse? lady laura was a married woman,--a woman whose husband was still living,--and of course he was bound to make such an assertion when he and she were named together. and then it was certain,--madame goesler believed it to be certain,--that there had been a time in which phineas had asked for the love of lady laura standish. but he had never asked for her love. it had been tendered to him, and he had rejected it! and now the duchess,--who, with all her inaccuracies, had that sharpness of vision which enables some men and women to see into facts,--spoke as though lady laura were to be pitied more than all others, because of the evil that had befallen phineas finn! had not lady laura chosen her own husband; and was not the man, let him be ever so mad, still her husband? madame goesler was sore of heart, as well as broken down with sorrow, till at last, hiding her face on the pillow of the sofa, still holding the duchess's letter in her hand, she burst into a fit of hysteric sobs. few of those who knew madame max goesler well, as she lived in town and in country, would have believed that such could have been the effect upon her of the news which she had heard. credit was given to her everywhere for good nature, discretion, affability, and a certain grace of demeanour which always made her charming. she was known to be generous, wise, and of high spirit. something of her conduct to the old duke had crept into general notice, and had been told, here and there, to her honour. she had conquered the good opinion of many, and was a popular woman. but there was not one among her friends who supposed her capable of becoming a victim to a strong passion, or would have suspected her of reckless weeping for any sorrow. the duchess, who thought that she knew madame goesler well, would not have believed it to be true, even if she had seen it. "you like people, but i don't think you ever love any one," the duchess had once said to her. madame goesler had smiled, and had seemed to assent. to enjoy the world,--and to know that the best enjoyment must come from witnessing the satisfaction of others, had apparently been her philosophy. but now she was prostrate because this man was in trouble, and because she had been told that his trouble was more than another woman could bear! she was still sobbing and crushing the letter in her hand when the servant came up to tell her that mr. maule had called. he was below, waiting to know whether she would see him. she remembered at once that mr. maule had met phineas at her table on the previous evening, and, thinking that he must have come with tidings respecting this great event, desired that he might be shown up to her. but, as it happened, mr. maule had not yet heard of the death of mr. bonteen. he had remained at home till nearly four, having a great object in view, which made him deem it expedient that he should go direct from his own rooms to madame goesler's house, and had not even looked in at his club. the reader will, perhaps, divine the great object. on this day he proposed to ask madame goesler to make him the happiest of men,--as he certainly would have thought himself for a time, had she consented to put him in possession of her large income. he had therefore padded himself with more than ordinary care,--reduced but not obliterated the greyness of his locks,--looked carefully to the fitting of his trousers, and spared himself those ordinary labours of the morning which might have robbed him of any remaining spark of his juvenility. madame goesler met him more than half across the room as he entered it. "what have you heard?" said she. mr. maule wore his sweetest smile, but he had heard nothing. he could only press her hand, and look blank,--understanding that there was something which he ought to have heard. she thought nothing of the pressure of her hand. apt as she was to be conscious at an instant of all that was going on around her, she thought of nothing now but that man's peril, and of the truth or falsehood of the story that had been sent to her. "you have heard nothing of mr. finn?" "not a word," said mr. maule, withdrawing his hand. "what has happened to mr. finn?" had mr. finn broken his neck it would have been nothing to mr. maule. but the lady's solicitude was something to him. "mr. bonteen has been--murdered!" "mr. bonteen!" "so i hear. i thought you had come to tell me of it." "mr. bonteen murdered! no;--i have heard nothing. i do not know the gentleman. i thought you said--mr. finn." "it is not known about london, then?" "i cannot say, madame goesler. i have just come from home, and have not been out all the morning. who has--murdered him?" "ah! i do not know. that is what i wanted you to tell me." "but what of mr. finn?" "i also have not been out, mr. maule, and can give you no information. i thought you had called because you knew that mr. finn had dined here." "has mr. finn been murdered?" "mr. bonteen! i said that the report was that mr. bonteen had been murdered." madame goesler was now waxing angry,--most unreasonably. "but i know nothing about it, and am just going out to make inquiry. the carriage is ordered." then she stood, expecting him to go; and he knew that he was expected to go. it was at any rate clear to him that he could not carry out his great design on the present occasion. "this has so upset me that i can think of nothing else at present, and you must, if you please, excuse me. i would not have let you take the trouble of coming up, had not i thought that you were the bearer of some news." then she bowed, and mr. maule bowed; and as he left the room she forgot to ring the bell. "what the deuce can she have meant about that fellow finn?" he said to himself. "they cannot both have been murdered." he went to his club, and there he soon learned the truth. the information was given to him with clear and undoubting words. phineas finn and mr. bonteen had quarrelled at the universe. mr. bonteen, as far as words went, had got the best of his adversary. this had taken place in the presence of the prince, who had expressed himself as greatly annoyed by mr. finn's conduct. and afterwards phineas finn had waylaid mr. bonteen in the passage between bolton row and berkeley street, and had there--murdered him. as it happened, no one who had been at the universe was at that moment present; but the whole affair was now quite well known, and was spoken of without a doubt. "i hope he'll be hung, with all my heart," said mr. maule, who thought that he could read the riddle which had been so unintelligible in park lane. when madame goesler reached carlton terrace, which she did before the time named by the duchess, her friend had not yet returned. but she went upstairs, as she had been desired, and they brought her tea. but the teapot remained untouched till past six o'clock, and then the duchess returned. "oh, my dear, i am so sorry for being late. why haven't you had tea?" "what is the truth of it all?" said madame goesler, standing up with her fists clenched as they hung by her side. "i don't seem to know nearly as much as i did when i wrote to you." "has the man been--murdered?" "oh dear, yes. there's no doubt about that. i was quite sure of that when i sent the letter. i have had such a hunt. but at last i went up to the door of the house of commons, and got barrington erle to come out to me." "well?" "two men have been arrested." "not phineas finn?" "yes; mr. finn is one of them. is it not awful? so much more dreadful to me than the other poor man's death! one oughtn't to say so, of course." "and who is the other man? of course he did it." "that horrid jew preaching man that married lizzie eustace. mr. bonteen had been persecuting him, and making out that he had another wife at home in hungary, or bohemia, or somewhere." "of course he did it." "that's what i say. of course the jew did it. but then all the evidence goes to show that he didn't do it. he was in bed at the time; and the door of the house was locked up so that he couldn't get out; and the man who did the murder hadn't got on his coat, but had got on phineas finn's coat." "was there--blood?" asked madame goesler, shaking from head to foot. "not that i know. i don't suppose they've looked yet. but lord fawn saw the man, and swears to the coat." "lord fawn! how i have always hated that man! i wouldn't believe a word he would say." "barrington doesn't think so much of the coat. but phineas had a club in his pocket, and the man was killed by a club. there hasn't been any other club found, but phineas finn took his home with him." "a murderer would not have done that." "barrington says that the head policeman says that it is just what a very clever murderer would do." "do you believe it, duchess?" "certainly not;--not though lord fawn swore that he had seen it. i never will believe what i don't like to believe, and nothing shall ever make me." "he couldn't have done it." "well;--for the matter of that, i suppose he could." "no, duchess, he could not have done it." "he is strong enough,--and brave enough." "but not enough of a coward. there is nothing cowardly about him. if phineas finn could have struck an enemy with a club, in a dark passage, behind his back, i will never care to speak to any man again. nothing shall make me believe it. if i did, i could never again believe in any one. if they told you that your husband had murdered a man, what would you say?" "but he isn't your husband, madame max." "no;--certainly not. i cannot fly at them, when they say so, as you would do. but i can be just as sure. if twenty lord fawns swore that they had seen it, i would not believe them. oh, god, what will they do with him!" the duchess behaved very well to her friend, saying not a single word to twit her with the love which she betrayed. she seemed to take it as a matter of course that madame goesler's interest in phineas finn should be as it was. the duke, she said, could not come home to dinner, and madame goesler should stay with her. both houses were in such a ferment about the murder, that nobody liked to be away. everybody had been struck with amazement, not simply,--not chiefly,--by the fact of the murder, but by the double destruction of the two men whose ill-will to each other had been of late so often the subject of conversation. so madame goesler remained at carlton terrace till late in the evening, and during the whole visit there was nothing mentioned but the murder of mr. bonteen and the peril of phineas finn. "some one will go and see him, i suppose," said madame goesler. "lord cantrip has been already,--and mr. monk." "could not i go?" "well, it would be rather strong." "if we both went together?" suggested madame goesler. and before she left carlton terrace she had almost extracted a promise from the duchess that they would together proceed to the prison and endeavour to see phineas finn. chapter xlix. showing what mrs. bunce said to the policeman. "we have left adelaide palliser down at the hall. we are up here only for a couple of days to see laura, and try to find out what had better be done about kennedy." this was said to phineas finn in his own room in great marlborough street by lord chiltern, on the morning after the murder, between ten and eleven o'clock. phineas had not as yet heard of the death of the man with whom he had quarrelled. lord chiltern had now come to him with some proposition which he as yet did not understand, and which lord chiltern certainly did not know how to explain. looked at simply, the proposition was one for providing phineas finn with an income out of the wealth belonging, or that would belong, to the standish family. lady laura's fortune would, it was thought, soon be at her own disposal. they who acted for her husband had assured the earl that the yearly interest of the money should be at her ladyship's command as soon as the law would allow them so to plan it. of robert kennedy's inability to act for himself there was no longer any doubt whatever, and there was, they said, no desire to embarrass the estate with so small a disputed matter as the income derived from £ , . there was great pride of purse in the manner in which the information was conveyed;--but not the less on that account was it satisfactory to the earl. lady laura's first thought about it referred to the imminent wants of phineas finn. how might it be possible for her to place a portion of her income at the command of the man she loved so that he should not feel disgraced by receiving it from her hand? she conceived some plan as to a loan to be made nominally by her brother,--a plan as to which it may at once be said that it could not be made to hold water for a minute. but she did succeed in inducing her brother to undertake the embassy, with the view of explaining to phineas that there would be money for him when he wanted it. "if i make it over to papa, papa can leave it him in his will; and if he wants it at once there can be no harm in your advancing to him what he must have at papa's death." her brother had frowned angrily and had shaken his head. "think how he has been thrown over by all the party," said lady laura. lord chiltern had disliked the whole affair,--had felt with dismay that his sister's name would become subject to reproach if it should be known that this young man was supported by her bounty. she, however, had persisted, and he had consented to see the young man, feeling sure that phineas would refuse to bear the burden of the obligation. but he had not touched the disagreeable subject when they were interrupted. a knocking of the door had been heard, and now mrs. bunce came upstairs, bringing mr. low with her. mrs. bunce had not heard of the tragedy, but she had at once perceived from the barrister's manner that there was some serious matter forward,--some matter that was probably not only serious, but also calamitous. the expression of her countenance announced as much to the two men, and the countenance of mr. low when he followed her into the room told the same story still more plainly. "is anything the matter?" said phineas, jumping up. "indeed, yes," said mr. low, who then looked at lord chiltern and was silent. "shall i go?" said lord chiltern. mr. low did not know him, and of course was still silent. "this is my friend, mr. low. this is my friend, lord chiltern," said phineas, aware that each was well acquainted with the other's name. "i do not know of any reason why you should go. what is it, low?" lord chiltern had come there about money, and it occurred to him that the impecunious young barrister might already be in some scrape on that head. in nineteen cases out of twenty, when a man is in a scrape, he simply wants money. "perhaps i can be of help," he said. "have you heard, my lord, what happened last night?" said mr. low, with his eyes fixed on phineas finn. "i have heard nothing," said lord chiltern. "what has happened?" asked phineas, looking aghast. he knew mr. low well enough to be sure that the thing referred to was of great and distressing moment. "you, too, have heard nothing?" "not a word--that i know of." "you were at the universe last night?" "certainly i was." "did anything occur?" "the prince was there." "nothing has happened to the prince?" said chiltern. "his name has not been mentioned to me," said mr. low. "was there not a quarrel?" "yes;"--said phineas. "i quarrelled with mr. bonteen." "what then?" "he behaved like a brute;--as he always does. thrashing a brute hardly answers nowadays, but if ever a man deserved a thrashing he does." "he has been murdered," said mr. low. [illustration: "he has been murdered," said mr. low.] the reader need hardly be told that, as regards this great offence, phineas finn was as white as snow. the maintenance of any doubt on that matter,--were it even desirable to maintain a doubt,--would be altogether beyond the power of the present writer. the reader has probably perceived, from the first moment of the discovery of the body on the steps at the end of the passage, that mr. bonteen had been killed by that ingenious gentleman, the rev. mr. emilius, who found it to be worth his while to take the step with the view of suppressing his enemy's evidence as to his former marriage. but mr. low, when he entered the room, had been inclined to think that his friend had done the deed. laurence fitzgibbon, who had been one of the first to hear the story, and who had summoned erle to go with him and major mackintosh to downing street, had, in the first place, gone to the house in carey street, in which bunce was wont to work, and had sent him to mr. low. he, fitzgibbon, had not thought it safe that he himself should warn his countryman, but he could not bear to think that the hare should be knocked over on its form, or that his friend should be taken by policemen without notice. so he had sent bunce to mr. low, and mr. low had now come with his tidings. "murdered!" exclaimed phineas. "who has murdered him?" said lord chiltern, looking first at mr. low and then at phineas. "that is what the police are now endeavouring to find out." then there was a pause, and phineas stood up with his hand on his forehead, looking savagely from one to the other. a glimmer of an idea of the truth was beginning to cross his brain. mr. low was there with the object of asking him whether he had murdered the man! "mr. fitzgibbon was with you last night," continued mr. low. "of course he was." "it was he who has sent me to you." "what does it all mean?" asked lord chiltern. "i suppose they do not intend to say that--our friend, here--murdered the man." "i begin to suppose that is what they intend to say," rejoined phineas, scornfully. mr. low had entered the room, doubting indeed, but still inclined to believe,--as bunce had very clearly believed,--that the hands of phineas finn were red with the blood of this man who had been killed. and, had he been questioned on such a matter, when no special case was before his mind, he would have declared of himself that a few tones from the voice, or a few glances from the eye, of a suspected man would certainly not suffice to eradicate suspicion. but now he was quite sure,--almost quite sure,--that phineas was as innocent as himself. to lord chiltern, who had heard none of the details, the suspicion was so monstrous as to fill him with wrath. "you don't mean to tell us, mr. low, that any one says that finn killed the man?" "i have come as his friend," said low, "to put him on his guard. the accusation will be made against him." to phineas, not clearly looking at it, not knowing very accurately what had happened, not being in truth quite sure that mr. bonteen was actually dead, this seemed to be a continuation of the persecution which he believed himself to have suffered from that man's hand. "i can believe anything from that quarter," he said. "from what quarter?" asked lord chiltern. "we had better let mr. low tell us what really has happened." then mr. low told the story, as well as he knew it, describing the spot on which the body had been found. "often as i go to the club," said phineas, "i never was through that passage in my life." mr. low went on with his tale, telling how the man had been killed with some short bludgeon. "i had that in my pocket," said finn, producing the life-preserver. "i have almost always had something of the kind when i have been in london, since that affair of kennedy's." mr. low cast one glance at it,--to see whether it had been washed or scraped, or in any way cleansed. phineas saw the glance, and was angry. "there it is, as it is. you can make the most of it. i shall not touch it again till the policeman comes. don't put your hand on it, chiltern. leave it there." and the instrument was left lying on the table, untouched. mr. low went on with his story. he had heard nothing of yosef mealyus as connected with the murder, but some indistinct reference to lord fawn and the top-coat had been made to him. "there is the coat, too," said phineas, taking it from the sofa on which he had flung it when he came home the previous night. it was a very light coat,--fitted for may use,--lined with silk, and by no means suited for enveloping the face or person. but it had a collar which might be made to stand up. "that at any rate was the coat i wore," said finn, in answer to some observation from the barrister. "the man that lord fawn saw," said mr. low, "was, as i understand, enveloped in a heavy great coat." "so fawn has got his finger in the pie!" said lord chiltern. mr. low had been there an hour, lord chiltern remaining also in the room, when there came three men belonging to the police,--a superintendent and with him two constables. when the men were shown up into the room neither the bludgeon or the coat had been moved from the small table as phineas had himself placed them there. both phineas and chiltern had lit cigars, and they were all there sitting in silence. phineas had entertained the idea that mr. low believed the charge, and that the barrister was therefore an enemy. mr. low had perceived this, but had not felt it to be his duty to declare his opinion of his friend's innocence. what he could do for his friend he would do; but, as he thought, he could serve him better now by silent observation than by protestation. lord chiltern, who had been implored by phineas not to leave him, continued to pour forth unabating execrations on the monstrous malignity of the accusers. "i do not know that there are any accusers," said mr. low, "except the circumstances which the police must, of course, investigate." then the men came, and the nature of their duty was soon explained. they must request mr. finn to go with them to bow street. they took possession of many articles besides the two which had been prepared for them,--the dress coat and shirt which phineas had worn, and the boots. he had gone out to dinner with a gibus hat, and they took that. they took his umbrella and his latch-key. they asked, even, as to his purse and money;--but abstained from taking the purse when mr. low suggested that they could have no concern with that. as it happened, phineas was at the moment wearing the shirt in which he had dined out on the previous day, and the men asked him whether he had any objection to change it in their presence,--as it might be necessary, after the examination, that it should be detained as evidence. he did so, in the presence of all the men assembled; but the humiliation of doing it almost broke his heart. then they searched among his linen, clean and dirty, and asked questions of mrs. bunce in audible whispers behind the door. whatever mrs. bunce could do to injure the cause of her favourite lodger by severity of manner, snubbing the policeman, and determination to give no information, she did do. "had a shirt washed? how do you suppose a gentleman's shirts are washed? you were brought up near enough to a washtub yourself to know more than i can tell you!" but the very respectable constable did not seem to be in the least annoyed by the landlady's amenities. he was taken to bow street, going thither in a cab with the two policemen, and the superintendent followed them with lord chiltern and mr. low. "you don't mean to say that you believe it?" said lord chiltern to the officer. "we never believe and we never disbelieve anything, my lord," replied the man. nevertheless, the superintendent did most firmly believe that phineas finn had murdered mr. bonteen. at the police-office phineas was met by lord cantrip and barrington erle, and soon became aware that both lord fawn and fitzgibbon were present. it seemed that everything else was made to give way to this inquiry, as he was at once confronted by the magistrate. everybody was personally very civil to him, and he was asked whether he would not wish to have professional advice while the charge was being made against him. but this he declined. he would tell the magistrate, he said, all he knew, but, at any rate for the present, he would have no need of advice. he was, at last, allowed to tell his own story,--after repeated cautions. there had been some words between him and mr. bonteen in the club; after which, standing at the door of the club with his friends, mr. erle and mr. fitzgibbon, who were now in court, he had seen mr. bonteen walk away towards berkeley square. he had soon followed, but had never overtaken mr. bonteen. when reaching the square he had crossed over to the fountain standing there on the south side, and from thence had taken the shortest way up bruton street. he had seen mr. bonteen for the last time dimly, by the gaslight, at the corner of the square. as far as he could remember, he himself had at the moment passed the fountain. he had not heard the sound of any struggle, or of words, round the corner towards piccadilly. by the time that mr. bonteen would have reached the head of the steps leading into the passage, he would have been near bruton street, with his back completely turned to the scene of the murder. he had walked faster than mr. bonteen, having gradually drawn near to him; but he had determined in his own mind that he would not pass the man, or get so near him as to attract attention. nor had he done so. he had certainly worn the grey coat which was now produced. the collar of it had not been turned up. the coat was nearly new, and to the best of his belief the collar had never been turned up. he had carried the life-preserver now produced with him because it had once before been necessary for him to attack garotters in the street. the life-preserver had never been used, and, as it happened, was quite new. it had been bought about a month since,--in consequence of some commotion about garotters which had just then taken place. but before the purchase of the life-preserver he had been accustomed to carry some stick or bludgeon at night. undoubtedly he had quarrelled with mr. bonteen before this occasion, and had bought this instrument since the commencement of the quarrel. he had not seen any one on his way from the square to his own house with sufficient observation to enable him to describe such person. he could not remember that he had passed a policeman on his way home. this took place after the hearing of such evidence as was then given. the statements made both by erle and fitzgibbon as to what had taken place in the club, and afterwards at the door, tallied exactly with that afterwards given by phineas. an accurate measurement of the streets and ways concerned was already furnished. taking the duration of time as surmised by erle and fitzgibbon to have passed after they had turned their back upon phineas, a constable proved that the prisoner would have had time to hurry back to the corner of the street he had passed, and to be in the place where lord fawn saw the man,--supposing that lord fawn had walked at the rate of three miles an hour, and that phineas had walked or run at twice that pace. lord fawn stated that he was walking very slow,--less he thought than three miles an hour, and that the man was hurrying very fast,--not absolutely running, but going as he thought at quite double his own pace. the two coats were shown to his lordship. finn knew nothing of the other coat,--which had, in truth, been taken from the rev. mr. emilius,--a rough, thick, brown coat, which had belonged to the preacher for the last two years. finn's coat was grey in colour. lord fawn looked at the coats very attentively, and then said that the man he had seen had certainly not worn the brown coat. the night had been dark, but still he was sure that the coat had been grey. the collar had certainly been turned up. then a tailor was produced who gave it as his opinion that finn's coat had been lately worn with the collar raised. it was considered that the evidence given was sufficient to make a remand imperative, and phineas finn was committed to newgate. he was assured that every attention should be paid to his comfort, and was treated with great consideration. lord cantrip, who still believed in him, discussed the subject both with the magistrate and with major mackintosh. of course the strictest search would be made for a second life-preserver, or any such weapon as might have been used. search had already been made, and no such weapon had been as yet found. emilius had never been seen with any such weapon. no one about curzon street or mayfair could be found who had seen the man with the quick step and raised collar, who doubtless had been the murderer, except lord fawn,--so that no evidence was forthcoming tending to show that phineas finn could not have been that man. the evidence adduced to prove that mr. emilius,--or mealyus, as he was henceforth called,--could not have been on the spot was so very strong, that the magistrate told the constables that that man must be released on the next examination unless something could be adduced against him. the magistrate, with the profoundest regret, was unable to agree with lord cantrip in his opinion that the evidence adduced was not sufficient to demand the temporary committal of mr. finn. chapter l. what the lords and commons said about the murder. when the house met on that thursday at four o'clock everybody was talking about the murder, and certainly four-fifths of the members had made up their minds that phineas finn was the murderer. to have known a murdered man is something, but to have been intimate with a murderer is certainly much more. there were many there who were really sorry for poor bonteen,--of whom without a doubt the end had come in a very horrible manner; and there were more there who were personally fond of phineas finn,--to whom the future of the young member was very sad, and the fact that he should have become a murderer very awful. but, nevertheless, the occasion was not without its consolations. the business of the house is not always exciting, or even interesting. on this afternoon there was not a member who did not feel that something had occurred which added an interest to parliamentary life. very soon after prayers mr. gresham entered the house, and men who had hitherto been behaving themselves after a most unparliamentary fashion, standing about in knots, talking by no means in whispers, moving in and out of the house rapidly, all crowded into their places. whatever pretence of business had been going on was stopped in a moment, and mr. gresham rose to make his statement. "it was with the deepest regret,--nay, with the most profound sorrow,--that he was called upon to inform the house that his right honourable friend and colleague, mr. bonteen, had been basely and cruelly murdered during the past night." it was odd then to see how the name of the man, who, while he was alive and a member of that house, could not have been pronounced in that assembly without disorder, struck the members almost with dismay. "yes, his friend mr. bonteen, who had so lately filled the office of president of the board of trade, and whose loss the country and that house could so ill bear, had been beaten to death in one of the streets of the metropolis by the arm of a dastardly ruffian during the silent watches of the night." then mr. gresham paused, and every one expected that some further statement would be made. "he did not know that he had any further communication to make on the subject. some little time must elapse before he could fill the office. as for adequately supplying the loss, that would be impossible. mr. bonteen's services to the country, especially in reference to decimal coinage, were too well known to the house to allow of his holding out any such hope." then he sat down without having as yet made an allusion to phineas finn. but the allusion was soon made. mr. daubeny rose, and with much graceful and mysterious circumlocution asked the prime minister whether it was true that a member of the house had been arrested, and was now in confinement on the charge of having been concerned in the murder of the late much-lamented president of the board of trade. he--mr. daubeny--had been given to understand that such a charge had been made against an honourable member of that house, who had once been a colleague of mr. bonteen's, and who had always supported the right honourable gentleman opposite. then mr. gresham rose again. "he regretted to say that the honourable member for tankerville was in custody on that charge. the house would of course understand that he only made that statement as a fact, and that he was offering no opinion as to who was the perpetrator of the murder. the case seemed to be shrouded in great mystery. the two gentlemen had unfortunately differed, but he did not at all think that the house would on that account be disposed to attribute guilt so black and damning to a gentleman they had all known so well as the honourable member for tankerville." so much and no more was spoken publicly, to the reporters; but members continued to talk about the affair the whole evening. there was nothing, perhaps, more astonishing than the absence of rancour or abhorrence with which the name of phineas was mentioned, even by those who felt most certain of his guilt. all those who had been present at the club acknowledged that bonteen had been the sinner in reference to the transaction there; and it was acknowledged to have been almost a public misfortune that such a man as bonteen should have been able to prevail against such a one as phineas finn in regard to the presence of the latter in the government. stories which were exaggerated, accounts worse even than the truth, were bandied about as to the perseverance with which the murdered man had destroyed the prospects of the supposed murderer, and robbed the country of the services of a good workman. mr. gresham, in the official statement which he had made, had, as a matter of course, said many fine things about mr. bonteen. a man can always have fine things said about him for a few hours after his death. but in the small private conferences which were held the fine things said all referred to phineas finn. mr. gresham had spoken of a "dastardly ruffian in the silent watches," but one would have almost thought from overhearing what was said by various gentlemen in different parts of the house that upon the whole phineas finn was thought to have done rather a good thing in putting poor mr. bonteen out of the way. and another pleasant feature of excitement was added by the prevalent idea that the prince had seen and heard the row. those who had been at the club at the time of course knew that this was not the case; but the presence of the prince at the universe between the row and the murder had really been a fact, and therefore it was only natural that men should allow themselves the delight of mixing the prince with the whole concern. in remote circles the prince was undoubtedly supposed to have had a great deal to do with the matter, though whether as abettor of the murdered or of the murderer was never plainly declared. a great deal was said about the prince that evening in the house, so that many members were able to enjoy themselves thoroughly. "what a godsend for gresham," said one gentleman to mr. ratler very shortly after the strong eulogium which had been uttered on poor mr. bonteen by the prime minister. "well,--yes; i was afraid that the poor fellow would never have got on with us." "got on! he'd have been a thorn in gresham's side as long as he held office. if finn should be acquitted, you ought to do something handsome for him." whereupon mr. ratler laughed heartily. "it will pretty nearly break them up," said sir orlando drought, one of mr. daubeny's late secretaries of state to mr. roby, mr. daubeny's late patronage secretary. "i don't quite see that. they'll be able to drop their decimal coinage with a good excuse, and that will be a great comfort. they are talking of getting monk to go back to the board of trade." "will that strengthen them?" "bonteen would have weakened them. the man had got beyond himself, and lost his head. they are better without him." "i suppose finn did it?" asked sir orlando. "not a doubt about it, i'm told. the queer thing is that he should have declared his purpose beforehand to erle. gresham says that all that must have been part of his plan,--so as to make men think afterwards that he couldn't have done it. grogram's idea is that he had planned the murder before he went to the club." "will the prince have to give evidence?" "no, no," said mr. roby. "that's all wrong. the prince had left the club before the row commenced. confucius putt says that the prince didn't hear a word of it. he was talking to the prince all the time." confucius putt was the distinguished artist with whom the prince had shaken hands on leaving the club. lord drummond was in the peers' gallery, and mr. boffin was talking to him over the railings. it may be remembered that those two gentlemen had conscientiously left mr. daubeny's cabinet because they had been unable to support him in his views about the church. after such sacrifice on their parts their minds were of course intent on church matters. "there doesn't seem to be a doubt about it," said mr. boffin. "cantrip won't believe it," said the peer. "he was at the colonies with cantrip, and cantrip found him very agreeable. everybody says that he was one of the pleasantest fellows going. this makes it out of the question that they should bring in any church bill this session." "do you think so?" "oh yes;--certainly. there will be nothing else thought of now till the trial." "so much the better," said his lordship. "it's an ill wind that blows no one any good. will they have evidence for a conviction?" "oh dear yes; not a doubt about it. fawn can swear to him," said mr. boffin. barrington erle was telling his story for the tenth time when he was summoned out of the library to the duchess of omnium, who had made her way up into the lobby. "oh, mr. erle, do tell me what you really think," said the duchess. "that is just what i can't do." "why not?" "because i don't know what to think." "he can't have done it, mr. erle." "that's just what i say to myself, duchess." "but they do say that the evidence is so very strong against him." "very strong." "i wish we could get that lord fawn out of the way." "ah;--but we can't." "and will they--hang him?" "if they convict him, they will." "a man we all knew so well! and just when we had made up our minds to do everything for him. do you know i'm not a bit surprised. i've felt before now as though i should like to have done it myself." "he could be very nasty, duchess!" "i did so hate that man. but i'd give,--oh, i don't know what i'd give to bring him to life again this minute. what will lady laura do?" in answer to this, barrington erle only shrugged his shoulders. lady laura was his cousin. "we mustn't give him up, you know, mr. erle." "what can we do?" "surely we can do something. can't we get it in the papers that he must be innocent,--so that everybody should be made to think so? and if we could get hold of the lawyers, and make them not want to--to destroy him! there's nothing i wouldn't do. there's no getting hold of a judge, i know." "no, duchess. the judges are stone." "not that they are a bit better than anybody else,--only they like to be safe." "they do like to be safe." "i'm sure we could do it if we put our shoulders to the wheel. i don't believe, you know, for a moment that he murdered him. it was done by lizzie eustace's jew." "it will be sifted, of course." "but what's the use of sifting if mr. finn is to be hung while it's being done? i don't think anything of the police. do you remember how they bungled about that woman's necklace? i don't mean to give him up, mr. erle; and i expect you to help me." then the duchess returned home, and, as we know, found madame goesler at her house. nothing whatever was done that night, either in the lords or commons. a "statement" about mr. bonteen was made in the upper as well as in the lower house, and after that statement any real work was out of the question. had mr. bonteen absolutely been chancellor of the exchequer, and in the cabinet when he was murdered, and had phineas finn been once more an under-secretary of state, the commotion and excitement could hardly have been greater. even the duke of st. bungay had visited the spot,--well known to him, as there the urban domains meet of two great whig peers, with whom and whose predecessors he had long been familiar. he also had known phineas finn, and not long since had said civil words to him and of him. he, too, had, of late days, especially disliked mr. bonteen, and had almost insisted that the man now murdered should not be admitted into the cabinet. he had heard what was the nature of the evidence;--had heard of the quarrel, the life-preserver, and the grey coat. "i suppose he must have done it," said the duke of st. bungay to himself as he walked away up hay hill. chapter li. "you think it shameful." the tidings of what had taken place first reached lady laura kennedy from her brother on his return to portman square after the scene in the police court. the object of his visit to finn's lodgings has been explained, but the nature of lady laura's vehemence in urging upon her brother the performance of a very disagreeable task has not been sufficiently described. no brother would willingly go on such a mission from a married sister to a man who had been publicly named as that sister's lover;--and no brother could be less likely to do so than lord chiltern. but lady laura had been very stout in her arguments, and very strong-willed in her purpose. the income arising from this money,--which had been absolutely her own,--would again be exclusively her own should the claim to it on behalf of her husband's estate be abandoned. surely she might do what she liked with her own. if her brother would not assist her in making this arrangement, it must be done by other means. she was quite willing that it should appear to come to mr. finn from her father and not from herself. did her brother think any ill of her? did he believe in the calumnies of the newspapers? did he or his wife for a moment conceive that she had a lover? when he looked at her, worn out, withered, an old woman before her time, was it possible that he should so believe? she herself asked him these questions. lord chiltern of course declared that he had no suspicion of the kind. "no;--indeed," said lady laura. "i defy any one to suspect me who knows me. and if so, why am not i as much entitled to help a friend as you might be? you need not even mention my name." he endeavoured to make her understand that her name would be mentioned, and others would believe and would say evil things. "they cannot say worse than they have said," she continued. "and yet what harm have they done to me,--or you?" then he demanded why she desired to go so far out of her way with the view of spending her money upon one who was in no way connected with her. "because i like him better than any one else," she answered, boldly. "there is very little left for which i care at all;--but i do care for his prosperity. he was once in love with me and told me so,--but i had chosen to give my hand to mr. kennedy. he is not in love with me now,--nor i with him; but i choose to regard him as my friend." he assured her over and over again that phineas finn would certainly refuse to touch her money;--but this she declined to believe. at any rate the trial might be made. he would not refuse money left to him by will, and why should he not now enjoy that which was intended for him? then she explained how certain it was that he must speedily vanish out of the world altogether, unless some assurance of an income were made to him. so lord chiltern went on his mission, hardly meaning to make the offer, and confident that it would be refused if made. we know the nature of the new trouble in which he found phineas finn enveloped. it was such that lord chiltern did not open his mouth about money, and now, having witnessed the scene at the police-office, he had come back to tell his tale to his sister. she was sitting with his wife when he entered the room. "have you heard anything?" he asked at once. "heard what?" said his wife. "then you have not heard it. a man has been murdered." "what man?" said lady laura, jumping suddenly from her seat. "not robert!" lord chiltern shook his head. "you do not mean that mr. finn has been--killed!" again he shook his head; and then she sat down as though the asking of the two questions had exhausted her. "speak, oswald," said his wife. "why do you not tell us? is it one whom we knew?" "i think that laura used to know him. mr. bonteen was murdered last night in the streets." "mr. bonteen! the man who was mr. finn's enemy," said lady chiltern. "mr. bonteen!" said lady laura, as though the murder of twenty mr. bonteens were nothing to her. "yes;--the man whom you talk of as finn's enemy. it would be better if there were no such talk." "and who killed him?" said lady laura, again getting up and coming close to her brother. "who was it, oswald?" asked his wife; and she also was now too deeply interested to keep her seat. "they have arrested two men," said lord chiltern;--"that jew who married lady eustace, and--" but there he paused. he had determined beforehand that he would tell his sister the double arrest that the doubt this implied might lessen the weight of the blow; but now he found it almost impossible to mention the name. "who is the other, oswald?" said his wife. "not phineas," screamed lady laura. "yes, indeed; they have arrested him, and i have just come from the court." he had no time to go on, for his sister was crouching prostrate on the floor before him. she had not fainted. women do not faint under such shocks. but in her agony she had crouched down rather than fallen, as though it were vain to attempt to stand upright with so crushing a weight of sorrow on her back. she uttered one loud shriek, and then covering her face with her hands burst out into a wail of sobs. lady chiltern and her brother both tried to raise her, but she would not be lifted. "why will you not hear me through, laura?" said he. "you do not think he did it?" said his wife. "i'm sure he did not," replied lord chiltern. the poor woman, half-lying, half-seated, on the floor, still hiding her face with her hands, still bursting with half suppressed sobs, heard and understood both the question and the answer. but the fact was not altered to her,--nor the condition of the man she loved. she had not yet begun to think whether it were possible that he should have been guilty of such a crime. she had heard none of the circumstances, and knew nothing of the manner of the man's death. it might be that phineas had killed the man, bringing himself within the reach of the law, and that yet he should have done nothing to merit her reproaches;--hardly even her reprobation! hitherto she felt only the sorrow, the annihilation of the blow;--but not the shame with which it would overwhelm the man for whom she so much coveted the good opinion of the world. "you hear what he says, laura." "they are determined to destroy him," she sobbed out, through her tears. "they are not determined to destroy him at all," said lord chiltern. "it will have to go by evidence. you had better sit up and let me tell you all. i will tell you nothing till you are seated again. you disgrace yourself by sprawling there." "do not be hard to her, oswald." "i am disgraced," said lady laura, slowly rising and placing herself again on the sofa. "if there is anything more to tell, you can tell it. i do not care what happens to me now, or who knows it. they cannot make my life worse than it is." then he told all the story,--of the quarrel, and the position of the streets, of the coat, and the bludgeon, and the three blows, each on the head, by which the man had been killed. and he told them also how the jew was said never to have been out of his bed, and how the jew's coat was not the coat lord fawn had seen, and how no stain of blood had been found about the raiment of either of the men. "it was the jew who did it, oswald, surely," said lady chiltern. "it was not phineas finn who did it," he replied. "and they will let him go again?" "they will let him go when they find out the truth, i suppose. but those fellows blunder so, i would never trust them. he will get some sharp lawyer to look into it; and then perhaps everything will come out. i shall go and see him to-morrow. but there is nothing further to be done." "and i must see him," said lady laura slowly. lady chiltern looked at her husband, and his face became redder than usual with an angry flush. when his sister had pressed him to take her message about the money, he had assured her that he suspected her of no evil. nor had he ever thought evil of her. since her marriage with mr. kennedy, he had seen but little of her or of her ways of life. when she had separated herself from her husband he had approved of the separation, and had even offered to assist her should she be in difficulty. while she had been living a sad lonely life at dresden, he had simply pitied her, declaring to himself and his wife that her lot in life had been very hard. when these calumnies about her and phineas finn had reached his ears,--or his eyes,--as such calumnies always will reach the ears and eyes of those whom they are most capable of hurting, he had simply felt a desire to crush some quintus slide, or the like, into powder for the offence. he had received phineas in his own house with all his old friendship. he had even this morning been with the accused man as almost his closest friend. but, nevertheless, there was creeping into his heart a sense of the shame with which he would be afflicted, should the world really be taught to believe that the man had been his sister's lover. lady laura's distress on the present occasion was such as a wife might show, or a girl weeping for her lover, or a mother for her son, or a sister for a brother; but was extravagant and exaggerated in regard to such friendship as might be presumed to exist between the wife of mr. robert kennedy and the member for tankerville. he could see that his wife felt this as he did, and he thought it necessary to say something at once, that might force his sister to moderate at any rate her language, if not her feelings. two expressions of face were natural to him; one eloquent of good humour, in which the reader of countenances would find some promise of coming frolic;--and the other, replete with anger, sometimes to the extent almost of savagery. all those who were dependent on him were wont to watch his face with care and sometimes with fear. when he was angry it would almost seem that he was about to use personal violence on the object of his wrath. at the present moment he was rather grieved than enraged; but there came over his face that look of wrath with which all who knew him were so well acquainted. "you cannot see him," he said. "why not i, as well as you?" "if you do not understand, i cannot tell you. but you must not see him;--and you shall not." "who will hinder me?" "if you put me to it, i will see that you are hindered. what is the man to you that you should run the risk of evil tongues, for the sake of visiting him in gaol? you cannot save his life,--though it may be that you might endanger it." "oswald," she said very slowly, "i do not know that i am in any way under your charge, or bound to submit to your orders." "you are my sister." "and i have loved you as a sister. how should it be possible that my seeing him should endanger his life?" "it will make people think that the things are true which have been said." "and will they hang him because i love him? i do love him. violet knows how well i have always loved him." lord chiltern turned his angry face upon his wife. lady chiltern put her arm round her sister-in-law's waist, and whispered some words into her ear. "what is that to me?" continued the half-frantic woman. "i do love him. i have always loved him. i shall love him to the end. he is all my life to me." "shame should prevent your telling it," said lord chiltern. "i feel no shame. there is no disgrace in love. i did disgrace myself when i gave the hand for which he asked to another man, because,--because--" but she was too noble to tell her brother even then that at the moment of her life to which she was alluding she had married the rich man, rejecting the poor man's hand, because she had given up all her fortune to the payment of her brother's debts. and he, though he had well known what he had owed to her, and had never been easy till he had paid the debt, remembered nothing of all this now. no lending and paying back of money could alter the nature either of his feelings or his duty in such an emergency as this. "and, mind you," she continued, turning to her sister-in-law, "there is no place for the shame of which he is thinking," and she pointed her finger out at her brother. "i love him,--as a mother might love her child, i fancy; but he has no love for me; none;--none. when i am with him, i am only a trouble to him. he comes to me, because he is good; but he would sooner be with you. he did love me once;--but then i could not afford to be so loved." "you can do no good by seeing him," said her brother. "but i will see him. you need not scowl at me as though you wished to strike me. i have gone through that which makes me different from other women, and i care not what they say of me. violet understands it all;--but you understand nothing." "be calm, laura," said her sister-in-law, "and oswald will do all that can be done." "but they will hang him." "nonsense!" said her brother. "he has not been as yet committed for his trial. heaven knows how much has to be done. it is as likely as not that in three days' time he will be out at large, and all the world will be running after him just because he has been in newgate." "but who will look after him?" "he has plenty of friends. i will see that he is not left without everything that he wants." "but he will want money." "he has plenty of money for that. do you take it quietly, and not make a fool of yourself. if the worst comes to the worst--" "oh, heavens!" "listen to me, if you can listen. should the worst come to the worst, which i believe to be altogether impossible,--mind, i think it next to impossible, for i have never for a moment believed him to be guilty,--we will,--visit him,--together. good-bye now. i am going to see that friend of his, mr. low." so saying lord chiltern went, leaving the two women together. "why should he be so savage with me?" said lady laura. "he does not mean to be savage." "does he speak to you like that? what right has he to tell me of shame? has my life been so bad, and his so good? do you think it shameful that i should love this man?" she sat looking into her friend's face, but her friend for a while hesitated to answer. "you shall tell me, violet. we have known each other so well that i can bear to be told by you. do not you love him?" "i love him!--certainly not." "but you did." "not as you mean. who can define love, and say what it is? there are so many kinds of love. we say that we love the queen." "psha!" "and we are to love all our neighbours. but as men and women talk of love, i never at any moment of my life loved any man but my husband. mr. finn was a great favourite with me,--always." "indeed he was." "as any other man might be,--or any woman. he is so still, and with all my heart i hope that this may be untrue." "it is false as the devil. it must be false. can you think of the man,--his sweetness, the gentle nature of him, his open, free speech, and courage, and believe that he would go behind his enemy and knock his brains out in the dark? i can conceive it of myself, that i should do it, much easier than of him." "oswald says it is false." "but he says it as partly believing that it is true. if it be true i will hang myself. there will be nothing left among men or women fit to live for. you think it shameful that i should love him." "i have not said so." "but you do." "i think there is cause for shame in your confessing it." "i do confess it." "you ask me, and press me, and because we have loved one another so well i must answer you. if a woman,--a married woman,--be oppressed by such a feeling, she should lay it down at the bottom of her heart, out of sight, never mentioning it, even to herself." "you talk of the heart as though we could control it." "the heart will follow the thoughts, and they may be controlled. i am not passionate, perhaps, as you are, and i think i can control my heart. but my fortune has been kind to me, and i have never been tempted. laura, do not think i am preaching to you." "oh no;--but your husband; think of him, and think of mine! you have babies." "may god make me thankful. i have every good thing on earth that god can give." "and what have i? to see that man prosper in life, who they tell me is a murderer; that man who is now in a felon's gaol,--whom they will hang for ought we know,--to see him go forward and justify my thoughts of him! that yesterday was all i had. to-day i have nothing,--except the shame with which you and oswald say that i have covered myself." "laura, i have never said so." "i saw it in your eye when he accused me. and i know that it is shameful. i do know that i am covered with shame. but i can bear my own disgrace better than his danger." after a long pause,--a silence of probably some fifteen minutes,--she spoke again. "if robert should die,--what would happen then?" "it would be--a release, i suppose," said lady chiltern in a voice so low, that it was almost a whisper. "a release indeed;--and i would become that man's wife the next day, at the foot of the gallows;--if he would have me. but he would not have me." chapter lii. mr. kennedy's will. mr. kennedy had fired a pistol at phineas finn in macpherson's hotel with the manifest intention of blowing out the brains of his presumed enemy, and no public notice had been taken of the occurrence. phineas himself had been only too willing to pass the thing by as a trifling accident, if he might be allowed to do so, and the macphersons had been by far too true to their great friend to think of giving him in charge to the police. the affair had been talked about, and had come to the knowledge of reporters and editors. most of the newspapers had contained paragraphs giving various accounts of the matter; and one or two had followed the example of the people's banner in demanding that the police should investigate the matter. but the matter had not been investigated. the police were supposed to know nothing about it,--as how should they, no one having seen or heard the shot but they who were determined to be silent? mr. quintus slide had been indignant all in vain, so far as mr. kennedy and his offence had been concerned. as soon as the pistol had been fired and phineas had escaped from the room, the unfortunate man had sunk back in his chair, conscious of what he had done, knowing that he had made himself subject to the law, and expecting every minute that constables would enter the room to seize him. he had seen his enemy's hat lying on the floor, and, when nobody would come to fetch it, had thrown it down the stairs. after that he had sat waiting for the police, with the pistol, still loaded in every barrel but one, lying by his side,--hardly repenting the attempt, but trembling for the result,--till macpherson, the landlord, who had been brought home from chapel, knocked at his door. there was very little said between them; and no positive allusion was made to the shot that had been fired; but macpherson succeeded in getting the pistol into his possession,--as to which the unfortunate man put no impediment in his way, and he managed to have it understood that mr. kennedy's cousin should be summoned on the following morning. "is anybody else coming?" robert kennedy asked, when the landlord was about to leave the room. "naebody as i ken o', yet, laird," said macpherson, "but likes they will." nobody, however, did come, and the "laird" had spent the evening by himself in very wretched solitude. on the following day the cousin had come, and to him the whole story was told. after that, no difficulty was found in taking the miserable man back to loughlinter, and there he had been for the last two months in the custody of his more wretched mother and of his cousin. no legal steps had been taken to deprive him of the management either of himself or of his property,--so that he was in truth his own master. and he exercised his mastery in acts of petty tyranny about his domain, becoming more and more close-fisted in regard to money, and desirous, as it appeared, of starving all living things about the place,--cattle, sheep, and horses, so that the value of their food might be saved. but every member of the establishment knew that the laird was "nae just himself," and consequently his orders were not obeyed. and the laird knew the same of himself, and, though he would give the orders not only resolutely, but with imperious threats of penalties to follow disobedience, still he did not seem to expect compliance. while he was in this state, letters addressed to him came for a while into his own hands, and thus more than one reached him from lord brentford's lawyer, demanding that restitution should be made of the interest arising from lady laura's fortune. then he would fly out into bitter wrath, calling his wife foul names, and swearing that she should never have a farthing of his money to spend upon her paramour. of course it was his money, and his only. all the world knew that. had she not left his roof, breaking her marriage vows, throwing aside every duty, and bringing him down to his present state of abject misery? her own fortune! if she wanted the interest of her wretched money, let her come to loughlinter and receive it there. in spite of all her wickedness, her cruelty, her misconduct, which had brought him,--as he now said,--to the verge of the grave, he would still give her shelter and room for repentance. he recognised his vows, though she did not. she should still be his wife, though she had utterly disgraced both herself and him. she should still be his wife, though she had so lived as to make it impossible that there should be any happiness in their household. it was thus he spoke when first one and then another letter came from the earl's lawyer, pointing out to him the injustice to which lady laura was subjected by the loss of her fortune. no doubt these letters would not have been written in the line assumed had not mr. kennedy proved himself to be unfit to have the custody of his wife by attempting to shoot the man whom he accused of being his wife's lover. an act had been done, said the lawyer, which made it quite out of the question that lady laura should return to her husband. to this, when speaking of the matter to those around him,--which he did with an energy which seemed to be foreign to his character,--mr. kennedy made no direct allusion; but he swore most positively that not a shilling should be given up. the fear of policemen coming down to loughlinter to take account of that angry shot had passed away; and, though he knew, with an uncertain knowledge, that he was not in all respects obeyed as he used to be,--that his orders were disobeyed by stewards and servants, in spite of his threats of dismissal,--he still felt that he was sufficiently his own master to defy the earl's attorney and to maintain his claim upon his wife's person. let her return to him first of all! but after a while the cousin interfered still further; and robert kennedy, who so short a time since had been a member of the government, graced by permission to sit in the cabinet, was not allowed to open his own post-bag. he had written a letter to one person, and then again to another, which had induced those who received them to return answers to the cousin. to lord brentford's lawyer he had used a few very strong words. mr. forster had replied to the cousin, stating how grieved lord brentford would be, how much grieved would be lady laura, to find themselves driven to take steps in reference to what they conceived to be the unfortunate condition of mr. robert kennedy; but that such steps must be taken unless some arrangement could be made which should be at any rate reasonable. then mr. kennedy's post-bag was taken from him; the letters which he wrote were not sent;--and he took to his bed. it was during this condition of affairs that the cousin took upon himself to intimate to mr. forster that the managers of mr. kennedy's estate were by no means anxious of embarrassing their charge by so trumpery an additional matter as the income derived from lady laura's forty thousand pounds. but things were in a terrible confusion at loughlinter. rents were paid as heretofore on receipts given by robert kennedy's agent; but the agent could only pay the money to robert kennedy's credit at his bank. robert kennedy's cheques would, no doubt, have drawn the money out again;--but it was almost impossible to induce robert kennedy to sign a cheque. even in bed he inquired daily about his money, and knew accurately the sum lying at his banker's; but he could be persuaded to disgorge nothing. he postponed from day to day the signing of certain cheques that were brought to him, and alleged very freely that an attempt was being made to rob him. during all his life he had been very generous in subscribing to public charities; but now he stopped all his subscriptions. the cousin had to provide even for the payment of wages, and things went very badly at loughlinter. then there arose the question whether legal steps should be taken for placing the management of the estate in other hands, on the ground of the owner's insanity. but the wretched old mother begged that this might not be done;--and dr. macnuthrie, from callender, was of opinion that no steps should be taken at present. mr. kennedy was very ill,--very ill indeed; would take no nourishment, and seemed to be sinking under the pressure of his misfortunes. any steps such as those suggested would probably send their friend out of the world at once. in fact robert kennedy was dying;--and in the first week of may, when the beauty of the spring was beginning to show itself on the braes of loughlinter, he did die. the old woman, his mother, was seated by his bedside, and into her ears he murmured his last wailing complaint. "if she had the fear of god before her eyes, she would come back to me." "let us pray that he may soften her heart," said the old lady. "eh, mother;--nothing can soften the heart satan has hardened, till it be hard as the nether millstone." and in that faith he died believing, as he had ever believed, that the spirit of evil was stronger than the spirit of good. [illustration: "he may soften her heart."] for some time past there had been perturbation in the mind of that cousin, and of all other kennedys of that ilk, as to the nature of the will of the head of the family. it was feared lest he should have been generous to the wife who was believed by them all to have been so wicked and treacherous to her husband;--and so it was found to be when the will was read. during the last few months no one near him had dared to speak to him of his will, for it had been known that his condition of mind rendered him unfit to alter it; nor had he ever alluded to it himself. as a matter of course there had been a settlement, and it was supposed that lady laura's own money would revert to her; but when it was found that in addition to this the loughlinter estate became hers for life, in the event of mr. kennedy dying without a child, there was great consternation among the kennedys generally. there were but two or three of them concerned, and for those there was money enough; but it seemed to them now that the bad wife, who had utterly refused to acclimatise herself to the soil to which she had been transplanted, was to be rewarded for her wicked stubbornness. lady laura would become mistress of her own fortune and of all loughlinter, and would be once more a free woman, with all the power that wealth and fashion can give. alas, alas! it was too late now for the taking of any steps to sever her from her rich inheritance! "and the false harlot will come and play havoc here, in my son's mansion," said the old woman with extremest bitterness. the tidings were conveyed to lady laura through her lawyer, but did not reach her in full till some eight or ten days after the news of her husband's death. the telegram announcing that event had come to her at her father's house in portman square, on the day after that on which phineas had been arrested, and the earl had of course known that his great longing for the recovery of his wife's fortune had been now realised. to him there was no sorrow in the news. he had only known robert kennedy as one who had been thoroughly disagreeable to himself, and who had persecuted his daughter throughout their married life. there had come no happiness,--not even prosperity,--through the marriage. his daughter had been forced to leave the man's house,--and had been forced also to leave her money behind her. then she had been driven abroad, fearing persecution, and had only dared to return when the man's madness became so notorious as to annul his power of annoying her. now by his death, a portion of the injury which he had inflicted on the great family of standish would be remedied. the money would come back,--together with the stipulated jointure,--and there could no longer be any question of return. the news delighted the old lord,--and he was almost angry with his daughter because she also would not confess her delight. "oh, papa, he was my husband." "yes, yes, no doubt. i was always against it, you will remember." "pray do not talk in that way now, papa. i know that i was not to him what i should have been." "you used to say it was all his fault." "we will not talk of it now, papa. he is gone, and i remember his past goodness to me." she clothed herself in the deepest of mourning, and made herself a thing of sorrow by the sacrificial uncouthness of her garments. and she tried to think of him;--to think of him, and not to think of phineas finn. she remembered with real sorrow the words she had spoken to her sister-in-law, in which she had declared, while still the wife of another man, that she would willingly marry phineas at the foot even of the gallows if she were free. she was free now; but she did not repeat her assertion. it was impossible not to think of phineas in his present strait, but she abstained from speaking of him as far as she could, and for the present never alluded to her former purpose of visiting him in his prison. from day to day, for the first few days of her widowhood, she heard what was going on. the evidence against him became stronger and stronger, whereas the other man, yosef mealyus, had been already liberated. there were still many who felt sure that mealyus had been the murderer, among whom were all those who had been ranked among the staunch friends of our hero. the chilterns so believed, and lady laura; the duchess so believed, and madame goesler. mr. low felt sure of it, and mr. monk and lord cantrip; and nobody was more sure than mrs. bunce. there were many who professed that they doubted; men such as barrington erle, laurence fitzgibbon, the two dukes,--though the younger duke never expressed such doubt at home,--and mr. gresham himself. indeed, the feeling of parliament in general was one of great doubt. mr. daubeny never expressed an opinion one way or the other, feeling that the fate of two second-class liberals could not be matter of concern to him;--but sir orlando drought, and mr. roby, and mr. boffin, were as eager as though they had not been conservatives, and were full of doubt. surely, if phineas finn were not the murderer, he had been more ill-used by fate than had been any man since fate first began to be unjust. but there was also a very strong party by whom no doubt whatever was entertained as to his guilt,--at the head of which, as in duty bound, was the poor widow, mrs. bonteen. she had no doubt as to the hand by which her husband had fallen, and clamoured loudly for the vengeance of the law. all the world, she said, knew how bitter against her husband had been this wretch, whose villainy had been exposed by her dear, gracious lord; and now the evidence against him was, to her thinking, complete. she was supported strongly by lady eustace, who, much as she wished not to be the wife of the bohemian jew, thought even that preferable to being known as the widow of a murderer who had been hung. mr. ratler, with one or two others in the house, was certain of finn's guilt. the people's banner, though it prefaced each one of its daily paragraphs on the subject with a statement as to the manifest duty of an influential newspaper to abstain from the expression of any opinion on such a subject till the question had been decided by a jury, nevertheless from day to day recapitulated the evidence against the member for tankerville, and showed how strong were the motives which had existed for such a deed. but, among those who were sure of finn's guilt, there was no one more sure than lord fawn, who had seen the coat and the height of the man,--and the step. he declared among his intimate friends that of course he could not swear to the person. he could not venture, when upon his oath, to give an opinion. but the man who had passed him at so quick a pace had been half a foot higher than mealyus;--of that there could be no doubt. nor could there be any doubt as to the grey coat. of course there might be other men with grey coats besides mr. phineas finn,--and other men half a foot taller than yosef mealyus. and there might be other men with that peculiarly energetic step. and the man who hurried by him might not have been the man who murdered mr. bonteen. of all that lord fawn could say nothing. but what he did say,--of that he was sure. and all those who knew him were well aware that in his own mind he was convinced of the guilt of phineas finn. and there was another man equally convinced. mr. maule, senior, remembered well the manner in which madame goesler spoke of phineas finn in reference to the murder, and was quite sure that phineas was the murderer. for a couple of days lord chiltern was constantly with the poor prisoner, but after that he was obliged to return to harrington hall. this he did a day after the news arrived of the death of his brother-in-law. both he and lady chiltern had promised to return home, having left adelaide palliser alone in the house, and already they had overstayed their time. "of course i will remain with you," lady chiltern had said to her sister-in-law; but the widow had preferred to be left alone. for these first few days,--when she must make pretence of sorrow because her husband had died; and had such real cause for sorrow in the miserable condition of the man she loved,--she preferred to be alone. who could sympathise with her now, or with whom could she speak of her grief? her father was talking to her always of her money;--but from him she could endure it. she was used to him, and could remember when he spoke to her of her forty thousand pounds, and of her twelve hundred a year of jointure, that it had not always been with him like that. as yet nothing had been heard of the will, and the earl did not in the least anticipate any further accession of wealth from the estate of the man whom they had all hated. but his daughter would now be a rich woman; and was yet young, and there might still be splendour. "i suppose you won't care to buy land," he said. "oh, papa, do not talk of buying anything yet." "but, my dear laura, you must put your money into something. you can get very nearly per cent. from indian stock." "not yet, papa," she said. but he proceeded to explain to her how very important an affair money is, and that persons who have got money cannot be excused for not considering what they had better do with it. no doubt she could get per cent. on her money by buying up certain existing mortgages on the saulsby property,--which would no doubt be very convenient if, hereafter, the money should go to her brother's child. "not yet, papa," she said again, having, however, already made up her mind that her money should have a different destination. she could not interest her father at all in the fate of phineas finn. when the story of the murder had first been told to him, he had been amazed,--and, no doubt, somewhat gratified, as we all are, at tragic occurrences which do not concern ourselves. but he could not be made to tremble for the fate of phineas finn. and yet he had known the man during the last few years most intimately, and had had much in common with him. he had trusted phineas in respect to his son, and had trusted him also in respect to his daughter. phineas had been his guest at dresden; and, on his return to london, had been the first friend he had seen, with the exception of his lawyer. and yet he could hardly be induced to express the slightest interest as to the fate of this friend who was to be tried for murder. "oh;--he's committed, is he? i think i remember that protheroe once told me that, in thirty-nine cases out of forty, men committed for serious offences have been guilty of them." the protheroe here spoken of as an authority in criminal matters was at present lord weazeling, the lord chancellor. "but mr. finn has not been guilty, papa." "there is always the one chance out of forty. but, as i was saying, if you like to take up the saulsby mortgages, mr. forster can't be told too soon." "papa, i shall do nothing of the kind," said lady laura. and then she rose and walked out of the room. at the end of ten days from the death of mr. kennedy, there came the tidings of the will. lady laura had written to mrs. kennedy a letter which had taken her much time in composition, expressing her deep sorrow, and condoling with the old woman. and the old woman had answered. "madam, i am too old now to express either grief or anger. my dear son's death, caused by domestic wrong, has robbed me of any remaining comfort which the undeserved sorrows of his latter years had not already dispelled. your obedient servant, sarah kennedy." from which it may be inferred that she had also taken considerable trouble in the composition of her letter. other communications between loughlinter and portman square there were none, but there came through the lawyers a statement of mr. kennedy's will, as far as the interests of lady laura were concerned. this reached mr. forster first, and he brought it personally to portman square. he asked for lady laura, and saw her alone. "he has bequeathed to you the use of loughlinter for your life, lady laura." "to me!" "yes, lady laura. the will is dated in the first year of his marriage, and has not been altered since." "what can i do with loughlinter? i will give it back to them." then mr. forster explained that the legacy referred not only to the house and immediate grounds,--but to the whole estate known as the domain of loughlinter. there could be no reason why she should give it up, but very many why she should not do so. circumstanced as mr. kennedy had been, with no one nearer to him than a first cousin, with a property purchased with money saved by his father,--a property to which no cousin could by inheritance have any claim,--he could not have done better with it than to leave it to his widow in fault of any issue of his own. then the lawyer explained that were she to give it up, the world would of course say that she had done so from a feeling of her own unworthiness. "why should i feel myself to be unworthy?" she asked. the lawyer smiled, and told her that of course she would retain loughlinter. then, at her request, he was taken to the earl's room and there repeated the good news. lady laura preferred not to hear her father's first exultations. but while this was being done she also exulted. might it not still be possible that there should be before her a happy evening to her days; and that she might stand once more beside the falls of linter, contented, hopeful, nay, almost glorious, with her hand in his to whom she had once refused her own on that very spot? chapter liii. none but the brave deserve the fair. though mr. robert kennedy was lying dead at loughlinter, and though phineas finn, a member of parliament, was in prison, accused of murdering another member of parliament, still the world went on with its old ways, down in the neighbourhood of harrington hall and spoon hall as at other places. the hunting with the brake hounds was now over for the season,--had indeed been brought to an auspicious end three weeks since,--and such gentlemen as thomas spooner had time on their hands to look about their other concerns. when a man hunts five days a week, regardless of distances, and devotes a due proportion of his energies to the necessary circumstances of hunting, the preservation of foxes, the maintenance of good humour with the farmers, the proper compensation for poultry really killed by four-legged favourites, the growth and arrangement of coverts, the lying-in of vixens, and the subsequent guardianship of nurseries, the persecution of enemies, and the warm protection of friends,--when he follows the sport, accomplishing all the concomitant duties of a true sportsman, he has not much time left for anything. such a one as mr. spooner of spoon hall finds that his off day is occupied from breakfast to dinner with grooms, keepers, old women with turkeys' heads, and gentlemen in velveteens with information about wires and unknown earths. his letters fall naturally to the sunday afternoon, and are hardly written before sleep overpowers him. many a large fortune has been made with less of true devotion to the work than is given to hunting by so genuine a sportsman as mr. spooner. our friend had some inkling of this himself, and felt that many of the less important affairs of his life were neglected because he was so true to the one great object of his existence. he had wisely endeavoured to prevent wrack and ruin among the affairs of spoon hall,--and had thoroughly succeeded by joining his cousin ned with himself in the administration of his estate,--but there were things which ned with all his zeal and all his cleverness could not do for him. he was conscious that had he been as remiss in the matter of hunting, as that hard-riding but otherwise idle young scamp, gerard maule, he might have succeeded much better than he had hitherto done with adelaide palliser. "hanging about and philandering, that's what they want," he said to his cousin ned. "i suppose it is," said ned. "i was fond of a girl once myself, and i hung about a good deal. but we hadn't sixpence between us." "that was polly maxwell. i remember. you behaved very badly then." "very badly, tom; about as bad as a man could behave,--and she was as bad. i loved her with all my heart, and i told her so. and she told me the same. there never was anything worse. we had just nothing between us, and nobody to give us anything." "it doesn't pay; does it, ned, that kind of thing?" "it doesn't pay at all. i wouldn't give her up,--nor she me. she was about as pretty a girl as i remember to have seen." "i suppose you were a decent-looking fellow in those days yourself. they say so, but i never quite believed it." "there wasn't much in that," said ned. "girls don't want a man to be good-looking, but that he should speak up and not be afraid of them. there were lots of fellows came after her. you remember blinks, of the carabineers. he was full of money, and he asked her three times. she is an old maid to this day, and is living as companion to some crusty crochetty countess." "i think you did behave badly, ned. why didn't you set her free?" "of course, i behaved badly. and why didn't she set me free, if you come to that? i might have found a female blinks of my own,--only for her. i wonder whether it will come against us when we die, and whether we shall be brought up together to receive punishment." "not if you repent, i suppose," said tom spooner, very seriously. "i sometimes ask myself whether she has repented. i made her swear that she'd never give me up. she might have broken her word a score of times, and i wish she had." "i think she was a fool, ned." "of course she was a fool. she knows that now, i dare say. and perhaps she has repented. do you mean to try it again with that girl at harrington hall?" mr. thomas spooner did mean to try it again with the girl at harrington hall. he had never quite trusted the note which he had got from his friend chiltern, and had made up his mind that, to say the least of it, there had been very little friendship shown in the letter. had chiltern meant to have stood to him "like a brick," as he ought to have stood by his right hand man in the brake country, at any rate a fair chance might have been given him. "where the devil would he be in such a country as this without me,"--tom had said to his cousin,--"not knowing a soul, and with all the shooting men against him? i might have had the hounds myself,--and might have 'em now if i cared to take them. it's not standing by a fellow as he ought to do. he writes to me, by george, just as he might do to some fellow who never had a fox about his place." "i suppose he didn't put the two things together," said ned spooner. "i hate a fellow that can't put two things together. if i stand to you you've a right to stand to me. that's what you mean by putting two things together. i mean to have another shy at her. she has quarrelled with that fellow maule altogether. i've learned that from the gardener's girl at harrington." yes,--he would make another attempt. all history, all romance, all poetry and all prose, taught him that perseverance in love was generally crowned with success,--that true love rarely was crowned with success except by perseverance. such a simple little tale of boy's passion as that told him by his cousin had no attraction for him. a wife would hardly be worth having, and worth keeping, so won. and all proverbs were on his side. "none but the brave deserve the fair," said his cousin. "i shall stick to it," said tom spooner. "labor omnia vincit," said his cousin. but what should be his next step? gerard maule had been sent away with a flea in his ear,--so, at least, mr. spooner asserted, and expressed an undoubting opinion that this imperative dismissal had come from the fact that gerard maule, when "put through his facings" about income was not able to "show the money." "she's not one of your polly maxwells, ned." ned said that he supposed she was not one of that sort. "heaven knows i couldn't show the money," said ned, "but that didn't make her any wiser." then tom gave it as his opinion that miss palliser was one of those young women who won't go anywhere without having everything about them. "she could have her own carriage with me, and her own horses, and her own maid, and everything." "her own way into the bargain," said ned. whereupon tom spooner winked, and suggested that that might be as things turned out after the marriage. he was quite willing to run his chance for that. but how was he to get at her to prosecute his suit? as to writing to her direct,--he didn't much believe in that. "it looks as though one were afraid of her, you know;--which i ain't the least. i stood up to her before, and i wasn't a bit more nervous than i am at this moment. were you nervous in that affair with miss maxwell?" "ah;--it's a long time ago. there wasn't much nervousness there." "a sort of milkmaid affair?" "just that." "that is different, you know. i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll just drive slap over to harrington and chance it. i'll take the two bays in the phaeton. who's afraid?" "there's nothing to be afraid of," said ned. "old chiltern is such a d---- cantankerous fellow, and perhaps lady c. may say that i oughtn't to have taken advantage of her absence. but, what's the odds? if she takes me there'll be an end of it. if she don't, they can't eat me." "the only thing is whether they'll let you in." "i'll try at any rate," said tom, "and you shall go over with me. you won't mind trotting about the grounds while i'm carrying on the war inside? i'll take the two bays, and dick farren behind, and i don't think there's a prettier got-up trap in the county. we'll go to-morrow." and on the morrow they did start, having heard on that very morning of the arrest of phineas finn. "by george, don't it feel odd," said tom just as they started,--"a fellow that we used to know down here, having him out hunting and all that, and now he's--a murderer! isn't it a coincidence?" "it startles one," said ned. "that's what i mean. it's such a strange thing that it should be the man we know ourselves. these things always are happening to me. do you remember when poor fred fellows got his bad fall and died the next year? you weren't here then." "i've heard you speak of it." "i was in the very same field, and should have been the man to pick him up, only the hounds had just turned to the left. it's very odd that these coincidences always are happening to some men and never do happen to others. it makes one feel that he's marked out, you know." "i hope you'll be marked out by victory to-day." "well;--yes. that's more important just now than mr. bonteen's murder. do you know, i wish you'd drive. these horses are pulling, and i don't want to be all in a flurry when i get to harrington." now it was a fact very well known to all concerned with spoon hall, that there was nothing as to which the squire was so jealous as the driving of his own horses. he would never trust the reins to a friend, and even ned had hardly ever been allowed the honour of the whip when sitting with his cousin. "i'm apt to get red in the face when i'm overheated," said tom as he made himself comfortable and easy in the left hand seat. there were not many more words spoken during the journey. the lover was probably justified in feeling some trepidation. he had been quite correct in suggesting that the matter between him and miss palliser bore no resemblance at all to that old affair between his cousin ned and polly maxwell. there had been as little trepidation as money in that case,--simply love and kisses, parting, despair, and a broken heart. here things were more august. there was plenty of money, and, let affairs go as they might, there would be no broken heart. but that perseverance in love of which mr. spooner intended to make himself so bright an example does require some courage. the adelaide pallisers of the world have a way of making themselves uncommonly unpleasant to a man when they refuse him for the third or fourth time. they allow themselves sometimes to express a contempt which is almost akin to disgust, and to speak to a lover as though he were no better than a footman. and then the lover is bound to bear it all, and when he has borne it, finds it so very difficult to get out of the room. mr. spooner had some idea of all this as his cousin drove him up to the door, at what he then thought a very fast pace. "d---- it all," he said, "you needn't have brought them up so confoundedly hot." but it was not of the horses that he was really thinking, but of the colour of his own nose. there was something working within him which had flurried him, in spite of the tranquillity of his idle seat. not the less did he spring out of the phaeton with a quite youthful jump. it was well that every one about harrington hall should know how alert he was on his legs; a little weather-beaten about the face he might be; but he could get in and out of his saddle as quickly as gerard maule even yet; and for a short distance would run gerard maule for a ten-pound note. he dashed briskly up to the door, and rang the bell as though he feared neither adelaide nor lord chiltern any more than he did his own servants at spoon hall. "was miss palliser at home?" the maid-servant who opened the door told him that miss palliser was at home, with a celerity which he certainly had not expected. the male members of the establishment were probably disporting themselves in the absence of their master and mistress, and adelaide palliser was thus left to the insufficient guardianship of young women who were altogether without discretion. "yes, sir; miss palliser is at home." so said the indiscreet female, and mr. spooner was for the moment confounded by his own success. he had hardly told himself what reception he had expected, or whether, in the event of the servant informing him at the front door that the young lady was not at home he would make any further immediate effort to prolong the siege so as to force an entry; but now, when he had carried the very fortress by surprise, his heart almost misgave him. he certainly had not thought, when he descended from his chariot like a young bacchus in quest of his ariadne, that he should so soon be enabled to repeat the tale of his love. but there he was, confronted with ariadne before he had had a moment to shake his godlike locks or arrange the divinity of his thoughts. "mr. spooner," said the maid, opening the door. "oh dear!" exclaimed ariadne, feeling the vainness of her wish to fly from the god. "you know, mary, that lady chiltern is up in london." "but he didn't ask for lady chiltern, miss." then there was a pause, during which the maid-servant managed to shut the door and to escape. "lord chiltern is up in london," said miss palliser, rising from her chair, "and lady chiltern is with him. they will be at home, i think, to-morrow, but i am not quite sure." she looked at him rather as diana might have looked at poor orion than as any ariadne at any bacchus; and for a moment mr. spooner felt that the pale chillness of the moon was entering in upon his very heart and freezing the blood in his veins. "miss palliser--" he began. but adelaide was for the moment an unmitigated diana. "mr. spooner," she said, "i cannot for an instant suppose that you wish to say anything to me." "but i do," said he, laying his hand upon his heart. "then i must declare that--that--that you ought not to. and i hope you won't. lady chiltern is not in the house, and i think that--that you ought to go away. i do, indeed." but mr. spooner, though the interview had been commenced with unexpected and almost painful suddenness, was too much a man to be driven off by the first angry word. he remembered that this diana was but mortal; and he remembered, too, that though he had entered in upon her privacy he had done so in a manner recognised by the world as lawful. there was no reason why he should allow himself to be congealed,--or even banished out of the grotto of the nymph,--without speaking a word on his own behalf. were he to fly now, he must fly for ever; whereas, if he fought now,--fought well, even though not successfully at the moment,--he might fight again. while miss palliser was scowling at him he resolved upon fighting. "miss palliser," he said, "i did not come to see lady chiltern; i came to see you. and now that i have been happy enough to find you i hope you will listen to me for a minute. i shan't do you any harm." "i'm not afraid of any harm, but i cannot think that you have anything to say that can do anybody any good." she sat down, however, and so far yielded. "of course i cannot make you go away, mr. spooner; but i should have thought, when i asked you--" mr. spooner also seated himself, and uttered a sigh. making love to a sweet, soft, blushing, willing, though silent girl is a pleasant employment; but the task of declaring love to a stony-hearted, obdurate, ill-conditioned diana is very disagreeable for any gentleman. and it is the more so when the gentleman really loves,--or thinks that he loves,--his diana. mr. spooner did believe himself to be verily in love. having sighed, he began: "miss palliser, this opportunity of declaring to you the state of my heart is too valuable to allow me to give it up without--without using it." "it can't be of any use." "oh, miss palliser,--if you knew my feelings!" "but i know my own." "they may change, miss palliser." "no, they can't." "don't say that, miss palliser." "but i do say it. i say it over and over again. i don't know what any gentleman can gain by persecuting a lady. you oughtn't to have been shown up here at all." mr. spooner knew well that women have been won even at the tenth time of asking, and this with him was only the third. "i think if you knew my heart--" he commenced. "i don't want to know your heart." "you might listen to a man, at any rate." "i don't want to listen. it can't do any good. i only want you to leave me alone, and go away." "i don't know what you take me for," said mr. spooner, beginning to wax angry. "i haven't taken you for anything at all. this is very disagreeable and very foolish. a lady has a right to know her own mind, and she has a right not to be persecuted." she would have referred to lord chiltern's letter had not all the hopes of her heart been so terribly crushed since that letter had been written. in it he had openly declared that she was already engaged to be married to mr. maule, thinking that he would thus put an end to mr. spooner's little adventure. but since the writing of lord chiltern's letter that unfortunate reference had been made to boulogne, and every particle of her happiness had been destroyed. she was a miserable, blighted young woman, who had quarrelled irretrievably with her lover, feeling greatly angry with herself because she had made the quarrel, and yet conscious that her own self-respect had demanded the quarrel. she was full of regret, declaring to herself from morning to night that, in spite of all his manifest wickedness in having talked of boulogne, she never could care at all for any other man. and now there was this aggravation to her misery,--this horrid suitor, who disgraced her by making those around her suppose it to be possible that she should ever accept him; who had probably heard of her quarrel, and had been mean enough to suppose that therefore there might be a chance for himself! she did despise him, and wanted him to understand that she despised him. "i believe i am in a condition to offer my hand and fortune to any young lady without impropriety," said mr. spooner. "i don't know anything about your condition." "but i will tell you everything." "i don't want to know anything about it." "i have an estate of--" "i don't want to know about your estate. i won't hear about your estate. it can be nothing to me." "it is generally considered to be a matter of some importance." "it is of no importance to me, at all, mr. spooner; and i won't hear anything about it. if all the parish belonged to you, it would not make any difference." "all the parish does belong to me, and nearly all the next," replied mr. spooner, with great dignity. "then you'd better find some lady who would like to have two parishes. they haven't any weight with me at all." at that moment she told herself how much she would prefer even bou--logne, to mr. spooner's two parishes. "what is it that you find so wrong about me?" asked the unhappy suitor. adelaide looked at him, and longed to tell him that his nose was red. and, though she would not quite do that, she could not bring herself to spare him. what right had he to come to her,--a nasty, red-nosed old man, who knew nothing about anything but foxes and horses,--to her, who had never given him the encouragement of a single smile? she could not allude to his nose, but in regard to his other defects she would not spare him. "our tastes are not the same, mr. spooner." "you are very fond of hunting." "and our ages are not the same." "i always thought that there should be a difference of age," said mr. spooner, becoming very red. "and,--and,--and,--it's altogether quite preposterous. i don't believe that you can really think it yourself." "but i do." "then you must unthink it. and, indeed, mr. spooner, since you drive me to say so,--i consider it to be very unmanly of you, after what lord chiltern told you in his letter." "but i believe that is all over." then her anger flashed up very high. "and if you do believe it, what a mean man you must be to come to me when you must know how miserable i am, and to think that i should be driven to accept you after losing him! you never could have been anything to me. if you wanted to get married at all, you should have done it before i was born." this was hard upon the man, as at that time he could not have been much more than twenty. "but you don't know anything of the difference in people if you think that any girl would look at you, after having been--loved by mr. maule. now, as you do not seem inclined to go away, i shall leave you." so saying, she walked off with stately step, out of the room, leaving the door open behind her to facilitate her escape. she had certainly been very rude to him, and had treated him very badly. of that he was sure. he had conferred upon her what is commonly called the highest compliment which a gentleman can pay to a lady, and she had insulted him;--had doubly insulted him. she had referred to his age, greatly exaggerating his misfortune in that respect; and she had compared him to that poor beggar maule in language most offensive. when she left him, he put his hand beneath his waistcoat, and turned with an air almost majestic towards the window. but in an instant he remembered that there was nobody there to see how he bore his punishment, and he sank down into human nature. "damnation!" he said, as he put his hands into his trousers pockets. slowly he made his way down into the hall, and slowly he opened for himself the front door, and escaped from the house on to the gravel drive. there he found his cousin ned still seated in the phaeton, and slowly driving round the circle in front of the hall door. the squire succeeded in gaining such command over his own gait and countenance that his cousin divined nothing of the truth as he clambered up into his seat. but he soon showed his temper. "what the devil have you got the reins in this way for?" "the reins are all right," said ned. "no they ain't;--they're all wrong." and then he drove down the avenue to spoon hall as quickly as he could make the horses trot. "did you see her?" said ned, as soon as they were beyond the gates. "see your grandmother." "do you mean to say that i'm not to ask?" "there's nothing i hate so much as a fellow that's always asking questions," said tom spooner. "there are some men so d----d thick-headed that they never know when they ought to hold their tongue." for a minute or two ned bore the reproof in silence, and then he spoke. "if you are unhappy, tom, i can bear a good deal; but don't overdo it,--unless you want me to leave you." "she's the d----t vixen that ever had a tongue in her head," said tom spooner, lifting his whip and striking the poor off-horse in his agony. then ned forgave him. chapter liv. the duchess takes counsel. phineas finn, when he had been thrice remanded before the bow street magistrate, and four times examined, was at last committed to be tried for the murder of mr. bonteen. this took place on wednesday, may th, a fortnight after the murder. but during those fourteen days little was learned, or even surmised, by the police, in addition to the circumstances which had transpired at once. indeed the delay, slight as it was, had arisen from a desire to find evidence that might affect mr. emilius, rather than with a view to strengthen that which did affect phineas finn. but no circumstance could be found tending in any way to add to the suspicion to which the converted jew was made subject by his own character, and by the supposition that he would have been glad to get rid of mr. bonteen. he did not even attempt to run away,--for which attempt certain pseudo-facilities were put in his way by police ingenuity. but mr. emilius stood his ground and courted inquiry. mr. bonteen had been to him, he said, a very bitter, unjust, and cruel enemy. mr. bonteen had endeavoured to rob him of his dearest wife;--had charged him with bigamy;--had got up false evidence in the hope of ruining him. he had undoubtedly hated mr. bonteen, and might probably have said so. but, as it happened, through god's mercy, he was enabled to prove that he could not possibly have been at the scene of the murder when the murder was committed. during that hour of the night he had been in his own bed; and, had he been out, could not have re-entered the house without calling up the inmates. but, independently of his alibi, mealyus was able to rely on the absolute absence of any evidence against him. no grey coat could be traced to his hands, even for an hour. his height was very much less than that attributed by lord fawn to the man whom he had seen hurrying to the spot. no weapon was found in his possession by which the deed could have been done. inquiry was made as to the purchase of life-preservers, and the reverend gentleman was taken to half-a-dozen shops at which such instruments had lately been sold. but there had been a run upon life-preservers, in consequence of recommendations as to their use given by certain newspapers;--and it was found as impossible to trace one particular purchase as it would be that of a loaf of bread. at none of the half-dozen shops to which he was taken was mr. emilius remembered; and then all further inquiry in that direction was abandoned, and mr. emilius was set at liberty. "i forgive my persecutors from the bottom of my heart," he said,--"but god will requite it to them." in the meantime phineas was taken to newgate, and was there confined, almost with the glory and attendance of a state prisoner. this was no common murder, and no common murderer. nor were they who interested themselves in the matter the ordinary rag, tag, and bobtail of the people,--the mere wives and children, or perhaps fathers and mothers, or brothers and sisters of the slayer or the slain. dukes and earls, duchesses and countesses, members of the cabinet, great statesmen, judges, bishops, and queen's counsellors, beautiful women, and women of highest fashion, seemed for a while to think of but little else than the fate of mr. bonteen and the fate of phineas finn. people became intimately acquainted with each other through similar sympathies in this matter, who had never before spoken to or seen each other. on the day after the full committal of the man, mr. low received a most courteous letter from the duchess of omnium, begging him to call in carlton terrace if his engagements would permit him to do so. the duchess had heard that mr. low was devoting all his energies to the protection of phineas finn; and, as a certain friend of hers,--a lady,--was doing the same, she was anxious to bring them together. indeed, she herself was equally prepared to devote her energies for the present to the same object. she had declared to all her friends,--especially to her husband and to the duke of st. bungay,--her absolute conviction of the innocence of the accused man, and had called upon them to defend him. "my dear," said the elder duke, "i do not think that in my time any innocent man has ever lost his life upon the scaffold." "is that a reason why our friend should be the first instance?" said the duchess. "he must be tried according to the laws of his country," said the younger duke. "plantagenet, you always speak as if everything were perfect, whereas you know very well that everything is imperfect. if that man is--is hung, i--" "glencora," said her husband, "do not connect yourself with the fate of a stranger from any misdirected enthusiasm." "i do connect myself. if that man be hung--i shall go into mourning for him. you had better look to it." mr. low obeyed the summons, and called on the duchess. but, in truth, the invitation had been planned by madame goesler, who was present when the lawyer, about five o'clock in the afternoon, was shown into the presence of the duchess. tea was immediately ordered, and mr. low was almost embraced. he was introduced to madame goesler, of whom he did not before remember that he had heard the name, and was at once given to understand that the fate of phineas was now in question. "we know so well," said the duchess, "how true you are to him." "he is an old friend of mine," said the lawyer, "and i cannot believe him to have been guilty of a murder." "guilty!--he is no more guilty than i am. we are as sure of that as we are of the sun. we know that he is innocent;--do we not, madame goesler? and we, too, are very dear friends of his;--that is, i am." "and so am i," said madame goesler, in a voice very low and sweet, but yet so energetic as to make mr. low almost rivet his attention upon her. "you must understand, mr. low, that mr. finn is a man horribly hated by certain enemies. that wretched mr. bonteen hated his very name. but there are other people who think very differently of him. he must be saved." "indeed i hope he may," said mr. low. "we wanted to see you for ever so many reasons. of course you understand that--that any sum of money can be spent that the case may want." "nothing will be spared on that account certainly," said the lawyer. "but money will do a great many things. we would send all round the world if we could get evidence against that other man,--lady eustace's husband, you know." "can any good be done by sending all round the world?" "he went back to his own home not long ago,--in poland, i think," said madame goesler. "perhaps he got the instrument there, and brought it with him." mr. low shook his head. "of course we are very ignorant;--but it would be a pity that everything should not be tried." "he might have got in and out of the window, you know," said the duchess. still mr. low shook his head. "i believe things can always be found out, if only you take trouble enough. and trouble means money;--does it not? we wouldn't mind how many thousand pounds it cost; would we, marie?" "i fear that the spending of thousands can do no good," said mr. low. "but something must be done. you don't mean to say that mr. finn is to be hung because lord fawn says that he saw a man running along the street in a grey coat." "certainly not." "there is nothing else against him;--nobody else saw him." "if there be nothing else against him he will be acquitted." "you think then," said madame goesler, "that there will be no use in tracing what the man mealyus did when he was out of england. he might have bought a grey coat then, and have hidden it till this night, and then have thrown it away." mr. low listened to her with close attention, but again shook his head. "if it could be shown that the man had a grey coat at that time it would certainly weaken the effect of mr. finn's grey coat." "and if he bought a bludgeon there, it would weaken the effect of mr. finn's bludgeon. and if he bought rope to make a ladder it would show that he had got out. it was a dark night, you know, and nobody would have seen it. we have been talking it all over, mr. low, and we really think you ought to send somebody." "i will mention what you say to the gentlemen who are employed on mr. finn's defence." "but will not you be employed?" then mr. low explained that the gentlemen to whom he referred were the attorneys who would get up the case on their friend's behalf, and that as he himself practised in the courts of equity only, he could not defend mr. finn on his trial. "he must have the very best men," said the duchess. "he must have good men, certainly." "and a great many. couldn't we get sir gregory grogram?" mr. low shook his head. "i know very well that if you get men who are really,--really swells, for that is what it is, mr. low,--and pay them well enough, and so make it really an important thing, they can browbeat any judge and hoodwink any jury. i daresay it is very dreadful to say so, mr. low; but, nevertheless, i believe it, and as this man is certainly innocent it ought to be done. i daresay it's very shocking, but i do think that twenty thousand pounds spent among the lawyers would get him off." "i hope we can get him off without expending twenty thousand pounds, duchess." "but you can have the money and welcome;--cannot he, madame goesler?" "he could have double that, if double were necessary." "i would fill the court with lawyers for him," continued the duchess. "i would cross-examine the witnesses off their legs. i would rake up every wicked thing that horrid jew has done since he was born. i would make witnesses speak. i would give a carriage and pair of horses to every one of the jurors' wives, if that would do any good. you may shake your head, mr. low; but i would. and i'd carry lord fawn off to the antipodes, too;--and i shouldn't care if you left him there. i know that this man is innocent, and i'd do anything to save him. a woman, i know, can't do much;--but she has this privilege, that she can speak out what men only think. i'd give them two carriages and two pairs of horses a-piece if i could do it that way." mr. low did his best to explain to the duchess that the desired object could hardly be effected after the fashion she proposed, and he endeavoured to persuade her that justice was sure to be done in an english court of law. "then why are people so very anxious to get this lawyer or that to bamboozle the witnesses?" said the duchess. mr. low declared it to be his opinion that the poorest man in england was not more likely to be hung for a murder he had not committed than the richest. "then why would you, if you were accused, have ever so many lawyers to defend you?" mr. low went on to explain. "the more money you spend," said the duchess, "the more fuss you make. and the longer a trial is about and the greater the interest, the more chance a man has to escape. if a man is tried for three days you always think he'll get off, but if it lasts ten minutes he is sure to be convicted and hung. i'd have mr. finn's trial made so long that they never could convict him. i'd tire out all the judges and juries in london. if you get lawyers enough they may speak for ever." mr. low endeavoured to explain that this might prejudice the prisoner. "and i'd examine every member of the house of commons, and all the cabinet, and all their wives. i'd ask them all what mr. bonteen had been saying. i'd do it in such a way as a trial was never done before;--and i'd take care that they should know what was coming." "and if he were convicted afterwards?" "i'd buy up the home secretary. it's very horrid to say so, of course, mr. low; and i dare say there is nothing wrong ever done in chancery. but i know what cabinet ministers are. if they could get a majority by granting a pardon they'd do it quick enough." "you are speaking of a liberal government, of course, duchess." "there isn't twopence to choose between them in that respect. just at this moment i believe mr. finn is the most popular member of the house of commons; and i'd bring all that to bear. you can't but know that if everything of that kind is done it will have an effect. i believe you could make him so popular that the people would pull down the prison rather than have him hung;--so that a jury would not dare to say he was guilty." "would that be justice, ladies?" asked the just man. "it would be success, mr. low,--which is a great deal the better thing of the two." "if mr. finn were found guilty, i could not in my heart believe that that would be justice," said madame goesler. mr. low did his best to make them understand that the plan of pulling down newgate by the instrumentality of phineas finn's popularity, or of buying up the home secretary by threats of parliamentary defection, would hardly answer their purpose. he would, he assured them, suggest to the attorneys employed the idea of searching for evidence against the man mealyus in his own country, and would certainly take care that nothing was omitted from want of means. "you had better let us put a cheque in your hands," said the duchess. but to this he would not assent. he did admit that it would be well to leave no stone unturned, and that the turning of such stones must cost money;--but the money, he said, would be forthcoming. "he's not a rich man himself," said the duchess. mr. low assured her that if money were really wanting he would ask for it. "and now," said the duchess, "there is one other thing that we want. can we see him?" "you, yourself?" "yes;--i myself, and madame goesler. you look as if it would be very wicked." mr. low thought that it would be wicked;--that the duke would not like it; and that such a visit would occasion ill-natured remarks. "people do visit him, i suppose. he's not locked up like a criminal." "i visit him," said mr. low, "and one or two other friends have done so. lord chiltern has been with him, and mr. erle." "has no lady seen him?" asked the duchess. "not to my knowledge." "then it's time some lady should do so. i suppose we could be admitted. if we were his sisters they'd let us in." "you must excuse me, duchess, but--" "of course i will excuse you. but what?" "you are not his sisters." "if i were engaged to him, to be his wife?--" said madame goesler, standing up. "i am not so. there is nothing of that kind. you must not misunderstand me. but if i were?" "on that plea i presume you could be admitted." "why not as a friend? lord chiltern is admitted as his friend." "because of the prudery of a prison," said the duchess. "all things are wrong to the lookers after wickedness, my dear. if it would comfort him to see us, why should he not have that comfort?" "would you have gone to him in his own lodgings?" asked mr. low. "i would,--if he'd been ill," said madame goesler. "madam," said mr. low, speaking with a gravity which for a moment had its effect even upon the duchess of omnium, "i think, at any rate, that if you visit mr. finn in prison, you should do so through the instrumentality of his grace, your husband." "of course you suspect me of all manner of evil." "i suspect nothing;--but i am sure that it should be so." "it shall be so," said the duchess. "thank you, sir. we are much obliged to you for your wise counsel." "i am obliged to you," said madame goesler, "because i know that you have his safety at heart." "and so am i," said the duchess, relenting, and giving him her hand. "we are really ever so much obliged to you. you don't quite understand about the duke; and how should you? i never do anything without telling him, but he hasn't time to attend to things." "i hope i have not offended you." "oh dear, no. you can't offend me unless you mean it. good-bye,--and remember to have a great many lawyers, and all with new wigs; and let them all get in a great rage that anybody should suppose it possible that mr. finn is a murderer. i'm sure i am. good-bye, mr. low." "you'll never be able to get to him," said the duchess, as soon as they were alone. "i suppose not." "and what good could you do? of course i'd go with you if we could get in;--but what would be the use?" "to let him know that people do not think him guilty." "mr. low will tell him that. i suppose, too, we can write to him. would you mind writing?" "i would rather go." "you might as well tell the truth when you are about it. you are breaking your heart for him." "if he were to be condemned, and--executed, i should break my heart. i could never appear bright before the world again." "that is just what i told plantagenet. i said i would go into mourning." "and i should really mourn. and yet were he free to-morrow he would be no more to me than any other friend." "do you mean you would not marry him?" "no;--i would not. nor would he ask me. i will tell you what will be his lot in life,--if he escapes from the present danger." "of course he will escape. they don't really hang innocent men." "then he will become the husband of lady laura kennedy." "poor fellow! if i believed that, i should think it cruel to help him escape from newgate." chapter lv. phineas in prison. phineas finn himself, during the fortnight in which he was carried backwards and forwards between his prison and the bow street police-office, was able to maintain some outward show of manly dignity,--as though he felt that the terrible accusation and great material inconvenience to which he was subjected were only, and could only be, temporary in their nature, and that the truth would soon prevail. during this period he had friends constantly with him,--either mr. low, or lord chiltern, or barrington erle, or his landlord, mr. bunce, who, in these days, was very true to him. and he was very frequently visited by the attorney, mr. wickerby, who had been expressly recommended to him for this occasion. if anybody could be counted upon to see him through his difficulty it was wickerby. but the company of mr. wickerby was not pleasant to him, because, as far as he could judge, mr. wickerby did not believe in his innocence. mr. wickerby was willing to do his best for him; was, so to speak, moving heaven and earth on his behalf; was fully conscious that this case was a great affair, and in no respect similar to those which were constantly placed in his hands; but there never fell from him a sympathetic expression of assurance of his client's absolute freedom from all taint of guilt in the matter. from day to day, and ten times a day, phineas would express his indignant surprise that any one should think it possible that he had done this deed, but to all these expressions mr. wickerby would make no answer whatever. at last phineas asked him the direct question. "i never suspect anybody of anything," said mr. wickerby. "do you believe in my innocence?" demanded phineas. "everybody is entitled to be believed innocent till he has been proved to be guilty," said mr. wickerby. then phineas appealed to his friend mr. low, asking whether he might not be allowed to employ some lawyer whose feelings would be more in unison with his own. but mr. low adjured him to make no change. mr. wickerby understood the work and was a most zealous man. his client was entitled to his services, but to nothing more than his services. and so mr. wickerby carried on the work, fully believing that phineas finn had in truth murdered mr. bonteen. but the prisoner was not without sympathy and confidence. mr. low, lord chiltern, and lady chiltern, who, on one occasion, came to visit him with her husband, entertained no doubts prejudicial to his honour. they told him perhaps almost more than was quite true of the feelings of the world in his favour. he heard of the friendship and faith of the duchess of omnium, of madame goesler, and of lady laura kennedy,--hearing also that lady laura was now a widow. and then at length his two sisters came over to him from ireland, and wept and sobbed, and fell into hysterics in his presence. they were sure that he was innocent, as was every one, they said, throughout the length and breadth of ireland. and mrs. bunce, who came to see phineas in his prison, swore that she would tear the judge from his bench if he did not at once pronounce a verdict in favour of her darling without waiting for any nonsense of a jury. and bunce, her husband, having convinced himself that his lodger had not committed the murder, was zealous in another way, taking delight in the case, and proving that no jury could find a verdict of guilty. during that week phineas, buoyed up by the sympathy of his friends, and in some measure supported by the excitement of the occasion, carried himself well, and bore bravely the terrible misfortune to which he had been subjected by untoward circumstances. but when the magistrate fully committed him, giving the first public decision on the matter from the bench, declaring to the world at large that on the evidence as given, prima facie, he, phineas finn, must be regarded as the murderer of mr. bonteen, our hero's courage almost gave way. if such was now the judicial opinion of the magistrate, how could he expect a different verdict from a jury in two months' time, when he would be tried before a final court? as far as he could understand, nothing more could be learned on the matter. all the facts were known that could be known,--as far as he, or rather his friends on his behalf, were able to search for facts. it seemed to him that there was no tittle whatever of evidence against him. he had walked straight home from his club with the life-preserver in his pocket, and had never turned to the right or to the left. till he found himself committed, he would not believe that any serious and prolonged impediment could be thrown in the way of his liberty. he would not believe that a man altogether innocent could be in danger of the gallows on a false accusation. it had seemed to him that the police had kept their hold on him with a rabid ferocity, straining every point with the view of showing that it was possible that he should have been the murderer. every policeman who had been near him, carrying him backward and forward from his prison, or giving evidence as to the circumstances of the locality and of his walk home on that fatal night, had seemed to him to be an enemy. but he had looked for impartiality from the magistrate,--and now the magistrate had failed him. he had seen in court the faces of men well known to him,--men known in the world,--with whom he had been on pleasant terms in parliament, who had sat upon the bench while he was standing as a culprit between two constables; and they who had been his familiar friends had appeared at once to have been removed from him by some unmeasurable distance. but all that he had, as it were, discounted, believing that a few hours,--at the very longest a few days,--would remove the distance; but now he was sent back to his prison, there to await his trial for the murder. and it seemed to him that his committal startled no one but himself. could it be that even his dearest friends thought it possible that he had been guilty? when that day came, and he was taken back to newgate on his last journey there from bow street, lord chiltern had returned for a while to harrington hall, having promised that he would be back in london as soon as his business would permit; but mr. low came to him almost immediately to his prison room. "this is a pleasant state of things," said phineas, with a forced laugh. but as he laughed he also sobbed, with a low, irrepressible, convulsive movement in his throat. "phineas, the time has come in which you must show yourself to be a man." "a man! oh, yes, i can be a man. a murderer you mean. i shall have to be--hung, i suppose." "may god, in his mercy, forbid." "no;--not in his mercy; in his justice. there can be no need for mercy here,--not even from heaven. when they take my life may he forgive my sins through the merits of my saviour. but for this there can be no mercy. why do you not speak? do you mean to say that i am guilty?" "i am sure that you are innocent." "and yet, look here. what more can be done to prove it than has been done? that blundering fool will swear my life away." then he threw himself on his bed, and gave way to his sobs. that evening he was alone,--as, indeed, most of his evenings had been spent, and the minutes were minutes of agony to him. the external circumstances of his position were as comfortable as circumstances would allow. he had a room to himself looking out through heavy iron bars into one of the courts of the prison. the chamber was carpeted, and was furnished with bed and chairs and two tables. books were allowed him as he pleased, and pen and ink. it was may, and no fire was necessary. at certain periods of the day he could walk alone in the court below,--the restriction on such liberty being that at other certain hours the place was wanted for other prisoners. as far as he knew no friend who called was denied to him, though he was by no means certain that his privilege in that respect would not be curtailed now that he had been committed for trial. his food had been plentiful and well cooked, and even luxuries, such as fish and wine and fruit, had been supplied to him. that the fruit had come from the hot-houses of the duchess of omnium, and the wine from mr. low's cellar, and the fish and lamb and spring vegetables, the cream and coffee and fresh butter from the unrestricted orders of another friend, that lord chiltern had sent him champagne and cigars, and that lady chiltern had given directions about the books and stationery, he did not know. but as far as he could be consoled by such comforts, there had been the consolation. if lamb and salad could make him happy he might have enjoyed his sojourn in newgate. now, this evening, he was past all enjoyment. it was impossible that he should read. how could a man fix his attention on any book, with a charge of murder against himself affirmed by the deliberate decision of a judge? and he knew himself to be as innocent as the magistrate himself. every now and then he would rise from his bed, and almost rush across the room as though he would dash his head against the wall. murder! they really believed that he had deliberately murdered the man;--he, phineas finn, who had served his country with repute, who had sat in parliament, who had prided himself on living with the best of his fellow-creatures, who had been the friend of mr. monk and of lord cantrip, the trusted intimate of such women as lady laura and lady chiltern, who had never put his hand to a mean action, or allowed his tongue to speak a mean word! he laughed in his wrath, and then almost howled in his agony. he thought of the young loving wife who had lived with him little more than for one fleeting year, and wondered whether she was looking down upon him from heaven, and how her spirit would bear this accusation against the man upon whose bosom she had slept, and in whose arms she had gone to her long rest. "they can't believe it," he said aloud. "it is impossible. why should i have murdered him?" and then he remembered an example in latin from some rule of grammar, and repeated it to himself over and over again.--"no one at an instant,--of a sudden,--becomes most base." it seemed to him that there was such a want of knowledge of human nature in the supposition that it was possible that he should have committed such a crime. and yet--there he was, committed to take his trial for the murder of mr. bonteen. the days were long, and it was daylight till nearly nine. indeed the twilight lingered, even through those iron bars, till after nine. he had once asked for candles, but had been told that they could not be allowed him without an attendant in the room,--and he had dispensed with them. he had been treated doubtless with great respect, but nevertheless he had been treated as a prisoner. they hardly denied him anything that he asked, but when he asked for that which they did not choose to grant they would annex conditions which induced him to withdraw his request. he understood their ways now, and did not rebel against them. on a sudden he heard the key in the door, and the man who attended him entered the room with a candle in his hand. a lady had come to call, and the governor had given permission for her entrance. he would return for the light,--and for the lady, in half an hour. he had said all this before phineas could see who the lady was. and when he did see the form of her who followed the gaoler, and who stood with hesitating steps behind him in the doorway, he knew her by her sombre solemn raiment, and not by her countenance. she was dressed from head to foot in the deepest weeds of widowhood, and a heavy veil fell from her bonnet over her face. "lady laura, is it you?" said phineas, putting out his hand. of course it was lady laura. while the duchess of omnium and madame goesler were talking about such a visit, allowing themselves to be deterred by the wisdom of mr. low, she had made her way through bolts and bars, and was now with him in his prison. [illustration: of course it was lady laura.] "oh, phineas!" she slowly raised her veil, and stood gazing at him. "of all my troubles this,--to see you here,--is the heaviest." "and of all my consolations to see you here is the greatest." he should not have so spoken. could he have thought of things as they were, and have restrained himself, he should not have uttered words to her which were pleasant but not true. there came a gleam of sunshine across her face as she listened to him, and then she threw herself into his arms, and wept upon his shoulder. "i did not expect that you would have found me," he said. she took the chair opposite to that on which he usually sat, and then began her tale. her cousin, barrington erle, had brought her there, and was below, waiting for her in the governor's house. he had procured an order for her admission that evening, direct from sir harry coldfoot, the home secretary,--which, however, as she admitted, had been given under the idea that she and erle were to see him together. "but i would not let him come with me," she said. "i could not have spoken to you, had he been here;--could i?" "it would not have been the same, lady laura." he had thought much of his mode of addressing her on occasions before this, at dresden and at portman square, and had determined that he would always give her her title. once or twice he had lacked the courage to be so hard to her. now as she heard the name the gleam of sunshine passed from her altogether. "we hardly expected that we should ever meet in such a place as this?" he said. "i cannot understand it. they cannot really think you killed him." he smiled, and shook his head. then she spoke of her own condition. "you have heard what has happened? you know that i am--a widow?" "yes;--i had heard." and then he smiled again. "you will have understood why i could not come to you,--as i should have done but for this little accident." "he died on the day that they arrested you. was it not strange that such a double blow should fall together? oswald, no doubt, told you all." "he told me of your husband's death." "but not of his will? perhaps he has not seen you since he heard it." lord chiltern had heard of the will before his last visit to phineas in newgate, but had not chosen then to speak of his sister's wealth. "i have heard nothing of mr. kennedy's will." "it was made immediately after our marriage,--and he never changed it, though he had so much cause of anger against me." "he has not injured you, then,--as regards money." "injured me! no, indeed. i am a rich woman,--very rich. all loughlinter is my own,--for life. but of what use can it be to me?" he in his present state could tell her of no uses for such a property. "i suppose, phineas, it cannot be that you are really in danger?" "in the greatest danger, i fancy." "do you mean that they will say--you are guilty?" "the magistrates have said so already." "but surely that is nothing. if i thought so, i should die. if i believed it, they should never take me out of the prison while you are here. barrington says that it cannot be. oswald and violet are sure that such a thing can never happen. it was that jew who did it." "i cannot say who did it. i did not." "you! oh, phineas! the world must be mad when any can believe it!" "but they do believe it?" this, he said, meaning to ask a question as to that outside world. "we do not. barrington says--" "what does barrington say?" "that there are some who do;--just a few, who were mr. bonteen's special friends." "the police believe it. that is what i cannot understand;--men who ought to be keen-eyed and quick-witted. that magistrate believes it. i saw men in the court who used to know me well, and i could see that they believed it. mr. monk was here yesterday." "does he believe it?" "i asked him, and he told me--no. but i did not quite trust him as he told me. there are two or three who believe me innocent." "who are they?" "low, and chiltern, and his wife;--and that man bunce, and his wife. if i escape from this,--if they do not hang me,--i will remember them. and there are two other women who know me well enough not to think me a murderer." "who are they, phineas?" "madame goesler, and the duchess of omnium." "have they been here?" she asked, with jealous eagerness. "oh, no. but i hear that it is so,--and i know it. one learns to feel even from hearsay what is in the minds of people." "and what do i believe, phineas? can you read my thoughts?" "i know them of old, without reading them now." then he put forth his hand and took hers. "had i murdered him in real truth, you would not have believed it." "because i love you, phineas." then the key was again heard in the door, and barrington erle appeared with the gaolers. the time was up, he said, and he had come to redeem his promise. he spoke cordially to his old friend, and grasped the prisoner's hand cordially,--but not the less did he believe that there was blood on it, and phineas knew that such was his belief. it appeared on his arrival that lady laura had not at all accomplished the chief object of her visit. she had brought with her various cheques, all drawn by barrington erle on his banker,--amounting altogether to many hundreds of pounds,--which it was intended that phineas should use from time to time for the necessities of his trial. barrington erle explained that the money was in fact to be a loan from lady laura's father, and was simply passed through his banker's account. but phineas knew that the loan must come from lady laura, and he positively refused to touch it. his friend, mr. low, was managing all that for him, and he would not embarrass the matter by a fresh account. he was very obstinate, and at last the cheques were taken away in barrington erle's pocket. "good-night, old fellow," said erle, affectionately. "i'll see you again before long. may god send you through it all." "good-night, barrington. it was kind of you to come to me." then lady laura, watching to see whether her cousin would leave her alone for a moment with the object of her idolatry, paused before she gave him her hand. "good-night, lady laura," he said. "good-night!" barrington erle was now just outside the door. "i shall not forget your coming here to me." "how should we, either of us, forget it?" "come, laura," said barrington erle, "we had better make an end of it." "but if i should never see him again!" "of course you will see him again." "when! and where! oh, god,--if they should murder him!" then she threw herself into his arms, and covered him with kisses, though her cousin had returned into the room and stood over her as she embraced him. "laura," said he, "you are doing him an injury. how should he support himself if you behave like this! come away." "oh, my god, if they should kill him!" she exclaimed. but she allowed her cousin to take her in his arms, and phineas finn was left alone without having spoken another word to either of them. chapter lvi. the meager family. on the day after the committal a lady, who had got out of a cab at the corner of northumberland street, in the marylebone road, walked up that very uninviting street, and knocked at a door just opposite to the deadest part of the dead wall of the marylebone workhouse. here lived mrs. and miss meager,--and also on occasions mr. meager, who, however, was simply a trouble and annoyance in the world, going about to race-courses, and occasionally, perhaps, to worse places, and being of no slightest use to the two poor hard-worked women,--mother and daughter,--who endeavoured to get their living by letting lodgings. the task was difficult, for it is not everybody who likes to look out upon the dead wall of a workhouse, and they who do are disposed to think that their willingness that way should be considered in the rent. but mr. emilius, when the cruelty of his wife's friends deprived him of the short-lived luxury of his mansion in lowndes square, had found in northumberland street a congenial retreat, and had for a while trusted to mrs. and miss meager for all his domestic comforts. mr. emilius was always a favourite with new friends, and had not as yet had his northumberland street gloss rubbed altogether off him when mr. bonteen was murdered. as it happened, on that night,--or rather early in the day, for meager had returned to the bosom of his family after a somewhat prolonged absence in the provinces, and therefore the date had become specially remarkable in the meager family from the double event,--mr. meager had declared that unless his wife could supply him with a five-pound note he must cut his throat instantly. his wife and daughter had regretted the necessity, but had declared the alternative to be out of the question. whereupon mr. meager had endeavoured to force the lock of an old bureau with a carving-knife, and there had been some slight personal encounter,--after which he had had some gin and had gone to bed. mrs. meager remembered the day very well indeed, and miss meager, when the police came the next morning, had accounted for her black eye by a tragical account of a fall she had had against the bed-post in the dark. up to that period mr. emilius had been everything that was sweet and good,--an excellent, eloquent clergyman, who was being ill-treated by his wife's wealthy relations, who was soft in his manners and civil in his words, and never gave more trouble than was necessary. the period, too, would have been one of comparative prosperity to the meager ladies,--but for that inopportune return of the head of the family,--as two other lodgers had been inclined to look out upon the dead wall, or else into the cheerful back-yard; which circumstance came to have some bearing upon our story, as mrs. meager had been driven by the press of her increased household to let that good-natured mr. emilius know that if "he didn't mind it" the latch-key might be an accommodation on occasions. to give him his due, indeed, he had, when first taking the rooms, offered to give up the key when not intending to be out at night. after the murder mr. emilius had been arrested, and had been kept in durance for a week. miss meager had been sure that he was innocent; mrs. meager had trusted the policemen, who evidently thought that the clergyman was guilty. of the policemen who were concerned on the occasion, it may be said in a general way that they believed that both the gentlemen had committed the murder,--so anxious were they not to be foiled in the attempts at discovery which their duty called upon them to make. mr. meager had left the house on the morning of the arrest, having arranged that little matter of the five-pound note by a compromise. when the policeman came for mr. emilius, mr. meager was gone. for a day or two the lodger's rooms were kept vacant for the clergyman till mrs. meager became quite convinced that he had committed the murder, and then all his things were packed up and placed in the passage. when he was liberated he returned to the house, and expressed unbounded anger at what had been done. he took his two boxes away in a cab, and was seen no more by the ladies of northumberland street. but a further gleam of prosperity fell upon them in consequence of the tragedy which had been so interesting to them. hitherto the inquiries made at their house had had reference solely to the habits and doings of their lodger during the last few days; but now there came to them a visitor who made a more extended investigation; and this was one of their own sex. it was madame goesler who got out of the cab at the workhouse corner, and walked from thence to mrs. meager's house. this was her third appearance in northumberland street, and at each coming she had spoken kind words, and had left behind her liberal recompense for the trouble which she gave. she had no scruples as to paying for the evidence which she desired to obtain,--no fear of any questions which might afterwards be asked in cross-examination. she dealt out sovereigns--womanfully, and had had mrs. and miss meager at her feet. before the second visit was completed they were both certain that the bohemian converted jew had murdered mr. bonteen, and were quite willing to assist in hanging him. "yes, ma'am," said mrs. meager, "he did take the key with him. amelia remembers we were a key short at the time he was away." the absence here alluded to was that occasioned by the journey which mr. emilius took to prague, when he heard that evidence of his former marriage was being sought against him in his own country. "that he did," said amelia, "because we were put out ever so. and he had no business, for he was not paying for the room." "you have only one key." "there is three, ma'am. the front attic has one regular because he's on a daily paper, and of course he doesn't get to bed till morning. meager always takes another, and we can't get it from him ever so." "and mr. emilius took the other away with him?" asked madame goesler. "that he did, ma'am. when he came back he said it had been in a drawer,--but it wasn't in the drawer. we always knows what's in the drawers." "the drawer wasn't left locked, then?" "yes, it was, ma'am, and he took that key--unbeknownst to us," said mrs. meager. "but there is other keys that open the drawers. we are obliged in our line to know about the lodgers, ma'am." this was certainly no time for madame goesler to express disapprobation of the practices which were thus divulged. she smiled, and nodded her head, and was quite sympathetic with mrs. meager. she had learned that mr. emilius had taken the latch-key with him to bohemia, and was convinced that a dozen other latch-keys might have been made after the pattern without any apparent detection by the london police. "and now about the coat, mrs. meager." "well, ma'am?" "mr. meager has not been here since?" "no, ma'am. mr. meager, ma'am, isn't what he ought to be. i never do own it up, only when i'm driven. he hasn't been home." "i suppose he still has the coat." "well, ma'am, no. we sent a young man after him, as you said, and the young man found him at the newmarket spring." "some water cure?" asked madame goesler. "no, ma'am. it ain't a water cure, but the races. he hadn't got the coat. he does always manage a tidy great coat when november is coming on, because it covers everything, and is respectable, but he mostly parts with it in april. he gets short, and then he--just pawns it." "but he had it the night of the murder?" "yes, ma'am, he had. amelia and i remembered it especial. when we went to bed, which we did soon after ten, it was left in this room, lying there on the sofa." they were now sitting in the little back parlour, in which mrs. and miss meager were accustomed to live. "and it was there in the morning?" "father had it on when he went out," said amelia. "if we paid him he would get it out of the pawnshop, and bring it to us, would he not?" asked the lady. to this mrs. meager suggested that it was quite on the cards that mr. meager might have been able to do better with his coat by selling it, and if so, it certainly would have been sold, as no prudent idea of redeeming his garment for the next winter's wear would ever enter his mind. and mrs. meager seemed to think that such a sale would not have taken place between her husband and any old friend. "he wouldn't know where he sold it," said mrs. meager. "anyways he'd tell us so," said amelia. "but if we paid him to be more accurate?" said madame goesler. "they is so afraid of being took up themselves," said mrs. meager. there was, however, ample evidence that mr. meager had possessed a grey great coat, which during the night of the murder had been left in the little sitting-room, and which they had supposed to have lain there all night. to this coat mr. emilius might have had easy access. "but then it was a big man that was seen, and emilius isn't no ways a big man. meager's coat would be too long for him, ever so much." "nevertheless we must try and get the coat," said madame goesler. "i'll speak to a friend about it. i suppose we can find your husband when we want him?" "i don't know, ma'am. we never can find him; but then we never do want him,--not now. the police know him at the races, no doubt. you won't go and get him into trouble, ma'am, worse than he is? he's always been in trouble, but i wouldn't like to be means of making it worse on him than it is." madame goesler, as she again paid the woman for her services, assured her that she would do no injury to mr. meager. all that she wanted of mr. meager was his grey coat, and that not with any view that could be detrimental either to his honour or to his safety, and she was willing to pay any reasonable price,--or almost any unreasonable price,--for the coat. but the coat must be made to be forthcoming if it were still in existence, and had not been as yet torn to pieces by the shoddy makers. "it ain't near come to that yet," said amelia. "i don't know that i ever see father more respectable,--that is, in the way of a great coat." chapter lvii. the beginning of the search for the key and the coat. when madame goesler revealed her plans and ideas to mr. wickerby, the attorney, who had been employed to bring phineas finn through his troubles, that gentleman evidently did not think much of the unprofessional assistance which the lady proposed to give him. "i'm afraid it is far-fetched, ma'am,--if you understand what i mean," said mr. wickerby. madame goesler declared that she understood very well what mr. wickerby meant, but that she could hardly agree with him. "according to that the gentleman must have plotted the murder more than a month before he committed it," said mr. wickerby. "and why not?" "murder plots are generally the work of a few hours at the longest, madame goesler. anger, combined with an indifference to self-sacrifice, does not endure the wear of many days. and the object here was insufficient. i don't think we can ask to have the trial put off in order to find out whether a false key may have been made in prague." "and you will not look for the coat?" "we can look for it, and probably get it, if the woman has not lied to you; but i don't think it will do us any good. the woman probably is lying. you have been paying her very liberally, so that she has been making an excellent livelihood out of the murder. no jury would believe her. and a grey coat is a very common thing. after all, it would prove nothing. it would only let the jury know that mr. meager had a grey coat as well as mr. finn. that mr. finn wore a grey coat on that night is a fact which we can't upset. if you got hold of meager's coat you wouldn't be a bit nearer to proof that emilius had worn it." "there would be the fact that he might have worn it." "madame goesler, indeed it would not help our client. you see what are the difficulties in our way. mr. finn was on the spot at the moment, or so near it as to make it certainly possible that he might have been there. there is no such evidence as to emilius, even if he could be shown to have had a latch-key. the man was killed by such an instrument as mr. finn had about him. there is no evidence that mr. emilius had such an instrument in his hand. a tall man in a grey coat was seen hurrying to the spot at the exact hour. mr. finn is a tall man and wore a grey coat at the time. emilius is not a tall man, and, even though meager had a grey coat, there is no evidence to show that emilius ever wore it. mr. finn had quarrelled violently with mr. bonteen within the hour. it does not appear that emilius ever quarrelled with mr. bonteen, though mr. bonteen had exerted himself in opposition to emilius." "is there to be no defence, then?" "certainly there will be a defence, and such a defence as i think will prevent any jury from being unanimous in convicting my client. though there is a great deal of evidence against him, it is all--what we call circumstantial." "i understand, mr. wickerby." "nobody saw him commit the murder." "indeed no," said madame goesler. "although there is personal similarity, there is no personal identity. there is no positive proof of anything illegal on his part, or of anything that would have been suspicious had no murder been committed,--such as the purchase of poison, or carrying of a revolver. the life-preserver, had no such instrument been unfortunately used, might have been regarded as a thing of custom." "but i am sure that that bohemian did murder mr. bonteen," said madame goesler, with enthusiasm. "madame," said mr. wickerby, holding up both his hands, "i can only wish that you could be upon the jury." "and you won't try to show that the other man might have done it?" "i think not. next to an alibi that breaks down;--you know what an alibi is, madame goesler?" "yes, mr. wickerby; i know what an alibi is." "next to an alibi that breaks down, an unsuccessful attempt to affix the fault on another party is the most fatal blow which a prisoner's counsel can inflict upon him. it is always taken by the jury as so much evidence against him. we must depend altogether on a different line of defence." "what line, mr. wickerby?" "juries are always unwilling to hang,"--madame goesler shuddered as the horrid word was broadly pronounced,--"and are apt to think that simply circumstantial evidence cannot be suffered to demand so disagreeable a duty. they are peculiarly averse to hanging a gentleman, and will hardly be induced to hang a member of parliament. then mr. finn is very good-looking, and has been popular,--which is all in his favour. and we shall have such evidence on the score of character as was never before brought into one of our courts. we shall have half the cabinet. there will be two dukes." madame goesler, as she listened to the admiring enthusiasm of the attorney while he went on with his list, acknowledged to herself that her dear friend, the duchess, had not been idle. "there will be three secretaries of state. the secretary of state for the home department himself will be examined. i am not quite sure that we mayn't get the lord chancellor. there will be mr. monk,--about the most popular man in england,--who will speak of the prisoner as his particular friend. i don't think any jury would hang a particular friend of mr. monk's. and there will be ever so many ladies. that has never been done before, but we mean to try it." madame goesler had heard all this, and had herself assisted in the work. "i rather think we shall get four or five leading members of the opposition, for they all disliked mr. bonteen. if we could manage mr. daubeny and mr. gresham, i think we might reckon ourselves quite safe. i forgot to say that the bishop of barchester has promised." "all that won't prove his innocence, mr. wickerby." mr. wickerby shrugged his shoulders. "if he be acquitted after that fashion men then will say--that he was guilty." "we must think of his life first, madame goesler," said the attorney. madame goesler when she left the attorney's room was very ill-satisfied with him. she desired some adherent to her cause who would with affectionate zeal resolve upon washing phineas finn white as snow in reference to the charge now made against him. but no man would so resolve who did not believe in his innocence,--as madame goesler believed herself. she herself knew that her own belief was romantic and unpractical. nevertheless, the conviction of the guilt of that other man, towards which she still thought that much could be done if that coat were found and the making of a secret key were proved, was so strong upon her that she would not allow herself to drop it. it would not be sufficient for her that phineas finn should be acquitted. she desired that the real murderer should be hung for the murder, so that all the world might be sure,--as she was sure,--that her hero had been wrongfully accused. "do you mean that you are going to start yourself?" the duchess said to her that same afternoon. "yes, i am." "then you must be very far gone in love, indeed." "you would do as much, duchess, if you were free as i am. it isn't a matter of love at all. it's womanly enthusiasm for the cause one has taken up." "i'm quite as enthusiastic,--only i shouldn't like to go to prague in june." "i'd go to siberia in january if i could find out that that horrid man really committed the murder." "who are going with you?" "we shall be quite a company. we have got a detective policeman, and an interpreter who understands czech and german to go about with the policeman, and a lawyer's clerk, and there will be my own maid." "everybody will know all about it before you get there." "we are not to go quite together. the policeman and the interpreter are to form one party, and i and my maid another. the poor clerk is to be alone. if they get the coat, of course you'll telegraph to me." "who is to have the coat?" "i suppose they'll take it to mr. wickerby. he says he doesn't want it,--that it would do no good. but i think that if we could show that the man might very easily have been out of the house,--that he had certainly provided himself with means of getting out of the house secretly,--the coat would be of service. i am going at any rate; and shall be in paris to-morrow morning." "i think it very grand of you, my dear; and for your sake i hope he may live to be prime minister. perhaps, after all, he may give plantagenet his 'garter.'" when the old duke died, a garter became vacant, and had of course fallen to the gift of mr. gresham. the duchess had expected that it would be continued in the family, as had been the lieutenancy of barsetshire, which also had been held by the old duke. but the garter had been given to lord cantrip, and the duchess was sore. with all her radical propensities and inclination to laugh at dukes and marquises, she thought very much of garters and lieutenancies;--but her husband would not think of them at all, and hence there were words between them. the duchess had declared that the duke should insist on having the garter. "these are things that men do not ask for," the duke had said. "don't tell me, plantagenet, about not asking. everybody asks for everything nowadays." "your everybody is not correct, glencora. i never yet asked for anything,--and never shall. no honour has any value in my eyes unless it comes unasked." thereupon it was that the duchess now suggested that phineas finn, when prime minister, might perhaps bestow a garter upon her husband. and so madame goesler started for prague with the determination of being back, if possible, before the trial began. it was to be commenced at the old bailey towards the end of june, and people already began to foretell that it would extend over a very long period. the circumstances seemed to be simple; but they who understood such matters declared that the duration of a trial depended a great deal more on the public interest felt in the matter than upon its own nature. now it was already perceived that no trial of modern days had ever been so interesting as would be this trial. it was already known that the attorney-general, sir gregory grogram, was to lead the case for the prosecution, and that the solicitor-general, sir simon slope, was to act with him. it had been thought to be due to the memory and character of mr. bonteen, who when he was murdered had held the office of president of the board of trade, and who had very nearly been chancellor of the exchequer, that so unusual a task should be imposed on these two high legal officers of the government. no doubt there would be a crowd of juniors with them, but it was understood that sir gregory grogram would himself take the burden of the task upon his own shoulders. it was declared everywhere that sir gregory did believe phineas finn to be guilty, but it was also declared that sir simon slope was convinced he was innocent. the defence was to be entrusted to the well-practised but now aged hands of that most experienced practitioner mr. chaffanbrass, than whom no barrister living or dead ever rescued more culprits from the fangs of the law. with mr. chaffanbrass, who quite late in life had consented to take a silk gown, was to be associated mr. serjeant birdbolt,--who was said to be employed in order that the case might be in safe hands should the strength of mr. chaffanbrass fail him at the last moment; and mr. snow, who was supposed to handle a witness more judiciously than any of the rising men, and that subtle, courageous, eloquent, and painstaking youth, mr. golightly, who now, with no more than ten or fifteen years' practice, was already known to be earning his bread and supporting a wife and family. but the glory of this trial would not depend chiefly on the array of counsel, nor on the fact that the lord chief justice himself would be the judge, so much as on the social position of the murdered man and of the murderer. noble lords and great statesmen would throng the bench of the court to see phineas finn tried, and all the world who could find an entrance would do the same to see the great statesmen and the noble lords. the importance of such an affair increases like a snowball as it is rolled on. many people talk much, and then very many people talk very much more. the under-sheriffs of the city, praiseworthy gentlemen not hitherto widely known to fame, became suddenly conspicuous and popular, as being the dispensers of admissions to seats in the court. it had been already admitted by judges and counsel that sundry other cases must be postponed, because it was known that the bonteen murder would occupy at least a week. it was supposed that mr. chaffanbrass would consume a whole day at the beginning of the trial in getting a jury to his mind,--a matter on which he was known to be very particular,--and another whole day at the end of the trial in submitting to the jury the particulars of all the great cases on record in which circumstantial evidence was known to have led to improper verdicts. it was therefore understood that the last week in june would be devoted to the trial, to the exclusion of all other matters of interest. when mr. gresham, hard pressed by mr. turnbull for a convenient day, offered that gentleman thursday, the th of june, for suggesting to the house a little proposition of his own with reference to the english church establishment, mr. turnbull openly repudiated the offer, because on that day the trial of phineas finn would be commenced. "i hope," said mr. gresham, "that the work of the country will not be impeded by that unfortunate affair." "i am afraid," said mr. turnbull, "that the right honourable gentleman will find that the member for tankerville will on that day monopolise the attention of this house." the remark was thought to have been made in very bad taste, but nobody doubted its truth. perhaps the interest was enhanced among politicians by the existence very generally of an opinion that though phineas finn had murdered mr. bonteen, he would certainly be acquitted. nothing could then prevent the acquitted murderer from resuming his seat in the house, and gentlemen were already beginning to ask themselves after what fashion it would become them to treat him. would the speaker catch his eye when he rose to speak? would he still be "phineas" to the very large number of men with whom his general popularity had made him intimate? would he be cold-shouldered at the clubs, and treated as one whose hands were red with blood? or would he become more popular than ever, and receive an ovation after his acquittal? in the meantime madame goesler started on her journey for prague. chapter lviii. the two dukes. it was necessary that the country should be governed, even though mr. bonteen had been murdered;--and in order that it should be duly governed it was necessary that mr. bonteen's late place at the board of trade should be filled. there was some hesitation as to the filling it, and when the arrangement was completed people were very much surprised indeed. mr. bonteen had been appointed chiefly because it was thought that he might in that office act as a quasi house of commons deputy to the duke of omnium in carrying out his great scheme of a five-farthinged penny and a ten-pennied shilling. the duke, in spite of his wealth and rank and honour, was determined to go on with his great task. life would be nothing to him now unless he could at least hope to arrange the five farthings. when his wife had bullied him about the garter he had declared to her, and with perfect truth, that he had never asked for anything. he had gone on to say that he never would ask for anything; and he certainly did not think that he was betraying himself with reference to that assurance when he suggested to mr. gresham that he would himself take the place left vacant by mr. bonteen--of course retaining his seat in the cabinet. "i should hardly have ventured to suggest such an arrangement to your grace," said the prime minister. "feeling that it might be so, i thought that i would venture to ask," said the duke. "i am sure you know that i am the last man to interfere as to place or the disposition of power." "quite the last man," said mr. gresham. "but it has always been held that the board of trade is not incompatible with the peerage." "oh dear, yes." "and i can feel myself nearer to this affair of mine there than i can elsewhere." mr. gresham of course had no objection to urge. this great nobleman, who was now asking for mr. bonteen's shoes, had been chancellor of the exchequer, and would have remained chancellor of the exchequer had not the mantle of his nobility fallen upon him. at the present moment he held an office in which peers are often temporarily shelved, or put away, perhaps, out of harm's way for the time, so that they may be brought down and used when wanted, without having received crack or detriment from that independent action into which a politician is likely to fall when his party is "in" but he is still "out". he was lord privy seal,--a lordship of state which does carry with it a status and a seat in the cabinet, but does not necessarily entail any work. but the present lord, who cared nothing for status, and who was much more intent on his work than he was even on his seat in the cabinet, was possessed by what many of his brother politicians regarded as a morbid dislike to pretences. he had not been happy during his few weeks of the privy seal, and had almost envied mr. bonteen the realities of the board of trade. "i think upon the whole it will be best to make the change," he said to mr. gresham. and mr. gresham was delighted. but there were one or two men of mark,--one or two who were older than mr. gresham probably, and less perfect in their liberal sympathies,--who thought that the duke of omnium was derogating from his proper position in the step which he was now taking. chief among these was his friend the duke of st. bungay, who alone perhaps could venture to argue the matter with him. "i almost wish that you had spoken to me first," said the elder duke. "i feared that i should find you so strongly opposed to my resolution." "if it was a resolution." "i think it was," said the younger. "it was a great misfortune to me that i should have been obliged to leave the house of commons." "you should not feel it so." "my whole life was there," said he who, as plantagenet palliser, had been so good a commoner. "but your whole life should certainly not be there now,--nor your whole heart. on you the circumstances of your birth have imposed duties quite as high, and i will say quite as useful, as any which a career in the house of commons can put within the reach of a man." "do you think so, duke?" "certainly i do. i do think that the england which we know could not be the england that she is but for the maintenance of a high-minded, proud, and self-denying nobility. and though with us there is no line dividing our very broad aristocracy into two parts, a higher and a lower, or a greater and a smaller, or a richer and a poorer, nevertheless we all feel that the success of our order depends chiefly on the conduct of those whose rank is the highest and whose means are the greatest. to some few, among whom you are conspicuously one, wealth has been given so great and rank so high that much of the welfare of your country depends on the manner in which you bear yourself as the duke of omnium." "i would not wish to think so." "your uncle so thought. and, though he was a man very different from you, not inured to work in his early life, with fewer attainments, probably a slower intellect, and whose general conduct was inferior to your own,--i speak freely because the subject is important,--he was a man who understood his position and the requirements of his order very thoroughly. a retinue almost royal, together with an expenditure which royalty could not rival, secured for him the respect of the nation." "your life has not been as was his, and you have won a higher respect." "i think not. the greater part of my life was spent in the house of commons, and my fortune was never much more than the tenth of his. but i wish to make no such comparison." "i must make it, if i am to judge which i would follow." "pray understand me, my friend," said the old man, energetically. "i am not advising you to abandon public life in order that you may live in repose as a great nobleman. it would not be in your nature to do so, nor could the country afford to lose your services. but you need not therefore take your place in the arena of politics as though you were still plantagenet palliser, with no other duties than those of a politician,--as you might so well have done had your uncle's titles and wealth descended to a son." "i wish they had," said the regretful duke. "it cannot be so. your brother perhaps wishes that he were a duke, but it has been arranged otherwise. it is vain to repine. your wife is unhappy because your uncle's garter was not at once given to you." "glencora is like other women,--of course." "i share her feelings. had mr. gresham consulted me, i should not have scrupled to tell him that it would have been for the welfare of his party that the duke of omnium should be graced with any and every honour in his power to bestow. lord cantrip is my friend, almost as warmly as are you; but the country would not have missed the ribbon from the breast of lord cantrip. had you been more the duke, and less the slave of your country, it would have been sent to you. do i make you angry by speaking so?" "not in the least. i have but one ambition." "and that is--?" "to be the serviceable slave of my country." "a master is more serviceable than a slave," said the old man. "no; no; i deny it. i can admit much from you, but i cannot admit that. the politician who becomes the master of his country sinks from the statesman to the tyrant." "we misunderstand each other, my friend. pitt, and peel, and palmerston were not tyrants, though each assumed and held for himself to the last the mastery of which i speak. smaller men who have been slaves, have been as patriotic as they, but less useful. i regret that you should follow mr. bonteen in his office." "because he was mr. bonteen." "all the circumstances of the transfer of office occasioned by your uncle's death seem to me to make it undesirable. i would not have you make yourself too common. this very murder adds to the feeling. because mr. bonteen has been lost to us, the minister has recourse to you." "it was my own suggestion." "but who knows that it was so? you, and i, and mr. gresham--and perhaps one or two others." "it is too late now, duke; and, to tell the truth of myself, not even you can make me other than i am. my uncle's life to me was always a problem which i could not understand. were i to attempt to walk in his ways i should fail utterly, and become absurd. i do not feel the disgrace of following mr. bonteen." "i trust you may at least be less unfortunate." "well;--yes. i need not expect to be murdered in the streets because i am going to the board of trade. i shall have made no enemy by my political success." "you think that--mr. finn--did do that deed?" asked the elder duke. "i hardly know what i think. my wife is sure that he is innocent." "the duchess is enthusiastic always." "many others think the same. lord and lady chiltern are sure of that." "they were always his best friends." "i am told that many of the lawyers are sure that it will be impossible to convict him. if he be acquitted i shall strive to think him innocent. he will come back to the house, of course." "i should think he would apply for the hundreds," said the duke of st. bungay. "i do not see why he should. i would not in his place. if he be innocent, why should he admit himself unfit for a seat in parliament? i tell you what he might do;--resign, and then throw himself again upon his constituency." the other duke shook his head, thereby declaring his opinion that phineas finn was in truth the man who had murdered mr. bonteen. when it was publicly known that the duke of omnium had stepped into mr. bonteen's shoes, the general opinion certainly coincided with that given by the duke of st. bungay. it was not only that the late chancellor of the exchequer should not have consented to fill so low an office, or that the duke of omnium should have better known his own place, or that he should not have succeeded a man so insignificant as mr. bonteen. these things, no doubt, were said,--but more was said also. it was thought that he should not have gone to an office which had been rendered vacant by the murder of a man who had been placed there merely to assist himself. if the present arrangement was good, why should it not have been made independently of mr. bonteen? questions were asked about it in both houses, and the transfer no doubt did have the effect of lowering the man in the estimation of the political world. he himself felt that he did not stand so high with his colleagues as when he was chancellor of the exchequer; not even so high as when he held the privy seal. in the printed lists of those who attended the cabinets his name generally was placed last, and an opponent on one occasion thought, or pretended to think, that he was no more than postmaster-general. he determined to bear all this without wincing,--but he did wince. he would not own to himself that he had been wrong, but he was sore,--as a man is sore who doubts about his own conduct; and he was not the less so because he strove to bear his wife's sarcasms without showing that they pained him. "they say that poor lord fawn is losing his mind," she said to him. "lord fawn! i haven't heard anything about it." "he was engaged to lady eustace once, you remember. they say that he'll be made to declare why he didn't marry her if this bigamy case goes on. and then it's so unfortunate that he should have seen the man in the grey coat; i hope he won't have to resign." "i hope not, indeed." "because, of course, you'd have to take his place as under-secretary." this was very awkward;--but the husband only smiled, and expressed a hope that if he did so he might himself be equal to his new duties. "by the bye, plantagenet, what do you mean to do about the jewels?" "i haven't thought about them. madame goesler had better take them." "but she won't." "i suppose they had better be sold." "by auction?" "that would be the proper way." "i shouldn't like that at all. couldn't we buy them ourselves, and let the money stand till she choose to take it? it's an affair of trade, i suppose, and you're at the head of all that now." then again she asked him some question about the home secretary, with reference to phineas finn; and when he told her that it would be highly improper for him to speak to that officer on such a subject, she pretended to suppose that the impropriety would consist in the interference of a man holding so low a position as he was. "of course it is not the same now," she said, "as it used to be when you were at the exchequer." all which he took without uttering a word of anger, or showing a sign of annoyance. "you only get two thousand a year, do you, at the board of trade, plantagenet?" "upon my word, i forget. i think it's two thousand five hundred." "how nice! it was five at the exchequer, wasn't it?" "yes; five thousand at the exchequer." "when you're a lord of the treasury it will only be one;--will it?" "what a goose you are, glencora. if it suited me to be a lord of the treasury, what difference would the salary make?" "not the least;--nor yet the rank, or the influence, or the prestige, or the general fitness of things. you are above all such sublunary ideas. you would clean mr. gresham's shoes for him, if--the service of your country required it." these last words she added in a tone of voice very similar to that which her husband himself used on occasions. "i would even allow you to clean them,--if the service of the country required it," said the duke. but, though he was magnanimous, he was not happy, and perhaps the intense anxiety which his wife displayed as to the fate of phineas finn added to his discomfort. the duchess, as the duke of st. bungay had said, was enthusiastic, and he never for a moment dreamed of teaching her to change her nature; but it would have been as well if her enthusiasm at the present moment could have been brought to display itself on some other subject. he had been brought to feel that phineas finn had been treated badly when the good things of government were being given away, and that this had been caused by the jealous prejudices of the man who had been since murdered. but an expectant under-secretary of state, let him have been ever so cruelly left out in the cold, should not murder the man by whom he has been ill-treated. looking at all the evidence as best he could, and listening to the opinions of others, the duke did think that phineas had been guilty. the murder had clearly been committed by a personal enemy, not by a robber. two men were known to have entertained feelings of enmity against mr. bonteen; as to one of whom he was assured that it was impossible that he should have been on the spot. as to the other it seemed equally manifest that he must have been there. if it were so, it would have been much better that his wife should not display her interest publicly in the murderer's favour. but the duchess, wherever she went, spoke of the trial as a persecution; and seemed to think that the prisoner should already be treated as a hero and a martyr. "glencora," he said to her, "i wish that you could drop the subject of this trial till it be over." "but i can't." "surely you can avoid speaking of it." "no more than you can avoid your decimals. out of the full heart the mouth speaks, and my heart is very full. what harm do i do?" "you set people talking of you." "they have been doing that ever since we were married;--but i do not know that they have made out much against me. we must go after our nature, plantagenet. your nature is decimals. i run after units." he did not deem it wise to say anything further,--knowing that to this evil also of phineas finn the gods would at last vouchsafe an ending. chapter lix. mrs. bonteen. at the time of the murder, lady eustace, whom we must regard as the wife of mr. emilius till it be proved that he had another wife when he married her, was living as the guest of mr. bonteen. mr. bonteen had pledged himself to prove the bigamy, and mrs. bonteen had opened her house and her heart to the injured lady. lizzie eustace, as she had always been called, was clever, rich, and pretty, and knew well how to ingratiate herself with the friend of the hour. she was a greedy, grasping little woman, but, when she had before her a sufficient object, she could appear to pour all that she had into her friend's lap with all the prodigality of a child. perhaps mrs. bonteen had liked to have things poured into her lap. perhaps mr. bonteen had enjoyed the confidential tears of a pretty woman. it may be that the wrongs of a woman doomed to live with mr. emilius as his wife had touched their hearts. be that as it might, they had become the acknowledged friends and supporters of lady eustace, and she was living with them in their little house in st. james's place on that fatal night. [illustration: lizzie eustace.] lizzie behaved herself very well when the terrible tidings were brought home. mr. bonteen was so often late at the house or at his club that his wife rarely sat up for him; and when the servants were disturbed between six and seven o'clock in the morning, no surprise had as yet been felt at his absence. the sergeant of police who had brought the news sent for the maid of the unfortunate lady, and the maid, in her panic, told her story to lady eustace before daring to communicate it to her mistress. lizzie eustace, who in former days had known something of policemen, saw the man, and learned from him all that there was to learn. then, while the sergeant remained on the landing place, outside, to support her, if necessary, with the maid by her side to help her, kneeling by the bed, she told the wretched woman what had happened. we need not witness the paroxysms of the widow's misery, but we may understand that lizzie eustace was from that moment more strongly fixed than ever in her friendship with mrs. bonteen. when the first three or four days of agony and despair had passed by, and the mind of the bereaved woman was able to turn itself from the loss to the cause of the loss, mrs. bonteen became fixed in her certainty that phineas finn had murdered her husband, and seemed to think that it was the first and paramount duty of the present government to have the murderer hung,--almost without a trial. when she found that, at the best, the execution of the man she so vehemently hated could not take place for two months after the doing of the deed, even if then, she became almost frantic in her anger. surely they would not let him escape! what more proof could be needed? had not the miscreant quarrelled with her husband, and behaved abominably to him but a few minutes before the murder? had he not been on the spot with the murderous instrument in his pocket? had he not been seen by lord fawn hastening on the steps of her dear and doomed husband? mrs. bonteen, as she sat enveloped in her new weeds, thirsting for blood, could not understand that further evidence should be needed, or that a rational doubt should remain in the mind of any one who knew the circumstances. it was to her as though she had seen the dastard blow struck, and with such conviction as this on her mind did she insist on talking of the coming trial to her inmate, lady eustace. but lizzie had her own opinion, though she was forced to leave it unexpressed in the presence of mrs. bonteen. she knew the man who claimed her as his wife, and did not think that phineas finn was guilty of the murder. her emilius,--her yosef mealyus, as she had delighted to call him, since she had separated herself from him,--was, as she thought, the very man to commit a murder. he was by no means degraded in her opinion by the feeling. to commit great crimes is the line of life that comes naturally to some men, and was, as she thought, a line less objectionable than that which confines itself to small crimes. she almost felt that the audacity of her husband in doing such a deed redeemed her from some of the ignominy to which she had subjected herself by her marriage with a runaway who had another wife living. there was a dash of adventure about it which was almost gratifying. but these feelings she was obliged, at any rate for the present, to keep to herself. not only must she acknowledge the undoubted guilt of phineas finn for the sake of her friend, mrs. bonteen; but she must consider carefully whether she would gain or lose more by having a murderer for her husband. she did not relish the idea of being made a widow by the gallows. she was still urgent as to the charge of bigamy, and should she succeed in proving that the man had never been her husband, then she did not care how soon they might hang him. but for the present it was better for all reasons that she should cling to the phineas finn theory,--feeling certain that it was the bold hand of her own emilius who had struck the blow. she was by no means free from the solicitations of her husband, who knew well where she was, and who still adhered to his purpose of reclaiming his wife and his wife's property. when he was released by the magistrate's order, and had recovered his goods from mr. meager's house, and was once more established in lodgings, humbler, indeed, than those in northumberland street, he wrote the following letter to her who had been for one blessed year the partner of his joys, and his bosom's mistress:-- , jellybag street, edgware road, may , --. dearest wife,-- you will have heard to what additional sorrow and disgrace i have been subjected through the malice of my enemies. but all in vain! though princes and potentates have been arrayed against me [the princes and potentates had no doubt been lord chiltern and mr. low], innocence has prevailed, and i have come out from the ordeal white as bleached linen or unsullied snow. the murderer is in the hands of justice, and though he be the friend of kings and princes [mr. emilius had probably heard that the prince had been at the club with phineas], yet shall justice be done upon him, and the truth of the lord shall be made to prevail. mr. bonteen has been very hostile to me, believing evil things of me, and instigating you, my beloved, to believe evil of me. nevertheless, i grieve for his death. i lament bitterly that he should have been cut off in his sins, and hurried before the judgment seat of the great judge without an hour given to him for repentance. let us pray that the mercy of the lord may be extended even to him. i beg that you will express my deepest commiseration to his widow, and assure her that she has my prayers. and now, my dearest wife, let me approach my own affairs. as i have come out unscorched from the last fiery furnace which has been heated for me by my enemies seven times hot, so shall i escape from that other fire with which the poor man who has gone from us endeavoured to envelop me. if they have made you believe that i have any wife but yourself they have made you believe a falsehood. you, and you only, have my hand. you, and you only, have my heart. i know well what attempts are being made to suborn false evidence in my old country, and how the follies of my youth are being pressed against me,--how anxious are proud englishmen that the poor bohemian should be robbed of the beauty and wit and wealth which he had won for himself. but the lord fights on my side, and i shall certainly prevail. if you will come back to me all shall be forgiven. my heart is as it ever was. come, and let us leave this cold and ungenial country and go to the sunny south; to the islands of the blest,-- mr. emilius during his married life had not quite fathomed the depths of his wife's character, though, no doubt, he had caught some points of it with sufficient accuracy. --where we may forget these blood-stained sorrows, and mutually forgive each other. what happiness, what joys can you expect in your present mode of life? even your income,--which in truth is my income,--you cannot obtain, because the tenants will not dare to pay it in opposition to my legal claims. but of what use is gold? what can purple do for us, and fine linen, and rich jewels, without love and a contented heart? come, dearest, once more to your own one, who will never remember aught of the sad rupture which enemies have made, and we will hurry to the setting sun, and recline on mossy banks, and give up our souls to elysium. as lizzie read this she uttered an exclamation of disgust. did the man after all know so little of her as to suppose that she, with all her experiences, did not know how to keep her own life and her own pocket separate from her romance? she despised him for this, almost as much as she respected him for the murder. if you will only say that you will see me, i will be at your feet in a moment. till the solemnity with which the late tragical event must have filled you shall have left you leisure to think of all this, i will not force myself into your presence, or seek to secure by law rights which will be much dearer to me if they are accorded by your own sweet goodwill. and in the meantime, i will agree that the income shall be drawn, provided that it be equally divided between us. i have been sorely straitened in my circumstances by these last events. my congregation is of course dispersed. though my innocence has been triumphantly displayed, my name has been tarnished. it is with difficulty that i find a spot where to lay my weary head. i am ahungered and athirst;--and my very garments are parting from me in my need. can it be that you willingly doom me to such misery because of my love for you? had i been less true to you, it might have been otherwise. let me have an answer at once, and i will instantly take steps about the money if you will agree. your truly most loving husband, joseph emilius. to lady eustace, wife of the rev. joseph emilius. when lizzie had read the letter twice through she resolved that she would show it to her friend. "i know it will reopen the floodgates of your grief," she said; "but unless you see it, how can i ask from you the advice which is so necessary to me?" but mrs. bonteen was a woman sincere at any rate in this,--that the loss of her husband had been to her so crushing a calamity that there could be no reopening of the floodgates. the grief that cannot bear allusion to its causes has generally something of affectation in its composition. the floodgates with this widowed one had never yet been for a moment closed. it was not that her tears were ever flowing, but that her heart had never yet for a moment ceased to feel that its misery was incapable of alleviation. no utterances concerning her husband could make her more wretched than she was. she took the letter and read it through. "i daresay he is a bad man," said mrs. bonteen. "indeed he is," said the bad man's wife. "but he was not guilty of this crime." "oh, no;--i am sure of that," said lady eustace, feeling certain at the same time that mr. bonteen had fallen by her husband's hands. "and therefore i am glad they have given him up. there can be no doubt now about it." "everybody knows who did it now," said lady eustace. "infamous ruffian! my poor dear lost one always knew what he was. oh that such a creature should have been allowed to come among us." "of course he'll be hung, mrs. bonteen." "hung! i should think so! what other end would be fit for him? oh, yes; they must hang him. but it makes one think that the world is too hard a place to live in, when such a one as he can cause so great a ruin." "it has been very terrible." "think what the country has lost! they tell me that the duke of omnium is to take my husband's place; but the duke cannot do what he did. every one knows that for real work there was no one like him. nothing was more certain than that he would have been prime minister,--oh, very soon. they ought to pinch him to death with red-hot tweezers." but lady eustace was anxious at the present moment to talk about her own troubles. "of course, mr. emilius did not commit the murder." "phineas finn committed it," said the half-maddened woman, rising from her chair. "and phineas finn shall hang by his neck till he is dead." "but emilius has certainly got another wife in prague." "i suppose you know. he said it was so, and he was always right." "i am sure of it,--just as you are sure of this horrid mr. finn." "the two things can't be named together, lady eustace." "certainly not. i wouldn't think of being so unfeeling. but he has written me this letter, and what must i do? it is very dreadful about the money, you know." "he cannot touch your money. my dear one always said that he could not touch it." "but he prevents me from touching it. what they give me only comes by a sort of favour from the lawyer. i almost wish that i had compromised." "you would not be rid of him that way." "no;--not quite rid of him. you see i never had to take that horrid name because of the title. i suppose i'd better send the letter to the lawyer." "send it to the lawyer, of course. that is what he would have done. they tell me that the trial is to be on the th of june. why should they postpone it so long? they know all about it. they always postpone everything. if he had lived, there would be an end of that before long." lady eustace was tired of the virtues of her friend's martyred lord, and was very anxious to talk of her own affairs. she was still holding her husband's letter open in her hand, and was thinking how she could force her friend's dead lion to give place for a while to her own live dog, when a servant announced that mr. camperdown, the attorney, was below. in former days there had been an old mr. camperdown, who was vehemently hostile to poor lizzie eustace; but now, in her new troubles, the firm that had ever been true to her first husband had taken up her case for the sake of the family and her property--and for the sake of the heir, lizzie eustace's little boy; and mr. camperdown's firm had, next to mr. bonteen, been the depository of her trust. he had sent clerks out to prague,--one who had returned ill,--as some had said poisoned, though the poison had probably been nothing more than the diet natural to bohemians. and then another had been sent. this, of course, had all been previous to madame goesler's self-imposed mission,--which, though it was occasioned altogether by the suspected wickednesses of mr. emilius, had no special reference to his matrimonial escapades. and now mr. camperdown was down stairs. "shall i go down to him, dear mrs. bonteen?" "he may come here if you please." "perhaps i had better go down. he will disturb you." "my darling lost one always thought that there should be two present to hear such matters. he said it was safer." mr. camperdown, junior, was therefore shown upstairs to mrs. bonteen's drawing-room. "we have found it all out, lady eustace," said mr. camperdown. "found out what?" "we've got madame mealyus over here." "no!" said mrs. bonteen, with her hands raised. lady eustace sat silent, with her mouth open. "yes, indeed;--and photographs of the registry of the marriage from the books of the synagogue at cracow. his signature was yosef mealyus, and his handwriting isn't a bit altered. i think we could have proved it without the lady; but of course it was better to bring her if possible." "where is she?" asked lizzie, thinking that she would like to see her own predecessor. "we have her safe, lady eustace. she's not in custody; but as she can't speak a word of english or french, she finds it more comfortable to be kept in private. we're afraid it will cost a little money." "will she swear that she is his wife?" asked mrs. bonteen. "oh, yes; there'll be no difficulty about that. but her swearing alone mightn't be enough." "surely that settles it all," said lady eustace. "for the money that we shall have to pay," said mr. camperdown, "we might probably have got a dozen bohemian ladies to come and swear that they were married to yosef mealyus at cracow. the difficulty has been to bring over documentary evidence which will satisfy a jury that this is the woman she says she is. but i think we've got it." "and i shall be free!" said lady eustace, clasping her hands together. "it will cost a good deal, i fear," said mr. camperdown. "but i shall be free! oh, mr. camperdown, there is not a woman in all the world who cares so little for money as i do. but i shall be free from the power of that horrid man who has entangled me in the meshes of his sinful life." mr. camperdown told her that he thought that she would be free, and went on to say that yosef mealyus had already been arrested, and was again in prison. the unfortunate man had not therefore long enjoyed that humbler apartment which he had found for himself in jellybag street. when mr. camperdown went, mrs. bonteen followed him out to the top of the stairs. "you have heard about the trial, mr. camperdown?" he said that he knew that it was to take place at the central criminal court in june. "yes; i don't know why they have put it off so long. people know that he did it--eh?" mr. camperdown, with funereal sadness, declared that he had never looked into the matter. "i cannot understand that everybody should not know it," said mrs. bonteen. chapter lx. two days before the trial. there was a scene in the private room of mr. wickerby, the attorney in hatton garden, which was very distressing indeed to the feelings of lord fawn, and which induced his lordship to think that he was being treated without that respect which was due to him as a peer and a member of the government. there were present at this scene mr. chaffanbrass, the old barrister, mr. wickerby himself, mr. wickerby's confidential clerk, lord fawn, lord fawn's solicitor,--that same mr. camperdown whom we saw in the last chapter calling upon lady eustace,--and a policeman. lord fawn had been invited to attend, with many protestations of regret as to the trouble thus imposed upon him, because the very important nature of the evidence about to be given by him at the forthcoming trial seemed to render it expedient that some questions should be asked. this was on tuesday, the nd june, and the trial was to be commenced on the following thursday. and there was present in the room, very conspicuously, an old heavy grey great coat, as to which mr. wickerby had instructed mr. chaffanbrass that evidence was forthcoming, if needed, to prove that that coat was lying on the night of the murder in a downstairs room in the house in which yosef mealyus was then lodging. the reader will remember the history of the coat. instigated by madame goesler, who was still absent from england, mr. wickerby had traced the coat, and had purchased the coat, and was in a position to prove that this very coat was the coat which mr. meager had brought home with him to northumberland street on that day. but mr. wickerby was of opinion that the coat had better not be used. "it does not go far enough," said mr. wickerby. "it don't go very far, certainly," said mr. chaffanbrass. "and if you try to show that another man has done it, and he hasn't," said mr. wickerby, "it always tells against you with a jury." to this mr. chaffanbrass made no reply, preferring to form his own opinion, and to keep it to himself when formed. but in obedience to his instructions, lord fawn was asked to attend at mr. wickerby's chambers, in the cause of truth, and the coat was brought out on the occasion. "was that the sort of coat the man wore, my lord?" said mr. chaffanbrass as mr. wickerby held up the coat to view. lord fawn walked round and round the coat, and looked at it very carefully before he would vouchsafe a reply. "you see it is a grey coat," said mr. chaffanbrass, not speaking at all in the tone which mr. wickerby's note had induced lord fawn to expect. "it is grey," said lord fawn. "perhaps it's not the same shade of grey, lord fawn. you see, my lord, we are most anxious not to impute guilt where guilt doesn't lie. you are a witness for the crown, and, of course, you will tell the crown lawyers all that passes here. were it possible, we would make this little preliminary inquiry in their presence;--but we can hardly do that. mr. finn's coat was a very much smaller coat." "i should think it was," said his lordship, who did not like being questioned about coats. "you don't think the coat the man wore when you saw him was a big coat like that? you think he wore a little coat?" "he wore a grey coat," said lord fawn. "this is grey;--a coat shouldn't be greyer than that." "i don't think lord fawn should be asked any more questions on the matter till he gives his evidence in court," said mr. camperdown. "a man's life depends on it, mr. camperdown," said the barrister. "it isn't a matter of cross-examination. if i bring that coat into court i must make a charge against another man by the very act of doing so. and i will not do so unless i believe that other man to be guilty. it's an inquiry i can't postpone till we are before the jury. it isn't that i want to trump up a case against another man for the sake of extricating my client on a false issue. lord fawn doesn't want to hang mr. finn if mr. finn be not guilty." "god forbid!" said his lordship. "mr. finn couldn't have worn that coat, or a coat at all like it." "what is it you do want to learn, mr. chaffanbrass?" asked mr. camperdown. "just put on the coat, mr. scruby." then at the order of the barrister, mr. scruby, the attorney's clerk, did put on mr. meager's old great coat, and walked about the room in it. "walk quick," said mr. chaffanbrass;--and the clerk did "walk quick." he was a stout, thick-set little man, nearly half a foot shorter than phineas finn. "is that at all like the figure?" asked mr. chaffanbrass. "i think it is like the figure," said lord fawn. "and like the coat?" "it's the same colour as the coat." "you wouldn't swear it was not the coat?" "i am not on my oath at all, mr. chaffanbrass." "no, my lord;--but to me your word is as good as your oath. if you think it possible that was the coat--" "i don't think anything about it at all. when mr. scruby hurries down the room in that way he looks as the man looked when he was hurrying under the lamp-post. i am not disposed to say any more at present." "it's a matter of regret to me that lord fawn should have come here at all," said mr. camperdown, who had been summoned to meet his client at the chambers, but had come with him. "i suppose his lordship wishes us to know all that he knew, seeing that it's a question of hanging the right man or the wrong one. i never heard such trash in my life. take it off, mr. scruby, and let the policeman keep it. i understand lord fawn to say that the man's figure was about the same as yours. my client, i believe, stands about twelve inches taller. thank you, my lord;--we shall get at the truth at last, i don't doubt." it was afterwards said that mr. chaffanbrass's conduct had been very improper in enticing lord fawn to mr. wickerby's chambers; but mr. chaffanbrass never cared what any one said. "i don't know that we can make much of it," he said, when he and mr. wickerby were alone, "but it may be as well to bring it into court. it would prove nothing against the jew even if that fellow,"--he meant lord fawn,--"could be made to swear that the coat worn was exactly similar to this. i am thinking now about the height." "i don't doubt but you'll get him off." "well;--i may do so. they ought not to hang any man on such evidence as there is against him, even though there were no moral doubt of his guilt. there is nothing really to connect mr. phineas finn with the murder,--nothing tangible. but there is no saying nowadays what a jury will do. juries depend a great deal more on the judge than they used to do. if i were on trial for my life, i don't think i'd have counsel at all." "no one could defend you as well as yourself, mr. chaffanbrass." "i didn't mean that. no;--i shouldn't defend myself. i should say to the judge, 'my lord, i don't doubt the jury will do just as you tell them, and you'll form your own opinion quite independent of the arguments.'" "you'd be hung, mr. chaffanbrass." "no; i don't know that i should," said mr. chaffanbrass, slowly. "i don't think i could affront a judge of the present day into hanging me. they've too much of what i call thick-skinned honesty for that. it's the temper of the time to resent nothing,--to be mealy-mouthed and mealy-hearted. jurymen are afraid of having their own opinion, and almost always shirk a verdict when they can." "but we do get verdicts." "yes; the judges give them. and they are mealy-mouthed verdicts, tending to equalise crime and innocence, and to make men think that after all it may be a question whether fraud is violence, which, after all, is manly, and to feel that we cannot afford to hate dishonesty. it was a bad day for the commercial world, mr. wickerby, when forgery ceased to be capital." "it was a horrid thing to hang a man for writing another man's name to a receipt for thirty shillings." "we didn't do it, but the fact that the law held certain frauds to be hanging matters operated on the minds of men in regard to all fraud. what with the joint-stock working of companies, and the confusion between directors who know nothing and managers who know everything, and the dislike of juries to tread upon people's corns, you can't punish dishonest trading. caveat emptor is the only motto going, and the worst proverb that ever came from dishonest stony-hearted rome. with such a motto as that to guide us no man dare trust his brother. caveat lex,--and let the man who cheats cheat at his peril." "you'd give the law a great deal to do." "much less than at present. what does your caveat emptor come to? that every seller tries to pick the eyes out of the head of the purchaser. sooner or later the law must interfere, and caveat emptor falls to the ground. i bought a horse the other day; my daughter wanted something to look pretty, and like an old ass as i am i gave a hundred and fifty pounds for the brute. when he came home he wasn't worth a feed of corn." "you had a warranty, i suppose?" "no, indeed! did you ever hear of such an old fool?" "i should have thought any dealer would have taken him back for the sake of his character." "any dealer would; but--i bought him of a gentleman." "mr. chaffanbrass!" "i ought to have known better, oughtn't i? caveat emptor." "it was just giving away your money, you know." "a great deal worse than that. i could have given the--gentleman--a hundred and fifty pounds, and not have minded it much. i ought to have had the horse killed, and gone to a dealer for another. instead of that,--i went to an attorney." "oh, mr. chaffanbrass;--the idea of your going to an attorney." "i did then. i never had so much honest truth told me in my life." "by an attorney!" "he said that he did think i'd been born long enough to have known better than that! i pleaded on my own behalf that the gentleman said the horse was all right. 'gentleman!' exclaimed my friend. 'you go to a gentleman for a horse; you buy a horse from a gentleman without a warranty; and then you come to me! didn't you ever hear of caveat emptor, mr. chaffanbrass? what can i do for you?' that's what my friend, the attorney, said to me." "and what came of it, mr. chaffanbrass? arbitration, i should say?" "just that;--with the horse eating his head off every meal at ever so much per week,--till at last i fairly gave in from sheer vexation. so the--gentleman--got my money, and i added something to my stock of experience. of course, that's only my story, and it may be that the gentleman could tell it another way. but i say that if my story be right the doctrine of caveat emptor does not encourage trade. i don't know how we got to all this from mr. finn. i'm to see him to-morrow." "yes;--he is very anxious to speak to you." "what's the use of it, wickerby? i hate seeing a client.--what comes of it?" "of course he wants to tell his own story." "but i don't want to hear his own story. what good will his own story do me? he'll tell me either one of two things. he'll swear he didn't murder the man--" "that's what he'll say." "which can have no effect upon me one way or the other; or else he'll say that he did,--which would cripple me altogether." "he won't say that, mr. chaffanbrass." "there's no knowing what they'll say. a man will go on swearing by his god that he is innocent, till at last, in a moment of emotion, he breaks down, and out comes the truth. in such a case as this i do not in the least want to know the truth about the murder." "that is what the public wants to know." "because the public is ignorant. the public should not wish to know anything of the kind. what we should all wish to get at is the truth of the evidence about the murder. the man is to be hung not because he committed the murder,--as to which no positive knowledge is attainable; but because he has been proved to have committed the murder,--as to which proof, though it be enough for hanging, there must always be attached some shadow of doubt. we were delighted to hang palmer,--but we don't know that he killed cook. a learned man who knew more about it than we can know seemed to think that he didn't. now the last man to give us any useful insight into the evidence is the prisoner himself. in nineteen cases out of twenty a man tried for murder in this country committed the murder for which he is tried." "there really seems to be a doubt in this case." "i dare say. if there be only nineteen guilty out of twenty, there must be one innocent; and why not mr. phineas finn? but, if it be so, he, burning with the sense of injustice, thinks that everybody should see it as he sees it. he is to be tried, because, on investigation, everybody sees it just in a different light. in such case he is unfortunate, but he can't assist me in liberating him from his misfortune. he sees what is patent and clear to him,--that he walked home on that night without meddling with any one. but i can't see that, or make others see it, because he sees it." "his manner of telling you may do something." "if it do, mr. wickerby, it is because i am unfit for my business. if he have the gift of protesting well, i am to think him innocent; and, therefore, to think him guilty, if he be unprovided with such eloquence! i will neither believe or disbelieve anything that a client says to me,--unless he confess his guilt, in which case my services can be but of little avail. of course i shall see him, as he asks it. we had better meet there,--say at half-past ten." whereupon mr. wickerby wrote to the governor of the prison begging that phineas finn might be informed of the visit. phineas had now been in gaol between six and seven weeks, and the very fact of his incarceration had nearly broken his spirits. two of his sisters, who had come from ireland to be near him, saw him every day, and his two friends, mr. low and lord chiltern, were very frequently with him; lady laura kennedy had not come to him again; but he heard from her frequently through barrington erle. lord chiltern rarely spoke of his sister,--alluding to her merely in connection with her father and her late husband. presents still came to him from various quarters,--as to which he hardly knew whence they came. but the duchess and lady chiltern and lady laura all catered for him,--while mrs. bunce looked after his wardrobe, and saw that he was not cut down to prison allowance of clean shirts and socks. but the only friend whom he recognised as such was the friend who would freely declare a conviction of his innocence. they allowed him books and pens and paper, and even cards, if he chose to play at patience with them or build castles. the paper and pens he could use because he could write about himself. from day to day he composed a diary in which he was never tired of expatiating on the terrible injustice of his position. but he could not read. he found it to be impossible to fix his attention on matters outside himself. he assured himself from hour to hour that it was not death he feared,--not even death from the hangman's hand. it was the condemnation of those who had known him that was so terrible to him--the feeling that they with whom he had aspired to work and live, the leading men and women of his day, ministers of the government and their wives, statesmen and their daughters, peers and members of the house in which he himself had sat;--that these should think that, after all, he had been a base adventurer unworthy of their society! that was the sorrow that broke him down, and drew him to confess that his whole life had been a failure. mr. low had advised him not to see mr. chaffanbrass;--but he had persisted in declaring that there were instructions which no one but himself could give to the counsellor whose duty it would be to defend him at the trial. mr. chaffanbrass came at the hour fixed, and with him came mr. wickerby. the old barrister bowed courteously as he entered the prison room, and the attorney introduced the two gentlemen with more than all the courtesy of the outer world. "i am sorry to see you here, mr. finn," said the barrister. "it's a bad lodging, mr. chaffanbrass, but the term will soon be over. i am thinking a good deal more of my next abode." "it has to be thought of, certainly," said the barrister. "let us hope that it may be all that you would wish it to be. my services shall not be wanting to make it so." "we are doing all we can, mr. finn," said mr. wickerby. "mr. chaffanbrass," said phineas, "there is one special thing that i want you to do." the old man, having his own idea as to what was coming, laid one of his hands over the other, bowed his head, and looked meek. "i want you to make men believe that i am innocent of this crime." this was better than mr. chaffanbrass expected. "i trust that we may succeed in making twelve men believe it," said he. "comparatively i do not care a straw for the twelve men. it is not to them especially that i am anxious that you should address yourself--" "but that will be my bounden duty, mr. finn." "i can well believe, sir, that though i have myself been bred a lawyer, i may not altogether understand the nature of an advocate's duty to his client. but i would wish something more to be done than what you intimate." "the duty of an advocate defending a prisoner is to get a verdict of acquittal if he can, and to use his own discretion in making the attempt." "but i want something more to be attempted, even if in the struggle something less be achieved. i have known men to be so acquitted that every man in court believed them to be guilty." "no doubt;--and such men have probably owed much to their advocates." "it is not such a debt that i wish to owe. i know my own innocence." "mr. chaffanbrass takes that for granted," said mr. wickerby. "to me it is a matter of astonishment that any human being should believe me to have committed this murder. i am lost in surprise when i remember that i am here simply because i walked home from my club with a loaded stick in my pocket. the magistrate, i suppose, thought me guilty." "he did not think about it, mr. finn. he went by the evidence;--the quarrel, your position in the streets at the time, the colour of the coat you wore and that of the coat worn by the man whom lord fawn saw in the street; the doctor's evidence as to the blows by which the man was killed; and the nature of the weapon which you carried. he put these things together, and they were enough to entitle the public to demand that a jury should decide. he didn't say you were guilty. he only said that the circumstances were sufficient to justify a trial." "if he thought me innocent he would not have sent me here." "yes, he would;--if the evidence required that he should do so." "we will not argue about that, mr. chaffanbrass." "certainly not, mr. finn." "here i am, and to-morrow i shall be tried for my life. my life will be nothing to me unless it can be made clear to all the world that i am innocent. i would be sooner hung for this,--with the certainty at my heart that all england on the next day would ring with the assurance of my innocence, than be acquitted and afterwards be looked upon as a murderer." phineas, when he was thus speaking, had stepped out into the middle of the room, and stood with his head thrown back, and his right hand forward. mr. chaffanbrass, who was himself an ugly, dirty old man, who had always piqued himself on being indifferent to appearance, found himself struck by the beauty and grace of the man whom he now saw for the first time. and he was struck, too, by his client's eloquence, though he had expressly declared to the attorney that it was his duty to be superior to any such influence. "oh, mr. chaffanbrass, for the love of heaven, let there be no quibbling." "we never quibble, i hope, mr. finn." "no subterfuges, no escaping by a side wind, no advantage taken of little forms, no objection taken to this and that as though delay would avail us anything." "character will go a great way, we hope." "it should go for nothing. though no one would speak a word for me, still am i innocent. of course the truth will be known some day." "i'm not so sure of that, mr. finn." "it will certainly be known some day. that it should not be known as yet is my misfortune. but in defending me i would have you hurl defiance at my accusers. i had the stick in my pocket,--having heretofore been concerned with ruffians in the street. i did quarrel with the man, having been insulted by him at the club. the coat which i wore was such as they say. but does that make a murderer of me?" "somebody did the deed, and that somebody could probably say all that you say." "no, sir;--he, when he is known, will be found to have been skulking in the streets; he will have thrown away his weapon; he will have been secret in his movements; he will have hidden his face, and have been a murderer in more than the deed. when they came to me in the morning did it seem to them that i was a murderer? has my life been like that? they who have really known me cannot believe that i have been guilty. they who have not known me, and do believe, will live to learn their error." he then sat down and listened patiently while the old lawyer described to him the nature of the case,--wherein lay his danger, and wherein what hope there was of safety. there was no evidence against him other than circumstantial evidence, and both judges and jury were wont to be unwilling to accept such, when uncorroborated, as sufficient in cases of life and death. unfortunately, in this case the circumstantial evidence was very strong against him. but, on the other hand, his character, as to which men of great mark would speak with enthusiasm, would be made to stand very high. "i would not have it made to stand higher than it is," said phineas. as to the opinion of the world afterwards, mr. chaffanbrass went on to say, of that he must take his chance. but surely he himself might fight better for it living than any friend could do for him after his death. "you must believe me in this, mr. finn, that a verdict of acquittal from the jury is the one object that we must have before us." "the one object that i shall have before me is the verdict of the public," said phineas. "i am treated with so much injustice in being thought a murderer that they can hardly add anything to it by hanging me." when mr. chaffanbrass left the prison he walked back with mr. wickerby to the attorney's chambers in hatton garden, and he lingered for awhile on the viaduct expressing his opinion of his client. "he's not a bad fellow, wickerby." "a very good sort of fellow, mr. chaffanbrass." "i never did,--and i never will,--express an opinion of my own as to the guilt or innocence of a client till after the trial is over. but i have sometimes felt as though i would give the blood out of my veins to save a man. i never felt in that way more strongly than i do now." "it'll make me very unhappy, i know, if it goes against him," said mr. wickerby. "people think that the special branch of the profession into which i have chanced to fall is a very low one,--and i do not know whether, if the world were before me again, i would allow myself to drift into an exclusive practice in criminal courts." "yours has been a very useful life, mr. chaffanbrass." "but i often feel," continued the barrister, paying no attention to the attorney's last remark, "that my work touches the heart more nearly than does that of gentlemen who have to deal with matters of property and of high social claims. people think i am savage,--savage to witnesses." "you can frighten a witness, mr. chaffanbrass." "it's just the trick of the trade that you learn, as a girl learns the notes of her piano. there's nothing in it. you forget it all the next hour. but when a man has been hung whom you have striven to save, you do remember that. good-morning, mr. wickerby. i'll be there a little before ten. perhaps you may have to speak to me." chapter lxi. the beginning of the trial. the task of seeing an important trial at the old bailey is by no means a pleasant business, unless you be what the denizens of the court would call "one of the swells,"--so as to enjoy the privilege of being a benchfellow with the judge on the seat of judgment. and even in that case the pleasure is not unalloyed. you have, indeed, the gratification of seeing the man whom all the world has been talking about for the last nine days, face to face; and of being seen in a position which causes you to be acknowledged as a man of mark; but the intolerable stenches of the court and its horrid heat come up to you there, no doubt, as powerfully as they fall on those below. and then the tedium of a prolonged trial, in which the points of interest are apt to be few and far between, grows upon you till you begin to feel that though the prime minister who is out should murder the prime minister who is in, and all the members of the two cabinets were to be called in evidence, you would not attend the trial, though the seat of honour next to the judge were accorded to you. those be-wigged ones, who are the performers, are so insufferably long in their parts, so arrogant in their bearing,--so it strikes you, though doubtless the fashion of working has been found to be efficient for the purposes they have in hand,--and so uninteresting in their repetition, that you first admire, and then question, and at last execrate the imperturbable patience of the judge, who might, as you think, force the thing through in a quarter of the time without any injury to justice. and it will probably strike you that the length of the trial is proportioned not to the complicity but to the importance, or rather to the public interest, of the case,--so that the trial which has been suggested of a disappointed and bloody-minded ex-prime minister would certainly take at least a fortnight, even though the speaker of the house of commons and the lord chancellor had seen the blow struck, whereas a collier may knock his wife's brains out in the dark and be sent to the gallows with a trial that shall not last three hours. and yet the collier has to be hung,--if found guilty,--and no one thinks that his life is improperly endangered by reckless haste. whether lives may not be improperly saved by the more lengthened process is another question. but the honours of such benchfellowship can be accorded but to few, and the task becomes very tiresome when the spectator has to enter the court as an ordinary mortal. there are two modes open to him, either of which is subject to grievous penalties. if he be the possessor of a decent coat and hat, and can scrape any acquaintance with any one concerned, he may get introduced to that overworked and greatly perplexed official, the under-sheriff, who will stave him off if possible,--knowing that even an under-sheriff cannot make space elastic,--but, if the introduction has been acknowledged as good, will probably find a seat for him if he persevere to the end. but the seat when obtained must be kept in possession from morning to evening, and the fight must be renewed from day to day. and the benches are hard, and the space is narrow, and you feel that the under-sheriff would prod you with his sword if you ventured to sneeze, or to put to your lips the flask which you have in your pocket. and then, when all the benchfellows go out to lunch at half-past one, and you are left to eat your dry sandwich without room for your elbows, a feeling of unsatisfied ambition will pervade you. it is all very well to be the friend of an under-sheriff, but if you could but have known the judge, or have been a cousin of the real sheriff, how different it might have been with you! but you may be altogether independent, and, as a matter of right, walk into an open english court of law as one of the british public. you will have to stand of course,--and to commence standing very early in the morning if you intend to succeed in witnessing any portion of the performance. and when you have made once good your entrance as one of the british public, you are apt to be a good deal knocked about, not only by your public brethren, but also by those who have to keep the avenues free for witnesses, and who will regard you from first to last as a disagreeable excrescence on the officialities of the work on hand. upon the whole it may be better for you, perhaps, to stay at home and read the record of the affair as given in the next day's times. impartial reporters, judicious readers, and able editors between them will preserve for you all the kernel, and will save you from the necessity of having to deal with the shell. at this trial there were among the crowd who succeeded in entering the court three persons of our acquaintance who had resolved to overcome the various difficulties. mr. monk, who had formerly been a cabinet minister, was seated on the bench,--subject, indeed, to the heat and stenches, but priviledged to eat the lunch. mr. quintus slide, of the people's banner,--who knew the court well, for in former days he had worked many an hour in it as a reporter,--had obtained the good graces of the under-sheriff. and mr. bunce, with all the energy of the british public, had forced his way in among the crowd, and had managed to wedge himself near to the dock, so that he might be able by a hoist of the neck to see his lodger as he stood at the bar. of these three men, bunce was assured that the prisoner was innocent,--led to such assurance partly by belief in the man, and partly by an innate spirit of opposition to all exercise of restrictive power. mr. quintus slide was certain of the prisoner's guilt, and gave himself considerable credit for having assisted in running down the criminal. it seemed to be natural to mr. quintus slide that a man who had openly quarrelled with the editor of the people's banner should come to the gallows. mr. monk, as phineas himself well knew, had doubted. he had received the suspected murderer into his warmest friendship, and was made miserable even by his doubts. since the circumstances of the case had come to his knowledge, they had weighed upon his mind so as to sadden his whole life. but he was a man who could not make his reason subordinate to his feelings. if the evidence against his friend was strong enough to send his friend for trial, how should he dare to discredit the evidence because the man was his friend? he had visited phineas in prison, and phineas had accused him of doubting. "you need not answer me," the unhappy man had said, "but do not come unless you are able to tell me from your heart that you are sure of my innocence. there is no person living who could comfort me by such assurance as you could do." mr. monk had thought about it very much, but he had not repeated his visit. at a quarter past ten the chief justice was on the bench, with a second judge to help him, and with lords and distinguished commoners and great city magnates crowding the long seat between him and the doorway; the court was full, so that you would say that another head could not be made to appear; and phineas finn, the member for tankerville, was in the dock. barrington erle, who was there to see,--as one of the great ones, of course,--told the duchess of omnium that night that phineas was thin and pale, and in many respects an altered man,--but handsomer than ever. "he bore himself well?" asked the duchess. "very well,--very well indeed. we were there for six hours, and he maintained the same demeanour throughout. he never spoke but once, and that was when chaffanbrass began his fight about the jury." "what did he say?" "he addressed the judge, interrupting slope, who was arguing that some man would make a very good juryman, and declared that it was not by his wish that any objection was raised against any gentleman." "what did the judge say?" "told him to abide by his counsel. the chief justice was very civil to him,--indeed better than civil." "we'll have him down to matching, and make ever so much of him," said the duchess. "don't go too fast, duchess, for he may have to hang poor phineas yet." "oh dear; i wish you wouldn't use that word. but what did he say?" "he told finn that as he had thought fit to employ counsel for his defence,--in doing which he had undoubtedly acted wisely,--he must leave the case to the discretion of his counsel." "and then poor phineas was silenced?" "he spoke another word. 'my lord,' said he, 'i for my part wish that the first twelve men on the list might be taken.' but old chaffanbrass went on just the same. it took them two hours and a half before they could swear a jury." "but, mr. erle,--taking it altogether,--which way is it going?" "nobody can even guess as yet. there was ever so much delay besides that about the jury. it seemed that somebody had called him phinees instead of phineas, and that took half an hour. they begin with the quarrel at the club, and are to call the first witness to-morrow morning. they are to examine ratler about the quarrel, and fitzgibbon, and monk, and, i believe, old bouncer, the man who writes, you know. they all heard what took place." "so did you?" "i have managed to escape that. they can't very well examine all the club. but i shall be called afterwards as to what took place at the door. they will begin with ratler." "everybody knows there was a quarrel, and that mr. bonteen had been drinking, and that he behaved as badly as a man could behave." "it must all be proved, duchess." "i'll tell you what, mr. erle. if,--if,--if this ends badly for mr. finn i'll wear mourning to the day of my death. i'll go to the drawing room in mourning, to show what i think of it." lord chiltern, who was also on the bench, took his account of the trial home to his wife and sister in portman square. at this time miss palliser was staying with them, and the three ladies were together when the account was brought to them. in that house it was taken as doctrine that phineas finn was innocent. in the presence of her brother, and before her sister-in-law's visitor, lady laura had learned to be silent on the subject, and she now contented herself with listening, knowing that she could relieve herself by speech when alone with lady chiltern. "i never knew anything so tedious in my life," said the master of the brake hounds. "they have not done anything yet." "i suppose they have made their speeches?" said his wife. "sir gregory grogram opened the case, as they call it; and a very strong case he made of it. i never believe anything that a lawyer says when he has a wig on his head and a fee in his hand. i prepare myself beforehand to regard it all as mere words, supplied at so much the thousand. i know he'll say whatever he thinks most likely to forward his own views. but upon my word he put it very strongly. he brought it all within so very short a space of time! bonteen and finn left the club within a minute of each other. bonteen must have been at the top of the passage five minutes afterwards, and phineas at that moment could not have been above two hundred yards from him. there can be no doubt of that." "oswald, you don't mean to say that it's going against him!" exclaimed lady chiltern. "it's not going any way at present. the witnesses have not been examined. but so far, i suppose, the attorney-general was right. he has got to prove it all, but so much no doubt he can prove. he can prove that the man was killed with some blunt weapon, such as finn had. and he can prove that exactly at the same time a man was running to the spot very like to finn, and that by a route which would not have been his route, but by using which he could have placed himself at that moment where the man was seen." "how very dreadful!" said miss palliser. "and yet i feel that i know it was that other man," said lady chiltern. lady laura sat silent through it all, listening with her eyes intent on her brother's face, with her elbow on the table and her brow on her hand. she did not speak a word till she found herself alone with her sister-in-law, and then it was hardly more than a word. "violet, they will murder him!" lady chiltern endeavoured to comfort her, telling her that as yet they had heard but one side of the case; but the wretched woman only shook her head. "i know they will murder him," she said, "and then when it is too late they will find out what they have done!" [illustration: "violet, they will murder him."] on the following day the crowd in court was if possible greater, so that the benchfellows were very much squeezed indeed. but it was impossible to exclude from the high seat such men as mr. ratler and lord fawn when they were required in the court as witnesses;--and not a man who had obtained a seat on the first day was willing to be excluded on the second. and even then the witnesses were not called at once. sir gregory grogram began the work of the day by saying that he had heard that morning for the first time that one of his witnesses had been,--"tampered with" was the word that he unfortunately used,--by his learned friend on the other side. he alluded, of course, to lord fawn, and poor lord fawn, sitting up there on the seat of honour, visible to all the world, became very hot and very uncomfortable. then there arose a vehement dispute between sir gregory, assisted by sir simon, and old mr. chaffanbrass, who rejected with disdain any assistance from the gentler men who were with him. "tampered with! that word should be recalled by the honourable gentleman who was at the head of the bar, or--or--" had mr. chaffanbrass declared that as an alternative he would pull the court about their ears, it would have been no more than he meant. lord fawn had been invited,--not summoned to attend; and why? in order that no suspicion of guilt might be thrown on another man, unless the knowledge that was in lord fawn's bosom, and there alone, would justify such a line of defence. lord fawn had been attended by his own solicitor, and might have brought the attorney-general with him had he so pleased. there was a great deal said on both sides, and something said also by the judge. at last sir gregory withdrew the objectionable word, and substituted in lieu of it an assertion that his witness had been "indiscreetly questioned." mr. chaffanbrass would not for a moment admit the indiscretion, but bounced about in his place, tearing his wig almost off his head, and defying every one in the court. the judge submitted to mr. chaffanbrass that he had been indiscreet.--"i never contradicted the bench yet, my lord," said mr. chaffanbrass,--at which there was a general titter throughout the bar,--"but i must claim the privilege of conducting my own practice according to my own views. in this court i am subject to the bench. in my own chamber i am subject only to the law of the land." the judge looking over his spectacles said a mild word about the profession at large. mr. chaffanbrass, twisting his wig quite on one side, so that it nearly fell on mr. serjeant birdbolt's face, muttered something as to having seen more work done in that court than any other living lawyer, let his rank be what it might. when the little affair was over, everybody felt that sir gregory had been vanquished. mr. ratler, and laurence fitzgibbon, and mr. monk, and mr. bouncer were examined about the quarrel at the club, and proved that the quarrel had been a very bitter quarrel. they all agreed that mr. bonteen had been wrong, and that the prisoner had had cause for anger. of the three distinguished legislators and statesmen above named mr. chaffanbrass refused to take the slightest notice. "i have no question to put to you," he said to mr. ratler. "of course there was a quarrel. we all know that." but he did ask a question or two of mr. bouncer. "you write books, i think, mr. bouncer?" "i do," said mr. bouncer, with dignity. now there was no peculiarity in a witness to which mr. chaffanbrass was so much opposed as an assumption of dignity. "what sort of books, mr. bouncer?" "i write novels," said mr. bouncer, feeling that mr. chaffanbrass must have been ignorant indeed of the polite literature of the day to make such a question necessary. "you mean fiction." "well, yes; fiction,--if you like that word better." "i don't like either, particularly. you have to find plots, haven't you?" mr. bouncer paused a moment. "yes; yes," he said. "in writing a novel it is necessary to construct a plot." "where do you get 'em from?" "where do i get 'em from?" "yes,--where do you find them? you take them from the french mostly;--don't you?" mr. bouncer became very red. "isn't that the way our english writers get their plots?" "sometimes,--perhaps." "your's ain't french then?" "well;--no;--that is--i won't undertake to say that--that--" "you won't undertake to say that they're not french." "is this relevant to the case before us, mr. chaffanbrass?" asked the judge. "quite so, my lud. we have a highly-distinguished novelist before us, my lud, who, as i have reason to believe, is intimately acquainted with the french system of the construction of plots. it is a business which the french carry to perfection. the plot of a novel should, i imagine, be constructed in accordance with human nature?" "certainly," said mr. bouncer. "you have murders in novels?" "sometimes," said mr. bouncer, who had himself done many murders in his time. "did you ever know a french novelist have a premeditated murder committed by a man who could not possibly have conceived the murder ten minutes before he committed it;--with whom the cause of the murder anteceded the murder no more than ten minutes?" mr. bouncer stood thinking for a while. "we will give you your time, because an answer to the question from you will be important testimony." "i don't think i do," said mr. bouncer, who in his confusion had been quite unable to think of the plot of a single novel. "and if there were such a french plot that would not be the plot that you would borrow?" "certainly not," said mr. bouncer. "did you ever read poetry, mr. bouncer?" "oh yes;--i read a great deal of poetry." "shakespeare, perhaps?" mr. bouncer did not condescend to do more than nod his head. "there is a murder described in _hamlet_. was that supposed by the poet to have been devised suddenly?" "i should say not." "so should i, mr. bouncer. do you remember the arrangements for the murder in _macbeth_? that took a little time in concocting;--didn't it?" "no doubt it did." "and when othello murdered desdemona, creeping up to her in her sleep, he had been thinking of it for some time?" "i suppose he had." "do you ever read english novels as well as french, mr. bouncer?" the unfortunate author again nodded his head. "when amy robsart was lured to her death, there was some time given to the preparation,--eh?" "of course there was." "of course there was. and eugene aram, when he murdered a man in bulwer's novel, turned the matter over in his mind before he did it?" "he was thinking a long time about it, i believe." "thinking about it a long time! i rather think he was. those great masters of human nature, those men who knew the human heart, did not venture to describe a secret murder as coming from a man's brain without premeditation?" "not that i can remember." "such also is my impression. but now, i bethink me of a murder that was almost as sudden as this is supposed to have been. didn't a dutch smuggler murder a scotch lawyer, all in a moment as it were?" "dirk hatteraick did murder glossop in _the antiquary_ very suddenly;--but he did it from passion." "just so, mr. bouncer. there was no plot there, was there? no arrangement; no secret creeping up to his victim; no escape even?" "he was chained." "so he was; chained like a dog;--and like a dog he flew at his enemy. if i understand you, then, mr. bouncer, you would not dare so to violate probability in a novel, as to produce a murderer to the public who should contrive a secret hidden murder,--contrive it and execute it, all within a quarter of an hour?" mr. bouncer, after another minute's consideration, said that he thought he would not do so. "mr. bouncer," said mr. chaffanbrass, "i am uncommonly obliged to our excellent friend, sir gregory, for having given us the advantage of your evidence." chapter lxii. lord fawn's evidence. a crowd of witnesses were heard on the second day after mr. chaffanbrass had done with mr. bouncer, but none of them were of much interest to the public. the three doctors were examined as to the state of the dead man's head when he was picked up, and as to the nature of the instrument with which he had probably been killed; and the fact of phineas finn's life-preserver was proved,--in the middle of which he begged that the court would save itself some little trouble, as he was quite ready to acknowledge that he had walked home with the short bludgeon, which was then produced, in his pocket. "we would acknowledge a great deal if they would let us," said mr. chaffanbrass. "we acknowledge the quarrel, we acknowledge the walk home at night, we acknowledge the bludgeon, and we acknowledge a grey coat." but that happened towards the close of the second day, and they had not then reached the grey coat. the question of the grey coat was commenced on the third morning,--on the saturday,--which day, as was well known, would be opened with the examination of lord fawn. the anxiety to hear lord fawn undergo his penance was intense, and had been greatly increased by the conviction that mr. chaffanbrass would resent upon him the charge made by the attorney-general as to tampering with a witness. "i'll tamper with him by-and-bye," mr. chaffanbrass had whispered to mr. wickerby, and the whispered threat had been spread abroad. on the table before mr. chaffanbrass, when he took his place in the court on the saturday, was laid a heavy grey coat, and on the opposite side of the table, just before the solicitor-general, was laid another grey coat, of much lighter material. when lord fawn saw the two coats as he took his seat on the bench his heart failed him. he was hardly allowed to seat himself before he was called upon to be sworn. sir simon slope, who was to examine him, took it for granted that his lordship could give his evidence from his place on the bench, but to this mr. chaffanbrass objected. he was very well aware, he said, that such a practice was usual. he did not doubt but that in his time he had examined some hundreds of witnesses from the bench. in nineteen cases out of twenty there could be no objection to such a practice. but in this case the noble lord would have to give evidence not only as to what he had seen, but as to what he then saw. it would be expedient that he should see colours as nearly as possible in the same light as the jury, which he would do if he stood in the witness-box. and there might arise questions of identity, in speaking of which it would be well that the noble lord should be as near as possible to the thing or person to be identified. he was afraid that he must trouble the noble lord to come down from the elysium of the bench. whereupon lord fawn descended, and was sworn in at the witness-box. his treatment from sir simon slope was all that was due from a solicitor-general to a distinguished peer who was a member of the same government as himself. sir simon put his questions so as almost to reassure the witness; and very quickly,--only too quickly,--obtained from him all the information that was needed on the side of the prosecution. lord fawn, when he had left the club, had seen both mr. bonteen and mr. finn preparing to follow him, but he had gone alone, and had never seen mr. bonteen since. he walked very slowly down into curzon street and bolton row, and when there, as he was about to cross the road at the top of clarges street,--as he believed, just as he was crossing the street,--he saw a man come at a very fast pace out of the mews which runs into bolton row, opposite to clarges street, and from thence hurry very quickly towards the passage which separates the gardens of devonshire and lansdowne houses. it had already been proved that had phineas finn retraced his steps after erle and fitzgibbon had turned their backs upon him, his shortest and certainly most private way to the spot on which lord fawn had seen the man would have been by the mews in question. lord fawn went on to say that the man wore a grey coat,--as far as he could judge it was such a coat as sir simon now showed him; he could not at all identify the prisoner; he could not say whether the man he had seen was as tall as the prisoner; he thought that as far as he could judge, there was not much difference in the height. he had not thought of mr. finn when he saw the man hurrying along, nor had he troubled his mind about the man. that was the end of lord fawn's evidence-in-chief, which he would gladly have prolonged to the close of the day could he thereby have postponed the coming horrors of his cross-examination. but there he was,--in the clutches of the odious, dirty, little man, hating the little man, despising him because he was dirty, and nothing better than an old bailey barrister,--and yet fearing him with so intense a fear! mr. chaffanbrass smiled at his victim, and for a moment was quite soft with him,--as a cat is soft with a mouse. the reporters could hardly hear his first question,--"i believe you are an under-secretary of state?" lord fawn acknowledged the fact. now it was the case that in the palmy days of our hero's former career he had filled the very office which lord fawn now occupied, and that lord fawn had at the time filled a similar position in another department. these facts mr. chaffanbrass extracted from his witness,--not without an appearance of unwillingness, which was produced, however, altogether by the natural antagonism of the victim to his persecutor; for mr. chaffanbrass, even when asking the simplest questions, in the simplest words, even when abstaining from that sarcasm of tone under which witnesses were wont to feel that they were being flayed alive, could so look at a man as to create an antagonism which no witness could conceal. in asking a man his name, and age, and calling, he could produce an impression that the man was unwilling to tell anything, and that, therefore, the jury were entitled to regard his evidence with suspicion. "then," continued mr. chaffanbrass, "you must have met him frequently in the intercourse of your business?" "i suppose i did,--sometimes." "sometimes? you belonged to the same party?" "we didn't sit in the same house." "i know that, my lord. i know very well what house you sat in. but i suppose you would condescend to be acquainted with even a commoner who held the very office which you hold now. you belonged to the same club with him." "i don't go much to the clubs," said lord fawn. "but the quarrel of which we have heard so much took place at a club in your presence?" lord fawn assented. "in fact you cannot but have been intimately and accurately acquainted with the personal appearance of the gentleman who is now on his trial. is that so?" "i never was intimate with him." mr. chaffanbrass looked up at the jury and shook his head sadly. "i am not presuming, lord fawn, that you so far derogated as to be intimate with this gentleman,--as to whom, however, i shall be able to show by and by that he was the chosen friend of the very man under whose mastership you now serve. i ask whether his appearance is not familiar to you?" lord fawn at last said that it was. "do you know his height? what should you say was his height?" lord fawn altogether refused to give an opinion on such a subject, but acknowledged that he should not be surprised if he were told that mr. finn was over six feet high. "in fact you consider him a tall man, my lord? there he is, you can look at him. is he a tall man?" lord fawn did look, but wouldn't give an answer. "i'll undertake to say, my lord, that there isn't a person in the court at this moment, except yourself, who wouldn't be ready to express an opinion on his oath that mr. finn is a tall man. mr. chief constable, just let the prisoner step out from the dock for a moment. he won't run away. i must have his lordship's opinion as to mr. finn's height." poor phineas, when this was said, clutched hold of the front of the dock, as though determined that nothing but main force should make him exhibit himself to the court in the manner proposed. but the need for exhibition passed away. "i know that he is a very tall man," said lord fawn. "you know that he is a very tall man. we all know it. there can be no doubt about it. he is, as you say, a very tall man,--with whose personal appearance you have long been familiar? i ask again, my lord, whether you have not been long familiar with his personal appearance?" after some further agonising delay lord fawn at last acknowledged that it had been so. "now we shall get on like a house on fire," said mr. chaffanbrass. but still the house did not burn very quickly. a string of questions was then asked as to the attitude of the man who had been seen coming out of the mews wearing a grey great coat,--as to his attitude, and as to his general likeness to phineas finn. in answer to these lord fawn would only say that he had not observed the man's attitude, and had certainly not thought of the prisoner when he saw the man. "my lord," said mr. chaffanbrass, very solemnly, "look at your late friend and colleague, and remember that his life depends probably on the accuracy of your memory. the man you saw--murdered mr. bonteen. with all my experience in such matters,--which is great; and with all my skill,--which is something, i cannot stand against that fact. it is for me to show that that man and my client were not one and the same person, and i must do so by means of your evidence,--by sifting what you say to-day, and by comparing it with what you have already said on other occasions. i understand you now to say that there is nothing in your remembrance of the man you saw, independently of the colour of the coat, to guide you to an opinion whether that man was or was not one and the same with the prisoner?" in all the crowd then assembled there was no man more thoroughly under the influence of conscience as to his conduct than was lord fawn in reference to the evidence which he was called upon to give. not only would the idea of endangering the life of a human being have been horrible to him, but the sanctity of an oath was imperative to him. he was essentially a truth-speaking man, if only he knew how to speak the truth. he would have sacrificed much to establish the innocence of phineas finn,--not for the love of phineas, but for the love of innocence;--but not even to do that would he have lied. but he was a bad witness, and by his slowness, and by a certain unsustained pomposity which was natural to him, had already taught the jury to think that he was anxious to convict the prisoner. two men in the court, and two only, thoroughly understood his condition. mr. chaffanbrass saw it all, and intended without the slightest scruple to take advantage of it. and the chief justice saw it all, and was already resolving how he could set the witness right with the jury. "i didn't think of mr. finn at the time," said lord fawn in answer to the last question. "so i understand. the man didn't strike you as being tall." "i don't think that he did." "but yet in the evidence you gave before the magistrate in bow street i think you expressed a very strong opinion that the man you saw running out of the mews was mr. finn?" lord fawn was again silent. "i am asking your lordship a question to which i must request an answer. here is the times report of the examination, with which you can refresh your memory, and you are of course aware that it was mainly on your evidence as here reported that my client stands there in jeopardy of his life." "i am not aware of anything of the kind," said the witness. "very well. we will drop that then. but such was your evidence, whether important or not important. of course your lordship can take what time you please for recollection." lord fawn tried very hard to recollect, but would not look at the newspaper which had been handed to him. "i cannot remember what words i used. it seems to me that i thought it must have been mr. finn because i had been told that mr. finn could have been there by running round." "surely, my lord, that would not have sufficed to induce you to give such evidence as is there reported?" "and the colour of the coat," said lord fawn. "in fact you went by the colour of the coat, and that only?" "then there had been the quarrel." "my lord, is not that begging the question? mr. bonteen quarrelled with mr. finn. mr. bonteen was murdered by a man,--as we all believe,--whom you saw at a certain spot. therefore you identified the man whom you saw as mr. finn. was that so?" "i didn't identify him." "at any rate you do not do so now? putting aside the grey coat there is nothing to make you now think that that man and mr. finn were one and the same? come, my lord, on behalf of that man's life, which is in great jeopardy,--is in great jeopardy because of the evidence given by you before the magistrate,--do not be ashamed to speak the truth openly, though it be at variance with what you may have said before with ill-advised haste." "my lord, is it proper that i should be treated in this way?" said the witness, appealing to the bench. "mr. chaffanbrass," said the judge, again looking at the barrister over his spectacles, "i think you are stretching the privilege of your position too far." "i shall have to stretch it further yet, my lord. his lordship in his evidence before the magistrate gave on his oath a decided opinion that the man he saw was mr. finn;--and on that evidence mr. finn was committed for murder. let him say openly, now, to the jury,--when mr. finn is on his trial for his life before the court, and for all his hopes in life before the country,--whether he thinks as then he thought, and on what grounds he thinks so." "i think so because of the quarrel, and because of the grey coat." "for no other reasons?" "no;--for no other reasons." "your only ground for suggesting identity is the grey coat?" "and the quarrel," said lord fawn. "my lord, in giving evidence as to identity, i fear that you do not understand the meaning of the word." lord fawn looked up at the judge, but the judge on this occasion said nothing. "at any rate we have it from you at present that there was nothing in the appearance of the man you saw like to that of mr. finn except the colour of the coat." "i don't think there was," said lord fawn, slowly. then there occurred a scene in the court which no doubt was gratifying to the spectators, and may in part have repaid them for the weariness of the whole proceeding. mr. chaffanbrass, while lord fawn was still in the witness-box, requested permission for a certain man to stand forward, and put on the coat which was lying on the table before him,--this coat being in truth the identical garment which mr. meager had brought home with him on the morning of the murder. this man was mr. wickerby's clerk, mr. scruby, and he put on the coat,--which seemed to fit him well. mr. chaffanbrass then asked permission to examine mr. scruby, explaining that much time might be saved, and declaring that he had but one question to ask him. after some difficulty this permission was given him, and mr. scruby was asked his height. mr. scruby was five feet eight inches, and had been accurately measured on the previous day with reference to the question. then the examination of lord fawn was resumed, and mr. chaffanbrass referred to that very irregular interview to which he had so improperly enticed the witness in mr. wickerby's chambers. for a long time sir gregory grogram declared that he would not permit any allusion to what had taken place at a most improper conference,--a conference which he could not stigmatize in sufficiently strong language. but mr. chaffanbrass, smiling blandly,--smiling very blandly for him,--suggested that the impropriety of the conference, let it have been ever so abominable, did not prevent the fact of the conference, and that he was manifestly within his right in alluding to it. "suppose, my lord, that lord fawn had confessed in mr. wickerby's chambers that he had murdered mr. bonteen himself, and had since repented of that confession, would mr. camperdown and mr. wickerby, who were present, and would i, be now debarred from stating that confession in evidence, because, in deference to some fanciful rules of etiquette, lord fawn should not have been there?" mr. chaffanbrass at last prevailed, and the evidence was resumed. "you saw mr. scruby wear that coat in mr. wickerby's chambers." lord fawn said that he could not identify the coat. "we'll take care to have it identified. we shall get a great deal out of that coat yet. you saw that man wear a coat like that." "yes; i did." "and you see him now." "yes, i do." "does he remind you of the figure of the man you saw come out of the mews?" lord fawn paused. "we can't make him move about here as we did in mr. wickerby's room; but remembering that as you must do, does he look like the man?" "i don't remember what the man looked like." "did you not tell us in mr. wickerby's room that mr. scruby with the grey coat on was like the figure of the man?" questions of this nature were prolonged for near half an hour, during which sir gregory made more than one attempt to defend his witness from the weapons of their joint enemies; but lord fawn at last admitted that he had acknowledged the resemblance, and did, in some faint ambiguous fashion, acknowledge it in his present evidence. "my lord," said mr. chaffanbrass as he allowed lord fawn to go down, "you have no doubt taken a note of mr. scruby's height." whereupon the judge nodded his head. chapter lxiii. mr. chaffanbrass for the defence. the case for the prosecution was completed on the saturday evening, mrs. bunce having been examined as the last witness on that side. she was only called upon to say that her lodger had been in the habit of letting himself in and out of her house at all hours with a latch-key;--but she insisted on saying more, and told the judge and the jury and the barristers that if they thought that mr. finn had murdered anybody they didn't know anything about the world in general. whereupon mr. chaffanbrass said that he would like to ask her a question or two, and with consummate flattery extracted from her her opinion of her lodger. she had known him for years, and thought that, of all the gentlemen that ever were born, he was the least likely to do such a bloody-minded action. mr. chaffanbrass was, perhaps, right in thinking that her evidence might be as serviceable as that of the lords and countesses. during the sunday the trial was, as a matter of course, the talk of the town. poor lord fawn shut himself up, and was seen by no one;--but his conduct and evidence were discussed everywhere. at the clubs it was thought that he had escaped as well as could be expected; but he himself felt that he had been disgraced for ever. there was a very common opinion that mr. chaffanbrass had admitted too much when he had declared that the man whom lord fawn had seen was doubtless the murderer. to the minds of men generally it seemed to be less evident that the man so seen should have done the deed, than that phineas finn should have been that man. was it probable that there should be two men going about in grey coats, in exactly the same vicinity, and at exactly the same hour of the night? and then the evidence which lord fawn had given before the magistrates was to the world at large at any rate as convincing as that given in the court. the jury would, of course, be instructed to regard only the latter; whereas the general public would naturally be guided by the two combined. at the club it was certainly believed that the case was going against the prisoner. "you have read it all, of course," said the duchess of omnium to her husband, as she sat with the observer in her hand on that sunday morning. the sunday papers were full of the report, and were enjoying a very extended circulation. "i wish you would not think so much about it," said the duke. "that's very easily said, but how is one to help thinking about it? of course i am thinking about it. you know all about the coat. it belonged to the man where mealyus was lodging." "i will not talk about the coat, glencora. if mr. finn did commit the murder it is right that he should be convicted." "but if he didn't?" "it would be doubly right that he should be acquitted. but the jury will have means of arriving at a conclusion without prejudice, which you and i cannot have; and therefore we should be prepared to take their verdict as correct." "if they find him guilty, their verdict will be damnable and false," said the duchess. whereupon the duke turned away in anger, and resolved that he would say nothing more about the trial,--which resolution, however, he was compelled to break before the trial was over. "what do you think about it, mr. erle?" asked the other duke. "i don't know what to think;--i only hope." "that he may be acquitted?" "of course." "whether guilty or innocent?" "well;--yes. but if he is acquitted i shall believe him to have been innocent. your grace thinks--?" "i am as unwilling to think as you are, mr. erle." it was thus that people spoke of it. with the exception of some very few, all those who had known phineas were anxious for an acquittal, though they could not bring themselves to believe that an innocent man had been put in peril of his life. on the monday morning the trial was recommenced, and the whole day was taken up by the address which mr. chaffanbrass made to the jury. he began by telling them the history of the coat which lay before them, promising to prove by evidence all the details which he stated. it was not his intention, he said, to accuse any one of the murder. it was his business to defend the prisoner, not to accuse others. but, as he should prove to them, two persons had been arrested as soon as the murder had been discovered,--two persons totally unknown to each other, and who were never for a moment supposed to have acted together,--and the suspicion of the police had in the first instance pointed, not to his client, but to the other man. that other man had also quarrelled with mr. bonteen, and that other man was now in custody on a charge of bigamy chiefly through the instrumentality of mr. bonteen, who had been the friend of the victim of the supposed bigamist. with the accusation of bigamy they would have nothing to do, but he must ask them to take cognisance of that quarrel as well as of the quarrel at the club. he then named that formerly popular preacher, the rev. mr. emilius, and explained that he would prove that this man, who had incurred the suspicion of the police in the first instance, had during the night of the murder been so circumstanced as to have been able to use the coat produced. he would prove also that mr. emilius was of precisely the same height as the man whom they had seen wearing the coat. god forbid that he should bring an accusation of murder against a man on such slight testimony. but if the evidence, as grounded on the coat, was slight against emilius, how could it prevail at all against his client? the two coats were as different as chalk from cheese, the one being what would be called a gentleman's fashionable walking coat, and the other the wrap-rascal of such a fellow as was mr. meager. and yet lord fawn, who attempted to identify the prisoner only by his coat, could give them no opinion as to which was the coat he had seen! but lord fawn, who had found himself to be debarred by his conscience from repeating the opinion he had given before the magistrate as to the identity of phineas finn with the man he had seen, did tell them that the figure of that man was similar to the figure of him who had worn the coat on saturday in presence of them all. this man in the street had therefore been like mr. emilius, and could not in the least have resembled the prisoner. mr. chaffanbrass would not tell the jury that this point bore strongly against mr. emilius, but he took upon himself to assert that it was quite sufficient to snap asunder the thin thread of circumstantial evidence by which his client was connected with the murder. a great deal more was said about lord fawn, which was not complimentary to that nobleman. "his lordship is an honest, slow man, who has doubtless meant to tell you the truth, but who does not understand the meaning of what he himself says. when he swore before the magistrate that he thought he could identify my client with the man in the street, he really meant that he thought that there must be identity, because he believed from other reasons that mr. finn was the man in the street. mr. bonteen had been murdered;--according to lord fawn's thinking had probably been murdered by mr. finn. and it was also probable to him that mr. bonteen had been murdered by the man in the street. he came thus to the conclusion that the prisoner was the man in the street. in fact, as far as the process of identifying is concerned, his lordship's evidence is altogether in favour of the prisoner. the figure seen by him we must suppose was the figure of a short man, and not of one tall and commanding in his presence, as is that of the prisoner." there were many other points on which mr. chaffanbrass insisted at great length;--but, chiefly, perhaps, on the improbability, he might say impossibility, that the plot for a murder so contrived should have entered into a man's head, have been completed and executed, all within a few minutes. "but under no hypothesis compatible with the allegations of the prosecution can it be conceived that the murder should have been contemplated by my client before the quarrel at the club. no, gentlemen;--the murderer had been at his work for days. he had examined the spot and measured the distances. he had dogged the steps of his victim on previous nights. in the shade of some dark doorway he had watched him from his club, and had hurried by his secret path to the spot which he had appointed for the deed. can any man doubt that the murder has thus been committed, let who will have been the murderer? but, if so, then my client could not have done the deed." much had been made of the words spoken at the club door. was it probable,--was it possible,--that a man intending to commit a murder should declare how easily he could do it, and display the weapon he intended to use? the evidence given as to that part of the night's work was, he contended, altogether in the prisoner's favour. then he spoke of the life-preserver, and gave a rather long account of the manner in which phineas finn had once taken two garotters prisoner in the street. all this lasted till the great men on the bench trooped out to lunch. and then mr. chaffanbrass, who had been speaking for nearly four hours, retired to a small room and there drank a pint of port wine. while he was doing so, mr. serjeant birdbolt spoke a word to him, but he only shook his head and snarled. he was telling himself at the moment how quick may be the resolves of the eager mind,--for he was convinced that the idea of attacking mr. bonteen had occurred to phineas finn after he had displayed the life-preserver at the club door; and he was telling himself also how impossible it is for a dull conscientious man to give accurate evidence as to what he had himself seen,--for he was convinced that lord fawn had seen phineas finn in the street. but to no human being had he expressed this opinion; nor would he express it,--unless his client should be hung. after lunch he occupied nearly three hours in giving to the jury, and of course to the whole assembled court, the details of about two dozen cases, in which apparently strong circumstantial evidence had been wrong in its tendency. in some of the cases quoted, the persons tried had been acquitted; in some, convicted and afterwards pardoned; in one pardoned after many years of punishment;--and in one the poor victim had been hung. on this he insisted with a pathetic eloquence which certainly would not have been expected from his appearance, and spoke with tears in his eyes,--real unaffected tears,--of the misery of those wretched jurymen who, in the performance of their duty, had been led into so frightful an error. through the whole of this long recital he seemed to feel no fatigue, and when he had done with his list of judicial mistakes about five o'clock in the afternoon, went on to make what he called the very few remarks necessary as to the evidence which on the next day he proposed to produce as to the prisoner's character. he ventured to think that evidence as to the character of such a nature,--so strong, so convincing, so complete, and so free from all objection, had never yet been given in a criminal court. at six o'clock he completed his speech, and it was computed that the old man had been on his legs very nearly seven hours. it was said of him afterwards that he was taken home speechless by one of his daughters and immediately put to bed, that he roused himself about eight and ate his dinner and drank a bottle of port in his bedroom, that he then slept,--refusing to stir even when he was waked, till half-past nine in the morning, and that then he scrambled into his clothes, breakfasted, and got down to the court in half an hour. at ten o'clock he was in his place, and nobody knew that he was any the worse for the previous day's exertion. this was on a tuesday, the fifth day of the trial, and upon the whole perhaps the most interesting. a long array of distinguished persons,--of women as well as men,--was brought up to give to the jury their opinion as to the character of mr. finn. mr. low was the first, who having been his tutor when he was studying at the bar, knew him longer than any other londoner. then came his countryman laurence fitzgibbon, and barrington erle, and others of his own party who had been intimate with him. and men, too, from the opposite side of the house were brought up, sir orlando drought among the number, all of whom said that they had known the prisoner well, and from their knowledge would have considered it impossible that he should have become a murderer. the two last called were lord cantrip and mr. monk, one of whom was, and the other had been, a cabinet minister. but before them came lady cantrip,--and lady chiltern, whom we once knew as violet effingham, whom this very prisoner had in early days fondly hoped to make his wife, who was still young and beautiful, and who had never before entered a public court. there had of course been much question as to the witnesses to be selected. the duchess of omnium had been anxious to be one, but the duke had forbidden it, telling his wife that she really did not know the man, and that she was carried away by a foolish enthusiasm. lady cantrip when asked had at once consented. she had known phineas finn when he had served under her husband, and had liked him much. then what other woman's tongue should be brought to speak of the man's softness and tender bearing! it was out of the question that lady laura kennedy should appear. she did not even propose it when her brother with unnecessary sternness told her it could not be so. then his wife looked at him. "you shall go," said lord chiltern, "if you feel equal to it. it seems to be nonsense, but they say that it is important." "i will go," said violet, with her eyes full of tears. afterwards when her sister-in-law besought her to be generous in her testimony, she only smiled as she assented. could generosity go beyond hers? lord chiltern preceded his wife. "i have," he said, "known mr. finn well, and have loved him dearly. i have eaten with him and drank with him, have ridden with him, have lived with him, and have quarrelled with him; and i know him as i do my own right hand." then he stretched forth his arm with the palm extended. "irrespectively of the evidence in this case you would not have thought him to be a man likely to commit such a crime?" asked serjeant birdbolt. "i am quite sure from my knowledge of the man that he could not commit a murder," said lord chiltern; "and i don't care what the evidence is." then came his wife, and it certainly was a pretty sight to see as her husband led her up to the box and stood close beside her as she gave her evidence. there were many there who knew much of the history of her life,--who knew that passage in it of her early love,--for the tale had of course been told when it was whispered about that lady chiltern was to be examined as a witness. every ear was at first strained to hear her words;--but they were audible in every corner of the court without any effort. it need hardly be said that she was treated with the greatest deference on every side. she answered the questions very quietly, but apparently without nervousness. "yes; she had known mr. finn long, and intimately, and had very greatly valued his friendship. she did so still,--as much as ever. yes; she had known him for some years, and in circumstances which she thought justified her in saying that she understood his character. she regarded him as a man who was brave and tender-hearted, soft in feeling and manly in disposition. to her it was quite incredible that he should have committed a crime such as this. she knew him to be a man prone to forgive offences, and of a sweet nature." and it was pretty too to watch the unwonted gentleness of old chaffanbrass as he asked the questions, and carefully abstained from putting any one that could pain her. sir gregory said that he had heard her evidence with great pleasure, but that he had no question to ask her himself. then she stepped down, again took her husband's arm, and left the court amidst a hum of almost affectionate greeting. and what must he have thought as he stood there within the dock, looking at her and listening to her? there had been months in his life when he had almost trusted that he would succeed in winning that fair, highly-born, and wealthy woman for his wife; and though he had failed, and now knew that he had never really touched her heart, that she had always loved the man whom,--though she had rejected him time after time because of the dangers of his ways,--she had at last married, yet it must have been pleasant to him, even in his peril, to hear from her own lips how well she had esteemed him. she left the court with her veil down, and he could not catch her eye; but lord chiltern nodded to him in his old pleasant familiar way, as though to bid him take courage, and to tell him that all things would even yet be well with him. the evidence given by lady cantrip and her husband and by mr. monk was equally favourable. she had always regarded him as a perfect gentleman. lord cantrip had found him to be devoted to the service of the country,--modest, intelligent, and high-spirited. perhaps the few words which fell from mr. monk were as strong as any that were spoken. "he is a man whom i have delighted to call my friend, and i have been happy to think that his services have been at the disposal of his country." sir gregory grogram replied. it seemed to him that the evidence was as he had left it. it would be for the jury to decide, under such directions as his lordship might be pleased to give them, how far that evidence brought the guilt home to the prisoner. he would use no rhetoric in pushing the case against the prisoner; but he must submit to them that his learned friend had not shown that acquaintance with human nature which the gentleman undoubtedly possessed in arguing that there had lacked time for the conception and execution of the crime. then, at considerable length, he strove to show that mr. chaffanbrass had been unjustly severe upon lord fawn. it was late in the afternoon when sir gregory had finished his speech, and the judge's charge was reserved for a sixth day. chapter lxiv. confusion in the court. on the following morning it was observed that before the judges took their seats mr. chaffanbrass entered the court with a manner much more brisk than was expected from him now that his own work was done. as a matter of course he would be there to hear the charge, but, almost equally as a matter of course, he would be languid, silent, cross, and unenergetic. they who knew him were sure, when they saw his bearing on this morning, that he intended to do something more before the charge was given. the judges entered the court nearly half an hour later than usual, and it was observed with surprise that they were followed by the duke of omnium. mr. chaffanbrass was on his feet before the chief justice had taken his seat, but the judge was the first to speak. it was observed that he held a scrap of paper in his hand, and that the barrister held a similar scrap. then every man in the court knew that some message had come suddenly by the wires. "i am informed, mr. chaffanbrass, that you wish to address the court before i begin my charge." "yes, my lud; and i am afraid, my lud, that i shall have to ask your ludship to delay your charge for some days, and to subject the jury to the very great inconvenience of prolonged incarceration for another week;--either to do that or to call upon the jury to acquit the prisoner. i venture to assert, on my own peril, that no jury can convict the prisoner after hearing me read that which i hold in my hand." then mr. chaffanbrass paused, as though expecting that the judge would speak;--but the judge said not a word, but sat looking at the old barrister over his spectacles. every eye was turned upon phineas finn, who up to this moment had heard nothing of these new tidings,--who did not in the least know on what was grounded the singularly confident,--almost insolently confident assertion which mr. chaffanbrass had made in his favour. on him the effect was altogether distressing. he had borne the trying week with singular fortitude, having stood there in the place of shame hour after hour, and day after day, expecting his doom. it had been to him as a lifetime of torture. he had become almost numb from the weariness of his position and the agonising strain upon his mind. the gaoler had offered him a seat from day to day, but he had always refused it, preferring to lean upon the rail and gaze upon the court. he had almost ceased to hope for anything except the end of it. he had lost count of the days, and had begun to feel that the trial was an eternity of torture in itself. at nights he could not sleep, but during the sunday, after mass, he had slept all day. then it had begun again, and when the tuesday came he hardly knew how long it had been since that vacant sunday. and now he heard the advocate declare, without knowing on what ground the declaration was grounded, that the trial must be postponed, or that the jury must be instructed to acquit him. "this telegram has reached us only this morning," continued mr. chaffanbrass. "'mealyus had a house door-key made in prague. we have the mould in our possession, and will bring the man who made the key to england.' now, my lud, the case in the hands of the police, as against this man mealyus, or emilius, as he has chosen to call himself, broke down altogether on the presumption that he could not have let himself in and out of the house in which he had put himself to bed on the night of the murder. we now propose to prove that he had prepared himself with the means of doing so, and had done so after a fashion which is conclusive as to his having required the key for some guilty purpose. we assert that your ludship cannot allow the case to go to the jury without taking cognisance of this telegram; and we go further, and say that those twelve men, as twelve human beings with hearts in their bosoms and ordinary intelligence at their command, cannot ignore the message, even should your ludship insist upon their doing so with all the energy at your disposal." then there was a scene in court, and it appeared that no less than four messages had been received from prague, all to the same effect. one had been addressed by madame goesler to her friend the duchess,--and that message had caused the duke's appearance on the scene. he had brought his telegram direct to the old bailey, and the chief justice now held it in his hand. the lawyer's clerk who had accompanied madame goesler had telegraphed to the governor of the gaol, to mr. wickerby, and to the attorney-general. sir gregory, rising with the telegram in his hand, stated that he had received the same information. "i do not see," said he, "that it at all alters the evidence as against the prisoner." "let your evidence go to the jury, then," said mr. chaffanbrass, "with such observations as his lordship may choose to make on the telegram. i shall be contented. you have already got your other man in prison on a charge of bigamy." "i could not take notice of the message in charging the jury, mr. chaffanbrass," said the judge. "it has come, as far as we know, from the energy of a warm friend,--from that hearty friendship with which it seemed yesterday that this gentleman, the prisoner at the bar, has inspired so many men and women of high character. but it proves nothing. it is an assertion. and where should we all be, mr. chaffanbrass, if it should appear hereafter that the assertion is fictitious,--prepared purposely to aid the escape of a criminal?" "i defy you to ignore it, my lord." "i can only suggest, mr. chaffanbrass," continued the judge, "that you should obtain the consent of the gentlemen on the other side to a postponement of my charge." then spoke out the foreman of the jury. was it proposed that they should be locked up till somebody should come from prague, and that then the trial should be recommenced? the system, said the foreman, under which middlesex juries were chosen for service in the city was known to be most horribly cruel;--but cruelty to jurymen such as this had never even been heard of. then a most irregular word was spoken. one of the jurymen declared that he was quite willing to believe the telegram. "every one believes it," said mr. chaffanbrass. then the chief justice scolded the juryman, and sir gregory grogram scolded mr. chaffanbrass. it seemed as though all the rules of the court were to be set at defiance. "will my learned friend say that he doesn't believe it?" asked mr. chaffanbrass. "i neither believe nor disbelieve it; but it cannot affect the evidence," said sir gregory. "then send the case to the jury," said mr. chaffanbrass. it seemed that everybody was talking, and mr. wickerby, the attorney, tried to explain it all to the prisoner over the bar of the dock, not in the lowest possible voice. the chief justice became angry, and the guardian of the silence of the court bestirred himself energetically. "my lud," said mr. chaffanbrass, "i maintain that it is proper that the prisoner should be informed of the purport of these telegrams. mercy demands it, and justice as well." phineas finn, however, did not understand, as he had known nothing about the latch-key of the house in northumberland street. something, however, must be done. the chief justice was of opinion that, although the preparation of a latch-key in prague could not really affect the evidence against the prisoner,--although the facts against the prisoner would not be altered, let the manufacture of that special key be ever so clearly proved,--nevertheless the jury were entitled to have before them the facts now tendered in evidence before they could be called upon to give a verdict, and that therefore they should submit themselves, in the service of their country, to the very serious additional inconvenience which they would be called upon to endure. sundry of the jury altogether disagreed with this, and became loud in their anger. they had already been locked up for a week. "and we are quite prepared to give a verdict," said one. the judge again scolded him very severely; and as the attorney-general did at last assent, and as the unfortunate jurymen had no power in the matter, so it was at last arranged. the trial should be postponed till time should be given for madame goesler and the blacksmith to reach london from prague. if the matter was interesting to the public before, it became doubly interesting now. it was of course known to everybody that madame goesler had undertaken a journey to bohemia,--and, as many supposed, a roving tour through all the wilder parts of unknown europe, poland, hungary, and the principalities for instance,--with the object of looking for evidence to save the life of phineas finn; and grandly romantic tales were told of her wit, her wealth, and her beauty. the story was published of the duke of omnium's will, only not exactly the true story. the late duke had left her everything at his disposal, and, it was hinted that they had been privately married just before the duke's death. of course madame goesler became very popular, and the blacksmith from prague who had made the key was expected with an enthusiasm which almost led to preparation for a public reception. and yet, let the blacksmith from prague be ever so minute in his evidence as to the key, let it be made as clear as running water that mealyus had caused to be constructed for him in prague a key that would open the door of the house in northumberland street, the facts as proved at the trial would not be at all changed. the lawyers were much at variance with their opinions on the matter, some thinking that the judge had been altogether wrong in delaying his charge. according to them he should not have allowed mr. chaffanbrass to have read the telegram in court. the charge should have been given, and the sentence of the court should have been pronounced if a verdict of guilty were given. the home secretary should then have granted a respite till the coming of the blacksmith, and have extended this respite to a pardon, if advised that the circumstances of the latch-key rendered doubtful the propriety of the verdict. others, however, maintained that in this way a grievous penalty would be inflicted on a man who, by general consent, was now held to be innocent. not only would he, by such an arrangement of circumstances, have been left for some prolonged period under the agony of a condemnation, but, by the necessity of the case, he would lose his seat for tankerville. it would be imperative upon the house to declare vacant by its own action a seat held by a man condemned to death for murder, and no pardon from the queen or from the home secretary would absolve the house from that duty. the house, as a house of parliament, could only recognise the verdict of the jury as to the man's guilt. the queen, of course, might pardon whom she pleased, but no pardon from the queen would remove the guilt implied by the sentence. many went much further than this, and were prepared to prove that were he once condemned he could not afterwards sit in the house, even if re-elected. now there was unquestionably an intense desire,--since the arrival of these telegrams,--that phineas finn should retain his seat. it may be a question whether he would not have been the most popular man in the house could he have sat there on the day after the telegrams arrived. the attorney-general had declared,--and many others had declared with him,--that this information about the latch-key did not in the least affect the evidence as given against mr. finn. could it have been possible to convict the other man, merely because he had surreptitiously caused a door-key of the house in which he lived to be made for him? and how would this new information have been received had lord fawn sworn unreservedly that the man he had seen running out of the mews had been phineas finn? it was acknowledged that the latch-key could not be accepted as sufficient evidence against mealyus. but nevertheless the information conveyed by the telegrams altogether changed the opinion of the public as to the guilt or innocence of phineas finn. his life now might have been insured, as against the gallows, at a very low rate. it was felt that no jury could convict him, and he was much more pitied in being subjected to a prolonged incarceration than even those twelve unfortunate men who had felt sure that the wednesday would have been the last day of their unmerited martyrdom. phineas in his prison was materially circumstanced precisely as he had been before the trial. he was supplied with a profusion of luxuries, could they have comforted him; and was allowed to receive visitors. but he would see no one but his sisters,--except that he had one interview with mr. low. even mr. low found it difficult to make him comprehend the exact condition of the affair, and could not induce him to be comforted when he did understand it. what had he to do,--how could his innocence or his guilt be concerned,--with the manufacture of a paltry key by such a one as mealyus? how would it have been with him and with his name for ever if this fact had not been discovered? "i was to be hung or saved from hanging according to the chances of such a thing as this! i do not care for my life in a country where such injustice can be done." his friend endeavoured to assure him that even had nothing been heard of the key the jury would have acquitted him. but phineas would not believe him. it had seemed to him as he had listened to the whole proceeding that the court had been against him. the attorney and solicitor-general had appeared to him resolved upon hanging him,--men who had been, at any rate, his intimate acquaintances, with whom he had sat on the same bench, who ought to have known him. and the judge had taken the part of lord fawn, who had seemed to phineas to be bent on swearing away his life. he had borne himself very gallantly during that week, having in all his intercourse with his attorney, spoken without a quaver in his voice, and without a flaw in the perspicuity of his intelligence. but now, when mr. low came to him, explaining to him that it was impossible that a verdict should be found against him, he was quite broken down. "there is nothing left of me," he said at the end of the interview. "i feel that i had better take to my bed and die. even when i think of all that friends have done for me, it fails to cheer me. in this matter i should not have had to depend on friends. had not she gone for me to that place every one would have believed me to be a murderer." and yet in his solitude he thought very much of the marvellous love shown to him by his friends. words had been spoken which had been very sweet to him in all his misery,--words such as neither men nor women can say to each other in the ordinary intercourse of life, much as they may wish that their purport should be understood. lord chiltern, lord cantrip, and mr. monk had alluded to him as a man specially singled out by them for their friendship. lady cantrip, than whom no woman in london was more discreet, had been equally enthusiastic. then how gracious, how tender, how inexpressibly sweet had been the words of her who had been violet effingham! and now the news had reached him of madame goesler's journey to the continent. "it was a wonderful thing for her to do," mr. low had said. yes, indeed! remembering all that had passed between them he acknowledged to himself that it was very wonderful. were it not that his back was now broken, that he was prostrate and must remain so, a man utterly crushed by what he had endured, it might have been possible that she should do more for him even than she yet had done. chapter lxv. "i hate her!" lady laura kennedy had been allowed to take no active part in the manifestations of friendship which at this time were made on behalf of phineas finn. she had, indeed, gone to him in his prison, and made daily efforts to administer to his comfort; but she could not go up into the court and speak for him. and now this other woman, whom she hated, would have the glory of his deliverance! she already began to see a fate before her, which would make even her past misery as nothing to that which was to come. she was a widow,--not yet two months a widow; and though she did not and could not mourn the death of a husband as do other widows,--though she could not sorrow in her heart for a man whom she had never loved, and from whom she had been separated during half her married life,--yet the fact of her widowhood and the circumstances of her weeds were heavy on her. that she loved this man, phineas finn, with a passionate devotion of which the other woman could know nothing she was quite sure. love him! had she not been true to him and to his interests from the very first day in which he had come among them in london, with almost more than a woman's truth? she knew and recalled to her memory over and over again her own one great sin,--the fault of her life. when she was, as regarded her own means, a poor woman, she had refused to be this poor man's wife, and had given her hand to a rich suitor. but she had done this with a conviction that she could so best serve the interests of the man in regard to whom she had promised herself that her feeling should henceforth be one of simple and purest friendship. she had made a great effort to carry out that intention, but the effort had been futile. she had striven to do her duty to a husband whom she disliked,--but even in that she had failed. at one time she had been persistent in her intercourse with phineas finn, and at another had resolved that she would not see him. she had been madly angry with him when he came to her with the story of his love for another woman, and had madly shown her anger; but yet she had striven to get for him the wife he wanted, though in doing so she would have abandoned one of the dearest purposes of her life. she had moved heaven and earth for him,--her heaven and earth,--when there was danger that he would lose his seat in parliament. she had encountered the jealousy of her husband with scorn,--and had then deserted him because he was jealous. and all this she did with a consciousness of her own virtue which was almost as sublime as it was ill-founded. she had been wrong. she confessed so much to herself with bitter tears. she had marred the happiness of three persons by the mistake she had made in early life. but it had not yet occurred to her that she had sinned. to her thinking the jealousy of her husband had been preposterous and abominable, because she had known,--and had therefore felt that he should have known,--that she would never disgrace him by that which the world calls falsehood in a wife. she had married him without loving him, but it seemed to her that he was in fault for that. they had become wretched, but she had never pitied his wretchedness. she had left him, and thought herself to be ill-used because he had ventured to reclaim his wife. through it all she had been true in her regard to the one man she had ever loved, and,--though she admitted her own folly and knew her own shipwreck,--yet she had always drawn some woman's consolation from the conviction of her own constancy. he had vanished from her sight for a while with a young wife,--never from her mind,--and then he had returned a widower. through silence, absence, and distance she had been true to him. on his return to his old ways she had at once welcomed him and strove to aid him. everything that was hers should be his,--if only he would open his hands to take it. and she would tell it him all,--let him know every corner of her heart. she was a married woman, and could not be his wife. she was a woman of virtue, and would not be his mistress. but she would be to him a friend so tender that no wife, no mistress should ever have been fonder! she did tell him everything as they stood together on the ramparts of the old saxon castle. then he had kissed her, and pressed her to his heart,--not because he loved her, but because he was generous. she had partly understood it all,--but yet had not understood it thoroughly. he did not assure her of his love,--but then she was a wife, and would have admitted no love that was sinful. when she returned to dresden that night she stood gazing at herself in the glass and saw that there was nothing there to attract the love of such a man as phineas finn,--of one who was himself glorious with manly beauty; but yet for her sadness there was some cure, some possibility of consolation in the fact that she was a wife. why speak of love at all when marriage was so far out of the question? but now she was a widow and as free as he was,--a widow endowed with ample wealth; and she was the woman to whom he had sworn his love when they had stood together, both young, by the falls of the linter! how often might they stand there again if only his constancy would equal hers? she had seen him once since fate had made her a widow; but then she had been but a few days a widow, and his life had at that moment been in strange jeopardy. there had certainly been no time then for other love than that which the circumstances and the sorrow of the hour demanded from their mutual friendship. from that day, from the first moment in which she had heard of his arrest, every thought, every effort of her mind had been devoted to his affairs. so great was his peril and so strange, that it almost wiped out from her mind the remembrance of her own condition. should they hang him,--undoubtedly she would die. such a termination to all her aspirations for him whom she had selected as her god upon earth would utterly crush her. she had borne much, but she could never bear that. should he escape, but escape ingloriously;--ah, then he should know what the devotion of a woman could do for a man! but if he should leave his prison with flying colours, and come forth a hero to the world, how would it be with her then? she could foresee and understand of what nature would be the ovation with which he would be greeted. she had already heard what the duchess was doing and saying. she knew how eager on his behalf were lord and lady cantrip. she discussed the matter daily with her sister-in-law, and knew what her brother thought. if the acquittal were perfect, there would certainly be an ovation,--in which, was it not certain to her, that she would be forgotten? and she heard much, too, of madame goesler. and now there came the news. madame goesler had gone to prague, to cracow,--and where not?--spending her wealth, employing her wits, bearing fatigue, openly before the world on this man's behalf; and had done so successfully. she had found this evidence of the key, and now because the tracings of a key had been discovered by a woman, people were ready to believe that he was innocent, as to whose innocence she, laura kennedy, would have been willing to stake her own life from the beginning of the affair! why had it not been her lot to go to prague? would not she have drunk up esil, or swallowed a crocodile against any she-laertes that would have thought to rival and to parallel her great love? would not she have piled up new ossas, had the opportunity been given her? womanlike she had gone to him in her trouble,--had burst through his prison doors, had thrown herself on his breast, and had wept at his feet. but of what avail had been that? this strange female, this moabitish woman, had gone to prague, and had found a key,--and everybody said that the thing was done! how she hated the strange woman, and remembered all the evil things that had been said of the intruder! she told herself over and over again that had it been any one else than this half-foreigner, this german jewess, this intriguing unfeminine upstart, she could have borne it. did not all the world know that the woman for the last two years had been the mistress of that old doting duke who was now dead? had one ever heard who was her father or who was her mother? had it not always been declared of her that she was a pushing, dangerous, scheming creature? and then she was old enough to be his mother, though by some medean tricks known to such women, she was able to postpone,--not the ravages of age,--but the manifestation of them to the eyes of the world. in all of which charges poor lady laura wronged her rival foully;--in that matter of age especially, for, as it happened, madame goesler was by some months the younger of the two. but lady laura was a blonde, and trouble had told upon her outwardly, as it is wont to do upon those who are fair-skinned, and, at the same time, high-hearted. but madame goesler was a brunette,--swarthy, lady laura would have called her,--with bright eyes and glossy hair and thin cheeks, and now being somewhat over thirty she was at her best. lady laura hated her as a fair woman who has lost her beauty can hate the dark woman who keeps it. "what made her think of the key?" said lady chiltern. "i don't believe she did think of it. it was an accident." "then why did she go?" "oh, violet, do not talk to me about that woman any more, or i shall be mad." "she has done him good service." "very well;--so be it. let him have the service. i know they would have acquitted him if she had never stirred from london. oswald says so. but no matter. let her have her triumph. only do not talk to me about her. you know what i have thought about her ever since she first came up in london. nothing ever surprised me so much as that you should take her by the hand." "i do not know that i took her specially by the hand." "you had her down at harrington." "yes; i did. and i do like her. and i know nothing against her. i think you are prejudiced against her, laura." "very well. of course you think and can say what you please. i hate her, and that is sufficient." then, after a pause, she added, "of course he will marry her. i know that well enough. it is nothing to me whom he marries--only,--only,--only, after all that has passed it seems hard upon me that his wife should be the only woman in london that i could not visit." "dear laura, you should control your thoughts about this young man." "of course i should;--but i don't. you mean that i am disgracing myself." "no." "yes, you do. oswald is more candid, and tells me so openly. and yet what have i done? the world has been hard upon me, and i have suffered. do i desire anything except that he shall be happy and respectable? do i hope for anything? i will go back and linger out my life at dresden, where my disgrace can hurt no one." her sister-in-law with all imaginable tenderness said what she could to console the miserable woman;--but there was no consolation possible. they both knew that phineas finn would never renew the offer which he had once made. chapter lxvi. the foreign bludgeon. in the meantime madame goesler, having accomplished the journey from prague in considerably less than a week, reached london with the blacksmith, the attorney's clerk, and the model of the key. the trial had been adjourned on wednesday, the th of june, and it had been suggested that the jury should be again put into their box on that day week. all manner of inconvenience was to be endured by various members of the legal profession, and sundry irregularities were of necessity sanctioned on this great occasion. the sitting of the court should have been concluded, and everybody concerned should have been somewhere else, but the matter was sufficient to justify almost any departure from routine. a member of the house of commons was in custody, and it had already been suggested that some action should be taken by the house as to his speedy deliverance. unless a jury could find him guilty, let him be at once restored to his duties and his privileges. the case was involved in difficulties, but in the meantime the jury, who had been taken down by train every day to have a walk in the country in the company of two sheriff's officers, and who had been allowed to dine at greenwich one day and at richmond on another in the hope that whitebait with lamb and salad might in some degree console them for their loss of liberty, were informed that they would be once again put into their box on wednesday. but madame goesler reached london on the sunday morning, and on the monday the whole affair respecting the key was unravelled in the presence of the attorney-general, and with the personal assistance of our old friend, major mackintosh. without a doubt the man mealyus had caused to be made for him in prague a key which would open the door of the house in northumberland street. a key was made in london from the model now brought which did open the door. the attorney-general seemed to think that it would be his duty to ask the judge to call upon the jury to acquit phineas finn, and that then the matter must rest for ever, unless further evidence could be obtained against yosef mealyus. it would not be possible to hang a man for a murder simply because he had fabricated a key,--even though he might possibly have obtained the use of a grey coat for a few hours. there was no tittle of evidence to show that he had ever had the great coat on his shoulders, or that he had been out of the house on that night. lord fawn, to his infinite disgust, was taken to the prison in which mealyus was detained, and was confronted with the man, but he could say nothing. mealyus, at his own suggestion, put on the coat, and stalked about the room in it. but lord fawn would not say a word. the person whom he now saw might have been the man in the street, or mr. finn might have been the man, or any other man might have been the man. lord fawn was very dignified, very reserved, and very unhappy. to his thinking he was the great martyr of this trial. phineas finn was becoming a hero. against the twelve jurymen the finger of scorn would never be pointed. but his sufferings must endure for his life--might probably embitter his life to the very end. looking into his own future from his present point of view he did not see how he could ever again appear before the eye of the public. and yet with what persistency of conscience had he struggled to be true and honest! on the present occasion he would say nothing. he had seen a man in a grey coat, and for the future would confine himself to that. "you did not see me, my lord," said mr. emilius with touching simplicity. so the matter stood on the monday afternoon, and the jury had already been told that they might be released on the following tuesday,--might at any rate hear the judge's charge on that day,--when another discovery was made more wonderful than that of the key. and this was made without any journey to prague, and might, no doubt, have been made on any day since the murder had been committed. and it was a discovery for not having made which the police force generally was subjected to heavy censure. a beautiful little boy was seen playing in one of those gardens through which the passage runs with a short loaded bludgeon in his hand. he came into the house with the weapon, the maid who was with him having asked the little lord no question on the subject. but luckily it attracted attention, and his little lordship took two gardeners and a coachman and all the nurses to the very spot at which he found it. before an hour was over he was standing at his father's knee, detailing the fact with great open eyes to two policemen, having by this time become immensely proud of his adventure. this occurred late on the monday afternoon, when the noble family were at dinner, and the noble family was considerably disturbed, and at the same time very much interested, by the occurrence. but on the tuesday morning there was the additional fact established that a bludgeon loaded with lead had been found among the thick grass and undergrowth of shrubs in a spot to which it might easily have been thrown by any one attempting to pitch it over the wall. the news flew about the town like wildfire, and it was now considered certain that the real murderer would be discovered. [illustration: the boy who found the bludgeon.] but the renewal of the trial was again postponed till the wednesday, as it was necessary that an entire day should be devoted to the bludgeon. the instrument was submitted to the eyes and hands of persons experienced in such matters, and it was declared on all sides that the thing was not of english manufacture. it was about a foot long, with a leathern thong to the handle, with something of a spring in the shaft, and with the oval loaded knot at the end cased with leathern thongs very minutely and skilfully cut. they who understood modern work in leather gave it as their opinion that the weapon had been made in paris. it was considered that mealyus had brought it with him, and concealed it in preparation for this occasion. if the police could succeed in tracing the bludgeon into his hands, or in proving that he had purchased any such instrument, then,--so it was thought,--there would be evidence to justify a police magistrate in sending mr. emilius to occupy the place so lately and so long held by poor phineas finn. but till that had been done, there could be nothing to connect the preacher with the murder. all who had heard the circumstances of the case were convinced that mr. bonteen had been murdered by the weapon lately discovered, and not by that which phineas had carried in his pocket,--but no one could adduce proof that it was so. this second bludgeon would no doubt help to remove the difficulty in regard to phineas, but would not give atonement to the shade of mr. bonteen. mealyus was confronted with the weapon in the presence of major mackintosh, and was told its story;--how it was found in the nobleman's garden by the little boy. at the first moment, with instant readiness, he took the thing in his hand, and looked at it with feigned curiosity. he must have studied his conduct so as to have it ready for such an occasion, thinking that it might some day occur. but with all his presence of mind he could not keep the tell-tale blood from mounting. "you don't know anything about it, mr. mealyus?" said one of the policemen present, looking closely into his face. "of course you need not criminate yourself." "what should i know about it? no;--i know nothing about the stick. i never had such a stick, or, as i believe, saw one before." he did it very well, but he could not keep the blood from rising to his cheeks. the policemen were sure that he was the murderer,--but what could they do? "you saved his life, certainly," said the duchess to her friend on the sunday afternoon. that had been before the bludgeon was found. "i do not believe that they could have touched a hair of his head," said madame goesler. "would they not? everybody felt sure that he would be hung. would it not have been awful? i do not see how you are to help becoming man and wife now, for all the world are talking about you." madame goesler smiled, and said that she was quite indifferent to the world's talk. on the tuesday after the bludgeon was found, the two ladies met again. "now it was known that it was the clergyman," said the duchess. "i never doubted it." "he must have been a brave man for a foreigner,--to have attacked mr. bonteen all alone in the street, when any one might have seen him. i don't feel to hate him so very much after all. as for that little wife of his, she has got no more than she deserved." "mr. finn will surely be acquitted now." "of course he'll be acquitted. nobody doubts about it. that is all settled, and it is a shame that he should be kept in prison even over to-day. i should think they'll make him a peer, and give him a pension,--or at the very least appoint him secretary to something. i do wish plantagenet hadn't been in such a hurry about that nasty board of trade, and then he might have gone there. he couldn't very well be privy seal, unless they do make him a peer. you wouldn't mind,--would you, my dear?" "i think you'll find that they will console mr. finn with something less gorgeous than that. you have succeeded in seeing him, of course?" "plantagenet wouldn't let me, but i know who did." "some lady?" "oh, yes,--a lady. half the men about the clubs went to him, i believe." "who was she?" "you won't be ill-natured?" "i'll endeavour at any rate to keep my temper, duchess." "it was lady laura." "i supposed so." "they say she is frantic about him, my dear." "i never believe those things. women do not get frantic about men in these days. they have been very old friends, and have known each other for many years. her brother, lord chiltern, was his particular friend. i do not wonder that she should have seen him." "of course you know that she is a widow." "oh, yes;--mr. kennedy had died long before i left england." "and she is very rich. she has got all loughlinter for her life, and her own fortune back again. i will bet you anything you like that she offers to share it with him." "it may be so," said madame goesler, while the slightest blush in the world suffused her cheek. "and i'll make you another bet, and give you any odds." "what is that?" "that he refuses her. it is quite a common thing nowadays for ladies to make the offer, and for gentlemen to refuse. indeed, it was felt to be so inconvenient while it was thought that gentlemen had not the alternative, that some men became afraid of going into society. it is better understood now." "such things have been done, i do not doubt," said madame goesler, who had contrived to avert her face without making the motion apparent to her friend. "when this is all over we'll get him down to matching, and manage better than that. i should think they'll hardly go on with the session, as nobody has done anything since the arrest. while mr. finn has been in prison legislation has come to a standstill altogether. even plantagenet doesn't work above twelve hours a day, and i'm told that poor lord fawn hasn't been near his office for the last fortnight. when the excitement is over they'll never be able to get back to their business before the grouse. there'll be a few dinners of course, just as a compliment to the great man,--but london will break up after that, i should think. you won't come in for so much of the glory as you would have done if they hadn't found the stick. little lord frederick must have his share, you know." "it's the most singular case i ever knew," said sir simon slope that night to one of his friends. "we certainly should have hanged him but for the two accidents, and yet neither of them brings us a bit nearer to hanging any one else." "what a pity!" "it shows the danger of circumstantial evidence,--and yet without it one never could get at any murder. i'm very glad, you know, that the key and the stick did turn up. i never thought much about the coat." chapter lxvii. the verdict. on the wednesday morning phineas finn was again brought into the court, and again placed in the dock. there was a general feeling that he should not again have been so disgraced; but he was still a prisoner under a charge of murder, and it was explained to him that the circumstances of the case and the stringency of the law did not admit of his being seated elsewhere during his trial. he treated the apology with courteous scorn. he should not have chosen, he said, to have made any change till after the trial was over, even had any change been permitted. when he was brought up the steps into the dock after the judges had taken their seats there was almost a shout of applause. the crier was very angry, and gave it to be understood that everybody would be arrested unless everybody was silent; but the chief justice said not a word, nor did those great men the attorney and solicitor-general express any displeasure. the bench was again crowded with members of parliament from both houses, and on this occasion mr. gresham himself had accompanied lord cantrip. the two dukes were there, and men no bigger than laurence fitzgibbon were forced to subject themselves to the benevolence of the under-sheriff. phineas himself was pale and haggard. it was observed that he leaned forward on the rail of the dock all the day, not standing upright as he had done before; and they who watched him closely said that he never once raised his eyes on this day to meet those of the men opposite to him on the bench, although heretofore throughout the trial he had stood with his face raised so as to look directly at those who were there seated. on this occasion he kept his eyes fixed upon the speaker. but the whole bearing of the man, his gestures, his gait, and his countenance were changed. during the first long week of his trial, his uprightness, the manly beauty of his countenance, and the general courage and tranquillity of his deportment had been conspicuous. whatever had been his fatigue, he had managed not to show the outward signs of weariness. whatever had been his fears, no mark of fear had disfigured his countenance. he had never once condescended to the exhibition of any outward show of effrontery. through six weary days he had stood there, supported by a manhood sufficient for the terrible emergency. but now it seemed that at any rate the outward grace of his demeanour had deserted him. but it was known that he had been ill during the last few days, and it had been whispered through the court that he had not slept at nights. since the adjournment of the court there had been bulletins as to his health, and everybody knew that the confinement was beginning to tell upon him. on the present occasion the proceedings of the day were opened by the attorney-general, who began by apologising to the jury. apologies to the jury had been very frequent during the trial, and each apology had called forth fresh grumbling. on this occasion the foreman expressed a hope that the legislature would consider the condition of things which made it possible that twelve gentlemen all concerned extensively in business should be confined for fourteen days because a mistake had been made in the evidence as to a murder. then the chief justice, bowing down his head and looking at them over the rim of his spectacles with an expression of wisdom that almost convinced them, told them that he was aware of no mistake in the evidence. it might become their duty, on the evidence which they had heard and the further evidence which they would hear, to acquit the prisoner at the bar; but not on that account would there have been any mistake or erroneous procedure in the court, other than such error on the part of the prosecution in regard to the alleged guilt of the prisoner as it was the general and special duty of jurors to remedy. then he endeavoured to reconcile them to their sacrifice by describing the importance and glorious british nature of their position. "my lord," said one of the jurors, "if you was a salesman, and hadn't got no partner, only a very young 'un, you'd know what it was to be kept out of your business for a fortnight." then that salesman wagged his head, and put his handkerchief up to his eyes, and there was pity also for him in the court. after that the attorney-general went on. his learned friend on the other side,--and he nodded to mr. chaffanbrass,--had got some further evidence to submit to them on behalf of the prisoner who was still on his trial before them. he now addressed them with the view of explaining to them that if that evidence should be such as he believed, it would become his duty on behalf of the crown to join with his learned friend in requesting the court to direct the jury to acquit the prisoner. not the less on that account would it be the duty of the jury to form their own opinion as to the credibility of the fresh evidence which would be brought before them. "there won't be much doubt about the credibility," said mr. chaffanbrass, rising in his place. "i am not a bit afraid about the credibility, gentlemen; and i don't think that you need be afraid either. you must understand, gentlemen, that i am now going on calling evidence for the defence. my last witness was the right honourable mr. monk, who spoke as to character. my next will be a bohemian blacksmith named praska,--peter praska,--who naturally can't speak a word of english, and unfortunately can't speak a word of german either. but we have got an interpreter, and i daresay we shall find out without much delay what peter praska has to tell us." then peter praska was handed up to the rostrum for the witnesses, and the man learned in czech and also in english was placed close to him, and sworn to give a true interpretation. mealyus the unfortunate one was also in court, brought in between two policemen, and the bohemian blacksmith swore that he had made a certain key on the instructions of the man he now saw. the reader need not be further troubled with all the details of the evidence about the key. it was clearly proved that in a village near to prague a key had been made such as would open mr. meager's door in northumberland street, and it was also proved that it was made from a mould supplied by mealyus. this was done by the joint evidence of mr. meager and of the blacksmith. "and if i lose my key," said the reverend gentleman, "why should i not have another made? did i ever deny it? this, i think, is very strange." but mr. emilius was very quickly walked back out of the court between the two policemen, as his presence would not be required in regard to the further evidence regarding the bludgeon. mr. chaffanbrass, having finished his business with the key, at once began with the bludgeon. the bludgeon was produced, and was handed up to the bench, and inspected by the chief justice. the instrument excited great interest. men rose on tiptoe to look at it even from a distance, and the prime minister was envied because for a moment it was placed in his hands. as the large-eyed little boy who had found it was not yet six years old, there was a difficulty in perfecting the thread of the evidence. it was not held to be proper to administer an oath to an infant. but in a roundabout way it was proved that the identical bludgeon had been picked up in the garden. there was an elaborate surveyor's plan produced of the passage, the garden, and the wall,--with the steps on which it was supposed that the blow had been struck; and the spot was indicated on which the child had said that he had found the weapon. then certain workers in leather were questioned, who agreed in asserting that no such instrument as that handed to them had ever been made in england. after that, two scientific chemists told the jury that they had minutely examined the knob of the instrument with reference to the discovery of human blood,--but in vain. they were, however, of opinion that the man might very readily have been killed by the instrument without any effusion of blood at the moment of the blows. this seemed to the jury to be the less necessary, as three or four surgeons who had examined the murdered man's head had already told them that in all probability there had been no such effusion. when the judges went out to lunch at two o'clock the jury were trembling as to their fate for another night. the fresh evidence, however, had been completed, and on the return of the court mr. chaffanbrass said that he should only speak a very few words. for a few words he must ask indulgence, though he knew them to be irregular. but it was the speciality of this trial that everything in it was irregular, and he did not think that his learned friend the attorney-general would dispute the privilege. the attorney-general said nothing, and mr. chaffanbrass went on with his little speech,--with which he took up the greatest part of an hour. it was thought to have been unnecessary, as nearly all that he said was said again--and was sure to have been so said,--by the judge. it was not his business,--the business of him, mr. chaffanbrass,--to accuse another man of the murder of mr. bonteen. it was not for him to tell the jury whether there was or was not evidence on which any other man should be sent to trial. but it was his bounden duty in defence of his client to explain to them that a collection of facts tending to criminate another man,--which when taken together made a fair probability that another man had committed the crime,--rendered it quite out of the question that they should declare his client to be guilty. he did not believe that there was a single person in the court who was not now convinced of the innocence of his client;--but it was not permitted to him to trust himself solely to that belief. it was his duty to show them that, of necessity, they must acquit his client. when mr. chaffanbrass sat down, the attorney-general waived any right he might have of further reply. it was half-past three when the judge began his charge. he would, he said, do his best to enable the jury to complete their tedious duty, so as to return to their families on that night. indeed he would certainly finish his charge before he rose from the seat, let the hour be what it might; and though time must be occupied by him in going through the evidence and explaining the circumstances of this very singular trial, it might not be improbable that the jury would be able to find their verdict without any great delay among themselves. "there won't be any delay at all, my lord," said the suffering and very irrational salesman. the poor man was again rebuked, mildly, and the chief justice continued his charge. as it occupied four hours in the delivery, of which by far the greater part was taken up in recapitulating and sifting evidence with which the careful reader, if such there be, has already been made too intimately acquainted, the account of it here shall be very short. the nature of circumstantial evidence was explained, and the truth of much that had been said in regard to such evidence by mr. chaffanbrass admitted;--but, nevertheless, it would be impossible,--so said his lordship,--to administer justice if guilt could never be held to have been proved by circumstantial evidence alone. in this case it might not improbably seem to them that the gentleman who had so long stood before them as a prisoner at the bar had been the victim of a most singularly untoward chain of circumstances, from which he would have to be liberated, should he be at last liberated, by another chain of circumstances as singular; but it was his duty to inform them now, after they had heard what he might call the double evidence, that he could not have given it to them as his opinion that the charge had been brought home against the prisoner, even had those circumstances of the bohemian key and of the foreign bludgeon never been brought to light. he did not mean to say that the evidence had not justified the trial. he thought that the trial had been fully justified. nevertheless, had nothing arisen to point to the possibility of guilt in another man, he should not the less have found himself bound in duty to explain to them that the thread of the evidence against mr. finn had been incomplete,--or, he would rather say, the weight of it had been, to his judgment, insufficient. he was the more intent on saying so much, as he was desirous of making it understood that, even had the bludgeon still remained buried beneath the leaves, had the manufacturer of that key never been discovered, the great evil would not, he thought, have fallen upon them of punishing the innocent instead of the guilty,--that most awful evil of taking innocent blood in their just attempt to punish murder by death. as far as he knew, to the best of his belief, that calamity had never fallen upon the country in his time. the administration of the law was so careful of life that the opposite evil was fortunately more common. he said so much because he would not wish that this case should be quoted hereafter as showing the possible danger of circumstantial evidence. it had been a case in which the evidence given as to character alone had been sufficient to make him feel that the circumstances which seemed to affect the prisoner injuriously could not be taken as establishing his guilt. but now other and imposing circumstances had been brought to light, and he was sure that the jury would have no difficulty with their verdict. a most frightful murder had no doubt been committed in the dead of the night. a gentleman coming home from his club had been killed,--probably by the hand of one who had himself moved in the company of gentlemen. a plot had been made,--had probably been thought of for days and weeks before,--and had been executed with extreme audacity, in order that an enemy might be removed. there could, he thought, be but little doubt that mr. bonteen had been killed by the instrument found in the garden, and if so, he certainly had not been killed by the prisoner, who could not be supposed to have carried two bludgeons in his pocket, and whose quarrel with the murdered man had been so recent as to have admitted of no preparation. they had heard the story of mr. meager's grey coat, and of the construction of the duplicate key for mr. meager's house-door. it was not for him to tell them on the present occasion whether these stories, and the evidence by which they had been supported, tended to affix guilt elsewhere. it was beyond his province to advert to such probability or possibility; but undoubtedly the circumstances might be taken by them as an assistance, if assistance were needed, in coming to a conclusion on the charge against the prisoner. "gentlemen," he said at last, "i think you will find no difficulty in acquitting the prisoner of the murder laid to his charge," whereupon the jurymen put their heads together; and the foreman, without half a minute's delay, declared that they were unanimous, and that they found the prisoner not guilty. "and we are of opinion," said the foreman, "that mr. finn should not have been put upon his trial on such evidence as has been brought before us." the necessity of liberating poor phineas from the horrors of his position was too urgent to allow of much attention being given at the moment to this protest. "mr. finn," said the judge, addressing the poor broken wretch, "you have been acquitted of the odious and abominable charge brought against you, with the concurrence, i am sure, not only of those who have heard this trial, but of all your countrymen and countrywomen. i need not say that you will leave that dock with no stain on your character. it has, i hope, been some consolation to you in your misfortune to hear the terms in which you have been spoken of by such friends as they who came here to give their testimony on your behalf. it is, and it has been, a great sorrow to me to see such a one as you subjected to so unmerited an ignominy; but a man educated in the laws of his country, as you have been, and understanding its constitution fundamentally, as you do, will probably have acknowledged that, great as has been the misfortune to you personally, nothing more than a proper attempt has been made to execute justice. i trust that you may speedily find yourself able to resume your place among the legislators of the country." thus phineas finn was acquitted, and the judges, collecting up their robes, trooped off from the bench, following the long line of their assessors who had remained even to that hour to hear the last word of the trial. mr. chaffanbrass collected his papers, with the assistance of mr. wickerby,--totally disregardful of his junior counsel, and the attorney and solicitor-general congratulated each other on the successful termination of a very disagreeable piece of business. and phineas was discharged. according to the ordinary meaning of the words he was now to go about his business as he pleased, the law having no further need of his person. we can understand how in common cases the prisoner discharged on his acquittal,--who probably in nine cases out of ten is conscious of his own guilt,--may feel the sweetness of his freedom and enjoy his immunity from danger with a light heart. he is received probably by his wife or young woman,--or perhaps, having no wife or young woman to receive him, betakes himself to his usual haunts. the interest which has been felt in his career is over, and he is no longer the hero of an hour;--but he is a free man, and may drink his gin-and-water where he pleases. perhaps a small admiring crowd may welcome him as he passes out into the street, but he has become nobody before he reaches the corner. but it could not be so with this discharged prisoner,--either as regarded himself and his own feelings, or as regarded his friends. when the moment came he had hardly as yet thought about the immediate future,--had not considered how he would live, or where, during the next few months. the sensations of the moment had been so full, sometimes of agony and at others of anticipated triumph, that he had not attempted as yet to make for himself any schemes. the duchess of omnium had suggested that he would be received back into society with an elaborate course of fashionable dinners; but that view of his return to the world had certainly not occurred to him. when he was led down from the dock he hardly knew whither he was being taken, and when he found himself in a small room attached to the court, clasped on one arm by mr. low and on the other by lord chiltern, he did not know what they would propose to him,--nor had he considered what answer he would make to any proposition. "at last you are safe," said mr. low. "but think what he has suffered," said lord chiltern. phineas looked round to see if there was any other friend present. certainly among all his friends he had thought most of her who had travelled half across europe for evidence to save him. he had seen madame goesler last on the evening preceding the night of the murder, and had not even heard from her since. but he had been told what she had done for him, and now he had almost fancied that he would have found her waiting for him. he smiled first at the one man and then at the other, and made an effort to carry himself with his ordinary tranquillity. "it will be all right now, i dare say," he said. "i wonder whether i could have a glass of water." he sat down while the water was brought to him, and his two friends stood over him, hardly knowing how to do more than support him by their presence. then lord cantrip made his way into the room. he had sat on the bench to the last, whereas the other two had gone down to receive the prisoner when acquitted;--and with him came sir harry coldfoot, the home secretary. "my friend," said the former, "the bitter day has passed over you, and i hope that the bitterness will soon pass away also." phineas again attempted to smile as he held the hand of the man with whom he had formerly been associated in office. "i should not intrude, mr. finn," said sir harry, "did i not feel myself bound in a special manner to express my regret at the great trouble to which you have been subjected." phineas rose, and bowed stiffly. he had conceived that every one connected with the administration of the law had believed him to be guilty, and none in his present mood could be dear to him but they who from the beginning trusted in his innocence. "i am requested by mr. gresham," continued sir harry, "to express to you his entire sympathy, and his joy that all this is at last over." phineas tried to make some little speech, but utterly failed. then sir harry left them, and he burst out into tears. "who can be surprised?" said lord cantrip. "the marvel is that he should have been able to bear it so long." "it would have crushed me utterly, long since," said the other lord. then there was a question asked as to what he would do, and mr. low proposed that he should be allowed to take phineas to his own house for a few days. his wife, he said, had known their friend so long and so intimately that she might perhaps be able to make herself more serviceable than any other lady, and at their house phineas could receive his sisters just as he would at his own. his sisters had been lodging near the prison almost ever since the committal, and it had been thought well to remove them to mr. low's house in order that they might meet their brother there. "i think i'll go to my--own room--in marlborough street." these were the first intelligible words he had uttered since he had been led out of the dock, and to that resolution he adhered. lord cantrip offered the retirements of a country house belonging to himself within an hour's journey of london, and lord chiltern declared that harrington hall, which phineas knew, was altogether at his service,--but phineas decided in favour of mrs. bunce, and to great marlborough street he was taken by mr. low. "i'll come to you to-morrow,--with my wife,"--said lord chiltern, as he was going. "not to-morrow, chiltern. but tell your wife how deeply i value her friendship." lord cantrip also offered to come, but was asked to wait awhile. "i am afraid i am hardly fit for visitors yet. all the strength seems to have been knocked out of me this last week." mr. low accompanied him to his lodgings, and then handed him over to mrs. bunce, promising that his two sisters should come to him early on the following morning. on that evening he would prefer to be quite alone. he would not allow the barrister even to go upstairs with him; and when he had entered his room, almost rudely begged his weeping landlady to leave him. "oh, mr. phineas, let me do something for you," said the poor woman. "you have not had a bit of anything all day. let me get you just a cup of tea and a chop." in truth he had dined when the judges went out to their lunch,--dined as he had been wont to dine since the trial had been commenced,--and wanted nothing. she might bring him tea, he said, if she would leave him for an hour. and then at last he was alone. he stood up in the middle of the room, stretching forth his hands, and putting one first to his breast and then to his brow, feeling himself as though doubting his own identity. could it be that the last week had been real,--that everything had not been a dream? had he in truth been suspected of a murder and tried for his life? and then he thought of him who had been murdered, of mr. bonteen, his enemy. was he really gone,--the man who the other day was to have been chancellor of the exchequer,--the scornful, arrogant, loud, boastful man? he had hardly thought of mr. bonteen before, during these weeks of his own incarceration. he had heard all the details of the murder with a fulness that had been at last complete. the man who had oppressed him, and whom he had at times almost envied, was indeed gone, and the world for awhile had believed that he, phineas finn, had been the man's murderer! and now what should be his own future life? one thing seemed certain to him. he could never again go into the house of commons, and sit there, an ordinary man of business, with other ordinary men. he had been so hacked and hewed about, so exposed to the gaze of the vulgar, so mauled by the public, that he could never more be anything but the wretched being who had been tried for the murder of his enemy. the pith had been taken out of him, and he was no longer a man fit for use. he could never more enjoy that freedom from self-consciousness, that inner tranquillity of spirit, which are essential to public utility. then he remembered certain lines which had long been familiar to him, and he repeated them aloud, with some conceit that they were apposite to him:-- the true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-- for the reed that grows never more again as a reed with the reeds in the river. he sat drinking his tea, still thinking of himself,--knowing how infinitely better it would be for him that he should indulge in no such thought, till an idea struck him, and he got up, and, drawing back the blinds from the open window, looked out into the night. it was the last day of june, and the weather was very sultry; but the night was dark, and it was now near midnight. on a sudden he took his hat, and feeling with a smile for the latch-key which he always carried in his pocket,--thinking of the latch-key which had been made at prague for the lock of a house in northumberland street, new road, he went down to the front door. "you'll be back soon, mr. finn, won't you now?" said mrs. bunce, who had heard his step, and had remained up, thinking it better this, the first night of his return, not to rest till he had gone to his bed. "why should i be back soon?" he said, turning upon her. but then he remembered that she had been one of those who were true to him, and he took her hand and was gracious to her. "i will be back soon, mrs. bunce, and you need fear nothing. but recollect how little i have had of liberty lately. i have not even had a walk for six weeks. you cannot wonder that i should wish to roam about a little." nevertheless she would have preferred that he should not have gone out all alone on that night. he had taken off the black morning coat which he had worn during the trial, and had put on that very grey garment by which it had been sought to identify him with the murderer. so clad he crossed regent street into hanover square, and from thence went a short way down bond street, and by bruton street into berkeley square. he took exactly the reverse of the route by which he had returned home from the club on the night of the murder. every now and then he trembled as he passed some figure which might be that of a man who would recognise him. but he walked fast, and went on till he came to the spot at which the steps descend from the street into the passage,--the very spot at which the murder had been committed. he looked down it with an awful dread, and stood there as though he were fascinated, thinking of all the details which he had heard throughout the trial. then he looked around him, and listened whether there were any step approaching through the passage. hearing none and seeing no one he at last descended, and for the first time in his life passed through that way into bolton row. here it was that the wretch of whom he had now heard so much had waited for his enemy,--the wretch for whom during the last six weeks he had been mistaken. heavens!--that men who had known him should have believed him to have done such a deed as that! he remembered well having shown the life-preserver to erle and fitzgibbon at the door of the club; and it had been thought that after having so shown it he had used it for the purpose to which in his joke he had alluded! were men so blind, so ignorant of nature, so little capable of discerning the truth as this? then he went on till he came to the end of clarges street, and looked up the mews opposite to it,--the mews from which the man had been seen to hurry. the place was altogether unknown to him. he had never thought whither it had led when passing it on his way up from piccadilly to the club. but now he entered the mews so as to test the evidence that had been given, and found that it brought him by a turn close up to the spot at which he had been described as having been last seen by erle and fitzgibbon. when there he went on, and crossed the street, and looking back saw the club was lighted up. then it struck him for the first time that it was the night of the week on which the members were wont to assemble. should he pluck up courage, and walk in among them? he had not lost his right of entry there because he had been accused of murder. he was the same now as heretofore,--if he could only fancy himself to be the same. why not go in, and have done with all this? he would be the wonder of the club for twenty minutes, and then it would all be over. he stood close under the shade of a heavy building as he thought of this, but he found that he could not do it. he had known from the beginning that he could not do it. how callous, how hard, how heartless, must he have been, had such a course been possible to him! he again repeated the lines to himself-- the reed that grows never more again as a reed with the reeds in the river. he felt sure that never again would he enter that room, in which no doubt all those assembled were now talking about him. as he returned home he tried to make out for himself some plan for his future life,--but, interspersed with any idea that he could weave were the figures of two women, lady laura kennedy and madame max goesler. the former could be nothing to him but a friend; and though no other friend would love him as she loved him, yet she could not influence his life. she was very wealthy, but her wealth could be nothing to him. she would heap it all upon him if he would take it. he understood and knew that. taking no pride to himself that it was so, feeling no conceit in her love, he was conscious of her devotion to him. he was poor, broken in spirit, and almost without a future;--and yet could her devotion avail him nothing! but how might it be with that other woman? were she, after all that had passed between them, to consent to be his wife,--and it might be that she would consent,--how would the world be with him then? he would be known as madame goesler's husband, and have to sit at the bottom of her table,--and be talked of as the man who had been tried for the murder of mr. bonteen. look at it in which way he might, he thought that no life could any longer be possible to him in london. chapter lxviii. phineas after the trial. ten days passed by, and phineas finn had not been out of his lodgings till after daylight, and then he only prowled about in the manner described in the last chapter. his sisters had returned to ireland, and he saw no one, even in his own room, but two or three of his most intimate friends. among those mr. low and lord chiltern were the most frequently with him, but fitzgibbon, barrington erle, and mr. monk had also been admitted. people had called by the hundred, till mrs. bunce was becoming almost tired of her lodger's popularity; but they came only to inquire,--because it had been reported that mr. finn was not well after his imprisonment. the duchess of omnium had written to him various notes, asking when he would come to her, and what she could do for him. would he dine, would he spend a quiet evening, would he go to matching? finally, would he become her guest and the duke's next september for the partridge shooting? they would have a few friends with them, and madame goesler would be one of the number. having had this by him for a week, he had not as yet answered the invitation. he had received two or three notes from lady laura, who had frankly explained to him that if he were really ill she would of course go to him, but that as matters stood she could not do so without displeasing her brother. he had answered each note by an assurance that his first visit should be made in portman square. to madame goesler he had written a letter of thanks,--a letter which had in truth cost him some pains. "i know," he said, "for how much i have to thank you, but i do not know in what words to do it. i ought to be with you telling you in person of my gratitude; but i must own to you that for the present what has occurred has so unmanned me that i am unfit for the interview. i should only weep in your presence like a school-girl, and you would despise me." it was a long letter, containing many references to the circumstances of the trial, and to his own condition of mind throughout its period. her answer to him, which was very short, was as follows:-- park lane, sunday--. my dear mr. finn, i can well understand that for a while you should be too agitated by what has passed to see your friends. remember, however, that you owe it to them as well as to yourself not to sink into seclusion. send me a line when you think that you can come to me that i may be at home. my journey to prague was nothing. you forget that i am constantly going to vienna on business connected with my own property there. prague lies but a few hours out of the route. most sincerely yours, m. m. g. his friends who did see him urged him constantly to bestir himself, and mr. monk pressed him very much to come down to the house. "walk in with me to-night, and take your seat as though nothing had happened," said mr. monk. "but so much has happened." "nothing has happened to alter your outward position as a man. no doubt many will flock round you to congratulate you, and your first half-hour will be disagreeable; but then the thing will have been done. you owe it to your constituents to do so." then phineas for the first time expressed an opinion that he would resign his seat,--that he would take the chiltern hundreds, and retire altogether from public life. "pray do nothing of the kind," said mr. monk. "i do not think you quite understand," said phineas, "how such an ordeal as this works upon a man, how it may change a man, and knock out of him what little strength there ever was there. i feel that i am broken, past any patching up or mending. of course it ought not to be so. a man should be made of better stuff;--but one is only what one is." "we'll put off the discussion for another week," said mr. monk. "there came a letter to me when i was in prison from one of the leading men in tankerville, saying that i ought to resign. i know they all thought that i was guilty. i do not care to sit for a place where i was so judged,--even if i was fit any longer for a seat in parliament." he had never felt convinced that mr. monk had himself believed with confidence his innocence, and he spoke with soreness, and almost with anger. "a letter from one individual should never be allowed to create interference between a member and his constituents. it should simply be answered to that effect, and then ignored. as to the belief of the townspeople in your innocence,--what is to guide you? i believed you innocent with all my heart." "did you?" "but there was always sufficient possibility of your guilt to prevent a rational man from committing himself to the expression of an absolute conviction." the young member's brow became black as he heard this. "i can see that i offend you by saying so,--but if you will think of it, i must be right. you were on your trial; and i as your friend was bound to await the result,--with much confidence, because i knew you; but with no conviction, because both you and i are human and fallible. if the electors at tankerville, or any great proportion of them, express a belief that you are unfit to represent them because of what has occurred, i shall be the last to recommend you to keep your seat;--but i shall be surprised indeed if they should do so. if there were a general election to-morrow, i should regard your seat as one of the safest in england." both mr. low and lord chiltern were equally urgent with him to return to his usual mode of life,--using different arguments for their purpose. lord chiltern told him plainly that he was weak and womanly,--or rather that he would be were he to continue to dread the faces of his fellow-creatures. the master of the brake hounds himself was a man less gifted than phineas finn, and therefore hardly capable of understanding the exaggerated feelings of the man who had recently been tried for his life. lord chiltern was affectionate, tender-hearted, and true;--but there were no vacillating fibres in his composition. the balance which regulated his conduct was firmly set, and went well. the clock never stopped, and wanted but little looking after. but the works were somewhat rough, and the seconds were not scored. he had, however, been quite true to phineas during the dark time, and might now say what he pleased. "i am womanly," said phineas. "i begin to feel it. but i can't alter my nature." "i never was so much surprised in my life," said lord chiltern. "when i used to look at you in the dock, by heaven i envied you your pluck and strength." "i was burning up the stock of coals, chiltern." "you'll come all right after a few weeks. you've been knocked out of time;--that's the truth of it." mr. low treated his patient with more indulgence; but he also was surprised, and hardly understood the nature of the derangement of the mechanism in the instrument which he was desirous of repairing. "i should go abroad for a few months if i were you," said mr. low. "i should stick at the first inn i got to," said phineas. "i think i am better here. by and bye i shall travel, i dare say,--all over the world, as far as my money will last. but for the present i am only fit to sit still." mrs. low had seen him more than once, and had been very kind to him; but she also failed to understand. "i always thought that he was such a manly fellow," she said to her husband. "if you mean personal courage, there is no doubt that he possesses it,--as completely now, probably, as ever." "oh yes;--he could go over to flanders and let that lord shoot at him; and he could ride brutes of horses, and not care about breaking his neck. that's not what i mean. i thought that he could face the world with dignity;--but now it seems that he breaks down." "he has been very roughly used, my dear." "so he has,--and tenderly used too. nobody has had better friends. i thought he would have been more manly." the property of manliness in a man is a great possession, but perhaps there is none that is less understood,--which is more generally accorded where it does not exist, or more frequently disallowed where it prevails. there are not many who ever make up their minds as to what constitutes manliness, or even inquire within themselves upon the subject. the woman's error, occasioned by her natural desire for a master, leads her to look for a certain outward magnificence of demeanour, a pretended indifference to stings and little torments, a would-be superiority to the bread-and-butter side of life, an unreal assumption of personal grandeur. but a robe of state such as this,--however well the garment may be worn with practice,--can never be the raiment natural to a man; and men, dressing themselves in women's eyes, have consented to walk about in buckram. a composure of the eye, which has been studied, a reticence as to the little things of life, a certain slowness of speech unless the occasion call for passion, an indifference to small surroundings, these,--joined, of course, with personal bravery,--are supposed to constitute manliness. that personal bravery is required in the composition of manliness must be conceded, though, of all the ingredients needed, it is the lowest in value. but the first requirement of all must be described by a negative. manliness is not compatible with affectation. women's virtues, all feminine attributes, may be marred by affectation, but the virtues and the vice may co-exist. an affected man, too, may be honest, may be generous, may be pious;--but surely he cannot be manly. the self-conscious assumption of any outward manner, the striving to add,--even though it be but a tenth of a cubit to the height,--is fatal, and will at once banish the all but divine attribute. before the man can be manly, the gifts which make him so must be there, collected by him slowly, unconsciously, as are his bones, his flesh, and his blood. they cannot be put on like a garment for the nonce,--as may a little learning. a man cannot become faithful to his friends, unsuspicious before the world, gentle with women, loving with children, considerate to his inferiors, kindly with servants, tender-hearted with all,--and at the same time be frank, of open speech, with springing eager energies,--simply because he desires it. these things, which are the attributes of manliness, must come of training on a nature not ignoble. but they are the very opposites, the antipodes, the direct antagonism, of that staring, posed, bewhiskered and bewigged deportment, that _nil admirari_, self-remembering assumption of manliness, that endeavour of twopence halfpenny to look as high as threepence, which, when you prod it through, has in it nothing deeper than deportment. we see the two things daily, side by side, close to each other. let a man put his hat down, and you shall say whether he has deposited it with affectation or true nature. the natural man will probably be manly. the affected man cannot be so. mrs. low was wrong when she accused our hero of being unmanly. had his imagination been less alert in looking into the minds of men, and in picturing to himself the thoughts of others in reference to the crime with which he had been charged, he would not now have shrunk from contact with his fellow-creatures as he did. but he could not pretend to be other than he was. during the period of his danger, when men had thought that he would be hung,--and when he himself had believed that it would be so,--he had borne himself bravely without any conscious effort. when he had confronted the whole court with that steady courage which had excited lord chiltern's admiration, and had looked the bench in the face as though he at least had no cause to quail, he had known nothing of what he was doing. his features had answered the helm from his heart, but had not been played upon by his intellect. and it was so with him now. the reaction had overcome him, and he could not bring himself to pretend that it was not so. the tears would come to his eyes, and he would shiver and shake like one struck by palsy. mr. monk came to him often, and was all but forgiven for the apparent defection in his faith. "i have made up my mind to one thing," phineas said to him at the end of the ten days. "and what is the one thing?" "i will give up my seat." "i do not see a shadow of a reason for it." "nevertheless i will do it. indeed, i have already written to mr. ratler for the hundreds. there may be and probably are men down at tankerville who still think that i am guilty. there is an offensiveness in murder which degrades a man even by the accusation. i suppose it wouldn't do for you to move for the new writ." "ratler will do it, as a matter of course. no doubt there will be expressions of great regret, and my belief is that they will return you again." "if so, they'll have to do it without my presence." mr. ratler did move for a new writ for the borough of tankerville, and within a fortnight of his restoration to liberty phineas finn was no longer a member of parliament. it cannot be alleged that there was any reason for what he did, and yet the doing of it for the time rather increased than diminished his popularity. both mr. gresham and mr. daubeny expressed their regret in the house, and mr. monk said a few words respecting his friend, which were very touching. he ended by expressing a hope that they soon might see him there again, and an opinion that he was a man peculiarly fitted by the tone of his mind, and the nature of his intellect, for the duties of parliament. then at last, when all this had been settled, he went to lord brentford's house in portman square. he had promised that that should be the first house he would visit, and he was as good as his word. one evening he crept out, and walked slowly along oxford street, and knocked timidly at the door. as he did so he longed to be told that lady laura was not at home. but lady laura was at home,--as a matter of course. in those days she never went into society, and had not passed an evening away from her father's house since mr. kennedy's death. he was shown up into the drawing-room in which she sat, and there he found her--alone. "oh, phineas, i am so glad you have come." "i have done as i said, you see." "i could not go to you when they told me that you were ill. you will have understood all that?" "yes; i understand." "people are so hard, and cold, and stiff, and cruel, that one can never do what one feels, oneself, to be right. so you have given up your seat." "yes,--i am no longer a member of parliament." "barrington says that they will certainly re-elect you." "we shall see. you may be sure at any rate of this,--that i shall never ask them to do so. things seem to be so different now from what they did. i don't care for the seat. it all seems to be a bore and a trouble. what does it matter who sits in parliament? the fight goes on just the same. the same falsehoods are acted. the same mock truths are spoken. the same wrong reasons are given. the same personal motives are at work." "and yet, of all believers in parliament, you used to be the most faithful." "one has time to think of things, lady laura, when one lies in newgate. it seems to me to be an eternity of time since they locked me up. and as for that trial, which they tell me lasted a week, i look back at it till the beginning is so distant that i can hardly remember it. but i have resolved that i will never talk of it again. lady chiltern is out probably." "yes;--she and oswald are dining with the baldocks." "she is well?" "yes;--and most anxious to see you. will you go to their place in september?" he had almost made up his mind that if he went anywhere in september he would go to matching priory, accepting the offer of the duchess of omnium; but he did not dare to say so to lady laura, because she would have known that madame goesler also would be there. and he had not as yet accepted the invitation, and was still in doubt whether he would not escape by himself instead of attempting to return into the grooves of society. "i think not;--i am hardly as yet sufficiently master of myself to know what i shall do." "they will be much disappointed." "and you?--what will you do?" "i shall not go there. i am told that i ought to visit loughlinter, and i suppose i shall. oswald has promised to go down with me before the end of the month, but he will not remain above a day or two." "and your father?" "we shall leave him at saulsby. i cannot look it all in the face yet. it is not possible that i should remain all alone in that great house. the people all around would hate and despise me. i think violet will come down with me, but of course she cannot remain there. oswald must go to harrington because of the hunting. it has become the business of his life. and she must go with him." "you will return to saulsby." "i cannot say. they seem to think that i should live at loughlinter;--but i cannot live there alone." he soon took leave of her, and did so with no warmer expressions of regard on either side than have here been given. then he crept back to his lodgings, and she sat weeping alone in her father's house. when he had come to her during her husband's lifetime at dresden, or even when she had visited him at his prison, it had been better than this. [illustration: and she sat weeping alone in her father's house.] chapter lxix. the duke's first cousin. our pages have lately been taken up almost exclusively with the troubles of phineas finn, and indeed have so far not unfairly represented the feelings and interest of people generally at the time. not to have talked of phineas finn from the middle of may to the middle of july in that year would have exhibited great ignorance or a cynical disposition. but other things went on also. moons waxed and waned; children were born; marriages were contracted; and the hopes and fears of the little world around did not come to an end because phineas finn was not to be hung. among others who had interests of their own there was poor adelaide palliser, whom we last saw under the affliction of mr. spooner's love,--but who before that had encountered the much deeper affliction of a quarrel with her own lover. she had desired him to free her,--and he had gone. indeed, as to his going at that moment there had been no alternative, as he considered himself to have been turned out of lord chiltern's house. the red-headed lord, in the fierceness of his defence of miss palliser, had told the lover that under such and such circumstances he could not be allowed to remain at harrington hall. lord chiltern had said something about "his roof." now, when a host questions the propriety of a guest remaining under his roof, the guest is obliged to go. gerard maule had gone; and, having offended his sweetheart by a most impolite allusion to boulogne, had been forced to go as a rejected lover. from that day to this he had done nothing,--not because he was contented with the lot assigned to him, for every morning, as he lay on his bed, which he usually did till twelve, he swore to himself that nothing should separate him from adelaide palliser,--but simply because to do nothing was customary with him. "what is a man to do?" he not unnaturally asked his friend captain boodle at the club. "let her out on the grass for a couple of months," said captain boodle, "and she'll come up as clean as a whistle. when they get these humours there's nothing like giving them a run." captain boodle undoubtedly had the reputation of being very great in council on such matters; but it must not be supposed that gerard maule was contented to take his advice implicitly. he was unhappy, ill at ease, half conscious that he ought to do something, full of regrets,--but very idle. in the meantime miss palliser, who had the finer nature of the two, suffered grievously. the spooner affair was but a small addition to her misfortune. she could get rid of mr. spooner,--of any number of mr. spooners; but how should she get back to her the man she loved? when young ladies quarrel with their lovers it is always presumed, especially in books, that they do not wish to get them back. it is to be understood that the loss to them is as nothing. miss smith begs that mr. jones may be assured that he is not to consider her at all. if he is pleased to separate, she will be at any rate quite as well pleased,--probably a great deal better. no doubt she had loved him with all her heart, but that will make no difference to her, if he wishes,--to be off. upon the whole miss smith thinks that she would prefer such an arrangement, in spite of her heart. adelaide palliser had said something of the kind. as gerard maule had regarded her as a "trouble," and had lamented that prospect of "boulogne" which marriage had presented to his eyes, she had dismissed him with a few easily spoken words. she had assured him that no such troubles need weigh upon him. no doubt they had been engaged;--but, as far as she was concerned, the remembrance of that need not embarrass him. and so she and lord chiltern between them had sent him away. but how was she to get him back again? when she came to think it over, she acknowledged to herself that it would be all the world to her to have him back. to have him at all had been all the world to her. there had been nothing peculiarly heroic about him, nor had she ever regarded him as a hero. she had known his faults and weaknesses, and was probably aware that he was inferior to herself in character and intellect. but, nevertheless, she had loved him. to her he had been, though not heroic, sufficiently a man to win her heart. he was a gentleman, pleasant-mannered, pleasant to look at, pleasant to talk to, not educated in the high sense of the word, but never making himself ridiculous by ignorance. he was the very antipodes of a spooner, and he was,--or rather had been,--her lover. she did not wish to change. she did not recognise the possibility of changing. though she had told him that he might go if he pleased, to her his going would be the loss of everything. what would life be without a lover,--without the prospect of marriage? and there could be no other lover. there could be no further prospect should he take her at her word. of all this lord chiltern understood nothing, but lady chiltern understood it all. to his thinking the young man had behaved so badly that it was incumbent on them all to send him away and so have done with him. if the young man wanted to quarrel with any one, there was he to be quarrelled with. the thing was a trouble, and the sooner they got to the end of it the better. but lady chiltern understood more than that. she could not prevent the quarrel as it came,--or was coming; but she knew that "the quarrel of lovers is the renewal of love." at any rate, the woman always desires that it may be so, and endeavours to reconcile the parted ones. "you'll see him in london," lady chiltern had said to her friend. "i do not want to see him," said adelaide proudly. "but he'll want to see you, and then,--after a time,--you'll want to see him. i don't believe in quarrels, you know." "it is better that we should part, lady chiltern, if marrying will cause him--dismay. i begin to feel that we are too poor to be married." "a great deal poorer people than you are married every day. of course people can't be equally rich. you'll do very well if you'll only be patient, and not refuse to speak to him when he comes to you." this was said at harrington after lady chiltern had returned from her first journey up to london. that visit had been very short, and miss palliser had been left alone at the hall. we already know how mr. spooner took advantage of her solitude. after that, miss palliser was to accompany the chilterns to london, and she was there with them when phineas finn was acquitted. by that time she had brought herself to acknowledge to her friend lady chiltern that it would perhaps be desirable that mr. maule should return. if he did not do so, and that at once, there must come an end to her life in england. she must go away to italy,--altogether beyond the reach of gerard maule. in such case all the world would have collapsed for her, and she would become the martyr of a shipwreck. and yet the more that she confessed to herself that she loved the man so well that she could not part with him, the more angry she was with him for having told her that, when married, they must live at boulogne. the house in portman square had been practically given up by lord brentford to his son; but nevertheless the old earl and lady laura had returned to it when they reached england from dresden. it was, however, large, and now the two families,--if the earl and his daughter can be called a family,--were lodging there together. the earl troubled them but little, living mostly in his own rooms, and lady laura never went out with them. but there was something in the presence of the old man and the widow which prevented the house from being gay as it might have been. there were no parties in portman square. now and then a few old friends dined there; but at the present moment gerard maule could not be admitted as an old friend. when adelaide had been a fortnight in london she had not as yet seen gerard maule or heard a word from him. she had been to balls and concerts, to dinner parties and the play; but no one had as yet brought them together. she did know that he was in town. she was able to obtain so much information of him as that. but he never came to portman square, and had evidently concluded that the quarrel--was to be a quarrel. among other balls in london that july there had been one at the duchess of omnium's. this had been given after the acquittal of phineas finn, though fixed before that great era. "nothing on earth should have made me have it while he was in prison," the duchess had said. but phineas was acquitted, and cakes and ale again became permissible. the ball had been given, and had been very grand. phineas had been asked, but of course had not gone. madame goesler, who was a great heroine since her successful return from prague, had shown herself there for a few minutes. lady chiltern had gone, and of course taken adelaide. "we are first cousins," the duke said to miss palliser,--for the duke did steal a moment from his work in which to walk through his wife's drawing-room. adelaide smiled and nodded, and looked pleased as she gave her hand to her great relative. "i hope we shall see more of each other than we have done," said the duke. "we have all been sadly divided, haven't we?" then he said a word to his wife, expressing his opinion that adelaide palliser was a nice girl, and asking her to be civil to so near a relative. the duchess had heard all about gerard maule and the engagement. she always did hear all about everything. and on this evening she asked a question or two from lady chiltern. "do you know," she said, "i have an appointment to-morrow with your husband?" "i did not know;--but i won't interfere to prevent it, now you are generous enough to tell me." "i wish you would, because i don't know what to say to him. he is to come about that horrid wood, where the foxes won't get themselves born and bred as foxes ought to do. how can i help it? i'd send down a whole lying-in hospital for the foxes if i thought that that would do any good." "lord chiltern thinks it's the shooting." "but where is a person to shoot if he mayn't shoot in his own woods? not that the duke cares about the shooting for himself. he could not hit a pheasant sitting on a haystack, and wouldn't know one if he saw it. and he'd rather that there wasn't such a thing as a pheasant in the world. he cares for nothing but farthings. but what is a man to do? or, rather, what is a woman to do?--for he tells me that i must settle it." "lord chiltern says that mr. fothergill has the foxes destroyed. i suppose mr. fothergill may do as he pleases if the duke gives him permission." "i hate mr. fothergill, if that'll do any good," said the duchess; "and we wish we could get rid of him altogether. but that, you know, is impossible. when one has an old man on one's shoulders one never can get rid of him. he is my incubus; and then you see trumpeton wood is such a long way from us at matching that i can't say i want the shooting for myself. and i never go to gatherum if i can help it. suppose we made out that the duke wanted to let the shooting?" "lord chiltern would take it at once." "but the duke wouldn't really let it, you know. i'll lay awake at night and think about it. and now tell me about adelaide palliser. is she to be married?" "i hope so,--sooner or later." "there's a quarrel or something;--isn't there? she's the duke's first cousin, and we should be so sorry that things shouldn't go pleasantly with her. and she's a very good-looking girl, too. would she like to come down to matching?" "she has some idea of going back to italy." "and leaving her lover behind her! oh, dear, that will be very bad. she'd much better come to matching, and then i'd ask the man to come too. mr. maud, isn't he?" "gerard maule." "ah, yes; maule. if it's the kind of thing that ought to be, i'd manage it in a week. if you get a young man down into a country house, and there has been anything at all between them, i don't see how he is to escape. isn't there some trouble about money?" "they wouldn't be very rich, duchess." "what a blessing for them! but then, perhaps, they'd be very poor." "they would be rather poor." "which is not a blessing. isn't there some proverb about going safely in the middle? i'm sure it's true about money,--only perhaps you ought to be put a little beyond the middle. i don't know why plantagenet shouldn't do something for her." as to this conversation lady chiltern said very little to adelaide, but she did mention the proposed visit to matching. "the duchess said nothing to me," replied adelaide, proudly. "no; i don't suppose she had time. and then she is so very odd; sometimes taking no notice of one, and at others so very loving." "i hate that." "but with her it is neither impudence nor affectation. she says exactly what she thinks at the time, and she is always as good as her word. there are worse women than the duchess." "i am sure i wouldn't like going to matching," said adelaide. lady chiltern was right in saying that the duchess of omnium was always as good as her word. on the next day, after that interview with lord chiltern about mr. fothergill and the foxes,--as to which no present further allusion need be made here,--she went to work and did learn a good deal about gerard maule and miss palliser. something she learned from lord chiltern,--without any consciousness on his lordship's part, something from madame goesler, and something from the baldock people. before she went to bed on the second night she knew all about the quarrel, and all about the money. "plantagenet," she said the next morning, "what are you going to do about the duke's legacy to marie goesler?" "i can do nothing. she must take the things, of course." "she won't." "then the jewels must remain packed up. i suppose they'll be sold at last for the legacy duty, and, when that's paid, the balance will belong to her." "but what about the money?" "of course it belongs to her." "couldn't you give it to that girl who was here last night?" "give it to a girl!" "yes;--to your cousin. she's as poor as job, and can't get married because she hasn't got any money. it's quite true; and i must say that if the duke had looked after his own relations instead of leaving money to people who don't want it and won't have it, it would have been much better. why shouldn't adelaide palliser have it?" "how on earth should i give adelaide palliser what doesn't belong to me? if you choose to make her a present, you can, but such a sum as that would, i should say, be out of the question." the duchess had achieved quite as much as she had anticipated. she knew her husband well, and was aware that she couldn't carry her point at once. to her mind it was "all nonsense" his saying that the money was not his. if madame goesler wouldn't take it, it must be his; and nobody could make a woman take money if she did not choose. adelaide palliser was the duke's first cousin, and it was intolerable that the duke's first cousin should be unable to marry because she would have nothing to live upon. it became, at least, intolerable as soon as the duchess had taken it into her head to like the first cousin. no doubt there were other first cousins as badly off, or perhaps worse, as to whom the duchess would care nothing whether they were rich or poor,--married or single; but then they were first cousins who had not had the advantage of interesting the duchess. "my dear," said the duchess to her friend, madame goesler, "you know all about those maules?" "what makes you ask?" "but you do?" "i know something about one of them," said madame goesler. now, as it happened, mr. maule, senior, had on that very day asked madame goesler to share her lot with his, and the request had been--almost indignantly, refused. the general theory that the wooing of widows should be quick had, perhaps, misled mr. maule. perhaps he did not think that the wooing had been quick. he had visited park lane with the object of making his little proposition once before, and had then been stopped in his course by the consternation occasioned by the arrest of phineas finn. he had waited till phineas had been acquitted, and had then resolved to try his luck. he had heard of the lady's journey to prague, and was acquainted of course with those rumours which too freely connected the name of our hero with that of the lady. but rumours are often false, and a lady may go to prague on a gentleman's behalf without intending to marry him. all the women in london were at present more or less in love with the man who had been accused of murder, and the fantasy of madame goesler might be only as the fantasy of others. and then, rumour also said that phineas finn intended to marry lady laura kennedy. at any rate a man cannot have his head broken for asking a lady to marry him,--unless he is very awkward in the doing of it. so mr. maule made his little proposition. "mr. maule," said madame, smiling, "is not this rather sudden?" mr. maule admitted that it was sudden, but still persisted. "i think, if you please, mr. maule, we will say no more about it," said the lady, with that wicked smile still on her face. mr. maule declared that silence on the subject had become impossible to him. "then, mr. maule, i shall have to leave you to speak to the chairs and tables," said madame goesler. no doubt she was used to the thing, and knew how to conduct herself well. he also had been refused before by ladies of wealth, but had never been treated with so little consideration. she had risen from her chair as though about to leave the room, but was slow in her movement, showing him that she thought it was well for him to leave it instead of her. muttering some words, half of apology and half of self-assertion, he did leave the room; and now she told the duchess that she knew something of one of the maules. "that is, the father?" "yes,--the father." "he is one of your tribe, i know. we met him at your house just before the murder. i don't much admire your taste, my dear, because he's a hundred and fifty years old;--and what there is of him comes chiefly from the tailor." "he's as good as any other old man." "i dare say,--and i hope mr. finn will like his society. but he has got a son." "so he tells me." "who is a charming young man." "he never told me that, duchess." "i dare say not. men of that sort are always jealous of their sons. but he has. now i am going to tell you something and ask you to do something." "what was it the french minister said. if it is simply difficult it is done. if it is impossible, it shall be done." "the easiest thing in the world. you saw plantagenet's first cousin the other night,--adelaide palliser. she is engaged to marry young mr. maule, and they neither of them have a shilling in the world. i want you to give them five-and-twenty thousand pounds." "wouldn't that be peculiar?" "not in the least." "at any rate it would be inconvenient." "no it wouldn't, my dear. it would be the most convenient thing in the world. of course i don't mean out of your pocket. there's the duke's legacy." "it isn't mine, and never will be." "but plantagenet says it never can be anybody else's. if i can get him to agree, will you? of course there will be ever so many papers to be signed; and the biggest of all robbers, the chancellor of the exchequer, will put his fingers into the pudding and pull out a plum, and the lawyers will take more plums. but that will be nothing to us. the pudding will be very nice for them let ever so many plums be taken. the lawyers and people will do it all, and then it will be her fortune,--just as though her uncle had left it to her. as it is now, the money will never be of any use to anybody." madame goesler said that if the duke consented she also would consent. it was immaterial to her who had the money. if by signing any receipt she could facilitate the return of the money to any one of the duke's family, she would willingly sign it. but miss palliser must be made to understand that the money did not come to her as a present from madame goesler. "but it will be a present from madame goesler," said the duke. "plantagenet, if you go and upset everything by saying that, i shall think it most ill-natured. bother about true! somebody must have the money. there's nothing illegal about it." and the duchess had her own way. lawyers were consulted, and documents were prepared, and the whole thing was arranged. only adelaide palliser knew nothing about it, nor did gerard maule; and the quarrels of lovers had not yet become the renewal of love. then the duchess wrote the two following notes:-- my dear adelaide, we shall hope to see you at matching on the th of august. the duke, as head of the family, expects implicit obedience. you'll meet fifteen young gentlemen from the treasury and the board of trade, but they won't incommode you, as they are kept at work all day. we hope mr. finn will be with us, and there isn't a lady in england who wouldn't give her eyes to meet him. we shall stay ever so many weeks at matching, so that you can do as you please as to the time of leaving us. yours affectionately, g. o. tell lord chiltern that i have my hopes of making trumpeton wood too hot for mr. fothergill,--but i have to act with the greatest caution. in the meantime i am sending down dozens of young foxes, all labelled trumpeton wood, so that he shall know them. the other was a card rather than a note. the duke and duchess of omnium presented their compliments to mr. gerard maule, and requested the honour of his company to dinner on,--a certain day named. when gerard maule received this card at his club he was rather surprised, as he had never made the acquaintance either of the duke or the duchess. but the duke was the first cousin of adelaide palliser, and of course he accepted the invitation. chapter lxx. "i will not go to loughlinter." the end of july came, and it was settled that lady laura kennedy should go to loughlinter. she had been a widow now for nearly three months, and it was thought right that she should go down and see the house, and the lands, and the dependents whom her husband had left in her charge. it was now three years since she had seen loughlinter, and when last she had left it, she had made up her mind that she would never place her foot upon the place again. her wretchedness had all come upon her there. it was there that she had first been subjected to the unendurable tedium of sabbath day observances. it was there she had been instructed in the unpalatable duties that had been expected from her. it was there that she had been punished with the doctor from callender whenever she attempted escape under the plea of a headache. and it was there, standing by the waterfall, the noise of which could be heard from the front-door, that phineas finn had told her of his love. when she accepted the hand of robert kennedy she had known that she had not loved him; but from the moment in which phineas had spoken to her, she knew well that her heart had gone one way, whereas her hand was to go another. from that moment her whole life had quickly become a blank. she had had no period of married happiness,--not a month, not an hour. from the moment in which the thing had been done she had found that the man to whom she had bound herself was odious to her, and that the life before her was distasteful to her. things which before had seemed worthy to her, and full at any rate of interest, became at once dull and vapid. her husband was in parliament, as also had been her father, and many of her friends,--and, by weight of his own character and her influence, was himself placed high in office; but in his house politics lost all the flavour which they had possessed for her in portman square. she had thought that she could at any rate do her duty as the mistress of a great household, and as the benevolent lady of a great estate; but household duties under the tutelage of mr. kennedy had been impossible to her, and that part of a scotch lady bountiful which she had intended to play seemed to be denied to her. the whole structure had fallen to the ground, and nothing had been left to her. but she would not sin. though she could not bring herself to love her husband, she would at any rate be strong enough to get rid of that other love. having so resolved, she became as weak as water. she at one time determined to be the guiding genius of the man she loved,--a sort of devoted elder sister, intending him to be the intimate friend of her husband; then she had told him not to come to her house, and had been weak enough to let him know why it was that she could not bear his presence. she had failed altogether to keep her secret, and her life during the struggle had become so intolerable to her that she had found herself compelled to desert her husband. he had shown her that he, too, had discovered the truth, and then she had become indignant, and had left him. every place that she had inhabited with him had become disagreeable to her. the house in london had been so odious, that she had asked her intimate friends to come to her in that occupied by her father. but, of all spots upon earth, loughlinter had been the most distasteful to her. it was there that the sermons had been the longest, the lessons in accounts the most obstinate, the lectures the most persevering, the dullness the most heavy. it was there that her ears had learned the sound of the wheels of dr. macnuthrie's gig. it was there that her spirit had been nearly broken. it was there that, with spirit not broken, she had determined to face all that the world might say of her, and fly from a tyranny which was insupportable. and now the place was her own, and she was told that she must go there as its owner;--go there and be potential, and beneficent, and grandly bland with persons, all of whom knew what had been the relations between her and her husband. and though she had been indignant with her husband when at last she had left him,--throwing it in his teeth as an unmanly offence that he had accused her of the truth; though she had felt him to be a tyrant and herself to be a thrall; though the sermons, and the lessons, and the doctor had each, severally, seemed to her to be horrible cruelties; yet she had known through it all that the fault had been hers, and not his. he only did that which she should have expected when she married him;--but she had done none of that which he was entitled to expect from her. the real fault, the deceit, the fraud,--the sin had been with her,--and she knew it. her life had been destroyed,--but not by him. his life had also been destroyed, and she had done it. now he was gone, and she knew that his people,--the old mother who was still left alone, his cousins, and the tenants who were now to be her tenants, all said that had she done her duty by him he would still have been alive. and they must hate her the worse, because she had never sinned after such a fashion as to liberate him from his bond to her. with a husband's perfect faith in his wife, he had, immediately after his marriage, given to her for her life the lordship over his people, should he be without a child and should she survive him. in his hottest anger he had not altered that. his constant demand had been that she should come back to him, and be his real wife. and while making that demand,--with a persistency which had driven him mad,--he had died; and now the place was hers, and they told her that she must go and live there! it is a very sad thing for any human being to have to say to himself,--with an earnest belief in his own assertion,--that all the joy of this world is over for him; and is the sadder because such conviction is apt to exclude the hope of other joy. this woman had said so to herself very often during the last two years, and had certainly been sincere. what was there in store for her? she was banished from the society of all those she liked. she bore a name that was hateful to her. she loved a man whom she could never see. she was troubled about money. nothing in life had any taste for her. all the joys of the world were over,--and had been lost by her own fault. then phineas finn had come to her at dresden, and now her husband was dead! could it be that she was entitled to hope that the sun might rise again for her once more and another day be reopened for her with a gorgeous morning? she was now rich and still young,--or young enough. she was two and thirty, and had known many women,--women still honoured with the name of girls,--who had commenced the world successfully at that age. and this man had loved her once. he had told her so, and had afterwards kissed her when informed of her own engagement. how well she remembered it all. he, too, had gone through vicissitudes in life, had married and retired out of the world, had returned to it, and had gone through fire and water. but now everybody was saying good things of him, and all he wanted was the splendour which wealth would give him. why should he not take it at her hands, and why should not the world begin again for both of them? but though she would dream that it might be so, she was quite sure that there was no such life in store for her. the nature of the man was too well known to her. fickle he might be;--or rather capable of change than fickle; but he was incapable of pretending to love when he did not love. she felt that in all the moments in which he had been most tender with her. when she had endeavoured to explain to him the state of her feelings at königstein,--meaning to be true in what she said, but not having been even then true throughout,--she had acknowledged to herself that at every word he spoke she was wounded by his coldness. had he then professed a passion for her she would have rebuked him, and told him that he must go from her,--but it would have warmed the blood in all her veins, and brought back to her a sense of youthful life. it had been the same when she visited him in the prison;--the same again when he came to her after his acquittal. she had been frank enough to him, but he would not even pretend that he loved her. his gratitude, his friendship, his services, were all hers. in every respect he had behaved well to her. all his troubles had come upon him because he would not desert her cause,--but he would never again say he loved her. she gazed at herself in the glass, putting aside for the moment the hideous widow's cap which she now wore, and told herself that it was natural that it should be so. though she was young in years her features were hard and worn with care. she had never thought herself to be a beauty, though she had been conscious of a certain aristocratic grace of manner which might stand in the place of beauty. as she examined herself she found that that was not all gone;--but she now lacked that roundness of youth which had been hers when first she knew phineas finn. she sat opposite the mirror, and pored over her own features with an almost skilful scrutiny, and told herself at last aloud that she had become an old woman. he was in the prime of life; but for her was left nothing but its dregs. [illustration: lady laura at the glass.] she was to go to loughlinter with her brother and her brother's wife, leaving her father at saulsby on the way. the chilterns were to remain with her for one week, and no more. his presence was demanded in the brake country, and it was with difficulty that he had been induced to give her so much of his time. but what was she to do when they should leave her? how could she live alone in that great house, thinking, as she ever must think, of all that had happened to her there? it seemed to her that everybody near to her was cruel in demanding from her such a sacrifice of her comfort. her father had shuddered when she had proposed to him to accompany her to loughlinter; but her father was one of those who insisted on the propriety of her going there. then, in spite of that lesson which she had taught herself while sitting opposite to the glass, she allowed her fancy to revel in the idea of having him with her as she wandered over the braes. she saw him a day or two before her journey, when she told him her plans as she might tell them to any friend. lady chiltern and her father had been present, and there had been no special sign in her outward manner of the mingled tenderness and soreness of her heart within. no allusion had been made to any visit from him to the north. she would not have dared to suggest it in the presence of her brother, and was almost as much cowed by her brother's wife. but when she was alone, on the eve of her departure, she wrote to him as follows:-- sunday, st august, ----. dear friend, i thought that perhaps you might have come in this afternoon, and i have not left the house all day. i was so wretched that i could not go to church in the morning;--and when the afternoon came, i preferred the chance of seeing you to going out with violet. we two were alone all the evening, and i did not give you up till nearly ten. i dare say you were right not to come. i should only have bored you with my complaints, and have grumbled to you of evils which you cannot cure. we start at nine to-morrow, and get to saulsby in the afternoon. such a family party as we shall be! i did fancy that oswald would escape it; but, like everybody else, he has changed,--and has become domestic and dutiful. not but that he is as tyrannous as ever; but his tyranny is now that of the responsible father of a family. papa cannot understand him at all, and is dreadfully afraid of him. we stay two nights at saulsby, and then go on to scotland, leaving papa at home. of course it is very good in violet and oswald to come with me,--if, as they say, it be necessary for me to go at all. as to living there by myself, it seems to me to be impossible. you know the place well, and can you imagine me there all alone, surrounded by scotch men and women, who, of course, must hate and despise me, afraid of every face that i see, and reminded even by the chairs and tables of all that is past? i have told papa that i know i shall be back at saulsby before the middle of the month. he frets, and says nothing; but he tells violet, and then she lectures me in that wise way of hers which enables her to say such hard things with so much seeming tenderness. she asks me why i do not take a companion with me, as i am so much afraid of solitude. where on earth should i find a companion who would not be worse than solitude? i do feel now that i have mistaken life in having so little used myself to the small resources of feminine companionship. i love violet dearly, and i used to be always happy in her society. but even with her now i feel but a half sympathy. that girl that she has with her is more to her than i am, because after the first half-hour i grow tired about her babies. i have never known any other woman with whom i cared to be alone. how then shall i content myself with a companion, hired by the quarter, perhaps from some advertisement in a newspaper? no companionship of any kind seems possible to me,--and yet never was a human being more weary of herself. i sometimes wonder whether i could go again and sit in that cage in the house of commons to hear you and other men speak,--as i used to do. i do not believe that any eloquence in the world would make it endurable to me. i hardly care who is in or out, and do not understand the things which my cousin barrington tells me,--so long does it seem since i was in the midst of them all. not but that i am intensely anxious that you should be back. they tell me that you will certainly be re-elected this week, and that all the house will receive you with open arms. i should have liked, had it been possible, to be once more in the cage to see that. but i am such a coward that i did not even dare to propose to stay for it. violet would have told me that such manifestation of interest was unfit for my condition as a widow. but in truth, phineas, there is nothing else now that does interest me. if, looking on from a distance, i can see you succeed, i shall try once more to care for the questions of the day. when you have succeeded, as i know you will, it will be some consolation to me to think that i also helped a little. i suppose i must not ask you to come to loughlinter? but you will know best. if you will do so i shall care nothing for what any one may say. oswald hardly mentions your name in my hearing, and of course i know of what he is thinking. when i am with him i am afraid of him, because it would add infinitely to my grief were i driven to quarrel with him; but i am my own mistress as much as he is his own master, and i will not regulate my conduct by his wishes. if you please to come you will be welcome as the flowers in may. ah, how weak are such words in giving any idea of the joy with which i should see you! god bless you, phineas. your most affectionate friend, laura kennedy. write to me at loughlinter. i shall long to hear that you have taken your seat immediately on your re-election. pray do not lose a day. i am sure that all your friends will advise you as i do. throughout her whole letter she was struggling to tell him once again of her love, and yet to do it in some way of which she need not be ashamed. it was not till she had come to the last words that she could force her pen to speak of her affection, and then the words did not come freely as she would have had them. she knew that he would not come to loughlinter. she felt that were he to do so he could come only as a suitor for her hand, and that such a suit, in these early days of her widowhood, carried on in her late husband's house, would be held to be disgraceful. as regarded herself, she would have faced all that for the sake of the thing to be attained. but she knew that he would not come. he had become wise by experience, and would perceive the result of such coming,--and would avoid it. his answer to her letter reached loughlinter before she did:-- great marlborough street, monday night. dear lady laura,-- i should have called in the square last night, only that i feel that lady chiltern must be weary of the woes of so doleful a person as myself. i dined and spent the evening with the lows, and was quite aware that i disgraced myself with them by being perpetually lachrymose. as a rule i do not think that i am more given than other people to talk of myself, but i am conscious of a certain incapability of getting rid of myself what has grown upon me since those weary weeks in newgate and those frightful days in the dock; and this makes me unfit for society. should i again have a seat in the house i shall be afraid to get up upon my legs, lest i should find myself talking of the time in which i stood before the judge with a halter round my neck. i sympathise with you perfectly in what you say about loughlinter. it may be right that you should go there and show yourself,--so that those who knew the kennedys in scotland should not say that you had not dared to visit the place, but i do not think it possible that you should live there as yet. and why should you do so? i cannot conceive that your presence there should do good, unless you took delight in the place. i will not go to loughlinter myself, although i know how warm would be my welcome. when he had got so far with his letter he found the difficulty of going on with it to be almost insuperable. how could he give her any reasons for his not making the journey to scotland? "people would say that you and i should not be alone together after all the evil that has been spoken of us;--and would be specially eager in saying so were i now to visit you, so lately made a widow, and to sojourn with you in the house that did belong to your husband. only think how eloquent would be the indignation of the people's banner were it known that i was at loughlinter." could he have spoken the truth openly, such were the reasons that he would have given; but it was impossible that such truths should be written by him in a letter to herself. and then it was almost equally difficult for him to tell her of a visit which he had resolved to make. but the letter must be completed, and at last the words were written. i could be of no real service to you there, as will be your brother and your brother's wife, even though their stay with you is to be so short. were i you i would go out among the people as much as possible, even though they should not receive you cordially at first. though we hear so much of clanship in the highlands, i think the highlanders are prone to cling to any one who has territorial authority among them. they thought a great deal of mr. kennedy, but they had never heard his name fifty years ago. i suppose you will return to saulsby soon, and then, perhaps, i may be able to see you. in the meantime i am going to matching. [this difficulty was worse even than the other.] both the duke and duchess have asked me, and i know that i am bound to make an effort to face my fellow-creatures again. the horror i feel at being stared at, as the man that was not--hung as a murderer, is stronger than i can describe; and i am well aware that i shall be talked to and made a wonder of on that ground. i am told that i am to be re-elected triumphantly at tankerville without a penny of cost or the trouble of asking for a vote, simply because i didn't knock poor mr. bonteen on the head. this to me is abominable, but i cannot help myself, unless i resolve to go away and hide myself. that i know cannot be right, and therefore i had better go through it and have done with it. though i am to be stared at, i shall not be stared at very long. some other monster will come up and take my place, and i shall be the only person who will not forget it all. therefore i have accepted the duke's invitation, and shall go to matching some time in the end of august. all the world is to be there. this re-election,--and i believe i shall be re-elected to-morrow,--would be altogether distasteful to me were it not that i feel that i should not allow myself to be cut to pieces by what has occurred. i shall hate to go back to the house, and have somehow learned to dislike and distrust all those things that used to be so fine and lively to me. i don't think that i believe any more in the party;--or rather in the men who lead it. i used to have a faith that now seems to me to be marvellous. even twelve months ago, when i was beginning to think of standing for tankerville, i believed that on our side the men were patriotic angels, and that daubeny and his friends were all fiends or idiots,--mostly idiots, but with a strong dash of fiendism to control them. it has all come now to one common level of poor human interests. i doubt whether patriotism can stand the wear and tear and temptation of the front benches in the house of commons. men are flying at each other's throats, thrusting and parrying, making false accusations and defences equally false, lying and slandering,--sometimes picking and stealing,--till they themselves become unaware of the magnificence of their own position, and forget that they are expected to be great. little tricks of sword-play engage all their skill. and the consequence is that there is no reverence now for any man in the house,--none of that feeling which we used to entertain for mr. mildmay. of course i write--and feel--as a discontented man; and what i say to you i would not say to any other human being. i did long most anxiously for office, having made up my mind a second time to look to it as a profession. but i meant to earn my bread honestly, and give it up,--as i did before, when i could not keep it with a clear conscience. i knew that i was hustled out of the object of my poor ambition by that unfortunate man who has been hurried to his fate. in such a position i ought to distrust, and do, partly, distrust my own feelings. and i am aware that i have been soured by prison indignities. but still the conviction remains with me that parliamentary interests are not those battles of gods and giants which i used to regard them. our gyas with the hundred hands is but a three-fingered jack, and i sometimes think that we share our great jove with the strand theatre. nevertheless i shall go back,--and if they will make me a joint lord to-morrow i shall be in heaven! i do not know why i should write all this to you except that there is no one else to whom i can say it. there is no one else who would give a moment of time to such lamentations. my friends will expect me to talk to them of my experiences in the dock rather than politics, and will want to know what rations i had in newgate. i went to call on the governor only yesterday, and visited the old room. "i never could really bring myself to think that you did it, mr. finn," he said. i looked at him and smiled, but i should have liked to fly at his throat. why did he not know that the charge was a monstrous absurdity? talking of that, not even you were truer to me than your brother. one expects it from a woman;--both the truth and the discernment. i have written to you a cruelly long letter; but when one's mind is full such relief is sometimes better than talking. pray answer it before long, and let me know what you intend to do. yours most affectionately, phineas finn. she did read the letter through,--read it probably more than once; but there was only one sentence in it that had for her any enduring interest. "i will not go to loughlinter myself." though she had known that he would not come her heart sank within her, as though now, at this moment, the really fatal wound had at last been inflicted. but, in truth, there was another sentence as a complement to the first, which rivetted the dagger in her bosom. "in the meantime i am going to matching." throughout his letter the name of that woman was not mentioned, but of course she would be there. the thing had all been arranged in order that they two might be brought together. she told herself that she had always hated that intriguing woman, lady glencora. she read the remainder of the letter and understood it; but she read it all in connection with the beauty, and the wealth, and the art,--and the cunning of madame max goesler. chapter lxxi. phineas finn is re-elected. the manner in which phineas finn was returned a second time for the borough of tankerville was memorable among the annals of english elections. when the news reached the town that their member was to be tried for murder no doubt every elector believed that he was guilty. it is the natural assumption when the police and magistrates and lawyers, who have been at work upon the matter carefully, have come to that conclusion, and nothing but private knowledge or personal affection will stand against such evidence. at tankerville there was nothing of either, and our hero's guilt was taken as a certainty. there was an interest felt in the whole matter which was full of excitement, and not altogether without delight to the tankervillians. of course the borough, as a borough, would never again hold up its head. there had never been known such an occurrence in the whole history of this country as the hanging of a member of the house of commons. and this member of parliament was to be hung for murdering another member, which, no doubt, added much to the importance of the transaction. a large party in the borough declared that it was a judgment. tankerville had degraded itself among boroughs by sending a roman catholic to parliament, and had done so at the very moment in which the church of england was being brought into danger. this was what had come upon the borough by not sticking to honest mr. browborough! there was a moment,--just before the trial was begun,--in which a large proportion of the electors was desirous of proceeding to work at once, and of sending mr. browborough back to his own place. it was thought that phineas finn should be made to resign. and very wise men in tankerville were much surprised when they were told that a member of parliament cannot resign his seat,--that when once returned he is supposed to be, as long as that parliament shall endure, the absolute slave of his constituency and his country, and that he can escape from his servitude only by accepting some office under the crown. now it was held to be impossible that a man charged with murder should be appointed even to the stewardship of the chiltern hundreds. the house, no doubt, could expel a member, and would, as a matter of course, expel the member for tankerville,--but the house could hardly proceed to expulsion before the member's guilt could have been absolutely established. so it came to pass that there was no escape for the borough from any part of the disgrace to which it had subjected itself by its unworthy choice, and some tankervillians of sensitive minds were of opinion that no tankervillian ever again ought to take part in politics. then, quite suddenly, there came into the borough the tidings that phineas finn was an innocent man. this happened on the morning on which the three telegrams from prague reached london. the news conveyed by the telegrams was at tankerville almost as soon as in the court at the old bailey, and was believed as readily. the name of the lady who had travelled all the way to bohemia on behalf of their handsome young member was on the tongue of every woman in tankerville, and a most delightful romance was composed. some few protestant spirits regretted the now assured escape of their roman catholic enemy, and would not even yet allow themselves to doubt that the whole murder had been arranged by divine providence to bring down the scarlet woman. it seemed to them to be so fitting a thing that providence should interfere directly to punish a town in which the sins of the scarlet woman were not held to be abominable! but the multitude were soon convinced that their member was innocent; and as it was certain that he had been in great peril,--as it was known that he was still in durance, and as it was necessary that the trial should proceed, and that he should still stand at least for another day in the dock,--he became more than ever a hero. then came the further delay, and at last the triumphant conclusion of the trial. when acquitted, phineas finn was still member for tankerville and might have walked into the house on that very night. instead of doing so he had at once asked for the accustomed means of escape from his servitude, and the seat for tankerville was vacant. the most loving friends of mr. browborough perceived at once that there was not a chance for him. the borough was all but unanimous in resolving that it would return no one as its member but the man who had been unjustly accused of murder. mr. ruddles was at once despatched to london with two other political spirits,--so that there might be a real deputation,--and waited upon phineas two days after his release from prison. ruddles was very anxious to carry his member back with him, assuring phineas of an entry into the borough so triumphant that nothing like to it had ever been known at tankerville. but to all this phineas was quite deaf. at first he declined even to be put in nomination. "you can't escape from it, mr. finn, you can't indeed," said ruddles. "you don't at all understand the enthusiasm of the borough; does he, mr. gadmire?" "i never knew anything like it in my life before," said gadmire. "i believe mr. finn would poll two-thirds of the church party to-morrow," said mr. troddles, a leading dissenter in tankerville, who on this occasion was the third member of the deputation. "i needn't sit for the borough unless i please, i suppose," pleaded phineas. "well, no;--at least i don't know," said ruddles. "it would be throwing us over a good deal, and i'm sure you are not the gentleman to do that. and then, mr. finn, don't you see that though you have been knocked about a little lately--" "by george, he has,--most cruel," said troddles. "you'll miss the house if you give it up; you will, after a bit, mr. finn. you've got to come round again, mr. finn,--if i may be so bold as to say so, and you shouldn't put yourself out of the way of coming round comfortably." phineas knew that there was wisdom in the words of mr. ruddles, and consented. though at this moment he was low in heart, disgusted with the world, and sick of humanity,--though every joint in his body was still sore from the rack on which he had been stretched, yet he knew that it would not be so with him always. as others recovered so would he, and it might be that he would live to "miss the house," should he now refuse the offer made to him. he accepted the offer, but he did so with a positive assurance that no consideration should at present take him to tankerville. "we ain't going to charge you, not one penny," said mr. gadmire, with enthusiasm. "i feel all that i owe to the borough," said phineas, "and to the warm friends there who have espoused my cause; but i am not in a condition at present, either of mind or body, to put myself forward anywhere in public. i have suffered a great deal." "most cruel!" said troddles. "and am quite willing to confess that i am therefore unfit in my present position to serve the borough." "we can't admit that," said gadmire, raising his left hand. "we mean to have you," said troddles. "there isn't a doubt about your re-election, mr. finn," said ruddles. "i am very grateful, but i cannot be there. i must trust to one of you gentlemen to explain to the electors that in my present condition i am unable to visit the borough." messrs. ruddles, gadmire, and troddles returned to tankerville,--disappointed no doubt at not bringing with them him whose company would have made their feet glorious on the pavement of their native town,--but still with a comparative sense of their own importance in having seen the great sufferer whose woes forbade that he should be beheld by common eyes. they never even expressed an idea that he ought to have come, alluding even to their past convictions as to the futility of hoping for such a blessing; but spoke of him as a personage made almost sacred by the sufferings which he had been made to endure. as to the election, that would be a matter of course. he was proposed by mr. ruddles himself, and was absolutely seconded by the rector of tankerville,--the staunchest tory in the place, who on this occasion made a speech in which he declared that as an englishman, loving justice, he could not allow any political or even any religious consideration to bias his conduct on this occasion. mr. finn had thrown up his seat under the pressure of a false accusation, and it was, the rector thought, for the honour of the borough that the seat should be restored to him. so phineas finn was re-elected for tankerville without opposition and without expense; and for six weeks after the ceremony parcels were showered upon him by the ladies of the borough who sent him worked slippers, scarlet hunting waistcoats, pocket handkerchiefs, with "p.f." beautifully embroidered, and chains made of their own hair. in this conjunction of affairs the editor of the people's banner found it somewhat difficult to trim his sails. it was a rule of life with mr. quintus slide to persecute an enemy. an enemy might at any time become a friend, but while an enemy was an enemy he should be trodden on and persecuted. mr. slide had striven more than once to make a friend of phineas finn; but phineas finn had been conceited and stiff-necked. phineas had been to mr. slide an enemy of enemies, and by all his ideas of manliness, by all the rules of his life, by every principle which guided him, he was bound to persecute phineas to the last. during the trial and the few weeks before the trial he had written various short articles with the view of declaring how improper it would be should a newspaper express any opinion of the guilt or innocence of a suspected person while under trial; and he gave two or three severe blows to contemporaries for having sinned in the matter; but in all these articles he had contrived to insinuate that the member for tankerville would, as a matter of course, be dealt with by the hands of justice. he had been very careful to recapitulate all circumstances which had induced finn to hate the murdered man, and had more than once related the story of the firing of the pistol at macpherson's hotel. then came the telegram from prague, and for a day or two mr. slide was stricken dumb. the acquittal followed, and quintus slide had found himself compelled to join in the general satisfaction evinced at the escape of an innocent man. then came the re-election for tankerville, and mr. slide felt that there was opportunity for another reaction. more than enough had been done for phineas finn in allowing him to elude the gallows. there could certainly be no need for crowning him with a political chaplet because he had not murdered mr. bonteen. among a few other remarks which mr. slide threw together, the following appeared in the columns of the people's banner:-- we must confess that we hardly understand the principle on which mr. finn has been re-elected for tankerville with so much enthusiasm,--free of expense,--and without that usual compliment to the constituency which is implied by the personal appearance of the candidate. we have more than once expressed our belief that he was wrongly accused in the matter of mr. bonteen's murder. indeed our readers will do us the justice to remember that, during the trial and before the trial, we were always anxious to allay the very strong feeling against mr. finn with which the public mind was then imbued, not only by the facts of the murder, but also by the previous conduct of that gentleman. but we cannot understand why the late member should be thought by the electors of tankerville to be especially worthy of their confidence because he did not murder mr. bonteen. he himself, instigated, we hope, by a proper feeling, retired from parliament as soon as he was acquitted. his career during the last twelve months has not enhanced his credit, and cannot, we should think, have increased his comfort. we ventured to suggest after that affair in judd street, as to which the police were so benignly inefficient, that it would not be for the welfare of the nation that a gentleman should be employed in the public service whose public life had been marked by the misfortune which had attended mr. finn. great efforts were made by various ladies of the old whig party to obtain official employment for him, but they were made in vain. mr. gresham was too wise, and our advice,--we will not say was followed,--but was found to agree with the decision of the prime minister. mr. finn was left out in the cold in spite of his great friends,--and then came the murder of mr. bonteen. can it be that mr. finn's fitness for parliamentary duties has been increased by mr. bonteen's unfortunate death, or by the fact that mr. bonteen was murdered by other hands than his own? we think not. the wretched husband, who, in the madness of jealousy, fired a pistol at this young man's head, has since died in his madness. does that incident in the drama give mr. finn any special claim to consideration? we think not;--and we think also that the electors of tankerville would have done better had they allowed mr. finn to return to that obscurity which he seems to have desired. the electors of tankerville, however, are responsible only to their borough, and may do as they please with the seat in parliament which is at their disposal. we may, however, protest against the employment of an unfit person in the service of his country,--simply because he has not committed a murder. we say so much now because rumours of an arrangement have reached our ears, which, should it come to pass,--would force upon us the extremely disagreeable duty of referring very forcibly to past circumstances, which may otherwise, perhaps, be allowed to be forgotten. chapter lxxii. the end of the story of mr. emilius and lady eustace. the interest in the murder by no means came to an end when phineas finn was acquitted. the new facts which served so thoroughly to prove him innocent tended with almost equal weight to prove another man guilty. and the other man was already in custody on a charge which had subjected him to the peculiar ill-will of the british public. he, a foreigner and a jew, by name yosef mealyus,--as every one was now very careful to call him,--had come to england, had got himself to be ordained as a clergyman, had called himself emilius, and had married a rich wife with a title, although he had a former wife still living in his own country. had he called himself jones it would have been better for him, but there was something in the name of emilius which added a peculiar sting to his iniquities. it was now known that the bigamy could be certainly proved, and that his last victim,--our old friend, poor little lizzie eustace,--would be rescued from his clutches. she would once more be a free woman, and as she had been strong enough to defend her future income from his grasp, she was perhaps as fortunate as she deserved to be. she was still young and pretty, and there might come another lover more desirable than yosef mealyus. that the man would have to undergo the punishment of bigamy in its severest form, there was no doubt;--but would law, and justice, and the prevailing desire for revenge, be able to get at him in such a way that he might be hung? there certainly did exist a strong desire to prove mr. emilius to have been a murderer, so that there might come a fitting termination to his career in great britain. the police seemed to think that they could make but little either of the coat or of the key, unless other evidence, that would be almost sufficient in itself, should be found. lord fawn was informed that his testimony would probably be required at another trial,--which intimation affected him so grievously that his friends for a week or two thought that he would altogether sink under his miseries. but he would say nothing which would seem to criminate mealyus. a man hurrying along with a grey coat was all that he could swear to now,--professing himself to be altogether ignorant whether the man, as seen by him, had been tall or short. and then the manufacture of the key,--though it was that which made every one feel sure that mealyus was the murderer,--did not, in truth, afford the slightest evidence against him. even had it been proved that he had certainly used the false key and left mrs. meager's house on the night in question, that would not have sufficed at all to prove that therefore he had committed a murder in berkeley street. no doubt mr. bonteen had been his enemy,--and mr. bonteen had been murdered by an enemy. but so great had been the man's luck that no real evidence seemed to touch him. nobody doubted;--but then but few had doubted before as to the guilt of phineas finn. there was one other fact by which the truth might, it was hoped, still be reached. mr. bonteen had, of course, been killed by the weapon which had been found in the garden. as to that a general certainty prevailed. mrs. meager and miss meager, and the maid-of-all-work belonging to the meagers, and even lady eustace, were examined as to this bludgeon. had anything of the kind ever been seen in the possession of the clergyman? the clergyman had been so sly that nothing of the kind had been seen. of the drawers and cupboards which he used, mrs. meager had always possessed duplicate keys, and miss meager frankly acknowledged that she had a general and fairly accurate acquaintance with the contents of these receptacles; but there had always been a big trunk with an impenetrable lock,--a lock which required that even if you had the key you should be acquainted with a certain combination of letters before you could open it,--and of that trunk no one had seen the inside. as a matter of course, the weapon, when brought to london, had been kept altogether hidden in the trunk. nothing could be easier. but a man cannot be hung because he has had a secret hiding place in which a murderous weapon may have been stowed away. but might it not be possible to trace the weapon? mealyus, on his return from prague, had certainly come through paris. so much was learned,--and it was also learned as a certainty that the article was of french,--and probably of parisian manufacture. if it could be proved that the man had bought this weapon, or even such a weapon, in paris then,--so said all the police authorities,--it might be worth while to make an attempt to hang him. men very skilful in unravelling such mysteries were sent to paris, and the police of that capital entered upon the search with most praiseworthy zeal. but the number of life-preservers which had been sold altogether baffled them. it seemed that nothing was so common as that gentlemen should walk about with bludgeons in their pockets covered with leathern thongs. a young woman and an old man who thought that they could recollect something of a special sale were brought over,--and saw the splendour of london under very favourable circumstances;--but when confronted with mr. emilius, neither could venture to identify him. a large sum of money was expended,--no doubt justified by the high position which poor mr. bonteen had filled in the counsels of the nation; but it was expended in vain. mr. bonteen had been murdered in the streets at the west end of london. the murderer was known to everybody. he had been seen a minute or two before the murder. the motive which had induced the crime was apparent. the weapon with which it had been perpetrated had been found. the murderer's disguise had been discovered. the cunning with which he had endeavoured to prove that he was in bed at home had been unravelled, and the criminal purpose of his cunning made altogether manifest. every man's eye could see the whole thing from the moment in which the murderer crept out of mrs. meager's house with mr. meager's coat upon his shoulders and the life-preserver in his pocket, till he was seen by lord fawn hurrying out of the mews to his prey. the blows from the bludgeon could be counted. the very moment in which they had been struck had been ascertained. his very act in hurling the weapon over the wall was all but seen. and yet nothing could be done. "it is a very dangerous thing hanging a man on circumstantial evidence," said sir gregory grogram, who, a couple of months since, had felt almost sure that his honourable friend phineas finn would have to be hung on circumstantial evidence. the police and magistrates and lawyers all agreed that it would be useless, and indeed wrong, to send the case before a jury. but there had been quite sufficient evidence against phineas finn! in the meantime the trial for bigamy proceeded in order that poor little lizzie eustace might be freed from the incubus which afflicted her. before the end of july she was made once more a free woman, and the rev. joseph emilius,--under which name it was thought proper that he should be tried,--was convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for five years. a very touching appeal was made for him to the jury by a learned serjeant, who declared that his client was to lose his wife and to be punished with extreme severity as a bigamist, because it was found to be impossible to bring home against him a charge of murder. there was, perhaps, some truth in what the learned serjeant said, but the truth had no effect upon the jury. mr. emilius was found guilty as quickly as phineas finn had been acquitted, and was, perhaps, treated with a severity which the single crime would hardly have elicited. but all this happened in the middle of the efforts which were being made to trace the purchase of the bludgeon, and when men hoped two or five or twenty-five years of threatened incarceration might be all the same to mr. emilius. could they have succeeded in discovering where he had bought the weapon, his years of penal servitude would have afflicted him but little. they did not succeed; and though it cannot be said that any mystery was attached to the bonteen murder, it has remained one of those crimes which are unavenged by the flagging law. and so the rev. mr. emilius will pass away from our story. there must be one or two words further respecting poor little lizzie eustace. she still had her income almost untouched, having been herself unable to squander it during her late married life, and having succeeded in saving it from the clutches of her pseudo husband. and she had her title, of which no one could rob her, and her castle down in ayrshire,--which, however, as a place of residence she had learned to hate most thoroughly. nor had she done anything which of itself must necessarily have put her out of the pale of society. as a married woman she had had no lovers; and, when a widow, very little fault in that line had been brought home against her. but the world at large seemed to be sick of her. mrs. bonteen had been her best friend, and, while it was still thought that phineas finn had committed the murder, with mrs. bonteen she had remained. but it was impossible that the arrangement should be continued when it became known,--for it was known,--that mr. bonteen had been murdered by the man who was still lizzie's reputed husband. not that lizzie perceived this,--though she was averse to the idea of her husband having been a murderer. but mrs. bonteen perceived it, and told her friend that she must--go. it was most unwillingly that the wretched widow changed her faith as to the murderer; but at last she found herself bound to believe as the world believed; and then she hinted to the wife of mr. emilius that she had better find another home. "i don't believe it a bit," said lizzie. "it is not a subject i can discuss," said the widow. "and i don't see that it makes any difference. he isn't my husband. you have said that yourself very often, mrs. bonteen." "it is better that we shouldn't be together, lady eustace." "oh, i can go, of course, mrs. bonteen. there needn't be the slightest trouble about that. i had thought perhaps it might be convenient; but of course you know best." she went forth into lodgings in half moon street, close to the scene of the murder, and was once more alone in the world. she had a child indeed, the son of her first husband, as to whom it behoved many to be anxious, who stood high in rank and high in repute; but such had been lizzie's manner of life that neither her own relations nor those of her husband could put up with her, or endure her contact. and yet she was conscious of no special sins, and regarded herself as one who with a tender heart of her own, and a too-confiding spirit, had been much injured by the cruelty of those with whom she had been thrown. now she was alone, weeping in solitude, pitying herself with deepest compassion; but it never occurred to her that there was anything in her conduct that she need alter. she would still continue to play her game as before, would still scheme, would still lie; and might still, at last, land herself in that elysium of life of which she had been always dreaming. poor lizzie eustace! was it nature or education which had made it impossible to her to tell the truth, when a lie came to her hand? lizzie, the liar! poor lizzie! chapter lxxiii. phineas finn returns to his duties. the election at tankerville took place during the last week in july; and as parliament was doomed to sit that year as late as the th of august, there was ample time for phineas to present himself and take the oaths before the session was finished. he had calculated that this could hardly be so when the matter of re-election was first proposed to him, and had hoped that his reappearance might be deferred till the following year. but there he was, once more member for tankerville, while yet there was nearly a fortnight's work to be done, pressed by his friends, and told by one or two of those whom he most trusted, that he would neglect his duty and show himself to be a coward, if he abstained from taking his place. "coward is a hard word," he said to mr. low, who had used it. "so men think when this or that other man is accused of running away in battle or the like. nobody will charge you with cowardice of that kind. but there is moral cowardice as well as physical." "as when a man lies. i am telling no lie." "but you are afraid to meet the eyes of your fellow-creatures." "yes, i am. you may call me a coward if you like. what matters the name, if the charge be true? i have been so treated that i am afraid to meet the eyes of my fellow-creatures. i am like a man who has had his knees broken, or his arms cut off. of course i cannot be the same afterwards as i was before." mr. low said a great deal more to him on the subject, and all that mr. low said was true; but he was somewhat rough, and did not succeed. barrington erle and lord cantrip also tried their eloquence upon him; but it was mr. monk who at last drew from him a promise that he would go down to the house and be sworn in early on a certain tuesday afternoon. "i am quite sure of this," mr. monk had said, "that the sooner you do it the less will be the annoyance. indeed there will be no trouble in the doing of it. the trouble is all in the anticipation, and is therefore only increased and prolonged by delay." "of course it is your duty to go at once," mr. monk had said again, when his friend argued that he had never undertaken to sit before the expiration of parliament. "you did consent to be put in nomination, and you owe your immediate services just as does any other member." "if a man's grandmother dies he is held to be exempted." "but your grandmother has not died, and your sorrow is not of the kind that requires or is supposed to require retirement." he gave way at last, and on the tuesday afternoon mr. monk called for him at mrs. bunce's house, and went down with him to westminster. they reached their destination somewhat too soon, and walked the length of westminster hall two or three times while phineas tried to justify himself. "i don't think," said he, "that low quite understands my position when he calls me a coward." "i am sure, phineas, he did not mean to do that." "do not suppose that i am angry with him. i owe him a great deal too much for that. he is one of the few friends i have who are entitled to say to me just what they please. but i think he mistakes the matter. when a man becomes crooked from age it is no good telling him to be straight. he'd be straight if he could. a man can't eat his dinner with a diseased liver as he could when he was well." "but he may follow advice as to getting his liver in order again." "and so am i following advice. but low seems to think the disease shouldn't be there. the disease is there, and i can't banish it by simply saying that it is not there. if they had hung me outright it would be almost as reasonable to come and tell me afterwards to shake myself and be again alive. i don't think that low realises what it is to stand in the dock for a week together, with the eyes of all men fixed on you, and a conviction at your heart that every one there believes you to have been guilty of an abominable crime of which you know yourself to have been innocent. for weeks i lived under the belief that i was to be made away by the hangman, and to leave behind me a name that would make every one who has known me shudder." "god in his mercy has delivered you from that." "he has;--and i am thankful. but my back is not strong enough to bear the weight without bending under it. did you see ratler going in? there is a man i dread. he is intimate enough with me to congratulate me, but not friend enough to abstain, and he will be sure to say something about his murdered colleague. very well;--i'll follow you. go up rather quick, and i'll come close after you." whereupon mr. monk entered between the two lamp-posts in the hall, and, hurrying along the passages, soon found himself at the door of the house. phineas, with an effort at composure, and a smile that was almost ghastly at the door-keeper, who greeted him with some muttered word of recognition, held on his way close behind his friend, and walked up the house hardly conscious that the benches on each side were empty. there were not a dozen members present, and the speaker had not as yet taken the chair. mr. monk stood by him while he took the oath, and in two minutes he was on a back seat below the gangway, with his friend by him, while the members, in slowly increasing numbers, took their seats. then there were prayers, and as yet not a single man had spoken to him. as soon as the doors were again open gentlemen streamed in, and some few whom phineas knew well came and sat near him. one or two shook hands with him, but no one said a word to him of the trial. no one at least did so in this early stage of the day's proceedings; and after half an hour he almost ceased to be afraid. then came up an irregular debate on the great church question of the day, as to which there had been no cessation of the badgering with which mr. gresham had been attacked since he came into office. he had thrown out mr. daubeny by opposing that gentleman's stupendous measure for disestablishing the church of england altogether, although,--as was almost daily asserted by mr. daubeny and his friends,--he was himself in favour of such total disestablishment. over and over again mr. gresham had acknowledged that he was in favour of disestablishment, protesting that he had opposed mr. daubeny's bill without any reference to its merits,--solely on the ground that such a measure should not be accepted from such a quarter. he had been stout enough, and, as his enemies had said, insolent enough, in making these assurances. but still he was accused of keeping his own hand dark, and of omitting to say what bill he would himself propose to bring in respecting the church in the next session. it was essentially necessary,--so said mr. daubeny and his friends,--that the country should know and discuss the proposed measure during the vacation. there was, of course, a good deal of retaliation. mr. daubeny had not given the country, or even his own party, much time to discuss his church bill. mr. gresham assured mr. daubeny that he would not feel himself equal to producing a measure that should change the religious position of every individual in the country, and annihilate the traditions and systems of centuries, altogether complete out of his own unaided brain; and he went on to say that were he to do so, he did not think that he should find himself supported in such an effort by the friends with whom he usually worked. on this occasion he declared that the magnitude of the subject and the immense importance of the interests concerned forbade him to anticipate the passing of any measure of general church reform in the next session. he was undoubtedly in favour of church reform, but was by no means sure that the question was one which required immediate settlement. of this he was sure,--that nothing in the way of legislative indiscretion could be so injurious to the country, as any attempt at a hasty and ill-considered measure on this most momentous of all questions. the debate was irregular, as it originated with a question asked by one of mr. daubeny's supporters,--but it was allowed to proceed for a while. in answer to mr. gresham, mr. daubeny himself spoke, accusing mr. gresham of almost every known parliamentary vice in having talked of a measure coming, like minerva, from his, mr. daubeny's, own brain. the plain and simple words by which such an accusation might naturally be refuted would be unparliamentary; but it would not be unparliamentary to say that it was reckless, unfounded, absurd, monstrous, and incredible. then there were various very spirited references to church matters, which concern us chiefly because mr. daubeny congratulated the house upon seeing a roman catholic gentleman with whom they were all well acquainted, and whose presence in the house was desired by each side alike, again take his seat for an english borough. and he hoped that he might at the same time take the liberty of congratulating that gentleman on the courage and manly dignity with which he had endured the unexampled hardships of the cruel position in which he had been placed by an untoward combination of circumstances. it was thought that mr. daubeny did the thing very well, and that he was right in doing it;--but during the doing of it poor phineas winced in agony. of course every member was looking at him, and every stranger in the galleries. he did not know at the moment whether it behoved him to rise and make some gesture to the house, or to say a word, or to keep his seat and make no sign. there was a general hum of approval, and the prime minister turned round and bowed graciously to the newly-sworn member. as he said afterwards, it was just this which he had feared. but there must surely have been something of consolation in the general respect with which he was treated. at the moment he behaved with natural instinctive dignity, though himself doubting the propriety of his own conduct. he said not a word, and made no sign, but sat with his eyes fixed upon the member from whom the compliment had come. mr. daubeny went on with his tirade, and was called violently to order. the speaker declared that the whole debate had been irregular, but had been allowed by him in deference to what seemed to be the general will of the house. then the two leaders of the two parties composed themselves, throwing off their indignation while they covered themselves well up with their hats,--and, in accordance with the order of the day, an honourable member rose to propose a pet measure of his own for preventing the adulteration of beer by the publicans. he had made a calculation that the annual average mortality of england would be reduced one and a half per cent., or in other words that every english subject born would live seven months longer if the action of the legislature could provide that the publicans should sell the beer as it came from the brewers. immediately there was such a rush of members to the door that not a word said by the philanthropic would-be purifier of the national beverage could be heard. the quarrels of rival ministers were dear to the house, and as long as they could be continued the benches were crowded by gentlemen enthralled by the interest of the occasion. but to sink from that to private legislation about beer was to fall into a bathos which gentlemen could not endure; and so the house was emptied, and at about half-past seven there was a count-out. that gentleman whose statistics had been procured with so much care, and who had been at work for the last twelve months on his effort to prolong the lives of his fellow-countrymen, was almost broken-hearted. but he knew the world too well to complain. he would try again next year, if by dint of energetic perseverance he could procure a day. mr. monk and phineas finn, behaving no better than the others, slipped out in the crowd. it had indeed been arranged that they should leave the house early, so that they might dine together at mr. monk's house. though phineas had been released from his prison now for nearly a month, he had not as yet once dined out of his own rooms. he had not been inside a club, and hardly ventured during the day into the streets about pall mall and piccadilly. he had been frequently to portman square, but had not even seen madame goesler. now he was to dine out for the first time; but there was to be no guest but himself. "it wasn't so bad after all," said mr. monk, when they were seated together. "at any rate it has been done." "yes;--and there will be no doing of it over again. i don't like mr. daubeny, as you know; but he is happy at that kind of thing." "i hate men who are what you call happy, but who are never in earnest," said phineas. "he was earnest enough, i thought." "i don't mean about myself, mr. monk. i suppose he thought that it was suitable to the occasion that he should say something, and he said it neatly. but i hate men who can make capital out of occasions, who can be neat and appropriate at the spur of the moment,--having, however, probably had the benefit of some forethought,--but whose words never savour of truth. if i had happened to have been hung at this time,--as was so probable,--mr. daubeny would have devoted one of his half hours to the composition of a dozen tragic words which also would have been neat and appropriate. i can hear him say them now, warning young members around him to abstain from embittered words against each other, and i feel sure that the funereal grace of such an occasion would have become him even better than the generosity of his congratulations." "it is rather grim matter for joking, phineas." "grim enough; but the grimness and the jokes are always running through my mind together. i used to spend hours in thinking what my dear friends would say about it when they found that i had been hung in mistake;--how sir gregory grogram would like it, and whether men would think about it as they went home from the universe at night. i had various questions to ask and answer for myself,--whether they would pull up my poor body, for instance, from what unhallowed ground is used for gallows corpses, and give it decent burial, placing 'm.p. for tankerville' after my name on some more or less explicit tablet." "mr. daubeny's speech was, perhaps, preferable on the whole." "perhaps it was;--though i used to feel assured that the explicit tablet would be as clear to my eyes in purgatory as mr. daubeny's words have been to my ears this afternoon. i never for a moment doubted that the truth would be known before long,--but did doubt so very much whether it would be known in time. i'll go home now, mr. monk, and endeavour to get the matter off my mind. i will resolve, at any rate, that nothing shall make me talk about it any more." chapter lxxiv. at matching. for about a week in the august heat of a hot summer, phineas attended parliament with fair average punctuality, and then prepared for his journey down to matching priory. during that week he spoke no word to any one as to his past tribulation, and answered all allusions to it simply by a smile. he had determined to live exactly as though there had been no such episode in his life as that trial at the old bailey, and in most respects he did so. during this week he dined at the club, and called at madame goesler's house in park lane,--not, however, finding the lady at home. once, and once only, did he break down. on the wednesday evening he met barrington erle, and was asked by him to go to the universe. at the moment he became very pale, but he at once said that he would go. had erle carried him off in a cab the adventure might have been successful; but as they walked, and as they went together through clarges street and bolton row and curzon street, and as the scenes which had been so frequently and so graphically described in court appeared before him one after another, his heart gave way, and he couldn't do it. "i know i'm a fool, barrington; but if you don't mind i'll go home. don't mind me, but just go on." then he turned and walked home, passing through the passage in which the murder had been committed. "i brought him as far as the next street," barrington erle said to one of their friends at the club, "but i couldn't get him in. i doubt if he'll ever be here again." it was past six o'clock in the evening when he reached matching priory. the duchess had especially assured him that a brougham should be waiting for him at the nearest station, and on arriving there he found that he had the brougham to himself. he had thought a great deal about it, and had endeavoured to make his calculations. he knew that madame goesler would be at matching, and it would be necessary that he should say something of his thankfulness at their first meeting. but how should he meet her,--and in what way should he greet her when they met? would any arrangement be made, or would all be left to chance? should he go at once to his own chamber,--so as to show himself first when dressed for dinner, or should he allow himself to be taken into any of the morning rooms in which the other guests would be congregated? he had certainly not sufficiently considered the character of the duchess when he imagined that she would allow these things to arrange themselves. she was one of those women whose minds were always engaged on such matters, and who are able to see how things will go. it must not be asserted of her that her delicacy was untainted, or her taste perfect; but she was clever,--discreet in the midst of indiscretions,--thoughtful, and good-natured. she had considered it all, arranged it all, and given her orders with accuracy. when phineas entered the hall,--the brougham with the luggage having been taken round to some back door,--he was at once ushered by a silent man in black into the little sitting-room on the ground floor in which the old duke used to take delight. here he found two ladies,--but only two ladies,--waiting to receive him. the duchess came forward to welcome him, while madame goesler remained in the background, with composed face,--as though she by no means expected his arrival and he had chanced to come upon them as she was standing by the window. he was thinking of her much more than of her companion, though he knew also how much he owed to the kindness of the duchess. but what she had done for him had come from caprice, whereas the other had been instigated and guided by affection. he understood all that, and must have shown his feeling on his countenance. "yes, there she is," said the duchess, laughing. she had already told him that he was welcome to matching, and had spoken some short word of congratulation at his safe deliverance from his troubles. "if ever one friend was grateful to another, you should be grateful to her, mr. finn." he did not speak, but walking across the room to the window by which marie goesler stood, took her right hand in his, and passing his left arm round her waist, kissed her first on one cheek and then on the other. the blood flew to her face and suffused her forehead, but she did not speak, or resist him or make any effort to escape from his embrace. as for him, he had no thought of it at all. he had made no plan. no idea of kissing her when they should meet had occurred to him till the moment came. "excellently well done," said the duchess, still laughing with silent pleasant laughter. "and now tell us how you are, after all your troubles." [illustration: "yes, there she is."] he remained with them for half an hour, till the ladies went to dress, when he was handed over to some groom of the chambers to show him his room. "the duke ought to be here to welcome you, of course," said the duchess; "but you know official matters too well to expect a president of the board of trade to do his domestic duties. we dine at eight; five minutes before that time he will begin adding up his last row of figures for the day. you never added up rows of figures, i think. you only managed colonies." so they parted till dinner, and phineas remembered how very little had been spoken by madame goesler, and how few of the words which he had spoken had been addressed to her. she had sat silent, smiling, radiant, very beautiful as he had thought, but contented to listen to her friend the duchess. she, the duchess, had asked questions of all sorts, and made many statements; and he had found that with those two women he could speak without discomfort, almost with pleasure, on subjects which he could not bear to have touched by men. "of course you knew all along who killed the poor man," the duchess had said. "we did;--did we not, marie?--just as well as if we had seen it. she was quite sure that he had got out of the house and back into it, and that he must have had a key. so she started off to prague to find the key; and she found it. and we were quite sure too about the coat;--weren't we. that poor blundering lord fawn couldn't explain himself, but we knew that the coat he saw was quite different from any coat you would wear in such weather. we discussed it all over so often;--every point of it. poor lord fawn! they say it has made quite an old man of him. and as for those policemen who didn't find the life-preserver; i only think that something ought to be done to them." "i hope that nothing will ever be done to anybody, duchess." "not to the reverend mr. emilius;--poor dear lady eustace's mr. emilius? i do think that you ought to desire that an end should be put to his enterprising career! i'm sure i do." this was said while the attempt was still being made to trace the purchase of the bludgeon in paris. "we've got sir gregory grogram here on purpose to meet you, and you must fraternise with him immediately, to show that you bear no grudge." "he only did his duty." "exactly;--though i think he was an addle-pated old ass not to see the thing more clearly. as you'll be coming into the government before long, we thought that things had better be made straight between you and sir gregory. i wonder how it was that nobody but women did see it clearly? look at that delightful woman, mrs. bunce. you must bring mrs. bunce to me some day,--or take me to her." "lord chiltern saw it clearly enough," said phineas. "my dear mr. finn, lord chiltern is the best fellow in the world, but he has only one idea. he was quite sure of your innocence because you ride to hounds. if it had been found possible to accuse poor mr. fothergill, he would have been as certain that mr. fothergill committed the murder, because mr. fothergill thinks more of his shooting. however, lord chiltern is to be here in a day or two, and i mean to go absolutely down on my knees to him,--and all for your sake. if foxes can be had, he shall have foxes. we must go and dress now, mr. finn, and i'll ring for somebody to show you your room." phineas, as soon as he was alone, thought, not of what the duchess had said, but of the manner in which he had greeted his friend, madame goesler. as he remembered what he had done, he also blushed. had she been angry with him, and intended to show her anger by her silence? and why had he done it? what had he meant? he was quite sure that he would not have given those kisses had he and madame goesler been alone in the room together. the duchess had applauded him,--but yet he thought that he regretted it. there had been matters between him and marie goesler of which he was quite sure that the duchess knew nothing. when he went downstairs he found a crowd in the drawing-room, from among whom the duke came forward to welcome him. "i am particularly happy to see you at matching," said the duke. "i wish we had shooting to offer you, but we are too far south for the grouse. that was a bitter passage of arms the other day, wasn't it? i am fond of bitterness in debate myself, but i do regret the roughness of the house of commons. i must confess that i do." the duke did not say a word about the trial, and the duke's guests followed their host's example. the house was full of people, most of whom had before been known to phineas, and many of whom had been asked specially to meet him. lord and lady cantrip were there, and mr. monk, and sir gregory his accuser, and the home secretary, sir harry coldfoot, with his wife. sir harry had at one time been very keen about hanging our hero, and was now of course hot with reactionary zeal. to all those who had been in any way concerned in the prosecution, the accidents by which phineas had been enabled to escape had been almost as fortunate as to phineas himself. sir gregory himself quite felt that had he prosecuted an innocent and very popular young member of parliament to the death, he could never afterwards have hoped to wear his ermine in comfort. barrington erle was there, of course, intending, however, to return to the duties of his office on the following day,--and our old friend laurence fitzgibbon with a newly-married wife, a lady possessing a reputed fifty thousand pounds, by which it was hoped that the member for mayo might be placed steadily upon his legs for ever. and adelaide palliser was there also,--the duke's first cousin,--on whose behalf the duchess was anxious to be more than ordinarily good-natured. mr. maule, adelaide's rejected lover, had dined on one occasion with the duke and duchess in london. there had been nothing remarkable at the dinner, and he had not at all understood why he had been asked. but when he took his leave the duchess had told him that she would hope to see him at matching. "we expect a friend of yours to be with us," the duchess had said. he had afterwards received a written invitation and had accepted it; but he was not to reach matching till the day after that on which phineas arrived. adelaide had been told of his coming only on this morning, and had been much flurried by the news. "but we have quarrelled," she said. "then the best thing you can do is to make it up again, my dear," said the duchess. miss palliser was undoubtedly of that opinion herself, but she hardly believed that so terrible an evil as a quarrel with her lover could be composed by so rough a remedy as this. the duchess, who had become used to all the disturbing excitements of life, and who didn't pay so much respect as some do to the niceties of a young lady's feelings, thought that it would be only necessary to bring the young people together again. if she could do that, and provide them with an income, of course they would marry. on the present occasion phineas was told off to take miss palliser down to dinner. "you saw the chilterns before they left town, i know," she said. "oh, yes. i am constantly in portman square." "of course. lady laura has gone down to scotland;--has she not;--and all alone?" "she is alone now, i believe." "how dreadful! i do not know any one that i pity so much as i do her. i was in the house with her some time, and she gave me the idea of being the most unhappy woman i had ever met with. don't you think that she is very unhappy?" "she has had very much to make her so," said phineas. "she was obliged to leave her husband because of the gloom of his insanity;--and now she is a widow." "i don't suppose she ever really--cared for him; did she?" the question was no sooner asked than the poor girl remembered the whole story which she had heard some time back,--the rumour of the husband's jealousy and of the wife's love, and she became as red as fire, and unable to help herself. she could think of no word to say, and confessed her confusion by her sudden silence. phineas saw it all, and did his best for her. "i am sure she cared for him," he said, "though i do not think it was a well-assorted marriage. they had different ideas about religion, i fancy. so you saw the hunting in the brake country to the end? how is our old friend, mr. spooner?" "don't talk of him, mr. finn." "i rather like mr. spooner;--and as for hunting the country, i don't think chiltern could get on without him. what a capital fellow your cousin the duke is." "i hardly know him." "he is such a gentleman;--and, at the same time, the most abstract and the most concrete man that i know." "abstract and concrete!" "you are bound to use adjectives of that sort now, miss palliser, if you mean to be anybody in conversation." "but how is my cousin concrete? he is always abstracted when i speak to him, i know." "no englishman whom i have met is so broadly and intuitively and unceremoniously imbued with the simplicity of the character of a gentleman. he could no more lie than he could eat grass." "is that abstract or concrete?" "that's abstract. and i know no one who is so capable of throwing himself into one matter for the sake of accomplishing that one thing at a time. that's concrete." and so the red colour faded away from poor adelaide's face, and the unpleasantness was removed. "what do you think of laurence's wife?" erle said to him late in the evening. "i have only just seen her. the money is there, i suppose." "the money is there, i believe; but then it will have to remain there. he can't touch it. there's about £ , a-year, which will have to go back to her family unless they have children." "i suppose she's--forty?" "well; yes, or perhaps forty-five. you were locked up at the time, poor fellow,--and had other things to think of; but all the interest we had for anything beyond you through may and june was devoted to laurence and his prospects. it was off and on, and on and off, and he was in a most wretched condition. at last she wouldn't consent unless she was to be asked here." "and who managed it?" "laurence came and told it all to the duchess, and she gave him the invitation at once." "who told you?" "not the duchess,--nor yet laurence. so it may be untrue, you know;--but i believe it. he did ask me whether he'd have to stand another election at his marriage. he has been going in and out of office so often, and always going back to the co. mayo at the expense of half a year's salary, that his mind had got confused, and he didn't quite know what did and what did not vacate his seat. we must all come to it sooner or later, i suppose, but the question is whether we could do better than an annuity of £ , a year on the life of the lady. office isn't very permanent, but one has not to attend the house above six months a year, while you can't get away from a wife much above a week at a time. it has crippled him in appearance very much, i think." "a man always looks changed when he's married." "i hope, mr. finn, that you owe me no grudge," said sir gregory, the attorney-general. "not in the least; why should i?" "it was a very painful duty that i had to perform,--the most painful that ever befel me. i had no alternative but to do it, of course, and to do it in the hope of reaching the truth. but a counsel for the prosecution must always appear to the accused and his friends like a hound running down his game, and anxious for blood. the habitual and almost necessary acrimony of the defence creates acrimony in the attack. if you were accustomed as i am to criminal courts you would observe this constantly. a gentleman gets up and declares in perfect faith that he is simply anxious to lay before the jury such evidence as has been placed in his hands. and he opens his case in that spirit. then his witnesses are cross-examined with the affected incredulity and assumed indignation which the defending counsel is almost bound to use on behalf of his client, and he finds himself gradually imbued with pugnacity. he becomes strenuous, energetic, and perhaps eager for what must after all be regarded as success, and at last he fights for a verdict rather than for the truth." "the judge, i suppose, ought to put all that right?" "so he does;--and it comes right. our criminal practice does not sin on the side of severity. but a barrister employed on the prosecution should keep himself free from that personal desire for a verdict which must animate those engaged on the defence." "then i suppose you wanted to--hang me, sir gregory." "certainly not. i wanted the truth. but you in your position must have regarded me as a bloodhound." "i did not. as far as i can analyse my own feelings, i entertained anger only against those who, though they knew me well, thought that i was guilty." "you will allow me, at any rate, to shake hands with you," said sir gregory, "and to assure you that i should have lived a broken-hearted man if the truth had been known too late. as it is i tremble and shake in my shoes as i walk about and think of what might have been done." then phineas gave his hand to sir gregory, and from that time forth was inclined to think well of sir gregory. throughout the whole evening he was unable to speak to madame goesler, but to the other people around him he found himself talking quite at his ease, as though nothing peculiar had happened to him. almost everybody, except the duke, made some slight allusion to his adventure, and he, in spite of his resolution to the contrary, found himself driven to talk of it. it had seemed quite natural that sir gregory,--who had in truth been eager for his condemnation, thinking him to have been guilty,--should come to him and make peace with him by telling him of the nature of the work that had been imposed upon him;--and when sir harry coldfoot assured him that never in his life had his mind been relieved of so heavy a weight as when he received the information about the key,--that also was natural. a few days ago he had thought that these allusions would kill him. the prospect of them had kept him a prisoner in his lodgings; but now he smiled and chatted, and was quiet and at ease. "good-night, mr. finn," the duchess said to him, "i know the people have been boring you." "not in the least." "i saw sir gregory at it, and i can guess what sir gregory was talking about." "i like sir gregory, duchess." "that shows a very christian disposition on your part. and then there was sir harry. i understood it all, but i could not hinder it. but it had to be done, hadn't it?--and now there will be an end of it." "everybody has treated me very well," said phineas, almost in tears. "some people have been so kind to me that i cannot understand why it should have been so." "because some people are your very excellent good friends. we,--that is, marie and i, you know,--thought it would be the best thing for you to come down and get through it all here. we could see that you weren't driven too hard. by the bye, you have hardly seen her,--have you?" "hardly, since i was upstairs with your grace." "my grace will manage better for you to-morrow. i didn't like to tell you to take her out to dinner, because it would have looked a little particular after her very remarkable journey to prague. if you ain't grateful you must be a wretch." "but i am grateful." "well; we shall see. good-night. you'll find a lot of men going to smoke somewhere, i don't doubt." chapter lxxv. the trumpeton feud is settled. in these fine early autumn days spent at matching, the great trumpeton wood question was at last settled. during the summer considerable acerbity had been added to the matter by certain articles which had appeared in certain sporting papers, in which the new duke of omnium was accused of neglecting his duty to the county in which a portion of his property lay. the question was argued at considerable length. is a landed proprietor bound, or is he not, to keep foxes for the amusement of his neighbours? to ordinary thinkers, to unprejudiced outsiders,--to americans, let us say, or frenchmen,--there does not seem to be room even for an argument. by what law of god or man can a man be bound to maintain a parcel of injurious vermin on his property, in the pursuit of which he finds no sport himself, and which are highly detrimental to another sport in which he takes, perhaps, the keenest interest? trumpeton wood was the duke's own,--to do just as he pleased with it. why should foxes be demanded from him then any more than a bear to be baited, or a badger to be drawn, in, let us say, his london dining-room? but a good deal had been said which, though not perhaps capable of convincing the unprejudiced american or frenchman, had been regarded as cogent arguments to country-bred englishmen. the brake hunt had been established for a great many years, and was the central attraction of a district well known for its hunting propensities. the preservation of foxes might be an open question in such counties as norfolk and suffolk, but could not be so in the brake country. many things are, no doubt, permissible under the law, which, if done, would show the doer of them to be the enemy of his species,--and this destruction of foxes in a hunting country may be named as one of them. the duke might have his foxes destroyed if he pleased, but he could hardly do so and remain a popular magnate in england. if he chose to put himself in opposition to the desires and very instincts of the people among whom his property was situated, he must live as a "man forbid." that was the general argument, and then there was the argument special to this particular case. as it happened, trumpeton wood was, and always had been, the great nursery of foxes for that side of the brake country. gorse coverts make, no doubt, the charm of hunting, but gorse coverts will not hold foxes unless the woodlands be preserved. the fox is a travelling animal. knowing well that "home-staying youths have ever homely wits," he goes out and sees the world. he is either born in the woodlands, or wanders thither in his early youth. if all foxes so wandering be doomed to death, if poison, and wires, and traps, and hostile keepers await them there instead of the tender welcome of the loving fox-preserver, the gorse coverts will soon be empty, and the whole country will be afflicted with a wild dismay. all which lord chiltern understood well when he became so loud in his complaint against the duke. but our dear old friend, only the other day a duke, planty pall as he was lately called, devoted to work and to parliament, an unselfish, friendly, wise man, who by no means wanted other men to cut their coats according to his pattern, was the last man in england to put himself forward as the enemy of an established delight. he did not hunt himself,--but neither did he shoot, or fish, or play cards. he recreated himself with blue books, and speculations on adam smith had been his distraction;--but he knew that he was himself peculiar, and he respected the habits of others. it had fallen out in this wise. as the old duke had become very old, the old duke's agent had gradually acquired more than an agent's proper influence in the property; and as the duke's heir would not shoot himself, or pay attention to the shooting, and as the duke would not let the shooting of his wood, mr. fothergill, the steward, had gradually become omnipotent. now mr. fothergill was not a hunting man,--but the mischief did not at all lie there. lord chiltern would not communicate with mr. fothergill. lord chiltern would write to the duke, and mr. fothergill became an established enemy. hinc illæ iræ. from this source sprung all those powerfully argued articles in _the field_, _bell's life_, and _land and water_;--for on this matter all the sporting papers were of one mind. there is something doubtless absurd in the intensity of the worship paid to the fox by hunting communities. the animal becomes sacred, and his preservation is a religion. his irregular destruction is a profanity, and words spoken to his injury are blasphemous. not long since a gentleman shot a fox running across a woodland ride in a hunting country. he had mistaken it for a hare, and had done the deed in the presence of keepers, owner, and friends. his feelings were so acute and his remorse so great that, in their pity, they had resolved to spare him; and then, on the spot, entered into a solemn compact that no one should be told. encouraged by the forbearing tenderness, the unfortunate one ventured to return to the house of his friend, the owner of the wood, hoping that, in spite of the sacrilege committed, he might be able to face a world that would be ignorant of his crime. as the vulpicide, on the afternoon of the day of the deed, went along the corridor to his room, one maid-servant whispered to another, and the poor victim of an imperfect sight heard the words--"that's he as shot the fox!" the gentleman did not appear at dinner, nor was he ever again seen in those parts. mr. fothergill had become angry. lord chiltern, as we know, had been very angry. and even the duke was angry. the duke was angry because lord chiltern had been violent;--and lord chiltern had been violent because mr. fothergill's conduct had been, to his thinking, not only sacrilegious, but one continued course of wilful sacrilege. it may be said of lord chiltern that in his eagerness as a master of hounds he had almost abandoned his love of riding. to kill a certain number of foxes in the year, after the legitimate fashion, had become to him the one great study of life;--and he did it with an energy equal to that which the duke devoted to decimal coinage. his huntsman was always well mounted, with two horses; but lord chiltern would give up his own to the man and take charge of a weary animal as a common groom when he found that he might thus further the object of the day's sport. he worked as men work only at pleasure. he never missed a day, even when cub-hunting required that he should leave his bed at a.m. he was constant at his kennel. he was always thinking about it. he devoted his life to the brake hounds. and it was too much for him that such a one as mr. fothergill should be allowed to wire foxes in trumpeton wood! the duke's property, indeed! surely all that was understood in england by this time. now he had consented to come to matching, bringing his wife with him, in order that the matter might be settled. there had been a threat that he would give up the country, in which case it was declared that it would be impossible to carry on the brake hunt in a manner satisfactory to masters, subscribers, owners of coverts, or farmers, unless a different order of things should be made to prevail in regard to trumpeton wood. the duke, however, had declined to interfere personally. he had told his wife that he should be delighted to welcome lord and lady chiltern,--as he would any other friends of hers. the guests, indeed, at the duke's house were never his guests, but always hers. but he could not allow himself to be brought into an argument with lord chiltern as to the management of his own property. the duchess was made to understand that she must prevent any such awkwardness. and she did prevent it. "and now, lord chiltern," she said, "how about the foxes?" she had taken care there should be a council of war around her. lady chiltern and madame goesler were present, and also phineas finn. "well;--how about them?" said the lord, showing by the fiery eagerness of his eye, and the increased redness of his face, that though the matter had been introduced somewhat jocosely, there could not really be any joke about it. "why couldn't you keep it all out of the newspapers?" "i don't write the newspapers, duchess. i can't help the newspapers. when two hundred men ride through trumpeton wood, and see one fox found, and that fox with only three pads, of course the newspapers will say that the foxes are trapped." "we may have traps if we like it, lord chiltern." "certainly;--only say so, and we shall know where we are." he looked very angry, and poor lady chiltern was covered with dismay. "the duke can destroy the hunt if he pleases, no doubt," said the lord. "but we don't like traps, lord chiltern;--nor yet poison, nor anything that is wicked. i'd go and nurse the foxes myself if i knew how, wouldn't i, marie?" "they have robbed the duchess of her sleep for the last six months," said madame goesler. "and if they go on being not properly brought up and educated, they'll make an old woman of me. as for the duke, he can't be comfortable in his arithmetic for thinking of them. but what can one do?" "change your keepers," said lord chiltern energetically. "it is easy to say,--change your keepers. how am i to set about it? to whom can i apply to appoint others? don't you know what vested interests mean, lord chiltern?" "then nobody can manage his own property as he pleases?" "nobody can,--unless he does the work himself. if i were to go and live in trumpeton wood i could do it; but you see i have to live here. i vote that we have an officer of state, to go in and out with the government,--with a seat in the cabinet or not according as things go, and that we call him foxmaster-general. it would be just the thing for mr. finn." "there would be a salary, of course," said phineas. "then i suppose that nothing can be done," said lord chiltern. "my dear lord chiltern, everything has been done. vested interests have been attended to. keepers shall prefer foxes to pheasants, wires shall be unheard of, and trumpeton wood shall once again be the glory of the brake hunt. it won't cost the duke above a thousand or two a year." "i should be very sorry indeed to put the duke to any unnecessary expense," said lord chiltern solemnly,--still fearing that the duchess was only playing with him. it made him angry that he could not imbue other people with his idea of the seriousness of the amusement of a whole county. "do not think of it. we have pensioned poor mr. fothergill, and he retires from the administration." "then it'll be all right," said lord chiltern. "i am so glad," said his wife. "and so the great mr. fothergill falls from power, and goes down into obscurity," said madame goesler. "he was an impudent old man, and that's the truth," said the duchess;--"and he has always been my thorough detestation. but if you only knew what i have gone through to get rid of him,--and all on account of trumpeton wood,--you'd send me every brush taken in the brake country during the next season." "your grace shall at any rate have one of them," said lord chiltern. on the next day lord and lady chiltern went back to harrington hall. when the end of august comes, a master of hounds,--who is really a master,--is wanted at home. nothing short of an embassy on behalf of the great coverts of his country would have kept this master away at present; and now, his diplomacy having succeeded, he hurried back to make the most of its results. lady chiltern, before she went, made a little speech to phineas finn. "you'll come to us in the winter, mr. finn?" "i should like." "you must. no one was truer to you than we were, you know. indeed, regarding you as we do, how should we not have been true? it was impossible to me that my old friend should have been--" "oh, lady chiltern!" "of course you'll come. you owe it to us to come. and may i say this? if there be anybody to come with you, that will make it only so much the better. if it should be so, of course there will be letters written?" to this question, however, phineas finn made no answer. chapter lxxvi. madame goesler's legacy. one morning, very shortly after her return to harrington, lady chiltern was told that mr. spooner of spoon hall had called, and desired to see her. she suggested that the gentleman had probably asked for her husband,--who, at that moment, was enjoying his recovered supremacy in the centre of trumpeton wood; but she was assured that on this occasion mr. spooner's mission was to herself. she had no quarrel with mr. spooner, and she went to him at once. after the first greeting he rushed into the subject of the great triumph. "so we've got rid of mr. fothergill, lady chiltern." "yes; mr. fothergill will not, i believe, trouble us any more. he is an old man, it seems, and has retired from the duke's service." "i can't tell you how glad i am, lady chiltern. we were afraid that chiltern would have thrown it up, and then i don't know where we should have been. england would not have been england any longer, to my thinking, if we hadn't won the day. it'd have been just like a french revolution. nobody would have known what was coming or where he was going." that mr. spooner should be enthusiastic on any hunting question was a matter of course; but still it seemed to be odd that he should have driven himself over from spoon hall to pour his feelings into lady chiltern's ear. "we shall go on very nicely now, i don't doubt," said she; "and i'm sure that lord chiltern will be glad to find that you are pleased." "i am very much pleased, i can tell you." then he paused, and the tone of his voice was changed altogether when he spoke again. "but i didn't come over only about that, lady chiltern. miss palliser has not come back with you, lady chiltern?" "we left miss palliser at matching. you know she is the duke's cousin." "i wish she wasn't, with all my heart." "why should you want to rob her of her relations, mr. spooner?" "because-- because--. i don't want to say a word against her, lady chiltern. to me she is perfect as a star;--beautiful as a rose." mr. spooner as he said this pointed first to the heavens and then to the earth. "but perhaps she wouldn't have been so proud of her grandfather hadn't he been a duke." "i don't think she is proud of that." "people do think of it, lady chiltern; and i don't say that they ought not. of course it makes a difference, and when a man lives altogether in the country, as i do, it seems to signify so much more. but if you go back to old county families, lady chiltern, the spooners have been here pretty nearly as long as the pallisers,--if not longer. the desponders, from whom we come, came over with william the conqueror." "i have always heard that there isn't a more respectable family in the county." "that there isn't. there was a grant of land, which took their name, and became the manor of despond; there's where spoon hall is now. sir thomas desponder was one of those who demanded the charter, though his name wasn't always given because he wasn't a baron. perhaps miss palliser does not know all that." "i doubt whether she cares about those things." "women do care about them,--very much. perhaps she has heard of the two spoons crossed, and doesn't know that that was a stupid vulgar practical joke. our crest is a knight's head bowed, with the motto, 'desperandum.' soon after the conquest one of the desponders fell in love with the queen, and never would give it up, though it wasn't any good. her name was matilda, and so he went as a crusader and got killed. but wherever he went he had the knight's head bowed, and the motto on the shield." "what a romantic story, mr. spooner!" "isn't it? and it's quite true. that's the way we became spooners. i never told her of it, but, somehow i wish i had now. it always seemed that she didn't think that i was anybody." "the truth is, mr. spooner, that she was always thinking that somebody else was everything. when a gentleman is told that a lady's affections have been pre-engaged, however much he may regret the circumstances, he cannot, i think, feel any hurt to his pride. if i understand the matter, miss palliser explained to you that she was engaged when first you spoke to her." "you are speaking of young gerard maule." "of course i am speaking of mr. maule." "but she has quarrelled with him, lady chiltern." "don't you know what such quarrels come to?" "well, no. that is to say, everybody tells me that it is really broken off, and that he has gone nobody knows where. at any rate he never shows himself. he doesn't mean it, lady chiltern." "i don't know what he means." "and he can't afford it, lady chiltern. i mean it, and i can afford it. surely that might go for something." "i cannot say what mr. maule may mean to do, mr. spooner, but i think it only fair to tell you that he is at present staying at matching, under the same roof with miss palliser." "maule staying at the duke's!" when mr. spooner heard this there came a sudden change over his face. his jaw fell, and his mouth was opened, and the redness of his cheeks flew up to his forehead. "he was expected there yesterday, and i need hardly suggest to you what will be the end of the quarrel." "going to the duke's won't give him an income." "i know nothing about that, mr. spooner. but it really seems to me that you misinterpret the nature of the affections of such a girl as miss palliser. do you think it likely that she should cease to love a man because he is not so rich as another?" "people, when they are married, want a house to live in, lady chiltern. now at spoon hall--" "believe me, that is in vain, mr. spooner." "you are quite sure of it?" "quite sure." "i'd have done anything for her,--anything! she might have had what settlements she pleased. i told ned that he must go, if she made a point of it. i'd have gone abroad, or lived just anywhere. i'd come to that, that i didn't mind the hunting a bit." "i'm sorry for you,--i am indeed." "it cuts a fellow all to pieces so! and yet what is it all about? a slip of a girl that isn't anything so very much out of the way after all. lady chiltern, i shouldn't care if the horse kicked the trap all to pieces going back to spoon hall, and me with it." "you'll get over it, mr. spooner." "get over it! i suppose i shall; but i shall never be as i was. i've been always thinking of the day when there must be a lady at spoon hall, and putting it off, you know. there'll never be a lady there now;--never. you don't think there's any chance at all?" "i'm sure there is none." "i'd give half i've got in all the world," said the wretched man, "just to get it out of my head. i know what it will come to." though he paused, lady chiltern could ask no question respecting mr. spooner's future prospects. "it'll be two bottles of champagne at dinner, and two bottles of claret afterwards, every day. i only hope she'll know that she did it. good-bye, lady chiltern. i thought that perhaps you'd have helped me." "i cannot help you." "good-bye." so he went down to his trap, and drove himself violently home,--without, however, achieving the ruin which he desired. let us hope that as time cures his wound that threat as to increased consumption of wine may fall to the ground unfulfilled. in the meantime gerard maule had arrived at matching priory. "we have quarrelled," adelaide had said when the duchess told her that her lover was to come. "then you had better make it up again," the duchess had answered,--and there had been an end of it. nothing more was done; no arrangement was made, and adelaide was left to meet the man as best she might. the quarrel to her had been as the disruption of the heavens. she had declared to herself that she would bear it; but the misfortune to be borne was a broken world falling about her own ears. she had thought of a nunnery, of ophelia among the water-lilies, and of an early death-bed. then she had pictured to herself the somewhat ascetic and very laborious life of an old maiden lady whose only recreation fifty years hence should consist in looking at the portrait of him who had once been her lover. and now she was told that he was coming to matching as though nothing had been the matter! she tried to think whether it was not her duty to have her things at once packed, and ask for a carriage to take her to the railway station. but she was in the house of her nearest relative,--of him and also of her who were bound to see that things were right; and then there might be a more pleasureable existence than that which would have to depend on a photograph for its keenest delight. but how should she meet him? in what way should she address him? should she ignore the quarrel, or recognize it, or take some milder course? she was half afraid of the duchess, and could not ask for assistance. and the duchess, though good-natured, seemed to her to be rough. there was nobody at matching to whom she could say a word;--so she lived on, and trembled, and doubted from hour to hour whether the world would not come to an end. the duchess was rough, but she was very good-natured. she had contrived that the two lovers should be brought into the same house, and did not doubt at all but what they would be able to adjust their own little differences when they met. her experiences of the world had certainly made her more alive to the material prospects than to the delicate aroma of a love adventure. she had been greatly knocked about herself, and the material prospects had come uppermost. but all that had happened to her had tended to open her hand to other people, and had enabled her to be good-natured with delight, even when she knew that her friends imposed upon her. she didn't care much for laurence fitzgibbon; but when she was told that the lady with money would not consent to marry the aristocratic pauper except on condition that she should be received at matching, the duchess at once gave the invitation. and now, though she couldn't go into the "fal-lallery,"--as she called it, to madame goesler,--of settling a meeting between two young people who had fallen out, she worked hard till she accomplished something perhaps more important to their future happiness. "plantagenet," she said, "there can be no objection to your cousin having that money." "my dear!" "oh come; you must remember about adelaide, and that young man who is coming here to-day." "you told me that adelaide is to be married. i don't know anything about the young man." "his name is maule, and he is a gentleman, and all that. some day when his father dies he'll have a small property somewhere." "i hope he has a profession." "no, he has not. i told you all that before." "if he has nothing at all, glencora, why did he ask a young lady to marry him?" "oh, dear; what's the good of going into all that? he has got something. they'll do immensely well, if you'll only listen. she is your first cousin." "of course she is," said plantagenet, lifting up his hand to his hair. "and you are bound to do something for her." "no; i am not bound. but i'm very willing,--if you wish it. put the thing on a right footing." "i hate footings,--that is, right footings. we can manage this without taking money out of your pocket." "my dear glencora, if i am to give my cousin money i shall do so by putting my hand into my own pocket in preference to that of any other person." "madame goesler says that she'll sign all the papers about the duke's legacy,--the money, i mean,--if she may be allowed to make it over to the duke's niece." "of course madame goesler may do what she likes with her own. i cannot hinder her. but i would rather that you should not interfere. twenty-five thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money." "you won't take it." "certainly not." "nor will madame goesler; and therefore there can be no reason why these young people should not have it. of course adelaide being the duke's niece does make a difference. why else should i care about it? she is nothing to me,--and as for him, i shouldn't know him again if i were to meet him in the street." and so the thing was settled. the duke was powerless against the energy of his wife, and the lawyer was instructed that madame goesler would take the proper steps for putting herself into possession of the duke's legacy,--as far as the money was concerned,--with the view of transferring it to the duke's niece, miss adelaide palliser. as for the diamonds, the difficulty could not be solved. madame goesler still refused to take them, and desired her lawyer to instruct her as to the form by which she could most thoroughly and conclusively renounce that legacy. gerard maule had his ideas about the meeting which would of course take place at matching. he would not, he thought, have been asked there had it not been intended that he should marry adelaide. he did not care much for the grandeur of the duke and duchess, but he was conscious of certain profitable advantages which might accrue from such an acknowledgement of his position from the great relatives of his intended bride. it would be something to be married from the house of the duchess, and to receive his wife from the duke's hand. his father would probably be driven to acquiesce, and people who were almost omnipotent in the world would at any rate give him a start. he expected no money; nor did he possess that character, whether it be good or bad, which is given to such expectation. but there would be encouragement, and the thing would probably be done. as for the meeting,--he would take her in his arms if he found her alone, and beg her pardon for that cross word about boulogne. he would assure her that boulogne itself would be a heaven to him if she were with him,--and he thought that she would believe him. when he reached the house he was asked into a room in which a lot of people were playing billiards or crowded round a billiard-table. the chilterns were gone, and he was at first ill at ease, finding no friend. madame goesler, who had met him at harrington, came up to him, and told him that the duchess would be there directly, and then phineas, who had been playing at the moment of his entrance, shook hands with him, and said a word or two about the chilterns. "i was so delighted to hear of your acquittal," said maule. "we never talk about that now," said phineas, going back to his stroke. adelaide palliser was not present, and the difficulty of the meeting had not yet been encountered. they all remained in the billiard-room till it was time for the ladies to dress, and adelaide had not yet ventured to show herself. somebody offered to take him to his room, and he was conducted upstairs, and told that they dined at eight,--but nothing had been arranged. nobody had as yet mentioned her name to him. surely it could not be that she had gone away when she heard that he was coming, and that she was really determined to make the quarrel perpetual? he had three quarters of an hour in which to get ready for dinner, and he felt himself to be uncomfortable and out of his element. he had been sent to his chamber prematurely, because nobody had known what to do with him; and he wished himself back in london. the duchess, no doubt, had intended to be good-natured, but she had made a mistake. so he sat by his open window, and looked out on the ruins of the old priory, which were close to the house, and wondered why he mightn't have been allowed to wander about the garden instead of being shut up there in a bedroom. but he felt that it would be unwise to attempt any escape now. he would meet the duke or the duchess, or perhaps adelaide herself, in some of the passages,--and there would be an embarrassment. so he dawdled away the time, looking out of the window as he dressed, and descended to the drawing room at eight o'clock. he shook hands with the duke, and was welcomed by the duchess, and then glanced round the room. there she was, seated on a sofa between two other ladies,--of whom one was his friend, madame goesler. it was essentially necessary that he should notice her in some way, and he walked up to her, and offered her his hand. it was impossible that he should allude to what was past, and he merely muttered something as he stood over her. she had blushed up to her eyes, and was absolutely dumb. "mr. maule, perhaps you'll take our cousin adelaide out to dinner," said the duchess, a moment afterwards, whispering in his ear. "have you forgiven me?" he said to her, as they passed from one room to the other. "i will,--if you care to be forgiven." the duchess had been quite right, and the quarrel was all over without any arrangement. on the following morning he was allowed to walk about the grounds without any impediment, and to visit the ruins which had looked so charming to him from the window. nor was he alone. miss palliser was now by no means anxious as she had been yesterday to keep out of the way, and was willingly persuaded to show him all the beauties of the place. "i shouldn't have said what i did, i know," pleaded maule. "never mind it now, gerard." "i mean about going to boulogne." "it did sound so melancholy." "but i only meant that we should have to be very careful how we lived. i don't know quite whether i am so good at being careful about money as a fellow ought to be." "you must take a lesson from me, sir." "i have sent the horses to tattersall's," he said in a tone that was almost funereal. "what!--already?" "i gave the order yesterday. they are to be sold,--i don't know when. they won't fetch anything. they never do. one always buys bad horses there for a lot of money, and sells good ones for nothing. where the difference goes to i never could make out." "i suppose the man gets it who sells them." "no; he don't. the fellows get it who have their eyes open. my eyes never were open,--except as far as seeing you went." "perhaps if you had opened them wider you wouldn't have to go to--" "don't, adelaide. but, as i was saying about the horses, when they're sold of course the bills won't go on. and i suppose things will come right. i don't owe so very much." "i've got something to tell you," she said. "what about?" "you're to see my cousin to-day at two o'clock." "the duke?" "yes,--the duke; and he has got a proposition. i don't know that you need sell your horses, as it seems to make you so very unhappy. you remember madame goesler?" "of course i do. she was at harrington." "there's something about a legacy which i can't understand at all. it is ever so much money, and it did belong to the old duke. they say it is to be mine,--or yours rather, if we should ever be married. and then you know, gerard, perhaps, after all, you needn't go to boulogne." so she took her revenge, and he had his as he pressed his arm round her waist and kissed her among the ruins of the old priory. precisely at two to the moment he had his interview with the duke, and very disagreeable it was to both of them. the duke was bound to explain that the magnificent present which was being made to his cousin was a gift, not from him, but from madame goesler; and, though he was intent on making this as plain as possible, he did not like the task. "the truth is, mr. maule, that madame goesler is unwilling, for reasons with which i need not trouble you, to take the legacy which was left to her by my uncle. i think her reasons to be insufficient, but it is a matter in which she must, of course, judge for herself. she has decided,--very much, i fear, at my wife's instigation, which i must own i regret,--to give the money to one of our family, and has been pleased to say that my cousin adelaide shall be the recipient of her bounty. i have nothing to do with it. i cannot stop her generosity if i would, nor can i say that my cousin ought to refuse it. adelaide will have the entire sum as her fortune, short of the legacy duty, which, as you are probably aware, will be ten per cent., as madame goesler was not related to my uncle. the money will, of course, be settled on my cousin and on her children. i believe that will be all i shall have to say, except that lady glencora,--the duchess, i mean,--wishes that adelaide should be married from our house. if this be so i shall, of course, hope to have the honour of giving my cousin away." the duke was by no means a pompous man, and probably there was no man in england of so high rank who thought so little of his rank. but he was stiff and somewhat ungainly, and the task which he was called upon to execute had been very disagreeable to him. he bowed when he had finished his speech, and gerard maule felt himself bound to go, almost without expressing his thanks. "my dear mr. maule," said madame goesler, "you literally must not say a word to me about it. the money was not mine, and under no circumstances would or could be mine. i have given nothing, and could not have presumed to make such a present. the money, i take it, does undoubtedly belong to the present duke, and, as he does not want it, it is very natural that it should go to his cousin. i trust that you may both live to enjoy it long, but i cannot allow any thanks to be given to me by either of you." after that he tried the duchess, who was somewhat more gracious. "the truth is, mr. maule, you are a very lucky man to find twenty thousand pounds and more going begging about the country in that way." "indeed i am, duchess." "and adelaide is lucky, too, for i doubt whether either of you are given to any very penetrating economies. i am told that you like hunting." "i have sent my horses to tattersall's." "there is enough now for a little hunting, i suppose, unless you have a dozen children. and now you and adelaide must settle when it's to be. i hate things to be delayed. people go on quarrelling and fancying this and that, and thinking that the world is full of romance and poetry. when they get married they know better." "i hope the romance and poetry do not all vanish." "romance and poetry are for the most part lies, mr. maule, and are very apt to bring people into difficulty. i have seen something of them in my time, and i much prefer downright honest figures. two and two make four; idleness is the root of all evil; love your neighbour like yourself, and the rest of it. pray remember that adelaide is to be married from here, and that we shall be very happy that you should make every use you like of our house until then." we may so far anticipate in our story as to say that adelaide palliser and gerard maule were married from matching priory at matching church early in that october, and that as far as the coming winter was concerned, there certainly was no hunting for the gentleman. they went to naples instead of boulogne, and there remained till the warm weather came in the following spring. nor was that peremptory sale at tattersall's countermanded as regarded any of the horses. what prices were realised the present writer has never been able to ascertain. chapter lxxvii. phineas finn's success. when phineas finn had been about a week at matching, he received a letter, or rather a very short note, from the prime minister, asking him to go up to london; and on the same day the duke of omnium spoke to him on the subject of the letter. "you are going up to see mr. gresham. mr. gresham has written to me, and i hope that we shall be able to congratulate ourselves in having your assistance next session." phineas declared that he had no idea whatever of mr. gresham's object in summoning him up to london. "i have his permission to inform you that he wishes you to accept office." phineas felt that he was becoming very red in the face, but he did not attempt to make any reply on the spur of the moment. "mr. gresham thinks it well that so much should be said to you before you see him, in order that you may turn the matter over in your own mind. he would have written to you probably, making the offer at once, had it not been that there must be various changes, and that one man's place must depend on another. you will go, i suppose." "yes; i shall go, certainly. i shall be in london this evening." "i will take care that a carriage is ready for you. i do not presume to advise, mr. finn, but i hope that there need be no doubt as to your joining us." phineas was somewhat confounded, and did not know the duke well enough to give expression to his thoughts at the moment. "of course you will return to us, mr. finn." phineas said that he would return and trespass on the duke's hospitality for yet a few days. he was quite resolved that something must be said to madame goesler before he left the roof under which she was living. in the course of the autumn she purposed, as she had told him, to go to vienna, and to remain there almost up to christmas. whatever there might be to be said should be said at any rate before that. he did speak a few words to her before his journey to london, but in those words there was no allusion made to the great subject which must be discussed between them. "i am going up to london," he said. "so the duchess tells me." "mr. gresham has sent for me,--meaning, i suppose, to offer me the place which he would not give me while that poor man was alive." "and you will accept it of course, mr. finn?" "i am not at all so sure of that." "but you will. you must. you will hardly be so foolish as to let the peevish animosity of an ill-conditioned man prejudice your prospects even after his death." "it will not be any remembrance of mr. bonteen that will induce me to refuse." "it will be the same thing;--rancour against mr. gresham because he had allowed the other man's counsel to prevail with him. the action of no individual man should be to you of sufficient consequence to guide your conduct. if you accept office, you should not take it as a favour conferred by the prime minister; nor if you refuse it, should you do so from personal feelings in regard to him. if he selects you, he is presumed to do so because he finds that your services will be valuable to the country." "he does so because he thinks that i should be safe to vote for him." "that may be so, or not. you can't read his bosom quite distinctly;--but you may read your own. if you go into office you become the servant of the country,--not his servant, and should assume his motive in selecting you to be the same as your own in submitting to the selection. your foot must be on the ladder before you can get to the top of it." "the ladder is so crooked." "is it more crooked now than it was three years ago;--worse than it was six months ago, when you and all your friends looked upon it as certain that you would be employed? there is nothing, mr. finn, that a man should fear so much as some twist in his convictions arising from a personal accident to himself. when we heard that the devil in his sickness wanted to be a monk, we never thought that he would become a saint in glory. when a man who has been rejected by a lady expresses a generally ill opinion of the sex, we are apt to ascribe his opinions to disappointment rather than to judgment. a man falls and breaks his leg at a fence, and cannot be induced to ride again,--not because he thinks the amusement to be dangerous, but because he cannot keep his mind from dwelling on the hardship that has befallen himself. in all such cases self-consciousness gets the better of the judgment." "you think it will be so with me?" "i shall think so if you now refuse--because of the misfortune which befell you--that which i know you were most desirous of possessing before that accident. to tell you the truth, mr. finn, i wish mr. gresham had delayed his offer till the winter." "and why?" "because by that time you will have recovered your health. your mind now is morbid, and out of tune." "there was something to make it so, madame goesler." "god knows there was; and the necessity which lay upon you of bearing a bold front during those long and terrible weeks of course consumed your strength. the wonder is that the fibres of your mind should have retained any of their elasticity after such an ordeal. but as you are so strong, it would be a pity that you should not be strong altogether. this thing that is now to be offered to you is what you have always desired." "a man may have always desired that which is worthless." "you tried it once, and did not find it worthless. you found yourself able to do good work when you were in office. if i remember right, you did not give it up then because it was irksome to you, or contemptible, or, as you say, worthless; but from difference of opinion on some political question. you can always do that again." "a man is not fit for office who is prone to do so." "then do not you be prone. it means success or failure in the profession which you have chosen, and i shall greatly regret to see you damage your chance of success by yielding to scruples which have come upon you when you are hardly as yet yourself." she had spoken to him very plainly, and he had found it to be impossible to answer her, and yet she had hardly touched the motives by which he believed himself to be actuated. as he made his journey up to london he thought very much of her words. there had been nothing said between them about money. no allusion had been made to the salary of the office which would be offered to him, or to the terrible shortness of his own means of living. he knew well enough himself that he must take some final step in life, or very shortly return into absolute obscurity. this woman who had been so strongly advising him to take a certain course as to his future life, was very rich;--and he had fully decided that he would sooner or later ask her to be his wife. he knew well that all her friends regarded their marriage as certain. the duchess had almost told him so in as many words. lady chiltern, who was much more to him than the duchess, had assured him that if he should have a wife to bring with him to harrington, the wife would be welcome. of what other wife could lady chiltern have thought? laurence fitzgibbon, when congratulated on his own marriage, had returned counter congratulations. mr. low had said that it would of course come to pass. even mrs. bunce had hinted at it, suggesting that she would lose her lodger and be a wretched woman. all the world had heard of the journey to prague, and all the world expected the marriage. and he had come to love the woman with excessive affection, day by day, ever since the renewal of their intimacy at broughton spinnies. his mind was quite made up;--but he was by no means so sure of her mind as the rest of the world might be. he knew of her, what nobody else in all the world knew,--except himself. in that former period of his life, on which he now sometimes looked back as though it had been passed in another world, this woman had offered her hand and fortune to him. she had done so in the enthusiasm of her love, knowing his ambition and knowing his poverty, and believing that her wealth was necessary to the success of his career in life. he had refused the offer,--and they had parted without a word. now they had come together again, and she was certainly among the dearest of his friends. had she not taken that wondrous journey to prague in his behalf, and been the first among those who had striven,--and had striven at last successfully,--to save his neck from the halter? dear to her! he knew well as he sat with his eyes closed in the railway carriage that he must be dear to her! but might it not well be that she had resolved that friendship should take the place of love? and was it not compatible with her nature,--with all human nature,--that in spite of her regard for him she should choose to be revenged for the evil which had befallen her, when she offered her hand in vain? she must know by this time that he intended to throw himself at her feet; and would hardly have advised him as she had done as to the necessity of following up that success which had hitherto been so essential to him, had she intended to give him all that she had once offered him before. it might well be that lady chiltern, and even the duchess, should be mistaken. marie goesler was not a woman, he thought, to reveal the deeper purposes of her life to any such friend as the duchess of omnium. of his own feelings in regard to the offer which was about to be made to him he had hardly succeeded in making her understand anything. that a change had come upon himself was certain, but he did not at all believe that it had sprung from any weakness caused by his sufferings in regard to the murder. he rather believed that he had become stronger than weaker from all that he had endured. he had learned when he was younger,--some years back,--to regard the political service of his country as a profession in which a man possessed of certain gifts might earn his bread with more gratification to himself than in any other. the work would be hard, and the emolument only intermittent; but the service would in itself be pleasant; and the rewards of that service,--should he be so successful as to obtain reward,--would be dearer to him than anything which could accrue to him from other labours. to sit in the cabinet for one session would, he then thought, be more to him than to preside over the court of queen's bench as long as did lord mansfield. but during the last few months a change had crept across his dream,--which he recognized but could hardly analyse. he had seen a man whom he despised promoted, and the place to which the man had been exalted had at once become contemptible in his eyes. and there had been quarrels and jangling, and the speaking of evil words between men who should have been quiet and dignified. no doubt madame goesler was right in attributing the revulsion in his hopes to mr. bonteen and mr. bonteen's enmity; but phineas finn himself did not know that it was so. he arrived in town in the evening, and his appointment with mr. gresham was for the following morning. he breakfasted at his club, and there he received the following letter from lady laura kennedy:-- saulsby, th august, --. my dear phineas, i have just received a letter from barrington in which he tells me that mr. gresham is going to offer you your old place at the colonies. he says that lord fawn has been so upset by this affair of lady eustace's husband, that he is obliged to resign and go abroad. [this was the first intimation that phineas had heard of the nature of the office to be offered to him.--] but barrington goes on to say that he thinks you won't accept mr. gresham's offer, and he asks me to write to you. can this possibly be true? barrington writes most kindly,--with true friendship,--and is most anxious for you to join. but he thinks that you are angry with mr. gresham because he passed you over before, and that you will not forgive him for having yielded to mr. bonteen. i can hardly believe this possible. surely you will not allow the shade of that unfortunate man to blight your prospects? and, after all, of what matter to you is the friendship or enmity of mr. gresham? you have to assert yourself, to make your own way, to use your own opportunities, and to fight your own battle without reference to the feelings of individuals. men act together in office constantly, and with constancy, who are known to hate each other. when there are so many to get what is going, and so little to be given, of course there will be struggling and trampling. i have no doubt that lord cantrip has made a point of this with mr. gresham;--has in point of fact insisted upon it. if so, you are lucky to have such an ally as lord cantrip. he and mr. gresham are, as you know, sworn friends, and if you get on well with the one you certainly may with the other also. pray do not refuse without asking for time to think about it;--and if so, pray come here, that you may consult my father. i spent two weary weeks at loughlinter, and then could stand it no longer. i have come here, and here i shall remain for the autumn and winter. if i can sell my interest in the loughlinter property i shall do so, as i am sure that neither the place nor the occupation is fit for me. indeed i know not what place or what occupation will suit me! the dreariness of the life before me is hardly preferable to the disappointments i have already endured. there seems to be nothing left for me but to watch my father to the end. the world would say that such a duty in life is fit for a widowed childless daughter; but to you i cannot pretend to say that my bereavements or misfortunes reconcile me to such a fate. i cannot cease to remember my age, my ambition, and i will say, my love. i suppose that everything is over for me,--as though i were an old woman, going down into the grave, but at my time of life i find it hard to believe that it must be so. and then the time of waiting may be so long! i suppose i could start a house in london, and get people around me by feeding and flattering them, and by little intrigues,--like that woman of whom you are so fond. it is money that is chiefly needed for that work, and of money i have enough now. and people would know at any rate who i am. but i could not flatter them, and i should wish the food to choke them if they did not please me. and you would not come, and if you did,--i may as well say it boldly,--others would not. an ill-natured sprite has been busy with me, which seems to deny me everything which is so freely granted to others. as for you, the world is at your feet. i dread two things for you,--that you should marry unworthily, and that you should injure your prospects in public life by an uncompromising stiffness. on the former subject i can say nothing to you. as to the latter, let me implore you to come down here before you decide upon anything. of course you can at once accept mr. gresham's offer; and that is what you should do unless the office proposed to you be unworthy of you. no friend of yours will think that your old place at the colonies should be rejected. but if your mind is still turned towards refusing, ask mr. gresham to give you three or four days for decision, and then come here. he cannot refuse you,--nor after all that is passed can you refuse me. yours affectionately, l. k. when he had read this letter he at once acknowledged to himself that he could not refuse her request. he must go to saulsby, and he must do so at once. he was about to see mr. gresham immediately, --within half an hour; and as he could not expect at the most above twenty-four hours to be allowed to him for consideration, he must go down to saulsby on the same evening. as he walked to the prime minister's house he called at a telegraph office and sent down his message. "i will be at saulsby by the train arriving at p.m. send to meet me." then he went on, and in a few minutes found himself in the presence of the great man. the great man received him with an excellent courtesy. it is the special business of prime ministers to be civil in detail, though roughness, and perhaps almost rudeness in the gross, becomes not unfrequently a necessity of their position. to a proposed incoming subordinate a prime minister is, of course, very civil, and to a retreating subordinate he is generally more so,--unless the retreat be made under unfavourable circumstances. and to give good things is always pleasant, unless there be a suspicion that the good thing will be thought to be not good enough. no such suspicion as that now crossed the mind of mr. gresham. he had been pressed very much by various colleagues to admit this young man into the paradise of his government, and had been pressed very much also to exclude him; and this had been continued till he had come to dislike the name of the young man. he did believe that the young man had behaved badly to mr. robert kennedy, and he knew that the young man on one occasion had taken to kicking in harness, and running a course of his own. he had decided against the young man,--very much no doubt at the instance of mr. bonteen,--and he believed that in so doing he closed the gates of paradise against a peri most anxious to enter it. he now stood with the key in his hand and the gate open,--and the seat to be allotted to the re-accepted one was that which he believed the peri would most gratefully fill. he began by making a little speech about mr. bonteen. that was almost unavoidable. and he praised in glowing words the attitude which phineas had maintained during the trial. he had been delighted with the re-election at tankerville, and thought that the borough had done itself much honour. then came forth his proposition. lord fawn had retired, absolutely broken down by repeated examinations respecting the man in the grey coat, and the office which phineas had before held with so much advantage to the public, and comfort to his immediate chief, lord cantrip, was there for his acceptance. mr. gresham went on to express an ardent hope that he might have the benefit of mr. finn's services. it was quite manifest from his manner that he did not in the least doubt the nature of the reply which he would receive. phineas had come primed with his answer,--so ready with it that it did not even seem to be the result of any hesitation at the moment. "i hope, mr. gresham, that you will be able to give me a few hours to think of this." mr. gresham's face fell, for, in truth, he wanted an immediate answer; and though he knew from experience that secretaries of state, and first lords, and chancellors, do demand time, and will often drive very hard bargains before they will consent to get into harness, he considered that under-secretaries, junior lords, and the like, should skip about as they were bidden, and take the crumbs offered them without delay. if every underling wanted a few hours to think about it, how could any government ever be got together? "i am sorry to put you to inconvenience," continued phineas, seeing that the great man was but ill-satisfied, "but i am so placed that i cannot avail myself of your flattering kindness without some little time for consideration." "i had hoped that the office was one which you would like." "so it is, mr. gresham." "and i was told that you are now free from any scruples,--political scruples, i mean,--which might make it difficult for you to support the government." "since the government came to our way of thinking,--a year or two ago,--about tenant right, i mean,--i do not know that there is any subject on which i am likely to oppose it. perhaps i had better tell you the truth, mr. gresham." "oh, certainly," said the prime minister, who knew very well that on such occasions nothing could be worse than the telling of disagreeable truths. "when you came into office, after beating mr. daubeny on the church question, no man in parliament was more desirous of place than i was,--and i am sure that none of the disappointed ones felt their disappointment so keenly. it was aggravated by various circumstances,--by calumnies in newspapers, and by personal bickerings. i need not go into that wretched story of mr. bonteen, and the absurd accusation which grew out of those calumnies. these things have changed me very much. i have a feeling that i have been ill-used,--not by you, mr. gresham, specially, but by the party; and i look upon the whole question of office with altered eyes." "in filling up the places at his disposal, a prime minister, mr. finn, has a most unenviable task." "i can well believe it." "when circumstances, rather than any selection of his own, indicate the future occupant of any office, this abrogation of his patronage is the greatest blessing in the world to him." "i can believe that also." "i wish it were so with every office under the crown. a minister is rarely thanked, and would as much look for the peace of heaven in his office as for gratitude." "i am sorry that i should have made no exception to such thanklessness." "we shall neither of us get on by complaining;--shall we, mr. finn? you can let me have an answer perhaps by this time to-morrow." "if an answer by telegraph will be sufficient." "quite sufficient. yes or no. nothing more will be wanted. you understand your own reasons, no doubt, fully; but if they were stated at length they would perhaps hardly enlighten me. good-morning." then as phineas was turning his back, the prime minister remembered that it behoved him as prime minister to repress his temper. "i shall still hope, mr. finn, for a favourable answer." had it not been for that last word phineas would have turned again, and at once rejected the proposition. from mr. gresham's house he went by appointment to mr. monk's, and told him of the interview. mr. monk's advice to him had been exactly the same as that given by madame goesler and lady laura. phineas, indeed, understood perfectly that no friend could or would give him any other advice. "he has his troubles, too," said mr. monk, speaking of the prime minister. "a man can hardly expect to hold such an office without trouble." "labour of course there must be,--though i doubt whether it is so great as that of some other persons;--and responsibility. the amount of trouble depends on the spirit and nature of the man. do you remember old lord brock? he was never troubled. he had a triple shield,--a thick skin, an equable temper, and perfect self-confidence. mr. mildmay was of a softer temper, and would have suffered had he not been protected by the idolatry of a large class of his followers. mr. gresham has no such protection. with a finer intellect than either, and a sense of patriotism quite as keen, he has a self-consciousness which makes him sore at every point. he knows the frailty of his temper, and yet cannot control it. and he does not understand men as did these others. every word from an enemy is a wound to him. every slight from a friend is a dagger in his side. but i can fancy that self-accusations make the cross on which he is really crucified. he is a man to whom i would extend all my mercy, were it in my power to be merciful." "you will hardly tell me that i should accept office under him by way of obliging him." "were i you i should do so,--not to oblige him, but because i know him to be an honest man." "i care but little for honesty," said phineas, "which is at the disposal of those who are dishonest. what am i to think of a minister who could allow himself to be led by mr. bonteen?" chapter lxxviii. the last visit to saulsby. phineas, as he journeyed down to saulsby, knew that he had in truth made up his mind. he was going thither nominally that he might listen to the advice of almost his oldest political friend before he resolved on a matter of vital importance to himself; but in truth he was making the visit because he felt that he could not excuse himself from it without unkindness and ingratitude. she had implored him to come, and he was bound to go, and there were tidings to be told which he must tell. it was not only that he might give her his reasons for not becoming an under-secretary of state that he went to saulsby. he felt himself bound to inform her that he intended to ask marie goesler to be his wife. he might omit to do so till he had asked the question,--and then say nothing of what he had done should his petition be refused; but it seemed to him that there would be cowardice in this. he was bound to treat lady laura as his friend in a special degree, as something more than his sister,--and he was bound above all things to make her understand in some plainest manner that she could be nothing more to him than such a friend. in his dealings with her he had endeavoured always to be honest,--gentle as well as honest; but now it was specially his duty to be honest to her. when he was young he had loved her, and had told her so,--and she had refused him. as a friend he had been true to her ever since, but that offer could never be repeated. and the other offer,--to the woman whom she was now accustomed to abuse,--must be made. should lady laura choose to quarrel with him it must be so; but the quarrel should not be of his seeking. he was quite sure that he would refuse mr. gresham's offer, although by doing so he would himself throw away the very thing which he had devoted his life to acquire. in a foolish, soft moment,--as he now confessed to himself,--he had endeavoured to obtain for his own position the sympathy of the minister. he had spoken of the calumnies which had hurt him, and of his sufferings when he found himself excluded from place in consequence of the evil stories which had been told of him. mr. gresham had, in fact, declined to listen to him;--had said yes or no was all that he required, and had gone on to explain that he would be unable to understand the reasons proposed to be given even were he to hear them. phineas had felt himself to be repulsed, and would at once have shown his anger, had not the prime minister silenced him for the moment by a civilly-worded repetition of the offer made. but the offer should certainly be declined. as he told himself that it must be so, he endeavoured to analyse the causes of this decision, but was hardly successful. he had thought that he could explain the reasons to the minister, but found himself incapable of explaining them to himself. in regard to means of subsistence he was no better off now than when he began the world. he was, indeed, without incumbrance, but was also without any means of procuring an income. for the last twelve months he had been living on his little capital, and two years more of such life would bring him to the end of all that he had. there was, no doubt, one view of his prospects which was bright enough. if marie goesler accepted him, he need not, at any rate, look about for the means of earning a living. but he assured himself with perfect confidence that no hope in that direction would have any influence upon the answer he would give to mr. gresham. had not marie goesler herself been most urgent with him in begging him to accept the offer; and was he not therefore justified in concluding that she at least had thought it necessary that he should earn his bread? would her heart be softened towards him,--would any further softening be necessary,--by his obstinate refusal to comply with her advice? the two things had no reference to each other,--and should be regarded by him as perfectly distinct. he would refuse mr. gresham's offer,--not because he hoped that he might live in idleness on the wealth of the woman he loved,--but because the chicaneries and intrigues of office had become distasteful to him. "i don't know which are the falser," he said to himself, "the mock courtesies or the mock indignations of statesmen." he found the earl's carriage waiting for him at the station, and thought of many former days, as he was carried through the little town for which he had sat in parliament, up to the house which he had once visited in the hope of wooing violet effingham. the women whom he had loved had all, at any rate, become his friends, and his thorough friendships were almost all with women. he and lord chiltern regarded each other with warm affection; but there was hardly ground for real sympathy between them. it was the same with mr. low and barrington erle. were he to die there would be no gap in their lives;--were they to die there would be none in his. but with violet effingham,--as he still loved to call her to himself,--he thought it would be different. when the carriage stopped at the hall door he was thinking of her rather than of lady laura kennedy. he was shown at once to his bedroom,--the very room in which he had written the letter to lord chiltern which had brought about the duel at blankenberg. he was told that he would find lady laura in the drawing-room waiting for dinner for him. the earl had already dined. "i am so glad you are come," said lady laura, welcoming him. "papa is not very well and dined early, but i have waited for you, of course. of course i have. you did not suppose i would let you sit down alone? i would not see you before you dressed because i knew that you must be tired and hungry, and that the sooner you got down the better. has it not been hot?" "and so dusty! i only left matching yesterday, and seem to have been on the railway ever since." "government officials have to take frequent journeys, mr. finn. how long will it be before you have to go down to scotland twice in one week, and back as often to form a ministry? your next journey must be into the dining-room;--in making which will you give me your arm?" she was, he thought, lighter in heart and pleasanter in manner than she had been since her return from dresden. when she had made her little joke about his future ministerial duties the servant had been in the room, and he had not, therefore, stopped her by a serious answer. and now she was solicitous about his dinner,--anxious that he should enjoy the good things set before him, as is the manner of loving women, pressing him to take wine, and playing the good hostess in all things. he smiled, and ate, and drank, and was gracious under her petting; but he had a weight on his bosom, knowing, as he did, that he must say that before long which would turn all her playfulness either to anger or to grief. "and who had you at matching?" she asked. "just the usual set." "minus the poor old duke?" "yes; minus the old duke certainly. the greatest change is in the name. lady glencora was so specially lady glencora that she ought to have been lady glencora to the end. everybody calls her duchess, but it does not sound half so nice." "and is he altered?" "not in the least. you can trace the lines of lingering regret upon his countenance when people be-grace him; but that is all. there was always about him a simple dignity which made it impossible that any one should slap him on the back; and that of course remains. he is the same planty pall; but i doubt whether any man ever ventured to call him planty pall to his face since he left eton." "the house was full, i suppose?" "there were a great many there; among others sir gregory grogram, who apologised to me for having tried to--put an end to my career." "oh, phineas!" "and sir harry coldfoot, who seemed to take some credit to himself for having allowed the jury to acquit me. and chiltern and his wife were there for a day or two." "what could take oswald there?" "an embassy of state about the foxes. the duke's property runs into his country. she is one of the best women that ever lived." "violet?" "and one of the best wives." "she ought to be, for she is one of the happiest. what can she wish for that she has not got? was your great friend there?" he knew well what great friend she meant. "madame max goesler was there." "i suppose so. i can never quite forgive lady glencora for her intimacy with that woman." "do not abuse her, lady laura." "i do not intend,--not to you at any rate. but i can better understand that she should receive the admiration of a gentleman than the affectionate friendship of a lady. that the old duke should have been infatuated was intelligible." "she was very good to the old duke." "but it was a kind of goodness which was hardly likely to recommend itself to his nephew's wife. never mind; we won't talk about her now. barrington was there?" "for a day or two." "he seems to be wasting his life." "subordinates in office generally do, i think." "do not say that, phineas." "some few push through, and one can almost always foretell who the few will be. there are men who are destined always to occupy second-rate places, and who seem also to know their fate. i never heard erle speak even of an ambition to sit in the cabinet." "he likes to be useful." "all that part of the business which distresses me is pleasant to him. he is fond of arrangements, and delights in little party successes. either to effect or to avoid a count-out is a job of work to his taste, and he loves to get the better of the opposition by keeping it in the dark. a successful plot is as dear to him as to a writer of plays. and yet he is never bitter as is ratler, or unscrupulous as was poor mr. bonteen, or full of wrath as is lord fawn. nor is he idle like fitzgibbon. erle always earns his salary." "when i said he was wasting his life, i meant that he did not marry. but perhaps a man in his position had better remain unmarried." phineas tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded well. "that, however, is a delicate subject, and we will not touch it now. if you won't drink any wine we might as well go into the other room." nothing had as yet been said on either of the subjects which had brought him to saulsby, but there had been words which made the introduction of them peculiarly unpleasant. his tidings, however, must be told. "i shall not see lord brentford to-night?" he asked, when they were together in the drawing-room. "if you wish it you can go up to him. he will not come down." "oh, no. it is only because i must return to-morrow." "to-morrow, phineas!" "i must do so. i have pledged myself to see mr. monk,--and others also." "it is a short visit to make to us on my first return home! i hardly expected you at loughlinter, but i thought that you might have remained a few nights under my father's roof." he could only reassert his assurance that he was bound to be back in london, and explain as best he might that he had come to saulsby for a single night, only because he would not refuse her request to him. "i will not trouble you, phineas, by complaints," she said. "i would give you no cause for complaint if i could avoid it." "and now tell me what has passed between you and mr. gresham," she said as soon as the servant had given them coffee. they were sitting by a window which opened down to the ground, and led on to the terrace and to the lawns below. the night was soft, and the air was heavy with the scent of many flowers. it was now past nine, and the sun had set; but there was a bright harvest moon, and the light, though pale, was clear as that of day. "will you come and take a turn round the garden? we shall be better there than sitting here. i will get my hat; can i find yours for you?" so they both strolled out, down the terrace steps, and went forth, beyond the gardens, into the park, as though they had both intended from the first that it should be so. "i know you have not accepted mr. gresham's offer, or you would have told me so." "i have not accepted." "nor have you refused?" "no; it is still open. i must send my answer by telegram to-morrow--yes or no,--mr. gresham's time is too precious to admit of more." "phineas, for heaven's sake do not allow little feelings to injure you at such a time as this. it is of your own career, not of mr. gresham's manners, that you should think." "i have nothing to object to in mr. gresham. yes or no will be quite sufficient." "it must be yes." "it cannot be yes, lady laura. that which i desired so ardently six months ago has now become so distasteful to me that i cannot accept it. there is an amount of hustling on the treasury bench which makes a seat there almost ignominious." "do they hustle more than they did three years ago?" "i think they do, or if not it is more conspicuous to my eyes. i do not say that it need be ignominious. to such a one as was mr. palliser it certainly is not so. but it becomes so when a man goes there to get his bread, and has to fight his way as though for bare life. when office first comes, unasked for, almost unexpected, full of the charms which distance lends, it is pleasant enough. the new-comer begins to feel that he too is entitled to rub his shoulders among those who rule the world of great britain. but when it has been expected, longed for as i longed for it, asked for by my friends and refused, when all the world comes to know that you are a suitor for that which should come without any suit,--then the pleasantness vanishes." "i thought it was to be your career." "and i hoped so." "what will you do, phineas? you cannot live without an income." "i must try," he said, laughing. "you will not share with your friend, as a friend should?" "no, lady laura. that cannot be done." "i do not see why it cannot. then you might be independent." "then i should indeed be dependent." "you are too proud to owe me anything." he wanted to tell her that he was too proud to owe such obligation as she had suggested to any man or any woman; but he hardly knew how to do so, intending as he did to inform her before they returned to the house of his intention to ask madame goesler to be his wife. he could discern the difference between enjoying his wife's fortune and taking gifts of money from one who was bound to him by no tie;--but to her in her present mood he could explain no such distinction. on a sudden he rushed at the matter in his mind. it had to be done, and must be done before he brought her back to the house. he was conscious that he had in no degree ill-used her. he had in nothing deceived her. he had kept back from her nothing which the truest friendship had called upon him to reveal to her. and yet he knew that her indignation would rise hot within her at his first word. "laura," he said, forgetting in his confusion to remember her rank, "i had better tell you at once that i have determined to ask madame goesler to be my wife." "oh, then;--of course your income is certain." "if you choose to regard my conduct in that light i cannot help it. i do not think that i deserve such reproach." "why not tell it all? you are engaged to her?" "not so. i have not asked her yet." "and why do you come to me with the story of your intentions,--to me of all persons in the world? i sometimes think that of all the hearts that ever dwelt within a man's bosom yours is the hardest." "for god's sake do not say that of me." "do you remember when you came to me about violet,--to me,--to me? i could bear it then because she was good and earnest, and a woman that i could love even though she robbed me. and i strove for you even against my own heart,--against my own brother. i did; i did. but how am i to bear it now? what shall i do now? she is a woman i loathe." "because you do not know her." "not know her! and are your eyes so clear at seeing that you must know her better than others? she was the duke's mistress." "that is untrue, lady laura." "but what difference does it make to me? i shall be sure that you will have bread to eat, and horses to ride, and a seat in parliament without being forced to earn it by your labour. we shall meet no more, of course." "i do not think that you can mean that." "i will never receive that woman, nor will i cross the sill of her door. why should i?" "should she become my wife,--that i would have thought might have been the reason why." "surely, phineas, no man ever understood a woman so ill as you do." "because i would fain hope that i need not quarrel with my oldest friend?" "yes, sir; because you think you can do this without quarrelling. how should i speak to her of you; how listen to what she would tell me? phineas, you have killed me at last." why could he not tell her that it was she who had done the wrong when she gave her hand to robert kennedy? but he could not tell her, and he was dumb. "and so it's settled!" "no; not settled." "psha! i hate your mock modesty! it is settled. you have become far too cautious to risk fortune in such an adventure. practice has taught you to be perfect. it was to tell me this that you came down here." "partly so." "it would have been more generous of you, sir, to have remained away." "i did not mean to be ungenerous." then she suddenly turned upon him, throwing her arms round his neck, and burying her face upon his bosom. they were at the moment in the centre of the park, on the grass beneath the trees, and the moon was bright over their heads. he held her to his breast while she sobbed, and then relaxed his hold as she raised herself to look into his face. after a moment she took his hat from his head with one hand, and with the other swept the hair back from his brow. "oh, phineas," she said, "oh, my darling! my idol that i have worshipped when i should have worshipped my god!" [illustration: then she suddenly turned upon him, throwing her arms round his neck.] after that they roamed for nearly an hour backwards and forwards beneath the trees, till at last she became calm and almost reasonable. she acknowledged that she had long expected such a marriage, looking forward to it as a great sorrow. she repeated over and over again her assertion that she could not "know" madame goesler as the wife of phineas, but abstained from further evil words respecting the lady. "it is better that we should be apart," she said at last. "i feel that it is better. when we are both old, if i should live, we may meet again. i knew that it was coming, and we had better part." and yet they remained out there, wandering about the park for a long portion of the summer night. she did not reproach him again, nor did she speak much of the future; but she alluded to all the incidents of their past life, showing him that nothing which he had done, no words which he had spoken, had been forgotten by her. "of course it has been my fault," she said, as at last she parted with him in the drawing-room. "when i was younger i did not understand how strong the heart can be. i should have known it, and i pay for my ignorance with the penalty of my whole life." then he left her, kissing her on both cheeks and on her brow, and went to his bedroom with the understanding that he would start for london on the following morning before she was up. chapter lxxix. at last--at last. as he took his ticket phineas sent his message to the prime minister, taking that personage literally at his word. the message was, no. when writing it in the office it seemed to him to be uncourteous, but he found it difficult to add any other words that should make it less so. he supplemented it with a letter on his arrival in london, in which he expressed his regret that certain circumstances of his life which had occurred during the last month or two made him unfit to undertake the duties of the very pleasant office to which mr. gresham had kindly offered to appoint him. that done, he remained in town but one night, and then set his face again towards matching. when he reached that place it was already known that he had refused to accept mr. gresham's offer, and he was met at once with regrets and condolements. "i am sorry that it must be so," said the duke,--who was sorry, for he liked the man, but who said not a word more upon the subject. "you are still young, and will have further opportunities," said lord cantrip, "but i wish that you could have consented to come back to your old chair." "i hope that at any rate we shall not have you against us," said sir harry coldfoot. among themselves they declared one to another that he had been so completely upset by his imprisonment and subsequent trial as to be unable to undertake the work proposed to him. "it is not a very nice thing, you know, to be accused of murder," said sir gregory, "and to pass a month or two under the full conviction that you are going to be hung. he'll come right again some day. i only hope it may not be too late." "so you have decided for freedom?" said madame goesler to him that evening,--the evening of the day on which he had returned. "yes, indeed." "i have nothing to say against your decision now. no doubt your feelings have prompted you right." "now that it is done, of course i am full of regrets," said phineas. "that is simple human nature, i suppose." "simple enough; and the worst of it is that i cannot quite explain even to myself why i have done it. every friend i had in the world told me that i was wrong, and yet i could not help myself. the thing was offered to me, not because i was thought to be fit for it, but because i had become wonderful by being brought near to a violent death! i remember once, when i was a child, having a rocking-horse given to me because i had fallen from the top of the house to the bottom without breaking my neck. the rocking-horse was very well then, but i don't care now to have one bestowed upon me for any such reason." "still, if the rocking-horse is in itself a good rocking-horse--" "but it isn't." "i don't mean to say a word against your decision." "it isn't good. it is one of those toys which look to be so very desirable in the shop-windows, but which give no satisfaction when they are brought home. i'll tell you what occurred the other day. the circumstances happen to be known to me, though i cannot tell you my authority. my dear old friend laurence fitzgibbon, in the performance of his official duties, had to give an opinion on a matter affecting an expenditure of some thirty or forty thousand pounds of public money. i don't think that laurence has generally a very strong bias this way or that on such questions, but in the case in question he took upon himself to be very decided. he wrote, or got some one to write, a report proving that the service of the country imperatively demanded that the money should be spent, and in doing so was strictly within his duty." "i am glad to hear that he can be so energetic." "the chancellor of the exchequer got hold of the matter, and told fitzgibbon that the thing couldn't be done." "that was all right and constitutional, i suppose." "quite right and constitutional. but something had to be said about it in the house, and laurence, with all his usual fluency and beautiful irish brogue, got up and explained that the money would be absolutely thrown away if expended on a purpose so futile as that proposed. i am assured that the great capacity which he has thus shown for official work and official life will cover a multitude of sins." "you would hardly have taken mr. fitzgibbon as your model statesman." "certainly not;--and if the story affected him only it would hardly be worth telling. but the point of it lies in this;--that he disgusted no one by what he did. the chancellor of the exchequer thinks him a very convenient man to have about him, and mr. gresham feels the comfort of possessing tools so pliable." "do you think that public life then is altogether a mistake, mr. finn?" "for a poor man i think that it is, in this country. a man of fortune may be independent; and because he has the power of independence those who are higher than he will not expect him to be subservient. a man who takes to parliamentary office for a living may live by it, but he will have but a dog's life of it." "if i were you, mr. finn, i certainly would not choose a dog's life." he said not a word to her on that occasion about herself, having made up his mind that a certain period of the following day should be chosen for the purpose, and he had hardly yet arranged in his mind what words he would use on that occasion. it seemed to him that there would be so much to be said that he must settle beforehand some order of saying it. it was not as though he had merely to tell her of his love. there had been talk of love between them before, on which occasion he had been compelled to tell her that he could not accept that which she offered to him. it would be impossible, he knew, not to refer to that former conversation. and then he had to tell her that he, now coming to her as a suitor and knowing her to be a very rich woman, was himself all but penniless. he was sure, or almost sure, that she was as well aware of this fact as he was himself; but, nevertheless, it was necessary that he should tell her of it,--and if possible so tell her as to force her to believe him when he assured her that he asked her to be his wife, not because she was rich, but because he loved her. it was impossible that all this should be said as they sat side by side in the drawing-room with a crowd of people almost within hearing, and madame goesler had just been called upon to play, which she always did directly she was asked. he was invited to make up a rubber, but he could not bring himself to care for cards at the present moment. so he sat apart and listened to the music. if all things went right with him to-morrow that music,--or the musician who made it,--would be his own for the rest of his life. was he justified in expecting that she would give him so much? of her great regard for him as a friend he had no doubt. she had shown it in various ways, and after a fashion that had made it known to all the world. but so had lady laura regarded him when he first told her of his love at loughlinter. she had been his dearest friend, but she had declined to become his wife; and it had been partly so with violet effingham, whose friendship to him had been so sweet as to make him for a while almost think that there was more than friendship. marie goesler had certainly once loved him;--but so had he once loved laura standish. he had been wretched for a while because lady laura had refused him. his feelings now were altogether changed, and why should not the feelings of madame goesler have undergone a similar change? there was no doubt of her friendship; but then neither was there any doubt of his for lady laura. and in spite of her friendship, would not revenge be dear to her,--revenge of that nature which a slighted woman must always desire? he had rejected her, and would it not be fair also that he should be rejected? "i suppose you'll be in your own room before lunch to-morrow," he said to her as they separated for the night. it had come to pass from the constancy of her visits to matching in the old duke's time, that a certain small morning-room had been devoted to her, and this was still supposed to be her property,--so that she was not driven to herd with the public or to remain in her bedroom during all the hours of the morning. "yes," she said; "i shall go out immediately after breakfast, but i shall soon be driven in by the heat, and then i shall be there till lunch. the duchess always comes about half-past twelve, to complain generally of the guests." she answered him quite at her ease, making arrangement for privacy if he should desire it, but doing so as though she thought that he wanted to talk to her about his trial, or about politics, or the place he had just refused. surely she would hardly have answered him after such a fashion had she suspected that he intended to ask her to be his wife. at a little before noon the next morning he knocked at her door, and was told to enter. "i didn't go out after all," she said. "i hadn't courage to face the sun." "i saw that you were not in the garden." "if i could have found you i would have told you that i should be here all the morning. i might have sent you a message, only--only i didn't." "i have come--" "i know why you have come." "i doubt that. i have come to tell you that i love you." "oh phineas;--at last, at last!" and in a moment she was in his arms. it seemed to him that from that moment all the explanations, and all the statements, and most of the assurances were made by her and not by him. after this first embrace he found himself seated beside her, holding her hand. "i do not know that i am right," said he. "why not right?" "because you are rich and i have nothing." "if you ever remind me of that again i will strike you," she said, raising up her little fist and bringing it down with gentle pressure on his shoulder. "between you and me there must be nothing more about that. it must be an even partnership. there must be ever so much about money, and you'll have to go into dreadful details, and make journeys to vienna to see that the houses don't tumble down;--but there must be no question between you and me of whence it came." "you will not think that i have to come to you for that?" "have you ever known me to have a low opinion of myself? is it probable that i shall account myself to be personally so mean and of so little value as to imagine that you cannot love me? i know you love me. but phineas, i have not been sure till very lately that you would ever tell me so. as for me--! oh, heavens! when i think of it." "tell me that you love me now." "i think i have said so plainly enough. i have never ceased to love you since i first knew you well enough for love. and i'll tell you more,--though perhaps i shall say what you will think condemns me;--you are the only man i ever loved. my husband was very good to me,--and i was, i think, good to him. but he was many years my senior, and i cannot say i loved him,--as i do you." then she turned to him, and put her head on his shoulder. "and i loved the old duke, too, after a fashion. but it was a different thing from this. i will tell you something about him some day that i have never yet told to a human being." "tell me now." "no; not till i am your wife. you must trust me. but i will tell you," she said, "lest you should be miserable. he asked me to be his wife." "the old duke?" "yes, indeed, and i refused to be a--duchess. lady glencora knew it all, and, just at the time i was breaking my heart,--like a fool, for you! yes, for you! but i got over it, and am not broken-hearted a bit. oh, phineas, i am so happy now." exactly at the time she had mentioned on the previous evening, at half-past twelve, the door was opened, and the duchess entered the room. "oh dear," she exclaimed, "perhaps i am in the way; perhaps i am interrupting secrets." "no, duchess." "shall i retire? i will at once if there be anything confidential going on." "it has gone on already, and been completed," said madame goesler rising from her seat. "it is only a trifle. mr. finn has asked me to be his wife." "well?" "i couldn't refuse mr. finn a little thing like that." "i should think not, after going all the way to prague to find a latch-key! i congratulate you, mr. finn, with all my heart." "thanks, duchess." "and when is it to be?" "we have not thought about that yet, mr. finn,--have we?" said madame goesler. "adelaide palliser is going to be married from here some time in the autumn," said the duchess, "and you two had better take advantage of the occasion." this plan, however, was considered as being too rapid and rash. marriage is a very serious affair, and many things would require arrangement. a lady with the wealth which belonged to madame goesler cannot bestow herself off-hand as may a curate's daughter, let her be ever so willing to give her money as well as herself. it was impossible that a day should be fixed quite at once; but the duchess was allowed to understand that the affair might be mentioned. before dinner on that day every one of the guests at matching priory knew that the man who had refused to be made under-secretary of state had been accepted by that possessor of fabulous wealth who was well known to the world as madame goesler of park lane. "i am very glad that you did not take office under mr. gresham," she said to him when they first met each other again in london. "of course when i was advising you i could not be sure that this would happen. now you can bide your time, and if the opportunity offers you can go to work under better auspices." chapter lxxx. conclusion. there remains to us the very easy task of collecting together the ends of the thread of our narrative, and tying them into a simple knot, so that there may be no unravelling. of mr. emilius it has been already said that his good fortune clung to him so far that it was found impossible to connect him with the tragedy of bolton row. but he was made to vanish for a certain number of years from the world, and dear little lizzie eustace was left a free woman. when last we heard of her she was at naples, and there was then a rumour that she was about to join her fate to that of lord george de bruce carruthers, with whom pecuniary matters had lately not been going comfortably. let us hope that the match, should it be a match, may lead to the happiness and respectability of both of them. as all the world knows, lord and lady chiltern still live at harrington hall, and he has been considered to do very well with the brake country. he still grumbles about trumpeton wood, and says that it will take a lifetime to repair the injuries done by mr. fothergill;--but then who ever knew a master of hounds who wasn't ill-treated by the owners of coverts? of mr. tom spooner it can only be said that he is still a bachelor, living with his cousin ned, and that none of the neighbours expect to see a lady at spoon hall. in one winter, after the period of his misfortune, he became slack about his hunting, and there were rumours that he was carrying out that terrible threat of his as to the crusade which he would go to find a cure for his love. but his cousin took him in hand somewhat sharply, made him travel abroad during the summer, and brought him out the next season, "as fresh as paint," as the members of the brake hunt declared. it was known to every sportsman in the country that poor mr. spooner had been in love; but the affair was allowed to be a mystery, and no one ever spoke to spooner himself upon the subject. it is probable that he now reaps no slight amount of gratification from his memory of the romance. the marriage between gerard maule and adelaide palliser was celebrated with great glory at matching, and was mentioned in all the leading papers as an alliance in high life. when it became known to mr. maule, senior, that this would be so, and that the lady would have a very considerable fortune from the old duke, he reconciled himself to the marriage altogether, and at once gave way in that matter of maule abbey. nothing he thought would be more suitable than that the young people should live at the old family place. so maule abbey was fitted up, and mr. and mrs. maule have taken up their residence there. under the influence of his wife he has promised to attend to his farming, and proposes to do no more than go out and see the hounds when they come into his neighbourhood. let us hope that he may prosper. should the farming come to a good end more will probably have been due to his wife's enterprise than to his own. the energetic father is, as all the world knows, now in pursuit of a widow with three thousand a year who has lately come out in cavendish square. of poor lord fawn no good account can be given. to his thinking, official life had none of those drawbacks with which the fantastic feelings of phineas finn had invested it. he could have been happy for ever at the india board or at the colonial office;--but his life was made a burden to him by the affair of the bonteen murder. he was charged with having nearly led to the fatal catastrophe of phineas finn's condemnation by his erroneous evidence, and he could not bear the accusation. then came the further affair of mr. emilius, and his mind gave way;--and he disappeared. let us hope that he may return some day with renewed health, and again be of service to his country. poetical justice reached mr. quintus slide of the people's banner. the acquittal and following glories of phineas finn were gall and wormwood to him; and he continued his attack upon the member for tankerville even after it was known that he had refused office, and was about to be married to madame goesler. in these attacks he made allusions to lady laura which brought lord chiltern down upon him, and there was an action for libel. the paper had to pay damages and costs, and the proprietors resolved that mr. quintus slide was too energetic for their purposes. he is now earning his bread in some humble capacity on the staff of the ballot box,--which is supposed to be the most democratic daily newspaper published in london. mr. slide has, however, expressed his intention of seeking his fortune in new york. laurence fitzgibbon certainly did himself a good turn by his obliging deference to the opinion of the chancellor of the exchequer. he has been in office ever since. it must be acknowledged of all our leading statesmen that gratitude for such services is their characteristic. it is said that he spends much of his eloquence in endeavouring to make his wife believe that the air of county mayo is the sweetest in the world. hitherto, since his marriage, this eloquence has been thrown away, for she has always been his companion through the session in london. it is rumoured that barrington erle is to be made secretary for ireland, but his friends doubt whether the office will suit him. the marriage between marie goesler and our hero did not take place till october, and then they went abroad for the greater part of the winter, phineas having received leave of absence officially from the speaker and unofficially from his constituents. after all that he had gone through it was acknowledged that so much ease should be permitted to him. they went first to vienna, and then back into italy, and were unheard of by their english friends for nearly six months. in april they reappeared in london, and the house in park lane was opened with great _éclat_. of phineas every one says that of all living men he has been the most fortunate. the present writer will not think so unless he shall soon turn his hand to some useful task. those who know him best say that he will of course go into office before long. of poor lady laura hardly a word need be said. she lives at saulsby the life of a recluse, and the old earl her father is still alive. the duke, as all the world knows, is on the very eve of success with the decimal coinage. but his hair is becoming grey, and his back is becoming bent; and men say that he will never live as long as his uncle. but then he will have done a great thing,--and his uncle did only little things. of the duchess no word need be said. nothing will ever change the duchess. arkansas governors and united states senators by john l. ferguson state historian arkansas history commission little rock introductory this list of arkansas governors and united states senators, with brief biographies of each person who has served in these offices, is intended to benefit students and others who have expressed interest in a published summary of such information. we have omitted the dozens of "acting governors," including some who served for substantial periods of time, as well as senators who held office only briefly. copies of this publication are free, and the material is not copyrighted or restricted. governors of the territory of arkansas on march , , arkansas was legally separated from missouri and became the territory of arkansas. the act became effective on july following. during the territorial period the governors were appointed by the president of the united states, with the approval of the united states senate, for terms of three years. . james miller, - lawyer, soldier. born in new hampshire, . educated at amherst academy and williams college, massachusetts. admitted to bar, . married martha ferguson, ; two children. married ruth flint, ; five children. commissioned major of infantry in regular army, . lieutenant colonel, ; colonel, ; brigadier general, . hero of battle of lundy's lane, canada, . received congressional gold medal for gallantry, . resigned from army, . governor of arkansas, - . united states collector of customs, salem, massachusetts, - . died . . george izard, - soldier. born in england, . attended military schools in england, germany, and france. commissioned lieutenant in artillerists and engineers, united states army, . captain, . resigned from army, . married elizabeth carter shippen, ; three children. accepted new commission as colonel of artillery, . brigadier general, ; major general, . honorably discharged, . governor of arkansas from until his death in . . john pope, - lawyer. born in virginia, . married ann henry christian, c. . married elizabeth johnson, ; two children. married frances watkins walton, . state senator, kentucky, - , - . member, kentucky house of representatives, , - , - . united states senator from kentucky, - . professor of law, transylvania university, - . secretary of state of kentucky, - . governor of arkansas, - . congressman from kentucky, - . died . . william s. fulton, - lawyer. born in maryland, . graduated from baltimore college, . moved to tennessee after serving in war of . admitted to bar, . military secretary to general andrew jackson in florida campaign of . moved to alabama, . married matilda nowland, ; four children. elected judge of county court, florence, alabama, . secretary of territory of arkansas, - . last governor of territory of arkansas, - . united states senator from arkansas, - . died . governors of the state of arkansas arkansas was admitted to the union as the twenty-fifth state on june , . from until , governors were elected for four-year terms. during the remainder of our history the term of office has been two years. . james s. conway, - planter, surveyor, democrat. born in tennessee, . came to arkansas from missouri, . married mary jane bradley, ; six children. first surveyor-general of arkansas territory. inaugurated as first governor of the state of arkansas, september , . in retired to "walnut hill," his plantation in lafayette county. died . . archibald yell, - lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, or . served in war of , and in seminole war of . married mary scott, ; two children. married ann jordan moore, ; four children. married maria ficklin, . member, tennessee house of representatives, . came to arkansas . receiver at federal land office in little rock, - . moved to fayetteville, . territorial judge, - . congressman, - , - . governor, - . left congress in to become colonel of first arkansas volunteer cavalry, mexican war. killed at battle of buena vista, mexico, . . thomas s. drew, - planter, peddler, lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, . came to arkansas . clerk of clark county, - . moved to what is now randolph county, . married cinderella bettis, , five children. judge of lawrence county, - . delegate to arkansas constitutional convention, . governor, - . resigned as governor, , and returned to pocahontas. moved to hood county, texas, after death of his wife in . died in texas, . . john s. roane, - planter, lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, . attended cumberland college, princeton, kentucky. came to arkansas , settled at pine bluff. moved to van buren . speaker, arkansas house of representatives, - . served in mexican war. returned to pine bluff, . governor, - . married mary k. smith, ; five children. brigadier general, confederate army. died . . elias n. conway, - surveyor, public official, democrat. born in tennessee, ; younger brother of governor james s. conway. came to arkansas from missouri . territorial auditor, - . state auditor, - . governor, - . never married. died . . henry m. rector, - planter, lawyer, independent democrat. born in kentucky, . came to arkansas from missouri, ; settled in hot springs. married ernestine flora linde, ; one child. appointed federal marshal, . state senator, - . moved to little rock, . member, house of representatives, - . associate justice, supreme court, - . governor, - . delegate, constitutional convention of . died . . harris flanagin, - lawyer, confederate. born in new jersey, . moved to clark county, arkansas, from illinois, . married martha e. nash, ; five children. member, house of representatives, - . delegate, secession convention, . colonel, confederate army. governor, - . delegate, constitutional convention of . died . . isaac murphy, - teacher, lawyer, unionist democrat. born in pennsylvania, . settled in tennessee, ; came to arkansas . married angelina a. lockhart, ; eight children. member, house of representatives, washington county, - . went to california , returned . moved to huntsville, madison county, . state senator, - . delegate, secession convention of ; only member who refused to vote for secession of arkansas from the union. served with union army, - . organized unionist state government in little rock, ; served as governor until displaced by radical republicans, . died in huntsville, . . powell clayton, - civil engineer, soldier, republican. born in pennsylvania, . educated in the common schools, the partridge military academy in bristol, pennsylvania, and in an engineering school at wilmington, delaware. moved to kansas, ; became city engineer of leavenworth, kansas, . brigadier general, union army; came to arkansas with army during civil war. at close of war, settled on a cotton plantation near pine bluff. married adeline mcgraw, ; five children. governor, - ; resigned in to become united states senator for term ending . moved from little rock to eureka springs, . united states ambassador to mexico, - . lived in washington, d.c. from until his death in . note: the unexpired portion of powell clayton's term as governor, - , was completed by ozra a. hadley, president of the state senate. . elisha baxter, - lawyer, republican. born in north carolina, . married harriet patton, ; six children. came to arkansas , settled in batesville. member, house of representatives, - , - . prosecuting attorney, - . raised and commanded fourth arkansas mounted infantry regiment (union) during civil war. elected to state supreme court, , and then to united states senate, but not allowed to take his seat. circuit judge, - . governor, - ; his term of office was cut short by the brooks-baxter war and the adoption of a new state constitution. died . . augustus h. garland, - lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, . his parents came to what is now miller county, arkansas, ; later the family located in washington, hempstead county. educated in a private school at washington; at st. mary's college, lebanon, kentucky; and at st. joseph's college, bardstown, kentucky, where he graduated . married virginia saunders, ; eight children. moved to little rock, . delegate, secession convention, . delegate to provisional congress of confederate states, ; confederate congressman, - ; confederate states senator, - . governor, - . united states senator, - . attorney general of the united states under president grover cleveland, - ; first arkansan to hold a cabinet post. died . . william r. miller, - lawyer, democrat. born at batesville, arkansas, . clerk of independence county, - . married susan elizabeth bevens, ; seven children. state auditor, - , - , - , - , - , . accountant of real estate bank of arkansas, - . governor, - ; first native arkansan to hold office. died . . thomas j. churchill, - planter, soldier, lawyer, democrat. born in kentucky, . educated at st. mary's college and transylvania university. served in mexican war. moved to arkansas , acquired a plantation near little rock. married anne maria sevier, ; six children. postmaster at little rock, - . major general, confederate army; commanded at the battle of arkansas post, . state treasurer, - . governor, - . died . . james h. berry, - lawyer, democrat. born in alabama, . when he was seven, his father moved to carrollton, carroll county, arkansas. attended berryville academy. served in confederate army; lost a leg at battle of corinth. married elizabeth quaile, ; six children. moved to bentonville, . served in house of representatives from carroll county, - ; from washington and benton counties, - . speaker of the house, . circuit judge, - . governor, - . united states senator, - . died . . simon p. hughes, - lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, . moved to pulaski county, arkansas, with his parents, . educated in tennessee, - . returned to arkansas and became a farmer. sheriff, monroe county, - . began practice of law at clarendon, . married ann e. blakemore, ; nine children. lieutenant colonel, confederate army. member, house of representatives from monroe county, - . delegate, constitutional convention of . attorney general, - . governor, - . associate justice, supreme court, - . died . . james p. eagle, - planter, minister, democrat. born in tennessee, . came with parents to pulaski county, arkansas, . moved to what is now lonoke county, . lieutenant colonel, confederate army. ordained to baptist ministry, . member, house of representatives, - , ; speaker of the house, . delegate, constitutional convention of . married mary kavanaugh oldham, . governor, - . president, arkansas baptist state convention, - . president, southern baptist convention, - . died . . william m. fishback, - lawyer, democrat. born in virginia, . graduated from university of virginia; studied law in richmond. came to arkansas from illinois ; settled at fort smith. delegate, secession convention, . went to missouri and took oath of allegiance to union. elected to united states senate from arkansas , but not allowed to take his seat. married adelaide miller, ; six children. delegate, constitutional convention of . member, house of representatives, sebastian county, , . governor, - . died . . james p. clarke, - lawyer, democrat. born in mississippi, . graduated from law school, university of virginia. came to arkansas ; opened law office in helena. married sallie moore wooten, ; three children. member, house of representatives, phillips county, . state senator, , . attorney general, - . governor, - . united states senator, - . died . . dan w. jones, - lawyer, democrat. born in texas, . moved with parents to washington, arkansas, . colonel, confederate army. married margaret p. hadley, ; seven children. prosecuting attorney, - . attorney general, - . member, house of representatives, pulaski county, , . governor, - . died . . jeff davis, - lawyer, democrat. born in what is now little river county, arkansas, . educated in common schools; preparatory department, arkansas industrial university; law school, vanderbilt university. received law degree, cumberland university. married ina mckenzie, ; twelve children. married leila carter, . practiced law at russellville, arkansas. prosecuting attorney, - . attorney general, - . governor, - ; first governor to be elected to more than two terms. united states senator, - . died . . john s. little, - lawyer, democrat. born at jenny lind, sebastian county, arkansas, . attended cane hill college, cane hill, arkansas. married elizabeth j. irwin, ; five children. prosecuting attorney, - . member, house of representatives, sebastian county, . circuit judge, - . congressman, - . governor, - . soon after his inauguration, he suffered a nervous collapse and was unable to perform his duties for the remainder of his term. died . . george w. donaghey, - building contractor, banker, democrat. born in louisiana, . came to union county, arkansas with his parents when a child. worked as a farmer and cowboy in texas. moved to conway, ; became a carpenter and contractor. attended arkansas industrial university (now the university of arkansas). married louvinia wallace, . governor, - . philanthropist, business and civic leader for many years. died . . joseph t. robinson, lawyer, democrat. born near lonoke, arkansas, . educated in the common schools; arkansas industrial university; and the law department of the university of virginia. admitted to bar ; commenced practice in lonoke. married ewilda gertrude miller, . member, house of representatives, lonoke county, . congressman, - . governor, ; resigned to become united states senator, - . democratic leader in senate, - . democratic nominee for vice-president of the united states, . died . . george w. hays, - lawyer, democrat. born near camden, arkansas, . graduated from washington and lee university. married ida virginia yarborough, ; two children. county judge, ouachita county, - . circuit judge, - . governor, - . died . . charles h. brough, - educator, democrat. born in mississippi, . b.a., mississippi college, ; ph.d., johns hopkins university, ; ll.b., university of mississippi, . married anne wade roark, . professor of economics and sociology, university of arkansas, - . governor - . chautauqua lecturer. president, central baptist college, conway, - . died . . thomas c. mcrae, - lawyer, banker, democrat. born at mount holly, union county, arkansas, . graduated from soule business college, new orleans, ; ll.b., washington and lee university, . married amelia ann white, ; nine children. member, house of representatives, nevada county, . congressman, - . delegate, constitutional convention of - . governor, - . died . . tom j. terral, - lawyer, democrat. born in louisiana, . attended university of kentucky; ll.b., university of arkansas, . married eula terrell, . secretary, arkansas senate, , . secretary of state, - . governor, - . died . . john e. martineau, - lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, . a.b., arkansas industrial university, ; graduated, university law school, . married mrs. anne holcomb mitchell, . married mrs. mabel erwin thomas, . member, house of representatives, pulaski county, , . chancellor, - . governor, - ; resigned to become united states district judge, - . died . . harvey parnell, - planter, businessman, democrat. born in dorsey (now cleveland) county, arkansas, . married mabel winston, ; two children. member, house of representatives, chicot county, , . state senator, , . lieutenant governor, - . succeeded to governorship when john e. martineau resigned, ; elected to full terms , . died . . j.m. futrell, - lawyer, democrat. born in greene county, arkansas, . attended arkansas industrial university. married tera a. smith, ; six children. member, house of representatives, greene county, , , . circuit clerk, greene county, - . state senator, , . acting governor, march-july . circuit judge, . chancellor, - . governor, - . died . . carl e. bailey, - lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, . attended business college in chillicothe, missouri. married margaret bristol, ; six children. married marjorie compton, . prosecuting attorney, - . attorney general, - . governor, - . died . . homer m. adkins, - pharmacist, businessman, democrat. born near jacksonville, arkansas, . attended draughon's business college of pharmacy. captain, united states army, first world war. married estelle smith, . sheriff, pulaski county, - . united states collector of internal revenue for arkansas, - . governor, - . administrator, employment security division, - . died . . ben t. laney, - businessman, democrat. born in ouachita county, near smackover, arkansas, . served in united states navy, first world war. a.b., state normal school (now state college), conway, . graduate study, university of utah. married lucille kirtley, ; three children. mayor of camden, - . governor, - . . sid mcmath, - lawyer, democrat. born near magnolia, arkansas, . ll.b., university of arkansas, . married elaine braughton, ; one child. married anne phillips, ; two children. lieutenant colonel, united states marine corps, second world war. prosecuting attorney, - . governor, - . . francis cherry, - lawyer, democrat. born in fort worth, texas, . graduated oklahoma a.& m. college, . ll.b., university of arkansas, . married margaret frierson; three children. lieutenant (j.g.), united states navy, second world war. chancellor, - , - . governor, - . member, united states subversive activities control board, - ; chairman, - . died . . orval e. faubus, - newspaperman, democrat. born near combs, arkansas, . attended madison county schools. married alta haskins, ; one son. major, united states army, second world war. circuit clerk, madison county, - . administrative assistant to governor sid mcmath, highway commissioner, highway director, - . postmaster, huntsville, - . governor, - . . winthrop rockefeller, - financier, farmer, republican. born in new york, . attended yale university. lieutenant colonel, united states army, second world war. married barbara sears, ; one son. married jeannette edris, . moved to arkansas, . chairman, arkansas industrial development commission, - . first republican elected governor since . united states senators from arkansas each state is entitled to two united states senators. until , senators were elected by state legislatures; since that time, by popular vote. our first senators, chosen in , were ambrose h. sevier and william s. fulton. in the following pages, biographies of sevier and his successors are given first. . ambrose h. sevier - lawyer, democrat. born in tennessee, . came to arkansas from missouri, . clerk, territorial house of representatives, . member, territorial house of representatives, pulaski county, , ; speaker, . territorial delegate to congress, - . united states senator, - . united states minister to mexico, march-june . died . . solon borland, - physician, democrat. born in virginia, . attended schools in north carolina; studied medicine; located in little rock, arkansas. major, first arkansas volunteer cavalry, mexican war. united states senator, - . united states minister to central american republics, - . brigadier general, confederate army. died . . robert w. johnson, - lawyer, democrat. born in kentucky, . moved with his father to arkansas, . graduated from st. joseph's college, bardstown, kentucky, , and from yale law school, . practiced law in little rock, arkansas, - . prosecuting attorney, - . congressman, - . united states senator, - . delegate to provisional confederate congress, - . confederate states senator, - . practiced law in washington, d.c. after the war. died . . charles b. mitchel, physician, democrat. born in tennessee, . graduated from university of nashville, tennessee, , and from jefferson medical college, philadelphia, pennsylvania, . moved to washington, arkansas, where he practiced medicine for twenty-five years. member, house of representatives, hempstead county, - . receiver of public moneys, - . united states senator, . confederate states senator, - . died . note: arkansas was not represented in the united states senate from its secession in until the state was readmitted to the union in . . benjamin f. rice, - lawyer, republican. born in new york, . member, kentucky house of representatives, - . moved to minnesota, . captain, union army. settled in little rock, arkansas, . active in organizing republican party in arkansas. united states senator, - . moved to colorado , and to washington, d.c. . died . . stephen w. dorsey, - businessman, republican. born in vermont, . moved to ohio and settled in oberlin. served in union army. after civil war, returned to ohio; became president of sandusky tool company. elected president, arkansas railway company. moved to arkansas, settled in helena. united states senator, - . after his service in senate, devoted himself to cattle raising and mining in new mexico and colorado. resided in colfax county, new mexico; denver, colorado; and los angeles, california. died . . james d. walker, - lawyer, democrat. born in kentucky, . attended private schools in kentucky, and ozark institute and arkansas college, fayetteville, arkansas. moved to arkansas . admitted to bar ; practiced law in fayetteville. colonel, confederate army; captured at oak hills, missouri in and spent two years in military prison. resumed practice of law in fayetteville, . united states senator, - . died . . james k. jones, - lawyer, democrat. born in mississippi, . moved with his parents to dallas county, arkansas, . served in confederate army. admitted to bar and commenced practice in washington, arkansas. state senator, - ; president of senate, . congressman, - . united states senator, - . chairman, democratic national committee, , . died . . james p. clarke, - (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number ). . william f. kirby, - lawyer, democrat. born in what is now miller county, arkansas, . studied law at cumberland university, lebanon, tennessee; graduated . admitted to bar , commenced practice in texarkana, arkansas. member, house of representatives, miller county, , . state senator , . author of "kirby's digest of the statutes of arkansas," . moved to little rock, . attorney general, - . associate justice, supreme court, - , - . united states senator, - . died . . thaddeus h. caraway, - lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, . moved with his parents to clay county, arkansas, . graduated in from dickson (tennessee) college. admitted to bar , commenced practice in osceola, arkansas. moved to lake city, craighead county, , and to jonesboro, . prosecuting attorney, - . congressman, - . united states senator, - . died . . hattie w. caraway, - democrat, wife of senator thaddeus h. caraway. born in tennessee, . graduated from dickson (tennessee) normal college, . married and thereafter located in jonesboro, arkansas. appointed united states senator to succeed her husband ; elected and ; served - . member, united states employees' compensation commission, - . member, united states employees' compensation appeals board, - . died . . james william fulbright, - lawyer, democrat. born in missouri, . moved with his parents to fayetteville, arkansas . was graduated from university of arkansas, ; as a rhodes scholar from oxford university, england, ; and from law department of george washington university, washington, d.c., . admitted to district of columbia bar, . attorney, united states department of justice, antitrust division, - . instructor in law, george washington university, ; lecturer in law, university of arkansas, - . president of the university of arkansas, - . congressman, - . united states senator since . . william s. fulton, - (see "governors of the territory of arkansas," number ). . chester ashley, - lawyer, democrat. born in massachusetts, . moved with his parents to hudson, new york, during infancy. was graduated from williams college, williamstown, massachusetts, and the litchfield (connecticut) law school. admitted to bar and commenced practice of law in hudson, new york. moved to edwardsville, illinois, ; to st. louis, missouri, ; and to little rock, arkansas, . united states senator - . died . . william k. sebastian, - lawyer, planter, democrat. born in tennessee, . was graduated from columbia college, tennessee, about . commenced practice of law in helena, arkansas, . prosecuting attorney, - . circuit judge, - . associate justice, supreme court, - . member and president of state senate, - . united states senator, - . expelled from senate, ; returned to helena and practiced law; took no part in confederate war effort. moved to memphis, . died . in , the united states senate revoked his expulsion and paid the full amount of his compensation to his children. note: arkansas was not represented in the united states senate from its secession in until the state was readmitted to the union in . . alexander mcdonald, - businessman, banker, republican. born in pennsylvania, . attended dickinson seminary, williamsport, pennsylvania; and lewisburg university, lewisburg, pennsylvania. moved to kansas, . served in union army. came to arkansas , settled in little rock. united states senator, - . engaged in development of railroads. moved to new york city, . died . . powell clayton, - (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number ) . augustus h. garland, - (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number ) . james h. berry, - (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number ) . joseph t. robinson, - (see "governors of the state of arkansas," number ) . john e. miller, - lawyer, banker, democrat. born in missouri, . attended southeast missouri state teachers college, cape girardeau; and valparaiso (indiana) university. graduated from law department, university of kentucky, . admitted to bar , commenced practice in searcy, arkansas. delegate, constitutional convention of - . prosecuting attorney, - . congressman, - . united states senator from until he resigned in to become united states district judge for the western district of arkansas. . lloyd spencer, - banker, democrat. born in missouri, . moved to okolona, arkansas, . attended henderson college, arkadelphia. served in united states navy, first world war, . moved to hope, arkansas, . appointed to united states senate ; term expired . served in united states navy, second world war, . . john l. mcclellan, - lawyer, democrat. born in sheridan, arkansas, . attended public schools. admitted to bar , commenced practice in sheridan. first lieutenant, united states army, first world war, - . moved to malvern, arkansas, . prosecuting attorney, - . congressman, - . resumed practice of law in camden, arkansas. united states senator since . oration on the life and character of henry winter davis, by hon. john a. j. creswell. delivered in the hall of the house of representatives, february , . washington: government printing office. . preface. the death of hon. henry winter davis, for many years a distinguished representative of one of the baltimore congressional districts, created a deep sensation among those who had been associated with him in national legislation, and they deemed it fitting to pay to his memory unusual honors. they adopted resolutions expressive of their grief, and invited hon. john a. j. creswell, a senator of the united states from the state of maryland, to deliver an oration on his life and character, in the hall of the house of representatives, on the d of february, a day the recurrence of which ever gives increased warmth to patriotic emotions. the hall of the house was filled by a distinguished audience to listen to the oration. before eleven o'clock the galleries were crowded in every part. the flags above the speaker's desk were draped in black, and other insignia of mourning were exhibited. an excellent portrait of the late hon. henry winter davis was visible through the folds of the national banner above the speaker's chair. as on the occasion of the oration on president lincoln by hon. george bancroft, the marine band occupied the ante-room of the reporters' gallery, and discoursed appropriate music. at twelve o'clock the senators entered, and the judges of the supreme court, preceded by chief justice chase. of the cabinet secretary stanton and secretary mcculloch were present. after prayer by the chaplain, the declaration of independence was read by hon. edward mcpherson, clerk of the house. after the reading of the declaration, followed by the playing of a dirge by the band, hon. schuyler colfax, speaker of the house of representatives, introduced the orator of the day, hon. j. a. j. creswell. remarks of hon. schuyler colfax, speaker of the house of representatives. hon. schuyler colfax, speaker of the house of representatives, said: ladies and gentlemen: the duty has been devolved upon me of introducing to you the friend and fellow-member, here, of henry winter davis, and i shall detain you but a moment from his address, to which you will listen with saddened interest. the world always appreciates and honors courage: the courage of christianity, which sustained martyrs in the amphitheatre, at the stake, and on the rack; the courage of patriotism, which inspired millions in our own land to realize the historic fable of curtius, and to fill up with their own bodies, if need be, the yawning chasm which imperiled the republic; the courage of humanity, which is witnessed in the pest-house and the hospital, at the death-bed of the homeless and the prison-cell of the convict. but there is a courage of statesmen, besides; and nobly was it illustrated by the statesman whose national services we commemorate to-day. inflexibly hostile to oppression, whether of slaves on american soil or of republicans struggling in mexico against monarchical invasion, faithful always to principle and liberty, championing always the cause of the down-trodden, fearless as he was eloquent in his avowals, he was mourned throughout a continent; and from the patapsco to the gulf the blessings of those who had been ready to perish followed him to his tomb. it is fitting, therefore, though dying a private citizen, that the nation should render him such marked and unusual honors in this hall, the scene of so many of his intellectual triumphs; and i have great pleasure in introducing to you, as the orator of the day, hon. j. a. j. creswell, his colleague in the thirty-eighth congress, and now senator from the state of maryland. oration of hon. john a. j. creswell. my countrymen: on the d day of february, , god gave to the world the highest type of humanity, in the person of george washington. combining within himself the better qualities of the soldier, sage, statesman, and patriot, alike brave, wise, discreet, and incorruptible, the common consent of mankind has awarded him the incomparable title of father of his country. among all nations and in every clime the richest treasures of language have been exhausted in the effort to transmit to posterity a faithful record of his deeds. for him unfading laurels are secure, so long as letters shall survive and history shall continue to be the guide and teacher of civilized men. the whole human race has become the self-appointed guardian of his fame, and the name of washington will be ever held, over all the earth, to be synonymous with the highest perfection attainable in public or private life, and coeternal with that immortal love to which reason and revelation have together toiled to elevate human aspirations--the love of liberty, restrained and guarded by law. but in the presence of the omnipotent how insignificant is the proudest and the noblest of men! even washington, who alone of his kind could fill that comprehensive epitome of general henry lee, so often on our lips, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," was allowed no exemption from the common lot of mortals. in the sixty-eighth year of his age he, too, paid the debt of nature. the dread announcement of his demise sped over the land like a pestilence, burdening the very air with mourning, and carrying inexpressible sorrow to every household and every heart. the course of legislation was stopped in mid career to give expression to the grief of congress, and by resolution, approved january , , the d of february of that year was devoted to national humiliation and lamentation. this is, then, as well a day of sorrow as a day of rejoicing. more recent calamities also remind us that death is universal king. just ten days ago our great historian pronounced in this hall an impartial judgment upon the earthly career of him who, as savior of his country, will be counted as the compeer of washington. scarce have the orator's lingering tones been mellowed into silence, scarce has the glowing page whereon his words were traced lost the impress of his passing hand, yet we are again called into the presence of the inexorable to crown one more illustrious victim with sacrificial flowers. having taken up his lifeless body, as beautiful as the dead absalom, and laid it in the tomb with becoming solemnity, we have assembled in the sight of the world to do deserved honor to the name and memory of henry winter davis, a native of annapolis, in the state of maryland, but always proudly claiming to be no less than a citizen of the united states of america. we have not convened in obedience to any formal custom, requiring us to assume an empty show of bereavement, in order that we may appear respectful to the departed. we who knew henry winter davis are not content to clothe ourselves in the outward garb of grief, and call the semblance of mourning a fitting tribute to the gifted orator and statesman, so suddenly snatched from our midst in the full glory of his mental and bodily strength. we would do more than "bear about the mockery of woe." prompted by a genuine affection, we desire to ignore all idle and merely conventional ceremonies, and permit our stricken hearts to speak their spontaneous sorrow. here, then, where he sat for eight years as a representative of the people; where friends have trooped about him, and admiring crowds have paid homage to his genius; where grave legislators have yielded themselves willing captives to his eloquence, and his wise counsel has moulded, in no small degree, the law of a great nation, let us, in dealing with what he has left us, verify the saying of bacon, "death openeth the good fame and extinguished envy." remembering that he was a man of like passions and equally fallible with ourselves, let us review his life in a spirit of generous candor, applaud what is good, and try to profit by it; and if we find aught of ill, let us, so far as justice and truth will permit, cover it with the vail of charity and bury it out of sight forever. so may our survivors do for us. the subject of this address was born on the th of august, . his father, rev. henry lyon davis, of the protestant episcopal church, was president of st. john's college at annapolis, maryland, and rector of st. ann's parish. he was of imposing person, and great dignity and force of character. he was, moreover, a man of genius, and of varied and profound learning, eminently versed in mathematics and natural sciences, abounding in classical lore, endowed with a vast memory, and gifted with a concise, clear, and graceful style; rich and fluent in conversation, but without the least pretension to oratory and wholly incapable of _extempore_ speaking. he was removed from the presidency of st. john's by a board of democratic trustees because of his federal politics; and, years afterward, he gave his son his only lesson in politics at the end of a letter, addressed to him when at kenyon college, in this laconic sentence: "my son, beware of the follies of jacksonism." his mother was jane brown winter, a woman of elegant accomplishments and of great sweetness of disposition and purity of life. it might be truthfully said of her, that she was an exemplar for all who knew her. she had only two children, henry winter, and jane, who married rev. edward syle. the education of henry winter began very early, at home, under the care of his aunt, elizabeth brown winter, who entertained the most rigid and exacting opinions in regard to the training of children, but who was withal a noble woman. he once playfully said, "i could read before i was four years old, though much against my will." when his father was removed from st. john's, he went to wilmington, delaware, but some time elapsed before he became settled there. meanwhile, henry winter remained with his aunt in alexandria, virginia. he afterward went to wilmington, and was there instructed under his father's supervision. in his father returned to maryland and settled in anne arundel county. after reaching anne arundel, henry winter became so much devoted to out-door life that he gave small promise of scholarly proficiency. he affected the sportsman, and became a devoted disciple of nimrod; accompanied always by one of his father's slaves he roamed the country with a huge old fowling-piece on his shoulder, burning powder in abundance, but doing little damage otherwise. while here he saw much of slaves and slavery, and what he saw impressed him profoundly, and laid the foundation for those opinions which he so heroically and constantly defended in all his after-life. referring to this period, he said long afterward, "my familiar association with the slaves while a boy gave me great insight into their feelings and views. they spoke with freedom before a boy what they would have repressed before a man. they were far from indifferent to their condition; they felt wronged and sighed for freedom. they were attached to my father and loved me, yet they habitually spoke of the day when god would deliver them." he subsequently went to alexandria, and was sent to school at howard, near the theological seminary, and from howard he went to kenyon college, in ohio, in the fall of . kenyon was then in the first year of the presidency of bishop mcilvaine. it was the centre of vast forests, broken only by occasional clearings, excepting along the lines of the national road, and the ohio river and its navigable tributaries. in this wilderness of nature, but garden of letters, he remained, at first in the grammar school, and then in the college, until the th of september, ; when at twenty years of age he took his degree and diploma, decorated with one of the honorary orations of his class, on the great day of commencement. his subject was "scholastic philosophy." at the end of the freshman year, a change in the college terms gave him a vacation of three months. instead of spending it in idleness, as he might have done, and as most boys would have done, he availed himself of this interval to pursue and complete the studies of the sophomore year, to which he had already given some attention in his spare moments. at the opening of the next session he passed the examination for the junior class. fortunately i have his own testimony and opinion as to this exploit, and i give them in his own language: "it was a pretty sharp trial of resolution and dogged diligence, but it saved me a year of college, and indurated my powers of study and mental culture into a habit, and perhaps enabled me to stay long enough to graduate. i do not recommend the example to those who are independently situated, for learning must fall like the rain in such gentle showers as to sink in if it is to be fruitful; when poured on the richest soil in torrents, it not only runs off without strengthening vegetation, but washes away the soil itself." his college life was laborious and successful. the regular studies were prosecuted with diligence, and from them he derived great profit, not merely in knowledge, but in what is of vastly more account, the habit and power of mental labor. these studies were wrought into his mind and made part of the intellectual substance by the vigorous collisions of the societies in which he delighted. for these mimic conflicts he prepared assiduously, not in writing, but always with a carefully deduced logical analysis and arrangement of the thoughts to be developed in the order of argument, with a brief note of any quotation, or image, or illustration, on the margin at the appropriate place. from that brief he spoke. and this was his only method of preparation for all the great conflicts in which he took part in after life. he never wrote out his speeches beforehand. speaking of his feelings at the end of his college life, he sadly said: "my father's death had embittered the last days of the year , and left me without a counsellor. i knew something of books, nothing of men, and i went forth like adam among the wild beasts of the unknown wilderness of the world. my father had dedicated me to the ministry, but the day had gone when such dedications determined the lives of young men. theology as a grave topic of historic and metaphysical investigation i delighted to pursue, but for the ministry i had no calling. i would have been idle if i could, for i had no ambition, but i had no fortune and i could not beg or starve." all who were acquainted with his temperament can well imagine what a gloomy prospect the future presented to him, when its contemplation wrung from his stoical taciturnity that touching confession. the truth is, that from the time he entered college he was continually cramped for want of money. the negroes ate everything that was produced on the farm in anne arundel, a gastronomic feat which they could easily accomplish, without ever having cause to complain of a surfeit. his aunt, herself in limited circumstances, by a careful husbandry of her means, managed to keep him at college. kenyon was then a manual-labor institution, and the boys were required to sweep their own rooms, make their own beds and fires, bring their own water, black their own boots, if they ever were blacked, and take an occasional turn at grubbing in the fields or working on the roads. there was no royal road to learning known at kenyon in those days. through all this henry winter davis passed, bearing his part manfully; and knowing how heavily he taxed the slender purse of his aunt, he denied himself with such rigor that he succeeded, incredible as it may appear, in bringing his total expenses, including boarding and tuition, within the sum of eighty dollars per annum. his father left an estate consisting only of some slaves, which were equally apportioned between himself and sister. frequent applications were made to purchase his slaves, but he never could be induced to sell them, although the proceeds would have enabled him to pursue his studies with ease and comfort. he rather sought and obtained a tutorship, and for two years he devoted to law and letters only the time he could rescue from its drudgery. in a letter, written in april, , replying to the request of a relative who offered to purchase his slave sallie, subject to the provisions of his father's will, which manumitted her if she would go to liberia, he said: "but if she is under my control." (he did not know that she had been set to his share,) "i will _not consent to the sale_, though he wishes to purchase her subject to the will." and so sallie was not sold, and henry winter davis, the tutor, toiled on and waited. he never would hold any of his slaves under his authority, never would accept a cent of their wages, and tendered each and all of them a deed of absolute manumission whenever the law would allow. tell me, was that man sincere in his opposition to slavery? how many of those who have since charged him with being selfish and reckless in his advocacy of emancipation would have shown equal devotion to principle? not one; not one. ah! the man who works and suffers for his opinions' sake places his own flesh and blood in pledge for his integrity. notwithstanding his irksome and exacting duties, he kept his eye steadily on the university of virginia, and read, without assistance, a large part of its course. he delighted especially in the pungent pages of tacitus and the glowing and brilliant, dignified and elevated epic of the decline and fall of the roman empire. these were favorites which never lost their charm for him. when recently on a visit at my house, he stated in conversation that he often exercised himself in translating from the former, and in transferring the thoughts of the latter into his own language, and he contended that the task had dispelled the popular error that gibbon's style is swollen and declamatory; for he alleged that every effort at condensation had proved a failure, and that at the end of his labors the page he had attempted to compress had always expanded to the eye, when relieved of the weighty and stringent fetters in which the gigantic genius of gibbon had bound it. about this time--the only period when doubts beset him--he was tempted by a very advantageous offer to settle in mississippi. he determined to accept; but some kind spirit interposed to prevent the despatch of the final letter, and he remained in alexandria. at last his aunt--second mother as she was--sold some land and dedicated the proceeds to his legal studies. he arrived at the university of virginia in october, . from that moment he entered actively and unremittingly on his course of intellectual training. while a boy he had become familiar, under the guidance of his father, with the classics of addison, johnson, swift, cowper, and pope, and he now plunged into the domain of history. he had begun at kenyon to make flanking forays into the fields of historic investigation which lay so invitingly on each side of the regular march of his college course. as he acquired more information and confidence, these forays became more extensive and profitable. it was then the transition period from the shallow though graceful pages of gillies, rollin, russel, and tytler, and the rabbinical agglomerations of shuckford and prideaux to the modern school of free, profound, and laborious investigation, which has reared immortal monuments to its memory in the works of hallam, macaulay, grote, bancroft, prescott, motley, niebuhr, bunsen, schlosser, thiers, and their fellows. but of the last-named none except niebuhr's history of rome and hallam's middle ages were accessible to him in the backwoods of ohio. cousin's course of the history of modern philosophy was just glittering in the horizon, and gibbon shone alone as the morning star of the day of historic research, which he had heralded so long. the french revolution he had seen only as presented in burke's brilliant vituperation and scott's tory diatribe. a republican picture of the great republican revolution, the fountain of all that is now tolerable in europe, had not then been presented on any authentic and comprehensive page. not only these, but all historical works of value which the english, french, and german languages can furnish, with an immense amount of other intellectual pabulum, were eagerly gathered, consumed with voracious appetite, and thoroughly digested. supplied at last with the required means, he braced himself for a systematic curriculum of law, and pursued it with marked constancy and success. while at the university he also took up the german and french languages and mastered them, and he perfected his scholarship in latin and greek. until his death he read all these languages with great facility and accuracy, and he always kept his greek testament lying on his table for easy reference. after a thorough course at the university, mr. davis entered upon the practice of the law in alexandria, virginia. he began his profession without much to cheer him; but he was not the man to abandon a pursuit for lack of courage. his ability and industry attracted attention, and before long he had acquired a respectable practice, which thenceforth protected him from all annoyances of a pecuniary nature. he toiled with unwearied assiduity, never appearing in the trial of a cause without the most elaborate and exhaustive preparation, and soon became known to his professional brethren as a valuable ally and a formidable foe. his natural aptitude for public affairs made itself manifest in due time, and some articles which he prepared on municipal and state politics gave him great reputation. he also published a series of newspaper essays, wherein he dared to question the divinity of slavery; and these, though at the time thought to be not beyond the limits of free discussion, were cited against him long after as evidence that he was a heretic in pro-slavery virginia and maryland. on the th of october, , he married miss constance t. gardiner, daughter of william c. gardiner, esq., a most accomplished and charming young lady, as beautiful and as fragile as a flower. she lived to gladden his heart for but a few years, and then, "like a lily drooping, she bowed her head and died." in he came to baltimore, and immediately a high position, professional, social, and political, was awarded him. his forensic efforts at once commanded attention and enforced respect. the young men of most ability and promise gathered about him, and made him the centre of their chosen circle. he became a prominent member of the whig party, and was everywhere known as the brilliant orator and successful controvertist of the scott campaign of . the whig party, worn out by its many gallant but unsuccessful battles, was ultimately gathered to its fathers, and mr. davis led off in the american movement. he was elected successively to the thirty-fourth, thirty-fifth, and thirty-sixth congresses by the american party from the fourth district of maryland. he supported with great ability and zeal mr. fillmore for the presidency in , and in accepted john bell as the candidate of his party, though he clearly divined and plainly announced that the great battle was really between abraham lincoln, as the representative of the national sentiment on the one hand, and secession and disunion, in all their shades and phases, on the other. to his seat in the thirty-eighth congress he was elected by the unconditional union party. since the adjournment of the thirty-eighth congress he has been profoundly concerned in the momentous public questions now pressing for adjustment, and he did not fail on several fitting occasions to give his views at length to the public. nevertheless, he frequently alluded to his earnest desire to retreat for awhile from the perplexing annoyances of public life. he had determined upon a long visit to europe in the coming spring, and had almost concluded the purchase of a delightful country-seat, where he hoped to recruit his weary brain for years to come from the exhaustless riches of nature. when the thirty-ninth congress met, and he read of his old companions in the work of legislation again gathering in their halls and committee-rooms, i think, for at least a day or two, he felt a longing to be among them. during the second week of the session he again entered this hall, but only as a spectator. the greeting he received--so general, spontaneous, and cordial--from gentlemen on both sides of the house, touched his heart most sensibly. the crowd that gathered about him was go great that the party was obliged to retire to one of the larger ante-rooms for fear of interrupting the public business. a delightful interview among old friends was the reward. he was charmed with his reception, and mentioned it to me with intense satisfaction. little did you, gentlemen, then think that between you and a beloved friend the curtain that shrouds eternity was so soon to be interposed. his sickness was of about a week's duration. until the morning of the day preceding his death, his friends never doubted his recovery. later in the day very unfavorable symptoms appeared, and all then realized his danger. in the evening his wife spoke to him of a visit, for one day, which he had projected, to his old friend, mrs. s. f. du pont, when he replied, in the last words he ever uttered, "it shows the folly of making plans even for a day." he continued to fail rapidly in strength until two o'clock on the afternoon of saturday, the th of december, when henry winter davis, in the forty-ninth year of his age, appeared before his god. his death confirmed the opinion of sir thomas browne, who declared, "marshaling all the horrors of death, and contemplating the extremities thereof, i find not anything therein able to daunt the _courage_ of a _man_, much less a _well-resolved christian_." he passed away so quietly that no one knew the moment of his departure. his was-- "a death, life sleep; a gentle wafting to immortal life." mr. davis left a widow, mrs. nancy davis, a daughter of john b. morris, esq., of baltimore, and two little girls, who were the idols of his heart. he was married a second time on the th of january, . his nearest surviving collateral relation is the hon. david davis, associate justice of the supreme court of the united states, who is his only cousin-german. to all these afflicted hearts may god be most gracious. thus has the country lost one of the most able, eloquent, and fearless of its defenders. called from this life at an age when most men are just beginning to command the respect and confidence of their fellows, he has left, nevertheless, a fame as wide as our vast country. he died nineteen years younger than washington and eight years younger than lincoln. at forty-eight years of age washington had not seen the glories of yorktown even in a vision, nor had lincoln dreamed of the presidential chair; and if they had died at that age they would have been comparatively unknown in history. doubtless god would have raised up other leaders, if they had been wanting, to conduct the great american column, which he has chosen to be the bodyguard of human rights and hopes, onward among the nations and the centuries; but in that event the th and d days of february would not be, as they now are, held sacred in our calendar. mr. davis had gathered into his house the literary treasures of four languages, and had reveled in spirit with the wise men of the ages. he had conned his books as jealously as a miner peering for gold, and had not left a panful of earth unwashed. he had collected the purest ore of truth and the richest gems of thought, until he was able to crown himself with knowledge. blessed with a felicitous power of analysis and a prodigious memory, he ransacked history, ancient and modern, sacred and profane; science, pure, empirical, and metaphysical; the arts, mechanical and liberal; the professions, law, divinity, and medicine; poetry and the miscellanies of literature; and in all these great departments of human lore he moved as easily as most men do in their particular province. his habit was not only to read but to reread the best of his books frequently, and he was continually supplying himself with better editions of his favorites. in current, playful conversation with friends he quoted right and left, in brief and at length, from the classics, ancient and modern, and from the drama, tragic and comic. in his speeches, on the contrary, he quoted but little, and only when he seemed to run upon a thought already expressed by some one else with singular force and appositeness. he was the best scholar i ever met for his years and active life, and was surpassed by very few, excepting mere book-worms. he has for many years been engaged in collecting extracts from newspapers, containing the leading facts and public documents of the day; but he never commonplaced from books. his thesaurus was his head. i have but little personal knowledge of mr. davis as a lawyer. it was never my good fortune to be associated with him in the trial of a cause; nor have i ever been present when he was so engaged. but at the time of his death he filled a high position at the bar, and was chosen to lead against the most distinguished of his brethren. on public and constitutional questions, as distinguished from those involving only private rights, he was a host, and in the argument of the cases which grew out of the adoption of the new constitution of maryland he won golden laurels, and drew extraordinary encomiums even from his opponents in that angry litigation. he was thoroughly read in the decisions of the federal courts, and especially in those declaring and defining constitutional principles. possessed of a mind of remarkable power, scope, and activity; with an immense fund of precious information, ready to respond to any call he might make upon it, however sudden; wielding a system of logic formed in the severest school, and tried by long practice; gifted with a rare command of language and an eloquence well nigh superhuman; and withal graced with manners the most accomplished and refined, and a person unusually handsome, graceful, and attractive. mr. davis entered public life with almost unparalleled personal advantages. having boldly presented himself before the most rigorous tribunal in the world, he proved himself worthy of its favor and attention. he soon rose to the front rank of debaters, and whenever he addressed the house all sides gave him a delighted audience. i shall not attempt a review of the topics discussed in the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth congresses. the day was fast coming when contests for the speakership and battles over appropriation bills, ay, even the fierce struggle over kansas, would sink into insignificance, and mr. davis, with that political prescience for which he was always remarkable, seemed to discern the first sign of the coming storm. the winds had been long sown, and now the whirlwind was to be reaped. the thirty-sixth congress, which had opened so inauspiciously, and which his vote had saved from becoming a perpetuated bedlam, met for its second session on the d of december, , with the clouds of civil war fast settling down upon the nation. in the hope that war might yet be averted, on the fourth day of the session, the celebrated committee of thirty-three was raised, with the lamented corwin, of ohio, as chairman, and mr. davis as the member from maryland. when the committee reported, mr. davis sustained the majority report in an able speech, in which, after urging every argument in favor of the report, he boldly proclaimed his own views, and the duties of his state and country. in his speech of th february, , he said: "i do not wish to say one word which will exasperate the already too much inflamed state of the public mind; but i will say that the constitution of the united states, and the laws made in pursuance thereof, _must be enforced_; and they who stand across the path of that enforcement must either _destroy_ the _power_ of the _united states_, or it will _destroy them_." for such utterances only a small part of the people of his state was on that day prepared. seduced by the wish, they still believed that the union could be preserved by fair and mutual concessions. they were on their knees praying for peace, ignorant that bloody war had already girded on his sword. his language was then deemed too harsh and unconciliatory, and hundreds, i among the number, denounced him in unmeasured terms. before the expiration of three months events had demonstrated his wisdom and our folly, and other paragraphs from that same speech became the fighting creed of the union men of maryland. he further said, on that occasion: "but, sir, there is one state i can speak for, and that is the state of maryland. confident in the strength of this great government to protect every interest, grateful for almost a century of unalloyed blessings, she has fomented no agitation; she has done no act to disturb the public peace; she has rested in the consciousness that if there be wrong the congress of the united states will remedy it; and that none exists which revolution would not aggravate. "mr. speaker, i am here this day to speak, and i say that i do speak, for the people of maryland, who are loyal to the united states; and that when my judgment is contested, i appeal to the people for its accuracy, and i am ready to maintain it before them. "in maryland we are dull, and cannot comprehend the right of secession. we do not recognize the right to make a revolution by a vote. we do not recognize the right of maryland to repeal the constitution of the united states, and if any convention there, called by whatever authority, under whatever auspices, undertake to inaugurate revolution in maryland, their authority will be resisted and defied in arms on the soil of maryland, in the name and by the authority of the constitution of the united states." in january, , the ensign of the republic, while covering a mission of mercy, was fired on by traitors. in february jefferson davis said, at stevenson, alabama, "we will carry war where it is easy to advance, where food for the sword and torch await our armies in the densely populated cities." in march the thirty-sixth congress, after vainly passing conciliatory resolutions by the score, among other things recommending the repeal of all personal liberty bills, declaring that there was no authority outside of the states where slavery was recognized to interfere with slaves or slavery therein, and proposing by two-thirds votes of both houses an amendment of the constitution prohibiting any future amendment giving congress power over slavery in the states, adjourned amid general terror and distress. abraham lincoln, having passed through the midst of his enemies, appeared at washington in due time and delivered his inaugural, closing with these memorable words: "in your hands, my dissatisfied fellow countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. the government will not assail you. "you can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors. you can have no oath registered in heaven to destroy the government, while i shall have the most solemn one to 'preserve, protect, and defend' it. "i am loth to close. we are not enemies, but friends. we must not be enemies. though passion may have strained, it must not break, our bonds of affection. "the mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living hearth and hearth-stone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the union, when again touched, as surely as they will be, by the better angels of our nature." words which, if human hearts do not harden into stone, through the long ages yet to come, "will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against the deep damnation of his taking off." the appeal was spurned; and, in the face of its almost godlike gentleness, they who already gloried in their anticipated saturnalia of blood inhumanly and falsely stigmatized it as a declaration of war. the long-patient north, slow to anger, in its agony still cried, "my brother; oh, my brother!" it remained for that final, ineradicable infamy of sumter to arouse the nation to arms! at last, to murder at one blow the hopes we had nursed so tenderly, they impiously dragged in the dust the glorious symbol of our national life and majesty, heaping dishonor upon it, and, like the sneering devil at the crucifixion, crying out, "come and deliver thyself!" and then no man, with the heart of a man, who loved his country and feared his god, dared longer delay to prepare for that great struggle which was destined to rock the earth. poor maryland! cursed with slavery, doubly cursed with traitors! mr. davis had said that maryland was loyal to the united states, and had pledged himself to maintain that position before the people. the time soon came for him to redeem his pledge. on the morning of the th of april the president issued his proclamation calling a special session of congress, which made an extra election necessary in maryland. before the sun of that day had gone down, this card was promulgated: _to the voters of the fourth congressional district of maryland:_ i hereby announce myself as a candidate for the house of representatives of the th congress of the united states of america, upon the basis of the _unconditional maintenance of the union_. should my fellow-citizens of _like views_ manifest their preference for a different candidate on _that basis_, it is not my purpose to embarrass them. h. winter davis. april , . but dark days were coming for baltimore. a mob, systematically organized in complicity with the rebels at richmond and harper's ferry, seized and kept in subjection an unsuspecting and unarmed population from the th to the th of april. for six days murder and treason held joint sway; and at the conclusion of their tragedy of horrid barbarities they gave the farce of holding an election for members of the house of delegates. to show the spirit that moved mr. davis under this ordeal, i cite from his letter, written on the th, to hon. william h. seward, the following: "i have been trying to collect the persons appointed scattered by the storm, and to compel them to take their offices or to decline. "i have sought men of undoubted courage and capacity for the places vacated. "we must show the secessionists that we are not frightened, but are resolved to maintain the government in the exercise of all its functions in maryland. "we have organized a guard, who will accompany the officers and hold the public buildings against all the secessionists in maryland. "a great reaction has set in. if we _now_ act promptly the day is ours and the state is safe." these matters being adjusted, he immediately took the field for congress on his platform against mr. henry may, conservative union, and in the face of an opposition which few men have dared to encounter, he carried on, unremittingly from that time until the election on the th of june, the most brilliant campaign against open traitors, doubters, and dodgers, that unrivalled eloquence, courage, and activity could achieve. everywhere, day and night, in sunshine and storm, in the market-houses, at the street corners, and in the public halls, his voice rang out clear, loud, and defiant for the "unconditional maintenance" of the union. he was defeated, but he sanctified the name of _unconditional union_ in the vocabulary of every true marylander. he gathered but , votes out of , , yet the result was a triumph which gave him the real fruits of victory; and he exclaimed to a friend, with laudable pride, "with six thousand of the workingmen of baltimore on my side, won in such a contest, i defy them to take the state out of the union." though not elected, he never ceased his efforts. with us it was a struggle for homes, hearths, and lives. he said at brooklyn: "you see the conflagration from a distance; it blisters me at my side. you can survive the integrity of the nation; we in maryland would live on the side of a gulf, perpetually tending to plunge into its depths. it is for us life and liberty; it is for you greatness, strength, and prosperity." nothing appalled him; nothing deterred him. he said, at baltimore, in : "the war department has been taught by the misfortune at bull run, which has broken no power nor any spirit, which bowed no state nor made any heart falter, which was felt as a humiliation that has brought forth wisdom." he also said, speaking of the rebels, and foretelling his own fate, if they succeeded in maryland: "they have inaugurated an era of confiscations, proscriptions, and exiles. read their acts of greedy confiscation, their law of proscriptions by the thousands. behold the flying exiles from the unfriendly soil of virginia, tennessee, and missouri." and so he worked on, never abating one jot of his uncompromising devotion to the union, like a second peter the hermit, preaching a cause, as he believed, truly represented by insignia as sacred as the cross, and for which no sacrifice, not even death, was too great. but his crowning glory was his leadership of the emancipation movement. the rebels, notwithstanding "my maryland's" bloody welcome at south mountain and antietam, claimed that she must belong to their confederacy because of the homogeneousness of her institutions. they contended that the fetters of slavery formed a chain that stretched across the potomac, and held in bondage not only , slaves, but , white people also. their constant theme was "the deliverance" of maryland. we resolved to break that last tie, and to take position unalterably on the side of the union and freedom, and thus to deal the final blow to the cause and support of rebellion. we organized our little band, almost ridiculous from its want of numbers, early in . a sibley tent would have held our whole army. our enemies laughed us to scorn, and the politicians would not accept our help on any terms, but denied us as earnestly as peter denied his lord. mr. davis was our acknowledged leader, and it was in the heat and fury of the contest which followed that our hearts were welded into permanent friendship. he was the platform maker, and he announced it in a few lines: "a hearty support of the entire policy of the national administration, including immediate emancipation by constitutional means." it was very short, but it covered all the ground. the campaign opened by the publication of an address, written by mr. davis, to the people of maryland, which, i venture to say, is unsurpassed by any state paper published in this age of able state papers for the warmth and vigor of its diction, and the lucidity and conclusiveness of its argumentation. it is a pamphlet of twenty pages, glowing throughout with the unmistakable marks of his genius and patriotism, and closing with these words of stirring cheer: "we do not doubt the result, and expect, freed from the trammels which now bind her, to see maryland, at no distant day, rapidly advancing in a course of unexampled prosperity with her sister _free_ states of the _undivided_ and _indivisible_ republic." mr. davis was ubiquitous. he was the life and soul of the whole contest. he arranged the order of battle, dictated the correspondence, wrote the important articles for the newspapers, and addressed all the concerted meetings. in short, neither his voice nor his pen rested in all the time of our travail. he would have no compromise; but rejected all overtures of the enemy short of unconditional surrender. on the eastern shore he spoke with irresistible power at elkton, easton, salisbury, and snow hill, at each of the three last-named towns with a crowd of wondering "american citizens of african descent" listening to him from afar, and looking upon him as if they believed him to be the seraph abdiel. his last appointment, in extreme southern maryland, he filled on friday, after which, bidding me a cordial god-speed, he descended from the stand, sprang into an open wagon awaiting him, travelled eighty miles through a raw night-air, reached cambridge by daylight, and then crossed the chesapeake, sixty miles, in time to close the campaign with one of his ringing speeches in monument square, baltimore, on saturday night. in this, our first contest, we were completely victorious. but we had yet a weary way before us. the legislature had then to pass a law calling a convention. that law had to be approved by a majority of the people. members of the convention had then to be elected in all parts of the state, and the constitution which they adopted had to be carried by a majority of the popular vote. he allowed himself no reprieve from labor until all this had been accomplished. and when the rest of us, worn out by incessant toil, gladly sought rest, he went before the court of appeals to maintain everything that had been done against all comers, and did so triumphantly. let free maryland never forget the debt of eternal gratitude she owes to henry winter davis. if oratory means the power of presenting thoughts by public and sustained speech to an audience in the manner best adapted to win a favorable decision of the question at issue, then mr. davis assuredly occupied the highest position as an orator. he always held his hearers in rapt attention until he closed, and then they lingered about to discuss with one another what they had heard. i have seen a promiscuous assembly, made up of friends and opponents, remain exposed to a beating rain for two hours rather than forego hearing him. those who had heard him most frequently were always ready to make the greatest effort to hear him again. even his bitterest enemies have been known to stand shivering on the street corners for a whole evening, charmed by his marvelous tongue. his stump efforts never fell below his high standard. he never condescended to a mere attempt to amuse. he always spoke to instruct, to convince, and to persuade through the higher and better avenues to favor. i never heard him deliver a speech that was not worthy of being printed and preserved. as a stump orator he was unapproachable, in my estimation, and i say that with a clear recollection of having heard, when a boy, that wonder of yankee birth and southern development, s. s. prentiss. mr. davis's ripe scholarship promptly tendered to his thought the happiest illustrations and the most appropriate forms of expression. his brain had become a teeming cornucopia, whence flowed in exhaustless profusion the most beautiful flowers and the most substantial fruits; and yet he never indulged in excessive ornamentation. his taste was almost austerely chaste. his style was perspicuous, energetic, concise, and withal highly elegant. he never loaded his sentences with meretricious finery, or high-sounding, supernumerary words. when he did use the jewelry of rhetoric, he would quietly set a metaphor in his page or throw a comparison into his speech which would serve to light up with startling distinctness the colossal proportions of his argument. of humor he had none; but his wit and sarcasm at times would glitter like the brandished cimeter of saladin, and, descending, would cut as keenly. the pathetic he never attempted; but when angered by a malicious assault his invective was consuming, and his epithets would wound like pellets of lead. although gallant to the graces of expression, he always compelled his rhetoric to act as handmaid to his dialectics. style may sometimes be an exotic; but when it is, it is sure to partake more and more, as years increase, of the peculiarities of the soil wherein it is nurtured. but the style of mr. davis was indigenous and strongly marked by his individuality. although he doubtless admired, and perhaps imitated, the condensation and dignity of gibbon, yet it is certain that he carefully avoided the monotonous stateliness and the elaborate and ostentatious art of that most erudite historian. i look in vain for his model in the skeptical gibbon, the cynical bolingbroke, or the gorgeous burke. these were all to him intellectual giants; but giants of false belief and practice. not even from tacitus, upon whom he looked with the greatest favor, could he have acquired his burning and impressive diction. henry winter davis was a man of faith, and believed in christ and his fellow-man. his heart and mind were both nourished into their full dimensions under the fostering influences of our free institutions; so that, being reared a freeman, he thought and spake as became a freeman. no other land could have produced such dauntless courage and such heroic devotion to honest conviction in a public man; and even our land has produced but few men of his stamp and ability. his implicit faith in god's eternal justice, and his grand moral courage, imparted to him his proselyting zeal, and gave him that amazing, kindling power which enabled him to light the fires of enthusiasm wherever he touched the public mind. to show his power in extemporaneous debate, as well as his determined patriotism, i will introduce a passage from his speech of april , , delivered in the house of representatives. you will remember that the end of the rebellion had not then appeared. grant, with his invincible legions, had not started to execute that greatest military movement of modern times, by which, after months of bloody persistence, hurling themselves continually against what seemed the frowning front of destiny, they finally drove the enemy from his strongholds, made fortune herself captive, and, binding her to their standards, held her there until the surrender of every rebel in arms closed the war amid the exultant plaudits of men and angels. our hopes had not then grown into victory, and we looked forward anxiously to the terrible march from the rappahannock to richmond. thinking that perhaps our army stood appalled before the great duty required of it, and that the people might be diverted from their purpose to crush the rebellion when they saw that it could only be accomplished at the cost of an ocean of human blood, a call was made on the floor of the american congress for a recognition of the southern confederacy. speaking for the nation, mr. davis said: "but, mr. speaker, if it be said that a time may come when the question of recognizing the southern confederacy will have to be answered, i admit it. * * * * when the people, exhausted by taxation, weary of sacrifices, drained of blood, betrayed by their rulers, deluded by demagogues into believing that peace is the way to union, and submission the path to victory, shall throw down their arms before the advancing foe; when vast chasms across every state shall make it apparent to every eye, when too late to remedy it, that division from the south is anarchy at the north, and that peace without union is the end of the republic; _then_ the independence of the south will be an accomplished fact, and gentlemen may, without treason to the dead republic, rise in this migratory house, wherever it may then be in america, and declare themselves for recognizing their masters at the south rather than exterminating them. until that day, in the name of the american nation; in the name of every house in the land where there is one dead for the holy cause; in the name of those who stand before us in the ranks of battle; in the name of the liberty our ancestors have confided to us, i devote to eternal execration the name of him who shall propose to destroy this blessed land rather than its enemies. "but until that time arrive it is the judgment of the american people there shall be no compromise; that ruin to ourselves or ruin to the southern rebels are the only alternatives. it is only by resolutions of this kind that nations can rise above great dangers and overcome them in crises like this. it was only by turning france into a camp, resolved that europe might exterminate but should not subjugate her, that france is the leading empire of europe to-day. it is by such a resolve that the american people, coercing a reluctant government to draw the sword and stake the national existence on the integrity of the republic, are now anything but the fragments of a nation before the world, the scorn and hiss of every petty tyrant. it is because the people of the united states, rising to the height of the occasion, dedicated this generation to the sword, and pouring out the blood of their children as of no account, and vowing before high heaven that there should be no end to this conflict but ruin absolute or absolute triumph, that we now are what we are; that the banner of the republic, still pointing onward, floats proudly in the face of the enemy; that vast regions are reduced to obedience to the laws, and that a great host in armed array now presses with steady step into the dark regions of the rebellion. it is only by the earnest and abiding resolution of the people that, whatever shall be our fate, it shall be grand as the american nation, worthy of that republic which first trod the path of empire and made no peace but under the banners of victory, that the american people will survive in history. and that will save us. we shall succeed, and not fail. i have an abiding confidence in the firmness, the patience, the endurance of the american people; and, having vowed to stand in history on the great resolve to accept of nothing but victory or ruin, victory is ours. and if with such heroic resolve we fall, we fall with honor, and transmit the name of liberty, committed to our keeping, untarnished, to go down to future generations. the historian of our decline and fall, contemplating the ruins of the last great republic, and drawing from its fate lessons of wisdom on the waywardness of men, shall drop a tear as he records with sorrow the vain heroism of that people who dedicated and sacrificed themselves to the cause of freedom, and by their example will keep alive her worship in the hearts of men till happier generations shall learn to walk in her paths. yes, sir, if we must fall, let our last hours be stained by no weakness. if we must fall, let us stand amid the crash of the falling republic and be buried in its ruins, so that history may take note that men lived in the middle of the nineteenth century worthy of a better fate, but chastised by god for the sins of their forefathers. let the ruins of the republic remain to testify to the latest generations our greatness and our heroism. and let liberty, crownless and childless, sit upon these ruins, crying aloud in a sad wail to the nations of the world, 'i nursed and brought up children and they have rebelled against me.'" mr. davis's most striking characteristics were his devotion to principle and his indomitable courage. there never was a moment when he could be truthfully charged with trimming or insincerity. his views were always clearly avowed and fearlessly maintained. he hated slavery, and he did not attempt to conceal it. he remembered the lessons of his youth, and his heart rebelled against the injustice of the system. his antipathy was deeply grounded in his convictions, and he could not be dissuaded, nor frightened, nor driven from expressing it. he was not a great captain, nor a mighty ruler; he was only one of the people, but, nevertheless, a hero. born under the flag of a nation which claimed for its cardinal principle of government, that all men are created free, yet held in abject slavery four millions of human beings; which erected altars to the living god, yet denied to creatures, formed in the image of god and charged with the custody of immortal souls, the common rights of humanity; he declared that the hateful inconsistency should cease to defile the prayers of christians and stultify the advocates of freedom. no dreamer was he, no mere theorist, but a worker, and a strong one, who did well the work committed to him. he entered upon his self-imposed task when surrounded by slaves and slave-owners. he stood face to face with the iniquitous superstition, and to their teeth defied its worshipers. to make proselytes he had to conquer prejudices, correct traditions, elevate duty above interest, and induce men who had been the propagandists of slavery to become its destroyers. think you his work was easy? count the long years of his unequal strife; gather from the winds, which scattered them, the curses of his foes; suffer under all the annoyances and insults which malice and falsehood can invent, and you will then understand how much of heart and hope, of courage and self-relying zeal, were required to make him what he was, and to qualify him to do what he did. and what did he? when the rough hand of war had stripped off the pretexts which enveloped the rebellion, and it became evident that slavery had struck at the life of the republic, unmindful of consequences to himself, he, among the first, arraigned the real traitor and demanded the penalty of death. the denunciations that fell upon him like a cloud wrapped him in a mantle of honor, and more truthfully than the great roman orator he could have exclaimed, "_ego hoc animo semperfui, ut invidiam virtute partam, gloriam non invidiam putarem_." this man, so stern and inflexible in the execution of a purpose, so rigorous in his demands of other men in behalf of a principle, so indifferent to preferment and all base objects of pursuit, had a monitor to whom he always gave an open ear and a prompt assent. it was no demon like that which attended socrates, no witch like that invoked by saul, no fiend like that to which faust resigned himself. a vision of light and life and beauty flitted ever palpably before him, and wooed him to the perpetual service of the good and true. the memory of a pious and beloved mother permeated his whole moral being, and kept warm within him the tenderest affection. hear how he wrote of her: "my mother was a lady of graceful and simple manners, fair complexion, blue eyes, and auburn hair, with a rich and exquisite voice, that still thrills my memory with the echo of its vanished music. she was highly educated for her day, when annapolis was the focus of intellect and fashion for maryland, and its fruits shone through her conversation, and colored and completed her natural eloquence, which my father used to say would have made her an orator, if it had not been thrown away on a woman. she was the incarnation of all that is christian in life and hope, in charity and thought, ready for every good work, herself the example of all she taught." it was the force of her precept and example that formed the man, and supplied him with his shield and buckler. his private life was spotless. his habits were regular and abstemious, and his practice in close conformity with the episcopal church, of which he was a member. he invariably attended divine service on sunday, and confined himself for the remainder of the day to a course of religious reading. if from his father he drew a courage and a fierce determination before which his enemies fled in confusion, from his mother he inherited those milder qualities that won for him friends as true and devoted as man ever possessed. some have said he was hard and dictatorial. they had seen him only when a high resolve had fired his breast, and when the gleam of battle had lighted his countenance. his friends saw deeper, and knew that beneath the exterior he assumed in his struggles with the world there beat a heart as pure and unsullied, as confiding and as gentle, as ever sanctified the domestic circle, or made loved ones happy. his heart reminded me of a spring among the hills of the susquehanna, to which i often resorted in my youth; around a part of it we boys had built a stone wall to protect it from outrage, while on the side next home we left open a path, easily traveled by familiar feet, and leading straight to the sweet and perennial waters within. he lived to hear the salvos that announced, after more than two centuries of bondage, the redemption of his native state. he lived to vote for that grand act of enfranchisement that wiped from the escutcheon of the nation the leprous stain of slavery, and to know that the constitution of the united states no longer recognized and protected property in man. he lived to witness the triumph of his country in its desperate struggle with treason, and to behold all its enemies, either wanderers, like cain, over the earth, or suppliants for mercy at her feet. he lived to catch the first glimpse of the coming glory of that new era of progress that matchless valor had won through the blood and carnage of a thousand battle-fields. he lived, through all the storm of war, to see, at last, america rejuvenated, rescued from the grasp of despotism, and rise victorious, with her garments purified and her brow radiant with the unsullied light of liberty. he lived to greet the return of "meek-eyed peace," and then he gently laid his head upon her bosom, and breathed out there his noble spirit. the sword may rust in its scabbard, and so let it; but free men, with free thought and free speech, will wage unceasing war until truth shall be enthroned and sit empress of the world. would to god that he had been spared to complete a life of three score and ten years, for the sake of his country and posterity. when i think of the good he would have accomplished had he survived for twenty years, i can say, in the language of fisher ames, "my heart, penetrated with the remembrance of the man, grows liquid as i speak, and i could pour it out like water." at the portals of his tomb we may bid farewell to the faithful christian, in the full assurance that a blessed life awaits him beyond the grave. serenely and trustfully he has passed from our sight and gone down into the dark waters. "so sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, and yet anon repairs his drooping head, and tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore flames in the forehead of the morning sky." from this hall, where as scholar, statesman, and orator he shone so brightly, he has disappeared forever. never again will he, answering to the roll-call from this desk, respond for his country and the rights of man. no more shall we hear his fervid eloquence in the day of imminent peril, invoking us, who hold the mighty power of peace and war, to dedicate ourselves, if need be, to the sword, but to accept no end of the conflict save that of absolute triumph for our country. he has gone to answer the great roll-call above, where the "brazen throat of war" is voiceless in the presence of the prince of peace. let us habitually turn to his recorded words, and gather wisdom as from the testament of a departed sage; and since we were witnesses of his tireless devotion to the cause of human freedom, let us direct that on the monument which loving hearts and willing hands will soon erect over his remains, there shall be deeply engraved the figure of a bursting shackle, as the emblem of the faith in which he lived and died. for the christian, scholar, statesman, and orator, all good men are mourners; but what shall i say of that grief which none can share--the grief of sincere friendship? oh, my friend! comforted by the belief that you, while living, deemed me worthy to be your companion, and loaded me with the proofs of your esteem, i shall fondly treasure, during my remaining years, the recollection of your smile and counsel. lost to me is the strong arm whereon i have so often leaned; but in that path which in time past we trod most joyfully together, i shall continue, as god shall give me to see my duty, with unfaltering though perhaps with unskilful steps, right onward to the end. admiring his brilliant intellect and varied acquirements, his invincible courage and unswerving fortitude, glorying in his good works and fair renown, but, more than all, _loving the man_, i shall endeavor to assuage the bitterness of grief by applying to him those words of proud, though tearful, satisfaction, from which the faithful tacitus drew consolation for the loss of that noble roman whom he delighted to honor: "quidquid ex agricola amavimus, quidquid mirati sumus, manet mansurumque est, in animis hominum, in æternitate temporum, fama rerum." transcriber's note minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. the writer uses some archaic spelling which has been kept as printed. and revised by joseph e. loewenstein, m.d. the american senator by anthony trollope first published in serial form in _temple bar magazine_ may, , through july, , and in book form in by chapman and hall. contents volume i. i. dillsborough. ii. the morton family. iii. the masters family. iv. the dillsborough club. v. reginald morton. vi. not in love. vii. the walk home. viii. the paragon's party at bragton. ix. the old kennels. x. goarly's revenge. xi. from impington gorse. xii. arabella trefoil. xiii. at bragton. xiv. the dillsborough feud. xv. a fit companion,--for me and my sisters. xvi. mr. gotobed's philanthropy. xvii. lord rufford's invitation. xviii. the attorney's family is disturbed. xix. "who valued the geese?" xx. there are convenances. xxi. the first evening at rufford hall. xxii. jemima. xxiii. poor caneback. xxiv. the ball. xxv. the last morning at rufford hall. xxvi. give me six months. xxvii. "wonderful bird!" volume ii. i. mounser green. ii. the senator's letter. iii. at cheltenham. iv. the rufford correspondence. v. "it is a long way." vi. the beginning of persecution. vii. mary's letter. viii. chowton farm for sale. ix. mistletoe. x. how things were arranged. xi. "you are so severe." xii. the day at peltry. xiii. lord rufford wants to see a horse. xiv. the senator is badly treated. xv. mr. mainwaring's little dinner. xvi. persecution. xvii. "particularly proud of you." xviii. lord rufford makes up his mind. xix. it cannot be arranged. xx. "but there is some one." xxi. the dinner at the bush. xxii. miss trefoil's decision. xxiii. "in these days one can't make a man marry." xxiv. the senator's second letter. xxv. providence interferes. xxvi. lady ushant at bragton. xxvii. arabella again at bragton. volume iii. i. "i have told him everything." ii. "now what have you got to say?" iii. mrs. morton returns. iv. the two old ladies. v. the last effort. vi. again at mistletoe. vii. the success of lady augustus. viii. "we shall kill each other." ix. changes at bragton. x. the will. xi. the new minister. xii. "i must go." xiii. in the park. xiv. lord rufford's model farm. xv. scrobby's trial. xvi. at last. xvii. "my own, own husband." xviii. "bid him be a man." xix. "is it tanti?" xx. benedict. xxi. arabella's success. xxii. the wedding. xxiii. the senator's lecture.--no. i. xxiv. the senator's lecture.--no. ii. xxv. the last days of mary masters. xxvi. conclusion. volume i. chapter i. dillsborough. i never could understand why anybody should ever have begun to live at dillsborough, or why the population there should have been at any time recruited by new comers. that a man with a family should cling to a house in which he has once established himself is intelligible. the butcher who supplied dillsborough, or the baker, or the ironmonger, though he might not drive what is called a roaring trade, nevertheless found himself probably able to live, and might well hesitate before he would encounter the dangers of a more energetic locality. but how it came to pass that he first got himself to dillsborough, or his father, or his grandfather before him, has always been a mystery to me. the town has no attractions, and never had any. it does not stand on a bed of coal and has no connection with iron. it has no water peculiarly adapted for beer, or for dyeing, or for the cure of maladies. it is not surrounded by beauty of scenery strong enough to bring tourists and holiday travellers. there is no cathedral there to form, with its bishops, prebendaries, and minor canons, the nucleus of a clerical circle. it manufactures nothing specially. it has no great horse fair, or cattle fair, or even pig market of special notoriety. every saturday farmers and graziers and buyers of corn and sheep do congregate in a sleepy fashion about the streets, but dillsborough has no character of its own, even as a market town. its chief glory is its parish church, which is ancient and inconvenient, having not as yet received any of those modern improvements which have of late become common throughout england; but its parish church, though remarkable, is hardly celebrated. the town consists chiefly of one street which is over a mile long, with a square or market-place in the middle, round which a few lanes with queer old names are congregated, and a second small open space among these lanes, in which the church stands. as you pass along the street north-west, away from the railway station and from london, there is a steep hill, beginning to rise just beyond the market-place. up to that point it is the high street, thence it is called bullock's hill. beyond that you come to norrington road,--norrington being the next town, distant from dillsborough about twelve miles. dillsborough, however, stands in the county of rufford, whereas at the top of bullock's hill you enter the county of ufford, of which norrington is the assize town. the dillsborough people are therefore divided, some two thousand five hundred of them belonging to rufford, and the remaining five hundred to the neighbouring county. this accident has given rise to not a few feuds, ufford being a large county, with pottery, and ribbons, and watches going on in the farther confines; whereas rufford is small and thoroughly agricultural. the men at the top of bullock's hill are therefore disposed to think themselves better than their fellow-townsfolks, though they are small in number and not specially thriving in their circumstances. at every interval of ten years, when the census is taken, the population of dillsborough is always found to have fallen off in some slight degree. for a few months after the publication of the figures a slight tinge of melancholy comes upon the town. the landlord of the bush inn, who is really an enterprising man in his way and who has looked about in every direction for new sources of business, becomes taciturn for a while and forgets to smile upon comers; mr. ribbs, the butcher, tells his wife that it is out of the question that she and the children should take that long-talked-of journey to the sea-coast; and mr. gregory masters, the well-known old-established attorney of dillsborough, whispers to some confidential friend that he might as well take down his plate and shut up his house. but in a month or two all that is forgotten, and new hopes spring up even in dillsborough; mr. runciman at the bush is putting up new stables for hunting-horses, that being the special trade for which he now finds that there is an opening; mrs. ribbs is again allowed to suggest mare-slocumb; and mr. masters goes on as he has done for the last forty years, making the best he can of a decreasing business. dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, in its own way, solid enough. the bush, which in the time of the present landlord's father was one of the best posting inns on the road, is not only substantial, but almost handsome. a broad coach way, cut through the middle of the house, leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean yard, and on each side of the coach way there are bay windows looking into the street,--the one belonging to the commercial parlour, and the other to the so-called coffee-room. but the coffee-room has in truth fallen away from its former purposes, and is now used for a farmer's ordinary on market days, and other similar purposes. travellers who require the use of a public sitting-room must all congregate in the commercial parlour at the bush. so far the interior of the house has fallen from its past greatness. but the exterior is maintained with much care. the brickwork up to the eaves is well pointed, fresh, and comfortable to look at. in front of the carriage-way swings on two massive supports the old sign of the bush, as to which it may be doubted whether even mr. runciman himself knows that it has swung there, or been displayed in some fashion, since it was the custom for the landlord to beat up wine to freshen it before it was given to the customers to drink. the church, too, is of brick--though the tower and chancel are of stone. the attorney's house is of brick, which shall not be more particularly described now as many of the scenes which these pages will have to describe were acted there; and almost the entire high street in the centre of the town was brick also. but the most remarkable house in dillsborough was one standing in a short thoroughfare called hobbs gate, leading down by the side of the bush inn from the market-place to church square, as it is called. as you pass down towards the church this house is on the right hand, and it occupies with its garden the whole space between the market-place and church square. but though the house enjoys the privilege of a large garden,--so large that the land being in the middle of a town would be of great value were it not that dillsborough is in its decadence,--still it stands flush up to the street upon which the front door opens. it has an imposing flight of stone steps guarded by iron rails leading up to it, and on each side of the door there is a row of three windows, and on the two upper stories rows of seven windows. over the door there is a covering, on which there are grotesquely-formed, carved wooden faces; and over the centre of each window, let into the brickwork, is a carved stone. there are also numerous underground windows, sunk below the earth and protected by iron railings. altogether the house is one which cannot fail to attract attention; and in the brickwork is clearly marked the date, ,--not the very best period for english architecture as regards beauty, but one in which walls and roofs, ceilings and buttresses, were built more substantially than they are to-day. this was the only house in dillsborough which had a name of its own, and it was called hoppet hall, the dillsborough chronicles telling that it had been originally built for and inhabited by the hoppet family. the only hoppet now left in dillsborough is old joe hoppet, the ostler at the bush; and the house, as was well known, had belonged to some member of the morton family for the last hundred years at least. the garden and ground it stands upon comprise three acres, all of which are surrounded by a high brick wall, which is supposed to be coeval with the house. the best ribston pippins,--some people say the only real ribston pippins,--in all rufford are to be found here, and its burgundy pears and walnuts are almost equally celebrated. there are rumours also that its roses beat everything in the way of roses for ten miles round. but in these days very few strangers are admitted to see the hoppet hall roses. the pears and apples do make their way out, and are distributed either by mrs. masters, the attorney's wife, or mr. runciman, the innkeeper. the present occupier of the house is a certain mr. reginald morton, with whom we shall also be much concerned in these pages, but whose introduction to the reader shall be postponed for awhile. the land around dillsborough is chiefly owned by two landlords, of whom the greatest and richest is lord rufford. he, however, does not live near the town, but away at the other side of the county, and is not much seen in these parts unless when the hounds bring him here, or when, with two or three friends, he will sometimes stay for a few days at the bush inn for the sake of shooting the coverts. he is much liked by all sporting men, but is not otherwise very popular with the people round dillsborough. a landlord if he wishes to be popular should be seen frequently. if he lives among his farmers they will swear by him, even though he raises his rental every ten or twelve years and never puts a new roof to a barn for them. lord rufford is a rich man who thinks of nothing but sport in all its various shapes, from pigeon-shooting at hurlingham to the slaughter of elephants in africa; and though he is lenient in all his dealings, is not much thought of in the dillsborough side of the county, except by those who go out with the hounds. at rufford, where he generally has a full house for three months in the year and spends a vast amount of money, he is more highly considered. the other extensive landlord is mr. john morton, a young man, who, in spite of his position as squire of bragton, owner of bragton park, and landlord of the entire parishes of bragton and mallingham,--the latter of which comes close up to the confines of dillsborough,--was at the time at which our story begins, secretary of legation at washington. as he had been an absentee since he came of age,--soon after which time he inherited the property,--he had been almost less liked in the neighbourhood than the lord. indeed, no one in dillsborough knew much about him, although bragton hall was but four miles from the town, and the mortons had possessed the property and lived on it for the last three centuries. but there had been extravagance, as will hereafter have to be told, and there had been no continuous residence at bragton since the death of old reginald morton, who had been the best known and the best loved of all the squires in rufford, and had for many years been master of the rufford hounds. he had lived to a very great age, and, though the great-grandfather of the present man, had not been dead above twenty years. he was the man of whom the older inhabitants of dillsborough and the neighbourhood still thought and still spoke when they gave vent to their feelings in favour of gentlemen. and yet the old squire in his latter days had been able to do little or nothing for them,--being sometimes backward as to the payment of money he owed among them. but he had lived all his days at bragton park, and his figure had been familiar to all eyes in the high street of dillsborough and at the front entrance of the bush. people still spoke of old mr. reginald morton as though his death had been a sore loss to the neighbourhood. and there were in the country round sundry yeomen, as they ought to be called,--gentlemen-farmers as they now like to style themselves,--men who owned some acres of land, and farmed these acres themselves. of these we may specially mention mr. lawrence twentyman, who was quite the gentleman-farmer. he possessed over three hundred acres of land, on which his father had built an excellent house. the present mr. twentyman,--lawrence twentyman, esquire, as he was called by everybody,--was by no means unpopular in the neighbourhood. he not only rode well to hounds but paid twenty-five pounds annually to the hunt, which entitled him to feel quite at home in his red coat. he generally owned a racing colt or two, and attended meetings; but was supposed to know what he was about, and to have kept safely the five or six thousand pounds which his father had left him. and his farming was well done; for though he was, out-and-out, a gentleman-farmer, he knew how to get the full worth in work done for the fourteen shillings a week which he paid to his labourers,--a deficiency in which knowledge is the cause why gentlemen in general find farming so expensive an amusement. he was a handsome, good-looking man of about thirty, and would have been a happy man had he not been too ambitious in his aspirations after gentry. he had been at school for three years at cheltenham college, which, together with his money and appearance and undoubted freehold property, should, he thought, have made his position quite secure to him; but, though he sometimes called young hampton of hampton wick "hampton," and the son of the rector of dillsborough "mainwaring," and always called the rich young brewers from norrington "botsey,"--partners in the well-known firm of billbrook & botsey; and though they in return called him "larry" and admitted the intimacy, still he did not get into their houses. and lord rufford, when he came into the neighbourhood, never asked him to dine at the bush. and--worst of all,--some of the sporting men and others in the neighbourhood, who decidedly were not gentlemen, also called him "larry." mr. runciman always did so. twenty or twenty-five years ago runciman had been his father's special friend,--before the house had been built and before the days at cheltenham college. remembering this lawrence was too good a fellow to rebuke runciman; but to younger men of that class he would sometimes make himself objectionable. there was another keeper of hunting stables, a younger man, named stubbings, living at stanton corner, a great hunting rendezvous about four miles from dillsborough; and not long since twentyman had threatened to lay his whip across stubbings' shoulders if stubbings ever called him "larry" again. stubbings, who was a little man and rode races, only laughed at mr. twentyman who was six feet high, and told the story round to all the hunt. mr. twentyman was more laughed at than perhaps he deserved. a man should not have his christian name used by every tom and dick without his sanction. but the difficulty is one to which men in the position of mr. lawrence twentyman are often subject. those whom i have named, together with mr. mainwaring the rector, and mr. surtees his curate, made up the very sparse aristocracy of dillsborough. the hamptons of hampton wick were ufford men, and belonged rather to norrington than dillsborough. the botseys, also from norrington, were members of the u. r. u., or ufford and rufford united hunt club; but they did not much affect dillsborough as a town. mr. mainwaring, who has been mentioned, lived in another brick house behind the church,--the old parsonage of st. john's. there was also a mrs. mainwaring, but she was an invalid. their family consisted of one son, who was at brasenose at this time. he always had a horse during the christmas vacation, and if rumour did not belie him, kept two or three up at oxford. mr. surtees, the curate, lived in lodgings in the town. he was a painstaking, eager, clever young man, with aspirations in church matters, which were always being checked by his rector. quieta non movere was the motto by which the rector governed his life, and he certainly was not at all the man to allow his curate to drive him into activity. such, at the time of our story, was the little town of dillsborough. chapter ii. the morton family. i can hardly describe accurately the exact position of the masters family without first telling all that i know about the morton family; and it is absolutely essential that the reader should know all the masters family intimately. mr. masters, as i have said in the last chapter, was the attorney in dillsborough, and the mortons had been for centuries past the squires of bragton. i need not take the reader back farther than old reginald morton. he had come to the throne of his family as a young man, and had sat upon it for more than half a century. he had been a squire of the old times, having no inclination for london seasons, never wishing to keep up a second house, quite content with his position as squire of bragton, but with considerable pride about him as to that position. he had always liked to have his house full, and had hated petty oeconomies. he had for many years hunted the county at his own expense,--the amusement at first not having been so expensive as it afterwards became. when he began the work, it had been considered sufficient to hunt twice a week. now the rufford and ufford hounds have four days, and sometimes a bye. it went much against mr. reginald morton's pride when he was first driven to take a subscription. but the temporary distress into which the family fell was caused not so much by his own extravagance as by that of two sons, and by his indulgence in regard to them. he had three children, none of whom were very fortunate in life. the eldest, john, married the daughter of a peer, stood for parliament, had one son, and died before he was forty, owing something over £ , . the estate was then worth £ , a year. certain lands not lying either in bragton or mallingham were sold, and that difficulty was surmounted, not without a considerable diminution of income. in process of time the grandson, who was a second john morton, grew up and married, and became the father of a third john morton, the young man who afterwards became owner of the property and secretary of legation at washington. but the old squire outlived his son and his grandson, and when he died had three or four great-grandchildren playing about the lawns of bragton park. the peer's daughter had lived, and had for many years drawn a dower from the bragton property, and had been altogether a very heavy incumbrance. but the great trial of the old man's life, as also the great romance, had arisen from the career of his second son, reginald. of all his children, reginald had been the dearest to him. he went to oxford, and had there spent much money; not as young men now spend money, but still to an extent that had been grievous to the old squire. but everything was always paid for reginald. it was necessary, of course, that he should have a profession, and he took a commission in the army. as a young man he went to canada. this was in , when all the world was at peace, and his only achievement in canada was to marry a young woman who is reported to have been pretty and good, but who had no advantages either of fortune or birth. she was, indeed, the daughter of a bankrupt innkeeper in montreal. soon after this he sold out and brought his wife home to bragton. it was at this period of the squire's life that the romance spoken of occurred. john morton, the brother with the aristocratic wife, was ten or twelve years older than reginald, and at this time lived chiefly at bragton when he was not in town. he was, perhaps, justified in regarding bragton as almost belonging to him, knowing as he did that it must belong to him after his father's lifetime, and to his son after him. his anger against his brother was hot, and that of his wife still hotter. he himself had squandered thousands, but then he was the heir. reginald, who was only a younger brother, had sold his commission. and then he had done so much more than this! he had married a woman who was not a lady! john was clearly of opinion that at any rate the wife should not be admitted into bragton house. the old squire in those days was not a happy man; he had never been very strong-minded, but now he was strong enough to declare that his house-door should not be shut against a son of his,--or a son's wife, as long as she was honest. hereupon the honourable mrs. morton took her departure, and was never seen at bragton again in the old squire's time. reginald morton came to the house, and soon afterwards another little reginald was born at bragton park. this happened as long ago as , twenty years before the death of the old squire. but there had been another child, a daughter, who had come between the two sons, still living in these days, who will become known to any reader who will have patience to follow these pages to the end. she married, not very early in life, a certain sir william ushant, who was employed by his country in india and elsewhere, but who found, soon after his marriage, that the service of his country required that he should generally leave his wife at bragton. as her father had been for many years a widower, lady ushant became the mistress of the house. but death was very busy with the mortons. almost every one died, except the squire himself and his daughter, and that honourable dowager, with her income and her pride who could certainly very well have been spared. when at last, in , the old squire went, full of years, full of respect, but laden also with debts and money troubles, not only had his son john, and his grandson john, gone before him, but reginald and his wife were both lying in bragton churchyard. the elder branch of the family, john the great-grandson, and his little sisters, were at once taken away from bragton by the honourable grandmother. john, who was then about seven years old, was of course the young squire, and was the owner of the property. the dowager, therefore, did not undertake an altogether unprofitable burden. lady ushant was left at the house, and with lady ushant, or rather immediately subject to her care, young reginald morton, who was then nineteen years of age, and who was about to go to oxford. but there immediately sprang up family lawsuits, instigated by the honourable lady on behalf of her grandchildren, of which reginald morton was the object. the old man had left certain outlying properties to his grandson reginald, of which hoppet hall was a part. for eight or ten years the lawsuit was continued, and much money was expended. reginald was at last successful, and became the undoubted owner of hoppet hall; but in the meantime he went to germany for his education, instead of to oxford, and remained abroad even after the matter was decided,--living, no one but lady ushant knew where, or after what fashion. when the old squire died the children were taken away, and bragton was nearly deserted. the young heir was brought up with every caution, and, under the auspices of his grandmother and her family, behaved himself very unlike the old mortons. he was educated at eton, after leaving which he was at once examined for foreign office employment, and commenced his career with great éclat. he had been made to understand clearly that it would be better that he should not enter in upon his squirearchy early in life. the estate when he came of age had already had some years to recover itself, and as he went from capital to capital, he was quite content to draw from it an income which enabled him to shine with peculiar brilliance among his brethren. he had visited bragton once since the old squire's death, and had found the place very dull and uninviting. he had no ambition whatever to be master of the u. r. u.; but did look forward to a time when he might be minister plenipotentiary at some foreign court. for many years after the old man's death, lady ushant, who was then a widow, was allowed to live at bragton. she was herself childless, and being now robbed of her great-nephews and nieces, took a little girl to live with her, named mary masters. it was a very desolate house in those days, but the old lady was careful as to the education of the child, and did her best to make the home happy for her. some two or three years before the commencement of this story there arose a difference between the manager of the property and lady ushant, and she was made to understand, after some half-courteous manner, that bragton house and park would do better without her. there would be no longer any cows kept, and painters must come into the house, and there were difficulties about fuel. she was not turned out exactly; but she went and established herself in lonely lodgings at cheltenham. then mary masters, who had lived for more than a dozen years at bragton, went back to her father's house in dillsborough. any reader with an aptitude for family pedigrees will now understand that reginald, master of hoppet hall, was first cousin to the father of the foreign office paragon, and that he is therefore the paragon's first cousin once removed. the relationship is not very distant, but the two men, one of whom was a dozen years older than the other, had not seen each other for more than twenty years,--at a time when one of them was a big boy, and the other a very little one; and during the greater part of that time a lawsuit had been carried on between them in a very rigorous manner. it had done much to injure both, and had created such a feeling of hostility that no intercourse of any kind now existed between them. it does not much concern us to know how far back should be dated the beginning of the connection between the morton family and that of mr. masters, the attorney; but it is certain that the first attorney of that name in dillsborough became learned in the law through the patronage of some former morton. the father of the present gregory masters, and the grandfather, had been thoroughly trusted and employed by old reginald morton, and the former of the two had made his will. very much of the stewardship and management of the property had been in their hands, and they had thriven as honest men, but as men with a tolerably sharp eye to their own interests. the late mr. masters had died a few years before the squire, and the present attorney had seemed to succeed to these family blessings. but the whole order of things became changed. within a few weeks of the squire's death mr. masters found that he was to be entrusted no further with the affairs of the property, but that, in lieu of such care, was thrown upon him the task of defending the will which he had made against the owner of the estate. his father and grandfather had contrived between them to establish a fairly good business, independently of bragton, which business, of course, was now his. as far as reading went, and knowledge, he was probably a better lawyer than either of them; but he lacked their enterprise and special genius, and the thing had dwindled with him. it seemed to him, perhaps not unnaturally, that he had been robbed of an inheritance. he had no title deeds, as had the owners of the property; but his ancestors before him, from generation to generation, had lived by managing the bragton property. they had drawn the leases, and made the wills, and collected the rents, and had taught themselves to believe that a morton could not live on his land without a masters. now there was a morton who did not live on his land, but spent his rents elsewhere without the aid of any masters, and it seemed to the old lawyer that all the good things of the world had passed away. he had married twice, his first wife having, before her marriage, been well known at bragton park. when she had died, and mr. masters had brought a second wife home, lady ushant took the only child of the mother, whom she had known as a girl, into her own keeping, till she also had been compelled to leave bragton. then mary masters had returned to her father and stepmother. the bragton park residence is a large, old-fashioned, comfortable house, but by no means a magnificent mansion. the greater part of it was built one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rooms are small and low. in the palmy days of his reign, which is now more than half a century since, the old squire made alterations, and built new stables and kennels, and put up a conservatory; but what he did then has already become almost old-fashioned now. what he added he added in stone, but the old house was brick. he was much abused at the time for his want of taste, and heard a good deal about putting new cloth as patches on old rents; but, as the shrubs and ivy have grown up, a certain picturesqueness has come upon the place, which is greatly due to the difference of material. the place is somewhat sombre, as there is no garden close to the house. there is a lawn, at the back, with gravel walks round it; but it is only a small lawn; and then divided from the lawn by a ha-ha fence, is the park. the place, too, has that sad look which always comes to a house from the want of a tenant. poor lady ushant, when she was there, could do little or nothing. a gardener was kept, but there should have been three or four gardeners. the man grew cabbages and onions, which he sold, but cared nothing for the walks or borders. whatever it may have been in the old time, bragton park was certainly not a cheerful place when lady ushant lived there. in the squire's time the park itself had always been occupied by deer. even when distress came he would not allow the deer to be sold. but after his death they went very soon, and from that day to the time of which i am writing, the park has been leased to some butchers or graziers from dillsborough. the ground hereabouts is nearly level, but it falls away a little and becomes broken and pretty where the river dill runs through the park, about half a mile from the house. there is a walk called the pleasance, passing down through shrubs to the river, and then crossing the stream by a foot-bridge, and leading across the fields towards dillsborough. this bridge is, perhaps, the prettiest spot in bragton, or, for that matter, anywhere in the county round; but even here there is not much of beauty to be praised. it is here, on the side of the river away from the house, that the home meet of the hounds used to be held; and still the meet at bragton bridge is popular in the county. chapter iii. the masters family. at six o'clock one november evening, mr. masters, the attorney, was sitting at home with his family in the large parlour of his house, his office being on the other side of the passage which cut the house in two and was formally called the hall. upstairs, over the parlour, was a drawing-room; but this chamber, which was supposed to be elegantly furnished, was very rarely used. mr. and mrs. masters did not see much company, and for family purposes the elegance of the drawing-room made it unfit. it added, however, not a little to the glory of mrs. masters' life. the house itself was a low brick building in the high street, at the corner where the high street runs into the market-place, and therefore, nearly opposite to the bush. it had none of the elaborate grandeur of the inn nor of the simple stateliness of hoppet hall, but, nevertheless, it maintained the character of the town and was old, substantial, respectable, and dark. "i think it a very spirited thing of him to do, then," said mrs. masters. "i don't know, my dear. perhaps it is only revenge." "what have you to do with that? what can it matter to a lawyer whether it's revenge or anything else? he's got the means, i suppose?" "i don't know, my dear." "what does nickem say?" "i suppose he has the means," said mr. masters, who was aware that if he told his wife a fib on the matter, she would learn the truth from his senior clerk, mr. samuel nickem. among the professional gifts which mr. masters possessed, had not been that great gift of being able to keep his office and his family distinct from each other. his wife always knew what was going on, and was very free with her advice; generally tendering it on that side on which money was to be made, and doing so with much feminine darkness as to right or wrong. his clerk, nickem, who was afflicted with no such darkness, but who ridiculed the idea of scruple in an attorney, often took part against him. it was the wish of his heart to get rid of nickem; but nickem would have carried business with him and gone over to some enemy, or, perhaps have set up in some irregular manner on his own bottom; and his wife would have given him no peace had he done so, for she regarded nickem as the mainstay of the house. "what is lord rufford to you?" asked mrs. masters. "he has always been very friendly." "i don't see it at all. you have never had any of his money. i don't know that you are a pound richer by him." "i have always gone with the gentry of the county." "fiddlesticks! gentry! gentry are very well as long as you can make a living out of them. you could afford to stick up for gentry till you lost the bragton property." this was a subject that was always sore between mr. masters and his wife. the former mrs. masters had been a lady--the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman; and had been much considered by the family at bragton. the present mrs. masters was the daughter of an ironmonger at norrington, who had brought a thousand pounds with her, which had been very useful. no doubt mr. masters' practice had been considerably affected by the lowliness of his second marriage. people who used to know the first mrs. masters, such as mrs. mainwaring, and the doctor's wife, and old mrs. cooper, the wife of the vicar of mallingham, would not call on the second mrs. masters. as mrs. masters was too high-spirited to run after people who did not want her, she took to hating gentry instead. "we have always been on the other side," said the old attorney,--"i and my father and grandfather before me." "they lived on it and you can't. if you are going to say that you won't have any client that isn't a gentleman, you might as well put up your shutters at once." "i haven't said so. isn't runciman my client?" "he always goes with the gentry. he a'most thinks he's one of them himself." "and old nobbs, the greengrocer. but it's all nonsense. any man is my client, or any woman, who can come and pay me for business that is fit for me to do." "why isn't this fit to be done? if the man's been damaged, why shouldn't he be paid?" "he's had money offered him." "if he thinks it ain't enough, who's to say that it is,--unless a jury?" said mrs. masters, becoming quite eloquent. "and how's a poor man to get a jury to say that, unless he comes to a lawyer? of course, if you won't have it, he'll go to bearside. bearside won't turn him away." bearside was another attorney, an interloper of about ten years' standing, whose name was odious to mr. masters. "you don't know anything about it, my dear," said he, aroused at last to anger. "i know you're letting anybody who likes take the bread out of the children's mouths." the children, so called, were sitting round the table and could not but take an interest in the matter. the eldest was that mary masters, the daughter of the former wife, whom lady ushant had befriended, a tall girl, with dark brown hair, so dark as almost to be black, and large, soft, thoughtful grey eyes. we shall have much to say of mary masters, and can hardly stop to give an adequate description of her here. the others were dolly and kate, two girls aged sixteen and fifteen. the two younger "children" were eating bread and butter and jam in a very healthy manner, but still had their ears wide open to the conversation that was being held. the two younger girls sympathised strongly with their mother. mary, who had known much about the mortons, and was old enough to understand the position which her grandfather had held in reference to the family, of course leaned in her heart to her father's side. but she was wiser than her father, and knew that in such discussions her mother often showed a worldly wisdom which, in their present circumstances, they could hardly afford to disregard, unpalatable though it might be. mr. masters disliked these discussions altogether, but he disliked them most of all in presence of his children. he looked round upon them in a deprecatory manner, making a slight motion with his hand and bringing his head down on one side, and then he gave a long sigh. if it was his intention to convey some subtle warning to his wife, some caution that she alone should understand, he was deceived. the "children" all knew what he meant quite as well as did their mother. "shall we go out, mamma?" asked dolly. "finish your teas, my dears," said mr. masters, who wished to stop the discussion rather than to carry it on before a more select audience. "you've got to make up your mind to-night," said mrs. masters, "and you'll be going over to the bush at eight." "no, i needn't. he is to come on monday. i told nickem i wouldn't see him to-night; nor, of course, to-morrow." "then he'll go to bearside." "he may go to bearside and be ----! oh, lord! i do wish you'd let me drop the business for a few minutes when i am in here. you don't know anything about it. how should you?" "i know that if i didn't speak you'd let everything slip through your fingers. there's mr. twentyman. kate, open the door." kate, who was fond of mr. twentyman, rushed up and opened the front door at once. in saying so much of kate, i do not mean it to be understood that any precocious ideas of love were troubling that young lady's bosom. kate masters was a jolly bouncing schoolgirl of fifteen, who was not too proud to eat toffy, and thought herself still a child. but she was very fond of lawrence twentyman, who had a pony that she could ride, and who was always good-natured to her. all the family liked mr. twentyman,--unless it might be mary, who was the one that he specially liked himself. and mary was not altogether averse to him, knowing him to be good-natured, manly, and straightforward. but mr. twentyman had proposed to her, and she had--certainly not accepted him. this, however, had broken none of the family friendship. every one in the house, unless it might be mary herself, hoped that mr. twentyman might prevail at last. the man was worth six or seven hundred a year, and had a good house, and owed no one a shilling. he was handsome, and about the best-tempered fellow known. of course they all desired that he should prevail with mary. "i wish that i were old enough, larry, that's all!" kate had said to him once, laughing. "i wouldn't have you, if you were ever so old," larry had replied; "you'd want to be out hunting every day." that will show the sort of terms that larry was on with his friend kate. he called at the house every saturday with the declared object of going over to the club that was held that evening in the parlour at the bush, whither mr. masters also always went. it was understood at home that mr. masters should attend this club every saturday from eight till eleven, but that he was not at any other time to give way to the fascinations of the bush. on this occasion, and we may say on almost every saturday night, mr. twentyman arrived a full hour before the appointed time. the reason of his doing so was of course well understood, and was quite approved by mrs. masters. she was not, at any rate as yet, a cruel stepmother; but still, if the girl could be transferred to so eligible a home as that which mr. twentyman could give her, it would be well for all parties. when he took his seat he did not address himself specially to the lady of his love. i don't know how a gentleman is to do so in the presence of her father, and mother, and sisters. saturday after saturday he probably thought that some occasion would arise; but, if his words could have been counted, it would have been found that he addressed fewer to her than to any one in the room. "larry," said his special friend kate, "am i to have the pony at the bridge meet?" "how very free you are, miss!" said her mother. "i don't know about that," said larry. "when is there to be a meet at the bridge? i haven't heard." "but i have. tony tuppett told me that they would be there this day fortnight." tony tuppett was the huntsman of the u. r. u. "that's more than tony can know. he may have guessed it." "shall i have the pony if he has guessed right?" then the pony was promised; and kate, trusting in tony tuppett's sagacity, was happy. "have you heard of all this about dillsborough wood?" asked mrs. masters. the attorney shrank at the question, and shook himself uneasily in his chair. "yes; i've heard about it," said larry. "and what do you think about it? i don't see why lord rufford is to ride over everybody because he's a lord." mr. twentyman scratched his head. though a keen sportsman himself, he did not specially like lord rufford,--a fact which had been very well known to mrs. masters. but, nevertheless, this threatened action against the nobleman was distasteful to him. it was not a hunting affair, or mr. twentyman could not have doubted for a moment. it was a shooting difficulty, and as mr. twentyman had never been asked to fire a gun on the rufford preserves, it was no great sorrow to him that there should be such a difficulty. but the thing threatened was an attack upon the country gentry and their amusements, and mr. twentyman was a country gentleman who followed sport. upon the whole his sympathies were with lord rufford. "the man is an utter blackguard, you know," said larry. "last year he threatened to shoot the foxes in dillsborough wood." "no!" said kate, quite horrified. "i'm afraid he's a bad sort of fellow all round," said the attorney. "i don't see why he shouldn't claim what he thinks due to him," said mrs. masters. "i'm told that his lordship offered him seven-and-six an acre for the whole of the two fields," said the gentleman-farmer. "goarly declares," said mrs. masters, "that the pheasants didn't leave him four bushels of wheat to the acre." goarly was the man who had proposed himself as a client to mr. masters, and who was desirous of claiming damages to the amount of forty shillings an acre for injury done to the crops on two fields belonging to himself which lay adjacent to dillsborough wood, a covert belonging to lord rufford, about four miles from the town, in which both pheasants and foxes were preserved with great care. "has goarly been to you?" asked twentyman. mr. masters nodded his head. "that's just it," said mrs. masters. "i don't see why a man isn't to go to law if he pleases--that is, if he can afford to pay for it. i have nothing to say against gentlemen's sport; but i do say that they should run the same chance as others. and i say it's a shame if they're to band themselves together and make the county too hot to hold any one as doesn't like to have his things ridden over, and his crops devoured, and his fences knocked to jericho. i think there's a deal of selfishness in sport and a deal of tyranny." "oh, mrs. masters!" exclaimed larry. "well, i do. and if a poor man,--or a man whether he's poor or no," added mrs. masters, correcting herself, as she thought of the money which this man ought to have in order that he might pay for his lawsuit,--"thinks hisself injured, it's nonsense to tell me that nobody should take up his case. it's just as though the butcher wouldn't sell a man a leg of mutton because lord rufford had a spite against him. who's lord rufford?" "everybody knows that i care very little for his lordship," said mr. twentyman. "nor i; and i don't see why gregory should. if goarly isn't entitled to what he wants he won't get it; that's all. but let it be tried fairly." hereupon mr. masters took up his hat and left the room, and mr. twentyman followed him, not having yet expressed any positive opinion on the delicate matter submitted to his judgment. of course, goarly was a brute. had he not threatened to shoot foxes? but, then, an attorney must live by lawsuits, and it seemed to mr. twentyman that an attorney should not stop to inquire whether a new client is a brute or not. chapter iv. the dillsborough club. the club, so called at dillsborough, was held every saturday evening in a back parlour at the bush, and was attended generally by seven or eight members. it was a very easy club. there was no balloting, and no other expense attending it other than that of paying for the liquor which each man chose to drink. sometimes, about ten o'clock, there was a little supper, the cost of which was defrayed by subscription among those who partook of it. it was one rule of the club, or a habit, rather, which had grown to be a rule, that mr. runciman might introduce into it any one he pleased. i do not know that a similar privilege was denied to any one else; but as mr. runciman had a direct pecuniary advantage in promoting the club, the new-comers were generally ushered in by him. when the attorney and twentyman entered the room mr. runciman was seated as usual in an arm-chair at the corner of the fire nearest to the door, with the bell at his right hand. he was a hale, good-looking man about fifty, with black hair, now turning grey at the edges, and a clean-shorn chin. he had a pronounced strong face of his own, one capable of evincing anger and determination when necessary, but equally apt for smiles or, on occasion, for genuine laughter. he was a masterful but a pleasant man, very civil to customers and to his friends generally while they took him the right way; but one who could be a tartar if he were offended, holding an opinion that his position as landlord of an inn was one requiring masterdom. and his wife was like him in everything,--except in this, that she always submitted to him. he was a temperate man in the main; but on saturday nights he would become jovial, and sometimes a little quarrelsome. when this occurred the club would generally break itself up and go home to bed, not in the least offended. indeed mr. runciman was the tyrant of the club, though it was held at his house expressly with the view of putting money into his pocket. opposite to his seat was another arm-chair,--not so big as mr. runciman's, but still a soft and easy chair,--which was always left for the attorney. for mr. masters was a man much respected through all dillsborough, partly on his own account, but more perhaps for the sake of his father and grandfather. he was a round-faced, clean-shorn man, with straggling grey hair, who always wore black clothes and a white cravat. there was something in his appearance which recommended him among his neighbours, who were disposed to say he "looked the gentleman;" but a stranger might have thought his cheeks to be flabby and his mouth to be weak. making a circle, or the beginning of a circle, round the fire, were nupper, the doctor,--a sporting old bachelor doctor who had the reputation of riding after the hounds in order that he might be ready for broken bones and minor accidents; next to him, in another arm-chair, facing the fire, was ned botsey, the younger of the two brewers from norrington, who was in the habit during the hunting season of stopping from saturday to monday at the bush, partly because the rufford hounds hunted on saturday and monday and on those days seldom met in the norrington direction, and partly because he liked the sporting conversation of the dillsborough club. he was a little man, very neat in his attire, who liked to be above his company, and fancied that he was so in mr. runciman's parlour. between him and the attorney's chair was harry stubbings, from stanton corner, the man who let out hunters, and whom twentyman had threatened to thrash. his introduction to the club had taken place lately, not without some opposition; but runciman had set his foot upon that, saying that it was "all d---- nonsense." he had prevailed, and twentyman had consented to meet the man; but there was no great friendship between them. seated back on the sofa was mr. ribbs, the butcher, who was allowed into the society as being a specially modest man. his modesty, perhaps, did not hinder him in an affair of sheep or bullocks, nor yet in the collection of his debts; but at the club he understood his position, and rarely opened his mouth to speak. when twentyman followed the attorney into the room there was a vacant chair between mr. botsey and harry stubbings; but he would not get into it, preferring to seat himself on the table at botsey's right hand. "so goarly was with you, mr. masters," mr. runciman began as soon as the attorney was seated. it was clear that they had all been talking about goarly and his law-suit, and that goarly and the law-suit would be talked about very generally in dillsborough. "he was over at my place this evening," said the attorney. "you are not going to take his case up for him, mr. masters?" said young botsey. "we expect something better from you than that." now ned botsey was rather an impudent young man, and mr. masters, though he was mild enough at home, did not like impudence from the world at large. "i suppose, mr. botsey," said he, "that if goarly were to go to you for a barrel of beer you'd sell it to him?" "i don't know whether i should or not. i dare say my people would. but that's a different thing." "i don't see any difference at all. you're not very particular as to your customers, and i don't ask you any questions about them. ring the bell, runciman, please." the bell was rung, and the two new-comers ordered their liquor. it was quite right that ned botsey should be put down. every one in the room felt that. but there was something in the attorney's tone which made the assembled company feel that he had undertaken goarly's case; whereas, in the opinion of the company, goarly was a scoundrel with whom mr. masters should have had nothing to do. the attorney had never been a sporting man himself, but he had always been, as it were, on that side. "goarly is a great fool for his pains," said the doctor. "he has had a very fair offer made him, and, first or last, it'll cost him forty pounds." "he has got it into his head," said the landlord, "that he can sue lord rufford for his fences. lord rufford is not answerable for his fences." "it's the loss of crop he's going for," said twentyman. "how can there be pheasants to that amount in dillsborough wood," continued the landlord, "when everybody knows that foxes breed there every year? there isn't a surer find for a fox in the whole county. everybody knows that lord rufford never lets his game stand in the way of foxes." lord rufford was mr. runciman's great friend and patron and best customer, and not a word against lord rufford was allowed in that room, though elsewhere in dillsborough ill-natured things were sometimes said of his lordship. then there came on that well-worn dispute among sportsmen, whether foxes and pheasants are or are not pleasant companions to each other. every one was agreed that, if not, then the pheasants should suffer, and that any country gentleman who allowed his gamekeeper to entrench on the privileges of foxes in order that pheasants might be more abundant, was a "brute" and a "beast," and altogether unworthy to live in england. larry twentyman and ned botsey expressed an opinion that pheasants were predominant in dillsborough wood, while mr. runciman, the doctor, and harry stubbings declared loudly that everything that foxes could desire was done for them in that elysium of sport. "we drew the wood blank last time we were there," said larry. "don't you remember, mr. runciman, about the end of last march?" "of course i remember," said the landlord. "just the end of the season, when two vixens had litters in the wood! you don't suppose bean was going to let that old butcher, tony, find a fox in dillsborough at that time." bean was his lordship's head gamekeeper in that part of the country. "how many foxes had we found there during the season?" "two or three," suggested botsey. "seven!" said the energetic landlord; "seven, including cub-hunting,--and killed four! if you kill four foxes out of an eighty-acre wood, and have two litters at the end of the season, i don't think you have much to complain of." "if they all did as well as lord rufford, you'd have more foxes than you'd know what to do with," said the doctor. then this branch of the conversation was ended by a bet of a new hat between botsey and the landlord as to the finding of a fox in dillsborough wood when it should next be drawn; as to which, when the speculation was completed, harry stubbings offered mr. runciman ten shillings down for his side of the bargain. but all this did not divert the general attention from the important matter of goarly's attack. "let it be how it will," said mr. runciman, "a fellow like that should be put down." he did not address himself specially to mr. masters, but that gentleman felt that he was being talked at. "certainly he ought," said dr. nupper. "if he didn't feel satisfied with what his lordship offered him, why couldn't he ask his lordship to refer the matter to a couple of farmers who understood it?" "it's the spirit of the thing," said mr. ribbs, from his place on the sofa. "it's a hodious spirit." "that's just it, mr. ribbs," said harry stubbings. "it's all meant for opposition. whether it's shooting or whether it's hunting, it's all one. such a chap oughtn't to be allowed to have land. i'd take it away from him by act of parliament. it's such as him as is destroying the country." "there ain't many of them hereabouts, thank god!" said the landlord. "now, mr. twentyman," said stubbings, who was anxious to make friends with the gentleman-farmer, "you know what land can do, and what land has done, as well as any man. what would you say was the real damage done to them two wheat-fields by his lordship's game last autumn? you saw the crops as they were growing, and you know what came off the land." "i wouldn't like to say." "but if you were on your oath, mr. twentyman? was there more than seven-and-sixpence an acre lost?" "no, nor five shillings," said runciman. "i think goarly ought to take his lordship's offer--if you mean that," said twentyman. then there was a pause, during which more drink was brought in, and pipes were re-lighted. everybody wished that mr. masters might be got to say that he would not take the case, but there was a delicacy about asking him. "if i remember right he was in rufford gaol once," said runciman. "he was let out on bail and then the matter was hushed up somehow," said the attorney. "it was something about a woman," continued runciman. "i know that on that occasion he came out an awful scoundrel." "don't you remember," asked botsey, "how he used to walk up and down the covert-side with a gun, two years ago, swearing he would shoot the fox if he broke over his land?" "i heard him say it, botsey," said twentyman. "it wouldn't have been the first fox he's murdered," said the doctor. "not by many," said the landlord. "you remember that old woman near my place?" said stubbings. "it was he that put her up to tell all them lies about her turkeys. i ran it home to him! a blackguard like that! nobody ought to take him up." "i hope you won't, mr. masters," said the doctor. the doctor was as old as the attorney, and had known him for many years. no one else could dare to ask the question. "i don't suppose i shall, nupper," said the attorney from his chair. it was the first word he had spoken since he had put down young botsey. "it wouldn't just suit me; but a man has to judge of those things for himself." then there was a general rejoicing, and mr. runciman stood broiled bones, and ham and eggs, and bottled stout for the entire club; one unfortunate effect of which unwonted conviviality was that mr. masters did not get home till near twelve o'clock. that was sure to cause discomfort; and then he had pledged himself to decline goarly's business. chapter v. reginald morton. we will now go back to hoppet hall and its inhabitants. when the old squire died he left by his will hoppet hall and certain other houses in dillsborough, which was all that he could leave, to his grandson reginald morton. then there arose a question whether this property also was not entailed. the former mr. masters, and our friend of the present day, had been quite certain of the squire's power to do what he liked with it; but others had been equally certain on the other side, and there had been a lawsuit. during that time reginald morton had been forced to live on a very small allowance. his aunt, lady ushant, had done what little she could for him, but it had been felt to be impossible that he should remain at bragton, which was the property of the cousin who was at law with him. from the moment of his birth the honourable mrs. morton, who was also his aunt by marriage, had been his bitter enemy. he was the son of an innkeeper's daughter, and according to her theory of life, should never even have been noticed by the real mortons. and this honourable old lady was almost equally adverse to lady ushant, whose husband had simply been a knight, and who had left nothing behind him. thus reginald morton had been friendless since his grandfather died, and had lived in germany, nobody quite knew how. during the entire period of this law-suit hoppet hall had remained untenanted. when the property was finally declared to belong to reginald morton, the hall, before it could be used, required considerable repair. but there was other property. the bush inn belonged to reginald morton, as did the house in which mr. masters lived, and sundry other smaller tenements in the vicinity. there was an income from these of about five hundred pounds a year. reginald, who was then nearly thirty years of age, came over to england, and stayed for a month or two at bragton with his aunt, to the infinite chagrin of the old dowager. the management of the town property was entrusted to mr. masters, and hoppet hall was repaired. at this period mr. mainwaring had just come to dillsborough, and having a wife with some money and perhaps quite as much pretension, had found the rectory too small, and had taken the hall on a lease for seven years. when this was arranged reginald morton again went to germany, and did not return till the lease had run out. by that time mr. mainwaring, having spent a little money, found that the rectory would be large enough for his small family. then the hall was again untenanted for awhile, till, quite suddenly, reginald morton returned to dillsborough, and took up his permanent residence in his own house. it soon became known that the new-comer would not add much to the gaiety of the place. the only people whom he knew in dillsborough were his own tenants, mr. runciman and mr. masters, and the attorney's eldest daughter. during those months which he had spent with lady ushant at bragton, mary had been living there, then a child of twelve years old; and, as a child, had become his fast friend. with his aunt he had continually corresponded, and partly at her instigation, and partly from feelings of his own, he had at once gone to the attorney's house. this was now two years since, and he had found in his old playmate a beautiful young woman, in his opinion very unlike the people with whom she lived. for the first twelvemonths he saw her occasionally,--though not indeed very often. once or twice he had drunk tea at the attorney's house, on which occasions the drawing-room upstairs had been almost as grand as it was uncomfortable. then the attentions of larry twentyman began to make themselves visible, infinitely to reginald morton's disgust. up to that time he had no idea of falling in love with the girl himself. since he had begun to think on such subjects at all he had made up his mind that he would not marry. he was almost the more proud of his birth by his father's side, because he had been made to hear so much of his mother's low position. he had told himself a hundred times that under no circumstances could he marry any other than a lady of good birth. but his own fortune was small, and he knew himself well enough to be sure that he would not marry for money. he was now nearly forty years of age and had never yet been thrown into the society of any one that had attracted him. he was sure that he would not marry. and yet when he saw that mr. twentyman was made much of and flattered by the whole masters family, apparently because he was regarded as an eligible husband for mary, reginald morton was not only disgusted, but personally offended. being a most unreasonable man he conceived a bitter dislike to poor larry, who, at any rate, was truly in love, and was not looking too high in desiring to marry the portionless daughter of the attorney. but morton thought that the man ought to be kicked and horsewhipped, or, at any rate, banished into some speechless exile for his presumption. with mr. runciman he had dealings, and in some sort friendship. there were two meadows attached to hoppet hall,--fields lying close to the town, which were very suitable for the landlord's purposes. mr. mainwaring had held them in his own hands, taking them up from mr. runciman, who had occupied them while the house was untenanted, in a manner which induced mr. runciman to feel that it was useless to go to church to hear such sermons as those preached by the rector. but morton had restored the fields, giving them rent free, on condition that he should be supplied with milk and butter. mr. runciman, no doubt, had the best of the bargain, as he generally had in all bargains; but he was a man who liked to be generous when generously treated. consequently he almost overdid his neighbour with butter and cream, and occasionally sent in quarters of lamb and sweetbreads to make up the weight. i don't know that the offerings were particularly valued; but friendship was engendered. runciman, too, had his grounds for quarrelling with those who had taken up the management of the bragton property after the squire's death, and had his own antipathy to the honourable mrs. morton and her grandson, the secretary of legation. when the law-suit was going on he had been altogether on reginald morton's side. it was an affair of sides, and quite natural that runciman and the attorney should be friendly with the new-comer at hoppet hall, though there were very few points of personal sympathy between them. reginald morton was no sportsman, nor was he at all likely to become a member of the dillsborough club. it was currently reported of him in the town that he had never sat on a horse or fired off a gun. as he had been brought up as a boy by the old squire this was probably an exaggeration, but it is certain that at this period of his life he had given up any aptitudes in that direction for which his early training might have suited him. he had brought back with him to hoppet hall many cases of books which the ignorance of dillsborough had magnified into an enormous library, and he was certainly a sedentary, reading man. there was already a report in the town that he was engaged in some stupendous literary work, and the men and women generally looked upon him as a disagreeable marvel of learning. dillsborough of itself was not bookish, and would have regarded any one known to have written an article in a magazine almost as a phenomenon. he seldom went to church, much to the sorrow of mr. surtees, who ventured to call at the house and remonstrate with him. he never called again. and though it was the habit of mr. surtees' life to speak as little ill as possible of any one, he was not able to say any good of mr. morton. mr. mainwaring, who would never have troubled himself though his parishioner had not entered a place of worship once in a twelvemonth, did say many severe things against his former landlord. he hated people who were unsocial and averse to dining out, and who departed from the ways of living common among english country gentlemen. mr. mainwaring was, upon the whole, prepared to take the other side. reginald morton, though he was now nearly forty, was a young-looking, handsome man, with fair hair, cut short, and a light beard, which was always clipped. though his mother had been an innkeeper's daughter in montreal he had the morton blue eyes and the handsome well-cut morton nose. he was nearly six feet high, and strongly made, and was known to be a much finer man than the secretary of legation, who was rather small, and supposed to be not very robust. our lonely man was a great walker, and had investigated every lane and pathway, and almost every hedge within ten miles of dillsborough before he had resided there two years; but his favourite rambles were all in the neighbourhood of bragton. as there was no one living in the house,--no one but the old housekeeper who had lived there always,--he was able to wander about the place as he pleased. on the tuesday afternoon, after the meeting of the dillsborough club which has been recorded, he was seated, about three o'clock, on the rail of the foot-bridge over the dill, with a long german pipe hanging from his mouth. he was noted throughout the whole country for this pipe, or for others like it, such a one usually being in his mouth as he wandered about. the amount of tobacco which he had smoked since his return to these parts, exactly in that spot, was considerable, for there he might have been found at some period of the afternoon at least three times a week. he would sit on this rail for half an hour looking down at the sluggish waters of the little river, rolling the smoke out of his mouth at long intervals, and thinking perhaps of the great book which he was supposed to be writing. as he sat there now, he suddenly heard voices and laughter, and presently three girls came round the corner of the hedge, which, at this spot, hid the dillsborough path,--and he saw the attorney's three daughters. "it's mr. morton," said dolly in a whisper. "he's always walking about bragton," said kate in another whisper. "tony tuppett says that he's the bragton ghost." "kate," said mary, also in a low voice, "you shouldn't talk so much about what you hear from tony tuppett." "bosh!" said kate, who knew that she could not be scolded in the presence of mr. morton. he came forward and shook hands with them all, and took off his hat to mary. "you've walked a long way, miss masters," he said. "we don't think it far. i like sometimes to come and look at the old place." "and so do i. i wonder whether you remember how often i've sat you on this rail and threatened to throw you into the river?" "i remember very well that you did threaten me once, and that i almost believed that you would throw me in." "what had she done that was naughty, mr. morton?" asked kate. "i don't think she ever did anything naughty in those days. i don't know whether she has changed for the worse since." "mary is never naughty now," said dolly. "kate and i are naughty, and it's very much better fun than being good." "the world has found out that long ago, miss dolly; only the world is not quite so candid in owning it as you are. will you come and walk round the house, miss masters? i never go in, but i have no scruples about the paths and park." at the end of the bridge leading into the shrubbery there was a stile, high indeed, but made commodiously with steps, almost like a double staircase, so that ladies could pass it without trouble. mary had given her assent to the proposed walk, and was in the act of putting out her hand to be helped over the stile, when mr. twentyman appeared at the other side of it. "if here isn't larry!" said kate. morton's face turned as black as thunder, but he immediately went back across the bridge, leading mary with him. the other girls, who had followed him on to the bridge, had of course to go back also. mary was made very unhappy by the meeting. mr. morton would of course think that it had been planned, whereas by mary herself it had been altogether unexpected. kate, when the bridge was free, rushed over it and whispered something to larry. the meeting had indeed been planned between her and dolly and the lover, and this special walk had been taken at the request of the two younger girls. morton stood stock still, as though he expected that twentyman would pass by. larry hurried over the bridge, feeling sure that the meeting with morton had been accidental and thinking that he would pass on towards the house. larry was not at all ashamed of his purpose, nor was he inclined to give way and pass on. he came up boldly to his love, and shook hands with her with a pleasant smile. "if you are walking back to dillsborough," he said, "maybe you'll let me go a little way with you?" "i was going round the house with mr. morton," she said timidly. "perhaps i can join you?" said he, bobbing his head at the other man. "if you intended to walk back with mr. twentyman--," began morton. "but i didn't," said the poor girl, who in truth understood more of it all than did either of the two men. "i didn't expect him, and i didn't expect you. it's a pity i can't go both ways, isn't it?" she added, attempting to appear cheerful. "come back, mary," said kate; "we've had walking enough, and shall be awfully tired before we get home." mary had thought that she would like extremely to go round the house with her old friend and have a hundred incidents of her early life called to her memory. the meeting with reginald morton had been altogether pleasant to her. she had often felt how much she would have liked it had the chance of her life enabled her to see more frequently one whom as a child she had so intimately known. but at the moment she lacked the courage to walk boldly across the bridge, and thus to rid herself of lawrence twentyman. she had already perceived that morton's manner had rendered it impossible that her lover should follow them. "i am afraid i must go home," she said. it was the very thing she did not want to do,--this going home with lawrence twentyman; and yet she herself said that she must do it,--driven to say so by a nervous dread of showing herself to be fond of the other man's company. "good afternoon to you," said morton very gloomily, waving his hat and stalking across the bridge. chapter vi. not in love. reginald morton, as he walked across the bridge towards the house, was thoroughly disgusted with all the world. he was very angry with himself, feeling that he had altogether made a fool of himself by his manner. he had shown himself to be offended, not only by mr. twentyman, but by miss masters also, and he was well aware, as he thought of it all, that neither of them had given him any cause of offence. if she chose to make an appointment for a walk with mr. lawrence twentyman and to keep it, what was that to him? his anger was altogether irrational, and he knew that it was so. what right had he to have an opinion about it if mary masters should choose to like the society of mr. twentyman? it was an affair between her and her father and mother in which he could have no interest; and yet he had not only taken offence, but was well aware that he had shown his feeling. nevertheless, as to the girl herself, he could not argue himself out of his anger. it was grievous to him that he should have gone out of his way to ask her to walk with him just at the moment when she was expecting this vulgar lover,--for that she had expected him he felt no doubt. yet he had heard her disclaim any intention of walking with the man! but girls are sly, especially when their lovers are concerned. it made him sore at heart to feel that this girl should be sly, and doubly sore to think that she should have been able to love such a one as lawrence twentyman. as he roamed about among the grounds this idea troubled him much. he assured himself that he was not in love with her himself, and that he had no idea of falling in love with her; but it sickened him to think that a girl who had been brought up by his aunt, who had been loved at bragton, whom he had liked, who looked so like a lady, should put herself on a par with such a wretch as that. in all this he was most unjust to both of them. he was specially unjust to poor larry, who was by no means a wretch. his costume was not that to which morton had been accustomed in germany, nor would it have passed without notice in bond street. but it was rational and clean. when he came to the bridge to meet his sweetheart he had on a dark-green shooting coat, a billicock hat, brown breeches, and gaiters nearly up to his knees. i don't know that a young man in the country could wear more suitable attire. and he was a well-made man,--just such a one as, in this dress, would take the eye of a country girl. there was a little bit of dash about him,--just a touch of swagger,--which better breeding might have prevented. but it was not enough to make him odious to an unprejudiced observer. i could fancy that an old lady from london, with an eye in her head for manly symmetry, would have liked to look at larry, and would have thought that a girl in mary's position would be happy in having such a lover, providing that his character was good and his means adequate. but reginald morton was not an old woman, and to his eyes the smart young farmer with his billicock hat, not quite straight on his head, was an odious thing to behold. he exaggerated the swagger, and took no notice whatever of the well-made limbs. and then this man had proposed to accompany him, had wanted to join his party, had thought it possible that a flirtation might be carried on in his presence! he sincerely hated the man. but what was he to think of such a girl as mary masters when she could bring herself to like the attentions of such a lover? he was very cross with himself because he knew how unreasonable was his anger. of one thing only could he assure himself,--that he would never again willingly put himself in mary's company. what was dillsborough and the ways of its inhabitants to him? why should he so far leave the old fashions of his life as to fret himself about an attorney's daughter in a little english town? and yet he did fret himself, walking rapidly, and smoking his pipe a great deal quicker than was his custom. when he was about to return home he passed the front of the house, and there, standing at the open door, he saw mrs. hopkins, the housekeeper, who had in truth been waiting for him. he said a good-natured word to her, intending to make his way on without stopping, but she called him back. "have you heard the news, mr. reginald?" she said. "i haven't heard any news this twelvemonth," he replied. "laws, that is so like you, mr. reginald. the young squire is to be here next week." "who is the young squire? i didn't know there was any squire now." "mr. reginald!" "a squire as i take it, mrs. hopkins, is a country gentleman who lives on his own property. since my grandfather's time no such gentleman has lived at bragton." "that's true, too, mr. reginald. any way mr. morton is coming down next week." "i thought he was in america." "he has come home, for a turn like,--and is staying up in town with the old lady." the old lady always meant the honourable mrs. morton. "and is the old lady coming down with him?" "i fancy she is, mr. reginald. he didn't say as much, but only that there would be three or four,--a couple of ladies he said, and perhaps more. so i am getting the east bedroom, with the dressing-room, and the blue room for her ladyship." people about bragton had been accustomed to call mrs. morton her ladyship. "that's where she always used to be. would you come in and see, mr. reginald?" "certainly not, mrs. hopkins. if you were asking me into a house of your own, i would go in and see all the rooms and chat with you for an hour; but i don't suppose i shall ever go into this house again unless things change very much indeed." "then i'm sure i hope they will change, mr. reginald." mrs. hopkins had known reginald morton as a boy growing up into manhood,--had almost been present at his birth, and had renewed her friendship while he was staying with lady ushant; but of the present squire, as she called him, she had seen almost nothing, and what she had once remembered of him had now been obliterated by an absence of twenty years. of course she was on reginald's side in the family quarrel, although she was the paid servant of the foreign office paragon. "and they are to be here next week. what day next week, mrs. hopkins?" mrs. hopkins didn't know on what day she was to expect the visitors, nor how long they intended to stay. mr. john morton had said in his letter that he would send his own man down two days before his arrival, and that was nearly all that he had said. then morton started on his return walk to dillsborough, again taking the path across the bridge. "ah!" he said to himself with a shudder as he crossed the stile, thinking of his own softened feelings as he had held out his hand to help mary masters, and then of his revulsion of feeling when she declared her purpose of walking home with mr. twentyman. and he struck the rail of the bridge with his stick as though he were angry with the place altogether. and he thought to himself that he would never come there any more, that he hated the place, and that he would never cross that bridge again. then his mind reverted to the tidings he had heard from mrs. hopkins. what ought he to do when his cousin arrived? though there had been a long lawsuit, there had been no actual declared quarrel between him and the heir. he had, indeed, never seen the heir for the last twenty years, nor had they ever interchanged letters. there had been no communication whatever between them, and therefore there could hardly be a quarrel. he disliked his cousin; nay, almost hated him; he was quite aware of that. and he was sure also that he hated that honourable old woman worse than any one else in the world, and that he always would do so. he knew that the honourable old woman had attempted to drive his own mother from bragton, and of course he hated her. but that was no reason why he should not call on his cousin. he was anxious to do what was right. he was specially anxious that blame should not be attributed to him. what he would like best would be that he might call, might find nobody at home,--and that then john morton should not return the courtesy. he did not want to go to bragton as a guest; he did not wish to be in the wrong himself; but he was by no means equally anxious that his cousin should keep himself free from reproach. the bridge path came out on the dillsborough road just two miles from the town, and morton, as he got over the last stile, saw lawrence twentyman coming towards him on the road. the man, no doubt, had gone all the way into dillsborough with the girls, and was now returning home. the parish of bragton lies to the left of the high road as you go into the town from rufford and the direction of london, whereas chowton farm, the property of mr. twentyman, is on the right of the road, but in the large parish of st. john's, dillsborough. dillsborough wood lies at the back of larry twentyman's land, and joining on to larry's land and also to the wood is the patch of ground owned by "that scoundrel goarly." chowton farm gate opens on to the high road, so that larry was now on his direct way home. as soon as he saw morton he made up his mind to speak to him. he was quite sure from what had passed between him and the girls, on the road home, that he had done something wrong. he was convinced that he had interfered in some ill-bred way, though he did not at all know how. of reginald morton he was not in the least jealous. he, too, was of a jealous temperament, but it had never occurred to him to join reginald morton and mary masters together. he was very much in love with mary, but had no idea that she was in any way above the position which she might naturally hold as daughter of the dillsborough attorney. but of reginald morton's attributes and scholarship and general standing he had a mystified appreciation which saved him from the pain of thinking that such a man could be in love with his sweetheart. as he certainly did not wish to quarrel with morton, having always taken reginald's side in the family disputes, he thought that he would say a civil word in passing, and, if possible, apologise. when morton came up he raised his hand to his head and did open his mouth, though not pronouncing any word very clearly. morton looked at him as grim as death, just raised his hand, and then passed on with a quick step. larry was displeased; but the other was so thoroughly a gentleman,--one of the mortons, and a man of property in the county,--that he didn't even yet wish to quarrel with him. "what the deuce have i done?" said he to himself as he walked on--"i didn't tell her not to go up to the house. if i offered to walk with her what was that to him?" it must be remembered that lawrence twentyman was twelve years younger than reginald morton, and that a man of twenty-eight is apt to regard a man of forty as very much too old for falling in love. it is a mistake which it will take him fully ten years to rectify, and then he will make a similar mistake as to men of fifty. with his awe for morton's combined learning and age, it never occurred to him to be jealous. morton passed on rapidly, almost feeling that he had been a brute. but what business had the objectionable man to address him? he tried to excuse himself, but yet he felt that he had been a brute,--and had so demeaned himself in reference to the daughter of the dillsborough attorney! he would teach himself to do all he could to promote the marriage. he would give sage advice to mary masters as to the wisdom of establishing herself,--having not an hour since made up his mind that he would never see her again! he would congratulate the attorney and mrs. masters. he would conquer the absurd feeling which at present was making him wretched. he would cultivate some sort of acquaintance with the man, and make the happy pair a wedding present. but, yet, what "a beast" the man was, with that billicock hat on one side of his head, and those tight leather gaiters! as he passed through the town towards his own house, he saw mr. runciman standing in front of the hotel. his road took him up hobbs gate, by the corner of the bush; but runciman came a little out of the way to meet him. "you have heard the news?" said the innkeeper. "i have heard one piece of news." "what's that, sir?" "come,--you tell me yours first." "the young squire is coming down to bragton next week." "that's my news too. it is not likely that there should be two matters of interest in dillsborough on the same day." "i don't know why dillsborough should be worse off than any other place, mr. morton; but at any rate the squire's coming." "so mrs. hopkins told me. has he written to you?" "his coachman or his groom has; or perhaps he keeps what they call an ekkery. he's much too big a swell to write to the likes of me. lord bless me,--when i think of it, i wonder how many dozen of orders i've had from lord rufford under his own hand. 'dear runciman, dinner at eight; ten of us; won't wait a moment. yours r.' i suppose mr. morton would think that his lordship had let himself down by anything of that sort?" "what does my cousin want?" "two pair of horses,--for a week certain, and perhaps longer, and two carriages. how am i to let anyone have two pair of horses for a week certain,--and perhaps longer? what are other customers to do? i can supply a gentleman by the month and buy horses to suit; or i can supply him by the job. but i guess mr. morton don't well know how things are managed in this country. he'll have to learn." "what day does he come?" "they haven't told me that yet, mr. morton." chapter vii. the walk home. mary masters, when reginald morton had turned his back upon her at the bridge, was angry with herself and with him, which was reasonable; and very angry also with larry twentyman, which was unreasonable. as she had at once acceded to morton's proposal that they should walk round the house together, surely he should not have deserted her so soon. it had not been her fault that the other man had come up. she had not wanted him. but she was aware that when the option had in some sort been left to herself, she had elected to walk back with larry. she knew her own motives and her own feelings, but neither of the men would understand them. because she preferred the company of mr. morton, and had at the moment feared that her sisters would have deserted her had she followed him, therefore she had declared her purpose of going back to dillsborough, in doing which she knew that larry and the girls would accompany her. but of course mr. morton would think that she had preferred the company of her recognised admirer. it was pretty well known in dillsborough that larry was her lover. her stepmother had spoken of it very freely; and larry himself was a man who did not keep his lights hidden under a bushel. "i hope i've not been in the way, mary," said mr. twentyman, as soon as morton was out of hearing. "in the way of what?" "i didn't think there was any harm in offering to go up to the house with you if you were going." "who has said there was any harm?" the path was only broad enough for one and she was walking first. larry was following her and the girls were behind him. "i think that mr. morton is a very stuck-up fellow," said kate, who was the last. "hold your tongue, kate," said mary. "you don't know what you are talking about." "i know as well as any one when a person is good-natured. what made him go off in that hoity-toity fashion? nobody had said anything to him." "he always looks as though he were going to eat somebody," said dolly. "he shan't eat me," said kate. then there was a pause, during which they all went along quickly, mary leading the way. larry felt that he was wasting his opportunity; and yet hardly knew how to use it, feeling that the girl was angry with him. "i wish you'd say, mary, whether you think that i did anything wrong?" "nothing wrong to me, mr. twentyman." "did i do anything wrong to him?" "i don't know how far you may be acquainted with him. he was proposing to go somewhere, and you offered to go with him." "i offered to go with you," said larry sturdily. "i suppose i'm sufficiently acquainted with you." "quite so," said mary. "why should he be so proud? i never said an uncivil word to him. he's nothing to me. if he can do without me, i'm sure that i can do without him." "very well indeed, i should think." "the truth is, mary--" "there has been quite enough said about it, mr. twentyman." "the truth is, mary, i came on purpose to have a word with you." hearing this, kate rushed on and pulled larry by the tail of his coat. "how did you know i was to be there?" demanded mary sharply. "i didn't know. i had reason to think you perhaps might be there. the girls i knew had been asking you to come as far as the bridge. at any rate i took my chance. i'd seen him some time before, and then i saw you." "if i'm to be watched about in that way," said mary angrily, "i won't go out at all." "of course i want to see you. why shouldn't i? i'm all fair and above board;--ain't i? your father and mother know all about it. it isn't as though i were doing anything clandestine." he paused for a reply, but mary walked on in silence. she knew quite well that he was warranted in seeking her, and that nothing but a very positive decision on her part could put an end to his courtship. at the present moment she was inclined to be very positive, but he had hardly as yet given her an opportunity of speaking out. "i think you know, mary, what it is that i want." they were now at a rough stile which enabled him to come close up to her and help her. she tripped over the stile with a light step and again walked on rapidly. the field they were in enabled him to get up to her side, and now if ever was his opportunity. it was a long straggling meadow which he knew well, with the dill running by it all the way,--or rather two meadows with an open space where there had once been a gate. he had ridden through the gap a score of times, and knew that at the further side of the second meadow they would come upon the high road. the fields were certainly much better for his purpose than the road. "don't you think, mary, you could say a kind word to me?" "i never said anything unkind." "you can't think ill of me for loving you better than all the world." "i don't think ill of you at all. i think very well of you." "that's kind." "so i do. how can i help thinking well of you, when i've never heard anything but good of you?" "then why shouldn't you say at once that you'll have me, and make me the happiest man in all the county?" "because--" "well!" "i told you before, mr. twentyman, and that ought to have been enough. a young woman doesn't fall in love with every man that she thinks well of. i should like you as well as all the rest of the family if you would only marry some other girl." "i shall never do that." "yes you will;--some day." "never. i've set my heart upon it, and i mean to stick to it. i'm not the fellow to turn about from one girl to another. what i want is the girl i love. i've money enough and all that kind of thing of my own." "i'm sure you're disinterested, mr. twentyman." "yes, i am. ever since you've been home from bragton it has been the same thing, and when i felt that it was so, i spoke up to your father honestly. i haven't been beating about the bush, and i haven't done anything that wasn't honourable." they were very near the last stile now. "come, mary, if you won't make me a promise, say that you'll think of it." "i have thought of it, mr. twentyman, and i can't make you any other answer. i dare say i'm very foolish." "i wish you were more foolish. perhaps then you wouldn't be so hard to please." "whether i'm wise or foolish, indeed, indeed, it's no good your going on. now we're on the road. pray go back home, mr. twentyman." "it'll be getting dark in a little time." "not before we're in dillsborough. if it were ever so dark we could find our way home by ourselves. come along, dolly." over the last stile he had stayed a moment to help the younger girl, and as he did so kate whispered a word in his ear. "she's angry because she couldn't go up to the house with that stuck-up fellow." it was a foolish word; but then kate masters had not had much experience in the world. whether overcome by mary's resolute mode of speaking, or aware that the high road would not suit his purpose, he did turn back as soon as he had seen them a little way on their return towards the town. he had not gone half a mile before he met morton, and had been half-minded to make some apology to him. but morton had denied him the opportunity, and he had walked on to his own house,--low in spirits indeed, but still with none of that sorest of agony which comes to a lover from the feeling that his love loves some one else. mary had been very decided with him,--more so he feared than before; but still he saw no reason why he should not succeed at last. mrs. masters had told him that mary would certainly give a little trouble in winning, but would be the more worth the winner's trouble when won. and she had certainly shown no preference for any other young man about the town. there had been a moment when he had much dreaded mr. surtees. young clergymen are apt to be formidable rivals, and mr. surtees had certainly made some overtures of friendship to mary masters. but larry had thought that he had seen that these overtures had not led to much, and then that fear had gone from him. he did believe that mary was now angry because she had not been allowed to walk about bragton with her old friend mr. morton. it had been natural that she should like to do so. it was the pride of mary's life that she had been befriended by the mortons and lady ushant. but it did not occur to him that he ought to be jealous of mr. morton,--though it had occurred to kate masters. there was very little said between the sisters on their way back to the town. mary was pretty sure now that the two girls had made the appointment with larry, but she was unwilling to question them on the subject. immediately on their arrival at home they heard the great news. john morton was coming to bragton with a party of ladies and gentlemen. mrs. hopkins had spoken of four persons. mrs. masters told mary that there were to be a dozen at least, and that four or five pairs of horses and half a dozen carriages had been ordered from mr. runciman. "he means to cut a dash when he does begin," said mrs. masters. "is he going to stay, mother?" "he wouldn't come down in that way if it was only for a few days i suppose. but what they will do for furniture i don't know." "there's plenty of furniture, mother." "a thousand years old. or for wine, or fruit, or plate." "the old plate was there when lady ushant left." "people do things now in a very different way from what they used. a couple of dozen silver forks made quite a show on the old squire's table. now they change the things so often that ten dozen is nothing. i don't suppose there's a bottle of wine in the cellar." "they can get wine from cobbold, mother." "cobbold's wine won't go down with them i fancy. i wonder what servants they're bringing." when mr. masters came in from his office the news was corroborated. mr. john morton was certainly coming to bragton. the attorney had still a small unsettled and disputed claim against the owner of the property, and he had now received by the day mail an answer to a letter which he had written to mr. morton, saying that that gentleman would see him in the course of the next fortnight. chapter viii. the paragon's party at bragton. there was certainly a great deal of fuss made about john morton's return to the home of his ancestors,--made altogether by himself and those about him, and not by those who were to receive him. on the thursday in the week following that of which we have been speaking, two carriages from the bush met the party at the railway station and took them to bragton. mr. runciman, after due consideration, put up with the inconsiderate nature of the order given, and supplied the coaches and horses as required,--consoling himself no doubt with the reflection that he could charge for the unreasonableness of the demand in the bill. the coachman and butler had come down two days before their master, so that things might be in order. mrs. hopkins learned from the butler that though the party would at first consist only of three, two other very august persons were to follow on the saturday,--no less than lady augustus trefoil and her daughter arabella. and mrs. hopkins was soon led to imagine, though no positive information was given to her on the subject, that miss trefoil was engaged to be married to their master. "will he live here altogether, mr. tankard?" mrs. hopkins asked. to this question mr. tankard was able to give a very definite answer. he was quite sure that mr. morton would not live anywhere altogether. according to mr. tankard's ideas, the whole foreign policy of england depended on mr. john morton's presence in some capital, either in europe, asia, or america,--upon mr. morton's presence, and of course upon his own also. mr. tankard thought it not improbable that they might soon be wanted at hong kong, or some very distant place,--but in the meantime they were bound to be back at washington very shortly. tankard had himself been at washington, and also before that at lisbon, and could tell mrs. hopkins how utterly unimportant had been the actual ministers at those places, and how the welfare of england had depended altogether on the discretion and general omniscience of his young master,--and of himself. he, tankard, had been the only person in washington who had really known in what order americans should go out to dinner one after another. mr. elias gotobed, who was coming, was perhaps the most distinguished american of the day, and was senator for mickewa. "mickey war!" said poor mrs. hopkins,--"that's been one of them terrible american wars we used to hear of." then tankard explained to her that mickewa was one of the western states and mr. elias gotobed was a great republican, who had very advanced opinions of his own respecting government, liberty, and public institutions in general. with mr. morton and the senator was coming the honourable mrs. morton. the lady had her lady's maid,--and mr. morton had his own man; so that there would be a great influx of persons. of course there was very much perturbation of spirit. mrs. hopkins, after that first letter, the contents of which she had communicated to reginald morton, had received various despatches and been asked various questions. could she find a cook? could she find two housemaids? and all these were only wanted for a time. in her distress she went to mrs. runciman, and did get assistance. "i suppose he thinks he's to have the cook out of my kitchen?" runciman had said. somebody, however, was found who said she could cook, and two girls who professed that they knew how to make beds. and in this way an establishment was ready before the arrival of the secretary of legation and the great american senator. those other questions of wine and plate and vegetables had, no doubt, settled themselves after some fashion. john morton had come over to england on leave of absence for four months, and had brought with him the senator from mickewa. the senator had never been in england before and was especially anxious to study the british constitution and to see the ways of britons with his own eyes. he had only been a fortnight in london before this journey down to the county had been planned. mr. gotobed wished to see english country life and thought that he could not on his first arrival have a better opportunity. it must be explained also that there was another motive for this english rural sojourn. lady augustus trefoil, who was an adventurous lady, had been travelling in the united states with her daughter, and had there fallen in with mr. john morton. arabella trefoil was a beauty, and a woman of fashion, and had captivated the paragon. an engagement had been made, subject to various stipulations; the consent of lord augustus in the first place,--as to which john morton who only understood foreign affairs was not aware, as he would have been had he lived in england, that lord augustus was nobody. lady augustus had spoken freely as to settlements, value of property, life insurance and such matters; and had spoken firmly, as well as freely, expressing doubt as to the expediency of such an engagement;--all of which had surprised mr. morton considerably, for the young lady had at first been left in his hands with almost american freedom. and now lady augustus and her daughter were coming down on a visit of inspection. they had been told, as had the senator, that things would be in the rough. the house had not been properly inhabited for nearly a quarter of a century. the senator had expressed himself quite contented. lady augustus had only hoped that everything would be made as comfortable as possible for her daughter. i don't know what more could have been done at so short a notice than to order two carriages, two housemaids, and a cook. a word or two must also be said of the old lady who made one of the party. the honourable mrs. morton was now seventy, but no old lady ever showed less signs of advanced age. it is not to be understood from this that she was beautiful;--but that she was very strong. what might be the colour of her hair, or whether she had any, no man had known for many years. but she wore so perfect a front that some people were absolutely deluded. she was very much wrinkled;--but as there are wrinkles which seem to come from the decay of those muscles which should uphold the skin, so are there others which seem to denote that the owner has simply got rid of the watery weaknesses of juvenility. mrs. morton's wrinkles were strong wrinkles. she was thin, but always carried herself bolt upright, and would never even lean back in her chair. she had a great idea of her duty, and hated everybody who differed from her with her whole heart. she was the daughter of a viscount, a fact which she never forgot for a single moment, and which she thought gave her positive superiority to all women who were not the daughters of dukes or marquises, or of earls. therefore, as she did not live much in the fashionable world, she rarely met any one above herself. her own fortune on her marriage had been small, but now she was a rich woman. her husband had been dead nearly half a century and during the whole of that time she had been saving money. to two charities she gave annually £ per annum each. duty demanded it, and the money was given. beyond that she had never been known to spend a penny in charity. duty, she had said more than once, required of her that she do something to repair the ravages made on the morton property by the preposterous extravagance of the old squire in regard to the younger son, and that son's--child. in her anger she had not hesitated on different occasions to call the present reginald a bastard, though the expression was a wicked calumny for which there was no excuse. without any aid of hers the morton property had repaired itself. there had been a minority of thirteen or fourteen years, and since that time the present owner had not spent his income. but john morton was not himself averse to money, and had always been careful to maintain good relations with his grandmother. she had now been asked down to bragton in order that she might approve, if possible, of the proposed wife. it was not likely that she should approve absolutely of anything; but to have married without an appeal to her would have been to have sent the money flying into the hands of some of her poor paternal cousins. arabella trefoil was the granddaughter of a duke, and a step had so far been made in the right direction. but mrs. morton knew that lord augustus was nobody, that there would be no money, and that lady augustus had been the daughter of a banker, and that her fortune had been nearly squandered. the paragon was not in the least afraid of his american visitor, nor, as far as the comforts of his house were concerned, of his grandmother. of the beauty and her mother he did stand in awe;--but he had two days in which to look to things before they would come. the train reached the dillsborough station at half-past three, and the two carriages were there to meet them. "you will understand, mr. gotobed," said the old lady, "that my grandson has nothing of his own established here as yet." this little excuse was produced by certain patches and tears in the cushions and linings of the carriages. mr. gotobed smiled and bowed and declared that everything was "fixed convenient." then the senator followed the old lady into one carriage; mr. morton followed alone into the other; and they were driven away to bragton. when mrs. hopkins had taken the old lady up to her room mr. morton asked the senator to walk round the grounds. mr. gotobed, lighting an enormous cigar of which he put half down his throat for more commodious and quick consumption, walked on to the middle of the drive, and turning back looked up at the house, "quite a pile," he said, observing that the offices and outhouses extended a long way to the left till they almost joined other buildings in which were the stables and coach-house. "it's a good-sized house,"--said the owner;--"nothing very particular, as houses are built now-a-days." "damp; i should say?" "i think not. i have never lived here much myself; but i have not heard that it is considered so." "i guess it's damp. very lonely;--isn't it?" "we like to have our society inside, among ourselves, in the country." "keep a sort of hotel--like?" suggested mr. gotobed. "well, i don't dislike hotel life, especially when there are no charges. how many servants do you want to keep up such a house as that?" mr. morton explained that at present he knew very little about it himself, then led him away by the path over the bridge, and turning to the left showed him the building which had once been the kennels of the rufford hounds. "all that for dogs!" exclaimed mr. gotobed. "all for dogs," said morton. "hounds, we generally call them." "hounds are they? well;--i'll remember; though 'dogs' seems to me more civil. how many used there to be?" "about fifty couple, i think." "a hundred dogs! no wonder your country gentlemen burst up so often. wouldn't half-a-dozen do as well,--except for the show of the thing?" "half-a-dozen hounds couldn't hunt a fox, mr. gotobed." "i guess half-a-dozen would do just as well, only for the show. what strikes me, mr. morton, on visiting this old country is that so much is done for show." "what do you say to new york, mr. gotobed?" "there certainly are a couple of hundred fools in new york, who, having more money than brains, amuse themselves by imitating european follies. but you won't find that through the country, mr. morton. you won't find a hundred dogs at an american planter's house when ten or twelve would do as well." "hunting is not one of your amusements." "yes it is. i've been a hunter myself. i've had nothing to eat but what i killed for a month together. that's more than any of your hunters can say. a hundred dogs to kill one fox!" "not all at the same time, mr. gotobed." "and you have got none now?" "i don't hunt myself." "and does nobody hunt the foxes about here at present?" then morton explained that on the saturday following the u. r. u. hounds, under the mastership of that celebrated sportsman captain glomax, would meet at eleven o'clock exactly at the spot on which they were then standing, and that if mr. gotobed would walk out after breakfast he should see the whole paraphernalia, including about half a hundred "dogs," and perhaps a couple of hundred men on horseback. "i shall be delighted to see any institution of this great country," said mr. gotobed, "however much opposed it may be to my opinion either of utility or rational recreation." then, having nearly eaten up one cigar, he lit another preparatory to eating it, and sauntered back to the house. before dinner that evening there were a few words between the paragon and his grandmother. "i'm afraid you won't like my american friend," he said. "he is all very well, john. of course an american member of congress can't be an english gentleman. you, in your position, have to be civil to such people. i dare say i shall get on very well with mr. gotobed." "i must get somebody to meet him." "lady augustus and her daughter are coming." "they knew each other in washington. and there will be so many ladies." "you could ask the coopers from mallingham," suggested the lady. "i don't think they would dine out. he's getting very old." "and i'm told the mainwarings at dillsborough are very nice people," said mrs. morton, who knew that mr. mainwaring at any rate came from a good family. "i suppose they ought to call first. i never saw them in my life. reginald morton, you know, is living at hoppet hall in dillsborough." "you don't mean to say you wish to ask him to this house?" "i think i ought. why should i take upon myself to quarrel with a man i have not seen since i was a child, and who certainly is my cousin?" "i do not know that he is your cousin;--nor do you." john morton passed by the calumny which he had heard before, and which he knew that it was no good for him to attempt to subvert. "he was received here as one of the family, ma'am." "i know he was;--and with what result?" "i don't think that i ought to turn my back upon him because my great-grandfather left property away from me to him. it would give me a bad name in the county. it would be against me when i settle down to live here. i think quarrelling is the most foolish thing a man can do,--especially with his own relations." "i can only say this, john;--let me know if he is coming, so that i may not be called upon to meet him. i will not eat at table with reginald morton." so saying the old lady, in a stately fashion, stalked out of the room. chapter ix. the old kennels. on the next morning mrs. morton asked her grandson what he meant to do with reference to his suggested invitation to reginald. "as you will not meet him of course i have given up the idea," he said. the "of course" had been far from true. he had debated the matter very much with himself. he was an obstinate man, with something of independence in his spirit. he liked money, but he liked having his own way too. the old lady looked as though she might live to be a hundred,--and though she might last only for ten years longer, was it worth his while to be a slave for that time? and he was by no means sure of her money, though he should be a slave. he almost made up his mind that he would ask reginald morton. but then the old lady would be in her tantrums, and there would be the disagreeable necessity of making an explanation to that inquisitive gentleman mr. elias gotobed. "i couldn't have met him, john; i couldn't indeed. i remember so well all that occurred when your poor infatuated old great-grandfather would have that woman into the house! i was forced to have my meals in my bedroom, and to get myself taken away as soon as i could get a carriage and horses. after all that i ought not to be asked to meet the child." "i was thinking of asking old mr. cooper on monday. i know she doesn't go out. and perhaps mr. mainwaring wouldn't take it amiss. mr. puttock, i know, isn't at home; but if he were, he couldn't come." mr. puttock was the rector of bragton, a very rich living, but was unfortunately afflicted with asthma. "poor man. i heard of that; and he's only been here about six years. i don't see why mr. mainwaring should take it amiss at all. you can explain that you are only here a few days. i like to meet clergymen. i think that it is the duty of a country gentleman to ask them to his house. it shows a proper regard for religion. by-the-bye, john, i hope that you'll see that they have a fire in the church on sunday." the honourable mrs. morton always went to church, and had no doubt of her own sincerity when she reiterated her prayer that as she forgave others their trespasses, so might she be forgiven hers. as reginald morton had certainly never trespassed against her perhaps there was no reason why her thoughts should be carried to the necessity of forgiving him. the paragon wrote two very diplomatic notes, explaining his temporary residence and expressing his great desire to become acquainted with his neighbours. neither of the two clergymen were offended, and both of them promised to eat his dinner on monday. mr. mainwaring was very fond of dining out, and would have gone almost to any gentleman's house. mr. cooper had been enough in the neighbourhood to have known the old squire, and wrote an affectionate note expressing his gratification at the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with the little boy whom he remembered. so the party was made up for monday. john morton was very nervous on the matter, fearing that lady augustus would think the land to be barren. the friday passed by without much difficulty. the senator was driven about, and everything was inquired into. one or two farm-houses were visited, and the farmers' wives were much disturbed by the questions asked them. "i don't think they'd get a living in the states," was the senator's remark after leaving one of the homesteads in which neither the farmer nor his wife had shown much power of conversation. "then they're right to stay where they are," replied mr. morton, who in spite of his diplomacy could not save himself from being nettled. "they seem to get a very good living here, and they pay their rent punctually." on the saturday morning the hounds met at the "old kennels," as the meet was always called, and here was an excellent opportunity of showing to mr. gotobed one of the great institutions of the country. it was close to the house and therefore could be reached without any trouble, and as it was held on morton's own ground, he could do more towards making his visitor understand the thing than might have been possible elsewhere. when the hounds moved the carriage would be ready to take them about the roads, and show them as much as could be seen on wheels. punctually at eleven john morton and his american guest were on the bridge, and tony tuppett was already occupying his wonted place, seated on a strong grey mare that had done a great deal of work, but would live,--as tony used to say,--to do a great deal more. round him the hounds were clustered,--twenty-three couple in all,--some seated on their haunches, some standing obediently still, while a few moved about restlessly, subject to the voices and on one or two occasions to a gentle administration of thong from the attendant whips. four or five horsemen were clustering round, most of them farmers, and were talking to tony. our friend mr. twentyman was the only man in a red coat who had yet arrived, and with him, on her brown pony, was kate masters, who was listening with all her ears to every word that tony said. "that, i guess, is the captain you spoke of," said the senator pointing to tony tuppett. "oh no;--that's the huntsman. those three men in caps are the servants who do the work." "the dogs can't be brought out without servants to mind them! they're what you call gamekeepers." morton was explaining that the men were not gamekeepers when captain glomax himself arrived, driving a tandem. there was no road up to the spot, but on hunt mornings,--or at any rate when the meet was at the old kennels,--the park-gates were open so that vehicles could come up on the green sward. "that's captain glomax, i suppose," said morton. "i don't know him, but from the way he's talking to the huntsman you may be sure of it." "he is the great man, is he? all these dogs belong to him?" "either to him or the hunt." "and he pays for those servants?" "certainly." "he is a very rich man, i suppose." then mr. morton endeavoured to explain the position of captain glomax. he was not rich. he was no one in particular--except that he was captain glomax; and his one attribute was a knowledge of hunting. he didn't keep the "dogs" out of his own pocket. he received £ , a year from the gentlemen of the county, and he himself only paid anything which the hounds and horses might cost over that. "he's a sort of upper servant then?" asked the senator. "not at all. he's the greatest man in the county on hunting days." "does he live out of it?" "i should think not." "it's a deal of trouble, isn't it?" "full work for an active man's time, i should say." a great many more questions were asked and answered, at the end of which the senator declared that he did not quite understand it, but that as far as he saw he did not think very much of captain glomax. "if he could make a living out of it i should respect him," said the senator;--"though it's like knife-grinding or handling arsenic,--an unwholesome sort of profession." "i think they look very nice," said morton, as one or two well-turned-out young men rode up to the place. "they seem to me to have thought more about their breeches than anything else," said the senator. "but if they're going to hunt why don't they hunt? have they got a fox with them?" then there was a further explanation. at this moment there was a murmur as of a great coming arrival, and then an open carriage with four post-horses was brought at a quick trot into the open space. there were four men dressed for hunting inside, and two others on the box. they were all smoking, and all talking. it was easy to see that they did not consider themselves the least among those who were gathered together on this occasion. the carriage was immediately surrounded by grooms and horses, and the ceremony of disencumbering themselves of great coats and aprons, of putting on spurs and fastening hat-strings was commenced. then there were whispered communications from the grooms, and long faces under some of the hats. this horse hadn't been fit since last monday's run, and that man's hack wasn't as it should be. a muttered curse might have been heard from one gentleman as he was told, on jumping from the box, that harry stubbings hadn't sent him any second horse to ride. "i didn't hear nothing about it till yesterday, captain," said harry stubbings, "and every foot i had fit to come out was bespoke." the groom, however, who heard this was quite aware that mr. stubbings did not wish to give unlimited credit to the captain, and he knew also that the second horse was to have carried his master the whole day, as the animal which was brought to the meet had been ridden hard on the previous wednesday. at all this the senator looked with curious eyes, thinking that he had never in his life seen brought together a set of more useless human beings. "that is lord rufford," said morton, pointing to a stout, ruddy-faced, handsome man of about thirty, who was the owner of the carriage. "oh, a lord. do the lords hunt generally?" "that's as they like it." "senators with us wouldn't have time for that," said the senator. "but you are paid to do your work." "everybody from whom work is expected should be paid. then the work will be done, or those who pay will know the reason why." "i must speak to lord rufford," said morton. "if you'll come with me, i'll introduce you." the senator followed willingly enough and the introduction was made while his lordship was still standing by his horse. the two men had known each other in london, and it was natural that morton, as owner of the ground, should come out and speak to the only man who knew him. it soon was spread about that the gentleman talking to lord rufford was john morton, and many who lived in the county came up to shake hands with him. to some of these the senator was introduced and the conversation for a few minutes seemed to interrupt the business on hand. "i am sorry you should be on foot, mr. gotobed," said the lord. "and i am sorry that i cannot mount him," said mr. morton. "we can soon get over that difficulty if he will allow me to offer him a horse." the senator looked as though he would almost like it, but he didn't quite like it. "perhaps your horse might kick me off, my lord." "i can't answer for that; but he isn't given to kicking, and there he is, if you'll get on him." but the senator felt that the exhibition would suit neither his age nor position, and refused. "we'd better be moving," said captain glomax. "i suppose, lord rufford, we might as well trot over to dillsborough wood at once. i saw bean as i came along and he seemed to wish we should draw the wood first." then there was a little whispering between his lordship and the master and tony tuppett. his lordship thought that as mr. morton was there the hounds might as well be run through the bragton spinnies. tony made a wry face and shook his head. he knew that though the old kennels might be a very good place for meeting there was no chance of finding a fox at bragton. and captain glomax, who, being an itinerary master, had no respect whatever for a country gentleman who didn't preserve, also made a long face and also shook his head. but lord rufford, who knew the wisdom of reconciling a newcomer in the county to foxhunting, prevailed and the hounds and men were taken round a part of bragton park. "what 'd t' old squire 've said if he'd 've known there hadn't been a fox at bragton for more nor ten year?" this remark was made by tuppett to mr. runciman who was riding by him. mr. runciman replied that there was a great difference in people. "you may say that, mr. runciman. it's all changes. his lordship's father couldn't bear the sight of a hound nor a horse and saddle. well;--i suppose i needn't gammon any furder. we'll just trot across to the wood at once." "they haven't begun yet as far as i can see," said mr. gotobed standing up in the carriage. "they haven't found as yet," replied morton. "they must go on till they find a fox? they never bring him with them?" then there was an explanation as to bagged foxes, morton not being very conversant with the subject he had to explain. "and if they shouldn't find one all day?" "then it'll be a blank." "and these hundred gentlemen will go home quite satisfied with themselves?" "no;--they'll go home quite dissatisfied." "and have paid their money and given their time for nothing? do you know it doesn't seem to me the most heart-stirring thing in the world. don't they ride faster than that?" at this moment tony with the hounds at his heels was trotting across the park at a huntsman's usual pace from covert to covert. the senator was certainly ungracious. nothing that he saw produced from him a single word expressive of satisfaction. less than a mile brought them to the gate and road leading up to chowton farm. they passed close by larry twentyman's door, and not a few, though it was not yet more than half-past eleven, stopped to have a glass of larry's beer. when the hounds were in the neighbourhood larry's beer was always ready. but tony and his attendants trotted by with eyes averted, as though no thought of beer was in their minds. nothing had been done, and a huntsman is not entitled to beer till he has found a fox. captain glomax followed with lord rufford and a host of others. there was plenty of way here for carriages, and half a dozen vehicles passed through larry's farmyard. immediately behind the house was a meadow, and at the bottom of the meadow a stubble field, next to which was the ditch and bank which formed the bounds of dillsborough wood. just at this side of the gate leading into the stubble-field there was already a concourse of people when tony arrived near it with the hounds, and immediately there was a holloaing and loud screeching of directions, which was soon understood to mean that the hounds were at once to be taken away! the captain rode on rapidly, and then sharply gave his orders. tony was to take the hounds back to mr. twentyman's farmyard as fast as he could, and shut them up in a barn. the whips were put into violent commotion. tony was eagerly at work. not a hound was to be allowed near the gate. and then, as the crowd of horsemen and carriages came on, the word "poison" was passed among them from mouth to mouth! "what does all this mean?" said the senator. "i don't at all know. i'm afraid there's something wrong," replied morton. "i heard that man say 'poison.' they have taken the dogs back again." then the senator and morton got out of the carriage and made their way into the crowd. the riders who had grooms on second horses were soon on foot, and a circle was made, inside which there was some object of intense interest. in the meantime the hounds had been secured in one of mr. twentyman's barns. what was that object of interest shall be told in the next chapter. chapter x. goarly's revenge. the senator and morton followed close on the steps of lord rufford and captain glomax and were thus able to make their way into the centre of the crowd. there, on a clean sward of grass, laid out as carefully as though he were a royal child prepared for burial, was--a dead fox. "it's pi'son, my lord; it's pi'son to a moral," said bean, who as keeper of the wood was bound to vindicate himself, and his master, and the wood. "feel of him, how stiff he is." a good many did feel, but lord rufford stood still and looked at the poor victim in silence. "it's easy knowing how he come by it," said bean. the men around gazed into each other's faces with a sad tragic air, as though the occasion were one which at the first blush was too melancholy for many words. there was whispering here and there and one young farmer's son gave a deep sigh, like a steam-engine beginning to work, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "there ain't nothin' too bad,--nothin'," said another,--leaving his audience to imagine whether he were alluding to the wretchedness of the world in general or to the punishment which was due to the perpetrator of this nefarious act. the dreadful word "vulpecide" was heard from various lips with an oath or two before it. "it makes me sick of my own land, to think it should be done so near," said larry twentyman, who had just come up. mr. runciman declared that they must set their wits to work not only to find the criminal but to prove the crime against him, and offered to subscribe a couple of sovereigns on the spot to a common fund to be raised for the purpose. "i don't know what is to be done with a country like this," said captain glomax, who, as an itinerant, was not averse to cast a slur upon the land of his present sojourn. "i don't remember anything like it on my property before," said the lord, standing up for his own estate and the county at large. "nor in the hunt," said young hampton. "of course such a thing may happen anywhere. they had foxes poisoned in the pytchley last year." "it shows a d---- bad feeling somewhere," said the master. "we know very well where the feeling is," said bean who had by this time taken up the fox, determined not to allow it to pass into any hands less careful than his own. "it's that scoundrel, goarly," said one of the botseys. then there was an indignant murmur heard, first of all from two or three and then running among the whole crowd. everybody knew as well as though he had seen it that goarly had baited meat with strychnine and put it down in the wood. "might have pi'soned half the pack!" said tony tuppett, who had come up on foot from the barn where the hounds were still imprisoned, and had caught hold in an affectionate manner of a fore pad of the fox which bean had clutched by the two hind legs. poor tony tuppett almost shed tears as he looked at the dead animal, and thought what might have been the fate of the pack. "it's him, my lord," he said, "as we run through littleton gorse monday after christmas last, and up to impington park where he got away from us in a hollow tree. he's four year old," added tony, looking at the animal's mouth, "and there warn't a finer dog fox in the county." "do they know all the foxes?" asked the senator. in answer to this, morton only shook his head, not feeling quite sure himself how far a huntsman's acquaintance in that line might go, and being also too much impressed by the occasion for speculative conversation. "it's that scoundrel goarly" had been repeated again and again; and then on a sudden goarly himself was seen standing on the further hedge of larry's field with a gun in his hand. he was not at this time above two hundred yards from them, and was declared by one of the young farmers to be grinning with delight. the next field was goarly's, but the hedge and ditch belonged to twentyman. larry rushed forward as though determined to thrash the man, and two or three followed him. but lord rufford galloped on and stopped them. "don't get into a row with a fellow like that," he said to twentyman. "he's on my land, my lord," said larry impatiently. "i'm on my own now, and let me see who'll dare to touch me," said goarly jumping down. "you've put poison down in that wood," said larry. "no i didn't;--but i knows who did. it ain't i as am afeard for my young turkeys." now it was well known that old mrs. twentyman, larry's mother, was fond of young turkeys, and that her poultry-yard had suffered. larry, in his determination to be a gentleman, had always laughed at his mother's losses. but now to be accused in this way was terrible to his feelings! he made a rush as though to jump over the hedge, but lord rufford again intercepted him. "i didn't think, mr. twentyman, that you'd care for what such a fellow as that might say." by this time lord rufford was off his horse, and had taken hold of larry. "i'll tell you all what it is," screamed goarly, standing just at the edge of his own field,--"if a hound comes out of the wood on to my land, i'll shoot him. i don't know nothing about p'isoning, though i dare say mr. twentyman does. but if a hound comes on my land, i'll shoot him,--open, before you all." there was, however, no danger of such a threat being executed on this day, as of course no hound would be allowed to go into dillsborough wood. twentyman was reluctantly brought back into the meadow where the horses were standing, and then a consultation was held as to what they should do next. there were some who thought that the hounds should be taken home for the day. it was as though some special friend of the u. r. u. had died that morning, and that the spirits of the sportsmen were too dejected for their sport. others, with prudent foresight, suggested that the hounds might run back from some distant covert to dillsborough, and that there should be no hunting till the wood had been thoroughly searched. but the strangers, especially those who had hired horses, would not hear of this; and after considerable delay it was arranged that the hounds should be trotted off as quickly as possible to impington gorse, which was on the other side of impington park, and fully five miles distant. and so they started, leaving the dead fox in the hands of bean the gamekeeper. "is this the sort of thing that occurs every day?" asked the senator as he got back into the carriage. "i should fancy not," answered morton. "somebody has poisoned a fox, and i don't think that that is very often done about here." "why did he poison him?" "to save his fowls i suppose." "why shouldn't he poison him if the fox takes his fowls? fowls are better than foxes." "not in this country," said morton. "then i'm very glad i don't live here," said mr. gotobed. "these friends of yours are dressed very nicely and look very well,--but a fox is a nasty animal. it was that man standing up on the bank;--wasn't it?" continued the senator, who was determined to understand it all to the very bottom, in reference to certain lectures which he intended to give on his return to the states,--and perhaps also in the old country before he left it. "they suspect him." "that man with the gun! one man against two hundred! now i respect that man;--i do with all my heart." "you'd better not say so here, mr. gotobed." "i know how full of prejudice you all air',--but i do respect him. if i comprehend the matter rightly, he was on his own land when we saw him." "yes;--that was his own field." "and they meant to ride across it whether he liked it or no?" "everybody rides across everybody's land out hunting." "would they ride across your park, mr. morton, if you didn't let them?" "certainly they would,--and break down all my gates if i had them locked, and pull down my park palings to let the hounds through." "and you could get no compensation?" "practically i could get none. and certainly i should not try. the greatest enemy to hunting in the whole county would not be foolish enough to make the attempt." "why so?" "he would get no satisfaction, and everybody would hate him." "then i respect that man the more. what is that man's name?" morton hadn't heard the name, or had forgotten it. "i shall find that man out, and have some conversation with him, mr. morton. i respect that man, mr. morton. he's one against two hundred, and he insists upon his rights. those men standing round and wiping their eyes, and stifled with grief because a fox had been poisoned, as though some great patriot had died among them in the service of his country, formed one of the most remarkable phenomena, sir, that ever i beheld in any country. when i get among my own people in mickewa and tell them that,--they won't believe me, sir." in the meantime the cavalcade was hurrying away to impington gorse, and john morton, feeling that he had not had an opportunity as yet of showing his american friend the best side of hunting, went with them. the five miles were five long miles, and as the pace was not above seven miles an hour, nearly an hour was occupied. there was therefore plenty of opportunity for the senator to inquire whether the gentlemen around him were as yet enjoying their sport. there was an air of triumph about him as to the misfortunes of the day, joined to a battery of continued raillery, which made it almost impossible for morton to keep his temper. he asked whether it was not at any rate better than trotting a pair of horses backwards and forwards over the same mile of road for half the day, as is the custom in the states. but the senator, though he did not quite approve of trotting matches, argued that there was infinitely more of skill and ingenuity in the american pastime. "everybody is so gloomy," said the senator, lighting his third cigar. "i've been watching that young man in pink boots for the last half hour, and he hasn't spoken a word to any one." "perhaps he's a stranger," said morton. "and that's the way you treat him!" it was past two when the hounds were put into the gorse, and certainly no one was in a very good humour. a trot of five miles is disagreeable, and two o'clock in november is late for finding a first fox; and then poisoning is a vice that may grow into a habit! there was a general feeling that goarly ought to be extinguished, but an idea that it might be difficult to extinguish him. the whips, nevertheless, cantered on to the corner of the covert, and tony put in his hounds with a cheery voice. the senator remarked that the gorse was a very little place,--for as they were on the side of an opposite hill they could see it all. lord rufford, who was standing by the carriage, explained to him that it was a favourite resort of foxes, and difficult to draw as being very close. "perhaps they've poisoned him too," said the senator. it was evident from his voice that had such been the case, he would not have been among the mourners. "the blackguards are not yet thick enough in our country for that," said lord rufford, meaning to be sarcastic. then a whimper was heard from a hound,--at first very low, and then growing into a fuller sound. "there he is," said young hampton. "for heaven's sake get those fellows away from that side, glomax." this was uttered with so much vehemence that the senator looked up in surprise. then the captain galloped round the side of the covert, and, making use of some strong language, stopped the ardour of certain gentlemen who were in a hurry to get away on what they considered good terms. lord rufford, hampton, larry twentyman and others sat stock-still on their horses, watching the gorse. ned botsey urged himself a little forward down the hill, and was creeping on when captain glomax asked him whether he would be so ---- ---- obliging kind as to remain where he was for half a minute. ned took the observations in good part and stopped his horse. "does he do all that cursing and swearing for the £ , ?" asked the senator. the fox traversed the gorse back from side to side and from corner to corner again and again. there were two sides certainly at which he might break, but though he came out more than once he could not be got to go away. "they'll kill him now before he breaks," said the elder botsey. "brute!" exclaimed his brother. "they're hot on him now," said hampton. at this time the whole side of the hill was ringing with the music of the hounds. "he was out then, but dick turned him," said larry. dick was one of the whips. "will you be so kind, mr. morton," asked the senator, "as to tell me whether they're hunting yet? they've been at it for three hours and a half, and i should like to know when they begin to amuse themselves." just as he had spoken there came from dick a cry that he was away. tony, who had been down at the side of the gorse, at once jumped into it, knowing the passage through. lord rufford, who for the last five or six minutes had sat perfectly still on his horse, started down the hill as though he had been thrown from a catapult. there was a little hand-gate through which it was expedient to pass, and in a minute a score of men were jostling for the way, among whom were the two botseys, our friend runciman, and larry twentyman, with kate masters on the pony close behind him. young hampton jumped a very nasty fence by the side of the wicket, and lord rufford followed him. a score of elderly men, with some young men among them too, turned back into a lane behind them, having watched long enough to see that they were to take the lane to the left, and not the lane to the right. after all there was time enough, for when the men had got through the hand-gate the hounds were hardly free of the covert, and tony, riding up the side of the hill opposite, was still blowing his horn. but they were off at last, and the bulk of the field got away on good terms with the hounds. "now they are hunting," said mr. morton to the senator. "they all seemed to be very angry with each other at that narrow gate." "they were in a hurry, i suppose." "two of them jumped over the hedge. why didn't they all jump? how long will it be now before they catch him?" "very probably they may not catch him at all." "not catch him after all that! then the man was certainly right to poison that other fox in the wood. how long will they go on?" "half an hour perhaps." "and you call that hunting! is it worth the while of all those men to expend all that energy for such a result? upon the whole, mr. morton, i should say that it is one of the most incomprehensible things that i have ever seen in the course of a rather long and varied life. shooting i can understand, for you have your birds. fishing i can understand, as you have your fish. here you get a fox to begin with, and are all broken-hearted. then you come across another, after riding about all day, and the chances are you can't catch him!" "i suppose," said mr. morton angrily, "the habits of one country are incomprehensible to the people of another. when i see americans loafing about in the bar-room of an hotel, i am lost in amazement." "there is not a man you see who couldn't give a reason for his being there. he has an object in view,--though perhaps it may be no better than to rob his neighbour. but here there seems to be no possible motive." chapter xi. from impington gorse. the fox ran straight from the covert through his well-known haunts to impington park, and as the hounds were astray there for two or three minutes there was a general idea that he too had got up into a tree,--which would have amused the senator very much had the senator been there. but neither had the country nor the pace been adapted to wheels, and the senator and the paragon were now returning along the road towards bragton. the fox had tried his old earths at impington high wood, and had then skulked back along the outside of the covert. had not one of the whips seen him he would have been troubled no further on that day,--a fact, which if it could have been explained to the senator in all its bearings, would greatly have added to his delight. but dick viewed him; and with many holloas and much blowing of horns, and prayers from captain glomax that gentlemen would only be so good as to hold their tongues, and a full-tongued volley of abuse from half the field against an unfortunate gentleman who rode after the escaping fox before a hound was out of the covert, they settled again to their business. it was pretty to see the quiet ease and apparent nonchalance and almost affected absence of bustle of those who knew their work,--among whom were especially to be named young hampton, and the elder botsey, and lord rufford, and, above all, a dark-visaged, long-whiskered, sombre, military man who had been in the carriage with lord rufford, and who had hardly spoken a word to any one the whole day. this was the celebrated major caneback, known to all the world as one of the dullest men and best riders across country that england had ever produced. but he was not so dull but that he knew how to make use of his accomplishment, so as always to be able to get a mount on a friend's horses. if a man wanted to make a horse, or to try a horse, or to sell a horse, or to buy a horse, he delighted to put major caneback up. the major was sympathetic and made his friend's horses, and tried them, and sold them. then he would take his two bottles of wine,--of course from his friend's cellar,--and when asked about the day's sport would be oracular in two words, "rather slow," "quick spurt," "goodish thing," "regularly mulled," and such like. nevertheless it was a great thing to have major caneback with you. to the list of those who rode well and quietly must in justice be added our friend larry twentyman, who was in truth a good horseman. and he had three things to do which it was difficult enough to combine. he had a young horse which he would have liked to sell; he had to coach kate masters on his pony;--and he desired to ride like major caneback. from impington park they went in a straight line to littleton gorse skirting certain small woods which the fox disdained to enter. here the pace was very good, and the country was all grass. it was the very cream of the u. r. u.; and could the senator have read the feelings of the dozen leading men in the run, he would have owned that they were for the time satisfied with their amusement. could he have read kate masters' feelings he would have had to own that she was in an earthly paradise. when the pony paused at the big brook, brought his four legs steadily down on the brink as though he were going to bathe, then with a bend of his back leaped to the other side, dropping his hind legs in and instantly recovering them, and when she saw that larry had waited just a moment for her, watching to see what might be her fate, she was in heaven. "wasn't it a big one, larry?" she asked in her triumph. "he did go in behind!" "those cats of things always do it somehow," larry replied darting forward again and keeping the major well in his eye. the brook had stopped one or two, and tidings came up that ned botsey had broken his horse's back. the knowledge of the brook had sent some round by the road,--steady riding men such as mr. runciman and doctor nupper. captain glomax had got into it and came up afterwards wet through, with temper by no means improved. but the glory of the day had been the way in which lord rufford's young bay mare, who had never seen a brook before, had flown over it with the major on her back, taking it, as larry afterwards described, "just in her stride, without condescending to look at it. i was just behind the major, and saw her do it." larry understood that a man should never talk of his own place in a run, but he didn't quite understand that neither should he talk of having been close to another man who was supposed to have had the best of it. lord rufford, who didn't talk much of these things, quite understood that he had received full value for his billet and mount in the improved character of his mare. then there was a little difficulty at the boundary fence of impington hall farm. the major who didn't know the ground, tried it at an impracticable place, and brought his mare down. but she fell at the right side, and he was quick enough in getting away from her, not to fall under her in the ditch. tony tuppet, who knew every foot of that double ditch and bank, and every foot in the hedge above, kept well to the left and crept through a spot where one ditch ran into the other, intersecting of the fence. tony, like a knowing huntsman as he was, rode always for the finish and not for immediate glory. both lord rufford and hampton, who in spite of their affected nonchalance were in truth rather riding against one another, took it all in a fly, choosing a lighter spot than that which the major had encountered. larry had longed to follow them, or rather to take it alongside of them, but was mindful at last of kate and hurried down the ditch to the spot which tony had chosen and which was now crowded by horsemen. "he would have done it as well as the best of them," said kate, panting for breath. "we're all right," said larry. "follow me. don't let them hustle you out. now, mat, can't you make way for a lady half a minute?" mat growled, quite understanding the use which was being made of kate masters; but he did give way and was rewarded with a gracious smile. "you are going uncommon well, miss kate," said mat, "and i won't stop you." "i am so much obliged to you, mr. ruggles," said kate, not scrupling for a moment to take the advantage offered her. the fox had turned a little to the left, which was in larry's favour, and the major was now close to him, covered on one side with mud, but still looking as though the mud were all right. there are some men who can crush their hats, have their boots and breeches full of water, and be covered with dirt from their faces downwards, and yet look as though nothing were amiss, while, with others, the marks of a fall are always provocative either of pity or ridicule. "i hope you're not hurt, major caneback," said larry, glad of the occasion to speak to so distinguished an individual. the major grunted as he rode on, finding no necessity here even for his customary two words. little accidents, such as that, were the price he paid for his day's entertainment. as they got within view of littleton gorse hampton, lord rufford, and tony had the best of it, though two or three farmers were very close to them. at this moment tony's mind was much disturbed, and he looked round more than once for captain glomax. captain glomax had got into the brook, and had then ridden down to the high road which ran here near to them and which, as he knew, ran within one field of the gorse. he had lost his place and had got a ducking and was a little out of humour with things in general. it had not been his purpose to go to impington on this day, and he was still, in his mind, saying evil things of the u. r. u. respecting that poisoned fox. perhaps he was thinking, as itinerant masters often must think, that it was very hard to have to bear so many unpleasant things for a poor £ , a year, and meditating, as he had done for the last two seasons, a threat that unless the money were increased, he wouldn't hunt the country more than three times a week. as tony got near to the gorse and also near to the road he managed with infinite skill to get the hounds off the scent, and to make a fictitious cast to the left as though he thought the fox had traversed that way. tony knew well enough that the fox was at that moment in littleton gorse;--but he knew also that the gorse was only six acres, that such a fox as he had before him wouldn't stay there two minutes after the first hound was in it, and that dillsborough wood,--which to his imagination was full of poison,--would then be only a mile and a half before him. tony, whose fault was a tendency to mystery,--as is the fault of most huntsmen,--having accomplished his object in stopping the hounds, pretended to cast about with great diligence. he crossed the road and was down one side of a field and along another, looking anxiously for the captain. "the fox has gone on to the gorse," said the elder botsey; "what a stupid old pig he is;"--meaning that tony tuppett was the pig. "he was seen going on," said larry, who had come across a man mending a drain. "it would be his run of course," said hampton, who was generally up to tony's wiles, but who was now as much in the dark as others. then four or five rode up to the huntsman and told him that the fox had been seen heading for the gorse. tony said not a word but bit his lips and scratched his head and bethought himself what fools men might be even though they did ride well to hounds. one word of explanation would have settled it all, but he would not speak that word till he whispered it to captain glomax. in the meantime there was a crowd in the road waiting to see the result of tony's manoeuvres. and then, as is usual on such occasions, a little mild repartee went about,--what the sportsmen themselves would have called "chaff." ned botsey came up, not having broken his horse's back as had been rumoured, but having had to drag the brute out of the brook with the help of two countrymen, and the major was asked about his fall till he was forced to open his mouth. "double ditch;--mare fell;--matter of course." and then he got himself out of the crowd, disgusted with the littleness of mankind. lord rufford had been riding a very big chestnut horse, and had watched the anxious struggles of kate masters to hold her place. kate, though fifteen, and quite up to that age in intelligence and impudence, was small and looked almost a child. "that's a nice pony of yours, my dear," said the lord. kate, who didn't quite like being called "my dear," but who knew that a lord has privileges, said that it was a very good pony. "suppose we change," said his lordship. "could you ride my horse?" "he's very big," said kate. "you'd look like a tom-tit on a haystack," said his lordship. "and if you got on my pony, you'd look like a haystack on a tom-tit," said kate. then it was felt that kate masters had had the best of that little encounter. "yes;--i got one there," said lord rufford, while his friends were laughing at him. at length captain glomax was seen in the road and tony was with him at once, whispering in his ear that the hounds if allowed to go on would certainly run into dillsborough wood. "d---- the hounds," muttered the captain; but he knew too well what he was about to face--so terrible a danger. "they're going home," he said as soon as he had joined lord rufford and the crowd. "going home!" exclaimed a pink-coated young rider of a hired horse which had been going well with him; and as he said so he looked at his watch. "unless you particularly wish me to take the hounds to some covert twenty miles off," answered the sarcastic master. "the fox certainly went on to littleton," said the elder botsey. "my dear fellow," said the captain, "i can tell you where the fox went quite as well as you can tell me. do allow a man to know what he's about some times." "it isn't generally the custom here to take the hounds off a running fox," continued botsey, who subscribed £ , and did not like being snubbed. "and it isn't generally the custom to have fox-coverts poisoned," said the captain, assuming to himself the credit due to tony's sagacity. "if you wish to be master of these hounds i haven't the slightest objection, but while i'm responsible you must allow me to do my work according to my own judgment." then the thing was understood and captain glomax was allowed to carry off the hounds and his ill-humour without another word. but just at that moment, while the hounds and the master, and lord rufford and his friends, were turning back in their own direction, john morton came up with his carriage and the senator. "is it all over?" asked the senator. "all over for to-day," said lord rufford. "did you catch the animal?" "no, mr. gotobed; we couldn't catch him. to tell the truth we didn't try; but we had a nice little skurry for four or five miles." "some of you look very wet." captain glomax and ned botsey were standing near the carriage; but the captain as soon as he heard this, broke into a trot and followed the hounds. "some of us are very wet," said ned. "that's part of the fun." "oh;--that's part of the fun. you found one fox dead and you didn't kill another because you didn't try. well; mr. morton, i don't think i shall take to fox hunting even though they should introduce it in mickewa. what's become of the rest of the men?" "most of them are in the brook," said ned botsey as he rode on towards dillsborough. mr. runciman was also there and trotted on homewards with botsey, larry, and kate masters. "i think i've won my bet," said the hotel-keeper. "i don't see that at all. we didn't find in dillsborough wood." "i say we did find in dillsborough wood. we found a fox though unfortunately the poor brute was dead." "the bet's off i should say. what do you say, larry?" then runciman argued his case at great length and with much ability. it had been intended that the bet should be governed by the fact whether dillsborough wood did or did not contain a fox on that morning. he himself had backed the wood, and botsey had been strong in his opinion against the wood. which of them had been practically right? had not the presence of the poisoned fox shown that he was right? "i think you ought to pay," said larry. "all right," said botsey riding on, and telling himself that that was what came from making a bet with a man who was not a gentleman. "he's as unhappy about that hat," said runciman, "as though beer had gone down a penny a gallon." chapter xii. arabella trefoil. on the sunday the party from bragton went to the parish church,--and found it very cold. the duty was done by a young curate who lived in dillsborough, there being no house in bragton for him. the rector himself had not been in the church for the last six months, being an invalid. at present he and his wife were away in london, but the vicarage was kept up for his use. the service was certainly not alluring. it was a very wet morning and the curate had ridden over from dillsborough on a little pony which the rector kept for him in addition to the £ per annum paid for his services. that he should have got over his service quickly was not a matter of surprise,--nor was it wonderful that there should have been no soul-stirring matter in his discourse as he had two sermons to preach every week and to perform single-handed all the other clerical duties of a parish lying four miles distant from his lodgings. perhaps had he expected the presence of so distinguished a critic as the senator from mickewa he might have done better. as it was, being nearly wet through and muddy up to his knees, he did not do the work very well. when morton and his friends left the church and got into the carriage for their half-mile drive home across the park, mrs. morton was the first to speak. "john," she said, "that church is enough to give any woman her death. i won't go there any more." "they don't understand warming a church in the country," said john apologetically. "is it not a little too large for the congregation?" asked the senator. the church was large and straggling and ill arranged, and on this particular sunday had been almost empty. there was in it an harmonium which mrs. puttock played when she was at home, but in her absence the attempt made by a few rustics to sing the hymns had not been a musical success. the whole affair had been very sad, and so the paragon had felt it who knew,--and was remembering through the whole service,--how these things are done in transatlantic cities. "the weather kept the people away i suppose," said morton. "does that gentleman generally draw large congregations?" asked the persistent senator. "we don't go in for drawing congregations here." under the cross-examination of his guest the secretary of legation almost lost his diplomatic good temper. "we have a church in every parish for those who choose to attend it." "and very few do choose," said the senator. "i can't say that they're wrong." there seemed at the moment to be no necessity to carry the disagreeable conversation any further as they had now reached the house. mrs. morton immediately went up-stairs, and the two gentlemen took themselves to the fire in the so-called library, which room was being used as more commodious than the big drawing-room. mr. gotobed placed himself on the rug with his back to the fire and immediately reverted to the church. "that gentleman is paid by tithes i suppose." "he's not the rector. he's a curate." "ah;--just so. he looked like a curate. doesn't the rector do anything?" then morton, who was by this time heartily sick of explaining, explained the unfortunate state of mr. puttock's health, and the conversation was carried on till gradually the senator learned that mr. puttock received £ a year and a house for doing nothing, and that he paid his deputy £ a year with the use of a pony. "and how long will that be allowed to go on, mr. morton?" asked the senator. to all these inquiries morton found himself compelled not only to answer, but to answer the truth. any prevarication or attempt at mystification fell to the ground at once under the senator's tremendous powers of inquiry. it had been going on for four years, and would probably go on now till mr. puttock died. "a man of his age with the asthma may live for twenty years," said the senator who had already learned that mr. puttock was only fifty. then he ascertained that mr. puttock had not been presented to, or selected for the living on account of any peculiar fitness;--but that he had been a fellow of rufford at oxford till he was forty-five, when he had thought it well to marry and take a living. "but he must have been asthmatic then?" said the senator. "he may have had all the ailments endured by the human race for anything i know," said the unhappy host. "and for anything the bishop cared as far as i can see," said the senator. "well now, i guess, that couldn't occur in our country. a minister may turn out badly with us as well as with you. but we don't appoint a man without inquiry as to his fitness,--and if a man can't do his duty he has to give way to some one who can. if the sick gentleman took the small portion of the stipend and the working man the larger, would not better justice be done, and the people better served?" "mr. puttock has a freehold in the parish." "a freehold possession of men's souls! the fact is, mr. morton, that the spirit of conservatism in this country is so strong that you cannot bear to part with a shred of the barbarism of the middle ages. and when a rag is sent to the winds you shriek with agony at the disruption, and think that the wound will be mortal." as mr. gotobed said this he extended his right hand and laid his left on his breast as though he were addressing the senate from his own chair. morton, who had offered to entertain the gentleman for ten days, sincerely wished that he were doing so. on the monday afternoon the trefoils arrived. mr. morton, with his grandmother and both the carriages, went down to receive them,--with a cart also for the luggage, which was fortunate, as arabella trefoil's big box was very big indeed, and lady augustus, though she was economical in most things, had brought a comfortable amount of clothes. each of them had her own lady's maid, so that the two carriages were necessary. how it was that these ladies lived so luxuriously was a mystery to their friends, as for some time past they had enjoyed no particular income of their own. lord augustus had spent everything that came to his hand, and the family owned no house at all. nevertheless arabella trefoil was to be seen at all parties magnificently dressed, and never stirred anywhere without her own maid. it would have been as grievous to her to be called on to live without food as to go without this necessary appendage. she was a big, fair girl whose copious hair was managed after such a fashion that no one could guess what was her own and what was purchased. she certainly had fine eyes, though i could never imagine how any one could look at them and think it possible that she should be in love. they were very large, beautifully blue, but never bright; and the eyebrows over them were perfect. her cheeks were somewhat too long and the distance from her well-formed nose to her upper lip too great. her mouth was small and her teeth excellent. but the charm of which men spoke the most was the brilliance of her complexion. if, as the ladies said, it was all paint, she, or her maid, must have been a great artist. it never betrayed itself to be paint. but the beauty on which she prided herself was the grace of her motion. though she was tall and big she never allowed an awkward movement to escape from her. she certainly did it very well. no young woman could walk across an archery ground with a finer step, or manage a train with more perfect ease, or sit upon her horse with a more complete look of being at home there. no doubt she was slow, but though slow she never seemed to drag. now she was, after a certain fashion, engaged to marry john morton and perhaps she was one of the most unhappy young persons in england. she had long known that it was her duty to marry, and especially her duty to marry well. between her and her mother there had been no reticence on this subject. with worldly people in general, though the worldliness is manifest enough and is taught by plain lessons from parents to their children, yet there is generally some thin veil even among themselves, some transparent tissue of lies, which, though they never quite hope to deceive each other, does produce among them something of the comfort of deceit. but between lady augustus and her daughter there had for many years been nothing of the kind. the daughter herself had been too honest for it. "as for caring about him, mamma," she had once said, speaking of a suitor, "of course i don't. he is nasty, and odious in every way. but i have got to do the best i can, and what is the use of talking about such trash as that?" then there had been no more trash between them. it was not john morton whom arabella trefoil had called nasty and odious. she had had many lovers, and had been engaged to not a few, and perhaps she liked john morton as well as any of them,--except one. he was quiet, and looked like a gentleman, and was reputed for no vices. nor did she quarrel with her fate in that he himself was not addicted to any pleasures. she herself did not care much for pleasure. but she did care to be a great lady,--one who would be allowed to swim out of rooms before others, one who could snub others, one who could show real diamonds when others wore paste, one who might be sure to be asked everywhere even by the people who hated her. she rather liked being hated by women and did not want any man to be in love with her,--except as far as might be sufficient for the purpose of marriage. the real diamonds and the high rank would not be hers with john morton. she would have to be content with such rank as is accorded to ministers at the courts at which they are employed. the fall would be great from what she had once expected,--and therefore she was miserable. there had been a young man, of immense wealth, of great rank, whom at one time she really had fancied that she had loved;--but just as she was landing her prey, the prey had been rescued from her by powerful friends, and she had been all but broken-hearted. mr. morton's fortune was in her eyes small, and she was beginning to learn that he knew how to take care of his own money. already there had been difficulties as to settlements, difficulties as to pin-money, difficulties as to residence, lady augustus having been very urgent. john morton, who had really been captivated by the beauty of arabella, was quite in earnest; but there were subjects on which he would not give way. he was anxious to put his best leg foremost so that the beauty might be satisfied and might become his own, but there was a limit beyond which he would not go. lady augustus had more than once said to her daughter that it would not do;--and then there would be all the weary work to do again! nobody seeing the meeting on the platform would have imagined that mr. morton and miss trefoil were lovers,--and as for lady augustus it would have been thought that she was in some special degree offended with the gentleman who had come to meet her. she just gave him the tip of her fingers and then turned away to her maid and called for the porters and made herself particular and disagreeable. arabella vouchsafed a cold smile, but then her smiles were always cold. after that she stood still and shivered. "are you cold?" asked morton. she shook her head and shivered again. "perhaps you are tired?" then she nodded her head. when her maid came to her in some trouble about the luggage, she begged that she might not be "bothered;" saying that no doubt her mother knew all about it. "can i do anything?" asked morton. "nothing at all i should think," said miss trefoil. in the meantime old mrs. morton was standing by as black as thunder--for the trefoil ladies had hardly noticed her. the luggage turned up all right at last,--as luggage always does, and was stowed away in the cart. then came the carriage arrangement. morton had intended that the two elder ladies should go together with one of the maids, and that he should put his love into the other, which having a seat behind, could accommodate the second girl without disturbing them in the carriage. but lady augustus had made some exception to this and had begged that her daughter might be seated with herself. it was a point which morton could not contest out there among the porters and drivers, so that at last he and his grandmother had the phaeton together with the two maids in the rumble. "i never saw such manners in all my life," said the honourable mrs. morton, almost bursting with passion. "they are cold and tired, ma'am." "no lady should be too cold or too tired to conduct herself with propriety. no real lady is ever so." "the place is strange to them, you know." "i hope with all my heart that it may never be otherwise than strange to them." when they arrived at the house the strangers were carried into the library and tea was of course brought to them. the american senator was there, but the greetings were very cold. mrs. morton took her place and offered her hospitality in the most frigid manner. there had not been the smallest spark of love's flame shown as yet, nor did the girl as she sat sipping her tea seem to think that any such spark was wanted. morton did get a seat beside her and managed to take away her muff and one of her shawls, but she gave them to him almost as she might have done to a servant. she smiled indeed,--but she smiled as some women smile at everybody who has any intercourse with them. "i think perhaps mrs. morton will let us go up-stairs," said lady augustus. mrs. morton immediately rang the bell and prepared to precede the ladies to their chambers. let them be as insolent as they would she would do what she conceived to be her duty. then lady augustus stalked out of the room and her daughter swum after her. "they don't seem to be quite the same as they were in washington," said the senator. john morton got up and left the room without making any reply. he was thoroughly unhappy. what was he to do for a week with such a houseful of people? and then, what was he to do for all his life if the presiding spirit of the house was to be such a one as this? she was very beautiful,--certainly. so he told himself; and yet as he walked round the park he almost repented of what he had done. but after twenty minutes' fast walking he was able to convince himself that all the fault on this occasion lay with the mother. lady augustus had been fatigued with her journey and had therefore made everybody near her miserable. chapter xiii. at bragton. when the ladies went up-stairs the afternoon was not half over and they did not dine till past seven. as morton returned to the house in the dusk he thought that perhaps arabella might make some attempt to throw herself in his way. she had often done so when they were not engaged, and surely she might do so now. there was nothing to prevent her coming down to the library when she had got rid of her travelling clothes, and in this hope he looked into the room. as soon as the door was open the senator, who was preparing his lecture in his mind, at once asked whether no one in england had an apparatus for warming rooms such as was to be found in every well-built house in the states. the paragon hardly vouchsafed him a word of reply, but escaped up-stairs, trusting that he might meet miss trefoil on the way. he was a bold man and even ventured to knock at her door;--but there was no reply, and, fearing the senator, he had to betake himself to his own privacy. miss trefoil had migrated to her mother's room, and there, over the fire, was holding a little domestic conversation. "i never saw such a barrack in my life," said lady augustus. "of course, mamma, we knew that we should find the house such as it was left a hundred years ago. he told us that himself." "he should have put something in it to make it at any rate decent before we came in." "what's the use if he's to live always at foreign courts?" "he intends to come home sometimes, i suppose, and, if he didn't, you would." lady augustus was not going to let her daughter marry a man who could not give her a home for at any rate a part of the year. "of course he must furnish the place and have an immense deal done before he can marry. i think it is a piece of impudence to bring one to such a place as this." "that's nonsense, mamma, because he told us all about it." "the more i see of it all, arabella, the more sure i am that it won't do." "it must do, mamma." "twelve hundred a year is all that he offers, and his lawyer says that he will make no stipulation whatever as to an allowance." "really, mamma, you might leave that to me." "i like to have everything fixed, my dear,--and certain." "nothing really ever is certain. while there is anything to get you may be sure that i shall have my share. as far as money goes i'm not a bit afraid of having the worst of it,--only there will be so very little between us." "that's just it." "there's no doubt about the property, mamma." "a nasty beggarly place!" "and from what everybody says he's sure to be a minister or ambassador or something of that sort." "i've no doubt he will. and where'll he have to go to? to brazil, or the west indies, or some british colony," said her ladyship showing her ignorance of the foreign office service. "that might be very well. you could stay at home. only where would you live? he wouldn't keep a house in town for you. is this the sort of place you'd like?" "i don't think it makes any difference where one is," said arabella disgusted. "but i do,--a very great difference. it seems to me that he's altogether under the control of that hideous old termagant. arabella, i think you'd better make up your mind that it won't do." "it must do," said arabella. "you're very fond of him it seems." "mamma, how you do delight to torture me;--as if my life weren't bad enough without your making it worse." "i tell you, my dear, what i'm bound to tell you--as your mother. i have my duty to do whether it's painful or not." "that's nonsense, mamma. you know it is. that might have been all very well ten years ago." "you were almost in your cradle, my dear." "psha! cradle! i'll tell you what it is, mamma. i've been at it till i'm nearly broken down. i must settle somewhere;--or else die;--or else run away. i can't stand this any longer and i won't. talk of work,--men's work! what man ever has to work as i do?" i wonder which was the hardest part of that work, the hairdressing and painting and companionship of the lady's maid or the continual smiling upon unmarried men to whom she had nothing to say and for whom she did not in the least care! "i can't do it any more, and i won't. as for mr. morton, i don't care that for him. you know i don't. i never cared much for anybody, and shall never again care at all." "you'll find that will come all right after you are married." "like you and papa, i suppose." "my dear, i had no mother to take care of me, or i shouldn't have married your father." "i wish you hadn't, because then i shouldn't be going to marry mr. morton. but, as i have got so far, for heaven's sake let it go on. if you break with him i'll tell him everything and throw myself into his hands." lady augustus sighed deeply. "i will, mamma. it was you spotted this man, and when you said that you thought it would do, i gave way. he was the last man in the world i should have thought of myself." "we had heard so much about bragton!" "and bragton is here. the estate is not out of elbows." "my dear, my opinion is that we've made a mistake. he's not the sort of man i took him to be. he's as hard as a file." "leave that to me, mamma." "you are determined then?" "i think i am. at any rate let me look about me. don't give him an opportunity of breaking off till i have made up my mind. i can always break off if i like it. no one in london has heard of the engagement yet. just leave me alone for this week to see what i think about it." then lady augustus threw herself back in her chair and went to sleep, or pretended to do so. a little after half-past seven she and her daughter, dressed for dinner, went down to the library together. the other guests were assembled there, and mrs. morton was already plainly expressing her anger at the tardiness of her son's guests. the senator had got hold of mr. mainwaring and was asking pressing questions as to church patronage,--a subject not very agreeable to the rector of st. john's, as his living had been bought for him with his wife's money during the incumbency of an old gentleman of seventy-eight. mr. cooper, who was himself nearly that age and who was vicar of mallingham, a parish which ran into dillsborough and comprehended a part of its population, was listening to these queries with awe,--and perhaps with some little gratification, as he had been presented to his living by the bishop after a curacy of many years. "this kind of things, i believe, can be bought and sold in the market," said the senator, speaking every word with absolute distinctness. but as he paused for an answer the two ladies came in and the conversation was changed. both the clergymen were introduced to lady augustus and her daughter, and mr. mainwaring at once took refuge under the shadow of the ladies' title. arabella did not sit down, so that morton had an opportunity of standing near to his love. "i suppose you are very tired," he said. "not in the least." she smiled her sweetest as she answered him,--but yet it was not very sweet. "of course we were tired and cross when we got out of the train. people always are; aren't they?" "perhaps ladies are." "we were. but all that about the carriages, mr. morton, wasn't my doing. mamma had been talking to me so much that i didn't know whether i was on my head or my heels. it was very good of you to come and meet us, and i ought to have been more gracious." in this way she made her peace, and as she was quite in earnest,--doing a portion of the hard work of her life,--she continued to smile as sweetly as she could. perhaps he liked it;--but any man endowed with that power of appreciation which we call sympathy, would have felt it to be as cold as though it had come from a figure on a glass window. the dinner was announced. mr. morton was honoured with the hand of lady augustus. the senator handed the old lady into the dining-room and mr. mainwaring the younger lady,--so that arabella was sitting next to her lover. it had all been planned by morton and acceded to by his grandmother. mr. gotobed throughout the dinner had the best of the conversation, though lady augustus had power enough to snub him on more than one occasion. "suppose we were to allow at once," she said, "that everything is better in the united states than anywhere else, shouldn't we get along easier?" "i don't know that getting along easy is what we have particularly got in view," said mr. gotobed, who was certainly in quest of information. "but it is what i have in view, mr. gotobed;--so if you please we'll take the pre-eminence of your country for granted." then she turned to mr. mainwaring on the other side. upon this the senator addressed himself for a while to the table at large and had soon forgotten altogether the expression of the lady's wishes. "i believe you have a good many churches about here," said lady augustus trying to make conversation to her neighbour. "one in every parish, i fancy," said mr. mainwaring, who preferred all subjects to clerical subjects. "i suppose london is quite empty now." "we came direct from the duke's," said lady augustus,--"and did not even sleep in town;--but it is empty." the duke was the brother of lord augustus, and a compromise had been made with lady augustus, by which she and her daughter should be allowed a fortnight every year at the duke's place in the country, and a certain amount of entertainment in town. "i remember the duke at christchurch," said the parson. "he and i were of the same par. he was lord mistletoe then. dear me, that was a long time ago. i wonder whether he remembers being upset out of a trap with me one day after dinner. i suppose we had dined in earnest. he has gone his way, and i have gone mine, and i've never seen him since. pray remember me to him." lady augustus said she would, and did entertain some little increased respect for the clergyman who could boast that he had been tipsy in company with her worthy brother-in-law. poor mr. cooper did not get on very well with mrs. morton. all his remembrances of the old squire were eulogistic and affectionate. hers were just the reverse. he had a good word to say for reginald morton,--to which she would not even listen. she was willing enough to ask questions about the mallingham tenants;--but mr. cooper would revert back to the old days, and so conversation was at an end. morton tried to make himself agreeable to his left-hand neighbour,--trying also very hard to make himself believe that he was happy in his immediate position. how often in the various amusements of the world is one tempted to pause a moment and ask oneself whether one really likes it! he was conscious that he was working hard, struggling to be happy, painfully anxious to be sure that he was enjoying the luxury of being in love. but he was not at all contented. there she was, and very beautiful she looked; and he thought that he could be proud of her if she sat at the end of his table;--and he knew that she was engaged to be his wife. but he doubted whether she was in love with him; and he almost doubted sometimes whether he was very much in love with her. he asked her in so many words what he should do to amuse her. would she like to ride with him, as if so he would endeavour to get saddle-horses. would she like to go out hunting? would she be taken round to see the neighbouring towns, rufford and norrington? "lord rufford lives somewhere near rufford?" she asked. yes;--he lived at rufford hall, three or four miles from the town. did lord rufford hunt? morton believed that he was greatly given to hunting. then he asked arabella whether she knew the young lord. she had just met him, she said, and had only asked the question because of the name. "he is one of my neighbours down here," said morton;--"but being always away of course i see nothing of him." after that arabella consented to be taken out on horseback to see a meet of the hounds although she could not hunt. "we must see what we can do about horses," he said. she however professed her readiness to go in the carriage if a saddle-horse could not be found. the dinner party i fear was very dull. mr. mainwaring perhaps liked it because he was fond of dining anywhere away from home. mr. cooper was glad once more to see his late old friend's old dining-room. mr. gotobed perhaps obtained some information. but otherwise the affair was dull. "are we to have a week of this?" said lady augustus when she found herself up-stairs. "you must, mamma, if we are to stay till we go to the gores. lord rufford is here in the neighbourhood." "but they don't know each other." "yes they do;--slightly. i am to go to the meet some day and he'll be there." "it might be dangerous." "nonsense, mamma! and after all you've been saying about dropping mr. morton!" "but there is nothing so bad as a useless flirtation." "do i ever flirt? oh, mamma, that after so many years you shouldn't know me! did you ever see me yet making myself happy in any way? what nonsense you talk!" then without waiting for, or making, any apology, she walked off to her own room. chapter xiv. the dillsborough feud. "it's that nasty, beastly, drunken club," said mrs. masters to her unfortunate husband on the wednesday morning. it may perhaps be remembered that the poisoned fox was found on the saturday, and it may be imagined that mr. goarly had risen in importance since that day. on the saturday bean with a couple of men employed by lord rufford, had searched the wood, and found four or five red herrings poisoned with strychnine. there had been no doubt about the magnitude of the offence. on the monday a detective policeman, dressed of course in rustic disguise but not the less known to every one in the place, was wandering about between dillsborough and dillsborough wood and making futile inquiries as to the purchase of strychnine,--and also as to the purchase of red herrings. but every one knew, and such leading people as runciman and dr. nupper were not slow to declare, that dillsborough was the only place in england in which one might be sure that those articles had not been purchased. and on the tuesday it began to be understood that goarly had applied to bearside, the other attorney, in reference to his claim against lord rufford's pheasants. he had contemptuously refused the _s._ _d._ an acre offered him, and put his demand at _s._ as to the poisoned fox and the herrings and the strychnine goarly declared that he didn't care if there were twenty detectives in the place. he stated it to be his opinion that larry twentyman had put down the poison. it was all very well, goarly said, for larry to be fond of gentlemen and to ride to hounds, and make pretences;--but larry liked his turkeys as well as anybody else, and larry had put down the poison. in this matter goarly overreached himself. no one in dillsborough could be brought to believe that. even harry stubbings was ready to swear that he should suspect himself as soon. but nothing was clearer than this,--that goarly was going to make a stand against the hunt and especially against lord rufford. he had gone to bearside and bearside had taken up the matter in a serious way. then it became known very quickly that bearside had already received money, and it was surmised that goarly had some one at his back. lord rufford had lately ejected from a house of his on the other side of the county a discontented litigious retired grocer from rufford, who had made some money and had set himself up in a pretty little residence with a few acres of land. the man had made himself objectionable and had been dispossessed. the man's name was scrobby; and hence had come these sorrows. this was the story that had already made itself known in dillsborough on the tuesday evening. but up to that time not a tittle of evidence had come to light as to the purchase of the red herrings or the strychnine. all that was known was the fact that had not tony tuppett stopped the hounds before they reached the wood, there must have been a terrible mortality. "it's that nasty, beastly, drunken club," said mrs. masters to her husband. of course it was at this time known to the lady that her husband had thrown away goarly's business and that it had been transferred to bearside. it was also surmised by her, as it was by the town in general, that goarly's business would come to considerable dimensions;--just the sort of case as would have been sure to bring popularity if carried through, as nickem, the senior clerk, would have carried it. and as soon as scrobby's name was heard by mrs. masters, there was no end to the money in the lady's imagination to which this very case might not have amounted. "the club had nothing to do with it, my dear." "what time did you come home on saturday night;--or sunday morning i mean? do you mean to tell me you didn't settle it there?" "there was no nastiness, and no beastliness, and no drunkenness about it. i told you before i went that i wouldn't take it." "no;--you didn't. how on earth are you to go on if you chuck the children's bread out of their mouths in that way?" "you won't believe me. do you ask twentyman what sort of a man goarly is." the attorney knew that larry was in great favour with his wife as being the favoured suitor for mary's hand, and had thought that this argument would be very strong. "i don't want mr. twentyman to teach me what is proper for my family,--nor yet to teach you your business. mr. twentyman has his own way of living. he brought home kate the other day with hardly a rag of her sister's habit left. she don't go out hunting any more." "very well, my dear." "indeed for the matter of that i don't see how any of them are to do anything. what'll lord rufford do for you?" "i don't want lord rufford to do anything for me." the attorney was beginning to have his spirit stirred within him. "you don't want anybody to do anything, and yet you will do nothing yourself,--just because a set of drinking fellows in a tap-room, which you call a club--" "it isn't a tap-room." "it's worse, because nobody can see what you're doing. i know how it was. you hadn't the pluck to hold to your own when runciman told you not." there was a spice of truth in this which made it all the more bitter. "runciman knows on which side his bread is buttered. he can make his money out of these swearing-tearing fellows. he can send in his bills, and get them paid too. and it's all very well for larry twentyman to be hobbing and nobbing with the likes of them botseys. but for a father of a family like you to be put off his business by what mr. runciman says is a shame." "i shall manage my business as i think fit," said the attorney. "and when we're all in the poor-house what'll you do then?" said mrs. masters,--with her handkerchief out at the spur of the moment. whenever she roused her husband to a state of bellicose ire by her taunts she could always reduce him again by her tears. being well aware of this he would bear the taunts as long as he could, knowing that the tears would be still worse. he was so soft-hearted that when she affected to be miserable, he could not maintain the sternness of his demeanour and leave her in her misery. "when everything has gone away from us, what are we to do? my little bit of money has disappeared ever so long." then she sat herself down in her chair and had a great cry. it was useless for him to remind her that hitherto she had never wanted anything for herself or her children. she was resolved that everything was going to the dogs because goarly's case had been refused. "and what will all those sporting men do for you?" she repeated. "i hate the very name of a gentleman;--so i do. i wish goarly had killed all the foxes in the county. nasty vermin! what good are the likes of them?" nickem, the senior clerk, was at first made almost as unhappy as mrs. masters by the weak decision to which his employer had come, and had in the first flush of his anger resolved to leave the office. he was sure that the case was one which would just have suited him. he would have got up the evidence as to the fertility of the land, the enormous promise of crop, and the ultimate absolute barrenness, to a marvel. he would have proved clouds of pheasants. and then goarly's humble position, futile industry, and general poverty might have been contrasted beautifully with lord rufford's wealth, idleness, and devotion to sport. anything above the _s._ _d._ an acre obtained against the lord would have been a triumph, and he thought that if the thing had been well managed, they might probably have got _s._ and then, in such a case, lord rufford could hardly have taxed the costs. it was really suicide for an attorney to throw away business so excellent as this. and now it had gone to bearside whom nickem remembered as a junior to himself when they were both young hobbledehoys at norrington,--a dirty, blear-eyed, pimply-faced boy who was suspected of purloining halfpence out of coat-pockets. the thing was very trying to nat nickem. but suddenly, before that wednesday was over, another idea had occurred to him, and he was almost content. he knew goarly, and he had heard of scrobby and scrobby's history in regard to the tenement at rufford. as he could not get goarly's case why should he not make something of the case against goarly? that detective was merely eking out his time and having an idle week among the public-houses. if he could set himself up as an amateur detective he thought that he might perhaps get to the bottom of it all. it is not a bad thing to be concerned on the same side with a lord when the lord is in earnest. lord rufford was very angry about the poison in the covert and would probably be ready to pay very handsomely for having the criminal found and punished. the criminal of course was goarly. nickem did not doubt that for a moment, and would not have doubted it whichever side he might have taken. nickem did not suppose that any one for a moment really doubted goarly's guilt. but to his eyes such certainty amounted to nothing, if evidence of the crime were not forthcoming. he probably felt within his own bosom that the last judgment of all would depend in some way on terrestrial evidence, and was quite sure that it was by such that a man's conscience should be affected. if goarly had so done the deed as to be beyond the possibility of detection, nickem could not have brought himself to regard goarly as a sinner. as it was he had considerable respect for goarly;--but might it not be possible to drop down upon scrobby? bearside with his case against the lord would be nowhere, if goarly could be got to own that he had been suborned by scrobby to put down the poison. or, if in default of this, any close communication could be proved between goarly and scrobby,--scrobby's injury and spirit of revenge being patent,--then too bearside would not have much of a case. a jury would look at that question of damages with a very different eye if scrobby's spirit of revenge could be proved at the trial, and also the poisoning, and also machinations between scrobby and goarly. nickem was a little red-haired man about forty, who wrote a good flourishing hand, could endure an immense amount of work, and drink a large amount of alcohol without being drunk. his nose and face were all over blotches, and he looked to be dissipated and disreputable. but, as he often boasted, no one could say that "black was the white of his eye;"--by which he meant to insinuate that he had not been detected in anything dishonest and that he was never too tipsy to do his work. he was a married man and did not keep his wife and children in absolute comfort; but they lived, and mr. nickem in some fashion paid his way. there was another clerk in the office, a very much younger man, named sundown, and nickem could not make his proposition to mr. masters till sundown had left the office. nickem himself had only matured his plans at dinner time and was obliged to be reticent, till at six o'clock sundown took himself off. mr. masters was, at the moment, locking his own desk, when nickem winked at him to stay. mr. masters did stay, and sundown did at last leave the office. "you couldn't let me leave home for three days?" said nickem. "there ain't much a doing." "what do you want it for?" "that goarly is a great blackguard, mr. masters." "very likely. do you know anything about him?" nickem scratched his head and rubbed his chin. "i think i could manage to know something." "in what way?" "i don't think i'm quite prepared to say, sir. i shouldn't use your name of course. but they're down upon lord rufford, and if you could lend me a trifle of _s._, sir, i think i could get to the bottom of it. his lordship would be awful obliged to any one who could hit it off." mr. masters did give his clerk leave for three days, and did advance him the required money. and when he suggested in a whisper that perhaps the circumstance need not be mentioned to mrs. masters, nickem winked again and put his fore-finger to the side of his big carbuncled nose. that evening larry twentyman came in, but was not received with any great favour by mrs. masters. there was growing up at this moment in dillsborough the bitterness of real warfare between the friends and enemies of sport in general, and mrs. masters was ranking herself thereby among the enemies. larry was of course one of the friends. but unhappily there was a slight difference of sentiment even in larry's own house, and on this very morning old mrs. twentyman had expressed to mrs. masters a feeling of wrong which had gradually risen from the annual demolition of her pet broods of turkeys. she declared that for the last three years every turkey poult had gone, and that at last she was beginning to feel it. "it's over a hundred of 'em they've had, and it is wearing," said the old woman. larry had twenty times begged her to give up the rearing turkeys, but her heart had been too high for that. "i don't know why lord rufford's foxes are to be thought of always, and nobody is to think about your poor mother's poultry," said mrs. masters, lugging the subject in neck and heels. "has she been talking to you, mrs. masters, about her turkeys?" "your mother may speak to me i suppose if she likes it, without offence to lord rufford." "lord rufford has got nothing to do with it." "the wood belongs to him," said mrs. masters. "foxes are much better than turkeys anyway," said kate masters. "if you don't hold your tongue, miss, you'll be sent to bed. the wood belongs to his lordship, and the foxes are a nuisance." "he keeps the foxes for the county, and where would the county be without them?" began larry. "what is it brings money into such a place as this?" "to runciman's stables and harry stubbings and the like of them. what money does it bring in to steady honest people?" "look at all the grooms," said larry. "the impudentest set of young vipers about the place," said the lady. "look at grice's business." grice was the saddler. "grice indeed! what's grice?" "and the price of horses?" "yes;--making everything dear that ought to be cheap. i don't see and i never shall see and i never will see any good in extravagant idleness. as for kate she shall never go out hunting again. she has torn mary's habit to pieces. and shooting is worse. why is a man to have a flock of voracious cormorants come down upon his corn fields? i'm all in favour of goarly, and so i tell you, mr. twentyman." after this poor larry went away, finding that he had no opportunity for saying a word to mary masters. chapter xv. a fit companion,--for me and my sisters. on that same wednesday reginald morton had called at the attorney's house, had asked for miss masters, and had found her alone. mrs. masters at the time had been out, picking up intelligence about the great case, and the two younger girls had been at school. reginald, as he walked home from bragton all alone on that occasion when larry had returned with mary, was quite sure that he would never willingly go into mary's presence again. why should he disturb his mind about such a girl,--one who could rush into the arms of such a man as larry twentyman? or, indeed, why disturb his mind about any girl? that was not the manner of life which he planned for himself. after that he shut himself up for a few days and was not much seen by any of the dillsborough folk. but on this wednesday he received a letter, and,--as he told himself, merely in consequence of that letter,--he called at the attorney's house and asked for miss masters. he was shown up into the beautiful drawing-room, and in a few minutes mary came to him. "i have brought you a letter from my aunt," he said. "from lady ushant? i am so glad." "she was writing to me and she put this under cover. i know what it contains. she wants you to go to her at cheltenham for a month." "oh, mr. morton!" "would you like to go?" "how should i not like to go? lady ushant is my dearest, dearest friend. it is so very good of her to think of me." "she talks of the first week in december and wants you to be there for christmas." "i don't at all know that i can go, mr. morton." "why not go?" "i'm afraid mamma will not spare me." there were many reasons. she could hardly go on such a visit without some renewal of her scanty wardrobe, which perhaps the family funds would not permit. and, as she knew very well, mrs. masters was not at all favourable to lady ushant. if the old lady had altogether kept mary it might have been very well; but she had not done so and mrs. masters had more than once said that that kind of thing must be all over;--meaning that mary was to drop her intimacy with high-born people that were of no real use. and then there was mr. twentyman and his suit. mary had for some time felt that her step-mother intended her to understand that her only escape from home would be by becoming mrs. twentyman. "i don't think it will be possible, mr. morton." "my aunt will be very sorry." "oh,--how sorry shall i be! it is like having another little bit of heaven before me." then he said what he certainly should not have said. "i thought, miss masters, that your heaven was all here." "what do you mean by that, mr. morton?" she asked blushing up to her hair. of course she knew what he meant, and of course she was angry with him. ever since that walk her mind had been troubled by ideas as to what he would think about her, and now he was telling her what he thought. "i fancied that you were happy here without going to see an old woman who after all has not much amusement to offer to you." "i don't want any amusement." "at any rate you will answer lady ushant?" "of course i shall answer her." "perhaps you can let me know. she wishes me to take you to cheltenham. i shall go for a couple of days, but i shall not stay longer. if you are going perhaps you would allow me to travel with you." "of course it would be very kind; but i don't suppose that i shall go. i am sure lady ushant won't believe that i am kept away from her by any pleasure of my own here. i can explain it all to her and she will understand me." she hardly meant to reproach him. she did not mean to assume an intimacy sufficient for reproach. but he felt that she had reproached him. "i love lady ushant so dearly that i would go anywhere to see her if i could." "then i think it could be managed. your father--" "papa does not attend much to us girls. it is mamma that manages all that. at any rate, i will write to lady ushant, and will ask papa to let you know." then it seemed as though there were nothing else for him but to go;--and yet he wanted to say some other word. if he had been cruel in throwing mr. twentyman in her teeth, surely he ought to apologize. "i did not mean to say anything to offend you." "you have not offended me at all, mr. morton." "if i did think that,--that--" "it does not signify in the least. i only want lady ushant to understand that if i could possibly go to her i would rather do that than anything else in the world. because lady ushant is kind to me i needn't expect other people to be so." reginald morton was of course the "other people." then he paused a moment. "i did so long," he said, "to walk round the old place with you the other day before these people came there, and i was so disappointed when you would not come with me." "i was coming." "but you went back with--that other man." "of course i did when you showed so plainly that you didn't want him to join you. what was i to do? i couldn't send him away. mr. twentyman is a very intimate friend of ours, and very kind to dolly and kate." "i wished so much to talk to you about the old days." "and i wish to go to your aunt, mr. morton; but we can't all of us have what we wish. of course i saw that you were very angry, but i couldn't help that. perhaps it was wrong in mr. twentyman to offer to walk with you." "i didn't say so at all." "you looked it at any rate, mr. morton. and as mr. twentyman is a friend of ours--" "you were angry with me." "i don't say that. but as you were too grand for our friend of course you were too grand for us." "that is a very unkind way of putting it. i don't think i am grand. a man may wish to have a little conversation with a very old friend without being interrupted, and yet not be grand. i dare say mr. twentyman is just as good as i am." "you don't think that, mr. morton." "i believe him to be a great deal better, for he earns his bread, and takes care of his mother, and as far as i know does his duty thoroughly." "i know the difference, mr. morton, and of course i know how you feel it. i don't suppose that mr. twentyman is a fit companion for any of the mortons, but for all that he may be a fit companion for me,--and my sisters." surely she must have said this with the express object of declaring to him that in spite of the advantages of her education she chose to put herself in the ranks of the twentymans, runcimans and such like. he had come there ardently wishing that she might be allowed to go to his aunt, and resolved that he would take her himself if it were possible. but now he almost thought that she had better not go. if she had made her election, she must be allowed to abide by it. if she meant to marry mr. twentyman what good could she get by associating with his aunt or with him? and had she not as good as told him that she meant to marry mr. twentyman? she had at any rate very plainly declared that she regarded mr. twentyman as her equal in rank. then he took his leave without any further explanation. even if she did go to cheltenham he would not take her. after that he walked straight out to bragton. he was of course altogether unconscious what grand things his cousin john had intended to do by him, had not the honourable old lady interfered; but he had made up his mind that duty required him to call at the house. so he walked by the path across the bridge and when he came out on the gravel road near the front door he found a gentleman smoking a cigar and looking around him. it was mr. gotobed who had just returned from a visit which he had made, the circumstances of which must be narrated in the next chapter. the senator lifted his hat and remarked that it was a very fine afternoon. reginald lifted his hat and assented. "mr. morton, sir, i think is out with the ladies, taking a drive." "i will leave a card then." "the old lady is at home, sir, if you wish to see her," continued the senator following reginald up to the door. "oh, mr. reginald, is that you?" said old mrs. hopkins taking the card. "they are all out,--except herself." as he certainly did not wish to see "herself," he greeted the old woman and left his card. "you live in these parts, sir?" asked the senator. "in the town yonder." "because mr. morton's housekeeper seems to know you." "she knows me very well as i was brought up in this house. good morning to you." "good afternoon to you, sir. perhaps you can tell me who lives in that country residence,--what you call a farm-house,--on the other side of the road." reginald said that he presumed the gentleman was alluding to mr. twentyman's house. "ah, yes,--i dare say. that was the name i heard up there. you are not mr. twentyman, sir?" "my name is morton." "morton, is it;--perhaps my friend's;--ah--ah,--yes." he didn't like to say uncle because reginald didn't look old enough, and he knew he ought not to say brother, because the elder brother in england would certainly have had the property. "i am mr. john morton's cousin." "oh;--mr. morton's cousin. i asked whether you were the owner of that farm-house because i intruded just now by passing through the yards, and i would have apologized. good afternoon to you, sir." then reginald having thus done his duty returned home. mary masters when she was alone was again very angry with herself. she knew thoroughly how perverse she had been when she declared that larry twentyman was a fit companion for herself, and that she had said it on purpose to punish the man who was talking to her. not a day passed, or hardly an hour of a day, in which she did not tell herself that the education she had received and the early associations of her life had made her unfit for the marriage which her friends were urging upon her. it was the one great sorrow of her life. she even repented of the good things of her early days because they had given her a distaste for what might have otherwise been happiness and good fortune. there had been moments in which she had told herself that she ought to marry larry twentyman and adapt herself to the surroundings of her life. since she had seen reginald morton frequently, she had been less prone to tell herself so than before;--and yet to this very man she had declared her fitness for larry's companionship! chapter xvi. mr. gotobed's philanthropy. mr. gotobed, when the persecutions of goarly were described to him at the scene of the dead fox, had expressed considerable admiration for the man's character as portrayed by what he then heard. the man,--a poor man too and despised in the land,--was standing up for his rights, all alone, against the aristocracy and plutocracy of the county. he had killed the demon whom the aristocracy and plutocracy worshipped, and had appeared there in arms ready to defend his own territory,--one against so many, and so poor a man against men so rich! the senator had at once said that he would call upon mr. goarly, and the senator was a man who always carried out his purposes. afterwards, from john morton, and from others who knew the country better than morton, he learned further particulars. on the monday and tuesday he fathomed,--or nearly fathomed,--that matter of the _s._ _d._ an acre. he learned at any rate that the owner of the wood admitted a damage done by him to the corn and had then, himself, assessed the damage without consultation with the injured party; and he was informed also that goarly was going to law with the lord for a fuller compensation. he liked goarly for killing the fox, and he liked him more for going to law with lord rufford. he declared openly at bragton his sympathy with the man and his intention of expressing it. morton was annoyed and endeavoured to persuade him to leave the man alone; but in vain. no doubt had he expressed himself decisively and told his friend that he should be annoyed by a guest from his house taking part in such a matter, the senator would have abstained and would merely have made one more note as to english peculiarities and english ideas of justice; but morton could not bring himself to do this. "the feeling of the country will be altogether against you," he had said, hoping to deter the senator. the senator had replied that though the feeling of that little bit of the country might be against him he did not believe that such would be the case with the feeling of england generally. the ladies had all become a little afraid of mr. gotobed and hardly dared to express an opinion. lady augustus did say that she supposed that goarly was a low vulgar fellow, which of course strengthened the senator in his purpose. the senator on wednesday would not wait for lunch but started a little before one with a crust of bread in his pocket to find his way to goarly's house. there was no difficulty in this as he could see the wood as soon as he had got upon the high road. he found twentyman's gate and followed directly the route which the hunting party had taken, till he came to the spot on which the crowd had been assembled. close to this there was a hand-gate leading into dillsborough wood, and standing in the gateway was a man. the senator thought that this might not improbably be goarly himself, and asked the question, "might your name be mr. goarly, sir?" "me goarly!" said the man in infinite disgust. "i ain't nothing of the kind,--and you knows it." that the man should have been annoyed at being taken for goarly,--that man being bean the gamekeeper who would willingly have hung goarly if he could, and would have thought it quite proper that a law should be now passed for hanging him at once,--was natural enough. but why he should have told the senator that the senator knew he was not goarly it might be difficult to explain. he probably at once regarded the senator as an enemy, as a man on the other side, and therefore as a cunning knave who would be sure to come creeping about on false pretences. bean, who had already heard of bearside and had heard of scrobby in connection with this matter, looked at the senator very hard. he knew bearside. the man certainly was not the attorney, and from what he had heard of scrobby he didn't think he was scrobby. the man was not like what in his imagination scrobby would be. he did not know what to make of mr. gotobed,--who was a person of an imposing appearance, tall and thin, with a long nose and look of great acuteness, dressed in black from head to foot, but yet not looking quite like an english gentleman. he was a man to whom bean in an ordinary way would have been civil,--civil in a cold guarded way; but how was he to be civil to anybody who addressed him as goarly? "i did not know it," said the senator. "as goarly lives near here i thought you might be goarly. when i saw goarly he had a gun, and you have a gun. can you tell me where goarly lives?" "tother side of the wood," said bean pointing back with his thumb. "he never had a gun like this in his hand in all his born days." "i dare say not, my friend. i can go through the wood i guess;" for bean had pointed exactly over the gateway. "i guess you can't then," said bean. the man who, like other gamekeepers, lived much in the company of gentlemen, was ordinarily a civil courteous fellow, who knew how to smile and make things pleasant. but at this moment he was very much put out. his covert had been found full of red herrings and strychnine, and his fox had been poisoned. he had lost his guinea on the day of the hunt,--the guinea which would have been his perquisite had they found a live fox in his wood. and all this was being done by such a fellow as goarly! and now this abandoned wretch was bringing an action against his lordship and was leagued with such men as scrobby and bearside! it was a dreadful state of things! how was it likely that he should give a passage through the wood to anybody coming after goarly? "you're on mr. twentyman's land now, as i dare say you know." "i don't know anything about it." "well;--that wood is lord rufford's wood." "i did know as much as that, certainly." "and you can't go into it." "how shall i find mr. goarly's house?" "if you'll get over that there ditch you'll be on mister goarly's land and that's all about it." bean as he said this put a strongly ironical emphasis on the term of respect and then turned back into the wood. the senator made his way down the fence to the bank on which goarly had stood with his gun, then over into goarly's field, and so round the back of the wood till he saw a small red brick house standing perhaps four hundred yards from the covert, just on the elbow of a lane. it was a miserable-looking place with a pigsty and a dung-heap and a small horse-pond or duck-puddle all close around it. the stack of chimneys seemed to threaten to fall, and as he approached from behind he could see that the two windows opening that way were stuffed with rags. there was a little cabbage garden which now seemed to be all stalks, and a single goose waddling about the duck-puddle. the senator went to the door, and having knocked, was investigated by a woman from behind it. yes, this was goarly's house. what did the gentleman want? goarly was at work in the field. then she came out, the senator having signified his friendly intentions, and summoned goarly to the spot. "i hope i see you well, sir," said the senator putting out his hand as goarly came up dragging a dung-fork behind him. goarly rubbed his hand on his breeches before he gave it to be shaken and declared himself to be "pretty tidy, considering." "i was present the other day, mr. goarly, when that dead fox was exposed to view." "was you, sir?" "i was given to understand that you had destroyed the brute." "don't you believe a word on it then," said the woman interposing. "he didn't do nothing of the kind. who ever seed him a' buying of red herrings and p'ison?" "hold your jaw," said goarly,--familiarly. "let 'em prove it. i don't know who you are, sir; but let 'em prove it." "my name, mr. goarly, is elias gotobed. i am an american citizen, and senator for the state of mickewa." mr. and mrs. goarly shook their heads at every separate item of information tendered to them. "i am on a visit to this country and am at present staying at the house of my friend, mr. john morton." "he's the gentl'man from bragton, dan." "hold your jaw, can't you?" said the husband. then he touched his hat to the senator intending to signify that the senator might, if he pleased, continue his narrative. "if you did kill that fox, mr. goarly, i think you were quite right to kill him." then goarly winked at him. "i cannot imagine that even the laws of england could justify a man in perpetuating a breed of wild animals that are destructive to his neighbours' property." "i could shoot 'un; not a doubt about that, mister. i could shoot 'un;--and i wull." "have a care, dan," whispered mrs. goarly. "hold your jaw,--will ye? i could shoot 'un, mister. i don't rightly know about p'ison." "that fox we saw was poisoned i suppose," said the senator, carelessly. "have a care, dan;--have a care!" whispered the wife. "allow me to assure both of you," said the senator, "that you need fear nothing from me. i have come quite as a friend." "thank 'ee, sir," said goarly again touching his hat. "it seems to me," said the senator, "that in this matter a great many men are leagued together against you." "you may say that, sir. i didn't just catch your name, sir." "my name is gotobed;--gotobed; elias gotobed, senator from the state of mickewa to the united states congress." mrs. goarly who understood nothing of all these titles, and who had all along doubted, dropped a suspicious curtsey. goarly, who understood a little now, took his hat altogether off. he was very much puzzled but inclined to think that if he managed matters rightly, profit might be got out of this very strange meeting. "in my country, mr. goarly, all men are free and equal." "that's a fine thing, sir." "it is a fine thing, my friend, if properly understood and properly used. coming from such a country i was shocked to see so many rich men banded together against one who i suppose is not rich." "very far from it," said the woman. "it's my own land, you know," said goarly who was proud of his position as a landowner. "no one can't touch me on it, as long as the rates is paid. i'm as good a man here,"--and he stamped his foot on the ground,--"as his lordship is in that there wood." this was the first word spoken by the goarlys that had pleased the senator, and this set him off again. "just so;--and i admire a man that will stand up for his own rights. i am told that you have found his lordship's pheasants destructive to your corn." "didn't leave him hardly a grain last august," said mrs. goarly. "will you hold your jaw, woman, or will you not?" said the man, turning round fiercely at her. "i'm going to have the law of his lordship, sir. what's seven and six an acre? there's that quantity of pheasants in that wood as'd eat up any mortal thing as ever was growed. seven and six!" "didn't you propose arbitration?" "i never didn't propose nothin'. i've axed two pound, and my lawyer says as how i'll get it. what i sold come off that other bit of ground down there. wonderful crop! and this 'd've been the same. his lordship ain't nothin' to me, mr. gotobed." "you don't approve of hunting, mr. goarly?" "oh, i approves if they'd pay a poor man for what harm they does him. look at that there goose." mr. gotobed did look at the goose. "there's nine and twenty they've tuk from me, and only left un that." now mrs. goarly's goose was well known in those parts. it was declared that she was more than a match for any fox in the county, but that mrs. goarly for the last two years had never owned any goose but this one. "the foxes have eaten them all?" asked the senator. "every mortal one." "and the gentlemen of the hunt have paid you nothing." "i had four half-crowns once," said the woman. "if you don't send the heads you don't get it," said the man, "and then they'll keep you waiting months and months, just for their pleasures. who's a going to put up with that? i ain't." "and now you're going to law?" "i am,--like a man. his lordship ain't nothin' to me. i ain't afeard of his lordship." "will it cost you much?" "that's just what it will do, sir," said the woman. "didn't i tell you, hold your jaw?" "the gentl'man was going to offer to help us a little, dan." "i was going to say that i am interested in the case, and that you have all my good wishes. i do not like to offer pecuniary help." "you're very good, sir; very good. this bit of land is mine; not a doubt of it;--but we're poor, sir." "indeed we is," said the woman. "what with taxes and rates, and them foxes as won't let me rear a head of poultry and them brutes of birds as eats up the corn, i often tells him he'd better sell the bit o' land and just set up for a public." "it belonged to my feyther and grandfeyther," said goarly. then the senator's heart was softened again and he explained at great length that he would watch the case and if he saw his way clearly, befriend it with substantial aid. he asked about the attorney and took down bearside's address. after that he shook hands with both of them, and then made his way back to bragton through mr. twentyman's farm. mr. and mrs. goarly were left in a state of great perturbation of mind. they could not in the least make out among themselves who the gentleman was, or whether he had come for good or evil. that he called himself gotobed goarly did remember, and also that he had said that he was an american. all that which had referred to senatorial honours and the state of mickewa had been lost upon goarly. the question of course arose whether he was not a spy sent out by lord rufford's man of business, and mrs. goarly was clearly of opinion that such had been the nature of his employment. had he really been a friend, she suggested, he would have left a sovereign behind him. "he didn't get no information from me," said goarly. "only about mr. bearside." "what's the odds of that? they all knows that. bearside! why should i be ashamed of bearside? i'll do a deal better with bearside than i would with that old woman, masters." "but he took it down in writing, dan." "what the d----'s the odds in that?" "i don't like it when they puts it down in writing." "hold your jaw," said goarly as he slowly shouldered the dung-fork to take it back to his work. but as they again discussed the matter that night the opinion gained ground upon them that the senator had been an emissary from the enemy. chapter xvii. lord rufford's invitation. on that same wednesday afternoon when morton returned with the ladies in the carriage he found that a mounted servant had arrived from rufford hall with a letter and had been instructed to wait for an answer. the man was now refreshing himself in the servants' hall. morton, when he had read the letter, found that it required some consideration before he could answer it. it was to the following purport. lord rufford had a party of ladies and gentlemen at rufford hall, as his sister, lady penwether, was staying with him. would mr. morton and his guests come over to rufford hall on monday and stay till wednesday? on tuesday there was to be a dance for the people of the neighbourhood. then he specified, as the guests invited, lady augustus and her daughter and mr. gotobed,--omitting the honourable mrs. morton of whose sojourn in the county he might have been ignorant. his lordship went on to say that he trusted the abruptness of the invitation might be excused on account of the nearness of their neighbourhood and the old friendship which had existed between their families. he had had, he said, the pleasure of being acquainted with lady augustus and her daughter in london and would be proud to see mr. gotobed at his house during his sojourn in the county. then he added in a postscript that the hounds met at rufford hall on tuesday and that he had a horse that carried a lady well if miss trefoil would like to ride him. he could also put up a horse for mr. morton. this was all very civil, but there was something in it that was almost too civil. there came upon morton a suspicion, which he did not even define to himself, that the invitation was due to arabella's charms. there were many reasons why he did not wish to accept it. his grandmother was left out and he feared that she would be angry. he did not feel inclined to take the american senator to the lord's house, knowing as he did that the american senator was interfering in a ridiculous manner on behalf of goarly. and he did not particularly wish to be present at rufford hall with the trefoil ladies. hitherto he had received very little satisfaction from their visit to bragton,--so little that he had been more than once on the verge of asking arabella whether she wished to be relieved from her engagement. she had never quite given him the opportunity. she had always been gracious to him in a cold, disagreeable, glassy manner,--in a manner that irked his spirit but still did not justify him in expressing anger. lady augustus was almost uncivil to him, and from time to time said little things which were hard to bear; but he was not going to marry lady augustus, and could revenge himself against her by resolving in his own breast that he would have as little as possible to do with her after his marriage. that was the condition of his mind towards them, and in that condition he did not want to take them to lord rufford's house. their visit to him would be over on monday, and it would he thought be better for him that they should then go on their way to the gores as they had proposed. but he did not like to answer the letter by a refusal without saying a word to his guests on the subject. he would not object to ignore the senator, but he was afraid that if nothing were to be said to arabella she would hear of it hereafter and would complain of such treatment. he therefore directed that the man might be kept waiting while he consulted the lady of his choice. it was with difficulty that he found himself alone with her,--and then only by sending her maid in quest of her. he did get her at last into his own sitting-room and then, having placed her in a chair near the fire, gave her lord rufford's letter to read. "what can it be," said she looking up into his face with her great inexpressive eyes, "that has required all this solemnity?" she still looked up at him and did not even open the letter. "i did not like to answer that without showing it to you. i don't suppose you would care to go." "go where?" "it is from lord rufford,--for monday." "from lord rufford!" "it would break up all your plans and your mother's, and would probably be a great bore." then she did read the letter, very carefully and very slowly, weighing every word of it as she read it. did it mean more than it said? but though she read it slowly and carefully and was long before she made him any answer, she had very quickly resolved that the invitation should be accepted. it would suit her very well to know lady penwether. it might possibly suit her still better to become intimate with lord rufford. she was delighted at the idea of riding lord rufford's horse. as her eyes dwelt on the paper she, too, began to think that the invitation had been chiefly given on her account. at any rate she would go. she had understood perfectly well from the first tone of her lover's voice that he did not wish to subject her to the allurements of rufford hall. she was clever enough, and could read it all. but she did not mean to throw away a chance for the sake of pleasing him. she must not at once displease him by declaring her purpose strongly, and therefore, as she slowly continued her reading, she resolved that she would throw the burden upon her mother. "had i not better show this to mamma?" she said. "you can if you please. you are going to the gores on monday." "we could not go earlier; but we might put it off for a couple of days if we pleased. would it bore you?" "i don't mind about myself. i'm not a very great man for dances." "you'd sooner write a report,--wouldn't you,--about the products of the country?" "a great deal sooner," said the paragon. "but you see we haven't all of us got products to write about. i don't care very much about it myself;--but if you don't mind i'll ask mamma." of course he was obliged to consent, and merely informed her as she went off with the letter that a servant was waiting for an answer. "to go to lord rufford's!" said lady augustus. "from monday till wednesday, mamma. of course we must go." "i promised poor mrs. gore." "nonsense, mamma! the gores can do very well without us. that was only to be a week and we can still stay out our time. of course this has only been sent because we are here." "i should say so. i don't suppose lord rufford would care to know mr. morton. lady penwether goes everywhere; doesn't she?" "everywhere. it would suit me to a 't' to get on to lady penwether's books. but, mamma, of course it's not that. if lord rufford should say a word it is so much easier to manage down in the country than up in london. he has £ , a year, if he has a penny." "how many girls have tried the same thing with him! but i don't mind. i've always said that john morton and bragton would not do." "no, mamma; you haven't. you were the first to say they would do." "i only said that if there were nothing else--" "oh, mamma, how can you say such things! nothing else,--as if he were the last man! you said distinctly that bragton was £ , a year, and that it would do very well. you may change your mind if you like; but it's no good trying to back out of your own doings." "then i have changed my mind." "yes,--without thinking what i have to go through. i'm not going to throw myself at lord rufford's head so as to lose my chance here;--but we'll go and see how the land lies. of course you'll go, mamma." "if you think it is for your advantage, my dear." "my advantage! it's part of the work to be done and we may as well do it. at any rate i'll tell him to accept. we shall have this odious american with us, but that can't be helped." "and the old woman?" "lord rufford doesn't say anything about her. i don't suppose he's such a muff but what he can leave his grandmother behind for a couple of days." then she went back to morton and told him that her mother was particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of lady penwether and that she had decided upon going to rufford hall. "it will be a very nice opportunity," said she, "for you to become acquainted with lord rufford." then he was almost angry. "i can make plenty of such opportunities for myself, when i want them," he said. "of course if you and lady augustus like it, we will go. but let it stand on its right bottom." "it may stand on any bottom you please." "do you mean to ride the man's horse?" "certainly i do. i never refuse a good offer. why shouldn't i ride the man's horse? did you never hear before of a young lady borrowing a gentleman's horse?" "no lady belonging to me will ever do so,--unless the gentleman be a very close friend indeed." "the lady in this case does not belong to you, mr. morton, and therefore, if you have no other objection, she will ride lord rufford's horse. perhaps you will not think it too much trouble to signify the lady's acceptance of the mount in your letter." then she swam out of the room knowing that she left him in anger. after that he had to find mr. gotobed. the going was now decided on as far as he was concerned, and it would make very little difference whether the american went or not,--except that his letter would have been easier to him in accepting the invitation for three persons than for four. but the senator was of course willing. it was the senator's object to see england, and lord rufford's house would be an additional bit of england. the senator would be delighted to have an opportunity of saying what he thought about goarly at lord rufford's table. after that, before this weary letter could be written, he was compelled to see his grandmother and explain to her that she had been omitted. "of course, ma'am, they did not know that you were at bragton, as you were not in the carriage at the 'meet.'" "that's nonsense, john. did lord rufford suppose that you were entertaining ladies here without some one to be mistress of the house? of course he knew that i was here. i shouldn't have gone;--you may be sure of that. i'm not in the habit of going to the houses of people i don't know. indeed i think it's an impertinence in them to ask in that way. i'm surprised that you would go on such an invitation." "the trefoils knew them." "if lady penwether knew them why could not lady penwether ask them independently of us? i don't believe they ever spoke to lady penwether in their lives. lord rufford and miss trefoil may very likely be london acquaintances. he may admire her and therefore choose to have her at his ball. i know nothing about that. as far as i am concerned he's quite welcome to keep her." all this was not very pleasant to john morton. he knew already that his grandmother and lady augustus hated each other, and said spiteful things not only behind each other's backs, but openly to each other's faces. but now he had been told by the girl who was engaged to be his wife that she did not belong to him; and by his grandmother,--who stood to him in the place of his mother,--that she wished that this girl belonged to some one else! he was not quite sure that he did not wish it himself. but, even were it to be so, and should there be reason for him to be gratified at the escape, still he did not relish the idea of taking the girl himself to the other man's house. he wrote the letter, however, and dispatched it. but even the writing of it was difficult and disagreeable. when various details of hospitality have been offered by a comparative stranger a man hardly likes to accept them all. but in this case he had to do it. he would be delighted, he said, to stay at rufford hall from the monday to the wednesday;--lady augustus and miss trefoil would also be delighted;--and so also would mr. gotobed be delighted. and miss trefoil would be further delighted to accept lord rufford's offer of a horse for the tuesday. as for himself, if he rode at all, a horse would come for him to the meet. then he wrote another note to mr. harry stubbings, bespeaking a mount for the occasion. on that evening the party at bragton was not a very pleasant one. "no doubt you are intimate with lady penwether, lady augustus," said mrs. morton. now lady penwether was a very fashionable woman whom to know was considered an honour. "what makes you ask, ma'am?" said lady augustus. "only as you were taking your daughter to her brother's house, and as he is a bachelor." "my dear mrs. morton, really you may leave me to take care of myself and of my daughter too. you have lived so much out of the world for the last thirty years that it is quite amusing." "there are some persons' worlds that it is a great deal better for a lady to be out of," said mrs. morton. then lady augustus put up her hands, and turned round, and affected to laugh, of all which things mr. gotobed, who was studying english society, made notes in his own mind. "what sort of position does that man goarly occupy here?" the senator asked immediately after dinner. "no position at all," said morton. "every man created holds some position as i take it. the land is his own." "he has i believe about fifty acres." "and yet he seems to be in the lowest depth of poverty and ignorance." "of course he mismanages his property and probably drinks." "i dare say, mr. morton. he is proud of his rights, and talked of his father and his grandfather, and yet i doubt whether you would find a man so squalid and so ignorant in all the states. i suppose he is injured by having a lord so near him." "quite the contrary if he would be amenable." "you mean if he would be a creature of the lord's. and why was that other man so uncivil to me;--the man who was the lord's gamekeeper?" "because you went there as a friend of goarly." "and that's his idea of english fair play?" asked the senator with a jeer. "the truth is, mr. gotobed," said morton endeavouring to explain it all, "you see a part only and not the whole. that man goarly is a rascal." "so everybody says." "and why can't you believe everybody?" "so everybody says on the lord's side. but before i'm done i'll find out what people say on the other side. i can see that he is ignorant and squalid; but that very probably is the lord's fault. it may be that he is a rascal and that the lord is to blame for that too. but if the lord's pheasants have eaten up goarly's corn, the lord ought to pay for the corn whether goarly be a rascal or not." then john morton made up his mind that he would never ask another american senator to his house. chapter xviii. the attorney's family is disturbed. on that wednesday evening mary masters said nothing to any of her family as to the invitation from lady ushant. she very much wished to accept it. latterly, for the last month or two, her distaste to the kind of life for which her stepmother was preparing her, had increased upon her greatly. there had been days in which she had doubted whether it might not be expedient that she should accept mr. twentyman's offer. she believed no ill of him. she thought him to be a fine manly young fellow with a good heart and high principles. she never asked herself whether he were or were not a gentleman. she had never even inquired of herself whether she herself were or were not especially a lady. but with all her efforts to like the man,--because she thought that by doing so she would relieve and please her father,--yet he was distasteful to her; and now, since that walk home with him from bragton bridge, he was more distasteful than ever. she did not tell herself that a short visit, say for a month, to cheltenham, would prevent his further attentions, but she felt that there would be a temporary escape. i do not think that she dwelt much on the suggestion that reginald morton should be her companion on the journey,--but the idea of such companionship, even for a short time, was pleasant to her. if he did this surely then he would forgive her for having left him at the bridge. she had much to think of before she could resolve how she should tell her tidings. should she show the letter first to her stepmother or to her father? in the ordinary course of things in that house the former course would be expected. it was mrs. masters who managed everything affecting the family. it was she who gave permission or denied permission for every indulgence. she was generally fair to the three girls, taking special pride to herself for doing her duty by her stepdaughter;--but on this very account she was the more likely to be angry if mary passed her by on such an occasion as this and went to her father. but should her stepmother have once refused her permission, then the matter would have been decided against her. it would be quite useless to appeal from her stepmother to her father;--nor would such an appeal come within the scope of her own principles. the mortons, and especially lady ushant, had been her father's friends in old days and she thought that perhaps she might prevail in this case if she could speak to her father first. she knew well what would be the great, or rather the real objection. her mother would not wish that she should be removed so long from larry twentyman. there might be difficulties about her clothes, but her father, she knew would be kind to her. at last she made up her mind that she would ask her father. he was always at his office-desk for half an hour in the morning, before the clerks had come, and on the following day, a minute or two after he had taken his seat, she knocked at the door. he was busy reading a letter from lord rufford's man of business, asking him certain questions about goarly and almost employing him to get up the case on lord rufford's behalf. there was a certain triumph to him in this. it was not by his means that tidings had reached lord rufford of his refusal to undertake goarly's case. but runciman, who was often allowed by his lordship to say a few words to him in the hunting-field, had mentioned the circumstance. "a man like mr. masters is better without such a blackguard as that," the lord had said. then runciman had replied, "no doubt, my lord; no doubt. but dillsborough is a poor place, and business is business, my lord." then lord rufford had remembered it, and the letter which the attorney was somewhat triumphantly reading had been the consequence. "is that you, mary? what can i do for you, my love?" "papa, i want you to read this." then mr. masters read the letter. "i should so like to go." "should you, my dear?" "oh yes! lady ushant has been so kind to me,--all my life! and i do so love her!" "what does mamma say?" "i haven't asked mamma." "is there any reason why you shouldn't go?" of that one reason,--as to larry twentyman,--of course she would say nothing. she must leave him to discuss that with her mother. "i should want some clothes, papa; a dress, and some boots, and a new hat, and there would be money for the journey and a few other things." the attorney winced, but at the same time remembered that something was due to his eldest child in the way of garments and relaxation. "i never like to be an expense, papa." "you are very good about that, my dear. i don't see why you shouldn't go. it's very kind of lady ushant. i'll talk to mamma." then mary went away to get the breakfast, fearing that before long there would be black looks in the house. mr. masters at once went up to his wife,--having given himself a minute or two to calculate that he would let mary have twenty pounds for the occasion,--and made his proposition. "i never heard of such nonsense in my life," said mrs. masters. "nonsense,--my dear! why should it be nonsense?" "cocking her up with lady ushant! what good will lady ushant do her? she's not going to live with ladies of quality all her life." "why shouldn't she live with ladies?" "you know what i mean, gregory. the mortons have dropped you, for any use they were to you, long ago, and you may as well make up your mind to drop them. you'll go on hankering after gentlefolks till you've about ruined yourself." when he remembered that he had that very morning received a commission from lord rufford he thought that this was a little too bad. but he was not now in a humour to make known to her this piece of good news. "i like to feel that she has got friends," he said, going back to mary's proposed visit. "of course she has got friends, if she'll only take up with them as she ought to do. why does she go on shilly-shallying with that young man, instead of closing upon it at once? if she did that she wouldn't want such friends as lady ushant. why did the girl come to you with all this instead of asking me?" "there would be a little money wanted." "money! yes, i dare say. it's very easy to want money but very hard to get it. if you send clients away out of the office with a flea in their ear i don't see how she's to have all manner of luxuries. she ought to have come to me." "i don't see that at all, my dear." "if i'm to look after her she shall be said by me;--that's all. i've done for her just as i have for my own and i'm not going to have her turn up her nose at me directly she wants anything for herself. i know what's fit for mary, and it ain't fit that she should go trapesing away to cheltenham, doing nothing in that old woman's parlour, and losing her chances for life. who is to suppose that larry twentyman will go on dangling after her in this way, month after month? the young man wants a wife, and of course he'll get one." "you can't make her marry the man if she don't like him." "like him! she ought to be made to like him. a young man well off as he is, and she without a shilling! all that comes from ushanting." it never occurred to mrs. masters that perhaps the very qualities that had made poor larry so vehemently in love with mary had come from her intercourse with lady ushant. "if i'm to have my way she won't go a yard on the way to cheltenham." "i've told her she may go," said mr. masters, whose mind was wandering back to old days,--to his first wife, and to the time when he used to be an occasional guest in the big parlour at bragton. he was always ready to acknowledge to himself that his present wife was a good and helpful companion to him and a careful mother to his children; but there were moments in which he would remember with soft regret a different phase of his life. just at present he was somewhat angry, and resolving in his own mind that in this case he would have his own way. "then i shall tell her she mayn't," said mrs. masters, with a look of dogged determination. "i hope you will do nothing of the kind, my dear. i've told her that she shall have a few pounds to get what she wants, and i won't have her disappointed." after that mrs. masters bounced out of the room, and made herself very disagreeable indeed over the tea-things. the whole household was much disturbed that day. mrs. masters said nothing to mary about lady ushant all the morning, but said a great deal about other things. poor mary was asked whether she was not ashamed to treat a young man as she was treating mr. twentyman. then again it was demanded of her whether she thought it right that all the house should be knocked about for her. at dinner mrs. masters would hardly speak to her husband but addressed herself exclusively to dolly and kate. mr. masters was not a man who could, usually, stand this kind of thing very long and was accustomed to give up in despair and then take himself off to the solace of his office-chair. but on the present occasion he went through his meal like a spartan, and retired from the room without a sign of surrender. in the afternoon about five o'clock mary watched her opportunity and found him again alone. it was incumbent on her to reply to lady ushant. would it not be better that she should write and say how sorry she was that she could not come? "but i want you to go," said he. "oh, papa;--i cannot bear to cause trouble." "no, my dear; no; and i'm sure i don't like trouble myself. but in this case i think you ought to go. what day has she named?" then mary declared that she could not possibly go so soon as lady ushant had suggested, but that she could be ready by the th of december. "then write and tell her so, my dear, and i will let your mother know that it is fixed." but mary still hesitated, desiring to know whether she had not better speak to her mother first. "i think you had better write your letter first,"--and then he absolutely made her write it in the office and give it to him to be posted. after that he promised to communicate to reginald morton what had been done. the household was very much disturbed the whole of that evening. poor mary never remembered such a state of things, and when there had been any difference of opinion, she had hitherto never been the cause of it. now it was all owing to her! and things were said so terrible that she hardly knew how to bear them. her father had promised her the twenty pounds, and it was insinuated that all the comforts of the family must be stopped because of this lavish extravagance. her father sat still and bore it, almost without a word. both dolly and kate were silent and wretched. mrs. masters every now and then gurgled in her throat, and three or four times wiped her eyes. "i'm better out of the way altogether," she said at last, jumping up and walking towards the door as though she were going to leave the room,--and the house, for ever. "mamma," said mary, rising from her seat, "i won't go. i'll write and tell lady ushant that i can't do it." "you're not to mind me," said mrs. masters. "you're to do what your papa tells you. everything that i've been striving at is to be thrown away. i'm to be nobody, and it's quite right that your papa should tell you so." "dear mamma, don't talk like that," said mary, clinging hold of her stepmother. "your papa sits there and won't say a word," said mrs. masters, stamping her foot. "what's the good of speaking when you go on like that before the children?" said mr. masters, getting up from his chair. "i say that it's a proper thing that the girl should go to see the old friend who brought her up and has been always kind to her,--and she shall go." mrs. masters seated herself on the nearest chair and leaning her head against the wall, began to go into hysterics. "your letter has already gone, mary; and i desire you will write no other without letting me know." then he left the room and the house,--and absolutely went over to the bush. this latter proceeding was, however, hardly more than a bravado; for he merely took the opportunity of asking mrs. runciman a question at the bar, and then walked back to his own house, and shut himself up in the office. on the next morning he called on reginald morton and told him that his daughter had accepted lady ushant's invitation, but could not go till the th. "i shall be proud to take charge of her," said reginald. "and as for the change in the day it will suit me all the better." so that was settled. on the next day, friday, mrs. masters did not come down to breakfast, but was waited upon upstairs by her own daughters. this with her was a most unusual circumstance. the two maids were of opinion that such a thing had never occurred before, and that therefore masters must have been out half the night at the public-house although they had not known it. to mary she would hardly speak a word. she appeared at dinner and called her husband mr. masters when she helped him to stew. all the afternoon she averred that her head was splitting, but managed to say many very bitter things about gentlemen in general, and expressed a vehement hope that that poor man goarly would get at least a hundred pounds. it must be owned, however, that at this time she had heard nothing of lord rufford's commission to her husband. in the evening larry came in and was at once told the terrible news. "larry," said kate, "mary is going away for a month." "where are you going, mary?" asked the lover eagerly. "to lady ushant's, mr. twentyman." "for a month!" "she has asked me for a month," said mary. "it's a regular fool's errand," said mrs. masters. "it's not done with my consent, mr. twentyman. i don't think she ought to stir from home till things are more settled." "they can be settled this moment as far as i am concerned," said larry standing up. "there now," said mrs. masters. at this time mr. masters was not in the room. "if you can make it straight with mr. twentyman i won't say a word against your going away for a month." "mamma, you shouldn't!" exclaimed mary. "i hate such nonsense. mr. twentyman is behaving honest and genteel. what more would you have? give him an answer like a sensible girl." "i have given him an answer and i cannot say anything more," said mary as she left the room. chapter xix. "who valued the geese?" before the time had come for the visit to rufford hall mr. gotobed had called upon bearside the attorney and had learned as much as mr. bearside chose to tell him of the facts of the case. this took place on the saturday morning and the interview was on the whole satisfactory to the senator. but then having a theory of his own in his head, and being fond of ventilating his own theories, he explained thoroughly to the man the story which he wished to hear before the man was called upon to tell his story. mr. bearside of course told it accordingly. goarly was a very poor man, and very ignorant; was perhaps not altogether so good a member of society as he might have been; but no doubt he had a strong case against the lord. the lord, so said mr. bearside, had fallen into a way of paying a certain recompense in certain cases for crops damaged by game;--and having in this way laid down a rule for himself did not choose to have that rule disturbed. "just feudalism!" said the indignant senator. "no better, nor yet no worse than that, sir," said the attorney who did not in the least know what feudalism was. "the strong hand backed by the strong rank and the strong purse determined to have its own way!" continued the senator. "a most determined man is his lordship," said the attorney. then the senator expressed his hope that mr. bearside would be able to see the poor man through it, and mr. bearside explained to the senator that the poor man was a very poor man indeed, who had been so unfortunate with his land that he was hardly able to provide bread for himself and his children. he went so far as to insinuate that he was taking up this matter himself solely on the score of charity, adding that as he could not of course afford to be money out of pocket for expenses of witnesses, &c., he did not quite see how he was to proceed. then the senator made certain promises. he was, he said, going back to london in the course of next week, but he did not mind making himself responsible to the extent of fifty dollars if the thing were carried on, bonâ fide, to a conclusion. mr. bearside declared that it would of course be bonâ fide, and asked the senator for his address. would mr. gotobed object to putting his name to a little docket certifying to the amount promised? mr. gotobed gave an address, but thought that in such a matter as that his word might be trusted. if it were not trusted then the offer might fall to the ground. mr. bearside was profuse in his apologies and declared that the gentleman's word was as good as his bond. mr. gotobed made no secret of his doings. perhaps he had a feeling that he could not justify himself in so strange a proceeding without absolute candour. he saw mr. mainwaring in the street as he left bearside's office and told him all about it. "i just want, sir, to see what'll come of it." "you'll lose your fifty dollars, mr. gotobed, and only cause a little vexation to a high-spirited young nobleman." "very likely, sir. but neither the loss of my dollars, nor lord rufford's slight vexation will in the least disturb my rest. i'm not a rich man, sir, but i should like to watch the way in which such a question will be tried and brought to a conclusion in this aristocratic country. i don't quite know what your laws may be, mr. mainwaring." "just the same as your own, mr. gotobed, i take it." "we have no game laws, sir. as i was saying i don't understand your laws, but justice is the same everywhere. if this great lord's game has eaten up the poor man's wheat the great lord ought to pay for it." "the owners of game pay for the damage they do three times over," said the parson, who was very strongly on that side of the question. "do you think that such men as goarly would be better off if the gentry were never to come into the country at all?" "perhaps, mr. mainwaring, i may think that there would be no goarlys if there were no ruffords. that, however, is a great question which cannot be argued on this case. all we can hope here is that one poor man may have an act of justice done him though in seeking for it he has to struggle against so wealthy a magnate as lord rufford." "what i hope is that he may be found out," replied mr. mainwaring with equal enthusiasm, "and then he will be in rufford gaol before long. that's the justice i look for. who do you think put down the poison in dillsborough wood?" "how was it that the poor woman lost all her geese?" asked the senator. "she was paid for a great many more than she lost, mr. gotobed." "that doesn't touch upon the injustice of the proceeding. who assessed the loss, sir? who valued the geese? am i to keep a pet tiger in my garden, and give you a couple of dollars when he destroys your pet dog, and think myself justified because dogs as a rule are not worth more than two dollars each? she has a right to her own geese on her own ground." "and lord rufford, sir, as i take it," said runciman, who had been allowed to come up and hear the end of the conversation, "has a right to his own foxes in his own coverts." "yes,--if he could keep them there, my friend. but as it is the nature of foxes to wander away and to be thieves, he has no such right." "of course, sir, begging your pardon," said runciman, "i was speaking of england." runciman had heard of the senator gotobed, as indeed had all dillsborough by this time. "and i am speaking of justice all the world over," said the senator slapping his hand upon his thigh. "but i only want to see. it may be that england is a country in which a poor man should not attempt to hold a few acres of land." on that night the dillsborough club met as usual and, as a matter of course, goarly and the american senator were the subjects chiefly discussed. everybody in the room knew,--or thought that he knew,--that goarly was a cheating fraudulent knave, and that lord rufford was, at any rate, in this case acting properly. they all understood the old goose, and were aware, nearly to a bushel, of the amount of wheat which the man had sold off those two fields. runciman knew that the interest on the mortgage had been paid, and could only have been paid out of the produce; and larry twentyman knew that if goarly took his _s._ _d._ an acre he would be better off than if the wood had not been there. but yet among them all they didn't quite see how they were to confute the senator's logic. they could not answer it satisfactorily, even among themselves; but they felt that if goarly could be detected in some offence, that would confute the senator. among themselves it was sufficient to repeat the well-known fact that goarly was a rascal; but with reference to this aggravating, interfering, and most obnoxious american it would be necessary to prove it. "his lordship has put it into masters's hands, i'm told," said the doctor. at this time neither the attorney nor larry twentyman was in the room. "he couldn't have done better," said runciman, speaking from behind a long clay pipe. "all the same he was nibbling at goarly," said ned botsey. "i don't know that he was nibbling at goarly at all, mr. botsey," said the landlord. "goarly came to him, and goarly was refused. what more would you have?" "it's all one to me," said botsey; "only i do think that in a sporting county like this the place ought to be made too hot to hold a blackguard like that. if he comes out at me with his gun i'll ride over him. and i wouldn't mind riding over that american too." "that's just what would suit goarly's book," said the doctor. "exactly what goarly would like," said harry stubbings. then mr. masters and larry entered the room. on that evening two things had occurred to the attorney. nickem had returned, and had asked for and received an additional week's leave of absence. he had declined to explain accurately what he was doing but gave the attorney to understand that he thought that he was on the way to the bottom of the whole thing. then, after nickem had left him, mr. masters had a letter of instructions from lord rufford's steward. when he received it, and found that his paid services had been absolutely employed on behalf of his lordship, he almost regretted the encouragement he had given to nickem. in the first place he might want nickem. and then he felt that in his present position he ought not to be a party to anything underhand. but nickem was gone, and he was obliged to console himself by thinking that nickem was at any rate employing his intellect on the right side. when he left his house with larry twentyman he had told his wife nothing about lord rufford. up to this time he and his wife had not as yet reconciled their difference, and poor mary was still living in misery. larry, though he had called for the attorney, had not sat down in the parlour, and had barely spoken to mary. "for gracious sake, mr. twentyman, don't let him stay in that place there half the night," said mrs. masters. "it ain't fit for a father of a family." "father never does stay half the night," said kate, who took more liberties in that house than any one else. "hold your tongue, miss. i don't know whether it wouldn't be better for you, mr. twentyman, if you were not there so often yourself." poor larry felt this to be hard. he was not even engaged as yet, and as far as he could see was not on the way to be engaged. in such condition surely his possible mother-in-law could have no right to interfere with him. he condescended to make no reply, but crossed the passage and carried the attorney off with him. "you've heard what that american gentleman has been about, mr. masters?" asked the landlord. "i'm told he's been with bearside." "and has offered to pay his bill for him if he'll carry on the business for goarly. whoever heard the like of that?" "what sort of a man is he?" asked the doctor. "a great man in his own country everybody says," answered runciman. "i wish he'd stayed there. he comes over here and thinks he understands everything just as though he had lived here all his life. did you say gin cold, larry;--and rum for you, mr. masters?" then the landlord gave the orders to the girl who had answered the bell. "but they say he's actually going to lord rufford's," said young botsey who would have given one of his fingers to be asked to the lord's house. "they are all going from bragton," said runciman. "the young squire is going to ride one of my horses," said harry stubbings. "that'll be an easy three pounds in your pockets, harry," said the doctor. in answer to which harry remarked that he took all that as it came, the heavies and lights together, and that there was not much change to be got out of three sovereigns when some gentlemen had had a horse out for the day,--particularly when a gentleman didn't pay perhaps for twelve months. "the whole party is going," continued the landlord. "how he is to have the cheek to go into his lordship's house after what he is doing is more than i can understand." "what business is it of his?" said larry angrily. "that's what i want to know. what'd he think if we went and interfered over there? i shouldn't be surprised if he got a little rough usage before he's out of the county. i'm told he came across bean when he was ferretting about the other day, and that bean gave him quite as good as he brought." "i say he's a spy," said ribbs the butcher from his seat on the sofa. "i hates a spy." soon after that mr. masters left the room and larry twentyman followed him. there was something almost ridiculous in the way the young man would follow the attorney about on these saturday evenings,--as though he could make love to the girl by talking to the father. but on this occasion he had something special to say. "so mary's going to cheltenham, mr. masters." "yes, she is. you don't see any objection to that, i hope." "not in the least, mr. masters. i wish she might go anywhere to enjoy herself. and from all i've heard lady ushant is a very good sort of lady." "a very good sort of lady. she won't do mary any harm, twentyman." "i don't suppose she will. but there's one thing i should like to know. why shouldn't she tell me before she goes that she'll have me?" "i wish she would with all my heart." "and mrs. masters is all on my side." "quite so." "and the girls have always been my friends." "i think we are all your friends, twentyman. i'm sure mary is. but that isn't marrying;--is it?" "if you would speak to her, mr. masters." "what would you have me say? i couldn't bid my girl to have one man or another. i could only tell her what i think, and that she knows already." "if you were to say that you wished it! she thinks so much about you." "i couldn't tell her that i wished it in a manner that would drive her into it. of course it would be a very good match. but i have only to think of her happiness and i must leave her to judge what will make her happy." "i should like to have it fixed some way before she starts," said larry in an altered tone. "of course you are your own master, twentyman. and you have behaved very well." "this is a kind of thing that a man can't stand," said the young farmer sulkily. "good night, mr. masters." then he walked off home to chowton farm meditating on his own condition and trying to make up his mind to leave the scornful girl and become a free man. but he couldn't do it. he couldn't even quite make up his mind that he would try to do it. there was a bitterness within as he thought of permanent fixed failure which he could not digest. there was a craving in his heart which he did not himself quite understand, but which made him think that the world would be unfit to be lived in if he were to be altogether separated from mary masters. he couldn't separate himself from her. it was all very well thinking of it, talking of it, threatening it; but in truth he couldn't do it. there might of course be an emergency in which he must do it. she might declare that she loved some one else and she might marry that other person. in that event he saw no other alternative but,--as he expressed it to himself,--"to run a mucker." whether the "mucker" should be run against mary, or against the fortunate lover, or against himself, he did not at present resolve. but he did resolve as he reached his own hall-door that he would make one more passionate appeal to mary herself before she started for cheltenham, and that he would not make it out on a public path, or in the masters' family parlour before all the masters' family;--but that he would have her secluded, by herself, so that he might speak out all that was in him, to the best of his ability. chapter xx. there are convenances. before the monday came the party to rufford hall had become quite a settled thing and had been very much discussed. on the saturday the senator had been driven to the meet, a distance of about ten miles, on purpose that he might see lord rufford and explain his views about goarly. lord rufford had bowed and stared, and laughed, and had then told the senator that he thought he would "find himself in the wrong box." "that's quite possible, my lord. i guess, it won't be the first time i've been in the wrong box, my lord. sometimes i do get right. but i thought i would not enter your lordship's house as a guest without telling you what i was doing." then lord rufford assured him that this little affair about goarly would make no difference in that respect. mr. gotobed again scrutinised the hounds and tony tuppett, laughed in his sleeve because a fox wasn't found in the first quarter of an hour, and after that was driven back to bragton. the sunday was a day of preparation for the trefoils. of course they didn't go to church. arabella indeed was never up in time for church and lady augustus only went when her going would be duly registered among fashionable people. mr. gotobed laughed when he was invited and asked whether anybody was ever known to go to church two sundays running at bragton. "people have been known to refuse with less acrimony," said morton. "i always speak my mind, sir," replied the senator. poor john morton, therefore, went to his parish church alone. there were many things to be considered by the trefoils. there was the question of dress. if any good was to be done by arabella at rufford it must be done with great despatch. there would be the dinner on monday, the hunting on tuesday, the ball, and then the interesting moment of departure. no girl could make better use of her time; but then, think of her difficulties! all that she did would have to be done under the very eyes of the man to whom she was engaged, and to whom she wished to remain engaged,--unless, as she said to herself, she could "pull off the other event." a great deal must depend on appearance. as she and her mother were out on a lengthened cruise among long-suffering acquaintances, going to the de brownes after the gores, and the smijthes after the de brownes, with as many holes to run to afterwards as a four-year-old fox,--though with the same probability of finding them stopped,--of course she had her wardrobe with her. to see her night after night one would think that it was supplied with all that wealth would give. but there were deficiencies and there were make-shifts, very well known to herself and well understood by her maid. she could generally supply herself with gloves by bets, as to which she had never any scruple in taking either what she did win or did not, and in dunning any who might chance to be defaulters. on occasions too, when not afraid of the bystanders, she would venture on a hat, and though there was difficulty as to the payment, not being able to give her number as she did with gloves, so that the tradesmen could send the article, still she would manage to get the hat,--and the trimmings. it was said of her that she once offered to lay an ulster to a sealskin jacket, but that the young man had coolly said that a sealskin jacket was beyond a joke and had asked her whether she was ready to "put down" her ulster. these were little difficulties from which she usually knew how to extricate herself without embarrassment; but she had not expected to have to marshal her forces against such an enemy as lord rufford, or to sit down for the besieging of such a city this campaign. there were little things which required to be done, and the lady's-maid certainly had not time to go to church on sunday. but there were other things which troubled her even more than her clothes. she did not much like bragton, and at bragton, in his own house, she did not very much like her proposed husband. at washington he had been somebody. she had met him everywhere then, and had heard him much talked about. at washington he had been a popular man and had had the reputation of being a rich man also;--but here, at home, in the country he seemed to her to fall off in importance, and he certainly had not made himself pleasant. whether any man could be pleasant to her in the retirement of a country house,--any man whom she would have no interest in running down,--she did not ask herself. an engagement to her must under any circumstances be a humdrum thing,--to be brightened only by wealth. but here she saw no signs of wealth. nevertheless she was not prepared to shove away the plank from below her feet, till she was sure that she had a more substantial board on which to step. her mother, who perhaps did not see in the character of morton all the charms which she would wish to find in a son-in-law, was anxious to shake off the bragton alliance; but arabella, as she said so often both to herself and to her mother, was sick of the dust of the battle and conscious of fading strength. she would make this one more attempt, but must make it with great care. when last in town this young lord had whispered a word or two to her, which then had set her hoping for a couple of days; and now, when chance had brought her into his neighbourhood, he had gone out of his way,--very much out of his way,--to renew his acquaintance with her. she would be mad not to give herself the chance;--but yet she could not afford to let the plank go from under her feet. but the part she had to play was one which even she felt to be almost beyond her powers. she could perceive that morton was beginning to be jealous,--and that his jealousy was not of that nature which strengthens a tie but which is apt to break it altogether. his jealousy, if fairly aroused, would not be appeased by a final return to himself. she had already given him occasion to declare himself off, and if thoroughly angered he would no doubt use it. day by day, and almost hour by hour, he was becoming more sombre and hard, and she was well aware that there was reason for it. it did not suit her to walk about alone with him through the shrubberies. it did not suit her to be seen with his arm round her waist. of course the people of bragton would talk of the engagement, but she would prefer that they should talk of it with doubt. even her own maid had declared to mrs. hopkins that she did not know whether there was or was not an engagement,--her own maid being at the time almost in her confidence. very few of the comforts of a lover had been vouchsafed to john morton during this sojourn at bragton and very little had been done in accordance with his wishes. even this visit to rufford, as she well knew, was being made in opposition to him. she hoped that her lover would not attempt to ride to hounds on the tuesday, so that she might be near the lord unseen by him,--and that he would leave rufford on the wednesday before herself and her mother. at the ball of course she could dance with lord rufford, and could keep her eye on her lover at the same time. she hardly saw morton on the sunday afternoon, and she was again closeted on the monday till lunch. they were to start at four and there would not be much more than time after lunch for her to put on her travelling gear. then, as they all felt, there was a difficulty about the carriages. who was to go with whom? arabella, after lunch, took the bull by the horns. "i suppose," she said as morton followed her out into the hall, "mamma and i had better go in the phaeton." "i was thinking that lady augustus might consent to travel with mr. gotobed and that you and i might have the phaeton." "of course it would be very pleasant," she answered smiling. "then why not let it be so?" "there are convenances." "how would it be if you and i were going without anybody else? do you mean to say that in that case we might not sit in the same carriage?" "i mean to say that in that case i should not go at all. it isn't done in england. you have been in the states so long that you forget all our old-fashioned ways." "i do think that is nonsense." she only smiled and shook her head. "then the senator shall go in the phaeton, and i will go with you and your mother." "yes,--and quarrel with mamma all the time as you always do. let me have it my own way this time." "upon my word i believe you are ashamed of me," he said leaning back upon the hall table. he had shut the dining-room door and she was standing close to him. "what nonsense!" "you have only got to say so, arabella, and let there be an end of it all." "if you wish it, mr. morton." "you know i don't wish it. you know i am ready to marry you to-morrow." "you have made ever so many difficulties as far as i can understand." "you have unreasonable people acting for you, arabella, and of course i don't mean to give way to them." "pray don't talk to me about money. i know nothing about it and have taken no part in the matter. i suppose there must be settlements?" "of course there must." "and i can only do what other people tell me. you at any rate have something to do with it all, and i have absolutely nothing." "that is no reason you shouldn't go in the same carriage with me to rufford." "are you coming back to that,--just like a big child? do let us consider that as settled. i'm sure you'll let mamma and me have the use of the phaeton." of course the little contest was ended in the manner proposed by arabella. "i do think," said arabella, when she and her mother were seated in the carriage, "that we have treated him very badly." "quite as well as he deserves! what a house to bring us to;--and what people! did you ever come across such an old woman before! and she has him completely under her thumb. are you prepared to live with that harridan?" "you may let me alone, mamma, for all that. she won't be in my way after i'm married, i can tell you." "you'll have something to do then." "i ain't a bit afraid of her." "and to ask us to meet such people as this american!" "he's going back to washington and it suited him to have him. i don't quarrel with him for that. i wish i were married to him and back in the states." "you do?" "i do." "you have given it all up about lord rufford then?" "no;--that's just where it is. i haven't given it up, and i still see trouble upon trouble before me. but i know how it will be. he doesn't mean anything. he's only amusing himself." "if he'd once say the word he couldn't get back again. the duke would interfere then." "what would he care for the duke? the duke is no more than anybody else nowadays. i shall just fall to the ground between two stools. i know it as well as if it were done already. and then i shall have to begin again! if it comes to that i shall do something terrible. i know i shall." then they turned in at lord rufford's gates; and as they were driven up beneath the oaks, through the gloom, both mother and daughter thought how charming it would be to be the mistress of such a park. chapter xxi. the first evening at rufford hall. the phaeton arrived the first, the driver having been especially told by arabella that he need not delay on the road for the other carriage. she had calculated that she might make her entrance with better effect alone with her mother than in company with morton and the senator. it would have been worth the while of any one who had witnessed her troubles on that morning to watch the bland serenity and happy ease with which she entered the room. her mother was fond of a prominent place but was quite contented on this occasion to play a second fiddle for her daughter. she had seen at a glance that rufford hall was a delightful house. oh,--if it might become the home of her child and her grandchildren,--and possibly a retreat for herself! arabella was certainly very handsome at this moment. never did she look better than when got up with care for travelling, especially as seen by an evening light. her slow motions were adapted to heavy wraps, and however she might procure her large sealskin jacket she graced it well when she had it. lord rufford came to the door to meet them and immediately introduced them to his sister. there were six or seven people in the room, mostly ladies, and tea was offered to the new-comers. lady penwether was largely made, like her brother; but was a languidly lovely woman, not altogether unlike arabella herself in her figure and movements, but with a more expressive face, with less colour, and much more positive assurance of high breeding. lady penwether was said to be haughty, but it was admitted by all people that when lady penwether had said a thing or had done a thing, it might be taken for granted that the way in which she had done or said that thing was the right way. the only other gentleman there was major caneback, who had just come in from hunting with some distant pack and who had been brought into the room by lord rufford that he might give some account of the doings of the day. according to caneback, they had been talking in the brake country about nothing but goarly and the enormities which had been perpetrated in the u. r. u. "by-the-bye, miss trefoil," said lord rufford, "what have you done with your senator?" "he's on the road, lord rufford, examining english institutions as he comes along. he'll be here by midnight." "imagine the man coming to me and telling me that he was a friend of goarly's. i rather liked him for it. there was a thorough pluck about it. they say he's going to find all the money." "i thought mr. scrobby was to do that?" said lady penwether. "mr. scrobby will not have the slightest objection to have that part of the work done for him. if all we hear is true miss trefoil's senator may have to defend both scrobby and goarly." "my senator as you call him will be quite up to the occasion." "you knew him in america, miss trefoil?" asked lady penwether. "oh yes. we used to meet him and mrs. gotobed everywhere. but we didn't exactly bring him over with us;--though our party down to bragton was made up in washington," she added, feeling that she might in this way account in some degree for her own presence in john morton's house. "it was mamma and mr. morton arranged it all." "oh my dear it was you and the senator," said lady augustus, ready for the occasion. "miss trefoil," said the lord, "let us have it all out at once. are you taking goarly's part?" "taking goarly's part!" ejaculated the major. arabella affected to give a little start, as though frightened by the major's enthusiasm. "for heaven's sake let us know our foes," continued lord rufford. "you see the effect such an announcement had upon major caneback. have you made an appointment before dawn with mr. scrobby under the elms? now i look at you i believe in my heart you're a goarlyite,--only without the senator's courage to tell me the truth beforehand." "i really am very much obliged to goarly," said arabella, "because it is so nice to have something to talk about." "that's just what i think, miss trefoil," declared a young lady, miss penge, who was a friend of lady penwether. "the gentlemen have so much to say about hunting which nobody can understand! but now this delightful man has scattered poison all over the country there is something that comes home to our understanding. i declare myself a goarlyite at once, lord rufford, and shall put myself under the senator's leading directly he comes." during all this time not a word had been said of john morton, the master of bragton, the man to whose party these new-comers belonged. lady augustus and arabella clearly understood that john morton was only a peg on which the invitation to them had been hung. the feeling that it was so grew upon them with every word that was spoken,--and also the conviction that he must be treated like a peg at rufford. the sight of the hangings of the room, so different to the old-fashioned dingy curtains at bragton, the brilliancy of the mirrors, all the decorations of the place, the very blaze from the big grate, forced upon the girl's feelings a conviction that this was her proper sphere. here she was, being made much of as a new-comer, and here if possible she must remain. everything smiled on her with gilded dimples, and these were the smiles she valued. as the softness of the cushions sank into her heart, and mellow nothingnesses from well-trained voices greeted her ears, and the air of wealth and idleness floated about her cheeks, her imagination rose within her and assured her that she could secure something better than bragton. the cautions with which she had armed herself faded away. this,--this was the kind of thing for which she had been striving. as a girl of spirit was it not worth her while to make another effort even though there might be danger? aut cæsar aut nihil. she knew nothing about cæsar; but before the tardy wheels which brought the senator and mr. morton had stopped at the door she had declared to herself that she would be lady rufford. the fresh party was of course brought into the drawing-room and tea was offered; but arabella hardly spoke to them, and lady augustus did not speak to them at all, and they were shown up to their bedrooms with very little preliminary conversation. it was very hard to put mr. gotobed down; or it might be more correctly said,--as there was no effort to put him down,--that it was not often that he failed in coming to the surface. he took lady penwether out to dinner and was soon explaining to her that this little experiment of his in regard to goarly was being tried simply with the view of examining the institutions of the country. "we don't mind it from you," said lady penwether, "because you are in a certain degree a foreigner." the senator declared himself flattered by being regarded as a foreigner only "in a certain degree." "you see you speak our language, mr. gotobed, and we can't help thinking you are half-english." "we are two-thirds english, my lady," said mr. gotobed; "but then we think the other third is an improvement." "very likely." "we have nothing so nice as this;" as he spoke he waved his right hand to the different corners of the room. "such a dinner-table as i am sitting down to now couldn't be fixed in all the united states though a man might spend three times as many dollars on it as his lordship does." "that is very often done, i should think." "but then as we have nothing so well done as a house like this, so also have we nothing so ill done as the houses of your poor people." "wages are higher with you, mr. gotobed." "and public spirit, and the philanthropy of the age, and the enlightenment of the people, and the institutions of the country all round. they are all higher." "canvas-back ducks," said the major, who was sitting two or three off on the other side. "yes, sir, we have canvas-back ducks." "make up for a great many faults," said the major. "of course, sir, when a man's stomach rises above his intelligence he'll have to argue accordingly," said the senator. "caneback, what are you going to ride to-morrow?" asked the lord who saw the necessity of changing the conversation, as far at least as the major was concerned. "jemima;--mare of purefoy's; have my neck broken, they tell me." "it's not improbable," said sir john purefoy who was sitting at lady penwether's left hand. "nobody ever could ride her yet." "i was thinking of asking you to let miss trefoil try her," said lord rufford. arabella was sitting between sir john purefoy and the major. "miss trefoil is quite welcome," said sir john. "it isn't a bad idea. perhaps she may carry a lady, because she has never been tried. i know that she objects strongly to carry a man." "my dear," said lady augustus, "you shan't do anything of the kind." and lady augustus pretended to be frightened. "mamma, you don't suppose lord rufford wants to kill me at once." "you shall either ride her, miss trefoil, or my little horse jack. but i warn you beforehand that as jack is the easiest ridden horse in the country, and can scramble over anything, and never came down in his life, you won't get any honour and glory; but on jemima you might make a character that would stick to you till your dying day." "but if i ride jemima that dying day might be to-morrow. i think i'll take jack, lord rufford, and let major caneback have the honour. is jack fast?" in this way the anger arising between the senator and the major was assuaged. the senator still held his own, and, before the question was settled between jack and jemima, had told the company that no englishman knew how to ride, and that the only seat fit for a man on horseback was that suited for the pacing horses of california and mexico. then he assured sir john purefoy that eighty miles a day was no great journey for a pacing horse, with a man of fourteen stone and a saddle and accoutrements weighing four more. the major's countenance, when the senator declared that no englishman could ride, was a sight worth seeing. that evening, even in the drawing-room, the conversation was chiefly about horses and hunting, and those terrible enemies goarly and scrobby. lady penwether and miss penge who didn't hunt were distantly civil to lady augustus of whom of course a woman so much in the world as lady penwether knew something. lady penwether had shrugged her shoulders when consulted as to these special guests and had expressed a hope that rufford "wasn't going to make a goose of himself." but she was fond of her brother and as both lady purefoy and miss penge were special friends of hers, and as she had also been allowed to invite a couple of godolphin's girls to whom she wished to be civil, she did as she was asked. the girl, she said to miss penge that evening, was handsome, but penniless and a flirt. the mother she declared to be a regular old soldier. as to lady augustus she was right; but she had perhaps failed to read arabella's character correctly. arabella trefoil was certainly not a flirt. in all the horsey conversation arabella joined, and her low, clear, slow voice could be heard now and then as though she were really animated with the subject. at bragton she had never once spoken as though any matter had interested her. during this time morton fell into conversation first with lady purefoy and then with the two miss godolphins, and afterwards for a few minutes with lady penwether who knew that he was a county gentleman and a respectable member of the diplomatic profession. but during the whole evening his ear was intent on the notes of arabella's voice; and also, during the whole evening, her eye was watching him. she would not lose her chance with lord rufford for want of any effort on her own part. if aught were required from her in her present task that might be offensive to mr. morton,--anything that was peremptorily demanded for the effort,--she would not scruple to offend the man. but if it might be done without offence, so much the better. once he came across the room and said a word to her as she was talking to lord rufford and the purefoys. "you are really in earnest about riding to-morrow." "oh dear, yes. why shouldn't i be in earnest?" "you are coming out yourself i hope," said the lord. "i have no horses here of my own, but i have told that man stubbings to send me something, and as i haven't been at bragton for the last seven years i have nothing proper to wear. i shan't be called a goarlyite i hope if i appear in trowsers." "not unless you have a basket of red herrings on your arm," said lord rufford. then morton retired back to the miss godolphins finding that he had nothing more to say to arabella. he was very angry,--though he hardly knew why or with whom. a girl when she is engaged is not supposed to talk to no one but her recognised lover in a mixed party of ladies and gentlemen, and she is especially absolved from such a duty when they chance to meet in the house of a comparative stranger. in such a house and among such people it was natural that the talk should be about hunting, and as the girl had accepted the loan of a horse it was natural that she should join in such conversation. she had never sat for a moment apart with lord rufford. it was impossible to say that she had flirted with the man,--and yet morton felt that he was neglected, and felt also that he was only there because this pleasure-seeking young lord had liked to have in his house the handsome girl whom he, morton, intended to marry. he felt thoroughly ashamed of being there as it were in the train of miss trefoil. he was almost disposed to get up and declare that the girl was engaged to marry him. he thought that he could put an end to the engagement without breaking his heart;--but if the engagement was an engagement he could not submit to treatment such as this, either from her or from others. he would see her for the last time in the country at the ball on the following evening,--as of course he would not be near her during the hunting,--and then he would make her understand that she must be altogether his or altogether cease to be his. and so resolving he went to bed, refusing to join the gentlemen in the smoking-room. "oh, mamma," arabella said to her mother that evening, "i do so wish i could break my arm to-morrow." "break your arm, my dear!" "or my leg would be better. i wish i could have the courage to chuck myself off going over some gate. if i could be laid up here now with a broken limb i really think i could do it." chapter xxii. jemima. as the meet on the next morning was in the park the party at rufford hall was able to enjoy the luxury of an easy morning together with the pleasures of the field. there was no getting up at eight o'clock, no hurry and scurry to do twenty miles and yet be in time, no necessity for the tardy dressers to swallow their breakfasts while their more energetic companions were raving at them for compromising the chances of the day by their delay. there was a public breakfast down-stairs, at which all the hunting farmers of the country were to be seen, and some who only pretended to be hunting farmers on such occasions. but up-stairs there was a private breakfast for the ladies and such of the gentlemen as preferred tea to champagne and cherry brandy. lord rufford was in and out of both rooms, making himself generally agreeable. in the public room there was a great deal said about goarly, to all of which the senator listened with eager ears,--for the senator preferred the public breakfast as offering another institution to his notice. "he'll swing on a gallows afore he's dead," said one energetic farmer who was sitting next to mr. gotobed,--a fat man with a round head, and a bullock's neck, dressed in a black coat with breeches and top-boots. john runce was not a riding man. he was too heavy and short-winded;--too fond of his beer and port wine; but he was a hunting man all over, one who always had a fox in the springs at the bottom of his big meadows, one to whom it was the very breath of his nostrils to shake hands with the hunting gentry and to be known as a staunch friend to the u. r. u. a man did not live in the county more respected than john runce, or who was better able to pay his way. to his thinking an animal more injurious than goarly to the best interests of civilisation could not have been produced by all the evil influences of the world combined. "do you really think," said the senator calmly, "that a man should be hanged for killing a fox?" john runce, who was not very ready, turned round and stared at him. "i haven't heard of any other harm that he has done, and perhaps he had some provocation for that." words were wanting to mr. runce, but not indignation. he collected together his plate and knife and fork and his two glasses and his lump of bread, and, looking the senator full in the face, slowly pushed back his chair and, carrying his provisions with him, toddled off to the other end of the room. when he reached a spot where place was made for him he had hardly breath left to speak. "well," he said, "i never--!" he sat a minute in silence shaking his head, and continued to shake his head and look round upon his neighbours as he devoured his food. up-stairs there was a very cosy party who came in by degrees. lady penwether was there soon after ten with miss penge and some of the gentlemen, including morton, who was the only man seen in that room in black. young hampton, who was intimate in the house, made his way up there and sir john purefoy joined the party. sir john was a hunting man who lived in the county and was an old friend of the family. lady purefoy hunted also, and came in later. arabella was the last,--not from laziness, but aware that in this way the effect might be the best. lord rufford was in the room when she entered it and of course she addressed herself to him. "which is it to be, lord rufford, jack or jemima?" "which ever you like." "i am quite indifferent. if you'll put me on the mare i'll ride her,--or try." "indeed you won't," said lady augustus. "mamma knows nothing about it, lord rufford. i believe i could do just as well as major caneback." "she never had a lady on her in her life," said sir john. "then it's time for her to begin. but at any rate i must have some breakfast first." then lord rufford brought her a cup of tea and sir john gave her a cutlet, and she felt herself to be happy. she was quite content with her hat, and though her habit was not exactly a hunting habit, it fitted her well. morton had never before seen her in a riding dress and acknowledged that it became her. he struggled to think of something special to say to her, but there was nothing. he was not at home on such an occasion. his long trowsers weighed him down, and his ordinary morning coat cowed him. he knew in his heart that she thought nothing of him as he was now. but she said a word to him,--with that usual smile of hers. "of course, mr. morton, you are coming with us." "a little way perhaps." "you'll find that any horse from stubbings can go," said lord rufford. "i wish i could say as much of all mine." "jack can go, i hope, lord rufford." lord rufford nodded his head. "and i shall expect you to give me a lead." to this he assented, though it was perhaps more than he had intended. but on such an occasion it is almost impossible to refuse such a request. at half-past eleven they were all out in the park, and tony was elate as a prince having been regaled with a tumbler of champagne. but the great interest of the immediate moment were the frantic efforts made by jemima to get rid of her rider. once or twice sir john asked the major to give it up, but the major swore that the mare was a good mare and only wanted riding. she kicked and squealed and backed and went round the park with him at a full gallop. in the park there was a rail with a ha-ha ditch, and the major rode her at it in a gallop. she went through the timber, fell in the ditch, and then was brought up again without giving the man a fall. he at once put her back at the same fence, and she took it, almost in her stride, without touching it. "have her like a spaniel before the day's over," said the major, who thoroughly enjoyed these little encounters. among the laurels at the bottom of the park a fox was found, and then there was a great deal of riding about the grounds. all this was much enjoyed by the ladies who were on foot,--and by the senator who wandered about the place alone. a gentleman's park is not always the happiest place for finding a fox. the animal has usually many resources there and does not like to leave it. and when he does go away it is not always easy to get after him. but ladies in a carriage or on foot on such occasions have their turn of the sport. on this occasion it was nearly one before the fox allowed himself to be killed, and then he had hardly been outside the park palings. there was a good deal of sherry drank before the party got away and hunting men such as major caneback began to think that the day was to be thrown away. as they started off for shugborough springs, the little covert on john runce's farm which was about four miles from rufford hall, sir john asked the major to get on another animal. "you've had trouble enough with her for one day, and given her enough to do." but the major was not of that way of thinking. "let her have the day's work," said the major. "do her good. remember what she's learned." and so they trotted off to shugborough. while they were riding about the park morton had kept near to miss trefoil. lord rufford, being on his own place and among his own coverts, had had cares on his hand and been unable to devote himself to the young lady. she had never for a moment looked up at her lover, or tried to escape from him. she had answered all his questions, saying, however, very little, and had bided her time. the more gracious she was to morton now the less ground would he have for complaining of her when she should leave him by-and-by. as they were trotting along the road lord rufford came up and apologized. "i'm afraid i've been very inattentive, miss trefoil; but i dare say you've been in better hands." "there hasn't been much to do,--has there?" "very little. i suppose a man isn't responsible for having foxes that won't break. did you see the senator? he seemed to think it was all right. did you hear of john runce?" then he told the story of john runce, which had been told to him. "what a fine old fellow! i should forgive him his rent." "he is much better able to pay me double. your senator, mr. morton, is a very peculiar man." "he is peculiar," said morton, "and i am sorry to say can make himself very disagreeable." "we might as well trot on as shugborough is a small place, and a fox always goes away from it at once. john runce knows how to train them better than i do." then they made their way on through the straggling horses, and john morton, not wishing to seem to be afraid of his rival, remained alone. "i wish caneback had left that mare behind," said the lord as they went. "it isn't the country for her, and she is going very nastily with him. are you fond of hunting, miss trefoil?" "very fond of it," said arabella who had been out two or three times in her life. "i like a girl to ride to hounds," said his lordship. "i don't think she ever looks so well." then arabella determined that come what might she would ride to hounds. at shugborough springs a fox was found before half the field was up, and he broke almost as soon as he was found. "follow me through the handgates," said the lord, "and from the third field out it's fair riding. let him have his head, and remember he hangs a moment as he comes to his fence. you won't be left behind unless there's something out of the way to stop us." arabella's heart was in her mouth, but she was quite resolved. where he went she would follow. as for being left behind she would not care the least for that if he were left behind with her. they got well away, having to pause a moment while the hounds came up to tony's horn out of the wood. then there was plain sailing and there were very few before them. "he's one of the old sort, my lord," said tony as he pressed on, speaking of the fox. "not too near me, and you'll go like a bird," said his lordship. "he's a nice little horse, isn't he? when i'm going to be married, he'll be the first present i shall make her." "he'd tempt almost any girl," said arabella. it was wonderful how well she went, knowing so little about it as she did. the horse was one easily ridden, and on plain ground she knew what she was about in a saddle. at any rate she did not disgrace herself and when they had already run some three or four miles lord rufford had nearly the best of it and she had kept with him. "you don't know where you are i suppose," he said when they came to a check. "and i don't in the least care, if they'd only go on," said she eagerly. "we're back at rufford park. we've left the road nearly a mile to our left, but there we are. those trees are the park." "but must we stop there?" "that's as the fox may choose to behave. we shan't stop unless he does." then young hampton came up, declaring that there was the very mischief going on between major caneback and jemima. according to hampton's account, the major had been down three or four times, but was determined to break either the mare's neck or her spirit. he had been considerably hurt, so hampton said, in one shoulder, but had insisted on riding on. "that's the worst of him," said lord rufford. "he never knows when to give up." then the hounds were again on the scent and were running very fast towards the park. "that's a nasty ditch before us," said the lord. "come down a little to the left. the hounds are heading that way, and there's a gate." young hampton in the meantime was going straight for the fence. "i'm not afraid," said arabella. "very well. give him his head and he'll do it." just at that moment there was a noise behind them and the major on jemima rushed up. she was covered with foam and he with dirt, and her sides were sliced with the spur. his hat was crushed, and he was riding almost altogether with his right hand. he came close to arabella and she could see the rage in his face as the animal rushed on with her head almost between her knees. "he'll have another fall there," said lord rufford. hampton who had passed them was the first over the fence, and the other three all took it abreast. the major was to the right, the lord to the left and the girl between them. the mare's head was perhaps the first. she rushed at the fence, made no leap at all, and of course went headlong into the ditch. the major still stuck to her though two or three voices implored him to get off. he afterwards declared that he had not strength to lift himself out of the saddle. the mare lay for a moment;--then blundered out, rolled over him, jumped on to her feet, and lunging out kicked her rider on the head as he was rising. then she went away and afterwards jumped the palings into rufford park. that evening she was shot. the man when kicked had fallen back close under the feet of miss trefoil's horse. she screamed and half-fainting, fell also;--but fell without hurting herself. lord rufford of course stopped, as did also mr. hampton and one of the whips,--with several others in the course of a minute or two. the major was senseless,--but they who understood what they were looking at were afraid that the case was very bad. he was picked up and put on a door and within half an hour was on his bed in rufford hall. but he did not speak for some hours and before six o'clock that evening the doctor from rufford had declared that he had mounted his last horse and ridden his last hunt! "oh lord rufford," said arabella, "i shall never recover that. i heard the horse's feet against his head." lord rufford shuddered and put his hand round her waist to support her. at that time they were standing on the ground. "don't mind me if you can do any good to him." but there was nothing that lord rufford could do as four men were carrying the major on a shutter. so he and arabella returned together, and when she got off her horse she was only able to throw herself into his arms. chapter xxiii. poor caneback. a closer intimacy will occasionally be created by some accident, some fortuitous circumstance, than weeks of ordinary intercourse will produce. walk down bond street in a hailstorm of peculiar severity and you may make a friend of the first person you meet, whereas you would be held to have committed an affront were you to speak to the same person in the same place on a fine day. you shall travel smoothly to york with a lady and she will look as though she would call the guard at once were you so much as to suggest that it were a fine day; but if you are lucky enough to break a wheel before you get to darlington, she will have told you all her history and shared your sherry by the time you have reached that town. arabella was very much shocked by the dreadful accident she had seen. her nerves had suffered, though it may be doubted whether her heart had been affected much. but she was quite conscious when she reached her room that the poor major's misfortune, happening as it had done just beneath her horse's feet, had been a godsend to her. for a moment the young lord's arm had been round her waist and her head had been upon his shoulder. and again when she had slipped from her saddle she had felt his embrace. his fervour to her had been simply the uncontrolled expression of his feeling at the moment,--as one man squeezes another tightly by the hand in any crisis of sudden impulse. she knew this;--but she knew also that he would probably revert to the intimacy which the sudden emotion had created. the mutual galvanic shock might be continued at the next meeting,--and so on. they had seen the tragedy together and it would not fail to be a bond of union. as she told the tragedy to her mother, she delicately laid aside her hat and whip and riding dress, and then asked whether it was not possible that they might prolong their stay at rufford. "but the gores, my dear! i put them off, you know, for two days only." then arabella declared that she did not care a straw for the gores. in such a matter as this what would it signify though they should quarrel with a whole generation of gores? for some time she thought that she would not come down again that afternoon or even that evening. it might well be that the sight of the accident should have made her too ill to appear. she felt conscious that in that moment and in the subsequent half hour she had carried herself well, and that there would be an interest about her were she to own herself compelled to keep her room. were she now to take to her bed they could not turn her out on the following day. but at last her mother's counsel put an end to that plan. time was too precious. "i think you might lose more than you'd gain," said her mother. both lord rufford and his sister were very much disturbed as to what they should do on the occasion. at half-past six lord rufford was told that the major had recovered his senses, but that the case was almost hopeless. of course he saw his guest. "i'm all right," said the major. the lord sat there by the bedside, holding the man's hand for a few moments, and then got up to leave him. "no nonsense about putting off," said the major in a faint voice; "beastly bosh all that!" but what was to be done? the dozen people who were in the house must of course sit down to dinner. and then all the neighbourhood for miles round were coming to a ball. it would be impossible to send messages to everybody. and there was the feeling too that the man was as yet only ill, and that his recovery was possible. a ball, with a dead man in one of the bedrooms, would be dreadful. with a dying man it was bad enough;--but then a dying man is always also a living man! lord rufford had already telegraphed for a first-class surgeon from london, it having been whispered to him that perhaps old nokes from rufford might be mistaken. the surgeon could not be there till four o'clock in the morning by which time care would have been taken to remove the signs of the ball; but if there was reason to send for a london surgeon, then also was there reason for hope;--and if there were ground for hope, then the desirability of putting off the ball was very much reduced. "he's at the furthest end of the corridor," the lord said to his sister, "and won't hear a sound of the music." though the man were to die why shouldn't the people dance? had the major been dying three or four miles off, at the hotel at rufford, there would only have been a few sad looks, a few shakings of the head, and the people would have danced without any flaw in their gaiety. had it been known at rufford hall that he was lying at that moment in his mortal agony at aberdeen, an exclamation or two,--"poor caneback!"--"poor major!"--would have been the extent of the wailing, and not the pressure of a lover's hand would have been lightened, or the note of a fiddle delayed. and nobody in that house really cared much for caneback. he was not a man worthy of much care. he was possessed of infinite pluck, and now that he was dying could bear it well. but he had loved no one particularly, had been dear to no one in these latter days of his life, had been of very little use in the world, and had done very little more for society than any other horse-trainer! but nevertheless it is a bore when a gentleman dies in your house,--and a worse bore if he dies from an accident than from an illness for which his own body may be supposed to be responsible. though the gout should fly to a man's stomach in your best bedroom, the idea never strikes you that your burgundy has done it! but here the mare had done the mischief. poor caneback;--and poor lord rufford! the major was quite certain that it was all over with himself. he had broken so many of his bones and had his head so often cracked that he understood his own anatomy pretty well. there he lay quiet and composed, sipping small modicums of brandy and water, and taking his outlook into such transtygian world as he had fashioned for himself in his dull imagination. if he had misgivings he showed them to no bystander. if he thought then that he might have done better with his energies than devote them to dangerous horses, he never said so. his voice was weak, but it never quailed; and the only regret he expressed was that he had not changed the bit in jemima's mouth. lord rufford's position was made worse by an expression from sir john purefoy that the party ought to be put off. sir john was in a measure responsible for what his mare had done, and was in a wretched state. "if it could possibly affect the poor fellow i would do it," said lord rufford; "but it would create very great inconvenience and disappointment. i have to think of other people." "then i shall send my wife home," said sir john. and lady purefoy was sent home. sir john himself of course could not leave the house while the man was alive. before they all sat down to dinner the major was declared to be a little stronger. that settled the question and the ball was not put off. the ladies came down to dinner in a melancholy guise. they were not fully dressed for the evening and were of course inclined to be silent and sad. before lord rufford came in arabella managed to get herself on to the sofa next to lady penwether, and then to undergo some little hysterical manifestation, "oh lady penwether; if you had seen it;--and heard it!" "i am very glad that i was spared anything so horrible." "and the man's face as he passed me going to the leap! it will haunt me to my dying day!" then she shivered, and gurgled in her throat, and turning suddenly round, hid her face on the elbow of the couch. "i've been afraid all the afternoon that she would be ill," whispered lady augustus to miss penge. "she is so susceptible!" when lord rufford came into the room arabella at once got up and accosted him with a whisper. either he took her or she took him into a distant part of the room where they conversed apart for five minutes. and he, as he told her how things were going and what was being done, bent over her and whispered also. "what good would it do, you know?" she said with affected intimacy as he spoke of his difficulty about the ball. "one would do anything if one could be of service,--but that would do nothing." she felt completely that her presence at the accident had given her a right to have peculiar conversations and to be consulted about everything. of course she was very sorry for major caneback. but as it had been ordained that major caneback was to have his head split in two by a kick from a horse, and that lord rufford was to be there to see it, how great had been the blessing which had brought her to the spot at the same time! everybody there saw the intimacy and most of them understood the way in which it was being used. "that girl is very clever, rufford," his sister whispered to him before dinner. "she is very much excited rather than clever just at present," he answered;--upon which lady penwether shook her head. miss penge whispered to miss godolphin that miss trefoil was making the most of it; and mr. morton, who had come into the room while the conversation apart was going on, had certainly been of the same opinion. she had seated herself in an arm-chair away from the others after that conversation was over, and as she sat there morton came up to her. he had been so little intimate with the members of the party assembled and had found himself so much alone, that he had only lately heard the story about major caneback, and had now only heard it imperfectly. but he did see that an absolute intimacy had been effected where two days before there had only been a slight acquaintance; and he believed that this sudden rush had been in some way due to the accident of which he had been told. "you know what has happened?" he said. "oh, mr. morton; do not talk to me about it!" "were you not speaking of it to lord rufford?" "of course i was. we were together." "did you see it?" then she shuddered, put her handkerchief up to her eyes, and turned her face away. "and yet the ball is to go on?" he asked. "pray, pray, do not dwell on it,--unless you wish to force me back to my room. when i left it i felt that i was attempting to do too much." this might have been all very well had she not been so manifestly able to talk to lord rufford on the same subject. if there is any young man to whom a girl should be able to speak when she is in a state of violent emotion, it is the young man to whom she is engaged. so at least thought mr. john morton. then dinner was announced, and the dinner certainly was sombre enough. a dinner before a ball in the country never is very much of a dinner. the ladies know that there is work before them, and keep themselves for the greater occasion. lady purefoy had gone, and lady penwether was not very happy in the prospects for the evening. neither miss penge nor either of the two miss godolphins had entertained personal hopes in regard to lord rufford, but nevertheless they took badly the great favour shown to arabella. lady augustus did not get on particularly well with any of the other ladies,--and there seemed during the dinner to be an air of unhappiness over them all. they retired as soon as it was possible, and then arabella at once went up to her bedroom. "mr. nokes says he is a little stronger, my lord," said the butler coming into the room. mr. nokes had gone home and had returned again. "he might pull through yet," said mr. hampton. lord rufford shook his head. then mr. gotobed told a wonderful story of an american who had had his brains knocked almost out of his head and had sat in congress afterwards. "he was the finest horseman i ever saw on a horse," said hampton. "a little too much temper," said captain battersby, who was a very old friend of the major. "i'd give a good deal that that mare had never been brought to my stables," said lord rufford. "purefoy will never get over it, and i shan't forget it in a hurry." sir john at this time was up-stairs with the sufferer. even while drinking their wine they could not keep themselves from the subject, and were convivial in a cadaverous fashion. chapter xxiv. the ball. the people came of course, but not in such numbers as had been expected. many of those in rufford had heard of the accident, and having been made acquainted with nokes's report, stayed away. everybody was told that supper would be on the table at twelve, and that it was generally understood that the house was to be cleared by two. nokes seemed to think that the sufferer would live at least till the morrow, and it was ascertained to a certainty that the music could not affect him. it was agreed among the party in the house that the ladies staying there should stand up for the first dance or two, as otherwise the strangers would be discouraged and the whole thing would be a failure. this request was made by lady penwether because miss penge had said that she thought it impossible for her to dance. poor miss penge, who was generally regarded as a brilliant young woman, had been a good deal eclipsed by arabella and had seen the necessity of striking out some line for herself. then arabella had whispered a few words to lord rufford, and the lord had whispered a few words to his sister, and lady penwether had explained what was to be done to the ladies around. lady augustus nodded her head and said that it was all right. the other ladies of course agreed, and partners were selected within the house party. lord rufford stood up with arabella and john morton with lady penwether. mr. gotobed selected miss penge, and hampton and battersby the two miss godolphins. they all took their places with a lugubrious but business-like air, as aware that they were sacrificing themselves in the performance of a sad duty. but morton was not allowed to dance in the same quadrille with the lady of his affections. lady penwether explained to him that she and her brother had better divide themselves,--for the good of the company generally,--and therefore he and arabella were also divided. a rumour had reached lady penwether of the truth in regard to their guests from bragton. mr. gotobed had whispered to her that he had understood that they certainly were engaged; and, even before that, the names of the two lovers had been wafted to her ears from the other side of the atlantic. both john morton and lady augustus were "somebodies," and lady penwether generally knew what there was to be known of anybody who was anybody. but it was quite clear to her,--more so even than to poor john morton,--that the lady was conducting herself now as though she were fettered by no bonds, and it seemed to lady penwether also that the lady was very anxious to contract other bonds. she knew her brother well. he was always in love with somebody; but as he had hitherto failed of success where marriage was desirable, so had he avoided disaster when it was not. he was one of those men who are generally supposed to be averse to matrimony. lady penwether and some other relatives were anxious that he should take a wife;--but his sister was by no means anxious that he should take such a one as arabella trefoil. therefore she thought that she might judiciously ask mr. morton a few questions. "i believe you knew the trefoils in washington?" she said. morton acknowledged that he had seen much of them there. "she is very handsome, certainly." "i think so." "and rides well i suppose." "i don't know. i never heard much of her riding." "has she been staying long at bragton?" "just a week." "do you know lord augustus?" morton said that he did not know lord augustus and then answered sundry other questions of the same nature in the same uncommunicative way. though he had once or twice almost fancied that he would like to proclaim aloud that the girl was engaged to him, yet he did not like to have the fact pumped out of him. and if she were such a girl as she now appeared to be, might it not be better for him to let her go? surely her conduct here at rufford hall was opportunity enough. no doubt she was handsome. no doubt he loved her,--after his fashion of loving. but to lose her now would not break his heart, whereas to lose her after he was married to her, would, he knew well, bring him to the very ground. he would ask her a question or two this very night, and then come to some resolution. with such thoughts as these crossing his mind he certainly was not going to proclaim his engagement to lady penwether. but lady penwether was a determined woman. her smile, when she condescended to smile, was very sweet,--lighting up her whole face and flattering for the moment the person on whom it shone. it was as though a rose in emitting its perfume could confine itself to the nostrils of its one favoured friend. and now she smiled on morton as she asked another question. "i did hear," she said, "from one of your foreign office young men that you and miss trefoil were very intimate." "who was that, lady penwether?" "of course i shall mention no name. you might call out the poor lad and shoot him, or, worse still, have him put down to the bottom of his class. but i did hear it. and then, when i find her staying with her mother at your house, of course i believe it to be true." "now she is staying at your brother's house,--which is much the same thing." "but i am here." "and my grandmother is at bragton." "that puts me in mind, mr. morton. i am so sorry that we did not know it, so that we might have asked her." "she never goes out anywhere, lady penwether." "and there is nothing then in the report that i heard?" morton paused a moment before he answered, and during that moment collected his diplomatic resources. he was not a weak man, who could be made to tell anything by the wiles of a pretty woman. "i think," he said, "that when people have anything of that kind which they wish to be known, they declare it." "i beg your pardon. i did not mean to unravel a secret." "there are secrets, lady penwether, which people do like to unravel, but which the owners of them sometimes won't abandon." then there was nothing more said on the subject. lady penwether did not smile again, and left him to go about the room on her business as hostess, as soon as the dance was over. but she was sure that they were engaged. in the meantime, the conversation between lord rufford and arabella was very different in its tone, though on the same subject. he was certainly very much struck with her, not probably ever waiting to declare to himself that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, but still feeling towards her an attraction which for the time was strong. a very clever girl would frighten him; a very horsey girl would disgust him; a very quiet girl would bore him; or a very noisy girl annoy him. with a shy girl he could never be at his ease, not enjoying the labour of overcoming such a barrier; and yet he liked to be able to feel that any female intimacy which he admitted was due to his own choice and not to that of the young woman. arabella trefoil was not very clever, but she had given all her mind to this peculiar phase of life, and, to use a common phrase, knew what she was about. she was quite alive to the fact that different men require different manners in a young woman; and as she had adapted herself to mr. morton at washington, so could she at rufford adapt herself to lord rufford. at the present moment the lord was in love with her as much as he was wont to be in love. "doesn't it seem an immense time since we came here yesterday?" she said to him. "there has been so much done." "there has been a great misfortune." "i suppose that is it. only for that how very very pleasant it would have been!" "yes, indeed. it was a nice run, and that little horse carried you charmingly. i wish i could see you ride him again." she shook her head as she looked up into his face. "why do you shake your head?" "because i am afraid there is no possible chance of such happiness. we are going to such a dull house to-morrow! and then to so many dull houses afterwards." "i don't know why you shouldn't come back and have another day or two;--when all this sadness has gone by." "don't talk about it, lord rufford." "why not?" "i never like to talk about any pleasure because it always vanishes as soon as it has come;--and when it has been real pleasure it never comes back again. i don't think i ever enjoyed anything so much as our ride this morning,--till that tragedy came." "poor caneback!" "i suppose there is no hope?" he shook his head. "and we must go on to those gores to-morrow without knowing anything about it. i wonder whether you could send me a line." "of course i can, and i will." then he asked her a question looking into her face. "you are not going back to bragton?" "oh dear, no." "was bragton dull?" "awfully dull;--frightfully dull." "you know what they say?" "what who say, lord rufford? people say anything,--the more ill-natured the better they like it, i think." "have you not heard what they say about you and mr. morton?" "just because mamma made a promise when in washington to go to bragton with that mr. gotobed. don't you find they marry you to everybody?" "they have married me to a good many people. perhaps they'll marry me to you to-morrow. that would not be so bad." "oh, lord rufford! nobody has ever condemned you to anything so terrible as that." "there was no truth in it then, miss trefoil?" "none at all, lord rufford. only i don't know why you should ask me." "well; i don't know. a man likes sometimes to be sure how the land lies. mr. morton looks so cross that i thought that perhaps the very fact of my dancing with you might be an offence." "is he cross?" "you know him better than i do. perhaps it's his nature. now i must do one other dance with a native and then my work will be over." "that isn't very civil, lord rufford." "if you do not know what i meant, you're not the girl i take you to be." then as she walked with him back out of the ball-room into the drawing-room she assured him that she did know what he meant, and that therefore she was the girl he took her to be. she had determined that she would not dance again and had resolved to herd with the other ladies of the house,--waiting for any opportunity that chance might give her for having a last word with lord rufford before they parted for the night,--when morton came up to her and demanded rather than asked that she would stand up with him for a quadrille. "we settled it all among ourselves, you know," she said. "we were to dance only once, just to set the people off." he still persisted, but she still refused, alleging that she was bound by the general compact; and though he was very urgent she would not yield. "i wonder how you can ask me," she said. "you don't suppose that after what has occurred i can have any pleasure in dancing." upon this he asked her to take a turn with him through the rooms, and to that she found herself compelled to assent. then he spoke out to her. "arabella," he said, "i am not quite content with what has been going on since we came to this house." "i am sorry for that." "nor, indeed, have i been made very happy by all that has occurred since your mother and you did me the honour of coming to bragton." "i must acknowledge you haven't seemed to be very happy, mr. morton." "i don't want to distress you;--and as far as possible i wish to avoid distressing myself. if it is your wish that our engagement should be over, i will endeavour to bear it. if it is to be continued,--i expect that your manner to me should be altered." "what am i to say?" "say what you feel." "i feel that i can't alter my manner, as you call it." "you do wish the engagement to be over then?" "i did not say so. the truth is, mr. morton, that there is some trouble about the lawyers." "why do you always call me mr. morton?" "because i am aware how probable it is that all this may come to nothing. i can't walk out of the house and marry you as the cookmaid does the gardener. i've got to wait till i'm told that everything is settled; and at present i'm told that things are not settled because you won't agree." "i'll leave it to anybody to say whether i've been unreasonable." "i won't go into that. i haven't meddled with it, and i don't know anything about it. but until it is all settled as a matter of course there must be some little distance between us. it's the commonest thing in the world, i should say." "what is to be the end of it?" "i do not know. if you think yourself injured you can back out of it at once. i've nothing more to say about it." "and you think i can like the way you're going on here?" "if you're jealous, mr. morton, there's an end of it. i tell you fairly once for all, that as long as i'm a single woman i will regulate my conduct as i please. you can do the same, and i shall not say a word to you." then she withdrew her arm from him, and, leaving him, walked across the room and joined her mother. he went off at once to his own room resolving that he would write to her from bragton. he had made his propositions in regard to money which he was quite aware were as liberal as was fit. if she would now fix a day for their marriage, he would be a happy man. if she would not bring herself to do this, then he would have no alternative but to regard their engagement as at an end. at two o'clock the guests were nearly all gone. the major was alive, and likely to live at least for some hours, and the rufford people generally were glad that they had not put off the ball. some of them who were staying in the house had already gone to bed, and lady penwether, with miss penge at her side, was making her last adieux in the drawing-room. the ball-room was reached from the drawing-room, with a vestibule between them, and opening from this was a small chamber, prettily furnished but seldom used, which had no peculiar purpose of its own, but in which during the present evening many sweet words had probably been spoken. now, at this last moment, lord rufford and arabella trefoil were there alone together. she had just got up from a sofa, and he had taken her hand in his. she did not attempt to withdraw it, but stood looking down upon the ground. then he passed his arm round her waist and lifting her face to his held her in a close embrace from which she made no effort to free herself. as soon as she was released she hastened to the door which was all but closed, and as she opened it and passed through to the drawing-room said some ordinary word to him quite aloud in her ordinary voice. if his action had disturbed her she knew very well how to recover her equanimity. chapter xxv. the last morning at rufford hall. "well, my love?" said lady augustus, as soon as her daughter had joined her in her bedroom. on such occasions there was always a quarter of an hour before going to bed in which the mother and daughter discussed their affairs, while the two lady's maids were discussing their affairs in the other room. the two maids probably did not often quarrel, but the mother and daughter usually did. "i wish that stupid man hadn't got himself hurt." "of course, my dear; we all wish that. but i really don't see that it has stood much in your way." "yes it has. after all there is nothing like dancing, and we shouldn't all have been sent to bed at two o'clock." "then it has come to nothing?" "i didn't say that at all, mamma. i think i have done uncommonly well. indeed i know i have. but then if everything had not been upset, i might have done so much better." "what have you done?" asked lady augustus, timidly. she knew perfectly well that her daughter would tell her nothing, and yet she always asked these questions and was always angry when no information was given to her. any young woman would have found it very hard to give the information needed. "when we were alone he sat for five minutes with his arm round my waist, and then he kissed me. he didn't say much, but then i knew perfectly well that he would be on his guard not to commit himself by words. but i've got him to promise that he'll write to me, and of course i'll answer in such a way that he must write again. i know he'll want to see me, and i think i can go very near doing it. but he's an old stager and knows what he's about: and of course there'll be ever so many people to tell him i'm not the sort of girl he ought to marry. he'll hear about colonel de b----, and sir c. d----, and lord e. f----, and there are ever so many chances against me. but i've made up my mind to try it. it's taking the long odds. i can hardly expect to win, but if i do pull it off i'm made for ever!" a daughter can hardly say all that to her mother. even arabella trefoil could not say it to her mother,--or, at any rate, she would not. "what a question that is to ask, mamma?" she did say tossing her head. "well, my dear, unless you tell me something how can i help you?" "i don't know that i want you to help me,--at any rate not in that way." "in what way?" "oh, mamma, you are so odd." "has he said anything?" "yes, he has. he said he liked dry champagne and that he never ate supper." "if you won't tell me how things are going you may fight your own battles by yourself." "that's just what i must do. nobody else can fight my battles for me." "what are you going to do about mr. morton?" "nothing." "i saw him talking to you and looking as black as thunder." "he always looks as black as thunder." "is that to be all off? i insist upon having an answer to that question." "i believe you fancy, mamma, that a lot of men can be played like a parcel of chessmen, and that as soon as a knight is knocked on the head you can take him up and put him into the box and have done with him." "you haven't done with mr. morton then?" "poor mr. morton! i do feel he is badly used because he is so honest. i sometimes wish that i could afford to be honest too and to tell somebody the downright truth. i should like to tell him the truth and i almost think i will. 'my dear fellow, i did for a time think i couldn't do better, and i'm not at all sure now that i can. but then you are so very dull, and i'm not certain that i should care to be queen of the english society at the court of the emperor of morocco! but if you'll wait for another six months, i shall be able to tell you.' that's what i should have to say to him." "who is talking nonsense now, arabella?" "i am not. but i shan't say it. and now, mamma, i'll tell you what we must do." "you must tell me why also." "i can do nothing of the kind. he knows the duke." the duke with the trefoils always meant the duke of mayfair who was arabella's ducal uncle. "intimately?" "well enough to go there. there is to be a great shooting at mistletoe,"--mistletoe was the duke's place,--"in january. i got that from him, and he can go if he likes. he won't go as it is: but if i tell him i'm to be there, i think he will." "what did you tell him?" "well;--i told him a tarradiddle of course. i made him understand that i could be there if i pleased, and he thinks that i mean to be there if he goes." "but i'm sure the duchess won't have me again." "she might let me come." "and what am i to do?" "you could go to brighton with miss de groat;--or what does it matter for a fortnight? you'll get the advantage when it's done. it's as well to have the truth out at once, mamma,--i cannot carry on if i'm always to be stuck close to your apron-strings. there are so many people won't have you." "arabella, i do think you are the most ungrateful, hard-hearted creature that ever lived." "very well; i don't know what i have to be grateful about, and i need to be hard-hearted. of course i am hard-hearted. the thing will be to get papa to see his brother." "your papa!" "yes;--that's what i mean to try. the duke, of course, would like me to marry lord rufford. do you think that if i were at home here it wouldn't make mistletoe a very different sort of place for you? the duke does like papa in a sort of way, and he's civil enough to me when i'm there. he never did like you." "everybody is so fond of you! it was what you did when young stranorlar was there which made the duchess almost turn us out of the house." "what's the good of your saying that, mamma? if you go on like that i'll separate myself from you and throw myself on papa." "your father wouldn't lift his little finger for you." "i'll try at any rate. will you consent to my going there without you if i can manage it?" "what did lord rufford say?" arabella here made a grimace. "you can tell me something. what are the lawyers to say to mr. morton's people?" "whatever they like." "if they come to arrangements do you mean to marry him?" "not for the next two months certainly. i shan't see him again now heaven knows when. he'll write no doubt,--one of his awfully sensible letters, and i shall take my time about answering him. i can stretch it out for two months. if i'm to do any good with this man it will be all arranged before that time. if the duke could really be made to believe that lord rufford was in earnest i'm sure he'd have me there. as to her, she always does what he tells her." "he is going to write to you?" "i told you that before, mamma. what is the good of asking a lot of questions? you know now what my plan is, and if you won't help me i must carry it out alone. and, remember, i don't want to start to-morrow till after morton and that american have gone." then without a kiss or wishing her mother good night she went off to her own room. the next morning at about nine arabella heard from her maid that the major was still alive but senseless. the london surgeon had been there and had declared it to be possible that the patient should live,--but barely possible. at ten they were all at breakfast, and the carriage from bragton was already at the door to take back mr. morton and his american friend. lady augustus had been clever enough to arrange that she should have the phaeton to take her to the rufford station a little later on in the day, and had already hinted to one of the servants that perhaps a cart might be sent with the luggage. the cart was forthcoming. lady augustus was very clever in arranging her locomotion and seldom paid for much more than her railway tickets. "i had meant to say a few words to you, my lord, about that man goarly," said the senator, standing before the fire in the breakfast-room, "but this sad catastrophe has stopped me." "there isn't much to say about him, mr. gotobed." "perhaps not; only i would not wish you to think that i would oppose you without some cause. if the man is in the wrong according to law let him be proved to be so. the cost to you will be nothing. to him it might be of considerable importance." "just so. won't you sit down and have some breakfast? if goarly ever makes himself nuisance enough it may be worth my while to buy him out at three times the value of his land. but he'll have to be a very great nuisance before i shall do that. dillsborough wood is not the only fox covert in the county." after that there was no more said about it; but neither did lord rufford understand the senator nor did the senator understand lord rufford. john runce had a clearer conviction on his mind than either of them. goarly ought to be hanged, and no american should, under any circumstances be allowed to put his foot upon british soil. that was runce's idea of the matter. the parting between morton and the trefoils was very chill and uncomfortable. "good-bye, mr. morton;--we had such a pleasant time at bragton!" said lady augustus. "i shall write to you this afternoon," he whispered to arabella as he took her hand. she smiled and murmured a word of adieu, but made him no reply. then they were gone, and as he got into the carriage he told himself that in all probability he would never see her again. it might be that he would curtail his leave of absence and get back to washington as quickly as possible. the trefoils did not start for an hour after this, during which arabella could hardly find an opportunity for a word in private. she could not quite appeal to him to walk with her in the grounds, or even to take a turn with her round the empty ball-room she came down dressed for walking, thinking that so she might have the best chance of getting him for a quarter of an hour to herself, but he was either too wary or else the habits of his life prevented it. and in what she had to do it was so easy to go beyond the proper line! she would wish him to understand that she would like to be alone with him after what had passed between them on the previous evening,--but she must be careful not to let him imagine that she was too anxious. and then whatever she did she had to do with so many eyes upon her! and when she went, as she would do now in so short a time, so many hostile tongues would attack her! he had everything to protect him;--and she had nothing, absolutely nothing, to help her! it was thus that she looked at it; and yet she had courage for the battle. almost at the last moment she did get a word with him in the hall. "how is he?" "oh, better, decidedly." "i am so glad. if i could only think that he could live! well, my lord, we have to say good-bye." "i suppose so." "you'll write me a line,--about him." "certainly." "i shall be so glad to have a line from rufford. maddox hall, you know; stafford." "i will remember." "and dear old jack. tell me when you write what jack has been doing." then she put out her hand and he held it. "i wonder whether you will ever remember--" but she did not quite know what to bid him remember, and therefore turned away her face and wiped away a tear, and then smiled as she turned her back on him. the carriage was at the door, and the ladies flocked into the hall, and then not another word could be said. "that's what i call a really nice country house," said lady augustus as she was driven away. arabella sat back in the phaeton lost in thought and said nothing. "everything so well done, and yet none of all that fuss that there is at mistletoe." she paused but still her daughter did not speak. "if i were beginning the world again i would not wish for a better establishment than that. why can't you answer me a word when i speak to you?" "of course it's all very nice. what's the good of going on in that way? what a shame it is that a man like that should have so much and that a girl like me should have nothing at all. i know twice as much as he does, and am twice as clever, and yet i've got to treat him as though he were a god. he's all very well, but what would anybody think of him if he were a younger brother with £ a year." this was a kind of philosophy which lady augustus hated. she threw herself back therefore in the phaeton and pretended to go to sleep. the wheels were not out of sight of the house before the attack on the trefoils began. "i had heard of lady augustus before," said lady penwether, "but i didn't think that any woman could be so disagreeable." "so vulgar," said miss penge. "wasn't she the daughter of an ironmonger?" asked the elder miss godolphin. "the girl of course is handsome," said lady penwether. "but so self-sufficient," said miss godolphin. "and almost as vulgar as her mother," said miss penge. "she may be clever," said lady penwether, "but i do not think i should ever like her." "she is one of those girls whom only gentlemen like," said miss penge. "and whom they don't like very long," said lady penwether. "how well i understand all this," said lord rufford turning to the younger miss godolphin. "it is all said for my benefit, and considered to be necessary because i danced with the young lady last night." "i hope you are not attributing such a motive to me," said miss penge. "or to me," said miss godolphin. "i look on both of you and eleanor as all one on the present occasion. i am considered to be falling over a precipice, and she has got hold of my coat tails. of course you wouldn't be christians if you didn't both of you seize a foot." "looking at it in that light i certainly wish to be understood as holding on very fast," said miss penge. chapter xxvi. give me six months. there was a great deal of trouble and some very genuine sorrow in the attorney's house at dillsborough during the first week in december. mr. masters had declared to his wife that mary should go to cheltenham and a letter was written to lady ushant accepting the invitation. the £ too was forthcoming and the dress and the boots and the hat were bought. but while this was going on mrs. masters took care that there should be no comfort whatever around them and made every meal a separate curse to the unfortunate lawyer. she told him ten times a day that she had been a mother to his daughter, but declared that such a position was no longer possible to her as the girl had been taken altogether out of her hands. to mary she hardly spoke at all and made her thoroughly wish that lady ushant's kindness had been declined. "mamma," she said one day, "i had rather write now and tell her that i cannot come." "after all the money has been wasted!" "i have only got things that i must have had very soon." "if you have got anything to say you had better talk to your father. i know nothing about it." "you break my heart when you say that, mamma." "you think nothing about breaking mine;--or that young man's who is behaving so well to you. what makes me mad is to see you shilly-shallying with him." "mamma, i haven't shilly-shallied." "that's what i call it. why can't you speak him fair and tell him you'll have him and settle yourself down properly? you've got some idea into your silly head that what you call a gentleman will come after you." "mamma, that isn't fair." "very well, miss. as your father takes your part of course you can say what you please to me. i say it is so." mary knew very well what her mother meant and was safe at least from any allusion to reginald morton. there was an idea prevalent in the house, and not without some cause, that mr. surtees the curate had looked with an eye of favour on mary masters. mr. surtees was certainly a gentleman, but his income was strictly limited to the sum of £ per annum which he received from mr. mainwaring. now mrs. masters disliked clergymen, disliked gentlemen, and especially disliked poverty; and therefore was not disposed to look upon mr. surtees as an eligible suitor for her stepdaughter. but as the curate's courtship had hitherto been of the coldest kind and as it had received no encouragement from the young lady, mary was certainly justified in declaring that the allusion was not fair. "what i want to know is this;--are you prepared to marry lawrence twentyman?" to this question, as mary could not give a favourable answer, she thought it best to make none at all. "there is a man as has got a house fit for any woman, and means to keep it; who can give a young woman everything that she ought to want;--and a handsome fellow too, with some life in him; one who really dotes on you,--as men don't often do on young women now as far as i can see. i wonder what it is you would have?" "i want nothing, mamma." "yes you do. you have been reading books of poetry till you don't know what it is you do want. you've got your head full of claptraps and tantrums till you haven't a grain of sense belonging to you. i hate such ways. it's a spurning of the gifts of providence not to have such a man as lawrence twentyman when he comes in your way. who are you, i wonder, that you shouldn't be contented with such as him? he'll go and take some one else and then you'll be fit to break your heart, fretting after him, and i shan't pity you a bit. it'll serve you right and you'll die an old maid, and what there will be for you to live upon god in heaven only knows. you're breaking your father's heart, as it is." then she sat down in a rocking-chair and throwing her apron over her eyes gave herself up to a deluge of hysterical tears. this was very hard upon mary for though she did not believe all the horrible things which her stepmother said to her she did believe some of them. she was not afraid of the fate of an old maid which was threatened, but she did think that her marriage with this man would be for the benefit of the family and a great relief to her father. and she knew too that he was respectable, and believed him to be thoroughly earnest in his love. for such love as that it is impossible that a girl should not be grateful. there was nothing to allure him, nothing to tempt him to such a marriage, but a simple appreciation of her personal merits. and in life he was at any rate her equal. she had told reginald morton that larry twentyman was a fit companion for her and for her sisters, and she owned as much to herself every day. when she acknowledged all this she was tempted to ask herself whether she ought not to accept the man,--if not for her own sake at least for that of the family. that same evening her father called her into the office after the clerks were gone and spoke to her thus. "your mamma is very unhappy, my dear," he said. "i'm afraid i have made everybody unhappy by wanting to go to cheltenham." "it is not only that. that is reasonable enough and you ought to go. mamma would say nothing more about that,--if you would make up your mind to one thing." "what thing, papa?" of course she knew very well what the thing was. "it is time for you to think of settling in life, mary. i never would put it into a girl's head that she ought to worry herself about getting a husband unless the opportunity seemed to come in her way. young women should be quiet and wait till they're sought after. but here is a young man seeking you whom we all like and approve. a good house is a very good thing when it's fairly come by." "yes, papa." "and so is a full house. a girl shouldn't run after money, but plenty is a great comfort in this world when it can be had without blushing for." "yes, papa." "and so is an honest man's love. i don't like to see any girl wearying after some fellow to be always fal-lalling with her. a good girl will be able to be happy and contented without that. but a lone life is a poor life, and a good husband is about the best blessing that a young woman can have." to this proposition mary perhaps agreed in her own mind but she gave no spoken assent. "now this young man that is wanting to marry you has got all these things, and as far as i can judge with my experience in the world, is as likely to make a good husband as any one i know." he paused for an answer but mary could only lean close upon his arm and be silent. "have you anything to say about it, my dear? you see it has been going on now a long time, and of course he'll look to have it decided." but still she could say nothing. "well, now;--he has been with me to-day." "mr. twentyman?" "yes,--mr. twentyman. he knows you're going to cheltenham and of course he has nothing to say against that. no young man such as he would be sorry that his sweetheart should be entertained by such a lady as lady ushant. but he says that he wants to have an answer before you go." "i did answer him, papa." "yes,--you refused him. but he hopes that perhaps you may think better of it. he has been with me and i have told him that if he will come to-morrow you will see him. he is to be here after dinner and you had better just take him up-stairs and hear what he has to say. if you can make up your mind to like him you will please all your family. but if you can't,--i won't quarrel with you, my dear." "oh papa, you are always so good." "of course i am anxious that you should have a home of your own;--but let it be how it may i will not quarrel with my child." all that evening, and almost all the night, and again on the following morning mary turned it over in her mind. she was quite sure that she was not in love with larry twentyman; but she was by no means sure that it might not be her duty to accept him without being in love with him. of course he must know the whole truth; but she could tell him the truth and then leave it for him to decide. what right had she to stand in the way of her friends, or to be a burden to them when such a mode of life was offered to her? she had nothing of her own, and regarded herself as being a dead weight on the family. and she was conscious in a certain degree of isolation in the household,--as being her father's only child by the first marriage. she would hardly know how to look her father in the face and tell him that she had again refused the man. but yet there was something awful to her in the idea of giving herself to a man without loving him,--in becoming a man's wife when she would fain remain away from him! would it be possible that she should live with him while her feelings were of such a nature? and then she blushed as she lay in the dark, with her cheek on her pillow, when she found herself forced to inquire within her own heart whether she did not love some one else. she would not own it, and yet she blushed, and yet she thought of it. if there might be such a man it was not the young clergyman to whom her mother had alluded. through all that morning she was very quiet, very pale, and in truth very unhappy. her father said no further word to her, and her stepmother had been implored to be equally reticent. "i shan't speak another word," said mrs. masters; "her fortune is in her own hands and if she don't choose to take it i've done with her. one man may lead a horse to water but a hundred can't make him drink. it's just the same with an obstinate pig-headed young woman." at three o'clock mr. twentyman came and was at once desired to go up to mary who was waiting for him in the drawing-room. mrs. masters smiled and was gracious as she spoke to him, having for the moment wreathed herself in good humour so that he might go to his wooing in better spirit. he had learned his lesson by heart as nearly as he was able and began to recite it as soon as he had closed the door. "so you're going to cheltenham on thursday?" he said. "yes, mr. twentyman." "i hope you'll enjoy your visit there. i remember lady ushant myself very well. i don't suppose she will remember me, but you can give her my compliments." "i certainly will do that." "and now, mary, what have you got to say to me?" he looked for a moment as though he expected she would say what she had to say at once,--without further question from him; but he knew that it could not be so and he had prepared his lesson further than that. "i think you must believe that i really do love you with all my heart." "i know that you are very good to me, mr. twentyman." "i don't say anything about being good; but i'm true:--that i am. i'd take you for my wife to-morrow if you hadn't a friend in the world, just for downright love. i've got you so in my heart, mary, that i couldn't get rid of you if i tried ever so. you must know that it's true." "i do know that it's true." "well! don't you think that a fellow like that deserves something from a girl?" "indeed i do." "well!" "he deserves a great deal too much for any girl to deceive him. you wouldn't like a young woman to marry you without loving you. i think you deserve a great deal too well of me for that." he paused a moment before he replied. "i don't know about that," he said at last. "i believe i should be glad to take you just anyhow. i don't think you can hate me." "certainly not. i like you as well, mr. twentyman, as one friend can like another,--without loving." "i'll be content with that, mary, and chance it for the rest. i'll be that kind to you that i'll make you love me before twelve months are over. you come and try. you shall be mistress of everything. mother isn't one that will want to be in the way." "it isn't that, larry," she said. she hadn't called him larry for a long time and the sound of his own name from her lips gave him infinite hope. "come and try. say you'll try. if ever a man did his best to please a woman i'll do it to please you." then he attempted to take her in his arms but she glided away from him round the table. "i won't ask you not to go to cheltenham, or anything of that. you shall have your own time. by george you shall have everything your own way." still she did not answer him but stood looking down upon the table. "come;--say a word to a fellow." then at last she spoke--"give me--six months to think of it." "six months! if you'd say six weeks." "it is such a serious thing to do." "it is serious, of course. i'm serious, i know. i shouldn't hunt above half as often as i do now; and as for the club,--i don't suppose i should go near the place once a month. say six weeks, and then, if you'll let me have one kiss, i'll not trouble you till you're back from cheltenham." mary at once perceived that he had taken her doubt almost as a complete surrender, and had again to become obdurate. at last she promised to give him a final answer in two months, but declared as she said so that she was afraid she could not bring herself to do as he desired. she declined altogether to comply with that other request which he made, and then left him in the room declaring that at present she could say nothing further. as she did so she felt sure that she would not be able to accept him in two months' time whatever she might bring herself to do when the vast abyss of six months should have passed by. larry made his way down into the parlour with hopes considerably raised. there he found mrs. masters and when he told her what had passed she assured him that the thing was as good as settled. everybody knew, she said, that when a girl doubted she meant to yield. and what were two months? the time would have nearly gone by the end of her visit to cheltenham. it was now early in december, and they might be married and settled at home before the end of april. mrs. masters, to give him courage, took out a bottle of currant wine and drank his health, and told him that in three months' time she would give him a kiss and call him her son. and she believed what she said. this, she thought, was merely mary's way of letting herself down without a sudden fall. then the attorney came in and also congratulated him. when the attorney was told that mary had taken two months for her decision he also felt that the matter was almost as good as settled. this at any rate was clear to him,--that the existing misery of his household would for the present cease, and that mary would be allowed to go upon her visit without further opposition. he at present did not think it wise to say another word to mary about the young man;--nor would mrs. masters condescend to do so. mary would of course now accept her lover like any other girl, and had been such a fool,--so thought mrs. masters,--that she had thoroughly deserved to lose him. chapter xxvii. "wonderful bird!" there were but two days between the scenes described in the last chapter and the day fixed for mary's departure, and during these two days larry twentyman's name was not mentioned in the house. mrs. masters did not make herself quite pleasant to her stepdaughter, having still some grudge against her as to the £ . nor, though she had submitted to the visit to cheltenham, did she approve of it. it wasn't the way, she said, to make such a girl as mary like her life at chowton farm, going and sitting and doing nothing in old lady ushant's drawing-room. it was cocking her up with gimcrack notions about ladies till she'd be ashamed to look at her own hands after she had done a day's work with them. there was no doubt some truth in this. the woman understood the world and was able to measure larry twentyman and lady ushant and the rest of them. books and pretty needlework and easy conversation would consume the time at cheltenham, whereas at chowton farm there would be a dairy and a poultry yard,--under difficulties on account of the foxes,--with a prospect of baby linen and children's shoes and stockings. it was all that question of gentlemen and ladies, and of non-gentlemen and non-ladies! they ought, mrs. masters thought, to be kept distinct. she had never, she said, wanted to put her finger into a pie that didn't belong to her. she had never tried to be a grand lady. but mary was perilously near the brink on either side, and as it was to be her lucky fate at last to sit down to a plentiful but work-a-day life at chowton farm she ought to have been kept away from the maundering idleness of lady ushant's lodgings at cheltenham. but mary heard nothing of this during these two days, mrs. masters bestowing the load of her wisdom upon her unfortunate husband. reginald morton had been twice over at mrs. masters' house with reference to the proposed journey. mrs. masters was hardly civil to him, as he was supposed to be among the enemies;--but she had no suspicion that he himself was the enemy of enemies. had she entertained such an idea she might have reconciled herself to it, as the man was able to support a wife, and by such a marriage she would have been at once relieved from all further charge. in her own mind she would have felt very strongly that mary had chosen the wrong man, and thrown herself into the inferior mode of life. but her own difficulties in the matter would have been solved. there was, however, no dream of such a kind entertained by any of the family. reginald morton was hardly regarded as a young man, and was supposed to be gloomy, misanthropic, and bookish. mrs. masters was not at all averse to the companionship for the journey, and mr. masters was really grateful to one of the old family for being kind to his girl. nor must it be supposed that mary herself had any expectations or even any hopes. with juvenile aptness to make much of the little things which had interested her, and prone to think more than was reasonable of any intercourse with a man who seemed to her to be so superior to others as reginald morton, she was anxious for an opportunity to set herself right with him about that scene at the bridge. she still thought that he was offended and that she had given him cause for offence. he had condescended to make her a request to which she had acceded,--and she had then not done as she had promised. she thought she was sure that this was all she had to say to him, and yet she was aware that she was unnaturally excited at the idea of spending three or four hours alone with him. the fly which was to take him to the railway station called for mary at the attorney's door at ten o'clock, and the attorney handed her in. "it is very good of you indeed, mr. morton, to take so much trouble with my girl," said the attorney, really feeling what he said. "it is very good of you to trust her to me," said reginald, also sincerely. mary was still to him the girl who had been brought up by his aunt at bragton, and not the fit companion for larry twentyman. reginald morton had certainly not made up his mind to ask mary masters to be his wife. thinking of mary masters very often as he had done during the last two months, he was quite sure that he did not mean to marry at all. he did acknowledge to himself that were he to allow himself to fall in love with any one it would be with mary masters,--but for not doing so there were many reasons. he had lived so long alone that a married life would not suit him; as a married man he would be a poor man; he himself was averse to company, whereas most women prefer society. and then, as to this special girl, had he not reason for supposing that she preferred another man to him, and a man of such a class that the very preference showed her to be unfit to mate with him? he also cozened himself with an idea that it was well that he should have the opportunity which the journey would give him of apologising for his previous rudeness to her. in the carriage they had the compartment to themselves with the exception of an old lady at the further end who had a parrot in a cage for which she had taken a first-class ticket. "i can't offer you this seat," said the old lady, "because it has been booked and paid for for my bird." as neither of the new passengers had shown the slightest wish for the seat the communication was perhaps unnecessary. neither of the two had any idea of separating from the other for the sake of the old lady's company. they had before them a journey of thirty miles on one railway, then a stop of half an hour at the hinxton junction; and then another journey of about equal length. in the first hour very little was said that might not have been said in the presence of lady ushant,--or even of mrs. masters. there might be a question whether, upon the whole, the parrot had not the best of the conversation, as the bird, which the old lady declared to be the wonder of his species, repeated the last word of nearly every sentence spoken either by our friends or by the old lady herself. "don't you think you'd be less liable to cold with that window closed?" the old lady said to mary. "cosed,--cosed,--cosed," said the bird, and morton was of course constrained to shut the window. "he is a wonderful bird," said the old lady. "wonderful bird;--wonderful bird;--wonderful bird," said the parrot, who was quite at home with this expression. "we shall be able to get some lunch at hinxton," said reginald. "inxton," screamed the bird--"caw,--caw--caw." "he's worth a deal of money," said the old lady. "deal o' money, deal o' money," repeated the bird as he scrambled round the wire cage with a tremendous noise, to the great triumph of the old lady. no doubt the close attention which the bird paid to everything that passed, and the presence of the old lady as well, did for a time interfere with their conversation. but, after awhile, the old lady was asleep, and the bird, having once or twice attempted to imitate the somnolent sounds which his mistress was making, seemed also to go to sleep himself. then reginald, beginning with lady ushant and the old morton family generally, gradually got the conversation round to bragton and the little bridge. he had been very stern when he had left her there, and he knew also that at that subsequent interview, when he had brought lady ushant's note to her at her father's house, he had not been cordially kind to her. now they were thrown together for an hour or so in the closest companionship, and he wished to make her comfortable and happy. "i suppose you remember bragton?" he said. "every path and almost every tree about the place." "so do i. i called there the other day. family quarrels are so silly, you know." "did you see mr. morton?" "no;--and he hasn't returned my visit yet. i don't know whether he will,--and i don't much mind whether he does or not. that old woman is there, and she is very bitter against me. i don't care about the people, but i am sorry that i cannot see the place." "i ought to have walked with you that day," she said in a very low tone. the parrot opened his eyes and looked at them as though he were striving to catch his cue. "of course you ought." but as he said this he smiled and there was no offence in his voice. "i dare say you didn't guess how much i thought of it. and then i was a bear to you. i always am a bear when i am not pleased." "peas, peas, peas," said the parrot. "i shall be a bear to that brute of a bird before long." "what a very queer bird he is." "he is a public nuisance,--and so is the old lady who brought him here." this was said quite in a whisper. "it is very odd, miss masters, but you are literally the only person in all dillsborough in regard to whom i have any genuine feeling of old friendship." "you must remember a great many." "but i did not know any well enough. i was too young to have seen much of your father. but when i came back at that time you and i were always together." "gedder, gedder, gedder," said the parrot. "if that bird goes on like that i'll speak to the guard," said mr. morton with affected anger. "polly mustn't talk," said the old lady waking up. "tok, tok, tok, tok," screamed the parrot. then the old lady threw a shawl over him and again went to sleep. "if i behaved badly i beg your pardon," said mary. "that's just what i wanted to say to you, miss masters,--only a man never can do those things as well as a lady. i did behave badly, and i do beg your pardon. of course i ought to have asked mr. twentyman to come with us. i know that he is a very good fellow." "indeed he is," said mary masters, with all the emphasis in her power. "deedy is, deedy is, deedy is, deedy is," repeated the parrot in a very angry voice about a dozen times under his shawl, and while the old lady was remonstrating with her too talkative companion their tickets were taken and they ran into the hinxton station. "if the old lady is going on to cheltenham we'll travel third class before we'll sit in the same carriage again with that bird," said morton laughing as he took mary into the refreshment-room. but the old lady did not get into the same compartment as they started, and the last that was heard of the parrot at hinxton was a quarrel between him and the guard as to certain railway privileges. when they had got back into the railway carriage morton was very anxious to ask whether she was in truth engaged to marry the young man as to whose good fellowship she and the parrot had spoken up so emphatically, but he hardly knew how to put the question. and were she to declare that she was engaged to him, what should he say then? would he not be bound to congratulate her? and yet it would be impossible that any word of such congratulation should pass his lips. "you will stay a month at cheltenham?" he said. "your aunt was kind enough to ask me for so long." "i shall go back on saturday. if i were to stay longer i should feel myself to be in her way. and i have come to live a sort of hermit's life. i hardly know how to sit down and eat my dinner in company, and have no idea of seeing a human being before two o'clock." "what do you do with yourself?" "i rush in and out of the garden and spend my time between my books and my flowers and my tobacco pipes." "do you mean to live always like that?" she asked,--in perfect innocency. "i think so. sometimes i doubt whether it's wise." "i don't think it wise at all," said mary. "why not?" "people should live together, i think." "you mean that i ought to have a wife?" "no;--i didn't mean that. of course that must be just as you might come to like any one well enough. but a person need not shut himself up and be a hermit because he is not married. lord rufford is not married and he goes everywhere." "he has money and property and is a man of pleasure." "and your cousin, mr. john morton." "he is essentially a man of business, which i never could have been. and they say he is going to be married to that miss trefoil who has been staying there. unfortunately i have never had anything that i need do in all my life, and therefore i have shut myself up as you call it. i wonder what your life will be." mary blushed and said nothing. "if there were anything to tell i wish i knew it." "there is nothing to tell." "nothing?" she thought a moment before she answered him and then she said, "nothing. what should i have to tell?" she added trying to laugh. he remained for a few minutes silent, and then put his head out towards her as he spoke. "i was afraid that you might have to tell that you were engaged to marry mr. twentyman." "i am not." "oh!--i am so glad to hear it." "i don't know why you should be glad. if i had said i was, it would have been very uncivil if you hadn't declared yourself glad to hear that." "then i must have been uncivil for i couldn't have done it. knowing how my aunt loves you, knowing what she thinks of you and what she would think of such a match, remembering myself what i do of you, i could not have congratulated you on your engagement to a man whom i think so much inferior to yourself in every respect. now you know it all,--why i was angry at the bridge, why i was hardly civil to you at your father's house; and, to tell the truth, why i have been so anxious to be alone with you for half an hour. if you think it an offence that i should take so much interest in you, i will beg your pardon for that also." "oh, no!" "i have never spoken to my aunt about it, but i do not think that she would have been contented to hear that you were to become the wife of mr. twentyman." what answer she was to make to this or whether she was to make any she had not decided when they were interrupted by the reappearance of the old lady and the bird. she was declaring to the guard at the window, that as she had paid for a first-class seat for her parrot she would get into any carriage she liked in which there were two empty seats. her bird had been ill-treated by some scurrilous ill-conditioned travellers and she had therefore returned to the comparative kindness of her former companions. "they threatened to put him out of the window, sir," said the old woman to morton as she was forcing her way in. "windersir, windersir," said the parrot. "i hope he'll behave himself here, ma'am," said morton. "heremam, heremam, heremam," said the parrot. "now go to bed like a good bird," said the old lady putting her shawl over the cage,--whereupon the parrot made a more diabolical noise than ever under the curtain. mary felt that there was no more to be said about mr. twentyman and her hopes and prospects, and for the moment she was glad to be left in peace. the old lady and the parrot continued their conversation till they had all arrived in cheltenham;--and mary as she sat alone thinking of it afterwards might perhaps feel a soft regret that reginald morton had been interrupted by the talkative animal. * * * * * * volume ii. chapter i. mounser green. "so peter boyd is to go to washington in the paragon's place, and jack slade goes to vienna, and young palliser is to get slade's berth at lisbon." this information was given by a handsome man, known as mounser green, about six feet high, wearing a velvet shooting coat,--more properly called an office coat from its present uses,--who had just entered a spacious well-carpeted comfortable room in which three other gentlemen were sitting at their different tables. this was one of the rooms in the foreign office and looked out into st. james's park. mounser green was a distinguished clerk in that department,--and distinguished also in various ways, being one of the fashionable men about town, a great adept at private theatricals, remarkable as a billiard player at his club, and a contributor to various magazines. at this moment he had a cigar in his mouth, and when he entered the room he stood with his back to the fire ready for conversation and looking very unlike a clerk who intended to do any work. but there was a general idea that mounser green was invaluable to the foreign office. he could speak and write two or three foreign languages; he could do a spurt of work,--ten hours at a sitting when required; he was ready to go through fire and water for his chief; and was a gentleman all round. though still nominally a young man,--being perhaps thirty-five years of age--he had entered the service before competitive examination had assumed its present shape and had therefore the gifts which were required for his special position. some critics on the civil service were no doubt apt to find fault with mounser green. when called upon at his office he was never seen to be doing anything, and he always had a cigar in his mouth. these gentlemen found out too that he never entered his office till half-past twelve, perhaps not having also learned that he was generally there till nearly seven. no doubt during the time that he remained there he read a great many newspapers, and wrote a great many private notes,--on official paper! but there may be a question whether even these employments did not help to make mounser green the valuable man he was. "what a lounge for jack slade," said young hoffmann. "i'll tell you who it won't be a lounge for, green," said archibald currie, the clerk who held the second authority among them. "what will bell trefoil think of going to patagonia?" "that's all off," said mounser green. "i don't think so," said charley glossop, one of the numerous younger sons of lord glossop. "she was staying only the other day down at the paragon's place in rufford, and they went together to my cousin rufford's house. his sister,--that's lady penwether, told me they were certainly engaged then." "that was before the paragon had been named for patagonia. to tell you a little bit of my own private mind,--which isn't scandal," said mounser green, "because it is only given as opinion,--i think it just possible that the paragon has taken this very uncomfortable mission because it offered him some chance of escape." "then he has more sense about him than i gave him credit for," said archibald currie. "why should a man like morton go to patagonia?" continued green. "he has an independent fortune and doesn't want the money. he'd have been sure to have something comfortable in europe very soon if he had waited, and was much better off as second at a place like washington. i was quite surprised when he took it." "patagonia isn't bad at all," said currie. "that depends on whether a man has got money of his own. when i heard about the paragon and bell trefoil at washington, i knew there had been a mistake made. he didn't know what he was doing. i'm a poor man, but i wouldn't take her with £ , a year, settled on myself." poor mounser green! "i think she's the handsomest girl in london," said hoffmann, who was a young man of german parentage and perhaps of german taste. "that may be," continued green;--"but, heaven and earth! what a life she would lead a man like the paragon! he's found it out, and therefore thought it well to go to south america. she has declined already, i'm told; but he means to stick to the mission." during all this time mounser green was smoking his cigar with his back to the fire, and the other clerks looked as though they had nothing to do but talk about the private affairs of ministers abroad and their friends. of course it will be understood that since we last saw john morton the position of minister plenipotentiary at patagonia had been offered to him and that he had accepted the place in spite of bragton and of arabella trefoil. at that moment a card was handed to mounser green by a messenger who was desired to show the gentleman up. "it's the paragon himself," said green. "we'll make him tell us whether he's going out single or double," said archibald currie. "after what the rufford people said to me i'm sure he's going to marry her," said young glossop. no doubt lady penwether had been anxious to make it understood by every one connected with the family that if any gossip should be heard about rufford and arabella trefoil there was nothing in it. then the paragon was shown into the room and mounser green and the young men were delighted to see him. colonial governors at their seats of government, and ministers plenipotentiary in their ambassadorial residences are very great persons indeed; and when met in society at home, with the stars and ribbons which are common among them now, they are less indeed, but still something. but at the colonial and foreign offices in london, among the assistant secretaries and clerks, they are hardly more than common men. all the gingerbread is gone there. his excellency is no more than jones, and the representative or alter ego of royalty mildly asks little favours of the junior clerks. "lord drummond only wants to know what you wish and it shall be done," said mounser green. lord drummond was the minister for foreign affairs of the day. "i hope i need hardly say that we were delighted that you accepted the offer." "one doesn't like to refuse a step upward," said morton; "otherwise patagonia isn't exactly the place one would like." "very good climate," said currie. "ladies i have known who have gone there have enjoyed it very much." "a little rough i suppose?" "they didn't seem to say so. young bartletot took his wife out there,--just married. he liked it. there wasn't much society, but they didn't care about that just at first." "ah;--i'm a single man," said morton laughing. he was too good a diplomate to be pumped in that simple way by such a one as archibald currie. "you'll like to see lord drummond. he is here and will be glad to shake hands with you. come into my room." then mounser green led the way into a small inner sanctum in which it may be presumed that he really did his work. it was here at any rate that he wrote the notes on official note paper. "they haven't settled as yet how they're to be off it," said currie in a whisper, as soon as the two men were gone, "but i'll bet a five-pound note that bell trefoil doesn't go out to patagonia as his wife." "we know the senator here well enough." this was said in the inner room by mounser green to morton, who had breakfasted with the senator that morning and had made an appointment to meet him at the foreign office. the senator wanted to secure a seat for himself at the opening of parliament which was appointed to take place in the course of the next month, and being a member of the committee on foreign affairs in the american senate of course thought himself entitled to have things done for him by the foreign office clerks. "oh yes, i'll see him. lord drummond will get him a seat as a matter of course. how is he getting on with your neighbour at dillsborough?" "so you've heard of that." "heard of it! who hasn't heard of it?"--at this moment the messenger came in again and the senator was announced. "lord drummond will manage about the seats in the house of lords, mr. gotobed. of course he'll see you if you wish it; but i'll take a note of it." "if you'll do that, mr. green, i shall be fixed up straight. and i'd a great deal sooner see you than his lordship." "that's very flattering, mr. gotobed, but i'm sure i don't know why." "because lord drummond always seems to me to have more on hand than he knows how to get through, and you never seem to have anything to do." "that's not quite so flattering,--and would be killing, only that i feel that your opinion is founded on error. mens conscia recti, mr. gotobed." "exactly. i understand english pretty well;--better, as far as i can see than some of those i meet around me here; but i don't go beyond that, mr. green." "i merely meant to observe, mr. gotobed, that as, within my own breast, i am conscious of my zeal and diligence in her majesty's service your shafts of satire pass me by without hurting me. shall i offer you a cigar? a candle burned at both ends is soon consumed." it was quite clear that as quickly as the senator got through one end of his cigar by the usual process of burning, so quickly did he eat the other end. but he took that which mounser green offered him without any displeasure at the allusion. "i'm sorry to say that i haven't a spittoon," said mounser green, "but the whole fire-place is at your service." the senator could hardly have heard this, as it made no difference in his practice. morton at this moment was sent for by the secretary of state, and the senator expressed his intention of waiting for him in mr. green's room. "how does the great goarly case get on, mr. gotobed?" asked the clerk. "well! i don't know that it's getting on very much." "you are not growing tired of it, senator?" "not by any means. but it's getting itself complicated, mr. green. i mean to see the end of it, and if i'm beat,--why i can take a beating as well as another man." "you begin to think you will be beat?" "i didn't say so, mr. green. it is very hard to understand all the ins and outs of a case like that in a foreign country." "then i shouldn't try it, senator." "there i differ. it is my object to learn all i can." "at any rate i shouldn't pay for the lesson as you are like to do. what'll the bill be? four hundred dollars?" "never mind, mr. green. if you'll take the opinion of a good deal older man than yourself and one who has perhaps worked harder, you'll understand that there's no knowledge got so thoroughly as that for which a man pays." soon after this morton came out from the great man's room and went away in company with the senator. chapter ii. the senator's letter. soon after this senator gotobed went down, alone, to dillsborough and put himself up at the bush inn. although he had by no means the reputation of being a rich man, he did not seem to care much what money he spent in furthering any object he had taken in hand. he never knew how near he had been to meeting the direst inhospitality at mr. runciman's house. that worthy innkeeper, knowing well the senator's sympathy with goarly, scrobby and bearside, and being heart and soul devoted to the rufford interest, had almost refused the senator the accommodation he wanted. it was only when mrs. runciman represented to him that she could charge ten shillings a day for the use of her sitting-room, and also that lord rufford himself had condescended to entertain the gentleman, that runciman gave way. mr. gotobed would, no doubt, have delighted in such inhospitality. he would have gone to the second-rate inn, which was very second-rate indeed, and have acquired a further insight into british manners and british prejudices. as it was, he made himself at home in the best upstairs sitting-room at the bush, and was quite unaware of the indignity offered to him when mr. runciman refused to send him up the best sherry. let us hope that this refusal was remembered by the young woman in the bar when she made out the senator's bill. he stayed at dillsborough for three or four days during which he saw goarly once and bearside on two or three occasions,--and moreover handed to that busy attorney three bank notes for £ each. bearside was clever enough to make him believe that goarly would certainly obtain serious damages from the lord. with bearside he was fairly satisfied, thinking however that the man was much more illiterate and ignorant than the general run of lawyers in the united states; but with goarly he was by no means satisfied. goarly endeavoured to keep out of his way and could not be induced to come to him at the bush. three times he walked out to the house near dillsborough wood, on each of which occasions mrs. goarly pestered him for money, and told him at great length the history of her forlorn goose. scrobby, of whom he had heard, he could not see at all; and he found that bearside was very unwilling to say anything about scrobby. scrobby, and the red herrings and the strychnine and the dead fox were, according to bearside, to be kept quite distinct from the pheasants and the wheat. bearside declared over and over again that there was no evidence to connect his client with the demise of the fox. when asked whether he did not think that his client had compassed the death of the animal, he assured the senator that in such matters he never ventured to think. "let us go by the evidence, mr. gotobed," he said. "but i am paying my money for the sake of getting at the facts." "evidence is facts, sir," said the attorney. "any way let us settle about the pheasants first." the condition of the senator's mind may perhaps be best made known by a letter which he wrote from dillsborough to his especial and well-trusted friend josiah scroome, a member of the house of representatives from his own state of mickewa. since he had been in england he had written constantly to his friend, giving him the result of his british experiences. bush inn, dillsborough, ufford county, england, december , --. my dear sir, since my last i have enjoyed myself very well and i am i trust beginning to understand something of the mode of thinking of this very peculiar people. that there should be so wide a difference between us americans and these english, from whom we were divided, so to say, but the other day, is one of the most peculiar physiological phenomena that the history of the world will have afforded. as far as i can hear a german or even a frenchman thinks much more as an englishman thinks than does an american. nor does this come mainly from the greater prevalence with us of democratic institutions. i do not think that any one can perceive in half an hour's conversation the difference between a swiss and a german; but i fancy, and i may say i flatter myself, that an american is as easily distinguished from an englishman, as a sheep from a goat or a tall man from one who is short. and yet there is a pleasure in associating with those here of the highest rank which i find it hard to describe, and which perhaps i ought to regard as a pernicious temptation to useless luxury. there is an ease of manner with them which recalls with unfavourable reminiscences the hard self-consciousness of the better class of our citizens. there is a story of an old hero who with his companions fell among beautiful women and luscious wine, and, but that the hero had been warned in time, they would all have been turned into filthy animals by yielding to the allurements around them. the temptation here is perhaps the same. i am not a hero; and, though i too have been warned by the lessons i have learned under our happy constitution, i feel that i might easily become one of the animals in question. and, to give them their due, it is better than merely beautiful women and luscious wine. there is a reality about them, and a desire to live up to their principles which is very grand. their principles are no doubt bad, utterly antagonistic to all progress, unconscious altogether of the demand for progressive equality which is made by the united voices of suffering mankind. the man who is born a lord and who sees a dozen serfs around him who have been born to be half-starved ploughmen, thinks that god arranged it all and that he is bound to maintain a state of things so comfortable to himself, as being god's vicegerent here on earth. but they do their work as vicegerents with an easy grace, and with sweet pleasant voices and soft movements, which almost make a man doubt whether the almighty has not in truth intended that such injustice should be permanent. that one man should be rich and another poor is a necessity in the present imperfect state of civilisation;--but that one man should be born to be a legislator, born to have everything, born to be a tyrant,--and should think it all right, is to me miraculous. but the greatest miracle of all is that they who are not so born,--who have been born to suffer the reverse side,--should also think it to be all right. with us it is necessary that a man, to shine in society, should have done something, or should at any rate have the capacity of doing something. but here the greatest fool that you meet will shine, and will be admitted to be brilliant, simply because he has possessions. such a one will take his part in conversation though he knows nothing, and, when inquired into, he will own that he knows nothing. to know anything is not his line in life. but he can move about, and chatter like a child of ten, and amuse himself from morning to night with various empty playthings,--and be absolutely proud of his life! i have lately become acquainted with a certain young lord here of this class who has treated me with great kindness, although i have taken it into my head to oppose him as to a matter in which he is much interested. i ventured to inquire of him as to the pursuits of his life. he is a lord, and therefore a legislator, but he made no scruple to tell me that he never goes near the chamber in which it is his privilege to have a seat. but his party does not lose his support. though he never goes near the place, he can vote, and is enabled to trust his vote to some other more ambitious lord who does go there. it required the absolute evidence of personal information from those who are themselves concerned to make me believe that legislation in great britain could be carried on after such a fashion as this! then he told me what he does do. all the winter he hunts and shoots, going about to other rich men's houses when there is no longer sufficient for him to shoot left on his own estate. that lasts him from the st of september to the end of march, and occupies all his time. august he spends in scotland, also shooting other animals. during the other months he fishes, and plays cricket and tennis, and attends races, and goes about to parties in london. his evenings he spends at a card table when he can get friends to play with him. it is the employment of his life to fit in his amusements so that he may not have a dull day. wherever he goes he carries his wine with him and his valet and his grooms;--and if he thinks there is anything to fear, his cook also. he very rarely opens a book. he is more ignorant than a boy of fifteen with us, and yet he manages to have something to say about everything. when his ignorance has been made as clear as the sun at noon-day, he is no whit ashamed. one would say that such a life would break the heart of any man; but upon my word, i doubt whether i ever came across a human being so self-satisfied as this young lord. i have come down here to support the case of a poor man who is i think being trampled on by this do-nothing legislator. but i am bound to say that the lord in his kind is very much better than the poor man in his. such a wretched, squalid, lying, cowardly creature i did not think that even england could produce. and yet the man has a property in land on which he ought to be able to live in humble comfort. i feel sure that i have leagued myself with a rascal, whereas i believe the lord, in spite of his ignorance and his idleness, to be honest. but yet the man is being hardly used, and has had the spirit, or rather perhaps has been instigated by others, to rebel. his crops have been eaten up by the lord's pheasants, and the lord, exercising plenary power as though he were subject to no laws, will only pay what compensation he himself chooses to award. the whole country here is in arms against the rebel, thinking it monstrous that a man living in a hovel should contest such a point with the owner of half-a-dozen palaces. i have come forward to help the man for the sake of seeing how the matter will go; and i have to confess that though those under the lord have treated me as though i were a miscreant, the lord himself and his friends have been civil enough. i say what i think wherever i go, and i do not find it taken in bad part. in that respect we might learn something even from englishmen. when a britisher over in the states says what he thinks about us, we are apt to be a little rough with him. i have, indeed, known towns in which he couldn't speak out with personal safety. here there is no danger of that kind. i am getting together the materials for a lecture on british institutions in general, in which i shall certainly speak my mind plainly, and i think i shall venture to deliver it in london before i leave for new york in the course of next spring. i will, however, write to you again before that time comes. believe me to be, dear sir, with much sincerity, yours truly, elias gotobed. the honble. josiah scroome, q street, minnesota avenue, washington. on the morning of the senator's departure from dillsborough, mr. runciman met him standing under the covered way leading from the inn yard into the street. he was waiting for the omnibus which was being driven about the town, and which was to call for him and take him down to the railway station. mr. runciman had not as yet spoken to him since he had been at the inn, and had not even made himself personally known to his guest. "so, sir, you are going to leave us," said the landlord, with a smile which was intended probably as a smile of triumph. "yes, sir," said the senator. "it's about time, i guess, that i should get back to london." "i dare say it is, sir," said the landlord. "i dare say you've seen enough of mr. goarly by this time." "that's as may be. i don't know whom i have the pleasure of speaking to." "my name is runciman, sir. i'm the landlord here." "i hope i see you well, mr. runciman. i have about come to an end of my business here." "i dare say you have, sir. i should say so. perhaps i might express an opinion that you never came across a greater blackguard than goarly either in this country or your own." "that's a strong opinion, mr. runciman." "it's the general opinion here, sir. i should have thought you'd found it out before this." "i don't know that i am prepared at this moment to declare all that i have found out." "i thought you'd have been tired of it by this time, mr. gotobed." "tired of what?" "tired of the wrong side, sir." "i don't know that i am on the wrong side. a man may be in the right on one point even though his life isn't all that it ought to be." "that's true, sir; but if they told you all that they know up street,"--and runciman pointed to the part of the town in which bearside's office was situated,--"i should have thought you would have understood who was going to win and who was going to lose. good day, sir; i hope you'll have a pleasant journey. much obliged to you for your patronage, sir," and runciman, still smiling unpleasantly, touched his hat as the senator got into the omnibus. the senator was not very happy as to the goarly business. he had paid some money and had half promised more, and had found out that he was in a boat with thoroughly disreputable persons. as he had said to the landlord, a man may have the right on his side in an action at law though he be a knave or a rascal; and if a lord be unjust to a poor man, the poor man should have justice done him, even though he be not quite a pattern poor man. but now he was led to believe by what the landlord had said to him that he was being kept in the dark, and that there were facts generally known that he did not know. he had learned something of english manners and english institutions by his interference, but there might be a question whether he was not paying too dearly for his whistle. and there was growing upon him a feeling that before he had done he would have to blush for his colleagues. as the omnibus went away dr. nupper joined mr. runciman under the archway. "i'm blessed if i can understand that man," said runciman. "what is it he's after?" "notoriety," said the doctor, with the air of a man who has completely solved a difficult question. "he'll have to pay for it, and that pretty smart," said runciman. "i never heard of such a foolish thing in all my life. what the dickens is it to him? one can understand bearside, and scrobby too. when a fellow has something to get, one does understand it. but why an old fellow like that should come down from the moon to pay ever so much money for such a man as goarly, is what i don't understand." "notoriety," said the doctor. "he evidently don't know that nickem has got round goarly," said the landlord. chapter iii. at cheltenham. the month at cheltenham was passed very quietly and would have been a very happy month with mary masters but that there grew upon her from day to day increasing fears of what she would have to undergo when she returned to dillsborough. at the moment when she was hesitating with larry twentyman, when she begged him to wait six months and then at last promised to give him an answer at the end of two, she had worked herself up to think that it might possibly be her duty to accept her lover for the sake of her family. at any rate she had at that moment thought that the question of duty ought to be further considered, and therefore she had vacillated. when the two months' delay was accorded to her, and within that period the privilege of a long absence from dillsborough, she put the trouble aside for a while with the common feeling that the chapter of accidents might do something for her. before she had reached cheltenham the chapter of accidents had done much. when reginald morton told her that he could not have congratulated her on such prospects, and had explained to her why in truth he had been angry at the bridge,--how he had been anxious to be alone with her that he might learn whether she were really engaged to this man,--then she had known that her answer to larry twentyman at the end of the two months must be a positive refusal. but as she became aware of this a new trouble arose and harassed her very soul. when she had asked for the six months she had not at the moment been aware, she had not then felt, that a girl who asks for time is supposed to have already surrendered. but since she had made that unhappy request the conviction had grown upon her. she had read it in every word her stepmother said to her and in her father's manner. the very winks and hints and little jokes which fell from her younger sisters told her that it was so. she could see around her the satisfaction which had come from the settlement of that difficult question,--a satisfaction which was perhaps more apparent with her father than even with the others. then she knew what she had done, and remembered to have heard that a girl who expresses a doubt is supposed to have gone beyond doubting. while she was still at dillsborough there was a feeling that no evil would arise from this if she could at last make up her mind to be mrs. twentyman;--but when the settled conviction came upon her, after hearing reginald morton's words, then she was much troubled. he stayed only a couple of days at cheltenham and during that time said very little to her. he certainly spoke no word which would give her a right to think that he himself was attached to her. he had been interested about her, as was his aunt, lady ushant, because she had been known and her mother had been known by the old mortons. but there was nothing of love in all that. she had never supposed that there would be;--and yet there was a vague feeling in her bosom that as he had been strong in expressing his objection to mr. twentyman there might have been something more to stir him than the memory of those old days at bragton! "to my thinking there is a sweetness about her which i have never seen equalled in any young woman." this was said by lady ushant to her nephew after mary had gone to bed on the night before he left. "one would suppose," he answered, "that you wanted me to ask her to be my wife." "i never want anything of that kind, reg. i never make in such matters,--or mar if i can help it." "there is a man at dillsborough wants to marry her." "i can easily believe that there should be two or three. who is the man?" "do you remember old twentyman of chowton?" "he was our near neighbour. of course i remember him. i can remember well when they bought the land." "it is his son." "surely he can hardly be worthy of her, reg." "and yet they say he is very worthy. i have asked about him, and he is not a bad fellow. he keeps his money and has ideas of living decently. he doesn't drink or gamble. but he's not a gentleman or anything like one. i should think he never opens a book. of course it would be a degradation." "and what does mary say herself?" "i fancy she has refused him." then he added after a pause, "indeed i know she has." "how should you know? has she told you?" in answer to this he only nodded his head at the old lady. "there must have been close friendship, reg, between you two when she told you that. i hope you have not made her give up one suitor by leading her to love another who does not mean to ask her." "i certainly have not done that," said reg. men may often do much without knowing that they do anything, and such probably had been the case with reginald morton during the journey from dillsborough to cheltenham. "what would her father wish?" "they all want her to take the man." "how can she do better?" "would you have her marry a man who is not a gentleman, whose wife will never be visited by other ladies;--in marrying whom she would go altogether down into another and a lower world?" this was a matter on which lady ushant and her nephew had conversed often, and he thought he knew her to be thoroughly wedded to the privileges which she believed to be attached to her birth. with him the same feeling was almost the stronger because he was so well aware of the blot upon himself caused by the lowness of his own father's marriage. but a man, he held, could raise a woman to his own rank, whereas a woman must accept the level of her husband. "bread and meat and chairs and tables are very serious things, reg." "you would then recommend her to take this man, and pass altogether out of your own sphere?" "what can i do for her? i am an old woman who will be dead probably before the first five years of her married life have passed over her. and as for recommending, i do not know enough to recommend anything. does she like the man?" "i am sure she would feel herself degraded by marrying him." "i trust she will never live to feel herself degraded. i do not believe that she could do anything that she thought would degrade her. but i think that you and i had better leave her to herself in this matter." further on in the same evening, or rather late in the night,--for they had then sat talking together for hours over the fire,--she made a direct statement to him. "when i die, reg, i have but £ , to leave behind me, and this i have divided between you and her. i shall not tell her because i might do more harm than good. but you may know." "that would make no difference to me," he said. "very likely not, but i wish you to know it. what troubles me is that she will have to pay so much out of it for legacy duty. i might leave it all to you and you could give it her." an honester or more religious or better woman than old lady ushant there was not in cheltenham, but it never crossed her conscience that it would be wrong to cheat the revenue. it may be doubted whether any woman has ever been brought to such honesty as that. on the next morning morton went away without saying another word in private to mary masters and she was left to her quiet life with the old lady. to an ordinary visitor nothing could have been less exciting, for lady ushant very seldom went out and never entertained company. she was a tall thin old lady with bright eyes and grey hair and a face that was still pretty in spite of sunken eyes and sunken cheeks and wrinkled brow. there was ever present with her an air of melancholy which told a whole tale of the sadness of a long life. her chief excitement was in her two visits to church on sunday and in the letter which she wrote every week to her nephew at dillsborough. now she had her young friend with her, and that too was an excitement to her,--and the more so since she had heard the tidings of larry twentyman's courtship. she made up her mind that she would not speak on the subject to her young friend unless her young friend should speak to her. in the first three weeks nothing was said; but four or five days before mary's departure there came up a conversation about dillsborough and bragton. there had been many conversations about dillsborough and bragton, but in all of them the name of lawrence twentyman had been scrupulously avoided. each had longed to name him, and yet each had determined not to do so. but at length it was avoided no longer. lady ushant had spoken of chowton farm and the widow. then mary had spoken of the place and its inhabitants. "mr. twentyman comes a great deal to our house now," she said. "has he any reason, my dear?" "he goes with papa once a week to the club; and he sometimes lends my sister kate a pony. kate is very fond of riding." "there is nothing else?" "he has got to be intimate and i think mamma likes him." "he is a good young man then?" "very good;" said mary with an emphasis. "and chowton belongs to him?" "oh yes;--it belongs to him." "some young men make such ducks and drakes of their property when they get it." "they say that he's not like that at all. people say that he understands farming very well and that he minds everything himself." "what an excellent young man! there is no other reason for his coming to your house, mary?" then the sluice-gates were opened and the whole story was told. sitting there late into the night mary told it all as well as she knew how,--all of it except in regard to any spark of love which might have fallen upon her in respect of reginald morton. of reginald morton in her story of course she did not speak; but all the rest she declared. she did not love the man. she was quite sure of that. though she thought so well of him there was, she was quite sure, no feeling in her heart akin to love. she had promised to take time because she had thought that she might perhaps be able to bring herself to marry him without loving him,--to marry him because her father wished it, and because her going from home would be a relief to her stepmother and sisters, because it would be well for them all that she should be settled out of the way. but since that she had made up her mind,--she thought that she had quite made up her mind,--that it would be impossible. "there is nobody else, mary?" said lady ushant putting her hand on to mary's lap. mary protested that there was nobody else without any consciousness that she was telling a falsehood. "and you are quite sure that you cannot do it?" "do you think that i ought, lady ushant?" "i should be very sorry to say that, my dear. a young woman in such a matter must be governed by her feelings. only he seems to be a deserving young man!" mary looked askance at her friend, remembering at the moment reginald morton's assurance that his aunt would have disapproved of such an engagement. "but i never would persuade a girl to marry a man she did not love. i think it would be wicked. i always thought so." there was nothing about degradation in all this. it was quite clear to mary that had she been able to tell lady ushant that she was head over ears in love with this young man and that therefore she was going to marry him, her old friend would have found no reason to lament such an arrangement. her old friend would have congratulated her. lady ushant evidently thought larry twentyman to be good enough as soon as she heard what mary found herself compelled to say in the young man's favour. mary was almost disappointed; but reconciled herself to it very quickly, telling herself that there was yet time for her to decide in favour of her lover if she could bring herself to do so. and she did try that night and all the next day, thinking that if she could so make up her mind she would declare her purpose to lady ushant before she left cheltenham. but she could not do it, and in the struggle with herself at last she learned something of the truth. lady ushant saw nothing but what was right and proper in a marriage with lawrence twentyman, but reginald morton had declared it to be improper, and therefore it was out of her reach. she could not do it. she could not bring herself, after what he had said, to look him in the face and tell him that she was going to become the wife of larry twentyman. then she asked herself the fatal question;--was she in love with reginald morton? i do not think that she answered it in the affirmative, but she became more and more sure that she could never marry larry twentyman. lady ushant declared herself to have been more than satisfied with the visit and expressed a hope that it might be repeated in the next year. "i would ask you to come and make your home here while i have a home to offer you, only that you would be so much more buried here than at dillsborough. and you have duties there which perhaps you ought not to leave. but come again when your papa will spare you." on her journey back she certainly was not very happy. there were yet three weeks wanting to the time at which she would be bound to give her answer to larry twentyman; but why should she keep the man waiting for three weeks when her answer was ready? her stepmother she knew would soon force her answer from her, and her father would be anxious to know what had been the result of her meditations. the real period of her reprieve had been that of her absence at cheltenham, and that period was now come to an end. at each station as she passed them she remembered what reginald morton had been saying to her, and how their conversation had been interrupted,--and perhaps occasionally aided,--by the absurdities of the bird. how sweet it had been to be near him and to listen to his whispered voice! how great was the difference between him and that other young man, the smartness of whose apparel was now becoming peculiarly distasteful to her! certainly it would have been better for her not to have gone to cheltenham if it was to be her fate to become mrs. twentyman. she was quite sure of that now. she came up from the dillsborough station alone in the bush omnibus. she had not expected any one to meet her. why should any one meet her? the porter put up her box and the omnibus left her at the door. but she remembered well how she had gone down with reginald morton, and how delightful had been every little incident of the journey. even to walk with him up and down the platform while waiting for the train had been a privilege. she thought of it as she got out of the carriage and remembered that she had felt that the train had come too soon. at her own door her father met her and took her into the parlour where the tea-things were spread, and where her sisters were already seated. her stepmother soon came in and kissed her kindly. she was asked how she had enjoyed herself, and no disagreeable questions were put to her that night. no questions, at least, were asked which she felt herself bound to answer. after she was in bed kate came to her and did say a word. "well, mary, do tell me. i won't tell any one." but mary refused to speak a word. chapter iv. the rufford correspondence. it might be surmised from the description which lord rufford had given of his own position to his sister and his sister's two friends, when he pictured himself as falling over the edge of the precipice while they hung on behind to save him, that he was sufficiently aware of the inexpediency of the proposed intimacy with miss trefoil. any one hearing him would have said that miss trefoil's chances in that direction were very poor,--that a man seeing his danger so plainly and so clearly understanding the nature of it would certainly avoid it. but what he had said was no more than miss trefoil knew that he would say,--or, at any rate would think. of course she had against her not only all his friends,--but the man himself also and his own fixed intentions. lord rufford was not a marrying man,--which was supposed to signify that he intended to lead a life of pleasure till the necessity of providing an heir should be forced upon him, when he would take to himself a wife out of his own class in life twenty years younger than himself for whom he would not care a straw. the odds against miss trefoil were of course great;--but girls have won even against such odds as these. she knew her own powers, and was aware that lord rufford was fond of feminine beauty and feminine flutter and feminine flattery, though he was not prepared to marry. it was quite possible that she might be able to dig such a pit for him that it would be easier for him to marry her than to get out in any other way. of course she must trust something to his own folly at first. nor did she trust in vain. before her week was over at mrs. gore's she received from him a letter, which, with the correspondence to which it immediately led, shall be given in this chapter. letter no. . rufford, sunday. my dear miss trefoil, we have had a sad house since you left us. poor caneback got better and then worse and then better,--and at last died yesterday afternoon. and now;--there is to be the funeral! the poor dear old boy seems to have had nobody belonging to him and very little in the way of possessions. i never knew anything of him except that he was, or had been, in the blues, and that he was about the best man in england to hounds on a bad horse. it now turns out that his father made some money in india,--a sort of commissary purveyor,--and bought a commission for him twenty-five years ago. everybody knew him but nobody knew anything about him. poor old caneback! i wish he had managed to die anywhere else and i don't feel at all obliged to purefoy for sending that brute of a mare here. he said something to me about that wretched ball;--not altogether so wretched! was it? but i didn't like what he said and told him a bit of my mind. now we're two for a while; and i don't care for how long unless he comes round. i cannot stand a funeral, and i shall get away from this. i will pay the bill and purefoy may do the rest. i'm going for christmas to surbiton's near melton with a string of horses. surbiton is a bachelor, and as there will be no young ladies to interfere with me i shall have the more time to think of you. we shall have a little play there instead. i don't know whether it isn't the better of the two, as if one does get sat upon, one doesn't feel so confoundedly sheep-faced. i have been out with the hounds two or three times since you went, as i could do no good staying with that poor fellow and there was a time when we thought he would have pulled through. i rode jack one day, but he didn't carry me as well as he did you. i think he's more of a lady's horse. if i go to mistletoe i shall have some horses somewhere in the neighbourhood and i'll make them take jack, so that you may have a chance. i never know how to sign myself to young ladies. suppose i say that i am yours, anything you like best, r. this was a much nicer letter than arabella had expected, as there were one or two touches in it, apart from the dead man and the horses, which she thought might lead to something,--and there was a tone in the letter which seemed to show that he was given to correspondence. she took care to answer it so that he should get her letter on his arrival at mr. surbiton's house. she found out mr. surbiton's address, and then gave a great deal of time to her letter. letter no. . murray's hotel, green street, thursday. my dear lord rufford, as we are passing through london on our way from one purgatory with the gores to another purgatory with old lady de browne, and as mamma is asleep in her chair opposite, and as i have nothing else on earth to do, i think i might as well answer your letter. poor old major! i am sorry for him, because he rode so bravely. i shall never forget his face as he passed us, and again as he rose upon his knee when that horrid blow came! how very odd that he should have been like that, without any friends. what a terrible nuisance to you! i think you were quite wise to come away. i am sure i should have done so. i can't conceive what right sir john purefoy can have had to say anything, for after all it was his doing. do you remember when you talked of my riding jemima? when i think of it i can hardly hold myself for shuddering. it is so kind of you to think of me about jack. i am never very fond of mistletoe. don't you be mischievous now and tell the duchess i said so. but with jack in the neighbourhood i can stand even her grace. i think i shall be there about the middle of january but it must depend on all those people mamma is going to. i shall have to make a great fight, for mamma thinks that ten days in the year at mistletoe is all that duty requires. but i always stick up for my uncle, and mean in this instance to have a little of my own way. what are parental commands in opposition to jack and all his glories? besides mamma does not mean to go herself. i shall leave it to you to say whether the ball was "altogether wretched." of course there must have been infinite vexation to you, and to us who knew of it all there was a feeling of deep sorrow. but perhaps we were able, some of us, to make it a little lighter for you. at any rate i shall never forget rufford, whether the memory be more pleasant or more painful. there are moments which one never can forget! don't go and gamble away your money among a lot of men. though i dare say you have got so much that it doesn't signify whether you lose some of it or not. i do think it is such a shame that a man like you should have such a quantity, and that a poor girl such as i am shouldn't have enough to pay for her hats and gloves. why shouldn't i send a string of horses about just when i please? i believe i could make as good a use of them as you do, and then i could lend you jack. i would be so good-natured. you should have jack every day you wanted him. you must write and tell me what day you will be at mistletoe. it is you that have tempted me and i don't mean to be there without you,--or i suppose i ought to say, without the horse. but of course you will have understood that. no young lady ever is supposed to desire the presence of any young man. it would be very improper of course. but a young man's jack is quite another thing. so far her pen had flown with her, but then there came the necessity for a conclusion which must be worded in some peculiar way, as his had been so peculiar. how far might she dare to be affectionate without putting him on his guard? or in what way might she be saucy so as best to please him? she tried two or three, and at last she ended her letter as follows. i have not had much experience in signing myself to young gentlemen and am therefore quite in as great a difficulty as you were; but, though i can't swear that i am everything that you like best, i will protest that i am pretty nearly what you ought to like,--as far as young ladies go. in the meantime i certainly am, yours truly, a. t. p.s. mind you write--about jack; and address to lady smijth--greenacres manor--hastings. there was a great deal in this letter which was not true. but then such ladies as miss trefoil can never afford to tell the truth. the letter was not written from murray's hotel, lady augustus having insisted on staying at certain lodgings in orchard street because her funds were low. but on previous occasions they had stayed at murray's. and her mamma, instead of being asleep when the letter was written, was making up her accounts. and every word about mistletoe had been false. she had not yet secured her invitation. she was hard at work on the attempt, having induced her father absolutely to beg the favour from his brother. but at the present moment she was altogether diffident of success. should she fail she must only tell lord rufford that her mother's numerous engagements had at the last moment made her happiness impossible. that she was going to lady smijth's was true, and at lady smijth's house she received the following note from lord rufford. it was then january, and the great mistletoe question was not as yet settled. letter no. . december . my dear miss trefoil, here i am still at surbiton's and we have had such good sport that i'm half inclined to give the duke the slip. what a pity that you can't come here instead. wouldn't it be nice for you and half a dozen more without any of the dowagers or duennas? you might win some of the money which i lose. i have been very unlucky and, if you had won it all, there would be plenty of room for hats and gloves,--and for sending two or three jacks about all the winter into the bargain. i never did win yet. i don't care very much about it, but i don't know why i should always be so uncommonly unlucky. we had such a day yesterday,--an hour and ten minutes all in the open, and then a kill just as the poor fellow was trying to make a drain under the high road. there were only five of us up. surbiton broke his horse's back at a bank, and young de canute came down on to a road and smashed his collar bone. three or four of the hounds were so done that they couldn't be got home. i was riding black harry and he won't be out again for a fortnight. it was the best thing i've seen these two years. we never have it quite like that with the u. r. u. if i don't go to mistletoe i'll send jack and a groom if you think the duke would take them in and let you ride the horse. if so i shall stay here pretty nearly all january, unless there should be a frost. in that case i should go back to rufford as i have a deal of shooting to do. i shall be so sorry not to see you;--but there is always a sort of sin in not sticking to hunting when it's good. it so seldom is just what it ought to be. i rather think that after all we shall be down on that fellow who poisoned our fox, in spite of your friend the senator. yours always faithfully, r. there was a great deal in this letter which was quite terrible to miss trefoil. in the first place by the time she received it she had managed the matter with her uncle. her father had altogether refused to mention lord rufford's name,--though he had heard the very plain proposition which his daughter made to him with perfect serenity. but he had said to the duke that it would be a great convenience if bell could be received at mistletoe for a few days, and the duke had got the duchess to assent. lady augustus, too, had been disposed of, and two very handsome new dresses had been acquired. her habit had been altered with reckless disregard of the coming spring and she was fully prepared for her campaign. but what would mistletoe be to her without lord rufford? in spite of all that had been done she would not go there. unless she could turn him by her entreaties she would pack up everything and start for patagonia, with the determination to throw herself overboard on the way there if she could find the courage. she had to think very much of her next letter. should she write in anger or should she write in love,--or should she mingle both? there was no need for care now, as there had been at first. she must reach him at once, or everything would be over. she must say something that would bring him to mistletoe, whatever that something might be. after much thought she determined that mingled anger and love would be the best. so she mingled them as follows: letter no. . greenacre manor, monday. your last letter which i have just got has killed me. you must know that i have altered my plans and done it at immense trouble for the sake of meeting you at mistletoe. it will be most unkind,--i might say worse,--if you put me off. i don't think you can do it as a gentleman. i'm sure you would not if you knew what i have gone through with mamma and the whole set of them to arrange it. of course i shan't go if you don't come. your talk of sending the horse there is adding an insult to the injury. you must have meant to annoy me or you wouldn't have pretended to suppose that it was the horse i wanted to see. i didn't think i could have taken so violent a dislike to poor jack as i did for a moment. let me tell you that i think you are bound to go to mistletoe though the hunting at melton should be better than was ever known before. when the hunting is good in one place of course it is good in another. even i am sportsman enough to know that. i suppose you have been losing a lot of money and are foolish enough to think you can win it back again. please, please come. it was to be the little cream of the year for me. it wasn't jack. there! that ought to bring you. and yet, if you come, i will worship jack. i have not said a word to mamma about altering my plans, nor shall i while there is a hope. but to mistletoe i will not go, unless you are to be there. pray answer this by return of post. if we have gone your letter will of course follow us. pray come. yours if you do come--; what shall i say? fill it as you please. a. t. lord rufford when he received the above very ardent epistle was quite aware that he had better not go to mistletoe. he understood the matter nearly as well as arabella did herself. but there was a feeling with him that up to that stage of the affair he ought to do what he was asked by a young lady, even though there might be danger. though there was danger there would still be amusement. he therefore wrote again as follows: letter no. . dear miss trefoil, you shan't be disappointed whether it be jack or any less useful animal that you wish to see. at any rate jack,--and the other animal,--will be at mistletoe on the th. i have written to the duke by this post. i can only hope that you will be grateful. after all your abuse about my getting back my money i think you ought to be very grateful. i have got it back again, but i can assure you that has had nothing to do with it. yours ever, r. we had two miserably abortive days last week. arabella felt that a great deal of the compliment was taken away by the postscript; but still she was grateful and contented. chapter v. "it is a long way." while the correspondence given in the last chapter was going on miss trefoil had other troubles besides those there narrated, and other letters to answer. soon after her departure from rufford she received a very serious but still an affectionate epistle from john morton in which he asked her if it was her intention to become his wife or not. the letter was very long as well as very serious and need not be given here at length. but that was the gist of it; and he went on to say that in regard to money he had made the most liberal proposition in his power, that he must decline to have any further communication with lawyers, and that he must ask her to let him know at once,--quite at once,--whether she did or did not regard herself as engaged to him. it was a manly letter and ended by a declaration that as far as he himself was concerned his feelings were not at all altered. this she received while staying at the gores', but, in accordance with her predetermined strategy, did not at once send any answer to it. before she heard again from morton she had received that pleasant first letter from lord rufford, and was certainly then in no frame of mind to assure mr. morton that she was ready to declare herself his affianced wife before all the world. then, after ten days, he had written to her again and had written much more severely. it wanted at that time but a few days to christmas, and she was waiting for a second letter from lord rufford. let what might come of it she could not now give up the rufford chance. as she sat thinking of it, giving the very best of her mind to it, she remembered the warmth of that embrace in the little room behind the drawing-room, and those halcyon minutes in which her head had been on his shoulder, and his arm round her waist. not that they were made halcyon to her by any of the joys of love. in giving the girl her due it must be owned that she rarely allowed herself to indulge in simple pleasures. if lord rufford, with the same rank and property, had been personally disagreeable to her it would have been the same. business to her had for many years been business, and her business had been so very hard that she had never allowed lighter things to interfere with it. she had had justice on her side when she rebuked her mother for accusing her of flirtations. but could such a man as lord rufford--with his hands so free,--venture to tell himself that such tokens of affection with such a girl would mean nothing? if she might contrive to meet him again of course they would be repeated, and then he should be forced to say that they did mean something. when therefore the severe letter came from morton,--severe and pressing, telling her that she was bound to answer him at once and that were she still silent he must in regard to his own honour take that as an indication of her intention to break off the match,--she felt that she must answer it. the answer must, however, still be ambiguous. she would not if possible throw away that stool quite as yet, though her mind was intent on ascending to the throne which it might be within her power to reach. she wrote to him an ambiguous letter,--but a letter which certainly was not intended to liberate him. "he ought," she said, "to understand that a girl situated as she was could not ultimately dispose of herself till her friends had told her that she was free to do so. she herself did not pretend to have any interest in the affairs as to which her father and his lawyers were making themselves busy. they had never even condescended to tell her what it was they wanted on her behalf;--nor, for the matter of that, had he, morton, ever told her what it was that he refused to do. of course she could not throw herself into his arms till these things were settled."--by that expression she had meant a metaphorical throwing of herself, and not such a flesh and blood embracing as she had permitted to the lord in the little room at rufford. then she suggested that he should appeal again to her father. it need hardly be said that her father knew very little about it, and that the lawyers had long since written to lady augustus to say that better terms as to settlement could not be had from mr. john morton. morton, when he wrote his second letter, had received the offer of the mission to patagonia and had asked for a few days to think of it. after much consideration he had determined that he would say nothing to arabella of the offer. her treatment of him gave her no right to be consulted. should she at once write back declaring her readiness to become his wife, then he would consult her,--and would not only consult her but would be prepared to abandon the mission at the expression of her lightest wish. indeed in that case he thought that he would himself advise that it should be abandoned. why should he expatriate himself to such a place with such a wife as arabella trefoil? he received her answer and at once accepted the offer. he accepted it, though he by no means assured himself that the engagement was irrevocably annulled. but now, if she came to him, she must take her chance. she must be told that he at any rate was going to patagonia, and that unless she could make up her mind to do so too, she must remain arabella trefoil for him. he would not even tell her of his appointment. he had done all that in him lay and would prepare himself for his journey as a single man. a minister going out to patagonia would of course have some little leave of absence allowed him, and he arranged with his friend mounser green that he should not start till april. but when lord rufford's second letter reached miss trefoil down at greenacre manor, where she had learned by common report that mr. morton was to be the new minister at patagonia,--when she believed as she then did that the lord was escaping her, that, seeing and feeling his danger, he had determined not to jump into the lion's mouth by meeting her at mistletoe, that her chance there was all over; then she remembered her age, her many seasons, the hard work of her toilet, those tedious long and bitter quarrels with her mother, the ever-renewed trouble of her smiles, the hopelessness of her future should she smile in vain to the last, and the countless miseries of her endless visitings; and she remembered too the £ a year that morton had offered to settle on her and the assurance of a home of her own though that home should be at bragton. for an hour or two she had almost given up the hope of rufford and had meditated some letter to her other lover which might at any rate secure him. but she had collected her courage sufficiently to make that last appeal to the lord, which had been successful. three weeks now might settle all that and for three weeks it might still be possible so to manage her affairs that she might fall back upon patagonia as her last resource. about this time morton returned to bragton, waiting however till he was assured that the senator had completed his visit to dillsborough. he had been a little ashamed of the senator in regard to the great goarly conflict and was not desirous of relieving his solitude by the presence of the american. on this occasion he went quite alone and ordered no carriages from the bush and no increased establishment of servants. he certainly was not happy in his mind. the mission to patagonia was well paid, being worth with house and etceteras nearly £ a year; and it was great and quick promotion for one so young as himself. for one neither a lord nor connected with a cabinet minister patagonia was a great place at which to begin his career as plenipotentiary on his own bottom;--but it is a long way off and has its drawbacks. he could not look to be there for less than four years; and there was hardly reason why a man in his position should expatriate himself to such a place for so long a time. he felt that he should not have gone but for his engagement to arabella trefoil, and that neither would he have gone had his engagement been solid and permanent. he was going in order that he might be rid of that trouble, and a man's feelings in such circumstances cannot be satisfactory to himself. however he had said that he would go, and he knew enough of himself to be certain that having said so he would not alter his mind. but he was very melancholy and mrs. hopkins declared to old mrs. twentyman that the young squire was "hipped,"--"along of his lady love," as she thought. his hands had been so full of his visitors when at bragton before, and he had been carried off so suddenly to rufford, and then had hurried up to london in such misery, that he had hardly had time to attend to his own business. mr. masters had made a claim upon him since he had been in england for £ _s._ _d._ in reference to certain long-gone affairs in which the attorney declared he had been badly treated by those who had administered the morton estate. john morton had promised to look into the matter and to see mr. masters. he had partially looked into it and now felt ashamed that he had not fully kept his promise. the old attorney had not had much hope of getting his money. it was doubtful to himself whether he could make good his claim against the squire at law, and it was his settled purpose to make no such attempt although he was quite sure that the money was his due. indeed if mr. morton would not do anything further in the matter, neither would he. he was almost too mild a man to be a successful lawyer, and had a dislike to asking for money. mr. morton had promised to see him, but mr. morton had probably--forgotten it. some gentlemen seem apt to forget such promises. mr. masters was somewhat surprised therefore when he was told one morning in his office that mr. morton from bragton wished to see him. he thought that it must be reginald morton, having not heard that the squire had returned to the country. but john morton was shown into the office, and the old attorney immediately arose from his arm-chair. sundown was there, and was at once sent out of the room. sundown on such occasions was accustomed to retire to some settlement seldom visited by the public which was called the back office. nickem was away intent on unravelling the goarly mystery, and the attorney could ask his visitor to take a confidential seat. mr. morton however had very little to say. he was full of apologies and at once handed out a cheque for the sum demanded. the money was so much to the attorney that he was flurried by his own success. "perhaps," said morton, "i ought in fairness to add interest." "not at all;--by no means. lawyers never expect that. really, mr. morton, i am very much obliged. it was so long ago that i thought that perhaps you might think--" "i do not doubt that it's all right." "yes, mr. morton--it is all right. it is quite right. but your coming in this way is quite a compliment. i am so proud to see the owner of bragton once more in this house. i respect the family as i always did; and as for the money--" "i am only sorry that it has been delayed so long. good morning, mr. masters." the attorney's affairs were in such a condition that an unexpected cheque for £ _s._ _d._ sufficed to exhilarate him. it was as though the money had come down to him from the very skies. as it happened mary returned from cheltenham on that same evening and the attorney felt that if she had brought back with her an intention to be mrs. twentyman he could still be a happy and contented man. and there had been another trouble on john morton's mind. he had received his cousin's card but had not returned the visit while his grandmother had been at bragton. now he walked on to hoppet hall and knocked at the door.--yes;--mr. morton was at home, and then he was shown into the presence of his cousin whom he had not seen since he was a boy. "i ought to have come sooner," said the squire, who was hardly at his ease. "i heard you had a house full of people at bragton." "just that,--and then i went off rather suddenly to the other side of the country; and then i had to go up to london. now i'm going to patagonia." "patagonia! that's a long way off." "we foreign office slaves have to be sent a long way off." "but we heard, john," said reginald, who did not feel it to be his duty to stand on any ceremony with his younger cousin,--"we heard that you were going to be married to miss trefoil. are you going to take a wife out to patagonia?" this was a question which he certainly had not expected. "i don't know how that may be," he said frowning. "we were told here in dillsborough that it was all settled. i hope i haven't asked an improper question." "of course people will talk." "if it's only talk i beg pardon. whatever concerns bragton is interesting to me, and from the way in which i heard this i thought it was a certainty. patagonia;--well! you don't want an assistant private secretary i suppose? i should like to see patagonia." "we are not allowed to appoint those gentlemen ourselves." "and i suppose i should be too old to get in at the bottom. it seems a long way off for a man who is the owner of bragton." "it is a long way." "and what will you do with the old place?" "there's no one to live there. if you were married you might perhaps take it." this was of course said in joke, as old mrs. morton would have thought bragton to be disgraced for ever, even by such a proposition. "you might let it." "who would take such a place for five years? i suppose old mrs. hopkins will remain, and that it will become more and more desolate every year. i mustn't let the old house tumble down;--that's all." then the minister plenipotentiary to patagonia took his departure and walked back to bragton thinking of the publicity of his engagement. all dillsborough had heard that he was to be married to miss trefoil, and this cousin of his had been so sure of the fact that he had not hesitated to ask a question about it in the first moment of their first interview. under such circumstances it would be better for him to go to patagonia than to remain in england. chapter vi. the beginning of persecution. when mary masters got up on the morning after her arrival she knew that she would have to endure much on that day. everybody had smiled on her the preceding evening, but the smiles were of a nature which declared themselves to be preparatory to some coming event. the people around her were gracious on the presumption that she was going to do as they wished, and would be quite prepared to withdraw their smiles should she prove to be contumacious. mary, as she crept down in the morning, understood all this perfectly. she found her stepmother alone in the parlour and was at once attacked with the all important question. "my dear, i hope you have made up your mind about mr. twentyman." "there were to be two months, mamma." "that's nonsense, mary. of course you must know what you mean to tell him." mary thought that she did know, but was not at the present moment disposed to make known her knowledge and therefore remained silent. "you should remember how much this is to your papa and me and should speak out at once. of course you need not tell mr. twentyman till the end of the time unless you like it." "i thought i was to be left alone for two months." "mary, that is wicked. when your papa has so many things to think of and so much to provide for, you should be more thoughtful of him. of course he will want to be prepared to give you what things will be necessary." mrs. masters had not as yet heard of mr. morton's cheque, and perhaps would not hear of it till her husband's bank book fell into her hands. the attorney had lately found it necessary to keep such matters to himself when it was possible, as otherwise he was asked for explanations which it was not always easy for him to give. "you know," continued mrs. masters, "how hard your father finds it to get money as it is wanted." "i don't want anything, mamma." "you must want things if you are to be married in march or april." "but i shan't be married in march or april. oh, mamma, pray don't." "in a week's time or so you must tell larry. after all that has passed of course he won't expect to have to wait long, and you can't ask him. kate, my dear,"--kate had just entered the room,--"go into the office and tell your father to come into breakfast in five minutes. you must know, mary, and i insist on your telling me." "when i said two months,--only it was he said two months--" "what difference does it make, my dear?" "it was only because he asked me to put it off. i knew it could make no difference." "do you mean to tell me, mary, that you are going to refuse him after all?" "i can't help it," said mary, bursting out into tears. "can't help it! did anybody ever see such an idiot since girls were first created? not help it, after having given him as good as a promise! you must help it. you must be made to help it." there was an injustice in this which nearly killed poor mary. she had been persuaded among them to put off her final decision, not because she had any doubt in her own mind, but at their request, and now she was told that in granting this delay she had "given as good as a promise!" and her stepmother also had declared that she "must be made to help it,"--or in other words be made to marry mr. twentyman in opposition to her own wishes! she was quite sure that no human being could have such right of compulsion over her. her father would not attempt it, and it was, after all, to her father alone, that she was bound by duty. at the moment she could make no reply, and then her father with the two girls came in from the office. the attorney was still a little radiant with his triumph about the cheque and was also pleased with his own discernment in the matter of goarly. he had learned that morning from nickem that goarly had consented to take _s._ _d._ an acre from lord rufford and was prepared to act "quite the honourable part" on behalf of his lordship. nickem had seemed to think that the triumph would not end here, but had declined to make any very definite statements. nickem clearly fancied that he had been doing great things himself, and that he might be allowed to have a little mystery. but the attorney took great credit to himself in that he had rejected goarly's case, and had been employed by lord rufford in lieu of goarly. when he entered the parlour he had for the moment forgotten larry twentyman, and was disposed to greet his girl lovingly;--but he found her dissolved in bitter tears. "mary, my darling, what is it ails you?" he said. "never mind about your darling now, but come to breakfast. she is giving herself airs,--as usual." but mary never did give herself airs and her father could not endure the accusation. "she would not be crying," he said, "unless she had something to cry for." "pray don't make a fuss about things you don't understand," said his wife. "mary, are you coming to the table? if not you had better go up-stairs. i hate such ways, and i won't have them. this comes of ushanting! i knew what it would be. the place for girls is to stay at home and mind their work,--till they have got houses of their own to look after. that's what i intend my girls to do. there's nothing on earth so bad for girls as that twiddle-your-thumbs visiting about when they think they've nothing to do but to show what sort of ribbons and gloves they've got. now, dolly, if you've got any hands will you cut the bread for your father? mary's a deal too fine a lady to do anything but sit there and rub her eyes." after that the breakfast was eaten in silence. when the meal was over mary followed her father into the office and said that she wanted to speak to him. when sundown had disappeared she told her tale. "papa," she said, "i am so sorry, but i can't do what you want about mr. twentyman." "is it so, mary?" "don't be angry with me, papa." "angry! no;--i won't be angry. i should be very sorry to be angry with my girl. but what you tell me will make us all very unhappy;--very unhappy indeed. what will you say to lawrence twentyman?" "what i said before, papa." "but he is quite certain now that you mean to take him. of course we were all certain when you only wanted a few more days to think of it." mary felt this to be the cruellest thing of all. "when he asked me i said i wouldn't pledge you, but i certainly had no doubt. what is the matter, mary?" she could understand that a girl might be asked why she wanted to marry a man, and that in such a condition she ought to be able to give a reason; but it was she thought very hard that she should be asked why she didn't want to marry a man. "i suppose, papa," she said after a pause, "i don't like him in that way." "your mamma will be sure to say that it is because you went to lady ushant's." and so in part it was,--as mary herself very well knew; though lady ushant herself had had nothing to do with it. "lady ushant," she said, "would be very well pleased,--if she thought that i liked him well enough." "did you tell lady ushant?" "yes; i told her all about it,--and how you would all be pleased. and i did try to bring myself to it. papa,--pray, pray don't want to send me away from you." "you would be so near to us all at chowton farm!" "i am nearer here, papa." then she embraced him, and he in a manner yielded to her. he yielded to her so far as to part with her at the present moment with soft loving words. mrs. masters had a long conversation with her husband on the subject that same day, and condescended even to say a few words to the two girls. she had her own theory and her own plan in the present emergency. according to her theory girls shouldn't be indulged in any vagaries, and this rejecting of a highly valuable suitor was a most inexcusable vagary. and, if her plan were followed, a considerable amount of wholesome coercion would at once be exercised towards this refractory young woman. there was in fact more than a fortnight wanting to the expiration of larry's two months, and mrs. masters was strongly of opinion that if mary were put into a sort of domestic "coventry" during this period, if she were debarred from friendly intercourse with the family and made to feel that such wickedness as hers, if continued, would make her an outcast, then she would come round and accept larry twentyman before the end of the time. but this plan could not be carried out without her husband's co-operation. were she to attempt it single-handed, mary would take refuge in her father's softness of heart and there would simply be two parties in the household. "if you would leave her to me and not speak to her, it would be all right," mrs. masters said to her husband. "not speak to her!" "not cosset her and spoil her for the next week or two. just leave her to herself and let her feel what she's doing. think what chowton farm would be, and you with your business all slipping through your fingers." "i don't know that it's slipping through my fingers at all," said the attorney mindful of his recent successes. "if you mean to say you don't care about it--!" "i do care about it very much. you know i do. you ought not to talk to me in that way." "then why won't you be said by me? of course if you cocker her up, she'll think she's to have her own way like a grand lady. she don't like him because he works for his bread,--that's what it is; and because she's been taught by that old woman to read poetry. i never knew that stuff do any good to anybody. i hate them fandangled lines that are all cut up short to make pretence. if she wants to read why can't she take the cookery book and learn something useful? it just comes to this;--if you want her to marry larry twentyman you had better not notice her for the next fortnight. let her go and come and say nothing to her. she'll think about it, if she's left to herself." the attorney did want his daughter to marry the man and was half convinced by his wife. he could not bring himself to be cruel and felt that his heart would bleed every hour of the day that he separated himself from his girl;--but still he thought that he might perhaps best in this way bring about a result which would be so manifestly for her advantage. it might be that the books of poetry and the modes of thought which his wife described as "ushanting" were of a nature to pervert his girl's mind from the material necessities of life and that a little hardship would bring her round to a more rational condition. with a very heavy heart he consented to do his part,--which was to consist mainly of silence. any words which might be considered expedient were to come from his wife. three or four days went on in this way, which were days of absolute misery to mary. she soon perceived and partly understood her father's silence. she knew at any rate that for the present she was debarred from his confidence. her mother did not say much, but what she did say was all founded on the theory that ushanting and softness in general are very bad for young women. even dolly and kate were hard to her,--each having some dim idea that mary was to be coerced towards larry twentyman and her own good. at the end of that time, when mary had been at home nearly a week, larry came as usual on the saturday evening. she, well knowing his habit, took care to be out of the way. larry, with a pleasant face, asked after her, and expressed a hope that she had enjoyed herself at cheltenham. "a nasty idle place where nobody does anything as i believe," said mrs. masters. larry received a shock from the tone of the lady's voice. he had allowed himself to think that all his troubles were now nearly over, but the words and the voice frightened him. he had told himself that he was not to speak of his love again till the two months were over, and like an honourable man he was prepared to wait the full time. he would not now have come to the attorney's house but that he knew the attorney would wait for him before going over to the club. he had no right to draw deductions till the time should be up. but he could not help his own feelings and was aware that his heart sank within him when he was told that cheltenham was a nasty idle place. abuse of cheltenham at the present moment was in fact abuse of mary;--and the one sin which mary could commit was persistence in her rejection of his suit. but he determined to be a man as he walked across the street with his old friend, and said not a word about his love. "they tell me that goarly has taken his _s._ _d._, mr. masters." "of course he has taken it, larry. the worse luck for me. if he had gone on i might have had a bill against his lordship as long as my arm. now it won't be worth looking after." "i'm sure you're very glad, mr. masters." "well; yes; i am glad. i do hate to see a fellow like that who hasn't got a farthing of his own, propped up from behind just to annoy his betters." "they say that bearside got a lot of money out of that american." "i suppose he got something." "what an idiot that man must be. can you understand it, mr. masters?" they now entered the club and goarly and nickem and scrobby were of course being discussed. "is it true, mr. masters, that scrobby is to be arrested?" asked fred botsey at once. "upon my word i can't say, mr. botsey; but if you tell me it is so i shan't cry my eyes out." "i thought you would have known." "a gentleman may know a thing, mr. botsey," said the landlord, "and not exactly choose to tell it." "i didn't suppose there was any secret," said the brewer. as mr. masters made no further remark it was of course conceived that he knew all about it and he was therefore treated with some increased deference. but there was on that night great triumph in the club as it was known as a fact that goarly had withdrawn his claim, and that the american senator had paid his money for nothing. it was moreover very generally believed that goarly was going to turn evidence against scrobby in reference to the poison. chapter vii. mary's letter. the silent system in regard to mary was carried on in the attorney's house for a week, during which her sufferings were very great. from the first she made up her mind to oppose her stepmother's cruelty by sheer obstinacy. she had been told that she must be made to marry mr. twentyman, and the injustice of that threat had at once made her rebel against her stepmother's authority. she would never allow her stepmother to make her marry any one. she put herself into a state of general defiance and said as little as was said to her. but her father's silence to her nearly broke her heart. on one or two occasions, as opportunity offered itself to her, she said little soft words to him in privacy. then he would partly relent, would kiss her and bid her be a good girl, and would quickly hurry away from her. she could understand that he suffered as well as herself, and she perhaps got some consolation from the conviction. at last, on the following saturday she watched her opportunity and brought to him when he was alone in his office a letter which she had written to larry twentyman. "papa," she said, "would you read that?" he took and read the letter, which was as follows:-- my dear mr. twentyman, something was said about two months which are now very nearly over. i think i ought to save you from the trouble of coming to me again by telling you in a letter that it cannot be as you would have it. i have thought of it a great deal and have of course been anxious to do as my friends wish. and i am very grateful to you, and know how good and how kind you are. and i would do anything for you,--except this. but it never can be. i should not write like this unless i were quite certain. i hope you won't be angry with me and think that i should have spared you the trouble of doubting so long. i know now that i ought not to have doubted at all; but i was so anxious not to seem to be obstinate that i became foolish about it when you asked me. what i say now is quite certain. dear mr. twentyman, i shall always think of you with esteem and regard, because i know how good you are; and i hope you will come to like somebody a great deal better than me who will always love you with her whole heart. yours very truly, mary masters. p.s. i shall show this letter to papa. mr. masters read it as she stood by him,--and then read it again very slowly rubbing one hand over the other as he did so. he was thinking what he should do;--or rather what he should say. the idea of stopping the letter never occurred to him. if she chose to refuse the man of course she must do so; and perhaps, if she did refuse him, there was no way better than this. "must it be so, mary?" he said at last. "yes, papa." "but why?" "because i do not love him as i should have to love any man that i wanted to marry. i have tried it, because you wished it, but i cannot do it." "what will mamma say?" "i am thinking more, papa, of you," she said putting her arm over his shoulder. "you have always been so good to me, and so kind!" here his heart misgave him, for he felt that during the last week he had not been kind to her. "but you would not wish me to give myself to a man and then not to care for him." "no, my dear." "i couldn't do it. i should fall down dead first. i have thought so much about it,--for your sake; and have tried it with myself. i couldn't do it." "is there anybody else, mary?" as he asked the question he held her hand beneath his own on the desk, but he did not dare to look into her face. he had been told by his wife that there was somebody else;--that the girl's mind was running upon mr. surtees, because mr. surtees was a gentleman. he was thinking of mr. surtees, and certainly not of reginald morton. to her the moment was very solemn and when the question was asked she felt that she could not tell her father a falsehood. she had gradually grown bold enough to assure herself that her heart was occupied with that man who had travelled with her to cheltenham; and she felt that that feeling alone must keep her apart from any other love. and yet, as she had no hope, as she had assured herself that her love was a burden to be borne and could never become a source of enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested from her? what good would such a violation do? but she could not tell the falsehood, and therefore she held her tongue. gradually he looked up into her face, still keeping her hand pressed on the desk under his. it was his left hand that so guarded her, while she stood by his right shoulder. then he gently wound his right arm round her waist and pressed her to him. "mary," he said, "if it is so, had you not better tell me?" but she was sure that she had better not mention that name even to him. it was impossible that she should mention it. she would have outraged to herself her own maiden modesty by doing so. "is it,"--he asked very softly,--"is it--mr. surtees?" "oh no!" she said quickly, almost escaping from the grasp of his arm in her start. then he was absolutely at a loss. beyond mr. surtees or larry twentyman he did not know what possible lover dillsborough could have afforded. and yet the very rapidity of her answer when the curate's name had been mentioned had convinced him that there was some other person,--had increased the strength of that conviction which her silence had produced. "have you nothing that you can tell me, mary?" "no, papa." then he gave her back the letter and she left the room without another word. of course his sanction to the letter had now been given, and it was addressed to chowton farm and posted before half an hour was over. she saw him again in the afternoon of the same day and asked him to tell her stepmother what she had done. "mamma ought to know," she said. "but you haven't sent it." "yes, papa;--it is in the post." then it occurred to him that his wife would tell him that he should have prevented the sending of the letter,--that he should have destroyed it and altogether taken the matter with a high hand. "you can't tell her yourself?" he asked. "i would rather you did. mamma has been so hard to me since i came home." he did tell his wife and she overwhelmed him by the violence of her reproaches. he could never have been in earnest, or he would not have allowed such a letter as that to pass through his hands. he must be afraid of his own child. he did not know his own duty. he had been deceiving her,--his wife,--from first to last. then she threw herself into a torrent of tears declaring that she had been betrayed. there had been a conspiracy between them, and now everything might go to the dogs, and she would not lift up her hands again to save them. but before the evening came round she was again on the alert, and again resolved that she would not even yet give way. what was there in a letter more than in a spoken word? she would tell larry to disregard the letter. but first she made a futile attempt to clutch the letter from the guardianship of the post office, and she went to the postmaster assuring him that there had been a mistake in the family, that a wrong letter had been put into a wrong envelope, and begging that the letter addressed to mr. twentyman might be given back to her. the postmaster, half vacillating in his desire to oblige a neighbour, produced the letter and mrs. masters put out her hand to grasp it; but the servant of the public,--who had been thoroughly grounded in his duties by one of those trusty guardians of our correspondence who inspect and survey our provincial post offices,--remembered himself at the last moment and expressing the violence of his regret, replaced the letter in the box. mrs. masters, in her anger and grief, condescended to say very hard things to her neighbour;--but the man remembered his duty and was firm. on that evening larry twentyman did not attend the dillsborough club,--having in the course of the week notified to the attorney that he should be a defaulter. mr. masters himself went over earlier than usual, his own house having become very uncomfortable to him. mrs. masters for an hour sat expecting that larry would come, and when the evening passed away without his appearance, she was convinced that the unusual absence was a part of the conspiracy against her. larry did not get his letter till the monday morning. on the last thursday and saturday he had consoled himself for his doubts with the u. r. u., and was minded to do so on the monday also. he had not gone to the club on saturday and had moped about chowton all the sunday in a feverish state because of his doubts. it seemed to him that the two months would never be over. on the monday he was out early on the farm and then came down in his boots and breeches, and had his red coat ready at the fire while he sat at breakfast. the meet was fifteen miles off and he had sent on his hunter, intending to travel thither in his dog cart. just as he was cutting himself a slice of beef the postman came, and of course he read his letter. he read it with the carving knife in his hand, and then he stood gazing at his mother. "what is it, larry?" she asked; "is anything wrong?" "wrong,--well; i don't know," he said. "i don't know what you call wrong. i shan't hunt; that's all." then he threw aside the knife and pushed away his plate and marched out of the room with the open letter in his hand. mrs. twentyman knew very well of his love,--as indeed did nearly all dillsborough; but she had heard nothing of the two months and did not connect the letter with mary masters. surely he must have lost a large sum of money. that was her idea till she saw him again late in the afternoon. he never went near the hounds that day or near his business. he was not then man enough for either. but he walked about the fields, keeping out of sight of everybody. it was all over now. it must be all over when she wrote to him a letter like that. why had she tempted him to thoughts of happiness and success by that promise of two months' grace? he supposed that he was not good enough;--or that she thought he was not good enough. then he remembered his acres, and his material comforts, and tried to console himself by reflecting that mary masters might very well do worse in the world. but there was no consolation in it. he had tried his best because he had really loved the girl. he had failed, and all the world,--all his world,--would know that he had failed. there was not a man in the club,--hardly a man in the hunt,--who was not aware that he had offered to mary masters. during the last two months he had not been so reticent as was prudent, and had almost boasted to fred botsey of success. and then how was he to live at chowton farm without mary masters as his wife? as he returned home he almost made up his mind that he would not continue to live at chowton farm. he came back through dillsborough wood; and there, prowling about, he met goarly. "well, mr. twentyman," said the man, "i am making it all straight now with his lordship." "i don't care what you're doing," said larry in his misery. "you are an infernal blackguard and that's the best of you." chapter viii. chowton farm for sale. john morton had returned to town soon after his walk into dillsborough and had there learned from different sources that both arabella trefoil and lord rufford had gone or were going to mistletoe. he had seen lord augustus who, though he could tell him nothing else about his daughter, had not been slow to inform him that she was going to the house of her noble uncle. when morton had spoken to him very seriously about the engagement he declared that he knew nothing about it,--except that he had given his consent if the settlements were all right. lady augustus managed all that. morton had then said that under those circumstances he feared he must regard the honour which he had hoped to enjoy as being beyond his reach. lord augustus had shrugged his shoulders and had gone back to his whist, this interview having taken place in the strangers' room of his club. that lord rufford was also going to mistletoe he heard from young glossop at the foreign office. it was quite possible that glossop had been instructed to make this known to morton by his sister lady penwether. then morton declared that the thing was over and that he would trouble himself no more about it. but this resolution did not make him at all contented, and in his misery he went again down to his solitude at bragton. and now when he might fairly consider himself to be free, and when he should surely have congratulated himself on a most lucky escape from the great danger into which he had fallen, his love and admiration for the girl returned to him in a most wonderful manner. he thought of her beauty and her grace, and the manner in which she would sit at the head of his table when the time should come for him to be promoted to some great capital. to him she had fascinations which the reader, who perhaps knows her better than he ever did, will not share. he could forgive the coldness of her conduct to himself--he himself not being by nature demonstrative or impassioned,--if only she were not more kind to any rival. it was the fact that she should be visiting at the same house with lord rufford after what he had seen at rufford hall which had angered him. but now in his solitude he thought that he might have been wrong at rufford hall. if it were the case that the girl feared that her marriage might be prevented by the operations of lawyers and family friends, of course she would be right not to throw herself into his arms,--even metaphorically. he was a cold, just man who, when he had loved, could not easily get rid of his love, and now he would ask himself whether he was not hard upon the girl. it was natural that she should be at mistletoe; but then why should lord rufford be there with her? his prospects at patagonia did not console him much. no doubt it was a handsome mission for a man of his age and there were sundry patagonian questions of importance at the present moment which would give him a certain weight. patagonia was repudiating a loan, and it was hoped that he might induce a better feeling in the patagonian parliament. there was the patagonian railway for joining the straits to the cape the details of which he was now studying with great diligence. and then there was the vital question of boundary between patagonia and the argentine republic by settling which, should he be happy enough to succeed in doing so, he would prevent the horrors of warfare. he endeavoured to fix his mind with satisfaction on these great objects as he pored over the reports and papers which had been heaped upon him since he had accepted the mission. but there was present to him always a feeling that the men at the foreign office had been glad to get any respectable diplomate to go to patagonia, and that his brethren in the profession had marvelled at his acceptance of such a mission. one never likes to be thanked over much for doing anything. it creates a feeling that one has given more than was expedient. he knew that he must now go to patagonia, but he repented the alacrity with which he had acceded to the proposition. whether he did marry arabella trefoil or whether he did not, there was no adequate reason for such a banishment. and yet he could not now escape it! it was on a monday morning that larry twentyman had found himself unable to go hunting. on the tuesday he gave his workmen about the farm such a routing as they had not received for many a month. there had not been a dungheap or a cowshed which he had not visited, nor a fence about the place with which he had not found fault. he was at it all day, trying thus to console himself, but in vain; and when his mother in the evening said some word of her misery in regard to the turkeys he had told her that as far as he was concerned goarly might poison every fox in the county. then the poor woman knew that matters were going badly with her son. on the wednesday, when the hounds met within two miles of chowton, he again stayed at home; but in the afternoon he rode into dillsborough and contrived to see the attorney without being seen by any of the ladies of the family. the interview did not seem to do him any good. on the thursday morning he walked across to bragton and with a firm voice asked to see the squire. morton who was deep in the boundary question put aside his papers and welcomed his neighbour. now it must be explained that when, in former years, his son's debts had accumulated on old mr. reginald morton, so that he had been obliged to part with some portion of his unentailed property, he had sold that which lay in the parish of st. john's, dillsborough. the lands in bragton and mallingham he could not sell;--but chowton farm which was in st. john's had been bought by larry twentyman's grandfather. for a time there had been some bitterness of feeling; but the twentymans had been well-to-do respectable people, most anxious to be good neighbours, and had gradually made themselves liked by the owner of bragton. the present squire had of course known nothing of chowton as a part of the morton property, and had no more desire for it than for any of lord rufford's acres which were contiguous to his own. he shook hands cordially with his neighbour, as though this visit were the most natural thing in the world, and asked some questions about goarly and the hunt. "i believe that'll all come square, mr. morton. i'm not interesting myself much about it now." larry was not dressed like himself. he had on a dark brown coat, and dark pantaloons and a chimney-pot hat. he was conspicuous generally for light-coloured close-fitting garments and for a billycock hat. he was very unlike his usual self on the present occasion. "i thought you were just the man who did interest himself about those things." "well; yes; once it was so, mr. morton. what i've got to say now, mr. morton, is this. chowton farm is in the market! but i wouldn't say a word to any one about it till you had had the offer." "you going to sell chowton!" "yes, mr. morton, i am." "from all i have heard of you i wouldn't have believed it if anybody else had told me." "it's a fact, mr. morton. there are three hundred and twenty acres. i put the rental at _s._ an acre. you know what you get, mr. morton, for the land that lies next to it. and i think twenty-eight years' purchase isn't more than it's worth. those are my ideas as to price, mr. morton. there isn't a halfpenny owing on it--not in the way of mortgage." "i dare say it's worth that." "up at auction i might get a turn more, mr. morton;--but those are my ideas at present." john morton, who was a man of business, went to work at once with his pencil and in two minutes had made out a total. "i don't know that i could put my hand on £ , even if i were minded to make the purchase." "that needn't stand in the way, sir. any part you please could lie on mortgage at ½ per cent." larry in the midst of his distress had certain clear ideas about business. "this is a very serious proposition, mr. twentyman." "yes, indeed, sir." "have you any other views in life?" "i can't say as i have any fixed. i shan't be idle, mr. morton. i never was idle. i was thinking perhaps of new zealand." "a very fine colony for a young man, no doubt. but, seeing how well you are established here--." "i can't stay here, mr. morton. i've made up my mind about that. there are things which a man can't bear,--not and live quiet. as for hunting, i don't care about it any more than--nothing." "i am sorry that anything should have made you so unhappy." "well;--i am unhappy. that's about the truth of it. and i always shall be unhappy here. there's nothing else for it but going away." "if it's anything sudden, mr. twentyman, allow me to say that you ought not to sell your property without grave consideration." "i have considered it,--very grave, mr. morton." "ah,--but i mean long consideration. take a year to think of it. you can't buy such a place back in a year. i don't know you well enough to be justified in inquiring into the circumstances of your trouble;--but unless it be something which makes it altogether inexpedient, or almost impossible that you should remain in the neighbourhood, you should not sell chowton." "i'll tell you, mr. morton," said larry almost weeping. poor larry whether in his triumph or his sorrow had no gift of reticence and now told his neighbour the whole story of his love. he was certain it had become quite hopeless. he was sure that she would never have written him a letter if there had been any smallest chance left. according to his ideas a girl might say "no" half-a-dozen times and yet not mean much; but when she had committed herself to a letter she could not go back from it. "is there anybody else?" asked morton. "not as i know. i never saw anything like--like lightness with her, with any man. they said something about the curate but i don't believe a word of it." "and the family approve of it?" "every one of them,--father and stepmother and sisters and all. my own mother too! there ain't a ha'porth against it. i don't want any one to give me sixpence in money. and she should live just like a lady. i can keep a servant for her to cook and do every mortal thing. but it ain't nothing of all that, mr. morton." "what is it then?" the poor man paused before he made his answer; but when he did, he made it plain enough. "i ain't good enough for her! nor more i ain't, mr. morton. she was brought up in this house, mr. morton, by your own grand-aunt." "so i have heard, mr. twentyman." "and there's more of bragton than there is of dillsborough about her;--that's just where it is. i know what i am and i know what she is, and i ain't good enough for her. it should be somebody that can talk books to her. i can tell her how to plant a field of wheat or how to run a foal;--but i can't sit and read poetry, nor yet be read to. there's plenty of 'em would sell themselves because the land's all there, and the house, and the things in it. what makes me mad is that i should love her all the better because she won't. my belief is, mr. morton, they're as poor as job. that makes no difference to me because i don't want it;--but it makes no difference to her neither! she's right, mr. morton. i'm not good enough, and so i'll just cut it as far as dillsborough is concerned. you'll think of what i said of taking the land?" mr. morton said much more to him, walking with him to the gate of chowton farm. he assured him that the young lady might yet be won. he had only, morton said, to plead his case to her as well as he had pleaded up at bragton and he thought that she would be won. "i couldn't speak out free to her,--not if it was to save the whole place," said the unfortunate lover. but morton still continued his advice. as to leaving chowton because a young lady refused him, that would be unmanly--"there isn't a bit of a man left about me," said larry weeping. morton nevertheless went on. time would cure these wounds; but no time would give him back chowton should he once part with it. if he must leave the place for a time let him put a caretaker on the farm, even though by doing so the loss might be great. he should do anything rather than surrender his house. as to buying the land himself, morton would not talk about it in the present circumstances. then they parted at chowton gate with many expressions of friendship on each side. john morton, as he returned home, could not help thinking that the young farmer's condition was after all better than his own. there was an honesty about both the persons concerned of which at any rate they might be proud. there was real love,--and though that love was not at present happy it was of a nature to inspire perfect respect. but in his own case he was sure of nothing. chapter ix. mistletoe. when arabella trefoil started from london for mistletoe, with no companion but her own maid, she had given more serious consideration to her visit than she had probably ever paid to any matter up to that time. she had often been much in earnest but never so much in earnest as now. those other men had perhaps been worthy,--worthy as far as her ideas went of worth,--but none of them so worthy as this man. everything was there if she could only get it;--money, rank, fashion, and an appetite for pleasure. and he was handsome too, and good-humoured, though these qualities told less with her than the others. and now she was to meet him in the house of her great relations,--in a position in which her rank and her fashion would seem to be equal to his own. and she would meet him with the remembrance fresh in his mind as in her own of those passages of love at rufford. it would be impossible that he should even seem to forget them. the most that she could expect would be four or five days of his company, and she knew that she must be upon her mettle. she must do more now than she had ever attempted before. she must scruple at nothing that might bind him. she would be in the house of her uncle and that uncle a duke, and she thought that those facts might help to quell him. and she would be there without her mother, who was so often a heavy incubus on her shoulders. she thought of it all, and made her plans carefully and even painfully. she would be at any rate two days in the house before his arrival. during that time she would curry favour with her uncle by all her arts, and would if possible reconcile herself to her aunt. she thought once of taking her aunt into her full confidence and balanced the matter much in her mind. the duchess, she knew, was afraid of her,--or rather afraid of the relationship, and would of course be pleased to have all fears set at rest by such an alliance. but her aunt was a woman who had never suffered hardships, whose own marriage had been easily arranged, and whose two daughters had been pleasantly married before they were twenty years old. she had had no experience of feminine difficulties, and would have no mercy for such labours as those to which her less fortunate niece was driven. it would have been a great thing to have the cordial co-operation of her aunt;--but she could not venture to ask for it. she had stretched her means and her credit to the utmost in regard to her wardrobe, and was aware that she had never been so well equipped since those early days of her career in which her father and mother had thought that her beauty, assisted by a generous expenditure, would serve to dispose of her without delay. a generous expenditure may be incurred once even by poor people, but cannot possibly be maintained over a dozen years. now she had taken the matter into her own hands and had done that which would be ruinous if not successful. she was venturing her all upon the die,--with the prospect of drowning herself on the way out to patagonia should the chances of the game go against her. she forgot nothing. she could hardly hope for more than one day's hunting and yet that had been provided for as though she were going to ride with the hounds through all the remainder of the season. when she reached mistletoe there were people going and coming every day, so that an arrival was no event. she was kissed by her uncle and welcomed with characteristic coldness by her aunt, then allowed to settle in among the other guests as though she had been there all the winter. everybody knew that she was a trefoil and her presence therefore raised no question. the duchess of omnium was among the guests. the duchess knew all about her and vouchsafed to her the smallest possible recognition. lady chiltern had met her before, and as lady chiltern was always generous, she was gracious to arabella. she was sorry to see lady drummond, because she connected lady drummond with the foreign office and feared that the conversation might be led to patagonia and its new minister. she contrived to squeeze her uncle's hand and to utter a word of warm thanks,--which his grace did not perfectly understand. the girl was his niece and the duke had an idea that he should be kind to the family of which he was the head. his brother's wife had become objectionable to him, but as to the girl, if she wanted a home for a week or two, he thought it to be his duty to give it to her. mistletoe is an enormous house with a frontage nearly a quarter of a mile long, combining as it does all the offices, coach houses, and stables. there is nothing in england more ugly or perhaps more comfortable. it stands in a huge park which, as it is quite flat, never shows its size and is altogether unattractive. the duke himself was a hospitable, easy man who was very fond of his dinner and performed his duties well; but could never be touched by any sentiment. he always spent six months in the country, in which he acted as landlord to a great crowd of shooting, hunting, and flirting visitors, and six in london, in which he gave dinners and dined out and regularly took his place in the house of lords without ever opening his mouth. he was a grey-haired comely man of sixty, with a large body and a wonderful appetite. by many who understood the subject he was supposed to be the best amateur judge of wine in england. his son lord mistletoe was member for the county and as the duke had no younger sons he was supposed to be happy at all points. lord mistletoe, who had a large family of his own, lived twenty miles off,--so that the father and son could meet pleasantly without fear of quarrelling. during the first evening arabella did contrive to make herself very agreeable. she was much quieter than had been her wont when at mistletoe before, and though there were present two or three very well circumstanced young men she took but little notice of them. she went out to dinner with sir jeffrey bunker, and made herself agreeable to that old gentleman in a remarkable manner. after dinner, something having been said of the respectable old game called cat's cradle, she played it to perfection with sir jeffrey,--till her aunt thought that she must have been unaware that sir jeffrey had a wife and family. she was all smiles and all pleasantness, and seemed to want no other happiness than what the present moment gave her. nor did she once mention lord rufford's name. on the next morning after breakfast her aunt sent for her to come up-stairs. such a thing had never happened to her before. she could not recollect that, on any of those annual visits which she had made to mistletoe for more years than she now liked to think of, she had ever had five minutes' conversation alone with her aunt. it had always seemed that she was to be allowed to come and go by reason of her relationship, but that she was to receive no special mark of confidence or affection. the message was whispered into her ear by her aunt's own woman as she was listening with great attention to lady drummond's troubles in regard to her nursery arrangements. she nodded her head, heard a few more words from lady drummond, and then, with a pretty apology and a statement made so that all should hear her, that her aunt wanted her, followed the maid up-stairs. "my dear," said her aunt, when the door was closed, "i want to ask you whether you would like me to ask mr. morton to come here while you are with us?" a thunderbolt at her feet could hardly have surprised or annoyed her more. if there was one thing that she wanted less than another it was the presence of the paragon at mistletoe. it would utterly subvert everything and rob her of every chance. with a great effort she restrained all emotion and simply shook her head. she did it very well, and betrayed nothing. "i ask," said the duchess, "because i have been very glad to hear that you are engaged to marry him. lord drummond tells me that he is a most respectable young man." "mr. morton will be so much obliged to lord drummond." "and i thought that if it were so, you would be glad that he should meet you here. i could manage it very well, as the drummonds are here, and lord drummond would be glad to meet him." they had not been above a minute or two together, and arabella had been called upon to expend her energy in suppressing any expression of her horror; but still, by the time that she was called on to speak, she had fabricated her story. "thanks, aunt; it is so good of you;--and if everything was going straight, there would be nothing of course that i should like so much." "you are engaged to him?" "well; i was going to tell you. i dare say it is not his fault; but papa and mamma and the lawyers think that he is not behaving well about money;--settlements and all that. i suppose it will all come right; but in the meantime perhaps i had better not meet him." "but you were engaged to him?" this had to be answered without a moment's pause. "yes," said arabella; "i was engaged to him." "and he is going out as minister to patagonia almost immediately?" "he is going, i know." "i suppose you will go with him?" this was very hard. she could not say that she certainly was not going with him. and yet she had to remember that her coming campaign with lord rufford must be carried on in part beneath her aunt's eyes. when she had come to mistletoe she had fondly hoped that none of the family there would know anything about mr. morton. and now she was called upon to answer these horrid questions without a moment's notice! "i don't think i shall go with him, aunt; though i am unable to say anything certain just at present. if he behaves badly of course the engagement must be off." "i hope not. you should think of it very seriously. as for money, you know, you have none of your own, and i am told that he has a very nice property in rufford. there is a neighbour of his coming here to-morrow, and perhaps he knows him." "who is the neighbour, aunt?" asked arabella, innocently. "lord rufford. he is coming to shoot. i will ask him about the property." "pray don't mention my name, aunt. it would be so unpleasant if nothing were to come of it. i know lord rufford very well." "know lord rufford very well!" "as one does know men that one meets about." "i thought it might settle everything if we had mr. morton here." "i couldn't meet him, aunt; i couldn't indeed. mamma doesn't think that he is behaving well." to the duchess condemnation from lady augustus almost amounted to praise. she felt sure that mr. morton was a worthy man who would not probably behave badly, and though she could not unravel the mystery, and certainly had no suspicion in regard to lord rufford, she was sure that there was something wrong. but there was nothing more to be said at present. after what arabella had told her mr. morton could not be asked there to meet her niece. but all the slight feeling of kindness to the girl which had been created by the tidings of so respectable an engagement were at once obliterated from the duchess's bosom. arabella, with many expressions of thanks and a good-humoured countenance, left the room, cursing the untowardness of her fate which would let nothing run smooth. lord rufford was to come. that at any rate was now almost certain. up to the present she had doubted, knowing the way in which such men will change their engagements at the least caprice. but the duchess expected him on the morrow. she had prepared the way for meeting him as an old friend without causing surprise, and had gained that step. but should she succeed, as she hoped, in exacting continued homage from the man,--homage for the four or five days of his sojourn at mistletoe,--this must be carried on with the knowledge on the part of many in the house that she was engaged to that horrid patagonian minister! was ever a girl called upon to risk her entire fate under so many disadvantages? when she went up to dress for dinner on the day of his expected arrival lord rufford had not come. since the interview in her aunt's room she had not heard his name mentioned. when she came into the drawing-room, a little late, he was not there. "we won't wait, duchess," said the duke to his wife at three minutes past eight. the duke's punctuality at dinner-time was well known, and everybody else was then assembled. within two minutes after the duke's word dinner was announced, and a party numbering about thirty walked away into the dinner-room. arabella, when they were all settled, found that there was a vacant seat next herself. if the man were to come, fortune would have favoured her in that. the fish and soup had already disappeared and the duke was wakening himself to eloquence on the first entrée when lord rufford entered the room. "there never were trains so late as yours, duchess," he said, "nor any part of the world in which hired horses travel so slowly. i beg the duke's pardon, but i suffer the less because i know his grace never waits for anybody." "certainly not," said the duke, "having some regard for my friends' dinners." "and i find myself next to you," said lord rufford as he took his seat. "well; that is more than i deserve." chapter x. how things were arranged. "jack is here," said lord rufford, as soon as the fuss of his late arrival had worn itself away. "i shall be proud to renew my acquaintance." "can you come to-morrow?" "oh yes," said arabella, rapturously. "there are difficulties, and i ought to have written to you about them. i am going with the fitzwilliam." now mistletoe was in lincolnshire, not very far from peterborough, not very far from stamford, not very far from oakham. a regular hunting man like lord rufford knew how to compass the difficulties of distance in all hunting countries. horses could go by one train or overnight, and he could follow by another. and a postchaise could meet him here or there. but when a lady is added, the difficulty is often increased fivefold. "is it very far?" asked arabella. "it is a little far. i wonder who are going from here?" "heaven only knows. i have passed my time in playing cat's cradle with sir jeffrey bunker for the amusement of the company, and in confidential communications with my aunt and lady drummond. i haven't heard hunting mentioned." "have you anything on wheels going across to holcombe cross to-morrow, duke?" asked lord rufford. the duke said that he did not know of anything on wheels going to holcombe cross. then a hunting man who had heard the question said that he and another intended to travel by train to oundle. upon this lord rufford turned round and looked at arabella mournfully. "cannot i go by train to oundle?" she asked. "nothing on earth so jolly if your pastors and masters and all that will let you." "i haven't got any pastors and masters." "the duchess!" suggested lord rufford. "i thought all that kind of nonsense was over," said arabella. "i believe a great deal is over. you can do many things that your mother and grandmother couldn't do; but absolute freedom,--what you may call universal suffrage,--hasn't come yet, i fear. it's twenty miles by road, and the duchess would say something awful if i were to propose to take you in a postchaise." "but the railway!" "i'm afraid that would be worse. we couldn't ride back, you know, as we did at rufford. at the best it would be rather a rough and tumble kind of arrangement. i'm afraid we must put it off. to tell you the truth i'm the least bit in the world afraid of the duchess." "i am not at all," said arabella, angrily. then lord rufford ate his dinner and seemed to think that that matter was settled. arabella knew that he might have hunted elsewhere,--that the cottesmore would be out in their own county within twelve miles of them, and that the difficulty of that ride would be very much less. the duke might have been persuaded to send a carriage that distance. but lord rufford cared more about the chance of a good run than her company! for a while she was sulky;--for a little while, till she remembered how ill she could afford to indulge in such a feeling. then she said a demure word or two to the gentleman on the other side of her who happened to be a clergyman, and did not return to the hunting till lord rufford had eaten his cheese. "and is that to be the end of jack as far as i'm concerned?" "i have been thinking about it ever since. this is thursday." "not a doubt about it." "to-morrow will be friday and the duke has his great shooting on saturday. there's nothing within a hundred miles of us on saturday. i shall go with the pytchley if i don't shoot, but i shall have to get up just when other people are going to bed. that wouldn't suit you." "i wouldn't mind if i didn't go to bed at all." "at any rate it wouldn't suit the duchess. i had meant to go away on sunday. i hate being anywhere on sunday except in a railway carriage. but if i thought the duke would keep me till tuesday morning we might manage peltry on monday. i meant to have got back to surbiton's on sunday and have gone from there." "where is peltry?" "it's a cottesmore meet,--about five miles this side of melton." "we could ride from here." "it's rather far for that, but we could talk over the duke to send a carriage. ladies always like to see a meet, and perhaps we could make a party. if not we must put a good face on it and go in anything we can get. i shouldn't fear the duchess so much for twelve miles as i should for twenty." "i don't mean to let the duchess interfere with me," said arabella in a whisper. that evening lord rufford was very good-natured and managed to arrange everything. lady chiltern and another lady said that they would be glad to go to the meet, and a carriage or carriages were organised. but nothing was said as to arabella's hunting because the question would immediately be raised as to her return to mistletoe in the evening. it was, however, understood that she was to have a place in the carriage. arabella had gained two things. she would have her one day's hunting, and she had secured the presence of lord rufford at mistletoe for sunday. with such a man as his lordship it was almost impossible to find a moment for confidential conversation. he worked so hard at his amusements that he was as bad a lover as a barrister who has to be in court all day,--almost as bad as a sailor who is always going round the world. on this evening it was ten o'clock before the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, and then lord rufford's time was spent in arranging the party for the meet on monday. when the ladies went up to bed arabella had had no other opportunity than what fortune had given her at dinner. and even then she had been watched. that juxtaposition at the dinner-table had come of chance and had been caused by lord rufford's late arrival. old sir jeffrey should have been her neighbour, with the clergyman on the other side, an arrangement which her grace had thought safe with reference to the rights of the minister to patagonia. the duchess, though she was at some distance down the table, had seen that her niece and lord rufford were intimate, and remembered immediately what had been said up-stairs. they could not have talked as they were then talking,--sometimes whispering as the duchess could perceive very well,--unless there had been considerable former intimacy. she began gradually to understand various things;--why arabella trefoil had been so anxious to come to mistletoe just at this time, why she had behaved so unlike her usual self before lord rufford's arrival, and why she had been so unwilling to have mr. morton invited. the duchess was in her way a clever woman and could see many things. she could see that though her niece might be very anxious to marry lord rufford, lord rufford might indulge himself in a close intimacy with the girl without any such intention on his part. and, as far as the family was concerned, she would have been quite contented with the morton alliance. she would have asked morton now only that it would be impossible that he should come in time to be of service. had she been consulted in the first instance she would have put her veto on that drive to the meet: but she had heard nothing about it until lady chiltern had said that she would go. the duchess of omnium had since declared that she also would go, and there were to be two carriages. but still it never occurred to the duchess that arabella intended to hunt. nor did arabella intend that she should know it till the morning came. the friday was very dull. the hunting men of course had gone before arabella came down to breakfast. she would willingly have got up at seven to pour out lord rufford's tea, had that been possible; but, as it was, she strolled into the breakfast room at half-past ten. she could see by her aunt's eye and hear in her voice that she was in part detected; and that she would do herself no further service by acting the good girl; and she therefore resolutely determined to listen to no more twaddle. she read a french novel which she had brought with her, and spent as much of the day as she could in her bedroom. she did not see lord rufford before dinner, and at dinner sat between sir jeffrey and an old gentleman out of stamford who dined at mistletoe that evening. "we've had no such luck to-night," lord rufford said to her in the drawing-room. "the old dragon took care of that," replied arabella. "why should the old dragon think that i'm dangerous?" "because--; i can't very well tell you why, but i dare say you know." "and do you think i am dangerous?" "you're a sort of a five-barred gate," said arabella laughing. "of course there is a little danger, but who is going to be stopped by that?" he could make no reply to this because the duchess called him away to give some account to lady chiltern about goarly and the u. r. u., lady chiltern's husband being a master of hounds and a great authority on all matters relating to hunting. "nasty old dragon!" arabella said to herself when she was thus left alone. the saturday was the day of the great shooting and at two o'clock the ladies went out to lunch with the gentlemen by the side of the wood. lord rufford had at last consented to be one of the party. with logs of trees, a few hurdles, and other field appliances, a rustic banqueting hall was prepared and everything was very nice. tons of game had been killed, and tons more were to be killed after luncheon. the duchess was not there and arabella contrived so to place herself that she could be waited upon by lord rufford, or could wait upon him. of course a great many eyes were upon her, but she knew how to sustain that. nobody was present who could dare to interfere with her. when the eating and drinking were over she walked with him to his corner by the next covert, not heeding the other ladies; and she stood with him for some minutes after the slaughter had begun. she had come to feel that the time was slipping between her fingers and that she must say something effective. the fatal word upon which everything would depend must be spoken at the very latest on their return home on monday, and she was aware that much must probably be said before that. "do we hunt or shoot to-morrow?" she said. "to-morrow is sunday." "i am quite aware of that, but i didn't know whether you could live a day without sport." "the country is so full of prejudice that i am driven to sabbatical quiescence." "take a walk with me to-morrow," said arabella. "but the duchess?" exclaimed lord rufford in a stage whisper. one of the beaters was so near that he could not but have heard;--but what does a beater signify? "h'mh'm the duchess! you be at the path behind the great conservatory at half-past three and we won't mind the duchess." lord rufford was forced to ask for many other particulars as to the locality and then promised that he would be there at the time named. chapter xi. "you are so severe." on the next morning arabella went to church as did of course a great many of the party. by remaining at home she could only have excited suspicion. the church was close to the house, and the family pew consisted of a large room screened off from the rest of the church, with a fire-place of its own,--so that the labour of attending divine service was reduced to a minimum. at two o'clock they lunched, and that amusement lasted nearly an hour. there was an afternoon service at three in attending which the duchess was very particular. the duke never went at that time nor was it expected that any of the gentlemen would do so; but women are supposed to require more church than men, and the duchess rather made it a point that at any rate the young ladies staying in the house should accompany her. over the other young ladies there her authority could only be that of influence, but such authority generally sufficed. from her niece it might be supposed that she would exact obedience, and in this instance she tried it. "we start in five minutes," she said to arabella as that young lady was loitering at the table. "don't wait for me, aunt; i'm not going," said arabella boldly. "i hope you will come to church with us," said the duchess sternly. "not this afternoon." "why not, arabella?" "i never do go to church twice on sundays. some people do, and some people don't. i suppose that's about it." "i think that all young women ought to go to church on sunday afternoon unless there is something particular to prevent them." arabella shrugged her shoulders and the duchess stalked angrily away. "that makes me feel so awfully wicked," said the duchess of omnium, who was the only other lady then left in the room. then she got up and went out and arabella of course followed her. lord rufford had heard it all but had stood at the window and said nothing. he had not been to church at all, and was quite accustomed to the idea that as a young nobleman who only lived for pleasure he was privileged to be wicked. had the duchess of mayfair been blessed with a third daughter fit for marriage she would not have thought of repudiating such a suitor as lord rufford because he did not go to church. when the house was cleared arabella went upstairs and put on her hat. it was a bright beautiful winter's day, not painfully cold because the air was dry, but still a day that warranted furs and a muff. having prepared herself she made her way alone to a side door which led from a branch of the hall on to the garden terrace, and up and down that she walked two or three times,--so that any of the household that saw her might perceive that she had come out simply for exercise. at the end of the third turn instead of coming back she went on quickly to the conservatory and took the path which led round to the further side. there was a small lawn here fitted for garden games, and on the other end of it an iron gate leading to a path into the woods. at the further side of the iron gate and leaning against it, stood lord rufford smoking a cigar. she did not pause a moment but hurried across the lawn to join him. he opened the gate and she passed through. "i'm not going to be done by a dragon," she said as she took her place alongside of him. "upon my word, miss trefoil, i don't think i ever knew a human being with so much pluck as you have got." "girls have to have pluck if they don't mean to be sat upon;--a great deal more than men. the idea of telling me that i was to go to church as though i were twelve years old!" "what would she say if she knew that you were walking here with me?" "i don't care what she'd say. i dare say she walked with somebody once;--only i should think the somebody must have found it very dull." "does she know that you're to hunt to-morrow?" "i haven't told her and don't mean. i shall just come down in my habit and hat and say nothing about it. at what time must we start?" "the carriages are ordered for half-past nine. but i'm afraid you haven't clearly before your eyes all the difficulties which are incidental to hunting." "what do you mean?" "it looks as like a black frost as anything i ever saw in my life." "but we should go?" "the horses won't be there if there is a really hard frost. nobody would stir. it will be the first question i shall ask the man when he comes to me, and if there have been seven or eight degrees of frost i shan't get up." "how am i to know?" "my man shall tell your maid. but everybody will soon know all about it. it will alter everything." "i think i shall go mad." "in white satin?" "no;--in my habit and hat. it will be the hardest thing, after all! i ought to have insisted on going to holcombe cross on friday. the sun is shining now. surely it cannot freeze." "it will be uncommonly ill-bred if it does." but, after all, the hunting was not the main point. the hunting had been only intended as an opportunity; and if that were to be lost,--in which case lord rufford would no doubt at once leave mistletoe,--there was the more need for using the present hour, the more for using even the present minute. though she had said that the sun was shining, it was the setting sun, and in another half hour the gloom of the evening would be there. even lord rufford would not consent to walk about with her in the dark. "oh, lord rufford," she said, "i did so look forward to your giving me another lead." then she put her hand upon his arm and left it there. "it would have been nice," said he, drawing her hand a little on, and remembering as he did so his own picture of himself on the cliff with his sister holding his coat-tails. "if you could possibly know," she said, "the condition i am in." "what condition?" "i know that i can trust you. i am sure that i can trust you." "oh dear, yes. if you mean about telling, i never tell anything." "that's what i do mean. you remember that man at your place?" "what man? poor caneback?" "oh dear no! i wish they could change places because then he could give me no more trouble." "that's wishing him to be dead, whoever he is." "yes. why should he persecute me? i mean that man we were staying with at bragton." "mr. morton?" "of course i do. don't you remember your asking me about him, and my telling you that i was not engaged to him?" "i remember that." "mamma and this horrid old duchess here want me to marry him. they've got an idea that he is going to be ambassador at pekin or something very grand, and they're at me day and night." "you needn't take him unless you like him." "they do make me so miserable!" and then she leaned heavily upon his arm. he was a man who could not stand such pressure as this without returning it. though he were on the precipice, and though he must go over, still he could not stand it. "you remember that night after the ball?" "indeed i do." "and you too had asked me whether i cared for that horrid man." "i didn't see anything horrid. you had been staying at his house and people had told me. what was i to think?" "you ought to have known what to think. there; let me go,"--for now he had got his arm round her waist. "you don't care for me a bit. i know you don't. it would be all the same to you whom i married;--or whether i died." "you don't think that, bella?" he fancied that he had heard her mother call her bella, and that the name was softer and easier than the full four syllables. it was at any rate something for her to have gained. "i do think it. when i came here on purpose to have a skurry over the country with you, you went away to holcombe cross though you could have hunted here, close in the neighbourhood. and now you tell me there will be a frost to-morrow." "can i help that, darling?" "darling! i ain't your darling. you don't care a bit for me. i believe you hope there'll be a frost." he pressed her tighter, but laughed as he did so. it was evidently a joke to him;--a pleasant joke no doubt. "leave me alone, lord rufford. i won't let you, for i know you don't love me." very suddenly he did leave his hold of her and stood erect with his hands in his pockets, for the rustle of a dress was heard. it was still daylight, but the light was dim and the last morsel of the grandeur of the sun had ceased to be visible through the trees. the church-going people had been released, and the duchess having probably heard certain tidings, had herself come to take a walk in the shrubbery behind the conservatory. arabella had probably been unaware that she and her companion by a turn in the walks were being brought back towards the iron gate. as it was they met the duchess face to face. lord rufford had spoken the truth when he had said that he was a little afraid of the duchess. such was his fear that at the moment he hardly knew what he was to say. arabella had boasted when she had declared that she was not at all afraid of her aunt;--but she was steadfastly minded that she would not be cowed by her fears. she had known beforehand that she would have occasion for much presence of mind, and was prepared to exercise it at a moment's notice. she was the first to speak. "is that you, aunt? you are out of church very soon." "lord rufford," said the duchess, "i don't think this is a proper time for walking out." "don't you, duchess? the air is very nice." "it is becoming dark and my niece had better return to the house with me. arabella, you can come this way. it is just as short as the other. if you go on straight, lord rufford, it will take you to the house." of course lord rufford went on straight and of course arabella had to turn with her aunt. "such conduct as this is shocking," began the duchess. "aunt, let me tell you." "what can you tell me?" "i can tell you a great deal if you will let me. of course i am quite prepared to own that i did not intend to tell you anything." "i can well believe that." "because i could hardly hope for your sympathy. you have never liked me." "you have no right to say that." "i don't do it in the way of finding fault. i don't know why you should. but i have been too much afraid of you to tell you my secrets. i must do so now because you have found me walking with lord rufford. i could not otherwise excuse myself." "is he engaged to marry you?" "he has asked me." "no!" "but he has, aunt. you must be a little patient and let me tell it you all. mamma did make up an engagement between me and mr. morton at washington." "did you know lord rufford then?" "i knew him, but did not think he was behaving quite well. it is very hard sometimes to know what a man means. i was angry when i went to washington. he has told me since that he loves me,--and has offered." "but you are engaged to marry the other man." "nothing on earth shall make me marry mr. morton. mamma did it, and mamma now has very nearly broken it off because she says he is very shabby about money. indeed it is broken off. i had told him so even before lord rufford had proposed to me." "when did he propose and where?" "at rufford. we were staying there in november." "and you asked to come here that you might meet him?" "just so. was that strange? where could i be better pleased to meet him than in my own uncle's house?" "yes;--if you had told us all this before." "perhaps i ought; but you are so severe, that i did not dare. do not turn against me now. my uncle could not but like that his niece should marry lord rufford." "how can i turn against you if it is settled? lord rufford can do as he pleases. has he told your father,--or your mother?" "mamma knows it." "but not from him?" asked the duchess. arabella paused a moment but hardly a moment before she answered. it was hard upon her that she should have to make up her mind on matters of such importance with so little time for consideration. "yes," she said; "mamma knows it from him. papa is so very indifferent about everything that lord rufford has not spoken to him." "if so, it will be best that the duke should speak to him." there was another pause, but hardly long enough to attract notice. "perhaps so," she said;--"but not quite yet. he is so peculiar, so touchy. the duke is not quite like my father and he would think himself suspected." "i cannot imagine that if he is in earnest." "that is because you do not know him as i do. only think where i should be if i were to lose him!" "lose him!" "oh, aunt, now that you know it i do hope that you will be my friend. it would kill me if he were to throw me over." "but why should he throw you over if he proposed to you only last month?" "he might do it if he thought that he were interfered with. of course i should like my uncle to speak to him, but not quite immediately. if he were to say that he had changed his mind, what could i do, or what could my uncle do?" "that would be very singular conduct." "men are so different now, aunt. they give themselves so much more latitude. a man has only to say that he has changed his mind and nothing ever comes of it." "i have never been used to such men, my dear." "at any rate do not ask the duke to speak to him to-day. i will think about it and perhaps you will let me see you to-morrow, after we all come in." to this the duchess gravely assented. "and i hope you won't be angry because you found me walking with him, or because i did not go to church. it is everything to me. i am sure, dear aunt, you will understand that." to this the duchess made no reply, and they both entered the house together. what became of lord rufford neither of them saw. arabella when she regained her room thought that upon the whole fortune had favoured her by throwing her aunt in her way. she had, no doubt, been driven to tell a series of barefaced impudent lies,--lies of such a nature that they almost made her own hair stand on end as she thought of them;--but they would matter nothing if she succeeded; and if she failed in this matter she did not care much what her aunt thought of her. her aunt might now do her a good turn; and some lies she must have told;--such had been the emergencies of her position! as she thought of it all she was glad that her aunt had met her; and when lord rufford was summoned to take her out to dinner on that very sunday,--a matter as to which her aunt managed everything herself,--she was immediately aware that her lies had done her good service. "this was more than i expected," lord rufford said when they were seated. "she knew that she had overdone it when she sent you away in that cavalier way," replied arabella, "and now she wants to show that she didn't mean anything." chapter xii. the day at peltry. the duchess did tell the duke the whole story about lord rufford and arabella that night,--as to which it may be said that she also was false. but according to her conscience there were two ways of telling such a secret. as a matter of course she told her husband everything. that idle placid dinner-loving man was in truth consulted about each detail of the house and family;--but the secret was told to him with injunctions that he was to say nothing about it to any one for twenty-four hours. after that the duchess was of opinion that he should speak to lord rufford. "what could i say to him?" asked the duke. "i'm not her father." "but your brother is so indifferent." "no doubt. but that gives me no authority. if he does mean to marry the girl he must go to her father;--or it is possible that he might come to me. but if he does not mean it, what can i do?" he promised, however, that he would think of it. it was still dark night, or the morning was still dark as night, when arabella got out of bed and opened her window. the coming of a frost now might ruin her. the absence of it might give her everything in life that she wanted. lord rufford had promised her a tedious communication through servants as to the state of the weather. she was far too energetic, far too much in earnest, to wait for that. she opened the window and putting out her hand she felt a drizzle of rain. and the air, though the damp from it seemed to chill her all through, was not a frosty air. she stood there a minute so as to be sure and then retreated to her bed. fortune was again favouring her;--but then how would it be if it should turn to hard rain? in that case lady chiltern and the other ladies certainly would not go, and how in such case should she get herself conveyed to the meet? she would at any rate go down in her hat and habit and trust that somebody would provide for her. there might be much that would be disagreeable and difficult, but hardly anything could be worse than the necessity of telling such lies as those which she had fabricated on the previous afternoon. she had been much in doubt whether her aunt had or had not believed her. that the belief was not a thorough belief she was almost certain. but then there was the great fact that after the story had been told she had been sent out to dinner leaning on lord rufford's arm. unless her aunt had believed something that would not have taken place. and then so much of it was true. surely it would be impossible that he should not propose after what had occurred! her aunt was evidently alive to the advantage of the marriage,--to the advantage which would accrue not to her, arabella, individually, but to the trefoils generally. she almost thought that her aunt would not put spokes in her wheel for this day. she wished now that she had told her aunt that she intended to hunt, so that there need not be any surprise. she slept again and again looked out of the window. it rained a little but still there were hours in which the rain might cease. again she slept and at eight her maid brought her word that there would be hunting. it did rain a little but very little. of course she would dress herself in riding attire. at nine o'clock she walked into the breakfast parlour properly equipped for the day's sport. there were four or five men there in red coats and top boots, among whom lord rufford was conspicuous. they were just seating themselves at the breakfast table, and her aunt was already in her place. lady chiltern had come into the room with herself, and at the door had spoken some good-natured words of surprise. "i did not know that you were a sportswoman, miss trefoil." "i do ride a little when i am well mounted," arabella had said as she entered the room. then she collected herself, and arranged her countenance, and endeavoured to look as though she were doing the most ordinary thing in the world. she went round the room and kissed her aunt's brow. this she had not done on any other morning; but then on other mornings she had been late. "are you going to ride?" said the duchess. "i believe so, aunt." "who is giving you a horse?" "lord rufford is lending me one. i don't think even his good-nature will extend to giving away so perfect an animal. i know him well for i rode him when i was at rufford." this she said so that all the room should hear her. "you need not be afraid, duchess," said lord rufford. "he is quite safe." "and his name is jack," said arabella laughing as she took her place with a little air of triumph. "lord rufford offered to let me have him all the time i was here, but i didn't know whether you would take me in so attended." there was not one who heard her who did not feel that she spoke as though lord rufford were all her own. lord rufford felt it himself and almost thought he might as well turn himself round and bid his sister and miss penge let him go. he must marry some day and why should not this girl do as well as any one else? the duchess did not approve of young ladies hunting. she certainly would not have had her niece at mistletoe had she expected such a performance. but she could not find fault now. there was a feeling in her bosom that if there were an engagement it would be cruel to cause obstructions. she certainly could not allow a lover in her house for her husband's niece without having official authenticated knowledge of the respectability of the lover;--but the whole thing had come upon her so suddenly that she was at a loss what to do or what to say. it certainly did not seem to her that arabella was in the least afraid of being found out in any untruth. if the girl were about to become lady rufford then it would be for lord rufford to decide whether or no she should hunt. soon after this the duke came in and he also alluded to his niece's costume and was informed that she was to ride one of lord rufford's horses. "i didn't hear it mentioned before," said the duke. "he'll carry miss trefoil quite safely," said lord rufford who was at the moment standing over a game pie on the sideboard. then the subject was allowed to drop. at half-past nine there was no rain, and the ladies were so nearly punctual that the carriages absolutely started at ten. some of the men rode on; one got a seat on the carriage; and lord rufford drove himself and a friend in a dog-cart, tandem. the tandem was off before the carriages, but lord rufford assured them that he would get the master to allow them a quarter of an hour. arabella contrived to say one word to him. "if you start without me i'll never speak to you again." he nodded and smiled; but perhaps thought that if so it might be as well that he should start without waiting for her. at the last moment the duchess had taken it into her head that she too would go to the meet. no doubt she was actuated by some feeling in regard to her niece; but it was not till arabella was absolutely getting on to jack at the side of the carriage,--under the auspices of jack's owner,--that the idea occurred to her grace that there would be a great difficulty as to the return home. "arabella, how do you mean to get back?" she asked. "that will be all right, aunt," said arabella. "i will see to that," said lord rufford. the gracious but impatient master of the hounds had absolutely waited full twenty minutes for the duchess's party;--and was not minded to wait a minute longer for conversation. the moment that the carriages were there the huntsmen had started so that there was an excuse for hurry. lord rufford as he was speaking got on to his own horse, and before the duchess could expostulate they were away. there was a feeling of triumph in arabella's bosom as she told herself that she had at any rate secured her day's hunting in spite of such heart-breaking difficulties. the sport was fairly good. they had twenty minutes in the morning and a kill. then they drew a big wood during which they ate their lunch and drank their sherry. in the big wood they found a fox but could not do anything with him. after that they came on a third in a stubble field and ran him well for half an hour, when he went to ground. it was then three o'clock; and as the days were now at the shortest the master declined to draw again. they were then about sixteen miles from mistletoe, and about ten from stamford where lord rufford's horses were standing. the distance from stamford to mistletoe was eight. lord rufford proposed that they should ride to stamford and then go home in a hired carriage. there seemed indeed to be no other way of getting home without taking three tired horses fourteen miles out of their way. arabella made no objection whatever to the arrangement. lord rufford did in truth make a slight effort,--the slightest possible,--to induce a third person to join their party. there was still something pulling at his coat-tail, so that there might yet be a chance of saving him from the precipice. but he failed. the tired horseman before whom the suggestion was casually thrown out, would have been delighted to accept it, instead of riding all the way to mistletoe;--but he did not look upon it as made in earnest. two, he knew, were company and three none. the hunting field is by no means a place suited for real love-making. very much of preliminary conversation may be done there in a pleasant way, and intimacies may be formed. but when lovers have already walked with arms round each other in a wood, riding together may be very pleasant but can hardly be ecstatic. lord rufford might indeed have asked her to be lady r. while they were breaking up the first fox, or as they loitered about in the big wood;--but she did not expect that. there was no moment during the day's sport in which she had a right to tell herself that he was misbehaving because he did not so ask her. but in a postchaise it would be different. at the inn at stamford the horses were given up, and arabella condescended to take a glass of cherry brandy. she had gone through a long day; it was then half-past four, and she was not used to be many hours on horseback. the fatigue seemed to her to be very much greater than it had been when she got back to rufford immediately after the fatal accident. the ten miles along the road, which had been done in little more than an hour, had almost overcome her. she had determined not to cry for mercy as the hard trot went on. she had passed herself off as an accustomed horsewoman, and having done so well across the country, would not break down coming home. but, as she got into the carriage, she was very tired. she could almost have cried with fatigue;--and yet she told herself that now,--now,--must the work be done. she would perhaps tell him that she was tired. she might even assist her cause by her languor;--but, though she should die for it, she would not waste her precious moments by absolute rest. "may i light a cigar?" he said as he got in. "you know you may. wherever i may be with you do you think that i would interfere with your gratifications?" "you are the best girl in all the world," he said as he took out his case and threw himself back in the corner. "do you call that a long day?" she asked when he had lit his cigar. "not very long." "because i am so tired." "we came home pretty sharp. i thought it best not to shock her grace by too great a stretch into the night. as it is you will have time to go to bed for an hour or two before you dress. that's what i do when i am in time. you'll be right as a trivet then." "oh; i'm right now,--only tired. it was very nice." "pretty well. we ought to have killed that last fox. and why on earth we made nothing of that fellow in gooseberry grove i couldn't understand. old tony would never have left that fox alive above ground. would you like to go to sleep?" "o dear no." "afraid of gloves?" said he, drawing nearer to her. they might pull him as they liked by his coat-tails but as he was in a postchaise with her he must make himself agreeable. she shook her head and laughed as she looked at him through the gloom. then of course he kissed her. "lord rufford, what does this mean?" "don't you know what it means?" "hardly." "it means that i think you the jolliest girl out. i never liked anybody so well as i do you." "perhaps you never liked anybody," said she. "well;--yes, i have; but i am not going to boast of what fortune has done for me in that way. i wonder whether you care for me?" "do you want to know?" "i should like to know. you have never said that you did." "because you have never asked me." "am i not asking you now, bella?" "there are different ways of asking,--but there is only one way that will get an answer from me. no;--no. i will not have it. i have allowed too much to you already. oh, i am so tired." then she sank back almost into his arms,--but recovered herself very quickly. "lord rufford," she said, "if you are a man of honour let there be an end of this. i am sure you do not wish to make me wretched." "i would do anything to make you happy." "then tell me that you love me honestly, sincerely, with all your heart,--and i shall be happy." "you know i do." "do you? do you?" she said, and then she flung herself on to his shoulder, and for a while she seemed to faint. for a few minutes she lay there and as she was lying she calculated whether it would be better to try at this moment to drive him to some clearer declaration, or to make use of what he had already said without giving him an opportunity of protesting that he had not meant to make her an offer of marriage. he had declared that he loved her honestly and with his whole heart. would not that justify her in setting her uncle at him? and might it not be that the duke would carry great weight with him;--that the duke might induce him to utter the fatal word though she, were she to demand it now, might fail? as she thought of it all she affected to swoon, and almost herself believed that she was swooning. she was conscious but hardly more than conscious that he was kissing her;--and yet her brain was at work. she felt that he would be startled, repelled, perhaps disgusted were she absolutely to demand more from him now. "oh, rufford;--oh, my dearest," she said as she woke up, and with her face close to his, so that he could look into her eyes and see their brightness even through the gloom. then she extricated herself from his embrace with a shudder and a laugh. "you would hardly believe how tired i am," she said putting out her ungloved hand. he took it and drew her to him and there she sat in his arms for the short remainder of the journey. they were now in the park, and as the lights of the house came in sight he gave her some counsel. "go up to your room at once, dearest, and lay down." "i will. i don't think i could go in among them. i should fall." "i will see the duchess and tell her that you are all right,--but very tired. if she goes up to you you had better see her." "oh, yes. but i had rather not." "she'll be sure to come. and, bella, jack must be yours now." "you are joking." "never more serious in my life. of course he must remain with me just at present, but he is your horse." then, as the carriage was stopping, she took his hand and kissed it. she got to her room as quickly as possible; and then, before she had even taken off her hat, she sat down to think of it all,--sending her maid away meanwhile to fetch her a cup of tea. he must have meant it for an offer. there had at any rate been enough to justify her in so taking it. the present he had made to her of the horse could mean nothing else. under no other circumstances would it be possible that she should either take the horse or use him. certainly it was an offer, and as such she would instruct her uncle to use it. then she allowed her imagination to revel in thoughts of rufford hall, of the rufford house in town, and a final end to all those weary labours which she would thus have brought to so glorious a termination. chapter xiii. lord rufford wants to see a horse. lord rufford had been quite right about the duchess. arabella had only taken off her hat and was drinking her tea when the duchess came up to her. "lord rufford says that you were too tired to come in," said the duchess. "i am tired, aunt;--very tired. but there is nothing the matter with me. we had to ride ever so far coming home and it was that knocked me up." "it was very bad, your coming home with him in a postchaise, arabella." "why was it bad, aunt? i thought it very nice." "my dear, it shouldn't have been done. you ought to have known that. i certainly wouldn't have had you here had i thought that there would be anything of the kind." "it is going to be all right," said arabella laughing. according to her grace's view of things it was not and could not be made "all right." it would not have been all right were the girl to become lady rufford to-morrow. the scandal, or loud reproach due to evil doings, may be silenced by subsequent conduct. the merited punishment may not come visibly. but nothing happening after could make it right that a young lady should come home from hunting in a postchaise alone with a young unmarried man. when the duchess first heard it she thought what would have been her feelings if such a thing had been suggested in reference to one of her own daughters! lord rufford had come to her in the drawing-room and had told her the story in a quiet pleasant manner,--merely saying that miss trefoil was too much fatigued to show herself at the present moment. she had thought from his manner that her niece's story had been true. there was a cordiality and apparent earnestness as to the girl's comfort which seemed to be compatible with the story. but still she could hardly understand that lord rufford should wish to have it known that he travelled about the country in such a fashion with the girl he intended to marry. but if it were true, then she must look after her niece. and even if it were not true,--in which case she would never have the girl at mistletoe again,--yet she could not ignore her presence in the house. it was now the th of january. lord rufford was to go on the following day, and arabella on the th. the invitation had not been given so as to stretch beyond that. if it could be at once decided,--declared by lord rufford to the duke,--that the match was to be a match, then the invitation should be renewed, arabella should be advised to put off her other friends, and lord rufford should be invited to come back early in the next month and spend a week or two in the proper fashion with his future bride. all that had been settled between the duke and the duchess. so much should be done for the sake of the family. but the duke had not seen his way to asking lord rufford any question. the duchess must now find out the truth if she could,--so that if the story were false she might get rid of the girl and altogether shake her off from the mistletoe roof tree. arabella's manner was certainly free from any appearance of hesitation or fear. "i don't know about being all right," said the duchess. "it cannot be right that you should have come home with him alone in a hired carriage." "is a hired carriage wickeder than a private one?" "if a carriage had been sent from here for you, it would have been different;--but even then he should not have come with you." "but he would i'm sure;--and i should have asked him. what;--the man i'm engaged to marry! mayn't he sit in a carriage with me?" the duchess could not explain herself, and thought that she had better drop that topic. "what does he mean to do now, arabella?" "what does who mean, aunt?" "lord rufford." "he means to marry me. and he means to go from here to mr. surbiton's to-morrow. i don't quite understand the question." "and what do you mean to do?" "i mean to marry him. and i mean to join mamma in london on wednesday. i believe we are to go to the connop green's the next day. mr. connop green is a sort of cousin of mamma;--but they are odious people." "who is to see lord rufford? however, my dear, if you are very tired, i will leave you now." "no, aunt. stay a moment if you will be so very kind. i am tired; but if i were twice as tired i would find strength to talk about this. if my uncle would speak to lord rufford at once i should take it as the very kindest thing he could do. i could not send him to my uncle; for, after all, one's uncle and one's father are not the same. i could only refer him to papa. but if the duke would speak to him!" "did he renew his offer to-day?" "he has done nothing else but renew it ever since he has been in the carriage with me. that's the plain truth. he made his offer at rufford. he renewed it in the wood yesterday;--and he repeated it over and over again as we came home to-day. it may have been very wrong, but so it was." miss trefoil must have thought that kissing and proposing were the same thing. other young ladies have, perhaps, before now made such a mistake. but this young lady had had much experience and should have known better. "lord rufford had better perhaps speak to your uncle." "will you tell him so, aunt?" the duchess thought about it for a moment. she certainly could not tell lord rufford to speak to the duke without getting the duke's leave to tell him so. and then, if all this were done, and lord rufford were to assure the duke that the young lady had made a mistake, how derogatory would all that be to the exalted quiescence of the house of mayfair! she thoroughly wished that her niece were out of the house; for though she did believe the story, her belief was not thorough. "i will speak to your uncle," she said. "and now you had better go to sleep." "and, dear aunt, pray excuse me at dinner. i have been so excited, so flurried, and so fatigued, that i fear i should make a fool of myself if i attempted to come down. i should get into a swoon, which would be dreadful. my maid shall bring me a bit of something and a glass of sherry, and you shall find me in the drawing-room when you come out." then the duchess went, and arabella was left alone to take another view of the circumstances of the campaign. though there were still infinite dangers, yet she could hardly wish that anything should be altered. should lord rufford disown her, which she knew to be quite possible, there would be a general collapse and the world would crash over her head. but she had known, when she took this business in hand, that as success would open elysium to her, so would failure involve her in absolute ruin. she was determined that she would mar nothing now by cowardice, and having so resolved, and having fortified herself with perhaps two glasses of sherry, she went down to the drawing-room a little before nine, and laid herself out upon a sofa till the ladies should come in. lord rufford had gone to bed, as was his wont on such occasions, with orders that he should be called to dress for dinner at half-past seven. but as he laid himself down he made up his mind that, instead of sleeping, he would give himself up to thinking about arabella trefoil. the matter was going beyond a joke, and would require some thinking. he liked her well enough, but was certainly not in love with her. i doubt whether men ever are in love with girls who throw themselves into their arms. a man's love, till it has been chastened and fastened by the feeling of duty which marriage brings with it, is instigated mainly by the difficulty of pursuit. "it is hardly possible that anything so sweet as that should ever be mine; and yet, because i am a man, and because it is so heavenly sweet, i will try." that is what men say to themselves, but lord rufford had had no opportunity of saying that to himself in regard to miss trefoil. the thing had been sweet, but not heavenly sweet; and he had never for a moment doubted the possibility. now at any rate he would make up his mind. but, instead of doing so, he went to sleep, and when he got up he was ten minutes late, and was forced, as he dressed himself, to think of the duke's dinner instead of arabella trefoil. the duchess before dinner submitted herself and all her troubles at great length to the duke, but the duke could give her no substantial comfort. of course it had all been wrong. he supposed that they ought not to have been found walking together in the dark on sunday afternoon. the hunting should not have been arranged without sanction; and the return home in the hired carriage had no doubt been highly improper. but what could he do? if the marriage came off it would be all well. if not, this niece must not be invited to mistletoe again. as to speaking to lord rufford, he did not quite see how he was to set about it. his own girls had been married in so very different a fashion! he could imagine nothing so disagreeable as to have to ask a gentleman his intentions. parental duty might make it necessary when a daughter had not known how to keep her own position intact;--but here there was no parental duty. if lord rufford would speak to him, then indeed there would be no difficulty. at last he told his wife that, if she could find an opportunity of suggesting to the young lord that he might perhaps say a word to the young lady's uncle without impropriety,--if she could do this in a light easy way, so as to run no peril of a scene,--she might do so. when the two duchesses and all the other ladies came out into the drawing-room, arabella was found upon the sofa. of course she became the centre of a little interest for a few minutes, and the more so, as her aunt went up to her and made some inquiries. had she had any dinner? was she less fatigued? the fact of the improper return home in the postchaise had become generally known, and there were some there who would have turned a very cold shoulder to arabella had not her aunt noticed her. perhaps there were some who had envied her jack, and lord rufford's admiration, and even the postchaise. but as long as her aunt countenanced her it was not likely that any one at mistletoe would be unkind to her. the duchess of omnium did indeed remark to lady chiltern that she remembered something of the same kind happening to the same girl soon after her own marriage. as the duchess had now been married a great many years this was unkind;--but it was known that when the duchess of omnium did dislike any one, she never scrupled to show it. "lord rufford is about the silliest man of his day," she said afterwards to the same lady; "but there is one thing which i do not think even he is silly enough to do." it was nearly ten o'clock when the gentlemen came into the room and then it was that the duchess,--arabella's aunt,--must find the opportunity of giving lord rufford the hint of which the duke had spoken. he was to leave mistletoe on the morrow and might not improbably do so early. of all women she was the steadiest, the most tranquil, the least abrupt in her movements. she could not pounce upon a man, and nail him down, and say what she had to say, let him be as unwilling as he might to hear it. at last, however, seeing lord rufford standing alone,--he had then just left the sofa on which arabella was still lying,--without any apparent effort she made her way up to his side. "you had rather a long day," she said. "not particularly, duchess." "you had to come home so far!" "about the average distance. did you think it a hard day, maurice?" then he called to his aid a certain lord maurice st. john, a hard-riding and hard-talking old friend of the trefoil family who gave the duchess a very clear account of all the performance, during which lord rufford fell into an interesting conversation with mrs. mulready, the wife of the neighbouring bishop. after that the duchess made another attempt. "lord rufford," she said, "we should be so glad if you would come back to us the first week in february. the prices will be here and the mackenzies, and--." "i am pledged to stay with my sister till the fifth, and on the sixth surbiton and all his lot come to me. battersby, is it not the sixth that you and surbiton come to rufford?" "i rather think it is," said battersby. "i wish it were possible. i like mistletoe so much. it's so central." "very well for hunting,--is it not, lord rufford?" but that horrid captain battersby did not go out of the way. "i wonder whether lady chiltern would do me a favour," said lord rufford stepping across the room in search of that lady. he might be foolish, but when the duchess of omnium declared him to be the silliest man of the day i think she used a wrong epithet. the duchess was very patient and intended to try again, but on that evening she got no opportunity. captain battersby was lord rufford's particular friend on this occasion and had come over with him from mr. surbiton's house. "bat," he said as they were sitting close to each other in the smoking-room that night, "i mean to make an early start to-morrow." "what;--to get to surbiton's?" "i've got something to do on the way. i want to look at a horse at stamford." "i'll be off with you." "no;--don't do that. i'll go in my own cart. i'll make my man get hold of my groom and manage it somehow. i can leave my things and you can bring them. only say to-morrow that i was obliged to go." "i understand." "heard something, you know, and all that kind of thing. make my apologies to the duchess. in point of fact i must be in stamford at ten." "i'll manage it all," said captain battersby, who made a very shrewd guess at the cause which drew his friend to such an uncomfortable proceeding. after that lord rufford went to his room and gave a good deal of trouble that night to some of the servants in reference to the steps which would be necessary to take him out of harm's way before the duchess would be up on the morrow. arabella when she heard of the man's departure on the following morning, which she luckily did from her own maid, was for some time overwhelmed by it. of course the man was running away from her. there could be no doubt of it. she had watched him narrowly on the previous evening, and had seen that her aunt had tried in vain to speak to him. but she did not on that account give up the game. at any rate they had not found her out at mistletoe. that was something. of course it would have been infinitely better for her could he have been absolutely caught and nailed down before he left the house; but that was perhaps more than she had a right to expect. she could still pursue him; still write to him;--and at last, if necessary, force her father to do so. but she must trust now chiefly to her own correspondence. "he told me, aunt, the last thing last night that he was going," she said. "why did you not mention it?" "i thought he would have told you. i saw him speaking to you. he had received some telegram about a horse. he's the most flighty man in the world about such things. i am to write to him before i leave this to-morrow." then the duchess did not believe a word of the engagement. she felt at any rate certain that if there was an engagement, lord rufford did not mean to keep it. chapter xiv. the senator is badly treated. while these great efforts were being made by arabella trefoil at mistletoe, john morton was vacillating in an unhappy mood between london and bragton. it may be remembered that an offer was made to him as to the purchase of chowton farm. at that time the mistletoe party was broken up, and miss trefoil was staying with her mother at the connop greens. by the morning post on the next day he received a note from the senator in which mr. gotobed stated that business required his presence at dillsborough and suggested that he should again become a guest at bragton for a few days. morton was so sick of his own company and so tired of thinking of his own affairs that he was almost glad to welcome the senator. at any rate he had no means of escaping, and the senator came. the two men were alone at the house and the senator was full of his own wrongs as well as those of englishmen in general. mr. bearside had written to him very cautiously, but pressing for an immediate remittance of £ , and explaining that the great case could not be carried on without that sum of money. this might have been very well as being open to the idea that the senator had the option of either paying the money or of allowing the great case to be abandoned, but that the attorney in the last paragraph of his letter intimated that the senator would be of course aware that he was liable for the whole cost of the action be it what it might. he had asked a legal friend in london his opinion, and the legal friend had seemed to think that perhaps he was liable. what orders he had given to bearside he had given without any witness, and at any rate had already paid a certain sum. the legal friend, when he heard all that mr. gotobed was able to tell him about goarly, had advised the senator to settle with bearside,--taking a due receipt and having some person with him when he did so. the legal friend had thought that a small sum of money would suffice. "he went so far as to suggest," said the senator with indignant energy, "that if i contested my liability to the man's charges, the matter would go against me because i had interfered in such a case on the unpopular side. i should think that in this great country i should find justice administered on other terms than that." morton attempted to explain to him that his legal friend had not been administering justice but only giving advice. he had, so morton told him, undoubtedly taken up the case of one blackguard, and in urging it had paid his money to another. he had done so as a foreigner,--loudly proclaiming as his reason for such action that the man he supported would be unfairly treated unless he gave his assistance. of course he could not expect sympathy. "i want no sympathy," said the senator;--"i only want justice." then the two gentlemen had become a little angry with each other. morton was the last man in the world to have been aggressive on such a matter;--but with the senator it was necessary either to be prostrate or to fight. but with mr. gotobed such fighting never produced ill blood. it was the condition of his life, and it must be supposed that he liked it. on the next morning he did not scruple to ask his host's advice as to what he had better do, and they agreed to walk across to goarly's house and to ascertain from the man himself what he thought or might have to say about his own case. on their way they passed up the road leading to chowton farm, and at the gate leading into the garden they found larry twentyman standing. morton shook hands with the young farmer and introduced the senator. larry was still woe-begone though he endeavoured to shake off his sorrows and to appear to be gay. "i never see much of the man," he said when they told him that they were going across to call upon his neighbour, "and i don't know that i want to." "he doesn't seem to have much friendship among you all," said the senator. "quite as much as he deserves, mr. gotobed," replied larry. the senator's name had lately become familiar as a household word in dillsborough, and was, to tell the truth, odious to such men as larry twentyman. "he's a thundering rascal, and the only place fit for him in the county is rufford gaol. he's like to be there soon, i think." "that's what provokes me," said the senator. "you think he's a rascal, mister." "i do." "and because you take upon yourself to think so you'd send him to rufford gaol! there was one gentleman somewhere about here told me he ought to be hung, and because i would not agree with him he got up and walked away from me at table, carrying his provisions with him. another man in the next field to this insulted me because i said i was going to see goarly. the clergyman in dillsborough and the hotelkeepers were just as hard upon me. but you see, mister, that what we want to find out is whether goarly or the lord has the right of it in this particular case." "i know which has the right without any more finding out," said larry. "the shortest way to his house is by the ride through the wood, mr. morton. it takes you out on his land on the other side. but i don't think you'll find him there. one of my men told me that he had made himself scarce." then he added as the two were going on, "i should like to have just a word with you, mr. morton. i've been thinking of what you said, and i know it was kind. i'll take a month over it. i won't talk of selling chowton till the end of february;--but if i feel about it then as i do now i can't stay." "that's right, mr. twentyman;--and work hard, like a man, through the month. go out hunting, and don't allow yourself a moment for moping." "i will," said larry, as he retreated to the house, and then he gave directions that his horse might be ready for the morrow. they went in through the wood, and the senator pointed out the spot at which bean the gamekeeper had been so insolent to him. he could not understand, he said, why he should be treated so roughly, as these men must be aware that he had nothing to gain himself. "if i were to go into mickewa," said morton, "and interfere there with the peculiarities of the people as you have done here, it's my belief that they'd have had the eyes out of my head long before this." "that only shows that you don't know mickewa," said the senator. "its people are the most law-abiding population on the face of the earth." they passed through the wood, and a couple of fields brought them to goarly's house. as they approached it by the back the only live thing they saw was the old goose which had been so cruelly deprived of her companions and progeny. the goose was waddling round the dirty pool, and there were to be seen sundry ugly signs of a poor man's habitation, but it was not till they had knocked at the window as well as the door that mrs. goarly showed herself. she remembered the senator at once and curtseyed to him; and when morton introduced himself she curtseyed again to the squire of bragton. when goarly was asked for she shook her head and declared that she knew nothing about him. he had been gone, she said, for the last week, and had left no word as to whither he was going;--nor had he told her why. "has he given up his action against lord rufford?" asked the senator. "indeed then, sir, i can't tell you a word about it." "i've been told that he has taken lord rufford's money." "he ain't 'a taken no money as i've seed, sir. i wish he had, for money's sore wanted here, and if the gen'leman has a mind to be kind-hearted--" then she intimated her own readiness to take any contribution to the good cause which the senator might be willing to make at that moment. but the senator buttoned up his breeches pockets with stern resolution. though he still believed lord rufford to be altogether wrong, he was beginning to think that the goarlys were not worthy his benevolence. as she came to the door with them and accompanied them a few yards across the field she again told the tragic tale of her goose;--but the senator had not another word to say to her. on that same day morton drove mr. gotobed into dillsborough and consented to go with him to mr. bearside's office. they found the attorney at home, and before anything was said as to payment they heard his account of the action. if goarly had consented to take any money from lord rufford he knew nothing about it. as far as he was aware the action was going on. ever so many witnesses must be brought from a distance who had seen the crop standing and who would have no bias against the owner,--as would be the case with neighbours, such as lawrence twentyman. of course it was not easy to oppose such a man as lord rufford and a little money must be spent. indeed such, he said, was his interest in the case that he had already gone further than he ought to have done out of his own pocket. of course they would be successful,--that is if the matter were carried on with spirit, and then the money would all come back again. but just at present a little money must be spent. "i don't mean to spend it," said the senator. "i hope you won't stick to that, mr. gotobed." "but i shall, sir. i understand from your letter that you look to me for funds." "certainly i do, mr. gotobed;--because you told me to do so." "i told you nothing of the kind, mr. bearside." "you paid me £ on account, mr. gotobed." "i paid you £ certainly." "and told me that more should be coming as it was wanted. do you think i should have gone on for such a man as goarly,--a fellow without a shilling,--unless he had some one like you to back him? it isn't likely. now, mr. morton, i appeal to you." "i don't suppose that my friend has made himself liable for your bill because he paid you £ with the view of assisting goarly," said morton. "but he said that he meant to go on, mr. morton. he said that plain, and i can swear it. now, mr. gotobed, you just say out like an honest man whether you didn't give me to understand that you meant to go on." "i never employed you or made myself responsible for your bill." "you authorized me, distinctly,--most distinctly, and i shall stick to it. when a gentleman comes to a lawyer's office and pays his money and tells that lawyer as how he means to see the case out,--explaining his reasons as you did when you said all that against the landlords and squires and nobility of this here country,--why then that lawyer has a right to think that that gentleman is his mark." "i thought you were employed by mr. scrobby," said morton, who had heard much of the story by this time. "then, mr. morton, i must make bold to say that you have heard wrong. i know nothing of mr. scrobby and don't want. there ain't nothing about the poisoning of that fox in this case of ours. scrobby and goarly may have done that, or scrobby and goarly may be as innocent as two babes unborn for aught i know or care. excuse me, mr. morton, but i have to be on my p's and q's i see. this is a case for trespass and damage against lord rufford in which we ask for _s._ an acre. of course there is expenses. there's my own time. i ain't to be kept here talking to you two gentlemen for nothing, i suppose. well; this gentleman comes to me and pays me £ to go on. i couldn't have gone on without something. the gentleman saw that plain enough. and he told me he'd see me through the rest of it." "i said nothing of the kind, sir." "very well. then we must put it to a jury. may i make bold to ask whether you are going out of the country all at once?" "i shall be here for the next two months, at least." "happy to hear it, sir, and have no doubt it will all be settled before that time--amiable or otherwise. but as i am money out of pocket i did hope you would have paid me something on account to-day." then mr. gotobed made his offer, informing mr. bearside that he had brought his friend, mr. morton, with him in order that there might be a witness. "i could see that, sir, with half an eye," said the attorney unabashed. he was willing to pay mr. bearside a further sum of £ immediately to be quit of the affair, not because he thought that any such sum was due, but because he wished to free himself from further trouble in the matter. mr. bearside hinted in a very cavalier way that £ might be thought of. a further payment of £ would cover the money he was out of pocket. but this proposition mr. gotobed indignantly refused, and then left the office with his friend. "wherever there are lawyers there will be rogues," said the senator, as soon as he found himself in the street. "it is a noble profession, that of the law; the finest perhaps that the work of the world affords; but it gives scope and temptation for roguery. i do not think, however, that you would find anything in america so bad as that." "why did you go to him without asking any questions?" "of whom was i to ask questions? when i took up goarly's case he had already put it into this man's hands." "i am sorry you should be troubled, mr. gotobed; but, upon my word, i cannot say but what it serves you right." "that is because you are offended with me. i endeavoured to protect a poor man against a rich man, and that in this country is cause of offence." after leaving the attorney's office they called on mr. mainwaring the rector, and found that he knew, or professed to know, a great deal more about goarly, than they had learned from bearside. according to his story nickem, who was clerk to mr. masters, had goarly in safe keeping somewhere. the rector indeed was acquainted with all the details. scrobby had purchased the red herrings and strychnine, and had employed goarly to walk over by night to rufford and fetch them. the poison at that time had been duly packed in the herrings. goarly had done this and had, at scrobby's instigation, laid the bait down in dillsborough wood. nickem was now at work trying to learn where scrobby had purchased the poison, as it was feared that goarly's evidence alone would not suffice to convict the man. but if the strychnine could be traced and the herrings, then there would be almost a certainty of punishing scrobby. "and what about goarly?" asked the senator. "he would escape of course," said the rector. "he would get a little money and after such an experience would probably become a good friend to fox-hunting." "and quite a respectable man!" the rector did not guarantee this but seemed to think that there would at any rate be promise of improved conduct. "the place ought to be too hot to hold him!" exclaimed the senator indignantly. the rector seemed to think it possible that he might find it uncomfortable at first, in which case he would sell the land at a good price to lord rufford and every one concerned would have been benefited by the transaction,--except scrobby for whom no one would feel any pity. the two gentlemen then promised to come and dine with the rector on the following day. he feared he said that he could not make up a party as there was,--he declared,--nobody in dillsborough. "i never knew such a place," said the rector. "except old nupper, who is there? masters is a very decent fellow himself, but he has got out of that kind of thing;--and you can't ask a man without asking his wife. as for clergymen, i'm sick of dining with my own cloth and discussing the troubles of sermons. there never was such a place as dillsborough." then he whispered a word to the squire. was the squire unwilling to meet his cousin reginald morton? things were said and people never knew what was true and what was false. then john morton declared that he would be very happy to meet his cousin. chapter xv. mr. mainwaring's little dinner. the company at the rector's house consisted of the senator, the two mortons, mr. surtees the curate, and old doctor nupper. mrs. mainwaring was not well enough to appear, and the rector therefore was able to indulge himself in what he called a bachelor party. as a rule he disliked clergymen, but at the last had been driven to invite his curate because he thought six a better number than five for joviality. he began by asking questions as to the trefoils which were not very fortunate. of course he had heard that morton was to marry arabella trefoil, and though he made no direct allusion to the fact, as reginald had done, he spoke in that bland eulogistic tone which clearly showed his purpose. "they went with you to lord rufford's, i was told." "yes;--they did." "and now they have left the neighbourhood. a very clever young lady, miss trefoil;--and so is her mother, a very clever woman." the senator, to whom a sort of appeal was made, nodded his assent. "lord augustus, i believe, is a brother of the duke of mayfair?" "yes, he is," said morton. "i am afraid we are going to have frost again." then reginald morton was sure that the marriage would never take place. "the trefoils are a very distinguished family," continued the rector. "i remember the present duke's father when he was in the cabinet, and knew this man almost intimately when we were at christchurch together. i don't think this duke ever took a prominent part in politics." "i don't know that he ever did," said morton. "dear, dear, how tipsy he was once driving back to oxford with me in a gig. but he has the reputation of being one of the best landlords in the country now." "i wonder what it is that gives a man the reputation of being a good landlord. is it foxes?" asked the senator. the rector acknowledged with a smile that foxes helped. "or does it mean that he lets his land below the value? if so, he certainly does more harm than good, though he may like the popularity which he is rich enough to buy." "it means that he does not exact more than his due," said the rector indiscreetly. "when i hear a man so highly praised for common honesty i am of course led to suppose that dishonesty in his particular trade is the common rule. the body of english landlords must be exorbitant tyrants when one among them is so highly eulogised for taking no more than his own." luckily at that moment dinner was announced, and the exceptional character of the duke of mayfair was allowed to drop. mr. mainwaring's dinner was very good and his wines were excellent,--a fact of which mr. mainwaring himself was much better aware than any of his guests. there is a difficulty in the giving of dinners of which mr. mainwaring and some other hosts have become painfully aware. what service do you do to any one in pouring your best claret down his throat, when he knows no difference between that and a much more humble vintage,--your best claret which you feel so sure you cannot replace? why import canvas-back ducks for appetites which would be quite as well satisfied with those out of the next farm-yard? your soup, which has been a care since yesterday, your fish, got down with so great trouble from bond street on that very day, your saddle of mutton, in selecting which you have affronted every butcher in the neighbourhood, are all plainly thrown away! and yet the hospitable hero who would fain treat his friends as he would be treated himself can hardly arrange his dinners according to the palates of his different guests; nor will he like, when strangers sit at his board, to put nothing better on his table than that cheaper wine with which needful economy induces him to solace himself when alone. i,--i who write this,--have myself seen an honoured guest deluge with the pump my, ah! so hardly earned, most scarce and most peculiar vintage! there is a pang in such usage which some will not understand, but which cut mr. mainwaring to the very soul. there was not one among them there who appreciated the fact that the claret on his dinner table was almost the best that its year had produced. it was impossible not to say a word on such a subject at such a moment;--though our rector was not a man who usually lauded his own viands. "i think you will find that claret what you like, mr. gotobed," he said. "it's a ' mouton, and judges say that it is good." "very good indeed," said the senator. "in the states we haven't got into the way yet of using dinner clarets." it was as good as a play to see the rector wince under the ignominious word. "your great statesman added much to your national comfort when he took the duty off the lighter kinds of french wines." the rector could not stand it. he hated light wines. he hated cheap things in general. and he hated gladstone in particular. "nothing," said he, "that the statesman you speak of ever did could make such wine as that any cheaper. i am sorry, sir, that you don't perceive the difference." "in the matter of wine," said the senator, "i don't think that i have happened to come across anything so good in this country as our old madeiras. but then, sir, we have been fortunate in our climate. the english atmosphere is not one in which wine seems to reach its full perfection." the rector heaved a deep sigh as he looked up to the ceiling with his hands in his trowsers-pockets. he knew, or thought that he knew, that no one could ever get a glass of good wine in the united states. he knew, or thought that he knew, that the best wine in the world was brought to england. he knew, or thought he knew, that in no other country was wine so well understood, so diligently sought for, and so truly enjoyed as in england. and he imagined that it was less understood and less sought for and less enjoyed in the states than in any other country. he did not as yet know the senator well enough to fight with him at his own table, and could only groan and moan and look up at the ceiling. doctor nupper endeavoured to take away the sting by smacking his lips, and reginald morton, who did not in truth care a straw what he drank, was moved to pity and declared the claret to be very fine. "i have nothing to say against it," said the senator, who was not in the least abashed. but when the cloth was drawn,--for the rector clung so lovingly to old habits that he delighted to see his mahogany beneath the wine glasses,--a more serious subject of dispute arose suddenly, though perhaps hardly more disagreeable. "the thing in england," said the senator, "which i find most difficult to understand, is the matter of what you call church patronage." "if you'll pass half an hour with mr. surtees to-morrow morning, he'll explain it all to you," said the rector, who did not like that any subject connected with his profession should be mooted after dinner. "i should be delighted," said mr. surtees. "nothing would give me more pleasure," said the senator; "but what i mean is this;--the question is, of course, one of paramount importance." "no doubt it is," said the deluded rector. "it is very necessary to get good doctors." "well, yes, rather;--considering that all men wish to live." that observation, of course, came from doctor nupper. "and care is taken in employing a lawyer,--though, after my experience of yesterday, not always, i should say, so much care as is needful. the man who wants such aid looks about him and gets the best doctor he can for his money, or the best lawyer. but here in england he must take the clergyman provided for him." "it would be very much better for him if he did," said the rector. "a clergyman at any rate is supposed to be appointed; and that clergyman he must pay." "not at all," said the rector. "the clergy are paid by the wise provision of former ages." "we will let that pass for the present," said the senator. "there he is, however he may be paid. how does he get there?" now it was the fact that mr. mainwaring's living had been bought for him with his wife's money,--a fact of which mr. gotobed was not aware, but which he would hardly have regarded had he known it. "how does he get there?" "in the majority of cases the bishop puts him there," said mr. surtees. "and how is the bishop governed in his choice? as far as i can learn the stipends are absurdly various, one man getting £ a year for working like a horse in a big town, and another £ for living an idle life in a luxurious country house. but the bishop of course gives the bigger plums to the best men. how is it then that the big plums find their way so often to the sons and sons-in-law and nephews of the bishops?" "because the bishop has looked after their education and principles," said the rector. "and taught them how to choose their wives," said the senator with imperturbable gravity. "i am not the son of a bishop, sir," exclaimed the rector. "i wish you had been, sir, if it would have done you any good. a general can't make his son a colonel at the age of twenty-five, or an admiral his son a first lieutenant, or a judge his a queen's counsellor,--nor can the head of an office promote his to be a chief secretary. it is only a bishop can do this;--i suppose because a cure of souls is so much less important than the charge of a ship or the discipline of twenty or thirty clerks." "the bishops don't do it," said the rector fiercely. "then the statistics which have been put into my hands belie them. but how is it with those the bishops don't appoint? there seems to me to be such a complication of absurdities as to defy explanation." "i think i could explain them all," said mr. surtees mildly. "if you can do so satisfactorily, i shall be very glad to hear it," continued the senator, who seemed in truth to be glad to hear no one but himself. "a lad of one-and-twenty learns his lessons so well that he has to be rewarded at his college, and a part of his reward consists in his having a parish entrusted to him when he is forty years old, to which he can maintain his right whether he be in any way trained for such work or no. is that true?" "his collegiate education is the best training he can have," said the rector. "i came across a young fellow the other day," continued the senator, "in a very nice house, with £ a year, and learned that he had inherited the living because he was his father's second son. some poor clergyman had been keeping it ready for him for the last fifteen years and had to turn out as soon as this young spark could be made a clergyman." "it was his father's property," said the rector, "and the poor man had had great kindness shown him for those fifteen years." "exactly;--his father's property! and this is what you call a cure of souls! and another man had absolutely had his living bought for him by his uncle,--just as he might have bought him a farm. he couldn't have bought him the command of a regiment or a small judgeship. in those matters you require capacity. it is only when you deal with the church that you throw to the winds all ideas of fitness. 'sir,' or 'madam,' or perhaps, 'my little dear,' you are bound to come to your places in church and hear me expound the word of god because i have paid a heavy sum of money for the privilege of teaching you, at the moderate salary of £ a year!'" mr. surtees sat aghast, with his mouth open, and knew not how to say a word. doctor nupper rubbed his red nose. reginald morton attempted some suggestion about the wine which fell wretchedly flat. john morton ventured to tell his friend that he did not understand the subject. "i shall be most happy to be instructed," said the senator. "understand it!" said the rector, almost rising in his chair to rebuke the insolence of his guest--"he understands nothing about it, and yet he ventures to fall foul with unmeasured terms on an establishment which has been brought to its present condition by the fostering care of perhaps the most pious set of divines that ever lived, and which has produced results with which those of no other church can compare!" "have i represented anything untruly?" asked the senator. "a great deal, sir." "only put me right, and no man will recall his words more readily. is it not the case that livings in the church of england can be bought and sold?" "the matter is one, sir," said the rector, "which cannot be discussed in this manner. there are two clergymen present to whom such language is distasteful; as it is also i hope to the others who are all members of the church of england. perhaps you will allow me to request that the subject may be changed." after that conversation flagged and the evening was by no means joyous. the rector certainly regretted that his "' " claret should have been expended on such a man. "i don't think," said he when john morton had taken the senator away, "that in my whole life before i ever met such a brute as that american senator." chapter xvi. persecution. there was great consternation in the attorney's house after the writing of the letter to lawrence twentyman. for twenty-four hours mrs. masters did not speak to mary, not at all intending to let her sin pass with such moderate punishment as that, but thinking during that period that as she might perhaps induce larry to ignore the letter and look upon it as though it were not written, it would be best to say nothing till the time should come in which the lover might again urge his suit. but when she found on the evening of the second day that larry did not come near the place she could control herself no longer, and accused her step-daughter of ruining herself, her father, and the whole family. "that is very unfair, mamma," mary said. "i have done nothing. i have only not done that which nobody had a right to ask me to do." "right indeed! and who are you with your rights? a decent well-behaved young man with five or six hundred a year has no right to ask you to be his wife! all this comes of you staying with an old woman with a handle to her name." it was in vain that mary endeavoured to explain that she had not alluded to larry when she declared that no one had a right to ask her to do it. she had, she said, always thanked him for his good opinion of her, and had spoken well of him whenever his name was mentioned. but it was a matter on which a young woman was entitled to judge for herself, and no one had a right to scold her because she could not love him. mrs. masters hated such arguments, despised this rodomontade about love, and would have crushed the girl into obedience could it have been possible. "you are an idiot," she said, "an ungrateful idiot; and unless you think better of it you'll repent your folly to your dying day. who do you think is to come running after a moping slut like you?" then mary gathered herself up and left the room, feeling that she could not live in the house if she were to be called a slut. soon after this larry came to the attorney and got him to come out into the street and to walk with him round the churchyard. it was the spot in dillsborough in which they would most certainly be left undisturbed. this took place on the day before his proposition for the sale of chowton farm. when he got the attorney into the churchyard he took out mary's letter and in speechless agony handed it to the attorney. "i saw it before it went," said masters putting it back with his hand. "i suppose she means it?" asked larry. "i can't say to you but what she does, twentyman. as far as i know her she isn't a girl that would ever say anything that she didn't mean." "i was sure of that. when i got it and read it, it was just as though some one had come behind me and hit me over the head with a wheel-spoke. i couldn't have ate a morsel of breakfast if i knew i wasn't to see another bit of food for four-and-twenty hours." "i knew you would feel it, larry." "feel it! till it came to this i didn't think of myself but what i had more strength. it has knocked me about till i feel all over like drinking." "don't do that, larry." "i won't answer for myself what i'll do. a man sets his heart on a thing,--just on one thing,--and has grit enough in him to be sure of himself that if he can get that nothing shall knock him over. when that thoroughbred mare of mine slipped her foal who can say i ever whimpered. when i got pleuro among the cattle i killed a'most the lot of 'em out of hand, and never laid awake a night about it. but i've got it so heavy this time i can't stand it. you don't think i have any chance, mr. masters?" "you can try of course. you're welcome to the house." "but what do you think? you must know her." "girls do change their minds." "but she isn't like other girls. is she now? i come to you because i sometimes think mrs. masters is a little hard on her. mrs. masters is about the best friend i have. there isn't anybody more on my side than she is. but i feel sure of this;--mary will never be drove." "i don't think she will, larry." "she's got a will of her own as well as another." "no man alive ever had a better daughter." "i'm sure of that, mr. masters; and no man alive 'll ever have a better wife. but she won't be drove. i might ask her again, you think?" "you certainly have my leave." "but would it be any good? i'd rather cut my throat and have done with it than go about teasing her because her parents let me come to her." then there was a pause during which they walked on, the attorney feeling that he had nothing more to say. "what i want to know," said larry, "is this. is there anybody else?" that was just the point on which the attorney himself was perplexed. he had asked mary that question, and her silence had assured him that it was so. then he had suggested to her the name of the only probable suitor that occurred to him, and she had repelled the idea in a manner that had convinced him at once. there was some one, but mr. surtees was not the man. there was some one, he was sure, but he had not been able to cross-examine her on the subject. he had, since that, cudgelled his brain to think who that some one might be, but had not succeeded in suggesting a name even to himself. that of reginald morton, who hardly ever came to the house and whom he regarded as a silent, severe, unapproachable man, did not come into his mind. among the young ladies of dillsborough reginald morton was never regarded as even a possible lover. and yet there was assuredly some one. "if there is any one else i think you ought to tell me," continued larry. "it is quite possible." "young surtees, i suppose." "i do not say there is anybody; but if there be anybody i do not think it is surtees." "who else then?" "i cannot say, larry. i know nothing about it." "but there is some one?" "i do not say so. you ask me and i tell you all i know." again they walked round the churchyard in silence and the attorney began to be anxious that the interview might be over. he hardly liked to be interrogated about the state of his daughter's heart, and yet he had felt himself bound to tell what he knew to the man who had in all respects behaved well to him. when they had returned for the third or fourth time to the gate by which they had entered larry spoke again. "i suppose i may as well give it up." "what can i say?" "you have been fair enough, mr. masters. and so has she. and so has everybody. i shall just get away as quick as i can, and go and hang myself. i feel above bothering her any more. when she sat down to write a letter like that she must have been in earnest." "she certainly was in earnest, larry." "what's the use of going on after that? only it is so hard for a fellow to feel that everything is gone. it is just as though the house was burnt down, or i was to wake in the morning and find that the land didn't belong to me." "not so bad as that, larry." "not so bad, mr. masters! then you don't know what it is i'm feeling. i'd let his lordship or squire morton have it all, and go in upon it as a tenant at _s._ an acre, so that i could take her along with me. i would, and sell the horses and set to and work in my shirt-sleeves. a man could stand that. nobody wouldn't laugh at me then. but there's an emptiness now here that makes me sick all through, as though i hadn't got stomach left for anything." then poor larry put his hand upon his heart and hid his face upon the churchyard wall. the attorney made some attempt to say a kind word to him, and then, leaving him there, slowly made his way back to his office. we already know what first step larry took with the intention of running away from his cares. in the house at dillsborough things were almost as bad as they were with him. over and over again mrs. masters told her husband that it was all his fault, and that if he had torn the letter when it was showed to him, everything would have been right by the end of the two months. this he bore with what equanimity he could, shutting himself up very much in his office, occasionally escaping for a quarter of an hour of ease to his friends at the bush, and eating his meals in silence. but when he became aware that his girl was being treated with cruelty,--that she was never spoken to by her stepmother without harsh words, and that her sisters were encouraged to be disdainful to her, then his heart rose within him and he rebelled. he declared aloud that mary should not be persecuted, and if this kind of thing were continued he would defend his girl let the consequences be what they might. "what are you going to defend her against?" asked his wife. "i won't have her ill-used because she refuses to marry at your bidding." "bah! you know as much how to manage a girl as though you were an old maid yourself. cocker her up and make her think that nothing is good enough for her! break her spirit, and make her come round, and teach her to know what it is to have an honest man's house offered to her. if she don't take larry twentyman's she's like to have none of her own before long." but mr. masters would not assent to this plan of breaking his girl's spirit, and so there was continual war in the place and every one there was miserable. mary herself was so unhappy that she convinced herself that it was necessary that some change should be made. then she remembered lady ushant's offer of a home, and not only the offer, but the old lady's assurance that to herself such an arrangement, if possible, would be very comfortable. she did not suggest to herself that she would leave her father's home for ever and always; but it might be that an absence of some months might relieve the absolute misery of their present mode of living. the effect on her father was so sad that she was almost driven to regret that he should have taken her own part. her stepmother was not a bad woman; nor did mary even now think her to be bad. she was a hardworking, painstaking wife, with a good general idea of justice. in the division of puddings and pies and other material comforts of the household she would deal evenly between her own children and her step-daughter. she had not desired to send mary away to an inadequate home, or with a worthless husband. but when the proper home and the proper man were there she was prepared to use any amount of hardship to secure these good things to the family generally. this hardship mary could not endure, nor could mary's father on her behalf, and therefore mary prepared a letter to lady ushant in which, at great length, she told her old friend the whole story. she spoke as tenderly as was possible of all concerned, but declared that her stepmother's feelings on the subject were so strong that every one in the house was made wretched. under these circumstances,--for her father's sake if only for that,--she thought herself bound to leave the house. "it is quite impossible," she said, "that i should do as they wish me. that is a matter on which a young woman must judge for herself. if you could have me for a few months it would perhaps all pass by. i should not dare to ask this but for what you said yourself; and, dear lady ushant, pray remember that i do not want to be idle. there are a great many things i can do; and though i know that nothing can pay for kindness, i might perhaps be able not to be a burden." then she added in a postscript--"papa is everything that is kind;--but then all this makes him so miserable!" when she had kept the letter by her for a day she showed it to her father, and by his consent it was sent. after much consultation it was agreed between them that nothing should be said about it to mrs. masters till the answer should come; and that, should the answer be favourable, the plan should be carried out in spite of any domestic opposition. in this letter mary told as accurately as she could the whole story of larry's courtship, and was very clear in declaring that under no possible circumstances could she encourage any hope. but of course she said not a word as to any other man or as to any love on her side. "have you told her everything?" said her father as he closed the letter. "yes, papa;--everything that there is to be told." then there arose within his own bosom an immense desire to know that secret, so that if possible he might do something to relieve her pain;--but he could not bring himself to ask further questions. lady ushant on receiving the letter much doubted what she ought to do. she acknowledged at once mary's right to appeal to her, and assured herself that the girl's presence would be a comfort and a happiness to herself. if mary were quite alone in the world lady ushant would have been at once prepared to give her a home. but she doubted as to the propriety of taking the girl from her own family. she doubted even whether it would not be better that mary should be left within the influence of larry twentyman's charms. a settlement, an income, and assured comforts for life are very serious things to all people who have reached lady ushant's age. and then she had a doubt within her own mind whether mary might not be debarred from accepting this young man by some unfortunate preference for reginald morton. she had seen them together and had suspected something of the truth before it had glimmered before the eyes of any one in dillsborough. had reginald been so inclined lady ushant would have been very glad to see him marry mary masters. for both their sakes she would have preferred such a match to one with the owner of chowton farm. but she did not think that reginald himself was that way minded, and she fancied that poor mary might be throwing away her prosperity in life were she to wait for reginald's love. larry twentyman was at any rate sure;--and perhaps it might be unwise to separate the girl from her lover. in her doubt she determined to refer the case to reginald himself, and instead of writing to mary she wrote to him. she did not send him mary's letter,--which would, she felt, have been a breach of faith; nor did she mention the name of larry twentyman. but she told him that mary had proposed to come to cheltenham for a long visit because there were disturbances at home,--which disturbances had arisen from her rejection of a certain suitor. lady ushant said a great deal as to the inexpediency of fostering family quarrels, and suggested that mary might perhaps have been a little impetuous. the presence of this lover could hardly do her much injury. these were not days in which young women were forced to marry men. what did he, reginald morton, think about it? he was to remember that as far as she herself was concerned, she dearly loved mary masters and would be delighted to have her at cheltenham; and, so remembering, he was to see the attorney, and mary herself, and if necessary mrs. masters;--and then to report his opinion to cheltenham. then, fearing that her nephew might be away for a day or two, or that he might not be able to perform his commission instantly, and thinking that mary might be unhappy if she received no immediate reply to such a request as hers had been, lady ushant by the same post wrote to her young friend as follows;-- dear mary, reginald will go over and see your father about your proposition. as far as i myself am concerned nothing would give me so much pleasure. this is quite sincere. but the matter is in other respects very important. of course i have kept your letter all to myself, and in writing to reginald i have mentioned no names. your affectionate friend, margaret ushant. chapter xvii. "particularly proud of you." arabella trefoil left her uncle's mansion on the day after her lover's departure, certainly not in triumph, but with somewhat recovered spirits. when she first heard that lord rufford was gone,--that he had fled away as it were in the middle of the night without saying a word to her, without a syllable to make good the slight assurances of his love that had been given to her in the post carriage, she felt that she was deserted and betrayed. and when she found herself altogether neglected on the following day, and that the slightly valuable impression which she had made on her aunt was apparently gone, she did for half an hour think in earnest of the paragon and patagonia. but after a while she called to mind all that she knew of great efforts successfully made in opposition to almost overwhelming difficulties. she had heard of forlorn hopes, and perhaps in her young days had read something of cæsar still clinging to his commentaries as he struggled in the waves. this was her forlorn hope, and she would be as brave as any soldier of them all. lord rufford's embraces were her commentaries, and let the winds blow and the waves roll as they might she would still cling to them. after lunch she spoke to her aunt with great courage,--as the duchess thought with great effrontery. "my uncle wouldn't speak to lord rufford before he went?" "how could he speak to a man who ran away from his house in that way?" "the running away, as you call it, aunt, did not take place till two days after i had told you all about it. i thought he would have done as much as that for his brother's daughter." "i don't believe in it at all," said the duchess sternly. "don't believe in what, aunt? you don't mean to say that you don't believe that lord rufford has asked me to be his wife!" then she paused, but the duchess absolutely lacked the courage to express her conviction again. "i don't suppose it signifies much," continued arabella, "but of course it would have been something to me that lord rufford should have known that the duke was anxious for my welfare. he was quite prepared to have assured my uncle of his intentions." "then why didn't he speak himself?" "because the duke is not my father. really, aunt, when i hear you talk of his running away i do feel it to be unkind. as if we didn't all know that a man like that goes and comes as he pleases. it was just before dinner that he got the message, and was he to run round and wish everybody good-bye like a schoolgirl going to bed?" the duchess was almost certain that no message had come, and from various little things which she had observed and from tidings which had reached her, very much doubted whether arabella had known anything of his intended going. she too had a maid of her own who on occasions could bring information. but she had nothing further to say on the subject. if arabella should ever become lady rufford she would of course among other visitors be occasionally received at mistletoe. she could never be a favourite, but things would to a certain degree have rectified themselves. but if, as the duchess expected, no such marriage took place, then this ill-conducted niece should never be admitted within the house again. later on in the afternoon, some hours after it became dusk, arabella contrived to meet her aunt in the hall with a letter in her hand, and asked where the letter-box was. she knew where to deposit her letters as well as did the duchess herself; but she desired an opportunity of proclaiming what she had done. "i am writing to lord rufford. perhaps as i am in your house i ought to tell you what i have done." "the letter-box is in the billiard-room, close to the door," said the duchess passing on. then she added as she went, "the post for to-day has gone already." "his lordship will have to wait a day for his letter. i dare say it won't break his heart," said arabella, as she turned away to the billiard-room. all this had been planned; and, moreover, she had so written her letter that if her magnificent aunt should condescend to tamper with it all that was in it should seem to corroborate her own story. the duchess would have considered herself disgraced if ever she had done such a thing;--but the niece of the duchess did not quite understand that this would be so. the letter was as follows: mistletoe, th jany. . dearest r., your going off like that was, after all, very horrid. my aunt thinks that you were running away from me. i think that you were running away from her. which was true? in real earnest i don't for a moment think that either i or the duchess had anything to do with it, and that you did go because some horrid man wrote and asked you. i know you don't like being bound by any of the conventionalities. i hope there is such a word, and that if not, you'll understand it just the same. oh, peltry,--and oh, jack,--and oh, that road back to stamford! i am so stiff that i can't sit upright, and everybody is cross to me, and everything is uncomfortable. what horrible things women are! there isn't one here, not even old lady rumpus, who hasn't an unmarried daughter left in the world, who isn't jealous of me, because--because--. i must leave you to guess why they all hate me so! and i'm sure if you had given jack to any other woman i should hate her, though you may give every horse you have to any man that you please. i wonder whether i shall have another day's hunting before it is all over. i suppose not. it was almost by a miracle that we managed yesterday--only fancy--yesterday! it seems to be an age ago! pray, pray, pray write to me at once,--to the connop greens, so that i may get a nice, soft, pleasant word directly i get among those nasty, hard, unpleasant people. they have lots of money, and plenty of furniture, and i dare say the best things to eat and drink in the world,--but nothing else. there will be no jack; and if there were, alas, alas, no one to show me the way to ride him. i start to-morrow, and as far as i understand, shall have to make my way into hampshire all by myself, with only such security as my maid can give me. i shall make her go in the same carriage and shall have the gratification of looking at her all the way. i suppose i ought not to say that i will shut my eyes and try to think that somebody else is there. good-bye dear, dear, dear r. i shall be dying for a letter from you. yours ever, with all my heart. a. i shall write you such a serious epistle when i get to the greens. this was not such a letter as she thought that her aunt would approve; but it was, she fancied, such as the duchess would believe that she would write to her lover. and if it were allowed to go on its way it would make lord rufford feel that she was neither alarmed nor displeased by the suddenness of his departure. but it was not expected to do much good. it might produce some short, joking, half-affectionate reply, but would not draw from him that serious word which was so necessary for the success of her scheme. therefore she had told him that she intended to prepare a serious missile. should this pleasant little message of love miscarry, the serious missile would still be sent, and the miscarriage would occasion no harm. but then further plans were necessary. it might be that lord rufford would take no notice of the serious missile,--which she thought very probable. or it might be that he would send back a serious reply, in which he would calmly explain to her that she had unfortunately mistaken his sentiments;--which she believed would be a stretch of manhood beyond his reach. but in either case she would be prepared with the course which she would follow. in the first she would begin by forcing her father to write to him a letter which she herself would dictate. in the second she would set the whole family at him as far as the family were within her reach. with her cousin lord mistletoe, who was only two years older than herself, she had always held pleasant relations. they had been children together, and as they had grown up the young lord had liked his pretty cousin. latterly they had seen each other but rarely, and therefore the feeling still remained. she would tell lord mistletoe her whole story,--that is the story as she would please to tell it,--and implore his aid. her father should be driven to demand from lord rufford an execution of his alleged promises. she herself would write such a letter to the duke as an uncle should be unable not to notice. she would move heaven and earth as to her wrongs. she thought that if her friends would stick to her, lord rufford would be weak as water in their hands. but it must be all done immediately,--so that if everything failed she might be ready to start to patagonia some time in april. when she looked back and remembered that it was hardly more than two months since she had been taken to rufford hall by mr. morton she could not accuse herself of having lost any time. in london she met her mother,--as to which meeting there had been some doubt,--and underwent the tortures of a close examination. she had thought it prudent on this occasion to tell her mother something, but not to tell anything quite truly. "he has proposed to me," she said. "he has!" said lady augustus, holding up her hands almost in awe. "is there anything so wonderful in that?" "then it is all arranged. does the duke know it?" "it is not all arranged by any means, and the duke does know it. now, mamma, after that i must decline to answer any more questions. i have done this all myself, and i mean to continue it in the same way." "did he speak to the duke? you will tell me that." "i will tell you nothing." "you will drive me mad, arabella." "that will be better than your driving me mad just at present. you ought to feel that i have a great deal to think of." "and have not i?" "you can't help me;--not at present." "but he did propose,--in absolute words?" "mamma, what a goose you are! do you suppose that men do it all now just as it is done in books? 'miss arabella trefoil, will you do me the honour to become my wife?' do you think that lord rufford would ask the question in that way?" "it is a very good way." "any way is a good way that answers the purpose. he has proposed, and i mean to make him stick to it." "you doubt then?" "mamma, you are so silly! do you not know what such a man is well enough to be sure that he'll change his mind half-a-dozen times if he can? i don't mean to let him; and now, after that, i won't say another word." "i have got a letter here from mr. short saying that something must be fixed about mr. morton." mr. short was the lawyer who had been instructed to prepare the settlements. "mr. short may do whatever he likes," said arabella. there were very hot words between them that night in london, but the mother could obtain no further information from her daughter. that serious epistle had been commenced even before arabella had left mistletoe; but the composition was one which required great care, and it was not completed and copied and recopied till she had been two days in hampshire. not even when it was finished did she say a word to her mother about it. she had doubted much as to the phrases which in such an emergency she ought to use, but she thought it safer to trust to herself than to her mother. in writing such a letter as that posted at mistletoe she believed herself to be happy. she could write it quickly, and understood that she could convey to her correspondent some sense of her assumed mood. but her serious letter would, she feared, be stiff and repulsive. whether her fears were right the reader shall judge,--for the letter when written was as follows: marygold place, basingstoke, saturday. my dear lord rufford, you will i suppose have got the letter that i wrote before i left mistletoe, and which i directed to mr. surbiton's. there was not much in it,--except a word or two as to your going and as to my desolation, and just a reminiscence of the hunting. there was no reproach that you should have left me without any farewell, or that you should have gone so suddenly, after saying so much, without saying more. i wanted you to feel that you had made me very happy, and not to feel that your departure in such a way had robbed me of part of the happiness. it was a little bad of you, because it did of course leave me to the hardness of my aunt; and because all the other women there would of course follow her. she had inquired about our journey home, that dear journey home, and i had of course told her,--well i had better say it out at once; i told her that we were engaged. you, i am sure, will think that the truth was best. she wanted to know why you did not go to the duke. i told her that the duke was not my father; but that as far as i was concerned the duke might speak to you or not as he pleased. i had nothing to conceal. i am very glad he did not, because he is pompous, and you would have been bored. if there is one thing i desire more than another it is that nothing belonging to me shall ever be a bore to you. i hope i may never stand in the way of anything that will gratify you,--as i said when you lit that cigar. you will have forgotten, i dare say. but, dear rufford,--dearest; i may say that, mayn't i?--say something, or do something to make me satisfied. you know what i mean;--don't you? it isn't that i am a bit afraid myself. i don't think so little of myself, or so badly of you. but i don't like other women to look at me as though i ought not to be proud of anything. i am proud of everything; particularly proud of you,--and of jack. now there is my serious epistle, and i am sure that you will answer it like a dear, good, kind-hearted, loving--lover. i won't be afraid of writing the word, nor of saying that i love you with all my heart, and that i am always your own arabella. she kept the letter till the sunday, thinking that she might have an answer to that written from mistletoe, and that his reply might alter its tone, or induce her to put it aside altogether; but when on sunday morning none came, her own was sent. the word in it which frightened herself was the word "engaged." she tried various other phrases, but declared to herself at last that it was useless to "beat about the bush." he must know the light in which she was pleased to regard those passages of love which she had permitted so that there might be no mistake. whether the letter would be to his liking or not, it must be of such a nature that it would certainly draw from him an answer on which she could act. she herself did not like the letter; but, considering her difficulties, we may own that it was not much amiss. chapter xviii. lord rufford makes up his mind. as it happened, lord rufford got the two letters together, the cause of which was as follows. when he ran away from mistletoe, as he certainly did, he had thought much about that journey home in the carriage, and was quite aware that he had made an ass of himself. as he sat at dinner on that day at mistletoe his neighbour had said some word to him in joke as to his attachment to miss trefoil, and after the ladies had left the room another neighbour of the other sex had hoped that he had had a pleasant time on the road. again, in the drawing-room it had seemed to him that he was observed. he could not refrain from saying a few words to arabella as she lay on the sofa. not to do so after what had occurred would have been in itself peculiar. but when he did so, some other man who was near her made way for him, as though she were acknowledged to be altogether his property. and then the duchess had striven to catch him, and lead him into special conversation. when this attempt was made he decided that he must at once retreat,--or else make up his mind to marry the young lady. and therefore he retreated. he breakfasted that morning at the inn at stamford, and as he smoked his cigar afterwards, he positively resolved that he would under no circumstances marry arabella trefoil. he was being hunted and run down, and, with the instinct of all animals that are hunted, he prepared himself for escape. it might be said, no doubt would be said, that he behaved badly. that would be said because it would not be open to him to tell the truth. the lady in such a case can always tell her story, with what exaggeration she may please to give, and can complain. the man never can do so. when inquired into, he cannot say that he has been pursued. he cannot tell her friends that she began it, and in point of fact did it all. "she would fall into my arms; she would embrace me; she persisted in asking me whether i loved her!" though a man have to be shot for it, or kicked for it, or even though he have to endure perpetual scorn for it, he cannot say that, let it be ever so true. and yet is a man to be forced into a marriage which he despises? he would not be forced into the marriage,--and the sooner he retreated the less would be the metaphorical shooting and kicking and the real scorn. he must get out of it as best he could;--but that he would get out of it he was quite determined. that afternoon he reached mr. surbiton's house, as did also captain battersby, and his horses, grooms, and other belongings. when there he received a lot of letters, and among others one from mr. runciman, of the bush, inquiring as to a certain hiring of rooms and preparation for a dinner or dinners which had been spoken of in reference to a final shooting decreed to take place in the neighbourhood of dillsborough in the last week of january. such things were often planned by lord rufford, and afterwards forgotten or neglected. when he declared his purpose to runciman, he had not intended to go to mistletoe, nor to stay so long with his friend surbiton. but now he almost thought that it would be better for him to be back at rufford hall, where at present his sister was staying with her husband, sir george penwether. in the evening of the second or third day his old friend tom surbiton said a few words to him which had the effect of sending him back to rufford. they had sat out the rest of the men who formed the party and were alone in the smoking-room. "so you're going to marry miss trefoil," said tom surbiton, who perhaps of all his friends was the most intimate. "who says so?" "i am saying so at present." "you are not saying it on your own authority. you have never seen me and miss trefoil in a room together." "everybody says so. of course such a thing cannot be arranged without being talked about." "it has not been arranged." "if you don't mean to have it arranged, you had better look to it. i am speaking in earnest, rufford. i am not going to give up authorities. indeed if i did i might give up everybody. the very servants suppose that they know it, and there isn't a groom or horseboy about who isn't in his heart congratulating the young lady on her promotion." "i'll tell you what it is, tom." "well;--what is it?" "if this had come from any other man than yourself i should quarrel with him. i am not engaged to the young lady, nor have i done anything to warrant anybody in saying so." "then i may contradict it." "i don't want you either to contradict it or affirm it. it would be an impertinence to the young lady if i were to instruct any one to contradict such a report. but as a fact i am not engaged to marry miss trefoil, nor is there the slightest chance that i ever shall be so engaged." so saying he took up his candlestick and walked off. early on the next morning he saw his friend and made some sort of laughing apology for his heat on the previous evening. "it is so d---- hard when these kind of things are said because a man has lent a young lady a horse. however, tom, between you and me the thing is a lie." "i am very glad to hear it," said tom. "and now i want you to come over to rufford on the twenty-eighth." then he explained the details of his proposed party, and got his friend to promise that he would come. he also made it understood that he was going home at once. there were a hundred things, he said, which made it necessary. so the horses and grooms and servant and portmanteaus were again made to move, and lord rufford left his friend on that day and went up to london on his road to rufford. he was certainly disturbed in his mind, foreseeing that there might be much difficulty in his way. he remembered with fair accuracy all that had occurred during the journey from stamford to mistletoe. he felt assured that up to that time he had said nothing which could be taken to mean a real declaration of love. all that at rufford had been nothing. he had never said a word which could justify the girl in a hope. in the carriage she had asked him whether he loved her, and he had said that he did. he had also declared that he would do anything in his power to make her happy. was a man to be bound to marry a girl because of such a scene as that? there was, however, nothing for him to do except to keep out of the girl's way. if she took any steps, then he must act. but as he thought of it, he swore to himself that nothing should induce him to marry her. he remained a couple of days in town and reached rufford hall on the monday,--just a week from the day of that fatal meet at peltry. there he found sir george and his sister and miss penge, and spent his first evening in quiet. on the tuesday he hunted with the u. r. u., and made his arrangements with runciman. he invited hampton to shoot with him. surbiton and battersby were coming, and his brother-in-law. not wishing to have less than six guns he asked hampton how he could make up his party. "morton doesn't shoot," he said, "and is as stiff as a post." then he was told that john morton was supposed to be very ill at bragton. "i'm sick of both the botseys," continued the lord, thinking more of his party than of mr. morton's health. "purefoy is still sulky with me because he killed poor old caneback." then hampton suggested that if he would ask lawrence twentyman it might be the means of saving that unfortunate young man's life. the story of his unrequited love was known to every one at dillsborough and it was now told to lord rufford. "he is not half a bad fellow," said hampton, "and quite as much like a gentleman as either of the botseys." "i shall be delighted to save the life of so good a man on such easy terms," said the lord. then and there, with a pencil, on the back of an old letter, he wrote a line to larry asking him to shoot on next saturday and to dine with him afterwards at the bush. that evening on his return home he found both the letters from arabella. as it happened he read them in the order in which they had been written, first the laughing letter, and then the one that was declared to be serious. the earlier of the two did not annoy him much. it contained hardly more than those former letters which had induced him to go to mistletoe. but the second letter opened up her entire strategy. she had told the duchess that she was engaged to him, and the duchess of course would have told the duke. and now she wrote to him asking him to acknowledge the engagement in black and white. the first letter he might have ignored. he might have left it unanswered without gross misconduct. but the second letter, which she herself had declared to be a serious epistle, was one which he could not neglect. now had come his difficulty. what must he do? how should he answer it? was it imperative on him to write the words with his own hand? would it be possible that he should get his sister to undertake the commission? he said nothing about it to any one for four and twenty hours; but he passed those hours in much discomfort. it did seem so hard to him that because he had been forced to carry a lady home from hunting in a postchaise, that he should be driven to such straits as this! the girl was evidently prepared to make a fight of it. there would be the duke and the duchess and that prig mistletoe, and that idle ass lord augustus, and that venomous old woman her mother, all at him. he almost doubted whether a shooting excursion in central africa or a visit to the pampas would not be the best thing for him. but still, though he should resolve to pass five years among the andes, he must answer the lady's letter before he went. then he made up his mind that he would tell everything to his brother-in-law, as far as everything can be told in such a matter. sir george was near fifty, full fifteen years older than his wife, who was again older than her brother. he was a man of moderate wealth, very much respected, and supposed to be possessed of almost infinite wisdom. he was one of those few human beings who seem never to make a mistake. whatever he put his hand to came out well;--and yet everybody liked him his brother-in-law was a little afraid of him, but yet was always glad to see him. he kept an excellent house in london, but having no country house of his own passed much of his time at rufford hall when the owner was not there. in spite of the young peer's numerous faults sir george was much attached to him, and always ready to help him in his difficulties. "penwether," said the lord, "i have got myself into an awful scrape." "i am sorry to hear it. a woman, i suppose." "oh, yes. i never gamble, and therefore no other scrape can be awful. a young lady wants to marry me." "that is not unnatural." "but i am quite determined, let the result be what it may, that i won't marry the young lady." "that will be unfortunate for her, and the more so if she has a right to expect it. is the young lady miss trefoil?" "i did not mean to mention any name,--till i was sure it might be necessary. but it is miss trefoil." "eleanor had told me something of it." "eleanor knows nothing about this, and i do not wish you to tell her. the young lady was here with her mother,--and for the matter of that with a gentleman to whom she was certainly engaged;--but nothing particular occurred here. that unfortunate ball was going on when poor caneback was dying. but i met her since that at mistletoe." "i can hardly advise, you know, unless you tell me everything." then lord rufford began. "these kind of things are sometimes deuced hard upon a man. of course if a man were a saint or a philosopher or a joseph he wouldn't get into such scrapes,--and perhaps every man ought to be something of that sort. but i don't know how a man is to do it, unless it's born with him." "a little prudence i should say." "you might as well tell a fellow that it is his duty to be six feet high." "but what have you said to the young lady,--or what has she said to you?" "there has been a great deal more of the latter than the former. i say so to you, but of course it is not to be said that i have said so. i cannot go forth to the world complaining of a young lady's conduct to me. it is a matter in which a man must not tell the truth." "but what is the truth?" "she writes me word to say that she has told all her friends that i am engaged to her, and kindly presses me to make good her assurances by becoming so." "and what has passed between you?" "a fainting fit in a carriage and half-a-dozen kisses." "nothing more?" "nothing more that is material. of course one cannot tell it all down to each mawkish word of humbugging sentiment. there are her letters, and what i want you to remember is that i never asked her to be my wife, and that no consideration on earth shall induce me to become her husband. though all the duchesses in england were to persecute me to the death i mean to stick to that." then sir george read the letters and handed them back. "she seems to me," said he, "to have more wit about her than any of the family that i have had the honour of meeting." "she has wit enough,--and pluck too." "you have never said a word to her to encourage these hopes." "my dear penwether, don't you know that if a man with a large income says to a girl like that that the sun shines he encourages hope. i understand that well enough. i am a rich man with a title, and a big house, and a great command of luxuries. there are so many young ladies who would also like to be rich, and to have a title, and a big house, and a command of luxuries! one sometimes feels oneself like a carcase in the midst of vultures." "marry after a proper fashion, and you'll get rid of all that." "i'll think about it, but in the meantime what can i say to this young woman? when i acknowledge that i kissed her, of course i encouraged hopes." "no doubt." "but st. anthony would have had to kiss this young woman if she had made her attack upon him as she did on me;--and after all a kiss doesn't go for everything. these are things, penwether, that must not be inquired into too curiously. but i won't marry her though it were a score of kisses. and now what must i do?" sir george said that he would take till the next morning to think about it,--meaning to make a draft of the reply which he thought his brother-in-law might best send to the lady. chapter xix. it cannot be arranged. when reginald morton received his aunt's letter he understood from it more than she had intended. of course the man to whom allusion was made was mr. twentyman; and of course the discomfort at home had come from mrs. masters' approval of that suitor's claim. reginald, though he had seen but little of the inside of the attorney's household, thought it very probable that the stepmother would make the girl's home very uncomfortable for her. though he knew well all the young farmer's qualifications as a husband,--namely that he was well to do in the world and bore a good character for honesty and general conduct,--still he thoroughly, nay heartily approved of mary's rejection of the man's hand. it seemed to him to be sacrilege that such a one should have given to him such a woman. there was, to his thinking, something about mary masters that made it altogether unfit that she should pass her life as the mistress of chowton farm, and he honoured her for the persistence of her refusal. he took his pipe and went out into the garden in order that he might think of it all as he strolled round his little domain. but why should he think so much about it? why should he take so deep an interest in the matter? what was it to him whether mary masters married after her kind, or descended into what he felt to be an inferior manner of life? then he tried to tell himself what were the gifts in the girl's possession which made her what she was, and he pictured her to himself, running over all her attributes. it was not that she specially excelled in beauty. he had seen miss trefoil as she was being driven about the neighbourhood, and having heard much of the young lady as the future wife of his own cousin, had acknowledged to himself that she was very handsome. but he had thought at the same time that under no possible circumstances could he have fallen in love with miss trefoil. he believed that he did not care much for female beauty, and yet he felt that he could sit and look at mary masters by the hour together. there was a quiet even composure about her, always lightened by the brightness of her modest eyes, which seemed to tell him of some mysterious world within, which was like the unseen loveliness that one fancies to be hidden within the bosom of distant mountains. there was a poem to be read there of surpassing beauty, rhythmical and eloquent as the music of the spheres, if it might only be given to a man to read it. there was an absence, too, of all attempt at feminine self-glorification which he did not analyse but thoroughly appreciated. there was no fussy amplification of hair, no made-up smiles, no affectation either in her good humour or her anger, no attempt at effect in her gait, in her speech, or her looks. she seemed to him to be one who had something within her on which she could feed independently of the grosser details of the world to which it was her duty to lend her hand. and then her colour charmed his eyes. miss trefoil was white and red;--white as pearl powder and red as paint. mary masters, to tell the truth, was brown. no doubt that was the prevailing colour, if one colour must be named. but there was so rich a tint of young life beneath the surface, so soft but yet so visible an assurance of blood and health and spirit, that no one could describe her complexion by so ugly a word without falsifying her gifts. in all her movements she was tranquil, as a noble woman should be. even when she had turned from him with some anger at the bridge, she had walked like a princess. there was a certainty of modesty about her which was like a granite wall or a strong fortress. as he thought of it all he did not understand how such a one as lawrence twentyman should have dared to ask her to be his wife,--or should even have wished it. we know what were her feelings in regard to himself,--how she had come to look almost with worship on the walls within which he lived; but he had guessed nothing of this. even now, when he knew that she had applied to his aunt in order that she might escape from her lover, it did not occur to him that she could care for himself. he was older than she, nearly twenty years older, and even in his younger years, in the hard struggles of his early life, had never regarded himself as a man likely to find favour with women. there was in his character much of that modesty for which he gave her such infinite credit. though he thought but little of most of those around him, he thought also but little of himself. it would break his heart to ask and be refused;--but he could, he fancied, live very well without mary masters. such, at any rate, had been his own idea of himself hitherto; and now, though he was driven to think much of her, though on the present occasion he was forced to act on her behalf, he would not tell himself that he wanted to take her for his wife. he constantly assured himself that he wanted no wife, that for him a solitary life would be the best. but yet it made him wretched when he reflected that some man would assuredly marry mary masters. he had heard of that excellent but empty-headed young man mr. surtees. when the idea occurred to him he found himself reviling mr. surtees as being of all men the most puny, the most unmanly, and the least worthy of marrying mary masters. now that mr. twentyman was certainly disposed of, he almost became jealous of mr. surtees. it was not till three or four o'clock in the afternoon that he went out on his commission to the attorney's house, having made up his mind that he would do everything in his power to facilitate mary's proposed return to cheltenham. he asked first for mr. masters and then for miss masters, and learned that they were both out together. but he had been desired also to see mrs. masters, and on inquiring for her was again shown into the grand drawing-room. here he remained a quarter of an hour while the lady of the house was changing her cap and apron, which he spent in convincing himself that this house was altogether an unfit residence for mary. in the chamber in which he was standing it was clear enough that no human being ever lived. mary's drawing-room ought to be a bower in which she at least might pass her time with books and music and pretty things around her. the squalor of the real living room might be conjectured from the untouched cleanliness of this useless sanctum. at last the lady came to him and welcomed him with very grim courtesy. as a client of her husband he was very well;--but as a nephew of lady ushant he was injurious. it was he who had carried mary away to cheltenham where she had been instigated to throw her bread-and-butter into the fire,--as mrs. masters expressed it,--by that pernicious old woman lady ushant. "mr. masters is out walking," she said. reginald clearly understood by the contempt which she threw almost unconsciously into her words that she did not approve of her husband going out walking at such an hour. "i had a message for him--and also for you. my aunt, lady ushant, is very anxious that your daughter mary should return to her at cheltenham for a while." the proposition to mrs. masters' thinking was so monstrous, and was at the same time so unexpected, that it almost took away her breath. at any rate she stood for a moment speechless. "my aunt is very fond of your daughter," he continued, "and if she can be spared would be delighted to have her. perhaps she has written to miss masters, but she has asked me to come over and see if it cannot be arranged." "it cannot be arranged," said mrs. masters. "nothing of the kind can be arranged." "i am sorry for that." "it is only disturbing the girl, and upsetting her, and filling her head full of nonsense. what is she to do at cheltenham? this is her home and here she had better be." though things had hitherto gone very badly, though larry twentyman had not shown himself since the receipt of the letter, still mrs. masters had not abandoned all hope. she was fixed in opinion that if her husband were joined with her they could still, between them, so break the girl's spirit as to force her into a marriage. "as for letters," she continued, "i don't know anything about them. there may have been letters but if so they have been kept from me." she was so angry that she could not even attempt to conceal her wrath. "lady ushant thinks--" began the messenger. "oh yes, lady ushant is very well of course. lady ushant is your aunt, mr. morton, and i haven't anything to say against her. but lady ushant can't do any good to that girl. she has got her bread to earn, and if she won't do it one way then she must do it another. she's obstinate and pigheaded, that's the truth of it. and her father's just as bad. he has taken her out now merely because she likes to be idle, and to go about thinking herself a fine lady. lady ushant doesn't do her any good at all by cockering her up." "my aunt, you know, saw very much of her when she was young." "i know she did, mr. morton; and all that has to be undone,--and i have got the undoing of it. lady ushant is one thing and her papa's business is quite another. at any rate if i have my say she'll not go to cheltenham any more. i don't mean to be uncivil to you, mr. morton, or to say anything as oughtn't to be said of your aunt. but when you can't make people anything but what they are, it's my opinion that it's best to leave them alone. good day to you, sir, and i hope you understand what it is that i mean." then morton retreated and went down the stairs, leaving the lady in possession of her own grandeur. he had not quite understood what she had meant, and was still wondering at the energy of her opposition when he met mary herself at the front door. her father was not with her, but his retreating form was to be seen entering the portal of the bush. "oh, mr. morton!" exclaimed mary surprised to have the house-door opened for her by him. "i have come with a message from my aunt." "she told me that you would do so." "lady ushant would of course be delighted to have you if it could be arranged." "then lady ushant will be disappointed," said mrs. masters who had descended the stairs. "there has been something going on behind my back." "i wrote to lady ushant," said mary. "i call that sly and deceitful;--very sly and very deceitful. if i know it you won't stir out of this house to go to cheltenham. i wonder lady ushant would go to put you up in that way against those you're bound to obey." "i thought mrs. masters had been told," said reginald. "papa did know that i wrote," said mary. "yes;--and in this way a conspiracy is to be made up in the house! if she goes to cheltenham i won't stay here. you may tell lady ushant that i say that. i'm not going to be one thing one day and another another, and to be made a tool of all round." by this time dolly and kate had come down from the upper regions and were standing behind their mother. "what do you two do there, standing gaping like fools?" said the angry mother. "i suppose your father has gone over to the public-house again. that, miss, is what comes from your pigheadedness. didn't i tell you that you were ruining everybody belonging to you?" before all this was over reginald morton had escaped, feeling that he could do no good to either side by remaining a witness to such a scene. he must take some other opportunity of finding the attorney and of learning from him whether he intended that his daughter should be allowed to accept lady ushant's invitation. poor mary as she shrunk into the house was nearly heartbroken. that such things should be at all was very dreadful, but that the scene should have taken place in the presence of reginald morton was an aggravation of the misery which nearly overwhelmed her. how could she make him understand whence had arisen her stepmother's anger and that she herself had been neither sly nor deceitful nor pigheaded? chapter xx. "but there is some one." when mr. masters had gone across to the bush his purpose had certainly been ignoble, but it had had no reference to brandy and water. and the allusion made by mrs. masters to the probable ruin which was to come from his tendencies in that direction had been calumnious, for she knew that the man was not given to excess in liquor. but as he approached his own house he bethought himself that it would not lead to domestic comfort if he were seen returning from his walk with mary, and he had therefore made some excuse as to the expediency of saying a word to runciman whom he espied at his own door. he said his word to runciman, and so loitered away perhaps a quarter of an hour, and then went back to his office. but his wife had kept her anger at burning heat and pounced upon him before he had taken his seat. sundown was there copying, sitting with his eyes intent on the board before him as though he were quite unaware of the sudden entrance of his master's wife. she in her fury did not regard sundown in the least, but at once commenced her attack. "what is all this, mr. masters," she said, "about lady ushant and going to cheltenham? i won't have any going to cheltenham and that's flat." now the attorney had altogether made up his mind that his daughter should go to cheltenham if her friend would receive her. whatever might be the consequences, they must be borne. but he thought it best to say nothing at the first moment of the attack, and simply turned his sorrowful round face in silence up to the partner of all his cares and the source of so many of them. "there have been letters," continued the lady;--"letters which nobody has told me nothing about. that proud peacock from hoppet hall has been here, as though he had nothing to do but carry mary away about the country just as he pleased. mary won't go to cheltenham with him nor yet without him;--not if i am to remain here." "where else should you remain, my dear?" asked the attorney. "i'd sooner go into the workhouse than have all this turmoil. that's where we are all likely to go if you pass your time between walking about with that minx and the public-house opposite." then the attorney was aware that he had been watched, and his spirit began to rise within him. he looked at sundown, but the man went on copying quicker than ever. "my dear," said mr. masters, "you shouldn't talk in that way before the clerk. i wanted to speak to mr. runciman, and, as to the workhouse, i don't know that there is any more danger now than there has been for the last twenty years." "it's always off and on as far as i can see. do you mean to send that girl to cheltenham?" "i rather think she had better go--for a time." "then i shall leave this house and go with my girls to norrington." now this threat, which had been made before, was quite without meaning. mrs. masters' parents were both dead, and her brother, who had a large family, certainly would not receive her. "i won't remain here, mr. masters, if i ain't to be mistress of my own house. what is she to go to cheltenham for, i should like to know?" then sundown was desired by his wretched employer to go into the back settlement and the poor man prepared himself for the battle as well as he could. "she is not happy here," he said. "whose fault is that? why shouldn't she be happy? of course you know what it means. she has got round you because she wants to be a fine lady. what means have you to make her a fine lady? if you was to die to-morrow what would there be for any of 'em? my little bit of money is all gone. let her stay here and be made to marry lawrence twentyman. that's what i say." "she will never marry mr. twentyman." "not if you go on like this she won't. if you'd done your duty by her like a real father instead of being afraid of her when she puts on her tantrums, she'd have been at chowton farm by this time." it was clear to him that now was the time not to be afraid of his wife when she put on her tantrums,--or at any rate, to appear not to be afraid. "she has been very unhappy of late." "oh, unhappy! she's been made more of than anybody else in this house." "and a change will do her good. she has my permission to go;--and go she shall!" then the word had been spoken. "she shall!" "it is very much for the best. while she is here the house is made wretched for us all." "it'll be wretcheder yet; unless it would make you happy to see me dead on the threshold,--which i believe it would. as for her, she's an ungrateful, sly, wicked slut." "she has done nothing wicked that i know of." "not writing to that old woman behind my back?" "she told me what she was doing and showed me the letter." "yes; of course. the two of you were in it. does that make it any better? i say it was sly and wicked; and you were sly and wicked as well as she. she has got the better of you, and now you are going to send her away from the only chance she'll ever get of having a decent home of her own over her head." "there's nothing more to be said about it, my dear. she'll go to lady ushant." having thus pronounced his dictum with all the marital authority he was able to assume he took his hat and sallied forth. mrs. masters, when she was left alone, stamped her foot and hit the desk with a ruler that was lying there. then she went up-stairs and threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of weeping and wailing. mr. masters, when he closed his door, looked up the street and down the street and then again went across to the bush. mr. runciman was still there, and was standing with a letter in his hand, while one of the grooms from rufford hall was holding a horse beside him. "any answer, mr. runciman?" said the groom. "only to tell his lordship that everything will be ready for him. you'd better go through and give the horse a feed of corn, and get a bit of something to eat and a glass of beer yourself." the man wasn't slow to do as he was bid;--and in this way the bush had become very popular with the servants of the gentry around the place. "his lordship is to be here from friday to sunday with a party, mr. masters." "oh, indeed." "for the end of the shooting. and who do you think he has asked to be one of the party?" "not mr. reginald?" "i don't think they ever spoke in their lives. who but larry twentyman!" "no!" "it'll be the making of larry. i only hope he won't cock his beaver too high." "is he coming?" "i suppose so. he'll be sure to come. his lordship only tells me that there are to be six of 'em on saturday and five on friday night. but the lad there knew who they all were. there's mr. surbiton and captain battersby and sir george are to come over with his lordship from rufford. and young mr. hampton is to join them here, and larry twentyman is to shoot with them on saturday and dine afterwards. won't those two botseys be jealous; that's all?" "it only shows what they think of larry," said the attorney. "larry twentyman is a very good fellow," said the landlord. "i don't know a better fellow round dillsborough, or one who is more always on the square. but he's weak. you know him as well as i, mr. masters." "he's not so weak but what he can keep what he's got." "this'll be the way to try him. he'd melt away like water into sand if he were to live for a few weeks with such men as his lordship's friends. i suppose there's no chance of his taking a wife home to chowton with him?" the attorney shook his head. "that'd be the making of him, mr. masters; a good girl like that who'd keep him at home. if he takes it to heart he'll burst out somewhere and spend a lot of money." the attorney declined mr. runciman's offer of a glass of beer and slowly made his way round the corner of the inn by hobb's gate to the front door of hoppet hall. then he passed on to the churchyard, still thinking of the misery of his position. when he reached the church he turned back, still going very slowly, and knocked at the door of hoppet hall. he was shown at once by reginald's old housekeeper up to the library, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the master of the house. "i was over looking for you an hour or two ago," said reginald. "i heard you were there, mr. morton, and so i thought i would come to you. you didn't see mary?" "i just saw her,--but could hardly say much. she had written to my aunt about going to cheltenham." "i saw the letter before she sent it, mr. morton." "so she told me. my aunt would be delighted to have her, but it seems that mrs. masters does not wish her to go." "there is some trouble about it, mr. morton;--but i may as well tell you at once that i wish her to go. she would be better for awhile at cheltenham with such a lady as your aunt than she can be at home. her stepmother and she cannot agree on a certain point. i dare say you know what it is, mr. morton?" "in regard, i suppose, to mr. twentyman?" "just that. mrs. masters thinks that mr. twentyman would make an excellent husband. and so do i. there's nothing in the world against him, and as compared with me he's a rich man. i couldn't give the poor girl any fortune, and he wouldn't want any. but money isn't everything." "no indeed." "he's an industrious steady young man too, and he has had my word with him all through. but i can't compel my girl to marry him if she don't like him. i can't even try to compel her. she's as good a girl as ever stirred about a house." "i can well believe that." "and nothing would take such a load off me as to know that she was going to be well married. but as she don't like the young man well enough, i won't have her hardly used." "mrs. masters perhaps is--hard to her." "god forbid i should say anything against my wife. i never did, and i won't now. but mary will be better away; and if lady ushant will be good enough to take her, she shall go." "when will she be ready, mr. masters?" "i must ask her about that;--in a week perhaps, or ten days." "she is quite decided against the young man?" "quite. at the bidding of all of us she said she'd take two months to think of it. but before the time was up she wrote to him to say it could never be. it quite upset my wife; because it would have been such an excellent arrangement." reginald wished to learn more but hardly knew how to ask the father questions. yet, as he had been trusted so far, he thought that he might be trusted altogether. "i must own," he said, "that i think that mr. twentyman would hardly be a fit husband for your daughter." "he is a very good young man." "very likely;--but she is something more than a very good young woman. a young lady with her gifts will be sure to settle well in life some day." the attorney shook his head. he had lived long enough to see many young ladies with good gifts find it difficult to settle in life; and perhaps that mysterious poem which reginald found in mary's eyes was neither visible nor audible to mary's father. "i did hear," said reginald, "that mr. surtees--" "there's nothing in that." "oh, indeed. i thought that perhaps as she is so determined not to do as her friends would wish, that there might be something else." he said this almost as a question, looking close into the attorney's eyes as he spoke. "it is always possible," said mr. masters. "but you don't think there is anybody?" "it is very hard to say, mr. morton." "you don't expect anything of that sort?" then the attorney broke forth into sudden confidence. "to tell the truth then, mr. morton, i think there is somebody, though who it is i know as little as the baby unborn. she sees nobody here at dillsborough to be intimate with. she isn't one of those who would write letters or do anything on the sly." "but there is some one?" "she told me as much herself. that is, when i asked her she would not deny it. then i thought that perhaps it might be somebody at cheltenham." "i think not." "she was there so short a time, mr. morton; and lady ushant would be the last person in the world to let such a thing as that go on without telling her parents." "i don't think there was any one at cheltenham. she was only there a month." "i did fancy that perhaps that was one reason why she should want to go back." "i don't believe it. i don't in the least believe it," said reginald enthusiastically. "my aunt would have been sure to have seen it. it would have been impossible without her knowledge. but there is somebody?" "i think so, mr. morton;--and if she does go to cheltenham perhaps lady ushant had better know." to this reginald agreed, or half agreed. it did not seem to him to be of much consequence what might be done at cheltenham. he felt certain that the lover was not there. and yet who was there at dillsborough? he had seen those young botseys about. could it possibly be one of them? and during the christmas vacation the rector's scamp of a son had been home from oxford,--to whom mary masters had barely spoken. was it young mainwaring? or could it be possible that she had turned an eye of favour on dr. nupper's elegantly-dressed assistant. there was nothing too monstrous for him to suggest to himself as soon as the attorney had left him. but there was a young man in dillsborough,--one man at any rate young enough to be a lover,--of whom reginald did not think; as to whom, had his name been suggested as that of the young man to whom mary's heart had been given, he would have repudiated such a suggestion with astonishment and anger. but now, having heard this from the girl's father, he was again vexed, and almost as much disgusted as when he had first become aware that larry twentyman was a suitor for her hand. why should he trouble himself about a girl who was ready to fall in love with the first man that she saw about the place? he tried to pacify himself by some such question as this, but tried in vain. chapter xxi. the dinner at the bush. here is the letter which at his brother-in-law's advice lord rufford wrote to arabella: rufford, february, . my dear miss trefoil, it is a great grief to me that i should have to answer your letter in a manner that will i fear not be satisfactory to you. i can only say that you have altogether mistaken me if you think that i have said anything which was intended as an offer of marriage. i cannot but be much flattered by your good opinion. i have had much pleasure from our acquaintance, and i should have been glad if it could have been continued. but i have had no thoughts of marriage. if i have said a word which has, unintentionally on my part, given rise to such an idea i can only beg your pardon heartily. if i were to add more after what i have now said perhaps you would take it as an impertinence. yours most sincerely, rufford. he had desired to make various additions and suggestions which however had all been disallowed by sir george penwether. he had proposed among other things to ask her whether he should keep jack for her for the remainder of the season or whether he should send the horse elsewhere, but sir george would not allow a word in the letter about jack. "you did give her the horse then?" he asked. "i had hardly any alternative as the things went. she would have been quite welcome to the horse if she would have let me alone afterwards." "no doubt; but when young gentlemen give young ladies horses--" "i know all about it, my dear fellow. pray don't preach more than you can help. of course i have been an infernal ass. i know all that. but as the horse is hers--" "say nothing about the horse. were she to ask for it of course she could have it; but that is not likely." "and you think i had better say nothing else." "not a word. of course it will be shown to all her friends and may possibly find its way into print. i don't know what steps such a young lady may be advised to take. her uncle is a man of honour. her father is an ass and careless about everything. mistletoe will not improbably feel himself bound to act as though he were her brother. they will, of course, all think you to be a rascal,--and will say so." "if mistletoe says so i'll horsewhip him." "no you won't, rufford. you will remember that this woman is a woman, and that a woman's friends are bound to stand up for her. after all your hands are not quite clean in the matter." "i am heavy enough on myself, penwether. i have been a fool and i own it. but i have done nothing unbecoming a gentleman." he was almost tempted to quarrel with his brother-in-law, but at last he allowed the letter to be sent just as sir george had written it, and then tried to banish the affair from his mind for the present so that he might enjoy his life till the next hostile step should be taken by the trefoil clan. when larry twentyman received the lord's note, which was left at chowton farm by hampton's groom, he was in the lowest depth of desolation. he had intended to hunt that day in compliance with john morton's advice, but had felt himself quite unable to make the effort. it was not only that he had been thrown over by mary masters, but that everybody knew that he had been thrown over. if he had kept the matter secret, perhaps he might have borne it;--but it is so hard to bear a sorrow of which all one's neighbours are conscious. when a man is reduced by poverty to the drinking of beer instead of wine, it is not the loss of the wine that is so heavy on him as the consciousness that those around him are aware of the reason. and he is apt to extend his idea of this consciousness to a circle that is altogether indifferent of the fact. that a man should fail in his love seems to him to be of all failures the most contemptible, and larry thought that there would not be one in the field unaware of his miserable rejection. in spite of his mother's prayers he had refused to go, and had hung about the farm all day. then there came to him lord rufford's note. it had been quite unexpected, and a month or two before, when his hopes had still been high in regard to mary masters, would have filled him with delight. it was the foible of his life to be esteemed a gentleman, and his poor ambition to be allowed to live among men of higher social standing than himself. those dinners of lord rufford's at the bush had been a special grief to him. the young lord had been always courteous to him in the field, and he had been able, as he thought, to requite such courtesy by little attentions in the way of game preserving. if pheasants from dillsborough wood ate goarly's wheat, so did they eat larry twentyman's barley. he had a sportsman's heart, above complaint as to such matters, and had always been neighbourly to the lord. no doubt pheasants and hares were left at his house whenever there was shooting in the neighbourhood,--which to his mother afforded great consolation. but larry did not care for the pheasants and hares. had he so pleased he could have shot them on his own land; but he did not preserve, and, as a good neighbour, he regarded the pheasants and hares as lord rufford's property. he felt that he was behaving as a gentleman as well as a neighbour, and that he should be treated as such. fred botsey had dined at the bush with lord rufford, and larry looked on fred as in no way better than himself. now at last the invitation had come. he was asked to a day's shooting and to dine with the lord and his party at the inn. how pleasant would it be to give a friendly nod to runciman as he went into the room, and to assert afterwards in botsey's hearing something of the joviality of the evening. of course hampton would be there as hampton's servant had brought the note, and he was very anxious to be on friendly terms with mr. hampton. next to the lord himself there was no one in the hunt who carried his head so high as young hampton. but there arose to him the question whether all this had not arrived too late! of what good is it to open up the true delights of life to a man when you have so scotched and wounded him that he has no capability left of enjoying anything? as he sat lonely with his pipe in his mouth he thought for a while that he would decline the invitation. the idea of selling chowton farm and of establishing himself at some antipodes in which the name of mary masters should never have been heard, was growing upon him. of what use would the friendship of lord rufford be to him at the other side of the globe? at last, however, the hope of giving that friendly nod to runciman overcame him, and he determined to go. he wrote a note, which caused him no little thought, presenting his compliments to lord rufford and promising to meet his lordship's party at dillsborough wood. the shooting went off very well and larry behaved himself with propriety. he wanted the party to come in and lunch, and had given sundry instructions to his mother on that head. but they did not remain near to his place throughout the day, and his efforts in that direction were not successful. between five and six he went home, and at half-past seven appeared at the bush attired in his best. he never yet had sat down with a lord, and his mind misgave him a little; but he had spirit enough to look about for runciman,--who, however, was not to be seen. sir george was not there, but the party had been made up, as regarded the dinner, by the addition of captain glomax, who had returned from hunting. captain glomax was in high glee, having had,--as he declared,--the run of the season. when a master has been deserted on any day by the choice spirits of his hunt he is always apt to boast to them that he had on that occasion the run of the season. he had taken a fox from impington right across to hogsborough, which, as every one knows, is just on the borders of the u. r. u., had then run him for five miles into lord chiltern's country, and had killed him in the centre of the brake hunt, after an hour and a half, almost without a check. "it was one of those straight things that one doesn't often see now-a-days," said glomax. "any pace?" asked lord rufford. "very good, indeed, for the first forty minutes. i wish you had all been there. it was better fun i take it than shooting rabbits." then hampton put the captain through his facings as to time and distance and exact places that had been passed, and ended by expressing an opinion that he could have kicked his hat as fast on foot. whereupon the captain begged him to try, and hinted that he did not know the country. in answer to which hampton offered to bet a five-pound note that young jack runce would say that the pace had been slow. jack was the son of the old farmer whom the senator had so disgusted, and was supposed to know what he was about on a horse. but glomax declined the bet saying that he did not care a ---- for jack runce. he knew as much about pace as any farmer, or for the matter of that any gentleman, in ufford or rufford, and the pace for forty minutes had been very good. nevertheless all the party were convinced that the "thing" had been so slow that it had not been worth riding to;--a conviction which is not uncommon with gentlemen when they have missed a run. in all this discussion poor larry took no great part though he knew the country as well as any one. larry had not as yet got over the awe inspired by the lord in his black coat. perhaps larry's happiest moment in the evening was when runciman himself brought in the soup, for at that moment lord rufford put his hand on his shoulder and desired him to sit down,--and runciman both heard and saw it. and at dinner, when the champagne had been twice round, he became more comfortable. the conversation got upon goarly, and in reference to that matter he was quite at home. "it's not my doing," said lord rufford. "i have instructed no one to keep him locked up." "it's a very good job from all that i can hear," said tom surbiton. "all i did was to get mr. masters here to take up the case for me, and i learned from him to-day that the rascal had already agreed to take the money i offered. he only bargains that it shall be paid into his own hands,--no doubt desiring to sell the attorney he has employed." "bearside has got his money from the american senator, my lord," said larry. "they may fight it out among them. i don't care who gets the money or who pays it as long as i'm not imposed upon." "we must proceed against that man scrobby," said glomax with all the authority of a master. "you'll never convict him on goarly's evidence," said the lord. then larry could give them further information. nickem had positively traced the purchase of the red herrings. an old woman in rufford was ready to swear that she herself had sold them to mrs. scrobby. tom surbiton suggested that the possession of red herrings was not of itself a crime. hampton thought that it was corroborative. captain battersby wanted to know whether any of the herrings were still in existence, so that they could be sworn to. glomax was of opinion that villainy of so deep a dye could not have taken place in any other hunting country in england. "there's been strychnine put down in the brake too," said hampton. "but not in cartloads," said the master. "i rather think," said larry, "that nickem knows where the strychnine was bought. that'll make a clear case of it. hanging would be too good for such a scoundrel." this was said after the third glass of champagne, but the opinion was one which was well received by the whole company. after that the senator's conduct was discussed, and they all agreed that in the whole affair that was the most marvellous circumstance. "they must be queer people over there," said larry. "brutes!" said glomax. "they once tried a pack of hounds somewhere in one of the states, but they never could run a yard." there was a good deal of wine drank, which was not unusual at lord rufford's dinners. most of the company were seasoned vessels, and none of them were much the worse for what they drank. but the generous wine got to larry's heart, and perhaps made his brain a little soft. lord rufford remembering what had been said about the young man's misery tried to console him by attention; and as the evening wore on, and when the second cigars had been lit all round, the two were seated together in confidential conversation at a corner of the table. "yes, my lord; i think i shall hook it," said larry. "something has occurred that has made the place not quite so comfortable to me; and as it is all my own i think i shall sell it." "we should miss you immensely in the hunt," said lord rufford, who of course knew what the something was. "it's very kind of you to say so, my lord. but there are things which may make a man go." "nothing serious, i hope." "just a young woman, my lord. i don't want it talked about, but i don't mind mentioning it to you." "you should never let those troubles touch you so closely," said his lordship, whose own withers at this moment were by no means unwrung. "i dare say not. but if you feel it, how are you to help it? i shall do very well when i get away. chowton farm is not the only spot in the world." "but a man so fond of hunting as you are!" "well;--yes. i shall miss the hunting, my lord,--shan't i? if mr. morton don't buy the place i should like it to go to your lordship. i offered it to him first because it came from them." "quite right. by-the-bye, i hear that mr. morton is very ill." "so i heard," said larry. "nupper has been with him, i know, and i fancy they have sent for somebody from london. i don't know that he cares much about the land. he thinks more of the foreign parts he's always in. i don't believe we should fall out about the price, my lord." then lord rufford explained that he would not go into that matter just at present, but that if the place were in the market he would certainly like to buy it. he, however, did as john morton had done before, and endeavoured to persuade the poor fellow that he should not alter the whole tenor of his life because a young lady would not look at him. "good night, mr. runciman," said larry as he made his way down-stairs to the yard. "we've had an uncommon pleasant evening." "i'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, larry." larry thought that his christian name from the hotel keeper's lips had never sounded so offensively as on the present occasion. chapter xxii. miss trefoil's decision. lord rufford's letter reached arabella at her cousin's house, in due course, and was handed to her in the morning as she came down to breakfast. the envelope bore his crest and coronet, and she was sure that more than one pair of eyes had already seen it. her mother had been in the room some time before her, and would of course know that the letter was from lord rufford. an indiscreet word or two had been said in the hearing of mrs. connop green,--as to which arabella had already scolded her mother most vehemently, and mrs. connop green too would probably have seen the letter, and would know that it had come from the lover of whom boasts had been made. the connop greens would be ready to worship arabella down to the very soles of her feet if she were certainly,--without a vestige of doubt,--engaged to be the wife of lord rufford. but there had been so many previous mistakes! and they, too, had heard of mr. john morton. they too were a little afraid of arabella though she was undoubtedly the niece of a duke. she was aware now,--as always,--how much depended on her personal bearing; but this was a moment of moments! she would fain have kept the letter, and have opened it in the retirement of her own room. she knew its terrible importance, and was afraid of her own countenance when she should read it. all the hopes of her life were contained in that letter. but were she to put it in her pocket she would betray her anxiety by doing so. she found herself bound to open it and read it at once,--and she did open it and read it. after all it was what she had expected. it was very decided, very short, very cold, and carrying with it no sign of weakness. but it was of such a letter that she had thought when she resolved that she would apply to lord mistletoe, and endeavour to put the whole family of trefoil in arms. she had been,--so she had assured herself,--quite sure that that kind, loving response which she had solicited, would not be given to her. but yet the stern fact, now that it was absolutely in her hands, almost overwhelmed her. she could not restrain the dull dead look of heart-breaking sorrow which for a few moments clouded her face,--a look which took away all her beauty, lengthening her cheeks, and robbing her eyes of that vivacity which it was the task of her life to assume. "is anything the matter, my dear?" asked mrs. connop green. then she made a final effort,--an heroic effort. "what do you think, mamma?" she said, paying no attention to her cousin's inquiry. "what is it, arabella?" "jack got some injury that day at peltry, and is so lame that they don't know whether he'll ever put his foot to the ground again." "poor fellow," said mr. green. "who is jack?" "jack is a horse, mr. green;--and such a horse that one cannot but be sorry for him. poor jack! i don't know any christian whose lameness would be such a nuisance." "does lord rufford write about his horses?" asked mrs. connop green, thus betraying that knowledge as to the letter which she had obtained from the envelope. "if you must know all the truth about it," said arabella, "the horse is my horse, and not lord rufford's. and as he is the only horse i have got, and as he's the dearest horse in all the world, you must excuse my being a little sorry about him. poor jack!" after that the breakfast was eaten and everybody in the room believed the story of the horse's lameness--except lady augustus. when breakfast and the loitering after breakfast were well over, so that she could escape without exciting any notice, she made her way up to her bedroom. in a few minutes,--so that again there should be nothing noticeable,--her mother followed her. but her door was locked. "it is i, arabella," said her mother. "you can't come in at present, mamma. i am busy." "but arabella." "you can't come in at present, mamma." then lady augustus slowly glided away to her own room and there waited for tidings. the whole form of the girl's face was altered when she was alone. her features in themselves were not lovely. her cheeks and chin were heavy. her brow was too low, and her upper lip too long. her nose and teeth were good, and would have been very handsome had they belonged to a man. her complexion had always been good till it had been injured by being improved,--and so was the carriage of her head and the outside lines of her bust and figure, and her large eyes, though never soft, could be bright and sparkle. skill had done much for her and continued effort almost more. but now the effort was dropped and that which skill had done turned against her. she was haggard, lumpy, and almost hideous in her bewildered grief. had there been a word of weakness in the short letter she might have founded upon it some hope. it did not occur to her that he had had the letter written for him, and she was astonished at its curt strength. how could he dare to say that she had mistaken him? had she not lain in his arms while he embraced her? how could he have found the courage to say that he had had no thought of marriage when he had declared to her that he loved her? she must have known that she had hunted him as a fox is hunted;--and yet she believed that she was being cruelly ill-used. for a time all that dependence on lord mistletoe and her uncle deserted her. what effect could they have on a man who would write such a letter as that? had she known that the words were the words of his brother-in-law, even that would have given her some hope. but what should she do? whatever steps she took she must take at once. and she must tell her mother. her mother's help would be necessary to her now in whatever direction she might turn her mind. she almost thought that she would abandon him without another word. she had been strong in her reliance on family aid till the time for invoking it had come; but now she believed that it would be useless. could it be that such a man as this would be driven into marriage by the interference of lord mistletoe! she would much like to bring down some punishment on his head;--but in doing so she would cut all other ground from under her own feet. there were still open to her patagonia and the paragon. she hated the paragon, and she recoiled with shuddering from the idea of patagonia. but as for hating,--she hated lord rufford most. and what was there that she loved? she tried to ask herself some question even as to that. there certainly was no man for whom she cared a straw; nor had there been for the last six or eight years. even when he was kissing her she was thinking of her built-up hair, of her pearl powder, her paint, and of possible accidents and untoward revelations. the loan of her lips had been for use only, and not for any pleasure which she had even in pleasing him. in her very swoon she had felt the need of being careful at all points. it was all labour, and all care,--and, alas, alas, all disappointment! but there was a future through which she must live. how might she best avoid the misfortune of poverty for the twenty, thirty, or forty years which might be accorded to her? what did it matter whom or what she hated? the housemaid probably did not like cleaning grates; nor the butcher killing sheep; nor the sempstress stitching silks. she must live. and if she could only get away from her mother that in itself would be something. most people were distasteful to her, but no one so much as her mother. here in england she knew that she was despised among the people with whom she lived. and now she would be more despised than ever. her uncle and aunt, though she disliked them, had been much to her. it was something,--that annual visit to mistletoe, though she never enjoyed it when she was there. but she could well understand that after such a failure as this, after such a game, played before their own eyes in their own house, her uncle and her aunt would drop her altogether. she had played this game so boldly that there was no retreat. would it not therefore be better that she should fly altogether? there was a time on that morning in which she had made up her mind that she would write a most affectionate letter to morton, telling him that her people had now agreed to his propositions as to settlement, and assuring him that from henceforward she would be all his own. she did think that were she to do so she might still go with him to patagonia. but, if so, she must do it at once. the delay had already been almost too long. in that case she would not say a word in reply to lord rufford, and would allow all that to be as though it had never been. then again there arose to her mind the remembrance of rufford hall, of all the glories, of the triumph over everybody. then again there was the idea of a "forlorn hope." she thought that she could have brought herself to do it, if only death would have been the alternative of success when she had resolved to make the rush. it was nearly one when she went to her mother and even then she was undecided. but the joint agony of the solitude and the doubts had been too much for her and she found herself constrained to seek a counsellor. "he has thrown you over," said lady augustus as soon as the door was closed. "of course he has," said arabella walking up the room, and again playing her part even before her mother. "i knew it would be so." "you knew nothing of the kind, mamma, and your saying so is simply an untruth. it was you who put me up to it." "arabella, that is false." "it wasn't you, i suppose, who made me throw over mr. morton and bragton." "certainly not." "that is so like you, mamma. there isn't a single thing that you do or say that you don't deny afterwards." these little compliments were so usual among them that at the present moment they excited no great danger. "there's his letter. i suppose you had better read it." and she chucked the document to her mother. "it is very decided," said lady augustus. "it is the falsest, the most impudent, and the most scandalous letter that a man ever wrote to a woman. i could horsewhip him for it myself if i could get near him." "is it all over, arabella?" "all over! what questions you do ask, mamma! no. it is not all over. i'll stick to him like a leech. he proposed to me as plainly as any man ever did to any woman. i don't care what people may say or think. he hasn't heard the last of me; and so he'll find." and thus in her passion she made up her mind that she would not yet abandon the hunt. "what will you do, my dear?" "what will i do? how am i to say what i will do? if i were standing near him with a knife in my hand i would stick it into his heart. i would! mistaken him! liar! they talk of girls lying; but what girl would lie like that?" "but something must be done." "if papa were not such a fool as he is, he could manage it all for me," said arabella dutifully. "i must see my father and i must dictate a letter for him. where is papa?" "in london, i suppose." "you must come up to london with me to-morrow. we shall have to go to his club and get him out. it must be done immediately; and then i must see lord mistletoe, and i will write to the duke." "would it not be better to write to your papa?" said lady augustus, not liking the idea of being dragged away so quickly from comfortable quarters. "no; it wouldn't. if you won't go i shall, and you must give me some money. i shall write to lord rufford too." and so it was at last decided, the wretched old woman being dragged away up to london on some excuse which the connop greens were not sorry to accept. but on that same afternoon arabella wrote to lord rufford. your letter has amazed me. i cannot understand it. it seems to be almost impossible that it should really have come from you. how can you say that i have mistaken you? there has been no mistake. surely that letter cannot have been written by you. of course i have been obliged to tell my father everything. arabella. on the following day at about four in the afternoon the mother and daughter drove up to the door of graham's club in bond street, and there they found lord augustus. with considerable difficulty he was induced to come down from the whist room, and was forced into the brougham. he was a handsome fat man, with a long grey beard, who passed his whole life in eating, drinking, and playing whist, and was troubled by no scruples and no principles. he would not cheat at cards because it was dangerous and ungentlemanlike, and if discovered would lead to his social annihilation; but as to paying money that he owed to tradesmen, it never occurred to him as being a desirable thing as long as he could get what he wanted without doing so. he had expended his own patrimony and his wife's fortune, and now lived on an allowance made to him by his brother. whatever funds his wife might have not a shilling of them ever came from him. when he began to understand something of the nature of the business on hand, he suggested that his brother, the duke, could do what was desirable infinitely better than he could. "he won't think anything of me," said lord augustus. "we'll make him think something," said arabella sternly. "you must do it, papa. they'd turn you out of the club if they knew that you had refused." then he looked up in the brougham and snarled at her. "papa, you must copy the letter and sign it." "how am i to know the truth of it all?" he asked. "it is quite true," said lady augustus. there was very much more of it, but at last he was carried away bodily, and in his daughter's presence he did write and sign the following letter;-- my lord, i have heard from my daughter a story which has surprised me very much. it appears that she has been staying with you at rufford hall, and again at mistletoe, and that while at the latter place you proposed marriage to her. she tells me with heart-breaking concern that you have now repudiated your own proposition,--not only once made but repeated. her condition is most distressing. she is in all respects your lordship's equal. as her father i am driven to ask you what excuse you have to make, or whether she has interpreted you aright. i have the honour to be, your very humble servant, augustus trefoil. chapter xxiii. "in these days one can't make a man marry." this was going on while lord rufford was shooting in the neighbourhood of dillsborough; and when the letter was being put into its envelope at the lodgings in orchard street, his lordship was just sitting down to dinner with his guests at the bush. at the same time john morton was lying ill at bragton;--a fact of which arabella was not aware. the letter from lord augustus was put into the post on saturday evening; but when that line of action was decided upon by arabella she was aware that she must not trust solely to her father. various plans were fermenting in her brain; all, or any of which, if carried out at all, must be carried out at the same time and at once. there must be no delay, or that final chance of patagonia would be gone. the leader of a forlorn hope, though he be ever so resolved to die in the breach, still makes some preparation for his escape. among her plans the first in order was a resolution to see lord mistletoe whom she knew to be in town. parliament was to meet in the course of the next week and he was to move the address. there had been much said about all this at mistletoe from which she knew that he was in london preparing himself among the gentlemen at the treasury. then she herself would write to the duke. she thought that she could concoct a letter that would move even his heart. she would tell him that she was a daughter of the house of trefoil,--and "all that kind of thing." she had it distinctly laid down in her mind. and then there was another move which she would make before she altogether threw up the game. she would force herself into lord rufford's presence and throw herself into his arms,--at his feet if need be,--and force him into compliance. should she fail, then she, too, had an idea what a raging woman could do. but her first step now must be with her cousin mistletoe. she would not write to the duke till she had seen her cousin. lord mistletoe when in london lived at the family house in piccadilly, and thither early on the sunday morning she sent a note to say that she especially wished to see her cousin and would call at three o'clock on that day. the messenger brought back word that lord mistletoe would be at home, and exactly at that hour the hired brougham stopped at the door. her mother had wished to accompany her but she had declared that if she could not go alone she would not go at all. in that she was right; for whatever favour the young heir to the family honours might retain for his fair cousin, who was at any rate a trefoil, he had none for his uncle's wife. she was shown into his own sitting-room on the ground floor, and then he immediately joined her. "i wouldn't have you shown upstairs," he said, "because i understand from your note that you want to see me in particular." "that is so kind of you." lord mistletoe was a young man about thirty, less in stature than his father or uncle, but with the same handsome inexpressive face. almost all men take to some line in life. his father was known as a manager of estates; his uncle as a whist-player; he was minded to follow the steps of his grandfather and be a statesman. he was eaten up by no high ambition but lived in the hope that by perseverance he might live to become a useful under secretary, and perhaps, ultimately, a privy seal. as he was well educated and laborious, and had no objection to sitting for five hours together in the house of commons with nothing to do and sometimes with very little to hear, it was thought by his friends that he would succeed. "and what is it i can do?" he said with that affable smile to which he had already become accustomed as a government politician. "i am in great trouble," said arabella, leaving her hand for a moment in his as she spoke. "i am sorry for that. what sort of trouble?" he knew that his uncle and his aunt's family were always short of money, and was already considering to what extent he would go in granting her petition. "do you know lord rufford?" "lord rufford! yes;--i know him; but very slightly. my father knows him very much better than i do." "i have just been at mistletoe, and he was there. my story is so hard to tell. i had better out with it at once. lord rufford has asked me to be his wife." "the deuce he has! it's a very fine property and quite unembarrassed." "and now he repudiates his engagement." upon hearing this the young lord's face became very long. he also had heard something of the past life of his handsome cousin, though he had always felt kindly to her. "it was not once only." "dear me! i should have thought your father would be the proper person." "papa has written;--but you know what papa is." "does the duke know of it,--or my mother?" "it partly went on at mistletoe. i would tell you the whole story if i knew how." then she did tell him her story, during the telling of which he sat profoundly silent. she had gone to stay with lady penwether at lord rufford's house, and then he had first told her of his love. then they had agreed to meet at mistletoe, and she had begged her aunt to receive her. she had not told her aunt at once, and her aunt had been angry with her because they had walked together. then she had told everything to the duchess and had begged the duchess to ask the duke to speak to lord rufford. at mistletoe lord rufford had twice renewed his offer,--and she had then accepted him. but the duke had not spoken to him before he left the place. she owned that she thought the duchess had been a little hard to her. of course she did not mean to complain, but the duchess had been angry with her because she had hunted. and now, in answer to the note from herself, had come a letter from lord rufford in which he repudiated the engagement. "i only got it yesterday and i came at once to you. i do not think you will see your cousin treated in that way without raising your hand. you will remember that i have no brother?" "but what can i do?" asked lord mistletoe. she had taken great trouble with her face, so that she was able to burst out into tears. she had on a veil which partly concealed her. she did not believe in the effect of a pocket handkerchief, but sat with her face half averted. "tell him what you think about it," she said. "such engagements, arabella," he said, "should always be authenticated by a third party. it is for that reason that a girl generally refers her lover to her father before she allows herself to be considered as engaged." "think what my position has been! i wanted to refer him to my uncle and asked the duchess." "my mother must have had some reason. i'm sure she must. there isn't a woman in london knows how such things should be done better than my mother. i can write to lord rufford and ask him for an explanation; but i do not see what good it would do." "if you were in earnest about it he would be--afraid of you." "i don't think he would in the least. if i were to make a noise about it, it would only do you harm. you wouldn't wish all the world to know that he had--" "jilted me! i don't care what the world knows. am i to put up with such treatment as that and do nothing? do you like to see your cousin treated in that way?" "i don't like it at all. lord rufford is a good sort of man in his way, and has a large property. i wish with all my heart that it had come off all right; but in these days one can't make a man marry. there used to be the alternative of going out and being shot at; but that is over now." "and a man is to do just as he pleases?" "i am afraid so. if a man is known to have behaved badly to a girl, public opinion will condemn him." "can anything be worse than this treatment of me?" lord mistletoe could not tell her that he had alluded to absolute knowledge and that at present he had no more than her version of the story;--or that the world would require more than that before the general condemnation of which he had spoken would come. so he sat in silence and shook his head. "and you think that i should put up with it quietly!" "i think that your father should see the man." arabella shook her head contemptuously. "if you wish it i will write to my mother." "i would rather trust to my uncle." "i don't know what he could do;--but i will write to him if you please." "and you won't see lord rufford?" he sat silent for a minute or two during which she pressed him over and over again to have an interview with her recreant lover, bringing up all the arguments that she knew, reminding him of their former affection for each other, telling him that she had no brother of her own, and that her own father was worse than useless in such a matter. a word or two she said of the nature of the prize to be gained, and many words as to her absolute right to regard that prize as her own. but at last he refused. "i am not the person to do it," he said. "even if i were your brother i should not be so,--unless with the view of punishing him for his conduct;--in which place the punishment to you would be worse than any i could inflict on him. it cannot be good that any young lady should have her name in the mouths of all the lovers of gossip in the country." she was going to burst out at him in her anger, but before the words were out of her mouth she remembered herself. she could not afford to make enemies and certainly not an enemy of him. "perhaps, then," she said, "you had better tell your mother all that i have told you. i will write to the duke myself." and so she left him, and as she returned to orchard street in the brougham, she applied to him every term of reproach she could bring to mind. he was selfish, and a coward, and utterly devoid of all feeling of family honour. he was a prig, and unmanly, and false. a real cousin would have burst out into a passion and have declared himself ready to seize lord rufford by the throat and shake him into instant matrimony. but this man, through whose veins water was running instead of blood, had no feeling, no heart, no capability for anger! oh, what a vile world it was! a little help,--so very little,--would have made everything straight for her! if her aunt had only behaved at mistletoe as aunts should behave, there would have been no difficulty. in her misery she thought that the world was more cruel to her than to any other person in it. on her arrival at home, she was astounded by a letter that she found there,--a letter of such a nature that it altogether drove out of her head the purpose which she had of writing to the duke on that evening. the letter was from john morton and now reached her through the lawyer to whom it had been sent by private hand for immediate delivery. it ran as follows: dearest arabella, i am very ill,--so ill that dr. fanning who has come down from london, has, i think, but a poor opinion of my case. he does not say that it is hopeless,--and that is all. i think it right to tell you this, as my affection for you is what it always has been. if you wish to see me, you and your mother had better come to bragton at once. you can telegraph. i am too weak to write more. yours most affectionately, john morton. there is nothing infectious. "john morton is dying," she almost screamed out to her mother. "dying!" "so he says. oh, what an unfortunate wretch i am! everything that touches me comes to grief." then she burst out into a flood of true unfeigned tears. "it won't matter so much," said lady augustus, "if you mean to write to the duke, and go on with this other--affair." "oh, mamma, how can you talk in that way?" "well; my dear; you know--" "i am heartless. i know that. but you are ten times worse. think how i have treated him!" "i don't want him to die, my dear; but what can i say? i can't do him any good. it is all in god's hands, and if he must die--why, it won't make so much difference to you. i have looked upon all that as over for a long time." "it is not over. after all he has liked me better than any of them. he wants me to go to bragton." "that of course is out of the question." "it is not out of the question at all. i shall go." "arabella!" "and you must go with me, mamma." "i will do no such thing," said lady augustus, to whom the idea of bragton was terrible. "indeed you must. he has asked me to go, and i shall do it. you can hardly let me go alone." "and what will you say to lord rufford?" "i don't care for lord rufford. is he to prevent my going where i please?" "and your father,--and the duke,--and the duchess! how can you go there after all that you have been doing since you left?" "what do i care for the duke and the duchess. it has come to that, that i care for no one. they are all throwing me over. that little wretch mistletoe will do nothing. this man really loved me. he has never treated me badly. whether he live or whether he die, he has been true to me." then she sat and thought of it all. what would lord rufford care for her father's letter? if her cousin mistletoe would not stir in her behalf what chance had she with her uncle? and, though she had thoroughly despised her cousin, she had understood and had unconsciously believed much that he had said to her. "in these days one can't make a man marry!" what horrid days they were! but john morton would marry her to-morrow if he were well,--in spite of all her ill usage! of course he would die and so she would again be overwhelmed;--but yet she would go and see him. as she determined to do so there was something even in her hard callous heart softer than the love of money and more human than the dream of an advantageous settlement in life. chapter xxiv. the senator's second letter. in the mean time our friend the senator, up in london, was much distracted in his mind, finding no one to sympathise with him in his efforts, conscious of his own rectitude of purpose, always brave against others, and yet with a sad doubt in his own mind whether it could be possible that he should always be right and everybody around him wrong. coming away from mr. mainwaring's dinner he had almost quarrelled with john morton, or rather john morton had altogether quarrelled with him. on their way back from dillsborough to bragton the minister elect to patagonia had told him, in so many words, that he had misbehaved himself at the clergyman's house. "did i say anything that was untrue?" asked the senator--"was i inaccurate in my statements? if so no man alive will be more ready to recall what he has said and to ask for pardon." mr. morton endeavoured to explain to him that it was not his statements which were at fault so much as the opinions based on them and the language in which those opinions were given. but the senator could not be made to understand that a man had not a right to his opinions, and a right also to the use of forcible language as long as he abstained from personalities. "it was extremely personal,--all that you said about the purchase of livings," said morton. "how was i to know that?" rejoined the senator. "when in private society i inveigh against pickpockets i cannot imagine, sir, that there should be a pickpocket in the company." as the senator said this he was grieving in his heart at the trouble he had occasioned, and was almost repenting the duties he had imposed on himself; but, yet, his voice was bellicose and antagonistic. the conversation was carried on till morton found himself constrained to say that though he entertained great personal respect for his guest he could not go with him again into society. he was ill at the time,--though neither he himself knew it nor the senator. on the next morning mr. gotobed returned to london without seeing his host, and before the day was over mr. nupper was at morton's bedside. he was already suffering from gastric fever. the senator was in truth unhappy as he returned to town. the intimacy between him and the late secretary of legation at his capital had arisen from a mutual understanding between them that each was to be allowed to see the faults and to admire the virtues of their two countries, and that conversation between them was to be based on the mutual system. but nobody can, in truth, endure to be told of shortcomings,--either on his own part or on that of his country. he himself can abuse himself, or his country; but he cannot endure it from alien lips. mr. gotobed had hardly said a word about england which morton himself might not have said,--but such words coming from an american had been too much even for the guarded temper of an unprejudiced and phlegmatic englishman. the senator as he returned alone to london understood something of this,--and when a few days later he heard that the friend who had quarrelled with him was ill, he was discontented with himself and sore at heart. but he had his task to perform, and he meant to perform it to the best of his ability. in his own country he had heard vehement abuse of the old land from the lips of politicians, and had found at the same time almost on all sides great social admiration for the people so abused. he had observed that every englishman of distinction was received in the states as a demigod, and that some who were not very great in their own land had been converted into heroes in his. english books were read there; english laws were obeyed there; english habits were cultivated, often at the expense of american comfort. and yet it was the fashion among orators to speak of the english as a worn-out, stupid and enslaved people. he was a thoughtful man and all this had perplexed him;--so that he had obtained leave from his state and from congress to be absent during a part of a short session, and had come over determined to learn as much as he could. everything he heard and almost everything he saw offended him at some point. and, yet in the midst of it all, he was conscious that he was surrounded by people who claimed and made good their claims to superiority. what was a lord, let him be ever so rich and have ever so many titles? and yet, even with such a popinjay as lord rufford, he himself felt the lordship. when that old farmer at the hunt breakfast had removed himself and his belongings to the other side of the table the senator, though aware of the justice of his cause, had been keenly alive to the rebuke. he had expressed himself very boldly at the rector's house at dillsborough, and had been certain that not a word of real argument had been possible in answer to him. but yet he left the house with a feeling almost of shame, which had grown into real penitence before he reached bragton. he knew that he had already been condemned by englishmen as ill-mannered, ill-conditioned and absurd. he was as much alive as any man to the inward distress of heart which such a conviction brings with it to all sensitive minds. and yet he had his purpose and would follow it out. he was already hard at work on the lecture which he meant to deliver somewhere in london before he went back to his home duties, and had made it known to the world at large that he meant to say some sharp things of the country he was visiting. soon after his return to town he was present at the opening of parliament, mr. mounser green of the foreign office having seen that he was properly accommodated with a seat. then he went down to the election of a member of parliament in the little borough of quinborough. it was unfortunate for great britain, which was on its trial, and unpleasant also for the poor senator who had appointed himself judge, that such a seat should have fallen vacant at that moment. quinborough was a little town of , inhabitants clustering round the gates of a great whig marquis, which had been spared,--who can say why?--at the first reform bill, and having but one member had come out scatheless from the second. quinborough still returned its one member with something less than constituents, and in spite of household suffrage and the ballot had always returned the member favoured by the marquis. this nobleman, driven no doubt by his conscience to make some return to the country for the favour shown to his family, had always sent to parliament some useful and distinguished man who without such patronage might have been unable to serve his country. on the present occasion a friend of the people,--so called,--an unlettered demagogue such as is in england in truth distasteful to all classes, had taken himself down to quinborough as a candidate in opposition to the nobleman's nominee. he had been backed by all the sympathies of the american senator who knew nothing of him or his unfitness, and nothing whatever of the patriotism of the marquis. but he did know what was the population and what the constituency of liverpool, and also what were those of quinborough. he supposed that he knew what was the theory of representation in england, and he understood correctly that hitherto the member for quinborough had been the nominee of that great lord. these things were horrid to him. there was to his thinking a fiction,--more than fiction, a falseness,--about all this which not only would but ought to bring the country prostrate to the dust. when the working-man's candidate, whose political programme consisted of a general disbelief in all religions, received--by ballot!--only nine votes from those voters, the senator declared to himself that the country must be rotten to the core. it was not only that britons were slaves,--but that they "hugged their chains." to the gentleman who assured him that the right honble. ---- ---- would make a much better member of parliament than tom bobster the plasterer from shoreditch he in vain tried to prove that the respective merits of the two men had nothing to do with the question. it had been the duty of those voters to show to the world that in the exercise of a privilege entrusted to them for the public service they had not been under the dictation of their rich neighbour. instead of doing so they had, almost unanimously, grovelled in the dust at their rich neighbour's feet. "there are but one or two such places left in all england," said the gentleman. "but those one or two," answered the senator, "were wilfully left there by the parliament which represented the whole nation." then, quite early in the session, immediately after the voting of the address, a motion had been made by the government of the day for introducing household suffrage into the counties. no one knew the labour to which the senator subjected himself in order that he might master all these peculiarities,--that he might learn how men became members of parliament, and how they ceased to be so, in what degree the house of commons was made up of different elements, how it came to pass, that though there was a house of lords, so many lords sat in the lower chamber. all those matters which to ordinary educated englishmen are almost as common as the breath of their nostrils, had been to him matter of long and serious study. and as the intent student, who has zealously buried himself for a week among commentaries and notes, feels himself qualified to question porson and to be-bentley bentley, so did our senator believe, while still he was groping among the rudiments, that he had all our political intricacies at his fingers' ends. when he heard the arguments used for a difference of suffrage in the towns and counties, and found that even they who were proposing the change were not ready absolutely to assimilate the two and still held that rural ascendancy,--feudalism as he called it,--should maintain itself by barring a fraction of the house of commons from the votes of the majority, he pronounced the whole thing to be a sham. the intention was, he said, to delude the people. "it is all coming," said the gentleman who was accustomed to argue with him in those days. he spoke in a sad vein, which was in itself distressing to the senator. "why should you be in such a hurry?" the senator suggested that if the country delayed much longer this imperative task of putting its house in order, the roof would have fallen in before the repairs were done. then he found that this gentleman too, avoided his company, and declined to sit with him any more in the gallery of the house of commons. added to all this was a private rankling sore in regard to goarly and bearside. he had now learned nearly all the truth about goarly, and had learned also that bearside had known the whole when he had last visited that eminent lawyer's office. goarly had deserted his supporters and had turned evidence against scrobby, his partner in iniquity. that goarly was a rascal the senator had acknowledged. so far the general opinion down in rufford had been correct. but he could get nobody to see,--or at any rate could get nobody to acknowledge,--that the rascality of goarly had had nothing to do with the question as he had taken it up. the man's right to his own land,--his right to be protected from pheasants and foxes, from horses and hounds,--was not lessened by the fact that he was a poor ignorant squalid dishonest wretch. mr. gotobed had now received a bill from bearside for £ _s._ _d._ for costs in the case, leaving after the deduction of £ already paid a sum of £ _s._ _d._ stated to be still due. and this was accompanied by an intimation that as he, mr. gotobed, was a foreigner soon about to leave the country, mr. bearside must request that his claim might be settled quite at once. no one could be less likely than our senator to leave a foreign country without paying his bills. he had quarrelled with morton,--who also at this time was too ill to have given him much assistance. though he had become acquainted with half dillsborough, there was nobody there to whom he could apply. thus he was driven to employ a london attorney, and the london attorney told him that he had better pay bearside;--the senator remembering at the time that he would also have to pay the london attorney for his advice. he gave this second lawyer authority to conclude the matter, and at last bearside accepted £ . when the london attorney refused to take anything for his trouble, the senator felt such conduct almost as an additional grievance. in his existing frame of mind he would sooner have expended a few more dollars than be driven to think well of anything connected with english law. it was immediately after he had handed over the money in liquidation of bearside's claim that he sat down to write a further letter to his friend and correspondent josiah scroome. his letter was not written in the best of tempers; but still, through it all, there was a desire to be just, and an anxiety to abstain from the use of hard phrases. the letter was as follows;-- fenton's hotel, st. james' street, london, feb. , --. my dear sir, since i last wrote i have had much to trouble me and little perhaps to compensate me for my trouble. i told you, i think, in one of my former letters that wherever i went i found myself able to say what i pleased as to the peculiarities of this very peculiar people. i am not now going to contradict what i said then. wherever i go i do speak out, and my eyes are still in my head and my head is on my shoulders. but i have to acknowledge to myself that i give offence. mr. morton, whom you knew at the british embassy in washington,--and who i fear is now very ill,--parted from me, when last i saw him, in anger because of certain opinions i had expressed in a clergyman's house, not as being ill-founded but as being antagonistic to the clergyman himself. this i feel to be unreasonable. and in the neighbourhood of mr. morton's house, i have encountered the ill will of a great many,--not for having spoken untruth, for that i have never heard alleged,--but because i have not been reticent in describing the things which i have seen. i told you, i think, that i had returned to mr. morton's neighbourhood with the view of defending an oppressed man against the power of the lord who was oppressing him. unfortunately for me the lord, though a scapegrace, spends his money freely and is a hospitable kindly-hearted honest fellow; whereas the injured victim has turned out to be a wretched scoundrel. scoundrel though he is, he has still been ill used; and the lord, though good-natured, has been a tyrant. but the poor wretch has thrown me over and sold himself to the other side and i have been held up to ignominy by all the provincial newspapers. i have also had to pay through the nose $ for my quixotism--a sum which i cannot very well afford. this money i have lost solely with the view of defending the weak, but nobody with whom i have discussed the matter seems to recognise the purity of my object. i am only reminded that i have put myself into the same boat with a rascal. i feel from day to day how thoroughly i could have enjoyed a sojourn in this country if i had come here without any line of duty laid down for myself. could i have swum with the stream and have said yes or no as yes or no were expected, i might have revelled in generous hospitality. nothing can be pleasanter than the houses here if you will only be as idle as the owners of them. but when once you show them that you have an object, they become afraid of you. and industry,--in such houses as i now speak of,--is a crime. you are there to glide through the day luxuriously in the house,--or to rush through it impetuously on horseback or with a gun if you be a sportsman. sometimes, when i have asked questions about the most material institutions of the country, i have felt that i was looked upon with absolute loathing. this is disagreeable. and yet i find it more easy in this country to sympathise with the rich than with the poor. i do not here describe my own actual sympathies, but only the easiness with which they might be evoked. the rich are at any rate pleasant. the poor are very much the reverse. there is no backbone of mutiny in them against the oppression to which they are subjected; but only the whining of a dog that knows itself to be a slave and pleads with his soft paw for tenderness from his master;--or the futile growlings of the caged tiger who paces up and down before his bars and has long ago forgotten to attempt to break them. they are a long-suffering race, who only now and then feel themselves stirred up to contest a point against their masters on the basis of starvation. "we won't work but on such and such terms, and, if we cannot get them, we will lie down and die." that i take it is the real argument of a strike. but they never do lie down and die. if one in every parish, one in every county, would do so, then the agricultural labourers of the country might live almost as well as the farmers' pigs. i was present the other day at the opening of parliament. it was a very grand ceremony,--though the queen did not find herself well enough to do her duty in person. but the grandeur was everything. a royal programme was read from the foot of the throne, of which even i knew all the details beforehand, having read them in the newspapers. two opening speeches were then made by two young lords,--not after all so very young,--which sounded like lessons recited by schoolboys. there was no touch of eloquence,--no approach to it. it was clear that either of them would have been afraid to attempt the idiosyncrasy of passionate expression. but they were exquisitely dressed and had learned their lessons to a marvel. the flutter of the ladies' dresses, and the presence of the peers, and the historic ornamentation of the house were all very pleasant;--but they reminded me of a last year's nut, of which the outside appearance has been mellowed and improved by time,--but the fruit inside has withered away and become tasteless. since that i have been much interested with an attempt,--a further morsel of cobbling,--which is being done to improve the representation of the people. though it be but cobbling, if it be in the right direction one is glad of it. i do not know how far you may have studied the theories and system of the british house of commons, but, for myself, i must own that it was not till the other day that i was aware that, though it acts together as one whole, it is formed of two distinct parts. the one part is sent thither from the towns by household suffrage; and, this, which may be said to be the healthier of the two as coming more directly from the people, is nevertheless disfigured by a multitude of anomalies. population hardly bears upon the question. a town with , inhabitants has two members,--whereas another with , has only three, and another with , has one. but there is worse disorder than this. in the happy little village of portarlington constituents choose a member among them, or have one chosen for them by their careful lord;--whereas in the great city of london something like , registered electors only send four to parliament. with this the country is presumed to be satisfied. but in the counties, which by a different system send up the other part of the house, there exists still a heavy property qualification for voting. there is, apparent to all, a necessity for change here;--but the change proposed is simply a reduction of the qualification, so that the rural labourer,--whose class is probably the largest, as it is the poorest, in the country,--is still disfranchised, and will remain so, unless it be his chance to live within the arbitrary line of some so-called borough. for these boroughs, you must know, are sometimes strictly confined to the aggregations of houses which constitute the town, but sometimes stretch out their arms so as to include rural districts. the divisions i am assured were made to suit the aspirations of political magnates when the first reform bill was passed! what is to be expected of a country in which such absurdities are loved and sheltered? i am still determined to express my views on these matters before i leave england, and am with great labour preparing a lecture on the subject. i am assured that i shall not be debarred from my utterances because that which i say is unpopular. i am told that as long as i do not touch her majesty or her majesty's family, or the christian religion,--which is only the second holy of holies,--i may say anything. good taste would save me from the former offence, and my own convictions from the latter. but my friend who so informs me doubts whether many will come to hear me. he tells me that the serious american is not popular here, whereas the joker is much run after. of that i must take my chance. in all this i am endeavouring to do a duty,--feeling every day more strongly my own inadequacy. were i to follow my own wishes i should return by the next steamer to my duties at home. believe me to be, dear sir, with much sincerity, yours truly, elias gotobed. the honble. josiah scroome, q street, minnesota avenue, washington. chapter xxv. providence interferes. the battle was carried on very fiercely in mr. masters' house in dillsborough, to the misery of all within it; but the conviction gained ground with every one there that mary was to be sent to cheltenham for some indefinite time. dolly and kate seemed to think that she was to go, never to return. six months, which had been vaguely mentioned as the proposed period of her sojourn, was to them almost as indefinite as eternity. the two girls had been intensely anxious for the marriage, wishing to have larry for a brother, looking forward with delight to their share in the unrestricted plenteousness of chowton farm, longing to be allowed to consider themselves at home among the ricks and barns and wide fields; but at this moment things had become so tragic that they were cowed and unhappy,--not that mary should still refuse larry twentyman, but that she should be going away for so long a time. they could quarrel with their elder sister while the assurance was still with them that she would be there to forgive them;--but now that she was going away and that it had come to be believed by both of them that poor lawrence had no chance, they were sad and downhearted. in all that misery the poor attorney had the worst of it. mary was free from her stepmother's zeal and her stepmother's persecution at any rate at night;--but the poor father was hardly allowed to sleep. for mrs. masters never gave up her game as altogether lost. though she might be driven alternately into towering passion and prostrate hysterics, she would still come again to the battle. a word of encouragement would, she said, bring larry twentyman back to his courtship, and that word might be spoken, if mary's visit to cheltenham were forbidden. what did the letter signify, or all the girl's protestations? did not everybody know how self-willed young women were; but how they could be brought round by proper usage? let mary once be made to understand that she would not be allowed to be a fine lady, and then she would marry mr. twentyman quick enough. but this "ushanting," this journeying to cheltenham in order that nothing might be done, was the very way to promote the disease! this mrs. masters said in season and out of season, night and day, till the poor husband longed for his daughter's departure, in order that that point might at any rate be settled. in all these disputes he never quite yielded. though his heart sank within him he was still firm. he would turn his back to his wife and let her run on with her arguments without a word of answer,--till at last he would bounce out of bed and swear that if she did not leave him alone he would go and lock himself into the office and sleep with his head on the office desk. mrs. masters was almost driven to despair;--but at last there came to her a gleam of hope, most unexpectedly. it had been settled that mary should make her journey on friday the th february and that reginald morton was again to accompany her. this in itself was to mrs. masters an aggravation of the evil which was being done. she was not in the least afraid of reginald morton; but this attendance on mary was in the eyes of her stepmother a cockering of her up, a making a fine lady of her, which was in itself of all things the most pernicious. if mary must go to cheltenham, why could she not go by herself, second class, like any other young woman? "nobody would eat her,"--mrs. masters declared. but reginald was firm in his purpose of accompanying her. he had no objection whatever to the second class, if mr. masters preferred it. but as he meant to make the journey on the same day of course they would go together. mr. masters said that he was very much obliged. mrs. masters protested that it was all trash from beginning to the end. then there came a sudden disruption to all these plans, and a sudden renewal of her hopes to mrs. masters which for one half day nearly restored her to good humour. lady ushant wrote to postpone the visit because she herself had been summoned to bragton. her letter to mary, though affectionate, was very short. her grand-nephew john, the head of the family, had expressed a desire to see her, and with that wish she was bound to comply. of course, she said, she would see mary at bragton; or if that were not possible, she herself would come into dillsborough. she did not know what might be the length of her visit, but when it was over she hoped that mary would return with her to cheltenham. the old lady's letter to reginald was much longer; because in that she had to speak of the state of john morton's health,--and of her surprise that she should be summoned to his bedside. of course she would go,--though she could not look forward with satisfaction to a meeting with the honble. mrs. morton. then she could not refrain from alluding to the fact that if "anything were to happen" to john morton, reginald himself would be the squire of bragton. reginald when he received this at once went over to the attorney's house, but he did not succeed in seeing mary. he learned, however, that they were all aware that the journey had been postponed. to mrs. masters it seemed that all this had been a dispensation of providence. lady ushant's letter had been received on the thursday and mrs. masters at once found it expedient to communicate with larry twentyman. she was not excellent herself at the writing of letters, and therefore she got dolly to be the scribe. before the thursday evening the following note was sent to chowton farm; dear larry, pray come and go to the club with father on saturday. we haven't seen you for so long! mother has got something to tell you. your affectionate friend, dolly. when this was received the poor man was smoking his moody pipe in silence as he roamed about his own farmyard in the darkness of the night. he had not as yet known any comfort and was still firm in his purpose of selling the farm. he had been out hunting once or twice but fancied that people looked at him with peculiar eyes. he could not ride, though he made one or two forlorn attempts to break his neck. he did not care in the least whether they found or not; and when captain glomax was held to have disgraced himself thoroughly by wasting an hour in digging out and then killing a vixen, he had not a word to say about it. but, as he read dolly's note, there came back something of life into his eyes. he had forsworn the club, but would certainly go when thus invited. he wrote a scrawl to dolly,--"i'll come," and, having sent it off by the messenger, tried to trust that there might yet be ground for hope. mrs. masters would not have allowed dolly to send such a message without good reason. on the friday mrs. masters could not abstain from proposing that mary's visit to cheltenham should be regarded as altogether out of the question. she had no new argument to offer,--except this last interposition of providence in her favour. mr. masters said that he did not see why mary should not return with lady ushant. various things, however, might happen. john morton might die, and then who could tell whether lady ushant would ever return to cheltenham? in this way the short-lived peace soon came to an end, especially as mrs. masters endeavoured to utilize for general family purposes certain articles which had been purchased with a view to mary's prolonged residence away from home. this was resented by the attorney, and the peace was short-lived. on the saturday larry came,--to the astonishment of mr. masters, who was still in his office at half-past seven. mrs. masters at once got hold of him and conveyed him away into the sacred drawing-room. "mary is not going," she said. "not going to cheltenham!" "it has all been put off. she shan't go at all if i can help it." "but why has it been put off, mrs. masters?" "lady ushant is coming to bragton. i suppose that poor man is dying." "he is very ill certainly." "and if anything happens there who can say what may happen anywhere else? lady ushant will have something else except mary to think of, if her own nephew comes into all the property." "i didn't know she was such friends with the squire as that." "well;--there it is. lady ushant is coming to bragton and mary is not going to cheltenham." this she said as though the news must be of vital importance to larry twentyman. he stood for awhile scratching his head as he thought of it. at last it appeared to him that mary's continual residence in dillsborough would of itself hardly assist him. "i don't see, mrs. masters, that that will make her a bit kinder to me.' "larry, don't you be a coward,--nor yet soft." "as for coward, mrs. masters, i don't know--" "i suppose you really do love the girl." "i do;--i think i've shown that." "and you haven't changed your mind?" "not a bit." "that's why i speak open to you. don't you be afraid of her. what's the letter which a girl like that writes? when she gets tantrums into her head of course she'll write a letter." "but there's somebody else, mrs. masters." "who says so? i say there ain't nobody;--nobody. if anybody tells you that it's only just to put you off. it's just poetry and books and rubbish. she wants to be a fine lady." "i'll make her a lady." "you make her mrs. twentyman, and don't you be made by any one to give it up. go to the club with mr. masters now, and come here just the same as usual. come to-morrow and have a gossip with the girls together and show that you can keep your pluck up. that's the way to win her." larry did go to the club and did think very much of it as he walked home. he had promised to come on the sunday afternoon, but he could not bring himself to believe in that theory of books and poetry put forward by mrs. masters. books and poetry would not teach a girl like mary to reject her suitor if she really loved him. chapter xxvi. lady ushant at bragton. on the sunday larry came into dillsborough and had "his gossip with the girls" according to order;--but it was not very successful. mrs. masters who opened the door for him instructed him in a special whisper "to talk away just as though he did not care a fig for mary." he made the attempt manfully,--but with slight effect. his love was too genuine, too absorbing, to leave with him the power which mrs. masters assumed him to have when she gave him such advice. a man cannot walk when he has broken his ankle-bone, let him be ever so brave in the attempt. larry's heart was so weighed that he could not hide the weight. dolly and kate had also received hints and struggled hard to be merry. in the afternoon a walk was suggested, and mary complied; but when an attempt was made by the younger girls to leave the lover and mary together, she resented it by clinging closely to dolly;--and then all larry's courage deserted him. very little good was done on the occasion by mrs. masters' manoeuvres. on the monday morning, in compliance with a request made by lady ushant, mary walked over to bragton to see her old friend. mrs. masters had declared the request to be very unreasonable. "who is to walk five miles and back to see an old woman like that?" to this mary had replied that the distance across the fields to bragton was only four miles and that she had often walked it with her sisters for the very pleasure of the walk. "not in weather like this," said mrs. masters. but the day was well enough. roads in february are often a little wet, but there was no rain falling. "i say it's unreasonable," said mrs. masters. "if she can't send a carriage she oughtn't to expect it." this coming from mrs. masters, whose great doctrine it was that young women ought not to be afraid of work, was so clearly the effect of sheer opposition that mary disdained to answer it. then she was accused of treating her stepmother with contempt. she did walk to bragton, taking the path by the fields and over the bridge, and loitering for a few minutes as she leant upon the rail. it was there and there only that she had seen together the two men who between them seemed to cloud all her life,--the man whom she loved and the man who loved her. she knew now,--she thought that she knew quite well,--that her feelings for reginald morton were of such a nature that she could not possibly become the wife of any one else. but had she not seen him for those few minutes on this spot, had he not fired her imagination by telling her of his desire to go back with her over the sites which they had seen together when she was a child, she would not, she thought, have been driven to make to herself so grievous a confession. in that case it might have been that she would have brought herself to give her hand to the suitor of whom all her friends approved. and then with infinite tenderness she thought of all larry's virtues,--and especially of that great virtue in a woman's eyes, the constancy of his devotion to herself. she did love him,--but with a varied love,--a love which was most earnest in wishing his happiness, which would have been desirous of the closest friendship if only nothing more were required. she swore to herself a thousand times that she did not look down upon him because he was only a farmer, that she did not think herself in any way superior to him. but it was impossible that she should consent to be his wife. and then she thought of the other man,--with feelings much less kind. why had he thrust himself upon her life and disturbed her? why had he taught her to think herself unfit to mate with this lover who was her equal? why had he assured her that were she to do so her old friends would be revolted? why had he exacted from her a promise,--a promise which was sacred to her,--that she would not so give herself away? yes;--the promise was certainly sacred; but he had been cold and cruel in forcing it from her lips. what business was it of his? why should he have meddled with her? in the shallow streamlet of her lowly life the waters might have glided on, slow but smoothly, had he not taught them to be ambitious of a rapider, grander course. now they were disturbed by mud, and there could be no pleasure in them. she went on over the bridge, and round by the shrubbery to the hall door which was opened to her by mrs. hopkins. yes, lady ushant was there;--but the young squire was very ill and his aunt was then with him. mr. reginald was in the library. would miss masters be shown in there, or would she go up to lady ushant's own room? of course she replied that she would go up-stairs and there wait for lady ushant. when she was found by her friend she was told at length the story of all the circumstances which had brought lady ushant to bragton. when john morton had first been taken ill,--before any fixed idea of danger had occurred to himself or to others,--his grandmother had come to him. then, as he gradually became weaker he made various propositions which were all of them terribly distasteful to the old woman. in the first place he had insisted on sending for miss trefoil. up to this period mary masters had hardly heard the name of miss trefoil, and almost shuddered as she was at once immersed in all these family secrets. "she is to be here to-morrow," said lady ushant. "oh dear,--how sad!" "he insists upon it, and she is coming. she was here before, and it now turns out that all the world knew that they were engaged. that was no secret, for everybody had heard it." "and where is mrs. morton now?" then lady ushant went on with her story. the sick man had insisted on making his will and had declared his purpose of leaving the property to his cousin reginald. as lady ushant said, there was no one else to whom he could leave it with any propriety;--but this had become matter for bitter contention between the old woman and her grandson. "who did she think should have it?" asked mary. "ah;--that i don't know. that he has never told me. but she has had the wickedness to say,--oh,--such things of reginald. i knew all that before;--but that she should repeat them now is terrible. i suppose she wanted it for some of her own people. but it was so horrible you know,--when he was so ill! then he said that he should send for me, so that what is left of the family might be together. after that she went away in anger. mrs. hopkins says that she did not even see him the morning she left bragton." "she was always high-tempered," said mary. "and dictatorial beyond measure. she nearly broke my poor dear father's heart. and then she left the house because he would not shut his doors against reginald's mother. and now i hardly know what i am to do here, or what i must say to this young lady when she comes to-morrow." "is she coming alone?" "we don't know. she has a mother, lady augustus trefoil,--but whether lady augustus will accompany her daughter we have not heard. reginald says certainly not, or they would have told us so. you have seen reginald?" "no, lady ushant." "you must see him. he is here now. think what a difference it will make to him." "but lady ushant,--is he so bad?" "dr. fanning almost says that there is no hope. this poor young woman that is coming;--what am i to say to her? he has made his will. that was done before i came. i don't know why he shouldn't have sent for your father, but he had a gentleman down from town. i suppose he will leave her something; but it is a great thing that bragton should remain in the family. oh dear, oh dear,--if any one but a morton were to be here it would break my heart. reginald is the only one left now of the old branch. he's getting old and he ought to marry. it is so serious when there's an old family property." "i suppose he will--only--" "yes; exactly. one can't even think about it while this poor young man is lying so ill. mrs. morton has been almost like his mother, and has lived upon the bragton property,--absolutely lived upon it,--and now she is away from him because he chooses to do what he likes with his own. is it not awful? and she would not put her foot in the house if she knew that reginald was here. she told mrs. hopkins as much, and she said that she wouldn't so much as write a line to me. poor fellow; he wrote it himself. and now he thinks so much about it. when dr. fanning went back to london yesterday i think he took some message to her." mary remained there till lunch was announced but refused to go down into the parlour, urging that she was expected home for dinner. "and there is no chance for mr. twentyman?" asked lady ushant. mary shook her head. "poor man! i do feel sorry for him as everybody speaks so well of him. of course, my dear, i have nothing to say about it. i don't think girls should ever be in a hurry to marry, and if you can't love him--" "dear lady ushant, it is quite settled." "poor young man! but you must go and see reginald." then she was taken into the library and did see reginald. were she to avoid him,--specially,--she would tell her tale almost as plainly as though she were to run after him. he greeted her kindly, almost affectionately, expressing his extreme regret that his visit to cheltenham should have been postponed and a hope that she would be much at bragton. "the distance is so great, reginald," said lady ushant. "i can drive her over. it is a long walk, and i had made up my mind to get runciman's little phaeton. i shall order it for to-morrow if miss masters will come." but miss masters would not agree to this. she would walk over again some day as she liked the walk, but no doubt she would only be in the way if she were to come often. "i have told her about miss trefoil," said lady ushant. "you know, my dear, i look upon you almost as one of ourselves because you lived here so long. but perhaps you had better postpone coming again till she has gone." "certainly, lady ushant." "it might be difficult to explain. i don't suppose she will stay long. perhaps she will go back the same day. i am sure i shan't know what to say to her. but when anything is fixed i will send you in word by the postman." reginald would have walked back with her across the bridge but that he had promised to go to his cousin immediately after lunch. as it was he offered to accompany her a part of the way, but was stopped by his aunt, greatly to mary's comfort. he was now more beyond her reach than ever,--more utterly removed from her. he would probably become squire of bragton, and she, in her earliest days, had heard the late squire spoken of as though he were one of the potentates of the earth. she had never thought it possible; but now it was less possible than ever. there was something in his manner to her almost protective, almost fatherly,--as though he had some authority over her. lady ushant had authority once, but he had none. in every tone of his voice she felt that she heard an expression of interest in her welfare,--but it was the interest which a grown-up person takes in a child, or a superior in an inferior. of course he was her superior, but yet the tone of his voice was distasteful to her. as she walked back to dillsborough she told herself that she would not go again to bragton without assuring herself that he was not there. when she reached home many questions were asked of her, but she told nothing of the secrets of the morton family which had been so openly confided to her. she would only say that she was afraid that mr. john morton was very ill. chapter xxvii. arabella again at bragton. arabella trefoil had adhered without flinching to the purpose she had expressed of going down to bragton to see the sick man. and yet at that very time she was in the midst of her contest with lord rufford. she was aware that a correspondence was going on between her father and the young lord and that her father had demanded an interview. she was aware also that the matter had been discussed at the family mansion in piccadilly, the duke having come up to london for the purpose, and that the duke and his brother, who hardly ever spoke to each other, had absolutely had a conference. and this conference had had results. the duke had not himself consented to interfere, but he had agreed to a compromise proposed by his son. lord augustus should be authorised to ask lord rufford to meet him in the library of the piccadilly mansion,--so that there should be some savour of the dukedom in what might be done and said there. lord rufford would by the surroundings be made to feel that in rejecting arabella he was rejecting the duke and all the mayfair belongings, and that in accepting her he would be entitled to regard himself as accepting them all. but by allowing thus much the duke would not compromise himself,--nor the duchess, nor lord mistletoe. lord mistletoe, with that prudence which will certainly in future years make him a useful assistant to some minister of the day, had seen all this, and so it had been arranged. but, in spite of these doings, arabella had insisted on complying with john morton's wish that she go down and visit him in his bed at bragton. her mother, who in these days was driven almost to desperation by her daughter's conduct, tried her best to prevent the useless journey, but tried in vain. "then," she said in wrath to arabella, "i will tell your father, and i will tell the duke, and i will tell lord rufford that they need not trouble themselves any further." "you know, mamma, that you will do nothing of the kind," said arabella. and the poor woman did do nothing of the kind. "what is it to them whether i see the man or not?" the girl said. "they are not such fools as to suppose that because lord rufford has engaged himself to me now i was never engaged to any one before. there isn't one of them doesn't know that you had made up an engagement between us and had afterwards tried to break it off." when she heard this the unfortunate mother raved, but she raved in vain. she told her daughter that she would not supply her with money for the expenses of her journey, but her daughter replied that she would have no difficulty in finding her way to a pawn shop. "what is to be got by it?" asked the unfortunate mother. in reply to this arabella would say, "mamma, you have no heart;--absolutely none. you ought to manoeuvre better than you do, for your feelings never stand in your way for a moment." all this had to be borne, and the old woman was forced at last not only to yield but to promise that she would accompany her daughter to bragton. "i know how all this will end," she said to arabella. "you will have to go your way and i must go mine." "just so," replied the daughter. "i do not often agree with you, mamma; but i do there altogether." lady augustus was absolutely at a loss to understand what were the motives and what the ideas which induced her daughter to take the journey. if the man were to die no good could come of it. if he were to live then surely that love which had induced him to make so foolish a petition would suffice to ensure the marriage, if the marriage should then be thought desirable. but, at the present moment, arabella was still hot in pursuit of lord rufford;--to whom this journey, as soon as it should be known to him, would give the easiest mode of escape! how would it be possible that they two should get out at the dillsborough station and be taken to bragton without all rufford knowing it. of course there would be hymns sung in praise of arabella's love and constancy, but such hymns would be absolutely ruinous to her. it was growing clear to lady augustus that her daughter was giving up the game and becoming frantic as she thought of her age, her failure, and her future. if so it would be well that they should separate. on the day fixed a close carriage awaited them at the dillsborough station. they arrived both dressed in black and both veiled,--and with but one maid between them. this arrangement had been made with some vague idea of escaping scrutiny rather than from economy. they had never hitherto been known to go anywhere without one apiece. there were no airs on the station now as on that former occasion,--no loud talking; not even a word spoken. lady augustus was asking herself why,--why she should have been put into so lamentable a position, and arabella was endeavouring to think what she would say to the dying man. she did think that he was dying. it was not the purport of her present visit to strengthen her position by making certain of the man's hand should he live. when she said that she was not as yet quite so hard-hearted as her mother, she spoke the truth. something of regret, something of penitence had at times crept over her in reference to her conduct to this man. he had been very unlike others on whom she had played her arts. none of her lovers, or mock lovers, had been serious and stern and uncomfortable as he. there had been no other who had ever attempted to earn his bread. to her the butterflies of the world had been all in all, and the working bees had been a tribe apart with which she was no more called upon to mix than is my lady's spaniel with the kennel hounds. but the chance had come. she had consented to exhibit her allurements before a man of business and the man of business had at once sat at her feet. she had soon repented,--as the reader has seen. the alliance had been distasteful to her. she had found that the man's ways were in no wise like her ways,--and she had found also that were she to become his wife, he certainly would not change. she had looked about for a means of escape,--but as she did so she had recognized the man's truth. no doubt he had been different from the others, less gay in his attire, less jocund in his words, less given to flattery and sport and gems and all the little wickednesses which she had loved. but they,--those others had, one and all, struggled to escape from her. through all the gems and mirth and flattery there had been the same purpose. they liked the softness of her hand, they liked the flutter of her silk, they liked to have whispered in their ears the bold words of her practised raillery. each liked for a month or two to be her special friend. but then, after that, each had deserted her as had done the one before; till in each new alliance she felt that such was to be her destiny, and that she was rolling a stone which would never settle itself, straining for waters which would never come lip high. but john morton, after once saying that he loved her, had never tired, had never wished to escape. he had been so true to his love, so true to his word, that he had borne from her usage which would have fully justified escape had escape been to his taste. but to the last he had really loved her, and now, on his death bed, he had sent for her to come to him. she would not be coward enough to refuse his request. "should he say anything to you about his will don't refuse to hear him, because it may be of the greatest importance," lady augustus whispered to her daughter as the carriage was driven up to the front door. it was then four o'clock, and it was understood that the two ladies were to stay that one night at bragton, a letter having been received by lady ushant that morning informing her that the mother as well as the daughter was coming. poor lady ushant was almost beside herself,--not knowing what she would do with the two women, and having no one in the house to help her. something she had heard of lady augustus, but chiefly from mrs. hopkins who certainly had not admired her master's future mother-in-law. nor had arabella been popular; but of her mrs. hopkins had only dared to say that she was very handsome and "a little upstartish." how she was to spend the evening with them lady ushant could not conceive,--it having been decided, in accordance with the doctor's orders, that the interview should not take place till the next morning. when they were shown in lady ushant stood just within the drawing-room door and muttered a few words as she gave her hand to each. "how is he?" asked arabella, throwing up her veil boldly, as soon as the door was closed. lady ushant only shook her head. "i knew it would be so. it is always so with anything i care for." "she is so distressed, lady ushant," said the mother, "that she hardly knows what she does." arabella shook her head. "it is so, lady ushant." "am i to go to him now?" said arabella. then the old lady explained the doctor's orders, and offered to take them to their rooms. "perhaps i might say a word to you alone? i will stay here if you will go with mamma." and she did stay till lady ushant came down to her. "do you mean to say it is certain," she asked,--"certain that he must--die?" "no;--i do not say that." "it is possible that he may recover?" "certainly it is possible. what is not possible with god?" "ah;--that means that he will die." then she sat herself down and almost unconsciously took off her bonnet and laid it aside. lady ushant, then looking into her face for the first time, was at a loss to understand what she had heard of her beauty. could it be the same girl of whom mrs. hopkins had spoken and of whose brilliant beauty reginald had repeated what he had heard? she was haggard, almost old, with black lines round her eyes. there was nothing soft or gracious in the tresses of her hair. when lady ushant had been young men had liked hair such as was that of mary masters. arabella's yellow locks,--whencesoever they might have come,--were rough and uncombed. but it was the look of age, and the almost masculine strength of the lower face which astonished lady ushant the most. "has he spoken to you about me?" she said. "not to me." then lady ushant went on to explain that though she was there now as the female representative of the family she had never been so intimate with john morton as to admit of such confidence as that suggested. "i wonder whether he can love me," said the girl. "assuredly he does, miss trefoil. why else should he send for you?" "because he is an honest man. i hardly think that he can love me much. he was to have been my husband, but he will escape that. if i thought that he would live i would tell him that he was free." "he would not want to be--free." "he ought to want it. i am not fit for him. i have come here, lady ushant, because i want to tell him the truth." "but you love him?" arabella made no answer, but sat looking steadily into lady ushant's face. "surely you do love him." "i do not know. i don't think i did love him,--though now i may. it is so horrible that he should die, and die while all this is going on. that softens one you know. have you ever heard of lord rufford?" "lord rufford;--the young man?" "yes;--the young man." "never particularly. i knew his father." "but not this man? mr. morton never spoke to you of him." "not a word." "i have been engaged to him since i became engaged to your nephew." "engaged to lord rufford,--to marry him?" "yes,--indeed." "and will you marry him?" "i cannot say. i tell you this, lady ushant, because i must tell somebody in this house. i have behaved very badly to mr. morton, and lord rufford is behaving as badly to me." "did john know of this?" "no;--but i meant to tell him. i determined that i would tell him had he lived. when he sent for me i swore that i would tell him. if he is dying,--how can i say it?" lady ushant sat bewildered, thinking over it, understanding nothing of the world in which this girl had lived, and not knowing now how things could have been as she described them. it was not as yet three months since, to her knowledge, this young woman had been staying at bragton as the affianced bride of the owner of the house,--staying there with her own mother and his grandmother,--and now she declared that since that time she had become engaged to another man and that that other man had already jilted her! and yet she was here that she might make a deathbed parting with the man who regarded himself as her affianced husband. "if i were sure that he were dying, why should i trouble him?" she said again. lady ushant found herself utterly unable to give any counsel to such a condition of circumstances. why should she be asked? this young woman had her mother with her. did her mother know all this, and nevertheless bring her daughter to the house of a man who had been so treated! "i really do not know what to say," she replied at last. "but i was determined that i would tell some one. i thought that mrs. morton would have been here." lady ushant shook her head. "i am glad she is not, because she was not civil to me when i was here before. she would have said hard things to me,--though not perhaps harder than i have deserved. i suppose i may still see him to-morrow." "oh yes; he expects it." "i shall not tell him now. i could not tell him if i thought he were dying. if he gets better you must tell him all." "i don't think i could do that, miss trefoil." "pray do;--pray do. i call upon you to tell him everything." "tell him that you will be married to lord rufford?" "no;--not that. if mr. morton were well to-morrow i would have him,--if he chose to take me after what i have told you." "you do love him then?" "at any rate i like no one better." "not the young lord?" "no! why should i like him? he does not love me. i hate him. i would marry mr. morton to-morrow, and go with him to patagonia, or anywhere else,--if he would have me after hearing what i have done." then she rose from her chair; but before she left the room she said a word further. "do not speak a word to my mother about this. mamma knows nothing of my purpose. mamma only wants me to marry lord rufford, and to throw mr. morton over. do not tell anyone else, lady ushant; but if he is ever well enough then you must tell him." after that she went, leaving lady ushant in the room astounded by the story she had heard. * * * * * * volume iii. chapter i. "i have told him everything." that evening was very long and very sad to the three ladies assembled in the drawing-room at bragton park, but it was probably more so to lady augustus than the other two. she hardly spoke to either of them; nor did they to her; while a certain amount of conversation in a low tone was carried on between lady ushant and miss trefoil. when arabella came down to dinner she received a message from the sick man. he sent his love, and would so willingly have seen her instantly,--only that the doctor would not allow it. but he was so glad,--so very glad that she had come! this lady ushant said to her in a whisper, and seemed to say it as though she had heard nothing of that frightful story which had been told to her not much more than an hour ago. arabella did not utter a word in reply, but put out her hand, secretly as it were, and grasped that of the old lady to whom she had told the tale of her later intrigues. the dinner did not keep them long, but it was very grievous to them all. lady ushant might have made some effort to be at least a complaisant hostess to lady augustus had she not heard this story,--had she not been told that the woman, knowing her daughter to be engaged to john morton, had wanted her to marry lord rufford. the story having come from the lips of the girl herself had moved some pity in the old woman's breast in regard to her; but for lady augustus she could feel nothing but horror. in the evening lady augustus sat alone, not even pretending to open a book or to employ her fingers. she seated herself on one side of the fire with a screen in her hand, turning over such thoughts in her mind as were perhaps customary to her. would there ever come a period to her misery, an hour of release in which she might be in comfort ere she died? hitherto from one year to another, from one decade to the following, it had all been struggle and misery, contumely and contempt. she thought that she had done her duty by her child, and her child hated and despised her. it was but the other day that arabella had openly declared that in the event of her marriage she would not have her mother as a guest in her own house. there could be no longer hope for triumph and glory;--but how might she find peace so that she might no longer be driven hither and thither by this ungrateful tyrant child? oh, how hard she had worked in the world, and how little the world had given her in return! lady ushant and arabella sat at the other side of the fire, at some distance from it, on a sofa, and carried on a fitful conversation in whispers, of which a word would now and then reach the ears of the wretched mother. it consisted chiefly of a description of the man's illness, and of the different sayings which had come from the doctors who had attended him. it was marvellous to lady augustus, as she sat there listening, that her daughter should condescend to take an interest in such details. what could it be to her now how the fever had taken him, or why or when? on the very next day, the very morning on which she would go and sit,--ah so uselessly,--by the dying man's bedside, her father was to meet lord rufford at the ducal mansion in piccadilly, to see if anything could be done in that quarter! it was impossible that she should really care whether john morton's lease of life was to be computed at a week's purchase or at that of a month! and yet arabella sat there asking sick-room questions and listening to sick-room replies as though her very nature had been changed. lady augustus heard her daughter inquire what food the sick man took, and then lady ushant at great length gave the list of his nourishment. what sickening hypocrisy! thought lady augustus. lady augustus must have known her daughter well; and yet it was not hypocrisy. the girl's nature, which had become thoroughly evil from the treatment it had received, was not altered. such sudden changes do not occur more frequently than other miracles. but zealously as she had practised her arts she had not as yet practised them long enough not to be cowed by certain outward circumstances. there were moments when she still heard in her imagination the sound of that horse's foot as it struck the skull of the unfortunate fallen rider;--and now the prospect of the death of this man whom she had known so intimately and who had behaved so well to her,--to whom her own conduct had been so foully false,--for a time brought her back to humanity. but lady augustus had got beyond that and could not at all understand it. by nine they had all retired for the night. it was necessary that lady ushant should again visit her nephew, and the mother and daughter went to their own rooms. "i cannot in the least make out what you are doing," said lady augustus in her most severe voice. "i dare say not, mamma." "i have been brought here, at a terrible sacrifice--" "sacrifice! what sacrifice? you are as well here as anywhere else." "i say i have been brought here at a terrible sacrifice for no purpose whatever. what use is it to be? and then you pretend to care what this poor man is eating and drinking and what physic he is taking when, the last time you were in his company, you wouldn't so much as look at him for fear you should make another man jealous." "he was not dying then." "psha!" "oh yes. i know all that. i do feel a little ashamed of myself when i am almost crying for him." "as if you loved him!" "dear mamma, i do own that it is foolish. having listened to you on these subjects for a dozen years at least i ought to have got rid of all that. i don't suppose i do love him. two or three weeks ago i almost thought i loved lord rufford, and now i am quite sure that i hate him. but if i heard to-morrow that he had broken his neck out hunting, i ain't sure but what i should feel something. but he would not send for me as this man has done." "it was very impertinent." "perhaps it was ill-bred, as he must have suspected something as to lord rufford. however we are here now." "i will never allow you to drag me anywhere again." "it will be for yourself to judge of that. if i want to go anywhere, i shall go. what's the good of quarrelling? you know that i mean to have my way." the next morning neither lady augustus nor miss trefoil came down to breakfast, but at ten o'clock arabella was ready, as appointed, to be taken into the sick man's bedroom. she was still dressed in black but had taken some trouble with her face and hair. she followed lady ushant in, and silently standing by the bedside put her hand upon that of john morton which was laying outside on the bed. "i will leave you now, john," said lady ushant retiring, "and come again in half an hour." "when i ring," he said. "you mustn't let him talk for more than that," said the old lady to arabella as she went. it was more than an hour afterwards when arabella crept into her mother's room, during which time lady ushant had twice knocked at her nephew's door and had twice been sent away. "it is all over, mamma!" she said. lady augustus looked into her daughter's eyes and saw that she had really been weeping. "all over!" "i mean for me,--and you. we have only got to go away." "will he--die?" "it will make no matter though he should live for ever. i have told him everything. i did not mean to do it because i thought that he would be weak; but he has been strong enough for that." "what have you told him?" "just everything--about you and lord rufford and myself,--and what an escape he had had not to marry me. he understands it all now." "it is a great deal more than i do." "he knows that lord rufford has been engaged to me." she clung to this statement so vehemently that she had really taught herself to believe that it was so. "well!" "and he knows also how his lordship is behaving to me. of course he thinks that i have deserved it. of course i have deserved it. we have nothing to do now but to go back to london." "you have brought me here all the way for that." "only for that! as the man was dying i thought that i would be honest just for once. now that i have told him i don't believe that he will die. he does not look to be so very ill." "and you have thrown away that chance!" "altogether. you didn't like bragton you know, and therefore it can't matter to you." "like it!" "to be sure you would have got rid of me had i gone to patagonia. but he will not go to patagonia now even if he gets well; and so there was nothing to be gained. the carriage is to be here at two to take us to the station and you may as well let judith come and put the things up." just before they took their departure lady ushant came to arabella saying that mr. morton wanted to speak one other word to her before she went. so she returned to the room and was again left alone at the man's bedside. "arabella," he said, "i thought that i would tell you that i have forgiven everything." "how can you have forgiven me? there are things which a man cannot forgive." "give me your hand," he said,--and she gave him her hand. "i do forgive it all. even should i live it would be impossible that we should be man and wife." "oh yes." "but nevertheless i love you. try,--try to be true to some one." "there is no truth left in me, mr. morton. i should not dishonour my husband if i had one, but still i should be a curse to him. i shall marry some day i suppose, and i know it will be so. i wish i could change with you,--and die." "you are unhappy now." "indeed i am. i am always unhappy. i do not think you can tell what it is to be so wretched. but i am glad that you have forgiven me." then she stooped down and kissed his hand. as she did so he touched her brow with his hot lips, and then she left him again. lady ushant was waiting outside the door. "he knows it all," said arabella. "you need not trouble yourself with the message i gave you. the carriage is at the door. good-bye. you need not come down. mamma will not expect it." lady ushant, hardly knowing how she ought to behave, did not go down. lady augustus and her daughter got into mr. runciman's carriage without any farewells, and were driven back from the park to the dillsborough station. to poor lady ushant the whole thing had been very terrible. she sat silent and unoccupied the whole of that evening wondering at the horror of such a history. this girl had absolutely dared to tell the dying man all her own disgrace,--and had travelled down from london to bragton with the purpose of doing so! when next she crept into the sick-room she almost expected that her nephew would speak to her on the subject;--but he only asked whether that sound of wheels which he heard beneath his window had come from the carriage which had taken them away, and then did not say a further word of either lady augustus or her daughter. "and what do you mean to do now?" said lady augustus as the train approached the london terminus. "nothing." "you have given up lord rufford?" "indeed i have not." "your journey to bragton will hardly help you much with him." "i don't want it to help me at all. what have i done that lord rufford can complain of? i have not abandoned lord rufford for the sake of mr. morton. lord rufford ought only to be too proud if he knew it all." "of course he could make use of such an escapade as this?" "let him try. i have not done with lord rufford yet, and so i can tell him. i shall be at the duke's in piccadilly to-morrow morning." "that will be impossible, arabella." "they shall see whether it is impossible. i have got beyond caring very much what people say now. i know the kind of way papa would be thrown over if there is no one there to back him. i shall be there and i will ask lord rufford to his face whether we did not become engaged when we were at mistletoe." "they won't let you in." "i'll find a way to make my way in. i shall never be his wife. i don't know that i want it. after all what's the good of living with a man if you hate each other,--or living apart like you and papa?" "he has income enough for anything!" exclaimed lady augustus, shocked at her daughter's apparent blindness. "it isn't that i'm thinking of, but i'll have my revenge on him. liar! to write and say that i had made a mistake! he had not the courage to get out of it when we were together; but when he had run away in the night, like a thief, and got into his own house, then he could write and say that i had made a mistake! i have sometimes pitied men when i have seen girls hunting them down, but upon my word they deserve it." this renewal of spirit did something to comfort lady augustus. she had begun to fear that her daughter, in her despair, would abandon altogether the one pursuit of her life;--but it now seemed that there was still some courage left for the battle. that night nothing more was said, but arabella applied all her mind to the present condition of her circumstances. should she or should she not go to the house in piccadilly on the following morning? at last she determined that she would not do so, believing that should her father fail she might make a better opportunity for herself afterwards. at her uncle's house she would hardly have known where or how to wait for the proper moment of her appearance. "so you are not going to piccadilly," said her mother on the following morning. "it appears not," said arabella. chapter ii. "now what have you got to say?" it may be a question whether lord augustus trefoil or lord rufford looked forward to the interview which was to take place at the duke's mansion with the greater dismay. the unfortunate father whose only principle in life had been that of avoiding trouble would have rather that his daughter should have been jilted a score of times than that he should have been called upon to interfere once. there was in this demand upon him a breach of a silent but well-understood compact. his wife and daughter had been allowed to do just what they pleased and to be free of his authority, upon an understanding that they were never to give him any trouble. she might have married lord rufford, or mr. morton, or any other man she might have succeeded in catching, and he would not have troubled her either before or after her marriage. but it was not fair that he should be called upon to interfere in her failures. and what was he to say to this young lord? being fat and old and plethoric he could not be expected to use a stick and thrash the young lord. pistols were gone,--a remembrance of which fact perhaps afforded some consolation. nobody now need be afraid of anybody, and the young lord would not be afraid of him. arabella declared that there had been an engagement. the young lord would of course declare that there had been none. upon the whole he was inclined to believe it most probable that his daughter was lying. he did not think it likely that lord rufford should have been such a fool. as for taking lord rufford by the back of his neck and shaking him into matrimony, he knew that that would be altogether out of his power. and then the hour was so wretchedly early. it was that little fool mistletoe who had named ten o'clock,--a fellow who took parliamentary papers to bed with him, and had a blue book brought to him every morning at half-past seven with a cup of tea. by ten o'clock lord augustus would not have had time to take his first glass of soda and brandy preparatory to the labour of getting into his clothes. but he was afraid of his wife and daughter, and absolutely did get into a cab at the door of his lodgings in duke street, st. james', precisely at a quarter past ten. as the duke's house was close to the corner of clarges street the journey he had to make was not long. lord rufford would not have agreed to the interview but that it was forced upon him by his brother-in-law. "what good can it do?" lord rufford had asked. but his brother-in-law had held that that was a question to be answered by the other side. in such a position sir george thought that he was bound to concede as much as this,--in fact to concede almost anything short of marriage. "he can't do the girl any good by talking," lord rufford had said. sir george assented to this, but nevertheless thought that any friend deputed by her should be allowed to talk, at any rate once. "i don't know what he'll say. do you think he'll bring a big stick?" sir george who knew lord augustus did not imagine that a stick would be brought. "i couldn't hit him, you know. he's so fat that a blow would kill him." lord rufford wanted his brother-in-law to go with him;--but sir george assured him that this was impossible. it was a great bore. he had to go up to london all alone,--in february, when the weather was quite open and hunting was nearly coming to an end. and for what? was it likely that such a man as lord augustus should succeed in talking him into marrying any girl? nevertheless he went, prepared to be very civil, full of sorrow at the misunderstanding, but strong in his determination not to yield an inch. he arrived at the mansion precisely at ten o'clock and was at once shown into a back room on the ground floor. he saw no one but a very demure old servant who seemed to look upon him as one who was sinning against the trefoil family in general, and who shut the door upon him, leaving him as it were in prison. he was so accustomed to be the absolute master of his own minutes and hours that he chafed greatly as he walked up and down the room for what seemed to him the greater part of a day. he looked repeatedly at his watch, and at half-past ten declared to himself that if that fat old fool did not come within two minutes he would make his escape. "the fat old fool" when he reached the house asked for his nephew and endeavoured to persuade lord mistletoe to go with him to the interview. but lord mistletoe was as firm in refusing as had been sir george penwether. "you are quite wrong," said the young man with well-informed sententious gravity. "i could do nothing to help you. you are arabella's father and no one can plead her cause but yourself." lord augustus dropped his eyebrows over his eyes as this was said. they who knew him well and had seen the same thing done when his partner would not answer his call at whist or had led up to his discard were aware that the motion was tantamount to a very strong expression of disgust. he did not, however, argue the matter any further, but allowed himself to be led away slowly by the same solemn servant. lord rufford had taken up his hat preparatory to his departure when lord augustus was announced just five minutes after the half hour. when the elder man entered the room the younger one put down his hat and bowed. lord augustus also bowed and then stood for a few moments silent with his fat hands extended on the round table in the middle of the room. "this is a very disagreeable kind of thing, my lord," he said. "very disagreeable, and one that i lament above all things," answered lord rufford. "that's all very well;--very well indeed;--but, damme, what's the meaning of it all? that's what i want to ask. what's the meaning of it all?" then he paused as though he had completed the first part of his business,--and might now wait awhile till the necessary explanation had been given. but lord rufford did not seem disposed to give any immediate answer. he shrugged his shoulders, and, taking up his hat, passed his hand once or twice round the nap. lord augustus opened his eyes very wide as he waited and looked at the other man; but it seemed that the other man had nothing to say for himself. "you don't mean to tell me, i suppose, that what my daughter says isn't true." "some unfortunate mistake, lord augustus;--most unfortunate." "mistake be ----." he stopped himself before the sentence was completed, remembering that such an interview should be conducted on the part of him, as father, with something of dignity. "i don't understand anything about mistakes. ladies don't make mistakes of that kind. i won't hear of mistakes." lord rufford again shrugged his shoulders. "you have engaged my daughter's affections." "i have the greatest regard for miss trefoil." "regard be ----." then again he remembered himself. "lord rufford, you've got to marry her. that's the long and the short of it." "i'm sure i ought to be proud." "so you ought." "but--" "i don't know the meaning of but, my lord. i want to know what you mean to do." "marriage isn't in my line at all." "then what the d---- business have you to go about and talk to a girl like that? marriage not in your line! who cares for your line? i never heard such impudence in all my life. you get yourself engaged to a young lady of high rank and position and then you say that--marriage isn't in your line." upon that he opened his eyes still wider, and glared upon the offender wrathfully. "i can't admit that i was ever engaged to miss trefoil." "didn't you make love to her?" the poor victim paused a moment before he answered this question, thereby confessing his guilt before he denied it. "no, my lord; i don't think i ever did." "you don't think! you don't know whether you asked my daughter to marry you or not! you don't think you made love to her!" "i am sure i didn't ask her to marry me." "i am sure you did. and now what have you got to say?" here there was another shrug of the shoulders. "i suppose you think because you are a rich man that you may do whatever you please. but you'll have to learn the difference. you must be exposed, sir." "i hope for the lady's sake that as little as possible may be said of it." "d---- the ----!" lord augustus in his assumed wrath was about to be very severe on his daughter, but he checked himself again. "i'm not going to stop here talking all day," he said. "i want to hear your explanation and then i shall know how to act." up to this time he had been standing, which was unusual with him. now he flung himself into an armchair. "really, lord augustus, i don't know what i've got to say. i admire your daughter exceedingly. i was very much honoured when she and her mother came to my house at rufford. i was delighted to be able to show her a little sport. it gave me the greatest satisfaction when i met her again at your brother's house. coming home from hunting we happened to be thrown together. it's a kind of thing that will occur, you know. the duchess seemed to think a great deal of it; but what can one do? we could have had two postchaises, of course,--only one doesn't generally send a young lady alone. she was very tired and fainted with the fatigue. that i think is about all." "but,--damme, sir, what did you say to her?" lord rufford again rubbed the nap of his hat. "what did you say to her first of all, at your own house?" "a poor fellow was killed out hunting and everybody was talking about that. your daughter saw it herself." "excuse me, lord rufford, if i say that that's what we used to call shuffling, at school. because a man broke his neck out hunting--" "it was a kick on the head, lord augustus." "i don't care where he was kicked. what has that to do with your asking my daughter to be your wife?" "but i didn't." "i say you did,--over and over again." here lord augustus got out of his chair, and made a little attempt to reach the recreant lover;--but he failed and fell back again into his armchair. "it was first at rufford, and then you made an appointment to meet her at mistletoe. how do you explain that?" "miss trefoil is very fond of hunting." "i don't believe she ever went out hunting in her life before she saw you. you mounted her,--and gave her a horse,--and took her out,--and brought her home. everybody at mistletoe knew all about it. my brother and the duchess were told of it. it was one of those things that are plain to everybody as the nose on your face. what did you say to her when you were coming home in that postchaise?" "she was fainting." "what has that to do with it? i don't care whether she fainted or not. i don't believe she fainted at all. when she got into that carriage she was engaged to you, and when she got out of it she was engaged ever so much more. the duchess knew all about it. now what have you got to say?" lord rufford felt that he had nothing to say. "i insist upon having an answer." "it's one of the most unfortunate mistakes that ever were made." "by g----!" exclaimed lord augustus, turning his eyes up against the wall, and appealing to some dark ancestor who hung there. "i never heard of such a thing in all my life; never!" "i suppose i might as well go now," said lord rufford after a pause. "you may go to the d----, sir,--for the present." then lord rufford took his departure leaving the injured parent panting with his exertions. as lord rufford went away he felt that that difficulty had been overcome with much more ease than he had expected. he hardly knew what it was that he had dreaded, but he had feared something much worse than that. had an appeal been made to his affections he would hardly have known how to answer. he remembered well that he had assured the lady that he loved her, and had a direct question been asked him on that subject he would not have lied. he must have confessed that such a declaration had been made by him. but he had escaped that. he was quite sure that he had never uttered a hint in regard to marriage, and he came away from the duke's house almost with an assurance that he had done nothing that was worthy of much blame. lord augustus looked at his watch, rang the bell, and ordered a cab. he must now go and see his daughter, and then he would have done with the matter--for ever. but as he was passing through the hall his nephew caught hold of him and took him back into the room. "what does he say for himself?" asked lord mistletoe. "i don't know what he says. of course he swears that he never spoke a word to her." "my mother saw him paying her the closest attention." "how can i help that? what can i do? why didn't your mother pin him then and there? women can always do that kind of thing if they choose." "it is all over, then?" "i can't make a man marry if he won't. he ought to be thrashed within an inch of his life. but if one does that kind of thing the police are down upon one. all the same, i think the duchess might have managed it if she had chosen." after that he went to the lodgings in orchard street, and there repeated his story. "i have done all i can," he said, "and i don't mean to interfere any further. arabella should know how to manage her own affairs." "and you don't mean to punish him?" asked the mother. "punish him! how am i to punish him? if i were to throw a decanter at his head, what good would that do?" "and you mean to say that she must put up with it?" arabella was sitting by as these questions were asked. "he says that he never said a word to her. whom am i to believe?" "you did believe him, papa?" "who said so, miss? but i don't see why his word isn't as good as yours. there was nobody to hear it, i suppose. why didn't you get it in writing, or make your uncle fix him at once? if you mismanage your own affairs i can't put them right for you." "thank you, papa. i am so much obliged to you. you come back and tell me that every word he says is to be taken for gospel, and that you don't believe a word i have spoken. that is so kind of you! i suppose he and you will be the best friends in the world now. but i don't mean to let him off in that way. as you won't help me, i must help myself." "what did you expect me to do?" "never to leave him till you had forced him to keep his word. i should have thought that you would have taken him by the throat in such a cause. any other father would have done so." "you are an impudent, wicked girl, and i don't believe he was ever engaged to you at all," said lord augustus as he took his leave. "now you have made your father your enemy," said the mother. "everybody is my enemy," said arabella. "there are no such things as love and friendship. papa pretends that he does not believe me, just because he wants to shirk the trouble. i suppose you'll say you don't believe me next." chapter iii. mrs. morton returns. a few days after that on which lady augustus and her daughter left bragton old mrs. morton returned to that place. she had gone away in very bitterness of spirit against her grandson in the early days of his illness. for some period antecedent to that there had been causes for quarrelling. john morton had told her that he had been to reginald's house, and she, in her wrath, replied that he had disgraced himself by doing so. when those harsh words had been forgotten, or at any rate forgiven, other causes of anger had sprung up. she had endeavoured to drive him to repudiate arabella trefoil, and in order that she might do so effectually had contrived to find out something of arabella's doings at rufford and at mistletoe. her efforts in this direction had had an effect directly contrary to that which she had intended. there had been moments in which morton had been willing enough to rid himself of that burden. he had felt the lady's conduct in his own house, and had seen it at rufford. he, too, had heard something of mistletoe. but the spirit within him was aroused at the idea of dictation, and he had been prompted to contradict the old woman's accusation against his intended bride, by the very fact that they were made by her. and then she threatened him. if he did these things,--if he would consort with an outcast from the family such as reginald morton, and take to himself such a bride as arabella trefoil, he could never more be to her as her child. this of course was tantamount to saying that she would leave her money to some one else,--money which, as he well knew, had all been collected from the bragton property. he had ever been to her as her son, and yet he was aware of a propensity on her part to enrich her own noble relatives with her hoards,--a desire from gratifying which she had hitherto been restrained by conscience. morton had been anxious enough for his grandmother's money, but, even in the hope of receiving it, would not bear indignity beyond a certain point. he had therefore declared it to be his purpose to marry arabella trefoil, and because he had so declared he had almost brought himself to forgive that young lady's sins against him. then, as his illness became serious, there arose the question of disposing of the property in the event of his death. mrs. morton was herself very old, and was near her grave. she was apt to speak of herself as one who had but a few days left to her in this world. but, to her, property was more important than life or death;--and rank probably more important than either. she was a brave, fierce, evil-minded, but conscientious old woman,--one, we may say, with very bad lights indeed, but who was steadfastly minded to walk by those lights, such as they were. she did not scruple to tell her grandson that it was his duty to leave the property away from his cousin reginald, nor to allege as a reason for his doing so that in all probability reginald morton was not the legitimate heir of his great-grandfather, sir reginald. for such an assertion john morton knew there was not a shadow of ground. no one but this old woman had ever suspected that the canadian girl whom reginald's father had brought with him to bragton had been other than his honest wife;--and her suspicions had only come from vague assertions, made by herself in blind anger till at last she had learned to believe them. then, when in addition to this, he asserted his purpose of asking arabella trefoil to come to him at bragton, the cup of her wrath was overflowing, and she withdrew from the house altogether. it might be that he was dying. she did in truth believe that he was dying. but there were things more serious to her than life or death. should she allow him to trample upon all her feelings because he was on his death-bed,--when perhaps in very truth he might not be on his death-bed at all? she, at any rate, was near her death,--and she would do her duty. so she packed up her things--to the last black skirt of an old gown, so that every one at bragton might know that it was her purpose to come back no more. and she went away. then lady ushant came to take her place, and with lady ushant came reginald morton. the one lived in the house and the other visited it daily. and, as the reader knows, lady augustus came with her daughter. mrs. morton, though she had gone,--for ever,--took care to know of the comings and goings at bragton. mrs. hopkins was enjoined to write to her and tell her everything; and though mrs. hopkins with all her heart took the side of lady ushant and reginald, she had never been well inclined to miss trefoil. presents too were given and promises were made; and mrs. hopkins, not without some little treachery, did from time to time send to the old lady a record of what took place at bragton. arabella came and went, and mrs. hopkins thought that her coming had not led to much. lady ushant was always with mr. john,--such was the account given by mrs. hopkins;--and the general opinion was that the squire's days were numbered. then the old woman's jealousy was aroused, and, perhaps, her heart was softened. it was still hard black winter, and she was living alone in lodgings in london. the noble cousin, a man nearly as old as herself whose children she was desirous to enrich, took but little notice of her, nor would she have been happy had she lived with him. her life had been usually solitary,--with little breaks to its loneliness occasioned by the visits to england of him whom she had called her child. that this child should die before her, should die in his youth, did not shock her much. her husband had done so, and her own son, and sundry of her noble brothers and sisters. she was hardened against death. life to her had never been joyous, though the trappings of life were so great in her eyes. but it broke her heart that her child should die in the arms of another old woman who had always been to her as an enemy. lady ushant, in days now long gone by but still remembered as though they were yesterday, had counselled the reception of the canadian female. and lady ushant, when the canadian female and her husband were dead, had been a mother to the boy whom she, mrs. morton, would so fain have repudiated altogether. lady ushant had always been "on the other side;" and now lady ushant was paramount at bragton. and doubtless there was some tenderness, though mrs. morton was unwilling to own even to herself that she was moved by any such feeling. if she had done her duty in counselling him to reject both reginald morton and arabella trefoil,--as to which she admitted no doubt in her own mind;--and if duty had required her to absent herself when her counsel was spurned, then would she be weak and unmindful of duty should she allow any softness of heart to lure her back again. it was so she reasoned. but still some softness was there; and when she heard that miss trefoil had gone, and that her visit had not, in mrs. hopkins's opinion, "led to much," she wrote to say that she would return. she made no request and clothed her suggestion in no words of tenderness; but simply told her grandson that she would come back--as the trefoils had left him. and she did come. when the news were first told to lady ushant by the sick man himself, that lady proposed that she should at once go back to cheltenham. but when she was asked whether her animosity to mrs. morton was so great that she could not consent to remain under the same roof, she at once declared that she had no animosity whatsoever. the idea of animosity running over nearly half a century was horrible to her; and therefore, though she did in her heart of hearts dread the other old woman, she consented to stay. "and what shall reginald do?" she asked. john morton had thought about this too, and expressed a wish that reginald should come regularly,--as he had come during the last week or two. it was just a week from the day on which the trefoils had gone that mrs. morton was driven up to the door in mr. runciman's fly. this was at four in the afternoon, and had the old woman looked out of the fly window she might have seen reginald making his way by the little path to the bridge which led back to dillsborough. it was at this hour that he went daily, and he had not now thought it worth his while to remain to welcome mrs. morton. and she might also have seen, had she looked out, that with him was walking a young woman. she would not have known mary masters; but had she seen them both, and had she known the young woman, she would have declared in her pride that they were fit associates. but she saw nothing of this, sitting there behind her veil, thinking whether she might still do anything, and if so, what she might do to avert the present evil destination of the bragton estate. there was an honourable nephew of her own,--or rather a great-nephew,--who might easily take the name, who would so willingly take the name! or if this were impracticable, there was a distant morton, very distant, whom she had never seen and certainly did not love, but who was clearly a morton, and who would certainly be preferable to that enemy of forty years' standing. might there not be some bargain made? would not her dying grandson be alive to the evident duty of enriching the property and leaving behind him a wealthy heir? she could enrich the property and make the heir wealthy by her money. "how is he?" that of course was the first question when mrs. hopkins met her in the hall. mrs. hopkins only shook her head and said that perhaps he had taken his food that day a little better than on the last. then there was a whisper, to which mrs. hopkins whispered back her answer. yes,--lady ushant was in the house,--was at this moment in the sick man's room. mr. reginald was not staying there,--had never stayed there,--but came every day. he had only just left. "and is he to come still?" asked mrs. morton with wrath in her eyes. mrs. hopkins did not know but was disposed to think that mr. reginald would come every day. then mrs. morton went up to her own room,--and while she prepared herself for her visit to the sick room lady ushant retired. she had a cup of tea, refusing all other refreshment, and then, walking erect as though she had been forty instead of seventy-five, she entered her grandson's chamber and took her old place at his bedside. nothing was then said about arabella, nor, indeed, at any future time was her name mentioned between them;--nor was anything then said about the future fate of the estate. she did not dare to bring up the subject at once, though, on the journey down from london, she had determined that she would do so. but she was awed by his appearance and by the increased appanages of his sick-bed. he spoke, indeed, of the property, and expressed his anxiety that chowton farm should be bought, if it came into market. he thought that the old acres should be redeemed, if the opportunity arose,--and if the money could be found. "chowton farm!" exclaimed the old woman, who remembered well the agony which had attended the alienation of that portion of the morton lands. "it may be that it will be sold." "lawrence twentyman sell chowton farm! i thought he was well off." little as she had been at bragton she knew all about chowton farm,--except that its owner was so wounded by vain love as to be like a hurt deer. her grandson did not tell her all the story, but explained to her that lawrence twentyman, though not poor, had other plans of life and thought of leaving the neighbourhood. she, of course, had the money; and as she believed that land was the one proper possession for an english gentleman of ancient family, she doubtless would have been willing to buy it had she approved of the hands into which it would fall. it seemed to her that it was her duty to do as much for the estate with which all her fortune had been concerned. "yes," she said; "it should be bought,--if other things suited. we will talk of it to-morrow, john." then he spoke of his mission to patagonia and of his regret that it should be abandoned. even were he ever to be well again his strength would return to him too late for this purpose. he had already made known to the foreign office his inability to undertake that service. but she could perceive that he had not in truth abandoned his hopes of living, for he spoke much of his ambition as to the public service. the more he thought of it, he said, the more certain he became that it would suit him better to go on with his profession than to live the life of a country squire in england. and yet she could see the change which had taken place since she was last there and was aware that he was fading away from day to day. it was not till they were summoned to dine together that she saw lady ushant. very many years had passed since last they were together, and yet neither seemed to the other to be much changed. lady ushant was still soft, retiring, and almost timid; whereas mrs. morton showed her inclination to domineer even in the way in which she helped herself to salt. while the servant was with them very little was said on either side. there was a word or two from mrs. morton to show that she considered herself the mistress there,--and a word from the other lady proclaiming that she had no pretensions of that kind. but after dinner in the little drawing-room they were more communicative. something of course was said as to the health of the invalid. lady ushant was not the woman to give a pronounced opinion on such a subject. she used doubtful, hesitating words, and would in one minute almost contradict what she had said in the former. but mrs. morton was clever enough to perceive that lady ushant was almost without hope. then she made a little speech with a fixed purpose. "it must be a great trouble to you, lady ushant, to be so long away from home." "not at all," said lady ushant in perfect innocence. "i have nothing to bind me anywhere." "i shall think it my duty to remain here now,--till the end." "i suppose so. he has always been almost the same to you as your own." "quite so; quite the same. he is my own." and yet,--thought lady ushant,--she left him in his illness! she, too, had heard something from mrs. hopkins of the temper in which mrs. morton had last left bragton. "but you are not bound to him in that way." "not in that way certainly." "in no way, i may say. it was very kind of you to come when business made it imperative on me to go to town, but i do not think we can call upon you for further sacrifice." "it is no sacrifice, mrs. morton." lady ushant was as meek as a worm, but a worm will turn. and, though innocent, she was quick enough to perceive that at this, their first meeting, the other old woman was endeavouring to turn her out of the house. "i mean that it can hardly be necessary to call upon you to give up your time." "what has an old woman to do with her time, mrs. morton?" hitherto mrs. morton had smiled. the smile indeed had been grim, but it had been intended to betoken outward civility. now there came a frown upon her brow which was more grim and by no means civil. "the truth is that at such a time one who is almost a stranger--" "i am no stranger," said lady ushant. "you had not seen him since he was an infant." "my name was morton as is his, and my dear father was the owner of this house. your husband, mrs. morton, was his grandfather and my brother. i will allow no one to tell me that i am a stranger at bragton. i have lived here many more years than you." "a stranger to him, i meant. and now that he is ill--" "i shall stay with him--till he desires me to go away. he asked me to stay and that is quite enough." then she got up and left the room with more dignity,--as also she had spoken with more earnestness,--than mrs. morton had given her credit for possessing. after that the two ladies did not meet again till the next day. chapter iv. the two old ladies. on the next morning mrs. morton did not come down to breakfast, but sat alone upstairs nursing her wrath. during the night she had made up her mind to one or two things. she would never enter her grandson's chambers when lady ushant was there. she would not speak to reginald morton, and should he come into her presence while she was at bragton she would leave the room. she would do her best to make the house, in common parlance, "too hot" to hold that other woman. and she would make use of those words which john had spoken concerning chowton farm as a peg on which she might hang her discourse in reference to his will. if in doing all this she should receive that dutiful assistance which she thought that he owed her,--then she should stand by his bed-side, and be tender to him, and nurse him to the last as a mother would nurse a child. but if, as she feared, he were headstrong in disobeying, then she would remember that her duty to her family, if done with a firm purpose, would have lasting results, while his life might probably be an affair of a few weeks,--or even days. at about eleven lady ushant was with her patient when a message was brought by mrs. hopkins. mrs. morton wished to see her grandson and desired to know whether it would suit him that she should come now. "why not?" said the sick man, who was sitting up in his bed. then lady ushant collected her knitting and was about to depart. "must you go because she is coming?" morton asked. lady ushant, shocked at the necessity of explaining to him the ill feeling that existed, said that perhaps it would be best. "why should it be best?" lady ushant shook her head, and smiled, and put her hand upon the counterpane,--and retired. as she passed the door of her rival's room she could see the black silk dress moving behind the partly open door, and as she entered her own she heard mrs. morton's steps upon the corridor. the place was already almost "too hot" for her. anything would be better than scenes like this in the house of a dying man. "need my aunt have gone away?" he asked after the first greeting. "i did not say so." "she seemed to think that she was not to stay." "can i help what she thinks, john? of course she feels that she is--" "is what?" "an interloper--if i must say it." "but i have sent for her, and i have begged her to stay." "of course she can stay if she wishes. but, dear john, there must be much to be said between you and me which,--which cannot interest her; or which, at least, she ought not to hear." he did not contradict this in words, feeling himself to be too weak for contest; but within his own mind he declared that it was not so. the things which interested him now were as likely to interest his great-aunt as his grandmother, and to be as fit for the ears of the one as for those of the other. an hour had passed after this during which she tended him, giving him food and medicine, and he had slept before she ventured to allude to the subject which was nearest to her heart. "john," she said at last, "i have been thinking about chowton farm." "well." "it certainly should be bought." "if the man resolves on selling it." "of course; i mean that. how much would it be?" then he mentioned the sum which twentyman had named, saying that he had inquired and had been told that the price was reasonable. "it is a large sum of money, john." "there might be a mortgage for part of it." "i don't like mortgages. the property would not be yours at all if it were mortgaged, as soon as bought. you would pay per cent. for the money and only get per cent. from the land." the old lady understood all about it. "i could pay it off in two years," said the sick man. "there need be no paying off, and no mortgage, if i did it. i almost believe i have got enough to do it." he knew very well that she had much more than enough. "i think more of this property than of anything in the world, my dear." "chowton farm could be yours, you know." "what should i do with chowton farm? i shall probably be in my grave before the slow lawyer would have executed the deeds." and i in mine, thought he to himself, before the present owner has quite made up his mind to part with his land. "what would a little place like that do for me? but in my father-in-law's time it was part of the bragton property. he sold it to pay the debts of a younger son, forgetting, as i thought, what he owed to the estate;"--it had in truth been sold on behalf of the husband of this old woman who was now complaining. "and if it can be recovered it is our duty to get it back again. a property like this should never be lessened. it is in that way that the country is given over to shopkeepers and speculators and is made to be like france or italy. i quite think that chowton farm should be bought. and though i might die before it was done, i would find the money." "i knew what your feeling would be." "yes, john. you could not but know it well. but--" then she paused a moment, looking into his face. "but i should wish to know what would become of it--eventually." "if it were yours you could do what you pleased with it." "but it would be yours." "then it would go with the rest of the property." "to whom would it go? we have all to die, my dear, and who can say whom it may please the almighty to take first?" "in this house, ma'am, every one can give a shrewd guess. i know my own condition. if i die without children of my own every acre i possess will go to the proper heir. thinking as you do, you ought to agree with me in that." "but who is the proper heir?" "my cousin reginald. do not let us contest it, ma'am. as certainly as i lie here he will have bragton when i am gone." "will you not listen to me, john?" "not about that. how could i die in peace were i to rob him?" "it is all your own,--to do as you like with." "it is all my own, but not to do as i like with. with your feelings, with your ideas, how can you urge me to such an injustice?" "do i want it for myself? i do not even want it for any one belonging to me. there is your cousin peter." "if he were the heir he should have it,--though i know nothing of him and believe him to be but a poor creature and very unfit to have the custody of a family property." "but he is his father's son." "i will believe nothing of that," said the sick man raising himself in his bed. "it is a slander;--it is based on no evidence whatsoever. no one even thought of it but you." "john, is that the way to speak to me?" "it is the way to speak of an assertion so injurious." then he fell back again on his pillows and she sat by his bedside for a full half hour speechless, thinking of it all. at the end of that time she had resolved that she would not yet give it up. should he regain his health and strength,--and she would pray fervently night and day that god would be so good to him,--then everything would be well. then he would marry and have children, and bragton would descend in the right line. but were it to be ordained otherwise,--should it be god's will that he must die,--then, as he grew weaker, he would become more plastic in her hands, and she might still prevail. at present he was stubborn with the old stubbornness, and would not see with her eyes. she would bide her time and be careful to have a lawyer ready. she turned it all over in her mind, as she sat there watching him in his sleep. she knew of no one but mr. masters whom she distrusted as being connected with the other side of the family,--whose father had made that will by which the property in dillsborough had been dissevered from bragton. but mr. masters would probably obey instructions if they were given to him definitely. she thought of it all and then went down to lunch. she did not dare to refuse altogether to meet the other woman lest such resolve on her part might teach those in the house to think that lady ushant was the mistress. she took her place at the head of the table and interchanged a few words with her grandson's guest,--which of course had reference to his health. lady ushant was very ill able to carry on a battle of any sort and was willing to show her submission in everything,--unless she were desired to leave the house. while they were still sitting at table, reginald morton walked into the room. it had been his habit to do so regularly for the last week. a daily visitor does not wait to have himself announced. reginald had considered the matter and had determined that he would follow his practice just as though mrs. morton were not there. if she were civil to him then would he be very courteous to her. it had never occurred to him to expect conduct such as that with which she greeted him. the old woman got up and looked at him sternly. "my nephew, reginald," said lady ushant, supposing that some introduction might be necessary. mrs. morton gathered the folds of her dress together and without a word stalked out of the room. and yet she believed,--she could not but believe,--that her grandson was on his deathbed in the room above! "o reginald, what are we to do?" said lady ushant. "is she like that to you?" "she told me last night that i was a stranger, and that i ought to leave the house." "and what did you say?" "i told her i should stay while he wished me to stay. but it is all so terrible, that i think i had better go." "i would not stir a step--on her account." "but why should she be so bitter? i have done nothing to offend her. it is more than half of even my long lifetime since i saw her. she is nothing; but i have to think of his comfort. i suppose she is good to him; and though he may bid me stay such scenes as this in the house must be a trouble to him." nevertheless reginald was strong in opinion that lady ushant ought not to allow herself to be driven away, and declared his own purpose of coming daily as had of late been his wont. soon after this reginald was summoned to go upstairs and he again met the angry woman in the passage, passing her of course without a word. and then mary came to see her friend, and she also encountered mrs. morton, who was determined that no one should come into that house without her knowledge. "who is that young woman?" said mrs. morton to the old housekeeper. "that is miss masters, my lady." "and who is miss masters,--and why does she come here at such a time as this?" "she is the daughter of attorney masters, my lady. it was she as was brought up here by lady ushant." "oh,--that young person." "she's come here generally of a day now to see her ladyship." "and is she taken up to my grandson?" "oh dear, no, my lady. she sits with lady ushant for an hour or so and then goes back with mr. reginald." "oh--that is it, is it? the house is made use of for such purposes as that!" "i don't think there is any purposes, my lady," said mrs. hopkins, almost roused to indignation, although she was talking to the acknowledged mistress of the house whom she always called "my lady." lady ushant told the whole story to her young friend, bitterly bewailing her position. "reginald tells me not to go, but i do not think that i can stand it. i should not mind the quarrel so much,--only that he is so ill." "she must be a very evil-minded person." "she was always arrogant and always hard. i can remember her just the same; but that was so many years ago. she left bragton then because she could not banish his mother from the house. but to bear it all in her heart so long is not like a human being,--let alone a woman. what did he say to you going home yesterday?" "nothing, lady ushant." "does he know that it will all be his if that poor young man should die? he never speaks to me as if he thought of it." "he would certainly not speak to me about it. i do not think he thinks of it. he is not like that." "men do consider such things. and they are only cousins; and they have never known each other! oh, mary!" "what are you thinking of, lady ushant?" "men ought not to care for money or position, but they do. if he comes here, all that i have will be yours." "oh, lady ushant!" "it is not much but it will be enough." "i do not want to hear about such things now." "but you ought to be told. ah, dear;--if it could be as i wish!" the imprudent, weak-minded, loving old woman longed to hear a tale of mutual love,--longed to do something which should cause such a tale to be true on both sides. and yet she could not quite bring herself to express her wish either to the man or to the woman. poor mary almost understood it, but was not quite sure of her friend's meaning. she was, however, quite sure that if such were the wish of lady ushant's heart, lady ushant was wishing in vain. she had twice walked back to dillsborough with reginald morton, and he had been more sedate, more middle-aged, less like a lover than ever. she knew now that she might safely walk with him, being sure that he was no more likely to talk of love than would have been old dr. nupper had she accepted the offer which he had made her of a cast in his gig. and now that reginald would probably become squire of bragton it was more impossible than ever. as squire of bragton he would seek some highly born bride, quite out of her way, whom she could never know. and then she would see neither him--nor bragton any more. would it not have been better that she should have married larry twentyman and put an end to so many troubles beside her own? again she walked back with him to dillsborough, passing as they always did across the little bridge. he seemed to be very silent as he went, more so than usual,--and as was her wont with him she only spoke to him when he addressed her. it was only when he got out on the road that he told her what was on his mind. "mary," he said, "how will it be with me if that poor fellow dies?" "in what way, mr. morton?" "all that place will be mine. he told me so just now." "but that would be of course." "not at all. he might give it to you if he pleased. he could not have an heir who would care for it less. but it is right that it should be so. whether it would suit my taste or not to live as squire of bragton,--and i do not think it would suit my taste well,--it ought to be so. i am the next, and it will be my duty." "i am sure you do not want him to die." "no, indeed. if i could save him by my right hand,--if i could save him by my life, i would do it." "but of all lives it must surely be the best." "do you think so? what is such a one likely to do? but then what do i do, as it is? it is the sort of life you would like,--if you were a man." "yes,--if i were a man," said mary. then he again relapsed into silence and hardly spoke again till he left her at her father's door. chapter v. the last effort. when mary reached her home she was at once met by her stepmother in the passage with tidings of importance. "he is up-stairs in the drawing-room," said mrs. masters. mary whose mind was laden with thoughts of reginald morton asked who was the he. "lawrence twentyman," said mrs. masters. "and now, my dear, do, do think of it before you go to him." there was no anger now in her stepmother's face,--but entreaty and almost love. she had not called mary "my dear" for many weeks past,--not since that journey to cheltenham. now she grasped the girl's hand as she went on with her prayer. "he is so good and so true! and what better can there be for you? with your advantages, and lady ushant, and all that, you would be quite the lady at chowton. think of your father and sisters;--what a good you could do them! and think of the respect they all have for him, dining with lord rufford the other day and all the other gentlemen. it isn't only that he has got plenty to live on, but he knows how to keep it as a man ought. he's sure to hold up his head and be as good a squire as any of 'em." this was a very different tale;--a note altogether changed! it must not be said that the difference of the tale and the change of the note affected mary's heart; but her stepmother's manner to her did soften her. and then why should she regard herself or her own feelings? like others she had thought much of her own happiness, had made herself the centre of her own circle, had, in her imagination, built castles in the air and filled them according to her fancy. but her fancies had been all shattered into fragments; not a stone of her castles was standing; she had told herself unconsciously that there was no longer a circle and no need for a centre. that last half-hour which she had passed with reginald morton on the road home had made quite sure that which had been sure enough before. he was now altogether out of her reach, thinking only of the new duties which were coming to him. she would never walk with him again; never put herself in the way of indulging some fragment of an illusory hope. she was nothing now,--nothing even to herself. why should she not give herself and her services to this young man if the young man chose to take her as she was? it would be well that she should do something in the world. why should she not look after his house, and mend his shirts, and reign over his poultry yard? in this way she would be useful, and respected by all,--unless perhaps by the man she loved. "mary, say that you will think of it once more," pleaded mrs. masters. "i may go up-stairs,--to my own room?" "certainly; do;--go up and smooth your hair. i will tell him that you are coming to him. he will wait. but he is so much in earnest now,--and so sad,--that i know he will not come again." then mary went up-stairs, determined to think of it. she began at once, woman-like, to smooth her hair as her stepmother had recommended, and to remove the dust of the road from her face and dress. but not the less was she thinking of it the while. could she do it, how much pain would be spared even to herself! how much that was now bitter as gall in her mouth would become,--not sweet,--but tasteless. there are times in one's life in which the absence of all savour seems to be sufficient for life in this world. were she to do this thing she thought that she would have strength to banish that other man from her mind,--and at last from her heart. he would be there, close to her, but of a different kind and leading a different life. mrs. masters had told her that larry would be as good a squire as the best of them; but it should be her care to keep him and herself in their proper position, to teach him the vanity of such aspirations. and the real squire opposite, who would despise her,--for had he not told her that she would be despicable if she married this man,--would not trouble her then. they might meet on the roads, and there would be a cold question or two as to each other's welfare, and a vain shaking of hands,--but they would know nothing and care for nothing as to each other's thoughts. and there would come some stately dame who hearing how things had been many years ago, would perhaps--. but no;--the stately dame should be received with courtesy, but there should be no patronising. even in these few minutes up-stairs she thought much of the stately dame and was quite sure that she would endure no patronage from bragton. she almost thought that she could do it. there were hideous ideas afflicting her soul dreadfully, but which she strove to banish. of course she could not love him,--not at first. but all those who wished her to marry him, including himself, knew that;--and still they wished her to marry him. how could that be disgraceful which all her friends desired? her father, to whom she was, as she knew well, the very apple of his eye, wished her to marry this man;--and yet her father knew that her heart was elsewhere. had not women done it by hundreds, by thousands, and had afterwards performed their duties well as mothers and wives. in other countries, as she had read, girls took the husbands found for them by their parents as a matter of course. as she left the room, and slowly crept down-stairs, she almost thought she would do it. she almost thought;--but yet, when her hand was on the lock, she could not bring herself to say that it should be so. he was not dressed as usual. in the first place, there was a round hat on the table, such as men wear in cities. she had never before seen such a hat with him except on a sunday. and he wore a black cloth coat, and dark brown pantaloons, and a black silk handkerchief. she observed it all, and thought that he had not changed for the better. as she looked into his face, it seemed to her more common,--meaner than before. no doubt he was good-looking,--but his good-looks were almost repulsive to her. he had altogether lost his little swagger;--but he had borne that little swagger well, and in her presence it had never been offensive. now he seemed as though he had thrown aside all the old habits of his life, and was pining to death from the loss of them. "mary," he said, "i have come to you,--for the last time. i thought i would give myself one more chance, and your father told me that i might have it." he paused, as though expecting an answer. but she had not yet quite made up her mind. had she known her mind, she would have answered him frankly. she was quite resolved as to that. if she could once bring herself to give him her hand, she would not coy it for a moment. "i will be your wife, larry." that was the form on which she had determined, should she find herself able to yield. but she had not brought herself to it as yet. "if you can take me, mary, you will,--well,--save me from lifelong misery, and make the man who loves you the best-contented and the happiest man in england." "but, larry, i do not love you." "i will make you love me. good usage will make a wife love her husband. don't you think you can trust me?" "i do believe that i can trust you for everything good." "is that nothing?" "it is a great deal, larry, but not enough;--not enough to bring together a man and woman as husband and wife. i would sooner marry a man i loved, though i knew he would ill-use me." "would you?" "to marry either would be wrong." "i sometimes think, dearest, that if i could talk better i should be better able to persuade you." "i sometimes think you talk so well that i ought to be persuaded;--but i can't. it is not lack of talking." "what is it, then?" "just this;--my heart does not turn itself that way. it is the same chance that has made you--partial to me." "partial! why, i love the very air you breathe. when i am near you, everything smells sweet. there isn't anything that belongs to you but i think i should know it, though i found it a hundred miles away. to have you in the room with me would be like heaven,--if i only knew that you were thinking kindly of me." "i always think kindly of you, larry." "then say that you will be my wife." she paused, and became red up to the roots of her hair. she seated herself on a chair, and then rose again,--and again sat down. the struggle was going on within her, and he perceived something of the truth. "say the word once, mary;--say it but once." and as he prayed to her he came forward and went down upon his knees. "i cannot do it," she replied at last, speaking very hoarsely, not looking at him, not even addressing herself to him. "mary!" "larry, i cannot do it. i have tried, but i cannot do it. o larry, dear larry, do not ask me again. larry, i have no heart to give. another man has it all." "is it so?" she bowed her head in token of assent. "is it that young parson?" exclaimed larry, in anger. "it is not. but, larry, you must ask no questions now. i have told you my secret that all this might be set at rest. but if you are generous, as i know you are, you will keep my secret, and will ask no questions. and, larry, if you are unhappy, so am i. if your heart is sore, so is mine. he knows nothing of my love, and cares nothing for me." "then throw him aside." she smiled and shook her head. "do you think i would not if i could? why do you not throw me aside?" "oh, mary!" "cannot i love as well as you? you are a man, and have the liberty to speak of it. though i cannot return it, i can be proud of your love and feel grateful to you. i cannot tell mine. i cannot think of it without blushing. but i can feel it, and know it, and be as sure that it has trodden me down and got the better of me as you can. but you can go out into the world and teach yourself to forget." "i must go away from here then." "you have your business and your pleasures, your horses and your fields and your friends. i have nothing,--but to remain here and know that i have disobliged all those that love me. do you think, larry, i would not go and be your wife if i could? i have told you all, larry, and now do not ask me again." "is it so?" "yes;--it is so." "then i shall cut it all. i shall sell chowton and go away. you tell me i have my horses and my pleasures! what pleasures? i know nothing of my horses,--not whether they are lame or sound. i could not tell you of one of them whether he is fit to go to-morrow. business! the place may farm itself for me, for i can't stay there. everything sickens me to look at it. pleasures indeed!" "is that manly, larry?" "how can a man be manly when the manliness is knocked out of him? a man's courage lies in his heart;--but if his heart is broken where will his courage be then? i couldn't hold my head up here any more,--and i shall go." "you must not do that," she said, getting up and laying hold of his arm. "but i must do it." "for my sake you must stay here, larry;--so that i may not have to think that i have injured you so deeply. larry, though i cannot be your wife i think i could die of sorrow if you were always unhappy. what is a poor girl that you should grieve for her in that way? i think if i were a man i would master my love better than that." he shook his head and faintly strove to drag his arm from out of her grasp. "promise me that you will take a year to think of it before you go." "will you take a year to think of me?" said he, rising again to sudden hope. "no, larry, no. i should deceive you were i to say so. i deceived you before when i put it off for two months. but you can promise me without deceit. for my sake, larry?" and she almost embraced him as she begged for his promise. "i know you would wish to spare me pain. think what will be my sufferings if i hear that you have really gone from chowton. you will promise me, larry?" "promise what?" "that the farm shall not be sold for twelve months." "oh yes;--i'll promise. i don't care for the farm." "and stay there if you can. don't leave the place to strangers. and go about your business,--and hunt,--and be a man. i shall always be thinking of what you do. i shall always watch you. i shall always love you,--always,--always,--always. i always have loved you;--because you are so good. but it is a different love. and now, larry, good-bye." so saying, she raised her face to look into his eyes. then he suddenly put his arm round her waist, kissed her forehead, and left the room without another word. mrs. masters saw him as he went, and must have known from his gait what was the nature of the answer he had received. but yet she went quickly upstairs to inquire. the matter was one of too much consequence for a mere inference. mary had gone from the sitting-room, but her stepmother followed her upstairs to her bed-chamber. "mamma," she said, "i couldn't do it;--i couldn't do it. i did try. pray do not scold me. i did try, but i could not do it." then she threw herself into the arms of the unsympathetic woman,--who, however, was now somewhat less unsympathetic than she had hitherto been. mrs. masters did not understand it at all; but she did perceive that there was something which she did not understand. what did the girl mean by saying that she had tried and could not do it? try to do it! if she tried why could she not tell the man that she would have him? there was surely some shamefacedness in this, some overstrained modesty which she, mrs. masters, could not comprehend. how could she have tried to accept a man who was so anxious to marry her, and have failed in the effort? "scolding i suppose will be no good now," she said. "oh no!" "but--. well; i suppose we must put up with it. everything on earth that a girl could possibly wish for! he was that in love that it's my belief he'd have settled it all on you if you'd only asked him." "let it go, mamma." "let it go! it's gone i suppose. well;--i ain't going to say any more about it. but as for not sorrowing, how is a woman not to sorrow when so much has been lost? it's your poor father i'm thinking of, mary." this was so much better than she had expected that poor mary almost felt that her heart was lightened. chapter vi. again at mistletoe. the reader will have been aware that arabella trefoil was not a favourite at mistletoe. she was so much disliked by the duchess that there had almost been words about her between her grace and the duke since her departure. the duchess always submitted, and it was the rule of her life to submit with so good a grace that her husband, never fearing rebellion, should never be driven to assume the tyrant. but on this occasion the duke had objected to the term "thoroughly bad girl" which had been applied by his wife to his niece. he had said that "thoroughly bad girl" was strong language, and when the duchess defended the phrase he had expressed his opinion that arabella was only a bad girl and not a thoroughly bad girl. the duchess had said that it was the same thing. "then," said the duke, "why use a redundant expletive against your own relative?" the duchess, when she was accused of strong language, had not minded it much; but her feelings were hurt when a redundant expletive was attributed to her. the effect of all this had been that the duke in a mild way had taken up arabella's part, and that the duchess, following her husband at last, had been brought round to own that arabella, though bad, had been badly treated. she had disbelieved, and then believed, and had again disbelieved arabella's own statement as to the offer of marriage. but the girl had certainly been in earnest when she had begged her aunt to ask her uncle to speak to lord rufford. surely when she did she must have thought that an offer had been made to her. such offer, if made, had no doubt been produced by very hard pressure;--but still an offer of marriage is an offer, and a girl, if she can obtain it, has a right to use such an offer as so much property. then came lord mistletoe's report after his meeting with arabella up in london. he had been unable to give his cousin any satisfaction, but he was clearly of opinion that she had been ill-used. he did not venture to suggest any steps, but did think that lord rufford was bound as a gentleman to marry the young lady. after that lord augustus saw her mother up in town and said that it was a d---- shame. he in truth had believed nothing and would have been delighted to allow the matter to drop. but as this was not permitted, he thought it easier to take his daughter's part than to encounter family enmity by entering the lists against her. so it came to pass that down at mistletoe there grew an opinion that lord rufford ought to marry arabella trefoil. but what should be done? the duke was alive to the feeling that as the girl was certainly his niece and as she was not to be regarded as a thoroughly bad girl, some assistance was due to her from the family. lord mistletoe volunteered to write to lord rufford; lord augustus thought that his brother should have a personal interview with his young brother peer and bring his strawberry leaves to bear. the duke himself suggested that the duchess should see lady penwether,--a scheme to which her grace objected strongly, knowing something of lady penwether and being sure that her strawberry leaves would have no effect whatever on the baronet's wife. at last it was decided that a family meeting should be held, and lord augustus was absolutely summoned to meet lord mistletoe at the paternal mansion. it was now some years since lord augustus had been at mistletoe. as he had never been separated,--that is formally separated,--from his wife he and she had been always invited there together. year after year she had accepted the invitation,--and it had been declined on his behalf, because it did not suit him and his wife to meet each other. but now he was obliged to go there,--just at the time of the year when whist at his club was most attractive. to meet the convenience of lord mistletoe,--and the house of commons--a saturday afternoon was named for the conference, which made it worse for lord augustus as he was one of a little party which had private gatherings for whist on sunday afternoons. but he went to the conference, travelling down by the same train with his nephew; but not in the same compartment, as he solaced with tobacco the time which lord mistletoe devoted to parliamentary erudition. the four met in her grace's boudoir, and the duke began by declaring that all this was very sad. lord augustus shook his head and put his hands in his trousers pockets,--which was as much as to say that his feelings as a british parent were almost too strong for him. "your mother and i think, that something ought to be done," said the duke turning to his son. "something ought to be done," said lord mistletoe. "they won't let a fellow go out with a fellow now," said lord augustus. "heaven forbid!" said the duchess, raising both her hands. "i was thinking, mistletoe, that your mother might have met lady penwether." "what could i do with lady penwether, duke? or what could she do with him? a man won't care for what his sister says to him. and i don't suppose she'd undertake to speak to lord rufford on the subject." "lady penwether is an honourable and an accomplished woman." "i dare say;--though she gives herself abominable airs." "of course, if you don't like it, my dear, it shan't be pressed." "i thought, perhaps, you'd see him yourself," said lord augustus, turning to his brother. "you'd carry more weight than anybody." "of course i will if it be necessary; but it would be disagreeable,--very disagreeable. the appeal should be made to his feelings, and that i think would better come through female influence. as far as i know the world a man is always more prone to be led in such matters by a woman than by another man." "if you mean me," said the duchess, "i don't think i could see him. of course, augustus, i don't wish to say anything hard of arabella. the fact that we have all met here to take her part will prove that, i think. but i didn't quite approve of all that was done here." lord augustus stroked his beard and looked out of the window. "i don't think, my dear, we need go into that just now," said the duke. "not at all," said the duchess, "and i don't intend to say a word. only if i were to meet lord rufford he might refer to things which,--which,--which--. in point of fact i had rather not." "i might see him," suggested lord mistletoe. "no doubt that might be done with advantage," said the duke. "only that, as he is my senior in age, what i might say to him would lack that weight which any observations which might be made on such a matter should carry with them." "he didn't care a straw for me," said lord augustus. "and then," continued lord mistletoe, "i so completely agree with what my father says as to the advantage of female influence! with a man of lord rufford's temperament female influence is everything. if my aunt were to try it?" lord augustus blew the breath out of his mouth and raised his eyebrows. knowing what he did of his wife, or thinking that he knew what he did, he did not conceive it possible that a worse messenger should be chosen. he had known himself to be a very bad one, but he did honestly believe her to be even less fitted for the task than he himself. but he said nothing,--simply wishing that he had not left his whist for such a purpose as this. "perhaps lady augustus had better see him," said the duke. the duchess, who did not love hypocrisy, would not actually assent to this, but she said nothing. "i suppose my sister-in-law would not object, augustus?" "g---- almighty only knows," said the younger brother. the duchess, grievously offended by the impropriety of this language, drew herself up haughtily. "perhaps you would not mind suggesting it to her, sir," said lord mistletoe. "i could do that by letter," said the duke. "and when she has assented, as of course she will, then perhaps you wouldn't mind writing a line to him to make an appointment. if you were to do so he could not refuse." to this proposition the duke returned no immediate answer; but looked at it round and round carefully. at last, however, he acceded to this also, and so the matter was arranged. all these influential members of the ducal family met together at the ducal mansion on arabella's behalf, and settled their difficulty by deputing the work of bearding the lion, of tying the bell on the cat, to an absent lady whom they all despised and disliked. that afternoon the duke, with the assistance of his son, who was a great writer of letters, prepared an epistle to his sister-in-law and another to lord rufford, which was to be sent as soon as lady augusta had agreed to the arrangement. in the former letter a good deal was said as to a mother's solicitude for her daughter. it had been felt, the letter said, that no one could speak for a daughter so well as a mother;--that no other's words would so surely reach the heart of a man who was not all evil but who was tempted by the surroundings of the world to do evil in this particular case. the letter began "my dear sister-in-law," and ended "your affectionate brother-in-law, mayfair," and was in fact the first letter that the duke had ever written to his brother's wife. the other letter was more difficult, but it was accomplished at last, and confined itself to a request that lord rufford would meet lady augustus trefoil at a place and at a time, both of which were for the present left blank. on the monday lord augustus and lord mistletoe were driven to the station in the same carriage, and on this occasion the uncle said a few strong words to his nephew on the subject. lord augustus, though perhaps a coward in the presence of his brother, was not so with other members of the family. "it may be very well you know, but it's all d---- nonsense." "i'm sorry that you should think so, uncle." "what do you suppose her mother can do?--a thoroughly vulgar woman. i never could live with her. as far as i can see wherever she goes everybody hates her." "my dear uncle!" "rufford will only laugh at her. if mayfair would have gone himself, it is just possible that he might have done something." "my father is so unwilling to mix himself up in these things." "of course he is. everybody knows that. what the deuce was the good then of our going down there? i couldn't do anything, and i knew he wouldn't. the truth is, mistletoe, a man now-a-days may do just what he pleases. you ain't in that line and it won't do you any good knowing it, but since we did away with pistols everybody may do just what he likes." "i don't like brute force," said lord mistletoe. "you may call it what you please:--but i don't know that it was so brutal after all." at the station they separated again, as lord augustus was panting for tobacco and lord mistletoe for parliamentary erudition. chapter vii. the success of lady augustus. lady augustus was still staying with the connop greens in hampshire when she received the duke's letter and arabella was with her. the story of lord rufford's infidelity had been told to mrs. connop green,--and, of course through her to mr. connop green. both the mother and daughter affected to despise the connop greens;--but it is so hard to restrain oneself from confidences when difficulties arise! arabella had by this time quite persuaded herself that there had been an absolute engagement, and did in truth believe that she had been most cruelly ill-used. she was headstrong, fickle, and beyond measure insolent to her mother. she had, as we know, at one time gone down to the house of her former lover, thereby indicating that she had abandoned all hope of catching lord rufford. but still the connop greens either felt or pretended to feel great sympathy with her, and she would still declare from time to time that lord rufford had not heard the last of her. it was now more than a month since she had seen that perjured lord at mistletoe, and more than a week since her father had brought him so uselessly up to london. though determined that lord rufford should hear more of her, she hardly knew how to go to work, and on these days spent most of her time in idle denunciations of her false lover. then came her uncle's letter, which was of course shown to her. she was quite of opinion that they must do as the duke directed. it was so great a thing to have the duke interesting himself in the matter, that she would have assented to anything proposed by him. the suggestion even inspired some temporary respect, or at any rate observance, towards her mother. hitherto her mother had been nobody to her in the matter, a person belonging to her whom she had to regard simply as a burden. she could not at all understand how the duke had been guided in making such a choice of a new emissary;--but there it was under his own hand, and she must now in some measure submit herself to her mother unless she were prepared to repudiate altogether the duke's assistance. as to lady augustus herself, the suggestion gave to her quite a new life. she had no clear conception what she should say to lord rufford if the meeting were arranged, but it was gratifying to her to find herself brought back into authority over her daughter. she read the duke's letter to mrs. connop green, with certain very slight additions,--or innuendos as to additions,--and was pleased to find that the letter was taken by mrs. connop green as positive proof of the existence of the engagement. she wrote begging the duke to allow her to have the meeting at the family house in piccadilly, and to this prayer the duke was obliged to assent. "it would," she said, "give her so much assistance in speaking to lord rufford!" she named a day also, and then spent her time in preparing herself for the interview by counsel with mrs. green and by exacting explanations from her daughter. this was a very bad time for arabella,--so bad, that had she known to what she would be driven, she would probably have repudiated the duke and her mother altogether. "now, my dear," she began, "you must tell me everything that occurred first at rufford, and then at mistletoe." "you know very well what occurred, mamma." "i know nothing about it, and unless everything is told me i will not undertake this mission. your uncle evidently thinks that by my interference the thing may be arranged. i have had the same idea all through myself, but as you have been so obstinate i have not liked to say so. now, arabella, begin from the beginning. when was it that he first suggested to you the idea of marriage?" "good heavens, mamma!" "i must have it from the beginning to the end. did he speak of marriage at rufford? i suppose he did because you told me that you were engaged to him when you went to mistletoe." "so i was." "what had he said?" "what nonsense! how am i to remember what he said? as if a girl ever knows what a man says to her." "did he kiss you?" "yes." "at rufford?" "i cannot stand this, mamma. if you like to go you may go. my uncle seems to think it is the best thing, and so i suppose it ought to be done. but i won't answer such questions as you are asking for lord rufford and all that he possesses." "what am i to say then? how am i to call back to his recollection the fact that he committed himself, unless you will tell me how and when he did so?" "ask him if he did not assure me of his love when we were in the carriage together." "what carriage?" "coming home from hunting." "was that at mistletoe or rufford?" "at mistletoe, mamma," replied arabella, stamping her foot. "but you must let me know how it was that you became engaged to him at rufford." "mamma, you mean to drive me mad," exclaimed arabella as she bounced out of the room. there was very much more of this, till at last arabella found herself compelled to invent facts. lord rufford, she said, had assured her of his everlasting affection in the little room at rufford, and had absolutely asked her to be his wife coming home in the carriage with her to stamford. she told herself that though this was not strictly true, it was as good as true,--as that which was actually done and said by lord rufford on those occasions could have had no other meaning. but before her mother had completed her investigation, arabella had become so sick of the matter that she shut herself up in her room and declared that nothing on earth should induce her to open her mouth on the subject again. when lord rufford received the letter he was aghast with new disgust. he had begun to flatter himself that his interview with lord augustus would be the end of the affair. looking at it by degrees with coolness he had allowed himself to think that nothing very terrible could be done to him. some few people, particularly interested in the mistletoe family, might give him a cold shoulder, or perhaps cut him directly; but such people would not belong to his own peculiar circle, and the annoyance would not be great. but if all the family, one after another, were to demand interviews with him up in london, he did not see when the end of it would be. there would be the duke himself, and the duchess, and mistletoe. and the affair would in this way become gossip for the whole town. he was almost minded to write to the duke saying that such an interview could do no good; but at last he thought it best to submit the matter to his mentor, sir george penwether. sir george was clearly of opinion that it was lord rufford's duty to see lady augustus. "yes, you must have interviews with all of them, if they ask it," said sir george. "you must show that you are not afraid to hear what her friends have got to say. when a man gets wrong he can't put himself right without some little annoyance." "since the world began," said lord rufford, "i don't think that there was ever a man born so well adapted for preaching sermons as you are." nevertheless he did as he was bid, and consented to meet lady augustus in piccadilly on the day named by her. on that very day the hounds met at impington and lord rufford began to feel his punishment. he assented to the proposal made and went up to london, leaving the members of the u. r. u. to have the run of the season from the impington coverts. when lady augustus was sitting in the back room of the mansion waiting for lord rufford she was very much puzzled to think what she would say to him when he came. with all her investigation she had received no clear idea of the circumstances as they occurred. that her daughter had told her a fib in saying that she was engaged when she went to mistletoe, she was all but certain. that something had occurred in the carriage which might be taken for an offer she thought possible. she therefore determined to harp upon the carriage as much as possible and to say as little as might be as to the doings at rufford. then as she was trying to arrange her countenance and her dress and her voice, so that they might tell on his feelings, lord rufford was announced. "lady augustus," said he at once, beginning the lesson which he had taught himself, "i hope i see you quite well. i have come here because you have asked me, but i really don't know that i have anything to say." "lord rufford, you must hear me." "oh yes; i will hear you certainly, only this kind of thing is so painful to all parties, and i don't see the use of it." "are you aware that you have plunged me and my daughter into a state of misery too deep to be fathomed?" "i should be sorry to think that." "how can it be otherwise? when you assure a girl in her position in life that you love her--a lady whose rank is quite as high as your own--" "quite so,--quite so." "and when in return for that assurance you have received vows of love from her,--what is she to think, and what are her friends to think?" lord rufford had always kept in his mind a clear remembrance of the transaction in the carriage, and was well aware that the young lady's mother had inverted the circumstances, or, as he expressed it to himself, had put the cart before the horse. he had assured the young lady that he loved her, and he had also been assured of her love; but her assurance had come first. he felt that this made all the difference in the world; so much difference that no one cognisant in such matters would hold that his assurance, obtained after such a fashion, meant anything at all. but how was he to explain this to the lady's mother? "you will admit that such assurances were given?" continued lady augustus. "upon my word i don't know. there was a little foolish talk, but it meant nothing." "my lord!" "what am i to say? i don't want to give offence, and i am heartily sorry that you and your daughter should be under any misapprehension. but as i sit here there was no engagement between us;--nor, if i must speak out, lady augustus, could your daughter have thought that there was an engagement." "did you not--embrace her?" "i did. that's the truth." "and after that you mean to say--" "after that i mean to say that nothing more was intended." there was a certain meanness of appearance about the mother which emboldened him. "what a declaration to make to the mother of a young lady, and that young lady the niece of the duke of mayfair!" "it's not the first time such a thing has been done, lady augustus." "i know nothing about that,--nothing. i don't know whom you may have lived with. it never was done to her before." "if i understand right she was engaged to marry mr. morton when she came to rufford." "it was all at an end before that." "at any rate you both came from his house." "where he had been staying with mrs. morton." "and where she has been since,--without mrs. morton." "lady ushant was there, lord rufford." "but she has been staying at the house of this gentleman to whom you admit that she was engaged a short time before she came to us." "he is on his death-bed, and he thought that he had behaved badly to her. she did go to bragton the other day, at his request,--merely that she might say that she forgave him." "i only hope that she will forgive me too. there is really nothing else to be said. if there were anything i could do to atone to her for this--trouble." "if you only could know the brightness of the hopes you have shattered,--and the purity of that girl's affection for yourself!" it was then that an idea--a low-minded idea occurred to lord rufford. while all this was going on he had of course made various inquiries about this branch of the trefoil family and had learned that arabella was altogether portionless. he was told too that lady augustus was much harassed by impecuniosity. might it be possible to offer a recompense? "if i could do anything else, lady augustus;--but really i am not a marrying man." then lady augustus wept bitterly; but while she was weeping, a low-minded idea occurred to her also. it was clear to her that there could be no marriage. she had never expected that there would be a marriage. but if this man who was rolling in wealth should offer some sum of money to her daughter,--something so considerable as to divest the transaction of the meanness which would be attached to a small bribe,--something which might be really useful throughout life, would it not be her duty, on behalf of her dear child, to accept such an offer? but the beginnings of such dealings are always difficult. "couldn't my lawyer see yours, lady augustus?" said lord rufford. "i don't want the family lawyer to know anything about it," said lady augustus. then there was silence between them for a few moments. "you don't know what we have to bear, lord rufford. my husband has spent all my fortune,--which was considerable; and the duke does nothing for us." then he took a bit of paper and, writing on it the figures "£ , ," pushed it across the table. she gazed at the scrap for a minute, and then, borrowing his pencil without a word, scratched out his lordship's figures and wrote "£ , ," beneath them; and then added, "no one to know it." after that he held the scrap for two or three minutes in his hands, and then wrote beneath the figures, "very well. to be settled on your daughter. no one shall know it." she bowed her head, but kept the scrap of paper in her possession. "shall i ring for your carriage?" he asked. the bell was rung, and lady augustus was taken back to the lodgings in orchard street in the hired brougham. as she went she told herself that if everything else failed, £ a year would support her daughter, or that in the event of any further matrimonial attempt such a fortune would be a great assistance. she had been sure that there could be no marriage, and was disposed to think that she had done a good morning's work on behalf of her unnatural child. chapter viii. "we shall kill each other." lady augustus as she was driven back to orchard street and as she remained alone during the rest of that day and the next in london, became a little afraid of what she had done. she began to think how she should communicate her tidings to her daughter, and thinking of it grew to be nervous and ill at ease. how would it be with her should arabella still cling to the hope of marrying the lord? that any such hope would be altogether illusory lady augustus was now sure. she had been quite certain that there was no ground for such hope when she had spoken to the man of her own poverty. she was almost certain that there had never been an offer of marriage made. in the first place lord rufford's word went further with her than arabella's,--and then his story had been consistent and probable, whereas hers had been inconsistent and improbable. at any rate ropes and horses would not bring lord rufford to the hymeneal altar. that being so was it not natural that she should then have considered what result would be next best to a marriage? she was very poor, having saved only some few hundreds a year from the wreck of her own fortune. independently of her her daughter had nothing. and in spite of this poverty arabella was very extravagant, running up bills for finery without remorse wherever credit could be found, and excusing herself by saying that on this or that occasion such expenditure was justified by the matrimonial prospects which it opened out to her. and now, of late, arabella had been talking of living separately from her mother. lady augustus, who was thoroughly tired of her daughter's company, was not at all averse to such a scheme;--but any such scheme was impracticable without money. by a happy accident the money would now be forthcoming. there would be £ a year for ever and nobody would know whence it came. she was confident that they might trust to the lord's honour for secrecy. as far as her own opinion went the result of the transaction would be most happy. but still she feared arabella. she felt that she would not know how to tell her story when she got back to marygold place. "my dear, he won't marry you; but he is to give you £ , ." that was what she would have to say, but she doubted her own courage to put her story into words so curt and explanatory. even at thirty £ a year has not the charms which accompany it to eyes which have seen sixty years. she remained in town that night and the next day, and went down by train to basingstoke on the following morning with her heart not altogether free from trepidation. lord rufford, the very moment that the interview was over, started off to his lawyer. considering how very little had been given to him the sum he was to pay was prodigious. in his desire to get rid of the bore of these appeals, he had allowed himself to be foolishly generous. he certainly never would kiss a young lady in a carriage again,--nor even lend a horse to a young lady till he was better acquainted with her ambition and character. but the word had gone from him and he must be as good as his word. the girl must have her £ , and must have it instantly. he would put the matter into such a position that if any more interviews were suggested, he might with perfect safety refer the suggester back to miss trefoil. there was to be secrecy, and he would be secret as the grave. but in such matters one's lawyer is the grave. he had proposed that two lawyers should arrange it. objection had been made to this, because lady augustus had no lawyer ready;--but on his side some one must be employed. so he went to his own solicitor and begged that the thing might be done quite at once. he was very definite in his instructions, and would listen to no doubts. would the lawyer write to miss trefoil on that very day;--or rather not on that very day but the next. as he suggested this he thought it well that lady augustus should have an opportunity of explaining the transaction to her daughter before the lawyer's letter should be received. he had, he said, his own reason for such haste. consequently the lawyer did prepare the letter to miss trefoil at once, drafting it in his noble client's presence. in what way should the money be disposed so as best to suit her convenience? the letter was very short with an intimation that lady augustus would no doubt have explained the details of the arrangement. when lady augustus reached marygold the family were at lunch, and as strangers were present nothing was said as to the great mission. the mother had already bethought herself how she must tell this and that lie to the connop greens, explaining that lord rufford had confessed his iniquity but had disclosed that, for certain mysterious reasons, he could not marry arabella,--though he loved her better than all the world. arabella asked some questions about her mother's shopping and general business in town, and did not leave the room till she could do so without the slightest appearance of anxiety. mrs. connop green marvelled at her coolness knowing how much must depend on the answer which her mother had brought back from london, and knowing nothing of the contents of the letter which arabella had received that morning from the lawyer. in a moment or two lady augustus followed her daughter upstairs, and on going into her own room found the damsel standing in the middle of it with an open paper in her hand. "mamma," she said, "shut the door." then the door was closed. "what is the meaning of this?" and she held out the lawyer's letter. "the meaning of what?" said lady augustus, trembling. "i have no doubt you know, but you had better read it." lady augustus read the letter and attempted to smile. "he has been very quick," she said. "i thought i should have been the first to tell you." "what is the meaning of it? why is the man to give me all that money?" "is it not a good escape from so great a trouble? think what £ , will do. it will enable you to live in comfort wherever you may please to go." "i am to understand then you have sold me,--sold all my hopes and my very name and character, for £ , !" "your name and character will not be touched, my dear. as for his marrying you i soon found that that was absolutely out of the question." "this is what has come of sending you to see him! of course i shall tell my uncle everything." "you will do no such thing. arabella, do not make a fool of yourself. do you know what £ , will do for you? it is to be your own,--absolutely beyond my reach or your father's." "i would sooner go into the thames off waterloo bridge than touch a farthing of his money," said arabella with a spirit which the other woman did not at all understand. hitherto in all these little dirty ways they had run with equal steps. the pretences, the subterfuges, the lies of the one had always been open to the other. arabella, earnest in supplying herself with gloves from the pockets of her male acquaintances, had endured her mother's tricks with complacency. she had condescended when living in humble lodgings to date her letters from a well-known hotel, and had not feared to declare that she had done so in their family conversations. together they had fished in turbid waters for marital nibbles and had told mutual falsehoods to unbelieving tradesmen. and yet the younger woman, when tempted with a bribe worth lies and tricks as deep and as black as acheron, now stood on her dignity and her purity and stamped her foot with honest indignation! "i don't think you can understand it," said lady augustus. "i can understand this,--that you have betrayed me; and that i shall tell him so in the plainest words that i can use. to get his lawyer to write and offer me money!" "he should not have gone to his lawyer. i do think he was wrong there." "but you settled it with him;--you, my mother;--a price at which he should buy himself off! would he have offered me money if he did not know that he had bound himself to me?" "nothing on earth would make him marry you. i would not for a moment have allowed him to allude to money if that had not been quite certain." "who proposed the money first?" lady augustus considered a moment before she answered. "upon my word, my dear, i can't say. he wrote the figures on a bit of paper; that was the way." then she produced the scrap. "he wrote the figures first,--and then i altered them, just as you see. the proposition came first from him, of course." "and you did not spit at him!" said arabella as she tore the scrap into fragments. "arabella," said the mother, "it is clear that you do not look into the future. how do you mean to live? you are getting old." "old!" "yes, my love,--old. of course i am willing to do everything for you, as i always have done,--for so many years, but there isn't a man in london who does not know how long you have been about it." "hold your tongue, mamma," said arabella jumping up. "that is all very well, but the truth has to be spoken. you and i cannot go on as we have been doing." "certainly not. i would sooner be in a workhouse." "and here there is provided for you an income on which you can live. not a soul will know anything about it. even your own father need not be told. as for the lawyer, that is nothing. they never talk of things. it would make a man comparatively poor quite a fit match. or, if you do not marry, it would enable you to live where you pleased independently of me. you had better think twice of it before you refuse it." "i will not think of it at all. as sure as i am living here i will write to rufford this very evening and tell him in what light i regard both him and you." "and what will you do then?" "hang myself." "that is all very well, arabella, but hanging yourself and jumping off waterloo bridge do not mean anything. you must live, and you must pay your debts. i can't pay them for you. you go into your own room, and think of it all, and be thankful for what providence has sent you." "you may as well understand that i am in earnest," the daughter said as she left the room. "i shall write to lord rufford to-day and tell him what i think of him and his money. you need not trouble yourself as to what shall be done with it, for i certainly shall not take it." and she did write to lord rufford as follows: my lord, i have been much astonished by a letter i have received from a gentleman in london, mr. shaw, who i presume is your lawyer. when i received it i had not as yet seen mamma. i now understand that you and she between you have determined that i should be compensated by a sum of money for the injury you have done me! i scorn your money. i cannot think where you found the audacity to make such a proposal, or how you have taught yourself to imagine that i should listen to it. as to mamma, she was not commissioned to act for me, and i have nothing to do with anything she may have said. i can hardly believe that she should have agreed to such a proposal. it was very little like a gentleman in you to offer it. why did you offer it? you would not have proposed to give me a large sum of money like that without some reason. i have been shocked to hear that you have denied that you ever engaged yourself to me. you know that you were engaged to me. it would have been more honest and more manly if you had declared at once that you repented of your engagement. but the truth is that till i see you myself and hear what you have to say out of your own mouth i cannot believe what other people tell me. i must ask you to name some place where we can meet. as for this offer of money, it goes for nothing. you must have known that i would not take it. arabella. it was now just the end of february, and the visit of the trefoil ladies to the connop greens had to come to an end. they had already overstaid the time at first arranged, and lady augustus, when she hinted that another week at marygold,--"just till this painful affair was finally settled,"--would be beneficial to her, was informed that the connop greens themselves were about to leave home. lady augustus had reported to mrs. connop green that lord rufford was behaving very badly, but that the matter was still in a "transition state." mrs. connop green was very sorry, but--. so lady augustus and arabella betook themselves to orchard street, being at that moment unable to enter in upon better quarters. what a home it was,--and what a journey up to town! arabella had told her mother that the letter to lord rufford had been written and posted, and since that hardly a word had passed between them. when they left marygold in the connop green carriage they smiled, and shook hands, and kissed their friends in unison, and then sank back into silence. at the station they walked up and down the platform together for the sake of appearance, but did not speak. in the train there were others with them and they both feigned to be asleep. then they were driven to their lodgings in a cab, still speechless. it was the mother who first saw that the horror of this if continued would be too great to be endured. "arabella," she said in a hoarse voice, "why don't you speak?" "because i've got nothing to say." "that's nonsense. there is always something to say." "you have ruined me, mamma; just ruined me." "i did for you the very best i could. if you would have been advised by me, instead of being ruined, you would have had a handsome fortune. i have slaved for you for the last twelve years. no mother ever sacrificed herself for her child more than i have done for you, and now see the return i get. i sometimes think that it will kill me." "that's nonsense." "everything i say is nonsense,--while you tell me one day that you are going to hang yourself, and another day that you will drown yourself." "so i would if i dared. what is it that you have brought me to? who will have me in their houses when they hear that you consented to take lord rufford's money?" "nobody will hear it unless you tell them." "i shall tell my uncle and my aunt and mistletoe, in order that they may know how it is that lord rufford has been allowed to escape. i say that you have ruined me. if it had not been for your vulgar bargain with him, he must have been brought to keep his word at last. oh, that he should have ever thought it was possible that i was to be bought off for a sum of money!" later on in the evening, the mother again implored her daughter to speak to her. "what's the use, mamma, when you know what we think of each other? what's the good of pretending? there is nobody here to hear us." later on still she herself began. "i don't know how much you've got, mamma; but whatever it is, we'd better divide it. after what you did in piccadilly we shall never get on together again." "there is not enough to divide," said lady augustus. "if i had not you to go about with me i could get taken in pretty nearly all the year round." "who'd take you?" "leave that to me. i would manage it, and you could join with some other old person. we shall kill each other if we stay like this," said arabella as she took up her candle. "you have pretty nearly killed me as it is," said the old woman as the other shut the door. chapter ix. changes at bragton. day after day old mrs. morton urged her purpose with her grandson at bragton, not quite directly as she had done at first, but by gradual approaches and little soft attempts made in the midst of all the tenderness which, as a nurse, she was able to display. it soon came to pass that the intruders were banished from the house, or almost banished. mary's daily visits were discontinued immediately after that last walk home with reginald morton which has been described. twice in the course of the next week she went over, but on both occasions she did so early in the day, and returned alone just as he was reaching the house. and then, before a week was over, early in march, lady ushant told the invalid that she would be better away. "mrs. morton doesn't like me," she said, "and i had better go. but i shall stay for a while at hoppet hall, and come in and see you from time to time till you get better." john morton replied that he should never get better; but though he said so then, there was at times evidence that he did not yet quite despond as to himself. he could still talk to mrs. morton of buying chowton farm, and was very anxious that he should not be forgotten at the foreign office. lady ushant had herself driven to hoppet hall, and there took up her residence with her nephew. every other day mr. runciman's fly came for her and carried her backwards and forwards to bragton. on those occasions she would remain an hour with the invalid, and then would go back again, never even seeing mrs. morton, though always seen by her. and twice after this banishment reginald walked over. but on the second occasion there was a scene. mrs. morton to whom he had never spoken since he was a boy, met him in the hall and told him that his visits only disturbed his sick cousin. "i certainly will not disturb him," reginald had said. "in the condition in which he is now he should not see many people," rejoined the lady. "if you will ask dr. fanning he will tell you the same." dr. fanning was the london doctor who came down once a week, whom it was improbable that reginald should have an opportunity of consulting. but he remembered or thought that he remembered, that his cousin had been fretful and ill-pleased during his last visit, and so turned himself round and went home without another word. "i am afraid there may be--i don't know what," said lady ushant to him in a whisper the next morning. "what do you mean?" "i don't know what i mean. perhaps i ought not to say a word. only so much does depend on it!" "if you are thinking about the property, aunt, wipe it out of your mind. let him do what he pleases and don't think about it. no one should trouble their minds about such things. it is his, to do what he pleases with it." "it is not him that i fear, reginald." "if he chooses to be guided by her, who shall say that he is wrong? get it out of your mind. the very thinking about such things is dirtiness!" the poor old lady submitted to the rebuke and did not dare to say another word. daily lady ushant would send over for mary masters, thinking it cruel that her young friend should leave her alone and yet understanding in part the reason why mary did not come to her constantly at hoppet hall. poor mary was troubled much by these messages. of course she went now and again. she had no alternative but to go, and yet, feeling that the house was his house, she was most unwilling to enter it. then grew within her a feeling, which she could not analyse, that he had ill-used her. of course she was not entitled to his love. she would acknowledge to herself over and over again that he had never spoken a word to her which could justify her in expecting his love. but why had he not let her alone? why had he striven by his words and his society to make her other than she would have been had she been left to the atmosphere of her stepmother's home? why had he spoken so strongly to her as to that young man's love? and then she was almost angry with him because, by a turn in the wheel of fortune, he was about to become, as she thought, squire of bragton. had he remained simply mr. morton of hoppet hall it would still have been impossible. but this exaltation of her idol altogether out of her reach was an added injustice. she could remember, not the person, but all the recent memories of the old squire, the veneration with which he was named, the masterdom which was attributed to him, the unequalled nobility of his position in regard to dillsborough. his successor would be to her as some one crowned, and removed by his crown altogether from her world. then she pictured to herself the stately dame who would certainly come, and she made fresh resolutions with a sore heart. "i don't know why you should be so very little with me," said lady ushant, almost whining. "when i was at cheltenham you wanted to come to me." "there are so many things to be done at home." "and yet you would have come to cheltenham." "we were in great trouble then, lady ushant. of course i would like to be with you. you ought not to scold me, because you know how i love you." "has the young man gone away altogether now, mary?" "altogether." "and mrs. masters is satisfied?" "she knows it can never be, and therefore she is quiet about it." "i was sorry for that young man, because he was so true." "you couldn't be more sorry than i was, lady ushant. i love him as though he were a brother. but--" "mary, dear mary, i fear you are in trouble." "i think it is all trouble," said mary, rushing forward and hiding her face in her old friend's lap as she knelt on the ground before her. lady ushant longed to ask a question, but she did not dare. and mary masters longed to have one friend to whom she could confide her secret,--but neither did she dare. on the next day, very early in the morning, there came a note from mrs. morton to mr. masters, the attorney. could mr. masters come out on that day to bragton and see mrs. morton. the note was very particular in saying that mrs. morton was to be the person seen. the messenger who waited for an answer, brought back word that mr. masters would be there at noon. the circumstance was one which agitated him considerably, as he had not been inside the house at bragton since the days immediately following the death of the old squire. as it happened, lady ushant was going to bragton on the same day, and at the suggestion of mr. runciman, whose horses in the hunting season barely sufficed for his trade, the old lady and the lawyer went together. not a word was said between them as to the cause which took either of them on their journey, but they spoke much of the days in which they had known each other, when the old squire was alive, and mr. masters thanked lady ushant for her kindness to his daughter. "i love her almost as though she were my own," said lady ushant. "when i am dead she will have half of what i have got." "she will have no right to expect that," said the gratified father. "she will have half or the whole,--just as reginald may be situated then. i don't know why i shouldn't tell her father what it is i mean to do." the attorney knew to a shilling the amount of lady ushant's income and thought that this was the best news he had heard for many a day. while lady ushant was in the sick man's room, mrs. morton was closeted with the attorney. she had thought much of this step before she had dared to take it and even now doubted whether it would avail her anything. as she entered the book-room in which mr. masters was seated she almost repented. but the man was there and she was compelled to go on with her scheme. "mr. masters," she said, "it is i think a long time since you have been employed by this family." "a very long time, madam." "and i have now sent for you under circumstances of great difficulty," she answered; but as he said nothing she was forced to go on. "my grandson made his will the other day up in london, when he thought that he was going out to patagonia." mr. masters bowed. "it was done when he was in sound health, and he is now not satisfied with it." then there was another bow, but not a word was spoken. "of course you know that he is very ill." "we have all been very much grieved to hear it." "i am sure you would be, for the sake of old days. when dr. fanning was last here he thought that my grandson was something better. he held out stronger hopes than before. but still he is very ill. his mind has never wavered for a moment, mr. masters." again mr. masters bowed. "and now he thinks that some changes should be made;--indeed that there should be a new will." "does he wish me to see him, mrs. morton?" "not to-day, i think. he is not quite prepared to-day. but i wanted to ask whether you could come at a moment's notice,--quite at a moment's notice. i thought it better, so that you should know why we sent for you if we did send,--so that you might be prepared. it could be done here, i suppose?" "it would be possible, mrs. morton." "and you could do it?" then there was a long pause. "altering a will is a very serious thing, mrs. morton. and when it is done on what perhaps may be a death-bed, it is a very serious thing indeed. mr. morton, i believe, employs a london solicitor. i know the firm and more respectable gentlemen do not exist. a telegram would bring down one of the firm from london by the next train." a frown, a very heavy frown, came across the old woman's brow. she would have repressed it had it been possible;--but she could not command herself, and the frown was there. "if that had been practicable, mr. masters," she said, "we should not have sent for you." "i was only suggesting, madame, what might be the best course." "exactly. and of course i am much obliged. but if we are driven to call upon you for your assistance, we shall find it?" "madame," said the attorney very slowly, "it is of course part of my business to make wills, and when called upon to do so, i perform my business to the best of my ability. but in altering a will during illness great care is necessary. a codicil might be added--" "a new will would be necessary." a new will, thought the attorney, could only be necessary for altering the disposition of the whole estate. he knew enough of the family circumstances to be aware that the property should go to reginald morton whether with or without a will,--and also enough to be aware that this old lady was reginald's bitter enemy. he did not think that he could bring himself to take instructions from a dying man,--from the squire of bragton on his death-bed,--for an instrument which should alienate the property from the proper heir. he too had his strong feelings, perhaps his prejudices, about bragton. "i would wish that the task were in other hands, mrs. morton." "why so?" "it is hard to measure the capacity of an invalid." "his mind is as clear as yours." "it might be so,--and yet i might not be able to satisfy myself that it was so. i should have to ask long and tedious questions, which would be offensive. and i should find myself giving advice,--which would not be called for. for instance, were your grandson to wish to leave this estate away from the heir--" "i am not discussing his wishes, mr. masters." "i beg your pardon, mrs. morton, for making the suggestion;--but as i said before, i should prefer that he should employ--some one else." "you refuse then?" "if mr. morton were to send for me, i should go to him instantly. but i fear i might be slow in taking his instructions;--and it is possible that i might refuse to act on them." then she got up from her chair and bowing to him with stately displeasure left the room. all this she had done without any authority from her grandson, simply encouraged in her object by his saying in his weakness that he would think of her proposition. so intent was she on her business that she was resolved to have everything ready if only he could once be brought to say that peter morton should be his heir. having abandoned all hopes for her noble cousin she could tell her conscience that she was instigated simply by an idea of justice. peter morton was at any rate the legitimate son of a well-born father and a well-born mother. what had she or any one belonging to her to gain by it? but forty years since a brat had been born at bragton in opposition to her wishes,--by whose means she had been expelled from the place; and now it seemed to her to be simple justice that he should on this account be robbed of that which would otherwise be naturally his own. as mr. masters would not serve her turn she must write to the london lawyers. the thing would be more difficult; but, nevertheless, if the sick man could once be got to say that peter should be his heir she thought that she could keep him to his word. lady ushant and mr. masters went back to dillsborough in runciman's fly, and it need hardly be said that the attorney said nothing of the business which had taken him to bragton. this happened on a wednesday,--wednesday the rd of march. on friday morning, at o'clock, during the darkness of the night, john morton was lying dead on his bed, and the old woman was at his bedside. she had done her duty by him as far as she knew how in tending him,--had been assiduous with the diligence of much younger years; but now as she sat there, having had the fact absolutely announced to her by dr. nupper, her greatest agony arose from the feeling that the roof which covered her, probably the chair in which she sat, were the property of reginald morton--"bastard!" she said to herself between her teeth; but she so said it that neither dr. nupper, who was in the room, nor the woman who was with her should hear it. dr. nupper took the news into dillsborough, and as the folk sat down to breakfast they all heard that the squire of bragton was dead. the man had been too little known, had been too short a time in the neighbourhood, to give occasion for tears. there was certainly more of interest than of grief in the matter. mr. masters said to himself that the time had been too short for any change in the will, and therefore felt tolerably certain that reginald would be the heir. but for some days this opinion was not general in dillsborough. mr. mainwaring had heard that reginald had been sent away from bragton with a flea in his ear, and was pretty certain that when the will was read it would be found that the property was to go to mrs. morton's friends. dr. nupper was of the same opinion. there were many in dillsborough with whom reginald was not popular;--and who thought that some man of a different kind would do better as squire of bragton. "he don't know a fox when he sees 'un," said tony tuppett to larry twentyman, whom he had come across the county to call upon and to console. chapter x. the will. on that saturday the club met at dillsborough,--even though the squire of bragton had died on friday morning. through the whole of that saturday the town had been much exercised in its belief and expressions, as to the disposition of the property. the town knew very well that mr. masters, the attorney, had been sent for to bragton on the previous wednesday,--whence the deduction as to a new will, made of course under the auspices of mrs. morton,--would have been quite plain to the town, had not a portion of the town heard that the attorney had not been for a moment with the dying man during his visit. this latter piece of information had come through lady ushant, who had been in her nephew's bedroom the whole time;--but lady ushant had not much personal communication with the town generally, and would probably have said nothing on this subject had not mr. runciman walked up to hoppet hall behind the fly, after mr. masters had left it; and, while helping her ladyship out, made inquiry as to the condition of things at bragton generally. "i was sorry to hear of their sending for any lawyer," said mr. runciman. then lady ushant protested that the lawyer had not been sent for by her nephew, and that her nephew had not even seen him. "oh, indeed," said mr. runciman, who immediately took a walk round his own paddock with the object of putting two and two together. mr. runciman was a discreet man, and did not allow this piece of information to spread itself generally. he told dr. nupper, and mr. hampton, and lord rufford,--for the hounds went out on friday, though the squire of bragton was lying dead;--but he did not tell mr. mainwaring, whom he encountered in the street of the town as he was coming home early, and who was very keen to learn whatever news there was. reginald morton on friday did not go near bragton. that of course was palpable to all, and was a great sign that he himself did not regard himself as the heir. he had for awhile been very intimate at the house, visiting it daily--and during a part of that time the grandmother had been altogether absent. then she had come back, and he had discontinued his visits. and now he did not even go over to seal up the drawers and to make arrangements as to the funeral. he did not at any rate go on the friday,--nor on the saturday. and on the saturday mr. wobytrade, the undertaker, had received orders from mrs. morton to go at once to bragton. all this was felt to be strong against reginald. but when it was discovered that on the saturday afternoon mrs. morton herself had gone up to london, not waiting even for the coming of any one else to take possession of the house,--and that she had again carried all her own personal luggage with her,--then opinion in dillsborough again veered. upon the whole the betting was a point or two in favour of reginald, when the club met. mrs. masters, who had been much quelled of late, had been urgent with her husband to go over to the bush; but he was unwilling, he said, to be making jolly while the squire of bragton was lying unburied. "he was nothing to you, gregory," said his wife, who had in vain endeavoured to learn from him why he had been summoned to bragton--"you will hear something over there, and it will relieve your spirits." so instigated he did go across, and found all the accustomed members of the club congregated in the room. even larry twentyman was present, who of late had kept himself aloof from all such meetings. both the botseys were there, and nupper and harry stubbings, and ribbs the butcher. runciman himself of course was in the room, and he had introduced on this occasion captain glomax, the master of the hunt, who was staying at his house that night,--perhaps with a view to hunting duties on the monday, perhaps in order that he might hear something as to the bragton property. it had already been suggested to him that he might possibly hire the house for a year or two at little more than a nominal rent, that the old kennels might be resuscitated, and that such arrangements would be in all respects convenient. he was the master of the hunt, and of course there was no difficulty as to introducing him to the club. captain glomax was speaking in a somewhat dictatorial voice,--as becomes a master of hounds when in the field, though perhaps it should be dropped afterwards--when the attorney entered. there was a sudden rise of voices striving to interrupt the captain, as it was felt by them all that mr. masters must be in possession of information; but the captain himself went on. "of course it is the place for the hounds. nobody can doubt that who knows the country and understands the working of it. the hunt ought to have subscribed and hired the kennels and stables permanently." "there would have wanted two to that bargain, captain," said mr. runciman. "of course there would, but what would you think of a man who would refuse such a proposition when he didn't want the place himself? do you think if i'd been there foxes would have been poisoned in dillsborough wood? i'd have had that fellow goarly under my thumb." "then you'd have had an awful blackguard under your thumb, captain glomax," said larry, who could not restrain his wrath when goarly's name was mentioned. "what does that matter, if you get foxes?" continued the master. "but the fact is, gentlemen in a county like this always want to have everything done for them, and never to do anything for themselves. i'm sick of it, i know. nobody is fonder of hunting a country than i am, and i think i know what i'm about." "that you do," said fred botsey, who, like most men, was always ready to flatter the master. "and i don't care how hard i work. from the first of august till the end of may i never have a day to myself, what with cubbing and then the season, and entering the young hounds, and buying and selling horses, by george i'm at it the whole year!" "a master of hounds looks for that, captain," said the innkeeper. "looks for it! yes; he must look for it. but i wouldn't mind that, if i could get gentlemen to pull a little with me. i can't stand being out of pocket as i have been, and so i must let them know. if the country would get the kennels and the stables, and lay out a few pounds so that horses and hounds and men could go into them, i wouldn't mind having a shot for the house. it's killing work where i am now, the other side of rufford, you may say." then he stopped;--but no one would undertake to answer him. the meaning of it was that captain glomax wanted £ a year more than he received, and every one there knew that there was not £ a year more to be got out of the country,--unless lord rufford would put his hand into his pocket. now the present stables and the present kennels had been "made comfortable" by lord rufford, and it was not thought probable that he would pay for the move to bragton. "when's the funeral to be, mr. masters?" asked runciman,--who knew very well the day fixed, but who thought it well to get back to the subject of real interest in the town. "next thursday, i'm told." "there's no hurry with weather like this," said nupper professionally. "they can't open the will till the late squire is buried," continued the innkeeper, "and there will be one or two very anxious to know what is in it." "i suppose it will all go to the man who lives up here at hoppet hall," said the captain,--"a man that was never outside a horse in his life!" "he's not a bad fellow," said runciman. "he is a very good fellow," said the attorney, "and i trust he may have the property. if it be left away from him, i for one shall think that a great injustice has been done." this was listened to with attention, as every one there thought that mr. masters must know. "i can't understand," said glomax, "how any man can be considered a good fellow as a country gentleman who does not care for sport. just look at it all round. suppose others were like him what would become of us all?" "yes indeed, what would become of us?" asked the two botseys in a breath. "ho'd 'ire our 'orses, runciman?" suggested harry stubbings with a laugh. "think what england would be!" said the captain. "when i hear of a country gentleman sticking to books and all that, i feel that the glory is departing from the land. where are the sinews of war to come from? that's what i want to know." "who will it be, mr. masters, if the gent don't get it?" asked ribbs from his corner on the sofa. this was felt to be a pushing question. "how am i to know, mr. ribbs?" said the attorney. "i didn't make the late squire's will;--and if i did you don't suppose i should tell you." "i'm told that the next is peter morton," said fred botsey. "he's something in a public office up in london." "it won't go to him," said fred's brother. "that old lady has relations of her own who have had their mouths open for the last forty years." "away from the mortons altogether!" said harry. "that would be an awful shame!" "i don't see what good the mortons have done this last half century," said the captain. "you don't remember the old squire, captain," said the innkeeper, "and i don't remember him well. indeed i was only a little chap when they buried him. but there's that feeling left behind him to this day, that not a poor man in the country wouldn't be sorry to think that there wasn't a morton left among 'em. of course a hunting gentleman is a good thing." "about the best thing out," said the captain. "but a hunting gentleman isn't everything. i know nothing of the old lady's people,--only this that none of their money ever came into dillsborough. i'm all for reginald morton. he's my landlord as it is, and he's a gentleman." "i hate foreigners coming," said ribbs. "'e ain't too old to take it yet," said harry. fred botsey declared that he didn't believe in men hunting unless they began young. whereupon dr. nupper declared that he had never ridden over a fence till he was forty-five, and that he was ready now to ride fred across country for a new hat. larry suggested that a man might be a good friend to sport though he didn't ride much himself;--and runciman again asserted that hunting wasn't everything. upon the whole reginald was the favourite. but the occasion was so special that a little supper was ordered, and i fear the attorney did not get home till after twelve. till the news reached hoppet hall that mrs. morton had taken herself off to london, there was great doubt there as to what ought to be done, and even then the difficulty was not altogether over. till she was gone neither lady ushant nor her nephew would go there, and he could only declare his purpose of attending the funeral whether he were asked or not. when his aunt again spoke of the will he desired her with much emphasis not to allude to the subject. "if the property is to come to me," he said, "anything of good that may be in it cannot be much sweeter by anticipation. and if it is not i shall only encourage disappointment by thinking of it." "but it would be such a shame." "that i deny altogether. it was his own to do as he liked with it. had he married i should not have expected it because i am the heir. but, if you please, aunt, do not say a word more about it." on the sunday morning he heard that mrs. morton was gone to london, and then he walked over to bragton. he found that she had locked and sealed up everything with so much precision that she must have worked hard at the task from the hour of his death almost to that of her departure. "she never rested herself all day," said mrs. hopkins, "till i thought she would sink from very weariness." she had gone into every room and opened every drawer, and had had every piece of plate through her fingers, and then mrs. hopkins told him that just as she was departing she had said that the keys would be given to the lawyer. after that he wandered about the place, thinking what his life would be should he find himself the owner of bragton. at this moment he almost felt that he disliked the place, though there had been times in which he had thought that he loved it too well. of one thing he was conscious,--that if bragton should become his, it would be his duty to live there. he must move his books, and pipes, and other household gods from hoppet hall and become an english squire. would it be too late for him to learn to ride to hounds? would it be possible that he should ever succeed in shooting a pheasant, if he were to study the art patiently? could he interest himself as to the prevalence or decadence of ground game? and what must he do with his neighbours? of course he would have to entertain mr. mainwaring and the other parsons, and perhaps once in the year to ask lord rufford to dine with him. if lord rufford came, what on earth would he say to him? and then there arose another question. would it not be his duty to marry,--and, if so, whom? he had been distinctly told that mary masters had given her heart to some one, and he certainly was not the man to ask for the hand of a girl who had not a heart to give. and yet he thought that it would be impossible that he should marry any other person. he spent hours in walking about the grounds, looking at the garden and belongings which would so probably be his own within a week, and thinking whether it would be possible that he should bring a mistress to preside over them. before he reached home he had made up his mind that only one mistress would be possible, and that she was beyond his reach. on the tuesday he received a scrawl from mrs. hopkins with a letter from the lawyer--addressed to her. the lawyer wrote to say that he would be down on wednesday evening, would attend the funeral, and read his client's will after they had performed the ceremony. he went on to add that in obedience to mrs. morton's directions he had invited mr. peter morton to be present on the occasion. on the wednesday reginald again went over, but left before the arrival of the two gentlemen. on the thursday he was there early, and of course took upon himself the duty of chief mourner. peter morton was there and showed, in a bewildered way, that he had been summoned rather to the opening of the will than to the funeral of a man he had never seen. then the will was read. there were only two names mentioned in it. john morton left £ , and his watch and chain and rings to arabella trefoil, and everything else of which he was possessed to his cousin reginald morton. "upon my word i don't know why they sent for me," said the other cousin, peter. "mrs. morton seemed to think that you would like to pay a tribute of respect," said the lawyer. peter looked at him and went upstairs and packed his portmanteau. the lawyer handed over the keys to the new squire, and then everything was done. chapter xi. the new minister. "poor old paragon!" exclaimed archibald currie, as he stood with his back to the fire among his colleagues at the foreign office on the day after john morton's death. "poor young paragon! that's the pity of it," said mounser green. "i don't suppose he was turned thirty, and he was a useful man,--a very useful man. that's the worst of it. he was just one of those men that the country can't afford to lose, and whom it is so very hard to replace." mounser green was always eloquent as to the needs of the public service, and did really in his heart of hearts care about his office. "who is to go to patagonia, i'm sure i don't know. platitude was asking me about it, and i told him that i couldn't name a man." "old platitude always thinks that the world is coming to an end," said currie. "there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught." "who is there? monsoon won't go, even if they ask him. the paragon was just the fellow for it. he had his heart in the work. an immense deal depends on what sort of man we have in patagonia at the present moment. if paraguay gets the better of the patagonese all brazil will be in a ferment, and you know how that kind of thing spreads among half-caste spaniards and portuguese. nobody can interfere but the british minister. when i suggested morton i knew i had the right man if he'd only take it." "and now he has gone and died!" said hoffmann. "and now he has gone and died," continued mounser green. "'i never nursed a dear gazelle,' and all the rest of it. poor paragon! i fear he was a little cut about miss trefoil." "she was down with him the day before he died," said young glossop. "i happen to know that." "it was before he thought of going to patagonia that she was at bragton," said currie. "that's all you know about it, old fellow," said the indignant young one. "she was there a second time, just before his death. i had it from lady penwether who was in the neighbourhood." "my dear little boy," said mounser green, "that was exactly what was likely to happen, and he yet may have broken his heart. i have seen a good deal of the lady lately, and under no circumstances would she have married him. when he accepted the mission that at any rate was all over." "the rufford affair had begun before that," said hoffmann. "the rufford affair as you call it," said glossop, "was no affair at all." "what do you mean by that?" asked currie. "i mean that rufford was never engaged to her,--not for an instant," said the lad, urgent in spreading the lesson which he had received from his cousin. "it was all a dead take-in." "who was taken in?" asked mounser green. "well;--nobody was taken in as it happened. but i suppose there can't be a doubt that she tried her best to catch him, and that the duke and duchess and mistletoe, and old trefoil, all backed her up. it was a regular plant. the only thing is, it didn't come off." "look here, young shaver;"--this was mounser green again;--"when you speak of a young lady do you be a little more discreet." "but didn't she do it, green?" "that's more than you or i can tell. if you want to know what i think, i believe he paid her a great deal of attention and then behaved very badly to her." "he didn't behave badly at all," said young glossop. "my dear boy, when you are as old as i am, you will have learned how very hard it is to know everything. i only say what i believe, and perhaps i may have better ground for believing than you. he certainly paid her a great deal of attention, and then her friends,--especially the duchess,--went to work." "they've wanted to get her off their hands these six or eight years," said currie. "that's nonsense again," continued the new advocate, "for there is no doubt she might have married morton all the time had she pleased." "yes;--but rufford!--a fellow with sixty thousand a year!" said glossop. "about a third of that would be nearer the mark, glossy. take my word for it, you don't know everything yet, though you have so many advantages." after that mounser green retreated to his own room with a look and tone as though he were angry. "what makes him so ferocious about it?" asked glossop when the door was shut. "you are always putting your foot in it," said currie. "i kept on winking to you but it was no good. he sees her almost every day now. she's staying with old mrs. green in portugal street. there has been some break up between her and her mother, and old mrs. green has taken her in. there's some sort of relationship. mounser is the old woman's nephew, and she is aunt by marriage to the connop greens down in hampshire, and mrs. connop green is first cousin to lady augustus." "if dick's sister married tom's brother what relation would dick be to tom's mother? that's the kind of thing, isn't it?" suggested hoffmann. "at any rate there she is, and mounser sees her every day." "it don't make any difference about rufford," said young glossop stoutly. all this happened before the will had been declared,--when arabella did not dream that she was an heiress. a day or two afterwards she received a letter from the lawyer, telling her of her good fortune, and informing her that the trinkets would be given up to her and the money paid,--short of legacy duty,--whenever she would fix a time and place. the news almost stunned her. there was a moment in which she thought that she was bound to reject this money, as she had rejected that tendered to her by the other man. poor as she was, greedy as she was, alive as she was to the necessity of doing something for herself,--still this legacy was to her at first bitter rather than sweet. she had never treated any man so ill as she had treated this man;--and it was thus that he punished her! she was alive to the feeling that he had always been true to her. in her intercourse with other men there had been generally a battle carried on with some fairness. diamond had striven to cut diamond. but here the dishonesty had all been on one side, and she was aware that it had been so. in her later affair with lord rufford, she really did think that she had been ill used; but she was quite alive to the fact that her treatment of john morton had been abominable. the one man, in order that he might escape without further trouble, had in the grossest manner, sent to her the offer of a bribe. the other,--in regard to whose end her hard heart was touched, even her conscience seared,--had named her in his will as though his affection was unimpaired. of course she took the money, but she took it with inward groans. she took the money and the trinkets, and the matter was all arranged for her by mounser green. "so after all the paragon left her whatever he could leave," said currie in the same room at the foreign office. a week had passed since the last conversation, and at this moment mounser green was not in the room. "oh, dear no," said young glossy. "she doesn't have bragton. that goes to his cousin." "that was entailed, glossy, my boy." "not a bit of it. everybody thought he would leave the place to another morton, a fellow he'd never seen, in one of those somerset house offices. he and this fellow who is to have it, were enemies,--but he wouldn't put it out of the right line. it's all very well for mounser to be down on me, but i do happen to know what goes on in that country. she gets a pot of money, and no end of family jewels; but he didn't leave her the estate as he might have done." at that moment mounser green came into the room. it was rather later than usual, being past one o'clock;--and he looked as though he were flurried. he didn't speak for a few minutes, but stood before the fire smoking a cigar. and there was a general silence,--there being now a feeling among them that arabella trefoil was not to be talked about in the old way before mounser green. at last he spoke himself. "i suppose you haven't heard who is to go to patagonia after all?" "is it settled?" asked currie. "anybody we know?" asked hoffmann. "i hope it's no d---- outsider," said the too energetic glossop. "it is settled;--and it is somebody you know;--and it is not a d---- outsider; unless, indeed, he may be considered to be an outsider in reference to that branch of the service." "it's some consul," said currie. "backstairs from panama, i'll bet a crown." "it isn't backstairs, it isn't a consul. gentlemen, get out your pocket-handkerchiefs. mounser green has consented to be expatriated for the good of his country." "you going to patagonia!" said currie. "you're chaffing," said glossop. "i never was so shot in my life," said hoffmann. "it's true, my dear boys." "i never was so sorry for anything in all my born days," said glossop, almost crying. "why on earth should you go to patagonia?" "patagonia!" ejaculated currie. "what will you do in patagonia?" "it's an opening, my dear fellow," said mounser green leaning affectionately on glossop's shoulder. "what should i do by remaining here? when drummond asked me i saw he wanted me to go. they don't forget that kind of thing." at that moment a messenger opened the door, and the senator gotobed, almost without being announced, entered the room. he had become so intimate of late at the foreign office, and his visits were so frequent, that he was almost able to dispense with the assistance of any messenger. perhaps mounser green and his colleagues were a little tired of him;--but yet, after their fashion, they were always civil to him, and remembered, as they were bound to do, that he was one of the leading politicians of a great nation. "i have secured the hall," he said at once, as though aware that no news could be so important as the news he thus conveyed. "have you indeed?" said currie. "secured it for the fifteenth. now the question is--" "what do you think," said glossop, interrupting him without the slightest hesitation. "mounser green is going to patagonia, in place of the poor paragon." "i beg to congratulate mr. green with all my heart." "by george i don't," said the juvenile clerk. "fancy congratulating a fellow on going to patagonia! it's what i call an awful sell for everybody." "but as i was saying i have the hall for the fifteenth." "you mean to lecture then after all," said green. "certainly i do; i am not going to be deterred from doing my duty because i am told there is a little danger. what i want to know is whether i can depend on having a staff of policemen." "of course there will be police," said green. "but i mean some extra strength. i don't mind for myself, but i should be so unhappy if there were anything of a commotion." then he was assured that the officers of the police force would look to that, and was assured also that mounser green and the other gentlemen in the room would certainly attend the lecture. "i don't suppose i shall be gone by that time," said mounser green in a melancholy tone of voice. chapter xii. "i must go." rufford, march th. my dear miss trefoil, i am indeed sorry that i should have offended you by acceding to a suggestion which, i think i may say, originated with your mother. when she told me that her circumstances and yours were not in a pecuniary point of view so comfortable as they might be, i did feel that it was in my power to alleviate that trouble. the sum of money mentioned by my lawyer was certainly named by your mother. at any rate pray believe that i meant to be of service. as to naming a place where we might meet, it really could be of no service. it would be painful to both of us and could have no good result. again apologizing for having inadvertently offended you by adopting the views which lady augustus entertained, i beg to assure you that i am, yours faithfully, rufford. this letter came from the peer himself, without assistance. after his interview with lady augustus he simply told his mentor, sir george, that he had steadfastly denied the existence of any engagement, not daring to acquaint him with the offer he had made. neither, therefore, could he tell sir george of the manner in which the young lady had repudiated the offer. that she should have repudiated it was no doubt to her credit. as he thought of it afterwards he felt that had she accepted it she would have been base indeed. and yet, as he thought of what had taken place at the house in piccadilly, he was confident that the proposition had in some way come from her mother. no doubt he had first written a sum of money on the fragment of paper which she had preserved;--and the evidence would so far go against him. but lady augustus had spoken piteously of their joint poverty,--and had done so in lieu of insisting with a mother's indignation on her daughter's rights. of course she had intended to ask for money. what other purpose could she have had? it was so he had argued at the moment, and so he had argued since. if it were so he would not admit that he had behaved unlike a gentleman in offering the money. yet he did not dare to tell sir george, and therefore was obliged to answer arabella's letter without assistance. he was not altogether sorry to have his £ , being fully as much alive to the value of money as any brother peer in the kingdom, but he would sooner have paid the money than be subject to an additional interview. he had been forced up to london to see first the father and then the mother, and thought that he had paid penalty enough for any offence that he might have committed. an additional interview with the young lady herself would distress him beyond anything,--would be worse than any other interview. he would sooner leave rufford and go abroad than encounter it. he promised himself that nothing should induce him to encounter it. therefore, he wrote the above letter. arabella, when she received it, had ceased to care very much about the insult of the offer. she had then quarrelled with her mother, and had insisted on some separation even without any arrangement as to funds. requiring some confidant, she had told a great deal, though not quite all, to mrs. connop green, and that lady had passed her on for a while to her husband's aunt in london. at this time she had heard nothing of john morton's will, and had perhaps thought with some tender regret of the munificence of her other lover, which she had scorned. but she was still intent on doing something. the fury of her despair was still on her, so that she could not weigh the injury she might do herself against some possible gratification to her wounded spirit. up to this moment she had formed no future hope. at this epoch she had no string to her bow. john morton was dead;--and she had absolutely wept for him in solitude, though she had certainly never loved him. nor did she love lord rufford. as far as she knew how to define her feelings, she thought that she hated him. but she told herself hourly that she had not done with him. she was instigated by the true feminine medea feeling that she would find some way to wring his heart,--even though in the process she might suffer twice as much as he did. she had convinced herself that in this instance he was the offender. "painful to both of us!" no doubt! but because it would be painful to him, it should be exacted. though he was a coward and would fain shirk such pain, she could be brave enough. even though she should be driven to catch him by the arm in the open street, she would have it out with him. he was a liar and a coward, and she would, at any rate, have the satisfaction of telling him so. she thought much about it before she could resolve on what she would do. she could not ask old mrs. green to help her. mrs. green was a kind old woman, who had lived much in the world, and would wish to see much of it still, had age allowed her. arabella trefoil was at any rate the niece of a duke, and the duke, in this affair with lord rufford, had taken his niece's part. she opened her house and as much of her heart as was left to arabella, and was ready to mourn with her over the wicked lord. she could sympathise with her too, as to the iniquities of her mother, whom none of the greens loved. but she would have been frightened by any proposition as to medean vengeance. in these days,--still winter days, and not open to much feminine gaiety in london, even if, in the present constitution of her circumstances, gaiety would have come in her way,--in these days the hours in her life which interested her most, were those in which mr. mounser green was dutifully respectful to his aunt. patagonia had not yet presented itself to him. some four or five hundred a year, which the old lady had at her own disposal, had for years past contributed to mounser's ideas of duty. and now arabella's presence at the small house in portugal street certainly added a new zest to those ideas. the niece of the duke of mayfair, and the rejected of lord rufford, was at the present moment an interesting young woman in mounser green's world. there were many who thought that she had been ill-used. had she succeeded, all the world would have pitied lord rufford;--but as he had escaped, there was a strong party for the lady. and gradually mounser green, who some weeks ago had not thought very much of her, became one of the party. she had brought her maid with her; and when she found that mounser green came to the house every evening, either before or after dinner, she had recourse to her accustomed lures. she would sit quiet, dejected, almost broken-hearted in the corner of a sofa; but when he spoke to her she would come to life and raise her eyes,--not ignoring the recognised dejection of her jilted position, not pretending to this minor stag of six tines that she was a sprightly unwooed young fawn, fresh out of the forest,--almost asking him to weep with her, and playing her accustomed lures, though in a part which she had not hitherto filled. but still she was resolved that her jason should not as yet be quit of his medea. so she made her plot. she would herself go down to rufford and force her way into her late lover's presence in spite of all obstacles. it was possible that she should do this and get back to london the same day,--but, to do so, she must leave london by an early train at a.m., stay seven or eight hours at rufford, and reach the london station at p.m. for such a journey there must be some valid excuse made to mrs. green. there must be some necessity shown for such a journey. she would declare that a meeting was necessary with her mother, and that her mother was at any town she chose to name at the requisite distance from london. in this way she might start with her maid before daylight, and get back after dark, and have the meeting with her mother--or with lord rufford as the case might be. but mounser green knew very well that lady augustus was in orchard street, and knew also that arabella was determined not to see her mother. and if she declared her purpose, without a caution to mounser green, the old woman would tell her nephew, and the nephew would unwittingly expose the deceit. it was necessary therefore that she should admit mounser green to, at any rate, half a confidence. this she did. "don't ask me any questions," she said. "i know i can trust you. i must be out of town the whole day, and perhaps the next. and your aunt must not know why i am going or where. you will help me?" of course he said that he would help her; and the lie, with a vast accompaniment of little lies, was told. there must be a meeting on business matters between her and her mother, and her mother was now in the neighbourhood of birmingham. this was the lie told to mrs. green. she would go down, and, if possible, be back on the same day. she would take her maid with her. she thought that in such a matter as that she could trust her maid, and was in truth afraid to travel alone. "i will come in the morning and take miss trefoil to the station," said mounser, "and will meet her in the evening." and so the matter was arranged. the journey was not without its drawbacks and almost its perils. summer or winter arabella trefoil was seldom out of bed before nine. it was incumbent on her now to get up on a cold march morning,--when the lion had not as yet made way for the lamb,--at half-past five. that itself seemed to be all but impossible to her. nevertheless she was ready and had tried to swallow half a cup of tea, when mounser green came to the door with a cab a little after six. she had endeavoured to dispense with this new friend's attendance, but he had insisted, assuring her that without some such aid no cab would be forthcoming. she had not told him and did not intend that he should know to what station she was going. "you begged me to ask no questions," he said when he was in the cab with her, the maid having been induced most unwillingly to seat herself with the cabman on the box,--"and i have obeyed you. but i wish i knew how i could help you." "you have helped me, and you are helping me. but do not ask anything more." "will you be angry with me if i say that i fear you are intending something rash?" "of course i am. how could it be otherwise with me? don't you think there are turns in a person's life when she must do something rash. think of yourself. if everybody crushed you; if you were ill-treated beyond all belief; if the very people who ought to trust you doubted you, wouldn't you turn upon somebody and rend him?" "are you going to rend anybody?" "i do not know as yet." "i wish you would let me go down with you." "no; that you certainly cannot. you must not come even into the station with me. you have been very good to me. you will not now turn against me." "i certainly will do nothing but what you tell me." "then here we are,--and now you must go. jane can carry my hand-bag and cloak. if you choose to come in the evening at ten it will be an additional favour." "i certainly will do so. but miss trefoil, one word." they were now standing under cover of the portico in front of the railway station, into which he was not to be allowed to enter. "what i fear is this;--that in your first anger you may be tempted to do something which may be injurious to--to your prospects in life." "i have no prospects in life, mr. green." "ah;--that is just it. there are for most of us moments of unhappiness in which we are tempted by our misery to think that we are relieved at any rate from the burden of caution, because nothing that can occur to us can make us worse than we are." "nothing can make me worse than i am." "but in a few months or weeks," continued mounser green, bringing up in his benevolence all the wisdom of his experience, "we have got a new footing amidst our troubles, and then we may find how terrible is the injury which our own indiscretion has brought on us. i do not want to ask any questions, but--it might be so much better that you should abandon your intention, and go back with me." she seemed to be almost undecided for a moment as she thought over his words. but she remembered her pledge to herself that lord rufford should find that she had not done with him yet. "i must go," she said in a hoarse voice. "if you must--" "i must go. i have no way out of it. good-bye, mr. green; i cannot tell you how much obliged to you i am." then he turned back and she went into the station and took two first-class tickets for rufford. at that moment lord rufford was turning himself comfortably in his bed. how would he have sprung up, and how would he have fled, had he known the evil that was coming upon him! this happened on a thursday, a day on which, as arabella knew, the u. r. u. did not go out;--the very thursday on which john morton was buried and the will was read at bragton. she was fully determined to speak her mind to the man and to be checked by no feminine squeamishness. she would speak her mind to him if she could force her way into his presence. and in doing this she would be debarred by no etiquette. it might be that she would fail, that he would lack the courage to see her, and would run away, even before all his servants, when he should hear who was standing in his hall. but if he did so she would try again, even though she should have to ride out into the hunting-field after him. face to face she would tell him that he was a liar and a slanderer and no gentleman, though she should have to run round the world to catch him. when she reached rufford she went to the town and ordered breakfast and a carriage. as soon as she had eaten the meal she desired the driver in a clear voice to take her to rufford hall. was her maid to go with her? no. she would be back soon, and her maid would wait there till she had returned. chapter xiii. in the park. this thing that she was doing required an infinite amount of pluck,--of that sort of hardihood which we may not quite call courage, but which in a world well provided with policemen is infinitely more useful than courage. lord rufford himself was endowed with all the ordinary bravery of an englishman, but he could have flown as soon as run into a lion's den as arabella was doing. she had learned that lady penwether and miss penge were both at rufford hall, and understood well the difficulty there would be in explaining her conduct should she find herself in their presence. and there were all the servants there to stare at her, and the probability that she might be shown to the door and told that no one there would speak to her. she saw it all before her, and knew how bitter it might be;--but her heart was big enough to carry her through it. she was dressed very simply, but still by no means dowdily, in a black silk dress, and though she wore a thick veil when she got out of the fly and rang the door bell, she had been at some pains with her hair before she left the inn. her purpose was revenge; but still she had an eye to the possible chance,--the chance barely possible of bringing the man to submit. when the door was opened she raised her veil and asked for lord rufford;--but as she did so she walked on through the broad passage which led from the front door into a wide central space which they called the billiard-room but which really was the hall of the house. this she did as a manifesto that she did not mean to leave the house because she might be told that he was out or could not be seen, or that he was engaged. it was then nearly one o'clock, and no doubt he would be there for luncheon. of course he might be in truth away from home, but she must do her best to judge of that by the servant's manner. the man knew her well, and not improbably had heard something of his master's danger. he was, however, very respectful and told her that his lordship was out in the grounds;--but that lady penwether was in the drawing-room. then a sudden thought struck her, and she asked the man whether he would show her in what part of the grounds she might find lord rufford. upon that he took her to the front door and pointing across the park to a belt of trees, showed her three or four men standing round some piece of work. he believed, he said, that one of those men was his lordship. she bowed her thanks and was descending the steps on her way to join the group, when whom should she see but lady penwether coming into the house with her garden-hat and gloves. it was unfortunate; but she would not allow herself to be stopped by lady penwether. she bowed stiffly and would have passed on without a word, but that was impossible. "miss trefoil!" said lady penwether with astonishment. "your brother is just across the park. i think i see him and will go to him." "i had better send and tell him that you are here," said her ladyship. "i need not trouble you so far. i can be my own messenger. perhaps you will allow the fly to be sent round to the yard for half-an-hour." as she said this she was still passing down the steps. but lady penwether knew that it behoved her to prevent this if it might be possible. of late she had had little or no conversation with her brother about miss trefoil, but she had heard much from her husband. she would be justified, she thought, in saying or in doing almost anything which would save him from such an encounter. "i really think," she said, "that he had better be told that you are here," and as she spoke she strove to put herself in the visitor's way. "you had better come in, miss trefoil, and he shall be informed at once." "by no means, lady penwether. i would not for worlds give him or you so much trouble. i see him and i will go to him." then lady penwether absolutely put out her hand to detain her; but arabella shook it off angrily and looked into the other woman's face with fierce eyes. "allow me," she said, "to conduct myself at this moment as i may think best. i shall do so at any rate." then she stalked on and lady penwether saw that any contest was hopeless. had she sent the servant on with all his speed, so as to gain three or four moments, her brother could hardly have fled through the trees in face of the enemy. lord rufford, who was busy planning the prolongation of a ha-ha fence, saw nothing of all this; but, after a while he was aware that a woman was coming to him, and then gradually he saw who that woman was. arabella when she had found herself advancing closer went slowly enough. she was sure of her prey now, and was wisely mindful that it might be well that she should husband her breath. the nearer she drew to him the slower became her pace, and more majestic. her veil was well thrown back, and her head was raised in the air. she knew these little tricks of deportment and could carry herself like a queen. he had taken a moment or two to consider. should he fly? it was possible. he might vault over a railed fence in among the trees, at a spot not ten yards from her, and then it would be impossible that she should run him down. he might have done it had not the men been there to see it. as it was he left them in the other direction and came forward to meet her. he tried to smile pleasantly as he spoke to her. "so i see that you would not take my advice," he said. "neither your advice nor your money, my lord." "ah,--i was so sorry about that! but, indeed, indeed,--the fault was not mine." "they were your figures that i saw upon the paper, and by your orders, no doubt, that the lawyer acted. but i have not come to say much of that. you meant i suppose to be gracious." "i meant to be--goodnatured." "i daresay. you were willing enough to give away what you did not want. but there must be more between us than any question of money. lord rufford you have treated me most shamefully." "i hope not. i think not." "and you yourself must be well aware of it,--quite as well aware of it as i am. you have thrown me over and absolutely destroyed me;--and why?" he shrugged his shoulders. "because you have been afraid of others; because your sister has told you that you were mistaken in your choice. the women around you have been too many for you, and have not allowed you to dispose of your hand, and your name, and your property as you pleased. i defy you to say that this was not your sister's doing." he was too much astounded to contradict her rapidly, and then she passed on, not choosing to give him time for contradiction. "will you have the hardihood to say that you did not love me?" then she paused thinking that he would not dare to contradict her then, feeling that in that she was on strong ground. "were you lying when you told me that you did? what did you mean when i was in your arms up in the house there? what did you intend me to think that you meant?" then she stopped, standing well in front of him, and looking fixedly into his face. this was the very thing that he had feared. lord augustus had been a trouble. the duke's letter had been a trouble. lady augustus had been a trouble; and sir george's sermons had been troublesome. but what were they all when compared to this? how is it possible that a man should tell a girl that he has not loved her, when he has embraced her again and again? he may know it, and she may know it,--and each may know that the other knows it;--but to say that he does not and did not then love her is beyond the scope of his audacity,--unless he be a heartless nero. "no one can grieve about this so much as i do," he said weakly. "cannot i grieve more, do you think,--i who told all my relatives that i was to become your wife, and was justified in so telling them? was i not justified?" "i think not." "you think not! what did you mean then? what were you thinking of when we were coming back in the carriage from stamford,--when with your arms round me you swore that you loved me better than all the world? is that true? did you so swear?" what a question for a man to have to answer! it was becoming clear to him that there was nothing for him but to endure and be silent. even to this interview the gods would at last give an end. the hour would pass, though, alas, so slowly, and she could not expect that he should stand there to be rated much after the accustomed time for feeding. "you acknowledge that, and do you dare to say that i had no right to tell my friends?" there was a moment in which he thought it was almost a pity that he had not married her. she was very beautiful in her present form,--more beautiful he thought than ever. she was the niece of a duke, and certainly a very clever woman. he had not wanted money and why shouldn't he have married her? as for hunting him,--that was a matter of course. he was as much born and bred to be hunted as a fox. he could not do it now as he had put too much power into the hands of the penwethers, but he almost wished that he had. "i never intended it," he said. "what did you intend? after what has occurred i suppose i have a right to ask such a question. i have made a somewhat unpleasant journey to-day, all alone, on purpose to ask that question. what did you intend?" in his great annoyance he struck his shovel angrily against the ground. "and i will not leave you till i get an answer to the question. what did you intend, lord rufford?" there was nothing for him but silence and a gradual progress back towards the house. but from the latter resource she cut him off for a time. "you will do me the favour to remain with me here till this conversation is ended. you cannot refuse me so slight a request as that, seeing the trouble to which you have put me. i never saw a man so forgetful of words. you cannot speak. have you no excuse to offer, not a word to say in explanation of conduct so black that i don't think here in england i ever heard a case to equal it? if your sister had been treated so!" "it would have been impossible." "i believe it. her cautious nature would have trusted no man as i trusted you. her lips, doubtless, were never unfrozen till the settlements had been signed. with her it was a matter of bargain, not of love. i can well believe that." "i will not talk about my sister." "it seems to me, lord rufford, that you object to talk about anything. you certainly have been very uncommunicative with reference to yourself. were you lying when you told me that you loved me?" "no." "did i lie when i told the duchess that you had promised me your love? did i lie when i told my mother that in these days a man does not always mention marriage when he asks a girl to be his wife? you said you loved me, and i believed you, and the rest was a thing of course. and you meant it. you know you meant it. when you held me in your arms in the carriage you know you meant me to suppose that it would always be so. then the fear of your sister came upon you, and of your sister's husband,--and you ran away! i wonder whether you think yourself a man!" and yet she felt that she had not hit him yet. he was wretched enough; and she could see that he was wretched;--but the wretchedness would pass away as soon as she was gone. how could she stab him so that the wound would remain? with what virus could she poison her arrow, so that the agony might be prolonged? "and such a coward too! i began to suspect it when you started that night from mistletoe,--though i did not think then that you could be all mean, all cowardly. from that day to this, you have not dared to speak a word of truth. every word has been a falsehood." "by heavens, no." "every word a falsehood! and i, a lady,--a lady whom you have so deeply injured, whose cruel injury even you have not the face to deny,--am forced by your cowardice to come to you here, because you have not dared to come out to meet me. is that true!" "what good can it do?" "none to me, god knows. you are such a thing that i would not have you now i know you, though you were twice lord rufford. but i have chosen to speak my mind to you and to tell you what i think. did you suppose that when i said i would meet you face to face i was to be deterred by such girl's excuses as you made? i chose to tell you to your face that you are false, a coward, and no gentleman, and though you had hidden yourself under the very earth i would have found you." then she turned round and saw sir george penwether standing close to them. lord rufford had seen him approaching for some time, and had made one or two futile attempts to meet him. arabella's back had been turned to the house, and she had not heard the steps or observed the direction of her companion's eyes. he came so near before he was seen that he heard her concluding words. then lord rufford with a ghastly attempt at pleasantry introduced them. "george," he said, "i do not think you know miss trefoil. sir george penwether;--miss trefoil." the interview had been watched from the house and the husband had been sent down by his wife to mitigate the purgatory which she knew that her brother must be enduring. "my wife," said sir george, "has sent me to ask miss trefoil whether she will not come into lunch." "i believe it is lord rufford's house," said arabella. "if miss trefoil's frame of mind will allow her to sit at table with me i shall be proud to see her," said lord rufford. "miss trefoil's frame of mind will not allow her to eat or to drink with such a dastard," said she turning away in the direction of the park gates. "perhaps, sir george, you will be kind enough to direct the man who brought me here to pick me up at the lodge." and so she walked away--a mile across the park,--neither of them caring to follow her. it seemed to her as she stood at the lodge gate, having obstinately refused to enter the house, to be an eternity before the fly came to her. when it did come she felt as though her strength would barely enable her to climb into it. and when she was there she wept, with bitter throbbing woe, all the way to rufford. it was over now at any rate. now there was not a possible chance on which a gleam of hope might be made to settle. and how handsome he was, and how beautiful the place, and how perfect would have been the triumph could she have achieved it! one more word,--one other pressure of the hand in the post-chaise, might have done it! had he really promised her marriage she did not even now think that he would have gone back from his word. if that heavy stupid duke would have spoken to him that night at mistletoe, all would have been well! but now,--now there was nothing for her but weeping and gnashing of teeth. he was gone, and poor morton was gone; and all those others, whose memories rose like ghosts before her;--they were all gone. and she wept as she thought that she might perhaps have made a better use of the gifts which providence had put in her way. when mounser green met her at the station she was beyond measure weary. through the whole journey she had been struggling to restrain her sobs so that her maid should neither hear nor see them. "don't mind me, mr. green; i am only tired,--so tired," she said as she got into the carriage which he had brought. he had with him a long, formal-looking letter addressed to herself. but she was too weary to open it that night. it was the letter conveying the tidings of the legacy which morton had made in her favour. chapter xiv. lord rufford's model farm. at this time senator gotobed was paying a second visit to rufford hall. in the matter of goarly and scrobby he had never given way an inch. he was still strongly of opinion that a gentleman's pheasants had no right to eat his neighbour's corn, and that if damage were admitted, the person committing the injury should not take upon himself to assess the damage. he also thought,--and very often declared his thoughts,--that goarly was justified in shooting not only foxes but hounds also when they came upon his property, and in moments of excitement had gone so far as to say that not even horses should be held sacred. he had, however, lately been driven to admit that goarly himself was not all that a man should be, and that mrs. goarly's goose was an impostor. it was the theory,--the principle for which he combated, declaring that the evil condition of the man himself was due to the evil institutions among which he had been reared. by degrees evidence had been obtained of scrobby's guilt in the matter of the red herrings, and he was to be tried for the offence of putting down poison. goarly was to be the principal witness against his brother conspirator. lord rufford, instigated by his brother-in-law, and liking the spirit of the man, had invited the senator to stay at the hall while the case was being tried at the rufford quarter sessions. i am afraid the invitation was given in a spirit of triumph over the senator rather than with genuine hospitality. it was thought well that the american should be made to see in public the degradation of the abject creature with whom he had sympathised. perhaps there were some who thought that in this way they would get the senator's neck under their heels. if there were such they were likely to be mistaken, as the senator was not a man prone to submit himself to such treatment. he was seated at table with lady penwether and miss penge when lord rufford and his brother-in-law came into the room, after parting with miss trefoil in the manner described in the last chapter. lady penwether had watched their unwelcome visitor as she took her way across the park and had whispered something to miss penge. miss penge understood the matter thoroughly, and would not herself have made the slightest allusion to the other young lady. had the senator not been there the two gentlemen would have been allowed to take their places without a word on the subject. but the senator had a marvellous gift of saying awkward things and would never be reticent. he stood for a while at the window in the drawing-room before he went across the hall, and even took up a pair of field-glasses to scrutinise the lady; and when they were all present he asked whether that was not miss trefoil whom he had seen down by the new fence. lady penwether, without seeming to look about her, did look about her for a few seconds to see whether the question might be allowed to die away unanswered. she perceived, from the senator's face, that he intended to have an answer. "yes," she said, "that was miss trefoil. i am very glad that she is not coming in to disturb us." "a great blessing," said miss penge. "where is she staying?" asked the senator. "i think she drove over from rufford," said the elder lady. "poor young lady! she was engaged to marry my friend, mr. john morton. she must have felt his death very bitterly. he was an excellent young man; rather opinionated and perhaps too much wedded to the traditions of his own country; but, nevertheless, a painstaking, excellent young man. i had hoped to welcome her as mrs. morton in america." "he was to have gone to patagonia," said lord rufford, endeavouring to come to himself after the sufferings of the morning. "we should have seen him back in washington, sir. whenever you have anything good in diplomacy you generally send him to us. poor young lady! was she talking about him?" "not particularly," said his lordship. "she must have remembered that when she was last here he was of the party, and it was but a few weeks ago,--only a little before christmas. he struck me as being cold in his manner as an affianced lover. was not that your idea, lady penwether?" "i don't think i observed him especially." "i have reason to believe that he was much attached to her. she could be sprightly enough; but at times there seemed to come a cold melancholy upon her too. it is i fancy so with most of your english ladies. miss trefoil always gave me the idea of being a good type of the english aristocracy." lady penwether and miss penge drew themselves up very stiffly. "you admired her, i think, my lord." "very much indeed," said lord rufford, filling his mouth with pigeon-pie as he spoke, and not lifting his eyes from his plate. "will she be back to dinner?" "oh dear no," said lady penwether. there was something in her tone which at last startled the senator into perceiving that miss trefoil was not popular at rufford hall. "she only came for a morning call," said lord rufford. "poor young woman. she has lost her husband, and, i am afraid, now has lost her friends also. i am told that she is not well off;--and from what i see and hear, i fancy that here in england a young lady without a dowry cannot easily replace a lover. i suppose, too, miss trefoil is not quite in her first youth." "if you have done, caroline," said lady penwether to miss penge, "i think we'll go into the other room." that afternoon sir george asked the senator to accompany him for a walk. sir george was held to be responsible for the senator's presence, and was told by the ladies that he must do something with him. the next day, which was friday, would be occupied by the affairs of scrobby and goarly, and on the saturday he was to return to town. the two started about three with the object of walking round the park and the home farm--the senator intent on his duty of examining the ways of english life to the very bottom. "i hope i did not say anything amiss about miss trefoil," he remarked, as they passed through a shrubbery gate into the park. "no; i think not." "i thought your good lady looked as though she did not like the subject." "i am not sure that miss trefoil is very popular with the ladies up there." "she's a handsome young woman and clever, though, as i said before, given to melancholy, and sometimes fastidious. when we were all here i thought that lord rufford admired her, and that poor mr. morton was a little jealous." "i wasn't at rufford then. here we get out of the park on to the home farm. rufford does it very well,--very well indeed." "looks after it altogether himself?" "i cannot quite say that. he has a land-bailiff who lives in the house there." "with a salary?" "oh yes; £ a year i think the man has." "and that house?" asked the senator. "why, the house and garden are worth £ a year." "i dare say they are. of course it costs money. it's near the park and had to be made ornamental." "and does it pay?" "well, no; i should think not. in point of fact i know it does not. he loses about the value of the ground." the senator asked a great many more questions and then began his lecture. "a man who goes into trade and loses by it, cannot be doing good to himself or to others. you say, sir george, that it is a model farm;--but it's a model of ruin. if you want to teach a man any other business, you don't specially select an example in which the proprietors are spending all their capital without any return. and if you would not do this in shoemaking, why in farming?" "the neighbours are able to see how work should be done." "excuse me, sir george, but it seems to me that they are enabled to see how work should not be done. if his lordship would stick up over his gate a notice to the effect that everything seen there was to be avoided, he might do some service. if he would publish his accounts half-yearly in the village newspaper--" "there isn't a village newspaper." "in the _rufford gazette_. there is a _rufford gazette_, and rufford isn't much more than a village. if he would publish his accounts half-yearly in the _rufford gazette_, honestly showing how much he had lost by his system, how much capital had been misapplied, and how much labour wasted, he might serve as an example, like the pictures of 'the idle apprentice.' i don't see that he can do any other good,--unless it be to the estimable gentleman who is allowed to occupy the pretty house. i don't think you'd see anything like that model farm in our country, sir." "your views, mr. gotobed, are utilitarian rather than picturesque." "oh!--if you say that it is done for the picturesque, that is another thing. lord rufford is a wealthy lord, and can afford to be picturesque. a green sward i should have thought handsomer, as well as less expensive, than a ploughed field, but that is a matter of taste. only why call a pretty toy a model farm? you might mislead the british rustics." they had by this time passed through a couple of fields which formed part of the model farm, and had come to a stile leading into a large meadow. "this i take it," said the senator looking about him, "is beyond the limits of my lord's plaything." "this is shugborough," said sir george, "and there is john runce, the occupier, on his pony. he at any rate is a model farmer." as he spoke mr. runce slowly trotted up to them touching his hat, and mr. gotobed recognized the man who had declined to sit next to him at the hunting breakfast. runce also thought that he knew the gentleman. "do you hunt to-morrow, mr. runce?" asked sir george. "well, sir george, no; i think not. i b'lieve i must go to rufford and hear that fellow scrobby get it hot and heavy." "we seem all to be going that way. you think he'll be convicted, sir?" "if there's a juryman left in the country worth his salt, he'll be convicted," said mr. runce, almost enraged at the doubt. "but that other fellow;--he's to get off. that's what kills me, sir george." "you're alluding to mr. goarly, sir?" said the senator. "that's about it, certainly," said runce, still looking very suspiciously at his companion. "i almost think he is the bigger rogue of the two," said the senator. "well," said runce; "well! i don't know as he ain't. six of one and half a dozen of the other! that's about it." but he was evidently pacified by the opinion. "goarly is certainly a rascal all round," continued the senator. runce looked at him to make sure whether he was the man who had uttered such fearful blasphemies at the breakfast-table. "i think we had a little discussion about this before, mr. runce." "i am very glad to see you have changed your principles, sir." "not a bit of it. i am too old to change my principles, mr. runce. and much as i admire this country i don't think it's the place in which i should be induced to do so." runce looked at him again with a scowl on his face and with a falling mouth. "mr. goarly is certainly a blackguard." "well;--i rather think he is." "but a blackguard may have a good cause. put it in your own case, mr. runce. if his lordship's pheasants ate up your wheat--" "they're welcome;--they're welcome! the more the merrier. but they don't. pheasants know when they're well off." "or if a crowd of horsemen rode over your fences, don't you think--" "my fences! they'd be welcome in my wife's bedroom if the fox took that way. my fences! it's what i has fences for,--to be ridden over." "you didn't exactly hear what i have to say, mr. runce." "and i don't want. no offence, sir, if you be a friend of my lord's;--but if his lordship was to say hisself that goarly was right, i wouldn't listen to him. a good cause,--and he going about at dead o'night with his pockets full of p'ison! hounds and foxes all one!--or little childer either for the matter o' that, if they happened on the herrings!" "i have not said his cause was good, mr. runce." "i'll wish you good evening, sir george," said the farmer, reining his pony round. "good evening to you, sir." and mr. runce trotted or rather ambled off, unable to endure another word. "an honest man, i dare say," said the senator. "certainly;--and not a bad specimen of a british farmer." "not a bad specimen of a briton generally;--but still, perhaps, a little unreasonable." after that sir george said as little as he could, till he had brought the senator back to the hall. "i think it's all over now," said lady penwether to miss penge, when the gentlemen had left them alone in the afternoon. "i'm sure i hope so,--for his sake. what a woman to come here by herself, in that way!" "i don't think he ever cared for her in the least." "i can't say that i have troubled myself much about that," replied miss penge. "for the sake of the family generally, and the property, and all that, i should be very very sorry to think that he was going to make her lady rufford. i dare say he has amused himself with her." "there was very little of that, as far as i can learn;--very little encouragement indeed! what we saw here was the worst of it. he was hardly with her at all at mistletoe." "i hope it will make him more cautious;--that's all," said miss penge. miss penge was now a great heiress, having had her lawsuit respecting certain shares in a welsh coal-mine settled since we last saw her. as all the world knows she came from one of the oldest commoner's families in the west of england, and is, moreover, a handsome young woman, only twenty-seven years of age. lady penwether thinks that she is the very woman to be mistress of rufford, and i do not know that miss penge herself is averse to the idea. lord rufford has been too lately wounded to rise at the bait quite immediately; but his sister knows that her brother is impressionable and that a little patience will go a long way. they have, however, all agreed at the hall that arabella's name shall not again be mentioned. chapter xv. scrobby's trial. rufford was a good deal moved as to the trial of mr. scrobby. mr. scrobby was a man who not long since had held his head up in rufford and had the reputation of a well-to-do tradesman. enemies had perhaps doubted his probity; but he had gone on and prospered, and, two or three years before the events which are now chronicled, had retired on a competence. he had then taken a house with a few acres of land, lying between rufford and rufford hall,--the property of lord rufford, and had commenced genteel life. many in the neighbourhood had been astonished that such a man should have been accepted as a tenant in such a house; and it was generally understood that lord rufford himself had been very angry with his agent. mr. scrobby did not prosper greatly in his new career. he became a guardian of the poor and quarrelled with all the board. he tried to become a municipal counsellor in the borough, but failed. then he quarrelled with his landlord, insisted on making changes in the grounds which were not authorised by the terms of his holding, would not pay his rent, and was at last ejected,--having caused some considerable amount of trouble. then he occupied a portion of his leisure with spreading calumnies as to his lordship, and was generally understood to have made up his mind to be disagreeable. as lord rufford was a sportsman rather than anything else scrobby studied how he might best give annoyance in that direction, and some time before the goarly affair had succeeded in creating considerable disturbance. when a man will do this pertinaciously, and when his selected enemy is wealthy and of high standing, he will generally succeed in getting a party round him. in rufford there were not a few who thought that lord rufford's pheasants and foxes were a nuisance,--though probably these persons had never suffered in any way themselves. it was a grand thing to fight a lord,--and so scrobby had a party. when the action against his lordship was first threatened by goarly, and when it was understood that scrobby had backed him with money, there was a feeling that scrobby was doing rather a fine thing. he had not, indeed, used his money openly, as the senator had afterwards done; but that was not scrobby's way. if goarly had been ill-used any help was legitimate, and the party as a party was proud of their man. but when it came to pass that poison had been laid down, "wholesale" as the hunting men said, in dillsborough wood, in the close vicinity of goarly's house, then the party hesitated. such strategy as that was disgusting;--but was there reason to think that scrobby had been concerned in the matter? scrobby still had an income, and ate roast meat or boiled every day for his dinner. was it likely that such a man should deal in herrings and strychnine? nickem had been at work for the last three months, backed up by funds which had latterly been provided by the lord's agent, and had in truth run the matter down. nickem had found out all about it, and in his pride had resigned his stool in mr. masters' office. but the scrobby party in rufford could not bring itself to believe that nickem was correct. that goarly's hand had actually placed the herrings no man either at rufford or dillsborough had doubted. such was now nickem's story. but of what avail would be the evidence of such a man as goarly against such a man as scrobby? it would be utterly worthless unless corroborated, and the scrobby party was not yet aware how clever nickem had been. thus all rufford was interested in the case. lord rufford, sir george penwether, his lordship's agent, and mr. gotobed, had been summoned as witnesses,--the expenditure of money by the senator having by this time become notorious; and on the morning of the trial they all went into the town in his lordship's drag. the senator, as the guest, was on the box-seat with his lordship, and as they passed old runce trotting into rufford on his nag, mr. gotobed began to tell the story of yesterday's meeting, complaining of the absurdity of the old farmer's anger. "penwether told me about it," said the lord. "i suppose your tenant is a little crazy." "by no means. i thought he was right in what he said, if i understood penwether." "he couldn't have been right. he turned from me in disgust simply because i tried to explain to him that a rogue has as much right to be defended by the law as an honest man." "runce looks upon these men as vermin which ought to be hunted down." "but they are not vermin. they are men;--and till they have been found guilty they are innocent men." "if a man had murdered your child, would he be innocent in your eyes till he was convicted?" "i hope so;--but i should be very anxious to bring home the crime against him. and should he be found guilty even then he should not be made subject to other punishment than that the law awards. mr. runce is angry with me because i do not think that goarly should be crushed under the heels of all his neighbours. take care, my lord. didn't we come round that corner rather sharp?" then lord rufford emphatically declared that such men as scrobby and goarly should be crushed, and the senator, with an inward sigh declared that between landlord and tenant, between peer and farmer, between legislator and rustic, there was, in capacity for logical inference, no difference whatever. the british heart might be all right; but the british head was,--ah,--hopelessly wooden! it would be his duty to say so in his lecture, and perhaps some good might be done to so gracious but so stolid a people, if only they could be got to listen. scrobby had got down a barrister from london, and therefore the case was allowed to drag itself out through the whole day. lord rufford, as a magistrate, went on to the bench himself,--though he explained that he only took his seat there as a spectator. sir george and mr. gotobed were also allowed to sit in the high place,--though the senator complained even of this. goarly and scrobby were not allowed to be there, and lord rufford, in his opinion, should also have been debarred from such a privilege. a long time was occupied before even a jury could be sworn, the barrister earning his money by brow-beating the provincial bench and putting various obstacles in the way of the trial. as he was used to practice at the assizes of course he was able to domineer. this juror would not do, nor that. the chairman was all wrong in his law. the officers of the court knew nothing about it. at first there was quite a triumph for the scrobbyites, and even nickem himself was frightened. but at last the real case was allowed to begin, and goarly was soon in the witness-box. goarly did not seem to enjoy the day, and was with difficulty got to tell his own story even on his own side. but the story when it was told was simple enough. he had met mr. scrobby accidentally in rufford and they two had together discussed the affairs of the young lord. they came to an agreement that the young lord was a tyrant and ought to be put down, and scrobby showed how it was to be done. scrobby instigated the action about the pheasants, and undertook to pay the expenses if goarly would act in the other little matter. but, when he found that the senator's money was forthcoming, he had been anything but as good as his word. goarly swore that in hard cash he had never seen more than four shillings of scrobby's money. as to the poison, goarly declared that he knew nothing about it; but he certainly had received a parcel of herrings from scrobby's own hands, and in obedience to scrobby's directions, had laid them down in dillsborough wood the very morning on which the hounds had come there. he owned that he supposed that there might be something in the herrings, something that would probably be deleterious to hounds as well as foxes,--or to children should the herrings happen to fall into children's hands; but he assured the court that he had no knowledge of poison,--none whatever. then he was made by the other side to give a complete and a somewhat prolonged account of his own life up to the present time,--this information being of course required by the learned barrister on the other side; in listening to which the senator did become thoroughly ashamed of the briton whom he had assisted with his generosity. but all this would have been nothing had not nickem secured the old woman who had sold the herrings,--and also the chemist, from whom the strychnine had been purchased as much as three years previously. this latter feat was nickem's great triumph,--the feeling of the glory of which induced him to throw up his employment in mr. masters' office, and thus brought him and his family to absolute ruin within a few months in spite of the liberal answers which were made by lord rufford to many of his numerous appeals. away in norrington the poison had been purchased as much as three years ago, and yet nickem had had the luck to find it out. when the scrobbyites heard that scrobby had gone all the way to norrington to buy strychnine to kill rats they were scrobbyites no longer. "i hope they'll hang 'un. i do hope they'll hang 'un," said mr. runce quite out loud from his crowded seat just behind the attorney's bench. the barrister of course struggled hard to earn his money. though he could not save his client he might annoy the other side. he insisted therefore on bringing the whole affair of the pheasants before the court, and examined the senator at great length. he asked the senator whether he had not found himself compelled to sympathise with the wrongs he had witnessed. the senator declared that he had witnessed no wrongs. why then had he interfered? because he had thought that there might be wrong, and because he wished to see what power a poor man in this country would have against a rich one. he was induced still to think that goarly had been ill-treated about the pheasants;--but he could not take upon himself to say that he had witnessed any wrong done. but he was quite sure that the system on which such things were managed in england was at variance with that even justice which prevailed in his own country! yes;--by his own country he did mean mickewa. he could tell that learned gentleman in spite of his sneers, and in spite of his evident ignorance of geography, that nowhere on the earth's surface was justice more purely administered than in the great western state of mickewa. it was felt by everybody that the senator had the best of it. mr. scrobby was sent into durance for twelve months with hard labour, and goarly was conveyed away in the custody of the police lest he should be torn to pieces by the rough lovers of hunting who were congregated outside. when the sentence had reached mr. runce's ears, and had been twice explained to him, first by one neighbour and then by another, his face assumed the very look which it had worn when he carried away his victuals from the senator's side at rufford hall, and when he had turned his pony round on his own land on the previous evening. the man had killed a fox and might have killed a dozen hounds, and was to be locked up only for twelve months! he indignantly asked his neighbour what had come of van diemen's land, and what was the use of botany bay. on their way back to rufford hall, lord rufford would have been triumphant, had not the senator checked him. "it's a bad state of things altogether," he said. "of course the promiscuous use of strychnine is objectionable." "rather," said his lordship. "but is it odd that an utterly uneducated man, one whom his country has left to grow up in the ignorance of a brute, should have recourse to any measure, however objectionable, when the law will absolutely give him no redress against the trespass made by a couple of hundred horsemen?" lord rufford gave it up, feeling the senator to be a man with whom he could not argue. chapter xvi. at last. when once mrs. morton had taken her departure for london, on the day after her grandson's death, nothing further was heard of her at bragton. she locked up everything and took all the keys away, as though still hoping,--against hope,--that the will might turn out to be other than she expected. but when the lawyer came down to read the document he brought the keys back with him, and no further tidings reached dillsborough respecting the old woman. she still drew her income as she had done for half a century, but never even came to look at the stone which reginald put up on the walls of bragton church to perpetuate the memory of his cousin. what moans she made she made in silent obscurity, and devoted the remainder of her years to putting together money for members of her own family who took no notice of her. after the funeral, lady ushant returned to the house at the request of her nephew, who declared his purpose of remaining at hoppet hall for the present. she expostulated with him and received from him an assurance that he would take up his residence as squire at bragton as soon as he married a wife,--should he ever do so. in the meantime he could, he thought, perform his duties from hoppet hall as well as on the spot. as a residence for a bachelor he preferred, he said, hoppet hall to the park. lady ushant yielded and returned once again to her old home,--the house in which she had been born,--and gave up her lodgings at cheltenham. the word that he said about his possible marriage set her mind at work, and induced her to put sundry questions to him. "of course you will marry?" she said. "men who have property to leave behind them usually do marry, and as i am not wiser than others, i probably may do so. but i will not admit that it is a matter of course. i may escape yet." "i do hope you will marry. i hope it may be before i die, so that i may see her." "and disapprove of her, ten to one." "certainly i shall not if you tell me that you love her." "then i will tell you so,--to prevent disagreeable results." "i am quite sure there must be somebody that you like, reginald," she said after a pause. "are you? i don't know that i have shown any very strong preference. i am not disposed to praise myself for many things, but i really do think that i have been as undemonstrative as most men of my age." "still i did hope--" "what did you hope?" "i won't mention any name. i don't think it is right. i have observed that more harm than good comes of such talking, and i have determined always to avoid it. but--." then there was another pause. "remember how old i am, reginald, and when it is to be done give me at any rate the pleasure of knowing it." of course he knew to whom she alluded, and of course he laughed at her feeble caution. but he would not say a word to encourage her to mention the name of mary masters. he thought that he was sure that were the girl free he would now ask her to be his wife. if he loved any one it was her. if he had ever known a woman with whom he thought it would be pleasant to share the joy and labours of life, it was mary masters. if he could imagine that any one constant companion would be a joy to him, she would be that person. but he had been distinctly informed that she was in love with some one, and not for worlds would he ask for that which had been given to another. and not for worlds would he hazard the chance of a refusal. he thought that he could understand the delight, that he could thoroughly enjoy the rapture, of hearing her whisper with downcast eyes, that she could love him. he had imagination enough to build castles in the air in which she reigned as princess, in which she would lie with her head upon his bosom and tell him that he was her chosen prince. but he would hardly know how to bear himself should he ask in vain. he believed he could love as well as lawrence twentyman, but he was sure that he could not continue his quest as that young man had done. when lady ushant had been a day or two at the house she asked him whether she might invite mary there as her guest,--as her perpetual guest.--"i have no objection in life," he said;--"but take care that you don't interfere with her happiness." "because of her father and sisters?" suggested the innocent old lady. "'has she a father, has she a mother; or has she a dearer one still than all other?'" said reginald laughing. "perhaps she has." "then don't interfere with her happiness in that direction. how is she to have a lover come to see her out here?" "why not? i don't see why she shouldn't have a lover here as well as in dillsborough. i don't object to lovers, if they are of the proper sort;--and i am sure mary wouldn't have anything else." reginald told her she might do as she pleased and made no further inquiry as to mary's lovers. a few days afterwards mary went with her boxes to bragton,--mrs. masters repeating her objections, but repeating them with but little energy. just at this time a stroke of good fortune befell the masters family generally which greatly reduced her power over her husband. reginald morton had spent an hour in the attorney's office, and had declared his purpose of restoring mr. masters to his old family position in regard to the bragton estate. when she heard it she felt at once that her dominion was gone. she had based everything on the growing inferiority of her husband's position, and now he was about to have all his glory back again! she had inveighed against gentlemen from the day of her marriage,--and here he was, again to be immersed up to his eyes in the affairs of a gentleman. and then she had been so wrong about goarly, and lord rufford had been so much better a client! and ready money had been so much more plentiful of late, owing to poor john morton's ready-handed honesty! she had very little to say about it when mary packed her boxes and was taken in mr. runciman's fly to bragton. since the old days, the old days of all, since the days to which reginald had referred when he asked her to pass over the bridge with him, she had never yet walked about the bragton grounds. she had often been to the house, visiting lady ushant; but she had simply gone thither and returned. and indeed, when the house had been empty, the walk from dillsborough to the bridge and back had been sufficient exercise for herself and her sisters. but now she could go whither she listed and bring her memory to all the old spots. with the tenacity as to household matters which characterised the ladies of the country some years since, lady ushant employed all her mornings and those of her young friend in making inventories of everything that was found in the house; but her afternoons were her own, and she wandered about with a freedom she had never known before. at this time reginald morton was up in london and had been away nearly a week. he had gone intending to be absent for some undefined time, so that lady ushant and mrs. hopkins were free from all interruption. it was as yet only the middle of march and the lion had not altogether disappeared; but still mary could get out. she did not care much for the wind; and she roamed about among the leafless shrubberies, thinking,--probably not of many things,--meaning always to think of the past, but unable to keep her mind from the future, the future which would so soon be the present. how long would it be before the coming of that stately dame? was he in quest of her now? had he perhaps postponed his demand upon her till fortune had made him rich? of course she had no right to be sorry that he had inherited the property which had been his almost of right;--but yet, had it been otherwise, might she not have had some chance? but, oh, if he had said a word to her, only a word more than he had spoken already,--a word that might have sounded like encouragement to others beside herself, and then have been obliged to draw back because of the duty which he owed to the property,--how much worse would that have been! she did own to herself that the squire of bragton should not look for his wife in the house of a dillsborough attorney. as she thought of this a tear ran down her cheek and trickled down on to the wooden rail of the little bridge. "there's no one to give you an excuse now, and you must come and walk round with me," said a voice, close to her ear. "oh, mr. morton, how you have startled me!" "is there anything the matter, mary?" said he, looking up into her face. "only you have startled me so." "has that brought tears into your eyes?" "well,--i suppose so," she said trying to smile. "you were so very quiet and i thought you were in london." "so i was this morning, and now i am here. but something else has made you unhappy." "no; nothing." "i wish we could be friends, mary. i wish i could know your secret. you have a secret." "no," she said boldly. "is there nothing?" "what should there be, mr. morton!" "tell me why you were crying." "i was not crying. just a tear is not crying. sometimes one does get melancholy. one can't cry when there is any one to look, and so one does it alone. i'd have been laughing if i knew that you were coming." "come round by the kennels. you can get over the wall;--can't you?" "oh yes." "and we'll go down the old orchard, and get out by the corner of the park fence." then he walked and she followed him, hardly keeping close by his side, and thinking as she went how foolish she had been not to have avoided the perils and fresh troubles of such a walk. when he was helping her over the wall he held her hands for a moment and she was aware of unusual pressure. it was the pressure of love,--or of that pretence of love which young men, and perhaps old men, sometimes permit themselves to affect. in an ordinary way mary would have thought as little of it as another girl. she might feel dislike to the man, but the affair would be too light for resentment. with this man it was different. he certainly was not justified in making the slightest expression of factitious affection. he at any rate should have felt himself bound to abstain from any touch of peculiar tenderness. she would not say a word. she would not even look at him with angry eyes. but she twitched both her hands away from him as she sprang to the ground. then there was a passage across the orchard,--not more than a hundred yards, and after that a stile. at the stile she insisted on using her own hand for the custody of her dress. she would not even touch his outstretched arm. "you are very independent," he said. "i have to be so." "i cannot make you out, mary. i wonder whether there is still anything rankling in your bosom against me." "oh dear no. what should rankle with me?" "what indeed;--unless you resent my--regard." "i am not so rich in friends as to do that, mr. morton." "i don't suppose there can be many people who have the same sort of feeling for you that i have." "there are not many who have known me so long, certainly." "you have some friend, i know," he said. "more than one i hope." "some special friend. who is he, mary?" "i don't know what you mean, mr. morton." she then thought that he was still alluding to lawrence twentyman. "tell me, mary." "what am i to tell you?" "your father says that there is some one." "papa!" "yes;--your father." then she remembered it all;--how she had been driven into a half confession to her father. she could not say there was nobody. she certainly could not say who that some one was. she could not be silent, for by silence she would be confessing a passion for some other man,--a passion which certainly had no existence. "i don't know why papa should talk about me," she said, "and i certainly don't know why you should repeat what he said." "but there is some one?" she clenched her fist, and hit out at the air with her parasol, and knit her brows as she looked up at him with a glance of fire in her eye which he had never seen there before. "believe me, mary," he said;--"if ever a girl had a sincere friend, you have one in me. i would not tease you by impertinence in such a matter. i will be as faithful to you as the sun. do you love any one?" "yes," she said turning round at him with ferocity and shouting out her answer as she pressed on. "who is he, mary?" "what right have you to ask me? what right can any one have? even your aunt would not press me as you are doing." "my aunt could not have the same interest. who is he, mary?" "i will not tell you." he paused a few moments and walked on a step or two before he spoke again. "i would it were i," he said. "what!" she ejaculated. "i would it were i," he repeated. one glance of her eye stole itself round into his face, and then her face was turned quickly to the ground. her parasol which had been raised drooped listless from her hand. all unconsciously she hastened her steps and became aware that the tears were streaming from her eyes. for a moment or two it seemed to her that all was still hopeless. if he had no more to say than that, certainly she had not a word. he had made her no tender of his love. he had not told her that in very truth she was his chosen one. after all she was not sure that she understood the meaning of those words "i would it were i." but the tears were coming so quick that she could see nothing of the things around her, and she did not dare even to put her hand up to her eyes. if he wanted her love,--if it was possible that he really wished for it,--why did he not ask for it? she felt his footsteps close to hers, and she was tempted to walk on quicker even than before. then there came the fingers of a hand round her waist, stealing gradually on till she felt the pressure of his body on her shoulders. she put her hand up weakly, to push back the intruding fingers,--only to leave it tight in his grasp. then,--then was the first moment in which she realized the truth. after all he did love her. surely he would not hold her there unless he meant her to know that he loved her. "mary," he said. to speak was impossible, but she turned round and looked at him with imploring eyes. "mary,--say that you will be my wife." chapter xvii. "my own, own husband." yes;--it had come at last. as one may imagine to be the certainty of paradise to the doubting, fearful, all but despairing soul when it has passed through the gates of death and found in new worlds a reality of assured bliss, so was the assurance to her, conveyed by that simple request, "mary, say that you will be my wife." it did not seem to her that any answer was necessary. will it be required that the spirit shall assent to its entrance into elysium? was there room for doubt? he would never go back from his word now. he would not have spoken the word had he not been quite, quite certain. and he had loved her all that time,--when she was so hard to him! it must have been so. he had loved her, this bright one, even when he thought that she was to be given to that clay-bound rustic lover! perhaps that was the sweetest of it all, though in draining the sweet draught she had to accuse herself of hardness, blindness and injustice. could it be real? was it true that she had her foot firmly placed in paradise? he was there, close to her, with his arm still round her, and her fingers grasped within his. the word wife was still in her ears,--surely the sweetest word in all the language! what protestation of love could have been so eloquent as that question? "will you be my wife?" no true man, she thought, ever ought to ask the question in any other form. but her eyes were still full of tears, and as she went she knew not where she was going. she had forgotten all her surroundings, being only aware that he was with her, and that no other eyes were on them. then there was another stile on reaching which he withdrew his arm and stood facing her with his back leaning against it. "why do you weep?" he said;--"and, mary, why do you not answer my question? if there be anybody else you must tell me now." "there is nobody else," she said almost angrily. "there never was. there never could be." "and yet there was somebody!" she pouted her lips at him, glancing up into his face for half a second, and then again hung her head down. "mary, do not grudge me my delight." "no;--no;--no!" "but you do." "no. if there can be delight to you in so poor a thing, have it all." "then you must kiss me, dear." she gently came to him,--oh so gently,--and with her head still hanging, creeping towards his shoulder, thinking perhaps that the motion should have been his, but still obeying him, and then, leaning against him, seemed as though she would stoop with her lips to his hand. but this he did not endure. seizing her quickly in his arms he drew her up, till her not unwilling face was close to his, and there he kept her till she was almost frightened by his violence. "and now, mary, what do you say to my question? it has to be answered." "you know." "but that will not do, i will have it in words. i will not be shorn of my delight." that it should be a delight to him, was the very essence of her heaven. "tell me what to say," she answered. "how may i say it best?" "reginald morton," he began. "reginald," she repeated it after him, but went no farther in naming him. "because i love you better than any other being in the world--" "i do." "ah, but say it." "because i love you, oh, so much better than all the world besides." "therefore, my own, own husband--" "therefore, my own, own--" then she paused. "say the word." "my own, own husband." "i will be your true wife." "i will be your own true loving wife." then he kissed her again. "that," he said, "is our little marriage ceremony under god's sky, and no other can be more binding. as soon as you, in the plentitude of your maiden power, will fix a day for the other one, and when we can get that over, then we will begin our little journey together." "but reginald!" "well, dear!" "you haven't said anything." "haven't i? i thought i had said it all." "but you haven't said it for yourself!" "you say what you want,--and i'll repeat it quite as well as you did." "i can't do that. say it yourself." "i will be your true husband for the rest of the journey;--by which i mean it to be understood that i take you into partnership on equal terms, but that i am to be allowed to manage the business just as i please." "yes;--that you shall," she said, quite in earnest. "only as you are practical and i am vague, i don't doubt that everything will fall into your hands before five years are over, and that i shall have to be told whether i can afford to buy a new book, and when i am to ask all the gentry to dinner." "now you are laughing at me because i shall know so little about anything." "come, dear; let us get over the stile and go on for another field, or we shall never get round the park." then she jumped over after him, just touching his hand. "i was not laughing at you at all. i don't in the least doubt that in a very little time you will know everything about everything." "i am so much afraid." "you needn't be. i know you well enough for that. but suppose i had taken such a one as that young woman who was here with my poor cousin. oh, heavens!" "perhaps you ought to have done so." "i thank the lord that hath delivered me." "you ought,--you ought to have chosen some lady of high standing," said mary, thinking with ineffable joy of the stately dame who was not to come to bragton. "do you know what i was thinking only the other day about it?--that you had gone up to london to look for some proper sort of person." "and how did you mean to receive her?" "i shouldn't have received her at all. i should have gone away. you can't do it now." "can't i?" "what were you thanking the lord for so heartily?" "for you." "were you? that is the sweetest thing you have said yet. my own;--my darling;--my dearest! if only i can so live that you may be able to thank the lord for me in years to come!" i will not trouble the reader with all that was said at every stile. no doubt very much of what has been told was repeated again and again so that the walk round the park was abnormally long. at last, however, they reached the house, and as they entered the hall, mary whispered to him, "who is to tell your aunt?" she said. "come along," he replied striding upstairs to his aunt's bedroom, where he knew she would be at this time. he opened the door without any notice and, having waited till mary had joined him, led her forcibly into the middle of the room. "here she is," he said;--"my wife elect." "oh, reginald!" "we have managed it all, and there needn't be any more said about it except to settle the day. mary has been looking about the house and learning her duty already. she'll be able to have every bedstead and every chair by heart, which is an advantage ladies seldom possess." then mary rushed forward and was received into the old woman's arms. when reginald left them, which he did very soon after the announcement was made, lady ushant had a great deal to say. "i have been thinking of it, my dear,--oh,--for years;--ever since he came to hoppet hall. but i am sure the best way is never to say anything. if i had interfered there is no knowing how it might have been." "then, dear lady ushant, i am so glad you didn't," said mary,--being tolerably sure at the same time within her own bosom that her loving old friend could have done no harm in that direction. "i wouldn't say a word though i was always thinking of it. but then he is so odd, and no one can know what he means sometimes. that's what made me think when mr. twentyman was so very pressing--" "that couldn't--couldn't have been possible." "poor young man!" "but i always told him it was impossible." "i wonder whether you cared about reginald all that time." in answer to this mary only hid her face in the old woman's lap. "dear me! i suppose you did all along. but i am sure it was better not to say anything, and now what will your papa and mamma say?" "they'll hardly believe it at first." "i hope they'll be glad." "glad! why what do you suppose they would want me to do? dear papa! and dear mamma too, because she has really been good to me. i wonder when it must be?" then that question was discussed at great length, and lady ushant had a great deal of very good advice to bestow. she didn't like long engagements, and it was very essential for reginald's welfare that he should settle himself at bragton as soon as possible. mary's pleas for a long day were not very urgent. that evening at bragton was rather long and rather dull. it was almost the first that she had ever passed in company with reginald, and there now seemed to be a necessity of doing something peculiar, whereas there was nothing peculiar to be done. it was his custom to betake himself to his books after dinner; but he could hardly do so with ease in company with the girl who had just promised him to be his wife. lady ushant too wished to show her extreme joy, and made flattering but vain attempts to be ecstatic. mary, to tell the truth, was longing for solitude, feeling that she could not yet realise her happiness. not even when she was in bed could she reduce her mind to order. it would have been all but impossible even had he remained the comparatively humble lord of hoppet hall;--but that the squire of bragton should be her promised husband was a marvel so great that from every short slumber, she waked with fear of treacherous dreams. a minute's sleep might rob her of her joy and declare to her in the moment of waking that it was all an hallucination. it was not that he was dearer to her, or that her condition was the happier, because of his position and wealth;--but that the chance of his inheritance had lifted him so infinitely above her! she thought of the little room at home which she generally shared with one of her sisters, of her all too scanty wardrobe, of her daily tasks about the house, of her stepmother's late severity, and of her father's cares. surely he would not hinder her from being good to them; surely he would let the young girls come to her from time to time! what an added happiness it would be if he would allow her to pass on to them some sparks of the prosperity which he was bestowing on her. and then her thoughts travelled on to poor larry. would he not be more contented now;--now, when he would be certain that no further frantic efforts could avail him anything. poor larry! would reginald permit her to regard him as a friend? and would he submit to friendly treatment? she could look forward and see him happy with his wife, the best loved of their neighbours;--for who was there in the world better than larry? but she did not know how two men who had both been her lovers, would allow themselves to be brought together. but, oh, what peril had been there! it was but the other day she had striven so hard to give the lie to her love and to become larry's wife. she shuddered beneath the bedclothes as she thought of the danger she had run. one word would have changed all her paradise into a perpetual wail of tears and waste of desolation. when she woke in the morning from her long sleep an effort was wanting to tell her that it was all true. oh, if it had slipped from her then;--if she had waked after such a dream to find herself loving in despair with a sore bosom and angry heart! she met him downstairs, early, in the study, having her first request to make to him. might she go in at once after breakfast and tell them all? "i suppose i ought to go to your father," he said. "let me go first," she pleaded, hanging on his arm. "i would not think that i was not mindful of them from the very beginning." so she was driven into dillsborough in the pony carriage which had been provided for old mrs. morton's use, and told her own story. "papa," she said, going to the office door. "come into the house;--come at once." and then, within her father's arms, while her stepmother listened, she told them of her triumph. "mr. reginald morton wants me to be his wife, and he is coming here to ask you." "the lord in heaven be good to us," said mrs. masters, holding up both her hands. "is it true, child?" "the squire!" "it is true, papa,--and,--and--" "and what, my love?" "when he comes to you, you must say i will be." there was not much danger on that score. "was it he that you told me of?" said the attorney. to this she only nodded her assent. "it was reginald morton all the time? well!" "why shouldn't it be he?" "oh no, my dear! you are a most fortunate girl,--most fortunate! but somehow i never thought of it, that a child of mine should come to live at bragton and have it, one may say, partly as her own! it is odd after all that has come and gone. god bless you, my dear, and make you happy. you are a very fortunate child." mrs. masters was quite overpowered. she had thrown herself on to the old family sofa, and was fanning herself with her handkerchief. she had been wrong throughout, and was now completely humiliated by the family success; and yet she was delighted, though she did not dare to be triumphant. she had so often asked both father and daughter what good gentlemen would do to either of them; and now the girl was engaged to marry the richest gentleman in the neighbourhood! in any expression of joy she would be driven to confess how wrong she had always been. how often had she asked what would come of ushanting. this it was that had come of ushanting. the girl had been made fit to be the companion of such a one as reginald morton, and had now fallen into the position which was suited to her. "of course we shall see nothing of you now," she said in a whimpering voice. it was not a gracious speech, but it was almost justified by disappointments. "mamma, you know that i shall never separate myself from you and the girls." "poor larry!" said the woman sobbing. "of course it is all for the best; but i don't know what he'll do now." "you must tell him, papa," said mary; "and give him my love and bid him be a man." chapter xviii. "bid him be a man." the little phaeton remained in dillsborough to take mary back to bragton. as soon as she was gone the attorney went over to the bush with the purpose of borrowing runciman's pony, so that he might ride over to chowton farm and at once execute his daughter's last request. in the yard of the inn he saw runciman himself, and was quite unable to keep his good news to himself. "my girl has just been with me," he said, "and what do you think she tells me?" "that she is going to take poor larry after all. she might do worse, mr. masters." "poor larry! i am sorry for him. i have always liked larry twentyman. but that is all over now." "she's not going to have that tweedledum young parson, surely?" "reginald morton has made her a set offer." "the squire!" mr. masters nodded his head three times. "you don't say so. well, mr. masters, i don't begrudge it you. he might do worse. she has taken her pigs well to market at last!" "he is to come to me at four this afternoon." "well done, miss mary! i suppose it's been going on ever so long?" "we fathers and mothers," said the attorney, "never really know what the young ones are after. don't mention it just at present, runciman. you are such an old friend that i couldn't help telling you." "poor larry!" "i can have the pony, runciman?" "certainly you can, mr. masters. tell him to come in and talk it all over with me. if we don't look to it he'll be taking to drink regular." at that last meeting at the club, when the late squire's will was discussed, at which, as the reader may perhaps remember, a little supper was also discussed in honour of the occasion, poor larry had not only been present, but had drunk so pottle-deep that the landlord had been obliged to put him to bed at the inn, and he had not been at all as he ought to have been after lord rufford's dinner. such delinquencies were quite outside the young man's accustomed way of his life. it had been one of his recognised virtues that, living as he did a good deal among sporting men and with a full command of means, he had never drank. but now he had twice sinned before the eyes of all dillsborough, and runciman thought that he knew how it would be with a young man in his own house who got drunk in public to drown his sorrow. "i wouldn't see larry go astray and spoil himself with liquor," said the good-natured publican, "for more than i should like to name." mr. masters promised to take the hint, and rode off on his mission. the entrance to chowton farm and bragton gate were nearly opposite, the latter being perhaps a furlong nearer to dillsborough. the attorney when he got to the gate stopped a moment and looked up the avenue with pardonable pride. the great calamity of his life, the stunning blow which had almost unmanned him when he was young, and from which he had never quite been able to rouse himself, had been the loss of the management of the bragton property. his grandfather and his father had been powerful at bragton, and he had been brought up in the hope of walking in their paths. then strangers had come in, and he had been dispossessed. but how was it with him now? it had almost made a young man of him again when reginald morton, stepping into his office, asked him as a favour to resume his old task. but what was that in comparison with this later triumph? his own child was to be made queen of the place! his grandson, should she be fortunate enough to be the mother of a son, would be the squire himself! his visits to the place for the last twenty years had been very rare indeed. he had been sent for lately by old mrs. morton,--for a purpose which if carried out would have robbed him of all his good fortune,--but he could not remember when, before that, he had even passed through the gateway. now it would all become familiar to him again. that pony of runciman's was pleasant in his paces, and he began to calculate whether the innkeeper would part with the animal. he stood thus gazing at the place for some minutes till he saw reginald morton in the distance turning a corner of the road with mary at his side. he had taken her from the phaeton and had then insisted on her coming out with him before she took off her hat. mr. masters as soon as he saw them trotted off to chowton farm. finding larry lounging at the little garden gate mr. masters got off the pony and taking the young man's arm, walked off with him towards dillsborough wood. he told all his news at once, almost annihilating poor larry by the suddenness of the blow. "larry, mr. reginald morton has asked my girl to marry him, and she has accepted him." "the new squire!" said larry, stopping himself on the path, and looking as though a gentle wind would suffice to blow him over. "i suppose it has been that way all along, larry, though we have not known it." "it was mr. morton then that she told me of?" "she did tell you?" "of course there was no chance for me if he wanted her. but why didn't they speak out, so that i could have gone away? oh, mr. masters!" "it was only yesterday she knew it herself." "she must have guessed it." "no;--she knew nothing till he declared himself. and to-day, this very morning, she has bade me come to you and let you know it. and she sent you her love." "her love!" said larry, chucking the stick which he held in his hands down to the ground and then stooping to pick it up again. "yes;--her love. those were her words, and i am to tell you from her--to be a man." "did she say that?" "yes;--i was to come out to you at once, and bring you that as a message from her." "be a man! i could have been a man right enough if she would have made me one;--as good a man as reginald morton, though he is squire of bragton. but of course i couldn't have given her a house like that, nor a carriage, nor made her one of the county people. if it was to go in that way, what could i hope for?" "don't be unjust to her, larry." "unjust to her! if giving her every blessed thing i had in the world at a moment's notice was unjust, i was ready to be unjust any day of the week or any hour of the day." "what i mean is that her heart was fixed that way before reginald morton was squire of bragton. what shall i say in answer to her message? you will wish her happiness;--will you not?" "wish her happiness! oh, heavens!" he could not explain what was in his mind. wish her happiness! yes;--the happiness of the angels. but not him,--nor yet with him! and as there could be no arranging of this, he must leave his wishes unsettled. and yet there was a certain relief to him in the tidings he had heard. there was now no more doubt. he need not now remain at chowton thinking it possible that the girl might even yet change her mind. "and you will bear in mind that she wishes you to be a man." "why did she not make me one? but that is all, all over. you tell her from me that i am not the man to whimper because i am hurt. what ought a man to do that i can't do?" "let her know that you are going about your old pursuits. and, larry, would you wish her to know how it was with you at the club last saturday?" "did she hear of that?" "i am sure she has not heard of it. but if that kind of thing becomes a habit, of course she will hear of it. all dillsborough would hear of it, if that became common. at any rate it is not manly to drown it in drink." "who says i do that? nothing will drown it." "i wouldn't speak if i had not known you so long, and loved you so well. what she means is that you should work." "i do work." "and hunt. go out to-morrow and show yourself to everybody." "if i could break my neck i would." "don't let every farmer's son in the county say that lawrence twentyman was so mastered by a girl that he couldn't ride on horseback when she said him nay." "everybody knows it, mr. masters." "go among them as if nobody knew it. i'll warrant that nobody will speak of it." "i don't think any one of 'em would dare to do that," said larry brandishing his stick. "where is it that the hounds are to-morrow, larry?" "here; at the old kennel." "go out and let her see that you have taken her advice. she is there at the house, and she will recognise you in the park. remember that she sends her love to you, and bids you be a man. and, larry, come in and see us sometimes. the time will come, i don't doubt, when you and the squire will be fast friends." "never!" "you do not know what time can do. i'll just go back now because he is to come to me this afternoon. try and bear up and remember that it is she who bids you be a man." the attorney got upon his pony and rode back to dillsborough. larry who had come back to the yard to see his friend off, returned by the road into the fields, and went wandering about for a while in dillsborough wood. "bid him be a man!" wasn't he a man? was it disgraceful to him as a man to be broken-hearted, because a woman would not love him? if he were provoked he would fight,--perhaps better than ever, because he would be reckless. would he not be ready to fight reginald morton with any weapon which could be thought of for the possession of mary masters? if she were in danger would he not go down into the deep, or through fire to save her? were not his old instincts of honesty and truth as strong in him as ever? did manliness require that his heart should be invulnerable? if so he doubted whether he could ever be a man. but what if she meant that manliness required him to hide the wound? then there did come upon him a feeling of shame as he remembered how often he had spoken of his love to those who were little better than strangers to him, and thought that perhaps such loquacity was opposed to the manliness which she recommended. and his conscience smote him as it brought to his recollection the condition of his mind as he woke in runciman's bed at the bush on last sunday morning. that at any rate had not been manly. how would it be with him if he made up his mind never to speak again to her, and certainly not to him, and to take care that that should be the only sign left of his suffering? he would hunt, and be keener than ever;--he would work upon the land with increased diligence; he would give himself not a moment to think of anything. she should see and hear what he could do;--but he would never speak to her again. the hounds would be at the old kennels to-morrow. he would be there. the place no doubt was morton's property, but on hunting mornings all the lands of the county,--and of the next counties if they can be reached,--are the property of the hunt. yes; he would be there; and she would see him in his scarlet coat, and smartest cravat, with his boots and breeches neat as those of lord rufford;--and she should know that he was doing as she bade him. but he would never speak to her again! as he was returning round the wood, whom should he see skulking round the corner of it but goarly? "what business have you in here?" he said, feeling half-inclined to take the man by the neck and drag him out of the copse. "i saw you, mr. twentyman, and i wanted just to have a word with you." "you are the biggest rascal in all rufford," said larry. "i wonder the lads have left you with a whole bone in your skin." "what have i done worse than any other poor man, mr. twentyman? when i took them herrings i didn't know there was p'ison; and if i hadn't took 'em, another would. i am going to cut it out of this, mr. twentyman." "may the ---- go along with you!" said larry, wishing his neighbour a very unpleasant companion. "and of course i must sell the place. think what it would be to you! i shouldn't like it to go into his lordship's hands. it's all through bean i know, but his lordship has had a down on me ever since he came to the property. it's as true as true about my old woman's geese. there's forty acres of it. what would you say to £ an acre?" the idea of having the two extra fields made larry's mouth water, in spite of all his misfortunes. the desire for land among such as larry twentyman is almost a disease in england. with these two fields he would be able to walk almost round dillsborough wood without quitting his own property. he had been talking of selling chowton within the last week or two. he had been thinking of selling it at the moment when mr. masters rode up to him. and yet now he was almost tempted to a new purchase by this man. but the man was too utterly a blackguard,--was too odious to him. "if it comes into the market, i may bid for it as well as another," he said, "but i wouldn't let myself down to have any dealings with you." "then, mr. larry, you shall never have a sod of it," said goarly, dropping himself over the fence on to his own field. a few minutes afterwards larry met bean, and told him that goarly had been in the wood. "if i catch him, mr. twentyman, i'll give him sore bones," said bean. "i wonder how he ever got back to his own place alive that day." then bean asked larry whether he meant to be at the meet to-morrow, and larry said that he thought he should. "tony's almost afraid to bring them in even yet," said bean; "but if there's a herring left in this wood, i'll eat it myself--strychnine and all." after that larry went and looked at his horses, and absolutely gave his mare "bicycle" a gallop round the big grass field himself. then those who were about the place knew that something had happened, and that he was in a way to be cured. "you'll hunt to-morrow, won't you, larry?" said his mother affectionately. "who told you?" "nobody told me;--but you will, larry; won't you?" "may be i will." then, as he was leaving the room, when he was in the door-way, so that she should not see his face, he told her the news. "she's going to marry the squire, yonder." "mary masters!" "i always hated him from the first moment i saw him. what do you expect from a fellow who never gets a-top of a horse?" then he turned away, and was not seen again till long after tea-time. chapter xix. "is it tanti?" reginald morton entertained serious thoughts of cleansing himself from the reproach which larry cast upon him when describing his character to his mother. "i think i shall take to hunting," he said to mary. "but you'll tumble off, dear." "no doubt i shall, and i must try to begin in soft places. i don't see why i shouldn't do it gradually in a small way. i shouldn't ever become a nimrod, like lord rufford or your particular friend mr. twentyman." "he is my particular friend." "so i perceive. i couldn't shine as he shines, but i might gradually learn to ride after him at a respectful distance. a man at rome ought to do as the romans do." "why wasn't hoppet hall rome as much as bragton?" "well;--it wasn't. while fortune enabled me to be happy at hoppet hall--" "that is unkind, reg." "while fortune oppressed me with celibate misery at hoppet hall, nobody hated me for not hunting;--and as i could not very well afford it, i was not considered to be entering a protest against the amusement. as it is now i find that unless i consent to risk my neck at any rate five or six times every winter, i shall be regarded in that light." "i wouldn't be frightened into doing anything i didn't like," said mary. "how do you know that i shan't like it? the truth is i have had a letter this morning from a benevolent philosopher which has almost settled the question for me. he wants me to join a society for the suppression of british sports as being barbarous and antipathetic to the intellectual pursuits of an educated man. i would immediately shoot, fish, hunt and go out ratting, if i could hope for the least success. i know i should never shoot anything but the dog and the gamekeepers, and that i should catch every weed in the river; but i think that in the process of seasons i might jump over a hedge." "kate will show you the way to do that." "with kate and mr. twentyman to help me, and a judicious system of liberal tips to tony tuppett, i could make my way about on a quiet old nag, and live respected by my neighbours. the fact is i hate with my whole heart the trash of the philanimalist." "what is a--a--i didn't quite catch the thing you hate?" "the thing is a small knot of self-anxious people who think that they possess among them all the bowels of the world." "possess all the what, reginald?" "i said bowels,--using an ordinary but very ill-expressed metaphor. the ladies and gentlemen to whom i allude, not looking very clearly into the systems of pains and pleasures in accordance with which we have to live, put their splay feet down now upon this ordinary operation and now upon that, and call upon the world to curse the cruelty of those who will not agree with them. a lady whose tippet is made from the skins of twenty animals who have been wired in the snow and then left to die of starvation--" "oh, reginald!" "that is the way of it. i am not now saying whether it is right or wrong. the lady with the tippet will justify the wires and the starvation because, as she will say, she uses the fur. an honest blanket would keep her just as warm. but the fox who suffers perhaps ten minutes of agony should he not succeed as he usually does in getting away,--is hunted only for amusement! it is true that the one fox gives amusement for hours to perhaps some hundred;--but it is only for amusement. what riles me most is that these would-be philosophers do not or will not see that recreation is as necessary to the world as clothes or food, and the providing of the one is as legitimate a business as the purveying of the other." "people must eat and wear clothes." "and practically they must be amused. they ignore the great doctrine of 'tanti.'" "i never heard of it." "you shall, dear, some day. it is the doctrine by which you should regulate everything you do and every word you utter. now do you and kate put on your hats and we'll walk to the bridge." this preaching of a sermon took place after breakfast at bragton on the morning of saturday, and the last order had reference to a scheme they had on foot to see the meet at the old kennels. on the previous afternoon reginald morton had come into dillsborough and had very quietly settled everything with the attorney. having made up his mind to do the thing he was very quick in the doing of it. he hated the idea of secrecy in such an affair, and when mrs. masters asked him whether he had any objection to have the marriage talked about, expressed his willingness that she should employ the town crier to make it public if she thought it expedient. "oh, mr. morton, how very funny you are," said the lady. "quite in earnest, mrs. masters," he replied. then he kissed the two girls who were to be his sisters, and finished the visit by carrying off the younger to spend a day or two with her sister at bragton. "i know," he said, whispering to mary as he left the front door, "that i ought not to go out hunting so soon after my poor cousin's death; but as he was a cousin once removed, i believe i may walk as far as the bridge without giving offence." when they were there they saw all the arrivals just as they were seen on the same spot a few months earlier by a very different party. mary and kate stood on the bridge together, while he remained a little behind leaning on the stile. she, poor girl, had felt some shame in showing herself, knowing that some who were present would have heard of her engagement, and that others would be told of it as soon as she was seen. "are you ashamed of what you are going to do?" he asked. "ashamed! i don't suppose that there is a girl in england so proud as i am at this minute." "i don't know that there is anything to be proud of, but if you are not ashamed, why shouldn't you show yourself? marriage is an honourable state!" she could only pinch his arm, and do as he bade her. glomax in his tandem, and lord rufford in his drag, were rather late. first there came one or two hunting men out of the town, runciman, dr. nupper, and the hunting saddler. then there arrived henry stubbings with a string of horses, mounted by little boys, ready for his customers, and full of wailing to his friend runciman. here was nearly the end of march and the money he had seen since christmas was little more, as he declared, than what he could put into his eye and see none the worse. "charge 'em ten per cent. interest," said runciman. "then they thinks they can carry on for another year," said stubbings despondingly. while this was going on, larry walked his favourite mare "bicycle" on to the ground, dressed with the utmost care, but looking very moody, almost fierce, as though he did not wish anybody to speak to him. tony tuppett, who had known him since a boy, nodded at him affectionately, and said how glad he was to see him;--but even this was displeasing to larry. he did not see the girls on the bridge, but took up his place near them. he was thinking so much of his own unhappiness and of what he believed others would say of him, that he saw almost nothing. there he sat on his mare, carrying out the purpose to which he had been led by mary's message, but wishing with all his heart that he was back again, hidden within his own house at the other side of the wood. mary, as soon as she saw him, blushed up to her eyes, then turning round looked with wistful eyes into the face of the man she was engaged to marry, and with rapid step walked across the bridge up to the side of larry's horse, and spoke to him with her sweet low voice. "larry," she said. he turned round to her very quickly, showing how much he was startled. then she put up her hand to him, and of course he took it. "larry, i am so glad to see you. did papa give you a message?" "yes, miss masters. he told me, i know it all." "say a kind word to me, larry." "i--i--i--you know very well what's in my mind. though it were to kill me, i should wish you well." "i hope you'll have a good hunt, larry." then she retired back to the bridge and again looked to her lover to know whether he would approve. there were so few there, and larry had been so far apart from the others, that she was sure no one had heard the few words which had passed between them; nor could anyone have observed what she had done, unless it were old nupper, or mr. runciman, or tony tuppett. but yet she thought that it perhaps was bold, and that he would be angry. but he came up to her, and placing himself between her and kate, whispered into her ear, "bravely done, my girl. after a little i will try to be as brave, but i could never do it as well." larry in the meantime had moved his mare away, and before the master had arrived, was walking slowly up his own road to chowton farm. the captain was soon there, and lord rufford with his friends, and harry stubbings' string, and tony were set in motion. but before they stirred there was a consultation,--to which bean the gamekeeper was called,--as to the safety of dillsborough wood. dillsborough wood had not been drawn yet since scrobby's poison had taken effect on the old fox, and there were some few who affected to think that there still might be danger. among these was the master himself, who asked fred botsey with a sneer whether he thought that such hounds as those were to be picked up at every corner. but bean again offered to eat any herring that might be there, poison included, and lord rufford laughed at the danger. "it's no use my having foxes, glomax, if you won't draw the cover." this the lord said with a touch of anger, and the lord's anger, if really roused, might be injurious. it was therefore decided that the hounds should again be put through the bragton shrubberies,--just for compliment to the new squire;--and that then they should go off to dillsborough wood as rapidly as might be. larry walked his beast all the way up home very slowly, and getting off her, put her into the stable and went into the house. "is anything wrong?" asked the mother. "everything is wrong." then he stood with his back to the kitchen fire for nearly half an hour without speaking a word. he was trying to force himself to follow out her idea of manliness, and telling himself that it was impossible. the first tone of her voice, the first glance at her face, had driven him home. why had she called him larry again and again, so tenderly, in that short moment, and looked at him with those loving eyes? then he declared to himself, without uttering a word, that she did not understand anything about it; she did not comprehend the fashion of his love when she thought, as she did think, that a soft word would be compensation. he looked round to see if his mother or the servant were there, and when he found that the coast was clear, he dashed his hands to his eyes and knocked away the tears. he threw up both his arms and groaned, and then he remembered her message, "bid him be a man." at that moment he heard the sound of horses, and going near the window, so as to be hidden from curious eyes as they passed, he saw the first whip trot on, with the hounds after him, and tony tuppett among them. then there was a long string of horsemen, all moving up to the wood, and a carriage or two, and after them the stragglers of the field. he let them all go by, and then he repeated the words again, "bid him be a man." he took up his hat, jammed it on his head, and went out into the yard. as he crossed to the stables runciman came up alone. "why, larry, you'll be late," he said. "go on, mr. runciman, i'll follow." "i'll wait till you are mounted. you'll be better for somebody with you. you've got the mare, have you? you'll show some of them your heels if they get away from here. is she as fast as she was last year, do you think?" "upon my word i don't know," said larry, as he dragged himself into the saddle. "shake yourself, old fellow, and don't carry on like that. what is she after all but a girl?" the poor fellow looked at his intending comforter, but couldn't speak a word. "a man shouldn't let hisself be put upon by circumstances so as to be only half hisself. hang it, man, cheer up, and don't let 'em see you going about like that. it ain't what a fellow of your kidney ought to be. if they haven't found i'm a nigger,--and by the holy he's away. come along larry and forget the petticoats for half an hour." so saying, runciman broke into a gallop, and larry's mare doing the same, he soon passed the innkeeper and was up at the covert side just as tony tuppett with half a score of hounds round him, was forcing his way through the bushes, out of the coverts into the open field. "there ain't no poison this time, mr. twentyman," said the huntsman, as, setting his eye on a gap in the further fence, he made his way across the field. the fox headed away for a couple of miles towards impington, as was the custom with the dillsborough foxes, and then turning to the left was soon over the country borders into ufford. the pace from the first starting was very good. larry, under such provocation as that of course would ride, and he did ride. up as far as the country brook, many were well up. the land was no longer deep; and as the field had not been scattered at the starting, all the men who usually rode were fairly well placed as they came to the brook; but it was acknowledged afterwards that larry was over it the first. glomax got into it,--as he always does into brooks, and young runce hurt his horse's shoulder at the opposite bank. lord rufford's horse balked it, to the lord's disgust; but took it afterwards, not losing very much ground. tony went in and out, the crafty old dog knowing the one bit of hard ground. then they crossed purbeck field, as it is still called--which, twenty years since was a wide waste of land, but is now divided by new fences, very grievous to half-blown horses. sir john purefoy got a nasty fall over some stiff timber, and here many a half-hearted rider turned to the right into the lane. hampton and his lordship, and battersby, with fred botsey and larry, took it all as it came, but through it all not one of them could give larry a lead. then there was manoeuvring into a wood and out of it again, and that saddest of all sights to the riding man, a cloud of horsemen on the road as well placed as though they had ridden the line throughout. in getting out of the road hampton's horse slipped up with him, and, though he saw it all, he was never able again to compete for a place. the fox went through the hampton wick coverts without hanging a moment, just throwing the hounds for two minutes off their scent at the gravel pits. the check was very useful to tony, who had got his second horse and came up sputtering, begging the field for g----'s sake to be,--in short to be anywhere but where they were. then they were off again down the hill to the left, through mappy springs and along the top of ilveston copse, every yard of which is grass,--till the number began to be select. at last in a turnip field, three yards from the fence, they turned him over, and tony, as he jumped off his horse among the hounds, acknowledged to himself that larry might have had his hand first upon the animal had he cared to do so. "twentyman, i'll give you two hundred for your mare," said lord rufford. "ah, my lord, there are two things that would about kill me." "what are they, larry?" asked harry stubbings. "to offend his lordship, or to part with the mare." "you shall do neither," said lord rufford; "but upon my word i think she's the fastest thing in this county." all of which did not cure poor larry, but it helped to enable him to be a man. the fox had been killed close to norrington, and the run was remembered with intense gratification for many a long day after. "it's that kind of thing that makes hunting beat everything else," said lord rufford, as he went home. that day's sport certainly had been "tanti," and glomax and the two counties boasted of it for the next three years. chapter xx. benedict. lady penwether declared to her husband that she had never seen her brother so much cowed as he had been by miss trefoil's visit to rufford. it was not only that he was unable to assert his usual powers immediately after the attack made upon him, but that on the following day, at scrobby's trial, on the saturday when he started to the meet, and on the sunday following when he allowed himself to be easily persuaded to go to church, he was silent, sheepish, and evidently afraid of himself. "it is a great pity that we shouldn't take the ball at the hop," she said to sir george. "what ball;--and what hop?" "get him to settle himself. there ought to be an end to this kind of thing now. he has got out of this mess, but every time it becomes worse and worse, and he'll be taken in horribly by some harpy if we don't get him to marry decently. i fancy he was very nearly going in this last affair." sir george, in this matter, did not quite agree with his wife. it was in his opinion right to avoid miss trefoil, but he did not see why his brother-in-law should be precipitated into matrimony with miss penge. according to his ideas in such matters a man should be left alone. therefore, as was customary with him when he opposed his wife, he held his tongue. "you have been called in three or four times when he has been just on the edge of the cliff." "i don't know that that is any reason why he should be pushed over." "there is not a word to be said against caroline. she has a fine fortune of her own, and some of the best blood in the kingdom." "but if your brother does not care for her,--" "that's nonsense, george. as for liking, it's all the same to him. rufford is good-natured, and easily pleased, and can like any woman. caroline is very good-looking,--a great deal handsomer than that horrid creature ever was,--and with manners fit for any position. i've no reason to wish to force a wife on him; but of course he'll marry, and unless he's guided, he'll certainly marry badly." "is miss penge in love with him?" asked sir george in a tone of voice that was intended to be provoking. his wife looked at him, asking him plainly by her countenance whether he was such a fool as that? was it likely that any untitled young lady of eight-and-twenty should be wanting in the capacity of being in love with a young lord, handsome and possessed of forty thousand a year without encumbrances? sir george, though he did not approve, was not eager enough in his disapproval to lay any serious embargo on his wife's proceedings. the first steps taken were in the direction of the hero's personal comfort. he was flattered and petted, as his sister knew how to flatter and pet him;--and miss penge in a quiet way assisted lady penwether in the operation. for a day or two he had not much to say for himself;--but every word he did say was an oracle. his horses were spoken of as demigods, and his projected fishing operations for june and july became matters of most intense interest. evil things were said of arabella trefoil, but in all the evil things said no hint was given that lord rufford had behaved badly or had been in danger. lady penwether, not quite knowing the state of his mind, thought that there might still be some lurking affection for the young lady. "did you ever see anybody look so vulgar and hideous as she did when she marched across the park?" asked lady penwether. "thank goodness i did not see her," said miss penge. "i never saw her look so handsome as when she came up to me," said lord rufford. "but such a thing to do!" "awful!" said miss penge. "she is the pluckiest girl i ever came across in my life," said lord rufford. he knew very well what they were at, and was already almost inclined to think that they might as well be allowed to have their way. miss penge was ladylike, quiet, and good, and was like a cool salad in a man's mouth after spiced meat. and the money would enable him to buy the purefoy property which would probably be soon in the market. but he felt that he might as well give them a little trouble before he allowed himself to be hooked. it certainly was not by any arrangement of his own that he found himself walking alone with miss penge that sunday afternoon in the park;--nor did it seem to be by hers. he thought of that other sunday at mistletoe, when he had been compelled to wander with arabella, when he met the duchess, and when, as he often told himself, a little more good-nature or a little more courage on her grace's part would have completed the work entirely. certainly had the duke come to him that night, after the journey from stamford, he would have capitulated. as he walked along and allowed himself to be talked to by miss penge, he did tell himself that she would be the better angel of the two. she could not hunt with him, as arabella would have done; but then a man does not want his wife to gallop across the country after him. she might perhaps object to cigars and soda water after eleven o'clock, but then what assurance had he that arabella would not have objected still more loudly. she had sworn that she would never be opposed to his little pleasures; but he knew what such oaths were worth. marriage altogether was a bore; but having a name and a large fortune, it was incumbent on him to transmit them to an immediate descendant. and perhaps it was a worse bore to grow old without having specially bound any other human being to his interests. "how well i recollect that spot," said miss penge. "it was there that major caneback took the fence." "that was not where he fell." "oh no;--i did not see that. it would have haunted me for ever had i done so. but it was there that i thought he must kill himself. that was a terrible time, lord rufford." "terrible to poor caneback certainly." "yes, and to all of us. do you remember that fearful ball? we were all so unhappy,--because you suffered so much." "it was bad." "and that woman who persecuted you! we all knew that you felt it." "i felt that poor man's death." "yes;--and you felt the other nuisance too." "i remember that you told me that you would cling on to my legs." "eleanor said so;--and when it was explained to me, what clinging on to your legs meant, i remember saying that i wished to be understood as being one to help. i love your sister so well that anything which would break her heart would make me unhappy." "you did not care for my own welfare in the matter?" "what ought i say, lord rufford, in answer to that? of course i did care. but i knew that it was impossible that you should really set your affections on such a person as miss trefoil. i told eleanor that it would come to nothing. i was sure of it." "why should it have come to nothing,--as you call it?" "because you are a gentleman and because she--is not a lady. i don't know that we women can quite understand how it is that you men amuse yourselves with such persons." "i didn't amuse myself." "i never thought you did very much. there was something i suppose in her riding, something in her audacity, something perhaps in her vivacity;--but through it all i did not think that you were enjoying yourself. you may be sure of this, lord rufford, that when a woman is not specially liked by any other woman, she ought not to be specially liked by any man. i have never heard that miss trefoil had a female friend." from day to day there were little meetings and conversations of this kind till lord rufford found himself accustomed to miss penge's solicitude for his welfare. in all that passed between them the lady affected a status that was altogether removed from that of making or receiving love. there had come to be a peculiar friendship,--because of eleanor. a week of this kind of thing had not gone by before miss penge found herself able to talk of and absolutely to describe this peculiar feeling, and could almost say how pleasant was such friendship, divested of the burden of all amatory possibilities. but through it all lord rufford knew that he would have to marry miss penge. it was not long before he yielded in pure weariness. who has not felt, as he stood by a stream into which he knew that it was his fate to plunge, the folly of delaying the shock? in his present condition he had no ease. his sister threatened him with a return of arabella. miss penge required from him sensational conversation. his brother-in-law was laughing at him in his sleeve. his very hunting friends treated him as though the time were come. in all that he did the young lady took an interest which bored him excessively,--to put an end to which he only saw one certain way. he therefore asked her to be lady rufford before he got on his drag to go out hunting on the last saturday in march. "rufford," she said, looking up into his face with her lustrous eyes, and speaking with a sweet, low, silvery voice,--"are you sure of yourself?" "oh, yes." "quite sure of yourself?" "never so sure in my life." "then dearest, dearest rufford, i will not scruple to say that i also am sure." and so the thing was settled very much to his comfort. he could hardly have done better had he sought through all england for a bride. she will be true to him, and never give him cause for a moment's jealousy. she will like his title, his house, and his property. she will never spend a shilling more than she ought to do. she will look very sharply after him, but will not altogether debar him from his accustomed pleasures. she will grace his table, nurse his children, and never for a moment give him cause to be ashamed of her. he will think that he loves her, and after a lapse of ten or fifteen years will probably really be fond of her. from the moment that she is lady rufford, she will love him,--as she loves everything that is her own. in spite of all his antecedents no one doubted his faith in this engagement;--no one wished to hurry him very much. when the proposition had been made and accepted, and when the hero of it had gone off on his drag, miss penge communicated the tidings to her friend. "i think he has behaved very wisely," said lady penwether. "well;--feeling as i do of course i think he has. i hope he thinks the same of me. i had many doubts about it, but i do believe that i can make him a good wife." lady penwether thought that her friend was hardly sufficiently thankful, and strove to tell her so in her own gentle, friendly way. but miss penge held her head up and was very stout, and would not acknowledge any cause for gratitude. lady penwether, when she saw how it was to be gave way a little. close friendship with her future sister-in-law would be very necessary to her comfort, and miss penge, since the law-suit was settled, had never been given to yielding. "my dear rufford," said the sister affectionately, "i congratulate you with all my heart; i do indeed. i am quite sure that you could not have done better." "i don't know that i could." "she is a gem of inestimable price, and most warmly attached to you. and if this property is to be bought, of course the money will be a great thing." "money is always comfortable." "of course it is, and then there is nothing to be desired. if i had named the girl that i would have wished you to love, it would have been caroline penge." she need hardly have said this as she had in fact been naming the girl for the last three or four months. the news was soon spread about the country and the fashionable world; and everybody was pleased,--except the trefoil family. chapter xxi. arabella's success. when arabella trefoil got back to portugal street after her visit to rufford, she was ill. the effort she had made, the unaccustomed labour, and the necessity of holding herself aloft before the man who had rejected her, were together more than her strength could bear, and she was taken up to bed in a fainting condition. it was not till the next morning that she was able even to open the letter which contained the news of john morton's legacy. when she had read the letter and realized the contents, she took to weeping in a fashion very unlike her usual habits. she was still in bed, and there she remained for two or three days, during which she had time to think of her past life,--and to think also a little of the future. old mrs. green came to her once or twice a day, but she was necessarily left to the nursing of her own maid. every evening mounser green called and sent up tender enquiries; but in all this there was very little to comfort her. there she lay with the letter in her hand, thinking that the only man who had endeavoured to be of service to her was he whom she had treated with unexampled perfidy. other men had petted her, had amused themselves with her, and then thrown her over, had lied to her and laughed at her, till she had been taught to think that a man was a heartless, cruel, slippery animal, made indeed to be caught occasionally, but in the catching of which infinite skill was wanted, and in which infinite skill might be thrown away. but this man had been true to her to the last in spite of her treachery! she knew that she was heartless herself, and that she belonged to a heartless world;--but she knew also that there was a world of women who were not heartless. such women had looked down upon her as from a great height, but she in return had been able to ridicule them. they had chosen their part, and she had chosen hers,--and had thought that she might climb to the glory of wealth and rank, while they would have to marry hard-working clergymen and briefless barristers. she had often been called upon to vindicate to herself the part she had chosen, and had always done so by magnifying in her own mind the sin of the men with whom she had to deal. at this moment she thought that lord rufford had treated her villainously, whereas her conduct to him had been only that which the necessity of the case required. to lord rufford she had simply behaved after the manner of her class, heartless of course, but only in the way which the "custom of the trade" justified. each had tried to circumvent the other, and she as the weaker had gone to the wall. but john morton had believed in her and loved her. oh, how she wished that she had deserted her class, and clung to him,--even though she should now have been his widow. the legacy was a burden to her. even she had conscience enough to be sorry for a day or two that he had named her in his will. and what would she do with herself for the future? her quarrel with her mother had been very serious, each swearing that under no circumstances would she again consent to live with the other. the daughter of course knew that the mother would receive her again should she ask to be received. but in such case she must go back with shortened pinions and blunted beak. her sojourn with mrs. green was to last for one month, and at the end of that time she must seek for a home. if she put john morton's legacy out to interest, she would now be mistress of a small income;--but she understood money well enough to know to what obduracy of poverty she would thus be subjected. as she looked the matter closer in the face the horrors became more startling and more manifest. who would have her in their houses? where should she find society,--where the possibility of lovers? what would be her life, and what her prospects? must she give up for ever the game for which she had lived, and own that she had been conquered in the fight and beaten even to death? then she thought over the long list of her past lovers, trying to see whether there might be one of the least desirable at whom she might again cast her javelins. but there was not one. the tender messages from mounser green came to her day by day. mounser green, as the nephew of her hostess, had been very kind to her; but hitherto he had never appeared to her in the light of a possible lover. he was a clerk in the foreign office, waiting for his aunt's money;--a man whom she had met in society and whom she knew to be well thought of by those above him in wealth and rank; but she had never regarded him as prey,--or as a man whom any girl would want to marry. he was one of those of the other sex who would most probably look out for prey,--who, if he married at all, would marry an heiress. she, in her time, had been on good terms with many such a one,--had counted them among her intimate friends, had made use of them and been useful to them,--but she had never dreamed of marrying any one of them. they were there in society for altogether a different purpose. she had not hesitated to talk to mounser green about lord rufford,--and though she had pretended to make a secret of the place to which she was going when he had taken her to the railway, she had not at all objected to his understanding her purpose. up to that moment there had certainly been no thought on her part of transferring what she was wont to call her affections to mounser green as a suitor. but as she lay in bed, thinking of her future life, tidings were brought to her by mrs. green that mounser had accepted the mission to patagonia. could it be that her destiny intended her to go out to patagonia as the wife, if not of one minister, then of another? there would be a career,--a way of living, if not exactly that which she would have chosen. of patagonia, as a place of residence, she had already formed ideas. in some of those moments in which she had foreseen that lord rufford would be lost to her, she had told herself that it would be better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. among patagonian women she would probably be the first. among english ladies it did not seem that at present she had prospect of a high place. it would be long before lord rufford would be forgotten,--and she had not space enough before her for forgettings which would require time for their accomplishment. mounser green had declared with energy that lord rufford had behaved very badly. there are men who feel it to be their mission to come in for the relief of ladies who have been badly treated. if mounser green wished to be one of them on her behalf, and to take her out with him to his very far-away employment, might not this be the best possible solution of her present difficulties? on the evening of the third day after her return she was able to come down-stairs and the line of thought which has been suggested for her induced her to undertake some trouble with the white and pink robe, or dressing-gown in which she had appeared. "well, my dear, you are smart," the old lady said. "'odious in woollen;--'twould a saint provoke, were the last words which poor narcissa spoke.'" said arabella, who had long since provided herself with this quotation for such occasions. "i hope i am not exactly dying, mrs. green; but i don't see why i should not object to be 'frightful,' as well as the young lady who was." "i suppose it's all done for mounser's benefit?" "partly for you, partly for mounser, and a good deal for myself. what a very odd name. why did they call him mounser? i used to think it was because he was in the foreign office,--a kind of chaff, as being half a frenchman." "my mother's maiden name was mounser, and it isn't french at all. i don't see why it should not be as good a christian name as willoughby or howard." "quite as good, and much more distinctive. there can't be another mounser green in the world." "and very few other young men like him. at my time of life i find it very hard his going away. and what will he do in such a place as that,--all alone and without a wife?" "why don't you make him take a wife?" "there isn't time now. he'll have to start in may." "plenty of time. trousseaus are now got up by steam, and girls are kept ready to marry at the shortest notice. if i were you i should certainly advise him to take out some healthy young woman, capable of bearing the inclemencies of the patagonian climate." "as for that the climate is delicious," said mrs. green, who certainly was not led by her guest's manner to suspect the nature of her guest's more recent intentions. mounser green on this afternoon came to portugal street before he himself went out to dinner, choosing the hour at which his aunt was wont to adorn herself. "and so you are to be the hero of patagonia?" said arabella as she put out her hand to congratulate him on his appointment. "i don't know about heroism, but it seems that i am to go there," said mounser with much melancholy in his voice. "i should have thought you were the last man to leave london willingly." "well, yes; i should have said so myself. and i do flatter myself i shall be missed. but what had i before me here? this may lead to something." "indeed you will be missed, mr. green." "it's very kind of you to say so." "patagonia! it is such a long way off!" then she began to consider whether he had ever heard of her engagement with the last minister-elect to that country. that he should know all about lord rufford was a matter of course; but what chance could there be for her if he also knew that other affair? "we were intimately acquainted with mr. morton in washington and were surprised that he should have accepted it." "poor morton. he was a friend of mine. we used to call him the paragon because he never made mistakes. i had heard that you and lady augusta were a good deal with him in washington." "we were, indeed. you do not know my good news as yet, i suppose. your paragon, as you call him, has left me five thousand pounds." of course it would be necessary that he should know it some day if this new plan of hers were to be carried out;--and if the plan should fail, his knowing it could do no harm. "how very nice for you. poor morton!" "it is well that somebody should behave well, when others treat one so badly, mr. green. yes; he has left me five thousand pounds." then she showed him the lawyer's letter. "perhaps as i am so separated at present from all my own people by this affair with lord rufford, you would not mind seeing the man for me." of course he promised to see the lawyer and to do everything that was necessary. "the truth is, mr. green, mr. morton was very warmly attached to me. i was a foolish girl, and could not return it. i thought of it long and was then obliged to tell him that i could not entertain just that sort of feeling for him. you cannot think now how bitter is my regret;--that i should have allowed myself to trust a man so false and treacherous as lord rufford, and that i should have perhaps added a pang to the deathbed of one so good as mr. morton." and so she told her little story;--not caring very much whether it were believed or not, but finding it to be absolutely essential that some story should be told. during the next day or two mounser green thought a great deal about it. that the story was not exactly true, he knew very well. but it is not to be expected that a girl before her marriage should be exactly true about her old loves. that she had been engaged to lord rufford and had been cruelly jilted by him he did believe. that she had at one time been engaged to the paragon he was almost sure. the fact that the paragon had left her money was a strong argument that she had not behaved badly to him. but there was much that was quite certain. the five thousand pounds were quite certain; and the money, though it could not be called a large fortune for a young lady, would pay his debts and send him out a free man to patagonia. and the family honours were certainly true. she was the undoubted niece of the duke of mayfair, and such a connection might in his career be of service to him. lord mistletoe was a prig, but would probably be a member of the government. mounser green liked dukes, and loved a duchess in his heart of hearts. if he could only be assured that this niece would not be repudiated he thought that the speculation might answer in spite of any ambiguity in the lady's antecedents. "have you heard about arabella's good fortune?" young glossop asked the next morning at the office. "you forget, my boy," said mounser green, "that the young lady of whom you speak is a friend of mine." "oh lord! so i did. i beg your pardon, old fellow." there was no one else in the room at the moment, and glossop in asking the question had in truth forgotten what he had heard of this new intimacy. "don't you learn to be ill-natured, glossop. and remember that there is no form so bad as that of calling young ladies by their christian names. i do know that poor morton has left miss trefoil a sum of money which is at any rate evidence that he thought well of her to the last." "of course it is. i didn't mean to offend you. i wouldn't do it for worlds,--as you are going away." that afternoon, when green's back was turned, glossop gave it as his opinion that something particular would turn up between mounser and miss trefoil, an opinion which brought down much ridicule upon him from both hoffmann and archibald currie. but before that week was over,--in the early days of april,--they were forced to retract their opinion and to do honour to young glossop's sagacity. mounser green was engaged to miss trefoil, and for a day or two the foreign office could talk of nothing else. "a very handsome girl," said lord drummond to one of his subordinates. "i met her at mistletoe. as to that affair with lord rufford, he treated her abominably." and when mounser showed himself at the office, which he did boldly, immediately after the engagement was made known, they all received him with open arms and congratulated him sincerely on his happy fortune. he himself was quite contented with what he had done and thought that he was taking out for himself the very wife for patagonia. chapter xxii. the wedding. no sooner did the new two lovers, mounser green and arabella trefoil, understand each other, than they set their wits to work to make the best of their natural advantages. the latter communicated the fact in a very dry manner to her father and mother. nothing was to be got from them, and it was only just necessary that they should know what she intended to do with herself. "my dear mamma. i am to be married some time early in may to mr. mounser green of the foreign office. i don't think you know him, but i daresay you have heard of him. he goes to patagonia immediately after the wedding, and i shall go with him. your affectionate daughter, arabella trefoil." that was all she said, and the letter to her father was word for word the same. but how to make use of those friends who were more happily circumstanced was matter for frequent counsel between her and mr. green. in these days i do not think that she concealed very much from him. to tell him all the little details of her adventures with lord rufford would have been neither useful nor pleasant; but, as to the chief facts, reticence would have been foolish. to the statement that lord rufford had absolutely proposed to her she clung fast, and really did believe it herself. that she had been engaged to john morton she did not deny; but she threw the blame of that matter on her mother, and explained to him that she had broken off the engagement down at bragton, because she could not bring herself to regard the man with sufficient personal favour. mounser was satisfied, but was very strong in urging her to seek, yet once again, the favour of her magnificent uncle and her magnificent aunt. "what good can they do us?" said arabella, who was almost afraid to make the appeal. "it would be everything for you to be married from mistletoe," he said. "people would know then that you were not blamed about lord rufford. and it might serve me very much in my profession. these things do help very much. it would cost us nothing, and the proper kind of notice would then get into the newspapers. if you will write direct to the duchess, i will get at the duke through lord drummond. they know where we are going, and that we are not likely to want anything else for a long time." "i don't think the duchess would have mamma if it were ever so." "then we must drop your mother for the time;--that's all. when my aunt hears that you are to be married from the duke's, she will be quite willing that you should remain with her till you go down to mistletoe." arabella, who perhaps knew a little more than her lover, could not bring herself to believe that the appeal would be successful, but she made it. it was a very difficult letter to write, as she could not but allude to the rapid transference of her affections. "i will not conceal from you," she said, "that i have suffered very much from lord rufford's heartless conduct. my misery has been aggravated by the feeling that you and my uncle will hardly believe him to be so false, and will attribute part of the blame to me. i had to undergo an agonizing revulsion of feeling, during which mr. green's behaviour to me was at first so considerate and then so kind that it has gone far to cure the wound from which i have been suffering. he is so well known in reference to foreign affairs, that i think my uncle cannot but have heard of him; my cousin mistletoe is certainly acquainted with him; and i think that you cannot but approve of the match. you know what is the position of my father and my mother, and how little able they are to give us any assistance. if you would be kind enough to let us be married from mistletoe, you will confer on both of us a very, very great favour." there was more of it, but that was the first of the prayer, and most of the words given above came from the dictation of mounser himself. she had pleaded against making the direct request, but he had assured her that in the world, as at present arranged, the best way to get a thing is to ask for it. "you make yourself at any rate understood," he said, "and you may be sure that people who receive petitions do not feel the hardihood of them so much as they who make them." arabella, comforting herself by declaring that the duchess at any rate could not eat her, wrote the letter and sent it. the duchess at first was most serious in her intention to refuse. she was indeed made very angry by the request. though it had been agreed at mistletoe that lord rufford had behaved badly, the duchess was thoroughly well aware that arabella's conduct had been abominable. lord rufford probably had made an offer, but it had been extracted from him by the vilest of manoeuvres. the girl had been personally insolent to herself. and this rapid change, this third engagement within a few weeks,--was disgusting to her as a woman. but, unluckily for herself, she would not answer the letter till she had consulted her husband. as it happened the duke was in town, and while he was there lord drummond got hold of him. lord drummond had spoken very highly of mounser green, and the duke, who was never dead to the feeling that as the head of the family he should always do what he could for the junior branches, had almost made a promise. "i never take such things upon myself," he said, "but if the duchess has no objection, we will have them down to mistletoe." "of course if you wish it," said the duchess,--with more acerbity in her tone than the duke had often heard there. "wish it? what do you mean by wishing it? it will be a great bore." "terrible!" "but she is the only one there is, and then we shall have done with it." "done with it! they will be back from patagonia before you can turn yourself, and then of course we must have them here." "drummond tells me that mr. green is one of the most useful men they have at the foreign office;--just the man that one ought to give a lift to." of course the duke had his way. the duchess could not bring herself to write the letter, but the duke wrote to his dear niece saying that "they" would be very glad to see her, and that if she would name the day proposed for the wedding, one should be fixed for her visit to mistletoe. "you had better tell your mother and your father," mounser said to her. "what's the use? the duchess hates my mother, and my father never goes near the place." "nevertheless tell them. people care a great deal for appearances." she did as she was bid, and the result was that lord augustus and his wife, on the occasion of their daughter's marriage, met each other at mistletoe,--for the first time for the last dozen years. before the day came round arabella was quite astonished to find how popular and fashionable her wedding was likely to be, and how the world at large approved of what she was doing. the newspapers had paragraphs about alliances and noble families, and all the relatives sent tribute. there was a gold candlestick from the duke, a gilt dish from the duchess,--which came however without a word of personal congratulation,--and a gorgeous set of scent-bottles from cousin mistletoe. the connop greens were lavish with sapphires, the de brownes with pearls, and the smijths with opal. mrs. gore sent a huge carbuncle which arabella strongly suspected to be glass. from her paternal parent there came a pair of silver nut-crackers, and from the maternal a second-hand dressing-case newly done up. old mrs. green gave her a couple of ornamental butter-boats, and salt-cellars innumerable came from distant greens. but there was a diamond ring--with a single stone,--from a friend, without a name, which she believed to be worth all the rest in money value. should she send it back to lord rufford, or make a gulp and swallow it? how invincible must be the good-nature of the man when he could send her such a present after such a rating as she had given him in the park at rufford! "do as you like," mounser green said when she consulted him. she very much wished to keep it. "but what am i to say, and to whom?" "write a note to the jewellers saying that you have got it." she did write to the jeweller saying that she had got the ring,--"from a friend;" and the ring with the other tribute went to patagonia. he had certainly behaved very badly to her, but she was quite sure that he would never tell the story of the ring to any one. perhaps she thought that as she had spared him in the great matter of eight thousand pounds, she was entitled to take this smaller contribution. it was late in april when she went down to mistletoe, the marriage having been fixed for the rd of may. after that they were to spend a fortnight in paris, and leave england for patagonia at the end of the month. the only thing which arabella dreaded was the meeting with the duchess. when that was once over she thought that she could bear with equanimity all that could come after. the week before her marriage could not be a pleasant week, but then she had been accustomed to endure evil hours. her uncle would be blandly good-natured. mistletoe, should he be there, would make civil speeches to compensate for his indifference when called upon to attack lord rufford. other guests would tender to her the caressing observance always shown to a bride. but as she got out of the ducal carriage at the front door, her heart was uneasy at the coming meeting. the duchess herself almost went to bed when the time came, so much did she dread the same thing. she was quite alone, having felt that she could not bring herself to give the affectionate embrace which the presence of others would require. she stood in the middle of the room and then came forward three steps to meet the bride. "arabella," she said, "i am very glad that everything has been settled so comfortably for you." "that is so kind of you, aunt," said arabella, who was watching the duchess closely,--ready to jump into her aunt's arms if required to do so, or to stand quite aloof. then the duchess signified her pleasure that her cheek should be touched,--and it was touched. "mrs. pepper will show you your room. it is the same you had when you were here before. perhaps you know that mr. green comes down to stamford on the first, and that he will dine here on that day and on sunday." "that will be very nice. he had told me how it was arranged." "it seems that he knows one of the clergymen in stamford, and will stay at his house. perhaps you will like to go upstairs now." that was all there was, and that had not been very bad. during the entire week the duchess hardly spoke to her another word, and certainly did not speak to her a word in private. arabella now could go where she pleased without any danger of meeting her aunt on her walks. when sunday came nobody asked her to go to church. she did go twice, mounser green accompanying her to the morning service;--but there was no restraint. the duchess only thought of her as a disagreeable ill-conducted incubus, who luckily was about to be taken away to patagonia. it had been settled on all sides that the marriage was to be very quiet. the bride was of course consulted about her bridesmaids, as to whom there was a little difficulty. but a distant trefoil was found willing to act, in payment for the unaccustomed invitation to mistletoe, and one connop green young lady, with one de browne young lady, and one smijth young lady came on the same terms. arabella herself was surprised at the ease with which it was all done. on the saturday lady augustus came, and on the sunday lord augustus. the parents of course kissed their child, but there was very little said in the way either of congratulation or farewell. lord augustus did have some conversation with mounser green, but it all turned on the probability of there being whist in patagonia. on the monday morning they were married, and then arabella was taken off by the happy bridegroom. when the ceremony was over it was expected that lady augustus should take herself away as quickly as possible,--not perhaps on that very afternoon, but at any rate, on the next morning. as soon as the carriage was gone, she went to her own room and wept bitterly. it was all done now. everything was over. though she had quarrelled daily with her daughter for the last twelve years,--to such an extent lately that no decently civil word ever passed between them,--still there had been something to interest her. there had been something to fear and something to hope. the girl had always had some prospect before her, more or less brilliant. her life had had its occupation, and future triumph was possible. now it was all over. the link by which she had been bound to the world was broken. the connop greens and the smijths would no longer have her,--unless it might be on short and special occasions, as a great favour. she knew that she was an old woman, without money, without blood, and without attraction, whom nobody would ever again desire to see. she had her things packed up, and herself taken off to london, almost without a word of farewell to the duchess, telling herself as she went that the world had produced no other people so heartless as the family of the trefoils. "i wonder what you will think of patagonia," said mounser green as he took his bride away. "i don't suppose i shall think much. as far as i can see one place is always like another." "but then you will have duties." "not very heavy i hope." then he preached her a sermon, expressing a hope as he went on, that as she was leaving the pleasures of life behind her, she would learn to like the work of life. "i have found the pleasures very hard," she said. he spoke to her of the companion he hoped to find, of the possible children who might be dependent on their mother, of the position which she would hold, and of the manner in which she should fill it. she, as she listened to him, was almost stunned by the change in the world around her. she need never again seem to be gay in order that men might be attracted. she made her promises and made them with an intention of keeping them; but it may, we fear, be doubted whether he was justified in expecting that he could get a wife fit for his purpose out of the school in which arabella trefoil had been educated. the two, however, will pass out of our sight, and we can only hope that he may not be disappointed. chapter xxiii. the senator's lecture.--no. i. wednesday, april th, was the day at last fixed for the senator's lecture. his little proposal to set england right on all those matters in which she had hitherto gone astray had created a considerable amount of attention. the goarly affair with the subsequent trial of scrobby had been much talked about, and the senator's doings in reference to it had been made matter of comment in the newspapers. some had praised him for courage, benevolence, and a steadfast purpose. others had ridiculed his inability to understand manners different from those of his own country. he had seen a good deal of society both in london and in the country, and had never hesitated to express his opinions with an audacity which some had called insolence. when he had trodden with his whole weight hard down on individual corns, of course he had given offence,--as on the memorable occasion of the dinner at the parson's house in dillsborough. but, on the whole, he had produced for himself a general respect among educated men which was not diminished by the fact that he seemed to count quite as little on that as on the ill-will and abuse of others. for some days previous to the delivery of the lecture the hoardings in london were crowded with sesquipedalian notices of the entertainment, so that senator gotobed's great oration on "the irrationality of englishmen" was looked to with considerable interest. when an intelligent japanese travels in great britain or an intelligent briton in japan, he is struck with no wonder at national differences. he is on the other hand rather startled to find how like his strange brother is to him in many things. crime is persecuted, wickedness is condoned, and goodness treated with indifference in both countries. men care more for what they eat than anything else, and combine a closely defined idea of meum with a lax perception as to tuum barring a little difference of complexion and feature the englishman would make a good japanese, or the japanese a first-class englishman. but when an american comes to us or a briton goes to the states, each speaking the same language, using the same cookery, governed by the same laws, and wearing the same costume, the differences which present themselves are so striking that neither can live six months in the country of the other without a holding up of the hands and a torrent of exclamations. and in nineteen cases out of twenty the surprise and the ejaculations take the place of censure. the intelligence of the american, displayed through the nose, worries the englishman. the unconscious self-assurance of the englishman, not always unaccompanied by a sneer, irritates the american. they meet as might a lad from harrow and another from mr. brumby's successful mechanical cramming establishment. the harrow boy cannot answer a question, but is sure that he is the proper thing, and is ready to face the world on that assurance. mr. brumby's paragon is shocked at the other's inaptitude for examination, but is at the same time tortured by envy of he knows not what. in this spirit we americans and englishmen go on writing books about each other, sometimes with bitterness enough, but generally with good final results. but in the meantime there has sprung up a jealousy which makes each inclined to hate the other at first sight. hate is difficult and expensive, and between individuals soon gives place to love. "i cannot bear americans as a rule, though i have been very lucky myself with a few friends." who in england has not heard that form of speech, over and over again? and what englishman has travelled in the states without hearing abuse of all english institutions uttered amidst the pauses of a free-handed hospitality which has left him nothing to desire? mr. senator gotobed had expressed his mind openly wheresoever he went, but, being a man of immense energy, was not content with such private utterances. he could not liberate his soul without doing something in public to convince his cousins that in their general practices of life they were not guided by reason. he had no object of making money. to give him his due we must own that he had no object of making fame. he was impelled by that intense desire to express himself which often amounts to passion with us, and sometimes to fury with americans, and he hardly considered much what reception his words might receive. it was only when he was told by others that his lecture might give offence which possibly would turn to violence, that he made inquiry as to the attendance of the police. but though they should tear him to pieces he would say what he had to say. it should not be his fault if the absurdities of a people whom he really loved were not exposed to light, so that they might be acknowledged and abandoned. he had found time to travel to birmingham, to manchester, to liverpool, to glasgow, and to other places, and really thought that he had mastered his great subject. he had worked very hard, but was probably premature in thinking that he knew england thoroughly. he had, however, undoubtedly dipped into a great many matters, and could probably have told many englishmen much that they didn't know about their own affairs. he had poked his nose everywhere, and had scrupled to ask no question. he had seen the miseries of a casual ward, the despair of an expiring strike, the amenities of a city slum, and the stolid apathy of a rural labourer's home. he had measured the animal food consumed by the working classes, and knew the exact amount of alcohol swallowed by the average briton. he had seen also the luxury of baronial halls, the pearl-drinking extravagances of commercial palaces, the unending labours of our pleasure-seekers--as with lord rufford, and the dullness of ordinary country life--as experienced by himself at bragton. and now he was going to tell the english people at large what he thought about it all. the great room at st. james's hall had been secured for the occasion, and lord drummond, the minister of state in foreign affairs, had been induced to take the chair. in these days our governments are very anxious to be civil to foreigners, and there is nothing that a robust secretary of state will not do for them. on the platform there were many members of both houses of parliament, and almost everybody connected with the foreign office. every ticket had been taken for weeks since. the front benches were filled with the wives and daughters of those on the platform, and back behind, into the distant spaces in which seeing was difficult and hearing impossible, the crowd was gathered at _s._ _d._ a head, all of which was going to some great british charity. from half-past seven to eight piccadilly and regent street were crammed, and when the senator came himself with his chairman he could hardly make his way in at the doors. a great treat was expected, but there was among the officers of police some who thought that a portion of the audience would not bear quietly the hard things that would be said, and that there was an uncanny gathering of roughs about the street, who were not prepared to be on their best behaviour when they should be told that old england was being abused. lord drummond opened the proceedings by telling the audience, in a voice clearly audible to the reporters and the first half-dozen benches, that they had come there to hear what a well-informed and distinguished foreigner thought of their country. they would not, he was sure, expect to be flattered. than flattery nothing was more useless or ignoble. this gentleman, coming from a new country, in which tradition was of no avail, and on which the customs of former centuries had had no opportunities to engraft themselves, had seen many things here which, in his eyes, could not justify themselves by reason. lord drummond was a little too prolix for a chairman, and at last concluded by expressing "his conviction that his countrymen would listen to the distinguished senator with that courtesy which was due to a foreigner and due also to the great and brotherly nation from which he had come." then the senator rose, and the clapping of hands and kicking of heels was most satisfactory. there was at any rate no prejudice at the onset. "english ladies and gentlemen," he said, "i am in the unenviable position of having to say hard things to you for about an hour and a half together, if i do not drive you from your seats before my lecture is done. and this is the more the pity because i could talk to you for three hours about your country and not say an unpleasant word. his lordship has told you that flattery is not my purpose. neither is praise, which would not be flattery. why should i collect three or four thousand people here to tell them of virtues the consciousness of which is the inheritance of each of them? you are brave and generous,--and you are lovely to look at, with sweetly polished manners; but you know all that quite well enough without my telling you. but it strikes me that you do not know how little prone you are to admit the light of reason into either your public or private life, and how generally you allow yourselves to be guided by traditions, prejudices, and customs which should be obsolete. if you will consent to listen to what one foreigner thinks,--though he himself be a man of no account,--you may perchance gather from his words something of the opinion of bystanders in general, and so be able, perhaps a little, to rectify your gait and your costume and the tones of your voice, as we are all apt to do when we come from our private homes, out among the eyes of the public." this was received very well. the senator spoke with a clear, sonorous voice, no doubt with a twang, but so audibly as to satisfy the room in general. "i shall not," he said, "dwell much on your form of government. were i to praise a republic i might seem to belittle your throne and the lady who sits on it,--an offence which would not be endured for a moment by english ears. i will take the monarchy as it is, simply remarking that its recondite forms are very hard to be understood by foreigners, and that they seem to me to be for the most part equally dark to natives. i have hardly as yet met two englishmen who were agreed as to the political power of the sovereign; and most of those of whom i have enquired have assured me that the matter is one as to which they have not found it worth their while to make inquiry." here a voice from the end of the hall made some protestation, but the nature of the protest did not reach the platform. "but," continued the senator, now rising into energy, "tho' i will not meddle with your form of government, i may, i hope, be allowed to allude to the political agents by which it is conducted. you are proud of your parliament." "we are," said a voice. "i wonder of which house. i do not ask the question that it may be answered, because it is advisable at the present moment that there should be only one speaker. that labour is, unfortunately for me, at present in my hands, and i am sure you will agree with me that it should not be divided. you mean probably that you are proud of your house of commons,--and that you are so because it speaks with the voice of the people. the voice of the people, in order that it may be heard without unjust preponderance on this side or on that, requires much manipulation. that manipulation has in latter years been effected by your reform bills, of which during the last half century there have in fact been four or five,--the latter in favour of the ballot having been perhaps the greatest. there have been bills for purity of elections,--very necessary; bills for creating constituencies, bills for abolishing them, bills for dividing them, bills for extending the suffrage, and bills, if i am not mistaken, for curtailing it. and what has been the result? how many men are there in this room who know the respective nature of their votes? and is there a single woman who knows the political worth of her husband's vote? passing the other day from the bank of this great metropolis to its suburb called brentford, journeying as i did the whole way through continuous rows of houses, i found myself at first in a very ancient borough returning four members,--double the usual number,--not because of its population but because it has always been so. here i was informed that the residents had little or nothing to do with it. i was told, though i did not quite believe what i heard, that there were no residents. the voters however, at any rate the influential voters, never pass a night there, and combine their city franchise with franchises elsewhere. i then went through two enormous boroughs, one so old as to have a great political history of its own, and the other so new as to have none. it did strike me as odd that there should be a new borough, with new voters, and new franchises, not yet ten years old, in the midst of this city of london. but when i came to brentford, everything was changed. i was not in a town at all though i was surrounded on all sides by houses. everything around me was grim and dirty enough, but i am supposed to have reached, politically, the rustic beauties of the country. those around me, who had votes, voted for the county of middlesex. on the other side of the invisible border i had just past the poor wretch with _s._ a day who lived in a grimy lodging or a half-built hut, but who at any rate possessed the political privilege. now i had suddenly emerged among the aristocrats, and quite another state of things prevailed. is that a reasonable manipulation of the votes of the people? does that arrangement give to any man an equal share in his country? and yet i fancy that the thing is so little thought of that few among you are aware that in this way the largest class of british labour is excluded from the franchise in a country which boasts of equal representation. "the chief object of your first reform bill was that of realising the very fact of representation. up to that time your members of the house of commons were in truth deputies of the lords or of other rich men. lord a, or mr. b, or perhaps lady c, sent whom she pleased to parliament to represent this or that town, or occasionally this or that county. that absurdity is supposed to be past, and on evils that have been cured no one should dwell. but how is it now? i have a list,--in my memory, for i would not care to make out so black a catalogue in legible letters,--of forty members who have been returned to the present house of commons by the single voices of influential persons. what will not forty voices do even in your parliament? and if i can count forty, how many more must there be of which i have not heard?" then there was a voice calling upon the senator to name those men, and other voices denying the fact. "i will name no one," said the senator. "how could i tell what noble friend i might put on a stool of repentance by doing so?" and he looked round on the gentlemen on the platform behind him. "but i defy any member of parliament here present to get up and say that it is not so." then he paused a moment. "and if it be so, is that rational? is that in accordance with the theory of representation as to which you have all been so ardent, and which you profess to be so dear to you? is the country not over-ridden by the aristocracy when lord lambswool not only possesses his own hereditary seat in the house of lords, but also has a seat for his eldest son in the house of commons?" then a voice from the back called out, "what the deuce is all that to you?" chapter xxiv. the senator's lecture.--no. ii. "if i see a man hungry in the street," said the senator, instigated by the question asked him at the end of the last chapter, "and give him a bit of bread, i don't do it for my own sake but for his." up to this time the britishers around him on the platform and those in the benches near to him, had received what he said with a good grace. the allusion to lord lambswool had not been pleasant to them, but it had not been worse than they had expected. but now they were displeased. they did not like being told that they were taking a bit of bread from him in their own political destitution. they did not like that he, an individual, should presume that he had bread to offer to them as a nation. and yet, had they argued it out in their own minds, they would have seen that the senator's metaphor was appropriate. his purpose in being there was to give advice, and theirs in coming to listen to it. but it was unfortunate. "when i ventured to come before you here, i made all this my business," continued the senator. then he paused and glanced round the hall with a defiant look. "and now about your house of lords," he went on. "i have not much to say about the house of lords, because if i understand rightly the feeling of this country it is already condemned." "no such thing." "who told you that?" "you know nothing about it." these and other words of curt denial came from the distant corners, and a slight murmur of disapprobation was heard even from the seats on the platform. then lord drummond got up and begged that there might be silence. mr. gotobed had come there to tell them his views,--and as they had come there expressly to listen to him, they could not without impropriety interrupt him. "that such will be the feeling of the country before long," continued the senator, "i think no one can doubt who has learned how to look to the signs of the times in such matters. is it possible that the theory of an hereditary legislature can be defended with reason? for a legislature you want the best and wisest of your people." "you don't get them in america," said a voice which was beginning to be recognised. "we try at any rate," said the senator. "now is it possible that an accident of birth should give you excellence and wisdom? what is the result? not a tenth of your hereditary legislators assemble in the beautiful hall that you have built for them. and of that tenth the greater half consists of counsellors of state who have been placed there in order that the business of the country may not be brought to a standstill. your hereditary chamber is a fiction supplemented by the element of election,--the election resting generally in the very bosom of the house of commons." on this subject, although he had promised to be short, he said much more, which was received for the most part in silence. but when he ended by telling them that they could have no right to call themselves a free people till every legislator in the country was elected by the votes of the people, another murmur was heard through the hall. "i told you," said he waxing more and more energetic, as he felt the opposition which he was bound to overcome, "that what i had to say to you would not be pleasant. if you cannot endure to hear me, let us break up and go away. in that case i must tell my friends at home that the tender ears of a british audience cannot bear rough words from american lips. and yet if you think of it we have borne rough words from you and have borne them with good-humour." again he paused, but as none rose from their seats he went on, "proceeding from hereditary legislature i come to hereditary property. it is natural that a man should wish to give to his children after his death the property which he has enjoyed during their life. but let me ask any man here who has not been born an eldest son himself, whether it is natural that he should wish to give it all to one son. would any man think of doing so, by the light of his own reason,--out of his own head as we say? would any man be so unjust to those who are equal in his love, were he not constrained by law, and by custom more iron-handed even than the law?" the senator had here made a mistake very common with americans, and a great many voices were on him at once. "what law?" "there is no law." "you know nothing about it." "go back and learn." "what!" cried the senator coming forward to the extreme verge of the platform and putting down his foot as though there were strength enough in his leg to crush them all; "will any one have the hardihood to tell me that property in this country is not affected by primogeniture?" "go back and learn the law." "i know the law perhaps better than most of you. do you mean to assert that my lord lambswool can leave his land to whom he pleases? i tell you that he has no more than a life-interest in it, and that his son will only have the same." then an eager briton on the platform got up and whispered to the senator for a few minutes, during which the murmuring was continued. "my friend reminds me," said the senator, "that the matter is one of custom rather than law; and i am obliged to him. but the custom which is damnable and cruel, is backed by law which is equally so. if i have land i can not only give it all to my eldest son, but i can assure the right of primogeniture to his son, though he be not yet born. no one i think will deny that there must be a special law to enable me to commit an injustice so unnatural as that. "hence it comes that you still suffer under an aristocracy almost as dominant, and in its essence as irrational, as that which created feudalism." the gentlemen collected on the platform looked at each other and smiled, perhaps failing to catch the exact meaning of the senator's words. "a lord here has a power, as a lord, which he cannot himself fathom and of which he daily makes an unconscious but most deleterious use. he is brought up to think it natural that he should be a tyrant. the proclivities of his order are generous, and as a rule he gives more than he takes. but he is as injurious in the one process as in the other. your ordinary briton in his dealing with a lord expects payment in some shape for every repetition of the absurd title;--and payment is made. the titled aristocrat pays dearer for his horse, dearer for his coat, dearer for his servant than other people. but in return he exacts much which no other person can get. knowing his own magnanimity he expects that his word shall not be questioned. if i may be allowed i will tell a little story as to one of the most generous gentlemen i have had the happiness of meeting in this country, which will explain my meaning." then without mentioning names he told the story of lord rufford, goarly, and scrobby, in such a way as partly to redeem himself with his audience. he acknowledged how absolutely he had been himself befooled, and how he had been done out of his money by misplaced sympathy. he made mrs. goarly's goose immortal, and in imitating the indignation of runce the farmer and bean the gamekeeper showed that he was master of considerable humour. but he brought it all round at last to his own purpose, and ended this episode of his lecture by his view of the absurdity and illegality of british hunting. "i can talk about it to you," he said, "and you will know whether i am speaking the truth. but when i get home among my own people, and repeat my lecture there, as i shall do,--with some little additions as to the good things i have found here from which your ears may be spared,--i shall omit this story as i know it will be impossible to make my countrymen believe that a hundred harum-scarum tomboys may ride at their pleasure over every man's land, destroying crops and trampling down fences, going, if their vermin leads them there, with reckless violence into the sweet domestic garden of your country residences; and that no one can either stop them or punish them! an american will believe much about the wonderful ways of his british cousin, but no american will be got to believe that till he sees it." "i find," said he, "that this irrationality, as i have ventured to call it, runs through all your professions. we will take the church as being the highest at any rate in its objects." then he recapitulated all those arguments against our mode of dispensing church patronage with which the reader is already familiar if he has attended to the senator's earlier words as given in this chronicle. "in other lines of business there is, even here in england, some attempt made to get the man best suited for the work he has to do. if any one wants a domestic servant he sets about the work of getting a proper person in a very determined manner indeed. but for the care,--or, as you call it, the cure,--of his soul, he has to put up with the man who has bought the right to minister to his wants; or with him whose father wants a means of living for his younger son,--the elder being destined to swallow all the family property; or with him who has become sick of drinking his wine in an oxford college;--or with him, again, who has pleaded his cause successfully with a bishop's daughter." it is not often that the british public is angered by abuse of the church, and this part of the lecture was allowed to pass without strong marks of disapprobation. "i have been at some trouble," he continued, "to learn the very complex rules by which your army is now regulated, and those by which it was regulated a very short time since. unhappily for me i have found it in a state of transition, and nothing is so difficult to a stranger's comprehension as a transition state of affairs. but this i can see plainly;--that every improvement which is made is received by those whom it most concerns with a horror which amounts almost to madness. so lovely to the ancient british, well-born, feudal instinct is a state of unreason, that the very absence of any principle endears to it institutions which no one can attempt to support by argument. had such a thing not existed as the right to purchase military promotion, would any satirist have been listened to who had suggested it as a possible outcome of british irrationality? think what it carries with it! the man who has proved himself fit to serve his country by serving it in twenty foughten fields, who has bled for his country and perhaps preserved his country, shall rot in obscurity because he has no money to buy promotion, whereas the young dandy who has done no more than glitter along the pavements with his sword and spurs shall have the command of men;--because he has so many thousand dollars in his pocket." "_buncombe_," shouted the inimical voice. "but is it _buncombe_?" asked the intrepid senator. "will any one who knows what he is talking about say that i am describing a state of things which did not exist yesterday? i will acknowledge that this has been rectified,--tho' i see symptoms of relapse. a fault that has been mended is a fault no longer. but what i speak of now is the disruption of all concord in your army caused by the reform which has forced itself upon you. all loyalty has gone; all that love of his profession which should be the breath of a soldier's nostrils. a fine body of fighting heroes is broken-hearted, not because injury has been done to them or to any of them, but because the system had become peculiarly british by reason of its special absurdity, and therefore peculiarly dear." "buncombe," again said the voice, and the word was now repeated by a dozen voices. "let any one show me that it is buncombe. if i say what is untrue, do with me what you please. if i am ignorant, set me right and laugh at me. but if what i say is true, then your interruption is surely a sign of imbecility. i say that the change was forced upon you by the feeling of the people, but that its very expediency has demoralized the army, because the army was irrational. and how is it with the navy? what am i to believe when i hear so many conflicting statements among yourselves?" during this last appeal, however, the noise at the back of the hall had become so violent, that the senator was hardly able to make his voice heard by those immediately around him. he himself did not quail for a moment, going on with his gestures, and setting down his foot as though he were still confident in his purpose of overcoming all opposition. he had not much above half done yet. there were the lawyers before him, and the civil service, and the railways, and the commerce of the country, and the labouring classes. but lord drummond and others near him were becoming terrified, thinking that something worse might occur unless an end was put to the proceedings. then a superintendent of police came in and whispered to his lordship. a crowd was collecting itself in piccadilly and st. james's street, and perhaps the senator had better be withdrawn. the officer did not think that he could safely answer for the consequences if this were carried on for a quarter of an hour longer. then lord drummond having meditated for a moment, touched the senator's arm and suggested a withdrawal into a side room for a minute. "mr. gotobed," he said, "a little feeling has been excited and we had better put an end to this for the present." "put an end to it?" "i am afraid we must. the police are becoming alarmed." "oh, of course; you know best. in our country a man is allowed to express himself unless he utters either blasphemy or calumny. but i am in your hands and of course you must do as you please." then he sat down in a corner, and wiped his brow. lord drummond returned to the hall, and there endeavoured to explain that the lecture was over for that night. the row was so great that it did not matter much what he said, but the people soon understood that the american senator was not to appear before them again. it was not much after nine o'clock when the senator reached his hotel, lord drummond having accompanied him thither in a cab. "good night, mr. gotobed," said his lordship. "i cannot tell you how much i respect both your purpose and your courage;--but i don't know how far it is wise for a man to tell any other man, much less a nation, of all his faults." "you english tell us of ours pretty often," said the senator. when he found himself alone he thought of it all, giving himself no special credit for what he had done, acknowledging to himself that he had often chosen his words badly and expressed himself imperfectly, but declaring to himself through it all that the want of reason among britishers was so great, that no one ought to treat them as wholly responsible beings. chapter xxv. the last days of mary masters. the triumph of mary masters was something more than a nine days' wonder to the people of dillsborough. they had all known larry twentyman's intentions and aspirations, and had generally condemned the young lady's obduracy, thinking, and not being slow to say, that she would live to repent her perversity. runciman who had a thoroughly warm-hearted friendship for both the attorney and larry had sometimes been very severe on mary. "she wants a touch of hardship," he would say, "to bring her to. if larry would just give her a cold shoulder for six months, she'd be ready to jump into his arms." and dr. nupper had been heard to remark that she might go farther and fare worse. "if it were my girl i'd let her know all about it," ribbs the butcher had said in the bosom of his own family. when it was found that mr. surtees the curate was not to be the fortunate man, the matter was more inexplicable than ever. had it then been declared that the owner of hoppet hall had proposed to her, all these tongues would have been silenced, and the refusal even of larry twentyman would have been justified. but what was to be said and what was to be thought when it was known that she was to be the mistress of bragton? for a day or two the prosperity of the attorney was hardly to be endured by his neighbours. when it was first known that the stewardship of the property was to go back into his hands, his rise in the world was for a time slightly prejudicial to his popularity; but this greater stroke of luck, this latter promotion which would place him so much higher in dillsborough than even his father or his grandfather had ever been, was a great trial of friendship. mrs. masters felt it all very keenly. all possibility for reproach against either her husband or her step-daughter was of course at an end. even she did not pretend to say that mary ought to refuse the squire. nor, as far as mary was concerned, could she have further recourse to the evils of ushanting, and the peril of social intercourse with ladies and gentlemen. it was manifest that mary was to be a lady with a big house, and many servants, and, no doubt, a carriage and horses. but still mrs. masters was not quite silenced. she had daughters of her own, and would solace herself by declaring to them, to her husband, and to her specially intimate friends, that of course they would see no more of mary. it wasn't for them to expect to be asked to bragton, and as for herself she would much rather not. she knew her own place and what she was born to, and wasn't going to let her own children spoil themselves and ruin their chances by dining at seven o'clock and being waited upon by servants at every turn. thank god her girls could make their own beds, and she hoped they might continue to do so at any rate till they had houses of their own. and there seemed to dillsborough to be some justification for all this in the fact that mary was now living at bragton, and that she did not apparently intend to return to her father's house. at this time reginald morton himself was still at hoppet hall, and had declared that he would remain there till after his marriage. lady ushant was living at the big house, which was henceforth to be her home. mary was her visitor, and was to be married from bragton as though bragton were her residence rather than the squire's. the plan had originated with reginald, and when it had been hinted to him that mary would in this way seem to slight her father's home, he had proposed that all the masters should come and stay at bragton previous to the ceremony. mrs. masters yielded as to mary's residence, saying with mock humility that of course she had no room fit to give a marriage feast to the squire of bragton; but she was steadfast in saying to her husband, who made the proposition to her, that she would stay at home. of course she would be present at the wedding; but she would not trouble the like of lady ushant by any prolonged visiting. the wedding was to take place about the beginning of may, and all these things were being considered early in april. at this time one of the girls was always at bragton, and mary had done her best, but hitherto in vain, to induce her step-mother to come to her. when she heard that there was a doubt as to the accomplishment of the plan for the coming of the whole family, she drove herself into dillsborough in the old phaeton and then pleaded her cause for herself. "mamma," she said, "won't you come with the girls and papa on the th?" "i think not, my dear. the girls can go,--if they like it. but it will be more fitting for papa and me to come to the church on the morning." "why more fitting, mamma?" "well, my dear; it will." "dear mamma;--why,--why?" "of course, my dear, i am very glad that you are going to get such a lift." "my lift is marrying the man i love." "that of course is all right. i have nothing on earth to say against it. and i will say that through it all you have behaved as a young woman should. i don't think you meant to throw yourself at him." "mamma!" "but as it has turned up, you have to go one way and me another." "no!" "but it must be so. the squire of bragton is the squire, and his wife must act accordingly. of course you'll be visiting at rufford and hampton wick, and all the places. i know very well who i am, and what i came from. i'm not a bit ashamed of myself, but i'm not going to stick myself up with my betters." "then mamma, i shall come and be married from here." "it's too late for that now, my dear." "no;--it is not." and then a couple of tears began to roll down from her eyes. "i won't be married without your coming in to see me the night before, and being with me in the morning when i dress. haven't i been a good child to you, mamma?" then the step-mother began to cry also. "haven't i, mamma?" "yes, my dear," whimpered the poor woman. "and won't you be my mamma to the last;--won't you?" and she threw her arms round her step-mother's neck and kissed her. "i won't go one way, and you another. he doesn't wish it. it is quite different from that. i don't care a straw for hampton wick and rufford; but i will never be separated from you and the girls and papa. say you will come, mamma. i will not let you go till you say you will come." of course she had her own way, and mrs. masters had to feel with a sore heart that she also must go out ushanting. she knew, that in spite of her domestic powers, she would be stricken dumb in the drawing-room at bragton and was unhappy. mary had another scheme in which she was less fortunate. she took it into her head that larry twentyman might possibly be induced to come to her wedding. she had heard how he had ridden and gained honour for himself on the day that the hounds killed their fox at norrington, and thought that perhaps her own message to him had induced him so far to return to his old habits. and now she longed to ask him, for her sake, to be happy once again. if any girl ever loved the man she was going to marry with all her heart, this girl loved reginald morton. he had been to her, when her love was hopeless, so completely the master of her heart that she could not realise the possibility of affection for another. but yet she was pervaded by a tenderness of feeling in regard to larry which was love also,--though love altogether of another kind. she thought of him daily. his future well-being was one of the cares of her life. that her husband might be able to call him a friend was among her prayers. had anybody spoken ill of him in her presence she would have resented it hotly. had she been told that another girl had consented to be his wife, she would have thought that girl to be happy in her destiny. when she heard that he was leading a wretched, moping, aimless life for her sake, her heart was sad within her. it was necessary to the completion of her happiness that larry should recover his tone of mind and be her friend. "reg," she said, leaning on his arm out in the park, "i want you to do me a favour." "watch and chain?" "don't be an idiot. you know i've got a watch and chain." "some girls like two. to have the wooden bridge pulled down and a stone one built." "if any one touched a morsel of that sacred timber he should be banished from bragton for ever. i want you to ask mr. twentyman to come to our wedding." "who's to do it? who's to bell the cat?" "you." "i would sooner fight a saracen, or ride such a horse as killed that poor major. joking apart, i don't see how it is to be done. why do you wish it?" "because i am so fond of him." "oh;--indeed!" "if you're a goose, i'll hit you. i am fond of him. next to you and my own people, and lady ushant, i like him best in all the world." "what a pity you couldn't have put him up a little higher." "i used to think so too;--only i couldn't. if anybody loved you as he did me,--offered you everything he had in the world,--thought that you were the best in the world,--would have given his life for you, would not you be grateful?" "i don't know that i need wish to ask such a person to my wedding." "yes, you would, if in that way you could build a bridge to bring him back to happiness. and, reg, though you used to despise him--" "i never despised him." "a little i think--before you knew him. but he is not despicable." "not at all, my dear." "he is honest and good, and has a real heart of his own." "i am afraid he has parted with that." "you know what i mean, and if you won't be serious i shall think there is no seriousness in you. i want you to tell me how it can be done." then he was serious, and tried to explain to her that he could not very well do what she wanted. "he is your friend you know rather than mine;--but if you like to write to him you can do so." this seemed to her to be very difficult, and, as she thought more of it, almost impossible. a written letter remains, and may be taken as evidence of so much more than it means. but a word sometimes may be spoken which, if it be well spoken,--if assurance of its truth be given by the tone and by the eye of the speaker,--shall do so much more than any letter, and shall yet only remain with the hearer as the remembrance of the scent of a flower remains! nevertheless she did at last write the letter, and brought it to her husband. "is it necessary that i should see it?" he asked. "not absolutely necessary." "then send it without." "but i should like you to see what i have said. you know about things, and if it is too much or too little, you can tell me." then he read her letter, which ran as follows. dear mr. twentyman, perhaps you have heard that we are to be married on thursday, may th. i do so wish that you would come. it would make me so much happier on that day. we shall be very quiet; and if you would come to the house at eleven you could go across the park with them all to the church. i am to be taken in a carriage because of my finery. then there will be a little breakfast. papa and mamma and dolly and kate would be so glad;--and so would mr. morton. but none of them will be half so glad as your old, old, affectionate friend mary masters. "if that don't fetch him," said reginald, "he is a poorer creature than i take him to be." "but i may send it?" "certainly you may send it." and so the letter was sent across to chowton farm. but the letter did not "fetch" him; nor am i prepared to agree with mr. morton that he was a poor creature for not being "fetched." there are things which the heart of a man should bear without whimpering, but which it cannot bear in public with that appearance of stoical indifference which the manliness of a man is supposed to require. were he to go, should he be jovial before the wedding party or should he be sober and saturnine? should he appear to have forgotten his love, or should he go about lovelorn among the wedding guests? it was impossible,--at any rate impossible as yet,--that he should fall into that state of almost brotherly regard which it was so natural that she should desire. but as he had determined to forgive her, he went across that afternoon to the house and was the bearer of his own answer. he asked mrs. hopkins who came to the door whether she were alone, and was then shown into an empty room where he waited for her. she came to him as quickly as she could, leaving lady ushant in the middle of the page she was reading, and feeling as she tripped downstairs that the colour was rushing to her face. "you will come, larry," she said. "no, miss masters." "let me be mary till i am mrs. morton," she said, trying to smile. "i was always mary." and then she burst into tears. "why,--why won't you come?" "i should only stalk about like a ghost. i couldn't be merry as a man should be at a wedding. i don't see how a man is to do such a thing." she looked up into his face imploring him,--not to come, for that she felt now to be impossible,--but imploring him to express in some way forgiveness of the sin she had committed against him. "but i shall think of you and shall wish you well." "and after that we shall be friends?" "by and bye,--if he pleases." "he will please;--he does please. of course he saw what i wrote to you. and now, larry, if i have ever treated you badly, say that you pardon me." "if i had known it--" he said. "how could i tell you,--till he had spoken? and yet i knew it myself! it has been so,--oh,--ever so long! what could i do? you will say that you will forgive me." "yes;--i will say that." "and you will not go away from chowton?" "oh, no! they tell me i ought to stay here, and i suppose i shall stay. i thought i'd just come over and say a word. i'm going away to-morrow for a month. there is a fellow has got some fishing in ireland. good-bye." "good-bye, larry." "and i thought perhaps you'd take this now." then he brought out from his pocket a little ruby ring which he had carried often in his pocket to the attorney's house, thinking that perhaps then might come the happy hour in which he could get her to accept it. but the hour had never come as yet, and the ring had remained in the little drawer beneath his looking-glass. it need hardly be said that she now accepted the gift. chapter xxvi. conclusion. the senator for mickewa,--whose name we have taken for a book which might perhaps have been better called "the chronicle of a winter at dillsborough"--did not stay long in london after the unfortunate close of his lecture. he was a man not very pervious to criticism, nor afraid of it, but he did not like the treatment he had received at st. james's hall, nor the remarks which his lecture produced in the newspapers. he was angry because people were unreasonable with him, which was surely unreasonable in him who accused englishmen generally of want of reason. one ought to take it as a matter of course that a bull should use his horns, and a wolf his teeth. the senator read everything that was said of him, and then wrote numerous letters to the different journals which had condemned him. had any one accused him of an untruth? or had his inaccuracies been glaring? had he not always expressed his readiness to acknowledge his own mistake if convicted of ignorance? but when he was told that he had persistently trodden upon all the corns of his english cousins, he declared that corns were evil things which should be abolished, and that with corns such as these there was no mode of abolition so efficacious as treading on them. "i am sorry that you should have encountered anything so unpleasant," lord drummond said to him when he went to bid adieu to his friend at the foreign office. "and i am sorry too, my lord;--for your sake rather than my own. a man is in a bad case who cannot endure to hear of his faults." "perhaps you take our national sins a little too much for granted." "i don't think so, my lord. if you knew me to be wrong you would not be so sore with me. nevertheless i am under deep obligation for kind-hearted hospitality. if an american can make up his mind to crack up everything he sees here, there is no part of the world in which he can get along better." he had already written a long letter home to his friend mr. josiah scroome, and had impartially sent to that gentleman not only his own lecture, but also a large collection of the criticisms made on it. a few weeks afterwards he took his departure, and when we last heard of him was thundering in the senate against certain practices on the part of his own country which he thought to be unjust to other nations. don quixote was not more just than the senator, or more philanthropic,--nor perhaps more apt to wage war against the windmills. having in this our last chapter given the place of honour to the senator, we must now say a parting word as to those countrymen of our own who have figured in our pages. lord rufford married miss penge of course, and used the lady's fortune in buying the property of sir john purefoy. we may probably be safe in saying that the acquisition added very little to his happiness. what difference can it make to a man whether he has forty or fifty thousand pounds a year,--or at any rate to such a man? perhaps miss penge herself was an acquisition. he did not hunt so often or shoot so much, and was seen in church once at least on every sunday. in a very short time his friends perceived that a very great change had come over him. he was growing fat, and soon disliked the trouble of getting up early to go to a distant meet;--and, before a year or two had passed away, it had become an understood thing that in country houses he was not one of the men who went down at night into the smoking-room in a short dressing-coat and a picturesque cap. miss penge had done all this. he had had his period of pleasure, and no doubt the change was desirable;--but he sometimes thought with regret of the promise arabella trefoil had made him, that she would never interfere with his gratification. at dillsborough everything during the summer after the squire's marriage fell back into its usual routine. the greatest change made there was in the residence of the attorney, who with his family went over to live at hoppet hall, giving up his old house to a young man from norrington, who had become his partner, but keeping the old office for his business. mrs. masters did, i think, like the honour and glory of the big house, but she would never admit that she did. and when she was constrained once or twice in the year to give a dinner to her step-daughter's husband and lady ushant, that, i think, was really a period of discomfort to her. when at bragton she could at any rate be quiet, and mary's caressing care almost made the place pleasant to her. mr. runciman prospers at the bush, though he has entirely lost his best customer, lord rufford. but the u. r. u. is still strong, in spite of the philosophers, and in the hunting season the boxes of the bush inn are full of horses. the club goes on without much change, mr. masters being very regular in his attendance, undeterred by the grandeur of his new household. and larry is always there,--with increased spirit, for he has dined two or three times lately at hampton wick, having met young hampton at the squire's house at bragton. on this point fred botsey was for a time very jealous;--but he found that larry's popularity was not to be shaken, and now is very keen in pushing an intimacy with the owner of chowton farm. perhaps the most stirring event in the neighbourhood has been the retirement of captain glomax from the post of master. when the season was over he made an application to lord rufford respecting certain stable and kennel expenses, which that nobleman snubbed very bluntly. thereupon the captain intimated to the committee that unless some advances were made he should go. the committee refused, and thereupon the captain went;--not altogether to the dissatisfaction of the farmers, with whom an itinerant master is seldom altogether popular. then for a time there was great gloom in the u. r. u. what hunting man or woman does not know the gloom which comes over a hunting county when one master goes before another is ready to step in his shoes? there had been a hope, a still growing hope, that lord rufford would come forward at any such pinch; but since miss penge had come to the front that hope had altogether vanished. there was a word said at rufford on the subject, but miss penge,--or lady rufford as she was then,--at once put her foot on the project and extinguished it. then, when despair was imminent, old mr. hampton gave way, and young hampton came forward, acknowledged on all sides as the man for the place. a master always does appear at last; though for a time it appears that the kingdom must come to an end because no one will consent to sit on the throne. perhaps the most loudly triumphant man in dillsborough was mr. mainwaring, the parson, when he heard of the discomfiture of senator gotobed. he could hardly restrain his joy, and confided first to dr. nupper and then to mr. runciman his opinion, that of all the blackguards that had ever put their foot in dillsborough, that vile yankee was the worst. mr. gotobed was no more a yankee than was the parson himself;--but of any distinction among the citizens of the united states, mr. mainwaring knew very little. a word or two more must be said of our dear friend larry twentyman;--for in finishing this little story we must own that he has in truth been our hero. he went away on his fishing expedition, and when he came back the girl of his heart had become mrs. morton. hunting had long been over then, but the great hunting difficulty was in course of solution, and larry took his part in the matter. when there was a suggestion as to a committee of three,--than which nothing for hunting purposes can be much worse,--there was a question whether he should not be one of them. this nearly killed both the botseys. the evil thing was prevented by the timely pressure put on old mr. hampton; but the excitement did our friend larry much good. "bicycle" and the other mare were at once summered with the greatest care, and it is generally understood that young hampton means to depend upon larry very much in regard to the rufford side of the country. larry has bought goarly's two fields, goarly having altogether vanished from those parts, and is supposed to have dillsborough wood altogether in his charge. he is frequently to be seen at hoppet hall, calling there every saturday to take down the attorney to the dillsborough club,--as was his habit of old; but it would perhaps be premature to say that there are very valid grounds for the hopes which mrs. masters already entertains in reference to kate. kate is still too young and childish to justify any prediction in that quarter. what further need be said as to reginald and his happy bride? very little;--except that in the course of her bridal tour she did gradually find words to give him a true and accurate account of all her own feelings from the time at which he first asked her to walk with him across the bridge over the dill and look at the old place. they had both passed their childish years there, but could have but little thought that they were destined then to love and grow old together. "i was longing, longing, longing to come," she said. "and why didn't you come?" "how little you know about girls! of course i had to go with the one i--i--i--; well with the one i did not love down to the very soles of his feet." and then there was the journey with the parrot. "i rather liked the bird. i don't know that you said very much, but i think you would have said less if there had been no bird." "in fact i have been a fool all along." "you weren't a fool when you took me out through the orchard and caught me when i jumped over the wall. do you remember when you asked me, all of a sudden, whether i should like to be your wife? you weren't a fool then." "but you knew what was coming." "not a bit of it. i knew it wasn't coming. i had quite made up my mind about that. i was as sure of it;--oh, as sure of it as i am that i've got you now. and then it came;--like a great thunderclap." "a thunderclap, mary!" "well;--yes. i wasn't quite sure at first. you might have been laughing at me;--mightn't you?" "just the kind of joke for me!" "how was i to understand it all in a moment? and you made me repeat all those words. i believed it then, or i shouldn't have said them. i knew that must be serious." and so she deified him, and sat at his feet looking up into his eyes, and fooled him for a while into the most perfect happiness that a man ever knows in this world. but she was not altogether happy herself till she had got larry to come to her at the house at bragton and swear to her that he would be her friend. none for easier searching, letters have been numbered. only the page numbers that appear in the table of contents have been retained in the text of letters. footnotes have been regrouped as endnotes following the letter to which they relate. the letters of horace walpole, earl of orford: including numerous letters now first published from the original manuscripts. in four volumes. vol. iv. - . philadelphia: lea and blanchard. . c. sherman & co. printers st. james street. contents of vol. iv. [those letters now first collected are marked n.] . . to sir david dalrymple, january .-thanks for his "history of scottish councils." the spirit of controversy the curse of modern times. attack on the house of commons. outcry against grievances. despotism and unbounded licentiousness--(n.) . to the same, jan. .-mr. charles yorke's rapid history. lord chatham's attempt to enlarge the representation. sir george savile and mr. burke's attack on the house of commons. modern catilines. corruption of senators. wilkes, parson horne, and junius--[n.] . to george montagu, esq. march .-print of alderman backwell-- . to the same, may .-backwardness of the season. marriages. masquerades. new establishment at almack's. intercourse between age and youth-- . to the same, june .-description of lord dysart's house at ham-- . to the same, june .-promising a visit on his way to stowe. death of alderman beckford-- . to the same, july .-on not finding him at home-- . to the same, july .-account of his visit to stowe, lines addressed to princess amelia-- . to the earl of strafford, july .-visit to stowe, alderman beckford's death-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-visit to stowe-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-reversion of walpole's place-- . to the same, july -correcting a mistake in his last-- . to the same oct. .-fit of the gout. the gate of age-- . to the same, oct. -- . to the earl of strafford, oct. .-convalescence. dispute with spain-- . to the earl of charlemont, oct. .-in answer to an application on behalf of an artist, and a wish to be permitted to read his tragedy--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, nov. .-soliciting his interest in cambridgeshire for mr. brand-- . to the same, nov. .-mr. bentham's "history of ely cathedral"-- . to the same, dec. .-mr. essex's projected "history of gothic architecture." antiquarian society. dean milles. gentlemen engravers at cambridge-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, dec. .-planting of poplar-pines. dryden's "king arthur" altered by garrick-- . to the same, dec. .-change in the french ministry. overthrow of the duc de choiseul. banishment of the duc de praslin. new law arrangements at home-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-suggestions for getting the projected history of gothic architecture patronized by the king-- . to the same, may - .-letters of edward the sixth-- . to the same, june .-on the various attacks upon his writings. archaeologia, or old women's logic. mr. masters-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-visit to ampthill. houghton park. mausoleum of the bruces--[n.] . to the earl of strafford, june . -intended visit to paris. madame du deffand. new french ministry. the duc d'aiguillon. life of cellini. charles fox-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-on the cross to be erected at ampthill to the memory of catherine of arragon-- . to the same, june .-thanks for some prints and letters-- . to john chute, esq. july .-account of his journey to paris-- . to the hon. h. s, conway, july .-french politics. distress at court. vaudevilles against madame du barry. amusements at paris. gaillard's "rivalit`e de la france et de l'angleterre"-- . to john chute, esq. aug. .-progress of english gardening in france. new arr`ets. general distress. state of le soeor's paintings at the chartreuse. the charm of viewing churches and convents dispelled. shock at learning the death of gray-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-reflection on the death of gray. lady beauchamp. opium a false friend-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-reflections on the death of gray-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-climate of paris. french economy and retrenchment. mademoiselle guimard. mademoiselle heinel. suppression of the french parliaments. ruinous condition of the palaces and pictures-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-return to england. deplorable condition of the french finances-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-thanks for some particulars of gray's death. dr. james browne. gray's portrait-- . to the same, oct. .-mr. essex's design for the cross at ampthill. calvin and luther-- ' . to the same, oct. .-armour of francis the first. ancient window from bexhill. tomb of capoccio-- . . to the hon. h. s. conway, january .-effects of an explosion of powder-mills at hounslow-- . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-dean milles. relics of gray. letters on the english nation. garrick and his writings. wilkes's squint-- . to the same, june -- . to the same, june .-thanks for some literary researches. letters of sir thomas wyat. lives of leland, hearne, and wood. browne willis. peter gore and thomas callaghan-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-panic occasioned by fordyce's bankruptcy. cherubims. exercise. letters of guy patin. charles fox's annuities. lives of leland, hearne, and wood. entry in wood's diary. freemasonry. peter gore-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-king edward's letters. portrait of gray. death of mr. west the antiquary. his collections. foote's comedy of "the nabob"-- . to the same, july .-archaeologia, or, old women's logic. antiquarian society. life of sir thomas wyat. william thomas's "peleryne"-- . to the same, aug. .-thanks to dr. browne for a goar-stone and seal belonging to gray. lincoln and york cathedrals. roche abbey. screen of york minster-- . to the same, aug. .-indolence of age. inquiries after some prints-- . to the same, nov. .-fit of the gout. regret at not being able to see mr. essex-- . to the same.-on the rapacity of a gentleman who had thinned mr. cole's collection of prints-- . to the countess of ailesbury, dec. .-account of reynal's "histoire philosophique et politique du commerce des deux indes"-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-mr. masters's answer to "historic doubts." antiquarians. freemasonry. governor pownall. edition of "m`emoires du comte de grammont." dedication to madame du deffand. gray's "odes"-- . to the same, feb. .-miscellaneous antiquities. governor pownall's system of freemasonry. mrs. marshall's "sir harry gaylove, or comedy in embryo"-- . to the rev. william mason, march .-thanks for submitting his collections for the "life of gray" to his correction. origin of the differences between them. takes to himself the chief blame in the quarrel--(n.) ( . to the same, march .-mason the author of "the heroic epistle to sir william chambers." account of gray's going abroad with him-- . to the rev. mr. cole, april .-archaeologia, or old women's logic. masters's answer to "historic doubts." sale of mr. west's collections-- . to the same, april .@character of authors. shenstone's and hughes' "correspondence." declines acquaintance with mr. gough. scotch metaphysicians. anstey's "new bath guide." "heroic epistle." oliver goldsmith. johnson's pension-- . to the same, may .-on being mentioned by the public orator at cambridge-- . to the same, may .-- . to dr. berkenhout, july .-declining to supply materials for a biographical notice of himself-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-visit to houghton. deplorable state of his nephew's private affairs. mortification of family pride-- . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-journey to houghton. state of his nephew's affairs. lady mary coke's ardour of peregrination. beatific print of lady huntingdon. whitfield and the methodists. death of the duke of kingston-- . to the same, nov. .-best way of contending with the folly and vice of the world. proposed tax on irish absentees. lady mary coke's mortifications. count gage and lady mary herbert-- . to lady mary coke.-on her ardour of peregrination-- . to the hon. mrs. grey, dec. .-advice from dr. walpole to lady blandford suffering from a fit of the gout-- . to sir david dalrymple, dec. .-thanks for his "remarks on the history of scotland"--[n.] . . to the rev. mr. cole, may .-reasons for his long silence. temptations to visit strawberry. fate of mr. bateman's collection of curiosities. conjectured fate of strawberry-- . to the same, may .-pennant's "tour to scotland and the hebrides." ossian. fingal's cave. brave way of being an antiquary. mr. gough described. fenn's "original letters." society of antiquaries. old friends-- . to the same, june .-efficacy of james's powder. old friends in old age our best amusement. flattery. queen catherine's cross at ampthill-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-on the general's tour of military observation. politics. quebec-bill-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-account of his antiquarian pursuits. journey into worcestershire. matson. gloucester cathedral. monument of edward the second. bishop hooper's house. prinknash. berkeley castle. murder of edward the second. thornbury castle. the vicar of thornbury-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-on the general's introduction to the king of prussia. account of his own journey into worcestershire-- . to the same, sept. .-on the general's visit to the mines of cremnitz. visit to berkeley castle. lord malton presented at court in coal-black hair-- . to the same, sept. .-rejoices at the general's flattering reception at foreign courts. character of the germans. italian women. reasons for not taking a trip to paris. french dirt. new elections. mode of passing his time-- . to the same, sept. .-cautions for his conduct at paris. entreaty to take much notice of madame du deffand. her character. wishes to have back his letters to her. mademoiselle de l'espinasse. the duchesse de choiseul. monsieur buffon. comte de broglie-- . to the rev. mr. cole, oct. .-elections. his nephew's mental alienation-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-new elections. wilkes's popularity. charles fox. character of m. de maurepas. reasons for not meeting him at paris-- . to the same, oct. .-on the general's being deprived of a seat in the new parliament. objects to be seen at paris. church of the celestines. richelieu's tomb at the sorbonne. h`otel de carnavalet. versailles. the luxembourg. pictures at the palais royal. church of the invalids. st. roch. the carmelites. the val de grace. the sainte chapelle. tomb of cond`e; and of cardinal fleury-- . to the countess of ailesbury, nov. .-domestic news. marriages. wilkes's popularity. mr. burke's success at bristol. "wit-and-a-gamut." comforts of old age-- . to the earl of strafford, nov. .-concert at isleworth. leoni. the opera. the duchess of kingston-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, nov. . thanks for his attentions to madame du deffand. american disturbances. general burgoyne's "maid of the oaks," the duc de la vali`ere. chevalier de boufflers. madame de caraman. madame de mirepoix. abb`e raynal. mademoiselle de rancoux. le kain. mo]`e. preville. m. boutin's english garden-- . to the same, nov. .-deaths. disturbed state of america. the duchess of kingston. french despotism. madame du deffand. opera. the bastardella. death of lord holland-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, dec. .-remonstrances from america. lord chatham-- . to the same, dec. .-the prince de conti. proceedings of the french parliament. petitions from america. burke's speeches. duchesse de lauzun. st. lambert-- . to the same, dec. .-biblioth`eque du roi. abb`e barthelemi. duc de choiseul. "history of furness abbey"-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-nell gwynn's letter. strutt's "manners and customs of the inhabitants of england." duke humphrey's skull at st. albans-- . to the hon. h . s. conway, jan. .-party-men. lord george germain. mr. burke. lord chatham. marquis of rockingham. operations of the bostonians. general gage. new parnassus at batheaston. bouts-rim`es. lines on a buttered muffin, by the duchess of northumberland. lord palmerston's poem on beauty. rulhi`ere's russian anecdotes-- . to the same, jan. .-debate in the house of lords on lord chatham's motion for withdrawing the troops from boston. plan for cutting off all traffic with america. illness of the duke of gloucester. committee of oblivion. death of dowdeswell and tom hervey--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, april .-warm approbation of mason's life of gray. verses by lord rochford, anne boleyn's brother-- . to the same, april .-mason's life of gray. "peep in the gardens at twickenham." whitaker's history of manchester. bryant's ancient mythology-- . to the same, june ,-genealogical inquiries. blomefield's norfolk-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-projected trip to paris. american news. story of captain mawhood, the teaman's son-- . to the same, august .-preparations for a journey to paris. war between the lord chamberlain and foote for refusing to license his play--[n.] . to the countess of ailesbury, aug. .-journey to paris-- . to the same, aug. .-arrival at paris. madame du deffand. madame clotilde's wedding. m. turgot's economy-- . to mrs. abington, sept.-regret at not knowing she was at paris. compliment to her great merits as an actress--[n.) . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-on lady ailesbury being overturned in her carriage. madame du deffand. lady barrymore. madame de marchais madame de viri. french opinion of our dispute with america-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-illness of madame du deffand. economy and reformation of the bon-ton at paris. horse-race on the plain de sablon. french politics, and probable changes-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-english version of gray's latin odes-- . to the countess of ailesbury, dec. .-trial of the duchess of kingston. le texier's french readings-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-society of antiquarians. opening of edward the first's tomb. prints from pictures at houghton-- . to thomas astle, esq. dec. .-on the attainder of george duke of clarence, found in the tower-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-subject of the painting at the rose tavern in fleet-street. attainder of george duke of clarence-- . to edward gibbon, esq. february.-thanks for the first volume of the "decline and fall of the roman empire"--[n.] . to the same, feb. .-panegyric on the first volume of the "decline and fall"--[n.) . to the rev. mr. cole, march .-on the old painting at the rose tavern in fleet-street. antiquarian accuracy-- . to dr. gem, april .-french politics. resistance of the parliament to the reformations of messieurs de malesherbes and turgot. extraordinary speeches of the avocat-g`en`eral. our dispute with america-- . to the rev. mr. cole, april .-death of the rev. mr. granger. trial of duchess of kingston-- . to the same, june .-mr. granger's prints and papers purchased by lord mountstuart-- ( ) to the same, june .-vexations and disappointments of the gout-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-gallery and beauty-room at strawberry. lady diana beauclerk. his own talents and pursuits. picture of his mind-- . to the' rev. mr. cole, july .-thanks for the present of a vase. condolence on the ill state of his health-- . to the same, july .-effects of general conway's illness on his own mind. outliving one's friends. mr. penticross-- . to the same, aug. .-inquiries after dr. kenrick prescot. death of mr. damer-- . to the same, sept. .-alterations at strawberry. lord carmarthen-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-folly and madness of the dispute with america. opening of parliament. prospect of a war with france. reasons for his retirement--(n.] . to the earl of strafford, nov-. .-retirement. effects of our climate. unhappy dispute with america. prospect of war with france-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-sir john hawkins's "history of music"-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-purchase of the shutters of the altar at st. edmondsbury-- . to the same, february .-requesting the loan of some of his manuscripts. dr. dodd-- . to the same, may .-continuance of his nephew's mental illness. love of cambridge. inclination to a sequestered life. charles the fifth-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-macpherson's success with ossian the ruin of chatterton. rowley's pretended poems. chatterton's death-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-m. d'agincourt's "histoire de l'art par les monumens." the "hayssians." madame de blot. m. schomberg. madame necker's character of walpole-- . to robert jephson, esq. july .-advice respecting the representation of his tragedy. success of sheridan's school for scandal--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-true wisdom. illness of the duke of gloucester. monasteries. recluse life. "in six weeks my clock will strike sixty!"-- . to the same, sept. .-thanks for the loan of manuscripts. nonsense. sincerity the foundation of long friendship. sir joshua reynolds's portrait of soame jenyns. duke of gloucester's recovery-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-description of a machine called the delineator. his "unlearnability"-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-suggesting a life of thomas baker, author of "reflections on learning." burnet's history. christiana, queen of sweden. calvin-- . to robert jephson, esq. oct. .-"the law of lombardy"-- [n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-apologies for not meeting him at goodwood. disinclination to move from home. "threescore to-day state of his health and spirits. his idea of old age-- . to robert jephson. esq. oct. .-criticism on ,the law of lombardy"--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, oct. .-burnet's history. duke lauderdale. sir john dalrymple and macpherson's histories. friendship. efficacy of the bootikins-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, march .-politics. life of mr. baker-- . to the same, april .-life of baker. pennant's "welsh tour." warton's "history of english poetry." lord hardwicke's state papers." aspect of the times-- . to the same, may .-restoration of popery. lord chatham's interment. intercourse with chatterton. detection of his forgeries-- . to the rev. william mason.-visit from dr. robertson. the doctor's contemplated "history of king william." macpherson's and sir john dalrymple's scandals-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-patriots and politics. dr. franklin. lord chatham's interment. his merits and demerits. mr. tyrwhit. chatterton's forgeries-- . to the same, june .-his political creed, and opinion of parties and political men. life of mr. baker. rowley and chatterton. mat. prior. mr. hollis. mrs. macauley-- . to the countess of ailesbury, june .--mr. conway's governorship. cuckoos and nightingales. robbery of mrs. clive-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-suggesting the propriety of pacification with america. conduct of the opposition. french neutrality. partition of poland-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-projected life of mr. baker. dr. kippis's "biographia britannica." addison's character of lord somers. whitgift and abbot. archbishop markham. calvin and wesley. popery and presbyterianism. churches and convents-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-sailing of the brest fleet. political prospects-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-answer to the attack upon him prefixed to chatterton's works. gray's tomb, and mason's epitaph-- . to the same, aug. .-rowley's pretended poems. walpole's defence. bishop walpole'-s tomb. baker's life-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug, .-recollections of sussex. arundel castle,. tombs of the fitzalans. knowle and penshurst. summer hill. leeds castle. goldsmiths' company. aquatic adventure-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-chatterton. attacks on walpole in the critical review. lord hardwicke and the carleton papers. literary squabbles. the "old english baron." lady craven's "sleep walker." a literary adventure-- . to the same, sept. .-attack on him in the critical review. cabal in the antiquarian society. their saxon and danish discoveries, and roman remains. value of mr. cole's collections,. visit from dr. kippis-- . to the same, sept. .-"biographia britannica." life of the first lord barrington. anecdote of the present peer-- . to the same, oct. .-defence of sir robert walpole against a charge of instigating george the second to destroy the will of his father. lord chesterfield-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-account of his pursuits-- . to the rev. mr. cole, oct. .-completion of his life of mr. baker-- . to the same, nov. .-attack of the gout. character of mr. baker-- . to lady browne. nov. .-reflections on the state of' his health. lady blandford's obstinacy--[n.] . to the same, dec. .-admiral keppel's trial. lord bute. lord george germaine. lady holderness, lord and lady carmarthen--[n.] . to the earl of buchan, dec. .-reply to inquiries after certain portraits--[n.) . to edward gibbon, esq.-on the attacks upon his history of the decline and fall--[n.] . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-life of mr. baker. damage done by the great tempest on new-year's morning. death of bishop kidder. tamworth castle. lord ferrers's passion for ancestry-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, jan. .-mrs. miller's follies at batbeaston. ennui. his recent illness. prospects of old age. admiral keppel's trial. grecian republics. anecdote of sir robert walpole. character of sir william meredith-- . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-life of mr. baker. pamphlet respecting chatterton-- . to the same, jan. .-reasons for not printing his pamphlet concerning chatterton. his hieroglyphic tales-- . to the same, feb. .-answer to mr. cole's objections to his life of baker-- . to the same, feb. .-his opinion of hasted's history of kent. lord ferrers and tamworth castle-- . to sir david dalrymple, march .-thanks for his "annals." portrait of duns scotus--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, march .-swinburne's travels in spain. the alhambra. character of moses. cumberland's masque of "calypso." design of a chimney-piece, by holbein-- . to edward gibbon, esq.-congratulations on his ,vindication" of his "history"--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, april .-st. peter's portrait. richard the third. truth and falsehood. murder of miss ray by mr. hackman. shades of madness. solace in books and past ages-- . to the same, april .-plates after designs by rubens-- . to the same, april .-sale of the pictures at houghton-- . to mrs. abington.-regrets at not being able to accept an invitation--(n.) . to the rev. mr. cole, may .-history of the abbey of bec. keate's "sketches from nature." church of reculver. person of richard the third-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-attack on jersey. war in america. masquerades. festino at almack's. lord bristol's wonderful calf-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-state of his health. strictures on a volume of the archeeologia. pictures at houghton-- . to the rev. dr. lort, june .-painted shutters from the altar of st. edmund's bury-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-disturbances in ireland. spanish declaration of war. treatment of america. tickell's "cassette verte." dr. franklin. "opposition mornings." story of mrs. ellis and her great o-- . to the same, june .-sailing of the brest fleet. probability of a war with spain. dispute with america. state of ireland. f`ete at the pantheon-- . to the hon. george hardinge, july .-thanks for drawings of grignan. letters of madame de s`evign`e, and of her daughter. character of coulanges-- . to the countess of ailesbury, july .-conjectures on the political state of the country. washington and clinton. difficulty of conquering america-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-value of the pictures at houghton-- . to the same, aug. .-thanks for offer of painted glass. "history of alien priories"-- . to the countess of ailesbury, aug. .-situation of general conway in jersey. constancy of fortune. folly of pursuing the war with america-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-alarms for the general's situation at jersey. battle between byron and d'estaing. mrs. damer. eruption of vesuvius-- . to the rev. mr. cole, nov. .-mr. tyson's journal. old gate at whitehall. nichols's "alien priories." rudder's "history of gloucestershire." removal of old friends-- . to the same, dec. .-earl-bishops. lord bristol. rudder's "history of gloucestershire"-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-congratulations on his providential escape. count-bishops. old painting found in westminster-abbey. tomb of ann of cleve. reburial of the crown, robes, and sceptre of edward the first. sale of the houghton pictures-- . to robert jephson, esq., jan. .-his opinion of mr. jephson's "count of narbonne;" and advice on casting the parts- -[n.] . to the same, jan. .-tragedy of the "count of narbonne." warburton's panegyric on the "castle of otranto." miss aikin's "fragment." "old english baron"--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-new volume of the "biographia britannica." characters of dr. birch, dr. blackwell, and dr. john brown. dr. kippis's threat. cardinal beaton. dr. bentley. mr. hollis. barry the painter-- . to the same, feb. .-rodney's victory. home prospects. party divisions. history of leicester. cit`e des dames. christiana of pisa-- . to the same, march .-thanks for his portrait in glass. history of leicester. dean mills and mr. masters. pine-apples. charles the second's gardener-- . to the same, march .-atkyns's gloucestershire. hutchinson's northumberland. romantic correspondence of hackman and miss ray. sir herbert croft's,,love and madness." chatterton. "the young villain." lord chatham. lady craven's "miniature picture"-- . to the same, march .-projected reform of the house of commons. annual parliaments-- . to the same, may .-death of mr. tyson, and of his old friend george montagu. his character-- . to the same, may .-character of joseph spence-- . to the same, may .-altar-doors from st. edmundsbury. annibal caracci and shakspeare-- . to mrs. abington, june .-invitation to strawberry hill-- [n.] . to the earl of strafford, june .-lord george gordon and the riots of london. persecutions under the cloak of religion. highway robberies. ambition the most detestable of passions-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-london riots. black wednesday. lord george gordon in the tower. electioneering rioting in cambridgeshire. mr. banks and the otaheitans-- . to the same, july .-wishes his having written the life of baker to be kept a secret-- . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-folly of election contests. dissatisfaction in the fleet-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-electioneering agitations. death of madame du deffand-- . to the same, oct. .-"life of mr. baker." dr. james brown- - . to the same, nov. .-mr. gough's "topography." introduction of ananas. rose, the gardener of charles the second. folly of antiquaries-- . to the same, nov. .-mr. gough's "topography." character of mr. pennant. dean milles. judge barrington. dulness and folly of grose's dissertations. rejoices in having done with the professions of author and printer, and determines to be comfortably lazy-- . to the same, nov. .-in answer to a request for a copy of his anecdotes for the university library at cambridge. character of mr. gough-- . to sir david dalrymple, dec. .-thanks for communications for his anecdotes of painters. hogarth. colonel charteris. archbishop blackbourne and mrs. conwys. poetry of richardson and hogarth. lord chesterfield's story of jervas. origin of oil painting-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-friendship between gray and mason. views of strawberry hill-- . . to sir david dalrymple, jan. .-thanks for his favourable opinion of his father. his reasons for not writing his life. dr. kippis and his "biographia britannica." lord barrington and the hamburgh lottery. character of king william. folly of reburying the crown and robes of' edward the first. "dr. johnson's notions of sacrilege--[n.) . to the hon. h. s. conway, jan. .-on the general's speech for quieting the troubles in america. melancholy state of the country-- . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-death of lady orford at pisa-- . to the same, feb. .-wolsey's negotiations. value of mr. cole's manuscripts. character of mr. pennant-- . to the earl of buchan, feb. .-thanks for being elected member of the scotch society of antiquaries--[n.] . to sir david dalrymple, feb. .-sir william windham and sir robert walpole, archibald duke of argyll. scotch society of antiquaries. portrait of lady mary douglas--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, march .-reasons for becoming a member of the scotch antiquarian society-- . to the same, march .-inquiries after lord hardwicke's "walpoliana"-- . to the same, march .-contradicting a report of mr. pennant's indisposition of mind-- . to the same, april .-lord hardwicke's "walpolianae"-- . to the same, may .-character of dr. farmer. on his own rank as an author. pennant's "welsh tour." madame du deffand's dog tonton-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-relief of gibraltar. lord cholmondeley at brookes's. winnings of charles fox and fitzpatrick. india affairs. arrival of tonton-- . to the same, may .-scotch thistles. french politics. resignation of necker. proposals for a pacification with america. charles fox and the marriage-bill. folly of retiring from the world-- . to the same, june . 'projected french attack on jersey. siege of gibraltar. "the young william pitt's" first display. mr. bankes. theatricals. consequences of lord cornwallis's victories-- . to the earl of strafford, june .-visit from mr. storer-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-sir richard worsley's history of the isle of wight. nichols's life of hogarth. "aedes strawberrianae." miseries of having a house worth being seen-- . to the earl of charlemont, july .-on mr. preston's poems- -[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-orthodoxy and heterodoxy-- . to the same, july -- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-difficulty of sending an entertaining letter. mason's english garden. marriage of lord althorp-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-their long and uninterrupted friend- ship. madame du deffand's papers. henley bridge-- . to john nichols, esq. oct. .-criticisms on his life of hogarth-- . to robert jephson, esq. nov. .-on his tragedy of "the count of narbonne"--[n.] . to the same, nov. .--[n.] . to the same, nov. .--[n.] . to the same, nov. .--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway,- nov. .-on mr. jephson's tragedy of "the count of narbonne"-- . to robert jephson, esq. nov. .-favourable reception of "the count of narbonne"--[n.] . to the earl of strafford, nov. .-surrender of the british forces at york town. gloomy forebodings of the consequences. general spirit of dissipation-- . to the earl of buchan, dec. .-british disgraces in america. ancient portraits--[n.) . to robert jephson, esq. dec. .-on his expression of dissatisfaction at some alterations in the scenes of his play-- [n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-the gout described. etching of browne willis. character of mr. gough. mr. george steevens. rowley and chatterton controversy-- . . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-interview with, and characters of mr. gough and mr. steevens-- . to the same,. feb. .-thanks for the loan of some manuscripts. society of antiquaries. description of his regimen. his great nostrum-- . to the same, feb. .-specimen of mr. gough's "sepulchral monuments." antiquarian solemnities ridiculed. count-bishop hervey. martin sherlock the english traveller-- . to the rev. william mason.-new french translation of the elder pliny. common jargon of poetry-- . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-rowley and chatterton controversy-- . to the hon. george hardinge, march .-on the success of general conway's motion for putting an end to the american war- - . to the rev. mr. cole, march .-character of dr. farmer. declaration of war by the emperor against the crescent. ambition and interest under the mask of religion-- . to the same, april .-his preference of english to latin inscriptions. mason's archaeological epistle to dean milles. melancholy death of mr. chamberlayne. dr. glynn-- . to the same, may .-on his own illness. the chatterton controversy-- . to the same, june .-bishop newton's life. pratt's "fair circassian." cumberland's "anecdotes of painters in spain"-- . to john nichols, esq., june .-dr. henry bland the translator of cato's speech into latin-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-old age and solitude. marivaux and cr`ebillon. multiplicity of writers. errors in nichols's "select poems"-- . to the same, july .-merits of nichols's "life of bowyer." dr. mead. carteret webb. great men. dr. birch's catalogue of manuscripts in the british museum-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-inclemency of the season. robberies. comte de grasse. mrs. clive's declining health. philosophy of deceiving one's self-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .--[n.] . to the earl of buchan, sept. .-dr. birch's catalogue. mr. tyrwhitt's book on the rowleian controversy--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-on the general's being appointed commander-in-chief. his new coke ovens-- . to the earl of strafford, oct. .-general elliot's success at gibraltar. necessity of peace. increase of highway robberies. mr. mason-- . to the rev. mr. cole, nov. .--on mr. cole's illness. his death-- . . to george colman, esq. may .-thanks for his translation of horace's art of poetry-- . to the earl of buchan, may .-congratulations on the success of the scotch antiquarian society. roman remains. biography of illustrious men. account of john law. papers in the scotch college at paris, and paintings in the castle of aubigny--n.) . to the hon. george hardinge, may .-sir thomas rumbold's bill of pains and penalties-- . to the earl of strafford, june .-visits of the french to england. their anglomanie. george ellis. beau dillon. "antoinette." mr. mason. fashionable life-- . to the same, aug. .-complains of his own inactivity and indifference. speculations on the peace. lord northesk. shock of an earthquake-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-addresses of the irish volunteers. political speculations. mr. fox-- . to the same, aug. .--[n.) . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-visit to astley's theatre. sir william hamilton. mr. mason's new discoveries in painting. pursuit of health-- . to the same, oct. .-disturbed state of ireland. parliamentary reform. yorkshire associations leaders of friction. lord carlisle's tragedy. lord and lady fitzwilliam-- . to lady browne, oct. .-state of his health--[n.) . to governor pownall, oct. .-observations on a defence of sir robert walpole by the governor. character of home. sylla. liberality of george the first and second to his father-- . to the same, nov. .-the same subject-- . to the earl of strafford, nov. .-situation of ireland. flowers of billingsgate. flood and grattan. meeting of the delegates. difference between correcting abuses and removing landmarks. character of mr. fox-- . to the same, dec. .-excellence of letter-writing. india-bill. air-balloons. mrs. siddons. lord thurlow. flood and courtenay-- . . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-congratulations on the general's retirement from place and parliament. mr. fox's election-- . to miss hannah more, may .-thanks for her poem, the "bas bleu"--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-epitaph-writing. lord melcombe's diary. cox's travels-- . to the countess of ailesbury, june .-voltaire's memoirs. lord melcombe's diary. severity of the weather-- . to the hon. h. s. conway', june .-benefits of retirement from public life. local grievances. highway robberies. the good things of life-- . to the same, june .-inclemency of the season. death of lady harrington. lunardi's balloon-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-earthquakes. the deluge. uncertainty of human reasoning-- . to mr. dodsley, aug. .-declining mr. pinkerton's offer of a dedication to him of his essay on medals--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-frequency of robberies in his neighbourhood. disturbed state of ireland-- . to john pinkerton, esq. aug. .-thanks for the perusal of his poems, and invitation to strawberry hill--[n.] . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-congratulations on the return of fine weather. air-balloons and highwaymen. sir william hamilton. mrs. walsingham. mrs. damer's "sleeping dogs"-- . to john pinkerton, esq. sept. .-criticisms on his comedy--n.] . to the same, oct. .-further criticisms on his comedy. remarks on english poetry, on poetry in general, and on the drama--n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-speculations on the perfection of air-balloons-- . to john pinkerton, esq. oct. .-his own publications and literary career. remarks on mr. pinkerton's projected history of the reign of george the second--[n.] . to miss hannah more, nov. .-on the poems and conduct of ann yearsley, the bristol tnilkwoman. danger of encouraging her poetical propensity. fate of stephen duck-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, nov. .-continental politics. poetical epistle to lady lyttelton-- . . to miss hannah more, april .-in answer to an anonymous letter from miss more, ridiculing the prevailing adoption of french idioms into the english language-- . to john pinkerton, esq. june .-strictures on "heron's letters of literature." mr. pinkerton's proposed amendment of the english language. lady mary wortley montague. mr. hume and mr. gray--[n.] . to the same, june ,-further criticisms on heron's "letters." definition and exemplification of grace. remarks on waller, milton, cowley, boileau, pope, and madame de s`evign`e- -[n.] . to the same, july .-declining to print greek authors at the strawberry hill press--[n.] . to the same, aug. .-declines to print an edition of the life of st. ninian--[n.] . to the same, sept. .-advising him not to reply to the critiques of anonymous adversaries--[n.] . to george colman, esq. sept. .-on sending him a copy of the duc de nivernois' translation of his "essay on modern gardening"--[n.] . to the earl of buchan, sept. .-literary stores in the vatican, and in the scottish college at paris. mr. herschell's discoveries--[n.] . to john pinkerton, esq. sept. .-advice on his intended publication of lives of the scottish saints. his opinion of bishop headley. reflections on his own life--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-jarvis's window at new college. blenheim. beau desert. stowe. "the charming man." boswell's "tour to the hebrides"-- . to the earl of charlemont, nov. .-order of st. patrick-- (n.] . to lady browne, dec. .-last illness and death of kitty clive. lord john russell's marriage--[n.] . . to miss hannah more, feb. .-on her poem of "floria," dedicated to him-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-account of his visit to the princess amelia at gunnersbury. stanzas addressed to the princess. her answer. purchase of the jupiter serapis and julio clovio-- . to richard gough, esq. june .-thanks for the present of his "sepulchral monuments." the duc de nivernois' translation of his "essay on gardening"-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-the new bridge at henley. mrs. damer's colossal masks. visit from count oginski. out-pensioners of bedlam. lord george gordon. archbishop chicheley and henry the fifth-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-two charades by colonel fitzpatrick. precocity of robert stewart, afterwards marquis of londonderry-- . to the right hon. lady craven, nov. .-apologies for not having written, and thanks for a drawing of the castle of otranto-- . . to miss hannah more, jan. .-with a present of "christine de pise." her "cit`e des dames." mrs. yearsley-- . to the right hon. lady craven, jan. .-on her ladyship's travels. sir john mandeville. lady mary wortley. peter the hermit-- . to miss hannah more, feb. .-christina's life of charles the fifth"-- . to the rev. henry zouch, march .-proposing to return the letters he had received from him--[n.) . to miss hannah more, june .-the irish character. miss burney--(n.] . to the hon, h. s. conway, june .-expected visit from the princess lubomirski. "the way to keep him"-- . to the earl of strafford, july .-st. swithin. the duke of queensberry's dinner to the princess de lamballe. mrs. french's marble pavement. lord dudley's obelisk. miss boyle's carvings-- . to miss hannah more, oct. .-ingratitude of anne yearsley to her. mrs. vesey. dr. johnson's letters. bruce's travels. gibbon's history. figaro-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, nov. .-on the small druidical temple presented by the states of jersey to the general. stonehenge-- . . to thomas barrett, esq. june .-gibbon's "decline and fall." sheridan's speech against mr. hastings-- . to the earl of strafford, june .-general conway's comedy of "false appearances." sheridan's speech against mr. hastings- - . to miss hannah more, july . newspaper reading. general conway's play-- . to the same, july .-on his own writings. authorship after seventy. voltaire at eighty-four. fate of his last tragedy. mrs. piozzi. pipings of miss seward and mr. hayley-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-on a reported discovery of new letters of madame de s`evign`e. letters of the duchess of orleans. druidical temple from jersey-- . to john pinkerton, esq. aug. .-criticism on his ode for the scottish revolution club--[n.) . to miss hannah more, aug. .-rumoured discovery of new letters of madame de s`evign`e. library of greek and latin authors at naples--[n.] . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-account of the druidical temple at park- place. the duchess of kingston's will-- . to miss hannah more, sept. .-ingratitude of mrs. yearsley. education of the great. walpolia'na. virtuous intentions. enthusiasts and quack- doctors-- . to the right hon. lady craven, dec. .-wisdom of retiring from the world in time. voltaire. lord chatham. mr. anstey. king of prussia's memoirs. poverty of the french language, as far as regards verse and pieces of eloquence--[n.] . ( . to the miss berrys. feb. .-acceptance of an invitation. expressions of delight on being in their society--[n.] . to the same, march .-madame de la motte's m`emoire justificatif. general illumination for the king's recovery. hairs of edward the fourth's head--[n.] . to miss hannah more, april .-darwin's botanic garden. loves of the plants. success of general conway's comedy--[n.] . to the miss berrys, april .-darwin's botanic garden. his poetry characterized--[n.] . to the same, june .-destruction of the opera-house by fire. the nation tired of operas. "the room after." mr. batt and the abb`e nicholls--[n.] . to miss hannah more, june .-on her poem of bishop bonner's ghost. offers to print it at strawberry hill. bruce's travels--[n.] . to miss berry, june .-arabian nights. bishop atterbury. sinbad the sailor versus aeneas. mrs. piozzi's travels. king's college chapel. effects of criticism and comparison. pageantry of popery--[n.] . to miss hannah more, july .-thanks for permission to print "bishop bonner's ghost." account of his fall. gratitude to providence for his lot-- . to miss berry, july .-recovery from his fall. present state of france. tumults at versailles on the reported resignation of necker. marshal broglio appointed commander-in-chief camp round paris. mutinous disposition of the army. voltaire's correspondence. his letters to la chalotais-- . to miss hannah more, july .-"bishop bonner's ghost"-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-dismissal of necker. paris in an uproar. storming and destruction of the bastille. speculation on the probable results. the duke of orleans and mirabeau-- . to miss hannah more, july .-result of her "double treachery." a visit from bishop porteiis. the visit returned-- . to miss berry, july .-anarchy in paris. account of la chalotais. treachery of calonne. character of the duc de vrilli`ere. st. swithin's day. predicts the fall of necker-- (n.] . to john pinkerton, esq. july .-remarks on his inquiry into the early history of scotland"--(n.] . to miss hannah more, aug. .-on sending her copies of "bonner's ghost." complains of letters--[n.] . to john pinkerton, esq., aug. .-confesses his want of taste for the ancient histories of nations. remarks on the different modes of treating antiquities--[n.] . to the same, aug. .-compliments him on his strong and manly understanding. account of his own studies--[n.] . to richard gough, esq. aug. .-strictures on the injuries done to salisbury cathedral by the recent alterations-- . to the miss berrys, aug. .-illness of the countess of dysart. richmond and hampton court gossip--(n.) . to the same. sept. .-on their declining a visit to wentworth house. the duke of clarence at richmond. miss farren's beatrice. account of lady luxborough. wentworth castle described. violences in france. destruction of chateaus in burgundy. assemblage of deserters round paris. patience of lady dysart under her suffering. mademoiselle d'eon in petticoats-- [n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-thanks to him for a poem. death of lady dysart. terrible situation of paris. predicts that the kingdom will become a theatre of civil wars-- . to miss hannah more, sept. .-congratulation on the demolition of the functions of the bastille. the `etats a mob of kings. time the composer of a good constitution. negro slavery. suggests the possibility of relieving slaves by machine work. utility of starting new game to invention. barrett's history of bristol. the biographia britannica and chatterton-- . to the same, nov. .-death of lady dysart and lord waldegrave. mrs. yearsley's earl goodwin. death of mr. barrett. succedaneum for negro labour. suggests the propriety of mr. wilberforce's starting the abolition of slavery to the `etats. character of the `etats-- . . to miss hannah more, feb. .-with his contribution to a charitable subscription-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-charles fox and the westminster gridiron. puerile pedantry of the french `etats. destruction of the statues of louis quatorze. bruce's travels-- [n.) . to the earl of strafford, june .-reflections on the state of france. consciences of tyrants. luther and calvin. fate of projectors-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-bruce's travels. french barbarity and folly. grand federation in the champ de mars. rationality of the americans. franklin and washington. a great man wanted in france. return of necker. his insignificance-- [n.] . to miss berry, july ,-his alarm at their design of visiting italy. atrocities of the french `etats. good-humoured speech of marie antoinette. winchester cathedral. netley abbey. visit from the duchess of marlborough--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-peace of spain. miss gunning's reported match with lord blandford-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-lord barrymore's exhibitions at the richmond theatre. reflections on the progress of the french revolution-- . to sir david dalrymple, sept. .-pictures at burleigh. shakspeare gallery. macklin's gallery-- . to the miss berrys, oct. .-on their departure for italy. regrets at the loss of their society--[n.] . to the same, oct. .-burke's "reflections." calonne's "etat de la france"--[n.] . to the same, nov. .-pacification with spain and brabant. earl stanhope and the revolution club. mr. burke's "reflections on the french revolution" characterized. visit from the prince of furstemberg--[n.] . to miss berry, nov. .-mr,,;. damer's departure for lisbon. effects of burke's pamphlet on dr. price. mr. merry's "laurel of liberty." the della crusca school of poetry described--[n.] . to the miss berrys, nov. .-character of the bishop of arras. dr. price's talons drawn by mr. burke. revolution club exploded--[n.) . to the same, nov. .-anxiety for a letter from florence-- [n.] . to miss agnes berry, nov. .-thanks for her letter. correggio. guercino, a german edition of guido. lord stanhope's speech against calonne's book. dr. price's answer to burke. reasons for creating mr. grenville a peer. richmond arrivals. duke of clarence. mrs. fitzherbert. duke of queensbury. madame griffoni. works of massaccio. fra bartolomeo. benvenuto cellini's perseus-- . to the miss berrys, dec. .-character of mr. burke's "reflections." mrs. macaulay's reply to it--[n.] . . to miss berry, jan. .-recovery from a severe illness. death of mrs. french. illness of george selwyn--[n.] . to the miss berrys, jan. .-effects of his late illness. picture of himself. death and character of george selwyn. mademoiselle pagniani. story of miss vernon and martindale. the gunninghiad. visit from mr. batt. overthrow of the french monarchy. the duchess of gordon and mr. dundas--[n.] . to miss berry, feb. .-regrets at their absence, and anxiety for their return. destructive tempest. the rival opera-houses. taylor's pamphlet against the lord chamberlain-- (n.) . to the same, feb. . -hi@ anxiety for their return, but resolution not to derange their plans of economy. comte de coigny. instability of the present government of france. horne tooke's libel in the house of commons. christening of miss boycot--(n.] . to miss agnes berry, feb. .-narrative of the history of a marriage supposed to have been likely to take place between miss gunning and the marquis of blandford--[n.] . to the earl of charlemont, feb. .-on a surreptitious edition of the mysterious mother, published at dublin--[n.] . to miss agnes berry, feb. .-codicil to gunning's story. opening of the pantheon. dieu et mon droit versus ich dien-- (n.] . to the miss berrys, feb. .-more of the gunnings: arrival of madame du barry to recover her jewels. the king of france's aunt stopped from leaving france. majesty of the mob. the monster. gibbon's account of necker in retirement; and opinions of burke's reflections. madame du barry and the lord mayor. recovery of her jewels. jerningham's poetry--(n.) . to the same, march .-london unknown to londoners. "who is sir robert walpole?" destruction of the albion mills. automaton snuff-box [n.] . to miss berry, march .-mrs. gunning's letter to the duke of argyle--[n.] . to the miss berrys, march .-king's message on the situation of europe. blusterings of the autocratrix. bounces and huffs of prussia. royal reconciliation. taylor and the lord chamberlain. prosecution of the gunnings. gunnilda's letter to lord blandford--(n.) . to miss berry, april .-on her fall down a bank at pisa. kemble and mrs. siddons. mrs. damer's reception at elvas. death of dr. price. outrageous violence of the national assembly. paine's answer to burke--[n.] . to the same, april .-lady diana beauclerc's designs for dryden's fables. war with russia. madame du barry dining with the prince of wales. increased population of london. story of the young woman at st. helena. a party at mrs. buller's described--[n.) . to miss berry, april .-resignation of the duke of leeds. progress of the repairs at clivedon. the abolition of the slave-trade rejected. captain bowen's pamphlet against gunnilda. hannah more and the gretna green runaway. lord cholmondeley's marriage. indian victory--(n.] . to the same, may ,-congratulations on her recovery. earnest wish to put them in possession of clivedon during his life. unhappy quarrel between mr. burke and mr. fox. mrs. damer's arrival from spain--[n.] . to the same, may .-thanks for her punctuality in writing. advantages of resources in one's self. internal armour more necessary to females than weapons to men. duchesse de brissac. duc de nivernois. hastings's impeachment. the countess of albany in london. her presentation at court. her visit to the pantheon--[n.] . to the same, may .-the duchess of gordon's journal of a day. arrival of sir william hamilton with the nymph of the attitudes. strictures on boswell's life of dr. johnson. johnson's abuse of gray. burke's "letter to a member of the national assembly." his character of rousseau. lodge's "illustrations of british history" panegyricised. lord mount- edgcumbe's bon-mot on m. d'eon--[n.] . to the miss berrys, june --"this is the note that nobody wrote." interview with, and description of, madame d'albany-- [n.] . to the same, june .-frequency of highway robberies. the birthday. madame d'albany. mrs. fitzherbert. mrs. cosway. lally de tollendal's tragedy. french politics. rage for building in london. visit to dulwich college--[n.] . to the same, june . mrs. hobart's rural breakfast. dr beattie. malone's shakspeare--[n.] . to miss berry-, june .-madame du barry at mrs. hobart's breakfast. dr. robertson's "disquisition." french anarchy. madame d'albany at the house of lords--[n.] . to the same, july .-calonne in london. attack of the rheumatism--[n . to the miss berrys, july .-tom paine in england, crown and anchor celebration of the french revolution. birmingham riots. flight of the king of france to, and return from, varennes. marriage of the duke of york. catherine of russia. bust of mr. fox--[n.] . to miss berry, aug. .-spirit of democracy in switzerland. peace with russia. m. de bouill`e's bravado. sir william hamilton's pantomime wife. antique statues--[n.) . to the miss berrys, aug. .-miss harte and her attitudes. conversation with madame du barry. account of a boat-race. the soi-disante margravine in england--[n.] . to the same, sept. .-lord blandford's marriage. sir w. hamilton married to his gallery of statues. successes in india- -[n.] . to the same, sept. .-mrs. jordan. miss brunton's marriage. lord buchan's jubilee for thomson. character of the "seasons." danger of returning to england through france--[n.] . to the same, sept. .-valombroso. ionian antiquities. egyptian pyramids. mr. gilpin and richmond hill--[n.) . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept: .-the french emigrants at richmond. progress of the french revolution. the legislative assembly. the king's forced acceptance of the new constitution. predicts the flight of la fayette and the lameths. condorcet turned placeman. character of mirabeau--(n.] . to miss hannah more, sept. .-state of his health. the bishop of london's charity sermon. miss berrys. anxiety for their safe return from italy. miss burney. mrs. barbauld's verses on the abolition of the slave-trade--[n.) . to miss berry, oct. .-anxiety for their safe return. account of a visit to windsor castle. st. george's chapel. the new screen. jarvis's window. west's paintings. story of peg nicholson. thanks for their disinterested generosity in returning to england. the bolognese school. general gunning and the tailor's wife--[n.] . to john pinkerton, esq. dec. .-his feelings and situation on his accession to the title of earl of orford--[n.] -- . . to miss hannah more, jan. .-increase of trouble and business occasioned by his accession to the title-- . to thomas barrett, esq., may .-darwin's triumph of flora"-- . to miss hannah more, aug. .-the massacre of paris. butcheries at the tuilleries. tortures of the king and queen. heroic conduct of madame elizabeth. thankfulness for the tranquillity of england. mrs. wolstoncroft's "rights of women." gratitude for past comforts, and submission to his future lot-- [n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-detail of french atrocities. anecdotes of the duchess of york. state of his health-- . . to miss hannah more, feb. .-french horrors. beheading of louis the sixteenth. assignats. diabolical conduct of the duke of orleans. heroism of madame elizabeth. sublime sentence of father edgeworth. speculations on the future-- . to the same, march .-on her -' village politics." french atheism. massacre of manuel. condorcet's new constitution-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-on parties and party-men. injury done to the cause of liberty by the french republicans-- . to the same, july .-sultriness of the season. english felicity, french atrocities. separation of maria antoinette from her son-- . to the miss berrys, sept. .-reminds them of his first introduction to them--[n.] . to the same, sept. .-visit of the duchess of york to strawberry hill--[n.] . to the same, oct. .-inertness of the grand alliance against france--[n.] . to miss hannah more, oct.-on the answer to her pamphlet against m. dupont. atrocities of the french atheists--[n.] . to the miss berrys, oct. .-arrest of the duchesse de biron, and of the duchesse de fleury. execution of marie antoinette. the duchesse de la vali`ere--[n.] . to the same, nov. .-murder of maria antoinette. loss of lord montagu and mr. burdett in the falls of schaflhausen. suicide of mr. tickell. "death an endless sleep." mr. lysons' roman remains. account of his own readings--[n.] . to miss berry, dec. .-visit to haymarket theatre. young bannister in "the children of the wood." the comte de coigni. fate of the duc de fleury--[n.] . to the same, dec. .-reported successs of lord howe, and the duke of brunswick. quarrel between robespierre and barr`ere. fate of barrave, orleans, and brissot. mr. jerningham's play. character of mrs. howe--(n.] . . to the hon. h. s. conway, jan. .-on the gloomy prospect of affairs. jasper wilson's letter to mr. pitt-- . to miss berry, april .-successes in martinico. mrs. piozzi's "british synomymes." mr. courtenay's verses on him-- [n.] . to miss hannah more, april .-an invitation to meet lady waldegrave-- . to the miss berrys, sept. .-visit to mrs. damer's new house. her bust of mrs. siddons. canterbury. a ghost story. lord holland's buildings at kingsgate. recommends them to visit mr. barrett at lee--(n.) . to miss berry, oct. .-on the advisability of her accepting a situation at court--(n.] . to the miss berrys, oct. .-on their visit to mr. barrett at lee--(n.] . to the rev. mr. beloe, dec. .-on his intending to dedicate his translation of aulus gellius to lord orford-- . . to miss hannah more, jan. .-with his subscription to the fund for promoting the dispersion of the cheap repository tracts. death of condorcet, orleans, etc. justice of providence-- . to the same, feb. .-on receiving some ballads written by her for the cheap repository. bisliol) wilson's edition of the bible presented to her by lord orford-- . to william roscoe, esq. april .-on his sending him a copy of his life of lorenzo de medici-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-the queen's expected visit to strawberry hill-- . to the same, july .-account of the queen's visit to strawberry hill-- . . to miss berry, aug. .-mr. and mrs. conway. madame arblay's "camilla." arundel castle. monuments of the fitzalans. account of a visit from mr. penticross--[n.] . to the same, auff. .-arundel castle. chapel of the fitzalans--[n.) . to miss hannah more, aug. .-giving an account of his health; and expressing gratitude to god for the blessings he enjoys-- . to richard gough, eq. dec. .-thanking him for the second volume of his "sepulchral monuments"-- ( . to miss berry, dec. .-account of the debates in the house of commons on the loan to the emperor. death of lord orford--[n.] . to the countess of ossory, jan. -- end of volume iv. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, jan. , . (page ) sir, i have read with great pleasure and information, your history of scottish councils. it gave me much more satisfaction than i could have expected from so dry a subject. it will be perused, do not doubt it, by men of taste and judgment; and it is happy that it will be read without occasioning a controversy. the curse of modern times is, that almost every thing does create controversy, and that men who are willing to instruct or amuse the world have to dread malevolence and interested censure, instead of receiving thanks. if your part of our country is at all free from that odious spirit, you are to be envied. in our region we are given up to every venomous mischievous passion, and as we behold all the public vices that raged in and destroyed the remains of the roman commonwealth, so i wish we do not experience some of the horrors that brought on the same revolution. when we see men who call themselves patriots and friends of liberty attacking the house of commons, to what, sir, can you and i, who are really friends of liberty, impute such pursuits, but to interest and disappointed ambition! when we see, on one hand, the prerogative of the crown excited against parliament, and on the other, the king and royal family traduced and insulted in the most shameless manner, can we believe such a faction is animated by honesty or love of the constitution? when, as you very sensibly observe, the authors of grievances are the loudest to complain of them, and when those authors and their capital enemies shake hands, embrace, and join in a common cause, which set can we believe most or least sincere? and when every set of men have acted every part, to whom shall the well-meaning look up? what can the latter do, but sit with folded arms and pray for miracles? yes, sir, they may weep over a prospect of ruin too probably approaching, and regret a glorious country nodding to its fall, when victory, wealth, and daily universal improvements, might make it the admiration and envy of the world? is the crown to be forced to be absolute? is caesar to enslave us, because he conquered gaul? is some cromwell to trample on us, because mrs. macaulay approves the army that turned out the house of commons, the necessary consequence of such mad notions? is eloquence to talk or write us out of ourselves? or is catiline to save us, butt so as by fire? sir, i talk thus freely, because it is a satisfaction, in ill-looking moments, to vent one's apprehensions in an honest bosom. you will not, i am sure, suffer my letter to go out of your own hands. i have no views to satisfy or resentments to gratify. i have done with the world, except in the hopes of a quiet enjoyment of it for the few years i may have to come; but i love my country, though i desire and expect nothing from it, and i would wish to leave it to posterity, as secure and deserving to be valued, as i found it. despotism, or unbounded licentiousness, can endear no nation to any honest man. the french can adore the monarch that starves them, and banditti are often attached to their chief; but no good briton can love any constitution that does not secure the tranquillity and peace of mind of all. ( ) now first collected. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, jan. , . (page ) sir, i have not had time to return you the enclosed sooner, but i give you my honour that it has neither been out of my hands, nor been copied. it is a most curious piece, but though affecting art has very little; so ill is the satire disguised. i agree with you in thinking it ought not to be published yet, as nothing is more cruel than divulging private letters which may wound the living. i have even the same tenderness for the children of persons concerned; but i laugh at delicacy for grandchildren, who can be affected by nothing but their pride- -and let that be hurt if it will. it always finds means of consoling itself. the rapid history of mr. yorke is very touching.( ) for himself, he has escaped a torrent of obloquy, which this unfeeling and prejudiced moment was ready to pour on him. many of his survivors may, perhaps, live to envy him! madness and wickedness gain ground--and you may be sure borrow the chariot of virtue. lord chatham, not content with endeavouring to confound and overturn the legislature, has thrown out, that one member more ought to be added to each county;( ) so little do ambition -,and indulgence scruple to strike at fundamentals! sir george savile and edmund burke, as if envying the infamous intoxication of wilkes, have attacked the house of commons itself, in the most gross and vilifying language.( ) in short, the plot thickens fast, and catilines start up in every street. i cannot say ciceros and catos arise to face them. the phlegmatic and pedants in history quote king william's and sacheverel's times to show the present is not more serious; but if i have any reading, i must remember that the repetition of bad scenes brings about a catastrophe at last! it is small consolation to living sufferers to reflect that history will rejudge great criminals; nor is that sure. how seldom is history fairly stated! when do all men concur in the same sentence? do the guilty dead regard its judicature, or they who prefer the convict to the judge? besides, an ape of sylla will call himself brutus, and the foolish people assist a proscription before they suspect that their hero is an incendiary. indeed, sir, we are, as milton says-- "on evil days fallen and evil tongues!" i shall be happy to find i have had too gloomy apprehensions. a man, neither connected with ministers nor opponents, may speculate too subtly. if all this is but a scramble for power, let it fall to whose lot it will! it is the attack on the constitution that strikes me. i have nothing to say for the corruption of senators; but if the senate itself is declared vile by authority, that is by a dissolution, will a re-election restore its honour? will wilkes, and parson horne, and junius (for they will name the members) give us more virtuous representations than ministers have done? reformation must be a blessed work in the hands of such reformers! moderation, and attachment to the constitution, are my principles. is the latter to be risked rather than endure any single evil? i would oppose, that is restrain, by opposition check, each branch of the legislature that predominates in its turn;--but if i detest laud, it does not make me love hugh peters. adieu, sir! i must not tire you with my reflections; but as i am flattered with thinking i have the sanction of the same sentiments in you, it is natural to indulge even unpleasing meditations when one meets with sympathy, and it is as natural for those who love their country to lament its danger. i am, sir, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) on the th, mr. charles yorke was appointed lord chancellor, and a patent was ordered to be made out, creating him a peer, by the title of lord morden; but, three days after, before the patent could be completed, he suddenly closed his valuable life, at the early age of forty-eight.-e. ( ) lord chatham, on the preceding day, had made his celebrated speech on the state of the nation, which had the good fortune to be ably reported by sir philip francis, and attracted the particular attention of junius. the following is the passage which gave walpole so much offence:--"since we cannot cure the disorder, let us endeavour to infuse such a portion of new health into the constitution, as may enable it to support its most inveterate diseases. the representation of the counties is, i think, still preserved pure and uncorrupted. that of the greatest cities is upon a footing equally respectable; and there are many of the larger trading towns which stilt preserve their independence. the infusion of health which i now allude to would be to permit every county to elect one member more in addition to their present representation." sir philip francis's report of this speech was first printed by almon in . junius, in a letter to wilkes, of the th of september , says--"i approve highly of lord chatham's idea of infusing a portion of new health into the constitution, to enable it to bear its infirmities; a brilliant expression, and full of intrinsic wisdom." there can be little doubt that junius and sir philip francis were present in the house of lords, when this speech was delivered. see chatham correspondence, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) the speeches of sir george savile and mr. burke, above alluded to, will be found in sir henry cavendish's debates.-e. letter . to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) i shall be extremely obliged to you for alderman backwell. a scarce print is a real present to me, who have a table of weights and measures in my head very different from that of the rich and covetous. i am glad your journey was prosperous. the weather here has continued very sharp, but it has been making preparations for april to-day, and watered the streets with some soft showers. they will send me to strawberry to-morrow, where i hope to find the lilacs beginning to put forth their little noses. mr. chute mends very slowly, but you know he has as much patience as gout. i depend upon seeing you whenever you return this wayward. you will find the round chamber far advanced, though not finished; for my undertakings do not stride with the impetuosity of my youth. this single room has been half as long in completing as all the rest of the castle. my compliments to mr. john, whom i hope to see at the same time. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill may , . (page ) if you are like me, you are fretting at the weather. we have not a leaf, yet, large enough to make an apron for a miss eve at two years old. flowers and fruits, if they come at all this year, must meet together as they do in a dutch picture; our lords and ladies, however, couple as if it were the real giovent`u dell' anno. lord albemarle,( ) you know has disappointed all his brothers and my niece; and lord fitzwilliam is declared sposo to lady charlotte ponsonby.( ) it is a pretty match, and makes lord besborough as happy as possible. masquerades proceed in spite of church and king. the bishop of london persuaded that good soul the archbishop to remonstrate against them; but happily the age prefers silly follies to serious ones, and dominos, comme de raison, carry it against lawn sleeves.( ) there is a new institution that begins to and if it proceeds, will make a considerable noise. it is a club of both sexes to be erected at almack's, on the model of that of the men at white's. mrs. fitzroy, lady pembroke, mrs. meynel, lady molyneux, miss pelham, and miss loyd, are the foundresses. i am ashamed to say i am of so young and fashionable a society; but as they are people i live with, i choose to be idle rather than morose. i can go to a young supper, without forgetting how much sand is run out of the hourglass. yet i shall never pass a triste old age in turning the psalms into latin or english verse. my plan is to pass away calmly; cheerfully if i can; sometimes to amuse myself with the rising generation, but to take care not to fatigue them, nor weary them with old stories, which will not interest them, as their adventures do not interest me. age would indulge prejudices if it did not sometimes polish itself against younger acquaintance; but it must be the work of folly if one hopes to contract friendship with them, or desires it, or thinks one can become the same follies, or expects that they should do more than bear one for one's good humour. in short, they are a pleasant medicine, that one should take care not to grow fond of. medicines hurt when habit has annihilated their force; but you see i am in no danger. i intend by degrees to decrease my opium, instead of augmenting the dose. good-night! you see i never let our long-lived friendship drop, though you give it so few opportunities of breathing. ( ) george, third earl of albemarle. his lordship had married, on the th of april, anne, youngest daughter of sir john miller, bart. of chichester. he died in october .-e. ( ) lady charlotte ponsonby, second daughter of william, second earl of besborough. the marriage took place on the st of july.-e. ( ) dr. johnson, having read in the newspapers an account of a masquerade given at edinburgh, by the countess dowager of fife, at which boswell had appeared in the character of a dumb conjuror, thus wrote to him:--"i have heard of your masquerade. what says your synod to such innovations? i am not studiously scrupulous, nor do i think a masquerade either evil in itself or very likely to be the occasion of evil, yet, as the world thinks it a very licentious relaxation of manners, i would not have been one of the first masquers in a country where no masquerades had ever been before."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) my company and i have wished for you very much to-day. the duchess of portland, mrs. delany, mr. bateman, and your cousin, fred. montagu, dined here. lord guildford was very obliging, and would have come if he dared have ventured. mrs. montagu was at bill-hill with lady gower. the day was tolerable, with sun enough for the house, though not for the garden. you, i suppose, will never come again, as i have not a team of horses large enough to draw you out of the clay of oxfordshire. i went yesterday to see my niece( ) in her new principality of ham. it delighted me and made me peevish. close to the thames, in the centre of all rich and verdant beauty, it is so blocked up and barricaded with walls, vast trees, and gates, that you think yourself an hundred miles off and an hundred years back. the old furniture is so magnificently ancient, dreary and decayed, that at every step one's spirits sink, and all my passion for antiquity could not keep them up. every minute i expected to see ghosts sweeping by; ghosts i would not give sixpence to see, lauderdales, tollcmaches, and maitlands. there is one old brown gallery full of vandycks and lelys, charming miniatures, delightful wouvermans, and polenburghs, china, japan, bronzes, ivory cabinets, and silver dogs, pokers, bellows, etc. without end. one pair of bellows is of filigree. in this state of pomp and tatters my nephew intends it shall remain, and is so religious an observer of the venerable rites of his house, that because the gates never were opened by his father but once for the late lord granville, you are locked out and locked in, and after journeying all round the house, as you do round an old french fortified town, you are at last admitted through the stable-yard to creep along a dark passage by the housekeeper's room, and so by a back-door into the great hall. he seems as much afraid of water as a cat; for though you might enjoy the thames from every window of three sides of the house, you may tumble into it before you guess it is there. in short, our ancestors had so little idea of taste and beauty, that i should not have been surprised if they had hung their pictures with the painted sides to the wall. think of such a palace commanding all the reach of richmond and twickenham, with a domain from the foot of richmond-hill to kingston-bridge, and then imagine its being as dismal and prospectless as if it stood "on stanmore's wintry wild!" i don't see why a man should not be divorced from his prospect as well as from his wife, for not being able to enjoy it. lady dysart frets, but it is not the etiquette of the family to yield, and @ she must content herself with her chateau of tondertentronk as well as she can. she has another such ample prison in suffolk, and may be glad to reside where she is. strawberry, with all its painted glass and gloom, looked as gay when i came home as mrs. cornelis's ball-room. i am very busy about the last volume of my painters, but have lost my index, and am forced again to turn over all my vertues, forty volumes of miniature mss.; so that this will be the third time i shall have made an index to them. don't say that i am not persevering, and yet i thought i was grown idle. what pains one takes to be forgotten! good-night! ( ) charlotte, daughter of sir edward walpole, married to lord huntingtower, who had just succeeded to the title of the earl of dysart, on the death of his father.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) since the sharp mountain will not come to the little hill, the little hill must go to the mountain. in short, what do you think of seeing me walk into your parlour a few hours after this epistle! i had not time to notify myself sooner. the case is, princess amelia has insisted on my going with her to, that is, meeting her at stowe on monday, for a week. she mentioned it to me some time ago, and i thought i had parried it; but having been with her at park-place these two or three days, she has commanded it so positively that i could not refuse. now, as it would be extremely inconvenient to my indolence to be dressed up in weepers and hatbands by six o'clock in the morning, and lest i should be taken for chief mourner going to beckford's funeral,( ) i trust you will be charitable enough to give me a bed at adderbury for one night, whence i can arrive at stowe in a decent time, and caparisoned as i ought to be, when i have lost a brother-in-law( ) and am to meet a princess. don't take me for a lauson, and think all this favour portends a second marriage between our family and the blood-royal; nor that my visit to stowe implies my espousing miss wilkes. i think i shall die as i am, neither higher nor lower; and above all things, no more politics. yet i shall have many a private smile to myself, as i wander among all those consecrated and desecrated buildings, and think what company i am in, and of all that is past; but i must shorten my letter, or you will not have finished it when i arrive. adieu! yours, a-coming! a-coming! ( ) william beckford, esq. lord mayor of london, who died on the st of june, during his second mayoralty, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. on the th of the following month, at a meeting of the common council, "a motion being made and question put, that the statue of the right hon. william beckford, late lord mayor, deceased, be erected in the guildhall of this city, with the inscription of his late address to his majesty, the was resolved in the affirmative." the speech here alluded to is the one which the alderman addressed to his majesty on the d of may, with reference to the king's reply--"that he should have been wanting to the public, as well as to himself, if he had not expressed his dissatisfaction at the late address." at the end of the alderman's speech, in his copy of the city addresses, mr. isaac reed has inserted the following note:--"it is a curious fact, but a true one, that beckford did not utter one syllable of this speech. it was penned by horne tooke, and by his art put on the records of the city and on beckford's statue; as he told me, mr. braithwaite, mr. sayers, etc. at the athenian club. isaac reed." there can be little doubt that the worthy commentator and his friends were imposed upon. in the chatham correspondence, vol. iii. p. , a letter from sheriff townsend to the earl expressly states, that with the exception of the words "and necessary" being left out before the word "revolution," the lord mayor's speech in the public advertiser of the preceding day is verbatim the one delivered to the king.--e. ( ) george third earl of cholmondeley. he married, in , mary the youngest daughter of @sir robert walpole.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. adderbury, sunday night, july , . (page you will be enough surprised to receive a letter from me dated from your own house, and may judge of my mortification at not finding you here; exactly as it happened two years ago. in short, here i am, and will tell you how i came here; in truth, not a little against my will. i have been at park-place with princess amelia, and she insisted on my meeting her at stowe to-morrow. she had mentioned it before, and as i have no delight in a royal progress, and as little in the seigneur temple, i waived the honour and pleasure, and thought i should hear no more of it. however, the proposal was turned into a command, and every body told me i could not refuse. well, i could not come so near, and not call upon you; besides, it is extremely convenient to my lord castlecomer, for it would have been horrid to set out at seven o'clock in the morning, full- dressed, in my weepers, and to step out of my chaise into a drawing-room. i wrote to you on friday, the soonest i could after this was settle(], to notify myself to you, but find i am arrived before my letter. mrs. white is all goodness; and being the first of july, and consequently the middle of winter, has given me a good fire and some excellent coffee and bread and butter, and i am as comfortable as possible, except in having missed you. she insists on acquainting you, which makes me write this to prevent your coming; for as i must depart at twelve o'clock to-morrow, it would be dragging you home before your time for only half an hour, and i have too much regard for lord guildford to deprive him of your company. don't therefore think of making this unnecessary compliment. i have treated your house like an inn, and it will not be friendly, if you do not make as free with me. i had much rather that you would take it for a visit that you ought to repay. make my best compliments to your brother and lord guildford, and pity me for the six dreadful days that i am going to pass. rosette is fast asleep in your chair, or i am sure she would write a postscript. i cannot say she is either commanded or invited to be of this royal party; but have me, have my dog. i must not forget to thank you for mentioning mrs. wetenhall, on whom i should certainly wait with great pleasure, but have no manner of intention of going into cheshire. there is not a chair or stool in cholmondeley, and my nephew, i believe, will pull it down. he has not a fortune to furnish or inhabit it; and, if his uncle should leave him one, he would choose a pleasanter country. adieu! don't be formal with me, and don't trouble your hand about yours ever. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, saturday night, july , . (page ) after making an inn of your house, it is but decent to thank you for my entertainment, and to acquaint you with the result of my journey. the party passed off much better than i expected. a princess at the heart of a very small set for five days together did not promise well. however, she was very good-humoured and easy, and dispensed with a large quantity of etiquette. lady temple is good-nature itself, my lord was very civil, lord besborough is made to suit all sorts of people, lady mary coke respects royalty too much not to be very condescending, lady anne howard( ) and mrs. middleton filled up the drawing-room, or rather made it out, and i was so determined to carry it off as well as i could, and happened to be in such good spirits, and took such care to avoid politics, that we laughed a great deal, and had not one cloud the whole time. we breakfasted at half an hour after nine; but the princess did not appear till it was finished; then we walked in the garden, or drove about in cabriolets, till it was time to dress; dined at three, which, though properly proportioned to the smallness of company to avoid ostentation, lasted a vast while, as the princess eats and talks a great deal; then again into the garden till past seven, when we came in, drank tea and coffee, and played at pharaoh till ten, when the princess retired, and we went to supper, and before twelve to bed. you see there was great sameness and little vivacity in all this. it was a little broken by fishing, and going round the park one of the mornings; but, in reality, the number of buildings and variety of scenes in the garden, made each day different from the rest, and my meditations on so historic a spot prevented my being tired. every acre brings to one's mind some instance of the parts or pedantry, of the taste or want of taste, of the ambition or love of fame, or greatness or miscarriages, of those that have inhabited, decorated, planned, or visited the place. pope, congreve, vanbrugh, kent, gibbs, lord cobham, lord chesterfield, the mob of nephews, the lytteltons, granvilles, wests, leonidas glover, and wilkes, the late prince of wales, the king of denmark, princess amelia, and the proud monuments of lord chatham's services, now enshrined there, then anathematized there, and now again commanding there, with the temple of friendship, like the temple of janus, sometimes open to war, and sometimes shut up in factious cabals--all these images crowd upon one's memory, and add visionary personages to the charming scenes, that are so enriched with fanes and temples, that the real prospects are little less than visions themselves. on wednesday night, a small vauxhall was acted for us at the grotto in the elysian fields, which was illuminated with lamps, as were the thicket and two little barks on the lake. with a little exaggeration i could make you believe that nothing was so delightful. the idea was really pretty; but as my feelings have lost something of their romantic sensibility, i did not quite enjoy such an entertainment alfresco so much as i should have done twenty years ago. the evening was more than cool, and the destined spot any thing but dry. there were not half lamps enough, and no music but an ancient militia-man, who played cruelly on a squeaking tabor and pipe. as our procession descended the vast flight of' steps into the garden, in which was assembled a crowd of people from buckingham and the neighbouring villages to see the princess and the show, the moon shining very bright, i could not help laughing as i surveyed our troop, which, instead of tripping lightly to such an arcadian entertainment, were hobbling down by the balustrades, wrapt up in cloaks and greatcoats, for fear of catching cold. the earl, you know, is bent double, the countess very lame; i am a miserable walker, and the princess, though as strong as a brunswick lion, makes no figure in going down fifty stone stairs. except lady anne, and by courtesy lady mary, we were none of us young enough for a pastoral. we supped in the grotto, which is as proper to this climate as a sea-coal fire would be in the dog-days at tivoli. but the chief entertainment of the week, at least what was so to the princess, was an arch, which lord temple has erected to her honour in the most enchanting of all picturesque scenes. it is inscribed on one side, 'amelia sophia aug.,' and has a medallion of her on the other. it is placed on an eminence at the top of the elysian fields, in a grove of orange-trees. you come to it on a sudden, and are startled with delight on looking through it: you at once see, through a glade, the river winding at the bottom; from which a thicket arises, arched over with trees, but opened, and discovering a hillock full of haycocks, beyond which in front is the palladian bridge, and again over that a larger hill crowned with the castle. it is a tall landscape framed by the arch and the overhovering trees, and comprehending more beauties of light, shade, and buildings, than any picture of albano i ever saw. between the flattery and the prospect the princess was really in elysium: she visited her arch four or five times every day, and could not satiate herself with it. statues of apollo and the muses stand on each side of the arch. one day she found in apollo's hand the following lines, which i had written for her, and communicated to lord temple:-- t'other day, with a beautiful frown on her brow, to the rest of the gods said the venus of stowe, "what a fuss is here made with that arch just erected, how our temples are slighted, our antirs neglected! since yon nymph has appear'd, we are noticed no more, all resort to her shrine, all her presence adore; and what's more provoking, before all our faces, temple thither has drawn both the muses and graces." "keep your temper, dear child," phoebus cried with a smile, "nor this happy, this amiable festival spoil. can your shrine any longer with garlands be dress'd? when a true goddess reigns, all the false are suppress'd." if you will keep my counsel, i will own to you, that originally the two last lines were much better, but i was forced to alter them out of decorum, not to be too pagan upon the occasion; in short, here they are as in the first sketch,-- "recollect, once before that our oracle ceased, when a real divinity rose in the east." so many heathen temples around had made me talk as a roman poet would have done: but i corrected my verses, and have made them insipid enough to offend nobody. good night! i am rejoiced to be once more in the gay solitude of my own little temple. yours ever. ( ) lady anne howard, daughter of henry fourth earl, and sister of frederick fifth earl of carlisle.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i am not going to tell you, my dear lord, of the diversions or honours of stowe, which i conclude lady mary has writ to lady strafford. though the week passed cheerfully enough, it was more glory than i should have sought of my own head. the journeys to stowe and park-place have deranged my projects so, that i don't know where i am, and i wish they have not given me the gout into the bargain; for i am come back very lame, and not at all with the bloom that one ought to have imported from the elysian field. such jaunts when one is growing old is playing with edged-tools, as my lord chesterfield, in one of his worlds,( ) makes the husband say to his wife, when she pretends that gray powder does not become her. it is charming at twenty to play at elysian fields, but it is no joke at fifty; or too great a joke. it made me laugh as we were descending the great flight of steps from the house to go and sup in the grotto on the banks of helicon: we were so cloaked up, for the evening was very cold, and so many of us were limping and hobbling, that charon would have easily believed we were going to ferry over in earnest. it is with much more comfort that i am writing to your lordship in the great bow-window of my new round room, which collects all the rays of the southwest sun, and composes a sort of summer; a feel i have not known this year, except last thursday. if the rains should ever cease, and the weather settle to fine, i shall pay you my visit at wentworth castle; but hitherto the damps have affected me so much, that i am more disposed to return to london and light my fire, than brave the humours of a climate so capricious and uncertain, in the country. i cannot help thinking it grows worse; i certainly remember such a thing as dust: nay, i still have a clear idea of it, though i have seen none for some years, and should put some grains in a bottle for a curiosity, if it should ever fly again. news i know none. you may be sure it was a subject carefully avoided at stowe; and beckford's death had not raised the glass or spirits of the master of the house. the papers make one sick with talking of that noisy vapouring fool, as they would of algernon sidney. i have not happened to see your future nephew, though we have exchanged visits. it was the first time i had been at marble-hill, since poor lady suffolk's death; and the impression was so uneasy, that i was not sorry not to find him at home. adieu, my good lord! except seeing you both, nothing can be more agreeable than to hear of yours and lady strafford's health, who, i hope, continues perfectly well. ( ) no. . a country gentleman's tour to paris with his family.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, july , . (page ) reposing under my laurels! no, no, i am reposing in a much better tent, under the tester of my own bed. i am not obliged to rise by break of day and be dressed for the drawing-room; i may saunter in my slippers till dinner-time, and not make bows till my back is as much out of joint as my lord temple's. in short, i should die of the gout or fatigue, if i was to be polonius to a princess for another week. twice a-day we made a pilgrimage to almost every heathen temple in that province that they call a garden; and there is no sallying out of the house without descending a flight of steps as high as st. paul's. my lord besborough would have dragged me up to the top of the column, to see all the kingdoms of the earth; but i would not, if he could have given them to me. to crown all, because we live under the line, and that we were all of us giddy young creatures, of near threescore, we supped in a grotto in the elysian fields, and were refreshed with rivers of dew and gentle showers that dripped from all the trees, and put us in mind of the heroic ages, when kings and queens were shepherds and shepherdesses, and lived in caves, and were wet to the skin two or three times a-day. well! thank heaven, i am emerged from that elysium, and once more in a christian country!--not but, to say the truth, our pagan landlord and landlady were very obliging, and the party went off much better than i expected. we had no very recent politics, though volumes about the spanish war; and as i took care to give every thing a ludicrous turn as much as i could, the princess was diverted, the six days rolled away, and the seventh is my sabbath; and i promise you i will do no manner of work, i, nor my cat, nor my dog, nor any thing that is mine. for this reason, i entreat that the journey to goodwood may not take place before the th of august, when i will attend you. but this expedition to stowe has quite blown up my intended one to wentworth castle: i have not resolution enough left for such a journey. will you and lady ailesbury come to strawberry before, or after goodwood? i know you like being dragged from home as little as i do; therefore you shall place that visit just when it is most convenient to you. i came to town the night before last, and am just returning. there are not twenty people in all london. are not you in despair about the summer? it is horrid to be ruined in coals in june and july. adieu. yours ever. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i see by the papers this morning that mr. jenkinson( ) is dead. he had the reversion of my place, which would go away, if i should lose my brother. i have no pretensions to ask it, and you know it has long been my fixed resolution not to accept it. but as lord north is your particular friend, i think it right to tell you, that you may let him know what it is worth, that he may give it to one of his own sons, and not bestow it on somebody else, without being apprised of its value. i have seldom received less than fourteen hundred a-year in money, and my brother, i think, has four more from it. there are besides many places in the gift of the office, and one or two very considerable. do not mention this but to lord north, or lord guilford. it is unnecessary, i am sure, for me to say to you, but i would wish them to be assured that in saying this, i am incapable of, and above any finesse, or view, to myself. i refused the reversion for myself several years ago, when lord holland was secretary of state, and offered to obtain it for me. lord bute, i believe, would have been very glad to have given it to me, before he gave it to jenkinson; but i say it very seriously, and you know me enough to be certain i am in earnest, that i would not accept it upon any account. any favour lord north will do for you will give me all the satisfaction i desire. i am near fifty-three; i have neither ambition nor interest to gratify. i can live comfortably for the remainder of my life, though i should be poorer by fourteen hundred pounds a-year; but i should have no comfort if, in the dregs of life, i did any thing that i would not do when i was twenty years younger. i will trust to you, therefore, to make use of this information in the friendly manner i mean it, and to prevent my being hurt by its being taken otherwise than as a design to serve those to whom you wish well. adieu! yours ever. ( ) charles jenkinson, at this time one of the lords of the treasury. in , he was created baron hawkesbury, and in advanced to the dignity of earl of liverpool.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sunday, [july , .] (page ) i am sorry i wrote to you last night, for i find it is mrs. jenkinson( ) that is dead, and not mr.; and therefore i should be glad to have this arrive time enough to prevent your mentioning the contents of my letter. in that case, i should not be concerned to have given you that mark of my constant good wishes, nor to have talked to you of my affairs, which are as well in your breast as my own. they never disturb me; for my mind has long taken its stamp, and as i shall leave nobody much younger than myself behind me for whom i am solicitous, i have no desire beyond being easy for the rest of my life i could not be so if i stooped to have obligations to any man beyond what it would ever be in my power to return. when i was in parliament, i had the additional reason of choosing to be entirely free; and my strongest reason of all is, that i will be at liberty to speak truth both living and dead. this outweighs all considerations of interest, and will convince you, though i believe you do not want that conviction, that my yesterday's letter was as sincere in its resolution as in its professions to you. let the matter drop entirely, as it is now of no consequence. adieu! yours ever. ( ) amelia, daughter of william watts, esq. formerly governor of fort william, in bengal.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i am going on in the sixth week of my fit, and having had a return this morning in my knee, i cannot flatter myself with any approaching prospect of recovery. the gate of painful age seems open to me, and i must travel through it as i may! if you have not written one word for another, i am at a loss to understand you. you say you have taken a house in london for a year, that you are gone to waldeshare for six months, and then shall come for the winter. either you mean six weeks, or differ with most people in reckoning april the beginning of winter. i hope your pen was in a hurry, rather than your calculation so uncommon; i certainly shall be glad of your residing in london. i have long wished to live nearer to you, but it was in happier days. i am now so dismayed by these returns of gout, that i can promise myself few comforts in any future scenes of my life. i am much obliged to lord guildford and lord north, and was very sorry that the latter came to see strawberry in so bad a day, and when i was so extremely ill, and full of pain, that i scarce knew he was here; and as my coachman was gone to london, to fetch me bootikins, there was no carriage to offer him; but, indeed, in the condition i then was, i was not capable of doing any of the honours of my house, suffering at once in my hand, knee, and both feet. i am still lifted out of bed by two servants; and by their help travel from my bedchamber down to the couch in my blue room; but i shall conclude, rather than tire you with so unpleasant a history. adieu! yours ever. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) at last i have been able to remove to london; but though long weeks are gone and over since i was seized, i am only able to creep about upon a flat floor, but cannot go up and down stairs. however, i have patience, as i can at least fetch a book for myself', instead of having a servant bring me a wrong one. i am much obliged to lord guildford for his goodness to me, and beg my thanks to him. when you go to canterbury, pray don't wake the black prince. i am very unwarlike, and desire to live the rest of my time upon the stock of glory i saved to my share out of the last war. i know not more news than i did at strawberry; there are not more people in town than i saw there, and i intend to return thither on friday or saturday. adieu! yours ever. letter to the earl of strafford. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) though i have so very little to say, it is but my duty, my dear lord, to thank you for your extreme goodness to me and your inquiring after me. i was very bad again last week, but have mended so much since friday night, that i really now believe the fit is over. i came to town on sunday, and can creep about my room even without a stick, which is more felicity to me than if i had got a white one. i do not aim yet at such preferment as walking up stairs; but having moulted my stick, i flatter myself i shall come forth again without being lame. the few i have seen tell me there is nobody else in town. that is no grievance to me, when i should be at the mercy of all that should please to bestow their idle time upon me. i know nothing of the war-egg, but that sometimes it is to be hatched and sometimes to be addled.( ) many folks get into the nest, and sit as hard upon it as they can, concluding it will produce a golden chick. as i shall not be a feather the better for it, i hate that game-breed, and prefer the old hen peace and her dunghill brood. my compliments to my lady and all her poultry. ( ) the dispute with spain relative to the possession of the falkland islands, had led to a considerable augmentation both of the army and navy; which gave an appearance of authenticity to the rumours of war which were now in circulation.-e. letter to the earl of charlemont.( ) arlington street, oct. , . (page ) my lord, i am very glad your lordship resisted your disposition to make me an apology for doing me a great honour; for, if you had not, the lord knows where i should have found words to have made a proper return. still you have left me greatly in your debt. it is very kind to remember me, and kinder to honour me with your commands: they shall be zealously obeyed to the utmost of my little credit; for an artist that your lordship patronises will, i imagine, want little recommendation, besides his own talents. it does not look, indeed, like very prompt obedience, when i am yet guessing only at mr. jervais's merit; but though he has lodged himself within a few doors of me, i have not been able to get to him, having been confined near two months with the gout, and still keeping my house. my first visit shall be to gratify my duty and curiosity. i am sorry to say, and beg your lordship's pardon for the confession, that, however high an opinion i have of your taste in the arts, i do not equally respect your judgment in books. it is in truth a defect that you have in common with the two great men who are the respective models of our present parties-- "the hero william, and the martyr charles." you know what happened to them after patronising kneller and bernini-- "one knighted blackmore, and one pensioned quarles." after so saucy an attack, my lord, it is time to produce my proof. it lies in your own postscript, where you express a curiosity to see a certain tragedy, with a hint that the other works of the same author have found favour in your sight, and that the piece ought to have been sent to you. but, my lord, even your approbation has not made that author vain; and for the lay in question, it has so many perils to encounter, that it never thinks of producing itself. it peeped out of its lurking corner once or twice; and one of those times, by the negligence of a friend, had like to have been, what is often pretended in prefaces, stolen, and consigned to the press. when your lordship comes to england, which, for every reason but that, i hope will be soon, you shall certainly see it; and will then allow, i am sure. how improper it would be for the author to risk its appearance in public. however, unworthy as that author may be, from his talents, of your lordship's favour, do not let its demerits be confounded with the esteem and attachment with which he has the honour to be, my lord, your lordship's most devoted servant. ( ) james caulfield, earl of charlemont, an irish nobleman, distinguished for his literary taste and patriotism. of him mr. burke said, ,he is a man of such polished manners, of a mind so truly adorned and disposed to the adoption of whatever is excellent and praiseworthy, that to see and converse with him would alone induce me, or might induce any one who relishes such qualities, to pay a visit to ireland." he died in , and in , his memoirs were published by francis hardy, esq. in a quarto volume.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, nov. , . ((page ) dear sir, if you have not engaged your interest in cambridgeshire, you will oblige me much by bestowing it on young mr. brand, the son of my particular acquaintance, and our old schoolfellow. i am very unapt to trouble my head about elections, but wish success to this. if you see bannerman, i should be glad you would tell him that i am going to print the last volume of my painters, and should like to employ him again for some of the heads, if he cares to undertake them: though there will be a little trouble as he does not reside in london. i am in a hurry, and am forced to be brief, but am always glad to hear of you, and from you. yours most sincerely. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i believe our letters crossed one another without knowing it. mine, it seems, was quite unnecessary, for i find mr. brand has given up the election. yours was very kind and obliging, as they always are. pray be so good as to thank mr. tyson for me a thousand times; i am vastly pleased with his work, and hope he will give me another of the plates for my volume of heads (for i shall bind up his present), and i by no means relinquish his promise of a complete set of his etchings, and of a visit to strawberry hill. why should it not be with you and mr. essex, whom i shall be very glad to see--but what do you talk of a single day? is that all you allow me in two years? i rejoice to see mr. bentham's advertisement at last. i depend on you, dear sir, for procuring me his book( ) the instant it is possible to have it. pray make my compliments to all that good family. i am enraged, and almost in despair, at pearson the glass-painter, he is so idle and dissolute. he has done very little of the window, though what he has done is glorious, and approaches very nearly to price. my last volume of painters begins to be printed this week; but, as the plates are not begun, i doubt it will be long before the whole is ready. i mentioned to you in my last thursday's letter a hint about bannerman, the engraver. adieu! ( ) the "history and antiquities of the conventual and cathedral church at ely," which appeared in the following year.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) dear sir i am very zealous, as you know, for the work; but i agree with you in expecting very little success from the plan.( ) activity is the best implement in such undertakings, and that seems to be wanting; and, without that, it were vain to think of who would be at the expense. i do not know whether it were not best that mr. essex should publish his remarks as simply as he can. for my own part, i can do no more than i have done,- -sketch out the plan. i grow too old, and am grown too indolent, to engage in any more works: nor have i time. i wish to finish some things i have by me, and to have done. the last volume of my anecdotes, of which i was tired, is completed and with them i shall take my leave of publications. the last years of one's life are fit for nothing but idleness and quiet, and i am as indifferent to fame as to politics. i can be of as little use to mr. granger in recommending him to the antiquarian society. i dropped my attendance there four or five years ago, from being sick of their ignorance and stupidity, and have not been three times amongst them since. they have chosen to expose their dullness to the world, and crowned it with dean milles's( ) nonsense. i have written a little answer to the last, which you shall see, and then wash my hands of them. to say the truth, i have no very sanguine expectation about the ely window. the glass-painter, though admirable, proves a very idle worthless fellow, and has yet scarce done any thing of consequence. i gave dr. nichols notice of his character, but found him apprised of it. the doctor, however, does not despair, but pursues him warmly. i wish it may succeed! if you go over to cambridge, be so good as to ask mr. grey when he proposes being in town; he talked of last month. i must beg you, too, to thank mr. tyson for his last letter. i can say no more to the plan than i have said. if he and mr. essex should like to come to town, i shall be very willing to talk it over with them, but i can by no means think of engaging in any part of the composition. these holidays i hope to have time to arrange my drawings, and give bannerman some employment towards my book, but i am in no hurry to have it appear, as it speaks of times so recent; for though i have been very tender of not hurting any living relations of the artists, the latter were in general so indifferent, that i doubt their families will not be very well content with the coldness of the praises i have been able to bestow. this reason, with my unwillingness to finish the work, and the long interval between the composition of this and the other volumes, have, i doubt, made the greatest part a very indifferent performance. an author, like other mechanics, never does well when he is tired of his profession. i have been told that, besides mr. tyson, there are two other gentlemen engravers at cambridge. i think their names are sharp or show, and cobbe, but i am not at all sure of either. i should be glad, however, if i could procure any of their portraits; and i do not forget that i am already in your debt. boydell is going to recommence a suite of illustrious heads, and i am to give him a list of indubitable portraits of remarkable persons that have never been engraved; but i have protested against his receiving two sorts; the one, any old head of a family, when the person was moderately considerable; the other, spurious or doubtful heads; both sorts apt to be sent in by families who wish to crowd -their own names into the work; as was the case more than once in houbraken's set, and of which honest vertue often complained to me. the duke of buckingham, carr, earl of somerset, and thurloe, in that list, are absolutely not genuine--the first is john digby earl of bristol. yours ever. ( ) mr. essex's projected history of gothic architecture. see vol. iii. letter to the rev. mr. cole, aug. , .-e. ( ) dr. jeremiah milles, dean of exeter, many years president of the antiquarian society. he engaged ardently in the chatterton controversy, and published the whole of the poems purporting to be written by rowley, with a glossary; thereby proving himself a fit subject for that chef-d'oeuvre of wit and poetry, the archaeological epistle, written by mason. walpole's answer is entitled, "reply to the observations on the remarks of the rev. dr. milles, dean of exeter and president of the society of antiquaries, on the wardrobe account of , etc." it is inserted in the second volume of his collected works-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, christmas-day. (page ) if poplar-pines ever grow,( ) it must be in such a soaking season as this. i wish you would send half-a-dozen by some henley barge to meet me next saturday at strawberry hill, that they may be as tall as the monument by next summer. my cascades give themselves the airs of cataracts, and mrs. clive looks like the sun rising out of the ocean. poor mr. raftor( ) is tired to death of their solitude; and, as his passion is walking, he talks with rapture of the brave rows of lamps all along the street, just as i used formerly to think no trees beautiful without lamps to them, like those at vauxhall. as i came to town but to dinner, and have not seen a soul, i do not know whether there is any news. i am just going to the princess,( ) where i shall hear all there is. i went to king arthur( ) on saturday, and was tired to death, both of the nonsense of the piece and the execrable performance, the singers being still worse than the actors. the scenes are little better (though garrick boasts of rivalling the french opera,) except a pretty bridge, and a gothic church with windows of painted glass. this scene, which should be a barbarous temple of woden, is a perfect cathedral, and the devil officiates at a kind of high-mass! i never saw greater absurdities. adieu! ( ) the first poplar-pine (or, as they have since been called, lombardy poplar) planted in england was at park-place, on the bank of the river near the great arch. it was a cutting brought from turin by lord rochford in his carriage, and planted by general conway's own hand. ( ) brother of mrs. clive. he had been an actor himself, and, when his sister retired from the stage, lived with her in the house mr. walpole had given her at twickenham. ( ( the princess amelia. ( ) dryden's dramatic opera of king arthur, or the british worthy, altered by garrick, was this year brought out at drury lane, and, by the aid of scenery, was very successful.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) the trees came safe: i thank you for them: they are gone to strawberry, and i am going to plant them. this paragraph would not call for a letter, but i have news for you of importance enough to dignify a despatch. the duc de choiseul is fallen! the express from lord harcourt arrived yesterday morning; the event happened last monday night, and the courier set out so immediately, that not many particulars are yet known. the duke was allowed but three hours to prepare himself, and ordered to retire to his seat at chanteloup: but some letters say, "il ira plus loin." the duc de praslin is banished, too, and chatelet is forbidden to visit choiseul. chatelet was to have had the marine; and i am sure is no loss to us. the chevalier de muy is made secretary of state pour la guerre;( ) and it is concluded that the duc d'aiguillon is prime-minister, but was not named so in the first hurry. there! there is a revolution! there is a new scene opened! will it advance the war? will it make peace? these are the questions all mankind is asking. this whale has swallowed up all gudgeon-questions. lord harcourt writes, that the d'aiguillonists had officiously taken opportunities of assuring him, that if they prevailed it would be peace; but in this country we know that opponents turned ministers can change their language it is added, that the morning of choiseul's banishment'( ) the king said to him, "monsieur, je vous ai dit que je ne voulais point la guerre." yet how does this agree with franc`es's( ) eager protestations that choiseul's fate depended on preserving the peace? how does it agree with the comptroller-general's offer of finding funds for the war, and of choiseul's proving he could not?--but how reconcile half the politics one hears? de guisnes and franc`es sent their excuses to the duchess of argyle last night; and i suppose the spaniards, too; for none of them were there.--well! i shall let all this bustle cool for two days; for what englishman does not sacrifice any thing to go his saturday out of town? and yet i am very much interested in this event; i feel much for madame de choiseul, though nothing for her corsican husband; but i am in the utmost anxiety for my dear old friend,( ) who passed every evening with the duchess, and was thence in great credit; and what is worse, though nobody, i think, can be savage enough to take away her pension, she may find great difficulty to get it paid--and then her poor heart is so good and warm, that this blow on her friends, at her great age, may kill her.( ) i have had no letter, nor had last post--whether it was stopped, or whether she apprehended the event, as i imagine--for every one observed, on tuesday night, at your brother's, that franc`es could not open his mouth. in short, i am most seriously alarmed about her. you have seen in the papers the designed arrangements in the law.( ) they now say there is some hitch; but i suppose it turns on some demands, and so will be got over by their being granted. mr. mason, the bard, gave me yesterday, the enclosed memorial, and begged i would recommend it to you. it is in favour of a very ingenious painter. adieu! the sun shines brightly; but it is one o'clock, and it will be set before i get to twickenham. yours ever. ( ) the chevalier, afterwards mar`echal de muy, was offered that place, but declined it. he eventually filled it in the early part of the reign of louis xvi.-e. ( ) the duc de choiseul was dismissed from the ministry through the intrigues of madame du barry, who accused him of an improper correspondence with spain.-- e. ( ) then charg`e des affaires from the french court in london. ( ) it appears by madame du deffand's letters to walpole, that she had addressed to him, on the th of december, one of considerable length, filled with details relative to the dismissal of the duc de choiseul, which took place on the th, and the appointment of his successor; but this letter is unfortunately lost.-e. ( ) by the reduction which the abb`e de terrai, when he first entered upon the controle g`en`eral, made upon all pensions, madame du deffand had lost three thousand livres of income. to her letter of the d of february , announcing this diminution, walpole made the following generous reply:--"je ne saurois souffrir une telle diminution de votre bien. o`u voulez-vous faire des retranchemens? o`u est-il possible que vous en fassiez? ne daignez pas fire un pas, s'il n'est pas fait, pour remplacer vos trois mille livres. ayez assez d'amiti`e pour moi pour les accepter de ma part. accordez-moi, je vous conjure, la gr`ace, que je vous demande aux genoux, et jouissez de la satisfaction de vous dire, j'ai un ami qui ne permettra jamais que je me jette aux pieds des grands. ma petite, j'insiste."-e. ( ) mr. bathurst was created lord apsley, and appointed lord chancellor; sir william de grey was made chief justice of the common pleas; mr. thurlow, attorney-general and mr. wedderburn, solicitor-general.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) as i am acquainted with mr. paul sandby, the brother of the architect,( ) i asked him if there was a design, as i had heard, of making a print or prints of king's college chapel, by the king's order'! he answered directly, by no means. his brother made a general sketch of the chapel for the use of the lectures he reads on architecture at the royal academy. thus, dear sir, mr. essex may be perfectly easy that there is no intention of interfering with his work. i then mentioned to mr. sandby mr. essex's plan, which he much approved, but said the plates would cost a great sum. the king, he thought, would be inclined to patronise the work; but i own i do not know how to get it laid before him. his own artists would probably discourage any scheme that might entrench on their own advantages. mr. thomas sandby, the architect, is the only one of them i am acquainted with; and mr. essex must think whether he would like to let him into any participation of the work. if i can get any other person to mention it to his majesty, i will; but you know me, and that i have always kept clear of connexions with courts and ministers, and have no interest with either, and perhaps my recommendation might do as much hurt as good, especially as the artists in favour might be jealous of one who understands a little of their professions, and is apt to say what he thinks. in truth, there is another danger, which is that they might not assist mr. essex without views of profiting of his labours. i am slightly acquainted with mr. chambers,( ) the architect, and have a good opinion of him: if mr. essex approves my communicating his plan to him or mr. sandby, i should think it more likely to succeed by their intervention, than by any lord of the court; for, at last, the king would certainly take the opinion of his artists. when you have talked this over with mr. essex, let me know the result. till he has determined, there can be no use in mr. essex's coming to town. mr. gray will bring down some of my drawings to bannerman, and when you go over to cambridge, i will beg you now and then to supervise him. for mr. bentham's book, i rather despair of it; and should it ever appear, he will have had people expect it too long, which will be of no service to it, though i do not doubt of its merit. mr. gray will show you my answer to"dr. milles.( ) yours ever. ( ) paul sandby, the well-known artist in water-colours, was brother to thomas sandby, who was professor of architecture in the royal academy of london.-e. ( ) afterwards sir william chambers, author of the well-known "treatise on civil architecture;" a "dissertation on oriental gardening," etc. in , he was appointed to superintend the building of somerset-house, in the strand.-e. ( ) in the early part of this year, walpole's house in arlington-street was broke open, without his servants being alarmed; all the locks forced off his drawers, cabinets, etc. their contents scattered about the rooms, and yet nothing taken away. in her letter of the d of april, madame du deffand says, "votre aventure fait tenir ici toute sorte de propos: les uns disent que l'on vous soup`connait d'avoir une correspondence secr`ete avec m. de choiseul.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) dear sir, i have but time to write you a line, that i may not detain mr. essex, who is so good as to take charge of this note, and of a box, which i am sure will give you pleasure, and i beg may give you a little trouble. it contains the very valuable seven letters of edward the sixth to barnaby fitzpatrick. lord ossory, to whom they belong, has lent them to me to print, but to facilitate that, and to prevent their being rubbed or hurt by the printer, i must entreat your exactness to copy them, and return them with the copies. i need not desire your particular care; for you value these things as much as i do, and will be able to make them out better than i can do, from being so much versed in old writing. forgive my taking this liberty with you, which, i flatter myself, will not be disagreeable. mr. essex and mr. tyson dined with me at strawberry hill; but could not stay so long as i wished. the party would have been still more agreeable if you had made a fourth. adieu! dear sir, yours ever. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, june , . (page ) you are very kind, dear sir, and i ought to be, nay, what is more, i am ashamed of giving you so much trouble; but i am in no hurry for the letters. i shall not set out till the th of next month, and it will be sufficient if i receive them a week before i set out. mr. c. c. c. c. is very welcome to attack me about a duchess of norfolk. he is even welcome to be in the right; to the edification i hope of all the matrons at the antiquarian society, who i trust will insert his criticism in the next volume of their archaeologia, or old women's logic; but, indeed, i cannot bestow my time on any more of them, nor employ myself in detecting witches for vomiting pins. when they turn extortioners like mr. masters,( ) the law should punish them, not only for roguery, but for exceeding their province, which our ancestors limited to killing their neighbour's cow, or crucifying dolls of wax. for my own part, i am so far from being out of charity with him, that i would give him a nag or new broom whenever he has a mind to ride to the antiquarian sabbat, and preach against me. though you have more cause to be angry, laugh -,it him as i do. one has not life enough to throw away on all the fools and knaves that come across one. i have often been attacked, and never replied but to mr. hume and dr. milles--to the first, because he had a name; to the second, because he had a mind to have one:--and yet i was in the wrong, for it was the only way he could attain one. in truth, it is being too self-interested, to expose only one's private antagonists, when one lets worse men pass unmolested. does a booby hurt me by an attack on me, more than by any other foolish thing he does? does not he tease me more by any thing he says to me, without attacking me, than by any thing he says against me behind my back? i shall, therefore, most certainly never inquire after or read mr. c. c. c. c.'s criticism, but leave him to oblivion with her grace of norfolk, and our wise society. as i doubt my own writings will soon be forgotten, i need not fear that those of my answerers will be remembered. ( ) there is a note on this letter in cole's handwriting. mr. mason had informed him, that mr. masters had lately read a paper at the antiquarian society against some mistake of mr. walpole's respective a duchess of norfolk; and he adds, "this i informed mr. walpole of in my letter, and said something to him of masters' extortion in making me pay forty pounds towards the repairing his vicarage-house at waterbeche, which he pretended he had fitted up for my reception." letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i was very sure you would grant my request, if you could, and i am perfectly satisfied with your reasons; but i do not believe the parties concerned will be so too, especially the heads of the family, who are not so ready to serve their relations at their own expense as gratis. when i see you i will tell you more, and what i thought i had told you. you tax me with four days in bedfordshire; i was but three at most, and of those the evening i went, and the morning i came away, made the third day. i will try to see you before i go. the edgcumbes i should like and lady lyttelton, but garrick does not tempt me at all. i have no taste for his perpetual buffoonery, and am sick of his endless expectation of flattery; but you who charge me with making a long visit to lord and lady ossory,--you do not see the mote in your own eye; at least i am sure lady ailesbury does not see that in hers. i could not obtain a single day from her all last year, and with difficulty got her to give me a few hours this. there is always an indispensable pheasantry that must be visited, or some thing from which she cannot spare four-and-twenty hours. strawberry sets this down in its pocket-book. and resents the neglect. at two miles from houghton park is the mausoleum of the bruces, where i saw the most ridiculous monument of one of lady ailesbury's predecessors that ever was imagined; i beg she will never keep such company. in the midst of an octagon chapel is the tomb of diana, countess of oxford and elgin. from a huge unwieldy base of white marble rises a black marble cistern; literally a cistern that would serve for an eating-room. in the midst of this, to the knees, stands her ladyship in a white domino or shroud, with her left hand erect as giving her blessing. it put me in mind of mrs. cavendish when she got drunk in the bathing-tub. at another church is a kind of catacomb for the earls of kent: there are ten sumptuous monuments. wrest and hawnes are both ugly places; the house at the former is ridiculously old and bad. the state bedchamber (not ten feet high) and its drawing-room, are laced with ionic columns of spotted velvet, and friezes of patchwork. there are bushels of deplorable earls and countesses. the garden was execrable too, but is something mended by brown. houghton park and ampthill stand finely: the last is a very good house, and has a beautiful park. the other has three beautiful old fronts, in the style of holland house, with turrets and loggias, but not so large within. it is the worst contrived dwelling i ever saw. upon the whole, i was much diverted with my journey. on my return i stayed but a single hour in london, saw no soul, and came hither to meet the deluge. it has rained all night, and all day; but it is midsummer, consequently midwinter, and one can expect no better. adieu! ( ) now first printed. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i have waited impatiently, my dear lord, for something worth putting into a letter but trees do not speak in parliament, nor flowers write in the newspapers; and they are almost the only beings i have seen. i dined on tuesday at notting-hill( ) with the countesses of powis and holderness, lord and lady pelham, and lord frederick cavendish--and pam; and shall go to town on friday to meet the same company at lady holderness's; and this short journal comprises almost my whole history and knowledge. i must now ask your lordship's and lady strafford's commands for paris. i shall set out on the th of next month. you will think, though you will not tell me so, that these are very juvenile jaunts at my age. indeed, i should be ashamed if i went for any other pleasure but that of once more seeing my dear blind friend, whose much greater age forbids my depending on seeing more often.( ) it will, indeed, be amusing to change the scene of politics for though i have done with our own, one cannot help hearing them--nay, reading them; for, like flies, they come to breakfast with one's bread and butter. i wish there was any other vehicle for them but a newspaper; a place into which, considering how they are exhausted, i am sure they have no pretensions. the duc d'aiguillon, i hear, is minister. their politics, some way or other, must end seriously, either in despotism, a civil war, or assassination. methinks, it is playing deep for the power of tyranny. charles fox is more moderate: he only games for an hundred thousand pounds that he has not. have you read the life of benvenuto cellini,( ) my lord? i am angry with him for being more distracted and wrong-headed than my lord herbert. till the revival of these two, i thought the present age had borne the palm of absurdity from all its predecessors. but i find our contemporaries are quiet good folks, that only game till they hang themselves, and do not kill every body they meet in the street. who would have thought we were so reasonable? ranelagh, they tell me, is full of foreign dukes. there is a duc de la tr`emouille, a duc d'aremberg, and other grandees. i know the former, and am not sorry to be out of his way. it is not pleasant to leave groves and lawns and rivers for a dirty town with a dirtier ditch, calling itself the seine; but i dare not encounter the sea and bad inns in cold weather. this consideration will bring me back by the end of august. i should be happy to execute any commission for your lordship. you know how earnestly i wish always to show myself your lordship's most faithful humble servant. ( ) near kensington. the villa of lady mary coke. ( ) in the february of this-year madame du deffand had made her will, and bequeathed walpole all her manuscripts-. in her letter of the th, informing him that she had so done, she says, "je fis usage de votre 'j'y consens.' j'ai une vraie satisfaction que cette affaire soit termin`ee, et jamais vous ne m'avez fait un plus v`eritable plaisir qu'en pronon`cant ces deux mots."-e. ( ) the celebrated florentine sculptor, "one of the most extraordinary men in an extraordinary age," so designated by walpole. his life, written by himself, was first published in english in , from a translation by dr. t. nugent; of which a new edition, corrected and enlarged, with the notes and observations of g. p. carpani, translated by thomas roscoe, appeared in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, june , . (page ) i just write you a line, dear sir, to acknowledge the receipt of the box of papers, which is come very safe, and to give you a thousand thanks for the trouble you have taken. as you promise me another letter i will wait to answer it. at present i will only beg another favour, and with less shame, as it is of a kind you will like to grant. i have lately been at lord ossory's at ampthill. you know catherine of arragon lived some time there.( ) nothing remains of the castle, nor any marks of residence, but a very small bit of her garden. i proposed to lord ossory to erect a cross to her memory on the spot, and he will. i wish, therefore, you could, from your collections of books, or memory, pick out an authentic form of a cross, of a better appearance than the common run. it must be raised on two or three steps; and if they were octagon, would it not be handsomer? her arms must be hung like an order upon it. here is something of my idea.( ) the shield appendant to a collar. we will have some inscriptions to mark the cause of erection. adieu! your most obliged. ( ) after her divorce from henry the eighth. ( ) a rough sketch in the margin of the letter. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) dear sir, when i wrote to you t'other day, i had not opened the box of letters, and consequently had not found yours, for which, and the prints, i give you a thousand thanks; though count bryan i have, and will return to you. old walker( ) is very like, and is valuable for being mentioned in the dunciad, and a curiosity, from being mentioned there without abuse. your notes are very judicious,( ) and your information most useful to me in drawing up some little preface to the letters; which, however, i shall not have time now to do before my journey, as i shall set out on sunday se'nnight. i like your motto much. the lady cecilia's letters are, as you say, more curious for the writer than the matter. we know very little of those daughters of edward iv. yet she and her sister devonshire lived to be old; especially cecily, who was married to lord wells; and i have found why: he was first cousin to henry vii., who, i suppose, thought it the safest match for her. i wish i knew all she and her sisters knew of her brothers, and their uncle richard iii. much good may it do my lord of canterbury with his parboiled stag! sure there must be more curiosities in bennet library! though your letter is so entertaining and useful to me, the passage i like best is a promise you make me of a visit in the autumn with mr. essex. pray put him in mind of it, as i shall you. it would add much to the obligation if you would bring two or three of your ms. volumes of collections with you. yours ever. ( ) dr. richard walker, vice-master of trinity college, by lambourne. ( ) from king edward's journal relating to mr. fitzpatrick. letter to john chute, esq. amiens, tuesday evening, july , . (page ) i am got no farther yet, as i travel leisurely, and do not venture to fatigue myself. my voyage was but of four hours. i was sick only by choice and precaution, and find myself in perfect health. the enemy, i hope, has not returned to pinch you again, and that you defy the foul fiend. the weather is but lukewarm, and i should choose to have all the windows shut, if my smelling was not much more summerly than my feeling; but the frowsiness of obsolete tapestry and needlework is insupportable. here are old fleas and bugs talking of louis quatorze like tattered refugees in the park, and they make poor rosette attend them, whether she will or not. this is a woful account of an evening in july, and which monsieur de st. lambert has omitted in his seasons, though more natural than any thing he has placed there. i f the grecian religion had gone into the folly of self-mortification, i suppose the devotees of flora would have shut themselves up in a nasty inn, and have punished their noses for the sensuality of having smelt to a rose or a honeysuckle. this is all i have yet to say; for i have had no adventure, no accident, nor seen a soul but my cousin richard walpole, whom i met on the road and spoke to in his chaise. to-morrow i shall lie at chantilly, and be at paris early on thursday. the churchills are there already. good night-- and a sweet one to you! paris, wednesday night, july . i was so suffocated with my inn last night, that i mustered all my resolution, rose with the alouette this morning, and was in my chaise by five o'clock i got hither by eight this evening, tired, but rejoiced; i have had a comfortable dish of tea, and am going to bed in clean sheets. i sink myself even to my dear old woman( ) and my sister; for it is impossible to sit down and be made charming at this time of night after fifteen posts, and after having been here twenty times before. at chantilly i crossed the countess of walpole, who lies there to-night on her way to england. but i concluded she had no curiosity about me-and i could not brag of more about her-and so we had no intercourse. i am wobegone to find my lord f -* * * in the same hotel. he is as starched as an old-fashioned plaited neckcloth, and come to suck wisdom from this curious school of philosophy. he reveres me because i was acquainted with his father; and that does not at all increase my partiality to the son. luckily, the post departs early to-morrow morning i thought you would like to hear i was arrived -well. i should be happy to hear you are so; but do not torment yourself too soon, nor will i torment you. i have fixed the th of august for setting out on my return. these jaunts are too juvenile. i am ashamed to look back and remember in what year of methuselah i was here first. rosette sends her blessing to her daughter. adieu! yours ever. ( ) madame du deffand; who, in her letter to walpole of the th of june, had said, "je sens l'exc`es de votre complaisance; j'ai tant de joie de l'esp`erance de vous revoir qu'il me semble que rien ne peut plus m'affliger ni m'attrister."--e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, july , . (page ) i do not know where you are, nor where this will find you, nor when it will set out to seek you, as i am not certain by whom i shall send it. it is of little consequence, as i have nothing material to tell you, but what you probably may have heard. the distress here is incredible, especially at court. the king's tradesmen are ruined, his servants starving, and even angels and archangels cannot get their pensions and salaries, but sing, "woe! woe! woe!" instead of hosannahs. compi`egne is abandoned; villiers-coterets and chantilly( ) crowded, and chanteloup( ) still more in fashion, whither every body goes that pleases; though, when they ask leave, the answer is, "je ne le defends ni le permets." this is the first time that ever the will of a king of france was interpreted against his inclination. yet, after annihilating his parliament, and ruining public credit, he tamely submits to be affronted by his own servants. madame de beauveau, and two or three high-spirited dames, defy this czar of gaul- yet they and their cabal are as inconsistent on the other hand. they make epigrams, sing vaudevilles( ) against the mistress, hand about libels against the chancellor, and have no more effect than a sky-rocket; but in three months will die to go to court, and to be invited to sup with madame du barry. the only real struggle is between the chancellor( ) and the duc d'aiguillon. the first is false, bold, determined, and not subject to little qualms. the other is less known, communicates himself to nobody, is suspected of deep policy and deep designs, but seems to intend to set out under a mask of very smooth varnish; for he has just obtained the payment of all his bitter enemy la chalotais' pensions and arrears. he has the advantage, too, of being but moderately detested in comparison of his rival, and, what he values more, the interest of the mistress.( ) the comptroller-general serves both, by acting mischief more sensibly felt; for he ruins every body but those who purchase a respite from his mistress.( ) he dispenses bankruptcy by retail, and will fall, because he cannot even by these means be useful enough. they are striking off nine millions la caisse militaire, five from the marine, and one from the afaires `etrang`eres: yet all this will not extricate them. you never saw a great nation in so disgraceful a position. their next prospect is not better: it rests on an imbecile, both in mind and body. july . mr. churchill and my sister set out to-night after supper, and i shall send this letter by them. there are no new books, no new plays, no new novels; nay, no new fashions. they have dragged old mademoiselle le maure out of a retreat of thirty years, to sing at the colis`ee, which is a most gaudy ranelagh, gilt, painted, and becupided like an opera, but not calculated to last as long as mother coliseum, being composed of chalk and pasteboard. round it are courts of treillage, that serve for nothing, and behind it a canal, very like a horsepond, on which there are fireworks and justs. altogether it is very pretty; but as there are few nabobs and nabobesses in this country, and as the middling and common people are not much richer than job when he had lost every thing but his patience, the proprietors are on the point of being ruined, unless the project takes place that is talked of. it is, to oblige corneille, racine, and moli`ere to hold their tongues twice a-week, that their audiences may go to the colis`ee. this is like our parliament's adjourning when senators want to go to newmarket. there is a monsieur gaillard writing a "history of the rivalit`e de la france et de l'angleterre."( ) i hope he will not omit this parallel. the instance of their poverty that strikes me most, who make political observations by the thermometer of baubles, is, that there is nothing new in their shops. i know the faces of every snuff-box and every tea-cup as well as those of madame du lac and monsieur poirier. i have chosen some cups and saucers for my lady ailesbury, as she ordered me; but i cannot say they are at all extraordinary. i have bespoken two cabriolets for her, instead of six, because i think them very dear, and that she may have four more if she likes them. i shall bring, too, a sample of a baguette that suits them. for myself, between economy and the want of novelty, i have not laid out five guineas--a very memorable anecdote in the history of my life. indeed, the czarina and i have a little dispute; she has offered to purchase the whole crozat collection of pictures, at which i had intended to ruin myself. the turks thank her for it! apropos, they are sending from hence fourscore officers to poland, each of whom i suppose, like almanzor, can stamp with his foot and raise an army. as my sister travels like a tartar princess with her whole horde, she will arrive too late almost for me to hear from you in return to this letter, which in truth requires no answer, v`u que i shall set out myself on the th of august. you will not imagine that i am glad to save myself the pleasure of hearing from you; but i would not give you the trouble of writing unnecessarily. if you are at home, and not in scotland, you will judge by these dates where to find me. adieu! p. s. instead of restoring the jesuits, they are proceeding to annihilate the celestines, augustines, and some other orders. ( ) the country palaces of the duke of orleans and the prince of cond`e; who were in disgrace at court for having espoused the cause of the parliament of paris, banished by the chancellor maupeou. ( ) the country seat of the duc de choiseul, to which, on his ceasing to be first minister, he was banished by the king. ( ) the following `echantillon of these vaudevilles was given by madame du deffand to walpole:-- "l'avez-vous vue, ma du barry, elle a ravi mon `ame; pour elle j'ai perdu l'esprit, des fran`cais j'ai le bl`ame: charmants enfans de la gourdon, est-elle chez vous maintenant? rendez-la-moi, je suis le roi, soulagez mon martyre; rendez-la-moi, elle est `a moi, je suis son pauvre sire. llavez-vous vue, etc. "je sais qu'autrefois les laquais ont f`et`e ses jeunes attraits; que les cochers, les peruquiers, l'aimaient, l'aimaient d'amour ex`eme, mais pas autant que je l'aime. l'avez-vous vue," etc,-e. ( ) maupeou. ( ) madame du barry.''' ( ) the abb`e terrai was comptroller-general of the finances. his mistress, known in the fashionable circles of paris by the name of la sultane, received money, as it was supposed, in concert with the abb`e himself, for every act of favour or justice solicited from the department over which he presided.-e. ( ) in a letter to walpole, madame du deffand thus speaks of this work:--"il m'arrive une bonne fortune apr`es laquelle je soupirais depuis longtemps: c'est un livre qui me plait infiniment; il est de m. gaillard; il a pour titre 'rivalit`e de la france et de l'angleterre;' il est par chapitres, et chaque chapitre est les `ev`enemens du r`egne d'un roi de france et d'un roi d'angleterre contemporains. il est bien loin d'`etre fini; il n'en est qu'a philippe de valois et edouard trois. il n'y a que trois volumes; il y en aura peut-`etre douze ou quinze." the work, which was not completed till the year , extended to eleven volumes.-e. letter to john chute, esq. paris, august , . ((page ) it is a great satisfaction to me to find by your letter of the th, that you have had no return of your gout. i have been assured here, that the best remedy is to cut one's nails in hot water. it is, i fear, as certain as any other remedy! it would at least be so here, if their bodies were of a piece with their understandings; or if both were as curable as they are the contrary. your prophecy, i doubt, is not better founded than the prescription. i may be lame; but i shall never be a duck, nor deal in the garbage of the alley. i envy your strawberry tide, and need not say how much i wish i was there to receive you. methinks, i should be as glad of a little grass, as a seaman after a long voyage. yet english gardening gains ground here prodigiously-not much at a time, indeed--i have literally seen one, that is exactly like a tailor's paper of patterns. there is a monsieur boutin, who has tacked a piece of what he calls an english garden to a set of stone terraces, with steps of turf. there are three or four very high hills, almost as high as, and exactly in the shape of, a tansy pudding. you squeeze between these and a river, that is conducted at obtuse angles in a stone channel, and supplied by a pump, and when walnuts come in i suppose it will be navigable. in a corner enclosed by a chalk wall are the samples i mentioned: there is a stripe of grass, another of corn, and a third en friche, exactly in the order of beds in a nursery. they have translated mr. whately's book,( ) and the lord knows what barbarism is going to be laid at our door. this new anglomanie will literally be mad english. new arr`ets, new retrenchments, new misery, stalk forth every day. the parliament of besan`con is dissolved; so are the grenadiers de france. the king's tradesmen are all bankrupt; no pensions are paid, and every body is reforming their suppers and equipages. despotism makes converts faster than ever christianity did. louis quinze is the true rex ckristianissimus, and has ten times more success than his dragooning great-grandfather. adieu, my dear sir! yours most faithfully. friday, th. this was to have gone by a private hand, but cannot depart till monday; so i may be continuing my letter till i bring it myself. i have been again at the chartreuse; and though it was the sixth time, i am more enchanted with those paintings( ) than ever. if it is not the first work in the world, and must yield to the vatican, yet in simplicity and harmony it beats raphael himself. there is a vapour over all the pictures, that makes them more natural than any representation of objects- cannot conceive bow it is effected! you see them through the shine of a southeast wind. these poor folks do not know the inestimable treasure they possess--but they are perishing these pictures, and one gazes at them as at a setting sun. there is the purity of a racine in them, but they give me more pleasure- -and i should much sooner be tired of the poet than of the painter. it is very singular that i have not half the satisfaction in going into c, churches and convents that i used to have. the consciousness that the vision is dispelled, the want of fervour so obvious in the religious, the solitude that one knows proceeds from contempt, not from contemplation, make those places appear like abandoned theatres destined to destruction. the monks trot about as if they had not long to stay there; and what used to be the holy gloom is now but dirt and darkness. there is no more deception than in a tragedy acted by candlesnuffers. one is sorry to think that an empire of common sense would not be very picturesque; for, as there is nothing but taste that can compensate for the imagination of madness, i doubt there will never be twenty men of taste for twenty thousand madmen. the world will no more see athens, rome, and the medici again, than a succession of five good emperors, like nerva, trajan, adrian, and the two antonines. august . mr. edmonson called on me; and, as he sets on to-morrow, i can safely trust my letter to him. i have, i own,, been much shocked at reading gray's( ) death in the papers. 'tis an hour that makes one forget any subject of complaint, especially towards one with whom i lived in friendship from thirteen years old. as self lies so rooted in self, no doubt the nearness of our ages made the stroke recoil to my own breast; and having so little expected his death, it is plain how little i expect my own. yet to you, who of all men living are the most forgiving, i need not excuse the concern i feel. i fear most men ought to apologize for their want of feeling, instead of palliating that sensation when they have it. i thought that what i had seen of the world had hardened my heart; but i find that it had formed my language, not extinguished my tenderness. in short, i am really shocked--nay, i am hurt at my own weakness, as i perceive that when i love any body, it is for my life; and i have had too much reason not to wish that such a disposition may very seldom be put to the trial.( ) you, at least, are the only person to whom i would venture to make such a confession. adieu! my dear sir! let me know when i arrive, which will be about the last day of the month, when i am likely to see you. i have much to say to you. of being here i am most heartily tired, and nothing but the dear old woman should keep me here an hour-i am weary of them to death-but that is not new! yours ever. ( ) entitled "an essay on design in gardening," mr. whately was at this time under-secretary of state, and member for castle rising. in january, , he was made keeper of the king's private roads, gates, and bridges, and died in the june following.-e. ( ) the life of st. bruno, painted by le soeur, in the cloister of the chartreuse. ( ) on the th of july," says mr. mitford, "gray, while at dinner in the college hall, was seized with an attack of the gout in his stomach. the violence of the disease resisted all the powers of medicine: on the th he was seized with convulsions, which returned more violently on the th; and he expired on the evening of that day, in the fifty-fifth year of his age." works, vol. i, p. lvi-e. ( ) "it will appear from this and the two following letters," observes mr. mitford, "that walpole's affection and friendship for gray was warm and sincere after the reconcilement took place; and indeed, before that, and immediately after the quarrel, i believe his regard for gray was undiminished." works, vol. iv. p. -e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, august , . (page ) you will have seen, i hope, before now, that i have not neglected writing to you. i sent you a letter by my sister, but doubt she has been a great while upon the road, as they travel with a large family. i was not sure where you was, and would not write at random by the post. i was just going out when i received yours and the newspapers. i was struck in a most sensible manner, when, after reading your letter, i saw in the newspapers that gray is dead! so very ancient an intimacy( ) and, i suppose, the natural reflection to self on losing a person but a year older, made me absolutely start in my chair. it seemed more a corporal than a mental blow; and yet i am exceedingly concerned for him, and every body must be so for the loss of such a genius. he called on me but two or three days before i came hither; he complained of being ill, and talked of the gout in his stomach--but i expected his death no more than my own--and yet the same death will probably be mine.( ) i am full of all these reflections-but shall not attrist you with them: only do not wonder that my letter will be short, when my mind is full of what i do not give vent to. it was but last night that i was thinking how few persons last, if one lives to be old, to whom one can talk without reserve. it is impossible to be intimate with the young, because they and the old cannot converse on the same common topics; and of the old that survive, there are few one can commence a friendship with, because one has probably all one's life despised their heart or their understandings. these are the steps through which one passes to the unenviable lees of life! i am very sorry for the state of poor lady beauchamp. it presages ill. she had a prospect of long happiness. opium is a very false friend. i will get you bougainville's book.( ) i think it is on the falkland isles, for it cannot be on those just discovered; but as i set out to-morrow se'nnight, and probably may have no opportunity sooner of sending it, i will bring it myself. adieu! yours ever. ( ) it will b recollected, that general conway travelled with gray and walpole in , and separated from them at geneva.-e. ( ) gray's last letter to walpole was dated march , ; it contained the following striking passage:--"he must have a very strong stomach that can digest the crambe recocta of voltaire. atheism is a vile dish, though all the cooks of france combine to make new sauces to it. as to the soul, perhaps they may have none on the continent; but i do think we have such things in england; shakspeare, for example, i believe, had several to his own share. as to the jews (though they do not eat pork), i like them, because they are better christians than voltaire." works vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) an english translation of the book appeared in , under the title of "history of a voyage to the malonine, or falkland islands, made in and , under the command of m. de bougainville; and of two voyages to the straits of magellan, with an account of the patagonians; translated from don pernety's historical journal, written in french." in the same year was published a translation of bougainville's "voyage autour du monde." this celebrated circumnavigator retired from the service in . he afterwards was made count and senator by napoleon buonaparte, became member of the national institute and of the royal society of london, and died at paris in , at the age of eighty-two.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. paris, august , . (page ) i am excessively shocked at reading in the papers that mr. gray is dead! i wish to god you may be able to tell me it is not true! yet in this painful uncertainty i must rest some days! none of my acquaintance are in london--i do not know to whom to apply but to you--alas! i fear in vain! too many circumstances speak it true!--the detail is exact;--a second paper arrived by the same post, and does not contradict it--and, what is worse, i saw him but four or five days before i came hither: he had been to kensington for the air, complained of the gout flying about him, of sensations of it in his stomach: i, indeed, thought him changed, and that he looked ill--still i had not the least idea of his being in danger--i started up from my chair when i read the paragraph--a cannon-ball would not have surprised me more! the shock but ceased, to give way to my concern; and my hopes are too ill-founded to mitigate it. if nobody has the charity to write to me, my anxiety must continue till the end of the month, for i shall set out on my return on the th; and unless you receive this time enough for your answer to leave london on the th, in the evening, i cannot meet it till i find it in arlington-street, whither i beg you to direct it. if the event is but too true, pray add to this melancholy service, that of telling me any circumstance you know of his death. our long, very long friendship, and his genius, must endear to me every thing that relates to him. what writings has he left? who are his executors?( ) i should earnestly wish, if he has destined any thing to the public, to print it at my press--it would do me honour, and would give me an opportunity of expressing what i feel for him. methinks, as we grow old, our only business here is to adorn the graves of our friends, or to dig our own! adieu, dear sir! yours ever. p. s. i heard this unhappy news but last night; and have just been told, that lord edward bentinck goes in haste to-morrow to england; so that you will receive this much sooner than i expected: still i must desire you to direct to arlington-street, as by far the surest conveyance to me. ( ) his executors were, mason the poet and the rev. dr. brown, master of pembroke hall. "he hath desired," wrote dr. brown to dr. wharton, "to be buried near his mother, at stoke, near windsor, and that one of his executors would see him laid in the grave; a melancholy task, which must come to my share, for mr. mason is not here." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. paris, august , . (page ) i have passed my biennial six weeks here, my dear lord, and am preparing to return as soon as the weather will allow me. it is some comfort to the patriot virtue, envy, to find this climate worse than our own. there were four very hot days at the end of last month, which, you know, with us northern people compose a summer: it has rained half this, and for these three days there has been a deluge, a storm, and extreme cold. yet these folks shiver in silk, and sit with their windows open till supper-time. indeed, firing is very dear, and nabobs very scarce. economy and retrenchment are the words in fashion, and are founded in a little more than caprice. i have heard no instance of luxury but in mademoiselle guimard, a favourite dancer, who is building a palace: round the salle `a manger there are windows that open upon hot-houses, that are to produce flowers all winter. that is worthy of * * * * * *. there is a finer dancer, whom mr. hobart is to transplant to london; a mademoiselle heinel or ingle, a fleming.( ) she is tall, perfectly made, very handsome, and has a set of attitudes copied from the classics. she moves as gracefully slow as pygmalion's statue when it was coming to life, and moves her leg round as imperceptibly as if she was dancing in the zodiac. but she is not virgo. they make no more of breaking parliaments here than an english mob does of breaking windows. it is pity people are so ill-sorted. if this king and ours could cross over and figure in, louis xv. would dissolve our parliament if polly jones did but say a word to him. they have got into such a habit of it here, that you would think a parliament was a polypus: they cut it in two, and by next morning half of it becomes a whole assembly. this has literally been the case at besan`con.( ) lord and lady barrymore, who are in the highest favour at compiegne, will be able to carry over the receipt. everybody feels in their own way. my grief is to see the ruinous condition of the palaces and pictures. i was yesterday at the louvre. le brun's noble gallery, where the battles of alexander are, and of which he designed the ceiling, and even the shutters, bolts, and locks, is in a worse condition than the old gallery at somerset-house. it rains in upon the pictures, though there are stores of much more valuable pieces than those of le brun. heaps of glorious works by raphael and all the great masters are piled up and equally neglected at versailles. their care is not less destructive in private houses. the duke of orleans' pictures and the prince of monaco's have been cleaned, and varnished so thick that you may see your face in them; and some of them have been transported from board to cloth, bit by bit, and the seams filled up with colour; so that in ten years they will not be worth sixpence. it makes me as peevish as if i was posterity! i hope your lordship's works will last longer than these of louis xiv. the glories of his si`ecle hasten fast to their end, and little will remain but those of his authors. ( ) "it was at this time," says dr. burney, "that dancing seemed first to gain the ascendant over music, by the superior talents of mademoiselle heinel, whose grace and execution were so perfect as to eclipse all other excellence. crowds assembled at the opera-house, more for the gratification of the eye than the ear; for neither the invention of a new composer, nor the talents of new singers, attracted the public to the theatre, which was almost abandoned till the arrival of this lady, whose extraordinary merit had an extraordinary recompense; for, besides the six hundred pounds' salary allowed her by the honourable mr. hobart, as manager, she was complimented with a regallo of six hundred more from the maccaroni club. 'e molto particulare,' said cocchi, the composer; 'ma quei inglesi non fanno conto d'alcuna cosa se non ben pagata:' it is very extraordinary that the english set no value upon any thing but what they pay an exorbitant price for."-e. ( ) the parliaments of besan`con, bourdeaux, toulouse and britany, were, in succession, totally suppressed by louis xv. new courts were assembled in their stead; most of the former members being sent into banishment.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) i arrived yesterday,( ) within an hour or two after you was gone, which mortified me exceedingly: lord knows when i shall see you. you are so active and so busy, and cast bullets( ) and build bridges, are pontifex maximus, and, like sir john thorold or cimon, triumph over land and wave, that one can never get a word with you. yet i am very well worth a general's or a politician's ear. i have been deep in all the secrets of france, and confidant of some of the principals of both parties. i know what is, and is to be, though i am neither priest nor conjuror -and have heard a vast deal about breaking carabiniers and grenadiers; though, as usual, i dare say i shall give a woful account of both. the worst part is, that by the most horrid oppression and injustice their finances will very soon be in good order-unless some bankrupt turns ravaillac, which will not surprise me. the horror the nation has conceived of the king and chancellor makes it probable that the latter, at least, will be sacrificed. he seems not to be without apprehension, and has removed from the king's library a ms. trial of a chancellor who was condemned to be hanged under charles vii. for the king, qui a fait ses `epreuves, and not to his honour, you will not wonder that he lives in terrors. i have executed all lady ailesbury's commissions; but mind, i do not commission you to tell her, for you would certainly forget it. as you will, no doubt, come to town to report who burnt portsmouth;( ) i will meet you here, if i am apprised of the day. your niece's marriage,( ) pleases me extremely. though i never saw him till last night, i know a great deal of her future husband, and like his character. his person is much better than i expected, and far preferable to many of the fine young moderns. he is better than sir watkin williams wynne, at least as well as the duke of devonshire, and adonis compared to the charming mr. fitzpatrick. adieu! ( ) mr. walpole arrived at paris on the ' th of july, and left it on the d of september-e. ( ) mr. conway was now at the head of the ordnance, but with the title and appointments of lieutenant-general only. the particular circumstances attending this are thus recorded in a letter from mr. walpole to another correspondent at the time (january ), and deserve to be known:--"the king offered the mastership of the ordnance, on lord granby's resignation, to mr. conway, who is only lieutenant-general of it: he said he had lived in friendship with lord granby, and would not profit by his spoils; but, as he thought he could do some essential service in the office, where there were many abuses, if his majesty would be pleased to let him continue as he is, be would do the business of the office without accepting the salary."-e. ( ) on the th of july, a fire had broken out in the dockyard at portsmouth, which, as it might be highly prejudicial to the country at that period, excited universal alarm. the loss sustained by it, which at first was supposed to be half a million, is said to have been about one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.-e. ( ) the marriage of lady gertrude seymour conway to lord villiers, afterwards earl of grandison. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) however melancholy the occasion is, i can but give you a thousand thanks, dear sir-., for the kind trouble you have taken, and the information you have given me about poor mr. gray. i received your first letter at paris; the last i found at my house in town, where i arrived only on friday last. the circumstance of the professor refusing to rise in the night and visit him, adds to the shock. who is that true professor of physic? jesus! is their absence to murder as well as their presence? i have not heard from mr. mason, but i have written to him. be so good as to tell the master at pembroke,( ) though i have not the honour of knowing him, how sensible i am of his proposed attention to me, and how much i feel for him in losing a friend of so excellent a genius. nothing will allay my own concern like seeing any of his compositions that i have not yet seen. it is buying them too dear--but when the author is irreparably lost, the produce of his mind is the next best possession. i have offered my press to mr. mason, and hope it will be accepted. many thanks for the cross, dear sir; it is precisely what i wished. i hope you and mr. essex preserve your resolution of passing a few days here between this and christmas. just at present i am not my own master, having stepped into the middle of a sudden match in my own family. lord hertford is going to marry his third daughter to lord villiers, son of lady grandison, the present wife of sir charles montagu. we are all felicity, and in a round of dinners. i am this minute returned from beaumont-lodge, at old windsor, where sir charles grandison lives. i will let you know, if the papers do not, when our festivities are subsided. i shall receive with gratitude from mr. tyson either drawing or etching of our departed friend; but wish not to have it inscribed to me, as it is an honour, more justly due to mr. stonehewer. if the master of pembroke will accept a copy of a small picture i have of mr. gray, painted soon after the publication of his ode on eton, it shall be at his service--and after his death i beg, it may be bequeathed to his college. adieu! ( ) dr. james brown. gray used to call him "le petit bon homme;" and cole, in his athene cantab, says of him--"he is a very worthy man, a good scholar, small, and short-sighted." in the chatham correspondence there will be found an interesting letter from the master of pembroke to lord chatham, in which he thus speaks of his illustrious son, the future minister of this country: " notwithsanding the illness of your son, i have myself seen, and have heard enough from his tutors, to be convinced both of his extraordinary genius and most amiable disposition. he promises fair, indeed to be one of those extraordinary persons whose eminent parts, equalled by as eminent industry, continue in a progressive state throughout their lives; such persons appear to be formed by heaven to assist and bless mankind." vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) dear sir, as our wedding will not be so soon as i expected, and as i should be unwilling you should take a journey in bad weather, i wish it may be convenient to you and mr. essex to come hither on the th day of this present month. if one can depend on any season, it is on the chill suns of october, which, like an elderly beauty, are less capricious than spring or summer. our old-fashioned october, you know, reached eleven days into modern november, and i still depend on that reckoning, when i have a mind to protract the year. lord ossory is charmed with mr. essex's cross( ) and wishes much to consult him on the proportions. lord ossory has taken a small house very near mine; is now, and will be here again, after newmarket. he is determined to erect it at ampthill, and i have written the following lines to record the reason: in days of old here ampthill's towers were seen; the mournful refuge of an injured queen. here flowed her pure, but unavailing tears; here blinded zeal sustain'd her sinking years. yet freedom hence-her radiant banners waved, and love avenged a realm by priests enslaved. from catherine's wrongs a nation's bliss was spread, and luther's light from henry's lawless bed, i hope the satire on henry viii. will make you excuse the compliment to luther, which, like most poetic compliments, does not come from my heart. i only like him better than henry, calvin, and the church of rome, who were bloody persecutors. calvin was an execrable villain, and the worst of all; for he copied those whom he pretended to correct. luther was as jovial as wilkes, and served the cause of liberty without canting. yours most sincerely. ( ) mr. cole applied to mr. essex, who furnished a design for the cross, which was followed. letter to the rev mr. cole. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i am sorry, dear sir, that i cannot say your answer is as agreeable and entertaining as you flatter me my letter was; but consider, you are prevented coming to me, and have flying pains of rheumatism--either were sufficient to spoil your letter. i am sure of being here till to-morrow se'nnight, the last of this month; consequently i may hope to see mr. essex here on monday, tuesday, or wednesday next. after that i cannot answer for myself, on account of our wedding, which depends on the return of a courier from ireland. if i can command any days certain in november, i will give you notice: and yet i shall have a scruple of dragging you so far from home at such a season. i will leave it to your option, only begging you to be assured that i shall always be most happy to see you. i am making a very curious purchase at paris, the complete armour of francis the first. it is gilt, in relief, and is very rich and beautiful. it comes out of the crozat collection.( ) i am building a small chapel, too, in my garden, to receive two valuable pieces of antiquity, and which have been presents singularly lucky for me. they are the window from bexhill, with the portraits of henry iii. and his queen, procured for me by lord ashburnham. the other, great part of the tomb of capoccio, mentioned in my anecdotes of painting on the subject of the confessor's shrine, and sent to me from rome by mr. hamilton, our minister at naples. it is very extraordinary that i should happen to be master of these curiosities. after next summer, by which time my castle and collection will be complete (for if i buy more i must build another castle for another collection), i propose to form another catalogue and description, and shall take the liberty to call on you for your assistance. in the mean time there is enough new to divert you at present. ( ) this curiosity was at first estimated at a thousand crowns, but madame du deffand finally purchased it for walpole for fifty louis. "ce bijou," she says, "me parait un peu cher et ressemble beaucoup aux casques du ch`ateau d,otrante: si vous persistez `a le d`esirer, je le payerai, je le ferai encaisser et partir sur le champ. c'est certainement une pi`ece tr`es belle et tr`es rare, mais infiniment ch`ere."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. late strawberry hill, jan. , . (page ) you have read of my calamity without knowing it, and will pity me when you do. i have been blown up; my castle is blown up; guy fawkes has been about my house: and the th of november has fallen on the th of january! in short, nine thousand powder-mills broke loose yesterday morning on hounslow-heath;( ) a whole squadron of them came hither, and have broken eight of my painted-glass windows; and the north side of the castle looks as if it had stood a siege. the two saints in the hall have suffered martyrdom! they have had their bodies cut off, and nothing remains but their heads. the two next great sufferers are indeed two of the least valuable, being the passage-windows to the library and great parlour--a fine pane is demolished in the round-room; and the window by the gallery is damaged. those in the cabinet, and holbein-room, and gallery, and blue-room, and green-closet, etc. have escaped. as the storm came from the northwest, the china-closet was not touched, nor a cup fell down. the bow-window of brave old coloured glass, at mr. hindley's, is massacred; and all the north sides of twickenham and brentford are shattered. at london it was proclaimed an earthquake, and half the inhabitants ran into the street. as lieutenant-general of the ordnance, i must beseech you to give strict order that no more powder-mills may blow up. my aunt, mrs. kerwood, reading one day in the papers that a distiller's had been burnt by the head of the still flying off, said, she wondered they did not make an act of parliament against the heads of stills flying off. now, i hold it much easier for you to do a body this service; and would recommend to your consideration whether it would not be prudent to have all magazines of powder kept under water till they are wanted for service. in the mean time, i expect a pension to make me amends for what i have suffered under the government. adieu! yours. ( ) three powder-mills blew up on hounslow-heath, on the th of january, when such was the violence of the explosion that it was felt not only in the metropolis, but as far as gloucester, and was very generally mistaken for the shock of an earthquake.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) it is long indeed, dear sir, since we corresponded. i should not have been silent if i had had any thing worth telling you in your way: but i grow such an antiquity myself, that i think i am less fond of what remains of our predecessors. i thank you for bannerman's proposal; i mean, for taking the trouble to send it, for i am not at all disposed to subscribe. i thank you more for the note on king edward; i mean, too, for your friendship in thinking of me. of dean milles i cannot trouble myself to think any more. his piece is at strawberry: perhaps i may look at it for the sake of your note. the bad weather keeps me in town, and a good deal at home; which i find very comfortable, literally practising what so many persons pretend they intend, being quiet and enjoying my fireside in my elderly days. mr. mason has shown me the relics of poor mr. gray. i am sadly disappointed at finding them so very inconsiderable. he always persisted, when i inquired about his writings, that he had nothing by him. i own i doubted. i am grieved he was so very near exact--i speak of my own satisfaction; as to his genius, what he published during his life will establish his fame as long as our language lasts, and there is a man of genius left. there is a silly fellow, i do not know who, that has published a volume of letters on the english nation, with characters of our modern authors. he has talked such nonsense on mr. gray, that i have no patience with the compliments he has paid me. he must have an excellent taste; and gives me a woful opinion of my own trifles, when he likes them, and cannot see the beauties of a poet that ought to be ranked in the first line. i am more humbled by any applause in the present age, than by hosts of such critics as dean milles. is not garrick reckoned a tolerable author, though he has proved how little sense is necessary to form a great actor'? his cymon, his prologues and epilogues, and forty such pieces of trash, are below mediocrity, and yet delight the mob in the boxes as well as in the footman's gallery. i do not mention the things written in his praise; because he writes most of them himself! but you know any one popular merit can confer all merit. two women talking of wilkes, one said he squinted--t'other replied, "squints!--well, if he does, it is not more than a man should squint." for my part, i can see how extremely well garrick acts, without thinking him six feet high. it is said shakspeare was a bad actor; why do not his divine plays make our wise judges conclude that he was a good one? they have not a proof of the contrary, as they have in garrick's works--but what is it to you or me what he is? we may see him act with pleasure, and nothing obliges us to read his writings.( ) ( ) the best defence of garrick against the charges which walpole so repeatedly brings against him will be found in the estimation in which he was held by the most distinguished of his contemporaries. his friend dr. johnson thought well of' his talent in prologue writing: "dryden," he said, "has written prologues superior to any that david has written; but david has written more good prologues than dryden has done. it is wonderful that he has been able to write such variety of them. a true conception of character and natural expression of it, were his distinguished excellences; but i thought him less to be envied on the stage than at the head of a table. he was the first man in the world for sprightly conversation."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, june , . (page ) dear sir, the preceding paper( ) was given me by a gentleman, who has a better opinion of my bookhood than i deserve. i could give him no satisfaction, but told him, i would get inquiry made at cambridge for the pieces he wants. if you can give any assistance in this chase, i am sure you will: as it will be trouble enough, i will not make my letter longer. ( ) this letter enclosed some queries from a gentleman abroad, respecting books, etc. relating to the order of malta. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) dear sir, you are a mine that answers beyond those of peru. i have given the treasure you sent me to the gentleman from whom i had the queries. he is vastly obliged to you, and i am sure so am i, for the trouble you have given yourself"and, therefore i am going to give you more. king edward's letters are printed.( ) shall i keep them for you or send them, and how? i intend you four copies--shall you want more? lord ossory takes a hundred, and i have as many; but none will be sold. i am out of materials for my press. i am thinking of printing some numbers of miscellaneous mss. from my own and mr. gray's collection. if you have any among your stores that are historic, new and curious, and like to have them printed, i shall be glad of them. among gray's are letters of sir thomas wyat the elder.( ) i am sure you must have a thousand hints about him. if you will send them to me i will do you justice; as you will see i have in king edward's letters. do you know any thing of his son,( ) the insurgent, in queen mary's reign? i do not know whether it was not to payne the bookseller, but i am sure i gave somebody a very few notes to the british topography. they were indeed of very little consequence. i have got to-day, and am reading with entertainment, two vols. in octavo, the lives of leland, hearne, and antony wood.,( ) i do not know the author, but he is of oxford. i think you should add that of your friend brown willis.( ) there is a queer piece on freemasonry in one of the volumes, said to be written, on very slender authority, by henry vi. with notes by mr. locke: a very odd conjunction! it says that arts were brought from the east by peter gower. as i am sure you will not find an account of this singular person in all your collections, be it known to you, that peter gower was commonly called pythagoras. i remember our newspapers insisting that thomas kouli khan was an irishman, and that his true name was thomas callaghan. on reading over my letter, i find i am no sceptic, having affirmed no less than four times, that i am sure. though this is extremely awkward, i am sure i will not write my letter over again; so pray excuse or burn my tautology. p. s. i had like to have forgotten the most obliging, and to me the most interesting part of your letter-your kind offer of coming hither. i accept it most gladly; but, for reasons i will tell you, wish it may be deferred a little. i am going to park-place (general conway's), then to ampthill (lord ossory's), and then to goodwood (duke of richmond's); and the beginning of august to wentworth castle (marquis of rockingham's); so that i shall not be at all settled here till the end of the latter month. but i have a stronger reason. by that time will be finished a delightful chapel i am building in my garden, to contain the shrine of capoccio, and the window with henry iii. and his queen. my new bedchamber will be finished too, which is now all in litter: and, besides, september is a quiet month; visits to make or receive are over, and the troublesome go to shoot partridges. if that time suits you, pray assure me i shall see you on the first of september. ( ) "copies of seven original letters from king edward vi. to barnaby fitzpatrick." strawberry hill, .-e. ( ) he was the contemporary and friend of surrey, and was accused by henry viii. of being the paramour of anne boleyn; but the king's suspicion dying away, he was appointed, in , henry's ambassador to the emperor. his poems have recently been published in the aldine edition of the poets; and in the biographical preface to them are included some of his admirable letters.-e. ( ) sir thomas wyatt "the younger," son of the preceding, who is presumed to have received that designation from having been knighted in the lifetime of his father. having joined in the effort to place lady jane grey on the throne, he was condemned and executed for high treason, on the th of april .-e. ( ) the editor was w. huddersford, fellow of trinity college.-e. ( ) browne willis, the antiquary, and author of "a survey of the cathedrals of england;" "notitia parliamentaria," etc. he was born at blandford in , and died in february . dr. ducarel printed privately, immediately after his death, a small quarto pamphlet, entitled " some account of browne willis, esq. ll. d." one of willis's peculiarities was his fondness for visiting cathedrals on the saints, days to which they were dedicated.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, monday, june , . (page ) it is lucky that i have had no dealings with mr. fordyce;( ) for, if he had ruined me, as he has half the world, i could not have run away. i tired myself with walking on friday: the gout came on saturday in my foot; yesterday i kept my bed till four o'clock, and my room all day-but, with wrapping myself all over with bootikins, have scarce had any pain-my foot swelled immediately, and today i am descended into the blueth and greenth:( ) and though you expect to find that i am paving the way to an excuse, i think i shall be able to be with you on saturday. all i intend to excuse myself from, is walking. i should certainly never have the gout, if i had lost the use of my feet. cherubims that have no legs, and do nothing but stick their chins in a cloud and sing, are never out of order. exercise is the worst thing in the world, and as bad an invention as gunpowder. apropos to mr. fordyce, here is a passage ridiculously applicable to him, that i met with yesterday in the letters of guy patin: "il n'y a pas long-temps qu'un auditeur des comptes nomm`e mons. nivelle fit banqueroute; et tout fra`ichement, c'est-`a-dire depuis trois jours, un tr`esorier des parties casuelles, nomm`e sanson, en a fait autant; et pour vous montrer qu'il est vrai que res humanae faciunt circulum, comme il a `et`e autrefois dit par plato et par aristote, celui-l`a s'en retourne d'o`u il vient. il est fils d'un paysan; il a `et`e laquais de son premier m`etier, et aujourd'hui il n'est plus rien, si non qu'il lui reste une assez belle femme."--i do not think i can find in patin or plato, nay, nor in aristotle, though he wrote about every thing, a parallel case to charles fox:( ) there are advertised to be sold more annuities of his and his society, to the amount of five hundred thousand pounds a-year! i wonder what he will do next, when he has sold the estates of all his friends! i have been reading the most delightful book in the world, the lives of leland, tom earne, and antony wood. the last's diary makes a thick volume in octavo. one entry is, "this day old joan began to make my bed." in the story of leland is an examination of a freemason, written by the hand of king henry vi., with notes by mr. locke. freemasonry, henry vi., and locke, make a strange heterogeneous olio; but that is not all. the respondent, who defends the mystery of masonry, says it was brought into europe by the venetians--he means the phoenicians. and who do you think propagated it? why, one peter gore--and who do you think that was?--one pythagoras, pythagore. i do not know whether it is not still more extraordinary, that this and the rest of the nonsense in that account made mr. locke determine to be a freemason: so would i too, if i could expect to hear of more peter gores. pray tell lady lyttelton that i say she will certainly kill herself if she lets lady ailesbury drag her twice a-day to feed the pheasants, and you make her climb cliffs and clamber over mountains. she has a tractability that alarms me for her; and if she does not pluck up a spirit, and determine never to be put out of her own way, i do not know what may be the consequence. i will come and set her an example of immovability. take notice, i do not say one civil syllable to lady ailesbury. she has not passed a whole day here these two years. she is always very gracious, says she will come when you will fix a time, as if you governed, and then puts it off whenever it is proposed, nor will spare one single day from park-place-as if other people were not as partial to their own park-places, adieu! yours ever. tuesday noon. i wrote my letter last night; this morning i received yours, and shall wait till sunday, as you bid me, which will be more convenient for my gout, though not for other engagements, but i shall obey the superior, as nullum tempus occurrit regi et podagrae. ( ) the greatest consternation prevailed at this time in the metropolis, in consequence of the banking-house of neale, james, fordyce, and down having stopped payment. fordyce was bred a hosier in aberdeen. for a memoir of him, see gent. mag. vol. x ii. p. .-e. ( ) cant words of walpole for blue and green. he means, that he came out of his room to the blue sky and green fields. ( ) gibbon, in a letter to mr. holroyd, of the th of february, in reference to the recent debate in the house of commons, on the clerical petition for relief from subscription to the thirty-nine articles, says--"i congratulate you on the late victory of our dear mamma, the church of england. she had, last thursday, seventy-one rebellious sons, who pretended to set aside her will, on a account of insanity; but two hundred and seventeen worthy champions, headed by lord north, burke, charles fox, etc., though they allowed the thirty-nine clauses of her testament were absurd and unreasonable, supported the validity of it with infinite honour. by the bye, charles fox prepared himself for that holy work by passing twenty-one hours in the pious exercise of hazard; his devotions cost him only about five hundred pounds an hour, in all, eleven thousand pounds."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) dear sir, i sent you last week by the cambridge fly, that puts up in gray's-inn-lane, six copies of king edward's letters, but fear i forgot to direct their being left at mr. bentham's, by which neglect perhaps you have not yet got them; so that i have been very blamable, while i thought i was very expeditious; and it was not till reading your letter again just now that i discovered my carelessness. i have not heard of dr. glynn, etc., but the housekeeper has orders to receive them. i thank you a thousand times for the maltese notes, which i have given to the gentleman, and for the wyattiana: i am going to work on the latter. i have not yet seen mr. 's print, but am glad it is so like. i expected mr. mason would have sent me one early; but i suppose he keeps it for me, as i shall call on him in my way to lord strafford's. mr. west,( ) one of our brother antiquaries, is dead. he had a very curious collection of old pictures, english coins, english prints, and manuscripts. but he was so rich, that i take for granted nothing will be sold. i could wish for his family pictures of henry v. and henry viii. foote, in his new comedy of the nabob, has lashed master doctor miles and our society very deservedly for the nonsensical discussion they had this winter about whittington and his cat. few of them are fit for any thing better than such researches. poor mr. granger has been very ill, but is almost recovered. i intend to invite him to meet you in september. it is a party i shall be very impatient for: you know how sincerely i am, dear sir, your obliged and obedient humble servant. ( ) james west, esq. he was for some time one of the secretaries of the treasury, vice president of the society of antiquaries, and president of the royal society. his curious collection of manuscripts were purchased by the earl of shelburne, and are now deposited in the british museum.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) dear sir, i am anew obliged to you, as i am perpetually, for the notice you give me of another intended publication against me in the archaeologia, or old woman's logic. by your account, the author will add much credit to their society! for my part, i shall take no notice of any of his handycrafts. however, as there seems to be a willingness to carp at me, and as gnats may on a sudden provoke one to give a slap, i choose to be at liberty to say what i think of the learned society; and therefore i have taken leave of them, having so good an occasion presented as their council on whittington and his cat, and the ridicule that foote has thrown on them. they are welcome to say any thing on my writings, but that they are the works of a fellow of so foolish a society. i am at work on the life of sir thomas wyat, but it does not please me; nor will it be entertaining, though you have contributed so many materials towards it. you must take one trouble more it is to inquire and search for a book that i want to see. it is the pilgrim; was written by william thomas, who was executed in queen mary's time; but the book was printed under, and dedicated to, edward vi. i have only an imperfect memorandum of it, and cannot possibly recall to mind from whence i made it. all i think i remember is, that the book was in the king's library. i have sent to the museum to inquire after it; but i cannot find it mentioned in ames's history of english printers. be so good as to ask all your antiquarian friends if they know such a work. amidst all your kindness, you have added one very disagreeable paragraph:--i mean, you doubt about coming here in september. fear of a sore throat would be a reason for your never coming. it is one of the distempers in the world the least to be foreseen, and september, a dry month, one of the least likely months to bring it. i do not like your recurring to so very ill-founded an excuse, and positively will not accept it, unless you wish i should not be so much as i an, dear sir, your most faithful humble servant, h. w. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) dear sir, i thank you for your notices, dear sir, and will deliver you from the trouble of any further pursuit of the peleryne of thomas. i have discovered him among the cottonian mss. in the museum, and am to see him. if dr. browne is returned to cambridge, may i beg you to give him a thousand thanks for the present he left at my house, a goarstone and a seal, that belonged to mr. gray. i shall lay them up in my cabinet at strawberry among my most valuables. dr. browne, however, was not quite kind to me; for he left no direction where to find him in town, so that i could not wait upon him, nor invite him to strawberry hill, as i much wished to do, do not these words, "invite him to strawberry," make your ears tingle? september is at hand, and you must have no sore throat. the new chapel in the garden is almost finished, and you must come to the dedication. i have seen lincoln and york, and to say the truth, prefer the former in some respects. in truth, i was scandalized in the latter. william of hatfield's tomb and figure is thrown aside into a hole: and yet the chapter possess an estate that his mother gave them. i have charged mr. mason( ) with my anathema, unless they do justice. i saw roche abbey, too; which is hid in such a venerable chasm, that you might lie concealed there even from a 'squire parson of the parish. lord scarborough, to whom it belongs, and who lives at next door, neglects it as much as if he was afraid of ghosts. i believe montesino's cave lay in just such a solemn thicket, which is now so overgrown, that, when one finds the spot, one can scarce find the ruins. i forgot to tell you, that in the screen of york minster there are most curious statues of the kings of england, from the conqueror to henry vi.; very singular, evidently by two different hands, the one better than the other, and most of them i am persuaded, very authentic. richard ii., henry iii., and henry v., i am sure are; and henry iv., though unlike the common portrait at hampton-court, in herefordshire, the most singular and villanous countenance i ever saw. i intend to try to get them well engraved. that old fool, james i., is crowded in, in the place of henry vii., that was taken away to make room for this piece of flattery; for the chapter did not slight live princes. yours ever. ( ) mason was a residentiary of york cathedral; as well as prebendary of duffield, and rector of aston.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) dear sir, your repentance is much more agreeable than your sin, and will cancel it whenever you please. still i have a fellow-feeling for the indolence of age, and have myself been writing an excuse this instant for not accepting an invitation above threescore miles off. one's limbs, when they grow old, will not go any where, when they do not like it. if yours should find themselves in a more pliant humour, you are always sure of being welcome here, let the fit of motion come when it will. pray what is become of that figure you mention of henry vii., which the destroyers, not the builders have rejected? and which the antiquaries, who know a man by his crown better than by his face, have rejected likewise? the latter put me in mind of characters in comedies, in which a woman disguised in man's habit, and whose features her very lover does not know, is immediately acknowledged by pulling off her hat, and letting down her hair, which her lover had never seen before. i should be glad to ask dr. milles, if he thinks the crown of england was always made, like a quart pot, by winchester measure? if mr. tyson has made a print from that little statue, i trust he will give me one; and if he, or mr. essex, or both, will accompany you hither, i shall be glad to see them. at buckden, in the bishop's palace, i saw a print of mrs. newcome: i suppose the late mistress of st. john's. can you tell me where i can procure one? mind, i insist that you do not serve me as you have often done, and send me your own, if you have one. i seriously will not accept it, nor ever trust you again. on the staircase, in the same palace, there is a picture of two young men, in the manner of vandyck, not at all ill done; do you know who they are, or does any body? there is a worse picture, in a large room, of some lads, which, too, the housemaid did not know. adieu! dear sir, yours ever. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) dear sir, i did receive the print of mrs. newcome, for which i am extremely obliged to you, with a thousand other favours, and should certainly have thanked you for it long ago, but i was then, an(i am now, confined to my bed with the gout in every limb, and in almost every joint. i have not been out of my bedchamber these five weeks to-day and last night the pain returned violently into one of my feet; so that i am now writing to you in a most uneasy posture, which will oblige me to be very short. your letter, which i suppose was left at my house in arlington street by mr. essex, was brought to me this morning. i am exceedingly sorry for his disappointment, and for his coming without writing first; in which case i might have prevented his journey. i do not know, even, whither to send to him, to tell him how impossible it is for me just now, in my present painful and hopeless situation, to be of any use to him. i am so weak and faint, i do not see even my nearest relations, and god knows how long it will be before i am able to bear company, much less application. i have some thoughts, as soon as i am able, of removing to bath; so that i cannot guess when it will be in my power to consider duly mr. essex's plan with him. i shall undoubtedly, if ever capable of it, be ready to give him my advice, such as it is; or to look over his papers, and even to correct them, if his modesty thinks me more able to polish them than he is himself. at the same time, i must own, i think he will run too great a risk by the expense. the engravers in london are now arrived at such a pitch of exorbitant imposition, that, for my own part, i have laid aside all thoughts of having a single plate more done. dear sir, pray tell mr. essex how concerned i am for his mischance, and for the total impossibility i am under of seeing him now. i can write no more, but i shall be glad to hear from you on his return to cambridge: and when i am recovered, you may be assured how glad i shall be to talk his plan over with him. i am his and your obliged humble servant. letter to the rev. mr. cole. (page ) i have had a relapse, and not been able to use my hand, or i should have lamented with you on the plunder of your prints by that algerine hog.( ) i pity you, dear sir, and feel for your awkwardness, that was struck dumb at his rapaciousness. the beast has no sort of taste neither-and in a twelvemonth will sell them again. i regret particularly one print, which i dare to say he seized, that i gave you, gertrude more; i thought i had another, and had not; and, as you liked it, i never told you so. this muley moloch used to buy books, and now sells them. he has hurt his fortune, and ruined himself, to have a collection, without any choice of what it should be composed. it is the most underbred swine i ever saw; but i did not know it was so ravenous. i wish you may get paid any how; you see by my writing how difficult it is to me, and therefore will excuse my being short. ( ) this letter may want some explanation. a gentleman, a collector of prints, and a neighbour of mr. walpole's, had just before requested to see mr. cole's collection, and on mr. cole's offering to accommodate him with such heads as he had not, he selected and took away no less than one hundred and eighty-seven of the most rare and valuable. letter to the countess of ailesbury. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) indeed, madam, i want you and mr. conway in town. christmas has dispersed all my company, and left nothing but a loo-party or two. if all the fine days were not gone out of town, too, i should take the air in a morning; but i am not yet nimble enough, like old mrs. nugent, to jump out of a postchaise into an assembly. you have a woful taste, my lady, not to like lord gower's bonmot. i am almost too indignant to tell you of a most amusing book in six volumes, called "histoire philosophique et politique du commerce des deux indes."( ) it tells one every thing in the world;--how to make conquests, invasions, blunders, settlements, bankruptcies, fortunes, etc.; tells you the natural and historical history of all nations; talks commerce, navigation, tea, coffee, china, mines, salt, spices; of the portuguese, english, french, dutch, danes, spaniards, arabs, caravans, persians, indians, of louis xiv. and the king of prussia; of la bourdonnais, dupleix, and admiral saunders; of rice, and women that dance naked; of camels, ginghams, and muslin; of millions of millions of livres, pounds, rupees, and cowries; of iron cables, and circassian women; of law and the mississippi; and against all governments and religions. this and every thing else is in the two first volumes. i cannot conceive what is left for the four others. and all is so mixed, that you learn forty new trades and fifty new histories in a single chapter. there is spirit, wit, and clearness and, if there were but less avoirdupois weight in it, it would be the richest book in the world in materials--but figures to me are so many ciphers, and only put me in mind of children that say, an hundred hundred hundred millions. however, it has made me learned enough to talk about mr. sykes and the secret committee,( ) which is all that any body talks of at present, and yet mademoiselle heinel( ) is arrived. this is all i know, and a great deal too, considering i know nothing, and yet, were there either truth or lies, i should know them; for one hears every thing in a sick room. good night both! ( ) by the abb`e raynal. sensible of the faults of his work, the abb`e visited england and holland to obtain correct mercantile information, and, on his return, published an improved edition at geneva, in ten volumes, octavo. hannah more relates, that, when in england, the abb`e was introduced to dr. johnson, and advancing to shake his band, the doctor drew back and put it behind him, and afterwards replied to the expostulation of a friend--"sir, i will not shake hands with an infidel." the parliament of paris ordered the work to be burnt, and the author to be arrested; but he retired to spain, and, in , the national assembly cancelled the decree passed against him. he died at passy in , at the age of eighty-five.-e. ( ) upon indian affairs. ( ) see ante, p. , letter . letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) in return to your very kind inquiries, dear sir, i can let you know, that i am quite free from pain, and walk a little about my room, even without a stick: nay, have been four times to take the air in the park. indeed, after fourteen weeks this is not saying much; but it is a worse reflection, that when one is subject to the gout, and far from young, one's worst account will probably be better than that after the next fit. i neither flatter myself on one hand, nor am impatient on the other--for will either do one any good? one must bear one's lot whatever it be. i rejoice mr. * * * * has justice,( ) though he had no bowels. how gertrude more escape' him i do not guess. it will be wrong to rob you of her, after she has come to you through so many hazards--nor would i hear of it either, if you have a mind to keep her, or have not given up all thoughts of a collection since you have been visited by a visigoth. i am much more impatient to see mr. gray's print, than mr. what-d'ye-call-him's answer to my historic doubts.( ) he may have made himself very angry; but i doubt whether he will make me at all so. i love antiquities; but i scarce ever knew an antiquary who knew how to write upon them. their understandings seem as much in ruins as the things they describe. for the antiquarian society, i shall leave them in peace with whittington and his cat. as my contempt for them has not, however, made me disgusted with what they do not understand, antiquities, i have published two numbers of miscellanies, and they are very welcome to mumble them with their toothless gums. i want to send you these--not their gums, but my pieces, and a grammont,( ) of which i have printed only a hundred copies, and which will be extremely scarce, as twenty-five copies are gone to france. tell me how i shall convey them safely. another thing you must tell me, if you can, is, if you know any thing ancient of the freemasons governor pownall,( ) a whittingtonian, has a mind they should have been a corporation erected by the popes. as you see what a good creature i am, and return good for evil, i am engaged to pick up what i can for him, to support this system, in which i believe no more than in the pope: and the work is to appear in a volume of the society's pieces. i am very willing to oblige him, and turn my cheek, that they may smite that, also. lord help them! i am sorry that they are such numsculls, that they almost make me think myself something! but there are great authors enough to bring me to my senses again. posterity, i fear, will class me with the writers of this age, or forget me with them, not rank me with any names that deserve remembrance. if i cannot survive the milles's, the what-d'ye-call-him's, and the compilers of catalogues of topography, it would comfort me very little to confute them. i should be as little proud of success as if i had carried a contest for churchwarden. not being able to return to strawberry hill, where all my books and papers are, and my printer lying fallow, i want some short bills to print. have you any thing you wish printed? i can either print a few to amuse ourselves, or, if very curious, and not too dry, could make a third number of miscellaneous antiquities. i am not in any eagerness to see mr. what-d'ye-call-him's pamphlet against me; therefore pray give yourself no trouble to get it for me. the specimens i have seen of his writing take off all edge from curiosity. a print of mr. gray will be a real present. would it not be dreadful to be commended by an age that had not taste enough to admire his odes? is not it too great a compliment to me to be abused too? i am ashamed! indeed our antiquaries ought to like me. i am but too much on a par with them. does not mr. henshaw come to london? is he a professor, or only a lover of engraving? if the former, and he were to settle in town, i would willingly lend him heads to copy. adieu! ( ) the gentleman who had carried off so many of mr. cole's prints. he now fully remunerated mr. cole in a valuable present of books. ( ) mr. master's pamphlet, printed at the expense of the antiquarian society in the second volume of the archaeologia. ( ) "m`emoires du comte de grammont, nouvelle edition, augment`ee de notes et eclaircissemens n`ecessaires, par m. horace walpole." strawberry hill, , to. to the m`emoires was prefixed the following dedication to madame du deffand:-- "l'editeur vous consacre cette edition, comme un monument de son amiti`e, de son admiration, et de son respect, a vous dont les gr`aces, l'esprit, et le gout retracent an si`ecle present le si`ecle de louis xiv., et les agr`emens de l'auteur de ces memoires." ( ) thomas pownall, esq. the antiquary, and a constant contributor to the archaeologia. having been governor of south carolina and other american colonies, he was always distinguished from his brother john, who was likewise an antiquary, by the title of governor.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) the most agreeable ingredient of your last, dear sir, is the paragraph that tells me you shall be in town in april, when i depend on the pleasure of seeing you; but, to be certain, wish you would give me a few days' law, an let me know, too, where you lodge. pray bring your books, though the continuation of the miscellaneous antiquities is uncertain. i thought the affectation of loving veteran anecdotes was so vigorous, that i ventured to print five hundred copies., one, hundred and thirty only are sold. i cannot afford to make the town perpetual presents; though i find people exceedingly eager to obtain them when i do; and if they will not buy them, it is a sign of such indifference, that i shall neither bestow my time, nor my cost, to no purpose. all i desire is, to pay the expenses, which i can afford much less than my idle moments. not but the operations of-my press have often turned against myself in many shapes. i have told people many things they did not know, and from fashion they have bought a thousand things out of my hands, which they do not understand, and only love en passant. at mr. west's sale, i got literally nothing: his prints sold for the frantic sum of pounds shillings. your and my good friend mr. gulston threw away above pounds there. i am not sorry mr. lort has recourse to the fountainhead: mr. pownall's system of freemasonry is so absurd and groundless, that i am glad to be rid of intervention. i have seen the former once: he told me he was willing to sell his prints, as the value of them is so increased--for that very reason i did not want to purchase them. paul sanby promised me ten days ago to show mr. henshaw's engraving which i received from dr. ewen) to bartolozzi, and ask his terms, thinking he would delight in so very promising a scholar; but i have heard nothing since, and therefore fear there is no success. let me, however, see the young man when he comes, and i will try if there is any other way of serving him. what shall i say to you, dear sir, about dr. prescot? or what i say to him? it hurts me not to be very civil, especially as any respect to my father's memory touches me much more than any attention to myself, which i cannot hold to be a quarter so well founded. yet, how dare i write to a poor man, who may do, as i have lately seen done by a scotchwoman that wrote a play,( ) and printed lord chesterfield's and lord lyttelton's letters to her, as testimonia fluctorum: i will therefore beg you to make my compliments and thanks to the master, and to make them as grateful as you please, provided i am dispensed with giving any certificate under my hand. you may plead my illness, which, though the fifth month ended yesterday, is far from being at an end, my relapses have been endless - i cannot yet walk a step: and a great cold has added an ague in my cheek, for which i am just going to begin the bark. the prospect for the rest of my days is gloomy. the case of my poor nephew still more deplorable - he arrived in town last night, and bore his journey tolerably-but his head is in much more danger of not recovering than his health; though they give us hopes of both. but the evils of life are not good subjects for letters--why afflict one's friends? why make commonplace reflections? adieu! yours ever. ( ) "sir harry gaylove; or, comedy in embryo;" by mrs. jane marshall. it was printed in scotland by subscription, but not acted. in the preface, she complains bitterly of the managers of the three london theatres, for refusing her the advantages of representing her performance.-e. letter to the rev. william mason.( ) march , . (page ) what shall i say? how shall i thank you for the kind manner in which you submit your papers to my correction? but if you are friendly, i must be just. i am so far from being dissatisfied, that i must beg to shorten your pen, and in that respect only would i wish, with regard to myself, to alter your text. i am conscious that in the beginning of the differences between gray and me, the fault was mine. i was young, too fond of my own diversions; nay, i do not doubt, too much intoxicated by indulgence, vanity, and the insolence of my situation, as a prime minister's son, not to have been inattentive to the feelings of one, i blush to say, that i knew was obliged to me; of one, whom presumption and folly made me deem not very superior in parts, though i have since felt my infinite inferiority to him. i treated him insolently. he loved me, and i did not think he did. i reproached him with the difference between us, when he acted from the conviction of knowing that he was my superior. i often disregarded his wish of seeing places, which i would not quit my own amusements to visit, though i offered to send him thither without me. forgive me, if i say that his temper was not conciliating, at the same time that i confess to you, that he acted a most friendly part had i had the sense to take advantage of it. he freely told me my faults. i declared i did not desire to hear them, nor would correct them. you will not wonder,, that with the dignity of his spirit, and the obstinate carelessness of mine the breach must have widened till we became incompatible. after this confession, i fear you will think i fall short in the words i wish to have substituted for some of yours. if you think them inadequate to the state of the case, as i own they are, preserve this letter and let some future sir john dalrymple produce it to load my memory; but i own i do not desire that any ambiguity should aid his invention to forge an account) for me. if you would have no objection, i would propose your narrative should run thus, [here follows a note, which is inserted verbatim in mason's life of gray.( )] and contain no more, till a more proper time shall come for publishing the truth, as i have stated it to you. while i am living, it is not pleasant to see my private disagreements discussed in magazines and newspapers. ( ) this and the following letter are from mr. mitford's valuable edition of gray's works. see vol. iv. pp. , .- e. ( ) "in justice to the memory of so respectable a friend, mr. walpole enjoins me to charge himself with the chief blame in their quarrel - confessing that more attention and complaisance, more deference to a warm friendship, superior judgment and prudence, might have prevented a rupture that gave such uneasiness to them both and a lasting concern to the survivor; though, in the year , a reconciliation was effected between them, by a lady who wished well to both parties."-e. letter to the rev. william mason. strawberry hill, march , . (page ) i have received your letter, dear sir, your manuscript, and gray's letters to me. twenty things crowd upon my pen, and jostle, and press to be laid. as i came here to-day for a little air, and to read you undisturbed, they shall all have a place in due time. but having so safe a conveyance for my thoughts, i must begin with the uppermost of them, the heroic epistle. i have read it so very often, that i have got it by heart; and now i am master of all its beauties, i confess i like it infinitely better than i did, though i liked it infinitely before. there is more wit, ten times more delicacy of irony, as much poetry, and greater facility than and as in the dunciad. but what signifies what i think? all the world thinks the same. no soul has, i have heard, guessed within an hundred miles. i catched at anstey's name, and have, contributed to spread that notion. it has since been called temple luttrell's, and, to my infinite honour, mine; lord ----- - swears he should think so, if i did not praise it so excessively. but now, my dear sir, that you have tapped this mine of talent, and it runs so richly and easily, for heaven's sake, and for england's sake, do not let it rest! you have a vein of irony, and satire, etc. i am extremely pleased with the easy unaffected simplicity of your manuscript (memoirs of gray), and have found scarcely any thing i could wish added, much less retrenched, unless the paragraph on lord bute,( ) which i don't think quite clearly expressed; and yet perhaps too clearly, while you wish to remain unknown as the author of the heroic epistle,( ) since it might lead to suspicion. for as gray asked for the place, and accepted it afterwards from the duke of grafton, it might be thought that he, or his friend for him, was angry with the author of the disappointment. i can add nothing to your account of gray's going abroad with me. it was my own thought and offer, and cheerfully accepted. thank you for inserting my alteration. as i am the survivor, any softening would be unjust to the dead. i am sorry i had a fault towards him. it does not wound me to own it; and it must be believed when i allow it, that not he, but i myself, was in the wrong. ( ) this paragraph was suppressed-e. ( ) in march, , mr. matthias suggested, in the pursuits of literature, that walpole's papers would possibly lead to the discovery of the author of the far-famed heroic epistle to sir william chambers. by thomas warton, the poet-laureate, it was supposed to have been "written by walpole, and buckrum'd by mason;" and mr. croker, in a note to his edition of boswell's johnson, says of it, "there can be no doubt that it was the joint production of mason and walpole; mason supplying the poetry and walpole the points;" while the quarterly review, vol. xv. p. , observes, that "when it is remembered that no one then alive, with the same peculiar taste and the same political principles, could have written such poetry, we must either ascribe the heroic epistle to mr. mason, or suppose, very needlessly and improbably, that one person supplied the matter and another shaped it into verse; but, the personal insolence displayed in this poem to his sovereign, which was probably the true reason for concealing the writer's -the principles of genuine taste which abound in it--the bitter and sarcastic strain of indignation against a monstrous mode of bad taste then beginning to prevail in landscape gardening, and, above all, a vigorous flow of spirited and harmonious verse, all concur to mark it as the work of our independent and uncourtly bard," the above letter settles the long-disputed point, and fixes the sole authorship of this exquisite poem on mason.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) i have now seen the second volume of the archaeologia, or old woman's logic, with mr. masters's answer to me. if he had not taken such pains to declare it was written against my doubts, i should have thought it a defence of them; for the few facts he quotes make for my arguments, and confute himself; particularly in the case of lady eleanor butler; -whom, by the way, he makes marry her own nephew, and not descend from her own family, because she was descended from her grandfather. this mr. masters is an excellent sancho panza to such a don quixote as dean milles! but enough of such goosecaps! pray thank mr. ashby for his admirable correction of sir thomas wyat's bon-mot. it is right beyond all doubt, and i will quote it if ever the piece is reprinted. mr. tyson surprises me by usurping your dissertation. it seems all is fish that comes to the net of the society- mercy on us! what a cart-load of brick and rubbish, and roman ruins, they have piled together! i have found nothing-, tolerable in the volume but the dissertation of mr masters; which is followed by an answer, that, like masters, contradicts him, without disproving any thing. mr. west's books are selling outrageously. his family will make a fortune by what he collected from stalls and moorfields. but i must not blame the virtuosi, having surpassed them. in short i have bought his two pictures of henry v. and henry viii. and their families; the first of which is engraved in my anecdotes, or, as the catalogue says, engraved by mr. h. walpole, and the second described there. the first cost me pounds and the last , though i knew mr. west bought it for six guineas. but, in fact, these two, with my marriages of henry vi. and vii., compose such a suite of the house of lancaster, and enrich my gothic house so completely, that i would not deny myself. the henry vii. cost me as much, and is less curious: the price of antiquities is so exceedingly risen, too, at present, that i expected to have paid more. i have bought much cheaper at the same sale, a picture of henry viii. and charles v. in one piece, both much younger than i ever saw any portrait of either. i hope your pilgrimage to st. gulaston's this month will take place, and that you will come and see them. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) ' i had not time this morning to answer your letter by mr. essex, but i gave him the card you desired. you know, i hope, how happy i am to obey any orders of yours. in the paper i showed you in answer to masters, you saw i was apprised of rastel's chronicle: but pray do not mention my knowing of it; because i draw so much from it, that i lie in wait, hoping that milles, or masters, or some of their fools, will produce it against me; and then i shall have another word to say to them, which they do not expect, since they think rastel makes for them. mr. gough( ) wants to be introduced to me! indeed! i would see him, as he has been midwife to masters; but he is so dull, that he would only be troublesome--and besides you know i shun authors, and would never have been one myself, if it obliged me to keep such bad company. they are always in earnest, and think their profession serious, and dwell upon trifles, and reverence learning. i laugh at all those things, and write only to laugh at them, and divert myself. none of us are authors of any consequence; and it is the most ridiculous in all vanities to be vain of being mediocre. a page in a great author humbles me to the dust; and the conversation of those that are not superior to myself, reminds me of what will be thought of myself. i blush to flatter them, or to be flattered by them, and should dread letters being published some time or other, in which they should relate our interviews, and we should appear like those puny conceited witlings in shenstone's and hughes' correspondence,( ) who give themselves airs from being in possession of the soil of parnassus for the time being; as peers are proud, because they enjoy the estates of great men who went before them. mr. gough is very welcome to see strawberry hill; or i would help him to any scraps in my possession, that would assist his publications; though he is one of those industrious who are only reburying the dead-but i cannot be acquainted with him. it is contrary to my system, and my humour; and, besides, i know nothing of barrows, and danish entrenchments, and saxon barbarisms, and phoenician characters--in short, i know nothing of those ages that knew nothing--then how should i be of use to modern literati? all the scotch metaphysicians have sent me their works. i did not read one of them, because i do not understand what is not understood by those that write about it; and i did not get acquainted with one of the writers. i should like to be intimate with mr. anstey,( ) even though he wrote lord buckhorse, or with the author of the heroic epistle.( ) i have no thirst to know the rest of my contemporaries, from the absurd bombast of dr. johnson down to the silly dr. goldsmith; though the latter changeling has had bright gleams of parts, and the former had sense, 'till he charged it for words, and sold it for a pension. don't think me scornful. recollect that i have seen pope, and lived with gray. adieu! yours ever. p. s. mr. essex has shown me a charming drawing, from a charming round window at lincoln. it has revived all my eagerness to have him continue his plan. ( ) richard gough, esq., author of the british topography, and the sepulchral monuments of great britain; and editor of camden's britannia. this learned antiquary was born in , and died in the year -e. ( ) a second edition had just appeared of "letters by several eminent persons deceased; including the correspondence of john hughes, esq, and several of his friends."-e. ( ) the author of the new bath guide. see vol. iii., letter to george montagu, esq., june .-e. ( ) see ante, letter , p. .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) i should not have hurried to answer your letter, dear sir, the moment i receive it, but to send you another ticket( ) for your sister, in case she should not have recovered the other; and i think you said she was to stay but a fortnight in town. i would have sent it to her, had i known whither: and i have made it for five persons, in case she should have a mind to carry so many. i am sorry for the young engraver; but i can by no means meddle with his going abroad, without the father's consent. it would be very wrong, and would hurt the young man essentially, if the father has any thing to leave. , in any case, i certainly would not be accessory to sending away the son against the father's will. the father is an impertinent fool--but that you and i cannot help. pray be not uneasy about gertrude more: i shall get the original or, at least, a copy. tell me how i shall send you martagons by the safest conveyance, or any thing else you want. i am always in your debt; and the apostle-spoon will make the debtor side in my book of gratitude run over. your public orator has done me too much honour by far-- especially as he named me with my father,( ) to whom i am so infinitely inferior, both in parts and virtues. though i have been abused undeservedly, i feel i have more title to censure than praise, and -will subscribe to the former sooner than to the latter. would not it be prudent to look upon the encomium as a funeral oration, and consider myself as dead? i have always dreaded outliving myself, and writing after what small talents i have should be decayed. except the last volume of the anecdotes of painting, which has been finished and printed so long, and which, appear when they may, will still come too late for many reasons. i am disposed never to publish any more of my own self; but i do not say so positively, lest my breaking my intention should be but another folly. the gout has, however, made me so indolent and inactive, that if my head does not inform me how old i grow, at least my mind and my feet will--and can one have too many monitors of one's weakness! i am sorry you think yourself so much inconvenienced by stirring from home. ' this is an incommodity by which your friends will suffer more than yourself, and nobody more, sensibly than yours, etc. ( ) of admission to strawberry. ( ) on presenting a relation of mr. walpole's to the vice-chancellor for his honorary degree. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) dear sir, i have been so much taken up of late with poor lord orford's affairs, i have not had, and scarce have now, time to write you a line, and thank you for all your kindnesses, information, and apostle -spoon. i have not newcomb's repertorium, and shall be obliged to you for the transcript; not as doubting, but to confirm what heaven, king edward i., and the bishop of the tartars have deposed in favour of malibrunus, the jew painter's abilities. i should sooner have suspected that mr. masters would have produced such witnesses to condemn richard iii. the note relating to lady boteler does not relate to her marriage. i send you two martagon roots, and some jonquils; and have added some prints, two enamelled pictures, and three medals. one of oliver, by simon; a fine one of pope clement x., and a scarce one of archbishop sancroft and the seven bishops. i hope the two latter will atone for the first. as i shall never be out of your debt, pray draw on me for any more other roots, or any thing that will be agreeable to you, and excuse me at present. letter to dr. berkenhout.( ) july , , (page ) sir, i am so much engaged in private business at present, that i have not had time to thank you for the favour of your letter: nor can i now answer it to your satisfaction. my life has been too insignificant to afford materials interesting to the public. in general, the lives of mere authors are dry and unentertaining; nor, though i -have been one occasionally, are my writings of a class or merit to entitle me to any distinction. i can as little furnish you, sir, with a list of them or their dates, which would give me more trouble to make out than is worth while. if i have any merit with the public, it is for printing and preserving some valuable works of others; and if ever you write the lives of printers, i may be enrolled in the number. my own works, i suppose, are dead and buried; but, as i am not impatient to be interred with them, i hope you will leave that office to the parson of the parish, and i shall be, as long as i live, yours, etc. ( ) dr. john berkenhout had been a captain both in the english and prussian service, and in took his degree of md. at leyden. his application to walpole was for the purpose of procuring materials for a life of him in his forthcoming work, "biographia literaria, or a biographical history of literature; containing the lives of english, irish, and scottish authors, from the dawn of letters in these kingdoms to the present time." the first volume, which treats of those writers who lived from the beginning of the fifth to the end of the sixth century, and which is the only one ever published, appeared in . he died in -e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, aug. , . (page ) i returned last night from houghton,( ) where multiplicity of business detained me four days longer than i intended, and where i found a scene infinitely more mortifying than i expected; though i certainly did not go with a prospect of finding a land flowing with milk and honey. except the pictures, which are in the finest preservation, and the woods, which are become forests, all the rest is ruin, desolation, confusion, disorder, debts, mortgages, sales, pillage, villany, waste, folly, and madness. i do not believe that five thousand pounds would put the house and buildings into good repair. the nettles and brambles in the park are up to your shoulders; horses have been turned into the garden, and banditti lodged in every cottage. the perpetuity of livings that come up to the park-pales have been sold--and every farm let for half its value. in short, you know how much family pride i have, and consequently may judge how much i have been mortified! nor do i tell you half, or near the worst circumstances. i have just stopped the torrent-and that is all. i am very uncertain whether i must not fling up the trust; and some of the difficulties in my way seem unsurmountable, and too dangerous not to alarm even my zeal; since i must not ruin myself, and hurt those for whom i must feel, too, only to restore a family that will end with myself, and to retrieve an estate' from which i am not likely ever to receive the least advantage. if you will settle with the churchills your journey to chalfont, and will let me know the day, i will endeavour to meet you there; i hope it will not be till next week. i am overwhelmed with business--but, indeed, i know not when i shall be otherwise! i wish you joy of this endless summer. ( ) whither he had gone during the mental alienation of his nephew, george earl of orford, to endeavour to settle and arrange his affairs. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) the multiplicity of business which i found chalked out to me by my journey to houghton, has engaged me so much, my dear lord, and the unpleasant scene opened to me there struck me so deeply, that i have neither had time nor cheerfulness enough to flatter myself i could amuse my friends by my letters. except the pictures, i found every thing worse than i expected, and the prospect almost too bad to give me courage to pursue what i am doing. i am totally ignorant of most of the branches of business that are fallen to my lot, and not young enough to learn any new business well. all i can hope is to clear the worst part of the way; for, in undertaking to retrieve an estate, the beginning is certainly the most difficult of the work--it is fathoming a chaos. but i will not unfold a confusion to your lordship which your good sense will always keep you from experiencing --very unfashionably; for the first geniuses of the age hold, that the best method of governing the world is to throw it into disorder. the experiment is not yet complete, as the rearrangement is still to come. i am very seriously glad of the birth of your nephew,( ) my lord; i am going this evening with my gratulations'; but have been so much absent and so hurried, that i have not yet had the pleasure of seeing lady anne,( ) though i have called twice. to gunnersbury i have no summons this summer: i receive such honours, or the want of them, with proper respect. lady mary coke, i fear, is in chace of a dulcineus that she will never meet. when the ardour of peregrination is a little abated, will not she probably give in to a more comfortable pursuit; and, like a print i have seen of -the blessed martyr charles the first, abandon the hunt of a corruptible for that of an incorruptible crown? there is another beatific print just published in that style: it is of lady huntingdon. with much pompous humility, she looks like an old basket-woman trampling on her coronet at the mouth of a cavern.-poor whitfield! if he was forced to do the honours of the spelunca!--saint fanny shirley is nearer consecration. i was told two days ago that she had written a letter to lady selina that was not intelligible. her grace of kingston's glory approaches to consummation in a more worldly style. the duke( ) is dying, and has given her the whole estate, seventeen thousand a-year. i am told she has already notified the contents of the will, and made offers of the sale of thoresby. pious matrons have various ways of expressing decency. your lordship's new bow-window thrives. i do not want it to remind me of its master and mistress, to whom i am ever the most devoted humble servant. ( ) a son of john earl of buckingham, who died young. ( ) lady anne conolly. ( ) the duke of kingston died on the d of september, when all his honours became extinct.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i am very sorry, my dear lord, that you are coming towards us so slowly and unwillingly. i cannot quite wonder at the latter. the world is an old acquaintance that does not improve upon one's hands: however, one must not give way to the disgusts it creates. my maxim, and practice, too, is to laugh, because i do not like to cry. i could shed a pailfull of tears over all i have seen and learnt since my poor nephew's misfortune-the more one has to do with men the worse one finds them but can one mend them? no. shall we shut ourselves up from them? no. we should grow humourists-and of all animals an englishman is least made to live alone. for my part, i am conscious of so many faults, that i think i grow better the more bad i see in my neighbours; and there are so many i would not resemble, that it makes me watchful over myself you, my lord, who have forty more good qualities than i have, should not seclude yourself. i do not wonder you despise knaves and fools: but remember, they want better examples; they will never grow ashamed by conversing with one another. i came to settle here on friday, being drowned out of twickenham. i find the town desolate, and no news in it, but that the ministry give up the irish -tax-some say, because it will not pass in ireland; others, because the city of london would have petitioned against it; and some, because there were factions in the council-- which is not the most incredible of all. i am glad, for the sake of some of my friends who would have suffered by it, that it is over.( ) in other respects, i have too much private business of my own to think about the public, which is big enough to take care of itself. i have heard some of lady mary coke's mortifications. i have regard and esteem for her good qualities, which are many; but i doubt her genius will never suffer her to be quite happy. as she will not take the psalmist's advice of not putting trust, i am sure she would not follow mine; for, with all her piety, king david is the only royal person she will not listen to, and therefore i forbear my sweet counsel. when she and lord huntingdon meet, will not they put you in mind of count-gage and lady mary herbert, who met in the mines of asturias, after they had failed of the crown of poland?( ) adieu, my dear lord! come you and my lady among us. you have some friends that are not odious, and who will be rejoiced to see you both- -witness, for one, yours most faithfully. ( ) a tax upon absentees. mr. hardy, in his memoirs of lord charlemont, says, that the influence of the whig leaders predominated so far as to oblige the ministers to relinquish the measure.-e. ( ) "the crown of poland, venal twice an age, to just three millions stint;ed modest gage." pope in a note to the above couplet, states that mr. gage and lady mary herbert, " each of them, in the mississippi scheme, despised to realize above three hundred thousand pounds: the gentleman with a view to the purchase of the crown of poland, the lady on a vision of the like royal nature: they have since retired into spain, where they are still in search of gold, in the mines of the asturias."-e. letter to lady mary coke.( ) ((page ) your ladyship's illustrious exploits are the constant theme of my meditations. your expeditions are so rapid, and to such distant regions, that i cannot help thinking you are possessed of the giant's boots that stepped seven leagues at a stride, as we are assured by that accurate historian mother goose. you are, i know, madam', an excellent walker, yet methinks seven leagues at once are a prodigious straddle for a fair lady. but whatever is your manner of travelling, few heroines ancient or modern can be compared to you for length of journeys. thalestris, queen of the amazons, and m. m. or n. n. queen of sheba, went each of them the lord knows how far to meet alexander the great and solomon the wise; the one to beg the favour of having a daughter (i suppose) and heiress by him; and the other, says scandal, to grant a like favour to the hebrew monarch. your ladyship, who has more real amazonian principles, never makes visits but to empresses, queens, and princesses; and your country is enriched with the maxims of wisdom and virtue which you collect in your travels. for such great ends did herodotus, pythagoras, and other sages, make voyages to egypt, and every distant kingdom; and it is amazing how much their own countries were benefited by what those philosophers learned in their peregrinations. were it not that your ladyship is actuated by such public spirit, i could put you in mind, madam, of an old story that might save you a great deal of fatigue and danger-and now i think of it, as i have nothing better to fill my letter with, i will relate it to you. pyrrhus, the martial and magnanimous king of epirus (as my lord lyttelton would call him), being, as i have heard or seen goodman plutarch say, intent on his preparations for invading italy, cineas, one of the grooms of his bedchamber, took the liberty of asking his majesty what benefit he expected to reap if he should be successful in conquering the romans?--jesus! said the king, peevishly; why the question answers itself. when we have overcome the romans, no province, no town, whether greek or barbarian, will be able to resist us: we shall at once be masters of all italy. cineas after a short pause replied, and having subdued italy, what shall we do next?--do next? answered pyrrhus; why, seize sicily. very likely, quoth cineas: but will that put an end to the war?-the gods forbid! cried his majesty: when sicily is reduced, libya and carthage will be within our reach. and then, without giving cineas time to put in a word, the heroic prince ran over africa, greece, asia, persia, and every other country he had ever heard of upon the face of god's earth; not one of which he intended should escape his victorious sword. at last, when he was at the end of his geography, and a little out of breath, cineas watched his opportunity, and said quietly, well, sire, and when we have conquered all the world, what are we to do then?--why, then, said his majesty, extremely satisfied with his own prowess, we will live at our ease; we: will spend whole days in banqueting and carousing, and will think of nothing but our pleasures. now, madam, for the application. had i had the honour a few years ago of being your confidential abigail, when you meditated a visit to princess esterhazi, i would have ventured to ask your ladyship of what advantage her acquaintance would be to you? probably you would have told me, that she would introduce you to several electresses and margravines, whose courts you would visit. that having conquered all their hearts, as i am persuaded you would, your next jaunt would be to hesse; from whence it would be but a trip to aix, where madame de rochouart lives. soaring from thence you would repair to the imperial court at vienna, where resides the most august, most virtuous, and most plump of empresses and queens- -no, i mistake--i should only have said, of empresses; for her majesty of denmark, god bless her! is reported to be full as virtuous, and three stone heavier. shall not you call at copenhagen, madam? if you do, you are next door to the czarina, who is the quintessence of friendship, as the princess daskioff says, whom, next to the late czar, her muscovite majesty loves above all the world. asia, i suppose, would not enter into your ladyship's system of conquest; for, though it contains a sight of queens and sultanas, the poor ladies are locked up in abominable places, into which i am sure your ladyship's amity would never carry you--i think they call them seraglios. africa has nothing but empresses stark-naked; and of complexions directly the reverse of your alabaster they do not reign in their own right; and what is worse, the emperors of those barbarous regions wear no more robes than the sovereigns of their hearts. and what are princes and princesses without velvet and ermine? as i am not a jot a better geographer than king pyrrhus, i can at present recollect but one lady more who reigns alone, and that is her majesty of otaheite, lately discovered by mr. bankes and dr. solander; and for whom, your ladyship's compassionate breast must feel the tenderest emotions,' she having been cruelly deprived of her faithful minister and lover tobiu, since dead at batavia. well,'madam, after you should have given me the plan of your intended expeditions, and not left a queen regent on the face of the globe unvisited,-- i would ask what we were to do next?- -why then, dear abigail, you would have said, we will retire to notting-hill, we will plant shrubs all the morning, read anderson's royal genealogies all the evening; and once or twice a week i will go to gunnersbury and drink a bottle with princess amelia. alas, dear lady! and cannot you do all that without skuttling from one end of the world to the other?--this was the, upshot of all cineas's inquisitiveness: and this is the pith of this tedious letter from, madam, your ladyship's most faithful aulic counsellor and humble admirer. ( ) see the two preceding letters. it will be recollected that lady mary coke was sister-in-law to the earl of strafford, and widow of viscount coke, heir apparent of thomas earl of leicester, who died without issue by her, in his father's lifetime. lady mary died at a great age in -e. letter to the hon. mrs. grey.( ) dec. , . (page ) dear madam, as i hear lady blandford has a return of the gout-, as i foretold last night from the red spot being not gone, i beg you will be so good as to tell her, that if she does not encourage the swelling by keeping her foot wrapped up as hot as possible in flannel, she will torment herself and bring more pain. i will answer that if she will let it swell, and suffer the swelling to go off of itself, she will have no more pain; and she must remember, that the gout will bear contradiction no more than she herself( ) pray read this to her, and what i say farther--that though i know she will not bear pain for herself, i am sure she will for her friends. her misfortune has produced the greatest satisfaction that a good mind can receive, the experience that that goodness has given her a great many sincere friends, who have shown as much concern as ever was known, and the most disinterested; as we know her generosity has left her nothing to give. we wish to preserve her for her own sake and ours, and the poor beseech her to bear a little pain for them. i am going out of town till monday, or would bring my prescription myself. she wants no virtue but patience; and patience takes it very ill to be left out of such good company. i am, dear madam, your obedient servant, dr. walpole. ( ) now first printed. ( ) it has already been stated, that lady blandford was somewhat impatient in her temper.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, dec. , . (page ) sir, i have received from mr. dodsley, and read with pleasure, your remarks on the history of scotland," though i am not competently versed in some of the subjects. indeed, such a load of difficult and vexatious business is fallen upon me by the unhappy situation of my nephew, lord orford, of whose affairs i have been forced to undertake the management, though greatly unfit for it, that i am obliged to bid adieu to all literary amusement and pursuits; and must dedicate the rest of a life almost worn out, and of late wasted and broken by a long illness, to the duties i owe to my family. i hope you, sir, will have no such disagreeable avocation, and am your obliged servant. ( ) now first collected. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) dear sir, we have dropped one another, as if we were not antiquaries, but people of this world-or do you disclaim me, because i have quitted the society? i could give you but too sad reasons for my silence. the gout kept entire possession of me for six months; and, before it released me, lord orford's illness and affairs engrossed me totally. i have been twice in norfolk since you heard from me. i am now at liberty again. what is your account of yourself? to. ask you to come above ground, even so far as to see me, i know is in vain or i certainly would ask it. you impose carthusian shackles on yourself, will not quit your cell, nor will speak above once a week. i am glad to hear of you, and to see your hand, though you make that as much like print as you can. if you were to be tempted abroad, it would be a pilgrimage: and i can lure you even with that. my chapel is finished, and the shrine will actually be placed in less than a fortnight. my father is said to have said, that every man had his price. you are a beatus, indeed, if you resist a shrine. why should not you add to your claustral virtues that of a peregrination to strawberry? you will find me quite alone in july. consider, strawberry is almost the last monastery left, at least in england. poor mr. bateman's is despoiled. lord bateman has stripped and plundered it: has sequestered the best things, has advertised the site, and is dirtily selling by auction what he neither would keep, nor can sell for a sum that is worth while. i was hurt to see half the ornaments of the chapel, and the reliquaries, and in short a thousand trifles, exposed to sneers. i am buying a few to keep for the founder's sake. surely it is very indecent for a favourite relation, who is rich, to show so little remembrance and affection. i suppose strawberry will have the same fate! it has already happened to two of my friends. lord bristol got his mother's house from his brother, by persuading her he was in love with it. he let it in a month after she was dead band all her favourite pictures and ornaments, which she had ordered not to be removed, are mouldering in a garret! you are in the right to care so little for a world where there is no measure but avoirdupois. adieu! yours sincerely. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) nothing will be more agreeable to me', dear sir, than a visit from you in july. i will try to persuade mr. granger to meet you; and if you had any such thing as summer in the fens, i would desire you to bring a bag with you. we are almost freezing here in the midst of beautiful verdure, with a profusion of blossoms and flowers; but i keep good fires, and seem to feel warm weather while i look through the window; for the way to ensure summer in england, is to have it framed and glazed in a comfortable room. i shall be still more glad to hear you are settled in your living. burnham is almost in my neighbourhood; and its being in that of eton and windsor, will more than console you, i hope, for leaving ely and cambridge. pray let me know the moment you are certain. it would now be a disappointment to me as well as you. you shall be inaugurated in my chapel, which is much more venerable than your parish church, and has the genuine air of antiquity. i bought very little of poor mr. bateman's. his nephew disposed of little that was worth houseroom, and yet pulled the whole to pieces. mr. pennant has published a new tour to scotland and the hebrides: and, though he has endeavoured to paint their dismal isles and rocks in glowing colours, they will not be satisfied; for he seems no bigot about ossian, at least in some passages; and is free in others, which their intolerating spirit will resent. i cannot say the book is very entertaining to me, and it is more a book of rates than of antiquities. the most amusing part was communicated to him by mr. banks, who found whole islands that bear nothing but columns, as other places do grass and barley. there is a beautiful cave called fingal's; which proves that nature loves gothic architecture. mr. pennant has given a new edition of his former tour, with more cuts. among others, is the vulgar head, called the countess of desmond. i told him i had discovered, and proved past contradiction, that it is rembrandt's mother. he owned it, and said, he would correct it by a note-but he has not. this is a brave way of being an antiquary! as if there could be any merit in giving for genuine what one knows to be spurious. he is, indeed, a superficial man, and knows little of history or antiquity: but he has a violent rage for being an author. he set out with ornithology, and a little natural history, and picks up his knowledge as he rides. i have a still lower idea of mr. gough; for mr. pennant, at least, is very civil: the other is a hog. mr. fenn,( ) another smatterer in antiquity, but. a very good sort of man, told me, mr. gough desired to be introduced to me--but as he has been such a bear to you,( ) he shall not come. the society of antiquaries put me in mind of what the old lord pembroke said to anstis the herald: "thou silly fellow! thou dost not know thy own silly business." if they went behind taste by poking into barbarous ages, when there was no taste, one could forgive them--but they catch at the first ugly thing they see, and take it for old, because it is new to them, and then usher it pompously into the world, as if they had made a discovery; though they have not yet cleared up a single point that is of the least importance, or that tends to settle any obscure passage in history. i will not condole with you on having had the gout, since you find it has removed other complaints. besides as it begins late, you are never likely to have it severely. i shall be in terrors in two or three months, having had the four last fits periodically and biennially indeed, the two last were so long and severe, that my remaining and shattered strength could ill support such. i must repeat how glad i shall be to have you at burnham. when people grow old, as you and i do, they should get together. others do not care for us: but we seem wiser to one another by finding fault with them. not that i am apt to dislike young folks, whom i think every thing becomes: but it is a kind of self-defence to live in a body. i dare to say that monks never find out that they grow old fools. their age gives them authority, and nobody contradicts them. in the world, one cannot help perceiving one is out of fashion. women play at cards with women of their own standing, and censure others between the deals, and thence conclude themselves gamaliels. i who see many young men with better parts than myself, submit with a good grace, or retreat hither to my castle, where i am satisfied with what i have done, and am always in good humour. but i like to have one or two old friends with me. i do not much invite the juvenile, who think my castle and me of equal antiquity: for no wonder, if they supposed george i. lived in the time of the crusades. adieu! my good sir, and pray let burnham wood and dunsinane be good neighbours. yours ever. ( ) sir john fenn, who edited the "original letters, written during the reigns of henry vi., edward iv., richard iii., and henry vii., by various persons of rank and consequence, digested in a chronological order - with notes historical and explanatory;" which were published in four volumes, quarto, between the years - . the letters are principally by members of the paston family and others, who were of great consequence in norfolk at the time sir john who was a native of norwich, died in . a fifth volume was published in .- e. ( ) alluding to his not having answered a letter from mr. cole for nearly a twelvemonth. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) your illness, dear sir, is the worst excuse you could make me; and the worse, as you may be well in a night, if you will, by taking six grains of james's powder. he cannot cure death; but he can most complaints that are not mortal or chronical. he could cure you so soon of colds, that he would cure you of another distemper, to which i doubt you are a little subject, the fear of them. i hope you were certain, that illness is a legal plea for missing induction, or you will have nursed a cough and hoarseness with too much tenderness, as they certainly could bear a journey. never see my face again, if you are not rector of burnham. how can you be so bigoted to milton? i should have thought the very name would have prejudiced you against the place, as the name is all that could approach towards reconciling me to the fens. i shall be very glad to see you here, whenever you have resolution enough to quit your cell. but since burnham and the neighbourhood of windsor and eton have no charms for you, can i expect that strawberry hill should have any? methinks, that when one grows old, one's contemporary friends should be our best amusement: for younger people are soon tired of us, and our old stories: but i have found the contrary in some of mine. for your part, you care for conversing with none but the dead: for i reckon the unborn, for whom you are writing, as much dead, as those from whom you collect. . you certainly ask no favour, dear sir, when you want prints of me. they are at any body's service that thinks them worth having. the owner sets very little value on them, since he sets very little, indeed, on himself: as a man, a very faulty one; and as an author, a very middling one; which whoever thinks a comfortable rank, is not at all my opinion. pray convince me that you think i mean sincerely, by not answering me with a compliment. it is very weak to be pleased with flattery; the stupidest of 'all delusions to beg it. from you i should take it ill. we have known one another almost fifty years--to very little purpose, indeed, if any ceremony is necessary, or downright sincerity not established between us. tell me that you are recovered, and that i shall see you some time or other. i have finished the catalogue of my collection; but you shall never have it without fetching, nor, though a less punishment, the prints you desire. i propose in time to have plates of my house added to 'the catalogue, yet i cannot afford them, unless by degrees. engravers are grown so much dearer, without my growing richer, that i must have patience! a quality i seldom have, but when i must. adieu! yours ever. p. s. i have lately been at ampthill, and saw queen catherine's cross. it is not near large enough for the situation, and would be fitter for a garden than a park: but it is executed in the truest and best taste. lord ossory is quite satisfied, as well as i, and designs mr. essex a present of some guineas. if ever i am richer, i shall consult the same honest man about building my offices, for which i have a plan: but if i have no more money, ever, i will not run in debt, and distress myself: and therefore remit my designs to chance and a little economy. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i have nothing to say--which is the best reason in the world for writing; for one must have a great regard for any body, one writes to, when one begins a letter neither on ceremony nor business. you are seeing armies,( ) who are always in fine order--and great spirits when they are in cold blood: i am sorry you thought it worth while to realize what i should have thought you could have seen in your mind's eye. however, i hope you will be amused and pleased with viewing heroes, both in their autumn and their bud. vienna will be a new sight; so will the austrian eagle and its two heads, i should like seeing, too, if any fairy would present me with a chest that would fly up into the air by touching a peg, and transport me whither i pleased in an instant: but roads, and inns, and dirt, are terrible drawbacks on my curiosity. i grow so old and so indolent, that i scarce stir from hence; and the dread of the gout makes me almost as much a prisoner, as a fit of it. news i know none, if there is any. the papers tell me that the city was to present a petition to the king against the quebec-bill yesterday; and i suppose they will tell me to-morrow whether it was presented. the king's speech tells me, there has nothing happened between the russians and the turks.( ) lady barrymore told me t'other day, that nothing was to happen between her and lord egremont. i am as well satisfied with these negatives, as i should have been with the contrary. i am much more interested about the rain, for it destroys all my roses and orange-flowers, of which i have exuberance; and my hay is cut, and cannot be made. however, it is delightful to have no other distresses. when i compare my present tranquillity and indifference with all i suffered last year,( ) i am thankful for my happiness and enjoy it--unless the bell rings early in the morning--then i tremble, and think it an express from norfolk. it is unfortunate that when one has nothing to talk of but one's self, one should have nothing to' say of one's self. it is shameful, too, to send such a scrap by the post. i think i shall reserve it till tuesday. if -i have then nothing to add, as is probable, you must content yourself with my good intentions, as you, i hope, will with this speculative campaign. pray, for the future, remain at home and build bridges: i wish you were here to expedite ours to richmond, which they tell me will not be passable these two years. i have done looking so forward. adieu! ( ) mr. conway was now on a tour of military curiosity through flanders, germany, prussia, and part of hungary. ( ) peace between russia and turkey was proclaimed at st. petersburgh on the th of august, .-e. ( ) during the illness of his nephew, lord orford. letter to the rev. mr. cole. matson, near gloucester, aug. , . (page ) dear sir, as i am your disciple in antiquities (for you studied them when i was but a scoffer), i think it my duty to give you some account of my journeying, in the good cause. you will not dislike my date. i am in the very mansion where king charles the first and his two eldest sons lay during the siege; and there are marks of the last's hacking with his hanger on a window, as he told mr. selwin's grandfather afterwards. the present master has done due honour to the royal residence, and erected a good marble bust of the martyr, in a little gallery. in a window is a shield in painted glass, with that king's and his queen's arms, which i gave him. so you see i am not a rebel, when alma mater antiquity stands godmother. i went again to the cathedral, and, on seeing the monument of edward ii a new historic doubt started which i pray you to solve. his majesty has a longish beard - and such were certainly worn at that time. who is the first historian that tells the story of his being shaven with cold water from a ditch and weeping to supply warm, as he was carried to berkeley castle? is not this apocryphal? the house whence bishop hooper( ) was carried to the stake, is still standing, tale quale. i made a visit to his actual successor, warburton, 'who is very infirm, speaks with much hesitation, and, they say, begins to lose his memory. they have destroyed the beautiful cross; the two battered heads of henry iii. and edward iii. are in the postmaster's garden. yesterday i made a jaunt four miles hence that pleased me exceedingly, to prinknash, the individual villa of the abbots of gloucester. i wished you there with their mitre on. it stands on a glorious, but impracticable hill, in the midst of a little forest of beech, and commanding elysium. the house is small, but has good rooms, and though modernized here and there, not extravagantly. on the ceiling of the hall is edward ivth's jovial device, a fau-con serrure. the chapel is low and small, but antique, and with painted glass, with many angels in their coronation robes, i. e. wings and crowns. henry viii. and jane seymour lay here: in the dining-room are their arms in glass, and of catherine of arragon, and of brays and bridges. under the window, a barbarous bas-relief head of harry, young: as it is still on a sign of an alehouse, on the descent of the hill. think of my amazement, when they showed me the chapel plate, and i found on it, on four pieces, my own arms, quartering my mother-in-law, skerret's, and in a shield of pretence, those of fortescue certainly by mistake, for those of my sister-in-law, as the barony of clinton was in abeyance between her and fortescue lord clinton. the whole is modern and blundered: for skerret should be impaled, not quartered, and instead of our crest, are two spears tied together in a ducal coronet, and no coronet for my brother, in whose time this plate must have been made, and at whose sale it was probably bought; as he finished the repairs of the church at houghton, for which, i suppose, this decoration was intended. but the silversmith was no herald, you see. as i descended the hill, i found in a wretched cottage a child, in an ancient oaken cradle, exactly in the form of that lately published from the cradle of edward ii. i purchased it for five shillings; but don't know whether i shall have fortitude enough to transport it to strawberry hill. people would conclude me in my second childhood. to-day i have been at berkeley and thornbury castles. the first disappointed me much, though very entire. it is much smaller than i expected, but very entire, except a small part burnt two years ago, while the present earl was in the house. the fire began in the housekeeper's room, who never appeared more; but as she was strict over the servants, and not a bone of her was found, it was supposed that she was murdered, and the body conveyed away. the situation is not elevated nor beautiful, and little improvements made of late, but some silly ones `a la chinoise, by the present dowager. in good sooth, i can give you but a very imperfect account; for, instead of the lord's being gone to dine with the mayor of gloucester, as i expected, i found him in the midst of all his captains of the militia. i am so sillily shy of strangers and youngsters, that i hurried through the chambers; and looked for nothing but the way out of every room. i just observed that there were many bad portraits of the family, but none ancient; as if the berkeleys had been commissaries, and raised themselves in the last war. there is a plentiful addition of those of my lord berkeley of stratton, but no knights templars, or barons as old as edward i.; yet are there three beds on which there may have been as frisky doings three centuries ago, as there probably have been within these ten ears. the room shown for the murder of edward ii., and the shrieks of an agonizing king, i verily believe to be genuine. it is a dismal chamber, almost at top of the house, quite detached, and to be approached only by a kind of foot-bridge, and from that 'descends' a large flight of steps that terminate on strong gates; exactly the situation for a corps de garde. in that room they show you a cast of a face in plaister, and tell you it was taken from edward's. i was not quite so easy of faith about that; for it is evidently the face of charles i. the steeple of the church, lately rebuilt handsomely, stands some paces from the body; in the latter are three tombs of the old berkeleys;, with cumbent figures. the wife of the lord berkeley,( ) who was supposed to be privy to the murder, has a curious headgear; it is like a long horseshoe, quilted in quatrefoils; and, like lord foppington's wig, allows no more than the breadth of a half-crown to be discovered of the face. stay, i think i mistake; the husband was a conspirator against richard ii. not edward. but in those days, loyalty was not so rife as at present. >from berkeley castle i went to thornbury, of which the ruins are half-ruined. it would have been glorious, if finished.( ) i wish the lords of berkeley had retained the spirit of deposing till henry the viiith's time! the situation is fine, though that was not the fashion; for all the windows of the great apartment look into the inner court. the prospect was left to the servants. here i had two adventures. i could find nobody to show me about. i saw a paltry house that i took for the sexton's, at the corner of the close, and bade my servant ring, and ask who could show me the castle. a voice in a passion flew, from a casement, and issued from a divine. "what! was it his business to show the castle? - go look for somebody else! what did the fellow ring for as if the house was on fire?" the poor swiss came back in a fright, and said, the doctor had sworn at him. well--we scrambled over a stone stile, saw a room or two glazed near the gate, and rung at it. a damsel came forth and satisfied our curiosity. when we had done seeing, i said, "child, we don't know our way, and want to be directed into the london road; i see the duke's steward yonder at the window, pray desire him to come to me, that i may consult him." she went--he stood staring at us at the window, and sent his footman. i do not think courtesy is a resident at thornbury. as i returned through the close, the divine came running, out of breath, and without his beaver or band, and calls out, "sir, i am come to justify myself: your servant says i swore at him: i am no swearer--lord bless me! (dropping his voice) it is mr. walpole!" "yes, sir, and i think you was lord beauchamp's tutor at oxford, but i have forgot your name." "holwell, sir." "oh! yes." and then i comforted him, and laid the ill-breeding on my footman's being a foreigner; but could not help saying, i really had taken his house for the sexton's. "yes, sir, it is not very good without, won't you please to walk in!" i did, and found the inside ten times worse, and he was making an index to homer, a lean wife, suckling a child. he is going to publish the chief beauties, and i believe had just been reading some of the delicate civilities that pass between agamemnon and achilles, and that what my servant took for oaths, were only greek compliments.( ) adieu! yours ever. you see i have not a line more of paper. ( ) john hooper, bishop of gloucester, who, having refused to recant his opinions, was burned alive before the cathedral of gloucester in the year .-e. ( ) thomas, third lord berkeley, was entrusted with the custody of edward ii.; but, owing to the humanity with which he treated the captive monarch, he was forced to resign his prisoner and his castle to lord maltravers and sir thomas gournay. after the murder of edward, lord berkeley was arraigned as a participator in the crime, but honourably acquitted. the lady berkeley alluded to by walpole was his first wife, margaret, daughter of roger de mortimer, earl of march, and widow of robert vere, earl of oxford.-e. ( ) thornbury castle was designed, but never finished by the duke of buckingham, in henry viii's time.-e. ( ) the rev. william holwell, vicar of thornbury, prebendary of exeter, and some time chaplain to the king. he was distinguished by superior talents as a scholar, and a critical knowledge of the greek language. his "extracts from mr. pope's translation, corresponding with the beauties of homer, selected from the iliad," were published in .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) it is very hard, that because you do not get my letters, you will not let me receive yours, who do receive them. i have not had a line from you these five weeks. of your honours and glories fame has told me;( ) and for aught i know, you may be a veldt-marshal by this time, and despise such a poor cottager as me. take notice i shall disclaim you in my turn, if you are sent on a command against dantzich, or to usurp a new district in poland.( ) i have seen no armies, kings, or. empresses, and cannot send you such august gazettes; nor are they what i want to hear of. i like to hear you are well and diverted; nay, have pimped towards the latter, by desiring lady ailesbury to send you monsieur do guisnes's invitation to a military f`ete at metz.( ) for my part, i wish you was returned to your plough. your sabine farm is in high beauty. i have lain there twice within this week, going to and from a visit to george selwyn, near gloucester; a tour as much to my taste as yours to you. for fortified towns i have seen ruined castles. unluckily, in that of berkeley i found a hole regiment of militia in garrison, and as many young officers as if the countess was in possession, and ready to surrender at indiscretion. i endeavoured to comfort myself, by figuring that they were guarding edward ii. i have seen many other ancient sights without asking leave of the king of prussia: it would not please me so much to write to him, as it once did to write for him.( ) they have found at least seventy thousand pounds of lord thomond's.( ) george howard has decked himself with a red riband, money, and honours! charming things! and yet one may be happy without them. the young mr. coke is returned from his travels n love with the pretender's queen,( ) who has permitted him to have her picture. what can i tell you more? nothing. indeed, if i only write to postmasters, my letter is long enough. every body's head but mine is full of elections. i had the satisfaction at gloucester, where george selwyn is canvassing, of reflecting on my own wisdom. "suave mari maggno turbantibus aequora ventis," etc. i am certainly the greatest philosopher in the world, without ever having thought of being so: always employed, and never busy;' eager about trifles, and indifferent to every thing serious. well, if it is not philosophy, it is at least content. i am as pleased here with my own nutshell, as any monarch you have seen these two months astride his eagle--not but i was dissatisfied when i missed you at park-place, and was peevish at your being in an aulic chamber. adieu! yours ever. p- s. they tell us from vienna, that the peace is made between tisiphone and the turk: is it true? ( ) alluding to the distinguished notice taken of general conway by the king of prussia. ( ) the first dismemberment of poland had taken place in the preceding year, by which a third of her territory was ceded to russia, austria, and prussia.-e. ( ) to see the review of the french regiment of carabineers, then commanded by monsieur de guisnes. ( ) alluding to the letter to rousseau in the name of the king of prussia. ( ) percy wyndham obrien. he was the second son of sir charles wyndham, chancellor of the exchequer to queen anne; and took the name of obrien, pursuant to the earl of thomond in ireland. ( ) the countess of albany.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i did not think you had been so like the rest of the world, as, when you pretended to be visiting armies, to go in search of gold and silver mines!( ) the favours of courts and the smiles of emperors and kings, i see, have corrupted even you, and perverted you to a nabob. have you brought away an ingot in the calf of your leg? what abomination have you committed? all the gazettes in europe have sent you on different negotiations: instead of returning with a treaty in your pocket, you will only come back with bills of exchange. i don't envy your subterraneous travels, nor the hospitality of the hungarians. where did you find a spoonful of latin about you? i have not attempted to speak latin these thirty years, without perceiving i was talking italian thickened with terminations in us and orum. i should have as little expected to find an ovid in those regions; but i suppose the gentry of presburg read him for a fashionable author, as our squires and their wives do the last collections of ballads that have been sung at vauxhall and marybone. i wish you may have brought away some sketches of duke albert's architecture. you know i deal in the works of royal authors, though i have never admired any of their own buildings, not excepting king solomon's temple. stanley( ) and edmondson in hungary! what carried them thither? the chase of mines too? the first, perhaps, waddled thither obliquely, as a parrot would have done whose direction was to naples. well, i am glad you have been entertained, and seen such a variety of sights. you don't mind fatigues and hardships, and hospitality, the two extremes that to me poison travelling. i shall never see any thing more, unless i meet with a ring that renders one invisible. it was but the other day that, being with george selwyn at gloucester, i went to view berkeley castle, knowing the earl was to dine with the mayor of gloucester. alas! when i arrived, he had put off the party to enjoy his militia a day longer, and the house was full of officers. they might be in the hungarian dress, for aught i knew; for i was so dismayed, that i would"fain have persuaded the housekeeper that she could not show me the apartments; and when she opened the hall, and i saw it full of captains, i hid myself in a dark passage, and nothing could persuade me to enter, till they had the civility to quit the place. when i was forced at last to go over the castle, i ran through it without seeing any thing, as if i had been afraid of being detained prisoner. i have no news to send you: if i had any, i would not conclude, as all correspondents do, that lady ailesbury left nothing untold. lady powis is gone to hold mobs at ludlow, where there is actual war, and where a knight, i forget his name, one of their friends, has been almost cut in two with a scythe. when you have seen all the armies in europe, you will be just in time for many election-battles--perhaps, for a war in america, whither more troops are going. many of those already sent have deserted; and to be sure the- prospect there is not smiling. apropos, lord mahon,( ) whom lord stanhope, his father, will not suffer to wear powder because wheat is so dear, was presented t'other day in coal-black hair and a white feather: they said, "he had been tarred and feathered." in france you will find a new scene.( ) the chancellor is sent, a little before his time, to the devil. the old parliament is expected back. i am sorry to say i shall not meet you there. it will be too late in the year for me to venture, especially as i now live in dread of my biennial gout, and should die of it in an h`otel garni, and forced to receive all comers--i, who you know lock myself up when i am ill as if i had the plague. i wish i could fill my sheet, in return for your five pages. the only thing-you will care for knowing is, that i never saw mrs. damer better in her life, nor look so well. you may trust me, who am so apt to be frightened about her. ( ) mr. conway had gone to see the gold and silver mines of cremnitz, in the neighbourhood of grau, in hungary. ( ) mr. hans stanley. ( ) charles viscount mahon, born on the d of august . in the following december, he married lady hester pitt, eldest daughter of the earl of chatham. he succeeded his father, as third earl stanhope, in march , and died in .-e. ( ) in consequence of the death of louis xv. on the th of may.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i should be very ungrateful indeed if i thought of complaining of you, who are goodness itself to me: and when i did not receive letters from 'you, i concluded it happened from your eccentric positions. i am amazed, that hurried as you have been, and your eyes and thoughts- crowded with objects, you have been able to find time to write me so many and such long letters, over and above all those to lady, ailesbury, your daughter, brother, and other friends. even lord strafford brags of your frequent remembrance. that your superabundance of royal beams would dazzle you, i never suspected. even i enjoy for you the distinctions you have received--though i should hate such things for myself, as they are particularly troublesome to me,'and i am particularly awkward under them, and as i abhor the king of prussia, and if i passed through berlin, should have no joy like avoiding him--like one of our countrymen, who changed horses at paris, and asked what the name of that town was? all the other civilities you have received i am perfectly happy in. the germans are certainly a civil, well-meaning people, and, i believe, one of the least corrupted nations in europe. i do not think them very agreeable; but who do i think are so? a great many french women, some english men, and a few english women; exceedingly few french men. italian women are the grossest, vulqarest of the sex. if an italian man has a grain of sense, he is a buffoon. so much for europe! i have already told you, and so must lady ailesbury, that my courage fails me, and i dare not meet you at paris, as the period arrived when the gout used to come, it is never a moment out of my head. such a suffering, such a helpless condition as i was in for five months and a half, two years ago, makes me tremble from head to foot. i should die at once if seized in a french inn; or, what, if possible, would be worse, at paris, where i must admit every body.--i, who you know can hardly bear to see even you when i am ill, and who shut up myself here, and would not let lord and lady hertford come near me--i, who have my room washed though in bed, how could i bear french dirt! in short, i, who am so capricious, and whom you are pleased to call a philosopher, i suppose because i have given up every thing but my own will--how could i keep my temper, who have no way of keeping my temper but by keeping it out of every body's way! no, i must give up the satisfaction of being with you at paris. i have just learnt to give up my pleasures, but i cannot give up my pains, which such selfish people as i who have suffered much, grow to compose into a system that they are partial to, because it is their own. i must make myself amends when you return: you will be more stationary, i hope, for the future; and if i live i shall have intervals of health. in lieu of me, you will have a charming succedaneum, lady harriet stanhope.( ) her father, who is more a hero than i, is packing up his old decrepit bones, and goes too. i wish she may not have him to nurse, instead of diverting herself. the present state of your country is, that it is drowned and dead drunk; all water without, and wine within. opposition for the next elections every where, even in scotland; not from party, but as laying out money to advantage. in the head-quarters, indeed, party is not out of the question: the day after to-morrow will be a great bustle in the city for a lord mayor,( ) and all the winter in westminster, where lord mahon and humphrey cotes oppose the court. lady powis is saving her money at ludlow and powis castles by keeping open house day and night against sir watkin williams, and fears she shall be kept there till the general election. it has rained this whole month, and we have got another inundation. the thames is as broad as your danube, and all my meadows are under water. lady browne and i, coming last sunday night from lady blandford's, were in a piteous plight. the ferryboat was turned round by the current, and carried to isleworth. then we ran against the piers of our new bridge, and the horses were frightened. luckily, my cicisbeo -was a catholic, and screamed to so many saints, that some of them at the nearest alehouse came and saved us, or i should have had no more gout, or what i dreaded i should; for i concluded we should be carried ashore somewhere, and be forced to wade through the mud up to my middle. so you see one may wrap oneself up in flannel and be in danger, without visiting all the armies on the face of the globe, and putting the immortality of one's chaise to the proof. i am ashamed of sending you three sides of smaller paper in answer to seven large--but what can i do? i see nothing, know nothing, do nothing. my castle is finished, i have nothing new to read, i am tired of writing, i have no new or old bit for my printer. i have only black hoods around me; or, if i go to town, the family-party in grosvenor street. one trait will give you a sample of how i passed my time, and made me laugh, as it put me in mind of you; at least it was a fit of absence, much more likely to have happened to you than to me. i was playing eighteenpenny tredrille with the duchess of newcastle( ) and lady browne, and certainly not much interested in the game. i cannot recollect nor conceive what i was thinking of, but i pushed the cards very gravely to the duchess, and said, "doctor, you are to deal." you may guess at their astonishment, and how much it made us all laugh. i wish it may make you smile a moment, or that i had any thing better to send you. adieu, most affectionately. yours ever. ( ) a daughter of the earl of harrington. her ladyship was married, in , to thomas second lord foley.-e. ( ) when mr. wilkes was elected. ( ) catherine, eldest daughter and heiress of the right hon. henry pelham, married to henry ninth earl of lincoln; who, in consequence of his marriage with her, inherited in , the dukedom of newcastle-under-line on the demise of the countess's uncle, thomas pelham holles, who had been created duke of newcastle.under-line, with special remainder to the earl of lincoln , in _e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) lady ailesbury brings you this,( ) which is not a letter, but a paper of direction, and the counterpart of what i have written to madame du deffand. i beg of you seriously to take a great deal of notice of this dear old friend of mine. she will, perhaps, expect more attention from you, as my friend, and as it is her own nature a little, than will be quite convenient to you: but you have an infinite deal of patience and good-nature, and will excuse it. i was afraid of her importuning madame ailesbury, who has a vast deal to see and do, and, therefore, i prepared madame du deffand, and told her lady ailesbury loves amusements, and that, having never been at paris before, she must not confine her: so you must pay for both--and it will answer: and- i do not, i own, ask this only for madame du deffand's sake, but for my own, and a little for yours. since the late king's death she has not dared to write to me freely, and i want to know the present state of 'france exactly, both to satisfy my own curiosity, and for her sake, as- i wish to learn whether her, pension, etc. is in any danger from the present ministry, some of whom are not her friends. she can tell you a great deal if she will--by that i don't mean that she is reserved, or partial to, her own country against ours--quite the contrary; she loves me better than all france together--but she hates politics; and therefore, to make her talk on it, you must tell her it is to satisfy me, and that i want to know whether she is well at court, whether she has any fears from the government, particularly maurepas and nivernois: and that i am eager to have monsieur do choiseul and ma grandmaman, the duchess, restored to power. if you take it on this foot easily, she will talk to you with the utmost frankness and with amazing cleverness. i have told her you are strangely absent, and that, if she does not repeat it over and over, you will forget every syllable; so i have prepared her to joke and be quite familiar with you at once.( ) she knows more of personal characters, and paints them better, than any body: but let this be between ourselves, for i would not have a living soul suspect, that i get any intelligence from her, which would hurt her; and, therefore, i beg you not to let any human being know of this letter, nor of your conversation with her, neither english nor french. madame du deffand hates les philosophes; so you must give them up to her. she and madame geoffrin are no friends: so, if you go thither, don't tell her of it. indeed, you would be sick of that house, whither all pretended beaux esprits and faux savants go, and where they are very impertinent and dogmatic. let me give you one other caution, which i shall give to lady ailesbury too. take care of your papers at paris, and have a very strong lock to your porte-feuille. in the h`otels garnis they have double keys to every lock, and examine every drawer and paper of the english they can get at. they will pilfer, too, whatever they can. i was robbed of half my clothes there the first time, and they wanted to hang poor louis to save the people of the house who had stolen the things. here is another thing i must say. madame du deffand has kept a great many of my letters, and, as she is very old, i am in pain about them. i have written to her to beg she will deliver them up to you to bring back to me, and i trust she will.( ) if she does, be so good to take great care of them. if she does not mention them, tell her before you come away, that i begged you to bring them; and if she hesitates, convince her how it would hurt me to have letters written in very bad french, and mentioning several people, both french and english, fall into bad hands, and, perhaps, be printed. let me desire you to read this letter more than once, that you may not forget my requests, which are very important to me; and i must give you one other caution, without which all would be useless. there is at paris a mademoiselle de l,espinasse,( ) a pretended bel esprit, who was formerly an humble companion of madame du deffand; and betrayed her and used her very ill. i beg of you not to let any body carry you thither. it would disoblige my friend of all things in the world, and she would never tell you a syllable; and i own it would hurt me, who have such infinite obligations to her, that i should be very unhappy if a particular friend of mine showed her this disregard. she has done every thing upon earth to please and serve me, and i owe it to her to be earnest about this attention. pray do not mention it; it might look simple in me, and yet i owe it to her, as i know it would hurt her, and, at her age, with her misfortunes, and with infinite obligations on my side, can i do too much to show my gratitude, or prevent her any new mortification? i dwell upon it, because she has some enemies so spiteful that they try to carry all english to mademoiselle de l'espinasse. i wish the duchess of choiseul may come to paris while you are there; but i fear she will not; you would like her of all things. she has more sense and more virtues than almost any human being. if you choose to see any of the savans, let me recommend monsieur buffon. he has not only much more sense than any of them, but is an excellent old man, humane, gentle, well-bred, and with none of the arrogant pertness of all the rest. if he is at paris, you will see a good deal of the comte d e broglie at madame du deffand's. he is not a genius of the first water, but lively and sometimes agreeable. the court, i fear, will be at fontainbleau, which will prevent your seeing many, unless you go thither. adieu! at paris! i leave the rest of my paper for england, if i happen to have any thing particular to tell you. ( ) mr. conway ended is military tour at paris; whither lady ailesbury and mrs. damer went to meet him, and where they spent the winter together. ( ) in her letter to walpole, of the th of october, madame du deffand draws the following portrait of general conway:-- "selon l'id`ee que vous m'en aviez donn`ee, je le croyais grave, s`ev`ere, froid, imposant; c'est l'homme le plus aimable, le plus facile, le plus doux, le plus obligeant, et le plus simple que je connaisse. il n'a pas ces premiers mouvemens de sensibilit`e qu'on trouve en vous, mais aussi n'a-t-il pas votre humeur."-e. ( ) to this request madame du deffand replied--"je ne me flatte point de vous revoir l'ann`ee prochaine, et le renvoi que vous voulez que je vous fasse de vos lettres est ce qui m'en fait denier. ne serait-il pas plus naturel, si vous deviez venir, que je vous les rendisse `a vous-m`eme? car vous ne pensez pas que je ne puisse vivre encore un an. vous me faites croire, par votre m`efiance, que vous avez en vue d'effacer toute trace de votre intelligence avec moi."-e. ( ) mademoiselle de l'espinasse, the friend of d'alembert, born at lyons in , was the natural child of mademoiselle d'albon, whose legitimate daughter was married to the marquis de vichy. after the death of her mother, she resided with monsieur and madame de vichy; but in consequence of some disagreements, left them, and in may , went to reside with madame du deffand, with whom she remained until . the letters of mademoiselle de l'espinasse were published some few years since.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) dear sir, i answer yours immediately; as one pays a shilling to clench a bargain, when one suspects the seller. i accept your visit in the last week of this month, and will prosecute you if you do not execute. i have nothing to say about elections, but that i congratulate myself ,every time i feel i have nothing to do with them. by my nephew's strange conduct about his boroughs, and by many other reasons, i doubt whether he is so well as he seemed to dr. barnardiston. it is a subject i do not love to talk on; but i know i tremble every time the bell rings at my gate at an unusual hour. have you seen mr. granger's supplement? methinks it grows too diffuse. i have hinted to him that fewer panegyrics from funeral orations would not hurt it. adieu! letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sunday, oct. , . (page ) i received this morning your letter of the th from strasburg; and before you get this you will have had three from me by lady ailesbury. one of them should have reached you much sooner; but lady ailesbury kept it, not being sure where you was. it was in answer to one in which you told me an anecdote, which in this last you ask if i had received. your letters are always so welcome to me, that you certainly have no occasion for excusing what you say or do not say. your details amuse me, and so would what you suppress; for, though i have no military genius or curiosity, whatever relates to yourself must interest me. the honours you have received, though i have so little taste for such things myself, gave me great satisfaction; and i do not know whether there is not more pleasure in not being a prophet in one's own country, when one is almost received like mahomet in every other. to be an idol at home, is no assured touchstone of merit. stocks and stones have been adored in fifty regions, but do not bear transplanting. the apollo belvidere and the hercules farnese may lose their temples, but never lose their estimation, by travelling. elections, you may be sure, are the only topic here at present--i mean in england--not on this quiet hill, where i think of them as little as of the spot where the battle of blenheim was fought. they say there will not be much alteration, but the phoenix will rise from its ashes with most of its old plumes, or as bright. wilkes at first seemed to carry all before him, besides having obtained the mayoralty of london at last. lady hertford told me last sunday, that he would carry twelve members. i have not been in town since, nor know any thing but what i collect from the papers; so. if my letter is opened, m. de vergennes will not amass any very authentic intelligence from my despatches. what i have taken notice of, is as follows: for the city wilkes will have but three members: he will lose crosby, and townsend will carry oliver. in westminster, wilkes will not have one; his humphrey cotes is by far the lowest on the poll; lord percy and lord t. clinton are triumphant there. her grace of northumberland sits at a window in covent-garden, harangues the mob, and is "hail, fellow, well met!" at dover, wilkes has carried one, and probably will come in for middlesex himself with glynn. there have been great endeavours to oppose him, but to no purpose. of this i am glad, for i do not love a mob so near as brentford especially, as my road lies through it. where he has any other interest i am too ignorant in these matters to tell you. lord john cavendish is opposed at york, and at the beginning of the poll had the fewest numbers. charles fox, like the ghost in hamlet, has shifted to many quarters; but in most the cock crew, and he walked off.( ) in southwark there has been outrageous rioting; but i neither know the candidates, their connexions, nor success. this, perhaps, will appear a great deal of news at paris: here, i dare to say, my butcher knows more. i can tell you still less of america. there are two or three more ships with forces going thither, and sir william draper as second in command. of private news, except that dyson has had a stroke of palsy and will die, there is certainly none; for i saw that shrill morning post, lady greenwich, two hours ago, and she did not know a paragraph. i forgot to mention to you m. de maurepas. he was by far the ablest and most agreeable man i knew at paris: and if you stay, i think i could take the liberty of giving you a letter to him; though, as he is now so great a man, and i remain so little an one, i don't know whether it would be quite so proper--though he was exceedingly good to me, and pressed me often to make him a visit in the country. but lord stormont can certainly carry you to him--a better passport. there was one of my letters on which i wish to hear from you. there are always english coming from paris, who would bring such a parcel: at least, you might send me one volume at a time, and the rest afterwards: but i should not care to have them ventured by the common conveyance. madame du deffand is negotiating for an enamel picture for me; but, if she obtains it, i had rather wait for it till you come. the books i mean, are those i told you lady ailesbury and mrs. damer would give you a particular account of, for they know my mind exactly. don't reproach me with not meeting you at paris. recollect what i suffered this time two years; and, if you can have any notion of fear, imagine my dread of torture for five months and a half! when all the quiet of strawberry did but just carry me through it, could i support it in the noise of a french hotel! and, what would be still worse, exposed to receive all visits? for the french, you know, are never mor in public than in the act of death. i am like animals, and love to hide myself when i am dying. thank god, i am now two days beyond the crisis when i expected my dreadful periodic visitant, and begin to grow very sanguine about the virtue of the bootikins. i shall even have courage to go to-morrow to chalfont for two days, as it is but a journey of two hours. i would not be a day's journey from hence for all lord clive's diamonds. this will satisfy you. i doubt madame du deffand is not so easily convinced--therefore, pray do not drop a hint before her of blaming me for not meeting you rather assure her you are persuaded it would have been too great a risk for me at this season. i wish to have her quite clear of my attachment to her; but that i do not always find so easy. you, i am sure, will find her all zeal and entpressement for you and yours. adieu! yours ever. ( ) mr. fox was returned for malmesbury.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i have received your letter of the d, and it certainly overpays me, when you thank instead of scolding me, as i feared. a passionate man has very little merit in being in a passion, and is sure of saying many things he repents, as i do. i only hope you think that i could not be so much in the wrong for every body; nor should have been, perhaps, even for you, if i had not been certain i was the only person, at that moment, that could serve you essentially: and at such a crisis, i am sure i should take exactly the same part again, except in saying some things i did, of which i am ashamed!( ) i will say no more now on that topic, nor on any thing relating to it, because i have written my mind very fully, and you will know it soon. i can only tell you now, that i approve extremely your way of thinking, and hope you will not change it before you hear from me, and know some material circumstances. you and lady ailesbury and i agree exactly, and she and i certainly consider only you. i do not answer her last, because i could not help telling you how very kindly i take your letter. all i beg is, that you would have no delicacy about my serving you any way. you know it is a pleasure to me: any body else may have views that would embarrass you; and, therefore, till you are on the spot, and can judge for yourself (which i always insist on, because you are cooler than i, and because, though i have no interests to serve, i have passions, which equally mislead one,) it will be wiser to decline all kind of proposals and offers. you will avoid the plague of contested elections and solicitations: and i see no reasons, at present, that can tempt you to be in a hurry.( ) you must not expect to be madame du deffand's first favourite. lady ailesbury has made such a progress there, that you will not easily supplant her. i have received volumes in her praise.( ) you have a better chance with madame de cambis, who is very agreeable; and i hope you are not such an english husband as not to conform to the manners of paris while you are there. i forgot to mention one or two of my favourite objects to lady ailesbury, nay, i am not sure she will taste one of them, the church of the c`elestines. it is crowded with beautiful old tombs; one of francis ii. whose beatitude is presumed from his being husband of the martyr mary stuart. - another is of the first wife of john duke of bedford, the regent of france. i think you was once there with me formerly. the other is richelieu's tomb, at the sorbonne--but that every body is carried to see. the h`otel de carnavalet,( ) near the place royale, is worth looking at, even for the fa`cade, as you drive by. but of all earthly things the most worth seeing is the house at versailles, where the king's pictures, not hung up, are kept. there is a treasure past belief, though in sad order. and piled one against another. monsieur de guerchy once carried me thither; and you may certainly get leave. at the luxembourg are some hung up, and one particularly is worth going to see alone: it is the deluge by nicolo poussin, as winter. the three other seasons are good for nothing: but the deluge is the first picture in the world of its kind. you will be shocked to see the glorious pictures at the palais royal transplanted to new canvasses, and new painted and varnished, as if they were to be scenes at the opera-at least, they had treated half-a-dozen of the best so, three years ago, and were going on. the prince of monaco has a few fine, but still worse used; one of them shines more than a looking glass. i fear the exposition of pictures is over for this year; it is generally very diverting.( ) i, who went into every church of paris, can assure you there are few worth it, but the invalids-except the scenery at st. roch, about one or two o'clock at noon, when the sun shines; the carmelites, for the guido and the portrait of madame de la vali`ere as a magdalen; the val de grace, for a moment; the treasure at notre dame; the sainte chapelle, where in the ante-chapel are two very large enamelled portraits; the tomb of cond`e at the great jesuits in the rue st. antoine, if not shut up; and the little church of st. louis in the louvre, where is a fine tomb of cardinal fleury, but large enough to stand on salisbury-plain. one thing some of u must remember, as you return; nay, it is better to go soon to st. denis, and madame du deffand must get you a particular order to be shown (which is never shown without) the effigies of the kings.( ) they are in presses over the treasure which is shown, and where is the glorious antique cameo-cup; but the countenance of charles ix. is so horrid and remarkable, you would think he had died on the morrow of the st. barthelemi, and waked full of the recollection. if you love enamels and exquisite medals, get to see the collection of a monsieur d'henery, who lives in the corner of the street where sir john lambert lives--i forget its name. there is an old man behind the rue de colombier, who has a great but bad collection of old french portraits; i delighted in them, but perhaps you would not. i, you may be sure, hunted out every thing of that sort. the convent and collection of st. germain, i mean that over against the h`otel du parc royal, is well worth seeing--but i forget names strangely--oh! delightful!--lord cholmondeley sends me word he goes to paris on monday: i shall send this and my other letter by him. it was him i meant; i knew he was going and had prepared it. pray take care to lock up your papers in a strong box that nobody can open. they imagine you are at paris on some commission, and there is no trusting french hotels or servants. america is in a desperate situation, the accounts from the congress are not expected before the th, and expected very warm. i have not time to tell you some manoeuvres against them that will make your blood curdle. write to me when you can by private hands, as i will to you. there are always english passing backwards and forwards. ( ) where madame de s`evign`e resided. ( ) he means from their extreme bad taste. ( ) the abbey of st. denis was shorn of its glories during the revolution. on the th of october , the coffin of louis xv. was taken out of the vaults; and, after a stormy debate, it was decided to throw the remains of all the kings, even those of henry iv. and louis xiv. which were yet to a great degree preserved entire, into a pit, to melt down their leaden coffins on the spot, and to take away and cast into bullets whatever lead remained in the church; not even excepting the roof.-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i have written such tomes to mr. conway, madam, and have so nothing new to write, that i might as well, methinks, begin and like the lady to her husband: "je vous `ecris parce que je n'ai rien `a faire: je finis parce que je n'ai rien `a vous dire." yes, i have two complaints to make, one of your ladyship, the other of myself. you tell me nothing of lady harriet; have you no tongue, or the french no eyes? or are her eyes employed in nothing but seeing? what a vulgar employment for a fine woman's eyes, after she has risen from her toilet! i declare i will ask no more questions--what is it to me, whether she is admired or not? i should know how charming she is, though all europe were blind. i hope i am not to be told by any barbarous nation upon earth what beauty and grace are. for myself, i am guilty of the gout in my elbow; the left- -witness my handwriting. whether i caught cold by the deluge in the night, or whether the bootikins, like the water of styx, can only preserve the parts they surround, i doubt they have saved me but three weeks, for so long my reckoning has been out. however, as i feel nothing in my feet, i flatter myself that this pindaric transition will not be a regular ode, but a fragment, the more valuable for being imperfect. now for my gazette.--marriages--nothing done. intrigues--more in the political than civil way. births--under par since lady berkeley left off breeding. gaming--low water. deaths--lord morton, lord wentworth, duchess douglas. election stock--more buyers than sellers. promotions--mr. wilkes as high as he can go.--apropos, he was told the lord chancellor intended to signify to him, that the king did not approve the city's choice: he replied, "then i shall signify to his lordship, that i am at least as fit to be lord mayor as he to be lord chancellor." this being more gospel than every thing mr. wilkes says, the formal approbation was given. mr. burke has succeeded in bristol, and sir james peachey will miscarry in sussex. but what care you, madam, about our parliament? you will see the rentr`ee of the old one, with songs and epigrams into the bargain. we do not shift our parliaments with so much gaiety. money in one hand, and abuse in t'other--those are all the arts we know. wit and a gamut i don't believe ever signified a parliament,( ) whatever the glossaries may say; for they never produce pleasantry and harmony. perhaps you may not taste this saxon pun, but i know it will make the antiquarian society die with laughing. expectation hangs on america. the result of the general assembly is expected in four or five days. if one may believe the papers, which one should not believe, the other side of the waterists are not doux comme des moutons, and yet we do intend to eat them. i was in town on monday; the duchess of beaufort graced our loo, and made it as rantipole as a quaker's meeting. louis quinze ,( ) i believe, is arrived by this time, but i fear without quinze louis. your herb-snuff and the four glasses are lying in my warehouse, but i can hear of no ship going to paris. you are now at fontainbleau, but not thinking of francis . the queen of sweden, and monaldelschi. it is terrible that one cannot go to courts that are gone! you have supped with the chevalier de boufflers: did he act every thing in the world, and sing every thing in the world, and laugh at every thing in the world? has madame de cambis sung to you "sans d`epit, sans l`egert`e?"( ) has lord cholmondeley delivered my pacquet? i hear i have hopes of madame d'olonne.( ) gout or no gout, i shall be little in town till after christmas. my elbow makes me bless myself that i am not at paris. old age is no such uncomfortable thing, if one gives oneself up to it with a good grace, and don't drag it about "to midnight dances and the public show." if one stays quietly in one's own house in the country, and cares for nothing but oneself, scolds one's servants, condemns every thing that is new, and recollects how charming a thousand things were formerly that were very disagreeable, one gets over the winters very well, and the summers get over themselves. ( ) witenagemoot. ( ) this was a cant name given to lady powis, who was very fond of loo, and had lost much money at the game. ( ) the first words of a favourite french air. ( ) the portrait in enamel of madame d'olonne by petitot, which walpole afterwards purchased.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i am sorry there is still time, my dear lord, to write to you again; and that though there is, i have so little to amuse you with. one is not much nearer news for being within ten miles of london than if in yorkshire; and besides, whatever reaches us, lady greenwich catches at the rebound before me, and sends you before i can. our own circle furnishes very little. dowagers are good for propagating news when planted, but have done with sending forth suckers. lady blandford's coffee-house is removed to town, and the duchess of newcastle's is little frequented, but by your sister anne, lady browne, and me. this morning, indeed, i was at a very fine concert at old franks's at isleworth, and heard leoni,( ) who pleased me more than any thing i have heard these hundred years. there is a full melancholy melody in his voice, though a falsetto, that nothing but a natural voice ever compasses. then he sung songs of handel in the genuine simple style, and did not put one in pain like rope-dancers. of the opera i hear a dismal account; for i did not go to it to sit in our box like an old king dowager by myself. garrick is treating the town, as it deserves and likes to be treated, with scenes, fireworks, and his own writing. a good new play i never expect to see more, nor have seen since the provoked husband, which came out when i was at school. bradshaw is dead, they say by his own hand: i don't know wherefore. i was told it was a great political event. if it is, our politics run as low as our plays. from town i heard that lord bristol was taken speechless with a stroke of the palsy. if he dies, madam chudleigh( ) must be tried by her peers, as she is certainly either duchess or countess. mr. conway and his company are so pleased with paris, that they talk of staying till christmas. i am glad; for they will certainly be better diverted there than here. your lordship's most faithful servant. ( ) leoni, a celebrated singer of the day, considered one of the best in england. he was a jew, and engaged at the synagogues, from which he is said to have been dismissed for singing in the messiah of handel.-e. ( ) the duchess of kingston; against whom an indictment for bigamy was found on the th of december, she having married the duke of kingston, having been previously married to the hon. augustus john hervey, then living, and who, by the death of his brother, in march, , became earl of bristol.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i have received a delightful letter from you of four sheets, and another since. i shall not reply to the campaigning part (though much obliged to you for it), because i have twenty other subjects -more pressing to talk of the first is to thank you for your excessive goodness to my dear old friend-she has some indiscretions, and you must not have any to her; but she has the best heart in the world, and i am happy,, at her great age, that she has spirits enough not to he always upon her guard. a bad heart, especially after long experience,, is but too apt to overflow inwardly with prudence. at least, as i am but too like her, and have corrected too few of my faults, i would fain persuade myself that some of them flow from a good principle--but i have not time to talk of myself, though you are much too partial to me, and give me an opportunity; yet i shall not take it. now for english news, and then your letter again. there has been a great mortality here; though death has rather been pri`e than a volunteer. bradshaw, as i told lady ailesbury last post, shot himself. he is dead, totally undone. whether that alone was the cause, or whether he had not done something worse, i doubt. i cannot conceive that, with his resources, he should have been hopeless--and, to suspect him of delicacy, impossible! a ship is arrived from america, and i doubt with very bad news; for none but trifling letters have yet been given out- -but i am here, see nobody that knows any thing,,and only hear by accident from people that drop in. the sloop that is to bring the result of the general assembly is not yet come. there are indeed rumours, that both the non-importation, and even non-exportation have been decreed, and that the flame is universal. i hope this is exaggerated! yet i am told the stocks will fall very much in a day or two. i have nothing to tell lady ailesbury, but that i hear a deplorable account of the opera. there is a new puppet-show at drury lane, as fine as scenes can make it, called "the maid of the oaks,"( ) and as dull as the author could not help making it. except m. d'herouville, i know all the people you name. c. i doubt, by things i have heard formerly, may have been a concessionnaire. the duke, your protecteur( ) is mediocre enough; you would have been more pleased with his wife. the chevalier's( ) bon-mot is excellent, and so is he. he has as much buffonnerie as the italians, with more wit and novelty. his impromptu verses often admirable. get madame du deffand to show you his embassy to the princess christine, and his verses on his eldest uncle, beginning si monsieur de veau. his second uncle has parts, but they are not so natural. madame de caraman is a very good kind of woman, but has not a quarter of her sister's parts.( ) madame de mirepoix is the agreeable woman of the world when she pleases-but there, must not be a card in the room. lord * * * * has acted like himself; that is, unlike any body else. you know, i believe, that i think him a very good spetcr; but i have little opinion of his judgment and knowledge of the world, and a great opinion of his affectation and insincerity. the abb`e raynal, though he wrote that fine work on the commerce des deux indes, is the most tiresome creature in the world. the first time i met him was at the dull baron d'olbach's: we were twelve at table: i dreaded opening my mouth in french, before so many people and so many servants: he began questioning me, cross the table, about our colonies, which i understand as little as i do coptic. i made him signs i was deaf. after dinner, he found i was not, and never forgave me. mademoiselle do raucoux i never saw till you told me madame du deffand said she was d`emoniaque sans chaleur! what painting! i see her now. le kain sometimes pleased me, oftener not. mol`e is charming in genteel, or in pathetic comedy, and would be fine in tragedy, if he was stronger. preville is always perfection. i like his wife in affected parts, though not animated enough. there was a delightful woman who did the lady wishforts, i don't know if there still, i think her name mademoiselle drouin; and a fat woman, rather elderly, who sometimes acted the soubrette. but you have missed the dumenil, and caillaut! what irreparable losses! madame du deffand, perhaps--i don't know--could obtain your hearing the clairon, yet the dumenil was infinitely preferable. i could now almost find in my heart to laugh at you for liking boutin's garden.( ) do you know, that i drew a plan of it, as the completest absurdity i ever saw. what! a river that wriggles at right angles through a stone gutter, with two tansy puddings that were dug out of it, and three or four beds in a row, by a corner of the wall, with samples of grass, corn, and of en friche, like a tailor's paper of patterns! and you like this! i will tell park-place--oh! i had forgot your audience in dumb show--well, as madame de s`evign`e said, "le roi de prusse, c'est le plus grand roi du monde still."( ) my love to the old parliament; i don't love new ones. i went several times to madame do monconseil's, who is just what you say. mesdames de tingri et de la vauguion i never saw: madame de noailles once or twice, and enough. you say something of madame de mallet, which i could not read; for, by the way, your brother and i agree that you are grown not to write legibly: is that lady in being? i knew her formerly. madame de blot( ) i know, and monsieur de paulmy i know; but for heaven's sake who is colonel conway?( ) mademoiselle sanadon is la sana donna, and not mademoiselle celadon,( ) as you call her. pray assure my good monsieur schouwalov( )of my great regard: he is one of the best of beings. i have said all i could, at least all i should. i reserve the rest of my paper for a postscript; for this is but saturday, and my letter cannot depart till tuesday: but i could not for one minute defer answering your charming volumes, which interest me so much. i grieve for lady harriet's swelled face, and wish for both their sakes .she could transfer it to her father. i assure her i meant nothing by desiring you to see the verses to the princess christine,( ) wherein there is very profane mention of a pair of swelled cheeks. i hear nothing of madame d'olonne. oh! make madame du deffand show you the sweet portrait of madame de prie, the duke of bourbon's mistress. have you seen madame de monaco, and the remains of madame de brionne? if -you wish to see mrs. a * * *, ask for the princesse de ligne. if you have seen monsieur de maurepas, you have seen the late lord hardwicke.( ) by your not naming him, i suppose the duc de nivernois, is not at paris. say a great deal for me to m. de guisnes.. you will not see my passion, the duchess de chatillon. if you see madame de nivernois, you will think the duke of newcastle is come to life again. alas! where is my postscript? adieu! yours ever. ( ) written by general burgoyne. walpole's opinion of the general's abilities as a writer totally changed upon the appearance of "the heiress", which he always called the greatest comedy in the english language.-e. ( ) the duc de la vali`ere: whom mr. conway had said, that, when presented to him, "his reception was what might be called good but rather de protection." ( ) the chevalier de boufflers; well known for his "letters from switzerland," addressed to his mother; his "reine de golconde," a tale; and a number of very pretty vers de soci`et`e.-e. ( ) madame de cambis.-e. ( ) see another ludicrous description of this garden in a letter to mr. chute; ante, p. , letter .-e. ( ) this alludes to mr. conway's presentation to the king of france, louis xvi. at fontainbleau, of which, in his letter to mr. walpole he gives the following account:-- "on st. hubert's day in the morning i had the honour of being presented to the king: 'twas a good day, and an excellent deed. you may be sure i was well received! the french are so polite! and their court so polished! the emperor, indeed, talked to me every day; so did the king of prussia, regularly and much; but that was not to be compared to the extraordinary reception of his most christian majesty, who, when i was presented, did not stop nor look to see what sort of an animal was offered to his notice, but carried his head, as it seemed, somewhat higher, and passed his way." ( ) wife of m. chavigny de blot, attached to the service of the duke of orleans: she was sister to the comte d'hennery, who died at st. domingo, where he was commander-in-chief. ( ) an officer in the french service. ( ) mademoiselle sanadon, a lady who lived with madame du deffand. she was niece to the p`ere sanadon, well known by his translation of horace, accompanied with valuable notes, and by his elegant poems and orations in the latin language.-e. ( ) the russian minister at paris. see vol. iii., letter to the earl of hertford, march , , letter . madame du deffand thus describes the count in a letter to walpole:--"je trouve notre bon ami un peu ennuyeux; il n'a nulle inflexion dans la parole, nul mouvement dans l'`ame; ce qu'il dit est une lecture sans p`en`etration."-e. ( ) by the chevalier do boufflers. ( ) he means, from their personal resemblance. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i have received your delightful plump packet with a letter of six pages, one from madame du deffand, the eloges,( ) and the lit de justice. now, observe my gratitude: i appoint you my resident at paris, but you are not to resemble all our ministers abroad, and expect to live at home, which would destroy my lord castlecomer's( ) view in your staying at paris. however, to prove to you that i have some gratitude that is not totally selfish, i will tell you what little news i know, before i answer your letter; for english news, to be sure, is the most agreeable circumstance in a letter from england. on my coming to town yesterday, there was nothing but more deaths--don't you think we have the plague? the bishop of worcester,( ) lord breadalbane, lord strathmore. the first fell from his horse, or with his horse, at bath, and the bishopric was incontinently given to bishop north. america is still more refractory, and i doubt will outvote the ministry. they have picked general gage's pocket of three pieces of cannon,( ) and intercepted some troops that were going to him. sir william draper is writing plans of pacification in our newspapers; and lord chatham flatters himself that he shall be sent for when the patient is given over; which i don't think at all unlikely to happen. my poor nephew is very political too: so we shall not want mad doctors. apropos, i hear wilkes says he will propose macreth for speaker. the ecclesiastical court are come to a resolution that the duchess of kingston is mrs. hervey; and the sentence will be public in a -fortnight. it is not so certain that she will lose the estate. augustus( ) is not in a much more pleasant predicament than she is. i saw lord bristol last night: he looks perfectly well, but his speech is much affected, and his right hand. lady lyttelton, who, you know, never hears any thing that has happened, wrote to me two days ago, to ask if it would not be necessary for you to come over for the meeting of the parliament. i answered, very gravely, that to be sure you ought: but though sir james morgan threatened you loudly with a petition, yet, as it could not be heard till after christmas, i was afraid you could not be persuaded to come sooner. i hope she will inquire who sir james morgan is, and that people will persuade her she has made a confusion about sir james peachy. now for your letter. i have been in the chambre de parlement, i think they call it the grande chambre; and was shown the corner in which the monarchs sit, and do not wonder you did not guess where it was they sat. it is just like the dark corner, under the window, where i always sat in the house of commons. what has happened, has passed exactly according to my ideas. when one king breaks one parliament, and another, what can the result be but despotism? or of what else is it a proof? if a tory king displaces his father's whig lord chamberlain, neither lord chamberlain has the more or the less power ,over the theatres and court mournings and birthday balls. all that can arrive is, that the people will be still more attached to the old parliament, from this seeming restitution of a right--but the people must have some power before their attachment can signify a straw. the old parliament, too, may some time or other give itself more airs on this confession of right; but that too cannot be but in a minority, when the power of the crown is lessened by reasons that have nothing to do with the parliament. i will answer for it, they will be too grateful to give umbrage to their restorer. indeed, i did not think the people would be so quick-sighted at once, as to see the distinction of old and new was without difference. methinks france and england are like the land and the sea; one gets a little sense when the other loses it. i am quite satisfied with all you tell me about my friend. my intention is certainly to see her again, if i am able; but i am too old to lay plans, especially when it depends on the despot gout to register or cancel them. it is even melancholy to see her, when it will probably be but once more; and still more melancholy, when we ought to say to one another, in a different sense from the common, au revoir! however, as mine is a pretty cheerful kind of philosophy, i think the best way is to think of dying, but to talk and act as if one was not to die; or else one tires other people, and dies before one's time. i have truly all the affection and attachment for her that she deserves from me, or i should not be so very thankful as i am for your kindness to her. the choiseuls will certainly return at christmas, and will make her life much more agreeable. the duchess has as much attention to her as i could have; but that will not keep me from making her a visit. i have only seen, not known, the younger madame de boufflers. for her musical talents, i am little worthy of them-yet i am just going to lady bingham's to hear the bastardella, whom, though the first singer in italy, mrs. yates could not or would not agree with,( ) and she is to have twelve hundred pounds for singing twelve times at the pantheon, where, if she had a voice as loud as lord clare's, she could not be heard. the two bon-mots you sent me are excellent; but, alas! i had heard them both before; consequently your own, which is very good too, pleased me much more. m. de stainville i think you will not like: he has sense, but has a dry military harshness, that at least did not suit me--and then i hate his barbarity to his wife.( ) you was very lucky indeed to get one of the sixty tickets.( ) upon the whole, your travels have been very fortunate, and the few mortifications amply compensated. if a duke( ) has been spiteful when your back was turned, a hero-king has been all courtesy. if another king has been silent, an emperor has been singularly gracious- -frowns or silence may happen to anybody: the smiles have been addressed to you particularly. so was the ducal frown indeed-but would you have earned a smile at the price set on it? one cannot do right and be always applauded-- but in such cases are not frowns tantamount? as my letter will not set forth till the day after to-morrow, i reserve the rest for my additional news, and this time will reserve it. st. parliament's day, th, after breakfast. the speech is said to be firm, and to talk of the rebellion( ) of our province of massachusetts. no sloop is yet arrived to tell us how to call the rest. mr. van( ) is to move for the expulsion of wilkes; which will distress, and may produce an odd scene. lord holland is certainly dead; the papers say, robinson too, but that i don't know--so many deaths of late make report kill to right and left. ( ) two rival eloges of fontenelle, by champfort and la harpe.-e. ( ) a cant phrase of mr. walpole's; which took its rise from the following story:--the tutor of a young lord castlecomer, who lived at twickenham with his mother, having broken his leg, and somebody pitying the poor man to lady castlecomer, she replied, "yes indeed, it is very inconvenient to my lord castlecomer."-e. ( ) dr. james johnson.-e. ( ) the seizure of fort william and mary, near portsmouth, in new hampshire, by the provincial militia, in which they found many barrels of gunpowder, several pieces of cannon, etc.-e. ( ) augustus hervey, to whom she was first married. ( ) mrs. yates was at this time joint manager of the opera with mrs. brook. in november , she spoke a poetical exordium, by which it appeared that she intended mixing plays with operas, and entertaining the public with singing and declamation alternately; but permission could not be obtained from the lord chamberlain to put this plan into execution.-e. ( ) upon a suspicion of gallantry with clairval, an actor, she was confined for life in the convent of les filles de sainte marie, at nancy.-e. ( ) to see the lit de justice held by louis xvi. when he recalled the parliament of paris, at the instigation of the chancellor maupeou, and suppressed the new one of their creation. ( ) the duke de choiseul. ( ) the king's speech announced, "that a most daring spirit of resistance and disobedience to the law still unhappily prevailed in the province of massachusett's bay;" and expressed the king's "firm and steadfast resolution to withstand every attempt to weaken or impair the supreme authority of this legislature over all the dominions of his crown: the maintenance of which he considered as essential to the dignity, the safety, and welfare of the british empire."-e. ( ) charles van, esq. member for brecon town. no motion for the expulsion of wilkes took place.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) as i wrote to lady ailesbury but on tuesday, i should not have followed it so soon with this, if i had nothing to tell you but of myself. my gouts are never dangerous, and the shades of them not important. however, to despatch this article at once, i will tell you, that the, pain i felt yesterday in my elbow made me think all former pain did not deserve the name. happily the torture did not last above two hours; and, which is more surprising, it is all the real pain i have felt; for though my hand has been as sore as if flayed, and that both feet are lame, the bootikins demonstrably prevent or extract the sting of it, and i see no reason not to expect to get out in a fortnight more. surely, if i am laid up but one month in two years, instead of five or six, i have reason to think the bootikins sent from heaven. the long expected sloop is arrived at last, and is indeed a man of war! the general congress have voted a non-importation, a non-exportation, a non-consumption; that, in case of hostilities committed by the troops at boston, the several provinces will march to the assistance of their countrymen; that the cargoes of ships now at sea shall be sold on their arrival, and the money arising thence given to the poor at boston.; that a letter, in the nature of a petition of rights, shall be sent to the king; another to the house of commons; a third to the people of england; a demand of repeal of all the acts of parliament affecting north america passed during this reign, as also of the quebec-bill: and these resolutions not to be altered till such repeal is obtained. well, i believe you do not regret being neither in parliament nor in administration! as you are an idle man, and have nothing else to do, you may sit down and tell one a remedy for all this. perhaps you will give yourself airs, and say you was a prophet, and that prophets are not honoured in their own country. yet, if you have any inspiration about you, i assure you it will be of great service-we are at our wit's end-which was no great journey. oh! you conclude lord chatham's crutch will be supposed a wand, and be sent for. they might as well send for my crutch; and they should not have it; the stile is a little too high to help them over. his lordship is a little fitter for raising a storm than laying one, and of late seems to have lost both virtues. the americans at least have acted like men,( ) gone to the"bottom at once, and set the whole upon the whole. our conduct has been that of pert children: we have thrown a pebble at a mastiff, and are surprised that it was not frightened. now we must kill the guardian of the house which will be plundered the moment little master has nothing but the old nurse to defend it. but i have done with reflections; you will be fuller of them than i. ( ) "i have not words to express my satisfaction," says lord chatham in a letter of the th, "that the congress has conducted this most arduous and delicate business with such manly wisdom and calm resolution, as do the highest honour to their deliberations. very few are the things contained in their resolves, that i could wish had been otherwise." correspondence, vol. ii, p. .-$. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i begin my letter to-day, to prevent the fatigue of dictating two to-morrow. in the first and best place, i am very near recovered; that is, though still a mummy, i have no pain left, nor scarce any sensation of gout except in my right hand, which is still in complexion and shape a lobster's claw. now, unless any body can prove to me that three weeks are longer than five months and a half, they will hardly convince me that the bootikins are not a cure for fits of the gout and a very short cure, though they cannot prevent it: nor perhaps is it to be wished they should; for, if the gout prevents every thing else, would not one have something that does? i have but one single doubt left about the bootikins, which is, whether they do not weaken my breast: but as i am sensible that my own spirits do half the mischief, and that, if i could have held my tongue, and kept from talking and dictating letters, i should not have been half so bad as i have been, there remains but half due to bootikins on the balance: and surely the ravages of the last long fit, and two years more in age, ought to make another deduction. indeed, my forcing myself to dictate my last letter to you almost killed me; and since the gout is not dangerous to me, if i am kept perfectly quiet, my good old friend must have patience, and not insist upon letters from me but when it is quite easy to me to send them. so much for me and my gout. i will now endeavour to answer such parts of your last letters as i can in this manner, and considering how difficult it is to read your writing in a dark room. i have not yet been able to look into the french harangues you sent me. voltaire's verses to robert covelle are not only very bad, but very contemptible. i am delighted with all the honours you receive, and with all the amusements they procure you, which is the best part of honours. for the glorious part, i am always like the man in pope's donne, "then happy he who shows the tombs, said i." that is, they are least troublesome there. the serenissime( ) you met at montmorency is one of the least to my taste; we quarrelled about rousseau, and i never went near him after my first journey. madame du deffand will tell you the story, if she has not forgotten it. it is supposed here, that the new proceedings of the french parliament will produce great effects: i don't suppose any such thing. what america will produce i know still less; but certainly something very serious. the merchants have summoned a meeting for the second of next month, and the petition from the congress to the king is arrived. the heads have been shown to lord dartmouth; but i hear one of the agents is again presenting it; yet it is thought it will be delivered, and then be ordered to be laid before parliament. the whole affair has already been talked of there on the army and navy-days; and burke, they say, has shone with amazing wit and ridicule on the late inactivity of gage, and his losing his cannon and straw; on his being entrenched in a town with an army of observation; with that army being, as sir william meredith had said, an asylum for magistrates, and to secure the port. burke said, he had heard of an asylum for debtors and whores, never for magistrates; and of ships never of armies securing a port. this is all there has been in parliament, but elections. charles fox's place did not come into question. mr. * * *, who is one of the new elect, has opened, but with no success. there is a seaman, luttrell,( ) that promises much better. i am glad you like the duchess de lauzun:( ) she is one of my favourites. the h`otel du chatelet promised to be very fine, but was not finished when i was last at paris. i was much pleased with the person that slept against st. lambert's poem: i wish i had thought of the nostrum, when mr. seward, a thousand years ago, at lyons, would read an epic poem to me just as i had received a dozen letters from england. st. lambert is a great jackanapes, and a very tiny genius: i suppose the poem was the seasons, which is four fans spun out into a georgic. if i had not been too ill, i should have thought of bidding you hear midnight mass on christmas-eve in madame du deffand's tribune, as i used to do. to be sure, you know that her apartment was part of madame du montespan's, whose arms are on the back of the grate in madame du deffand's own bedchamber. apropos, ask her to show you madame de prie's pinture, m. le duc's mistress--i am very fond of it--and make her tell you her history.( ) i have but two or three words more. remember my parcel of letters from madame du deffand,( ) and pray remember this injunction not to ruin yourselves in bringing presents. a very slight fairing of a guinea or two obliges as much, is much more fashionable, and not a moment sooner forgotten than a magnificent one; and then you may very cheaply oblige the more persons; but as the sick fox, in gay's fables, says (for one always excepts oneself), "a chicken too might do me good." i allow you to go as far as three or even five guineas for a snuff-box for me; and then, as ***** told the king, when he asked for the reversion of the lighthouse for two lives, and the king reproached him, with having always advised him against granting reversions; he replied, "oh! sir, but if your majesty will give me this, i will take care you shall never give away another." adieu, with my own left hand. ( ) the prince de conti. ( ) the hon. james luttrell, fourth son of lord irnham, a lieutenant in the navy.-e. ( ) she became duchesse de biron upon the death of her husband's uncle, the marechal duke de biron. see vol. iii., letter to john montagu, feb. , , letter . her person is thus described by rousseau:--"am`elie de boufflers a une figure, une douceur, une timidit`e devierge: rien de plus aimable et de plus int`eressant que sa figure; rien de plus tendre et de plus chaste que les sentiments qu'elle inspire."-e. ( ) madame de prie was the mistress of the regent duke of orleans. a full account of her family, character, etc. will be found in duclos's memoirs.-e. ( ) at walpole's earnest solicitation, madame du deffand returned by general conway all the letters she had received from him. in so doing, she thus wrote to him:--"vous aurez longtemps de quoi allumer votre feu, surtout si vous joignez `a ce que j'avais de vous avez de moi, et rien ne serait plus juste: mais je m'en rapporte `a votre prudence; je ne suivrai pas l'exemple de m`efiance que vous me donnez."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) no child was ever so delighted to go into breeches, as i was this morning to get on a pair of cloth shoes as big as jack harris's: this joy may be the spirits of dotage-but what signifies whence one is happy? observe, too, that this is written with my own right hand, with the bootikin actually upon it, which has no distinction of fingers: so i no longer see any miracle in buckinger, who was famous for writing without hands or feet; as it was indifferent which one uses, provided one has a pair of either. take notice, i write so much better without fingers than with, that i advise you to try a bootikin. to be sure, the operation is a little slower; but to a prisoner, the duration of his amusement is of far more consequence than the vivacity of it. last night i received your very kind, i might say your letter tout court, of christmas-day. by this time i trust you are quite out of pain about me. my fit has been as regular as possible; only, as if the bootikins were post-horses, it made the grand tour of all my limbs in three weeks. if it will always use the same expedition, i m content it should take the journey once in two years. you must not mind my breast: it was always the weakest part of a very weak system ; yet did not suffer now by the gout, but in consequence of it; and would not have been near so bad, if i could have kept from talking and dictating letters. the moment i am out of pain, i am in high spirits ; and though i never take any medicines, there is one thing absolutely necessary to be put into my mouth--a gag. at present, the town is so empty that my tongue is a sinecure. i am well acquainted with the biblioth`eque du roi, and the medals, and the prints. i spent an entire day in looking over the english portraits, and kept the librarian without his dinner till dark night, till i was satisfied. though the choiseuls( ) will not acquaint with you, i hope their abb`e barthelemil( ) is not put under the same quarantine. besides great learning, he has infinite wit and polissonnerie and is one of the best kind of men in the world. as to the grandpapa,( ) il ne nous aime pas nous autres, and has never forgiven lord chatham. though exceedingly agreeable himself, i don't think his taste exquisite. perhaps i was piqued; but he seemed to like wood better than any of us. indeed, i am a little afraid that my dear friend's impetuous zeal may have been a little too prompt in pressing you upon them d'abord:-- but don't say a word of this--it is her great goodness.--i thank you a million of times for all yours to her:-she is perfectly grateful for it. the chevalier's( ) verses are pretty enough. i own i like saurin's( ) much better than you seem to do. perhaps i am prejudiced by the curse on the chancellor at the end. not a word of news here. in a sick room one hears all there is, but i have not even a lie; but as this will not set out these three days, it is to be hoped some charitable christian will tell a body one. lately indeed we heard that the king of spain had abdicated; but i believe it was some stockjobber that had deposed him. lord george cavendish, for my solace in my retirement, has given me a book, the history of his own furness-abbey, written by a scotch ex-jesuit.( ) i cannot say that this unnatural conjunction of a cavendish and a jesuit has produced a lively colt; but i found one passage worth any money. it is an extract of a constable's journal kept during the civil war; and ends thus: "and there was never heard of such troublesome and distracted times as these five years have been, but especially for constables." it is so natural, that inconvenient to my lord castlecomer is scarce a better proverb. pray tell lady ailesbury that though she has been so very good to me, i address my letters to you rather than to her, because my pen is not always-upon its guard, but is apt to say whatever comes into its nib; and then, if she peeps over your shoulder, i am cens`e not to know it. lady harriet's wishes have done me great good: nothing but a father's gout could be obdurate enough to resist them. my mrs. damer says nothing to me; but i give her intentions credit, and lay her silence on you. january . . a happy new year! i walk! i walk! walk alone!--i have been five times quite round my rooms to-day, and my month is not up! the day after to-morrow i shall go down into the dining-room; the next week to take the air: and then if mrs. * * * * is very pressing, why, i don't know what may happen. well! but you want news, there are none to be had. they think there is a ship lost with gage's despatches. lady temple gives all her diamonds to miss nugent.( ) lord pigot lost pounds the other night at princess amelia's. miss davis( ) has carried her cause against mrs. yates and is to sing again at the opera. this is all my coffee-house furnished this morning. ( ) mr. conway and the ladies of his party had met with the most flattering and distinguished reception at paris from every body but the duc and duchesse de choiseul, who rather seemed to decline their acquaintance. ( ) the author of the voyage du jenne anacharsis. ( ) a name given to the duc de choiseul by madame du deffand. ( ) verses written by the chevalier de boufflers, to be presented by madame du deffand to the duke and duchess of choiseul. ( ) they were addressed to m. do malesherbes, then premier president de la cour des aides; afterwards, still more distinguished by his having been the intrepid advocate selected by the unfortunate louis the sixteenth on his trial. he soon after perished by the same guillotine, from which he could not preserve his ill-fated master-e. ( ) "the antiquities of furness; or an account of the royal abbey of st. mary, in the vale of nightshade, near dalton, in furness." london, to. this volume, which was dedicated to lord george cavendish, was written by thomas west, the antiquary, who was likewise the author of "a guide to the lakes in cumberland, westmoreland, and lancashire."-e. ( ) mary, only daughter and heiress of robert earl nugent, of the kingdom of ireland. she was married, on the th of may, , to george grenville, second earl temple, who then assumed, by royal permission, the surnames of nugent and temple before that of grenville, and the privilege of signing nugent before all titles whatsoever. in , he was created marquis of buckingham.-e. ( ) cecilia davis known in italy by the name of l'inglesina, first appeared at the opera in . she was considered on the continent as second only to gabrieli, and in england is said to have been surpassed only by mrs. billington. she was a pupil of the celebrated hasse and, after having taught several crowned heads, died at an advanced age, and in very distressed circumstances, in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) i every day intended to thank you for the copy of nell gwyn's letter, till it was too late; the gout came, and made me moult my goosequill. the letter is very curious, and i am as well content as with the original. it is lucky you do not care for news more recent than the reformation. i should have none to tell you; nay, nor earlier neither. mr. strutt's( ) second volume i suppose you have seen. he showed me two or three much better drawings from pictures in the possession of mr. ives. one of them made me very happy; it is a genuine portrait of humphrey, duke of gloucester, and is the individual same face as that i guessed to be his in my marriage of henry vi. they are infinitely more like each other, than any two modern portraits of one person by different painters. i have been laughed at for thinking the skull of duke humphrey at st. albans proved my guess; and yet it certainly does, and is the more like, as the two portraits represent him very bald, with only a ringlet of hair, as monks have. mr. strutt is going to engrave his drawings. yours faithfully. ( ) his " complete views of the manners, customs, arms, habits, etc. of the inhabitants of england from the arrival of the saxons till the reign of henry the viii.; with a short account of the britons during the government of the romans."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, jan, , . (page ) you have made me very happy by saying your journey to naples is laid aside. perhaps it made too great an impression on me; but you must reflect, that all my life i have satisfied myself with your being perfect, instead of trying to be so myself. i don't ask you to return, though i wish it: in truth there is nothing to invite you. i don't want you to come and breathe fire and sword against the bostonians, like that second duke of alva, the inflexible lord george germain; or to anathematize the court and its works, like the incorruptible burke, who scorns lucre, except when he can buy a hundred thousand acres from naked caribs for a song. i don't want you to do any thing like a party-man. i trust you think of every party as i do, with contempt, from lord chatham's mustard-bowl down to lord rockingham's hartshorn. all, perhaps, will be tried in their turns, and yet, if they had genius, might not be mighty enough to save us. from some ruin or other i think nobody can, and what signifies an option of mischiefs? an account is come of the bostonians having voted an army of sixteen thousand men, who are to be called minute-men, as they are to be ready at a minute's warning. two directors or commissioners, i don't know what they are called, are appointed. there has been too a kind of mutiny in the fifth regiment. a soldier was found drunk on his post. gage, in his time of danger, thought vigour necessary, and sent the fellow to a court-martial. they ordered two hundred lashes. the general ordered them to improve their sentence. next day it was published in the boston gazette. he called them before him, and required them on oath to abjure the communication, three officers refused. poor gage is to be scape-goat, not for this, but for what was a reason against employing him, incapacity. i wonder at the precedent! howe is talked of for his successor. well, i have done with you!--now i shall go gossip with lady ailesbury you must know, madam, that near bath is erected a new parnassus, composed of three laurels,- a myrtle-tree, a weeping-willow, and a view of the avon, which has been new-christened helicon. ten years ago there lived a madam riggs, an old rough humourist who passed for a wit; her daughter, who passed for nothing, married to a captain miller, full of good-natured officiousness. these good folks were friends of miss rich,( ) who carried me to dine with them at batheaston, now pindus. they caught a little of what was then called taste, built and planted, and begot children, till the whole caravan- were forced to. go abroad to retrieve. alas! mrs. miller is returned-' a beauty, a genius, a sappho, a muse, as romantic as mademoiselle scuderi, and as sophisticated as mrs. vesey. the captain's fingers are loaded with cameos, his tongue runs over with virt`u, and that both may contribute to the improvement of their own country, they have introduced bouts-rim`es as a new discovery. they hold a parnassus-fair every thursday, give out rhymes and themes, and all the flux of quality at bath contend for the prizes. a roman vase dressed with pink ribands and myrtles receives the poetry which is drawn out every festival; six judges of these olympic games retire and select the brightest compositions, which the respective successful acknowledge, kneel to mrs. calliope miller, kiss her fair hand, and are crowned by it with myrtle, with--i don't know what. you may think this is fiction, or exaggeration. be dumb, unbelievers! the collection is printed, published. ( ) yes, on my faith, there are bouts-rim`es on a buttered muffin, made by her grace the duchess of northumberland;( ) receipts to make them by corydon the venerable, alias george pitt; others very pretty, by lord palmerston;( ) some by lord carlisle; many by mrs. miller herself, that have no fault but wanting metre; and immortality promised to her without end or measure. in short, since folly, which never ripens to madness but in this hot climate, ran distracted, there was never any thing so entertaining or so dull--for you cannot read so long as i have been telling.( ) january . before i could finish this, i received your despatches by sir thomas clarges, and a most entertaining letter in three tomes. it is being very dull, not to be able to furnish a quarter so much from your own country-but what can i do? you are embarked in a new world, and i am living on the scraps of an old one, of which i am tired. the best i can do is to reply to your letter, and not attempt to amuse you when i have nothing to say. i think the parliament meets today, or in a day or two-but i hope you are coming. your brother says so, and madame du deffand says so; and sure it is time to leave paris, when you know ninety of the inhabitants.( ) there seems much affectation in those that will not know you;( ) and affectation is always a littleness--it has been even rude: but to be sure the rudeness one feels least, was that which is addressed to one before there has been any acquaintance. ninon came,( ) because, on madame du deffand's mentioning it, i concluded it a new work, and am disappointed. i can say this by heart. the picture of madame de prie, which you don't seem to value, and so madame du deffand says, i believe i shall dispute with you; i think it charming, but when offered to me years ago, i would not take it--it was now given to you a little a mon intention. i am sorry that, amongst all the verses you have sent me, you should have forgotten what you commend the most, les trois exclamations. i hope you will bring them with you. voltaire's are intolerably stupid, and not above the level of officers in garrison. some of m. de pezay's are very pretty, though there is too much of them; and in truth i had seen them before. those on madame de la vali`ere pretty too, but one is a little tired of venus and the graces. i am most pleased with your own--and if you have a mind to like them still better, make madame du deffand show you mine, which are neither french, nor measure, nor metre. she is unwilling to tell me so-, which diverts me. yours are really genteel and new. i envy you the russian anecdotes( ) more than m. de chamfort's fables, of which i know nothing; and as you say no more, i conclude i lose not much. the stories of sir charles( ) are so far not new to me, that i heard them of him from abroad after he was mad: but i believe no mortal of his acquaintance ever heard them before; nor did they at all correspond with his former life, with his treatment of his wife, or his history with mrs. woffington, qui n'`etait pas dupe. i say nothing on the other stories you tell me of billets dropped,( ) et pour cause. i think i have touched all your paragraphs, and have nothing new to send you in return. in truth, i go nowhere but into private rooms,; for i am not enough recovered to relaunch into the world, when i have so good an excuse for avoiding it. the bootikins have done wonders; but even two or three such victories will cost too dear. i submit very patiently to my lot. i am old and broken, and it never was my system to impose upon myself when one can deceive nobody else. i have spirits enough for my use, that is, amongst my friends and contemporaries: i like young people and their happiness for every thing but to live with; but i cannot learn their language, nor tell them old stories, of which i must explain every step as i go. politics' the proper resource of age, i detest--i am contented, but see few that are so--and i never will be led by any man's self-interest. a great scene is opening, of which i cannot expect to see the end! i am pretty sure not a happy end--so that, in short, i am determined to think the rest of my life but a postscript: and as this has been too long an one, i will wish you good night, repeating what you know already, that the return of you three is the most agreeable prospect i expect to see realized. adieu! ( ) daughter of sir robert rich, and sister to the second wife of george lord lyttelton. ( ) they were published under the title of "poetical amusements at a villa near bath." an edition appeared in , in four volumes.-e. ( ) "the pen which i now take and brandish has long lain useless in my standish. know, every maid, from her on patten, to her who shines in glossy satin, that could they now prepare an oglio >from best receipt of book in folio, ever so fine, for all their puffing, i should prefer a butter'd muffin; a muffin jove himself might feast on, if eat with miller at batheaston."-e. ( ) the following are the concluding lines of a poem on beauty, by lord palmerston:-- "in vain the stealing hand of time may pluck the blossoms of their prime; envy may talk of bloom decay'd, how lilies droop and roses fade; but constancy's unalter'd truth, regardful of the vows of youth, affection that recalls the past, and bids the pleasing influence last, shall still preserve the lover's flame in every scene of life the same; and still with fond endearments blend the wife, the mistress, and the friend!"-e. ( ) "lady miller's collection of verses by fashionable people, which were put into her vase at batheaston, in competition for honourary prizes being mentioned, dr. johnson held them very cheap: 'bouts-rim`es,' said be, 'is a mere conceit, and an old conceit; i wonder how people were persuaded to write in that manner for this lady.' i named a gentleman of his acquaintance who wrote for the vase. johnson--'he was a blockhead for his pains!' boswell. 'the duchess of northumberland wrote.' johnson: 'sir, the duchess of northumberland may do what she pleases; nobody will say any thing to a lady of her high rank: but i should be apt to throw * * * *'s verses in his face.'" boswell. vol. v. p. .-e. ( ) madame du deffand, writing of general conway to walpole, had said--"savez-vous combien il connait d`ej`a de personnes dans paris? quatre.vingt dix. il n'est nullement sauvage."-e. ( ) the duc du choiseul. ( ) the life of ninon de l'enclos. ( ) the account of the revolution in russia which placed catherine ii. on the throne, by m. de la rulhi`ere, afterwards published. mr. conway had heard it read in manuscript in a private society. ( ) sir charles hanbury williams. ( ) this alludes to circumstances mr. conway mentions as having taken place at a ball at versailles. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) january , . (page ) after the magnificent overture for peace from lord chatham, that i announced to madame du deffand, you will be most impatient for my letter. ohin`e! you will be sadly disappointed. instead of drawing a circle with his wand round the house of lords, and ordering them to pacify america, on the terms he prescribed before they ventured to quit the circumference of his commands, he brought a ridiculous, uncommunicated, unconsulted motion for addressing the king immediately to withdraw the troops from boston, as an earnest of lenient measures. the opposition stared and shrugged; the courtiers stared and laughed. his own two or three adherents left him, except lord camden and lord shelburne, and except lord temple, who is not his adherent and was not there. himself was not much animated, but very hostile; particularly on lord mansfield, who had taken care not to be there. he talked of three millions of whigs in america, and told the ministers they were checkmated and had not a move left to make. lord camden was as strong. lord suffolk was thought to do better than ever, and lord lyttelton's declamation was commended as usual. at last, lord rockingham, very punily, and the duke of richmond joined and supported the motion; but at eight at night it was rejected by to , though the duke of cumberland voted for it.( ) this interlude would be only entertaining, if the scene was not so totally gloomy. the cabinet have determined on civil war, and regiments are going from ireland and our west indian islands. on thursday the plan of the war is to be laid before both houses. to-morrow the merchants carry their petition; which, i suppose, will be coolly received, since, if i hear true, the system is to cut off all traffic with america at present--as, you know, we can revive it when we please. there! there is food for meditation! your reflections, as you understand the subject better than i do, will go further than mine could. will the french you converse with be civil and keep their countenances? george damer( ) t'other day proclaimed your departure for the th; but the duchess of richmond received a whole cargo of letters from ye all on friday night, which talk of a fortnight or three weeks longer. pray remember it is not decent to be dancing at paris, when there is a civil war in your own country. you would be like the country squire, who passed by with his hounds as the battle of edgehill began. january . i am very sorry to tell you the duke of gloucester is dying. about three weeks ago the physicians said it was absolutely necessary for him to go abroad immediately. he dallied, but was actually preparing. he now cannot go, and probably will not live many days, as he has had two shivering fits, and the physicians give the duchess no hopes.( ) her affliction and courage are not to be described; they take their turns as she is in the room with him or not. his are still greater. his heart is broken, and yet his firmness and coolness amazing. i pity her beyond measure; and it is not a time to blame her having accepted an honour which so few women could have resisted, and scarce one ever has resisted. the london and bristol merchants carried their petitions yesterday to the house of commons. the opposition contended for their being heard by the committee of the whole house, who are to consider the american papers; but the court sent them to a committee( ) after a debate till nine at night, with nothing very remarkable, on divisions of to , and to . lord stanley( ) spoke for the first time; his voice and manner pleased, but his matter was not so successful. dowdeswell( is dead, and tom hervey.( ) the latter sent for his wife and acknowledged her. don't forget to inform me when my letters must stop. adieu! yours ever. ( ) now first printed. ( ) in the chatham correspondence will be found another, and a very different, account of this debate, in a letter to lady chatham, from their son william:--"nothing," he says, "prevented my father's speech from being the most forcible that can be imagined, and the administration fully felt it. the matter and manner were striking; far beyond what i can express. it was every thing that was superior; and though it had not the desired effect on an obdurate house of lords, it must have an infinite effect without doors, the bar being crowded with americans, etc. lord suffolk, i cannot say answered him, but spoke after him. he was a contemptible orator indeed, with paltry matter and a whining delivery. lord shelburne spoke well, and supported the motion warmly. lord camden was supreme, with only one exception, and as zealous as possible. lord rockingham spoke shortly, but sensibly; and the duke of richmond well, and with much candour as to the declaratory act. upon the whole, it was a noble debate. the ministry were violent beyond expectation, almost to madness. instead of recalling the troops now there, they talked of sending more. my father has had no pain, but is lame in one ankle near the instep from standing so long. no wonder he is lame: his first speech lasted above an hour, and the second half an hour; surely, the two finest speeches that ever were made before, unless by himself!" dr. franklin too, who heard the debate, says, in reference to lord chatham's speech-"i am filled with admiration of that truly great man. i have seen, in the course of my life, sometimes eloquence without wisdom and often wisdom without eloquence: in the present instance, i see both united, and both, as i think, in the highest degree possible." vol. iv. pp. , .-e. ( ) afterwards second earl of dorchester-e. ( ) his royal highness survived this illness more than thirty years.-e. ( ) this committee was wittily called by mr. burke, and afterwards generally known as "the committee of oblivion."-e. ( ) afterwards earl of derby-e. ( ) the right hon. william dowdeswell, of pull court, member for the county of worcester. he died at nice, whither he had gone for the recovery of his health.-e. ( ) the hon. thomas hervey, second son of john first earl of bristol.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) i thank you, dear sir, for your kind letter., and the good account you give of yourself-nor can i blame your change from writing that is, transcribing, to reading--sure you ought to divert yourself rather than others-though i should not say s, if your pen had not confined itself to transcripts. i am perfectly well, and heed not the weather; though i wish the seasons came a little oftener into their own places instead of each other's. from november, till a fortnight ago, we had much warmth that i should often be glad of in summer--and since we are not sure of it then, was rejoiced when i could get it. for myself, i am a kind of delicate hercules; and though made of paper, have, by temperance, by using as much cold water inwardly and outwardly as i can, and by taking no precautions against catching cold, and braving all weathers, become capable of suffering by none. my biennial visitant, the gout, has yielded to the bootikins, and stayed with me this last time but five weeks in lieu of five months. stronger men perhaps would kill themselves by my practice, but it has done so long with me, i shall trust to it. i intended writing to you on gray's life,( ) if you had not prevented me. i am charmed with it, and prefer it to all the biography i ever saw. the style is excellent, simple, unaffected; the method admirable, artful, and judicious. he has framed the fragments, as a person said, so well, that they are fine drawings, if not finished pictures. for my part, i am so interested in it, that i shall certainly read it over and over. i do not find that it is likely to be the case with many yet. never was a book, which people pretended to expect so much with impatience, less devoured-at least in london, where quartos are not of quick digestion. faults are found, i hear, at eton with the latin poems for false quantities-no matter-they are equal to the english -and can one say more? at cambridge, i should think the book would both offend much and please; at least if they are as sensible to humour as to ill-humour; and there is orthodoxy enough to wash down a camel. the scotch and the reviewers will be still more angry. and the latter have not a syllable to pacify them. so they who wait for their decisions will probably miss of reading the most entertaining book in the world--a punishment which they who trust to such wretched judges deserve; for who are more contemptible than such judges, but they who pin their faith on them? in answer to you, yourself, my good sir, i shall not subscribe to your censure of mr. mason, whom i love and admire, and who has shown the greatest taste possible in the execution of this work. surely he has said enough in gratitude, and done far beyond what gratitude could demand., it seems delicacy in expatiating on the legacy; particularizing more gratitude would have lessened the evidence of friendship, and made the 'justice done to gray's character look more like a debt.,_ he speaks of him in slender circumstances, not as distressed: and so he was till after the deaths of his parents and aunts; and even then surely not rich. i think he does somewhere say that he meant to be buried with his mother, and not specifying any other place confirms it. in short, mr. mason shall never know your criticisms; he has a good heart, and would feel them, though certainly not apprised that he would merit them. a man who has so called out all his -friend's virtues, could not want them himself. i shall be much obliged to you for the prints you destine for me. the earl of cumberland i have, and will not rob you of. i wish you had been as successful with mr. g. as with mr. t. i mean, if you are not yet paid-now is the time, for he has sold his house to the duke of marlborough-i suppose he will not keep his prints long: he changes his pursuits continually and extravagantly-and then sells to indulge new fancies. i have had a piece of luck within these two days. i have long lamented our having no certain piece written by anne boleyn's brother, lord rochford. i have found a very pretty copy of verses by him in the new published volume of the nuge antiquae, though by mistake he is called, earl of, instead of viscount, rochford. they are taken from a ms-dated twenty-eight years after the author's death, and are much in the manner of lord surrey's and sir t. wyat's poems. i should at first have doubted if they were not counterfeited, on reading my noble authors; but then the blunder of earl for viscount would hardly have been committed. a little modernized and softened in the cadence, they would be very pretty. i have got the rest of the digby pictures, but at a very high rate. there is one very large of sir kenelm, his wife, and two sons, in exquisite preservation, though the heads of him and his wife are not so highly finished as those i have--yet the boys and draperies are so that, together with the size, it is certainly the most capital miniature in the world: there are a few more, very fine too. i shall be happy to show them to you, whenever you burnhamize--i mean before august, when i propose making my dear old blind friend a visit at paris--nothing else would carry me thither. i am too old to seek diversions, and too indolent to remove to a distance by choice, though not so immovable as you to much less distance. adieu! pray tell me what you hear is said of gray's life at cambridge. ( ) "the poems of mr. gray: to which are prefixed memoirs of his life and writings; by w, mason, m a, york, ." at the end of mason's work mr. cole wrote the following memorandum:-- "i am by no means satisfied with this life; it has too much the affectation of classical shortness to please me, more circumstances would have suited my taste better; besides, i think the biographer had a mind to revenge himself of the sneerings mr. gray put upon him, though he left him, i guess, above a thousand pounds, which is slightly hinted at only; yet mr. walpole was quite satisfied with the work when i made my objection." a copy of gray's will is given in the rev. j. mitford's very valuable edition of the poet's works, published by pickering, in four volumes, in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) the least i can do, dear sir, in gratitude for the cargo of prints i have received to-day from you, is to send you a medicine. a pair of bootikins will set out to-morrow morning in the machine that goes from the queen's-head in gray's-inn-lane. to be certain, you had better send for them where the machine inns, lest they should neglect delivering them at milton. my not losing a moment shows my zeal; but if you can bear a little pain, i should not press you to use them. i have suffered so dreadfully, that i constantly wear them to diminish the stock of gout in my constitution; but as your fit is very slight, and will not last, and as you are pretty sure by its beginning so late, that you will never have much; and s the gout certainly carries off other complaints, had not you better endure a little, when it is rather a remedy than a disease? i do not desire to be entirely delivered from the gout, for all reformations do but make room for some new grievance: and in my opinion a disorder that requires no physician, is preferable to any that does. however, i have put relief in your power, and you will judge for yourself. you must tie them as tight as you can bear, the flannel next to the flesh; and, when you take them off, it should be in bed: rub your feet with a warm cloth, and put on warm stockings, for fear of catching cold while the pores are open. it would kill any body but me, who am of adamant, to walk out in the dew in winter in my slippers in half an hour after pulling off the bootikins. a physician sent me word, good-naturedly, that there was danger of catching cold after the bootikins, unless one was careful. i thanked him, but told him my precaution was, never taking any. all the winter i pass five days in a week without walking out, and sit often by the fireside till seven in the evening. when i do go out, whatever the weather is, i go with both glasses of the coach down, and so i do at midnight out of the hottest room. i have not had a single cold, however slight, these two years. you are too candid in submitting at once to my defence of mr. mason. it is true i am more charmed with his book than i almost ever was with one. i find more people like the grave letters than those of humour, and some think the latter a little affected, which is as wrong a judgment as they could make; for gray never wrote any thing easily but things of humour. humour was his natural and original turn--and though from his childhood he was grave and reserved, his genius led him to see things ludicrously and satirically; and though his health and dissatisfaction gave him low spirits, his melancholy turn was much more affected than his pleasantry in writing. you knew him enough to know i am in the right-but the world in general always wants to be told how to think, as well as what to think. the print, i agree with you, though like, is a very disagreeable likeness, and the worst likeness of him. it gives the primness he had under constraint; and there is a blackness in the countenance which was like him only the last time i ever saw him, when i was much struck with it: and, though i did not apprehend him in danger, it left an impression on me that was uneasy, and almost prophetic of what i heard but too soon after leaving him. wilson drew the picture under such impression, and i could not bear it in my room; mr. mason altered it a little, but still it is not well, nor gives any idea of the determined virtues of his heart. it just serves to help the reader to an image of the person whose genius and integrity they must admire, if they are so happy as to have a taste for either. the peep into the gardens at twickenham is a silly little book, of which a few little copies were printed some years ago for presents, and which now sets up for itself as a vendible book. it is a most inaccurate, superficial, blundering account of twickenham and other places, drawn up by a jewess, who has married twice, and turned christian, poetess, and authoress. she has printed her poems, too, and one complimentary copy of mine, which, in good breeding, i could not help sending her in return for violent compliments in verse to me. i do not remember that hers were good; mine i know were very bad, and certainly never intended for the press. i bought the first volume of manchester, but could not read it; it was much too learned for me, and seemed rather an account of babel than manchester, i mean in point of antiquity.( ) to be sure, it is very kind in an author to promise one the history of a country town, and give one a circumstantial account of the antediluvian world into the bargain. but i am simple and ignorant, and desire no more than i pay for. and then for my progenitors, noah and the saxons, i have no curiosity about them. bishop lyttelton used to plague me to death about barrows, and tumuli, and roman camps, and all those bumps in the ground that do not amount to a most imperfect ichnography; but, in good truth, i am content with all arts when perfected, nor inquire how ingeniously people contrive to do without them--and i care still less for remains of art that retain no vestiges of art. mr. bryant,) ) who is sublime in unknown knowledge, diverted me more, yet i have not finished his work, no more than he has. there is a great ingenuity in discovering all his history [though it has never been written] by etymologies. nay, he convinced me that the greeks had totally mistaken all they went to learn in egypt, etc. by doing, as the french do still, judge wrong by the ear--but as i have been trying now and then for above forty years to learn something, i have not time to unlearn it all again, though i allow this our best sort of knowledge. if i should die when i am not clear in the history of the world below its first three thousand years, i should be at a sad loss on meeting with homer and hesiod, or any of those moderns in the elysian fields, before i knew what i ought to think of them. pray do not betray my ignorance: the reviewers and such literati have called me a learned and ingenious gentleman. i am sorry they ever heard my name, but don't let them know how irreverently i speak of the erudite, whom i dare to say they admire. these wasps, i suppose, will be very angry at the just contempt mr. gray had for them, and will, as insects do, attempt to sting, in hopes that their twelvepenny readers will suck a little venom from the momentary tumour they raise--but good night-and once more, thank you for the prints. yours ever. ( ) "the history of manchester," by john whitaker, b. d. london, - - . vols. to. "we talked," says boswell, "of antiquarian researches. johnson. 'all that is really known of the ancient state of britain is contained in a few pages. we can know no more than what the old writers have told us; yet what large books we have upon it; the whole of which, excepting such parts as are taken from these old writers, is all a dream, such as whitaker's manchester.'" life of johnson, vol. vii. p. .-e. ( ) jacob bryan, the learned author of "a new system; or, n analysis of ancient mythology," to. - , vols.; and of many other works. his character was thus finely drawn, in , by mr. matthias, in "the pursuits of literature:"--"no man of literature can pass by the name of mr. bryant without gratitude and reverence. he is a gentleman of attainments peculiar to himself, and of classical erudition without an equal in europe. his whole life has been spent in laborious researches, and the most curious investigations. he has a youthful fancy and a playful wit; with the mind, and occasionally with the pen of a poet; and with an ease and simplicity of style aiming only at perspicuity, and, as i think, attaining it. he has lived to see his eightieth winter (and may he yet long live!) with the esteem of the wise and good; in honourable retirement from the cares of life; with a gentleness of manners, and a readiness and willingness of literary communication seldom found. he is admired and sought after by the young who are entering on a course of study, and revered, and often followed, by those who have completed it. nomen in exemplum sero servabirnus evo!" mr. bryant died in , in his eighty-ninth year, in consequence of a wound on his shin, occasioned by his foot slipping from a chair which he had stepped on to reach a book in his library-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am extremely concerned, dear sir, to hear you have been so long confined by the gout. the painting of your house may, from the damp, have given you cold-i don't conceive that paint can affect one otherwise, if it does not make one sick, as it does me of all things. dr. heberden( ) (as every physician, to make himself talked of, will set up some new hypothesis,) pretends that a damp house, and even damp sheets, which have ever been reckoned fatal, are wholesome: to prove his faith he went into his own new house totally unaired, and survived it. at malvern, they certainly put patients into sheets just dipped in the spring-however, i am 'glad you have a better proof that dampness is not mortal, and it is better to be too cautious than too rash. i am perfectly well, and expect to be so for a year and a half-i desire no more of the bootikins than to curtail my fits. thank you for the note from north's life, though, having reprinted my painters, i shall never have an opportunity of using it. i am still more obliged to you for the offer of an index to my catalogue but, as i myself know exactly where to find every thing in it, and as i dare to say nobody else will want it, i shall certainly not put you to that trouble. dr. glynn will certainly be most welcome to see my house, and shall, if i am not at home:-still i had rather know a few days before, because else he may happen to come when i have company, as i have often at this time of the year, and then it is impossible to let it be seen, as i cannot ask my company, who may have come to see it too, to go out, that somebody else may see it, and i should be very sorry to have the doctor disappointed. these difficulties, which have happened more than once, have obliged me to give every ticket for a particular day; therefore, if dr. glynn will be so good as to advertise me of the day he intends to come here, with a direction, i shall send him word what day he can see it. i have just run through the two vast folios of hutchins's dorsetshire.( ) he has taken infinite pains; indeed, all but those that would make it entertaining. pray can you tell me any thing of some relations of my own, the burwells? my grandfather married sir jeffery burwell's daughter, of rongham, in suffolk. sir jeffery's mother, i imagine, was daughter of a jeffery pitman, of suffolk; at least i know there was such a man in the latter, and that we quarter the arms of pitman. but i cannot find who lady burwell, sir jeffery's wife, was. edmondson has searched in vain in the heralds' office; and i have outlived all the ancient of my family so long, that i know not of whom to inquire, but you of the neighbourhood. there is an old walk in the park at houghton, called "sir jeffery's walk," where the old gentleman used to teach my father (sir robert) his book. those very old trees encouraged my father to plant at houghton. when people used to try to persuade him nothing would grow there, he said, why will not other trees grow as well as those in sir jeffery's walk?--other trees have grown to some purpose! did i ever tell you that ,my father was descended from lord burleigh? the latter's granddaughter, by his son exeter, married sir giles allington, whose daughter married sir robert crane, father of sir edward walpole's .'wife. i want but lady burwell's name to make my genealogic tree shoot out stems every way. i have recovered a barony in fee, which has no defect but in being antecedent to any summons to parliament, that of the fitz osberts: and on my mother's side it has mounted the lord knows whither by the philipps,s to henry viii. and has sucked in dryden for a great-uncle: and by lady philipps's mother, darcy, to edward iii. and there i stop for brevity's sake--especially as edward iii. is a second adam; who almost is not descended from edward as posterity will be from charles ii. and all the princes in europe from james i. i am the first antiquary of my race. people don't know how entertaining a study it is. who begot whom is a most amusing kind of hunting; one recovers a grandfather instead of breaking one's own neck--and then one grows so pious to the memory of a thousand persons one never heard of before. one finds how christian names came into a family, with a world of other delectable erudition. you cannot imagine how vexed i was that bloomfield( ) died before he arrived at houghton--i had promised myself a whole crop of notable ancestors-but i think i have pretty well unkennelled them myself. adieu! yours ever. p. s. i found a family of whaplode in lincolnshire who give our arms, and have persuaded myself that whaplode is a corruption of walpole, and came from a branch when we lived at walpole in lincolnshire. ( ) dr. william heberden, the distinguished physician and medical writer, who died on the th of march, , at the advanced age of ninety-one.-e. ( ) "the history and antiquities of the county of dorset." london, , in two volumes, folio. a second edition, corrected, augmented, and improved, by richard gough and john bowyer nichols, in four volumes, folio, appeared in - .-e. ( ) the rev. francis blomefield, the author of an " essay towards a topographical history of the county of norfolk," which was left unfinished by him, and continued by the rev. charles parkin. it was first printed in five folio volumes: - . a second edition, in eleven volumes, octavo, appeared in - .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) the whole business of this letter would lie in half a line. shall you have room for me on tuesday the th? i am putting myself into motion that i may go farther. i told madame du deffand how you had scolded me on her account, and she has charged me to thank you, and tell you how much she wishes to see you, too. i would give any thing to go-but the going!--however, i really think i shall, but i grow terribly affected with a maladie de famille, that of taking root at home. i did but put my head into london on thursday, and more bad news from america.( ) i wonder when it will be bad enough to make folks think it so, without going on! the stocks, indeed, begin to grow a little nervous, and they are apt to affect other pulses. i heard this evening here that the spanish fleet is sailed, and that we are not in the secret whither-but i don't answer for twickenham gazettes, and i have no better. i have a great mind to tell you a twickenham story; and yet it will be good for nothing, as i cannot send you the accent in a letter. here it is, and you must try to set it to the right emphasis. one of our maccaronis is dead, a captain mawhood, the teaman's son. he had quitted the army, because his comrades called him captain hyson, and applied himself to learn the classics and freethinking; and was always disputing with the parson of the parish about dido and his own soul. he married miss paulin's warehouse, who had six hundred a-year; but, being very much out of conceit with his own canister, could not reconcile himself to her riding-hood--so they parted beds in three nights. of late he has taken to writing comedies, which every body was welcome to hear him read, as he could get nobody to act them. mrs. mawhood has a friend, one mrs. v * * *, a mighty plausible good sort of body, who feels for every body, and a good deal for herself, is of a certain age, wears well, has some pretensions that she thinks very reasonable still, and a gouty husband. well! she was talking to mr. rafter about captain mawhood a little before he died. "pray, sir, does the captain ever communicate his writings to mrs. mawhood?" "oh, dear no, madam; he has a sovereign contempt for her understanding." "poor woman!" "and pray, sir,- - give me leave to ask you: i think i have heard they very seldom sleep together!" "oh, never, madam! don't you know all that?" "poor woman!" i don't know whether you will laugh; but mr. raftor,( ) who tells a story better than any body, made me laugh for two hours. good night! ( ) of the commencement of hostilities with the americans at lexington on the th of april.-e. ( ) mr. raftor brother to mrs. clive.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) well, i am going tout de bon, and i heartily wish i was returned. it is a horrid exchange, the cleanness and verdure and tranquillity of 'strawberry, for a beastly ship, worse inns, the pav`e of the roads bordered with eternal rows of maimed trees, and the racket of an h`otel garni! i never doat on the months of august and september, enlivened by nothing but lady greenwich's speaking-trumpet--but i do not want to be amused--at least never at the expense of being put in motion. madame du deffand, i am sure, may be satisfied with the sacrifice i make to her!( ) you have heard, to be sure, of the war between your brother and foote; but probably do not know how far the latter has carried his impudence. being asked, why lord hertford had refused to license his piece, he replied, "why, he asked me to make his youngest son a box-keeper, and because i would not, he stopped my play."( ) the duchess of kingston offered to buy it off, but foote would not take her money, and swears he will act her in lady brumpton; which to be sure is very applicable. i am sorry to hear lord villiers is going to drag my lady through all the vile inns in germany. i think he might go alone. george onslow told me yesterday, that the american congress had sent terms of accommodation, and that your brother told him so; but a strange fatality attends george's news, which is rarely canonical; and i doubt this intelligence is far from being so.. i shall know more to-morrow, when i go to town to prepare for my journey on tuesday. pray let me hear from you, enclosed to m. panchaud. i accept with great joy lady ailesbury's offer of coming hither in october, which will increase my joy in being at home again. i intend to set out on my return the th of next month. sir gregory page has left lord howe eight thousand pounds at present, and twelve more after his aunt mrs. page's death. thursday, th. i cannot find any ground for believing that any proposals are come from the congress. on the contrary, every thing looks as melancholy as possible. adieu! ( ) now first printed. ( ) in her letter of the th of august, madame du deffand, by way of inducement to walpole to take the journey, says--"je vous jure que je ne me soucierai de rien pour vous; c'est `a dire, de vous faire faire une chose plut`ot qu'une autre: vous serez totalement libre de toutes vos pens`ees, paroles, et actions, vous ne me verrez pas un souhait un d`esir qui puisse contredire vos pens`ees et vos volont`es: je saurai que m. walpole est `a paris, il saura que je demeure `a st. joseph; il sera maitre d'y arriver, d'y rester, de s'en aller, comme il lui plaira."-e. ( ) the piece was entitled "the trip to calais;" in which the author having ridiculed, under the name of kitty crocodile, the eccentric duchess of kingston she offered him a sum of money to strike out the part. a correspondence took place between the parties, which ended in the duchess making an application to lord hertford, at that time lord chamberlain, who interdicted the performance. foote, however, brought it out, with some alterations, in the following year, under the title of "the capuchin."-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. >from t'other side of the water, august , .( ) (page ) interpreting your ladyship's orders in the most personal sense, as respecting the dangers of the sea, i -write the instant i am landed. i did not, in truth, set out till yesterday morning at eight o'clock; but finding the roads, horses, postilions, tides, winds, moons, and captain fectors in the pleasantest humour in the world, i embarked almost as soon as i arrived at dover, and reached calais before the sun was awake;-and here i am for the sixth time in my life, with only the trifling distance of seven-and-thirty years between my first voyage and the present. well! i can only say in excuse, that i am got into the land of struldburgs, where one is never too old to be young, and where la b`equille du p`ere barnabas blossoms like aaron's rod, or the glastonbury thorn. now, to be sure, i shall be a little mortified, if your ladyship wanted a letter of news, and did not at all trouble your head about my navigation. however, you will not tell one so; and therefore i will persist in believing that this good news will be received with transport at park-place, and that the bells of henley will be set a ringing. the rest of my adventures, must be deferred till they have happened, which is not always the case of travels. i send you no compliments from paris, because i have not got thither, nor delivered the bundle which mr. conway sent me. i did, as your ladyship commanded; buy three pretty little medallions in frames of filigraine, for our dear old friend. they will not ruin you, having cost not a guinea and a half; but it was all i could find that was genteel and portable; and as she does not measure by guineas, but attentions, she will be as much pleased as if you had sent her a dozen acres of park-place. as they are in bas-relief, too, they are feelable, and that is a material circumstance to her. i wish the diomede had even so much as a pair of nankin! adieu, toute la ch`ere famille! i think of october with much satisfaction; it will double the pleasure of my return. ( ) mr. walpole reached paris on the th of august and left it on the th of october.-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. paris, august , . (page ) i have been sea-sick to death: i have been poisoned by dirt and vermin; i have been stifled by beat, choked by dust, and starved for want of any thing i could touch: and yet, madam, here, i am perfectly well, not in the least fatigued; and, thanks to the rivelled parchments, formerly faces, which i have seen by hundreds, i find myself almost as young as when i came hither first in the last century. in spite of my whims, and delicacy, and laziness, none of my grievances have been mortal: i have borne them as well as if i had set up for a philosopher, like the sages of this town. indeed, i have found my dear old woman so well, and looking so much better than she did four years ago, that i am transported with pleasure, and thank your ladyship and mr. conway for driving me hither. madame du deffand came to me the instant i arrived, and sat by me whilst i stripped and dressed myself; for, as she said, since she cannot see there was no harm in my being stark.( ) she was charmed with your present; but was so kind as to be so much more charmed with my arrival, that she did not think of it a moment. i sat with her till half an hour after two in the morning, and had a letter from her before my eyes were open again. in short, her soul is immortal, and forces her body to bear it company. this is the very eve of madame clotilde's( ) wedding - but monsieur turgot, to the great grief of lady mary coke, will suffer no cost, but one banquet, one ball, and a play at versailles. count viry gives a banquet, a bal masqu`e, and a firework. i think i shall see little but the last, from which i will send your ladyship a rocket in my next letter. lady mary, i believe, has had a private audience of the ambassador's leg,( ) but en tout bien, et honneur, and only to satisfy her ceremonious curiosity about any part of royal nudity. i am just going to her, as she is to versailles; and i have not time to add a word more to the vows of your ladyship's most faithful. ( ) madame du deffand had just completed her seventy-eighth year.-e. ( ) madame clotilde, sister of louis xv . turgot was the new minister of finance, who, with his colleagues were endeavouring, by every practicable means, to reduce the enormous expenditure of the country.-e. ( ) mr. walpole alludes to the ceremony of the marriages of princesses by proxy.-e. letter to mrs. abington( ) paris, september [ .] (page ) if i had known, madam, of your being at paris, before i heard it from colonel blaquiere, i should certainly have prevented your flattering invitation, and have offered you any services that could depend on my acquaintance here. it is plain i am old, and live with very old folks, when i did not hear of your arrival. however, madam, i have not that fault at least of a veteran, the thinking nothing equal to what they admired in their youth. i do impartial justice to your merit, and fairly allow it not only equal to that of any actress i have seen, but believe the present age will not be in the wrong, if they hereafter prefer it to those they may live to see. your allowing me to wait on you in london, madam, will make me some amends for the loss i have had here; and i shall take an early opportunity of assuring you how much i am, madam, your most obliged humble servant. ( ) now first printed. this elegant and fashionable actress was born in , quitted the stage in , and died in .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, sept , . (page ) the delays of the post, and its departure before its arrival, saved me some days of anxiety for lady ailesbury, and prevented my telling you how concerned i am for her accident; though i trust, by this time, she has not even pain left. i feel the horror you must have felt during her suffering in the dark, and on the sight of her arm;( ) and though nobody admires her needlework more than i, still i am rejoiced that it will be the greatest sufferer. however, i am very impatient for a farther account. madame du deffand, who, you know, never loves her friends by halves, and whose impatience never allows itself time to inform itself, was out of her wits, because i could not explain exactly how the accident happened, and where. she wanted to write directly, though the post was just gone; and, as soon as i could make her easy about the accident, she fell into a new distress about her fans for madame de marchais, and concludes they have been overturned, and broken too. in short, i never saw any thing like her. she has made engagements for me till monday se'nnight; in which are included i don't know how many journeys into the country; and as nobody ever leaves her without her engaging them for another time, all these parties will be so many polypuses, that will shoot out into new ones every way. madame de jonsac,( ) a great friend of mine, arrived the day before yesterday, and madame du deffand has pinned her down to meeting me at her house four times before next tuesday, all parentheses, that are not to interfere with our other suppers; and from those suppers i never get to bed before two or three o'clock. in short, i need have the activity of a squirrel, and the strength of a hercules, to go through my labours--not to count how many d`em`el`es i have had to raccommode, and how many m`emoires to present against tonton,( ) who grows the greater favourite the more people he devours. as i am the only person who dare correct him, i have already insisted on his being confined in the bastile every day to after five o'clock. t'other night he flew at lady barrymore's face, and i thought would have torn her eye out; but it ended in biting her finger. she was terrified: she fell into tears. madame du deffand, who has too much parts not to see every thing in its true light, perceiving that she had not beaten tonton half enough, immediately told us a story of a lady, whose dog, having bitten a piece out of a gentleman's leg, the tender dame in a great fright, cried out, "won't it make my dog sick?" lady barrymore( ) has taken a house. she will be glutted with conquests: i never saw any body so much admired. i doubt her poor little head will be quite overset. madame de marchais( ) is charming: eloquence and attention itself i cannot stir for peaches, nectarines, grapes, and bury pears. you would think pomona was in love with me. i am not so transported with n * * * * cock and hen. they are a tabor and pipe that i do not understand. he mouths and she squeaks and neither articulates. m. d'entragues i have not seen. upon the whole, i am much more pleased with paris than ever i was; and, perhaps, shall stay a little longer than i intended. the harry grenville's( ) are arrived. i dined with them at madame de viry's,( ) who has completed the conquest of france by her behaviour on madame clotilde's wedding, and by the f`etes she gave. of other english i wot not, but grieve the richmonds do not come. i am charmed with dr. bally; nay, and with the king of prussia--as much as i can be with a northern monarch. for your kragen, i think we ought to procure a female one, and marry it to ireland, that we may breed some new islands against we have lost america. i know nothing of said america. there is not a frenchman that does not think us distracted. i used to scold you about your bad writing, and perceive i have written in such a hurry, and blotted my letter so much, that you will not be able to read it: but consider how few moments i have to myself. i am forced to stuff my ears with cotton to get any sleep. however, my journey has done me good. i have thrown off at least fifteen years. here is a letter for my dear mrs. damer from madame de cambis, who thinks she doats on you all. adieu! p. s. i shall bring you two `eloges of marshal catinat; not because i admire them, but because i admire him, because i think him very like you. ( ) lady ailesbury had been overturned in her carriage at park-place, and dislocated her wrist. ) la comtesse de jonsac, sister of the president henault. ( ) a favourite dog of madame du deffand's. ( ) third daughter of william second earl of harrington, and wife of richard sixth earl of barrymore, who, dying in , left issue richard and henry, each of whom became, successively, earl of barrymore; a title which expired upon the death of the latter, in .-e. ( ) madame de marchais, n`ee laborde, married to a valet-de-chambre of louis xv . from her intimacy with m. d'angivillier, directeur des b`atiments, jardins, etc. du roi, she had the opportunity of obtaining the finest fruits and flowers.-e. ( ) henry grenville, brother to earl temple. he married miss margaret banks. he died in .-e. ( ) miss harriet speed. she had married m. le comte do viry when he was minister at london from the court of turin. she is one of the ladies to whom gray's "long story" is addressed. for an account of her, see vol. iii. p. , letter .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, oct. , . (page ) it will look like a month since i wrote to you; but i have been coming, and am. madame du deffand has been so ill, that the day she was seized i thought she would not live till night. her herculean weakness, which could not resist strawberries and cream after supper, has surmounted all the ups and downs which followed her excess; but her impatience to go every where, and to do every thing has been attended with a kind of relapse, and another kind of giddiness: so that i am not quite easy about her, as they allow her to take no nourishment to recruit, and she will die of inanition, if she does not live upon it. she cannot lift her head from the pillow without `etourdissemens; and yet her spirits gallop faster than any body's, and so do her repartees. she has a great supper to-night for the due de choiseul, and was in such a passion yesterday with her cook about it, and that put tonton into such a rage, that nos dames de saint joseph thought the devil or the philosophers were flying away with their convert! as i have scarce quitted her, i can have had nothing to tell you. if she gets well, as i trust, i shall set out on the th; but i cannot leave her in any danger--though i shall run many myself, if i stay longer. i have kept such bad hours with this malade that i have had alarms of gout; and bad weather, worse inns, and a voyage in winter, will ill suit me. the fans arrived at a propitious moment, and she immediately had them opened on her bed, and felt all the patterns, and had all the papers described. she was all satisfaction and thanks, and swore me to do her full justice to lady ailesbury, and mrs. damer. lord harrington and lady harriet are arrived; but have announced and persisted in a strict invisibility. i know nothing of my ch`ere patrie, but what i learn from the london chronicle; and that tells me, that the trading towns are suing out lettres de noblesse, that is, entreating the king to put an end to commerce, that they may all be gentlemen. here agriculture, economy, reformation, philosophy, are the bon-ton even at court. the two nations seem to have crossed over and figured in; but as people that copy take the bad with the good, as well as the good with the bad, there was two days ago a great horserace in the plain de sablon, between the comte d'artois,( ) the duc de chartres,( ) monsieur de conflans, and the duc de lauzun.( ) the latter won by the address of a little english postilion, who is in such fashion, that i don't know whether the academy will not give him for the subject of an `eloge. the due de choiseul, i said, is here; and, as he has a second time put off his departure, cela fait beaucoup de bruit. i shall not at all be surprised if he resumes the reins, as (forgive me a pun) he has the reine at ready. messrs. de turgot and malesherbes certainly totter--but i shall tell you no more till i see you; for though this goes by a private hand, it is so private, that i don't know it, being an english merchant's, who lodges in this hotel, and whom i do not know by sight: so, perhaps, i may bring you word of this letter myself. i flatter myself lady ailesbury's arm has recovered its straightness and its cunning. . . madame du deffand says, i love you better than any thing in the world. if true, i hope you have not less penetration: if you have not, or it is not true, what would professions avail?-so i leave that matter in suspense. adieu! october . madame du deffand was quite well yesterday; and at near one this, morning i left the duc de choiseul, the duchess de grammont, the prince and the princess of beauveau, princess of poix,( ) the mar`echale de luxembourg, duchess de lauzun, ducs de gontaut( ) et de chabot, and caraccioli, round her chaise longue; and she herself was not a dumb personage. i have not heard yet how she has slept, and must send away my letter this moment, as i must dress to go to dinner with monsieur de malesherbes at madame de villegagnon's. i must repose a great while after all this living in company; nay, intend to go very little into the world again, as i do not admire the french way of burning one's candle to the very snuff in public. tell mrs. damer, that the fashion now is to erect the toup`ee into a high detached tuft of hair, like a cockatoo's crest; and this toup`ee they call la physionomie--i don't guess why. my laquais is come back from st. joseph's, and says marie( ) de vichy has had a very good night, and is quite well.--philip!( ) let my chaise be ready on thursday.( ) ( ) afterwards charles the tenth.-e. ( ) on the death of his father, in , he became duke of orleans. in , he was chosen a member of the national-convention, when he adopted the jacobinical title of louis-philippe-joseph egalit`e; and, in november , he suffered by the guillotine. -e. ( ) the duc de lauzun, son of the duc de gontaut, the maternal nephew of the duchesse de choiseul.-e. ( ) wife of the prince de poix, eldest son of the mar`echal de mouchy, and daughter of the prince de beauveau. the prince de poix retired to this country on the breaking out of the french revolution, accompanied by his son, comte charles de noailles, who married the daughter of la borde, the great banker.-e. ( ) the duc de gontaut, brother to the mar`echal duc de biron, and father to the duc de lauzun. the duchesse de gontaut was a sister of the duchesse de choiseul-e. ( ) the maiden name of madame du deffand was marie de vichy chamrond. she was born in , of a noble family in the province of burgundy; and, as her fortune was small, she was married by her parents, in , to the marquis du deffand; the union being settled with as little attention to her feelings as was usual in french marriages of that age. a separation soon took place; but walpole says they always continued on good terms, and that upon her husband's deathbed, at his express desire, she saw him.-e. ( ) mr. walpole's valet-de-chambre. ( ) walpole left paris on the th; upon which day, madame du deffand thus wrote to him--"adieu! ce mot est bien triste! souvenez que vous laissez ici la personne dont vous `etes le plus aim`e, et dont le bonheur et le malheur consistent dans ce que vous pensez pour elle. donnez-moi de vos nouvelles le plus t`ot qu'il sera possible."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) i was very sorry to have been here, dear sir, the day you called on me in town. it is so difficult to uncloister you, that i regret not seeing you when you are out of your own ambry. i have nothing new to tell you that is very old; but you can inform me of something within your own district. who is the author, e. b. g. of a version of mr. gray's latin odes into english,( ) and of an elegy on my wolf-devoured dog, poor tory? a name you will marvel at in a dog of mine; but his godmother was the widow of alderman parsons, who gave him at paris to lord conway, and he to me. the author is a poet; but he makes me blush, for he calls mr. gray and me congenial pair. alas! i have no genius; and if any symptom of talent, so inferior to gray's, that milton and quarles might as well be coupled together. we rode over the alps in the same chaise, but pegasus drew on his side, and a cart-horse on mine. i am too jealous of his fame to let us be coupled together. this author says he has lately printed at cambridge a latin translation of the bards; i should be much obliged to you for it. i do not ask you if cambridge has produced any thing, for it never does. have you made any discoveries? has mr. lort? where is he? does mr. tyson engrave no more? my plates for strawberry advance leisurely. i am about nothing. i grow old and lazy, and the present world cares for nothing but politics, and satisfies itself with writing in newspapers. if they are not bound up and preserved in libraries, posterity will imagine that the art of printing was gone out of use. lord hardwicke( ) has indeed reprinted his heavy volume of sir dudley carleton's despatches, and says i was in the wrong to despise it. i never met with any body that thought otherwise. what signifies raising the dead so often, when they die the next minute? adieu! ( ) edward burnaby greene, formerly of bennet college, but at that time a brewer in westminster, he likewise published translations of pindar, persius, apollonius rhodius, anacreon, etc.-e. ( ) philip yorke, second earl of hardwicke, when lord royston, published the "letters to and from sir dudley carleton, knight, during his embassy in holland, from january - to december ," to. ; and, in , a second edition, "with large additions to the historical preface."-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) did you hear that scream?--don't be frightened, madam; it was only the duchess of kingston last sunday was sevennight at chapel: but it is better to be prepared; for she has sent word to the house of lords, that her nerves are so bad she intends to scream for these two months, and therefore they must put off her trial. they are to take her throes into consideration to-day; and that there may be sufficient room for the length of her veil and train, and attendants, have a mind to treat her with westminster-hall. i hope so, for i should like to see this com`edie larmoyante; and, besides, i conclude, it would bring your ladyship to town. you shall have timely notice. there is another comedy infinitely worth seeing--monsieur le texier. he is pr`eville, and caillaud, and garrick, and weston, and mrs. clive, all together; and as perfect in the most insignificant part, as in the most difficult.( ) to be sure, it is hard to give up loo in such fine weather, when one can play from morning till night. in london, pam can scarce get a house till ten o'clock. if you happen to see the general your husband, make my compliments to him, madam; his friend the king of prussia is going to the devil and alexander the great. ( ) m. le texier was a native of lyons, where he was directeur des fermes. the following account of the readings of this celebrated frenchman, is from a critique on boaden's life of kemble, in the quarterly review, vol. xxxiv. p. :--"on one of the author's incidental topics we must pause for a moment with delightful recollection. we mean the readings of le texier, who, seated at a desk, and dressed in plain clothes, reads french plays with such modulation of voice, and such exquisite point of dialogue, as to form a pleasure different from that of the theatre, but almost as great as we experience in listening to a first-rate actor. when it commenced, m. le texier read over the dramatis persome, with the little analysis of character usually attached to each name, using the voice and manner with which he afterwards read the part: and so accurately was the key-note given, that he had no need to name afterwards the person who spoke; the stupidest of the audience could not miss to recognise him." madame du deffand, in a letter to walpole, says of him-- "soyez s`ur, que lui tout seul est la meilleure troupe que nous avons:" and again in one to voltaire--"assis dans un fauteuil, avec un livre `a la main, il jouc les comedies o`u il y a sept, huit, dix, douze personnages, si parfaitement bien, qu'on ne saurait croire, m`eme en le regardant, que ce soit le m`eme homme qui parle. pour moi, l'illusion est parfaitc."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) our letters probably passed by each other on the road, for i wrote to you on tuesday, and have this instant received one from you, which i answer directly, to beg pardon for my incivility, nay, ingratitude, in not thanking you for your present of a whole branch of most respectable ancestors, the derehaughs--why, the derehaughs alone would make gentlemen of half the modern peers, english or irish. i doubt my journey to france was got into my head, and left no room for an additional quarter-but i have given it to edmondson, and ordered him to take care that i am born again from the derehaughs. this edmondson has got a ridiculous notion into his head that another, and much ancienter of my progenitors, sir henry walpole, married his wife isabella fitz-osbert, when she was widow to sir walter jernegan; whereas, all the old testament says sir walter married sir henry's widow. pray send me your authority to confound this gainsayer, if you know any thing particular of the matter. i had not heard of the painting you tell me of. as those boobies, the society of antiquaries, have gotten hold of it, i wonder their piety did not make them bury it again, as they did the clothes of edward i.( ) i have some notion that in vertue's mss. or somewhere else, i don't know where, i have read of some ancient painting at the rose tavern. this i will tell you-but mr. gough is such" a bear, that i shall not satisfy him about it. that society, when they are puzzled, have recourse to me; and that would be so often, that i shall not encourage them. they may blunder as they please, from their heavy president down to the pert governor pownall, who accounts for every thing immediately, before the creation or since. say only to mr. gough, that i said i had not leisure now to examine vertue's mss. if i find any thing there, you shall know-but i have no longer any eagerness to communicate what i discover. when there was so little taste for mss. which mr. gray thought worth transcribing, and which were so valuable, would one offer more pearls? boydel brought me this morning another number of the prints from the pictures at houghton. two or three in particular are most admirably executed--but alas! it will be twenty years before the set is completed. that is too long to look forward to at any age!--and at mine!--nay, people will be tired in a quarter of the time. boydel, who knows this country, and still more this town, thinks so too. perhaps there will be newer, or at least more fashionable ways of engraving, and the old will be despised--or, which is still more likely, nobody will be able to afford the expense. who would lay a plan for any thing in an overgrown metropolis hurrying to its fall! i will return you mr. gough's letter when i get a frank. adieu! ( ) the society of antiquaries, having obtained permission to do so, had, on the d of may , opened the tomb of edward the first in westminster. the body was found in perfect preservation, and most superbly attired. the garments were, of course, carefully replaced in the tomb.-e. letter to thomas astle, esq. december , . (page ) sir, i am much obliged, and return you my thanks for the paper you have sent me. you have added a question to it, which, if i understand it, you yourself, sir, are more capable than any body of answering. you say, "is it probable that this instrument was framed by richard duke of gloucester?" if by framed you mean drawn up, i should think princes of the blood, in that barbarous age, were not very expert in drawing acts of attainder, though a branch of the law more in use then than since. but as i suppose you mean forged, you, sir, so conversant in writings of that age, can judge better than any man. you may only mean forged by his order. your reading, much deeper than mine, may furnish you with precedents of forged acts of attainder: i never heard of one; nor does my simple understanding suggest the use of such a forgery, on cases immediately pressing; because an act of attainder being a matter of public notoriety, it would be revolting to the common sense of all mankind to plead such an one', if it had not really existed. if it could be carried into execution by force, the force would avail without the forgery, and would be at once exaggerated and weakened by it. i cannot, therefore, conceive why richard should make use of so absurd a trick, unless that having so little to do in so short and turbulent a reign, he amused himself with treasuring up in the tower a forged act for the satisfaction of those who, three hundred years afterwards, should be glad of discovering new flaws in his character. as there are men so bigoted to old legends, i am persuaded, sir, that you would please them, by communicating your question to them. they would rejoice to suppose that richard was more criminal than even the lancastrian historians represent him; and just at this moment i don't know whether they would not believe that mrs. rudd assisted him. i, who am, probably, as absurd a bigot on the other side, see nothing in the paper you have sent me, but a confirmation of richard's innocence of the death of clarence. as the duke of buckingham was appointed to superintend the execution, it is incredible that he should have been drowned in a butt of malmsey, and that richard should have been the executioner. when a seneschal of england, or as we call it, a lord high steward, is appointed for a trial, at least for execution, with all his officers, it looks very much as if, even in that age, proceedings were carried on with a little more formality than the careless writers of that time let us think. the appointment, too, of the duke of buckingham for that office, seems to add another improbability [and a work of supererogation] to richard's forging the instrument. did richard really do nothing but what tended to increase his unpopularity by glutting mankind with lies, forgeries, absurdities, which every man living could detect? i take this opportunity, sir, of telling you how sorry i am not to have seen you long, and how glad i shall be to renew our acquaintance, especially if you like to talk over this old story with me, though i own it is of little importance, and pretty well exhausted.( ) i am, sir, with great regard, your obliged humble servant. ( ) to the above letter it was intended to subjoin the following queries:-- "if there was no such parliament held, would richard have dared to forge an act for it? "would henry vii. never have reproached him with so absurd a forgery? "did neither sir t. more nor lord bacon ever hear of that forgery? "as richard declared his nephew the earl of warwick his successor, would he have done so, if he had forged an act of attainder of warwick's father? "if it is supposed he forged the act, when he set aside warwick, could he pretend that act was not known when he declared him his heir? would not so recent an act's being unknown have proved it a forgery; and if there had been no such parliament as that which forged it, would not that have proved it a double forgery? the act, therefore, and the parliament that passed it, must have been genuine, and existed, though no other record appears. the distractions of the times, the evident insufficiency or partiality of the historians of that age, and the interest of henry vii to destroy all records that gave authority to the house of york and their title, account for our wanting evidence of that parliament." letter to the rev. mr. cole. january , . (page ) i have deferred answering your last letter, dear sir, till i cannot answer with my own hand. i made a pilgrimage at christmas to queen's cross, at ampthill, was caught there by the snow, imprisoned there for a fortnight, and sent home bound hand and foot by the gout. the pain, i suppose, is quite frozen, for i have had none; nothing but inflammation and swelling, and they abate. in reality, this is owing to the bootikins, which -though they do not cure the gout, take out its sting. you, who are still more apt to be an invalid, feel, i fear, this hyperborean season; i should be glad to hear you did not. i thought i had at once jumped upon a discovery of the subject of the painted room at the rose tavern, but shall not plume myself upon my luck till i have seen the chamber, because mr. gough's account seems to date the style of the painting earlier than -will serve my hypothesis. i had no data to go upon but the site having belonged to the family of tufton (for i do not think the description at all answers to the taking of francis i., nor is it at all credible that there should be arms in the painting, and yet neither those of france or austria). i turned immediately to lord thanet's pedigree, in collins's peerage, and found at once an heroic adventure performed by one of the family, that accords remarkably with the principal circumstance. it is the rescue of the elector palatine, son of our queen of bohemia, from an ambuscade laid for him by the duke of lorrain. the arms, or, and gules, i thought were those of lorrain, which i since find are argent and gules. the argent indeed may be turned yellow by age, as mr. gough says he does not know whether the crescent is red or black. but the great impediment is, that this achievement of a tufton was performed in the reign of charles ii. now in that reign, when we were become singularly ignorant of chivalry, anachronisms and blunders might easily be committed by a modern painter, yet i shall not adhere to my discovery, unless i find the painting correspond with the style of the modern time to which i would assign it; nor will i see through the eyes of my hypothesis, but fairly. i shall now turn to another subject. mr. astle, who has left me off ever since the fatal era of richard iii. for no reason that i can conceive but my having adopted his discovery, which for aught i know may be a reason with an antiquary, lately sent me the attainder of george duke of clarence, which he has found in the tower and printed; and on it, as rather glad to confute me and himself, than to have found a curiosity, he had written two or three questions which tended to accuse richard of having forged the instrument, though to the instrument itself is added another, which confirms my acquittal of richard of the murder of clarence-but, alas! passion is a spying glass that does but make the eyes of folly more blind. i sent him an answer, a copy of which i enclose. since that, i have heard no more of him, nor shall, i suppose, till i see this new proof of richard's guilt adopted into the annals of the society, against which i have reserved some other stigmas for it. mr. edmondson has found a confirmation of isabella fitz-osbert having married jernegan after walpole. i forget where i found my arms of the fitz-osberts. though they differ from yours of sir roger, the colours are the same, and they agree with yours of william fitz-osborne. there was no accuracy in spelling names even till much later ages; and you know that different branches of the same family made little variation in their coats. i am very sorry for the death of poor henshaw, of which i had not heard. i am yours most sincerely. p. s. the queries added to the letter to mr. astle were not sent with it; and, as i reserve them for a future answer, i beg you will show them to nobody. letter to edward gibbon, esq.( ) (february .] (page ) mr. walpole cannot express how much he is obliged to mr. gibbon for the valuable present he has received;( ) nor how great a comfort it is to him, in his present situation, in which he little expected to receive singular pleasure. mr. walpole does not say this at random, nor from mere confidence in the author's abilities, for he has already (all his weakness would permit) read the first chapter, and it is in the greatest admiration of the style, manner, method, clearness, and intelligence. mr. walpole's impatience to proceed will struggle with his disorder, and give him such spirits, that he flatters himself he shall owe part of his recovery to mr. gibbon; whom, as soon as that is a little effected, he shall beg the honour of seeing. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the first quarto volume of the history of the decline and fall of the roman empire.-e. letter to edward gibbon, esq.( ) february , . (page ) after the singular pleasure of reading you, sir, the next satisfaction is to declare my admiration. i have read great part of your volume, and cannot decide to which of its various merits i give the preference, though i have no doubt of assigning any partiality to one virtue of the author, which, seldom as i meet with it, always strikes me superiorly. its quality will naturally prevent your guessing which i mean. it is your amiable modesty. how can you know so much, judge so well, possess your subject, and your knowledge, and your power of judicious reflection so thoroughly, and yet command yourself and betray no dictatorial arrogance of decision? how unlike very ancient and very modern authors! you have, unexpectedly, given the world a classic history. the fame it must acquire will tend every day to acquit this panegyric of flattery.( ) the impressions it has made on me are very numerous. the strongest is the thirst of being better acquainted with you--but i reflect that i have been a trifling author, and am in no light profound enough to deserve your intimacy, except by confessing your superiority so frankly, that i assure you honestly, i already feel no envy, though i did for a moment. the best proof i can give you of my sincerity, is to exhort you, warmly and earnestly, to go on with your noble work--the strongest, though a presumptuous mark of my friendship, is to warn you never to let your charming modesty be corrupted by the acclamations your talents will receive. the native qualities of the man should never be sacrificed to those of the author, however shining. i take this liberty as an older man, which reminds me how little i dare promise myself that i shall see your work completed! but i love posterity enough to contribute, if i can, to give them pleasure through you. i am too weak to say more, though i could talk for hours on your history. but one feeling i cannot suppress, though it is a sensation of vanity. i think, nay, i am sure i perceive, that your sentiments on government agree with my own. it is the only point on which i suspect myself of any partiality in my admiration. it is a reflection of a far inferior vanity that pleases me in your speaking with so much distinction of that, alas! wonderful period, in which the world saw five good monarchs succeed each other.( ) i have often thought of treating that elysian era. happily it has fallen into better hands! i have been able to rise to-day, for the first time, and flatter myself that if i have no relapse, you will in two or three days more give' me leave, sir, to ask the honour of seeing you. in the mean time,,be just; and do not suspect me of flattering you. you will always hear that i say the same of you to every body. i am, with the greatest regard, sir, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) "i am at a loss," says gibbon, in his memoirs, "how to describe the success of the work without betraying the vanity of the writer. the first impression was exhausted in a few days; a second and third edition were scarcely adequate to the demand; and the bookseller's property was twice invaded by the pirates of dublin. my book was on every table, and almost on every toilette; the historian was crowned by the taste or fashion of the day; nor was the general voice disturbed by the barking of any profane critic."-e. ( ) walpole, in august , had said, "the world will no more see athens, rome, and the medici again, than a succession of five good emperors, like nerva, trajan, adrian, and the two antonines." see ante, p. -e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, march , . (page ) i am sorry to tell you that the curious old painting at the tavern in fleet street is addled, by the subject turning out a little too old. alas! it is not the story of francis i., but of st. paul. all the coats of arms that should have been french and austrian, and that i had a mind to convert into palatine and lorrain, are the bearings of pharisaic nobility. in short, dr. percy was here yesterday, and tells me that over mr. gough's imaginary pavia is written damascus in capital letters. oh! our antiquaries! mr. astle has at last called on me, but i was not well enough to see him. i shall return his visit when i can go out. i hope this will be in a week: i have no pain left, but have a codicil of nervous fevers, for which i am taking the bark. i have nothing new for you in our old way, and therefore will not unnecessarily lengthen my letter, which was only intended to cashier the old painting, though i hear the antiquaries still go on with having a drawing taken from it. oh! our antiquaries! letter to dr. gem.( ) arlington street, april , (page ) it is but fair, when one quits one's party, to give notice to those one abandons--at least, modern patriots, who often imbibe their principles of honour at newmarket, use that civility. you and i, dear sir, have often agreed in our political notions; and you, i fear, will die without changing your opinion. for my part, i must confess i am totally altered; and, instead of being a warm partisan of liberty, now admire nothing but despotism. you will naturally ask what place i have gotten, or what bribe i have taken? those are the criterions of political changes in england-but, as my conversion is of foreign extraction, i shall not be the richer for it. in one word, it is the relation du lit de justice( ) that has operated the miracle. when two ministers( ) are found so humane, so virtuous, so excellent as to study nothing but the welfare and deliverance of the people; when a king listens to such excellent men; and when a parliament, from the basest, most interested motives, interposes to intercept the blessing, must i not change my opinions, and admire arbitrary power? or can i retain my sentiments, without varying the object? yes, sir, i am shocked at the conduct of the parliament-- one would think it was an english one! i am scandalized at the speeches of the ivocat-g`en`eral,( ) who sets up the odious interests of the nobility and clergy against the cries and groans of the poor; and who employs his wicked eloquence to tempt the good young monarch, by personal views, to sacrifice the mass of his subjects to the privileges of the few. but why do i call it eloquence? the fumes of interest had so clouded his rhetoric, that he falls into a downright iricism. he tells the king, that the intended tax on the proprietors of land will affect the property not only of the rich, but of the poor. i should be glad to know what is the property of the poor? have the poor landed estates? are those who have landed estates the poor? are the poor that will suffer by the tax, the wretched labourers who are dragged from their famishing families to work on the roads? but it is wicked eloquence when it finds a reason, or gives a reason for continuing the abuse. the advocate tells the king, those abuses are presque consacr`es par l'anciennet`e. indeed, he says all that can be said for nobility, it is consacr`ee par l'anciennet`e--and thus the length of the pedigree of abuses renders them respectable! his arguments are as contemptible when he tries to dazzle the king by the great names of henri quatre and sully, of louis xiv. and colbert, two couple whom nothing but a mercenary orator would have classed together. nor, were all four equally venerable, would it prove any thing. even good kings and good ministers, if such have been, may have erred; nay, may have done the best they could. they would not have been good, if they wished their errors should be preserved, the longer they had lasted. in short, sir, i think this resistance of the parliament to the adorable reformation planned by messrs. de turgot and malesherbes, is more phlegmatically scandalous than the wildest tyranny of despotism. i forget what the nation was that refused liberty when it was offered. this opposition to so noble a work is worse. a whole people may refuse its own happiness; but these profligate magistrates resist happiness for others, for millions, for posterity! nay, do they not half vindicate maupeou, who crushed them? and you, dear sir, will you now chide my apostacy? have-i not cleared myself to your eyes? i do not see a shadow of sound logic in all monsieur seguier's but in his proposing that the soldiers should work on the roads, and that passengers should contribute to their fabric; though, as france is not so luxuriously mad as england, i do not believe passengers could support the expense of the roads. that argument, therefore, is like another that the avocat proposes to the king, and which, he modestly owns, he believes would be impracticable. i beg your pardon, sir, for giving you this long trouble; but i could not help venting myself, when shocked to find such renegade conduct in a parliament that i was rejoiced had been restored. poor human kind! is it always to breed serpents from its own bowels? in one country, it chooses its representatives, and they sell it and themselves--in others, it exalts despots--in another, it resists the despot when he consults the good of his people! can we -wonder mankind is wretched, when men are such beings? parliaments run wild with loyalty, when america is to be enslaved or butchered. they rebel, when their country is to be set free! i am not surprised at the idea of the devil being always at our elbows. they who invented him, no doubt could not conceive how men could be so atrocious to one another, without the intervention of a fiend. don't you think, if he had never been heard of before, that he would have been invented on the late partition of poland! adieu, dear sir. yours most sincerely. ( ) an english physician long settled at paris, no less esteemed for his professional knowledge, than for his kind attention to the poor who applied to him for medical assistance. ( ) the first lit de justice held by louis xvi. ( ) messieurs de malesherbes and turgot. when the intrigues which had been set on foot to overthrow the administration of turgot had accomplished that object, an event which took place shortly after the date of this letter louis xvi requested malesherbes to remain in office; but when he refused to do so, seeing that his friend turgot had been dismissed, louis conscious of the increased anxieties in which he should be involved, exclaimed, with a sigh, "que vous `etes heureux! que ne puis-je aussi quitter ma place."-e. ( ) monsieur de seguier. letter to the rev. mr. cole. april , . (page ) you will be concerned, my good sir, for what i have this minute heard from his nephew, that poor mr. granger was seized at the communion table on sunday with an apoplexy, and died yesterday morning at five. i have answered the letter with a word of advice about his manuscripts, that they may not fall into the hands of booksellers. he had been told by idle people so many gossiping stories, that it would hurt him and living persons, to be printed; for as he was incapable of , if all his collections were telling an untruth himself, he suspected nobody else--too great goodness in a biographer. p. s. the whole world is occupied with the duchess of kingston's trial.( ) i don't tell you a word of it; for you will not care about it these two hundred years. ( ) in westminster hall, before the house of peers, for intermarrying with the duke of kingston during the lifetime of her first husband. she was found guilty, but, pleading her privilege, was discharged without any punishment. hannah more gives the following description of the scene:--"garrick would have me take his ticket to go to the trial f the duchess of kingston; a sight which, for beauty and magnificence, exceeded any thing which those who were never present at a coronation or a trial by peers can have the least notion of. mrs. garrick and i were in full dress by seven. you will imagine the bustle of five thousand people getting into one hall! yet, in all this hurry, we walked in tranquilly. when they were all seated, and the king-at-arms had commanded silence, on pain of imprisonment, (which, however, was very ill observed,) the gentleman of the black rod was commanded to bring in his prisoner. elizabeth, calling herself duchess dowager of kingston, walked in, led by black rod and mr. la roche, courtesying profoundly to her judges. the peers made her a slight bow. the prisoner was dressed in deep mourning; a black hood on her head; her hair modestly dressed and powdered; a black silk sacque, with crape trimmings; black gauze, deep ruffles, and black gloves. the counsel spoke about an hour and a quarter each. dunning's manner is insufferably bad, coughing and spitting at every three words, but his sense and his expression pointed to the last degree: he made her grace shed bitter tears. the fair victim had four virgins in white behind the bar. she imitated her great predecessor, mrs. rudd, and affected to write very often, though i plainly perceived she only wrote, as they do their love epistles on the stage, without forming a letter. the duchess has but small remains of that beauty of which kings and princes were once so enamoured. she looked much like mrs. pritchard. she is large and ill-shaped; there was nothing white but her face and, had it not been for that, she would have looked like a bale of bombazeen. there was a great deal of ceremony, a great deal of splendour, and a great deal of nonsense: they adjourned upon the most foolish pretences imaginable, and did nothing with such an air of business as was truly ridiculous. i forgot to tell you the duchess was taken ill, but performed it badly." in a subsequent letter, she says--"i have the great satisfaction of telling you that elizabeth, calling herself duchess-dowager of kingston, was, this very afternoon, undignified and unduchessed, and very narrowly escaped being burned in the hand. if you have been half as much interested against this unprincipled, artful, licentious woman as i have, you will be rejoiced at it as i am. lord camden breakfasted with us. he is very angry that she was not burned in the hand. he says, as he was once a professed lover of hers, he thought it would have looked ill-natured and ungallant for him to propose it; but that he should have acceded to it most heartily, though he believes he should have recommended a cold iron." memoirs, vol. i. pp. , .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) mr. granger's papers have been purchased by lord mount stewart,( ) who has the frenzy of portraits as well as i; and, though i am at the head of the sect, i have no longer the rage of propagating it, nor would i on any account take the trouble of revising and publishing the manuscripts. mr. granger had drowned his taste for portraits in the ocean of biography; and, though he began with elucidating prints, he at last only sought prints that he might write the lives of those they represented. his work was grown and growing so voluminous, that an abridgment only could have made it useful to collectors. i am not surprised that you wilt not assist kippis;( ) bishop laud and william prynne could never agree. you are very justly more averse to mr. masters who is a pragmatic fellow, and at best troublesome. if the agate knives you are so good as to recommend to me can be tolerably authenticated, have any royal marks, or, at least, old setting of the time, and will be sold for two guineas, i should not dislike having them - though i have scarce room to stick a knife and fork. but if i trouble you to pay for them, you must let me know all i owe you already, for i know i am in your debt for prints and pamphlets, and this new debt will make the whole considerable enough to be remitted. i have lately purchased three apostle-spoons to add to the one you was so kind as to give me. what is become of mr. essex? does he never visit london? i wish i could tempt him thither or hither. i am not only thinking of building my offices in a collegiate style, for which i have a good design and wish to consult him, but am actually wanting assistance at this very moment, about a smaller gallery that i wish to add' this summer; and which, if mr. essex was here, he should build directly. it is scarce worth asking him to take the journey on purpose, though i would pay for his journey hither and back, and would lodge him here for the necessary time. i can only beg you to mention it to him as an idle jaunt, the object is so trifling. i wish more that you could come with him: do you leave your poor parishioners and their souls to themselves? if you do, i hope dr. kippis will seduce them. yours ever. ( ) john lord mountstuart; in march , created marquis of bute. he died in geneva in november , when the marquisate descended to his grandson.-e. ( ) dr. andrew kippis, well-known for the active part he took in producing the second edition of the" biographia britannnica, of which he was the editor, and in a great measure the writer. he had applied to 'mr. cole for assistance; and walpole's satisfaction at cole's refusal is to be accounted for by the fact of kippis having threatened to expose sir robert walpole in the course of that work. walpole had called the " biographia britannica" an apology for every body. this kippis happened to hear of; upon which he is said to have retorted, "that the life of sir robert walpole should prove that the biographia was not an apology for every body.'-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am grieved, and feel for your gout; i know the vexations and disappointments it occasions, and how often it will return when one thinks it going or gone: it represents life and its vicissitudes. at last i know it makes me content when one does not feel actual pain,--and what contents may be called a blessing; but it is a sort of blessing that extinguishes hopes and views, and is not so luxurious but one can bear to relinquish it. i seek amusements now to amuse me; i used to rush into them, because i had an impulse and wished for what i sought. my want of mr. essex has a little of both kinds, as it is for an addition to this place, for which my fondness is not worn out. i shall be very glad to see him here either on the th or st of this month, and shall have no engagement till the d, and will gladly pay his journey. i am sorry i must not hope that you will accompany him. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i was very glad to receive your letter, not only because always most glad to hear of you, but because i wished to write to you, and had absolutely nothing to say till i had something to answer. i have lain but two nights in town since i saw you; have been, else, constantly here, very much employed, though doing, hearing. knowing exactly nothing. i have had a gothic architect from cambridge to design me a gallery, which will end in a mouse, that is, in an hexagon closet, of seven feet diameter. i have been making a beauty-room, which was effected by buying two dozen of small copies of sir peter lely, and hanging them up; and i have been making hay, which is not made, because i put it off for three days, as i chose it should adorn the landscape when i was to have company; and so the rain is come, and has drowned it. however, as i can even turn calculator when it is to comfort me for not minding my interest, i have discovered that it is five to one better for me that my hay should be spoiled than not-, for, as the cows will eat it if it is damaged, which horses will not, and as i have five cows and but one horse, is not it plain that the worse my hay is the better? do not you with your refining head go, and, out of excessive friendship, find out something to destroy my system. i had rather be a philosopher than a rich man; and yet have so little philosophy, that i had much rather be content than be in the right. mr. beauclerk and lady di.( ) have been here four or five days -so i had both content and exercise for my philosophy. i wish lady ailesbury was as fortunate! the pembrokes, churchills, le texier, as you will have heard, and the garricks have been with us. perhaps, if alone, i might have come to you--but you are all too healthy and harmonious. i can neither walk nor sing -nor, indeed, am fit for any thing but to amuse myself in a sedentary trifling way. what i have most certainly not been doing, is writing any thing: a truth i say to you, but do not desire you to repeat. i deign to satisfy scarce any body else. whoever reported that i was writing any thing, must have been so totally unfounded, that they either blundered by guessing without reason, or knew they lied-and that could not be with any kind intention; though saying i am going to do what i am not going to do, is wretched enough. whatever is said of me without truth, any body is welcome to believe that pleases. in fact, though i have scarce a settled purpose about any thing, i think i shall never write any more. i have written a great deal too much, unless i had written better, and i know i should now only write still worse. one's talent, whatever it is, does not improve at sixty-yet, if i liked it, i dare say a good reason would not stop my inclination;--but i am grown most indolent in that respect, and most absolutely indifferent to every purpose of vanity. yet without vanity i am become still prouder and more contemptuous. i have a contempt for my countrymen that makes me despise their approbation. the applause of slaves and of the foolish mad is below ambition. mine is the haughtiness of an ancient briton, that cannot write what would please this age, and would not, if he could. whatever happens in america this country is undone. i desire to be reckoned of the last age, and to be thought to have lived to be superannuated, preserving my senses only for myself and for the few i value. i cannot aspire to be traduced like algernon sydney, and content myself with sacrificing to him amongst my lares. unalterable in my principles, careless about most things below essentials, indulging myself in trifles by system, annihilating myself by choice, but dreading folly at an unseemly age, i contrive to pass my time agreeably enough, yet see its termination approach without anxiety. this is a true picture of my mind; and it must be true, because drawn for you, whom i would not deceive, and could not, if i would. your question on my being writing drew it forth, though with more seriousness than the report deserved--yet talking to one's dearest friend is neither wrong nor out of season. nay, you are my best apology. i have always contented myself with your being perfect, or, if your modesty demands a mitigated term, i will say, unexceptionable. it is comical, to be sure, to have always been more solicitous about the virtue of one's friend than about one's own-yet, i repeat it, you are my apology -though i never was so unreasonable as to make you answerable for my faults in return; i take them wholly to myself. but enough of this. when i know my own mind, for hitherto i have settled no plan ,for my summer, i will come to you. adieu! ( ) lady diana spencer, daughter of charles, duke of marlborough; born in ; married, in , to viscount bolingbroke; from whom she was divorced in , and married immediately after to mr. topham beauclerk.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. july , . (page ) you are so good to me, my dear sir, that i am quite ashamed. i must not send back your charming present, but wish you would give me leave to pay for it, and i shall have the same obligation to you, and still more. it is beautiful in form and colours, and pleases me excessively. in the mean time, i have in a great hurry (for i came home but at noon to meet mr. essex) chosen out a few prints for you, such as i think you will like, and beg you to accept them: they enter into no one of my sets. i am heartily grieved at your account of yourself, and know no comfort but submission. i was absent to 'general conway, who is far from well. we must take our lot as it falls! joy and 'sorrow is mixed till the scene closes. i am out of spirits, and shall not mend yours. mr. essex is just setting out, and i write in great haste, but am, as i have so long been, most truly yours. letter to the rev. mr. cole strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i wrote to you yesterday, dear sir, not only in great haste, but in great confusion, and did not say half i ought to have done for the pretty vase you sent me, and for your constant obliging attention to me. all i can say is, that gratitude attempted even in my haste and concern to put in its word: and i did not mean to pay you, (which i hope you will really allow me to do) but to express my sensibility of your kindness. the fact was, that to avoid disappointing mr. essex, when i had dragged him hither from cambridge, i had returned hither precipitately, and yet late, from park-place whither i went the day before to see general conway, who has had a little attack of the paralytic kind. you, who can remember how very long and dearly i have loved so near a relation and particular friend, and who are full of nothing but friendly sensations, can judge how shocked i was to find him more changed than i expected. i suffered so much in constraining and commanding myself, that i was not sorry, as the house was full of relations, to have the plea of mr. essex, to get away, and came to sigh here by myself. it is, perhaps, to prevent my concern that i write now. mr. conway is in no manner of danger, is better, his head nor speech are affected, and the physicians, who barely allow the attack to be of the paralytic nature, are clear it is local, in the muscles of the face. still has it operated such a revolution in my mind, as no time, at my age, can efface. it has at once damped every pursuit which my spirits had even now prevented me from being weaned from, i mean a virt`u. it is like a mortal distemper in myself; for can amusements amuse, if there is but a glimpse, a vision, of outliving one's friends? i have had dreams in which i thought i wished for fame--it was not certainly posthumous fame at any distance: i feel, i feel, it was confined to the memory of those i love. it seems to me impossible for a man who has no friends to do any thing for fame--and to me the first position in friendship is, to intend one's friends should survive one-but it is not reasonable to oppress you, who are suffering gout, with my melancholy ideas. let me know as you mend. what i have said, will tell you, what i hope so many years have told you, that i am very constant and sincere to friends of above forty years. i doubt mr. essex perceived that my mind was greatly bewildered- he gave me a direction to mr. penticross, who i recollect, mr. gray, not you, told me was turned a methodist teacher. he was a blue-coat boy, and came hither then to some of my servants, having at that age a poetic turn. as he has reverted to it, i hope the enthusiasm will take a more agreeable plea. i have not heard of him for many years, and thought he was settled somewhere near cambridge: i find it is at wallingford. i wonder those madmen and knaves do not begin to wear out, as their folly is no longer new, and as knavery can turn its hand to any trade according to the humour of the age, which in countries like this is seldom constant. yours most faithfully. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i have time but to write you a line, and it is as usual to beg your help in a sort of literary difficulty. i have received a letter dated , "catherine hall" from "ken. prescot," whom i doubt i have forgotten; for he begins "dear sir," and i protest i cannot recollect him, though i ought. he says he wants to send me a few classical discourses, and e speaks with respect of my father, and, by his trembling hand, seems an old man. all these are reasons for my treating him with great regard; and, being afraid of hurting him, i have written a short and very civil answer, directed to the "rev. dr. prescot." god knows whether he is a clergyman or a doctor, and perhaps i may have betrayed my forgetfulness; but i -thought it was best to err on the over civil side. tell me something about him; i dread his discourses. is he the strange man that a few years ago sent me a volume of an uncommon form, and of more uncommon matter? i suspect so.( ) you shall certainly have two or three of my prints by mr. essex when he returns hither and hence, and any thing else you will command. i am just now in great concern for the terrible death of general conway's son-in-law, mr. damer,( ) of which, perhaps, you in your solitude have not heard.-you are happy who take no part but in the past world, for the mortui non mordent, nor do any of the extravagant and distressing things that perhaps they did in their lives. i hope the gout, that persecutes even in a hermitage, has left you. yours most sincerely. ( ) dr. kenrick prescot, master of catherine hall, and author of a quarto volume, published at cambridge in , entitled, "letters concerning homer the sleeper, in horace; with additional classic amusements."-e. ( ) john, eldest son of joseph damer, esq, lord milton; afterwards earl of dorchester.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) may i trouble you, dear sir, when you see our friend mr. essex, to tell him that the tower is covered in, and that whenever he has nothing to do, after this week, i shall be very glad to see him here, if he will only send me a line two or three days beforehand. i have carried this little tower higher than the round one, and it has an exceedingly pretty effect, breaking the long line of the house picturesquely, and looking very ancient. i must correct a little error in the spelling of a name in the pedigree you was so kind as to make out for me last year. the derehaughs were not of colton, but of coulston-hall. this i discovered only this morning. on opening a patch-box that belonged to my mother, and which i have not opened for many years, i found an extremely small silver collaring, about this size--o--but broad and flat. i remember it was in an old satin bag of coins that my mother found in old houghton when she first married. i call it a collar from the breadth; for it would not be large enough for a fairy's lap-dog. it was probably made for an infant's little finger, and must have been for a ring, not a collar; for i believe, though she was an heiress, young ladies did not elope so very early in those days. i never knew how it came into the family, but now it is plain, for the inscription on the outside is, "of coulstonhall, suff." and it is a confirmation of your pedigree. i have tied it to a piece of paper, with a long inscription, and it is so small, it will not be melted down for the weight; and if not lost from its diminutive person, may remain in the family a long while, and be preserved when some gamester may spend every other bit of silver he has in the world; at least, if one would make heir-looms now, one must take care that they have no value in them. p. s. i was turning over edmonson this evening, and observed an odd occurrence of circumstances in the present lord carmarthen.( ) by his mother he is the representative of the great duke of marlborough, and of old treasurer godolphin;( ) by his father, of the lord treasurer duke of leeds;( ) and by his grandmother, is descended from the lord-treasurer oxford.( ) few men are so well ancestored in so short a compass of time. ( ) francis godolphin, marquis of carmarthen, only surviving son of thomas duke of leeds; and who, upon the death of his father, in succeeded to the dukedom.-e ( ) mary duchess of leeds, wife of thomas, fourth duke, was second daughter, and eventually sole heiress, of francis earl of godolphin, by henrietta duchess of marlborough, eldest daughter and coheir of the great duke of marlborough.-e. ( ) sir thomas osborne, lord high treasurer of england, the first duke of leeds; who, having been successively honoured with the barony of osborne, the viscounty of latimer, the earldom of danby, and the marquisate of carmarthen, was, on the th of may , created duke of leeds.-e. ( ) elizabeth, the first wife of peregrine hyde, third duke of leeds, was the youngest daughter of robert harley, the great earl of oxford.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, thursday, oct. , . (page ) thank you for your letter. i send this by the coach. you will have found a new scene,( ) not an unexpected one by you and me, though i do not pretend i thought it so near. i rather imagined france would have instigated or winked at spain's beginning with us. here is a solution of the americans declaring themselves independent. oh! the folly, the madness, the guilt of having plunged us into this abyss! were we and a few more endued with any uncommon penetration? no: they who did not see as far, would not. i am impatient to hear the complexion of to-day. i suppose it will, on the part of administration, have been a wretched farce of fear, daubed over with airs of bullying. you, i do not doubt, have acted like yourself, feeling for our situation, above insulting, and unprovoked but at the criminality that has brought us to this pass. pursue your own path, nor lean to the court that may be paid to you on either side, as i am sure you will not regard their being displeased that you do not go as far as their interested views may wish. if the court should receive any more of what they call good news, i think the war with france will be unavoidable. it was the victory at long island( ) and the frantic presumption it occasioned, that has ripened france's measures--and now we are to awe them by pressing--an act that speaks our impotence!--which france did not want to learn! i would have come to town, but i had declared so much i would not, that i thought it would look as if i came to enjoy the distress of the ministers-but i do not enjoy the distress of my country. i think we are undone; i have always thought so-- whether we enslaved america, or lost it totally--so we that were against the war could expect no good issue. if you do return to park-place to-morrow, you will oblige me much by breakfasting here - you know it wastes you very little time. 'i am glad i did not know of mrs. damer's sore throat till it is almost well. pray take care and do not catch it. thank you for your care of me: i will not stay a great deal here, but at present i never was better in my life-and here i have no vexatious moments. i hate to dispute; i scorn to triumph myself, and it is very difficult to keep my temper when others do. i own i have another reason for my retirement, which is prudence. i have thought of it late, but, at least, i will not run into any new expense. it would cost me more than i care to afford to buy a house in town, unless i do it to take some of my money out of the stocks, for which i tremble a little. my brother is seventy; and if i live myself, i must not build too much on his life; and you know, if he fails, i lose the most secure part of my income. i refused from holland, and last year from lord north, to accept the place for my own life; and having never done a dirty thing, i will not disgrace myself at fifty-nine. i should like to live as well as i have done; but what i wish more, is to secure what i have already saved for those i would take care of after me. these are the true reasons of my dropping all thought of a better house in town, and of living so privately here. i -will not sacrifice my health to my prudence; but my temper is so violent, that i know the tranquillity i enjoy here in solitude is of much more benefit to my health, than the air of the country is detrimental to it. you see i can be reasonable when i have time to reflect; but philosophy has a poor chance with me when my warmth is stirred--and yet i know, that an angry old man out of parliament, and that can do nothing but be angry, is a ridiculous animal. ( ) on the opening of the session. ( ) on the th of august , when the english army, under the command of general howe, defeated the americans at flat bush, in long island.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) though inclination, and consciousness that a man of my age, who is neither in parliament nor in business, has little to do in the world, keep me a good deal out of it, yet i will not, my dear lord, encourage you in retirement; to which, for the interest of your friends, you have but too much propensity. the manners of the age cannot be agreeable to those who have lived in something soberer times; nor do i think, except in france, where old people are never out of fashion, that it is reasonable to tire those whose youth and spirits may excuse some dissipation. above all things, it is my resolution never to profess retirement, lest, when i have lost all my real teeth, the imaginary one, called a colt's, should hurry me back and make me ridiculous. but one never outlives all one's contemporaries; one may assort with them. few englishmen, too, i have observed, can bear solitude without being hurt by it. our climate makes us capricious, and we must rub off our roughness and humours against one another. we have, too, an always increasing resource, which is, that though we go not to the young, they must come to us: younger usurpers tread on their heels, as they did on ours, and revenge us that have been deposed. they may retain their titles, like queen christina, sir m * * * n * * *, and lord rivers; but they find they have no subjects. if we could but live long enough, we should hear lord carlisle, mr. storer, etc. complain of the airs and abominable hours of the youth of the age. you see, my dear lord, my easy philosophy can divert itself with any thing, even with visions; which perhaps is the best way of treating the great vision itself, life. for half one's time one should laugh with the world, the other half at it--and then it is hard if we want amusement. i am heartily glad, for your lordship's and lady anne conolly's sakes, that general howe( ) is safe. i sincerely interest myself for every body you are concerned for. i will say no more on a subject on which i fear i am so unlucky as to differ very much with your lordship, having always fundamentally disapproved our conduct with america. indeed, the present prospect of war with france, when we have so much disabled ourselves, and are exposed in so many quarters, is a topic for general lamentation, rather than for canvassing of opinions, which every man must form for himself: and i doubt the moment is advancing when we shall be forced to think alike, at least on the present. i have not yet above a night at a time in town--but shall be glad to give your lordship and lady strafford a meeting there whenever you please. your faithful humble servant. ( ) general sir william howe, brother of the admiral, was then commander-in-chief of the british forces in america. he was married to a daughter of lady anne conolly, and consequently to a niece of lord strafford.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) i know you love an episcopal print, and, therefore, i send you one of two, that have just been given to me. as you have time and patience, too, i recommend you to peruse sir john hawkins's history of music.( ) it is true, there are five huge volumes in quarto, and perhaps you may not care for the expense; but surely you can borrow them in the university, and, though you may no more than i, delight in the scientific, there is so much about cathedral service, and choirs, and other old matters, that i am sure you will be amused with a great deal, particularly the two last volumes, and the facsimiles of old music in the first. i doubt it is a work that will not sell rapidly, but it must have a place in all great libraries. ( ) a work full of amusement, and deserving of walpole's good word, notwithstanding the witty criticism which dr. calcott passed upon it in his well known catch, "have you sir john hawkins's history?" in which he makes the name of the rival work, "burney's (burn-his) history," express the fate which hawkins's volumes deserved.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, you are always my oracle in any antique difficulties. i have bought at mr. ives's( ) sale (immensely dear) the shutters of the altar at edmondsbury: mr. ives had them from tom martin,( ) who married peter leneve's widow; so you see no shutters can be better descended on the mother's side. next to high birth, personal merit is something: in that respect, my shutters are far from defective: on the contrary, the figures in the inside are so very good, as to amaze me who could paint them here in the reign of henry vi.; they are worthy of the bolognese school--but they have suffered in several places, though not considerably. bowes is to repair them, under oath of only filling up the cracks, and restoring the peelings off, but without repainting or varnishing. the possession of these boards, invaluable to me, was essential. they authenticate the sagacity of my guesses, a talent in an antiquary coequal with prophecy in a saint. on the outside is an archbishop, unchristened by the late possessors, but evidently archbishop kempe, or the same person with the prelate in my marriage of henry vi.,_ and you will allow from the collateral evidence that it must be kempe, as i have so certainly discovered another person in my picture. the other outside is a cardinal, called by mr. ives, babington; but i believe cardinal beaufort, for the lion of england stands by him, which a bastardly prince of the blood was more likely to assume than a true one. his face is not very like, nor very unlike, the face in my picture; but this is -shaven.-but now comes the great point. on the inside is humphrey duke of gloucester kneeling--not only exactly resembling mine as possible, but with the same almost bald head, and the precisely same furred robe. an apostle-like personage stands behind him, holding a golden chalice, as his royal highness's offering, and, which is remarkable, the duke's velvet cap of state, with his coronet of strawberry-leaves. i used to say, to corroborate my hypothesis, that the skull of duke humphrey at st. alban's was very like the form of head in my picture, which argument diverted the late lord holland extremely--but i trust now that nobody will dispute any longer my perfect acquaintance with all dukes of gloucester.--by the way, did i ever tell you that when i published my historic doubts on richard iii., my niece's marriage not being then acknowledged, george selwyn said, he did not think i should have doubted about the duke of gloucester? on the inside of another shutter is a man unknown: he is in a stable, as joseph might be, but over him hangs a shield of arms, that are neither joseph's nor mary's. the colours are either black and white, or so changed as not to be distinguishable. * * " * i conclude the person who is in red and white was the donor of the altar-piece, or benefactor; and what i want of you is to discover him and his arms; and to tell me whether duke humphrey, beaufort, kempe, and babington were connected with st. edmondsbury, or whether this unknown person was not a retainer of duke humphrey, at least of the royal family. at the same sale i bought a curious pair, that i conclude came from blickling, with hobart impaling boleyn from which latter family the former enjoyed that seat. how does this third winter of the season agree with you? the wind to-day is sharper than a razor, and blows icicles into one's eyes. i was confined for seven weeks with the gout " yet am so well recovered as to have been abroad to-day, though it is as mild under the pole. pray can you tell me the title of the book that mr. ives dedicated to me? i never saw it, for he was so odd (i cannot call it modest, lest i should seem not so myself) as never to send it me, and i never could get it. yours truly. ( ) john ives the antiquary, author of "remarks upon the garianonum of the romans the site and remains fixed and described."-e. ( ) tom martin of palgrave, the well known antiquary, whose "history of thetford"was published in , by gough, who has prefixed to it a biographical sketch of the author.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. february , . (page ) you see, dear sir, that we thought on each other just at the same moment; but, as usual, you was thinking of obliging me, and i, of giving you trouble. you have fully satisfied me of the connexion between the lancastrian princes and st. edmondsbury. edmondson, i conclude, will be able to find out the proprietor of the arms, impaling walrond. i am well acquainted with sir a. weldon( ) and the aulicus coquinanae,( ) and will return them with mr. ives's tracts, which i intend to buy at the sale of his books. tell me how i may convey them to you most safely. you say, "till i show an inclination to borrow more of your mss." i hope you do not think my appetite for that loan is in the least diminished. i should at all minutes, and ever, be glad to peruse them all--but i was not sure you wished to send them to me, though you deny me nothing--and my own fear of their coming to any mischance made me very modest about asking for them--but now, whenever you can send me any of them with perfect security, i eagerly and impudently ask to see them: you cannot oblige me more, i assure you. i am sorry dr. e * * n is got into such a dirty scrape. there is scarce any decent medium observed at present between wasting fortunes and fabricating them--and both by any disreputable manner; for, as to saving money by prudent economy, the method is too slow in proportion to consumptions: even forgery, alas!( seems to be the counterpart or restorative of the ruin by gaming. i hope at least that robbery on the highway will go out of fashion as too piddling a profession for gentlemen. i enclose a card for your friends, but must advertise them that march is in every respect a wrong month for seeing strawberry. it not only wants its leaves and beauty then, but most of the small pictures and curiosities, which are taken down and packed up in winter, are not restored to their places till the weather is fine and i am more there. unless they are confined in time, your friends had much better wait till may-but, however, they will be very welcome to go when they please. i am more personally interested in hoping to see you there this summer--you must visit my new tower. diminutive as it is, it adds much to the antique air of the whole in both fronts. you know i shall sympathize with your gout, and you are always master of your own hours. ( ) sir anthony weldon was the author of "the court and character of king james; written and taken by sir a. w., being an eye and ear witness." london, . a work which has been pronounced, by competent authority, " a despicable tissue of filth and obscenity, of falsehood and malignity."-e. ( ) "aulicus coquinanae; or, an answer to the court and character of king james." london, . this work has been ascribed to william sanderson, and to dr. heylin; and is, as well as weldon's, reprinted in the "secret history of the court of king james." edinburgh, -e. ( ) alluding to dr. dodd; whose trial for forgery had taken place on the d, at the old bailey.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) it is not owing to forgetfulness, negligence, or idleness--to none of which i am subject, that you have not heard from me since i saw you, dear sir, but to my miserable occupation with my poor nephew, who engrosses my whole attention, and will, i doubt, destroy my health, if he does not recover his. i have got him within fourteen miles of town with difficulty. he is rather worse than better, may recover in an instant, as he did last time, or remain in his present sullenness. i am far from expecting he should ever be perfectly in his senses; which, in my opinion, he scarce ever was. his intervals expose him to the worst people ; his relapses overwhelm me. i have-put together some trifles i promised you, and will beg mr. lort to be the bearer when he goes to cambridge, if i know of it. at present i have time for nothing i like. my age and inclination call for retirement: i envied your happy hermitage, and leisure to follow your inclination. i have always lived post, and shall not die before i can bait-yet it is not my wish to be unemployed, could i but choose my occupations. i wish i could think of the pictures you mention, or had time to see dr. glynn and the master of emmanuel. i doat on cambridge, and could like to be often there. the beauty of king's college chapel, now it is restored, penetrated me with a visionary longing to be a monk in it; though my life has been passed in turbulent scenes, in pleasures-or rather pastimes, and in much fashionable dissipation, still books, antiquity, and virt`u kept hold of a corner of my heart, and since necessity has forced me of late years to be a man of business, my disposition tends to be a recluse for what remains-but it will not be my lot: and though there is some excuse for the young doing what they like, i doubt an old man should do nothing but what he ought, and i hope doing one's duty is the best preparation for death. sitting with one's arms folded to think about it, is a very lazy way of preparing for it. if charles v. had resolved to make some amends for his abominable ambition by doing good, his duty as a king, there would have been infinitely more merit than going to doze in a convent.( ) one may avoid active guilt in a sequestered life; but the virtue of it is merely negative, though innocence is beautiful. i approve much of 'your corrections on sir j. hawkins, and send them to the magazine. i want the exact blazon of william of hatsfield his arms,--i mean the prince buried at york. mr. mason and i are going to restore his monument, and i have not time to look for them-: i know you will be so good as to assist. yours most sincerely. ( ) "the spaniard, when the lust of sway had lost its quickening spell, cast crowns for rosaries away, an empire for a cell! "a strict accountant of his beads, a subtle disputant on creeds, his dotage trifled well: yet better had he neither known a bigot's shrine nor despot's throne." byron.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i thank you for your notices, dear sir, and shall remember that on prince william. i did see the monthly review, but hope one is not guilty of the death of every man who does not make one the dupe of a forgery. i believe m'pherson's success with ossian was more the ruin of chatterton than i. two years passed between my doubting the authenticity of rowley's( ) poems and his death. i never knew he had been in london till some time after he had undone and poisoned himself there. the poems he sent me were transcripts in his own hand, and even in that circumstance he told a lie: he said he had them from the very person at bristol to whom he had given them. if any man was to tell you that monkish rhymes had been dug up at herculaneum, which was destroyed several centuries before there was any such poetry, should you believe it? just the reverse is the case of rowley's pretended poems. they have all the elegance of waller and prior, and more than lord surrey--but i have no objection to any body believing what he pleases. i think poor chatterton was an astonishing genius-but i cannot think that rowley foresaw metres that were invented long after he was dead, or that our language was more refined at bristol in the reign of henry v. than it was at court under henry viii. one of the chaplains of the bishop of exeter has found a line of rowley in hudibras-the monk might foresee that too! the prematurity of chatterton's genius is, however, full as wonderful, as that such a prodigy as rowley should never have been heard of till the eighteenth century. the youth and industry of the former are miracles, too, yet still more' credible. there is not a symptom in the poems, but the old words, that savours of rowley's age--change the old words for modern, and the whole construction is of yesterday. ( ) see in walpole's works, vol. iv. the papers relative to chatterton; see also vol- i. p. of this collection.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) don't be alarmed at this thousandth letter in a week. this is more to lady hamilton( ) than to you. pray tell her i have seen monsieur la bataille d'.agincourt.( ) he brought me her letter yesterday: and i kept him to sup, sleep in the modern phrase, and breakfast here this morning; and flatter myself he was, and she will be, content with the regard i paid to her letter. the weather is a thought warmer to-day, and i am as busy as bees are about their hay. my hayssians( ) have cost me as much as if i had hired them of the landgrave.( ) i am glad your invasion( ) is blown over. i fear i must invite those flat-bottomed vessels hither, as the swissess necker has directed them to the port of twickenham. madame de blot is too fine, and monsieur schomberg one of the most disagreeable, cross, contemptuous savages i ever saw. i have often supped with him at the duchess de choiseul's, and could not bear him; and now i must be charm`e, and p`en`etr`e, and combl`e, to see him: and i shall act it very ill, as i always do when i don't do what i like. madame necker's letter is as affected and pr`ecieuse, as if marmontel had written it for a peruvian milk-maid. she says i am a philosopher, and as like madame de s`evign`e as two peas--who was as unlike a philosopher as a gridiron. as i have none of madame de s`evign`e's natural easy wit, i am rejoiced that i am no more like a philosopher neither, and still less like a philosophe; which is a being compounded of d'urfey and diogenes, a pastoral coxcomb, and a supercilious brute. ( ) the first wife of sir william hamilton, envoy extraordinary at the court of naples. she was a miss barlow-e. ( ) m. le chevalier d'agincourt, a french antiquary, long settled in italy. . b. l. seroux d'agincourt, born at beauvais in , died at rome in , having, during thirty-six years, laboured assiduously in the composition of his grand work, "histoire de l'art par les monumens depuis sa d`ecadence au quatri`eme si`ecle jusqu'`a son renouvellement au seizi`eme". of this splendid book, in six vols. folio, which was not published until , nine years after the death of the author, an interesting review will be found in the seventh volume of the foreign quarterly review.-e. ( ) hessians. ( ) an allusion to the seventeen thousand which had been hired for the american service, by treaties entered into the preceding year with the landgravine of hesse cassel, the duke of brunswick, and the hereditary prince of hesse cassel.-e. ( ) a party of french nobility then in england, who were to have made a visit at parkplace. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) strawberry hill, july , . (page ) you have perhaps, sir, paid too much regard to the observations i took the liberty to make, by your order, to a few passages in "vitellia," and i must hope they were in consequence of your own judgment too. i do not doubt of its success on the stage, if well acted but i confess i would answer for nothing with the present set of actors, who are not capable in tragedy of doing any justice to it. mrs. barry seems to me very unequal to the principal part, to which mrs. yates alone is suited. were i the author, i should be very sorry to have my tragedy murdered, perhaps miscarry. your reputation is established; you will never forfeit it yourself-and to give your works to unworthy performers is like sacrificing a daughter to a husband of bad character. as to my offering it to mr. colman, i could merely be the messenger. i am scarce known to him, have no right to ask a favour of him, and i hope you know me enough to think that i am too conscious of my own insignificance and private situation to give myself an air of protection, and more particularly to a work of yours, sir. what could i say, that would carry greater weight, than "this piece is by the author of braganza?"( ) a tragedy can never suffer by delay: a comedy may, because the allusions or the manners represented in it maybe temporary. i urge this, not to dissuade your presenting vitellia to the stage, but to console you if both theatres should be engaged next winter. my own interests, from my time of life, would make me with reason more impatient than you to see it represented, but i am jealous of the honour of your poetry, and i should grieve to see vitellia, at covent-garden not that, except mrs. yates, i have any partiality to the tragic actors at drury-lane, though smith did not miscarry in braganza-but i speak from experience. i attended "caractacus" last winter, and was greatly interested, both from my friendship for mr. mason and from the excellence of the poetry. i was out of all patience; for though a young lewis played a subordinate part very well, and mrs. hartley looked her part charmingly, the druids were so massacred and caractacus so much worse, that i never saw a more barbarous exhibition. instead of hurrying "the law of lombardy,"( ) which, however, i shall delight to see finished, i again wish you to try comedy. to my great astonishment there were more parts performed admirably in "the school for scandal,"( ) than i almost ever saw in any play. mrs. abington was equal to the first of her profession, yates, the husband, parsons, miss pope, and palmer, all shone. it seemed a marvellous resurrection of the stage. indeed, the play had as much merit as the actors. i have seen no comedy that comes near it since the "provoked husband." i said i was jealous of your fame as a poet, and i truly am. the more rapid your genius is, labour will but the more improve it. i am very frank, but i am sure that my attention to your reputation will excuse it. your facility in writing exquisite poetry may be a disadvantage; as it may not leave you time to study the other requisites of tragedy so much as is necessary. your writings deserve to last for ages; but to make any work last, it must be finished in all parts to perfection. you have the first requisite to that perfection, for you can sacrifice charming lines, when they do not tend to improve the whole. i admire this resignation so much, that i wish to turn it to your advantage. strike out your sketches as suddenly as you please, but retouch and retouch them, that the best judges may for ever admire them. the works that have stood the test of ages, and been slowly approved at first, are not those that have dazzled contemporaries and borne away their applause, but those whose intrinsic and laboured merit have shone the brighter on examination. i would not curb your genius, sir, if i did not trust it would recoil with greater force for having obstacles presented to it. you will forgive my not having sent you the "thoughts on comedy," ( ) as i promised, i have had no time to look them over and put them into shape. i have been and am involved in most unpleasant affairs of family, that take up my whole thoughts and attention. the melancholy situation of my nephew lord orford, engages me particularly, and i am not young enough to excuse postponing business and duties for amusement. in truth, i am really too old not to have given up literary pleasures. nobody will tell one when one grows dull, but one's time of life ought to tell it one. i long ago determined to keep the archbishop in gil blas in my eye. when i should advance to his caducity; but as dotage steals in at more doors than one, perhaps the sermon i have been preaching to you is a symptom of it. you must judge of that, sir. if i fancy i have been wise, and have only been peevish, throw my lecture into the fire. i am sure the liberties i have taken with you deserve no indulgence, if you do not discern true friendship at the bottom of them. ( ) now first printed. robert jephson, esq. was born in ireland in . he attained the rank of captain in the d regiment, and when it was reduced at the peace of , he retired on half-pay, and procured, through the influence of mr. gerard hamilton, a pension on the irish establishment. besides several tragedies, he wrote the farce of "two strings to your bow," and "roman portraits," a poem. hardy, in his memoirs of lord charlemont, says, "he was much caressed 'and sought after by several of the first societies in dublin, as he possess'd much wit and pleasantry, and, when not overcome by the spleen, was extremely amusing and entertaining." he was a member of the irish house of commons, and died in . walpole's "thoughts on tragedy" had been addressed, in , to this gentleman.-e. ( ) "braganza" came out at drury-lane theatre in , and was very successful. walpole supplied the epilogue.-e. ( ) "the law of lombardy" was brought out at drury-lane in , but was only acted nine nights.-e. ( ) sheridan's "school for scandal" was first performed at drury-lane on the th of may, . ( ) walpole's "thoughts on comedy" were written in and , and will be found in his works.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) you are very kind, dear sir, in giving me an account of your health and occupations, and inquiring after mine. i am very sorry you are not as free from gout, as i have been ever since february; but i trust it will only keep you from other complaints, and never prevent your amusing yourself, which you are one of those few happy beings that can always do; and your temper is so good, and your mind so naturally philosophic, composed, and contented, that you neither want the world, care about it, nor are affected by any thing that occurs in it. this is true wisdom, but wisdom which nothing can give but constitution. detached amusements have always made a great part of my own delight, and have sown my life with some of its best moments. my intention was, that they should be the employments of my latter years, but fate seems to have chalked out a very different scene for me! the misfortune of my nephew has involved me in business, and consequently care, and opens a scene of disputes, with which i shall not molest your tranquillity. the dangerous situation in which his royal highness the duke of gloucester has been, and out of which i doubt he is scarce yet emerged, though better, has added more thorns to my uneasy mind. the duchess's daughters are at hampton-court, and partly under my care. in one word, my whole summer has been engrossed by duties, which has confined me at home, without indulging myself in a single pursuit to my taste. in short, as i have told you before, i often wish myself a monk at cambridge. writers on government condemn, very properly, a recluse life, as contrary to nature's interest, who loves procreation; but as nature seems not very desirous that we should procreate to threescore years and ten, i think convents very suitable retreats for those whom our alma mater does not emphatically call to her opus magnum. and though, to be sure, gray hairs are fittest to conduct state affairs, yet as the rehoboams of the world (louis xvi. excepted) do not always trust the rudder of government to ancient hands, old gentlemen, methinks, are very ill placed [when not at the council-board] any where but in a cloister. as i have no more vocation to the ministry than to carrying on my family, i sigh after a dormitory; and as in six weeks my clock will strike sixty, i wish i had nothing more to do with the world. i am not tired of living, but-what signifies sketching visions? one must take one's lot as it comes; bitter and sweet"are poured into every cup. to-morrow may be pleasanter than to-day. nothing lasts of one colour. one must embrace the cloister, or take the chances of the world as they present themselves; and since uninterrupted happiness would but embitter the certainty that even that must end, rubs and crosses should be softened by the same consideration. i am not so busied, but i shall be very glad of a sight of your manuscript, and will return it carefully. i will thank you, too, for the print of mr. jenyns, which i have not, nor have seen.' adieu! yours most cordially. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i have received your volume safely, dear sir, and hasten to thank you before i have read a page, that you may be in no pain about its arrival. i will return it with the greatest care as soon as i have finished it, and at the same time will send mr. essex the bills, as i beg you will let him know. i have no less reason for writing immediately, to thank you for the great confidence you place in me. you talk of nonsense; alas! what are all our opinions else? if we search for truth before we fix our principles, what do we find but doubt? and which of us begins the search a tabula rasa? nay, where can we hunt but in volumes of error or purposed delusion? have not we, too, a bias in our minds--our passions? they will turn the scale in favour of the doctrines most agreeable to them. yet let us be a little vain: you and i differ radically in our principles, and yet in forty years they have never cast a gloom over our friendship. we could give the world a reason that it would not like. we have both been sincere, have both been consistent, and neither adopted our principles nor have varied them for our interest. your labour, as far as i am acquainted with it, astonishes me: it shows what can be achieved by a man that does not lose a moment; and, which is still better, how happy the man is who can always employ himself i do not believe that the proud prelate, who would not make you a little happier, is half so much to be envied. thank you for the print of soame jenyns: it is a proof of sir joshua's art, who could give a strong resemblance of so uncouth a countenance without leaving it disagreeable. the duke of gloucester is miraculously revived. for two whole days i doubted whether he was not dead. i hope fatalists and omenmongers will be confuted; and thus, as his grandfather broke the charm of the second of the name being an unfortunate prince, the duke will baffle that, which has made the title of gloucester unpropitious. adieu! letter to the hon. h. s. conway. tuesday evening, sept. , . (page ) i have got a delightful plaything, if i had time for play. it is a new sort of camera-obscura( ) for drawing the portraits of persons, or prospects, or insides of rooms, and does not depend on the sun or any thing. the misfortune is, that there is a vast deal of machinery and putting together, and i am the worst person living for managing it. you know i am impenetrably dull in every thing that requires a grain of common sense. the inventor is to come to me on friday, and try if he can make me remember my right hand from my left. i could as soon have invented my machine as manage it; yet it has cost me ten guineas, and may cost me as much more as i please for improving it. u will conclude it was the dearness tempted me. i believe i must keep an astronomer, like mr. beauclerk, to help me play with my rattle. the inventor, who seems very modest and simple, but i conclude an able flatterer, was in love with my house, and vowed nothing ever suited his camera so well. to be sure, the painted windows and the prospects, and the gothic chimneys, etc. etc. were the delights of one's eyes, when no bigger than a silver penny. you would know how to manage it, as if you had never done any thing else. had not you better come and see it? you will learn how to conduct it, with the pleasure of correcting my awkwardness and unlearnability. sir joshua reynolds and west have each got one; and the duke of northumberland is so charmed with the invention, that i dare say he can talk upon and explain it till i should understand ten times less of the matter than i do. remember, neither lady ailesbury, nor you, nor mrs. damer, have seen my new divine closet, nor the billiard-sticks with which the countess of pembroke and arcadia used to play with her brother sir philip; nor the portrait of la belle jennings in the state bedchamber. i go to town this day s'ennight for a day or two; and as, to be sure, mount edgecumbe has put you out of humour with park-place, you may deign to leave it for a moment. i never did see cotchel,( ) and am sorry. is not the old wardrobe there still? there was one from the time of cain; but adam's breeches and eve's under-petticoat were eaten by a goat in the ark. good-night! ( ) the machine called a delineator. ( ) the old residence of the family of edgecumbe, twelve miles distant from mount edgecumbe. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i return you your manuscript, dear sir, with a thousand thanks, and shall be impatient to hear that you receive it safe. it has amused me much, and i admire mr. baker( ) for having been able to show so much sense on so dry a subject. i wish, as you say you have materials for it, that you would write his life. he deserved it much more than most of those he has recorded. his book on the deficiencies of learning is most excellent, and far too little known. i admire his moderation, too, which was extraordinary in a man who had suffered so much for his principles. yet they warped even him, for he rejects bishop burnet's character of bishop gunning in p. , and yet in the very next page gives the same character of him. burnet's words are, "he had a great confusion of things in his head, but could bring nothing into method:" pray compare this with p. . i see nothing in which they differ, except that mr. burnet does not talk so much of his comeliness as mr. baker. i shall not commend your moderation, when you excuse such a man as bishop watson. nor ought you to be angry with burnet, but with the witnesses on whose evidence watson was convicted. to tell you the truth, i am glad when such faults are found with burnet; for it shows his enemies are not angry at his telling falsehoods, but the truth. must not an historian say a bishop was convicted of simony, if he was? i will tell you what was said of burnet's history, by one whose testimony you yourself would not dispute--at least you would not in any thing else. that confessor said, "damn him, he has told a great deal of truth, but where the devil did he learn it?" this was st. atterbury's testimony. i shall take the liberty of reproving you, too, dear sir, for defending that abominable murderess queen christina--and how can you doubt her conversation with burnet? you must know there are a thousand evidences of her laughing at the religion she embraced. if you approve her, i will allow you to condemn lord russel and algernon sidney. well, as we shall never have the same heroes, we will not dispute about them, nor shall i find fault when you have given me so much entertainment: it would be very ungrateful, and i have a thousand obligations to you, and want to have more. i want to see more of your manuscripts: they are full of curiosities, and i love some of your heroes, too: i honour bishop fisher, and love mr. baker. if i might choose, i should like to see your account of the persons educated at king's-but as you may have objections, i insist, if you have, that you make me no word of answer. it is, perhaps, impertinent to ask it, and silence will lay neither of us under any difficulty. i have no right to make such a request, nor do now, but on the foot of its proving totally indifferent to you. you will make me blame myself, if it should a moment distress you; and i am sure you are too good-natured to put me out of humour with myself, which your making no answer would not do. i enclose my bills for mr. essex, and will trouble you to send them to him. i again thank you, and trust you will be as friendly free with me, as i have been with you: you know i am a brother monk in every thing but religious and political opinions. i only laugh at the thirty' nine articles: but abhor calvin as much as i do the queen of sweden, for he was as thorough an assassin. yours ever. p. s. as i have a great mind, and, indeed, ought, when i require it, to show moderation, and when i have not, ought to confess it, which i do, for i own i am not moderate on certain points; if you are busy yourself and will send me the materials, i will draw up the life mr. baker; and, if you are not content with it, you shall burn it in smithfield. in good truth, i revere conscientious martyrs, of all sects, communions, and parties--i heartily pity them, if they are weak men. when they are as sensible as mr. baker, i doubt my own understanding more than his. i know i have not his virtues, but should delight in doing justice to them; and, perhaps, from a man of a different party the testimony would be more to his honour. i do not call myself of different principles; because a man that thinks himself bound by his oath, can be a man of no principle if he violates it. i do not mean to deny that many men might think king james's breach of his oath a dispensation from theirs; but, if they did not think so, or did not think their duty to their country obliged them to renounce their king, i should never defend those who took the new oaths from interest. ( ) thomas baker, the learned author of "reflections on learning, wherein is shown the insufficiency thereof in its several particulars, in order to evince the usefulness and necessity of revelation;" a work which has gone through numerous editions, and /was at one time one of the most popular books in the language, he was born at durham in , and died in the office of commoner master of st. john's college, cambridge, in july .-e. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) to confer favours, sir, is certainly not giving trouble: and had i the most constant occupation, i should contrive to find moments for reading your works. i have passed a most melancholy summer, from different distresses in my family; and though my nephew's situation and other avocations prevent my having but very little time for literary amusements, i did not mean to debar myself of the pleasure of hearing from my friends. unfortunately, at present, it is impossible for me to profit of your kindness; not from my own business, but from the absence of mr. garrick. he is gone into staffirdshire to marry a nephew, and thence will pass into wales to superintend a play that is to be acted at sir watkin williams's. i am even afraid i shall not be the first apprised of his return, as i possibly may remove to town in expectation of the duchess of gloucester,' before he is at home again. i shall not neglect my own satisfaction; but mention this circumstance, that you may not suspect me of inattention, if i should not get sight of your tragedy so soon as i wish. i am, sir, with great regard. ( ) now first printed. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. oct. , . (page ) you are so exceedingly good, i shall assuredly accept your proposal in the fullest sense, and to ensure mrs. damer, beg i may expect you on saturday next the th. if lord and lady william campbell will do me the honour of accompanying you, i shall be most happy to see them, and expect miss caroline.( ) let me know about them that the state bedchamber may be aired. my difficulties about removing from home arise from the consciousness of my own weakness. i make it a rule, as much as i can, to conform wherever i go. though i am threescore to-day, i should not think that an age for giving every thing up; but it is, for whatever one has not strength to perform. you, though not a vast deal younger, are as healthy and strong, thank god! as ever you was: and you cannot have ideas of the mortification of being stared at by strangers and servants, when one hobbles, or cannot do as others do. i delight in being with you, and the richmonds, and those i love and know; but the crowds of young people, and chichester folks, and officers, and strange servants, make me afraid of goodwood, i own my spirits are never low; but they seldom will last out the whole day; and though i dare to say i appear to many capricious, and different from the rest of the world, there is more reason in my behaviour than there seems. you know in london i seldom stir out in a morning, and always late; it is because i want a great deal of rest. exercise never did agree with me: and it is hard if i do not know myself by this time; and what has done so well for me will probably suit me best for the rest of my life. it would be ridiculous to talk so much of myself, and to enter into such trifling details, but you are the person in the world that i wish to convince that i do not act merely from humour or ill-humour; though i confess at the same time that i want your bonhommie, and have a disposition not to care at all for people that i do not absolutely like. i could say a great deal more on this head, but it is not proper; though, when one has pretty much done with the world, i think with lady blandford, that one may indulge one's self in one's own whims and partialities in one's own house. i do not mean, still less to profess, retirement, because it is less ridiculous to go on with the world to the last, than to return to it; but in a quiet way it has long been my purpose to drop a great deal of it. of all things i am farthest from not intending to come often to park-place, whenever you have little company; and i had rather be with you, in november than july, because i am so totally unable to walk farther than a snail. i will never say any more on these subjects, because there may be as much affectation in being over old, as folly in being over young. my idea of age is, that one has nothing really to do but what one ought, and what is reasonable. all affectations are pretensions; and pretending to be any thing one is not, cannot deceive when one is known, as every body must be that has lived long. i do not mean that old folks may not have pleasures if they can; but then i think those pleasures are confined to being comfortable, and to enjoying the few friends one has not outlived. i am so fair as to own, that one's duties are not pleasures. i have given up a great deal of my time to nephews and nieces, even to some i can have little affection for. i do love my nieces, nay like them; but people above forty years younger are certainly not the society i should seek. they can only think and talk of what is, or is to come; i certainly am more disposed to think and talk of what is past: and the obligation of passing the end of a long life in sets of totally new company is more irksome to me than passing a great deal of my time, as i do, quite alone. family love and pride make me interest myself about the young people of my own family-for the whole rest of the young world, they are as indifferent to me as puppets or black children. this is my creed, and a key to my whole conduct, and the more likely to remain my creed, as i think it is raisonn`e. if i could paint my opinions instead of writing them i don't know whether it would not make a new sort of alphabet-i should use different colours for different affections at different ages. when i speak of love, affection, friendship, taste, liking, i should draw them rose colour, carmine, blue, green, yellow, for my contemporaries: for new comers, the first would be of no colour; the others, purple, brown, crimson, and changeable. remember, one tells one's creed only to one's confessor, that is sub sigillo. i write to you as i think; to others as i must. adieu! ( ) miss caroline campbell, eldest daughter of lord william campbell. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) mr. garrick returned but two days ago, sir, and i did not receive your tragedy( ) till this morning; so i could only read it once very rapidly and without any proper attention to particular passages though, even so, some struck me as very fine. you have encouraged me rather to criticise than flatter you; and you are in the right, for you have even profited of so weak a judgment as mine, and always improved the passages i objected to. indeed, this is not quite a fair return, as it was inverting my method, by flattering instead of finding fault with me; and a critic that meets with submission, is apt to grow vain, and insolent, and capricious. still as i am persuaded that all criticisms, though erroneous, before an author appeals to the public, are friendly, i will fairly tell you what parts of your tragedy have struck me as objectionable on so superficial a perusal. in general, the language appears to me too metaphoric; especially as used by all the characters. you seem to me to have imitated beaumont and fletcher, though your play is superior to all theirs. in truth, i think the diction is sometimes obscure from being so figurative, especially in the first act. will you allow me to mention two instances? "and craven sloth, moulting his sleepless plumes, nods drowsy wonder at th' adventurous wing that soars the shining azure o'er his head." i own i do not understand why sloth's plumes are sleepless; and i think that nodding wonder, and soaring azure, are expressions too greek to be so close together, and too poetic for dialogue. the other passage is-- "the wise should watch th' event on fortune's wheel," and the seven following lines. the images are very fine, but demand more attention than common audiences are capable of. in braganza every image is strikingly clear. i am afraid i am not quite satisfied with the conduct of your piece. bireno's conduct on the attack on the princess seems too precipitate, and not managed. it is still more incredible, that paladore should confess his passion to his rival; and not less so, that a private man and a stranger should doubt the princess's faith, when she had preferred him to his rival, a prince of the blood and her destined husband; and that without the smallest inquiry he should believe bireno was admitted privately to her apartment, when on her not rejecting him, he might have access to her openly. one cannot conceive her meaning in offending her father by refusing so proper a match, `and intriguing with the very man she was to marry, and whom she had refused. paladore's credulity is not of a piece with the account given of his wisdom, which had made him admitted to the king's counsels. i think, when you bestow sophia on paladore, you forget that the king had declared he was obliged to give his daughter to a prince of his own blood; nor do i see any reason for bireno's stabbing ascanio, who was sure of being put to death when their treachery was discovered. the character of the princess is very noble and well sustained. when i said i did not conceive her meaning, i expressed myself ill. i did not suppose she, did intrigue with bireno; but i meant that it was not natural paladore should suspect she did, since it is inconceivable that a princess should refuse her cousin in marriage for the mere caprice of intriguing with him. had she managed her father, and, from the dread of his anger, temporized about bireno, paladore would have had more reason to doubt her. would it not too be more natural for bireno to incense the king against paladore than to endeavour to make the latter jealous of sophia? at least i think bireno would have more chance of poisoning paladore's mind, if he did not discover to him that he knew of his passion. forgive me, sir but i cannot reconcile to probability paladore's believing that sophia had rejected bireno for a husband, though it would please her father, and yet chose to intrigue with him in defiance of so serious and extraordinary a law. either his credulity or his jealousy reduce paladore to a lover very unworthy of such a woman as sophia. for her sake i wish to see him more deserving of her. you are so great a poet, sir, that you have no occasion to labour any thing but your plots. you can express any thing you please. if the conduct is natural, you will not want words. nay, i rather fear your indulging your poetic vein too far, for your language is sometimes sublime enough for odes, which admit the height of enthusiasm, which horace will not allow to tragic writers. you could set up twenty of our tragic authors with lines that you could afford to reject, though for no reason but their being too fine, as in landscape-painting some parts must be under-coloured to give the higher relief to the rest. will you not think me too difficult and squeamish, when i find the language of "the law of lombardy" too rich? i beg your pardon, but it is more difficult for you to please me, than any body. i interest myself in your success and your glory. you must be perfect in all parts, in nature, simplicity, and character, as well as in the most charming poetry, or i shall not be content. if i dared, i would beg you to trust me with your plots, before you write a line. when a subject seizes you, your impetuosity cannot breathe till you have executed your plan. you must be curbed, as other poets want to be spurred. when your sketch is made, you must study the characters and the audience. it is not flattering you to say, that the least you have to do is to write your play. ( ) now first printed. ( ) "the law of lombardy;" see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) thank you much, dear sir, for the sight of the book, which i return by mr. essex it is not new to me that burnet paid his court on the other side in the former part of his life* nor will i insist that he changed on conviction, which might be said, and generally is, for all converts, even those who shift their principles the most glaringly from interest. duke lauderdale,( ) indeed, was such a dog, that the least honest man must have been driven to detest him, however connected with him. i doubt burnet could not be blind to his character, when he wrote the dedication. in truth, i have given up many of my saints, but not on the accusations of such wretches as dalrymple( ) and macpherson;( ) nor can men, so much their opposites, shake my faith in lord russel and algernon sidney. i do not relinquish those that scaled their integrity with their blood, but such as have taken thirty pieces of silver. i was sorry you said we had any variance. we have differed in sentiments, but not in friendship. two men, however unlike in principles, may be perfect friends, when both are sincere in their opinions as we are. much less shall we quarrel about those of our separate parties, since very few on either side have been so invariably consistent as you and i have been; and therefore we are more sure of each other's integrity, than that of men whom we know less and who did vary from themselves. as you and i are only speculative persons, and no actors, it would be very idle to squabble about those that do not exist. in short, we are, i trust, in as perfect good humour with each other as we have been these forty years. pray do not hurry yourself about the anecdotes of mr. baker, nor neglect other occupations on that account. i shall certainly not have time to do any thing this year. i expect the duke and duchess of gloucester in a very few days, must go to town as soon as they arrive, and shall probably have not much idle leisure before next summer. it is not very discreet to look even so far forward, nor am i apt any longer to lay distant plans. a little sedentary literary amusement is indeed no very lofty castle in the air, if i do lay the foundation in idea seven or eight months beforehand. whatever manuscripts you lend me, i shall be very grateful for. they entertain me exceedingly, and i promise you we will not have the shadow of an argument about them. i do not love disputation, even with those most indifferent to me. your pardon i most sincerely beg for having contested a single point with you. i am sure it was not with a grain of ill-humour towards you: on the contrary, it was from wishing at that moment that you did not approve though i disliked--but even that i give up as unreasonable. you are in the right, dear sir, not to apply to masters for any papers he may have relating to mr. baker.( ) it is a trumpery fellow', from whom one would rather receive a refusal than an obligation. i am sorry to hear mr. lort has the gout, and still more concerned that you still suffer from it. such patience and temper as yours are the only palliatives. as the bootikins have so much abridged and softened my fits, i do not expect their return with the alarm and horror i used to do, and that is being cured of one half the complaints. i had scarce any pain last time, and did not keep my bed a day, and had no gout at all in either foot. may not i ask you if this is not some merit in the bootikins? to have cured me of my apprehensions is to me a vast deal, for now the intervals do not connect the fits. you will understand, that i mean to speak a word to you in favour of the bootikins, for can one feel benefit, and not wish to impart it to a suffering friend? indeed i am yours most sincerely. ( ) john second earl of lauderdale, who, having distinguished himself-by his zealous and active exertions in the royal cause during the civil wars, was, after the restoration created in may , marquis of march and duke of lauderdale, in scotland.-e. ( ) sir john dalrymple, author of "memoirs of great britain and ireland." edinburgh, - - ; vols. to.-e. ( ) james m'pherson, the editor of ossian, who had published a "history of great britain from the restoration in to the accession of the house of hanover," , vols. to - and also "an introduction to the history of great britain and ireland." london, to. .-e. ( ) the papers which masters possessed he himself eventually published, in , under the title of,, memoirs of the life and writings of thomas baker, from the papers of dr. zachary grey: with a catalogue of his manuscript collections. by r. masters."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, march , . (page ) i did think it long, indeed, dear sir, since i heard from you, and am very sorry the gout was the cause. i hope after such long persecution you will have less now than you apprehend. i should not have been silent myself, had i had any thing to tell you that you would have cared to hear. politics have been the only language, and abuse the only expression of the winter, neither of which are, or deserve to be, inmates of your peaceable hermitage. i wish, however, they may not have grown so serious as to threaten every retreat with intrusion! i will let you know when i am settled at strawberry-hill, and can look over your kind collections relating to mr. baker. he certainly deserves his place in the biographia, but i am not surprised that you would not submit to his being instituted and inducted by a presbyterian. in troth, i, who have not the same zeal against dissenters, do not at all desire to peruse the history of their apostles, which are generally very uninteresting. you must excuse the shortness of this, in which, too, i have been interrupted: my nephew is as suddenly recovered as he did last time; and, though i am far from thinking him perfectly in his senses, a great deal of his disorder is removed, which, though it will save me a great deal of trouble, hurries me at present, and forces me to conclude. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, april , . (page ) i thank you, dear sir, for the notice of william le worcestre's( ) appearance, and will send for my book as soon as i go to town, which will not be till next week. i have been here since friday as much a hermit as yourself. i wanted air and quiet, having been much fatigued on my nephew's amendment, trying to dissuade him from making the campaign with his militia; but in vain! i now dread hearing of some eccentric freak. i am sorry mr. tyson has quite dropped me, though he sometimes comes to town. i am still more concerned at your frequent disorders-i hope their chief seat is unwillingness to move. your bakeriana will be very welcome about june: i shall not be completely resident here till then, at least not have leisure, as may is the month i have most visits from town. as few spare hours as i have, i have contrived to go through mr. pennant's welsh tour, and warton's second volume;( ) both which come within the circle of your pursuits. i have far advanced, too, in lord hardwicke's first volume of state papers.( ) i have yet found nothing that appears a new scene, or sets the old in a new light; yet they are rather amusing, though not in proportion to the bulk of the volumes. one likes to hear actors speak for themselves; but, on the other hand, they use a great many more words than are necessary: and when one knows the events from history, it is a little tiresome to go back to the details and the delays. i should be glad to employ mr. essex on my offices, but the impending war with france deters me. it is not a season for expense! i could like to leave my little castle complete; but, though i am only a spectator, i cannot be indifferent to the aspect of the times, as the country gentleman was, who was going out with his hounds as the two armies at edge-hill were going to engage. i wish for peace and tranquillity, and should be glad to pass my remaining hours in the idle and retired amusements i love, and without any solicitude for my country. adieu! ( ) "itineraria symonis, simeonis et willelmi de worcestre." cantab. , vo.; edited by dr. james nasmith, who published the excellent catalogue of mss, which archbishop parker left to corpus christi college, at cambridge.-e. ( ) thomas warton's "history of english poetry."-e. ( ) miscellaneous state papers, from to , published by the earl of hardwicke, in two volumes to.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) i will not flatter you: i was not in the least amused with either simon, simeon, or william of worcestre. if there was any thing tolerable in either, it was the part omitted, or the part i did not read, which was the journey to jerusalem, about which i have not the smallest curiosity. i thank you for mentioning the gentleman's magazine, which i sent for. mr. essex has called upon me, and left me the drawing of a bridge, with which i am perfectly pleased-but i was unluckily out of town; he left no direction, and i know not where to seek him in this overgrown bottle of hay. i still hope he will call again before his return. may not i, should not i, wish you joy on the restoration of popery?( ) i expect soon to see capuchins tramping about, and jesuits in high places. we are relapsing fast to our pristine state, and have nothing but our island, and our old religion. mr. nasmith's publication directed me to the mss. in benet library, which i did not know was printed. i found two or three from which i should be glad to have transcripts, and would willingly pay for; but i left the book at strawberry, and must trouble you another time with that commission. the city wants to bury lord chatham( ) in st. paul's; which, as a person said to me this morning, would literally be "robbing peter to pay paul." i wish it could be so, that there might be some decoration in that nudity, en attendant the re-establishment of various altars. it is not my design to purchase the new edition of the biographia; i trust they will give the old purchasers the additions as a supplement. i had corrected the errata of the press, throughout my copy, but i could not take the trouble of transcribing them, nor could lend them the originals, as i am apt to scribble notes in the margins of all my books that interest me at all. pray let me know if baker's life is among the additions, and whether you are satisfied with it, as there could not be events enough in his retired life to justify two accounts of it. there are no new old news, and you care for nothing within the memory of man. i am always intending to draw up an account of my intercourse with chatterton, which i take very kindly you remind me of, but some avocation or other has still prevented it. my perfect innocence of having indirectly been an ingredient in his dismal fate, which happened two years after our correspondence, and after he had exhausted both his resources and his constitution, have made it more easy to prove that i never saw him, knew nothing of his ever being in london, and was the first person, instead of the last, on whom he had practised his impositions, and founded his chimeric hopes of promotion. my very first, or at least second letter, undeceived him in those views, and our correspondence( ) was broken off before he quitted his aster's business at bristol-so that his disappointment with me was but his first ill success; and he resented my incredulity so much, that he never condescended to let me see him. indeed, what i have said now to you, and which cannot be controverted by a shadow of a doubt, would be sufficient vindication. i could only add to the proofs, a vain regret of never having known his distresses, which his amazing genius would have tempted me to relieve, though i fear he had no other claim to compassion. mr. warton has said enough to open the eyes of every one who is not greatly prejudiced to his forgeries. dr. milles is one who will not make a bow to dr. percy for not being as wilfully blind as himself-but when he gets a beam in his eye that he takes for an antique truth, there is no persuading him to submit to be coached. adieu! ( ) walpole alludes to the bill for the relief of the roman catholics which released their priests from prosecution, and allowed members of that religion to purchase lands and take them by descent. it passed both houses without opposition.-e. ( ) the earl of chatham died on the th of may . his remains were honoured with a public funeral in westminster abbey, his debts were paid by the nation, and an annuity of four thousand pounds settled upon the earldom of chatham.-e. ( ) walpole's correspondence with chatterton took place in march and april . the death of the young poet happened in august , in consequence of a dose of arsenic, at his lodgings in brook-street, holborn.-e. letter to the rev. william mason. [ .)( ) (page ) the purport of dr. robertson's visit was to inquire where he could find materials for the reigns of king william and queen anne, which he means to write as a supplement to david hume. i had heard of his purpose, but did not own i knew it, that my discouragement might seem the more natural. i do not care a straw what he writes about the church's wet-nurse, goody anne; but no scot is worthy of being the historian of william, but dr. watson.( ) when he had told me his object, i said, "write the reign of king william, dr. robertson! that is a great task! i look on him as the greatest man of modern times since his ancestor william prince of orange." i soon found the doctor had very little idea of him, or had taken upon trust the pitiful partialities of dalrymple and macpherson. i said, "sir, i do not doubt but that king william came over with a view to the crown. nor was he called upon by patriotism, for he was not an englishman to assert our liberties. no; his patriotism was of a higher rank. he aimed not at the crown of england from ambition, but to employ its forces and wealth against louis xiv. for the common cause of the liberties of europe. the whigs did not understand the extent of his views, and the tories betrayed him. he has been thought not to have understood us; but the truth was, he took either party as it was predominant, that he might sway the parliament to support his general plan." the doctor, suspecting that i doubted his principles being enlarged enough to do justice to so great a character, told me he himself had been born and bred a whig, though he owned he was not a moderate one- -i believe, a very moderate one. i said macpherson had done great injustice to another hero, the duke of marlborough, whom he accuses of betraying the design on brest to louis xiv. the truth was, as i heard often in my youth from my father, my uncle, and old persons who had lived in those times, that the duke trusted the duchess with the secret, and she her sister the popish duchess of tyrconnel, who was as poor and as bigoted as a church mouse. a corroboration of this was the wise and sententious answer of king william to the duke, whom he taxed with having betrayed the secret. "upon my honour, sir," said the duke, "i told it to nobody but my wife." "i did not tell it to mine!" said the king. i added, that macpherson's and dalrymple's invidious scandals really serve but to heighten the amazing greatness of the king's genius; for, if they say true, he maintained the crown on his head though the nobility, the churchmen, the country gentlemen, the people were against him; and though almost all his own ministers betrayed him--"but," said i, "nothing is so silly as to suppose that the duke -of marlborough and lord godolphin ever meant seriously to restore king james. both had offended him too much to expect forgiveness, especially from so remorseless a nature. yet a re-revolution was so probable, that it is no wonder they kept up a correspondence with him, at least to break their fall if he returned. but as they never did effectuate the least service in his favour, when they had the fullest power, nothing can be inferred but king james's folly in continuing to lean on them. to imagine they meant to sacrifice his weak daughter, whom they governed absolutely, to a man who was sure of being governed-by others, one must have as little sense as james himself had." the precise truth i take to have been this. marlborough and godolphin both knew the meanness and credulity of james's character. they knew that he must be ever dealing for partisans; and they might be sure, that if he could hope for support from the general and the lord-treasurer he must be less solicitous for more impotent supporters. "is it impossible," said i to the doctor, "but they might correspond with the king even by anne's own consent? do not be surprised, sir," said i: "such things have happened. my own father often received letters from the pretender, which he always carried to george ii and had them endorsed by his majesty- i myself have seen them countersigned by the king's own hand." in short,. i endeavoured to impress him with proper ideas of his subject, and painted to him the difficulties., and the want of materials. but- the booksellers will out-argue me, and the doctor will forget his education--panem et circenses, if you will allow me to use the latter for those that are captivated by favour in the circle, will decide his writing and give the colour. i once wished he should write the history of king william; but his charles v. and his america have opened my eyes, and the times have shut his.( ) adieu! ( ) this letter, which is without date, was most probably written in april or may ; at which time dr. robertson was in london.-e. ( ) dr. watson's history of the reign of philip ii. of spain was published, in two quarto volumes, in .-e. ( ) by the life of dr. robertson, in chamvers's scottish biography, it will be seen, that several persons suggested to him a history of great britain from the revolution to the accession of the house of hanover; and it appears, from a letter to dr. waddilour, dean of rippon, written in july of this year, that he had made up his mind to encounter the responsibility of the task, but abandoned it, in consequence of a correspondence with his friend, mr. james macpherson, had, three years before, published a history of the same reigns.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i will not dispute with you, dear sir, on patriots and politics. one point is past controversy, that the ministers have ruined this country; and if the church of england is satisfied with being reconciled with the church of rome, and thinks it a compensation for the loss of america and all credit in europe, she is as silly an old woman as any granny in an almshouse. france is very glad we are grown such fools, and soon saw that the presbyterian dr. franklin( ) had more sense than our ministers together. she has got over all her prejudices, has expelled the jesuits, and made the protestant swiss, necker, her comptroller-general. it is a little woful, that we are relapsing into the nonsense the rest of europe is shaking off! and it is more deplorable, as we know by repeated experience, that this country has always been disgraced by tory administrations. the rubric is the only gainer by them in a few martyrs. i do not know yet what is settled about the spot of lord chatham's interment. i am not more an enthusiast to his memory than you. i knew his faults and his defects-yet one fact cannot only not be controverted, but i doubt more remarkable every day-- i mean, that under him we attained not only our highest elevation, but the most solid authority in europe. when the names of marlborough and chatham are still pronounced with awe in france, our little cavils make a puny sound. nations that are beaten cannot be mistaken. i have been looking out for your friend a set of my heads of painters, and i find i want six or seven. i think i have some odd ones in town; if i have not, i will have deficiencies supplied from the plates, though i fear they will not be good, as so many have been taken off. i should be very ungrateful for all your kindnesses, if i neglected any opportunity of obliging you, dear sir. indeed, our old and unalterable friendship is creditable to us both, and very uncommon between two persons who differ so much in their opinions relative to church and state. i believe the reason is, that we are both sincere, and never meant to take advantage of our principles; which i allow is too common on both sides, and i own, too, fairly more common on my side of the question than on yours. there is a reason, too, for that; the honours and emoluments are in the gift of the crown: the nation has no separate treasury to reward its friends. if mr. tyrwhit( ) has opened his eyes to chatterton's forgeries, there is an instance of conviction against strong prejudice! i have drawn up an account of my transaction with that marvellous young man; you shall see it one day or other, but i do not intend to print it.( ) i have taken a thorough dislike to being an author; and if it would not look like begging you to compliment me, by contradicting me, i would tell you, what i am most seriously convinced of, that i find what small share of parts i had, grown dulled--and when i perceive it myself, i may well believe that others would not be less sharpsighted. it is very natural; mine were spirits rather than parts; and as time has abated the one, it must surely destroy their resemblance to the other: pray don't say a syllable in reply on this head, or i shall have done exactly what i said i would not do. besides, as you have always been too partial to me, i am on my guard, and when i will not expose myself to my enemies, i must not listen to the prejudices of my friends; and as nobody is more partial to me than you, there is nobody i must trust less in that respect. yours most sincerely. ( ) dr. benjamin franklin and silas deane were publicly received at the court of france, as ambassadors from america in the preceding march-.e. ( ) mr. tyrwhit, the learned editor of chaucer's canterbury tales, considered one of the best edited books in the english language, had, on the appearance of the rowley poems, believed them genuine; but being afterwards convinced of the contrary, he did not hesitate to avow his conviction.-e. ( ) it was entitled "a letter to the editor of the miscellanies of thomas chatterton," and will be found in the edition of walpole's works.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am as impatient and in as much hurry as you was, dear sir, to clear myself from the slightest intention of censuring your politics. i know the sincerity and disinterested goodness of your heart, and when i must be convinced how little certain we are all of what is truth, it would be very presumptuous to condemn the opinions of any good man, and still less an old and unalterable friend, as i have ever found 'you, the destruction that violent arbitrary principles have drawn on this blinded country has moved my indignation. we never were a great and happy country till the revolution. the system of these days tended to overturn, and has overturned, that establishment, and brought on the disgraces that ever attended the foolish and wicked councils of the house of stuart. if man is a rational being, he has a right to make use of his reason, and to enjoy his liberty. we, we alone almost had a constitution that every other nation upon earth envied or ought to envy. this is all i contend for. i will give you up whatever descriptions of men you please; that is, the leaders of parties, not the principles. these cannot change, those generally do, when power falls into the hands of them or their party, because men are corruptible, which truth is not. but the more the leaders of a party dedicated to liberty are apt to change, the more i adore the principle, because it shows that extent of power is not to be trusted even, with those that are the most sensible of the value of liberty. man is a domineering animal; and it has not only been my principle. but my practice, too. to quit every body at the gate of the palace. i trust we shall not much differ on these outlines, but we will bid adieu to the subject. it is never an agreeable one to those who do not mean to make a trade of it. i heartily wish you may not find the pontiff what i think the order, and what i know him, if you mean the high priest of ely.( ) he is all i have been describing and worse; and i have too good an opinion of you, to believe that he will ever serve you. what i said of disclaiming authorship by no means alluded to mr. baker's life. it would be enough that you desire it, for me to undertake it. indeed, i am inclined to it because he was what you and i are, a party-man from principle, not from interest: and he, who was so candid, surely is entitled to the strictest candour. you shall send me your papers whenever you please. if i can succeed to your satisfaction, i shall be content: though i assure you there was no affectation in my saying that i find my small talent decline. i shall write the life to oblige you, without any thoughts of publication, unless i am better pleased than i expect to be, and even then not in my own life. i had rather show that i am sensible of my own defects, and that i have judgment enough not to hope praise for my writings: for surely when they are not obnoxious, and one only leaves them behind one, it is a mark that one is not very vain of them. i have found the whole set of my painters, and will send them the first time i go to town: and i will have my papers on chatterton transcribed for you, though i am much chagrined at your giving me no hope of seeing you again here. i will not say more of it; for, while it is in my power, i will certainly make you a visit now and then, if there is no other way of our meeting mr. tyrwhit, i hear, has actually published an appendix, in which he gives up mr. rowley. i have not seen it, but will. shall i beg you to transcribe the passage in which dr. kippis abuses my father and me;( ) for i shall not buy the new edition, only to purchase abuse on me and mine: i may be angry with liberties he takes with sir robert, but not with myself; i shall rather take it as a flattery to be ranked with him; though there can be nothing worse said of my father than to place us together. oh! that great, that good man! dr. kippis may as well throw a stone at the sun. i am sorry you have lost poor mr. bentham. will you say a civil thing for me to his widow, if she is living, and you think it not improper? i have not forgotten their kindness to me. pray send me your papers on mr. prior's generosity to mr. baker.( ) i am sorry it was not so. prior is much a favourite with me, though a tory, nor did i ever hear any thing ill of him. he left his party, but not his friends, and seems to me to have been very amiable. do you know i pretend to be very impartial sometimes. mr. hollis( ) wrote against me for not being whig enough. i am offended with mrs. macaulay( ) for being too much a whig. in short, we are all silly animals, and scarce ever more so than when we affect sense. yours ever. ( ) dr. edmund keene-e. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) the biograpbia britannica had asserted, that prior ceded to mr. baker the profits of his fellowship after his expulsion.-e. ( ) thomas hollis, esq. the editor of toland's life of milton; algernon sidney's discourses on government; algernon sidney's works, etc. he died in .-e. ( ) the celebrated catherine macaulay, well known by her "history of england."-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am quite astonished, madam, at not hearing of mr. conway's being returned! what is he doing? is he revolting and setting up for himself, like our nabobs in india? or is he forming jersey, guernsey, alderney, and sark, into the united provinces in the compass of a silver penny? i should not wonder if this was to be the fate of our distracted empire, which we seem to have made so large, only that it might afford to split into separate kingdoms. i told mr. c. i should not write any more, concluding he would not stay a twinkling; and your ladyship's last encouraged my expecting him. in truth, i had nothing to tell him if he had written. i have been in town but one single night this age, as i could not bear to throw away this phoenix june. it has rained a good deal this morning, but only made it more delightful. the flowers are all arabian. i have found but one inconvenience, which is the hosts of cuckoos: one would not think one was in doctors' commons. it is very disagreeable, that the nightingales should sing but half a dozen songs, and the other beasts squall for two months together. poor mrs. clive has been robbed again in her own lane, as she was last year, and has got the jaundice, she thinks, with the fright. i don't make a visit without a blunderbuss; so one might as well be invaded by the french. though i live in the centre of ministers, i do not know a syllable of politics; and though within hearing of lady greenwich, who is but two miles off, i have not a word of news to send your ladyship. i live like berecynthia, surrounded by nephews and nieces; yet park-place is full as much in my mind, and i beg for its history. i am, madam, etc. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i have had some conversation with a ministerial person, on the subject of pacification with france; and he dropped a hint, that as 'we should not have much chance of a good peace, the opposition would make great clamour on it. i said a few words on the duty of ministers to do what they thought right, be the consequence what it ,would., but as honest men do not want such lectures, and dishonest will not let them weigh, i waived that theme, to dwell on what is more likely to be persuasive, and which i am firmly persuaded is no less true than the former maxim; and that was, that the ministers are still so strong, that if they could get a peace that would save the nation, though not a brilliant or glorious one, the nation in general would be pleased with it, and the clamours of the opposition be insignificant. i added, what i think true, too, that no time is to be lost in treating not only for preventing a blow, but from the consequences the first misfortune would have. the nation is not yet alienated from the court, but it is growing so; is grown so enough, for any calamity to have violent effects. any internal disturbance would advance the hostile designs of france. an insurrection from distress would be a double invitation to invasion; and, i am sure, much more to be dreaded, even personally, by the ministers, than the ill-humours of opposition for even an inglorious peace. to do the opposition justice, it is not composed of incendiaries. parliamentary speeches raise no tumults: but tumults would be a dreadful thorough bass to speeches. the ministers do not know the strength they have left (supposing they apply it in time), if they are afraid of making any peace. they were too sanguine in making war; i hope they will not be too timid of making peace. what do you think of an idea of mine, of offering france a neutrality? that is, to allow her to assist both us and the americans. i know she would assist only them: but were it not better to connive at her assisting them, without attacking us, than her doing both? a treaty with her would perhaps be followed by one with america. we are sacrificing all the essentials we can recover, for a few words and risking the independence of this country, for the nominal supremacy over america. france seems to leave us time for treating. she made no scruple of begging peace of us in ' , that she might lie by and recover her advantages. was not that a wise precedent? does not she now show that it was? is not policy the honour of nations? i mean, not morally, but has europe left itself any other honour? and since it has really left itself no honour, and as little morality, does not the morality of a nation consist in its preserving itself in as much happiness as it can? the invasion of portugal by spain in the last war, and the partition of poland, have abrogated the law of nations. kings have left no ties between one another. their duty to their people is still allowed. he is a good king that preserves his people: and if temporizing answers that end, is it not justifiable? you who are as moral as wise, answer my questions. grotius is obsolete. dr. joseph( ) and dr. frederic( ) with four hundred thousand commentators, are reading new lectures--and i should say, thank god, to one another, if the four hundred thousand commentators were not in worse danger than they.( ) louis xvi. is grown a casuist compared to those partitioners. well, let us simple individuals keep our honesty, and bless our stars that we have not armies at our command, lest we should divide kingdoms that are at our biens`eance! what a dreadful thing it is for such a wicked little imp as man to have absolute power!--but i have travelled into germany, when i meant to talk to you only of england; and it is too late to recall my text. good night! ( ) the emperor of germany. ( ) frederic ii. king of prussia. ( ) the emperor of germany and king of prussia having some dispute about bavaria, brought immense armies into the field, but found their forces so nearly balanced, that neither ventured to attack the other; and the prussian monarch falling back upon silesia, the affair was, through the intervention of the empress of russia, settled by negotiation, which ended in the peace of teschen.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. july , . (page ) mr. lort has delivered your papers to me, dear sir, and i have already gone through them. i will try if i can make any thing of them, but i fear i have not art enough, as i perceive there is absolutely but one fact--the expulsion. you have certainly very clearly proved that mr. baker was neither supported by mr. prior nor bishop burnet; but these are mere negatives. so is the question, whether he intended to compile an athenae cantabrigienses or not; and on that you say but little, as you have not seen his papers in the museum. i will examine the printed catalogue, and try if i can discover the truth thence, when i go to town. i will also borrow the new biographia, as i wish to know more of the expulsion. as it is our only fact, one would not be too dry on it. upon the whole, i think that it would be preferable to draw up an ample character of mr. baker, rather than a life. the one was most beautiful, amiable, conscientious; the other totally barren of more than one event: and though you have taken excellent pains to discover all that was possible, yet there is an obscurity hangs over the circumstances that even did attend him; as his connexion with bishop crewe and his living. his own modesty comes out the brighter, but then it composes a character, not a life. as to mr. kippis and his censures, i am perfectly indifferent to them. he betrays a pert malignity in hinting an intention of being severe on my father, for the pleasure of exerting a right i allowed, and do allow, to be a just one, though it is not just to do it for that reason; however, let him say his pleasure. the truth will not hurt my father; falsehood will recoil on the author. his asserting, that my censure of mr. addison's character of lord somers is not to be justified, is a silly ipse dixit, as he does not, in truth cannot, show why it is not to be justified. the passage i alluded to is the argument of an old woman; and mr. addison's being a writer of true humour is not justification of his reasoning like a superstitious gossip. in the other passage you have sent me, mr. kippis is perfectly in the right, and corrects me very justly. had i seen archbishop abbot's( ) preface, with the outrageous flattery on, and lies of james i., i should certainly never have said, "honest abbot could not flatter!" i should have said, and do say, i never saw grosser perversion of truth. one can almost excuse the faults of james when his bishops were such base sycophants. what can a king think of human nature, when it produces such wretches? i am too impartial to prefer puritans to clergymen, or vice versa, when whitgift and abbot only ran a race of servility and adulation: the result is, that priests of all religions are the same. james and his levites were worthy of each other; the golden calf and the idolaters were well coupled, and it is pity they ever came out of the wilderness. i am very glad mr. tyson has escaped death and disappointment: pray wish him joy 'of both from me. has not this indian summer dispersed your complaints? we are told we are to be invaded. our abbots and whitgifts now see with what successes and consequences their preaching up a crusade against america has been crowned! archbishop markham( ) may have an opportunity of exercising his martial prowess. i doubt he would resemble bishop crewe more than good mr. baker. let us respect those only who are israelites indeed. i surrender dr. abbot to you. church and presbytery are terms for monopolies, exalted notions of church matters are contradictions in terms to the lowliness and humility of the gospel. there is nothing sublime but the divinity. nothing is sacred but as his work. a tree or a brute stone is more respectable as such, than a mortal called an archbishop, or an edifice called a church, which are the puny and perishable productions of men. calvin and wesley had just the same views as the pope; power and wealth their objects. i abhor both, and admire mr. baker. p. s. i like popery as well as you, and have shown i do. i like it as i like chivalry and romance. they all furnish one with ideas and visions, which presbyterianism does not. a gothic church or a convent fills one with romantic dreams-but for the mysterious, the church in the abstract, it is a jargon that means nothing, or a great deal too much, and i reject it and its apostles, from athanasius to bishop keene.( ) ( ) dr. george abbot, archbishop of canterbury, born at guildford, in surrey, . in , when the translation of the scriptures now in use was commenced by direction of king james, dr. abbot was the second of eight divines of oxford to whom was committed the care of translating the new testament, with the exception of the epistles, he died at the palace at croydon, in .-e. ( ) dr. william markham, translated to the see of york from chester in . he died in .-e. ( ) dr. edmund keene, bishop of ely.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. saturday, july , . (page ) yesterday evening the following notices were fixed up in lloyd's coffee-house:-that a merchant in the city had received an express from france, that the brest fleet, consisting, of twenty-eight ships of the line, were sailed, with orders to burn, sink, and destroy. that admiral keppel was at plymouth, and had sent to demand three more ships of the line to enable him to meet the french. on these notices stocks sunk three-and-a-half per cent. an account i have received this morning from a good hand says, that on thursday the admiralty received a letter from admiral keppel, who was off the land's end, saying that the worcester was in sight; that the peggy had joined him, and had seen the thunderer making sail for the fleet; that he was waiting for the centaur, terrible, and vigilant; and that having received advice from lord shuldham that the shrewsbury was to sail from plymouth on thursday, he should likewise wait for her. his fleet will then consist of thirty ships of the line; and he hoped to have an opportunity of trying his strength with the french fleet on our own coast: if not, he would seek them on theirs. the french fleet sailed on the th, consisting of thirty-one ships of the line, two fifty-gun ships, and eight frigates. this state is probably more authentic than those at lloyd's. thus you see how big the moment is! and, unless far more favourable to us in its burst than good sense allows one to promise, it must leave us greatly exposed. can we expect to beat with considerable loss?--and then, where have we another fleet? i need not state the danger from a reverse. the spanish ambassador certainly arrived on monday. i shall go to town on monday for a day or two; therefore, if you write to-morrow, direct to arlington-street. i add no more: for words are unworthy of the situation; and to blame now, would be childish. it is hard to be gamed for against one's consent; but when one's country is at stake, one must throw oneself out of the question. when one, is old and nobody, one must be whirled with the current, and shake one's wings like a fly, if one lights on a pebble. the prospect is so dark, that one shall rejoice at whatever does not happen that may. thus i have composed a sort of philosophy for myself, that reserves every possible chance. you want none of these artificial aids to your resolution. invincible courage and immaculate integrity are not dependent on the folly of ministers or on the events of war. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) upon reviewing your papers, dear sir, i think i can make more of them than i at first conceived. i have even commenced the life, and do not dislike my ideas for it, if the execution does but answer, at present, i am interrupted by another task, which you, too, have wished me to undertake. in a word, somebody has published chatterton's works, and charged me heavily for having discountenanced him. he even calls for the indignation of the public against me. it is somewhat singular, that i am to be offered up as a victim at the altar of a notorious impostor! but as many saints have been impostors, so many innocent persons have been sacrificed to them. however, i shall not be patient under this attack, but shall publish an answer-the narrative i mentioned to you. i would, as you know, have avoided entering into this affair if i could; but as i do not despise public esteem, it is necessary to show how groundless the accusation is. do not speak of my intention, as perhaps i shall not execute it immediately. i am not in the least acquainted with the mr. bridges you mention, nor know that i ever saw him. the tomb for mr. gray is actually erected, and at the generous expense of mr. mason, and with an epitaph of four lines,( ) as you heard, and written by him--but the scaffolds are not yet removed. i was in town yesterday, and intended to visit it, but there is digging a vault for the family of northumberland, which obstructs the removal of the boards. i rejoice in your amendment, and reckon it among my obligations to the fine weather, and hope it will be the most lasting of them. yours ever. ( ) "no more the grecian muse unrivall'd reigns; to britain let the nations homage pay: she felt a homer's fire in milton's strains, a pindar's rapture in the lyre of gray."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) your observation of rowley not being mentioned by william of wyrcestre, is very strong, indeed, dear sir, and i shall certainly take notice of it. it has suggested to me that he is not named by bale or pitts( )--is he? will you trouble yourself to look? i conclude he is not, or we should have heard of it. rowley is the reverse of king arthur, and all those heroes that have been expected a second time; he is to come again for the first time-i mean, as a great poet. my defence amounts to thirty pages of the size of this paper: yet i believe i shall not publish it. i abhor a controversy; and what is it to me whether people believe in an impostor or not? nay, shall i convince every body of my innocence, though there is not the shadow of reason for thinking i was to blame? if i met a beggar in the street, and refused him sixpence, thinking him strong enough to work, and two years afterwards he should die of drinking, might not i be told i had deprived the world of a capital rope-dancer? in short, to show one's self sensible to such accusations, would only invite more; and since they accuse me of contempt, i will have it for my accusers. my brass plate for bishop walpole was copied exactly from the print in dart's westminster, of the tomb of robert dalby, bishop of durham, with the sole alteration of the name. i shall return, as soon as i have time, to mr. baker's life; but i shall want to consult you, or, at least, the account of him in the new biographia, as your notes want some dates. i am not satisfied yet with what i have sketched; but i shall correct it. my small talent was grown very dull. this attack about chatterton has a little revived it; but it warns me to have done , for, if*one comes to want provocatives,-the produce will soon be feeble. adieu! yours most sincerely. ( ) john bale, bishop of ossory. the work to which walpole alludes is his "catalog's scriptorum illustrium majoris brytannie." basle, -e.--john pitts wrote, in opposition to bale, "de illustribus angliae scriptoribus." paris, .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i think it so very uncertain whether this letter will find you, that i write merely to tell you i received yours to-day. i recollect nothing particularly worth seeing in sussex that you have not seen (for i think you have seen coudray and stansted, and i know you have petworth), but hurst monceaux, near battle; and i don't know whether it is not pulled down. the site of arundel castle is fine, and there are some good tombs of the fitzalans at the church, but little remains of the castle; in the room of which is a modern brick house; and in the late duke's time the ghost of a giant walked there, his grace said--but i suppose the present duke has laid it in the red sea of claret. besides knowle and penshurst, i should think there were several seats of old families in kent worth seeing; but i do not know them. i poked out summer-hill( ) for the sake of the babylonienne in grammont; but it is now a mere farmhouse. don't let them persuade you to visit leeds castle, which is not worth seeing. you have been near losing me and half a dozen fair cousins today. the goldsmiths, company dined in mr. shirley's field, next to pope's. i went to ham with my three waldegrave nieces and miss keppel, and saw them land, and dine in tents erected for them, from the opposite shore. you may imagine how beautiful the sight was in such a spot and in such a day! i stayed and dined at ham, and after dinner lady dysart, with lady bridget tollemache took our four nieces on the water to see the return of the barges but were to set me down at lady browne's. we were, with a footman and the two watermen, ten in a little boat. as we were in the middle of the river, a larger boat full of people drove directly upon us on purpose. i believe they were drunk. we called to them, to no purpose; they beat directly against the middle of our little skiff--but, thank you, did not do us the least harm--no thanks to them. lady malpas was in lord strafford's garden, and gave us for gone. in short, neptune never would have had so beautiful a prize as the four girls. i hear an express has been sent to * * * * to offer him the mastership of the horse. i had a mind to make you guess, but you never can--to lord exeter! pray let me know the moment you return to park-place. ( ) formerly a country-seat of queen elizabeth, and the residence of charles the second when the court was at tunbridge.- e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i beg you will feel no uneasiness, dear sir, at having shown my name to dr. glynn. i can never suspect you, who are giving me fresh proofs of your friendship, and solicitude for my reputation, of doing any thing unkind. it is true i do not think i shall publish any thing about chatterton. is not it an affront to innocence, not to be perfectly satisfied in her? my pamphlet, for such it would be, is four times as large as the narrative in your hands, and i think would not discredit me--but, in truth, i am grown much fonder of truth than fame; and scribblers or their patrons shall not provoke me to sacrifice the one to the other. lord hardwicke, i know, has long been my enemy,--latterly, to get a sight of the conway papers, he has paid great court to me, which, to show how little i regarded his enmity, i let him see, at least the most curious. but as i set as little value on his friendship, i did not grant another of his requests. indeed, i have made more than one foe by not indulging the vanity of those who have made application to me; and i am obliged to them, when they augment my contempt by quarrelling with me for that refusal. it was the case of mr. masters, and is now of lord hardwicke. he solicited me to reprint his boeotian volume of sir dudley carleton's papers, for which he had two motives. the first he inherited from his father, the desire of saving money; for though his fortune is so much larger than mine, he knew i would not let out my press for hire, but should treat him with the expense, as i have done for those i have obliged. the second was, that the rarity of my editions makes them valuable, and though i cannot make men read dull books, i can make them purchase them. his lordship, therefore, has bad grace in affecting to overlook one, whom he had in vain courted, yet he again is grown my enemy, because i would not be my own. for my writings, they do not depend on him or the venal authors he patronizes (i doubt very frugally), but on their own merits or demerits. it is from men of sense they must expect their sentence, not from boobies and hireling authors, whom i have always shunned, with the whole fry of minor wits, critics, and monthly censors. i have not seen the review you mention, nor ever do, but when something particular is pointed out to me. literary squabbles i know preserve one's name, when one's work will not; but i despise the fame that depends on scolding till one is remembered, and remembered by whom? the scavengers of literature! reviewers are like sextons, who in a charnel-house can tell you to what john thompson or to what tom-matthews such a skull or such belonged--but who wishes to know? the fame that is only to be found in such vaults, is like the fires that burn unknown in tombs, and go out as fast as they are discovered. lord hardwicke is welcome to live among the dead if he likes',,it, and can contrive to live nowhere else. chatterton did abuse me under the title of baron of otranto,( ) but unluckily the picture is more like dr. milles and chatterton's own devotees' than to me, who am but a recreant antiquary, and, as the poor lad found by experience, did not swallow every fragment that 'was offered to me as an antique; though that is a feature he has bestowed upon me. i have seen, too, the criticism you mention on the castle of otranto, in the preface to the old english baron.( ) it is not at all oblique, but, though mixed with high compliments, directly attacks the visionary part, which, says the author or authoress, makes one laugh. i do assure you, i have not had the smallest inclination to return that attack. it would even be ungrateful, for the work is a professed imitation of mine, only stripped of the marvellous; and so entirely stripped, except in one awkward attempt at a ghost or two, that it is the most insipid dull nothing you ever saw. it certainly does not make me laugh; but what makes one doze, seldom makes one merry. i am very sorry to have talked for near three pages on what relates to myself, who should be of no consequence, if people did not make me so, whether i will or not.- my not replying to them, i hope, is a proof i do not seek to make myself the topic of conversation. how very foolish are the squabbles of authors! they buzz and are troublesome, to-day, and then repose for ever on some shelf in a college' library, close by their antagonists, like henry vi. and edward iv. at windsor. i shall be in town in a few days, and will send you the heads of painters, which i left there; and along with them for yourself a translation of a french play,( ) that i have just printed there. it is not for your reading, but as one of the strawberry editions, and one of the rarest; for i have printed but seventy-five copies. it was to oblige lady craven, - the translatress; and will be an aggravation of my offence to sir dudley's state papers. i hope this elysian summer, for it has been above indian, has dispersed all your complaints. yet it does not agree with fruit; the peaches and nectarines are shrivelled to the size of damsons, and half of them drop. yet you remember what portly bellies the peaches had at paris, where it is generally as hot. i suppose our fruit-trees are so accustomed to rain, that they don't know how to behave without it. adieu! p. s. i can divert you with a new adventure that has happened to me in the literary way. about a month ago, i received a letter from mr. jonathan scott, at shrewsbury, to tell me he was possessed of ms. of lord herbert's account of the court of france,( ) which he designed to publish by subscription, and which he desired me to subscribe to, and to assist in the publication. i replied, that having been obliged to the late lord powis and his widow, i could not meddle with any such thing, without knowing that it had the consent of the present earl and his mother. another letter, commending my reserve, told me mr. scott had applied for it formerly, and would again now. this showed me they did not consent. i have just received a third letter, owning the approbation has not yet arrived; but to keep me employed in the mean time, the modest mr. scott, whom i never saw, nor know more of than i did of chatterton, proposes to me to get his fourth son a place in the civil department in india: the father not choosing it should be in the military, his three eldest sons being engaged in that branch already. if this fourth son breaks his neck, i suppose it will be laid to my charge! yours ever. ( ) chatterton exhibited a ridiculous portrait of walpole: in the "memoirs of a sad dog," under the character of "the redoubted baron otranto, who has spent his whole life in conjectures."-e. ( ) the old english baron, a romance of considerable repute which has been frequently reprinted, was the production of clara reeve. this ingenious lady had published, in , a translation of barclay's latin romance of argenis, under the title of "the phoenix, or the history of polyarchus and argenis." she was born at ipswich, in , died there in .-e. ( ) "the sleep walker;" strawberry hill, . it was translated from the french of m. pont de veyle, by lady craven, afterwards margravine of anspach.-e. ( ) by lord herbert's account of the court of france, mr. scott most probably referred to his "letters written during his residence at the french court" and which were first published from the originals, in the edition of his life which appeared in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. september , . (page ) i have now seen the critical review, with lord hardwicke's note, in which i perceive the sensibility of your friendship for me, dear sir, but no rudeness on his part. contemptuous it was to reprint jane shore's letter without any notice of my having given it before: the apology, too, is not made to me-but i am not affected by such incivilities, that imply more ill-will than boldness. as i expected more from your representation, i believe i expressed myself with more warmth than the occasion deserved; and, as i love to be just, i will, now i am perfectly cool, be so to lord hardwicke. his dislike of me was meritorious in him, as i conclude it was founded on my animosity to his father, as mine had been, from attachment to my own who was basely betrayed by the late earl. the present has given me formerly many peevish marks of enmity; and i suspect, i don't know if justly, that he was the mover of the cabal in the antiquarian society against me- -but all their misunderstandings were of a size that made me smile rather than provoked me. the earl, as i told you, has since been rather wearisome in applications to me; which i received rather civilly, but encouraged no farther. when he wanted me to be his printer, i own i was not good christian enough, not to be pleased with refusing, and yet in as well-bred excuses as i could form, pleading what was true at the time, as you know, that i had laid down my press-but so much for this idle story. i shall think no more of it, but adhere to my specific system. the antiquarians will be as ridiculous as they used to be; and, since it is impossible to infuse taste into them, they will be as dry and dull as their predecessors. one may revive what perished, but it will perish again, if more life is not breathed into it than it enjoyed originally. facts, dates, and names will never please the multitude, unless there is some style and manner to recommend them, and unless some novelty is struck out from their appearance. the best merit of the society lies in their prints; for their volumes, no mortal will ever touch them but an antiquary. their saxon and danish discoveries are not worth more than monuments of the hottentots; and for roman remains in britain, they are upon a foot with what ideas we should get of inigo jones, if somebody was to publish views of huts and houses, that our officers run up at senegal and goree. bishop lyttelton used to torment me with barrows and roman camps, and i would as soon have attended to the turf graves in our churchyards. i have no curiosity to know how awkward and clumsy men have been in the dawn of arts, or in their decay. i exempt you entirely from my general censure on antiquaries, both for your singular modesty in publishing nothing yourself, and for collecting stone and bricks for others to build with. i wish your materials may ever fall into good hands--perhaps they will! our empire is falling to pieces! we are relapsing to a little island. n that state men are apt to inquire how great their ancestors have been; and, when a kingdom is past doing any thing, the few that are studious look into the memorials of past time; nations, like private persons, seek lustre from their progenitors, when they have none in themselves, and the farther they are from the dignity of their source. when half its colleges are tumbled down, the ancient university of cambridge will revive from your collections,( ) and you will be a living witness that saw its splendour. since i began this letter, i have had another curious adventure. i was in the holbein chamber, when a chariot stopped at my door. a letter was brought up--and who should be below but--dr. kippis. the letter was to announce himself and his business, flattered me on my writings, desired my assistance, and particularly my direction and aid for his writing the life of my father. i desired he would walk up, and received him very civilly, taking not the smallest notice of what you had told me of his flirts at me in the new biographia. i told him if i had been applied to, i could have pointed out many errors in the old edition, but as they were chiefly in the printing, i supposed they would be corrected. with regard to my father's life, i said, it might be partiality, but i had such confidence in my father's virtues, that i was satisfied the more his life was examined, the clearer they would appear. that i also thought that the life of any man written under the direction of his family, did nobody honour; and that, as i was persuaded my father's would stand the test, i wished that none of his relations should interfere in it. that i did not doubt but the doctor would speak impartially, and that was all i desired. he replied, that he did suppose i thought in that manner, and that all he asked was to be assisted in facts and dates. i said, if he would please to write the life first, and then communicate it to me, i would point out any errors in facts that i should perceive. he seemed mightily well satisfied-and so we parted-but is it not odd. that people are continually attacking me, and then come to me for' assistance?-- but when men write for profit, they are not very delicate. i have resumed mr. baker's life, and pretty well arranged my plan; but i shall have little time to make any progress till october, as i am going soon to make some visits. yours ever. ( ) his valuable collections, in about a hundred volumes, in folio fairly written in his own band, mr. cole, on his death in , left to the british museum, to be locked up for twenty years. his diary, as will be seen by a specimen or two, is truly ludicrous:--jan. , . foggy. my beautiful parrot died at ten at night, without knowing the cause of his illness, he being very well last night.--feb. . fine day, and cold. will. wood carried three or four loads of dung baptized william, the son of william grace, blacksmith, whom i married about six months before. march . i baptized sarah, the bastard daughter of the widow smallwood, of eton, aged near fifty, whose husband died about a year ago.--march , very fine weather. my man was blooded. i sent a loin of pork and a spare-rib to mr. cartwright, in london.-- . i sent my two french wigs to my london barber to alter, they being made so miserably i could not wear them.--june . i went to our new archdeacon's visitation at newport-pagnel. took young h. travel with me on my dun horse, in order that he might hear the organ, he being a great psalm-singer. the most numerous appearance of clergy that i remember: forty-four dined with the archdeacon; and what is extraordinary, not one smoked tobacco. my new coach-horse ungain.--aug. . cool day. tom reaped for joe holdom. i cudgelled jem for staying so long on an errand," etc.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i have run through the new articles in the biographia, and think them performed but by a heavy hand. some persons have not trusted the characters of their ancestors, as i did my father's, to their own merits. on the contrary, i have met with one whose corruption is attempted to be palliated by imputing its punishment to the revenge of my father-which, by the way, is confessing the guilt of the convict. this was the late lord barrington,( ) who, i believe, was a very dirty fellow; for, besides being expelled the house of commons on the affair of the harburgh lottery, he was reckoned to have twice sold the dissenters to the court; but in short, what credit can a biographia britannica, which ought to be a standard work, deserve, when the editor is a mercenary writer, who runs about to relations for direction, and adopts any tale they deliver to him? this very instance is proof that it is not a jot more creditable than a peerage. the authority is said to be a nephew of judge foster, (consequently, i suppose, a friend of judge barrington), and he pretends to have found a scrap of paper, nobody knows on what occasion written, that seems to be connected with nothing, and is called a palliative, if not an excuse of lord barrington's crime. a man is expelled from parliament for a scandalous job, and it is called a sufficient excuse to say the minister was his enemy; and this nearly forty years after the death of both! and without any impeachment of the justice of the sentence: instead of which we are told that lord barrington was suspected of having offended sir robert walpole, who took that opportunity of being revenged. supposing he did--which at most you see is a suspicion--grounded on a suspicion--it would at least imply, that he had found a good opportunity. a most admirable acquittal! sir robert walpole was expelled for having endorsed a note that was not for his own benefit, nor ever supposed to be, and it was the act of a whole outrageous party; yet, abandoned as parliaments sometimes are, a minister would not find them very complaisant in gratifying his private revenge against a member without some crime. not a syllable is said of any defence the culprit made:; and,' had my father been guilty of such violence and injustice, it is totally incredible that he, whose minutest acts and his most innocent were so rigorously scrutinized, tortured, and blackened, should never have heard that act of power complained of. the present lord barrington who opposed him, saw his fall, and the secret committee appointed' to canvass his life, when a retrospect of twenty years was desired and only ten allowed, would certainly have pleaded for the longer term, had he had any thing to say, in behalf of his father's sentence. would so warm a patriot then, though so obedient a courtier now, have suppressed the charge to this hour? this lord barrington, when i was going to publish the second edition of my noble authors, begged it as a favour of me suppress all mention of his father--a strong presumption that he was ashamed of him. i am well repaid! but i am certainly record that good man. i shall-and s ow at liberty to hall take notice of the satisfactory manner in which his sons have whitewashed their patriarch. i recollect a saying of the present peer that will divert you when contrasted with forty years of servility which even in this age makes him a proverb. it was in his days of virtue. he said, "if i should ever be so unhappy as to have a place that would make it necessary for me to have a fine coat on a birthday, i would pin a bank-bill on my sleeve." he had a place in less than two years, i think--and has had almost every place that every administration could bestow.( ) such were the patriots that opposed that excellent man, my father; allowed by all parties as incapable of revenge as ever minister was--but whose experience of mankind drew from him that memorable saying, "that very few men ought to be prime ministers, for it is not fit many should know how bad men are;"--one can see a little of it without being a prime minister. "one shuns mankind and flies to books, one meets with their meanness and falsehood there, too! one has reason to say, there is but one good, that is god. adieu! yours ever. ( ) john shute, first viscount barrington in the peerage of ireland, expelled the house of commons in february , for having promoted, abetted, and carried on that fraudulent undertaking, the harburgh lottery. this lottery took its name from the place where it was to be drawn, the town and port of harburgh, on the river elbe, where the projector was to settle a trade for the woollen manufacture between england and germany. lord barrington was distinguished for theological learning, and published "miscellanea critica" and an "essay on the several dispensations of god to mankind." he died in , leaving five sons, who had the rare fortune of each rising to high stations in the church, the state, the law, the army, and the navy.-e. ( ) see vol. i. p. , letter . among the mitchell mss. is a letter from lord barrington, in which he says, "no man knows what is good for him: my invariable rule, therefore, is to ask nothing, to refuse nothing; to let others place me, and to do my best wherever i am placed. the same strange fortune which made me secretary of war five years ago has made me chancellor of the exchequer; it may perhaps at last make me pope. i think i am equally fit to be at the head of the church as the exchequer."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. oct, , . (page ) i think you take in no newspapers, nor do i believe condescend to read any more modern than the paris `a la main at the time of the ligue; consequently you have not seen a new scandal on my father, which you will not wonder offends me. you cannot be interested in his defence; but, as it comprehends some very curious anecdotes, you will not grudge my indulging myself to a friend in vindicating a name so dear to me. in the accounts of lady chesterfield's( ) death and fortune, it is said that the late king, at the instigation of sir robert walpole, burnt his father's will which contained a large legacy to that, his supposed, daughter, and i believe his real one; for she was very like him, as her brother general schulembourg, is, in black, to the late king. the fact of suppressing the will is indubitably true; the instigator most false, as i can demonstrate thus:-- when the news arrived of the death of george the first, my father carried the account from lord townshend to the then prince of wales. one of the first acts of royalty is for the new monarch to make a speech to the privy council. sir robert asked the king who he would please to have draw the speech, which was, in fact, asking who was to be prime minister; to which his majesty replied, sir spencer compton. it is a wonderful anecdote, and but little known, that the new premier, a very dull man, could not draw the speech, and the person to whom he applied was the deposed premier. the queen, who favoured my father, observed how unfit a man was for successor, who was reduced to beg assistance of his predecessor. the council met as soon as possible, the next morning at latest. there archbishop wake, with whom one copy of the will had been deposited, (as another was, i think, with the duke of wolfenbuttle, who had a pension for sacrificing it, which, i know, the late duke of newcastle transacted,) advanced and delivered the will to the king, who put it into his pocket, and went out of council without opening it, the archbishop- not having courage or presence of mind to desire it to b' read,. as he ought to have done. these circumstances, which i solemnly assure you are strictly true, prove that my father neither advised, nor was consulted; nor is it credible that the king in one night's time should have passed from the intention of disgracing him, to make him his bosom confidant on so delicate an affair. i was once talking to the late lady suffolk, the former mistress, on that extraordinary event. she said, "i cannot justify the deed to the legatees; but towards his father, the late king was justifiable, for george the first had burnt two wills made in favour of george the second." i suppose these were the testaments of the duke and duchess of zell, parents of george the first's wife, whose treatment of her they always resented. i said, i know the transactions of the duke of newcastle. the late lord waldegrave showed me a letter from that duke to the first earl of waldegrave, then ambassador at paris, with directions about that transaction, or, at least, about payment of the pension, i forget which.( ) i have somewhere, but cannot turn to it now, a memorandum of that affair, and who the prince was, whom i may mistake in calling duke of wolfenbuttle. there was a third copy of the will, i likewise forget with whom deposited. the newspaper says, which is true, that lord chesterfield filed a bill in chancery against the late king to oblige him to produce the will, and was silenced, i think, by payment of twenty thousand pounds. there was another legacy to his own daughter, the queen of prussia, which has at times been, and, i believe, is still claimed by the king of prussia. do not mention any part of this story, but it is worth preserving, i am sure you are satisfied with my scrupulous veracity. it may perhaps be authenticated hereafter by collateral evidence that may come out. if ever true history does come to light my father's character will have just honour paid to it. lord chesterfield, one of his sharpest enemies, has not, with all his prejudices, left a very unfavourable account of him, and it would alone be raised by a comparison of their two characters. think of one who calls sir robert the corrupter of youth, leaving a system of education to poison them from their nursery! chesterfield, pulteney, and bolingbroke were the saints that reviled my father! i beg your pardon, but you will allow me to open my heart to you when it is full. yours ever. ( ) malosine de schulenbourg, a natural daughter of george i. by miss schulenbourg, afterwards created duchess of kendal. she was created, in , countess of walsingham and baroness of aldborough, and was the widow of philip dormer stanhope, the celebrated earl of chesterfield, who died in -e. ( ) see walpole's memoires of george the second, vol. ii., p. -e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. oct. , . (page ) * * * * * having thus told you all i know, i shall add a few words, to say i conclude you have known as much, by my not having heard from you. should the post-office or secretary's o(fice set their wits at work to bring to light all the intelligence contained under the above hiatus, i am confident they will discover nothing, though it gives an exact description of all they have been about themselves. my personal history is very short. i have had an assembly and the rheumatism-and am buying a house-and it rains-and i shall plant the roses against my treillage to-morrow. thus you know -what i have done, suffered, am doing, and shall do. let me know as much of you, in quantity, not in quality. introductions to, and conclusions of, letters are as much out of fashion, as to at, etc. on letters. this sublime age reduces every thing to its quintessence: all periphrases and expletives are so much in disuse, that i suppose soon the only way of making love will be to say "lie down." luckily, the lawyers will not part with any synonymous words, and will, consequently preserve the redundancies of our language--dixi. letter to the rev. mr. cole. october , . (page ) i have finished the life of mr. baker, will have it transcribed, and send it to you. i have omitted several little particulars that are in your notes, for two reasons; one, because so much is said in the biographia; and the other, because i have rather drawn a character of him, than meant a circumstantial life. in the justice i have done to him, i trust i shall have pleased you. i have much greater doubt of that effect in what i have said of his principles and party. it is odd, perhaps, to have made use of the life of a high churchman for expatiating on my own very opposite principles; but it gave me so fair an opportunity of discussing those points, that i very naturally embraced it. i have done due honour to his immaculate conscience, but have not spared the cause in which he fell,-or rather rose,-for the ruin of his fortune was the triumph of his virtue. as you know i do not love the press, you may be sure i have no thoughts of printing this life at present; nay, i beg you will not only not communicate it, but take care it never should be printed without my consent. i have written what presented itself; i should perhaps choose to soften several passages; and i trust to you for your own satisfaction, not as a finished thing, or as i am determined it should remain. another favour i beg of you is to criticise it as largely and severely as you please: you have a right so to do, as it is built with your own materials, nay, you have a right to scold if i have, nay, since i have, employed them so differently from your intention. all my excuse is, that you communicated them to one who did not deceive you, and you was pretty sure would make nearly the use of them that he has made. was not you? did you not suspect a little that i could not write even a life of mr. baker without talking whiggism!--well, if i have ill-treated the cause, i am sure i have exalted the martyr. i have thrown new light on his virtue from his notes on the gazettes, and you will admire him more, though you may love me less, for my chymistry. i should be truly sorry if i did lose a scruple of your friendship. you have ever been as candid to me, as mr. baker was to his antagonists, and our friendship is another proof that men of the most opposite principles can agree in every thing else, and not quarrel about them. as my manuscript contains above twenty pages of my writing on larger paper than this, you cannot receive it speedily--however, i have performed my promise, and i hope you will not be totally discontent, though i am not satisfied with myself. i have executed it by snatches and by long interruptions; and not having been eager about it, i find i wanted that ardour to inspire me; another proof of what i told you, that my small talent is waning, and wants provocatives. it shall be a warning to me. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) you will see by my secretary's hand, that i am not able to write myself; indeed, i am in bed with the gout in six places, like daniel in the den; but, as the lions are slumbering round me, and leave me a moment of respite, i employ it to give you one. you have misunderstood me, dear sir: i have not said a word that will lower mr. baker's character; on the contrary, i think he will come out brighter from my ordeal. in truth, as i have drawn out his life from your papers, it is a kind of political epic, in which his conscience is the hero that always triumphs over his interest upon the most opposite occasions. shall you dislike your saint in this light! i had transcribed about half when i fell ill last week. if the gout does not seize my right hand, i shall probably have recovery full leisure to finish it during my recovery, but shall certainly not be able to send it to you by mr. lort. your promise fully satisfies me. my life can never extend to twenty years.( ) anyone that saw me this moment would not take me for a methusalem. i have not strength to dictate more now, except to add, that if mr. nicholls has seen my narrative about chatterton, it can only be my letter to mr. barrett, of which you have a copy; the larger one has not yet been out of my own house. yours most sincerely. ( ) mr. cole had informed walpole that his collections were not to be opened until twenty years after his death. see ant`e, p. , letter , note . letter to lady browne.( ) arlington street, nov, , . (page ) your ladyship is exceedingly kind and charitable, and the least i can do in return is to do all i can--dictate a letter to you. i have not been out of bed longer than it was necessary to have it made, once a day, since last thursday. the gout is in both my feet, both my knees, and in my left hand and elbow. had i a mind to brag, i could boast of a little rheumatism too, but i scorn to set value on such a trifle; nay, i will own that i have felt but little acute pain. my chief propensity to exaggeration would be on the miserable nights i have passed; and yet whatever i should say would not be beyond what i thought i suffered. i have been constantly as broad awake as mrs. candour that is always gaping for scandal,( ) except when i have taken opiates, and then my dreams have been as extravagant as mrs. candour adds to what she hears. in short, madam, not to tire you with more details, though you have ordered them, i am so weak that i am able to see nobody at all, and when i shall be recovered enough to take possession of this new lease, as it is called, the mansion, i believe, will be so shattered that it won't be worth repairs. is it not very foolish, then, to be literally buying a new house? is it not verifying pope's line, when i choose a pretty situation, "but just to look about us and to die?" i am sorry lady jane's lot is fallen in westphalia, where so great a hog is lord of the manor. he is like the dragon of wantley, "and houses and churches to him are geese and turkeys;" so i don't wonder that he has gobbled her two cows. lady blandford is delightful in congratulating me upon having the gout in town, and staying in the country herself. nay, she is very insolent in presuming to be the only person invulnerable. if i could wish her any, harm, it should be that she might feel for one quarter of an hour a taste of the mortifications that i suffered from eleven last night till four this morning, and i am sure she would never dare to have a spark of courage again. i can only wish her in grosvenor-square, where she would run no risks. her reputation for obstinacy is so well established, that she might take advice from her true friends for a twelvemonth, before we should believe our own ears. however, as every body has some weak part, i know she will do for others more than for herself; and, therefore, pray madam, tell her, that i am sure it is bad for your ladyship to stay in the country at this time of year, and that reason, i am sure will bring you both. i really must rest. ( ) now first printed. see vol. iii., letter to george montagu, esq., nov. , , letter . ( ) sheridan's popular comedy of the "school for scandal" which came out at drury-lane theatre in may , was at this time as much the favourite of the town as ever.-e. letter to lady browne.( ) arlington street, dec. , . (page ) my not writing with my own hand, to thank your ladyship for your very obliging letter, is the worst symptom that remains with me, madam: all pain and swelling are gone; and i hope in a day or two to get a glove even on my right hand, and to walk with help into the room by the end of next week. i did i confess, see a great deal too much company too early; and was such an old child as to prattle abundantly, till i was forced to shut myself up for a week and see nobody; but i am quite recovered, and the emptiness of the town will soon preserve me from any excesses. i am exceedingly glad to hear your ladyship finds so much benefit from the air: i own i thought you looked ill the last time i had the honour of seeing you; and though i am sorry to hear you talk with so much satisfaction of a country life, i am not selfish enough to wish you to leave tusmore( ) a day before your health is quite re-established, nor to envy mr. fermor so agreeable an addition to his society and charming seat. poor lady albemarle is indeed very miserable and full of apprehensions; though the incredible zeal. of the navy for admiral keppel crowns him with glory, and the indignation of and the indignation of mankind, and the execration of sir hugh, add to the triumph. indeed, i still think lady a.'s fears may be well founded: some slur may be procured on her son; and his own bad nerves, and worse constitution, may not be able to stand agitation and suspense.( ) lady blandford has had a cold, but i hear is well again, and has generally two tables. she will be a loss indeed to all her friends, and to hundreds more; but she cannot be immortal, nor would be, if she could. the writings are not yet signed, madam, for my house, but i am in no doubt of having it; yet i shall not think of going into it till the spring, as i cannot enjoy this year's gout in it, and will not venture catching a codicil, by going backwards and forwards to it before it is aired. i know no particular news, but that lord bute was thought in great danger yesterday; i have heard nothing of him to-day. i do not know even a match, but of some that are going to be divorced; the fate of one of the latter is to be turned into an exaltation, and is treated by her family and friends in quite a new style, to the discomfit of all prudery. it puts me in mind of lord lansdowne's lines in the room in the tower where my father had been confined, "some fall so hard, they bound and rise again." methinks, however, it is a little hard on lord george germaine, that in four months after seeing a duchess of dorset, he may see a lord middlesex too; for so old the egg is said to be, that is already prepared. if this trade goes on, half the peeresses will have two eldest sons with both fathers alive at the same time. lady holderness expresses nothing but grief and willingness to receive her daughter( ) again on any terms, which probably will happen; for the daughter has already opened her eyes, is sensible of her utter ruin, and has written to lord carmarthen and madam cordon, acknowledging her guilt, and begging to be remembered only with pity, which is sufficient to make one pity her. i would beg pardon for so long a letter, but your ladyship desired the intelligence, and i know a long letter from london is not uncomfortable at christmas, even. in the most comfortable house in the country. perhaps my own forced idleness has a little contributed to lengthen it; still i hope it implies great readiness to obey your ladyship's commands, in your most obedient humble servant. ( ) now first printed. ( ) lady browne's first husband was henry fermor esq., grandfather of mr. fermor of tusmore house. she was miss sheldon.-e. ( ) some charges having been brought against admiral keppel for his conduct at the battle of ushant, by sir hugh palliser, his vice-admiral, he was tried for the same, and not only unanimously acquitted, but the prosecution declared malicious. this verdict gave such general satisfaction, that london was illuminated for two nights; upon one, of which a mob, consisting in great part of sailors who had served under keppel, broke all the windows in the house of his accuser. the city of london voted the admiral the freedom of the corporation. in , he was created viscount keppel, and appointed first lord of the admiralty. he died unmarried, in october . the following is a part of mr. burke's beautiful panegyric on him, at the conclusion of his letter to a noble lord:--"i ever looked on lord keppel as one of the greatest and best men of his age, and i loved and cultivated him accordingly. it was at his trial that he gave me this picture. with what zeal and anxious affection i attended him through that his agony of glory; what part my son took in the early flush and enthusiasm of his virtue, and the pious passion with which he attached himself to all my connexions; with what prodigality we both squandered ourselves in courting almost every sort of enmity for his sake, i believe he felt, just as i should have felt such friendship on such an occasion. i partook, indeed, of this honour with several of the first, and best, and ablest in the kingdom; but i was behind with none of them - and i am sure that if, to the eternal disgrace of this nation, and to the total annihilation of every trace of honour and virtue in it, things had taken a different turn from what they did, i should have attended him to the quarterdeck with no less good-will and more pride, though with far other feelings, than i partook of the general flow of national joy that attended the justice that was done to his virtue."-e. ( ) amelia d'arcy, baroness conyers, daughter of robert, fourth earl of holderness, married to lord carmarthen; who had eloped with captain john byron, father of the great poet.-e. letter to the earl of buchan.( ) arlington street, dec. , . (page ) it was an additional mortification to my illness, my lord, that i was nut able to thank your lordship with my own hand for the honour of your letter, and for your goodness in remembering an old man, who must with reason consider himself as forgotten, when he never was of importance, and is now almost useless to himself. frequent severe fits of the gout have a good deal disabled me from pursuing the trifling studies in which i could pretend to know any thing; or at least has given me an indifference, that makes me less ready in answering questions than i may have been formerly; and as my papers are in the country, whither at present i am not able to go, i fear i can give but unsatisfactory replies to your lordship's queries. the two very curious pictures of king james and his queen (i cannot recollect whether the third or fourth of the name, but i know that she was a princess of sweden or denmark,( ) and that her arms are on her portrait,) were at the palace at kensington, and i imagine are there still. i had obtained leave from the lord chamberlain to have drawings made of them, and mr. wale actually began them for me, but made such slow progress, and i was so called off from the thought of them by indispositions and other avocations, that they were never finished; and mr.. wale may, perhaps, still have the beginnings he made. at the duke of devonshire's at hardwicke, there is a valuable though poorly painted picture of james v. and mary of guise, his second queen: it is remarkable from the great resemblance of mary queen of scots to her father; i mean in lord morton's picture of her, and in the image of her on her tomb at westminster, which agree together, and which i take to be the genuine likeness. i have doubts on lord burlington's picture, and on dr. mead's. the nose in both is thicker, and also fuller at bottom than on the tomb; though it is a little supported by her coins. there is a much finer portrait,--indeed, an excellent head,--of the lady margaret douglas at mr. carteret's at hawnes in bedfordshire, the late lord granville's. it is a shrewd countenance, and at the same time with great goodness of character. lord scarborough has a good picture, in the style of holbein at least, of queen margaret tudor, daughter of henry vii., and of her second or third husband (for, if i don't mistake, she had three); but indeed, my lord, these things are so much out of my memory at present, that i speak with great diffidence. i cannot even recollect any thing else to your lordship's purpose; but i flatter myself, that these imperfect notices will at least be a testimony of my readiness to obey your lordship's commands, as that i am, with great respect, my lord, your lordship's obedient humble servant. ( ) now first printed. david stewart erskine, eleventh earl of buchan. he was intended for public life, but shortly after succeeding to the family honours, in , he retired to scotland, and devoted himself to literature. his principal works were, an essay on the lives of fletcher of saltoun and the poet thomson, and a life of napier of merchiston. he died at dryburgh abbey in at the age of eighty-seven.-e. ( ) james the first married, in , anne, daughter of frederick king of denmark.-e. letter to edward gibbon, esq.( ) [ .] (page ) dear sir, i have gone through your inquisitor's attack( ) and am far from being clear that it deserves your giving yourself the trouble of an answer, as neither the detail nor the result affects your argument. so far from it, many of his reproofs are levelled at your having quoted a wrong page; he confessing often that what you have cited is in the author, referred to, but not precisely in the individual spot. if st. peter is attended by a corrector of the press, you will certainly never be admitted where he is a porter. i send you my copy, because i scribbled my remarks. i do not send them with the impertinent presumption of suggesting a hint to you, but to prove i did not grudge the trouble of going through such a book when you desired it, and to show how little struck me as of any weight. i have set down nothing on your imputed plagiarisms; for, if they are so, no argument that has ever been employed must be used again, even where the passage necessary is applied to a different purpose. an author is not allowed to be master of his own works; but, by davis's new law, the first person that cites him would be so. you probably looked into middleton, dodwell, etc.; had the same reflections on the same circumstances, or conceived them so as to recollect them, without remembering what suggested them. is this plagiarism? if it is, davis and such cavillers might go a short step further, and insist that an author should peruse every work antecedently written on every subject at all collateral to his own.-not to assist him, but to be sure to avoid every material touched by his predecessors. i will make but one remark on such divine champions. davis and his prototypes tell you middleton, etc. have used the same objections, and they have been confuted: answering, in the theologic dictionary, signifying confuting; no matter whether there is sense, argument, truth, in the answer or not. upon the whole i think ridicule is the only answer such a work is entitled to.' the ablest, answer which you can make (which would be the ablest answer that could be made) would never have any authority with the cabal, yet would allow a sort of dignity to the author. his patrons will always maintain that he vanquished you, unless u made him too ridiculous for them to dare to revive his name. you might divert yourself, too, with alma mater, the church, employing a goviat to defend the citadel, while the generals repose in their tents. if irenaeus, st. augustine, etc. did not set apprentices and proselytes to combat celsus and the adversaries of the new religion---but early bishops had not five or six thousand pounds a-year. in short, dear sir, i wish you not to lose your time; that is, either ,not reply, or set your mark on your answer, that it may always be read with the rest of your works. ( ) now first collected. ( ) "an examination of the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters of mr. gibbon's history of the decline and fall of the roman empire. by henry edward davis, b.a. of baliol college, oxford." he was born in and died in , at the early age of twenty-seven. he was a native of windsor, and is believed to have received a present from george the third for this production.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, jan. , . (page ) at last, after ten weeks i have been able to remove hither, in hopes change of air and the frost will assist my recovery; though i am not one of those ancients that forget the register, and think they are to be as well as ever after every fit of illness. as yet i can barely creep about the room in the middle of the day. i have made my printer (now my secretary) copy out the rest of mr. baker's life; for my own hand will barely serve to write necessary letters, and complains even of them. if you know of any very trusty person passing between london and cambridge, i would send it to you, but should not care to trust it by the coach, nor to any giddy undergraduate that comes to town to see a play; and, besides, i mean to return you your own notes. i will say no more than i have said in my apology to you for the manner in which i have written this life. with regard to mr. baker himself, i am confident you will find that i have done full justice to his work and character. i do not expect you to approve the inferences i draw against some other persons; and yet, if his conduct was meritorious, it would not be easy to excuse those who -were active after doing what he would not do. you will not understand this sentence till you have seen the life. i hope you have not been untiled or unpaled by the tempest on new-year's morning.( ) i have lost two beautiful elms in a row before my windows here, and had the skylight demolished in town. lady pomfret's gothic house in my street lost one of the stone towers, like those at king's chapel, and it was beaten through the roof the top of our cross, too, at ampthill was thrown down, as i hear from lady ossory this morning. i remember to have been told that bishop kidder and his wife were killed in their bed in the palace of gloucester in ,( ) and yet his heirs were sued for dilapidations. lord de ferrers,( ) who deserves his ancient honours, is going to repair the castle at tamworth, and has flattered me that he will consult me. he has a violent passion for ancestry--and, consequently, i trust will not stake the patrimony of the ferrars, townshends, and comptons, at the hazard-table. a little pride would not hurt our nobility, cock and hen. adieu, dear sir; send me a good account of yourself yours ever. ( ) on the st of january, , london was visited by one of the most violent tempests ever known. scarcely a public building in the metropolis escaped without damage.-e. ( ) the memorable storm here alluded to took place in november, , and bishop kidder and his lady perished in their bed at the episcopal palace at wells by the fall of a stack of chimneys. they were privately interred in the cathedral; and one of his daughters, dying single, directed by her will a monument to be erected for her parents.-e. ( ) robert, sixth earl ferrers. he had just succeeded to the title, by the death of his brother washington, vice-admiral of the blue,; who had begun to rebuild the mansion of stanton harold, in leicestershire, according to a plan of his own, and lived to see it nearly finished.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street; jan. , . (page ) your flight to bath would have much surprised me, if mr. churchill, who, i think, heard it from stanley, had not prepared me for it. since you was amused, i am glad you went, especially as you escaped being initiated in mrs. miller's follies at batheaston,( ) which you would have mentioned. she would certainly have sent some trapes of a muse to press you, had she known what good epigrams you write. i went to strawberry partly out of prudence, partly from ennui. i thought it best to air myself before i go in and out of hot rooms here, and had my house thoroughly warmed for a week previously, and then only stirred from the red room to the blue on the same floor. i stayed five days, and was neither the better nor the worse for it. i was quite tired with having neither company, books, nor amusement of any kind. either from the emptiness of the town, or that ten weeks of gout have worn out the patience of all my acquaintance, but i do not see three persons in three days. this gives me but an uncomfortable prospect for my latter days: it is but probable that i may be a cripple in a fit or two more, if i have strength to go through them; and, as that will be long life, one outlives one's acquaintance. i cannot make new acquaintance, nor interest myself at all about the young, except those that belong to me; nor does that go beyond contributing to their pleasures, without having much satisfaction in their conversation-but-one must take every thing as it comes, and make the best of it., i have had a much happier life than i deserve, and than millions that deserve better. i should be very weak if i could not bear the uncomfortableness of old age, when i can afford what comforts it is capable of. how many poor old people have none of them! i am ashamed whenever i am peevish, and recollect that i have fire and servants to help me. i hear admiral keppel is in high spirits with the great respect and zeal expressed for him. in my own opinion, his constitution will not stand the struggle. i am very uneasy too for the duke of richmond, who is at portsmouth, and will be at least as much agitated. sir william meredith has written a large pamphlet, and a very good one. it is to show, that whenever the grecian republics taxed their dependents, the latter resisted, and shook off the yoke. he has printed but twelve copies: the duke of gloucester sent me one of them. there is an anecdote of my father, on the authority of old jack white, which i doubt. it says, he would not go on with the excise scheme, though his friends advised it, i cannot speak to the particular event, as i was, then at school; but it was more like him to have yielded, against his sentiments, to mr. pelham and his candid--or say, plausible--and timid friends. i have heard him say, that he never did give up his opinion to such men but he always repented it. however, the anecdote in the, book would be more to his honour. but what a strange man is sir william! i suppose, now he has written this book, he will change his opinion, and again be for carrying on the war--or, if he does not know his own mind for two years together, why will he take places, to make every body doubt his honesty? ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. january , . (page ) i sent you by dr. jacob, as you desired, my life of mr. baker, and with it your own materials. i beg you will communicate my manuscript to nobody, but if you think it worth your trouble i will consent to your transcribing it; but on one condition, and a silly one for me to exact, who am as old as you, and broken to pieces, and very unlikely to survive you; but, should so improbable a thing happen, i must exact that you will keep your transcript sealed up, with orders written on the cover to be restored to me in case of an accident, for i should certainly dislike very much to see it printed without my consent. i should not think of your copying it, if you did not love to transcribe, and sometimes things of as little value as my manuscript. i shall beg to have it returned to me by a safe hand as soon as you can, for i have nothing but the foul copy, which nobody can read, i believe, but i and my secretary. i am actually printing my justification about chatterton, but only two hundred copies to give away; for i hate calling in the whole town to a fray, of which otherwise probably not one thousand persons would ever hear. you shall have a copy as soon as ever it is finished, which my printer says will be in three weeks. you know my printer is my secretary too: do not imagine i am giving myself airs of a numerous household of officers. i shall be glad to see the letter of mr. baker you mentioned. you will perceive two or three notes in my manuscript in a different hand from mine, or that of my amanuensis (still the same officer;) they were added by a person i lent it to, and i have effaced part of the last. i must finish, lest dr. jacob should call, and my parcel not be ready. i hope your sore throat is gone; my gout has returned again a little with taking the air only, but did not stay-- however, i am still confined, and almost ready to remain so, to prevent disappointment. yours most sincerely. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) i write in as much hurry as you did, dear sir, and thank you for the motive of yours mine is to prevent your fatiguing yourself in copying my manuscript, for which i am not in the least haste: pray keep it till another safe conveyance presents itself. you may bring the gout, that is, i am sorry to hear, flying about you, into your hand by wearying it. how can you tell me i may well be cautious about my manuscript and yet advise me to print it?--no-i shall not provoke nests of hornets, till i am dust, as they will be too. if i dictated tales when ill in my bed, i must have been worse than i thought; for, as i know nothing of it, i must have been light-headed. mr. lort was certainly misinformed, though he seems to have told you the story kindly to the honour of my philosophy or spirits-but i had rather have no fame than what i do not deserve. i am fretful or low-spirited at times in the gout, like other weak old men, and have less to boast than most men. i have some strange things in my drawer, even wilder than the castle of otranto, and called hieroglyphic tales; but they were not written lately, nor in the gout, nor, whatever they may seem, written when i was out of my senses. i showed one or two of them to a person since my recovery, who may have mentioned them, and occasioned mr. lort's misintelligence. i did not at all perceive that the latter looked ill; and hope he is quite recovered. you shall see chatterton soon. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. february , . (page ) i have received the manuscript, and though you forbid my naming the subject more, i love truth, and truth in a friend so much, that i must tell you, that so far from taking your sincerity ill, i had much rather you should act with your native honest sincerity than say you was pleased with my manuscript. i have always tried as much as is in human nature to divest myself of the self-love of an author; in the present case i had less difficulty than ever, for i never thought my life of mr. baker one of my least indifferent works. you might, believe me, have sent me your long letter; whatever it contained, it would not have made a momentary cloud between us. i have not only friendship, but great gratitude for you, for a thousand instances of kindness; and should detest any writing of mine that made a breach with a friend, and still more, if it could make me forget obligations. letter to the rev. mr. cole. february , . (page ) i sent you my chattertoniad( ) last week,,in hopes it would sweeten your pouting; but i find it has not, or has miscarried; for you have not 'acknowledged the receipt with your usual punctuality. have you seen hasted's new history of kent?( ) i am sailing through it, but am stopped every minute by careless mistakes. they tell me the author has good materials, but is very negligent, and so i perceive, he has not even given a list of monuments in the churches, which i do not remember in any history of a county; but he is rich in pedigrees; though i suppose they have many errors too, as i have found some in those i am acquainted with- it is unpardonable to be inaccurate in a work in which one nor expects nor demands any thing but fidelity.( ) we have a great herald arising in a very noble race, lord de ferrers. i hope to make him a gothic architect too, for he is going to repair tamworth castle and flatters me that i shall give him sweet counseil! i enjoin him to kernellare. adieu! yours ever. ( ) "a letter to the editor of the miscellanies of thomas chatterton." strawberry hill, , vo.-e. ( ) "the history and topographical survey of the county of kent; by edward hasted," four volumes, folio, - . a second and improved edition, in twelve volumes, octavo, appeared in - . mr. hasted died in at the age of eighty.-e. ( ) in a memoir of himself, which, he drew up for the gentleman's magazein, to be published after his death, he says, "his laborious history of kent took him more than forty years; during the whole series of which he spared neither pains nor expense to bring it to maturity."-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, march , . (page ) i have received this moment from your bookseller, sir, the valuable present of the second volume of your "annals," and beg leave to return you my grateful thanks for so agreeable a gift, of which i can only have taken a look enough to lament that you do not intend to continue the work. repeated and severe attacks of the gout forbid my entertaining- visions of pleasures to come; but though i might not have the advantage of your labours, sir, i wish too well to posterity not to be sorry that you check your hand. lord buchan did me the honour lately of consulting me on portraits of illustrious scots. i recollect that there is at windsor a very good portrait of your countryman duns scotus,( ) whose name struck me on just turning over your volume. a good print was made from that picture some years ago, but i believe it is not very scarce: as it is not worth while to trouble his lordship with another letter for that purpose only, may i take the liberty, sir, of begging you to mention it to his lordship? ( ) now first collected. ( ) granger considers the portrait of windsor not to be genuine. of duns scotus, he says, "it requires one half of a man's life to read the works of this profound doctor, and the , other to understand his subtleties. his printed works are in twelve volumes in folio! his manuscripts are sleeping in merton college, oxford. voluminous works frequently arise from the ignorance and confused ideas of the authors: if angels, says mr. norris, were writers, we should have few folios. he was the head of the sect of schoolmen called scotists. he died in ."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, march , . (page ) your last called for no answer; and i have so little to tell you, that i only write to-day to avoid the air of remissness. i came hither on friday, for this last week has been too hot to stay in london; but march is arrived this morning with his northeasterly malice, and i suppose will assert his old-style claim to the third of april. the poor infant apricots will be the victims to that herod of the almanack. i have been much amused with new travels through spain by a mr. swinburne( )--at least with the alhambra, of the inner parts of which there are two beautiful prints. the moors were the most polished, and had the most taste of any people in the gothic ages; and i hate the knave ferdinand and his bigoted queen for destroying them. these new travels are simple, and do tell you a little more than late voyagers, by whose accounts one would think there was nothing in spain but muleteers and fandangos. in truth, there does not seem to be much worth seeing but prospects; and those, unless i were a bird, i would never visit, when the accommodations are so wretched. mr. cumberland has given the town a masque, called calypso,( ) which is a prodigy of dulness. would you believe, that such a sentimental writer would be so gross as to make cantharides one of the ingredients of a love-potion, for enamouring telemachus? if you think i exaggerate, here are the lines: "to these, the hot hispanian fly shall bid his languid pulse beat high." proteus and antiope are minerva's missioners for securing the prince's virtue, and in recompense they are married and crowned king and queen! i have bought at hudson's sale a fine design of a chimney-piece, by holbein, for henry viii. if i had a room left i would erect. it is certainly not so gothic as that in my holbein room; but there is a great deal of taste for that bastard style; perhaps it was executed at nonsuch. i do intend, under mr. essex's inspection, to begin my offices next spring. it is late in my day, i confess, to return to brick and mortar but i shall be glad to perfect my plan, or the' next possessor will marry my castle to a doric stable. there is a perspective through two or three rooms in the alhambra, that might easily be improved into gothic, though there seems but small affinity between them; and they might be finished within with dutch tiles, and painting, or bits of ordinary marble, as there must be gilding. mosaic seems to be their chief ornaments, for walls, ceilings, and floors. fancy must sport in the furniture, and mottos might be gallant, and would be very arabesque. i would have a mixture of colours, but with a strict attention to harmony and taste; and some one should predominate, as supposing it the favourite colour of the lady who was sovereign of the knight's affections who built the house. carpets are classically mahometans, and fountains--but, alas! our climate till last summer was never romantic! were i not so old, i would at least build a moorish novel-for you see my head turns on granada-and by taking the most picturesque parts of the mahometan and catholic religions, and with the mixture of african and spanish names, one might make something very agreeable--at least i will not give the hint to mr. cumberland. adieu! yours ever. ( ) "travels through spain in the years and ; in which several monuments of roman and moorish architecture are illustrated by accurate drawings taken on the spot. by henry swinburne." london, , to. mr. swinburne also published, in - his "travels in the two sicilies during the years - - , and ." this celebrated traveller was the youngest son of sir john swinburne, of capheaton, northumberland; the long-established seat of that ancient roman catholic family. pecuniary embarrassments, arising from the marriage of his daughter to paul benfield, esq. and consequent involvement in the misfortunes of that adventurer, induced him to obtain a place in the newly-ceded settlement of trinidad, where he died in .-e. ( ) "calypso" was brought out at covent-garden theatre, but was performed only a few nights. \ it was imprudently ushered in by a prelude, in which the author treated the newspaper editors as a set of unprincipled fellows.-e. letter to edward gibbon, esq.( ) ( .] (page ) the penetration, solidity, and taste, that made you the first of historians, dear sir, prevent my being surprised at your being the best writer of controversial pamphlets too.( ) i have read you with more precipitation than such a work deserved, but i could not disobey you and detain it. yet even in that hurry i could discern, besides a thousand beauties and strokes of wit, the inimitable eighty-third page, and the conscious dignity that you maintain throughout, over your monkish antagonists. when you are so superior in argument, it would look like insensibility to the power of your reasoning, to select transient passages for commendation; and yet i must mention one that pleased me particularly, from the delicacy of the severity, and from its novelty too; it is, bold is not the word. this is the feathered arrow of cupid, that is more formidable than the club of hercules. i need not specify thanks, when i prove how much i have been pleased. your most obliged. ( ) now first collected. ( ) gibbon's celebrated "vindication" of the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters of his history appeared early in the year . "i adhered," he says in his memoirs, "to the wise resolution of trusting myself and my writing to the candour of the public, till mr. davis of oxford presumed to attack, not the faith but the fidelity of the historian. my vindication, expressive of less anger than contempt, amused for a moment the busy and idle metropolis; and the most rational part of the laity, and even of the clergy, appear to have been satisfied of my innocence and accuracy i would not print it in quarto, lest it should be bound and preserved with the history itself at the distance of twelve years, i calmly affirm my judgment of davis, chelsum, etc. a victory over such antagonists was a sufficient humiliation. they, however were rewarded in this world, poor chelsum was, indeed, neglected; and i dare not boast the making dr. watson a bishop: he is a prelate of a large mind and a liberal spirit: but i enjoyed the pleasure of giving a royal pension to mr. davis, and of collating dr. althorpe to an archiepiscopal living."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) as your gout was so concise, i will not condole on it, but i am sorry you are liable to it if you do but take the air. thank you for telling me of the vendible curiosities at the alderman's. for st. peter's portrait to hang to a fairie's watch, i shall not think of it, both as i do not believe it very like, and as it is composed of invisible writing, for which my eyes are not young enough. in truth, i have almost left off making purchases: i have neither room for any thing more, nor inclination for them, as i reckon every thing very dear when one has so little time to enjoy it. however, i cannot say but the plates by rubens do tempt me a little--yet, as i do not care to, buy even rubens in a poke, i should wish to know if the alderman would let me see. if it were but one. would he be persuaded? i would pay for the carriage, though i should not buy them. lord de ferrers will be infinitely happy with the sight of the pedigree, and i will certainly tell him of it, and how kind you are. strype's account, or rather stow's, of richard's person is very remarkable--but i have done with endeavouring at truth. weeds grow more naturally than what one plants. i hear your cantabrigians are still unshaken chattertonians. many men are about falsehood like girls about the first man that makes love to them: a handsomer, a richer, or even a sincerer lover cannot eradicate the first impression--but a sillier swain, or a sillier legend, sometimes gets into the head of a miss or the learned man, and displaces the antecedent folly. truth's kingdom is not of this world. i do not know whether our clergy are growing mahometans or not: they certainly are not what they profess themselves--but as you and i should not agree perhaps in assigning the same defects to them, i will not enter on a subject which i have promised you to drop. all i allude to now is, the shocking murder of miss ray( ) by a divine. in my own opinion we are growing more fit for bedlam, than for mahomet's paradise. the poor criminal in question, i am persuaded, is mad--and the misfortune is, the law does not know how to define the shades of madness; and thus there -are twenty outpensioners of bedlam, for the one that is confined. you, dear sir, have chosen a wiser path to happiness by depending on yourself for amusement. books and past ages draw one into no scrapes, and perhaps it is best not to know much of men till they are dead. i wish you health -,you want nothing else. i am, dear sir, yours most truly. ( ) on the th of april, miss reay, who had been the mistress of lord sandwich for twenty years, by whom she was the mother of many children, was shot, on her leaving covent-garden theatre, by the rev. james hackman, who had the living of wiverton, in norfolk, a young man not half her age, who had imbibed a violent passion for her, whom he first met at lord sandwich's seat at hinchinbroke, where he had been frequently invited to dine while commanding a recruiting party at huntingdon; he being, previously to his entering the church, a lieutenant in the th regiment of foot. having shot miss reay, he fired a pistol at himself; but, being only wounded by it, he was tried at the old bailey, convicted, and executed.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) dear sir, i have received the plates very safely, but hope you nor the alderman,( ) will take it ill that i return them. they are extremely pretty, and uncommonly well preserved; but i am sure they are not by rubens, nor i believe after his designs, for i am persuaded they are older than his time. in truth, i have a great many of the same sort, and do not wish for more. i shall send them back on thursday by the fly, and will beg you to inquire after them; and i trust they will arrive as safely as they did to yours ever. ( ) alderman john boydell, an english engraver; distinguished as an encourager of the fine arts. in he held the office of lord mayor of london, and died in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. april , . (page ) i ought not to trouble you so often when you are not well; but that is the very cause of my writing now. you left off abruptly from disorder, and therefore i wish to know it is gone. the plates i hope got home safe. they are pretty, especially the reverses; but the drawing in general is bad. pray tell me what you mean by a priced catalogue of the pictures at houghton. is it a printed one? if it is, where is it to be had?--odd questions from me, and which i should not wish to have mentioned as coming from me. i have been told to-day that they are actually sold to the czarina--sic transit! mortifying enough, were not every thing transitory! we must recollect that our griefs and pains are so, as well as our joys and glories; and, by balancing the account, a grain of comfort is to be extracted! adieu! i shall be heartily glad to receive a better account of you. letter to mrs. abington.( ) ( .] (page ) mr. walpole cannot express how much he is mortified that he cannot accept of mrs. abington's obliging invitation, as he had engaged company to dine with him on sunday at strawberry-hill; whom he would put off, if not foreigners who are leaving england. mr. walpole hopes, however, that this accident will not prevent an acquaintance, which his admiration of mrs. abington's genius has made him long desire; and which he hopes to cultivate at strawberry bill, when her leisure will give him leave to trouble her with an invitation. ( ) now first collected. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) as mr. essex has told me that you still continue out of order, i am impatient to hear from yourself how you are. do send me a line: i hope it will be a satisfactory one. you know that dr. ducarel has published a translation of a history of the abbey of bec! there is a pretty print to it: and one very curious circumstance, at least valuable to us disciples of alma mater etonensis. the ram-hunting was derived from the manor of wrotham in norfolk, which formerly belonged to bec, and being forfeited, together with other alien priories, was bestowed by henry vi. on our college. i do not repine at reading any book from which i can learn a single fact that i wish to know. for the lives of the abbots, they were, according to the author, all pinks of piety and holiness but there are few other facts amusing, especially with regard to the customs of those savage times-excepting that the empress matilda was buried in a bull's hide, and afterwards had a tomb covered with silver. there is another new book called "sketches from nature," in two volumes, by mr. g. keate, in which i found one fact too, that, if authentic, is worth knowing. the work is an imitation of sterne, and has a sort of merit, though nothing that arrives at originality. for the foundation of the church of reculver, he quotes a manuscript said to be written by a dominican friar of canterbury, and preserved at louvain. the story is evidently metamorphosed into a novel. and has very little of an antique air; but it affirms that the monkish author attests the beauty of richard iii. this is very absurd, if invention has nothing to do with the story; and therefore one should suppose it genuine. i have desired dodsley to ask mr. keate, if there truly exists such, a manuscript: if there does, i own i wish he had printed it rather than his own production; for i am with mr. gray, "that any man living may make a book worth reading, if he will but set down with truth what he has seen or heard, no matter whether the book is well written or not." let those who can write, glean. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, may , . (page ) if you hear of us no oftener than we of you, you will be as much behindhand in news as my lady lyttelton. we have seen a traveller that saw you in your island,( ) but it sounds like hearing of ulysses. well! we must be content. you are not only not dethroned, but owe the safety of your dominions to your own skill in fortification. if we do not hear of your extending your conquests, why, is it not less than all our modern heroes have done, whom prophets have foretold and gazettes celebrated--or who have foretold and celebrated themselves. pray be content to be cooped up in an island that has no neighbours, when the howes and clintons and dunmores and burgoynes and campbells are not yet got beyond the great river-- inquiry!( ) to-day's papers say, that the little prince of orange( ) is to invade you again; but we trust sir james wallace has clipped his wings so close, that they will not grow again this season, though he is so ready to fly. nothing material has happened since i wrote last-so, as every moment of a civil war is precious, every one has been turned to the interest of diversion. there have been three masquerades, an installation, and the ball of the knights at the haymarket this week; not to mention almack's festino, lady spencer's, ranelagh and vauxhall, operas and plays. the duchess of bolton too saw masks--so many, that the floor gave way, and the company in the dining-room were near falling on the heads of those in the parlour, and exhibiting all that has not yet appeared in doctors' commons. at the knights' ball was such a profusion of strawberries, that people could hardly get into the supper-room. i could tell you more, but i do not love to exaggerate. lady ailesbury told me this morning that lord bristol has got a calf with two feet to each leg--i am convinced it is by the duchess of kingston, who has got two of every thing where others have but one.( ) adieu! i am going to sup with mrs. abington--and hope mrs. clive will not hear of it. ( ) mr. conway was now at his government of jersey. ( ) the parliamentary inquiry which took place in the house of commons on the conduct of the american war. ( ) the prince of nassau, who had commanded the attack upon jersey, claiming relationship to the great house of nassau mr. walpole calls him the "little prince of orange." gibbon, in a letter to mr. holroyd, of the th, says, "you have heard of the jersey invasion; every body praises arbuthnot's decided spirit. conway went last night to throw himself into the island."-e. ( ) "do you know, my lord," said the duchess, then miss chudleigh, to lord chesterfield, "the world says i have had twins!" "does it?" said his lordship; "i make a point of believing only one-half of what it says."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am most sincerely rejoiced, dear sir, that you find yourself at all better, and trust it is an omen of farther amendment. mr. essex surprised me by telling me, that you, who keep yourself so warm and so numerously clothed, do yet sometimes, if the sun shines, sit and write in your garden for hours at a time. it is more than i should readily do, whose habitudes are so very different from yours. your complaints seem to demand perspiration--but i do not venture to advise. i understand no constitution but my own, and should kill milo, if i managed him as i treat myself. i sat in a window on saturday, with the east wind blowing on my neck till near two in the morning-and it seems to have done me good, for i am better within these two days than i have been these six months. my spirits have been depressed, and my nerves so aspen, that the smallest noise disturbed me. to-day i do not feel a complaint; which is something at near sixty-two. i don't know whether i have not misinformed you, nor am sure it was dr. ducarel who translated the account of the abbey of bec-- he gave it to mr. lort; but i am not certain he ever published it. you was the first that notified to me the fifth volume of the archaeologia--i am not much more edified than usual; but there are three pretty prints of reginal seats. mr. pegge's tedious dissertation, which he calls a brief one, about the foolish legend of st. george, is despicable: all his arguments are equally good for proving the existence of the dragon. what diversion might laughers make of the society! dolly pentraeth, the old woman of mousehole, and mr. penneck's nurse. p. , would have furnished foote with two personages for a farce. the same grave dissertation on patriarchal customs seems to have as much to do with british antiquities, as the lapland: witches that sell wind--and pray what business has the society with roman inscriptions in dalmatia! i am most pleased with the account of nonsuch, imperfect as it is: it appears to have been but a villa, and not considerable for a royal one. you see lilacs were then a novelty. well, i am glad they publish away. the vanity of figuring in these repositories will make many persons contribute their manuscripts, and every now and then something valuable will come to light, which its own intrinsic merit might not have saved. \ i know nothing more of houghton. i should certainly be glad to have the priced catalogue; and if you will lend me yours, my printer shall transcribe it-but i am in no hurry. i conceive faint hopes, as the sale is not concluded: however, i take care not to flatter myself. i think i told you i had purchased, at mr. ives's sale, a handsome coat in painted glass, of hobart impaling boleyn--but i can find no such match in my pedigree--yet i have heard that blickling belonged to ann boleyn's father. pray reconcile all this to me. ' lord de ferrers is to dine here on saturday; and i have got to treat him with an account of ancient painting, formerly in the hall of tammworth castle; they are mentioned in warton's observations on the fairy queen, vol i. p. . do not put yourself' to pain to answer this--only be assured i shall be happy to know when you are able to write with ease. you must leave your cloister, if your transcribing leaves you. believe me, dear sir, ever most truly. letter to the rev. dr. lort. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am sorry, dear sir, you could not let me have the pleasure of your company; but, i own, you have partly, not entirely, made me amends by the sight of your curious manuscript, which i return you, with your other book of inaugurations. the sight of the manuscript was particularly welcome to me, because the long visit of henry vi. and his uncle gloucester, to st. edmund's bury, accounts for those rare altar tablets that i bought at mr. ives's sale, on which are incontestably the portraits of duke humphrey, cardinal beaufort, and the same archbishop that is in my marriage of henry vi. i know the house of lancaster were patrons of st. edmund's bury; but so long a visit is demonstration. the fourth person on my panels is unknown. over his head is a coat of arms. but may be that of w. curteys the abbot, or the alderman, as he is in scarlet. his figure and the duke's are far superior to the other two, and worthy of a good italian master. the cardinal and the archbishop are in the dry hard manner of the age. i wish you would call and look at them; they are at mr. bonus's in oxford-road; the two prelates are much damaged. i peremptorily enjoined bonus to repair only, and not to repaint them; and thus, by putting him out of his way, i have put him so much out of humour too, that he has kept them these two years, and not finished them yet. i design them for the four void spaces in my chapel, on the sides of the shrine. the duke of gloucester's face is so like, though younger, that it proves i guessed right at his figure in my marriage. the tablets came out of the abbey of bury; were procured by old peter le neve, norroy; and came by his widow's marriage to tom martin, at whose sale mr. ives bought them. we have very few princely portraits so ancient, so authentic, and none so well painted as the duke and fourth person. these were the insides of the doors, which i had split into two, and value them extremely. this account i think will be more satisfactory to you than notes. pray tell me how you like the pictures when you have examined them. i shall search in edmondson's new vocabulary of arms for the coat which contains three bulls' heads on six pieces; but the colours are either white and black. or the latter is become so by time. i hope you are not going out of town yet; i shall probably be there some day in next week. i see advertised a book something in the way of your inaugurations, called le costume; do you know any thing of it? can you tell me who is the author of the second anticipation on the exhibition? is not it barry the painter? letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, saturday, june , . (page ) i write to you more seldom than i am disposed to do, from having nothing positive to tell you, and from being unwilling to say and unsay every minute something that is reported positively. the confident assertions of the victory over d'estaing are totally vanished-and they who invented them, now declaim as bitterly against byron, as if he had deceived them-and as they did against keppel. this day se'nnight there was a great alarm about ireland-which was far from being all invention, though not an absolute insurrection, as it was said." the case, i believe, was this:-the court, in order to break the volunteer army established by the irish themselves, endeavoured to persuade a body in lady blayney's county of monaghan to enlist in the militia--which they took indignantly. they said, they had great regard for lady blayney and lord clermont; but to act under them, would be acting under the king, and that was by no means their intention. there have since been motions for inquiries what steps the ministers have taken to satisfy the irish-and these they have imprudently rejected-which will not tend to pacification. the ministers have been pushed too on the article of spain, and could not deny that all negotiation is at an end--though they will not own farther. however, the spanish ambassador is much out of humour. from paris they write confidently of the approaching declaration;( ) and lord sandwich, i hear, has said in a very mixed company, that it was folly not to expect it. there is another million asked, and given on a vote of credit; and lord north has boasted of such mines for next year,,that one would think he believed next year would never come. the inquiry( ) goes on, and lord harrington did honour himself and burgoyne. barr`e and governor johnstone have had warm words,( ) and burke has been as frantic for the roman catholics as lord george gordon against them. the parliament, it is said, is to rise on the st. you will not collect from all this that our prospect clears up. i fear there is not more discretion in the treatment of ireland than of america. the court seems to-be infatuated and to think that nothing is of any consequence but a majority in parliament-though they have totally lost all power but that of provoking. fortunate it had been for the- king and kingdom, had the court had no majority for these six years! america had still been ours -and all the lives and all the millions we have squandered! a majority that has lost thirteen provinces by bullying and vapouring, and the most childish menaces, will be a brave countermatch for france and spain, and a rebellion in ireland! in short, it is plain that there is nothing a majority in parliament can do, but outvote a minority; and by their own accounts one would think they could not even do that. i saw a paper t'other day that began with this iriscism, "as the minority have lost us thirteen provinces," etc. i know nothing the minority have done, or been suffered to do, but restore the roman catholic religion-and that too was by the desire of the court. this is however the present style. they announced with infinite applause a new production of tickell:--it has appeared, and is a most paltry performance. it is called the cassette verte of m. de sartine, and pretends to be his correspondence with the opposition. nay, they are so pitifully mean as to laugh at dr. franklin, who has such thorough reason to sit and laugh at them. what triumph it must be to him to see a miserable pamphlet all the revenge they can take! there is another, still duller, called opposition mornings, in which you are lugged in. in truth, it is a compliment to any man to except him out of the number of those that have contributed to the shocking disgraces inflicted on this undone country. when lord chatham was minister, he never replied to abuse but by a victory. i know no private news: i have been here ever since tuesday, enjoying my tranquillity, as much as an honest man can do who sees his country ruined. it is just such a period as makes philosophy wisdom. there are great moments when every man is called on to exert himself-but when folly, infatuation, delusion, incapacity, and profligacy fling a nation away, and it concurs itself, and applauds its destroyers, a man who has lent no hand to the mischief, and can neither prevent nor remedy the mass of evils, is fully justified in sitting aloof and beholding the tempest rage, with silent scorn and indignant compassion. nay, i have, i own, some comfortable reflections. i rejoice that there is still a great continent of englishmen who will remain free and independent, and who laugh at the impotent majorities of a prostitute parliament. i care not whether general burgoyne and governor johnstone cross over and figure in, and support or oppose; nor whether mr. burke, or the superior of the jesuits, is high commissioner to the kirk of scotland. my ideas are such as i have always had, and are too plain and simple to comprehend modern confusions; and, therefore, they suit with those of few men. what will be the issue of this chaos, i know not, and, probably, shall not see. i do see with satisfaction, that what was meditated has failed by the grossest folly; and when one has escaped the worst, lesser evils must be endured with patience. after this dull effusion, i will divert you with a story that made me laugh this morning till i cried. you know my swiss david, and his incomprehensible pronunciation. he came to me, and said, "auh! dar is meses ellis wants some of your large flags to put in her great o." with much ado, i found out that mrs. ellis had sent for leave to take up some flags out of my meadow for her grotto. i hope in a few days to see lady ailesbury and miss jennings here; i have writ to propose it. what are your intentions? do you stay till you have made your island impregnable? i doubt it will be our only one that will be so. ( ) on the breaking out of the war between this country and america, spain had offered to mediate between them; but, receiving a refusal, she at once declared herself a principal in the war and ready to fulfil the terms of the family compact.-e. ( ) the inquiry into the conduct of the american war. ( ) in the course of a debate in the house of commons, on the d of june, governor johnstone told colonel barr`e, that he was making a scaramouch of himself. the colonel got up to demand an explanation, but the speaker put an end to the altercation.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) your countess was here last thursday, and received a letter from you, that told us how slowly you receive ours. when you will receive this i cannot guess; but it dates a new era, which you with reason did not care to look at as possible. in a word, behold a spanish war! i must detail a little to increase your wonder. i heard here the day before yesterday that it was likely; and that night received a letter from paris, telling me (it was of the th) that monsieur de beauveau was going, they knew not whither, at the head of twenty-five thousand men, with three lieutenant-generals and six or eight mar`echaux de camp under him. yesterday i went to town, and thomas walpole happened to call on me. he, who used to be informed early, did not believe a word either of a spanish war or a french expedition. i saw some other persons in the evening as ignorant. at night i went to sup at richmond-house. the duke said the brest fleet was certainly sailed, and had got the start of ours by twelve days: that monsieur de beauveau was on board with a large sum of money, and with white and red cockades; and that there would certainly be a spanish war. he added, that the opposition were then pressing in the house of commons to have the parliament continue sitting, and urging to know if we were not at the eve of a spanish war; but the ministers persisted in the prorogation ,for to-morrow or friday, and would not answer on spain. i said i would make you wonder-but no-why should the parliament continue to sit? are not the ministers and the parliament the same thing? and how has either house shown that it has any talent for war? the duke of richmond does not guess whither the brest fleet is gone. he thinks, if to ireland, we should have known it by this time. he has heard that the prince of beauveau has said he was going on an expedition that would be glorious in the eyes of posterity. asked, if that might not mean gibraltar? the duke doubts, but hopes it, as he thinks it no wise measure on their side: yet he was very melancholy, as you will be, on this heavy accession to our distresses. well! here we are, aris et focis and all at stake! what can we be meaning? unable to conquer america before she was assisted--scarce able to keep france at bay--are we a match for both, and spain too? what can be our view? nay, what can be our expectation? i sometimes think we reckon it will be more creditable to be forced by france and spain to give up america, than to have the merit with the latter of doing it with grace.-but, as cato says, "i'm weary of conjectures--this must end them;" that is, the sword:--and never, i believe, did a country plunge itself into such difficulties step by step, and for six years, together, without once recollecting that each foreign war rendered the object of the civil war more unattainable; and that in both the foreign wars we have not an object in prospect. unable to recruit our remnant of an army in america, are we to make conquests on france and spain? they may choose their attacks: we can scarce choose what we will defend. ireland, they say, is more temperate than was expected. that is some consolation-yet many fear the irish will be tempted to unite with america, which would throw all that trade into their convenient harbours; and i own i have apprehensions that the parliament's rising without taking a step in their favour may offend them. surely at least we have courageous ministers. i thought my father a stout man:--he had not a tithe of their spirit. the town has wound up the season perfectly in character by a f`ete at the pantheon by subscription. le texier managed it; but it turned out sadly. the company was first shut into the galleries to look down on the supper, then let to descend to it. afterwards they were led into the subterraneous apartment, which was laid with mould, and planted with trees, and crammed with nosegays: but the fresh earth, and the dead leaves, and the effluvia of breaths made such a stench and moisture, that they were suffocated; and when they remounted, the legs and wings of chickens, and remnants of ham (for the supper was not removed) poisoned them more. a druid in an arbour distributed verses to the ladies; then the baccelli( ) and the dancers of the opera danced; and then danced the company; and then it being morning, and the candles burnt out, the windows were opened; and then the stewed-danced assembly were such shocking figures, that they fled like ghosts as they looked.--i suppose there will be no more balls unless the french land, and then we shall show we do not mind it. thus i have told you all i know. you will ponder over these things in your little distant island, when we have forgotten them. there is another person, one doctor franklin, who, i fancy, is not sorry that we divert ourselves so well. yours ever. ( ) after the departure of mademoiselle heinel, no dancing so much delighted the frequenters of the opera as that of mademoiselle baccelli and m. vestris le jeune.-e. letter to the hon. george hardinge.( ) strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i have now received the drawings of grignan, and know not how to express my satisfaction and gratitude but by a silly witticism that is like the studied quaintness of the last age. in short, they are so much more beautiful than i expected, that i am not surprised at your having surprised me by exceeding even what i expected from your well-known kindness to me; they are charmingly executed, and with great taste. i own too that grignan is grander, and in a much finer situation, than i had imagined; as i concluded that the witchery of madame de s`evign`e's ideas and style had spread the same leaf-gold over places with which she gilded her friends. all that has appeared of them since the publication of her letters has lowered them. a single letter of her daughter, that to paulina, with a description of the duchess of bourbon's toilette, is worthy of the mother. paulina's own letters contain not a little worth reading: one just divines that she might have written well if she had had any thing to write about (which, however, would not have signified to her grandmother.) coulanges was a silly good-humoured glutton, that flattered a rich widow for her dinners. his wife was sensible, but dry, and rather peevish at growing old. unluckily nothing more has come to light of madame de s`evign`e's son, whose short letters in the collection i am almost profane enough to prefer to his mother's; and which makes me astonished that she did not love his wit, so unaffected, and so congenial to her own, in preference to the eccentric and sophisticated reveries of her sublime and ill-humoured daughter. grignan alone maintains its dignity, and shall be consecrated here among other monuments of that bewitching period, and amongst which one loves to lose oneself, and drink oblivion of an era so very unlike; for the awkward bigots to despotism of our time have not madame de s`evign`e's address, nor can paint an indian idol with an hundred hands as graceful as the apollo of the belvidere. when will you come and accept my thanks? will wednesday next suit you? but do you know that i must ask you not to leave your gown behind you, which indeed i never knew you put on willingly, but to come in it. i shall want your protection at westminster hall. yours most cordially. ( ) son of nicholas hardinge, esq. one of the joint secretaries of the treasury, and member for the borough of eye. he was educated at eton school, and finished his studies at trinity college, cambridge, where dr. watson was his tutor, he was called to the bar in , and was subsequently appointed solicitor- general to the queen. in , he was made a welsh judge, and died in . in , the works of this clever and eccentric scholar were published, with an account of his life, by mr. john nichols.-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. saturday night, july , . (page ) i could not thank your ladyship before the post went out to-day, as i was getting into my chaise to go and dine at carshalton with my cousin thomas walpole when i received your kind inquiry about my eye. it is quite well again, and i hope the next attack of the gout will be any where rather than in that quarter. i did not expect mr. conway would think of returning just now. as you have lost both mrs. damer and lady william campbell, i do not see why your ladyship should not go to goodwood. the baroness's increasing peevishness does not surprise me. when people will not weed their own minds, they are apt to be overrun with nettles. she knows nothing of politics, and no wonder talks nonsense about them. it is silly to wish three nations had but one neck; but it is ten times more absurd to act as if it was so, which the government has done;--ay, and forgetting, too, that it has not a scimitar large enough to sever that neck, which they have in effect made one. it is past the time, madam, of making conjectures. how can one guess whither france and spain will direct a blow that is in their option? i am rather inclined to think that they will have patience to ruin us in detail. hitherto france and america have carried their points by that manoeuvre. should there be an engagement at sea, and the french and spanish fleets, by their great superiority, have the advantage, one knows not what might happen. yet, though there are such large preparations making on the french coast, i do not much expect a serious invasion, as they are sure they can do us more damage by a variety of other attacks, where we can make little resistance. gibraltar and jamaica can but be the immediate objects of spain. ireland is much worse guarded than this island:--nay, we must be undone by our expense, should the summer pass without any attempt. my cousin thinks they will try to destroy portsmouth and plymouth--but i have seen nothing in the present french ministry that looks like bold enterprise. we are much more adventurous, that set every thing to the hazard: but there are such numbers of baronesses that both talk and act with passion, that one would think the nation had lost its senses. every thing has miscarried that has been undertaken, and the worse we succeed, the more is risked;--yet the nation is not angry! how can one conjecture during such a delirium? i sometimes almost think i must be in the wrong to be of so contrary an opinion to most men--yet, when every misfortune that has happened had been foretold by a few, why should i not think i have been in the right? has not almost every single event that has been announced as prosperous proved a gross falsehood, and often a silly one? are we not at this moment assured that washington cannot possibly amass an army of above men! and yet clinton, with , men, and with the hearts, as we are told, too, of three parts of the colonies, dares not show his teeth without the walls of new york? can i be in the wrong in not believing what is so contradictory to my senses we could not conquer america when it stood alone; then france supported it, and we did not mend the matter. to make it still easier, we have driven spain into the alliance. is this wisdom? would it be presumption, even if one were single, to think that we must have the worst in such a contest? shall i be like the mob, and expect to conquer france and spain, and then thunder upon america? nay, but the higher mob do not expect such success. they would not be so angry at the house of bourbon, if not morally certain that those kings destroy all our passionate desire and expectation of conquering america. we bullied, and threatened, and begged, and nothing would do. yet independence was still the word. now we rail at the two monarchs--and when they have banged us, we shall sue to them as humbly as we did to the congress. all this my senses, such as they are, tell me has been and will be the case. what is worse, all europe is of the same opinion; and though forty thousand baronesses may be ever so angry, i venture to prophesy that we shall make but a very foolish figure whenever we are so lucky as to obtain a peace; and posterity, that may have prejudices of its own, will still take the liberty to pronounce, that its ancestors were a woful set of politicians from the year to--i wish i knew when. if i might advise, i would recommend mr. burrell to command the fleet in the room of sir charles hardy. the fortune of the burrells is powerful enough to baffle calculation. good night, madam! p. s. i have not written to mr. conway since this day sevennight, not having a teaspoonful of news to send him. i will beg your ladyship to tell him so. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i am concerned, dear sir, that you gave yourself the trouble of transcribing the catalogue and prices, which i received last night, and for which i am exceedingly obliged to you. partial as i am to the pictures at houghton, i confess i think them much overvalued. my father's whole collection, of which alone he had preserved the prices, cost but , pounds; and after his death there were three sales of pictures, among which were all the whole-lengths of vandyke but three, which had been sent to houghton, but not fitting any of the ,spaces left, came back to town. few of the rest sold were very fine, but no doubt sir robert had paid as dear for many of them; as purchasers are not perfect connoisseurs at first. many of the valuations are not only exorbitant, but injudicious. they who made the estimate seem to have considered the rarity of the hands more than the excellence. three-the, magi's offering, by carlo maratti, as it is called, and two supposed paul veronese,-are very indifferent copies, and yet all are roundly valued, and the first ridiculously. i do not doubt of another picture in the collection but the last supper, by raphael, and yet this is set down at pounds. i miss three pictures, at least they are not set down, the sir thomas wharton, and laud and gibbons. the first is most capital; yes, i recollect i have had some doubts on the laud, though the university of oxford once offered pounds for it--and if queen henrietta is by vandyke, it is a very indifferent one. the affixing a higher value to the pietro cortona than to the octagon guido is most absurd--i have often gazed on the latter, and preferred it even to the doctor's. in short, the appraisers were determined to see what the czarina could give, rather than what the pictures were really worth--i am glad she seems to think so, for i hear no more of the sale--it is not very wise in me still to concern myself, at my age, about what i have so little interest in-it is still less wise to be so anxious on trifles, when one's country is sinking. i do not know which is most mad, my nephew, or our ministers--both the one and the other increase my veneration for the founder of houghton! i will not rob you of the prints you mention, dear sir; one of them at least i know mr. pennant gave me. i do not admire him for his punctiliousness with you. pray tell me the name of your glass-painter; i do not think i shall want him, but it is not impossible. mr. essex agreed with me, that jarvis's windows for oxford, after sir joshua reynolds, will not succeed. most of his colours are opake, and their great beauty depending on a spot of light for sun or moon, is an imposition. when his paintings are exhibited at charing-cross, all the rest of the room is darkened to relieve them. that cannot be done at new college; or if done, the chapel would be too dark. if there are other lights, the effect will be lost. this sultry weather will, i hope, quite restore you; people need not go to lisbon and naples, if we continue to have such summers. yours most sincerely. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i write from decency, dear sir, not from having any thing particular to say, but to thank you for your offer of letting me see the arms of painted glass; which, however, i will decline, lest it should be broken, and as at present i have no occasion to employ the painter. if i build my offices, perhaps i may have; but i have dropped that thought for this year. the disastrous times do not inspire expense. our alarms, i conclude, do not ruffle your hermitage. we are returning to our state of islandhood, and shall have little, i believe, to boast but of what we have been. i see a history of alien priories announced;( ) do you know any thing of it, or of the author? i am ever yours. ( ) this was mr. gough's well-known work, entitled "some account of the alien priories, and of such lands as they are known to have possessed in england and wales," in two volumes octavo.-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, friday night, . (page ) i am not at all surprised, my dear madam, at the intrepidity of mrs. damer;( ) she always was the heroic daughter of a hero. her sense and coolness never forsake her. i, who am not so firm, shuddered at your ladyship's account. now that she has stood fire for four hours, i hope she will give as clear proofs of her understanding, of which i have as high opinion as of her courage, and not return in any danger. i am to dine at ditton to-morrow, and will certainly talk on the subject you recommend; yet i am far, till i have heard more, from thinking with your ladyship, that more troops and artillery at jersey would be desirable. any considerable quantity of either, especially of the former, cannot be spared at this moment, when so big a cloud 'hangs over this island, nor would any number avail if the french should be masters at sea. a large garrison would but tempt the french thither, were it but to distress this country; and, what is worse, would encourage mr. conway to make an impracticable defence. if he is to remain in a situation so unworthy of him, i confess i had rather he was totally incapable of making any defence. i love him enough not to murmur at his exposing himself where his country and his honour demand him; but i would not have him measure himself in a place untenable against very superior force. my present comfort is, as to him, that france at this moment has a far vaster object. i have good reason to believe the government knows that a great army is ready to embark at st. maloes, but will not stir till after a sea-fight, which we do not know but may be engaged at this moment. our fleet is allowed to be the finest ever set forth by this country; but it is inferior in number by seventeen ships to the united squadron of the bourbons. france, if successful, means to pour in a vast many thousands on us, and has threatened to burn the capital itself, jersey, my dear madam, does not enter into a calculation of such magnitude. the moment is singularly awful; yet the vaunts of enemies are rarely executed successfully and ably. have we trampled america under our foot? you have too good sense, madam, to be imposed upon by my arguments, if they are insubstantial. you do know that i have had my terrors for mr. conway; but at present they are out of the question, from the insignificance of his island. do not listen to rumours, nor believe a single one till it has been canvassed over and over. fear, folly, fifty motives, will coin new reports every hour at such a conjuncture. when one is totally void of credit and power, patience is the only wisdom. i have seen dangers still more imminent. they were dispersed. nothing happens in proportion to what is meditated. fortune, whatever fortune is, is more constant than is the common notion. i do not give this as one of my solid arguments, but i have encouraged myself in being superstitious on the favourable side. i never, like most superstitious people, believe auguries against my wishes. we have been fortunate in the escape of mrs. damer, and in the defeat at jersey even before mr. conway arrived-, and thence i depend on the same future prosperity. from the authority of persons who do not reason on such airy hopes, i am seriously persuaded, that if the fleets engage, the enemy will not gain advantage without deep-felt loss, enough probably to dismay their invasion. coolness may succeed, and then negotiation. surely, if we, can weather the summer, we shall, obstinate as we are against conviction, be compelled by the want of money to relinquish our ridiculous pretensions, now proved to be utterly impracticable; for, with an inferior navy at home, can we assert sovereignty over america? it is a contradiction in, terms and in fact. it may be hard of digestion to relinquish it, but it is impossible to pursue it. adieu, my dear madam! i have not left room for a line more. ( ) the packet in which she was crossing from dover to ostend was taken by a french frigate, after a running fight of several hours. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i am writing to you at random; not knowing whether or when this letter will go: but your brother told me last night that an officer, whose name i have forgot, was arrived from jersey, and would return to you soon. i am sensible how very seldom i have written to you-but you have been few moments out of my thoughts. what they have been, you who know me so minutely may well guess, and why they do not pass my lips. sense, experience, circumstances, can teach one to command one's self. outwardly, but do not divest a most friendly heart of its feelings. i believe the state of my mind has contributed to bring on a very weak and decaying body my present disorders. i have not been well the whole summer; but for these three weeks much otherwise. it has at last ended in the gout, which to all appearance will be a short fit. on public affairs i cannot speak. every thing is so exaggerated on all sides, that what grains of truth remain in the sieve would appear cold and insipid; and the great manoeuvres you learn as soon as i. in the naval battle between byron and d'estaing, our captains were worthy of any age in our story. you may imagine how happy i am at mrs. damer's return, and at her not being at naples, as she was likely to have been, at the dreadful explosion of vesuvius.( ) surely it will have glutted sir william's rage for volcanoes! how poor lady hamilton's nerves stood it i do not conceive. oh, mankind! mankind! are there not calamities enough in store for us, but must destruction be our amusement and pursuit? i send this to ditton,( ) where it may wait some days; but i would not suffer a sure opportunity to slip without a line. you are more obliged to me for all i do not say, than for whatever eloquence itself could pen. p. s. i unseal my letter to add, that undoubtedly you will come to the meeting of parliament, which will be in october. nothing can or ever did make me advise you to take a step unworthy of yourself. but surely you have higher and more sacred duties than the government of a mole-hill! ( ) on the th of august when the eruption was so great, that several villages were destroyed; a hunting seat belonging to the king of naples, called caccia bella, shared the like fate.-e. ( ) where lord hertford had then a villa. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) you ought not to accuse yourself only, when i have been as silent as you. surely we have been friends too long to admit ceremony as a go-between. i have thought of writing to you several times, but found i had nothing worth telling you. i am rejoiced to hear your health has been better: mine has been worse the whole summer and autumn than ever it was without any positive distemper, and thence i conclude it is a failure in my constitution-of which, being a thing of course, we will say no more-nobody but a physician is bound to hear what he cannot cure-and if we will pay for what we cannot expect, it is our own fault. i have seen doctor lort, who seems pleased with becoming a limb of canterbury. i heartily wish the mitre may not devolve before it has beamed substantially on him. in the meantime he will be delighted with ransacking the library at lambeth; and, to do him justice, his ardour is literary, not interested. i am much obliged to you, dear sir, for taking the trouble of transcribing mr. tyson's journal, which is entertaining. but i am so ignorant as not to know where hatfield priory is. the three heads i remember on the gate at whitehall; there were five more. the whole demolished structure was transported to the great park at windsor, by the late duke of cumberland, who intended to re-edify it, but never did; and now i suppose its ruins ruined, as its place no more. i did not know what was become of the heads, and am glad any are preserved. i should doubt their being the works of torregiano. pray who is mr. nichols, who has published the alien priories; there are half a dozen or more pretty views of french cathedrals. i cannot say that i found any thing else in the book that amused me-but as you deal more in ancient lore than i do, perhaps you might be better pleased. i am told there is a new history of gloucestershire, very large, but ill executed, by one rudder( )--still i have sent for it, for gloucestershire is a very historic country. it was a wrong scent on which i employed you. the arms i have impaled were certainly not boleyn's. you lament removal of friends -alas! dear sir, when one lives to our age, one feels that in a higher degree than from their change of place! but one must not dilate those common moralities. you see by my date i have changed place myself. i am got into an excellent, comfortable, cheerful house; and as, from necessity and inclination, i live much more at home than i used to do, it is very agreeable to be so pleasantly lodged, and to be in a warm inn as one passes through the last vale. adieu! yours ever. ( ) "the history and antiquities of gloucestershire; comprising the topography, antiquities, curiosities, produce, trade, and manufactures of that county:" by samuel rudder, printer, cirencester, folio.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, dec. . (page ) i have two good reasons against writing: nothing to say and a lame muffled hand; and therefore i choose to write to you, for it shows remembrance. for these six weeks almost i have been a prisoner with the gout, but begin to creep about my room. how have you borne the late deluge and the present frost? how do you like an earl-bishop?( ) had not we one before in ancient days? i have not a book in town; but was not there anthony beck, or a hubert de burgh, that was bishop of durham and earl of kent, or have i confounded them? have you seen rudder's new history of gloucestershire? his additions to sir robert atkyns make it the most sensible history of a county that we have had yet; for his descriptions of the scite, soil, products, and prospects of each parish are extremely good and picturesque; and he treats fanciful prejudices, and saxon etymologies, when unfounded, and traditions, with due contempt. i will not spin this note any further, but shall be glad of a line to tell me you are well. i have not seen mr. lort since he roosted under the metropolitan wings of his grace of lambeth. yours ever. ( ) the hon. and rev, frederick hervey, bishop of derry, had just succeeded to the earldom of bristol, as fifth earl, by the death of his brother. hardy, in his memoirs of lord charlemont gives the following account of this singular man:--"his family was famous for talents, equally so for eccentricity; and the eccentricity of the whole race shone out and seemed to be concentrated in him. in one respect he was not unlike villiers duke of buckingham, 'every thing by starts, and nothing long!' generous, but uncertain; splendid, but fantastical; an admirer of the fine arts, without any just selection: engaging, often licentious in conversation- extremely polite, extremely violent. his distribution of church livings, chiefly, as i have been informed, among the older and respectable clergy in his own diocese, must always be mentioned with that warm approbation which it is justly entitled to. his progress from his diocese to the metropolis, and his entrance into it, were perfectly correspondent to the rest of his conduct. through every town on the road, he seemed to court, and was received with, all warlike honours; and i remember seeing him pass by the parliament-house in dublin (lords and commons were then both sitting), escorted by a body of dragoons, full of spirits and talk, apparently enjoying the eager gaze of the surrounding multitude, and displaying altogether the self-complacency of a favourite marshal of france on his way to versailles, rather than the grave deportment of a prelate of the church of england." he died in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) when you said that you feared that your particular account of your very providential escape would deter me from writing to you again, i am sure, dear sir, that you spoke only from modesty, and not from thinking me capable of being so criminally indifferent to any thing, much less under such danger as you have run, that regards so old a friend, and one to whom i owe so many obligations. i am but too apt to write letters on trifling or no occasion's: and should certainly have told you the interest i take in your accident, and how happy i am that it had no consequences of any sort. it is hard that temperance itself, which you are, should be punished for a good-natured transgression of your own rules, and where the excess was only staying out beyond your usual hour. i am heartily glad you did not jump out of your chaise; it has often been a much worse precaution than any consequences from risking to remain in it; as you are lame too, might have been very fatal. thank god! all ended so well. mr. masters seems to have been more frightened, with not greater reason. what an absurd man to be impatient to notify a disagreeable event to you, and in so boisterous a manner, and which he could not know was true, since it was not! i shall take extremely kind your sending me your picture in glass. i have carefully preserved the slight outline of yourself in a gown and nightcap, which you once was' so good as to give me, because there was some likeness to your features. though it is too old even now. for a portrait of me in return you might have it by sending the painter to the anatomical school, and bidding him draw the first skeleton he sees. i should expect any limner would laugh in my face if i offered it to him to be copied. i thought i had confounded the ancient count-bishops, as i had, and you have set me right. the new temporal-ecclesiastical peers estate is more than twelve thousand a year, though i can scarce believe it is eighteen, as the last lord said. the picture found near the altar in westminster-abbey, about three years ago, was of king sebert; i saw it, and it was well preserved, with some others worse--but they have foolishly buried it again behind their new altar-piece; and so they have a very fine tomb of ann of cleve, close to the altar, which they did not know till i told them whose it was, though her arms are upon it, and though there is an exact plate of it in sandford. they might at least have cut out the portraits, and removed them to a conspicuous situation; but though this age is grown so antiquarian, it has not gained a grain more of sense in that walk--witness as you instance in mr. grose's legends, and in the dean and chapter reburying the crown, robes, and sceptre of edward i.--there would surely have been as much piety in preserving them in their treasury, as in consigning them again to decay. i did not know that the salvation of robes and crowns depended on receiving christian burial. at the same time, the chapter transgress that prince's will, like all their antecessors; for he ordered his tomb to be opened every year or two years, and receive a new cerecloth or pall; but they boast now of having enclosed him so substantially that his ashes cannot be violated again. it was the present bishop dean who showed me the pictures and ann's tomb, and consulted me on the new altar-piece. i advised him to have a light octangular canopy, like the cross at chichester, placed over the table or altar itself, which would have given dignity to it, especially if elevated by a flight of steps; and from the side arches of the octacon, i would have had a semicircle of open arches that should have advanced quite to the seats of the prebends, which would have discovered the pictures; and through the octagon itself you would have perceived the shrine of edward the confessor, which is much higher than the level of the choir--but men who ask advice seldom follow it, if you do not happen to light on the same ideas with themselves. p. s. the houghton pictures are not lost-but to houghton and england!( ) ( ) they had been sold to the empress of russia in the preceding september, and immediately transferred to that country.-e. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) berkeley square, january , . (page ) it was but yesterday, sir, that i received the favour of your letter, and this morning i sent, according to your permission, to mr. sheridan the elder, to desire the manuscript of your tragedy;( ) for as i am but just recovering of a fit of the gout, which i had severely for above two months, i was not able to bear the fatigue of company at home; nor could i have had the pleasure of attending to the piece so much as i wished to do, if i had invited ladies to hear it, to whom i must have been doing the honours. i have read your play once, sir, rapidly, though alone, and therefore cannot be very particular on the details; but i can say already, with great truth, that you have made a great deal more than i thought possible out of the skeleton of a story.; and have arranged it so artfully, that unless i am deceived by being too familiar with it, it will be -very intelligible to the audience, even if they have not read the original fable; and you have had the address to make it coherent, without the marvellous, though so much depended on that part. in short, you have put my extravagant materials in an alembic, and drawn off only what was rational. your diction is very beautiful, often poetic, and yet what i admire, very simple and natural; and when necessary, rapid, concise, and sublime. if i did not distrust my own self-love, i should say that i think it must be a very interesting piece: and yet i might say so without vanity, so much of the disposition of the scenes is your own. i do not yet know, sir, what alterations you propose to make; nor do i perceive where the second and fourth acts want amendment. the first in your manuscript is imperfect. if i wished for any correction, it would be to shorten the scene in the fourth act between the countess, adelaide, and austin, which rather delays the impatience of the audience for the catastrophe, and does not contribute to it, but by the mother's orders to the daughter at the end of the scene to repair to the great church. in the last scene i should wish to have theordore fall into a transport of rage and despair immediately on the death of adelaide, and be carried off by austin's orders; for i doubt the interval is too long for him to faint after narbonne's speech. the fainting, fit, i think, might be better applied to the countess; it does not seem requisite that she should die, but the audience might be left in suspense about her. my last observations will be very trifling indeed, sir; but i think you use nobleness, niceness, etc. too often, which i doubt are not classic terminations for nobility, nicety, etc. though i allow that nobility will not always express nobleness. my children's timeless deaths can scarce be said for untimely; nor should i choose to employ children's as a plural genitive case, which i think the s at the end cannot imply. "hearted preference" is very bold for preference taken to heart. raymond, in the last scene says-- "show me thy wound--oh, hell! 'tis through her heart!" this line is quite unnecessary, and infers an obedience in displaying her wound which would be shocking; besides, as there is often a buffoon in an audience at a new tragedy, it might be received dangerously. the word "jehovah" will certainly not be suffered on the stage. in casting the parts i conclude mrs. yates, as women never cease to like acting young parts, would prefer that of adelaide, though the countess is more suitable to her age; and it is foolish to see her representing the daughter of women fifteen or twenty years younger. as my bad health seldom allows of my going to the theatre, i never saw mr. henderson but once. his person and style should recommend him to the parts of raymond or austin. smith, i suppose, would expect to be theodore; but lewis is younger, handsomer, and, i think, a better actor; but you are in the right, sir, in having no favourable idea of our stage at present. i am sorry, sir, that neither my talents nor health allow me to offer to supply you with prologue and epilogue. poetry never was my natural turn; and what little propensity i had to it, is totally extinguished by age and pain. it is honour enough to me to have furnished the canons of your tragedy; i should disgrace it by attempting to supply adventitious ornaments. the clumsiness of the seams would betray my gouty fingers. i shall take the liberty of reading your play once more before i return it. it will be extraordinary indeed if it is not accepted, but i cannot doubt but it will be, and very successful; though it will be great pity but you should have some zealous friend to attend to it, and who is able to bustle, and see justice done to it by the managers. i lament that such a superannuated being as myself is not only totally incapable of that office, but that i am utterly' unacquainted -with the managers, and now too retired to form new connexions. i was still more concerned, sir, to hear of your unhappy accident, though the bad consequences are past. ( ) now first published. ( ) mr. jephson's tragedy of the count of narbonne, founded on walpole's gothic story of the castle of otranto. it will be seen, that it was brought out, in the following year, with considerable success, at covent garden theatre. "on friday evening" says hannah more, in a letter to one of her sisters, "i went to mr. tighe's to hear him read jephson's tragedy. 'praise,' says dr. johnson, 'is a tribute which every man is expected to pay for the grant of perusing a manuscript;' and indeed i could praise without hurting my conscience, for the count of narbonne has considerable merit; the language is very poetical, and parts of the fable very interesting; the plot managed with art, and the characters well drawn. the love scenes i think are the worst: they are prettily written, and full of flowers, but are rather cold; they have more poetry than passion. i do not mean to detract from mr. jephson's merit by this remark; for it does not lessen a poet's fame to say he excels more in painting the terrible, than the tender passions."-memoirs, vol. i, p, .-e. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) i have returned your tragedy, sir, to mr. sheridan, after having read it again, and without wishing any more alterations than the few i hinted before. there may be some few incorrectnesses, but none of much consequence. i must -again applaud your art and judgment, sir, in having made so rational a play out of my wild tale - and where you have changed the arrangement of the incidents, you have applied them to great advantage the characters of the mother and daughter you have rendered more natural by giving jealousy to the mother, and more passion to the daughter. in short, you have both honoured and improved my outlines: my vanity is content, and truth enjoins me to do justice. bishop warburton, in his additional notes to pope's works, which i saw in print in his bookseller's hands, though they have not yet been published, observed that the plan of the castle of otranto was regularly a drama( ) (an intention i am sure i do not pretend to have conceived; nor, indeed, can i venture to affirm that i had any intention at all but to amuse myself--no, not even a plan, till some pages were written). you, sir, have realized his idea, and yet i believe the bishop would be surprised to see how well you have succeeded. one cannot be quite ashamed of one's follies, if genius condescends to adopt, and put them to a sensible use. miss aikin flattered me even by stooping to tread in my eccentric steps. her " fragment," though but a specimen, showed her talent for imprinting terror. i cannot compliment the author of the " old english baron," professedly written in imitation, but as a corrective of the castle of otranto. it was totally void of imagination and interest, had scarce 'any incidents, and, though it condemned the marvellous, admitted a ghost. i suppose the author thought a tame ghost might come within the laws of probability. you alone, sir, have kept within nature, and made superstition supply the place of phenomenon, yet acting as the agent of divine justice--a beautiful use of bigotry. i was mistaken in thinking the end of the first act deficient. the leaves stuck together, and, there intervening two or three blank pages between the first and second acts, i examined no farther, but concluded the former imperfect, which on the second reading i found it was not. i imagine, sir, that the theatres of dublin cannot have fewer good performers than those of london; may i ask why you prefer ours? your own directions and instructions would be of great advantage to your play; especially if you suspect antitragic prejudices in the managers. you, too, would be the best judge of the rehearsal of what might be improvements. managers will take liberties, and often curtail necessary speeches, so as to produce nonsense. methinks it is unkind to send a child, of which you have so much reason to be proud, to a foundling hospital. ( ) now first printed. ( ) bishop warburton's panegyric on the castle of otranto appears in a note to the following lines in pope's imitation of one of horace's epistles:-- "then peers grew proud in horsemanship t'excel, newmarket's glory rose as britain's fell' the soldier breathed the gallantries of france, and ev'ry flow'ry courtier writ romance." "amidst all this nonsense," says the bishop, "when things were at the worst, we have been lately entertained with what i will venture to call, a masterpiece in the fable; and of a new species likewise. the piece i mean is, the castle of otranto. the scene is laid in gothic chivalry; where a beautiful imagination, supported by strength of judgment, has enabled the author to go beyond his subject, and effect the full purpose of the ancient tragedy; that is, to purge the passions by pity and terror, in colouring as great and harmonious as in any of the best dramatic writers."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) i have been turning over the new second volume of the biographia, and find the additions very poor and lean performances. the lives entirely new are partial and flattering, being contributions of the friends of those whose lives are recorded. this publication made at a time when i have lived to see several of my contemporaries deposited in this national temple of fame has made me smile, and reflect that many preceding authors, who have been installed there with much respect, may have been as trifling personages as those we have l(nown and now behold consecrated to memory. three or four have struck me particularly, as dr. birch,( ) who was a worthy, good-natured soul, full of industry and activity, and running about like a young setting-dog in quest of any thing, new or old, and with no parts, taste, or judgment. then there is dr. blackwell,( ) the most impertinent literary coxcomb upon earth--but the editor has been so just as to insert a very merited satire on his court of augustus. the third is dr. brown, that mountebank, who for a little time made as much noise by his estimate, as ever quack did by a nostrum. i do not know if i ever told you how much i was struck the only time i ever saw him. you know one object, and the anathemas of his estimate was the italian opera; yet did i find him one evening, in passion week, accompanying some of the italian singers, at a concert at lady carlisle's. a clergyman, no doubt, is not obliged to be on his knees the whole week before easter, and music and a concert are harmless amusements; but when cato or calvin are out of character, reformation becomes ridiculous--but poor dr. brown was mad,( ) and therefore might be in earnest, whether he played the fool or the reformer. you recollect, perhaps, the threat of dr. kippis to me, which is to be executed on my father, for my calling the first edition of the biographia the vindicatio britannica--but observe how truth emerges at last! in his new volume he confesses that the article of lord arlington, which i had specified as one of the most censurable, is the one most deserving that censure, and that the character of lord arlington is palliated beyond all truth and reason"-words stronger than mine--yet mine deserved to draw vengeance on my father! so a presbyterian divine inverts divine judgment, and visits the sins of the children on the parents! cardinal beaton's character, softened in the first edition, gentle dr. kippis pronounces "extremely detestable"--yet was i to blame for hinting such defects in that work!--and yet my words are quoted to show that lord orrery's poetry was ridiculously bad. in like manner mr. cumberland, who assumes the whole honour of publishing his grandfather's lucan, and does not deign to mention its being published at strawberry hill, (though by the way i believe it will be oftener purchased for having been printed there, than for wearing mr. cumberland's name to the dedication,) and yet he quotes me for having praised his ancestor in one of my publications. these little instances of pride and spleen divert me, and then make me reflect sadly on human weaknesses. i am very apt myself to like what flatters my opinions or passions, and to reject scornfully what thwarts them, even in the same persons. the more one lives, the more one discovers one's uglinesses in the features of others! adieu! dear sir; i hope you do not suffer by this severe season. p. s. i remember two other instances, where my impartiality, or at least sincerity, have exposed me to double censure. you perhaps condemned my severity on charles the first; yet the late mr. hollis wrote against me in the newspapers, for condemning the republicans for their destruction of ancient monuments. some blamed me for undervaluing the flemish and dutch pictures in my preface to the aedes walpolianae. barry the painter, because i laughed at his extravagances, says, in his rejection of that school, "but i leave them to be admired by the hon. horace walpole, and such judges." would not one think i had been their champion! ( ) see vol. i. p. , letter .-e. ( ) dr. thomas blackwell, principal of the marischal college in aberdeen. besides the above work, he wrote "an enquiry into the life and writings of homer," and "letters concerning mythology." he died in . ( ) in september, , he destroyed himself in a fit of insanity. see vol. ii. p. , letter , note .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) unapt as you are to inquire after news, dear sir, you wish to have admiral rodney's victory confirmed.( ) i can now assure you, that he has had a considerable advantage, and took at least four spanish men-of-war, and an admiral, who they say is since dead of his wounds. we must be glad of these deplorable successes--but i heartily wish we had no longer occasion to hope for the destruction of any of our species but, alas! it looks as if devastation would still open new fields of blood! the prospect darkens even at home--but, however you and i may differ in our political principles, it would be happy. if every body would pursue others with as little rancour. how seldom does it happen in political contests, that any side can count any thing but its wounds! your habitudes seclude you from meddling in our divisions; so do my age and my illnesses me. sixty-two is not a season for bustling among young partisans. indeed, if the times grow perfectly serious, i shall not wish to reach sixty-three. even a superannuated spectator is then a miserable being; for though insensibility is one of the softenings of old age, neither one's feelings nor enjoyments can be accompanied with tranquillity. we veterans must hide ourselves in inglorious security, and lament what we cannot prevent; nor shall be listened to, till misfortunes have brought the actors to their senses; and then it will be too late, or they will calm themselves faster than they could preach--but i hope the experience of the last century will have some operation and check our animosities. surely, too, we shall recollect the ruin a civil war would bring on, when accompanied by such collaterals as french and spanish wars. providence alone can steer us amidst all these rocks. i shall watch the interposition of its aegis with anxiety and humility. it saved us this last summer, and nothing else i am sure did; but often the mutual follies of enemies are the instruments of heaven. if it pleases not to inspire wisdom, i shall be content if it extricates us by the reciprocal blunders and oversights of all parties--of which, at least, we ought never to despair. it is almost my systematic belief, that as cunning and penetration are seldom exerted for good ends, it is the absurdity of mankind that often acts as a succedaneum, and carries on and maintains the equilibrium that heaven designed should subsist. adieu, dear sir! shall we live to lay down our heads in peace? yours ever. th.--a second volume of sir george rodney's exploits arrived to-day. i do not know the authentic circumstances, for i have not been abroad yet, but they say he has taken four more spanish ships of the line and five frigates; of the former, one of ninety guns. spain was sick of the war before--how fortunate if she would renounce it! i have just got a new history of leicester, in six small volumes. it seems to be superficial; but the author is young, and talks modestly which, if it will not serve instead of merit, makes one at least hope he will improve, and not grow insolent on age and more knowledge. i have also received from paris a copy of an illumination from la cit`e des dames of christina of pisa, in the french king's library. there is her own portrait with three allegoric figures. i have learnt much more about her, and of her amour with an english peer;( ) but i have not time to say more at present. ( ) admiral sir george rodney, who had been despatched to the relief of gibraltar, the garrison of which was much distressed for provisions, after taking a convoy of spanish ships bound to the caraccas, fell in, on the th of february off cape st. vincent, with the spanish fleet, commanded by don juan langara, which he defeated, and captured four sail of the line.-e. ( ) john montacute, earl of salisbury; who arriving in paris, as ambassador from richard ii. to demand in marriage the princess isabel, daughter of charles v., soon after the death of castel, the husband of christine, was so struck with her beauty and accomplishments as to offer her his hand. this christine respectfully declined; upon which the earl bade adieu to love, renounced marriage, and, with her consent, brought her eldest son with him to england, to educate and protect.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, march , . (page ) i have this moment received your portrait in glass, dear sir, and am impatient to thank you for it, and tell you how much i value it. it is better executed than i own i expected, and yet i am not quite satisfied with it. the drawing is a little incorrect, the eyes too small in proportion, and the mouth exaggerated. in short, it is a strong likeness of your features, but not of your countenance, which is better, and more serene. however, i am enough content to place it at strawberry amongst all my favourite, brittle, transitory relics, which will soon vanish with their founder--and with his no great unwillingness for himself. i take it ill, that you should think i should suspect you of asking indirectly for my noble authors-and much more if you would not be so free as to ask for them directly-a most trifling present surely--and from you who have made me a thousand! i know i have some copies in my old house in arlington-street, i hope of both volumes, i am sure of the second. i will soon go thither and look for them. i have gone through the six volumes of leicester. the author is so modest and so humble, that i am quite sorry it is so very bad a work; the arrangement detestable, the materials trifling, his reflections humane but silly. he disposes all under reigns of roman emperors and english kings, whether they did any thing or nothing at leicester. i am sorry i have such predilection for the histories of particular counties and towns: there certainly does not exist a worse class of reading. dr. e. made me a visit last week. he is not at all less vociferous for his disgrace. i wish i had any guinea-fowls. i can easily get you some eggs from lady ailesbury, and will ask her for some, that you may have the pleasure of rearing your own chicks--but how can you bear their noise? they are more discordant and clamorous than peacocks. how shall i convey the eggs? i smiled at dr. kippis's bestowing the victory on dean milles, and a sprig on mr. masters. i regard it as i should, if the sexton of broad street st. giles's were to make a lower bow to a cheese-monger of his own parish than to me. they are all three haberdashers of small wares, and welcome to each other's civilities. when such men are summoned to a jury on one of their own trade, it is natural they should be partial. they do not reason, but recollect how much themselves have overcharged some yards of buckram. adieu! p. s. mr. pennicott has shown me a most curious and delightful picture. it is rose, the royal gardener, presenting the first pine-apple ever raised in england to charles ii. they are in a garden, with a view of a good private house, such as there are several at sunbury and about london. it is by far the best likeness of the king i ever saw; the countenance cheerful, good-humoured, and very sensible. he is in brown, lined with orange, and many black ribands, a large flapped hat, dark wig, not tied up, nor yet bushy, a point cravat, no waistcoat, and a tasselled handkerchief, hanging from a low pocket. the whole is of the smaller landscape size, and extremely well coloured, with perfect harmony. \it was a legacy from london, grandson of him who was partner with wise. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, march , .(page ) you compliment me, my good friend, on a sagacity that is surely very common. how frequently do we see portraits that have catched the features and missed the countenance or character, which is far more difficult to hit; nor is it unfrequent to hear that remark made. i have confessed to you that i am fond of local histories. it is the general execution of them that i condemn, and that i call "the worst kind of reading." i cannot comprehend but that they might be performed with taste. i did mention this winter the new edition of atkyns's gloucestershire, as having additional descriptions of situations that i thought had merit. i have just got another, a view of northumberland, in two volumes, quarto, with cuts;( ) but i do not devour it fast; for the author's predilection is to roman antiquities, which, such as are found in this island, are very indifferent, and inspire me with little curiosity. a barbarous country, so remote from the seat of empire, and occupied by a few legions that very rarely decided any great events, is not very interesting, though one's own country; nor do i care a straw for a stone that preserves the name of a standard-bearer of a cohort, or of a colonel's daughter. then i have no patience to read the tiresome disputes of antiquaries to settle forgotten names of vanished towns, and to prove that such a village was called something else in antoninus's itinerary. i do not say the gothic antiquities i like are of more importance; but at least they exist. the site of a roman camp, of which nothing remains but a bank, gives me not the smallest pleasure. one knows they had square camps-has one a clearer idea from the spot, which is barely distinguishable? how often does it happen, that the lumps of earth are so imperfect, that it is never clear whether they are roman, druidic, danish, or saxon fragments: the moment it is uncertain, it is plain they furnish no specific idea of art or history, and then i neither desire to see or read them. i have been diverted, too, by another work, in which i am personally a little concerned. yesterday was published an octavo, pretending to contain the correspondence of hackman and miss ray, that he murdered.( ) i doubt whether the letters are genuine; and yet, if fictitious, they are executed well, and enter into his character: hers appears less natural, and yet the editors were certainly more likely to be in the possession of hers than his. it is not probable that lord sandwich should have sent what he found in her apartments to the press. no account is pretended to be given of how they came to light. you will wonder how i should be concerned in this correspondence, who never saw either of the lovers in my days. in fact, my being dragged in is a reason for doubting the authenticity; nor can i believe that the long letter in which i am frequently mentioned could be written by the wretched lunatic. it pretends that miss ray desired him to give her a particular account of chatterton. he does give a most ample one; but is there a glimpse of probability that a being so frantic should have gone to bristol, and sifted chatterton's sister and others with as much cool curiosity as mr. lort could do? and at such a moment! besides, he murdered miss ray, i think, in march; my printed defence was not at all dispersed before the preceding january or february, nor do i conceive that hackman could even see it. there are notes, indeed, by the editor, who has certainly seen it; but i rather imagine that the editor, whoever he is, composed the whole volume. i am acquitted of' being accessory to the man's death, which is gracious; but much blamed for speaking of his bad character, and for being too hard on his forgeries, though i took so much pains to specify the innocence of them; and for his character, i only quoted the words of his own editor and panegyrist. i did not repeat what dr. goldsmith told me at the royal academy, where i first heard of his death, that he went by the appellation of the "young villain;" but it is not new to me, as you know, to be blamed by two opposite parties. the editor has in one place confounded me and my uncle; who, he says, as is true, checked lord chatham for being too forward a young man in . in that year i was not even come into parliament; and must have been absurd indeed if i had taunted lord chatham with youth, who was, at least, six or seven years younger than he was; and how could he reply by reproaching me with old age, who was then not twenty-three? i shall make no answer to these absurdities, nor to any part of the work. blunder, i see, people will, and talk of what they do not understand @ and what care i? there is another trifling mistake of still less consequence. the editor supposes it was macpherson who communicated ossian to me. it was sir david dalrymple who sent me the first specimen.( ) macpherson did once come to me, but my credulity was then a little shaken. lady ailesbury has promised me guinea-eggs for you, but they have not yet begun to lay i am well acquainted with lady craven's little tale, dedicated to me.( ) it is careless and incorrect, but there are very pretty things in it. i will stop, for i fear i have written to you too much lately. one you did not mention: i think it was of the th of last month. ( ) "a view of northumberland; with an excursion to the abbey of melrose, scotland, in the year ;" by william hutchinson, f. a. s. two volumes to.; - .-e. ( ) the work here alluded to was written by sir herbert croft, bart. it was a compound of fact and fiction called "love and madness, a story too true, in a series of letters between parties, whose names would, perhaps, be mentioned, were they less known or less lamented. london, ." the work ran through several editions. in , sir herbert published, "chatterton and love and madness, in a letter from sir herbert croft to mr. nichols." boswell says, that dr. johnson greatly disapproved of mingling real facts with fiction, and on this account censured "love and madness."-e. ( ) see vol. iii. p. , letter , note .-e. ( ) entitled "the miniature picture."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, march , . (page ) i cannot be told that you are extremely ill, and refrain from begging to hear that you are better. let me have but one line; if it is good, 'it will satisfy me. if you was not out of order, i would scold you for again making excuses about the noble authors; it was not kind to be so formal about a trifle. we do not differ so much in politics as you think, for when they grow too serious, they are so far from inflaming my zeal, they make me more moderate: and i can as easily discern the faults on my own side as on the other; nor would assist whigs more than tories in altering the constitution. the project of annual parliaments, or of adding a hundred members to the house of commons would, i think, be very unwise, and will never have my approbation--but a temperate man is not likely to be listened to in turbulent times; and when one has not youth and lungs, or ambition, to make oneself attended to, one can only be silent and lament, and preserve oneself blameless of any mischief that is done or attempted. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, may , . (page ) mr. godfrey, the engraver, told me yesterday that mr. tyson is dead.( ) i am sorry for it, though he had left me off. a much older friend of mine died yesterday; but of whom i must say the same, george montagu, whom you must remember at eton and cambridge. i should have been exceedingly concerned for him a few years ago but he had dropped me, partly from politics and partly from caprice, for we never had any quarrel; but he was grown an excessive humourist, and had shed almost all his friends as well as me. he had parts, and infinite vivacity and originality till of late years; and it grieved me much that he had changed towards me, after a friendship of between thirty and forty years. i am told that a nephew of the provost of king's has preached and printed a most flaming sermon, which condemns the whole opposition to the stake. pray who is it, and on what occasion? mr. bryant has published an answer to dr. priestley.( ) i bought it, but though i have a great value for the author, the subject is so metaphysical, and so above human decision, i soon laid it aside. i hope you can send me a good account of yourself, though the spring is so unfavourable. yours most sincerely. ( ) mr. cole, in a letter of the th, says, "the loss of poor mr. tyson shocked and afflicted me more than i thought it possible i could have been afflicted: since the loss of mr. gray, i have lamented no one so much. god rest his soul! i hope he is happy; and, was it not for those he has left behind, i am so much of a philosopher, now the affair is over, i would prefer the exchange."-e. ( ) it was entitled "an address to dr. priestley upon his doctrine of philosophical necessity illustrated."-e. @letter to the rev. mr. cole. friday night, may , . (page ) by tomorrow's coach you will receive a box of guinea-hens' eggs, which lady ailesbury sent me to-day from park-place. i hope they will arrive safe and all be hatched. i thank you for the account of the sermon and the portrait of the uncle. they will satisfy me without buying the former. as i knew mr. joseph spence,( ) i do not think i should have been so much delighted as dr. kippis with reading his letters. he was a good-natured, harmless little soul, but more like a silver penny than a genius. it was a neat, fiddle-faddle, bit of sterling, that had read good books and kept good company, but was too trifling for use, and only fit to please a child. i hesitate on purchasing mr. gough's second edition. i do not think there was a guinea's worth of entertainment in the first; how can the additions be worth a guinea and a half? i have been aware of the royal author you tell me of, and have noted him for a future edition; but that will not appear in my own time; because, besides that, it will have the castrations in my original copy, and other editions, that i am not impatient to produce. i have been solicited to reprint the work, but do not think it fair to give a very imperfect edition when i could print it complete, which i do not choose to do, as i have an aversion to literary squabbles: one seems to think one's self too important when one engages in a controversy on one's writings; and when one does not vindicate them, the answerer passes for victor, as you see dr. kippis allots the palm to dr. milles, though you know i have so much more to say in defence of my hypothesis. i have actually some hopes of still more, of which i have heard, but till i see it, i shall not reckon upon it as on my side. mr. lort told me of king james's procession to st. paul's; but they ask such a price for it, and i care so little for james i., that i have not been to look at the picture. your electioneering will probably be increased immediately. old mr. thomas townshend is at the point of death.( ) the parliament will probably be dissolved before another session. we wanted nothing but drink to inflame our madness, which i do not confine to politics; but what signifies it to throw out general censures? we old folks are apt to think nobody wise but ourselves. i wish the disgraces of these last two or three years did not justify a little severity more than flows from the peevishness of years! yours ever. ( ) see vol. i. p, , letter .-e. ( ) the right hon. thomas townshend, son of charles second viscount townshend, many years member for the university of cambridge. he died a few days after the date of this letter. he was a most elegant scholar, and lived in acquaintance and familiarity with most of the considerable men of his time. in early life he entered into the secretary of state's office under his father, whom he accompanied in his journeys to germany with george the first and second. at the time of his death he was in his seventy-ninth year.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, may , . (page ) i hope you will bring your eggs to a fair market. at last i have got from bonus my altar-doors which i bought at mr. ives's; he has repaired them admirably. i would not suffer him to repaint or varnish them. there are indubitably duke humphrey of gloucester, cardinal beaufort, and archbishop kemp. the fourth i cannot make out. it is a man in a crimson garment lined with white, and not tonsured. he is in the stable with cattle, and has the air of joseph; but over his head hangs a large shield with these arms. * * *( ) the cornish choughs are sable on or; the other three divisions are gules, on the first of which is a gold crescent. the second arms have three bulls' heads sable, horned or. the chevron was so changed that bonus thought it sable; but i think it was gules, and then it would be bullen or boleyn. lord de ferrars says, that the first are the arms of sir bartholomew tate, who he finds married a sanders. edmondson's new dictionary of heraldry confirms both arms for tate and sanders, except that sanders bore the chevron erminc, which it may have been. but what i wish to discover is, whether sir bartholomew tate was a benefactor to st. edmundsbury, whence these doors came, or was in any shape a retainer to the duke of gloucester or cardinal beaufort. the duke's and sir bartholomew's figures were on the insides of the doors (which i have had sawed into four panels,) and are painted in a far superior style to the cardinal and the archbishop, which are very hard and dry. the two others are so good that they are in the style of the school of the caracci. they at least were painted by some italian; the draperies have large and bold folds, and one wonders how they could be executed in the reign of henry vi. i shall be very glad if you can help me to any lights, at least about sir bartholomew. i intend to place them in my chapel, as they will aptly accompany the shrine. the duke and archbishop's agree perfectly with their portraits in my marriage of henry vi., and prove how rightly i guessed. the cardinal's is rather a longer and thinner visage, but that he might have in the latter end of life; and in the marriage he has the red bonnet on, which shortens his face. on the door he is represented in the character he ought to have possessed, a pious, contrite look, not the truer resemblance which shakspeare drew-- "he dies, and makes no sign!"--but annibal caracci himself could not paint like our raphael poet! pray don't venture yourself in any more electioneering riots: you see the mob do not respect poets, nor, i suppose, antiquaries. p. s. i am in no haste for an answer to my queries. ( ) here mr. walpole had sketched in a rough draught of the arms. letter to mrs. abington.( ) strawberry hill, june , . (page ) madam, you may certainly always command me and my house. my common custom is to give a ticket for only four persons at a time but it would be very insolent in me, when all laws are set at nought, to pretend to prescribe rules. at such times there is a shadow of authority in setting the laws aside by the legislature itself; and though i have no army to supply their place, i declare mrs. abington may march through all my dominions at the head of as large a troop as she pleases. i do not say, as she can muster and command; for then i am sure my house would not hold them. the day, too, is at her own choice; and the master is her very obedient humble servant. ( ) now first printed. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) my dear lord, if the late events had been within the common proportion of news, i would have tried to entertain your lordship with an account of them; but they were far beyond that size, and could only create horror and indignation. religion has often been the cloak of injustice, outrage, and villany: in our late tumults,( ) it scarce kept on its mask a moment; its persecution was downright robbery; and it was so drunk that it killed its banditti faster than they could plunder. the tumults have been carried on in so violent and scandalous a manner, that i trust they will have no copies. when prisons are levelled to the ground, when the bank is aimed at, and reformation is attempted by conflagrations, the savages of canada are the only fit allies of lord george gordon( ) and his crew. the tower is much too dignified a prison for him-but he had left no other. i came out of town on friday, having seen a good deal of the shocking transactions of wednesday night--in fact, it was difficult to be in london, and not to see or think some part of it in flames. i saw those of the king's bench, new prison, and those on the three sides of the fleet-market, which turned into one blaze.( ) the town and parks are now one camp--the next disagreeable sight to the capital being in ashes. it will still not have been a fatal tragedy, if it brings the nation one and all to their senses. it will still be not quite an unhappy country, if we reflect that the old constitution, exactly as it was in the last reign, was the most desirable of any in the universe. it made us then the first people in europe--we have a vast deal of ground to recover--but can we take a better path than that which king william pointed out to us? i mean the system he left us at the revolution. i am averse to all changes of it--it fitted us just as it was. for some time even individuals must be upon their guard. our new and now imprisoned apostle has delivered so many saint peters from gaol, that one hears of nothing but robberies on the highway. your lordship's sister, lady browne, and i have been at twickenham-park this evening, and kept together, and had a horseman at our return. baron d'aguilar was shot at in that very lane on thursday night. a troop of the fugitives had rendezvoused in combe wood, and were dislodged thence yesterday by the light horse. i do not know a syllable but what relates to these disturbances. the newspapers have neglected few truths. lies, without their natural propensity to falsehoods, they could not avoid, for every minute produces some, at least exaggerations. we were threatened with swarms of good protestants `a br`uler from all quarters, and report sent various detachments on similar errands; but thank god they have been but reports! oh! when shall we have peace and tranquility? i hope your lordship and lady strafford will at least enjoy the latter in your charming woods. i have long doubted which of our passions is the strongest--perhaps every one of them is equally strong in some person or other-but i have no doubt but ambition is the most detestable, and the most inexcusable; for its mischiefs are by far the most extensive, and its enjoyments by no means proportioned to its anxieties. the latter, i believe, is the case of most passions--but then all but ambition cost little pain to any but the possessor. an ambitious man must be divested of all feeling but for himself. the torment of others is his high-road to happiness. were the transmigration of souls true, and accompanied by consciousness, how delighted would alexander or croesus be to find themselves on four legs, and divested of a wish to conquer new worlds, or to heap up all the wealth of this! adieu, my dear lord! ( ) the riots of , when lord george gordon raised a no-popery cry, and assembled many thousand persons in st. george's fields, to accompany him to the house of commons, with a petition for the repeal of the act passed for the relief of the roman catholics in the preceding session. the petition was, of course, rejected; which being communicated to the mob by lord george, they dispersed for a while, but on that evening commenced their work of mischief, destroying two catholic chapels in duke-street and warwick-street: newgate and all the other prisons were likewise fired; the bank was attempted; and the riot was not quelled until persons were killed and wounded, of whom seventy-five died in the hospitals. lord george was committed to the tower; and many of the ringleaders, after being tried by special commissioners, suffered the extreme penalty of the law.-e. ( ) lord george gordon was brother of alexander duke of gordon. he was considered not to be at all times of sound mind. some years after his acquittal, on the indictment preferred against him in the court of king's bench as instigator of the riots, he was convicted of a libel on marie antoinette and count d'ademar, one of the french ministry. to avoid punishment, he fled the country; but shortly afterwards was discovered at birmingham in the garb of a jew, and committed to newgate, pursuant to his sentence, where he lived some time, professing the jewish religion, having undergone the extreme rites of it, and where he died, in november .-e. ( ) in her reply to a letter from walpole, giving an account of these riots, madame du deffand says--"rien n'est plus affreux que tout ce qui arrive chez vous. votre libert`e ne me s`eduit point; cette libert`e tant vant`ee me paroit bien plus on`ereuse que notre esclavage; mais il ne m'appartient pas de traitor de telles mati`eres: permettez-moi de bl`amer votre indiscr`etion, de vous aller promener dans les rues pendant ce vacarme."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) you may like to know one is alive, dear sir, after a massacre, and the conflagration of a capital. i was in it, both on the friday and on the black wednesday; the most horrible sight i ever beheld, and which, for six hours together, i expected to end in half the town being reduced to ashes. i can give you little account of the original of this shocking affair; negligence was certainly its nurse, and religion only its godmother. the ostensible author is in the tower. twelve or fourteen thousand men have quelled all tumults; and as no bad account is come from the country, except for a moment at bath, and as eight days have passed,--nay, more, since the commencement, i flatter myself the whole nation is shocked at the scene; and that, if plan there was, it was laid only in and for the metropolis. the lowest and most villanous of the people, and to no great amount, were almost the sole actors. /i hope your electioneering riotry( ) has not, nor will mix in these tumults. it would be most absurd; for lord rockingham, the duke of richmond, sir george saville, and mr. burke, the patrons of toleration, were devoted to destruction as much as the ministers. the rails torn from sir george's house were the chief weapons and instruments of the mob. for the honour of the nation i should be glad to have it proved that the french were the engineers. you and i have lived too long for our comfort--shall we close our eyes in peace? i will not trouble you more about the arms i sent you: i should like that they were those of the family of boleyn; and since i cannot be sure they were not, why should not i fancy them so? i revert to the prayer for peace. you and i, that can amuse ourselves with our books and papers, feel as much indignation at the turbulent as they have scorn for us. it is hard at least that they who disturb nobody can have no asylum in which to pursue their innoxious indolence who is secure against jack straw and a whirlwind? how i abominate mr. banks and dr. solander, who routed the poor otaheitans out of the centre of the ocean, and carried our abominable passions amongst them! not even that poor little specie could escape european restlessness. well, i have seen many tempestuous scenes, and outlived them! the present prospect is too thick to see through- -it is well hope never forsakes us. adieu! ( ) of the "electioneering riotry" going on at this time in cambridgeshire, mr. cole, in a letter of the th of may, gives the following account:--"electioneering madness and faction have inflamed this country to such a degree, that the peace it has enjoyed for above half a century may take as long a time before it returns again. yesterday, the three candidates were nominated; the duke of rutland's brother, the late mr. charles yorke's son, and sir sampson gideon, whose expenses for this month have been enormous, beyond all belief. sending my servant on a particular message to sir sampson, he found him in bed, not well, and probably half asleep; for he not only wrote the direction to two covers which i sent him, but sealed them both, though they were only covers. i wonder, indeed, that he is alive, considering the immense fatigue and necessary drinking he must undergo--a miserable hard task to get into parliament!" the contest terminated in the return of lord robert manners, who died, in april , of the wounds he received in the great sea-fight in the west indies; and of mr. philip yorke, who, in , succeeded his uncle as earl of hardwicke.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i answer your letter the moment i receive it, to beg you will by no means take any notice, not even in directly and without my name, of the life of mr. baker. i am earnest against its being known to exist. i should be teased to show it. mr. gough might inquire about it--i do not desire his acquaintance; and above all am determined, if i can help it, to have no controversy while i live. you know i have hitherto suppressed my answers to the critics of richard iii. for that reason; and above all things, i hate theologic or political controversy-nor need you fear my disputing with you, though we disagree very considerably indeed about papist's and presbyterians. i hope you have not yet sent the manuscript to mr. lort, and if you have not, do entreat you to deface undecipherably what you have said about my life of mr. baker. pray satisfy me that no mention of it shall appear in print. i can by no means consent to it, and i am sure you will prevent it. yours sincerely. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i am very happy at receiving a letter from your lordship this moment, as i thought it very long since we had corresponded, but am afraid of being troublesome, when i have not the excuse of thanking you, or something worth telling you, which in truth is not the case at present. no soul, whether interested or not, but deafens one about elections. i always detested them, even when in parliament; and when i lived a good deal at white's, preferred hearing of newmarket to elections; for the former, being uttered in a language i did not understand, did not engage my attention; but as they talked of elections in english, i could not help knowing what they said. it does surprise me, i own, that people can choose to stuff their heads with details and circumstances. of which in six weeks they will never hear or think more. the weather till now has been the chief topic of conversation. of late it has been the third very hot summer; but refreshed by so little rain, that the banks of the thames have been and are, i believe, like those of the manzanares. the night before last we had some good showers, and to-day a thick fog has dissolved in some as thin as gauze. still i am not quite sorry to enjoy the weather of adust climates without their tempests and insects. lady cowper i lately visited, and but lately: if what i hear is true, i shall be a gainer, for they talk of lord duncannon having her house at richmond: like your lordship, i confess i was surprised at his choice. i know nothing to the prejudice of the young lady;( ) but i should not have selected, for so gentle and very amiable a man, a sister of the empress of fashion,( ) nor a daughter of the goddess of wisdom.( ) they talk of great disssatisfactions in the fleet. geary and barrington are certainly retired. it looks, if this deplorable war should continue, as if all our commanders by sea and land were to be disgraced or disgusted. the people here have christened mr. shirley's new house, spite-hall.( ) it is dismal to think that one may live to seventy-seven, and go out of the world doing as ill-natured an act as possible! when i am reduced to detail the gazette of twickenham, i had better release your lordship; but either way it is from the utmost attention and respect for your lordship and lady strafford, as i am ever most devotedly and gratefully yours. ( ) in the following november, lord duncannon married henrietta-frances, second daughter of john first earl spencer.-e. ( ) georgiana, eldest daughter of john first earl spencer; married, in , to the duke of devonshire.-e. ( ) margaret-georgiana, daughter of the right hon. stephen poyntz; married, in , to john first earl spencer.-e. ( ) because built, it was said, on purpose to intercept a view of the thames from his opposite neighbour. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) dear sir, i must inquire how you do after all your election agitations, which have growled even around your hermitage. candidates and their emissaries are like pope's authors, "they pierce our thickets, through our groves they glide." however, i have barred my doors; and when i would not go to an election for myself, i would not for any one else. has not a third real summer, and so very dry one, assisted your complaints? i have been remarkably well, and better than for these five years. would i could say the same of all my friends-- but, alas! i expect every day to hear that i have lost my dear old friend madame du deffand.( ) she was indeed near eighty-four, but retained all her interior faculties--two days ago the letters from paris forbade all hopes. so i reckon myself dead as to france, where i have kept up no other connexion. i am going at last to publish my fourth volume of painters, which, though printed so long, i have literally treated by horace's rule, "nonumque prematur in nonum." tell me how i shall send it to you. yours ever. ( ) in the last letter madame du deffand ever wrote to walpole, dated the d of august, she thus describes her situation:--"je vous mandai dans ma derni`ere que je ne me portais pas bien; c'cst encore pis aujourd'hui. je suis d'une faiblesse et d'un abattement excessifs; ma voix est `eteinte, je ne puis me soutenir sur mes jambes, je ne puis me donner aucun mouvement, j'ai le coeur envolopp`e; j'ai de la peine `a croire que cet `etat ne m'annonce une fin prochaine. je n'ai pas la force d'en `etre effray`ee; et, ne vous devant revoir de ma vie, je n'a rien `a regretter. divertissez-vous, mon ami, le plus que vous pourrez; ne vous affligez point de mon `etat; nous `etions presque perdus l'un pour l'autre; nous ne nous devions jamais revoir! vous me regretterez, parce qu'on est bien-aise de se savoir aim`e. peut-`etre que par la suite wiart vous mandera de mes nouvelles; c'est une fatigue pour moi de dicter." from this day she kept her bed. on the th of september mr. walpole had written to her, expressing his great anxiety for her. to his inquiries she was unable to dictate an answer. her anteroom continued every day crowded with the persons who had before surrounded her supper-table. her weakness became excessive; but she suffered no pain, and possessed her memory, understanding, and ideas till within the last eight days of her existence, when a lethargic insensibility took which terminated in death, without effort or struggle, on the th of september. she was buried, according to her own direction, in the plainest manner, in her parish church of st. sulpice. to mr. walpole she bequeathed the whole of her manuscripts, papers, letters, and books, of every description; with a permission to the prince of beauvau to take a copy of any of the papers he might desire.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, oct. , . (page ) i did not go to malvern, and therefore cannot certify you, my good sir, whether tom hearne mistook stone for brass or not, though i dare to say your criticism is just. my book, if i can possibly, shall go to the inn to-morrow, or next day at least. you will find a great deal of rubbish in it, with all your partiality--but i shall have done with it. i cannot thank you enough for your goodness about your notes that you promised mr. grose; but i cannot possibly be less generous and less disinterested, nor can by any means be the cause of your breaking your word. in short, i insist on your sending your notes to him--and as to my life of mr. baker, if it is known to exist, nobody can make me produce it sooner than i please, nor at all if i do not please; so pray send your accounts, and leave me to be stout with our antiquaries, or curious. i shall not satisfy the latter, and don't care a straw for the former. the master of pembroke (who he is, i don't know( )) is like the lover who said, "have i not seen thee where thou hast not been?" i have been in kent with mr. barrett, but was not at ramsgate; the master, going thither, perhaps saw me. it is a mistake not worth rectifying. i have no time for more, being in the midst of the delivery of my books. yours ever. ( ) dr. james brown; see ante, p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) i am afraid you are not well, my good sir; for you are so obligingly punctual, that i think you would have acknowledged the receipt of my last volume, if you were not out of order. lord dacre lent me the new edition of mr. gough's topography, and the ancient maps and quantity of additions tempted me to buy it. i have not gone through much above the half of the first volume, and find it more entertaining than the first edition. this is no partiality; for i think he seems rather disposed, though civilly, to find cavils with me. indeed, in the passage in which i am most mentioned, he not only gives a very confused, but quite a wrong account: as in other places, he records some trifles in my possession not worth recording--but i know that we antiquaries are but too apt to think, that whatever has had the honour of entering our ears, is worthy of being laid before the eyes of every body else. the story i mean is p. ix. of the preface. now the three volumes of drawings and tombs, by mr. lethueillier and sir charles frederick, for which mr. gough says i refused two hundred pounds, are now lord bute's, are not lord bute's, but mine, and for which i never was offered two hundred pounds, and for which i gave sixty pounds--full enough. the circumstances were much more entertaining than mr. g.'s perplexed account. bishop lyttelton told me sir charles frederick complained of mr. l.'s not bequeathing them to him, as he had been a joint labourer with him; and that sir charles wished i would not bid against him for them, as they were to be sold by auction. i said this was a very reasonable request, and that i was ready to oblige sir charles; but as i heard others meant to bid high for the books, i should wish to know how far he would go, and that i would not oppose him; but should the books exceed the price sir charles was willing to give, i should like to be at liberty to bid for them against others. however, added i, as sir charles (who lived then in berkelyey-square, as i did then in arlington-street,) passes by my door every time he goes to the house of commons, if he will call on me, we will make such agreement. you will scarce believe the sequel. the dignity of sir charles frederick was hurt that i should propose his making me the first visit, though to serve himself--nothing could be more out of my imagination than the ceremonial of visits; though when he was so simple as to make a point of it, i could not see how in any light i was called on to make the first visit--and so the treaty ended; and so i bought the books. there was another work, i think in two volumes, which was their diary of their tour, with a few slight views. bishop lyttelton proposed them to me, and engaged to get them for me from mr. lethueillier's sister for ten guineas. she hesitated, the bishop died, i thought no more of them, and they may be what lord bute has. there is another assertion in mr. gough, which i can authentically contradict. he says sir matthew decker first introduced ananas, p. . my very curious picture of rose, the royal gardener, presenting the first ananas to charles ii. proves the culture here earlier by several years. at page , he seems to doubt my assertion of gravelot's making drawings of tombs in gloucestershire, because he never met with any engravings from them. i took my account from vertue, who certainly knew what he said. i bought at vertue's own sale some of gravelot's drawings of our regal monuments, which vertue engraved: but, which is stronger, mr. gough himself a few pages after, viz. in p. , mentions gravelot's drawing of tewkesbury church; which being in gloucestershire, mr. g. might have believed me that gravelot did draw in that county. this is a little like mr. masters's being angry with me for taking liberties with bishops and chancellors, and then abusing grossly one who had been both bishop and chancellor. i forgot that in the note on sir charles frederick, mr. gough calls mr. worseley, wortley. in page , he says rooker exhibited a drawing of waltham-cross to the royal academy of sciences--pray where is that academy? i suppose he means that of painting. i find a few omissions; one very comical; he says penshurst was celebrated by ben jonson, and seems perfectly in the dark as to how much more fame it owes to waller. we antiquaries are a little apt to get laughed at for knowing what every body has forgotten, and for being ignorant of what every child knows. do not tell him of these things, for i do not wish to vex him. i hope i was mistaken, and shall hear that you are well. yours ever. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) i am sorry i was so much in the right in guessing you had been ill, but at our age there is little sagacity in such divination. in my present holidays from the gout, i have a little rheumatism, or some of those accompaniments. i have made several more notes to the new topography, but none of consequence enough to transcribe. it is well it is a book only for the adept, or the scorners would often laugh. mr. gough speaking of some cross that has been removed, says, there is now an unmeaning market-house in its place. saving his reverence and our prejudices, i doubt there is a good deal more meaning in a market-house than in a cross. they tell me that there are numberless mistakes. mr. pennant, whom i saw yesterday, says so. he is not one of our plodders; rather the other extreme. his corporal spirits (for i cannot call them animal) do not allow him time to digest any thing. he gave a round jump from ornithology to antiquity; and, as if they had any relation, thought he understood every thing between them. these adventures divert me who am got on shore, and find how sweet it is to look back on those who are toiling in deep waters, whether in ships, or cock-boats, or on old rotten planks. i am sorry for the dean of exeter; if he dies, i conclude the leaden mace of the antiquarian society will be given to judge barrington,( ) et simili frondescet virga metallo." i endeavoured to give our antiquaries a little wrench towards taste--but it was in vain. sandby and our engravers have lent them a great deal--but there it stops. captain grose's dissertations are as dull and silly as if they were written for the ostrogoth maps of the beginning of the new topography: and which are so square and incomprehensible, that they look as if they were ichnographics of the new jerusalem. i am delighted with having done with the professions of author and printer, and intend to be most comfortably lazy, i was going to say idle (but that would not be new) for the rest of my days. if there was a peace, i would build my offices--if there is not soon, we shall be bankrupt--nay, i do not know what may happen as it is. well! mr. grose will have plenty of ruins to engrave! the royal academy will make a fine mass, with what remains of old somerset-house. adieu! my good sir. let me know you are well. you want nothing else, for you can always amuse yourself, and do not let the foolish world disturb you. yours most sincerely. ( ) the hon. daines barrington, fourth son of john first viscount barrington, second justice of chester, and author of "observations on the statutes," etc. he was eminent in natural history, and in several branches of literature; and died in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) i am sorry, my dear sir, that you should be so humble with me, your ancient friend, and to whom you have ever been so liberal, as to make an apology for desiring me to grant the request of another person. i am not less sorry that i shall not, i fear, be able to comply with it; and you must have the patience to hear my reason,,-,. the first edition of the anecdotes was of three hundred, of the two first volumes; and of as many of the third volume, and of the volume of engravers. then there was an edition of three hundred of all four. unluckily, i did not keep any number back of the two first volumes, and literally have none but those i reserved for myself. of the other two i have two or three: and, i believe, i have a first, but without the cuts. if i can,.with some odd volumes that i kept for corrections, make out a decent set, the library of the university shall have them; but you must not promise them, lest i should not be able to perform. of my new fourth volume i printed six hundred; but as they can be had, i believe not a third part is sold. this is a very plain lesson to me, that my editions sell for their curiosity, and not for any merit in them: and so they would if i printed mother goose's tales, and but a few. as my anecdotes of painting have been published at such distant periods, and in three divisions, complete sets will be seldom seen; so, if i am humbled as an author, i may be vain as a printer; and, when one has nothing else to be vain of, it is certainly very little worth while to be proud of that. i will now trust you with a secret, but beg mr. gough may not know it, for he will print it directly. though i forgot alma mater, i have not forgotten my alma nutrices, wet or dry, i mean eton and king's. i have laid aside for them, and left them in my will, as complete a set as i could, of all i have printed. a few i did give them at first; but i have for neither a perfect set of the anecdotes, i mean not the two first volumes. i should be much obliged to you, if, without naming me, you could inform yourself if i did send to king's those two first volumes--i believe not. ' i will now explain what i said above of mr. gough. he has learnt, i suppose from my engravers, that i have had some views of strawberry-hill engraved. slap-dash, down it went, and he has even specified each view in his second volume. this curiosity is a little impertinent; but he has made me some amends by a new blunder, for he says they are engraved for a second edition of my catalogue. now i have certainly printed but one edition, for which the prints are designed. he says truly, that i printed but a few for use; consequently, i by no means wished the whole world should know it; but he is silly, and so i will say no more about him. dr. lort called yesterday, and asked if i had any message for you; but i had written too lately. mr. pennant has been, as i think i told you, in town: by this time i conclude he is, as lady townley says of fifty pounds, all over the kingdom. when dr. lort returns, i shall be very glad to read your transcript of wolsey's letters; for, in your hand, i can read them. i will not have them but by some very safe conveyance, and will return them with equal care. i can have no objection to robin masters being wooden-head of the antiquarian society; but, i suppose, he is not dignified enough for them. i should prefer the judge too, because a coif makes him more like an old woman, and i reckon that society the midwives of superannuated miscarriages. i am grieved for the return of your headaches--i doubt you write too much. yours most sincerely. p. s. it will be civil to tell dr. farmer that i do not know whether i can obey his commands , but that i will if i can. as to a distinguished place, i beg not to be preferred to much better authors; nay, the more conspicuous, the more likely to be stolen for the reasons i have given you, of there being few complete sets, and true collectors are mighty apt to steal. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) dec. , . (page ) i should have been shamefully ungrateful, sir, if i could ever forget all the favours i have received from you, and had omitted any mark of respect to you that it was in my power to show. indeed, what you are so good as to thank me for was a poor trifle, but it was all i had or shall have of the kind. it was imperfect too, as some painters of name have died since it was printed, which was nine years ago. they will be added with your kind notices, should i live, which is not probable, to see a new edition wanted. sixty-three years, and a great deal of illness, are too speaking mementos not to be attended to; and when the public has been more indulgent than one had any right to expect, it is not decent to load it with one's dotage. i believe, sir, that i may have been over-candid to hogarth, and fail his spirit and youth and talent may have hurried him into more real caricatures than i specified . yet he certainly restrained his bent that way pretty early. charteris( ) i have seen; but though some years older than you, sir, i cannot say i have at all a perfect idea of him: nor did i ever hear the curious anecdote you tell me of ' the banker and my father. i was much better acquainted with bishop blackbourne. he lived within two doors of my father in downing street, and took much notice of me when i was near man. it is not to be ungrateful and asperse him, but to amuse you, if i give you some account of him from what i remember.( ) he was perfectly a fine gentleman to the last, to eighty-four; his favourite author was waller, whom he frequently quoted. in point of decorum, he was not quite so exact as you have been told, sir. i often dined with him, his mistress, mrs. conwys, sat at the head of the table, and hayter,( ) his natural son by another woman, and very like him, at the bottom, as chaplain: he was afterwards bishop of london. i have heard, but do not affirm it, that mrs. blackbourne, before she died, complained of mrs. conwys being brought under the same roof. to his clergy he was, i have heard, very imperious. one story i recollect, which showed how much he was a man of this world: and which the queen herself repeated to my father. on the king's last journey to hanover, before lady yarmouth came over, the archbishop being with her majesty, said to her, "madam, i have been with your minister walpole, and he tells me that you are a wise woman, and do not mind your husband's having a mistress." he was a little hurt at not being raised to canterbury on wake's death, and said to my father, "you did not think on me: but it is true, i am too old, i am too old." perhaps, sir, these are gossiping stories, but at least they hurt nobody now. i can say little, sir, for my stupidity or forgetfulness about hogarth's poetry, which i still am not sure i ever heard, though i knew him so well; but it is an additional argument for my distrusting myself, if my memory fails, which is very possible. a whole volume of richardson's poetry has been published since my volume was printed, not much to the honour of his muse, but exceedingly so to that of his piety and amiable heart. you will be pleased, too, sir, with a story lord chesterfield told me (too late too) of jervas, who piqued himself on the reverse, on total infidelity. one day that he had talked very indecently in that strain, dr. arbuthnot, who was as devout as richardson, said to him, "come, jervas, this is all an air and affectation; nobody is a sounder believer than you." "i!" said jervase, "i believe nothing." "yes, but you do," replied the doctor; "nay, you not only believe, but practise: you are so scrupulous an observer of the commandments, that you never make the likeness of any thing that is in heaven, or on the earth beneath, or," etc. i fear, sir, this letter is too long for thanks, and that i have been proving what i have said, of my growing superannuated; but, having made my will in my last volume, you may look on this as a codicil. p. s. i had sealed my letter, sir, but break it open, lest you should think soon, that i do not know what i say, or break my resolution lightly. i shall be able to send you in about two months a very curious work that i am going to print, and is actually in the press; but there is not a syllable of my writing in it. it is a discovery just made of two very ancient manuscripts, copies of which were found in two or three libraries in germany, and of which there are more complete manuscripts at cambridge. they are of the eleventh century at longest, and prove that painting in oil was then known, above three hundred years before the pretended invention of van dyck. the manuscripts themselves will be printed, with a full introductory dissertation by the discoverer, mr. raspe, a very learned german. formerly librarian to the landgrave of hesse, and who writes english surprisingly well. the manuscripts are in the most barbarous monkish latin, and are much such works as our booksellers publish of receipts for mixing colours, varnishes, etc. one of the authors, who calls himself theophilus, was a monk; the other, heraclitis, is totally unknown; but the proofs are unquestionable. as my press is out of order, and that besides it would take up too much time to print them there, they will be printed here at my expense, and if there is any surplus, it will be for raspe's benefit. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the notorious colonel francis charteris, to whom hogarth has accorded a conspicuous place in the first plate of his harlot's progress. pope describes him as "a man infamous for all manner of vices," and thus introduces him into his third moral essay:-- "riches in effect, no grace of heaven, or token of th' elect; given to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil, to ward, to waters, chartres, and the devil!" he died in scotland, in , at the age of sixty-two. the populace, at his funeral, raised a great riot, almost tore the body out of the coffin, and cast dead dogs, etc. into the grave along with it.-e. ( ) see the note to vol. i. p. , letter .-e. ( ) for a refutation of walpole's assertion, that bishop hayter was a natural son of bishop blackbourn's, see vol. ii. p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) i cannot leave you for a moment in error, my good sir, when you transfer a compliment to me, to which i have not the most slender claim, and defraud another of it to whom it is due. the friend of mr. gray, in whom authorship caused no jealousy or variance, as mr. mainwaring says truly, is mr. mason. i certainly never excelled in poetry, and never attempted the species of poetry alluded to, odes. dr. lort, i suppose, is removing to a living or a prebend, at least; i hope so. he may run a risk if he carries his book to lambeth. "sono sonate venti tre ore e mezza," as alexander viii. said to his nephew, when he was chosen pope in extreme old age. my lord of canterbury's is not extreme, but very tottering. i found in mr. gough's new edition, that in the pepysian library is a view of the theatre in dorset gardens, and views of four or five other ancient great mansions. do the folk of magdalen ever suffer copies of such things to be taken? if they would, is there any body at cambridge that could execute them, and reasonably? answer me quite at your leisure; and, also, what and by whom is the altar- piece that lord carlisle has given to king's. i did not know he had been of our college. i have two or three plates of strawberry more than those you mention; but my collections are so numerous, and from various causes my prints have been in such confusion, that at present i neither know where the plates or proofs are. i intend next summer to set about completing my plan of the catalogue and its prints; and when i have found any of the plates or proofs, you shall certainly have those you want. there are two large views of the house, one of the cottage, one of the library, one of the front to the road, and the chimney-piece in the holbein room. i think these are all that are finished--oh! yes, i believe the prior's garden; but i have not seen them these two years. i was so ill the summer before last, that i attended to nothing; the little i thought of in that way last summer, was to get out my last volume of the anecdotes; now i have nothing to trouble myself about as an editor, and that not publicly, but to finish my catalogue--and that will be awkwardly enough; for so many articles have been added to my collection since the description was made, that i must add them in the appendix or reprint it: and, what is more inconvenient, the positions of many of the pictures have been changed; and so it will be a lame piece of work. adieu, my dear sir! yours most cordially. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) your favourable opinion of my father, sir, is too flattering(r to me not to thank you for the satisfaction it gave me. wit, i think he had not naturally, though i am sure he had none from affectation, as simplicity was a predominant feature in his amiable composition. but he possessed that, perhaps, most true species of wit, which flows from experience and deep knowledge of mankind, and consequently had more in his later than in his earlier years; which is not common to a talent that generally flashes from spirits, though they alone cannot bestow it. when you was once before so good, sir, as to suggest to me an attempt at writing my father's life, i probably made you one answer that i must repeat now, which is, that a son's encomiums would be attributed to partiality; and with my deep devotion to his memory, i should ever suspect it in myself. but i will set my repugnance in a stronger light, by relating an anecdote not incurious. in the new edition of the biographia britannica, dr. kippis, the tinker of it, reflecting on my having called the former, vindicatio britannica, or defence of every body, threatened that when he should come to my father's life he would convince me that the new edition did not deserve that censure. i confess i thought this but an odd sort of historian equity, to reverse scripture and punish the sins of children upon their fathers! however, i said nothing. soon after dr. kippis himself called on me, and in very gracious terms desired i would favour him with anecdotes of my father's life. this was descending a little from his censorial throne, but i took no notice; and only told him, that i was so persuaded of the fairness of my father's character, that i chose to trust it to the most unprejudiced hands; and that all i could consent to was, that when he shall have written it, if he would communicate it to me, i would point out to him any material facts, if i should find any, that were not truly noted. this was all i could contribute. since that time i have seen in the second volume a very gross accusation of sir robert, at second or third hand, and to which the smallest attention must give a negative. sir robert is accused of having, out of spite, influenced the house of commons to expel the late lord barrington for the notorious job of the hamburg lottery.( ) spite was not the ingredient most domineering in my father's character; but whatever has been said of the corruption or servility of houses of commons, when was there one so prostitute, that it would have expelled one of their own members for a fraud not proved, to gratify the vengeance of the minister? and a minister must have been implacable indeed, and a house of commons profligate indeed, to inflict such a stigma on an innocent man, because he had been attached to a rival predecessor of the minister. it is not less strange that the hamburgher's son should not have vindicated his parent's memory at the opportunity of the secret committee on sir robert, but should wait for a manuscript memorandum of serjeant skinner after the death of this last. i hope sir robert will have no such apologist! i do not agree less with you, sir, in your high opinion of king william. i think, and a far better judge, sir robert, thought that prince one of the wisest men that ever lived. your bon-mot of his was quite new to me. there are two or three passages in the diary of the second earl of clarendon that always struck me as instances of wisdom and humour at once, particularly his majesty's reply to the lords who advised him (i think at salisbury,) to send away king james; and his few words, after long patience, to that foolish lord himself, who harangued him on the observance of his declaration. such traits, and several of queen anne (not equally deep) in the same journal, paint those princes as characteristically as lord clarendon's able father would have drawn them. there are two letters in the "nugae antiquae," that exhibit as faithful pictures of queen elizabeth and james the first, by delineating them in their private life and unguarded hours. you are much in the right, sir, in laughing at those wise personages, who not only dug up the corpse of edward the first, but restored christian burial to his crown and robes. methinks, had they deposited those regalia in the treasury of the church, they would have committed no sacrilege. i confess i have not quite so heinous an idea of sacrilege as dr. johnson. of all kinds of robbery, that appears to me the lightest species which injures nobody. dr. johnson is so pious, that in his journey to your country, he flatters himself that all his readers will join him in enjoying the destruction of two dutch crews, who were swallowed up by the ocean after they had robbed a church.( ) i doubt that uncharitable anathema is more in the spirit of the old testament than of the new. ( ) now first published. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) the following are johnson's words:--"the two churches of elgin were stripped, and the lead was shipped to be sold in holland: i hope every reader will rejoice that this cargo of sacrilege was lost at sea."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. january , . (page ) after i had written my note to you last night, i called on * * * * who gave me the dismal account of jamaica,( ) that you will see in the gazette, and of the damage done to our shipping. admiral rowley is safe; but they are in apprehensions for walsingham. he told me too what is not in the gazette; that of the expedition against the spanish settlements, not a single man survives! the papers to-day, i see, speak of great danger to gibraltar. your brother repeated to me his great desire that you should publish your speech,( ) as he told you. i do not conceive why he is so eager for it, for he professes total despair about america. it looks to me as if there was a wish of throwing the blame somewhere; but i profess i am too simple to dive into the objects of shades of intrigues: nor do i care about them. we shall be reduced to a miserable little island; and from a mighty empire sink into as insignificant a country as denmark or sardinia! when our trade and marine are gone, the latter of which we keep up by unnatural efforts, to which our debt will put a stop, we shall lose the east indies as portugal did; and then france will dictate to us more imperiously than ever we did to ireland, which is in a manner already gone too! these are mortifying reflections, to -which an english mind cannot easily accommodate itself. but, alas! we have been pursuing the very conduct that france would have prescribed, and more than with all her presumption she could have dared to expect. could she flatter herself that we would take no advantage of the dilatoriness and unwillingness of spain to enter into the war? that we would reject the disposition of russia to support us? and that our still more natural friend, holland,( ) would be driven into the league against us? all this has happened; and, like an infant, we are delighted with having set our own frock in a blaze! i sit and gaze with astonishment at our frenzy. yet why? are not nations as liable to intoxication as individuals? are not predictions founded on calculation oftener rejected than the prophecies of dreamers? do we not act precisely like charles fox, who thought he had discovered a new truth in figures, when he preached that wise doctrine, that nobody could want money that would pay enough for it? the consequence was, that in two years he left himself without the possibility of borrowing a shilling. i am not surprised at the spirits of' a boy of parts; i am not surprised at the people; i do wonder at government, that games away its consequence. for what are we now really at war with america, france, spain, and holland!--not with hopes of reconquering america; not with the smallest prospect of conquering a foot of land from france, spain, or holland. no; we are at war on the defensive to protect what is left, or more truly to stave off, for a year perhaps, a peace that must proclaim our nakedness and impotence. i would not willingly recur to that womanish vision of something may turn up in our favour! that something must be a naval victory that will annihilate at once all the squadrons of europe--must wipe off forty millions of new debt--reconcile the affections of america, that for six years we have laboured to alienate; and that must recall out of the grave the armies and sailors that are perished- -and that must make thirteen provinces willing to receive the law, without the necessity of keeping ten thousand men amongst them. the gigantic imagination of lord chatham would not entertain such a chimera. lord * * * * perhaps would say he did, rather than not undertake; or mr. burke could form a metaphoric vision that would satisfy no imagination but his own: but i, who am nullius addiclus itrare in verba, have no hopes either in our resources or in our geniuses, and look on my country already as undone! it is grievous--but i shall not have much time to lament its fall!( ) ( ) on the d of october occurred one of the most dreadful hurricanes ever experienced in the west indies. in jamaica, savannah la mar, with three hundred inhabitants, was utterly swept away by an irruption of the sea; and at barbados, on the th, bridgetown, the capital of the island, was almost levelled to the ground, and several thousands of the inhabitants perished.-e. ( ) "introductory of a motion for leave to bring in a bill for quieting the troubles that have for some time subsisted between great britain and america, and enabling his majesty to send out commissioners with full power to treat with america for that purpose." the motion was negatived by against . for the speech of general conway, and a copy of his proposed bill, see parl. history, vol, nxi. pp. , .-e. ( ) mr. henry laurens, president of the american council, having been taken by one of the king's frigates early in october , on his passage to holland, and it being discovered by the papers in his possession that the american states had been long carrying on a secret correspondence with amsterdam, sir joseph yorke, the british minister at the hague, demanded a satisfactory explanation; but the same not being afforded, hostilities against holland were declared on the th of december .-e. ( ) to this passage the editor of walpole's works subjoined, in march , the following note:--"it may be some comfort, in a moment no less portentous and melancholy than the one here described, to recollect the almost unhoped-for recovery of national prosperity, which took place from the peace of to the declaration of war against france in the year . may our exertions procure the speedy application of a similar remedy to our present evils, and may that remedy be productive of equally good effects!"-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, i will not leave you a moment in suspense about the safety of your very valuable volume, which you have so kindly sent me, and which i have just received, with the enclosed letters, and your other yesterday. i have not time to add a word more at present, being full of business, having the night before last received an account of lady orford's death at pisa,( ) and a copy of her will, which obliges me to write several letters, and to see my relations. she has left every thing in her power to her friend cavalier mozzi, at florence; but her son comes into a large estate, besides her great jointure. you may imagine, how i lament that he had not patience to wait sixteen months, before he sold his pictures! i am very sorry you have been at all indisposed. i will take the utmost care of your fifty-ninth volume (for which i give you this receipt), and will restore it the instant i have had time to go through it. witness my hand. ( ) see vol. i. p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. february , . (page ) i had not time, dear sir, when i wrote last, to answer your letter, nor do more than cast an eye on your manuscripts. to say the truth, my patience is not tough enough to go through wolsey's negotiations. i see that your perseverance was forced to make the utmost efforts to transcribe them. they are immeasurably verbose, not to mention the blunders of the first copyist. as i road only for amusement, i cannot, so late in my life, purchase information on what i do not much care about, at the price of a great deal of ennui. the old wills at the end of your volume diverted me much more than the obsolete politics. i shall say nothing about what you call your old leaven. every body must judge for himself in those matters: nor are you or i of an age to change long-formed opinions, as neither of us is governed by self-interest. pray tell me how i may most safely return your volume. i value all your manuscripts so much, that i should never forgive myself, if a single one came to any accident by your so obligingly lending them to me. they are great treasures, and contain something or other that must suit most tastes: not to mention your amazing industry, neatness, legibility, with notes, arms, etc. i know no such repositories. you will receive with your manuscript mr. kerrick's and mr. gough's letters. the former is very kind. the inauguration of the antiquated society is burlesque and so is the dearth of materials for another volume; can they ever want such rubbish as compose their preceding annals? i think it probable that story should be stone: however, i never piqued myself on recording every mason. i have preserved but too many that did not deserve to be mentioned. i dare to say, that when i am gone, many more such will be added to my volumes. i had not heard of poor mr. pennant's misfortune. i am very sorry for it, for i believe him to be a very honest good-natured man. he certainly was too lively for his proportion of understanding, and too impetuous to make the best use of what he had. however, it is a credit to us antiquaries to have one of our class disordered by vivacity. i hope your goutiness is dissipated, and that this last fine week has set you on your feet again. letter to the earl of buchan.( ) berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) i was honoured yesterday with your lordship's card, with the notification of the additional honour of my being elected an honourary member of the society of the antiquaries of scotland;( ) a grace, my lord, that i receive with the respect and gratitude due to so valuable a distinction; and for which i must beg leave, through your lordship's favour, to offer my most sincere and humble thanks to that learned and respectable society. my very particular thanks are still due to your lordship, who, in remembrance of ancient partiality, have been pleased, at the hazard of your own judgment, to favour an old humble servant, who can only receive honour from, but can reflect none on, the society into which your lordship and your associates have condescended to adopt him. in my best days, my lord, i never could pretend to more than having flitted over some flowers of knowledge. now worn out and near the end of my course, i can only be a broken monument to prove that the society of the antiquaries of scotland are zealous to preserve even the least valuable remains of a former age, and to recompense all who have contributed their mite towards illustrating our common island. i am, etc. ( ) now first printed. ( ) the royal society of antiquaries of scotland had been formed at edinburgh in the preceding december, when the earl of buchan was elected president.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, feb. , . (page ) i was very intimate, sir, with the last lord finlater when he was lord deskford. we became acquainted at rome on our travels, and though during his illness and long residence in scotland, we had no intercourse, i had the honour of seeing him sometimes during his last visit to england; but i am an entire stranger to the anecdote relative to my father and sir william windham. i have asked my brother, who was much more conversant in the scenes of that time, for i was abroad when sir william died, and returned to england but about six months before my father's retirement, so that having been at school and at cambridge, or in my infancy, during sir robert's administration, the little i retain from him was picked up in the last three years of his life, which is an answer, sir, to your inquiries why, among other reasons, i have always declined writing his life; for i could in reality say but little on my own knowledge; and yet should have the air of being good authority, at least better than i should truly be. my brother, sir edward, who is eleven years older than i am, never heard of your anecdote. i may add, that latterly i lived in great intimacy with the marchioness of blandford, sir william's widow, who died but a year and a half ago at sheepe, here in my neighbourhood; and with lady suffolk, who could not but be well acquainted with the history of those times from her long residence at court, and with whom, for the last five or six years of her life here at twickenham, i have had many and many long conversations on those subjects, and yet i never heard a word of the supposed event you mention. i myself never heard sir w. william speak but once in the house of commons, but have always been told that his style and behaviour were most liberal and like a gentleman and my brother says, there never passed any bitterness or acrimony between him and our father.( ) i will answer you as fairly and candidly, sir, about archibald duke of argyll, of whom i saw at least a great deal. i do believe sir robert had a full opinion of his abilities as a most useful man. in fact, it is plain he had; for he depended on the duke, when lord islay, for the management of your part of the island, and, as i have heard at the time, disobliged the most firm of the scottish whigs by that preference. sir robert supported lord islay against the queen herself, who hated him for his attachment to lady suffolk, and he was the only man of any consequence whom her majesty did not make feel how injudicious it was (however novel) to prefer the interest of the mistress to that of the wife. on my father's defeat his warm friends loudly complained of lord islay as having betrayed the scottish boroughs, at the election of sir robert's last parliament, to his brother, duke john. it is true too, that sir robert always replied, "i do not accuse him." i must own, knowing my father's manner, and that when he said but little, it was not a favourable symptom, i did think, that if he would not accuse, at least he did not acquit. duke archibald was undoubtedly a dark shrewd man. i recollect an instance for which i should not choose to be quoted just at this moment, though it reflects on nobody living. i forget the precise period, and even some of the persons concerned; but it was in the minority of the present duke of gordon, and you, sir, can probably adjust the dates. a regiment had been raised of gordons. duke archibald desired the command of it to a favourite of his own. the duchess-dowager insisted on it for her second husband. duke a. said, "oh! to be sure her grace must be obeyed;" but instantly got the regiment ordered to the east indies, which had not been the reckoning of a widow remarried to a young fellow.( ) at the time of the rebellion, i remember that duke archibald was exceedingly censured in london for coming thither, and pleading that he was not empowered to take up arms. but i believe that i have more than satisfied your curiosity, sir, and that you will not think it very prudent to set an old man on talking of the days of his youth. i have just received the favour of a letter from lord buchan, in which his lordship is so good as to acquaint me with the honour your new society of antiquaries have done me in nominating me an honourary member. i am certainly much flattered by the distinction, but am afraid his lordship's partiality and patronage will in this only instance do him no credit. my knowledge even of british antiquity has ever been desultory and most superficial; i have never studied any branch of science deeply and solidly, nor ever but for temporary \amusement, and without any system, suite, or method. of late years i have quitted every connexion with societies, not only parliament, but those of our antiquaries and of arts and sciences, and have not attended the meetings of the royal society. i have withdrawn myself in a great measure from the world, and live in a very narrow circle idly and obscurely. still, sir, i could not decline the honour your society has been pleased to offer me, lest it should be thought a want of respect and gratitude, instead of a mark of humility and conscious unworthiness. i am so sensible of this last, that i cannot presume to offer my services in this part of' our island to so respectable an assembly; but if you, sir, who know too well my limited abilities, can at any time point out any information that it is in my power to give to the society, (as in the case of royal scottish portraits, on which lord buchan was pleased to consult me,) i shall be very proud to obey your and their commands, and shall always be with great regard their and your most obedient humble servant. p. s. i do not know whether i ever mentioned to you or lord buchan, sir, a curious and excellent head in oil of the lady margaret douglas at mr. carteret's, at hawnes in bedfordshire, the seat of his grandfather lord granville; i know few better portraits. it is at once a countenance of goodness and cunning, a mixture i think pleasing. it seems to imply that the person's virtue was not founded on folly or ignorance of the world; it implies perhaps more, that the person would combat treachery and knavery, and knew how. i could fancy the head in question was such a character as margaret queen of navarre, sister of francis the first. who was very free in her conversation and writings, yet strictly virtuous; debonnaire, void of ambition; yet a politician when her brother's situation required it. if your society should give into engraving historic portraits, this head would deserve an early place. there is at lord scarborough's in yorkshire, a double portrait, perhaps by holbein or lucas de heere, of lady margaret's mother, queen margaret, and her second husband. ( ) now first collected. ( ) pope in his second dialogue for the year , has transmitted sir william's character to posterity-- "how can i, pultney, chesterfield, forget, while roman spirit charms, and attic wit? or wyndham, just to freedom and the throne, the master of our passions and his own?" speaker onslow says, "there was a spirit and power in his speaking that always animated himself and his hearers, and with the decoration of his manner, which was, indeed, very ornamental, produced, not only the most attentive, respectful, but even a reverend regard, to whatever he spoke."-e. ( ) see memoires of george the second, vol. i. p. . "in his private life," says walpole, "he had more merit, except in the case of his wife, whom, having been deluded into marrying without a fortune, he punished by rigorous and unrelaxed confinement in scotland. he had a great thirst for books; a head admirably turned to mechanics; was a patron of ingenious men, a promoter of discoveries, and one of the first encouragers of planting in england; most of the curious exotics which have been familiarized to this climate being introduced by him. he died suddenly in his chair after dinner, at his house in argyle-buildings, london, april , ."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, march , . (page ) dear sir, my lady orford ordered herself to be buried at leghorn, the only place in tuscany where protestants have burial; therefore i suppose she did not affect to change. on the contrary, i believe she had no preference for any sect, but rather laughed at all. i know nothing new, neither in novelty nor antiquity. i have had no gout this winter, and therefore i call it my leap-year. i am sorry it is not yours too. it is an age since i saw dr. lort. i hope illness is not the cause. you will be diverted with hearing that i am chosen an honourary member of the new antiquarian society at edinburgh. i accepted for two reasons: first, it is a feather that does not demand my flying thither; and secondly, to show contempt for our own old fools.( ) to me it will be a perfect sinecure; for i have moulted all my pen feathers, and shall have no ambition of nestling into their printed transactions. adieu, my good sir. your much obliged. ( ) cole, in a letter to mr. gough, acquainting him with walpole's election, adds--"the admission of a few things into our archaeologia, has, i fear, estranged for ever one of the most lively, learned, and entertaining members on our list."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. march , . (page ) i do not in the least guess or imagine what you mean by lord hardwicke's publication of a walpoliana.( ) naturally it should mean a collection of sayings or anecdotes of my father, according to the french anas, which began, i think, with those of menage. or, is it a collection of letters and state-papers, during his administration? i own i am curious to know at least what this piece contains. i had not heard a word of it; and, were it not for the name, i should have very little inquisitiveness about it: for nothing upon earth ever was duller than the three heavy tomes his lordship printed of sir dudley carleton's negotiations, and of what he called state-papers. pray send me an answer as soon as you can, at least of as much as you have heard about this thing. ( ) "walpoliana; or a few anecdotes of sir robert walpole"--an agreeable little collection of anecdotes relative to sir robert walpole, made by philip second earl of hardwicke; printed in quarto, but never published.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, march , . (page ) you are so good-natured that i am sure you will be glad to be told that the report of mr. pennant being disordered is not true. he is come to town--has been with me, and at least is as composed as ever i saw him. he is going to publish another part of his welsh tour, which he can well afford; though i believe he does not lose by his works. an aunt is dead, exceedingly rich, who had given some thousands to him and his daughter, but suddenly changed her mind and left all to his sister, who has most nobly given him all that had been destined in the cancelled will. dr. nash has just published the first volume of his worcestershire. it is a folio of prodigious corpulence, and yet dry enough; but then it is finely dressed, and has many heads and views.( ) dr. lort was with me yesterday, and i never saw him better, nor has he been much out of order. i hope your gout has left you; but here are winds bitter enough to give one any thing. yours ever. ( ) dr. threadway nash's "collections for the history of worcestershire;" - ; in two volumes, folio.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. april , .(page ) i am very sorry, dear sir, that, in my last letter but one, i took notice of what you said of lord hardwicke; the truth was, i am perfectly indifferent about what he prints or publishes. there is generally a little indirect malice but so much more dulness, that the latter soon suffocates the former. this is telling you that i could not be offended at any thing you said of him, nor am i likely to suspect a sincere friend of disobliging me. you have proved the direct contrary these forty years. i have not time to say more, but am ever most truly yours. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, may , . (page ) i shall not only be ready to show strawberry hill, at any time he chooses, to dr. farmer, as your friend, but to be honoured with his acquaintance, though i am very shy now of contracting new. i have great respect for his character and abilities and judicious taste, and am very clear that he has elucidated shakspeare( ) in a more reasonable and satisfactory manner than any of his affected commentators, who only complimented him with learning that he had not, in order to display their own. pray give me timely notice whenever i am likely to see dr. farmer, that i may not be out of the way when i can have an opportunity of showing attention to a friend of yours, and pay a small part of your gratitude to him. there shall be a bed at his service; for you know strawberry cannot be seen in a moment, nor are englishmen so liants as to get acquainted in the time they are walking through a house. but now, my good sir, how could you suffer your prejudiced partiality to me to run away with you so extravagantly, as to call me one of the greatest characters of the age? you are too honest to flatter, too much a hermit to be interested, and i am too powerless and insignificant to be an object of court, were you capable of paying it from mercenary views. i know then that it could proceed from nothing but the warmth of your heart; but if you are blind towards me, i am not so to myself. i know not how others feel on such occasions, but if any one happens to praise me, all my faults rush into my face, and make me turn my eyes inward and outward with horror. what am i but a poor old skeleton tottering towards the grave, and conscious of a thousand weaknesses, follies, and worse! and for talents, what are mine but trifling and superficial; and, compared with those of men with real genius, most diminutive! mine a great character! mercy on me! i am a composition of anthony wood and madame danois,( ) and i know not what trumpery writers. this is the least i can say to refute your panegyric, which i shall burn presently; for i will not have such an encomiastic letter found in my possession, lest i should seem to have been pleased with it. i enjoin you, as a penance, not to contradict one tittle i have said here; for i am not begging more compliments, and shall take it seriously ill if you ever pay me another. we have been friends above forty years; i am satisfied of your sincerity and affection; but does it become us, at past threescore each, to be saying fine things to one another? consider how soon we shall both be nothing! i assure you, with great truth, i am at this present very sick of my little vapour of fame. my tragedy has wandered into the hands of some banditti booksellers, and i am forced to publish it myself to prevent piracy.( ) all i can do is to condemn it myself, and that i shall. i am reading mr. pennant's new welsh tour; he has pleased me by making very handsome mention of you; but i will not do, what i have been blaming. my poor dear madame du deffand's little dog is arrived. she made me promise to take care of it the last time i saw her: that i will most religiously, and make it as happy as is possible.( ) i have not much curiosity to see your cambridge raphael, but great desire to see you, and will certainly this summer, accept your invitation,, which i take much kinder than your great character, though both flowed from the same friendship. mine for you is exactly what it has been ever since you knew (and few men can boast so uninterrupted a friendship as yours and that of--) h. w. ( ) in his well-known "essay on the learning of shakspeare."-e. ( ) madame d'aulnoy, the contemporary of perrault, and, like him, a writer of fairy tales. she was the authoress of "the lady's travels in spain," and many other works, which have been translated into english.-e. ( ) walpole had printed fifty copies of"the mysterious mother" at strawberry hill as early as the year ; but a surreptitious edition of it being announced in , he consented to dodsley's publishing a genuine one.-e. ( ) in his reply to this letter, of the th of may, the worthy antiquary says-"i congratulate the little parisian dog, that he has fallen into the hands of so humane a master. i have a little diminutive dog, busy, full as great a favourite, and never out of my lap: i have already, in case of an accident, ensured it a refuge from starvation and ill-usage. it is the least we can do for poor harmless, shiftless, pampered animals that have amused us, and we have spoilt." a brother antiquary, on reading this passage, exclaimed, "how could mr. cole ever get through the transcript of a bishop's registry, or a chartulary, with busy never out of his lap!"-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill,, sunday evening, may , . (page ) i supped with your countess on friday at lord frederick campbell's, where i heard of the relief of gibraltar by darby. the spanish fleet kept close in cadiz: however, he lifted up his leg, and just squirted contempt on them. as he is disembarrassed of his transports, i suppose their ships will scramble on shore rather than fight. well, i shall be perfectly content with our fleet coming back in a whole skin; it will be enough to have outquixoted don quixote's own nation. as i knew, your countess would write the next day, i waited till she was gone out of town and would not have much to tell you--not that i have either; and it is giving myself an air to pretend to know more at twickenham than she can at henley. though it is a bitter northeast, i came hither to-day to look at my lilacs, though `a la glace; and to get from pharaoh, for which there is a rage. i doted on it above thirty years ago; but it is not decent to sit up all night now with boys and girls. my nephew, lord cholmondeley, the banker `a la mode, has been demolished. he and his associate, sir willoughby aston, went early t'other night to brookcs's, before charles fox and fitzpatrick, who keep a bank there, were come; but they soon arrived, attacked their rivals, broke their bank, and won above four thousand pounds. "there," said fox, "so should all usurpers be served!" he did still better; for he sent for his tradesmen, and paid as far as the money would go. in the mornings he continues his war on lord north, but cannot break that bank. the court has carried a secret committee for india affairs, and it is supposed that rumbold is to be the sacrifice; but as he is near as rich as lord clive, i conclude he will escape by the same golden key. i told you in my last that tonton was arrived. i brought him this morning to take possession of his new villa, but his installation has not been at all pacific. as he has already found out that he may be as despotic as at saint joseph's, he began with exiling my beautiful little cat; upon which, however, we shall not quite agree. he then flew at one of my dogs,( ) who returned it by biting his foot till it bled, but was severely beaten for it. i immediately rung for margaret,( ) to dress his foot: but in the midst of my tribulation could not keep my countenance; for she cried, "poor little thing, he does not understand my language!" i hope she will not recollect too that he is a papist! berkeley square, tuesday, may . i came before dinner, and found your long letter of the d. you have mistaken tonton's sex, who is a cavalier, and a little of the mousquetaire still; but if i do not correct his vivacities, at least i shall not encourage them like my dear old friend. you say nothing of your health; therefore, i trust it is quite re-established: my own is most flourishing for me. they say the parliament will rise by the birthday; not that it seems to be any grievance or confinement to any body. i hope you will soon come and enjoy a quiet summer under the laurels of your own conscience. they are at least as spreading as any body's else; and the soil will preserve their verdure for ever. methinks we western powers might as well make peace. since we make war so clumsily. yet i doubt the awkwardness of our enemies will not have brought down our stomach. well, i wish for the sake of mankind there was an end of their sufferings! even spectators are not amused--the whole war has passed like the riotous murmurs of the upper gallery before the play begins--they have pelted the candle-snuffers, the stage has been swept, the music has played, people have taken their places--but the deuce a bit of any performance!--and when folks go home, they will have seen nothing but a farce, that has cost fifty times more than the best tragedy! ( ) this does not quite accord with the favourable character given of tonton by madame du deffand's secretary, wyrt, in a letter to walpole:--"je garderai," he says, "tonton jusqu'au d`epart de m. thomas walpole; j'en ai le plus grand soin. il est tr`es doux; il ne mord personne; il n'`etait m`echant qu'aupr`es de sa maitresse."-e. ( ) mr. walpole's housekeeper. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. berkeley square, may , . (page ) this letter, like an embarkation, will not set out till it has gotten its complement; but i begin it, as i have just received your second letter. i wrote to you two days ago, and did not mean to complain; for you certainly cannot have variety of matter in your sequestered isle: and since you do not disdain trifling news, this good town, that furnishes nothing else, at least produces weeds, which shoot up in spite of the scotch thistles, that have choked all good fruits. i do not know what lady craven designs to do with her play; i hope, act it only in private; for her other was murdered, and the audience did not exert the least gallantry to so pretty an authoress, though she gave them so fair an opportunity. for my own play, i was going to publish it in my own defence, as a spurious edition was advertised here, besides one in ireland. my advertisement has overlaid the former for the present, and that tempts me to suppress mine, as i have a thorough aversion to its appearance. still, i think i shall produce it in the dead of summer, that it may be forgotten by winter; for i could not bear having it the subject of conversation in a full town. it is printed; so i can let it steal out in the midst of the first event that engrosses the public; and as it is not quite a novelty, i have no fear but it will be stillborn, if it is twin with any babe that squalls and makes much noise. at the same time with yours i received a letter from another cousin at paris, who tells me necker is on the verge, and in the postscript says, he has actually resigned. i heard so a few days ago; but this is a full confirmation. do you remember a conversation at your house, at supper, in which a friend of yours spoke, very unfavourably of necker, and seemed to wish his fall? in my own opinion they are much in the wrong. it is true, necker laboured with all his shoulders to restore their finances; yet i am persuaded that his attention to that great object made him clog all their military operations. they will pay dearer for money; but money they will have: nor is it so dear to them, for, when they have gotten it, they have only not to pay. a monsieur joly de fleury is comptroller-general. i know nothing of him; but as they change so often, some able man will prove minister at last--and there they will have the advantage again. lord cornwallis's courier, mr. broderick, is not yet arrived; so you are a little precipitate in thinking america so much nearer to be subdued, which you have often swallowed up as if you were a minister; and yet, methinks, that era has been so frequently put off, that i wonder you are not cured of being sanguine--or rather, of believing the magnificent lies that every trifling advantage gives birth to. if a quarter of the americans had joined the royalists, that have been said to join, all the colonies would not hold them. but, at least, they have been like the trick of kings and queens at cards; where one of two goes back every turn to fetch another. however, this is only for conversation for the moment. with such aversion to disputation, i have no zeal for making converts to my own opinions not even on points that touch me nearer. thursday, may . if you see the papers, you will find that there was a warm debate yesterday on a fresh proposal from hartley( ) for pacification with america; in which the ministers were roundly reproached with their boasts of the returning zeal of the colonies and which, though it ought by their own accounts to be so much nearer complete, they could not maintain to be at all effectual; though even yesterday a report was revived of a second victory of lord cornwallis. this debate prevented another on the marriage-bill, which charles fox wants to get repealed, and which he told me he was going to labour. i mention this from the circumstance of the moment when he told ne so. i had been to see if lady ailesbury was come to town; as i came up st. james's-street, i saw a cart and porters at charles's door; coppers and old chests of drawers loading. in short, his success at faro has awakened his host of creditors; but unless his bank had swelled to the size of the bank of england, it could not have yielded a sop apiece for each. epsom, too, had been unpropitious; and one creditor has actually seized and carried off his goods, which did not seem worth removing. as i returned full of this scene, whom should i find sauntering by my own door but charles? he came up and talked to me at the coach-window, on the marriage-bill( ) with as much sang-froid as if he knew nothing of what had happened. i have no admiration for insensibility to one's own faults, especially when committed out of vanity. perhaps the whole philosophy consisted in the commission. if you could have been as much to blame, the last thing you would bear well would be your own reflections. the more marvellous fox's parts are, the more one is provoked at his follies, which comfort so many rascals and blockheads, and make all that is admirable and amiable in him only matter of regret to those who like him as i do. i did intend to settle at strawberry on sunday; but must return on thursday, for a party made at marlborough-house for princess amelia. i am continually tempted to retire entirely; and should, if i did not see how very unfit english tempers are for living quite out of the world. we grow abominably peevish and severe on others, if we are not constantly rubbed against and polished by them. i need not name friends and relations of yours and mine as instances. my prophecy on the short reign of faro is verified already. the bankers find that all the calculated advantages of the game do not balance pinchbeck parolis and debts of honourable women. the bankers, i think, might have had a previous and more generous reason, the very bad air of holding a bank:--but this country is as hardened against the petite morale, as against the greater.--what should i think of the world if i quitted it entirely? ( ) on the preceding day, mr. hartley had moved for leave to bring in a bill to invest the crown with sufficient power to treat upon the means of restoring peace with the provinces of north america. it was negatived by against .-e. ( ) on the th of june mr. fox moved for leave to bring in a bill to amend the act of the th of george the second, for preventing clandestine marriages. the bill passed the commons, but was rejected by the lords.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) you know i have more philosophy about you than courage, yet for once i have been very brave. there was an article in the papers last week that said, a letter from jersey mentioned apprehensions of being attacked by four thousand french. do you know that i treated the paragraph with scorn? no, no; i am not afraid for your island, when you are at home in it, and have had time to fortify it, and have sufficient force. no, no; it will not be surprised when you are there, and when our fleet is returned, and digby before brest. however, with all my valour, i could not help going to your brother to ask a few questions; but he had heard of no such letter. the french would be foolish indeed if they ran their heads a third time against your rocks, when watched by the most vigilant of all governors. your nephew george( ) is arrived with the fleet: my door opened t'other morning; i looked towards the common horizon of heads, but was a foot and a half below any face. the handsomest giant in the world made but one step across my room, and seizing my hand, gave it such a robust gripe that i squalled; for he crushed my poor chalk-stones to powder. when i had recovered from the pain of his friendly salute, i said, "it must be george conway! and yet, is it possible? why, it is not fifteen months ago since you was but six feet high!" in a word, he is within an inch of robert and edward, with larger limbs; almost as handsome as hugh, with all the bloom of youth; and, in short, another of those comely sons of anak, the breed of which your brother and lady hertford have piously restored for the comfort of the daughters of sion. he is delighted with having tapped his warfare with the siege of gibraltar, and burns to stride to america. the town, he says, is totally destroyed, and between two and three hundred persons were killed.--well, it is a pity lady hertford has done breeding: we shall want such a race to repeople even the ruins we do not lose! the rising generation does give one some hopes. i confine myself to some of this year's birds. the young william pitt( ) has again displayed paternal oratory. the other day, on the commission of accounts, he answered lord north, and tore him limb from limb. if charles fox could feel, one should think such a rival, with an unspotted character, would rouse him. what, if a pitt and fox should again be rivals! a still newer orator has appeared in the india business, a mr. bankes,( ) and against lord north too; and with a merit that the very last crop of orators left out of their rubric--modesty. as young pitt is modest too, one would hope some genuine english may revive!( ) tuesday, june . this is the season of opening my cake-house. i have chosen a bad spot, if i meant to retire; and calculated ill, when i made it a puppet-show. last week we had two or three mastiff-days; for they were fiercer than our common dog-days. it is cooled again; but rain is as great a rarity as in egypt; and father thames is so far from being a nile, that he is dying for thirst himself. but it would be prudent to reserve paragraphs of weather till people are gone out of town; for then i can have little to send you else from hence. berkeley square, june . as soon as i came to town to-day le texier called on me, and told me he has miscarried of pygmalion. the expense would have mounted to pounds and he could get but sixty subscribers at a guinea apiece. i am glad his experience and success have taught him thrift. i did not expect it. sheridan had a heavier miscarriage last night. the two vestris had imagined a f`ete; and, concluding that whatever they designed would captivate the town and its purses, were at the expense of pounds and, distributing tickets at two guineas apiece, disposed of not two hundred. it ended in a bad opera, that began three hours later than usual, and at quadruple the price. there were bushels of dead flowers, lamps, country dances--and a cold supper. yet they are not abused as poor le texier was last year. june . i conclude my letter, and i hope our present correspondence, very agreeably; for your brother told me last night, that you have written to lord hillsborough for leave to return. if all our governors could leave their dominions in as good plight, it were lucky. your brother owned, what the gazette with all its circumstances cannot conceal, that lord cornwallis's triumphs have but increased our losses, without leaving any hopes. i am told that his army, which when he parted from clinton amounted to seventeen thousand men, does not now contain above as many hundred, except the detachments. the gazette, to my sorrow and your greater sorrow, speaks of colonel o'hara having received two dangerous wounds. princess amelia was at marlborough-house last night, and played at faro till twelve o'clock. there ends the winter campaign! i go to strawberry-hill to-morrow; and i hope, a l'irlandaise, that the next letter i write to you will be not to write to you any more. ( ) lord george seymour conway, seventh son of francis, first earl and marquis of hertford; born .-e. ( ) the young william pitt," afterwards, as walpole anticipated, the proud rival of charles fox, and for so long a period the prime-minister of england, delivered his maiden speech in the house of commons, on the th of february, in favour of mr. burke's bill for an economical reform in the civil list. "never," says his preceptor, bishop tomline, "were higher expectations formed of any person upon his first coming into parliament, and never were expectations more completely answered. they were, indeed, much more than answered; such were the fluency and accuracy of language, such the perspicuity of arrangement, and such the closeness of reasoning, and manly and dignified elocution,--generally, even in a much less degree, the fruits of long habit and experience,--that it could scarcely be believed to be the first speech of a young man not yet two-and-twenty. on the following day, knowing my anxiety upon every subject which related to him, mr. pitt, with his accustomed kindness, wrote to me at cambridge, to inform me that 'he had heard his own voice in the house of commons,' and modestly expressed his satisfaction at the manner in which his first attempt at parliamentary speaking had been received."-e. ( ) henry bankes, esq. of kingston hall. he represented corfe-castle from to , and the county of dorset from that time until . in , he published "the civil and constitutional history of rome, from the foundation to the age of augustus," in two volumes, vo; and died in .-e. ( ) mr. wilberforce, in a letter to a friend, of the th of june, says--"the papers will have informed you how mr. william pitt, second son of the late lord chatham has distinguished himself: he comes out as his father did, a ready-made orator, and i doubt not but that i shall one day or other, see him the first man in the country." life, vol. . p. .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) it was very kind, my dear lord, to recollect me so soon: i wish i could return it by amusing you; but here i know nothing, and suppose it is owing to age that even in town i do not find the transactions of the world very entertaining. one must sit up all night to see or hear any thing; and if the town intends to do any thing, they never begin to do it till next day. mr. conway will certainly be here the end of this month, having thoroughly secured his island from surprise, and it is not liable to be taken any other way. i wish he was governor of this bigger one too, which does not seem quite so well guaranteed. your lordship will wonder at a visit i had yesterday: it was from mr. storer, who has passed a day and night here. it was not from my being a fellow-scholar of vestris, but from his being turned antiquary; the last passion i should have thought a macaroni would have taken. i am as proud of such a disciple as of having converted dicky bateman from a chinese to a goth. though he was the founder of the sharawadgi taste in england, i preached so effectually that his every pagoda took the veil. the methodists say, one must have been very wicked before one can be of the elect--yet is that extreme more distant from the ton, which avows knowing and liking nothing but the fashion of the instant, to studying what were the modes of five hundred years ago? i hope this conversion will not ruin mr. storer's fortune under the lord lieutenant of ireland. how his irish majesty will be shocked when he asks how large prince boothby's shoe-buckles are grown, to be answered, he does not know, but that charles brandon's cod-piece at the last birthday had three yards of velvet in it! and that the duchess of buckingham thrust out her chin two inches farther than ever in admiration of it! and that the marchioness of dorset had put out her jaw by endeavouring to imitate her! we have at last had some rains, which i hope extended to yorkshire, and that your lordship has found wentworth castle in the bloom of verdure. i always, as in duty bound, wish prosperity to every body and every thing there, and am your lordship's ever devoted and grateful humble servant. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) your last account of yourself was so indifferent, that i am impatient for a better: pray send me a much better. i know little in your way but that sir richard worseley has just published a history of the isle of wight, with many views poorly done enough.( ) mr. bull( ) is honouring me, at least my anecdotes of painting, exceedingly. he has let every page into a pompous sheet, and is adding every print of portrait, building, etc. that i mention, and that he can get, and specimens of all our engravers. it will make eight magnificent folios, and be a most valuable body of our arts. nichols the printer has published a new life of hogarth,( ) of near two hundred pages- -many more, in truth, than it required: chiefly it is the life of his works, containing all the variations, and notices of any persons whom he had in view. i cannot say there are discoveries of many prints which i have not mentioned, though i hear mr. gulston( ) says he has fifteen such; but i suppose he only fancies so. mr. nichols says our printsellers are already adding hogarth's name to several spurious. mr. stevens, i hear, has been allowed to ransack mrs. hogarth's house for obsolete and unfinished plates, which are to be completed and published. though she was not pleased with my account of her husband, and seems by these transactions to have encouraged the second, i assure you i have much more reason to be satisfied than she has, the editor or editors being much civiller to living me than to dead hogarth--yet i should not have complained. every body has the same right to speak their sentiments. nay, in general, i have gentler treatment than i expected, and i think the world and i part good friends. i am now setting about the completion of my aedes strawberrianae. a painter is to come hither on monday to make a drawing of the tribune, and finish t. sandby's fine view of the gallery, to which i could never get him to put the last hand. they will then be engraved with a few of the chimney-pieces, which will complete the plates. i must add an appendix of curiosities, purchased or acquired since the catalogue was printed. this will be awkward, but i cannot afford to throw away an hundred copies. i shall take care if i can that mr. gough does not get fresh intelligence from my engravers, or he will advertise my supplement, before the book appears. i do not think it was very civil to publish such private intelligence, to which he had no right without my leave; but every body seems to think he may do what is good in his own eyes. i saw the other day, in a collection of seats (exquisitely engraved), a very rude insult on the duke of devonshire. the designer went to draw a view of chiswick, without asking leave, and was not hindered, for he has given it; but he says he was treated illiberally, the house not being shown without tickets, which he not only censures, but calls a singularity, though a frequent practice in other places, and practised there to my knowledge for these thirty years: so every body is to come into your house if he pleases, draw it whether you please or not, and by the same rule, i suppose, put any thing into his pockets that he likes. i do know, by experience, what a grievance it is to have a house worth being seen, and though i submit in consequence to great inconveniences, they do not save me from many rudenesses. mr. southcote( ) was forced to shut up his garden, for the savages who came as connoisseurs scribbled a thousand brutalities, in the buildings, upon his religion. i myself, at canons, saw a beautiful table of oriental alabaster that had been split in two by a buck in boots jumping up backwards to sit upon it. i have placed the oaken head of henry the third over the middle arch of the armoury. pray tell me what the church of barnwell, near oundle, was, which his majesty endowed, and whence his head came. dear sir, yours most sincerely. ( ) sir richard worsley is better known by his splendid work, the "museum worsleianum; or, a collection of antique basso-relievos, bustos, statues, and gems; with views of places in the levant, taken on the spot, in the years - - ;" in two volumes, folio. sir richard sat many years in parliament for the borough of newport, and was governor of the isle of wight, where he died in .-e. ( ) richard bull, esq. a famous collector of portraits.-e. ( ) " biographical anecdotes of william hogarth; and a catalogue of his works, chronologically arranged; with occasional remarks."-e. ( ) joseph gulston, esq. also an eminent portrait collector.-e. ( ) philip southcote, esq. of wooburn farm, chertsey: one of the first places improved according to the principles of modern gardening.-e. letter to the earl of charlemont.( ) strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i should have been exceedingly flattered, my lord, by receiving a present from your lordship, which at once proves that i retain a place in your lordship's memory, and you think me worthy of reading what you like. i could not wait to give your lordship a thousand thanks for so kind a mark of your esteem till i had done through the volume, which i may venture to say i shall admire, as i find it contains some pieces which i had seen, and did admire, without knowing their author. that approbation was quite impartial. perhaps my future judgment of the rest will be not a little prejudiced, and yet on good foundation; for if mr. preston( ) has retained my suffrage in his favour by dedicating his poems to your lordship, it must at least be allowed that i am biassed by evidence of his taste. he would not possess the honour of your friendship unless he deserved it; and, as he knows you, he would not have ventured to prefix your name, my lord, to poems that did not deserve your patronage. i dare to say they will meet the approbation of better judges than i can pretend to be. i have the honour to be, with the greatest respect, esteem, and gratitude. ( ) now first collected. ( ) william preston, esq. a young irish gentleman, of whom lord charlemont had become the friend and patron. he afterwards published "thoughts on lyric poetry, with an ode to the moon;" an "essay on ridicule, wit, and humour;" and a translation of the argonautics of appollonius rhodius. he died in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) my good sir, you forget that i have a cousin, eldest son of lord walpole, and of a marriageable age, who has the same christian name as i. the miss churchill he has married is my niece, second daughter of my sister, lady mary churchill; so that if i were in my dotage, i must have looked out for another bride--in short, i hope you will have no occasion to wish me joy of any egregious folly. i do congratulate you on your better health, and on the duke of rutland's civilities to you. i am a little surprised at his brother, who is a seaman, having a propensity to divinity, and wonder you object to it; the church navigant would be an extension of its power. as to orthodoxy, excuse me if i think it means nothing at all but every man's own opinion. were every man to define his faith, i am persuaded that no two men are or ever were exactly of the same opinion in all points and as men are more angry at others for differing with them on a single point, than satisfied with their concurrence in all others, each would deem every body else a heretic. old or new opinions are exactly of the same authority, for every opinion must have been new when first started; and no man has nor ever had more right than another to dictate, unless inspired. st. peter and st. paul disagreed from the earliest time, and who can be sure which was in the right? and if one of the apostles was in the wrong, who may not be mistaken? when you will tell me which was the orthodox, and which the heterodox apostle, i will allow that you know what orthodoxy is.( ) you and i are perhaps the two persons who agree the best with very different ways of thinking; and perhaps the reason is, that we have a mutual esteem for each other's sincerity, and, from an experience of more than forty years, are persuaded that neither of us has any interested views.( ) for my own part, i confess honestly that i am far from having the same charity for those whom i suspect of mercenary views. if dr. butler, when a private clergyman, wrote whig pamphlets, and when bishop of oxford preaches tory sermons, i should not tell him that he does not know what orthodoxy is, but i am convinced he does not care what it is. the duke of rutland seems much more liberal than butler or i, when he is so civil to you, though you voted against his brother. i am not acquainted with his grace, but i respect his behaviour; he is above prejudices. the story of poor mr. cotton( ) is shocking, whichever way it happened, but most probably it was accident. i am ashamed at the price of my book, though not my fault; but i have so often been guilty myself of giving ridiculous prices for rarities, though of no intrinsic value, that i must not condemn the same folly in others. every thing tells me how silly i am! i pretend to reason, and yet am a virtuoso! why should i presume that, at sixty-four, i am too wise to marry? and was you, who know so many of my weaknesses, in the wrong to suspect me of one more? oh! no, my good friend: nor do i see any thing in your belief of it, but the kindness with which you wish me felicity on the occasion. i heartily thank you for it, and am most cordially yours. ( ) on lord sandwich's observing that he did not know the difference between orthodoxy and heterodoxy, bishop warburton is said to have replied, "orthodoxy, my lord, is my doxy, and heterodoxy is another man's doxy."-e. ( ) cole, in a letter to 'mr. gough, of the th of august, says--"mr. walpole and myself are as opposite in political matters as possible; yet we continue friends. your political and religious opinions possibly may be as dissimilar; yet i hope we shall all meet in a better world, and be happy."-e. ( ) a son of sir john cotton, who was accidentally killed whilst shooting in his father's woods.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i will not delay thanking you, dear sir, for a second letter, which you wrote out of kindness, though i have time but to say a word, having my house full of company. i think i have somewhere or other mentioned the "robertus comentarius," (probably on some former information from you, which you never forget to give me,) at least the name sounds familiar to me; but just now i cannot consult my papers or books from the impediment of my guests. as i am actually preparing a new edition of my anecdotes, i shall very soon have occasion to search. i am sorry to hear you complain of the gout, but trust it will be a short parenthesis. yours most gratefully. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) your lordship's too friendly partiality sees talents in me which i am sure i do not possess. with all my desire of amusing you, and with all my sense of gratitude for your long and unalterable goodness, it is quite impossible to send you an entertaining letter from hence. the insipidity of my life, that is passed with a few old people that are wearing out like myself, after surviving so many of my acquaintance, can furnish no matter of correspondence. what few novelties i hear, come stale, and not till they have been hashed in the newspapers and though we are engaged in such big and wide wars, they produce no striking events, nor furnish any thing but regrets for the lives and millions we fling away to no purpose! one cannot divert when one can only compute, nor extract entertainment from prophecies that there is no reason to colour favourably. we have, indeed, foretold success for seven years together, but debts and taxes have been the sole completion. if one turns to private life, what is there to furnish pleasing topics? dissipation, without object, pleasure, or genius, is the only colour of the times. one hears every day of somebody undone. but can we or they tell how, except when it is by the most expeditious of all means, gaming? and now, even the loss of an hundred thousand pounds is not rare enough to be surprising. one may stare or growl, but cannot relate any thing that is worth hearing. i do not love to censure a younger age; but in good truth, they neither amuse me nor enable me to amuse others. the pleasantest event i know happened to myself last sunday morning when general conway very unexpectedly walked in as i was at breakfast, in his way to park-place. he looks as well in health and spirits as ever i saw him; and though he stayed but half an hour, i was perfectly content, as he is at home. i am glad your lordship likes the fourth book of the garden,( ) which is admirably coloured. the version of fresnoy i think the finest translation i ever saw. it is a most beautiful poem, extracted from as dry and prosaic a parcel of verses as could be put together: mr. mason has gilded lead, and burnished it highly. lord and lady harcourt i should think would make him a visit, and i hope, for their sakes, will visit wentworth castle. as they both have taste, i should be sorry they did not see the perfectest specimen of architecture i know. mrs. damer certainly goes abroad this winter. i am glad of it for every reason but her absence. i am certain it will be essential to her health; and she has so eminently a classic genius, and is herself so superior an artist, that i enjoy the pleasure she will have in visiting italy. as your lordship has honoured all the productions of my press with your acceptance, i venture to enclose the last, which i printed to oblige the lucans. there are many beautiful and poetic expressions in it. a wedding to be sure, is neither a new nor a promising subject, nor will outlast the favours: still i think mr. jones's ode( ) is uncommonly good for the occasion; at least, if it does not much charm lady strafford and your lordship, i know you will receive it kindly as a tribute from strawberry hill, as every honour is due to you both from its master. your devoted servant. ( ) the fourth book of mason's "english garden" had just made its appearance.-e. ( ) mr. afterwards sir william, jones's ode on the marriage of lord althorpe, afterwards earl spencer, with miss bingham.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i am not surprised that such a mind as yours cannot help expressing gratitude: it would not be your mind, if it could command that sensation as triumphantly as it does your passions. only remember that the expression is unnecessary. i do know that you feel the entire friendship i have for you; nor should i love you so well if i was not persuaded of it. there never was a grain of any thing romantic in my friendship for you. we loved one another from children, and as so near relations; but my friendship grew up with your virtues, which i admired though i did not imitate. we had scarce one in common but disinterestedness. of the reverse we have both, i may say, been so absolutely clear, that there is nothing so natural and easy as the little moneyed transactions between us - and therefore, knowing how perfectly indifferent i am upon that head, and remembering the papers i showed you, and what i have said to you when i saw you last, i am sure you will have the complaisance never to mention thanks more.-now, to answer your questions. as to coming to you, as that feu gr`egeois lord george gordon has given up the election, to my great joy, i can come to you on sunday next. it is true, i had rather you visited your regiment first, for this reason: i expect summons to nuneham every day; and besides, having never loved two journeys instead of one, i grow more covetous of my time, as i have little left, and therefore had rather take park-place, going and coming, on my way to lord harcourt. i don't know a word of news, public or private. i am deep in my dear old friend's papers.( ) there are some very delectable; and though i believe, nay, know, i have not quite all, there are many which i almost wonder, after the little delicacy they( ) have shown, ever arrived to my hands. i dare to say they will not be quite so just to the public; for though i consented that the correspondence with voltaire should be given to the editors of his works, i am persuaded that there are many passages at least which they will suppress, as very contemptuous to his chief votaries: i mean, of the votaries to his sentiments; for, like other heresiarchs, he despised his tools. if i live to see the edition, it will divert me to collate it with what i have in my hands. you are the person in the world the fittest to encounter the meeting you mention for the choice of a bridge.( ) you have temper and patience enough to bear with fools and false taste. i, so unlike you, have learned some patience with both sorts too, but by a more summary method than by waiting to instil reason into them. mine is only by leaving them to their own vagaries, and by despairing that sense and taste should ever extend themselves. adieu! p. s. in 'voltaire's letters are some bitter traits on the king of prussia, which, as he is defender of their no-faith, i conclude will be ray`es too. ( ) madame du deffand, who died in september , and left all her papers to mr. walpole. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) the executors of madame du deffand; whom walpole suspected of having abstracted some of her papers.-e. ( ) the bridge over the thames at henley, to the singular beauty of which the good taste of mr. conway materially contributed. letter to john nichols, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i am glad to hear, sir, that your account of hogarth calls for another edition; and i am very sensible of your great civility in offering to change any passages that criticise my own work. though i am much obliged by the offer, i should blush to myself if i even wished for that complaisance. good god! sir, what am i that i should be offended at or above criticism or correction? i do not know who ought to be; i am sure, no author. i am a private man, of no consequence, and at best an author of very moderate abilities. in a work that comprehends so much biography as my anecdotes of painting, it would have been impossible, even with much more diligence than i employed, not to make numberless mistakes. it is kind to me to point out those errors; to the world it is justice. nor have i a reason to be displeased even with the manner. i do remember that in many passages you have been very civil to me. i do not recollect any harsh phrases. as my work is partly critical as well as biographic, there too i had no reason or right to expect deference to my opinions. criticism, i doubt, has no very certain rule to go by; in matters of taste it is a still more vague and arbitrary science. as i am very sincere, sir, in what i say, i will with the same integrity own, that in one or two places of your book i think the criticisms on me are not well founded. for instance; in p. i am told that hogarth did not deserve the compliment i pay him of not descending to the indelicacy of the flemish and dutch painters. it is very true that you have produced some instances, to which i had not adverted, where he has been guilty of the same fault, though i think not in all you allege, nor to the degree alleged: in some i think the humour compensates for the indelicacy, which is never the case with the dutch; and in one particular i think it is a merit,--i mean in the burlesque paul before felix,--for there, sir, you should recollect that hogarth himself meant to satirize, not to imitate the painters of holland and flanders. you have also instanced, sir, many more portraits in his satiric prints than come within my defence of him as not being a personal satirist; but in those too, with submission, i think you have gone too far; as, though you have cited portraits, are they all satiric? sir john gouson is the image of an active magistrate identified; but it is not ridiculous, unless to be an active magistrate is being ridiculous. mr. pine,( ) i think you allow, desired to sit for the fat friar in the gates of calais-- certainly not with a view to being turned into derision. with regard to the bloody fingers of sigismunda, you say, sir, that my memory must have failed me, as you affirm that they are unstained with blood. forgive me if i say that i am positive they were so originally. i saw them so, and have often mentioned that fact. recollect, sir, that you yourself allow, p. , in the note, that the picture was continually "altered, upon the criticism of one connoisseur or another." may not my memory be more faithful about so striking a circumstance than the memory of another who would engage to recollect all the changes that remarkable picture underwent? i should be very happy, sir, if i could contribute any additional lights to your new publication; indeed, what additional lights i have gained are from your work, which has furnished me with many. i am going to publish a new edition of all the five volumes of my anecdotes of painting, in which i shall certainly insert what i have gathered from you. this edition will be in five thin octaves, without cuts, to make the purchase easy to artists and such as cannot afford the quartos, which are grown so extravagantly dear, that i am ashamed of it. being published too at different periods, and being many of them cut to pieces for the heads, since the race for portraits has been carried so far, it is very rare to meet with a complete set. my corrected copy is now in the printer's hands, except the last volume, in which are my additions to hogarth from your list, and perhaps one or two more but that volume also i have left in town, though not at the printer's, as, to complete it, i must wait for his new works, which mrs. hogarth is to publish. when i am settled in town, sir, i shall be very ready, if you please to call on me in berkeley square, to communicate any additions i have made to my account of hogarth. ( ) john pine the artist, who published "the procession and ceremonies at the installation of the knights of the bath, th of june, ;" folio, ; and, in , "the tapestry hangings of the house of lords," etc. sat for the fat friar in hogarth's gates of calais, and received from that circumstance the name of "friar pine," which he retained till his death. e. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) berkeley square, nov. . . (page ) yesterday, sir, i received the favour of your letter with the inclosed prologue,( ) and am extremely pleased with it; not only as it omits mention of me, for which i give you my warmest thanks, but as a composition. the thoughts are just and happily expressed; and the conclusion is so lively and well conceived, that mr. harris, to whom i carried it this morning, thinks it will have great effect. we are very sorry you have not sent us an epilogue too; but, before i touch on that, i will be more regular in my details. miss younge has accepted the part very gracefully; and by a letter i have received from her, in answer to mine, will, i flatter myself, take care to do justice to it. nay, she is so zealous, that mr. harris tells me she has taken great pains with the young person who is to play the daughter, but whose name i cannot at this moment recollect.( ) i must now confess that i have been again alarmed. i had a message from mr. harris on saturday last to tell me that the performers had been so alert, and were so ready with their parts, and the many disappointments that had happened this season had been so prejudicial to him, that it would be easy and necessary to bring out your play next saturday the th, and desired to have the prologue and epilogue. this precipitation made me apprehend that justice would not be done to your tragedy. still i did not dare to remonstrate; nor would venture to damp an ardour which i could not expect to excite again. instead of objecting to his haste, i only said i had not received your prologue and epilogue, but had written for them and expected them every minute, though, as it depended on winds, one could never be sure. i trusted to accidents for delay; at least i thought i could contrive some, without seeming to combat what he thought for his interest. i have not been mistaken. on receiving your prologue yesterday, i came to town to-day and carried it to him, to show him i lost no time. he told me mr. henderson was not enough recovered, but he hoped would be well enough to bring out the play on saturday se'nnight. that he had had a rough rehearsal yesterday morning, with which he had been charmed; and was persuaded, and that the performers think so too. that your play will have great effect. all this made me very easy. there is to be a regular rehearsal on saturday, for which i shall stay in town on purpose; and, if i find the performers perfect, i think there will be no objection to its appearance on saturday se'nnight. i shall rather prefer that day to a later; as, the parliament not being met, it will have a week's run before politics interfere. now, sir, for the epilogue. i have taken the liberty of desiring mr. harris to have one prepared, in case yours should not arrive in time. it is a compliment to him, (i do not mean that he will write it himself,) will interest him still more in the cause; and, though he may not procure a very good one, a manager may know better than we do what will suit the taste of the times. the success of a play being previous, cannot be hurt by an epilogue, though some plays have been saved; and if it be not a good one, it will not affect you. if you send us a good one, though too late, it may be printed with the play. i must act about the impression just the reverse of what i did about the performance, and must beg you would commission some friend to transact that affair; for i know nothing of the terms, and should probably disserve you if i undertook the treaty with the booksellers, nor should i have time to supervise the correction of the press. in truth, it is so disagreeable a business, that i doubt i have given proofs at my own press of being too negligent; and as i am actually at present reprinting my anecdotes of painting, i have but too much business of that sort on my hands. you will forgive my saying this, especially when you consider that my hands are very lame, ind that this morning in mr. harris's room, the right one shook so, that i was forced to desire him to write a memorandum for me. i think i have omitted nothing material. mr. wroughton is to play the count. i do not know who will speak the prologue; probably not mr. henderson, as he has been so very ill: nor should i be very earnest for it; for the friar's is so central and so laborious a part, that i should not wish to abate his powers by any previous exertion. perhaps i refine too much, but i own i think the non-appearance of a principal actor till his part opens is an advantage. i will only add that i must beg you will not talk of obligations to me. you have at least overpaid me d'avance by the honour you have done me in adopting the castle of otranto. ( ) now first printed. ( ) to the tragedy of the count of narbonne. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) miss satchell. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) as i have been at the rehearsal of your tragedy to-day, sir, i must give you a short a(-count of it; though i am little able to write, having a good deal of gout in my right hand, which would have kept me away from any thing else, and made me hurry back hither the moment it was over, lest i should be confined to town. mr. malone, perhaps, who was at the playhouse too, may have anticipated me; for i could not save the post to-night, nor will this go till to-morrow. mr. henderson is still too ill to attend, but hopes to be abroad by tuesday: mr. hull read his part very well. miss younge is perfectly mistress of her part, is pleased with it, and i think will do it justice. i never saw her play so ably. miss satchell, who is to play adelaide, is exactly what she should be: very young, pretty enough, natural and simple. she has already acted juliet with success. her voice not only pleasing, but very audible; and, which is much more rare, very articulate: she does not gabble, as most young women do, even off the stage. mr. wroughton much exceeded my expectation. he enters warmly into his part, and with thorough zeal. mr. lewis was so very imperfect in his part, that i cannot judge quite what he will do, for he could not repeat two lines by heart; but he looked haughtily, and as he pleased me in percy, which is the same kind of character, i promise myself he will succeed in this. very, very few lines will be omitted; and there will be one or two verbal alterations to accommodate the disposition, but which will not appear in the printed copies, of which mr. malone says he will take the management. as mr. harris and the players all seemed zealous and in good humour, i will not contest some trifles; and, indeed, they were not at all unreasonable. i an) to see the scenes on friday, if i am able: and if mr. henderson is well enough, the play will be performed on the th or immediately after. some slight delays, which one cannot foresee, may always happen. in truth-, i little expected so much readiness and compliance both in manager and actors; nor, from all i have heard of the stage, could conceive such facilities. >from the moment mr. harris consented to perform your play, there has not been one instance of obstinacy or wrongheadedness anywhere. if the audience is as reasonable and just, you may, sir, promise yourself complete success. ( ) now first printed. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) strawberry hill, nov. , . )page ) i have, this minute, sir, received the corrected copy of your tragedy, which is almost all i am able to say, for i have so much gout in this hand, and it shakes so much, that i am scarce able to manage my pen. i will go to town if i can, and consult mr. henderson on the alterations; though i confess i think it dangerous to propose them so late before representation, which the papers say again is to be on saturday if mr. henderson is well enough. mr. malone shall have the corrected copy for impression. i own i cannot suspect that mr. sheridan will employ any ungenerous arts against your play. i have never heard any thing to give me suspicions of his behaving unhandsomely; and as you indulge my zeal and age a liberty of speaking like a friend, i would beg you to suppress your sense of the too great prerogatives of theatric monarchs. i hope you will again and again have occasion to court the power of their crowns; and, therefore if not for your own, for the sake of the public, do not declare war with them. it has not been my practice to preach slavery; but, while one deals with and depends on mimic sovereigns, i would act policy, especially when by temporary passive obedience one can really lay a lasting obligation on one's country, which your plays really are. i am glad you approve what i had previously undertaken, mr. harris's procuring an epilogue; he told me on saturday that he should have one. you are very happy in friends, sir; which is another proof of your merit. mr. malone is not less zealous than mr. tighe, to whom i beg my compliments. ( ) now first printed. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) as mr. malone undertook to give you an account, sir, by last night's post, of the great success of the tragedy, i did not hasten home to write; but stayed at the theatre, to talk to mr. harris and the actors, and learn what was said, besides the general applause. indeed i never saw a more unprejudiced audience, nor more attention. there was not the slightest symptom of disapprobation to any part, and the plaudit was loud and long when given out again for monday. i mention these circumstances in justification of mr. sheridan, to whom i never spoke in my life, but who certainly had not sent a single person to hurt you. the prologue was exceedingly liked; and, for effect, no play ever produced more fears. in the green-room i found that hortensia's sudden death was the only incident disapproved; as we heard by intelligence from the pit; and it is to be deliberated tomorrow whether it may not be preferable to carry her off as in a swoon. when there is only so slight an objection, you cannot doubt of your full success. it is impossible to say how much justice miss younge did to your writing. she has shown herself' a great mistress of her profession, mistress of dignity, passion, and of all the sentiments you have put into her hands. the applause given to her description of raymond's death lasted some minutes, and recommenced; and her scene in the fourth act, after the count's ill-usage, was played in the highest perfection. mr. henderson was far better than i expected from his weakness, and from his rehearsal yesterday, with which he was much discontented himself. mr. wroughton was very animated, and played the part of the count much better than any man now on the stage would have done. i wish i could say mr. lewis satisfied me; and that poor child miss satchell was very inferior to what she appeared at the rehearsals, where the total silence and our nearness deceived us. her voice has no strength, nor is she yet at all mistress of the stage. i have begged miss younge to try what she can do with her by monday. however, there is no danger to your play: it is fully established. i confess i am not only pleased on your account, sir, but on mr. harris's, as he has been very obliging to me. i am not likely to have any more intercourse with the stage; but i shall be happy if i leave my interlude there by settling an amity between you and mr. harris, whence i hope he will draw profit and you more renown. ( ) now first printed. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. berkeley square, sunday morning, nov. , . (page ) i have been here again for three days, tending and nursing and waiting on mr. jephson's play. i have brought it into the world, was well delivered of it, it can stand on its own legs--and i am going back to my own quiet hill, never likely to have any thing more to do with theatres. indeed it has seemed strange to me, who for these three or four years have not been so many times in a playhouse, nr knew six of the actors by sight, to be at two rehearsals, behind the scenes, in the green-room, and acquainted with half the company. the count of narbonne was played last night with great applause, and without a single murmur of disapprobation. miss younge has charmed me.( ) she played with intelligence that was quite surprising. the applause to one of her speeches lasted a minute, and recommenced twice before the play could go on. i am sure you will be pleased with the conduct and the easy beautiful language of the play, and struck with her acting. ( ) in , this celebrated actress was married to mr. pope, the comedian. she died in , and was buried in westminster abbey.-e. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i have just received your two letters, sir, and the epilogue, which i am sorry came so late, as there are very pretty things in it: but i believe it would be very improper to produce it now, as the two others have been spoken. i am sorry you are discontent with there being no standing figure of alphonso, and that i acquiesced in its being cumbent. i did certainly yield, and i think my reasons will justify me. in the first place, you seemed to have made a distinction between the statue and the tomb; and, had both been represented, they would have made a confusion. but a more urgent reason for my compliance was the shortness of the time, which did not allow the preparation of an entire new scene, as i proposed last year and this, nay, and mentioned it to mr. harris. when i came to the house to see the scene prepared, it was utterly impossible to adjust an erect figure to it; nor, indeed, do i conceive, were the scene disposed as you recommend, how adelaide could be stabbed behind the scenes. as i never disguise the truth, i must own,.-for i did think myself so much obliged to mr. harris,--that i was unwilling to heap difficulties on him, when i did not think they would hurt your piece. i fortunately was not mistaken: the entrance of adelaide wounded had the utmost effect, and i believe much greater than would have resulted from her being stabbed on the stage. in short, the success has been so complete, and both your poetry and the conduct of the tragedy are so much and so justly admired, that i flatter myself you will not blame me for what has not produced the smallest inconvenience. both the manager and the actors were tractable, i believe, beyond example; and it is my nature to bear some contradiction, when it will carry material points. the very morning, the only morning, i had to settle the disposition, i had another difficulty to reconcile,-the competition of the two epilogues, which i was so lucky as to compromise too. i will say nothing of my being three hours each time, on two several days, in a cold theatre with the gout on me; and perhaps it was too natural to give up a few points in order to get home, for which i ask your pardon. yet the event shows that i have not injured you and if i was in one instance impatient, i flatter myself that my solicitations to mr. harris and miss younge, and the zeal i have shown to serve you, will atone for my having in one moment thought of myself, and then only when the reasons that weighed with me were so plausible, that without a totally new scene, which the time would not allow, i do not see how they could have been obviated. your tragedy, sir, has taken such a rank upon the stage, that one may reasonably hope it will hereafter be represented with all the decorations to your mind; and i admire it so truly, that i shall be glad to have it conducted by an abler mechanist than your obedient humble servant. ( ) now first collected. letter to the earl of strafford. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) each fresh mark of your lordship's kindness and friendship, calls on me for thanks and an answer: every other reason would enjoin me silence. i not only grow so old, but the symptoms of age increase so fast, that, as they advise me to keep out of the world, that retirement makes me less fit to be informing or entertaining. those philosophers who have sported on the verge of the tomb, or they who have affected to sport in the same situation, both tacitly implied that it was not out of their thoughts; and however dear what we are going to leave may be, all that is not particularly dear must cease to interest us much. if those reflections blend themselves with our gayest thoughts, must not their hue grow more dusky when public misfortunes and disgraces cast a general shade?( ) the age, it is true, soon emerges out of every gloom, and wantons as before. but does not that levity imprint a still deeper melancholy on those who do think? have any of our calamities corrected us? are we not revelling on the brink of the precipice? does administration grow more sage, or desire that we should grow more sober? are these themes for letters, my dear lord! can one repeat common news with indifference, while our shame is writing for future history by the pens of all our numerous enemies? when did england see two whole armies lay down their arms and surrender themselves prisoners? can venal addresses efface such stigmas, that will be recorded in every country in europe? or will such disgraces have no consequences? is not america lost to us? shall we offer up more human victims to the demon of obstinacy; and shall we tax ourselves deeper to furnish out the sacrifice? these are thoughts i cannot stifle at the moment that enforces them; and though i do not doubt but the same spirit of dissipation that has swallowed up all our principles will reign again in three days with its wonted sovereignty, i had rather be silent than vent my indignation. yet i cannot talk, for i cannot think, on any other subject. it was not six days ago, that in the midst of four raging wars i saw in the papers an account of the opera and of the dresses of the company; and thence the town, and thence of course the whole nation were informed that mr. fitzpatrick had very little powder in his hair.( ) would not one think that our newspapers were penned by boys just come from school for the information of their sisters and cousins? had we had gazettes and morning posts in those days, would they have been filled with such tittle-tattle after the battle of agincourt, or in the more resembling weeks after the battle of naseby? did the french trifle equally even during the ridiculous war of the fronde? if they were as impertinent then, at least they had wit in their levity. we are monkeys in conduct, and as clumsy as bears when we try to gambol. oh! my lord! i have no patience with my country! and shall leave it without regret!--can we be proud when all europe scorns us? it was wont to envy us, sometimes to hate us, but never despised us before. james the first was contemptible, but he did not lose an america! his eldest grandson sold us, his younger lost us--but we kept ourselves. now we have run to meet the ruin--and it is coming! i beg your lordship's pardon, if i have said too much--but i do not believe i have. you have never sold yourself, and therefore have not been accessary to our destruction. you must be happy now not to have a son, who would live to grovel in the dregs of england. your lordship has long been so wise as to secede from the follies of your countrymen. may you and lady strafford long enjoy the tranquillity that has been your option even in better days!--and may you amuse yourself without giving loose to such reflections as have overflowed in this letter from your devoted humble servant! ( ) the fatal intelligence of the surrender of the british forces at yorktown, under the command of lord cornwallis, to the combined armies of america and france, under general washington, had reached england on the th.-e. ( ) the following picture of fashionable life at the time of walpole's lament, is by mr. wilberforce:--"when i left the university, so little did i know of general society, that i came up to london stored with arguments to prove the authenticity of rowley's poems; and now i was at once immersed in politics and fashion. the very first time i went to boodle's, i won twenty.five guineas of the duke of norfolk. i belonged at this time to five clubs- -miles and evans's, brookes's, boodle's, white's, goostree's. the first time i was at brookes's, scarcely knowing any one, i joined, from niere shyness, in play at the faro-table, where george selwyn kept bank. a friend, who knew my inexperience, and regarded me as a victim decked out for sacrifice, called to me, 'what, wilberforce! is that you?' selwyn quite resented the interference; and, turning to him, said, in his most expressive tone, 'o, sir, don't interrupt mr. wilberforce; he could not be better employed!' nothing could be more luxurious than the style of these clubs, fox, sheridan, fitzpatrick, and all your leading men, frequented them, and associated upon the easiest terms; you chatted, played at cards, or gambled, as you pleased. i was one of those who met to spend an evening in memory of shakspeare, at the boar's head, eastcheap. many professed wits were present, but pitt was the most amusing of the party. he played a good deal at goostree's; and i well remember the intense earnestness which he displayed when joining in those games of chance. he perceived their increasing fascination, and soon after suddenly abandoned them for ever." life, vol, i. p, .-e. letter to the earl of buchan.( ) berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) i am truly sensible of, and grateful for, your lordship's benevolent remembrance of me, and shall receive with great respect and pleasure the collection your lordship has been pleased to order to be sent to me. i must admire, too, my lord, the generous assistance that you have lent to your adopted children; but more forcibly than all i feel your pathetic expressions on the distress of the public, which is visible even in this extravagant and thoughtless city. the number of houses to be let in every street, whoever runs may read. at the time of your writing your letter, your lordship did not know the accumulation of misfortune and disgrace that has fallen on us;( ) nor should i wish to be the trumpeter of my country's calamities. yet as they must float on the surface of the mind, and blend their hue -with all its emanations, they suggest this reflection, that there can be no time so proper for the institution of inquiries into past story as the moment of the fall of an empire,--a nation becomes a theme for antiquaries, when it ceases to be one for an historian!--and while its ruins are fresh and in legible preservation. i congratulate your lordship on the discovery of the scottish monarch's portrait in suabia, and am sorry you did not happen to specify of which; but i cannot think of troubling your lordship to write again on purpose; i may probably find it mentioned in some of the papers i shall receive. there is one passage in your lordship's letter in which i cannot presume to think myself included; and yet if i could suppose i was, it would look like most impertinent neglect and unworthiness of the honour that your lordship and the society have done me, if i did not at least offer. very humbly to obey it. you are pleased to say, my lord, that the members, when authors, have agreed to give copies of such of their works as any way relate to the objects of the institution. amongst my very trifling publications, i think there are none that can pretend even remotely to that distinction, but the catalogue of royal and noble authors, and the anecdotes of painting, in each of which are scottish authors or artists. if these should be thought worthy of a corner on any shelf of the society's library, i should be proud sending, at your lordship's command, the original edition of the first. of the latter i have not a single set left but my own. but i am printing a new edition in octavo, with many additions and corrections, though without cuts, as the former edition was too dear for many artists to purchase. the new i will send when finished, if i could hope it would be acceptable, and your lordship would please to tell me by what channel. i am ashamed, my lord, to have said so much, or any thing relating to myself. i ask your pardon too for the slovenly writing of my letter; but my hand is both lame and shaking, and i should but write worse if i attempted transcribing. i have the honour to be, with great respect, my lord, your lordship's most obedient and obliged humble servant. p. s. it has this moment started into my mind, my lord, that i have heard that at the old castle at aubigny, belonging and adjoining to the duke of richmond's house, there are historic paintings or portraits of the ancient house of lennox. i recollect too that father gordon, superior of the scots college at paris, showed me a whole-length of queen mary, young, and which he believed was painted while she was queen of france. he showed me too the original letter she wrote, the night before her execution, some deeds of scottish kings, and one of king (i think robert) bruce, remarkable for having no seal appendent, which father gordon said was executed in the time of his so great distress, that he was not possessed of a seal. i shall be happy if these hints lead to any investigations of use. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the surrender of the british army at yorktown. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to robert jephson, esq.( ) berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) i have not only a trembling hand, but scarce time to save the post; yet i write a few lines to beg you will be perfectly easy on my account, who never differ seriously with my friends, when i know they do not mean ill to me. i was sorry you took so much to heart an alteration in the scenery of your play,( ) which did not seem to me very material; and which, having since been adjusted to your wish, had no better effect. i told you that it was my fault, not mr. malone's, who is warmly your friend; and i am sure you will be sorry if you do him injustice. i regret no pains i have taken, since they have been crowned with your success; and it would be idle in either of us to recall any little cross circumstance that may have happened, (as always do in bringing a play on the stage,) when they have not prevented its appearance or good fortune. be assured, sir, if that is worth knowing, that i have taken no offence, and have all the same good wishes for you that i ever had since i was acquainted with your merit and abilities. i can easily allow for the anxiety of a parent of your genius for his favourite offspring; and though i have not your parts, i have had the warmth, though age and illness have chilled it: but, thank god! they have not deprived me of my good-humour, and i am most good-humouredly and sincerely your obedient humble servant. ( ) now first collected. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) we are both hearty friends, my dear sir, for i see we have both been reproaching ourselves with silence at the same moment. i am much concerned that you have had cause for yours.( ) i have had less, though indisposed too in a part material for correspondence--my hand, which has been in labour of chalk-stones this whole summer, and at times so nervous as to tremble so much, that, except when quite necessary, i have avoided a pen. i have been delivered of such a quantity of chalky matter, that i am not only almost free from pain, but hope to avoid a fit this winter. how there can be a doubt what the gout is, amazes me! what is it but a concretion of humours, that either stop up the fine vessels, cause pain and inflammation, and pass away only by perspiration; or which discharge themselves into chalk-stones, which sometimes remain in their beds, sometimes make their passage outwardly? i have experienced all three. it may be objected, that the sometimes instantaneous removal of pain from one limb to another is too rapid for a current of chalk--true, but not for the humour before coagulated. as there is, evidently, too, a degree of wind mixed in the gout, may not that wind be impregnated with the noxious effluvia, especially as the latter are pent up in the body and may be corrupted? i hope your present complaint in the foot will clear the rest of your person. many thanks for your etching of mr. browne willis: i shall value it not only as i am a collector, but because he was your friend. what shall i say about mr. gough? he is not a pleasant man, and i doubt will tease me about many things, some of which i have never cared about, and all which i interest myself little about now, when i seek to pass my remnant in the most indolent tranquillity. he has not been very civil to me, he worships the fools i despise, and i conceive has no genuine taste; yet as to trifling resentments, when the objects have not acted with bad hearts, i can most readily lose them. please mr. gough, i certainly shall not; i cannot be very grave about such idle studies as his and my own, and am apt to be impatient, or laugh when people imagine i am serious about them. but there is a stronger reason why i shall not satisfy mr. gough. he is a man to minute down whatever one tells him that he may call information, and whip it into his next publication. however, though i am naturally very frank, i can regulate myself by those i converse with; and as i shall be on my guard, i will not decline visiting mr. gough, as it would be illiberal or look surly if i refused. you shall have the merit, if you please, of my assent; and shall tell him, i shall be glad to see him any morning at eleven o'clock. this will save you the trouble of sending me his new work, as i conclude he will mention it to me. i more willingly assure you that i shall like to see mr. steevens,( ) and to show him strawberry. you never sent me a person you commended, that i did not find deserved it. you will be surprised when i tell you, that i have only dipped into mr. bryant's book, and lent the dean's before i had cut the leaves, though i had peeped into it enough to see that i shall not read it. both he and bryant are so diffuse on our antiquated literature, that i had rather believe in rowley than go through their proofs. dr. warton and mr. tyrwhitt have more patience, and intend to answer them--and so the controversy will be two hundred years out of my reach. mr. bryant, i did find, begged a vast many questions, which proved to me his own doubts. dr. glynn's foolish evidence made me laugh, and so did mr. bryant's sensibility for me; he says that chatterton treated me very cruelly in one of his writings. i am sure i did not feel it so. i suppose bryant means under the title of baron of otranto, which is written with humour. i must have been the sensitive plant if any thing in that character had hurt me! mr. bryant too, and the dean, as i see by extracts in the papers, have decorated chatterton with sanctimonious honour--think of that young rascal's note, when, summing up his gains and losses by writing for and against beckford, he says, "am glad he is dead by three pounds shillings pence." there was a lad of too nice honour to be capable of forgery! and a lad who, they do not deny, forged the poems in the style of ossian, and fifty other things. in the parts i did read, mr. bryant, as i expected, reasons admirably, and staggered me; but when i took up the poems called rowley's again, i protest i cannot see the smallest air of antiquity but the old words. the whole texture is conceived on ideas of the present century. the liberal manner of thinking of a monk so long before the reformation is as stupendous; and where he met with ovid's metamorphoses, eclogues, and plans of greek tragedies, when even caxton, a printer, took virgil's aeneid for so rare a novelty, are not less incomprehensible: though on these things i speak at random, nor have searched for the era when the greek and latin classics came again to light-at present i imagine long after our edward the fourth. another thing struck me in my very cursory perusal of bryant. he asks where chatterton could find so much knowledge of english events? i could tell him where he might, by a very natural hypothesis, though merely an hypothesis. it appears by the evidence, that canninge left six chests of manuscripts, and that chatterton got possession of some or several. now what was therein so probably as a diary drawn up by canninge himself, or some churchwarden or wardens, or by a monk or monks? is any thing more natural than for such a person, amidst the events at bristol, to set down other public facts as happened in the rest of the kingdom? was not such almost all the materials of our ancient story? there is actually such an one, with some curious collateral facts, if i am not mistaken,--for i write by memory,-- in the history of furnese or fountains abbey, i forget which: if chatterton found such an one, did he want the extensive literature on which so much stress is laid. hypothesis for hypothesis,--i am sure this is as rational an one as the supposition that six chests were filled with poems never else heard of. these are my indigested thoughts on this matter--not that i ever intend to digest them--for i will not, at sixty-four, sail back into the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and be drowned in an ocean of monkish writers of those ages or of this! yours most sincerely. ( ) mr. cole, in a letter of the st says, "about six weeks ago, the gout was harassing both my feet; on christmas-day it shifted its quarters, and got into my left hand; and inexpressible have been the pain and torment i have endured, with sleepless nights, racking pain, and no rest nor relief by day. i hope the worst is over, as i had a comfortable sleep for the whole night last night: but my hopes are like those in a ship in a storm; when one billow is past, another and greater is at the heels of it: for a water-drinker my lot is hard."-e. ( ) george steevens, esq. in , this eminent scholar and learned commentator became associated with dr. johnson, in the edition of shakspeare which goes by their joint names. a fourth edition, with large additions, was published in , in fifteen volumes octavo. in the preparation of it for the press, mr. steevens gave an instance of editorial activity and perseverance, which is, probably, without a parallel. for a period of eighteen months, he devoted himself solely and exclusively to the work; and, during that time, left his house every morning at one o'clock with the hampstead patrols, and proceeded, without any consideration of weather or season, to the chambers of his friend, isaac reed, in staple's inn, where he found a sheet of the shakspeare letterpress was ready for his revision: thus, while the printers were asleep, the editor was @ awake; and the fifteen large volumes were completed in the short space of twenty months. the feat is recorded by mr. matthias, in the pursuits of literature: "him late, from hampstead journeying to his book, aurora oft for cophalus mistook; what time he brush'd her dews with hasty pace, to meet the printer's dev'let face to face." he died at hampstead in , and in his sixty-fourth year.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) for these three weeks i have had the gout in my left elbow and hand, and can yet but just bear to lay the latter on the paper while i write with the other. however, this is no complaint, for it is the shortest fit i have had these sixteen years, and with trifling pain: therefore, as the fits decrease, it does ample honour to my bootikins regimen, and method. next to my bootikins, i ascribe much credit to a diet-drink of dock-roots, of which dr. turton asked me for my receipt, as the best he had ever seen, and which i will send you if you please. it came from an old physician at richmond, who did amazing service with it in inveterate scurvies,--the parents, or ancestors, at least, i believe, of all gouts. your fit i hope is quite gone. mr. gough has been with me. i never saw a more dry or more cold gentleman. he told me his new plan is a series of english monuments. i do like the idea, and offered to lend him drawings for it. i have seen mr. steevens too, who is much more flowing. i wish you had told me it was the editor of shakspeare, for, on his mentioning dr. farmer, i launched out and said, he was by much the most rational of shakspeare's commentators, and had given the only sensible account of the authors our great poet had consulted. i really meant those -who wrote before dr. farmer. mr. steevens seemed a little surprised, which made me discover the blunder i had made. for which i was very sorry, though i had meant nothing by it; however, do not mention it. i hope be has too much sense to take it ill, as he must have seen i had no intention of offending him; on the contrary, that my whole behaviour marked a desire of being civil to him as your friend, in which light only you had named him to me. pray take no notice of it, though i could not help mentioning it, as it lies on my conscience to have been even undesignedly and indirectly unpolite to any body you recommend. i should not, i trust, have been so unintentionally to any body, nor with intention, unless provoked to it by great folly or dirtiness. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) i have received such treasures from you, dear sir, through the channel of mr. nichols, that i neither know how to thank you, nor to find time to peruse them so fast as i am impatient to do. you must complete your kindness by letting me detain them a few days, till i have gone through them, when i will return them most carefully by the same intervention; and particularly the curious piece of enamel; for though you are, as usual, generous enough to offer it to me, i have plundered you too often already; and indeed i have room left for nothing more, nor have that miserly appetite of continuing to hoard what i cannot enjoy, nor have much time left to possess. i have already looked into your beautiful illuminated manuscript copied from dr: stukeley's letter, and with anecdotes of the antiquaries of bennet college; and i have found therein so many charming instances of your candour, humility, and justice, that i grieve to deprive mr. gough for a minute even of the possession of so valuable a tract. i will not injure him or it, by begging you to cancel what relates to me, as it would rob you of part of your defence of mr. baker. if i wish to have it detained from mr. gough till the period affixed in the first leaf, or rather to my death, which will probably precede yours, it is for this reason only: mr. gough is apt, as we antiquaries are, to be impatient to tell the world all he knows, which is unluckily much more than the world is at all impatient of knowing. for what you call your flaming zeal, i do not in the least object to it. we have agreed to tolerate each other, and certainly are neither of us infallible. i think, on what we differ most is, your calling my opinions fashionable; they were when we took them up: i doubt it is yours that are most in fashion now, at least in this country. the emperor seems to be of our party; but, if i like his notions, i do not admire his judgment, which is too precipitate to be judgment. i smiled at mr. gough's idea of my declining his acquaintance as a member of that obnoxious society of antiquaries. it is their folly alone that is obnoxious to me, and can they help that? i shall very cheerfully assist him. i am glad you are undeserved about the controversial piece in the gentleman's magazine, which i should have assured you, as you now know, that it was not mine. i declared, in my defence,( ) that i would publish nothing more about that question. i have not, nor intend it. neither was it i that wrote the prologue to the count of narbonne, but mr. jephson himself. on the opposite page i will add the receipt for the diet-drink: as to my regimen, i shall not specify it. not only you would not adopt it, but i should tremble to have you. in fact, i never do prescribe it, as i am persuaded it would kill the strongest man in england, who was not exactly of the same temperament with me, and who had not embraced it early. it consists in temperance to quantity as to eating--i do not mind the quality; i am persuaded that great abstinence with the gout is dangerous; for, if one does not take nutriment enough, there cannot be strength sufficient to fling out the gout, and then it deviates to palsies. but my great nostrum is the use of cold water, inwardly and outwardly, on all occasions, and total disregard of precaution against catching cold. a hat you know i never wear, my breast i never button, nor wear great-coats, etc. i have often had the gout in my face (as last week) and eyes, and instantly dip my head in a pail of cold water, which always cures it, and does not send it anywhere else. all this i do, because i have so for these forty years, weak as i look; but milo would not have lived a week if he had played such pranks. my diet-drink is not all of so quixote a disposition; any of the faculty will tell you how innocent it is, at least. in a few days, for i am a rapid reader when i like my matter, i will return all your papers and letters; and in the mean time thank you most sincerely for the use of them. ( ) hannah more, in a letter to mrs. boscawen, says, "many thanks for mr. walpole's sensible, temperate, and humane pamphlet. i am not quite a convert yet to his side in the chatertonian controversy, though this elegant writer and all the antiquaries and critics are against me: i like much the candid regret he every where discovers at not having fostered this unfortunate lad, whose profligate manners, however, i too much fear, would not have done credit to any patronage. mrs. garrick read it, and was more interested than i have ever seen her."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. february , . (page ) i was so impatient to peruse all the literary stores you sent me, my dear sir, that i stayed at home on purpose to give up a whole evening to them. i have gone through all; your own manuscript, which i envy mr. gough, his specimen, and the four letters to you from the latter and mr. steevens. i am glad they were both satisfied with my reception. in truth, you know i am neither formal nor austere, nor have any grave aversion to our antiquities, though i do now and then divert myself with their solemnity about arrant trifles; yet perhaps we owe much to their thinking those trifles of importance, or the lord knows how they would have patience to investigate them so indefatigably. mr. steevens seemed pleasant, but i doubt i shall never be demure enough to conciliate mr. gough. then i have a wicked quality in an antiquary, nay, one that annihilates the essence: that is, i cannot bring myself to a habit of minute accuracy about very indifferent points. i do not doubt but there is a swarm of diminutive inaccuracies in my anecdotes--well! if there is, i bequeath free leave of correction to the microscopic intellects of my continuators. i took dates and facts from the sedulous and faithful vertue,( ) and piqued myself on little but on giving an idea of the spirit of the times with regard to the arts at the different periods. the specimen you present me of mr. gough's detail of our monuments is very differently treated, proves vast industry, and shows most circumstantial fidelity. it extends, too, much farther than i expected; for it seems to embrace the whole mass of our monuments, nay, of some that are vanished. it is not what i thought, an intention of representing our modes of dress, from figures on monuments, but rather a history of our tombs. it is fortunate, though he may not think so, that so many of the more ancient are destroyed, since for three or four centuries they were clumsy, rude, and ugly. i know i am but a fragment of an antiquary, for i abhor all saxon doings, and whatever did not exhibit some taste, grace, or elegance, and some ability in the artists. nay, if i may say so to you, i do not care a straw for archbishops, bishops, mitred abbots, and cross-legged knights. when you have one of a sort, you have seen all. however, to so superficial a student in antiquity as i am, mr. gough's work is not unentertaining. it has frequently anecdotes and circumstances of kings, queens, and historic personages, that interest me though i care not a straw about a series of bishops who had only christian names, or were removed from one old church to a newer. still i shall assist mr. gough with whatever he wants in my possession. i believe he is a very worthy man, and i should be a churl not to oblige any man who is so innocently employed. i have felt the selfish, the proud avarice of those who hoard literary curiosities for themselves alone, as other misers do money. i observed in your account of the count-bishop hervey, that you call one of his dedicators martin sherlock, esquire.( ) that mr. sherlock is an irish clergyman; i am acquainted with him. he is a very amiable good-natured man, and wants judgment, not parts. he is a little damaged by aiming at sterne's capricious pertness which the original wore out; and which, having been admired and cried up to the skies by foreign writers of reviews, was, on the contrary, too severely treated by our own. that injustice shocked mr. sherlock, who has a good heart and much simplicity, and sent him in dudgeon last year to ireland, determined to write no more; yet i am persuaded he will, so strong is his propensity to being an author; and if he does, correction may make him more attentive to what he says and writes. he has no gall; on the contrary, too much benevolence in his indiscriminate praise; but he has made many ingenious criticisms. he is a just, a due enthusiast to shakspeare: but, alas! he scarce likes richardson less. ( ) george vertue, the engraver, was born in london in , and died in . walpole has given a short sketch of his active life in his anecdotes of painting in england; a work, for the materials of which he was in a great measure, indebted to the collections of vertue, which he bought of his widow. "these collections," he says, "amounted to nearly forty volumes, large and small: in one of his pocket-books i found a note of his first intention of compiling such a work; it was in , and he continued it assiduously to his death."-e. ( ) this eccentric and original writer had published a book at rome in italian, and two others at paris, in french. the first volume of his "letters from an english traveller," translated by the rev. john duncombe, appeared in london in , the author's return from the continent, and before it was known he was in holy orders. the letters were dedicated to the hon. and rev. frederick augustus hervey, bishop of derry, and afterwards earl of bristol. (see ant`e, p. , letter .) this volume was republished, revised and corrected by the author, in , and was soon followed by "new letters of an english traveller." in , mr. sherlock had a strong inclination to revisit the continent, and actually caused the following article to be inserted in a public journal:--"it is now generally supposed, that, whoever may be honoured with the negotiation at vienna, mr. sherlock, the celebrated english traveller and chaplain to the earl of bristol, will be appointed secretary to his embassy. his great literary and political accomplishments, are in high estimation throughout the continent; and he is, perhaps, the only englishman who can boast of having familiarly conversed with the high potentates whose alliance at this important juncture it would be desirable to obtain. his being in orders is an objection which will vanish, when it is recollected that the very same important office was, in , intended for dr. swift: a name which, however deservedly revered in great britain and ireland, must, in every other kingdom of europe, give precedence to those of sherlock, rousseau, and sterne, the luminaries of the present century." in june of the same year he was presented, by the bishop of killala, with a living of pounds a-year. upon which occasion he wrote to his publisher, "i think it may be of use to our sale to let the world know it in the newspaper; and i am persuaded that doubling the value of the living will make the books sell better. the world (god bless it!) is very apt to value a man's writing according to his rank and fortune. i am sure they will think more highly of my letters, if they believe i have a-year, than if they think i have only two. pope, you know, says something like this-- 'a saint in crape, is twice a saint in lawn.' will you then be so good as to have this paragraph put into the morning herald, the morning chronicle, the morning post, and any other fourth paper you choose? 'we hear that the rev. martin sherlock, m.a., etc., is collated to the united vicarages of castleconner and rilglass, worth a-year.' is there any news of me in london? am i abused or well-spoken of in print? are the writers as uneasy as they used to be about my vanity? keep all printed things, reviews, newspapers, etc., about me, till i have an opportunity of sending for them. i think i shall have something for you by next week; but keep that a secret. wish, for your sake, i was a bishop; for then, i will answer for it, my works would sell well." an elegant edition of all mr. sherlock's letters was published by mr. nichols in , in two volumes octavo. it is now a very scarce book. in , he was collated to the rectory and vicarage of streen, and soon afterwards to the archdeaconry of killala. he died in .-e. letter to the rev. william mason. (page ) i have been reading a new french translation of the elder pliny,( ) of whom i never read but scraps before; because, in the poetical manner in which we learn latin at eton, we never become acquainted with the names of the commonest things, too undignified to be admitted into verse; and, therefore, i never had patience to search in a dictionary for the meaning of every substantive. i find i shall not have a great deal less trouble with the translation, as i am not more familiar with their common drogues than with the latin. however, the beginning goes off very glibly, as i am not yet arrived below the planets: but do you know that this study, of which i have never thought since i learnt astronomy at cambridge, has furnished me with some very entertaining ideas! i have long been weary of the common jargon of poetry. you bards have exhausted all the nature we are acquainted with; you have treated us with the sun, moon, and stars, the earth and the ocean, mountains and valleys, etc. etc. under every possible aspect. in short, i have longed for some american poetry, in which i might find new appearances of nature, and consequently of art. but my present excursion into the sky has afforded me more entertaining prospects, and newer phenomena. if i was as good a poet, as you are, i would immediately compose an idyl, or an elegy, the scene of which should be laid in saturn or jupiter: and then, instead of a niggardly soliloquy by the light of a single moon, i would describe a night illuminated by four or five moons at least, and they should be all in a perpendicular or horizontal line, according as celia's eyes (who probably in that country has at least two pair) are disposed in longitude or latitude. you must allow that this system would diversify poetry amazingly.--and then saturn's belt! which the translator says in his notes, is not round the planet's waist, like the shingles; but is a globe of crystal that encloses the whole orb, as you may have seen an enamelled watch in a case of glass. if you do not perceive what infinitely pretty things may be said, either in poetry or romance. on a brittle heaven of crystal, and what furbelowed rainbows they must have in that country, you are neither the ovid nor natural philosopher i take you for. pray send me an eclogue directly upon this plan--and i give you leave to adopt my idea of saturnian celias having their every thing quadrupled--which would form a much more entertaining rhapsody than swift's thought of magnifying or diminishing the species in his gulliver. how much more execution a fine woman would do with two pair of piercers! or four! and how much longer the honeymoon would last, if both the sexes have (as no doubt they have) four times the passions, and four times the means of gratifying them!--i have opened new worlds to you--you must be four times the poet you are, and then you will be above milton, and equal to shakspeare, the only two mortals i am acquainted with who ventured beyond the visible diurnal sphere, and preserved their intellects. dryden himself would have talked nonsense, and, i fear, indecency, on my plan; but you are too good a divine, i am sure, to treat my quadruple love but platonically. in saturn, notwithstanding their glass-case, they are supposed to be very cold; but platonic love of itself produces frigid conceits enough, and you need not augment the dose.--but i will not dictate, the subject is new; and you, who have so much imagination, will shoot far beyond me. fontenelle would have made something of the idea, even in prose; but algarotti would dishearten any body from attempting to meddle with the system of the universe a second time in a genteel dialogue.( ) good night! i am going to bed.--mercy on me! if i should dream of celia with four times the usual attractions! ( ) by poinsinet de sivry, in twelve volumes quarto.-e. ( ) a translation of count algarotti's "newtonianismo per le dame," by mrs. elizabeth carter, under the title of "sir isaac newton's philosophy explained for the use of the ladies; in six dialogues of light and colours," appeared in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. february , . (page ) i doubt you are again in error, my good sir, about the letter i in the gentleman's magazine against the rowleians, unless mr. malone sent it to you; for he is the author, and not mr. steevens, from whom i imagine you received it.( ) there is a report that some part of chatterton's forgery is to be produced by an accomplice; but this i do not answer for, nor know the circumstances. i have scarce seen a person who is not persuaded that the forging of the poems was chatterton's own, though he might have found some old stuff to work upon, which very likely was the case; but now that the poems have been so much examined, nobody (that has an ear) can get over the modernity of the modulations, and the recent cast of the ideas and phraseology, corroborated by such palpable pillage of pope and dryden. still the boy remains a prodigy, by whatever means he procured or produced the edifice erected; and still it will be found inexplicable how he found time or materials for operating such miracles. you are in another error about sir harry englefield, who cannot be going to marry a daughter of lord cadogan, unless he has a natural one, of whom i never heard. lord cadogan has no daughter by his first wife, and his oldest girl by my niece is not five years old.( ) the act of the emperor to which i alluded, is the general destruction of convents in flanders, and, i suppose, in his german dominions too. the pope suppressed the carnival, as mourning and proposes a journey to vienna to implore mercy.( ) this is a little different from the time when the pontiffs trampled on the necks of emperors, and called it trampling super aspidem et draconent. i hope you have received your cargo back undamaged. i was much obliged to you, and am yours ever. ( ) it was afterwards published separately, under the title of "cursory observations on the poems attributed to thomas rowley, a priest of the fifteenth century."-e. ( ) lord cadogan married, in , frances, daughter of the first lord montfort; and secondly, in , mary, daughter of charles churchill, esq. by lady mary, daughter of sir robert walpole.-e. ( ) the emperor joseph, having been restrained during the lifetime of maria theresa from acting as he wished in ecclesiastical matters, upon her death, in november, , issued two ordinances respecting religious orders: by one forbidding the roman catholics to hold correspondence with their chief in foreign parts; and by the other forbidding any bull or ordinance of the pope from being received in his dominions, until sanctioned by him. in , he directed the suppression of the religious houses; upon which he was visited at vienna by the pope, who was received with great respect, but was unable to procure any intermission in the emperor's ecclesiastical reforms.-e. letter to the hon. george hardinge. march , . (page ) it is very pleasing to receive congratulation from a friend on a friend's success: that success, however, is not so agreeable as the universal esteem allowed to mr. conway's character, which not only accompanies his triumph,( ) but i believe contributed to it. to-day, i suppose, all but his character will be reversed; for there must have been a miraculous change if the philistines do not bear as ample a testimony to their dagon's honour, as conviction does to that of a virtuous man. in truth, i am far from desiring that the opposition should prevail yet: the nation is not sufficiently changed, nor awakened enough, and it is sure of having its feelings repeatedly attacked by more woes; the blow will have more effect a little time hence: the clamour must be loud enough to drown the huzzas of five hoarse bodies, the scotch, tories, clergy, law, and army, who would soon croak if new ministers cannot do what the old have made impossible; and therefore, till general distress involves all in complaint, and lays the cause undeniably at the right doors, victory will be but momentary, and the conquerors would soon be rendered more unpopular than the vanquished; for, depend upon it, the present ministers would not be as decent and as harmless an opposition as the present. their criminality must be legally proved and stigmatised, or the pageant itself would soon be restored to essence. base money will pass till cried down. i wish you may keep your promise of calling upon me better than you have done. remember, that though you have time enough before you, i have not; and, consequently, must be much more impatient for our meeting than you are, as i am, dear sir, yours most sincerely. ( ) general conway had, on the th of february, distinguished himself in the house of commons by a motion, "that the farther prosecution of offensive war on the continent of america, for the purpose of reducing the revolted colonies to obedience by force, will be the means of weakening the efforts of this country against her european enemies; tend, under the present circumstances, to increase the mutual enmity so fatal to the interests both of great britain and america; and, by preventing a happy reconciliation with that country, to frustrate the earnest desire graciously expressed by his majesty, to restore the blessings of public tranquility." this motion was carried by a majority of to ; upon which the general moved an humble address to his majesty thereupon, which was carried without a division.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, march , . (page ) though i have scarce time, i must write a line to thank you for the print of mr. cowper, and to tell you how ashamed i am that you should have so much attention to me, on the slightest wish i express, when i fear my gratitude is not half so active, though it ought to exceed obligations. dr. farmer has been with me; and though it was but a short visit, he pleased me so much by his easy simplicity and good sense, that i wish for more acquaintance with him. i do not know whether the emperor will atone to you for demolishing the cross, by attacking the crescent. the papers say he has declared war with the turks. he seems to me to be a mountebank who professes curing all diseases. as power is his only panacea, the remedy methinks is worse than the disease. whether christianity will be laid aside, i cannot say. as nothing of the spirit is left, the forms, i think, signify very little. surely it is not an age of morality and principle; does it import whether profligacy is baptized or not? i look to motives, not to professions. i do not approve of convents: but, if caesar wants to make soldiers of monks, i detest his reformation, and think that men had better not procreate than commit murder; nay, i believe that monks get more children than soldiers do; but what avail abstracted speculations? human passions wear the dresses of the times, and carry on the same views, though in different habits. ambition and interest set up religions or pull them down, as fashion presents a handle; and the conscientious must be content when the mode favours their wishes, or sigh when it does not. letter to the rev. mr. cole. april , . (page ) your partiality to me, my good sir, is much overseen, if you think me fit to correct your latin. alas! i have not skimmed ten pages of latin these dozen years. i have dealt in nothing but english, french, and a little italian; and do not think. if my life depended on it, i could write four lines of pure latin. i have had occasion, once or twice to speak the language, and soon found that all my verbs were italian with roman terminations. i would not on any account draw you into a scrape, by depending on my skill in what i have half forgotten. but you are in the metropolis of latium. if you distrust your own knowledge, which i do not, especially from the specimen you have sent me, surely you must have good critics at your elbow to consult. in truth, i do not love roman inscriptions in lieu of our own language, though, if any where, proper in an university; neither can i approve writing what the romans themselves would not understand. what does it avail to give a latin tail to a guildhall? though the word used by moderns, would mayor convey to cicero the idea of a mayor? architectus, i believe, is the right word; but i doubt whether veteris jam perantiquae is classic for a dilapidated building--but do not depend on me; consult some better judges. though i am glad of the late revolution,( ) a word for which i have great reverence, i shall certainly not dispute with you thereon. i abhor exultation. if the change produces peace, i shall make a bonfire in my heart. personal interest i have none; you and i shall certainly never profit by the politics to which we are attached. the archaeologic epistle i admire exceedingly, though i am sorry it attacks mr. bryant, whom i love and respect. the dean is so absurd an oaf, that he deserves to be ridiculed. is any thing more hyperbolic than his preference of rowley to homer, shakspeare, and milton. whether rowley or chatterton was the author, are the poems in any degree comparable to those authors? is not a ridiculous author an object of ridicule? i do not even guess at your meaning in your conclusive paragraph on that subject. dictionary writer i suppose alludes to johnson; but surely you do not equal the compiler of a dictionary to a genuine poet? is a brickmaker on a level with mr. essex? nor can i hold that exquisite wit and satire are billingsgate; if they were, milles and johnson would be able to write an answer to the epistle. i do as little guess whom you mean that got a pension by toryism: if johnson too, he got a pension for having abused pensioners, and yet took one himself, which was contemptible enough. still less know i who preferred opposition to principles, which is not a very common case; whoever it was, as pope says, "the way he took was strangely round about." with mr. chamberlayne i was very little acquainted, nor ever saw him six times in my life. it was with lord walpole's branch he was intimate, and to whose eldest son mr. chamberlayne had been tutor. this poor gentleman had a most excellent character universally, and has been more feelingly regretted than almost any man i ever knew.( ) this is all i am able to tell you. i forgot to say, i am also in the, dark as to the person you guess for the author of the epistle. it cannot be the same person to whom it is generally attributed; who certainly neither has a pension nor has deserted his principles, nor has reason to be jealous of those he laughed at; for their abilities are far below his. i do not mean that it is his, but is attributed to him. it was sent to me; nor did i ever see a line of it till i read it in print. in one respect it is most credible to be his; for there are not two such inimitable poets in england.( ) i smiled on reading it, and said to myself, "dr. glynn is well off to have escaped!" his language indeed about me has been billingsgate; but peace be to his and the manes of rowley, if they have ghosts who never existed. the epistle has not put an end to that controversy, which was grown so tiresome. i rejoice at having kept my resolution of not writing a word more on that subject. the dean had swollen it to an enormous bladder; the archaeologic poet pricked it with a pin; a sharp one indeed, and it burst. pray send me a better account of yourself if you can. ( ) the resignation of lord north, and the formation of the rockingham administration.-e. ( ) edward chamberlayne, esq. recently appointed secretary of the treasury. he was so overcome by a nervous terror of the responsibility of the office, that he committed suicide, by throwing himself out of a window on the th of april. on the following day, hannah more sent the subjoined account of this melancholy event to her sister:--"chamberlayne! the amiable, the accomplished, the virtuous, the religious chamberlayne! in the full vigour of his age, high in reputation, happy in his prospects, threw him self out of the treasury window, was taken up alive, and lived thirty-six hours in the most perfect possession of his mental activity, his religion, and his reasoning faculties. with an astonishing composure he settled his affairs with both worlds. he never seemed to feel any remorse, or to reproach his conscience with the guilt of suicide. in vain had they entreated him to accept of this place. in a fatal moment he consented: after this, he never had a moment's peace, and little or no sleep; this brought on a slow nervous fever, but not to confine him a moment. i saw him two days before. he looked pale and eager, and talked with great disgust of his place, on my congratulating him on such an acquisition. we chatted away, however, and he grew pleasant; and we parted-- never to meet again."-e. ( ) in a review of the edition of the works of mason which appeared in , the quarterly review, after expressing a wish that this and the heroic epistle to sir william chambers had been included in the collection, says, "the archaeological epistle was an hasty but animated effusion, drawn forth by the rowleian controversy, and dressed in the garb of old english verse, in order to obviate the argument drawn from the difficulty of writing in the language of the fifteenth century. the task might indeed have been per; formed by many; but the sentiments accorded with the known declarations of mason." vol. xv. p. .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, may , . (page ) you are always kind to me, dear sir, in all respects, but i have been forced to recur to a rougher prescription than ass's milk. the pain and oppression on my breast obliged me to be blooded two days together, which removed my cold and fever; but, as i foresaw, left me the gout in their room. i have had it in my left foot and hand for a week, but it is going. this cold is very epidemic. i have at least half a dozen nieces and great-nieces confined with it. but it is not dangerous or lasting. i shall send you, within this day or two, the new edition of my anecdotes of painting; you will find very little new: it is a cheap edition for the use of artists, and that at least they who really want the book, and not the curiosity, may have it, without being forced to give the outrageous price at which the strawberry edition sells, merely because it is rare. i could assure mr. gough, that the letter on chatterton cost me very small pains. i had nothing to do but recollect and relate the exact truth. there has been published another piece on it, which i cannot tell whether meant to praise or to blame me, so wretchedly is it written; and i have received another anonymous one, dated oxford, (which may be to disguise cambridge) and which professes to treat me very severely, though stuffed with fulsome compliments. it abuses me for speaking modestly of myself--a fault i hope i shall never mend; avows agreeing with me on the supposition of the poems, which may be a lie, for it is not uncharitable to conclude that an anonymous writer is a liar; acquits me of being at all accessory to the poor lad's catastrophe; and then, with most sensitive nerves, is shocked to death, and finds me guilty of it, for having, after it happened, dropped, that had he lived he might have fallen into more serious forgeries, though i declare that i never heard that he did. to be sure, no irishman ever blundered more than to accuse one of an ex post facto murder! if this hibernian casuist is smitten enough with his own miscarriage to preserve it in a magazine phial, i shall certainly not answer it, not even by this couplet which is suggested: so fulsome, yet so captious too, to tell you much it grieves me, that though your flattery makes me sick, your peevishness relieves me. adieu, my good sir. pray inquire for your books, if you do not receive them: they go by the cambridge fly. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, june , . (page ) i thank you much, dear sir, for your kind intention about elizabeth of york;. but it would be gluttony and rapacity to accept her: i have her already in the picture of her marriage,( ) which was lady pomfret's; besides vertue's print of her, with her husband, son, and daughter-in-law. in truth i have not room for any more pictures any where; yet, without plundering you, or without impoverishing myself, i have supernumerary pictures with which i can furnish your vacancies; but i must get well first to look them out. as yet i cannot walk alone; and my posture, as you see, makes me write ill. it is impossible to recover in such weather--never was such a sickly time. i have not yet seen bishop newton's life. i will not give three guineas for what i would not give threepence, his works; his life,( ) i conclude, will be borrowed by all the magazines, and there i shall see it. i know nothing of acciliator--i have forgotten some of my good latin, and luckily never knew any bad; having always detested monkish barbarism. i have just finished mr. pennant's new volume, parts of which amused me; though i knew every syllable, that was worth knowing before, for there is not a word of novelty; and it is tiresome his giving such long extracts out of dugdale and other common books, and telling one long stories about all the most celebrated characters in the english history, besides panegyrics on all who showed him their houses: but the prints are charming; though i cannot conceive why he gave one of the countess of cumberland, who never did any thing worth memory, but recording the very night on which she conceived. "the fair circassian" was written by a mr. pratt, who has published several works under the name of courtney melmoth.( ) the play might have been written by cumberland, it is bad enough. i did read the latter's coxcombical anecdotes,( ) but saw nothing on myself, except mention of my painters. pray what is the passage you mean on me or vertue? do not write on purpose to answer this, it is not worth while. ( ) this picture of the marriage of elizabeth of york with henry the seventh was painted by mabuse, and is described in walpole's anecdotes of painting.-e. ( ) shortly after the death of bishop newton, his works were published, with an autobiographical memoir, in two volumes quarto. the prelate, speaking, in this memoir, of johnson's lives of the poets, having observed, that "candour was much hurt and offended at the malevolence that predominated in every part," the doctor, in a conversation with dr. adams, master of pembroke college, oxford, thus retaliated on his townsman:--"tom knew he should be dead before what he said of me would appear: he durst not have printed it while he was alive." dr. adams: "i believe his dissertations on the prophecies' is his great work." johnson: "why, sir, it is tom's great work; but how far it is great, or how much of it is tom's, are other questions. i fancy a considerable part of it was borrowed." dr. adams: "he was a very successful man." johnson: "i don't think so, sir. he did not get very high. he was late in getting what he did get, and he did not get it by the best means. i believe he was a gross flatterer."-life, vol. viii. p. .-e. ( ) mr. pratt was the author of "gleanings in england," "gleanings through wales, holland, and westphalia," and many other works which enjoyed a temporary popularity, but are now forgotten. of mr. pratt, the following amusing anecdote is related by mr. gifford, in the maviad:--"this gentleman lately put in practice a very notable scheme. having scribbled himself fairly out of notice, he found it expedient to retire to the continent for a few months, to provoke the inquiries of mr. lane's indefatigable readers. mark the ingratitude of the creatures! no inquiries were made, and mr. pratt was forgotten before he had crossed the channel. ibi omnis effusus labor--but what! the mouse that is content with one poor hole, can never be a mouse of any soul: baffled in this expedient, he had recourse to another, and, while we were dreaming of nothing less, came before us in the following paragraph:--"a few days since, died at basle in switzerland, the ingenious mr. pratt: his loss will be severely felt by the literary world, as he joined to the accomplishments of the gentleman the erudition of the scholar." this was inserted in the london papers for several days successively; the country papers too yelled out like syllables of dolour; at length, while our eyes were yet wet for the irreparable loss we had sustained, came a second paragraph as follows: "as no event of late has caused a more general sorrow than the supposed death of the ingenious mr. pratt, we are happy to have it in our power to assure hiss numerous admirers, that he is as well as they can wish and (what they will be delighted to hear) busied is preparing his travels for the press."-e. ( ) "anecdotes of eminent painters, in spain during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, with cursory remarks upon the present state of arts in that kingdom." letter to john nichols, esq. berkeley square, june , . (page ) sir, just this moment, on opening your fifth volume of miscellaneous poems, i find the translation of cato's speech into latin, attributed (by common fame) to bishop atterbury. i can most positively assure you, that that translation was the work of dr. henry bland, afterwards head-master of eton school, provost of the college there, and dean of durham. i have more than once heard my father sir robert walpole say, that it was he himself who gave that translation to mr. addison, who was extremely surprised at the fidelity and beauty of it. it may be worth while, sir, on some future occasion, to mention this fact in some one of your valuable and curious publications. i am, sir, with great regard. letter to the rev. mr. cole. berkeley square, june , . (page ) it is no trouble, my good sir, to write to you, for i am as well recovered as i generally do. i am very sorry you do not, and especially in your hands, as your pleasure and comforts so much depend on them. age is by no means a burden while it does not subject one to depend on others; when it does, it reconciles one to quitting every thing; at least i believe you and i think so, who do not look on solitude as a calamity. i shall go to strawberry to-morrow, and will, as i might have thought of doing, consult dugdale and collins for the duke of ireland's inferior titles. mr. gough i shall be glad of seeing when i am settled there, which will not be this fortnight. i think there are but eleven parts of marianne, and that it breaks off in the nun's story, which promised to be very interesting. marivaux never finished marianne, nor the paysan parvenu (which was the case too with the younger cr`ebillon with les egaremens.) i have seen two bad conclusions of marianne by other hands. mr. cumberland's brusquerie is not worth notice, nor did i remember it. mr. pennant's impetuosity you must overlook too; though i love your delicacy about your friend's memory. nobody that knows you will suspect you of wanting it; but, in the ocean of books that overflows every day, who will recollect a thousandth part of what is in most of them? by the number of writers one should naturally suppose there were multitudes of readers; but if there are, which i doubt, the latter read only the productions of the day. indeed, if they did read former publications, they would have no occasion to read the modern, which, like mr. pennant's, are borrowed wholesale from the more ancient: it is sad to say, that the borrowers add little new but mistakes. i have just been turning over mr. nichols's eight volumes of select poems, which he has swelled unreasonably with large collops of old authors, most of whom little deserved revivifying. i bought them for the biographical notes, in which i have found both inaccuracies and blunders. for instance, one that made me laugh. in lord lansdown's beauties he celebrates a lady, one mrs. vaughan * mr. nichols turns to the peerage of that time, and finds a duke of bolton married a lady ann vaughan; he instantly sets her down for the lady in question, and introduces her to posterity as a beauty. unluckily, she was a monster, so ugly, that the duke, then marquis of winchester, being forced by his father to marry her for her great fortune, was believed never to have consummated' and parted from her as soon as his father died; but, if our predecessors are exposed to these misrepresentations, what shall we be, when not only all private history is detailed in the newspapers, but scarce ever with tolerable fidelity! i have long said, that if a paragraph in a newspaper contains a word of truth, it is sure to be accompanied with two or three blunders; yet, who will believe that papers published in the face of the whole town should be nothing but magazines of lies, every one of which fifty persons could contradict and disprove? yet so it certainly is, and future history will probably be ten times falser than all preceding. adieu! yours most sincerely. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i have been more dilatory than usual, dear sir, in replying to your last; but it called for no particular answer, nor have i now any thing worth telling you. mr. gough and mr. nichols dined with me on saturday last. i lent the former three-and-twenty drawings of monuments out of mr. lethieullier's books, for his large work, which will be a magnificent one. mr. nichols is, as you say, a very rapid editor, and i must commend him for being a very accurate one. i scarce ever saw a book so correct as his life of mr. bowyer. i wish it deserved the pains he has bestowed on it every way, and that he would not dub so many men great. i have known several of his heroes who were very little men. dr. mead had nothing but pretensions; and philip carteret webb was a sorry knave, with still less foundation. to what a slender total do those shrink who are the idols of their own age! how very few are known at all at the end of the next century! but there is a chapter in voltaire that would cure any body of being a great man even in his own eyes. it is a chapter in which a chinese goes into a bookseller's shop, and marvels at not finding any of his own country's classics. it is a chapter that ought never to be out of the sight of any vain author. i have just got the catalogue of the manuscripts in the museum. it is every way piteously dear; the method is extremely puzzling, and the contents chiefly rubbish: who would give a rush for dr. birch's correspondence? many of the pieces are in print. in truth, i set little store by a collection of manuscripts. a work must be of little value that never could get into print; i mean, if it has existed half a century. the articles that diverted me most were an absolute novelty; i knew henry viii. was a royal author, but not a royal quack. there are several receipts of his own, and this delectable one amongst others. "the king's grace's oyntement made at st. james's, to coole, and dry, and comfort the --." another, to the same purpose, was devised at cawoode,--was not that an episcopal palace? how devoutly was the head of the church employed! i hope that you have recovered your spirits; and that summer, which is arrived at last, will make a great amendment in you. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) if this letter reaches your lordship, i believe it must be conveyed by a dove; for we are all under water, and a postman has not where to set the sole of his foot. they tell me, that in the north you have not been so drowned, which will be very fortunate: for in these parts every thing is to be apprehended for the corn, the sheep, and the camps: but, in truth, all kinds of prospects are most gloomy, and even in lesser lights uncomfortable. here we cannot stir, but armed for battle. mr. potts, who lives at mr. hindley's, was attacked and robbed last week at the end of gunnersbury-lane, by five footpads who had two blunderbusses. lady browne and i do continue going to twickenham park; but i don't know how long it will be prudent, nor whether it is so now. i have not been at park-place, for mr. conway is never there, at least only for a night or two. his regiment was reviewed yesterday at ashford-common, but i did not go to see it. in truth, i have so little taste for common sights, that i never yet did see a review in my life: i was in town last week, yet saw not monsieur de grasse;( ) nor have seen the giant or the dwarf. poor mrs. clive is certainly very declining, but has been better of late; and which i am glad of, thinks herself better. all visions that comfort one are desirable: the conditions of mortality do not bear being pryed into; nor am i an admirer of that philosophy that scrutinizes into them: the philosophy of deceiving one's self is vastly preferable. what signifies anticipating what we cannot prevent? i do not pretend to send your lordship any news, for i do not know a tittle, nor inquire. peace is the sole event of which i wish to hear. for private news, i have outlived almost all the world with which i was acquainted, and have no curiosity about the next generation, scarce more than about the twentieth century. i wish i was less indifferent, for the sake of the few with whom i correspond,-your lordship in particular, who are always so good and partial to me, and on whom i should indubitably wait, were i fit to take a long journey; but as i walk no better than a tortoise, i make a conscience of not incommodating my friends, whom i should only confine at home. indeed both my feet and hands are so lame, that i now scarce ever dine abroad. being so antiquated and insipid, i will release your lordship; and am, with my unalterable respects to lady strafford, your lordship's most devoted humble servant. ( ) the comte de grasse, the admiral of the french fleet which rodney defeated on the th of april, , and who had struck his flag in that engagement to the barbeur, and surrendered himself to sir samuel hood, landed at portsmouth, as a prisoner of war, on the th of august.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) you know i am too reasonable to expect to hear from you when you are so overwhelmed in business, or to write when i have nothing upon earth to say. i would come to town, but am to have company on thursday, and am engaged with lady cecilia at ditton on friday, and on monday i am to dine and pass the day at sion-hill; and, as i am twenty years older than any body of my age, i am forced to rest myself between my parties. i feel this particularly at this moment, as the allied houses of lucan and althorpe have just been breakfasting here, and i am sufficiently fatigued. i have not been at oatlands for years; for consider i cannot walk, much less climb a precipice; and the duke of newcastle has none of the magnificence of petty princes in a romance or in germany, of furnishing calashes to those who visit his domains. he is not undetermined about selling the place; but besides that nobody is determined to buy it, he must have lord lincoln's consent. i saw another proud prince yesterday, your cousin seymour from paris, and his daughter. she was so dishevelled, that she looked like a pattern doll that had been tumbled at the custom-house. i am mighty glad that war has gone to sleep like a paroli at faro, and that the rain has cried itself to death; unless the first would dispose of all the highwaymen, footpads, and housebreakers, or the latter drown them, for nobody hereabouts dare stir after dusk, nor be secure at home. when you have any interval of your little campaigns, i shall hope to see you and lady ailesbury here. ( ) now first printed. letter to the earl of buchan.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i congratulate your lordship on the acquisition of a valuable picture by jameson. the memoirs of your society i have not yet received; but when i do, shall read it with great pleasure, and beg your lordship to offer my grateful thanks to the members, and to accept them yourself. no literature appears here at this time of the year. london, i hear, is particularly empty. not only the shooting season is begun, but till about seventeen days ago, there was nothing but incessant rains, and not one summer's day. a catalogue, in two quartos, of the manuscripts in the british museum, and which thence does not seem to contain great treasures, and mr. tyrwhitt's book on the rowleian controversy, which is reckoned completely victorious, are all the novelties i have seen since i left town. war and politics occupy those who think at all-no great number neither; and most of those, too, are content with the events of the day, and forget them the next. but it is too like an old man to blame the age; and, as i have nothing to do with it, i may as well be silent and let it please itself. i am, with great regard, my lord, yours, etc. ( ) now first collected. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i had not time yesterday to say what i had to say about your coming hither. i should certainly be happy to see you and lady ailesbury at any time: but it would be unconscionable to expect it when you have scarce a whole day in a month to pass at your own house, and to look after your own works. friends, i know, lay as great stress upon trifles as upon serious points; but as there never was a more sincere attachment than mine, so it is the most reasonable one too for i always think for you more than myself. do whatever you have to do, and be assured, that is what i like best that you should do. the present hurry cannot last always. your present object is to show how much more fit you are for your post( ) than any other man; by which you will do infinite service too, and will throw a great many private acts of good-nature and justice into the account. do you think i would stand in the way of any of these things? and that i am not aware of them? do you think about me? if it suits you at any moment, come. except sunday next, when i am engaged to dine abroad, i have nothing to do till the middle of october, when i shall go to nuneham; and, going or coming, may possibly catch you at park-place. i am not quite credulous about your turning smoke into gold:( ) it is perhaps because i am ignorant. i like mr. mapleton extremely; and though i have lived so long, that i have little confidence, i think you could not have chosen one more likely to be faithful. i am sensible that my kind of distrust would prevent all great enterprises; and yet i cannot but fear, that unless one gives one's self' up entirely to the pursuit of a new object, this risk must be doubled. but i will say no more; for i do not even wish to dissuade you, as i am sure i understand nothing of the matter, and therefore mean no more than to keep your discretion awake. the tempest of monday night alarmed me too for the fleet: and as i have nothing to do but to care, i feel for individuals as well as for the public, and think of all those who may be lost, and of all those who may be made miserable by such loss. indeed, i care most for individuals; for as to the public, it seems to be totally insensible to every thing! i know nothing worth repeating; and having now answered all your letter, shall bid you good night. yours ever. ( ) mr. conway was now commander-in-chief. ( ) alluding to the coke-ovens, for which mr. conway afterwards obtained a patent. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i did think it long since i had the honour of hearing from your lordship; but, conscious how little i could repay you with any entertainment, i waited with patience. in fact, i believe summer-correspondences often turn on complaints of want of news. it is unlucky that that is generally the season of correspondence, as it is of separation. people assembled in a capital contrive to furnish matter, but then they have not occasion to write it. summer, being the season of campaigns, ought to be more fertile: i am glad when that is not the case, for what is an account of battles but a list of burials? vultures and birds of prey might write with pleasure to their correspondents in the alps of such events; but they ought to be melancholy topics to those who have no beaks or talons. at this moment if i was an epicure among the sharks, i should rejoice that general elliot has just sent the carcases of fifteen hundred spaniards down to market under gibraltar;( ) but i am more pleased that he despatched boats, and saved some of those whom he had overset. what must a man of so much feeling have suffered at being forced to do his duty so well as he has done! i remember hearing such another humane being, that brave old admiral sir charles wager, say, that in his life be had never killed a fly. this demolition of the spanish armada is a great event: a very good one if it prevents a battle between lord howe and the combined fleets, as i should hope; and yet better if it produces peace, the only political crisis to which i look with eagerness. were that happy moment arrived, there is ample matter to employ our great men, if we have any, in retrieving the affairs of this country, if they are to be retrieved. but though our sedentary politicians write abundance of letters in the newspapers, full of plans of public spirit, i doubt the nation is not sober enough to set about its own work in earnest. when none reform themselves, little good is to be expected, we see by the excess of highwaymen how far evils may go before any attempt is made to cure them. i am sure, from the magnitude of this inconvenience, that i am not talking merely like an old man. i have lived here above thirty years, and used to go every where round at all hours of the night without any precaution. i cannot now stir a mile from my own house after sunset without one or two servants with blunderbusses. i am not surprised your lordship's pheasants were stolen: a woman was taken last saturday night loaded with nine geese, and they say has impeached a gang of fourteen housebreakers -but these are undergraduates; when they should have taken their doctor's degrees, they would not have piddled in such little game. those regius-professors the nabobs have taught men not to plunder for farthings. i am very sensible of your lordship's kindness to my nephew mr. cholmondeley. he is a sensible, well-behaved young man, and, i trust, would not have abused your goodness. mr. mason writes to me, that he shall be at york at the end of this month. i was to have gone to nuneham; but the house is so little advanced, that it is a question whether they can receive me. mason, i doubt, has been idle there. i am sure, if he found no muses there, he could pick up none at oxford, where there is not so much as a bedmaker that ever lived in a muse's family. tonton begs his duty to all the lambs, and trusts that lady strafford will not reject his homage. ( ) on the th of september, when general elliot repulsed the grand attack made on gibraltar - and captain curtis of the brilliant, who commanded the marine brigade upon the occasion, and his men, saved numbers of the spaniards, at the hazard of their own lives.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i had begun a letter in answer to another person, which i have broken off on receiving yours, dear sir. i am exceedingly concerned at the bad account you give of yourself; and yet on weighing it, i flatter myself that you are not only out of all danger, but have had a fortunate crisis, which i hope will prolong your life. a bile surmounted is a present from nature to us, who are not boys: and though you speak as weary of life from sufferings, and yet with proper resignation and philosophy, it does not frighten me, as i know that any humour and gathering, even in the gum, is strangely dispiriting. i do not write merely from sympathizing friendship, but to beg that if your bile is not closed or healing, you will let me know; for the bark is essential, yet very difficult to have genuine. my apothecary here, i believe, has some very good, and i will send you some directly. i will thank you, but not trouble you with an account of myself. i had no fit of the gout, nor any new complaint; but it is with the utmost difficulty i keep the humour from laming me entirely, especially in my hands, which are a mine of chalk-stones; but, as they discharge themselves, i flatter myself they prevent heavier attacks. i do take in the european magazine, and think it in general one of the best. i forgot what was said of me: sometimes i am corrected, sometimes flattered, and care for neither. i have not seen the answer to mr. warton, but will send for it. i shall not be sorry on my own account if dr. lort quits lambeth, and comes to saville-row, which is in my neighbourhood; but i did not think a wife was the stall where he would set up his staff. you have given me the only reason why i cannot be quite sorry that you do not print what you had prepared for the press. no kind intention towards me from you surprises me-but then i want no new proofs. my wish, for whatever shall be the remainder of my life is to be quiet and forgotten. were my course to recommence, and one could think in youth as one does at sixty-five, i have no notion i should have courage to appear as an author. do you know, too, that i look on fame now as the idlest of all visions? but this theme would lead me too far. i collect a new comfort from your letter. the writing is much better than in most of your latest letters. if your pain were not ceased, you could not have formed your letters so firmly and distinctly. i will not say more, lest i should draw you into greater fatigue; let me have but a single line in answer. yours most cordially.( ) ( ) this is the last letter addressed by walpole to mr. cole; who died within six weeks of the date of it. the event is thus recorded by mr. gough, in the second volume of his edition of camden's britannia. "at milton a small village on the ely road, was the retirement of the rev. william cole. here, dec. , , in his sixty-eighth year, he closed a life spent in learned research into the history and antiquities of this county in particular, which nothing but his declining state of health prevented this work from sharing the benefit of. he was buried under the belfry of st. clement's church in cambridge."-e. letter to george colman, esq.( ) strawberry hill, may , . (page ) dear sir, for so you must allow me to call you, after your being so kind as to send me so valuable and agreeable a present as your translation of horace( )--i wish compliment had left any term uninvaded, of which sincerity could make use without suspicion. those would be precisely what i would employ in commending your poem; and, if they proved too simple to content my gratitude, i would be satisfied with an offering to truth, and wait for a nobler opportunity of sacrificing to the warmer virtue. if i have not lost my memory, your translation is the best i have ever seen of that difficult epistle. your expression is easy and natural, and when requisite, poetic. in short, it has a prime merit, it has the air of an original. your hypothesis in your commentary is very ingenious. i do not know whether it is true, which now cannot be known; but if the scope of the epistle was, as you suppose, to hint in a delicate and friendly manner to the elder of piso's sons that he had written a bad tragedy, horace had certainly executed his plan with great address; and, i think, nobody will be able to show that any thing in the poem clashes with your idea. nay, if he went farther, and meant to disguise his object, by giving his epistle the air of general rules on poetry and tragedy, he achieved both purposes; and while the youth his friend was at once corrected and put to no shame, all other readers were kept in the dark, except you, and diverted to different scents.( ) excuse my commenting your comment, but i had no other way of proving that i really approve both your version and criticism than by stating the grounds of my applause. if you have wrested the sense of the original to favour your own hypothesis, i have not been able to discover your art; for i do not perceive where it has been employed. if you have given horace more meaning than he was intitled to, you have conferred a favour on him, for you have made his whole epistle consistent, a beauty all the spectacles of all his commentators could not find out-but, indeed, they proceed on the profound laws of criticism, you by the laws of common sense, which, marching on a plain natural path, is very apt to arrive sooner at the goal, than they who travel on the appian way; which was a very costly and durable work, but is very uneasy, and at present does not lead to a quarter of the places to which it was originally directed. i am, sir, with great regard, your most obedient and obliged humble servant. ( ) now first collected. ( ) his translation of horace's epistola ad pisones de arte poeticae.-e. ( ) it had been the opinion of bishop hurd, that - it was the proper and sole purpose of ,horace simply to criticise the roman drama;" but mr. colman assumed a contrary ground. "if my partiality to my lamented friend, mr. colman," says dr. joseph warton, "does not mislead me, i should think his account of the matter the most judicious of any yet published. he conceives that the elder piso had written, or meditated, a poetical work-probably, a tragedy, and had communicated his piece in confidence to horace; but horace, either disapproving of the work, or doubting of the poetical faculties of the elder piso, or both, wished to dissuade him from all thoughts of publication. with this view he wrote his epistle, addressing it, with a courtliness and delicacy perfectly agreeable to his acknowledged character, indifferently to the whole family, the father and his two sons."-e. letter to the earl of buchan.( ) strawberry hill, may , . (page ) my lord, i did not know, till i received the honour of your lordship's letter, that any obstruction had been given to your charter. i congratulate your lordship and the society on the defeat of that opposition, which does not seem to have been a liberal one. the pursuit of national antiquities has rarely been an object, i believe, with any university: why should they obstruct others from marching in that track? i have often thought the english society of antiquaries have gone out of their way when they meddled with roman remains, especially if not discovered within our island. were i to speak out, i should own, that i hold most reliques of the romans that have been found in britain, of little consequence, unless relating to such emperors as visited us. provincial armies stationed in so remote and barbarous a quarter as we were then, acted little, produced little worth being remembered. tombstones erected to legionary officers and their families, now dignified by the title of inscriptions; and banks and ditches that surrounded camps, which we understand much better by books and plans, than by such faint fragments, are given with much pomp, and tell us nothing new. your lordship's new foundation seems to proceed on a much more rational and useful plan. the biography of the illustrious of your country will be an honour to scotland, to those illustrious, and to the authors: and may contribute considerably to the general history; for the investigation of particular lives may bring out many anecdotes that may unfold secrets of state, or explain passages in such histories as have been already written; especially as the manners of the times may enter into private biography, though before voltaire manners were rarely weighed in general history, though very often the sources of considerable events. i shall be very happy to see such lives as shall be published, while i remain alive. i cannot contribute any thing of consequence to your lordship's meditated account of john law. i have heard many anecdotes of him, though none that i can warrant, particularly that of the duel for which he fled early.( ) i met the other day with an account in some french literary gazette, i forget which, of his having carried off the wife of another man. lady catherine law, his wife, lived, during his power in france, in the most stately manner. your lordship knows, to be sure, that he died and is buried at venice. i have two or three different prints of him, and an excellent head of him in crayons by rosalba, the best of her portraits. it is certainly very like, for, were the flowing wig converted into a female head-dress, it would be the exact resemblance of lady wallingford, his daughter, whom i see frequently at the duchess of montrose's, and who has by no means a look of the age to which she is arrived. law was a very extraordinary man, but not at all an estimable one. i don't remember whether i ever told your lordship that there are many charters of your ancient kings preserved in the scots college at paris, and probably many other curiosities. i think i did mention many paintings of the old house of lenox in the ancient castle at aubigny. ( ) now first collected. ( ) evelyn, in his diary, gives the following account of this duel:--"april . a very young man, named wilson, the younger son of one who had not above two hundred pounds a-year estate, lived in the garb and equipage of the richest nobleman, for house, furniture, coaches, saddle-horses, and kept a table and all things accordingly, redeemed his father's estate, and gave portions to his sisters, being challenged by one laws, a scotchman, was killed in a duel, not fairly. the quarrel arose from his taking away his own sister from a lodging in a house where this laws had a mistress , which the mistress of the house thinking a disparagement to it, and losing by it, instigated laws to this duel. he was taken, and condemned for murder. the mystery is, how this so young a gentleman, very sober and of good fame, could live in such an expensive manner; it could not be discovered by all possible industry, or entreaty of his friends to make him reveal it. it did not appear that he was kept by women, play, coining, padding, or dealing in chemistry; but he would sometimes say, that, if he should live ever so long, he had wherewith to maintain himself in the same manner, this was a subject of much discourse." law was found guilty of murder, and sentence of death was passed upon him. he however, found means to escape, and got clear off to the continent. a reward of fifty bounds for is apprehension appeared in the london gazette of the th of january, .-e. letter to the hon. george hardinge. berkeley square, may , . (page ) though i shall not be fixed at strawberry on this day fortnight, i will accept your offer, dear sir, because my time is more at my disposal than yours, and you may not have any other day to bestow upon me later. i thank you for your second: which i shall read as carefully as i did the former. it is not your fault if you have not yet made sir thomas rumbold white as driven snow to me.( ) nature has providentially given us a powerful antidote to eloquence, or the criminal that has the best advocate would escape. but, when rhetoric. and logic stagger my lords the judges, in steps prejudice, and, without one argument that will make a syllogism, confutes messrs. demosthenes, tully, and hardinge, and makes their lordships see as clearly as any old woman in england, that belief is a much better rule of faith than demonstration. this is just my case: i do believe, nay, and i will believe, that no man ever went to india with honest intentions. if he returns with , pounds it is plain that i was in the right. but i have still a stronger proof; my lord coke says "set a thief to catch a thief;" my lord advocate( ) says, "sir thomas is a rogue:" ergo.--i cannot give so complete an answer to the rest of your note, as i trust i have done to your pleadings, because the latter is in print, and your note is manuscript. now, unfortunately, i cannot read half of it; for, give me leave to say, that either your hand or my spectacles are so bad, that i generally guess at your meaning rather than decipher it, and this time the context has not served me well. ( ) the bill of pains and penalties against sir thomas rumbold, late governor of madras, was at this time in its progress through the house of commons. on the st of july, the further proceedings upon the bill were adjourned to the st of october; by which means the whole business fell to the ground.-e. ( ) mr. dundas, afterwards lord melville. "i think him," said mr. wilberforce, in june, , "the first speaker on the ministerial side in the house of commons, and there is a manliness in his character which prevents his running away from the question; he grants all his adversaries' premises, and fights them on their own ground." life, vol. i. p. .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) though your lordship's partiality extends even to my letters, you must perceive that they grow as antiquated as the writer. news are the soul of letters: when we give them a body of our own invention, it is as unlike to life as a statue. i have withdrawn so much from the -world, that the newspapers know every thing before me, especially since they have usurped the province of telling every thing, private as -well as public: and consequently, a great deal more than i should -wish to know, or like to report. when i do hear the transactions of much younger people, they do not pass from my ears into my memory; nor does your lordship interest yourself more about them than i do. yet still, when one reduces one's departments to such narrow limits, one's correspondence suffers by it. however, as i desire to show only my gratitude and attachment, not my wit, i shall certainly obey your lordship as long as you are content to read my letters, after i have told you fairly how little they can entertain you. for imports of french, i believe we shall have few more. they have not ruined us so totally by the war, much less enriched themselves so much by it, but that they who have been here, complained so piteously of the expensiveness of england, that probably they will deter others from a similar jaunt; nor, such is their fickleness, are the french constant to any thing but admiration of themselves. their anglomanie i hear has mounted, or descended, from our customs to our persons. english people are in fashion at versailles. a mr. ellis,( ) who wrote some pretty verses at bath two or three years ago, is a favourite there. one who was so, or may be still, the beau dillon, came upon a very different errand; in short, to purchase at any price a book written by linguet, which was just coming out, called "antoinette." that will tell your lordship why the beau dillon( ) was the messenger. monsieur de guignes and his daughters came hither; but it was at eight o'clock at night in the height of the deluge. you may be sure i was much flattered by such a visit! i was forced to light candles to show them any thing; and must have lighted the moon to show them the views. if this is their way of seeing england, they might as well look at it with an opera-glass from the shores of calais. mr. mason is to come to me on sunday, and will find me mighty busy in making my lock of hay, which is not yet cut. i don't know why, but people are always more anxious about their hay than their corn, or twenty other things that cost them more. i suppose my lord chesterfield, or some such dictator, made it fashionable to care about one's hay. nobody betrays solicitude about getting in his rents. we have exchanged spring and summer for autumn and winter, as well as day for night. if religion or law enjoined people to love light, and prospect, and verdure, i should not wonder if perverseness made us hate them; no, nor if society made us prefer living always in town to solitude and beauty. but that is not the case. the most fashionable hurry into the country at christmas and easter, let the weather be ever so bad; and the finest ladies, who will go no whither till eleven at night, certainly pass more tiresome hours in london alone than they would in the country. but all this is no business of mine: they do what they like, and so do i; and i am exceedingly tolerant about people who are perfectly indifferent to me. the sun and the seasons were not gone out of fashion when i was young; and i may do what i will with them now i am old: for fashion is fortunately no law but to its devotees. were i five-and-twenty, i dare to say i should think every whim of my contemporaries very wise, as i did then. in one light i am always on the side of the young, for they only silently despise those who do not conform to their ordinances; but age is very apt to be angry at the change of customs, and partial to others no better founded. it is happy when we are occupied by nothing more serious. it is happy for a nation when mere fashions are a topic that can employ its attention; for, though dissipation may lead to graver moments, it commences with ease and tranquillity: and they at least who live before the scene shifts are fortunate, considering and comparing themselves with the various regions who enjoy no parallel felicity. i confess my reflections are couleur de rose at present. i did not much expect to live to see peace, without far more extensive ruin than has fallen on us. i will not probe futurity in search of less agreeable conjectures. prognosticators may see many seeds of dusky hue; but i am too old to look forwards. without any omens, common sense tells one, that in the revolution of ages nations must have unprosperous periods. but why should i torment myself for what may happen in twenty years after my death, more than for what may happen in two hundred? nor shall i be more interested in the one than in the other. this is no indifference for my country: i wish it could always be happy; but so i do to all other countries. yet who could ever pass a tranquil moment, if such future speculations vexed him? adieu, my good lord! i doubt this letter has more marks of senility than the one i announced at the beginning. when i had no news to send you, it was no reason for tiring you with commonplaces. but your lordship's indulgence spoils me. does not it look as if i thought, that, because you commend my letters, you would like whatever i say? will not lady strafford think that i abuse your patience? i ask both your pardons, and am to both a most devoted humble servant. ( ) george ellis, esq.; afterwards a contributor to "the rolliad;" a coadjutor of mr. canning and mr. frere in "the anti-jacobin," and editor of "specimens of ancient english romances," etc. he died in , at the age of seventy. sir walter scott, in the introduction to the fifth canto of marmion, thus addresses him- thou, who can give to lightest lay an unpedantic moral gay, nor less the dullest theme bid flit on wings of unexpected wit; in letters as in life approved, example honour'd and beloved; dear ellis! to the bard impart a lesson of thy magic art to win at once the head and heart,- at once to charm, instruct, and mend, my guide, my pattern, and my friend!"-e. ( ) "colonel edward dillon was particularly acquainted with him," says wraxall, in his posthumous memoirs; "he descended, i believe, collaterally from the noble irish family of the earls of roscommon, though his father carried on the trade of a wine-merchant at bordeaux; but he was commonly called 'le comte edouard dillon,' and 'le beau dillon.' in my estimation, he possessed little pretense to the latter epithet: but surpassed most men in stature, like lord whitworth, lord hugh seymour, and the other individuals on whom marie antoinette cast a favourable eye. that she showed him some imprudent marks of predilection at a ball, which, when they took place, excited comment, is true; but they prove only indiscretion and levity on her part."-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) it would be great happiness indeed to me, my dear lord, if such nothings as my letters could contribute to any part of your lordship's; but as your own partiality bestows their chief merit on them, you see they owe more to your friendship than to the writer. it is not my interest to depreciate them; much less to undermine the foundation of their sole worth. yet it would be dishonest not to warn your lordship, that if my letters have had any intrinsic recommendation, they must lose of it every day. years and frequent returns of gout have made a ruin of me. dulness, in the form of indolence, grows upon me. i am inactive, lifeless, and so indifferent to most things. that i neither inquire after nor remember any topics that might enliven my letters. nothing is so insipid as my way of passing my time. but i need not specify what my letters speak. they can have no spirit left; and would be perfectly inanimate, if attachment and gratitude to your lordship were as liable to be extinguished by old age as our more amusing qualities. i make no new connexions; but cherish those that remain' with all the warmth of youth and the piety of gray hairs. the weather here has been, and is, with very few intervals, sultry to this moment. i think it has been of service to me; though by overheating myself i had a few days of lameness. the harvest is half over already all round us; and so pure, that not a poppy or cornflower is to be seen. every field seems to have been weeded like brisco's bowling-green. if ceres, who is at least as old as many of our fashionable ladies, loves tricking herself out in flowers as they do, she must be mortified: and with more reason; for she looks well always with top-knots of ultramarine and vermilion, which modern goddesses do not for half so long as they think they do. as providence showers so many blessings on us, i wish the peace may confirm them! necessary i am sure it was; and when it cannot restore us, where should we have been had the war continued? of our situation and prospect i confess my opinion is melancholy, not from present politics but from past. we flung away the most brilliant position, i doubt, for a long season! with politics i have totally done. i wish the present ministers may last; for i think better of their principles than of those of their opponents (with a few salvos on both sides,) and so i do of their abilities. but it would be folly in me to concern myself about new generations. how little a way can i see of their progress! i am rather surprised at the new countess of denbigh. how could a woman be ambitious of resembling prometheus, to be pawed and clawed and gnawed by a vulture?( ) i beg your earldom's pardon; but i could not conceive that a coronet was so very tempting! lady browne is quite recovered, unless she relapses from what we suffer at twickenham-park from a lord northesk,( ) an old seaman, who is come to richmond on a visit to the duke of montrose. i think the poor man must be out of his senses, at least he talks us out of ours. it is the most incessant and incoherent rhapsody that ever was heard. he sits by the card-table, and pours on mrs. n * * * all that ever happened in his voyages or his memory. he details the ship's allowance, and talks to her as if she was his first-mate. then in the mornings he carries his daughter to town to see st. paul's, and the tower, and westminster abbey; and at night disgorges all he has seen, till we don't know the ace of spades from queen elizabeth's pocket-pistol in the armoury. mercy on us! and mercy on your lordship too! why should you be stunned with that alarum? have you had your earthquake, my lord? many have had theirs. i assure you i have had mine. above a week ago, when broad awake, the doors of the cabinet by my bedside rattled, without a breath of wind. i imagined somebody was walking on the leads, or had broken into the room under me. it was between four and five in the morning. i rang my bell. before my servant could come it happened again; and was exactly like the horizontal tremor i felt from the earthquake some years ago. as i had rung once, it is plain i was awake. i rang again; but heard nothing more. i am quite persuaded there was some commotion; nor is it surprising that the dreadful eruptions of fire on the coasts of italy and sicily( ) should have occasioned some alteration that has extended faintly, hither, and contributed to the heats and mists that have been so extraordinary. george montagu said of our last earthquake, that it was so tame you might have stroked it. it is comfortable to live where one can reason on them without dreading them! what satisfaction should you have in having erected such a monument of your taste, my lord, as wentworth castle, if you did not know but it might be overturned in a moment and crush you? sir william hamilton is expected: he has been groping in all those devastations. of all vocations i would not be a professor of earthquakes! i prefer studies that are couleur de rose; nor would ever think of calamities, if i can do nothing to relieve them. yet this is a weakness of mind that i do not defend. they are more respectable who can behold philosophically the great theatre of events, or rather this little theatre of ours! in some ampler sphere, they may look on the catastrophe of messina( ) as we do kicking to pieces an ant-hill. bless me! what a farrago is my letter! it is like the extracts of books in a monthly magazine! i had no right to censure poor lord northesk's ramblings! lady strafford will think he has infected me. good-night, my dear lord and lady! your ever devoted. ( ) an allusion to lord denbigh's figure, and his arms blazoned on a spread eagle.-e. ( ) george, sixth earl of northesk, a naval officer of distinction, who attained the rank of admiral of the white. he died in .-e. ( ) in the course of this year a series of violent earthquakes occurred in calabria and sicily. in february, the city of casal nuova was entirely swallowed up; and the princess gerace grimaldi, with more than four thousand persons, perished in an instant. the inhabitants of scylla, who, headed by their prince, had descended from the rock and taken refuge on the sea-shore, were all washed away by an enormous wave, on its return from the land which it had inundated.-e. ( ) messina, and all the northern parts of sicily, suffered greatly by the convulsions of nature alluded to in the preceding note.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) the address from the volunteers is curious indeed, and upon the first face a little irish. what! would they throw off our parliament, and yet amend it? it is like correcting a question in the house of commons, and then voting against it. but i suppose they rather mean to increase confusion here, that we may not be at leisure to impede their progress; at least this may be the intention of the leaders. large bodies are only led by being earnest in themselves, when their leaders are not so: but my head is not clear enough to apply it to different matters, nor could i do any good if it were. our whole system is become a disjointed chaos, and time must digest it, or blow it up shortly. i see no way into it, nor expect any thing favourable but from chance, that often stops confusion on a sudden. to restore us by any system, it would require a single head furnished with wisdom, temper, address, fortitude, full and undivided power, and sincere patriotism divested of all personal views. where is that prodigy to be found? and how should it have the power, if it had all the rest? and if it had the power, how could it be divested of that power again? and if it were not, how long would it retain its virtues? power and wisdom would soon unite, like antony and augustus, to annihilate their colleague virtue, for being a poor creature like lepidus. in short, the mass of matter is too big for me: i am going out of the world, and cannot trouble myself about it. i do think of your part in it, and wish to preserve you where you are, for the benefits that you may contribute. i have a high opinion of mr. fox, and believe that by frankness you may become real friends, which would be greatly advantageous to the country. there is no competition in my mind where you are concerned: but fox is the minister with whom i most wish you united,-indeed, to all the rest i am indifferent or adverse: but, besides his superior abilities, he has a liberality of acting that is to my taste; it is like my father's plainness, and has none of the paltry little finesses of a statesman. your parties do not tempt me, because i am not well enough to join in them: nor yet will they stop me, though i had rather find only you and lady ailesbury and mrs. damer. i am not seriously ill; nay, am better upon the whole than i was last year: but i perceive decays enough in myself to be sensible that the scale may easily be inclined to the worst side. this observation makes 'me very indifferent to every thing that is not much at my heart. consequently what concerns you is, as it has always been for above forty years, a principal object. adieu! letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, sunday, august , . (page ) though i begin my letter on and have dated it sunday, i recollect that it may miss you if you go to town on tuesday, and therefore i shall not send it to the post till to-morrow. i can give you but an indifferent account of myself. i went to lord dacre's: but whether the heat and fatigue were too much for me, or whether the thunder turned me sour, for i am at least as weak as small-beer, i came back with the gout in my left hand and right foot. the latter confined me for three days; but though my ankle is still swelled, i do not stay in my house: however i am frightened, and shall venture no more expeditions yet; for my hands and feet are both so lame, that i am neither comfortable to myself or any body else, abroad, when i must confine them, stay by myself or risk pain, which the least fatigue gives me. at this moment i have a worse embargo even than lameness on me. the prince d'hessenstein has written to offer me a visit--i don't know when. i have just answered his note, and endeavoured to limit its meaning to the shortest sense i could, by proposing to give him a dinner or a breakfast. i would keep my bed rather than crack our northern french together for twelve hours. i know nothing upon earth but my own disasters. another is, that all yesterday i thought all my gold-fish stolen. i am not sure that they are not; but they tell me they keep at the bottom of the water from the hot weather. it is all to be laded out to-morrow morning, and then i shall know whether they are gone or boiled. whenever the weather cools to an english consistence, i will see you at park-place or in town: but i think not at the former before the end of next month, unless i recover more courage than i have at present; for if i was to get a real fit, and be confined to my bed in such sultry days, i should not have strength to go through it. i have just fixed three new benches round my bowling-green, that i may make four journeys of the tour. adieu! monday morning. as i was rising this morning, i received an express from your daughter, that she will bring madame de cambis and lady melbourne to dinner here to-morrow. i shall be vastly pleased with the party, but it puts philip and margaret to their wit's end to get them a dinner: nothing is to be had here; we must send to richmond, and kingston, and brentford; i must borrow mr. ellis's cook, and somebody's confectioner, and beg somebody's fruit, for i have none of these of my own, nor know any thing of the matter: but that is philip and margaret's affair, and not mine; and the worse the dinner is, the more gothic madame de cambis will think it. i have been emptying my pond, which was more in my head than the honour of my kitchen; and in the mud of the troubled water i have found all my gold, as dunning and barr`e( ) did last year. i have taken out fifteen young fish of a year and a half old for lady ailesbury, and reserved them as an offering worthy of amphitrite in the vase, in the cat's vase,( ) amidst the azure flowers that blow. they are too portly to be carried in a smelling-bottle in your pocket. i wish you could plan some way of a waterman's calling for them, and transporting them to henley. they have not changed their colour, but will next year. how lucky it would be, should you meet your daughter about turnham green, and turn back with them! ( ) now first printed. ) in the preceding year, through the influence of lord shelburne, a considerable pension had been granted to colonel barr`e, and a peerage and pension to mr. dunning.-e. ( ) the china vase in which walpole's favourite cat selima was drowned. see gray's works, vol. i. p. .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) your lordship tells me you hope my summer has glided pleasantly, like our thames- i cannot say it has passed very pleasantly to me, though, like the thames, dry and low; for somehow or other i caught a rheumatic fever in the great heats, and cannot get rid of it. i have just been at park-place and nuneham, in hopes change of air would cure me; but to no purpose. indeed, as want of sleep is my chief complaint, i doubt i must make use of a very different and more disagreeable remedy, the air of london, the only place that i ever find agree with me when i am out of order. i was there for two nights a fortnight ago, and slept perfectly well. in vain has my predilection for strawberry made me try to persuade myself that this was all fancy: but, i fear, reasons that appear strong, though contrary to our inclinations, must be good ones. london at this time of year is as nauseous a drug as any in an apothecary's shop. i could find nothing at all to do, and so went to astley's, `which indeed was much beyond my expectation. i do not wonder any longer that darius was chosen king by the instructions he gave to his horse; nor that caligula made 'his consul. astley can make his dance minuets and hornpipes: which is more extraordinary than to make them vote at an election, or act the part of a magistrate, which animals of less capacities can perform as dexterously as a returning officer or a master in chancery. but i shall not have even astley now: her majesty the queen of france, who has as much taste as caligula, has sent for the whole dramatis personae to paris. sir william hamilton was at park-place, and gave us dreadful accounts of calabria: he looks much older, and has the patina of a bronze. at nuneham i was much pleased with the improvements both within doors and without. mr. mason was there; and as he shines in every art, was assisting mrs. harcourt with his new discoveries in painting, by which he will unite miniature and oil. indeed, she is a very apt and extraordinary scholar. since our professors seem to have lost the art of colouring, i am glad at least that they have ungraduated assessors. we have plenty and peace at last; consequently leisure for repairing some of our losses, if we have sense to set about the task. on what will happen i shall make no conjectures, as it is not likely i should see much of what is to come. our enemies have humbled us enough to content them; and we have succeeded so ill in innovations, that surely we shall not tempt new storms in haste. >from this place i can send your lordship new or entertaining, nor expect more game in town, whither nothing but search of health should carry me. perhaps it is a vain chase at my age; but at my age one cannot trust to nature's operating cures without aiding her; it is always time enough to abandon one's self when no care will palliate our decays. i hope your lordship and lady strafford will long be in no want of such attentions; nor should i -have talked so much of my own cracks, had i had any thing else to tell you. it would be silly to aim at vivacity when it is gone: and, though a lively old man is sometimes an agreeable being, a pretending old man is ridiculous. aches and an apothecary cannot give one genuine spirits; 'tis sufficient if they do not make one peevish' your lordship is so kind as to accept of me as i am, and you shall find nothing more counterfeit in me than the sincere respect and gratitude with which i have the honour to be your lordship's most devoted humble servant. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) my rheumatism, i thank your lordship, is certainly better, though not quite gone. it was very troublesome at night till i took the bark; but that medicine makes me sleep like opium. but i will say no more about it, nothing is so troublesome as to talk of chronical complaints: has one any right to draw on the compassion of others, when one must renew the address daily and for months? the aspect of ireland is very tempestuous.( ) i doubt they will hurt us materially without benefiting themselves. if they obtain very short parliaments, they will hurt themselves more than us, by introducing a confusion that will prevent their improvements. whatever country does adopt short parliaments, will, i am entirely persuaded, be forced to recur to their former practice; i mean, if the disorders introduced do not produce despotism of some sort or other. i am very sorry mr. mason concurs in trying to revive the associations.( ) methinks our state is so deplorable, that every healing measure ought to be attempted instead of innovations. for my own part, i expect nothing but distractions, and am not concerned to be so old. i am so old, that, were i disposed to novelties, i should think they little became my age. i should be ashamed, when my hour shall come, to be caught in a riot of country squires and parsons, and haranguing a mob with a shaking head. a leader of faction ought to be young and vigorous. if an aged gentleman does get an ascendant, he may be sure that younger men are counting on his exit, and only flatter him to succeed to his influence, while they are laughing at his misplaced activity. at least, these would be my thoughts, who of all things dread being a jest to the juvenile, if they find me out of my sphere. i have seen lord carlisle's play, and it has a great deal of merit--perhaps more than your lordship would expect. the language and images are the best part, after the two principal scenes, which are really fine.( ) i did, as your lordship knows and says, always like and esteem lady fitzwilliam. i scarce know my lord; but, from what i have heard of him in the house of lords, have conceived a good opinion of his sense; of his character i never heard any ill; which is a great testimonial in his favour, when there are so many horrid characters, and when all that are conspicuous have their minutest actions tortured to depose against them. you may be sure, my dear lord, that i heartily pity lady strafford's and your loss of four-legged friends. sense and fidelity are wonderful recommendations; and when one meets with them, and can be confident that one is not imposed upon, i cannot think that the two additional legs are any drawback. at least i know that i have had friends who would never have vexed or betrayed me, if they had walked on all-fours. i have no news to send your lordship; indeed i inquire for none, nor wish to hear any. whence is any good to come? i am every day surprised at hearing people eager for news. if there is any, they are sure of hearing it. how can one be curious to know one does not know what; and perpetually curious to know? has one nothing to do but to hear and relate something new? and why can one care about nothing but what one does not know? and why is every event worth hearing, only because one has not heard it? have not there been changes enough? divorces enough? bankruptcies and robberies enough? and, above all, lies enough? no: or people would not be everyday impatient for the newspaper. i own, i am glad on sunday when there is no paper( ) and no fresh lies circulating. adieu, my good lord and lady! may you long enjoy your tranquillity, undisturbed by villany, folly, and madness! ( ) the volunteer corps of ireland had long entertained projects for reforming the parliamentary representation of the country, and had appointed delegates for carrying that object into effect. in september they met at dungannon when a plan of reform was proposed and agreed upon, and the th of november fixed on for a convention at dublin of the representatives of the whole body of volunteers. "many gentlemen," says mr. hardy, in his memoirs of lord charlemont, "must have seen a letter of mr. fox, then secretary of state, to general burgoyne, at that time commander-in-chief in ireland, on the subject convention. it was written with the spirit of a patriot and wisdom of a true statesman. in his ardour for a parliamentary reform, he yielded, he said, to none of the convention, but he dreaded the consequences of such a proceeding; and would, he added, lament it as the deepest misfortune of his life, if, by any untoward steps then taken, and whilst he was minister, the two kingdoms should be separated, or run the slightest risk of separation."-e. ( ) "the yorkshire association had been formed in , from the gentry of moderate fortunes and the more substantial yeomen., under the pressure of those burdens which resulted from the war with america, with the view of obtaining, first, an economical, and then a parliamentary reform; but in the various changes which soon afterwards perplexed the political world, its first object was almost forgotten, and its most important character was the front of opposition which it now maintained against that powerful aristocracy which had long ruled the country with absolute dominion. it now declared against the coalition administration." life of wilberforce, vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) of lord carlisle's tragedy, entitled " the father's revenge,' dr. johnson also entertained a favourable opinion. "of the sentiments," he says, "i remember not one i wished omitted. in the imagery, i cannot forbear to distinguish the comparison of joy succeeding grief to light rushing on the eye accustomed to darkness. it seems to have all that can be desired to make it please: it is new, just, and delightful. with the characters, either as conceived or preserved, i have no fault to find; but was much inclined to congratulate a writer, who, in defiance of prejudice and fashion, made the archbishop a good man, and scorned all thoughtless applause which a vicious churchman would have brought him." it was with reference to this tragedy, that lord byron regretted the flippant and unjust sarcasms against his noble relation, which he had admitted into the early editions of his "english bards and scotch reviewers," under the mistaken impression that lord carlisle had intentionally slighted him.-e. ( ) what would walpole say, if he could witness the alteration which has taken place in this respect since the year ?-e. letter to lady browne.( ) berkeley square, oct. , . (page ) as it is not fit my better-half should be ignorant of the state of her worse-half, lest the gossips of the neighbourhood should suspect we are parted; let them know, my life, that i am much better to-day. i have had a good deal of fever, and a bad night on wednesday; but the last was much better, and the fever is much diminished to-day. in short, i have so great an opinion of town-dried air, that i expect to be well enough to return to twickenham on monday; and, if i do, i will call on you that evening; though i have not been out of my house yet. indeed, it is unfortunate that so happy a couple, who have never exchanged a cross word, and who might claim the flitch of bacon, cannot be well--the one in town, the other in the country. ( ) now first printed letter to governor pownall. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i am extremely obliged to you, sir, for the valuable communication made to me.( ) it is extremely so to me, as it does justice to a memory i revere to the highest degree; and i flatter myself that it would be acceptable to that part of the world that loves truth; and that part will be the majority, as fast as they pass away -who have an interest in preferring falsehood. happily, truth is longer-lived than the passions of individuals; and, when mankind are not misled, they can distinguish white from black. i myself do not pretend to be unprejudiced; i must be so to the best of fathers - i should be ashamed to be quite impartial. no wonder, then, sir, if i am greatly pleased with so able a justification; yet i am not so blinded, but that i can discern solid reasons for admiring your defence. you have placed that defence on sound and nezo grounds; and, though very briefly, have very learnedly stated and distinguished the landmarks of our constitution, and the encroachments made on it, by justly referring the principles of liberty to the saxon systern, and by imputing the corruptions of it to the norman. this was a great deal too deep for that superficial mountebank, hume, to go; for a mountebank he was. he mounted a system in the garb of a philosophic empiric, but dispensed no drugs but what he was authorized to vend by a royal patent, and which were full of turkish opium. he had studied nothing relative to the english constitution before queen elizabeth, and had selected her most arbitrary acts to countenance those of the stuarts: and even hers he misrepresented; for her worst deeds were levelled against the nobility, those of the stuarts against the people. hers, consequently, were rather an obligation to the people; for the most heinous part of despotism is, that it produces a thousand despots instead of one. muley moloch cannot lop off many heads with his own hands; at least, he takes those in his way. those of his courtiers; but his bashaws and viceroys spread destruction every where. the flimsy, ignorant, blundering manner in which hume executed the reigns preceding henry the seventh, is a proof how little he had examined the history of our constitution. i could say much, much more, sir, in commendation of your work, were i not apprehensive of being biassed by the subject. still, that it would not be from flattery, i wilt prove, by taking the liberty of making two objections; and they are only to the last page but one. perhaps you will think that my first objection does show that i am too much biassed. i own i am sorry to see my father compared to sylla. the latter was a sanguinary usurper, a monster; the former, the mildest, most forgiving, best-natured of men, and a legal minister. nor, i fear, will the only light in which you compare them, stand the test. sylla resigned his power voluntarily, insolently: perhaps timidly. as he might think he had a better chance of dying in his bed, if he retreated, than by continuing to rule by force. my father did not retire by his own option. he had lost the majority of the house of commons. sylla, you say, sir, retired unimpeached; it is true, but covered with blood. my father was not impeached, in our strict sense, of the word; but, to my great joy, he was in effect. a secret committee, a worse inquisition than a jury, was named; not to try him, but to sift his life for crimes: and out of such a jury, chosen in the dark, and not one of whom he might challenge, he had some determined enemies, many opponents, and but two he could suppose his friends. and what was the consequence ? a man charged with every state crime almost, for twenty years, was proved to have done--what? paid some writers much more than they deserved, for having defended him against ten thousand and ten 'thousand libels, (some of which had been written by his inquisitors,) all which libels were confessed to have been lies by his inquisitors themselves; for they could not produce a shadow of one of the crimes with which they had charged him! i must own, ,sir, i think that sylla and my father ought to be set in opposition rather than paralleled. my other objection is still more serious: and if i am so happy as to convince you, i shall hope that you will alter the paragraph; as it seems to impute something to sir robert, of which he was not only most innocent, but of which if he had been guilty, i should think him extremely so, for he would have been very ungrateful. you say he had not the comfort to see that he had established his own family by any thing which he received from the gratitude of that hanover family, or from the gratitude of that country, which he had saved and served! good sir, what does this sentence seem to imply, but that either sir robert himself, or his family, thought or think, that the kings george . and ii. or england, were ungrateful in not rewarding his services? defend him and us from such a charge! he nor we ever had such a thought. was it not rewarding him to make him prime minister, and maintain and support him against his enemies for twenty years together? did not george i. make his eldest son a peer, and give to the father and son a valuable patent place in the custom-house for three lives? did not george ii. give my elder brother the auditor's place, and to my brother and me other rich places for our lives; for, though in the gift of the first lord of the treasury, do we not owe them to the king who made him so? did not the late king make my father an earl, and dismiss him with a pension of pounds a-year for his life? could he or we not think these ample rewards? what rapacious sordid wretches must he and we have been, and be, could we entertain such an idea? as far have we all been from thinking him neglected by his country. did not his country see and know these rewards? and could it think these rewards inadequate? besides, sir, great as i hold my father's services, they were solid and silent, not ostensible. they were of a kind to which i hold your justification a more suitable reward than pecuniary recompenses. to have fixed the house of hanover on the throne, to have maintained this country in peace and affluence for twenty years, with the other services you record, sir, were actions, the `eclat of which must be illustrated by time and reflection; and whose splendour has been brought forwarder than i wish it had, by comparison with a period very dissimilar! if sir robert had not the comfort of leaving his family in affluence, it was not imputable to his king or his country. perhaps i am proud that he did not. he died forty thousand pounds in debt. that was the wealth of a man that had been taxed as the plunderer of his country! yet, with all my adoration of my father, i am just enough to own that it was his own fault if he died so poor. he had made houghton much too magnificent for the moderate estate which he left to support it; and, as he never --i repeat it with truth, never--got any money but in the south sea and while he was paymaster. his fondness for his paternal seat, and his boundless generosity, were too expensive for his fortune. i will mention one instance, which will show how little he was disposed to turn the favour of the crown to his own profit. he laid out fourteen thousand pounds of his own money on richmond new park. i could produce other reasons too why sir robert's family were not in so comfortable a situation, as the world, deluded by misrepresentation, might expect to see them at his death. my eldest brother had been a very bad economist during his father's life, and died himself fifty thousand pounds in debt, or more; so that to this day neither sir edward nor i have received the five thousand pounds apiece which sir robert left us as our fortunes. i do not love to charge the dead; therefore will only say, that lady orford (reckoned a vast fortune, which till she died she never proved,) wasted vast sums; nor did my brother or father ever receive but the twenty thousand pounds which she brought at first,'and which were spent on the wedding and christening; i mean, including her jewels. i beg pardon, sir, for this tedious detail, which is minutely, perhaps too minutely, true; but, when i took the liberty of contesting any part of a work which i admire so much, i owed it to you and to myself to assign my reasons. i trust they will satisfy you; and, if they do, i am sure you will alter a paragraph against which it is the duty of the family to exclaim. dear as my father's memory is to my soul, i can never subscribe to the position that he was unrewarded by the house of hanover. ( ) the governor's "character of sir robert walpole." it will be found among the original papers in coxe's life of sir robert.-e. letter to governor pownall. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) you must allow me, sir, to repeat my thanks for the second copy of your tract on my father, and for your great condescension in altering the two passages to which i presumed to object; and which are not only more consonant to exactness, but, i hope, no disparagement to the piece. to me they are quite satisfactory. and it is a comfort to me too, that what i begged to have changed was not any reflection prejudicial to his memory; but, in the first point, a parallel not entirely similar in circumstances; and, in the other, a sort of censure on 'others to which i could not subscribe. with all my veneration for my father's memory, i should not remonstrate against just censure on him. happily, to do justice to him, most iniquitous calumnies ought to be removed; and then there would remain virtues and merits enough, far to outweigh human errors, from which the best of men, like him, cannot be exempt. let his enemies, ay and his friends, be compared with him, and then justice would be done! your essay, sir, will, i hope, some time or other, clear the way to his vindication. it points out the true way of examining his character; and is itself, as far as it goes, unanswerable. as such, what an obligation it must be to, sir, etc. letter to the earl of strafford. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) if i consulted my reputation as 'a writer, which your lordship's partiality is so kind as to allot me, i should wait a few days till my granary is fuller of stock, which probably it would be by the end of next week; but, in truth, i had rather be a grateful, and consequently a punctual correspondent, than an ingenious one; as i value the honour of your lordship's friendship more than such tinsel bits of fame as can fall to my share, and of which i am particularly sick at present, as the public advertiser dressed me out t'other day with a heap of that dross which he had pillaged from some other strolling playwrights, who i did not desire should be plundered for me. indeed, when the parliament does meet, i doubt, nay hope, it will make less sensation than usual. the orators of dublin have brought the flowers of billingsgate to so high perfection, that ours comparatively will have no more scent than a dead dandelion. if your lordship has not seen the speeches of mr. flood and mr. grattan,( ) you may perhaps still think that our oyster-women can be more abusive than members of parliament. since i began my letter, i hear that the meeting of the delegates from the volunteers is adjourned to the first of february.( ) this seems a very favourable circumstance. i don't like a reformation begun by a popish army! indeed, i did hope that peace would bring us peace, at least not more than the discords incidental to a free ,government: but we seem not to have attained that era yet! i hope it will arrive, though i may not see it. i shall not easily believe that any radical alteration of a constitution that preserved us so long, and carried us to so great a height, will recover our affairs. there is a wide difference between correcting abuses and removing landmarks. nobody disliked more than i the strides that were attempted towards increasing the prerogative; but as the excellence of our constitution, above all others, consists in the balance established between the three powers of king, lords, and commons, i wish to see that equilibrium preserved. no single man, nor any private junta, has a right to dictate laws to all three. in ireland, truly,' a still worse spirit i apprehend to be at bottom; in short, it is frenzy or folly to suppose that an army composed of three parts of catholics can be intended for any good purposes. these are my sentiments, my dear lord, and, you know, very disinterested. for myself, i have nothing to wish but ease and tranquillity for the rest of my time. i have no enmities to avenge. i do hope the present administration will last, as i believe there are more honest men in it than in any set that could replace them, though i have not a grain of partiality more than i had for their associates. mr. fox i think by far the ablest and soundest head in england, and am persuaded that the more he is tried the greater man he will appear. perhaps it is impertinent to trouble your lordship with my creed, it is certainly of no consequence to any body; but i have nothing else that could entertain you, and at so serious a crisis can one think of trifles? in general i am not sorry that the nation is most disposed to trifle; the less it takes part, the more leisure will the ministers have to attend to the most urged points. when so many individuals assume to be legislators, it is lucky that very few obey their institutes. i rejoice to hear of lady strafford's good health, and am her and your lordship's most faithful humble servant. ( ) in the course of a debate in the irish house of commons, on the th of october, upon sir henry cavendish's motion for a retrenchment of the public expenditure violent altercation had taken place between the rival orators. while mr. grattan animadverted, with disgraceful bitterness, on the " broken beak and disastrous countenance" of his opponent, and charged him with betraying every man who trusted in him, mr. flood broadly insinuated that mr. grattan had betrayed his country for a sum of gold; and, for prompt payment, had sold himself to the minister.-e. ( ) they assembled at dublin on the th of november, when a plan of reform was produced and considered by them; and on the following day mr. flood moved, in the house of commons for leave to bring in a bill for the more equal representation of the people in parliament. the motion was rejected by votes to .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) your lordship is so partial to me and my idle letters, that i am afraid of writing them; not lest they should sink below the standard you have pleased to affix to them in your own mind, but from fear of being intoxicated into attempting to keep them up to it, which would destroy their only merit, their being written naturally and without pretensions. gratitude and good breeding compel me to make due answers; but i entreat your lordship to be assured, that, however vain i am of your favour, my only aim is to preserve the honour of your friendship; that it is all the praise i ask or wish; and that, with regard to letter-writing, i am firmly persuaded that it is a province in which women will always shine superiorly; for our sex is too jealous of the reputation of good sense, to condescend to hazard a thousand trifles and negligences, which give grace, ease, and familiarity to correspondence.( ) i will say no more on that subject, for i feel that i am on the brink of a dissertation; and though that fault would prove the truth of my proposition, i will not punish your lordship only to convince you that i am in the right. the winter is not dull or disagreeable; on the contrary, it is pleasing, as the town is occupied on general subjects, and not, as is too common, on private scandal, private vices, and follies. the india-bill, air-balloons, vestris, and the automaton, share all attention. mrs. siddons, as less a novelty, does not engross all conversation. if abuse still keeps above par, it confines itself to its prescriptive province, the ministerial line. in that walk it has tumbled a little into the kennel. the low buffoonery of lord thurlow, in laying the caricatura of the coalition on the table of your lordship's house, has levelled it to sadler's wells; and mr. flood, the pillar of invective, does not promise to re-erect it; not, i conclude, from want of having imported a stock of ingredients, but his presumptuous debut on the very night of his entry was so wretched, and delivered in so barbarous a brogue that i question whether he will ever recover the blow mr. courtenay gave him.( ) a young man may correct and improve, and rise from a first fall; but an elderly formed speaker has not an equal chance. mr. hamilton,( ) lord abercorn's heir, but by no means so laconic, had more success. though his first essay, ii was not at all dashed by bashfulness; and though he might have blushed for discovering so much personal rancour to mr. fox, he rather seemed to be impatient to discharge it. your lordship sees in the papers that the two houses of ireland have firmly resisted the innovations of the volunteers. indeed, it was time for the protestant proprietors to make their stand; for though the catholics behave decently, it would be into their hands that the prize would fall. the delegates, it is true, have sent over a most loyal address; but i wish their actions may not contradict their words! mr. flood's discomfiture here will, i suppose, carry him back to a field wherein his wicked spirit may have more effect. it is a very serious moment! i am in pain lest your county, my dear lord, (you know what i mean) should countenance such pernicious designs. ( ) some excellent advice on the subject of female letter-writing, will be found in a letter written, in , by lord collingwood to one of his daughters:--"no sportsman," says the gallant admiral, "ever hits a partridge without aiming at it; and skill is acquired by repeated attempts. when you write a letter, give it your greatest care, that it may be as perfect in all its parts as you can make it. let the subject be sense, expressed in the most plain, intelligible, and elegant manner that you are capable of if in a familiar epistle you should be playful and jocular, guard carefully that your wit be not sharp, so as to, give pain to any person; and before you write a sentence, examine it, even the words which it is composed, that there be nothing vulgar or inelegant in them. remember, my dear, that your letter is the picture of your brains; and those whose brains are a compound of folly, nonsense, and impertinence, are to blame to exhibit them to the contempt of the world, or the pity of their friends. to write a letter with negligence, without proper stops, with crooked lines and great, flourishing dashes, is inelegant; it argues either great ignorance of what is proper, or great indifference towards the person to whom it is addressed, and is consequently disrespectful." memoirs, p. .-e. ( ) mr. flood took his seat for winchester on the th of december, and on the same evening addressed the house in opposition to mr. fox's east india bill. "he spoke," says wraxall, "with great ability and good sense, but the slow, measured, and sententious style of enunciation which characterized his eloquence, appeared to english ears cold and stiff: unfortunately, too, for flood, one of his own countrymen, courtenay, instantly opened on him such a battery of ridicule and wit, as seemed to overwhelm the new member. he made no attempt at reply, and under these circumstances began the division. it formed a triumphant exhibition of ministerial strength, the coalition numbering ; while only persons, of whom i was one, followed pitt into the lobby yet, within twelve days afterwards he found himself first minister, and so remained above seventeen years."-e. ( ) john james hamilton. in , he succeeded his uncle as ninth earl of abercorn, and second viscount hamilton; and in , was created marquis of abercorn.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. berkeley square, wednesday, may , . (page ) your cherries, for aught i know, may, like mr. pitt, be half ripe before others are in blossom; but at twickenham, i am sure, i could find dates and pomegranates on the quickset hedges, as soon as a cherry in swaddling-clothes on my walls. the very leaves on the horse-chestnuts are little snotty-nosed things, that cry and are afraid of the north-wind, and cling to the bough as if old poker was coming to take them away. for my part, i have seen nothing like spring but a chimney-sweeper's garland; and yet i have been three days in the country-and the consequence was, that i was glad to come back to town. i do not wonder that you feel differently; any thing is warmth and verdure when compared to poring over memorials. in truth, i think you will be much happier for being out of parliament. you could do no good there; you have no views of ambition to satisfy: and when neither duty. nor ambition calls, (i do not condescend to name avarice, which never is to be satisfied, nor deserves to be reasoned with, nor has any place in your breast,) i cannot conceive what satisfaction an elderly man can have in listening to the passions or follies of others: nor is eloquence such a banquet, when one knows that, whoever the cooks are, whatever the sauces, one has eaten as good beef or mutton before, and perhaps, as well dressed. it is surely time to live for one's self, when one has not a vast while to live; and you, i am persuaded, will live the longer for leading a country life. how much better to be planting, nay, making experiments on smoke (if not too dear), than reading applications from officers, a quarter of whom you could not serve, nor content three quarters! you had not time for necessary exercise : and, i believe, would have blinded yourself. in short, if you will live in the air all day, be totally idle, and not read or write a line by candle-light, and retrench your suppers, i shall rejoice in your having nothing to do but that dreadful punishment, pleasing yourself. nobody has any claims on you; you have satisfied every point of honour; you have no cause for being particularly grateful to the opposition; and you want no excuse for living for yourself. your resolutions on economy are not only prudent, but just; and, to say the truth, i believe if you had continued at the head of the army, you would have ruined yourself you have too much generosity to have curbed yourself, and would have had too little time to attend to doing so. i know by myself how pleasant it is to have laid up a little for those i love, for those that depend on me, and for old servants. moderate wishes may be satisfied; and which is still better, are less liable to disappointment. i am not preaching, nor giving advice, but congratulating you it is certainly not being selfish, when i rejoice at your being thrown by circumstances into a retired life, though it will occasion my seeing less of you; but i have always preferred what was most for your own honour and happiness; and as you taste satisfaction already, it will not diminish, for they are the first moments of passing from busy life to a quiet one that are the most irksome. you have the felicity of being able to amuse yourself with what the grave world calls trifles , but as gravity does not happen to be wisdom, trifles are full as important as what is respected as serious; and more amiable, and generally more innocent. most men are bad or ridiculous, sometimes both: at least my experience tells me what my reading had told me before, that they are so in a great capital of a sinking 'country. if immortal fame is his object, a cato may die but he will do no good. if only the preservation of his virtue had been his point, he might have lived comfortably at athens, like attieus who, by the way, happens to be as immortal; though i will give him credit for having had no such view. indeed, i look upon this country as so irrecoverably on the verge of ruin, from its enormous debt, from the loss of america, from the almost as certain prospect of losing india, that my pride would dislike to be an actor when the crash may happen. you seem to think that i might send you more news. so i might, if i would talk of elections;( ) but those, you know, i hate, as, in general, i do all details. how mr. fox has recovered such a majority i do not guess, still less do i comprehend how there could be so many that had not voted, after the poll had lasted so long.( ) indeed, i should be sorry to understand such mysteries.-of new peers, or new elevations i hear every day, but am quite ignorant which are to be true. rumour always creates as many as the king, when he makes several. in fact, i do know nothing. adieu! p. s. the summer is come to town, but i hope is gone into the country too. ( ) the parliament had been dissolved in march, and a new one was summoned to meet on the th of may.-e. ( ) mr. pitt says in a letter to mr. wilberforce, of the th of april, "westminster goes on well, in spite of the duchess of devonshire and the other women of the people; but when the poll will close is uncertain." at the close of it, on the th of may, the numbers were, for hood , fox , wray . walpole, whose delicate health at this time confined him almost entirely to his house, went in a sedan-chair to give his vote for mr. fox. "apropos of elections," writes hannah more to her sister," i had like to have got into a fine scrape the other night. i was going to pass the evening at mrs. cole's, in lincoln's-inn fields. i went in a chair: they carried me through covent-garden: a number of people, as i went along, desired the men not to go through the garden, as there were a hundred armed men, who, suspecting every chairman belonged to brookes's, would fall upon us. in spite of my entreaties, the men would have persisted; but a stranger, out of humanity, made them set me down; and the shrieks of the wounded, for there was a terrible battle, intimidated the chairmen, who were at last prevailed upon to carry me another way. a vast number of people followed me, crying out, 'it is mrs. fox: none but mr. fox's wife would dare to come into covent-garden in a chair; she is going to canvass in the dark!' though not a little frightened, i laughed heartily at this; but shall stir no more in a chair for some time." memoirs, vol. i. p. .-e. letter to miss hannah more.( ) may , (page ) mr. walpole thanks miss more a thousand times, not only for so obligingly complying with his request, but for letting him have the satisfaction of possessing and reading again and again her charming and very genteel poem, the "bas bleu." he ought not, in modesty, to commend so much a piece in which he himself is flattered; but truth is more durable than blushing, and he must be just, though he may be vain. the ingenuity with which she has introduced, so easily, very difficult rhymes, is admirable; and though there is a quantity of learning, it has all the air of negligence, instead of that of pedantry. as she, commands him, he will not disobey; and, so far from giving a single copy, he gives her his word that it shall not go out of his hands. he begs his particular compliments to mrs. garrick, and is miss more's most devoted and much obliged humble servant. ( ) walpole's intimacy with miss hannah more commenced in the year . the following passages occur in her letters of that and the following year:--"mr. walpole has done me the honour of inviting me to strawberry hill: as he is said to be a shy man, i must consider this as a great compliment."--" we dined the other day at strawberry hill, and passed as delightful a day as elegant literature, high breeding, and lively wit can afford. as i was the greatest stranger, mr. walpole devoted himself to my amusement with great politeness."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) i am perfectly satisfied with your epitaph,( ) and would not have a syllable altered. it tells exactly what it means to say, and that truth being an encomium, wants no addition or amplification. nor do i love late language for modern facts, nor will european tongues perish since printing has been discovered. i should approve french least of all; it would be a kind of insult to the vanquished: and, besides, the example of a hero should be held out to his countrymen rather than to their enemies. you must take care to have the word caused, in the last line but one, spelt rightly, and not caus'd. i know nothing of the parliament but what you saw in the papers. i came hither yesterday, and am transported, like you, with the beauty of the country; ay, and with its perfumed air too. the lilac-time scents even the insides of the rooms. i desired lady ailesbury to carry you lord melcombe's diary.( ) it is curious indeed; not so much from the secrets it blabs, which are rather characteristic than novel, but from the wonderful folly of the author, who was so fond of talking of himself, that he tells all he knew of himself, though scarce an event that does not betray his profligacy; and (which is still more surprising that he should disclose) almost every one exposes the contempt in which he was held, and his consequential' disappointments and disgraces! was ever any man the better for another's experience? what a lesson is here against versatility! i, who have lived through all the scenes unfolded, am entertained; but i should think that to younger readers half the book must be unintelligible. he explains nothing but the circumstances of his own situation; and, though he touches on many important periods, he leaves them undeveloped, and often undetermined. it is diverting to hear him rail at lord halifax and others, for the very kind of double-dealing which he relates coolly of himself in the next page. had he gone backwards, he might have given half a dozen volumes of his own life, with similar anecdotes and variations. i am most surprised, that when self-love is the whole groundwork of the performance, there should be little or no attempt at shining as an author, though he was one. as he had so much wit too, i am amazed that not a feature of it appears. the discussion in the appendix, on the late prince's question for increase of allowance, is the only part in which there is sense or honesty. there is, in the imperfect account of rochfort, a strong circumstance or two that pleased me much. there are many passages that will displease several others throughout. mr. coxe's travels( ) are very different: plain, clear, sensible, instructive, and entertaining. it is a noble work, and precious to me who delight in quartos: the two volumes contain twelve hundred pages; i have already devoured a quarter, though i have had them but three days. [the rest of this letter is lost.] ( ) an epitaph for the monument erected by the states of jersey to the memory of major pearson, killed in the attack of that island by the french in january . ( ) "the diary of george bubb dodington, baron of melcombe regis, from march , , to february , ; published by henry penruddocke wyndham." ( ) travels into poland, russia, sweden, and denmark; interspersed with historical relations and political inquiries; by william cox, m. a.," in two volumes quarto.-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, tuesday night, june , . (page ) you frightened me for a minute, my dear madam; but every letter since has given me pleasure, by telling me how rapidly you recovered, and how perfectly well you are again. pray, however, do not give me any more such joys. i shall be quite content with your remaining immortal, without the foil of any alarm. you gave all your friends a panic, and may trust their attachment without renewing it. i received as many inquiries the next day as if an archbishop was in danger, and all the bench hoped he was going to heaven. mr. conway wonders i do not talk of voltaire's memoirs. lord bless me! i saw it two months ago; the lucans brought it from paris and lent it to me: nay, and i have seen most of it before; and i believe this an imperfect copy, for it ends no how at all. besides, it was quite out of my head. lord melcombe's diary put that and every thing else out of my mind. i wonder much more at mr. conway's not talking of this! it gossips about the living as familiarly as a modern newspaper. i long to hear what say about it. i wish the newspapers were as accurate! they have been circumstantial about lady walsingham's birthday clothes, which to be sure one is glad to know, only unluckily there is no such person. however, i dare to say that her dress was very becoming, and that she looked charmingly. the month of june, according to custom immemorial, is as cold as christmas. i had a fire last night, and all my rose-buds, i believe, would have been very glad to sit by it. i have other grievances to boot; but as they are annuals too,--videlicet, people to see my house,-- i will not torment your ladyship with them: yet i know nothing else. none of my neighbours are come into the country yet: one would think all the dowagers were elected into the new parliament. adieu, my dear madam! letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i can answer you very readily in your own tone, that is, about weather and country grievances, and without one word of news or politics; for i know neither, nor inquire of them.( ) i am very well content to be a strulbrug, and to exist after i have done being: and i am still better pleased that you are in the same way of thinking, or of not thinking; for i am sure both your health and your mind will find the benefits of living for yourself and family only. it were not fit that the young should concentre themselves in so narrow a circle; nor do the young seem to have any such intention. let them mend or mar the world as they please; the world takes its own way upon the whole; and, though there may be an uncommon swarm of animalcules for a season, things return into their own channel from their own bias, before any effectual nostrum or fumigation is discovered. in the mean time, i am for giving all due weight to local grievances, though with no natural turn towards attending to them: but they serve for conversation. we have no newly invented grubs to eat our fruit; indeed, i have no fruit to be eaten: but i should not lament if the worms would eat my gardener, who, you know, is so bad an one that i never have any thing in my garden. i am now waiting for dry weather to cut my hay; though nature certainly never intended hay should be cut dry, as it always rains all june. but here is a worse calamity; one is never safe by day or night: mrs. walsingham, who has bought your brother's late house at ditton, was robbed a few days ago in the high road, within a mile of home, at seven in the evening. the di`a nimorum gentium pilfer every thing. last night they stole a couple of yards of lead off the pediment of the door of my cottage. a gentleman at putney, who has three men servants, had his house broken open last week, and lost some fine miniatures, which he valued so much that he would not hang them up. you may imagine what a pain this gives me in my baubles! i have been making the round of my fortifications this morning, and ordering new works. i am concerned for the account you give me of your brother. life does not appear to be such a jewel as to preserve it carefully for its own sake. i think the same of its good things; if they do not procure amusement or comfort, i doubt they only produce the contrary. yet it is silly to repine; for, probably, whatever any man does by choice, he knows will please him best, or at least will prevent greater uneasiness. i therefore, rather retract my concern; for, with a vast fortune, lord hertford might certainly do what he would: and if, at his age, he can wish for more than that fortune will obtain, i may pity his taste or temper; but i shall think that you and i are much happier who can find enjoyments in an humbler sphere, nor envy those who have no time for trifling'. i, who have never done any thing else, am not at all weary of my occupation. even three days of continued rain have not put me out of humour or spirits. c'est beaucoup dire for an anglais. adieu! yours ever. ( ) "as politics spoil all conversation, mr. walpole, the other night, proposed that every body should forfeit half a crown who said any thing tending to introduce the idea, either of ministers or opposition. i added, that whoever mentioned pit-coal or a fox-skin muff, should be considered as guilty; and it was accordingly voted." hannah more, march , .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) instead of coming to you, i am thinking of packing up and going to town for winter, so desperate is the weather! i found a great fire at mrs. clive's this evening, and mr. rafter hanging over it like a smoked ham. they tell me my hay will be spoiled for want of cutting; but i had rather it should be destroyed by standing than by being mowed, as the former will cost me nothing but the crop, and 'tis very dear to make nothing but a water-souchy of it. you know i have lost a niece, and found another nephew: he makes the fifty-fourth reckoning both sexes. we are certainly an affectionate family, for of late we do nothing but marry one another. have not you felt a little twinge in a remote corner of your heart on lady harrington's death?( ) she dreaded death so extremely that i am glad she had not a moment to be sensible of it. i have a great affection for sudden deaths; they save oneself and every body else a deal of ceremony. the duke and duchess of marlborough breakfasted here on monday, and seemed much pleased, though it rained the whole time with an egyptian darkness. i should have thought there had been deluges enough to destroy all egypt's other plagues: but the newspapers talk of locusts: i suppose relations of your beetles, though probably not so fond of green fruit; for the scene of their campaign is queen square, westminster, where there certainly has not been an orchard since the reign of canute. i have, at last, seen an air-balloon; just as i once did see a tiny review, by passing one accidentally on hounslow-heath. i was going last night to lady onslow at richmond, and over mr. cambridge's field i saw a bundle in the air not bigger than the moon,( ) and she herself could not have descended with more composure if she had expected to find endymion fast asleep. it seemed to 'light on richmond-hill; but mrs. hobart was going by, and her coiffure prevented my seeing it alight. the papers say, that a balloon has been made at paris representing the castle of stockholm, in compliment to the king of sweden; but that they are afraid to let it off: so, i suppose, it will be served up to him in a dessert. no great progress.. surely, is made in these airy navigations, if they are still afraid of risking the necks of two or three subjects for the entertainment of a visiting sovereign. there is seldom a feu de joie for the birth of a dauphin that does not cost more lives. i thought royalty and science never haggled about the value of blood when experiments are in the question. i shall wait for summer before i make you a visit. though i dare to say that you have converted your smoke-kilns into a manufacture of balloons, pray do not erect a strawberry castle in the air for my reception, if it will cost a pismire a hair of its head. good night! i have ordered my bed to be heated as hot as an oven, and tonton and i must go into it. ( ) see vol. i. p. , letter .-e.( ) "lunardi's nest," says hannah more, " when i saw it yesterday, looking like a pegtop, seemed, i assure you, higher than the moon, 'riding towards her highest noon.'"-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i am very sorry, my dear lord, that i must answer your lordship's letter by a condolence. i had not the honour ur of being acquainted with mrs. vyse, but have heard so much good of her, that it is impossible not to lament her. since this month began we have had fine weather; and 'twere great pity if we had not, when the earth is covered with such abundant harvests! they talk of an earthquake having been felt in london. had sir william hamilton been there, he would think the town gave itself great airs. he, i believe, is putting up volcanos in his own country. in my youth, philosophers were eager to ascribe every uncommon discovery to the deluge; now it is the fashion to solve every appearance by conflagrations. if there was such an inundation upon the earth, and such a furnace under it, i am amazed that noah and company were not boiled to death. indeed, i am a great sceptic about human reasonings; they predominate only for a time, like other mortal fashions, and are so often exploded after the mode is passed, that i hold them little more serious, though they call themselves wisdom. how many have i lived to see established and confuted! for instance, the necessity of a southern continent as a balance was supposed to be unanswerable; and so it was, till captain cook found there was no such thing. we are poor silly animals: we live for an instant upon a particle of a boundless universe, and are much like a butterfly that should argue about the nature of the seasons and what creates their vicissitudes, and does not exist itself to see one annual revolution of them! adieu! my dear lord! if my reveries are foolish, remember, i give them for no better, if i depreciate human wisdom, i am sure i do not assume a grain to myself; nor have any thing to value myself upon more than being your lordship's most obliged humble servant. letter to mr. dodsley.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i must beg, sir, that you will tell mr. pinkerton, that i am much obliged to him for the honour he is willing to do me, though i must deg his leave to decline it. his book( ) deserves an eminent patron: i am too inconsiderable to give any relief to it, and even in its own line am unworthy to be distinguished. one of my first pursuits was a collection of medals; but i early gave it over, as i could not afford many branches of virt`u, and have since changed or given away several of my best greek and roman medals. what remain, i shall be glad to show mr. pinkerton; and, if it would not be inconvenient to him to come hither any morning by eleven o'clock, after next thursday, that he will not only see my medals, but any other baubles here that can amuse him. i am, sir, your most obedient humble servant. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the first edition of pinkerton's "essay on medals" was published by dodsley, in two volumes octavo, in this year, without the name of the author.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) as lady cecilia johnston offers to be postman, i cannot resist writing a line, though i have not a word to say. in good sooth, i know nothing hear of nothing but robberies and housebreaking; consequently never think of ministers, india directors, and such honest men. mrs. clive has been broken open, and mr. raftor miscarried, and died of the fright. lady browne has lost all her liveries and her temper, and lady blandford has cried her eyes out on losing a lurch and almost her wig. in short, as i do not love exaggeration, i do not believe there have been above threescore highway robberies within this week, fifty-seven houses that have been broken open, and two hundred and thirty that are to be stripped on the first opportunity. we are in great hopes, however, that the king of spain, now he has demolished algiers, the metropolitan see of thieves, will come and bombard richmond, twickenham, hampton-court, and all the suffragan cities that swarm with pirates and banditti, as he has a better knack at destroying vagabonds than at recovering his own. ireland is in a blessed way; and, as if the climate infected every body that sets foot there, the viceroy's aides-do-camp have blundered into a riot, that will set all the humours afloat. i wish you joy of the summer being come now it is gone, which is better than not coming at all. i hope lady cecilia will return with an account of your all being perfectly well. adieu! yours ever. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i am much obliged to you, sir, for the pieces you have sent me of your own composition.( ) there is great poetic beauty and merit in them, with great knowledge of the ancient masters and of the best of the modern. you have talents that will succeed in whatever you pursue, and industry to neglect nothing that will improve them. despise petty critics, and confute them by making your works as perfect as you can. i am sorry you sent me the old manuscript; because, as i told you, i have so little time left to enjoy any thing, that i should think myself a miser if i coveted for a moment what i must leave so soon. i shall be very glad, sir, to see you here again, whenever it is convenient to you. ( ) this is the first of the series of letters addressed by mr. walpole to mr. pinkerton. they are taken from his " literary correspondence," first printed in , in two volumes octavo, by dawson turner, esq. m.a. f.r.s. from the originals in his valuable collection. mr. pinkerton was born at edinburgh, in february , and died at paris in may . "he was," says mr. dawson turner, "a man of a capacious mind, great acuteness, strong memory, restless activity, and extraordinary perseverance: the anecdotes contained in this correspondence afford a striking proof of the power of talent,, and industry to raise their possessor in the scale of society, as well as in the opinion of the world: unfortunately, they are also calculated to read us another and not less instructive lesson, that somewhat more is required to turn such advantages to their full account; and that the endowments of the mind, unless accompanied by sound and consistent principles, can tend but little to the happiness of the individual, or to the good of society."-e. ( ) in , mr. pinkerton had published an octavo volume entitled "rimes;" a second edition of which, with additions, appeared in the following year.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) the summer is come at last, my lord, drest as fine as a birthday, though with not so many flowers on its head. in truth, the sun is an old fool, who apes the modern people of fashion by arriving too late: the day is going to bed before he makes his appearance; and one has scarce time to admire his embroidery of green and gold. it was cruel to behold such expanse of corn every where, and yet see it all turned to a water-souchy. if i could admire dante,--which, asking mr. hayley's pardon, i do not,--i would have written an olio of jews and pagans, and sent ceres to reproach master noah with breaking his promise of the world never being drowned again. but this last week has restored matters to their old channel; and i trust we shall have bread to eat next winter, or i think we must have lived on apples, of which to be sure there is enough to prevent a famine. this is all i know, my lord; and i hope no news to your lordship. i have exhausted the themes of air-balloons and highwaymen; and if you will have my letters, you must be content with my commonplace chat on the seasons. i do nothing worth repeating, nor hear that others do: and though i am content to rust myself, i should be glad to tell your lordship any thing that would amuse you. i dined two days ago at mrs. garrick's -with sir william hamilton, who is returning to the kingdom of cinders. mrs. walsingham( ) was there with her son and daughter. he is a very pleasing young man; a fine figure; his face like hers, with something of his grandfather, sir charles williams, without his vanity: very sensible, and uncommonly well-bred. the daughter is an imitatress of mrs. damer, and has modelled a bust of her brother. mrs. damer herself is modelling two masks for the keystones of the new bridge at henley. sir william, who has seen them, says they are in her true antique style. i am in possession of her sleeping dogs in terra cotta. she asked me if i would consent to her executing them in marble for the duke of richmond? i said gladly; i should like they should exist in a more durable material; but i would not part with the original, which is sharper and more alive. mr. wyat the architect saw them here lately; and said, he was sure that if the idea was given to the best statuary in europe, he would not produce so perfect a group. indeed with those dogs and the riches i possess by lady di,( ) poor strawberry may vie with much prouder collections. adieu, my good lord! when i fold up a letter i am ashamed of it; but it is your own fault. the last thing i should think of would be troubling your lordship with such insipid stuff, if you did not command it. lady strafford will bear me testimony how often i have protested against it. ( ) charlotte, daughter of sir charles hanbury williams, bart, married to the hon. robert boyle walsingham.-e. ( ) the number of original drawings by lady diana beauclerc, at strawberry hill. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i have read your piece, sir, very attentively; and, as i promised, will give you my opinion of it fairly. there is much wit in it, especially in the part of nebuchadnezer and the dialogue is very easy, and the dinouement in favour of barbara interesting. there are, however, i think, some objections to be made, which, having written so well, you may easily remove, as they are rather faults in the mechanism than in the writing. several scenes seem to me to finish too abruptly, and not to be enough connected. juliana is not enough distinguished, as of an age capable of more elevated sentiments: her desire of playing at hot-cockles and blind-man's-buff sounds more childish than vulgar. there is another defect, which is in the conduct of the plot: surely there is much too long an interval between the discovery of the marriage of juliana and philip, and the anger of her parents. the audience must expect immediate effect from it; and yet the noise it is to make arrives so late, that it would have been forgotten in the course of the intermediate scenes. i doubt a little, whether it would not be dangerous to open the piece with a song that must be totally incomprehensible to at least almost all the audience. it is safer to engage their prejudices by something captivating. i have the same objection to julia's mistaking deposit for posset, which may give an ill turn: besides, those mistakes have been too often produced on the stage: so has the character of mrs. winter, a romantic old maid; nor does she contribute to the plot or catastrophe. i am afraid that even mrs. vernon's aversion to' the country is far from novel; and mr. colman, more accustomed to the stage than i am, would certainly think so. nebuchadnezer's repartees of "very well, thank you!" and bringing in philip, when bidden to go for a rascal, are printed in the terrce filius, and, i believe, in other jest-books; and therefore had better be omitted. i flatter myself, sir, you will excuse these remarks; as they are intended kindly, both for your reputation and interest, and to prevent them being made by the manager, or audience, or your friends the reviewers. i am ready to propose your piece to mr. colman at any time; but, as i have sincerely an opinion of your parts and talents, it is the part of a friend to wish you to be very correct, especially in a first piece; for, such is the ill-nature of mankind, and their want of judgment too, that, if a new author does not succeed in a first attempt on the stage, a prejudice is contracted against him, and may be fatal to others of his productions, which might have prospered, had that bias not been taken. an established writer for the stage may venture almost any idleness; but a first essay is very different. shall i send you your piece, sir; and how? as mr. colman's theatre will not open till next summer, you will have full time to make any alterations you please. i mean, if you should think any of my observations well founded, and which, perhaps, are very trifling. i have little opinion of my own sagacity as a critic, nor love to make objections; nor should have taken so much liberty with you, if you had not pressed it. i am sure in me it is a mark of regard, and which i never pay to an indifferent author: my admiration of your essay on medals was natural, uninvited, and certainly unaffected. my acquaintance with you since, sir, has confirmed my opinion of your good sense, and interested me in behalf of' your works; and, having lived so long in the world myself, if my experience can be of any service to you, i cannot withhold it when you ask it; at the same time leaving you perfectly at liberty to reject it, if not adopted by your own judgment. the experience of old age is very likely to be balanced by the weaknesses incident to that age. i have not, however, its positiveness yet; and willingly abandon my criticism to the vigour of your judgment. ( ) now first collected. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) you have accepted my remarks with great good-humour, sir: i wish you may not have paid too much regard to them: and i should be glad that you did not rest any alterations on my single judgment, to which i have but little respect myself. i have not thought often on theatric performances, and of late not at all. a chief ground of my observations on your piece proceeded from having taken notice that an english audience is apt to be struck with some familiar sound, though there is nothing, ridiculous in the passage; and fall into a foolish laugh, that often proves fatal to the author. such was my objection to hot-cockles. you have, indeed, convinced me that i did not enough attend to your piece, as a farce; and, you must excuse me, my regard for you and your wit made me consider it rather as a short comedy. very probably too, i have retained the pedantic impression,, of the french, and demanded more observance of their rules than is necessary or just: yet i myself have often condemned their too delicate rigour. nay, i have wished that farce and speaking harlequins were more encouraged, in order to leave open a wider field of invention to writers for the stage. of late i have amply had my wish: mr. o'keefe has brought our audiences to bear with every extravagance; and, were there not such irresistible humour in his utmost daring, it would be impossible to deny that he has passed even beyond the limits of nonsense. but i confine this approbation to his agreeable surprise. in his other pieces there is much more untempered nonsense than humour. even that favourite performance i wondered that mr. colman dared to produce. your remark, that a piece full of marked characters would be void of nature, is most just. this is so strongly my opinion, that i thought it a great fault in miss burney's cecilia, though it has a thousand other beauties, that she has laboured far too much to make all her personages talk always in character; whereas, in the present refined or depraved state of human nature, most people endeavour to conceal their real character, not to display it. a professional man, as a pedantic fellow of a college or a seaman, has a characteristic dialect; but that is very different from continually letting out his ruling passion. this brings me, sir, to the alteration you offer in the personage of mrs. winter, whom you wittily propose -to turn into a mermaid. i approve the idea much: i like too the restoration of mrs. vernon to a plain reasonable woman. she will be a contrast to the bad characters, and but a gradation to produce barbara, without making her too glaringly bright without any intermediate shade. in truth, as you certainly may write excellently if you please, i wish you to bestow your utmost abilities on whatever you give to the public. i am wrong when i would have a farce as chaste and sober as a comedy; but i would have a farce made as good as it can be. i do not know how that is to be accomplished; but i believe you do. you are so obliging as to offer to accept a song of mine, if i have one by me. dear sir, i have no more talent for writing a song than for writing an ode like dryden's or gray's. it is a talent per se; and given, like every other branch of genius, by nature alone. poor shenstone was labouring through his whole life to write a perfect song, and, in my opinion at least, never once succeeded; not better than pope did in a st. cecilian ode. i doubt whether we have not gone a long, long way beyond the possibility of writing a good song. all the words in the language have been so often employed on simple images (without which such a song cannot be good), and such reams of bad verses have been produced in that kind, that i question whether true simplicity itself could please now. at least we are not likely to have any such thing. our present choir of poetic virgins write in the other extreme. they colour their compositions so highly with choice and dainty phrases, that their own dresses are not more fantastic and romantic. their nightingales make as many divisions as italian singers. but this is wandering from the subject; and, while i only meant to tell you what i could not do myself, i am telling you what others do ill..i will yet hazard one other opinion, though relative to composition in general. there are two periods favourable to poets: a rude age, when a genius may hazard any thing, and when nothing has been forestalled - the other is, when, after ages of barbarism and incorrection, a master or two produces models formed by purity and taste: virgil, horace, boileau, corneille, racine, pope., exploded the licentiousness that reigned before them. what happened? nobody dared to write in contradiction to the severity established; and very few had abilities to rival their masters. insipidity ensues, novelty is dangerous, and bombast usurps the throne which had been debased by a race of fain`eants. this rhapsody will probably convince you, sir, how much you was mistaken in setting any value on my judgment. february will certainly be time enough for your piece to be finished. i again beg you, sir, to pay no deference to my criticisms, against your own cool reflections. it is prudent to consult others before one ventures on publication; but every single person is as liable to be erroneous as an author. an elderly man, as he gains experience, acquires prejudices too: day, old age has generally two faults; it is too quick-sighted into the faults of the time being, and too blind to the faults that reigned in his own youth, which, having partaken of or having admired, though injudiciously, he recollects with complacence. a key in writers for i confess, too, that there must be two distinct views of writers the stage, one of which is more allowable to them than to other authors. the one is durable fame; the other, peculiar to dramatic authors, the view of writing to the present taste, (and, perhaps, as you say, to the level of the audience). i do not mean for the sake of profit; but even high comedy must risk a little of its immortality by consulting the ruling taste; and thence comedy always loses some of its beauties, the transient, and some of its intelligibility. like its harsher sister satire, many of its allusions must vanish, as the objects it aims at correcting ceases to be in vogue; and, perhaps, that cessation, the natural death of fashion, is often ascribed by an author to his own reproofs. ladies would have left off patching on the whig or tory side of their face, though mr. addison had not written his excellent spectator.( ) probably even they who might be corrected by his reprimand, adopted some new distinction as ridiculous; not discovering that his satire was levelled at their partial animosity, and not at the mode of placing their patches; for, unfortunately, as the world cannot be cured of being foolish, a preacher who eradicates one folly, does but make room for some other. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the singularly clever and witty paper here alluded to was written by addison himself; it is no. , "female party-spirit discovered by patches," and was published june , -d. t. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) as i have heard nothing from you, i flatter myself lady ailesbury mends, or i think you would have brought her again to the physicians. you will, i conclude, next week, as towards the end of it the ten days they named will be expired. i must be in town myself about thursday, on some little business of my own. as i was writing this, my servants called me away to see a balloon. i suppose blanchard's, that was to be let off from chelsea this morning. i saw it from the common field before the window of my 'round tower. it appeared about the third of the size of the moon, or less, when setting, something above the tops of the trees on the level horizon. it was then descending; and, after rising and declining a little, it sunk slowly behind the trees, i should think about or beyond sunbury, at five minutes after one. but you know i am a very inexact guesser at measures and distances, and may be mistaken in many miles; and you know how little i have attended to those airgonaut;. only t'other night i diverted myself with a sort of meditation on future airgonation, supposing that it will not only be perfected, but will depose navigation. i did not finish it, because i am not skilled, like the gentleman that used to write political ship-news, in that style, which i wanted to perfect my essay -. but in the prelude i observed how ignorant the ancients were in supposing that icarus melted the wax of his wings by too near access to the sun, whereas he would have been frozen to death before he made the first post on that road. next, i discovered an alliance between bishop wilkins's art of flying, and his plan of an universal language the latter of which he no doubt calculated to prevent the want of an interpreter when he should arrive at the moon. but i chiefly amused myself with ideas of the change that would be made in the world by the substitution of balloons to ships. i supposed our seaports to become deserted villages; and salisbury-plain, newmarhet-heath, (another canvass for alteration of ideas,) and all downs (but the downs) arising into dock-yards for aerial vessels. such a field would be ample in furnishing new speculations. but to come to my ship-news:-- "the good balloon dedalus, captain wing-ate, will fly in a few days for china; he will stop at the top of the monument to take in passengers. "arrived on brand-sands, the vulture, captain nabob; the tortoise snow, from lapland; the pet-en-l'air, from versailles; the dreadnought, from mount etna, sir w. hamilton commander; the tympany, montgolfier; and the mine-a-in-a-bandbox, from the cape of good hope. foundered in a hurricane, the bird of paradise, from mount ararat. the bubble, sheldon, took fire, and was burnt to her gallery; and the phoenix is to be cut down to a second-rate." in those days old sarum will again be a town and have houses in it. there will be fights in the air with wind-guns and bows and arrows; and there will be prodigious increase of land for tillage, especially in france, by breaking up all public roads as useless. but enough of my fooleries; for which i am sorry you must pay double, postage. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) october , . (page ) i would not answer your letter, sir, till i could tell you that i had put your play into mr. colman's hands, which i have done. he desired my consent to his carrying it into the country to read it deliberately: you shall know as soon as i receive his determination. i am much obliged to you for the many civil and kind expressions in your letter, and for the friendly information you give me. partiality, i fear, dictated the former; but the last i can only ascribe to the goodness of your heart. i have published nothing of any size but the pieces you mention, and one or two small tracts now out of print and forgotten. the rest have been prefaces to my strawberry editions, and to a few other publications; and some fugitive pieces which i reprinted several years ago in a small volume, and which shall be at your service, with the catalogue of noble authors. with regard to the bookseller who has taken the trouble to collect my writings, (amongst which i do not doubt but he will generously bestow on me many that i did not write, according to the liberal practice of such compilers,) and who also intends to write my life, to which, (as i never did any thing worthy of the notice of the public) he must likewise be a volunteer contributor, it would be vain for me to endeavour to prevent such a design. whoever has been so ill advised as to throw himself on the public, must pay such a tax in a pamphlet or magazine when he dies; but, happily, the insects that prey on carrion are still more short-lived than the carcases were, from which they draw their nutriment. those momentary abortions live but a day, and are thrust aside by like embryos. literary characters, when not illustrious, are known only to a few literary men; and amidst the world of books, few readers can come to my share. printing, that secures existence (in libraries) to indifferent authors of any bulk, is like those cases of egyptian mummies which in catacombs preserve bodies of one knows not whom, and which are scribbled over with characters that nobody attempts to read, till nobody understands the language in which they were written. i believe therefore it will be most wise to swim for a moment on the passing current, secure that it will soon hurry me into the ocean where all things are forgotten. to appoint a biographer is to bespeak a panegyric; and i doubt whether they who collect their books for the public, and, like me, are conscious of no intrinsic worth, do but beg mankind to accept of talents (whatever they were) in lieu of virtues. to anticipate spurious publications by a comprehensive and authentic one, is almost as great an evil: it is giving a body to scattered atoms; and such an act in one's old age is declaring a fondness for the indiscretions of youth, or for the trifles of an age which, though more mature, is only the less excusable. it is most true, sir, that, so far from being prejudiced in favour of my own writings i am persuaded that, had i thought early as i think now, i would never have appeared as an author. age, frequent illness and pain, have given me as many hours of reflection in the intervals of the two latter, as the two latter have disabled from reflection; and, besides their showing me the inutility of all our little views, they have suggested an observation that i love to encourage in myself from the rationality of it. i have learnt and practised the humiliating task of comparing myself with great authors; and that comparison has annihilated all the flattery that self-love could suggest. i know how trifling my own writings are, and how far below the standard that constitutes excellence: as for the shades that distinguish the degrees of mediocrity, they are not worth discrimination; and he must be very modest, or easily satisfied, who can be content to glimmer for an instant a little more than his brethren glow-worms. mine, therefore, you find, sir, is not humility, but pride. when young, i wished for fame; not examining whether i was capable of attaining it, nor considering in what lights fame was desirable. there are two sorts of fame; that attendant on the truly great, and that better sort that is due to the good. i fear i did not aim at the latter, not- discovered, till too late, that i could not compass the former. having neglected the best road, and having, instead of the other, strolled into a narrow path that led to no good worth seeking, i see the idleness of my journey, and hold it more graceful to abandon my wanderings to chance or oblivion, than to mark solicitude for trifles, which i think so myself. i beg your pardon for talking so much of myself; but an answer was due to the unmerited attention which you have paid to my writings. i turn with more pleasure to speak on yours. forgive me if i shall blame you, whether you either abandon your intention, or are too impatient to execute it.( ) your preface proves that you are capable of treating the subject ably; but allow me to repeat, that it is a work that ought not to be performed impetuously. a mere recapitulation of authenticated facts would be dry; a more enlarged plan would demand much acquaintance with the characters of the actors, and with the probable sources of measures. the present time is accustomed to details and anecdotes; and the age immediately preceding one's own is less known to any man than the history of any other period. you are young en - ugh, sir, to collect information on many particulars that will occur in your progress, from living actors, at least from their contemporaries; and, great as your ardour may be, you will find yourself delayed by the want of materials, and by further necessary inquiries. as you have a variety of talents, why should not you exercise them on works that will admit of more rapidity; and at the same time, in leisure moments, commence, digest, and enrich your plan by collecting new matter for it? in one word, i have too much zeal for your credit, not to dissuade you from precipitation in a work of the kind you meditate. that i speak sincerely you are sure; as accident, not design, made you acquainted with my admiration of your tract on medals. if i wish to delay your history, it must be from wishing that it may appear with more advantages; and i must speak disinterestedly, as my age will not allow me to hope to see it, if not finished soon. i should not forgive myself if i turned you from prosecution of your work; but, as i am certain that my writings can have given you no opinion of my having sound and deep judgment, pray follow your own, and allow no merit but that of sincerity and zeal to the sentiments of yours, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) of writing a history of the reign of george the second. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) thank you a thousand times, dear madam, for your obliging letter and the new bristol stones you have sent me, which would pass on a more skilful lapidary than i am for having been brillianted by a professed artist, if you had not told me that they came shining -out of a native mine, and had no foreign diamond-dust to polish them. indeed, can one doubt any longer that bristol is as rich and warm a soil as india? i am convinced it has been so of late years, though i question its having been so luxuriant in alderman canning's days; and i have more reasons for thinking so, than from the marvels' of chatterton.--but i will drop metaphors, lest some nabob should take me au pi`e de la lettre, fit out an expedition, plunder your city, and massacre you for weighing too many carats. seriously, madam, i am surprised-and chiefly at the kind of genius of this unhappy female.( ) her ear, as you remark, is perfect but that, being a gift of nature, amazes me less. her expressions are more exalted than poetic; and discover taste, as you say, rather than discover flights of fancy and wild ideas, as one should expect. i should therefore advise her quitting blank verse, which wants the highest colouring, to distinguish it from prose; whereas her taste, and probably good sense, might give sufficient beauty to her rhymes. her not being learned is another reason against her writing in blank verse. milton employed all his reading, nay, all his geographic knowledge, to enrich his language, and succeeded. they who have imitated him in that particular, have been mere monkeys; and they who neglected it, flat and poor. were i not persuaded by the samples you have sent me, madam, that this woman has talents, i should not advise encouraging her propensity, lest it should divert her from the care of her family, and, after the novelty is over, leave her worse than she was. when the late queen patronized stephen duck,( ) who was only a wonder at first, and had not genius enough to support the character he had promised, twenty artisans and labourers turned poets, and starved.( ) your poetess can scarce be more miserable than she is, and even the reputation of being an authoress may procure her customers: but as poetry is one of your least excellencies, madam (your virtues will forgive 'me), i am sure you will not only give her counsels for her works, but for her conduct; and your gentleness will blend them so judiciously, that she will mind the friend as well as the mistress. she must remember that she is a lactilla, not a pastora; and is to tend real cows, not arcadian sheep. what! if i should go a step farther, dear madam, and take the liberty of reproving you for putting into this poor woman's hands such a frantic thing as the castle of otranto? it was fit for nothing but the age in which it was written: an age in which much was known; that -required only to be amused, nor cared whether its amusements were conformable to truth and the models of good sense; that could not be spoiled; was in no danger of being too credulous and rather wanted to be brought back to imagination, than to be led astray by it:-but you will have made a hurly-burly in this poor woman's head, which it cannot develop and digest. i will not reprove, without suggesting something in my turn. give her dryden's cock and fox, the standard of good sense, poetry, nature, and ease. i would recommend others of his tales: but her imagination is already too gloomy, and should be enlivened; for which reason i do not name mr. gray's eton ode and churchyard.' prior's solomon (for i doubt his alma, though far superior, is too learned for her limited reading,) would be very proper. in truth, i think the cast of the age (i mean in its compositions) is too sombre. the flimsy giantry of ossian has introduced mountainous horrors. the exhibitions at somerset-house are crowded with brobdignag ghosts. read and explain to her a charming poetic familiarity called the blue-stocking club. if she has not your other pieces, might i take the liberty, madam, of begging you to buy them for her, and let me be in your debt? and that your lessons may win their way more easily, even though her heart be good, will you add a guinea or two, as you see proper? and though i do not love to be named, yet, if it would encourage a subscription, i should have no scruple. it will be best to begin moderately! for, if she should take hippocrene for pactolus, we may hasten her ruin, not contribute to her fortune. on recollection, you had better call me mr. anybody, than name my name, which i fear is in bad odour at bristol, on poor chatterton's account; and it may be thought that i am atoning his ghost: though, if his friends would show my letters to him, you would find that i was as tender to him as to your milkwoman: but that they have never done, among other instances of their injustice. however, i beg you to say nothing on that subject, as i have declared i would not. i have seen our excellent friend in clarges-street: she complains as usual of her deafness; but i assure you it is at least not worse, nor is her weakness. indeed i think both her and mr. vesey better than last winter. when will you blue-stocking yourself and come amongst us? consider how many of us are veterans; and, though we do not trudge on foot according to the institution, we may be out at heels-and the heel, you know, madam, has never been privileged. ( ) mrs. yearsley, the milkwoman of bristol, whose talent was discovered by miss hannah more, who solicited for her the protection of mrs. montagu, in a prefatory letter prefixed to her poems, published in quarto, in the year .-e. ( ) some of stephen duck the thresher's verses having been shown to queen caroline she settled twelve shillings a-week upon him, and appointed him keeper of her select library at richmond.( ) he afterwards took orders, and obtained the living of byfleet, in surrey; but growing melancholy, in , he threw himself into the river, near reading, and was drowned. swift wrote upon him the following epigram-- the thresher, duck, could o'er the queen prevail; the proverb says, no fence against a flail; >from threshing corn, he turns to thresh his brains, for which her majesty allow him grains; though 'tis confest, that those who ever saw his poems, think them all not worth a straw. thrice happy duck! employ'd in threshing stubble, thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double."-e. ( ) "robert bloomfield," says mr. crabbe, in his journal for , "had better have rested as a shoemaker, or even a farmer's boy; for he would have been a farmer perhaps in time, and now he is an unfortunate poet." poor john clare, it will be recollected, died in a workhouse.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. sunday night, nov. , . (page ) i have received the parcel of papers you sent me, which i conclude come from lord strafford, and will apply them as well as i possibly can, you may be sure, but with little hope of doing any good: humanity is no match for cruelty. there are now and then such angelic beings as mr. hanway and mr. howard; but our race in general is pestilently bad and malevolent. i have been these two years wishing to promote my excellent friend mr. porter's plan for alleviating the woes of chimney-sweepers, but never could make impression on three people; on the contrary, have generally caused a smile. george conway's intelligence of hostilities commenced between the dutch and imperialists makes me suppose that france will support the former--or could they resist? yet i had heard that france would not. some have thought, as i have done, that a combination of partition would happen between austria, france, and prussia, the modern law of nations for avoiding wars. i know nothing: so my conjectures may all be erroneous; especially as one argues reason; a very inadequate judge, as it leaves passions, caprices, and accidents, out of its calculation. it does not seem the interest of france, that the emperor's power should increase in their neighbourhood and extend to the sea. consequently it is france's interest to protect holland in concert with prussia. this last is a transient power, and may determine on the death of the present king; but the imperial is a permanent force, and must be the enemy of france, however present connexions may incline the scale. in any case, i hope we shall no way be hooked into the quarrel not only from the impotence of our circumstances, but as i think it would decide the loss of ireland, which seems tranquillizing: but should we have any bickering with france, she would renew the manoeuvres she practised so fatally in america. these are my politics; i do not know with whose they coincide or disagree, nor does it signify a straw. nothing will depend on my opinion; nor have i any opinion about them, but when i have nothing at all to do that amuses me more, or nothing else to fill a letter. i can give you a sample of my idleness, what may divert lady ailesbury and your academy of arts and sciences for a minute in the evening. it came into my head yesterday to send a card to lady lyttelton, to ask when she would be in town; here it is in an heroic epistle:- from a castle as vast as the castles on signs,-- >from a hill that all africa's molehills outshines, this epistle is sent to a cottage so small, that the door cannot ope if you stand in the hall, to a lady who would be fifteen, if her knight and old swain were as young as methusalem quite; it comes to inquire, not whether her eyes are as radiant as ever, but how many sighs he must vent to the rocks and the echoes around, (though nor echo nor rock in the parish is found,) before she, obdurate, his passion will meet-- his passion to see her in portugal-street? as the sixth line goes rather too near the core, do not give a copy of it: however, i should be sorry if it displeased; though i do not believe it will, but be taken with good-humour as it was meant.( ) ( ) it was taken in perfect good-humour; and lady lyttelton returned the following answer, which mr. walpole owned was better than his address:-- "remember'd, though old by a wit and a beau! i shall fancy, ere long, i'm a ninon l'enclos: i must feel impatient such kindness to meet, and shall hasten my flight into portugal-street." ripley cottage, th nov. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, april , . (page ) had i not heard part of your conversation with mrs. carter the other night, madam, i should certainly not have discovered the authoress of the very ingenious anticipation of our future jargon.( ) how should i? i am not fortunate enough to know all your talents; nay, i question whether you yourself suspect all you possess. your bas bleu is in a style very, different from any of your other productions that i have seen; and this letter, which shows your intuition into the degeneracy of our language, has a vein of humour and satire that could not be calculated from your bas bleu, in which good nature and good-humour had made a great deal of learning wear all the ease of familiarity. i did wish you to write another percy, but i beg now that you will first produce a specimen of all the various manners in which you can shine; for, since you are as modest as if your issue were illegitimate, i don't know but, like some females really in fault, you would stifle some of your pretty infants, rather than be detected and blush. in the mean time, i beseech you not only to print your specimen of the language that is to be in fashion, but have it entered at stationers' hall; or depend upon it, if ever a copy falls into the hands of a fine gentleman yet unborn, who shall be able both to read and write, he will adopt your letter for his own, and the galimatias will give the ton to the court, as euphues did near two hundred years ago; and then you will have corrupted our language instead of defending it: and surely it is not your interest, madam, to have pure english grow obsolete. if you do not promise to grant my request, i will show your letter every where to those that are worthy of seeing it; that is, indeed, in very few places; for you shall have the honour of it. it is one of those compositions that prove themselves standards, by begetting imitations; and if the genuine parent is unknown, it will be ascribed to every body that is supposed (in his own set) to have more wit than the rest of the world. i should be diverted, i own, to hear it faintly disavowed by some who would wish to pass for its authors; but still there is more pleasure in doing justice to merit, than in drawing vain pretensions into a scrape; and, therefore, i think you and i had better be honest and acknowledge it, though to you (for i am out of the question, but as evidence) it will be painful; for though the proverb says, "tell truth and shame the devil," i believe he is never half so much confounded as a certain amiable young gentlewoman, who is discovered to have more taste and abilities than she ever ventured to ascribe to herself even in the most private dialogues with her own heart, especially when that native friend is so pure as to have no occasion to make allowances even for self-love. for my part, i am most seriously obliged to you, madam, for so agreeable and kind a communication. ( ) this is an answer to the following anonymous letter, sent to mr. walpole by miss hannah more, ridiculing the prevailing adoption of french idioms into the english language. there is not in this satirical epistle one french word nor one english idiom:-- "a specimen of the english language, as it will probably be written and spoken in the next century. in a letter from a lady to her friend, in the reign of george the fifth. alamode castle, june , . dear madam, "i no sooner found myself here than i visited my new apartment, which is composed of five pieces: the small room, which gives upon the garden, is practised through the great one; and there is no other issue. as i was quite exceeded with fatigue, i had no sooner made my toilette, than i let myself fall on a bed of repose, where sleep came to surprise me. " my lord and i are on the intention to make good cheer, and a great expense; -and this country is in possession to furnish wherewithal to amuse oneself. all that england has of illustrious, all that youth has of amiable, or beauty of ravishing, sees itself in this quarter. render yourself here, then, my friend; and you shall find assembled all that there is of best, whether for letters, whether for birth. "yesterday i did my possible to give to eat; the dinner was of the last perfection, and the wines left nothing to desire. the repast was seasoned with a thousand rejoicing sallies, full of salt and agreement, and one more brilliant than another. lady france, charmed me as for the first time; she is made to paint, has a great air, and has infinitely of expression in her physiognomy; her manners have as much of natural as her figure has of interesting. "i had prayed lady b, to be of this dinner, as i had heard nothing but good of her; but i am now disabused on her subject: she is past her first youth, has very little instruction, is inconsequent, and subject to caution; but having evaded with one of her pretenders, her reputation has been committed by the bad faith of a friend, on whose fidelity she reposed herself; she is, therefore fallen into devotion, goes no more to spectacles, and play is detested at her house. though she affects a mortal serious, i observed that her eyes were of intelligence with those of sir james, near whom i had taken care to plant myself, though this is always a sacrifice which costs. sir james is a great sayer of nothings; it is a spoilt mind, full of fatuity and pretension: his conversation is a tissue of impertinences, and the bad tone which reigns at present has put the last hand to his defect,. he makes but little care of his word; but, as he lends himself to whatever is proposed of amusing, the women all throw themselves at his head. adieu" letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) june , . (page ) since i received your book,( ) sir, i scarce ceased from reading till i had finished it; so admirable i found it, and so full of good sense, brightly delivered. nay, i am pleased with myself too for having formed the same opinions with you on several points, in which we do not agree with the generality of men. on some topics, i confess frankly, i do not concur with you: considering how many you have touched, it would be wonderful if we agreed on all, or i should not be sincere if i said i did. there are others on which i have formed no opinion; for i should give myself an impertinent air, with no truth, if i pretended to have any knowledge of many subjects, of which, young as you are, you seem to have made yourself master. indeed, i have gone deeply into nothing, and therefore shall not discuss those heads which we differ most: as probably i should not defend my own opinions well. there is but one part of your work to which i will venture any objection, though you have considered it much, and i little, very little indeed, with regard to your proposal, which to me is but two days old: i mean your plan for the improvement of our language, which i allow has some defects, and which wants correction in several particulars. the specific amendment which you propose, and to which i object, is the addition of a's and o's to our terminations. to change s for a in the plural number for our substantives and adjectives would be so violent an alteration, that i believe neither the power of power nor the power of genius would be able, to effect it. in most cases i am convinced that very strong innovations are more likely to make impression than small and almost imperceptible differences, as in religion, medicine, politics, etc.; but i do not think that language can be treated in the same manner, especially in a refined age. when a nation first emerges from barbarism, two or three masterly writers may operate wonders; and the fewer the number of writers, as the number is small at such a period, the more absolute is their authority. but when a country has been polishing itself for two or three centuries, and when consequently authors are innumerable, the most supereminent genius (or whoever is esteemed so, though without foundation,) possesses very limited empire, and is far from meeting implicit obedience. every petty writer will contest very novel institutions: every inch of change in language will be disputed; and the language will remain as it was, longer than the tribunal which should dictate very heterogeneous alterations. with regard to adding a or o to final consonants, consider, sir, should the usage be adopted, what havoc it would make! all our poetry would be defective in metre, or would become at once as obsolete as chaucer; and could we promise ourselves, that, though we should have better harmony and more rhymes, we should have a new crop of poets, to replace milton, dryden, gray, and, i am sorry you will not allow me to add, pope! you might enjoin our prose to be reformed, as you have done by the spectator in your thirty-fourth letter; but try dryden's ode by your new institution. i beg your pardon for these trivial observations: i assure you i could write a letter ten times as long, if i were to specify all i like in your work. i more than like most of it; and i am charmed with your glorious love of liberty, and your other humane and noble sentiments. your book i shall with great pleasure send to mr. colman: may i tell him, without naming you, that it is written by the author of the comedy i offered to him? he must be struck with your very handsome and generous conduct in printing your encomiums on him, after his rejecting your piece. it is as great as uncommon, and gives me ,,is good an opinion of your heart, sir, as your book does of your great sense. both assure me that you will not take ill the liberty i have used in expressing my doubts on your plan for amending our language, or for any i may use in dissenting from a few other sentiments in your work; as i shall in what i think your too low opinion of some of the french writers, of your preferring lady mary wortley to madame de s`evign`e, and of your esteeming mr. hume a man of a deeper and more solid understanding than mr. gray. in the two last articles it is impossible to think more differently than we do. in lady mary's letters, which i never could read but once, i discovered no merit of any sort; yet i have seen others by her (unpublished)( ) that have a good deal of wit; and for mr. hume give me leave to say that i think your opinion, "that he might have ruled a state," ought to be qualified a little; as in the very next page you say, his history is "a mere apology for prerogative," and a very weak one. if he could have ruled a state, one must presume, at best, that he would have been an able tyrant; and yet i should suspect that a man, who, sitting coolly in his chamber, could forge but a weak apology for the prerogative, would not have exercised it very wisely. i knew personally and well both mr. hume and mr. gray, and thought there was no degree of comparison between their understandings; and, in fact, mr. hume's writings were so superior to his conversation, that i frequently said he understood nothing till he had written upon it. what you say, sir, of the discord in his history from his love of prerogative and hatred of churchmen, flatters me much; as i have taken notice of that very unnatural discord in a piece i printed some years ago, but did not publish, and which i will show to you when i have the pleasure of seeing you here; a satisfaction i shall be glad to taste, whenever you will let me know you are at leisure after the beginning of next week. i have the honour to be, sir, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) his "letters of literature," published this year under the name of heron. "it had been well for mr. pinkerton's reputation," observes mr. dawson turner ,had these letters never been published at all. in a copy now before me, lately the property of one of our most eminent critics, mr. fark, i read the following very just quotation, in his handwriting: 'multa venust`e, multa tenuiter multa cuni bile.' mr. pinkerton himself, in his 'walpoliana,' admits that heron's letters was 'a book written in early youth, and contained many juvenile crude ideas long since abandoned by its author.' would that the crudeness of many of the ideas were the worst that was to be said of it! but we shall find, in the course of this correspondence, far heavier and not less just complaints. the name of heron, here assumed by mr. pinkerton, was that of his mother."-e. ( ) see vol. iii. p. , letter .-e. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) june , . (page ) i have sent your book to mr. colman, sir, and must desire you in return to offer my grateful thanks to mr. knight, who has done me an honour, to which i do not know how i am entitled, by the present of his poetry, which is very classic, and beautiful, and tender, and of chaste simplicity. to your book, sir, i am much obliged on many accounts; particularly for having recalled my mind to subjects of delight, to which. it was grown dulled by age and indolence. in consequence of your reclaiming it, i asked myself whence you feel so much disregard for certain authors whose fame is established: you have assigned good reasons for withholding your approbation from some, on the plea of their being imitators: it was natural, then, to ask myself again, whence they had obtained so much celebrity. i think i have discovered a cause, which i do not remember to have seen noted; and that cause i suspect to have been, that certain of those authors possessed grace:--do not take me for a disciple of lord chesterfield, nor imagine that i mean to erect grace into a capital ingredient of writing; but i do believe that it is a perfume that will preserve from putrefaction, and is distinct even from style, which regards expression. grace, i think, belongs to manner. it is from the charm of grace that i believe some authors, not in your favour, obtained part of their renown; virgil in particular: and yet i am far from disagreeing with you on his subject in general. there is such a dearth of invention in the -,eneid, (and when he did invent, it was often so foolishly,) so little good sense, so little variety, and so little power over the passions, that i have frequently said, from contempt for his matter, and from the charm of his harmony, that i believe i should like his poem better, if i was to hear it repeated, and did not understand latin. on the other hand, he has more than harmony: whatever he utters is said gracefully, and he ennobles his images, especially in the georgics; or at least it is more sensible there from the humility of the subject. a roman farmer might not understand his diction in agriculture; but he made a roman courtier understand farming, the farming of that age, and could captivate a lord of augustus's bedchamber, and tempt him to listen to themes of rusticity. on the contrary, statius and claudian, though talking of war, would make a soldier despise them as bullies. that graceful manner of thinking in virgil seems to me to be more than style, if i do not refine too much; and i admire, i confess, mr. addison's phrase, that virgil "tossed about his dung with an air of majesty." a style may be excellent without grace: for instance, dr. swift's. eloquence may bestow an immortal style, and one of more dignity; yet eloquence may want that ease, that genteel air that flows from or constitutes grace. addison himself was master of that grace, even in his pieces of humour, and which do not owe their merit to style; and from that combined secret he excels all men that ever lived, but shakspeare, in humour, by never dropping into an approach towards burlesque and buffoonery', when even his humour descended to characters that in any other hands would have been vulgarly low. is not it clear that will wimble( ) was a gentleman, though he always lived at a distance from good company . fielding had as much humour, perhaps, as addison; but, having no idea of grace, is perpetually disgusting. his innkeepers and parsons are the grossest of their profession and his gentlemen are awkward, when they should be at their ease. the grecians had grace in every thing; in poetry, in oratory, in statuary, in architecture, and, probably, in music and painting. the romans, it is true, were their imitators; but, having grace too, imparted it to their copies, which gave them a merit that almost raises them to the rank of originals. horace's odes acquired their fame, no doubt, from the graces of his manner and purity of his style, the chief praise of tibullus and propertius, who certainly cannot boast of more meaning than horace's odes. waller, whom you proscribe, sir, owed his reputation to the graces of his manner, though he frequently stumbled, and even fell flat; but a few of his smaller pieces are as graceful as possible: one might say that he excelled in painting ladies in enamel, but could not succeed in portraits in oil, large as life. milton had such superior merit, that i will only say, that if his angels, his satan, and his adam have as much dignity as the apollo belvidere, his eve has all the delicacy and 'graces of the venus of medicis; as his description of eden has the colouring of albano. milton's tenderness imprints ideas as graceful as guido's madonnas: and the allegro, penseroso, and comus might be denominated from the three graces; as the italians gave similar titles to two or three of petrarch's best sonnets. cowley, i think, would have had grace, (for his mind was graceful,) if he had had any ear, or if his taste had not been vitiated by the pursuit of wit; which, when it does not offer itself naturally, degenerates into tinsel or pertness. pertness is the mistaken affectation of grace, as pedantry produces erroneous dignity: the familiarity of the one, and the clumsiness of the other, distort or prevent grace. nature, that furnishes samples of all qualities ', and on the scale of gradation exhibits all possible shades, affords us types that are more apposite than words. the eagle is sublime, the lion majestic, the swan graceful, the monkey pert, the bear ridiculously awkward. i mention these, as more expressive and comprehensive than i could make definitions of my meaning; but i will apply the swan only, under whose wings i will shelter an apology for racine, whose pieces give me an idea of that bird. the colouring of the swan is pure; his attitudes are graceful; he never displeases you when sailing on his proper element. his feet may be ugly, his notes hissing, not musical, his walk not natural; he can soar, but it is with difficulty:--still, the impression the swan leaves is that of grace. so does racine. boileau may be compared to the dog, whose sagacity is remarkable, as well as its fawning on its master, and its snarling at those it dislikes. if boileau was too austere to admit the pliability of grace, he compensates by good sense and propriety. he is like (for i will drop animals) an upright magistrate, whom you respect, but whose justice and severity leaves an awe that discourages familiarity. his copies of the ancients may be too servile; but if a good translator deserves praise, boileau deserves more. he certainly does not fall below his originals; and, considering at what period he wrote, has greater merit still. by his imitations he held out to his countrymen models of taste, and banished totally the bad taste of his predecessors. for his lutrin, replete with excellent poetry, wit, humour, and satire, he certainly was not obliged to the ancients. excepting horace, how little idea had either greeks or romans of wit and humour! aristophanes and lucian, compared with moderns, were, the one a blackguard, and the other a buffoon. in my eyes, the lutrin, the dispensary, and the rape of the lock, are standards of grace and elegance, not to be paralleled by antiquity; and eternal reproaches to voltaire, whose indelicacy in the pucelle degraded him as much, when compared with the three authors i have named, as his henriade leaves virgil, and even lucan whom he more resembles, by far his superiors. the dunciad is blemished by the offensive images of the games but the poetry appears to me admirable; and though the fourth book has obscurities, i prefer it to the three others; it has descriptions not surpassed by any poet that ever existed, and which surely a writer merely ingenious( ) will never equal. the lines on italy, on venice, on convents, have all the grace for which i contend as distinct from poetry, though united with the most beautiful; and the rape of the lock, besides the originality of great part of the invention, is a standard of graceful writing. in general, i believe that what i call grace, is denominated elegance; but by grace i mean something higher. i will explain myself by instances--apollo is graceful, mercury elegant. petrarch, perhaps, owed his whole merit to the harmony of his numbers and the graces of his style, they conceal his poverty of meaning and want of variety. his complaints, too, may have added an interest, which, had his passion been successful, and had expressed itself with equal sameness, would have made the number of his sonnets insupportable. melancholy in poetry, i am inclined to think, contributes to grace, when it is not disgraced by pitiful lamentations, such as ovid's and cicero's in their banishments. we respect melancholy, because it imparts a similar affection, pity. a gay writer, who should only express satisfaction without variety, would soon be nauseous. madame de s`evign`e shines both in grief and gaiety. there is too much sorrow for her daughter's absence; yet it is always expressed by new terms, by new images, and often by wit, whose tenderness has a melancholy air. when she forgets her concern, and returns to her natural disposition-gaiety, every paragraph has novelty; her allusions, her applications are the happiest possible. she has the art of making you acquainted with all her acquaintance, and attaches you even to the spots she inhabited. her language is correct, though unstudied; and, when her mind is full of any great event, she interests you with the warmth of a dramatic writer, not with the chilling impartiality of an historian. pray read her accounts of the death of turenne, and of the arrival of king james in france, and tell me whether you do not know their persons as if you had lived at the, time, for my part, if you will allow me a word of digression, (not that i have written with any method,) i hate the cold impartiality recommended to historians: "si vis me flere, dolendum est prim`um ipsi tibi:" but, that i may not wander again, nor tire, nor contradict you any more, i will finish now, and shall be glad if you will dine at strawberry hill next sunday and take a bed there, when i will tell you how many more parts of your book have pleased me, than have startled my opinions, or perhaps prejudices. i have the honour to be, sir, with regard, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) see spectator, no. . will wimble was a yorkshire gentleman, whose name was thomas morecroll-e. ( ) pinkerton had said of pope, that "he could only rank with ingenious men," and that his works are superabundant with superfluous and unmeaning verbiage - his translations even replete with tautology, a fault which is to refinement as midnight is to noonday; and, what is truly surprising, that the fourth book of the dunciad, his last publication, is more full of redundancy and incorrectness than his pastorals, which are his first."-d. t. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, july , . (page ) you thank me much more than the gift deserved, sir: my editions; of such pieces as i have left, are waste paper to me. i will not sell them at the ridiculously advanced prices that are given for them: indeed, only such as were published for sale, have i sold at all; and therefore the duplicates that remain with me are to me of no value, but when i can oblige a friend with them. of a few of my impressions i have no copy but my own set; and, as i could give you only an imperfect collection, the present was really only a parcel of fragments. my memory was in fault about the royal and noble authors. i thought i had given them to you. i recollect now that i only lent you my own copy; but i have others in town, and you shall have them when i go thither. for vertue's manuscript i am in no manner of haste. i heard on monday, in london, that the letters were written by a mr. pilhington, probably from a confounded information of maty's review; my chief reason for calling on you twice this week, was to learn what you had heard, and shall be much obliged to you for farther information; as i do not care to be too inquisitive,' lest i should be suspected of knowing more of the matter. there are many reasons, sir, why i cannot come into your idea of printing greek. in the first place, i have two or three engagements for my press; and my time of life does not allow me to look but a little way farther. in the next, i cannot now go into new expenses of purchase: my fortune is very much reduced, both by my brother's death, and by the late plan of reformation. the last reason would weigh with me, had i none of the others. my admiration of the greeks was a little like that of the mob on other points, not from sound knowledge. i never was a good greek scholar; have long forgotten what i knew of the language; and, as i never disguise my ignorance of any thing, it would look like affectation to print greek authors. i could not bear to print them, without owning that i do not understand them; and such a confession would perhaps be as much affectation as unfounded pretensions. i must, therefore, stick to my simplicity, and not go out of my line. it is difficult to divest one's self of vanity, because impossible to divest one's self of self-love. if one runs from one glaring vanity, one is catched by its opposite. modesty can be as vain-glorious on the ground, as pride on a triumphal car. modesty, however, is preferable; for, should she contradict her professions, still she keeps her own secret, and does not hurt the pride of others. i have the honour to be, sir, with great regard, yours. ( ) now first collected. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i am sorry, dear sir, that i must give you unanswerable reasons why i cannot print the work you recommend.( ) i have been so much solicited since i set up my press to employ it for others, that i was forced to make it a rule to listen to no such applications. i refused lord hardwicke to print a publication of his; lady mary forbes, to print letters of her ancestor, lord essex; and the countess of aldborough, to print her father's poems, though in a piece as small as what you mention. these i recollect at once, besides others whose recommendations do not immediately occur to my memory; though i dare to say they do remember them, and would resent my breaking my rule. i have other reasons which i will not detail now, as the post goes out so early: i will only beg you not to treat me with so much ceremony, nor ever use the word humbly to me, who am in no ways entitled to such respect. one private gentleman is not superior to another in essentials: i fear the virtues of an untainted young heart are preferable to those of an old man long conversant with the world; and in the soundness of understanding you have shown and will show a depth which has not fallen to the lot of your sincere humble servant. ( ) now first collected. ( ) it is impossible to say with certainty what is the work here alluded to; but most probably, it was ailred's life of st. ninian of which it appears, from a letter from the rev. rogers ruding, dated august , , that mr. pinkerton obtained at this time a transcript through him from the manuscript in the bodleian library. pinkerton speaks of this manuscript, in the second volume of his early scottish history, p. , as "a meagre piece, containing very little as to ninian's pikish mission." the letter alluded to from mr, ruding, shows pinkerton to have turned his mind to the antiquities of scotland with great earnestness.-d. t. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) you are too modest, sir, in asking my advice on a point on which you could have no better guide than your own judgment. if i presume to give you my opinion, it is from zeal for your honour. i think it would be below you to make a regular answer to anonymous scribblers in a magazine: you had better wait to see whether any formal reply is made to your book, and whether by any avowed writer; to whom, if he writes sensibly and decently, you may condescend to make an answer. still, as you say you have been misquoted, i should not wish you to be quite silent, though i should like better to have you turn such enemies into ridicule. a foe who misquotes you, ought to be a welcome antagonist. he is so humble as to confess, when he censures what you have not said, that he cannot confute what you have said; and he is so kind as to furnish you with an opportunity of proving him a liar, as you may refer to your book to detect him. this is what i would do; i would specify, in the same magazine in which he has attacked you, your real words, and those he has imputed to you; and then appeal to the equity of the reader. you may guess that the shaft comes from somebody whom you have censured; and thence you may draw a fair conclusion, that you had been in the right to laugh at one who was reduced to put his own words into your mouth before he could find fault with them; and, having so done, whatever indignation he has excited in the reader must recoil on himself, as the offensive passages will come out to have been his own, not yours. you might even begin with loudly condemning the words or thoughts imputed to you, as if you retracted them; and then, as if you turned to your book, and found that you had said no such thing there as what you was ready to retract, the ridicule would be doubled on your adversary. something of this kind is the most i would stoop to; but i would take the utmost care not to betray a grain of more anger than is imp lied in contempt and ridicule. fools can only revenge themselves by provoking; for then they bring you to a level with themselves. the good sense of your work will support it; and there is scarce reason for defending it, but, by keeping up a controversy, to make it more noticed; for the age is so idle and indifferent, that few objects strike, unless parties are formed for or against them. i remember many years ago advising some acquaintance of mine, who were engaged in the direction of the opera, to raise a competition between two of their singers, and have papers written pro and con.; for then numbers would go to clap and hiss the rivals respectively, who would not go to be pleased with the music. ( ) now first collected. letter george colman, esq.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) sir, i beg your acceptance of a little work just printed here; and i offer it as a token of my gratitude, not as pretending to pay you for your last present. a translation, however excellent, from a very inferior horace,( ) would be a most inadequate return; but there is so much merit in the enclosed version, the language is so pure, and the imitations of our poets so extraordinary, so much more faithful and harmonious than i thought the french tongue could achieve, that i flatter myself you will excuse my troubling you with an old performance of my own, when newly dressed by a master hand. as, too, there are not a great many copies printed, and those only for presents, i have a particular pleasure in making you one of the earliest compliments. ( ) now first printed. ( ) the due de nivernois' translation of walpole's essay on gardening.-e. letter to the earl of buchan.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) your lordship is too condescending when you incline to keep up a correspondence with one who can expect to maintain it but a short time, and whose intervals of health are resigned to idleness, not dedicated, as they have sometimes been, to literary pursuits: for what could i pursue with any prospect of accomplishment? or what avails it to store a memory that must lose faster than it acquires? your lordship's zeal for illuminating your country and countrymen is laudable; and you are young enough to make a progress; but a man who touches the verge of his sixty-eighth year, ought to know that he is unfit to contribute to the amusement of more active minds. this consideration, my lord, makes me much decline correspondence; having nothing new to communicate, i perceive that i fill my letters with apologies for having nothing to say. if you can tap the secret stores of the vatican, your lordship will probably much enrich the treasury of letters. rome may have preserved many valuable documents, as for ages intelligence from all parts of europe centred there; but i conclude that they have hoarded little that might at any period lay open the share they had in the most important transactions. history, indeed, is fortunate when even incidentally and collaterally it light's on authentic information. perhaps, my lord, there is another repository, and nearer, which it would be worth while to endeavour to penetrate: i mean the scottish college at paris. i have heard formerly, that numbers of papers, of various sorts, were transported at the reformation to spain and portugal: but, if preserved there, they probably are not accessible yet. if they were, how puny, how diminutive, would all such discoveries, and others which we might call of far greater magnitude, be to those of herschel, who puts up millions of covies of worlds at a beat! my conception is not ample enough to take in even a sketch of his glimpses; and, lest i should lose myself in attempting to follow his investigations, i recall my mind home, and apply it to reflect on what we thought we knew, when we imagined we knew something (which we deemed a vast deal) pretty correctly. segrais, i think, it was, who said with much contempt, to a lady who talked of her star, "your star! madam, there are but two thousand stars in all; and do you imagine that you have a whole one to yourself?" the foolish dame, it seems, was not more ignorant than segrais himself. if our system includes twenty millions of worlds, the lady had as much right to pretend to a whole ticket as the philosopher had to treat her like a servant-maid who buys a chance for a day in a state lottery. stupendous as mr. herschel's investigations are, and admirable as are his talents, his expression of our retired corner of the universe, seems a little improper. when a little emmet, standing on its ant-hill, could get a peep into infinity, how could he think he saw a corner in it?-a retired corner? is there a bounded side to infinitude! if there are twenty millions of worlds, why not as many, and as many, and as many more? oh! one's imagination cracks! i ]one, to bait within distance of home, and rest at the moon. mr. herschel will content me if he can discover thirteen provinces there, well inhabited by men and women, and protected by the law of nations;( ) that law, which was enacted by europe for its own emolument, to the prejudice of the other three parts of the globe, and which bestows the property of whole realms on the first person who happens to espy them, who can annex them to the crown of great britain, in lieu of those it has lost beyond the atlantic. i am very ignorant in astronomy, as ignorant as segrais or the lady, and could wish to ask many questions; as whether our celestial globes must not be infinitely magnified? our orreries, too, must not they be given to children, and new ones constructed, that will at least take in our retired corner and all its outflying constellations? must not that host of worlds be christened? mr. herschel himself has stood godfather for his majesty to the new sidus. his majesty, thank god! has a numerous issue; but they and all the princes and princesses in europe cannot supply appellations enough for twenty millions of new-born stars: no, though the royal progenies of austria, naples, and spain, who have each two dozen saints for sponsors, should consent to split their bead-rolls of names among the foundlings. but i find i talk like an old nurse; and your lordship at last will, i believe, be convinced that it is not worth your while to keep up a correspondence with a man in his dotage, merely because he has the honour of being, my lord, your lordship's most obedient servant. ( ) now first printed. ( ) the then thirteen united states of america. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i do not possess, nor ever looked into one of the books you specify; nor mabillon's "acta sanctorum," nor o'flaherty's "ogygia." my reading has been very idle., and trifling, and desultory; not that perhaps it has not been employed on authors as respectable as those you want to consult, nor that i had not rather read the deeds of sinners than acta sanctorum. i have no reverence but for sensible books, and consequently not for a greater number; and had rather have read fewer than i have than more. the rest may be useful on certain points, as they happen now to be to you; who, i am sure, would not read them for general use and pleasure, and are a very different kind of author. i shall like, i dare to say, any thing you do write, but i am not overjoyed at your wading into the history of dark ages' unless you use it as a canvass to be embroidered with your opinions, and episodes, and comparisons with more recent times. that is a most entertaining kind of writing. in general, i have seldom wasted time on the origin of nations, unless for an opportunity of smiling at the gravity of the author, or at the absurdity of the manners of those ages; for absurdity and bravery compose almost all the anecdotes we have of them, except the accounts of what they never did, nor thought of doing. i have a real affection for bishop hoadley: he stands with me in lieu of what are called the fathers; and i am much obliged to you for offering to lend me a book of his: but, as my faith in him and his doctrines has long been settled, i shall not return to such grave studies, when i have so little time left, and desire only to pass it 'tranquilly, and without thinking of what i can neither propagate nor correct. when youth made me sanguine, i hoped mankind might be set right. now that i am very, old, i sit down with this lazy maxim; that, unless one could cure men of being fools, it is to no purpose to cure them of any folly, as it is only making room for some other. self-interest is thought to govern every man yet, is it possible to be less governed by self-interest than men are in the aggregate? do not thousands sacrifice even their lives for single men? is not it an established rule in france, that every person in that kingdom should love every king they have in his turn? what government is formed for general happiness? where is not it thought heresy by the majority, to insinuate that the felicity of one man ought not to be preferred to that of millions? had not i better, at sixty-eight, leave men to these preposterous notions, than return to bishop hoadley, and sigh? not but i have a heartfelt satisfaction when i hear that a mind as liberal as his, and who has dared to utter sacred truths, meets with approbation and purchasers of his work. you must not, however, flatter yourself, sir, that all your purchasers are admirers. some will buy your book, because they have heard of opinions in it that offend them, and because they want to find matter in it for abusing you. let them: the more it is discussed, the more strongly will your fame be established. i commend you for scorning any artifice to puff your book; but you must allow me to hope it will be attacked. i have another satisfaction in the sale of your book-; it will occasion a second edition. what if, as you do not approve of confuting misquoters, you simply printed a list of their false quotations, referring to the identical sentences, at the end of your second edition? that will be preserving their infamy, which else would perish where it was born; and perhaps would deter others from similar forgeries. if any rational opponent staggers you on any opinion of yours, i would retract it; and that would be a second triumph. i am, perhaps, too impertinent and forward with advice: it is at best a proof of zeal; and you are under no obligation to follow my counsel. it is the weakness of old age to be apt to give advice; but i will fairly arm you against myself, by confessing that, when i was young, i was not apt to take any. ( ) now first collected. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i wondered i did not hear from you, as i concluded you returned. you have made me good amends by the entertaining story of your travels. if i were not too disjointed for long journeys, i should like to see much of what you have seen; but if i had the agility of vestris, i would not purchase all that pleasure for my eyes at the expense of my unsociability, which could not have borne the hospitality you experienced. it was always death to me, when i did travel england, to have lords and ladies receive me and show me their castles, instead of turning me over to their housekeeper: it hindered my seeing any thing, and i was the whole time meditating my escape; but lady ailesbury and you are not such sensitive plants, nor shrink and close up if a stranger holds out a hand. i don't wonder you was disappointed with jarvis's windows at new college; i had foretold their miscarriage. the old and the new are as"mismatched as an orange and a lemon, and destroy each other; nor is there room enough to retire back and see half of the new; and sir joshua's washy virtues make the nativity a dark spot from the darkness of the shepherds, which happened, as i knew it would, from most of jarvis's colours not being transparent. i have not seen the improvements at blenheim. i used to think it one of the ugliest places in england; a giant's castle, who had laid waste all the country round him. every body now allows the merit of brown's achievements there.( ) of all your survey i wish most to see beau desert. warwick castle and stowe i know by heart. the first i had rather possess than any seat upon earth: not that i think it the most beautiful of all., though charming, but because i am so intimate with all its proprietors for the last thousand years. i have often and often studied the new plan of stowe: it is pompous; but though the wings are altered, they are not lengthened. though three parts of the edifices in the garden are bad, they enrich that insipid country, and the vastness pleases me more than i can defend. i rejoice that your jaunt has been serviceable to lady ailesbury. the charming man( ) is actually with me; but neither he nor i can keep our promise incontinently. he expects two sons of his brother sir william, whom he is to pack up and send to the p`eres de l'oratoire at paris. i expect lord and lady waldegrave to-morrow, who are to pass a few days with me; but both the charming man and i will be with you soon. i have no objection to a wintry visit: as i can neither ride nor walk, it is more comfortable when most of my time is passed within doors. if i continue perfectly well, as i am, i shall not settle in town till after christmas: there will not be half a dozen persons there for whom i care a straw. i know nothing at all. the peace between the austrian harpy and the frogs is made. they were stout, and preferred being gobbled to parting with their money. at last, france offered to pay the money for them. the harpy blushed-for the first time-and would not take it; but signed the peace, and will plunder somebody else. have you got boswell's most absurd enormous book?( ) the best thing in it is a bon-mot of lord pembroke.( ) "the more one learns of johnson, the more preposterous assemblage he appears of' strong sense, of the lowest bigotry and prejudices, of pride, brutality, fretfulness, and vanity; and boswell is the ape of most of his faults, without a grain of his sense. it is the story of a mountebank and his zany. i forgot to say, that i wonder how, with your turn, and knowledge, and enterprise, in scientific exploits, you came not to visit the duke of bridgewater's operations; or did you omit them, because i should not have understood a word you told me? adieu! ( ) "capability brown;"for an account of whom, see vol. ii. p. , letter . "i took," says hannah more, "a very agreeable lecture from my friend mr. brown in his art, and he promised to give me taste by inoculation. i am sure he has a charming one; and he illustrates every thing he says about gardening by some literary or grammatical allusion. he told me he compared his art to literary composition. 'now, there,' said he, pointing his finger, 'i make a comma; and there,' pointing to another spot, 'where a more decided turn is proper, i make a colon: at another part (where an interruption is desirable to break the view), a parenthesis--now a full stop; and then i begin another subject.'" memoirs, vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) edward jerningham, esq. see post, september , .-e. ( ) the "enormous book," of which walpole here speaks so disparagingly, is boswell's popular "journal of his tour to the highlands and islands of scotland with dr. johnson, in the autumn of ." it is now incorporated with the author's general narrative of the doctor's life in mr. croker's edition of - and not the least interesting circumstance connected with it is, that johnson himself read, from time to time, boswell's record of his sayings and doings; and, so far from being displeased with its minuteness, expressed great admiration of its accuracy, and encouraged the chronicler to proceed with his grand ulterior proceeding. see life, vol. i. p. viii. ed. .-e. ( ) "lord pembroke said once to me at wilton that dr. johnson's sayings would not appear so extraordinary, were it not for his bow-wow way." ibid. vol. iv, p. .-e. letter to the earl of charlement.( ) strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) as your lordship has given me this opportunity, i cannot resist saying, what i was exceedingly tempted to mention two or three years ago, but had not the confidence. in short, my lord, when the order of st. patrick was instituted, i had a mind to hint to your lordship that it was exactly the moment for seizing an occasion that has been irretrievably lost to this country. when i was at paris, i found in the convent of les grands augustins three vast chambers filled with the portraits (and their names and titles beneath) of all the knights of the st. esprit, from the foundation of the order. every new knight, with few exceptions, gives his own portrait on his creation. of the order of st. patrick, i think but one founder is dead yet; and his picture perhaps may be retrieved. i will not make any apology to so good a patriot as your lordship, for proposing a plan that tends to the honour of his country, which i will presume to call mine too, as it is both by union and my affection for it. i should wish the name of the painter inscribed too, which would excite emulation in your artists. but it is unnecessary to dilate on the subject to your lordship; who, as a patron of the arts, as well as a patriot, will improve on my imperfect thoughts, and, if you approve of them, can give them stability. i have the honour to beg my lord, etc. ( ) now first collected. letter to lady browne.( ) berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) i am extremely obliged to your ladyship for your kind letter; and, though i cannot write myself, i can dictate a few lines. this has not been a regular fit of the gout, but a worse case: one of my fingers opened with a deposit of chalk,( ) and brought on gout, and both together an inflammation and swelling almost up to my shoulder. in short, i was forced to have a surgeon, who has managed me so judiciously, that both the inflammation and swelling are gone; and nothing remains but the wound in my finger, which will heal as soon as all the chalk is discharged. my surgeon wishes me to take the air; but i am so afraid of a relapse, that i have not yet consented. my poor old friend is a great loss;( ) but it did not much surprise me, and the manner comforts me. i had played at cards with her at mrs. gostling's three nights before i came to town, and found her extremely confused, and not knowing what she did: indeed, i perceived something of the sort before, and had found her much broken this autumn. it seems, that the day after i saw her, she went to general lister's burial and got cold, and had been ill for two or three days. on the wednesday morning she rose to have her bed made; and while sitting on the bed, with her maid by her, sunk down at once, and died without a pang or a groan. poor mr. raftor is struck to the greatest degree, and for some days would not see any body. i sent for him to town to me; but he will not come till next week. mrs. prado has been so excessively humane as to insist on his coming to her house till his sister is buried, which is to be to-night. the duchess does not come till the th. poor miss bunbury is dead; and mrs. boughton, i hear, is in a very bad way. lord john russell has sent the duchess of bedford word, that he is on the point of marrying lord torrington's eldest daughter; and they suppose the wedding is over.( ) your ladyship, i am sure, will be pleased to hear that lord euston is gone to his father, who has written a letter with the highest approbation of lady euston.( ) you will be diverted, too, madam, to hear that hecate has told mrs. keppel, that she was sure that such virtue would be rewarded at last. ( ) now first printed. ( ) "neither years nor sufferings," writes hannah more to her sister, "can abate the entertaining powers of the pleasant horace, which rather improve than decay; though he himself says he is only fit to be a milk-woman, as the chalk-stones at his fingers' ends qualify him for nothing but scoring; but he declares he will not be a bristol milk.woman. i was obliged to recount to him all that odious tale." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) the incomparable kitty clive; who died at twickenham on the th of december, in her seventy-second year.-e. ( ) lord john russell, who, in , succeeded his brother francis as sixth duke of bedford, married, at brussels, in march , georgiana elizabeth, second daughter of lord torrington.-e. ( ) lord euston, who, in , succeeded his father as fourth duke of grafton, married, in november , charlotte maria, daughter of the earl of waldegrave.-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) it is very cruel, my dear madam, when you send me such charming lines, and say such kind and flattering things to me and of me, that i cannot even thank you with my own poor hand; and yet my hand is as much obliged to you as my eye, and ear, and understanding. my hand was in great pain when your present arrived. i opened it directly, and set to reading, till your music and my own vanity composed a quieting draught that glided to the ends of my fingers, and lulled the throbs into the deliquium that attends opium when it does not put one absolutely to sleep. i don't believe that the deity who formerly practised both poetry and physic, when gods got their livelihood by more than one profession, ever gave a recipe in rhyme; and therefore, since dr. johnson has prohibited application to pagan divinities, and mr. burke has not struck medicine and poetry out of the list of sinecures, i wish you may get a patent for life for exercising both faculties. it would be a comfortable event for me for, since i cannot wait on you to thank you, nor dare ask you ----to call your doves yourself, and visit me in your parnassian quality, i might send for you as my physicianess. yet why should i not ask you to come and see me? you are not such a prude as to ----blush to show compassion, though it should not chance this year to be the fashion,( ) and i can tell you, that powerful as your poetry is, and old as i am, i believe a visit from you would do me as much good almost as your verses.( ) in the meantime, i beg you to accept of an addition to your strawberry editions; and believe me to be, with the greatest gratitude, your too much honoured, and most obliged humble servant. see "florio," a poetical tale, which miss hannah more had recently published with the "bas bleu."-e. ( ) on the th, hannah more paid him a visit. "i made poor vesey," she says, "go with me on saturday to see mr. walpole, who has had a long illness. notwithstanding his sufferings, i never found him so pleasant, so witty, and so entertaining. he said a thousand diverting things about 'florio;' but accused me of having imposed on the world by a dedication full of falsehood; meaning the compliment to himself: i never knew a man suffer pain with such entire patience. this submission is certainly a most valuable part of religion; and yet, alas! he is not religious. i must however, do him the justice to say, that, except the delight he has in teasing me for what he calls over-strictness, i never heard a sentence from him which savoured of infidelity." memoirs, vol. ii, p. .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. sunday night, june , . (page ) i suppose you have been swearing at the east wind for parching your verdure, and are now weeping for the rain that drowns your hay. i have these calamities in common, and my constant and particular one,-people that come to see my house, which unfortunately is more in request than ever. already i have had twenty-eight sets, have five more tickets given out; and yesterday, before i had dined, three german barons came. my house is a torment, not a comfort! i was sent for again to dine at gunnersbury on friday, and was forced to send to town for a dress-coat and a sword. there were the prince of wales, the prince of mecklenburg, the duke of portland, lord clanbrassil, lord and lady clermont, lord and lady southampton, lord pelham, and mrs. howe. the prince of mecklenburg went back to windsor after coffee; and the prince and lord and lady clermont to town after tea, to hear some new french players at lady william gordon's. the princess, lady barrymore, and the rest of us, played three pools at commerce till ten. i am afraid i was tired and gaped. while we were at the dairy, the princess insisted on my making some verses on gunnersbury. i pleaded being superannuated. she would not excuse me. i promised she should have an ode on her next birthday, which diverted the prince; but all would not do. so, as i came home, i made the following stanzas, and sent them to her breakfast next morning:-- in deathless odes for ever green augustus' laurels blow; nor e'er was grateful duty seen in warmer strains to flow. oh! why is flaccus not alive, your favourite scene to sing? to gunnersbury's charms could give his lyre immortal spring. as warm as his my zeal for you, great princess! could i show it; but though you have a horace too-- ah, madam! he's no poet. if they are poor verses, consider i am sixty-nine, was half asleep, and made them almost extempore-and by command! however, they succeeded, and i received this gracious answer:-- " i wish i had a name that could answer your pretty verses. your yawning yesterday opened your vein for pleasing me; and i return you my thanks, my good mr. walpole, and remain sincerely your friend, amelia." i think this very genteel at seventy-five. do you know that i have bought the jupiter serapis as well as the julio clovio!( ) mr. * * * * assures me he has seen six of the head, and not one of them so fine, or so well preserved. i am glad sir joshua reynolds saw no more excellence in the jupiter than in the clovio; or the duke of portland, i suppose, would have purchased it, as he has the vase for a thousand pounds. i would not change. i told sir william hamilton and the late duchess, when i never thought it would be mine, that i had rather have the head than the vase.- i shall long for mrs. damer to make a bust to it, and then it will be still more valuable. i have deposited both the illumination( ) and the jupiter in lady di.'s cabinet,( ) which is worthy of them. and here my collection winds up; i will not purchase trumpery after such jewels. besides, every thing is much dearer in old age, as one has less time to enjoy. good night! ( ) at the sale of the duchess-dowager of portland. ( ) the book of psalms, with twenty-one illuminations, by don julio clovio, scholar of julio romano-e. ( ) a cabinet at strawberry hill, built in , to receive seven incomparable drawings of lady diana beauclere, for walpole's tragedy of "the mysterious mother."-e. letter to richard gough, esq. berkeley square, june , . (page ) on coming to town yesterday upon business, i found, sir, your very magnificent and most valuable present,( ) for which i beg you will accept my most grateful thanks. i am impatient to return to twickenham, to read it tranquilly. as yet i have only had time to turn the prints over, and to read the preface; but i see already that it is both a noble and laborious work, and -will do great honour both to you and to your country. yet one apprehension it has given me-i fear not living to see the second part! yet i shall presume to keep it unbound; not only till it is perfectly dry and secure, but, as i mean the binding should be as fine as it deserves, i should be afraid of not having both volumes exactly alike. your partiality, i doubt, sir, has induced you to insert a paper not so worthy of the public regard as the rest of your splendid performance. my letter to mr. cole,( ) which i am sure i had utterly forgotten .to have ever written, was a hasty indigested sketch, like the rest of my scribblings, and never calculated to lead such well-meditated and accurate works as yours. having lived familiarly with mr. cole, from our boyhood, i used to write to him carelessly on the occasions that occurred. as it was always on subjects of' no importance, i never thought of enjoining secrecy. i could not foresee that such idle communications would find a place in a great national work, or i should have been more attentive to 'what i said. your taste, sir, i fear, has for once been misled; and i shall be sorry for having innocently blemished a single page. since your partiality (for such it certainly was) has gone so far, i flatter myself you will have retained enough to accept, not a retribution, but a trifling mark of my regard, in the little volume that accompanies this; in which you will find that another too favourable reader has bestowed on me more distinction than i could procure for myself, by turning my slight essay on gardening( ) into the pure french of the last age;( ) and, which is wonderful, has not debased milton by french poetry: on the contrary, i think milton has given a dignity to french poetry--nay, and harmony; both which i thought that language almost incapable of receiving. as i would wish to give all the value i can to my offering, i will mention, that i have printed but four hundred copies, half of which went to france; and as this is an age in which mere rarities are preferred to commoner things of intrinsic worth,-as i have found by the ridiculous prices given for some of my insignificant publications, merely because they are scarce,-i hope, under the title of a kind of curiosity, my thin piece will be admitted into your library. if you would indulge me so far, sir, as to let me know when i might hope to see the second part, i would calculate how many more fits of the gout i may weather, and would be still more strict in my regimen. i hope, at least, that you will not wait for the engravers, but will accomplish the text for the sake of the world: in this i speak disinterestedly. though you are much younger than i am, i would have your part of the work secure - engravers may always proceed, or be found; another author cannot. ( ) the first volume of mr. gough's "sepulchral monuments in great britain."-e. ( ) see vol. iii., aug. , , letter .-e. ( ) the author of "the pursuits of literature",-- "well pleased to see walpole and nature may, for once, agree," adds, in a note, "read (it well deserves the attention) that quaint, but most curious and learned writer's excellent essay on modern gardening."-e. ( ) besides walpole's essay on modern gardening, the duc do nivernois translated pope's essay on man, and a portion of milton's paradise lost, into french verse.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) since i received the honour of your lordship's last, i have been at park-place for a few days. lord and lady frederick campbell and mrs. damer were there. we went on the thames to see the new bridge at henley, and mrs. damer's colossal masks. there is not a sight in the island more worthy of being visited. the bridge is as perfect as if bridges were natural productions, and as beautiful as if it had been built"for wentworth castle; and the masks, as if the romans had left them here. we saw them in a fortunate moment; for the rest of the time was very cold and uncomfortable, and the evenings as chill as many we have had lately. in short, i am come to think that the beginning of an old ditty, which passes for a collection of blunders, was really an old english pastoral, it is so descriptive of our climate: "three children sliding on the ice all on a summer's day----" i have been overwhelmed more than ever by visitants to my house. yesterday i had count oginski,( ) who was a pretender to the crown of poland at the last election, and has been stripped of most of a vast estate. he had on a ring of the new king of prussia, or i should have wished him joy on the death of one of the plunderers of his country.( ) it has long been my opinion that the out-pensioners of bedlam are so numerous, that the shortest and cheapest way would be to confine in moorfields the few that remain in their senses, who would then be safe; and let the rest go at large. they are the out-pensioners who are for destroying poor dogs! the whole canine race never did half so much mischief as lord george gordon; nor even worry hares, but when hallooed on by men. as it is a persecution of animals, i do not love hunting; and what old writers mention as a commendation makes me hate it the more, its being an image of war. mercy on us! that destruction of any species should be a sport or a merit! what cruel unreflecting imps we are! every body is unwilling to die; yet sacrifices the lives of others to momentary -pastime, or to the still emptier vapour, fame! a hero or a sportsman who wishes for longer life is desirous of prolonging devastation. we shall be crammed, i suppose, with panegyrics and epitaphs on the king of prussia; i am content that he can now have an epitaph. but, alas! the emperor will write one for him probably in blood! and, while he shuts up convents for the sake of population, will be stuffing hospitals .with maimed soldiers, besides making thousands of widows! i have just been reading a new published history of the colleges in oxford, by anthony wood; and there found a feature in a character that always offended me, that of archbishop chicheley, who prompted henry the fifth to the invasion of france, to divert him from squeezing the overgrown clergy. when that priest meditated founding all souls, and "consulted his friends (who seem to have been honest men) what great matter of piety he had best perform to god in his old age, he was advised by them to build an hospital for the wounded and sick soldiers that daily returned from the wars then had in france;"-i doubt his grace's friends thought as i do of his artifice "but," continues the historian, "disliking those motions, and valuing the welfare of the deceased more than the wounded and diseased, he resolved with himself to promote his design, which was, to have masses said for the king, queen, and himself, etc. while living, and for their souls when dead." and that mummery the old foolish rogue thought more efficacious than ointments and medicines for the wretches he had made! and of the chaplains and clerks he instituted in that dormitory, one was to teach grammars and another prick-song. how history makes one shudder and laugh by turns! but i fear i have wearied your lordship with my idle declamation, and you will repent having commanded me to send you more letters. ( ) father of count michel oginski, the associate of kosciusko, and author of "memoires sur la pologne et les polonais, depuis jusqu'`a la fin de ;" in four volumes octavo. paris, .-e. ( ) frederick the great had died on the th, at berlin.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i was sorry not to be apprised of your intention of going to town, where i would have met you; but i knew it too late, both as i was engaged, and as you was to return so soon. i mean to come to park-place in a week or fortnight: but i should like to know what company you expect, or do not expect; for i had rather fill up your vacancies than be a supernumerary. lady ossory has sent me two charades made by colonel fitzpatrick: the first she says is very easy, the second very difficult. i have not come within sight of the easy one; and, though i have a guess at the other, i do not believe i am right; and so i send them to you, who are master-general of the oedipuses. the first, that is so easy:-- "in concert, song, or serenade, my first requires my second's aid. to those residing near the pole i would not recommend my whole." the two last lines, i conclude, neither connect with the two first, nor will help one to deciphering them. the difficult one:-- "charades of all things are the worst, but my best have been my first. who with my second are concern'd, will to despise my whole have learn'd." this sounds like a good one, and therefore i will not tell you my solution; for, if it is wrong, it might lead you astray; and if it is right, it would prove the charade is not a good one. had i any thing better, i would not send you charades, unless for the name of the author. i have had a letter from your brother, who tells me that he has his grandson stewart( ) with him, who is a prodigy. i say to myself, prodigies are grown so frequent, that they have lost their name. i have seen prodigies in plenty of late, ah, and formerly too; but, divine as they have all been, each has had a mortal heel, and has trodden back a vast deal of their celestial path beg to be excused from any more credulity. i am sorry you have lost your fac-totum stokes. i suppose he had discovered that he was too necessary to you. every day cures one of reliance on others; and we acquire a prodigious stock of experience, by the time that we shall cease to have occasion for any. well! i am not clear but making or solving charades is as wise as any thing we can do. i should pardon professed philosophers if they would allow that their wisdom is only trifling, instead of calling their trifling wisdom. adieu! ( ) robert, eldest son of robert stewart, by lady sarah-frances seymour, second daughter of francis, first marquis of hertford; afterwards so distinguished in the political world as viscount castlereagh. in , he succeeded his father as second marquis of londonderry, and died at his seat at north cray, in august, ; at which time he was secretary of state for foreign affairs.-e. letter to the right hon. lady craven.( ) berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) to my extreme surprise, madam, when i knew not in what quarter of the known or unknown world you was resident or existent, my maid in berkeley-square sent me to strawberry-hill a note from your ladyship, offering to call on me for a moment,-for a whirlwind, i suppose, was waiting at your door to carry you to japan; and, as balloons have not yet settled any post-offices in the air, you could not, at least did not, give me any direction where to address you, though you did kindly reproach me with my silence. i must enter into a little justification before i proceed. i heard from you from venice, then from poland, and then, having whisked through tartary, from petersburgh; but still with no directions. i said to myself, "i will write to grand cairo, which, probably, will be her next stage." nor was i totally in the wrong, for there came a letter from constantinople, with a design mentioned of going to the greek islands, and orders to write to you at vienna; but with no banker or other address specified. for a great while i had even stronger reasons than these for silence. for several months i was disabled by the gout from holding a pen; and you must know, madam, that one can't write when one cannot write. then, how write to la fianc`ee du roi de garbe? you had been in the tent of the cham of tartary, and in the harem of the captain pacha, and, during your navigation of the aegean, were possibly fallen into the terrible power of a corsair. how could i suppose that so many despotic infidels would part with your charms? i never expected you again on christian ground. i did not doubt your having a talisman to make people in love with you; but antitalismans are quite a new specific. well, while i was in this quandary, i received a delightful drawing of the castle of otranto; but still provokingly without any address. however, my gratitude for so very agreeable. and obliging a present could not rest till i found you out. i wrote to the duchess of richmond, to beg, she would ask your brother captain berkeley for a direction to you; and he has this very day been so good as to send me one, and i do not lose a moment in making use of it. i give your ladyship a million of thanks for the drawing, which was really a very valuable gift to me. i did not even know that there was a castle of otranto. when the story was finished, i looked into the map of the kingdom of naples for a well-sounding name, and that of otranto was very sonorous. nay, but the drawing is so satisfactory, that there are two small windows, one over another, and looking into the country, that suit exactly to the small chambers from one of which matilda heard the young peasant singing beneath her. judge how welcome this must be to the author; and thence judge, madam, how much you must have obliged him. when you take another flight towards the bounds of the western ocean, remember to leave a direction. one cannot always shoot flying. lord chesterfield directed a letter to the late lord pembroke, who was always swimming, "to the earl of pembroke in the thames, over against whitehall." that was sure of finding him within a certain number of fathom; but your ladyship's longitude varies so rapidly, that one must be a good bowler indeed, to take one's ground so judiciously that by casting wide of the mark one may come in near to the jack. ( ) this celebrated lady was the daughter of augustus, fourth earl of berkeley. in , she was married to william, who, in , succeeded his uncle as sixth lord craven: she had seven children by him; but, after a union of thirteen years, a separation taking place, she left england for france, and travelled in italy, austria, poland, russia, turkey, and greece. in , she published her "journey through the crimea to england." subsequently, she settled at anspach, and, becoming a widow in september, , was united in the following month to the margrave of anspach; who, having sold his principality to the king of prussia, settled in england; where he died in . in , the margravine published her memoirs, she died at naples in -e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) do not imagine, dear madam, that i pretend in the most distant manner to pay you for charming poetry with insipid prose; much less that i acquit a debt of gratitude for flattering kindness and friendship, by a meagre tale that does not even aim at celebrating you. no; i have but two motives for offering you the accompanying trifle;( ) the first, to prove that the moment i have finished any thing you are of the earliest in my thoughts: the second, that, coming from my press, i wish it may be added to your strawberry editions. it is so far from being designed for the public, that i have printed but forty copies; which i do not mention to raise its value, though it will with mere collectors, but lest you should lend it and lose it, when i may not be able to supply its place. christina, indeed, has some title to connexion with you, both from her learning and her moral writings; as you are justly entitled to a lodging in her "c it`e des dames," where i am sure her three patronesses would place you, as a favourite `el`eve of some of their still more amiable sisters, who must at this moment be condoling with their unfortunate sister gratitude, whose vagabond foundling has so basely disgraced her and herself. you fancied that mrs. yearsley was a spurious issue of a muse; and to be sure, with all their immortal virginity, the parish of parnassus has been sadly charged with their bantlings; and, as nobody knows the fathers, no wonder some of the misses have turned out woful reprobates! ( ) christine de pise. letter to the right hon. lady craven. berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) your ladyship tells me, that you have kept a journal of your travels: you know not when your friends at paris will give you time to put it au net; that is, i conclude and hope, prepare it for the press. i do not wonder that those friends, whether talismanic or others, are so assiduous, if you indulge them - but, unless they are of the former description, they are unpardonable, if they know what they interrupt; and deserve much more that you should wish they had fallen into a ditch, than the poor gentlemen who sigh more to see you in sheets of holland than of paper. to me the mischief is enormous. how proud i should be to register a noble authoress of my own country, who has travelled over more regions and farther than any female in print! your ladyship has visited those islands and shores whence formerly issued those travelling sages and legislators who sought and imported wisdom, laws, and religion into greece; and though we are so perfect as to want none of those commodities, the fame of those philosophers is certainly diminished when a fair lady has gone so far in quest of knowledge. you have gone in an age when travels are brought to a juster standard, by narrations being limited to truth. formerly the performers of the longest voyages destroyed half the merit of their expeditions by relating, not what they had, but had not seen; a sort of communication that they might have imparted without stirring a foot from home. such exaggerations drew discredit on travels, till people would not believe that there existed in other countries any thing very different from- what they saw in their own; and because no patagonians, or gentry seven or eight feet high, were really discovered, they would not believe that there were laplanders or pigmies of three and four. incredulity went so far, that at last it was doubted whether china so much as existed; and our countryman sir john mandeville( ) got an ill name, because, though he gave an account of it, he had not brought back its right name:( ) at least if i do not mistake, this was the case; but it is long since i read any thing about the matter, and i am willing to begin my travels again under your ladyship's auspices. i am sorry to hear, madam, that by your account lady mary wortley was not so accurate and faithful as modern travellers. the invaluable art of inoculation, which she brought from constantinople, so dear to all admirers of beauty, and to which we owe, perhaps, the preservation of yours, stamps her an universal benefactress; and as you rival her in poetic talents, i had rather you would employ them to celebrate her for her nostrum, than detect her for romancing. however, genuine accounts of the interior of seraglios would be precious; and i was in hopes would become the greater rarities, as i flattered myself that your friends the empress of russia and the emperor were determined to level ottoman tyranny. his imperial majesty, who has demolished the prison bars of so many nunneries, would perform a stilt more christian act in setting free so many useless sultanas; and her czarish majesty, i trust, would be as great a benefactress to our sex, by ,abolishing the barbarous practice that reduces us to be of none. your ladyship's indefatigable peregrinations should have such great objects in view, when you have the ear of sovereigns. peter the hermit conjured up the first crusadoes against the infidels by running about from monarch to monarch. lady craven should ,be as zealous and as renowned; and every fair circassian would acknowledge, that one english lady had repaid their country for the secret which another had given to europe from their practice. ( ) as an instance of the monstrous exaggerations of this ancient munchausen, take the following:--"i am a liar if i have not seen in java, a single shell in which three men might completely hide themselves, and all white!" he also states himself to have met with whole nations of giants, twenty-fie feet high; and of pigmies, as many inches.-e. ( ) in a conversation with mr. windham, dr. johnson, a few days before his death, recommended, for an account of china, sir john mandeville's travels." see boswell's johnson, vol. ix. p. , ed. .-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) dear madam, i not only send you "la cit`e des dames," but christina's life of charles the fifth, which will entertain you more; and which, when i wrote my brief history of her, i did not know she had actually composed. mr. dutens told me of it very lately, and actually borrowed it for me; and but yesterday my french bookseller sent me three-and-twenty other volumes of those m`emoires historiques,( ) which i had ordered him to get for me, and which will keep my eyes to the oar for some time, whenever i have leisure to sail through such an ocean; and yet i shall embark with pleasure, late as it is for me to undertake such a hugeous voyage: but a crew of old gossips are no improper company, and we shall sit in a warm cabin, and hear and tell old stories of past times. pray keep the volume as long as you please, and borrow as many more as you please, for each volume is a detached piece. yet i do not suppose your friends will allow you much time for reading; and i hope i shall often be the better for their hindering you.( ) yours most sincerely. ( ) "collection des meilleurs ouvrages francais compos`es par des femmes." by mademoiselle keralio. ( ) miss more, in a letter written a few days after, says--"mr. walpole is remarkably well: yesterday he sent me a very agreeable letter, with some very thick volumes of curious french m`emoires, desiring me, if i like them, to send for the other twenty-three volumes; a pretty light undertaking, in this mad town and this sort of life." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to the rev. henry zouch.( ) berkeley square, march , . (page ) it is very true, sir, as lord strafford told you, that i have taken care that letters of living persons to me shall be restored to the writers when i die. i have burnt a great many, and, as you desire it, would do so by yours; but, having received a like intimation some time ago, i put yours into a separate paper, with a particular direction that they should be delivered to you: and, therefore, i imagine it will be more satisfaction to you, as it will be to me too, that you should receive them yourself; and therefore if you please to let me know how i shall convey them, i will bring them from strawberry hill, where they are, the first time i go thither. i hope you enjoy your health, and i have the honour to be, sir, etc. ( ) now first printed. letter to miss hannah more.( ) strawberry hill, june , . (page ) in your note, on going out of town, you desired me to remember you; but as i do not like the mere servile merit of obedience, i took time, my dear madam, to try to forget you; and, having failed as to my wish, i have the free-born pleasure of thinking of you in spite of my teeth, and without any regard to your injunction. no queen upon earth, as fond as royal persons are of their prerogative, but would prefer being loved for herself rather than for her power; and i hope you have not more majesty "than the whole race of queens!" perhaps the spirit of your command did not mean that i should give you such manual proof of' my remembrance; and you may not know what to make of a subject who avows a mutinous spirit, and at the same time exceeds the measure of his duty. it is, i own, a kind of irish loyalty; and, to keep up the irish character, i will confess that i never was disposed to be so loyal to any sovereign that was not a subject. if you collect from all this galai-datias that i am cordially your humble servant, i shall be content. the irish have the best hearts in the three kingdoms, and they never blunder more than when they attempt to express their zeal and affection: the reason, i suppose, is, that cool sense never thinks of attempting impossibilities; but a warm heart feels itself ready to do more than is possible for those it loves. i am sure our poor friend in clarges-street( ) would subscribe to this last sentence. what english heart ever excelled hers? i should have almost said equalled, if i were not writing to one that rivals her. the last time i saw her before i left london, miss burney( ) passed the evening there, looking quite recovered and well, and so cheerful and agreeable, that the court seems only to have improved the ease of her manner, instead of stamping more reserve on it, as i feared: but what slight graces it can give, will not compensate to us and the world for the loss of her company and her writings. not but that some young ladies who can write, can stifle their talent as much as if they were under lock and key in the royal library. i do not see but a cottage is as pernicious to genius as the queen's waiting-room. why should one remember people that forget themselves? oh! i am sorry i used that expression, as it is commonly applied to such self-oblivion as mrs. -; and light and darkness are not more opposite than the forgetfulness to which i alluded, and hers. the former forgetfulness can forget its own powers and the injuries of others; the latter can forget its own defects, and the obligations and services it has received. how poor is that language which has not distinct terms for modesty and virtue, and for excess of vanity and ingratitude! the arabic tongue, i suppose, has specific words for all the shades of oblivion, which, you see, has its extremes. i think i have heard that there are some score of different terms for a lion in arabic, each expressive of a different quality; and consequently its generosity and its appetite for blood are not confounded in one general word. but if an arabian vocabulary were as numerous in proportion for all the qualities that can enter into a human composition, it would be more difficult to be learned therein, than to master all the characters of the chinese. you did me the honour of asking me for my "castle of otranto," for your library at cowslip green. may i, as a printer, rather than as an author, beg leave to furnish part of a shelf there? and as i must fetch some of the books from strawberry hill, will you wait till i can send them all together? and will you be so good as to tell me whither i shall send them, or how direct and convey them to you at bristol? i shall have a satisfaction in thinking that they will remain in your rising cottage (in which, i hope, you will enjoy a long series of happy hours); and that they will sometimes, when they and i shall be forgotten in other places, recall to miss more's memory her very sincere humble servant. ( ) now first collected. ( ) in a letter to walpole, written at this time from cowslip green, miss more says, "when i sit in a little hermitage i have built in my garden,-not to be melancholy in, but to think upon my friends, and to read their works and letters,-mr. walpole seldomer presents himself to my mind as the man of wit than as the tender-hearted and humane friend of my dear infirm, broken-spirited mrs. vesey. one only admires talents, and admiration is a cold sentiment, with which affection has commonly nothing to do; but one does more than admire them when they are devoted to such gentle purposes. my very heart is softened when i consider that she is now out of the way of your kind attentions' and i fear that nothing else on earth gives her the smallest pleasure." memoirs, vol ii, p. -e. ( ) this highly-gifted young lady had, in the preceding year, been appointed keeper of the robes to the queen.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i have very little to tell you since we met but disappointments, and those of no great consequence. on friday night lady pembroke wrote to me that princess lubomirski was to dine with her the next day, and desired to come in the morning to see strawberry. well, my castle put on its robes, breakfast was prepared, and i shoved another company out of the house, who had a ticket for seeing it. the sun shone, my hay was cocked, we looked divinely; and at half an hour after two, nobody came but a servant to lady pembroke, to say her polish altitude had sent her word she had another engagement in town that would keep her too late:-so lady pembroke's dinner was addled; and we had nothing to do, but, like good christians, if we chose it, to compel every body on the road, whether they chose it or not, to come in and eat our soup and biscuits. methinks this liberum veto was rather impertinent, and i begin to think that the partition of poland was very right. your brother has sent me a card for a ball on monday, but i have excused myself. i have not yet compassed the whole circuit of my own garden, and i have had an inflammation in one of my eyes, and don't think i look as well as my house and my verdure; and had rather see my haycocks, than the duchess of polignac and madame lubomirski. "the way to keep him" had the way to get me, and i could crawl to it because i had an inclination; but i have a great command of myself when i have no mind to do any thing. lady constant was worth an hundred ars and irskis. let me hear of you when you have nothing else to do; though i suppose you have as little to tell as you see i had. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) st. swithun is no friend to correspondence, my dear lord. there is not only a great sameness in his own proceedings, but he makes every body else dull-i mean in the country, where one frets at its raining every day and all day. in town he is no more minded than the proclamation against vice and immorality. still, though he has all the honours of the quarantine, i believe it often rained for forty days long before st. swithun was born, if ever born he was; and the proverb was coined and put under his patronage, because people observed that it frequently does rain for forty days together at this season. i remember lady suffolk telling me, that lord dysart's great meadow had never been mowed but once in forty years without rain. i said, "all that that proved was, that rain was good for hay," as i am persuaded the climate of a country and its productions are suited to each other. nay, rain is good for haymakers too, who get more employment the oftener the hay is made over again. i do not know who is the saint that presides over thunder; but he has made an unusual quantity in this chill summer, and done a great deal of serious mischief, though not a fiftieth part of what lord george gordon did seven years ago, and happily he is fled. our little part of the world has been quiet as usual. the duke of queensberry has given a sumptuous dinner to the princess de lamballe( )--et voil`a tout. i never saw her, not even in france. i have no particular penchant for sterling princes and princesses, much less for those of french plate. the only entertaining thing i can tell your lordship from our district is, that old madam french, who lives close by the bridge at hampton-court, where, between her and the thames, she had nothing but one grass-plot of the width of her house, has paved that whole plot with black and white marble in diamonds, exactly like the floor of a church; and this curious metamorphosis of a garden into a pavement has cost her three hundred and forty pounds:-a tarpaulin she might have had for some shillings, which would have looked as well, and might easily have been removed. to be sure, this exploit, and lord dudley's obelisk below a hedge, with his canal at right angles with the thames, and a sham bridge no broader than that of a violin, and parallel to the river, are not preferable to the monsters in clipt yews of our ancestors; bad taste expellas fursa tamen usque recurret. on the contrary, mrs. walsingham is making her house at ditton (now baptized boyle-farm) very orthodox. her daughter miss boyle( ) who has real genius, has carved three tablets in marble with buoys, designed by herself. those sculptures are for a chimney-piece; and she is painting panels in grotesque for the library, with pilasters of glass in black and gold. miss crewe, who has taste too, has decorated a room for her mother's house at richmond, which was lady margaret compton's in a very pretty manner. how much more amiable the old women of the next age will be, than most of those we remember, who used to tumble at once from gallantry to devout scandal and cards! and revenge on the young of their own sex the desertion of ours. now they are ingenious, they will not want amusement. adieu, my dear lord! ( ) sister to the prince de carignan, of the royal house of sardinia, and wife of the prince de lamballe, only son to the duc de penthi`evre. she was sur-intendante de la maison de la reine, and, from her attachment to marie antoinette, was one of the first females who fell a victim to the fury of the french revolution. the peculiar circumstances of horror which attended her death, and the indignities offered to her remains, are in the memory of every one who has read the accounts of that heart.rending event.-e. ( ) afterwards married to lord henry fitzgerald. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) my dear madam, i am shocked for human nature at the repeated malevolence of this woman!( ) the rank soil of riches we are accustomed to see overrun with weeds and thistles; but who could expect that the kindest seeds sown on poverty and dire misfortunes should meet with nothing but a rock at bottom? catherine de' medici, suckled by popes. and transplanted to a throne, seems more excusable. thank heaven, madam, for giving you so excellent a heart; ay, and so good a head. you are not only benevolence itself: but, with fifty times the genius of a yearsley, you are void of vanity. how strange that vanity should expel gratitude! does not the wretched woman owe her fame to you, as well as her affluence? i can testify your labours for both. dame yearsley reminds me of the troubadours, those vagrants whom i used to admire till i knew their history; and who used to pour out trumpery verses, and flatter or abuse accordingly as they were housed and clothed, or dismissed to the next parish. yet you did not set this person in the stocks, after procuring an annuity for her! i beg your pardon for renewing so disgusting a subject, and will never mention it again. you have better amusement; you love good works, a temper superior to revenge.( ) i have again seen our poor friend in clarges-street: her faculties decay rapidly, and of course she suffers less. she has not an acquaintance in town; and yet told me the town was very full, and that she had had a good deal of company. her health is re-established, and we must now be content that her mind is not restless. my pity now feels most for mrs. hancock,( ) whose patience is inexhaustible, though not insensible. mrs. piozzi, i hear, has two volumes of dr. johnson's letters ready for publication.( ) bruce is printing his travels; which i suppose will prove that his narratives were fabulous, as he will scarce repeat them by the press. these and two more volumes of mr. gibbon's history, are all the literary news i know. france seems sunk indeed in all respects. what stuff are their theatrical goods, their richards, ninas, and tarares! but when their figaro could run threescore nights, how despicable must their taste be grown!( ) i rejoice that the political intrigues are not more creditable. i do not dislike the french from the vulgar antipathy between neighbouring nations, but for their insolent and unfounded airs of superiority. in arms we have almost always outshone them: and till they have excelled newton, and come near to shakspeare, pre-eminence in genius must remain with us. i think they are most entitled to triumph over the italians; as, with the most meagre and inharmonious of all languages, the french have made more of that poverty in tragedy and eloquence, than the italians have done with the language the most capable of both. but i did not mean to send you a dissertation. i hope it will not be long before you remove to hampton.--yet why should i wish that'! you will only be geographically nearer to london till february. cannot you now and then sleep at the adelphi on a visit to poor vesey and your friends, and let one know if you do? ( ) walpole had recently received a letter from miss more, in which she had said--"my old friend the milk-woman has just brought out another book, to which she has prefixed my original preface to her first book, and twenty pages of the scurrility published against me in her second. to all this she has added the deed which i got drawn up by an eminent lawyer to secure her money in the funds, and which she asserts i made mrs. montagu sign without reading." memoirs, vol. ii. p. . ( ) mrs. yearsley was a woman of strong masculine understanding, and of a powerful independent mind, which could not brook any thing in the nature of dictation or interference. whether she then was a widow, or separated from her husband, i know not; but, in , she kept a bookseller and stationer's shop, under the name of ann yearsley, at bristol hot-wells, assisted by her son, and there all sorts of literary discussion used to take place daily amongst those who frequented it; and mrs. yearsley being somewhat free, both in her political and religious opinions, as well as not a little indignant at mrs. more's attempt at holding a control over her proceedings, it is not matter of wonder, that a very unreasonable asperity should have been exhibited on both sides.-g. ( ) "what a blessing for mrs. vesey, that mrs. hancock is alive and well! i do venerate that woman beyond words; her faithful, quiet, patient attachment makes all showy qualities and shining talents appear little in my eyes. such characters are what mr. burke calls i the soft quiet green, on which the soul loves to rest!"' hannah more's memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) in speaking of these letters, which appeared shortly after, hannah more says--:they are such as ought to have been written, but ought not to have been printed: a few of them are very good: sometimes he is moral, and sometimes he is kind. the imprudence of editors and executors is an additional reason why men of parts should be afraid to die. burke said to me the other day, in allusion to the innumerable lives, anecdotes, remains, etc. of this great man, 'how many maggots have crawled out of that great body!'" memoirs, vol. ii-p. -e. ( ) mr. walpole had never seen figaro acted, nor had he been at paris for many years before it appeared: he was not, therefore, aware of the bold, witty, and continued allusions of almost every scene and of almost every incident of that comedy, to the most popular topics and the most distinguished characters of the day. the freedom with which it treated arbitrary government and all its establishments, while they all yet continued in unwelcome force- in france, and the moral conduct of each individual of the piece exactly suiting the no-morality of the audience, joined to the admirable manner in which it was acted, certainly must be allowed to have given it its greatest vogue. but even now, when most of these temporary advantages no longer exist, whoever was well acquainted with the manners, habits, and anecdotes of paris at the time of the first appearance of figaro, will always admire in it a combination of keen and pointed satire, easy wit, and laughable incident.-b. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. berkeley square, nov. , . (page ) >from violent contrary winds,( ) and by your letter going to strawberry hill, whence i was 'come, i have but just received it, and perhaps shall only be able to answer it by snatches, being up to the chin in nephews and nieces. i find you knew nothing of the pacification when you wrote, when i saw your letter, i hoped it would tell me you was coming back, as your island is as safe as if it was situated in the pacific ocean, or at least as islands there used to be, till sir joseph banks chose to put them up. i sent you the good news on the very day before you wrote, though i imagined you would learn it by earlier intelligence. well, i enjoy both your safety and your great success, which is enhanced by its being owing to your character and abilities. i hope the latter will be allowed to operate by those who have not quite so much of either. i shall be wonderful glad to see little master stonehenge( ) at park- place; it will look in character there: but your own bridge is so stupendous in comparison, that hereafter the latter will be thought to have been a work of the romans. dr. stukeley will burst his cerements to offer mistletoe in your temple; and mason, on the contrary, will die of vexation and spite that he cannot have caractacus acted on the spot. peace to all such! --but were there one whose fires true genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, he would immortalize you, for all you have been carrying on in jersey, and for all you shall carry off. inigo jones, or charlton,- or somebody, i forget who, called stonehenge "chorea gigantum:" this will be the chorea of the pigmies; and, as i forget too what is latin for lilliputians, i will make a bad pun, and say, ----portantur avari pygmalionis opes.-- pygmalion is as well-sounding a name for such a monarch as oberon. pray do not disappoint me, but transport the cathedral( ) of your island to your domain on our continent. i figure unborn antiquaries making pilgrimages to visit your bridge, your daughter's bridge,( ) and the druidic temple; and if i were not too old to have any imagination left, i would add a sequel to mi li.( ) adieu! ( ) mr. conway was at this time at his government in jersey. ( ) mr. walpole thus calls the small druidic temple discovered in jersey, which the states of that island had presented to general conway, to be transported to and erected at park-place. dr. walter charlton published a dissertation on stonehenge in , entitled "chorea gigantum." it was reprinted in .-e. ( ) the druidic temple. ( ) the keystones of the centre arch of the bridge at henley are ornamented with heads of the thames and isis, designed by the hon. mrs. damer, and executed by her in portland stone. ( ) one of the hieroglyphic tales, containing a description of park-place. it will be found in walpole's works. letter to thomas barrett, esq.( ) berkeley square, june , . (page ) i wish i could charge myself with any merit, which i always wish to have towards you, dear sir, in letting mr. matthew see strawberry; but in truth he has so much merit and modesty and taste himself, that i gave him the ticket with pleasure, which it seldom happens to me to do; for most of those who go thither, go because it is the fashion, and because a party is a prevailing custom too; and my tranquillity is disturbed, because nobody likes to stay at home. if mr. matthew was really entertained i am glad; but mr. wyatt has made him too correct a goth not to have seen all the imperfections and bad execution of my attempts; for neither mr. bentley nor my workmen had studied the science, and i was always too desultory and impatient to consider that i should please myself more by allowing time, than by hurrying my plans into execution before they were ripe. my house therefore is but a sketch by beginners, yours is finished by a great master; and if mr. matthew liked mine, it was en virtuose, who loves the dawnings of an art, or the glimmerings of its restoration. i finished mr. gibbon a full fortnight ago, and was extremely pleased. it is a most wonderful mass of information, not only of history, but almost on all the ingredients of history, as war, government, commerce, coin, and what not. if it has a fault, it is in embracing too much, and consequently in not detailing enough, and it, striding backwards and forwards from one set of princes to another, and from one subject to another; so that, without much historic knowledge, and without much memory, and much method in one's memory, it is almost impossible not to be sometimes bewildered: nay, his own impatience to tell what he knows, makes the author, though commonly so explicit, not perfectly clear in his expressions. the last chapter of the fourth volume, i own, made me recoil, and i could scarcely push through it. so far from being catholic or heretic, i wished mr. gibbon had never heard of monophysites, nestorians, or any such fools! but the sixth volume made ample amends; mahomet and the popes were gentlemen and good company. i abominate fractions of theology and reformation. mr. sheridan, i hear, did not quite satisfy the passionate expectation that had been raised;( ) but it was impossible he could, when people had worked themselves into an enthusiasm of offering fifty, ay, fifty guineas for a ticket to hear him. well! we are sunk and deplorable in many points, yet not absolutely gone, when history and eloquence throw out such shoots! i thought i had outlived my country; i am glad not to leave it desperate. adieu, dear sir! ( ) of lee, in east kent; whose seat was built by mr. wyatt, and greatly admired by walpole.-e. ( ) of his speech in westminster-hall, on bringing forward the begum charge against mr. hastings; upon which mr. burke pronounced the high ealogium, that "all the various species of oratory that had been heard, either in ancient or modern times-whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, or the morality of the pulpit; could furnish--had not been equal to what the house had that day heard." gibbon, who was present, thus describes it, in a letter to lord sheffield:-- "yesterday the august scene was closed for this year. sheridan surpassed himself; and, though i am far from considering him a perfect orator, there were many beautiful passages in his speech- -on justice, filial love, etc.; one of the closest chains of argument i ever heard, to prove that hastings was responsible for the acts of middleton; and a compliment, much admired to a certain historian of your acquaintance. sheridan, on the close of his speech, sunk into burke's arms--a good actor: but i called this morning; he is perfectly well."-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, tuesday night, june , . (page ) i guess, my dear lord, and only guess, that you are arrived at wentworth castle. if you are not, my letter will lose none of its bloom by waiting for you; for i have nothing fresh to tell you, and only write because you enjoined it. i settled in my lilliputian towers but this morning. i wish people would come into the country on may-day, and fix in town on the first of november. but as they will not, i have made up my mind; and having so little time left, i prefer london, when my friends and society are in it, to living here alone, or with the weird sisters of richmond and hampton. i had additional reason now, for the streets are as green as the fields: we are burnt to the bone, and have not a lock of bay to cover our nakedness: oats are so dear, that i suppose they will soon be eaten at brooks's and fashionable tables as a rarity. the drought has lasted so long, that for this fortnight i have been foretelling haymaking and winter, which june generally produces; but to-day is sultry, and i am not a prophet worth a straw. though not resident till now, i have flitted backwards and forwards, and last friday came hither to look for a minute at a ball at mrs. walsingham's at ditton which would have been pretty, for she had stuck coloured lamps in the hair of all her trees and bushes, if the east wind had not danced a reel all the time by the side of the river. mr. conway's play,( ) of which your lordship has seen some account in the papers, has succeeded delightfully, both in representation and applause. the language is most genteel, though translated from verse; and both prologue and epilogue are charming. the former was delivered most justly and admirably by lord derby, and the latter with inimitable spirit and grace by mrs. damer. mr. merry and mrs. bruce played excellently too. but general conway, mrs. damer, and every body else are drowned by mr. sheridan, whose renown has engrossed all fame's tongues and trumpets. lord townshend said he should be sorry were he forced to give a vote directly on hastings, before he had time to cool; and one of the peers saying the speech had not made the same impression on him, the marquis replied, a seal might be finely cut, and yet not be in fault for making a bad impression. i have, you see, been forced to send your lordship what scraps i brought from town: the next four months, i doubt will reduce me to my old sterility; for i cannot retail french gazettes, though as a good englishman bound to hope they will contain a civil war. i care still less about the double imperial campaign, only hoping that the poor dear turks will heartily beat both emperor and empress. if the first ottomans could be punished, they deserved it, but present possessors have as good a prescription 'on their side as any people in europe. we ourselves are saxons, danes, normans; our neighbours are franks, not gauls; who the rest are, goths, gepidae, heruli, mr. gibbon knows; and the dutch usurped the estates of herrings, turbots, and other marine indigenae. still, though i do not wish the hair of a turk's beard to be hurt, i do not say that it would not be amusing to have constantinople taken, merely as a lusty event; for neither could i live to see athens revive, nor have i much faith in two such bloody-minded vultures, cock and hen, as catherine and joseph, conquering for the benefit of humanity; nor does my christianity admire the propagation of the gospel by the mouth of cannon. what desolation of peasants and their families by the episodes of forage and quarters! oh! i wish catherine and joseph were brought to westminster-hall and worried by sheridan! i hope, too, that the poor begums are alive to hear of his speech; it will be some comfort, though i doubt nobody thinks of restoring them a quarter of a lac! ( ) a comedy, called "false appearances" translated from l'homme du jour of boissy. it was first acted at the private theatre at richmond.house, and afterwards at drury-lane.-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i am soundly rejoiced, my dear madam, that the present summer is more favourable to me than the last: , and that, instead of not answering my letters in three months, you open the campaign. may not i flatter myself' that it is a symptom of your being in better health? i wish, however, you had told me so in positive words, and that all your complaints have left you. welcome as is your letter, it would have been ten times more welcome bringing me that assurance; for don't think i forget how ill you was last winter. as letters, you say, now keep their coaches, i hope those from bristol will call often at my door.( ) i promise you i will never be denied to them. no botanist am i; nor wished to learn from you, of all the muses, that piping has a new signification. i had rather that you handled an oaten pipe than a carnation one; yet setting layers, i own, is preferable to reading newspapers, one of the chronical maladies of this age. every body reads them, nay quotes them, though every body knows they are stuffed with lies or blunders. how should it be otherwise? if any extraordinary event happens, who but must hear it before it descends through a coffee-house to the runner of a daily paper? they who are always wanting news, are wanting to hear they don't know what. a lower species, indeed, is that of the scribes you mention, who every night compose a journal for the satisfaction of such illiterati, and feed them with all the vices and misfortunes of every private family; nay, they now call it a duty to publish all those calamities which decency to wretched relations used in compassion to suppress, i mean self-murder in particular. mr. -is was detailed at length; and to-day that of lord - and -. the pretence is, in terrorem, like the absurd stake and highway of our ancestors; as if there were a precautionary potion for madness, or the stigma of a newspaper were more dreadful than death. daily journalists, to be sure, are most respectable magistrates! yes, much like the cobblers that cromwell made peers. i do lament your not going to mr. conway's play: both the author and actors deserved such an auditor as you, and you deserved to hear them. however, i do not pity good people who out of virtue lose or miss any pleasures. those pastimes fleet as fast as those of the wicked; but when gone, you saints can sit down and feast on your self-denial, and drink bumpers of satisfaction to the health of your own merit. so truly i don't pity you. you say you hear no news, yet you quote mr. topham;( ) therefore why should i tell you that the king is going to cheltenham? or that the baccelli lately danced at the opera at paris with a blue bandeau on her forehead, inscribed, "honi soit qui mal y pense." now who can doubt but she is as pure as the countess of salisbury! was not it ingenious? and was not the ambassador so to allow it? no doubt he took it for a compliment to his own knee. well! would we committed nothing but follies! what do we not commit when the abolition of slavery hitches! adieu! though cato died, though tully spoke, though brutus dealt the godlike stroke, yet perish'd fated rome. you have written; and i fear that even if mr. sheridan speaks, trade, the modern religion, will predominate. adieu! ( ) miss more, in her last letter, had said--"mail-coaches, which come to others, come not to me: letters and newspapers, now that they travel in coaches, like gentlemen and ladies, come not within ten miles of my hermitage: and while other fortunate provincials are studying the world and its ways, and are feasting upon elopement, divorces, and suicides, tricked out in all the elegancies of mr. topham's phraseology, i am obliged to be contented with village vices, petty iniquities, and vulgar sins," memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) major topham was the proprietor of the fashionable morning paper entitled the world. "in this paper," says mr. gifford, in his preface to the baviad, "were given the earliest specimens of those unqualified and audacious attacks on all private character, and which the town first smiled at for their quaintness then tolerated for their absurdity; now--that other papers equally wicked and more intelligible, have ventured to imitate it--will have to lament to the last hour of british liberty." in , major topham published the life of john elwes the miser; which walpole considered one of the most amusing anecdotical books in the english language.-e. ( ) while the duke of dorset, who kept her was ambassador at paris. the countess of salisbury, to the fall of whose garter has been attributed the foundation of the order of the garter. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) won't you repent of having opened the correspondence, my dear madam, when you find my letters come so thick upon you? in this instance, however, i am only to blame in part, for being too ready to take advice, for the sole reason for which advice ever is taken, 'because it fell in with my inclination. you said in your last that you feared you took up time of mine to the prejudice of the public; implying, i imagine, that i might employ it in composing. waving both your compliment, and my own vanity, i will speak very seriously to you on that subject, and with exact truth. my simple writings have had better fortune than they had any reason to expect; and i fairly believe, in a great degree, because gentlemen-writers, who do not write for interest, are treated with some civility if they do not write absolute nonsense. i think so, because i have not unfrequently known much better works than mine much more neglected, if the name, fortune, and situation of the authors were below mine. i wrote early, from youth, spirits, and vanity; and from both the last when the first no longer existed. i now shudder when i reflect on my own boldness; and with mortification, when i compare my own writings with those of any great authors. this is so true, that i question"whether it would be possible for me to summon up courage to publish any thing i have written, if i could recall the past, and should yet think as i think at present. so much for what is over and out of my power. as to writing now, i have totally forsworn the profession, for two solid reasons. one i have already told you; and it is, that i know my own writings are trifling and of no depth. the other is, that, light and futile as they were, i am sensible they are better than i could compose now. i am aware of the decay of the middling parts i had, and others may be still more sensible of it. how do i know but i am superannuated? nobody will be so coarse as to tell me so; but if i published dotage all the world would tell me so. and who but runs that risk who is an author after severity? what happened to the greatest author of this age, and who certainly retained a very considerable portion of his abilities for ten years after my age voltaire, at eighty-four, i think, went to paris to receive the incense, in person, of his countrymen, and to be witness of their admiration of a tragedy he had written at that methusalem age. incense he did receive till it choked him; and at the exhibition of his play he was actually crowned with laurel in the box where he sat. but what became of his poor play? it died as soon as he did--was buried with him; and no mortal, i dare to say, has ever read a line of it since, it was so bad.( ) as i am neither by a thousandth part so great, nor a quarter so little, i will herewith send you a fragment that an accidental rencontre set me upon writing,, and which i found so flat, that i would not finish it. don't believe that i am either begging praise by the stale artifice of' hoping to be contradicted; or that i think there is any occasion to make you discover my caducity. no; but the fragment contains a curiosity--english verses written by a french prince of the blood, and which at first i had a mind to add to my royal and noble authors, but as he was not a royal author of ours, and as i could not please myself with an account of him, i shall revert to my old resolution of not exposing my pen's gray hairs.( ) of one passage i must take notice; it is a little indirect sneer at our crowd of authoresses. my choosing to send this to you is a proof that i think you an author, that is, a classic. but in truth i am nauseated by the madams piozzi, etc. and the host of novel-writers in petticoats, who think they imitate what is inimitable, evelina and cecilia. your candour i know will not agree with me, when i tell you i am not at all charmed with miss seward and mr. hayley piping to one another: but you i exhort, and would encourage to write; and flatter myself you will never be royally gagged and promoted to fold muslins, as has been lately wittily said on miss burney, in the list of five hundred living authors. your writings promote virtues; and their increasing editions prove their worth and utility. if you question my sincerity, can you doubt my admiring you, when you have gratified my self-love so amply in your bas bleu? still, as much as i love your writings, i respect yet more your heart and your goodness. you are so good, that i believe you would go to heaven, even though there were no sunday, and only six working days in the week. adieu, my best madam! ( ) madame du deffand, in a letter to walpole of the th of march , says--"voltaire se porte bien: il est uniquement occup`e de sa tragedie d'ir`ene; on assure qu'on la jouera de demain en huit: si elle n'a pas de succ`es, il en mourra." on the th, she again writes--"le succ`es de la pi`ece a `et`e tr`es mediocre; il y eut cependant beaucoup de claquemens de mains, mais c'`etait plus voltaire qui en `etait l'objet que la pi`ece." he died in the may following.-e. ( ) the french prince of the blood here spoken of, was charles duke of orleans, who being a prisoner at the battle of agincourt, was brought to england and detained here for twenty.five years. for a copy of the verses, see walpole's works, vol. i. p. .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) matter for a letter, alas! my dear lord, i have none; but about letters i have great news to tell your lordship, only may the goddess of post-offices grant it be true! a miss sayer, of richmond, who is at paris, writes to mrs. boscawen, that a baron de ]a garde (i am sorry there are so many as in the genealogy of my story.) has found in a vieille armoire five hundred more letters of madame de s`evign`e, and that they will be printed if the expense is not too great. i am in a taking, lest they should not appear before i set out for the elysian fields for, though the writer is one of the first personages i should inquire after on my arrival, i question whether st. peter has taste enough to know where she lodges, she is more likely to be acquainted with st. catherine of sienna and st. undecimillia; and therefore i had rather see the letters themselves. it is true i have no small doubt of the authenticity of the legend; and nothing will persuade me of its truth so much as the non-appearance of the letters-a melancholy kind of conviction. but i vehemently suspect some new coinage, like the letters of ninon de l'enclos, pope ganganelli, and the princess palatine. i have lately been reading some fragments of letters of the duchess of orleans, which are certainly genuine, and contain some curious circumstances; for though she was a simple gossiping old gentlewoman, yet many little facts she could not help learning: and, to give her her due, she was ready to tell all she knew. to our late queen she certainly did write often; and her majesty, then only princess, was full as ready to pay her in her own coin, and a pretty considerable treaty of commerce for the exchange of scandal was faithfully executed between them; insomuch that i remember to have heard forty years ago, that our gracious sovereign entrusted her royal highness of orleans with an intrigue of one of her women of the bedchamber. mrs. selwyn to wit; and the good duchess entrusted it to so many other dear friends that at last it got into the utrecht gazette, and came over hither, to the signal edification of the court of leicester- fields. this is an additional reason, besides the internal evidence, for my believing the letters genuine. this old dame was mother of the regent; and when she died, somebody wrote on her tomb, cy gist l'oisivet`e. this came over too; and nobody could expound it, till our then third princess, caroline, unravelled it,--idleness is the mother of all vice. i wish well enough to posterity to hope that dowager highnesses will imitate the practice, and write all the trifles that occupy their royal brains; for the world so at least learns some true history, which their husbands never divulge, especially if they are privy to their own history, which their ministers keep from them as much as possible. i do not believe the present king of france knows much more of what he, or rather his queen, is actually doing, than i do. i rather pity him; for i believe he means well, which is not a common article of my faith. i shall go about the end of this week to park-place, where i expect to find the druidic temple from jersey erected. how dull will the world be, if constant pilgrimages are not made thither! where, besides the delight of the scenes, that temple, the rude great arch, lady ailesbury's needle-works, and mrs. damer's thames and isis on henley-bridge, with other of her sculptures, make it one of the most curious spots in the island, and unique. i want to have mr. conway's comedy acted there; and then the father, mother, and daughter would exhibit a theatre of arts as uncommon. how i regret your lordship did not hear mrs. damer speak the epilogue! letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) arlington street, aug. , . (page ) your intelligence of the jubilees to be celebrated in scotland in honour of the revolution was welcomed indeed. it is a favourable symptom of an age when its festivals are founded on good sense and liberality of sentiment, and not to perpetuate superstition and slavery. your countrymen, sir, have proved their good sense too in their choice of a poet. your writings breathe the noble generous spirit congenial to the institution. give me leave to say that it is very flattering to me to have the ode communicated to me; i will not say, to be consulted, for of that distinction i am not worthy: i am not a poet, and am sure i cannot improve your ideas, which you have expressed with propriety and clearness, the necessary ingredients of an address to a populous meeting; for i doubt our numerous audiences are not arrived at olympic taste enough to seize with enthusiasm the eccentric flights of pindar. you have taken a more rational road to inspiration,'-by adhering to the genuine topics of the occasion; and you speak in so manly a style, that i do not believe a more competent judge could amend your poetry. i will tell you how more than occasionally the mention of pindar slipped into my pen. i have frequently, and even yesterday, wished that some attempt were made to ennoble our horse-races, particularly at newmarket, by associating better arts with the courses; as, by contributing for odes, the best of which should be rewarded by medals. our nobility would find their vanity gratified; for, as the pedigrees of their steeds would soon grow tiresome, their own genealogies would replace them; and, in the mean time, poetry and medals would be improved. their lordships would have judgment enough to know if their horse (which should be the impression on one side) were not well executed; and, as i hold that there is no being more difficult to draw well than a horse, no bad artist could be employed. such a beginning would lead farther; and the cup or plate for the prize might rise into beautiful vases. but this is a vision; and i may as well go to bed and dream of any thing else. ( ) now first collected. letter to miss hannah more.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) dear madam, in this great discovery of a new mine of madame de s`evign`e's letters, my faith, i confess, is not quite firm. do people sell houses wholesale, without opening their cupboards? this age, too, deals so much in false coinage, that booksellers and birmingham give equal vent to what is not sterling; with the only difference, that the shillings of the latter pretend that the names are effaced, while the wares of the former pass under borrowed names. have we not seen, besides all the testamens politiques, the spurious letters of ninon de l'enclos, of pope ganganelli, and the memoirs of the princess palatine? this is a little mortifying, while we know that there actually exists at naples a whole library of genuine greek and latin authors; most of whom probably, have never been in print: and where it is not unnatural to suppose the work of some classics, yet lost, may be in being, and the remainder of some of the best. yet, at the 'rate in which they proceed to unroll, it would take as many centuries to bring them to light, as have elapsed since they were overwhelmed. nay, another eruption of vesuvius may return all the volumes to chaos! omar is stigmatized for burning the library of alexandria. is the king of naples less a turk? is not it almost as unconscientious to keep a seraglio of virgin authors under the custody of nurses, as of blooming circassians? consider, my dear madam, i am past seventy; or i should not be so ungallant as to make the smallest comparison between the contents of the two harems. your picture, which hangs near my elbow, would frown, i am sure, if i had any light meaning. ( ) now first collected. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) my late fit of gout, though very short, was a very authentic one, my dear lord, and the third i have had since christmas. still, of late years, i have suffered so little pain, that i can justly complain of nothing but the confinement, and the debility of my hands and feet, which, however, i can still use to a certain degree; and as i enjoy such good spirits and health in the intervals, i look upon the gout as no enemy; yet i know it is like the compacts said to be made with the devil, (no kind comparison to a friend!) who showers his favours on the contractors, but is sure to seize and carry them off at last. i would not say so much of myself, but in return to your lordship's obliging concern for me: yet, insignificant as the subject, i have no better in bank; and if i plume myself on the tolerable state of my out-ward man, i doubt your lordship finds that age does not treat my interior so mildly as the gout does the other. if my letters, as you are pleased to say, used to amuse you, you must perceive how insipid they are grown, both from my decays and the little intercourse i have with the world. nay, i take care not to aim at false vivacity: what do the attempts of age at liveliness prove but its weakness? what the spectator said wittily, ought to be practised in sober sadness by old folks: when he was dull, he declared it was by design. so far, to be sure, we ought to observe it, as not to affect more spirits than we possess. to be purposely stupid, would be forbidding our correspondents to continue the intercourse; and i am so happy in enjoying the honour of your lordship's friendship, that i will be content (if you can be so) with my natural inanity, without studying to increment it. i have been at park-place, and assure your lordship that the druidic temple vastly more than answers my expectation. small it is, no doubt, when you are within the enclosure, and but a chapel of ease to stonehenge; but mr. conway has placed it with so much judgment, that it has a lofty effect, and infinitely more than it could have had if he had yielded to mrs. damer's and my opinion, who earnestly begged to have it placed within the enclosure of the home grounds. it now stands on the ridge of the high hill without, backed by the horizon, and with a grove on each side at a little distance; and, being exalted beyond and above the range of firs that climb up the sides of the hill from the valley, wears all the appearance of an ancient castle, whose towers are only shattered, not destroyed; and devout as i am to old castles, and small taste as i have for the ruins of ages absolutely barbarous, it is impossible not to be pleased with so very rare an antiquity so absolutely perfect, and it is difficult to prevent visionary ideas from improving a prospect. if, as lady anne conolly told your lordship, i have had a great deal of company, you must understand it of my house, not of me; for i have very little. indeed, last monday both my house and i were included. the duke of york sent me word the night before, that he would come and see it, and of course i had the honour of showing it myself. he said, and indeed it seemed so, that he was much pleased; at least, i had every reason to be satisfied; for i never saw any prince more gracious and obliging, nor heard one utter more personally kind speeches. i do not find that her grace the countess of bristol's( ) will is really known yet. they talk of two wills--to be sure, in her double capacity; and they say she has made three coheiresses to her jewels, the empress of russia, lady salisbury, and the whore of babylon.( ) the first of those legatees, i am not sorry, is in a piteous scrape: i like the king of sweden no better than i do her and the emperor; but it is good that two destroyers should be punished by a third, and that two crocodiles should be gnawed by an insect. thank god! we are not only at peace, but in full plenty--nay, and in full beauty too. still better; though we have had rivers of rain, it has not, contrary to all precedent, washed away our warm weather. september, a month i generally dislike for its irresolute mixture of warm and cold, has hitherto been peremptorily fine. the apple and walnut-trees bend down with fruit, as in a poetic description of paradise. ( ) the duchess of kingston, who died at paris in august.-e. ( ) the newspapers had circulated a report that the duchess had bequeathed her diamonds to the empress of russia and his holiness the pope.-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i don't like to defraud you of your compassion, my good friend, profuse as you are of it. i really suffered scarce any pain at all from my last fit of gout. i have known several persons who think there is a dignity in complaining; and, if you ask how they do, reply, "why, i am pretty well to-day; but if you knew what i suffered yesterday!" now methinks nobody has a right to tax another for pity on what is past; and besides, complaint of what is over can only make the hearer glad you are in pain no longer. yes, yes, my dear madam, you generally place your pity so profitably, that you shall not waste a drop upon me, who ought rather to be congratulated on being so well at my age. much less shall i allow you to make apologies for your admirable and proper conduct towards your poor prot`eg`ee( ) and now you have told me the behaviour of a certain great dame, i will confess to you that i have known it some months by accident-nay, and tried to repair it. i prevailed on lady * * * * *, who as readily undertook the commission, and told the countess of her treatment of you. alas! the answer was, "it is too late; i have no money." no! but she has, if she has a diamond left. i am indignant; yet, do you know, not at this duchess, or that countess, but at the invention of ranks, and titles, and pre-eminence. i used to hate that king and t'other prince; but, alas! on reflection i find the censure ought to fall on human nature in general. they are made of the same stuff as we, and dare we say what we should be in their situation? poor creatures! think how they are educated, or rather corrupted, early, how flattered! to be educated properly, they should be led through hovels, and hospitals, and prisons. instead of being reprimanded (and perhaps immediately after sugar-plum'd) for not learning their latin or french grammar, they now and then should be kept fasting; and, if they cut their finger, should have no plaister till it festered. no part of a royal brat's memory, which is good enough, should be burthened but with the remembrance of human sufferings. in short, i fear our nature is so liable to be corrupted and perverted by greatness, rank, power, and wealth, that i am inclined to think that virtue is the compensation to the poor for the want of riches: nay, i am disposed to believe that the first footpad or highwayman has been a man of quality, or a prince, who could not bear having wasted his fortune, and was too lazy to work; for a beggar-born would think labour a more natural way of getting a livelihood than venturing his life. i have something a similar opinion about common women. no modest girl thinks of many men, till she has been in love with one, been ruined by him, and abandoned. but to return to my theme, and it will fall heavy on yourself. could the milkwoman have been so bad, if you had merely kept her from starving, instead of giving her opulence? the soil, i doubt, was bad; but it could not have produced the rank weed of ingratitude, if you had not dunged it with gold, which rises from rock, and seems to meet with a congenial bed when it falls on the human heart. and so dr. warton imagines i m writing "walpoliana!" no, in truth, nor any thing else; nor shall-nor will i go out in a jest-book. age has not only made me prudent, but, luckily, lazy; and, without the latter extinguisher, i do not know but that farthing candle my discretion would let my snuff of life flit to the last sparkle of folly, like what children call. the parson and clerk in a bit of burnt paper. you see by my writability in pressing my letters on you, that my pen has still a colt's tooth left, but i never indulge the poor old child with more paper than this small-sized sheet, i do not give it enough to make a paper kite and fly abroad on wings of booksellers. you ought to continue writing, for you do good your writings, or at least mean it; and if a virtuous intention fails, it is a sort of coin, which, though thrown away, still makes the donor worth more than he was before he gave it away. i delight too in the temperature of your piety, and that you would not see the enthusiastic exorcist. how shocking to suppose that the omnipotent creator of worlds delegates his power to a momentary insect to eject supernatural spirits that he had permitted to infest another insect, and had permitted to vomit blasphemies against himself! pray do not call that enthusiasm, but delirium. i pity real enthusiasts, but i would shave their heads and take away some blood. the exorcist's associates are in a worse predicament, i doubt, and hope to make enthusiasts. if such abominable impostors were not rather a subject of indignation, i could smile at the rivalship between them and the animal magnetists, who are inveigling fools into their different pales. and alas! while folly has a shilling left, there will be enthusiasts and quack doctors; and there will be slaves while there are kings or sugar-planters.( ) i have remarked, that though jesuits, etc. travel to distant east and west to propagate their religion and traffic, i never heard of one that made a journey into asia or africa to preach the doctrines of liberty, though those regions are so deplorably oppressed. nay, i much doubt whether ever any chaplain of the regiments we have sent to india has once whispered to a native of bengal, that there are milder forms of government than those of his country. no; security of property is not a wholesome doctrine to be inculcated in a land where the soil produces diamonds and gold! in short, if your bristol exorcist believes he can cast out devils, why does he not go to leadenhallstreet? there is a company whose name is legion. by your gambols, as you call them, after the most ungambolling peeress in christendom, and by your jaunts, i conclude, to my great satisfaction, that you are quite well. change of scene and air are good for your spirits; and september, like all our old ladies, has given itself may airs, and must have made your journey very pleasant. yet you will be glad to get back to your cowslip-green, though it may offer you nothing but michaelmas daisies. when you do leave it, i wish you could persuade mrs. garrick to settle sooner in london. there is full as good hay to be made in town at christmas at hampton, and some hay-makers that will wish for you particularly. your most sincere friend. ( ) ann yearsley. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) in the letter to which this is a reply, miss more had said-- "in vain do we boast of the enlightened eighteenth century, and conceitedly talk as if human reason had not a manacle left about her, but that philosophy had broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition: and yet at this very time mesmer has got an hundred thousand pounds by animal magnetism in paris, and mainanduc is getting as much in london. there is a fortune-teller in westminster who is making little less. lavater's physiognomy-books sell at fifteen guineas a set. the divining-rod is still considered as oracular in many places. devils are cast out by seven ministers; and, to complete the disgraceful catalogue, slavery is vindicated in print, and defended in the house of peers." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to the right hon. lady craven. berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) it is agreeable to your ladyship's usual goodness to honour me with another letter; and i may say, to your equity too, after i had proved to monsieur mercier, by the list of dates of my letters, that it was not mine, but the post's fault, that you did not receive one that i had the honour of writing to you above a year ago. not, madam, that i could wonder if you had the prudence to drop a correspondence with an old superannuated man; who, conscious of his decay, has had the decency of not troubling, with his dotages persons of not near your ladyship's youth and vivacity. i have been of opinion that few persons know when to die; i am not so english as to mean when to despatch themselves--no, but when to go out of the world. i have usually applied this opinion to those who have made a considerable figure; and, consequently, it was not adapted to myself. yet even we ciphers ought not to fatigue the public scene when we are become lumber. thus, being quite out of the question, i will explain my maxim, which is the more wholesome, the higher it is addressed. my opinion, then, is, that when any personage has shone as much as is possible in his or her best walk, (and, not to repeat both genders every minute, i will use the male as the common of the two,) he should take up his strulbrugism, and be heard of no more. instances will be still more explanatory. voltaire ought to have pretended to die after alzire, mahomet, and semiramis, and not have produced his wretched last pieces: lord chatham should have closed his political career with his immortal war: and how weak was garrick, when he had quitted the stage, to limp after the tatters of fame by writing and reading pitiful poems; and even by sitting to read plays which he had acted with such fire and energy! we have another example in mr. anstey; who, if he had a friend upon earth, would have been obliged to him for being knocked on the head, the moment he had published the first edition of the bath guide; for, even in the second, he had exhausted his whole stock of inspiration, and has never written any thing tolerable since. when such unequal authors print their works together, one man may apply in a new light the old hacked simile of mezentius, who tied together the living and the dead. we have just received the works of an author, from whom i find i am to receive much less entertainment than i expected, because i shall have much less to read than i intended. his memoirs, i am told, are almost wholly military; which, therefore, i shall not read: and his poetry, i am sure, i shall not look at, because i should not understand it. what i saw of it formerly, convinced me that he would not have been a poet, even if he had written in his own language: and, though i do not understand german, i am told it is a fine language - and i can easily believe that any tongue (not excepting our old barbarous saxon, which, a bit of an antiquary as i am, i abhor,) is more harmonious than french. it was curious absurdity, therefore, to pitch on the most unpoetic language in europe, the most barren, and the most clogged with difficulties. i have heard russian and polish sung, and both sounded musical; but, to abandon one's own tongue, and not adopt italian, that is even sweeter, and softer, and more copious, than the latin, was a want of taste that i should think could not be applauded even by a frenchman born in provence. but what a language is the french, which measures verses by feet that never are to be pronounced; which is the case wherever the mute e is found! what poverty of various sounds for rhyme, when, lest similar cadences should too often occur, their mechanic bards are obliged to marry masculine and feminine terminations as alternately as the black and white squares of a chessboard? nay, will you believe me, madam,--yes, you will, for you may convince your own eyes,-that a scene of zaire begins with three of the most nasal adverbs that ever snorted together in a breath? enfin, donc, desormais, are the culprits in question. enfin donc, need i tell your ladyship, that the author i alluded to at the beginning of' this long tirade is the late king of prussia? i am conscious that i have taken a little liberty when i excommunicate a tongue in which your ladyship has condescended to write;( ) but i only condemn it for verse and pieces of eloquence, of which i thought it alike incapable, till i read rousseau of geneva. it is a most sociable language, and charming for narrative and epistles. yet, write as well as you will in it, you must be liable to express yourself better in the speech natural to you and your own country has a right to understand all your works, and is jealous of their not being as perfect as you could make them. is it not more creditable to be translated into a foreign language than into your own? and will it not vex you to hear the translation taken for the original, and to find vulgarisms that you could not have committed yourself? but i have done, and will release you, madam; only observing, that you flatter me with a vain hope, when you tell me you shall return to england, some time or other. where will that time be for me! and when it arrives, shall i not be somewhere else? i do not pretend to send your ladyship english news, nor to tell you of english literature. you must before this time have heard of the dismal state into which our chief personage is fallen! that consideration absorbs all others. the two houses are going to settle some intermediate succedaneum; and the obvious one, no doubt, will be fixed on. ( ) besides writing a comedy in french, called "nourjahad," lady craven had translated into that language cibber's play of "she would and she would not."-e. letter \to the miss berrys.( ) february , - ( ) [ .) (page ) i am sorry, in the sense of that word before it meant, like a hebrew word, glad or sorry, that i am engaged this evening; and i am at your command on tuesday, as it is always my inclination to be. it is a misfortune that words are become so much the current coin of society, that, like king william's shillings, they have no impression left; they are so smooth, that they mark no more to whom they first belonged than to whom they do belong, and are not worth even the twelvepence into which they may be changed: but if they mean too little, they may seem to mean too much too, especially when an old man (who is often synonymous for a miser) parts with them. i am afraid of protesting how much i delight in your society, lest i should seem to affect being gallant; but if two negatives make an affirmative, why may not two ridicules compose one piece of sense? and therefore, as i am in love with you both, i trust it is a proof of the good sense of your devoted h. walpole. ( ) this is the first of a series of letters addressed by mr walpole to miss mary and miss agnes berry, and now first published from the original in their possession.-e. ( ) the date is thus put, alluding to his age, which, in' was seventy-one.-m. b. letter to the miss berrys. berkeley square, march , . (page ) mrs. damer had lent her madame de la motte,( ) and i have but this moment recovered it; so, you see, i had not forgotten it any more than my engagements to you: nay, were it not ridiculous at my age to use a term so almost run out as never, i would add, that you may find i never can forget you. i hope you are not engaged this day sevennight, but will allow me to wait on you to lady ailesbury, which i will settle with her when i have your answer. i did mention it to her in general, but have no day free before friday next, except thursday; when, if there is another illumination, as is threatened, we should neither get thither nor thence; especially not the latter, if the former is impracticable. "quicquid delirant reges, plectuntur achivi."( ) p. s. i have got a few hairs of edward the fourth's head, not beard; they are of a darkish brown, not auburn. ( ) the m`emoire justificatif of madame de la motte, relative to her conduct in the far-famed affair of the necklace.-e. ( ) alluding to the public rejoicings on the recovery of george the third from his first illness in . in a letter to her sister of the th of march, miss more relates the following particulars:--"a day or two ago i dined at the bishop of london's, with dr. willis. as we had nobody else at dinner but the master of the rolls, i was indulged in asking the doctor all manner of impertinent questions. he never saw, he said, so much natural sweetness and goodness of mind, united to so much piety, as in the king. during his illness, he many time shed tears for lord north's blindness. the bishop had been to him that morning: he told him that he wished to return his thanks to almighty god in the most public manner, and hoped the bishop would not refuse him a sermon. he proposed going to st. paul's to do it. he himself has named one of the psalms for the thanksgiving-day, and the twelfth of isaiah for the lesson." on the th, she again writes--"the queen and princesses came to see the illuminations, and did not get back to kew till after one o'clock. when the coach stopped, the queen took notice of a fine gentleman who came to the coach-door without his hat. this was the king, who came to hand her out. she scolded him for being up and out so late; but he gallantly replied, 'he could not possibly go to bed and sleep till he knew she was safe.' there never was so joyous, so innocent, and so orderly a mob." memoirs, vol. ii. pp. - -e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, april , . (page ) dear madam, as perhaps you have not yet seen the "botanic garden" (which i believe i mentioned to you), i lend it you to read. the poetry, i think, you will allow most admirable; and difficult it was, no doubt. if you are not a naturalist, as well as a poetess, perhaps you will lament that so powerful a talent has been wasted to so little purpose; for where is the use of describing in verse what nobody can understand without a long prosaic explanation of every article? it is still more unfortunate that there is not a symptom of plan in the whole poem. the lady-flowers and their lovers enter in pairs or trios, or etc. as often as the couples in cassandra. and you are not a whit more interested about one heroine and her swain than about another. the similes are beautiful, fine, and sometimes sublime: and thus the episodes will be better remembered than the mass of the poem itself, which one cannot call the subject; for could one call it a subject, if any body had composed a poem on the matches formerly made in the fleet, where, as waitwell says, in "the way of the world," they stood like couples in rows ready to begin a country-dance? still, i flatter myself you will agree with me that the author is a great poet, and could raise the passions, and possesses all the requisites of the art. i found but a single bad verse; in the last canto one line ends e'er long. you will perhaps be surprised at meeting a truffle converted into a nymph, and inhabiting a palace studded with emeralds and rubies like a saloon in the arabian nights! i had a more particular motive for sending this poem to you: you will find the bard espousing your poor africans. there is besides, which will please you too, a handsome panegyric on the apostle of humanity, mr. howard.( ) mrs. garrick, whom i had the pleasure of meeting in her own box at mr. conway's play, gave me a much better account of your health which delighted me. i am sure, my good friend, you partake of my joy at the great success of his comedy. the additional character of the abb`e pleased much: it was added by the advice of the players to enliven it; that is, to stretch the jaws of the pit and galleries. i sighed silently; for it was originally so genteel and of a piece, that i was sorry to have it tumbled by coarse applauses. but this is a secret. i am going to twickenham for two days on an assignation with the spring, and to avoid the riotous devotion of to-morrow. a gentleman essayist has printed what he calls some strictures on my royal and noble authors, in revenge for my having spoken irreverently (on bishop burnet's authority) of the earl of anglesey, who had the honour, it seems, of being the gentleman's grandfather. he asks me, by the way, why it was more ridiculous in the duke of newcastle to write his two comedies, than in the duke of buckingham to write "the rehearsal?" alas! i know but one reason; which is, that it is less ridiculous to write one excellent comedy, than two very bad ones. peace be with such answerers! adieu, my dear madam! yours most cordially. ( ) "i did not feel," says miss more, in her reply, "so much gratified in reading the poem, marvellous as i think it, as i did at the kindness which led you to think of me when you met with any thing that you imagined would give me pleasure. your strictures, which are as true as if they had no wit in them, served to embellish every page as i went on, and were more intelligible and delightful to me than the scientific annotations in the margin. the author is, indeed, a poet; and i wish, with you, that he had devoted his exuberant fancy, his opulence of imagery, and his correct and melodious versification. to subjects more congenial to human feelings than the intrigues of a flower-garden. i feel, like the most passionate ]over, the beauty of the cyclamen, or honeysuckle; but am as indifferent as the most fashionable husband to their amours, their pleasures, or their unhappiness." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to the miss berrys. april , at night, . (page ) by my not saying no to thursday, you, i trust, understood that i meant yes; and so i do. in the mean time, i send you the most delicious poem upon earth. if you don't know what it is all about, or why; at least you will find glorious similes about every thing in the world, and i defy you to discover three bad verses in the whole stack. dryden was but the prototype of the botanic garden in his charming flower and leaf; and if he had less meaning, it is true he had more plan: and i must own, that his white velvets and green velvets, and rubies and emeralds, were much more virtuous gentlefolks than most of the flowers of the creation, who seem to have no fear of doctors' commons before their eyes. this is only the second part; for, like my 'king's eldest daughter' in the hieroglyphic tales, the first part is not born yet:--no matter. i can read this over and over again for ever; for though it is so excellent, it is impossible to remember any thing so disjointed, except you consider it as a collection of short enchanting poems,--as the circe at her tremendous devilries in a church; the intrigue of the dear nightingale and rose; and the description of medea; the episode of mr. howard, which ends with the most sublime of lines--in short, all, all; all is the most lovely poetry. and then one sighs, that such profusion of poetry, magnificent and tender, should be thrown away on what neither interests nor instructs, and, with all the pains the notes take to explain, is scarce intelligible.' how strange it is, that a man should have been inspired with such enthusiasm of poetry by poring through a microscope, and peeping through the keyholes of all the seraglios of all the flowers in the universe i hope his discoveries may leave any impression but of the universal polygamy going on in the vegetable world, where, however, it is more gallant than amongst the human race; for you will find that they are the botanic ladies who keep harams, and not the gentlemen. still, i will maintain that it is much better that we should have two wives than your sex two husbands. so pray don't mind linnaeus and dr. darwin: dr. madan had ten times more sense. adieu! your doubly constant telypthorus. ( ) "modern ears," says mr. matthias, in the pursuits of literature, "are absolutely debauched by such poetry as dr. darwin's, which marks the decline of simplicity and true taste in this country. it is to england what seneca's prose was to rome: abundat dulcibus vitiis. dryden and pope are the standards of excellence in this species of writing in our language; and when young minds are rightly instituted in their works, they may, without much danger, read such glittering verses as dr. darwin's. they will then perceive the distortion of the sentiment, and the harlotry of the ornaments." to the short-lived popularity of dr. darwin, the admirable poem of "the loves of the triangles'" the joint production of mr. canning and mr. frere, in no small degree contributed.-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, tuesday, june , . (page ) i am not a little disappointed and mortified at the post bringing me no letter from you to-day; you promised to write on the road. i reckon you arrived at your station on sunday evening: if you do not write till next day, i shall have no letter till thursday! i am not at all consoled for my double loss: my only comfort is, that i flatter myself the journey and air will be of service to you both. the latter has been of use to me, though the part of the element of air has been chiefly acted by the element of water, as my poor haycocks feel! tonton ( ) does not miss you so much as i do, not having so good a taste; for he is grown very fond of me, and i return it for your sakes, though he deserves it too, for he is perfectly good-natured and tractable; but he is not beautiful, like his " god-dog,( ) as mr. selwyn, who dined here on saturday, called my poor late favourite; especially as i have had him clipped. the shearing has brought to light a nose an ell long; an as he has now nasum rhinocerotis, i do not doubt but he will be a better critic in poetry than dr. johnson, who judged of harmony by the principles of an author, and fancied, or wished to make others believe, that no jacobite could write bad verses, nor a whig good. have you shed a tear over the opera-house?( ) or do you agree with me, that there is no occasion to rebuild it? the nation has long been tired of operas, and has now a good opportunity of dropping them. dancing protracted their existence for some time; but the room after. was the real support of both, and was like what has been said of your sex, that they never speak their true meaning but in the postscript of their letters. would not it be sufficient to build an after-room on the whole emplacement, to which people might resort from all assemblies? it should be a codicil to all the diversions of london; and the greater the concourse, the more excuse there would be for staying all night, from the impossibility of ladies getting their coaches to drive up. to be crowded to death in a waiting-room, at the end of an entertainment, is the whole joy; for who goes to any diversion till the last minute of it? i am persuaded that, instead if retrenching st. athanasius's creed, as the duke of grafton proposed, in order to draw good company to church, it would be more efficacious if the congregation were to be indulged with an after-room in the vestry; and, instead of two or three being gathered together, there would be all the world, before the prayers would be quite over. thursday night "despairing, beside a clear stream a shepherd forsaken was laid;"-- not very close to the stream, but within doors in sight of it; for in this damp weather a lame old colin cannot lie and despair with any comfort on a wet bank: but i smile against the grain, and am seriously alarmed at thursday being come, and no letter! i dread one of you being ill. mr. batt( ) and the abb`e nicholls( ) dined with me to-day, and i could talk of you en pais de connoissance. they tried to persuade me that i have no cause to be in a fright about you; but i have such perfect faith in the kindness of both of you, as i have in your possessing every other virtue, that i cannot believe but some sinister accident must have prevented my hearing from you. i wish friday was come! i cannot write about any thing else till i have a letter. ( ) a dog of miss berry's left in walpole's care during their absence in yorkshire.-m.b. ( ) the dog which had been bequeathed to mr. walpole by madame du deffand at her death, and which was likewise called tonton. see ant`e, p. , letter .-m.b. ( ) on the night of the th, the opera-house was entirely consumed by fire.-e. ( ) thomas batt, esq. then one of the commissioners for public accounts.-e. ( ) the rev. norton nicholls, rector of lound and bradwell in the county of suffolk; one of the most elegant scholars and accomplished gentlemen of the day. he died in november , in his sixty-eighth year. " it was his singular good fortune," says mr. dawson turner, , to have been distinguished in his early life by the friendship of gray the poet; while the close of his days was cheered and enlivened and dignified by the friendship, and almost constant society, of a man scarcely inferior to gray in talent and acquirements mr. mathias; who has embalmed his memory in an italian ode and a biographical memoir; which latter is a beautiful specimen of that kind of composition.,, they will both be found in the fifth volume of nicholls's illustrations of literature.-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) madam hannah, you are an errant reprobate, and grow wickeder and wickeder every day. you deserve to be treated like a negre; and your favourite sunday, to which you are so partial that you treat the other poor six days of the week as if they had no souls to be saved, should, if i could have my will, "shine no sabbath-day for you." now, don't simper, and look as innocent as if virtue would not melt in your mouth. can you deny the following charges?--i lent you "the botanic garden," and you returned it without writing a syllable, or saying, -where you were or whither you was going; i suppose for fear i should know how to direct to you. why, if i did send a letter after you, could not you keep it three months without an answer, as you did last year? in the next place, you and your nine accomplices, who, by the way, are too good in keeping you company, have clubbed the prettiest poem imaginable,( ) and communicated it to mrs. boscawen, with injunctions not to give a copy of it; i suppose, because you are ashamed of having written a panegyric. whenever you do compose a satire, you are ready enough to publish it; at least, whenever you do, you will din one to death with it. but now, mind your perverseness: that very pretty novel poem, and i must own it is charming, have you gone and spoiled, flying in the faces of your best friends the muses, and keeping no measures with them. i'll be shot if they dictated two of the best lines with two syllables too much in each--nay, you have weakened one of them, "ev'n gardiner's mind" is far more expressive than steadfast gardiner's; and, as mrs. boscawen says, whoever knows any thing of gardiner, could not want that superfluous epithet; and whoever does not, would not be the wiser for your foolish insertion--mrs. boscawen did not call it foolish, but i do. the second line, as mesdemoiselles the muses handed it to you, miss, was, "have all be free and saved--" not, "all be free and all be saved:" the second all be is a most unnecessary tautology. the poem was perfect and faultless, if you could have let it alone. i wonder how your mischievous flippancy could help maiming that most new and beautiful expression, "sponge of sins;" i should not have been surprised, as you love verses too full of feet, if you have changed it to "that scrubbing-brush of sins." well! i will say no more now: but if you do not order me a copy of "bonner's ghost" incontinently, never dare to look my printing house in the face again. or come, i'll tell you what; i will forgive all your enormities, if you will let me print your poem. i like to filch a little immortality out of others, and the strawberry press could never have a better opportunity. i will not haggle for the public will be content with printing only two hundred copies, of which you shall have half, and i half. it shall cost you nothing but a yes, i only propose this, in case you do not mean to print it yourself. tell me sincerely which you like. but as to not printing it at all, charming and unexceptionable as it is, you cannot be so preposterous.( ) i by no means have a thought of detracting from your own share in your own poem; but, as i do suspect that it caught some inspiration from your perusal of "the botanic garden," so i hope you will discover that my style is much improved by having lately studied bruce's travels. there i dipped, and not in st. giles's pound, where one would think this author had been educated. adieu! your friend, or mortal foe, as you behave on the present occasion. ( ) "bishop bonner's ghost;" to which was prefixed the following argument:--"in the garden of the palace at fulham is a dark recess; at the end of this stands a chair which once belonged to bishop bonner. a certain bishop of london more than two hundred years after the death of the aforesaid -bonner just as the clock of the gothic chapel had struck six undertook to cut with his own hand a narrow walk through this thicket, which is since called 'the monk's walk.' he had no sooner begun to clear the way, than lo! suddenly up started from the chair the ghost of bonner; who, in a tone of just and bitter indignation, uttered the following verses."-e. ( ) miss more, in her reply, says--"i send this under cover to the bishop of london, to whom i write your emendations, and desire they may be considered as the true reading. what is odd enough, i did write both the lines so at first but must go a-tinkering them afterwards. i do not pretend that i am 'lot flattered by your obliging proposal of printing these slight verses at the strawberry press. you must do as you please, i believe. what business have i to think meanly of verses you have commended?" memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) were there any such thing as sympathy at the distance of two hundred miles, you would have been in a mightier panic than i was; for, on saturday se'nnight, going to open the glass case in the tribune, my foot caught in the carpet, and i fell with my whole (si weight y a) weight against the corner of the marble altar, on my side, and bruised the muscles so badly, that for two days i could not move without screaming.( ) i am convinced i should have broken a rib, but that i fell on the cavity whence two of my ribs were removed, that are gone to yorkshire. i am much better both of my bruise and of my lameness, and shall be ready to dance at my own wedding when my wives return. and now to answer your letter. if you grow tired of the arabian nights, you have no more taste than bishop atterbury,( ) who huffed pope for sending him them or the persian tales, and fancied he liked virgil better, who had no more imagination than dr. akenside. read sinbad the sailor's voyages, and you will be sick of aeneas's. what woful invention were the nasty poultry that dunged on his dinner, and ships on fire turned into nereids! a barn metamorphosed into a cascade in a pantomime is full as sublime an effort of genius. i do not know whether the arabian nights are of oriental origin or not:( ) i should think not, because i never saw any other oriental composition that was not bombast without genius, and figurative without nature; like an indian screen, where you see little men on the foreground, and larger men hunting tigers above in the air, which they take for perspective. i do not think the sultaness's narratives very natural or very probable, but there is a wildness in them that captivates. however, if you could wade through two octavos( ) of dame piozzi's thoughts and so's and i trow's, and cannot listen to seven volumes of scheherezade's narrations, i will sue for a divorce infibro parnassi, and boccalini shall be my proctor. the cause will be a counterpart to the sentence of the lacedoemonian, who was condemned for breach of the peace, by saying in three words what he might have said in two. you are not the first eurydice that has sent her husband to the devil, as you have kindly proposed to me; but i will not undertake the jaunt, for if old nicholas pluto should enjoin me not to look back to you, i should certainly forget the prohibition like my predecessor. besides, i am a little too close to take a voyage twice which i am so soon to repeat; and should be laughed at by the good folks on the other side of the water, if i proposed coming back for a twinkling only. no; i choose as long as i can "still with my fav'rite berrys to remain."( ) so you was not quite satisfied, though you ought to have been transported, with king's college chapel, because it has no aisles, like every common cathedral. i suppose you would object to a bird of paradise, because it has no legs, but shoots to heaven in a trait, and does not rest on earth. criticism and comparison spoil many tastes. you should admire all bold and unique essays that resemble nothing else; the botanic garden, the arabian nights, and king's chapel are above all rules: and how preferable is what no one can imitate, to all that is imitated even from the best models! your partiality to the pageantry of popery i do not approve, and i doubt whether the world will not be a loser (in its visionary enjoyments) by the extinction of that religion, as it was by the decay of chivalry and the proscription of the heathen deities. reason has no invention; and as plain sense will never be the legislator of human affairs, it is fortunate when taste happens to be regent. ( ) miss more, in a letter written at this time to walpole, says, "how you do scold me! but i don't care for your scolding; and i don't care for your wit neither, that i don't. half as much as i care for a blow which i hear you have given yourself against a table. i have known such very serious consequences arise from such accidents, that i beg of you to drown yourself in the "veritable arquebusade." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) the following are the bishop's expressions:--"and now, sir, for your arabian tales. ill as i have been, almost ever since they came to hand, i have read as much of them as i shall read while i live. indeed, they do not please my taste; they are writ with so romantic an air, and are of so wild and absurd a contrivance, that i have not only no pleasure, but no patience in reading them. i cannot help thinking them the production of some woman's imagination." the honourable charles yorke, in a letter to his brother, the second earl of hardwicke written in june , states that pope and warburton both agreed in condemning the bishop's judgment on the arabian tales and that warburton added, that from those tales the completest notion might be gather,d of the eastern ceremonies and manners.-e. ( ) the work entitled "mille et une nuits," was translated from an original arabic manuscript, in the king of france's library by m. galland, professor of arabic in the university of paris. it appeared in - : in twelve volumes.-e. ( ) her "observations and reflections in the course of a journey through france, italy, and germany," honoured with a couplet in the baviad-- see thrale's gray widow with a satchel roam, and bring in pomp laborious nothings home."-e. ( ) a line from some verses that he had received.-m.b. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i almost think i shall never abuse you again; nay, i would not, did not it prove so extremely good for you. no walnut tree is better for being threshed than you are; and, though you have won my heart by your compliance, i don't know whether my conscience will not insist on my using you ill now and then; for is there any precedent for gratitude not giving way to every other duty? gratitude like an earl's eldest son, is but titular, and has no place upon trials. but i fear i punning sillily, instead of thanking you seriously, as i do, for allowing me to print your lovely verses. my press can confer no honour; but, when i offer it, it is a certain mark of my sincerity and esteem. it has been dedicated to friendship, to charity-too often to worthless self-love; sometimes to the rarity of the pieces, and sometimes to the merit of them; now it will unite the first motive and the last. my fall, for which you so kindly concern yourself, was not worth mentioning; for as i only bruised the muscles of my side, instead of breaking a rib, camphire infused in arquebusade took off the pain and all consequences in five or six days: and one has no right to draw on the compassion of others for what one has suffered and is past. some love to be pitied on that score; but forget that they only excite, in the best-natured, joy on their deliverance. you commend me too for not complaining of my chronical evil; but, my dear madam, i should be blamable for the reverse. if i would live to seventy-two, ought i not to compound for the encumbrances of old age? and who has fewer? and who has more cause to be thankful to providence for his lot? the gout, it is true, comes frequently, but the fits are short, and very tolerable; the intervals are full health. my eyes are perfect, my hearing but little impaired, chiefly to whispers, for which i certainly have little occasion: my spirits never fail; and though my hands and feet are crippled, i can use both, and do not wish to box, wrestle, or dance a hornpipe. in short, i am just infirm enough to enjoy all the prerogatives of old age, and to plead them against any thing i have not a mind to do. young men must conform to every folly in fashion - drink when they had rather be sober; fight a duel if somebody else is wrong-headed; marry to please their fathers, not themselves; and shiver in a white waistcoat, because ancient almanacks, copying the arabian, placed the month of june after may; though, when the style was reformed, it ought to have been intercalated between december and january. indeed, i have been so childish as to cut my hay for the same reason, and am now weeping over it by the fireside. but to come to business. you must suffer me to print two hundred copies; and if you approve it, i will send thirty to the bishop of london out of your quota. you may afterwards give him more, if you please. i do not propose putting your name, unless you desire it; as i think it would swear with the air of ancientry you have adopted in the signature and notes. the authoress will be no secret; and as it will certainly get into magazines, why should not you deal privately beforehand with some bookseller, and have a second edition ready to appear soon after mine is finished? the difficulty of getting my edition at first, from the paucity of the number and from being only given as presents, will make the second edition eagerly sought for; and i do not see why my anticipating the publication should deprive you of the profit. rather than do that, i would print a smaller number. i wish to raise an additional appetite to that which every body has for your writings; i am sure i did not mean to injure you. pray think of this; there 'is time enough; i cannot begin to print under a week: my press has lain fallow for some time, and my printer must prepare ink, balls, etc.; and as i have but one man, he cannot be expeditious. i seriously do advise you to have a second edition ready; why should covetous booksellers run away with all the advantages of your genius? they get enough by their ample share of the sale. i will say no more, but to repeat my thanks for your consent, which truly obliges me; and i am happy to have been the instrument of' preserving what your modesty would have sunk. my esteem could not increase: but one likes to be connected by favours to those one highly values. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) you are so good and punctual, that i will complain no more of your silence, unless you are silent. you must not relax, especially until you can give me better accounts of your health and spirits. i was peevish before with the weather; but, now it prevents your riding, i forget hay and roses, and all the comforts that are washed away, and shall only watch the weathercock for an east wind in yorkshire. what a shame that i should recover from the gout and from bruises, as i assure you i am entirely, and that you should have a complaint left! one would think that it was i was grown young again; for while just now, as i was reading your letter in my bedchamber, while some of my customers( ) are seeing the house, i heard a gentleman in the armoury ask the housekeeper as he looked at the bows and arrows, "pray, does mr. walpole shoot?" no, nor with pistols neither. i leave all weapons to lady salisbury( ) and mr. lenox;( ) and, since my double marriage, have suspended my quiver in the temple of hymen. hygeia shall be my goddess, if she will send you back blooming to this region. i wish i had preserved any correspondence in france, as you are curious about their present history; which i believe very momentous indeed. what little i have accidentally heard, i will relate, and will learn what more i can. on the king,'s being advised to put out his talons, necker desired leave to resign, as not having been consulted, and as the measure violated his plan. the people, hearing his intention, thronged to versailles; and he was forced to assure them from a balcony, that he was not to retire. i am not accurate in dates, nor warrant my intelligence, and therefore pretend only to send you detached scraps. force being still in request, the duc du chatelet acquainted the king that he could not answer for the french guards. chatelet, who, from his hot arrogant temper, i should have thought would have been one of the proudest opposers of the people, is suspected to lean to them. in short, marshal broglio is appointed commander-in-chief, and is said to have sworn on his sword, that he will not sheathe it till he has plunged it into the heart of ce gros banquier genevois. i cannot reconcile this with necker's stay at versailles. that he is playing a deep game is certain. it is reported that madame necker tastes previously every thing he swallows.( ) a vast camp is forming round paris; but the army is mutinous--the tragedy may begin on the other side. they do talk of an engagement at metz, where the french troops, espousing the popular cause, were attacked by two german regiments, whom the former cut to pieces. the duke and duchess of devonshire, who were at paris, have thought it prudent to leave it; and my cousin, mr. thomas walpole, who is near it, has just written to his daughters, that he is glad to be out of the town, that he may make his retreat easily. thus, you see the crisis is advanced far beyond orations, and wears all the aspect of civil war. for can one imagine that the whole nation is converted at once, and in some measure without provocation from the king, who, far from enforcing the prerogative like charles the first, cancelled the despotism obtained for his grandfather by the chancellor maupeou, has exercised no tyranny, and has shown a disposition to let the constitution be amended. it did want it indeed; but i fear the present want of temper grasps at so much, that they defeat their own purposes; and where loyalty has for ages been the predominant characteristic of a nation, it cannot be eradicated at once. pity will soften the tone of the moment; and the nobility and clergy have more interest in wearing a royal than a popular yoke; for great lords and high-priests think the rights of mankind a defalcation of-their privileges. no man living is more devoted to liberty than i am; yet blood is a terrible price to pay for it! a martyr to liberty is the noblest of characters; but to sacrifice the lives of others, though for the benefit of all, is a strain of heroism that i could never ambition. i have just been reading voltaire's correspondence,--one of those heroes who liked better to excite martyrs, than to be one. how vain would he be, if alive now! i was struck with one of his letters to la chalotais, who was a true upright patriot and martyr too. in the st letter of the sixth volume, voltaire says to him, "vous avez jett`e des germes qui produiront un jour plus qu'on ne pense." it was lucky for me that you inquired about france; i had not a halfpennyworth more of news in my wallet. a person who was very apt to call on you every morning for a minute, and stay three hours, was with me the other day, and his grievance from the rain was the swarms of gnats. i said, i supposed i have very bad blood, for gnats never bite me. he replied, "i believe i have bad blood, too, for dull people, who would tire me to death, never come dear me." shall i beg a pallet-full of that repellent for you, to set in your window as barbers do? i believe you will make me grow a little of a newsmonger, though you are none; but i know that at a distance, in the country, letters of news are a regale. i am not wont to listen to the batteries on each side of me at hampton-court and richmond; but in your absence i shall turn a less deaf ear to them, in hopes of gleaning something that may amuse you: though i shall leave their manufactures of scandal for their own home consumption; you happily do not deal in such wares. adieu! i used to think the month of september the dullest of the whole set; now i shall be impatient for it. ( ) the name given by mr. walpole to parties coming to view his house.-m.b. ( ) lady mary-amelia, daughter of wills, first marquis of downshire; married, in , to james seventh earl of salisbury, advanced, in august , to the title of marquis. her ladyship was a warm patroness of the art of archery, and a first-rate equestrian. in november , at the age of eighty-four, she was burnt to death at hatfield-house.-e. ( ) in consequence of a dispute, concerning words said to have been spoken at daubiny's club, a duel took place at wimbledon, on the th of may, between the duke of york and colonel lenox, afterwards duke of richmond. neither of the parties was wounded; and the seconds, lords rawdon and winchilsea, certified, that both behaved with the utmost coolness and intrepidity.-e. ( ) on the th of july, two days after the date of this letter, necker received his dismission and a formal demand to quit the kingdom. it was accompanied by a note from the king, praying him to depart in a private manner, for fear of exciting disturbances. necker received this intimation just as he was dressing for dinner-, after which, without divulging his intention to any one, he set out in the evening, with madame necker, for basle. see mignet, tom. i. p. .-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) though i am touchy enough with those i love, i did not think you dilatory, nor expect that answers to letters should be as quick as repartees. i do pity you for the accident that made you think yourself remiss.( ) i enjoy your patient's recovery; but almost smiled unawares at the idea of her being sopped, and coming out of the water brustling up her feathers and ermines, and assuming the dignity of a jupiter pluvius. i beseech you not to fancy yourself vain on my being your printer would sappho be proud, though aldus or elzevir were her typographer? my press has no rank but from its narrowness, that is, from the paucity of its editions, and from being a volunteer. but a truce to compliments, and to reciprocal humility. pray tell me how i shall convey your parcel to you: the impression is begun. i shall not dare, vu le sujet, to send a copy to mrs. garrick;( ) i do not know whether you will venture. mrs. boscawen shall have one, but it shall be in your name: so authorize me to present it, that neither of us may tell the whitest of fibs. shall i deliver any others for you within my reach, to save you trouble? i have no more corrections to make. i told you brutally at first of the only two faults i found, and you sacrificed them with the patience of a martyr; for i conclude that when a good poet knowingly sins against measure twice, he is persuaded that he makes amends by greater beauties: in such case docility deserves the palmbranch. i do not applaud your declining a london edition; but you have been so tractable, that i will let you have your way in this, though you only make over profit to magazines. being an honest printer myself, i have little charity for those banditti of my profession who pilfer from every body they find on the road. ( ) "you will think me a great brute and savage, dear sir, for not having directly thanked you for your letter, till you have read my piece justificative, and then you will think i should have been a greater brute and savage if i had; for the very day i received it, a very amiable neighbour, coming to call on us, was overturned from her phaeton into some water, her husband driving her. the poor lady was brought into our house, to all appearance dying. i thank god, however, she is now out of danger; but our attendance, day and night, on the maimed lady and the distressed husband banished poetry from my thoughts, and suspended all power of writing nonsense." miss more to walpole. memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) mrs. garrick was a roman catholic.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, wednesday night, [july , .] (page ) i write a few lines only to confirm the truth of much of what you will read in the papers from paris. worse may already be come, or is expected every hour. mr. mackenzie and lady betty called on me before dinner, after the post was gone out; and he showed me a letter from dutens, who said two couriers arrived yesterday from the duke of dorset and the duchess of devonshire, the latter of whom was leaving paris directly. necker had been dismissed, and was thought to be set out for geneva. breteull, who was at his country-house, had been sent for to succeed him. paris was in an uproar; and, after the couriers had left it, firing of cannon was heard for four hours together. that must have been from the bastille,( ) as probably the tiers `etat were not so provided. it is shocking to imagine what may have happened in such a thronged city! one of the couriers was stopped twice or thrice, as supposed to pass from the king; but redeemed himself by pretending to be despatched by the tiers `etat. madame de calonne told dutens, that the newly encamped troops desert by hundreds. here seems the egg to be hatched, and imagination runs away with the idea. i may fancy i shall hear of the king and queen leaving versailles, like charles the first, and then skips imagination six-and-forty years lower, and figures their fugitive majesties taking refuge in this country. i have besides another idea. if the bastille conquers, still it is impossible, considering the general spirit in the country, and the numerous fortified places in france, but some may be seized by the dissidents, and whole provinces be torn from the crown! on the other hand, if the king prevails, what heavy despotism will the `etats, by their want of temper and moderation, have drawn on their country! they might have obtained many capital points, and removed great oppression. no french monarch will ever summon `etats again, if this moment has been thrown away. though i have stocked myself with such a set of visions for the event either way, i do not pretend to foresee what will happen. penetration argues from reasonable probabilities; but chance and folly are apt to contradict calculation, and hitherto they seen) to have full scope for action. one hears of no genius on either side, nor do symptoms of any appear. there will perhaps: such times and tempests bring forth, at least bring out, great men. i do not take the duke of orleans or mirabeau to be built du bois dont on les fait; no, nor monsieur necker.( ) he may be a great traitor, if he made the confusion designedly: but it is a woful evasion, if the promised financier slips into a black politician! i adore liberty, but i would bestow it as honestly as i could; and a civil war, besides being a game of chance, is paying a very dear price for it. for us, we are in most danger of a deluge; though i wonder we so frequently complain of long rains. the saying about st. swithin is a proof of how often they recur; for proverbial sentences are the children of experience, not of prophecy. good night! in a few days i shall send you a beautiful little poem from the strawberry press. ( ) for an interesting account of the storming and destruction of the bastille, on the th of july, see mr. shobert's valuable translation of m. thiers's "history of the french revolution," vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) "it was in vain," says sir walter scott, "that the marquis de bouill`e pointed out the dangers arising from the constitution assigned to the states general, and insisted that the minister was arming the popular part of the nation against the two privileged orders, and that the latter would soon experience the effects of their hatred, necker calmly replied, that there was a necessary reliance to be placed on the virtues of the human heart--the maxim of a worthy man, but not of an enlightened statesman, who has but too much reason to know how often both the virtues and the prudence of human nature are surmounted by its prejudices and passions." life of napoleon buonaparte, vol. i, p, , ed. .-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, monday night, july , . (page ) my excellent friend, i never shall be angry with your conscientiousness, though i ) do not promise never to scold it, as you know i think you sometimes carry it too far; and how pleasant to have a friend to scold on such grounds! i see all your delicacy in what you call your double treachery, and your kind desire of connecting two of your friends.( ) the seeds are sprung up already; and the bishop has already condescended to make me the first, and indeed so unexpected a visit, that, had i in the least surmised it, i should certainly, as became me, have prevented him. one effect, however, i can tell you your pimping between us will have: his lordship has, to please your partiality, flattered me so agreeably in the letter you betrayed, that i shall never write to you again without the dread of attempting the wit he is so liberal as to bestow on me; and then either way i must be dull or affected, though i hope to have the grace to prefer the former, and then you only will be the sufferer, as we both should by the latter. but i will come to facts -. they are plain bodies, can have nothing to do with wit, and yet are not dull to those who have any thing to do with them. according to your order, i have delivered ghosts( ) to mrs. boscawen, mrs. garrick, lady juliana penn, mrs. walsingham, and mr. pepys. mr. batt, i am told, leaves london to-day; so i shall reserve his to his return. this morning i carried his thirty to the bishop of london, who said modestly, he should not have expected above ten. i was delighted with the palace, with the venerable chapel, and its painted episcopalities in glass, and the brave hall, etc. etc. though it rained, i would crawl to bonner's chair. in short, my satisfaction would have been complete, but for wanting the presence of that jesuitess, "the good old papist." to-morrow departs for london, to be delivered to the bristol coach at the white-horse-cellar in piccadilly, a parcel containing sixty-four ghosts, one of which is printed on brown for your own eating. there is but one more such, so you may preserve it like a relic. i know these two are not so good as the white: but, as rarities, a collector would give ten times more for them; and uniquity will make them valued more than the charming poetry. i believe, if there was but one ugly woman in the world, she would occasion a longer war than helen did. you will find the bishop's letter in the parcel. i did not breathe a hint of my having seen it, as i could not conjure up into my pale cheeks the blush i ought to exhibit on such flattery. i pity you most sincerely for your almost drowned guest. fortune seems to delight in throwing poor louisas in your way, that you may exercise your unbounded charity and benevolence. adieu! pray write. i need not write to you to pray; but i wish, when your knees have what the common people call a worky-day, you would employ your hands the whole time. yours most cordially. p. s. i believe i have blundered, and that your knees would call a week-day a holiday. ( ) with the view of making bishop porteus and walpole better known to each other, miss more had committed what she called a double treachery, in showing to the bishop a letter she had received from walpole, and to walpole one sent her by the bishop.-e. ( ) though the author of this poem must have been known to so many individuals in the year , the secret was so well kept, that it was actually printed in the, gentleman's magazine for february, , as the production of walpole.-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i have received two dear letters from you of the th and th and though you do not accuse me, but say a thousand kind things to me in the most agreeable manner, i allow my ancientry, and that i am an old, jealous, and peevish husband, and quarrel with you if i do not receive a letter exactly at the moment i please to expect one. you talk of mine; but, if you knew how i like yours, you would not wonder that i am impatient, and even unreasonable in my demands. however, though i own my faults, i do not mean to correct them. i have such pleasure in your letters (i am sorry i am here forced to speak in the singular number,'which by the way is an irishism,) that i will be cross if you do not write to me perpetually. the quintessence of your last but one was, in telling me you are better - how fervently do i wish to receive such accounts every post. but who can mend but old i, in such detestable weather?--not one hot day; and, if a morning shines, the evening closes with a heavy shower. of french news i can give you no fresher or more authentic account, than you can collect in general from the newspapers; but my present visitants and every body else confirm the veracity of paris being in that anarchy that speaks the populace domineering in the most cruel and savage manner, and which a servile multitude broken loose calls liberty; and which in all probability will end, when their massaniello-like reign is over, in their being more abject slaves than ever, and chiefly by the crime of their `etats, who, had they acted with temper and prudence, might have obtained from their poor and undesigning king a good and permanent constitution. who may prove their tyrant, if reviving loyalty does not in a new frenzy force him to be so, it is impossible to foresee; but much may happen first. the rage seems to gain the provinces, and threatens to exhibit the horrors of those times when the peasants massacred the gentlemen. thus you see i can only conjecture, which is not sending you news; and my intelligence reaches me by so many rebounds, that you must not depend on any thing i can tell you. i repeat, because i hear; but draw on you for no credit. having experienced last winter, in suporaddition to a long life of experience, that in berkeley square i could not trust to a single report from kew, can i swallow implicitly at twickenham the distorted information that comes from paris through the medium of london? you asked me in one of your letters who la chalotais was. i answer, premier pr`esident or avocat-g`en`eral, i forget which, of the parliament of bretagne; a great, able, honest, and most virtuous man, who opposed the jesuits and the tyranny of the duc d'aiguillon; but he was as indiscreet as he was good. calonne was his friend and confident; to whom the imprudent patriot trusted, by letter, his farther plan of opposition and designs. the wretch pretended to have business with, or to be sent for by, the duc de la vrilli`ere, secretary of state; a courtier-wretch, whose mistress used to sell lettres do cachet for a louis.( ) calonne was left to wait in the antechamber; but being, as he said, suddenly called in to the minister, as he was reading (a most natural soil for such a lecture) the letter of his friend, he by a second natural inadvertence left the fatal letter on the chimney-piece. the consequence, much more natural, was, that la chalotais was committed to the ch`ateau du taureau, a horrible dungeon on a rock in the sea, with his son, whose legs mortified there, and the father was doomed to the scaffold; but the duc de choiseul sent a counter reprieve by an express and a cross-road, and saved him.( ) at the beginning of this reign he was restored. paris, however, was so indignant at the treachery, that this calonne was hissed out of the theatre, when i was in that capital.( ) when i heard, some years after, that a calonne was made controlleur-g`en`eral, i concluded that it must be a son, not conceiving that so reprobated a character could emerge to such a height; but asking my sister, 'who has been in france since i was, she assured me it was not only the identical being, but that when she was at metz, where i think he was intendant, the officers in garrison would not dine with him. when he fled hither for an asylum, i did not talk of his story till i saw it in one of the pamphlets that were written against him in france, and that came over hither. friday night, st. my company prevented my finishing this: part left me at noon, the residue are to come to-morrow. to-day i have dined at fulham( ) along with mrs. boscawen but st. swithin played the devil so, that we could not stir out of doors, and had fires to chase the watery spirits. quin, being once asked if ever he had seen so bad a winter, replied, "yes, just such an one last summer!"--and here is its youngest brother! mrs. boscawen saw a letter from paris to miss sayer this morning, which says necker's son-in-law was arrived, and had announced his father-in- law's promise of return from basle. i do not know whether his honour or ambition prompt this compliance; surely not his discretion. i am much acquainted with him, and do not hold him great and profound enough to quell the present anarchy. if he attempts to moderate for the king, i shall not be surprised if he falls another victim to tumultuary jealousy and outrage.( ) all accounts agree in the violence of the mob against the inoffensive as well as against the objects of their resentment; and in the provinces, where even women are not safe in their houses. the hotel of the duc de chatelet, lately built and superb, has been assaulted, and the furniture sold by auction;( ) but a most shocking act of a royalist in burgundy who is said to have blown up a committee of forty persons, will probably spread the flames of civil rage much wider. when i read the account i did not believe it; but the bishop of london says, he hears the `etats have required the king to write to every foreign power not to harbour the execrable author, who is fled.( ) i fear this conflagration will not end as rapidly as that in holland! ( ) the duc de la vrillibre was dismissed in , and succeeded by m. de malesherbes, madame du deffand's letter to walpole of june , , contains the following epigram on him:-- "ministre sans talent ainsi que sans vertu, couvert d'ignominie autant qu'on le peut `etre, retire-toi donc! qu'attends-tu? qu'on te jette par la fen`etre?"-e. ( ) la chalotais died in july . among other works he wrote an "essay on national education," which was reprinted in . his son perished by the guillotine in january .-e. ( ) "an intrigue brought m. de calonne forward, who was not in good odour with the public, because he had contributed to the persecution of la chatolais." thiers, vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) with bishop porteus. "i fear," writes hannah more, on hearing of this dinner, "i shall secretly triumph in the success of my fraud, if it has contributed to bring about any intercourse between the abbey of fulham and the castle of otranto, it sounds so ancient and so feudal! but among the things which pleased you in the episcopal domain, i hope the lady of it has that good fortune; she is quite a model of a pleasant wife. now, i am acquainted with a great many very good wives, who are so notable and so manageable, that they make a man every thing but happy; and i know a great many other;, who sing, play and paint, and cut paper, and are so accomplished, that they have no time to be agreeable, and no desire to be useful," memoirs, vol.'ii. p. .-e. ( ) on the th of july, five days after the dismissal of m. necker, the national assembly obtained his recall. his return from basle to paris was one continued triumph. during the next twelve months, he was constantly presenting new financial statements; but he soon perceived that his influence was daily diminishing: at length the famous red book appeared, and completely put an end to his popularity. in september , his resignation was accepted: as he was quitting the kingdom, his carriage was stopped by the same populace which had so recently drawn him into paris in triumph; and it was necessary to apply to the assembly for an order, directing that he should be allowed to proceed to switzerland. he obtained this permission, and retired to coppet, "there," says m. thiers, "to contemplate at a distance, a revolution which he was no longer qualified to observe closely or to guide."-e. ( ) the duke, who was colonel of the king's guard, narrowly escaped assassination.-e. ( ) after an inquiry, instituted by the national assembly, the whole was found to be a villanous fabrication.-e. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, july , . (page ) having had my house full of relations till this evening, i could not answer the favour of your letter sooner; and now i am ashamed of not being able to tell you that i have finished reading your "essay on the ancient history of scotland." i am so totally unversed in the story of original nations, and i own always find myself so little interested in savage manners unassisted by individual characters, that, though you lead me with a firmer hand than any historian through the dark tracts, the clouds rose round me the moment i have passed them, and i retain no memory of the ground i have trod. i greatly admire your penetration, and read with wonder your clear discovery of the kingdom of strathclyde; but, though i bow to you, as i would to the founder of an empire, i confess i do not care a straw about your subjects, with whom i am no more acquainted than with the ancient inhabitants of otaheite. your origin of the piks is most able; but then i cannot remember them with any precise discrimination from any other hyperborean nation; and all the barbarous names at the end of the first volume, and the gibberish in the appendix, was to me as unintelligible as if repeated abracadabra; and made no impression on me but to raise respect of your patience, and admire a sagacity that could extract meaning and suite from what seemed to me the most indigestible of all materials. you rise in my estimation in proportion to the disagreeable mass of your ingredients. what gave me pleasure that i felt, was the exquisite sense and wit of your introduction; and your masterly handling and confutation of the macphersons, whitaker, etc. there and through your work. objection i have but one, i think you make yourself too much a party against the colts. i do not think they were or are worthy of hatred. upon the whole, dear sir, you see that your work is too learned and too deep for my capacity and shallow knowledge. i have told you that my reading and knowledge is and always was trifling and superficial, and never taken up or pursued but for present amusement. i always was incapable of dry and unentertaining studies; and of all studies the origin of nations never was to my taste. old age and frequent disorders have dulled both my curiosity and attention, as well as weakened my memory; and i cannot fix my attention to long deductions. i say to myself, "what is knowledge to me who stand on the verge, and must leave any old stores as well as what i may add to them; and how little could that be?" having thus confessed the truth, i am sure you are too candid and liberal to be offended - you cannot doubt of my high respect for your extraordinary abilities i am even proud of having discovered them of myself without any clue. i should be very insincere, if i pretended to have gone through with eagerness your last work, which demands more intense attention than my age, eyes, and avocations will allow. i cannot read long together; and you are sensible that your work is not a book to be`rea'd' by snatches and intervals; especially as the novelty, to me at least, requires some helps to connect it with the memory. ( ) now first collected. letter to miss hannah more.( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) you are not very corresponding, (though better of late,) and therefore i will not load the conscience of your fingers much, lest you should not answer me in three months. i am happy that you are content with my edition of your ghost, and with the brown copy. every body is charmed with your poem: i have not heard one breath but of applause. in confirmation, i enclose a note to me from the duchess of gloucester, who certainly never before wished to be an authoress. you may lay it up in the archives of cowslip-green, and carry it along with your other testimonials to parnassus.( ) mr. carter, to whom i sent a copy, is delighted with it. the bishop, with whom i dined last week, is extremely for your printing an edition for yourself, and desired i would press you to it. mind, i do press you: and could bonner's ghost be laid again,-which is ,impossible, for it will walk for ever, and by day too,--we would have it laid in the red sea by some west india merchant, who must be afraid of spirits, and cannot be in charity with you. mrs. boscawen dined at fulham with me. it rained all day; and, though the last of july, we had fires in every room, as if bonner had been still in possession of the see. i have not dared to recollect you too often by overt acts, dear madam; as, by the slowness of your answer, you seem to be sorry my memory was so very alert. besides, it looks as if you had a mind to keep me at due distance, by the great civility and cold complimentality of your letter; a style i flattered myself you had too much good will towards me to use. pretensions to humility i know are generally traps to flattery; but, could you know how very low my opinion is of myself, i am sure you would not have used the terms to me you did, and which i will not repeat, as they are by no means applicable to me. if i ever had tinsel parts, age has not only tarnished them, but convinced me how frippery they were. sweet are your cowslips, sour my strawberry hill; my fruits are fallen, your blossoms flourish still. mrs. boscawen told me last night, that she had received a long letter from you, which makes me flatter myself you have no return of your nervous complaints. mrs. walsingham i have seen four or five times - miss boyle has decorated their house most charmingly; she has not only designed, but carved in marble, three beautiful base reliefs, with boys, for a chimney-piece; besides painting elegant panels for the library, and forming, i do not know how, pilasters of black and gold beneath glass; in short, we are so improved in taste, that, if it would be decent, i could like to live fifty or sixty years more, just to see how matters go on. in the mean time, i wish my macbethian wizardess would tell me "that cowslip dale should come to strawberry hill;" which by the etiquette of oracles, you know, would certainly happen, because so improbable. i will be content if the nymph of the dale will visit the old man of the mountain, and her most sincere friend. ( ) now first collected. ( ) in reply to this, miss more says, "you not only do all you can to turn my head by printing my trumpery verses yourself. but you call in royal aid to complete my delirium. i comfort myself you will counteract some part of the injury you have done, my principles this summer, by a regular course of abuse when we meet in the winter: remember that you owe this to my moral health; next to being flattered i like to be scolded; but to be let quietly alone would be intolerable. dr. johnson once said to me, 'i never mind whether they praise or abuse your writings; any thing is tolerable except oblivion.'" memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) i must certainly have expressed myself very awkwardly, dear sir, if you conceive i meant the slightest censure on your book, much less on your manner of treating it; which is as able, and clear, and demonstrative as possible. no; it was myself, my age, my want of apprehension and memory, and my total ignorance of the subject, which i intended to blame. i never did taste or study the very ancient histories of nations. i never had a good memory for names of persons, regions, places, which no specific circumstances concurred to make me remember; and now, at seventy-two, when, as is common, i forget numbers of names most familiar to me, is it possible i should read with pleasure any work that consists of a vocabulary so totally new to me? many years ago, when my faculties were much less impaired, i was forced to quit dow's history of indostan, because the indian names made so little impression on me, that i went backward instead of forward, and was every minute reverting to the former page to find about whom i was reading. your book was a still more laborious work to me; for it contains such a series of argumentation that it demanded a double effort from a weak old head; and, when i had made myself master of a deduction, i forgot it the next day, and had my pains to renew. these defects have for some time been so obvious to me, that i never read now but the most trifling books; having often said that, at the very end of life, it is useless to be improving one's stock of knowledge, great or small, for the next world. thus, sir, all i have said in my last letter or in this, is an encomium on your work, not a censure or criticism. it -would be hard on you, indeed, if my incapacity detracted from your merit. your arguments in defence of works of science and deep disquisition are most just; and i am sure i have neither power nor disposition to answer them. you have treated your matter as it ought to be treated. profound men or conversant on the subject, like mr. dempster, will be pleased with it, for the very reasons that made it difficult to me. if sir isaac newton had written a fairy tale, i should have swallowed it eagerly; but do you imagine, sir, that, idle as i am, i am, idiot enough to think that sir isaac had better have amused me for half an hour, than enlightened mankind and all ages? i was so fair as to confess to you that your work was above me, and did not divert me: you was too candid to take that ill, and must have been content with silently thinking me very silly; and i am too candid to condemn any man for thinking of me as i deserve. i am only sorry when i do deserve a disadvantageous character. nay, sir, you condescend, after all, to ask my opinion of the best way of treating antiquities; and, by the context, i suppose you mean, how to make them entertaining. i cannot answer you in one word -, because there are two ways, as there are two sorts of readers. i should therefore say, to please antiquaries of judgment, as you have treated them, with arguments and proofs; but, if you would adapt antiquities to the taste of those who read only to be diverted, not to be instructed, the nostrum is very easy and short. you must divert them in the true sense of the word diverto; you must turn them out of the way, you must treat them with digressions nothing or very little to the purpose. but, easy as i call this recipe, you, i believe, would find it more difficult to execute, than the indefatigable industry you have employed to penetrate chaos and extract the truth. there have been professors who have engaged to adapt all kinds of knowledge to the meanest capacities. i doubt their success, at least on me: however, you need not despair; all readers are not as dull and superannuated as, dear sir, yours, etc. ( ) now first collected. letter to john pinkerton, esq,( ) strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i will not use many words, but enough, i hope, to convince you that i meant no irony in my last. all i said of you and myself was very sincere- it is my true opinion that your understanding is one of the strongest, most manly, and clearest i ever knew; and, as i hold my own to be of a very inferior kind and know it to be incapable of sound, deep application, i should have been very foolish if i had attempted to sneer at you or your pursuits. mine have always been light and trifling, and tended to nothing but my casual amusement; i will not say, without a little vain ambition of showing some parts but never with industry sufficient to make me apply to any thing solid. my studies, if they could be called so, and my productions, were alike desultory. in my latter days i discovered the utility both of my objects and writings: i felt how insignificant is the reputation of an author of mediocrity; and that, being no genius, i only added one name more to a list of writers that had told the world nothing but what it could as well be without. these reflections were the best proofs of my sense: and, when i could see through my own vanity, there is less wonder at my discovering that such talents as i might have had, are impaired at seventy-two. being just to myself, i am not such a coxcomb as to be unjust to you. no, nor did i cover any irony towards you, in the opinion i gave you of making deep writings palatable to the mass of readers. examine my words; and i am sure you will find that, if there was any thing ironic in my meaning, it was levelled at your readers, not at you. it is my opinion, that whoever wishes to be read by many, if his subject is weighty and solid, must treat the majority with more than is to his purpose. do not you believe that twenty name lucretius because of the poetic commencement of his books, for five that wade through his philosophy? i promised to say but little; and, if i have explained myself clearly, i have said enough. it is not, i hope, my character to be a flatterer: i do most sincerely think you capable of great things; and i should be a pitiful knave if i told you so, unless it was my opinion; and what end could it serve to me? your course is but beginning; mine is almost terminated. i do not want you to throw a few daisies on my grave; and if you make the figure i augur you will, i shall not be a witness to it. adieu, dear sir! ( ) now first collected. letter to richard gough, esq. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i shall heartily lament with you, sir, the demolition of those beautiful chapels at salisbury. i was scandalized long ago at the ruinous state in which they were indecently suffered to remain. it appears as strange, that, when a spirit of restoration and decoration has taken place, it should be mixed with barbarous innovation. as much as taste has improved, i do not believe that modern execution will equal our models. i am sorry that i can only regret, not prevent. i do not know the bishop of salisbury( ) even by sight, and certainly have no credit to obstruct any of his plans. should i get sight of mr. wyatt, which is not easy to do, i will remonstrate against the intended alteration; but probably without success, as i do not suppose he has authority enough to interpose effectually: still i will try. it is an old complaint with me, sir, that when families are extinct, chapters take the freedom of removing ancient monuments, and even of selling, over again the sites of such tombs. a scandalous, nay, dishonest abuse, and very unbecoming clergy! is it creditable for divines to traffic for consecrated ground, and which the church had already sold? i do not wonder that magnificent monuments are out of fashion, when they are treated so disrespectfully. you, sir, alone have placed several out of the reach of such a kind of simoniacal abuse; for to buy into the church, or to sell the church's land twice over, breathes a similar kind of spirit. perhaps, as the subscription indicates taste, if some of the subscribers could be persuaded to object to the removal of the two beautiful chapels, as contrary to their view of beautifying, it might have good effect; or, if some letter were published in the papers against the destruction, as barbarous and the result of bad taste, it might divert the design. i zealously wish it were stopped, but i know none of the chapter or subscribers.( ) ( ) dr. shute barrington; in , translated to the see of durham.-e. ( ) much discussion on the subject of the injury done to salisbury cathedral, here complained of by walpole, took place in the gentleman's magazine for this and the following year. "this good," says the writer of a learned article on cathedral antiquities, in the quarterly review for , "has arisen from the injury which was done at salisbury, that in subsequent undertakings of the same kind, the architect has come to his work with greater respect for the structures upon which he was employed, and a mind more embued with the principles of gothic architecture."-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, thursday evening, aug. , . (page ) i jumped for joy,-that is, my heart did, which is all the remain of me that is in statu iumpante,-at the receipt of your letter this morning, which tells me you approve of the house at teddington. how kind you was to answer so incontinently! i believe you borrowed the best steed from the races. i have sent to the landlord to come tomorrow: but i could not resist beginning my letter to-night, as i am at home alone, with a little pain in my left wrist; but the right one has no brotherly feeling for it, and would not be put off so. you ask how you have deserved such attentions? why, by deserving them; by every kind of merit, -and by that superlative one to me, your submitting to throw away so much time on a forlorn antique--you two, who, without specifying particulars, (and you must at least be conscious that you are not two frights,) might expect any fortune and distinctions, and do delight all companies. on which side lies the wonder? ask me no more such questions, or i will cram you with reasons. my poor dear niece( ) grows worse and worse: the medical people do not pretend to give us any hopes; they only say she may last some weeks, which i do not expect, nor do absent myself. i had promised mr. barrett to make a visit to my gothic child, his house, on sunday; but i have written to-day to excuse myself: so i have to the duchess of richmond,( ) who wanted me to meet her mother, sister,( ) and general conway, at goodwood next week. i wish lady fitzwilliam may not hear the same bad news as i expect, in the midst of her royal visitors: her sister, the duchess of st. albans, is dying, in the same way as lady, dysart; and for some days has not been in her senses. how charming you are to leave those festivities for your good parents; who i do not wonder are impatient for you. i, who am old enough to be your great-grandmother, know one needs not be your near relation to long for your return. of all your tour, next to your duteous visits, i most approve the jaunt to the sea - i believe in its salutary air more than in the whole college and all its works. you must not expect any news from me, french or homebred. i am not in the way of hearing any: your morning gazetteer rarely calls on me, as i am not likely to pay him in kind. about royal progresses, paternal or filial, i never inquire; nor do you, i believe, care more than i do. the small wares in which the societies at richmond and hampton-court deal, are still less to our taste. my poor niece and her sisters take up most of my time and thoughts: but i will not attrist you to indulge myself, but will break off here, and finish my letter when i have seen your new landlord. good night! friday. well! i have seen him, and nobody was ever so accommodating! he is as courteous as a candidate for a county. you may stay in his house till christmas if you please, and shall pay but twenty pounds; and if more furniture is wanting, it shall be supplied. ( ) the countess of dysart.-m.b. ( ) lady mary bruce, daughter of the earl of ailesbury by caroline campbell, daughter of general john campbell, afterwards duke of argyle.-m.b. ( ) mrs. damer, only child of the dowager countess of ailesbury, by marshal henry seymour conway, her second husband. she was thus half-sister to the duchess of richmond.-m.b. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) you ask whether i will call you wise or stupid for leaving, york races in the middle-neither; had you chosen to stay, you would have done rightly. the more young persons see, where there is nothing blamable, the better; as increasing the stock of ideas early will be a resource for age. to resign pleasure to please tender relations is amiable, and superior to wisdom; for wisdom, however laudable, is but a selfish virtue. but i do decide peremptorily, that it was very prudent to decline the invitation to wentworth house,( ) which was obligingly given; but, as i am very proud for you, i should have disliked your being included in a mobbish kind of colhue. you two are not to go where any other two misses would have been equally pri`ees, and where people would have been thinking of the princes more than of the berrys. besides, princes are so rife now, that, besides my sweet nephew( ) in the park, we have another at richmond: the duke of clarence has taken mr. henry hobart's house, pointblank over against mr. cambridge's, which will make the good woman of that mansion cross herself piteously, and stretch the throat of the blatant beast at sudbrook( ) and of all the other pious matrons `a la ronde; for his royal highness, to divert lonesomeness, has brought with him - -, who, being still more averse to solitude, declares that any tempter would make even paradise more agreeable than a constant t`ete-`a-t`ete. i agree with you in not thinking beatrice one of miss farren's capital parts. mrs. pritchard played it with more spirit, and was superior to garrick's benedict; so is kemble, too, as he is to quin in maskwell. kemble and lysons the clergyman( ) passed all wednesday here with me. the former is melting the three parts of henry the sixth into one piece: i doubt it will be difficult to make a tolerable play out of them. i have talked scandal from richmond, like its gossips; and now, by your queries after lady luxborough, you are drawing me into more, which i do not love: but she is dead and forgotten, except on the shelves of an old library, or on those of my old memory; which you will be routing into. the lady you wot of, then, was the first wife of lord catherlogh, before he was an earl; and who was son of knight, the south sea cashier, and whose second wife lives here at twickenham. lady luxborough, a high-coloured lusty black woman, was parted from her husband, upon a gallantry she had with dalton, the reviver of comus and a divine. she retired into the country; corresponded, as you see by her letters, with the small poets of that time; but, having no theseus amongst them, consoled herself, as it is said, like ariadne, with bacchus.( ) this might be a fable, like that of her cretan highness--no matter; the fry of little anecdotes are so numerous now, that throwing one more into the shoal is of no consequence, if it entertains you for a moment; nor need you believe what i don't warrant. gramercy for your intention of seeing wentworth castle. it is my favourite of all great seats;-such a variety of ground, of wood, and water; and almost all executed and disposed with so much taste by the present earl. mr. gilpin sillily could see nothing but faults there. the new front is, in my opinion, one of the lightest and most beautiful buildings on earth - and, pray like the little gothic edifice, and its position in the menagerie! i recommended it, and had it drawn by mr. bentley, from chichester cross. don't bring me a pair of scissors from sheffield - i am determined nothing shall cut our loves, though i should live out the rest of methusalem's term, as you kindly wish, and as i can believe, though you are my wives; for i am persuaded my agnes wishes so too. don't you? at night. i am just come from cambridge's, where i have not been in an evening, time out of mind. major dixon, alias "the charming man,"( ) is there; but i heard nothing of the emperor's rickets:( ) a great deal, and many horrid stories, of the violences in france; for his brother, the chevalier jerningham, is just arrived from paris. you have heard of the destruction of thirty-two chateaus in burgundy, at the instigation of a demon, who has since been broken on the racks. there is now assembled near paris a body of sixteen thousand deserters, daily increasing; who, they fear, will encamp and dictate to the capital, in spite of their militia of twenty thousand bourgeois. it will soon, i suppose, ripen to several armies, and a civil war; a fine acheminement to liberty! my poor niece is still alive, though weaker every day, and pronounced irrecoverable: yet it is possible she may live some weeks; which, however, is neither to be expected nor wished, for she eats little and sleeps less. still she is calm, and behaves with the patience of a martyr. you may perceive, by the former part of my letter, that i have been dipping into spenser again, though he is no passion of mine - there i lighted upon two lines that, at first sight, reminded me of mademoiselle d'eon, "now, when marfisa had put off her beaver, to be a woman every one perceive her!" but i do not think that is so perceptible in the chevali`ere. she looked more feminine, as i remember her, in regimentals, than she does now. she is at best a heri-dragoon, or an herculean hostess. i wonder she does not make a campaign in her own country, and offer her sword to the almost dethroned monarch, as a second joan of arc.( ) adieu! for three weeks i shall say, sancte michael, ora pro nobis! you seem to have relinquished your plan of sea-coasting. i shall be sorry for that; it would do you good. ( ) the prince of wales and the duke of york were going to receive a great entertainment at wentworth house.-m.b. ( ) the duke of gloucester. ( ) lady greenwich. ( ) the " little daniel" of the pursuits of literature, brother of samuel lysons, the learned antiquary, and author of "the environs, twelve miles round london," in four volumes quarto-- "nay once, for purer air o'er rural ground, with little daniel went his twelve miles round."-e. ( ) lady luxborough died in . her letters to shenstone were published in . in the first leaf of the original manuscript there is an autograph of the poet, describing them as being "written with abundant ease politeness, and vivacity; in which she was scarce equalled by any woman of her time." some of her verses are printed in dodsley's miscellany, and walpole has introduced her ladyship into his noble authors.-e. ( ) edward jerningham, esq. of cossey, in norfolk, uncle to the present lord stafford. he was distinguished in his day by the name of jerningham the poet; but it was an unpoetical day. the stars of byron, of baillie, and of scott, had not risen on the horizon. the well merited distinction of jerningham was the friendship, affection, and intimacy which his amiable character had impressed on the author, and on all of his society mentioned in these letters.-m.b. ( ) this alludes to something said in a character which jerningham had assumed, for the amusement of a society some time before at marshal conway's.-m.b. ( ) miss more gives the following account of this extraordinary character:--"on friday i gratified the curiosity of many years, by meeting at dinner madame la chevali`ere d'eon - she is extremely entertaining, has universal information, wit, vivacity, and gaiety. something too much of the latter (i have heard) when she has taken a bottle or two of burgundy; but this being a very sober party, she was kept entirely within the limits of decorum. general johnson was of the party, and it was ridiculous to hear her military conversation. sometimes it was, 'quand j'`etais colonel d'un tel regiment;' then again, 'non, c'rait quand j'`etais secr`etaire d'ambassade du duc de nivernois,' or, 'quand je n`egociais la paix de paris.' she is, to be sure, a phenomenon in history; and, as such, a great curiosity. but one d'eon is enough, and one slice of her quite sufficient." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) you speak so unperemptorily of your motions, that i must direct to you at random: the most probable place where to hit you, i think, will be goodwood; and i do address this thither, because i am impatient to thank you for your tale, which is very pretty and easy and genteel. it has made me make a reflection, and that reflection made six lines; which i send you, not as good, but as expressing my thoughts on your writing so well in various ways which you never practised when you was much younger. here they are: the muse most wont to fire a youthful heart, to gild your setting sun reserved her art; to crown a life in virtuous labours pass'd, bestow'd her numbers and her wit at last; and, when your strength and eloquence retire, your voice in notes harmonious shall expire. the swan was too common a thought to be directly specified, and, perhaps, even to be alluded to: no matter, such a trifle is below criticism. i am still here, in no uncertainty, god knows, about poor lady dysart ( ) of whom there are not the smallest hopes. she grows weaker every day, and does actually still go out for the air, and may languish many days, though most probably will go off in a moment, as the water rises. she retains her senses perfectly, and as perfectly her unalterable calmness and patience, though fully sensible of her situation. at your return from goodwood, i shall like to come to you, if you are unengaged, and ready to receive me. for the beauties of park-place, i am too well acquainted with them, not, like all old persons about their contemporaries, to think it preserves them long after they are faded; and am so unwalking, that prospects are more agreeable to me when framed and glazed, and i look at them through a window. it is yourselves i want to visit, not your verdure. indeed, except a parenthesis of scarce all august, there has been no temptation to walk abroad; and the tempter himself would not have persuaded me, if i could, to have climbed that long-lost mountain whence he could show one even the antipodes. it rained incessantly all june and all july; and now again we have torrents every day. jerningham's brother, the chevalier, is arrived from paris, and does not diminish the horrors one hears every day. they are now in the capital dreading the sixteen thousand deserters who hover about them. i conclude that when in the character of banditti the whole disbanded army have plundered and destroyed what they can, they will congregate into separate armies under different leaders, who will hang out different principles, and the kingdom will be a theatre of civil wars; and, instead of liberty, the nation will get petty tyrants, perhaps petty kingdoms: and when millions have suffered, or been sacrificed, the government will be no better than it was, all owing to the intemperance of the `etats, who might have obtained a good constitution, or at least one much meliorated, if they had set out with discretion and moderation. they have left too a sad lesson to despotic princes, who will quote this precedent of frantic `etats, against assembling any more, and against all the examples of senates and parliaments that have preserved rational freedom. let me know when it will be convenient to you to receive me. adieu! ( ) her ladyship, who was the daughter of sir edward walpole and the first wife of lionel, fourth earl of dysart, died on the day this letter was written.-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, sept. -, . (page ) i know whence you wrote last, but not where you are now; you gave me no hint. i believe you fly lest i should pursue, and as if you were angry that i have forced you to sprout into laurels. yet you say you are vain of it, and that you are no philosopher. now, if you are vain i am sure you are a philosopher; for it is a maxim of mine, and one of my own making, that there never was a philosopher that did not love sweetmeats. ou tell me too, that you like i should scold you but since you have appeared as bonner's ghost, i think i shall feel too much awe; for though (which i never expected would be in my power) i have made you stand in a white sheet, i doubt my respect is increased. i never did rate you for being too bad, but too good: and if, when you make up your week's account, you find but a fraction of vanity in the sum total, you will fall to repenting, and come forth on monday as humble as * * *. then, if i huff my heart out, you will only simper, and still wrap yourself up in your obstinate goodness. well! take your own way; i give you up to your abominable virtues, and will go answer the rest of your letter. i congratulate you on the demolition of the bastille; i mean as you do, of its' functions.( ) for the poor soul itself, i had no ill will to it: on the contrary, it was a curious sample of ancient castellar dungeons, which the good folks the founders took for palaces: yet i always hated to drive by it, knowing the miseries it contained. of itself it did not gobble up prisoners to glut its maw, but received them by command. the destruction of it was silly, and agreeable to the ideas of a mob, who do not know stones and bars and bolts from a lettre de cachet. if the country remains free, the bastille would be as tame as a ducking-stool, now that there is no such thing as a scold. if despotism recovers, the bastille will rise from its ashes!-- recover, i fear, it will. the `etats cannot remain a mob of kings, and will prefer a single one to a larger mob of kings and greater tyrants. the nobility, the clergy, and people of property will wait, till by address and money they can divide the people; or, whoever gets the larger or more victorious army into his hands, will be a cromwell or a monk. in short, a revolution procured by a national vertigo does not promise a crop of legislators. it is time that composes a good constitution: it formed ours. we were near losing it by the lax and unconditional restoration of charles the second. the revolution was temperate, and has lasted; and, though it might have been improved, we know that with all its moderation it disgusted half the nation, who would have brought back the old sores. i abominate the inquisition as much as you do: yet if the king of spain receives no check like his cousin louis, i fear he will not be disposed to relax any terrors. every crowned head in europe must ache at present; and the frantic and barbarous proceedings in france will not meliorate the stock of liberty, though for some time their majesties will be mighty tender of the rights of their subjects. according to this hypothesis, i can administer some comfort to you about your poor negroes. i do not imagine that they will be emancipated at once; but their fate will be much alleviated, as the attempt will have alarmed their butchers enough to make them gentler, like the european monarchs, for fear of"provoking the disinterested, who have no sugar plantations, to abolish the horrid traffic. i do not understand the manoeuvre of sugar, and, perhaps, am going to talk nonsense, as my idea maybe impracticable; but i wish human wit, which is really very considerable in mechanics and merchantry, could devise some method of cultivating canes and making sugar without the manual labour of the human" species. how many mills and inventions have there not been discovered to supply succedaneums to the works of the hands, which before the discoveries would have been treated as visions! it is true, manual labour has sometimes taken it very ill to be excused, and has destroyed such mills; but the poor negroes would not rise and insist upon being worked to death. pray talk to some ardent genius, but do not name me; not merely because i may have talked like an idiot, but because my ignorance might, ipso c fiacto, stamp the idea with ridicule. people, i know, do not love to be put out of their old ways: no farmer listens at first to new inventions in agriculture; and i don't doubt but bread was originally deemed a new-fangled vagary, by those who had seen their fathers live very comfortably upon acorns. nor is there any harm in starting new game to invention: many excellent discoveries have been made by men who were a la chasse of something very different. i am not quite sure that the art of making gold and of* living for ever have been yet found out: yet to how many noble discoveries has the pursuit of those nostrums given birth! poor chymistry, had she not had such glorious objects in view! if you are sitting under a cowslip at your cottage, these reveries may amuse you for half an hour, at least make you smile; and for the ease of your conscience, which is always in a panic, they require no answer.( ) i will not ask you about the new history of bristol,( ) because you are too good a citizen to say a word against your native place; but do pray cast your eye on the prints of the cathedral and castle, the chef-d',oeuvres of chatterton's ignorance, and of mr. barrett's too; and on two letters pretended to have been sent to me, and which never were sent. if my incredulity had wavered, they would have fixed it. i wish the milkwoman would assert that boadicea's dairymaid had invented dutch tiles; it would be like chatterton's origin of heraldry and painted glass, in those two letters. i must, however, mention one word about myself. in the new fourth volume of the biographia britannica i am more candidly treated about that poor lad than usual: yet the writer still affirms, that, according to my own account, my reply was too much in the-commonplace style of court replies. now my own words, and the truth, as they stand in print in the very letter of mine which this author quotes, were, "i wrote him a letter with as much kindness and tenderness as if i had been his guardian." is this by my own account a court-reply? nor did i conceive, for i never was a courtier, that courtiers are wont to make tender replies to the poor; i am glad to hear they do. i have kept this letter some days in my writing-box, till i could meet with a stray member of parliament, for it is not worth making you pay for: but when you talk to me i cannot help answering incontinently; besides, can one take up a letter at a long distance, and heat one's reply over again with the same interest that it occasioned at first? adieu! i wish you may come to hampton before i leave these purlieus! yours more and more. ( ) miss more had written to walpole,--"poor france! though i am sorry that the lawless rabble are so triumphant, i cannot help hoping that some good will arise from the sum of human misery having been so considerably lessened at one blow by the destruction of the bastille. the utter extinction of the inquisition, and the redemption of africa, i hope yet to see accomplished." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) to this passage miss more thus replies:--"your project for relieving our poor slaves by machine work is so far from being wild or chimerical, that of three persons deep and able in the concern (mr. wilberforce among others), not one but has thought it rational and practicable, and that a plough may be so constructed as to save much misery." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-,e. ( ) "the history and antiquities of bristol, by william barrett:" bristol, , quarto; a work which mr. park described as " a motley compound of real and superstitious history."-e. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i am not surprised, my dear madam, that the notice of my illness should have stimulated your predominant quality, your sensibility. cannot do less in return than relieve it immediately, by assuring you that i am in a manner recovered; and should have gone out before this time, if my mind were as much at ease as my poor limbs. i have passed, five months most uncomfortably; the two last most unhappily. in june and september i had two bad falls by my own lameness and weakness, and was much bruised; while i was witness to the danger, and then to the death, of my invaluable niece, lady dysart. she was angelic, and has left no children. the unexpected death of lord waldegrave( ) one of the most amiable of men, has not only deprived me of him, but has opened a dreadful scene of calamities! he and my niece were the happiest and most domestic of couples. your kind inquiries after me have drawn these details from me, for which i make no excuse; good-nature never grudges its pity. i, who love to force your gravity to smile, am seriously better pleased to indulge your benevolence with a subject of esteem, which, though moving your compassion, will be accompanied by no compunction. i will now answer your letter. your plea, that not composition, but business, has occasioned your silence, is no satisfaction to me. in my present anxious solitude i have again read bonner and florio, and the bas bleu; and do you think i am much pleased to learn that you have not been writing? who is it says something like this line?-- hannah will not write, and lactilla will. they who think her earl goodwin will outgo shakspeare, might be in the right, if they specified in what way. i believe she may write worse than he sometimes did, though that is not easy; but to excel him--oh! i have not words adequate to my contempt for those who can suppose such a possibility! i am sorry, very sorry, for what you tell me of poor barrett's fate. though he did write worse than shakspeare, it is great pity he was told so, as it killed him; and i rejoice that i did not publish a word in contradiction of the letters which he said chatterton sent to me, as i was advised to do. i might have laughed at the poor man's folly, and then i should have been miserable to have added a grain to the poor man's mortification.( ) you rejoice me, not my vanity, by telling me my idea of a mechanic succedaneum to the labour of negroes is not visionary, but thought practicable. oh! how i wish i understood sugar ploughs, and could marry them! alas! i understand nothing useful. my head is as un-mechanic as it is un-arithmetic, un-geometric, un-metaphysic, uncommercial; but will not some one of those superior heads to whom you have talked on my indigested hint reduce it to practicability'! how a feasible scheme would stun those who call humanity romantic, and show, from the books of the custom-house, that murder is a great improvement of the revenue! even the present situation of france is favourable. could not mr. wilberforce obtain to have the enfranchisement of the negroes started there? the jews are claiming their natural rights there; and blacks are certainly not so great defaulters as the hebrews, though they too have undergone ample persecutions. methinks, as lord george gordon is in correspondence with the `etats, he has been a little remiss in not signing the petition of those of his new communion. the `etats are detestable and despicable; and, in fact, guilty of the outrages of the parisian and provincial mobs. the mob of twelve hundred, not legislators, but dissolvers of all law, unchained the mastiffs that had been tied up, and were sure to worry all who fell in their way. to annihilate all laws, however bad, and to have none ready to replace them, was proclaiming anarchy. what should one think of a mad-doctor, who should let loose a lunatic, suffer him to burn bedlam, chop off the heads of the keepers, and then consult with some students in physic on the gentlest mode of treating delirium? by a late vote i see that the twelve hundred praters are reduced to five hundred: vive la reine billingsgate! the thalestris who has succeeded louis quatorze! a committee of those amazons stopped the duke of orleans, who, to use their style, i believe is not a barrel the better herring. your reflections on vertot's passion for revolutions are admirable,( ) and yet it is natural for an historian to like to describe times of action. halcyon days do not furnish matter for talents; they are like the virtuous couple in a comedy, a little insipid. mr. manly and lady grace, mellefont and cynthia, do not interest one much. indeed, in a tragedy where they are unhappy, they give the audience full satisfaction, and no envy. the newspapers, no doubt, thought dr. priestley could not do better than to espouse you.( ) he certainly would be very judicious, could he obtain your consent; but, alas! you would squabble about socinianism, or some of those isms. to tell you the truth, i hate all those constantinopolitan jargons, that set people together by the ears about pedantic terms. when you apply scholastic phrases as happily and genteelly as you do in your bas bleu, they are delightful; but don't muddify your charming simplicity with controversial distinctions, that will sour your sweet piety. sects are the bane of charity, and have deluged the world with blood. i do not mean, by what i am going to say, to extort another letter from you before i have the pleasure of seeing you at hampton; but i really shall be much obliged to you for a single line soon, only to tell me if miss williams is at stoke with the duchess of beaufort. to a short note, cannot you add a short p. s. on the fate of earl goodwin?( ) lac mihi novum non frigore desit. adieu! my amiable friend! yours most sincerely. ( ) george fourth earl of waldegrave born in ; married, in , his cousin lady elizabeth laura waldegrave, daughter of james, the second earl. he died on the d of october.-e. ( ) mr. barrett was the person who first encouraged chatterton to publish the poems which he attributed to rowley. he was a respectable surgeon at bristol.-e. ( ) miss more, in her last letter, had said--"what a pity it is that vertot is not alive that man's element was a state convulsion; he hopped over peaceful intervals, as periods of no value, and only seemed to enjoy himself when all the rest of the world was sad. storm and tempest were his halcyon days."-e. ( ) in her letter to walpole miss more had said,--"i comforted myself., that your two fair wives were within reach of your elbow-chair, and that their pleasant society would somewhat mitigate the sufferings of your confinement. apropos of two wives--when the newspapers the other day were pleased to marry me to dr. priestley, i am surprised they did not rather choose to bestow me on mr. madan, as his wife is probably better broken in to these eastern usages, than mrs. priestley may be. i never saw the doctor but once in my life, and he had then been married above twenty years." memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) ann yearsley's tragedy, which had just been represented, with little success, at the bath and bristol theatres. in reply to walpole's query, miss more says, "there are, i dare say, some pretty passages in it, but all seem to bring it in guilty of the crime of dullness; which i take to be the greatest fault in dramatic composition."-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) it is very provoking that people must always be hanging or drowning themselves, or going mad, that you forsooth, mistress, may have the diversion of exercising your pity and good-nature, and charity, and intercession, and all that bead-roll of virtues that make you so troublesome and amiable, when you might be ten times more agreeable by things that would not cost one above half-a-crown at a time.( ) you are an absolutely walking hospital, and travel about into lone and bye places, with your doors open to house stray casualties! i wish at least that you would have some children yourself, that you might not be plaguing one for all the pretty brats that are starving and friendless. i suppose it was some such goody two or three thousand years ago that suggested the idea of an alna-mater, suckling the three hundred and sixty-five bantlings of the countess of hainault. well, as your newly-adopted pensioners have two babes, i insist on your accepting two guineas for them instead of one at present (that is, when you shall be present). i if you cannot circumscribe your own charities, you shall not stint mine, madam, who can afford it much better, and who must be dunned for alms, and do not scramble over hedges and ditches in searching for opportunities of flinging away my money on good works. i employ mine better at auctions, and in buying pictures and baubles, and hoarding curiosities, that in truth i cannot keep long but that will last for ever in my catalogue, and make me immortal! alas! will they cover a multitude of sins? adieu! i cannot jest after that sentence. yours sincerely. ( ) miss more was at this time raising a subscription for the benefit of the family of a poor man who had been cut down after he had nearly hung himself.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am glad at least that you was not fetched to town on last tuesday, which was as hot as if phaeton had once more gotten into his papa's curricle and driven it along the lower road; but the old king has resumed the reins again, and does not allow us a handful more of beams than come to our northern share. i am glad, too, that i was not summoned also to the fitzroyal arrangement: it was better to be singed here, than exposed between two such fiery furnaces as lady southampton and my niece keppel. i pity charles fox to be kept on the westminster gridiron.( ) before i came out of town, i was diverted by a story from the hustings: one of the mob called out to fox, "well, charley, are not you sick of your coalition?" "poor gentleman!" cried an old woman in the crowd, "why should not he like a collation?" i am very sorry mrs. damer is so tormented, but i hope the new inflammation will relieve her. as i was writing that sentence this morning, mesdames de boufflers came to see me from richmond, and brought a comte de moranville to see my house. the puerile pedants of their `etats are going to pull down the statues of louis quatorze, like their silly ancestors, who proposed to demolish the tomb of john duke of bedford. the vicomte de mirabeau is arrested somewhere for something, perhaps for one of his least crimes; in short, i m angry that the cause of liberty is profaned by such rascals. if the two german kings make peace, as you hear and as i expected, the brabanters, who seem not to have known much better what to do with their revolution, will be the first sacrifice on the altar of peace. i stick fast at the beginning of the first volume of bruce,( ) though i am told it is the most entertaining; but i am sick of his vanity, and (i believe) of his want of veracity; but i am sure of his want of method and of his obscurity. i hope my wives were not at park-place in your absence: the loss of them is irreparable to me, and i tremble to think how much more i shall feel it in three months, when i am to part with them for--who can tell how long? adieu! ( ) now first printed. ( ) at the close of the election, on the d of july, the numbers were, for mr. fox , lord hood , and mr. horne took .-e. ( ) bruce's "travels to discover the source of the nile" had just appeared, in five large quarto volumes. it was dedicated to george the third, who, while society in general raised a cry of incredulity against it, stood up warmly in its' favour, and contended that it was a great work.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i do not forget your lordship's commands, though i do recollect my own inability to divert you. every year at my advanced time of life would make more reasonable my plea of knowing nothing worth repeating, especially at this season. the general topic of elections is the last subject to which i could listen: there is not one about which i care a straw; and i believe your lordship quite as indifferent. i am not much more au fait of war. or peace; i hope for the latter, nay and expect it, because it is not yet war. pride and anger do not deliberate to the middle of the campaign; and i believe even the great incendiaries are more intent on making a good bargain than on saving their honour. if they save lives, i care not who is the better politician; and, as i am not to be their judge, i do not inquire what false weights they fling into the scales. two-thirds of france, who are not so humble as i, seem to think they can entirely new-model the world with metaphysical compasses; and hold that no injustice, no barbarity, need to be counted in making the experiment. such legislators are sublime empirics, and in their universal benevolence have very little individual sensibility. in short, the result of my reflections on what has passed in europe for these latter centuries is, that tyrants have no consciences, and reformers no feeling; and the world suffers both by the plague and by the cure. what oceans of blood were luther and calvin the authors of being spilt! the late french government was detestable; yet i still doubt whether a civil war will not be the consequence of the revolution, and then what may be the upshot? brabant was grievously provoked; is it sure that it will be emancipated? for how short a time do people who set out on the most just principles, advert to their first springs of motion, and retain consistency? nay, how long can promoters of revolutions be sure of maintaining their own ascendant? they are like projectors, who are commonly ruined; while others make fortunes on the foundation laid by the inventors. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, wednesday night, july , . (page ) it is certainly not from having any thing to tell you, that i reply so soon, but as the most agreeable thing i can do in my confinement. the gout came into my heel the night before last, perhaps from the deluge and damp. i increased it yesterday by limping about the house with a party i had to breakfast. to-day i am lying on the settee, unable to walk alone, or even to put on a slipper. however, as i am much easier this evening, i trust it will go off. i do not love disputes, and shall not argue with you about bruce; but, if you like him, you shall not choose an author for me. it is the most absurd, obscure, and tiresome book i know. i shall admire if you have a clear conception about most of the persons and matters in his work; but, in fact, i do not believe you have. pray, can you distinguish between his cock and hen heghes, and between a yasouses and ozoros? and do you firmly believe that an old man and his son were sent for and put to death, because the king had run into a thornbush, and was forced to leave his clothes behind him? is it your faith, that one of their abyssinian majesties pleaded not being able to contribute towards sending for a new abuna, because he had spent all his money at venice in looking-glasses? and do you really think that peter paez was a jack-of-all-trades, and built palaces and convents without assistance, and furnished them with his own hands? you, who are a little apt to contest most assertions, must have strangely let out your credulity!( ) i could put forty questions to you as wonderful; and, for my part, could as soon credit * * * *. i am tired of railing at french barbarity and folly. they are more puerile now serious, than -when in the long paroxysm of gay levity. legislators, a senate, to neglect laws, in order to annihilate coats of arms and liveries! to pull down a king, and set up an emperor! they are hastening to establish the tribunal of the praetorian guards; for the sovereignty, it seems, is not to be hereditary. one view of their f`ete of the th,( ) i suppose, is to draw money to paris; and the consequence will be, that the deputies will return to the provinces drunk with independence and self-importance, and will commit fifty times more excesses, massacres, and devastations, than last year. george selwyn says, that monsieur, the king's brother, is the only man of rank from whom they cannot take a title.( ) how franticly have the french acted, and how rationally the americans! but franklin and washington were great men. none have appeared yet in france; and necker has only returned to make a wretched figure! he is become as insignificant as his king; his name is never mentioned, but now and then as disapproving something that is done. why then does he stay? does he wait to strike some great stroke, when every thing is demolished? his glory, which consisted in being minister though a protestant, is vanished by the destruction of popery; the honour of which, i suppose, he will scarce assume to himself. i have vented my budget, and now good night! i feel almost as if i could walk up to bed. ( though bruce's work was attacked at the time by the critics with much virulence, his statements have been more or less confirmed by salt, burckhardt, wit-an, clarke, belzoni, and other distinguished travellers. bruce never replied to any of his opponents; but sometimes said to his daughter, that he hoped she would live to see the time when the truth of what he had written would be established. he lost his life in april , in consequence of an accidental slip of his foot, while handing a lady down stairs to her carriage. a second edition of his travels was published in , by dr. alexander murray, from a copy which the traveller had himself prepared for the press.-e. ( ) the grand federation in the champ de mar, on the anniversary of the taking of the bastille, thus described by m. thiers:--"a magnificent amphitheatre, formed at the further extremity, was destined for the national authorities. the king and the president sat beside one another on similar seats. behind the king was an elevated balcony for the queen and the court. the ministers were at some distance before from the king, and the deputies ranged on either side. four hundred thousand spectators occupied the lateral amphitheatres. sixty thousand armed federalists performed their evolutions in the intermediate space; and in the centre, upon a base twenty-five feet high, stood the altar of the country. three hundred priests, in white surplices and tricoloured scarfs, covered the steps, and were to officiate. the bishop of anton" [afterwards prince talleyrand] began the mass. divine service over, la fayette received the orders of the king, who handed to him the form of the oath. la fayette carried it to the altar. at this moment all the banners waved, every sabre glistened. the general the army, the president, the deputies cried 'i swear it.' the king, standing, with his hand outstretched towards the altar, said 'i king of the french, swear,' etc. at this moment., the queen, moved by the general emotion, clasped in her arms the august child, the heir to the throne, and, from the balcony, showed him to the assembled nation. at this moment shouts of joy, attachment 'enthusiasm, were addressed to the mother and the child, and all hearts were hers." history of the revolution, vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) on the th of julio, a decree, that the titles of duke, count, marquis, viscount, baron, and chevalier should be suppressed, had been carried in the national assembly by a large majority.-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, saturday night, july , . (page ) how kind to write the very moment you arrived! but pray do not think that, welcome as your letters are, i would purchase them at the price of any fatigue to you-a proviso i put in already against moments when you may be more weary than by a journey to lymington. you make me happy by the good accounts of miss agnes; and i should be completely so, if the air of the sea could be so beneficial to you both, as to make your farther journey unnecessary to your healths, at least for some time; for--and i protest solemnly that not a personal thought enters into the consideration--i shall be excessively alarmed at your going to the continent. when such a frenzy has seized it. you see by the papers, that the flame has burst out at florence: can pisa then be secure? flanders can be no safe road; and is any part of france so? i told you in my last of the horrors at avignon. at madrid the people are riotous against the war with us, and prosecuted i am persuaded it will not be; but the demon of gaul is busy every where. the etats, who are as foolish as atrocious, have printed lists of the surnames which the late noblesse are to assume or resume; as if people did not know their own names. i like a speech i have heard of the queen. she went with the king to see the manufacture of glass, and, as they passed the halles, the poissardes huzzaed them; "upon my word," said the queen, "these folks are civiler when you visit them, than when they visit you." this marked both spirit and good -humour. for my part, i am so shocked at french barbarity, that i begin to think that our hatred of them is not national prejudice, but natural instinct; as tame animals are born with an antipathy to beasts of prey. mrs. damer tells me in a letter to-day, that lady ailesbury was charmed with you both (which did not surprise either of us); and she never saw two persons have so much taste for the country, who have no place of their own. it may be so; but begging her ladyship's pardon and yours, i think that people who have a place of their own, are mighty apt not to like any other. i feel all the kindness at your determination of coming to twickenham in august, and shall certainly say no more against it, though i am certain that i shall count every day that passes; and when they are passed, they will leave a melancholy impression on strawberry, that i had rather have affixed to london. the two last summers were infinitely the pleasantest i ever passed here, for i never before had an agreeable neighbourhood. still i loved the place, and had no comparisons to draw. now, the neighbourhood will remain, and will appear ten times worse; with the aggravation of remembering two months that may have some transient roses, but i am sure, lasting thorns. you tell me i do not write with my usual spirits: at least i will suppress, as much as i can, the want of them, though i am a bad dissembler.( ) you do not mention the cathedral at winchester, which i have twice seen and admired; nor do you say any thing of bevismount and netley--charming netley! at lyndhurst you passed the palatial hovel of my royal nephew; who i have reason to wish had never been so, and did all i could to prevent his being. the week before last i met the marlboroughs at lady di's. the duchess( ) desired to come and see strawberry again, as it had rained the whole time she was here last. i proposed the next morning: no, she could not: she expected company to dinner; she believed their brother, lord robert( ) would dine with them: i thought that a little odd, as they had just turned him out for oxfordshire; and i thought a dinner no cause at the distance of four miles. in her grace's dawdling way, she could fix no time: and so on friday, at half an hour after seven, as i was going to lady north's, they arrived; and the sun being setting, and the moon not risen, you may judge how much they could see through all the painted glass by twilight. ( ) in a letter written in this month to walpole, miss more asks, "where and how are the berrys? i hope they are within reach of your great chair, if you are confined, and of your airings, if you go abroad. i hate their going to yorkshire: as hotspur says, 'what do they do in the north, when they ought to be in the south?", memoirs, vol.ii. p. .-e. ( ) lady caroline russell; married, in , to the duke of marlborough. ( ) lord robert spencer, brother of the duke of marlborough. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , at night, . (page ) mr. nicholls has offered to be postman to you; whereof, though i have nothing, or as little as nothing, to say, i thought as how, it would look kinder to send nothing in writing than by word of mouth. nothing the first. so the peace is made, and the stocks drank its health in a bumper; but when they waked the next morning, they found they had reckoned without their host, and that their majesties the king of big britain and the king of little spain have agreed to make peace some time or other, if they can agree upon it; and so the stocks drew in their horns: but, having great trust in some time or other, they only fell two pegs lower. i, who never believed there would be war, keep my prophetic stocks up to par, and my consolation still higher; for when spanish pride truckles, and english pride has had the honour of bullying, i dare to say we shall be content with the ostensible triumph, as spain will be with some secret article that will leave her much where she was before. vide falkland's island. nothing the second. miss gunning's match with lord blandford. you asserted it so peremptorily, that, though i doubted it, i quoted you. lo! it took its rise solely in poor old bedford's dotage, that still harps on conjunctions copulative, but now disavows it, as they say, on a remonstrance from her daughter. nothing the third. nothing will come of nothing, says king lear, and your humble servant. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i must not pretend any longer, my dear lord, that this region is void of news and diversions. oh! we can innovate as well as neighbouring nations. if an earl stanhope, though he cannot be a tribune, is ambitious of being a plebeian, he may without law be as vulgar as heart can wish; and, though we have not a national assembly to lay the axe to the root of nobility, the peerage have got a precedent for laying themselves in the kennel. last night the earl of barrymore was so humble as to perform a buffoon-dance and act scaramouch in a pantomime at richmond for the benefit of edwin, jun. the comedian:( ) and i, like an old fool, but calling myself a philosopher that loves to study human nature in all its disguises, went to see the performance. mr. gray thinks that some milton or some cromwell may be lost to the world under the garb of a ploughman. others may suppose that some excellent jack-pudding may lie hidden under red velvet and ermine. i cannot say that by the experiment of last night the latter hypothesis has been demonstrated, any more than the inverse proposition in france, where, though there seem to be many as bloody-minded rascals as cromwell, i can discover none of his abilities.( ) they have settled nothing like a constitution; on the contrary, they seem to protract every thing but violence, as much as they can, in order to keep their louie a day, which is more than two-thirds of the asset they perhaps ever saw in a month. i do not love legislators that pay themselves so amply! they might have had as good a constitution as twenty-four millions of people could comport. as they have voted an army of an hundred and fifty thousand men, i know what their constitution will be, after passing through a civil war. in short, i detest them: they have done irreparable injury to liberty, for no monarch will ever summon `etats again; and all the real service that will result from their fury will be, that every king in europe, for these twenty, or perhaps thirty years to come, will be content with the prerogative he has. without venturing to augment it. the empress of russia has thrashed the king of sweden; and the king of sweden has thrashed the empress of russia. i am more glad that both are beaten than that either is victorious ; for i do not, like our newspapers, and such admirers, fall in love with heroes and heroines who make war without a glimpse of provocation. i do like our makincy peace, whether we had provocation or not. i am forced to deal in european news, my dear lord, for i have no homespun. i don't think my whole inkhorn could invent another paragraph; and therefore i will take my leave, with (your lordship knows) every kind wish for your health and happiness.( ) ( ) in the following month "the follies of a day" was performed at lord barrymore's private theatre, at wergrave. "his lordship, in the character of the gardener," according to the newspapers, "was highly comic, and his humour was not overstrained: the whole concluded with a dance, in which was introduced a favourite pas russe, by lord barrymore and mr. delpini, which kept the theatre in a roar."-e. ( ) gibbon, in a letter written a few months before from lausanne to lord sheffield, makes the following reflections:-- "the french nation had a glorious opportunity, but they have abused and may lose their advantages. if they had been content with a liberal translation of our system, if they had respected the prerogatives of the crown and the privileges of the nobles, they might have raised a solid fabric on the only true foundation, the natural aristocracy of a great country. how different is the prospect! their king brought a captive to paris, after his palace had been stained with the blood of his guards; the nobles in exile; the clergy plundered in a way which strikes at the root of all property; the capital an independent republic; the union of the provinces dissolved; the flames of discord kindled by the worst of men, and the honestest of the assembly a set of wild visionaries. as yet there is no symptom of a great man, a richelieu or a cromwell, arising either to restore the monarchy, or to lead the commonwealth."-e. ( ) this appears to have been the last letter addressed by walpole to the earl of strafford. his lordship died at wentworth castle, on the th of march following, in his seventy-ninth year.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) so many years, sir, have elapsed since i saw burleigh, that i cannot in general pretend to recollect the pictures well. i do remember that there was a surfeit of pieces by luca jordano, and carlo dolce, no capital masters, and posterior to the excellent. the earl of exeter, who resided long at rome in the time of those two painters, seemed to have employed them entirely during his sojourn there. i was not struck more than you, sir, with the celebrated death of seneca, though one of the best works of jordano. perhaps prior's verses lifted it to part of its fame, though even those verses are inferior to many of that charming poet's compositions. upon the whole, burleigh is a noble palace, contains many fine things, and the inside court struck me with admiration and reverence. the shakspeare gallery is truly most inadequate to its prototypes but how should it be worthy of them! if we could recall the brightest luminaries of painting, could they do justice to shakspeare? was raphael himself as great a genius in his art as the author of macbeth? and who could draw falstaffe, but the writer of falstaffe? i am entirely of your opinion, sir, that two of northcote's pictures, from king john and richard the third, are at the head of the collection. in macklin's gallery of poets and scripture, there are much better pictures than at boydell's. opie's jephthah's vow is a truly fine performance, and would be so in any assemblage of paintings; as sir joshua's death of beaufort is worthy of none: the imp is burlesque, and the cardinal seems terrified at him as before him, when the imp is behind him. in sir thomas hanmer's edition there is a print that gives the fact simply, pathetically, and with dignity, and just as you wish it told. my sentiments on french politics concur as much with yours as they do on subjects above. the national assembly set out too absurdly and extravagantly, not to throw their country into the last confusion; which is not the way of correcting a government, but more probably of producing a worse, bad as the old was, and thence they will have given a lasting wound to liberty: for what king will ever call `etats again, if he can possibly help it! the new legislators were pedants, not politicians, when they announced the equality of all men. we are all born so, no doubt, abstractedly; and physically capable of being kept so, were it possible to establish a perfect government, and give the same education to all men. but are they so in the present constitution of society, under a bad government, where most have had no education at all, but have been debased, brutified, by a long train and mixture of superstition and oppression, and witnesses to the luxury and vices of their superiors, which they could only envy and not enjoy? it was turning tigers loose; and the degradation of the nobility pointed out the prey. could it be expected that savages so hallooed on to outrage and void of any notions of reciprocal"duties and obligations, would fall into a regular system of' acting as citizens under the government of reason and justice? it was tearing all the bonds of society, which the experience of mankind had taught them were necessary to the mutual convenience of all; and no provision, no security, was made for those who were levelled, and who, though they enjoyed what they had by the old constitution, were treated, or were exposed to be treated, as criminals. they have been treated so: several have been butchered; and the national assembly dare not avenge them, as they should lose the favour of the intoxicated populace. that conduct was senseless, or worse. with no less folly did they seek to expect that a vast body of men, more enlightened, at least, than the gross multitude, would sit down in patience under persecution and deprivation of all they valued; i mean the nobility and clergy, who might be stunned, but were sure of reviving and of burning with vengeance. the insult was the greater, as the subsequent conduct of the national assembly has proved more shamefully dishonest, in their paying themselves daily more than two-thirds of them ever saw perhaps in a month; and that flagitious self-bestowed stipend, as it is void of all patriotic integrity, will destroy their power too; for, if constitution-making is so lucrative a trade, others will wish to share in the plunder of their country too; and, even without a civil war, i am persuaded the present assembly will neither be septennial, nor even triennial. ( ) now first collected. letter to the miss berrys. sunday, oct. , , the day of your departure. (page ) is it possible to write to my beloved friends, and refrain from speaking of my grief for losing you; though it is but the continuation of what i have felt ever since i was stunned by your intention of going abroad this autumn? still i will not tire you with it often. in happy days i smiled, and called you my dear wives--now i can only think on you as darling children of whom i am bereaved! as such i have loved and do love you; and, charming as you both are, i have had no occasion to remind myself that i am past seventy-three. your hearts, your understandings, your virtues, and the cruel injustice of your fate,( ) have interested me in every thing that concerns you; and so far from having occasion to blush for any unbecoming weakness, i am proud of my affection for you, and very proud of your condescending to pass so many hours with a very old man, when every body admires you, and the most insensible allow that your good sense and information (i speak of both) have formed you to converse with the most intelligent of our sex as well as your own; and neither can tax you with airs of pretension or affectation. your simplicity and natural ease set off all your other merits-all these graces are lost to me, alas! when i have no time to lose. sensible as i am to my loss, it will occupy but part of my thoughts, till i know you are safely landed, and arrived safely at turin. not till you are there, and i learn so, will my anxiety subside, and settle into steady, selfish sorrow. i looked at every weathercock as i came along the road to-day, and was happy to see every one point northeast. may they do so to-morrow! i found here the frame for wolsey, and to-morrow morning kirgate will place him in it; and then i shall begin pulling the little parlour to pieces, that it may be hung anew to receive him. i have also obeyed miss agnes, though with regret; for, on trying it, i found her arcadia( ) would fit the place of the picture she condemns, which shall therefore be hung in its room; though the latter should give way to nothing else, nor shall be laid aside, but shall hang where i shall see it almost as often. i long to hear that its dear paintress is well; i thought her not at all so last night. you will tell me the truth, though she in her own case, and in that alone, allows herself mental reservation. forgive me for writing nothing to-night but about you two and myself. of what can i have thought else? i have not spoken to a single person but my own servants since we parted last night. i found a message here from miss howe( ) to invite me for this evening--do you think i have not preferred staying at home to write to you, as this must go to london to-morrow morning by the coach to be ready for tuesday's post! my future letters shall talk of other things, whenever i know any thing worth repeating; or perhaps any trifle, for i am determined to forbid myself lamentations that would weary you; and the frequency of my letters will prove there is no forgetfulness. if i live to see you again, you will then judge whether i am changed; but a friendship so rational and so pure as mine is, and so equal for both, is not likely to have any of the fickleness of youth, when it has none of its other ingredients. it was a sweet consolation to the short time that i may have left, to fall into such a society; no wonder then that i am unhappy at that consolation being abridged. i pique myself on no philosophy but what a long use and knowledge of the world had given me-the philosophy of indifference to most persons and events. i do pique myself on not being ridiculous at this very late period of my life; but when there is not a grain of passion in my affection for you two, and when you both have the good sense not to be displeased at my telling you so, (though i hope you would have despised me for the contrary,) i am not ashamed to say that your loss is heavy to me; and that i am only reconciled to it by hoping that a winter in italy, and the journeys and sea air, will be very beneficial to two constitutions so delicate as yours. adieu! my dearest friends it would be tautology to subscribe a name to a letter, every line of which would suit no other man in the world but the writer. ( ) this alludes to miss berry's father having been disinherited by an uncle, to whom he was heir at law, and a large property left to his younger brother.-m.b. ( ) a drawing by miss agnes berry. ( ) julia howe, an unmarried sister of admiral earl howe, who lived at richmond. letter to the miss berrys. sunday, oct. , . (page ) perhaps i am unreasonably impatient, and expect letters before they can come. i expected a letter from lyons three days ago, though mrs. damer told me i should not have one till to-morrow. i have got one to-day; but alas! from pougues only, eleven and a half posts short of lyons! oh! may mrs. damer prove in the right to-morrow! well! i must be happy for the past; and that you had such delightful weather, and but one little accident to your carriage. we have had equal summer till wednesday last, when it blew a hurricane. i said to it, "blow, blow, thou winter wind, i don't mind you now!" but i have not forgotten tuesday the th; and now i hope it will be as calm as it is to-day on wednesday next, when mrs. damer is to sail.( ) i was in town on thursday and friday, and so were her parents, to take our leaves; as we did on friday night, supping all at richmond-house. she set out yesterday morning, and i returned hither. i am glad you had the amusement of seeing the national assembly. did mr. berry find it quite so august as he intended it should be? burke's pamphlet is to appear to-morrow, and calonne has published a thumping one of four hundred and forty pages.( ) i have but begun it, for there is such a quantity of calculations, and one is forced to bait so often to boil milliards of livres down to a rob of pounds sterling, that my head is only filled with figures instead of arguments, and i understand arithmetic less than logic. our war still hangs by a hair, they say; and that this approaching week must terminate its fluctuations. brabant, i am told, is to be pacified by negotiations at the hague. though i talk like a newspaper, i do not assume their airs, nor give my intelligence of any sort for authentic, unless when the gazette endorses the articles. thus, lord louvain is made earl of beverley, and lord earl of digby; but in no gazette, though still in the songs of sion, do i find that miss gunning is a marchioness. it is not that i suppose you care who gains a step in the aristocracy; but i tell you these trifles to keep you au courant, and that at your return you may not make only a baronial curtsey, when it should be lower by two rows of ermine to some new-hatched countess. this is all the, news-market furnishes. your description of the national assembly and of the champ de mars were both admirable; but the altar of boards and canvass seems a type of their perishable constitution, as their air-balloons were before. french visions are generally full of vapour, and terminate accordingly. i have been at mrs. grenville's( ) this evening, who had a small party for the duchess of gloucester: there were many inquiries after my wives. ( ) mrs. damer was going to pass the winter at lisbon, on account of her health. ( ) this was his "lettre sur l'`etat de la france, pr`esent et `a venir;" of which a translation appeared in the following year.-e. ( ) margaret banks, widow of the hon. henry grenville, who died in . their only daughter was married, in , to viscount mahon, afterwards earl stanhope. letter to the miss berrys park-place, nov. , . (page ) no letter since pougues! i think you can guess how uneasy i am! it is not the fault of the wind; which has blown from every quarter. to-day i cannot hear, for no post comes in on mondays. what can have occasioned my receiving no letters from lyons, when, on the th of last month, you were within twelve posts of it? i am now sorry i came hither, lest by change of place a letter may have shuttlecocked about, and not have known where to find me; and yet i left orders with kirgate to send it after me, if one came to strawberry on saturday. i return thither to-morrow, but not till after the post is come in here. i am writing to you now, while the company are walked out, to divert my impatience; which, however, is but a bad recipe, and not exactly the way to put you out of my head. the first and great piece of news is the pacification with spain. the courier arrived on thursday morning with a most acquiescent answer to our ultimatum: what that was i do not know, nor much care. peace contents me, and for my part i shall not haggle about the terms. i have a good general digestion, and it is not a small matter that will lie at my stomach when i have no hand in dressing the ingredients. the pacification of brabant is likely to be volume the second. the emperor, and their majesties of great britain and prussia, and his serene highness the republic of holland have sent a card to his turbulent lowness of brabant, and* they allow him but three weeks to submit to his old sovereign: on promise of a general pardon -or the choice of threescore thousand men ready to march without a pardon. the third volume, expected, but not yet in the press, is a counterrevolution in france. of that i know nothing but rumour; yet it certainly is not the most incredible event that rumour ever foretold. in this country the stock of the national assembly is fallen down to bankruptcy. their only renegade, aristocrat earl stanhope, has, with d. w. russel, scratched his name out of the revolution club; but the fatal blow has been at last given by mr. burke. his pamphlet( ) came out this day se'nnight, and is far superior to what was expected, even by his warmest admirers. i have read it twice; and though of three hundred and fifty pages, i wish i could repeat every page by heart. it is sublime, profound, and gay. the wit and satire are equally brilliant; and the whole is wise, though in some points he goes too far: yet in general there is far less want of judgment than could be expected from him. if it could be translated,--which, from the wit and metaphors and allusions, is almost impossible,--i should think it would be a classic book in all countries, except in present france.( ) to their tribunes it speaks daggers though, unlike them, it uses none. seven thousand copies have been taken off by the booksellers already, and a new edition is preparing. i hope you will see it soon. there ends my gazette. there is nobody here at present but mrs. hervey, mrs. e. hervey, and mrs. cotton: but what did i find on saturday? why, the prince of furstemberg,( ) his son, and son's governor! i was ready to turn about and go back: but they really proved not at all unpleasant. the ambassador has not the least german stiffness or hauteur; is extremely civil, and so domestic a man, that he talked comfortably of his wife and eight children, and of his fondness for them. he understands english, though he does not speak it. the son, a good-humoured lad of fifteen, seems well-informed: the governor, a middle-aged officer, speaks english so perfectly, that even by his accent i should not have discovered him for a foreigner. they stayed all night, and went to oxford next morning before i rose. november th, at night. this morning, before i left park-place, i had the relief and joy of receiving your letter of october , from lyons. it would have been still more welcome, if dated from turin; but, as you have met with no impediments so far, i trust you got out of france as well as through it. i do hope, too, that miss agnes is better, as you say; but when one is very anxious about a person, credulity does not take long strides in proportion. i am not surprised at your finding voiturins, or any body, or any thing, dearer: where all credit and all control are swept away, every man will be a tyrant in proportion to his necessities and his strength. societies were invented to temperate force: but it seems force was liberty, and much good may it do the french with being delivered from every thing but violence!--which i believe they will soon taste pro and con.! you may make me smile by desiring me to continue my affection. have i so much time left for inconstancy? for threescore years and ten i have not been very fickle in my friendship: in all these years i never found such a pair as you and your sister. should i meet with a superior pair,-but they must not be deficient in any one of the qualities which i find in you two,-why, perhaps, i may change; but, with that double mortgage on my affections, i do not think you are in much danger of losing them. you shall have timely notice if a second couple drops out of the clouds and falls in my way. ( ) the far-famed "reflections on the revolution in france;" of which about thirty thousand copies were sold in a comparatively short space of time.-e. ( ) a french translation, by m. dupont, shortly after made its appearance, and spread the reputation of the work over all europe. the emperor of germany, catherine of russia, and the french princes transmitted to mr. burke their warm approbation of it, and the unfortunate stanislaus of poland sent him his likeness on a gold medal.-e. ( ) the landgrave of furstemberg had been sent from the emperor leopold to notify his being elected king of the romans, and his subsequent coronation as emperor of germany.-e. letter to miss berry. november , . (page ) i had a letter from mrs. damer at falmouth. she suffered much by cold and fatigue, and probably sailed on saturday evening last, and may be at lisbon by this time, as you, i trust, are in italy. mr. burke's pamphlet has quite turned dr. price's head. he got upon a table at their club, toasted to our parliament becoming a national assembly, and to admitting no more peers of their assembly, having lost the only one they had. they themselves are very like the french `etats: two more members got on the table (their pulpit), and broke it down: so be it! the marquisate( ) is just where it was--to be and not to be. the duchess of argyll is said to be worse. della crusca( ) has published a poem, called "the laurel of liberty," which, like the enrag`es, has confounded and overturned all ideas. there are gossamery tears and silky oceans--the first time, to be sure, that any body ever cried cobwebs, or that the sea was made of paduasoy.( ) there is, besides, a violent tirade against a considerable personage, who, it is supposed, the author was jealous of, as too much favoured a few years ago by a certain countess. you may guess why i am not more explicit: for the same reason i beg you not to mention it at all; it would be exceedingly improper. as the parliament will meet in a fortnight, and the town be plumper, my letters may grow more amusing; though, unless the weather grows worse, i shall not contribute my leanness to its embonpoint. adieu! ( ) meaning the reported marriage of miss gunning to the marquis of blandford.-b. ( ) robert merry, esq. who, at this time, wrote in the newspapers under this signature, and thereby became the object of the caustic satire of the author of the baviad and maviad-- "lo, della crusca in his closet pent, he toils to give the crude conception vent abortive thoughts, that right and wrong confound, truth sacrific'd to letters, sense to sound; false glare, incongruous images combine, and noise and nonsense chatter through the line."-e. ( ) besides the above, mr. gifford instances, from the same poem, "moody monarchs, radiant rivers, cooling cataracts, lazy loires, gay garonnes, glossy glass, mingling murder, dauntless day, lettered lightnings, delicious dilatings, sinking sorrows, real reasoning, meliorating mercies, dewy vapours damp that sweep the silent swamps, etc. etc."-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, thursday, nov. , . (page ) on tuesday morning, after my letter was gone to the post, i received yours of the d (as i have all the rest) from turin, and it gave me very little of the joy i had so much meditated to receive from a letter thence. and why did not it?-because i had got one on saturday, which anticipated and augmented all the satisfaction i had allotted for turin. you will find my tuesday's letter, if ever you receive it, intoxicated with chamberry; for which, and all your kind punctuality, i give you a million of thanks. but how cruel to find that you found none of my letters at turin! there ought to have been two at least, of october the th and th. i have since directed one thither of the th; but alas! from ignorance, there was par paris on none of them; and the lord knows at how many little german courts they may have been baiting! i shall put par paris on this; but beg you will tell me, as soon as you can, which route is the shortest and the safest; that is, by which you are most likely to receive them. you do me justice in concluding there has been no negligence of mine in the case; indeed, i have been ashamed of the multiplicity of my letters, when i had scarce any thing to tell you but my own anxiety to hear of your being quietly settled at florence, out of the reach of all commotions. and how could i but dread your being molested by some accident, in the present state of france! and how could your healths mend in bad inns, and till you can repose somewhere? repose you will have at florence, but i shall fear the winter for you there: i suffered more by cold there, than by any place in my life; and never came home at night without a pain in my breast, which i never felt elsewhere, yet then i was very young and in perfect health. if either of you suffer there in any shape, i hope you will retire to pisa. my inquietude, that presented so many alarms to me before you set out, has, i find, and am grieved for it, not been quite in the wrong. some inconveniences i am persuaded you have sunk: yet the difficulty of landing at dieppe, and the ransack of your poor harmless trunks at bourgoin, and the wretched lodgings with which you were forced to take up at turin, count deeply with me: and i had much rather have lost all credit as a prophet, since i could not prevent your journey. may it answer for your healths! i doubt it will not in any other respect, as you have already found by the voiturins. in point of pleasure, is it possible to divest myself so radically of all self-love as to wish you may find italy as agreeable as you di formerly? in all other lights, i do most fervently hope there will he no drawbacks on your plan. should you be disappointed in any way, you know what a warm heart is open to receive you back; and so will your own cliveden( ) be too. i am glad you met the bishop of arras,( ) and am much pleased that he remembers me. i saw him very frequently at my dear old friend's,.( ) and liked him the best of all frenchmen i ever knew. he is extremely sensible, easy, lively, and void of prejudices. should he fall in your way again, i beg you will tell him how sincere a regard i have for him. he lived in the strictest union with his brother, the archbishop of tours, whom i was much less acquainted with, nor know if he be living. i have heard nothing since my tuesday's letter. as i still hope its predecessors will reach you, i will not repeat the trifling scraps of news i have sent you in them. in fact, this is only a trial whether par paris is a better passport than a direction without it; but i am grievously sorry to find difficulty of correspondence superadded to the vexation of losing you. writing to you was grown my chief occupation. i wish. europe and its broils were in the east indies, if they embarrass us quiet folks, who have nothing to do with their squabbles. the duchess of gloucester, who called on me yesterday, charged me to give her compliments to you both. miss foldson( ) has not yet sent me your pictures: i was in town on monday, and sent to reproach her with having twice broken her promise; her mother told my servant that miss was at windsor, drawing the queen and princesses. that is not the work of a moment. i am glad all the princes are not on the spot. i think of continuing here till the weather grows very bad; which it has not been at all yet, though not equal to what i am rejoiced you have found. i have no somerset or audley-street to receive me: mrs. damer is gone too. the conways remain at park-place till after christmas; it is entirely out of fashion for women to grow old and stay at home in an evening. they invite you, indeed, now and then, but do not expect to see you till near midnight; which is rather too late to begin the day, unless one was born but twenty years ago. i do not condemn any fashions, which the young ought to set, for the old certainly ought not; but an oak that has been going on in its old way for an hundred years, cannot shoot into a may-pole in three years, because it is the mode to plant lombardy poplars. what i should have suffered, if your letters, like mine, had wandered through germany! i, you was sure, had written, and was in no danger. dr. price, who had whetted his ancient talons last year to no purpose, has had them all drawn by burke, and the revolution club is as much exploded as the cock-lane ghost; but you, in order to pass a quiet winter in italy, would pass through a fiery furnace. fortunately, you have not been singed, and the letter from chamberry has composed all my panics, but has by no means convinced me that i was not perfectly in the right to endeavour to keep you at home. one does not put one's hand in the fire to burn off a hangnail; and, though health is delightful, neither of you were out of order enough to make a rash experiment. i would not be so absurd as to revert to old arguments, that happily proved no prophecies, if my great anxiety about you did not wish, in time, to persuade you to return through switzerland and flanders, if the latter is pacified and france is not; of which i see no likelihood. pray forgive me, if parts of my letters are sometimes tiresome; but can i appear only always cheerful when you two are absent, and have another long journey to make, ay, and the sea to cross again? my fears cannot go to sleep like a paroli at faro till there is a new deal, in which even then i should not be sure of winning. if i see you again, i will think i have gained another milleleva, as i literally once did; with this exception, that i was vehemently against risking a doit at the game of travelling. adieu! ( ) little strawberry hill, which he had then thus named. ( ) m. de conzies. this amiable prelate declined, in , the parisian archiepiscopacy, proffered him by buonaparte, and died in london, in december , in the arms of monsieur, afterwards charles the tenth.-e. ( ) madame du deffand. ) afterwards mrs. mee. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, friday night, nov. , . (page ) i am waiting for a letter from florence, not with perfect patience, though i could barely have one, even if you did arrive, as you intended, on the th; but twenty temptations might have occurred to detain you in that land of eye and ear sight; my chief eagerness is to learn that you have received at least some of my letters. i wish too to know, though i cannot yet, whether you would have me direct par paris, or as i did before. in this state of uncertainty i did not prepare this to depart this morning; nor, though the parliament met yesterday, have i a syllable of news for you, as there will be no debate till all the members have been sworn, which takes two or three days. moreover, i am still here: the weather, though very rainy, is quite warm; and i have much more agreeable society at richmond, with small companies and better hours, than in town, and shall have till after christmas, unless great cold drives me thither. lady di, selwyn, the penns, the onslows, douglases, mackinsys, keenes, lady mount-edgcumbe, all stay, and some of them meet every evening. the boufflers too are constantly invited, and the comtesse emilie sometimes carries her harp, on which they say she plays better than orpheus; but as i never heard him on earth, nor chez proserpine, i do not pretend to decide. lord fitzwilliam( ) has been here too; but was in the utmost danger of being lost on saturday night, in a violent storm between calais and dover, as the captain confessed to him when they were landed. do you think i did not ache at the recollection of a certain tuesday when you were sailing to dieppe? ( ) richard, seventh and last viscount fitzwilliam, the munificent benefactor to the university of cambridge. he died in .-e. letter to miss agnes berry. strawberry hill, sunday, nov. , . (page ) though i write to both at once, and reckon your letters to come equally from both, yet i delight in seeing your hand with a pen as well as with a pencil, and you express yourself as well with the one as with the other. your part in that which i have been so happy as to receive this moment, has singularly obliged me, by your having saved me the terror of knowing you had a torrent to cross after heavy rain. no cat is so afraid of water for herself, as i am grown to be for you. that panic, which will last for many months, adds to my fervent desire of your returning early in the autumn, that you may have neither fresh water nor the "silky" ocean to cross in winter. precious as our insular situation is, i am ready to wish with the frenchman, that you could somehow or other get to it by land,-- oui, c'est une isle toujours, je le sais bien; mais, par exemple, en allant d'alentour, n'y auroit-il pas moyen d'y arriver par terre?" correggio never pleased me in proportion to his fame; his grace touches upon grimace; the mouth of the beautiful angel at parma curls up almost into a half-moon. still i prefer corregio to the lourd want of grace in guereino, who is to me a german edition of guido. i am sorry the bookseller would not let you have an otranto. edwards told me, above two months ago, that he every day expected the whole impression; and he has never mentioned it waiting for my corrections. i will make kirgate write to him, for i have told you that i am still here. we have had much rain, but no flood; and yesterday and to-day have exhibited florentine skies. >from town i know nothing; but that on friday, after the king's speech, earl stanhope made a most frantic speech on the national assembly and against calonne's book, which he wanted to have taken up for high treason.( ) he was every minute interrupted by loud bursts of laughter; which was all the answer he received or deserved. his suffragan price has published a short, sneaking equivocal answer to burke, in which he pretends his triumph over the king of france alluded to july, not to october, though his sermon was preached in november. gredat--but not judaeus apella, as mr. burke so wittily says of the assignats.( ) mr. grenville, the secretary of state, is made a peer, they say to assist the chancellor in the house of lords: yet the papers pretend the chancellor is out of humour, and will resign the first may be true, the latter probably not.( ) richmond, my metropolis, flourishes exceedingly. the duke of clarence arrived at his palace there last night, between eleven and twelve, as i came from lady douglas. his eldest brother and mrs. fitzherbert dine there to-day with the duke of queensbury, as his grace, who called here this morning, told me, on the very spot where lived charles the first, and where are the portraits of his principal courtiers from cornbury. queensbury has taken to that palace at last, and has frequently company and music there in an evening. i intend to go. i suppose none of my florentine acquaintance are still upon earth. the handsomest woman there, of my days, was a madame grifoni, my fair geraldine: she would now be a methusalemess, and much more like a frightful picture i have of her by a one-eyed german painter. i lived then with sir horace mann, in casa mannetti in via de' santi apostoli, by the ponte di trinit`a. pray, worship the works of masaccio, if any remain; though i think the best have been burnt in a church. raphael himself borrowed from him. fra bartolomeo, too, is one of my standards for great ideas; and benvenuto cellini's perseus a rival of the antique, though mrs. damer will not allow it. over against the perseus is a beautiful small front of a house, with only three windows, designed by raphael; and another, i think, near the porta san gallo, and i believe called casa panciatici or pandolfini. ( ) in the report of lord stanbope's speech, as it is given in the parliamentary history, there is no expression of a wish that m. calonne should be ,taken up for high treason." what the noble earl said was, that the assertion that a civil war would meet with the support of all the crowned heads in europe was a scandalous libel on the king of england, and might endanger the lives of many natives of scotland and ireland then residing in france.-e. ( ) "the assembly made in their speeches a sort of swaggering declaration, something, i rather think, above legislative competence; that is, that there is no difference in value between metallic money and their assignats. this was a good, stout proof article of faith, pronounced under an anathema, by the venerable fathers of this philosophic synod. gredat who will certainly not judaeus apella."-e. ( ) in mr. wilberforce's diary for this year there appears the following entry:-"nov- . dined with mr. pitt. he told me of grenville's peerage and the true reasons--distrust of lord thurlow. saw thurlow's answer to the news. gave pitt a serious word or two." see life, vol. i. p. .-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, dec. , ; very late at night. (page ) the french packet that was said to be lost on tuesday last, and which did hang out signals of distress, was saved, but did not bring any letters; but three flemish mails that were due are arrived, and did bring letters, and, to my inexpressible joy, two from you of the d and th of the last month, telling me that you have received as far as no. and of mine. thank all the stars in herschell's telescope, or beyond its reach, that our correspondence is out of the reach of france and all its ravages! thank you a million of times for all your details about yourselves when even the apprehension of any danger disquiets me so much, judge whether i do not interest myself in every particular of your pleasures and amusements! florence was my delight, as it is yours but, i don't know how, i wish you did not like it quite so much and, after the gallery. how will any silver-penny of a gallery look? indeed, for your boboli, which i thought horrible even fifty years ago, before shepherds had seen the star of taste in the west, and glad tidings were proclaimed to their flocks, i do think there is not an acre on the banks of the thames that should vail the bonnet to it. of mr. burke's book, if i have not yet told you my opinion, i do now: that it is one of the finest compositions in print. there is reason, logic, wit, truth. eloquence, and enthusiasm in the brightest colours. that it has given a mortal stab to sedition, i believe and hope; because the fury of the brabanters,-whom, however, as having been aggrieved, i pitied and distinguish totally from the savage gauls, -and the unmitigated and execrable injustices of the latter, have made almost any state preferable to such anarchy and desolation, that increases every day. admiring thus, as i do, i am very far from subscribing to the extent of almost all mr. burke's principles. the work, i have no doubt, will hereafter be applied to support very high doctrines; and to you i will say, that i think it an apocrypha, that, in many a council of bishops, will be added to the old testament. still, such an almanzor was wanting at this crisis; and his foes show how deeply they are wounded, by their abusive pamphlets. their amazonian allies, headed by kate macaulay( ) and the virago barbauld, whom mr. burke calls our poissardes, spit their rage at eighteenpence a head, and will return to fleet-ditch, more fortunate in being forgotten than their predecessors, immortalized in the dunciad. i must now bid you good-night; and night it is, to the tune of morning. adieu, all three! ( ) a pamphlet, entitled "observations on the reflections of the right hon. edmund burke on the revolution in france; in a letter to earl stanhope," was attributed to mrs. macaulay.-e. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, saturday, jan. , . (page ) i have been most unwillingly forced to send you such bad accounts of myself by my two last letters; but, as i could not conceal all, it was best to tell you the whole truth. though i do not know that there was any real danger, i could not be so blind to my own age and weakness as not to think that, with so much gout an fever, the conclusion might very probably be fatal: and therefore it was better you should be prepared for what might happen. the danger appears to be entirely over: there seems to be no more gout to come. i have no fever, have a very good appetite, and sleep well. mr. watson,( ) who is all tenderness and attention, is persuaded to-day that i shall recover the use of my left hand ; of which i despaired much more than of the right, as having been seized three weeks earlier. emaciated and altered i am incredibly, as you would find were you ever to see me again. but this illness has dispelled all visions ; and, as i have little prospect of passing another happy autumn, i must wean myself from whatever would embitter my remaining time by disappointments. your no. came two days ago, and gives me the pleasure of knowing that you both are the better for riding, which i hope you will continue. i am glad, too, that you are pleased with your duchess of fleury and your latin professor: but i own, except your climate and the six hundred camels, you seem to me to have met with no treasure which you might not have found here without going twenty miles: and even the camels, according to soame jenyns' spelling, were to be had from carrick and other places. i doubt you apply tully de amicitia too favourably: at least, i fear there is no paragraph that countenances and . monday, the th. i think i shall give you pleasure by telling you that i am very sure now of recovering from the present fit. it has almost always happened to me, in my considerable fits of the gout, to have one critical night that celebrates its departure: at the end of two different fits i each time slept eleven hours. morpheus is not quite so young nor so generous now ; but, with the interruption of a few minutes, he presented me with eight hours last night: and thence i shall date my recovery. i shall now begin to let in a little company; and, as the parliament will meet in a week, my letters will probably not be so dull as they have been; nor shall i have occasion, nor be obliged, to talk so much of myself, of which i am sure others must be tired, when i am so much tired myself. tuesday, the th. old mrs. french( ) is dead at last, and i am on the point of losing, or have lost, my oldest acquaintance and friend, george selwyn, who was yesterday at the extremity. these misfortunes, though they can be so but for a short time, are very sensible to the old; but him i really loved, not only for his infinite wit, but for a thousand good qualities. lady cecilia johnstone was here yesterday. i said much for you, and she as much to you. the gunnings are still playing the fool, and perhaps somebody with them; but i cannot tell you the particulars now. adieu! ( ) his surgeon. ( ) an irish lady, who, during the latter part of her life, had a country house at hampton court. letter to the miss berrys. saturday, jan. , . (page ) voici de ma propre `ecriture! the best proof that i am recovering, though not rapidly, which is not the march of my time of life. for n these last six days i have mended more than i expected. my left hand, the first seized, is the most dilatory, and of which i have least hopes. the rheumatism, that i thought so clear and predominant, is so entirely gone, that i now rather think it was hussar-gout attacking in flying squadrons the outposts. no matter which, very ill i was ; and you might see what i thought of myself: nor can i stand many such victories. my countenance was so totally altered, that i could not trace it myself. its outlines have returned to their posts, though with deep gaps. this is a true picture, and too long an one of self; and too hideous for a bracelet. apropos, your sweet miss foldson, i believe, is painting portraits of all our princesses, to be sent to all the princes upon earth ; for, though i have sent her several written duns, she has not deigned even to answer one in writing. i don't know whether mrs. buller is not appointed royal academician too; for, though i desired the "charming-man," who was to dine with her that day, to tell her, above a week ago, that i should be glad to see her, she has not taken the least notice of it. mr. batt, ditto; who was at cambridge's when i was at the worst, and knew so, has not once inquired after me, in town or country. so you see you have carried off your friends from me as well as yourselves: and it is not them i regret; or rather, in fact, i outlive all my friends! poor selwyn is gone, to my sorrow; and no wonder ucalegon feels it!( ) he has left about thirty thousand pounds to mademoiselle fagniani;( ) twenty of which, if she has no children, to go to those of lord carlisle ; the duke of queensberry residuary legatee. old french has died as foolishly as she lived, and left six thousand pounds to you don't know whom ; but to be raised out of her judicious collection of trumpery pictures, etc. pray, delight in the following story: caroline vernon, fille d'honneur, lost t'other night two hundred pounds at faro, and babe martindale mark it up. he said he had rather have a draft on her banker. "oh! willingly;" and she gave him one. next morning he hurried to drummond's, lest all her money should be drawn out. said the clerk, "would you receive the contents immediately?" "assuredly." "why, sir, have you read the note?" martindale took it; it was, "pay to the bearer two hundred blows, well applied." the nymph tells the story herself; and yet i think the clerk had the more humour of the two. the gunninghiad( ) draws to a conclusion. the general, a few weeks ago, to prove the equality of his daughter to any match, literally put into the newspapers, that he himself is the thirty-second descendant in a line from charlemagne;--oui, vraiment! yet he had better have, like prior's madam, "to cut things short, gone up to adam," however, this carlovingian hero does not allow that the letters are forgeries, and rather suspects the novelist, his lady( ) for the authoress; and if she is, probably miss charlemagne is not quite innocent of the plot: though she still maintains that her mother-in-law elect did give her much encouragement; which, considering her grace's conduct about her children, is not the most incredible part of this strange story. i have written this at twice, and will now rest. sunday evening. i wish that complaining of people for abandoning me were an infallible receipt for bringing them back! but i doubt it will not do in acute cases. to-day, a few hours after %writing the latter part of this, appeared mr. batt. he asked many pardons, and i easily forgave him; for the mortification was not begun. he asked much after you both. i had a crowd of visits besides; but they all come past two o'clock, and sweep one another away before any can take root. my evenings are solitary enough, for i ask nobody to come; nor, indeed, does any body's evening begin till i am going to bed. i have outlived daylight, as well as my contemporaries. what have i not survived? the jesuits and the monarchy of france! and both without a struggle! semiramis seems to intend to add constantinople to the mass of revolutions ; but is not her permanence almost as wonderful as the contrary explosions! i wish--i wish we may not be actually flippancying ourselves into an embroil with that ursa-major of the north pole. what a vixen little island are we, if we fight wit the aurora borealis and tippo saib at the end of asia at the same time! you, damsels, will be like the end of the conundrum, "you've seen the man who saw the wondrous sights." monday evening. i cannot finish this with my own hand, for the gout has returned a little into my right arm and wrist, and i am not quite so well as i was yesterday; but i had said my say, and had little to add. the duchess of gordon, t'other night, coming out of an assembly, said to dundas, "mr. dundas, you are used to speak in public; will you call my servant?" here i receive your long letter of the th, th, and th, which it is impossible for me to answer now; there is one part to which i wish to reply, but must defer till next post, by which time i hope to have recovered my own pen. you ask about the house of argyll. you know i have no connexion with them, nor any curiosity about them. their relations and mine have been in town but four days, so i know little from them: mrs. grenville, to-day, told me the duke proposes to continue the same life he used to lead, with a cribbage-table and his family. every body admires the youngest daughter's( ) person and understanding. adieu! i will begin to write again myself as soon as i can. ( ) this celebrated wit and amiable man died on the th of january, in his seventy-second year. he was member for luggershall, surveyor-general of the crown lands, surveyor of the meltings and clerk of the irons in the mint; "and," add the newspapers of the day, "receiver-general of wit and stray jokes." the following tribute to his memory appeared at the time:-- "if this gay fav'rite lost, they yet can live, a tear to selwyn let the graces give! with rapid kindness teach oblivion's pall o'er the sunk foibles of the man to fall and fondly dictate to a faithful muse the prime distinction of the friend they lose:-- 'twas social wit; which, never kindling strife, blazed in the small, sweet courtesies of life; those little sapphires round the diamond shone, lending soft radiance to the richer stone."-e. ( ) married in , to the earl of yarmouth; who, in , succeeded his father as third marquis of hertford.-e. ( ) meaning the strange, imagined history of a marriage supposed to have been likely to take place between miss gunning and the marquis of blandford. ( ) mrs. gunning was a miss minifie, of fairwater, somersetshire, and, before her marriage, had published several popular novels.-e. ( ) lady charlotte-susan-maria; married, first to colonel john campbell of islay and, secondly to the rev. mr. bury.-e. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, friday, feb. , . (page ) last post i sent you as cheerful a letter, as i could, to convince you that i was recovering. this will be less gay; not because i have had a little return in both arms, but because i have much more pain in my mind than in my limbs. i see and thank you all for the kindness of your intention; but, as it has the contrary effect from what you expect, i am forced, for my own peace, to beseech you not to continue a manoeuvre that only tantalizes and wounds me. in your last you put together many friendly words to give me hopes of your return; but can i be' so blind as not to see that they are vague words? did you mean to return in autumn, would you not say so? would the most artful arrangement of words be so kind as those few simple ones? in fact, i have for some time seen how little you mean it; and, for your sakes, i cease to desire it. the pleasure you expressed at seeing florence again, forgive me for saying, is the joy of sight merely; for can a little italian town, and wretched italian company, and travelling english lads and governors, be comparable to the choice of the best company of so vast a capital as london, unless you have taken an aversion to england? and your renewed transports at a less and still more insipid town, pisa! these plainly told me your thoughts, which vague words cannot efface. you then dropped that you could let your london house till next christmas, and then talked of a visit to switzerland, and since all this, mrs. damer has warned me not to expect you till next spring. i shall not; nor do i expect that next spring. i have little expected this next! my dearest madam, i allow all my folly and unreasonableness, and give them up and abandon them totally. i have most impertinently and absurdly tried, for my own sake merely, to exact from two young ladies, above forty years younger than myself, a promise of sacrificing their rooted inclinations to my whims and satisfaction. but my eyes are opened, my reason is returned, i condemn myself; and i now make you but one request, which is, that, though i am convinced it would be with the most friendly and good-natured meaning possible, i do implore you not to try to help me to delude myself any more. you never know half the shock it gave me when i learned from mr. batt, what you had concealed from me, your fixed resolution of going abroad last october; and though i did in vain deprecate it,--your coming to twickenham in september, which i know, and from my inmost soul believe, was from mere compassion and kindness to me,-yet it did aggravate my parting with you. i would not repeat all this, but to prevail with you, while i do live, and while you do condescend to have any friendship for me, never to let me deceive myself. i have no right to inquire into your plans, views or designs; and never will question you more about them. i shall deserve to be deluded if i do; but what you do please to say to me, i beg may be frank. i am, in every light, too weak to stand disappointment ow: i cannot be disappointed. you have a firmness that nothing shakes; and, therefore, it would be unjust to betray your good-nature into any degree of insincerity. you do nothing that is not reasonable and right; and i am conscious that you bore a thousand times more from my self-love and vanity, than any other two persons but yourselves would have supported with patience so long. be assured that what i say i think, feel, and mean; derange none of your plans for me. i now wish you take no one step but what is conformable to your views, interest and satisfaction. it would hurt me to interfere with them -. i reproach myself with having so ungenerously tried to lay you under any difficulties, and i approve your resolution in adhering steadily to your point. two posts ago i hinted that i was weaning myself from the anxiety of an attachment to two persons that must have been so uneasy to them, and has ended so sorrowfully to myself but that anxiety i restrict solely to the desire of your return: my friendship, had i years to live, could not alter or be shaken; and there is no kind of proof or instance of it that i will not give you both while i have breath. i have vented what i had at my heart, and feel relieved. do not take ill a word i have said. be assured i can love you as much as ever i did, and do; and though i am no longer so unjust as to prefer my own satisfaction to yours. here i drop the subject; before tuesday, perhaps, i shall be able to talk on some other. monday, th. though the parliament is met, and the town they say, full, i have not heard a tittle of news of any sort; and yet my prison is a coffeehouse in a morning, though i have been far from well this whole week. yesterday and saturday the gout was so painful in my right shoulder, that i could not stoop or turn round. to-day it is in my left elbow, and, i doubt, coming into my right foot: in short, it seems to be going its circle over again. i am not very sorry; sufferings reconcile one to parting with one's self. one of our numerous tempests threw down mrs. damer's chimney last week, and it fell through her workshop; but fortunately touched none of her own works, and only broke two or three insignificant casts. i suppose you know she returns through spain. this minute i have heard that lord lothian's daughter, lady mary st. john, and daughter-in-law of lady di beauclerc, died yesterday, having been delivered of a fine boy but the day before. as you are curious to know the chief topic of conversation, it is the rival opera-houses, neither of which are opened yet; both saying the other is fallen down. taylor has published a pamphlet that does not prove that the marquis( ) is the most upright chamberlain that ever dropped from the skies, nor that the skies are quite true blue. adieu! if no postscript tomorrow. none. ( ) of salisbury. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) i have received your two letters of january th and th with an account of your objects and plans; and the latter are very much what i expected, as before you receive this you will have seen by my last, no. . indeed, you most kindly offer to break so far into your plan, as to return at the beginning of next winter; but as that would, as you say, not only be a sacrifice, but risk your healths, can any thing upon earth be more impossible than for me to accept or consent to such a sacrifice? were i even in love with one of you, could i agree to it? and, being only a most zealous friend, do you think i will hear of it? should i be a friend at all, if i wished you, for my sake, to travel in winter over mountains, or risk the storms at sea, that i have not forgotten when you went away? can i desire you to derange a reasonable plan of economy, that would put you quite at your ease at your return? have i any pretensions for expecting, still less for asking, such or any sacrifices? have i interested myself in your affairs only to embarrass them? i do, in the most. positive and solemn manner, refuse to accept the smallest sacrifice of any part of your plan, but the single point that would be so hard on me. i will not say a word more on your return, and beg your pardon for having been so selfish as to desire it: my only request now is, that we may say no more about it. i am grieved that the great distance we are at must make me still receive letters about it for some weeks. i shall not forget how very unreasonable i have been myself; nor shall i try to forget it, lest i should be silly again: but i earnestly desire to be totally silent on a subject that i have totally abandoned, and which it is not at all improbable i may never have occasion to renew. i knew the comte de coigny( ) in the year : he was then lively and jovial. i did not think he would turn out a writer, or even reader; but he was agreeable. i say nothing on france- you must know as much as i do, and probably sooner. i will only tell you, that my opinion is not altered in a tittle. what will happen i do not pretend to guess; but am thoroughly persuaded that the present system, if it can be called so, cannot take root. the flirts towards anarchy here have no effect at all. horne tooke before christmas presented a saucy libel to the house of commons, as a petition on his election. the house contemptuously voted it only frivolous and vexatious, and disappointed him of a ray of martyrdom; but his fees, etc. will cost him three or four hundred pounds, which never go into a mob's calculation of the ingredients of martyrdom.( ) monday morning, th. i have a story to tell you, much too long to add to this; which i will send next post, unless i have leisure enough to-day, from people that call on me to finish it to-day, having begun it last night; and in that case i will direct it to miss agnes. mr. lysons the clergyman has just been here, and told me of a welsh sportsman, a jacobite, i suppose, who has very recently had his daughter christened louisa victoria maria sobieski foxhunter moll boycot. the curate of the minister who baptized her confirmed the truth of it to mr. lysons. when belgiojoso, the austrian minister, was here, and thought he could write english, he sent a letter to miss kennedy, a woman of the town, that began, "my kennedy polly dear girl." apropos--and not much--pray tell me whether the cardinal of york calls himself king; and whether james the eighth, charles the fourth, or what? ( ) a great-uncle of the present duc de coigny. ( ) on the th of february, the committee appointed to try the merits of the petition, reported it to be frivolous and vexatious. mr. burke urged the necessity of taking some step against the author of it: but the subject was got rid of by a motion for the order of the day.-e. letter to miss agnes berry. feb. , . (page ) the following narrative, though only the termination of a legend of 'which you know the foregoing chapters, is too singular and too long to be added to my letter; and therefore, though you will receive two by the same post, you will not repine. in short, the gunninghiad is completed--not by a marriage, like other novels of the minifies.( ) voici how the d`enouement happened. another supposed love-letter had come from the marquis( ) within these few weeks; which was so improbable, that it raised more suspicions, and was more closely examined; and thence was discovered to have been both altered and interlined. on this the general sent all the letters down to the marquis;( ) desiring to be certified of their authenticity, or the contrary. i should tell you, that all this has happened since the death of is sister; who kept up the high tone, and said, her brother was not a man to be trifled with. the marquis immediately distinguished the two kinds; owned the few letters that disclaimed all inclination for miss charlemagne, disavowed the rest. thence fell the general's wrath on his consort; of which i have told you. however, the general and his ducal brother-in-law thought it expedient that miss charly's character should be cleared as far as possible; she still maintaining the prodigious encouragement she had received from the parents of her intended sposo. she was ordered to draw up a narrative, which should be laid before the duke of marlborough; and, if allowed by him, to be shown for her vindication. she obeyed; and her former assertions did not suffer by the new statement. but one singular circumstance was added: she confessed--ingenuous maid!--that, though she had not been able to resist so dazzling an offer, her heart was still her cousin's, the other marquis.( ) well! this narrative, after being laid before a confidential junto at argyll-house, was sent to blenheim by the general, by his own groom. judge of the astonishment of the junto, when carloman, almost as soon as was possible, laid before them a short letter from the prince of mindleheim( ) declaring how delighted he and his princess had been at their son's having made choice of so beautiful and amiable a virgin for his bride; how greatly they had encouraged the match; and how chagrined they were, that, from the lightness and inconstancy of his temper, the proposed alliance was quite at an end. this wonderful acquittal of the damsel the groom deposed he had received in half-an-hour after his arrival at blenheim; and he gave the most natural and unembarrassed account of all the stages he had made, going and coming. you may still suspect, and so did some of the council, that every tittle of this report and of the letter were not gospel: though i own, i thought the epistle not irreconcilable to other parts of the conduct of their graces about their children. still, i defy you to guess a thousandth part of the marvellous explanation of the mystery. the first circumstance that struck was, that the duke, in his own son's name, had forgotten the d in the middle. that was possible in the hurry of doing justice. next, the wax was black; and nobody could discover for whom such illustrious personages were in mourning. well; that was no proof one way or other. unluckily, somebody suggested that lord henry spencer was in town, though to return the next day to holland. a messenger was sent to him, though very late at night, to beg he would repair to argyll-house. he did; the letter was shown to him; he laughed, and said it had not the least resemblance to his father's hand. this was negative detection enough; but now comes the most positive and wonderful unravelling! the next day the general received a letter from a gentleman, confessing that his wife, a friend of miss charly, had lately received from her a copy of a most satisfactory testimonial from the duke of marlborough in her favour (though, note, the narrative was not then gone to blenheim); and begging the gentlewoman's husband would transcribe it, and send it to her, as she wished to send it to a friend in the country. the husband had done so, but had had the precaution to write at top copy; and before the signature had written, signed, m.--both which words miss had erased, and then delivered the gentleman's identic transcript to the groom, to be brought back as from blenheim: which the steady groom, on being examined anew, confessed; and that, being bribed, he had gone but one post, and invented the rest. you will now pity the poor general, who has been a dupe from the beginning, and sheds floods of tears; nay, has actually turned his daughter out of doors, as she banished from argyll-house too: and lady charlotte,( ) to her honour, speaks of her with the utmost indignation. in fact, there never was a more extraordinary tissue of effrontery, folly, and imposture. it is a strange but not a miraculous part of this strange story, that gunnilda is actually harboured by, and lodges with, the old duchess( ) in pall-mall, the grandmother of whom she has miscarried, and who was the first that was big with her. you may depend on the authenticity of this narrative, and may guess from whom i received all the circumstances, day by day; but pray, do not quote me for that reason, nor let it out of your hands, nor transcribe any part of it. the town knows the story confusedly, and a million of false readings there will be; but, though you know it exactly, do not send it back hither. you will, perhaps, be diverted by the various ways in which it will be related. yours, etc. eginhart, secretary to charlemagne and the princess gunnilda, his daughter. p. s. bowen is the name of the gentleman who gave information of the letter sent to him to be copied, on hearing of the suspected forgeries. the whole minifry are involved in the suspicions, as they defend the damsel, who still confesses nothing; and it is her mother, not she, who is supposed to have tampered with the groom; and is discarded, too, by her husband. ( ) the name of the family of mrs. gunning. see p. , letter . ( ) george spencer churchill, marquis of blandford; he succeeded his father as fourth duke of marlborough in .-e. ( ) general gunning was son of john gunning, esq. of castle-coole, in the county of roscommon and brother of the beautiful miss gunning, married first, in , to the duke of hamilton; and second, in , to the duke of argyle.-e. ( ) george william campbell, marquis of lorn. he succeeded his father as sixth duke of argyle in -e. ( ) the emperor joseph, in , bestowed on the great duke of marlborough the principality of mindleheim, in swabia.-e. ( ) lady charlotte campbell. see p. , letter , note .-e. ( ) gertrude, eldest daughter of john earl gower, widow of john fourth duke of bedford.-e. letter to the earl of charlemont.( ) berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) it is difficult, my lord, with common language that has been so prostituted in compliments, to express the real sense of gratitude, which i do feel at my heart, for the obligation i have to your lordship for an act of friendship as unexpected as it was unsolicited; which last circumstance doubles the favour, as it evinces your lordship's generosity and nobleness of temper, without surprising me. how can i thank your lordship, as i ought, for interesting yourself, and of yourself, to save me a little mortification, which i deserve, and should deserve more, had i the vanity to imagine that my printing a few copies of my disgusting tragedy would occasion different and surreptitious editions of it? mr. walker has acquainted me, my lord, that your lordship has most kindly interposed to prevent a bookseller of dublin from printing an edition of "the mysterious mother" without my consent; and, with the conscious dignity of a great mind, your lordship has not even hinted to me the graciousness of that favour. how have i merited such condescending goodness, my lord? had i a prospect of longer life, i never could pay the debt of gratitude; the weightier, as your lordship did not intend i should know that i owe it. my gratitude can never be effaced; and i am charmed that it is due, and due with so much honour to me, that nothing could bribe me to have less obligation to your lordship, of which i am so proud. but as to the play itself, i doubt it must take its fate. mr. walker tells me the booksellers have desired him to remonstrate to me, urging that they have already expended fifty pounds; and mr. walker adds, as no doubt would be the case, that should this edition be stifled, when now expected, some other printer would publish it. i certainly might indemnify the present operator, but i know too much of the craft, not to be sure, that i should be persecuted by similar exactions; and, alas! i have exposed myself but too much to the tyranny of the press, not to know that it taxes delinquents as well as multiplies their faults. in truth, my lord, it is too late now to hinder copies of my play from being spread. it has appeared here, both whole and in fragments: and, to prevent a spurious one, i was forced to have some printed myself: therefore, if i consent to an irish edition, it is from no vain desire of diffusing the performance. indeed, my good lord, i have lived too long not to have divested myself both of vanity and affected modesty. i have not existed to past seventy-three without having discovered the futility and triflingness of my own talents: and, at the same time, it would be impertinent to pretend to think that there is no merit in the execution of a tragedy, on which i have been so much flattered; though i am sincere in condemning the egregious absurdity of selecting a subject so improper for the stage, and even offensive to private readers. but i have said too much on a personal theme; and therefore, after repeating a million of thanks to your lordship for the honour of your interposition, i will beg your lordship, if you please, to signify to the bookseller that you withdraw your prohibition: but i shall not answer mr. walker's letter, till i have your lordship's approbation, for you are both my lord chamberlain 'and licenser; and though i have a tolerably independent spirit, i may safely trust myself under the absolute power of one, who has voluntarily protected me against the licentiousness of those who have invaded my property, and who distinguishes so accurately and justly between license and liberty. ( ) now first collected. this letter was written in consequence of one walpole had received, informing him that a dublin bookseller was about to print his tragedy of the mysterious mother. at this time, and indeed until the union took place, there was no act of parliament which regulated literary property in ireland.-e. letter to miss agnes berry. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) here is a shocking, not a fatal, codicil to gunnilda's story. but first i should tell you, that two days after the explosion, the ignora madre took a postchaise and four, and drove to blenheim; but, not finding the duke and duchess there, she inquired where the marquis was, and pursued him to sir henry dashwood's: finding him there, she began about her poor daughter; but he interrupted her, said there was an end put to all that, and desired to lead her to her chaise, which he insisted on doing, and did. i think this another symptom of the minifry being accomplices to the daughter's enterprises. well! after the groom's confession, and after mr. bowen had been confronted with her, and produced to her face her note to his wife, which she resolutely disowned, she desired the duke of argyll to let her take an oath on the bible of her perfect innocence of every circumstance of the whole transaction; which you may be sure he did not permit. n'importe: the next day, taking two of the duchess of bedford's servants for witnesses, she went before a justice of peace, swore to her innocence and ignorance throughout, even of the note to mrs. bowen; and then said to the magistrate, "sir, from my youth you may imagine i do not know the solemnity of an oath but, to convince you i do, i know my salvation depends on what i have now sworn." solve all this, if you can! is it madness? does even romance extend its inventions so far? or its dispensations? it is but a burlesque part of this wonderful tale, that old crazy bedford exhibits miss every morning on the causeway in hyde park; and declares her proteg`ee some time ago refused the hand of your acquaintance, mr. trevelyan.( ) except of the contending opera-houses, one can hear of nothing but miss gunning,,; but it is now grown so disgusting a story, that i shall be glad to hear and repeat to you no more about it. the pantheon has opened, and is small, they say, but pretty and simple; all the rest ill-conducted, and from the singers to the sceneshifters imperfect; the dances long and bad, and the whole performance so dilatory and tedious, that it lasted from eight to half an hour past twelve. the rival theatre is said to be magnificent and lofty, but it is doubtful whether it will be suffered to come to light: in short, the contest will grow politics; dieu et mon droit supporting the pantheon, and ich dien countenancing the haymarket. it is unlucky that the amplest receptacle is to hold the minority! th. o'hara( ) is come to town. you will love him better than ever. he persuaded the captain of the ship, whom you will love for being persuaded, to stop at lisbon, that he might see mrs. damer. o'hara has been shockingly treated! the house of richmond is on the point of receiving a very great blow. colonel lenox, who had been dangerously ill but was better, has relapsed with all the worst symptoms;( ) and is too weak to be sent to the south, as the physicians recommended, lady charlotte is breeding, but that is very precarious; and should it be a son, how many years ere that can be a comfortable resource! is not it strange that london, in february and parliament sitting, should furnish no more paragraphs? yet, confined at home and in every body's way, and consequently my room being a coffee-house from two to four, i probably hear all events worth relating as soon as they are born, and send you them before they are a week old. indeed, i think the gunninhiana may last you a month at pisa, where, i suppose, the grass grows in the streets as fast as news. when i go out again i am likely to know less: i go but to few, and those the privatest places i can find, which are not the common growth of london; nor, but to amuse you, should i inquire after news. what is a juvenile world to me; or its pleasures, interests, or squabbles? i scarce know the performers by sight. st. it is very hard! the gunnings will not let me or the town have done with them. la madre has advertised a letter to the duke of argyll: so he is forced to collect counter affidavits. the groom has 'deposed that she promised him twenty pounds a year for his life, and he has given up a letter that she wrote to him. the mother, when she went after the marquis, would have persuaded him to get into her chaise; but he would not venture being carried to gretna-green, and married by force. she then wanted him to sign a paper, that all was over between him and her daughter. he said, "madam, nothing was ever begun;" and refused. i told you wrong: mother and daughter were not actually in the duchess of bedford's house, but in lord john russel's, which she lent to them: nor were her servants witnesses to the oath before justice hide, but dr. halifax and the apothecary. the signora and her infanta now, for privacy, are retired into st. james's-street, next door to brooks's; whence it is supposed miss will angle for unmarried marquises-perhaps for lord titchfield.( ) it is lost time for people to write novels, who can compose such a romance as these good folks have invented. adieu! ( ) mr. trevelyan married in the following august, maria, daughter of sir thomas spencer wilson, bart. on the death of his father, in , he succeeded to the title, as fifth baronet.-e. ( ) afterwards lieutenant- governor of gibraltar. he died in . ( ) colonel lenox recovered from his illness, and, in , succeeded his uncle as fourth duke of richmond. his grace was governor of canada at the period of his decease, at montreal, in ; and was succeeded by the son here anticipated; who was born on the d of august .-e. ( ) in , the, marquis of titchfield married miss scott, eldest daughter and heir of general john scott, of balcomie, in the county of fife, and in , succeeded his father as fourth duke of portland.-e. letter . \to the miss berrys. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) i have no letter from you to answer, nor any thing new that is the least interesting to tell you. the duke of argyll has sent a gentleman with a cart-load of affidavits, which the latter read to mother and daughter, in order to prevent the publication of their libel; but it only enraged the former, -who vows she will print all she knows, that is, any thing she has heard by their entire intimacy in the family, or, no doubt, what she can invent or misrepresent. what a medusa! there has been a fragment of a rehearsal in the haymarket, but still the pantheon remains master of the field of battle: the vanquished are preparing manifestoes, but they seldom recover the day. madame du barry( ) is come over to recover her jewels, of which she has been robbed--not by the national assembly, but by four jews who have been seized here and committed to newgate. though the late lord barrymore acknowledged her husband to be of his noble blood, will she own the present earl for a relation, when she finds him turned strolling player!( ) if she regains her diamonds, perhaps mrs. hastings may carry her to court.( ) if you want bigger events, you may send to the russian army, who will cut you fifteen thousand throats in a paragraph; or, en attendant, you may piddle with the havoc made at chantilly, which has been half demolished by the rights of men, as the poor old mesdames have been stopped by the rights of the poissardes; for, as it is true that extremes meet, the moment despotism was hurled from the throne, it devolved to the mob, whose majesties, not being able to write their names, do not issue lettres de cachet, but execute their wills with their own hands; for hanging, which degrades an executioner, ne deroge pas in sovereigns--witness the czar peter the great, muley ishmael, and many religious and gracious african monarchs. after eleven weeks of close confinement, i went out yesterday to take the air; but was soon driven back by rain and sleet, which soon ripened to a tempest of wind and snow, and continued all night - it does not freeze, but blows so hard, that i shall sally out no more tilt the weather has recovered its temper-i do not mean that i expect pisan skies. th. it was on saturday that i began this; it is now monday, and i have no letter from you, though we have had dozens of east winds. i am sorry to find that it costs above six weeks to say a word at pisa and have an answer in london. this makes correspondence very uncomfortable; you will be talking to me of miss gunning, when, perhaps, she may be sent to botany bay, and be as much forgotten here as the monster.( ) still she has been a great resource this winter; for, though london is apt to produce wilkeses, and george gordons, and mrs. rudds, and horne tookes, and other phenomena, wet and dry, the, present season has been very unprolific; and we are forced to import french news, as we used to do fashions and operas comiques. the mesdames are actually set out: i shall be glad to hear they are safe at turin, for are there no poissardes but at paris?( ) natio poissarda est. mr. gibbon writes that he has seen necker, and found him still devoured by ambition.( ) and i should think by mortification at the foolish figure he has made. gibbon admires burke to the skies, and even the religious parts, he says.( ) monday evening. the east winds are making me amends -, one of them has brought me twins. i am sorry to find that even pisa's sky is not quite sovereign, but that you have both been out of order, though, thank god! quite recovered both, if a florentine march is at all like an english one, i hope you will not remove thither till april. some of its months, i am sure, were sharper than those of our common wear are. pray be quite easy about me: i am entirely recovered, though, if change were bad, we have scarce had one day without every variety of bad weather, with a momentary leaf-gold of sun. i have been out three times, and to-day have made five and-twenty visits, and was let in at six; and, though a little fatigued, am still able, you see, to finish my letter. you seem to think i palliated my illness - i certainly did not tell you that i thought it doubtful how it would end; yet i told you all & circumstances, and surely did not speak sanguinely. i wish, in no. , you had not again named october or november. i have quite given up those months, and am vexed i ever pressed for them, as they would break into your reasonable plans, for which i abandon any foolish ones of my own. but i am a poor philosopher, or rather am like all philosophers, have no presence of mind, and must study my part before i can act it. i have now settled myself not to expect you this year-do not unsettle me: i dread a disappointment, as i do a relapse of the gout; and therefore cut this article short, that i may not indulge vain hopes, my affection for you both is unalterable; can i give so strong a proof as by supplicating you, as i do earnestly, to act as is most prudent for your healths and interest? a long journey in november would be the very worst part you could take. and i beseech you not to think of it: for me, you see i take a great deal of killing, nor is it so easy to die as is imagined. thank you, my dearest miss agnes, for your postscript. i love to see your handwriting; and yet do not press for it, as you are shy: though i address myself equally to both, and consult the healths of both in what i have recommended above. here is a postscript for yours: madame du barry was to go and swear to her jewels before the lord mayor. boydell, who is a little better bred than monsieur bailly,( ) made excuses for being obliged to administer the oath chez lui, but begged she would name her hour; and, when she did, he fetched her himself in the state-coach, and had a mayor-royal banquet ready for her.( ) she has got most of her jewels again. i want the king to send her four jews to the national assembly, and tell them it is the change or la monnoie of lord george gordon, the israelite. colonel lenox is much better: the duchess of leinster had a letter from goodwood to-day which says he rides out. i am glad you do. i said nothing on "the charming-man's" poem. i fear i said too much to him myself. he said, others liked it: and showed me a note from mr. burke, that was hyperbole itself. i wish him so well, that i am sorry he should be so flattered, when, in truth, he has no genius.( ) there is no novelty, no plan, and no suite in his poetry: though many of the lines are pretty. dr. darwin alone can exceed his predecessors. let me repeat to both, that distance of place and time can make no alteration in my friendship. it grew from esteem for your characters, and understandings, and tempers; and became affection from your good-natured attentions 'to me, where there is so vast a disproportion in our ages. indeed, that complaisance spoiled me; but i have weaned myself of my own self-love, and you shall hear no more of its dictates. ( ) the last mistress of louis; the fifteenth. the count du barry who had disgraced his name by marrying her, claimed to be of the same family with the earls of barrymore in ireland.-e. ( ) see ante, p. , letter . ( ) mrs. hastings was supposed, by the party violence of the day, to have received immense bribes in diamonds. ( ) a vagabond so called, from his going about attempting to stab at women with a knife. his first aim had probably been at their pockets, which having in several instances missed and wounded his intended victims, fear and a love of the marvellous dubbed him with the name of the monster. the wretch, whose name was renwick williams, was tried for the offence at the old bailey, in july , and found guilty of a misdemeanour.-e. ( ) after numerous interruptions, the king's aunts were permitted by the national assembly to proceed to italy.-e. ( ) "i have passed," says gibbon, in a letter to lord sheffield, "four days at the castle of copet with necker; and could have wished to have shown him as a warning to any aspiring youth possessed with the demon of ambition. with all the means of private happiness in his power, he is the most miserable of human beings; the past, the present, and the future, are equally odious to him. when i suggested some domestic amusement of books, building, etc. he answered, with a deep tone of despair, 'dans l'`etat o`u je suis, je ne puis sentir que le coup de vent qui m'a abbatu.' how different from the conscious cheerfulness with which our friend lord north supported his fall! madame necker maintains more external composure, mais le diable n'y perd rien. it is true that necker wished to be carried into the closet, like old pitt, on the shoulders of the people, and that he has been ruined by the democracy which he had raised. i believe him to be an able financier and know him to be an honest man."-e. ( ) the following are gibbon's expressions:--"burke's book is a most admirable medicine against the french disease; which has made too much progress even in this happy country. i admire his eloquence, i approve his politics, i adore his chivalry, and i can forgive even his superstition."-e. ( ) m. bailly, the learned astronomer. he was president of the first national assembly, and in july , appointed mayor of paris; in which situation he gave great offence to the people, in july , by ordering martial law to be proclaimed against a mob which had assembled in the champ de mars to frame an address, recommending the deposition of louis. for this step, which was approved of by the assembly, he was arrested, tried, condemned, and put to death on the th of november . the details of this event are horrible. "the weather," says m. thiers, "was cold and rainy, conducted on foot, he manifested the utmost composure amidst the insults of a barbarous populace, whom he had fed while he +was mayor. on reaching the foot of the scaffold, one of the wretches cried out, that the field of' the federation ought not to be polluted by his blood. the people instantly rushed upon the guillotine, bore it off, and erected it again upon a dunghill on the bank of the seine, and opposite to the spot where bailly had passed his life and composed his invaluable works. this operation lasted some hours: meanwhile, he was compelled to walk several times round the champ de mars, bareheaded, and with his hands pinioned behind him. some pelted him with mud, others kicked and struck him with sticks. he fell exhausted. they lifted him up again. 'thou tremblest!' said a soldier to him. 'my friend,' replied the old man, 'it is cold.' at length he was delivered over to the executioner; and another illustrious scholar, and one of the most virtuous of men, was then taken from it." vol. iii. p. -e. ( ) see post, p. .-e. ( ) mr. gifford was of walpole's opinion, and has, in consequence, accorded to " the charming-man" a prominent situation in the baviad:-- "see snivilling jerningham at fifty weep o'er love-lorn oxen and deserted sheep." to the poem here alluded to, and which was entitled "peace, ignominy, and destruction," the satirist thus alludes:-"i thought i understood something of faces; but i must read my lavater over again i find. that a gentleman, with the physionomie \ d'un mouton qui r`eve,' should suddenly start up a new tyrtaeus, and pour a dreadful note, through a cracked war-trump, amazes me: well, fronti nulla fides shall henceforth be my motto' in a note to the pursuits of literature, mr. mathias directs the attention of jerningham to the following beautiful lines in dryden's epistle to mr. julien, secretary of the muses:-- "all his care is to be thought a poet fine and fair; small beer and gruel are his meat and drink, the diet he prescribes himself to think; rhyme next his heart he takes at morning peep, some love-epistles at the hour of sleep; and when his passion has been bubbling long, the scum at last boils up into a song." --e. letter to the miss berrys. berkeley square, march , . (page ) one may live in a vast capital, and know no more of three parts of it than of carthage. when i was at florence, i have surprised some florentines by telling them, that london was built, like their city, (where you often cross the bridges several times in a day,) on each side of the river: and yet that i had never been but on one side; for then i had never been in southwark. when i was very young, and in the height of the opposition to my father, my mother wanted a large parcel of bugles; for what use i forget. as they were then out of fashion, she could get none. at last, she was told of a quantity in a little shop in an obscure alley in the city. we drove thither; found a great stock; she bought it, and bade the proprietor send it home. he said, "whither?" "to sir robert walpole's." he asked coolly, "who is sir robert walpole?" this is very like cambridge, who tells you three stories to make you understand a fourth. in short, t'other morning a gentleman made me a visit, and asked if i had heard of the great misfortune that had happened? the albion mills are burnt down. i asked where they were; supposing they were powder-mills in the country, that had blown up. i had literally never seen or heard of the spacious lofty building at the end of blackfriars bridge. at first it was supposed maliciously burnt, and it is certain the mob stood and enjoyed the conflagration, as of a monopoly; but it had been on fire, and it was thought extinguished. the building had cost a hundred thousand pounds; and the loss in corn and flour is calculated at a hundred and forty thousand. i do not answer for the truth of the sums; but it is certain that the palace-yard and part of st. james's park were covered with half-burnt grain.( ) this accident, and my introduction, have helped me to a good part of my letter; for you must have observed, that even in this overgrown town the winter has not been productive of events. good night! i have two days to wait for a letter that i may answer. stay -, i should tell you, that i have been at sir joseph banks's literary saturnalia,( ) where was a parisian watchmaker, who produced the smallest automaton that i suppose was ever created. it was a rich snuffbox, not too large for a woman. on opening the lid, an enamelled bird started up, sat on the rim, turned round, fluttered its wings, and piped in a delightful tone the notes of different birds; particularly the jug-jug of the nightingale. it is the prettiest plaything you ever saw; the price tempting--only five hundred pounds. that economist, the prince of wales, could not resist it, and has bought one of those dickybirds. if the maker finds such customers, he will not end like one of his profession here, who made the serpent in orpheus and eurydice;( ) and who fell so deeply in love with his own works, that he did nothing afterwards but make serpents, of all sorts and sizes, till he was ruined and broke. i have not a tittle to add-but that the lord mayor did not fetch madame du barry in the city-royal coach; but kept her to dinner. she is gone; but returns in april. ( ) the fire took place on the morning of the d of march. there was no reason for any particular suspicion, except the general dislike in the lower classes of the people, arising from a notion, that the undertaking enhanced the price of corn and decreased the value of labour.-e. ( ) sir joseph banks, while president of the royal society, had a weekly evening reception of all persons distinguished in science or the arts. ( ) a celebrated opera. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, saturday, march , . (page ) i did not begin my letter on customary friday , because i had nothing new to tell or to say. the town lies fallow--not an incident worth repeating as far as i know. parliament manufactures only bills, not politics. i never understood any thing useful; and, now that my time and connexions are shrunk to so narrow a compass, what business have i with business? as i have mended considerably for the last four days, and as we have had a fortnight of soft warm weather, and a southwest wind to-day, i have ventured hither for change of air, and to give orders about some repairs at cliveden; which, by the way, mr. henry bunbury, two days ago, proposed to take off my hands for his life. i really do not think i accepted his offer. i shall return to town on monday, and hope to find a letter to answer--or what will this do? berkeley square, monday evening. i am returned and find the only letter i dreaded, and the only one, i trust, that i shall ever not be impatient to receive from you. though ten thousand times kinder than i deserve, it wounds my heart: as i find i have hurt two of the persons i love the best upon earth', and whom i am most constantly studying to please and serve. that i soon repented of my murmurs, you have seen by my subsequent letters. the truth, as you may have perceived, though no excuse, was, that i had thought myself dying, and should never see you more; that i was extremely weak and low, when mrs. damer's letter arrived, and mentioned her supposing that i should not see you till spring twelvemonth. that terrible sentence recalled mr. batt's being the first to assure me of your going abroad, when i had concluded you had laid aside the design. i did sincerely allow that in both instances you had acted from tenderness in concealing your intentions; but, as i knew i could better bear the information from yourselves than from others, i thought it unfriendly to let me learn from others what interested me so deeply: yet i do not in the least excuse my conduct; no, i condemn it in every light, and shall never forgive myself if you do not promise me to be guided entirely by your own convenience and inclinations about your return. i am perfectly well again, and just as likely to live one year as half an one. indulge your pleasure in being abroad while you are there. i am now reasonable enough to enjoy your happiness as my own; and, since you are most kind when i least deserve it, how can i express my gratitude for giving up the scruple that was so distressing to me! convince me you are in earnest by giving me notice that you will write to charingcross while the neapolitans are at florence.( ) i will look on that as a clearer proof of your forgiving my criminal letter, than your return before you like it. it is most sure that nothing is more solid or less personal than my friendship for you two; and even my complaining letter, though unjust and unreasonable, proved that the nearer i thought myself to quitting the world, the more my heart was set on my two friends; nay, they had occupied the busiest moments of my illness as well as the most fretful ones. forgive then, my dearest friends, what could proceed from nothing but too impatient affection. you say most truly you did not deserve my complaints: your patience and temper under them make me but more in the wrong; and to have hurt you, who have known but too much grief, is such a contradiction to the whole turn of my mind ever since i knew you, that i believe my weakness from illness was beyond even what i suspected. it is sure that, when i am in my perfect senses, the whole bent of my thoughts is to promote your and your sister's felicity; and you know nothing can give me satisfaction like your allowing me to be of use to you. i speak honestly, notwithstanding my unjust letter; i had rather serve you than see you. here let me finish this subject: i do not think i shall be faulty to you again. the mother gunning has published her letter to the duke of argyll, and it disappoints every body. it is neither romantic, nor entertaining, nor abusive, but on the general and mr. and mrs. bowen, and the general's groom. on the bowens it is so immeasurably scurrilous, that i think they must prosecute her. she accuses them and her husband of a conspiracy to betray and ruin his own daughter, without, even attempting to assign a motive to them. of the house of argyll she says not a word. in short, it is a most dull incoherent rhapsody, that gives no account at all of the story that gave origin to her book, and at which no mortal could guess from it; and the pages contain nothing but invectives on her four supposed enemies, and endless tiresome encomiums on the virtues of her glorious darling, and the unspottable innocence of that harmless lambkin. i would not even send it to you if i had an opportunity-you would not have patience to go through it; and there, i suppose, the absurd legend will end. i am heartily tired of it. adieu! p. s. that ever i should give you two an uneasy moment! oh! forgive me: yet i do not deserve pardon in my own eyes: and less in my own heart. ( ) his correspondents, to settle his mind as to the certainty of their return at the time they had promised, had assured him, that no financial difficulties should stand in the way; which is what he means by sending to charing-cross (to drummond his banker), no such difficulties occurred. the correspondence, therefore, with charing-cross never took place-m.b. letter to the miss berrys. berkeley square, sunday, march , . (page ) though i begin my despatch to-day, i think i shall change my post-days, as i hinted from tuesdays to fridays; not only as more commodious for learning news for you, but as i do not receive your letters generally but on mondays, i have less time to answer. i have an additional reason for delay this week. mr. pitt has notified that he is to deliver a message from the king to-morrow, to the house of commons on the situation of europe; and should there be a long debate, i may not gather the particulars till tuesday morning, and if my levee lasts late, shall not have time to write to you. oh! now are you all impatience to hear that message: i am sorry to say that i fear it will be a warlike one. the autocratrix swears, d-n her eyes! she will hack her way to constantinople through the blood of one hundred thousand more turks, and that we are very impertinent for sending her a card with a sprig of olive. on the other hand, prussia bounces and buffs and claims our promise of helping him to make peace by helping him to make war; and so, in the most charitable and pacific way in the world, we are, they say, to send twenty ships to the baltic, and half as many to the black sea,-this little britain, commonly called great britain, is to dictate to petersburg and bengal and cover constantinople under those wings that reach from the north pole to the farthest east! i am mighty sorry for it, and hope we shall not prove a jackdaw that pretends to dress himself in the plumes of imperial eagles! if we bounce abroad, we are more forgiving at home: a gentleman who lives at the east end of st. james's park has been sent for by a lady who has a large house at the west end,( ) and they have kissed and are friends; which he notified by toasting her health in a bumper at a club the other day. i know no circumstances, but am glad of it; i love peace, public or private: not so the chieftains of the contending theatres of harmony. taylor, in wondrous respectful terms and full of affliction, has printed in the newspapers an advertisement, declaring that the marquis's honour the lord chamberlain( ) did in one season, and that an unprofitable one, send orders (you know, that is tickets of admission without paying) into the opera-house, to the loss of the managers of four hundred pounds- -servants, it is supposed, and hertfordshire voters eke: and moreover, that it has been sworn in chancery that his lordship, not as lord chamberlain, has stipulated with gallini and o'reilly that he, his heirs and assigns, should preserve the power of giving those detrimental orders in perpetuity. the immunity is a little new: former chamberlains, it seems even durante officio, have not exercised the privilege--if they had it. one word more of the gunnings. captain bowen informed the authoress, by the channel of the papers, that he shall prosecute her for the libel. she answered, by the same conveyance, that she is extremely glad of it. but there is a difficulty-unless the prosecution is criminal, it is thought that madam being femme couverte, the charge must be brought against her husband; and, to be sure, it would be droll that the general should be attached for not hindering his wife from writing a libel, that is more virulent against him himself than any body! another little circumstance has come out: till the other day he did not know that he had claimed descent from charlemagne in the newspapers; which, therefore, is referred to the same manufacture as the other forgeries. the general said, "it is true i am well born; but i know no such family in ireland as the charlemagnes." lord ossory has just been here, and told me that gunnilda has written to lord blandford, in her own name and hand, begging his pardon (for promising herself marriage in his name), but imputing the first thought to his grandmother, whom she probably inspired to think of it. this letter the duchess of marlborough carried to the duchess of bedford, to open her eyes on her proteg`ee, but with not much success; for what signify eyes, when the rest of the head is gone? she only said, "you may be easy, for both mother and daughter, are gone to france"--no doubt, on finding her grace's money not so forthcoming as her countenance, and terrified by captain bowen's prosecution and there, i hope, will terminate that strange story; for in france there is not a marquis left to marry her. one has heard of nothing else these seven months; and it requires some ingenuity to keep up the attention of such a capital as london for above half a year together. i supped on thursday at mrs. buller's with the conways and mount-edgcumbes; and the next night at lady ailesbury's with the same company, and lady augusta clavering.( ) you know, on the famous night at your house when gunnilda pretended that her father had received lord blandford's appointment of the wedding-day, we suspected, when they were gone, that we had seen doubts in lady augusta's face, and i desired her uncle, lord frederick, to ask her if we had guessed right; but she protests she had then no suspicion. i have determined to send this away on tuesday, whether i know the details of the temple of janus to-morrow in time or not, that you may give yourself airs of importance, if the turin ministers pretend to tell you news of your own country that you do not know. you may say, your charg`e des affaires sent you word of the king's message; and you may be mysterious about the rest; for mystery in the diplomatic dictionary is construed as knowledge, though, like a hebrew word, it means the reverse too. sunday night. i have been at white pussy's( ) this evening. she asked much after you. i did not think her lord looked as if he would drive prince potemkin out of bulgaria; but we trust that a new frederick of prussia and a new william pitt will. could they lay catherine in the black sea, as ghosts used to be laid in the red, the world would be obliged to them. ( ) the queen and the prince of wales. ( ) the marquis of salisbury. \( ) eldest daughter of john duke of argyle. ( ) elizabeth cary, wife of lord amherst, at this time commander-in-chief. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, sunday night, april , . (page ) oh! what a shocking accident! oh! how i detest your going abroad more than i have done yet in my crossest mood! you escaped the storm on the th of october, that gave me such an alarm; you passed unhurt through the cannibals of france and their republic of larrons and poissardes, who terrified me sufficiently; but i never expected that you would dash yourself to pieces at pisa!( ) you say i love truth, and that you have told me the exact truth: but how can fear believe! how i hate a party of pleasure! it never turns out well: fools fall out, and sensible people fall down! still i thank you a million of' times for writing yourself. if miss agnes had written for you, i confess i should have been ten times more alarmed than i am; and yet i am alarmed enough. not to torment you more with my fears, when i hope you are almost recovered, i will answer the rest of your letter. general o'hara i have unluckily not met yet. he is so dispersed, and i am so confined in my resorts and so seldom dine from home, that i have not seen him, even at general conway's. when i do, can you imagine that we shall not talk of you two--yes; and your accident, i am. sure, will be the chief topic. as our fleets are to dethrone catherine petruchia, o'hara will probably not be sent to siberia. apropos to catherine and petruchio. i supped with their representatives, kemble and mrs. siddons, t'other night at miss farren's: the hothams( ) were there too, and mrs. anderson,( ) who treated the players with acting as many characters as ever they did, particularly gunnilda and lady clackmannan.( ) mrs. siddons is leaner, but looks well: she has played jane shore and desdemona, and is to play in the gamester; all the parts she will act this year. kemble, they say, shone in othello. mrs. damer has been received at elvas with all military honours, and a banquet, by order of mello, formerly ambassador here. it was handsome in him, but must have distressed her, who is so void of ostentation and love of show. miss boyle,( ) who no more than miss pulteney,( ) has let herself be snapped up by lovers of her fortune, is going to italy for a year with lord and lady malden.( ) berkeley square, monday after dinner. mirabeau is dead;( ) ay, miraculously; for it was of a putrid fever (that began in his heart). dr. price is dying also.( ) that mr. berry, with so much good nature and good sense should be staggered, i do not wonder. nobody is more devoted to liberty than i am. it is therefore that i abhor the national assembly, whose outrageous violence has given, i fear, a lasting wound to the cause; for anarchy is despotism in the hands of thousands. a lion attacks but when hungry or provoked; but who can live in a desert full of hyennas?--nobody but mr. bruce; and we have only his word for it. here is started up another corsair; one paine, from america, who has published an answer to mr. burke.( ) his doctrines go to the extremity of levelling and his style is so coarse, that you would think he meant to degrade the language as much as the government: here is one of his delicate paragraphs:--"we do not want a king, or lords of the bedchamber, or lords of the kitchen," etc. this rhetoric, i suppose, was calculated for our poissardes. ( ) miss berry had fallen down a bank in the neighbourhood of pisa, and received a severe cut on the nose. ( ) sir charles hotham thompson, married to lady dorothy hobart, sister of john second earl of buckinghamshire. ( ) a daughter of lady cecilia johnstone's, married to a brother of charles anderson pelham, lord garborough. ( ) a nickname, which had been given by the writer to a lady of the society. ( )afterwards married to lord henry fitzgerald. ( ) afterwards married to sir james murray. ( ) lord malden, afterwards earl of essex, was a first cousin of miss boyle. this journey did not take place. ( ) mirabeau died on the d of april, at the age of forty-two, a victim to his own debaucheries. his friend, m. dupont, says of him, that, "trusting to the strength of his constitution he gave himself up, without restraint, to every kind of pleasure." madame de stael states, that he suffered cruelly in the last days of his life, and when no longer able to speak, wrote to his physician for a dose of opium, in the words of hamlet, "to die--to sleep!" his obsequies were celebrated with great pomp, and his body placed in the pantheon, by the side of that of descartes. in two short years his ashes were removed, by order of the convention, and scattered abroad by the populace; who, at the same time, burned his bust in the place de gr`eve.-e. ( ) dr. price died on the th of april.-e. ( ) this was the first part of the " rights of man," in answer to the celebrated "reflections." at the commencement of the year paine had published in paris, under the borrowed name of achille duchatellet, a tract recommending the abolition of royalty.-e. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, friday night, april , . (page ) my preface will be short; for i have nothing to tell, and a great deal that i am waiting patiently to hear; all which, however, may be couched in these two phrases,-,, i am quite recovered of my fall, and my nose will not be the worse for it"--for with all my pretences, i cannot help having that nose a little upon my spirits; though if it were flat, i should love it as much as ever, for the sake of the head and heart that belong to it. i have seen o'hara, with his face as ruddy and black, and his teeth as white as ever; and as fond of you two, and as grieved for your fall, as any body--but i. he has got a better regiment. strawberry hill, sunday night, past eleven. you chose your time ill for going abroad this year: england never saw such a spring since it was fifteen years old. the warmth, blossoms, and verdure are unparalleled. i am just come from richmond, having first called on lady di. who is designing and painting pictures for prints to dryden's fables.( ) oh! she has done two most beautiful; one of emily walking in the garden, and palamon seeing her from the tower: the other, a noble, free composition of theseus parting the rivals, when fighting in the wood. they are not, as you will imagine, at all like the pictures in the shakspeare gallery: no; they are -worthy of dryden. i can tell you nothing at all certain with our war with russia. if one believes the weather-glass of the stocks, it will be peace; they had fallen to , and are risen again, and soberly, to . fawkener" clerk of the council, sets out to-day or to-morrow for berlin; probably, i hope, with an excuse. in the present case, i had much rather our ministers were bullies than heroes: no mortal likes the war. the court-majority lost thirteen of its former number at the beginning of the week, which put the opposition into spirits; but, put pursuing their motions on friday, twelve of the thirteen were recovered.( ) lord onslow told me just now, at madame de boufflers's, that lady salisbury was brought to bed of a son and heir( ) last night, two hours after she came from the opera; and that madame du barry dined yesterday with the prince of wales, at the duke of queensberry's, at richmond. thus you have all my news, such as it is ; and i flatter myself no english at pisa or florence can boast of better intelligence than you--but for you, should i care about madame du barry or my lady salisbury, or which of them lies in or lies out? berkeley square, monday, april . oh! what a dear letter have i found, and from both at once; and with such a delightful bulletin! i should not be pleased with the idleness of the pencil, were it not owing to the chapter of health, which i prefer to every thing. you order me to be particular about my own health: i have nothing to say about it, but that it is as good as before my last fit. can i expect or desire more at my age? my ambition is to pass a summer, with you two established at cliveden. i shall not reject more if they come; but one must not be presumptuous at seventy-three; and though my eyes, ears, teeth, motion, have still lasted to make life comfortable, i do not know that i should be enchanted if surviving any of them ; and, having no desire to become a philosopher, i had rather be naturally cheerful than affectedly so: for patience i take to be only a resolution of holding one's tongue, and not complaining of what one feels-for does one feel or think the less for not owning it? though london increases every day, and mr. herschell has just discovered a new square or circus somewhere by the new road in .the via lactea, where the cows used to be fed, i believe you will think the town cannot hold all its inhabitants; so prodigiously the population is augmented. i have twice been going to stop my coach in piccadilly, (and the same has happened to lady ailesbury,) thinking there was a mob; and it was only nymphs and swains sauntering or trudging. t'other morning, i. e. at two o'clock, i went to see mrs. garrick and miss hannah more at the adelphi, and was stopped five times before i reached northumberland-house; for the tides of coaches, chariots, curricles, phaetons, etc. are endless. indeed, the town is so extended, that the breed of chairs is almost lost ; for hercules and atlas could not carry any body from one end of this enormous capital to the other. how magnified would be the error of the young woman at st. helena, who, some said years ago, to a captain of an indiaman, "i suppose london is very empty, when the india ships come out." don't make me excuses, then, for short letters; nor trouble yourself a moment to lengthen them. you compare little towns to quiet times, which do not feed history ; and most justly. if the vagaries of' london can be comprised once a week in three or four pages of small quarto paper, and not always that, how should little pisa furnish an equal export? when pisa *was at war with the rival republic of milan, machiavel was put to it to describe a battle, the slaughter in which amounted to one man slain; and he was trampled to death, by being thrown down and battered in his husk of complete armour; as i remember reading above fifty years ago at florence. eleven at night. oh! mercy! i am just come from mrs. buller's, having left a very pleasant set at lady herries'( )--and for such a collection eight or ten women and girls, not one of whom i knew by sight: a german count., as stiff and upright as the inflexible dowager of beaufort: a fat dean and his wife, he speaking cornish, and of having dined to-day at lambeth; four young officers, friends of the boy buller,( ) who played with one of them at tric-trac, while the others made with the misses a still more noisy commerce; and not a creature but mrs. cholmondeley, who went away immediately, and her son, who was speechless with the headache, that i was the least acquainted with: and, to add to my sufferings, the count would talk to me of les beaux arts, of which he knows no more than an oyster. at last, came in mrs. blair, whom i knew as little; but she asked so kindly after you two, and was so anxious about your fall and return, that i grew quite fond of her, and beg you would love her for my sake, as i do for yours. good night! i have this moment received a card from the duchess-dowager of ancaster, to summon me for to-morrow at three o'clock--i suppose to sign lord cholmondeley's marriage-articles with her daughter.( ) the wedding is to be this day sevennight. save me, my old stars, from wedding-dinners! but i trust they are not of this age. i should sooner expect hymen to jump out of a curricle, and walk into the duchess's dressing-room in boots and a dirty shirt. ( ) a splendid edition of the fables of dryden, ornamented with engravings, from the elegant and fascinating pencil of lady diana beauclerc, was published in folio in .-e. ( ) on the th of april, a series of resolutions, moved by mr. grey, the object of which was to pronounce the armament against russia inexpedient and unnecessary, were, after a warm debate, negatived by against ?- a similar motion, made on the fifteenth, by mr. baker was rejected by a majority of to .-e. ( ) james-brownlow-william gascoyne cecil. in , he succeeded his father as second marquis of salisbury.-e. ( ) the wife of the banker in st. james's street. ( ) mrs. buller's only child. ( ) lady charlotte bertie. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, april , . (page ) to-day, when the town is staring at the sudden resignation of the duke of leeds,( ) asking the reason, and gaping to know who will succeed him, i am come hither -with an indifference that might pass for philosophy; as the true cause is not known, which it seldom is. don't tell europe; but i really am come to look at the repairs of cliveden, and how they go on; not without an eye to the lilacs and the apple-blossoms: for even self can find a corner to wriggle into, though friendship may fit out the vessel. mr. berry may, perhaps, wish i had more political curiosity; but as i must return to town on monday for lord cholmondeley's wedding, i may hear before the departure of the post, if the seals are given: for the duke's reasons, should they be assigned, shall one be certain? his intention was not even whispered till wednesday evening. the news from india, so long expected, are not couleur de rose, but de sang: a detachment has been defeated by tippoo saib, and lord cornwallis is gone to take the command of the army himself. will the east be more propitious to him than the west? the abolition of the slave-trade has been rejected by the house of commons,( ) though mr. pitt and mr. fox united earnestly to carry it: but commerce chinked its purse, and that sound is generally prevalent with the majority; and humanity's tears, and eloquence, figures and arguments, had no more effect than on those patrons of liberty, the national assembly of france; who, while they proclaim the rights of men, did not choose to admit the sable moiety of mankind to a participation of those benefits. captain bowen has published a little pamphlet of affidavits, which prove that gunnilda attempted to bribe her father's groom to perjure himself; but he begged to be excused. nothing more appears against the mother, but that miss pretended her mamma had an aversion to lord lorn, (an aversion to a marquis!) and that she did not dare to acquaint so tender a parent with her lasting passion for him. still i am persuaded that both the mother and the aunt were in the plot, whatever it was. i saw lady cecilia last night, and made all your speeches, and received their value in return for you. good hannah more is killing herself by a new fit of benevolence, about a young girl with a great fortune, who has been taken from school at bristol to gretna green, and cannot be discovered; nor the apothecary who stole her. mrs. garrick, who suspects, as i do, that miss europa is not very angry with mr. jupiter, had very warm words, a few nights ago, at the bishop of london's, with lady beaumont; but i diverted the quarrel by starting the stale story of the gunning. you know lady beaumont's eagerness: she is ready to hang the apothecary with her own hands; and he certainly is criminal enough. poor hannah lives with attorneys and sir sampson wright;( ) and i have seen her but once since she came to town. her ungrateful proteg`ee, the milkwoman, has published her tragedy, and dedicated it to a patron as worthy as herself, the earl-bishop of derry.( ) at night. well! our wedding is over very properly, though with little ceremony; for the men were in frocks and white waistcoats; most of the women in white, and no diamonds but on the duke's wife; and nothing of ancient fashion but two bride-maids. the endowing purse i believe, has been left off, ever since broad-pieces were called in and melted down. we were but eighteen persons in all, chiefly near relations of each side; and of each side a friend or two: of the first sort, the greatheds. sir peter burrell gave away the bride. the poor duchess-mother wept excessively: she is now left quite alone; her two daughters married, and her other children dead; she herself, i fear, in a very dangerous way. she goes directly to spa, where the new-married are to meet her. we all separated in an hour and a half. the elliot-girl( ) was there, and is pretty: she rolls in the numerous list of my nephews and nieces. i am now told that our indian skirmish was a victory, and that tippoo saib and all his cavalry and elephants, ran away; but sure i am, that the first impression made on me by those who spread the news, was not triumphant; nor can i enjoy success in that country, which we have so abominably usurped and plundered. you must wait for a new secretary of state till next post. the duke of leeds is said to have resigned from bad health. the ducs de richelieu( ) and de pienne, and madame de st. priest, are arrived here. mr. fawkener does not go to berlin till wednesday * still the stocks do not believe in the war. i have exhausted my gazette; and this being both easter and newmarket week, i may possibly have nothing to tell you by to-morrow se'nnight's post, and may wait till friday se'nnight: of which i give you notice, lest you should think i have had a fall, and hurt my nose which i know gives one's friend a dreadful alarm. good night! p. s. i never saw such a blotted letter: i don't know how you will read it. i am so earnest when writing to you two, that i omit half the words, and write too small; but i will try to mend. ( ) francis godolphin osborne, fifth duke of leeds. in , he was appointed a lord of the bedchamber, and in , secretary of state for foreign affairs. he was succeeded in the office by lord grenville.-e. ( ) the numbers on the division were, for the abolition , against it .-e. ( ) in a letter written on this day, miss more says,--"my time has been literally passed with thief takers, officers of justice, and such pretty kind of people." the young lady, who was an heiress and only fourteen years of age, had been trepanned away from school. all the efforts to discover the victim proved fruitless; the poor girl having been betrayed into a marriage and carried to the continent.-e. ( ) the earl of bristol; for an account of whom, see ante, p. , letter .-e. ( ) a natural daughter of lord cholmondeley. ( ) armand-emanuel du plessis, duc do richelieu. he had just succeeded to the title, by the death of his father. in the preceding year, he had entered a volunteer into the service of catherine the second, and distinguished himself at the siege of ismael, not more by his bravery than his humanity; as appears by the following anecdote recorded in the "histoire de la nouvelle russie," tom. iii. p. :--"je sauvai la vie `a une fille de dix ans, dont l'innocence et la candeur formaient un contraste bien frappant avec la rage de tout ce qui mlenvironnait. en arrivant sur le bastion o`u commen`ca le carnage, j'apperus un groupe de quatre femmes `egorg`ees, entre lesquelles cet enfant, d'une figure charmante, cherchait un asile contre la fureur de deux kosaks qui `etaient sur le point de la massacrer: ce spectacle m'attira bient`ot, et je n'h`esitai pas, comme on peut le croire, prendre entre mes bras cette infortun`ee, que les barbares voulaient y poursuivre encore." lord byron has paraphrased the affecting incident in the eighth canto of don juan:-- "upon a taken bastion, where there lay thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group of murder'd women, who had found their way to this vain refuge, made the good heart droop and shudder;--while, as beautiful as may, a female child of ten years tried to stoop and hide her little palpitating breast amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. two villainous cossacques pursued the child with flashing eyes, and weapons. * * * don juan raised his little captive from the heap, a moment more had made her tomb." in , the duke returned to russia, and was nominated civil and military governor of odessa; -and to his administration," says bishop heber, and not to any natural advantages, the town owes its prosperity." on the restoration of louis the eighteenth, he was appointed first gentleman of the bedchamber; and in , president of the council and minister for foreign affairs. he finally retired from office in , and died in .-e. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, may , . (page ) a letter from florence (that of april th) does satisfy me about your nose-till i can see it with my own eyes; but i will own to you now, that my alarm at first went much farther. i dreaded lest so violent a fall upon rubbish might not have hurt your head; though all your letters since have proved how totally that escaped any danger. yet your great kindness in writing to me yourself so immediately did not tranquillize me, and only proved your good-nature-but i will not detail my departed fears, nor need i prove my attachment to you two. if you were really my wives, i could not be more generally applied to for accounts of you; of which i am proud. i should be ashamed, if, at my age, it were a ridiculous attachment; but don't be sorry for having been circumstantial. my fears did not spring thence; nor did i suspect your not having told the whole-no; but i apprehended the accident might be worse than you knew yourself. poor hugh conway,( ) though his life has long been safe, still suffers at times from his dreadful blow, and has not yet been able to come to town: nor would lord chatham's humanity put his ship into commission; which made him so unhappy, that poor horatia,( ) doating on him as she does, wrote to beg he might be employed; preferring her own misery in parting with him to what she saw him suffer. amiable conduct! but, happily, her suit did not prevail. i am not at all surprised at the private interviews between leopold( ) and c. i am persuaded that the first must and will take more part than he has yet seemed to do, and so will others too; but as speculations are but guesses, i will say no more on the subject now; nor of your english and irish travellers, none of whom i know. i have one general wish, that you may be amused while you stay, by the natives of any nation: and i thank you a thousand times for confirming your intention of returning by the beginning of november; which i should not desire coolly, but from the earnest wish of putting you in possession of cliveden while i live; which every body would approve, at least, not wonder at (mr. batt, to whom i have communicated my intention, does extremely); and the rest would follow of course, as i had done the same for mrs. clive. i smiled at your making excuses for your double letter. do you think i would not give twelvepence to hear more of you and your proceedings, than a single sheet would contain? the prince is recovered; that is all the domestic news, except a most memorable debate last friday, in the house of commons. mr. fox had most imprudently thrown out a panegyric on the french revolution.( ) his most considerable friends were much hurt, and protested to him against such sentiments. burke went much farther, and vowed to attack these opinions. great pains were taken to prevent such altercation, and the prince of wales is said to have written a dissuasive letter to burke: but he was immovable; and on friday, on the quebec bill, he broke out and sounded a trumpet against the plot, which he denounced as carrying on here. prodigious clamours and interruption arose from mr. fox's friends: but he, though still applauding the french, burst into tears and lamentations on the loss of burke's friendship, and endeavoured to make atonement; but in vain, though burke wept too. in short, it was the most affecting scene possible; and undoubtedly an unique one, for both the commanders were earnest and sincere.( ) yesterday, a second act was expected; but mutual friends prevailed, that the contest should not be renewed: nay, on the same bill, mr. fox made a profession of his faith, and declared he would venture his life in support of the present constitution by king, lords, and commons. in short, i never knew a wiser dissertation, if the newspapers deliver it justly; and i think all the writers in england cannot give more profound sense to mr. fox than he possesses. i know no more particulars, having seen nobody this morning yet. what shall i tell you else? we have expected mrs. damer from last night; and perhaps she may arrive before this sets out to-morrow. friday morning, may th. last night we were at lady frederick campbell's,--the usual cribbage party, conways, mount-edgcumbes, johnstones. at past ten mrs. damer was announced! her parents ran down into the hall, and i scrambled down some of the stairs. she looks vastly well, was in great spirits, and not at all fatigued; though she came from dover, had been twelve hours at sea from calais, and had rested but four days at paris from madrid. we supped, and stayed till one o'clock; and i shall go to see her as soon as i am dressed. madrid and the escurial she owns have gained her a proselyte to painting, which her statuarism had totally engrossed in her, no wonder. of titian she had no idea, nor have i a just one, though great faith, as at venice all his works are now coal-black: but rubens, she says, amazed her, and that in spain he has even grace. her father, yesterday morning, from pain remaining still in his shoulder from his fall, had it examined by dr. hunter, and a little bone of the collar was found to be broken, and he must wear his arm for some time in a sling. miss boyle, i heard last night, had consented to marry lord henry fitzgerald. i think they have both chosen well--but i have chosen better. adieu! care spose! ( ) lord hugh seymour conway, brother of the then marquis of hertford. ( ) lady horatia waldegrave, his wife. ( ) the emperor leopold, then at florence; whither he had returned from vienna, to inaugurate his son in the grand duchy of tuscany.-e. ( ) in the course of his speech on the th of april, during the debate on the armament against russia, mr. fox had said, that "he for one admired the new constitution of france, considered altogether, as the most stupendous and glorious edifice of liberty which had been erected on the foundation of human integrity in any time or country." as soon as he had sat down mr. burke rose, in much visible emotion; but was prevented from proceeding by the general cry of question. mr. fox regretted the injudicious zeal of those who would not suffer him to reply on the spot: "the contention," be said, "might have been fiercer and hotter, but the remembrance of it would not have settled so deep, nor rankled so long, in the heart."-e. ( ) with the debate of this day terminated a friendship which had lasted more than the fourth part of a century. mr. wilberforce, in his diary of the th of may, states, that he had endeavoured to prevent the quarrel; and in a letter to a friend, on the following day, he speaks of "the shameful spectacle of last night; more disgraceful almost, and more affecting, than the rejection of my motion for the abolition of the slave trade-a long tried and close worldly connexion of five-and-twenty years trampled to pieces in the conflict of a single night!" the following anecdote, connected with this memorable evening, is related by mr. curwen, at that time member for carlisle, in his travels in ireland:--"the powerful feelings were manifested on the adjournment of the house. while i was waiting for my carriage, mr. burke came to me and requested, as the night was wet, i would set him down. as soon as the carriage-door was shut, he complimented me on my being no friend to the revolutionary doctrines of the french; on which he spoke with great warmth for a few minutes, when he paused to afford me an opportunity of approving the view he had taken of those measures in the house. at the moment i could not help feeling disinclined to disguise my sentiments: mr. burke, catching hold of the check-string, furiously exclaimed, 'you are one of these people! set me down!' with some difficulty i restrained him;-we had then reached charingcross: a silence ensued which was preserved till we reached his house in gerard-street, when he hurried out of the carriage without speaking."-e. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, thursday, may , . (page ) your letter of the th, for which you are so good as to make excuses on not sending it to the post in time, did arrive but two days later than usual; and as it is now two months from the th of march, and i have so many certificates of the prosperous state of your pretty nose, i attributed the delay to the elements, and took no panic. but how kindly punctual you are, when you charge yourself' with an irregularity of two days! and when your letters are so charmingly long, and interest me so much in all you do! but make no more excuses. i reproach myself with occasioning so much waste of your time, that you might employ every hour; for it is impossible to see all that the medicis had collected or encouraged in the loveliest little city, and in such beautiful environs-nor had i forgotten the cascines, the only spot containing english verdure. mrs. damer is as well, if not better, than she has been a great while: her looks surprise every body; to which, as she is tanned, her spanish complexion contributes. she and i called, the night before last, on your friend mrs. cholmeley; and they are to make me a visit to-morrow morning, by their own appointment. at dover mrs. damer heard the gunnings are there: here, they are forgotten. you are learning perspective, to take views: i am glad. can one have too many resources in one's self? internal armour is more necessary to your sex, than weapons to ours. you have neither professions, nor politics, nor ways of getting money, like men; in any of which, whether successful or not, they are employed. scandal and cards you will both always hate and despise, as much as you do now; and though i shall not flatter mary so much as to suppose she will ever equal the extraordinary talent of agnes in painting, yet, as mary, like the scriptural martha, is occupied in many things, she is quite in the right to add the pencil to her other amusements. i knew the duchesse de brissac( ) a little, and but a little, in . she was lively and seemed sensible, and had an excellent character. poor m. de thygnols!( ) to be deprived of that only remaining child too!--but, how many french one pities, and how many more one abhors! how dearly will even liberty be bought, (if it shall prove to be obtained, which i neither think it is or will be,) by every kind of injustice and violation of consciences! how little conscience can they have, who leave to others no option but between perjury and starving! the prince de chimay i do not know. after answering the articles of yours, i shall add what i can of new. after several weeks spent in search of precedents, for trials ceasing or not on a dissolution of parliament, the peers on monday sat till three in the morning on the report; when the chancellor and lord hawkesbury fought for the cessation, but were beaten by a large majority; which showed that mr. pitt( ) has more weight (at present) in that house too, than--the diamonds of bengal. lord hawkesbury protested. the trial recommences on monday next, and has already caused the public fourteen thousand pounds; the accused, i suppose, much more. the countess of albany( ) is not only in england, in london, but at this very moment, i believe, in the palace of st. james's--not restored by as rapid a revolution as the french, but, as was observed last night at supper at lady mount-edgcumbe's, by that topsy-turvyhood that characterizes the present age. within these two months the pope has been burnt at paris; madame du barry, mistress of louis quinze, has dined with the lord mayor of london, and the pretender's widow is presented to the queen of great britain! she is to be introduced by her great-grandfather's niece, the young countess of ailesbury.( ) that curiosity should bring her hither, i do not quite wonder-still less that she abhorred her husband; but methinks it is not very well bred to his family, nor very sensible; but a new way of passing eldest. apropos: i hear there is a medal struck at rome of her brother- in-law, as henry the ninth; which, as one of their papal majesties was so abominably mean as to deny the royal title to his brother, though for rome he had lost a crown, i did not know they allow his brother to assume. i should be much obliged to you if you could get one of those medals in copper; ay, and of his brother, if there was one with the royal title. i have the father's and mother's, and all the popes', in copper; but my pope, benedict the fourteenth, is the last, and therefore i should be glad of one of each of his successors, if you can procure and bring them with little trouble. i should not be sorry to have one of the grand duke and his father; but they should be in copper, not only for my suite, but they are sharper than in silver. thursday night. well! i have had an exact account of the interview of the two queens, from one who stood close to them. the dowager was announced as princess of stolberg. she was well-dressed, and not at all embarrassed. the king talked to her a good deal; but about her passage' the sea, and general topics: the queen in the same way, but less. then she stood between the dukes of gloucester and clarence, and had a good deal of conversation with the former; who, perhaps, may have met her in italy. not a word between her and the princesses: nor did i hear of the prince, but he was there, and probably spoke to her. the queen looked at her earnestly. to add to the singularity of the day, it is the queen's birthday. another odd accident: at the opera at the pantheon, madame d'albany was carried into the king's box, and sat there. it is not of a piece with her going to court, that she seals with the royal arms. i have been told to-night, that you will not be able to get me a medal of the royal cardinal, as very few were struck, and only for presents; so pray give yourself but little trouble about it. boswell has at last published his long-promised life of dr. johnson, in two volumes in quarto. i will give you an account of it when i have gone through it. i have already perceived, that in writing the history of hudibras, ralpho has not forgot himself nor will others, i believe, forget him! ( ) the duc do brissac was at this time commandant-general of louis the sixteenth's constitutional guard. in the following year he was denounced; and in the early days of september put to death at versailles, for his attachment to his unfortunate sovereign.-e. ( ) the duc de nivernois, who, at this time, was employed about the person of louis the sixteenth, was denounced by the infamous chaumette, and cast into prison in september ; where he remained till . he died in .-e. ( ) in mr. wilberforce's diary of the d of december, there is the following entry:--"hastings's impeachment question. pitt's astonishing speech. this was almost the finest speech he ever delivered: it was one which you would say at once he never could have made if he had not been a mathematician. he put things by as he proceeded and then returned to the very point from which he had started, with the most astonishing clearness. he had all the lawyers against him, but carried a majority of the house, mainly by the force of this speech. it pleased burke exceedingly. 'sir,' he said, 'the right honourable gentleman and i have often been opposed to one another, but his speech tonight has neutralized my opposition; nay, sir, he has dulcified me.' " life, vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) louisa maximiliana de stolberg goedern, wife of the pretender. after the death of charles edward in , she travelled in italy and france, and lived with her favourite, the celebrated alfieri, to whom she is stated to have been privately married. she continued to reside at paris, until the progress of the revolution compelled her to take refuge in england.-e. ( ) lady anne rawdon, sister to the first marquis of hastings. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, may , . (page ) i am rich in letters from you: i received that by lord elgin's courier first, as you expected, and its elder the next day. you tell me mine entertain you; tant mieux. it is my wish, but my wonder; for i live so little in the world, that i do not know the present generation by sight: for, though i pass by them in the streets, the hats with valences, the folds above the chin of the ladies, and the dirty shirts and shaggy hair of the young men, who have levelled nobility almost as much as the mobility in france have, have confounded all individuality. besides, if i did go to public places and assemblies, which my going to roost earlier prevents, the bats and owls do not begin to fly abroad till far in the night, when they begin to see and be seen. however, one of the empresses of fashion, the duchess of gordon, uses fifteen or sixteen hours of her four-and-twenty. i heard her journal of last monday. she first went to handel's music in the abbey; she then clambered over the benches, and went to hastings's trial in the hall; after dinner to the play; then to lady lucan's assembly; after that to ranelagh, and returned to mrs. hobart's faro table; gave a ball herself in the evening of that morning, into which she must have got a good way: and set out for scotland the next day. hercules could not have achieved a quarter of her labours in the same space of time, what will the great duke think of our amazons, if he has letters opened, as the emperor was wont! one of our camillas,( ) but in a freer style, i hear, he saw (i fancy just before your arrival); and he must have wondered at the familiarity of the dame, and the nincompoophood of her prince. sir william hamilton is arrived-- his nymph of the attitudes!( ) was too prudish to visit the rambling peeress. the rest of my letter must be literary; for we have no news. boswell's book is gossiping;( ) but, having numbers of proper names, would be more readable, at least by me, were it reduced from two volumes to one; but there are woful longueurs, both about his hero and himself; thefidus achates; about whom one has not the smallest curiosity. but i wrong the original achates: one is satisfied with his fidelity in keeping his master's secrets and weaknesses, which modern led-captains betray for their patron's glory, and to hurt their own enemies; which boswell has done shamefully, particularly against mrs. piozzi, and mrs. montagu, and bishop percy. dr. blagden says justly, that it is a new kind of libel, by which you may abuse any body, by saying some dead body said so and so of somebody alive. often, indeed, johnson made the most brutal speeches to living persons; for though he was good-natured at bottom, he was very ill-natured at top. he loved to dispute, to show his superiority. if his opponents were weak, he told them they were fools; if they vanquished him, be was scurrilous--to nobody more than to boswell himself, who was contemptible for flattering him so grossly, and for enduring the coarse things he was continually vomiting on boswell's own country, scotland. i expected, amongst the excommunicated, to find myself, but am very gently treated. i never would be in the least acquainted with johnson; or, as boswell calls it, i had not a just value for him; which the biographer imputes to my resentment for the doctor's putting bad arguments (purposely, out of jacobitism,) into the speeches which he wrote fifty years ago for my father, in the gentleman's magazine; which i did not read then, or ever knew johnson wrote till johnson died, nor have looked at since. johnson's blind toryism and known brutality kept me aloof; nor did i ever exchange a syllable with him: nay, i do not think i ever was in a room with him six times in my days. boswell came to me, said dr. johnson was writing the lives of the poets, and wished i would give him anecdotes of mr. gray. i said, very coldly, i had given what i knew to mr. mason. boswell hummed and hawed, and then dropped, "i suppose you know dr. johnson does not admire mr. gray." putting as much contempt as i could into my look and tone, i said, "dr. johnson don't--humph!"--and with that monosyllable ended our interview. after the doctor's death, burke, sir joshua reynolds, and boswell sent an ambling circular-letter to me, begging subscriptions for a monument for him--the two last, i think, impertinently; as they could not but know my opinion, and could not suppose i would contribute to a monument for one who had endeavoured, poor soul! to degrade my friend's superlative poetry. i would not deign to write an answer; but sent down word by my footman, as i would have done to parish officers with a brief, that i would not subscribe. in the two new volumes johnson says, and very probably did, or is made to say, that 'gray's poetry is dull, and that he was a dull man!( ) the same oracle dislikes prior, swift, and fielding. if an elephant could write a book, perhaps one that had read a great deal would say, that an arabian horse is a very clumsy ungraceful animal. pass to a better chapter! burke has published another pamphlet( ) against the french revolution, in which he attacks it still more grievously. the beginning is very good; but it is not equal, nor quite so injudicious as parts of its predecessor; is far less brilliant, as well as much shorter: but, were it ever so long, his mind overflows with such a torrent of images, that he cannot be tedious. his invective against rousseau is admirable, just, and new.( ) voltaire he passes almost contemptuously. i wish he had dissected mirabeau too; and i grieve that he has omitted the violation of the consciences of the clergy, nor stigmatized those universal plunderers, the national assembly, who gorge themselves with eighteen livres a-day; which to many of them would, three years ago, have been astonishing opulence. when you return, i shall lend you three volumes in quarto of another work,( ) with which you will be delighted. they are state-letters in the reigns of henry the eighth, mary, elizabeth, and james; being the correspondence of the talbot and howard families, given by a duke of norfolk to the herald's-office; where they have lain for a century neglected, buried under dust, and unknown, till discovered by a mr. lodge, a genealogist, who, to gratify his passion, procured to be made a poursuivant. oh! how curious they are! henry seizes an alderman who refused to contribute to a benevolence: sends him to the army on the borders; orders him to be exposed in the front line; and if that does not do, to be treated with the utmost rigour of military discipline. his daughter bess is not less a tudor. the mean, unworthy treatment of the queen of scots is striking; and you will find elizabeth's jealousy of her crown and her avarice were at war, and how the more ignoble passion predominated. but the most amusing passage is one in a private letter, as it paints the awe of children for their parents a little differently from modern habitudes. mr. talbot, second son of the earl of shrewsbury, was a member of the house of commons, and was married. he writes to the earl his father, and tells him, that a young woman of a very good character, has been recommended to him for chambermaid to his wife, and if his lordship does not disapprove of it, he will hire her. there are many letters of news, that are very entertaining too--but it is nine o'clock, and i must go to lady cecilia's. friday. the conways, mrs. damer, the farrens, and lord mount-edgcumbe supped at the johnstones'. lord mount-edgcumbe said excellently, that "mademoiselle d'eon is her own widow." i wish i had seen you both in your court-plis, at your presentation; but that is only one wish amongst a thousand. ( ) lady craven; who was at this time in italy with the margravine of anspach. lord craven died at lausanne in september, and the lady was married to the margrave in october following.-e. ( ) miss martel married, in the following september, to sir william hamilton-the lady, the infatuated attachment to whom has been said to have been "the only cloud that obscured the bright fame of the immortal nelson." by the following passage in a letter, written by romney the painter to hagley the poet on the th of june, it will be seen that she had not been many days in england, before a warm passion for her was engendered in the breast of the artist:--"at present, and for the greatest part of the summer, i shall be engaged in painting pictures from the divine lady: i cannot give her any other epithet; for i think her superior to all womankind. she asked me if you would not write my life: i told her you had begun it-then, she said, she hoped you would have much to say of her in the life; as she prides herself in being my model."-e. ( ) on the first appearance of his most interesting and instructive life of dr. johnson, a considerable outcry was raised against poor boswell. on the subject of this outcry, mr. croker in the introduction to his valuable edition of the work, published in , makes the following excellent observations:-- "whatever doubts may have existed as to the prudence or the propriety of the original publication--however naturally private confidence was alarmed, or individual vanity offended--the voices of criticism and complaint were soon drowned in the general applause. and, no wonder; the work combines within itself the four most entertaining classes of writing--biography, memoirs, familiar letters, and that assemblage of literary anecdotes, which the french have taught us to distinguish by the termination ana. it was a strange and fortuitous concurrence, that one so prone to talk, and who talked so well, should be brought into such close contact and confidence with one so zealous and so able to record. dr. johnson was a man of extraordinary powers; but mr. boswell had qualities, in their own way, almost as rare. he united lively manners with indefatigable diligence, and the volatile curiosity of a man about town with the drudging patience of a chronicler. with a very good opinion of himself, he was quick in discerning, and frank in applauding the excellencies of others. his contemporaries, indeed, not without some colour of reason, occasionally complained of him as vain, troublesome, and giddy; but his vanity was inoffensive--his curiosity was commonly directed towards laudable objects--when he meddled, be did so, generally, from good-natured motives--and his giddiness was only an exuberant gaiety, which never failed in the respect and reverence due to literature, morals, and religion' ' and posterity grate taste, temper, and talents with which he selected, enjoyed, and described that polished intellectual society which still lives in his work, and without his work had perished!" mr. croker's edition of the work is the eleventh; and since its appearance, a twelfth, in ten pocket volumes, with embellishments has been given to the world, by mr. murray, of which thousands are understood to have been called for. whenever walpole, in the course of his correspondence, has had occasion to introduce the name of boswell, he has uniformly spoken so disparagingly of him, that it is but justice to his memory to append to the above extract, a passage or two, in which other writers have recorded their estimation of him. mr. burke told sir james mackintosh, that "he thought johnson appeared greater in boswell's volumes than even in his own." sir walter scott, speaking of the doctor, says, "he yet is, in our mind's eye, a personification as lively as that of siddons in lady macbeth, or kemble in cardinal wolsey; and all this arises from his having found in boswell such a biographer as no man but himself ever had." in the opinion of the edinburgh reviewers, boswell was "the very prince of retail wits and philosophers," and his life of johnson is pronounced to be "one of the best books in the world-- a great, a very great work;" while the quarterly review considers it "the richest dictionary of wit and wisdom, any language can boast, and that to the influence of boswell we owe, probably, three-fourths of what is most entertaining, as well as no inconsiderable portion of whatever is most instructive, in all the books of memoirs that have subsequently appeared."-e. ( ) dr. johnson's attack upon gray was undoubtedly calculated to give great offence to walpole: "sir, he was dull in company, dull in his closet, dull every where: he was dull in a new way, and that made many people think him great: he was a mechanical poet."-e. ( ) this was the "letter from mr. burke to a member of the national assembly."-e. ( ) "we have had," says mr. burke, "the great professor and founder of the philosophy of vanity in england. as i had good opportunities of knowing his proceedings, almost from day to day, he left no doubt on my mind that he entertained no principle, either to influence his heart or to guide his understanding, but vanity; with this vice he was possessed to a degree little short of madness. benevolence to the whole species, and want of feeling for every individual with whom the professors come in contact, form the character of the new philosophy. setting up for an unsocial independence, this their hero of vanity refuses the just price of common labour, as well as the tribute which opulence owes to genius, and which when paid, honours the giver and the receiver: and then he pleads his beggary as an excuse for his crimes. he melts with tenderness for those only who touch him by the remotest relation; and then, without one natural pang, casts away as a sort of offal and excrement, the spawn of his disgustful amours, and sends his children to the hospital of foundlings. the bear loves, licks, and forms her young; but bears are not philosophers."-e. ( ) this was lodge's "illustrations of british history, biography, and manners, in the reigns of henry the eighth, edward the sixth, mary, elizabeth and james the first;" a work which has also been highly praised by mr. gifford, sir walter scott, sir egerton brydges, mr. park, and others.-e. letter to the miss berrys. berkeley square, june , . (page ) to the tune of the cow with the crumpled horn, etc. "this is the note that nobody wrote." " this is the groom that carried the note that nobody wrote. "this is ma'am gunning, who was so very cunning, to examine the groom that carried the note that nobody wrote. "this is ma'am bowen, to whom it was owing, that miss minify gunning was so very cunning, to examine the groom that carried the note that nobody wrote. "these are the marquisses shy of the horn, who caused the maiden all for-lorn, to become on a sudden so tattered and torn, that miss minify gunning was so very cunning, to examine the groom, etc. "these are the two dukes, whose sharp rebukes made the two marquesses shy of the horn, and caused the maiden all for-lorn, etc. "this is the general somewhat too bold, whose head was so hot, though his heart was so cold; who proclaimed himself single before it was meet, and his wife and his daughter turned into the street, to please the dukes, whose sharp rebukes," etc. this is not at all new; i have heard it once or twice imperfectly, but could not get a copy till now; and i think it will divert you for a moment, though the heroines are as much forgotten as boadicea; nor have i heard of them since their arrival at dover. well! i have seen madame d'albany who has not a ray of royalty about her. she has good eyes and teeth; but i think can have had no more beauty than remains, except youth. she is civil and easy, but german and ordinary. lady ailesbury made a small assemblage for her on monday, and my curiosity is satisfied. mr. conway and lady a., lord and lady frederic campbell, and mrs. e. hervey and mrs. hervey, breakfasted with me that morning at strawberry, at the desire of the latter, who had never been there; and whose commendations were so promiscuous, that i saw she did not at all understand the style of the place. the day was northeasterly and cold, and wanting rain; and i was not sorry to return into town. i hope in five months to like staying there much better. mrs. damer, who returned in such spanish health, has already caught an english northeastern cold; with pain in all her limbs, and a little fever, and yesterday was not above two hours out of her bed. her father came to me from her before dinner, and left her better; and i shall go to her presently; and, this not departing till to-morrow, i hope to give you a still more favourable account. these two days may boldly assume the name of june, without the courtesy of england. such weather makes me wish myself at strawberry, whither i shall betake myself on saturday. letter to the miss berrys. berkeley square, june , . your no. , that was interrupted, and of which the last date was of may th, i received on the th, and if i could find fault, it would be in the length; for i do not approve of your writing so much in hot weather, for, be it known to you ladies, that from the first of the month, june is not more june at florence, my hay is crumbling away; and i have ordered it to be cut, as a sure way of bringing rain. i have a selfish reason, too, for remonstrating against long letters. i feel the season advancing, when mine will be piteous short for what can i tell you from twickenham in the next three or four months'! scandal from richmond and hampton court, or robberies at my own door? the latter, indeed, are blown already. i went to strawberry on saturday, to avoid the birthday crowd and squibs and crackers. at six i drove to lord strafford's, where his goods are to be sold by auction; his sister, lady anne,( ) intending to pull down the house and rebuild it. i returned a quarter before seven; and in the interim between my gothic gate and ashe's nursery, a gentleman and gentlewoman, in a one-horse chair and in the broad face of the sun, had been robbed by a single highwayman, sans mask. ashe's mother and sister stood and saw it; but having no notion of a robbery at such an hour in the high-road and before their men had left work, concluded it was an acquaintance of the robber's. i suppose lady cecilia johnstone will not descend from her bedchamber to the drawing-room without life-guard men. the duke of bedford( ) eclipsed the whole birthday by his clothes, equipage, and servants - six of the latter walked on' the side of the coach to keep off the crowd-or to tempt it; for their liveries were worth an argosie. the prince *as gorgeous too - the latter is to give madame d'albany a dinner. she has been introduced to mrs. fitzherbert. you know i used to call mrs. cosway's( ) concerts charon's boat; now, methinks, london is so. i am glad mrs. c. is with you; she is pleasing-but surely it is odd to drop a child and her husband and country, all in a breath! i am glad you are disfranchised of the exiles. we have several, i am told, hire; but i strictly confine myself to those i knew formerly at paris, and who all are quartered on richmond green. i went to them on sunday evening, but found them gone to lord fitzwilliam's, the next house to madame de boufflers', to hear his organ; whither i followed them, and returned with them. the comtesse emilie played on her harp; then we all united at loto. i went home at twelve, unrobbed; and lord fitzwilliam, who asked much after you both, was to set out the next morning for dublin, though intending to stay there but four days, and be back in three weeks. i am sorry you did not hear all monsieur do lally tollendal's( ) tragedy, of which i have had a good account. i like his tribute to his father's memory.( ) of french politics you must be tired; and so am i. nothing appears to me to promise their chaos duration; consequently, i expect more chaos, the sediment of which is commonly despotism. poland ought to make the french blush-but that, they are not apt to do on any occasion. let us return to strawberry. the house of sebright breakfasted there with me on monday; the daughter had given me a drawing, and i owed her a civility. thank you for reminding me of falls: in one sense i am more liable to them than when you left me, for i am sensibly much weaker since my last fit; but that weakness makes me move much slower, and depend more on assistance. in a word, there is no care i do not take of myself: my heart is set on installing you at cliveden; and it will not be my fault if i do not preserve myself till then. if another summer is added, it will be happiness indeed--but i am not presumptuous, and count the days only till november. i am glad you, on your parts, repose till your journey commences, and go not into sultry crowded lodgings at the ascension. i was at venice in summer, and thought airing on stinking ditches pestilential, after enjoying the delicious nights on the ponte di trinit`a at florence, in a linen night-gown and a straw hat, with improvisatori. and music, and the coffee-houses open with ices--at least, such were the customs fifty years ago,. the duke of st. albans has cut down all the brave old trees at hanworth, and consequently reduced his park to what it issued from hounslow-heath: nay, he has hired a meadow next to mine, for the benefit of embarkation; and there lie all the good old corpses of oaks, ashes, and chestnuts, directly before your windows, and blocking up one of my views of the river! but so impetuous is the rage for building, that his grace's timber will, i trust, not annoy us long. there will soon be one street from london to brentford; ay, and from london to every village ten miles round! lord camden has just let ground at kentish town for building fourteen hundred houses--nor do i wonder; london is, i am certain, much fuller than ever i saw it. i have twice this spring been going to stop my coach in piccadilly, to inquire what was the matter, thinking there was a mob--not at all; it was only passengers. nor is there any complaint of depopulation from the country: bath shoots out into new crescents, circuses, and squares every year: birmingham, manchester, hull, and liverpool would serve ay king in europe for a capital, and would make the empress of russia's mouth water. of the war with catherine slay-czar i hear not a breath, and thence conjecture it is dozing into peace. mr. dundas has kissed hands for secretary of state; and bishop barrington, of salisbury, is transferred to durham, which he affected not to desire, having large estates by his wife in the south-but from the triple-mitre downwards, it is almost always true, what i said some years ago, that "nolo episcopari is latin for i lie.-- tell it not in gath that i say so; for i am to dine to-morrow at the bishop of london's, at fulham, with hannah bonner, my imprime. this morning i went with lysons the reverend to see dulwich college, founded in by alleyn, a player, which i had never seen in my many days. e were received by a smart divine, tr`es bien poudr`e, and with black satin breeches--but they are giving new wings and red satin breeches to the good old hostel too, and destroying a gallery with a very rich ceiling; and nothing will remain of ancient but the front, and an hundred mouldy portraits, among apostles, sibyls, and kings of england. on sunday i shall settle at strawberry; and then wo betide you on post-days! i cannot make news without straw. the johnstones are going to bath, for the healths of both; so richmond will be my only staple. adieu, all three! ( ) lady anne wentworth, married to the right honourable thomas conolly. ( ) francis, fifth duke of bedford. he died at woburn, in march , at the early age of thirty-one; upon which event, mr. fox, in moving for a new writ for tavistock, in the room of his brother john, who succeeded to the dukedom, pronounced an eloquent eulogium on the deceased-the only speech he could ever be prevailed upon to revise for publication-e. ( ) maria cosway, the wife of the eminent painter, and herself distinguished for her proficience both in painting and music. she was a native of italy but of english parentage; and being passionately fond of music, her soir`ees in pall-mall and afterwards in stratford-place, were attended by all the fashion of the town. in consequence of ill-health, accompanied by her brother, who had gained, as a student in painting, the academy's gold metal, she had left england for italy; where she remained about three years.-e ( ) the celebrated count lally do tollendal. in , he was one of the most eloquent members of the constituent assembly; but disapproving of the principles that prevailed, he retired into switzerland, gibbon, in a letter of the th of december of that year, says of him, "lally is an amiable man of the world, and a poet: he passes the winter here; you know how much i prefer a quiet select society to a crowd of names and titles: what happy countries are england and switzerland, if they know and preserve their happiness!" having returned to france in , he was sent to the abbaye; whence he escaped during the massacres which took place in the prisons in september, and effected his retreat to england, where he found an asylum in the house of lord sheffield. on the restoration of the bourbons, he was created a peer of france, and died in . the subject of the tragedy above alluded to was the fall of the earl of strafford.-e. ( ) the unfortunate count do lally, governor of pondicherry; who, on the surrender of the place to the english in , was made prisoner of war, and sent to england. in the chatham correspondence, there is a letter from him to mr. pitt, written in english; in which he says, "when i shall have seen and heard here of mr. pitt all i have already read of him, i shall always remember i am his prisoner, and liberty to me, though a frenchman, is of an inestimable value; therefore, i earnestly beg your interest with his majesty to grant me leave to repair to my native soil." the desired permission was granted; but no sooner had he reached paris, than he was thrown into the bastille, and after being confined several years, brought to trial for treachery and found guilty. when his sentence was pronounced, "the excess of his indignation," says voltaire, " was equal to his astonishment: he inveighed against his judges, and, holding in his hand a pair of compasses, which he used for tracing maps in his prison, he struck it against his heart; but the blow was not sufficient to take away life; he was dragged into a dung-cart, with a gag in his mouth, lest, being conscious of his innocence, he should convince the spectators of the injustice of his fate." madame du deffand, in giving to walpole, on the th of january , an account of this horrible scene, having stated, that the populace "battait des mains pendant l'ex`ecution," he returned her an answer, in a high degree honourable to his moral feeling:--"ah! madame, madame, quelles horreurs me racontez-vous la! qu'on ne dise jamais que les anglais sent durs et f`eroces. veritablement ce sent les fran`cais qui le sent, oui, oui, vous `etes des sauvages, des iroquois, vous autres. on a bien massacr`e des gens chez nous, mais a-t-on jamais vu battre des mains pendant qu'on mettait `a mort un pauvre malheureux, un officier general, qui avait langui pendant deux ans en prison? un homme enfin si sensible `a l'honneur, qu'il n'avait pas voulu se sauver! si touch`e de la disgrace qu'il chercha `a avaler les grilles de sa prison plut`ot que de se voir expos`e `a l'ignominie publique; et c'est exactement cette honn`ete pudeur qui fait qu'on le traine dans un tombereau, et qu'on lui met un baillon `a la bouche comme au dernier des sc`elerats. mon dieu! que je suis aise d'avoir quitt`e paris avant cette horrible sc`ene! je me serais fait d`echirer, ou mettre `a la bastille."-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, june , .(page ) i pity you! what a dozen or fifteen uninteresting letters are you going to receive! for here i am, unlikely to have any thing to tell you worth sending. you had better come back incontinently-but pray do not prophesy any more; you have been the death of our summer, and we are in close mourning for it in coals and ashes. it froze hard last night: i went out for a moment to look at my haymakers, and was starved. the contents of an english june are, hay and ice, orange-flowers and rheumatisms! i am now cowering over the fire. mrs. hobart had announced a rural breakfast at sans-souci last saturday; nothing being so pastoral as a fat grandmother in a row of houses on ham common. it rained early in the morning: she despatched postboys, for want of cupids and zephyrs, to stop the nymphs and shepherds who tend their flocks in pall-mall and st. james's- street; but half of them missed the couriers and arrived. mrs. montagu was more splendid yesterday morning, and breakfasted seven hundred persons on opening her great room, and the room with the hangings of feathers. the king and queen had been with her last week. i should like to have heard the orations she had prepared on the occasion. i was neither city-mouse nor country-mouse. i did dine at fulham on saturday with the bishop of london: mrs. boscawen, mrs. garrick, and hannah more were there; and dr. beattie, whom i had never seen. he is quiet, simple, and cheerful, and pleased me. there ends my tale, this instant, tuesday! how shall i fill a couple of pages more by friday morning! oh! ye ladies on the common, and ye uncommon ladies in london, have pity on a poor gazetteer, and supply me with eclogues or royal panegyrics moreover--or rather more under--i have had no letter from you these ten days, though the east wind has been as constant as lord derby. i say not this in reproach, as you are so kindly punctual; but as it stints me from having a single paragraph to answer. i do not admire specific responses to every article; but they are great resources on a dearth. madame de boufflers is ill of a fever, and the duchess de biron( ) goes next week to switzerland:--mais qu'est que cela vous fait? i must eke out this with a few passages that i think will divert you, from the heaviest of all books, mr. malone's shakspeare, in ten thick octavos, with notes, that are an extract of all the opium that is spread through the works of all the bad playwrights of that age. mercy on the poor gentleman's patience! amongst his other indefatigable researches he has discovered some lists of effects in the custody of the property-man to the lord admiral's company of players, in . of those effects he has given eight pages-you shall be off for a few items; viz. "my lord caffe's [caiaphas's] gercheri [jerkin] and his hoose [hose]; one rocke, one tombe, one hellemought [hell-mouth], two stepelles and one chyme of belles, one chaine of dragons, two coffines, one bulle's head, one vylter, one goste's crown, and one frame for the heading of black jone; one payer of stayers for fayeton, and bowght a robe for to goo invisabell." the pair of stairs for phaeton reminds one of hogarth's strollers dressing in a barn, where cupid on a ladder is reaching apollo's stockings, that are hanging to dry on the clouds; as the steeples do of a story in l'histoire du th`eatre fran`cois: jodelet, who not only wrote plays, but invented the decorations, was to exhibit of both before henry the third. one scene was to represent a view of the sea, and jodelet had bespoken two rochers; but not having time to rehearse, what did he behold enter on either side of the stage, instead of two rochers, but two clochers! who knows but my lord admiral bought them? berkeley square, thursday, th. i am come to town for one night, having promised to be at mrs. buller's this evening with mrs. damer, and i believe your friend, mrs. cholmeley, whom i have seen two or three times lately and like much. three persons have called on me since i came, but have not contributed a tittle of news to my journal. if i hear nothing to-night, this must depart, empty as it is, to-morrow morning, as i shall for strawberry; i hope without finding a new mortification, as i did last time. two companies had been to see my house last week; and one of the parties, as vulgar people always see with the ends of their fingers, had broken off the end of my invaluable eagle's bill, and to conceal their mischief, had pocketed the piece. it is true it had been restored at rome, and my comfort is, that mrs. damer can repair the damage--but did the fools know that? it almost provokes one to shut up one's house, when obliging begets injury! friday noon. this moment i receive your th, to which i have nothing to answer, but that i believe fox and burke are not very cordial; though i do not know whether there has been any formal reconciliation or not. the parliament is prorogued; and we shall hear no more of them, i suppose, for some months; nor have i learnt any thing new, and am returning to strawberry, and must finish. ( ) am`elie de boufflers, wife of armand-louis de gontaut, duc do biron, better known in england by the title of duc de lauzan. by a letter from madame necker to gibbon, the duchesse appears to have been at lausanne in october; but in the following september , tempted," says gibbon, " by some faint, and i fear, fallacious hope of clemency to the women", she was induced to revisit france, and perished by the guillotine, in one of robespierre's bloody proscriptions. see vol. v. pp. , . the duc was entrusted with the command of the army of the republic in la vend`ee; but, being reproached with having suffered niort to be besieged and with not having seconded westermann, he was denounced at the bar of the convention, delivered over to the revolutionary tribunal, and condemned to death. he suffered on the st of december , and is words upon the scaffold are said to have been, "i have been false to my god, my order, and my king: i die full of faith and repentance." see his "m`emoires, " in two volumes vo. published in .-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) wo is me! i have not an atom of news to send you, but that the second edition of mother hubbard's tale was again spoiled on saturday last by the rain; yet she had an ample assemblage of company from london and the neighbourhood. the late queen of france, madame du barry, was there; and the late queen of england, madame d'albany, was not. the former, they say, is as much altered as her kingdom, and does not retain a trace of her former powers. i saw her on her throne in the chapel of versailles;( ) and, though then pleasing in face and person, i thought her un peu pass`e. what shall i tell you more? that lord hawkesbury is added to the cabinet-council--que vous importe? and that dr. robertson has published a disquisition into the trade of the anchellts with india;( ) a sensible work--but that will be no news to you till you return. it was a peddling trade in those days. they now and then picked up an elephant's tooth, or a nutmeg, or one pearl, that served venus for a pair of pendants, when antony had toasted cleopatra in a bumper of its fellow; which shows that a couple was imported:-but. alack! the romans were so ignorant, that waiters from the tres tabernoe, in st. apollo's-street, did not carry home sacks of diamonds enough to pave the capitol--i hate exaggerations, and therefore i do not say, to pave the appian way. one author, i think, does say, that the wife of fabius pictor, whom he sold to a proconsul, did present livia( ) with an ivory bed, inlaid with indian gold; but, as dr. robertson does not mention it, to be sure he does not believe the fact well authenticated. it is an anxious moment with the poor french here: a strong notion is spread, that the prince of cond`e will soon make some attempt; and the national assembly, by their pompous blustering seem to dread it. perhaps the moment is yet too early, till anarchy is got to a greater head; but as to the duration of the present revolution, i no more expect it, than i do the millennium before christmas. had the revolutionists had the sense and moderation of our ancestors, or of the present poles, they might have delivered and blessed their country: but violence, injustice, and savage cruelty, tutored by inexperienced pedantry, produce offspring exactly resembling their parents, or turn their enemies into similar demons. barbarity will be copied by revenge. lord fitzwilliam has flown to dublin and back. he returned to richmond on the fourteenth day from his departure, and the next morning set out for france: no courier can do more. in my last, the description of june for orange-flowers, pray read roses: the east winds have starved all the former; but the latter, having been settled here before the wars of york and lancaster, are naturalized to the climate, and reek not whether june arrives in summer or winter. they blow by their own old-style almanacks. madame d'albany might have found plenty of white ones on her own tenth of june; but, on that very day, she chose to go to see the king in the house of lords, with the crown on his head, proroguing the parliament.( ) what an odd rencontre! was it philosophy or insensibility? i believe it is certain that her husband was in westminster-hall at the coronation. the patriarchess of the methodists, lady huntingdon, is dead. now she and whitfield are gone, the sect will probably decline: a second crop of apostles seldom acquire the influence of the founders. to-day's paper declares upon its say-so, that mr. fawkener is at hand, with catherine slay-czar's( ) acquiescence to our terms; but i have not entire faith in a precursor on such an occasion, and from holland too. it looks more like a courier to the stocks; and yet i am in little expectation of a war, as i believe we are boldly determined to remain at peace. and now my pen is quite dry-you are quite sure not from laziness, but from the season of the year, which is very anti-correspondent. adieu! ( ) see letter to george montagu, esq., sept. , , vol. , letter . ( ) this work, which was the last labour of the historian, was suggested by the perusal of major rennell's "memoir of a map of hindostan." in sending a copy of it to gibbon, he says "no man had formed a more decided resolution of retreating early from public view' and of spending the eve of life in the tranquillity of professional and domestic occupations; but, directly in the face of that purpose, i step forth with a new work, when just on the brink of threescore and ten. my book has met with a reception beyond what the spe lentus, pavidusque futuri, dared to expect. i find, however, like other parents, that i have a partial fondness for this child of my old age, and cannot set my heart quite at rest, until i know your opinion of it."-e. ( ) this alludes to the stories told at the time, of an ivory bed, inlaid with gold, having been presented to queen charlotte by mrs. hastings, the wife of the governor-general of india. ( ) " the bishop of london' " writes hannah more, " carried me to hear the king make his speech in the house of lords. as it was quite new to me, i was very well entertained; but the thing that was most amusing was to see, among the ladies, the princess of stolberg, countess of albany, wife to the pretender, sitting just at the foot of that throne, which she might once have expected to have mounted; and what diverted the party, when i put them in mind of it, was, that it happened to be the th of june, the pretender's birthday. i have the honour to be very much like her; and this opinion was confirmed yesterday, when we met again."-memoirs, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) walpole rarely makes mention of catherine without an allusion to the murder of the czar peter. in a letter written to madame du deffand, in he thus indignantly denounce voltaire's applauses of the empress:--"voltaire me fait horreur avec sa caterine: le beau sujet de badinage que l'assassinat d'un mari, et l'usurpateur de son tr`one! il n'est pas mal, dit-il, qu'on ait une faute r`eparer: eh! comment reparer un meurtre? est-ce en retenant des po`etes `a ses gages? en payant des historiens mercenaires, et en soudoyant des philosophes ridicules `a mille lieues dc son pays? ce sent ces `ames viles qui chantent un auguste, et se taisent sur ses proscriptions."-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, tuesday night, july , . (page ) i had had no letter from you for ten days, i suppose from west winds; but did receive one this morning, which had been three weeks on the road: and a charming one it was. mr. batt,--who dined with me yesterday, and stayed till after breakfast to-day,--being here, i read part of it to him; and he was as much delighted as i was with your happy quotation of incedit regina. if i could spare so much room, i might fill this paper with all he said of you both, and with all the friendly kind things he begged me to say to both from him. last night i read to him' certain reminiscences; and this morning he slipped from me, and walked to cliveden, and hopes to see it again much more agreeably. i hope so too, and that i shall be with him. i wish there were not so many f`etes at florence; they are worse for you both than an italian sultriness: but, if you do go to them, i am glad you have more northern weather. news i have none, but that calonne arrived in london on sunday: you may be sure i do not know for what. in a word, i have no more opinion of his judgment than of his integrity. now i must say a syllable about myself; but don't be alarmed! it is not the gout; it is worse: it is the rheumatism, which i have had in my shoulder ever since it attended the gout last december. it was almost gone till last sunday, when, the bishop of london preaching a charity sermon in our church, -whither i very. very seldom venture to hobble, i would go to hear him; both out of civility, and as i am very intimate with him. the church was crammed; and, though it rained, every window was open. however, at night i went to bed; but at two i waked with such exquisite pain in my, rheumatic right shoulder, that i think i scarce ever felt greater torture from the gout. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) ten months are gone of the longest year that ever was born--a baker's year, for it has thirteen months to the dozen! as our letters are so long interchanging, it is not beginning too early to desire you will think of settling the stages to which i must direct to you in your route. nay, i don't know whether it is not already too late: i am sure it will be, if i am to stay for an answer to this; but i hope you will have thought on it before you receive this. i am so much recovered as to have been abroad. i cannot say my arm is glib yet; but, if i waited for the total departure of' the rheumatism, i might stay at home till the national debt is paid. my fair writing is a proof of my lameness: i labour as if i were engraving; and drop no words, as i do in my ordinary hasty scribbling. lady cecilia tells me that her nephew, mr. west,( ) who was with you at pisa, declares he is in love with you both; so i am not singular. you two may like to hear this, though no novelty to you; but it will not satisfy mr. berry, who will be impatient for news from birmingham: but there are no more, nor any-whence else. there has not been another riot in any of the three kingdoms. the villain paine came over for the crown and anchor;( ) but, finding that his pamphlet had not set a straw on fire, and that the th of july was as little in fashion as the ancient gunpowder-plot, he dined at another tavern with a few quaking conspirators; and probably is returning to paris, where he is engaged in a controversy with the abb`e sieyes, about the plus or minus of rebellion. the rioters in worcestershire, whom i mentioned in my last, were not a detachment from birmingham, but volunteer incendiaries from the capital; who went, according to the rights of men, with the mere view of plunder, and threatened gentlemen to burn their houses, if not ransomed. eleven of these disciples of paine are in custody; and mr. merry, mrs. barbauld, and miss helen williams will probably have subjects for elegies. deborah and jael, i believe, were invited to the crown and anchor, and had let their nails grow accordingly: but, somehow or other, no poissonni`eres were there, and the two prophetesses had no opportunity that day of exercising their talents or talons. their french allies, cock and hen, have a fairer field open; and the jacobins, i think, will soon drive the national assembly to be better royalists than ever they were, in selfdefence. you have indeed surprised me by your account of the strange credulity of poor king louis's escape in safety! in these villages we heard of his flight late in the evening, and, the very next morning, of his being retaken.( ) much as he, at least the queen, has suffered, i am persuaded the adventure has hastened general confusion, and will increase the royal party; though perhaps their majesties, for their personal safeties, had better have awaited the natural progress of anarchy. the enormous deficiencies of money, and the total insubordination of the army, both apparent and uncontradicted, from the reports made to the national assembly, show what is coming. into what such a chaos will subside, it would be silly to attempt to guess. perhaps it is not wiser in the exiles to expect to live to see a resettlement in their favour. one thing i have for these two years thought probable to arrive--a division, at least, a dismemberment of france. despotism could no longer govern so unwieldy a machine; a republic would be still less likely to hold it together. if foreign powers should interfere, they will take care to pay themselves with what is `a leur biensance; and that, in reality, would be serving france too. so much for my speculations! and they have never varied. we are so far from intending to new-model our government and dismiss the royal family, annihilate the peerage, cashier the hierarchy, and lay open the land to the first occupier, as dr. priestley, and tom paine, and the revolution club humbly proposed, that we are even encouraging the breed of princes. it is generally believed that the duke of york is going to marry the princess of prussia, the king's daughter by his first wife, and his favourite child. i do not affirm it; but many others do.( ) thursday night, late. lady di. has told me an extraordinary fact. catherine slay-czar sent for mr. fawkener( ) and desired he will order for her a bust of charles fox; and she will place it between demosthenes and cicero (pedantry she learnt from her french authors, and which our schoolboys would be above using); for his eloquence has saved two great nations from a war--by his opposition to it, s'entend: so the peace is no doubt made. she could not have addressed her compliment worse than to mr. fawkener, sent by mr. pitt, and therefore so addressed; and who of all men does not love mr. fox, and mr. fox who has no vainglory, will not care a straw for the flattery, and will understand it too. good night! ( ) the honourable septimus west, uncle of the present earl of delawarr. he died of consumption in october . ( ) the great dinner at the crown and anchor tavern, in celebration of the anniversary of the french revolution.-e. ( ) the flight of the royal family of france to, and return from, varennes. ( ) the marriage of the duke of york with frederica charlotte ulrica catherine, eldest daughter of the king of prussia, was solemnized, first in prussia, on the th of september, and again in england, on the d of november, . for walpole's account of her royal highness's visit to strawberry hill, see his letter to the miss berrys of the th of september, .-e. ( . mr. fawkener was the son of sir everard fawkener, he was one of the principal clerks of the privy council, and had been sent on a secret mission to russia.-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) no letter from florence this post, though i am wishing for one every day! the illness of a friend is bad, but is augmented by distance. your letters say you are quite recovered; but the farther you are from me, the oftener i want to hear that recovery repeated: and any delay in hearing revives my apprehensions of a return of your fever. i am embarrassed, too, about your plan. it grows near to the time you proposed beginning your journey. i do not write with any view to hastening that, which i trust will entirely depend on the state of your health and strength; but i am impatient to know your intentions: in short, i feel that, from this time to your arrival, my letters will grow very tiresome. i have heard to-day, that lord and lady sheffield, who went to visit mr. gibbon at lausanne, met with great trouble and impertinence at almost every post in france. in switzerland there is a furious spirit of democracy, or demonocracy. they made great rejoicings on the recapture of the king of france. oh! why did you leave england in such a turbulent era! when will you sit down on the quiet banks of the thames? wednesday night. since i began my letter, i have received yours of the d, two days later than usual; and a most comfortable one it is. my belief and my faith are now of the same religion. i do believe you quite recovered. you, in the mean time, are talking of my rheumatism-quite an old story. not that it is gone, though the pain is. the lameness in my shoulder remains, and i am writing on my lap: but the complaint is put upon the establishment; like old servants, that are of no use, fill up the place of those that could do something, and yet still remain in the house. i know nothing new, public or private. that is worth telling. the stocks are transported with the pacification with russia, and do not care for what it has cost to bully the empress to no purpose; and say, we can afford it. nor can paine and priestley persuade them that france is much happier than we are, by having ruined itself. the poor french here are in hourly expectation of as rapid a counterrevolution as what happened two years ago. have you seen the king of sweden's letter to his minister, enjoining him to look dismal, and to take care not to be knocked on the head for so doing? it deserves to be framed with m. de bouill`e's bravado.( ) you say you will write me longer letters when you know i am well. your recovery has quite the contrary effect on me: i could scarce restrain my pen while i had apprehensions about you; now you are well, the goosequill has not a word to say. one would think it had belonged to a physician. i shall fill my vacuum with some lines that general conway has sent me, written by i know not whom, on mrs. harte, sir william hamilton's pantomime mistress, or wife, who acts all the antique statues in an indian shawl. i have not seen her yet, so am no judge; but people are mad about her wonderful expression, which i do not conceive; so few antique statues having any expression at all, nor being designed to have it. the apollo has the symptoms of dignified anger:( ) the laocoon and his sons, and niobe and her family,( ) are all expression;' and a few more: but what do the venuses, floras, hercules, and a thousand others tell, but the magic art of the sculptor, and their own graces and proportions? i have been making up some pills of patience, to be taken occasionally, when you have begun your journey, and i do not receive your letters regularly; which may happen when you are .on the road. i recommend you to st. james of compost-antimony, to whom st. luke was an ignorant quack. adieu! ( ) "the marquis de bouill`e, in order to draw upon himself the indignation of the assembly, addressed to it a letter, which might be called mad, but for the generous motive which dictated it. he avowed himself the sole author of the king's journey, though, on the contrary, he had opposed it. he declared, in the name of the sovereign, that paris should be responsible for the safety of the royal family, and that the slightest injury offered to them should be signally avenged. the assembly winked at this generous bravado, and threw the whole blame on bouill`e; who had nothing to fear, for he was already abroad." thiers, vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) "in his eye and nostril beautiful disdain, and might and majesty, flash their full lightnings by, developing in that one glance the deity." byron.-e. ( ) "go see laocoon's torture dignifying pain-- a father's love and mortal's agony with an immortal's patience blending:--vain the struggle: vain against the coiling strain and gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, the old man's clench, the long envenom'd chain rivets the living links,--the enormous asp enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp." ibid.-e. letter to the miss berrys. berkeley square, tuesday, aug. , . (page ) i am come to town to meet mr. conway and lady ailesbury; and, as i have no letter from you yet to answer, i will tell you how agreeably i have passed the last three days; though they might have been improved had you shared them, as i wished, and as i sometimes do wish. on saturday evening i was at the duke of queensberry's (at richmond, s'entend) with a small company: and there were sir william hamilton and mrs. harte; who, on the d of next month, previous to their departure, is to be made madame l'envoy`ee `a naples, the neapolitan queen having promised to receive her in that quality. here she cannot be presented, where only such over-virtuous wives as the duchess of kingston and mrs. hastings--who could go with a husband in each hand--are admitted. why the margravine of anspach, with the same pretensions, was not, i do not understand; perhaps she did not attempt it. but i forgot to retract, and make amende honourable to mrs. harte. i had only heard of her attitudes; and those, in dumb show, i have not yet seen. oh! but she sings admirably; has a very fine, strong voice: is an excellent buffa, and an astonishing tragedian. she sung nina in the highest perfection; and there her attitudes were a whole theatre of grace and various expressions. the next evening i was again at queensberry-house, where the comtesse emilie de boufflers played on her harp, and the princesse di castelcigala, the neapolitan minister's wife, danced one of her country dances, with castanets, very prettily, with her husband. madame du barry was there too, and i had a good deal of frank conversation with her about monsieur de choiseul; having been at paris at the end of his reign and the beginning of hers, and of which i knew so much by my intimacy with the duchesse de choiseul. on monday was the boat-race. i was in the great room at the castle, with the duke of clarence, lady di., lord robert spencer,( ) and the house of bouverie( ) to see the boats start from the bridge to thistleworth, and back to a tent erected on lord dysart's meadow, just before lady di.'s windows; whither we went to see them arrive, and where we had breakfast. for the second heat, i sat in my coach on the bridge; and did not stay for the third. the day had been coined on purpose, with my favourite southeast wind. the scene, both up the river and down, was what only richmond upon earth can exhibit. the crowds on those green velvet meadows and on the shores, the yachts, barges, pleasure and small boats, and the windows and gardens lined with spectators, were so delightful, that when i came home from that vivid show, i thought strawberry looked as dull and solitary as a hermitage. at night there was a ball at the castle, and illuminations, with the duke's cipher, etc. in coloured lamps, as were the houses of his royal highness's tradesmen. i went again in the evening to the french ladies on the green, where there was a bonfire; but, you may believe, not to the ball. well! but you, who have had a fever with f`etes, had rather hear the history of the new soi-disante margravine. she has been in england with her foolish prince, and not only notified their marriage to the earl,( ) her brother, who did not receive it propitiously, but his highness informed his lordship by a letter, that they have an usage , in his country of taking a wife with the left hand; that he had' espoused his lordship's sister in that manner; and intends, as soon as she shall be a widow,( ) to marry her with his right hand also. the earl replied, that he knew she was married to an english peer, a most respectable man, and can know nothing of her marrying any other man; and so they are gone to lisbon. adieu! ( ) brother to lady diana beauclerc. ( ) the family of the hon. edward bouverie, brother to the earl of radnor. ( ) of berkeley. ( ) lady craven became a widow in the following month, and was married to the margrave of anspach in october. see ante, p. , letter . letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) though i am delighted to know, that of thirteen doleful months but two remain, yet how full of anxiety will they be! you set out in still hot weather, and will taste very cold before you arrive! accidents, inns, roads, mountains, and the sea, are all in my map!- but i hope no slopes to be run down, no f`etes for a new grand duke. i should dread your meeting armies, if i had much faith in the counter-revolution said to be on the anvil. the french ladies in my vicinage (a, word of the late lord chatham's coin) are all hen-a-hoop on the expectation of a grand alliance formed for that purpose, and i believe think they shall be at paris before you are in england; but i trust one is more certain than the other. that folly and confusion increase in france every hour, i have no doubt, and absurdity and contradictions as rapidly. their constitution, which they had voted should be immortal and unchangeable,-though they deny that any thing antecedent to themselves ought to have been so,-they are now of opinion must be revised at the commencement of next century; and they are agitating a third constitution, before they have thought of a second, or finished the first! bravo! in short, louis onze could not have laid deeper foundations for despotism than these levellers, who have rendered the name of liberty odious--the surest way of destroying the dear essence! i have no news for you, but a sudden match patched up for lord blandford, with a little more art than was employed by the fair gunnilda. it is with lady susan stewart, lord galloway's daughter, contrived by and at the house of her relation and lord blandford's friend, sir henry dashwood ; and it is to be so instantly, that her grace, his mother, will scarce have time to forbid the bans.( ) we have got a codicil to summer, that is as delightful as, i believe, the seasons in the fortunate islands. it is pity it lasts but till seven in the evening, and then one remains with a black chimney for five hours. i wish the sun was not so fashionable as never to come into the country till autumn and the shooting season; as if niobe's children were not hatched and fledged before the first of september. apropos, sir william hamilton has actually married his gallery of statues, and they are set out on their return to naples. i am sorry i did not see her attitudes, which lady di. (a tolerable judge!) prefers to any thing she ever saw: still i do not much care. i have at this moment a commercial treaty with italy, and hope in two months to be a greater gainer by the exchange; and i shall not be so generous as sir william, and exhibit my wives in pantomime to the public. 'tis well i am to have the originals again; for that wicked swindler, miss foldson, has not yet given up their portraits. the newspapers are obliged to live upon the diary of the king's motions at weymouth. oh! i had forgot. lord cornwallis has taken bangalore by storm, promises seringapatam, and tippoo saib has sued for peace. diamonds will be as plenty as potatoes, and gold is as common as copper-money in sweden. i was told last night, that a director of the bank affirms, that two millions five hundred thousand pounds, in specie, have already been remitted or brought over hither from france since their revolution. ( ) the marriage took place four days after the date of this letter.-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, friday night late, sept. , . (page ) as i am constantly thinking of you two, i am as constantly writing to you, when i have a vacant quarter of an hour. yesterday was red-lettered in the almanacks of strawberry and cliveden, supposing you to set out towards them, as you intended; the sun shone all day, and the moon at night, and all nature, for three miles round, looked gay. indeed, we have had nine or ten days of such warmth and serenity, (here called heat,) as i scarce remember when the year begins to have gray, or rather yellow hairs. all windows have been flung up again and fans ventilated; and it is true that hay-carts have been transporting haycocks, from a second crop, all the morning from sir francis basset's island opposite to my windows. the setting sun and the long autumnal shades enriched the landscape to a claude lorrain. guess whether i hoped to see such a scene next year: if i do not, may you! at least, it will make you talk of me! the gorgeous season' and poor partridges. i hear, have emptied london entirely, and yet drury-lane is removed to the opera-house. do you know that mrs. jordan is acknowledged to be mrs. ford, and miss brunton( ) mrs. merry, but neither quits the stage? the latter's captain, i think, might quit his poetic profession, without any loss to the public. my gazettes will have kept you so much au courant, that you will be as ready for any conversation at your return, as if you had only been at a watering-place. in short, -a votre intention, and to make my letters as welcome as i can, i listen to and bring home a thousand things, which otherwise i should not know i heard. lord buchan is screwing out a little ephemeral fame from instituting a jubilee for thomson.( ) i fear i shall not make my court to mr. berry, by owning i would not give this last week's fine weather for all the four seasons in blank verse. there is more nature in l'allegro and penseroso, than in all the laboured imitations of milton. what is there in thomson of original? berkeley square, monday night, th. you have alarmed me exceedingly, by talking of returning through france, against which i thought myself quite secure, or i should not have pressed you to stir, yet. i have been making all the inquiries i could amongst the foreign ministers at richmond, and i cannot find any belief of' the march of armies towards france. nay, the comte d'artois is said to be gone to petersburgh; and he must bring back forces in a balloon, if he can be time enough to interrupt your passage through flanders. one thing i must premise, if, which i deprecate, you should set foot in france; i beg you to burn, and not to bring a scrap of paper with you. mere travelling ladies as young as you, i know have been stopped and rifled, and detained in france to have their papers examined; and one was rudely treated, because the name of a french lady of her acquaintance was mentioned in a private letter to her, though in no political light. calais is one of the worst places you can pass; for, as they suspect money being remitted through that town to england, the search and delays there are extremely strict and rigorous. the pleasure of seeing you would be bought infinitely too dear by your meeting with any disturbance; as my impatience for your setting out is already severely punished by the fright you have given me. one charge i can wipe off; but it were the least of my faults. i never thought of your settling at cliveden in november, if your house in town is free. all my wish was, that you would come for a night to strawberry, and that the next day i might put you in possession of cliveden. i did not think of engrossing you from all your friends, who must wish to embrace you at your return. tuesday. i am told that on the king's acceptance of the constitution, there is a general amnesty published, and passports taken off. if this is true, the passage through france, for mere foreigners and strangers, may be easier and safer; but be assured, of all, i would not embarrass your journey unnecessarily; but, for heaven's sake! be well informed. i advise nothing: i dread every thing where your safeties are in question, and i hope mr. berry is as timorous as i am. my very contradictions prove the anxiety of my mind, or i should not torment those i love so much; but how not love those who sacrifice so much for me, and who, i hope, forgive all my unreasonable inconsistencies. adieu! adieu! ( ) an actress of considerable talent and personal attractions. her sister, also a popular actress, was married, in , to the earl of craven.-e. ( ) the jubilee took place on the d of september, at ednam-hill. on crowning the first edition of "the seasons" with a wreath of bays, lord buchan delivered an eulogy on the poet, containing the following singular passage:--"i think myself happy to have this day the honour of endeavouring to do honour to the memory of thomson, which has been profanely touched by the rude hand of samuel johnson: whose fame and reputation indicate the decline of taste in a country that, after having produced an alfred, a wallace, a bacon, a napier, a newton, a buchanan, a milton, a hampden, a fletcher, and a thomson, can submit to be bullied by an overbearing pedant."-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) how i love to see my numeros increase.( ) i trust they will not reach sixty! in short, i try every nostrum to make absence seem shorter; and yet, with all my conjuration, i doubt the next five or six weeks will, like the harvest-moon, appear of a greater magnitude than all the moons of the year, its predecessors. i wish its successor, the hunter's moon, could seem less in proportion; but, on the contrary! i hate travelling, and roads. and inns myself: while you are on your way, i shall fancy, like don quixote, that every inn is the castle of some necromancer, and every windmill a giant; and these will be my smallest terrors. whether this will meet or follow you, i know not. yours of the th of this month arrived yesterday, but could not direct me beyond basle. i must, then, remain still in ignorance whether you will take the german or french route. it is now, i think, certain that there will no attempt against france be made this year. still i trust that you will not decide till you are assured that you may come through france without trouble or molestation; and i still prefer germany, though it will protract your absence. i am sorry you were disappointed of going to valombroso. milton has made every body wish to have seen it; which is my wish, for though i was thirteen months at florence (at twice ), i never did see it. in fact, i was so tired of seeing when i was abroad, that i have several of these pieces of repentance on my conscience, when they come into my head; and yet i saw too much for the quantity left such a confusion in my head, that i do not remember a quarter clearly. pictures, statues, and buildings were always so much my passion, that, for the time, i surfeited myself; especially as one is carried to see a vast deal that is not worth seeing. they who are industrious and correct, and wish to forget nothing, should go to greece, where there is nothing left to be seen, but that ugly pigeon-house, the temple of the winds, that fly-cage, demosthenes's lanthorn, and one or two fragments of a portico, or a piece of a column crushed into a mud wall; and with such a morsel, and many quotations, a true classic antiquary can compose a whole folio, and call it ionian antiquities!( ) such gentry do better still when they journey to egypt to visit the pyramids, which are of a form which one think nobody could conceive without seeing, though their form is all that is to be seen; for it seems that even prints and measures do not help one to an idea of magnitude: indeed, the measures do not; for no two travellers have agreed on the measures. in that scientific country, too, you may guess that such or such a vanished city stood within five or ten miles of such a parcel of land; and when you have conjectured in vain, at what some rude birds, or rounds or squares, on a piece of an old stone may have signified, you may amuse your readers with an account of the rise of the nile, some feats of the-mamelukes, and finish your work with doleful tales of the robberies of the wild arabs. one benefit does arise from travelling: it cures one of liking what is worth seeing especially if what you have seen is bigger than what you do see. thus, mr. gilpin, having visited all the lakes, could find no beauty in richmond-hill. if he would look through mr. herschell's telescope at the profusion of worlds, perhaps he would find out that mount atlas is an ant-hill; and that the sublime and beautiful may exist separately. ( ) mr. walpole numbered all the letters written by him to the miss berrys during their residence abroad.-e. ( ) the first volume of "ionian antiquities," in imperial folio edited by r. chandler, n. revett, and w. pais, was published in ; a second, edited by the society of dilettanti, appeared in .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) your letter was most welcome, as yours always are; and i answer it immediately, though our post comes in so late that this will not go away till to-morrow. nay, i write, though i shall see you on sunday, and have not a tittle to tell you. i lead so insipid a life, that, though i am content with it, it can furnish me with nothing but repetitions. i scarce ever stir from home in a morning; and most evenings go and play at loto with the french at richmond, where i am heartily tired of hearing of nothing but their absurd countrymen, -absurd, both democrates and aristocrates. calonne sends them gross lies, that raise their hopes to the skies - and in two days they hear of nothing but horrors and disappointments; and the poor souls! they are in despair. i can say nothing to comfort them, but what i firmly believe, which is, total anarchy must come on rapidly. nobody pays the taxes that are laid; and which, intended to produce eighty millions a month, do not bring in six. the new assembly will fall on the old,( ) probably plunder the richest, and certainly disapprove of much they have done; for can eight hundred new ignorants approve of what has been done by twelve hundred almost as ignorant, and who were far from half agreeing? and then their immortal constitution (which, besides, is to be mightily mended nine years hence) will die before it has cut any of its teeth but its grinders. the exiles are enraged at their poor king for saving his own life by a forced acceptance:( ) and yet i know no obligation he has to his noblesse, who all ran away to save their own lives; not a gentleman, but the two poor gendarmes at versailles, having lost their lives in his defence. i suppose la fayette, barnave,( ) the lameths, etc. will run away too,( ) when the new tinkers and cobblers, of whom the present elect are and will be composed, proceed on the levelling system taught them by their predecessors, who., like other levellers, have taken good care of themselves, good dr. priestley's friend, good monsieur condorcet, has got a place in the treasury of one thousand pounds a year:-ex uno disce omnes! and thus a set of rascals, who might, with temper and discretion, have obtained a very wholesome constitution, witness poland! have committed infinite mischief, infinite cruelty, infinite injustice, and left a shocking precedent against liberty, unless the poles are as much admired and imitated as the french ought to be detested. i do not believe the emperor will stir yet; he, or his ministers, must see that it is the interest of germany to let france destroy itself. his interference yet might unite and consolidate, at least check further confusion and though i rather think that twenty thousand men might march from one end of france to the other, as, though the officers often rallied, french soldiers never were stout; yet, having no officers, no discipline, no subordination, little resistance might be expected. yet the enthusiasm that has been spread might turn into courage. still it were better for caesar to wait. quarrels amongst themselves will dissipate enthusiasm; and, if they have no foreign enemy, they will soon have spirit enough to turn their swords against one another, and what enthusiasm remains will soon be converted into the inveteracy of faction. this is speculation, not prophecy; i do not pretend to guess what will happen: i do think i know what will not; i mean, the system of experiments that they call a constitution cannot last. marvellous indeed would it be, if a set of military noble lads, pedantic academicians, curates of villages, and country advocates, could in two years, amidst the utmost confusion and altercation amongst themselves, dictated to or thwarted by obstinate clubs of various factions, have achieved what the wisdom of all ages and all nations has never been able to compose--a system of government that would set four-and-twenty millions of people free, and contain them within any bounds! this, too, without one great man amongst them. if they had had, as mirabeau seemed to promise to be, but as we know that he was, too, a consummate villain, there would soon have been an end of their vision of liberty. and so there will be still, unless, after a civil war, they split into small kingdoms or commonwealths. a little nation may be free; for it can be upon its guard. millions cannot be so; because, the greater number of men that are one people, the more vices, the more abuses there are, that will either require or furnish pretexts for restraints; and if vices are the mother of laws, the execution of laws is the father of power:-and of such parents one knows the progeny. ( ) the constitutional assembly closed its sittings on the th of september; having, during the three years of its existence, enacted thirteen hundred laws and decrees, relative to legislation, or to the general administration of the state. the first sitting of the, legislative assembly took place on the following day.-e. ( ) the king, on the th of september, had accepted the new constitution, and sworn to maintain it.-e. ( ) for expressing his opinion, that the new constitution inclined too much to a democracy, barnave, after fifteen months, imprisonment at grenoble was tried before the revolutionary tribunal, condemned to death, and guillotined on the th of november .-e. ( ) the two lameths, charles and alexander, fled the country, the latter, having fallen into the hands of the austrians with la fayette, shared his captivity, till december .-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, sept, , . (page ) my dear madam, i have been very sorry, but not at all angry, at not hearing from you so long. with all your friendly and benevolent heart, i know by experience how little you love writing to your friends; and i know why: you think you lose moments which you could employ in doing more substantial good; and that your letters only pamper our minds, but do not feed or clothe our bodies; if they did, you would coin as much paper as the french do in assignats. do not imagine now that you have committed a wicked thing by writing to me at last: comfort yourself, that your conscience, not temptation, forced you to write; and be assured, i am as grateful as if you had written from choice, not from duty, as your constant spiritual director. i have been out of order the whole summer, but not very ill for above a fortnight. i caught a painful rheumatism by, going into a very crowded church on a rainy day, where all the windows were open, to hear our friend the bishop of london preach a charity sermon here at twickenham. my gout would not resign to a new incumbent, but came too; and both together have so lamed my right arm, though i am now using it, that i cannot yet extend it entirely, nor lift it to the top of my head. however, i am free from pain; and as providence, though it supplied us originally with so many bounties, took care we might shift with succedaneums on the loss of several of them, i am content with what remains of my stock; and since all my fingers are not useless, and that i have not six hairs left, i am not much grieved at not being able to comb my head. nay, should not such a shadow as i have ever been, be thankful, that at the eve of seventy-five i am not yet passed away? i am so little out of charity with the bishop for having been the innocent cause of the death of my shoulder, that i am heartily concerned for him and her on mrs. porteus's accident.( ) it may have marbled her complexion, but i am persuaded has not altered her lively, amiable, good-humoured countenance. as i know not where to direct to them, and as you cannot suppose it a sin for a sheep to write to its pastor on a week-day, i wish you would mark the interest i take in their accident and escape from worse mischief. i thank you most cordially for your inquiry after my wives. i am in the utmost perplexity of mind about them; torn between hopes and fears. i believe them set out from florence on their return since yesterday se'nnight, and consequently feel all the joy and impatience of expecting them in five or six weeks: but then, besides fears of roads, bad inns, accidents, heats and colds, and the sea to cross in november at last, all my satisfaction is dashed by the uncertainty whether they come through germany or france. i have advised, begged, implored, that it may not be through those iroquois, lestryons, anthropophagi, the franks; and then, hearing passports were abolished, and the roads more secure, i half consented, as they wished it, and the road is much shorter; and then i repented, and have contradicted myself again. and now i know not which route they wilt take: nor shall enjoy any comfort from the thoughts of their return, till they are returned safe. 'tis well i am doubly guaranteed, or who knows, as i am as old almost as both her husbands together, but mrs. b-- might have cast a longing eye towards me? how i laughed at hearing of her throwing a second muckender to a methusalem! a red-faced veteran, with a portly hillock of flesh. i conclude all her grandfathers are dead; or, as there is no prohibition in the table of consanguinity against male ancestors, she would certainly have stepped back towards the deluge, and ransacked her pedigrees on both sides for some kinsman of the patriarchs. i could titter a plusieurs reprises; but i am too old to be improper, and you are too modest to be impropered to: and so i will drop the subject at the herald's office. i am happy at and honour miss burney's resolution in casting away golden, or rather gilt chains: others, out of vanity, would have worn them till they had eaten into the bone. on that charming young woman's chapter i agree with you perfectly; not a jot on deborah * * * * whom you admire: i have neither read her verses, nor will. as i have not your aspen conscience, i cannot forgive the heart of a woman that is party per pale blood and tenderness, that curses our clergy and feels for negroes. can i forget the th of july, when they all contributed their fagot to the fires that her presbytyrants (as lord melcombe called them) tried to light in every smithfield in the island; and which, as price and priestley applauded in france, it would be folly to suppose they did not only wish, but meant to kindle here ? were they ignorant of the atrocious barbarities, injustice, and violation of oaths committed in france? did priestley not know that the clergy there had no option but between starving and perjury? and what does he think of the poor man executed at birmingham, who declared at his death, he had been provoked by the infamous handbill? i know not who wrote it. no, my good friend: deborah may cant rhymes of compassion, but she is a hypocrite; and you shall not make me read her, nor, with all your sympathy and candour, can you esteem her. your compassion for the poor blacks is genuine, sincere from your soul, most amiable; hers, a measure of faction. her party supported the abolition, and regretted the disappointment as a blow to the good cause. i know this. do not let your piety lead you into the weakness of respecting the bad, only because they hoist the flag of religion, while they carry a stiletto in the flagstaff. did not they, previous to the th of july, endeavour to corrupt the guards? what would have ensued, had they succeeded, you must tremble to think! you tell me nothing of your own health. may i flatter myself it is good? i wish knew so authentically! and i wish i could guess when i should see you, without your being staked to the fogs of the thames at christmas; i cannot desire that. adieu, my very valuable friend! i am, though unworthy, yours most cordially. ( ) an overturn in a carriage. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) it will be a year to-morrow since you set out: next morning came the storm that gave me such a panic for you! in march happened your fall, and the wound on your nose; and in july your fever. for sweet agnes i have happily had no separate alarm: yet i have still a month of apprehension to come for both! all this mass of vexation and fears is to be compensated by the transport at your return, and by the complete satisfaction on your installation at cliveden. but could i believe, that when my clock had struck seventy-four, i could pass a year in such agitation! it may he taken for dotage; and i have for some time expected to be superannuated: but, though i task myself severely, i do not find my intellects impaired; though i may be a bad judge myself, you may, perhaps, perceive it by my letters; and don't imagine i am laying a snare for flattery. no! i am only jealous about myself, that you two may have created such an attachment, without owing it to my weakness. nay, i have some colt's limbs left, which i as little suspected as my anxieties. i went with general conway, on wednesday morning, from park-place to visit one of my antediluvian passions,--not a statira or roxana, but one pre-existent to myself,--one windsor castle; and i was so delightful and so juvenile, that, without attending to any thing but my eyes, i stood full two hours and a half, and found that half my lameness consists in my indolence. two berrys, a gothic chapel, and an historic castle, are anodynes to a torpid mind. i now fancy that old age was invented by the lazy. st. george's chapel, that i always worshipped, though so dark and black that i could see nothing distinctly, is now being cleaned and decorated, a scene of' lightness and graces. mr. conway was so struck with its gothic beauties and taste, that he owned the grecian style would not admit half the variety of its imagination. there is a new screen prefixed to the choir, so airy and harmonious, that i concluded it wyat's; but it is by a windsor architect, whose name i forget. jarvis's window, over the altar, after west, is rather too sombre for the resurrection, though it accords with the tone of the choirs; but the christ is a poor figure, scrambling to heaven in a fright, as if in dread of being again buried alive. and not ascending calmly in secure dignity: and there is a judass below, t so gigantic, that he seems more likely to burst by his bulk, than through guilt. in the midst of all this solemnity, in a small angle over the lower stalls, is crammed a small bas-relief, in oak, with the story of margaret nicholson, the king, and the coachman, as ridiculously added and as clumsily executed as if it were a monkish miracle. some loyal zealot has broken away the blade of the knife, as if the sacred wooden personage would have been in danger still. the castle itself is smugged up, is better glazed, has got some new stools, clocks, and looking-glasses, much embroidery in silk, and a gaudy, clumsy throne, with a medallion at top of the king's and queen's heads, over their own--an odd kind of tautology, whenever they sit there! there are several tawdry pictures, by west, of the history of the garter; but the figures are too small for that majestic place. however, upon the whole, i was glad to see windsor a little revived. i had written thus far, waiting for a letter, and happily receive your two from bologna together; for which i give you a million of thanks, and for the repairs of your coach, which i trust will contribute to your safety: but i will swallow my apprehensions, for i doubt i have tormented you with them. yet do not wonder, that after a year's absence, my affection, instead of waning, is increased. can i help feeling the infinite obligation i have to you both, for quitting italy that you love, to humour methusalem?--a methusalem that is neither king nor priest, to reward and bless you; and whom you condescend to please, because he wishes to see you once more; though he ought to have sacrificed a momentary glimpse to your far more durable satisfaction. instead of generosity, i have teased, and i fear, wearied you, with lamentations and disquiets; and how can i make you amends? what pleasure, what benefit, can i procure for you in return? the most disinterested generosity, such as yours is, gratifies noble minds; but how paltry am i to hope that the reflections of your own minds will compensate for all the amusements you give up to "make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death!" i may boast of having no foolish weakness for your persons, as i certainly have not; but "the soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, lets in new selfishness through chinks that time has made." and i have been as avaricious of hoarding a few moments of agreeable society, as if i had coveted a few more trumpery guineas in my strong-box! and then i have the assurance to tell you i am not superannuated! oh! but i am! the bolognese school is my favourite, though i do not like guercino, whom i call the german guido, he is so heavy and dark. i do not, like your friend, venerate constantinopolitan paintings, which are scarce preferable to indian. the characters of the italian comedy were certainly adopted even from the persons of its several districts and dialects. pantaloon is a venetian, even in his countenance; and i once saw a gentleman of bergamo, whose face was an exact harlequin's mask. i have scarce a penfull of news for you; the world is at weymouth or newmarket. en attendent, voici, the gunnings again! the old gouty general has carried off his tailor's wife; or rather, she him, whither, i know not. probably, not far; for the next day the general was arrested for three thousand pounds, and carried to a spunginghouse, whence he sent cupid with a link to a friend, to beg help and a crutch. this amazing folly is generally believed; perhaps because the folly of that race is amazing--so is their whole story. the two beautiful sisters were going on the stage, when they are at once exalted almost as high as they could be, were countessed and double-duchessed; and now the rest of the family have dragged themselves through all the kennels of the newspapers! adieu! forgive all my pouts. i will be perfectly good-humoured when i have nothing to vex me! letter to john pinkerton, esq.( ) berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) as i am sure of the sincerity of your congratulations,( i feel much obliged by them, though what has happened destroys my tranquillity; and, if what the world reckons advantages could compensate the loss of peace and ease, would ill indemnify me, even by them. a small estate, loaded with debt, and of which i do not understand the management, and am too old to learn; a source of lawsuits among my near relations, though not affecting me; endless conversations with lawyers, and packets of letters to read every day and answer,--all this weight of new business is too much for the rag of life that yet hangs about me, and was preceded by three weeks of anxiety about my unfortunate nephew, and daily correspondence with physicians and mad-doctors, falling upon me when i had been out of order ever since july. such a mass of troubles made me very seriously ill for some days, and has left me and still keeps me so weak and dispirited, that, if i shall not soon be able to get some repose, my poor head or body will not be able to resist. for the empty title, i trust you do not suppose it is any thing but an incumbrance, by larding my busy mornings with idle visits of interruption, and which, when i am able to go out, i shall be forced to return. surely no man of seventy-four, unless superannuated, can have the smallest pleasure in sitting at home in his own room, as i almost always do, and being called by a new name! it will seem personal, and ungrateful too, to have said so much about my own triste situation, and not to have yet thanked you, sir. for your kind and flattering offer of letting me read what you have finished of your history; but it was necessary to expose my position to you, before i could venture to accept your proposal, when i am so utterly incapable of giving a quarter of an hour at a time to what i know, by my acquaintance with your works, will demand all my attention, if i wish to reap the pleasure they are formed to give me. it is most true that for these seven weeks i have not read seven pages, but letters, states of account, cases to be laid before lawyers, accounts of farms, etc. etc., and those subject to mortgages. thus are my mornings occupied: in an evening my relations and a very few friends come to me; and, when they are gone, i have about an hour to midnight to write answers to letters for the next day's post, which i had not time to do in the morning. this is actually my case now. i happened to be quitted at ten o'clock, and would not lose the opportunity of thanking you, not knowing when i could command another hour. i by no means would be understood to decline your obliging offer, sir: on the contrary, i accept it joyfully, if you can trust me with your manuscript for a little time, should i have leisure to read it but by small snatches, which would be wronging you, and would break all connexion in my head. criticism you are too great a writer to want; and to read critically is far beyond my present power. can a scrivener, or a scrivener's hearer, be a judge of composition, style, profound reasoning, and new lights and discoveries, etc.? but my weary hand and breast must finish. may i ask the favour of you calling on me any morning, when you shall happen to come to town? you will find the new-old lord exactly the same admirer of yours. ( ) now first collected. ( ) mr. walpole had succeeded to the title of earl of orford on the th of december, upon the death of his nephew george, the third earl.-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) my much-esteemed friend, i have not so long delayed answering your letter from the pitiful revenge of recollecting how long your pen is fetching breath before it replies to mine. oh! no; you know i love to heap coals of kindness on your head, and to draw you into little sins, that you may forgive yourself, by knowing your time was employed on big virtues. on the contrary, you would be revenged; for here have you, according to your notions, inveigled me into the fracture of a commandment; for i am writing to you on a sunday, being the first moment of leisure that i have had since i received your letter. it does not indeed clash with my religious ideas, as i hold paying one's debts as good a deed, as praying and reading sermons for a whole day in every week, when it is impossible to fix the attention to one course of thinking for so many hours for fifty-two days in every year. thus you see i can preach too. but seriously, and indeed i am little disposed to cheerfulness now, i am overwhelmed with troubles, and with business--and business that i do not understand; law, and the management of a ruined estate, are subjects ill-suited to a head that never studied any thing that in worldly language is called useful. the tranquillity of my remnant of life will be lost, or so perpetually interrupted, that i expect little comfort; not that i am already intending to grow rich, but, the moment one is supposed so, there are so many alert to turn one to their own account, that i have more letters to write, to satisfy, or rather to dissatisfy them, than about my own affairs, though the latter are all confusion. i have such missives on agriculture, pretensions to livings, offers of taking care of my game as i am incapable of it, self-recommendations of making my robes, and round hints of taking out my writ, that at least i may name a proxy, and give my dormant conscience to somebody or other! i trust you think better of my heart and understanding than to suppose that i have listened to any one of these new friends. yet, though i have negatived all, i have been forced to answer some of them before you; and that will convince you how cruelly ill i have passed my time lately, besides having been made ill with vexation and fatigue. but i am tolerably well again. for the other empty metamorphosis that has happened to the outward man, you do me justice in concluding that it can do nothing but tease me; it is being called names in one's old age. i had rather be my lord mayor, for then i should keep the nickname but a year; and mine i may retain a little longer, not that at seventy-five i reckon on becoming my lord methusalem. vainer, however, i believe i am already become; for i have wasted almost two pages about myself, and said not a tittle about your health, which i most cordially rejoice to hear you are recovering, and as fervently hope you will entirely recover. i have the highest opinion of the element of water as a constant beverage; having so deep a conviction of the goodness and wisdom of providence, that i am persuaded that when it indulged us in such a luxurious variety of eatables, and gave us but one drinkable, it intended that our sole liquid should be both wholesome and corrective. your system i know is different; you hold that mutton and water were the only cock and hen that were designed for our nourishment; but i am apt to doubt whether draughts of water for six weeks are capable of restoring health, though some are strongly impregnated with mineral and other particles. yet you have staggered me: the bath water by your account is, like electricity, compounded of contradictory qualities; the one attracts and repels; the other turns a shilling yellow, and whitens your jaundice. i shall hope to see you (when is that to be?) without alloy. i must finish, wishing you three hundred and thirteen days of happiness for the new year that is arrived this morning: the fifty-two that you hold in commendam, i have no doubt will be rewarded as such good intentions deserve. adieu, my too good friend! my direction shall talk superciliously to the postman;( ) but do let me continue unchangeably your faithful and sincere horace walpole.( ) ( ) he means franking his letter by his newly-acquired title of earl of orford. ( ) this is the last letter signed horace walpole.-e. letter to thomas barrett, esq. berkeley square, may , . (page ) dear sir, though my poor fingers do not yet write easily, i cannot help inquiring if mabeuse( ) is arrived safely at lee, and fits his destined stall in the library. my amendment is far slower, comme de raison, than ever; and my weakness much greater. another fit, i doubt, will confine me to my chair, if it does not do more; it is not worth haggling about that. dr. darwin has appeared, superior in some respects to the former part. the triumph of flora, beginning at the fifty-ninth line, is most beautifully and enchantingly imagined; and the twelve verses that by miracle describe and comprehend the creation of the universe out of chaos, are in my opinion the most sublime passage in any author, or in any of the few languages with which i am acquainted. there are a thousand other verses most charming, or indeed are all so, crowded with most poetic imagery, gorgeous epithets and style: and yet these four cantos do not please me equally with the loves of the plants. this seems to me almost as much a rhapsody of unconnected parts; and is so deep, that i cannot read six lines together, and know what they are about, till i have studied them in the long notes, and then perhaps do not comprehend them; but all this is my fault, not dr. darwin's. is he to blame, that i am no natural philosopher, no chemist, no metaphysician? one misfortune will attend this glorious work; it will be little read but by those who have no taste for poetry and who will be weighing, and criticising his positions, without feeling the imagination, harmony, and expression of the versification. is not it extraordinary, dear sir, that two of our very best poets, garth and darwin, should have been physicians? i believe they have left all the lawyers wrangling at the turnpike of parnassus. adieu, dear sir! yours most cordially. ( ) a capital picture by that master, then lately purchased by mr. barrett.-e. letter to miss hannah more.( ) strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) my dear saint hannah, i have frequently been going to write to you, but checked myself. you are so good and so bad, that i feared i should interrupt some act of benevolence on one side; and on the other that you would not answer my letter in three months. i am glad to find, as an irishman would say, that the way to make you answer is not to speak first. but, ah! i am a brute to upbraid any moment of your silence, though i regretted it when i hear that your kind intentions have been prevented by frequent cruel pain! and that even your rigid abstemiousness does not remove your complaints. your heart is always aching for others, and your head for yourself. yet the latter never hinders the activity of the former. what must your tenderness not feel now, when a whole nation of monsters is burst forth? the second massacre of paris has exhibited horrors that even surpass the former.( ) even the queen's women were butchered in the thuilleries, and the tigers chopped of the heads from the dead bodies, and tossed them into the flames of the palace. the tortures of the poor king and queen, from the length of"their duration, surpass all example; and the brutal insolence with which they were treated on the th, all invention. they were dragged through the place vendome to see the statue of louis the fourteenth in fragments, and told it was to be the king's fate; and he, the most harmless of men, was told he is a monster; and this, after three years of sufferings. king and queen, and children were shut up in a room, without nourishment, for twelve hours. one who was a witness has come over, and says he found the queen sitting on the floor, trembling like an aspen in every limb, and her sweet boy the dauphin asleep against her knee! she has not one woman to attend her that ever she saw, but a companion of her misery, the king's sister, an heroic virgin saint, who, on the former irruption into the palace, flew to and clung to her brother, and being mistaken for the queen, and the hellish fiends wishing to murder her, and somebody aiming to undeceive them, she said, "ah! ne les d`etrompez pas!"( ) was not that sentence the sublime of innocence? but why do i wound your thrilling nerves with the relation of such horrible scenes? your blackmanity( ) must allow some of its tears to these poor victims. for my part, i have an abhorrence of politics, if one can so term these tragedies, which make one harbour sentiments one naturally abhors; but can one refrain without difficulty from exclaiming such wretches should be exterminated? they have butchered hecatombs of swiss, even to porters in private houses, because they often are, and always are called, le suisse. think on fifteen hundred persons, probably more, butchered on the th,( ) in the space of eight hours. think on premiums voted for the assassination of several princes, and do not think that such execrable proceedings have been confined to paris; no, avignon, marseilles, etc. are still smoking with blood! scarce the alecto of the north, the legislatress and the usurper of poland, has occasioned the spilling of larger torrents! i am almost sorry that your letter arrived at this crisis; i cannot help venting a little of what haunts me. but it is better to thank providence for the tranquillity and happiness we enjoy in this country, in spite of the philosophizing serpents we have in our bosom, the paines, the tookes, and the woolstoncrofts. i am glad you have not read the tract of the last-mentioned writer. i would not look at it, though assured it contains neither metaphysics nor politics; but as she entered the lists on the latter, and borrowed her title from the demon's book, which aimed at spreading the wrongs of men, she is excommunicated from the pale of my library. we have had enough of new systems, and the world a great deal too much, already. let us descend to private life. your friend mrs. boscawen, i fear, is unhappy: she has lost most suddenly her son-in-law, admiral leveson. mrs. garrick i have scarcely seen this whole summer. she is a liberal pomona to me--i will not say an eve; for though she reaches fruit to me, she will never let me in, as if i were a boy, and would rob her orchard. as you interest yourself about a certain trumpery old person, i with infinite gratitude will add a line on him. he is very tolerably well, weak enough certainly, yet willing to be contented; he is satisfied with knowing that he is at his best. nobody grows stronger at seventy-five, nor recovers the use of limbs half lost; nor-though neither deaf nor blind, nor in the latter most material point at all impaired; nor, as far as he can find on strictly watching himself, much damaged as to common uses in his intellects--does the gentleman expect to avoid additional decays, if his life shall be further protracted. he has been too fortunate not to be most thankful for the past, and most submissive for what is to come, be it more or less. he forgot to say, that the warmth of his heart towards those he loves and esteems has not suffered the least diminution, and consequently he is as fervently as ever saint hannah's most sincere friend and humble servant, orford. ( ) now first collected. ( ) from the d to the th of september, these internal atrocities proceeded uninterrupted, protracted by the actors for the sake of the daily pay of a louis to each. m. thiers states, that billaud varennes appeared publicly among the assassins, and encouraged what were called the labourers. "my friends," said he, "by taking the lives of villains you have saved the country. france owes you eternal gratitude, and the municipality offers you twenty livres apiece, and you shall be paid immediately." all the reports of the time differ in their estimate of the number of the victims. "that estimate," says m. thiers, varies from six to twelve thousand in the prisons of france." vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) this fact is confirmed by m. thiers. "during the irruption of the populace into the thuilleries, on the th of june, madame elizabeth," he says, "followed the king from window to window, to share his danger. the people, when they saw her, took her for the queen. shouts of 'there's the austrian!' were raised in an alarming manner. the national grenadiers, who had surrounded the princess, endeavoured to set the people right. 'leave them,' said that generous sister, 'leave them in their error, and save the queen!' vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) an allusion to the lively interest miss more was taking in the abolition of the slave trade.-e. ( ) at the storming of the thuilleries. "the marseillais," says m. thiers, "made themselves masters of the palace: the rabble, with pikes, poured in after them, and the rest of the scene was soon but one general massacre; the unfortunate swiss in vain begged for quarter, at the same time throwing down their arms; they were butchered without mercy." vol. i. p. .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) your long letter and my short one crossed one another upon the road. i knew i was in your debt; but i had nothing to say but what you know better than i; for you read all the french papers, and i read none, as they have long put me out of all patience: and besides, i hear so much of their horrific proceedings, that they quite disturb me, and have given me what i call the french disease; that is, a barbarity that i abhor, for i cannot help wishing destruction to thousands of human creatures whom i never saw. but when men have worked themselves up into tigers and hyenas, and labour to communicate their appetite for blood, what signifies whether they walk on two legs or four, or whether they dwell in cities, or in forests and dens? nay, the latter are the more harmless wild beasts; for they only cranch a poor traveller now and then, and when they are famished with hunger: the others, though they have dined, cut the throats of some hundreds of poor swiss for an afternoon's luncheon. oh! the execrable nation! i cannot tell you any new particulars, for mesdames de cambis and d'hennin, my chief informers, are gone to goodwood to the poor duchesse de biron, of whose recovery i am impatient to hear; and so i am of the cause of her very precipitate flight and panic. she must, i think, have had strong motives; for two years ago i feared she was much too courageous, and displayed her intrepidity too publicly. if i did not always condemn the calling bad people mad people, i should say all paris had gone distracted: they furnish provocation to every species of retaliation, by publishing rewards for assassination of kings and generals, and cannot rest without incensing all europe against them. the duchess of york gave a great entertainment at oatlands on her duke's birthday; sent to his tradesmen in town to come to it, and allowed two guineas apiece to each for their carriage; gave them a dance, and opened the ball herself with the prince of wales. a company of strollers came to weybridge to act in a barn: she was solicited to go to it, and did out of charity, and carried all her servants. next day a methodist teacher came to preach a charity sermon in the same theatre, and she consented to hear it on the same motive; but her servants desired to be excused, on not understanding english. "oh!" said the duchess, "but you went to the comedy, which you understood less, and you shall go to the sermon;" to which she gave handsomely, and for them. i like this. tack this to my other fragment, and then, i trust, i shall not be a defaulter in correspondence. i own i am become an indolent poor creature: but is that strange? with seventy-five years over my head, or on the point of being so; with a chalk-stone in every finger; with feet so limping, that i have been but twice this whole summer round my own small garden, and so much weaker than i was, can i be very comfortable, but when sitting quiet and doing nothing? all my strength consists in my sleep, which is as vigorous as at twenty: but with regard to letter-writing, i have so many to write on business which i do not understand, since the unfortunate death of my nephew, that, though i make them as brief as possible, half-a-dozen short ones tire me as much as a long one to an old friend; and as the busy ones must be executed, i trespass on the others, and remit them to another day. norfolk has come very mal-apropos into the end of my life, and certainly never entered into my views and plans; and i, who could never learn the multiplication table, was not intended to transact leases.. direct repairs of farm-houses, settle fines for church lands, negotiate for lowering interest on mortgages, etc. in short, as i was told formerly, though i know several things, i never understood any thing useful. apropos, the letter of which lady cecilia johnstone told you is not at all worth your seeing. it was an angry one to a parson who oppresses my tenants, and will go to law with them about tythes. she came in as i was writing it; and as i took up the character of parson myself, and preached to him as pastor of a flock which it did not become him to lead into the paths of law, instead of those of peace, i thought it would divert and showed it to her. adieu! i have been writing to you till midnight, and my poor fingers ache. yours ever. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) my holy hannah, with your innate and usual goodness and sense, you have done me justice by guessing exactly at the cause of my long silence. you have been apt to tell me that my letters diverted you. how then could i write, when it was impossible but to attrist you! when i could speak of nothing but unparalleled horrors! and but awaken your sensibility, if it slumbered for a moment! what mind could forget the th of august and the d of september; and that the black and bloody year has plunged its murderous dagger still deeper, and already made still more detestably memorable! though its victim( ) has at last been rewarded for four years of torture by forcing from him every kind of proof of the most perfect character that ever sat on a throne. were these, alas! themes for letters? nay, am i not sure that you have been still more shocked by a crime that passes even the guilt of shedding the blood of poor louis, to hear of atheism avowed, and the avowal tolerated by monsters calling themselves a national assembly! but i have no words that can reach the criminality of such inferno-human beings, but must compose a term that aims at conveying my idea of them. for the future it will be sufficient to call them the french; i hope no other nation will ever deserve to be confounded with them! indeed, my dear friend, i have another reason for wishing to burn my pen entirely: all my ideas are confounded and overturned; i do not know whether all i ever learned in the seventy first years of my seventy-five was not wrong and false: common sense, reasoning, calculation, conjecture from analogy and from history of past events, all, all have been baffled; nor am i sure that what used to be thought the result of experience and wisdom was not a mass of mistakes. have i not found, do i not find, that the invention of establishing metals as the signs of property was an useless discovery, or at least only useful till the art of making paper was found out? nay, the latter is preferable to gold and silver. if the ores were adulterated and cried down, nobody would take them in exchange. depreciate paper as much as you will, and it will still serve all the purposes of barter. tradesmen still keep shops, stock them with goods, and deliver their commodities for those coined rags. poor reason, where art thou? to show you that memory and argument are of no value, at least with me, i thought a year or two that this papermint would soon blow up, because i remembered that when mr. charles fox and one or two more youths of brilliant genius first came to light, and into vast debts at play, they imparted to the world an important secret which they had discovered. it was, that nobody needed to want money, if they would pay enough for it. accordingly, they borrowed of jews at vast usury: but as they had made but an incomplete calculation, the interest so soon exceeded the principal, that the system did not maintain its ground for above two or three years. faro has proved a more substantial speculation. but i miscarried in applying my remembrance to the assignats, which still maintain their ground against that long-decried but as long-adored corrupter of virtue, gold.( ) alack! i do not hear that virtue has flourished more for the destruction of its old enemy! shall i add another truth? i have been so disgusted and fatigued by hearing of nothing but french massacres, etc. and found it so impossible to shift conversation to any other topic, that before i had been a month in town, i wished miss gunning would revive, that people might have at least one other subject to interest the ears and tongues of the public. but no wonder universal attention is engrossed by the present portentous scene! it seems to draw to a question, whether europe or france is to be depopulated; whether civilization can be recovered, or the republic of chaos can be supported by assassination. we have heard of the golden, silver, and iron ages; the brazen one existed while the french were only predominantly insolent. what the present age will be denominated, i cannot guess'. though the paper age would be characteristic, it is not emphatic enough, nor specifies the enormous sins of the fiends that are the agents. i think it may be styled the diabolical age -. the duke of orleans has dethroned satan, who since his fall has never instigated such crimes as orleans has perpetrated.( ) let me soften my tone a little, and harmonize your poor mind by sweeter accents. in this deluge of triumphant enormities, what trails of the sublime and beautiful may be gleaned! did you hear of madame elizabeth, the king's sister? a saint like yourself. she doted on her brother, for she certainly knew his soul. in the tumult in july, hearing the populace and the poissardes had broken into the palace, she flew to the king, and by embracing him tried to shield his person. the populace took her for the queen, cried out "voil`a cette chienne, cette autrichienne!" and were proceeding to violence. somebody to save her, screamed "ce n'est pas la reine, c'est--" the princess said, "ah! mon dieu! ne les d`etrompez pas." if that was not the most sublime instance of perfect innocence ready prepared for death, i know not where to find one. sublime indeed, too, was the sentence of good father edgeworth, the king's confessor, who, thinking his royal penitent a little dismayed just before the fatal stroke, cried out "montez, digne fils de st. louis! le ciel vous est ouvert." the holy martyr's countenance brightened up, and he submitted at once. such victims, such confessors as those, and monsieur do malesherbes, repair some of the breaches in human nature made by orleans, condorcet, santerre, and a legion of evil spirits. the tide of horrors has hurried me much too far, before i have vented a note of my most sincere concern for your bad account of your health. i feel for it heartily, and wish your frame were as sound as your soul and understanding. what can i recommend? i am no physician but for my own flimsy texture; which by studying, and by contradicting all advice, i have drawn to this great age. patience, temperance, nay, abstinence, are already yours; in short, you want to be corrected of nothing but too much piety, too much rigour towards yourself, and too much sensibility for others. is not it possible to serve mankind without feeling too great pity? perhaps i am a little too much hardened, i am grown too little alarmed for the health of my friends, from being become far more indifferent to life; i look to the nearness of' my end, as a delivery from spectacles of wo. we have even amongst us monsters, more criminal, in speculation at least, than the french. they had cause to wish for correction of a bad government; though, till taught to dislike it, three-fourths of the country, i maintain, adored theirs. we have the perfectest ever yet devised; but if to your numerous readings of little pamphlets. you would add one more, called "village politics,"( ) infinitely superior to any thing on the subject, clearer, better stated, and comprehending the whole mass of matter in the shortest compass, you will be more mistress of the subject than any man in england. i know who wrote it, but will not tell you, because you did not tell me. ( ) on the st of january, louis the sixteenth had been beheaded in the place louis quinze, erected to the memory of his grandfather. m. thiers thus concludes his account of this horrible event:--"at ten minutes past ten, the carriage stopped. louis rising briskly, stepped out into the place. three executioners came up; he refused their assistance, and stripped off his clothes himself; but, perceiving that they were going to bind his hands, he betrayed a movement of indignation, and seemed ready to resist. m. edgeworth, whose every expression was then sublime, gave him, a last look, and said, 'i suffer this outrage, as a last resemblance to that god who is about to be your reward.' at these words the victim, resigned and submissive, suffered himself to be bound and conducted to the scaffold. all at once, louis took a hasty step, separated himself from the executioners, and advanced to address the people. 'frenchmen,' said he, in a firm voice, 'i die innocent of the crimes which are imputed to me; i forgive the authors of my death, and i pray that my blood may not fall upon france.' he would have continued but the drums were instantly ordered to beat: their rolling drowned the voice of the prince, the executioners laid hold of him, and m. edgeworth took his leave in these memorable words, ''son of st. louis, ascend to heaven!' as soon as the blood flowed, furious wretches dipped their pikes and their handkerchiefs in it spread themselves throughout paris, shouted vive la republique! vive la nation! and even went to the gates of the temple to display their brutal and factious joy." vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) "the causes which at this time put assignats apparently on a par with specie were the following. a law forbade, under heavy penalties, the traffic in specie, that is, the exchange at a loss of the assignat against money: another law decreed very severe penalties against those who, in purchases, should bargain for different prices according as payment was to be made in paper or in cash: by a last law, it was enacted, that hidden gold, silver, or jewels, should belong partly to the state, partly to the informer. thenceforth people could neither employ specie in trade nor conceal it; it became troublesome; it exposed the holders to the risk of being considered suspected persons; they began to be afraid of it, an(l to find the assignat preferable for daily use." thiers, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) louis-philippe-joseph, duke of orleans, who had relinquished his titles and called himself philippe egalit`e, and become a member of the national convention, in giving his vote for the death of his kinsman, had read these words:--"exclusively governed by my duty, and convinced that all those who have resisted the sovereignty of the people deserve death, my vote is for death!" the atrocity of this vote occasioned great agitation in the -assembly; it seemed as if, by this single vote, the fate of the monarch was irrevocably sealed. on the th of november, in the same year, the duke was himself brought before the revolutionary tribunal, and condemned on account of the suspicions which he had excited in all parties. "odious," says m. thiers "to the emigrants, suspected by the girondins and the jacobins, he inspired none of those regrets which afford some consolation for an unjust death. a universal disgust, an absolute scepticism were his last sentiments; and he went to the scaffold with extraordinary composure and indifference, as he was drawn along the rue st. honor`e, he beheld his palace with a dry eye, and never belied for a moment his disgust of men and of life," vol. iii, p. --e. ( ) a little work which miss more had just published anonymously. the sale of it was enormous. many thousands were sent by government to scotland and ireland. several persons printed large editions of it at their own expense; and in london only many hundred thousands were circulated.-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, march , .(page ) i shall certainly not leave off taunting your virtues, my excellent friend, for i find it sometimes makes you correct them. i scolded you for your modesty in not acquainting me with your "village politics" even after they were published; and you have already conquered that unfriendly delicacy, and announced another piece of which you are in labour. still i se there wanted your ghostly father, the )bishop of london, to join you to be quite shameless and avow your natural child.( ) i do approve his doctrine: calling it by your own name will make its fortune. if, like rousseau, you had left your babe among the enfans trouv`es, it might never be heard of more than his poor issue have been; for i can but observe that the french patriots, who have made such a fuss with his ashes, have not taken the smallest pains to attempt to discover his real progeny, which might not have been impossible by collating dates and circumstances. i am proud of having imitated you at a great distance, and been persuaded, much against my will and practice, to let my name be put to the second subscription for the poor french clergy, as it was thought it might tend to animate that consumptive contribution. i am impatient for your pamphlet, not only as being yours, but hoping it will invigorate horror against french atheism, which, i am grieved to say did not by any means make due impression. very early apply to your confessor, to beg he would enjoin his clergy to denounce that shocking impiety; i could almost recommend to you to add a slight postscript on the massacre of that wretch manuel. i do not love such insects as we are dispensing judgments yet, if the punishment of that just victim might startle such profane criminals, it might be charity to suggest the hint to them. th. i must modify the massacre of manuel; he has been a good deal stabbed, but will, they say, recover.( ) perhaps it is better that some of those assassins should live to acknowledge, that "do not to others what you would not have done to you" is not so silly a maxim as most of the precepts of morality and justice have lately been deemed by philosophers and legislators--titles self-assumed by men who have abolished all other titles; and who have disgraced and debased the former denomination, and under the latter have enjoined triple perjuries, and at last cannot fix on any code which should exact more forswearing. i own i am pleased that that ruffian pedant condorcet's new constitution was too clumsy and unwieldy to go down the throats of those who have swallowed every thing else. i did but just cast my eyes on the beginning and end, and was so lucky as to observe the hypocrite's contradiction: he sets out with declaration of equality, and winds up with security of property; that is, we will plunder every body, and then entail the spoils on ourselves and our (wrong) heirs.( ) well! that bloody chaos seems recoiling on themselves! it looks as if civil war was bursting out in many provinces, and will precipitate approaching famine. when, till now, could one make such a reflection without horror to one's self? but, alas! have not the french brought it to the question, whether europe or france should be laid desolate'! religion, morality, justice, have been stabbed, torn up by the roots: every right has been trampled under foot. marriage has been profaned and undermined by law; and no wonder, that, amidst such excesses, the poor arts have shared in the common ruin! and who have been the perpetrators of, or advocates for, such universal devastation? philosophers, geometricians, astronomers--a condorcet, a bailly, a bishop of autun, and a doctor priestley, and the last the worst. the french had seen grievances, crying grievances! yet not under the good late king. but what calamities or dangers threatened or had fallen on priestley, but want of papal power, like his predecessor calvin? if you say his house was burnt -but did he intend the fire should blaze on that side of the street? your charity may believe him innocent, but your understanding does not. well! i am glad to hear he is going to america; i hope he will not bring back scalping, even to that national assembly of which he was proud of being elected a member! i doubt if cartouche would have thought it an honour. it was stuck up in lloyd's coffeehouse lately, that the duke of orleans was named "chef de la r`epublique." i thought it should be "chef de la lie publique." ( ) miss more had informed walpole, that she was occupied in writing her "remarks" on the atheistical speech of m. dupont, made in the national convention; and to which the bishop of london had recommended her to put her name.-e. ( ) manuel was deeply implicated in the massacres of ; in consequence of which he was nominated a deputy to the national convention. he resigned his seat in january , and retired to montargis, where he narrowly escaped assassination. he was afterwards seized as a suspected person. on being brought before the revolutionary tribunal, he reminded his judges of his services, and desired it might be engraved on his tombstone, that he had occasioned the events of the th of august. he was guillotined in november .-e. ( ) in the following july, condorcet was accused of being an accomplice with brissot, and, to save his life, concealed himself in the house of madame verney, where he remained eight months. having at length learned that death was denounced against all who harboured a proscribed individual, he fled in disguise from paris. he wandered about for some time, until, driven by hunger, he entered a small public-house at clamar, where he was arrested as a suspicious person, and thrown into prison. on the following morning, march , , he was found dead on the floor of his room, having apparently swallowed poison, which he always carried about with him.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i thank you much for all your information--some parts made me smile: yet, if what you heard of your brother proves true, i rather think it deplorable! how can love of money, or the still vainer of all vanities, ambition of wearing a high but most insignificant office, which even poor lord salisbury could execute, tempt a very old man, who loves his ease and his own way, to stoop to wait like a footman behind a chair, for hours, and in a court whence he had been cast ignominiously? i believe i have more pride than most men alive: i could be flattered by honours acquired by merit, or by some singular action of `eclat; but for titles, ribands, offices of no business, which any body can fill, and must be given to many, i should just as soon be proud of being the top squire in a country village.( ) it is only worse to have waded to distinction through dirt, like lord auckland.( ) all this shifting of scenes may, as you say, be food to the fronde --sed defendit numerus. it is perfectly ridiculous to use any distinction of parties but the ins and the outs. many years ago i thought that the wisest appellations for contending factions ever assumed, were those in the roman empire, who called themselves the greens and the blues: it was so easy, when they changed sides, to slide from one colour to the other; and then a blue might plead that he had never been true blue, but always a greenish blue; and vice versa. i allow that the steadiest party-man may be staggered by novel and unforeseen circumstances. the outrageous proceedings of the french republicans have wounded the cause of liberty, and will, i fear, have shaken it for centuries; for condorcet and such fiends are worse than the imperial and royal dividers of poland. but i do not see why detestation of anarchy and assassination must immediately make one fall in love with garters and seals. i am sitting by the fire, as i have done ever since i came hither; and since i do not expect warm weather in june, i am wishing for rain, or i shall not have a mouthful of hay, nor a noseful of roses. indeed, as i have seen several fields of hay cut, i wonder it has not brought rain, as usual. my creed is, that rain is good for hay, as i conclude every climate and its productions are suited to each other. providence did not trouble itself about its being more expensive to us to make our hay over and over; it only took care it should not want water enough. adieu! ( ) on the th of this month, the earl of hertford was created a marquis. he died on the th of june, in the following year, at the age of seventy-five.-e. ( ) on the d of may, william eden, lord auckland, had been created an english peer.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, wednesday night, late, july , . (page ) i am just come from dining with the bishop of london at fulham, where i found lord and lady frederick campbell, who told me of the alarm you had from hearing some screams that you thought lady ailesbury's, and the disorder brought upon you by flying to assist her. i do not at all wonder at your panic, and rejoice it was not founded, and that you recovered so soon. i am not going to preach against your acting so naturally: but as you have some complaint on your breast, i must hope you will remember this accident, and be upon your guard against both sudden and rapid exertions, when you have not a tantamount call. i conclude the excessive heat we have had for twelve complete days contributed to overpower you. it is much cooler to-day, yet still delicious; for be it known to you that i have enjoyed weather worthy of africa,( ) and yet without swallowing mouthfuls of musquitos, nor expecting to hear hyenas howl in the village, nor to find scorpions in my bed. indeed, all the way i came home, i could but gaze at the felicity of my countrymen. the road was one string of stage-coaches loaded within and without with noisy jolly folks, and chaises and gigs that had been pleasuring in clouds of dust; every door and every window of every house was open, lights in every shop, every door with women sitting in the street, every inn crowded with jaded horses, and every alehouse full of drunken topers; for you know the english always announce their sense of heat or cold by drinking. well! it was' impossible not to enjoy such a scene of happiness and affluence in every village, and amongst the lowest of the people; and who are told by villanous scribblers, that they are oppressed and miserable. new streets, new towns, are rising every day and every where; the earth is covered with gardens and crops of grain. how bitter to turn from this elysiurn to the temple at paris! the fiends there have now torn her son from the queen!( ) can one believe that they are human beings, who 'midst all their confusions sit coolly meditating new tortures, new anguish for that poor, helpless, miserable woman, after four years of unexampled sufferings? oh! if such crimes are not made a dreadful lesson, this world might become a theatre of cannibals! i hope the checks in bretagne are legends coined by miscreants at paris. what can one believe? well, i will go to bed, and try to dream of peace and plenty; and though my lawn is burnt, and my peas and beans, and roses and strawberries parched, i will bear with patience till the harvest is got in. saint swithin can never hold his water for forty days, though he can do the contrary. good night! ( ) bishop porteus, writing to miss more on the th of august says, "your friend lord orford and myself are, i believe, the only persons in the kingdom who are worthy of the hot weather-- the only true genuine summer we have had for the last thirty years: we both agreed that it was perfectly celestial, and that it was quite scandalous to huff it away as some people did. a few days before it arrived, all the world was complaining of the dreadfully cold northeast wind; and in three days after the warmer weather came in every body was quarrelling with the heat, and sinking under the rays of the sun. such is that consistent and contented thing called human nature!"-e. ( ) marie antoinette was separated from her sister, her daughter, and her son, by virtue of a decree which ordered the trial. weber, in his memoirs of her, states, that the separation from her son was so touching, so heartrending that the very gaolers who witnessed the scene confessed, when they were giving an account of' it to the authorities, that they could not refrain from tears.-e. letter to the miss berrys.( ) tuesday night, o'clock, sept. , . (page ) my beloved spouses, whom i love better than solomon loved his one spouse--or his one thousand. i lament that the summer is over; not because of its uniquity, but because you two made it so delightful to me, that six weeks of gout could not sour it. pray take care of yourselves-not for your own sakes, but for mine: for, as i have just had my quota of gout, i may, possibly, expect to see another summer: and, as you allow that i do know my own, and when i wish for any thing and have it, am entirely satisfied, you may depend upon it that i shall be as happy with a third summer, if i reach it, as i have been with the two last. consider, that i have been threescore years and ten looking for a society that i perfectly like; and at last there dropped out of the clouds into lady herries's room two young gentlewomen, who i so little thought were sent thither on purpose for me, that when i was told they were the charming miss berrys, i would not even go to the side of the chamber where they sat. but, as fortune never throws any thing at one's head without hitting one, i soon found that the charming berrys were precisely ce qu'il me fallait; and that though young enough to be my great-grand-daughters, lovely enough to turn the heads of all our youths, and sensible enough, if said youths have any brains, to set all their heads to rights again. yes, sweet damsels, i have found that you can bear to pass half your time with an antediluvian, without discovering any ennui or disgust; though his greatest merit towards you is, that he is not one of those old fools who fancy they are in love in their dotage. i have no such vagary; though i am not sorry that some folks think i am so absurd, since it frets their selfishness. the mackinsys, onslows, miss pelham, and madame de cambis have dined here; and to-morrow i shall have the flamptonians and other richmondists. i must repeat it; keep in mind that both of you are delicate, and not strong. if you return in better health, i shall not repine at your journey. good night! ( ) the miss berrys were at this time in yorkshire. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, wednesday, o'clock, sept. , . (page ) every thing has gone au mieux. the rain vented itself to the last drop yesterday; and the sun, as bright as the belvedere, has not had a wrinkle on his brow since eight o'clock this morning; nay, he has been warm, and gilded the gallery and tribune with sterling rays; the thames quite full with the last deluges, and the verdure never fresher it was born. the duchess of york arrived punctually at twelve, in a high phaeton, with mrs. ewert, and bude on horseback. on the step of the gate was a carpet, and the court matted. i received the princess at the side of her chaise, and when entered, kissed her hand. she had meant to ride; but had hurt her foot, and was forced to sit most of the time she was here. we had many civil contests about my sitting too: but i resisted, and held out till after she had seen the house and drank chocolate in the round drawing-room; and then she commanded general bude to sit, that i might have no excuse: yet i rose and fetched a salver, to give her the chocolate myself, and then a glass of water. she seemed much pleased, and commended much; and i can do no less of her, and with the strictest truth. she is not near so small as i had expected; her face is very agreeable and lively; and she is so good-humoured, and so gracious, and so natural, that i do not believe lady mary coke( ) would have made a quarter so pleasing a duchess of york; nor have been in half so sweet a temper, unless by my attentions de vieille cour. i was sorry my eagle( ) had been forced to hold its tongue to-morrow i shall go to oatlands, with my thanks for the honour; and there, probably, will end my connexions with courts, begun with george the first, great-great-great-grandfather to the duchess of' york! it sounds as if there could not have been above three generations more before adam. great news how eager mr. berry will look!-but it is not from armies or navies; not from the murderers at paris, nor from the victims at grodno. no! it is only an event in the little world of me. this morning, to receive my princess, i put on a silver waistcoat that i had made three years ago for lord cholmondeley's marriage, and have not worn since. considering, my late illness, and how many hundredweight of chalk i have been venting these ten years, i concluded my wedding garment would wrap round me like my nightgown; but, lo! it was grown too tight for me. i shall be less surprised, if, in my next century, and under george the tenth, i grow as plump as mrs. ellis. methinks i pity you, when all the world is in arms, and you expect to hear that saul duke of brunswick has slain his thousands, and david prince of cobourg his ten thousands, to be forced to read the platitudes that i send you, because i have nothing better to amuse me than writing to you. well! you know how to get rid of my letters. good night. i reckon you are at brumpton,( ) and have had no accidents, i hope, on the road. ( ) lady mary coke, youngest daughter of john duke of argyle, married to lord coke, eldest son of the earl of leicester. after his death she fancied an attachment existed between herself and the duke of york, brother of george the third; which she likewise fancied had ended in an undeclared marriage.-m.b. ( ) the antique marble eagle in the gallery at strawberry hill, round the neck of which was to have been suspended some lines which lord orford had written, extolling the, duke of york's military fame and conquests in holland, which the unfortunate issue of the campaign obliged him to suppress.-e. ( ) the seat of sir george cayley, bart. near scarborough. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) you are welcome to scarborough both, and buon proviccia! as you, mrs. mary, have been so mistaken about your sister, i shall allow nobody for the future to take a panic about either but myself. i am rejoiced the journey seems hitherto to answer so well; but, do you know, "it is very inconvenient to my lord castlecomer." i am forced to eat all the game of your purparties, as well as my own thirds. pray did not you think that the object of the grand alliance was to reduce france? no such thing! at least their views have changed ever since they heard of your setting out. without refining too much, it is clear to me that all they think on now, is to prevent my sending you news. does any army stir? is not the duke of brunswick gone to sleep again, like a paroli at faro, or like a paroil at torbay, which cocks one corner, but never wins a septleva? that lord admiral reminds me of a trait of poor don carlos, which helped on his death-warrant. he one day made a little book, which he intituled "the travels of philip the second, king of spain." it contained his majesty's removals from his capital to his country palaces, and back again. well! if all those monarchs are so pitiful as to set their wits against you, i will balk them. i will do as other folks do; i will make news myself-not to-night; for i have no invention by me at present: besides, you are apt to sift news too shrewdly .but, before i coin a report for you, i must contradict one. if you should hear in yorkshire, that i am appointed aide-de-camp to the duke of york, you may safely contradict it. it could only arise from the duchess of york's visit to me; just as, the year before you came to cliveden, your predecessor, sir robert goodere, literally told me, that he heard that princess elizabeth had been sent to me for two days for the air. on questioning him roundly, i discovered that he had heard no such thing; but had conjectured so. on seeing two of the duchess of gloucester's servants pass before his door from or to the pavilions; which ought not to have puzzled the goose's imagination a moment--but thus reports originate! monday night, th. i come from mrs. jeffries at richmond, but return not a battle richer than i went; though i saw the secretary-at-war' there, and even the panic-master-general, who had not a single alarm to bestow on a poor soul who is hungering and thirsting for news, good or bad, to send to you. sir george yonge,( ) indeed, did tell us, that thirty jacobins, who had disguised themselves as priests, to bring scandal on their countrymen of that profession, but who, the bishop of leon declares, are none of their clergy, have been detected and seized, and are to be sent away to-morrow. home news from richmond. your friend mr. dundas was robbed this morning at eleven o'clock at cranford-bridge. he happened to tell them he is a surgeon; on which they insisted on his giving them his case of instruments. i suspect they are french surgeons, and will poison the instruments for the first wound they dress. you see how i labour in your service, though my crops are small. an old duchess of rutland, mother of the late duchess of montrose, whenever a visiter told her some news or scandal, cried to her daughter, "lucy, do step into next room, and make a memorandum of what lady greenwich, or lady m.m. or n.n. has been telling us." "lord! madam, to be sure it cannot be true." "no matter, child; it will do for news in the country." it is for want of such prudent provision pour le couvent, that so many people are forced to invent off-hand. you cannot say i am so thoughtless: you receive every morsel piping-hot as it comes from the bakers. one word about our glorious weather, and i have done. it even improves every day. i kept the window open till dinner-time to-day, and could do nothing but gaze at the brilliant beauty of the verdure. it is so equal to ordinary julys, that one is surprised to see the sun set before six o'clock. good night! ( ) sir george yonge. letter to miss hannah more.( ) strawberry hill, oct. . page ) though it would make me happy, my dear madam, if you were more corresponding, yet i must not reproach your silence, nor wish it were less; for all your moments are so dedicated to goodness, and to unwearied acts of benevolence, that you must steal from charity, or purloin from the repose you want, any that you bestow on me. do not i know, too, alas! how indifferent your health is! you sacrifice that to your duties: but can a friend, who esteems you so highly as i do, be so selfish as to desire to cost you half an hour's headache! no, never send me a line that you can employ better; that would trespass on your ease. of the trash written against you i had never even heard.( ) nor do i believe that they gave you any other disquiet than what arose from seeing that the worthiest and most humane intentions are poison to some human beings. oh! have not the last five years brought to light such infernal malevolence, such monstrous crimes, as mankind had grown civilized enough to disbelieve when they read any thing similar in former ages; if, indeed, any thing similar has been recorded. but i must not enter into what i dare not fathom. catherine slay-czar triumphs over the good honest poles; and louis seize perishes on a scaffold, the best of men: while whole assemblies of fiends, calling themselves men, are from day to day meditating torment and torture for his heroic widow; on whom, with all their power and malice, and with every page, footman, and chambermaid of hers in their reach, and with the rack in their hands, they have not been able to fix a speck. nay, do they not talk of the inutility of evidence? what other virtue ever sustained such an ordeal? but who can wonder, when the almighty himself is called by one of those wretches, the soi-disant god. you say their outrageous folly tempts you to smile( )--yes, yes: at times i should have laughed too, if i could have dragged my muscles at once from the zenith of horror to the nadir of contempt: but their abominations leave one leisure enough to leap from indignation to mirth. i abhor war and bloodshed as much as you do; but unless the earth is purged of such monsters, peace and morality will never return. this is not a war of nation and nation; it is the cause of every thing dear and sacred to civilized man, against the unbounded licentiousness of assassins, who massacre even the generals who fight for them--not that i pity the latter; but to whom can a country be just that rewards tools with the axe? what animal is so horrible as one that devours its own young ones? that execrable nation overwhelms ill moralizing. at any other minute the unexpected death of lady falmouth would be striking: yet i am sorry for mrs. boscawen. i have been ill for six weeks with the gout, and am just recovered: yet i remember it less than the atrocities of france; and i remember, if possible, with greater indignation, their traitors here at home; amongst whom are your antagonists. do not apologize for talking of them and yourself. punish them not by answering, but by supporting the good cause, and by stigmatizing the most imprudent impiety that ever was avowed. mrs. garrick dined here to-day, with some of the quality of hampton and richmond. she appears quite well, and was very cheerful: i wish you were as well recovered. do you remember how ill i found you both last year in the adelphi? adieu! thou excellent champion, as well as practiser, of all goodness. let the vile abuse vented against you be balm to your mind: your writings must have done great service, when they have so provoked the enemy. all who have religion or principle must revere your name. who would not be hated by duponts and dantons!--and if abhorrence of atheism implies popery, reckon it a compliment to be called papist. the french have gone such extravagant lengths, that to preach or practise massacres is, with them, the sole test of merit-of patriotism. just in one point only they have merit; they sacrifice the blackest criminals with as much alacrity as the most innocent or the most virtuous: but i beg your pardon; i know not how to stop when i talk of these ruffians. yours, most cordially and most sincerely. ( ) now first collected. ( ) three abusive answers to miss more's pamphlet against m. dupont had just been published.-e. ( ) miss more had said,--"these mad monkeys of the convention do contrive to enliven my unappeasable indignation against them with occasional provocatives to mirth. how do you like the egregious inventions of the anniversary follies of the th of august?"-e. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, tuesday evening, eight o'clock, oct. , . (page ) though i do not know when it will have its whole lading, i must begin my letter this very moment, to tell you what i have just heard. i called on the princesse d'hennin, who has been in town a week. i found her quite alone, and i thought she did not answer quite clearly about her two knights: the prince de poix has taken a lodging in town, and she talks of letting her house here, if she can. in short, i thought she had a little of an ariadne-air--but this was not what i was in such a hurry to tell you. she showed me several pieces of letters, i think from the duchesse de bouillon: one says, that poor duchesse de biron is again arrested and at the jacobins, and with her "une jeune `etourdie, qui ne fait que chanter toute la journ`ee;" and who, think you, may that be?--only our pretty little wicked duchesse de fleury! by her singing and not sobbing, i suppose she was weary of her tircis, and is glad to be rid of him. this new blow, i fear, will overset madame de biron again. the rage at paris seems to increase daily or hourly; they either despair, or are now avowed banditti. i tremble so much for the great- and most suffering victim of all, the queen, that one cannot feel so much for many, as several perhaps deserve: but her tortures have been of far longer duration than any martyrs, and more various; and her courage and patience equal to her woes!( ) my poor old friend, the duchesse de la vali`ere, past ninety and stone-deaf, has a guard set upon her, but in her own house; her daughter, the duchesse de chatillon, mother of the duchesse de la tremouille, is arrested; and thus the last, with her attachment to the queen, must be miserable indeed!--but one would think i feel for nothing but duchesses: the crisis has crowded them together into my letter, and into a prison;-and to be prisoner amongst cannibals is pitiable indeed! thursday morning, th, past ten. i this moment receive the very comfortable twin-letter. i am so conjugal, and so much in earnest upon the article of recovery, that i cannot think of a pretty thing to say to very pretty mrs. stanhope; nor do i know what would be a pretty thing in these days. i might come out with some old-fashioned compliment, that would have been very genteel in "good queen bess's golden day, when i was a dame of honour." let mrs. stanhope( ) imagine that i have said all she deserves: i certainly think it, and will ratify it, when i have learnt the language of the nineteenth century; but i really am so ancient, that as pythagoras imagined he had been panthoides enphorbus in the trojan war, i am not sure that i did not ride upon a pillion behind a gentleman-usher, when her majesty elizabeth went in procession to st. paul's on the defeat of the armada! adieu! the postman puts an end to idle speculations--but, scarborough for ever! with three huzzas! ( ) the duchess perished under the guillotine in the following year.-e. ( ) on the th of october, a few hours after walpole had penned the above letter, the unfortunate marie antoinette was conducted, amidst a great concourse of the populace, to the fatal spot, where, ten months before, louis the sixteenth had perished. "sorrow had blanched her once beautiful hair: but her features and air commanded the admiration of all who beheld her. her cheeks, pale and emaciated, were occasionally tinged with a vivid colour at the mention of those she had lost. when led out to execution, she was dressed in white; she had cut off her hair with her own hands. placed in a tumbrel, with her arms tied behind her, she was taken to the place de la r`evolution. she listened with calmness to the exhortations of the ecclesiastic who accompanied her, and cast an indifferent look at the people who had so often applauded her beauty and her grace, and who now as warmly applauded her execution. on reaching the foot of the scaffold, she perceived the tuileries, and appeared to be moved; but she hastened to ascend the fatal ladder, and gave herself up with courage to the executioner. the infamous wretch exhibited her head to the people, as he was accustomed to do when he had sacrificed an illustrious victim. the jacobins were overjoyed. 'let these tidings be carried to austria,' said they; 'the romans sold the ground occupied by hannibal; we strike off the heads that are dearest to the sovereigns who have invaded our territory.' " see thiers, vol. iii. p. , and lacretelle, tom. xi. p. .-e. ( ) the wife of colonel stanhope, brother of the earl of harrington. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i often lay the egg of my journals two or three days before they are hatched. this may make some of my articles a little stale before you get them; but then you know they are the more authentic, if the echo has not told me to unsay them-and, if a prince of wales drops a thumping victory at my door as he goes by, you have it hot out of the oven--though, as happened lately, not half baked.( ) the three last newspapers are much more favourable, than you seemed to expect. nieuport has been saved; ostend is safe. the royalists in la vend`ee are not demolished, as the convention of lars asserted. strasbourg seems likely to fall. at toulon even the neapolitans, on whom you certainly did not reckon, have behaved like heroes. as admiral gravina is so hearty, though his master makes no progress in france, i suspect that the sovereign of so many home kingdoms is a little afraid of trusting his army beyond the borders, lest the catalans should have something of the old--or new leaven. in the mean time, it is still more provoking to hear of catherine slay-czar sitting on her throne and playing with royal marriages, without sending a single ship or regiment to support the cause of europe, and to punish the men of the mountain, who really are the assassins that the crusaders supposed or believed existed in asia. oh! marie antoinette, what a contrast between you and petruchia! domestic news are scanty, but dismal, and you have seen them anticipated; as the loss of the young lord montague( ) and mr. burdett,( ) drowned in a cataract in switzerland by their own obstinate folly.( ) mr. tickell's death was a determined measure, and more shocking than the usual mode by a pistol. he threw himself from one of the uppermost windows of the palace at hampton court, into the garden -an immense height! some attribute his despair to debts; some to a breach with his political friends. i am not acquainted with, but am sorry for him, as i liked his writings.( ) our weather remains unparagoned; mrs. hastings is not more brilliant: the elms are evergreens. i a little regret your not seeing how beautiful cliveden can be on the th of november; ay, and how warm. then the pheasants, partridges, and hares from houghton, that you lose: they would have exceeded camacho's wedding, and sancho panza would have talked chapters about them. i am forced to send them about the neighbourhood, as if i were making interest to be chosen for the united royal burghs of richmond and hampton court. but all this is not worth sending: i must wait for a better bouche. i want wurmser to be caesar, and send me more commentaries de bello gallico. what do you say to those wretches who have created death an endless sleep,( ) that nobody may boggle at any crime for fear of hell? methinks they have no reason to dread the terrors of conscience in any frenchman! november th. hiatus non deflendus; for i have neither heard a word, nor had a word to say these three days. victories do not come every tide, like mackerel, or prizes in the irish lottery. yesterday's paper discounted a little of neapolitan valour; but, as even the dutch sometimes fight upon recollection, and as there was no account yet of o'hara's arrival at toulon, i hope he will laugh or example lor' signori into spirit. you will wonder at my resuming my letter, when i profess having nothing to add to it; but yours of the th is just arrived, and i could not make this commenced sheet lie quiet in my writing-box: it would begin gossiping with your letter, though i vowed it shall not set out till to-morrow. "why, you empty thing," said i, "how do you know but there may have been a gazette last night, crammed with vast news, which, as no paper comes out on sundays, we shall not learn here; and would you be such a goose as to creep through brentford and hammersmith and kensington, where the bells may be drinking some general's health, and will scoff you for asking whose? indeed you shall not stir before to-morrow. lysons is returned from gloucestershire, and is to dine here to-day; and he will at least bring us a brick, like harlequin, as a pattern of any town that we may have taken. moreover, no post sets out from london on sunday nights, and you would only sit guzzling--i don't mean you, miss berry, but you, my letter-with the clerks of the post-office. patience till tomorrow." we have had some rain, even this last night: but the weather is fine all day, and quite warm. i believe it has made an assignation with the glastonbury thorn, and that they are to dance together on old christmas-day. what could i do with myself in london! all my playthings are here, and i have no playfellows left there! lady herries's and poor mrs. hunter's( ) are shut up. even the "one game more at cribbage"( ) after supper is on table, which is not my supreme felicity, though accompanied by the tabor and pipe,( ) is in the country or, to say all in a word, north audley-street is in yorkshire! reading composes little of my pastime, either in town or country. a catalogue of books and prints, or a dull history of a county, amuse me sufficiently; for now i cannot open a french book, as it would keep alive ideas that i want to banish from my thoughts. when i am tired at home, i go and sit an hour or two with the ladies of murray,( ) or the doyleys, and find them conversable and comfortable; and my pessime aller is richmond. monday morning, th. lysons( ) has been drawing churches in gloucestershire, and digging out a roman villa and mosaic pavement near cirencester, which he means to publish: but he knew nothing outlandish; so if the newspaper does not bring me something fresh for you presently, this limping letter must set out with its empty wallet. mrs. piozzi is going to publish a book on english synonymes. methinks she had better have studied them, before she stuffed her travels with so many vulgarisms!( ) ( ) this alludes to some false report of the time. ( ) lord viscount montague was the last male heir of a most noble and ancient family, in a lineal descent from the lady lucy nevill.-e. ( ) charles sedley burdett, second son of francis burdett esq. and brother of francis, who on the death of his grandfather, sir robert burdett, in , succeeded to the baronetcy.-e. ( ) they insisted on shooting down the, great fall of the rhine at schaflhausen in a boat, against the remonstrances of the neighbouring inhabitants and their refusal of every bribe, either to assist or accompany them. they and their boat were shattered to pieces, and their remains were found some days after, at a considerable distance from the scene of their mad exploit. ( ) richard tickell, esq. author of "anticipation," the " wreath of fashion," and other poems. he was a commissioner of the stamp-office, and brother-in-law to richard brinsley sheridan.-e. ( ) "c'est ici l'asile du sommeil `eternel," was the republican inscription over all the public cemeteries. pache, hebert, and chaumette, the leaders of the municipality, publicly expressed their determination to dethrone the king of heaven, as well as the kings of the earth. gebel, the constitutional bishop of paris, disowned at the bar of the convention the existence of a god. on the th of november, a female whom they termed the goddess of reason, was admitted within the bar, and placed on the right hand of the president. after receiving the fraternal hug, she was mounted on a magnificent car, and conducted to the church of notre dame, to take the place of the holy of holies; and thenceforth that ancient and imposing cathedral was called "the temple of reason," see thiers, vol. iii, p. , , and lacretelle, torn. xi. p, .-e. ( ) widow of dr. john hunter. ( ) a manner of designating the countess of ailesbury. ( ) two old ladies of his society, whom he thus called. ( ) sisters to the great earl of mansfield. ( ) samuel lysons, esq. brother to the rev. daniel lysons, of whom a notice has been given at p. , (letter , note (, and author of several works relating to the roman antiquities of great britain. he also published, in conjunction with his brother, the earlier volumes of the "magna britannica." in , be succeeded mr. astle as keeper of the records in the tower of london; which office he held till his death in . mr. mathias, in november , described him as "one of the most judicious, best-informed, and most learned amateur antiquaries in the kingdom in his department;" and his work on the remains of the roman villa and pavements near gloucester, as "such a specimen of ingenuity, unwearied zeal, and critical accuracy in delineating and illustrating the fragments of antiquity, as rarely had been equalled, certainly never surpassed." see pursuits of literature.-e. ( ) the following is mr. gifford's opinion of the qualifications of the lady for such a work--"though no one better knows his own house' than i the vanity of this woman; yet the idea of her undertaking it had never entered my head; and i was thunderstruck when i first saw it announced. to execute it with any tolerable degree of success, required a rare combination of talents, among the least of which may be numbered neatness of style, acuteness of perception, and a more than common accuracy of discrimination; and mrs. piozzi brought to the task, a jargon long since become proverbial for its vulgarity, an utter incapacity of defining a single term in the language, and just as much latin from a child's syntax as sufficed to expose the ignorance she so anxiously labours to conceal." see baviad and maviad.-e. letter to miss berry. berkeley square, wednesday, dec. , . (page ) i begin my last letter to bransby, that i may have it ready to send away the moment i shall have any thing worth telling; which i certainly have not yet. what is become of lord howe and co. you may guess if you please, as every body is doing-- "i'm weary of conjectures--" but shall not end them like cato, because i take the fate of a whole fleet a little more likely to come to a solution than doubts in metaphysics; and if lord howe should at last bring home two or three french men-of-war, one would not be out of the way to receive them. in the mean time, let us chat as if the destiny of half europe were not at this moment in agitation. i went on monday evening with miss damer to the little haymarket, to see "the children in the wood," having heard so much of my favourite, young bannister, in that new piece; which, by the way, is well arranged, and near being fine.( ) he more than answered my expectation, and all i had heard of him. it was one of the most admirable performances i ever saw: his transports of despair and joy are incomparable, and his various countenances would be adequate to the pencil of salvator rosa. he made me shed as many tears as i suppose the original old ballad did when i was six years old. bannister's merit was the more striking, as, before "the children in the wood," he had been playing the sailor in "no song no supper," with equal nature. i wish i could hope to be as much pleased tomorrow night when i am to go to jerningham's play; but there is no bannister at covent-garden! on sunday night i found the comte de coigni( ) at lady lucan's. he was to set out the next morning with lord moira's expedition as a common soldier. this sounded decent and well; but you may guess that he had squeezed a little frenchism into his intention, and had asked for a vessel and some soldiers to attend him. i don't know whether he has condescended to go without them. i asked him about his daughter; he said, he did not believe she was in prison. others say, it is the duchesse de fleury, her mother-in-law. i have been surprised at not seeing or hearing any thing of poor fleury( ) but i am told he has been forced to abscond, having narrowly escaped being arrested by a coachmaker, to whom he owed five hundred pounds for carriages: which, to be sure, he must have had, or bespoken at paris before the revolution. thursday noon. yesterday came a letter to the admiralty, notifying that lord howe has taken five of the brest squadron: but this intelligence is derived through so many somebodys, that handed it to somebodys, that i am not much inclined, except by wishing it true, to believe it. however, the wind has got much more to the west, and now we shall probably not remain much longer in total darkness. three o'clock. another account is come to mrs. nugent's( ) from her husband, with the same story of the five captive french men-of-war; and so that reading is admitted: but for my part, i will admit nothing but under lord howe's own hand. it is tiresome to be like the scene in amphitryon, and cry one minute "obvious, obvious!" and the next "dubious, dubious!" such fluctuability is fit only for a stock-jobber. adieu! i must dress and dine, or i shall not be ready to wait on your grandfather seton.( ) ( ) see the memoirs of this admirable comedian, by mr. adolphus, recently published in two volumes octavo. the drama here spoken of was the production of mr. morton, and formed from the ancient ballad of the cruel uncle who murdered his brother's children in a wood, that he might inherit the family estate.-e. ( ) younger brother of the duc de coigni, the grand `ecuyer of marie antoinette and great uncle of the present duc de coigni. ( ) the duc de fleury, the count de coigni's son-in-law. ( ) the wife of admiral nugent. ( ) he means mr. jerningham's play, the siege of berwick. letter to the miss berrys. friday, december , . (page ) you will not wonder at my dulness about the time of your setting out, and of the giles you are to make on the road: you are used to my fits of incomprehension; and, as is natural at my age, i believe they increase. what augmented them was my eagerness to be sure of every opportunity of sending you the earliest intelligence of every event that may happen at this critical period. that impatience has sometimes made me too precipitate in my information. i believed lord howe's success too rapidly: you have seen by all the newspapers, that both the ministers and the public were equally credulous, from the collateral channels that imported such assertions! well! if you have been disappointed of capturing five or six french men-of-war, you must at present stay your appetite by some handsome slices of st. domingo, and by plentiful goblets of french blood shed by the duke of brunswick; which we firmly believe, though the official intelligence was not arrived last night. his highness, who has been so serene for above a year, seems to have waked to some purpose and, which is not less propitious, his victory indicates that his principal, the king of prussia, has added no more french jewels to his regalia. i shall like to hear the national convention accuse him of being bribed by a contrary pitt's diamond.( ) here is another comfortable symptom: it looks as if robespierre would give up barr`ere. how fortunate that beelzebubs and molochs peach one another, like human highwaymen! i will tell you a reflection i have made, and which shows how the worst monsters counteract their own councils. many formerly, who meant to undermine religion, began by sapping the belief of a devil. next, by denying god, they have restored satan to his throne, or will; though the present system is a republic of fiends. the pandemonium below recalls its agents, as if they were only tribunes of the people elected by temporary factions. barnave, called the butcher in the first convention, is ,gone, like orleans and brissot. if we do not presume to interpret judgments, i wonder the monsters themselves do not: enough has happened already to warn them of their own fate! the conways are in town for two or three days: they came for mr. jerningham's play. harris had at last allowed him the fourth night; and he had a good night. i have a card from lady amherst for monday; and shall certainly go, as my lord behaved so nobly about our cousin.( ) i have another from the margravine of anspach, to sup at hammersmith; whither i shall certainly not go, but plead the whole list of chronical distempers. do you think if the whole circle of princes of westphalia were to ask me for next thursday evening,( ) that i would accept the invitation? saturday, dec. , . i am glad this is to be the last of my gazettes. i am tired of notifying and recalling the articles of news: not that i am going to dislaurel the duke of brunswick; but not a sprig is yet come in confirmation. military critics even conjecture, by the journals from manheim and frankfort, that the german victories have not been much more than repulses of the french, and have been bought dearly. i have inclined to believe the best from wurmser; but i confess my best hopes are from the factions of paris. if the gangrene does not gain the core, how calculate the duration? it has already baffled all computation, all conjecture. one wonders now that france, in its totality, was not more fatal to europe than even it was. is not it astonishing, that after five years of such havoc, such emigrations, expulsions, massacres, annihilation of commerce, evanition of specie, and real or impending famine, they can still furnish and support armies against us and the austrians in flanders, against the duke of brunswick and wurmser, against us at toulon, against the king of sardinia, against spain, against the royalists in la vend`ee, and along the coast against our expedition under lord moira; and though we have got fifteen of their men-of-war at toulon, they have sixteen, or more, at brest, and are still impertinent with a fry of privateers? consider, too, that all this spirit is kept up by the most extravagant lies, delusions, rhodomontade; by the extirpation of the usual root of enthusiasm, religion; and by the terror of murder, that ought to revolt all mankind. if such a system of destruction does not destroy itself, there is an end of that ignis fatuus, human reason; and french policy must govern, or exterminate mankind. i this moment received your thursday's note, with that for your housekeeper, who is in town, and with those sweet words, "you need not leave a card; we shall be at home." i do not believe i shall send you an excuse. marshal conway has stopped in to tell me, he has just met with his nephew, lord yarmouth,( ) who has received a letter from a foreign minister at manheim, who asserts all the duke of brunswick's victories, and the destruction or dispersion of the french army in that quarter. the earl maintains, that the king of prussia's politics are totally changed to the right, and that eighteen thousand more of his troops have joined the allies. i should like to know, and to have the convention know, that the murder of the queen of france has operated this revulsion. i hope i send you no more falsehoods-at least, you must allow, that it is not on bad authority. if lord howe has disappointed you, you will accept the prowess of the virago his sister, mrs. howe.( ) as soon as it was known that her brother had failed, a jacobin mob broke her windows, mistaking them for his. she lifted up the sash, and harangued them; told them, that was not the house of her brother, who lives in the other part of grafton-street, and that she herself is a widow, and that that house is hers. she stilled the waves, and they dispersed quietly. there! there end my volumes, to my great satisfaction! if we are to have any bonfires or illuminations, you will be here to light them yourselves. adieu to yorkshire! ( ) he means bribed by the then prime minister. ( ) lord amherst, the then commander-in-chief, had appointed a cousin of miss berry's to an ensigncy, on his recommendation. ( ) the persons addressed were to arrive in london. ( ) the present marquis of hertford. ( ) a person of distinguished abilities, she possessed an extraordinary force of mind, clearness of understanding, and remarkable powers of thought and combination, she retained them unimpaired to the great age of eighty-five, by exercising them daily, both in the practice of mathematics and in reading the two dead languages; of which, late in life, she had made herself mistress. to those acquirements must be added warm. and lively feelings, joined to a perfect knowledge of the world and of the society of which she had always been a distinguished member. mr. walpole, from misinformation of her conduct towards a friend of his in earlier life, had never done justice to her character--a mistake, in which she did not participate, relative to him.-m.b. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. berkeley square, jan. , . (page ) i certainly sympathize with you on the reversed and gloomy prospect of affairs, too extensive to detail in a letter; nor indeed do i know any thing more than i collect from newspapers and public reports; and those are so overcharged with falsehoods on all sides, that, if one waits for truth to emerge, one finds new subjects to draw one's attention before firm belief can settle its trust on any. that the mass and result are bad, is certain; and though i have great alacrity in searching for comforts and grounds of new hopes, i am puzzled as much in seeking resources, as in giving present credit. reasonine is out of the question: all calculation is baffled: nothing happens that sense or experience said was probable. i wait to see what will happen, without a guess at what is to be expected. a storm, when the parliament meets, will no doubt be attempted. how the ministers are prepared to combat it, i don't know, but i hope sufficiently, if it spreads no farther: at least i think they have no cause to fear the new leader who is to make the attack. i have neither seen mr. wilson's book( ) nor his answerers. so far from reading political pamphlets, i hunt for any books, except modern novels, that will not bring france to my mind, or that at least will put it out for a time. but every fresh person one sees, revives the conversation: and excepting a long succession of fogs, nobody talks of any thing else; nor of private news do i know a tittle. adieu! ( ) it was entitled "a letter, commercial and political, addressed to the right hon. william pitt-, by jasper wilson, jun. esq." the real author was dr. currie, the friend of mr. wilberforce; who commends it, "as exhibiting originality of thought and force of expression, and solving, finely the phenomena of revolutions." see life, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to miss berry. thursday evening, april , . (page ) i am delighted that you have such good weather for your villeggiatura. the sun has not appeared here to-day; yet it has been so warm, that he may not be gone out of town, and only keeps in because it is unfashionable to be seen in london at easter. all my evening customers are gone, except mrs. damer, and she is at home to-night with the greatheds and mrs. siddons, and a few more; and she had a mind i should go to her, i had a mind too; but think myself still too weak: after confinement for fourteen weeks, it seems formidable to sally forth. i have heard no novelty since you 'went, but of more progress in martinico; on which it is said there is to be a gazette, and which, i suppose, gave a small fillip to the stocks this morning: though my jew, whom i saw again this morning, ascribed the rise to expectation in the city of news of a counter-revolution at paris;-but a revolution to be, generally proves an addled egg. the gazette arrives, and little of martinico remained unconquered. the account from sir charles gray is one continued panegyric on the conduct of our officers soldiers, and sailors; who do not want to be driven on `a la dumaurier, by cannon behind them and on both sides. a good quantity of artillery and stores is taken too, and only two officers and about seventy men killed. there is a codicil to the gazette, with another post taken--the map, i suppose, knows where i do not--but you, who are a geographess, will, or easily find it out. at my levee before dinner, i had mrs. buller, lady lucan, sir charles blagden, mr. coxe, and mr. gough. this was a good day; i have not always so welcome a circle. i have run through both volumes of mrs. piozzi. here and there she does not want parts, has some good translations, and stories that are new; particularly an admirable bon-mot of lord chesterfield, which i never heard before, but dashed with her cruel vulgarisms: see vol. ii. p. . the story, i dare to say, never happened, but was invented by the earl himself; to introduce his reply. the sun never was the emblem of louis quinze, but of louis quatorze; in whose time his lordship was not ambassador, nor the czarina empress: nor, foolish as some ambassadors are, could two of them propose devices for toasts; as if, like children, they were playing at pictures and mottoes: and what the signora styles a public toust, the earl, i conclude, called a great dinner then. i have picked out a motto for her work in her own words, and written it on the title-page: "simplicity cannot please without eloquence!" now i think on't, let me ask if you have been as much diverted as you was at first? and have not two such volumes sometimes set you a'yawning? it is comic, that in a treatise on synonymous words, she does not know which are and which are not so. in the chapter on worth, she says, "the worth -even of money fluctuates in our state;" instead of saying in this country. her very title is wrong; as she does not even mention synonymous scottish words: it ought to be called not british, but english synonymy. mr. courtenay has published some epistles in rhyme, in which he has honoured me with a dozen lines, and which are really some of the best in the whole set-in ridicule of my writings. one couplet, i suppose, alludes to my strawberry verses on you and your sister. les voici-- "who to love tunes his note, with the fire of old age, and chirps the trim lay in a trim gothic cage!" if i were not as careless as i am about literary fame, still, this censure would be harmless indeed; for except the exploded story of chatterton, of which i washed myself as white as snow, mr. courtenay falls on my choice of subjects--as, of richard the third and the mysterious mother--and not on the execution; though i fear there is enough to blame in the texture of them. but this new piece of criticism, or whatever it is, made me laugh, as i am offered up on the tomb of my poor mad nephew; who is celebrated for one of his last frantic acts, a publication in some monthly magazine, with an absurd hypothesis on "the moon bursting from the earth, and the earth from the sun, somehow or other:" but how, indeed, especially from mr. courtenay's paraphrase, i have too much sense to comprehend. however, i am much obliged to him for having taken such pains to distinguish me from my lunatic precursor, that even the european magazine, when i shall die, will not be able to confound us. richard the third would be sorry to have it thought hereafter, that i had ever been under the care of dr. munro. well! good night! letter to miss hannah more. april , . (page ) this is no plot to draw you into committing even a good deed on a sunday, which i suppose the literality of your conscience would haggle about, as if the day of the week constitutes the sin, and not the nature of the crime. but you may defer your answer till to-night is become to-morrow by the clock having struck one; and then you may do an innocent thing without any guilt, which a quarter of an hour sooner you would think abominable. nay, as an irishman would say, you need not even read this note till the canonical hour is past. in short, my dear madam), i gave your obliging message to lady waldegrave, who will be happy to see you on tuesday, at one o'clock but as her staircase is very bad, as she is in a lodging, i have proposed that this meeting, for which i have been pimping between two female saints, may be held here in my house, as i had the utmost difficulty last night in climbing her scala santa, and i cannot undertake it again. but if you are so good as to send me a favourable answer to-morrow, i will take care you shall find her here at the time i mentioned, with your true admirer. letter to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, saturday night, sept. , . (page ) i have been in town, as i told you i should, but gleaned nothing worth repeating, or i would have wrote before i came away. the churchills left me on thursday, and were succeeded by the marshal and mr. taylor, who dined and stayed all night. i am now alone, having reserved this evening to answer your long, and agnes's short letter; but in this single one to both, for i have not matter enough for a separate maintenance. i went yesterday to mrs. damer, and had a glimpse of her new house; literally a glimpse, for i saw but one room on the first floor, where she had lighted a fire, that i might not mount two flights; and as it was eight o'clock, and quite dark, she only opened a door or two, and gave me a cat's-eye view into them. one blemish i had descried at first; the house has a corner arrival like her father's. ah, me! who do not love to be led through the public. i did see the new bust of mrs. siddons, and a very mistressly performance it is indeed. mrs. damer was surprised at my saying i should expect you after you had not talked of returning near so soon. another week; she said. "i do not mention this, as if to gainsay your intention; on the contrary, i hope and beg you will stay as long as either of you thinks she finds the least benefit from it: and after that, too, as long as you both like to stay. i reproached myself so sadly, and do still, for having dragged you from italy sooner than you intended, and am so grateful for your having had that complaisance, that unless i grow quite superannuated, i think i shall not be so selfish as to combat the inclination of either again. it is natural for me to delight in your company; but i do not even wish for it, if it lays you under any restraint. i have lived a thousand years to little purpose, if i have not learned that half a century more than the age of one's friends is not an agr`ement de plus. i wish you had seen canterbury some years ago, before they whitewashed it; for it is so coarsely daubed, and thence the gloom is so totally destroyed, and so few tombs remain for so vast a mass, that i was shocked at the nudity of the whole. if you should go thither again, make the cicerone show you a pane of glass in the east window, which does open, and exhibits a most delicious view of the ruins of st. anstin's. mention of canterbury furnishes me with a very suitable opportunity for telling you a remarkable story, which i had from lady onslow t'other night, and which was related to her by lord ashburnham, on whose veracity you may depend. in the hot weather of this last summer, his lordship's very old uncle, the bishop of chichester,( ) was waked in his palace at four o'clock in the morning by his bedchamber door being opened, when a female figure, all in white, entered, and sat down near him. the prelate, who protests he was not frightened, said in a tone of authority, but not with the usual triple adjuration, "who are you?" not a word of reply; but the personage heaved a profound sigh. the bishop rang the bell; but the servants were so sound asleep, that nobody heard him. he repeated his question: still no answer; but another deep sigh. then the apparition took some papers out of the ghost of its pocket, and began to read them to itself. at last, when the bishop had continued to ring, and nobody to come, the spectre rose and departed as sedately as it had arrived. when the servants did at length appear, the bishop cried, "well! what have you seen?" "seen, my lord!" "ay, seen; or who, what is the woman that has been here?" "woman my lord!" (i believe one of the fellows smiled; though, to do her justice, lady onslow did not say so.) in short, when my lord had related his vision, his domestics did humbly apprehend that his lordship had been dreaming; and so did his whole family the next morning, for in this our day even a bishop's household does not believe in ghosts: and yet it is most certain that the good man had been in no dream, and told nothing but what he had seen; for, as the story circulated, and diverted the ungodly at the prelate's expense, it came at last to the ears of a keeper of a mad-house in the diocese, who came and deposed, that a female lunatic under his care had escaped from his custody, and, finding the gate of the palace open, had marched up to my lord's chamber. the deponent further said, that his prisoner was always reading a bundle of papers. i have known stories of ghosts, solemnly authenticated, less credible; and i hope you will believe this, attested by a father of our own church. sunday night, th, . i have received another letter from dear mary, of the th; and here is one for sweet agnes enclosed. by her account of broadstairs, i thought you at the north pole; but if you are, the whales must be metamorphosed into gigs and whiskies, or split into them, as heathen gods would have done, or rich the harlequin. you talk of margate, but say nothing of kingsgate, where charles fox's father scattered buildings of all sorts, but in no style of architecture that ever appeared before or has since, and in no connexion with or to any other, and in all directions; and yet the oddity and number made that naked, though fertile soil, smile and look cheerful. do you remember gray's bitter lines on him and his vagaries and history?( ) i wish on your return, if in good weather, you would contrive to visit mr. barrett's at lee; it is but four miles from canterbury. you will see a child of strawberry prettier than the parent, and so executed and so finished! there is a delicious closet, too, so flattering to me: and a prior's library so antique, and that does such honour to mr. wyat's taste! mr. barrett, i am most sure, would be happy to show his house to you; and i know, if you tell him that i beg it, he will produce the portrait of anne of cleve by holbein, in the identic ivory box, turned like a provence rose, as it was brought over for henry the eighth. it will be a great favour, and it must be a fine day; for it lives in cotton and clover, and he justly dreads exposing it to any damp. he has some other good pictures; and the whole place is very pretty, though retired. the sunday's paper announces a dismal defeat of clairfait; and now, if true, i doubt the french will drive the duke of york into holland, and then into the sea! ora pro nobis! p. s. if this is not a long letter, i do not know what is. the story of the ghost should have arrived on this, which is st. goose's-day, or the commemoration of the ignoble army of martyrs, who have suffered in the persecution under that gormandizing archangel st. michael. ( ) the right rev. sir william ashburnham, bart, his lordship died at a very advanced age, in september . he was the father of the bench, and the only bishop not appointed by george the third.-e. ( ) entitled "impromptu, suggested by a view, in , of the seat and ruins of a deceased nobleman, at kingsgate, kent." see gray's works, vol. i. p. , ed. .-e. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, tuesday, oct. , . (page ) your answer, which i own arrived a day sooner than i flattered myself it would--i wish it could have told me how you passed the storm of sunday night it has not only relieved me from all anxiety on the subject, but has made me exceedingly happy; for though i mistook you for a moment, it has proved to me, that i had judged perfectly right of your excellent and most uncommon understanding. astonished i was, no doubt, while i conceived that you wished to be placed in a situation so unworthy of your talents and abilities and knowledge, and powers of conversation.( ) i never was of a court myself; but from my birth and the position of my father, could but, for my first twenty years, know much of the nature of the beast; and, from my various connexions since, i have seldom missed farther opportunities of keeping up my acquaintance even with the interior. the world in general is not ignorant of the complexion of most courts; though ambition, interest, and vanity, are always willing to leap over their information, or to fancy they can counteract it: but i have no occasion to probe that delusion, nor to gainsay your random opinion, that a court life may be eligible for women. yes, for the idle ones you specify, perhaps so;-for respectable women i think much less than even for men. i do not mean with regard to what is called their character; as if there were but one virtue with which women have any concern-i speak of their understanding, and consequential employment of their time. in a court there must be much idleness, even without dissipation; and amongst the female constituents, much self-importance ill-founded; some ambition, jealousy, envy-and thence hatred, insincerity, little intrigues for credit, and--but i am talking as if there were any occasion to dissuade you from what you despise and i have only stated what occasioned my surprise at your thinking of what you never did think at all. still, while i did suppose that in any pore of your heart there did lurk such a wish, i did give a great gulp and swallowed down all attempts to turn your thoughts aside from it--and why? yes, and you must be ready to ask me, how such a true friend could give into the hint without such numerous objections to a plan so unsuitable for you! oh! for strong reasons too. in the first place, i was sure, that, without my almost century of experience, your good sense must have anticipated all my arguments. you often confute my desultory logic on points less important, as i frequently find; but the true cause of my assenting, without suffering a sigh to escape me was, because i was conscious that i could not dissuade you fairly, without a grain or more of self mixing in the argument. i would not trust myself with myself. i would not act again as i did when you was in italy; and answered you as fast as i could, lest self should relapse. yet, though it did not last an hour, what a combat it was! what a blow to my dream of happiness, should you be attached to a court! for though you, probably, would not desert cliveden entirely, how distracted would your time be!--but i will not enter into the detail of my thoughts; you know how many posts they travel in a moment, when my brain is set at work, and how firmly it believes all it imagines: besides the defalcation of your society, i saw the host of your porphyrogeniti, from top to bottom, bursting on my tranquillity. but enough: i conquered all these dangers, and still another objection rose when i had discovered the only channel i could open to your satisfaction, i had no little repugnance to the emissary i was to employ.( ) though it is my intention to be equitable to him, i should be extremely sorry to give him a shadow of claim on me; and you know those who might hereafter be glad to conclude, that it was no wonder they should be disappointed, when gratitude on your account had been my motive. but my cares are at an end; and though i have laboured through two painful days, the thorns of which were sharpened, not impeded, by the storm, i am rejoiced at the blunder i made, as it has procured me the kindest, and most heart-dictated, and most heartfelt letter, that ever was written; for which i give you millions of thanks. forgive my injurious surmise; for you see, that though you can wound my affection, you cannot allay its eagerness to please you, at the expense of my own satisfaction and peace. having stated with most precise truth all i thought related to yourself i do resume and repeat all i have said both in this and my former letter, and renew exactly the same offers to my sweet agnes, if she has the least wish for what i supposed you wished. nay, i owe still more to her; for i think she left italy more unwillingly than you did, and gratitude to either is the only circumstance that can add to my affection for either. i can swallow my objections to trying my nephew as easily for her as for you; but, having had two days and a half for thinking the whole case over, i have no sort of doubt but the whole establishment must be completely settled by this time; or that, at most, if any, places are not fixed yet, it must be from the strength and variety of contending interests: and, besides, the new princess will have fewer of each class of attendants than a queen; and i shall not be surprised if there should already be a brouillerie between the two courts about some or many of the nominations: and though the interest i thought of trying was the only one i could pitch upon, i do not, on reflection, suppose that a person just favoured has favour enough already to recommend others. hereafter that may be better: and (" still more feasible method, i think, would be to obtain a promise against a vacancy; which, at this great open moment nobody will think of asking, when the present is so uppermost in their minds: and now my head is cool, perhaps i could strike out more channels, should your sister be so inclined. but of that we will talk when we meet. thursday. i have received the second letter that i expected, and it makes me quite happy on all the points that disquieted me; on the court, on the tempest, and i hope on privateers, as you have so little time to stay on ararat, and the winds that terrify me for you, will, i trust, be as formidable to them. above, all, i rejoice at your approaching return; on which i would not say a syllable seriously, not only because i would have you please yourselves, but that you may profit as much as possible by change of air. i retract all my mistake; and though, perhaps, i may have floundered on with regard to a., still i have not time to correct or write any part of it over again. besides, every word was the truth of my heart; and why should not you see what is or was in it? adieu! ( ) this alludes to a wish he supposed miss berry to have had for a nomination in the household of caroline princess of wales, then forming.-m.b. ( ) lord cholmondeley, then residing in the isle of thanet. letter to the miss berrys. october , . (page ) i had not the least doubt of mr. barrett's showing you the greatest attention: he is a most worthy man, and has a most sincere friendship for me, and i was sure would mark to any persons that i love. i do not guess what your criticisms on his library will be: i do not think we shall agree in them; for to me it is the most perfect thing i ever saw, and has the most the air it was intended to have--that of an abbot's library, supposing it could have been so exquisitely finished three hundred years ago. but i am sorry he will not force mr. wyat to place the mabeuse over the chimney; which is the sole defect, as not distinguished enough for the principal feature of the room. my closet is as perfect in its way as the library; and it would be difficult to suspect that it had not been a remnant of the ancient convent, only newly painted and gilt. my cabinet, nay, nor house, convey any conception; every true goth must perceive that they are more the works of fancy than of imitation. i believe the less that our opinions will coincide, as you speak so slightingly of the situation of lee, which i admire. what a pretty circumstance is the little river! and so far from the position being insipid, to me it has a tranquil cheerfulness that harmonizes with the house, and seems to have been the judicious selection of a wealthy abbot, who avoided ostentation, but did not choose austere gloomth. i do not say that lee is as gay as a watering-place upon a naked beach. i am very glad, and much obliged to you for having consented to pass the night at lee. i am sure it made mr. barrett very happy. i shall let him know how pleased you was; and i too, for his attentions to you. the mass of politics is so inauspicious, that if i tapped it, i should not finish my letter for the post, and my reflections would not contribute to your amusement; which i should be sorry to interrupt, and -which i beg you to pursue as long as it is agreeable to you. it is satisfaction enough to me to know you are happy; and it is my study to make you so, as far as my little power can extend: and, as i promised you on your condescension in leaving italy at my prayer, i will never object to whatever you like to do, and will accept, and wait with patience for, any moments you will bestow on your devoted orford. letter to the rev. william beloe.( ) strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) i do beg and beseech you, good sir, to forgive me, if i cannot possibly consent to receive the dedication you are so kind and partial as to propose to me. i have in the most positive, and almost uncivil manner, refused a dedication or two lately. compliments on virtues which the persons addressed, like me, seldom possessed, are happily exploded and laughed out of use. next to being ashamed of having good qualities bestowed on me to which i should have no title, it would hurt to be praised on my erudition, which is most superficial; and on my trifling writings, all of which turn on most trifling subjects. they amused me while writing them; may have amused a few persons; but have nothing solid enough to preserve them from being forgotten with other things of as light a nature. i would not have your judgment called in question hereafter, if somebody reading your aulus gellius should ask, "what were those writings of lord o. which mr. beloe so much commends? was lord o. more than one of the mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease?" into that class i must sink; and i had rather do so imperceptibly, than to be plunged down to it by the interposition of the hand of a friend, who could not gainsay the sentence. for your own sake, my good sir, as well as in pity to my feelings, who am sore at your offering what i cannot accept, restrain the address to a mere inscription. you are allowed to be an excellent translator of classic authors; how unclassic would a dedication in the old-fashioned manner appear! if you had published a new edition of herodotus or aulus gellius, would you have ventured to prefix a greek or latin dedication to some modern lord with a gothic title'! still less, had those addresses been in vogue at rome,. would any roman author have inscribed his work to marcus, the incompetent son of cicero, and told the unfortunate offspring of so great a man, of his high birth and declension of ambition? which would have excited a laugh on poor marcus, who, whatever may have been said of him, had more sense than to leave proofs to the public of his extreme inferiority to his father. ( ) rector of allhallows, london wall, prebendary of pancras in st. paul's cathedral, and prebendary of lincoln. in , be published a translation of herodotus, and in , the translation of the "attic nights of aulus gellius," referred to in the above letter. he was also the author of " anecdotes of literature and scarce books," in six volumes octavo; and after his death, which took place in , appeared "the sexagenarian, or recollections of a literary life;" which, though a posthumous publication, was printed under his inspection.-e. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, saturday night, jan. , . (page ) my best madam, i will never more complain of your silence; for i am perfectly convinced that you have no idle, no unemployed moments. your indefatigable benevolence is incessantly occupied in good works; and your head and your heart make the utmost use of the excellent qualities of both. you have given proofs of the talents of one, and you certainly do not wrap the still more precious talent of the other in a napkin. thank you a thousand times for your most ingenious plan; may great success reward you! i sent one instantly to the duchess of gloucester, whose piety and zeal imitate yours at a distance: but she says she cannot afford to subscribe just at this severe moment, when the poor so much want her assistance, but she will on the thaw, and should have been flattered by receiving a plan from yourself. i sent another to lord harcourt, who, i trust, will show it to a much greater lady; and i repeated some of the facts you told me of the foul fiends, and their anti-more activity. i sent to mr. white for half a dozen more of your plans, and will distribute them wherever i have hopes of their taking root and blossoming. to-morrow i will send him my subscription;( ) and i flatter myself you will not think it a breach of sunday, nor will i make this long, that i may not widen that fracture. good night! how calm and comfortable must your slumbers be on the pillow of every day's good deeds! monday. yesterday was as dark as midnight. oh! that it may be the darkest day in all respects that we shall see! but these are themes too voluminous and dismal for a letter, and which your zeal tells me you feel too intensely for me to increase, when you are doing all in your power to counteract them. one of my grievances is, that the sanguinary inhumanity of the times has almost poisoned one's compassion, and makes one abhor so many thousands of our own species, and rejoice when they suffer for their crimes. i could feel no pity on reading the account of the death of condorcet (if true, though i doubt it). he was one of the greatest monsters exhibited by history; and is said to have poisoned himself from famine and fear of the guillotine; and would be a new instance of what i suggested to you for a tract, to show, that though we must not assume a pretension to judging of divine judgments, yet we may believe that the economy of providence has so disposed causes and consequences, that such villains as danton, robespierre, the duke of orleans, etc. etc. etc. do but dig pits for themselves. i will check myself, or i shall wander into the sad events of the last five years, down to the rage of party that has sacrificed holland! what a fund for reflection and prophetic apprehension! may we have as much wisdom and courage to stem our malevolent enemies, as it is plain, to our lasting honour, we have had charity to the french emigrants, and have bounty for the poor who are suffering in this dreadful season! adieu! thou excellent woman! thou reverse of that hyena in petticoats, mrs. wolstoncroft, who to this day discharges her ink and gall on marie antoinette, whose unparalleled sufferings have not yet stanched that alecto's blazing ferocity. adieu! adieu! yours from my heart. p. s. i have subscribed five guineas at mr. white's to your plan. ( ) to the fund for promoting the printing and dispersion of the works sold at the cheap repository. letter to miss hannah more. berkeley square, feb. , . (page ) i received your letter and packet of lays and virelays, and heartily wish they may fall in bad ground, and produce a hundred thousand fold, as i doubt is necessary. how i admire the activity of your zeal and perseverance! should a new church ever be built, i hope in a side chapel there will be an altar dedicated to st. hannah, virgin and martyr; and that your pen, worn to the bone, will be enclosed in a golden reliquaire, and preserved on the shrine. these few words i have been forced to dictate, having had the gout ill my right hand above this fortnight; but i trust it is going off the duchess was much pleased with your writing to her, and ordered me to thank you. your friend lady waldegrave is in town, and looks very well. adieu, best of women! yours most cordially.( ) ( ) in a letter to her sister, dated from fulham palace, miss more says,--"lord orford has presented me with bishop wilson's edition of the bible, in three volumes quarto, superbly bound in morocco (oh! that he would himself study that blessed book), to which, in the following most flattering inscription, he attributes my having done far more good than is true-- "to his excellent friend, miss hannah more, the book, which he knows to be the dearest object of her study, and by which, to the great comfort and relief of numberless afflicted and distressed individuals, she has profited beyond any person with whom he is acquainted, is offered, as a mark of his esteem and gratitude, by her sincere and obliged humble servant, horace, earl of orford, ." letter to william roscoe, esq. berkeley square, april , . (page ) to judge of my satisfaction and gratitude on receiving the very acceptable present of your book,( ) sir, you should have known my extreme impatience for it from the instant mr. edwards had kindly favoured me with the first chapters. you may consequently conceive the mortification i felt at not being able to thank you immediately both for the volume and the obliging letter that accompanied it, by my right arm and hand being swelled and rendered quite immovable and useless, of which you will perceive the remains if you can read these lines which i am forcing myself to write, not without pain, the first moment i have power to hold 'a pen; and it will cost me some time, i believe, before i can finish my whole letter, earnest as i am, sir, to give a loose to my gratitude. if you ever had the pleasure of reading such a delightful book as your own, imagine, sir, what a comfort it must be to receive such an anodyne in the midst of a fit of the gout that has already lasted above nine weeks, and which at first i thought might carry me to lorenzo de' medici before he should come to me. the complete volume has more than answered the expectations which the sample had raised. the grecian simplicity of the style is preserved throughout; the same judicious candour reigns in every page; and without allowing yourself that liberty of indulging your own bias towards good or against criminal characters, which over-rigid critics prohibit, your artful candour compels your readers to think with you, without seeming to take a part yourself. you have shown from his own virtues, abilities, and heroic spirit, why lorenzo deserved to have mr. roscoe for his biographer. and since you have been so, sir, (for he was not completely known before, at least out of italy,) i shall be extremely mistaken if he is not henceforth allowed to be, in various lights, one of the most excellent and greatest men with whom we are well acquainted, especially if we reflect on the shortness of his life and the narrow sphere in which he had to act. perhaps i ought to blame my own ignorance, that i did not know lorenzo as a beautiful poet: i confess i did not. now i do, i own i admire some of his sonnets more than several-yes, even of petrarch; for lorenzo's are frequently more clear, less alembiquis, and not inharmonious as petrarch's often are from being too crowded with words, for which room is made by numerous elisions, which prevent the softening alternacy of vowels and consonants. that thicket of words was occasioned by the embarrassing nature of the sonnet: a form of composition i do not love, and which is almost intolerable in any language but italian, which furnishes such a profusion of rhymes. to our tongue the sonnet is mortal, and the parent of insipidity. the mutation in some degree of it was extremely noxious to a true poet, our spenser; and he was the more injudicious by lengthening his stanza in a language so barren of rhymes as ours, and in which several words, whose terminations are of similar sounds, are so rugged, uncouth, and unmusical. the consequence was, that many lines which he forced into the service to complete the quota of his stanza are unmeaning, or silly, or tending to weaken the thought he would express. well, sir: but if you have led me to admire the compositions of lorenzo, you have made me intimate with another poet, of whom i had never heard nor had the least suspicion; and who, though writing in a less harmonious language than italian, outshines an able master of that country, as may be estimated by the fairest of all comparisons -which is, when one of each nation versifies the same ideas and thoughts. that novel poet i boldly pronounce is mr. roscoe. several of his translations of' lorenzo are superior to the originals, and the verses more poetic; nor am i bribed to give this opinion by the present of your book, nor by any partiality, nor by the surprise of finding so pure a writer of history as able a poet. some good judges to whom i have shown your translations entirely agree with me. i will name one most competent judge, mr. hoole, so admirable a poet himself, and such a critic in italian, as he has proved by a translation of ariosto. that i am not flattering you, sir, i will demonstrate; for i am not satisfied with one essential line in your version of the most beautiful, i think, of all lorenzo's stanzas. it is his description of jealousy, in page , equal, in my humble opinion, to dryden's delineations of the passions, and the last line of which is-- mai dorme, ed ostinata, a se sol crede. the thought to me is quite new, and your translation i own does not come up to it. mr. hoole and i hammered at it, but could not content ourselves. perhaps by altering your last couplet you may enclose the whole sense, and make it equal to the preceding six. i will not ask your pardon, sir, for taking so much liberty with you. you have displayed so much candour and are so free from pretensions, that i am confident you will allow that truth is the sole ingredient that ought to compose deserved incense; and if ever commendation was sincere, no praise ever flowed with purer veracity than all i have said in this letter does from the heart of, sir, your infinitely obliged humble servant. ( ) his history of the life of lorenzo de' medici. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i will write a word to you, though scarce time to write one, to thank you for your great kindness about the soldier, who shall get a substitute if he can. as you are, or have been in town, your daughter will have told you in what a bustle i am, preparing--not to resist, but, to receive an invasion of royalties to-morrow; and cannot even escape them like admiral cornwallis, though seeming to make a semblance; for i am to wear a sword, and have appointed two aides-de-camp, my nephews, george and horace churchill. if i fall, as ten to one but i do, to be sure it will be a superb tumble, at the feet of a queen and eight daughters of kings; for, besides the six princesses, i am to have the duchess of york and the princess of orange! wo is me, at seventy-eight, and with scarce a hand and foot to my back! adieu! yours, etc. a poor old remnant. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i am not dead of fatigue with my royal visitors, as i expected to be, though i was on my poor lame feet three whole hours. your daughter, who kindly assisted me in doing the honours, will tell you the particulars, and how prosperously i succeeded. the queen was uncommonly condescending and gracious, and deigned to drink my health when i presented her with the last glass, and to thank me for all my attentions. indeed my memory de la vieille cour was but once in default. as i had been assured that her majesty would be attended by her chamberlain, yet was not, i had no glove ready when i received her at the step of her coach: yet she honoured me with her hand to lead her up stairs; nor did i recollect my omission when i led her down again. still, though gloveless, i (fid not squeeze the royal hand, as vice-chamberlain smith did to queen mary.( ) you will have stared, as i did, at the elector of hanover deserting his ally the king of great britain, and making peace with the monsters. but mr. fawkener, whom i saw at my sister's on sunday, laughs at the article in the newspapers, and says it is not an unknown practice for stock-jobbers to have an emissary at the rate of five hundred pounds, and despatch to frankfort, whence he brings forged attestations of some marvellous political event, and spreads it on 'change, which produces such a fluctuation in the stocks as amply overpays the expense of his mission. this was all i learnt in the single night i was in town. i have not read the new french constitution, which seems longer than probably its reign will be. the five sovereigns will, i suppose, be the first guillotined. adieu! yours ever. ( ) it is said that queen mary asked some of her attendant ladies what a squeeze of the hand was supposed to intimate. they said "love." "then," said the queen, "my vice-chamberlain must be violently in love with me, for he always squeezes my hand." letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, tuesday, aug. , . (page ) though i this morning received your sunday's full letter, it is three o'clock before i have a moment to begin answering it; and must do it myself: for kirgate is not at home. first came in mr. barrett, and then cosway, who has been for some days at mr. udney's, with his wife: she is so afflicted for her only little girl, that she shut herself up in her chamber, and would not be seen.( ) the man cosway does not seem to think that much of the loss belonged to him: he romanced with his usual vivacity. next arrived dr. burney, on his way to mrs. boscawen. he asked me about deplorable "camilla." alas! i had not recovered of it enough to be loud in its praise. i am glad, however, to hear that she has realized about two thousand pounds; and the worth, no doubt, of as much in honours at windsor; where she was detained three days, and where even m. d'arblay was allowed to dine. i rejoice at your bathing promising so well. if the beautiful fugitive( ) from brighthelmstone dips too, the waves will be still more salutary:-- venus, orta mari, mare prestat eunti. i like your going to survey castles and houses: it is wholesomer than drawing and writing tomes of letters;--which, you see, i cannot do. wednesday, after breakfast. when i came home from lady mendip's last night, i attempted to finish this myself; but my poor fingers were so tired by all the work of the day, that it will require sir william jones's gift of tongues to interpret my pot-hooks. one would think arabic characters were catching; for agnes had shown me a volume of their poems, finely printed at cambridge, with a version which mrs. douglas had lent to her, and said they were very simple, and not in the inflated style of the last. you shall judge: in the first page i opened, i found a storm of lightning that had burst into a laugh. i resume the thread of my letter. you had not examined arundel castle enough; for you do not mention the noble monuments, in alabaster, of the fitz-alans, one of whom bragged of having married adeliza, widow of henry the first. in good sooth, they were somewhat defaced by cromwell having mounted his cannon on the roof to batter the castle; of which, when i saw it, he had left little but ruins; and they were choked up by a vile modern brick house, which i know solomon has pulled down: for he came hither two years ago to consult me about gothicizing his restoration of the castle. i recommended mr. wyat, lest he should copy the temple of jerusalem. so you found a picture of your predecessor!( ) she had had a good figure: but i had rather it had been a portrait of her aunt, mrs. arabella fermor, the heroine of the lock, of whom i never saw a resemblance. you did not, i suppose, see the giant, who, the old duke told me, used to walk among the ruins, but who, to be sure, duke solomon( ) has laid in a red sea of claret. there are other splendid seats to be seen within your reach; as petworth, and standstead, and up-park: but i know why i guess that you may even be of parties, more than once, at the last. as agnes says, she has promised i should give you an account of a visit i have lately had, i will, if i have time, before any body comes in. it was from a mr. pentycross, a clergyman and schoolmaster of wallingford, of whom i had heard nothing for eight-and-twenty years; and then having only known him as a blue-coat boy from kingston: and how that happened, he gave me this account last week. he was born with a poetic impetus, and walked over hither with a copy of verses by no means despicable, which he begged old margaret to bring up to me. she refused; he supplicated. at last she told him that her master was very learned, and that, if he would write something in the learned languages, especially in french, she would present his poem to me. in the mean time, she yielded; i saw him, and let her show him the house. i think he sent me an ode or two afterwards, and i never heard his name again till this winter, when i received a letter from him from his place' of residence, with high compliments on some of my editions, and beseeching me to give him a print of myself, which i did send to him. in the christmas holidays he came to town for a few days, and called in berkeley-square; but it was when i was too ill to see any body. he then left a modest and humble letter, only begging that, some time or other, i would give him leave to see strawberry hill. i sent him a note by kirgate, that should he come to town in summer, and i should be well enough, he should certainly see my house. accordingly, about a fortnight ago, i let him know, that if he could fix any day in this month, i would give him a dinner and a bed. he jumped at the offer, named wednesday last, and came. however, i considered that to pass a whole day with this unknown being might be rather too much. i got lysons, the parson, from putney, to meet him: but it would not have been necessary, for i found my blue-coat boy grown to be a very sensible, rational, learned, and remaining a most modest personage, with an excellent taste for poetry-for he is an enthusiast for dr. darwin: but, alas! infinitely too learned for me; for in the evening, upon questioning him about his own vein of poetry, he humbly drew out a paper, with proposition forty-seven of euclid turned into latin verse. i shrunk back and cried, "oh! dear sir, how little you know me! i have forgotten almost the little latin i knew, and was always so incapable of learning mathematics, that i could not even get by heart the multiplication-table, as blind professor sanderson honestly told me, above threescore years ago, when i went to his lectures at cambridge." after the first fortnight, he said to me, "young man, it would be cheating you to take your money; for you can never learn what i am trying to teach you." i was exceedingly mortified, and cried; for, being a prime minister's son, i had firmly believed all the flattery with which i had been assured that my parts were capable of any thing. i paid a private instructor for a year; but, at the year's end, was forced to own sanderson had been in the right; and here luckily ends, with my paper, my penticrusade! ( ) the loss of her only child threw mrs. cosway upon art once more. to mitigate her grief, she painted several large pictures for chapels; and afterwards visited italy, where she formed a college at lodi for the education of young ladies. on the establishment of peace, she returned to england, where she remained till the death of her husband in ; after which she returned to lodi.-e. ( ) the countess of jersey, mother to the present earl. ( ) a portrait of trefusis, countess of orford, widow of the eldest brother of horace walpole, earl of orford. ( ) charles howard, eleventh duke of norfolk, so called by lord orford, for having his portrait executed in painted glass for the window of his great dining-room, at arundel castle, as solomon entertaining the queen of sheba. letter to miss berry. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) bathe on, bathe on, and wash away all your complaints; the sea air and such an oriental season must cure every thing but positive decay and decrepitude. on me they have no more effect than they would have on an egyptian queen who has been embowelled and reserved in her sycamore etui ever since dying was first invented, and people notwithstanding liked to last for ever, though even in a pyramid. in short, mr. -- has teased me so much about jumbling my relics, that i have aired( ) them every morning in the coach for this fortnight; and yet, you see, i cannot write ten lines together! lady cecilia lets me call on her at twelve, and take her with me: and yet i grew tired of it, and shall not have patience to continue, but shall remain, i believe, in my mummyhood. i begin by giving myself a holiday to-day, in order to answer your letter of the st; while lady waldegrave, who is with me, and who has brought her eldest son, whom, poor soul! she cannot yet bear to call lord waldegrave, is gone to the pavilion. here is a letter for you from hannah more, unsealed indeed, for chiefly a mon intention. be so good as to tell her how little i am really recovered but that i will hammer out a few words as fast, that is, as slowly as i can to her, in return. i am scandalized at the slovenly neglect of the brave chapel of the fitz-alans.( ) i thought the longer any peer's genealogy had been spun out, the prouder he was of the most ancient coronets in it; but since solomon despises the arundels for not having been dukes, i suppose he does not acknowledge adam for a relation; who, though he had a tolerably numerous progeny, his grace does not allow to have been the patriarch of the mowbrays and howards, as the devil did not make eve a duchess, though he has made the wives of some other folks so, and may propose to make one more so some time or other. news i have none; but that wurmsur seems to have put a little spoke into the wheel of the french triumphal car in italy: and as those banditti have deigned to smile on the duke of wirtemberg, i suppose they mean to postpone imposing a heavy contribution on him till he shall have received the fortune of the princess royal. adieu! ( ) the remainder of this letter is in the handwriting of kirgate. ( ) in arundel church. it has since been put in a state of repair by the present duke of norfolk. letter to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) you are not only the most beneficent, but the most benevolent of human beings. not content with being a perfect saint yourself, which (forgive me for saying) does not always imply prodigious compassion for others; not satisfied with being the most disinterested, nay, the reverse of all patriots, for you sacrifice your very slender fortune, not to improve it, but to keep the poor honest instead of corrupting them; and you write politics as simply, intelligibly, and unartfolly, not as cunningly as you can to mislead. well, with all these giant virtues, you can find room and time in your heart and occupations for harbouring and exercising what those monkeys of pretensions, the french, invented and called les petites morales, which were to supply society with filigrain duties, in the room of all virtues, which they abolished on their road to the adoption of philosophy and atheism. yes, though for ever busied in exercising services and charities for individuals, or for whole bodies of people, you do not leave a cranny empty into which you can slip a kindness. your inquiry after me to miss berry is so friendly, that i cannot trust solely to her thanking you for your letter, as i am sure she will, having sent it to her as she is bathing in the sea at bognor rocks; but i must with infinite gratitude give you a brief account of myself-a very poor one indeed must i give. condemned as a cripple to my couch for the rest of my days i doubt i am. though perfectly healed, and even without a sear, my leg is so weakened that i have not recovered the least use of it, nor can move cross my chamber unless lifted up and held by two servants. this constitutes me totally a prisoner. but why should not i be so? what business had i to live to the brink of seventy-nine? and why should one litter the world at that age? then, i thank god, i have vast blessings; i have preserved my eyes, ears, and teeth; i have no pain left; and i would bet with any dormouse that it cannot outsleep me. and when one can afford to pay for every relief, comfort, or assistance that can be procured at fourscore, dares one complain? must not one reflect on the thousands of old poor, who are suffering martyrdom, and have none of these alleviations? my good friend, i must consider myself as at my best; for if' i drag on a little longer, can i expect to remain even so tolerably. nay, does the world present a pleasing scene? are not the devils escaped out of the swine, and overrunning the earth headlong? what a theme for meditation, that the excellent humane louis seize should have been prevented from saving himself by that monster drouet, and that that execrable wretch should be saved even by those, some of whom one may suppose he meditated to massacre; for at what does a frenchman stop? but i will quit this shocking subject, and for another reason too: i omitted one of my losses, almost the use of my fingers: they are so lame that i cannot write a dozen lines legibly, but am forced to have recourse to my secretary. i will only reply by a word or two to a question you seem to ask; how i like "camilla?" i do not care to say how little. alas! she has reversed experience, which i have long', thought reverses its own utility by coming at the wrong end of our life when we do not want it. this author knew the world and penetrated characters before she had stepped over the threshold; and, now she has seen so much of it, she has little or no insight at all perhaps she apprehended having seen too much, and kept the bags of foul air that she brought from the cave of tempests too closely tied. adieu, thou who mightest be one of the cleverest of women if thou didst not prefer being one of the best! and when i say one of the best, i have not engaged my vote for the second. yours most gratefully. letter to richard gough, esq. berkeley square, dec. , . (page ) dear sir, being struck with the extreme cold of last week, it has brought a violent gouty inflammation into one of my legs, and i was forced to be instantly brought to town very ill. as soon as i was a little recovered, i found here your most magnificent present of the second volume of sepulchral monuments, the most splendid work i ever saw, and which i congratulate myself on having lived long enough to see. indeed, i congratulate my country on its appearance exactly at so illustrious a moment, when the patriotism and zeal of london have exhibited so astonishing marks of their opulence and attachment to the constitution, by a voluntary subscription of seventeen millions of money in three days. your book, sir, appearing, at that very instant, will be a monument of a fact so unexampled in history; the treasure of fine prints with which it is stowed, well becomes such a production and such a work, the expense of which becomes it too. i am impatient to be able to sit up and examine it more, and am sure my gratitude will increase in proportion. as soon as i shall receive the complete sheets, i will have the whole work bound in the most superb manner that can be: and though, being so infirm now, and just entered into my eightieth year, i am not likely to wait on you, and thank you, i shall be happy to have an opportunity, whenever you come this way, of telling you in person how much i am charmed with so splendid a monument of british glories, and which will be so proud an ornament to the libraries of any nation. letter to miss berry. thursday, december , past noon, . (page ) i had no account of you at all yesterday, but in mrs. damer's letter, which was rather better than the preceding; nor have i had any letter before post to-day, as you promised me in hers. i had, indeed, a humorous letter from a puss that is about your house,( ) which is more comfortable; as i think she would not have written cheerfully if you had not been in a good way. i would answer it, but i am grown a dull old tabby, and have no "quips and cranks and wanton wiles" left; but i shall be glad to see her when she follows you to town, which i earnestly hope will not pass saturday. my horses will be with you on friday night. the house of commons sat till half an hour after three this morning, on mr. pitt's loan to the emperor; when it was approved by a majority of above two hundred. mr. fox was more temperate than was expected; mr. grey did not speak; mr. sheridan was very entertaining: several were convinced and voted for mr. pitt, who had gone down determined against it. the prince came to town t'other day ill, was blooded twice, but has now a strong eruption upon his skin, which will probably be of great service to him. sir charles blagden has been with the duchess of devonshire, and found her much better than he expected. her look is little altered: she suffers but little, and finds herself benefited by being electrified. i have received a compliment to-day very little expected by a superannuated old etonian. two tickets from the gentlemen of westminster school, for their play on monday next. i excused myself as civilly and respectfully as i could, on my utter impossibility of attending them. adieu! i hope this will be the last letter i shall write before i see you.( ) ( ) this was written by miss salon, in the name of a kitten at little strawberry hill, with whose gambols lord orford had been much amused.-m.b. ( ) very soon after the date of the above letter, the gout, the attacks of which were every day becoming more frequent and longer, made those with whom lord orford was living at strawberry hill very anxious that he should remove to berkeley square, to be nearer assistance, in case of any sudden seizure. as his correspondents, soon after his removal, were likewise established in london, no more letters passed between them. when not immediately suffering from pain, his mind was tranquil and cheerful. he was still capable of being amused. and of taking some part in conversation: but, during the last weeks of his life, when fever was superadded to his other ills, his mind became subject to the cruel hallucination of supposing himself neglected and abandoned by the only persons to whom his memory clung, and whom he desired always to see. in vain they recalled to his recollection how recently they had left him, and how short had been their absence: it satisfied him for the moment, but the same idea recurred as soon as he had lost sight of them. at last, nature sinking under the exhaustion of weakness, obliterated all ideas but those of mere existence, which ended, without a struggle, on the d of march .-m.b. letter to the countess of ossory. january , . (page ) you distress me infinitely by showing my idle notes, which i cannot conceive can amuse any body. my old-fashioned breeding impels me every now and then to reply to the letters you honour me with writing; but in truth very unwillingly, for i seldom can have any thing particular to say. i scarce go out of my own house, and then only to two or three very private places, where i see nobody that really know's any thing; apd. what i learn comes from newspapers, that collect intelligence from coffee-houses--consequently, what i neither believe nor report. at home i see only a few charitable elders, except about fourscore nephews and nieces of various ages, who are each brought to me once a year, to stare at me as the methusalem of the family; and they can only speak of their own contemporaries, which interest no more than if they talked of their dolls, or bats and balls. must not the result of all this, madam, make me a very entertaining correspondent? and can such letters be worth showing? or can i have any spirit when so old, and reduced to dictate? oh! my good madam, dispense with me from such a task, and think how it must add to it to apprehend such letters being shown. pray send me no more such laurels, which i desire no more than their leaves when decked with a scrap of tinsel, and stuck on twelfth-cakes that lie on the shop boards of pastrycooks at christmas. i shall be quite content with a sprig of rosemary thrown after me, when the parson of the parish commits my dust to dust. till then, pray, madam, accept the resignation of your ancient servant, orford. the end. none this ebook was produced by marjorie fulton. the letters of horace walpole, earl of orford: including numerous letters now first published from the original manuscripts. in four volumes. vol. iii. - . contents of vol. iii. [those letters now first collected are marked n.] . . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-lord temple's resignation of the privy-seal. lady carlisle's marriage with sir william musgrave.-- . to the right hon. william pitt, nov. .-congratulations on the lustre of his administration--[n.] . to sir horace mann, nov. .-sir edward hawke's victory over conflans. lord kinnoul's mission to portugal-- . to the same, dec. .-regretting his own ignorance of mathematics and common figures. victory of prince henry-- . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-tumults in ireland. story of lord lyttelton and mr. shelley-- . to the rev. henry zouch, dec. .-"life of lord clarendon." "lucan"-- . . to george montagu, esq. jan. .-visit to princess emily. commotions in ireland-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, jan. .-apologizing for an unintentional offence-- . to george montagu, esq. jan. .-severity of the weather. military preparations. prince edward's party. edwards's "history of birds"-- . to sir horace mann, jan. .-severity of the winter. death of lady besborough. ward's drops-- . to george montagu, esq. jan. .-death of lady besborough. lord ferrers's murder of his steward. visit to the magdalen. dr. dodd-- . to sir david dalrymple. feb. .-macpherson's fragments or erse poetry. mary queen of scots. dyer's "fleece." pepys's collection of ballads. faction--[n.] . to sir horace mann, feb. .-caserta. character of mr. thomas pitt. death of the duchess of bolton. lord george sackville's court-martial. lord charles hay. lord ferrers's murder of his steward. dutch mud-quake-- . to the rev. henry zouch, feb. .-"anecdotes of painting." character of dr. hurd. warburton's "shakspeare." edwards's "canons of criticism"-- . to sir horace mann, feb. .-m. thurot's expedition. siege of carrickfergus. lord ferrers-- . to the same, march .-m. thurot's expedition. duke of bedford's irish administration. general flobert and mr. mallet. ward's drops-- . to the same, march .-lord george sackville's court-martial-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-lord george sackville's court-martial. miss chudleigh's public breakfast-- . to sir david dalrymple, april .-erse poetry; gray's queries concerning macpherson. home's "siege of aquileia." "tristram shandy"--[n.] . to george montagu, esq. april .-lord george sackville's sentence. lord ferrers's trial. duel between the duke of bolton and mr. stewart-- . to sir horace mann, april .-lord george sackville's sentence. trial of lord ferrers-- . to the rev. henry zouch, may .-lord bath's ,rhapsody." "anecdotes of painting"-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-execution of lord ferrers-- . to sir horace mann, may ,--execution of lord ferrers. lady huntingdon. death of lord charles hay. king of prussia's poems. general clive-- . to sir david dalrymple, may .-erse poetry. lord lyttelton's "dialogues of the dead." king of prussia's poems--[n . to sir horace mann, may .-lord lyttelton's "dialogues of the dead." anecdotes of lord ferrers-- . to the earl of strafford, june .-description of miss chudleigh's ball. death of lady anson-- . to sir horace mann, june .-siege of quebec. the house of fuentes. pope's house and garden-- . to sir david dalrymple, june .-authenticity of the erse poems. lord lyttelton's "dialogues of the dead." isaac walton's "complete angler."--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-story of sir robert walpole and his man john. george townshend's absurdities. "tant mieux pour elle."--[n.] . to the same, june .-siege of quebec raised. lady stormont-- . to george montagu, esq. july :.-visit to chaffont. gray's taciturnity-- . to sir horace mann, july .-siege of quebec raised-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-visit to oxford. holbein's portraits. blenheim. ditchley. -- . to the same, july .-- . to sir horace mann, aug. .-wolfe's tomb. death of lady lincoln. arrival of general clive-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-fit of the gout-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. -fit of the gout-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-reflections on his illness-- . to the countess of ailesbury, aug. .-visit to whichnovre. advises her ladyship to claim the flitch of bacon-- . to sir horace mann, aug. .-duke of cumberland's illness-- . to george montagu, esq, sept. .-account of his tour to the north. whichnovre. litchfield cathedral. sheffield. chatsworth. hardwicke. bess of hardwicke. newstead abbey-- . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-visit to hardwicke. newstead. althorpe. mad dogs. an adventure-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. -- . to the same, sept. -- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-marriage of his niece charlotte to lord huntingtower-- . to sir horace mann, oct. .-capture of montreal. projected expedition. lord dysart. his niece's marriage. death of lady coventry-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-duke of york's visit to strawberry hill. intended expedition-- . to the same, oct. .-death of george the second-- . to the earl of straford, oct. .-death of george the second-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-the new court. manners of the young king. capture of berlin-- . to sir horace mann, oct. .-death of george the second. capitulation of berlin. political movements-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-conduct of the young king-- . to the same, nov. .-bequests of the late king. court and ministerial changes. george townshend's challenge to lord albemarle-- . to the same, nov. .-personal conduct of the new king. funeral of george the second. king of prussia's victory over marshal daun-- . to the same, nov. .-appointment of the king's household-- . to the same, nov. .-the king's first visit to the theatre. seditious papers. "anecdotes of painting." foote's "minor." voltaire's "peter the great"-- . to the rev. henry zouch, nov. .-"lucan." "anecdotes of painting"-- . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-state of the ministry. threatened resignations-- . . to the rev. henry zouch, january .-state of the arts. booksellers. dr. hill's works. architects-- . to george montagu, esq. jan. .-a party at northumberland-house. account of a play performed at holland-house- - . to the same, feb. .-ball at carlton-house. death of wortley montagu. miss ford's letter to lord jersey-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, feb. .-mr. conway's speech on the qualification-bill -- . to george montagu, esq. march .-on mr. montagu's being appointed usher of the black rod in ireland. prospect of peace. rumours of the king's marriage. lord pembroke's "treatise on horsemanship"-- . to the rev. henry zouch, march .-voltaire's letter to lord lyttelton. colman's "jealous wife." "tristram shandy." voltaire's "tancred"-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-changes in the king's household-- . to the same, march .-ministerial resignations and changes. militia disturbances. lord hardwicke's verses to lord lyttelton. death of lady gower-- . to the same, march .-speaker onslow's retirement-- . to the same, march .-feelings and reflections occasioned by a visit to houghton. electioneering at lynn. aunt hammond-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, april .-prospect of peace. death of sir harry bellendine-- . to sir david dalrymple, april .-macpherson's "fingal."--[n.) . to the countess of suffolk, april .-election arrangements.-- [n) . to george montagu, esq. april .-anacreontic upon sir harry bellendine-- . to the same, april .-lady suffolk. account of a fire near sackville-street-- . to the same, may .-death of sir william williams. gray and mason at strawberry hill. conversation with hogarth-- . to the same, may .-jemmy lumley's battle with mrs. mackenzy. party at bedford-house. anecdotes-- . to the countess of ailesbury, june .-thanks for a snuff-box. new opera. murphy's "all in the wrong." lines on the duchess of grafton-- . to george montagu, esq., june .-mr. bentley's play of the wishes, or harlequin's mouth opened"-- . to the same, july .-- . to the earl of strafford, july .-anecdote of whitfield and lady huntingdon-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-apologies for not having written. approaching marriage of the king-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-the king's approaching marriage. the queen's household-- . to the countess of ailesbury, july .-thanks for a present of some china. congratulations on mr. conway's escape at the battle of kirkdenckirk-- . to the earl of strafford, july )@.-battle of kirkdenckirk-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-the king's marriage. victories. single-speech hamilton. "young mr. burke"-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-congratulations on the success of the army. taking of pondicherry-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-first night of mr. bentley's play. singular instance of modesty-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug., .-tomb of the earl of pembroke. wolfe's monument. rapacity of the chapter of westminster-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-offer of a seat at the coronation. the queen's arrival-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-arrival of the queen. tripoline ambassador. disputes about rank and precedence-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-arrival of the queen. her person and manners-- . to george montagu, esq. sept. .-description of the coronation-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-delays in the treaty of peace. the coronation-- . to the countess of ailesbury, sept. .-pedigrees. the coronation. the treaty broken off-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-resignation of mr. pitt-- . to the same, oct. .-mr. pitt's pension and peerage-- . to the countess of ailesbury, oct. .-mr. pitt's resignation, pension, and peerage-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-mr. pitt's pension and peerage. ministerial changes-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-city address to mr. pitt. glover's "medea"-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-civic agitations. london address to mr. pitt. differences in the cabinet. state of parties-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-sir john cust's nose. caricature of hogarth-- . to the same, nov. .-private ball at court. marriages. political changes-- . to the countess of ailesbury, nov. .-politics. opera. burlettas. private ball at court. pamphlets on mr. pitt. gray's "thyrsis, when we parted"-- . to sir david dalrymple, nov. .-the best picture of an age found in genuine letters. one from anne of denmark to the marquis of buckingham. hume's "history." "hau kiou choaan;" a chinese history.--[n.] . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-hume's "history." "fingal." doubts of its authenticity. "cymbeline"-- . to sir david dalrymple, dec. .-complaints of printers. difficulties of literature.--[n.] . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-irish revivification. effects of age. mistakes of life. tricks of his printer. mrs. dunch's auction. losing at loo. death of lady pomfret. bon-mot of m. de choiseul. lines on lady mary coke's having st. anthony's fire in her cheek-- . to the same, dec. .-indifference to politics. progress of "anecdotes of painting." death of jemmy pelham-- . ( . to the same, jan. .-upbraiding for not writing-- . to the same, feb. .-arrival of' lady mary wortley montagu. her dress and personal appearance. mr. macnaughton's murder of miss knox. visit to the cock-lane ghost-- . to the same, feb. .-effects of hamilton's eloquence-- . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-anecdotes of polite literature-- . to the rev. henry zouch, feb. .-lamentation on the tediousness of engravers, and tricks of printers-- . to the earl of bute, feb. .-on the earl's suggesting to him a work similar to montfaucon's "monuments de la monarchie fran`caise."--[n.] . to george montagu, esq. feb. .-violent storms. elopement of lord pembroke and kitty hunter-- . to dr. ducarel, feb. .-english montfaucon. medals. errors in vertue and others-- . to george montagu, esq. feb. .-lely's picture of madame grammont. harris's "hibernica." the recent elopement-- . to the countess of ailesbury, march .-prospect of peace. dresses-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-epitaph for lord cutts-- . to the rev. henry zouch, march .-"anecdotes of painting." advice to antiquaries. bishop of imola. resemblance between tiberius and charles the second. caution on the care of his eyesight-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-capture of martinico. fatal accident at a concert at rome-- . to the same, april .-death of lady charlotte johnstone. efficacy of james's powders. new batch of peers-- . to the same, may .-attack of the gout. visit to audley inn-- . to the rev. mr. cole, may .-"anecdotes of painting." knavery of his printer-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-duke of newcastle's resignation. ministerial changes-- . to the same, june .-lord melcomb. lady mary wortley montagu. the cherokee indian chiefs. anecdotes and bon-mots-- . to the same, june .-account of lady northumberland's festino. bon-mots. death of lord anson-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-invitation to strawberry hill-- . to the countess of ailesbury, july .-congratulation on the taking of the castle of waldeck-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-revolution in russia. taking of the castle of waldeck-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-great drought. revolution in russia. count biren-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-object in publishing the "anecdotes of painting"-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-prospect of peace. christening of the prince of wales. fire at strawberry hill. "the north briton."-- . to george montagu, esq. sept. .-prospect of peace-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-negotiations for peace. capture of the havannah-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, oct. .-congratulations on her son's safe return from the havannah-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-love of fame. capture of the havannah. state of public feeling-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-ministerial changes-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-change of the ministry. state of the opposition. anticipation of the history of the present age-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, oct. .-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-the duke of devonshire's name erased out of the council-book-- . to the rev. mr. cole, nov. .-- . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-his illness. political squabbles. a scene at princess emily's loo. mr. pitt-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-- . . to the hon. h. s. conway, feb. .-restoration to health. determination to retire from public life. wilkes and "the north briton." riots at drury-lane theatre. george selwyn and lord dacre's footman-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-wilkes and "the north briton." dedication to "the fall of mortimer." lord and lady pembroke's reconciliation, a song made in a postchaise-- . to the same, april .-illness of lord waldegrave. and of mr. thomas pitt. mr. bentley's epistle to lord melcomb. lines by lady temple on lady mary coke. opposition to the cider-tax-- . to the same, april .-death of lord waldegrave. lord bute's resignation. new ministry. quarrel among the opposition-- . to the same, april .-lady waldegrave. botched-up administration. grants and reversions-- . to the same, april ,-lady waldegrave. the new administration. lord pulteney's extravagance. sir robert brown's parsimony. lord bath's vault in westminster-abbey. lord holland. charles townshend-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-severity of the weather. committal of wilkes to the tower-- . to sir david dalrymple, may .-political revolutions. mr. grenville.--[n.] . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-prerogative. wilkes's release from the tower. dreadful fire at lady molesworth's. lady m. w. montagu's letters-- . to the rev. mr. cole, may .-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-f`ete at strawberry hill. madame de boufflers. madame dusson. miss pelham's entertainment at esher. mrs. anne pitt-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, may .-french and english vivacity compared. miss chudleigh's f`ete-- . to the same, may .-masquerade at the duke of richmond's-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-visit to kimbolton. hinchinbrook-- . to the same, june .-- . to the same, july .-improvements at strawberry hill-- . to sir david dalrymple, july .-mr. grenville.--[n.] . to the rev. mr, cole, july .-- . to the same, july .-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-visit to stamford. castle ashby. easton maudit. boughton. drayton. fotheringhay-- . to the same, july .-visit to burleigh. peterborough. huntingdon. cambridge-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-- . to dr. ducarel, aug. .-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-reported marriages. dupery of opera undertakers-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-inclemency of the weather- - . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-singular appearance of the thames-- . to the same, sept. .-crowds of visitors to see strawberry. comforts of keeping a gallery-- ( . to the same, sept. . invitation. character of mr. thomas pitt-- . to the same, oct. .-mrs. crosby's pictures. death of mr. child. visit to sir thomas reeves-- . to the rev. mr. cole, oct. .-" anecdotes of engravers"-- . to the earl of hertford, oct. .-death of the king of poland. expulsion of the jesuits-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-irish politics. death of sir michael foster-- . to the earl of hertford, nov. .-debates on the king's speech. wilkes at the cockpit. privileges of parliament. "north briton." duel between martin and wilkes. "essay on woman." bon-mots. lord sandwich's piety. wilkes and churchill. m. de guerchy-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-political squabbles. wilkes's "essay on woman"-- . to the earl of hertford, nov. .-mr. conway's voting against the court. unpopularity of the ministry. debates on privilege. quarrel between mr. james grenville and mr rigby. m. de guerchy and m. d'eon-- . to the same, dec. .-dismission of officers. opera quarrel. lord clive's jaghire. state of the opera. prince de masserano. count de soleirn. irish politics-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-thanks for literary information-- . to the earl of hertford, dec. .-transactions between general conway and mr. grenville. dismissal of lord shelburne and colonel barr`e. riot at the burning of "the north briton." wilkes's suit against mr. wood-- . to the same, dec. .-city politics. unpopularity of the ministry. dismissals. intended assassination of wilkes. mrs. sheridan's comedy of "the dupe"-- . to the same, dec. .-debates on privilege. lord clive's jaghire. anecdotes. the king at drury-lane. prize in the lottery. la harpe's "comte de warwic"-- . . to george montagu, esq. jan. .-visit to lady suffolk. a new-year's gift. lady temple. portrait of lady suffolk at seventy-six.-- . to the earl of hertford, jan. .-mr. conway's opposition to the ministry. feelings of the government towards his lordship. ministerial disunion. state of the opposition. marriage of prince ferdinand with the princess augusta. his reception in england. wilkes. churchill's "dueller." ball at carlisle house. proceedings against wilkes. dismissals. the duc de pecquigny's quarrel with lord garlies.-- . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-- . to sir david dalrymple,, jan. .-thanks for corrections of the "anecdotes of painting." london booksellers--[n.) . to the earl of hertford, feb. .-the cider-bill. debates on privilege. charles townshend's bon-mot. east india affairs. duc de pecquigny's episode-- . to the same, feb. .-great debates in the house of commons on general warrants. duel between the duc de pecquigny and m. virette. formidable condition of the opposition. city rejoicings. expected changes in the ministry-- . to sir david dalrymple, feb. .-" anecdotes of painting." complaints of the carelessness of artists and rapacity of booksellers--[n.] . to the earl of hertford, feb. .-complaint in the house of lords of a book called "droit le roy." wilkes's trials for "the north briton" and the "essay on woman." tottering state of the ministry. mrs. anne pitt's ball-- . to the rev. mr. cole, march .-thanks for some prints and the loan of manuscripts-- . to the earl of hertford, march .-cambridge university election for high-steward. debate on the budget. lord bute's negotiations. the duchess of queensbury's ball. affairs of india. m. helvetius-- . to the same, march .-death of lord malpas and of lord townshend. lord clive's jaghire. george selwyn's accident-- . to the same, march .-uncertain state of politics. d'eon's publication of the duc de nivernois's private letters. liberty of the press. lady cardigan's ball. bon-mot of lady bell finch-- . to charles churchill, esq. march .-death of lord malpas. m. de guerchy. d'eon's pamphlet. efficacy of james's powder. reappearance of lord bute-- . to the earl of hertford, april .-wilkes's suspected libel on the earl. cambridge university election. jemmy twitcher. lord lyttelton's reconciliation with mr. pitt. lord bath at court. bishop warburton and helvetius-- . to the same, april .-party abuse. character. lady susan fox's marriage with o'brien the actor. east india affairs. projected marriages. expected changes. confusion at the india-house-- . to the rev. mr. cole, april .-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, april .-on mr. conway's dismissal from all his employments-- . to the earl of hertford, april .-on mr. conway's dismissal from all his employments. political promotions and changes. prosecution of d'eonn. east india affairs-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, april .-on mr. conway's dismissal. offers him half his fortune-- . the hon. h. s. conway to the earl of hertford, april .-giving his brother an account of his total dismissal from the king's service for his vote in the house of commons-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, april .-on mr. conway's dismissal- - . the hon. h. s. conway to the earl of hertford, may .-conjectures as to the cause of his dismissal-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-- . to the earl of hertford, may .-on the earl's position, in consequence of mr. conway's dismissal. promotions and changes-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-on mr. conway's dismissal. answer to the "address to the public"-- . to the earl of hertford, june .-lord tavistock's courtship and marriage. the mecklenburgh countess. bon-mot-- . to george montagu, esq. june .-account of a party at strawberry-- . to the same, july .-"life of lord herbert." lady temple's poems-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-"lord herbert's life"-- . to the rev. henry zouch, july .-harte's "gustavus"-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-"life of lord herbert"-- . to the earl of hertford, aug. . instability of the ministry. determination to quit party. regrets that the earl did not espouse mr. conway's cause. consequences of lord bute's conduct. the queen's intended visit to strawberry. a dinner with the duke of newcastle. fracas at tunbridge wells. on mr. conway's dismission. walpole's counter "address"-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-- . to the earl of hertford, aug. .-death of mr. legge. seizure of turk's island. visit to sion. ministerial changes. murder of the czar ivan. mr. conway's dismission. generous offer of the earl. farewell to politics. lord mansfield's violence against the press. conduct of the duke of bedford. overtures to mr. pitt. recluse life of their majesties. court economy. dissensions in the house of grafton. nancy parsons. death of sir john barnard. conduct of mr. grenville-- . to the right hon. william pitt, aug. .-"life of lord herbert of cherbury"-- . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-enclosing a reply to walpole's "counter address." lady ailesbury's picture, executed in worsteds-- . to the rev. dr. birch, sept. .-thanks for an original picture of sir william herbert-- . to the earl of hertford, oct. .-madame de boufflers and oliver cromwell. james the second's journal. illness of the duke of devonshire. folly of being unhappy-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-unfavourable state of public affairs. reflections on his birthday-- . to the same, oct. .-death of the duke of devonshire. his bequest to mr. conway. virtue rewarded in this world-- . to the same, oct. .-mourning for the duke of devonshire. reply of a poor man in bedlam. story of sir fletcher norton and his mother-- . to the earl of hertford, nov. .-duke of devonshire's legacy to mr. conway. lady harriot wentworth's marriage with her footman. unpopularity of the court-- . to the rev. mr. cole, nov. .-- . to the earl of hertford, nov. .-announcing his intended visit to paris. adieu to politics-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, nov. .-thanks for some pilchards-- . to the earl of hertford, nov. .-the opera. manzoli. elisi. tenducci. d'eon's flight. wilkes's outlawry. churchill's death. ministerial changes. objects of his intended journey to paris-- . to the same, dec. .-ministerial changes. separation in the house of grafton. the duke of kingston and miss chudleigh. correspondence between mr. legge and lord bute. mr. dunning's pamphlet on the "doctrine of libels." mrs. ann pitt's ball-- . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-state of the town. mr. dunning's pamphlet. "lord herbert's life"-- . to the same, dec. .-with a present of some books-- . . to the earl of hertford, jan. .-meeting of parliament. debate in the house of commons on the address-- . to the same, jan. .-sir william pynsent's bequest to mr. pitt. reported death of lady hertford. death of lady harcourt. conduct of charles townshend. couplet on charles yorke-- . to the same, jan. .-debates on the army estimates. sir william pynsent's legacy to mr. pitt. duel between lord byron and mr. chaworth. lady townshend's arrest. "castle of otranto." mrs. griffiths's "platonic wife"-- . to the same, feb. .-debates on the american stamp-act. petition of the perriwig-makers. almack's new assembly-room. williams the reprinter of "the north briton" pilloried. wretched condition of the administration.-- . to george montagu, esq. feb. .-congratulations on his health and cheerful spirits. recommends him to quit his country solitude. contemplated visit to paris. and retirement from parliament and political connexions. runic poetry. mallet's "northern antiquities." lord byron's trial. antiquarian society-- . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-planting and gardening. publication of "the castle of otranto"-- . to the same, march .-origin of "the castle of otranto." caution to his friend respecting his mss. consequences of the droit d'aubaine. dr. percy's "reliques of ancient english poetry." old ballads. rosamond's bower. ambition and content-- . to monsieur elie de beaumont, march .-"the castle of otranto." madame de beaumont's "letters of the marquis de roselle." churchill and dryden. effects of richardson's novels-- . to the earl of hertford, march .-count de guerchy's pretended conspiracy to murder m. d'eon. the king's illness. count de caraman. "siege of calais." duc de choiseul's reply to mademoiselle clairon. french admiration of garrick. quin in falstaff. old johnson. mrs. porter. cibber and o'brien, mrs. clive. garrick's chief characters. the wolf of the gevaudan. favourable reception of "the castle of otranto." bon-mot. strait of thermopylae-- . to george montagu, esq. april .-"siege of calais." bon-mots. quin and bishop warburton. prerogative. preferments-- . to the earl of hertford, april .-the king's rapid recovery. fire at gunnersbury. count schouvaloff. count de caraman. mrs. anne pitt. mr. pitt the, first curiosity of foreigners. french encroachments. parliament. poor bill. a late dinner-- . to the same, april .-the king's recovery. proceedings on the regency-bill. enmity between lord bute and mr. grenville. rumoured changes. state of parties. lord byron's acquittal. the duke of cumberland's illness. daffy's elixir. poor-bill. lord hinchinbrook's marriage-- . to sir david dalrymple, april .-"the castle of otranto." old ballads. consolations of authorship--[n.] to the earl of hertford, may .-proceedings in the house of lords on the regency-bill-- . to the same, may .-proceedings in the house of commons on the regency bill. the princess dowager excluded from the regency-- . to the same, may .-the king forbids the parliament to be prorogued. the duke of cumberland ordered to form a new administration. failure of the duke's negotiation with mr. pitt. ministerial resignations. humiliations of the crown. riots. attack on bedford-house. general spirit of mutiny and dissatisfaction. extraordinary conduct of mr. pitt. second tumult at bedford-house. the king compelled to take back his ministers. reconciliation between lord temple and george grenville. mr. conway restored to the king's favour. extravagant terms dictated by the ministers to the king. stuart mackenzie's removal. ministerial changes and squabbles-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-proceedings on the regency-bill. ministerial squabbles and changes. mr. bentley's' poem. danger of writing political panegyrics or satires. lines on the fountain tree in the canary islands-- . to the same, june .-a party at strawberry. general schouvaloff. felicity of being a private man. ingratitude of sycophants-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, june .-apology for not writing. regrets at being carried backward.,; and forwards to balls and suppers. resolutions of growing old and staid at fourscore-- . to george montagu, esq.-contradicting a report of his dangerous illness-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-progress of his illness. effects of the gout. dreams and reveries. madame de bentheim-- . to the countess of suffolk, july ,-state of his health. lady blandford--[n.] . to the same, july .--the new ministry, conduct of charles townshend.--(n) . to george montagu, esq. july .-change of the ministry. the rockingham administration-- . to the same, july .-reflections on loss of youth. entrance into old age through the gate of infirmity. a month's confinement to a sick bed a stinging lesson. whiggism-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-death of lady barbara montagu. old friends and new faces. a strange story. motives for revisiting paris. the french reformation. churches and convents. adieu to politics-- . to the same, aug. .-dropping off and separation of friends. pleasant anticipations from his visit to paris. revival of old ideas. stupefying effects of richardson's novels on the frenchmnation-- . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-motives of his journey to paris. death of the emperor of germany. "my last sally into the world"-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, sept. .-thanks for letters of introduction. modern french literature-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-inviting him to visit paris-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-journey to amiens. meeting with lady mary coke. boulogne. duchess of douglas. a droll way of being chief mourner. a french absurdity. walnut-trees. clermont. the duc de fitz-james. arrival at paris-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, sept. .-salutary effects of his journey. french gravity. parisian dirt. french opera. italian comedy chantilly. illness of the dauphin. mr. david hume the mode at paris. mesdames de monaco, d'egmont, and de brionne. nymphs of the theatres-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-advice respecting his journey to paris-- . to george montagu, esq. sept. .-ingratitude. amusements. french society. mode of living. music. stage. le kain. the dumenil. grandval. italian comedy. harlequin. freethinking. conversation. their savans. admiration of richardson and hume. dress and equipages. parliaments and clergy. effects of company -- . to the right hon. lady hervey, oct. .-h`otel de carnavalet. madame geoffrin. his own defects the sole cause of his not enjoying paris. duc de nivernois. colonel drumgold. duchesse de coss`e. presentations at versailles. the king and queen. the mesdames. the dauphin and dauphiness. wild beast of the gevaudan. mr. hans stanley-- . to john chute, esq. oct. .-french manners. their authors. style of conversations. english and french manners contrasted. presentation at versailles. duc de berri. count de provence. count d'artois. duc and duchesse de praslin. duc and duchesse de choiseul. duc de richelieu-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-french society. a supper at madame du deffand's. president henault. walpole's blunders against french grammar. sir james macdonald's mimicry of mr. david hume. mr. elliot's imitation of mr. pitt. presentation to the royal family. dinner at the duc de praslin's with the corps diplomatique. visit to the state paper office. m. de marigny's pictures. mada mede bentheim. duc de duras. wilkes at paris-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, oct. .-attack of the gout. cupid and death. allan ramsay the painter. madame geoffrin. common sense. duc de nivernois. lady mary chabot. politics-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-illness at paris. visit from wilkes. the dumenil. grandval. president henault-- . to the countess of suffolk, oct. .-fontainbleau. duc de richelieu. lady mary chabot. lady browne. visit to mrs. hayes. joys of the gout--[n.-) . to thomas brand, esq. oct. .-laughter out of fashion at paris. "god and the king to be pulled down." admiration of whist and richardson. freethinking. wilkes, sterne, and foote at paris. lord ossory. mesdames de rochefort, monaco, and mirepoix. the mar`echalle d'estr`ees-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-probable death of the dauphin. description of the philosophers. their object the destruction of regal power.-- . to mr. gray, nov. .-state of his health. infallible specific for the gout. picture of paris. french society. the philosophers. dumenil. preville. visit to the chartreuse-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, nov. .-recovery from a fit of the gout. "le nouveau richelieu." indifference to politics. squabbles about the french parliaments. bigotry. logogriphe by madame du deffand-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-a simile. sameness of llife at paris. invites him to transplant himself to roehampton. reflections on coming old age. object of all impostors. rabelais-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, nov. .-thanks for her introductions. duchesse d'aiguillon. french women of quality. duchesse de nivernois. "l'orpheline legu`egu`ee." count grammont's picture-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, nov. .-tea-drinking. dissuades him from going to italy. advice for his political conduct. "l'orpheline legu`ee." count caylus's auction. portrait of count grammont. french painters-- . to the hon. h. s. conway. dec. .-the dauphin. french politics. m. de maurepas. marshal richelieu. french parliaments-- . to the countess of suffolk, dec. .-fret)ch society. the comtesse d'egmont. the dauphin--[n.] . . to the right hon. lady hervey, jan. .-comtesse d'egmont. severity of the frost. dread of being thought charming. rousseau's visit to england. great parts. charles townshend-- . to john chute, esq. jan.-severity of the weather. ill- accordance of the french manners and climate. presentation to the comtesse de la marche. douceur in the society of the parisiennes of fashion. charlatanerie of the savans and philosophes. count st. germain. rousseau in england. walpole's pretended letter of the king of prussia to rousseau-- . to george montagu, esq. jan, .-robin hood reform`e and little john. dreams of life superior to its realities. politics. lord temple and george grenville. goody newcastle. helvetius's "esprit" and voltaire's "pucelle"-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, jan. .-a supper at the duchesse d'aiguillon's. picture of the duchesse de choiseul. madame geoffrin. verses on madame forcalquier speaking english. the italians. the gout preferable to all other disorders-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, jan. .-regrets on leaving paris. honours and distinctions. invitation from madame de brionne. pretended letter from the king of prussia to rousseau-- . to the rev. mr. cole, jan. .-severity of the weather. cathedral of amiens. the sainte chapelle. rousseau in england. king of prussia's letter-- . to mr. gray, jan. .-state of his health. "making oneself tender." change in french manners. their religious opinions. the parliaments. the men dull and empty. wit, softness, and good sense of the women. picture of madame geoffrin. madame du deffand. m. pontdeveyle. madame de mirepoix. anecdote of m. de maurepas. madame de boufflers. madame de rochefort. familiarities under the veil of friendship. duc de nivernois. madame de gisors. duchesse de choiseul. duchesse de grammont. mar`echale de luxembourg. pretended letter to rousseau. walpole at the head of the fashion. carried to the princess de talmond-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, feb. .-madame de geoffrin's secret mission to poland. the comtesse d'egmont-- . to george montagu, esq. feb. .-madame roland. marriages. duc and duchesse de choiseul-- . to the same, feb. .-french parliaments -- . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-pretended letter to rousseau. a french horse-race-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-preparations for leaving paris. defeat of george grenville. repeal of the american stamp-act. lit de justice. remonstrances of the parliaments-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, march .-watchings and revellings. a supper at the mar`echale de luxembourg's. funeral sermon on the dauphin. the abb`e coyer's pamphlet on preaching-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-colman and garrick. mrs. clive-- . to the same, march .-madame roland. a french woman's first visit to paris contrasted with his own. the princess of talmond's pug-dogs. a commission-- . to the same, april .-visit to livry. the abb`e de malherbe. madame de s`evign`e's sacred pavilion. old trees-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, april .-insurrection at madrid on the attempt of the court to introduce the french dress in spain-- . to the same, april .-further particulars of the insurrection at madrid. change in the french ministry. lettres de cachet. insurrections at bordeaux and toulouse-- . to the rev. mr. cole, may .-return to england-- . to the same, may .-apology for accidentally opening one of his letters-- . to george montagu, esq. may .-ministerial appointments. duke of richmond. lord north. death of lord grandison. lady townshend turned roman catholic. mrs. clive's bon-mot-- . to the same, june .-anstey's new bath guide. swift's correspondence, and journal to stella. bon-mot of george selwyn. pun of the king of france-- . to the right hon. lady hervey, june .-madame du deffand's present of a snuff-box, with a portrait of madame de s`evign`e. translation of a tale from the "dictionnaire d'anecdotes."-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-expected change in the ministry. the king's letter to mr. pitt-- . to the same, july .-change of the ministry. ode on the occasion-- . to david hume, esq. july .-quarrel between david hume, and rousseau-- . to the rev. mr. cole, sept. .-contradicting a newspaper report of his illness-- . to george montagu, esq. sept. .-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-journey to bath. great dislike of the place. the new buildings. lord chatham-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-recovery. tired to death of bath. lord chatham. watering places-- . to john chute, esq. oct. .-visit to wesley's meeting. hymns to ballad tunes. style of wesley's preaching. countess of buchan. lord chatham-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-reasons for leaving bath. inefficacy of the waters. "good hours"-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, oct. .-lord chatham wishes him to second the address on the king's speech. life at bath. motives for leaving the place. old age. dread of ridicule-- . to george montagu, esq. oct. .-satisfaction at his return to strawberry hill. visit to bristol. its buildings. abbey church of bath. batheaston-- . to sir david dalrymple, (lord hailes,) nov. .-thanks for his "memorials and letters." folly of burying in oblivion the faults and crimes of princes--[n.] . to david hume, esq. nov. .-on his quarrel with rousseau. folly of literary squabbles-- . to the same, nov. .-the same subject. omissions by d'alembert in a published letter of walpole's. picture of modern philosophers-- . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-politics. ministerial negotiations. deaths and marriages. caleb whitefoord's cross-readings from the newspapers-- . to the same, dec. .-thanks for a present of venison-- . . to george montagu, esq. jan. .-death of his servant louis. quarrel of hume and rousseau. high tide-- . to dr. ducarel, april .-thanks for his "anglo norman antiquities"-- . to the earl of strafford, july .-death and character of lady suffolk-- . to george montagu, esq. july .-state of the ministry. intended trip to paris. death of lady suffolk. lord lyttelton's "henry the second." lean people. mrs. clive-- . to the same, aug. .-motives for revisiting paris-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, sept. .-death and character of charles townshend. state of the ministry. lord chatham. dinner at the duc de choiseul's--[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, oct. .-return to england-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-general conway's refusal of the appointment to secretary of state. old pulteney-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-intended retirement from parliament. state of his health. roman catholic religion-- . . to sir david dalrymple, jan. .-advice on sending a young artist to italy. "historic doubts." coronation roll of richard the third --[n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, feb. .-on sending a copy of his "historic doubts"-- . to sir david dalrymple, feb. .-on sending him his "historic doubts." rapid sale of the first impression--(n.] . to mr. gray, feb. .-new edition of gray's poems. on his own writings. king of prussia. lord clarendon's "history." "historic doubts." disculpation of richard the third. "turned of fifty." garrick's prologues and epilogues. boswell's "corsica." general paoli-- . to the same, feb. .-"historic doubts." guthrie's answer thereto. thanks for notes on the "noble, authors"-- . to george montagu, esq. march .-reflections on his retirement from parliament. guthrie's answer to the "historic doubts." sterne's sentimental journey." gray's "odes"-- . to the same, april .-wit as temporary as dress and manners. fate of george selwyn's bon-mots. completion of his tragedy of "the mysterious mother." mrs. pritchard. garrick. president henault's tragedy of "corn elie"-- . to the rev. mr. cole, april .--rous's rolls of the earls of warwick. projects a history of the streets of london. st. foix's rues de paris. the methodists. whitfield's funeral sermon on gibson the forger-- . to the same, june .-history of ely cathedral. cardinal lewis de luxembourg. cardinal morton. painted glass-- . to george montagu, esq. june .-inclemency of the weather. english summers. description of the climate by our poets. hot-house of st. stephen's chapel. indifference to parties. the country going to ruin-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, june .-wilkes and liberty. ministerial changes. conduct of the duke of grafton. distressed state of the country. lord chatham. foote's "devil upon two sticks." subject of "the mysterious mother"--[n.] . to monsieur de voltaire, june .-on his soliciting a copy of the "historic doubts." reply to voltaire's criticisms on shakspeare-- . to the earl of strafford, june .-wilkes and number . the king of denmark. lady rockingham and the methodist pope joan huntingdon. brentford election-- . to monsieur de voltaire, july .-reply to voltaire's vindication of his criticism on shakspeare. story of m. de jumonville. "historic doubts"-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-lord botetourt. new archbishop of canterbury. king of denmark. augustus hervey's divorce from the chudleigh. gray appointed professor of modern history. efficacy of ice-water-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-arrival of the king of denmark. his person and manners. his suite-- . to the earl of strafford, aug. .-personal description of the king of denmark. his cold reception at court. the first favourite, count holke. his prime minister, count bernsdorff-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, aug. .-disturbance in america. coffee-house politicians. king of denmark. lady bel stanhope--(n.] . to the rev. mr. cole, aug. .-thanks for some prints and some notices. improvements at strawberry. mr. granger's "catalogue of english heads." dr. robertson's writings. scotch puffing-- . to the earl of strafford, oct. .-health and sickness. quiet of his present illness contrasted with the inquiries after him when his friends were coming into power-- . to george montagu, esq. nov. .-benefits from bootikins and water-drinking. elections-- . to the same, nov. .-separation of old friends in old age. moroseness of retirement. evils of solitude. death of the duke of newcastle, and of lady hervey-- . to the same, dec. .-arlington-street. reconciliation between lord chatham, earl temple, and mr. george grenville. wilkes and the house of commons-- . . to george montagu, esq. march .-city riot. brentford election. wilkes and luttrell. marriages-- . to the same, april .-temperance the best physician. easy mode of preserving the teeth. advice on wine drinking. middlesex election. wilkes and the house of commons-- . to the same, may .-grand festino at strawberry. ridotto al fresco at vauxhall-- . to the rev. mr. cole, may .-granger's catalogue of prints and lives down to the revolution. intended visit to paris. gough's british topography-- . to the rev. mr. cole, june .-proposed painted window for ely cathedral. bishop mawson. granger's dedication. shenstone's letters. his unhappy passion for fame. the leasowes. instructions on domestic privacy-- . to the same, june .-intended visit to ely. english summers. advice to quit marshland. joscelin de louvain-- . to the earl of strafford, july .-disinterestedness and length of their friendship. three years' absence of summer. emptiness of london. city politics. angling. methuselah-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, july .-lord chatham at the king's levee-- . to the rev. mr. cole, july .-return from ely. east window of the cathedral. bishop luda's tomb-- . to the same, aug. .-thanks for some prints. advice respecting a history of gothic architecture. tyson's "history of fashions and dresses"-- . to george montagu, esq. aug. .-calais. complaint of his friend's long silence. journey to paris-- . to john chute, esq. aug. .-journey to paris. lord dacre and dr. pomme. account of madame du deffand. madame du barry. french theatre. hamlet. the dumenil. voltaire's tragedy of "les gu`ebres"- - ( . to george montagu, esq. sept. .-character of madame du deffand. uncertainty of life. a five-and-thirty years' friendship. visit to the abbess of panthemont-- . to the earl of strafford, sept. .-affected admiration of the french government. lettres de cachet. students in legislature. french treatment of trees-- . to george montagu, esq. sept. .-visit to versailles, madame du barry. the dauphin. count de provence. count d'artois. the king. visit to st. cyr. madame de maintenon. madame de cambise. trait of madame de mailly -- . to the same, oct. .-return to england. congratulations on his friend's being appointed lord north's private secretary-- . to the same, oct. .-return to strawberry. his tragedy of "the mysterious mother." bad taste of the public. garrick's prologues and epilogues. french chalk and dirt contrasted with english neatness and greenth-- . to the hon. h. s. conway, nov. .-lord temple's dinner with the lord mayor. tottering position of the duc de choiseul. "trip to the jubilee." literature and politics of the day. milton's prose writings. heroes and orators-- . to george montagu, esq. dec. .-condolence on the death of mrs. trevor. loss of friends and connexions. cumberland's comedy of "the brothers." alderman backwell-- . to the rev. mr. cole, dec. .-thanks for communications. mr. tyson's etchings. madame du deffand--[n.] letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i rejoice over your brother's honours, though i certainly had no hand in them. he probably received his staff from the board of trade. if any part of the consequences could be placed to partiality for me, it would be the prevention of your coming to town, which i wished. my lady cutts( ) is indubitably your own grandmother: the trevors would once have had it, but by some misunderstanding the old cowslade refused it. mr. chute has twenty more corroborating circumstances, but this one is sufficient. fred. montagu told me of the pedigree. i shall take care of all your commissions. felicitate yourself on having got from me the two landscapes; that source is stopped. not that mr. m`untz is eloped to finish the conquest of america, nor promoted by mr. secretary's zeal for my friends, nor because the ghost of mrs. leneve has appeared to me, and ordered me to drive hannah and ishmael into the wilderness. a cause much more familiar to me has separated us--nothing but a tolerable quantity of ingratitude on his side, both to me and mr. bentley. the story is rather too long for a letter: the substance was most extreme impertinence to me, concluded by an abusive letter against mr. bentley, who sent him from starving on seven pictures for a guinea to one hundred pounds a year, my house, table, and utmost countenance. in short, i turned his head, and was forced to turn him out of doors. you shall see the documents, as it is the fashion to call proof papers. poets and painters imagine they confer the honour when they are protected, and they set down impertinence to the article of their own virtue, when you dare to begin to think that an ode or a picture is not a patent for all manner of insolence. my lord temple, as vain as if he was descended from the stroller pindar, or had made up card-matches at the siege of genoa, has resigned the privy seal, because he has not the garter.( ) you cannot imagine what an absolute prince i feel myself with knowing that nobody can force me to give the garter to m`untz. my lady carlisle is going to marry a sir william musgrave, who is but three-and-twenty; but, in consideration of the match, and of her having years to spare, she has made him a present of ten, and calls them three-and-thirty. i have seen the new lady stanhope. i assure you her face will introduce no plebeian charms into the faces of the stanhopes, adieu! ( ) lady cutts was the mother of mrs. montagu, by her second husband, john trevor, esq. and grandmother of george montagu.-e. ( ) see vol. ii. p. , letter . letter to the right hon. william pitt.( ) arlington street, nov. , . (page ) sir, on coming to town, i did myself the honour of waiting on you and lady hester pitt: and though i think myself extremely distinguished by your obliging note, i shall be sorry for having given you the trouble of writing it, if it did not lend me a very pardonable opportunity of saying what i much wished to express, but thought myself too private a person, and of too little consequence, to take the liberty to say. in short, sir, i was eager to congratulate you on the lustre you have thrown on this country; i wished to thank you for the security you have fixed to me of enjoying the happiness i do enjoy. you have placed england in a situation in which it never saw itself--a task the more difficult, as you had not to improve, but recover. in a trifling book, written two or three years ago,( ) i said (speaking of the name in the world the most venerable to me), "sixteen unfortunate and inglorious years since his removal have already written his eulogium." it is but justice to you, sir, to add, that that period ended when your administration began. sir, do not take this for flattery: there is nothing in your power to give that i would accept; nay, there is nothing i could envy, but what i believe you would scarce offer me--your glory. this may seem very vain and insolent: but consider, sir, what a monarch is a man who wants nothing! consider how he looks down on one who is only the most illustrious man in england! but sir, freedoms apart, insignificant as i am, probably it must be some satisfaction to a great mind like yours to receive incense, when you are sure there is no flattery blended with it; and what must any englishman be that could give you a moment's satisfaction and would hesitate? adieu! sir. i am unambitious, i am uninterested, but i am vain. you have, by your notice, uncanvassed, unexpected, and at a period when you certainly could have the least temptation to stoop down to me, flattered me in the most agreeable manner. if there could arrive the moment when you could be nobody, and i any body, you cannot imagine how grateful i would be. in the mean time, permit me to be, as i have been ever since i had the honour of knowing you, sir, your most obedient humble servant. ( ) now first collected. ( ) his "catalogue of royal and noble authors."-e. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, nov. th of the great year. (page ) here is a victory more than i promised you! for these thirteen days we have been in the utmost impatience for news. the brest fleet had got out; duff, with three ships, was in the utmost danger--ireland ached--sir edward hawke had notice in ten hours, and sailed after conflans--saunders arrived the next moment from quebec, heard it, and sailed after hawke, without landing his glory. no express arrived, storms blow; we knew not what to think. this morning at four we heard that, on the th, sir edward hawke came in sight of the french, who were pursuing duff. the fight began at half an hour past two--that is, the french began to fly, making a running fight. conflans tried to save himself behind the rocks of belleisle, but was forced to burn his ship of eighty guns and twelve hundred men. the formidable, of eighty, and one thousand men, is taken; we burned the hero of seventy-four, eight hundred and fifteen men. the thes`ee and superbe of seventy-four and seventy, and of eight hundred and fifteen and eight hundred men, were sunk in the action, and the crews lost. eight of their ships are driven up the vilaine, after having thrown over their guns; they have moored two frigates to defend the entrance, but hawke hopes to destroy them. our loss is a scratch, one lieutenant and thirty-nine men killed, and two hundred and two wounded. the resolution of seventy-four guns, and the essex of sixty-four, are lost, but the crews saved; they, it is supposed, perished by the tempest, which raged all the time, for "we rode in the whirlwind and directed the storm." sir edward heard guns of distress in the night, but could not tell whether of friend or foe, nor could assist them.( ) thus we wind up this wonderful year! who that died three years ago and could revive, would believe it! think, that from petersburgh to the cape of good hope, from china to california, de paris `a perou, there are not five thousand frenchmen in the world that have behaved well! monsieur thurot is piddling somewhere on the coast of scotland, but i think our sixteen years of fears of invasion are over--after sixteen victories. if we take paris, i don't design to go thither before spring. my lord kinnoul is going to lisbon to ask pardon for boscawen's beating de la clue in their house; it will be a proud supplication, with another victory in bank.( ) adieu! i would not profane this letter with a word of any thing else for the world. ( ) this was hawke's famous victory, for which he received the thanks of parliament, and a pension of two thousand pounds a-year. in , he was created a peer.-d. ( ) the object of lord kinnoul's mission to the court of portugal was to remove the misunderstanding between the two crowns, in consequence of admiral boscawen's having destroyed some french ships under the portuguese fort in the bay of lagos.-e. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) that ever you should pitch upon me for a mechanic or geometric commission! how my own ignorance has laughed at me since i read your letter! i say, your letter, for as to dr. perelli's, i know no more of a latin term in mathematics than mrs. goldsworthy( ) had an idea of verbs. i will tell you an early anecdote in my own life, and you shall judge. when i first went to cambridge, i was to learn mathematics of the famous blind professor sanderson. i had not frequented him a fortnight, before he said to me, "young man, it is cheating you to take your money: believe me, you never can learn these things; you have no capacity for them."- i can smile now, but i cried then with mortification. the next step, in order to comfort myself, was not to believe him : i could not conceive that i had not talents for any thing in the world. i took, at my own expense, a private instructor,( ) who came to me once a-day for a year. nay, i took infinite pains, but had so little capacity, and so little attention, (as i have always had to any thing that did not immediately strike my inclination) that after mastering any proposition, when the man came the next day, it was as new to me as if i had never heard of it ; in short, even to common figures, i am the dullest dunce alive. i have often said it of myself, and it is true, that nothing that has not a proper dame of a man or a woman to it, affixes any idea upon my mind. i could remember who was king ethelbald's great aunt, and not be sure whether she lived in the year or . i don't know whether i ever told you, that when you sent me the seven gallons of drams, and they were carried to mr. fox by mistake for florence wine, i pressed @im to keep as much as he liked: for, said i, i have seen the bill of lading, and there is a vast quantity. he asked how much? i answered seventy gallons; so little idea i have of quantity. i will tell you one more story of myself, and you will comprehend what sort of a head i have! mrs. leneve said to me one day, "there is a vast waste of coals in your house ; you should make the servants take off the fires at night." i recollected this as i was going to bed, and, out of economy, put my fire out with a bottle of bristol water! however, as i certainly will neglect nothing to oblige you, i went to sisson and gave him the letter. he has undertaken both the engine and the drawing, and has promised the utmost care in both. the latter, he says, must be very large, and that it will take some time to have it performed very accurately. he has promised me both in six or seven weeks. but another time, don't imagine, because i can bespeak an enamelled bauble, that i am fit to be entrusted with the direction of the machine at marli. it is not to save myself trouble, for i think nothing so for you, but i would have you have credit, and i should be afraid of dishonouring you. there! there is the king of prussia has turned all our war and peace topsy-turvy ! if mr. pitt will conquer germany too, he must go and do it himself. fourteen thousand soldiers and nine generals taken, as it were, in a partridge net! and what is worse, i have not heard yet that the monarch owns his rashness.( ) as often as he does, indeed, he is apt to repair it. you know i have always dreaded daun--one cannot make a blunder but he profits of it-and this ' just at the moment that we heard of nothing but new bankruptcy in france. i want to know what a kingdom is to do when it is forced to run away? th.--oh! i interrupt my reflections--there is another bit of a victory! prince henry, who has already succeeded to his brother's crown, as king of the fashion, has beaten a parcel of wirternberghers and taken four battalions. daun is gone into bohemia, and dresden is still to be ours. the french are gone into winter quarters--thank god! what weather is here to be lying on the ground! men should be statues, or will be so, if they go through it. hawke is enjoying himself in quiberon bay, but i believe has done no more execution. dr. hay says it will soon be as shameful to beat a frenchman as to beat a woman. indeed, one is forced to ask every morning what victory there is, for fear of missing one. we talk of a con(,,ress at breda, and some think lord temple will go thither: if he does, i shall really believe it will be peace; and a good one, as it will then be of mr. pitt's making. i was much pleased that the watch succeeded so triumphantly, and beat the french watches, though they were two to one. for the fugitive pieces: the inscription for the column( ) was written when i was with you at florence, though i don't wonder that you have forgotten it after so many yeirs. i would not have it talked of, for i find some grave personages are offended -with the liberties i have taken with so imperial a head. what could provoke them to give a column christian burial? adieu! ( ) wife of the english consul at leghorn, where, when she was learning italian by grammar, she said, "oh! give me a language in which there are no verbs!" concluding, as she had not learnt her own language by grammar, that there were no verbs in english. ( ) dr. treviger. ( ) it was not frederick's fault; he was not there ; but that of general finek, who had placed himself so injudiciously, that he was obliged to capitulate to the austrians with fourteen thousand men. ( ) the inscription for the neglected column in st. mark's place at florence.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) how do you do? are you thawed again? how have you borne the country in this bitter weather? i have not been here these three weeks till to-day, and was delighted to find it so pleasant, and to meet a comfortable southeast wind, the fairest of all winds, in spite of the scandal that lies on the east; though it is the west that is parent of all ugliness. the frost was succeeded by such fogs, that i could not find my way out of london. has your brother told you of the violences in ireland? there wanted nothing but a massaniello to overturn the government; and luckily for the government and for rigby, he, who was made for massaniello, happened to be first minister there. tumults, and insurrections, and oppositions, "like arts and sciences, have travelled west." pray make the general collect authentic accounts of those civil wars against he returns--you know where they will find their place, and that you are one of the very few that will profit of them. i will grind and dispense to you all the corn you bring to my mill. we good-humoured souls vote eight millions with as few questions, as if the whole house of commons was at the club at arthur's; and we live upon distant news, as if london was york or bristol. there is nothing domestic, but that lord george lennox, being refused lord ancram's consent, set out for edinburgh with lady louisa kerr, the day before yesterday; and lord buckingham is going to be married to our miss pitt of twickenham, daughter of that strange woman who had a mind to be my wife, and who sent mr. raftor to know why i did not marry her. i replied, "because i was not sure that the two husbands, that she had at once, were both dead." apropos to my wedding, prince edward asked me at the opera, t'other night, when i was to marry lady mary coke: i answered, as soon as i got a regiment; which, you know, is now the fashionable way. the kingdom of beauty is in as great disorder as the kingdom of ireland. my lady pembroke looks like a ghost-poor lady coventry is going to be one; and the duchess of hamilton is so altered i did not know her. indeed, she is bid with child, and so big, that as my lady northumberland says, it is plain she has a camel in her belly, and my lord edgecumbe says, it is as true it did not go through the eye of a needle. that countess has been laid up with a hurt in her leg; lady rebecca paulett pushed her on the birthnight against a bench: the duchess of grafton asked if it was true that lady rebecca kicked her? "kick me, madam! when did you ever hear of a percy that took a kick?" i can tell you another anecdote of that house, that will not divert you less. lord march making them a visit this summer at alnwick castle, my lord received him at the gate, and said, "i believe, my lord, this is the first time that ever a douglas and a percy met here in friendship." think of this from a smithson to a true douglas! i don't trouble my head about any connexion; any news into the country i know is welcome, though it comes out higlepigledy, just as it happens to be packed up. the cry in ireland has been against lord hilsborough, supposing him to mediate an union of the two islands; george selwyn, seeing him set t'other night between my lady harrington and lord barrington, said, "who can say that my lord hilsborough is not an enemy to an union?" i will tell you one more story, and then good night. lord lyttelton( ) was at covent garden; beard came on: the former said, "how comes beard here? what made him leave drury lane?" mr. shelley, who sat next him, replied, "why, don't you know he has been such a fool as to go and marry a miss rich? he has married rich's daughter." my lord coloured; shelley found out what he had said, and ran away. i forgot to tell you, that you need be in no disturbance about m`untz's pictures; they were a present i made you. good night! ( ) lord lyttelton married a daughter of sir robert rich. letter to the rev. henry zouch. strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) sir, i own i am pleased, for your sake as well as my own, at hearing from you again. i felt sorry at thinking that you was displeased with the frankness and sincerity of my last. you have shown me that i made a wrong judgment of you, and i willingly correct it. you are extremely obliging in giving yourself the least trouble to make collections for me. i have received so much assistance and information from you, that i am sure i cannot have a more useful friend. for the catalogue, i forgot it, as in the course of things i suppose it is forgot. for the lives of english artists i am going immediately to begin it, and shall then fling it into the treasury of the world, for the amusement of the world for a day, and then for the service of any body who shall happen hereafter to peep into the dusty drawer where it shall repose. for my lord clarendon's new work( ) of which you ask me, i am charmed with it. it entertains me more almost than any book i ever read. i was told there was little in it that had not already got abroad, or was not known by any other channels. if that is true, i own i am so scanty an historian as to have been ignorant of many of the facts but sure, at least, the circumstances productive of, or concomitant on several of them, set them in very new lights. the deductions and stating of arguments are uncommonly fine. his language i find much censured--in truth, it is sometimes involved, particularly in the indistinct usage of he and him. but in my opinion his style is not so much inferior to the former history as it seems. but this i take to be the case; when the former part appeared, the world was not accustomed to a good style as it is now. i question if the history of the rebellion had been published but this summer, whether it would be thought so fine in point of style as it has generally been reckoned. for his veracity, alas! i am sorry to say, there is more than one passage in the new work which puts one a little upon one's guard in lending him implicit credit. when he says that charles i. and his queen were a pattern of conjugal affection, it makes one stare. charles was so, i verily believe; but can any man in his historical senses believe, that my lord clarendon did not know that, though the queen was a pattern of affection, it was by no means of the conjugal kind.( ) then the subterfuges my lord clarendon uses to avoid avowing that charles ii. was a papist, are certainly no grounds for corroborating his veracity.( ) in short, i don't believe him when he does not speak truth; but he has spoken so much truth, that it is easy to see when he does not. lucan is in poor forwardness. i have been plagued with a succession of bad printers, and am not got beyond the fourth book. it will scarce appear before next winter. adieu! sir. i have received so much pleasure and benefit from your correspondence, that i should be sorry to lose it. i will not deserve to lose it, but endeavour to be, as you will give me leave to be, your, etc. ( ) the life of edward earl of clarendon, etc. dr. johnson, in the sixty-fifth number of the idler, has also celebrated the appearance of this interesting and valuable work.-c. ( ) mr. walpole had early taken up this opinion; witness that gross line in his dull epistle to aston, written in , "the lustful henrietta's romish shade;" but we believe that no good authority for this imputation can be produced: there is strong evidence the other way: and if we were even to stand on mere authority, we should prefer that of lord clarendon to the scandalous rumours of troublesome times, which were, we believe, the only guides of mr. walpole.-c. ( ) nor for impugning it; for, the very fact, brought to light in later times, of charles's having, with great secrecy and mystery, reconciled himself to the church of rome on his deathbed, proves that up to that extreme hour he was not a papist.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) you must wonder i have not written to you a long time; a person of my consequence! i am now almost ready to say, we, instead of i in short, i live amongst royalty--considering the plenty, that is no great wonder. all the world lives with them, and they with all the world. princes and princesses open shops in every corner of the town, and the whole town deals with them. as i have gone to one, i chose to frequent all, that i night not be particular, and seem to have views; and yet it went so much against me, that i came to town on purpose a month ago for the duke's levee, and had engaged brand to go with me, and then could not bring myself to it. at last, i went to him and the princess emily yesterday. it was well i had not flattered myself with being still in my bloom; i am grown so old since they saw me, that neither of them knew me. when they were told, he just spoke to me (i forgive him; he is not out of my debt, even with that) - she was exceedingly gracious, and commended strawberry to the skies. to-night, i was asked to their party at norfolk house. these parties are wonderfully select and dignified one might sooner be a knight of malta than qualified for them; i don't know how the duchess of devonshire, mr. fox, and i, were forgiven some of our ancestors. there were two tables at loo, two at whist, and a quadrille. i was commanded to the duke's loo; he was sat down: not to make him wait, i threw my hat upon the marble table, and broke four pieces off a great crystal chandelier. i stick to my etiquette, and treat them with great respect; not as i do my friend, the duke of york. but don't let us talk any more of princes. my lucan appears to-morrow; i must say it is a noble volume. shall i send it you--or won't you come and fetch it? there is nothing new of public, but the violent commotions in ireland,( ) whither the duke of bedford still persists in going. aeolus to quell a storm! i am in great concern for my old friend, poor lady harry beauclerc; her lord dropped down dead two nights ago, as he was sitting with her and all their children. admiral boscawen is dead by this time.( ) mrs. osborne and i are not much afflicted; lady jane coke too is dead, exceedingly rich; i have not heard her will yet. if you don't come to town soon, i give you warning, i will be a lord of the bedchamber, or a gentleman usher. if you will, i will be nothing but what i have been so many years-my own and yours ever. ( ) walpole, in his memoires, vol. ii. p. , gives a particular account of these commotions. gray, in a letter to dr. wharton, of the d of january, says, "they placed an old woman on the throne, and called for pipes and tobacco; made my lord chief justice administer an oath (which they dictated) to my lord chancellor; beat the bishop of killaloe black and blue; at foot-ball with chenevix, the old refugee bishop of waterford; rolled my lord farnham in the kennel; pulled sir thomas prendergast by the nose (naturally large) till it was the size of a cauliflower-; and would have hanged rigby if he had not got out of a window. at last the guard was obliged to move (with orders not to fire), but the mob threw dirt at them. then the horse broke in upon them, cutting and slashing, and took seventeen prisoners. the notion that had possessed the crowd was, that a union was to be voted between the two nations, and they should have no more parliaments there." works, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) this distinguished admiral survived till january .-e. ( ) daughter of lord torrington, and sister of the unfortunate admiral byng. she was married to the son of sir john osborn of chicksand priory.-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. jan. , . (page ) i am very sorry your ladyship could doubt a moment on the cause of my concern yesterday. i saw you much displeased at what i had said; and felt so innocent of the least intention of offending you, that i could not help being struck at my own ill-fortune, and wit[) the sensation raised by finding you mix great goodness with great severity. i am naturally very impatient under praise; i have reflected enough on myself to know i don't deserve it; and with this consciousness you ought to forgive me, madam, if i dreaded that the person whose esteem i valued the most in the world, should think, that i was fond of what i know is not my due. i meant to express this apprehension as respectfully as i could, but my words failed me-a misfortune not too common to me, who am apt to say too much, not too little! perhaps it is that very quality which your ladyship calls wit, and i call tinsel, for which i dread being praised. i wish to recommend myself to you by more essential merits-and if i can only make you laugh, it will be very apt to make me as much concerned as i was yesterday. for people to whose approbation i am indifferent, i don't care whether they commend or condemn me for my wit; in the former case they will not make me admire myself for it, in the latter they can't make me think but what i have thought already. but for the few whose friendship i wish, i would fain have them see, that under all the idleness of my spirits there are some very serious qualities, such as warmth, gratitude, and sincerity, which @ill returns may render useless or may make me lock up in my breast, but which will remain there while i have a being. having drawn you this picture of myself, madam, a subject i have to say so much upon, will not your good-nature apply it as it deserves, to what passed yesterday? won't you believe that my concern flowed from being disappointed at having offended one whom i ought by so many ties to try to please, and whom, if i ever meant any thing, i had meaned to please? i intended you should see how much i despise wit, if i have any, and that you should know my heart was void of vanity and full of gratitude. they -are very few i desire should know so much; but my passions act too promptly and too naturally, as you saw, when i am with those i really love, to be capable of any disguise. forgive me, madam, this tedious detail but of all people living, i cannot bear that you should have a doubt about me. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) how do you contrive to exist on your mountain in this rude season! sure you must be become a snowball! as i was not in england in forty-one, i had no notion of such cold. the streets are abandoned; nothing appears in them: the thames is almost as solid. then think what a campaign must be in such a season! our army was under arms for fourteen hours on the twenty-third, expecting the french and several of the men were frozen when they should have dismounted. what milksops the marlboroughs and ttirennes, the blakes and the van tromps appear now, who whipped into winter quarters and into port, the moment their noses looked blue. sir cloudesly shovel said that an admiral would deserve to be broke, who kept great ships out after the end of september, and to be shot if after october. there is hawke( ) in the bay weathering this winter, after conquering in a storm. for my part, i scarce venture to make a campaign in the opera-house; for if i once begin to freeze, i shall be frozen through in a moment. i am amazed, with such weather, such ravages, and distress, that there is any thing left in germany, but money; for thither half the treasure of europe goes: england, france, russia, and all the empress can squeeze from italy and hungary, all is sent thither, and yet the wretched people have not subsistence. a pound of bread sells at dresden for eleven-pence. we are going to send many more troops thither; and it is so much the fashion to raise regiments, that i wish there were such a neutral kind of beings in england as abb`es, that one might have an excuse for not growing military mad, when one has turned the heroic corner of one's age. i am ashamed of being a young rake, when my seniors are covering their gray toupees with helmets and feathers, and accoutering their pot-bellies with cuirasses and martial masquerade habits. yet rake i am, and abominably so, for a person that begins to wrinkle reverently. i have sat up twice this week till between two and three with the duchess of grafton, at loo, who, by the way, has got a pam-child this morning; and on saturday night i supped with prince edward at my lady rochford's, and we stayed till half an hour past three. my favour with that highness continues, or rather increases. he makes every body make suppers for him to meet me, for i still hold out against going to court. in short, if he were twenty years older, or i could make myself twenty years younger, i might carry him to camden-house, and be as impertinent as ever my lady churchill was; but, as i dread being ridiculous, i shall give my lord bute no uneasiness. my lady maynard, who divides the favour of this tiny court with me,- supped with us. did you know she sings french ballads very prettily? lord rochford played on the guitar, and the prince sung; there were my two nieces, and lord waldegrave, lord huntingdon, and mr. morrison the groom, and the evening was pleasant; but i had a much more agreeable supper last night at mrs. clive's, with miss west, my niece cholmondeley, and murphy, the writing actor, who is very good company, and two or three more. mrs. cholmondeley is very lively; you know how entertaining the clive is, and miss west is an absolute original. there is nothing new, but a very dull pamphlet, written by lord bath, and his chaplain douglas, called a letter to two great men. it is a plan for the peace, and much adopted by the city, and much admired by all who are too humble to judge for themselves. i was much diverted the other morning with another volume on birds, by edwards, who has published four or five. the poor man, who is grown very old and devout, begs god to take from him the love of natural philosophy; and having observed some heterodox proceedings among bantam cocks, he proposes that all schools of girls and boys should be promiscuous, lest, if separated, they should learn wayward passions. but what struck me most were his dedications, the last was to god; this is to lord bute, as if he was determined to make his fortune in one world or the other. pray read fontaine's fable of the lion grown old; don't it put you in mind of any thing? no! not when his shaggy majesty has borne the insults of the tiger and the horse, etc. and the ass comes last, kicks out his only remaining fang, and asks for a blue bridle? apropos, i will tell you the turn charles townshend gave to this fable. "my lord," said he, "has quite mistaken the thing; he soars too high at first: people often miscarry by not proceeding by degrees; he went and at once asked for my lord carlisle's garter-if he would have been contented to ask first for my lady carlisle's garter, i don't know but he would have obtained it." ' adieu! ( ) sir edward hawke had defeated the french fleet, commanded by admiral conflans, in the beginning of this winter. [a graphical description of this victory is given by walpole in his memoires. "it was," he says, "the th of november: the shortness of the day prevented the total demolition of the enemy; but neither darkness, nor a dreadful tempest that ensued, could call off sir edward from pursuing his blow. the roaring of the element was redoubled by the thunder from our ships; and both concurred, in that scene of horror, to put a period to the navy and hopes of france."--e.] letter to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, jan. , . (page ) i am come hither in the bleakest of all winters, not to air and exercise, but to look after my gold-fish and orange-trees. we import all the delights of hot countries, but as we cannot propagate their climate too, such a season as this is mighty apt to murder rarities. and it is this very winter that has been used for the invention of a campaign in germany! where all fuel is so destroyed that they have no fire but out of the mouth of a cannon. if i were writing to an italian as well as into italy, one might string concetti for an hour, and describe how heroes are frozen on their horses till they become their own statues. but seriously, does not all this rigour of warfare throw back an air of effeminacy on the duke of marlborough and the brave of ancient days, who only went to fight as one goes out of town in spring, and who came back to london with the first frost'@ our generals are not yet arrived, though the duke de broglio's last miscarriage seems to determine that there shall at last be such a thing as winter quarters; but daun and the king of prussia are still choosing king and queen in the field. there is a horrid scene of distress in the family of cavendish; the duke's sister,( ) lady besborough, died this morning of the same fever and sore throat of which she lost four children four years ago. it looks as if it was a plague fixed in the walls of their house: it broke out again among their servants, and carried off two, a year and a half after the children. about ten days ago lord besborough was seized with it, and escaped with difficulty; then the eldest daughter had it, though slightly: my lady, attending them, is dead of it in three days. it is the same sore throat which carried off mr. pelham's two only sons, two daughters, and a daughter of the duke of rutland, at once. the physicians, i think, don't know what to make of it. i am sorry you and your friend count lorenzi( ) are such political foes, but i am much more concerned for the return of your headaches. i don't know what to say about ward's( ) medicine, because the cures he does in that complaint are performed by him in person. he rubs his hand with some preparation and holds it upon your forehead, from which several have found instant relief. if you please, i will consult him whether he will send you any preparation for it; but you must first send me the exact symptoms and circumstances of your disorder and constitution, for i would not for the world venture to transmit to you a blind remedy for an unexamined complaint. you cannot figure a duller season: the weather bitter, no party, little money, half the world playing the fool in the country with the militia, others raising regiments or with their regiments; in short, the end of a war and of a reign furnish few episodes. operas are more in their decline than ever. adieu! ( ) caroline, eldest daughter of william third duke of devonshire, and wife of william ponsonby, earl of besborough. ( ) minister of france at florence, though a florentine. ( ) ward, the empiric, whose pill and drop were supposed, at this time, to have a surprising effect. he is immortalized by pope- "see ward by batter'd beaux invited over." there is a curious statue of him in marble at the society of arts, in full dress, and a flowing wig.-d. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) i shall almost frighten you from coming to london, for whether you have the constitution of a horse or a man, you will be equally in danger. all the horses in town are laid up with sore throats and colds, and are so hoarse you cannot hear them speak, i, with all my immortality, have been -half killed; that violent bitter weather was too much for me; i have had a nervous fever these six or seven weeks every night, and have taken bark enough to have made a rind for daphne; nay, have even stayed at home two days; but i think my eternity begins to bud again. i am quite of dr. garth's mind, who, when any body commended a hard frost to him, used to reply, "yes, sir, 'fore gad, very fine weather, sir, very wholesome weather, sir; kills trees, sir; very good for man, sir." there has been cruel havoc among the ladies; my lady granby is dead; and the famous polly, duchess of bolton, and my lady besborough. i have no great reason to lament the last, and yet the circumstances of her death, and the horror of it to her family, make one shudder. it was the same sore throat and fever that carried off four of their children a few years ago. my lord now fell ill of it, very ill, and the eldest daughter slightly: my lady caught it, attending her husband, and concealed it as long as she could. when at last the physician insisted on her keeping her bed, she said, as she went into her room, "then, lord have mercy on me! i shall never come out of it again," and died in three days. lord besborough grew outrageously impatient at not seeing her, and would have forced into her room, when she had been dead about four days. they were obliged to tell him the truth: never was an answer that expressed so much horror! he said, "and how many children have i left?"not knowing how far this calamity might have reached. poor lady coventry is near completing this black list. you have heard, i suppose, a horrid story of another kind, of lord ferrers murdering his steward in the most barbarous and deliberate manner. he sent away all his servants but one, and, like that heroic murderess queen christina, carried the poor man through a gallery and several rooms, locking them after him, and then bid the man kneel down, for he was determined to kill him. the poor creature flung himself at his feet, but in vain; was shot, and lived twelve hours. mad as this action was from the consequences, there was no frenzy in his behaviour; he got drunk, and, at intervals, talked of it coolly; but did not attempt to escape, till the colliers beset his house, and were determined to take him alive or dead. he is now in the gaol at leicester, and will soon be removed to the tower, then to westminster hall, and i suppose to tower hill; unless, as lord talbot prophesied in the house of lords, "not being thought mad enough to be shut up, till he had killed somebody, he will then be thought too mad to be executed;" but lord talbot was no more honoured in his vocation, than other prophets are in their own country. as you seem amused with my entertainments, i will tell you how i passed yesterday. a party was made to go to the magdalen-house. we met at northumberland-house at five, and set off in four coaches. prince edward, colonel brudenel his groom, lady northumberland, lady mary coke, lady carlisle, miss pelham, lady hertford, lord beauchamp, lord huntingdon. old bowman, and i. this new convent is beyond goodman's-fields, and i assure you would content any catholic alive. we were received by--oh! first, a vast mob, for princes are not so common at that end of the town as at this. lord hertford, at the head of the governors with their white staves, met us at the door, and led the prince directly into the chapel, where, before the altar, was an arm-chair for him, with a blue damask cushion, a prie-dieu, and a footstool of black cloth with gold nails. we set on forms near him. there were lord and lady dartmouth in the odour of devotion, and many city ladies. the chapel is small and low, but neat, hung with gothic paper, and tablets of benefactions. at the west end were enclosed the sisterhood, above an hundred and thirty, all in grayish brown stuffs, broad handkerchiefs, and flat straw hats, with a blue riband, pulled quite over their faces. as soon as we entered the chapel, the organ played, and the magdalens sung a hymn in parts; you cannot imagine how well, the chapel was dressed with orange and myrtle, and there wanted nothing but a little incense to drive away the devil-or to invite him. prayers then began, psalms, and a sermon: the latter by a young clergyman, one dodd,( ) who contributed to the popish idea one had imbibed, by haranguing entirely in the french style, and very eloquently and touchingly. he apostrophized the lost sheep, who sobbed and cried from their souls; so did my lady hertford and fanny pelham, till i believe the city dames took them both for jane shores. the confessor then turned to the audience, and addressed himself to his royal highness, whom he called most illustrious prince, beseeching his protection. in short, it was a very pleasing performance, and i got the most illustrious to desire it might be printed. we had another hymn, and then were conducted to the parloir, where the governors kissed the prince's hand, and then the lady abbess, or matron, brought us tea. from thence we went to the refectory, where all the nuns, without their hats, were ranged at long tables, ready for supper. a few were handsome, many who seemed to have no title to their profession, and two or three of twelve years old; but all recovered, and looking healthy. i was struck and pleased with the modesty of two of them, who swooned away with the confusion of being stared at. we were then shown their work, which is making linen, and bead-work; they earn ten pounds a-week. one circumstance diverted me, but amidst all this decorum, i kept it to myself. the wands of the governors are white, but twisted at top with black and white, which put me in mind of jacob's rods, that he placed before the cattle to make them breed. my lord hertford would never have forgiven me, if i had joked on this; so i kept my countenance very demurely, nor even inquired, whether among the pensioners there were any novices from mrs. naylor's. the court-martial on lord george sackville is appointed: general onslow is to be speaker of it. adieu! till i see you; i am glad it will be so soon. ( ) the unfortunate dr. dodd, who suffered at tyburn, in june , for forgery.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, feb. , . (page ) i am much obliged to you, sir! for the irish poetry.( ) they are poetry, and resemble that of the east; that is, they contain natural images and natural sentiment elevated, before rules were invented to make poetry difficult and dull. the transitions are as sudden as those in pindar, but not so libertine; for they start into new thoughts on the subject, without wandering from it.' i like particularly the expression of calling echo, "son of the rock." the monody is much the best. i (cannot say i am surprised to hear that the controversy on the queen of scots is likely to continue. did not somebody write a defence of nero, and yet none of his descendants remained to pretend to the empire? if dr. robertson could have said more, i am sorry it will be forced from him. he had better have said it voluntarily. you will forgive me for thinking his subject did not demand it. among the very few objections to his charming work, one was, that he seemed to excuse that queen more than was allowable, from the very papers he has printed in his appendix; and some have thought, that though he could not disculpate her, he has diverted indignation from her, by his art in raising up pity for her and resentment against her persecutress, and by much overloading the demerits of lord darnley. for my part, dr. mackenzie, or any body else, may write what they please against me: i meaned to speak my mind, not to write controversy-trash seldom read but by the two opponents who write it. yet were i inclined to reply, like dr. robertson, i could say a little more. you have mentioned, sir, mr. dyer's fleece. i own i think it a very insipid poem.( ) his ruins of rome had great picturesque spirit, and his grongar hill was beautiful. his fleece i could never get through; and from thence i suppose never heard of dr. mackenzie. your idea of a collection of ballads for the cause of liberty is very public-spirited. i wish, sir, i could say i thought it would answer your view. liberty, like other good and bad principles, can never be taught the people but when it is taught them by faction. the mob will never sing lilibullero but in opposition to some other mob. however, if you pursue the thought, there is an entire treasure of that kind in the library of maudlin college, cambridge. it was collected by pepys, secretary of the admiralty, and dates from the battle of agincourt. give me leave to say, sir, that it is very comfortable to me to find gentlemen of your virtue and parts attentive to what is so little the object of public attention now. the extinction of faction, that happiness to which we owe so much of our glory and success, may not be without some inconveniences. a free nation, perhaps, especially when arms are become so essential to our existence as a free people, may want a little opposition: as it is a check that has preserved us so long, one cannot wholly think it dangerous; and though i would not be one to tap new resistance to a government with which i have no fault to find, yet it may not be unlucky hereafter, if those who do not wish so well to it, would a little show themselves. they are not strong enough to hurt; they may be of service by keeping ministers in awe. but all this is speculation, and flowed from the ideas excited in me by your letter, that is full of benevolence both to public and private. adieu! sir; believe that nobody has more esteem for you than is raised by each letter. ( ) now first collected. ( ) "fragments of ancient poetry, collected in the highlands of scotland, and translated from the gaelic, or erse language," the production of james macpherson; the first presentation to the world of that literary novelty, which was afterwards to excite so much discussion and dissension in the literary world.-e. ( ) dr. johnson was pretty much of walpole's opinion. "of the fleece," he says, "which never became popular, and is now universally neglected, i can say little that is likely to call it to attention. the woolcomber and the poet appear to me such discordant natures, that an attempt to bring them together is to couple the serpent with the fowl."-e. letter to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, feb. , (page ) herculaneum is arrived; caserta( ) is arrived: what magnificence you send me! my dear sir, i can but thank you, and thank you-- oh! yes, i can do more; greedy creature, i can put you in mind, that you must take care to send me the subsequent volumes of herculaneum as they appear, if ever they do appear, which i suppose is doubtful now that king carlos( ) is gone to spain. one thing pray observe, that i don't beg these scarce books of you, as a bribe to spur me on to obtain for you your extra-extraordinaries. mr. chute and i admire caserta; and he at least is no villanous judge of architecture; some of our english travellers abuse it; but there are far from striking faults: the general idea seems borrowed from inigo jones's whitehall, though without the glaring uglinesses, which i believe have been lent to inigo; those plans, i think, were supplied by lord burlington, kent, and others, to very imperfect sketches of the author. is caserta finished and furnished? were not the treasures of herculaneum to be deposited there? i am in the vein of drawing upon your benevolence, and shall proceed. young mr. pitt,( ) nephew of the pitt, is setting out for lisbon with lord kinnoul, and will proceed through granada to italy, with his friend lord strathmore;( ) not the son, i believe, of that poor mad lady strathmore( ) whom you remember at florence. the latter is much commended; i don't know him: mr. pitt is not only a most ingenious young man, but a most amiable one: he has already acted in the most noble style-i don't mean that he took a quarter of quebec, or invaded a bit of france, or has spoken in the house of commons better than demosthenes's nephew: but he has an odious father, and has insisted on glorious cuttings off of entails on himself, that his father's debts might be paid and his sisters provided for. my own lawyer,( ) who knew nothing of my being acquainted with him, spoke to me of him in raptures--no small merit in a lawyer to comprehend virtue in cutting off an entail when it was not to cheat; but indeed this lawyer was recommended to me by your dear brother --no wonder he is honest. you will now conceive that a letter i have given mr. pitt is not a mere matter of form, but an earnest suit to you to know one you will like so much. i should indeed have given it him, were it only to furnish you with an opportunity of ingratiating yourself with mr. pitt's nephew: but i address him to your heart. well! but i have heard of another honest lawyer! the famous polly, duchess of bolton,( ) is dead, having, after a life of merit, relapsed into her pollyhood. two years ago, at tunbridge, she picked up an irish surgeon. when she was dying, this fellow sent for a lawyer to make her will, but the man, finding who was to be her heir, instead of her children, refused to draw it. the court of chancery did furnish one other, not quite so scrupulous, and her three sons have but a thousand pounds apiece; the surgeon about nine thousand. i think there is some glimmering of peace! god send the world some repose from its woes! the king of prussia has writ to belleisle to desire the king of france will make peace for him: no injudicious step, as the distress of france will make them glad to oblige him. we have no other news, but that lord george sackville has at last obtained a court-martial. i doubt much whether he will find his account in it. one thing i know i dislike-a german aide-de-camp is to be an evidence! lord george has paid the highest compliment to mr. conway's virtue. being told, as an unlucky circumstance for him, that mr. conway was to be one of his judges, (but it is not so,) he replied, there was no man in england he should so soon desire of that number. and it is no mere compliment, for lord george has excepted against another of them--but he knew whatever provocation he may have given to mr. conway, whatever rivalship there has been between them, nothing could bias the integrity of the latter. there is going to be another court-martial on a mad lord charles hay,( ) who has foolishly demanded it; but it will not occupy the attention of the world like lord george's. there will soon be another trial of another sort on another madman, an earl ferrers, who has murdered his steward. he was separated by parliament from his wife, a very pretty woman, whom he married with no fortune, for the most groundless barbarity, and now killed his steward for having been evidence for her; but his story and person are too wretched and despicable to give you the detail. he will be dignified by a solemn trial in westminster-hall. don't you like the impertinence of the dutch? they have lately had a mudquake, and giving themselves terrafirma airs, call it an earthquake! don't you like much more our noble national charity? above two thousand pounds has been raised in london alone, besides what is collected in the country, for the french prisoners, abandoned by their monarch. must not it make the romans blush in their appian-way, who dragged their prisoners in triumph? what adds to this benevolence is, that we cannot contribute to the subsistence of our own prisoners in france; they conceal where they keep them, and use them cruelly to make them enlist. we abound in great charities: the distress of war seems to heighten rather than diminish them. there is a new one, not quite so certain of its answering, erected for those wretched women, called abroad les filles repenties. i was there the other night, and fancied myself in a convent. the marquis of buckingham and earl temple are to have the two vacant garters to-morrow. adieu! arlington street, th. i am this minute come to town, and find yours of jan. . pray, my dear child, don't compliment me any more upon my learning; there is nobody so superficial. except a little history, a little poetry, a little painting, and some divinity, i know nothing. how should i? i, who have always lived in the big busy world; who lie abed all the morning, calling it morning as long as you please; who sup in company; who have played at pharaoh half my life, and now at loo till two and three in the morning; who have always loved pleasure haunted auctions--in short, who don't know so much astronomy as would carry me to knightsbridge, nor more physic than a physician, nor in short any thing that is called science. if it were not that i lay up a little provision in summer, like the ant, i should be as ignorant as all the people i live with. how i have laughed when some of the magazines have called me the learned gentleman! pray don't be like the magazines. i see by your letter that you despair of peace; i almost do: there is but a gruff sort of answer from the woman of' russia to-day in the papers; but how should there be peace? if we are victorious, what is the king of prussia? will the distress of france move the queen of hungary? when we do make peace, how few will it content! the war was made for america, but the peace will be made for germany; and whatever geographers may pretend, crown-point lies somewhere in westphalia. again adieu! i don't like your rheumatism, and much less your plague. ( ) prints of the palace of caserta. ( ) don carlos, king of naples, who succeeded his half-brother ferdinand in the crown of spain. an interesting picture of the court of the king of the two sicilies at the time of his leaving naples, will be found in the chatham correspondence, in a letter from mr. stanier porten to mr. pitt. see vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) thomas, only son of thomas pitt of boconnock, eldest brother of the famous william pitt. [afterwards lord camelford. (gray, in a letter to dr. wharton, of the d of january, says, "mr. pitt (not the great, but the little one, my acquaintance) is setting out on his travels. he goes with my lord kinnoul to lisbon; then (by sea still) to cates; then up the guadalquiver to seville and cordova, and so perhaps to toledo, but certainly to grenada; and, after breathing the perfumed air of andalusia, and contemplating the remains of moorish magnificence, re-embarks at gibraltar or malaga, and sails to genoa. sure an extraordinary good way of passing a few winter months, and better than dragging through holland, germany, and switzerland, to the same place." a copy of mr. thomas pitt's manuscript diary of his tour to spain and portugal is in the possession of mr. bentley, the proprietor of this correspondence.-e.] ( ) john lyon, ninth earl of strathmore. he married in miss bowes, the great heiress, whose disgraceful adventures are so well known.-d. ( ) lady strathmore, rushing between her husband and a gentleman, with whom he had quarrelled and was fighting, and trying to hold the former, the other stabbed him in her -arms, on which she went mad, though not enough to be confined. ( ) his name was dagge. ( ) miss fenton, the first polly of the beggar's opera. charles duke of bolton took her off the stage, had children by her, and afterwards married her. ( ) lord charles hay, brother of the marquis of tweedale. letter to the rev. henry zouch. strawberry hill, february th, . (page ) sir, i deferred answering your last, as i was in hopes of being able to send you a sheet or two of my new work, but i find so many difficulties and so much darkness attending the beginning, that i can scarce say i have begun. i can only say in general, that i do not propose to go further back than i have sure footing; that is, i shall commence with what vertue had collected from our records, which, with regard to painting, do not date before henry iii.; and then from him there is a gap to henry vii. i shall supply that with a little chronology of intervening paintings, though, hitherto, i can find none of the two first edwards. from henry viii. there will be a regular succession of painters, short lives of whom i am enabled by vertue's mss. to write, and i shall connect them historically. i by no means mean to touch on foreign artists, unless they came over hither; but they are essential, for we had scarce any others tolerable. i propose to begin with the anecdotes of painting only, because, in that branch, my materials are by far most considerable. if i shall be able to publish this part, perhaps it may induce persons of curiosity and knowledge to assist me in the darker parts of the story touching our architects, statuaries, and engravers. but it is from the same kind friendship which has assisted me so liberally already, that i expect to draw most information; need i specify, sir, that i mean yours, when the various hints in your last letter speak so plainly for me? it is a pleasure to have any body one esteems agree with one's own sentiments, as you do strongly with mine about mr. hurd.( ) it is impossible not to own that he has sense and great knowledge--but sure he is a most disagreeable writer! he loads his thoughts with so many words, and those couched in so hard a style, and so void of all veracity, that i have no patience to read him. in one point. in the dialogues you mention, he is perfectly ridiculous. he takes infinite pains to make the world believe, upon his word, that they are the genuine productions of the speakers, and yet does not give himself the least trouble to counterfeit the style of any one of them. what was so easy as to imitate burnet? in his other work, the notes on horace, he is still more absurd. he cries up warburton's preposterous notes on shakspeare, which would have died of their own folly, though mr. edwards had not put them to death with the keenest wit in the world.( ) but what signifies any sense, when it takes warburton for a pattern, who, with much greater parts, has not been able to save himself from, or rather has affectedly involved himself in numberless absurdities?--who proved moses's legation by the sixth book of virgil;--a miracle (julian's earthquake), by proving it was none;--and who explained a recent poet (pope) by metaphysical notes, ten times more obscure than the text! as if writing were come to perfection, warburton and hurd are going back again; and since commentators, obscurity, paradoxes, and visions have been so long exploded, ay, and pedantry too, they seem to think that they shall have merit by reviving what was happily forgotten -, and yet these men have their followers, by that balance which compensates to one for what he misses from another. when an author writes clearly, he is imitated; and when obscurely, he is admired. adieu! ( ) who died bishop of worcester in . he was the author of many works, most of which are now little read, although they had a great vogue in their day. there is a great deal of justice in mr. walpole's criticism of him and his patron.-c. ( ) in the "canons of criticism."--e. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) the next time you see marshal botta, and are to act king of great britain, france, and ireland, you must abate about an hundredth thousandth part of the dignity of your crown. you are no more monarch of all ireland, than king o'neil, or king macdermoch is. louis xv. is sovereign of france, navarre, and carrickfergus. you will be mistaken if you think the peace is made, and that we cede this hibernian town, in order to recover minorca, or to keep quebec and louisbourg. to be sure, it is natural you should think so: how should so victorious and heroic nation cease to enjoy any of its possessions, but to save christian blood? oh! i know, you will suppose there has been another insurrection, and that it is king john( ) of bedford, and not king george of brunswick, that has lost this town. why, i own you are a great politician, and see things in a moment-and no wonder, considering how long you have been employed in negotiations; but for once all your sagacity is mistaken. indeed, considering the total destruction of the maritime force of france, and that the great mechanics and mathematicians of this age have not invented a flying bridge to fling over the sea and land from the coast of france to the north of ireland, it was not easy to conceive how the french should conquer carrickfergus--and yet they have. but how i run on! not reflecting that by this time the old pretender must have hobbled through florence on his way to ireland, to take possession of this scrap of his recovered domains; but i may as well tell you at once, for to be sure you and the loyal body of english in tuscany will slip over all this exordium to come to the account of so extraordinary a revolution. well, here it is. last week monsieur thurot--oh! now you are au fait!--monsieur thurot, as i was saying, landed last week in the isle of islay, the capital province belonging to a great scotch king,( ) who is so good as generally to pass the winter with his friends here in london. monsieur thurot had three ships, the crews of which burnt two ships belonging to king george, and a house belonging to his friend the king of argyll--pray don't mistake; by his friend( ) i mein king george's, not thurot's friend. when they had finished this campaign, they sailed to carrickfergus, a poorish town, situated in the heart of the protestant cantons. they immediately made a moderate demand of about twenty articles of provisions, promising to pay for them; for you know it is the way of modern invasions( ) to make them cost as much as possible to oneself, and as little to those one invades. if this was not complied with, they threatened to burn the town, and then march to belfast, which is much richer. we were sensible of this civil proceedings and not to be behindhand, agreed to it; but somehow or other this capitulation was broken; on which a detachment (the whole invasion consists of one thousand men) attack the place. we shut the gates, but after the battle of quebec it is impossible that so great a people should attend to such trifles as locks and bolts, accordingly there were none--and as if there were no gates neither, the two armies fired through them--if this is a blunder, remember i am describing an irish war. i forgot to give you the numbers of the irish army. it consisted but of seventy-two, under lieut.-colonel jennings, a wonderful brave man--too brave, in short, to be very judicious. unluckily our ammunition was soon spent, for it is not above a year that there have been any apprehensions for ireland, and as all that part of the country are most protestantly loyal, it was not thought necessary to arm people who would fight till they die for their religion. when the artillery was silenced, the garrison thought the best way of saving the town was by flinging it at the heads of the besiegers; accordingly they poured volleys of brickbats at the french, whose commander, monsieur flobert, was mortally knocked down, and his troops began to give way. however, general jennings thought it most prudent to retreat to the castle, and the french again advanced. four or five raw recruits still bravely kept the gates, when the garrison, finding no more gunpowder in the castle than they had had in the town, and not near so good a brick-kiln, sent to desire to surrender. general thurot accordingly made them prisoners of war, and plundered the town. end of the siege of carrickfergus. you will perhaps ask what preparations have been made to recover this loss. the, viceroy immediately despatched general fitzwilliam with four regiments of foot and three of horse against the invaders, appointing to overtake them in person at newry; but -@is i believe he left bladen's caesar, and bland's military discipline behind him in england, which he used to study in the camp at blandford, i fear he will not have his campaign equipage ready soon enough. my lord anson too has sent nine ships, though indeed he does not think they will arrive time enough. your part, my dear sir, will be very easy: you will only have to say that it is nothing, while it lasts; and the moment it is over, you must say it was an embarkation of ten thousand men. i will punctually let you know how to vary your dialect. mr. pitt is in bed very ill with the gout. lord george sackville was put under arrest to-day. his trial comes on to-morrow, but i believe will be postponed, as the court-martial will consult the judges, whether a man who is not in the army, may be tried as an officer. the judges will answer yes, for how can a point that is not common sense, not be common law! lord ferrers is in the tower; so you see the good-natured people of england will not want their favourite amusement, executions- -not to mention, that it will be very hard if the irish war don't furnish some little diversion. my lord northampton frequently asks me about you. oh! i had forgot, there is a dreadful mr. dering come over, who to show that he has not been spoiled by his travels, got drunk the first day he appeared, and put me horridly out of countenance about my correspondence with you--for mercy's sake take care how you communicate my letters to such cubs. i will send you no more invasions, if you read them to bears and bear-leaders. seriously, my dear child, i don't mean to reprove you; i know your partiality to me, and your unbounded benignity to every thing english; but i sweat sometimes, when i find that i have been corresponding for two or three months with young derings. for clerks and postmasters, i can't help it, and besides, they never tell one they have seen one's letters; but i beg you will at most tell them my news, but without my name, or my words. adieu! if i bridle you, believe that i know that it is only your heart that runs away with you. ( ) john duke of bedford, lord lieutenant of ireland. ( ) archibald earl of islay and duke of argyle. ( ) the duke of argyle had been suspected of temporizing in the last rebellion. ( ) alluding to our expensive invasions on the coast of france. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, march , . (page ) never was any romance of such short duration as monsieur thurot's! instead of the waiting for the viceroy's army, and staying to see whether it had any ammunition, or was only armed with brickbats `a la carrickfergienne, he re-embarked on the th, taking along with him the mayor and three others--i suppose, as proofs of his conquest. the duke of bedford had sent notice of' the invasion to kinsale, where lay three or four of our best frigates. they instantly sailed, and came up with the flying invaders in the irish channel. you will see the short detail of the action in the gazette; but, as the letter was written by captain elliot himself, you will not see there, that he with half the number of thurot's crew, boarded the latter's vessel. thurot was killed, and his pigmy navy all taken and carried into the isle of man. it is an entertaining episode; but think what would have happened, if the whole of the plan had taken place -it the destined time. the negligence of the duke of bedford's administration has appeared so gross, that one may believe his very kingdom would have been lost, if conflans had not been beat. you will see, by the deposition of ensign hall, published in all our papers, that the account of the siege of carrickfergus, which i sent you in my last, was not half so ridiculous as the reality--because, as that deponent said, i was furnished with no papers but my memory. the general flobert, i am told, you may remember at florence; he was then very mad, and was to have fought mallet.--but was banished from tuscany. some years since he was in england; and met mallet at lord chesterfield's, but without acknowledging one another. the next day flobert asked the earl if mallet had mentioned him?--no-"il a donc," said flobert, "beaucoup de retenue, car surement ce qu'il pourroit dire de moi, ne seroit pas `a mon avantage."--it was pretty, and they say he is now grown an agreeable and rational man. the judges have given their opinion that the court-martial on lord george sackville is legal; so i suppose it will proceed on thursday. i receive yours of the th of last month: i wish you had given me any account of your headaches that i could show to ward. he will no more comprehend nervous, than the physicians do who use the word. send me an exact description; if he can do you no good, at least it will be a satisfaction to me to have consulted him. i wish, my dear child, that what you say at the end of your letter, of appointments and honours, was not as chronical as your headaches-that is a thing you may long complain of-indeed there i can consult nobody. i have no dealings with either our state-doctors or statequacks. i only know that the political ones are so like the medicinal ones, that after the doctors had talked nonsense for years, while we daily grew worse, the quacks ventured boldly, and have done us wonderful good. i should not dislike to have you state your case to the latter, though i cannot advise it, for the regular physicians are daintily jealous; nor could i carry it, for when they know i would take none of their medicines myself, they would not much attend to me consulting them for others, nor would it be decent, nor should i care to be seen in their shop. adieu! p. s. there are some big news from the east indies. i don't know what, except that the hero clive has taken mazulipatam and the great mogul's grandmother. i suppose she will be brought over and put in the tower with the shahgoest, the strange indian beast that mr. pitt gave to the king this winter. .letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, march , . (page ) i have a good mind to have mr. sisson tried by a court-martial, in order to clear my own character for punctuality. it is time immemorial since he promised me the machine and the drawing in six weeks. after above half of time immemorial was elapsed, he came and begged for ten guineas. your brother and i called one another to a council of war, and at last gave it him nemine contradicente. the moment your hurrying letter arrived, i issued out a warrant and took sisson up, who, after all his promises, was guilty by his own confession, of not having begun the drawing. however, after scolding him black and blue, i have got it from him, have consigned it to your brother james, and you will receive it, i trust, along with this. i hope too time enough for the purposes it is to serve, and correct; if it is not, i shall be very sorry. you shall have the machine as soon as possible, but that must go by sea. i shall execute your commission about stoschino( ) much better; he need not fear my receiving him well, if he has virt`u to sell,--i am only afraid, in that case, of receiving him too well. you know what a dupe i am when i like any thing. i shall handle your brother james as roughly as i did sisson--six months without writing to you! sure he must turn black in the face, if he has a drop of brotherly ink in his veins. as to your other brother,( ) he is so strange a man, that is, so common a one;, that i am not surprised at any thing he does or does not do. bless your stars that you are not here, to be worn out with the details of lord george's court-martial! one hears of nothing else. it has already lasted much longer than could be conceived, and now the end of it is still at a tolerable distance. the colour of it is more favourable for him than it looked at first. prince ferdinand's narrative has proved to set out with a heap of lies. there is an old gentleman( ) of the same family who has spared no indecency to give weight to them--but, you know, general officers are men of strict honour, and nothing can bias them. lord charles hay's court-martial is dissolved, by the death of one of the members--and as no german interest is concerned to ruin him, it probably will not be re-assumed. lord ferrers's trial is fixed for the th of next month. adieu! p. s. don't mention it from me, but if you have a mind you may make your court to my lady orford, by announcing the ancient barony of clinton, which is fallen to her, by the death of the last incumbentess.( ) ( ) nephew of baron stosch, a well-known virtuoso and antiquary, who died at florence. ( ) edward louisa mann, the eldest brother. ( ) george the second. ( ) mrs. fortescue, sister of hugh last lord clinton. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) i should have thought that you might have learnt by this time, that when a tradesman promises any thing on monday, or saturday, or any particular day of the week, he means any monday or any saturday of any week, as nurses quiet children and their own consciences by the refined salvo of to-morrow is a new day. when mr. smith's saturday and the frame do arrive, i will pay the one and send you the other. lord george's trial is not near being finished. by its draggling beyond the term of the old mutiny-bill, they were forced to make out a new warrant: this lost two days, as all the depositions were forced to be read over again to, and resworn by, the witnesses; then there will be a contest, whether sloper( ) shall re-establish his own credit by pawning it farther. lord ferrers comes on the stage on the sixteenth of next month. i breakfasted the day before yesterday at elia laelia chudleigh's. there was a concert for prince edward's birthday, and at three, a vast cold collation, and all the town. the house is not fine, nor in good taste, but loaded with finery. execrable varnished pictures, chests, cabinets, commodes, tables, stands, boxes, riding on one another's backs, and loaded with terrenes, filigree, figures, and every thing upon earth. every favour she has bestowed is registered by a bit of dresden china. there is a glass-case full of enamels, eggs, ambers, lapis lazuli, cameos, toothpick-cases, and all kinds of trinkets, things that she told me were her playthings; another cupboard, full of the finest japan, and candlesticks and vases of rock crystal, ready to be thrown down, in every corner. but of all curiosities, are the conveniences in every bedchamber: great mahogany projections, with brass handles, cocks, etc. i could not help saying, it was the loosest family i ever saw. adieu! ( ) lieutenant-colonel sloper, of bland's dragoons. letter to sir. david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, april , . (page ) sir, as i have very little at present to trouble you with myself, i should have deferred writing, till a better opportunity, if it were not to satisfy the curiosity of a friend; a friend whom you, sir, will be glad to have made curious, as you originally pointed him out as a likely person to be charmed with the old irish poetry you sent me. it is mr. gray, who is an enthusiast about those poems, and begs me to put the following queries to you; which i will do in his own words, and i may say truly, poeta loquitur. "i am so charmed with the two specimens of erse poetry, that i cannot help giving you the trouble to inquire a little farther about them, and should wish to see a few lines of the original, that i may form some slight idea of the language, the measure, and the rhythm. "is there any thing known of the author or authors, and of what antiquity are they supposed to be? "is there any more to be had of equal beauty, or at all approaching to it? "i have been often told, that the poem called hardykanute (which i always admired and still admire) was the work of somebody that lived a few years ago.( ) this i do not at all believe, though it has evidently been retouched in places by some modern hand; but, however, i am authorized by this report to ask, whether the two poems in question are certainly antique and genuine. i make this inquiry in quality of an antiquary, and am not otherwise concerned about it; for if i were sure that any one now living in scotland had written them, to divert himself and laugh at the credulity of the world, i would undertake a journey into the highlands only for the pleasure of seeing him." you see, sir, how easily you may make our greatest southern bard travel northward to visit a brother. young translator had nothing to do but to own a forgery, and mr. gray is ready to pack up his lyre, saddle pegasus, and set out directly. but seriously, he,' mr. mason, my lord lyttelton, and one or two more, whose taste the world allows, are in love with your erse elegies - i cannot say in general they are so much admired--but mr. gray alone is worth satisfying. the "siege of aquileia," of which you ask, pleased less than mr. home's other plays.( ) in my own opinion, douglas far exceeds both the other. mr. home seems to have a beautiful talent for painting genuine nature and the manners of his country. there was so little nature in the manners of both greeks and romans, that i do not wonder at his success being less brilliant when he tried those subjects; and, to say the truth, one is a little weary of them. at present, nothing is talked of, nothing admired, but what i cannot help calling a very insipid and tedious performance: it is a kind of novel, called "the life and opinions of tristram shandy;" the great humour of which consists in the whole narration always going backwards. i cannot conceive a man saying that it would be droll to write a book in that manner, but have no notion of his persevering in executing it. it makes one smile two or three times at the beginnings but in recompense makes one yawn for two hours. the characters are tolerably kept up, but the humour is for ever attempted and missed. the best thing in it is a sermon, oddly coupled with a good deal of bawdy, and both the composition of a clergyman. the man's head, indeed, was a little turned before, now topsy-turvy with his success and fame.( ) dodsley has given him six hundred and fifty pounds for the second edition and two more volumes (which i suppose will reach backwards to his great-great-grandfather); lord falconberg, a donative of one hundred and sixty pounds a-year; and bishop warburton gave him a purse of gold and this compliment (which happened to be a contradiction), "that it was quite an original composition, and in the true cervantic vein:" the only copy that ever was an original, except in painting, where they all pretend to be so. warburton, however, not content with this, recommended the book to the bench of bishops, and told them mr. sterne, the author, was the english rabelais. they had never heard of such a writer. adieu! ( ) now first collected. ( ) it was written by mrs. halket of wardlaw. mr. lockhart stated, that on the blank leaf of his copy of allan ramsay's "evergreen," sir walter scott has written "hardyknute was the first poem that i ever learnt, the last that i shall forget."-e. ( ) it came out at drury-lane, but met with small success.-e. ( ) gray, in a letter to wharton, of the d of april, says, "tristram shandy is an object of admiration, the man as well as the book. one is invited to dinner, where he dines, a fortnight beforehand. his portrait is done by reynolds, and now engraving." he adds, in another letter, "there is much good fun in tristram, and humour sometimes hit and sometimes missed. have you read his sermons (with his own comic figure at the head of them)? they are in the style, i think, most proper for the pulpit, and show a very strong imagination and a sensible heart: but you see him often tottering on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of his audience."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) well, this big week is over! lord george's sentence, after all the communications of how terrible it was, is ended in proclaiming him unfit for the king's service. very moderate, in comparison of what was intended and desired, and truly not very severe, considering what was proved. the other trial, lord ferrers's, lasted three days. you have seen the pomp and awfulness of such doings, so i will not describe it to you. the judge and criminal were far inferior to those you have seen. for the lord high steward( ) he neither had any dignity nor affected any; nay, he held it all so cheap, that he said at his own table t'other day, "i will not send for garrick and learn to act a part." at first i thought lord ferrers shocked, but in general he behaved rationally and coolly; though it was a strange contradiction to see a man trying by his own sense, to prove himself out of his senses. it was more shocking to see his two brothers brought to prove the lunacy in their own blood; in order to save their brother's life. both are almost as ill-looking men as the earl; one of them is a clergyman, suspended by the bishop of london for being a methodist; the other a wild vagabond, whom they call in the country, ragged and dangerous. after lord ferrers was condemned, he made an excuse for pleading madness, to which he said he was forced by his family. he is respited till monday-fortnight, and will then be hanged, i believe in the tower; and, to the mortification of the peerage, is to be anatomized, conformably to the late act for murder. many peers were absent; lord foley and lord jersey attended only the first day; and lord huntingdon, and my nephew orford (in compliment to his mother), as related to the prisoner, withdrew without voting. but never was a criminal more literally tried by his peers, for the three persons, who interested themselves most in the examination, were at least as mad as he; lord ravensworth, lord talbot, and lord fortescue. indeed, the first was almost frantic. the seats of the peeresses were not near full, and most of the beauties absent; the duchess of hamilton and my niece waldegrave, you know, lie in; but, to the amazement of every body, lady coventry was there; and what surprised me much more, looked as well as ever. i sat next but one to her, and should not have asked if she had been ill--yet they are positive she has few weeks to live. she and lord bolingbroke seemed to have different thoughts, and were acting over all the old comedy of eyes. i sat in lord lincoln's gallery; you and i know the convenience of it; i thought it no great favour to ask, and he very obligingly sent me a ticket immediately, and ordered me to be placed in one of the best boxes. lady augusta was in the same gallery; the duke of york and his young brothers were in the prince of wales's box, who was not there, no more than the princess, princess emily, nor the duke. it was an agreeable humanity in my friend--the duke of york; he would not take his seat in the house before the trial, that he might not vote in it. there are so many young peers, that the show was fine even in that respect; the duke of richmond was the finest figure; the duke of marlborough, with the best countenance in the world, looked clumsy in his robes; he had new ones, having given away his father's to the valet de chambre. there were others not at all so indifferent about the antiquity of theirs; lord huntingdon's, lord abergavenny's, and lord castlehaven's scarcely hung on their backs; the former they pretend were used at the trial of the queen of scots. but all these honours were a little defaced by seeing lord temple, as lord privy seal, walk at the head of the peerage. who, at the last trials, would have believed a prophecy, that the three first men at the next should be henley the lawyer, bishop secker, and dick grenville. the day before the trial, the duke of bolton fought a duel at marylebone with stewart who lately stood for hampshire; the latter was wounded in the arm, and the former fell down.( ) adieu! ( ) robert henley, afterwards earl of northington.-e. ( ) "here has just been a duel between the duke of bolton and mr. stewart, a candidate for the county of hampshire at the late election: what the quarrel was i do not know; but, they met near marylebone, and the duke, in making a pass, overreached himself, fell down, and hurt his knee. the other bid him get up, but he could not; then he bid him ask his life, but he would not; so he let him alone, and that's all. mr. stewart was slightly wounded." gray, vol. iii. p. .-e. letter to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, april , . (page ) the history of lord george sackville, which has interested us so much and so long, is at last at an end-,gently enough, considering who were his parties, and what has been proved. he is declared unfit to serve the king in a military capacity-but i think this is not the last we shall hear of whatever were his deficiencies in the day of battle, he has at least showed no want of spirit, either in pushing on his trial or during it. his judgment in both was perhaps a little more equivocal. he had a formal message that he must abide the event whatever it should be. he accepted that issue, and during the course of the examination, attacked judge, prosecutor and evidence. indeed, a man cannot be said to want spirit, who could show so much in his circumstances.( ) i think, without much heroism, i could sooner have led up the cavalry to the charge, than have gone to whitehall to be worried as he was; nay, i should have thought with less danger of my life. but he is a peculiar man; and i repeat it, we have hot heard the last of him. you will find that by serving the king he understands in a very literal sense; and there is a young gentleman( ) who it is believed intends those words shall not have a more extensive one. we have had another trial this week, still more solemn, though less interesting, and with more serious determination: i mean that of lord ferrers. i have formerly described this solemnity to you. the behaviour, character, and appearance of the criminal, by no means corresponded to the dignity of the show. his figure is bad and villanous, his crime shocking. he would not plead guilty, and yet had nothing to plead; and at last to humour his family, pleaded madness against his inclination: it was moving to see two of his brothers brought to depose the lunacy in their blood. after he was condemned, he excused himself for having used that plea. he is to be hanged in a fortnight, i believe, in the tower, and his body to be delivered to the surgeons, according to the tenour of the new act of parliament for murder. his mother was to present a petition for his life to the king to-day. there were near an hundred and forty peers present; my lord keeper was lord high steward, but was not at all too dignified a personage to sit on such a criminal: indeed he gave himself no trouble to figure. i will send you both trials as soon as they are published. it is astonishing with what order these shows are conducted. neither within the hall nor without was there the least disturbance,( ) though the one so full, and the whole way from charing-cross to the house of lords was lined with crowds. the foreigners were struck with the awfulness of the proceeding-it is new to their ideas, to see such deliberate justice, and such dignity of nobility, mixed with no respect for birth in the catastrophe, and still more humiliated by anatomizing the criminal. i am glad you received safe my history of thurot: as the accounts were authentic, they must have been useful and amusing to you. i don't expect more invasions, but i fear our correspondence will still have martial events to trade in, though there are such christian professions going about the world. i don't believe their pacific majesties will waive a campaign, for which they are all prepared, and by the issue of which they will all hope to improve their terms. you know we have got a new duke of york( ) and were to have had several new peers, but hitherto it has stopped at him and the lord keeper. adieu! p. s. i must not forget to recommend to you a friend of mr. chute, who will ere long be at florence, in his way to naples for his health. it is mr. morrice, clerk of the green cloth, heir of sir william morrice, and of vast wealth. i gave a letter lately for a young gentleman whom i never saw, and consequently not meaning to incumber you with him, i did not mention him particularly in my familiar letters. ( ) gray, in a letter of the d, gives the following account of the result of this trial. "the old pundles that sat on lord george sackville have at last hammered out their sentence. he is declared disobedient, and unfit for all military command. what he will do with himself, nobody guesses. the unembarrassed countenance, the looks of revenge, contempt, and superiority that he bestowed on his accusers were the admiration of all, but his usual talent and art did not appear; in short, his cause would not support him. you may think, perhaps, he intends to go abroad and hide his head; au contraire, all the world visits him on his condemnation." works, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) george prince of wales. ( ) "i was not present," says gray, "but mason was in the duke of ancaster's gallery. and in the greatest danger; for the cell underneath him (to which the prisoner retires) was on fire during the trial, and the duke, with the workmen, by sawing away some timbers, and other assistance, contrived to put it out without any alarm to the court." works, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) prince edward, second son of frederic prince of wales.-d. letter to the rev. henry zouch. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) indeed, sir, you have been misinformed; i had not the least hand in the answer to my lord bath's rhapsody: it is true the booksellers sold it as mine, and it was believed so till people had 'read it, because my name and that of pulteney had been apt to answer one another, and because that war was dirtily revived by the latter in his libel; but the deceit soon vanished; the answer a appeared to have much more knowledge of the subject than i have, and a good deal more temper than i should probably have exerted, if i had thought it worth while to proceed to an answer; but though my lord bath is unwilling to enter lists in which he has suffered so much shame, i am by no means fond of entering them; nor was there any honour to be acquired, either from the contest or the combatant. my history of artists proceeds very leisurely; i find the subject dry and uninteresting, and the materials scarce worth arranging: yet i think i shall execute my purpose, at least as far as relates to painters. it is a work i can scribble at any time, and on which i shall bestow little pains; things that are so soon forgotten should not take one up too much. i had consulted mr. lethinkai, who told me he had communicated to mr. vertue what observations he had made. i believe they were scanty, for i find small materials relating to architects among his manuscripts. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, may , . (page ) the extraordinary history of lord ferrers is closed: he was executed yesterday. madness, that in other countries is a disorder, is here a systematic character; it does not hinder people from forming a plan of conduct, and from even dying agreeably to it. you remember how the last ratcliffe died with the utmost propriety; so did this horrid lunatic, coolly and sensibly. his own and his wife's relations had asserted that he would tremble at last. no such thing; he shamed heroes. he bore the solemnity of a pompous and tedious procession of above two hours, from the tower to tyburn, with as much tranquillity as if he was only going to his own burial, not to his own execution. he even talked on indifferent subjects in the passage; and if the sheriff and the chaplains had not thought that they had parts to act, too, and had not consequently engaged him in most particular conversation, he did not seem to think it necessary to talk on the occasion; he went in his wedding-clothes, marking the only remaining impression on -his mind. the ceremony he was in a hurry to have over: he was stopped at the gallows by the vast crowd, but got out of his coach as soon as he could, and was but seven minutes on the scaffold, which was hung with black, and prepared by the undertaker of his family at their expense. there was a new contrivance for sinking the stage under him, which did not play well; and he suffered a little by the delay, but was dead in four minutes. the mob was decent, and admired him, and almost pitied him; so they would lord george, whose execution they are so angry at missing. i suppose every highwayman will now preserve the blue handkerchief he has about his neck when he is married, that he may die like a lord. with all his madness, he was not mad enough to be struck with his aunt huntingdon's sermons. the methodists have nothing to brag of his conversion, though whitfield prayed for him and preached about him. even tyburn has been above their reach. i have not heard that lady fanny dabbled with his soul; but i believe she is prudent enough to confine her missionary zeal to subjects where the body may be her perquisite. when am i likely to see you? the delightful rain is come--we look and smell charmingly. adieu! letter to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) what will your italians say to a peer of england, an earl of one of the best of families, tried for murdering his servant, with the utmost dignity and solemnity, and then hanged at the common place of execution for highwaymen, and afterwards anatomized? this must seem a little odd to them, especially as they have not lately had a sixtus quinttis. i have hitherto spoken of lord ferrers to you as a mad beast, a mad assassin, a low wretch, about whom i had no curiosity. if i now am going to give you a minute account of him, don't think me so far part of an english mob, as to fall in love with a criminal merely because i have had the pleasure of his execution. i certainly did not see it, nor should have been struck with more intrepidity--i never adored heroes, whether in a cart or a triumphal car--but there has been such wonderful coolness and sense in all this man's last behaviour, that it has made me quite inquisitive about him --not at all pity him. i only reflect, what i have often thought, how little connexion there is between any man's sense and his sensibility--so much so, that instead of lord ferrers having any ascendant over his passions, i am disposed to think, that his drunkenness, which was supposed to heighten his ferocity, has rather been a lucky circumstance-what might not a creature of such capacity, and who stuck at nothing, have done, if his abilities had not been drowned in brandy? i will go back a little into his history. his misfortunes, as he called them, were dated from his marriage, though he has been guilty of horrid excesses unconnected with matrimony, and is even believed to have killed a groom -,,,he died a year after receiving a cruel beating from him. his wife, a very pretty woman, was sister of sir william meredith,( ) had no fortune, and he says, trepanned him into marriage, having met him drunk at an assembly in the country, and kept him so till the ceremony was over. as he always kept himself so afterwards, one need not impute it to her. in every other respect, and one scarce knows how to blame her for wishing to be a countess, her behaviour was unexceptionable.( ) he had a mistress before and two or three children, and her he took again after the separation from his wife. he was fond of both and used both ill: his wife so ill, always carrying pistols to bed, and threatening to kill her before morning, beating her, and jealous without provocation, that she got separated from him by act of parliament, which appointed receivers of his estate in order to secure her allowance. this he could not bear. however, he named his steward for one, but afterwards finding out that this johnson had paid her fifty pounds without his knowledge, and suspecting him of being in the confederacy against him, he determined, when he failed of opportunities of murdering his wife, to kill the steward, which he effected as you have heard. the shocking circumstances attending the murder, i did not tell you-indeed, while he was alive, i scarce liked to speak my opinion even to you; for though i felt nothing for him, i thought it wrong to propagate any notions that might interfere with mercy, if he could be then thought deserving it--and not knowing into what hands my letter might pass before it reached yours, i chose to be silent, though nobody could conceive greater horror than i did for him at his trial. having shot the steward at three in the afternoon, he persecuted him till one in the morning, threatening again to murder him, attempting to tear off his bandages, and terrifying him till in that misery he was glad to obtain leave to be removed to his own house; and when the earl heard the poor creature was dead, he said he gloried in having killed him. you cannot conceive the shock this evidence gave the court-many of the lords were standing to look at him-at once they turned from him with detestation. i had heard that on the former affair in the house of lords, he had behaved with great shrewdness--no such thing appeared at his trial. it is now pretended, that his being forced by his family against his inclination to plead madness, prevented his exerting his parts- -but he has not acted in any thing as if his family had influence over him--consequently his reverting to much good sense leaves the whole inexplicable. the very night he received sentence, he played at picquet with the warders and would play for money, and would have continued to play every evening, but they refuse. lord cornwallis, governor of the tower, shortened his allowance of wine after his conviction, agreeably to the late strict acts on murder. this he much disliked, and at last pressed his brother the clergyman to intercede that at least he might have more porter; for, said he, what i have is not a draught. his brother represented against it, but at last consenting (and he did obtain it)--then said the earl, "now is as good a time as any to take leave of you--adieu!" a minute journal of his whole behaviour has been kept, to see if there was any madness in it. dr. munro since the trial has made -,in affidavit of his lunacy. the washingtons were certainly a very frantic race, and i have no doubt of madness in him, but not of a pardonable sort. two petitions from his mother and all his family were presented to the king, who said, as the house of lords had unanimously found him guilty, he would not interfere. last week my lord keeper very good-naturedly got out of a gouty bed to present another: the king would not hear him. "sir," said the keeper, "i don't come to petition for mercy or respite; but that the four thousand pounds which lord ferrers has in india bonds may be permitted to go according to his disposition of it to his mistress' children, and the family of the murdered man." "with all my heart," said the king, "i have no objection; but i will have no message carried to him from me." however, this grace was notified to him and gave him great satisfaction: but unfortunately it now appears to be law, that it is forfeited to the sheriff of the county where the fact was committed; though when my lord hardwicke was told that he had disposed of it, he said, to be sure he may before conviction. dr. pearce, bishop of rochester,( ) offered his service to him: he thanked the bishop, but said, as his own brother was a clergyman, he chose to have him. yet he had another relation who has been much more busy about his repentance. i don't know whether you have ever heard that one of the singular characters here is a countess of huntingdon,( ) aunt of lord ferrers. she is the saint theresa of the methodists. judge how violent bigotry must be in such mad blood! the earl, by no means disposed to be a convert, let her visit him, and often sent for her, as it was more company; but he grew sick of her, and complained that she was enough to provoke any body. she made her suffragan, whitfield, pray for and preach about him, and that impertinent fellow told his enthusiasts in his sermon, that my lord's heart was stone. the earl wanted much to see his mistress: my lord cornwallis, as simple an old woman as my lady huntingdon herself, consulted her whether he should permit it. "oh! by no means; it would be letting him die in adultery!" in one thing she was more sensible. he resolved not to take leave of his children, four girls, but on the scaffold, and then to read to them a paper he had drawn up, very bitter on the family of meredith, and on the house of lords for -the first transaction. this my lady huntingdon persuaded him to drop, and he took leave of his children the day before. he wrote two letters in the preceding week to lord cornwallis on some of these requests - they were cool and rational, and concluded with desiring him not to mind the absurd requests of his (lord ferrers's) family in his behalf. on the last morning he dressed himself in his wedding clothes, and said, he thought this, at least, as good an occasion of putting them on as that for which they were first made. he wore them to tyburn. this marked the strong impression on his mind. his mother wrote to his wife in a weak angry style, telling her to intercede for him as her duty, and to swear to his madness. but this was not so easy; in all her cause before the lords, she had persisted that he was not mad. sir william meredith, and even lady huntingdon had prophesied that his courage would fail him at last, and had so much foundation, that it is certain lord ferrers had often been beat:- -but the methodists were to get no honour by him. his courage rose where it was most likely to fail,-an unlucky circumstance to prophets, especially when they have had the prudence to have all kind of probability on their side. even an awful procession of above two hours, with that mixture of pageantry, shame, and ignominy, nay, and of delay, could not dismount his resolution. he set out from the tower at nine, amidst crowds, thousands. first went a string of constables; then one of the sheriffs, in his chariot and six, the horses dressed with ribands; next lord ferrers, in his own landau and six, his coachman crying all the way; guards at each side; the other sheriffs chariot followed empty, with a mourning coach-and-six, a hearse, and the horse guards. observe, that the empty chariot was that of the other sheriff, who was in the coach with the prisoner, and who was vaillant, the french bookseller in the strand. how will you decipher all these strange circumstances to florentines? a bookseller in robes and in mourning, sitting as a magistrate by the side of the earl; and in the evening, every -body going to vaillant's shop to hear the particulars. i wrote to him '. as he serves me, for the account: but he intends to print it, and i will send it you with some other things, and the trial. lord ferrers at first talked on indifferent matters, and observing the prodigious confluence of people, (the blind was drawn up on his side,) he said,--"but they never saw a lord hanged, and perhaps will never see another;" one of the dragoons was thrown by his horse's leg entangling in the hind wheel: lord ferrers expressed much concern, and said, "i hope there will be no death to-day but mine," and was pleased when vaillant told him the man was not hurt. vaillant made excuses to him on his office. "on the contrary," said the earl, "i am much obliged to you. i feared the disagreeableness of the duty might make you depute your under-sheriff. as you are so good as to execute it yourself, i am persuaded the dreadful apparatus will be conducted with more expedition." the chaplain of the tower, who sat backwards, then thought it his turn to speak, and began to talk on religion; but lord ferrers received it impatiently. however, the chaplain persevered, and said, he wished to bring his lordship to some confession or acknowledgment of contrition for a crime so repugnant to the laws of god and man, and wished him to endeavour to do whatever could be done in so short a time. the earl replied, "he had done every thing he proposed to do with regard to god and man; and as to discourses on religion, you and i, sir," said he to the clergyman, "shall probably not agree on that subject. the passage is very short: you will not have time to convince me, nor i to refute you; it cannot be ended before we arrive." the clergyman still insisted, and urged, that. at least, the world would expect some satisfaction. lord ferrers replied, with some impatience, "sir, what have i to do with the world? i am going to pay a forfeit life, which my country has thought proper to take from me--what do i care now what the world thinks of me? but, sir, since you do desire some confession, i will confess one thing to you; i do believe there is a god. as to modes of worship, we had better not talk on them. i always thought lord bolingbroke in the wrong, to publish his notions on religion: i will not fall into the same error." the chaplain, seeing sensibly that it was in vain to make any more attempts, contented himself with representing to him, that it would be expected from one of his calling, and that even decency required, that some prayer should be used on the scaffold, and asked his leave, at least to repeat the lord's prayer there. lord ferrers replied, "i always thought it a good prayer; you may use it if you please." while these discourses were passing, the procession was stopped by the crowd. the earl said he was dry, and wished for some wine and water. the sheriff said, he was sorry to be obliged to refuse him. by late regulations they were enjoined not to let prisoners drink from the place of imprisonment to that of execution, as great indecencies had been formerly committed by the lower species of criminals getting drunk; "and though," said he, "my lord, i might think myself excusable in overlooking this order out of regard to a person of your lordship's rank, yet there is another reason which, i am sure, will weigh with you;-your lordship is sensible of the greatness of the crowd; we must draw up to some tavern; the confluence would be so great, that it would delay the expedition which your lordship seems so much to desire." he replied, he was satisfied, adding, "then i must be content with this," and took some pigtail tobacco out of his pocket. as they went on, a letter was thrown into his coach; it was from his mistress, to tell him, it was impossible, from the crowd, for her to get up to the spot where he had appointed her to meet and take leave of him, but that she was in a hackney-coach of such a number. he begged vaillant to order his officers to try to get the hackney-coach up to his, "my lord," said vaillant, you have behaved so well hitherto, that i think it is pity to venture unmanning yourself." he was struck, and was satisfied without seeing her. as they drew nigh, he said, "i perceive we are almost arrived; it is time to do what little more i have to do;" and then taking out his watch, gave it to vaillant, desiring him to accept it as a mark of his gratitude for his kind behaviour, adding, "it is scarce worth your acceptance; but i have nothing else; it is a stop-watch, and a pretty accurate one." he gave five guineas to the chaplain, and took out as much for the executioner. then giving vaillant a pocket-book, he begged him to deliver it to mrs. clifford his mistress, with what it contained, and with his most tender regards, saying, "the key of it is to the watch, but i am persuaded you are too much a gentleman to open it." he destined the remainder of the money in his purse to the same person, and with the same tender regards. when they came to tyburn, his coach was detained some minutes by the conflux of people; but as soon as the door was opened, he stepped out readily and mounted the scaffold: it was hung with black, by the undertaker, and at the expense of his family. under the gallows was a new invented stage, to be struck from under him. he showed no kind of fear or discomposure, only just looking at the gallows with a slight motion of dissatisfaction. he said little, kneeled for a moment to the prayer, said, "lord have mercy upon me, and forgive me my errors," and immediately mounted the upper stage. he had come pinioned with a black sash, and was unwilling to have his hands tied, or his face covered, but was persuaded to both. when the rope was put round his neck, he turned pale, but recovered his countenance instantly, and was but seven minutes from leaving the coach, to the signal given for striking the stage. as the machine was new, they were not ready at it: his toes touched it, and he suffered a little, having had time, by their bungling, to raise his cap; but the executioner pulled it down again, and they pulled his legs, so that he was soon out of pain, and quite dead in four minutes. he desired not to be stripped and exposed, and vaillant promised him, though his clothes must be taken off, that his shirt should not. this decency ended with him: the sheriffs fell to eating and drinking on the scaffold, ran and helped up one of their friends to drink with them, as he was still hanging, which he did for above an hour, and then was conveyed back with the same pomp to surgeons' hall, to be dissected. the executioners fought for the rope, and the one who lost it cried. the mob tore off the black cloth as relics; but the universal crowd behaved with great decency and admiration, as they well might; for sure no exit was ever made with more sensible resolution and with less ostentation. if i have tired you by this long narrative, you feel differently from me. the man, the manners of the country, the justice of so great and curious a nation, all to me seem striking, and must, i believe, do more so to you, who have been absent long enough to read of your own country as history. i have run into so much paper, that i am ashamed at going on, but having a bit left, i must say a few more words. the other prisoner, from whom the mob had promised themselves more entertainment, is gone into the country, having been forbid the court, with some barbarous additions to the sentence, as you will see in the papers. it was notified, too, to the second court,( ) who have had the prudence to countenance him no longer. the third prisoner, and second madman, lord charles hay, is luckily dead, and has saved much trouble. have you seen the works of the philosopher of sans souci, or rather of the man who is no philosopher, and who had more souci than any man now in europe? how contemptible they are! miserable poetry; not a new thought, nor an old one newly expressed.( ) i say nothing of the folly of publishing his aversion to the english, at the very time they are ruining themselves for him; nor of the greater folly of his irreligion. the epistle to keith is puerile and shocking. he is not so sensible as lord ferrers, who did not think such sentiments ought to be published. his majesty could not resist the vanity of showing how disengaged he can be even at this time. i am going to give a letter for you to strange, the engraver, who is going to visit italy. he is a very first-rate artist, and by far our best. pray countenance him, though you will not approve his politics.( ) i believe albano( )) is his loretto. i shall finish this vast volume with a very good story, though not so authentic as my sheriff's. it is said that general clive's father has been with mr. pitt, to notify, that if the government will send his son four hundred thousand pounds, and a certain number of ships, the heaven-born general knows of a part of india, where such treasures are buried, that he will engage, to send over enough. to pay the national debt. "oh!" said the minister, "that is too much; fifty millions would be sufficient." clive insisted on the hundred millions,--pitt, that half would do as well. "lord, sir!" said the old man, "consider, if your administration lasts, the national debt will soon be two hundred millions." good night for a twelvemonth! ( ) sir william meredith, bart. of hanbury, in cheshire. the title is now extinct.-d. ( ) she afterwards married lord frederick campbell, brother of the duke of argyle, and was an excellent woman. (she was unfortunately burned to death at lord frederick's seat, combe bank, in kent.-d.) ( ) zachariah pearce, translated from the see of bangor in . he was an excellent man, and later in life, in the year , finding himself growing infirm, he presented to the world the rare instance of disinterestedness, of wishing to relinquish all his pieces of preferment. these consisted of the deanery of westminster and bishopric of rochester. the deanery he gave up, but was not allowed to do so by the bishopric, which was said, as a peerage, to be inalienable.-d. ( ) lady selina shirley, daughter of an earl of ferrers. (selina shirley, second daughter and coheiress of washington earl ferrers, and widow of theophilus hastings, ninth earl of huntingdon. she was the peculiar patroness of enthusiasts of all sorts in religion.-d.) ( ) the prince of wales's. ( ) "the town are reading the king of prussia's poetry, and i have done like the town; they do not seem so sick of it as i am. it is all the scum of voltaire and bolingbroke, the crambe recocta of our worst freethinkers tossed up in german-french rhyme." gray, vol. iii. p. . ( ) strange was a confirmed jacobite. ( ) the residence of the pretender. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, may , . (page ) sir, i am extremely sensible of your obliging kindness in sending me for mr. gray the account of erse poetry, even at a time when you were so much out of order. that indisposition i hope is entirely removed, and your health perfectly reestablished. mr. gray is very thankful for the information.( ) i have lately bought, intending it for dr. robertson, a spanish ms. called "annals del emperador carlos v. autor, francisco lopez de gornara." as i am utterly ignorant of the spanish tongue, i do not know whether there is the least merit in my purchase. it is not very long; if you will tell me how to convey it, i will send it to him. we have nothing new but some dialogues of the dead by lord lyttelton. i cannot say they are very lively or striking. the best i think, relates to your country, and is written with a very good design: an intention of removing all prejudices and disunion between the two parts of our island. i cannot tell you how the book is liked in general, for it appears but this moment. you have seen, to be sure, the king of prussia's poems. if he intended to raise the glory of his military capacity by depressing his literary talents, he could not, i think,. have succeeded better. one would think a man had been accustomed to nothing but the magnificence of vast armies, and to the tumult of drums and trumpets. who is incapable of seeing that god is as great in the most minute parts of creation as in the most enormous. his majesty does not seem to admire a mite, unless it is magnified by a brobdignag microscope! while he is struggling with the force of three empires, he fancies that it adds to his glory to be unbent enough to contend for laurels with the triflers of a french parnassus! adieu! sir. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the following is gray's description of these poems, in a letter to wharton.--"i am gone mad about them. they are said to be translations (literal and in prose) from the erse tongue, done by one macpherson, a young clergyman in the highlands. he means to publish a collection he has of these specimens of antiquity; but what plagues me is, i cannot come at any certainty on that head. i was so struck, so extasi`e, with their infinite beauty, that i writ into scotland to make a thousand inquiries. the letters i have in return are ill-wrote, ill-reasoned, unsatisfactory, calculated (one would imagine) to deceive one, and yet not cunning enough to do it cleverly: in short, the whole external evidence would make one believe these fragments (for so he calls them, though nothing can be more entire) counterfeit; but the internal is so strong on the other side, that i am resolved to believe them genuine, spite of the devil and the kirk. it is impossible to convince me, that they were invented by the same man that writes me these letters. on the other hand, it is almost as hard to suppose, if they are original, that he should be able to translate them so admirably. in short, this man is the very demon of poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid for ages." in another letter, be says,--"as to their authenticity, i have many enquiries, and have lately procured a letter from mr. david hume, the historian, which is more satisfactory than any thing i have yet met with on that subject. he says, 'certain it is, that these poems are in every body's mouth in the highlands, have been handed down from father to son, and are of an age beyond all memory and tradition.'" works vol. iii. pp. , .-e. letter to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) well! at last sisson's machine sets out-but, my dear sir, how you still talk of him! you seem to think him as grave and learned as a professor of bologna--why, he is an errant, low, indigent mechanic, and however dr. perelli found him out, is a shuffling knave, and i fear, no fitter to execute his orders than to write the letter you expect. then there was my ignorance and your brother james's ignorance to be thrown into the account. for the drawing, sisson says dr. perelli has the description of it already; however, i have insisted on his making a reference to that description in a scrawl we have with much ado extorted from him. i pray to sir isaac newton that the machine may answer: it costs, the stars know what! the whole charge comes to upwards of threescore pounds! he had received twenty pounds, and yet was so necessitous, that on our hesitating, he wrote me a most impertinent letter for his money. i dreaded at first undertaking a commission for which i was so unqualified, and though i have done all i could, i fear you and your friend will be but ill satisfied. along with the machine i have sent you some new books; lord george's trial, lord ferrers's, and the account of him; a fashionable thing called tristram shandy, and my lord lyttelton's new dialogues of the dead, or rather dead dialogues; and something less valuable still than any of these, but which i flatter myself you will not despise; it is my own print, done from a picture that is reckoned very like--you must allow for the difference that twenty years since you saw me have made. that wonderful creature lord ferrers, of whom i told you so much in my last, and with whom i am not going to plague you much more, made one of his keepers read hamlet to him the night before his death after he was in bed-paid all his bills in the morning, as if leaving an inn, and half an hour before the sheriffs fetched him, corrected some verses he had written in the tower in imitation of the duke of buckingham's epitaph, dublus sed ron improbus vin.( ) what a noble author have i here to add to my catalogue! for the other noble author, lord lyttelton, you will find his work paltry enough; the style, a mixture of bombast, poetry, and vulcarisms. nothing new in the composition, except making people talk out of character is so. then he loves changing sides so much, that he makes lord falkland and hampden cross over and figure in like people in a country dance; not to mention their guardian angels, who deserve to be hanged for murder. he is angry too at swift, lucian, and rabelais, as if they had laughed at him of all men living, and he seems to wish that one would read the last's dissertation on hippocrates instead of his history of pantagruel. but i blame him most, when he was satirizing too free writers, for praising the king of prussia's poetry, to which any thing of bayle is harmless. i like best the dialogue between the duke of argyll and the earl of angus, and the character of his own first wife under that of penelope. i need not tell you that pericles is mr. pitt. i have had much conversation with your brother james, and intend to have more with your eldest, about your nephew. he is a sweet boy, and has all the goodness of dear gal. and dear you in his countenance. they have sent him to cambridge under that interested hog the bishop of chester,( ) and propose to keep him there three years. their apprehension seems to be of his growing a fine gentleman. i could not help saying, "why, is he not to be one?" my wish is to have him with you--what an opportunity of his learning the world and business under such a tutor and such a parent! but they think he will dress and run into diversions. i tried to convince them that of all spots upon earth dress is least necessary at florence, and where one can least divert oneself. i am answered with the necessity of latin and mathematics-the one soon forgot, the other never got to any purpose. i cannot bear his losing the advantage of being brought up by you, with all the advantages of such a situation, and where he may learn in perfection living languages, never attained after twenty. i am so earnest on this, for i doat on him for dear gal.'s sake, that i will insist to rudeness on his remaining at cambridge but two years; and before that time you shall write to second my motions. the parliament is up, and news are gone out of town: i expect none but what we receive from germany. as to the pretender, his life or death makes no impression here when a real king is so soon forgot, how should an imaginary one be remembered? besides, since jacobites have found the way to st. james's, it is grown so much the fashion to worship kings, that people don't send their adorations so far as rome. he at kensington is likely long to outlast his old rival. the spring is far from warm, yet he wears a silk coat and has left off fires. thank you for the entertaining history of the pope and the genoese. i am flounced again into building--a round tower, gallery, cloister, and chapel, all starting up--if i am forced to run away by ruining myself, i will come to florence, steal your nephew, and bring him with me. adieu! ( ) the following verses are said to have been found in lord ferrers's apartment in the tower: "in doubt i lived, in doubt i die, yet stand prepared the vast abyss to try. and undismay'd expect eternity!"-e. ( ) dr. edmund keene, brother of sir benjamin, and afterwards bishop of ely. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) my dear lord, when at my time of day one can think a ball worth going to london for on purpose, you will not wonder that i am childish enough to write an account of it. i could give a better reason, your bidding me send you any news; but i scorn a good reason when i am idle enough to do any thing for a bad one. you had heard, before you left london, of miss chudleigh's intended loyalty on the prince's birthday. poor thing, i fear she has thrown away above a quarter's salary! it was magnificent and well-understood--no crowd--and though a sultry night, one was not a moment incommoded. the court was illuminated on the whole summit of the wall with a battlement of lamps; smaller ones on every step, and a figure of lanterns on the outside of the house. the virgin-mistress began the ball with the duke of york, who was dressed in a pale blue watered tabby, which, as i told him, if he danced much, would soon be tabby all over, like the man's advertisement,( ) but nobody did dance much. there was a new miss bishop from sir cecil's endless hoard of beauty daughters, who is still prettier than her sisters. the new spanish embassy was there--alas! sir cecil bishop has never been in spain! monsieur de fuentes is a halfpenny print of my lord huntingdon. his wife homely, but seems good-humoured and civil. the son does not degenerate from such high-born ugliness; the daughter-in-law was sick, and they say is not ugly, and has as good set of teeth as one can have, when one has but two and those black. they seem to have no curiosity, sit where they are placed, and ask no questions about so strange a country. indeed, the ambassadress could see nothing; for doddington( ) stood before her the whole time, sweating spanish at her, of which it was evident, by her civil nods without answers, she did understand a word. she speaks bad french, danced a bad minuet, and went away--though there was a miraculous draught of fishes for their supper, for it was a fast-day--but being the octave of their f`ete-dieu, they dared not even fast plentifully. miss chudleigh desired the gamblers would go up into the garrets--"nay, they are not garrets-it is only the roof of the house hollowed for upper servants-but i have no upper servants." every body ran up: there is a low gallery with bookcases, and four chambers practised under the pent of the roof, each hung with the finest indian pictures on different colours, and with chinese chairs of the same colours. vases of flowers in each for nosegays, and in one retired nook a most critical couch! the lord of the festival( ) was there, and seemed neither ashamed nor vain of the expense of his pleasures. at supper she offered him tokay, and told him she believed he would find it good. the supper was in two rooms and very fine, and on the sideboards, and even on the chairs, were pyramids and troughs of strawberries and cherries you would have thought she was kept by vertumnus. last night my lady northumberland lighted up her garden for the spaniards: i was not there, having excused myself for a headache, which i had not, but ought to have caught the night before. mr. doddington entertained these fuentes's at hammersmith; and to the shame of our nation, while they were drinking tea in the summer-house, some gentlemen, ay, my lord, gentlemen, went into the river and showed the ambassadress and her daughter more than ever they expected to see of england. i dare say you are sorry for poor lady anson. she was exceedingly good-humoured, and did a thousand good-natured and generous actions. i tell you nothing of the rupture of lord halifax's match, of which you must have heard so much; but you will like a bon-mot upon it. they say, the hundreds of drury have got the better of the thousands of drury.( ) the pretty countess( ) is still alive, was i thought actually dying on tuesday night, and i think will go off very soon. i think there will soon be a peace: my only reason is, that every body seems so backward at making war. adieu! my dear lord! ( ) a staymaker of the time, who advertised in the newspapers that he made stays at such a price, "tabby all over." ( ) dodington had been minister in spain. ( ) the duke of kingston. ( ) lord halifax kept an actress belonging to drury lane theatre; and the marriage broken off was with a daughter of sir thomas drury, an heiress.-e. ( ) the countess of coventry. she survived till the st of october.-e. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, june , . (page ) who the deuce was thinking of quebec? america was like a book one has read and done with; or at least, if one looked at the book, one just recollected that there was a supplement promised, to contain a chapter on montreal, the starving and surrender of it- -but here are we on a sudden reading our book backwards. an account came two days ago that the french on their march to besiege quebec, had been attacked by general murray, who got into a mistake and a morass, attacked two bodies that were joined, when he hoped to come up with one of them before the junction, was enclosed, embogged,'and defeated. by the list of officers killed and wounded, i believe there has been a rueful slaughter- -the place, too, i suppose will be retaken. the year is not the year . added to the war we have a kind of plague too, an epidemic fever and sore throat: lady anson is dead of it; lord bute and two of his daughters were in great danger; my lady waldegrave has had it, and i am mourning for mrs. thomas walpole,( ) who died of it--you may imagine i don't come much to town; i had some business here to-day, particularly with dagge, whom i have sent for to talk about sophia;( ) he will be here presently, and then i will let you know what he says. the embassy and house of fuentes are arrived-many feasts and parties have been made for them, but they do not like those out of town, and have excused themselves rather ungraciously. they were invited to a ball last monday at wanstead, but did not go: yet i don't know where they can see such magnificence. the approach, the coaches, the crowds of spectators to see the company arrive, the grandeur of the fa`cade and apartments, were a charming sight; but the town is so empty that that great house appeared so too. he, you know, is all attention, generosity, and good breeding. i must tell you a private wo that has happened to me in my neighbourhood--sir william stanhope bought pope's house and garden. the former was so small and bad, one could not avoid pardoning his hollowing out that fragment of the rock parnassus into habitable chambers--but would you believe it, he has cut down the sacred groves themselves! in short, it was a little bit of ground of five acres, inclosed with three lanes, and seeing nothing. pope had twisted and twirled, and rhymed and harmonized this, till it appeared two or three sweet little lawns opening beyond one another, and the whole surrounded with thick impenetrable woods. sir william, by advice of his son-in-law,( ) mr. ellis, has hacked and hewed these groves, wriggled a winding-gravel walk through them with an edging of shrubs, in what they call the modern taste, and in short, has designed the three lanes to walk in again--and now is forced to shut them out again by a wall, for there was not a muse could walk there but she was spied by every country fellow that went by with a pipe in his mouth. it is a little unlucky for the pretender to be dying just as the pope seems to design to take corsica into his hands, and might give it to so faithful a son of the church. i have heard nothing yet of stosch. presently. mr. dagge has disappointed me, and i am obliged to go out of town, but i have writ to him to press the affair, and will press it, as it is owing to his negligence. mr. chute, to whom i spoke, says he told dagge he was ready to be a trustee, and pressed him to get it concluded. ( ) daughter of sir gerard vanneck. ( ) natural daughter of mr. whitehed, mentioned in preceding letters, by a florentine woman. ( ) welbore ellis, afterwards*lord mendip, married the only daughter of sir william stanhope; in right of whom he afterwards enjoyed pope's villa at twickenham.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) june th, . (page ) i am obliged to you, sir, for the volume of erse poetry - all of it has merit; but i am sorry not to see in it the six descriptions of night, with which you favoured me before, and which i like as much as any of the pieces. i can, however, by no means agree with the publisher, that they seem to be parts of an heroic poem; nothing to me can be more unlike. i should as soon take all the epitaphs in westminster abbey, and say it was an epic poem on the history of england. the greatest part are evidently elegies; and though i should not expect a bard to write by the rules of aristotle, i would not, on the other hand, give to any work a title that must convey so different an idea to every common reader. i could wish, too, that the authenticity had been more largely stated. a man who knows dr. blair's character, will undoubtedly take his word; but the gross of mankind, considering how much it is the fashion to be sceptical in reading, will demand proofs, not assertions. i am glad to find, sir, that we agree so much on the dialogues of the dead; indeed, there are very few that differ from us. it is well for the author, that none of his critics have undertaken to ruin his book by improving it, as you have done in the lively little specimen you sent me., dr. brown has writ a dull dialogue, called pericles and aristides, which will have a different effect from what yours, would have. one of the most objectionable passages in lord lyttelton's book is, in my opinion, his apologizing for 'the moderate government of augustus. a man who had exhausted tyranny in the most lawless and unjustifiable excesses is to be excused, because, out of weariness or policy, he grows less sanguinary at last! there is a little book coming out, that will amuse you. it is a new edition of isaac walton's complete angler,. full of anecdotes and historic notes. it is published by mr. hawkins,( ) a very worthy gentleman in my neighbourhood, but who, i could wish, did not think angling so very innocent an amusement. we cannot live without destroying animals, but shall-we torture them for our sport--sport in their destruction?( ) i met a rough officer at his house t'other day, who said he knew such a person was turning methodist; for, in the middle of conversation, he rose, and opened the window to let out a moth. i told him i did not know that the methodists had any principle so good, and that i, who am certainly not on the point of becoming one, always did so too. one of the bravest and best men i ever knew, sir charles wager, i have often heard declare he never killed a fly willingly. it is a comfortable reflection to me, that all the victories of last year have been gained since the suppression of the bear garden and prize-fighting; as it is plain, and nothing else would have made it so, that our valour did not, singly and solely depend upon, those two universities. adieu.! ( ) now first collected. ( ) afterwards sir john hawkins, knight, the executor and biographer of dr. johnson.-e. ( ) lord byron, like walpole, had a mortal dislike to angling, and describes it as " the cruelest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports." of good isaac walton he says, "the quaint, old, cruel coxcomb,. in his gullet should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, june , . (page ) there is nothing in the world so tiresome as a person that always says they will come to one and never does; that is a mixture of promises and excuses; that loves one better than anybody, and yet will not stir a step to see one; that likes nothing but their own ways and own books, and that thinks the thames is not as charming in one place as another, and that fancies strawberry hill is the only thing upon earth worth living for-all this you would say, if even i could make you peevish: but since you cannot be provoked, you see i am for you, and give myself my due. it puts me in mind of general sutton, who was one day sitting by my father at his dressing. sir robert said to jones, who was shaving him, "john, you cut me"--presently afterwards, "john, you cut me"--and again, with the same patience or conway-ence, "john, you cut me." sutton started up and cried, "by god! if he can bear it, i can't; if you cut him once more, damn my blood if i don't knock you down!" my dear harry, i will knock myself down-but i fear i shall cut you again. i wish you sorrow for the battle of quebec. i thought as much of losing the duchies of aquitaine and normandy as canada. however, as my public feeling never carries me to any great lengths of reflection, i bound all my qu`ebecian meditations to a little diversion on george townshend's absurdities. the daily advertiser said yesterday, that a certain great officer who had a principal share in the reduction of quebec had given it as his opinion, that it would hold out a tolerable siege. this great general has acquainted the public to-day in an advertisement with--what do you think?--not that he has such an opinion, for he has no opinion at all, and does not think that it can nor cannot hold out a siege,--but, in the first place, that he was luckily shown this paragraph, which, however, he does not like; in the next, that he is and is not that great general, and yet that there is nobody else that is; and, thirdly, lest his silence, till he can proceed in another manner with the printer, (and indeed it is difficult to conceive what manner of proceeding silence is,) should induce anybody to believe the said paragraph, he finds himself under a necessity of giving the public his honour, that there is no more truth in this paragraph than in some others which have tended to set the opinions of some general officers together by the ears--a thing, however, inconceivable, which he has shown may be done, by the confusion he himself has made in the king's english. for his another manner with the printer, i am impatient to see how the charge will lie against matthew jenour, the publisher of the advertiser, who, without having the fear of god before his eyes, has forcibly, violently, and maliciously, with an offensive weapon called a hearsay, and against the peace of our sovereign lord the king, wickedly and traitorously assaulted the head of george townshend, general, and accused it of having an opinion, and him the said george townshend, has slanderously and of malice prepense believed to be a great general; in short, to make townshend easy, i wish, as he has no more contributed to the loss of quebec than he did to the conquest of it, that he was to be sent to sign this capitulation too. there is a delightful little french book come out, called "tant mieux pour elle." it is called cr`ebillon's, and i should think was so. i only borrowed it, and cannot get one; tant pis pour vous. by the way, i am not sure you did not mention it to me; somebody did. have you heard that miss pitt has dismissed lord buckingham? tant mieux pour lui. she damns her eyes that she will marry some captain--tant mieux pour elle. i think the forlorn earl should match with miss ariadne drury; and by the time my lord halifax has had as many more children and sentiments by and for miss falkner, as he can contrive to have. probably miss pitt may be ready to be taken into keeping. good night! p. s. the prince of wales has been in the greatest anxiety for lord bute; to whom he professed to duncombe, and middleton, he has the greatest obligations; and when they pronounced their patient out of danger, his royal highness gave to each of them a gold modal of himself, as a mark of his sense of their care and attention. ( ) now first printed. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) the devil is in people for fidgetting about! they can neither be quiet in their own houses, nor let others be at peace in theirs! have not they enough of one another in winter, but they must cuddle in summer too? for your part, you are a very priest: the moment one repents, you are for turning it to account. i wish you was in camp--never will i pity you again. how did you complain when you was in scotland, ireland, flanders, and i don't know where, that you could never enjoy park-place! now you have a whole summer to yourself, and you are as junkettaceous as my lady northumberland. pray, what horse-race do you go to next? for my part, i can't afford to lead such a life: i have conway-papers to sort; i have lives of the painters to write; i have my prints to paste, my house to build, and every thing in the world to tell posterity. how am i to find time for all this? i am past forty, and may 'not have above as many more to live; and here i am to go here and to go there--well, i will meet you at chaffont on thursday; but i positively will stay but one night. i have settled with our brother that we will be at oxford on the th of july, as lord beauchamp is only loose from the th to the th. i will be at park-place on the th, and we will go together the next day. if this is too early for you, we may put it off to the th: determine by thursday, and one of us will write to lord hertford. well! quebec( ) is come to life again. last night i went to see the holdernesses, who by the way are in raptures with park-in sion-lane; as cibber says of the revolution, i met the raising of the siege; that is, i met my lady in a triumphal car, drawn by a manks horse thirteen little fingers high, with lady emily: et sibi countess ne placeat, ma'amselle curru portatur eodem- mr. milbank was walking in ovation by himself after the car; and they were going to see the bonfire at the alehouse at the corner. the whole procession returned with me; and from the countess's dressing-room we saw a battery fired before the house, the mob crying "god bless the good news!"--these are all the particulars i know of the siege: my lord would have showed me the journal, but we amused ourselves much better in going to eat peaches from the new dutch stoves. the rain is come indeed, and my grass is as green as grass; but all my hay has been cut and soaking this week, and i am too much in the fashion not to have given up gardening for farming; as next i suppose we shall farming and turn graziers and hogdrivers. i never heard of such a semele as my lady stormont( ) brought to bed in flames. i hope miss bacchus murray will not carry the resemblance through, and love drinking like a pole. my lady lyttelton is at mr. garrick's, and they were to have breakfasted here this morning; but somehow or other they have changed their mind. good night! ( ) quebec was besieged by the french in the spring of this year, with an army of fifteen thousand men, under the command of the chevalier de levis, assisted by a naval force. they were, however, repulsed by general murray, who was supported by lord colville and the fleet under his command; and on the night of the th of may raised the siege very precipitately, leaving their cannon, small arms, stores, etc. behind them.-e. ( ) see vol. ii. p. , letter .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i am this minute returned from chaffont, where i have been these two days. mr. conway, lady ailesbury, lady lyttelton, and mrs. shirley are there; and lady mary is going to add to the number again. the house and grounds are still in the same dislocated condition; in short, they finish nothing but children; even mr. bentley's gothic stable, which i call houynhm castle, is not roughcast yet. we went to see more-park, but i was not much struck with it, after all the miracles i had heard brown had performed there. he has undulated the horizon in so many artificial mole-hills, that it is full as unnatural as if it was drawn with a rule and compasses. nothing is done to the house; there are not even chairs in the great apartment. my lord anson is more slatternly than the churchills, and does not even finish children. i am going to write to lord beauchamp, that i shall be at oxford on the th, where i depend upon meeting you. i design to see blenheim, and rousham, (is not that the name of dormer's?) and althorp, and drayton, before i return--but don't be frightened, i don't propose to drag you to all or any of these, if you don't like it. mr. bentley has sketched a very pretty gothic room for lord holderness, and orders are gone to execute it directly in yorkshire. the first draught was mason's; but as he does not pretend to much skill, we were desired to correct it. i say we, for i chose the ornaments. adieu! yours ever. p. s. my lady ailesbury has been much diverted, and so will you too. gray is in @their neighbourhood. my lady carlisle says, "he is extremely like me in his manner." they went a party to dine on a cold loaf, and passed the day; lady a. protests he never opened his lips but once, and then only said, "yes, my lady, i believe so."( ) ( ) gray, in a letter to dr. clarke, of the th of august, says, "for me, i am come to my resting-place, and find it very necessary, after living for a month in a house with three women that laughed from morning till night, and would allow nothing to the sulkiness of my disposition. company and cards at home, parties by land and water abroad, and (what they call) doing something, that is, racketting about from morning to night, are occupations, i find, that wear out my spirits." works, vol. iii. p. .-e. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, july , . (page ) i shall write you but a short letter myself, because i make your brother, who has this moment been here, write to-night with all the particulars relating to the machine. the ten guineas are included in the sixty; and the ship, which is not yet sailed, is insured. my dear child, don't think of making me any excuses about employing me; i owe you any trouble sure that i can possibly undertake, and do it most gladly; in this one instance i was sorry you had pitched upon me, because it was entirely out of my sphere, and i could not even judge whether i had served you well or not. i am here again waiting for dagge, whom it is more difficult to see than a minister; he disappointed me last time, but writ to me afterwards that he would immediately settle the affair for poor sophia. quebec, you know, is saved; but our german histories don't go on so well as our american. fouquet is beat, and has lost five out of twelve thousand men, after maintaining himself against thirty for seven hours--he is grievously wounded, but not prisoner. the russians are pouring on--adieu the king of prussia, unless prince ferdinand's battle, of which we have expected news for these four days, can turn the scale a little--we have settled that he is so great a general, that you must not wonder if we expect that he should beat all the world in their turns. there has been a woful fire at portsmouth; they say occasioned by lightning; the shipping was saved, but vast quantities of stores are destroyed. i shall be more easy about your nephew, since you don't adopt my idea; and yet i can't conceive with his gentle nature and your good sense but you would have sufficient authority over him. i don't know who your initials mean, ld. f. and sr. b. but don't much signify, but consider by how many years i am removed from knowing the rising generation. i shall some time hence trouble you for some patterns of brocadella of two or three colours: it is to furnish a round tower that i am adding, with a gallery, to my castle: the quantity i shall want will be pretty large; it is to be a bedchamber entirely hung bed, and eight armchairs; the dimensions thirteen feet high, and twenty-two diameter. your bianca capello is to be over the chimney. i shall scarce be ready to hang it these two years, because i move gently, and never begin till i have the money ready to pay, which don't come very fast, as it is always to be saved out of my income, subject, too, to twenty other whims and expenses. i only mention it now, that you may at your leisure look me out half a dozen patterns; and be so good as to let me know the prices. stosch is not arrived yet as i have heard. well,--at last, dagge is come, and tells me i may assure you positively that the money will be paid in- two months from this time; he has been at thistlethwait's,( ) which is nineteen miles from town, and goes again this week to make him sign a paper, on which the parson( ) will pay the money. i shall be happy when this is completed to your satisfaction, that is, when your goodness is rewarded by being successful; but till it is completed, with all mr. dagge's assurances, i shall not be easy, for those brothers are such creatures, that i shall always expect some delay or evasion, when they are to part with money. adieu! ( ) brother and heirs of mr. whithed, who had changed his name for an estate. (transcriber's note: this note really is cited twice in the above paragraph.) letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) mr. conway, as i told you, was with me at oxford, and i returned with him to park-place, and to-day hither. i am sorry you could not come to us; we passed four days most agreeably, and i believe saw more antique holes and corners than tom hearne did in threescore years. you know my rage for oxford; if king's-college would not take it ill,. i don't l(now but i should retire thither, and profess jacobitism, that i might enjoy some venerable set of chambers. though the weather has been so sultry, i ferreted from morning to night, fatigued that strong young lad lord beauchamp, and harassed his tutors till they were forced to relieve one another.' with all this, i found nothing worth seeing, except the colleges themselves, painted glass, and a couple of crosiers. oh, yes! in an old buttery at christ- church i discovered two of the most glorious portraits by holbein in the world. they call them dutch heads. i took them down, washed them myself, and fetched out a thousand beauties. we went to blenheim and saw all vanbrugh's quarries, all the acts of parliament and gazettes on the duke in inscriptions, and all the old flock chairs, wainscot tables, and gowns and petticoats of queen anne, that old sarah could crowd among blocks of marble. it looks like the palace of an auctioneer, who has-been chosen king of poland, and furnished his apartments with obsolete trophies, rubbish that nobody bid for, and a dozen pictures, that he had stolen from the inventories of different families. the place is as ugly as the house, and the bridge, like the beggars at the old duchess's gate, begs for a drop of water, and is refused. we went to ditchley, which is a good house, well furnished, has good portraits, a wretched saloon, and one handsome scene behind the house. there are portraits of the litchfield hunt, in true blue frocks, with ermine capes. one of the colleges has exerted this loyal pun, and made their east window entirely of blue glass. but the greatest pleasure we had, was in seeing sir charles cotterel's at housham; it reinstated kent with me; he has nowhere shown so much taste. the house is old, and was bad; he has improved it, stuck as close as he could to gothic, has made a delightful library, and the whole is comfortable. the garden is daphne in little; the sweetest little groves, streams, glades, porticoes, cascades, and river, imaginable; all the scenes are perfectly classic. well, if i had such a house, such a library, so pretty a place, and so pretty a wife, i think i should let king george send to herenhausen for a master of the ceremonies. make many compliments to all your family for me; lord beauchamp was much obliged by your invitation. i shall certainly accept it, as i return from the north; in the mean time, find out how drayton and althorp lie according to your scale. adieu! yours most sincerely. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i shall be very sorry if i don't see you at oxford on tuesday next: but what can i say if your wetenhalls will break into my almanack, and take my very day, can i help it! i must own i shall be glad if their coach-horse is laid up with the fashionable sore throat and fever can you recommend no coachman to them like dr. wilmot, who will despatch it in three days? if i don't see you at oxford, i don't think i shall at greatworth till my return from the north, which will be about the th or d of august. drayton,( ) be it known to you, is lady betty germain's., is in your own county, was the old mansion of the mordaunts, and is crammed with whatever sir john could get from them and the norfolks. adieu! ( ) the seat of sir john germain, bart.; by whose will, and that of his widow, lady betty, his property devolved upon lord george sackvillc; who, in consequence, assumed, in , the name of germain.-e. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, aug. , . (page ) i came to town to-day on purpose to see stosch, who has been arrived some days; and to offer him all manner, of civilities on your account--when indeed they can be of no use to him, for there is not a soul in town. there was a wild report last week of the plague being in st. thomas's hospital, and to be sure stosch must believe there is some truth in it, for there is not a coach to be seen, the streets are new paving, and the houses new painting, just as it is always at this season. i told him if he had a mind to see london, he must go to huntingdon races, derby races, stafford races, warwick races-that is the fashionable route this year-alas! i am going part of it; the duchess of grafton and loo are going to the duke of devonshire's, lord gower's, and lord hertford's; but i shall contrive to arrive after every race is over. stosch delivered me the parcel safe, and i should have paid him for your burgundy, but found company with him, and thought it not quite so civil to offer it at the first interview, lest it should make him be taken for a wine-merchant. he dines with me on tuesday at strawberry hill, when i shall find an opportunity. he is going for a few days to wanstead, and then for three months to a clergyman's in yorkshire, to learn english. apropos, you did not tell me why he comes; is it to sell his uncle's collection? let me know before winter on what foot i must introduce him, for i would fain return a few of the thousand civilities you have showed at my recommendation. the hereditary prince has been beaten, and has beaten, with the balance on his side; but though the armies are within a mile of one another, i don't think it clear there will be a battle, as we may lose much more than we can get. a defeat will cost hanover and hesse; a victory cannot be vast enough to leave us at liberty to assist the king of prussia. he gave us a little advantage the other day; outwitted daun, and took his camp and magazines, and aimed at dresden; but to-day the siege is raised. daun sometimes misses himself, but never loses himself. it is not the fashion to admire him, but for my part, i should think it worth while to give the empress a dozen wolfes and dauns, to lay aside the cautious marshal. apropos to wolfe, i cannot imagine what you mean by a design executing at rome for his tomb. the designs have been laid before my lord chamberlain several months; wilton, adam, chambers, and others, all gave in their drawings immediately; and i think the duke of devonshire decided for the first. do explain this to me, or get a positive explanation. of it-and whether any body is drawing for adam or chambers. mr. chute and mr. bentley, to whom i showed your accounts of the papa-portuguese war, were infinitely diverted, as i was too, with it. the portuguese, "who will turn jews not protestants," and the pope's confession, "which does more honour to his sincerity than to his infallibility," are delightful. i will tell you who will neither, turn jew nor protestant, day, nor methodist, which is much more in fashion than either--monsieur fuentes will not; he has given the virgin mary (who he fancies hates public places, because he never met her at one,) his honour that he never will go to any more. what a charming sort of spanish ambassador! i wish they always sent us such-the worst they can do, is to buy half a dozen converts. my lady lincoln,( ) who was ready to be brought to bed, is dead in three hours of convulsions. it has been a fatal year to great ladies: within this twelvemonth have gone off lady essex, lady besborough, lady granby, lady anson, and lady lincoln. my lady coventry is still alive, sometimes at the point of death, sometimes recovering. they fixed the spring: now the autumn is to be critical for her. i set out for my lord strafford's to-morrow se'nnight, so shall not be able to send you any victory this fortnight. general clive( ) is arrived all over estates and diamonds. if a beggar asks charity, be says, "friend, i have no small brilliants about me." i forgot to tell you that stosch was to dine with general guise.( ) the latter has notified to christ church, oxford, that in his will he has given them his collection of pictures. adieu! ( ) catherine, eldest daughter of henry pelham, wife of henry clinton, earl of lincoln, afterwards duke of newcastle. ( ) afterwards created lord clive in ireland. it is to him that we in great measure owe our dominion in india; in the acquisition of which he is, however, reproached with having exercised great cruelties.-d. ( ) general guise did leave his collection as he promised; but the university employing the son of bonus, the cleaner of pictures, to repair them, he entirely repainted them, and as entirely spoiled them. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) my dear lord, you will laugh, but i am ready to cry, when i tell you that i have no notion when i shall be able to wait on you.-such a calamity!--my tower is not fallen down, nor lady fanny shirley run away with another printer; nor has my lady d * * * * insisted on living with me as half way to weybridge. something more disgraceful than all these, and wofully mortifying for a young creature, who is at the same time in love with lady mary coke, and following the duchess of grafton and loo all over the kingdom. in short, my lord, i have got the gout-yes, the gout in earnest. i was seized on monday morning, suffered dismally all night, am now wrapped in flannels like the picture of a morocco ambassador, and am carried to bed by two servants. you see virtue and leanness are no preservatives. i write this now to your lordship, because i think it totally impossible that i should be able to set out the day after to-morrow, as i intended. the moment i can, i will, but this is a tyrant that will not let one name a day. all i know is, that it may abridge my other parties, but shall not my stay at wentworth castle. the duke of devonshire was so good as to ask me to be at chatsworth yesterday, but i did not know it time enough. as it happens, i must have disappointed him. at present i look like pam's father more than one of his subjects; only one of my legs appears: the rest my parti.colour'd robe conceals. adieu! my dear lord. letter to the hon. h. s/ conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i can give you but an unpleasant account of myself, i mean unpleasant for me; every body else i suppose it will make laugh. come, laugh at once! i am laid up with the gout, am an absolute cripple, am carried up to bed by two men, and could walk to china as soon as cross the room. in short, here is my history: i have been out of order this fortnight, without knowing what was the matter with me; pains in my head, sicknesses at my stomach, dispiritedness, and a return of the nightly fever i had in the winter. i concluded a northern journey would take all this off- -but, behold! on monday morning i was seized as i thought with the cramp in my left foot; however, i walked about all day: towards evening it discovered itself by its true name, and that night i suffered a great deal. however, on tuesday i was -,again able to go about the house; but since tuesday i have not been able to stir, and am wrapped in flannels and swathed like sir paul pliant on his wedding-night. i expect to hear that there is a bet at arthur's, which runs fastest, jack harris( ) or i. nobody would believe me six years ago when i said i had the gout. they would do leanness and temperance honours to which they had not the least claim. i don't yet give up my expedition; as my foot is much swelled, i trust this alderman distemper is going: i shall set out the instant i am able; but i much question whether it will be soon enough for me to get to ragley by the time the clock strikes loo. i find i grow too old to make the circuit with the charming duchess.( ) i did not tell you about german skirmishes, for i knew nothing of them: when two vast armies only scratch one another's faces it gives me no attention. my gazette never contains above one or two casualties of foreign politics:-overlaid, one king; dead of convulsions, an electorate; burnt to death, dresden. i wish you joy of all your purchases; why, you sound as rich as if you had had the gout these ten years. i beg their pardon; but just at present, i am very glad not to be near the vivacity of either missy or peter. i agree with you much about the minor:( ) there are certainly parts and wit in it. adieu! ( ) john harris, of hayne in devonshire, married to mr. conway's eldest sister. ( ) anne liddell, duchess of grafton. ( ) foote's comedy of the minor came out at the haymarket theatre, and, though performed by a young and unpractised company, brought full houses for many nights. in the character of mrs. cole and mr. smirk, the author represented those of the notorious mother douglas, and mr. langford, the auctioneer. in the epilogue, spoken by shift, which the author himself performed, together with the other two characters, he took off, to a degree of exactness, the manner and person of the celebrated george whitfield.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) in what part of the island you are just now, i don't know; flying about some where or other, i suppose. well, it is charming to be so young! here i am, lying upon a couch, wrapped up in flannels, with the gout in both feet--oh yes, gout in all the terms. six years ago i had it, and nobody would believe me--now they may have proof. my legs are as big as your cousin guildford's and they don't use to be quite so large. i was seized yesterday se'nnight; have had little pain in the day, but most uncomfortable nights; however, i move about again a little with a stick. if either my father or mother had had it, i should not dislike it so much. i am bound enough to approve it if descended genealogically: but it is an absolute upstart in me, and what is more provoking, i had trusted to my great abstinence for keeping me from it: but thus it is, if had had any gentlemanlike virtue, as patriotism or loyalty, i might have got something by them: i had nothing but that beggarly virtue temperance, and she had not interest enough to keep me from a fit of the gout. another plague is, that every body that ever knew any body that had it, is so good as to come with advice, and direct me how to manage it; that is, how to contrive to have it for a great many years. i am very refractory; i say to the gout, as great personages do to the executioners, "friend, do your work as quick as you can." they tell me of wine to keep it out of my stomach; but i will starve temperance itself; i will be virtuous indeed--that is, i will stick to virtue, though i find it is not its own reward. this confinement has kept me from yorkshire; i hope, however, to be at ragley by the th, from whence i shall still go to lord strafford's and by this delay you may possibly be at greatworth by my return, which will be about the beginning of september. write me a line as soon as you receive this; direct it to arlington street, it will be sent after me. adieu. p. s. my tower erects its battlements bravely; my anecdotes of painting thrive exceedingly: thanks to the gout, that has pinned me to my chair: think of ariel the sprite in a slit shoe! letter to the countess of ailesbury.( ) whichnovre, august , . (page ) well, madam, if i had known whither i was coming, i would not have come alone! mr. conway and your ladyship should have come too. do you know, this is the individual manor-house,( ) where married ladies may have a flitch of bacon upon the easiest terms in the world? i should have expected that the owners would be ruined in satisfying the conditions of the obligation, and that the park would be stocked with hogs instead of deer. on the contrary, it is thirty years since the flitch was claimed, and mr. offley was never so near losing one as when you and mr. conway were at ragley. he so little expects the demand, that the flitch is only hung in effigie over the hall chimney, carved in wood. are not you ashamed, madam, never to have put in your claim? it is above a year and a day that you have been married, and i never once heard either of you mention a journey to whichnovre. if you quarrelled at loo every night, you could not quit your pretensions with more indifference. i had a great mind to take my oath, as one of your witnesses, that you neither of you would, if you were at liberty, prefer any body else, ne fairer ne fouler, and i could easily get twenty persons to swear the same. therefore, unless you will let the world be convinced, that all your apparent harmony is counterfeit, you must set out immediately for mr. offley's, or at least send me a letter of attorney to claim the flitch in your names; and i will send it up by the coach, to be left at the blue boar, or wherever you will have it delivered. but you had better come in person; you will see one of the prettiest spots in the world; it is a little paradise, and the more like the antique one, as, by all i have said, the married couple seems to be driven out of it. the house is very indifferent: behind is a pretty park; the situation, a brow of a hill commanding sweet meadows, through which the trent serpentizes in numberless windings and branches. the spires of the cathedral of litchfield are in front at a distance, with variety of other steeples, seats, and farms, and the horizon bounded by rich hills covered with blue woods. if you love a prospect, or bacon, you will certainly come hither. wentworth castle, sunday night. i had writ thus far yesterday, but had no opportunity of sending my letter. i arrived here last night, and found only the duke of devonshire, who went to hardwicke this morning: they were down at the menagerie, and there was a clean little pullet, with which i thought his grace looked as if he should be glad to eat a slice of whichnovre bacon. we follow him to chatsworth tomorrow, and make our entry to the public dinner, to the disagreeableness of which i fear even lady mary's company will not reconcile me. my gothic building, which tiny lord strafford has executed in the menagerie, has a charming effect. there are two bridges built besides; but the new front is very little advanced. adieu, madam! ( ) daughter of the duke of argyle, first married to the earl of ailesbury, and afterwards to the hon. h. s. conway. ( ) of whichnovre, near litchfield. sir philip de somerville, in the th of edward iii., held the manor of whichnovre, etc. of the earls of lancaster, lords of the honour of tutbury, upon two small fees, but also upon condition of his keeping ready "arrayed, at all time of the year but lent, one bacon flyke hanging in his hall at whichnovre, to be given to every man or woman who demanded it a year and a day after the marriage upon their swearing they would not have changed for none other, fairer nor fouler, richer nor poorer, nor for no other descended of a great lineage, sleeping nor waking, at no time," etc.-e. letter to sir horace mann. chatsworth, aug. , . (page ) i am a great way out of the world, and yet enough in the way of news to send you a good deal. i have been here but two or three days, and it has rained expresses. the most important intelligence i can give you is that i was stopped from coming into the north for ten days by a fit of the gout in both feet, but as i have a tolerable quantity of resolution, i am now running about with the children and climbing hills--and i intend to have only just as much of this wholesome evil as shall carry me to a hundred. the next point of consequence is, that the duke of cumberland has had a stroke of the palsy-- as his courage is at least equal to mine, he makes nothing of it; but being above an inch more in the girth than i am, he is not yet arrived at skipping about the house. in truth, his case is melancholy: the humours that have fallen upon the wound in his leg have kept him lately from all exercise-. as he used much, and is so corpulent, this must have bad consequences. can one but pity him? a hero, reduced by injustice to crowd all his fame into the supporting bodily ills, and to looking upon the approach of a lingering death with fortitude, is a real object of compassion. how he must envy, what i am sure i don't, his cousin of prussia risking his life every hour against cossacks and russians! well! but this risker has scrambled another victory: he has beat that pert pretender laudon( )--yet it looks to me as if he was but new gilding his coffin; the undertaker daun will, i fear, still have the burying of him! i received here your letter of the th, and am glad dr. perelli so far justifies sisson as to disculpate me. i trust i shall execute sophia's business better. stosch dined with me at strawberry before i set out. he is a very rational creature. i return homewards to-morrow; my campaigns are never very long; i have great curiosity for seeing places, but i despatch it soon, and am always impatient to be back with my own woden and thor, my own gothic lares. while the lords and ladies are at skittles, i just found a moment to write you a line. adieu! arlington street, sept. . i had no opportunity of sending my letter to the secretary's office, so brought it myself. you will see in the gazette another little victory of a captain byron over a whole diminutive french squadron. stosch has had a fever. he is now going to establish himself at salisbury. ( ) this was the battle of licgnitz, fought on the th of august, , and in which the king of prussia signally defeated the austrians under marshal laudon, and thereby saved silesia.-d. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, september , . (page ) i was disappointed at your not being at home as i returned from my expedition; and now i fear it must be another year before i see greatworth, as i have two or three more engagements on my books for the residue of this season. i go next week to lord waldegrave, and afterwards to george selwyn, and shall return by bath, which i have never yet seen. will not you and the general come to strawberry in october? thank you for your lamentations on my gout; it was, in proportion to my size, very slender--my feet are again as small as ever they were. when i had what i called big shoes, i could have danced a minuet on a silver penny. my tour has been extremely agreeable. i set out with winning a good deal at loo at ragley; the duke of grafton was not so successful. and had some high words with pam. i went from thence to offley's at whichnovre, the individual manor of the flitch of bacon, which has been growing rusty for these thirty years in his hall. i don't wonder; i have no notion that one could keep in good humour with one's wife for a year and a day, unless one was to live on the very spot, which is one of the sweetest scenes i ever saw. it is the brink of a high hill; the trent wriggles through at the foot; litchfield and twenty other churches and mansions decorate the view. mr. anson has bought an estate close by, whence my lord used to cast many a wishful eye, though without the least pretensions even to a bit of lard. i saw litchfield cathedral, which has been rich, but my friend lord brook and his soldiery treated poor st. chadd( ) with so little ceremony, that it is in a most naked condition. in a niche ,it the very summit they have crowded a statue of charles the second, with a special pair of shoo-strings, big enough for a weathercock. as i went to lord strafford's i passed through sheffield, which is one of the foulest towns in england in the most charming situation there are two-and-twenty thousand inhabitants making knives and scissors; they remit eleven thousand pounds a week to london. one man there has discovered the art of plating copper with silver; i bought a pair of candlesticks for two guineas that are quite pretty. lord strafford has erected the little gothic building, which i got mr. bentley to draw; i took the idea from chichester-cross. it stands on a high bank in the menagerie, between a pond and a vale, totally bowered over with oaks. i went with the straffords to chatsworth, and stayed there four days; there were lady mary coke, lord besborough and his daughters, lord thomond, mr. boufoy, the duke, the old duchess,( ) and two of his brothers. would you believe that nothing was ever better humoured than the ancient grace? she stayed every evening till it was dark in the skittle-ground, keeping the score: and one night, that the servants had a ball for lady dorothy's( ) birthday, we fetched the fiddler into the drawing-room, and the dowager herself danced with us! i never was more disappointed than at chatsworth, which, ever since i was born, i have condemned. it is a glorious situation; the vale rich in corn and verdure, vast woods hang down the hills, which are green to the top, and the immense rocks only serve to dignify the prospect. the river runs before the door, and serpentizes more than you can conceive in the vale. the duke is widening it, and will make it the middle of his park; but i don't approve an idea they are going to execute, of a fine bridge with statues under a noble cliff. if they will have a bridge (which by the way will crowd the scene), it should be composed of rude fragments, such as the giant of the peak would step upon, that he might not be wet-shod. the expense of the works now carrying on will amount to forty thousand pounds. a heavy quadrangle of stables is part of the plan,. is very cumbrous, and standing higher than the house, is ready to overwhelm it. the principal front of the house is beautiful, and executed with the neatness of wrought-plate; the inside is most sumptuous, but did not please me; the heathen gods, goddesses, christian virtues, and allegoric gentlefolks, are crowded into every room, as if mrs. holman had been in heaven and invited every body she saw. the great apartment is first; painted ceilings, inlaid floors, and unpainted wainscots make every room sombre. the tapestries are fine, but, not fine enough, and there are few portraits. the chapel is charming. the great jet d'eau i like, nor would i remove it; whatever is magnificent of the kind in the time it was done, i would retain, else all gardens and houses wear a tiresome resemblance. i except that absurdity of a cascade tumbling down marble steps, which reduces the steps to be of no use at all. i saw haddon,( ) an abandoned old castle of the rutlands, in a romantic situation, but which never could have composed a tolerable dwelling. the duke sent lord john with me to hardwicke, where i was again disappointed; but i will not take relations from others; they either don't see for themselves, or can't see for me. how i had been promised that i should be charmed with hardwicke, and told that the devonshires ought to have established there! never was i less charmed in my life. the house is not gothic, but of that betweenity, that intervened when gothic declined and palladian was creeping in--rather, this is totally naked of either. it has vast chambers--aye, vast, such as the nobility of that time delighted in, and did not know how to furnish. the great apartment is exactly what it was when the queen of @scots was kept there. her council-chamber, the council-chamber of a poor woman, who had only two secretaries, a gentleman usher, an apothecary, a confessor, and three maids, is so outrageously spacious, that you would take it for king david's, who thought, contrary to all modern experience, that in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom. at the upper end is the state, with a long table, covered with a sumptuous cloth, embroidered and embossed with gold, -at least what was gold: so are all the tables. round the top of the chamber runs a monstrous frieze, ten or twelve feet deep, representing stag-hunting in miserable plastered relief. the next is her dressing-room, hung with patchwork on black velvet; then her state bedchamber. the bed has been rich beyond description, and now hangs in costly golden tatters. the hangings, part of which they say her majesty worked, are composed of figures as large as life, sewed and embroidered on black velvet, white satin, etc. and represent the virtues that were necessary for her, or that she was forced to have, as patience and temperance, etc. the fire-screens are particular; pieces of yellow velvet, fringed with gold, hang on a cross-bar of wood, which is fixed on the top of a single stick, that rises from the foot. the only furniture which has any appearance of taste are the table and cabinets, which are all of oak, richly carved. there is a privata chamber within, where she lay, her arms and style over the door; the arras hangs over all the doors; the gallery is sixty yards long, covered with bad tapestry, and wretched pictures of mary herself, elizabeth in a gown of sea-monsters, lord darnley, james the fifth and his queen, curious, and a whole history of kings of england, not worth sixpence apiece. there is an original of old bess( ) of hardwicke herself, who built the house. her estates were then reckoned at sixty thousand pounds a-year, and now let for two hundred thousand pounds. lord john cavendish told me, that the tradition in the family was that it had been prophesied to her that she should never die as long as she was building; and that at last she died in a hard frost, when the labourers could not work. there is a fine bank of old oaks in the park over a lake; nothing else pleased me there. however, i was so diverted with this old beldam and her magnificence, that i made this epitaph for her: four times the nuptial bed she warm'd, and every time so well perform'd, that when death spoil'd each husband's billing, he left the widow every shilling. fond was the dame, but not dejected; five stately mansions she erected with more than royal pomp, to vary the prison of her captive when hardwicke's towers shall bow their head, nor mass be more in worksop said; when bolsover's fair fame shall tend, like olcotes, to its mouldering end; when chatsworth tastes no can'dish bounties, let fame forget this costly countess. as i returned, i saw newstead and althorpe: i like both. the former is the very abbey.( ) the great east window( ) of the church remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it; a private chapel quite perfect. the park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned; the present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thousand pounds of which have been cut near the house. in recompense he has built two baby forts, to pay his country in castles for the damage done to the navy, and planted a handful of scotch firs, that look like plough-boys dressed in old family liveries for a public day. in the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals; the refectory, now the great-drawing-room, is full of byrons; the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for them by a venetian tailor.( ) althorpe( ) has several very fine pictures by the best italian hands, and a gallery of all one's acquaintance by vandyke and lely. i wonder you never saw it; it is but six miles from northampton. well, good night; i have writ you such a volume, that you see i am forced to page it. the duke has had a stroke of the palsy, but is quite recovered, except in some letters, which he cannot pronounce; and it is still visible in the contraction of one side of his mouth. my compliments to your family. ( ) the patron saint of the town. the imagery and carved work on the front of the cathedral was much injured in . the cross upon the west window is said to have been frequently aimed at by cromwell's soldiery.-e. ( ) daughter of john hoskins, esq. and widow of william the third duke of devonshire. ( ) afterwards duchess of portland. ( ) anciently the seat of the vernons. sir george vernon, in queen elizabeth's time, was styled king of the peak," and the property came into the manners family by his daughter marrying thomas, son of the first earl of rutland.-e. ( ) she was daughter of john hardwicke, of hardwicke in derbyshire. her first husband was robert barley, esq. who settled his large estate on her and hers. she married, secondly, sir william cavendish; her third husband was sir william st. lo; and her fourth was george talbot, earl of shrewsbury, whose daughter, lady grace, married her son by sir william cavendish. ( ) evelyn, who visited newstead in , says of it:--"it is situated much like fontainbleau, in france, capable of being made a noble seat, accommodated as it is with brave woods and streams; it has yet remaining the front of a glorious abbey church." lord byron thus beautifully describes the family seat, in the thirteenth canto of don juan: "an old, old monastery once, and now still older mansion-of a rich and rare mix'd gothic, much as artists all allow few specimens yet left us can compare. "before the mansion lay a lucid lake, broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed by a river, which its soften'd way did take in currents through the calmer water spread around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake and sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: the woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood with their green faces fix'd upon the flood."-e. ( ) a mighty window, hollow in the centre, shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, now yawns all desolate."-e. ( ) "----the cloisters still were stable, the cells, too, and refectory, i ween: an exquisite small chapel had been able still unimpaired to decorate the scene the rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, and spoke more of the baron than the monk."-e. ( ) the seat of earl spencer.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, sept. , . ( ) my dear lord, you ordered me to tell you how i liked hardwicke. to say the truth, not exceedingly. the bank of oaks over the ponds is fine, and the vast lawn behind the house: i saw nothing else that is superior to the common run of parks. for the house, it did not please me at all; there is no grace, no ornament, no gothic in it. i was glad to see the style of furniture of that age; and my imagination helped me to like the apartment of the queen of scots. had it been the chateau of a duchess of brunswick, on which they had exhausted the revenues of some centuries, i don't think i should have admired it at all. in short, hardwicke disappointed me as much as chatsworth surpassed my expectation. there is a richness and vivacity of prospect in the latter; in the former, nothing but triste grandeur. newstead delighted me. there is grace and gothic indeed--good chambers and a comfortable house. the monks formerly were the only sensible people that had really good mansions.( ) i saw althorpe too, and liked it very well: the pictures are fine. in the gallery i found myself quite at home; and surprised the housekeeper by my familiarity with the portraits. i hope you have read prince ferdinand's thanksgiving, where he has made out a victory by the excess of his praises. i supped at mr. conway's t'other night with miss west'( ) and we diverted ourselves with the encomiums on her colonel johnston. lady ailesbury told her, that to be sure next winter she would burn nothing but laurel-faggots. don't you like prince ferdinand's being so tired with thanking, that at last he is forced to turn god over to be thanked by the officers? in london there is a more cruel campaign than that waged by the russians: the streets are a very picture of the murder of the innocents--one drives over nothing but poor dead dogs!( ) the dear, good-natured, honest, sensible creatures! christ! how can anybody hurt them? nobody could but those cherokees the english, who desire no better than to be halloo'd to blood:--one day admiral byng, the next lord george sackville, and to-day the poor dogs! i cannot help telling your lordship how i was diverted the night i returned hither. i was sitting with mrs. clive, her sister and brother, in the bench near the road at the end of her long walk. we heard a violent scolding; and looking out, saw a pretty woman standing by a high chaise, in which was a young fellow, and a coachman riding by. the damsel had lost her hat, her cap, her cloak, her temper, and her senses; and was more drunk and more angry than you can conceive. whatever the young man had or had not done to her. she would not ride in the chaise with him, but stood cursing and swearing in the most outrageous style: and when she had vented all the oaths she could think of, she at last wished perfidion might seize him. you may imagine how we laughed. the fair intoxicate turned round, and cried "i am laughed at!--who is it!--what, mrs. clive? kitty clive?--no: kitty clive would never behave so!" i wish you could have seen my neighbour's confusion. she certainly did not grow paler than ordinary. i laugh now while i repeat it to you. i have told mr. bentley the great honour you have done him, my lord. he is happy the temple succeeds to please you. ( ) "----it lies perhaps a little low, because the monks preferred a hill behind to shelter their devotion from the wind." byron.-e. ( ) lady henrietta-cecilia, eldest daughter of john, afterwards lord de la warr. in , she was married to general james west.-e. ( ) in the summer of this year the dread of mad dogs' raged like an epidemic: the periodical publications of the time being filled with little else of domestic interest than the squabbles of the dog-lovers and dog-haters. the common council of london, at a meeting on the @ th august, issued an order for killing all dogs found in the street., or highways after the th, and offered a reward of two shillings for every dog that should be killed and buried in the skin. in goldsmith's citizen of the world there is an amusing paper in which he ridicules the fear of mad dogs as one of those epidemic terrors to which our countrymen are occasionally prone.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, september , . (page ) thank you for your notice, though i should certainly have contrived to see you without it. your brother promised he would come and dine here one day with you and lord beauchamp. i go to navestock on monday, for two or three days; but that will not exhaust your waiting.( ) i shall be in town on sunday; but- as that is a court-day, i will not--so don't propose it--dine with you at kensington; but i will be with my lady hertford about six, where your brother and you will find me if you please. i cannot come to kensington in the evening, for i have but one pair of horses in the world, and they will have to carry me to town in the morning. i wonder the king expects a battle; when prince ferdinand can do as well without fighting, why should he fight? can't he make the hereditary prince gallop into a mob of frenchmen, and get a scratch on the nose; and johnson straddle across a river and come back with six heads of hussars in his fob, and then can't he thank all the world, and assure them he shall never forget the victory they have not gained? these thanks are sent over: the gazette swears that this no-success was chiefly owing to general mostyn; and the chronicle protests, that it was achieved by my lord granby's losing his hat, which he never wears; and then his lordship sends over for three hundred thousand pints of porter to drink his own health; and then mr. pitt determines to carry on the war for another year; and then the duke of newcastle hopes that we shall be beat, that he may lay the blame on mr. pitt, and that then he shall be minister for thirty years longer; and then we shall be the greatest nation in the universe. amen! my dear harry, you see how easy it is to be a hero. if you had but taken impudence and oatlands in your way to rochfort, it would not have signified whether you had taken rochfort or not. adieu! i don't know who lady ailesbury's mr. alexander is. if she curls like a vine with any mr. alexander but you, i hope my lady coventry will recover and be your roxana. ( ) mr. conway, as groom of the bedchamber to the king, was then in waiting at kensington. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill. (page ) you are good for nothing; you have no engagement, you have no principles; and all this i am not afraid to tell you,. as you have left your sword behind you. if you take it ill, i have given my nephew, who brings your sword, a letter of attorney to fight you for me; i shall certainly not see you: my lady waldegrave goes to town on friday, but i remain here. you lose lady anne connolly and her forty daughters, who all dine here to-day upon a few loaves and three small fishes. i should have been glad if you would have breakfasted here on friday on your way; but as i lie in bed rather longer than the lark, i fear our hours would not suit one another. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, october , . (page ) i announce my lady huntingtower( ) to you. i hope you will approve the match a little more than i suppose my lord dysart will, as he does not yet know, though they have been married these two hours, that, at ten o'clock this morning, his son espoused my niece charlotte at st. james's church. the moment my lord dysart is dead, i will carry you to see the ham-house; it is pleasant to call cousins with a charming prospect over against one. now you want to know the detail: there was none. it is not the style of our court to have long negotiations; we don't fatigue the town with exhibiting the betrothed for six months together in public places. vidit, venit, vicit;--the young lord has liked her some time; on saturday se'nnight he came to my brother, and made his demand. the princess did not know him by sight, and did not dislike him when she did; she consented. and they were married this morning. my lord dysart is such a - that nobody will pity him; he has kept his son till six-and-twenty, and would never make the least settlement on him; "sure," said the young man, "if he will do nothing for me, i may please myself; he cannot hinder me of ten thousand pounds a-year, and sixty thousand that are in the funds, all entailed on me"--a reversion one does not wonder the bride did not refuse, as there is present possession too of a very handsome person; the only thing his father has ever given him. his grandfather, lord granville, has always told him to choose a gentlewoman, and please himself; yet i should think the ladies townshend and cooper would cackle a little. i wish you could have come here this october for more reasons than one. the teddingtonian history is grown wofully bad. mark antony, though no boy, persists in losing the world two or three times over for every gipsy that be takes for a cleopatra. i have laughed, been scolded, represented, begged, and at last spoken very roundly--all with equal success; at present we do not meet. i must convince him of ill usage, before i can make good usage of any service. all i have done is forgot, because i will not be enamoured of hannah cleopatra too. you shall know the whole history when i see you; you may trust me for still being kind to him; but that he must not as yet suspect; they are bent on going to london, that she may visit and be visited, while he puts on his red velvet and ermine, and goes about begging in robes. poor mr. chute has had another very severe fit of the gout; i left him in bed, but by not hearing he is worse, trust on saturday to find him mended. adieu! ( ) charlotte, third daughter of sir edward walpole, and sister to lady waldegrave, and to mrs. keppel. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, oct. , . page ) i am afraid you will turn me off from being your gazetteer. do you know that i came to town to-day by accident, and was here four hours before i heard that montreal was taken? the express came early this morning. i am so posthumous in my intelligence, that you must not expect any intelligence from me--but the same post that brings you this, will convey the extraordinary gazette, which of late is become the register of the temple of fame. all i know is, that the bonfires and squibs are drinking general amherst's( ) health. within these two days fame and the gazette have laid another egg; i wish they may hatch it themselves! but it is one of that unlucky hue which has so often been addled; in short, behold another secret expedition. it was notified on friday, and departs in a fortnight. lord albemarle, it is believed, will command it. one is sure at least that it cannot be to america, for we have taken it all. the conquest of montreal may perhaps serve in full of all accounts, as i suspect a little that this new plan was designed to amuse the city of london at the beginning of the session, who would not like to have wasted so many millions on this campaign, without any destruction of friend or foe.( ) now, a secret expedition may at least furnish a court-martial, and the citizens love persecution even better than their money. a general or in admiral to be mobbed either by their applause or their hisses, is all they desire.-poor lord albemarle! the charming countess( ) is dead at last; and as if the whole history of both sisters was to be extraordinary, the duchess of hamilton is in a consumption too, and going abroad directly. perhaps you may see the remains of these prodigies, you will see but little remains; her features were never so beautiful as lady coventry's, and she has long been changed, though not yet i think above six-and-twenty. the other was but twenty-seven. as all the great ladies are mortal this year, my family is forced to recruit the peerage. my brother's last daughter is married; and, as biddy tipkin( ) says, though their story is too short for a romance, it will make a very pretty novel--nay, it is almost brief enough for a play, and very near comes within one of the unities, the space of four-and-twenty hours. there is in the world, particularly in my world, for he lives directly over against me across the water, a strange brute called earl of dysart.( ) don't be frightened, it is not he. his son, lord huntingtower, to whom he gives but four hundred pounds a year, is a comely young gentleman of twenty-six, who has often had thoughts of trying whether his father would not like grandchildren better than his own children, as sometimes people have more grand-tenderness than paternal. all the answer he could ever get was, that the earl could not afford, as he has five younger children, to make any settlement, but he offered, as a proof of his inability and kindness, to lend his son a large sum of money at low interest. this indigent usurer has thirteen thousand pounds a year, and sixty thousand pounds in the funds. the money and ten of the thirteen thousand in land are entailed on lord huntingtower. the young lord, it seems, has been in love with charlotte for some months, but thought so little of inflaming her, that yesterday fortnight she did not know him by sight. on that day he came and proposed himself to my brother, who with much surprise heard his story, but excused himself from giving an answer. he said, he would never force the inclinations of his children; he did not believe his daughter had any engagement or attachment, but she might have: he would send for her and know her mind. she was at her sister waldegrave's, to whom, on receiving the notification, she said very sensibly, "if i was but nineteen, i would refuse pointblank; i do not like to be married in a week to a man i never saw. but i am two-and-twenty; some people say i am handsome, some say i am not; i believe the truth is, i am likely to be at large and to go off soon-it is dangerous to refuse so great a match." take notice of the married in a week; the love that was so many months in ripening, could not stay above a week. she came and saw this impetuous lover, and i believe was glad she had not refused pointblank-for they were married last thursday. i tremble a little for the poor girl; not to mention the oddness of the father, and twenty disagreeable things that may be in the young man, who has been kept and lived entirely out of the world; @ takes her fortune, ten thousand pounds, and cannot settle another shilling upon her till his father dies, and then promises only a thousand a year. would one venture one's happiness and one's whole fortune for the chance of being lady dysart?@if lord huntingtower dies before his father, she will not have sixpence. sure my brother has risked too much! stosch, who is settled at salisbury, has writ to me to recommend him to somebody or other as a travelling governor or companion. i would if i knew any body: but who travels now? he says you have notified his intention to me-so far from it, i have not heard from you this age: i never was so long without a letter- -but you don't take montreals and canadas every now and then. you repose like the warriors in germany-at least i hope so--i trust no ill health has occasioned your silence. adieu! ( ) general sir jeffrey amherst distinguished himself in the war with the french in america. he was subsequently created a peer, and made commander-in-chief.-d. ( ) the large armament, intended for a secret expedition and collected at portsmouth, was detained there the whole summer, but the design was laid aside.-e. ( ) maria gunning, countess of coventry. ( ) in steele's "tender husband" ( ) lionel tolmache, earl of dysart, lived at ham house, over against twickenham. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) if you should see in the newspapers, that i have offered to raise a regiment at twickenham, am going with the expedition, and have actually kissed hands, don't believe it; though i own, the two first would not be more surprising than the last. i will tell you how the calamity befell me, though you will laugh instead of pitying me. last friday morning, i was very tranquilly writing my anecdotes of painting,--i heard the bell at the gate ring--i called out, as usual, "not at home;" but harry, who thought it would be treason to tell a lie, when he saw red liveries, owned i was, and came running up: "sir, the prince of wales is at the door, and says he is come on purpose to make you a visit!" there was i, in the utmost confusion, undressed, in my slippers, and my hair about my ears; there was no help, insanunt vetem aspiciet- -and down i went to receive him. him was the duke of york. behold my breeding of the old court; at the foot of the stairs i kneeled down, and kissed his hand. i beg your uncle algernon sidney's pardon, but i could not let the second prince of the blood kiss my hand first. he was, as he always is, extremely good-humoured; and i, as i am not always, extremely respectful. he stayed two hours, nobody with him but morrison; i showed him all my castle, the pictures of the pretender's sons, and that type of the reformation, harry the eighth's ----, moulded into a to the clock he gave anne boleyn. - but observe my luck; he would have the sanctum sanctorum in the library opened: about a month ago i removed the mss. in another place. all this is very well; but now for the consequences; what was i to do next? i have not been in a court these ten years, consequently have never kissed hands in the next reign. could i let a duke of york visit me, and never go to thank him? i know, if i was a great poet, i might be so brutal, and tell the world in rhyme that rudeness is virtue; or, if i was a patriot, i might, after laughing at kings and princes for twenty years, catch at the first opening of favour and beg a place. in truth, i can do neither; yet i could not be shocking; i determined to go to leicester-house, and comforted myself that it was not much less meritorious to go there for nothing, than to stay quite away; yet i believe i must make a pilgrimage to saint liberty of geneva, before i am perfectly purified, especially as i am dipped even at st. james's. lord hertford, at my request, begged my lady yarmouth to get an order for my lady henry to go through the park, and the countess said so many civil things about me and my suit, and granted it so expeditiously, that i shall be forced to visit, even before she lives here next door to my lady suffolk. my servants are transported; harry expects to see me first minister, like my father, and reckons upon a place in the custom-house.. louis, who drinks like a german, thinks himself qualified for a page of the back stairs--but these are not all my troubles. as i never dress in summer, i had nothing upon earth but a frock, unless i went in black, like a poet, and pretended that a cousin was dead, one of the muses. then i was in panics lest i should call my lord bute, your royal highness. i was not indeed in much pain at the conjectures the duke of newcastle would make on such an apparition, even if he should suspect that a new opposition was on foot, and that i was to write some letters to the whigs. well, but after all, do you know that my calamity has not befallen me yet? i could not determine to bounce over head and ears into the drawing-room at once, without one soul knowing why i cane thither. i went to london on saturday night, and lord hertford was to carry me the next morning; in the meantime i wrote to morrison, explaining my gratitude to one brother, and my unacquaintance with t'other, and how afraid i was that it would be thought officious and forward if i was presented now, and begging he would advise me what to do; and all this upon my bended knee, as if schutz had stood over me and dictated every syllable. the answer was by order from the duke of york, that he smiled at my distress, wished to put me to no inconvenience, but desired, that as the acquaintance had begun without restraint, it might continue without ceremony. now i was in more perplexity than ever! i could not go directly, and yet it was not fit it should be said i thought it an inconvenience to wait on the prince of wales. at present it is decided by a jury of court matrons, that is, courtiers, that i must write to my lord bute and explain the whole, and why i desire to come now--don't fear; i will take care they shall understand how little i come for. in the mean time, you see it is my fault if i am not a favourite, but alas! i am not heavy enough to be tossed in a blanket, like doddington; i should never come down again; i cannot be driven in a royal curricle to wells and waters: i can't make love now to my contemporary charlotte dives; i cannot quit mufti and my parroquet for sir william irby,( ) and the prattle of a drawing-room, nor mrs. clive for aelia lalia chudleigh; in short, i could give up nothing but an earldom of eglington; and yet i foresee, that this phantom of the reversion of a reversion will make me plagued; i shall have lord egmont whisper me again; and every tall woman and strong man, that comes to town, will make interest with me to get the duke of york to come and see them. oh! dreadful, dreadful! it is plain i never was a patriot, for i don't find my virtue a bit staggered by this first glimpse of court sunshine. mr. conway has pressed to command the new quixotism on foot, and has been refused; i sing a very comfortable te deum for it. kingsley, craufurd, and keppel, are the generals, and commodore keppel the admiral. the mob are sure of being pleased; they will get a conquest, or a court-martial. a very unpleasant thing has happened to the keppels; the youngest brother, who had run in debt at gibraltar, and was fetched away to be sent to germany, gave them the slip at the first port they touched at in spain, surrendered himself to the spanish governor, has changed his religion, and sent for a ---- that had been taken from him at gibraltar; naturam expellas fure`a. there's the true blood of charles the second sacrificing every thing for popery and a bunter. lord bolingbroke, on hearing the name of lady coventry at newmarket, affected to burst into tears, and left the room, not to hide his crying, but his not crying. draper has handsomely offered to go on the expedition, and goes. ned finch, t'other day, on the conquest of montreal, wished the king joy of having lost no subjects, but those that perished in the rabbits. fitzroy asked him if he thought they crossed the great american lakes in such little boats as one goes to vauxhall? he replied, "yes, mr. pitt said the rabbits"--it was in the falls, the rapids. i like lord john almost as well as fred. montagu; and i like your letter better than lord john; the application of miss falkener was charming. good night. p. s. if i had been told in june, that i should have the gout, and kiss hands before november, i don't think i should have given much credit to the prophet. ( ) in , created baron boston.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street. october , . (page ) i tell a lie: i am at mr. chute's. was ever so agreeable a man as king george the second, to die the very day it was necessary to save me from a ridicule? i was to have kissed hands to-morrow-but you will not care a farthing about that now; so i must tell you all i know of departed majesty. he went to bed well last night, rose at six this morning as usual, looked, i suppose, if all his money was in his purse, and called for his chocolate. a little after seven, he went into the water-closet; the german valet de chambre heard a noise, listened, heard something like a groan, ran in, and found the hero of oudenarde and dettingen on the floor, with a gash on his right temple, by falling against the corner of a bureau. he tried to speak, could not, and expired. princess emily was called, found him dead, and wrote to the prince. i know not a syllable, but am come to see and hear as much as i can. i fear you will cry and roar all night, but one could not keep it from you. for my part, like a new courtier, i comfort myself, considering what a gracious prince comes next. behold my luck. i wrote to lord bute, just in all the unexpecteds, want of ambition, disinteresteds, etc. that i could amass, gilded with as much duty affection, zeal, etc. as possible, received a very gracious and sensible answer, and was to have been presented to-morrow, and the talk of the few people, that are in town, for a week. now i shall be lost in the crowd, shall be as well there as i desire to be, have done what was right, they know i want nothing, may be civil to me very cheaply, and i can go and see the puppet-show for this next month at my ease: but perhaps you will think all this a piece of art; to be sure, i have timed my court, as luckily as possible, and contrived to be the last person in england that made interest with the successor. you see virtue and philosophy always prone to know the world and their own interest. however, i am not so abandoned a patriot yet, as to desert my friends immediately; you shall hear now and then the events of this new reign--if i am not made secretary of state--if i am, i shall certainly take care to let you know it. i had really begun to think that the lawyers for once talked sense, when they said the king never dies. he probably cot his death, as he liked to have done two years ago, by viewing the troops for the expedition from the wall of kensington garden. my lady suffolk told me about a month ago that he had often told her, speaking of the dampness of kensington, that he would never die there. for my part, my man harry will always be a favourite: he tells me all the amusing news; he first told me of the late prince of wales's death, and to-day of the king's. thank you, mr. chute is as well as can be expected--in this national affliction. sir robert brown has left every thing to my lady--aye, every thing, i believe his very avarice. lord huntingtower wrote to offer his father eight thousand pounds of charlotte's fortune, if he would give them one thousand a-year in present, and settle a jointure on her. the earl returned this truly laconic, for being so unnatural, an answer. "lord huntingtower, i answer your letter as soon as i receive it; i wish you joy; i hear your wife is very accomplished. yours, dysart." i believe my lady huntingtower must contrive to make it convenient for me, that my lord dysart should die--and then he will. i expect to be a very respectable personage in time, and to have my tomb set forth like the lady margaret douglas, that i had four earls to my nephews, though i never was one myself. adieu! i must go govern the nation. letter to the earl of strafford. arlington street, october , . (page ) my dear lord, i beg your pardon for so long a silence in the late reign; i knew nothing worth telling you; and the great event of this morning you z, will certainly hear before it comes to you by so sober and regular a personage as the postman. the few circumstances known yet are, that the king went well to bed last night; rose well at six this morning; went to the water-closet a little after seven -, had a fit, fell against a bureau, and gashed his right temple: the valet de chambre heard a noise and a groan, and ran in: the king tried to speak, but died instantly. i should hope this would draw you southward: such scenes are worth looking at, even by people who regard them with such indifference as your lordship and i. i say no more, for what will mix in a letter with the death of a king! i am my lady's and your lordship's most faithful servant. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, tuesday, october . (page ) the new reign dates with great propriety and decency; the civilest letter to princess emily; the greatest kindness to the duke; the utmost respect to the dead body. no changes to be made but those absolutely necessary, as the household, etc.--and what some will think the most unnecessary, in the representative of power. there are but two new cabinet counsellors named; the duke of york and lord bute, so it must be one of them. the princess does not remove to st. james's, so i don't believe it will be she. to-day england kissed hands, so did i, and it is more comfortable to kiss hands with all england, than to have all england ask why one kisses hands. well! my virtue is safe; i had a gracious reception, and yet i am almost as impatient to return to strawberry, as i was to leave it on the news. there is great dignity and grace in the king's manner. i don't say this, like my dear madame de s`evign`e, because he was civil to me but the part is well acted. if they do as well behind the scenes, as upon the stage, it will be a very complete reign. hollinshed, or baker, would think it begins well, that is, begins ill; it has rained without intermission, and yesterday there came a cargo of bad news, all which, you know, are similar omens to a man who writes history upon the information of the clouds. berlin is taken by the prussians, the hereditary prince beaten by the french. poor lord downe has had three wounds. he and your brother's billy pitt are prisoners. johnny waldegrave was shot through the hat and through the coat; and would have been shot through the body, if he had had any. irish johnson is wounded in the hand; ned harvey somewhere; and prince ferdinand mortally in his reputation for sending this wild detachment. mr. pitt has another reign to set to rights. the duke of cumberland has taken lord sandwich's, in pall-mall; lord chesterfield has offered his house to princess emily; and if they live at hampton-court, as i suppose his court will, i may as well offer strawberry for a royal nursery; for at best it will become a cakehouse; 'tis such a convenient airing for the maids of honour. if i was not forced in conscience to own to you, that my own curiosity is exhausted, i would ask you, if you would not come and look at this new world; but a new world only reacted by old players is not much worth seeing; i shall return on saturday. the parliament is prorogued till the day it was to have met; the will is not opened; what can i tell you more? would it be news that all is hopes and fears, and that great lords look as if they dreaded wanting bread? would this be news? believe me, it all grows stale soon. i had not seen such a sight these three-and-thirty years: i came eagerly to town; i laughed for three days-. i am tired already. good night! p. s. i smiled to myself last night. out of excess of attention, which costs me nothing, when i mean it should cost nobody else any thing, i went last night to kensington to inquire after princess emily and lady yarmouth: nobody knew me, they asked my name. when they heard it, they did not seem ever to have heard it before, even in that house. i waited half an hour in a lodge with a footman of lady yarmouth's; i would not have waited so long in her room a week ago; now it only diverted me. even moralizing is entertaining, when one laughs at the same time; but i pity those who don't moralize till they cry. letter to sir horace mann. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) the deaths of kings travel so much faster than any post, that i cannot expect to tell you news, when i say your old master is dead. but i can pretty well tell you what i like best to be able to say to you on this occasion, that you are in no danger. change will scarce reach to florence when its hand is checked even in the capital. but i will move a little regularly, and then you will form your judgment more easily--this is tuesday; on friday night the king went to bed in perfect health, and rose so the next morning at his usual hour of six; he called for and drank his chocolate. at seven, for every thing with him was exact and periodic, he went into the closet to dismiss his chocolate. coming from thence, his valet de chambre heard a noise; waited a moment, and heard something like a groan. he ran in, and in a small room between the closet and bedchamber he found the king on the floor, who had cut the right side of his face against the edge of a bureau, and who after a gasp expired. lady yarmouth was called, and sent for princess amelia; but they only told the latter that the king was ill and wanted her. she had been confined for some days with a rheumatism, but hurried down, ran into the room without farther notice, and saw her father extended on the bed. she is very purblind, and more than a little deaf they had not closed his eyes: she bent down close to his face, and concluded he spoke to her, though she could not hear him-guess what a shock when she found the truth. she wrote to the prince of wales--but so had one of the valets de chambre first. he came to town and saw the duke( ) and the privy council. he was extremely kind to the first--and in general has behaved with the greatest propriety, dignity, and decency. he read his speech to the council with much grace, and dismissed the guards on himself to wait on his grandfather's body. it is intimated, that he means to employ the same ministers, but with reserve to himself of more authority than has lately been in fashion. the duke of york and lord bute are named of the cabinet council. the late king's will is not yet opened. to-day every body kissed hands at leicester-house, and this week, i believe, the king will go to st. james's. the body has been opened; the great ventricle of the heart had burst. what an enviable death! in the greatest period of glory of this country, and of his reign, in perfect tranquillity at home, at seventy-seven, growing blind and deaf, to die without a pang, before any reverse of fortune, or any distasted peace, nay, but two days before a ship load of bad news: could he have chosen such another moment? the news is bad indeed! berlin taken by capitulation, and yet the austrians behaved so savagely that even the russians( ) felt delicacy, were shocked, and checked them! nearer home, the hereditary prince( ) has been much beaten by monsieur de castries, and forced to raise the siege of wesel, whither prince ferdinand had sent him most unadvisedly: we have scarce an officer unwounded. the secret expedition will now, i conclude, sail, to give an `eclat to the new reign. lord albemarle does not command it, as i told you, nor mr. conway, though both applied. nothing is settled about the parliament; not even the necessary changes in the household. committees of council are regulating the mourning and the funeral. the town, which between armies, militia, and approaching elections, was likely to be a desert all the winter, is filled in a minute, but every thing is in the deepest tranquility. people stare; the only expression. the moment any thing is declared, one shall not perceive the novelty of the reign. a nation without parties is soon a nation without curiosity. you may now judge how little your situation is likely to be affected. i finish; i think i feel ashamed of tapping the events of a new reign, of which probably i shall not see half. if i was not unwilling to balk your curiosity, i should break my pen, as the great officers do their white wands, over the grave of the old king. adieu! ( ) william duke of cumberland. ( ) the russians and austrians obtained possession of berlin, while frederick was employed in watching the great austrian army. they were, however, soon driven from it.-d. ( ) of brunswick; afterwards the celebrated duke of that name.-d. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) when you have changed the cipher of george the second into that of george the third. and have read the addresses, and have shifted a few lords and grooms of the bedchamber, you are master of the history of the new reign, which is indeed but a new lease of the old one. the favourite took it up in a high style; but having, like my lord granville, forgot to ensure either house of parliament, or the mob, the third house of parliament, he drove all the rest to unite. they have united, and have notified their resolution of governing as before: not but the duke of newcastle cried for his old master, desponded for himself, protested he would retire, consulted every body whose interest it was to advise him to stay, and has accepted to-day, thrusting the dregs of his ridiculous life into a young court, which will at least be saved from the imputation of childishness, by being governed by folly of seventy years growth. the young king has all the appearance of being amiable. there is great grace to temper much dignity and extreme good-nature, which breaks out on all occasions. even the household is not settled yet. the greatest difficulty is the master of the horse. lord huntingdon is so by all precedent; lord gower, i believe, will be so. poor lord rochford is undone - nobody is unreasonable to save him. the duke of cumberland has taken schomberg-house in pall-mall; princess emily is dealing for sir richard lyttelton's in cavendish-square. people imagined the duke of devonshire had lent her burlington-house; i don't know why, unless they supposed she was to succeed my lady burlington in every thing. a week has finished my curiosity fully; i return to strawberry to-morrow, and i fear go next week to houghton, to make an appearance of civility to lynn, whose favour i never asked, nor care if i have or not; but i don't know how to refuse this attention to lord orford, who begs it. i trust you will have approved my behaviour at court, that is, my mixing extreme politeness with extreme indifference. our predecessors, the philosophers of ancient days, knew not how to be disinterested without brutality; i pique myself on founding a new sect. my followers are to tell kings, with excess of attention, that they don't want them, and to despise favour with more good breeding than others practise in suing for it. we are a thousand times a greater nation than the grecians: why are we to imitate them! our sense is as great, our follies greater; sure we have all the pretensions to superiority! adieu! p. s. as to the fair widow brown, i assure you the devil never sowed two hundred thousand pounds in a more fruitful soil: every guinea has taken root already. i saw her yesterday; it shall be some time before i see her again. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i am not gone to houghton, you see: my lord orford is come to town, and i have persuaded him to stay and perform decencies. king george the second is dead richer than sir robert brown, though perhaps not so rich as my lord hardwicke. he has left fifty thousand pounds between the duke, emily, and mary; the duke has given up his share. to lady yarmouth a cabinet, with the contents; they call it eleven thousand pounds. by a german deed, he gives the duke to the value of one hundred and eighty thousand pounds, placed on mortgages, not immediately recoverable. e had once given him twice as much more, then revoked it, and at last excused the revocation, on the pretence of the expenses of the war; but owns he was the best son that ever lived, and had never offended him; a pretty strong comment on the affair of closterseven! he gives him, besides, all his jewels in england; but had removed all the best to hanover, which he makes crown jewels, and his successor residuary legatee. the duke, too, has some uncounted cabinets. my lady suffolk has given me a particular of his jewels, which plainly amount to one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. it happened oddly to my lady suffolk. two days before he died, she went to make a visit at kensington, not knowing of the review; she found herself hemmed in by coaches, and was close to him, whom she had not seen for so many years, and to my lady yarmouth; but they did not know her: it struck her, and has made her very sensible to his death. the changes hang back. nothing material has been altered yet. ned finch, the only thing my lady yarmouth told the new king she had to ask for, is made surveyor of the roads, in the room of sir harry erskine, who is to have an old regiment. he excuses himself from seeing company, as favourite of the favourite. arthur is removed from being clerk of the wine-cellar, a sacrifice to morality the archbishop has such hopes of the young king, that he is never out of the circle. he trod upon the duke's foot on sunday, in the haste of his zeal; the duke said to him, "my lord, if your grace is in such a hurry to make your court, that is the way." bon-mots come thicker than changes. charles townshend, receiving an account of the impression the king's death had made, was told miss chudleigh cried. "what," said he, "oysters?" and last night, mr. dauncey, asking george selwyn if princess amelia would have a guard? he replied, "now and then one, i suppose." an extraordinary event has happened to-day; george townshend sent a challenge to lord albemarle, desiring him to be with a second in the fields. lord albemarle took colonel crawford, and went to mary-le-bone; george townshend bespoke lord buckingham, who loves a secret too well not to tell it: he communicated it to stanley, who went to st. james's, and acquainted mr. caswall, the captain on guard. the latter took a hackney-coach, drove to mary-le-bone, and saw one pair. after waiting ten minutes, the others came; townshend made an apology to lord albemarle for making him wait. "oh," said he, "men of spirit don't want apologies: come, let us begin what we came for." at that instant, out steps caswall from his coach, and begs their pardon, as his superior officers, but told them they were his prisoners. he desired mr. townshend and lord buckingham to return to their coach; he would carry back lord albemarle and crawford in his. he did, and went to acquaint the king, who has commissioned some of the matrons of the army to examine the affair, and make it up. all this while, i don't know what the quarrel was, but they hated one another so much on the duke's account, that a slight word would easily make their aversions boil over. don't you, nor even your general come to town on this occasion? good night. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) even the honeymoon of a new reign don't produce events every day. there is nothing but the common paying of addresses and kissing hands. the chief difficulty is settled; lord gower yields the mastership of the horse to lord huntingdon, and removes to the great wardrobe, from whence sir thomas robinson was to have gone into ellis's place, but he is saved. the city, however, have a mind to be out of humour; a paper has been fixed on the royal exchange, with these words, "no petticoat government, no scotch minister, no lord george sackville;" two hints totally unfounded, and the other scarce true. no petticoat ever governed less, it is left at leicester-house; lord george's breeches are as little concerned; and, except lady susan stuart and sir harry erskine, nothing has yet been done for any scots. for the king himself, he seems all good-nature, and wishing to satisfy every body; all his speeches are obliging. i saw him again yesterday, and was surprised to find the levee-room had lost so entirely the air of the lion's den. this sovereign don't stand in one spot, with his eyes fixed royally on the ground, and dropping bits of german news; he walks about, and speaks to every body- i saw him afterwards on the throne, where he is graceful and genteel, sits with dignity, and reads his answers to addresses well; it was the cambridge address, carried by the duke of newcastle in his doctor's gown, and looking like the m`edecin malgr`e lui. he had been vehemently solicitous for attendance, for fear my lord westmoreland, who vouchsafes himself to bring the address from oxford, should outnumber him. lord litchfield and several other jacobites have kissed hands; george selwyn says, "they go to st. james's, because now there are so many stuarts there." do you know, i had the curiosity to go to the burying t'other night; i had never seen a royal funeral; nay, i walked as a rag of quality, which i found would be, and so it was, the easiest way of seeing it. it is absolutely a noble sight. the prince's chamber, hung with purple, and a quantity of silver lamps, the coffin under a canopy of purple velvet, and six vast chandeliers of silver on high stands, had a very good effect. the ambassador from tripoli and his son were carried to see that chamber. the procession through a line of foot-guards, every seventh man bearing a torch, the horse-guards lining the outside, their officers with drawn sabres and crape sashes on horseback, the drums muffled, the fifes, bells tolling, and minute guns,--all this was very solemn. but the charm was the entrance of the abbey, where we were received by the dean and chapter in rich robes, the choir and almsmen bearing torches; the whole abbey so illuminated, that one saw it to greater advantage than by day; the tombs, long aisles, and fretted roof, all appearing distinctly, and with the happiest chiaro scuro. there wanted nothing but incense, and little chapels here and there, with priests saying mass for the repose of the defunct; yet one could not complain of its not being catholic enough. i had been in dread of' being coupled with some boy of ten years old; but the heralds were not very accurate, and i walked with george grenville, taller and older, to keep me in countenance. when we came to the chapel of henry the seventh, all solemnity and decorum ceased; no order was observed, people sat or stood where they could or would; the yeomen of the guard were crying out for help, oppressed by the immense weight of the coffin; the bishop read sadly, and blundered in the prayers; the fine chapter, man that is born of a woman, was chanted, not read; and the anthem, besides being immeasurably tedious, would have served as well for a nuptial. the real serious part was the figure of the duke of cumberland, heightened by a thousand melancholy circumstances. he had a dark brown adonis, and a cloak of black cloth, with a train of five yards. attending the funeral of a father could not be pleasant: his leg extremely bad, yet forced to stand upon it near two hours; his face bloated and distorted with his late paralytic stroke, which has affected, too, one of his eyes, and placed over the mouth of the vault, into which, in all probability, he must himself so soon descend; think how unpleasant a situation! he bore it all with a firm and unaffected countenance. this grave scene was fully contrasted by the burlesque duke of newcastle. he fell into a fit of crying the moment he came into the chapel, and flung himself back in a stall, the archbishop hovering over him with a smelling-bottle; but in two minutes his curiosity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel with his glass to spy who was or was not there, spying with one hand, and mopping his eyes with the other. then returned the fear of catching cold; and the duke of cumberland, who was sinking with heat, felt himself weighed down, and turning round, found it was the duke of newcastle standing upon his train, to avoid the chill of the marble. it was very theatric to look down into the vault, where the coffin lay, attended by mourners with lights. clavering, the groom of the bedchamber, refused to sit up with the body, and was dismissed by the king's order. i have nothing more to tell you, but a trifle, a very trifle. the king of prussia has totally defeated marshal daun.( ) this, which would have been prodigious news a month ago, is nothing to-day; it only takes its turn among the questions, "who is to be groom of the bedchamber? what is sir t. robinson to have?" i have been to leicester-fields to-day; the crowd was immoderate; i don't believe it will continue so. good night. yours ever. ( ) at torgau, on the d of november. an animated description of this desperate battle is given by walpole in his memoires, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, thursday, . (page ) as a codicil to my letter, i send you the bedchamber. there are to be eighteen lords, and thirteen grooms; all the late king's remain, but your cousin manchester, lord falconberg, lord essex, and lord flyndford, replaced by the duke of richmond, lord weymouth, lord march, and lord eglinton: the last at the request of the duke of york. instead of clavering, nassau, and general campbell, who is promised something else, lord northampton's brother and commodore keppel are grooms. when it was offered to the duke of richmond, he said he could not accept it, unless something was done for colonel keppel, for whom he has interested himself; that it would look like sacrificing keppel to his own views. this is handsome; keppel is to be equery. princess amelia goes every where, as she calls it; she was on monday at lady holderness's, and next monday is to be at bedford-house; but there is only the late king's set, and the court of bedford so she makes the houses of other people as triste as st. james's was. good night. not a word more of the king of prussia: did you ever know a victory mind the wind so? letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, monday, nov. , . (page ) unless i were to send you journals, lists, catalogues, computations of the bodies, tides, swarms of people that go to court to present addresses, or to be presented, i can tell you nothing new. the day the king went to the house, i was three quarters of an hour getting through whitehall; there were subjects enough to set up half-a-dozen petty kings: the pretender would be proud to reign over the footmen only; and, indeed, unless he acquires some of them, he will have no subjects left; all their masters flock to st. james's. the palace is so thronged, that i will stay tilt some people are discontented. the first night the king went to the play, which was civilly on a friday, not on the opera-night, as he used to do, the whole audience sung god save the king in chorus. for the first act, the press was so great at the door, that no ladies could go to the boxes, and only the servants appeared there, who kept places: at the end of the second act, the whole mob broke in, and seated themselves; yet all this zeal is not likely to last, though he so well deserves it. seditious papers are again stuck up: one t'other day in westminster hall declared against a saxe-gothan princess. the archbishop, who is never out of the drawing-room, has great hopes from the king's goodness, that he shall make something of him, that is something bad of him. on the address, pitt and his zany beckford quarrelled, on the latter's calling the campaign languid. what is become of our magnanimous ally and his victory, i know not. it) eleven days, no courier has arrived from him; but i have been these two days perfectly indifferent about his magnanimity. i am come to put my anecdotes of painting into the press. you are one of the few that i expect will be entertained with it. it has warmed gray's coldness so much, that he is violent about it; in truth, there is an infinite quantity of new and curious things about it; but as it is quite foreign from all popular topics, i don't suppose it will be much attended to. there is not a word of methodism in it, it says nothing of the disturbances in ireland, it does not propose to keep all canada, it neither flattered the king of prussia nor prince ferdinand, it does not say that the city of london are the wisest men in the world, it is silent about george townshend, and does not abuse my lord george sackville; how should it please? i want you to help me in a little affair, that regards it. i have found in a ms. that in the church of beckley, or becksley, in sussex, there are portraits on glass, in a window, of henry the third and his queen. i have looked in the map, and find the first name between bodiham and rye, but i am not sure it is the place. i will be much obliged to you if you will write directly to your sir whistler, and beg him to inform himself very exactly if there is any such thing in such a church near bodiham. pray state it minutely; because if there is, i will have them drawn for the frontispiece to my work. did i tell you that the archbishop tried to hinder the "minor" from being played at drury lane? for once the duke of devonshire was firm, and would only let him correct some passages, and even of those the duke has restored some. one that the prelate effaced was, "you snub-nosed son of a bitch." foote says, he will take out a license to preach tam. cant, against tom. cant.( ) the first volume of voltaire's peter the great is arrived. i weep over it. it is as languid as the campaign; he is grown old. he boasts of the materials communicated to him by the czarina's order--but alas! he need not be proud of them. they only serve to show how much worse he writes history with materials than without. besides, it is evident how much that authority has cramped his genius. i had heard before, that when he sent the work to petersburgh for imperial approbation, it was returned with orders to increase the panegyric. i wish he had acted like a very inferior author. knyphausen once hinted to me, that i might have some authentic papers, if i was disposed to write the life of his master; but i did not care for what would lay me under such restrictions. it is not fair to use weapons against the persons that lend them; and i do not admire his master enough to commend any thing in him, but his military actions. adieu! ( ) the following anecdote is related in the biographia dramatica:--"our english aristophanes sent a copy of the minor to the archbishop of canterbury, requesting that, if his grace should see any thing objectionable in it, he would exercise the free use of his pen, either in the way of erasure or correction. the archbishop returned it untouched; observing to a confidential friend, that he was sure the wit had only laid a trap for him, and that if he had put his pen to the manuscript, by way of correction or objection, foote would have had the assurance to have advertised the play as 'corrected and prepared for the press by his grace the archbishop of canterbury.'"-e. letter to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) you are extremely kind, sir, in remembering my little commission i troubled you with. as i am in great want of some more painted glass to finish a window in my round tower, i should be glad, though it may not be a pope, to have the piece you mentioned, if it can be purchased reasonably. my lucan is finished, but will not be published till after christmas, when i hope you will do me the favour of accepting one, and let me know how i shall convey it. the anecdotes of painting have succeeded to the press: i have finished two volumes, but as there will at least be a third, i am not determined whether i shall not wait to publish the whole together. you will be surprised, i think, to see what a quantity of materials the industry of one man (vertue) could amass and how much he retrieved at this late period. i hear of nothing new likely to appear; all the world is taken up in penning addresses, or in presenting them;( ) and the approaching elections will occupy the thoughts of men so much that an author could not appear at a worse era. ( ) on the then recent accession of george iii.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i thank you for the inquiries about the painted glass, and shall be glad if i prove to be in the right. there is not much of news to tell you; and yet there is much dissatisfaction. the duke of newcastle has threatened to resign on the appointment of lord oxford and lord bruce without his knowledge. his court rave about tories, which you know comes with a singular grace from them, as the duke never preferred any. murray, lord gower, sir john cotton, jack pitt, etc. etc. etc. were all firm whigs. but it is unpardonable to put an end to all faction, when it is not for factious purposes. lord fitzmaurice,( ) made aide-de-camp to the king, has disgusted the army. the duke of richmond, whose brother has no more been put over others than the duke of newcastle has preferred tories, has presented a warm memorial in a warm manner, and has resigned the bedchamber, not his regiment-another propriety. propriety is so much in fashion, that miss chudleigh has called for the council books of the subscription concert, and has struck off the name of mrs. naylor.( ) i have some thoughts of remonstrating, that general waldegrave is too lean for to be a groom of the bedchamber. mr. chute has sold his house to miss speed for three thousand pounds, and has taken one for a year in berkeley square. this is a very brief letter; i fear this reign will soon furnish longer. when the last king could be beloved, a young man with a good heart has little chance of being so. moreover, i have a maxim, that the extinction of party is the origin of faction." good night. ( ) afterwards earl of shelburne, and in created marquis of lansdowne.-e. ( ) a noted procuress.-e. letter to the rev. henry zouch arlington street, jan. , . (page ) sir, i stayed till i had the lucan ready to send you, before i thanked you for your letter, and for the pane of glass, about which you have given yourself so much kind trouble, and which i have received; i think it is clearly heraclitus weeping over a globe. illuminated mss., unless they have portraits of particular persons, i do not deal in; the extent of my collecting is already full asgreat as i can afford. i am not the less obliged to you, sir, for thinking of me. were my fortune larger, i should go deeper into printing, and having engraved curious mss. and drawings; as i cannot, i comfort myself with reflecting on the mortifications i avoid, by the little regard shown by the world to those sort of things. the sums laid out on books one should, at first sight, think an indication of encouragement to letters; but booksellers only are encouraged, not books. bodies of sciences, that is, compilations and mangled abstracts, are the only saleable commodities. would you believe, what i know is fact, that dr. hill( ) earned fifteen guineas a-week by working for wholesale dealers: he was at once employed on six voluminous works of botany, husbandry, etc. published weekly. i am sorry to say, this journeyman is one of the first men preferred in the new reign: he is made gardener of kensington, a place worth two thousand pounds a-year.( ) the king and lord bute have certainly both of them great propensity to the arts; but dr. hill, though undoubtedly not deficient in parts, has as little claim to favour in this reign, as gideon, the stock-jobber, in the last; both engrossers without merit. building, i am told, is the king's favourite study; i hope our architects will not be taken from the erectors of turnpikes. ( ) dr. hill's were among the first works in which scientific knowledge was put in a popular shape, by the system of number publishing. the doctor's performances in this way are not discreditable, and are still useful as works of reference.-c. ( ) this was an exaggeration of the emoluments of a place, which, after all was not improperly bestowed on a person of his pursuits and merits.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) i am glad you are coming, and now the time is over, that you are coming so late, as i like to have you here in the spring. you will find no great novelty in the new reign. lord denbigh( ) is made master of the harriers, with two thousand a-year. lord temple asked it, and newcastle and hardwicke gave into it for fear of denbigh's brutality in the house of lords. does this differ from the style of george the second? the king designs to have a new motto; he will not have a french one; so the pretender may enjoy dieu et mon droit in quiet. princess amelia is already sick of being familiar: she has been at northumberland-house, but goes to nobody more. that party was larger, but still more formal than the rest, though the duke of york had invited himself and his commerce-table. i played with madam and we were mighty well together; so well, that two nights afterwards she commended me to mr. conway and mr. fox, but calling me that mr. walpole, they did not guess who she meant. for my part, i thought it very well, that when i played with her, she did not call me that gentleman. as she went away, she thanked my lady northumberland, like a parson's wife, for all her civilities. i was excessively amused on tuesday night; there was a play at holland-house, acted by children; not all children, for lady sarah lenox( ) and lady susan strangways( ) played the women. it was jane shore; mr. price, lord barrington's nephew, was gloster, and acted better than three parts of the comedians. charles fox, hastings; a little nichols, who spoke well, belmour; lord ofaly,,( ) lord ashbroke, and other boys did the rest: but the two girls were delightful, and acted with so much nature and simplicity, that they appeared the very things they represented. lady sarah was more beautiful than you can conceive, and her very awkwardness gave an air of truth to the shame of the part, and the antiquity of the time, which was kept up by her dress, taken out of montfaucon. lady susan was dressed from jane seymour; and all the parts were clothed in ancient habits, and with the most minute propriety. i was infinitely more struck with the last scene between the two women than ever i was when i have seen it on the stage. when lady sarah was in white, with her hair about her ears, and on the ground, no magdalen by corregio was half so lovely and expressive. you would have been charmed too with seeing mr. fox's little boy of six years old, who is beautiful, and acted the bishop of ely, dressed in lawn sleeves and with a square cap; they had inserted two lines for him, which he could hardly speak plainly. francis had given them a pretty prologue. adieu! ( ) basil fielding, sixth earl of denbigh, and fifth earl of desmond. he died in .-e. ( ) daughter of the duke of richmond, afterwards married to sir thomas charles bunbury, bart.-e. ( ) daughter of stephen fox, first earl of ilchester; married, in , to william o'brien, esq.-e. ( ) eldest son of the marquis of kildare.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) i have not written to you lately, expecting your arrival. as you are not come yet, you need not come these ten days if you please, for i go next week into norfolk, that my subjects of lynn may at least once in their lives see me. 'tis a horrible thing to dine with a mayor! i shall profane king john's cup, and taste nothing but water out of it, as if it were st. john baptist's. prepare yourself for crowds, multitudes. in this reign all the world lives in one room: the capital is as vulgar as a country town in the season of horse-races. there were no fewer than four of these throngs on tuesday last, at the duke of cumberland's, princess emily's, the opera, and lady northumberland's; for even operas, tuesday's operas, are crowded now. there is nothing else new. last week there was a magnificent ball at carleton-house: the two royal dukes and princess emily were there. he of york danced; the other and his sister had each their table at loo. i played at hers, and am grown a favourite; nay, have been at her private party, and was asked again last wednesday, but took the liberty to excuse myself, and am yet again summoned for tuesday. it is triste enough: nobody sits till the game begins, and then she and the company are all on stools. at norfolk-house were two armchairs placed for her and the duke of cumberland, the duke of york being supposed a dancer, but they would not use them. lord huntingdon arrived in a frock, pretending he was just come out of the country; unluckily, he had been at court, full-dressed, in the morning. no foreigners were there but the son and daughter-in-law of monsieur de fuentes: the duchess told the duchess of bedford, that she had not invited the ambassadress, because her rank is disputed here. you remember the bedford took place, of madame de mirepoix; but madame de mora danced first, the duchess of norfolk saying she supposed that was of no consequence. have you heard what immense riches old wortley has left? one million three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.( ) it is all to centre in my lady bute; her husband is one of fortune's prodigies. they talk of a print, in which her mistress is reprimanding miss chudleigh; the latter curtsies, and replies, "madame, chacun a son but." have you seen a scandalous letter in print, from miss ford,( ) to lord jersey, with the history of a boar's head? george selwyn calls him meleager. adieu! this is positively my last. ( ) "you see old wortley montagu is dead at last, at eighty- three. it was not mere avarice and its companion abstinence, that kept him alive so long. he every day drank, i think it was, half-a-pint of tokay, which he imported himself from hungary in greater quantity than he could use, and sold the overplus for any price he chose to set upon it. he has left better than half a million of money." gray, works, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) miss ford was the object of an illicit, but unsuccessful attachment, on the part of lord jersey, whose advances, if not sanctioned by the lady, appear to have been sanctioned by her father, who told her "she might have accepted the settlement his lordship offered her, and yet not have complied" with his terms. the following extract from the letter will explain the history above alluded to:--"however, i must do your lordship the justice to say, that as you conceived this meeting [one with a noble personage which lord jersey had desired her not to make] would have been most pleasing to me, and perhaps of some ,advantage, your lordship did (in consideration of so great a disappointment) send me, a few days after, a present of a boar's head, which i had often had the honour to meet at your lordship's table before. it was rather an odd first and only present from a lord to his beloved mistress; but as coming from your lordship gave it an additional value, which it had not in itself; and i received it with the regard i thought due to every thing coming from your lordship, and would have eat it, had it been eatable. i am'' impatient to acquit your lordship and myself, by showing that as your lordship's eight hundred pounds a-year did not purchase my person, the boar's head did not purchase my silence."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. monday, five o'clock, feb. . (page ) i am a little peevish with you-i told you on thursday night that i had a mind to go to strawberry on friday without staying for the qualification bill. you said it did not signify--no! what if you intended to speak on it? am i indifferent to hearing you? more-am i indifferent about acting with you? would not i follow you in any thing in the world?--this is saying no profligate thing. is there any thing i might not follow you in? you even did not tell me yesterday that you had spoken. yet i will tell you all i have heard; though if there was a point in the world in which i could not wish you to succeed where you wish yourself, perhaps it would be in having you employed. i cannot be cool about your danger; yet i cannot know any thing that concerns you, and keep it from you. charles townshend called here just after i came to town to-day. among other discourse he told me of your speaking on friday, and that your speech was reckoned hostile to the duke of newcastle. then talking of regiments going abroad, he said, * * * * * with regard to your reserve to me, i can easily believe that your natural modesty made you unwilling to talk of yourself to me. i don't suspect you of any reserve to me: i only mention it now for an occasion of telling you, that i don't like to have any body think that i would not do whatever you do. i am of no consequence: but at least it would give me some, to act invariably with you; and that i shall most certainly be ever ready to do. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) i rejoice, you know, in whatever rejoices you, and though i am not certain what your situation( ) is to be, i am glad you go, as you like it. i am told it is black rod. lady anne jekyll( ) said, she had written to you on saturday night. i asked when her brother was to go, if before august; she answered: "yes, if possible." long before october you may depend upon it; in the quietest times no lord lieutenant ever went so late as that. shall not you come to town first? you cannot pack up yourself, and all you will want, at greatworth. we are in the utmost hopes of a peace; a congress is agreed upon at augsbourg, but yesterday's mail brought bad news. prince ferdinand has been obliged to raise the siege of cassel, and to retire to paderborn; the hereditary prince having been again defeated, with the loss of two generals, and to the value of five thousand men, in prisoners and exchanged. if this defers the peace it will be grievous news to me, now mr. conway is gone to the army. the town talks of nothing but an immediate queen, yet i am certain the ministers know not of it. her picture is come, and lists of her family given about; but the latter i do not send you, as i believe it apocryphal. adieu! p.s. have you seen the -,advertisement of a new noble author? a treatise of horsemanship, by henry earl of pembroke!( ) as george selwyn said of mr. greville, "so far from being a writer, i thought he was scarce a courteous reader." ( ) mr. montagu was appointed usher of the black rod in ireland. ( ) sister of the earl of halifax. ( ) tenth earl of pembroke and seventh earl of montgomery. the work was entitled "military equitation; or a method of breaking horses, and teaching soldiers to ride." a fourth edition, in quarto, appeared in .-e. letter to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, march , . (page ) just what i supposed, sir, has happened; with your good breeding, i did not doubt but you would give yourself the trouble of telling me that you had received the lucan, and as you did not, i concluded dodsley had neglected it: he has in two instances. the moment they were published, i delivered a couple to him, for you, and one for a gentleman in scotland. i received no account of either, and after examining dodsley a fortnight ago, i learned three days since from him, that your copy, sir, was delivered to mrs. ware, bookseller, in fleet street, who corresponds with mr. stringer, to be sent in the first parcel; but, says he, as they send only once a month, it probably was not sent away till very later),. i am vexed, sir, that you have waited so long for this trifle: if you neither receive it, nor get information of it, i will immediately convey another to you. it would be very ungrateful in me to neglect what would give you a moment's amusement, after your thinking so obligingly of the painted glass for me. i shall certainly be in yorkshire this summer, and as i flatter myself that i shall be more lucky in meeting you, i will then take what you shall be so good as to bestow on me, without giving you the trouble of sending it. if it were not printed in the london chronicle, i would transcribe for you, sir, a very weak letter of voltaire to lord lyttelton,( ) and the latter's answer: there is nothing else new, but a very indifferent play,( ) called the jealous wife, so well acted as to have succeeded greatly. mr. mason, i believe, is going to publish some elegies: i have seen the principal one, on lady coventry; it was then only an unfinished draft. the second and third volumes of tristram shandy, the dregs of nonsense, have universally met the contempt they deserve: genius may be exhausted;--i see that folly's invention may be so too. the foundations of my gallery at strawberry are laying. may i not flatter myself, sir, that you will see the whole even before it is quite complete? p. s. since i wrote my letter, i have read a new play of voltaire's, called tancred, and i am glad to say that it repairs the idea of his decaying parts, which i had conceived from his peter the great, and the letter i mentioned. tancred did not please at paris, nor was i charmed with the two first acts; in the three last are great flashes of genius, single lines, and starts of passion of the first fire: the woman's part is a little too amazonian. ( ) an absurd letter from voltaire to the author of the dialogues of the dead, remonstrating against a statement, that "he, voltaire, was in exile, on account of some blamable freedoms in his writings." he denies both the facts and the cause assigned; but he convinced nobody, for both were notoriously true. voltaire was, it is true, not banished by sentence; but he was not permitted to reside in france, and that surely may be called exile, particularly as he was all his life endeavouring to obtain leave to return to paris.-c. ( ) the jealous wife still keeps the stage, and does not deserve to be so slightingly spoken of: but there were private reasons which might possibly warp mr. walpole's judgment on the works of colman. he was the nephew of lord bath, and the jealous wife was dedicated to that great rival of sir robert walpole.-c. [dr. johnson says.-that the jealous wife, "though not written with much genius, was yet so well exhibited by the actors, that it was crowded for near twenty nights."] letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) if my last letter raised your wonder, this will not allay it. lord talbot is lord steward! the stone, which the builders refused, is become the head-stone of the corner. my lady talbot, i suppose, would have found no charms in cardinal mazarin. as the duke of leeds was forced to give way to jemmy grenville, the duke of rutland has been obliged to make room for this new earl. lord huntingdon is groom of the stole, and the last duke i have named, master of the horse; the red liveries cost lord huntingdon a pang. lord holderness has the reversion of the cinque-ports for life, and i think may pardon his expulsion. if you propose a fashionable assembly, you must send cards to lord spenser, lord grosvenor, lord melcomb, lord grantham, lord boston, lord scarsdale, lady mountstuart, the earl of tyrconnell, and lord wintertown. the two last you will meet in ireland. no joy ever exceeded your cousin's or doddington's: the former came last night to lady hilsborough's to display his triumph; the latter too was there, and advanced to me. i said, ":i was coming to wish you joy." "i concluded so," replied he, "and came to receive it." he left a good card yesterday at lady petersham's, a very young lord to wait on lady petersham, to make her ladyship the first offer of himself. i believe she will be content with the exchequer: mrs. grey has a pension of eight hundred pounds a-year. mrs. clive is at her villa for passion week; i have written to her for the box, but i don't doubt of its being (,one; but, considering her alliance, why does not miss price bespeak the play and have the stage box? i shall smile if mr. bentley, and m`untz, and their two hannahs meet at st. james's; so i see neither of them, i care not where they are. lady hinchinbrook and lady mansel are at the point of death; lord hardwicke is to be poet-laureate; and, according to modern usage, i suppose it will be made a cabinet-counsellor's place. good night! letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) i can now tell you, with great pleasure, that your cousin( ) is certainly named lord-lieutenant. i wish you joy. you will be sorry too to hear that your lord north is much talked of for succeeding him at the board of' trade. i tell you this with great composure, though today has been a day of amazement. all the world is staring, whispering, and questioning. lord holderness has resigned the seals,( ) and they are given to lord bute. which of the two secretaries of state is first minister? the latter or mr. pitt? lord holderness received the command but yesterday, at two o'clock, till that moment thinking himself extremely well at court; but it seems the king said he was tired of having two secretaries, of which one would do nothing, and t'other could do nothing; he would have a secretary who both could act and would. pitt had as short a notice of this resolution as the sufferer, and was little better pleased. he is something softened for the present by the offer of cofferer for jemmy grenville, which is to be ceded by the duke of leeds, who returns to his old post of justice in eyre, from whence lord sandys is to be removed, some say to the head of the board of trade. newcastle, who enjoys this fall of holderness's, who had deserted him for pitt, laments over the former, but seems to have made his terms with the new favourite: if the bedfords have done so too, will it surprise you? it will me, if pitt submits to this humiliation; if he does not, i take for granted the duke of bedford will have the other seals. the temper with which the new reign has hitherto proceeded, seems a little impeached by this sudden act, and the earl now stands in the direct light of a minister-, if the house of commons should cavil at him. lord delawar kissed hands to-day for his earldom; the other new peers are to follow on monday. there are horrid disturbances about the militia( ) in northumberland, where the mob have killed an officer and three of the yorkshire militia, who, in return, fired and shot twenty-one. adieu! i shall be impatient to hear some consequences of my first paragraph. p. s. saturday.--i forgot to tell you that lord hardwicke has written some verses to lord lyttelton, upon those the latter made on lady egremont.( ) if i had been told that he had put on a bag, and was gone off with kitty fisher,( ) i should not have been more astonished. poor lady gower( ) is dead this morning of a fever in her lying-in. i believe the bedfords arc very sorry; for there is a new opera( ) this evening. ( ) the earl of halifax. ( ) lord barrington, in a letter to mr. mitchell, of the d says, "our friend holderness is finally in harbour; he has four thousand a-year for life, with the reversionship of the cinque- ports, after the duke of dorset; which he likes better than having the name of pensioner. i never could myself understand the difference between a pension and a synecure place."-e. ( ) in consequence of the expiration of the three years' term of service, prescribed by the militia-act, and the new ballot about to take place.-e. ( ) the following are the lines alluded to, "addition extempore to the verses on lady egremont: "fame heard with pleasure--straight replied, first on my roll stands wyndham's bride, my trumpet oft i've raised to sound her modest praise the world around; but notes were wanting-canst thou find a muse to sing her face, her mind? believe me, i can name but one, a friend of yours-'tis lyttelton." ( ) a celebrated courtesan of the day.-e. ( ) daughter of scroope duke of bridgewater. ( ) the serious opera of tito manlio, by cocchi. by a letter from gray to mason, of the d of january, the opera appears at this time to have been in a flourishing condition--"the opera is crowded this year like any ordinary theatre. elisi is finer than any thing that has been here in your memory; yet, as i suspect, has been finer than he is: he appears to be near forty, a little potbellied and thick-shouldered, otherwise no bad figure; has action proper, and not ungraceful. we have heard nothing, since i remember operas, but eternal passages, divisions, and flights of execution: of these he has absolutely none; whether merely from judgment, or a little from age, i will not affirm: his point is expression, and to that all the ornaments he inserts (which are few and short) are evidently directed. he gets higher, they say, than farinelli; but then this celestial note you do not hear above once in a whole opera; and he falls from this altitude at once to the mellowest, softest, strongest tones (about the middle of his compass) that can be heard. the mattei, i assure you, is much improved by his example, and by her great success this winter; but then the burlettas and the paganina, i have not been so pleased with any thing these many years. she is too fat, and above forty, yet handsome withal, and has a face that speaks the language of all nations. she has not the invention, the fire, and the variety of action that the spiletta had; yet she is light, agile, ever in motion, and above all, graceful; but then, her voice, her ear, her taste in singing; good god! as mr. richardson, the painter, says." works, vol. iii. p. .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. march , . (page ) of the enclosed, as you perceive, i tore off the seal, but it has not been opened. i grieve at the loss of your suit, and for the injustice done you, but what can one expect but injury, when forced to have recourse to law! lord abercorn asked me this evening, if it was true that you are going to ireland? i gave a vague answer, and did not resolve him how much i knew of it. i am impatient for the answer to your compliment. there is not a word of newer news than what i sent you last. the speaker has taken leave, and received the highest compliments, and substantial ones too; he did not over-act, and it was really a handsome scene.( ) i go to my election on tuesday, and, if i do not tumble out of the chair, and break my neck, you shall hear from me at my return. i got the box for miss rice; lady hinchinbrook is dead. ( ) mr, onslow held the office of speaker of the house of commons for above thirty-three years, and during part of that time enjoyed the lucrative employment of treasurer of the navy: "notwithstanding which," says mr hatsell, "it is an anecdote perfectly well known, that on his quitting the chair, his income from his private fortune, which had always been inconsiderable, was rather less than it had been in , when he was first elected into it. superadded to his great and accurate knowledge of the history of this country, and of the minuter forms and proceedings of parliament, the distinguishing features of his character were a regard and veneration for the british constitution, as it was declared at and established at the revolution."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. houghton, march , . (page ) here i am at houghton! and alone! in this spot, where (except two hours last month) i have not been in sixteen years! think what a crowd of reflections! no; gray, and forty churchyards, could not furnish so many: nay, i know one must feel them with greater indifference than i possess, to have the patience to put them into verse. here i am, probably for the last time of my life, though not for the time: every clock that strikes tells me i am an hour nearer to yonder church--that church, into which i have not yet had courage to enter, where lies that mother on whom i doated, and who doated on me! there are the two rival mistresses of houghton, neither of whom ever wished to enjoy it! there too lies he who founded its greatness; to contribute to whose fall europe was embroiled; there he sleeps in quiet and dignity, while his friend and his foe, rather his false ally and real enemy, newcastle and bath, are exhausting the dregs of their pitiful lives in squabbles and pamphlets. the surprise the pictures( ) gave me is again renewed; accustomed for many years to see nothing but wretched daubs and varnished copies at auctions, i look at these as enchantment. my own description of them seems poor; but shall i tell you truly, the majesty of italian ideas almost sinks before the warm nature of flemish colouring. alas! don't i grow old? my young imagination was fired with guido's ideas; must they be plump and prominent as abishag to warm me now? does great youth feel with poetic limbs, as well as see with poetic eyes? in one respect i am very young, i cannot satiate myself with looking: an incident contributed to make me feel this more strongly. a party arrived just as i did, to see the house, a man and three women in riding dresses, and they rode post through the apartments. i could not hurry before them fast enough; they were not so long in seeing for the first time, as i could have been in one room, to examine what i knew by heart. i remember formerly being often diverted with this kind of seers; they come, ask what such a room is called, in which sir robert lay, write it down, admire a lobster on a cabbage in a market-piece, dispute whether the last room was green or purple, and then hurry to the inn for fear the fish should be over-dressed. how different my sensations! not a picture here but recalls a history; not one, but i remember in downing-street or chelsea, where queens and crowds admired them, though seeing them as little as these travellers! when i had drank tea, i strolled into the garden; they told me it was now called the pleasure-ground. what a dissonant idea of pleasure! those groves, those all`ees, where i have passed so many charming moments, are now stripped up or over-grown--many fond paths i could not unravel, though with a very exact clew in my memory: i met two gamekeepers, and a thousand hares in the days when all my soul was tuned to pleasure and vivacity (and you will think, perhaps, it is far from being out of tune yet), i hated houghton and its solitude; yet i loved this garden, as now, with many regrets, i love houghton; houghton, i know not what to call it, monument of grandeur or ruin! how i have wished this evening for lord bute! how i could preach to him! for myself, i do not want to be preached to; i have long considered, how every balbec must wait for the chance of a mr. wood. the servants wanted to lay me in the great apartment-what, to make me pass my night as i have done my evening! it were like proposing to margaret roper( ) to be a duchess in the court that cut off her father's head, and imagining it would please her. i have chosen to sit in my father's little dressing-room, and am now by his scrutoire, where, in the heights of his fortune, he used to receive the accounts of his farmers, and deceive himself, or us, with the thoughts of his economy. how wise a man at once, and how weak! for what has he built houghton? for his grandson to annihilate, or for his son to mourn over. if lord burleigh could rise and view his representative driving the hatfield stage, he would feel as i feel now.( ) poor little strawberry! at least it will not be stripped to pieces by a descendant! you will find all these fine meditations dictated by pride, not by philosophy. pray consider through how many mediums philosophy must pass, before it is purified-- "how often must it weep, how often burn!" my mind was extremely prepared for all this gloom by parting with mr. conway yesterday morning; moral reflections or commonplaces are the livery one likes to wear, when one has just had a real misfortune. he is going to germany: i was glad to dress myself up in transitory houghton, in lieu of very sensible concern. to-morrow i shall be distracted with thoughts, at least images of very different complexion. i go to lynn, and am to be elected on friday. i shall return hither on saturday, again alone, to expect burleighides on sunday, whom i left at newmarket. i must once in my life see him on his grandfather's throne. epping, monday night, thirty-first.-no, i have not seen him; he loitered on the road, and i was kept at lynn till yesterday morning. it is plain i never knew for how many trades i was formed, when at this time of day i can begin electioneering, and succeed in my new vocation.. think of me, the subject of a mob, who was scarce ever before in a mob, addressing them in the town-hall, riding at the head of two thousand people through such a town as lynn, dining with above two hundred of them, amid bumpers, huzzas, songs, and tobacco, and finishing with country dancing at a ball and sixpenny whisk! i have borne it all cheerfully; nay, have sat hours in conversation, the thing upon earth that i hate; have been to hear misses play on the harpsichord, and to see an alderman's copies of rubens and carlo marat. yet to do the folks justice, they are sensible, and reasonable, and civilized; their very language is polished since i lived among them. i attribute this to their more frequent intercourse with the world and the capital, by the help of good roads and postchaises, which, if they have abridged the king's dominions, have at least tamed his subjects. well, how comfortable it will be to-morrow, to see my parroquet, to play at loo, and not be obliged to talk seriously! the heraclitus of the beginning of this letter will be overjoyed on finishing it to sign himself your old friend, democritus. p. s. i forgot to tell you that my ancient aunt hammond came over to lynn to see me; not from any affection, but curiosity. the first thing she said to me, though we have not met these sixteen years, was, ,child, you have done a thing to-day, that your father never did in all his life; you sat as they carried you,-- he always stood the whole time." "madam," said i, "when i am placed in a chair, i conclude i am to sit in it; besides, as i cannot imitate my father in great things, i am not at all ambitious of mimicking him in little ones." i am sure she proposes to tell her remarks to my uncle horace's ghost, the instant they meet. ( ) this magnificent collection of pictures was sold to the empress of russia, and some curious particulars relative to the sale will be found in beloe's anecdotes of literature. a series of engravings was likewise made from them, which was published in , under the title of "the houghton gallery: a collection of prints, from the best pictures in the possession of the earl of orford."-e. ( ) wife,, of william roper, esq. and eldest and favourite daughter of sir thomas more. she bought the head of her ill-fated parent, when it was about to be thrown into the thames, after having been affixed to london bridge, and on being questioned by the privy council about her conduct, she boldly replied, that she had done so that "it might not become food for fishes." she survived her father nine years, and died at the age of thirty-six, in , and was buried at st. dunstan's church, canterbury; the box containing her father's head being placed on her coffin.-e. ( ) the prayer of sir robert walpole, recorded on the foundation-stone, was, that "after its master, to a mature old age, had long enjoyed it in perfection, his latest descendants might safely possess it to the end of time."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, april , . (page ) if prince ferdinand had studied how to please me, i don't know any method he could have lighted upon so likely to gain my heart, as being beaten out of the field before you joined him. i delight in a hero that is driven so far that nobody can follow him. he is as well at paderborn, as where i have long wished the king of prussia, the other world. you may frown if you please at my imprudence, you who are gone with all the disposition in the world to be well with your commander; the peace is in a manner made, and the anger of generals will not be worth sixpence these ten years. we peaceable folks are now to govern the world, and you warriors must in your turn tremble at our subjects the mob, as we have done before your hussars and court-martials. i am glad you had so pleasant a passage.( ) my lord lyttelton would say, that lady mary coke, like venus, smiled over the waves, et mare prestabat eunti. in truth, when she could tame me, she must have had little trouble with the ocean. tell me how many burgomasters she has subdued, or how many would have fallen in love with her if they had not fallen asleep! come, has she saved two-pence by her charms? have they abated a farthing of their impositions for her being handsomer than any thing in the seven provinces? does she know how political her journey is thought? nay, my lady ailesbury, you are not out of the scrape; you are both reckoned des mar`echale de guebriant,( ) going to fetch, and consequently govern the young queen. there are more jealousies about your voyage, than the duke of newcastle would feel if dr. shaw had prescribed a little ipecacuanha to my lord bute. i am sorry i must adjourn my mirth, to give lady ailesbury a pang; poor sir harry bellendine( ) is dead; he made a great dinner at almac's for the house of drummond, drank very hard, caught a violent fever, and died in a very few days. perhaps you will have heard this before; i shall wish so; i do not like, even innocently, to be the cause of sorrow. i do not at all lament lord granby's leaving the army, and your immediate succession. there are persons in the world who would gladly ease you of this burden. as you are only to take the vice-royalty of a coop, and that for a few weeks, i shall but smile if you are terribly distressed. don't let lady ailesbury proceed to brunswick: you might have had a wife who would not have thought it so terrible to fall into the hands [arms] of hussars; but as i don't take that to be your countess's turn, leave her with the dutch, who are not so boisterous as cossacks or chancellors of the exchequer. my love, my duty, my jealousy, to lady mary, if she is not sailed before you receive this--if she is, i shall deliver them myself good night! i write immediately on the receipt of your letter, but you see i have nothing yet new to tell you. ( ) from harwich to holvoetsluys. ( ) the mar`echale de gu`ebriant was sent to the king of poland with the character of ambassadress by louis xiii. to accompany the princess marie de gonzague, who had been married by proxy to the king of poland at paris. ( ) uncle to the countess of ailesbury. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, april , . (page ) sir, i have deferred answering the favour of your last, till i could tell you that i had seen fingal. two journeys into norfolk for my election, and other accidents, prevented my seeing any part of the poem till this last week, and i have yet only seen the first book. there are most beautiful images in it, and it surprises one how the bard could strike out so many shining ideas from a few so very simple objects, as the moon, the storm, the sea, and the heath, from whence he borrows almost all his allusions. the particularizing of persons, by "he said," "he replied," so much objected to in homer, is so wanted in fingal,( ) that it in some measure justifies the grecian highlander; i have even advised mr. macpherson (to prevent confusion) to have the names prefixed to the speeches, as in a play. it is too obscure without some such aid. my doubts of the genuineness are all vanished. i fear, sir, from dodsley's carelessness, you have not received the lucan. a gentleman in yorkshire, for whom i consigned another copy at the same time with yours, has got his but within this fortnight. i have the pleasure to find, that the notes are allowed the best of dr. bentley's remarks on poetic authors. lucan was muscular enough to bear his rough hand. next winter i hope to be able to send you vertue's history of the arts, as i have put it together from his collections. two volumes are finished, the first almost printed and the third begun. there will be a fourth, i believe, relating solely to engravers. you will be surprised, sir, how the industry of one man could at this late period amass so near a complete history of our artists. i have no share in it, but in arranging his materials. adieu! ( ) now first collected. ( ) "for me," writes gray, it this time, to dr. wharton, "i admire nothing but fingal; yet i remain still in doubt about the authenticity of these poems, though inclining rather to believe them genuine in spite of the worio. whether they are the inventions of antiquity, or of a modern scotchman, either case to me is alike unaccountable. je m'y perds." dr. johnson, on the contrary, all along denied their authenticity. "the subject," says boswell, "having been introduced by dr. fordyce, dr. blair, relying on the external evidence of their antiquity, asked johnson whether he thought any man of modern age could have written such poems? johnson replied, 'yes, sir, many men, many women, and many children.' he, at this time, did not know that dr. blair had just published a dissertation, not only defending their authenticity, but seriously ranking them with the poems of homer and virgil; and when he was afterwards informed of this circumstance, he expressed some displeasure at dr. fordyce's having suggested the topic, and said, 'i am not sorry that they got thus much for their pains: sir, it was like leading one to talk of a book, when the author is concealed behind the door.'"-e. letter to the countess of suffolk.( ) friday night, april . (page ) we are more successful, madam, than i could flatter myself we should be. mr. conway--and i need say no more--has negotiated so well, that the duke of grafton is disposed to bring mr. beauclerk( ) in for thetford. it will be expected, i believe, that lord vere should resign windsor in a handsome manner to the duke of cumberland. it must be your ladyship's part to prepare this; which i hope will be the means of putting an end to these unhappy differences. my only fear now is, lest the duke should have promised the lodge.' mr. conway writes to lord albemarle, who is yet at windsor, to prevent this, if not already done, till the rest is ready to be notified to the duke of cumberland. your ladyship's good sense and good heart make it unnecessary for me to say more. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the hon. aubrey beauclerk, son of lord vere; afterwards duke of st. albans. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) you are a very mule; one offers you a handsome stall and manger in berkeley square, and you will not accept it. i have chosen your coat, a claret colour, to suit the complexion of the country you are going to visit; but i have fixed nothing about the lace. barrett had none of gauze, but what were as broad as the irish channel. your tailor found a very reputable one at another place, but i would not determine rashly; it will be two or three-and-twenty shillings the yard: you might have a very substantial real lace,' which would wear like your buffet, for twenty. the second order of gauzes are frippery, none above twelve shillings, and those tarnished, for the species are out of fashion. you will have time to sit in judgment upon these important points; for hamilton( ) your secretary told me at the opera two nights ago, that he had taken a house near busby, and hoped to be in my neighbourhood for four months. i was last night at your plump countess's who is so shrunk, that she does not seem to be composed of above a dozen hassocs. lord guildford rejoiced mightily over your preferment. the duchess of argyle was playing there, not knowing that the great pam was just dead,, to wit, her brother-in-law. he was abroad in the morning, was seized with a palpitation after dinner, and was dead before the surgeon could arrive. there's the crown of scotland too fallen upon my lord bute's head! poor lord edgecumbe is still alive, and may be so for some days; the physicians, who no longer ago than friday se'nnight persisted that he had no dropsy, in order to prevent his having ward,( ) on monday last proposed that ward should be called in, and at length they owned they thought the mortification begun. it is not clear it is yet; at times he is in his senses, and entirely so, composed, clear, and most rational; talks of his death, and but yesterday, after such a conversation with his brother, asked for a pencil to amuse himself with drawing. what parts, genius, agreeableness thrown away at a hazard table, and not permitted the chance of being saved by the villainy of physicians! you will be pleased with the anacreontic, written by lord middlesex upon sir harry bellendine: i have not seen any thing so antique for ages; it has all the fire, poetry, and simplicity of horace. "ye sons of bacchus, come and join in solemn dirge, while tapers shine around the grape-embowered shrine of honest harry bellendine. pour the rich juice of bourdeaux's wine, mix'd with your falling tears of brine, in full libation o'er the shrine of honest harry bellendine. your brows let ivy chaplets twine, while you push round the sparkling wine, and let your table be the shrine of honest hairy bellendine." he died in his vocation, of a high fever, after the celebration of some orgies. though but six hours in his senses, he gave a proof of his usual good humour, making it his last request to the sister tuftons to be reconciled; which they are. his pretty villa, in my neighbourhood, i fancy he has left to the new lord lorn. i must tell you an admirable bon-mot of george selwyn, though not a new one; when there was a malicious report that the eldest tufton was to marry dr. duncan, selwyn said, "how often will she repeat that line of shakspeare, "wake duncan with this knocking--would thou couldst!" i enclose the receipt from your lawyer. adieu! ( ) william gerard hamilton, commonly called single-speech hamilton, was, on the appointment of lord halifax to the viceroyalty of ireland, selected as his secretary, and was accompanied thither by the celebrated edmund burke, partly as a friend and partly as his private secretary.-e. ( ) the celebrated empiric, see ant`e, p. , letter . his drops were first introduced in , by sir thomas robinson; upon which occasion, sir c. h. williams addressed to him his poem, commencing, "say, knight, for learning most renown'd, what is this wondrous drop?"-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) i am glad you will relish june for strawberry; by that time i hope the weather will have recovered its temper. at present it is horridly cross and uncomfortable; i fear we shall have a cold season; we cannot eat our summer and have our summer. there has been a terrible fire in the little traverse street, at the upper end of sackville street. last friday night, between eleven and twelve, i was sitting with lord digby in the coffee-room at arthur's; they told us there was a great fire somewhere about burlington gardens. i, who am as constant at a fire as george selwyn at an execution, proposed to lord digby to go and see where it was. we found it within two doors of that pretty house of fairfax, now general waldegrave's. i sent for the latter, who was at arthur's; and for the guard, from st. james's. four houses were in flames before they could find a drop of water; eight were burnt. i went to my lady suffolk, in saville row, and passed the whole night, till three in the morning, between her little hot bedchamber and the spot up to my ancles in water, without catching cold.( ) as the wind, which had sat towards swallow street, changed in the middle of the conflagration, i concluded the greater part of saville row would be consumed. i persuaded her to prepare to transport her most valuable effects--"portantur avari pygmalionis opes miserae." she behaved with great composure, and observed to me herself how much worse her deafness grew with the alarm. half the people of fashion in town were in the streets all night, as it happened in such a quarter of distinction. in the crowd, looking on with great tranquillity, i saw a mr. jackson, an irish gentleman, with whom i had dined this winter, at lord hertford's. he seemed rather grave; i said, "sir, i hope you do not live hereabouts." "yes, sir," said he, "i lodged in that house that is just burnt." last night there was a mighty ball at bedford-house; the royal dukes and princess emily were there; your lord-lieutenant, the great lawyer, lords, and old newcastle, whose teeth are tumbled out, and his mouth tumbled in; hazard very deep; loo, beauties, and the wilton bridge in sugar, almost as big as the life. i am glad all these joys are near going out of town. the graftons go abroad for the duchess's health; another climate may mend that--i will not answer for more. adieu! yours ever. ( ) this accident was owing to a coachman carrying a lighted candle into the stable, and, agreeably to dean swift's advice to servants, sticking it against the rack; the straw being set in a flame in his absence, by the candle falling. eight or nine horses perished, and fourteen houses were burnt to the ground. walpole was, most probably, not an idle spectator for the newspapers relate, that the "gentlemen in the neighbourhood, together with their servants, formed a ring, kept off the mob, and handed the goods and movables from one another, till they secured them in a place of safety; a noble instance of neighbourly respect and kindness."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, may , . (page ) we have lost a young genius, sir william williams;( ) an express from belleisle, arrived this morning, brings nothing but his death. he was shot very unnecessarily, riding too near a battery; in sum, he is a sacrifice to his own rashness, and to ours. for what are we taking belleisle? i rejoiced at the little loss we had on landing; for the glory, i leave it to the common council. i am very willing to leave london to them too, and do pass half the week at strawberry, where my two passions, lilacs and nightingales, are in full bloom. i spent sunday as if it were apollo's birthday -. gray and mason were with me, and we listened to the nightingales till one o'clock in the morning. gray has translated two noble incantations from the lord knows who, a danish gray, who lived the lord knows when. they are to be enchased in a history of english bards, which mason and he are writing; but of which the former has not written a word yet, and of which the latter, if he rides pegasus at his usual foot-pace, will finish the first page two years hence. but the true frantic oestus resides at present with mr. hogarth; i went t'other morning to see a portrait he is painting of mr. fox. hogarth told me he had promised, if mr. fox would sit as he liked, to make as good a picture as vandyke or rubens could. i was silent--"why now," said he, "you think this very vain, but why should not one speak the truth?" this truth was uttered in the face of his own sigismonda, which is exactly a maudlin w----, tearing off the trinkets that her keeper had given her, to fling at his head. she has her father's picture in a bracelet on her arm, and her fingers are bloody with the heart, as if she had just bought a sheep's pluck in st. james's market. as i was going, hogarth put on a very grave face, and said, "mr. walpole, i want to speak to you." i sat down, and said i was ready to receive his commands. for shortness, i will mark this wonderful dialogue by initial letters. h. i am told you are going to entertain the town with something in our way. w. not very soon, mr. hogarth. h. i wish you would let me have it to correct; i should be very sorry to have you expose yourself to censure; we painters must know more of those things than other people. w. do you think nobody understands painting but painters? h. oh! so far from it, there's reynolds, who certainly has genius; why but t'other day he offered a hundred pounds for a picture, that i would not hang in my cellar; and indeed, to say truth i have generally found, that persons who had studied painting least were the best judges of it; but what i particularly wished to say to you was about sir james thornhill (you know he married sir james' daughter): i would not have you say any thing against him; there was a book published some time ago, abusing him, and it gave great offence. he was the first that attempted history in england, and, i assure you, some germans have said that he was a very great painter. w. my work will go no lower than the year one thousand seven hundred, and i really have not considered whether sir j. thornhill will come within my plan or not; if he does, i fear you and i shall not agree upon his merits. h. i wish you would let me correct it; besides; i am writing something of the same kind myself; i should be sorry we should clash. w. i believe it is not much known what my work is, very few persons have seen it. h. why, it is a critical history of painting , is it not? w. no, it is an antiquarian history of it in england; i bought mr. vertue's mss. and, i believe, the work will not give much offence; besides, if it does, i cannot help it: when i publish any thing, i give it to the world to think of it as they please. h. oh! if it is an antiquarian work, we shall not clash; mine is a critical work; i don't know whether i shall ever publish it. it is rather an apology for painters. i think it is owing to the good sense of the english that they have not painted better. w. my dear mr. hogarth, i must take my leave of you, you now grow too wild--and i left him. if i had stayed, there remained nothing but for him to bite me. i give you my honour, this conversation is literal, and, perhaps, as long as you have known englishmen and painters, you never met with any thing so distracted. i had consecrated a line to his genius (i mean, for wit) in my preface; i shall not erase it; but i hope nobody will ask me if he is not mad. adieu! ( ) sir william pere williams, bart. member for shoreham, and a captain in burgoyne's dragoons. he was killed in reconnoitring before belleisle. gray wrote his epitaph, at the request of mr. frederick montagu, who intended to have it inscribed on a monument at belleisle:-- "here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, young williams fought for england's fair renown; his mind each muse, each grace adornd his frame, nor envy dared to view him with a frown," etc.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, may, , . (page ) as i am here, and know nothing of our poor heroes at belleisle, who are combating rocks, mines, famine, and mr. pitt's obstinacy, i will send you the victory of a heroine, but must preface it with an apology, as it was gained over a sort of relation of yours. jemmy lumley last week had a party of whist at his own house; the combatants, lucy southwell, that curtseys like a bear, mrs. prijean, and a mrs. mackenzy. they played from six in the evening till twelve next day; jemmy never winning one rubber, and rising a loser of two thousand pounds. how it happened i know not, nor why his suspicions arrived so late, but he fancied himself cheated, and refused to pay. however, the bear had no share in his evil surmises: on the contrary, a day or two afterwards, he promised a dinner at hampstead to lucy and her virtuous sister. as he went to the rendezvous his chaise was stopped by somebody, who advised him not to proceed. yet no whit daunted, he advanced. in the garden he found the gentle conqueress, mrs. mackenzy, who accosted him in the most friendly manner. after a few compliments, she asked if he did not intend to pay her. "no, indeed i shan't, i shan't; your servant, your servant."--"shan't you?" said the fair virago; and taking a horsewhip from beneath her hoop, she fell upon him with as much vehemence as the empress-queen would upon the king of prussia, if she could catch him alone in the garden at hampstead. jemmy cried out murder; his servant,- rushed in, rescued him from the jaws of the lioness, and carried him off in his chaise to town. the southwells, were already arrived, and descended on the noise of the fray, finding nobody to pay for the dinner, and fearing they must, set out for london too without it, though i suppose they had prepared tin pockets to carry off all that should be left. mrs. mackenzy is immortal, and in the crown-office.( ) the other battle in my military journal happened between the duchess of argyle and lord vere. the duchess, who always talks of puss and pug, and who, having lost her memory, forgets how often she tells the same story, had tired the company at dorset-house with the repetition of the same story; when the duke's spaniel reached up into her lap, and placed his nose most critically: "see," said she, "see, how fond all creatures are of me." lord vere, who was at cards, and could not attend to them for her gossiping, said peevishly, without turning round or seeing where the dog was, "i suppose he smells puss." "what!" said the duchess of argyle, in a passion, "do you think my puss stinks?" i believe you have not two better stories in northamptonshire. don't imagine that my gallery will be prance-about-in-able, as you expect, by the beginning of june; i do not propose to finish it till next year, but you will see some glimpse of it, and for the rest of strawberry, it never was more beautiful, you must now begin to fix your motions: i go to lord dacre's at the end of this month, and to lord ilchester's the end of the next; between those periods i expect you. saturday morning, arlington street. i came to town yesterday for a party at bedford-house, made for princess amelia; the garden was open, with french horns and clarionets, and would have been charming with one single zephyr, that had not come from the northeast; however, the young ladies found it delightful. there was limited loo for the princess, unlimited for the duchess of grafton, to whom i belonged, a table of quinze, and another of quadrille. the princess ha(f heard of our having cold meat upon the loo-table, and would have some. a table was brought in, she was served so, others rose by turns and went to the cold meat; in the outward room were four little tables for the rest of the company. think, if king george the second could have risen and seen his daughter supping pell-mell with men, as if it were in a booth! the tables were removed, the young people began to dance to a tabor and pipe; the princess sat down again, but to unlimited loo; we played till three, and i won enough to help on the gallery. i am going back to it, to give my nieces and their lords a dinner. we were told there was a great victory come from pondicherry, but it came from too far to divert us from liking our party better. poor george monson has lost his leg there. you know that sir w. williams has made fred. montagu heir to his debts. adieu! ( ) "sure mr. jonathan, or some one, has told you how your good friend mr. l. has been horsewhippcd, trampled, bruised, and p--d upon, by a mrs. mackenzie, a sturdy scotchwoman. it was done in an inn-yard at hampstead, in the face of day, and he has put her in the crown-office. it is very true." gray to wharton. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i never ate such good snuff, nor smelt such delightful bonbons, as your ladyship has sent me. every time you rob the duke's dessert, does it cost you a pretty snuff-box? do the pastors at the hague( ) enjoin such expensive retributions? if a man steals a kiss there, i suppose he does penance in a sheet of brussels lace. the comical part is, that you own the theft, ind sending me, but say nothing of the vehicle of your repentance. in short, madam, the box is the prettiest thing i ever saw, and i give you a thousand thanks for it. when you comfort yourself about the operas, you don't know what you have lost; nay, nor i neither; for i was here, concluding that a serenata for a birthday would be -is dull and as vulgar as those festivities generally are: but i hear of nothing but the enchantment of it.( ) there was a second orchestra in the footman's gallery, disguised by clouds, and filled with the music of the king's chapel. the choristers behaved like angels, and the harmony between the two bands was in the most exact time. elisi piqued himself, and beat both heaven and earth. the joys of the year do not end there. the under-actors open at drury-lane to-night with a new comedy by murphey, called "all in the wrong."( ) at ranelagh, all is fireworks and skyrockets. the birthday exceeded the splendour of haroun alraschid and the arabian nights, when people had nothing to do but to scour a lantern and send a genie for a hamper of diamonds and rubies. do you remember one of those stories, where a prince has eight statues of diamonds, which he overlooks, because he fancies he wants a ninth; and to his great surprise the ninth proves to be pure flesh and blood, which he never thought of? some how or other, lady sarah( is the ninth statue; and, you will allow, has better white and red than if she was made of pearls and rubies. oh! i forgot, i was telling you of the birthday: my lord p * * * * had drunk the king's health so often at dinner, that at the ball he took mrs. * * * * for a beautiful woman, and, as she says, "made an improper use of his hands." the proper use of hers, she thought, was to give him a box on the ear, though within the verge of the court. he returned it by a push, and she tumbled off the end of the bench; which his majesty has accepted as sufficient punishment, and she is not to lose her right hand.( ) i enclose the list your ladyship desired: you will see that the plurality of worlds" are moore's, and of some i do not know the authors. ' there is a late edition with these names to them. my duchess was to set out this morning. i saw her for the last time the day before yesterday at lady kildare's: never was a journey less a party of pleasure. she was so melancholy, that all miss pelham's oddness and my spirits could scarce make her smile. towards the end of the night, and that was three in the morning, i did divert her a little. i slipped pam into her lap, and then taxed her with having it there. she was quite confounded; but, taking it up, saw he had a telescope in his hand, which i had drawn, and that the card, which was split, and just waxed together, contained these lines: "ye simple astronomers, lay by your glasses; the transit of venus has proved you all asses: your telescopes signify nothing to scan it; 'tis not meant in the clouds, 'tis not meant of a planet: the seer who foretold it mistook or deceives us, for venus's transit is when grafton leaves us." i don't send your ladyship these verses as good, but to show you that all gallantry does not centre at the hague. i wish i could tell you that stanley( ) and bussy, by crossing over and figuring in, had forwarded the peace. it is no more made than belleisle is taken. however, i flatter myself that you will not stay abroad till you return for the coronation, which is ordered for the beginning of october. i don't care to tell you how lovely the season is; how my acacias are powdered with flowers, and my hay just in its picturesque moment. do they ever make any other hay in holland than bulrushes in ditches? my new buildings rise so swiftly, that i shall have not a shilling left, so far from giving commissions on amsterdam. when i have made my house so big that i don't know what to do with it, and am entirely undone, i propose, like king pyrrhus, who took such a roundabout way to a bowl of punch, to sit down and enjoy myself; but with this difference, that it is better to ruin one's self than all the world. i am sure you would think as i do, though pyrrhus were king of prussia. i long to have you bring back the only hero that ever i could endure. adieu, madam! i sent you just such another piece of tittle-tattle as this by general waldegrave: you are very partial to me, or very fond of knowing every thing that passes in your own country, if you can be amused so. if you can, 'tis surely my duty to divert you, though at the expense of my character; for i own i am ashamed when i look back and see four sides of paper scribbled over with nothings. ( ) lady ailesbury remained at the hague while mr. conway was with the army during the campaign in . ( ) the music was by cocchi. dr. burney says it was not sufficiently admired to encourage the manager to perform it more than twice.-e. ( ) 'this comedy, which came out in the summer-season at drury-lane, under the conduct of foote and the author, met with considerable success. some of the hints are acknowledged to have been borrowed from moli`ere's "cocu imaginaire."-e. ( ) lady sarah lenox.-e. ( ) the old punishment for giving a blow in the king's presence. ( ) mr. hans stanley was at this time employed in negotiating a peace at paris.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am glad you will come on monday, and hope you will arrive in a rainbow and pair, to signify that we are not to be totally drowned. it has rained incessantly, and floated all my new works; i seem rather to be building a pond than a gallery. my farm too is all under water, and what is vexatious, if sunday had not thrust itself between, i could have got in my hay on monday. as the parsons will let nobody else make hay on sundays, i think they ought to make it on that day themselves. by the papers i see mrs. trevor hampden is dead of the smallpox. will he be much concerned? if you will stay with me a fortnight or three weeks, perhaps i may be able to carry you to a play of mr. bentley's--you stare, but i am in earnest: nay, and de par le roy. in short, here is the history of it. you know the passion he always had for the italian comedy; about two years ago he wrote one, intending to get it offered to rich, but without his name. he would have died to be supposed an author, and writing for gain. i kept this an inviolable secret. judge then of my surprise, when about a fortnight or three weeks ago, i found my lord melcomb reading this very bentleiad in a circle at my lady hervey's. cumberland had carried it to him with a recommendatory copy of verses, containing more incense to the king and my lord bute, than the magi brought in their portmanteaus to jerusalem. the idols were propitious, and to do them justice, there is a great deal of wit in the piece, which is called "the wishes, or harlequin's mouth opened."( ) a bank note of two hundred pounds was sent from the treasury to the author, and the play ordered to be performed by the summer company. foote was summoned to lord melcomb's, where parnassus was composed of the peer himself, who, like apollo, as i am going to tell you, was dozing, the two chief justices, and lord b. bubo read the play himself, "with handkerchief and orange by his side." but the curious part is a prologue, which i never saw. it represents the god of verse fast asleep by the side of helicon: the race of modern bards try to wake him, but the more they repeat their works, the louder he snores. at last "ruin seize thee, ruthless king!" is heard, and the god starts from his trance. this is a good thought, but will offend the bards so much, that i think dr. bentley's son will be abused at least @as much as his father was. the prologue concludes with young augustus, and how much he excels the ancient one by the choice of his friend. foote refused to act this prologue, and said it was too strong. "indeed," said augustus's friend, "i think it is." they have softened it a little, and i suppose it will be performed. you may depend upon the truth of all this; but what is much more credible is, that the comely young author appears every night in the mall in a milk-white coat with a blue cape, disclaims any benefit, and says he has done with the play now it is out of his own hands, and that mrs. hannah clio, alias bentley, writ the best scenes in it. he is going to write a tragedy, and she, i suppose, is going--to court. you will smile when i tell you that t'other day a party went to westminster abbey, and among the rest saw the ragged regiment. they inquired the names of the figures. "i don't know them," said the man, "but if mr. walpole was here he could tell you every one." adieu! i expect mr. john and you with impatience. ( ) this piece, founded on fontaine's "trois souhaits," was written in imitation of the italian comedy; harlequin, pantaloon, columbine, etc. being introduced into it as speaking characters. "many parts of it," says the biographia dramatica, "exhibit very just satire and solid sense, and give evident testimony of the author's learning, knowledge, understanding, and critical judgment; yet the deficiency of incident which appears in it, as well as of that lively kind of wit which is one of the essentials of perfect comedy, seem, in great measure, to justify that coldness with which the piece was received by the town."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) you are a pretty sort of a person to come to one's house and get sick, only to have an excuse for not returning to it. your departure is so abrupt, that i don't know but i may expect to find that mrs. jane truebridge, whom you commend so much, and call mrs. mary, will prove mrs. hannah. mrs. clive is still more disappointed: she had proposed to play at quadrille with you from dinner till supper, and to sing old purcell to you from supper to breakfast next morning.( ) if you cannot trust yourself from greatworth for a whole fortnight, how will you do in ireland for six months? remember all my preachments, and never be in spirits at supper. seriously i am sorry you are out of order, but am alarmed for you at dublin, and though all the bench of bishops should quaver purcell's hymns, don't let them warble you into a pint of wine. i wish you were going among catholic prelates, who would deny you the cup. think of me and resist temptation. adieu! ( ) dr. burney tells us, that mrs. clive's singing, "which was intolerable when she meant to be fine, in ballad-farces and songs of humour, was, like her comic acting, every thing it should be."-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) my dear lord, i cannot live at twickenham and not think of you: i have long wanted to write, and had nothing to tell you. my lady d. seems to have lost her sting; she has neither blown up a house nor a quarrel since you departed. her wall, contiguous to you, is built, but so precipitate and slanting that it seems hurrying to take water. i hear she grows sick of her undertakings. we have been ruined by deluges; all the country was under water. lord holderness's new foss`e( ) was beaten in for several yards - this tempest was a little beyond the dew of hermon, that fell on the hill of sion. i have been in still more danger by water: my parroquet was on my shoulder as i was feeding my gold-fish, and flew into the middle of the pond: i was very near being the nouvelle eloise, and tumbling in after him; but with much ado i ferried him out with my hat. lord edgecumbe has had a fit of apoplexy; your brother charles( ) a bad return of his old complaint; and lord melcombe has tumbled down the kitchen stairs, and--waked himself. london is a desert; no soul in it but the king. bussy has taken a temporary house. the world talks of peace-would i could believe it! every newspaper frightens me: mr. conway would be very angry if he knew how i dread the very name of the prince de soubise. we begin to perceive the tower of kew( ) from montpellier in a fortnight you will see it in yorkshire. the apostle whitfield is come to some shame: he went to lady huntingdon lately, and asked for forty pounds for some distressed saint or other. she said she had not so much money in the house, but would give it him the first time she had. he was very pressing, but in vain. at last he said, "there's your watch and trinkets, you don't want such vanities; i will have that." she would have put him off- but he persisting, she said, "well, if you must have it, you must." about a fortnight afterwards, going to his house, and being carried into his wife's chamber, among the paraphernalia of the latter the countess found her own offering. this has made a terrible schism: she tells the story herself--i had not it from saint frances,( ) but i hope it is true. adieu, my dear lord! p. s. my gallery sends its humble duty to your new front, and all my creatures beg their respects to my lady. ( ) at sion-hill, near brentford. ( ) charles townshend, married to lady greenwich, eldest sister to lady strafford. ( ) the pagoda in the royal garden at kew. ( ) lady frances shirley. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, july , . (page ) my dearest harry, how could you write me such a cold letter as i have just received from you, and beginning dear sir! can you be angry with me, for can i be in fault to you? blamable in ten thousand other respects, may not i almost say i am perfect with regard to you'? since i was fifteen have i not loved you unalterably? since i was capable of knowing your merit, has not my admiration been veneration? for what could so much affection and esteem change? have not your honour, your interest, your safety been ever my first objects? oh, harry! if you knew what i have felt and am feeling about you, would you charge me with neglect? if i have seen a person since you went, to whom my first question has not been, "what do you hear of the peace?" you would have reason to blame me. you say i write very seldom: i will tell you what, i should almost be sorry to have you see the anxiety i have expressed about you in letters to every body else. no; i must except lady ailesbury, and there is not another on earth who loves you so well, and is so attentive to whatever relates to you. with regard to writing, this is exactly the case.- i had nothing to tell you; nothing has happened; and where you are i was cautious of writing. having neither hopes nor fears, i always write the thoughts of the moment, and even laugh to divert the person i am writing to, without any ill will on the subjects i mention. but in your situation that frankness might be prejudicial to you: and to write grave unmeaning letters, i trusted you was too secure of' me either to like them or desire them. i knew no news, nor could: i have lived quite alone at strawberry; am connected with no court, ministers, or party; consequently heard nothing, and events there have been none. i have not even for this month heard my lady townshend's extempore gazette. all the morning i play with my workmen or animals, go regularly every evening to the meadows with mrs. clive, or sit with my lady suffolk, and at night scribble my painters-what a journal to send you! i write more trifling letters than any man living; am ashamed of them, and yet they are expected of me. you, my lady ailesbury, your brother, sir horace mann, george montagu, lord strafford-all expect i should write--of what? i live less and less in the world, care for it less and less, and yet am thus obliged to inquire what it is doing. do make these allowances for me, and remember half your letters go to my lady ailesbury. i writ to her of the king's marriage, concluding she would send it to you: tiresome as it would be, i will copy my own letters, if you it; for i will do any thing rather than disoblige you. i will send you a diary of the duke of york's balls and ranelaghs, inform you of how many children my lady berkeley is with child, and how many races my nephew goes to. no; i will not, you do not want such proofs of my friendship. the papers tell us you are retiring, and i was glad? you seem to expect an action--can this give me spirits? can i write to you joyfully, and fear? or is it fit prince ferdinand should know you have a friend that is as great a coward about you as your wife? the only reason for my silence that can not be true, is, that i forget you. when i am prudent or cautious, it is no symptom of my being indifferent. indifference does not happen in friendships, as it does in passions; and if i was young enough, or feeble enough to cease to love you, i would not for my own sake let it be known. your virtues are my greatest pride; i have done myself so much honour by them, that i will not let it be known you have been peevish with me unreasonably. pray god we may have peace, that i may scold you for it! the king's marriage was kept the profoundest secret till last wednesday, when the privy council was extraordinarily summoned, and it was notified to them. since that, the new queen's mother is dead, and will delay it a few days; but lord harcourt is to sail on the th, and the coronation will certainly be on the d of september. all that i know fixed is, lord harcourt master of the horse, the duke of manchester chamberlain, and mr. stone treasurer. lists there are in abundance; i don't know the authentic: those most talked of, are lady bute groom of the stole, the duchesses of hamilton and ancaster, lady northumberland, bolingbroke, weymouth, scarborough, abergavenny, effingham, for ladies; you may choose any six of them you please; the four first are most probable. misses henry beauclerc, m. howe, meadows, wrottesley, bishop, etc. etc. choose your maids too. bedchainber women, mrs. bloodworth, robert brudenel, charlotte dives, lady erskine; in short, i repeat a mere newspaper. we expect the final answer of france this week. bussy( ) was in great pain on the fireworks for quebec, lest he should be obliged to illuminate his house: you see i ransack my memory for something to tell you. adieu! i have more reason to be angry than you had; but i am not so hasty: you are of a violent, impetuous, jealous temper--i, cool, sedate, reasonable. i believe i must subscribe my name, or you will not know me by this description. ( ) the abb`e de bussy, sent here with overtures of peace. mr. stanley was at the same time sent to paris. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, friday night, july , . (page ) i did not notify the king's marriage to you yesterday, because i knew you would learn as much by the evening post as i could tell you. the solemn manner of summoning the council was very extraordinary: people little imagined, that the urgent and important business in the rescript was to acquaint them that his majesty was going to * * * * * * * *. all i can tell you of truth is, that lord harcourt goes to fetch the princess, and comes back her master of the horse. she is to be here in august, and the coronation certainly on the d of september. think of the joy the women feel; there is not a scotch peer in the fleet that might not marry the greatest fortune in england between this and the d of september. however, the ceremony will lose its two brightest luminaries, my niece waldegrave for beauty, and the duchess of grafton for figure. the first will be lying-in, the latter at geneva; but i think she will come, if she walks to it as well as at it. i cannot recollect but lady kildare and lady pembroke of great beauties. mrs. bloodworth and mrs. robert brudenel, bedchamber women, miss wrottesley and miss meadows, maids of honour, go to receive the princess at helvoet; what lady i do not hear. your cousin's grace of manchester, they say, is to be chamberlain, and mr. stone, treasurer; the duchess of ancaster and lady bolingbroke of her bedchamber: these i do not know are certain, but hitherto all seems well chosen. miss molly howe, one of the pretty bishops, and a daughter of lady harry beauclerc, are talked of for maids of honour. the great apartment at st. james's is enlarging, and to be furnished with the pictures from kensington : this does not portend a new palace. in the midst of all this novelty and hurry, my mind is very differently employed. they expect every minute the news of a battle between soubise and the hereditary prince. mr. conway, i believe, is in the latter army; judge if i can be thinking much of espousals and coronations! it is terrible to be forced to sit still, expecting such an event; in one's own room one is not obliged to be a hero; consequently, i tremble for one that is really a hero. mr. hamilton, your secretary, has been to see me to-day; i am quite ashamed not to have prevented him. i will go to-morrow with all the speeches i can muster. i am sorry neither you nor your brother are quite well, but shall be content if my pythagorean sermons have any weight with you. you go to ireland to make the rest of your life happy; don't go to fling the rest of it away. good night! mr. chute is gone to his chutehood. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) i blush, dear madam, on observing that half my letters to your ladyship are prefaced with thanks for presents:-don't mistake; i am not ashamed of thanking you, but of having so many occasions for it. monsieur hop has sent me the piece of china: i admire it as much as possible, and intend to like him as much as ever i can but hitherto i have not seen him, not having been in town since he arrived. could i have believed that the hague would so easily compensate for england? nay, for park-place! adieu, all our agreeable suppers! instead of lady cecilia's( ) french songs, we shall have madame welderen( ) quavering a confusion of d's and t's, b's and p's--bourquoi s`cais du blaire?( )--worse than that, i expect to meet all my relations at your house, and sir samson gideon instead of charles townshend. you will laugh like mrs. tipkin( ) when a dutch jew tells you that he bought at two and a half per cent. and sold at four. come back, if you have any taste left: you had better be here talking robes, ermine, and tissue, jewels and tresses, as all the world does, than own you are corrupted. did you receive my notification of the new queen? her mother is dead, and she will not be here before the end of august. my mind is much more at peace about mr. conway than it was. nobody thinks there will be a battle, as the french did not attack them when both armies shifted camps; and since that, soubise has entrenched himself up to the whiskers:--whiskers i think he has, i have been so afraid of him! yet our hopes of meeting are still very distant: the peace does not advance; and if europe has a stiuer left in its pockets, the war will continue; though happily all parties have been so scratched, that they only sit and look anger at one another, like a dog and cat that don't care to begin again. we are in danger of losing our sociable box at the opera. the new queen is very musical, and if mr. deputy hodges and the city don't exert their veto, will probably go to the haymarket. george pitt, in imitation of the adonises in tanzai's retinue, has asked to be her majesty's grand harper. dieu s`cait quelle raclerie il y aura! all the guitars are untuned; and if miss conway has a mind to be in fashion at her return, she must take some david or other to teach her the new twing twang, twing twing twang. as i am still desirous of being in fashion with your ladyship, and am, over and above, very grateful, i keep no company but my lady denbigh and lady blandford, and learn every evening, for two hours, to mask my english. already i am tolerably fluent in saying she for he.( ) good night, madam! i have no news to send you: one cannot announce a royal wedding and a coronation every post. p. s. pray, madam, do the gnats bite your legs? mine are swelled as big as one, which is saying a deal for me. july . i had writ this, and was not time enough for the mail, when i receive your charming note, and this magnificent victory!( ) oh! my dear madam, how i thank you, how i congratulate you, how i feel for you, how i have felt for you and for myself! but i bought it by two terrible hours to-day--i heard of the battle two hours before i could learn a word of mr. conway--i sent all round the world, and went half around it myself. i have cried and laughed, trembled and danced, as you bid me. if you had sent me as much old china as king augustus gave two regiments for, i should not be half so much obliged to you as for your note. how could you think of me, when you had so much reason to think of nothing but yourself?--and then they say virtue is not rewarded in this world. i will preach at paul's cross, and quote you and mr. conway; no two persons were ever so good and happy. in short, i am serious in the height of all my joy. god is very good to you, my dear madam; i thank him for you; i thank him for myself: it is very unalloyed pleasure we taste at this moment!- -good night! my heart is so expanded, i could write to the last scrap of my paper; but i won't. yours most entirely. ( ) lady cecilia west, daughter of john earl of delawar, afterwards married to general james johnston. ( ) wife of the count de welderen, one of the lords of the states of holland.-e. ( ) the first words of a favourite french air, with madame welderen's confusion of p's, t's' etc. ( ) a character in steele's comedy of the tender husband, or the accomplished fools brought out at drury-lane in .-e. ( ) a mistake which these ladies, who were both dutch women, constantly made. ( ) the battle of kirckdenckirck, on the th and th of july, in which the allied army, under prince ferdinand, gained a great victory over the french, under the prince of soubise.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) my dear lord, i love to be able to contribute to your satisfaction, and i think few things would make you happier than to hear that we have totally defeated the french combined armies, and that mr. conway is safe. the account came this morning: i had a short note from my poor lady ailesbury, who was waked with the good news before she had heard there had been a battle. i don't pretend to send you circumstances, no more than i do of the wedding and coronation, because you have relations and friends in town nearer and better informed. indeed, only the blossom of victory is come yet. fitzroy is expected, and another fuller courier after him. lord granby, to the mob's heart's content, has the chief honour of the day--rather, of the two days. the french behaved to the mob's content too, that is, shamefully: and all this glory cheaply bought on our side. lieutenant-colonel keith killed, and colonel marlay and harry townshend wounded. if it produces a peace, i shall be happy for mankind--if not, shall content myself with the single but pure joy of mr. conway's being safe. well! my lord, when do you come? you don't like the question, but kings will be married and must be crowned-and if people will be earls, they must now and then give up castles and new fronts for processions and ermine. by the way, the number of peeresses that propose to excuse themselves makes great noise; especially as so many are breeding, or trying to breed, by commoners, that they cannot walk. i hear that my lord delawar, concluding all women would not dislike the ceremony, is negotiating his peerage in the city, and trying if any great fortune will give fifty thousand pounds for one day, as they often do for one night. i saw miss this evening at my lady suffolk's, and fancy she does not think my lord quite so ugly as she did two months ago. adieu, my lord! this is a splendid year! letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) for my part, i believe mademoiselle scuderi drew the plan of this year. it is all royal marriages, coronations, and victories; they come tumbling so over one another from distant parts of the globe, that it looks just like the handywork of a lady romance writer, whom it costs nothing but a little false geography to make the great mogul in love with a princess of mecklenburg, and defeat two marshals of france as he rides post on an elephant to his nuptials. i don't know where i am. i had scarce found mecklenburg strelitz( ) with a magnifying-glass before i am whisked to pondicherri( )--well, i take it, and raze it. i begin to grow acquainted with colonel coote, and to figure him packing up chests and diamonds, and sending them to his wife against the king's wedding--thunder go the tower guns, and behold, broglio and soubise are totally defeated; if the mob have not much stronger heads and quicker conceptions than i have, they -will conclude my lord granby is become nabob. how the deuce in two days can one digest all this? why is not pondicherri in westphalia? i don't know how the romans did, but i cannot support two victories every week. well, but you will want to know the particulars. broglio and soubise united, attacked our army on the th, but were repulsed; the next day, the prince mahomet alli d cawn--no, no, i mean prince ferdinand, returned the attack, and the french threw down their arms and fled, run over my lord harcourt, who was going to fetch the new queen; in short, i don't know how it was, but mr. conway is safe, and i am as happy as mr. pitt himself. we have only lost a lieutenant-colonel keith; colonel marlay and harry townshend are wounded. i could beat myself for not having a flag ready to display on my round tower, and guns mounted on all m@battlements. instead of that, i have been foolishly trying on my new pictures upon my gallery. however, the oratory of our lady of strawberry shall be dedicated next year on the anniversary of mr. conway's safety. think with his intrepidity, and delicacy of honour wounded, what i had to apprehend; you shall absolutely be here on the sixteenth of next july. mr. hamilton tells me your king does not set out for his new dominions till the day after the coronation; if you will come to it, i can give you a very good place for the procession; which is a profound secret, because, if known, i should be teased to death, and none but my first friends shall be admitted. i dined with your secretary yesterday; there were garrick and a young mr. burke, who wrote a book in the style of lord bolingbroke, that was much admired.( ) he is a sensible man, but has not worn off his authorism yet, and thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. he will know better one of these days. i like hamilton's little marly; we walked in the great all`ee, and drank tea in the arbour of treillage; they talked of shakspeare and booth, of swift and my lord bath, and i was thinking of madame s`evign`e,-. good night! i have a dozen other letters to write; i must tell my friends how happy i am--not as an englishman, but as a cousin. ( ) the king had just announced his intention of demanding in marriage the princess charlotte of mecklenburg strelitz.-e. ( ) the news of the capture of pondicherry had only arrived on the preceding day.-e. ( ) mr. burke's "vindication of natural society," in imitation of lord bolingbroke's style, which came out in the spring of , was his first avowed production.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) well, mon beau cousin! you may be as cross as you please now. when you beat two marshals of france and cut their armies to pieces, i don't mind your pouting; but in good truth, it was a little vexatious to have you quarrelling with me, when i was in greater pain about you than i can express. i will say no more; make a peace, under the walls of paris if you please, and i will forgive you all--but no more battles: consider, as dr. hay said, it is cowardly to beat the french now. don't look upon yourselves as the only conquerors in the world. pondicherri is ours, as well as the field of kirkdenckirk. the park guns never have time to cool; we ruin ourselves in gunpowder and skyrockets. if you have a mind to do the gallantest thing in the world after the greatest, you must escort the princess of mecklenburgh through france. you see what a bully i am; the moment the french run away, i am sending you on expeditions. i forgot to tell you that the king has got the isle of dominique and the chickenpox, two trifles that don't count in the midst of all these festivities. no more does your letter of the th, which i received yesterday: it is the one that is to come after the th, that i shall receive graciously. friday th. not satisfied with the rays of glory that reached twickenham, i came to town to bask in your success; but am most disagreeably disappointed to find you must beat the french once more, who seem to love to treat the english mob with subjects for bonfires. i had got over such an alarm, that i foolishly ran into the other extreme, and concluded there was not a french battalion left entire upon the face of germany. do write to me; don't be out of humour, but tell me every motion you make: i assure you i have deserved you should. would you were out of the question, if it were only that i might feel a little humanity! there is not a blacksmith or linkboy in london that exults more than i do, upon any good news, since you went abroad. what have i to do to hate people i never saw, and to rejoice in their calamities? heaven send us peace, and you home! adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, july , . (page ) no, i shall never cease being a dupe, till i have been undeceived round by every thing that calls itself a virtue. i came to town yesterday, through clouds of dust, to see the wishes, and went actually feeling for mr. bentley, and full of the emotions he must be suffering. what do you think, in a house crowded, was the first thing i saw? mr. and madame bentley, perched up in the front boxes, and acting audience at his own play! no, all the impudence of false patriotism never came up to it. did one ever hear of an author that had courage to see his own first night in public'? i don't believe fielding or foote himself ever did; and this was the modest, bashful mr. bentley, that died at the thought of being known for an author even by his own acquaintance! in the stage-box was lady bute, lord halifax, and lord melcombe. i must say, the two last entertained the house as much as the play; your king was prompter, and called out to the actor every minute to speak louder. the other went backwards, behind the scenes, fetched the actors into the box, and was busier than harlequin. the curious prologue was not spoken, the whole very ill acted. it turned out just what i remembered it; the good extremely good, the rest very flat and vulgar; the genteel dialogue, i believe, might be written by mrs. hannah. the audience were extremely fair: the first act they bore with patience, though it promised very ill; the second is admirable, and was much applauded; so was the third; the fourth-woful; the beginning of the fifth it seemed expiring, but was revived by a delightful burlesque of the ancient chorus, which was followed by two dismal scenes, at which people yawned, but were awakened on a sudden by harlequin's being drawn up to a gibbet, nobody knew why or wherefore - this raised a prodigious and continued hiss, harlequin all the while suspended in the air,--at last they were suffered to finish the play, but nobody attended to the conclusion.( ) modesty and his lady all the while sat with the utmost indifference; i suppose lord melcombe had fallen asleep before he came to this scene, and had never read it. the epilogue was the king and new queen, and ended with a personal satire on garrick: not very kind on his own stage to add to the judgment of his conduct, cumberland two days ago published a pamphlet to abuse him. it was given out for to-night with rather more claps than hisses, but i think will not do unless they reduce it to three acts. i am sorry you will not come to the coronation. the place i offered i am not sure i can get for any body else; i cannot explain it to you, because i am engaged to secrecy: if i can get it for your brother john i will, but don't tell him of it, because it is not sure. adieu! ( ) the piece was coldly received by the town. cumberland says that, "when the last of the three wishes produced the ridiculous catastrophe of the hanging of harlequin in full view of the audience, my uncle, the author, then sitting by me, whispered in my ear, 'if they don't damn this they deserve to be damned themselves;' and whilst he was yet speaking the roar began, and the wishes were irrevocably damned."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill. (page ) this is the th of august, and i just receive your letter of the th of last month by fitzroy.( ) i heard he had lost his pocket-book with all his despatches, but had found it again. he was a long time finding the letter for me. you do nothing but reproach me; i declare i will bear it no longer, though you should beat forty more marshals of france. i have already writ you two letters that would fully justify me if you receive them; if you do not, it is not i that am in fault for not writing, but the post-offices for reading my letters, content if they would forward them when they have done with them. they seem to think, like you that i know more news than any body. what is to be known in the dead of summer, when all the world is dispersed? would you know who won the sweepstakes at huntingdon? what parties are at woburn? what officers upon guard in betty's fruit-shop? whether the peeresses are to wear long, or short tresses at the coronation? how many jewels lady harrington borrows of actresses? all this is your light summer wear for conversation; and if my memory were as much stuffed with it as my ears, i might have sent you volumes last week. my nieces, lady waldegrave and mrs. keppel, were here five days, and discussed the claim or disappointment of every miss in the kingdom for maid of honour. unfortunately this new generation is not at all my affair. i cannot attend to what concerns them. not that their trifles are less important than those of one's own time, but my mould has taken all its impressions, and can receive no more. i must grow old upon the stock i have. i, that was so impatient at all their chat, the moment they were gone, flew to my lady suffolk, and heard her talk with great satisfaction of the late queen's coronation-petticoat. the preceding age always appears respectable to us (i mean as one advances in years), one's own age interesting, the coming age neither one nor t'other. you may judge by this account that i have writ all my letters, or ought to have written them; and yet, for occasion to blame me, you draw a very pretty picture of my situation: all which tends to prove that i ought to write to you every day, whether i have any thing to say or not. i am writing, i am building--both works that will outlast the memory of battles and heroes! truly, i believe, the one will as much as t'other. my buildings are paper, like my writings, and both will be blown away in ten years after i am dead; if they had not the substantial use of amusing me while i live, they would be worth little indeed. i will give you one instance that will sum up the vanity of great men, learned men, and buildings altogether. i heard lately, that dr. pearce, a very learned personage, had consented to let the tomb of aylmer de valence, earl of pembroke, a very great personage, be removed for wolfe's monument; that at first he had objected, but was wrought upon by being told that hight aylmer was a knight templar, a very wicked set of people, as his lordship had heard, though he knew nothing of them, as they are not mentioned by longinus. i own i thought this a made story, and wrote to his lordship, expressing my concern that one of the finest and most ancient monuments in the abbey should be removed, and begging, if it was removed, that he would bestow it on me, who would erect and preserve it here. after a fortnight's deliberation, the bishop sent me an answer, civil indeed, and commending my zeal for antiquity! but avowing the story under his own hand. he said, that at first they had taken pembroke's tomb for a knight templar's. observe, that not only the man who shows the tombs names it every day, but that there is a draught of it at large in dart's westminster; that upon discovering whose it was, he had been very unwilling to consent to the removal, and at last had obliged wilton to engage to set it up within ten feet of where it stands at present. his lordship concluded with congratulating me on publishing learned authors at my press. don't wonder that a man who thinks lucan a learned author, should mistake a tomb in his own cathedral. if i had a mind to be angry, i could complain with reason; as, having paid forty pounds for ground for my mother's tomb, that the chapter of westminster sell their church over and over again; the ancient monuments tumble upon one's head through their neglect, as one of them did, and killed a man at lady elizabeth percy's funeral; and they erect new waxen dolls of queen elizabeth, etc. to draw visits and money from the mob. i hope all this history is applicable to some part or other of my letter; but letters you will have, and so i send you one, very like your own stories that you tell your daughter-. there was a king, and he had three daughters, and they all went to see the tombs; and the youngest, -who was in love with aylmer de valence, etc. thank you for your account of the battle; thank prince ferdinand for giving you a very honourable post, which, in spite of his teeth and yours, proved a very safe one; and above all, thank prince soubise, whom i love better than all the german princes in the universe. peace, i think, we must have at last, if you beat the french, or at least hinder them from beating you, and afterwards starve them. bussy's last last courier is expected; but as he may have a last last last courier, i trust more to this than to all the others. he was complaining t'other day to mr. pitt of our haughtiness, and said it would drive the french to some desperate effort, "thirty thousand men," continued he, "would embarrass you a little, i believe!" "yes," replied pitt, "for i am so embarrassed with those we have already, i don't know what to do with them." adieu! don't fancy that the more you scold, the more i will write: it has answered three times, but the next cross word you give me shall put an end to our correspondence. sir horace mann's father used to say, "talk, horace, you have been abroad:"- -you cry, "write, horace, you are at home." no, sir. you can beat an hundred and twenty thousand french, but you cannot get the better of me. i will not write such foolish letters as this every day, when i have nothing to say. yours as you behave. ( ) george fitzroy, afterwards created lord southampton. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) a few lines before you go; your resolutions are good, and give me great pleasure; bring them back unbroken; i have no mind to lose you; we have been acquainted these thirty years, and to give the devil his due, in all that time i never knew a bad, a false, a mean, or ill-natured thing in the devil--but don't tell him i say so, especially as i cannot say the same of myself. i am now doing a dirty thing, flattering you to preface a commission. dickey bateman( ) has picked up a whole cloister full of old chairs in herefordshire. he bought them one by one, here and there in farmhouses, for three-and-sixpence, and a crown apiece. they are of' wood, the seats triangular, the backs, arms, and legs loaded with turnery. a thousand to one but there are plenty up and down cheshire too. if mr. and mrs. wetenhall, as they ride or drive out would now and then pick up such a chair, it would oblige me greatly. take notice, no two need be of the same pattern. keep it as the secret of your life; but if your brother john addresses himself to me a day or two before the coronation, i can place him well to see the procession: when it is over, i will give you a particular reason why this must be such a mystery. i was extremely diverted t'other day with my mother's and my old milliner; she said she had a petition to me--"what is it, mrs. burton?" "it is in behalf of two poor orphans." i began to feel for my purse. "what can i do for them, mrs. burton?" "only if your honour would be so compassionate as to get them tickets for the coronation." i could not keep my countenance, and these distressed orphans are two and three-and-twenty! did you ever hear a more melancholy case? the queen is expected on monday. i go to town on sunday. would these shows and your irish journey were over, and neither of us a day the poorer! i am expecting mr. chute to hold a chapter on the cabinet. a barge-load of niches, window-frames, and ribs, is arrived. the cloister is paving, the privy garden making, painted glass adjusting to the windows on the back stairs - with so many irons in the fire, you may imagine i have not much time to write. i wish you a safe and pleasant voyage. ( ) richard bateman, brother of viscount bateman. in sir charles hanbury williams's poems he figures as "constant dickey."-e. letter to the earl of strafford. arlington street, tuesday morning. (page ) my dear lord, nothing was ever equal to the bustle and uncertainty of the town for these three days. the queen was seen off the coast of sussex on saturday last, and is not arrived yet-nay, last night at ten o'clock it was neither certain when she landed, nor when she would be in town. i forgive history for knowing nothing, when so public an event as the arrival of a new queen is a mystery even at the very moment in st. james's street. the messenger that brought the letter yesterday morning, said she arrived ,it half an hour after four at harwich. this was immediately translated into landing, and notified in those words to the ministers. six hours afterwards it proved no such thing, and that she was only in harwich-road; and they recollected that an hour after four happens twice in twenty-four hours, and the letter did not specify which of the twices it was. well! the bridemaids whipped on their virginity; the new road and the parks were thronged; the guns were choking with impatience to go off; and sir james lowther, who was to pledge his majesty was actually married to lady mary stuart.( ) five, six, seven, eight o'clock came, and no queen--she lay at witham at lord abercorn's, who was most tranquilly in town; and it is not certain even whether she will be composed enough to be in town to-night. she has been sick but half an hour; sung and played on the harpsicord all the voyage, and been cheerful the whole time. the coronation will now certainly not be put off-so i shall have the pleasure of seeing you on the th. the weather is close and sultry; and if the wedding is to-night, we shall all die. they have made an admirable speech for the tripoline ambassador that he said he heard the king had sent his first eunuch to fetch the princess. i should think he meaned lord anson. you will find the town over head and ears in disputes about rank, and precedence, processions, entr`ees, etc. one point, that of the irish peers, has been excellently liquidated: lord halifax has stuck up a paper in the coffee-room at arthur's, importing, , that his majesty, not having leisure to determine a point of such great consequence, permits for this time such irish peers as shall be at the marriage to walk in the procession." every body concludes those personages will understand this order as it is drawn up in their own language; otherwise it is not very clear how they are to walk to the marriage, if they are at it before they come to it. strawberry returns its duty and thanks for all your lordship's goodness to it, and though it has not got its wedding-clothes yet, will be happy to see you. lady betty mackenzie is the individual woman she was--she seems to have been gone three years, like the sultan in the persian tales, who popped his head into a tub of water, pulled it up again, and fancied he had been a dozen years in bondage in the interim. she is not altered a tittle. adieu, my dear lord! twenty minutes past three in the afternoon, not in the middle of the night. madame charlotte is this instant arrived. the noise of coaches, chaises, horsemen, mob, that have been to see her pass through the parks, is so prodigious that i cannot distinguish the guns. i am going to be dressed, and before seven shall launch into the crowd. pray for me! ( ) eldest daughter of the earl of bute.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) the date of my promise is now arrived, and i fulfil it--fulfil it with great satisfaction, for the queen is come; and i have seen her, have been presented to her--and may go back to strawberry. for this fortnight i have lived upon the road between twickenham and london: i came, grew inpatient, returned; came again, still to no purpose. the yachts made the coast of suffolk last saturday, on sunday entered the road of harwich, and on monday morning the king's chief eunuch, as the tripoline ambassador calls lord anson, landed the princess. she lay that night at lord abercorn's at whitham, the palace of silence; and yesterday at a quarter after three arrived at st. james's. in half an hour one heard nothing but proclamations of her beauty: every body was content, every body pleased. at seven one went to court. the night was sultry. about ten the procession began to move towards the chapel, and at eleven they all came up into the drawing-room. she looks very sensible, cheerful, and is remarkably genteel. her tiara of diamonds was very pretty, her stomacher sumptuous; her violet-velvet mantle and ermine so heavy, that the spectators knew as much of her upper half as the king himself. you will have no doubts of her sense by what i shall tell you. on the road they wanted to curl her toupet; she said she thought it looked as well as that of any of the ladies sent to fetch her; if the king bid her, she would wear a periwig, otherwise she would remain as she was. when she caught the first glimpse of the palace, she grew frightened and turned pale; the duchess of hamilton smiled--the princess said, "my dear duchess, you may laugh, you have been married twice, but it is no joke to me." her lips trembled as the coach stopped, but she jumped out with spirit, and has done nothing but with good-humour and cheerfulness. she talks a great deal--is easy, civil, and not disconcerted. at first, when the bridemaids and the court were introduced to her, she said, "mon dieu, il y en a tant, il y en a tant!" she was pleased when she was to kiss the peeresses; but lady augusta was forced to take her hand and give it to those that were to kiss it, which was prettily humble and good-natured. while they waited for supper, she sat down, sang, and played. her french is tolerable, she exchanged much both of that and german with the king, and the duke of york. they did not get to bed till two. to-day was a drawing-room: every body was presented to her; but she spoke to nobody, as she could not know a soul. the crowd was much less than at a birthday, the magnificence very little more. the king looked very handsome, and talked to her continually with great good-humour.- it does not promise as if they two would be the two most unhappy persons in england, from this event. the bridemaids, especially lady caroline russel, lady sarah lenox, and lady elizabeth keppel, were beautiful figures. with neither features nor air, lady sarah was by far the chief angel. the duchess of hamilton was almost in possession of her former beauty today: and your other duchess, your daughter, was much better dressed than ever i saw her. except a pretty lady sutherland, and a most perfect beauty, an irish miss smith,( ) i don't think the queen saw much else to discourage her: my niece,( ) lady kildare, mrs. fitzroy, were none of them there. there is a ball to-night, and two more drawing-rooms; but i have done with them. the duchess of queensbury and lady westmoreland were in the procession, and did credit to the ancient nobility. you don't presume to suppose, i hope, that we are thinking of you, and wars, and misfortunes, and distresses, in these festival times. mr. pitt himself would be mobbed if he talked of any thing but clothes, and diamonds, and bridemaids. oh! yes, we have wars, civil wars; there is a campaign opened in the bedchamber. every body is excluded but the ministers; even the lords of the bedchamber, cabinet counsellors, and foreign ministers: but it has given such offence that i don't know whether lord huntingdon must not be the scapegoat. adieu! i am going to transcribe most of this letter to your countess. ( ) afterwards married to lord llandaff. ( ) the countess of waldegrave. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) i am glad you arrived safe in dublin, and hitherto like it so well; but your trial is not begun yet. when your king comes;, the ploughshares will be put into the fire. bless your stars that your king is not to be married or crowned. all the vines of bordeaux, and all the fumes of irish brains cannot make a town so drunk as a regal wedding and coronation. i am going to let london cool, and will not venture into it again this fortnight. o! the buzz, the prattle, the crowds, the noise, the hurry! nay, people are so little come to their senses, that though the coronation was but the day before yesterday, the duke of devonshire had forty messages yesterday, desiring tickets for a ball, that they fancied was to be at court last night. people had sat up a night and a day, and yet wanted to see a dance. if i was to entitle ages, i would call this the century of crowds. for the coronation, if a puppet-show could be worth a million, that is. the multitudes, balconies, guards, and processions, made palace-yard the liveliest spectacle in the world - the hall was the most glorious. the blaze of lights, the richness and variety of habits, the ceremonial, the benches of peers, and peeresses, frequent and full, was as awful as a pageant can be -. and yet for the king's sake and my own, i never wish to see another; nor am impatient to have my lord effingham's promise fulfilled. the king complained that so few precedents were kept for their proceedings. lord effingham owned, the earl marshal's office had been strangely neglected; but he had taken such care for the future, that the next coronation would be regulated in the most exact manner imaginable. the number of peers and peeresses present was not very great; some of the latter, with no excuse in the world, appeared in lord lincoln's gallery, and even walked about the hall indecently in the intervals of the procession. my lady harrington, covered with all the diamonds she could borrow, hire, or seize, and with the air of roxann, was the finest figure at a distance; she complained to george selwyn that she was to walk with lady portsmouth, who would have a wig and a stick--"pho," said he, "you will only look as if you were taken up by the constable." she told this everywhere, thinking the reflection was on my lady portsmouth. lady pembroke, alone at the head of the countesses, was the picture of majestic modesty; the duchess of richmond as pretty as nature and dress, with no pains of her own, could make her; lady spencer, lady sutherland, and lady northampton, very pretty figures. lady kildare, still beauty itself, if not a little too large. the ancient peeresses were by no means the worst party: lady westmoreland, still handsome, and with more dignity than all; the duchess of queensbury looked well, though her locks were milk-white; lady albemarle very genteel; nay, the middle age had some good representatives in lady holderness, lady rochford, and lady strafford, the perfectest little figure of all. my lady suffolk ordered her robes, and i dressed part of her head, as i made some of my lord hertford's dress; for you know, no profession comes amiss to me, from a tribune of the people to a habit-maker. don't imagine that there were not figures as excellent on the other side: old exeter, who told the king he was the handsomest man she ever saw; old effingham and a lady say and seale, with her hair powdered and her tresses black, were in excellent contrast to the handsome. lord b * * * * put on rouge upon his wife and the duchess of bedford in the painted chamber; the duchess of queensbury told me of the latter, that she looked like an orange-peach, half red, and half yellow. the coronets of the peers and their robes disguised them strangely; it required all the beauty of the dukes of richmond and marlborough to make them noticed. one there was, though of another species, the noblest figure i ever saw, the high-constable of scotland, lord errol; as one saw him in a space capable of containing him, one admired him. at the wedding, dressed in tissue, he looked like one of the giants in guildhall, new gilt. it added to the energy of his person, that one considered him acting so considerable a part in that very hall, where so few years ago one saw his father, lord kilmarnock, condemned to the block. the champion acted his part admirably, and dashed down his gauntlet with proud defiance. his associates, lord effingham, lord talbot, and the duke of bedford, were woful: lord talbot piqued himself on his horse backing down the hall, and not turning its rump towards the king; but he had taken such pains to dress it to that duty, that it entered backwards, and at his retreat the spectators clapped, a terrible indecorum, but suitable to such bartholomew-fair doings. he had twenty demel`es and came out of none creditably. he had taken away the table of the knights of the bath, and was forced to admit two in their old place, and dine the others in the court of requests. sir william stanhope said, "we are ill-treated, for some of us are gentlemen." beckford told the earl, it was hard to refuse a table to the city of london whom it would cost ten thousand pounds to banquet the king, and his lordship would repent it if they had not a table in the hall; they had. to the barons of the cinque-ports, who made the same complaint, he said, "if you come to me as lord-steward, i tell you it is impossible; if, as lord talbot, i am a match for any of you:" and then he said to lord bute, "if i were a minister, thus i would talk to france, to spain, to the dutch--none of your half measures." this has brought me to a melancholy topic. bussy goes tomorrow, a spanish war is hanging in the air, destruction is taking a new lease of mankind--of the remnant of mankind. i have no prospect of seeing mr. conway. adieu! i will not disturb you with my forebodings. you i shall see again in spite of war, and i trust in spite of ireland. i was much disappointed at not seeing your brother john: i kept a place for him to the last minute, but have heard nothing of him. adieu! letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) this is the most unhappy day i have known of years: bussy goes away! mankind is again given up, to the sword! peace and you are far from england! strawberry hill. i was interrupted this morning, just as i had begun my letter, by lord waldegrave; and then the duke of devonshire sent for me to burlington-house to meet the duchess of bedford, and see the old pictures from hardwicke. if my letter reaches you three days later, at least you are saved from a lamentation. bussy has put off his journey to monday (to be sure, you know this is friday): he says this is a strange country, he can get no waggoner to carry his goods on a sunday. i am clad a spanish war waits for a conveyance, and that a wagoner's veto is as good as a tribune's of rome, and can stop mr. pitt on his career to mexico. he was going post to conquer it--and beckford, i suppose, would have had a contract for remitting all the gold, of which mr. pitt never thinks, unless to serve a city friend. it is serious that we have discussions with spain, who says france is humbled enough, but must not be ruined: spanish gold is actually coining in frontier towns of france; and the privilege which biscay and two other provinces have of fishing on the coast of newfoundland, has been demanded for all spain. it was refused peremptorily; and mr. secretary cortez( ) insisted yesterday se'nnight on recalling lord bristol.( ) the rest of the council, who are content with the world they have to govern, without conquering others, prevailed to defer this impetuosity. however, if france or spain are the least untractable, a war is inevitable: nay, if they don't submit by the first day of the session, i have no doubt but mr. pitt will declare it himself on the address. i have no opinion of spain intending it: they give france money to protract a war, from which they reap such advantages in their peaceful capacity; and i should think would not give their money if they were on the point of having occasion for it themselves. in spite of you, and all the old barons our ancestors, i pray that we may have done with glory, and would willingly burn every roman and greek historian who have don nothing but transmit precedents for cutting throats. the coronation is over: 'tis even a more gorgeous sight than i imagined. i saw the procession and the hall; but the return was in the dark. in the morning they had forgot the sword of state, the chairs for king and queen, and their canopies. they used the lord mayor's for the first, and made the last in the hall so they did not set forth till noon; and then, by a childish compliment to the king, reserved the illumination of the hall till his entry; by which means they arrived like a funeral, nothing being discernible but the plumes of the knights of the bath, which seemed the hearse. lady kildare the duchess of richmond, and lady pembroke were the capital beauties. lady harrington, the finest figure at a distance; old westmoreland, the most majestic. lady hertford could not walk, and indeed i think is in a way to give us great anxiety. she is going to ragley to ride. lord beauchamp was one of the king's train-bearers. of all the incidents of the day, the most diverting was what happened to the queen. she had a retiring-chamber, with all conveniences, prepared behind the altar. she went thither--in the most convenient what found she, but--the duke of newcastle! lady hardwicke died three days before the ceremony, which kept away the whole house of yorke. some of the peeresses were dressed overnight, slept in armchairs, and were waked if they tumbled their heads. your sister harris's maid, lady peterborough, was a comely figure. my lady cowper refused, but was forced to walk with lady macclesfield. lady falmouth was not there on which george selwyn said, "that those peeresses who were most used to walk, did not." i carried my lady townshend, lady hertford, lady anne connolly, my lady hervey, and mrs. clive, to my deputy's house at the gate of westminster-hall. my lady townshend said she should be very glad to see a coronation, as she never had seen one. "why," said i, "madam, you walked at the last?" "yes, child," said she, "but i saw nothing of it: i only looked to see who looked at me." the duchess of queensbury walked! her affectation that day was to do nothing preposterous. the queen has been at the opera, and says she will go once a week. this is a fresh disaster to our box, where we have lived so harmoniously for three years. we can get no alternative but that over miss chudleigh's; and lord strafford and lady mary coke will not subscribe, unless we can. the duke of devonshire and i are negotiating with all our -art to keep our party together. the crowds at the opera and play when the king and queen go, are a little greater than what i remember. the late royalties went to the haymarket, when it was the fashion to frequent the other opera in lincoln's-inn-fields. lord chesterfield one night came into the latter, and was asked, if he had been at the other house? "yes," said he, "but there was nobody but the king and queen; and as i thought they might be talking business, i came away." thank you for your journals: the best route you can send me in would be of your journey homewards. adieu! p. s. if you ever hear from, or write to, such a person as lady ailesbury, pray tell her she is worse to me in point of correspondence than ever you said i was to you, and that she sends me every thing but letters! ( ) mr. pitt, then secretary of state. ( ) the english ambassador at the court of madrid. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) you are a mean mercenary woman. if you did not want histories of weddings and coronations, and had not jobs to be executed about muslins, and a bit of china, and counterband goods, one should never hear of you. when you don't want a body, you can frisk about with greffiers and burgomasters. and be as merry in a dyke as my lady frog herself. the moment your curiosity is agog, or your cambric seized, you recollect a good cousin in england, and, as folks said two hundred years ago, begin to write "upon the knees of your heart." well! i am a sweet-tempered creature, i forgive you. i have already writ to a little friend in the customhouse, and will try what can be done; however, by mr. amyand's report to the duchess of richmond, i fear your case is desperate. for the genealogies, i have turned over all my books to no purpose; i can meet with no lady howard that married a carey, nor a lady seymour that married a canfield. lettice canfield, who married francis staunton, was a daughter of dr. james (not george) canfield, younger brother of the first lord charlemont. this is all i can ascertain. for the other pedigree; i can inform your friend that there was a sir nicholas throckmorton, who married an anne carew, daughter of sir nicholas carew, knight of the garter, not carey. but the sir nicholas carew married joan courtney--not a howard: and besides, the careys and throckmortons you wot of were just the reverse, your carey was the cock, and throckmorton the hen-mine are vice versa:--otherwise, let me tell your friend, carews and courtneys are worth howards any day of the week, and of ancienter blood;- -so, if descent is all he wants, i advise him to take up with the pedigree as i have refitted it. however, i will cast a figure once more, and try if i can conjure up the dames howard and seymour that he wants. my heraldry was much more offended at the coronation with the ladies that did walk, than with those that walked out of their place; yet i was not so perilously angry as my lady cowper, who refused to set a foot with my lady macclesfield; and when she was at last obliged to associate with her, set out on a round trot, as if she designed to prove the antiquity of her family by marching as lustily as a maid of honour of queen gwiniver. it was in truth a brave sight. the sea of heads in palace-yard, the guards, horse and foot, the scaffolds, balconies, and procession, exceeded imagination. the hall, when once illuminated, was noble; but they suffered the whole parade to return in the dark, that his majesty might be surprised with the quickness with which the sconces catched fire. the champion acted well; the other paladins had neither the grace nor alertness of rinaldo. lord effingham and the duke of bedford were but untoward knights errant; and lord talbot had not much more dignity than the figure of general monk in the abbey. the habit of the peers is unbecoming to the last degree; but the peeresses made amends for all defects. your daughter richmond, lady kildare, and lady pembroke were as handsome as the graces. lady rochford, lady holderness, and lady lyttelton looked exceedingly well in that their day; and for those of the day before, the duchess of queensbury, lady westmoreland, and lady albemarle were surprising. lady harrington was noble at a distance, and so covered with diamonds, that you would have thought she had bid somebody or other, like falstaff, rob me the exchequer. lady northampton was very magnificent too, and looked prettier than i have seen her of late. lady spencer and lady bolingbroke were not the worst figures there. the duchess of ancaster marched alone after the queen with much majesty; and there were two new scotch peeresses that pleased every body, lady sutherland and lady dunmore. per contra, were lady p * * *, who had put a wig on, and old e * * * *, who had scratched hers off, lady s * * *, the dowager e * * *, and a lady say and sele, with her tresses coal-black, and her hair coal-white. well! it was all delightful, but not half so charming as its being over. the gabble one heard about it for six weeks before, and the fatigue of the day, could not well be compensated by a mere puppet-show; for puppet-show it was, though it cost a million. the queen is so gay that we shall not want sights; she has been at the opera, the beggar's opera and the rehearsal, and two nights ago carried the king to ranelagh. in short, i am so miserable with losing my duchess,( ) and you and mr. conway, that i believe, if you should be another six weeks without writing to me, i should come to the hague and scold you in person--for, alas! my dear lady, i have no hopes of seeing you here. stanley is recalled, is expected every hour. bussy goes tomorrow ; and mr. pitt is so impatient to conquer mexico, that i don't believe he will stay till my lord bristol can be ordered to leave madrid. i tremble lest mr. conway should not get leave to come--nay, are we sure he would like to ask it? he was so impatient to get to the army, that i should not be surprised if he stayed there till every suttler and woman that follows the camp was come away. you ask me if we are not in admiration of prince ferdinand. in truth, we have thought very little of him. he may outwit broglio ten times, and not be half so much talked of as lord talbot' backing his horse down westminster-hall. the generality are not struck with any thing under a complete victory. if you have a mind to be well with the mob of england, you must be knocked on the head like wolfe, or bring home as many diamonds as clive. we live in a country where so many follies or novelties start forth every day, that we have not time to try a (general's capacity by the rules of polybius. i have hardly left room for my obligations-to your ladyship, for my commissions at amsterdam; to mrs. sally,( ) for her teapots, which are to stay so long at the hague, that i fear they will have begot a whole set of china; and to miss conway and lady george, for thinking of me. pray assure them of my re-thinking. adieu, dear madam! don't you think we had better write oftener and shorter. ( ) the duchess of grafton, who was abroad. ( ) lady ailesbury's woman. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) i cannot swear i wrote to you again to offer your brother the place for the coronation; but i was confident i did, nay, i think so still: my proofs are, the place remained vacant, and i sent to old richard to inquire if mr. john was not arrived. he had no great loss, as the procession returned in the dark. your king( ) will have heard that mr. pitt resigned last monday.( ) greater pains have been taken to recover him than were used to drive him out. he is inflexible, but mighty peaceable. lord egremont is to have the seals to-morrow. it is a most unhappy event--france and spain will soon let us know we ought to think so. for your part, you will be invaded; a blacker rod than you will be sent to ireland. would you believe that the town is a desert'! the wedding filled it, the coronation crammed it; mr. pitt's resignation has not brought six people to london. as they could not hire a window and crowd one another to death to see him give up the seals, it seems a matter of perfect indifference. if he will accuse a single man of checking our career of glory, all the world will come to see him hanged; but what signifies the ruin of a nation, if no particular man ruins it? the duchess of marlborough died the night before last. thank you for your descriptions; pray continue them. mrs. delany i know a little, lord charlemont's villa is in chambers's book.( ) i have nothing new to tell you; but the grain of mustard seed sown on monday will soon produce as large a tree as you can find in any prophecy. adieu! p. s. lady mary wortley is arrived. ( ) the earl of halifax, lord-lieutenant of ireland. ( ) the following is mr. pitt's own account of this transaction, in a letter to alderman beckford:--"a difference of opinion with regard to measures to be taken against spain, of the highest importance to the honour of the crown and to the most essential national interests, and this founded on what spain had already done, not on what that court may further intend to do, was the cause of my resigning, the seals. lord temple and i submitted in writing, and urged our most humble sentiments to his majesty; which being overruled by the united opinion of the rest of the king's servants, i resigned, on monday the th, in order not to remain responsible for measures which i was no longer allowed to guide." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) sir william chambers's "treatise on civil architecture," a work which walpole describes as "the most sensible book, and the most exempt from prejudices, that was ever written on that science." it first appeared in . a fourth edition, edited by mr. gwin was published in .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) pray, sir, how does virtue sell in ireland now? i think for a province they have now and then given large prices. have you a mind to know what the biggest virtue in the world is worth? if cicero had been a drawcansir instead of a coward, and had carried the glory of rome to as lofty a height as he did their eloquence, for how much do you think he would have sold all that reputation? oh! sold it! you will cry, vanity was his predominant passion; he would have trampled on sesterces like dirt, and provided the tribes did but erect statues enough for him, he was content with a bit of sabine mutton; he would have preferred his little tusculan villa, or the flattery of caius atticus at baia, to the wealth of croesus, or to the luxurious banquets of lucullus. take care, there is not a tory gentleman, if there is one left, who would not have laid the same wager twenty years ago on the disinterestedness of my lord bath. come, u tremble, you are so incorrupt yourself you will give the world mr. pitt was so too. you adore him for what he has done for us; you bless him for placing england at the head of europe, and you don't hate him for infusing as much spirit into us, as if a montague, earl of salisbury, was still at the head of our enemies. nothing could be more just. we owe the recovery of our affairs to him, the splendour of our country, the conquest of canada, louisbourg, guadaloupe, africa, and the east. nothing is too much for such services; accordingly, i hope you will not think the barony of chatham, and three thousand pounds a-year for three lives too much for my lady hester. she has this pittance: good night! p. s. i told you falsely in my last that lady mary wortley was arrived--i cannot help it if my lady denbigh cannot read english in all these years, but mistakes wrottesley for wortley. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i don't know what business i had, madam, to be an economist: it was out of' character. i wished for a thousand more drawings in that sale at amsterdam, but concluded they would be very dear; and not having seen them, i thought it too rash to trouble your ladyship with a large commission. i wish i could give you as good an account of your commission; but it is absolutely impracticable. i employed one of the most sensible and experienced men in the customhouse; and all the result was, he could only recommend me to mr. amyand as the newest, and consequently the most polite of the commissioners--but the duchess of richmond had tried him before--to no purpose. there is no way of recovering any of your goods, but purchasing them again at the sale. what am i doing, to be talking to you of drawings and chintzes, when the world is all turned topsy-turvy! peace, as the poets would say, is not only returned to heaven, but has carried her sister virtue along with her!--oh! no, peace will keep no such company--virtue is an errant strumpet, and loves diamonds as well as my lady harrington, and is as fond of a coronet as my lord melcombe.( ) worse! worse! she will set men to cutting throats, and pick their pockets at the same time. i am in such a passion, i cannot tell you what i am angry about--why, about virtue and mr. pitt; two errant cheats, gipsies! i believe he was a comrade of elizabeth canning, when he lived at enfield-wash. in short, the council were for making peace; "but he, as loving his own pride, and purposes, evades them with a bombast circumstance, horribly stuffed with epithets of war, and in conclusion--nonsuits my mediators." he insisted on a war with spain, was resisted, and last monday resigned. the city breathed vengeance on his opposers, the council quailed, and the lord knows what would have happened; but yesterday, which was only friday, as this giant was stalking to seize the tower of london, he stumbled over a silver penny, picked it up, carried it home to lady hester, and they are now as quiet, good sort of people, as my lord and lady bath who lived in the vinegar-bottle. in fact, madam, this immaculate man has accepted the barony of chatham for his wife, with a pension of three thousand pounds a year for three lives; and though he has not quitted the house of commons, i think my lord anson would now be as formidable there. the pension he has left us, is a war for three thousand lives! perhaps, for twenty times three thousand lives!--but-- "does this become a soldier? this become whom armies follow'd, and a people loved?" what! to sneak out of the scrape, prevent peace, and avoid the war! blast one's character, and all for the comfort of a paltry annuity, a long-necked peeress, and a couple of grenvilles! the city looks mighty foolish, i believe, and possibly even beckford may blush. lord temple resigned yesterday: i suppose his virtue pants for a dukedom. lord egremont has the seals; lord hardwicke, i fancy, the privy seal; and george grenville, no longer speaker, is to be the cabinet minister in the house of commons. oh! madam, i am glad you are inconstant to mr. conway, though it is only with a barbette! if you piqued yourself on your virtue, i should expect you would sell it to the master of a trechscoot. i told you a lie about the king's going to ranelagh--no matter; there is no such thing as truth. garrick exhibits the coronation, and, opening the end of the stage, discovers a real bonfire and real mob: the houses in drury-lane let their windows at threepence a head. rich is going to produce a finer coronation, nay, than the real one; for there is to be a dinner for the knights of the bath and the barons of the cinque-ports, which lord talbot refused them. i put your caufields and stauntons into the hands of one of the first heralds upon earth, and who has the entire pedigree of the careys; but he cannot find a drop of howard or seymour blood in the least artery about them. good night, madam! ( ) bubb doddington, having for many years placed his ambition on the acquisition of a coronet, obtained the long-wished-for prize in the preceding april.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) it is very lucky that you did not succeed in the expedition to rochfort. perhaps you might have been made a peer; and as chatham is a naval title, it might have fallen to your share. but it was reserved to crown greater glory: and lest it should not be substantial pay enough, three thousand pounds a year for three lives go along with it. not to mr. pitt--you can't suppose it. why truly, not the title, but the annuity does, and lady hester is the baroness; that, if he should please, he may earn an earldom himself. don't believe me, if you have not a mind. i know i did not believe those who told me. but ask the gazette that swears it--ask the king, who has kissed lady hester--ask the city of london, who are ready to tear mr. pitt to pieces--ask forty people i can name, who are overjoyed at it--and then ask me again, who am mortified, and who have been the dupe of his disinterestedness. oh, my dear harry! i beg you on my knees, keep your virtue: do let me think there is still one man upon earth who despises money. i wrote you an account last week of his resignation. could you have believed that in four days he would have tumbled from the conquest of spain to receiving' a quarter's pension from mr. west?( ) to-day he has advertised his seven coach-horses to be sold--three thousand a year for three lives, and fifty thousand pounds of his own, will not keep a coach and six. i protest i believe he is mad, and lord temple thinks so too; for he resigned the same morning that pitt accepted the pension. george grenville is minister of the house of commons. i don't know who will be speaker. they talk of prowse, hussey, bacon, and even of old sir john rushout. delaval has said an admirable thing: he blames pitt not as you and i do; but calls him fool; and says, if he had gone into the city, told them he had a poor wife and children unprovided for, and had opened a subscription, he would have got five hundred thousand pounds, instead of three thousand pounds a year. in the mean time the good man has saddled us with a war which we can neither carry on nor carry off. 'tis pitiful! 'tis wondrous pitiful! is the communication stopped, that we never hear from you? i own 'tis an irish question. i am out of humour: my visions are dispelled, and you are still abroad. as i cannot put mr. pitt to death, at least i have buried him: here is his epitaph: admire his eloquence--it mounted higher than attic purity or roman fire: adore his services-our lions view ranging, where roman eagles never flew: copy his soul supreme o'er lucre's sphere; --but oh! beware three thousand pounds a-year!( ) october . jemmy grenville resigned yesterday. lord temple is all hostility; and goes to the drawing-room to tell every body how angry he is with the court-but what is sir joseph wittol, when nol bluff is pacific? they talk of erecting a tavern in the city, called the salutation: the sign to represent lord bath and mr. pitt embracing. these are shameful times. adieu! ( ) secretary to the treasury. ( ) gray also appears to have been greatly offended at this acceptance of the title and the pension: "oh!" he exclaim, "that foolishest of great men, that sold his inestimable diamond for a paltry peerage and pension! the very night it happened was i swearing that it was a d-d lie, and never could be: but it was for want of reading thomas `a kempis, who knew mankind so much better than i." works, vol. iii. p. . mr. burke took a very different view of mr. pitt's conduct on this occasion. "with regard to the pension and title, it is a shame," he says, "that any defence should be necessary. what eye cannot distinguish, at the first glance, between this and the exceptionable case of titles and pensions? what briton, with the smallest sense of honour and gratitude, but must blush for his country, if such a man retired unrewarded from the public service, let the motives for that retirement be what they would? it was not possible that his sovereign could let his eminent services pass unrequited: the sum that was given was inadequate to his merits; and the quantum was rather regulated by the moderation of the great mind that received it, than by the liberality of that which bestowed it."- e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, october , . (page ) i have got two letters from you, and am sensibly pleased with your satisfaction. i love your cousin for his behaviour to you; he will never place his friendship better. his parts and dignity, i did not doubt, would bear him out. i fear nothing but your spirits and the frank openness of your heart; keep them within bounds, and you will return in health, and with the serenity i wish you long to enjoy. you have heard our politics; they do not mend, sick of glory, without being tired of war, and surfeited with unanimity before it had finished its work, we are running into all kinds of confusion. the city have bethought themselves, and have voted that they will still admire mr. pitt; consequently, be, without the cheek of seeming virtue, may do what he pleases. an address of thanks to hit-() has been carried by one hundred and nine against fifteen, and the city are to instruct their members; that is, because we are disappointed of a spanish war, we must have one at home. merciful! how old i am grown! here am i, not liking a civil war! do you know me? i am no longer that gracchus, who, when mr. bentley told him something or other, i don't know what, would make a sect, answered quickly, "will it make a party?" in short, i think i am always to be in contradiction; now i am loving my country. worksop( ) is burnt down; i don't know the circumstances; the duke and duchess are at bath; it has not been finished a month; the last furniture was brought in for the duke of york; i have some comfort that i had seen it, and, except the bare chambers, in which the queen of scots lodged, nothing remained of ancient time. i am much obliged to mr. hamilton's civilities; but i don't take too much to myself; yet it is no drawback to think that he sees an compliments your friendship for me. i shall use his permission of sending you any thing that i think will bear the sea; but how must i send it! by what conveyance to the sea, and where deliver it? pamphlets swarm already; none very good, and chiefly grave; you would not have them. mr. glover has published his long-hoarded medea,( ) as an introduction to the house of commons; it had been more proper to usher him from school to the university. there are a few good lines, not much conduct, and a quantity of iambics, and trochaics, that scarce speak english, and yet have no rhyme to keep one another in countenance. if his chariot is stopped at temple-bar, i suppose he will take it for the straits of thermopylae, and be delivered of his first speech before its time. the catalogue of the duke of devonshire's collection is only in the six volumes of the description of london. i did print about a dozen, and gave them all away so totally that on searching, i had not reserved one for myself. when we are at leisure, i will reprint a few more, and you shall have one for your speaker. i don't know who is to be ours: prowse, they say, has refused; sir john cust was the last i heard named: but i am here and know nothing; sorry that i shall hear any thing on tuesday se'nnight. pray pick me up any prints of lord-lieutenants, irish bishops, ladies --nay, or patriots; but i will not trouble you for a snuff-box or toothpick-case, made of a bit of the giant's causeway. my anecdotes of painting will scarcely appear before christmas. my gallery and cabinet are at a full stop till spring. but i shall be sorry to leave it all in ten days; october, that scarce ever deceived one before, has exhibited a deluge; but it was recovered, and promised to behave well as long as it lives, like a dying sinner. good night! p. s. my niece lost the coronation for only a daughter. it makes me smile, when i reflect that you are come into the world again, and that i have above half left it. ( ) the duke of norfolk's seat at worksop manor, nottinghamshire, was burnt down on the th of october . the damage was estimated at one hundred thousand pounds. when the duke heard of it, he exclaimed, "god's will be done!" and the duchess, "how many besides us are sufferers by the like calamity!" evelyn, who visited worksop in , says, "the manor belongs to the earle of arundel, and has to it a faire house at the foote of an hill, in a park that affords a delicate prospect."-e. ( ) glover's tragedy of medea was performed several times at drury-lane and covent-garden, for the benefit of mrs. yates, whose spirited acting gave it considerable effect.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) and how strange it seems! you are talking to me of the king's wedding, while we are thinking of a civil war. why, the king's wedding was a century ago, almost two months; even the coronation things that happened half an age ago, is quite forgot. the post to germany cannot keep pace with our revolutions. who knows but you may still be thinking that mr. pitt is the most disinterested man in the world? truly, as far as the votes of a common-council can make him so, he is. like cromwell, he has always promoted the self-denying ordinance, and has contrived to be excused from it himself. the city could no longer choose who should be their man of virtue; there was not one left - by all rules they ought next to have pitched upon one who was the oldest offender: instead of that, they have reelected the most recent; and, as if virtue was a borough, mr. pitt is rechosen for it, on vacating his seat. well, but all this is very serious: i shall offer a prophetic picture, and shall be very glad if i am not a true soothsayer. the city have voted an address of thanks to mr. pitt, and given instructions to their members; the chief articles of which are, to promote an inquiry into the disposal of the money that has been granted, and to consent to no peace, unless we are to retain all, or near all, our conquests. thus the city of london usurp the right of making peace and war. but is the government to be dictated to by one town? by no means. but suppose they are not -what is the consequence? how will the money be raised? if it cannot be raised without them, mr. pitt must again be minister: that you think would be easily accommodated. stay, stay; he and lord temple have declared against the whole cabinet council. why, that they have done before now, and yet have acted with them again. it is very true; but a little word has escaped mr. pitt, which never entered into his former declarations; nay, nor into cromwell's, nor hugh capet's, nor julius caesar's, nor any reformer's of ancient time. he has happened to say, he will guide. now, though the cabinet council are mighty willing to be guided, when they cannot help it, yet they wish to have appearances saved: they cannot be fond of being told they are to be guided still less, that other people should be told so. here, then, is mr. pitt and the common-council on one hand, the great lords on the other. i protest, i do not see but it will come to this. will it allay the confusion, if mr. fox is retained on the side of the court? here are no whigs and tories, harmless people, that are content with worrying one another for i hundred and fifty years together. the new parties are, i will, and you shall not; and their principles do not admit delay. however, this age is of suppler mould than some of its predecessors; and this may come round again, by a coup de baguette, when one least expects it. if it should not, the honestest part one can take is to look on, and try if one can do any good if matters go too far. i am charmed with the castle of hercules;( ) it is the boldest pile i have seen since i travelled in fairyland. you ought to have delivered a princess imprisoned by enchanters in his club: she, in gratitude, should have fallen in love with you; your constancy should have been immaculate. the devil knows how it would have ended--i don't--and so i break off my romance. you need not beer the french any more this year: it cannot be ascribed to mr. pitt; and the mob won't thank you. if we are to have a warm campaign in parliament, i hope you will be sent for. adieu! we take the field tomorrow se'nnight. p. s. you will be sorry to hear that worksop is burned. my lady waldegrave has got a daughter, and your brother an ague. ( ) alluding to a description of a building in hesse cassel, given by mr. conway in one of his letters. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) you will rejoice to hear that your friend mr. amyand is going to marry the dowager lady northampton; she has two thousand pounds a-year, and twenty thousand in money. old dunch( ) is dead, and mrs. felton hervey( ) was given over last night, but is still alive. sir john cust is speaker, and bating his nose, the chair seems well filled. there are so many new faces in this parliament, that i am not at all acquainted with it. the enclosed print will divert you, especially the baroness in the right-hand corner--so ugly, and so satisfied: the athenian head was intended for stewart; but was so like, that hogarth was forced to cut off the nose. adieu! ( ) widow of edmund dunch, esq. comptroller of the household of george the first.-e. ( ) wife of the hon. felton hervey, ninth son of john, first earl of bristol.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i am much obliged for the notice of sir compton's illness; if you could send me word of peace too, i should be completely satisfied on mr. conway's account. he has been in the late action, and escaped, at a time that, i flattered myself, the campaign -was at an end. however, i trust it is now. you will have been concerned for young courtney. the war, we hear, is to be transferred to these islands; most probably to yours. the black-rod i hope, like a herald, is a sacred personage. there has been no authentic account of the coronation published; if there should be, i will send it. when i am at strawberry, i believe i can make you out a list of those that walked; but i have no memorandum in town. if mr. bentley's play is printed in ireland, i depend on your sending me two copies. there has been a very private ball at court, consisting of not above twelve or thirteen couple; some of the lords of the bedchamber, most of the ladies, the maids of honour, and six strangers, lady caroline russell, lady jane stewart, lord suffolk, lord northampton, lord mandeville, and lord grey. nobody sat by, but the princess, the duchess of bedford, and lady bute. they began before seven, danced till one, and parted without a supper. lady sarah lenox has refused lord errol; the duke of bedford is privy seal; lord thomond cofferer; lord george cavendish comptroller; george pitt goes minister to turin; and mrs. speed must go thither, as she is marrying the baron de perrier, count virry's son.( ) adieu! commend me to your brother. ( ) "my old friend miss speed has done what the world calls a very foolish thing; she has married the baron de la poyri`ere, son to the sardinian minister, the count de viry. he is about twenty-eight years old (ten years younger than herself), but looks nearer this is not the effect of debauchery; for he is a very sober and good-natured man honest and no conjurer." gray to wliarton. works, vol. iii. p. .-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) dear madam, you are so bad and so good, that i don't know how to treat you. you give me every mark of kindness but letting me hear from you. you send me charming drawings the moment i trouble you with a commission, and you give lady cecilia( ) commissions for trifles of my writing, in the most obliging manner. i have taken the latter off her hands.- the fugitive pieces, and the catalogue of royal and noble authors shall be conveyed to you directly. lady cecilia and i agree how we lament the charming suppers there, every time we pass the corner of warwick street! we have a little comfort for your sake and our own, in believing that the campaign is at an end, at least for this year--but they tell us, it is to recommence here or in ireland. you have nothing to do with that. our politics, i think, will soon be as warm as our war. charles townshend is to be lieutenant-general to mr. pitt. the duke of bedford is privy seal; lord thomond, cofferer; lord george cavendish, comptroller. diversions, you know, madam, are never at high watermark before christmas: yet operas flourish pretty well: those on tuesdays are removed to mondays, because the queen likes the burlettas, and the king cannot go on tuesdays, his postdays. on those nights we have the middle front box railed in, where lady mary( ) and i sit in triste state like a lord mayor and lady mayoress. the night before last there was a private ball at court, which began at half an hour after six, lasted till one, and finished without a supper. the king danced the whole time with the queen, lady augusta with her four younger brothers. the other performers were: the two duchesses of ancaster and hamilton, who danced little; lady effingham, and lady egremont who danced much; the six maids of honour; lady susan stewart, as attending lady augusta; and lady caroline russel, and lady jane stewart, the only women not of the family. lady northumberland is at bath; lady weymouth lies in; lady bolingbroke was there in waiting, but in black gloves, so did not dance. the men, besides the royals, were lords march and lord eglinton, of the bedchamber: lord cantalope, vice-chamberlain; lord huntingdon; and four strangers, lord mandeville, lord northampton, lord suffolk, and lord grey. no sitters-by, but the princess, the duchess of bedford, and lady bute. if it had not been for this ball, i don't know how i should have furnished a decent letter. pamphlets on mr. pitt are the whole conversation, and none of them worth sending cross the water: at least i, who am said to write some of them, think so; by which you may perceive i am not much flattered with the imputation. there must be new personages at least, before i write on any side. mr. pitt and the duke of newcastle! i should as soon think of informing the world that miss chudleigh is no vestal. you will like better to see some words which mr. gray has writ, at miss speed's request, to an old air of geminiani: the thought is from the french. thyrsis, when we parted, swore ere the spring he would return. ah! what means yon violet flower, and the buds that deck the thorn? 'twas the lark that upward sprung, 'twas the nightingale that sung. idle notes! untimely green! why this unavailing haste? western gales and skies serene speak not always winter past. cease my doubts, my fears to move; spare the honour of my love. adieu, madam, your most faithful servant. ( ) lady cecilia johnston. ( ) lady mary coke. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) nov. , . (page ) i am much obliged to you, sir, for the specimen of letters( ) you have been so good as to send me. the composition is touching, and the printing very beautiful. i am still more pleased with the design of the work; nothing gives so just an idea of an age as genuine letters; nay, history waits for its last seal from them. i have an immense collection in my hands, chiefly of the very time on which you are engaged: but they are not my own. if i had received your commands in summer when i was at strawberry hill, and at leisure, i might have picked you out something to your purpose; at present i have not time, from parliament and business, to examine them: yet to show you, sir, that i have great desire to oblige you and contribute to your work, i send you the following singular paper, which i have obtained from dr. charles lyttelton, dean of exeter, whose name i will beg you to mention in testimony of his kindness, and as evidence for the authenticity of the letter, which he copied from the original in the hands of bishop tanner, in the year . it is from anne of denmark, to the marquis of buckingham. "anna r., "my kind dogge, if i have any power or credit with you, let me have a trial of it at this time, in dealing sincerely and earnestly with the king, that sir walter raleigh's life may not be called in question. if you do it, so that the success answer my expectation, assure yourself that i will take it extraordinarily kindly at your hands, and rest one that wisheth you well, and desires you to continue still as you have been, a true servant to your master." i have begun mr. hume's history, and got almost through the first volume. it is amusing to one who ]knows a little of his own country, but i fear would not teach much to a beginner; details are so much avoided by him, and the whole rather skimmed than elucidated. i cannot say i think it very carefully performed. dr. robertson's work i should expect would be more accurate. p. s. there has lately appeared, in four little volumes, a chinese tale, called hau kiou choaan,( ) not very entertaining from the incidents, but i think extremely so from the novelty of the manner and the genuine representation of their customs. ( ) now first collected. ( ) probably sir david's "memorials and letters relating to the history of britain in the reigns of james the first and charles the first," which were published in , from the originals in the advocates' library.-e. ( ) this pleasing little novel, in which the manners of the chinese are painted to the life, was a translation from the chinese by mr. wilkinson, and revised for publication by dr. percy.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i return you the list of prints, and shall be glad you will bring me all to which i have affixed this mark x. the rest i have; yet the expense of the whole list would not ruin me. lord farnham, who, i believe, departed this morning, brings you the list of the duke of devonshire's pictures. i have been told that mr. bourk's history was of england, not of ireland; i am glad it is the latter, for i am now in mr. hume's england, and would fain read no more. i not only know what has been written, but what would be written. our story is so exhausted, that to make it new, they really make it new. mr. hume has exalted edward the second and depressed edward the third. the next historian, i suppose, will make james the first a hero, and geld charles the second. fingal is come out; i have not yet got through it; not but, it is very fine-yet i cannot at once compass an epic poem now. it tires me to death to read how many ways a warrior is like the moon, or the sun, or a rock, or a lion, or the ocean. fingal is a brave collection of similes, and will serve all the boys at eton and westminster for these twenty years. i will trust you with a secret, but you must not disclose it; i should be ruined with my scotch friends; in short, i cannot believe it genuine; i cannot believe a regular poem of six books has been preserved, uncorrupted, by oral tradition, from times before christianity was introduced into the island. what! preserved unadulterated by savages dispersed among mountains, and so often driven from their dens, so wasted by wars civil and foreign! alas one man ever got all by heart? i doubt it; were parts preserved by some, other parts by others? mighty lucky, that the tradition was never interrupted, nor any part lost-not a verse, not a measure, not the sense! luckier and luckier. i have been extremely qualified myself lately for this scotch memory; we have had nothing but a coagulation of rains, fogs, and frosts, and though they have clouded all understanding, i suppose, if i had tried, i should have found that they thickened, and gave great consistence to my remembrance. you want news--i must make it, if i send it. to change the dulness of the scene i went to the play, where i had not been this winter. they are so crowded, that though i went before six, i got no better place than a fifth row, where i heard very ill, and was pent for five hours without a soul near me that i knew. it was cymbeline, and appeared to me as long as if every body in it went really to italy in every act,, and came back again. with a few pretty passages and a scene or two, it is so absurd and tiresome, that i am persuaded garrick( ) * * * * * ( ) the rest of this letter is lost. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) december , . (page ) your specimen pleases me, and i give you many thanks for promising me the continuation. you will, i hope, find less trouble with printers than i have done. just when my book was, i thought, ready to appear, my printer ran away, and has left it very imperfect. this is the fourth i have tried, and i own it discourages me. our low people are so corrupt and such knaves, that being cheated and disappointed are all the fruits of attempting to amuse oneself or others. literature must struggle with many difficulties. they who print for profit print only for profit; we, who print to entertain or instruct others, are the bubbles of our designs, defrauded, abused, pirated--don't you think, sir, one need have resolution? mine is very nearly exhausted. ( ) now first collected. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . past midnight. (page ) i am this minute come home, and find such a delightful letter from you, that i cannot help answering it, and telling you so before i sleep. you need not affirm, that your ancient wit and pleasantry are revived; your letter is but five and twenty, and i will forgive any vanity, that is so honest, and so well founded. ireland i see produces wonders of more sorts than one; if my lord anson was to go lord-lieutenant, i suppose he would return a ravisher. how different am i from this state of revivification! even such talents as i had are far from blooming again; and while my friends, or contemporaries, or predecessors, are rising to preside over the fame of this age, i seem a mere antediluvian; must live upon what little stock of reputation i had acquired, and indeed grow so indifferent, that i can only wonder how those, whom i thought as old as myself, can interest themselves so much about a world, whose faces i hardly know. you recover your spirits and wit, rigby is grown a speaker, mr. bentley a poet, while i am nursing one or two gouty friends, and sometimes lamenting that i am likely to survive the few i have left. nothing tempts me to launch out again; every day teaches me how much i was mistaken in my own parts, and i am in no danger now but of thinking i am grown too wise; for every period of life has its mistake. mr. bentley's relation to lord rochester by the st. johns is not new to me, and you had more reason to doubt of their affinity by the former marrying his mistress, than to ascribe their consanguinity to it. i shall be glad to see the epistle: are not "the wishes" to be acted? remember me, if they are printed; and i shall thank you for this new list of prints. i have mentioned names enough in this letter to lead me naturally to new ill usage i have received. just when i thought my book finished, my printer ran away, and had left eighteen sheets in the middle of the book untouched, having amused me with sending proofs. he had got into debt, and two girls with child; being two, he could not marry two hannahs. you see my luck; i had been kind to this fellow; in short, if the faults of my life had been punished as severely as my merits have been, i should be the most unhappy of beings; but let us talk of something else. i have picked up at mrs. dunch's auction the sweetest petitot in the world-the very picture of james the second, that he gave mrs. godfrey,( ) and i paid but six guineas and a half for it. i will not tell you how vast a commission i had given; but i will own, that about the hour of sale, i drove about the door to find what likely bidders there were. the first coach i saw was the chudleighs; could i help concluding, that a maid of honour, kept by a duke, would purchase the portrait of a duke kept by a maid of honour-but i was mistaken. the oxendens reserved the best pictures; the fine china, and even the diamonds, sold for nothing; for nobody has a shilling. we shall be beggars if we don't conquer peru within this half year. if you are acquainted with my lady barrymore, pray tell her that in less than two hours t'other night the duke of cumberland lost four hundred and fifty pounds at loo; miss pelham won three hundred, and i the rest. however, in general, loo is extremely gone to decay; i am to play at princess emily's to-morrow for the first time this winter, and it is with difficulty she has made a party. my lady pomfret is dead on the road to bath; and unless the deluge stops, and the fogs disperse, i think we shall all die. a few days ago, on the cannon firing for the king going to the house, some body asked what it was? m. de choiseul replied, "apparemment, c'est qu'on voit le soleil." shall i fill up the rest of my paper with some extempore lines that i wrote t'other night on lady mary coke having st. anthony's fire in her cheek! you will find nothing in them to contradict what i have said in the former part of my letter; they rather confirm it. no rouge you wear, nor can a dart >from love's bright quiver wound your heart. and thought you, cupid and his mother would unrevenged their anger smother? no, no, from heaven they sent the fire that boasts st. anthony its sire; they pour'd it on one peccant part, inflamed your cheek, if not your heart. in vain-for see the crimson rise, and dart fresh lustre through your eyes while ruddier drops and baffled pain enhance the white they mean to stain. ah! nymph, on that unfading face with fruitless pencil time shall trace his lines malignant, since disease but gives you mightier power to please. willis is dead, and pratt is to be chief justice; mr. yorke attorney general; solicitor, i don't know who. good night! the watchman cries past one! ( ) arabella churchill, sister of the great duke of marlborough, was the mistress of james the second while duke of york, by whom she had four children; the celebrated duke of berwick, the duke of albemarle, and two daughters. she afterwards became the wife of colonel charles godfrey, master of the jewel office, and died in , leaving by him two daughters, charlotte viscountess falmouth, and elizabeth, wife of edmund dunch, esq.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i have received two more letters from you since i wrote last week, and i like to find by them that you are so well and so happy. as nothing has happened of change in my situation but a few more months passed, i have nothing to tell you new of myself. time does not sharpen my passions or pursuits, and the experience i have had by no means prompts me to make new connexions. 'tis a busy world, and well adapted to those who love to bustle in it; i loved it once, loved its very tempests--now i barely open my windows to view what course the storm takes. the town, who, like the devil, when one has once sold oneself' to him, never permits one to have done playing the fool, believe i have a great hand in their amusements; but to write pamphlets, i mean as a volunteer, one must love or hate, and i have the satisfaction of doing neither. i would not be at the trouble of composing a distich to achieve a revolution. 'tis equal to me what names are on the scene. in the general view, the prospect is very dark: the spanish war, added to the load, almost oversets our most sanguine heroism: and now we have in opportunity of conquering all the world, by being at war with all the world, we seem to doubt a little of our abilities. on a survey of our situation, i comfort myself with saying, "well, what is it to me?" a selfishness that is far from anxious, when it is the first thought in one's constitution; not so agreeable when it is the last, and adopted by necessity alone. you drive your expectations much too fast, in thinking my anecdotes of painting are ready to appear, in demanding three volumes. you will see but two, and it will be february first. true, i have written three, but i question whether the third will be published at all; certainly not soon; it is not a work of merit enough to cloy the town with a great deal at once. my printer ran away, and left a third part of the two first volumes unfinished. i suppose he is writing a tragedy himself, or an epistle to my lord melcomb, or a panegyric on my lord bute. jemmy pelham( ) is dead, and has left to his servants what little his servants had left him. lord ligonier was killed by the newspapers, and wanted to prosecute them; his lawyer told him it was impossible--a tradesman indeed might prosecute, as such a report might affect his credit. "well, then," said the old man, "i may prosecute too, for i can prove i have been hurt by this 'report i was going to marry a great fortune, who thought i was but seventy-four; the newspapers have said i am eighty, and she will not have me." lord charlemont's queen elizabeth i know perfectly; he outbid me for it; is his villa finished? i am well pleased with the design in chambers. i have been my out-of-town with lord waldecrave, selwyn, and williams; it was melancholy the missing poor edgecombe, who was constantly of the christmas and easter parties. did you see the charming picture reynolds painted for me of him, selwyn, and gilly williams? it is by far one of the best things he has executed. he has just finished a pretty whole-length of lady elizabeth keppel,( ) in the bridemaid's habit, sacrificing to hymen. if the spaniards land in ireland, shall you make the campaign? no. no, come back to england; you and i will not be patriots, till the gauls are in the city, and we must take our great chairs and our fasces, and be knocked on the head with decorum in st. james's market. good night! p. s. i am told that they bind in vellum better at dublin than any where; pray bring me one book of their binding, as well as it can be done, and i will not mind the price. if mr. bourk's history appear,-, before your return, let it be that. ( ) the hon. james pelham, of crowhurst, sussex. he had been principal secretary to frederick prince of wales, and for nearly forty years secretary to the several lords-chamberlain.-e. ( ) she was daughter of the earl of albemarle, and married to the marquis of tavistock. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) we have had as many mails due from ireland as you had from us. i have at last received a line from you; it tells me you are well, which i am always glad to hear; i cannot say you tell me much more. my health is so little subject to alteration, and so preserved by temperance, that it is not worth repetition; thank god you may conclude it is good, if i do not say to the contrary. here is nothing new but preparations for conquest, and approaches to bankruptcy; and the worst is, the former will advance the latter at least as much as impede it. you say the irish will live and die with your cousin: i am glad they are so well disposed. i have lived long enough to doubt whether all, who like to live with one, would be so ready to die with one. i know it is not pleasant to have the time arrived when one looks about to see whether they would or not; but you are in a country of more sanguine complexion, and where i believe the clergy do not deny the laity the cup. the queen's brother arrived yesterday; your brother, prince john, has been here about a week; i am to dine with him to-day at lord dacre's with the chute. our burlettas are gone out of fashion; do the atnicis come hither next year, or go to guadaloupe, as is said? i have been told that a lady kingsland( ) at dublin has a picture of madame grammont by petitot; i don't know who lady kingsland is, whether rich or poor, but i know there is nothing i would not give for such a picture. i wish you would hunt it; and if the dame is above temptation, do try if you could obtain a copy in water colours, if there is any body in dublin could execute it. the duchess of portland has lately enriched me exceedingly; nine portraits of the court of louis quatorze! lord portland brought them over; they hung in the nursery at bulstrode, the children amused themselves with shooting at them. i have got them, but i will tell you no more, you don't deserve it; you write to me as if i were your godfather: "honoured sir, i am brave and well, my cousin george is well, we drink your health every night, and beg your blessing." this is the sum total of all your letters. i thought in a new country, and with your spirits and humour, you could have found something to tell me. i shall only ask you now when you return; but i declare i will not correspond with you: i don't write letters to divert myself, but in expectation of returns; in short, you are extremely in disgrace with me; i have measured my letters for sometime, and for the future will answer you paragraph for paragraph. you yourself don't seem to find letter-writing so amusing as to pay itself. adieu! ( ) nicholas barnewall, third viscount kingsland, married mary, daughter of frances jennings, sister to the celebrated sarah duchess of marlborough, by george count hamilton: "by which marriage," says walpole, "the pictures i saw at tarvey, lord kingsland's house, came to him: i particularly recollect the portraits of count hamilton and his brother anthony, and two of madame grammont; one taken in her youth, the other in advanced age."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) i scolded you in my last, but i shall forgive you if you return soon to england, as you talk of doing; for though you are an abominable correspondent, and only write to beg letters, you are good company, and i have a notion i shall still be glad to see you. lady mary wortley is arrived;( ) i have seen her; i think her avarice, her dirt, and her vivacity, are all increased. her dress, like her languages, is a gralimatias of several countries; the groundwork rags, and the embroidery nastiness. she needs no cap, no handkerchief, no gown, no petticoat, no shoes. an old black-laced hood represents the first; the fur of a horseman's coat, which replaces the third, serves for the second; a dimity petticoat is deputy, and officiates for the fourth; and slippers act the part of the last. when i was at florence, and she was expected there, we were drawing sortes virgili-anas for her; we literally drew insanam vatem aspicies. it would have been a stronger prophecy now, even than it was then. you told me not a word of mr. macnaughton,( ) and i have a great mind to be as coolly indolent about our famous ghost in cock-lane. why should one steal half an hour from one's amusements to tell a story to a friend in another island? i could send you volumes on the ghost, and i believe if i were to stay a little, i might send its life, dedicated to my lord dartmouth, by the ordinary of newgate, its two great patrons. a drunken parish clerk set it on foot out of revenge, the methodists have adopted it, and the whole town of london think of nothing else. elizabeth canning and the rabbit-woman were modest impostors in comparison of this, which goes on without saving the least appearances. the archbishop, who would not suffer the minor to be acted in ridicule of the methodists, permits this farce to be played every night, and i shall not be surprised if they perform in the great hall at lambeth. i went to hear it, for it is not an apparition, but an audition. we set out from the opera, changed our clothes at northumberland-house, the duke of york, lady northumberland, lady mary coke, lord hertford, and i, all in one hackney coach, and drove to the spot: it rained torrents; yet the lane was full of mob, and the house so full we could not get in; at last they discovered it was the duke of york, and the company squeezed themselves into one another's pockets to make room for us. the house, which is borrowed, and to which the ghost has adjourned, is wretchedly small and miserable; when we opened the chamber, in which were fifty people, with no light but one tallow candle at the end, we tumbled over the bed of the child to whom the ghost comes, and whom they are murdering by inches in such insufferable heat and stench. at the top of the room are ropes to dry clothes. i asked, if we were to have rope-dancing between the acts? we had nothing; they told us, as they would at a puppet-show, that it would not come that night till seven in the morning, that is, when there are only 'prentices and old women. we stayed however till half an hour after one. the methodists have promised them contributions; provisions are sent in like forage, and all the taverns and alehouses in the neighbourhood make fortunes. the most diverting part is to hear people wondering when it will be found out--as if there was any thing to find out--as if the actors would make their noises when they can be discovered. however, as this pantomime cannot last much longer, i hope lady fanny shirley will set up a ghost of her own at twickenham, and then you shall hear one. the methodists, as lord aylesford assured mr. chute two nights ago at lord dacre's have attempted ghosts three times in warwickshire. there, how good i am! ( ) lady mary wortley montagu remained at venice till the death of mr. wortley in this year when she yielded to the solicitations of her daughter, the countess of bute, and, after an absence of two-and-twenty years, began her journey to england, where she arrived in october.-e. ( ) john macnaughton, esq. executed in december, , for the murder of miss knox, daughter of andrew knox, esq. of prehen, member of parliament for donegal. macnaughton, who had ruined himself by gambling, sought to replenish his fortune by marriage with this young lady, who had considerable expectations; but as her friends would not consent to their union, and he failed both in inveigling her into a secret marriage, and in compelling her by the suits which he commenced in the ecclesiastical courts to ratify an alleged promise of marriage, he revenged himself by shooting her while riding in a carriage with her father.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) you must have thought me very negligent of your commissions; not only in buying your ruffles, but in never mentioning them; but my justification is most ample and verifiable. your letters of jan. d arrived but yesterday with the papers of dec. . these are the mails that have so long been missing, and were shipwrecked or something on the isle of man. now you see it was impossible for me to buy you a pair of ruffles for the th of january, when i did not receive the orders till the th of february. you don't tell me a word (but that is not new to you) of mr. hamilton's wonderful eloquence, which converted a whole house of commons on the five regiments. we have no such miracles here; five regiments might work such prodigies, but i never knew mere rhetoric gain above one or two proselytes at a time in all my practice. we have a prince charles here, the queen's brother; he is like her, but more like the hows; low, but well made, good eyes and teeth. princess emily is very ill, has been blistered, and been blooded four times. my books appear on monday se'nnight: if i can find any quick conveyance for them, you shall have them; if not, as you are returning soon, i may as well keep them for you. adieu! i grudge every word i write to you. letter to the rev. mr. cole.( ) tuesday, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, the little leisure i have to-day will, i trust, excuse my saying very few words in answer to your obliging letter, of which no part touches me more than what concerns your health, which, however, i rejoice to hear is reestablishing itself. i am sorry i did not save you the trouble of cataloguing ames's beads, by telling you that another person has actually done it, and designs to publish a new edition ranged in a different method. i don't know the gentleman's name, but he is a friend of sir william musgrave, from whom i had this information some months ago. you will oblige me much by the sight of the volume you mention. don't mind the epigrams you transcribe on my father. i have been inured to abuse on him from my birth. it is not a quarter of an hour ago since, cutting the leaves of a new dab called anecdotes of polite literature, i found myself abused for having defended my father. i don't know the author, and suppose i never shall, for i find glover's leonidas is one of the things he admires--and so i leave them to be forgotten together, fortunati ambo! i sent your letter to ducarel, who has promised me those poems--i accepted the promise to get rid of him t'other day, when he would have talked me to death. ( ) a distinguished antiquary, better known by the assistance he gave to others than by publications of his own. he was vicar of burnham, in the county of bucks; and died december th, , in his sixty-eighth year.-e. letter to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) sir, i should long ago have given myself the pleasure of writing to you, if i had not been constantly in hope of accompanying my letter with the anecdotes of painting, etc.; but the tediousness of engraving, and the roguery of a fourth printer, have delayed the publication week after week- for months: truly i do not believe that there is such a being as an honest printer in the world. i sent the books to mr. whiston, who, i think you told me, was employed by you: he answered, he knew nothing of the matter. mr. dodsley has undertaken now to convey them to you, and i beg your acceptance of them: it will be a very kind acceptance if you will tell me of any faults, blunders ,omissions, etc. as you observe them. in a first sketch of this nature, i cannot hope the work is any thing like complete. excuse, sir, the brevity of this. i am much hurried at this instant of publication, and have barely time to assure you how truly i am your humble servant. letter to the earl of bute.( ) strawberry hill, feb. , . (page ) my lord, i am sensible how little time your lordship can have to throw away on reading idle letters of compliment; yet as it would be too great want of respect to your lordship, not to make some sort of reply to the note( ) you have done me the honour to send me, i thought i could couch what i have to say in fewer words by writing, than in troubling you with a visit, which might come unseasonably, and a letter you may read at any moment when you are most idle. i have already, my lord, detained you too long by sending you a book, which i could not flatter myself you would turn over in such a season of business: by the manner in 'which you have considered it, you have shown me that your very minutes of amusement you try to turn to the advantage of your country. it was this pleasing prospect of patronage to the arts that tempted me to offer you my pebble towards the new structure. i am flattered that you have taken notice' of the only ambition i have: i should be more flattered if i could contribute to the smallest of your lordship's designs for illustrating britain. the hint your lordship is so good as to give me for a work like montfaucon's monuments de la monarchie francaise, has long been a subject that i have wished to see executed, nor, in point of materials, do i think it would be a very difficult one. the chief impediment was the expense, too great for a private fortune. the extravagant prices extorted by english artists is a discouragement to all public undertakings. drawings from paintings, tombs, etc. would be very dear. to have them engraved as they ought to be, would exceed the compass of a much ampler fortune than mine; which though equal to my largest wish, cannot measure itself with the rapacity of our performers. but, my lord, if his majesty was pleased to command such a work, on so laudable an idea as your lordship's, nobody would be more ready than myself to give his assistance. i own i think i could be of use in it, in collecting or pointing out materials, and i would readily take any trouble in aiding, supervising, or directing such a plan. pardon me, my lord, if i offer no more; i mean, that i do not undertake the part of composition. i have already trespassed too much upon the indulgence of the public; i wish not to disgust them with hearing of me, and reading me. it is time for me to have done; and when i shall have completed, as i almost have, the history of the arts on which i am now engaged, i did not purpose to tempt again the patience of mankind. but the case is very different with regard to my trouble. my whole fortune is from the bounty of the crown, and from the public: it would ill become me to spare any pains for the king's glory, or for the honour and satisfaction of my country; and give me leave to add, my lord, it would be an ungrateful return for the distinction with which your lordship has condescended to honour me if i withheld such trifling aid as mine, when it might in the least tend to adorn your lordship's administration. from me, my lord, permit me to say, these are not words of course or of compliment, this is not the language of flattery; your lordship knows i have no views, perhaps knows that, insignificant as it is, my praise is never detached from my esteem: and when you have raised, as i trust you will, real monuments of glory, the most contemptible characters in the inscription dedicated by your country, may not be the testimony of, my lord, etc.( ) ( ) now first collected. ( ) this letter is in reply to the following note, which walpole had, a few days before, received from the earl of bute:-- "lord bute presents his compliments to mr. walpole, and returns him a thousand thanks for the very agreeable present he has made him. in looking over it, lord bute observes mr. walpole has mixed several curious remarks on the customs, etc. of the times he treats of; a thing much wanted, and that has never yet been executed, except in parts, by peck, etc. such a general work would be not only very agreeable, but instructive: the french have attempted it; the russians are about it; and lord bute has been informed mr. walpole is well furnished with materials for such a noble work."-e. ( ) the following passage, in a letter from gray to walpole, of the th of february, has reference to that work projected by lord bute:--"i rejoice in the good disposition of our court, and in the propriety of their application to you: the work is a thing so much to be wished; has so near a connexion with the turn of your studies and of your curiosity, and might find such ample materials among your hoards and in your head, that it will be a sin if you let it drop and come to nothing, or worse than nothing, for want of your assistance. the historical part should be in the manner of herault, a mere abridgment; a series of facts selected with judgment, that may serve as a clue to lead the mind along in the midst of those ruins and scattered monuments of art that time has spared. this would be sufficient, and better than montfaucon's more diffuse narrative." works, vol. iii. p. . before walpole had received gray's letter, he had already adopted the proposed method; a large memorandum book of his being extant, with this title page, collections for a history of the manners, customs, habits, fashions, ceremonies, etc. of england; begun february , , by horace walpole." for a specimen of it, see his works, vol. v. p. .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) my scolding does you so much good. that i will for the future lecture you for the most trifling peccadillo. you have written me a very entertaining letter, and wiped out several debts; not that i will forget one of them if you relapse. as we have never had a rainbow to assure us that the world shall not be snowed to death, i thought last night was the general connixation. we had a tempest of wind and snow for two hours beyond any thing i remember: chairs were blown to pieces, the streets covered with tassels and glasses and tiles, and coaches and chariots were filled like reservoirs. lady raymond's house in berkeley-square is totally unroofed; and lord robert bertie, who is going to marry her, may descend into it like a jupiter pluvius. it is a week of wonders, and worthy the note of an almanack-maker. miss draycott, within two days of matrimony, has dismissed mr. beauclerc; but this is totally forgotten already in the amazement of a new elopement. in all your reading, true or false, have you ever heard of a young earl, married to the most beautiful woman in the world, a lord of the bedchamber, a general officer, and with a great estate, quitting every thing, resigning wife and world, and embarking for life in a pacquetboat with a miss? i fear your connexions will but too readily lead you to the name of the peer; it is henry earl of pembroke,( ) the nymph kitty hunter. the town and lady pembroke were but too much witnesses to this intrigue, last wednesday, at a great ball at lord middleton's. on thursday they decamped. however, that the writer of their romance, or i, as he is a noble author, might not want materials, the earl has left a bushel of letters behind him; to his mother, to lord bute, to lord ligonier, (the two last to resign his employments,) and to mr. stopford, whom he acquits of all privity to his design. in none he justifies himself, unless this is a justification, that having long tried in vain to make his wife hate and dislike him, he had no way left but this, and it is to be hoped will succeed; and then it may not be the worst event that could have happened to her. you may easily conceive the hubbub such an exploit must occasion. with ghosts, elopements, abortive motions, etc., we can amuse ourselves tolerably well, till the season arrives for taking the field and conquering the spanish west indies. i have sent you my books by a messenger; lord barrington was so good as to charge himself with them. they barely saved their distance; a week later, and no soul could have read a line in them, unless i had changed the title-page, and called them the loves of the earl of pembroke and miss hunter. i am sorry lady kingsland is so rich. however, if the papists should be likely to rise, pray disarm her of the enamel, and commit it to safe custody in the round tower at strawberry. good night! mine is a life of letter-writing; i pray for a peace that i may sheath my pen. ( ) henry herbert, tenth earl of pembroke, married, th march , lady elizabeth spencer, second daughter of charles, third duke of marlborough, by whom he had a son, george, eleventh earl, born th september : and some years afterwards, when he ran away with her, which he actually did, after they had lived for some time separated, a daughter, born in , who died in , unmarried. letter to dr. ducarel.( ) feb. , . (page ) sir, i am glad my books have at all amused you, and am much obliged to you for your notes and communications. your thought of an english montfaucon accords perfectly with a design i have long had of attempting something of that kind, in which too i have been lately encouraged; and therefore i will beg you at your leisure, as they shall occur, to make me little notes of customs, fashions, and portraits, relating to our history and manners. your work on vicarages, i am persuaded, will be very useful, as every thing you undertake is, and curious.--after the medals i lent mr. perry, i have a little reason to take it ill, that he has entirely neglected me; he has published a number, and sent it to several persons,-and never to me.( ) i wanted to see him too, because i know of two very curious medals, which i could borrow for him. he does not deserve it at my hands, but i will not defraud the public of any thing valuable; and therefore, if he will call on me any morning, but a sunday or monday, between eleven and twelve, i will speak to him of them.--with regard to one or two of your remarks, i have not said that real lions were originally leopards. i have said that lions in arms, that is, painted lions, were leopards; and it is fact, and no inaccuracy. paint a leopard yellow, and it becomes a lion.--you say, colours rightly prepared do not grow black. the art would be much obliged for such a preparation. i have not said that oil-colours would not endure with a glass; on the contrary, i believe they would last the longer. i am much amazed at vertue's blunder about my marriage of henry vii.; and afterwards, he said, "sykes, knowing how to give names to pictures to make them sell," called this the marriage of henry vii.; and afterwards, he said, sykes had the figures in an old picture of a church. he must have known little indeed, sir, if he had not known how to name a picture that he had painted on purpose that he might call it so! that vertue, on the strictest examination, could not be convinced that the man was henry vii., not being like any of his pictures. unluckily, he is extremely like the shilling, which is much more authentic than any picture of henry vii. but here sykes seems to have been extremely deficient in his tricks. did he order the figure to be painted like henry vii., and yet could not get it painted like him, which was the easiest part of the task? yet how came he to get the queen painted like, whose representations are much scarcer than those of her husband? and how came sykes to have pomegranates painted on her robe, only to puzzle the cause! it is not worth adding, that i should much sooner believe the church was painted to the figures, than the figures to the church. they are hard and antique: the church in a better style, and at least more fresh. if vertue had made no better criticisms than these, i would never have taken so much trouble with his ms. adieu! ( ) librarian at lambeth palace, and a well-known antiquary. he died in . ( ) a series of english medals, by francis perry, to. with thirteen plates. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) i sent you my gazette but two days ago; i now write to answer a kind long letter i have received from you since. i have heard of my brother's play several years ago; but i never understood that it was completed, or more than a few detached scenes. what is become of mr. bentley's play and mr. bentley's epistle? when i go to strawberry, i will look for where lord cutts was buried; i think i can find it. i am disposed to prefer the younger picture of madame grammont by lely; but i stumbled at the price; twelve guineas for a copy in enamel is very dear. mrs. vezey tells me, his originals cost sixteen, and are not so good as his copies. i will certainly have none of his originals. his, what is his name'! i would fain resist his copy; i would more fain excuse myself for having it. i say to myself, it would be rude not to have it, now lady kingsland and mr. montagu have had so much trouble--well--"i think i must have it," as my lady wishfort says, "why does not the fellow take me?" do try if he will not take ten; remember it is the younger picture: and, oh! now you are remembering, don't forget all my prints and a book bound in vellum. there is-a thin folio too i want, called "hibernica;"( ) it is a collection of curious papers, one a translation by carew earl of totness: i had forgot that you have no books in ireland; however, i must have this, and your pardon for all the trouble i give you. no news yet of the runaways: but all that comes out antecedent to the escape, is more and more extraordinary and absurd. the day of the elopement he had invited his wife's family and other folk to dinner with her, but said he must himself dine at a tavern; but he dined privately in his own dressing-room, put on a sailor's habit, and black wig, that he had brought home with him in a bundle, and threatened the servants he would murder them if they mentioned it to his wife. he left a letter for her, which the duke 'of marlborough was afraid to deliver to her, and opened. it desired that she would not write to him, as it would make him completely mad. he desires the king would preserve his rank of major-general, as some time or other he may serve again. here is an indifferent epigram made on the occasion: i send it to you, though i wonder any body could think it a subject to joke upon. as pembroke a horseman by most is accounted, 'tis not strange that his lordship a hunter has mounted. adieu! yours ever. ( ) hibernica; or, some ancient pieces relating to ireland," published at dublin in , by walter harris.-e. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, march , . (page ) madam, one of your slaves, a fine young officer, brought me two days ago a very pretty medal from your ladyship. amidst all your triumphs you do not, i see, forget your english friends, and it makes me extremely happy. he pleased me still more, by assuring me that you return to england when the campaign opens. i can pay this news by none so good as by telling you that we talk of nothing but peace. we are equally ready to give law to the world, or peace. martinico has not made us intractable. we and the new czar are the best sort of people upon earth: i am sure, madam, you must adore him; he is ,,, to resign all his conquests, that you and mr. conway may be settled again at park-place. my lord chesterfield, with the despondence of an old man and the wit of a young one, thinks the french and spaniards must make some attempt upon these islands, and is frightened lest we should not be so well prepared to repel invasions as to make them: he says, "what will it avail us if we gain the whole world, and lose our own soul!" i am here alone, madam, and know nothing to tell you. i came from town on saturday for the worst cold i ever had in my life, and, what i care less to own even to myself, a cough. i hope lord chesterfield will not speak more truth in what i have quoted, than in his assertion, that one need not cough if one did not please. it has pulled me extremely, and you may believe i do not look very plump, when i am more emaciated that usual. however, i have taken james's powder for four nights, and have found great benefit from it; and if miss conway does not come back with soixante et douze quartiers, and the hauteur of a landgravine, i think i shall still be able to run down the precipices at park-place with her-this is to be understood, supposing that we have any summer. yesterday was the first moment that did not feel like thule: not a glimpse of spring or green, except a miserable almond tree, half opening one bud, like my lord powerscourt's eye. it will be warmer, i hope, by the king's birthday, or the old ladies will catch their deaths. there is a court dress to be instituted--(to thin the drawing-rooms)--stiff-bodied gowns and bare shoulders. what dreadful discoveries will be made both on fat and lean! i recommend to you the idea of mrs. cavendish, when half-stark; and i might fill the rest of my paper with such images, but your imagination will supply them; and you shall excuse me, though i leave this a short letter: but i wrote merely to thank your ladyship for the medal, and, as you perceive, have very little to say, besides that known and lasting truth, how much i am mr. conway's and your ladyship's faithful humble servant. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) i am glad you have received my books safe, and are content with them. i have little idea of mr. bentley's; though his imagination is sufficiently pindaric, nay obscure, his numbers are not apt to be so tuneful as to excuse his flights. he should always give his wit, both in verse and prose, to somebody else to make up. if any of his things are printed at dublin, let me have them; i have no quarrel with his talents. your cousin's behaviour has been handsome, and so was his speech, which is printed in our papers. advice is arrived to-day, that our troops have made good their landing at martinico; i don't know any of the incidents yet. you ask me for an epitaph for lord cutts;( ) i scratched out the following lines last night as i was going to bed; if they are not good enough, pray don't take them: they were written in a minute, and you are under no obligation to like them. late does the muse approach to cutts's grave, but ne'er the grateful muse forgets the brave; he gave her subjects for the immortal lyre, and sought in idle hours the tuneful choir; skilful to mount by either path to fame, and dear to memory by a double name. yet if ill known amid the aonian groves, his shade a stranger and unnoticed roves, the dauntless chief a nobler band may join: they never die who conquer'd at the boyne. the last line intends to be popular in ireland; but you must take care to be certain that he was at the battle of the boyne; i conclude so; ind it should be specified the year, when you erect the monument-the latter lines mean to own his having been but a moderate poet, and to cover that mediocrity under his valour; all which is true. make the sculptor observe the steps. i have not been at strawberry above a month, nor ever was so long absent - but the weather has been cruelly cold and disagreeable. we have not had a single dry week since the beginning of september; a great variety of weather, all bad. adieu! ( ) john lord cutts, a soldier of most hardy bravery in king william's wars. he died at dublin in . swift's epigram on a salamander alluded to this lord, who was called by the duke of marlborough the salamander, on account of his always being in the thickest of the fire. he published, in , "poetical exercises, written upon several occasions."-e. letter to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, march , . (page ) i am glad you are pleased, sir, with my "anecdotes of painting;" but i doubt you praise me too much: it was an easy task when i had the materials collected. and i would not have the labours of forty years, which was vertue's case, depreciated in compliment to the work of four months, which is almost my whole merit. style is become, in a manner, a mechanical affair,--and if to much ancient lore our antiquaries would add a little modern reading, to polish their language and correct their prejudices, i do not see why books of antiquities should not be made as amusing as writings on any other subject. if tom herne had lived in the world, he might have writ an agreeable history of dancing; at least, i am sure that many modern volumes are read for no reason but for their being penned in the dialect of the age. i am much beholden to you, dear sir, for your remarks; they shall have their due place whenever the work proceeds to a second edition, for that the nature of it as a record will ensure to it. a few of your notes demand a present answer: the bishop of imola pronounced the nuptial benediction at the marriage of henry vii., which made me suppose him the person represented.( ) burnet, who was more a judge of characters than statues, mentions the resemblance between tiberius and charles ii.; but, as far as countenances went, there could not be a more ridiculous prepossession; charles had a long face, with very strong lines, and a narrowish brow; tiberius a very square face, and flat forehead, with features rather delicate in proportion. i have examined this imaginary likeness, and see no kind of foundation for it. it is like mr. addison's travels, of which it was so truly said, he might have composed them without stirring out of england. there are a kind of naturalists who have sorted out the qualities of the mind, and allotted particular turns of features and complexions to them. it would be much easier to prove that every form has been endowed with every vice. one has heard much of the vigour of burnet himself; yet i dare to say, he did not think himself like to charles ii. i am grieved, sir, to hear that your eyes suffer; take care of them; nothing can replace the satisfaction they afford: one should hoard them, as the only friend that will not be tired of one when one grows old, and when one should least choose to depend on others for entertainment. i most sincerely wish you happiness and health in that and every other instance. ( ) in the picture by mabuse of the marriage of henry vii. whatever was mr. zouch's correction (in which mr. walpole seems to acquiesce), no alteration seem,- to have been made in the passage about the bishop of imola. this curious picture is at strawberry hill, and should be in the royal collection.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) you may fancy what you -will, but the eyes of all the world are not fixed upon ireland. because you have a little virtue, and a lord-lieutenant( ) that refuses four thousand pounds a-year, and a chaplain( ) of a lord-lieutenant that declines a huge bishopric, and a secretary( ) whose eloquence can convince a nation of blunderers, you imagine that nothing is talked of but the castle of dublin. in the first place, virtue may sound its own praises, but it never is praised; and in the next place, there are other feats besides self-denials; and for eloquence, we overflow with it. why, the single eloquence of mr. pitt, like an annihilated star, can shine many months after it has set. i tell you it has conquered martinico.( ) if you will not believe me, read the gazette; read moncton's letter; there is more martial spirit in it than in half thucydides, and in all the grand cyrus. do you think demosthenes or themistocles ever raised the grecian stocks two per cent. in four-and-twenty hours? i shall burn all my greek and latin books; they are histories of little people. the romans never conquered the world, till they had conquered three parts of it, and were three hundred years about it; we subdue the globe in three campaigns; and a globe, let me tell you, as big again as it was in their days. perhaps you may think me proud; but you don't know that i had some share in the reduction of martinico; the express was brought to my godson, mr. horatio gates; and i have a very good precedent for attributing some of the glory to myself - i have by me a love-letter, written during my father's administration, by a journeyman tailor to my brother's second chambermaid; his offers honourable; he proposed matrimony, and to better his terms, informed her of his pretensions to a place; they were founded on what he called, "some services to the government." as the nymph could not read, she carried the epistle to the housekeeper to be deciphered, by which means it came into my hands. i inquired what were the merits of mr. vice crispin, was informed that he had made the suit of clothes for a figure of lord marr, that was burned after the rebellion. i hope now you don't hold me too presumptuous for pluming myself on the reduction of martinico. however, i shall not aspire to a post, nor to marry my lady bute's abigail. i only trust my services to you as a friend, and do not mean under your temperate administration to get the list of irish pensions loaded with my name, though i am godfather to mr. horatio gates. the duchess of grafton and the english have been miraculously preserved at rome by being at loo, instead of going to a great concert, where the palace fell in, and killed ten persons and wounded several others. i shall send orders to have an altar dedicated in the capitol. pammio o. m. capitolino annam ducisam de grafton merito incolumem. i tell you of it now, because i don't know whether it will be worth while to write another letter on purpose. lord albemarle takes up the victorious grenadiers at martinico, and in six weeks will conquer the havannah.- adieu! ( ) the irish house of commons having voted an address to the king to increase the salary of the lord-lieutenant, the earl of halifax declined having any augmentation. ( ) dr. crane, chaplain to the earl of halifax, had refused the bishopric of elphin. ( ) single-speech hamilton. ( ) sir richard lyttelton, in a letter to mr. pitt, written from rome on the th of april, says, " i cannot forbear congratulating you on the glorious conquest of martinico, which, whatever effect it may have on england, astonishes all europe, and fills every mouth with praise and commendation of the noble perseverance and superior ability of the planner of this great and decisive undertaking. his holiness told mr. weld, that, were not the information such as left no possibility of its being doubted, the news of our success could not have been credited; and that so great was the national glory and reputation all over the world, that he esteemed it the highest honour to be born an englishman. if this, sir, be the end of your administration, i shall only say finis coronet opus." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. -e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) i am most absurdly glad to hear you are returned well and safe, of which i have at this moment received your account from hankelow, where you talk of staying a week. however, not knowing the exact day of your departure, i direct this to greatworth, that it may rather wait for you, than you for it, if it should go into cheshire and not find you there. as i should ever be sorry to give you any pain, i hope i shall not be the first to tell you of the loss of poor lady charlotte johnstone,( ) who, after a violent fever of less than a week, was brought to bed yesterday morning of a dead child, and died herself at four in the afternoon. i heartily condole with you, as i know your tenderness for all your family, and the regard you have for colonel johnstone. the time is wonderfully sickly; nothing but sore throats, colds, and fevers. i got rid of one of the worst of these disorders, attended with a violent cough, by only taking seven grains of james's powder for six nights. it was the first cough i ever had, and when coughs meet with so spare a body as mine, they are not apt to be so easily conquered. take great care of yourself, and bring the fruits of your expedition in perfection to strawberry. i shall be happy to see you there whenever you please. i have no immediate purpose of settling there yet, as they are laying floors, which is very noisy, and as it is uncertain when the parliament will rise, but i would go there at any time to meet you. the town will empty instantly after the king's birthday; and consequently i shall then be less broken in upon, which i know you do not like. if, therefore, it suits you, any time you will name after the th of june will be equally agreeable; but sooner if you like it better. we have little news at present, except a profusion of new peerages, but are likely i think to have much greater shortly. the ministers disagree, and quarrel with as much alacrity as ever; and the world expects a total rupture between lord bute and the late king's servants. this comedy has been so often represented, it scarce interests one, especially one who takes no part, and who is determined to have nothing to do with the world, but hearing and seeing the scenes it furnishes. the new peers, i don't know their rank, scarce their titles, are lord wentworth and sir william courtenay, viscounts; lord egmont, lord milton, vernon of sudbury, old foxiane, sir edward montagu, barons; and lady caroline fox, a baroness; the duke of newcastle is created lord pelham, with an entail to tommy pelham; and lord brudenel is called to the house of lords, as lord montagu. the duchess of manchester was to have had the peerage alone, and wanted the latter title: her sister, very impertinently, i think, as being the younger, objected and wished her husband marquis of monthermer. this difference has been adjusted, by making sir edward montagu lord beaulieu, and giving the title of the family to lord brudenel. with pardon of your cu-blood, i hold, that lord cardigan makes a very trumpery figure by so meanly relinquishing all brudenelhood. adieu! let me know soon when you will keep your strawberry tide. p. s. lord anson is in a very bad way;( ) and mr. fox, i think, in not a much better. ( ) sister of the earl of halifax. ( ) his lordship, who was at this time first lord of the admiralty, died on the th of june.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, may , . (page ) it is very hard, when you can plunge over head and ears in irish claret, and not have even your heel vulnerable by the gout, that such a pythagorean as i am should yet be subject to it! it is not two years since i had it last, and here am i with my foot again upon cushions. but i will not complain; the pain is trifling, and does little more than prevent my frisking about. if i can bear the motion of the chariot, i shall drive to strawberry tomorrow, for i had rather only look at verdure and hear my nightingales from the bow-window, than receive visits and listen to news. i can give you no certain satisfaction relative to the viceroy, your cousin. it is universally said that he has no mind to return to his dominions, and pretty much believed that he will succeed to lord egremont's seals, who will not detain them long from whoever is to be his successor. i am sorry you have lost another montagu, the duke of manchester.( ) your cousin guilford is among the competitors for chamberlain to the queen. the duke of chandos, lord northumberland, and even the duke of kingston, are named as other candidates; but surely they will not turn the latter loose into another chamber of maids of honour! lord cantelupe has asked to rise from vice-chamberlain, but met with little encouragement. it is odd, that there are now seventeen english and scotch dukes unmarried, and but seven out of twenty-seven have the garter. it is comfortable to me to have a prospect of seeing mr. conway soon; the ruling part of the administration are disposed to recall our troops front germany. in the mean time our officers and their wives are embarked for portugal-what must europe think of us when we make wars and assemblies all over the world? i have been for a few days this week at lord thomond's; by making a river-like piece of water, he has converted a very ugly spot into a tolerable one. as i was so near, i went to see audley inn( ) once more; but it is only the monument now of its former grandeur. the gallery is pulled down, and nothing remains but the great hall, and an apartment like a tower at each end. in the church i found, still existing and quite fresh, the escutcheon of the famous countess of essex and somerset. adieu! i shall expect you with great pleasure the beginning of next month. ( ) robert montagu, third duke of manchester, lord-chamberlain to the queen, died on the th of may.-e. ( ) in essex; formerly the largest palace in england. it was built out of the ruins of a dissolved monastery, near saffron walden, by thomas, second son of thomas duke of norfolk, who married the only daughter and heir of lord audley, chancellor to king henry viii. this thomas was summoned to parliament in queen elizabeth's time as lord audley of walden, and was afterwards created earl of suffolk by james i., to whom he was lord chancellor and lord high treasurer. it was intended for a royal palace for that king, who, when it was finished, was invited to see it, and lodged there one night on his way to newmarket; when, after having viewed it with astonishment, he was asked how he approved of it, he answered, "very well; but troth, man, it is too much for a king, but it may do for a lord high treasurer;" and so left it upon the earl's hands. it was afterwards purchased by charles ii.; but, as he had never been able to pay the purchase-money, it was restored to the family by william iii.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) dear sir, you have sent me the most kind and obliging letter in the world, and i cannot sufficiently thank you for it; but i shall be very glad to have an opportunity of acknowledging it in person, by accepting the agreeable visit you are so good as to offer me, and for which i have long been impatient. i should name the earliest day possible; but besides having some visits to make, i think it will bi more pleasant to you a few weeks hence (i mean, any time in july,) when the works, with which i am finishing my house, will be more advanced, and the noisy part, as laying floors and fixing wainscots, at an end, and which now make me a deplorable litter. as you give me leave, i will send you notice. i am glad my books amused you;( ) yet you, who are so much deeper an antiquarian, must have found more faults and emissions, i fear, than your politeness suffers you to reprehend; yet you will, i trust, be a little more severe. we both labour, i will not say for the public (for the public troubles its head very little about our labours),. but for the few of posterity that shall be curious; and therefore, for their sake, you must assist me in making my works as complete as possible. this sounds ungrateful, after all the trouble you have given yourself; but i say it to prove my gratitude, and to show you how fond i am of being corrected. for the faults of impression, they were owing to the knavery of a printer, who, when i had corrected the sheets, amused me with revised proofs, and never printed off the whole number, and then ran away. this accounts, too, for the difference of the ink in various sheets, and for some other blemishes; though there are still enough of my own, which i must not charge on others. ubaldini's book i have not, and shall be pleased to see it; but i cannot think of robbing your collection, and am amply obliged by the offer. the anecdotes of horatio palavacini are extremely entertaining. in an itinerary of the late mr. smart lethiullier, i met the very tomb of gainsborough this winter that you mention; and, to be secure, sent to lincoln for an exact draught of it. but what vexed me then, and does still, is, that by the defect at the end of the inscription, one cannot be certain whether he lived in ccc. or cccc. as another c might have been there. have you any corroborating circumstance, sir, to affix his existence to more than ? besides, i don't know any proof of his having been architect of the church: his epitaph only calls him caementarius, which, i suppose, means mason. i have observed, since my book was published, what you mention of the tapestry in laud's trial; yet as the journals were by authority, and certainly cannot be mistaken, i have concluded that hollar engraved his print after the restoration. mr. wight, clerk of the house of lords, says, that oliver placed them in the house of commons. i don't know on what grounds he says so. i am, sir, with great gratitude, etc. ( ) anecdotes of painting. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) i am diverted with your anger at old richard. can you really suppose that i think it any trouble to frank a few covers for you? had i been with you, i should have cured you and your whole family in two nights with james's powder. if you have any remains of the disorder, let me beg you to take seven or eight grains when you go to bed: if you have none, shall i send you some? for my own part, i am released -again, though i have been tolerably bad, and one day had the gout for several hours in my head. i do not like such speedy returns. i have been so much confined that i could not wait on mrs. osborn, and i do not take it unkindly that she will not let me have the prints without fetching them. i met her, that is, passed her, t'other day as she was going to bushy, and was sorry to see her look much older. well! tomorrow is fixed for that phenomenon, the duke of newcastle's resignation.( ) he has had a parting lev`ee; and as i suppose all bishops are prophets, they foresee that he will never come into place again, for there was but one that had the decency to take leave of him after crowding his rooms for forty years together; it was cornwallis. i hear not even lord lincoln resigns. lord bute succeeds to the treasury, and is to have the garter too on thursday with prince william. of your cousin i hear no more mention, but that he returns to his island. i cannot tell you exactly even the few changes that are to be made, but i can divert you with a bon-mot, which they give to my lord chesterfield. the new peerages being mentioned, somebody said, "i suppose there will be no duke made," he replied, "oh yes, there is to be one."--"is? who?"--"lord talbot: he is to be created duke humphrey, and there is to be no table kept at court but his." if you don't like this, what do you think of george selwyn, who asked charles boone if it is true that he is going to be married to the fat rich crawley? boone denied it. "lord!" said selwyn, "i thought you were to be patrick fleming on the mountain, and that gold and silver you were counting!" * * * * p.s. i cannot help telling you how comfortable the new disposition of the court is to me-, the king and queen are settled for good and all at buckingham-house, and are stripping the other palaces to furnish it. in short, they have already fetched pictures from hampton court, which indicates their never living there; consequently strawberry hill will remain in possession of its own tranquillity, and not become a cheesecake house to the palace. all i ask of princes is, not to live within five miles of me. ( ) the duke of newcastle, finding himself, on the subject of a pecuniary aid to the king of prussia, only supported in the council by the duke of devonshire and lord hardwicke, resigned on the th of may, and lord bute became prime minister.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, wednesday night, june . (page ) since you left strawberry, the town (not the king of prussia) has beaten count daun, and made the peace, but the benefits of either have not been felt beyond change alley. lord melcomb is dying( ) of a dropsy in his stomach,' and lady mary wortley of a cancer in her breast.( ) mr. hamilton was here last night, and complained of your not visiting him. he pumped me to know if lord hertford has not thoughts of the crown of ireland, and was more than persuaded that i should go with him: i told him what was true, that i knew nothing of the former; and for the latter, that i would as soon return with the king of the cherokees.( ) when england has nothing that can tempt me, it would be strange if ireland had. the cherokee majesty dined here yesterday at lord macclesfield's, where the clive sang to them and the mob; don't imagine i was there, but i heard so at my lady suffolk's. we have tapped a little butt of rain to-night, but my lawn is far from being drunk yet. did not you find the vine in great beauty? my compliments to it, and to your society. i only write to enclose the enclosed. i have consigned your button to old richard. adieu! ( ) lord melcombe died on the th of july: upon which event the title became extinct.-e. ( ) lady mary wortley montagu died on the st august, in the seventy-third year of her age.-e. ( ) three cherokee indian chiefs arrived this month in london, from south carolina, and became the lions of the day.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) well, you have had mr. chute. i did not dare to announce him to you, for he insisted on enjoying all your ejaculations. he gives me a good account of your health and spirits, but does not say when you come hither. i hope the general, as well as your brother john, know how welcome they would be, if they would accompany you. i trust it will be before the end of this month, for the very beginning of july i am to make a little visit to lord ilchester, in somersetshire, and i should not like not to see you before the middle or end of next month. mrs. osborn has sent me the prints; they are woful; but that is my fault and the engraver's, not yours, to whom i am equally obliged; you don't tell me whether mr. bentley's play was acted or not, printed or not. there is another of the queen's brothers come over. lady northumberland made a pompous festino for him t'other night; not only the whole house, but the garden, was illuminated, and was quite a fairy scene. arches and pyramids of lights alternately surrounded the enclosure; a diamond necklace of lamps edged the rails and descent, with a spiral obelisk of candles on each hand; and dispersed over the lawn were little bands of kettle-drums, clarionets, flutes, etc., and the lovely moon, who came without a card. the birthday was far from being such a show; empty and unfine as possible. in truth, popularity does not make great promises to the new administration, and for fear it should hereafter be taxed with changing sides, it lets lord bute be abused every day, though he has not had time to do the least wrong. his first levee was crowded. bothmer, the danish minister, said, "la chaleur est excessive!" george selwyn replied, "pour se mettre au froid, il faut aller chez monsieur le duc de newcastle!" there was another george not quite so tender. george brudenel was passing by; somebody in the mob said, "what is the matter here?" brudenel answered, "why, there is a scotchman got into the treasury, and they can't get him out." the archbishop, conscious of not having been at newcastle's last levee, and ashamed of appearing at lord bute's, first pretended he had been going by in his way from lambeth, and, upon inquiry, found it was lord bute's levee, and so had thought he might as well go in-i am glad he thought he might as well tell it. the mob call buckingham-house, holyrood-house; in short, every thing promises to be like times i can remember. lord anson is dead; poor mrs. osborn will not break her heart; i should think lord melcomb will succeed to the admiralty. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) sir, i fear you will have thought me neglectful of the visit you was so good as to offer me for a day or two at this place; the truth is, i have been in somersetshire on a visit, which was protracted much longer than i intended. i am now returned, and shall be glad to see you as soon as you please, sunday or monday next, if you like either, or any other day you will name. i cannot defer the pleasure of seeing you any longer, though to my mortification you will find strawberry hill with its worst looks-not a blade of grass! my workmen too have disappointed me; they have been in the association for forcing their masters to raise their wages, and but two are yet returned--so you must excuse litter and shavings. letter to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, july , (page ) madam, magnanimous as the fair soul of your ladyship is, and plaited with superabundance of spartan fortitude, i felicitate my own good fortune who can circle this epistle with branches of the gentle olive, as well as crown it with victorious laurel. this pompous paragraph, madam, which in compliment to my lady lyttelton i have penned in the style of her lord, means no more, them that i wish you joy of the castle of waldeck,( ) and more joy on the peace, which i find every body thinks is concluded. in truth, i have still my doubts; and yesterday came news, which, if my lord bute does not make haste, may throw a little rub in the way. in short, the czar is dethroned. some give the honour to his wife; others, who add the little circumstance of his being murdered too, ascribe the revolution to the archbishop of novogorod, who, like other priests, thinks assassination a less affront to heaven than three lutheran churches. i hope the latter is the truth; because, in the honeymoonhood of lady cecilia's tenderness, i don't know but she might miscarry at the thought of a wife preferring a crown, and scandal says a regiment of grenadiers, to her husband. i have a little meaning in naming lady lyttelton and lady cecilia, who i think are at park-place. was not there a promise that you all three would meet mr. churchill and lady mary here in the beginning of august! yes, indeed was there, and i put in my claim. not confining your heroic and musical ladyships to a day or a week; my time is at your command: and i wish the rain was at mine; for, if you or it do not come soon, i shall not have a leaf left. strawberry is browner than lady bell finch. i was grieved, madam, to miss seeing you in town on monday, particularly as i wished to settle this party. if you will let me know when it will be your pleasure, i will write to my sister. ( ) at the taking of which mr. conway had assisted. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) my dear lord, as you have correspondents of better authority in town, i don't pretend to send you great events, and i know no small ones. nobody talks of any thing under a revolution. that in russia alarms me,.lest lady mary should fall in love with the czarina, who has deposed her lord coke, and set out for petersburgh. we throw away a whole summer in writing britons and north britons; the russians change sovereigns faster than mr. wilkes can choose a motto for a paper. what years were spent here in controversy on the abdication of king james, and the legitimacy of the pretender! commend me to the czarina. they doubted, that is, her husband did, whether her children were of genuine blood-royal. she appealed to the preobazinski guards, excellent casuists; and, to prove duke paul heir to the crown, assumed it herself. the proof was compendious and unanswerable. i trust you know that mr. conway has made a figure by taking the castle of waldeck. there has been another action to prince ferdinand's advantage, but no english were engaged. you tantalize me by talking of the verdure of yorkshire; we have not had a teacupfull of rain till to-day for these six weeks. corn has been reaped that never wet its lips; not a blade of grass; the leaves yellow and falling as in the end of october. in short, twickenham is rueful; i don't believe westphalia looks more barren. nay, we are forced to fortify ourselves too. hanworth was broken open last night, though the family was all there. lord vere lost a silver standish, an old watch, and his writing-box with fifty pounds in it. they broke it open in the park, but missed a diamond ring which was found, and the telescope, which by the weight of the case they had fancied full of money. another house in the middle of sunbury has had the same fate. i am mounting cannon on my battlements. your chateau, i hope, proceeds faster than mine. the carpenters are all associated for increase of wages; i have had but two men at work these five weeks. you know, to be sure, that lady mary wortley cannot live. adieu, my dear lord! letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) sir, as i had been dilatory in accepting your kind offer of coming hither, i proposed it as soon as i returned. as we are so burnt, and as my workmen have disappointed me, i am not quite sorry that i had not the pleasure of seeing you this week. next week i am obliged to be in town on business. if you please, therefore, we will postpone our meeting till the first of september; by which time, i flatter myself we shall be green, and i shall be able to show you my additional apartment to more advantage. unless you forbid me, i shall expect you, sir, the very beginning of next month. in the mean time, i will only thank you for the obliging and curious notes you have sent me, which will make a great figure in my second edition. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) i have received your letter from greatworth since your return, but i do not find that you have got one, which i sent you to the vine, enclosing one directed for you: mr. chute says you did mention hearing from me there. i left your button too in town with old richard to be transmitted to you. our drought continues, though we have had one handsome storm. i have been reading the story of phaeton in the metamorphoses; it is a picture of twickenham. ardet athos, taurusque cilix, etc.; mount richmond burns, parched is petersham: parnassusque biceps, dry is pope's grot, the nymphs of clievden are burning to blackmoors, their faces are already as glowing as a cinder, cycnus is changed into a swan: quodque suo tagus amne vehit, fluit ignibus aurum; my gold fishes are almost molten. yet this conflagration is nothing to that in russia; what do you say to a czarina mounting her horse, and marching at the head of fourteen thousand men, with a large train of artillery, to dethrone her husband? yet she is not the only virago in that country; the conspiracy was conducted by the sister of the czar's mistress, a heroine under twenty! they have no fewer than two czars now in coops-that is, supposing these gentle damsels have murdered neither of them. turkey will become a moderate government; one must travel to frozen climates if one chooses to see revolutions in perfection. here's room for meditation even to madness:" the deposed emperor possessed muscovy, was heir to sweden, and the true heir of denmark; all the northern crowns centered in his person; one hopes he is in a dungeon, that is, one hopes he is not assassinated. you cannot crowd more matter into a lecture of morality, than is comprehended in those few words. this is the fourth czarina that you and i have seen: to be sure, as historians, we have not passed our time ill. mrs. anne pitt, who, i suspect, envies the heroine of twenty a little, says, "the czarina has only robbed peter to pay paul;" and i do not believe that her brother, mr. william pitt, feels very happy, that he cannot immediately despatch a squadron to the baltic to reinstate the friend of' the king of prussia. i cannot afford to live less than fifty years more; for so long, i suppose, at least, it will be before the court of petersburgh will cease to produce amusing scenes. think of old count biren, former master of that empire, returning to siberia, and bowing to bestucheff, whom he may meet on the road from thence. i interest myself now about nothing but russia; lord bute must be sent to the orcades before i shall ask a question in english politics; at least i shall expect that mr. pitt, at the head of the preobazinski guards, will seize the person of the prime minister for giving up our conquests to the chief enemy of this nation. my pen is in such a sublime humour, that it can scarce condescend to tell you that sir edward deering is going to marry polly hart, danvers's old mistress; and three more baronets, whose names nobody knows, but collins, are treading in the same steps. my compliments to the house of' montagu-upon my word i congratulate the general and you, and your viceroy, that you escaped being deposed by the primate of novogorod. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) sir, i am very sensible of the obligations i have to you and mr. masters, and ought to make separate acknowledgments to both; but, not knowing how to direct to him, i must hope that you will kindly be once more the channel of our correspondence; and that you will be so good as to convey to him an answer to what you communicated from him to me, and in particular my thanks for the most obliging offer he has made me of a picture of henry vii.; of which i will by no means rob him. my view in publishing the anecdotes was, to assist gentlemen in discovering the hands of pictures they possess: and i am sufficiently rewarded when that purpose is answered. if there is another edition, the mistake in the calculation of the tapestry shall be rectified, and any others, which any gentleman will be so good as to point out. with regard to the monument of sir nathaniel bacon, vertue certainly describes it as at culford; and in looking into the place to which i am referred, in mr. master's history of corpus christi college, i think he himself allows in the note, that there is such a monument at culford. of sir balthazar gerber there are several different prints. nich. lanicre purchasing pictures at the king's sale, is undoubtedly a mistake for one of his brothers--i cannot tell now whether vertue's mistake or my own. at longleafe is a whole-length of frances duchess of richmond, exactly such as mr. masters describes, but in oil. i have another whole-length of the same duchess, i believe by mytins, but younger than that at longleafe. but the best picture of her is in wilson's life of king james, and very diverting indeed. i will not trouble you, sir, or mr. masters, with any more at present; but, repeating my thanks to both, will assure you that i am, etc. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) nondurn laurus erat, longoque decentia crine tempera cingebat de qualibet arbore phoebus.( ) this is a hint to you, that phoebus, who was certainly your superior, could take up with a chestnut garland, or any crown he found, you must have the humility to be content without laurels, when none are to be had: you have hurried far and near for them, and taken true pains to the last in that old nursery-garden germany, and by the way have made me shudder with your last journal: but you must be easy with qu`alibet other arbore; you must come home to your own plantations. the duke of bedford is gone in a fury to make peace, for he cannot be even pacific with temper; and by this time i suppose the duke de nivernois is unpacking his portion of olive dans la rue de suffolk-street. i say, i suppose- -for i do not, like my friends at arthur's, whip into my postchaise to see every novelty. my two sovereigns, the duchess of grafton and lady mary coke, are arrived, and yet i have seen neither polly nor lucy. the former, i hear, is entirely french; the latter as absolutely english. well! but if you insist on not doffing your cuirass, you may find an opportunity of wearing it. the storm thickens. the city of london are ready to hoist their standard; treason is the bon-ton at that end of the town; seditious papers pasted up at every corner: nay, my neighbourhood is not unfashionable; we have had them at brentford and kingston. the peace is the cry; but to make weight, they throw in all the abusive ingredients they can collect. they talk of your friend the duke of devonshire's resigning; and, for the duke of newcastle, it puts him so much in mind of the end of queen anne's time, that i believe he hopes to be minister again for another forty years. in the mean time. there are but dark news from the havannah; the gazette, who would not fib for the world, says, we have lost but four officers; the world, who is not quite so scrupulous, says, our loss is heavy. but whit shocking notice to those who have harry conways there! the gazette breaks off with saying, that they were to storm the next day! upon the whole, it is regarded as a preparative to worse news. our next monarch was christened last night, george augustus frederick; the princess, the duke of cumberland, and the duke of mecklenburgh, sponsors,; the ceremony performed by the bishop of london. the queen's bed, magnificent, and they say in taste, was placed in the great drawing-room: though she is not to see company in form, yet it looks as if they had intended people should have been there, as all who presented themselves were admitted, which were very few, for it had not been notified; i suppose to prevent too great a crowd: all i have heard named, besides those in waiting, were the duchess of queensbury, lady dalkeith, mrs. grenville, and about four more ladies. my lady ailesbury is abominable: she settled a party to come hither, and put it off a month; and now she has been here and seen my cabinet, she ought to tell you what good reason i had not to stir. if she has not told you that it is the finest, the prettiest, the newest and the oldest thing in the world, i will not go to park-place on the th, as i have promised. oh! but tremble you may for me, though you will not for yourself--all my glories were on the point of vanishing last night in a flame! the chimney of the new gallery, which chimney is full of deal-boards, and which gallery is full of shavings was on fire at eight o'clock. harry had quarrelled with the other servants, and would not sit in the kitchen; and to keep up his anger, had lighted a vast fire in the servants' hall, which is under the gallery. the chimney took fire; and if margaret had not smelt it with the first nose that ever a servant had, a quarter of an hour had set us in a blaze. i hope you are frightened out of your senses for me: if you are not, i will never live in a panic for three or four years for you again. i have had lord march and the rena( ) here for one night, which does not raise my reputation in the neighbourhood, and may usher me again for a scotchman into the north briton.( ) i have had too a letter from a german that i never saw, who tells me, that, hearing by chance how well i am with my lord bute, he desires me to get him a place. the north briton first recommended me for an employment, and has now given me interest -.it the backstairs. it is a notion, that whatever is said of one, has generally some kind of foundation: surely i am a contradiction to this maxim! yet, was i of consequence enough to be remembered, perhaps posterity would believe that i was a flatterer! good night! yours ever. ( ) "the laurel was not yet for triumphs born, but every green, alike by phoebus worn, did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks adorn." garth.-e. ( ) a fashionable courtesan. ( ) the favourable opinion given by mr. walpole of the abilities of the scotch in the royal and noble authors, first drew upon him the notice of the north briton. ("the scotch are the most accomplished nation in europe; the nation to which, if any one country is endowed with a superior partition of sense, i should be inclined to give the preference in that particular."] letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i was disappointed at not seeing you, as you had given me hopes, but shall he glad to meet the general, as i think i shall, for i go to town on monday to restore the furniture of my house, which has been painted; and to stop the gaps as well as i can, which i have made by bringing away every thing hither; but as long as there are auctions, and i have money or hoards, those wounds soon close. i can tell you nothing of your dame montagu and her arms; but i dare to swear mr. chute can. i did not doubt but you would approve mr. bateman's, since it has changed its religion; i converted it from chinese to gothic. his cloister of founders, which by the way is mr. bentley's, is delightful; i envy him his old chairs, and the tomb of bishop caducanus; but i do not agree with you in preferring the duke's to stowe. the first is in a greater style, i grant, but one always perceives the mesalliance, the blood of bagshot-heath will never let it be green, if stowe had but half so many buildings as it has, there would be too many; but that profusion that glut enriches, and makes it look like a fine landscape of albano; one figures oneself in tempe or daphne. i never saw st. leonard's-hill; would you spoke seriously of buying it! one could stretch out the arm from one's postchaise, and reach you when one would. i am here all in ignorance and rain, and have seen nobody these two days since i returned from park-place. i do not know whether the mob hissed my lord bute at his installation,( ) as they intended, or whether my lord talbot drubbed them for it. i know nothing of the peace, nor of the havannah; but i could tell you much of old english engravers, whose lives occupy me at present. on sunday i am to dine with your prime minister hamilton; for though i do not seek the world, and am best pleased when quiet here, i do not refuse its invitations, whet) it does not press one to pass above a few hours with it. i have no quarrel to it, when it comes not to me, nor asks me to lie from home. that favour is only granted to the elect, to greatworth, and a very few more spots. adieu! ( ) the ceremony of the installation of prince william and lord bute, as knights of the garter, took place at windsor on the d of september.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) to my sorrow and your wicked joy, it is a doubt whether monsieur de nivernois will shut the temple of janus. we do not believe him quite so much in earnest as the dove( ) we have sent, who has summoned his turtle to paris. she sets out the day after to-morrow, escorted, to add gravity to the embassy, by george selwyn. the stocks don't mind this journey of a rush, but draw in their horns every day. we can learn nothing of the havannah, though the axis of which the whole treaty turns. we believe, for we have never seen them, that the last letters thence brought accounts of great loss, especially by the sickness. colonel burgoyne( ) has given a little fillip to the spaniards, and shown them, that though they can take portugal from the portuguese, it will not be entirely so easy to wrest it from the english. lord pulteney,( ) and my nephew,( ) lady waldegrave's brother, distinguished themselves. i hope your hereditary prince is recovering of the wounds in his loins; for they say he is to marry princess augusta. lady ailesbury has told you, to be sure, that i have been at park place. every thing there is in beauty; and, i should think, pleasanter than a campaign in germany. your countess is handsomer than fame; your daughter improving every day; your plantations more thriving than the poor woods about marburg and cassel. chinese pheasants swarm there. for lady cecilia johnston, i assure you, she sits close upon her egg, and it will not be her fault if she does not hatch a hero. we missed all the glories of the installation, and all the faults, and all the frowning faces there. not a knight was absent but the lame and the deaf. your brother, lady hertford, and lord beauchamp, are gone from windsor into suffolk. henry,( ) who has the genuine indifference of a harry conway, would not stir from oxford for those pageants. lord beauchamp showed me a couple of his letters, which have more natural humour and cleverness than is conceivable. they have the ease and drollery of a man of parts who has lived long in the world--and he is scarce seventeen! i am going to lord waldegrave's for a few days, and, when your countess returns from goodwood, am to meet her at churchill's. lord strafford, who has been terribly alarmed about my lady, mentions, with great pleasure, the letters he receives from you. his neighbour and cousin, lord rockingham, i hear, is one of the warmest declaimers at arthur's against the present system. abuse continues in much plenty, but i have seen none that i thought had wit enough to bear the sea. good night. there are satiric prints enough to tapestry westminster-hall. stay a moment: i recollect telling you a lie in my last, which, though of no consequence, i must correct. the right reverend midwife, thomas secker, archbishop, did christen the babe, and not the bishop of london, as i had been told by matron authority. apropos to babes: have you read rousseau on education? i almost got through a volume at park-place, though impatiently; it has mor(-tautology than any of his works, and less eloquence. sure he has writ more sense and more nonsense than ever any man did of both! all i have yet learned from this work is, that one should have a tutor for one's son to teach him to have no ideas, in order that he may begin to learn his alphabet as he loses his maidenhead. thursday noon, th. lo havannah! lo albemarle! i had sealed my letter, and given it to harry for the post, when my lady suffolk sent me a short note from charles townshend, to say the havannah surrendered on the th of august, and that we have taken twelve ships of the line in the harbour. the news came late last night. i do not know a particular more. god grant no more blood be shed! i have hopes again of the peace. my dearest harry, now we have preserved you to the last moment, do take care of yourself. when one has a whole war to wade through, it is not worth while to be careful in any one battle; but it is silly to fling one's self away in the last. your character is established; prince ferdinand's letters are full of encomiums on you; but what will weigh more with you, save yourself for another war, which i doubt you will live to see, and in which you may be superior commander, and have space to display your talents. a second in service is never remembered, whether the honour of the victory be owing to him -. or be killed. turenne would have a very short paragraph, if the prince of cond`e had been general when he fell. adieu! ( ) the duke of bedford, then ambassador at paris. ( ) colonel, afterwards general burgoyne, with the compte de lippe, commanded the british troops sent to the relief of portugal. ( ) only son of william pulteney, earl of bath. he died before his father. ( ) edward, only son of sir edward walpole. he died in . ( ) ,henry seymour conway, second son of francis, earl and afterwards marquis of hertford. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) it gives me great satisfaction that strawberry hill pleased you enough to make it a second visit. i could name the time instantly, but you threaten me with coming so loaded with presents, that it will look mercenary, not friendly, to accept your visit. if your chaise is empty, to be sure i shall rejoice to hear it at my gate about the d of this next month: if it is crammed, though i have built a convent, i have not so much of the monk in me as not to blush-nor can content myself with praying to our lady of strawberries to reward you. i am greatly obliged to you for the accounts from gothurst. what treasures there are still in private seats, if one knew where to hunt them! the emblematic picture of lady digby is like that at windsor, and the fine small one at mr. skinner's. i should be curious to see the portrait of sir kenelm's father; was not he the remarkable everard digby?( ) how singular too is the picture of young joseph and madam potiphar! his mujora--one has heard of josephs that did not find the lady's purse any hinderance to majora. you are exceedingly obliging, in offering to make an index to my prints, sir; but that would be a sad way of entertaining you. i am antiquary and virtuoso enough myself not to dislike such employment, but could never think it charming enough to trouble any body else with. whenever you do me the favour of coming hither, you will find yourself entirely at liberty to choose your own amusements--if you choose a bad one, and in truth there is not very good, you must blame yourself, while you know i hope that it would be my wish that you did not repent your favours to, sir, etc. ( ) executed in , as a conspirator in the gunpowder plot.-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) madam, i hope you are as free from any complaint, as i am sure you are full of joy. nobody partakes more of your satisfaction for mr. hervey's( ) safe return; and now he is safe, i trust you enjoy his glory: for this is a wicked age; you are one of those un-lacedaemonian mothers, that are not content unless your children come off with all their limbs. a spartan countess would not have had the confidence of my lady albemarle to appear in the drawing-room without at least one of her sons being knocked on the head.( ) however, pray, madam, make my compliments to her; one must conform to the times, and congratulate people for being happy, if they like it. i know one matron, however, with whom i may condole; who, i dare swear, is miserable that she has not one of her acquaintance in affliction, and to whose door she might drive with all her sympathizing greyhounds to inquire after her, and then to hawkins's, and then to graham's, and then cry over a ball of rags that she is picking, and be sorry for poor mrs. such-a-one, who has lost an only son! when your ladyship has hung up all your trophies, i will come and make you a visit. there is another ingredient i hope not quite disagreeable that mr. hervey has brought with him, un-lacedaemonian too, but admitted among the other vices of our system. if besides glory and riches they have brought us peace, i will make a bonfire myself, though it should be in the mayoralty of that virtuous citizen mr. beckford. adieu, madam! ( ) general william hervey, youngest son of lady hervey; who had just returned from the havannah. ( ) lady anne lenox, countess of albemarle, had three sons present at the taking of the havannah. the eldest, lord albemarle, commanded the land forces; the second, afterwards lord keppel, was then captain of a man of war; and the third was colonel of a regiment. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) i am concerned to hear you have been so much out of order, but should rejoice your sole command( ) disappointed you, if this late cannonading business( ) did not destroy all my little prospects. can one believe the french negotiators are sincere, when their marshals are so false? what vexes me more is to hear you seriously tell your brother that you are always unlucky, and lose all opportunities of fighting. how can you be such a child? you cannot, like a german, love fighting for its own sake. no: you think of the mob of london, who, if you had taken peru, would forget you the first lord mayor's day, or for the first hyena that comes to town. how can one build on virtue and on fame too? when do they ever go together? in my passion, i could almost wish you were as worthless and as great as the king of prussia! if conscience is a punishment, is not it a reward too? go to that silent tribunal, and be satisfied with its sentence. i have nothing new to tell you. the havannah is more likely to break off the peace than to advance it.( ) we are not in a humour to give up the world; anza, are much more disposed to conquer the rest of it. we shall have some commanding here, i believe, if we sign the peace. mr. pitt, from the bosom of his retreat, has made beckford mayor. the duke of newcastle, if not taken in again, will probably end his life as he began it-at the head of a mob. personalities and abuse, public and private, increase to the most outrageous degree, and yet the town is at the emptiest. you may guess what will be the case in a month. i do not see at all into the storm: i do not mean that there will not be a great majority to vote any thing; but there are times when even majorities cannot do all they are ready to do. lord bute has certainly great luck, which is something in politics, whatever it is in logic: but whether peace or war, i would not give him much for the place he will have this day twelvemonth. adieu! the watchman goes past one in the morning; and as i have nothing better than reflections and conjectures to send you, i may as well go to bed. ( ) during lord granby's absence from the army in flanders, the command in chief had devolved on mr. conway. ( ) the affair of bucker-muhl. ( ) on this subject, sir joseph yorke, in a letter to mr. michell of the th of october, observes, "all the world is struck with the noble capture of the havannah, which fell into our hands on the prince of wales's birthday, as a just punishment upon the spaniards for their unjust quarrel with us, and for the supposed difficulties they have raised in the negotiation for peace. by what i hear from paris, my old acquaintance grimaldi is the cause of the delay in signing the preliminaries, insisting upon points neither france nor england would ever consent to grant, such as the liberty of fishing at newfoundland; a point we should not dare to yield, as mr. pitt told them, though they were masters of the tower of london. what effect the taking of the havannah will have is uncertain; for the spaniards have nothing to give us in return."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct , . (page ) you will not make your fortune in the admiralty at least; your king's cousin is to cross over and figure in with george grenville; the latter takes the admiralty, lord halifax the seals--still, i believe, reserving ireland for pocket-money; at least no new viceroy is named. mr. fox undertakes the house of commons--and the peace--and the war--for if we have the first, we may be pretty sure of the second.( ) you see lord bute totters; reduced to shift hands so often, it does not look like much stability. the campaign at westminster will be warm. when mr. pitt can have such a mouthful as lord bute, mr. fox, and the peace, i do not think three thousand pounds a year will stop it. well, i shall go into my old corner under the window, and laugh i had rather sit by my fire here; but if there are to be bull-feasts, one would go and see them, when one has a convenient box for nothing, and is very indifferent about the cavalier combatants. adieu! ( ) in a letter to mr. pitt, of this day's date, mr. nuthall gives the ex-minister the following account of these changes:- -"mr. fox kissed hands yesterday, as one of the cabinet; lord halifax, as secretary of state, and mr. george grenville, as first lord of the admiralty. mr. fox's present state of health, it was given out, would not permit him to take the seals. charles townshend was early yesterday morning sent for by lord bute, who opened to him this new system, and offered him the secretaryship of the plantations and board of trade, which he not only refused, but refused all connexion and intercourse whatever with the new counsellor, and spoke out freely. he was afterwards three times in with the king, to whom be was more explicit, and said things that did not a little alarm." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) you take my philosophy very kindly, as it was meant; but i suppose you smile a little in your sleeve to hear me turn moralist. yet why should not i? must every absurd young man prove a foolish old one? not that i intend, when the latter term is quite arrived, to profess preaching; nor should, i believe, have talked so gravely to you, if your situation had not made me grave. till the campaign is ended, i shall be in no humour to smile. for the war, when it will be over, i have no idea. the peace is a jack o' lanthorn that dances before one's eyes, is never approached, and at best seems ready to lead some follies into a woful quagmire. as your brother was in town, and i had my intelligence from him, i concluded you would have the same, and therefore did not tell you of this last resolution, which has brought mr. fox again upon the scene. i have been in town but once since; yet learned enough to confirm the opinion i had conceived, that the building totters, and that this last buttress will but push on its fall. besides the clamorous opposition already encamped, the world talks of another, composed of names not so often found in a mutiny. what think you of the great duke,( ) and the little duke,( ) and the old duke,( ) and the derbyshire duke,( ) banded together against the favourite?( ) if so, it proves the court, as the late lord g * * * wrote to the mayor of litchfield, will have a majority in every thing but numbers. however, my letter is a week old before i write it: things may have changed since last tuesday. then the prospect was des plus gloomy. portugal at the eve of being conquered--spain preferring a diadem to the mural crown of the havannah--a squadron taking horse for naples, to see whether king carlos has any more private bowels than public, whether he is a better father than brother. if what i heard yesterday be true, that the parliament is to be put off till the th, it does not look as if they were ready in the green-room, and despised catcalls. you bid me send you the flower of brimstone, the best things published in this season of outrage. i should not have waited for orders, if i had met with the least tolerable morsel. but this opposition ran stark mad at once, cursed, swore, called names, and has not been one minute cool enough to have a grain of wit. their prints are gross, their papers scurrilous: indeed the authors abuse one another more than any body else. i have not seen a single ballad or epigram. they are as seriously dull as if the controversy was religious. i do not take in a paper of either side; and being very indifferent, the only way of being impartial, they shall not make me pay till they make me laugh. i am here quite' alone, and shall stay a fortnight longer, unless the parliament prorogued lengthens my holidays. i do not pretend to be so indifferent, to have so little curiosity, as not to go and see the duke of newcastle frightened for his country--the only thing that never yet gave him a panic. then i am still such a schoolboy, that though i could guess half their orations, and know all their meaning, i must go and hear caesar and pompey scold in the temple of concord. as this age is to make such a figure hereafter, how the gronoviuses and warburtons would despise a senator that deserted the forum when the masters of the world harangued! for, as this age is to be historic, so of course it will be a standard of virtue too; and we, like our wicked predecessors the romans, shall be quoted, till our very ghosts blush, as models of patriotism and magnanimity. what lectures will be read to poor children on this era! europe taught to tremble, the great king humbled, the treasures of peru diverted into the thames, asia subdued by the gigantic clive! for in that age men were near seven feet high; france suing for peace at the gates of buckingham-house, the steady wisdom of the duke of bedford drawing a circle round the gallic monarch, and forbidding him to pass it till he had signed the cession of america; pitt more eloquent than demosthenes, and trampling on proffered pensions like-i don't know who; lord temple sacrificing a brother to the love of his country; wilkes as spotless as sallust, and the flamen churchill( ) knocking down the foes of britain with statues of the gods!-oh! i am out of breath with eloquence and prophecy, and truth and lies; my narrow chest was not formed to hold inspiration! i must return to piddling with my painters: those lofty subjects are too much for me. good night! p. s. i forgot to tell -you that gideon, who is dead worth more than the whole land of canaan, has left the reversion of all his milk and honey, after his son and daughter and their children, to the duke of devonshire, without insisting on his taking the name, or even being circumcised. lord albemarle is expected home in december. my nephew keppel( ) is bishop of exeter, not of the havannah, as you may imagine, for his mitre was promised the day before the news came. ( ) of cumberland. ( ) of bedford. ( ) of newcastle. ( ) of devonshire. ( ) the earl of bute. ( ) charles churchill the poet. ( ) frederick keppel, youngest brother of george earl of albemarle, who commanded at taking the havannah, had married laura, eldest daughter of sir edward walpole. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) madam, it is too late, i fear, to attempt acknowledging the honour madame de chabot,( ) does me; and yet, if she is not gone, i would fain not appear ungrateful. i do not know where she lives, or i would not take the liberty again of making your ladyship my penny-post. if she is gone, you will throw my note into the fire. pray, madam, blow your nose with a piece of flannel-not that i believe it will do you the least good--but, as all wise folks think it becomes them to recommend nursing and flannelling the gout, imitate them; and i don't know any other way of lapping it up, when it appears in the person of a running cold. i will make it a visit on tuesday next, and shall hope to find it tolerably vented. p. s. you must tell me all the news when i arrive, for i know nothing of what is passing. i have only seen in the papers, that the cock and hen doves( ) that went to paris not having been able to make peace, there is a third dove( ) just flown thither to help them. ( ) lady mary chabot, daughter of the earl of stafford. ( ) the duke and duchess of bedford. ( ) mr. hans stanley. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, thursday, nov. , . (page ) the events of these last eight days will make you stare. this day se'nnight the duke of devonshire came to town, was flatly refused an audience, and gave up his key. yesterday lord rockingham resigned, and your cousin manchester was named to the bedchamber. the king then in council called for the book, and dashed out the duke of devonshire's name. if you like spirit, en voila! do you know i am sorry for all this? you will not suspect me of tenderness for his grace of devonshire, nor, recollecting how the whole house of cavendish treated me on my breach with my uncle, will any affronts, that happen to them, call forth my tears. but i think the act too violent and too serious, and dipped in a deeper dye than i like in politics. squabbles, and speeches, and virtue, and prostitution, amuse one sometimes; less and less indeed every day; but measures, from which you must advance and cannot retreat, is a game too deep; one neither knows who may be involved, nor where may be the end. it is not pleasant. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) dear sir, you will easily guess that my delay in answering your obliging letter, was solely owing to my not knowing whither to direct to you. i waited till i thought you may be returned home. thank you for all the trouble you have given, and do give yourself for me; it is vastly more than i deserve. duke richard's portrait i willingly wave, at least for the present, till one can find out who he is. i have more curiosity about the figures of henry vii. at christ's college. i shall be glad some time or other to visit them, to see how far either of them agree with his portrait in my picture of his marriage. st. ethelreda was mighty welcome. we have had variety of weather since i saw you, but i fear none of the patterns made your journey more agreeable. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) as i am far from having been better since i wrote to you last, my postchaise points more and more to naples. yet strawberry, like a mistress, as oft as i descend the hill of health, washes my hold away. your company would have made me decide much faster, but i see i have little hopes of that, nor can i blame you; i don't use so rough a word with regard to myself, but to your pursuing your amusement, which i am sure the journey would be. i never doubted your kindness to me one moment; the affectionate manner in which you offered, three weeks ago, to accompany me to bath, will never be forgotten. i do not think my complaint very serious: for how can it be so, when it has never confined me a whole day? but my mornings are so bad, and i have had so much more pain this last week, with restless nights, that i am convinced it must not be trifled with. yet i think italy would be the last thing i would try, if it were 'not to avoid politics: yet i hear nothing else. the court and opposition both grow more violent every day from the same cause; the victory of the former. both sides torment me with their affairs, though it is so plain i do not care a straw about either. i wish i -were great enough to say, as a french officer on the stage at paris said to the pit, "accordez vous, canaille!" yet to a man without ambition or interestedness, politicians are canaille. nothing appears to me more ridiculous in my life than my having ever loved their squabbles, and that at an age when i loved better things too! my poor neutrality, which thing i signed with all the world, subjects me, like other insignificant monarchs on parallel occasions, to affronts. on thursday i was summoned to princess emily's loo. loo she called it, politics it was. the second thing she said to me was, "how were you the two long days?" "madam, i was only there the first." "and how did you vote!" "madam, i went away." "upon my word, that was carving well." not a very pleasant apostrophe to one who certainly never was a time-server! well, we sat down. she said, "i hear wilkinson is turned out, and that sir edward winnington is to have his place; who is he?" addressing herself to me, who sat over against her. "he is the late mr. winnington's heir, madam." "did you like that winnington?" "i can't but say i did, madam." she shrugged her shoulders, and continued; "winnington originally was a great tory; what do you think he was when he died?" "madam, i believe what all people are in place." pray, mr. montagu, do you perceive any thing rude or offensive in this? hear then: she flew into the most outrageous passion, coloured like scarlet, and said, "none of your wit; i don't understand joking on those subjects; what do you think your father would have said if he had heard you say so? he would have murdered you, and you would have deserved it." i was quite confounded and amazed; it was impossible to explain myself across a loo-table, as she is so deaf: there was no making a reply to a woman and a princess, and particularly for me, who have made it a rule, when i must converse with royalties, to treat them with the greatest respect, since it is all the court they will ever have from me. i said to those on each side of me, "what can i do? i cannot explain myself now." well, i held my peace, and so did she for a quarter of an hour. then she began with me again, examined me on the whole debate, and at last asked me directly, which i thought the best speaker, my father or mr. pitt. if possible, this was more distressing than her anger. i replied, it was impossible to compare two men so different: that i believed my father was more a man of business than mr. pitt. "well, but mr. pitt's language?" "madam," said i, "i have always been remarkable for admiring mr. pitt's language." at last, this unpleasant scene ended; but as we were going away, i went close to her, and said, "madam, i must beg leave to explain myself; your royal highness has seemed to be very angry with me, and i am sure i did not mean to offend you: all i intended to say was, that i supposed tories were whigs when they got places!" "oh!" said she, "i am very much obliged to you; indeed, i was very angry." why she was angry, or what she thought i meaned, i do not know to this moment, unless she supposed that i would have hinted that the duke of newcastle and the opposition were not men of consummate virtue, and had lost their places out of principle. the very reverse was at that time in my head; for i meaned that the tories would be just as loyal as the whigs, when they got any thing by it. you will laugh at my distresses, and in truth they are little serious yet they almost put me out of humour. if your cousin realizes his fair words to you, i shall be very good-humoured again. i am not so morose as to dislike my friends for being in place; indeed, if they are in great place, my friendship goes to sleep like a paroli at pharaoh, and does not wake again till their deal is over. good night! letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) dear sir, you are always abundantly kind to me, and pass my power of thanking you. you do nothing but give yourself trouble and me presents. my cousin calthorpe is a great rarity, and i think i ought, therefore, to return him to you; but that would not be treating him like a relation, or you like a friend. my ancestor's epitaph, too, was very agreeable to me. i have not been at strawberry hill these three weeks. my maid is ill there, and i have not been well myself with the same flying gout in my stomach and breast, of which you heard me complain a little in the summer. i am much persuaded to go to a warmer climate, which often disperses these unsettled complaints. i do not care for it, nor can determine till i see i grow worse: if i do (to, i hope it will not be for long; and you shall certainly hear again before i set out. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, feb. , . (page ) your letter of the th seems to postpone your arrival rather than advance it; yet lady ailesbury tells me that to her you talk of being here in ten days. i wish devoutly to see you, though i am not departing myself; but i am impatient to have your disagreeable function( ) at an end, and to know that you enjoy yourself after such fatigues, dangers, and ill-requited services. for any public satisfaction you will receive in being at home, you must not expect much. your mind was not formed to float on the surface of a mercenary world. my prayer (and my belief) is, that you may always prefer what you always have preferred, your integrity to success. you will then laugh, as i do, at the attacks and malice of faction or ministers. i taste of both; but, as my health is recovered, and my mind does not reproach me, they will perhaps only give me an opportunity, which i should never have sought, of proving that i have some virtue--and it will not be proved in the way they probably expect. i have better evidence than by hanging out the tattered ensigns of patriotism. but this and a thousand other things i shall reserve for our meeting. your brother has pressed me much to go with him, if he goes, to paris.( ) i take it very kindly, but have excused myself, though i have promised either to accompany him for a short time at first, or to go to him if he should have any particular occasion for me: but my resolution against ever appearing in any public light is unalterable. when i wish to live less and less in the world here, i cannot think of mounting a new stage at paris. at this moment i am alone here, while every body is balloting in the house of commons. sir john philips proposed a commission of accounts, which has been converted into a select committee of twenty-one, eligible by ballot. as the ministry is not predominant in the affections of mankind, some of them may find a jury elected that will not be quite so complaisant as the house is in general when their votes are given openly. as many may be glad of this opportunity, i shun it; for i should scorn to do any thing in secret, though i have some enemies that are not quite so generous. you say you have seen the north briton, in which i make a capital figure. wilkes, the author, i hear, says, that if he had thought i should have taken it so well, he would have been damned before he would have written it-but i am not sore where i am not sore. the theatre of covent-garden has suffered more by riots than even drury-lane.( ) a footman of lord dacre has been hanged for murdering the butler. george selwyn had great hand in bringing him to confess it. that selwyn should be a capital performer in a scene of that kind is not extraordinary: i tell it you for the strange coolness which the young fellow, who was but nineteen, expressed: as he was writing his confession, "i murd--" he stopped, and asked, "how do you spell murdered?" mr. fox is much better than at the beginning of the winter; and both his health and power seem to promise a longer duration than people expected. indeed, i think the latter is so established, that poor lord bute would find it more difficult to remove him, than he did his predecessors, and may even feel the effects of the weight he has made over to him; for it is already obvious that lord bute's lev`ee is not the present path to fortune. permanence is not the complexion of these times--a distressful circumstance to the votaries of a court, but amusing to us spectators. adieu! ( ) the re-embarkation of the british troops from flanders after the peace. ( ) an ambassador. ( . in january, there was a riot at drury-lane, in consequence of the managers refusing admittance at the end of the third act of a play for half-price; when the glass lustres were broken and thrown upon the stage, the benches torn up, and the performance put a stop to. the same scene was threatened on the following evening, but was prevented by garrick's consenting to give admittance at half-price after the third act, except during the first winter of a new pantomime. at covent-garden, the redress demanded having been acceded to, no disturbance took place on that occasion; but a more serious riot happened on the th of february, in consequence of a demand for full prices at the opera of artaxerxes. the mischief done was estimated at not less than two thousand pounds.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) though you are a runaway, a fugitive, a thing without friendship or feeling, though you grow tired of your acquaintance in half the time you intended, i will not quite give you up: i will write to you once a quarter, just to keep up a connexion that grace may catch at, if it ever proposes to visit you. this is my plan, for i have little or nothing to tell you. the ministers only cut one another's throats instead of ours. they growl over their prey like two curs over a bone, which neither can determine to quit; and the whelps in opposition are not strong enough to beat either way, though like the species, they will probably hunt the one that shall be worsted. the saddest dog of all, wilkes, shows most spirit. the last north briton is a masterpiece of mischief. he has written a dedication too to an old play, the fall of mortimer, that is wormwood; and he had the impudence t'other day to ask dyson if he was going to the treasury; "because," said he, "a friend of mine has dedicated a play to lord bute, and 'it is usual to give dedicators something; i wish you would put his lordship in mind of it." lord and lady pembroke are reconciled, and live again together.( ) mr. hunter would have taken his daughter too, but upon condition she should give back her settlement to lord pembroke and her child: she replied nobly, that she did not trouble herself about fortune, and would willingly depend on her father; but for her child, she had nothing left to do but to take care of that, and would not part with it; so she keeps both, and i suppose will soon have her lover again too, for t'other sister( ) has been sitting to reynolds, who by her husband's direction has made a speaking picture. lord bolingbroke said to him, "you must give the eyes something of nelly o'brien, or it will not do." as he has given nelly something of his wife's, it was but fair to give her something of nelly's, and my lady will not throw away the present! i am going to strawberry for a few days, pour faire mes piques. the gallery advances rapidly. the ceiling is harry the seventh's chapel in proprid persona; the canopies are all placed; i think three months will quite complete it. - i have bought at lord granville's sale the original picture of charles brandon and his queen; and have to-day received from france a copy of madame maintenon, which with my la vali`ere, and copies of madame grammont, and of the charming portrait of the mazarine at the duke of st. alban's, is to accompany bianca capello and ninon l'enclos in the round tower. i hope now there will never be another auction, for i have not an inch of space, or a farthing left. as i have some remains of paper, i will fill it up with a song that i made t'other day in the postchaise, after a particular conversation that i had with miss pelham the night before at the duke of richmond's. the advice. the business of women, dear chloe, is pleasure, and by love ev'ry fair one her minutes should measure. "oh! for love we're all ready," you cry.--very true; nor would i rob the gentle fond god of his due. unless in the sentiments cupid has part, and dips in the amorous transport his dart 'tis tumult, disorder, 'tis loathing and hate; caprice gives it birth, and contempt is its fate. "true passion insensibly leads to the joy, and grateful esteem bids its pleasures ne'er cloy. yet here you should stop-but your whimsical sex such romantic ideas to passion annex, that poor men, by your visions and jealousy worried, to dyinphs less ecstatic, but kinder, are hurried. in your heart, i consent, let your wishes be bred; only take care your heart don't get into your head. adieu, till midsummer-day! ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) lady bolingbroke and the countess of pembroke were sisters.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) you will pity my distress when i tell you that lord waldegrave has got the smallpox, and a bad sort. this day se'nnight, in the evening, i met him at arthur's: he complained to me of the headache, and a sickness in the stomach. i said, "my dear lord, why don't you go home, and take james's powder you will be well in the morning." he thanked me, said he was glad i had put him in mind of it, and he would take my advice. i sent in the morning; my niece said he had taken the powder, and that james thought he had no fever, but that she found him very low. as he had no fever, i had no apprehension. at eight o'clock on friday night, i was told abruptly at arthur's, that lord waldegrave had the small-pox. i was excessively shocked, not knowing if the powder was good or bad for it. i went instantly to the house; at the door i was met by a servant of lady ailesbury, sent to tell me that mr. conway was arrived. these two opposite strokes of terror and joy overcame me so much, that when i got to mr. conway's i could not speak to him, but burst into a flood of tears. the next morning, lord waldegrave hearing i was there, desired to speak to me alone. i should tell you, that the moment he knew it was the small-pox, he signed his will. this has been the unvaried tenor of his behaviour, doing just what is wise and necessary, and nothing more. he told me, he knew how great the chance was against his living through that distemper at his age. that, to be sure, he should like to have lived a few years longer; but if he did not, he should submit patiently. that all he desired was, that if he should fail, we would do our utmost to comfort his wife, who, he feared was breeding, and who, he added, was the best woman in the world. i told him he could not doubt our attention to her, but that at present all our attention was fixed on him. that the great difference between having the small-pox young, or more advanced in years, consisted in the fear of the latter; but that as i had so often heard him say, and now saw, that he had none of those fears, the danger of age was considerably lessened. dr. wilmot says, that if any thing saves him, it will be his tranquillity. to my comfort i am told, that james's powder has probably been a material ingredient towards his recovery. in the mean time, the universal anxiety about him is incredible. dr. barnard, the master of eton, who is in town for the holidays, says, that, from his situation, he is naturally invited to houses of all ranks and parties, and that the concern is general in all. i cannot say so much of my lord, and not do a little justice to my niece too. her tenderness, fondness, attention, and courage are surprising. she has no fears to become her, nor heroism for parade. i could not help saying to her, "there never was a nurse of your age had such attention." she replied, "there never was a nurse of my age had such an object." it is this astonishes one, to see so much beauty sincerely devoted to a man so unlovely in his person; but if adonis was sick, she could not stir seldomer out of his bedchamber. the physicians seem to have little hopes, but, as their arguments are not near so strong as their alarms, i own i do not give it up, and yet i look on it in a very dangerous light. i know nothing of news and of the world, for i go to albemarle-street early in the morning, and don't come home till late at night. young mr. pitt has been dying of a fever in bedfordshire. the bishop of carlisle,( ) whom i have appointed visiter of strawberry, is gone down to him. you will be much disappointed if you expect to find the gallery near finished. they threaten me with three months before the gilding can be begun. twenty points are at a stand by my present confinement, and i have a melancholy prospect of being forced to carry my niece thither the next time i go. the duc de nivernois, in return for a set of the strawberry editions, has sent me four seasons, which, i conclude, he thought good, but they shall pass their whole round in london, for they have not even the merit of being badly old enough for strawberry. mr. bentley's epistle to lord melcomb has been published in a magazine. it has less wit by far than i expected from him, and to the full as bad english. the thoughts are old strawberry phrases; so are not the panegyrics. here are six lines written extempore by lady temple, on lady mary coke, easy and genteel, and almost true: she sometimes laughs, but never loud; she's handsome too, but somewhat proud: at court she bears away the belle; she dresses fine, and figures well: with decency she's gay and airy; who can this be but lady mary? there has been tough doings in parliament about the tax on cider; and in the western counties the discontent is so great, that if mr. wilkes will turn patriot-hero, or patriot-incendiary in earnest, and put himself at their head, he may obtain a rope of martyrdom before the summer is over. adieu! i tell you my sorrows, because, if i escape them, i am sure nobody will rejoice more. ( ) dr. charles lyttelton, consecrated bishop of carlisle in , in the room of dr. osbaldiston, translated to the see of london.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, friday night, late. [april , .. (page ) amidst all my own grief, and all the distress which i have this moment left, i cannot forget you, who have so long been my steady and invariable friend. i cannot leave it to newspapers and correspondents to tell you my loss. lord waldegrave died to-day. last night he had some glimmerings of hope. the most desponding of the faculty flattered us a little. he himself joked with the physicians, and expressed himself in this engaging manner: asking what day of the week it was; they told him thursday: "sure," said he, "it is friday." "no, my lord, indeed it is thursday." "well," said he, "see what a rogue this distemper makes one; i want to steal nothing but a day." by the help of opiates, with which, for two or three days, they had numbed his sufferings, he rested well. this morning he had no worse symptoms. i told lady waldegrave, that as no material alteration was expected before sunday, i would go to dine at strawberry, and return in time to meet the physicians in the evening; in truth, i was worn out with anxiety and attendance, and wanted an hour or two of fresh air. i left her at twelve, and had ordered dinner at three that i might be back early. i had not risen from table when i received an express from lady betty waldegrave, to tell me that a sudden change had happened, that they had given him james's powder, but that they feared it was too late, and that he probably would be dead before i could come to my niece, for whose sake she begged i would return immediately. it was indeed too late! too late for every thing--late as it was given, the powder vomited him even in the agonies--had i had power to direct, he should never have quitted james; but these are vain regrets! vain to recollect how particularly kind he, who was kind to every body, was to me! i found lady waldegrave at my brother's; she weeps without ceasing, and talks of his virtues and goodness to her in a manner that distracts one. my brother bears this mortification with more courage than i could have expected from his warm passions: but nothing struck me more than to see my rough savage swiss, louis, in tears, as he opened my chaise. i have a bitter scene to come: to-morrow morning i carry poor lady waldegrave to strawberry. her fall is great, from that adoration and attention that he paid her, from that splendour of fortune, so much of which dies with him, and from that consideration, which rebounded to her from the great deference which the world had for his character. visions perhaps. yet who could expect that they would have passed away even before that fleeting thing, her beauty! if i had time or command enough of my thoughts, i could give you as long a detail of as unexpected a revolution in the political world. to-day has been as fatal to a whole nation, i mean to the scotch, as to our family. lord bute resigned this morning. his intention was not even suspected till wednesday, nor at all known a very few days before. in short, there is nothing, more or less, than a panic; a fortnight's opposition has demolished that scandalous but vast majority, which a fortnight had purchased; and in five months a plan of absolute power has been demolished by a panic. he pleads to the world bad health; to his friends, more truly, that the nation was set at him. he pretends to intend retiring absolutely, and giving no umbrage. in the mean time he is packing up a sort of ministerial legacy, which cannot hold even till next session, and i should think would scarce take place at all. george grenville is to be at the head of the treasury and chancellor of the exchequer; charles townshend to succeed him; and lord shelburne, charles. sir francis dashwood to have his barony of despencer and the great wardrobe, in the room of lord gower, who takes the privy seal, if the duke of bedford takes the presidentship; but there are many ifs in this arrangement; the principal if is, if they dare stand a tempest which has so terrified the pilot. you ask what becomes of mr. fox? not at all pleased with this sudden determination, which has blown up so many of his projects, and left him time to heat no more furnaces, he goes to france by the way of the house of lords,( ) but keeps his place and his tools till something else happens. the confusion i suppose will be enormous, and the next act of the drama a quarrel among the opposition, who would be all-powerful if they could do what they cannot, hold together and not quarrel for the plunder. as i shall be at a distance for some days, i shall be able to send you no more particulars of this interlude, but you will like a pun my brother made when he was told of this explosion: "then," said he, "they must turn the jacks out of the drawing-room again, and again take them into the kitchen." adieu! what a world to set one's heart on! ) mr. fox was created baron holland of foxley.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, april , . (page ) i have received your two letters together, and foresaw that your friendly good heart would feel for us just as you do. the loss is irreparable,( ) and my poor niece is sensible it is. she has such a veneration for her lord's memory, that if her sister and i make her cheerful for a moment, she accuses herself of it the next day to the bishop of exeter,( ) as if he was her confessor, and that she had committed a crime. she cried for two days to such a degree, that if she had been a fountain it must have stopped. till yesterday she scarce eat enough to keep her alive, and looks accordingly; but at her age she must be comforted: her esteem will last, but her spirits will return in spite of herself. her lord has made her sole executrix, and added what little douceurs he could to her jointure, which is but a thousand pounds a-year, the estate being but three-and-twenty hundred. the little girls will have about eight thousand pounds apiece; for the teller's place was so great during the war, that notwithstanding his temper was a sluice of generosity, he had saved thirty thousand pounds since his marriage. her sisters have been here with us the whole time. lady huntingtower is all mildness and tenderness; and by dint of attention i have not displeased the other. lord huntingtower has been here once; the bishop most of the time: he is very reasonable and good-natured, and has been of great assistance and comfort to me in this melancholy office, which is to last here till monday or tuesday. we have got the eldest little girl too, lady laura, who is just old enough to be amusing; and last night my nephew arrived here from portugal. it was a terrible meeting at first; but as he is very soldierly and lively, he got into spirits, and diverted us much with his relations of the war and the country. he confirms all we have heard of the villany, poltroonery, and ignorance of the portuguese, and of their aversion to the english; but i could perceive, even through his relation, that our flippancies and contempt of them must have given a good deal of play to their antipathy. you are admirably kind, as you always are in inviting me to greatworth, and proposing bath; but besides its being impossible for me to take any journey just at present, i am really very well in health, and the tranquillity and air of strawberry have done much good. the hurry of london, where i shall be glad to be just now, will dissipate the gloom that this unhappy loss has occasioned; though a deep loss i shall always think it. the time passes tolerably here; i have my painters and gilders and constant packets of news from town, besides a thousand letters of condolence to answer; for both my niece and i have received innumerable testimonies of the regard that was felt for lord waldegrave. i have heard of but one man who ought to have known his worth, that has shown no concern; but i suppose his childish mind is too much occupied with the loss of his last governor.( ) i have given up my own room to my niece, and have taken myself to the holbein chamber, where i am retired from the rest of the family when i choose it, and nearer to overlook my workmen. the chapel is quite finished except the carpet. the sable mass of the altar gives it a very sober air; for, notwithstanding the solemnity of the painted windows, it had a gaudiness that was a little profane. i can know no news here but by rebound; and yet, though they are to rebound again to you, they will be as fresh as any you can have at greatworth. a kind of administration is botched up for the present, and even gave itself an air of that fierceness with which the winter set out. lord hardwicke -was told, that his sons must vote with the court, or be turned out; he replied, as he meant to have them in place, he chose they should be removed now. it looks ill for the court when he is sturdy. they wished, too, to have had pitt, if they could have had him without consequences; but they don't find any recruits repair to their standard. they brag that they should have had lord waldegrave; a most notorious falsehood, as he had refused every offer they could invent the day before he was taken ill. the duke of' cumberland orders his servants to say, that so far from joining them, he believes if lord waldecrave could have been foretold of his death, he would have preferred it to an union with bute and fox. the former's was a decisive panic; so sudden, that it is said lord egremont was sent to break his resolution of retiring to the king. the other, whose journey to france does not indicate much less apprehension, affects to walk in the streets at the most public hours to mark his not trembling. in the mean time the two chiefs have paid their bravoes magnificently: no less than fifty-two thousand pounds a-year are granted in reversion! young martin,( ) who is older than i am, is named my successor; but i intend he shall wait some years: if they had a mind to serve me, they could not have selected a fitter tool to set my character in a fair light by the comparison. lord bute's son has the reversion of an auditor of the imprest; this is all he has done ostensibly for his family, but the great things bestowed on the most insignificant objects, make me suspect some private compacts. yet i may wrong him, but i do not mean it. lord granby has refused ireland, and the northumberlands are to transport their magnificence thither.( ) i lament that you made so little of that voyage, but is this the season of unrewarded merit? one should blush to be preferred within the same year. do but think that calcraft is to be an irish lord! fox's millions, or calcraft's tythes of millions, cannot purchase a grain of your virtue or character. adieu! ( ) in september , lady waldegrave became the wife of his royal highness william henry duke of gloucester; by whom she was mother of prince william and of the princess sophia of gloucester.-e. ( ) married to a sister of lady waldegrave. ( ) lord waldegrave had been governor of george the third.-e. ( ) samuel martin, esq. member for camelford, one of the joint secretaries of the treasury, named to succeed walpole as usher of receipts of the exchequer, comptroller of the great roll, and keeper of the foreign receipts.-e. ( ) the earl of northumberland was gazetted on the th of april lord-lieutenant of ireland, and on the th of may the marquis of granby was appointed master of the ordnance.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) i have two letters from you, and shall take care to execute the commission in the second. the first diverted me much. . i brought my poor niece from strawberry on monday. as executrix, her presence was quite necessary, and she has never refused to do any thing reasonable that has been desired of her. but the house and the business have shocked her terribly; she still eats nothing, sleeps worse than she did, and looks dreadfully; i begin to think she will miscarry. she said to me t'other day, "they tell me that if my lord had lived, he might have done great service to his country at this juncture, by the respect all parties had for him. this is very fine; but as he did not live to do those services, it will never be mentioned in history!" i thought this solicitude for his honour charming. but he will be known by history; he has left a small volume of memoirs, that are a chef-d'oeuvre.( ) he twice showed them to me, but i kept his secret faithfully; now it is for his glory to divulge it. i and glad you are going to dr. lewis after an irish voyage i do not wonder you want careening. i have often preached to you--nay, and lived to you too; but my sermons were flung away and my example. this ridiculous administration is patched up for the present; the detail is delightful, but that i shall reserve for strawberry-tide. lord bath has complained to fanshaw of lord pulteney's( ) extravagance, and added, "if he had lived he would have spent my whole estate." this almost comes up to sir robert brown, who, when his eldest daughter was given over, but still alive, on that uncertainty sent for an undertaker, and bargained for her funeral in hopes of having it cheaper, as it was possible she might recover. lord bath has purchased the hatton vault in westminster-abbey, squeezed his wife, son, and daughter into it, reserved room for himself, and has set the rest to sale. come; all this is not far short of sir robert brown. to my great satisfaction, the new lord holland has not taken the least friendly, or even formal notice of me, on lord waldegrave's death. it dispenses me from the least farther connexion with him, and saves explanations, which always entertain the world more than satisfy. dr. cumberland is an irish bishop; i hope before the summer is over that some beam from your cousin's portion of the triumvirate may light on poor bentley. if he wishes it till next winter, he will be forced to try still new sunshine. i have taken mrs. pritchard's house for lady waldegrave; i offered her to live with me at strawberry, but with her usual good sense she declined it, as she thought the children would be troublesome. charles townshend's episode in this revolution passes belief, though he does not tell it himself. if i had a son born, and an old fairy were to appear and offer to endow him with her choicest gifts, i should cry out, "powerful goody, give him any thing but parts!"( ) adieu! ( ) "the memoirs, from to , by james earl waldegrave," which were published in , in a small quarto volume.-e. ( ) son of the earl of bath. he was a lord of the bedchamber and member for westminster. he died on the th of february.-e. ( ) lord barrington, in a letter to mr. mitchell of the th of april, says,--"charles townshend accepted the admiralty on thursday, and went to kiss hands the next day; but he brought peter burrell with him to court, and insisted he likewise should be one of the board. being told that lords howe and digby were to fill up the vacant seats at the admiralty, he declined accepting the office destined for him, and the next day received a dismission from the king's service."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) i feel happy at hearing your happiness; but, my dear harry, your vision is much indebted to your long absence, which makes bleak rocks and barren mountains smile. i mean no offence to park-place, but the bitterness of the weather makes me wonder how you can find the country tolerable now. this is a may-day for the latitude of siberia! the milkmaids should be wrapped in @the motherly comforts of a swanskin petticoat. in short, such hard words have passed between me and the north wind to-day, that, according to the language of the times, i was very near abusing it for coming from scotland, and to imputing it to lord bute. i don't know whether i should not have written a north briton against it, if the printers were not all sent to newgate, and mr. wilkes to the tower--ay, to the tower, tout de bon.( ) the new ministry are trying to make up for their ridiculous insignificance by a coup d'`eclat. as i came hither yesterday, i do not know whether the particulars i have heard are genuine--but in the tower he certainly is, taken up by lord halifax's warrant for treason; vide the north briton of saturday was se'nnight. it is said he refused to obey the warrant, of which he asked and got a copy from the two messengers, telling them he did not mean to make his escape, but sending to demand his habeas corpus, which was refused. he then went to lord halifax, and thence to the tower; declaring they should get nothing out of him but what they knew. all his papers have been seize(]. lord chief justice pratt, i am told, finds great fault with the wording of the warrant. i don't know how to execute your commission for books of architecture, nor care to put you to expense, which i know will not answer. i have been consulting my neighbour young mr. thomas pitt,( ) my present architect: we have all books of that sort here, but, cannot think of one which will help you to a cottage or a green-house. for the former you should send me your idea, your dimensions; for the latter, don't you rebuild your old one, though in another place? a pretty greenhouse i never saw; nor without immoderate expense can it well be an agreeable object. mr. pitt thinks a mere portico without a pediment, and windows retrievable in summer, would be the best plan you could have. if so, don't you remember something of that kind, which you liked at sir charles cotterel's at rousham? but a fine greenhouse must be on a more exalted plan. in short.. you must be more particular, before i can be at all so. i called at hammersmith yesterday about lady ailesbury's tubs; one of them is nearly finished, but they will not both be completed these ten days. shall they be sent to you by water? good night to her ladyship and you, and the infanta,( ) whose progress in waxen statuary i hope advances so fast, that by next winter she may rival rackstrow's old man. do you know that, though apprised of what i was going to see, it deceived me, and made such impression on my mind, that, thinking on it as i came home in my chariot. and seeing a woman steadfastly at work in a window in pall-mall, it made me start to see her move. adieu! arlington street, monday night. the mighty commitment set out with a blunder; the warrant directed the printer, and all concerned (unnamed) to be taken up. consequently wilkes had his habeas corpus of course, and was committed again; moved for another in the common pleas, and is to appear there to-morrow morning. lord temple, by another strain of power refused admittance to him, said, "i thought this was the tower, but find it the bastille." they found among wilkes's papers an unpublished north briton. designed for it contains advice to the king not to go to st. paul's for the thanksgiving, but to have a snug one in his own chapel; and to let lord george sackville carry the sword. there was a dialogue in it too between fox and calcraft: the former says to the latter, "i did not think you would have served me so, jemmy twitcher." ( ) for his strictures in the north briton, no. , on the king's speech at the close of the session.-e. ( ) afterwards created lord camelford. ( ) anne seymour conway. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, may , . _page ) sir, i forebore to answer your letter for a few days, till i knew whether it was in my power to give you satisfaction. upon inquiry, and having conversed with some who could inform me, i find it would be very difficult to obtain so peremptory an order for dismissing fictitious invalids (as i think they may properly be called), as you seem to think the state of the case requires; by any interposition of mine, quite impossible. very difficult i am told it would be to get them dismissed from our hospitals when once admitted, and subject to a clamour which, in the present unsettled state of government, nobody would care to risk. indeed i believe it could not be done by any single authority. the power of admission, and consequently of dismission, does not depend on the minister, but on the board who direct the affairs of the hospital, at which board preside the paymaster,, secretary at war, governor, etc.; if i am not quite exact, i know it is so in general. i am advised to tell you, sir, that if upon examination it should be thought right to take the step you counsel, still it could not be done without previous and deliberate discussion. as i should grudge no trouble, and am very desirous of executing any commission, sir, you will honour me with, if you will draw up a memorial in form, stating the abuses which have come to your ]knowledge, the advantages which would result to the community by more rigorous examination of candidates for admission, and the uses to which the overflowings of the military might be put, i will engage to put it into the hands of mr. grenville, the present head of the treasury, and to employ all the little credit he is so good to let me have with him, in backing your request. i can answer for one thing and no more, that as long as he sits at that board, which probably will not be long, he will give all due attention to any scheme of national utility. it is seldom, sir, that political revolutions bring any man upon the stage, with whom i have much connexion. the great actors are not the class whom i much cultivate; consequently i am neither elated with hopes on their advancement, nor mortified nor rejoiced at their fall. as the scene has shifted often of late, and is far from promising duration at present, one must, if one lives in the great world, have now and then an acquaintance concerned in the drama. whenever i happen to have one, i hope i am ready and glad to make use of such (however unsubstantial) interest to do good or to oblige; ind this being the case at present, and truly i cannot call mr. grenville much more than an acquaintance, i shall be happy, sir, if i can contribute to your views, which i have reason to believe are those of a benevolent man and good citizen; but i advertise you truly, that my interest depends more on mr. grenville's goodness and civility, than on any great connexion between us, and still less on any political connexion. i think he would like to do public good, i know i should like to contribute to it-but if it is to be done by this channel, i apprehend there is not much time to be lost--you see, what i think of the permanence of the present system! your ideas, sir, on the hard fate of our brave soldiers concur with mine; i lamented their sufferings, and have tried in vain to suggest some little plans for their relief. i only mention this, to prove to you that i am not indifferent to the subject, nor undertake your commission from mere complaisance. you understand the matter better than i do, but you cannot engage in it with more zeal. methodize, if you please, your plan, and communicate it to me, and it shall not be lost for want of solicitation. we swarm with highwaymen, who have been heroes. we owe our safety to them, consequently we owe a return of preservation to them, if we can find out methods of employing them honestly. extend your views, sir, for them, and let me -be@solicitor to the cause. ( ) now first collected. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, may , very late, . (page ) the complexion of the times is a little altered since the beginning of this last winter. prerogation, that gave itself such airs in november, and would speak to nothing but a tory, has had a rap this morning that will do it some good, unless it is weak enough to do itself more harm. the judges of the common pleas have unanimously dismissed wilkes from his imprisonment,( ) as a breach of privilege; his offence not being a breach of peace, only tending to it. the people are in transports; and it will require all the vanity and confidence of those able ministers, lord sandwich and mr. c * * * to keep up the spirits of the court. i must change this tone, to tell you of the most dismal calamity that ever happened. lady molesworth's house, in upper brook- street was burned to the ground between four and five this morning. she herself, two of her daughters, her brother,( ) and six servants perished. two other of the young ladies jumped out of the two pair of stairs and garret windows: one broke her thigh, the other (the eldest of all) broke hers too, and has had it cut off. the fifth daughter is much burnt. the french governess leaped from the garret, and was dashed to pieces. dr. molesworth and his wife, who were there on a visit, escaped; the wife by jumping from the two pair of stairs, and saving herself by a rail; he by hanging by his hands, till a second ladder was brought, after a first had proved too short. nobody knows how or where the fire began; the catastrophe is shocking beyond what one ever heard: and poor lady molesworth whose character and conduct were the most amiable in the world, is universally lamented. your good hearts will feel this in the most lively manner.( ) i go early to strawberry to-morrow, giving up the new opera, madame de boufflers, and mr. wilkes, and all the present topics. wilkes, whose case has taken its place by the side of the seven bishops, calls himself the eighth--not quite improperly, when one remembers that sir jonathan trelawney, who swore like a trooper, was one of those confessors. there is a good letter in the gazetteer on the other side, pretending to be written by lord temple, and advising wilkes to cut his throat, like lord e * * * as it would be of infinite service to their cause. there are published, too, three volumes of lady mary wortley's letters, which i believe are genuine, and are not unentertaining. but have you read tom hervey's letter to the late king? that beats every thing for madness, horrid indecency, and folly, and yet has some charming and striking passages. i have advised mrs. harris to inform against jack, as writing in the north briton; he will then be shut up in the tower, and may be shown for old nero.( ) adieu! ( ) wilkes was discharged on the th of may, by lord chief justice pratt, who decided that he was entitled to plead his privilege as a member of parliament; the crime of which he was accused, namely, a libel, being in the eyes of the law only a high misdemeanour, whereas the only three cases which could affect the privilege of a member of parliament were treason, felony, and breach of the peace.-e. ( ) captain usher. lady molesworth was daughter of the rev. w. usher, archdeacon of clonfret, and second wife of richard third viscount molesworth, who was aide-de-camp to the duke of marlborough at the battle of ramilies, and saved his grace's life in that engagement.-e. ( ) the king upon hearing of this calamity, immediately sent the young ladies a handsome present; ordered a house to be taken and furnished for them at his expense; and not only continued the pension settled on the mother, but ordered it to be increased two hundred pounds per annum. ( ) an old lion there, so called. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) dear sir, i promised you should hear from me if i did not go abroad, and i flatter myself that you will not be sorry to know that i am much better in health than i was at the beginning of the winter. my journey is quite laid aside, at least for this year; though as lord hertford goes ambassador to paris, i propose to make him a visit there next spring. as i shall be a good deal here this summer, i hope you did not take a surfeit of strawberry hill, but will bestow a visit on it while its beauty lasts; the gallery advances fast now, and i think in a few weeks will make a figure worth your looking at. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) "on vient de nous donner une tr`es jolie f`ete au ch`ateau de straberri: tout etoit tapiss`e de narcisses, de tulipes, et de lilacs; des cors de chasse, des clarionettes; des petits vers galants faits par des f`ees, et qui se trouvoient sous la presse; des fruits `a la glace, du th`e, du caff`e, des biscuits, et force hot-rolls."--this is not the beginning of a letter to you, but of one that i might suppose sets out to-night for paris, or rather, which i do not suppose will set out thither: for though the narrative is circumstantially true, i don't believe the actors were pleased enough with the scene, to give so favourable an account of it. the french do not come hither to see. a l'anglaise happened to be the word in fashion; and half a dozen of the most fashionable people have been the dupes of it. i take for granted that their next mode will be `a l'iroquaise, that they may be under no obligation of realizing their pretensions. madame de boufflers( ) i think will die a martyr to a taste, which she fancied she had, and finds she has not. never having stirred ten miles from paris, and having only rolled in an easy coach from one hotel to another on a gliding pavement, she is already worn out with being hurried from morning till night from one sight to another. she rises every morning so fatigued with the toils of the preceding day, that she has not strength, if she had inclination, to observe the least, or the finest thing she sees! she came hither to-day to a great breakfast i made for her, with her eyes a foot deep in her head, her hands dangling, and scarce able to support her knitting-bag. she had been yesterday to see a ship launched, and went from greenwich by water to ranelagh. madame dusson, who is dutch-built, and whose muscles are pleasure-proof, came with her; there were besides, lady mary coke, lord and lady holderness, the duke and duchess of grafton, lord hertford, lord villiers, offley, messieurs de fleury, d'eon,( ) et duclos. the latter is author of the life of louis onze;( ) dresses like a dissenting minister, which i suppose is the livery of le bel esprit, and is much more impetuous than agreeable. we breakfasted in the great parlour, and i had filled the hall and large cloister by turns with french horns and clarionettes. as the french ladies had never seen a printing-house, i carried them into mine; they found something ready set, and desiring to see what it was, it proved as follows:-- the press speaks: for madame de boufflers-- the graceful fair, who loves to know, nor dreads the north's inclement snow: who bids her polish'd accent wear the british diction's harsher air; shall read her praise in every clime where types can speak or poets rhyme for madame: dusson. feign not an ignorance of what i speak you could not miss my meaning were it greek: 'tis the same language belgium utter'd first, the same which from admiring gallia burst. true sentiment a like expression pours; each country says the same to eyes like yours. you will comprehend that the first speaks english, and that the second does not; that the second is handsome, and the first not; and that the second was born in holland. this little gentilesse pleased, and atoned for the popery of my house, which was not serious enough for madame de boufflers, who is montmorency, et du sang du premier chritien; and too serious for madame dusson, who is a dutch calvinist. the latter's husband was not here, nor drumgold,( ) who have both got fevers, nor the duc de nivernois, who dined at claremont. the gallery is not advanced enough to give them any idea at all, as they are not apt to go out of their way for one; but the cabinet, and the glory of yellow glass at top, which had a charming sun for a foil, did surmount their indifference, especially as they were animated by the duchess of grafton, who had never happened to be here before, and who perfectly entered into the air of enchantment and fairyism, which is the tone of the place, and was peculiarly so to-day--a-propos, when do you design to come hither? let me know, that i may have no measures to interfere with receiving you and your grandsons. before lord bute ran away, he made mr. bentley a commissioner of the lottery; i don't know whether a single or double one: the latter, which i hope it is, is two hundred a-year. thursday, th. i am ashamed of myself to have nothing but a journal of pleasures to send you; i never passed a more agreeable day than yesterday. miss pelham gave the french an entertainment at esher; but they have been so feasted and amused, that none of them were well enough, or reposed enough. to come, but nivernois and madame dusson. the rest of the company were, the graftons, lady rockingham, lord and lady pembroke, lord and lady holderness, lord villiers, count worotizow the russian minister, lady sondes, mr. and miss mary pelham, lady mary coke, mrs. anne pitt, and mr. shelley. the day was delightful, the scene transporting; the trees, lawns, concaves, all in the perfection in which the ghost of kent would joy to see them. at twelve we made the tour of the farm in chaises, and calashes, horsemen, and footmen, setting out like a picture of wouverman's. my lot fell in the lap of mrs. anne pitt,( ) which i could have excused, as she was not at all in the style of the day, romantic, but political. we had a magnificent dinner, cloaked in the modesty of earthenware; french horns and hautboys on the lawn. we walked to the belvidere on the summit of the hill, where a theatrical storm only served to heighten the beauty of the landscape, a rainbow on a dark cloud falling precisely behind the tower of a neighbouring church, between another tower and the building at claremont. monsieur de nivernois, who had been absorbed all day, and lagging behind, translating my verses, was delivered of bis version, and of some more lines which he wrote on miss pelham in the belvedere, while we drank tea and coffee. from thence we passed into the wood, and the ladies formed a circle on chairs before the mouth of the cave, which was overhung to a vast height with the woodbines, lilacs, and liburnums, and dignified by the tall shapely cypresses. on the descent of the hill were placed the french horns; the abigails, servants, and neighbours wandering below the river; in short, it was parnassus, as watteau would have painted it. here we had a rural syllabub, and part of the company returned to town; but were replaced by giardini and onofrio, who, with nivernois on he violin, an lord pembroke on the bass, accompanied mrs. pelham, lady rockingham, and the duchess of grafton, who sang. this little concert lasted till past ten; then there were minuets, and as we had seven couple left, it concluded with a country dance. i blush again, for i danced, but was kept in countenance by nivernois, who has one wrinkle more than i have. a quarter after twelve they sat down to supper, and i came home by a charming moonlight. i am going to dine in town, and to a great ball with fireworks at miss chudleigh's, but i return hither on sunday, to bid adieu to this abominable arcadian life; for really when one is not young, one ought to do nothing but s'ennuyer; i will try, but i always go about it awkwardly. adieu! p. s. i enclose a copy of both the english and french verses. a madame de boufflrlrs. boufflers, qu'embellissent les graces, et qui plairot sans le vouloir, elle `a qui l'amour du s`cavoir fit braver le nord et les glaces; boufflers se plait en nos vergers, et veut `a nos sons `etrangers plier sa voix enchanteresse. r`ep`etons son nom mille fois, sur tons les coeurs bourflers aura des droits, par tout o`u la rime et la presse `a l'amour pr`eteront leur voix. a madame dusson. ne feignez point, iris, de ne pas nous entendre cc que vous inspirez, en grec doit se comprendre. on vous l'a dit d'abord en hollandois, et dans on langage plus tendre paris vous l'a repet`e mille fois. c'est de nos coeurs l'expression sinc`ere; en tout climat, iris, & toute heure, en tous lieux, par tout o`u brilleront vos yeux, vous apprendrez combien ils s`cavent plaire. ( ) la comtesse de boufflers, a lady of some literary pretensions, and celebrated as the intimate friend of the prince de conti, to whom she is said to have been united by a marriage de la main gauche. during her stay in england she paid a visit to dr. johnson, of which mr. beauclerk gave the following account to boswell:--"when madame de boufflers was first in england, she was desirous to see johnson; i accordingly went with her to his chambers in the temple, where she was entertained with his conversation for some time. when our visit was over, she and i left him, and were got into inner-temple-lane, when all at once i heard a voice like thunder. this was occasioned by johnson, who, it seem,;, upon a little reflection, had taken it into his head that he ought to have done the honours of his literary residence to a foreign lady of quality, and, eager to show himself a man of gallantry, was hurrying down the staircase in violent agitation. he overtook us before we reached the temple gate, and brushing in between me and madame de boufflers, seized her hand and conducted her to her coach. his dress was a rusty-brown morning suit, a pair of old shoes by way of slippers, a little shrivelled wig sticking on the top of his head, and the sleeves of his shirt and the knees of his breeches hanging loose. a considerable crowd of people gathered round, and were not a little struck by this singular appearance."-e. ( ) the chevalier d'eon, secretary to the duke de nivernois, the french ambassador, and, upon the duke's return to france, appointed minister plenipotentiary. on the comte de guerchy being some time afterwards nominated ambassador, the chevalier was ordered to resume his secretaryship; at which he was so much mortified that he libelled the comte, for which he was indicted and found guilty in the court of king's bench, in july . for a further account of this extraordinary personage, see post, letter to lord hertford, of the th of november.-e. ( ) duclos's history of louis xi. appeared in . he was also the author of several ingenious novels, and had a large share in the dictionary of the academy. after his death, which took place in , his secret memoirs of the courts of louis xiv. and louis xv. appeared. rousseau describes him as a man "droit et adroit;" and d'alembert said of him, "de tons les hommes que je connais, c'est lui qui a le plus d'esprit dans un temps donn`e."-e. ( ) secretary to the duc de nivernois. ( ) sister of lord chatham, whom she strikingly resembled in features as well as in talent. she was remarkable, even to old age, for decision of character and sprightliness of conversation. she died in .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, may , . (page ) you have now seen the celebrated madame de boufflers. i dare say you could in that short time perceive that she is agreeable, but i dare say too that you will agree with me that vivacity is by no means the partage of the french--bating the `etourderie of the mousquetaires and of a high-dried petit-maitre or two, they appear to me more lifeless than germans. i cannot comprehend how they came by the character of a lively people. charles townshend has more sal volatile in him than the whole nation. their king is taciturnity itself, mirepoix was a walking mummy, nivernois his about as much life as a sick favourite child, and m. dusson is a good-humoured country gentleman, who has been drunk the day before, and is upon his good behaviour. if i have the gout next year, and am thoroughly humbled by it again, i will go to paris, that i may be upon a level with them: at present, i am trop fou to keep them company. mind, i do not insist that, to have spirits, a nation should be as frantic as poor fanny pelham, as absurd as the duchess of queensbury, or as dashing as the virgin chudleigh. oh, that you had been' at her ball t'other night! history could never describe it and keep its countenance. the queen's real birthday, you know, is not kept: this maid of honour kept it--nay, while the court is in mourning, expected people to be out of mourning; the queen's family really was so, lady northumberland having desired leave for them. a scaffold was erected in hyde-park for fireworks. to show the illuminations without to more advantage, the company were received in an apartment totally dark, where they remained for two hours. if they gave rise to any more birthdays, who could help it? the fireworks were fine, and succeeded well. on each side of the court were two large scaffolds for the virgin's tradespeople. when the fireworks ceased, a large scene was lighted in the court, representing their majesties; on each side of which were six obelisks, painted with emblems, and illuminated; mottoes beneath in latin and english: . for the prince of wales, a ship, mullorum spes. . for the princess dowager, a bird of paradise, and two little ones, meos ad sidera tollo. people smiled. . duke of york, a temple, virtuti et honori. . princess augusta, a bird of paradise, non habet paren--unluckily this was translated, i have no peer. people laughed out, considering where this was exhibited. . the three younger princes, an orange tree, promiiuit et dat. . the younger princesses, the flower crown-imperial. i forget the latin: the translation was silly enough, bashful in youth, graceful in age. the lady of the house made many apologies for the poorness of the performance, which she said was only oil-paper, painted by one of her servants; but it really was fine and pretty. the duke of kingston was in a frock coat come chez lui. behind the house was a cenotaph for the princess elizabeth, a kind of illuminated cradle; the motto, all the honours the dead can receive. this burying-ground was a strange codicil to a festival, and, what was more strange, about one in the morning, this sarcophagus burst out into crackers and guns. the margrave of anspach began the ball with the virgin. the supper was most sumptuous. you ask, when i propose to be at park-place. i ask, shall not you come to the duke of richmond's masquerade, which is the th of june? i cannot well be with you till towards the end of that month. the enclosed is a letter which i wish you to read attentively, to give me your opinion upon it, and return it. it is from a sensible friend of mine in scotland,( ) who has lately corresponded with me on the enclosed subjects, which i little understand; but i promised to communicate his ideas to george grenville, if he would state them-are they practicable? i wish much that something could be done for those brave soldiers and sailors, who will all come to the gallows, unless some timely provision can be made for them. the former part of his letter relates to a grievance he complains of, that men who have not served are admitted into garrisons, and then into our hospitals, which were designed for meritorious sufferers. adieu! ( ) sir david dalrymple. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, saturday evening. (may , .] (page ) no, indeed, i cannot consent to your being a dirty philander.( ) pink and white, and white and pink and both as greasy as if you had gnawed a leg of a fowl on the stairs of the haymarket with a bunter from the cardigan's head! for heaven's sake don't produce a tight rose-coloured thigh, unless you intend to prevent my lord bute's return from harrowgate. write, the moment you receive this, to your tailor to get you a sober purple domino as i have done, and it will make you a couple of summer-waistcoats. in the next place, have your ideas a little more correct about us of times past. we did not furnish ou cottages with chairs of ten guineas apiece. ebony for a farmhouse!( ) so, two hundred years hence some man of taste will build a hamlet in the style of george the third, and beg his cousin tom hearne to get him some chairs for it of mahogany gilt, and covered with blue damask. adieu! i have not a minute's time more. ( ) at the masquerade given by the duke of richmond on the th of june at his house in privy-garden. ( ) mr. conway was at this time fitting up a little building at park-place, called the cottage, for which he had consulted mr. walpole on the propriety of ebony chairs. letter to george montagu, esq. huntingdon, may , . (page ) as you interest yourself about kimbolton, i begin my journal of two days here. but i must set out with owning, that i believe i am the first man that ever went sixty miles to an auction. as i came for ebony, i have been up to my chin in ebony; there is literally nothing but ebony in the house; all the other goods. if there were any, and i trust my lady convers did not sleep upon ebony mattresses, are taken away. there are two tables and eighteen chairs, all made by the hallet of two hundred years ago. these i intend to have; for mind, the auction does not begin till thursday. there are more plebeian chairs of the same materials, but i have left commission for only the true black blood. thence i went to kimbolton,( ) and asked to see the house. a kind footman, who in his zeal to open the chaise pinched half my finger off, said he would call the housekeeper: but a groom of the chambers insisted on my visiting their graces; and as i vowed i did not know them, he said they were in the great apartment, that all the rest was in disorder and altering, and would let me see nothing. this was the reward of my first lie. i returned to my inn or alehouse, and instantly received a message from the duke to invite me to the castle. i was quite undressed, and dirty with my journey, and unacquainted with the duchess--yet was forced to go--thank the god of dust, his grace was dirtier than me. he was extremely civil, and detected me to the groom of the chambers--asked me if i had dined. i said yes--lie the second. he pressed me to take a bed there. i hate to be criticised at a formal supper by a circle of stranger-footmen, and protested i was to meet a gentleman at huntingdon to-night. the duchess and lady caroline( ) came in from walking; and to disguise my not having dined, for it was past six, i drank tea with them. the duchess is much altered, and has a bad short cough. i pity catherine of arragon( ) for living at kimbolton: i never saw an uglier spot. the fronts are not so bad as i expected, by not being so french as i expected; but have no pretensions to beauty, nor even to comely ancient ugliness. the great apartment is truly noble, and almost all the portraits good, of what i saw; for many are not hung up, and half of those that are, my lord duke does not know. the earl of warwick is delightful; the lady mandeville, attiring herself in her wedding garb, delicious. the prometheus is a glorious picture, the eagle as fine as my statue. is not it by vandyck? the duke told me that mr. spence found out it was by titian--but critics in poetry i see are none in painting. this was all i was shown, for i was not even carried into the chapel. the walls round the house are levelling, and i saw nothing without doors that tempted me to taste. so i made my bow, hurried to my inn, snapped up my dinner, lest i should again be detected, and came hither, where i am writing by a great fire, and give up my friend the east wind, which i have long been partial to for the southeast's sake, and in contradiction to the west, for blowing perpetually and bending all one's plantations. to-morrow i see hinchinbrook( )--and london. memento, i promised the duke that you should come and write on all his portraits. do, as you honour the blood of montagu! who is the man in the picture with sir charles goring, where a page is tying the latter's scarf? and who are the ladies in the double half-lengths? arlington street, may . well! i saw hinchinbrook this morning. considering it is in huntingdonshire, the situation is not so ugly nor melancholy as i expected; but i do not conceive what provoked so many of your ancestors to pitch their tents in that triste country, unless the capulets( ) loved fine prospects. the house of hinchinbrook is most comfortable, and just what i like; old, spacious, irregular, yet not vast or forlorn. i believe much has been done since you saw it--it now only wants an apartment, for in no part of it are there above two chambers together. the furniture has much simplicity, not to say too much; some portraits tolerable, none i think fine. when this lord gave blackwood the head of the admiral' that i have now, he left himself not one so good. the head he kept is very bad: the whole-length is fine, except the face of it. there is another of the duke of cumberland by reynolds, the colours of which are as much changed as the original is to the proprietor. the garden is wondrous small, the park almost smaller, and no appearance of territory. the whole has a quiet decency that seems adapted to the admiral after his retirement, or to cromwell before his exaltation. i returned time enough for the opera; observing all the way i came the proof of the duration of this east wind, for on the west side the blossoms were so covered with dust one could not distinguish them; on the eastern hand the hedges were white in all the pride of may. good night! wednesday, june . my letter is a perfect diary. there has been a sad alarm in the kingdom of white satin and muslin. the duke of richmond was seized last night with a sore throat and fever; and though he is much better to-day, the masquerade of to-morrow night is put off till monday. many a queen of scots, from sixty to sixteen, has been ready to die of the fright. adieu once more! i think i can have nothing more to say before the post goes out to-morrow. ( ) the seat of the duke of manchester.-e. ( ) sister of the duke of manchester.-e. ( ) queen catherine of arragon, after her divorce from henry the eighth, resided some time in this castle, and died there in .-e. ( ) the seat of the earl of sandwich.-e. ( ) as opposing in every thing the montagus. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i do not like your putting off your visit hither for so long. indeed, by september the gallery will probably have all its fine clothes on, and by what have been tried, i think it will look very well. the fashion of the garments to be sure will be ancient, but i have given them an air that is very becoming. princess amelia was here last night while i was abroad; and if margaret is not too much prejudiced by the guinea left, or by natural partiality to what servants call our house, i think was pleased, particularly with the chapel. as mountain-george will not come to mahomet-me, mahomet-i must come to greatworth. mr. chute and i think of visiting you about the seventeenth of july, if you shall be at home, and nothing happens to derange our scheme; possibly we may call at horton; we certainly shall proceed to drayton, burleigh, fotheringay, peterborough, and ely; and shall like much of your company, all, or part of the tour. the only present proviso i have to make is the health of my niece who is at present much out of order, we think not breeding, and who was taken so ill on monday, that i was forced to carry her suddenly to town, where i yesterday left her better at her father's. there has been a report that the new lord holland was dead at paris, but i believe it is not true. i was very indifferent about it: eight months ago it had been lucky. i saw his jackall t'other night in the meadows, the secretary at war,( ) so emptily-important and distilling paragraphs of old news with such solemnity, that i did not know whether it was a man or the utrecht gazette. ( ) admiral montagu, first earl of sandwich; by sir peter lely. in early life he was distinguished as a military commander under the parliamentary banner, and subsequently joint high-admiral of england; in which capacity, having had sufficient influence to induce the whole fleet to acknowledge the restored monarchy, he received the peerage as his reward. having attained the highest renown as a naval officer, he fell in the great sea-fight with the dutch, off southwold-bay, on the th of may, . evelyn, in his diary of the st, gives the following high character of the earl:--"deplorable was the loss of that incomparable person, and my particular friend. he was learned in sea affairs, in politics, in mathematics, and in music: he had been on divers embassies, was of a sweet and obliging temper, sober, chaste, very ingenious, a true nobleman and ornament to the court and his prince; nor has he left any behind him who approach his many virtues."-e. ( ) welbore ellis, esq. afterwards lord mendip.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) mr. chute and i intend to be with you on the seventeenth or eighteenth; but as we are wandering swains, we do not drive one nail into one day of the almanack irremovably. our first stage is to bleckley, the parsonage of venerable cole, the antiquarian of cambridge. bleckley lies by fenny stratford; now can you direct us how to make horton( ) in our way from stratford to greatworth? if this meander engrosses more time than we propose, do not be disappointed, and think we shall not come, for we shall. the journey you must accept as a great sacrifice either to you or to my promise, for i quit the gallery almost in the critical minute of consummation. gilders, carvers, upholsterers, and picture-cleaners are labouring at their several forges, and i do not love to trust a hammer or a brush without my own supervision. this will make my stay very short, but it is a greater compliment than a month would be at another season and yet i am not profuse of months. well, but i begin to be ashamed of my magnificence; strawberry is growing sumptuous in its latter day; it will scarce be any longer like the fruit of its name, or the modesty of its ancient demeanour, both which seem to have been in spencer's prophetic eye when he sung of "the blushing strawberries which lurk, close-shrouded from high-looking eyes, showing that sweetness low and hidden lies." in truth, my collection was too great already to be lodged humbly; it has extended my walls, and pomp followed. it was a neat, small house; it now will be a comfortable one, and except for one fine apartment, does not deviate from its simplicity. adieu! i know nothing about the world, and am only strawberry's and yours, sincerely. ( ) the seat of the earl of halifax. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, july , . (page ) perhaps, sir, you have wondered that i have been so long silent about a scheme,( ) that called for despatch. the truth is i have had no success. your whole plan has been communicated to mr. grenville by one whose heart went with it, going always with what is humane. mr. grenville mentions two objections; one, insuperable as to expedition; the other, totally so. no crown or public lands could be so disposed of without an act of parliament. in that case the scheme should be digested during a war, to take place at the conclusion, and cannot be adjusted in time for receiving the disbanded. but what is worse, he hints, sir, that your good heart has only considered the practicability with regard to scotland, where there are no poor's rates. here every parish would object to such settlers. this is the sum of his reply; i am not master enough of the subject or the nature of it, as to answer either difficulty. if you can, sir, i am ready to continue the intermediate negotiator; but you must furnish me with answers to these obstacles, before i could hope to make any way even with any private person. in truth, i am little versed in the subject; which i own, not to excuse myself from pursuing it if it can be made feasible, but to prompt you, sir, to instruct me. except at this place, which cannot be called the country, i have scarce ever lived in the country, and am shamefully ignorant of the police and domestic laws of my own country. zeal to do any good, i have; but i want to be tutored when the operation is at all complicated. your knowledge, sir, may supply my deficiencies; at least you are sure of a solicitor for your good intentions, in your, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) dear sir, as you have given me leave, i propose to pass a day with you, on my way to mr. montagu's. if you have no engagement, i will be with you on the th of this month, and if it is not inconvenient, and you will tell me truly whether it is or not, i shall bring my friend mr. chute with me, who is destined to the same place. i will beg you too to let me know how far it is to bleckley, and what road i must take: that is, how far from london, or how far from twickenham, and the road from each, as i am uncertain yet from which i shall set out. if any part of this proposal does not suit you, i trust you will own it, and i will take some other opportunity of calling on you, being most truly, dear sir, etc. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) dear sir, upon consulting maps and the knowing, i find it will be my best way to call on mr. montagu first, before i come to you, or i must go the same road twice. this will make it a few days later than i intended before i wait on you, and will leave you time to complete your hay-harvest, as i gladly embrace your offer of bearing me company on the tour i meditate to burleigh, drayton, peterborough, ely, and twenty other places, of all which you shall take as much or as little as you please. it will, i think, be wednesday or thursday se'nnight, before i wait on you, that is the th or st, and i fear i shall come alone; for mr. chute is confined with the gout: but you shall hear again before i set out. remember i am to see sir kenelm digby's. i thank you much for your informations. the countess of cumberland is an acquisition, and quite new to me. with the countess of kent i am acquainted since my last edition. addison certainly changed sides in the epitaph to indicabit to avoid the jingle with dies: though it is possible that the thought may have been borrowed elsewhere. adieu, sir! to the rev. mr. cole. dear sir, wednesday is the day i propose waiting on you; what time of it the lord and the roads know; so don't wait for me any part of it. if i should be violently pressed to stay a day longer at mr. montagu's i hope it will be no disappointment to you: but i love to be uncertain, rather than make myself expected and fail. letter to george montagu, esq. stamford, saturday night, july , . (page ) "thus far arms have with success been crowned," bating a few mishaps, which will attend long marches like ours. we have conquered as many towns as louis quatorze in the campaign of seventy-two; that is, seen them, for he did little more, and into the bargain he had much better roads, and a dryer summer. it has rained perpetually till to-day, and made us experience the rich soil of northamptonshire, which is a clay-pudding stuck full of villages. after we parted with you on thursday, we saw castle ashby( ) and easton mauduit.( ) the first is most magnificently triste, and has all the formality of the comptons. i should admire 'it if i could see out of it, or any thing in it, but there is scarce any furniture, and the bad little frames of glass exclude all objects. easton is miserable enough; there are many modern portraits, and one i was glad to see of the duchess of shrewsbury. we lay at wellingborough--pray never lie there-- the beastliest inn upon earth is there! we were carried into a vast bedchamber, which i suppose is the club-room, for it stunk of tobacco like a justice of peace. i desired some boiling water for tea; they brought me a sugar dish of hot water in a pewter plate. yesterday morning we went to boughton,( ) where we were scarce landed, before the cardigans, in a coach and six and three chaises, arrived with a cold dinner in their pockets, on their way to deane; for as it is in dispute, they never reside at boughton. this was most unlucky, that we should pitch on the only hour in the year in which they are there. i was so disconcerted, and so afraid, of falling foul of the countess and her caprices, that i hurried from chamber to chamber, and scarce knew what i saw, but that the house is in the grand old french style, that gods and goddesses lived over my head in every room, and that there was nothing but pedigrees all around me, and under my feet, for there is literally a coat of arms at the end of every step of the stairs: did the duke mean to pun, and intend this for the descent of the montagus? well! we hurried away and got to drayton an hour before dinner. oh! the dear old place! you would be transported with it. in the first place, it stands in as ugly a hole as boughton: well! that is not its beauty. the front is a brave strong castle wall, embattled and loopholed for defence. passing the great gate, you come to a sumptuous but narrow modern court, behind which rises the old mansion, all towers and turrets. the house is excellent; has a vast hall, ditto dining-room, king's chamber, trunk gallery at the top of the house, handsome chapel, and seven or eight distinct apartments, besides closets and conveniences without end. then it is covered with portraits, crammed with old china, furnished richly, and not a rag in it under forty, fifty, or a thousand years old; but not a bed or chair that has lost a tooth, or got a gray hair, so well are they preserved. i rummaged it from head to foot, examined every spangled bed, and enamelled pair of bellows, for such there are; in short, i do not believe the old mansion was ever better pleased with an inhabitant, since the days of walter de drayton, except when it has received its divine old mistress.( ) if one could honour her more than one did before, it would be to see with what religion she keeps up the old dwelling and customs, as well as old servants, who you may imagine do not love her less than other people do. the garden is just as sir john germain brought it from holland; pyramidal yews, treillages, and square cradle walks with windows clipped in them. nobody was there but mr. beauclerc( ) and lady catharine,( ) and two parsons: the two first suffered us to ransack and do as we would, and the two last assisted us, informed us, and carried us to every tomb in the neighbourhood. i have got every circumstance by heart, and was pleased beyond my expectation, both with the place and the comfortable way of seeing it. we stayed here till after dinner to-day, and saw fotheringhay in our way hither. the castle is totally ruined.( ) the mount, on which the keep stood, two door-cases, and a piece of the moat, are all the remains. near it is a front and two projections of an ancient house, which, by the arms about it, i suppose was part of the palace of richard and cicely, duke and duchess of york. there are two pretty tombs for them and their uncle duke of york in the church, erected by order of queen elizabeth. the church has been very fine, but is now intolerably shabby; yet many large saints remain in the windows, two entire, and all the heads well painted. you may imagine we were civil enough to the queen of scots, to feel a feel of pity for her, while we stood on the very spot where she was put to death; my companion,( ) i believe, who is a better royalist than i am, felt a little more. there, i have obeyed you. to-morrow we see burleigh and peterborough, and lie @t ely; on monday i hope to be in town, and on tuesday i hope much more to be in the gallery at strawberry hill, and to find the gilders laying on the last leaf of gold. good night! ( ) a seat of the earl of northampton. ( ) a seat of the earl of sussex. ( ) the seat of lord montagu. ( ) lady betty germain.-e. ( ) aubrey beauclerk, esq. member for thetford. he succeeded to the dukedom of st. albans, as fifth duke, in , and died in .-e. ( ) lady catharine ponsonby, daughter of the earl of desborough. ( ) james the first is said to have ordered it to be destroyed, in consequence of its having been the scene of the trial and execution of his mother, mary queen of scots, beheaded there in february .-e. ( ) mr. cole. letter to george montagu, esq. hockerill, monday night, july , vol. d. (page ) you must know we were drowned on saturday night. it rained, as it did at greatworth on wednesday, all night and all next morning, so we could not look even at the outside of burleigh; but we saw the inside pleasantly; for lord exeter, whom i had prepared for our intentions, came to us, and made every door and every lock fly open, even of his magazines, yet unranged. he is going through the house by decrees, furnishing a room every year, and has already made several most sumptuous. one is a little tired of carlo maratti and lucca jordano, yet still these are treasures. the china and japan are of the finest; miniatures in plenty, and a shrine full of crystal vases, filigree, enamel, jewels, and the trinkets of taste, that have belonged to many a noble dame. in return for his civilities, i made my lord exeter a present of a glorious cabinet, whose drawers and sides are all painted by rubens. this present you must know is his own, but he knew nothing of the hand or the value. just so i have given lady betty germain a very fine portrait, that i discovered ,at drayton in the woodhouse. i was not much pleased with peterborough; the front is adorable, but the inside has no more beauty than consists in vastness. by the way, i have a pen and ink that will not form a letter. we were now sent to huntingdon in our way to ely, as we found it impracticable, from the rains and floods, to cross the country thither. we landed in the heart of the assizes, and almost in the middle of the races, both which, to the astonishment of the virtuosi, we eagerly quitted this morning. we were hence sent south to cambridge, still on our way north to ely: but when we got to cambridge we were forced to abandon all thoughts of ely, there being nothing but lamentable stories of inundations and escapes. however, i made myself amends at the university, which i have not seen these four-and-twenty years, and which revived many youthful scenes, which, merely from their being youthful, are forty times pleasanter than any other ideas. you know i always long to live at oxford: i felt that i could like to live even at cambridge again. the colleges are much cleaned and improved since my days, and the trees and groves more venerable; but the town is tumbling about their ears. we surprised gray with our appearance, dined and drank tea with him, and are come hither within sight of land. i always find it worth my while to make journeys, for the joy i have in getting home again. a second adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) dear sir, you judge rightly, i am very indifferent about dr. shorton, since he is not dr. shorter. it has done nothing but rain since my return; whoever wants hay, must fish for it; it is all drowned, or swimming about the country. i am glad our tour gave you so much pleasure; you was so very obliging, as you have always been to me, that i should have been grieved not to have had it give you satisfaction. i hope your servant is quite recovered. the painters and gilders quit my gallery this week, but i have not got a chair or a table for it yet; however, i hope it will have all its clothes on by the time you have promised me a visit. letter to dr. ducarel. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) sir, i have been rambling about the country, or should not so long have deferred to answer the favour of your letter. i thank you for the notices in it, and have profited of them. i am much obliged to you too for the drawings you intended me; but i have since had a letter from mr. churchill, and he does not mention them. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) my gallery claims your promise; the painters and gilders finish to-morrow, and next day it washes its hands. you talked of the th; shall i expect you then, and the countess,( ) and the contessina,( ) and the baroness?( ) lord digby is to be married immediately to the pretty miss fielding; and mr. boothby, they say, to lady mary douglas. what more news i know i cannot send you; for i have had it from lady denbigh and lady blandford, who have so confounded names, genders, and circumstances, that i am not sure whether prince ferdinand is not going to be married to the hereditary prince. adieu! p. s. if you want to know more of me, you may read a whole column of abuse upon me in the public ledger of thursday last; where they inform me that the scotch cannot be so sensible @as the english, because they have not such good writers. alack! i am afraid the most sensible men in any country do not write. i had writ this last night. this morning i receive your paper of evasions, perfide que vous `etes! you may let it alone, you will never see any thing like my gallery--and then to ask me to leave it the instant it is finished! i never heard such a request in my days!--why, all the earth is begging to come to see it: as edging says, i have had offers enough from blue and green ribands to make me a falbala-apron. then i have just refused to let mrs. keppel and her bishop be in the house with me, because i expected all you--it is mighty well, mighty fine!-no, sir, no, i shall not come; nor am i in a humour to do any thing else you desire: indeed, without your provoking me, i should not have come into the proposal of paying giardini. we have been duped and cheated every winter for these twenty years by the undertakers of operas, and i never will pay a farthing more till the last moment, nor can be terrified at their puffs; i am astonished you are. so far from frightening me. the kindest thing they could do would be not to let one have a box to hear their old threadbare voices and frippery thefts; and as for giardini himself, i would not go cross the room to hear him play to eternity. i should think he could frighten nobody but lady bingley by a refusal. ( ) of ailesbury. ( ) miss anne seymour conway. ( ) elizabeth rich, second wife of george lord lyttelton. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, aug , . page ) my dear lord, i have waited in hopes that the world would do something worth telling you: it will not, and i cannot stay any longer without asking you how you do, and hoping you have not quite forgot me. it has rained such deluges, that i had some thoughts of turning my gallery into an ark, and began to pack up a pair of bantams, a pair of cats, in short, a pair of every living creature about my house: but it is grown fine at last, and the workmen quit my gallery to-day without hoisting a sail in it. i know nothing upon earth but what the ancient ladies in my neighbourhood knew threescore years ago; i write merely to pay you my pepper-corn of affection, and to inquire after my lady, who i hope is perfectly well. a longer letter would not have half the merit: a line in return will however repay all the merit i can possibly have to one to whom i am so much obliged. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) the most important piece of news i have to tell you is, that the gallery is finished; that is, the workmen have quitted it. for chairs and tables, not one is arrived yet. well, how you will tramp up and down in it! methinks i wish you would. we are in the perfection of beauty; verdure itself was never green till this summer, thanks to the deluges of rain. our complexion used to be mahogany in august. nightingales and roses indeed are out of blow, but the season is celestial. i don't know whether we have not even had an earthquake to-day. lady buckingham, lady waldegrave, the bishop of' exeter, and mrs. keppel, and the little hotham dined here; between six and seven we were sitting in the great parlour; i sat in the window looking at the river: on a sudden i saw it violently agitated, and, as it were, lifted up and down by a thousand hands. i called out, they all ran to the window; it continued; we hurried into the garden, and all saw the thames in the same violent commotion for i suppose a hundred yards. we fancied at first there must be some barge rope; not one was in sight. it lasted in this manner, and at the farther end, towards teddington, even to dashing. it did not cease before i got to the middle of the terrace, between the fence and the hill. yet this is nothing: to what is to come. the bishop and i walked down to my meadow by the river. at this end were two fishermen in a boat, but their backs had been turned to the agitation, and they had seen nothing. at the farther end of the field was a gentleman fishing, and a woman by him; i had perceived him on the same spot at the time of the motion of the waters, which was rather beyond where it was terminated. i now thought myself sure of a witness, and concluded he could not have recovered his surprise. i ran up to him. "sir," said i, "did you see that strange agitation of the waters?" "when, sir? when, sir?" "now, this very instant, not two minutes ago." he replied, with the phlegm of a philosopher, or of a man that can love fishing, "stay, sir, let me recollect if i remember nothing of it." "pray, sir," said i, scarce able to help laughing, "you must remember whether you remember it or not, for it is scarce over." "i am trying to recollect," said he, with the same coolness. "why, sir," said i, "six of us saw it from my parlour window yonder." "perhaps," answered he, "you might perceive it better where you were, but i suppose it was an earthquake." his nymph had seen nothing neither, and so we returned as wise as most who inquire into natural phenomena. we expect to hear to-morrow that there has been an earthquake somewhere; unless this appearance portended a state-quake. you see, my impetuosity does not abate much; no, nor my youthfullity, which bears me out even at a sabat. i dined last week at lady blandford's, with her, the old denbigh, the old litchfield, and methuselah knows who. i had stuck some sweet peas in my hair, was playing at quadrille, and singing to my sorci`eres. the duchess of argyle and mrs. young came in; you may guess how they stared; at last the duchess asked what was the meaning of those flowers? "lord, madam," said i, "don't you know it is the fashion? the duke of bedford is come over with his hair full." poor mrs. young took this in sober sadness, and has reported that the duke of bedford wears flowers. you will not know me less by a precipitation of this morning. pitt and i were busy adjusting the gallery. mr. elliott came in and discomposed us; i was horridly tired of him. as he was going, he said, "well, this house is so charming, i don't wonder at your being able to live so much alone." i, who shudder at the thought of any body's living with me, replied very innocently, but a little too quick, "no, only pity me when i don't live alone." pitt was shocked, and said, "to be sure he will never forgive you as long as he lives." mrs. leneve used often to advise me never to begin being civil to people i did not care for: for," says she, "you grow weary of them, and can't help showing it, and so make it ten times worse than if you had never attempted to please them." i suppose you have read in the papers the massacre of my innocents. every one of my turkish sheep, that i have been nursing up these fourteen years, torn to pieces in one night by three strange dogs! they killed sixteen outright, and mangled the two others in such a manner that i was forced to have them knocked on the head. however, i bore this better than an interruption. i have scrawled and blotted this letter so i don't know whether you can read it; but it is no matter, for i perceive it is all about myself: but what has one else in the dead of summer? in return, tell me as much as you please about yourself, which you know is always a most welcome subject to me. one may preserve one's spirits with one's juniors, but i defy any body to care but about their contemporaries. one wants to linger about one's predecessors, but who has the least curiosity about their successors? this is abominable ingratitude: one takes wondrous pains to consign one's own memory to them at the same time that one feels the most perfect indifference to whatever relates to them themselves. well, they will behave just so in their turns. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i have but a minute's time for answering your letter; my house is full of people, and has been so from the instant i breakfasted, and more are coming; in short, i keep an inn; the sign, the gothic castle. since my gallery was finished i have not been in it a quarter of an hour together; my whole time is passed in giving tickets for seeing it, and hiding myself while it is seen. take my advice, never build a charming house for yourself between london and hampton-court: every body will live in it but you. i fear you must give up all thoughts of the vine for this year, at least for some time. the poor master is on the rack; i left him the day before yesterday in bed, where he had been ever since monday, with the gout in both knees and one foot, and suffering martyrdom every night. i go to see him again on monday. he has not had so bad a fit these four years, and he has probably the other foot still to come. you must come to me at least in the mean time, before he is well enough to receive you. after next tuesday i am unengaged, except on saturday, sunday, and monday following; that is, the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth, when the family from park-place are to be with me. settle your motions, and let me know them as soon as you can, and give me as much time as you can spare. i flatter myself the general( ) and lady grandison will keep the kind promise they made me, and that i shall see your brother john and mr. miller too. my niece is not breeding. you shall have the auction books as soon as i can get them, though i question if there is any thing in your way; however, i shall see you long before the sale, and we will talk on it. there has been a revolution and a re-revolution, but i must defer the history till i see you, for it is much too big for a letter written in such a hurry as this. adieu! ( ) general montagu, who, in the preceding february, had married the countess-dowager of grandison.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) as i am sure the house of conway will not stay with me beyond monday next, i shall rejoice to see the house of montagu this day se'nnight (wednesday), and shall think myself highly honoured by a visit from lady beaulieu;( ) i know nobody that has better taste, and it would flatter me exceedingly if she should happen to like strawberry. i knew you would be pleased with mr. thomas pitt; he is very amiable and very sensible, and one of the very few that i reckon quite worthy of being at home at strawberry. i have again been in town to see mr. chute; he thinks the worst over, yet he gets no sleep, and is still confined to his bed 'but his spirits keep up surprisingly. as to your gout, so far from pitying you, 'tis the best thing that can happen to you. all that claret and port are very kind to you, when they prefer the shape of lameness to that of apoplexies, or dropsies, or fevers, or pleurisies. let me have a line certain what day i may expect your party, that i may pray to the sun to illuminate the cabinet. adieu! ( ) isabella, eldest daughter and co-heir of john duke of montagu, and relict of william duke of manchester; married, in , to edward montagu, lord beaulieu.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i was just getting into my chaise to go to park-place, when i received your commission for mrs. crosby's pictures; but i did not neglect it, though i might as well, for the old gentlewoman was a little whimsical, and though i sent my own gardener and farmer with my cart to fetch them on friday, she would not deliver them, she said, till monday; so this morning they were forced to go again. they are now all safely lodged in my cloister; when i say safely, you understand, that two of them have large holes in them, as witness this bill of lading signed by your aunt. there are eleven in all, besides lord halifax, seven half-lengths and four heads; the former are all desirable, and one of the latter; the three others woful. mr. wicks is now in the act of packing them, for we have changed our minds about sending them to london by water, as your wagoner told louis last time i was at greatworth, that if they were left at the old hat, near acton, he would take them up and convey them to greatworth; so my cart carries them thither, and they will set out towards you next saturday. i felt shocked, as you did, to think how suddenly the prospect of joy at osterly was dashed after our seeing it. however the young lover( ) died handsomely. fifty thousand pounds will dry tears, that at most could be but two months old. his brother, i heard, has behaved still more handsomely, and confirmed the legacy, and added from himself the diamonds that had been prepared for her. here is a charming wife ready for any body that likes a sentimental situation, a pretty woman, and a large fortune.( ) i have been often at bulstrode from chaffont, but i don't like it. it is dutch and triste. the pictures you mention in the gallery would be curious if they knew one from another; but the names are lost, and they are only sure that they have so many pounds of ancestors in the lump. one or two of them indeed i know, as the earl of southampton, that was lord essex's friend. the works of park-place go on bravely; the cottage will be very pretty, and the bridge sublime, composed of loose rocks, that will appear to have been tumbled together there the very wreck of the deluge. one stone is of fourteen hundred weight. it will be worth a hundred of palladio's brigades, that are only fit to be used in an opera. i had a ridiculous adventure on my way hither. a sir thomas reeves wrote to me last year, that he had a great quantity of heads of painters, drawn by himself from dr. mead's collection, of which many were english, and offered me the use of them. this was one of the numerous unknown correspondents which my books have drawn upon me. i put it off then, but being to pass near his door, for he lives but two miles from maidenhead, i sent him word i would call on my way to park-place. after being carried to three wrong houses, i was directed to a very ancient mansion, composed of timber, and looking as unlike modern habitations, as the picture of penderel's house in clarendon. the garden was overrun with weeds, and with difficulty we found a bell. louis came riding back in great haste, and said, "sir, the gentleman is dead suddenly." you may imagine i was surprised; however, as an acquaintance i had never seen was an endurable misfortune, i was preparing to depart; but happening to ask some women, that were passing by the chaise, if they knew any circumstance of sir thomas's death, i discovered that this was not sir thomas's house, but belonged to a mr. mecke,( ) fellow of a college at oxford, who was actually just dead, and that the antiquity itself had formerly been the residence of nell gwyn. pray inquire after it the next time you are at frocmore. i went on, and after a mistake or two more found sir thomas, a man about thirty in age, and twelve in understanding; his drawings very indifferent, even for the latter calculation. i did not know what to do or say, but commended them and his child, and his house; said i had all the heads, hoped i should see him at twickenham, was afraid of being too late for dinner, and hurried out of his house before i had been there twenty minutes. it grieves one to receive civilities when one feels obliged, and yet finds it impossible to bear the people that bestow them. i have given my assembly, to show my gallery, and it was glorious; but happening to pitch upon the feast of tabernacles, none of my jews could come, though mrs. clive proposed to them to change their religion; so i am forced to exhibit once more. for the morning spectators, the crowd augments instead of diminishing. it is really true that lady hertford called here t'other morning, and i was reduced to bring her by the back gate into the kitchen; the house was so full of company that came to see the gallery, that i had no where else to carry her. adieu! p. s. i hope the least hint has never dropped from the beaulieus of that terrible picture of sir charles williams, that put me into such confusion the morning they breakfasted here. if they did observe the inscription, i am sure they must have seen too how it distressed me. your collection of pictures is packed up, and makes two large cases and one smaller. my next assembly will be entertaining; there will be five countesses, two bishops, fourteen jews, five papists, a doctor of physic, and an actress; not to mention scotch, irish, east and west indians. i find that, to pack up your pictures, louis has taken some paper out of a hamper of waste, into which i had cast some of the conway papers, perhaps only as useless , however, if you find any such in the packing, be so good as to lay them by for me. ( ) francis child, esq. the banker at temple-bar, and member for bishop's-castle, who died on the @ d of september. he was to have been married in a few days to the only daughter of the hon. robert trevor hampden, one of the postmasters-general.-e. ( ) this young lady was married in the may following to henri, twelfth earl of suffolk.-e. ( ) the rev. mr. mecke, of pembroke college. he died on the th of september.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, oct. , . page ) dear sir, you are always obliging to me and always thinking of me kindly; yet for once you have forgotten the way of obliging me most. you do not mention any thought of coming hither, which you had given me cause to hope about this time, i flatter myself nothing has intervened to deprive me of that visit. lord hertford goes to france the end of next week; i shall be in town to take leave of him; but after the th, that is, this day se'nnight, i shall be quite unengaged and the sooner i see you after the th, the better, for i should be sorry to drag you across the country in the badness of november roads. i shall treasure up your notices against my second edition for the volume of engravers is printed off, and has been some time; i only wait for some of the plates. the book you mention i have not seen, nor do you encourage me to buy it. some time or other however i will get you to let me turn it over. as i will trust that you will let me know soon when i shall have the pleasure of seeing you here, i will make this a very short letter indeed. i know nothing new or old worth telling you. letter to the earl of hertford.( ) arlington street, oct. , . (page ) my dear lord, i am very impatient for a letter from paris, to hear of your outset, and what my lady hertford thinks of the new world she is got into, and whether it is better or worse than she expected. pray tell me all: i mean of that sort, for i have no curiosity about the family compact, nor the harbour of dunkirk. it is your private history--your audiences, reception, comforts or distresses, your way of life, your company--that interests me; in short, i care about my cousins and friends, not, like jack harris,( ) about my lord ambassador. consider you are in my power. you, by this time, are longing to hear from england, and depend upon me for the news of london. i shall not send you a tittle, if you are not very good, and do not (one of you, at least) write to me punctually. this letter, i confess, will not give you much encouragement, for i can absolutely tell you nothing. i dined at mr. grenville's to-day, if there had been any thing to hear, i should have heard it; but all consisted in what you will see in the papers--some diminutive( ) battles in america, and the death of the king of poland,( ) which you probably knew before we did. the town is a desert; it is like a vast plain, which, though abandoned at present, is in three weeks to have a great battle fought upon it. one of the colonels, i hear, is to be in town tomorrow, the duke of devonshire. i came myself but this morning, but as i shall not return to strawberry till the day after to-morrow, i shall not seal my letter till then. in the mean time, it is but fair to give you some more particular particulars of what i expect to know. for instance, of monsieur de nivernois's cordiality; of madame dusson's affection for england; of my lord holland's joy at seeing you in france, especially without your secretary;( ) of all my lady hertford's( ) cousins at st. germains; and i should not dislike a little anecdote or two of the late embassy,( ) of which i do not doubt you will hear plenty. i must trouble you with many compliments to madame de boufflers, and with still more to the duchesse de mirepoix,( ) who is always so good as to remember me. her brother, prince de beauvau,( ) i doubt has forgotten me. in the disagreeableness of taking leave, i omitted these messages. good night for to-night--oh! i forgot--pray send me some caff`e au lait: the duc de picquigny( ) (who by the way is somebody's son, as i thought) takes it for snuff; and says it is the new fashion at paris; i suppose they drink rappee after dinner. wednesday night. i might as well have finished last night; for i know nothing more than i did then, but that lady mary coke arrived this evening. she has behaved very honourably, and not stolen the hereditary prince.( ) mr. bowman( ) called on me yesterday before i came, and left word that he would come again to-day, but did not. i wished to hear of you from him, and a little of my old acquaintance at rheims. did you find lord beauchamp( ) much grown? are all your sons to be like those of the amalekites? who were i forget how many cubits high. pray remind mr. hume( ) of collecting the whole history of the expulsion of the jesuits. it is a subject worthy of his inquiry and pen. adieu! my dear lord. ( ) this is the first of the series of letters which walpole addressed to his relation, the earl of hertford, during his lordship's embassy in paris, in the years , , and . the first edition of these letters appeared, in quarto, in , edited by the right honourable john wilson croker, and contained the following introductory notice:-- "no apology, it is presumed, is necessary for the following publication. the letters of mr. walpole have already attained the highest rank in that department of english literature, and seem to deserve their popularity, whether they are regarded as objects of mere amusement, or as a collection of anecdotes illustrative of the politics, literature, and manners of an important and interesting period. "the following collection is composed of his letters to his cousin, the earl of hertford, while ambassador at paris, from to ; which seem, at least as much as those which have preceded them, deserving of the public attention. "it appears from some circumstances connected with the letters themselves, that mr. walpole wrote them in the intention and hope that they might be preserved; and although they are enlivened by his characteristic vivacity, and are not deficient in the lighter matters with which he was in the habit of amusing all his correspondents, they are, on the whole, written in a more careful style, and are employed on more important subjects than any others which have yet come to light. "of the former collections, anecdote and chit-chat formed the principal topics, and politics were introduced only as they happened to be the news of the day. of the series now offered to the public, politics are the groundwork, and the town-talk is only the accidental embroidery. "mr. walpole's lately published memoires have given proof of his ability in sketching parliamentary portraits and condensing parliamentary debates. in the following letters, powers of the same class will, it is thought, be recognised; and as the published parliamentary debates are extremely imperfect for the whole time to which this correspondence relates, mr. walpole's sketches are additionally valuable. "these letters also give a near view of the proceedings of political parties during that interesting period; and although the representation of so warm a partisan must be read with due caution, a great deal of authentic information on this subject will be found, and even the very errors of the writer will sometimes tend to elucidate the state of parties during one of the busiest periods of our domestic dissensions. "mr. walpole's party feelings were, indeed, so warm, and his judgment of individuals was so often affected by the political lights in which he viewed them, that the editor has thought it due to many eminent political characters to add a few notes, to endeavour to explain the prejudices and to correct the misapprehensions under which mr. walpole wrote. in doing so, the editor has, he hopes, shown (what he certainly felt) a perfect impartiality; and he flatters himself that he has only endeavoured to perform, (however imperfectly) what mr. walpole himself, after the heat of party had subsided, would have been inclined to do."-- to the notes here spoken of, the letter c. is affixed. ( ) john harris, esq. of hayne, in devonshire, who married anne, lord hertford's eldest sister.-e. ( ) the actions at detroit and edge hill, on the st of july and th and th of august, between the british and the indians. in the former the british were defeated, and their leader, captain ditlyell, killed; in the latter engagements, under colonel bouguet, they defeated the indians.-c. ( ) stanislaus augustus, elector of saxony and king of poland. he died at dresden, on the th of october.-e. ( ) mr. fox, so long a political leader in the house of commons, had been lately created lord holland, and was now in paris. mr. walpole insinuates, in his letter to mr. montagu of the th of april, that lord holland's visit to france arose from apprehension of personal danger to himself, in consequence of his share in lord bute's administration--an absurd insinuation! what is meant by his joy at seeing lord hertford in france is not clear; but the allusion to the secretary probably refers to the absence of sir charles, then mr. bunbury, who was nominated secretary to the embassy, but who had not accompanied lord hertford to paris: as mr. bunbury had married lady holland's niece, there may have been family reason for this allusion.-c. ( ) lady hertford was a granddaughter of charles ii., and therefore cousin to the pretender, who, however, was at this period in italy; and the cousins alluded to were probably the family of fitz-james.-c. ( ) john, fourth duke of bedford, was lord hertford's predecessor. mr. walpole had been on terms of personal and political intimacy at bedford-house; but political and private differences had occurred to sharpen his resentment against the duke, and even occasionally against the duchess of bedford.-c. ( ) the mar`eschale de mirepoix was a clever woman, who was at the head of one class of french society. she, however, quarrelled with her family, and lost the respect of the public by the meanness of countenancing madame du barri.-c. ( ) son of the prince de craon: he was born in ; served with great distinction from the earliest age, and was created, in , marshal of france. his conduct in discountenancing the favouritism of the last years of louis xv. was very honourable, as was his devotion to louis xvi. in the first years of the revolution. the marshal survived his unfortunate sovereign but three months.-c. ( ) son of the duke de chaulnes.-e. ( ) the hereditary prince of brunswick was at this time betrothed to the king's eldest sister; and mr. walpole, a constant friend and admirer of lady mary, affects to think that her beauty and vivacity might have seduced his serene highness from his royal bride. lady mary lived till .-c. ( ) this gentleman was travelling tutor to lord hertford's eldest son, and had been lately residing with him at rheims.-c. ( ) francis, afterwards second marquis of hertford, who died in the year .-e. ( ) david hume, the historian. he was at first private secretary to lord hertford, and afterwards secretary of embassy.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i send you the catalogue as you desired; and as i told you, you will, i think, find nothing to your purpose: the present lord bought all the furniture at navestock;( ) the few now to be sold are the very fine ones of the best masters, and likely to go at vast prices, for there are several people determined to have some one thing that belonged to lord waldegrave. i did not get the catalogue till the night before last, too late to send by the post, for i had dined with sir richard lyttelton at richmond, and was forced to return by kew-bridge, for the thames was swelled so violently that the ferry could not work. i am here quite alone in the midst of a deluge, without mrs. noah, but with half as many animals. the waters are as much out as they were last year, when her vice-majesty of ireland,( ) that now is sailed to newmarket with both legs out at the fore glass, was here. apropos, the irish court goes on ill; they lost a question by forty the very first day on the address. the irish, not being so absurd or so complimental as mr. allen, they would not suffer the word "adequate" to pass.( ) the prime minister is so unpopular that they think he must be sent back. his patent and rigby's are called in question. you see the age is not favourable to prime ministers: well! i am going amidst it all, very unwillingly; i had rather stay here, for i am sick of the storms, that once loved them so cordially: over and above, i am not well; this is the third winter my nightly fever has returned; it comes like the bellman before christmas, to put me in mind of my mortality. sir michael foster( ) is dead, a whig of the old rock: he is a greater loss to his country than the prim attorney-general,( ) who has resigned, or than the attorney's father, who is dying, will be. my gallery is still in such request, that, though the middle of november, i give out a ticket to-day for seeing it. i see little of it myself, for i cannot sit alone in such state; i should think myself like the mad duchess of albemarle,( ) who fancied herself empress of china. adieu! ( ) in essex, the seat of the waldegraves.-e. ( ) the countess of northumberland.-e. ( ) to prevent the presentation of a more objectionable address from the corporation of bath, in favour of the peace, mr. allen had secured the introduction of the word adequate, into the one agreed to; which gave such offence to mr. pitt that he refused to present it.-e. ( ) one of the judges in the court of king's bench.-e. ( ) the hon. charles yorke. ( ) widow of christopher duke of albemarle, and daughter of the duke of newcastle. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) if the winter keeps up to the vivacity of its d`ebut, you will have no reason to complain of the sterility of my letters. i do not say this from the spirit of the house of commons on the first day,( ) which was the most fatiguing and dull debate i ever heard, dull as i have heard many; and yet for the first quarter of an hour it looked as if we were met to choose a king of poland,( ) and that all our names ended in zsky. wilkes, the night before, had presented himself at the cockpit: as he was listening to the speech,( ) george selwyn said to him, in the words of the dunciad, "may heaven preserve the ears you lend!"( ) we lost four hours debating whether or not it was necessary to open the session with reading a bill. the opposite sides, at the same time, pushing to get the start, between the king's message, which mr. grenville stood at the bar to present, which was to acquaint us with the arrest of wilkes and all that affair, and the complaint which wilkes himself stood up to make. at six we divided on the question of reading a bill.( ) young thomas townshend( ) divided the house injudiciously, as the question was so idle; yet the whole argument of the day had been so complicated with this question, that in effect it became the material question for trying forces. this will be an interesting part to you, when you hear that your brother( ) and i were in the minority. you know him, and therefore know he did what he thought right; and for me, my dear lord, you must know that i would die in the house for its privileges, and the liberty of the press. but come, don't be alarmed: this will have no consequences. i don't think your brother is going into opposition; and for me, if i may name myself to your affection after him, nothing but a question of such magnitude can carry me to the house at all. i am sick of parties and factions, and leave them to buy and sell one another. bless me! i had forgot the numbers; they were , we . we then went upon the king's message; heard the north briton read; and lord north,( ) who took the prosecution upon him and did it very well, moved to vote a scandalous libel, etc. tending to foment treasonable insurrections. mr. pitt gave up the paper, but fought against the last words of the censure. i say mr. pitt, for indeed, like almanzor, he fought almost singly, and spoke forty times: the first time in the day with much wit, afterwards with little energy. he had a tough enemy too; i don't mean in parts or argument, but one that makes an excellent bulldog, the solicitor-general norton. legge was, as usual, concise; and charles townshend, what is not usual, silent. we sat till within a few minutes of two, after dividing again; we, our exact former number, ; they, ; and then we adjourned to go on the point of privilege the next day; but now "listen, lordings, and hold you still; of doughty deeds tell you i will." martin,( ) in the debate, mentioned the north briton, in which he himself had been so heavily abused; and he said, "whoever stabs a reputation in the dark, without setting his name, is a cowardly, malignant, and scandalous scoundrel." this, looking at wilkes, he repeated twice, with such rage and violence, that he owned his passion obliged him to sit down. wilkes bore this with the same indifference as he did all that passed in the day. the -house, too, who from martin's choosing to take a public opportunity of resentment, when he had so long declined any private notice, and after wilkes's courage was become so problematic, seemed to think there was no danger of such champions going further; but the next day, when we came into the house, the first thing we heard was that martin had shot wilkes: so he had; but wilkes has six lives still good. it seems wilkes had writ, to avow the paper, to martin, on which the latter challenged him. they went into hyde-park about noon; humphrey coates, the wine-merchant, waiting in a postchaise to convey wilkes away if triumphant. they fired at the distance of fourteen yards: both missed. then martin fired and lodged a ball in the side of wilkes; who was going to return it, but dropped his pistol. he desired martin to take care of securing himself, and assured him he would never say a word against him, and he allows that martin behaved well. the wound yesterday was thought little more than a flesh-wound, and he was in his old spirits. to-day the account is worse, and he has been delirious: so you will think when you hear what is to come. i think, from the agitation his mind must be in, from his spirits, and from drinking, as i suppose he will, that he probably will end here. he puts me in mind of two lines of hudibras,( ) which, by the arrangement of the words combined with wilkes's story, are stronger than butler intended them:-- "but he, that fights and runs away, may live to fight another day." his adventures with lord talbot,( ) forbes,( ) and martin, make these lines history. now for part the second. on the first day, in your house, where the address was moved by lord hilsborough and lord suffolk, after some wrangling between lord temple, lord halifax, the duke of bedford, and lord gower; lord sandwich( ) laid before the house the most blasphemous and indecent poem that ever was composed, called "an essay on woman, with notes, by dr. warburton."', i will tell you none of the particulars: they were so exceedingly bad, that lord lyttelton begged the reading might be stopped. the house was amazed; nobody ventured even to ask a question: so it was easily voted every thing you please, and a breach of privilege into the bargain. lord sandwich then informed your lordships, that mr. wilkes was the author. fourteen copies alone were printed, one of which the ministry had bribed the printer to give up. lord temple then objected to the manner of obtaining it; and bishop warburton, as much shocked at infidelity as lord sandwich had been at obscenity, said, "the blackest fiends in hell would not keep company with wilkes when he should arrive there." lord sandwich moved to vote wilkes the author; but this lord mansfield stopped, advertising the house that it was necessary first to hear what wilkes could say in his defence. to-day, therefore, was appointed for that purpose; but it has been put off by martin's lodging a caveat.( ) this bomb was certainly well conducted, and the secret, though known to many, well kept. the management is worthy of lord sandwich, and like him. it may sound odd for me, with my principles, to admire lord sandwich; but besides that he has in several instances been very obliging to me, there is a good humour and an industry about him that are very uncommon. i do not admire politicians; but when they are excellent in their way, one cannot help allowing them their due. nobody but he could have struck a stroke like this. yesterday we sat till eight on the address, which yet passed without a negative - we had two very long speeches from mr. pitt and mr. grenville; many fine parts in each. mr. pitt has given the latter some strong words, yet not so many as were expected.( ) to-morrow we go on the great question 'of privilege; but i must send this away, as we have no chance of leaving the house before midnight, if before next morning. this long letter contains the history of but two days; yet if two days furnish a history, it is not my fault. the ministry, i think, may do whatever they please. three hundred, that will give up their own privileges, may be depended upon for giving up any thing else. i have not time or room to ask a question, or say a word more. nov. , friday. i have luckily got a holiday, and can continue my despatch, as you know dinner time is my chief hour of business. the speaker, unlike mr. onslow, who was immortal in the chair, is taken very ill, and our house is adjourned to monday. wilkes is thought in great danger: instead of keeping him quiet, his friends have shown their zeal by him, and himself has been all spirits and riot, and sat in his bed the next morning to correct the press for to-morrow's north briton. his bon-mots are all over the town, but too gross, i think, to repeat; the chief' are at the expense of poor lord george.( ) notwithstanding lord sandwich's masked battery, the tide runs violently for wilkes, and i do not find people in general so inclined to excuse his lordship as i was. one hears nothing but stories of the latter's impiety, and of the concert he was in with wilkes on that subject. should this hero die, the bishop of gloucester may doom him whither he pleases, but wilkes will pass for a saint and a martyr. besides what i have mentioned, there were two or three passages in the house of lords that were diverting. lord temple dwelled much on the spanish ministry being devoted to france. lord halifax replied, "can we help that? we can no more oblige the king of spain to change his ministers, than his lordship can force his majesty to change the present administration." lord gower, too, attacking lord temple on want of respect to the king, the earl replied, "he never had wanted respect for the king: he and his family had been attached to the house of hanover full as long as his lordship's family had."( ) you may imagine that little is talked of but wilkes, and what relates to him. indeed, i believe there is no other news, but that sir george warren marries miss bishop, the maid of honour. the duchess of grafton is at euston, and hopes to stay there till after christmas. operas do not begin till tomorrow se'nnight; but the mingotti is to sing, and that contents me. i forgot to tell you, and you may wonder at hearing nothing of the reverend mr. charles pylades,( ) while mr. john orestes is making such a figure: but dr. pylades, the poet, has forsaken his consort and the muses, and is gone off with a stonecutter's daughter.( ) if he should come and offer himself to you for chaplain to the embassy! the countess of harrington was extremely alarmed last sunday,, on seeing the duc de prequigny enter her assembly: she forbade lady caroline( ) speaking to such a debauched young man, and communicated her fright to everybody. the duchess of bedford observed to me that as lady berkeley( ) and some other matrons of the same stamp were there, she thought there was no danger of any violence being committed. for my part, the sisters are so different, that i conclude my lady hertford has not found any young man in france wild enough for her. your counterpart, m. de guerchy, takes extremely. i have not yet seen his wife. i this minute receive your charming long letter of the th, and give you a thousand thanks for it. i wish next tuesday was past, for lady hertford's sake. you may depend on my letting you know, if i hear the least rumour in your disfavour. i shall do so without your orders, for i could not bear to have you traduced and not advertise you to defend yourself. i have hitherto not heard a syllable; but the newspapers talk of your magnificence, and i approve extremely your intending to support their evidence; for though i do not think it necessary to scatter pearls and diamonds about the streets like their vice-majesties( ), of ireland, one owes it to one's self and to the king's choice to prove it was well made. the colour given at paris to bunbury's( ) stay in england has been given out here too. you need not, i think, trouble yourself about that; a majority of three hundred will soon show, that if he was detained, the reason at least no longer subsists. hamilton is certainly returning from ireland. lord shannon's( ) son is going to marry the speaker's daughter, and the primate has begged to have the honour of joining their hands. this letter is wofullv blotted and ill-written, yet i must say it is print compared to your lordship's. at first i thought you had forgot that you was not writing to the secretary of state, and had put it into cipher. adieu! i am neither, dead of my fever nor apoplexy, nay, nor of the house of commons. i rather think the violent heat of the latter did me good. lady ailesbury was at court yesterday, and benignly received;( ) a circumstance you will not dislike. p.s. if i have not told you all you want to know, interrogate me, and i will answer the next post. ( ) parliament met on the th of november. the public mind was at this moment in a considerable ferment, and the king's speech invited parliament "to discourage that licentious spirit which is repugnant to the true principles of liberty and of this happy constitution." it was expected that these words would, from their being understood as a direct attack on mr. wilkes, have opened a debate on his question, which was then uppermost in every mind; but the opposition were unwilling to put themselves under the disadvantage of opposing the address and of excepting against words, which, in their general meaning were unexceptionable; they, therefore, had recourse to the proceedings so well described in this letter.-c. ( ) he means, that parties were so violent that the members seemed inclined to come to blows.-c. ( ) the king's speech, which is now read at the house of the minister, to a selection of the friends of government, was formerly read at the cockpit, and all who chose attended.-c. ( ) "yet oh, my sons! a father's words attend; so may the fates preserve the ears you lend."-e. ( ) "as soon as the members were sworn at the table, mr. wilkes and mr. grenville then a chancellor of the exchequer, arose in their places, the first to make a complaint of a breach of privilege in having been imprisoned, etc.; and mr. grenville, to communicate to the house a message from the king, which related to the privileges of the house: the speaker at the same time acquainted the house, that the clerk had prepared a bill, and submitted it to them, whether, in point of form, the reading of the bill should not be the first proceeding towards opening the session. a very long debate ensued, which of these three matters ought to have the precedence,, -and at last it was carried in favour of the bill." hatsell's precedents, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) afterwards lord sydney. the townshends were supposed to be very unsteady, if not fickle, in their political conduct; a circumstance which gives point to goldsmith's mention of this mr. townshend in his character of burke:- "----yet straining his throat to persuade tommy townshend to lend him a vote."-c. ( ) henry seymour conway, only brother of lord hertford, at this time a groom of the bedchamber, lieutenant-general in the army, and colonel of the first regiment of dragoons. he was, as we will see, in consequence of his opposition to government on these questions, dismissed both from court and his regiment: but he became, on a change of ministers in , secretary of state; and in was promoted to be a general; and in a field-marshal.-c. ( ) lord north was at this time one of the junior lords of the treasury.-e. ( ) samuel martin, esq. member for camelford. he had been secretary of the treasury during the duke of newcastle's and lord bute's administration.-e. ( ) these lines, and two others, usually appended to them-- "he that is in battle slain can never rise to fight again," are not in hudibras. butler has the same thought in two lines-- "for those that fly may fight again, which he can never do that's slain." par. iii. cant. , . .-c. ( ) at the coronation, lord talbot, as lord steward, appeared on horseback in westminster-hall. his horse had been, at numerous rehearsals, so assiduously trained to perform what was thought the most difficult part of his duty, namely, the retiring backwards from the royal table, that, at the ceremony itself, no art of his rider could prevent the too docile animal from making his approaches to the royal presence tail foremost. this ridiculous incident, was the occasion of some sarcastic remarks in the north briton, of the st august, which led to a correspondence between lord talbot and mr. wilkes, and ultimately to a duel in the garden of the red lion inn, at bagshot, mr. wilkes proposed that the parties should sup together that night, and fight next morning. lord talbot insisted on fighting immediately. this altercation, and some delay of wilkes in writing papers, which (not expecting, he said, to take the field before morning) he had left unfinished, delayed the affair till dusk, and after the innocuous exchange of shots by moonlight, the parties shook hands, and supped together at the inn with a great deal of jollity.-c. ( ) a young scotch officer of the name of forbes, fastened a quarrel on mr. wilkes, in paris, for having written against scotland, and insisted on his fighting him. wilkes declined until he should have settled an engagement of the same nature which he had with lord egremont. just at this time lord egremont died, and wilkes immediately offered to meet captain forbes at menin, in flanders. by some mistake forbes did not appear, and the affair blew over. a long controversy was kept up on the subject by partisans in the newspapers; but on the whole it is impossible to deny that forbes's conduct was nasty and foolish, and that wilkes behaved himself like a man of temper and honour.-c. ( ) at this time secretary of state. " it is a great mercy," says lord chesterfield, in a letter to his son, of the d of december, "that mr. wilkes, the intrepid defender of our rights and liberties, is out of danger; and it is no less a mercy, that god hath raised up the earl of sandwich, to vindicate true religion and morality. these two blessings will justly make an epocha in the annals affairs country."-e. ( ) the bishop of gloucester, whose laborious commentaries on pope's essay on man gave wilkes the idea of fathering on him the notes on the essay on woman.-c. ( ) dr. birch, in a letter to lord royston, gives the following account of what passed in the house of lords on this occasion:- -"the session commenced with a complaint made by lord sandwich against mr. wilkes for a breach of privilege in being the author of a poem full of obscenity and blasphemy, intitled 'an essay on woman,' with notes, under the name of the bishop of gloucester. his letters, which discovered the piece was his, had been seized at kearsley's the bookseller, when the latter was taken up for publishing no. of the north briton. lord temple and lord sandys objected to the reading letters, till the secretary of state's warrant, by which kearsley had been arrested, had been produced and shown to be a legal act; but this objection being overruled, the lords voted the essay a most scandalous, obscene, and impious libel, and adjourned the farther consideration of the subject, as far as concerned the author, till the thursday following."-e. lord barrington, in a letter to sir andrew mitchell, gives the following account of mr. pitt's speech:--"he spoke with great ability, and the utmost degree of temper: he spoke civilly, and not unfairly, of the ministers; but of the king he said every thing which duty and affection could inspire. the effect of this was a vote for an address, nem. con. i think, if fifty thousand pounds had been given for that speech, it would have been well expended. it secures us a quiet session." see chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) probably lord george sackville, so disagreeably celebrated for his conduct at minden; afterwards a peer, by the title of lord sackville, and secretary of state. in the north briton which was in preparation when wilkes was taken up, he advised that lord george should carry the sword before the king at an intended thanksgiving. of all the persons suspected of being the author of junius, lord george sackville seems the most probable.-c. ["it is peculiarly hostile to the opinion in favour of lord george, that junius should roundly have accused him of want of courage." woodfall's junius, vol. i. p. .] ( ) lord gower had been reputed the head of the jacobites. sir c. h. williams sneeringly calls him "hanoverian gower;" and when he accepted office from the house of brunswick, all the jacobites in england were mortified and enraged. dr. johnson, a steady tory, was, when compiling his dictionary, with difficulty persuaded not to add to his explanation of the word deserter--"sometimes it is called a go'er."-c. ["talking," says boswell, "upon this subject, dr. johnson mentioned to me a stronger instance of the predominance of his private feelings in the composition of this work than any now to be found in it: 'you know, sir, lord gower forsook the old jacobite interest: when i came to the word renegades after telling what it meant, one who deserts to the enemy, a revolter, i added, sometimes we say a gower: thus it went to the press; but the printer had more wit than i, and struck it out.'" croker's boswell.] ( ) churchill the satirist and wilkes; of whom mr. southey, in his life of cowper, relates the following anecdote:--"churchill became wilkes's coadjutor in the north briton; and the publishers, when examined before the privy council on the publication of no. , having declared that wilkes gave orders for the printing, and churchill received the profits from the sale, orders were given for arresting churchill under the general warrant. he was saved from arrest by wilkes's presence of mind, who was in custody of the messenger when churchill entered the room. 'good morning, thompson,' said wilkes to him: 'how does mrs. thompson do? does she dine in the country?' churchill took the hint as readily as it had been given. he replied, that mrs. thompson was waiting for him, and that he only came for a moment, to ask him how he did. then almost directly he took his leave, hastened home, secured his papers, retired into the country, and eluded all search."-e. ( ) mr. southey states, that "a fortnight had not elapsed before both parties were struck with sincere compunction, and through the intercession of a true friend, at their entreaty, the unhappy penitent was received by her father: it is said she would have proved worthy of this parental forgiveness, if an elder sister had not, by continual taunt,; and reproaches, rendered her life so miserable, that, in absolute despair, she threw herself upon churchill for protection. instead of making a just provision forher, which his means would have allowed, he received her as his mistress. if all his other writings were forgotten, the lines in which he expressed his compunction for his conduct would deserve always to be remembered-- "tis not the babbling of a busy world, where praise and censure are at random hurl'd, which can the meanest of my thoughts control, one settled purpose of my soul; free and at large might their wild curses roam, if all, if all, alas! were well at home. no; 'tis the tale which angry conscience tells, when she, with more than tragic horror, swells each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but true, she brings bad action.,; full into review, and, like the dread handwriting on the wall, bids late remorse awake at reason's call; arm'd at all points, bids scorpion vengeance pass, and to the mind holds up reflection's glass-- the mind, which starting heaves the heartfelt groan, and hates that form she knows to be her own.'"-e. ( ) her eldest daughter, afterwards viscountess fortrose . she died in , at the age of twenty.-e. ( ) elizabeth drax, wife of augustus, fourth earl berkeley; she had been lady of the bedchamber to the princess-dowager.-e. ( ) hugh earl, and afterwards duke of northumberland, and his lady, elizabeth seymour, only surviving child of algernon duke of somerset, and heiress, by her grandmother, of the percies.-e. ( ) sir charles bunbury, bart. the reason evidently was, that he remained to vote in the house of commons.-c. ( ) lord boyle, eldest son of the first earl of shannon, married, in the following month, catharine, eldest daughter of the right hon. john ponsonby, speaker of the irish house of commons, by lady ellen cavendish, second daughter of the third duke of devonshire. lord shannon, mr. ponsonby, and the primate, dr. george stone, archbishop of armagh, were the ruling triumvirate of ireland. they were four times declared lords justices of that kingdom. some differences had, however, occurred between these great leaders, which mr. walpole insinuates that this marriage was likely to heal.-c. ( ) the benignity of her reception at court is noticed because general conway's late votes against the ministry might naturally have displeased the king, to whom he was groom of the bedchamber.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) you are in the wrong; believe me you are in the wrong to stay in the country; london never was so entertaining since it had a steeple or a madhouse. cowards fight duels; secretaries of state turn methodists on the tuesday, and are expelled the playhouse for blasphemy on friday. i am not turned methodist, but patriot, and what is more extraordinary, am not going to have a place. what is more wonderful still, lord hardwicke has made two of his sons resign their employments. i know my letter sounds as enigmatic as merlin's almanack; but my events have really happened. i had almost persuaded myself like you to quit the world; thank my stars i did not. why, i have done nothing but laugh since last sunday; though on tuesday i was one of a hundred and eleven, who were outvoted by three hundred; no laughing matter generally to a true patriot, whether he thinks his country undone or himself. nay, i am still: more absurd; even for my dear country's sake i cannot bring myself to connect with lord hardwicke, or the duke of newcastle, though they are in the minority-an unprecedented case, not to love every body one despises, when they are of the same side. on the contrary, i fear i resembled a fond woman, and dote on the dear betrayer. in short, and to write something that you can understand, you know i have long had a partiality for your cousin sandwich, who has out-sandwiched himself. he has impeached wilkes for a blasphemous poem, and has been expelled for blasphemy himself by the beefsteak club at covent-garden. wilkes has been shot by martin, and instead of being burnt at an auto da fe, as the bishop of gloucester intended, is reverenced as a saint by the mob, and if he dies, i suppose, the people will squint themselves into convulsions at his tomb, in honour of his memory. now is not this better than feeding one's birds and one's bantams, poring one's eyes out over old histories, not half so extraordinary as the present, or ambling to squire bencow's on one's padnag, and playing at cribbage with one's brother john and one's parson? prithee come to town, and let us put off taking the veil for another year: besides by this time twelvemonth we are sure the world will be a year older in wickedness, and we shall have more matter for meditation. one would not leave it methinks till it comes to the worst, and that time cannot be many months off. in the mean time, i have bespoken a dagger, in case the circumstances should grow so classic as to make it becoming to kill oneself; however, though disposed to quit the world, as i have no mind to leave it entirely, i shall put off my death to the last minute, and do nothing rashly, till i see mr. pitt and lord temple place themselves in their curule chairs in st. james's-market, and resign their throats to the victors. i am determined to see them dead first, lest they should play me a trick, and be hobbling to buckingham-house, while i am shivering and waiting for them on the banks of lethe. adieu! yours, horatius. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) you tell me, my dear lord, in a letter i have this moment received from you, that you have had a comfortable one from me; i fear it was not the last: you will not have been fond of your brother's voting against the court. since that, he has been told by different channels that they think of taking away regiments from opposers. he heard it, as he would the wind whistle: while in the shape of a threat, he treats it with contempt; if put into execution his scorn would subside into indifference. you know he has but one object--doing what is right; the rest may betide as it will. one or two of the ministers,( ) who are honest men, would, i have reason to believe, be heartily concerned to have such measures adopted; but they are not directors. the little favour they possess, and the desperateness of their situation oblige them to swallow many things they disapprove, and which ruin their character with the nation; while others, who have no character to lose, and whose situation is no less desperate, care not what inconveniences they bring on their master, nor what confusion on their country, in which they can never prosper, except when it is convulsed. the nation, indeed, seems thoroughly sensible of this truth. they are unpopular beyond conception: even of those that vote with them there are numbers that express their aversion without reserve. indeed, on wednesday, the d, this went farther: we were to debate the great point of privilege: wilbraham( ) objected, that wilkes was involved in it, and ought to be present. on this, though, as you see, a question of slight moment, fifty-seven left them at once: they were but to .( ) as we had sat, however, till eight at night, the debate was postponed to next day. mr. pitt, who had a fever and the gout, came on crutches, and wrapped in flannels: so he did yesterday, but was obliged to retire at ten at night, after making a speech of an hour and fifty minutes; the worst, i think, i ever heard him make in my life. for our parts, we sat till within ten minutes of two in the morning: yet we had but few speeches, all were so long. hussey,( ) solicitor to the princess of wales, was against the court, and spoke with great spirit, and true whig spirit. charles yorke( ) shone exceedingly. he had spoke and voted with us the night before; but now maintained his opinion against pratt's.( ) it was a most able and learned performance, and the latter part, which was oratoric, uncommonly beautiful and eloquent. you find i don't let partiality to the whig cause blind my judgment. that speech was certainly the masterpiece of the day. norton would not have made a figure, even if charles yorke had not appeared; but giving way to his natural brutality, he got into an ugly scrape. having so little delicacy or decency as to mention a cause in which he had prosecuted sir john rushout( ) (who sat just under him) for perjury, the tough old knight (who had been honourably acquitted of the charge) gave the house an account of the affair; and then added, "i was assured the prosecution was set on foot by that honest gentleman; i hope i don't call him out of his name--and that it was in revenge for my having opposed him in an election." norton denied the charge upon his honour, which did not seem to persuade every body. immediately after this we had another episode. rigby,( ) totally unprovoked either by any thing said or by the complexion of the day, which was grave and argumentative, fell upon lord temple, and described his behaviour on the commitment of wilkes. james grenville,( ) who sat beside him, rose in all the acrimony of resentment: drew a very favourable picture of his brother, and then one of rigby, conjuring up the bitterest words, epithet, and circumstances that he could amass together: told him how interested he was, and how ignorant: painted his journey to ireland to get a law-place, for which he was so unqualified; and concluded with affirming he had fled from thence to avoid the vengeance of the people. the passive speaker suffered both painters to finish their words, and would have let them carry their colours and brushes into hyde-park the next morning, if other people had not represented the necessity of demanding their paroles that it should go no farther. they were both unwilling to rise: rigby did at last, and put an end to it with humour( ) and good-humour. the numbers were to . the best speech of all those that were not spoken was charles townshend's.( ) he has for some time been informing the world that for the last three months he had constantly employed six clerks to search and transcribe records, journals, precedents, etc. the production of all this mountain of matter was a mouse, and that mouse stillborn: he has voted with us but never uttered a word. we shall now repose for some time; at least i am sure i shall. it has been hard service; and nothing but a whig point of this magnitude could easily have carried me to the house at all, of which i have so long been sick. wilkes will live, but is not likely to be in a situation to come forth for some time. the blasphemous book has fallen ten times heavier on sandwich's own head than on wilkes's: it has brought forth such a catalogue of anecdotes as is incredible! lord hardwicke fluctuates between life and death. lord effingham is dead suddenly, and lord cantelupe( ) has got his troop. these are all our news; i am glad yours go on so smoothly. i take care to do you justice at m. de guerchy's for all the justice you do to france, and particularly to the house of nivernois. d'eon( ) is here still: i know nothing more of him but that the honour of having a hand in the peace overset his poor brain. this was evident on the fatal night( ) at lord halifax's: when they told him his behaviour was a breach of the peace, he was quite distracted, thinking it was the peace between his country and this. our operas begin to-morrow. the duchess of grafton is come for a fortnight only. my compliments to the ambassadress, and all your court. ( ) there is reason to think that at this moment mr. grenville and lord halifax were those to whom mr. walpole gave credit for honest intentions and a disposition to moderate and conciliate. this opinion, though probably correct, walpole soon changed, as to mr. grenville.-c. ( ) randle wilbraham, ll.d. a barrister, deputy steward of the university of oxford, and member for newton, in lancashire.-e. ( ) the question was, "that privilege of parliament does not extend to the case of writing and publishing seditious libels, nor ought to be allowed to obstruct the ordinary course of the laws in the speedy and effectual prosecution of so heinous and dangerous an offence."-c. ( ) richard hussey, member for st. mawes. he was counsel to the navy, as well as solicitor to the queen, not, as mr. walpole says, to the princess. he was afterwards her majesty's attorney-general.-c. ( ) charles yorke, second son of lord chancellor hardwicke. he had been attorney-general, but resigned on the st of october. he agreed with the ministry on the question of privilege, but differed from them on general warrants. this last difference may have accelerated his resignation; but the event itself had been determined on, ever since the failure of a negotiation which took place towards the end of the preceding august, through mr. pitt and lord hardwicke, to form a new administration on a whig basis.-c. ( ) chief justice of the common pleas, afterwards lord camden. he had discharged wilkes out of confinement on the ground of privilege.-e. ( ) sir john rushout, of northwick, the fourth baronet. he had sat in ten parliaments; in the three first for malmsbury, and in the rest for evesham. he had been a violent politician in sir robert walpole's administration. see vol. i. p. , letter .-e. ( ) the right hon. richard rigby, master of the rolls in ireland, afterwards paymaster of the forces; a statesman of the second class, and a bon vivant of the first. mr. rigby was at one time a chief friend and favourite of mr. walpole's, but became involved in mr. walpole's dislike to the duke of bedford, to whom mr. rigby was sincerely and constantly attached, and over whom he was supposed to have great influence.-c. ( ) fourth brother of lord temple and mr. george grenville; father of lord glastonbury.-e. ( ) lady suffolk, in a letter to the earl of buckingham, of the th of november, says, "jemmy grenville and mr. rigby were so violent against each other, one in his manner of treating lord temple, who was in the house, and the brother in his justification of his brother, that the house was obliged to interfere to prevent mischief. lord temple comes to me; but politics is the bane of friendship, and when personal resentments join, the man becomes another creature."-e. ( ) as mr. walpole seems to impute mr. charles townshend's silence on the question of privilege to fickleness, or some worse cause, it is but just to state that he never quite approved that question. this will be seen from the following extract from some of his confidential letters to dr. brocklesby, written two months before parliament met:--"you know i never approved of no. , or engaged in any of the consequential measures. as to the question of privilege, it is an intricate matter; the authorities are contradictory, and the distinctions to be reasonably made on the precedents are plausible and endless." mr. townshend gave a good deal of further consideration to the subject, and his silence in the debate only proves that his first impressions were confirmed. mr. burke's beautiful, but, perhaps, too favourable character of charles townshend will immortalize the writer and the subject.-c. ( ) john, afterwards second earl of delawarr, vice-chamberlain to the queen.-e. ( ) this singular person had been secretary to the duke de nivernois's embassy, and in the interval between that ambassador's departure and the arrival of m. de guerchy, the french mission to our court devolved upon him. this honour, as mr. walpole intimates, seems to have turned his head, and he was so absurdly exasperated at being superseded by m. de guerchy, that he refused to deliver his letters of recall, set his court at defiance, and published a volume of libels on m. de guerchy and the french ministers. as he persisted in withholding the letters of recall, the two courts were obliged to notify in the london gazette that his mission was at an end; and the french government desired that he be given up to them. this, of course, could not be done: but he was proceeded against by criminal information, and finally convicted of the libels against m. de guerchy. d'eon asserted, that the french ministry had a design to carry him off privately; and it has been said that he was apprised of this scheme by louis xv. who, it seems, had entertained some kind of secret and extra- official communication with this adventurer. he afterwards continued in obscurity until , when the public was astonished by the trial of an action before lord mansfield, for money lost on a wager respecting his sex. on that trial it seemed proved beyond all doubt, that the person was a female. proceedings in the parliament of paris had a similar result, and the soldier and the minister was condemned to wear woman's attire, which d'eon did for many years. he emigrated at the revolution, and died in london in may, . on examination, after death, the body proved to be that of a male. this circumstance, attested by the most respectable authorities, is so strongly it variance with all the former evidence, that the french biographers have been induced to doubt whether the original chevalier d'eon and the person who died in were the same, and they even endeavour to show that the real person, the chevali`ere, as they term it, died in ; but we cannot admit this solution of the difficulty, for one, at least, of the surgeons who examined the body in , had known d'eon in his habiliments, and he had for ten years lived unquestioned under the name of d'eon.-c. ( ) on the th of october, d'eon, meeting m. de guerchy and a m. de vergy at lord halifax's, in great george-street, burst out into such violence on some observation made by de vergy, that it became necessary to call in the guard. his whole behaviour in this affair looks like insanity.-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i have been expecting a letter all day, as friday is the day i have generally received a letter from you, but it is not yet arrived and i begin mine without it. m. de guerchy has given us a prosperous account of my lady hertford's audience still i am impatient to hear it from yourselves. i want to know, too, what you say to your brother's being in the minority. i have already told you that unless they use him ill, i do not think him likely to take any warm part. with regard to dismission of officers, i hear no more of it: such a violent step would but spread the flames. which are already fierce enough. i will give you an instance: last' saturday, lord cornwallis( ) and lord allen,( ) came drunk to the opera: the former went up to rigby in the pit, and told him in direct words that lord sandwich was a pickpocket. then lord allen, with looks and gestures no less expressive, advanced close to him, and repeating this again in the passage, would have provoked a quarrel, if george west( ) had not carried him away by force. lord (cornwallis, the next morning in hyde-park, made an apology to rigby for his behaviour, but the rest of the world is not so complaisant. his pride, insolence, and over-bearingness, have made him so many enemies, that they are glad to tear him to pieces for his attack on lord temple, so unprovoked, and so poorly performed. it was well that with his spirit and warmth he had the sense not to resent the behaviour of those two drunken young fellows. on tuesday your lordship's house sat till ten at night, on the resolutions we had communicated to you; and you agreed to them by to : a puny minority indeed, considering of what great names it was composed! even the duke of cumberland voted in it; but mr. yorke's speech in our house, and lord mansfield's in yours, for two hours, carried away many of the opposition, particularly lord lyttelton, and the greater part of the duke of newcastle's bishops.( ) the duke of grafton is much commended. the duke of portland commenced, but was too much frightened. there was no warmth nor event; but lord shelburne, who they say spoke well, and against the court, and as his friends had voted in our house, has produced one, the great mr. calcraft( ) being turned out yesterday, from some muster-mastership; i don't know what. lord sandwich is canvassing to succeed lord hardwicke, as high steward of cambridge; another egg of animosity. we shall, however, i believe, be tolerably quiet till after christmas, as mr. wilkes will not be able to act before the holidays. i rejoice at it: i am heartily sick of all this folly, and shall be glad to get to strawberry again, and hear nothing of it. the ministry have bought off lord clive( ) with a bribe that would frighten the king of france himself: they have given him back his , a year. walsh( ) has behaved nobly: he said he could not in conscience vote with the administration, and would not vote against lord clive, who chose him: he has therefore offered to resign his seat. lady augusta's( ) fortune was to be voted to-day and lord strange talked of opposing it; but i had not the curiosity to go down. this is all our politics, and indeed all our news; we have none of any other kind. so far you will not regret england. for my part, i wish myself with you. being perfectly indifferent who is minister and who is not, and weary of laughing( ) at both, i shall take hold of the first spring to make you my visit. our operas do not succeed. girardini, now become minister and having no exchequer to buy an audience, is grown unpopular. the mingotti, whom he has forced upon the town, is as much disliked as if he had insisted on her being first lord of the treasury. the first man, though with sweet notes, has so weak a voice that he might as well hold his tongue like charles townshend. the figurantes are very pretty, but can dance no more than tommy pelham.( ) the first man dancer is handsome, well made, and strong enough to make his fortune any where: but you know, fortunes made in private are seldom agreeable to the public.( ) in short, it will not do; there was not a soul in the pit the second night. lady mary coke has received her gown by the prince de masseran, and is exceedingly obliged to you, though much disappointed; this being a slight gown made up, and not the one she expected, which is a fine one bought for her by lady holland,( ) and which you must send somehow or other: if you cannot, you must despatch an ambassador on purpose. i dined with the prince de masseran, at guerchy's, the day after his arrival; and if faces speak truth, he will not be our ruin. oh! but there is a ten times more delightful man--the austrian minister:( ) he is so stiff and upright, that you would think all his mistress's diadems were upon his head, and that he was afraid of their dropping off. i know so little of irish politics, that i am afraid of misinforming you: but i hear that hamilton, who has come off with honour in a squabble with lord newton,( ) about the latter's wife, speaks and votes with the opposition against the castle.( ) i don't know the meaning of it, nor, except it had been to tell you, should i have remembered it. well! your letter will not come, and i must send away mine. remember, the holidays are coming, and that i shall be a good deal out of town. i have been charming hitherto, but i cannot make brick without straw. encore, you are almost the only person i ever write a line to. i grow so old and so indolent that i hate the sight of a pen and ink. ( ) charles, first marquis of cornwallis: born in , succeeded his father, the first earl, in , and died in india in .-e. ( ) joshua, fifth viscount allen, of ireland, born in .-e. ( ) george, second son of the first earl of delawarr.-e. ( ) bishops made during the duke of newcastle's administration, and who were therefore supposed likely to be of his opinion. the duke of newcastle after being nearly half a century in office, was now in opposition.-c. ( ) john calcraft, esq. was deputy commissary-general of musters: he was particularly attached to mr. fox; which is, perhaps, one reason why mr. walpole, who had now quarrelled with mr. fox, speaks so slightingly of mr. calcraft.-c. ( ) robert clive, who, for his extraordinary services and success in india, was, at the age of thirty-five, created an irish peer. it was of him that mr. pitt said, that he was "a heaven-born general, who without any experience in military affairs, had surpassed all the officers of his time." the wealth which this great man accumulated in india was, during his whole subsequent life, a subject of popular jealousy and party attack.-c. ( ) john walsh, esq. member for worcester.-e. ( ) princess augusta, eldest sister of george iii.; married in january to the duke of brunswick, killed at jena, in . her royal highness died in london in .-e. ( ) mr. walpole affected indifference to politics, but the tone of his correspondence does not quite justify the expression of laughing at either party; he was warmly interested in the one, and bitterly hostile to the other, and for a considerable period took a deep and active interest in political party.-c. ( ) thomas pelham, member for sussex, afterwards comptroller of the household, and first earl of chichester.-e. ( ) the reader will observe, in this description of the opera, an amusing allusion to public affairs; the last sentence refers, no doubt, to lord bute.-c. ( ) lady georgina caroline lenox, eldest daughter of charles, second duke of richmond. she had been, in , created baroness holland in her own right.-c. ( ) probably the count de seleirn, minister from the empress-queen, maria theresa. ( ) brinsley lord newton, afterwards second earl of lanesborough, married lady jane rochfort, eldest daughter of the first earl of belvidere. in the affair here alluded to lord newton exhibited at first an extreme jealousy, and subsequently what was thought an extreme facility in admitting mr. hamilton's exculpatory assurances.-c. ( ) this is not quite true; but mr. hamilton was on very bad terms with the lord lieutenant, and certainly did not take that prominent part in the house of commons of ireland which his station as chief secretary seemed to require,.-c. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) dear sir, according to custom i am excessively obliged to you: you are continually giving me proofs of your kindness. i have now three packets to thank you for, full of information, and have only lamented the trouble you have given yourself. i am glad for the tomb's sake and my own, that sir giles allington's monument is restored. the draught you have sent is very perfect. the account of your ancestor tuer( ) shall not be forgotten in my next edition. the pedigree of allington i had from collins before his death, but i think not as perfect as yours. you have made one little slip in it: my mother was granddaughter, not daughter of sir john shorter, and was not heiress, having three brothers, who all died after her, and we only quarter the arms of shorter, which i fancy occasioned the mistake, by their leaving no children. the verses by sir edward walpole, and the translation by bland, are published in my description of houghton. i am come late from the house of lords, and am just going to the opera; so you will excuse me saying more than that i have a print of archbishop hutton for you (it @is dr. ducarel's), and a little plate of strawberry; but i do not send them by the post, as it would crease them: if you will tell me how to convey them otherwise, i will. i repeat many thanks to you. ( ) herbert tuer, the painter. after the death of charles . he withdrew into holland, and it is believed that he died at utrecht.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. friday, dec. , . (page ) your brother has sent you such a full account of his transaction with mr. grenville( ) that it is not necessary for me to add a syllable, except, what your brother will not have said himself, that he has acted as usual with the strictest honour and firmness, and has turned this negotiation entirely to his own credit. he has learned the ill wishes of his enemies, and what is more, knows who they are: he has laughed at them, and found at last that their malice was much bigger than their power. mr. grenville, as you would wish, has proved how much he disliked the violence of his associates, as i trust he will, whenever he has an opportunity, and has at last contented himself with so little or nothing, that i am sure you will feel yourself obliged to him. for the measure itself, of turning out the officers in general who oppose, it has been much pressed, and what is still sillier, openly threatened by one set; but they dare not do it, and having notified it without effect, are ridiculed by the whole town, as well as by the persons threatened, particularly by lord albermarle, who has treated their menaces with the utmost contempt and spirit. this mighty storm, like another i shall tell you of, has vented itself on lord shelburne and colonel barr`e,( ) who were yesterday turned out; the first from aide-de-camp to the king, the latter from adjutant-general and governor of stirling. campbell,( ) to whom it was promised before, has got the last; ned harvey,( ) the former. my present expectation is an oration from barr`e( in honour of mr. pitt; for those are scenes that make the world so entertaining. after that, i shall demand a satire on mr. pitt, from mr. wilkes; and i do not believe i shall be balked, for wilkes has already expressed his resentment on being given up by pitt, who, says wilkes, ought to be expelled for an impostor.( ) i do not know whether the duke of newcastle does not expect a palinodia from me( ) t'other morning at the duke's lev`ee he embraced me, and hoped i would come and eat a bit of sussex mutton with him. i had such difficulty to avoid laughing in his face that i got from him as fast as i could. do you think me very likely to forget that i have been laughing at him these twenty years? well! but we have had a prodigious riot: are not you impatient to know the particulars? it was so prodigious a tumult, that i verily thought half the administration would have run away to harrowgate. the north briton was ordered to be burned by the hangman at cheapside, on saturday last. the mob rose; the greatest mob, says mr. sheriff blunt, that he has known in forty years. they were armed with that most bloody instrument, the mud out of the kennels: they hissed in the most murderous manner: broke mr. sheriff harley's coach-glass in the most frangent manner; scratched his forehead, so that he is forced to wear a little patch in the most becoming manner; and obliged the hangman to burn the paper with a link, though fagots were prepared to execute it in a more solemn manner. numbers of gentlemen, from windows and balconies, encouraged the mob, who, in about an hour and a half, were so undutiful to the ministry, as to retire without doing any mischief, or giving mr. carteret webb( ) the opportunity of a single information, except against an ignorant lad, who had been in town but ten days. this terrible uproar has employed us four days. the sheriffs were called before your house on monday, and made their narrative. my brother cholmondeley,( ) in the most pathetic manner, and suitably to the occasion, recommended it to your lordships, to search for precedents of what he believed never happened since the world began. lord egmont,( ) who knows of a plot, which he keeps to himself, though it has been carrying on these twenty years, thought more vigorous measures ought to be taken on such a crisis, and moved to summon the mistress of the union coffee-house. the duke of bedford thought all this but piddling, and at once attacked lord mayor, common council, and charter of the city, whom, if he had been supported, i believe he would have ordered to be all burned by the hangman next saturday. unfortunately for such national justice, lord mansfield, who delights in every opportunity of exposing and mortifying the duke of bedford, and sandwich, interposed for the magistracy of london, and after much squabbling, saved them from immediate execution. the duke of grafton, with infinite shrewdness and coolness, drew from the witnesses that the whole mob was of one mind; and the day ended in a vote of general censure on the rioters. this was communicated to us at a conference, and yesterday we acted the same farce; when rigby trying to revive the imputation on the lord mayor, etc. (who, by the by, did sit most tranquilly at guildhall during the whole tumult) the ministry disavowed and abandoned him to a man, vindicating the magistracy, and plainly discovering their own fear and awe of the city, who feel the insult, and will from hence feel their own strength. in short, to finish this foolish story, i never saw a transaction in which appeared so little parts, abilities, or conduct; nor do i think there can be any thing weaker than the administration except it is the opposition: but an opposition, bedrid and tonguetied, is a most ridiculous body. mr. pitt is laid up with the gout; lord hardwicke, though much relieved by a quack medicine, is still very ill; and mr. charles townshend is as silent as my lord abercorn( --that they too should ever be alike! this is not all our political news; wilkes is an inexhaustible fund: on monday was heard, in the common pleas, his suit against mr. wood,( ) when, after a trial of fourteen hours, the jury gave him damages of one thousand pounds; but this was not the heaviest part of the blow. the solicitor-general( ) tried to prove wilkes author of the north briton, and failed in the proof. you may judge how much this miscarriage adds to the defeat. wilkes is not yet out of danger: they think there is still a piece of coat or lining to come out of the wound. the campaign is over for the present, and the troops going into country quarters. in the mean time, the house of hamilton has supplied us with new matter of talk. my lord was robbed about three o'clock in the night between saturday and sunday, of money, bills, watches, and snuff-boxes, to the amount of three thousand pounds. nothing is yet discovered, but that the guard in the stable yard saw a man in a great coat and white stockings come from thereabouts, at the time i have named. the servants have all been examined over and over to no purpose. fielding( ) is all day in the house, and a guard of his at night. the bureau in my lord's dressing-room (the little red room where the pictures are) was forced open. i fear you can guess who was at first suspected.( ) i have received yours, my dear lord, of nov. th, and am pleased that my lady hertford is so well reconciled to her ministry. you forgot to give me an account of her audience, but i have heard of the queen's good-natured attention to her. the anecdotes about lord sandwich are numerous; but i do not repeat them to you, because i know nothing how true they are, and because he has, in several instances, been very obliging to me, and i have no reason to abuse him. lord hardwicke's illness, i think, is a rupture and consequences. i hope to hear that your little boy is recovered. adieu! i have filled my gazette, and exhausted my memory. i am glad such gazettes please you - i can have no other excuse for sending such tittle-tattle. ( ) this transaction was an endeavour on the part of mr. grenville to obtain from general conway a declaration that "his disposition was not averse from a general support of the persons and measures of those now employed," and permission " to say so much when he might have occasion to speak to him." this declaration general conway declined to give, although mr. grenville seemed to ask it only to enable him to save conway from dismissal on account of his late vote. there is reason to believe that at this conference (at which the duke of richmond was present, as conway's friend) some overtures of a more intimate connexion with the administration were made; but conway declared his determination to adhere to the politics of his friends, the dukes of devonshire and grafton. "at least," he said, "if he should hereafter happen to differ from them, he should so steer his conduct as not to be, in any way of office or emolument, the better for it."-c. ( ) isaac barr`e was a native of ireland, and born in : he entered the army early in life, and rose, gradually to the rank of colonel. he was in made adjutant-general and the governor of stirling castle, but was turned out on this occasion, and even resigned his half-pay. he continued to make a considerable figure in the house of commons: in he became a privy-councillor and treasurer of the navy, which latter office he soon exchanged for paymaster of the forces; but on the change of government he retired on a pension of pounds, which his political friends had previously secured for him. from this time his sight failed him, and he was quite blind for many years previous to his death, which took place in .-c. ( ) captain james, afterwards sir james campbell, of ardkinglass: a captain in the army, and member for the county of stirling.-e. ( ) major-general edward harvey, lieutenant-general in .-e. ( ) colonel barr`e, previous to his dismissal, had distinguished himself by an attack on mr. pitt, which is not reported in the parliamentary debates.-c. [in the chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. , will be found the following passage, in a letter from mr. symmers to sir andrew mitchell, dated january , :--"would you know a little of the humour of parliament, and particularly with regard to mr. pitt?' i must tell you that colonel barr`e, a soldier of fortune, a young man born in dublin, of a mean condition, his father and mother from france, and established in a little grocer's shop by the patronage of the bishop of clogher; a child of whom the mother nursed; this young man (a man of address and parts), found out, pushed, and brought into parliament by lord shelburne, had not sat two days in the house of commons before he attacked mr. pitt. i shall give you a specimen of his philippics. talking in the manner of mr. pitt's speaking, he said, 'there he would stand, turning up his eyes to heaven, that witnessed his perjuries, and laying his hand in a solemn manner upon the table, that sacrilegious hand, that hand that had been employed in tearing out the bowels of his mother country!' would you think that mr. pitt would bear this and be silent; or would you think that the house would suffer a respectable member to be so treated? yet so it was."] ( ) in the house of commons, a few days before, mr. pitt had condemned the whole series of north britons, and called them illiberal, unmanly, and detestable: "he abhorred," he said, "all national reflections: the king's subjects were one people; whoever divided them was guilty of sedition: his majesty's complaint was well-founded; it was just; it was necessary: the author did not deserve to be ranked among the human species; he was the blasphemer of his god and the libeller of the king."-e. ( ) this improbable event a few weeks brought about. we shall see that mr. walpole did sing his palinodia, and went down to claremont to eat a bit of mutton with the man in the world whom (as all his writings, but especially his lately published memoires, show) he had most heartily hated and despised.-c. ( ) philip carteret webb, esq. solicitor to the treasury and member for haslemere.-e. ( ) george third earl of cholmondeley; born in : married mr. walpole's only legitimate sister, who died at aix in ; and as all sir robert walpole's sons died without issue, lord cholmondeley's family succeeded to houghton, and the rest of the walpole property, as heirs-at-law of sir robert.-c. ( ) john, second earl of egmont, at this time first lord of the admiralty. lord egmont had been in the house of commons what coxe calls "a fluent and plausible debater;" but he had some peculiarities of mind, to which walpole here and elsewhere alludes.-c. ( ) james, eighth earl of abercorn, "a nobleman," says his panegyrist, "whose character was but little known, or rather but little understood; but who possessed singular vigour of mind, integrity of conduct, and patriotic views." mr. walpole elsewhere laughs at his lordship's dignified aversion to throwing away his words.-c. ( ) an action brought by wilkes against robert wood, esq. late under-secretary of state for seizing wilkes's papers, etc. it was tried before chief justice pratt, and under his direction the jury found for the plaintiff.-c. ( ) sir fletcher norton was not made attorney-general till after this trial.-e. ( ) mr. john fielding, chief police magistrate.-e. ( ) the robbery was committed by one bradley, a discharged footman, and one john wisket. the former was admitted a witness for the crown, and the latter was hanged on his evidence, in dec. .-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) on the very day i wrote to you last, my dear lord, an extraordinary event happened, which i did not then know. a motion was made in the common council, to thank the sheriffs for their behaviour at the riot, and to prosecute the man who was apprehended for it. this was opposed, and the previous question being put, the numbers were equal; but the casting vote of the lord mayor( ) was given against putting the first question--pretty strong proceeding; for though, in consequence and in resentment of the duke of bedford's speech, it seemed to justify his grace, who had accused the mayor and magistracy of not trying to suppress the tumult; if they will not prosecute the rioters, it is not very unfair to surmise that they did not dislike the riot. indeed, the city is so inflamed, and the ministry so obnoxious, that i am very apprehensive of some violent commotion. the court have lost the essex election( ) merely from lord sandwich interfering in it, and from the duke of bedford's speech; a great number of votes going from the city on that account to vote for luther. sir john griffin,( ) who was disobliged by sandwich's espousing conyers, went to chelmsford, at the head of five hundred voters. one of the latest acts of the ministry will not please my lady hertford: they have turned out her brother, colonel fitzroy:( fitzherbert,( ) too, is removed; and, they say, sir joseph yorke recalled.( ) i must do lord halifax and mr. grenville the justice to say that these violences are not imputed to them. it is certain that the former was the warmest opposer of the measure for breaking the officers; and mr. grenville's friends take every opportunity of throwing the blame on the duke of bedford and lord sandwich. the duchess of bedford, who is too fond a wife not to partake in all her husband's fortunes, has contributed her portion of indiscretion. at a great dinner, lately, at lord halifax's, all the servants present, mention being made of the archbishop of canterbury,( ) m. de guerchy asked the duchess, "est-il de famille?" she replied, "oh! mon dieu, non, il a `et`e sage-femme." the mistake of sage-femme for accoucheur, and the strangeness of the proposition, confounded guerchy so much, that it was necessary to explain it: but think of a minister's wife telling a foreigner, and a catholic, that the primate of her own church had been bred a man-midwife! the day after my last, another verdict was given in the common pleas, of four hundred pounds to the printers; and another episode happened, relating to wilkes; one dunn, a mad scotchman, was seized in wilkes's house, whither he had gone intending to assassinate him. this was complained of in the house of commons, but the man's phrensy was verified; it was even proved that he had notified his design in a coffee-house, some days before. the mob, however, who are determined that lord sandwich shall answer for every body's faults, as well as his own, believe that he employed dunn. i wish the recess, which begins next monday, may cool matters a little, for indeed it grows very serious. nothing is discovered of lord harrington's robbery, nor do i know any other news, but that george west( ) is to marry lady mary grey. the hereditary prince's wound is broken out again, and will defer his arrival. we have had a new comedy,( ) written by mrs. sheridan, and admirably acted; but there was no wit in it, and it was so vulgar that it ran but three nights. poor lady hervey desires you will tell mr. hume how incapable she is of answering his letter. she has been terribly afflicted for these six weeks with a complication of gout, rheumatism, and a nervous complaint. she cannot lie down in her bed, nor rest two minutes in her chair. i never saw such continued suffering. you say in your last, of the th, that you have omitted to invite no englishman of rank or name. this gives me an opportunity, my dear lord, of mentioning one englishman, not of great rank, but who is very unhappy that you have taken no notice of him. you know how utterly averse i am to meddle, or give impertinent advice; but the letter i saw was expressed with so much respect and esteem for you, that you would love the person. it is mr. selwyn, the banker. he says, he expected no favour; but the great regard he has for the amiableness of your character, makes him miserable at being totally undistinguished by you. he has so good a character himself and is so much beloved by many persons here that you know, that i think you will not dislike my putting you in mind of him. the letter was not to me, nor to any friend of mine; therefore, i am sure, unaffected. i saw the whole letter, and he did not even hint at its being communicated to me. i have not mentioned lady holdernesse's presentation, though i by no means approve it, nor a dutch woman's lowering the peerage of england. nothing of that sort could make me more angry, except a commoner's wife taking such a step; for you know i have all the pride of a citizen of rome, while rome survives: in that respect my name is thoroughly horatius. ( ) william bridgen, esq.-e. ( ) john luther, esq. was returned for essex, on the popular interest, after a severe and most expensive contest.-c. ( ) sir john griffin griffin, k. b., major-general and colonel of the d regiment; member for andover. he established, in , a claim to the barony of howard de walden, and was created, in , baron braybrook, with remainder to a. a. neville, esq. he died in .-c. ( ) colonel charles fitzroy, member for bury, afterwards lord southampton. it seems strange that mr. walpole should be mistaken in such a point; but colonel fitzroy was not lady hertford's brother, but her brother's son.-c. ( ) william fitzherbert, esq. member for derby: a lord of trade.-c. ( ) the rumour mentioned in the text was unfounded, sir joseph continued at the hague till .-c. ( ) archbishop secker. the grounds for this strange story (which walpole was fond of repeating) was, that the archbishop had, in early youth, been intended for the medical profession, and had attended some hospitals.-c. ( ) mr. west married, in february , lady mary grey, daughter of the earl of stamford: he died without issue, in .-e. ( ) "the dupe," by mrs. sheridan, mother of richard brinsley sheridan. the biographia dramatica says it was condemned, "on account of a few passages, which the audience thought two indelicate."-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) you are sensible, my dear lord, that any amusement from my letters must depend upon times and seasons. we are a very absurd nation (though the french are so good at present as to think us a very wise one, only because they themselves, are now a very weak one); but then that absurdity depends upon the almanac. posterity, who will know nothing of our intervals, wilt conclude that this age was a succession of events. i could tell them that we know as well when an event, as when easter will happen. do but recollect these last ten years. the beginning of october, one is certain that every body will be at newmarket, and the duke of cumberland will lose', and shafto( ) win, two or three thousand pounds. after that, while people are preparing to come to town for the winter, the ministry is suddenly changed, and all the world comes to learn how it happened, a fortnight sooner than they intended; and fully persuaded that the new arrangement cannot last a month. the parliament opens; every body is bribed; and the new establishment is perceived to be composed of adamant. november passes, with two or three self-murders, and a new play. christmas arrives; every body goes out of town; and a riot happens in one of the theatres. the parliament meets again; taxes are warmly opposed; and some citizen makes a fortune by a subscription.( ) the opposition languishes; balls and assemblies begin; some master and miss begin to get together, are talked of, and give occasion to forty more matches being invented; an unexpected debate starts up at the end of the session, that makes more noise than any thing that was designed to make a noise, and subsides again in a new peerage or two. ranelagh opens and vauxhall; one produces scandal, and t'other a drunken quarrel. people separate, some to tunbridge, and some to all the horseraces in england; and so the year comes again to october. i dare to prophesy, that if you keep this letter, you will find that my future correspondence will be but an illustration of this text; at least, it is an excuse for my having very little to tell you at present, and was the reason of my not writing to you last week. before the parliament adjourned, there was nothing but a trifling debate in an empty house, occasioned by a motion from the ministry, to order another physician and surgeon to attend wilkes; it was carried by about seventy to thirty, and was only memorable by producing mr. charles townshend, who having sat silent through the question of privilege, found himself interested in the defence of dr. brocklesby!( ) charles ridiculed lord north extremely, and had warm words with george grenville. i do not look upon this as productive of consequential speaking for the opposition; on the contrary, i should expect him sooner in place, if the ministry could be fools enough to restore weight to him and could be ignorant that he can never hurt them so much as by being with them. wilkes refused to see heberden and hawkins, whom the house commissioned to visit him; and to laugh at us more, sent for two scotchmen, duncan and middleton. well! but since that, he is gone off himself: however, as i (lid in d'eon's case, i can now only ask news of him from you, and not tell you any; for you have got him. i do not believe you will invite him, and make so much of him, as the duke of bedford did. both sides pretend joy at his being gone; and for once i can believe both. you will be diverted, as i was, at the cordial esteem the ministers have for one another; lord waldegrave( ) told my niece, this morning, that he had offered a shilling, to receive an hundred pounds when-@sandwich shall lose his head! what a good opinion they have of one another! apropos to losing heads, is lally beheaded? the east india company have come to an unanimous resolution of not paying lord clive the three hundred thousand pounds, which the ministry had promised him in lieu of his nabobical annuity. just after the bargain was made, his old rustic of a father was at the king's lev`ee; the king asked where his son was; he replied, "sire, he is coming to town, and their your majesty will have another vote." if you like these franknesses, i can tell you another. the chancellor( ) is chosen a governor of st. bartholomew's hospital; a smart gentleman, who was sent with the staff, carried it in the evening, when the chancellor happened to be drunk. "well, mr. bartlemy," said his lordship, snuffling, "what have you to say?" the man, who had prepared a formal harangue, was transported to have so fair opportunity given him of uttering it, and with much dapper gesticulation congratulated his lordship on his health, and the nation on enjoying such great abilities. the chancellor stopped him short, crying, "by god, it is a lie! i have neither health nor abilities my bad health has destroyed my abilities." the late chancellor( ) is much better. the last time the king was at drury-lane, the play given out for the next night was "all in the wrong:" the galleries clapped, and then cried out. "let us be all in the right! wilkes and liberty!" when the king comes to a theatre, or goes out, or goes to the house, there is not a single applause; to the queen there is a little: in short, louis le bien-aim`e is not french at present for king george. the town, you may be sure, is very empty; the greatest party is at woburn, whither the comte de guerchy and the duc de pecquigny are going. i have been three days at strawberry, and had george selwyn, williams, and lord ashburnham;( ) but the weather was intolerably bad. we have scarce had a moment's drought since you went, no more than for so many months before. the towns and the roads are beyond measure dirty, and every thing else under water. i was not well neither, nor am yet, with pains in my stomach: however, if i ever used one, i could afford to pay a physician. t'other day, coming from my lady townshend's, it came into my head to stop at one of the lottery offices, to inquire after a single ticket i had, expecting to find it a blank, but it was five hundred pounds--thank you! i know you wish me joy. it will buy twenty pretty things when i come to paris. i read last night, your new french play, le comte de warwick( ) which we hear has succeeded much. i must say, it does but confirm the cheap idea i have of you french: not to mention the preposterous perversion of history in so known a story, the queen's ridiculous preference of old warwick to a young king; the omission of the only thing she ever said or did in her whole life worth recording, which was thinking herself too low for his wife, and too high for his mistress;( ) the romantic honour bestowed on two such savages as edward and warwick: besides these, and forty such glaring absurdities, there is but one scene that has any merit, that between edward and warwick in the third act. indeed, indeed, i don't honour the modern french: it is making your son but a slender compliment, with his knowledge, for them to say it is extraordinary. the best proof i think they give of their taste, is liking you all three. i rejoice that your little boy is recovered. your brother has been at park-place this week, and stays a week longer: his hill is too high to be drowned. thank you for your kindness to mr. selwyn: if he had too much impatience, i am sure it proceeded only from his great esteem for you. i will endeavour to learn what you desire; and will answer, in another letter, that and some other passages in your last. dr. hunter is very good, and calls on me sometimes. you may guess whether we talk you over or not. adieu! p. s. there has not been a death, but sir william maynard's, who is come to life again: or a marriage, but admiral knollys's who has married his divorced wife again. ( ) robert shafto, esq. of whitworth, member of durham, well known on the turf.-c. ( ) to a loan.-c. ( ) dr. richard brocklesby, an eminent physician. he had been examined before the house of commons, as to mr. wilkes's incapacity to attend in his place. his whig politics, which probably induced mr. wilkes to sen@ for him, induced the majority of the house to distrust his report, and to order two other medical men to visit the patient. this proceeding implied a doubt of dr. brocklesby's veracity, which certainly called for,@ the interference of mr. charles townshend, who was a private as well as a political friend of the doctor's. dr. brocklesby, besides being one of the first physicians of his time, was a man of literature and taste, and did not confine his society nor his beneficence to those who agreed with him in politics. he was the friend and physician of dr. johnson, and when, towards the close of this great man's life, it was supposed that his circumstances were not quite easy, dr. brocklesby generously pressed him to accept an annuity of one hundred pounds, and he attended him to his death with unremitted affection and care.-c. ( ) john, third earl of waldegrave, a general in the army: in master of the horse to the queen.-e. ( ) lord henley; afterwards earl of northington. ( ) lord hardwicke. ( ) john, second earl of ashburnham; one of the lords of the bedchamber, and keeper of the parks.-e. ( ) by la harpe. this play, written when the author was only twenty-three years old, raised him into great celebrity; and is, in the opinion of the french critics, his first work in merit as well as date.-c. ( ) this phrase has been also attributed to mademoiselle de montmorency, afterwards princess de cond`e, in reply to the solicitations of henry iv.; and is told also of mademoiselle de rohan, afterwards duchess of deux ponts.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) it is an age, i own, since i wrote to you; but except politics, what was there to send you? and for politics, the present are too contemptible to be recorded by any body but journalists, gazetteers, and such historians! the ordinary of newgate, or mr. * * * * who write for their monthly half-crown, and who are indifferent whether lord bute, lord melcombe, or maclean is their hero, may swear they find diamonds on dunghills; but you will excuse me, if i let our correspondence lie dormant rather than deal in such trash. i am forced to send lord hertford and sir horace mann such garbage, because they are out of england, and the sea softens and makes palatable any potion, as it does claret; but unless i can divert you, i had rather wait till we can laugh together; the best employment for friends, who do not mean to pick one another's pocket, nor make a property of either's frankness. instead of politics, therefore, i shall amuse you to-day with a fairy tale. i was desired to be at my lady suffolk's on new-year's morn, where i found lady temple and others. on the toilet miss hotham spied a small round box. she seized it with all the eagerness and curiosity of eleven years. in it was wrapped up a heart-diamond ring and a paper in which, in a hand as small as buckinger's, who used to write the lord's prayer in the compass of a silver penny, were the following lines:-- sent by a sylph, unheard, unseen a new-year's gift from mab our queen: but tell it not, for if you do, you will be pinch'd all black and blue. consider well, what a disgrace, to show abroad your mottled face then seal your lips, put on the ring, and sometimes think of ob., the king. you will easily guess that lady temple( ) was the poetess, and that we were delighted with the genteelness of the thought and execution. the child, you may imagine, was less transported with the poetry than the present. her attention, however, was hurried backwards and forwards from the ring to a new coat, that she had been trying on when sent for down; impatient to revisit her coat, and to show the ring to her maid, she whisked up stairs; when she came down again, she found a letter sealed, and lying on the floor--new exclamations! lady suffolk bade her open it: here it is:-- your tongue, too nimble for your sense, is guilty of a high offence; hath introduced unkind debate, and topsy-turvy turned our state. in gallantry i sent the ring, the token of a lovesick king: under fair mab's auspicious name >from me the trifling present came. you blabb'd the news in suffolk's ear; the tattling zephyrs brought it here; as mab was indolently laid under a poppy's spreading shade. the jealous queen started in rage; she kick'd her crown and beat her page: "bring me my magic wand," she cries; "under that primrose there it lies; i'll change the silly, saucy chit, into a flea, a louse, a nit, a worm, a grasshopper, a rat, an owl, a monkey, hedge-hog, bat. ixion once a cloud embraced, by jove and jealousy well placed; what sport to see proud oberon stare, and flirt it with a pet-en pair!" then thrice she stamped the trembling ground, and thrice she waved her wand around; when i endowed with greater skill, and less inclined to do you ill, mutter'd some words, withheld her arm and kindly stoppld the unfinish'd charm but though not changed to owl or bat, or something more indelicate; yet, as your tongue has run too fast, your boasted beauty must not last, no more shall frolic cupid lie in ambuscade in either eye, >from thence to aim his keenest dart to captivate each youthful heart: no more shall envious misses pine at charms now flown, that once were thine: no more, since you so ill behave, shall injured oberon be your slave. the next day my lady suffolk desired i would write her a patent for appointing lady temple poet laureate to the fairies. i was excessively out of order with a pain in my stomach, which i had had for ten days, and was fitter to write verses like a poet laureate, than for making one: however, i was going home to dinner alone, and at six i sent her some lines, which you ought to have seen how sick i was, to excuse; but first, i must tell you my tale methodically. the next morning by nine o'clock miss hotham (she must forgive me twenty years hence for saying she was eleven, for i recollect she is but ten,) arrived at lady temple's, her face and neck all spotted with saffron, and limping. "oh, madam!" said she, "i am undone for ever if you do not assist me!" "lord, child," cried my lady temple, "what is the matter?" thinking she had hurt herself, or lost the ring, and that she was stolen out before her aunt was up. "oh, madam," said the girl. "nobody but you can assist me!" my lady temple protests the 'child acted her part so well as to deceive her. "what can i do for you?" "dear madam, take this load from my back; nobody but you can." lady temple turned her round, and upon her back was tied a child's waggon. in it were three tiny purses of blue velvet; in one of them a silver cup, in another a crown of laurel, and in the third four new silver pennies, with the patent, signed at top, oberon imperator; and two sheets of warrants strung together with blue silk according to form; and at top an office seal of wax and a chaplet of cut paper on it. the warrants were these:-- >from the royal mews: a waggon with the draught horses, delivered by command without fee. >from the lord chamberlain's office: a warrant with the royal sign manual, delivered by command without fee, being first entered in the office books. >from the lord steward's office: a butt of sack, delivered without fee or gratuity, with an order for returning the cask for the use of the office, by command. >from the great wardrobe: three velvet bags, delivered without fee, by command. >from the treasurer of the household's office: a year's salary paid free from land-tax, poundage, or any other deduction whatever, by command. >from the jewel office: a silver butt, a silver cup, a wreath of bays, by command without fee. then came the patent: by these presents be it known, to all who bend before your throne, fays and fairies, elves and sprites, beauteous dames and gallant knights, that we, oberon the grand, emperor of fairy land, king of moonshine, prince of dreams, lord of aganippe's streams, baron of the dimpled isles that lie in pretty maidans' smiles, arch-treasurer of all the graces dispersed through fifty lovely faces, sovereign of the slipper's order, with all the rites thereon that border, defender of the sylphic faith, declare--and thus your monarch saith: whereas there is a noble dame, whom mortals countess temple name, to whom ourself did erst impart the choicest secrets of our art, taught her to tune the harmonious line to our own melody divine, taught her the graceful negligence, which, scorning art and veiling sense, achieves that conquest o'er the heart sense seldom gains, and never art; this lady, 'tis our royal will our laureate's vacant seat should fill: a chaplet of immortal bays shall crown her brow and guard her lays; of nectar sack an acorn cup be at her board each year fill'd up; and as each quarter feast comes round a silver penny shall be found within the compass of her shoe; and so we bid you all adieu! given at our palace of cowslip-castle, the shortest night of the year. oberon. and underneath, hothamina. how shall i tell you the greatest curiosity of the story? the whole plan and execution of the second act was laid and adjusted by my lady suffolk herself and will. chetwynd, master of the mint, lord bolingbroke's oroonoko-chetwynd; he fourscore, she past seventy-six; and, what is more, much worse than i was, for, added to her deafness, she has been confined these three weeks with the gout in her eyes, was actually then in misery, and had been without sleep. what spirits, and cleverness, and imagination, at that age, and under those afflicting circumstances! you reconnoitre her old court knowledge, how charmingly she has applied it! do you wonder i pass so many hours and evenings with her? alas! i had like to have lost her this morning! they had poulticed her feet to draw the gout downwards, and began to succeed yesterday, but to-day it flew up into the head, and she was almost in convulsions with the agony, and screamed dreadfully; proof enough how ill she was, for her patience and good breeding makes her for ever sink and conceal what she feels. this evening the gout has been driven back to her foot, and i trust she is out of' danger. her loss would be irreparable to me at twickenham, where she is by far the most rational and agreeable company i have. i don't tell you that the hereditary prince( ) is still expected and not arrived. a royal wedding would be a flat episode after a re(il fairy tale, though the bridegroom is a hero. i have not seen your brother general yet, but have called on him. when come you yourself? never mind the town and its filthy politics; we can go to the gallery at strawberry--stay, i don't know whether we can or not, my hill is almost drowned, i don't know how your mountain is--well, we can take a boat, and always be gay there; i wish we may be so at seventy-six and eighty! i abominate politics more and more; we had glories, and would not keep them: well! content, that there was an end of blood; then perks prerogative its ass's ears up; we are always to be saving our liberties, and then staking them again! 'tis wearisome! i hate the discussion, and yet one cannot always sit at a gaming-table and never make a bet. i wish for nothing, i care not a straw for the ins or the outs; i determine never to think of them, yet the contagion catches one; can you tell any thing that will prevent infection? well then, here i swear,-no i won't swear, one always breaks one's oath. oh, that i had been born to love a court like sir william breton! i should have lived and died with the comfort of thinking that courts there will be to all eternity, and the liberty of my country would never once have ruffled my smile, or spoiled my bow. i envy sir william. good night! ( ) anne, one of the daughters and coheirs of thomas chambers, of hanworth, in the county of middlesex, esq. wife of earl temple. this lady was a woman of genius: it will hereafter be seen, that a small volume of her poems was printed at the strawberry hill press.-e. ( ) of brunswick. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) monsieur monin, who will deliver this to you, my dear lord, is the particular friend i mentioned in my last,( ) and is, indeed, no particular friend of mine at all, but i had a mind to mislead my lord sandwich, and send you one letter which he should not open. this i write in peculiar confidence to you, and insist upon your keeping it entirely to yourself from every living creature. it will be an answer to several passages in your letters, to which i did not care to reply by the post. your brother was not pleased with your laying the stopping your bills to his charge.( ) to tell you the truth, he thinks you are too much inclined to courts and ministers, as you think him too little so. so far from upbraiding him on that head, give me leave to say you have no reason to be concerned at it. you must be sensible, my dear lord, that you are far from standing well with the opposition, and should any change happen, your brother's being well with them, would prevent any appearance that might be disagreeable to you. in truth, i cannot think you have abundant reason to be fond of the administration. lord bute( ) never gave you the least real mark of friendship. the bedfords certainly do not wish you well: lord holland has amply proved himself your enemy: for a man of your morals, it would be a disgrace to you to be connected with lord sandwich; and for george grenville,( ) he has shown himself the falsest and most contemptible of mankind. he is now the intimate tool of the bedfords, and reconciled to lord bute, whom he has served and disserved just as occasion or interest directed. in this situation of things, can you wonder that particular marks of favour are withheld from you, or that the expenses of your journey are not granted to you as they were to the duke of bedford! you ask me how your letters please; it is impossible for me to learn, now i am so disconnected with every thing ministerial. i wish you not to make them please too much. the negotiations with france must be the great point on which the nation will fix its eyes: with france we must break sooner or later. your letters will be strictly canvassed: i hope and firmly believe that nothing will appear in them but attention to the honour and interest of the nation; points, i doubt, little at the heart of the present administration, who have gone too far not to be in the power of france, and who must bear any thing rather than quarrel. i would not take the liberty of saying so much to you, if, by being on the spot, i was not a judge how very serious affairs grow, and how necessary it is for you to be upon your guard. another question you ask is, whether it is true that the opposition is disunited. i will give you one very necessary direction, which is, not to credit any court stories. sandwich is the father of lies,( ) and every report is tinctured by him. the administration give it out, and trust to this disunion. i will tell you very nearly what truth there is or is not in this. the party in general is as firmly and cordially united as ever party was. consider, that without any heads or leaders at all, ( ) men stuck to wilkes, the worst cause they could have had, and with all the weight of the yorkes against them. with regard to the leaders there is a difference. the old chancellor is violent against the court: but, i believe, displeased that his son was sacrificed( ) to pratt, in the case of privilege. charles yorke( ) resigned, against his own and lord royston,s( ) inclination, is particularly angry with newcastle for complying with pitt in the affair of privilege, and not less displeased that pitt prefers pratt to him for the seals; but then norton is attorney-general, and it would not be graceful to return to court, which he has quitted, while the present ministers remain there. in short, as soon as the affair of wilkes and privilege is at an end, it is much expected that the yorkes will take part in the opposition. it is for that declaration that charles townshend says he waits. he again broke out strongly on friday last against the ministry, attacking george grenville, who seems his object. however, the childish fluctuation of his temper, and the vehemence of his brother george( ) for the court, that is for himself, will for ever make charles little to be depended on. for mr. pitt, you know, he never will act like any other man in the opposition, and to that george grenville trusts: however, here are such materials, that if they could once be put in operation for a fortnight together, the present administration would be blown up. to this you may throw in dissensions among themselves: lord halifax and lord talbot are greatly dissatisfied. lord bute is reconciled to the rest; sees the king continually; and will soon want more power, or will have more jealousy than is consistent with their union. many single men are ill disposed to them, particularly lord george sackville: indeed, nobody is with them, but as it is farther off from, or nearer to, quarter-day: the nation is unanimous against them: a disposition, which their own foolish conduct during the episode of the prince of brunswick,( ) to which i am now coming, has sufficiently manifested. the fourth question put to him on his arrival was, "when do you go?" the servants of the king and queen were forbid to put on their new clothes for the wedding, or drawing-room, next day, and ordered to keep them for the queen's birth-day. such pains were taken to keep the prince from any intercourse with any of the opposition, that he has done nothing but take notice of them. he not only wrote to the duke of newcastle and mr. pitt, but has been at hayes to see the latter, and has dined twice with the duke of cumberland; the first time on friday last, when he was appointed to be at st. james's at half an hour after seven, to a concert. as the time drew near, f`e ronce( ) pulled out his watch; the duke took the hint, and said, "i am sorry to part with you, but i fear your time is come." he replied "n'importe;" sat on, drank coffee, and it was half an hour after eight before he set out from upper-grosvenor street for st. james's. he and princess augusta have felt and shown their disgusts so strongly, and his suite have complained so much of the neglect and disregard of him, and of the very quick dismission of him, that the people have caught it, and on thursday, at the play, received the king and queen without the least symptom of applause, but repeated such outrageous acclamations to the prince, as operated very visibly on the king's countenance. not a gun was fired for the marriage, and princess augusta asking lord gower( ) about some ceremony, to which he replied, it could not be, as no such thing had been done for the prince of orange;( ) she said, it was extraordinary to quote that precedent to her in one case, which had been followed in no other. i could tell you ten more of these stories, but one shall suffice. the royal family went to the opera on saturday: the crowd not to be described: the duchess of leeds, ]lady denbigh, lady scarborough, and others, sat on chairs between the scenes; the doors of the front boxes were thrown open, and the passages were all filled to the back of the stoves; nay, women of fashion stood on the very stairs till eight at night. in the middle of the second act, the hereditary prince, who sat with his wife and her brothers in their box, got up, turned his back to the king and queen, pretending to offer his place to lady tankerville( ) and then to lady susan. you know enough of germans and their stiffness to etiquette, to be sure that this could not be done inadvertently: especially as he repeated this, only without standing up, with one of his own gentlemen, in the third act. i saw him, without any difficulty, from the duchess of grafton's box. he is extremely slender, and looks many years older than he is: in short, i suppose it is his manner with which every mortal is captivated, for though he is well enough for a man, he is far from having any thing striking in his person. to-day (this is tuesday) there was a drawing-room at leicester-house, and to-night there is a subscription ball for him at carlisle-house, soho, made chiefly by the dukes of devonshire and grafton. i was invited to be of it, but not having been to wait on him, did not think it civil to meet him there. the court, by accident or design, had forgot to have a bill passed for naturalizing him. the duke of grafton undertook it, on which they adopted it, and the duke of bedford moved it; but the prince sent word to the duke of grafton, that he should not have liked the compliment half so well, if he had not owed it to his grace. you may judge how he will report of us at his return! with regard to your behaviour to wilkes,( ) i think you observed the just medium: i have not heard it mentioned: if they should choose to blame it, it will not be to me, known as your friend and no friend of theirs. they very likely may say that you did too much, though the duke of bedford did ten times more. churchill has published a new satire, called "the duellist,"( ) the finest and bitterest of his works. the poetry is glorious; some lines on lord holland, hemlock: charming abuse on that scurrilous mortal, bishop warburton: an ill-drawn, though deserved, character of sandwich; and one, as much deserved, and better, of norton. wednesday, after dinner. the lord knows when this letter will be finished; i have been writing it this week, and believe i shall continue it till old monin sets out. encore, the prince of brunswick. at the ball, at buckingham house, on monday: it had begun two hours before he arrived. except the king's and queen's servants, nobody was there but the dukes of marlborough and ancaster, and lord bute's two daughters. no supper. on sunday evening the prince had been to newcastle-house, to visit the duchess. his speech to the duke of bedford, at first, was by no means so strong as they gave it out; he only said, "milord, nous avons fait deux m`etiers bien diff`erens; le v`otre a `et`e le plus agr`eable: j'ai fait couler du sang, vous l'avez fait cesser." his whole behaviour, so much `a la minorit`e, makes this much more probable. his princess thoroughly, agrees with him. when mr. grenville objected to the greatness of her fortune, the king said, "oh! it will not be opposed, for augusta is in the opposition." the ball, last night, at carlisle-house, soho, was most magnificent: one hundred and fifty men subscribed, and five guineas each, and had each three tickets. all the beauties in town were there, that is, of rank, for there was no bad company. the duke of cumberland was there too; and the hereditary prince so pleased, and in such spirits, that he stayed till five in the morning. he is gone to-day, heartily sorry to leave every thing but st. james's and leicester-house. they lie to-night at lord abercorn's,( ) at witham, who does not step from his pedestal to meet them. lady strafford said to him, "soh! my lord, i hear your house is to be royal] v filled on wednesday."--"and serenely,"( ) he replied, and closed his mouth again till next day. our politics have been as follow. last friday the opposition moved for wilkes's complaint of breach of privilege to be heard to-day: grenville objected to it, and at last yielded, after receiving some smart raps from charles townshend and sir george saville. on tuesday the latter, and sir william meredith, proposed to put it off to the th of february, that wilkes's servant, the most material evidence might be here. george grenville again opposed it, was not supported, and yielded. afterwards dowdeswell moved for a committee on the cider-bill; and, at last, a committee was appointed for tuesday next, with powers to report the grievances of the bill, and suggest amendments and redress, but with no authority to repeal it. this the administration carried but by to . indeed, many of their people were in the house of lords, where the court triumphed still less. they were upon the "essay on woman." sandwich proposed two questions; st, that wilkes was the author of it;( ) dly, to order the black rod to attach him. it was much objected by the dukes of devonshire, grafton, newcastle, and even richmond, that the first was not proved, and might affect him in the courts below. lord mansfield tried to explain this away, and lord marchmont and lord temple had warm words. at last sandwich, artfully, to get something, if not all, agreed to melt both questions into one, which was accepted; and the vote passed, that it appearing wilkes was the author, he should be taken into custody by the usher. it appearing, was allowed to mean as far as appears. then a committee was appointed to search for precedents how to proceed on his being withdrawn. that dirty dog kidgel( ) had been summoned by the duke of grafton, but as they only went on the breach of privilege, he was not called. the new club,( ) at the house that was the late lord waldegrave's, in albermarle-street, makes the ministry very uneasy; but they have worse grievances to apprehend! sir robert rich( ) is extremely angry with my nephew, the bishop of exeter, who, like his own and wife's family, is tolerably warm. they were talking together at st. james's, when a'court( ) came in, "there's poor a'court," said the bishop. "poor a,court!" replied the marshal, "i wish all those fellows that oppose the king were to be turned out of the army!" "i hope," said the bishop, "they will first turn all the old women out of it!" the duc de pecquigny was on the point of a duel with lord garlies,( ) at lord milton's( ) ball, the former handing the latter's partner down to supper. i wish you had this duke again, lest you should have trouble with him from hence: he seems a genius of the wrong sort. his behaviour on the visit to woburn was very wrong-headed, though their treatment of him was not more right. lord sandwich flung him down in one of their horse-plays, and almost put his shoulder out. he said the next day there, at dinner, that for the rest of his life he should fear nothing so much as a lettre de cachet from a french secretary of state, or a coup d'`epaule from an english one. after this he had a pique with the duchess, with whom he had been playing at whisk. a shilling and sixpence were left on the table, which nobody claimed. he was asked if it was his, and said no. then they said, let us put it to the cards: there was already a guinea. the duchess, in an air of grandeur said, as there was gold for the groom of the chambers, the sweeper of the room might have the silver, and brushed it off the table. the pecquigny took this to himself, though i don't believe meaned; and complained to the whole town of it, with large comments, at his return. it is silly to tell you such silly stories, but in your situation it may grow necessary for you to know the truth, if you should hear them repeated. i am content to have you call me gossip, if i prove but of the least use to you. here have i tapped the ninth page! well! i am this moment going to m. de guerchy's, to know when monin sets out, that i may finish this eternal letter. if i tire you, tell me so: i am sure i do myself. if i speak with too much freedom to you, tell me so: i have done it in consequence of your questions, and mean it most kindly. in short, i am ready to amend any thing you disapprove; so don't take any thing ill, my dear lord, unless i continue after you have reprimanded me. the safe manner in which this goes, has made me, too, more explicit than you know i have been on any other occasion. adieu! wednesday-night, late. well, my letter will be finished at last. m. monin sets out on friday. so does my lord holland: but i affect not to know it, for he is not just the person that you or i should choose to be the bearer of this. you will be diverted with a story they told me to-night at the french ambassador's. when they went to supper, at soho, last night, the duke of cumberland placed himself at the head of the table. one of the waiters tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "sir, your royal highness can't sit there; that place is designed for the hereditary prince." you ought to have seen how every body's head has been turned with this prince, to make this story credible to you. my lady rockingham, at leicester-house, yesterday, cried great sobs for his departure. yours ever, page the ninth. ( ) this letter does not appear. ( ) lord hertford had claimed certain expenses of his journey to paris which had been allowed to his predecessors, but which were refused to him; he therefore may have expressed a suspicion that his brother's opposition in parliament rendered the ministers at home less favourable to him; but there never was any difference or coldness between the brothers in their private relations. this appears from their private letters at this period.-c. ( ) in april , lord bute surprised both his friends and his opponents by a sudden resignation. the motive of this resolution is still a mystery. some have said, that having concluded the peace, his patriotic views and ambition were satisfied; others that he resigned in disgust at the falsehood and ingratitude of public men; others that he was driven from his station by libels and unpopularity. none of these reasons seem consistent with a desire which lord bute appears to have entertained, to return to office with a new administration. a clamour was long kept up against lord bute's secret and irresponsible influence; but it is now generally admitted that no such influence existed, and that lord bute soon ceased to have any weight in public affairs.-c. ( ) mr. walpole was so vehement in his party feelings, that all his characters of political enemies must be read with great distrust.-c. ( ) lord sandwich was an able minister, and so important a member of the administration to which mr. walpole was now opposed, that we must read all that he says of this lord with some "grains of allowance."-c. ( ) on the th of january, when the ministers were about to proceed to vote wilkes in contempt, and expel him, a motion was made by wilkes's friends to postpone the consideration of the affair till next day; this was lost by to .-c. ( ) he means that the opposition had adopted pratt's view instead of mr. yorke's.-c. ( ) this is not true; the real cause of his resignation is stated ant`e, p. , letter ; he certainly disagreed from the duke of newcastle and others of his friends, who made the matter of privilege a party question instead of treating it as a legal one, as mr. yorke did. ( ) philip lord royston, afterwards second earl of hardwicke, elder brother of mr. charles yorke.-e. ( ) george, first marquis of townshend, at this time a major-general in the army. in the divisions on branches of the wilkes question, we sometimes find general townshend a teller on one side, and mr. townshend on the other.-c. ( ) the hereditary prince, who came to england to marry the princess augusta, eldest sister of george iii. he landed at harwich on the th of january, and arrived the same evening at somerset-house, where he was lodged. lady chatham, in a letter to mr. pitt, relates the following anecdotes mrs. boscawen tells me, that while the prince was at harwich, the people almost pulled down the house in which he was, in order to see him. a substantial quaker insisted so strongly upon seeing him, that he was allowed to come into the room: he pulled off his hat to him, and said, 'noble friend, give me thy hand!' which was given, and he kissed it; 'although i do not fight myself, i love a brave man that will fight: thou art a valiant prince, and art to be married to a lovely princess: love her, make her a good husband, and the lord bless you both!'" see chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) the prince's chief secretary.-e. ( ) granville, second earl gower, afterwards first marquis: groom of the stole.-e. ( ) william charles henry, prince of orange, who, in , married anne, eldest daughter of george ii.-e. ( ) alicia ashley, wife of charles, third earl of tankerville, lady of the bedchamber to princess augusta. nothing but mr. walpole's facetious ingenuity could have tortured the prince's little attention to lady tankerville into a desire to insult the king.-c. ( ) mr. wilkes had thought it prudent to retire to paris, under circumstances which certainly rendered it unlikely that the king's ambassador should pay him any kind of civil attention.-c. ( ) again mr. walpole's partiality blinds him. "the duellist" is surely far from being the finest of churchill's works. mr. walpole's own feelings are strongly marked by the glee with which he sees hemlock administered to his old friend lord holland, and by being charmed with the abuse of bishop warburton.-c. ( ) mr. walpole, by one of those happy expressions which make the chief charm of his writings, characterizes the stately formality of this noble lord. his house at witham is close to the great road, a little beyond the town of witham. her late majesty, queen charlotte, slept there on her way to london, in .-c. ( ) mr. walpole probably understood his lordship to mean that a serene highness was not sufficiently important to require his attendance at witham.-c. ( ) wilkes was convicted, in the court of king's bench, on the st of january, the day before this letter was begun, of having written the essay on woman.-c. ( ) mr. kidgel, a clergyman, had obtained from a printer a copy of the essay on woman, which he said he felt it his duty to denounce. his own personal character turned out to be far from respectable.-c. ( ) the opposition club was in albemarle-street, and the ministerial at the cocoa-tree; and the papers of the day had several political letters addressed to and from these clubs.-c. ( ) the oldest field-marshal in the army. ( ) major-general a,court had a little before resigned, or rather been dismissed, for his parliamentary opposition, from the command of the second regiment of foot-guards.-c. ( ) john, afterwards seventh earl of galloway. ( ) joseph damer, first lord milton. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) dear sir, several weeks ago i begged you to tell me how to convey to you a print of strawberry hill, and another of archbishop hutton. i must now repeat the same request for two more volumes of my anecdotes of painting, which are on the point of being published. i hope no illness prevented my hearing from you. to the rev. mr. cole. dear sir, i am impatient for your manuscript, but have not yet received it. you may depend on my keeping it to myself, and returning it safely. i do not know that history of my father, which you mention, by the name of musgrave. if it is the critical history of his administration, i have it; if not, i shall be obliged to you for it. your kindness to your tenants is like yourself, and most humane. i am glad your prize rewards you, and wish your fortune had been as good as mine, who with a single ticket in this last lottery got five hundred pounds. i have nothing new, that is, nothing old to tell you. you care not about the present world, and are the only real philosopher, i know. i this winter met with a very large lot of english heads, chiefly of the reign of james i., which very nearly perfects my collection. there were several which i had in vain hunted for these ten years. i have bought too, some very scarce, but more modern ones out of sir charles cotterell's collection. except a few of faithorne's, there are scarce any now that i much wish for. with my anecdotes i packed up for you the head of archbishop hutton, and a new little print of strawberry. if the volumes, as i understand by your letter, stay in town to be bound, i hope your bookseller will take care not to lose those trifles. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, jan. , . (page ) i am very sorry, sir, that your obliging corrections of my anecdotes of painting have come so late, that the first volume is actually reprinted. the second shall be the better for them. i am now publishing the third volume, and another of engravers. i wish you would be so kind as to tell me how i may convey them speedily to you: you waited too long the last time for things that have little merit but novelty. these volumes are of still less worth than the preceding; our latter painters not compensating by excellence for the charms that antiquity has bestowed on their antecessors. i wish i had known in time what heads of nanteuil you want. there has been a very valuable sale of sir clement cotterell's prints, the impressions most beautiful, and of which nanteuil made the capital part. i do not know who particularly collects his works now, but i have ordered my bookseller bathoe,( ) who is much versed in those things, to inquire; and if i hear of any purchaser, sir, i will let you know. i have not bought the anecdotes of polite literature,( ) suspecting them for a bookseller's compilation, and confirmed in it by never hearing them mentioned. our booksellers here at london disgrace literature, by the trash they bespeak to be written, and at the same time prevent every thing else from being sold. they are little more or less than upholsters, who sell sets or bodies of arts and sciences for furniture; and the purchasers, for i am sure they are not readers, buy only in that view.( ) i never thought there was much merit in reading: but yet it is too good a thing to be put upon no better footing than in damask and mahogany. whenever i can be of the least use to your studies or collections, you know, sir, that you may command me freely. ( ) now first collected. ( ) this very intelligent bookseller, who lived near exeter 'change, in the strand, died in .-e. ( ) this was a very amusing and judicious selection, in five small volumes, very neatly printed.-e. ( "i once said to dr. johnson, 'i am sorry, sir, you did not get more for your dictionary.' his answer was, 'i am sorry too; but it was very well: the booksellers are generous liberal-minded men.' he, upon all occasions, did ample justice to their character in this respect. he considered them as the patrons of literature and, indeed, although they have eventually been considerable gainers by his dictionary, it is to them that we owe its having been undertaken and carried out at the risk of great expense for they were not absolutely sure of being indemnified." boswell's johnson, vol. ii. p. .-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) you have, i hope, long before this, my dear lord, received the immense letter that i sent you by old monin. it explained much, and announced most part of which has already happened; for you will observe that when i tell you any thing, very positively, it is on good intelligence. i have another much bigger secret for you, but that will be delivered to you by word of mouth. i am not a little impatient for the long letter you promised me. in the mean time thank you for the account you give me of the king's extreme civility to you. it is like yourself, to dwell on that, and to say little of m. de chaulnes's dirty behaviour; but monsieur and madame de guerchy have told your brother and me all the particulars. i was but too good a prophet when i warned you to expect new extravagances from the due de chaulnes's son. some weeks ago he lost five hundred pounds to one virette, an equivocal being, that you remember here. paolucci, the modenese minister, who is not in the odour of honesty, was of the party. the duc de pecquigny said to the latter, "monsieur, ne jouez plus avec lui, si vous n'`etes pas de moiti`e." so far was very well. on saturday at the maccaroni club( ) (which is composed of all the travelled young men, men who wear long curls and spying-glasses,) they played again: the duc lost, but not much. in the passage at the opera, the duc saw mr. stuart talking to virette, and told the former that virette was a coquin, a fripon, etc. etc. virette retired, saying only, "voil`a un fou." the duc then desired lord tavistock to come and see him fight virette, but the marquis desired to be excused. after the opera, virette went to the duc's lodgings, but found him gone to make his complaint to monsieur de guerchy, whither he followed him; and farther this deponent knoweth not. i pity the count (de guerchy,) who is one of the best-natured amiable men in the world, for having this absurd boy upon his hands! well! now for a little politics. the cider-bill( ) has not answered to the minority, though they ran the ministry hard;( ) but last friday was extraordinary. george grenville was pushed upon some navy bills; i don't understand a syllable, you know of money and accounts; but whatever was the matter,( ) he was driven from entrenchment to entrenchment by baker,( ) and charles townshend. after that affair was over, and many gone away, sir w. meredith moved for the depositions on which the warrant against wilkes had been granted. the ministers complained of the motion being made so late in the day; called it a surprise; and rigby moved to adjourn, which was carried but by to . had a surprise been intended, one may imagine the minority would have been better provided with numbers; but it certainly had not been concerted: however, a majority, shrunk to thirteen, frightened them out of the small senses they possess. heaven, earth, and the treasury, were moved to recover their ground to-day, when the question was renewed. for about two hours the debate hobbled on very lamely, when on a sudden your brother rose, and made such a speech( )--but i wish any body was to give you the account except me, whom you will think partial: but you will hear enough of it, to confirm any thing i can say. imagine fire, rapidity, argument, knowledge, wit, ridicule, grave, spirit; all pouring like a torrent, but without clashing. imagine the house in a tumult of continued applause imagine the ministers thunderstruck; lawyers abashed and almost blushing, for it was on their quibbles and evasions he fell most heavily, at the same time answering a whole session of arguments on the side of the court. no, it was unique; you can neither conceive it, nor the exclamations it occasioned. ellis, the forlorn hope, ellis presented himself in the gap, till the ministers could recover themselves, when on a sudden lord george sackville led up the blues;( ) spoke with as much warmth as your brother had, and with great force continued the attack which he had begun. did not i tell you he would take this part? i was made privy to it; but this is far from all you are to expect. lord north in vain rumbled about his mustard-bowl, and endeavoured alone to outroar a whole party: him and forrester, charles townshend took up, but less well than usual. his jealousy of your brother's success, which was very evident, did not help him to shine. there were several other speeches, and, upon the whole, it was a capital debate; but plutus is so much more persuasive an orator than your brother or lord george, that we divided but against . lord strange, who had agreed to the question, did not dare to vote for it, and declared off; and george townshend who had actually voted for it on friday, now voted against it. well! upon the whole, i heartily wish this administration may last: both their characters and abilities are so contemptible, @at i am sure we can be in no danger from prerogative when trusted to such hands! before i have done with charles townshend, i must tell you one of his admirable bon-mots. miss draycote,( ) the great fortune, is grown very fat: he says her tonnage is become equal to her poundage. there is the devil to pay in nabob-land, but i understand indian histories no better than stocks. the council rebelled against the governors and sent a deputation, the lord knows why, to the nabob, who cut off the said deputies' heads, and then, i think, was disnabob'd himself, and clive's old friend reinstated. there is another rebellion in minorca, where johnson [has renounced his allegiance to viceroy dick lyttelton, and set up for himself. sir richard has laid the affair before the king and council; charles townshend first, and then your brother, (you know why i am sorry they should appear together in that cause,) have tried to deprecate sir richard's wrath: but it was then too late. the silly fellow has brought himself' to a precipice. i forgot to tell you that lord george sackville carried into the minority with him his own brother( ) lord middlesex; lord milton's brother;( ) young beauclerc; sir thomas hales; and colonel irwine. we have not heard a word of the hereditary prince and princess. they were sent away in a tempest, and i believe the best one can hope is, that they are driven to norway.( ) good night, my dear lord; it is time to finish, for it is half an hour after one in the morning - i am forced to purloin such hours to write to you, for i get up so late, and then have such a perpetual succession of nothings to do, such auctions, politics, visits, dinners, suppers, books to publish or revise, etc. that i have not a quarter of an hour without a call upon it: but i need not tell you, who know my life, that i am forced to create new time, if i will keep up my correspondence with you. you seem to like i should, and i wish to give you every satisfaction in my power. tuesday, february , four o'clock. i tremble whilst i continue my letter, having just heard such a dreadful story! a captain of a vessel has made oath before the lord mayor, this morning, that he saw one of the yachts sunk on the coast of holland; and it is believed to be the one in which the prince was. the city is in an uproar; nor need one point out all such an accident may produce, if true; which i most fervently hope it is not. my long letter will help you to comments enough, which will be made on this occasion. i wish you may know, at this moment, that our fears are ill placed. the princess was not in the same yacht with her husband. poor fanshawe,( ) as clerk of the green cloth, with his wife and sister, was in one of them. here is more of the duc de pecquigny's episode. an officer was sent yesterday to put virette under arrest. his servant disputed with the officer on his orders, till his master made his escape. virette sent a friend, whom he ordered to deliver his letter in person, and see it read, with a challenge, appointing the duc to meet him at an hour after seven this morning, at buckingham-gate, where he waited till ten to no purpose, though the duc had not been put under arrest. virette absconds, and has sent m. de pecquigny word, that he shall abscond till he can find a proper opportunity of fighting him. your discretion will naturally prevent your talking of this; but i thought you would like to be prepared, if this affair should any how happen to become your business, though your late discussion with the duc de chaulnes will add to your disinclination from meddling with it. i must send this to the post before i go to the opera, and therefore shall not be able to tell you more of the prince of brunswick by this post. ( ) the "maccaroni" of was nearly synonymous with the term "dandy" at present in vogue, and even become classical by the use of it by lord byron; who, in his story of beppo, written in , speaks of ----"the dynasty of dandies, now perchance succeeded by some other class of imitated imitators:--how irreparably soon decline, alas! the demagogues of fashion: all below is frail; how easily the world is lost by love, or war, and now and then by frost!"-e. ( ) a bill, passed in the last session, for an additional duty on cider and perry, which was violently opposed by the cider counties, and taken up as a general opposition question. this measure was considered as a great error on the part of lord bute, and the unpopularity consequent upon it is said to have contributed to his resignation. ( ) on a motion for a committee on the cider-bill on the th of january. mr. james grenville, in a letter to his sister, lady chatham, speaking of this debate says, "i should make you as old a woman as either sandys or rushout, if i were to state all the jargon that arose in this debate. it was plain the court meant to preclude any repeal of the bill; the cider people coldly wished to obtain it. sir richard bamfylde, at the head of them, spoke, not his own sentiments, as he declared, but those which the instructions and petitions of his constituents forced him to maintain. we divided with us: against us, ." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) it was a proposal for converting certain outstanding navy-bills into annuities at four per cent.-c. ( ) sir william baker, member for plympton; an alderman of london. he married the eldest daughter of the second jacob tonson, the bookseller.-e. ( ) there is no other account of this remarkable speech to be found; and indeed we have little notice of general conway's parliamentary efforts, except mr. burke's general and brilliant description of his conduct as leader of the house of commons in the rockingham administration. as general conway's reputation in the house of commons has been in some degree forgotten, it may be as well to cite the passage from mr. burke's speech, in , on american taxation, in support of what mr. walpole says of the general's powers in debate:--"i will likewise do justice, i ought to do it, to the honourable gentleman who led us in this house. far from the duplicity wickedly charged on him, he acted his part with alacrity and resolution. we all felt inspired by the example he gave us, down even to myself, the weakest in that phalanx. i declare for one, i knew well enough (it could not be concealed from any body) the true state of things; but, in my life i never came with so much spirits into this house. it was a time for a man to act in. we had powerful enemies; but we had faithful and determined friends and a glorious cause. we had a great battle to fight, but we had the means of fighting; not as now, when our arms are tied behind us. we did fight that day, and conquer. i remember, sir, with a melancholy pleasure, the situation of the honourable gentleman (general conway) who made the motion for the repeal; in that crisis, when the whole trading interest of this empire, crammed into your lobbies with a trembling, and anxious expectation, waited, ,almost to a winter's return of light, their fate from your resolution. when, at length, you had determined in their favour, and your doors thrown open, showed them the figure of their deliverer in the well-earned triumph of his important victory, from the whole of that grave multitude there arose an involuntary burst of gratitude and transport, they jumped upon him like children on a long absent father. they clung about him like captives about the redeemer. all england, all america, joined in his applause. nor did he seem insensible to the best of all earthly regards--the love and admiration of his fellow-citizens. hope elevated, and joy brightened his crest. i stood near him; and his face, to use the expression of the scripture of the first martyr, 'his face was as if it had been the face of an angel.' i do not know how others feel; but if i had stood in that situation, i never would have exchanged it for all that kings, in their profusion, could bestow. i did hope, that that day's danger and honour would have been a bond to hold us all together for ever. but alas! that, with other pleasing visions, is long since vanished."-c. ( ) mr. walpole tinges his approbation of lord george's politics by this allusion to minden, where his lordship had not "led up the blues."-c. ( ) miss anna maria draycote, married in april, () , to earl pomfret. to taste mr. townshend's jest, one must recollect, that in the finance of that day the duties of tonnage and poundage held a principal place.-c. ( ) governor vansittart, contrary to the advice of his council, had deposed the nabob meer jaffier, and transferred the sovereignty to his son-in-law, cossim ali cawn. the latter, however, soon forgot his obligations to the english; and in consequence of some aggressions on his part, a deputation, consisting of mesrs amyatt and hay, members of council, attended by half a dozen other gentlemen, was sent to the new nabob. while this deputation was on its return, hostilities broke out, and these gentlemen were put to death as they were passing the city of mor", moreshedabad. about the same here the english council at patna and their attendants were made prisoners, and afterwards cruelly massacred. these events necessitated the deposition of cossim, and jaffier was accordingly, after a short campaign, restored.-c. ( ) charles, afterwards second duke of dorset.-e. ( ) john damer, member for dorchester. lord milton had married lord george's youngest sister, lady caroline.-e. ( ) the prince and princess landed safely at helvoet on the d of february.-e. ( ) simon fanshawe, esq. member for grampound. he had married a lady of his own name. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, wednesday, feb. , . (page ) my dear lord, you ought to be witness to the fatigue i am suffering, before you can estimate the merit i have in being writing to you at this moment. cast up eleven hours in the house of commons on monday, and above seventeen hours yesterday--ay, seventeen at length,- -and then you may guess if i am tired! nay, you must add seventeen hours that i may possibly be there on friday, and then calculate if i am weary.( ) in short, yesterday was the longest day ever known in the house of commons--why, on the westminster election at the end of my father's reign,( ) i was at home by six. on alexander murray's( ) affair, i believe, by five--on the militia, twenty people, i think, sat till six, but then they were only among themselves, no heat, no noise, no roaring. it was half an hour after seven this morning before i was at home. think of that, and then brag of your french parliaments!( ) what is ten times greater, leonidas and the spartan minority did not make such a stand at thermopylae, as we did. do you know, we had like to have been the majority? xerxes( ) is frightened out of his senses; sysigambis( ) has sent an express to luton to forbid phrates( ) coming to town to-morrow: norton's( ) impudence has forsaken him; bishop warburton is at this moment reinstating mr. pitt's name in the dedication to his sermons, which he had expunged for sandwich's;( ) and sandwich himself is--at paris, perhaps, by this time, for the first thing i expect to hear to-morrow is, that he is gone off. now are you mortally angry with me for trifling with you, and not telling you at once the particulars of this almost-revolution. you may be angry, but i shall take my own time, and shall give myself what airs i please both to you, my lord ambassador, and to you, my lord secretary of state, who will, i suppose, open this letter--if you have courage enough left. in the first place, i assume all the impertinence of a prophet, aye, of that great curiosity, a prophet, who really prophesied before the event, and whose predictions have been accomplished. have i, or have i not, announced to you the unexpected blows that would be given to the administration?--come, i will lay aside my dignity, and satisfy your impatience. there's moderation. we sat all monday hearing evidence against mr. wood,( ) that dirty wretch webb,( ) and the messengers, for their illegal proceedings against mr. wilkes. at midnight, mr. grenville offered us to adjourn or proceed. mr. pitt humbly begged not to eat or sleep till so great a point should be decided. on a division, in which though many said aye to adjourning, nobody would go out for fear of losing their seats, it was carried by to , for proceeding--and then--half the house went away. the ministers representing the indecency of this, and fitzherbert saying that many were within call, stanley observed, that after voting against adjournment, a third part had adjourned themselves, when, instead of being within call, they ought to have been within hearing: this was unanswerable, and we adjourned. yesterday we fell to again. it was one in the morning before the evidence was closed. carrington, the messenger, was alone examined for seven hours. this old man, the cleverest of all ministerial terriers, was pleased with recounting his achievements, yet guarded and betraying nothing. however, the arcana imperia have been wofully laid open. i have heard garrick, and other players, give themselves airs of fatigue after a long part--think of the speaker, nay, think of the clerks taking most correct minutes for sixteen hours, and reading them over to every witness; and then let me hear of fatigue! do you know, not only my lord temple,( )--who you may swear never budged as spectator, but old will chetwynd,( ) now past eighty, and who had walked to the house, did not stir a single moment out of his place, from three in the afternoon till the division at seven in the morning. nay, we had patriotesses, too, who stayed out the whole: lady rockingham and lady sondes the first day; both again the second day, with miss mary pelham, mrs. fitzroy,( ) and the duchess of richmond, as patriot as any of us. lady mary coke, mrs. george pitt,( ) and lady pembroke( ) came after the opera, but i think did not stay above seven or eight hours at most. at one, sir w. meredith( ) moved a resolution of the illegality of the warrant, and opened it well. he was seconded by old darlington's brother,( ) a convert to us. mr. wood, who had shone the preceding day by great modesty, decency, and ingenuity, forfeited these merits a good deal by starting up (according to a ministerial plan,) and very arrogantly, and repeatedly in the night, demanding justice and a previous acquittal, and telling the house he scorned to accept being merely excused; to which mr. pitt replied, that if he disdained to be excused, he would deserve to be censured. mr. charles yorke (who, with his family, have come roundly to us for support against the duke of bedford on the marriage-bill( )) proposed to adjourn. grenville and the ministry would have agreed to adjourn the debate on the great question itself, but declared they would push this acquittal. this they announced haughtily enough--for as yet, they did not doubt of their strength. lord frederick campbell( ) was the most impetuous of all, so little he foresaw how much wiser it would be to follow your brother. pitt made a short speech, excellently argumentative, and not bombast, nor tedious. nor deviating from the question. he was supported by your brother, and charles townshend, and lord george;( ) the two last of whom are strangely firm, now they are got under the cannon of your brother charles, who, as he must be extraordinary, is now so in romantic nicety of honour. his father,( ) who is dying, or dead, at bath, and from whom he hopes two thousand a year, has sent for him. he has refused to go--lest his steadiness should be questioned. at a quarter after four we divided. our cry was so loud, that both we and the ministers thought we had carried it. it is not to be painted, the dismay of the latter--in good truth not without reason, for we were , they but . your experience can tell you, that a majority of but ten is a defeat. amidst a great defection from them, was even a white staff, lord charles spencer( )--now you know still more of what i told you was preparing for them! crestfallen, the ministers then proposed simply to discharge the complaint; but the plumes which they had dropped, pitt soon placed in his own beaver. he broke out on liberty, and, indeed, on whatever he pleased, uninterrupted. rigby sat feeling the vice-treasurership slipping from under him. nugent was now less pensive--lord strange,( ) though not interested, did not like it. every body was too much taken up with his own concerns or too much daunted, to give the least disturbance to the pindaric. grenville, however, dropped a few words, which did but heighten the flame. pitt, with less modesty than ever he showed, pronounced a panegyric, on his own administration, and from thence broke out on the dismission of officers. this increased the roar from us. grenville replied, and very finely, very pathetically, very animated. he painted wilkes and faction, and, with very little truth, denied the charge of menaces to officers. at that moment, general a'court( ) walked up the house --think what an impression such an incident must make, when passions, hopes, and fears, were all afloat--think, too, how your brother and i, had we been ungenerous, could have added to these sensations! there was a man not so delicate. colonel barr`e rose--and this attended with a striking circumstance; sir edward deering, one of our noisy fools, called out, "mr. barr`e,"( ) the latter seized the thought with admirable quickness, and said to the speaker, who, in pointing to him, had called him colonel, "i beg your pardon, sir, you have pointed to me by a title i have no right to," and then made a very artful and pathetic speech on his own services and dismission; with nothing bad but an awkward attempt towards an excuse to mr. pitt for his former behaviour. lord north, who will not lose his bellow, though he may lose his place, endeavoured to roar up the courage of his comrades, but it would not do--the house grew tired, and we again divided at seven for adjournment; some of our people were gone, and we remained but , they ; however, you will allow our affairs are mended, when we say, but . we then came away, and left the ministers to satisfy wood, webb, and themselves, as well as they could. it was eight in the morning before i was in bed; and considering that this is no very short letter, mr. pitt bore the fatigue with his usual spirit( )--and even old onslow, the late speaker, was sitting up, anxious for the event. on friday we are to have the great question, which would prevent my writing; and to-morrow i dine with guerchy, at the duke of grafton's, besides twenty other engagements. to-day i have shut myself up; for with writing this, and taking notes yesterday all day, and all night, i have not an eye left to see out of--nay, for once in my life, i shall go to bed at ten o'clock. i am glad to be able to contradict two or three passages in my last letter. the prince and princess of brunswick are safely landed, though they were in extreme danger. the duc de pecquigny had not only been put in arrest late on the sunday night, which i did not know, but has retrieved his honour. monsieur de guerchy sent him away, and at dover virette found him, and whispered him to steal from d'allonville( ) and fight. the duc first begged his pardon, owned himself in the wrong, and then fought him, and was wounded, though slightly, in four places in the arm; and both are returned to london with their honours as white as snow. sir jacob downing( ) is dead, and has left every shilling to his wife; id est, not sixpence to my lord holland;( ) a mishap which, being followed by a minority of , will not make a pleasant week to him. now would you believe how i feel and how i wish? i wish we may continue the minority. the desires of some of my associates, perhaps, may not be satisfied, but mine are. here is an opposition formidable enough to keep abler ministers than messieurs the present gentlemen in awe. they may pick pockets, but they will pick no more locks. while we continue a minority, we preserve our characters, and we have some too good to part with. i hate to have a camp to plunder; at least, i am so which i am so whig, i hate spoils but the opima spolia. i think it, too, much more creditable to control ministers, than to be ministers--and much more creditable than to become mere ministers ourselves. i have several other excellent reasons against our success, though i could combat them with as many drawn from the insufficience of the present folk, and the propriety of mr. pitt being minister; but i am too tired, and very likely so are you, my dear lord, by this time, and therefore good night! friday noon. i had sealed my letter, and break it open again on receiving yours of the th, by the messenger. though i am very sorry you had not then got mine from monin, which would have prepared you for much of what has happened, i do not fear its miscarriage, as i think i can account for the delay. i had, for more security, put it into the parcel with two more volumes of my anecdotes of painting; which, i suppose, remained in m. monin's baggage; and he might not have taken it when he delivered the single letters. if he has not yet sent you the parcel, you may ask for it, as the same delicacy is not necessary as for a letter. i thank lord beauchamp much for the paper, but should thank him much more for a letter from himself. i am going this minute to the house, where i have already been to prayers,( ) to take a place. it was very near full then, so critical a day it is! i expect we shall be beaten-but we shall not be so many times more. lord granby( ) i hear, is to move the previous question--they are reduced to their heavy cannon. sunday evening, th. happening to hear of a gentleman who sets out for paris in two or three days, i stopped my letter, both out of prudence (pray admire me!) and from thinking that it was as well to send you at once the complete history of our great week. by the time you have read the preceding pages, you may, perhaps, expect to find a change in the ministry in what i am going to say. you must have a little patience; our parliamentary war, like the last war in germany, produces very considerable battles, that are not decisive. marshal pitt has given another great blow to the subsidiary army, but they remained masters of the field, and both sides sing te deum. i am not talking figuratively, when i assure you that bells, bonfires, and an illumination from the monument, were prepared in the city, in case we had the majority. lord temple was so indiscreet and indecent as to have fagots ready for two bonfires, but was persuaded to lay aside the design, even before it was abortive. it is impossible to give you the detail of so long a debate as friday's. you will regret it the less when i tell you it was a very dull one. i never knew a day of expectation answer. the impromptus and the unexpected are ever the most shining. we love to hear ourselves talk, and yet we must be formed of adamant to be able to talk day and night on the same question for a week together. if you had seen how ill we looked, you would not have wondered we did not speak well. a company of colliers emerging from damps and darkness could not have appeared more ghastly and dirty than we did on wednesday morning; and we had not recovered much bloom on friday. we spent two or three hours on corrections of, and additions to, the question of pronouncing the warrant illegal, till the ministry had contracted it to fit scarce any thing but the individual case of wilkes, pitt not opposing the amendments because charles yorke gave into them; for it is wonderful( ) what deference is paid by both sides to that house. the debate then began by norton's moving to adjourn the consideration of the question for four months, and holding out a promise of a bill, which neither they mean nor, for my part, should i like: i would not give prerogative so much as a definition. you are a peer, and, therefore, perhaps, will hear it with patience--but think how our ears must have tingled, when he told us, that should we pass the resolution, and he were a judge, he would mind it no more than the resolution of a drunken porter! had old onslow been in the chair, i believe he would have knocked him down with the mace. he did hear of it during the debate, though not severely enough; but the town rings with it. charles yorke replied, and was much admired. me he did not please; i require a little more than palliatives and sophistries. he excused the part he has taken by pleading that he had never seen the warrant, till after wilkes was taken up--yet he then pronounced the no. a libel, and advised the commitment of wilkes to the tower. if you advised me to knock a man down, would you excuse yourself by saying you had never seen the stick with which i gave the blow other speeches we had without end, but none good, except from lord george sackville, a short one from elliot, and one from charles townshend, so fine that it amazed, even from him. your brother had spoken with excellent sense against the corrections, and began well again in the debate, but with so much rapidity that he confounded himself first, and then was seized with such a hoarseness that he could not proceed. pitt and george grenville ran a match of silence, striving which should reply to the other. at last, pitt, who had three times in the debate retired with pain,( ) rose about three in the morning, but so languid, so exhausted, that, in his life, he never made less figure. grenville answered him; and at five in the morning we divided. the noes were so loud, as it admits a deeper sound than aye, that the speaker, who has got a bit of nose( ) since the opposition got numbers, gave it for us. they went forth; and when i heard our side counted to the amount of , i did conclude we were victorious; but they returned . it is true we were beaten by fourteen, but we were increased by twenty-one; and no ministry could stand on so slight an advantage, if we could continue above two hundred.( ) we may, and probably shall, fall off: this was our strongest question--but our troops will stand fast: their hopes and views depend upon it, and their spirits are raised. but for the other side it will not be the same. the lookers-on will be stayers away, and their very subsidies will undo them. they bought two single votes that day with two peerages;( ) sir r. bampfylde( ) and sir charles tynte( )--and so are going to light up the flame of two more county elections--and that in the west, where surely nothing was wanting but a tinder-box! you would have almost laughed to see the spectres produced by both sides; one would have thought that they had sent a search-warrant for members of parliament into every hospital. votes were brought down in flannels and blankets, till the floor of the house looked like the pool of bethesda. 'tis wonderful that half of us are not dead--i should not say us; herculean i have not suffered the least, except that from being a hercules of ten grains, i don't believe i now weigh above eight. i felt from nothing so much as the noise, which made me as drunk as an owl- -you may imagine the clamours of two parties so nearly matched, and so impatient to come to a decision. the duchess of richmond has got a fever with the attendance of tuesday--but on friday we were forced to be unpolite. the amazons came down in such squadrons, that we were forced to be denied. however, eight or nine of the patriotesses dined in one of the speaker's rooms, and stayed there till twelve--nay, worse, while their dear country was at stake, i am afraid they were playing at loo! the townshends, you perceive by this account, are returned; their father not dead.( ) lord howe( ) and the colonel voted with us; so did lord newnham,( ) and is likely to be turned out of doors for it. a warrant to take up lord charles spenser was sent to blenheim from bedford-house,( ) and signed by his brother, and returned for him; so he went thither--not a very kind office in the duke of marlborough to lord charles's character. lord granby refused to make the motion, but spoke for it. lord hardwicke is relapsed; but we do not now fear any consequences from his death. the yorkes, who abandoned a triumphant administration, are not so tender as to return and comfort them in their depression. the chief business now, i suppose, will lie in souterreins and intrigues. lord bute's panic will, probably, direct him to make application to us. sandwich will be manufacturing lies, and rigby, negotiations. some change or other, whether partial or extensive, must arrive. the best that can happen for the ministers, is to be able to ward off the blow till the recess, and they have time to treat at leisure; but in just the present state it is impossible things should remain. the opposition is too strong, and their leaders too able to make no impression. adieu! pray tell mr. hume that i am ashamed to be thus writing the history of england, when he is with you! p. s. the new baronies are contradicted, but may recover truth at the end of the session.( ) ( ) the important debate on the question of general warrants, which is the subject of the following able and interesting letter, has never been reported. there are, indeed, in the parliamentary history, a letter from sir george yonge, and two statements by sir william meredith and charles townshend, on the subject, but they relate chiefly to their own motives and reasonings, and give neither the names nor the arguments of the debater,-, and fall very short indeed of the vigour and vivacity of mr. walpole's animated sketch.-c. ( ) on the d december, . this was one of the debates that terminated sir robert walpole's administration: the numbers on the division were against .-c. ( ) the proceedings of the th of february, , against the honourable a. murray, for impeding the westminster election; but walpole, in his memoires, states that the house adjourned at two in the morning.-c. ( ) the disputes between louis xv. and his parliaments, which prepared the revolution, were at this period assuming a serious appearance.-c. ( ) the king. ( ) the princess dowager. ( ) lord bute. luton was his seat in bedfordshire. ( ) mr. walpole was too sanguine: sir fletcher had not even lost his boldness; for in the further progress of the adjourned debate, we shall find that he told the house that he would regard their resolution of no more value (in point of law, must be understood) than the vociferations of so many drunken porters.-c. ( ) lord sandwich was an agreeable companion and an able minister; but one whose moral character did not point him out as exactly the fittest patron for a volume of sermons; and he was at this moment so unpopular, that mr. walpole affects to think he may have been intimidated to fly.-c. ( ) robert wood, esq. under-secretary of state; against whom, for his official share in the affair of the general warrants, mr. wilkes's complaint was made.-c. ( ) philip carteret webb, esq. solicitor to the treasury, complained on the same ground. mr. walpole probably applies these injurious terms to mr. webb, on account of a supposed error in his evidence on the trial in the common pleas, for which he was afterwards indicted for perjury, but he was fully acquitted. the point was of little importance --whether he had or had not a key in his hand.-c. ( ) lord temple was, as every one knows, a very keen politician, and took in all this matter a most prominent part; indeed, he was the prime mover of the whole affair, and bore the expense of all wilkes's law proceedings out of his own pocket.-c. ( ) william chetwynd, brother of lord chetwynd: at this time master of the mint. he was in early life a friend of lord bolingbroke, and called, from the darkness of his complexion, oroonoko chetwynd: he sat out these debates with impunity, for he survived to succeed his brother as lord chetwynd, in , and did not die for some years after.-c. ( ) probably anne, daughter of admiral sir peter warren; married, in , to colonel charles fitzroy, afterwards first lord southampton.-c. ( ) penelope, daughter of sir h. atkins, married, in , to george pitt, first lord rivers.-c. ( ) elizabeth. daughter of charles spenser, first duke of marlborough of the spenser branch, married, in , to henry, tenth earl of pembroke; she was celebrated for her beauty, which had even, it was said, captivated george iii. when general conway was dismissed for the vote of this very night, lord pembroke succeeded to his regiment.-c. ( ) sir william meredith's motion was, "that a general warrant for apprehending and securing the authors, printers, and publishers of a seditious libel, together with their papers, is not warranted by law." this proposition the administration did not venture to deny, but they attached to it an exculpatory amendment to the following effect:--"although such warrant has been issued according to the usage of office, and has been frequently produced to, and never condemned by, courts of justice."-c. ( ) gilbert, youngest brother of henry, first earl of darlington, who was so well known in sir robert walpole's and mr. pelham's time as " harry vane." mr. gilbert vane was deputy treasurer of chelsea hospital, but on this occasion abandoned the ministerial side of the house, with which he had hitherto voted: he died in .-c. ( ) the marriage act was not an original measure of lord hardwicke; but as he, on the failure of one or two previous attempts at a bill on that subject, was requested by the house of lords to prepare one, he, and of course his sons, must have continued interested in its maintenance; but mr. walpole's suspicion of a bargain and sale of sentiments between there and the opposition is quite absurd. even from mr. walpole's own statement, it would seem, that, on the subject of general warrants, mr. charles yorke acted with sincerity and moderation,-anxious to have a great legal question properly decided, and unwilling to prostitute its success to the purposes of party.-c. ( ) fourth son of john, third duke of argyle; afterwards keeper of the privy seal in scotland, secretary to the lord lieutenant of ireland, and finally, lord register of scotland. as he was the brother-in-law of general conway, mr. walpole seems to have expected him to have followed conway's politics.-c. ( ) lord george sackville. ( ) charles, third lord townshend, a peer, whose reputation is lost between that of his father and his sons.-c. ( ) second son of the duke of marlborough; his white staff was that of comptroller of the household. he was, it seems, in mr. walpole's sense of the word, wiser than lord frederick campbell; but we shall see presently, that this wisdom grew ashamed of itself in a day or two, and in , when the party which he had this night assisted came into power, he was turned out.-c. ( ) james, eldest son of the earl of derby, born in ; he died in , before his father. i know not why walpole says he was not interested; he was a very respectable man, but he was also chancellor of the duchy, and might naturally have felt as much interested as the other placemen-c. ( ) lately dismissed. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) colonel barr`e had been dismissed from the office of adjutant-general. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) the duke of newcastle in a letter to mr. pitt of the th, says, "mr. west and honest george onslow came to my bedside this morning, to give me an account of the glorious day we had yesterday, and of the great obligations which every true lover of the liberties of his country and our present constitution owe to you, for the superior ability, firmness, and resolution which you showed during the longest attention that ever was known. god forbid that your health should suffer by your zeal for your country." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) probably the gentleman in whose charge m. de guerchy had sent away the giddy duke.-c. ( ) sir jacob gerrard downing, bart., member for dunwich: he died the th of february, and left his estate, as mr. walpole says, to his wife; but only for her life, and afterwards to build and endow downing college at cambridge.( ) the grounds of any expectation which lord holland may have entertained from sir jacob downing have not reached us; but it is right to say, that mr. walpole had quarrelled with lord holland, and was glad on any occasion, just or otherwise, to sneer at him.-c. ( ) it may be necessary to remark, that any member who attends at the daily prayers of the house has a right, for that evening, to the place he occupies at prayers. on nights of great interest, when the house is expected to be crowded, there is consequently a considerable attendance at prayers.-c. ( ) eldest son of the third duke of rutland, well known for his gallant conduct at minden, and still remembered for his popularity with the army and the public. he was at this time commander-in-chief and master-general of the ordnance. he died before his father, in .-c. ( ) wonderful to mr. walpole only, who had a private pique against the yorkes; no one else could wonder that deference should be paid to long services, high stations, great abilities, and unimpeached integrity.-c. ( ) mr. pitt's frequent fits of the gout are well known: he was even suspected of sometimes acting a fit of the gout in the house of commons. (a reference to the chatham correspondence will, it is believed, remove the illiberal suspicion, that mr. pitt, on this, or any other occasion, was in the practice of "acting a fit of the gout." on the morning after the debate, the duke of newcastle thus wrote to mr. pitt "i shall not be easy till i hear you have not increased your pain and disorder, by your attendance and the great service you did yesterday to the public. i could not omit thanking you and congratulating you upon your great and glorious minority, before i went to claremont. such a minority, with such a leader, composed of gentlemen of the greatest and most independent fortunes in the kingdom, against a majority of fourteen only, influenced by power and force, and fetched from all corners of the kingdom, must have its weight, and produce the most happy consequences to the public." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e.] ( ) sir john cust's nose was rather short, as his picture by reynolds, as well as by walpole, testify.-c. ( ) in reference to this defeat of the ministry, gray, in a letter to dr. wharton, says, "their crests are much fallen and countenances lengthened by the transactions of last week; for the ministry, on thursday last (after sitting till near eight in the morning), carried a small point by a majority of only forty, and on another previous division by one of ten only; and on friday last, at five in the morning, there were to ; and by this the court only obtained to adjourn the debate for four months, and not to get a declaration in favour of their measures. if they hold their ground many weeks after this, i shall wonder; but the new reign has already produced many wonders." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) not correct. see afterwards.-e. ( ) sir richard warwick bampfylde, fourth baronet; member for devonshire.-e. ( ) sir charles kemeys tynte, fifth baronet; member for somersetshire.-e. ( ) he died on the th of the ensuing month.-e. ( ) richard, fourth viscount, and first earl howe, the hero of the st of june; and his brother, colonel, afterwards general sir william, who succeeded him as fifth viscount howe.-c. ( ) george simon, viscount newnham, afterwards second earl of harcourt, remarkable for a somewhat exaggerated imitation of french fashions. his father, the first earl, was at this time chamberlain to the queen.-c. ( ) see ant`e, p. . the meaning of this passage is, that the duke of bedford (who was president of the council) wrote a letter, which he sent to blenheim for the duke of marlborough to sign, desiring his brother, lord charles, to abstain from again voting against the government. the duke of marlborough (who was privy seal) signed, as walpole intimates, the letter; and lord charles, instead of attending the house, and voting, as he had done on the former night, against ministers, went down to blenheim.-c. ( ) they never took place, and probably never were in contemplation.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, i am much in your debt, but have had but too much excuse for being so. men who go to bed at six and seven in the morning, and who rise but to return to the same fatigue, have little leisure for other most necessary duties. the severe attendance we have had lately in the house of commons cannot be unknown to you, and will already, i trust, have pleaded my pardon. mr. bathoe has got the two volumes for you, and will send them by the conveyance you prescribe. you will find in them much, i fear, that will want your indulgence; and not only dryness, trifles, and, i conclude, many mistakes, but perhaps opinions different from your own. i can only plead my natural and constant frankness, which always speaks indifferently, as it thinks, on all sides and subjects. i am bigoted to none: charles or cromwell, whigs or tories, are all alike to me, but in what i think they deserve, applause or censure; and therefore, if' i sometimes commend, sometimes blame them, it is not for being inconsistent, but from considering them in the single light in which i then speak of them: at the same time meaning to give only my private opinion, and not at all expecting to have it adopted by any other man. thus much, perhaps, it was necessary for @ne to say, and i will trouble you no further about myself. single portraits by vandyck i shall avoid particularizing any farther, and also separate pieces by other masters, for a reason i may trust you with. many persons possess pictures which they believe or call originals, without their being so, and have wished to have them inserted in my lists. this i certainly do not care to do, nor, on the other hand, to assume the impertinence of deciding from my own judgment. i shall, therefore, stop where i have stopped. the portraits which you mention, of the earl of warwick, sir, is very famous and indubitable; but i believe you will assent to my prudence, which does not trouble me too often. i have heard as much fame of the earl of denbigh. you will see in my next edition, that i have been so lucky as to find and purchase both the drawings that were at buckingham-house, of the triumphs of riches and poverty. they have raised even my ideas of holbein. could i afford it, and we had engravers equal to the task, the public should be acquainted with their merit; but i am disgusted with paying great sums for wretched performances. i am ashamed of the prints in my books, which were extravagantly paid for, and are wretchedly executed. your zeal for reviving the publication of illustrious heads accords, sir, extremely with my own sentiments; but i own i despair of that, and every work. our artists get so much money by hasty, slovenly performances, that they will undertake nothing that requires labour and time. i have never been able to persuade any one of them to engrave the beauties at windsor, which are daily perishing for want of fires in that palace. most of them entered into a plan i had undertaken, of an edition of grammont with portraits. i had three executed; but after the first, which was well done, the others were so wretchedly performed, though even the best was much too dear, that i was forced to drop the design. walker, who has done much the best heads in my new volumes, told me, when i pressed him to consider his reputation, that , "he had got fame enough!" what hopes, sir, can one entertain after so shameful an answer? i have had numerous schemes, but never could bring any to bear, but what depended solely on myself; and how little is it that a private man, with a moderate fortune, and who has many other avocations, can accomplish alone? i flattered myself that this reign would have given new life and views to the artists and the curious. i am disappointed: politics on one hand, and want of taste in those about his majesty on the other, have prevented my expectations from being answered. the letters you tell me of, sir, are indeed curious, both those of atterbury and the rest; but i cannot flatter myself that i shall be able to contribute to publication. my press, from the narrowness of its extent, and having but one man and a boy, goes very slow; nor have i room or fortune to carry it farther. what i have already in hand, or promised, will take me up a long time. the london booksellers play me all manner of tricks. if i do not allow them ridiculous profit,( ) they will do nothing to promote the sale; and when i do, they buy up the impression, and sell it for an advanced price before my face. this is the case of my two first volumes of anecdotes, for which people have been made to pay half a guinea, and more than the advertised price. in truth, the plague i have had in every shape with my own printers, engravers, the booksellers, besides my own trouble, have almost discouraged me from what i took up at first as an amusement, but which has produced very little of it. i am sorry, upon the whole, sir, to be forced to confess to you, that i have met with so many discouragements in virt`u and literature. if an independent gentleman, though a private one, finds such obstacles, what must an ingenious man do, who is obliged to couple views of profit with zeal for the public? or, do our artists and booksellers, cheat me the more because i am a gentleman? whatever is the cause, i am almost as sick of the profession of editor, as of author. if i touch upon either more, it will be more idly, though chiefly because i never can be quite idle. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the following just and candid vindication of the london booksellers from the charge of rapacity on the score of "ridiculous profit," is contained in a letter written by dr. johnson, in march, , to the rev. dr. wetherell:--"it is, perhaps, not considered through how many hands a book often passes, before it comes into those of the reader; or what part of the profit each hand must retain, as a motive for transmitting it to the next, we will call our primary agent in london, mr. cadell, who receives our books from us, gives them room in his warehouse, and issues them on demand; by him they are sold to mr. dilly, a wholesale bookseller, who sends them into the country; and the last seller is the country bookseller. here are three profits to be paid between the printer and the reader, or, in the style of commerce, between the manufacturer and the consumer; and if any of these profits is too penuriously distributed, the process of commerce is interrupted."-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) as i had an opportunity, on tuesday last, of sending you a letter of eleven pages, by a very safe conveyance, i shall say but a few words to-day; indeed, i have left nothing to say, but to thank you for the answer i received from you this morning to mine by monsieur monin. i am very happy that you take so kindly the freedom i used: the circumstances made me think it necessary; and i flatter myself, that you are persuaded i was not to blame in speaking so openly, when two persons so dear to me were concerned.( ) your 'indulgence will not lead me to abuse it. what you say on the caution i mentioned, convinces me that i was right, by finding your judgment correspond with my own-but enough of that. my long letter, which, perhaps, you will not receive till after this (you will receive it from a lady), will give you a full detail of the last extraordinary week. since that, there has been an accidental suspension of arms. not only mr. pitt is laid up with the gout, but the speaker has it too. we have been adjourned till to-day, and as he is not recovered, have again adjourned till next wednesday. the events of the week have been, a complaint made by lord lyttelton in your house, of a book called "droit le roy;"( ) a tract written in the highest strain of prerogative, and drawn from all the old obsolete law-books on that question.( ) the ministers met this complaint with much affected indignation, and even on the complaint being communicated to us, took it up themselves; and both houses have ordered the book to be burned by the hangman. to comfort themselves for this forced zeal for liberty, the north briton, and the essay on woman have both been condemned( ) by juries in the king's bench; but that triumph has been more than balanced again, by the city giving their freedom to lord chief-justice pratt,( ) ordering his picture to be placed in the king's bench, thanking their members for their behaviour in parliament on the warrant, and giving orders for instructions to be drawn for their future conduct. lord granby is made lord lieutenant of derbyshire; but the vigour of this affront was wofully weakened by excuses to the duke of devonshire, and by its being known that the measure was determined two months ago. all this sounds very hostile; yet, don't be surprised if you hear of some sudden treaty. don't you know a little busy squadron that had the chief hand in the negotiation( ) last autumn? well, i have reason to think that phraates( is negotiating with leonidas( ) by the same intervention. all the world sees that the present ministers are between two fires. would it be extraordinary if the artillery of' both should be discharged on them at once? but this is not proper for the post: i grow prudent the less prudence is necessary. we are in pain for the duchess of richmond, who, instead of the jaundice, has relapsed into a fever. she has blooded twice last night, and vet had a very bad night. i called at the door at three o'clock, when they thought the fever rather diminished, but spoke of her as very ill. i have not seen your brother or lady aylesbury to-day, but found they had been very much alarmed yesterday evening.( ) lord suffolk,( ) they say, is going to be married to miss trevor hampden. your brother has told me, that among lady hertford's things seized at dover, was a packet for me from you. mr. bowman has undertaken to make strict inquiry for it. adieu, my dear lord. p. s. we had, last monday, the prettiest ball that ever was seen, at mrs. ann pitt's,( ) in the compass of a silver penny. there were one hundred and four persons, of which number fifty-five supped. the supper-room was disposed with tables and benches back to back in the manner of an alehouse. the idea sounds ill; but the fairies had so improved upon it, had so be-garlanded, so sweetmeated, and so desserted it, that it looked like a vision. i told her she could only have fed and stowed so much company by a miracle, and that, when we were gone, she would take up twelve basketsfull of people. the duchess of bedford asked me before madame de guerchy, if i would not give them a ball at strawberry? not for the universe! what! turn a ball, and dust, and dirt, and a million of candles, into my charming new gallery! i said, i could not flatter myself that people would give themselves the trouble of going eleven miles for a ball--(though i believe they would go fifty)--"well, then," says she, "it shall be a dinner."- -"with all my heart, i have no objection; but no ball shall set its foot within my doors." ( ) it related, as we have seen, to general conway's vote in opposition to the government.-c. ( ) "droit le roy, or the rights and prerogatives of the imperial crown of great britain." in the examination of griffin, the printer, before the peers, he stated that timothy becknock afterwards hanged in ireland as an accomplice of george robert fitzgerald, had sent the pamphlet to the press, and was, griffin believed, the author of it.-c. ( ) gray writes to dr. wharton, on the st of february:--"the house of lords, i hear, will soon take in hand a book lately published, by some scoundrel lawyer, on the prerogative; in which is scraped together all the flattery and blasphemy of our old law-books in honour of kings. i presume it is understood, that the court will support the cause of this impudent scribbler." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) mr. wilkes was tried on the st of february, for republishing the north briton, no. , and for printing the essay on woman, and found guilty of both.-e. ( ) the preamble of these resolutions is worthy of observation:--"whereas the independency and uprightness of judges is essential to the impartial administration of justice, etc. this court, in manifestation of their just sense of the inflexible firmness and integrity of the right honourable sir c. pratt, lord chief justice, etc. gives him the freedom of the city, and orders his picture to be placed in guildhall;" as if impartiality could only be assailed from one side, and as if gold boxes and pictures, and addresses from the corporation of london, were not as likely to have influence on the human mind as the favours from the crown. their applause was either worth nothing, or it was an attempt on the impartiality of the judge.-c. ( ) the negotiation in august, , already alluded to, for mr. pitt's coming into power. there is some reason to suppose that mr. calcraft was employed in the first steps of this negotiation, and this may be what mr. walpole here refers to.-c. ( ) lord bute. ( ) mr. pitt. ( ) the duchess was the sister of lady aylesbury's first husband.-e. ( ) henry, twelfth earl of suffolk, married, may , miss trevor, who had been on the point of marriage with mr. child of osterley, where he suddenly died in september, . see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) sister of the great lord chatham, whom she resembled in some qualities of her mind. see ant`e, p. , letter . mr. walpole, when some foreigner, who could not see pitt himself, had asked him if he was like his sister, answered, in his usual happy style of giving a portrait at a touch, "ils se ressemblent comme deux gouttes de feu!" she was privy purse to the princess dowager.-c. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, march , . (page ) dear sir, just as i was going to the opera, i received your manuscript. i would not defer telling you so, that you may know it is safe. but i have additional reason to write to you immediately; for on opening the book, the first thing i saw was a new obligation to you, the charming faithorne of sir orlando bridgman, which according to your constantly obliging manner you have sent me, and i almost fear you think i begged it; but i can disculpate myself, for i had discovered that it belongs to dugdale's origines -judiciales, and had ordered my bookseller to try to get me that book, which when i accomplish, you shall command your own print again; for it is too fine an impression to rob you of. i have been so entertained with your book, that i have stayed at home on purpose, and gone through three parts of it. it makes me wish earnestly some time or other to go through all your collections, for i have already found twenty things of great moment to me. one is particularly satisfactory to me; it is in mr. baker's mss. at cambridge; the title of eglesham's book against the duke of bucks,( ) mentioned by me in the account of gerbier, from vertue, who fished out every thing, and always proves in the right. this piece i must get transcribed by mr. gray's assistance. i fear i shall detain your manuscript prisoner a little, for the notices i have found, but i will take infinite care of it, as it deserves. i have got among my new old prints a most curious one of one toole. it seems to be a burlesque. he lived in temp. jac. i. and appears to have been an adventurer, like sir ant. sherley:( ) can you tell me any thing of him? i must repeat how infinitely i think myself obliged to you both for the print and the use of your manuscript, which is of the greatest use and entertainment to me; but you frighten me about mr. baker's mss. from the neglect of them. i should lose all patience if yours were to be treated so. bind them in iron, and leave them in a chest of cedar. they are, i am sure, most valuable, from what i have found already. ( ) this libellous book, written by a scotch physician, and which is reprinted in the second volume of the harleian miscellany, and in the fifth volume of the somers' collection of tracts, was considered by sir henry wotton "as one of the alleged incentives which hurried felton to become an assassin."-e. ( ) sherley's various embassies will be found in the collections of hakluyt and purchas. an article upon his travels, which were published in , occurs likewise in the second volume of the retrospective review. the travels of the three brothers, sir thomas, sir anthony, and master robert sherley, were published from the original manuscripts in .-e. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, march , . (page ) my dear lord, the last was so busy a week with me, that i had not a minute's time to tell you of lord hardwicke's( ) death. i had so many auctions, dinners, loo-parties, so many sick acquaintance, with the addition of a long day in the house of commons, (which, by the way, i quitted for a sale of books,) and a ball, that i left the common newspapers to inform you of an event, which two months ago would have been of much consequence. the yorkes are fixed, and the contest( ) at cambridge will but make them strike deeper root in opposition. i have not heard how their father has portioned out his immense treasures. the election at cambridge is to be on tuesday, th; charles townshend is gone thither, and i suppose, by this time, has ranted, and romanced, and turned every one of their ideas topsyturvy. our long day was friday, the opening of the budget. mr. grenville spoke for two hours and forty minutes; much of it well, but too long, too many repetitions, and too evident marks of being galled by reports, which he answered with more art than sincerity. there were a few more speeches, till nine o'clock, but no division. our armistice, you see, continues. lord bute is, i believe, negotiating with both sides; i know he is with the opposition, and has a prospect of making very good terms for himself, for patriots seldom have the gift of perseverance. it is wonderful how soon their virtue thaws! last thursday, the duchess of queensbury( ) gave a ball, opened it herself with a minuet, and danced two country dances; as she had enjoined every body to be with her by six, to sup at twelve, and go away directly. of the campbell-sisters, all were left out but, lady strafford,( ) lady rockingham and lady sondes, who, having had colds, deferred sending answers, received notice that their places were filled up, and that they must not come; but were pardoned on submission. a card was sent to invite lord and lady cardigan, and lord beaulieu instead of lord montagu.( ) this, her grace protested, was by accident. lady cardigan was very angry, and yet went. except these flights, the only extraordinary thing the duchess did, was to do nothing extraordinary, for i do not call it very mad that some pique happening between her and the duchess of bedford, the latter had this distich sent to her-- come with a whistle, and come with a call, come with a good will, or come not at all. i do not know whether what i am going to tell you did not border a little upon moorfields.( ) the gallery where they danced was very cold. lord lorn,( ) george selwyn, and i, retired into a little room, and sat (comfortably by the fire. the duchess looked in, said nothing, and sent a smith to take the hinges of the door off we understood the hint, and left the room, and so did the smith the door. this was pretty legible. my niece waldegrave talks of accompanying me to paris, but ten or twelve weeks may make great alteration in a handsome young widow's plan: i even think i see some( ) who will--not forbid banns, but propose them. indeed, i am almost afraid of coming to you myself. the air of paris works such miracles, that it is not safe to trust oneself there. i hear of nothing but my lady hertford's rakery, and mr. wilkes's religious deportment, and constant attendance at your chapel. lady anne,( ) i conclude, chatters as fast as my lady essex( ) and her four daughters. princess amelia told me t'other night, and bade me tell you, that she has seen lady massarene( ) at bath, who is warm in praise of you, and said that you had spent two thousand pounds out of friendship, to support her son in an election. she told the princess too, that she had found a rent-roll of your estate in a farmhouse, and that it is fourteen thousand a-year. this i was ordered, i know not why, to tell you. the duchess of bedford has not been asked to the loo-parties at cavendish-house( ) this winter, and only once to whisk there, and that was one friday when she is at home herself. we have nothing at the princess's but silver-loo, and her bath and tunbridge acquaintance. the trade at our gold-loo is as contraband as ever. i cannot help saying, that the duchess of bedford would mend our silver-loo, and that i wish every body played like her at the gold. arlington street, tuesday. you thank me, my dear lord, for my gazettes (in your letter of the th) more than they deserve. there is no trouble in sending you news; as you excuse the careless manner in which i write any thing i hear. don't think yourself obliged to be punctual in answering me: it would be paying too dear for such idle and trifling despatches. your picture of the attention paid to madame pompadour's illness, and of the ridicule attached to the mission of that homage, is very striking. it would be still more so by comparison. think if the duke of cumberland was to set up with my lord bute! the east india company, yesterday, elected lord clive--great mogul; that is, they have made him governor-general of bengal, and restored his jaghire.( ) i dare say he will put it out of their power ever to take it away again. we have had a deluge of disputes and pamphlets on the late events in that distant province of our empire, the indies. the novelty of the manners divert me: our governors there, i think, have learned more of their treachery and injustice, than they have taught them of our discipline. monsieur helvetius( arrived yesterday. i will take care to inform the princess, that you could not do otherwise than you did about her trees. my compliments to all your hotel. ( ) the event took place on the th of march.-e. ( ) for high steward of the university, between lord sandwich and the new lord hardwicke. gray, in a letter of the st of february, written from cambridge, says, "this silly dirty place has had all its thoughts taken up with choosing a new high steward; and had not lord hardwicke surprisingly, and to the shame of the faculty, recovered by a quack medicine, i believe in my conscience the noble earl of sandwich had been chosen, though, (let me do them the justice to say) not without a considerable opposition." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) catharine hyde, the granddaughter of the great lord clarendon; herself remarkable for some oddities of character, dress, and manners, to which the world became less indulgent as she ceased to be young and handsome.-c. ( ) the sisters omitted were, lady dalkeith, lady elizabeth mackenzie, and lady mary coke.-c. ( ) john duke of montagu left two daughters; the eldest, isabella, married first the duke of manchester, and, secondly, mr. hussey, an irish gentleman, created in consequence of this union, lord beaulieu. mary, the younger sister, married lord cardigan, who was, in , created duke of montagu: their eldest son having been in , created lord montagu. the marriage of the elder sister with mr. hussey was considered, by her family and the world, as a m`esalliance; and, therefore, the mistake of lord beaulieu for lord montagu was likely to give offence.-c. ( ) it is now almost necessary to remind the reader, that old bedlam stood in moorfields.-c. ( ) afterwards fifth duke of argyle.-e. ( ) he means, as subsequently appears, the duke of portland.-c. ( ) lord hertford's eldest daughter, afterwards wife of mr. stewart, subsequently created earl and marquis of londonderry.-e. ( ) elizabeth russell, daughter of the second duke of bedford. she had four daughters; but the oldest died young.-e. ( ) elizabeth, daughter of henry eyre, esq. of derbyshire, second wife of the first, and mother of the second, earl of massarene; the latter being at this time a minor. the election was probably for the county of antrim, in which both lord massarene and lord hertford had considerable property.-c. ( ) princess amelia's, the corner of harley street; since the residence of mr. hope, and of mr. watson taylor.-c. ( ) a rent-charge which had been granted him by the late nabob, and which, on the seizure of the territory on which it was charged by the east india company, lord clive insisted that the company should continue to pay. it was about twenty-five thousand pounds per annum.-c. ( ) a french philosopher, the son of a dutch physician brought into france by louis xiv. he was the author of a dull book mis-named "de l'esprit." we cannot resist repeating a joke made about this period on the occasion of a requisition made by the french ministry to the government of geneva, that it should seize copies of this book "de l'esprit," and voltaire's "pucelle d'orl`eans," which were supposed to be collected there in order to be smuggled into france. the worthy magistrates were said to have reported that, after the most diligent search, they could find in their whole town no trace "de l'esprit, et pas une pucelle."-c. [the following is gibbon's character of helvetius, in a letter of the th of february, :--"amongst my acquaintance i cannot help mentioning m. helvetius, the author of the famous book 'de l'esprit.' i met him at dinner at madame geoffrin's, where he took great notice of me, made me a visit next day, has ever since treated me, not in a polite but a friendly manner. besides being a sensible man, an agreeable companion, and the worthiest creature in the world, he has a very pretty wife, an hundred thousand livres a-year, and one of the best tables in paris." he died in , at the age of fifty-six.-e.] letter to the earl of hertford. sunday, march , . (page ) you will feel, my dear lord, for the loss i have had, and for the much greater affliction of poor lady malpas. my nephew( ) went to his regiment in ireland before christmas, and returned but last monday. he had, i suppose, heated himself in that bacchanalian country, and was taken ill the very day he set out, yet he came on, but grew much worse the night of his arrival; it turned to an inflammation in his bowels, and he died last friday. you may imagine the distress where there was so much domestic felicity, and where the deprivation is augmented by the very slender circumstances in which he could but leave his family; as his father--such an improvident father--is living! lord malpas himself was very amiable, and i had always loved him--but this is the cruel tax one pays for living, to see one's friends taken away before one! it has been a week of mortality. the night i wrote to you last, and had sent away my letter, came an account of my lord townshend's death. he had been ill treated by a surgeon in the country, then was carried improperly to the bath, and then again to rainham, tho hawkins, and other surgeons and physicians represented his danger to him. but the woman he kept, probably to prevent his seeing his family, persisted in these extravagant journeys, and he died in exquisite torment the day after his arrival in norfolk. he mentions none of his children in his will, but the present lord; to whom he gives pounds a-year that he had bought, adjoining to his estate. but there is said, or supposed to be, , pounds in the funds in his mistress's name, who was his housemaid. i do not aver this, for truth is not the staple commodity of that family. charles is much disappointed and discontented--not so my lady, who has pounds a-year already, another pounds in jointure, and pounds her own estate in hertfordshire.( ) we conclude, that the duke of argyle will abandon mrs. villiers( ) for this richer widow; who will only be inconsolable, as she is too cunning, i believe, to let any body console her. lord macclesfield( ) is dead too; a great windfall for mr. grenville, who gets a teller's place for his son. there is no public news: there was a longish day on friday in our house, on a demand for money for the new bridge from the city. it was refused, and into the accompt of contempt, dr. hay( ) threw a good deal of abuse on the common council--a nest of hornets, that i do not see the prudence of attacking. i leave to your brother to tell you the particulars of an impertinent paragraph in the papers on you and your embassy; but i must tell you how instantly, warmly, and zealously, he resented it. he went directly to the duke of somerset, to beg of him to complain of it to the lords. his grace's bashfulness made him choose rather to second the complaint, but he desired lord marchmont to make it, who liked the office, and the printers are to attend your house to-morrow.( ) i went a little too fast in my history of lord clive, and yet i had it from mr. grenville himself. the jaghire is to be decided by law, that is in the year . nor is it certain that his omrahship goes; that will depend on his obtaining a board of directors to his mind, at the approaching election.( ) i forgot, too, to answer your question about luther;( ) and now i remember it, i cannot answer it. some said his wife had been gallant. some, that he had been too gallant, and that she suffered for it. others laid it to his expenses at his election; others again, to political squabbles on that subject between him and his wife--but in short, as he sprung into the world by his election, so he withered when it was over, and has not been thought on since. george selwyn has had a frightful accident, that ended in a great escape. he was at dinner at lord coventry's, and just as he was drinking a glass of wine, he was seized with a fit of coughing, the liquor went wrong, and suffocated him: he got up for some water at the sideboard, but being strangled, and losing his senses, he fell against the corner of the marble table with such violence, that they thought he had killed himself by a fracture of his skull. he lay senseless for some time, and was recovered with difficulty. he was immediately blooded, and had the chief wound, which is just over the eye, sewed up--but you never saw so battered a figure. all round his eye is as black as jet, and besides the scar on his forehead, he has cut his nose at top and bottom. he is well off with his life, and we with his wit. p. s. lord macclesfield has left his wife( ) threescore thousand pounds. ( ) george viscount malpas member for corfe-castle, and colonel of the th regiment of foot, the son of george, third earl of cholmondeley, and of mary, only legitimate daughter of sir robert walpole. lord malpas had married, in , hester daughter and heiress of sir francis edwards, bart. and by her was father of the fourth earl. ( ) she was daughter and heiress of j. harrison, esq. of balls, in herts.-e. ( ) probably mary fowke, widow of mr. henry villiers, nephew of the first earl of jersey.-c. ( ) george, second earl of macclesfield, one of the tellers of the exchequer, and president of the royal society.-e. ( ) george hay, ll. d. member for sandwich, and one of the lords of the admiralty.-e. ( ) we find in the journals, that the printers of two papers in which the libellous paragraph appeared, were, after examination at the bar, committed to newgate. the libel itself is not recorded. the proceedings in the house of lords were notified to lord hertford by the secretary of state, and the following is a copy of his reply to this communication:--"paris, march th, . i am informed by my friend, of the insult that has been offered to my character in two public papers, and of the zeal shown by administration in seconding the resentment of the house of peers in my favour. perhaps my own inclination might have led me to despise such indignities; but if others, and particularly my friends, take the matter more warmly, i am not insensible to their attention, and receive with gratitude such pledges of their regard. i had indeed flattered myself, that my course of life had hitherto created me no enemy; but as i find that this felicity is too great for any man, i am pleased, at least, to find that he is a very low one: and i am so far obliged to him for discovering to me the share i have in the friendship of so many great persons, and for procuring me a testimony of esteem from so honourable an assembly as that of the peers of england."-c. ( ) lord clive made it a condition of his going to india, that mr. sullivan should be deprived of the lead he had in the direction at home.-c. [soon after the election of the directors, the court took the subject of the settlement of lord clive's jaghire into consideration; and a proposition, made by himself, was, on the ] th of may, agreed to, confirming his right for ten years, if he lived so long, and provided the company continued, during that period, in possession of the lands from which the revenue was paid.-e.] ( ) john luther, esq. of myless, near ongar, in essex, who, on the death of mr. harvey, of chigwell, stood on the popular interest ,for that county against mr. conyers, and succeeded.-c. ( ) lord macclesfield's second wife, whom he married in , was a miss dorothy nesbit.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. tuesday night, march , . (page ) your brother has just told me, my dear lord, at the opera, that colonel keith, a friend of his, sets out for paris on thursday. i take that opportunity of saying a few things to you, which would be less proper than by the common post; and if i have not time to write to lord beauchamp too, i will defer my answer to him till friday, as the post-office will be more welcome to read that. lord bute is come to town, has been long with the king alone, and goes publicly to court and the house of lords, where the barony of bottetourt(( ) has engrossed them some days, and of which the town thinks much, and i not at all, so i can tell you nothing about it. the first two days, i hear, lord bute was little noticed; but to-day much court was paid to him, even by the duke of bedford. why this difference, i don't know: that matters are somehow adjusted between the favourite not minister, and the ministers not favourites, i have no doubt. pitt certainly has been treating with him, and so threw away the great and unexpected progress which the opposition had made. they, good people, are either not angry with him for this, or have not found it out. the sandwiches and rigbys, who feel another half year coming into their pockets, are not so blind. for my own part, i rejoice that the opposition are only fools, and by thus missing their treaty, will not appear knaves. in the mean time, i have no doubt but the return of lord bute must produce confusion at court. he and grenville are both too fond of being ministers, not to be jealous of one another. if what is said to be designed proves true, that the king will go to hanover, and take the queen with him, i shall expect that clamour (which you see depends on very few men,( ) for it has subsided during these private negotiations) will rise higher than ever. the queen's absence must be designed to leave the regency in the hands of another lady:( ) connect that with lord bute's return, and judge what will be the consequence! these are the present politics, at least mine, who trouble myself little about them, and know less. i have not been at the house this month; the great points which interested me are over, and the very stand has shut the door. i might like some folks out, but there are so few that i desire to see in, that indifference is my present most predominating principle. the busier world are attentive to the election at cambridge, which comes on next friday; and i think, now, lord sandwich's friends have little hopes. had i a vote, it would not be given for the new lord hardwicke. but we have a more extraordinary affair to engage us, and of which you particularly will hear much more,-indeed, i fear must be involved in. d'eon has published (but to be sure you have already heard so) a most scandalous quarto, abusing monsieur de guerchy outrageously, and most offensive to messieurs de praslin and nivernois.( ) in truth, i think he will have made all three irreconcilable enemies. the duc de praslin must be outraged as to the duke's carelessness and partiality to d'eon, and will certainly grow to hate guerchy, concluding the latter can never forgive him. d'eon, even by his own account, is as culpable as possible, mad with pride, insolent, abusive, ungrateful, and dishonest, in short, a complication of abominations, yet originally ill used by his court, afterwards too well; above all, he has great malice, and great parts to put the malice in play. though there are even many bad puns in his book, a very uncommon fault in a french book, yet there is much wit too.( ) monsieur de guerchy is extremely hurt, though with the least reason of the three; for his character for bravery and good-nature is so established, that here, at least, he will not suffer. i could write pages to you upon this subject, for i am full of it--but i will send you the book. the council have met to-day to consider what to do upon it. most people think it difficult for them to do any thing. lord mansfield thinks they can--but i fear he has a little alacrity on the severe side in such cases. yet i should be glad the law would allow severity in the present case. i should be glad of it, as i was in your case last week; and considering the present constitution of things, would put the severity of the law in execution. you will wonder at this sentence out of my mouth,( ) but not when you have heard my reason. the liberty of the press has been so much abused, that almost all men, especially such as have weight, i mean, grave hypocrites and men of arbitrary principles, are ready to demand a restraint. i would therefore show, that the law, as it already stands, is efficacious enough to repress enormities. i hope so, particularly in monsieur de guerchy's case, or i do not see how a foreign minister can come hither; if, while their persons are called sacred, their characters are at the mercy of every servant that can pick a lock and pay for printing a letter. it is an odd coincidence of accidents that has produced abuse on you and your tally in the same week--but yours was a flea-bite. thank you, my dear lord, for your anecdotes relative to madame pompadour, her illness, and the pretenders to her succession. i hope she may live till i see her; she is one of the greatest curiosities of the age, and i am a pretty universal virtuoso. the match of my niece with the duke of portland( ) was, i own, what i hinted at, and what i then believed likely to happen. it is now quite off, and with very extraordinary circumstances; but if i tell it you at all, it must not be in a letter, especially when d'eons steal letters and print them. it is a secret, and so little to the lover's advantage, that i, who have a great regard for his family, shall not be the first to divulge it. we had last night, a magnificent ball at lady cardigan's;( ) three sumptuous suppers in three rooms. the house, you know, is crammed with fine things, pictures, china, japan, vases, and every species of curiosities. these are much increased even since i was in favour there, particularly by lord montagu's importations. i was curious to see how many quarrels my lady must have gulped before she could fill her house--truly, not many, (though some,) for there were very few of her own acquaintance, chiefly recruits of her son and daughter. there was not the soup`con of a bedford, though the town has married lord tavistock and lady betty( )--but he is coming to you to france. the duchess of bedford told me how hard it was, that i, who had personally offended my lady cardigan, should be invited, and that she, who had done nothing, and yet had tried to be reconciled, should not be asked. "oh, madam," said i, "be easy as to that point, for though she has invited me, she will scarce speak to me but i let all such quarrels come and go as they please: if people, so indifferent to me, quarrel with me, it is no reason why i should quarrel with them, and they have my full leave to be reconciled when they please." i must trouble you once more to know to what merchant you consigned the princess's trees, and lady hervey's biblioth`eque-- i mean for the latter. i did not see the princess last week, as the loss of my nephew kept me from public places. of all public places, guess the most unlikely one for the most unlikely person to have been at. i had sent to know how lady macclesfield did: louis( ) brought me word that he could hardly get into st. james's-square, there was so great a crowd to see my lord lie in state. at night i met my lady milton( ) at the duchess of argyle's, and said in joke, "soh, to be sure, you have been to see my lord macclesfield lie in state!" thinking it impossible-- she burst out into a fit of laughter, and owned she had. she and my lady temple had dined at lady betty's,( ) put on hats and cloaks, and literally waited on the steps of the house in the thick of the mob, while one posse was admitted and let out again for a second to enter, before they got in. you will as little guess what a present i have had from holland-- only a treatise of mathematical metaphysics from an author i never heard of, with great encomiums on my taste and knowledge. to be sure, i am warranted to insert this certificate among the testimonia authorum, before my next edition of the painters. now, i assure you, i am much more just--i have sent the gentleman word what a perfect ignoramus i am, and did not treat my vanity with a moment's respite. your brother has laughed at me, or rather at the poor man who has so mistaken me, as much as ever i did at his absence and flinging down every thing at breakfast. tom, your brother's man, told him to-day, that mister helvoetsluys had been to wait on him--now you are guessing,--did you find out this was helvetius? it is piteous late, and i must go to bed, only telling you a bon-mot of lady bell finch.( ) lord bath owed her half a crown; he sent it next day, with a wish that he could give her a crown. she replied, that though he could not give her a crown, he could give her a coronet, and she was very ready to accept it.( ) i congratulate you on your new house; and am your very sleepy humble servant. ( ) the ancient barony of bottetourt had been considered as extinct ever since the reign of edward iii. and was now claimed by mr. norborne berkeley, member for gloucestershire, and a groom of the bedchamber; the revival of a claim so long forgotten created considerable interest.-c. ( ) this is an important observation: it affords a clue to the causes of the unpopularity of the early years of george iii.-c. ( ) the princess dowager. ( ) m. de praslin was secretary for foreign affairs, and m. de nivernois had been lately ambassador in england.-c. ( ) at this distance of time, d,eon's book seems to us the mere ravings of insane vanity; the puns poor, and the wit rare and forced.-c. ( ) it certainly does not appear quite consistent, that mr. walpole, who so much disapproves of an attack on his friends, lord hertford and m. de guerchy, should have been delighted, but a few pages since, with the hemlock administered to lord holland, and the scurrility against bishop warburton.-c. ( ) see ant`e, p. ), letter . ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) lady cardigan's eldest daughter, married, in , to the third duke of buccleuzh. this amiable and venerable lady is still living.-c. [she died in .] ( ) his valet. ( ) lady caroline sackville, wife of joseph damer, lord milton, of ireland.-c. ( ) lady betty germain.-c. ( ) lady isabella finch, daughter of daniel, sixth earl of winchelsea. she was lady of the bedchamber to princess amelia, and died unmarried in .-c. ( ) it seems that lord bath's coronet, and perhaps still more his great wealth, for which, after his son's death, he had no direct heir, subjected his lordship to views of the nature alluded to in lady bell's bon-mot. in the suffolk letters, lately published, is a proposition to this effect from mrs. anne pitt, made with all appearance of seriousness.-c. (the following is the passage alluded to. it is contained in a letter from mrs. anne pitt to lady suffolk, dated november , :--"i hear my lord bath is here very lively, but i have not seen him, which i am very sorry for, because i want to offer myself to him. i am quite in earnest, and have set my heart upon it; so i beg seriously you will carry it in your mind, and think if you could find any way to help me. do not you think lady betty germain and lord and lady vere would be ready to help me, if they knew how willing i am? but i leave all this to your discretion, and repeat seriously, that i am quite in earnest. he can want nothing but a companion that would like his company; and in my situation i should not desire to make the bargain without that circumstance. and though all i have been saying puts me in mind of some advertisements i have seen in the newspapers from gentlewoman in distress, i will not take that method; but i want to recollect whether you did not tell me, as i think you did many years ago, that he once spoke so well of me, that he got anger for it at home, where i never was a favourite. i perceive that by thinking aloud, as i am apt to do with you, this letter is grown very improper for the post, so i design to send it with a tea-box my sister left and does not want, directed to your house."-e.] letter to charles churchill, esq.( ) arlington street, march , . (page ) dear sir, i had just sent away a half-scolding letter to my sister, for not telling me of robert's( ) arrival, and to acquaint you both with the loss of poor lord malpas, when i received your very entertaining letter of the th. i had not then got the draught of the conqueror's kitchen, and the tiles you were so good as to send me; and grew horribly afraid lest old dr. ducarel, who is an ostrich of an antiquary, and can digest superannuated brickbats, should have gobbled them up. at my return from strawberry hill yesterday, i found the whole cargo safe, and am really much obliged to you. i weep over the ruined kitchen,. but enjoy the tiles. they are exactly like a few which i obtained from the cathedral of gloucester, when it was new paved; they are inlaid in the floor of my china-room. i would have got enough to pave it entirely; but the canons, who were flinging them away, had so much devotion left, that they enjoined me not to pave a pagoda with them, nor put them to any profane use. as scruples increase in a ratio to their decrease, i did not know but a china-room might casuistically be interpreted a pagoda, and sued for no more. my cloister is finished and consecrated but as i intend to convert the old blue and white hall next to the china-room into a gothic columbarium, i should seriously be glad to finish the floor with norman tiles. however, as i shall certainly make you a visit in about two months, i will wait till then, and bring the dimensions with me. depend upon it, i will pay some of your debts to m. de lislebonne; that is, i will make as great entertainments for him as any one can, who almost always dines alone in his dressing-room; i will show him every thing all the morning, as much as any one can, who lies abed till noon, and never gets dressed till two o'clock; and i will endeavour to amuse him with variety of diversions every evening as much as any one can, who does nothing but play at loo till midnight, or sit behind lady mary coke in a corner of a box at the opera. seriously, though. i will try to show him that i think distinctions paid to you and my sister favours to me, and will make a point of adding the few civilities which his name, rank, and alliance with the guerchys can leave necessary. m. de guerchy is adored here, and will find so, particularly at this juncture, when he has been most cruelly and publicly insulted by a mad, but villanous fellow, one d'eon, left here by the duc de nivernois, who in effect is still worse treated. this creature, who had been made minister plenipotentiary, which turned his brain, as you have already heard, had stolen nivernois's private letters, and has published them, and a thousand scandals on m. de guerchy, in a very thick quarto. the affair is much too long for a letter, makes a great noise, and gives great offence. the council have met to-day to consider how to avenge guerchy and punish d'eon. i hope a legal remedy is in their power. i will say little on the subject of robert; you know my opinion of his capacity, and i dare say think as i do. he is worth taking pains with. i heartily wish those pains may have success. the cure performed by james's powder charms me more than surprises me. i have long thought it could cure every thing but physicians. politics are all becalmed. lord bute's reappearance on the scene, though his name is in no play-bill, may chance to revive the hurly-burly. my lord townshend has not named charles in his will, who is as much disappointed as he has often disappointed others. we had last night a magnificent ball at my lady cardigan's. those fiddles play'd that never play'd before, and we have danced, where we shall dance no more. he, that is, the totum pro parte,--you do not suspect me, i hope, of any youthfullities--d'autant moins of dancing; that i have rumours of gout flying about me, and would fain coax them into my foot. i have almost tried to make them drunk, and inveigle them thither in their cups; but as they are not at all familiar chez moi, they formalize at wine, as much as a middle-aged woman who is beginning to just drink in private. adieu, my dear sir! my best love to all of' you. as horace is evidently descended from the conqueror, i will desire him to pluck up the pavement by the roots, when i want to transport it hither. ( ) now first collected. the above letter was privately printed, in , by the rev. robert walpole, with the following introduction:--"the incomparable letters of horace walpole, as they have been justly styled by lord byron, have long placed the writer in the highest rank of those who have distinguished themselves in this line of composition. the playful wit and humour with which they abound; the liveliness of his descriptions; the animation of his style; the shrewd and acute observations on the different topics which form the subjects of those letters, are not surpassed by any thing to be found in the most perfect models of epistolary writing, either in england or france. his correspondence extends over a period of more than fifty years, and no subject of general interest seems to have escaped his attention and curiosity. he not only gives a faithful portraiture of the manners of the times, particularly of the highest circles of society in which he lived; but he presents us with many striking sketches of various events and occurrences, illustrating the political history of this country during the latter part of the last century. if any proof were required of the truth of this statement, in addition to what may be afforded by an attentive examination of mr. walpole's correspondence already published, it may be found in the three volumes of letters addressed to sir horace mann, and recently given to the world under the superintendence of lord dover. the letter (now printed for the first time with the consent of the possessor of the original) was addressed to charles churchill, esq., who married lady mary, daughter of sir robert, and sister of mr. walpole; and was written at the time when he was engaged in completing the interior decorations of his villa, strawberry hill." ( ) robert and horace, both mentioned in this letter, were sons of mr. churchill.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, april , . (page ) your idea, my dear lord, of the abusive paragraph on you being conceived at paris,( ) and transmitted hither, tallies exactly with mine. i guessed that a satire on your whole establishment must come from thence: i said so immediately to two or three persons; but i did not tell you i thought so, because i did not choose to fill you with suggestions for which i had no ground, but in my own reasoning. your arguments convince me i was in the right. yet, were you master of proofs, the wisest thing you can do, is to act as if you had no suspicion; that is, to act as you have done, civilly, but coolly. there are men whom one would, i think, no more acknowledge for enemies than friends. one's resentment distinguishes them, and the only gratitude they can pay for that distinction is, to double the abuse. wilkes's mind, you see, is sufficiently volatile, when he can already forget lord sandwich and the scotch, and can employ himself on you. he will soon flit to other prey, when you disregard him. it is my way: i never publish a sheet, but buzz! out fly a swarm of hornets, insects that never settle upon you, if you don't strike at them and whose venom is diverted to the next object that presents itself. we have divine weather. the bishop of carlisle has been with me two days at strawberry, where we saw the eclipse( ) to perfection: -not that there was much sight in it. the air was very chill at the time, and the light singular; but there was not a blackbird that left off singing for it. in the evening the duke of devonshire came with the straffords from t'other end of twickenham, and drank tea with us. they had none of them seen the gallery since it was finished; even the chapel was new to the duke, and he was so struck with it that he desired to offer at the shrine an incense-pot of silver philigrain.( ) the election at cambridge has ended, for the present in strange confusion.( ) the proctors, who were of different sides, assumed each a majority; the votes, however, appear to have been equal. the learned in university decision say, an equality is a negative: if so lord hardwicke is excluded. yet the novelty of the case, it not having been very customary to solicit such a trifling honour, and the antiquated forms of proceeding retained in colleges, leave the matter wide open for further contention, an advantage lord sandwich cherishes as much as success. the grave are highly scandalized:--popularity was still warmer. the under-graduates, who, having no votes had consequently been left to their real opinions, were very near expressing their opinions against lord sandwich's friends in the most outrageous manner: hissed they were; and after the election, the juniors burst into the senate-house, elected a fictitious lord hardwicke, and chaired him. the indecent arts and applications which had been used by the twitcherites (as they are called, from lord sandwich's nickname, jemmy twitcher,) had provoked this rage. i will give you but one instance:-a voter, who was blooded on purpose that morning, was brought out of a madhouse with his keeper. this is the great and wise nation, which the philosopher helvetius is come to study! when he says of us c'est un furieux pais! he does not know that the literal translation is the true description of us. i don't know whether i did not tell you some lies in my last; very likely: i tell you what i hear, and do not answer for truth but when i tell you what i know. how should i know any thing? i am in no confidence; i think of both sides alike; i care for neither; i ask few questions. the king's journey to hanover is contradicted. the return of lord bute is still a mystery. the zealous say, he declares for the administration; but some of the latter do not trust too much to that security; and, perhaps, they are in the right: i know what i think and why i think it; yet some, who do not go on ill grounds, have a middle opinion, that is not very reconcilable to mine. you will not wonder that there is a mystery, doubt, or irresolotion. the scene will be opened further before i get to paris. lord lyttelton and lord temple have dined with each other, and the reconciliation of the former with mr. pitt is concluded. it is well that enmities are as frail as friendships. the archbishops and bishops, who -are so eager against dr. pearse's divorce from his see, not as illegal, but improper, and of bad example, have determined the king, who left it to them, not to consent to it, though the bishop himself still insists on it. as this decision disappoints bishop newton, lord bath has obtained a consolatory promise for him of the mitre of london, to the great discomfort of terrick and warburton. you see lord bath( does not hobble up the back-stairs for nothing. oh, he is an excellent courtier! the prince of wales shoots him with plaything arrows, he falls down dead; and the child kisses him to life again. melancholy ambition i heard him, t'other night, propose himself to lady townshend as a rich widow. such spirits at fourscore are pleasing; but when one has lost all one's children, to be flattering those of kings! the bishop of carlisle told me, that t'other day in the house of lords, warburton said to another of the bench, "i was invited by my lord mansfield to dine with that helvetius, but he is a professed patron of atheism, a rascal, and a scoundrel, and i would not countenance him; besides, i should have worked him, and that lord mansfield would not have liked." no, in good truth: who can like such vulgarism! his french, too, i suppose, is equal to his wit and his piety. i dined, on tuesday, with the imperial minister; we were two-and-twenty, collected from the four corners of the earth. since it is become the fashion to banquet whole kingdoms by turns, i should pray, if i was minister to be sent to lucca. have you received d'eon's very curious book, which i sent by colonel keith? i do not find that the administration can discover any method of attacking him. monsieur de guerchy very properly determines to take no notice of it. in the mean time, the wit of it gains ground, and palliates the abomination, though it ought not. princess amelia asked me again about her trees. i gave her your message. she does not blame you, but madame de boufflers, for sending them so large. mr. legge is in a very bad way; but not without hopes: his last night was better. adieu! my dear lords and ladies! ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . lord hertford suspected this paragraph to have been written by mr. wilkes; which certainly would have been ungrateful, as lord hertford showed mr. wilkes more attention than most people thought proper to be shown by the king's ambassador to a person in mr. wilkes's circumstances.-c. ( ) a considerable eclipse of the sun, which took place on the st of april. it was annular at boulogne, in france, and of course nearly so at paris and london.-c. ( ) commonly called fillagree.-c. ( ) the contest was between lords hardwicke and sandwich; but according to university forms, the poll was taken on the first name; there appeared among the blackhoods for lord hardwicke, placet ; non-placet : among the whitehoods, the proctors' accounts differed; one made placet , non-placet ; the other made placet , non-placet : on this a scrutiny was demanded, and refused, and a great confusion ensuing, the vice-chancellor adjourned the senate sine die.-e. ( ) the once idolized patriot, william pulteney. it must be borne in mind, that mr. walpole cherished a filial aversion to his father's great antagonist.-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, april , . (page ) make yourself perfectly easy, my dear lord, about newspapers and their tattle; they are not worth a moment's regard. in times of party it is impossible to avoid abuse. if attached to one side, one is pelted by the other; if to neither, by both. one can place oneself above deserving invectives; and then it signifies little whether they are escaped or not. but when one is conscious that they are unmerited, it is noblest to scorn them- -perhaps, i even think, that such a situation is not ineligible. character is the most precious of all blessings; but, pray allow that it is too sacred to be hurt by any thing but itself: does it depend on others, or on its own existence? that character must be fictitious, and formed for man, which man can take away. your reputation does not depend on mr. wilkes,( ) like his own. it is delightful to deserve popularity, and to despise it. you will have heard of the sad misfortune that has happened to lord ilchester by his daughter's marriage( ) with o'brien the actor. but, perhaps, you do not know the circumstances, and how much his grief must be aggravated by reflection on his own credulity and negligence. the affair has been in train for eighteen months. the swain had learned to counterfeit lady sarah bunbury's( ) hand so well that in the country lord ilchester has himself delivered several of o'brien's letters to lady susan; but it was not till about a week before the catastrophe that the family was apprised of the intrigue. lord cathcart went to miss reade's, the paintress; she said softly to him, "my lord, there is a couple in the next room that i am sure ought not to be together; i wish your lordship would look in." he did, shut the door again, and went directly and informed lord ilchester. lady susan was examined, flung herself at her father's feet, confessed all, vowed to break off but--what a but!--desired to see the loved object, and take a last leave. you will be amazed-even this was granted. the parting scene happened the beginning of the week. on friday she came of age, and on saturday morning-- instead of being under lock and key in the country--walked down stairs, took her footman, said she was going to breakfast with lady sarah, but would call at miss reade's; in the street, pretended to recollect a particular cap in which she was to be drawn, sent the footman back for it, whipped into a hackney chair, was married at covent-garden church, and set out for mr. o'brien's villa at dunstable. my lady--my lady hertford! what say you to permitting young ladies to act plays, and go to painters by themselves? poor lord ilchester is almost distracted; indeed, it is the completion of disgrace,( )--even a footman were preferable; the publicity of the hero's profession perpetuates the unification. il ne sera pas milord, tout comme un autre. i could not have believed that lady susan would have stooped so low. she may, however, still keep good company, and say, "nos numeri sumus"-- lady mary duncan,( ) lady caroline adair,( ) lady betty gallini( )--the shopkeepers of next age will be mighty well born. if our genealogies had been so confused four hundred years ago, norborne berkeley would have had still more difficulty with his obsolete barony of bottelourt, which the house of lords at last has granted him. i have never attended the hearings, though it has been much the fashion, but nobody cares less than i about what they don't care for. i have been as indifferent about other points, of which all the world is talking, as the restriction of franking, and the great cause of hamilton and douglas. i am almost as tired of what is still more in vogue, our east india affairs. mir jaffeir( ) and cossim aly cawn, and their deputies clive and sullivan, or rather their principals, employ the public attention, instead of mogul pitt and nabob bute; the former of whom remains shut up in asiatic dignity at hayes, while the other is again mounting his elephant and levying troops. what lord tavistock meaned of his invisible haughtiness's( ) invective on mr. neville, i do not know. he has not been in the house of commons since the war of privilege. it must have been something he dropped in private. i was diverted just now with some old rhymes that mr. wilkes would have been glad to have north-britonized for our little bishop of osnaburgh.( ) eligimus puerum, puerorum testa colentes, non nostrum morem, sed regis jussa sequentes. they were literally composed on the election of a juvenile bishop. young dundas marries lady charlotte fitzwilliam;( ) sir lawrence( ) settles four thousand per annum in present, and six more in future--compare these riches got in two years and a half, with d'eon's account of french economy! lord garlies remarries himself with the duchess of manchester's( ) next sister, miss dashwood. the youngest is to have mr. knightly--a-propos to d'eon, the foreign ministers had a meeting yesterday morning, at the imperial minister's, and monsieur de guerchy went from thence to the king, but on what result i do not know, nor can i find that the lawyers agree that any thing can be done against him. there has been a plan of some changes among the dii minores, your lord norths, and carysforts, and ellises, and frederick campbellsl( ) and such like; but the supposition that lord holland would be willing to accommodate the present ministers with the paymaster's place, being the axle on which this project turned, and his lordship not being in the accommodating humour, there are half a dozen abortions of new lords of the treasury and admiralty--excuse me if i do not send you this list of embryos;( i do not load my head with such fry. i am little more au fait of the confusion that happened yesterday at the east india house; i only know it was exactly like the jumble at cambridge. sullivan's list was chosen, all but himself-his own election turns on one disputed vote.( ) every thing is intricate--a presumption that we have few heads very clear. good night, for i am tired; since dinner i have been at an auction of prints, at the antiquarian society in chancery-lane, at lady dalkeith's( ) in grosvenor-square, and at loo at my niece's in pall mall; i left them going to supper, that i might come home and finish this letter; it is half @n hour after twelve, and now i am going to supper myself. i suppose all this sounds very sober to you! ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) lady susan fox, born in , eldest daughter of the first lord ilchester.-e. ( ) daughter of the duke of richmond, wife of sir t. c. bunbury, and afterwards of colonel napier.-c. ( ) it must be observed how little consistent this aristocratical indignation is with the roman sentiments expressed in page , letter , and signed so emphatically horatius.-c. ( ) daughter of the seventh earl of thanet, married, in september , to doctor duncan, m.d., soon after created a baronet.-e. ( ) daughter of the second earl of albemarle, married, in , to mr. adair, a surgeon.-c. ( ) daughter of the third earl of abingdon, married to sir john gallini. she died in , at the age of eighty.-e. ( ) see ante, p. , letter . ( ) mr. pitt. ( ) frederick, duke of york, born in august , elected bishop of osnaburgh, th of february, .-e. ( ) second daughter of the third earl fitzwilliam, born in .-e. ( ) sir lawrence dundas, father of the first lord dundas, is said to have made his fortune in the commissariat, during the scotch rebellion of .-c. ( ) elizabeth, daughter of sir james dashwood, bart. and wife of the fourth duke of manchester.-e. ( ) second son of the fourth duke of argyle. he was successively keeper of the privy seal in scotland, secretary to the lord lieutenant of ireland, and lord register of' scotland, in which office he died.-c. ( ) "on the th of april, a very warm contest took place. mr. sullivan brought forward one list of twenty-five directors, and mr. rous, who was supported by lord clive, produced another. notwithstanding his friend lord bute was no longer minister, mr. sullivan succeeded in bringing in half his numbers; but the attack of lord clive had so shaken the power of this lately popular director, that his own election was only carried by one vote." malcolm's memoirs of lord clive, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) the eldest daughter of john duke of argyle and greenwich, the widow of francis earl of dalkeith, son of the second duke of buccleugh, and wife of mr. charles townshend. she was, in , created baroness greenwich, with remainder to her sons by mr. townshend. she, however, died leaving none.-c. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, april , . (page ) i shall send your ms. volume this week to mr. cartwright, and with a thousand thanks. i ought to beg your pardon for having detained it so long. the truth is, i had not time till last week to copy two or three little things at most. do not let this delay discourage you from lending me more. if i have them in summer i shall keep them much less time than in winter. i do not send my print with it as you ordered me, because i find it is too large to lie within the volume; and doubling a mezzotinto, you know, spoils it. you shall have one more, if you please, whenever i see you. i have lately made a few curious additions to my collections of various sorts, and shall hope to show them to you at strawberry hill. adieu! letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, april , . (page ) i am just come from the duchess of argyll's,( ) where i dined. general warburton was there, and said it was the report at the house of lords, that you are turned out--he imagined, of your regiment--but that i suppose is a mistake for the bedchamber.( ) i shall hear more to-night, and lady strafford, who brings you this, will tell you; though to be sure you will know earlier by the post to-morrow. my only reason for writing is, to repeat to you, that whatever you do, i shall act with you.( ) i resent any thing done to you as to myself. my fortunes shall never be separated from yours--except that some time or other i hope yours will be great, and i am content with mine. the manns go on with the business.( ) the letter you received was from mr. edward mann, not from gal.'s widow. adieu! i was going to say, my disgraced friend--how delightful to have a character so unspotted, that the word disgrace recoils on those who displace you! yours unalterably. ( ) widow of john campbell, duke of argyle. she was sister to general warburton, and had been maid of honour to queen anne.-e. ( ) mr. conway was dismissed from all his employments, civil and military, for having opposed the ministry in the house of commons, on the question of the legality of warrants, at the time of the prosecution of mr. wilkes for the publication of the north briton.-c. ( ) mr. walpole was then in the house of commons, member for king's lynn in norfolk. ( ) of army-clothiers. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, april , . (page ) there has been a strong report about town for these two days that your brother is dismissed, not only from the bedchamber, but from his regiment, and that the latter is given to lord pembroke. i do not believe it. your brother went to park-place but yesterday morning at ten: he certainly knew nothing of it the night before when we parted, after one, at grafton-house: nor would he have passed my door yesterday without stopping to tell me of it: no letter has been sent to his house since, nor were any orders arrived at the war office at half an hour after three yesterday; nay, though i can give the ministry credit for much folly, and some of them credit for even violence and folly, i do not believe they are so rash as this would amount to. for the bedchamber, you know, your brother never liked it, and would be glad to get rid of it. i should be sorry for his sake, and for yours too, if it went farther;--gentle and indifferent as his nature is, his resentment, if his profession were touched, would be as serious as such spirit and such abilities could make it. i would not be the man that advised provoking him; and one man( ) has put himself wofully in his power! in my own opinion, this is one of the lies of which the time is so fruitful; i would not even swear that it has not the same parent with the legend i sent you last week, relating to an intended disposition in consequence of lord holland's resignation. the court confidently deny the whole plan, and ascribe it to the fertility of charles townshend's brain. however, as they have their charles townshends too, i do not totally disbelieve it. the parliament rose yesterday,-no new peers, not even irish: lord northumberland's list is sent back ungranted.( ) the duke of mecklenburgh( ) and lord halifax are to have the garters. bridgman( ) is turned out of the green cloth, which is given to dick vernon; and his place of surveyor of the gardens, which young dickinson held for him, is bestowed on cadogan.( ) dyson( ) is made a lord of trade. these are all the changes i have heard--not of a complexion that indicates the removal of your brother. the foreign ministers agreed, as to be sure you have been told, to make monsieur de guerchy's cause commune; and the attorney-general has filed an information against d'eon: the poor lunatic was at the opera on saturday, looking like bedlam. he goes armed, and threatens, what i dare say he would perform, to kill or be killed, if any attempt is made to seize him. the east indian affairs have taken a new turn. sullivan had twelve votes to ten: lord clive bribed off one. when they came to the election of chairman, sullivan desired to be placed in the chair, without the disgrace of a ballot; but it was denied. on the scrutiny, the votes appeared eleven and eleven. sullivan understood the blow, and with three others left the room. rous, his great enemy, was placed in the chair; since that, i think matters are a little compromised, and sullivan does not abdicate the direction; but lord clive, it is supposed, will go to bengal in the stead of colonel barr`e, as sullivan and lord shelburne had intended. mr. pitt is worse than ever with the gout. legge's case is thought very dangerous:--thus stand our politics, and probably will not fluctuate much for some months. at least-i expect to have little more to tell you before i see you at paris, except balls, weddings, and follies, of which, thank the moon! we never have a dearth: for one of the latter class, we are obliged to the archbishop,( ) who, in remembrance, i suppose, of his original profession of midwifery, has ordered some decent alterations to be made in king henry's figure in the tower. poor lady susan o'brien is in the most deplorable situation, for her adonis is a roman catholic, and cannot be provided for out of his calling. sir francis delaval, being touched with her calamity, has made her a present--of what do you think?--of a rich gold stuff! the delightful charity! o'brien comforts himself, and says it will make a shining passage in his little history. i will tell you but one more folly, and hasten to my signature. lady beaulieu was complaining of being waked by a noise in the night: my lord( replied, "oh, for my part, there is no disturbing be; if they don't wake me before i go to sleep, there is no waking me afterwards." lady hervey's table is at last arrived, and the princess's trees, which i sent her last night; but she wants nothing, for lady barrymore( ) is arrived. i smiled when i read your account of lord tavistock's expedition. do you remember that i made seven days from calais to paris, by laying out my journeys at the rate of travelling in england, thirty miles a-day; and did not find but that i could have gone in a third of the time! i shall not be such a snail the next time. it is said that on lord tavistock's return, he is to decide whom he will marry. is it true that the choiseuls totter, and that the broglios are to succeed; or is there a charles townshend at versailles? adieu! my dear lord. ( ) no doubt mr. george grenville is here meant. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) this list was, sir ralph gore, sir richard king, and mr. stephen moote, all created peers in this summer by the respective titles of bellisle, kingston, and kilworth.-c. ( ) adolphus frederick iii. duke of mecklenburgh strelitz, the queen's brother. he died in .-c. ( ) mr. george bridgman, brother of the first lord bradford. he had been many years surveyor of the royal gardens, and was celebrated for his taste in ornamental gardening. he died at lisbon, in .-c. ( ) probably charles sloane cadagan, son of the second lord cadogan, who was treasurer to edward duke of york.-c. ( ) jeremiah dyson, esq. afterwards a privy-counsellor.-e. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) mr. hussey was an irishman. see ant`e, p. .-e. ( ) margaret davis, sister and heiress of edward, the last viscount mountcashel of that family, and widow of james earl of barrymore.-c. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, saturday night, eight o'clock, april , . (page ) i write to you with a very bad headache; i have passed a night, for which george grenville and the duke of bedford shall pass many an uneasy one! notwithstanding that i heard from every body i met, that your regiment, as well as bedchamber, were taken away, i would not believe it, till last night the duchess of grafton told me, that the night before the duchess of bedford said to her, "are not you sorry for poor mr. conway? he has lost every thing." when the witch of endor pities, one knows she has raised the devil. i am come hither alone to put my thoughts into some order, and to avoid showing the first sallies of my resentment, which i know you would disapprove; nor does it become your friend to rail. my anger shall be a little more manly, and the plan of my revenge a little deeper laid than in peevish bon-mots. you shall judge of my indignation by its duration. in the mean time, let me beg you, in the most earnest and most sincere of all professions, to suffer me to make your loss as light as it is in my power to make it: i have six thousand pounds in the funds; accept all, or what part you want. do not imagine i will be put off with a refusal. the retrenchment of my expenses, which i shall from this hour commence, will convince you that i mean to replace your fortune as far as i can. when i thought you did not want it, i had made another disposition. you have ever been the dearest person to me in the world. you have shown that you deserve to be so. you suffer for your spotless integrity. can i hesitate a moment to show that there is at least one man who knows how to value you? the new will, which i am going to make, will be a testimonial of my own sense of virtue. one circumstance has heightened my resentment. if it was not an accident, it deserves to heighten it. the very day on which your dismission was notified, i received an order from the treasury for the payment of what money was due to me there. is it possible that they could mean to make any distinction between us? have i separated myself from you? is there that spot on earth where i can be suspected of having paid court? have i even left my name at a minister's door since you took your part? if they have dared to hint this, the pen that is now writing to you will bitterly undeceive them. i am impatient to see the letters you have received, and the answers you have sent. do you come to town? if you do not, i will come to you to-morrow se'nnight, that is, the th. i give no advice on any thing, because you are cooler than i am--not so cool, i hope, as to be insensible to this outrage, this villany, this injustice you owe it to your country to labour the extermination of such ministers! i am so bad a hypocrite, that i am afraid of showing how deeply i feel this. yet last night i received the account from the duchess of grafton with more temper than you believe me 'capable of: but the agitation of the night disordered me so much, that lord john cavendish, who was with me two hours this morning, does not, i believe, take me for a hero. as there are some who i know would enjoy my mortification, and who probably desired i should feel my share of it, i wish to command myself-but that struggle shall be added to their bill. i saw nobody else before i came away but legge, who sent for me and wrote the enclosed for you. he would have said more both to you and lady ailesbury, but i would not let him, as he is so ill: however, he thinks himself that he shall live. i hope be will! i would not lose a shadow that can haunt these ministers. i feel for lady ailesbury, because i know she feels just as i do- -and it is not a pleasant sensation. i will say no more, though i could write volumes. adieu! yours, as i ever have been and ever will be. letter the hon. h. s. conway to the earl of hertford.( ) park place, april , . (page ) dear brother, you will, i think, be much surprised at the extraordinary news i received yesterday, of my total dismission from his majesty's service, both as groom of the bedchamber and colonel of a regiment. what makes it much stronger is, that i do not hear that any of the many officers who voted with me on the same questions in the minority, are turned out. it seems almost impossible to conceive it should be so, and yet, so i suspect it is; and if it be, it seems to me upon the coolest reflection i am able to give it, the harshest and most unjust treatment ever offered to any man on the like occasion. i never gave a single vote( ) against the ministry , but in the questions on the great constitutional point of the warrants. people are apt to dignify with such titles any question that serves their factious purpose to maintain; but what proved this to be really so, was the great number of persons who voted as i did, having no connexion with the opposition, but determined friends of the ministry in all their conduct, and in the government's service; such as lord howe and his brother, and several more. as to the rest, i never gave another vote against the ministry. i refused being of the opposition club, or to attend any one meeting of the kind, from a principle of not entering into a scheme of opposition, but being free to follow my own sentiments upon any question that should arise. on the cider-act i even voted for the court, in the only vote i gave on that subject; and in another case, relative to the supposed assassination of wilkes, i even took a part warmly in preventing that silly thing from being an object of clamour. so that, undoubtedly, my overt acts have been only voting as any man might from judgment, only in a very extraordinary and serious question of privilege and personal liberty; the avowing my friendship and obligation to some few now in opposition, and my neglecting to pay court to those in the administration; that seemed to me, both an honest and an honourable part in my situation, which was something delicate. my poor judgment, at least, could point out no better for me to take, and i enter into so much detail upon this old story, that you may not think i have done any thing lightly or passionately which might give just ground for this extraordinary usage; and i must add to the account, that neither in nor out of the house can i, i think, be charged with a single act or expression of offence to any one of his majesty's ministers. this was, at least, a moderate part; and after this, what the ministry should find in their judgment, their justice, or their prudence, from my situation, my conduct, or my character, to single me out and stigmatize me as the proper object of disgrace, or how the merit of so many of my friends who are acting in their support, and whom they might think it possible would feel hurt, did not, in their prudential light, tend to soften the rigour of their aversion towards me, does, i confess, puzzle me. i don't exactly know from what particular quarter the blow comes; but i must think lord bute has, at least, a share in it, as, since his return, the countenance of the king, who used to speak to me after all my votes, is visibly altered, and of late he has not spoke to me at all. so much for my political history: i wish it was as easy to my fortune as it is to my mind in most other respects; but that, too, i' must make as easy as i can: it comes unluckily at the end of two german campaigns, which i felt the expense of with a much larger income, and have not yet recovered;( ) as, far from having a reward, it was with great difficulty i got the reimbursement of the extraordinary money my last command through holland cost me, though the states-general, had, by a public act, represented my conduct so advantageously, to our court; so that on the whole i think no man was ever more contemptuously used, who was not a wretch lost in character and reputation. it requires all the philosophy one can master, not to show the strongest resentment. i think i have as much as my neighbours, and i shall endeavour to use it; yet not so as to betray quite an unmanly insensibility to such extraordinary provocation. horace walpole has, on this occasion, shown that warmth of friendship that you know him capable of, so strongly that i want words to express my sense of it. i have not yet had time to see or hear from any of the rest of my friends who are in the way of this bustle; many of them have, i believe, taken their part, for different reasons, another way, and i am sure i shall never say a word to make them abandon what they think their own interest for my petty cause. nor am i anxious enough in the object of my own fortune to wish for their taking any step that may endanger theirs in any degree. with retrenchments and economy i may be able to go on, and this great political wheel, that is always in motion, may one day or other turn me up, that am but the fly upon it.( ) i shall go to town for ,i few days soon, and probably to court, i suppose to be frowned upon, for i am not treated with the same civility as others who are in determined opposition. give my best love and compliments to all with you, and believe me, dear brother, ever most affectionately yours, h. s. c. ( ) as two of mr. walpole's letters, relative to general conway's dismissal, are wanting, the editor is glad to be able to supply their place by two letters on the subject from the general himself; and as his dismissal was, both in its principle and consequences, a very important political event, as well as a principal topic in mr. walpole's succeeding letters, it is thought that general conway's own view of it cannot fail to be acceptable. ( ) general conway and mr. walpole seem to have taken the argument on too low a scale. their anxiety seems to have been, to show that the general was not in decided opposition; thereby appearing to admit, that if he had been so, the dismissal would have been justifiable. it is however clear from mr. walpole's own accounts, that conway was considered as not only in opposition, but as one of the most distinguished leaders of the party, --and so the public thought: witness the following extract from "a letter" from albemarle-street to the cocoa-tree, published about this period:--"amongst the foremost stands a gallant general, pointed out for supreme command by the unanimous voice of his grateful country: england has a conway, the powers of whose eloquence, inspired by his zeal for liberty, animated by the fire of true genius, and furnished with a sound knowledge of the constitution, at once entertain, ravish, convince, conquer:-- such noble examples are the riches of the present age, the treasures of posterity."-c. ( ) on this occasion, lord hertford, the duke of devonshire, and mr. horace walpole (each without the knowledge of the others) pressed general conway to accept from them an income equivalent to what he had lost.-c. ( ) within little more than a year mr. conway was secretary of state, and leader of the house of commons.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, april , . (page ) i rejoice that you feel your loss so little. that you act with dignity and propriety does not surprise me. to have you behave in character, and with character, is my first of all wishes; for then it will not be in the power of man to make you unhappy. ask yourself--is there a man in england with whom you would change character? is there a man in england who would not change with you? then think how little they have taken away! for me, i shall certainly conduct myself as you prescribe. your friend shall say and do nothing unworthy of your friend. you govern me in every thing but one: i mean, the disposition i have told you i shall make. nothing can alter that but a great change in your fortune. in another point, you partly misunderstood me. that i shall explain hereafter. i shall certainly meet you here on sunday, and very cheerfully. we may laugh at a world in which nothing of us will remain long but our characters. yours eternally. letter the hon. h. s. conway to the earl of hertford. london, may , . (page ) i wrote a letter some days ago from the country, which. i am sorry to find, does not set out till to-,day, having been given to m. des ardrets by horace walpole, as it was one i did not choose to send by the post just at this time, though god knows there was less in it, i think, than almost any but myself would have said on such an occasion. i am sorry it did not go, as it must seem very strange to you to hear on that subject from any body before me: had it been possible, at the same time, i should have wished not to write to you upon it at all. it is a satisfaction, in most situations, certainly, to communicate even one's griefs to those friends to whom one can do it in confidence, but it is a pain where one thinks it must give them any; and i assure you, i feel this sincerely from the share i know your goodness will take in this, upon my account; as well as that which, in some respects, it may give you on your own: as 'the particular distinction with which i am honoured beyond so many of my brother officers who have so much more directly, declaredly, and long been in real opposition to the ministry, has great unkindness in it to all those friends of mine who have been acting in their support. however, i would not, on any account, that you or any of them should, for my sake, be drove a single step beyond what is for their actual interest and inclination. nay, i would not have the latter operate by itself, as i know, from their goodness how bad a guide that might be. i do not exactly know the grounds upon which the ministry made choice of me as the object of their vengeance for a crime so general, the only one i have heard, has certainly no weight; it was, that if i was turned out of the bedchamber, and not my regiment, it would be a sanction given for military men to oppose--that distinction had before been destroyed by the dismission of three military men; nor did my remaining in the army afterwards any more establish it, than any other man's; it was a paltry excuse for a thing they had a mind to do: the real motives or authors i cannot yet quite ascertain. i hope, though they turned me out, they cannot disgrace me, as i presume they wish; at least, so (my friends flatter me) the language of the world goes, and i have at least the satisfaction of being really ignorant myself, by what part of the civil or military behaviour i could deserve so very unkind a treatment. i am sure it was not for want of any respect, duty, or attachment to his majesty. i shall at present say no more on the subject. i have heard from two or three different quarters, of a disagreeable accident you have had in your chaise, and calling by chance at the duke of grafton's this morning, he read me a postscript in a letter of yours, wherein you describe it as a thing of no consequence. i was rejoiced to hear @it, and should have been obliged for a line from any of your family to tell me so; for one often hears those things so disagreeably represented, that it is pleasant to know the truth. you are delightful in writing me a long letter the other day, and never mentioning m. de pompadour's death; so that i flatly contradicted it at first, to those that told me of it. i am obliged to you for your intention of showing civility to my friend colonel keith; i think you will like him. i hear in town, that we have some little disputes stirring up with our new friends on your side the water, about the limits of their fishery on newfoundland, and a fort building on st. pierre: but i speak from no authority. we are all sorry here at a surmise, that m. de guerchy does not intend to return among us, being too much hurt at the behaviour of his friends of the ministry in those letters so infamously published by d'eon. i hope it is only report. adieu! dear brother: give my love and compliments to all your family, as also lady aylesbury's; and believe me ever sincerely and affectionately yours, h. s. c. i am here only for a few days, having, as you will imagine, not many temptations to keep me from the country at this time. i hope, by this time, your pheasants, etc., are safe at the end of their journey,. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, may , . (page ) i hope i have done well for you, and that you will be content with the execution of your commission. i have bought you two pictures. no. , which is by no means a good picture, but it went so cheap and looked so old-fashionably, that i ventured to give eighteen shillings for it. the other is very pretty, no, ; two sweet children, undoubtedly by sir peter lely. this costs you four pounds ten shillings; what shall i do with them-- how convey them to you? the picture of lord romney, which you are so fond of, was not in this sale, but i suppose remains with lady sidney. i bought for myself much the best picture in the auction, a fine vandyke of the famous lady carlisle and her sister leicester in one piece: it cost me nine-and-twenty guineas. in general the pictures did not go high, which i was glad of; that the vulture, who sells them, may not be more enriched than could be helped. there was a whole-length of sir henry sidney, which i should have liked, but it went for fifteen guineas. thus ends half the glory of penshurst! not one of the miniatures was sold. i go to strawberry to-morrow for a week. when do you come to frogmore? i wish to know, because i shall go soon to park-place, and would not miss the visit you have promised me. adieu! yours ever, h.w. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, may , . very late. (page ) my dear lord, i am just come home, and find a letter from you, which gives me too much pain( ) to let me resist answering it directly though past one in the morning, as i go out of town early to-morrow. i must begin with telling you, let me feel what i will from it, how much i admire it. it is equal to the difficulty of your situation, and expressed with all the feeling which must possess you. i will show it your brother, as there is nothing i would not and will not, do to preserve the harmony and friendship which has so much distinguished your whole lives. you have guessed, give me leave to say, at my wishes, rather than answered to any thing i have really expressed. the truth was, i had no right to deliver any opinion on so important a step as you have taken, without being asked. had you consulted me, which certainly was not proper for you to do, it would have been with the utmost reluctance that i should have brought myself to utter my sentiments, and only then, if i had been persuaded that friendship exacted it from me; for it would have been a great deal for me to have taken upon myself: it would have been a step, either way, liable to subject me to reproach from you in your own mind, though you would have been too generous to have blamed me in any other way. now, my dear lord, do me the justice to say, that the part i have acted was the most proper and most honourable one i could take. did i, have i dropped a syllable, endeavouring to bias your judgment one way or the other? my constant language has been, that i could not think, when a younger brother had taken a part disagreeable to his elder, and totally opposite, even without consulting him, that the elder, was under any obligation to relinquish his own opinion, and adopt the younger's. in my heart i undoubtedly wished, that even in party your union should not be dissolved; for that union would be the strength of both. this is the summary of a text on which i have infinitely more to say; but the post is so far from being a proper conveyance, that i think the most private letter transmitted in the most secure manner is scarcely to be trusted. should i resolve, if you require it, to be more explicit, (and i certainly shall not think of saying a word more, unless i know that it is strongly your desire i should,) it must only be upon the most positive assurance on your honour (and on their honour as strictly given too) that not a syllable of what i shall say shall be communicated to any person living. i except nobody, except my lady and lord beauchamp. what i should say now is now of no consequence, but for your information. it can tend to nothing else. it therefore does not signify, whether said now, or at any distant time hereafter, or when we meet. if, as perhaps you may at first suppose, it had the least view towards making you quit your embassy, you should not know it at all; for i think that would be the idlest and most unwise step you could take; and believe me, my affection for your brother will never make me sacrifice your honour to his interest . i have loved you both unalterably, and without the smallest cloud between us, from children. it is true, as you observe, that party, with many other mischiefs, produces dissensions in families. i can by no means agree with you, that all party is founded in interest-- surely, you cannot think that your brother's conduct was not the result of the most unshaken honour and conscience, and as surely the result of no interested motive? you are not less mistaken, if you believe that the present state of party in this country is not of a most serious nature, and not a mere contention for power and employments.( ) that topic, however, i shall pass over; the discussion, perhaps, would end where it began. as you know i never tried to bring you to my opinion before, i am very unlikely to aim at it now. let this and the rest of this subject sleep for the present. i trust i have convinced you that my behaviour has been both honourable and respectful towards you: and that, though i think with your brother and am naturally very warm, i have acted in the most dispassionate manner, and had recourse to nothing but silence, when i was not so happy as to meet you in opinion. this subject has kept me so long, and it is so very late, that you will forgive me if i only skim over the gazette part of my letter--my next shall be more in my old gossiping style. dr. terrick and dr. lambe are made bishops of london and peterborough, without the nomination or approbation of the ministers. the duke of bedford declared this warmly, for you know his own administration( ) always allow him to declare his genuine opinion, that they may have the credit of making him alter it. he was still more surprised at the chancellor's being made an earl( ) without his knowledge, after he had gone out of town, blaming the chancellor's coldness on d'eon's affair, which is now dropped. three marquisates going to be given to lords cardigan, northumberland, and townshend, may not please his grace more, though they may his minister,( ) who may be glad his master is angry, as it may produce a good quieting draught for himself. the northumberlands are returned; hamilton is dismissed,( ) and the earl of drogheda( ) made secretary in his room. michell( ) is recalled by desire of this court, who requested to have it done without giving their reasons, as sir charles williams( ) had been sent from berlin in the same manner. colonel johnson is also recalled from minorca. he had been very wrongheaded with his governors sir richard;( ) that wound was closed, when the judicious deputy chose to turn out a brother-in-law of lord bute. lady falkener's daughter is to be married to a young rich mr. crewe,( ) a maccarone, and of our loo. mr. skreene has married miss sumner, and her brother gives her , pounds. good night! the watchman cries three! ( ) it seems that mr. walpole, in one of the letters not found, had expressed a desire that lord hertford should resent, in some decided manner, the dismissal of his brother: but he, in the course of this letter, recollects that as the younger brother had acted not only without concert with lord hertford, but in direct opposition to his opinion and advice, there was no kind of reason why his lordship should take any extreme steps.-c. ( ) yet, in frequent preceding passages, mr. walpole represents the conflicts of parties as only a contention for power and place.-c. ( ) he means the duke's political friends, mr. rigby, etc.-c. ( ) the earl of northington. ( ) mr. rigby. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) charles, earl and first marquis of drogheda, who married lord hertford's sister; he died in , at a great age.-e. ( ) minister from the court of prussia to london.-e. ( ) sir c. h. williams had been minister, both at berlin and st. petersburgh.-e. ( ) sir richard lyttelton.-e. ( ) john crewe, esq. married, th may, , to miss fawkener, the daughter of sir everard fawkener, who died in , one of the postmasters-general.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. arlington street, june , . (page ) you will wonder that i have been so long without giving you any signs of life; yet, though not writing to you, i have been employed about you, as i have ever since the st of april; a day your enemies shall have some cause to remember. i had writ nine or ten sheets of an answer to the "address to the public," when i received the enclosed mandate.( ) you will see my masters order me, as a subaltern of the exchequer, to drop you and defend them--but you will see too, that, instead of obeying, i have given warning. i would not communicate any part of this transaction to you, till it was out of my hands, because i knew your affection for me would not approve of in going so far--but it was necessary. my honour required that i should declare my adherence to you in the most authentic manner. i found that some persons had dared to doubt whether i would risk every thing for you. you see by these letters that mr. grenville himself had presumed so. even a change in the administration, however unlikely, might happen before i had any opportunity of declaring myself; and then those who should choose to put the worst construction, either on my actions or my silence, might say what they pleased. i was waiting for some opportunity: they have put it into my hands, and i took care not to let it slip. indeed they have put more into my hands, which i have not let slip neither. could i expect they would give me so absurd an account of mr. grenville's conduct, and give it to me in writing? they can only add to this obligation that of provocation to print my letter, which, however strong in facts, i have taken care to make very decent in terms, because it imports us to have the candid (that is,. i fear, the mercenary) on our side;--no, that we must not expect, but at least disarmed. lord tavistock has flung his handkerchief to lady elizabeth keppel. they all go to woburn on thursday, and the ceremony is to be performed as soon as her brother, the bishop, can arrive from exeter. i am heartily glad the duchess of bedford does not set her heart on marrying me to any body; i am sure she would bring it about. she has some small intention of coupling my niece and dick vernon, but i have forbidden the banns. the birthday, i hear, was lamentably empty. we had a loo last night in the great chamber at lady bel finch's: the duke, princess emily, and the duchess of bedford were there. the princess entertained her grace with the joy the duke of bedford will have in being a grandfather; in which reflection, i believe, the grandmotherhood was not forgotten. adieu! ( ) the paper here alluded to does not appear. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) to be sure, you have heard the event of' this last week? lord tavistock has flung his handkerchief, and except a few jealous sultanas, and some sultanas valides who had marketable daughters, every body is pleased that the lot is fallen on lady elizabeth keppel.( ) the house of bedford came to town last friday. i supped with them that night at the spanish ambassador's, who has made powis- house magnificent. lady elizabeth was not there nor mentioned. on the contrary, by the duchess's conversation, which turned on lady betty montagu,( ) there were suspicions in her favour. the next morning lady elizabeth received a note from the duchess of marlborough,( ) insisting on seeing her that evening. when she arrived at marlborough-house, she found nobody but the duchess and lord tavistock. the duchess cried, "lord! they have left the window open in the next room!"--went to shut it, and shut the lovers in too, where they remained for three hours. the same night all the town was at the duchess of richmond's. lady albemarle( ) was at tredille; the duke of bedford came up to the table, and told her he must speak to her as soon as the pool was over. you may guess whether she knew a card more that she played. when she had finished, the duke told her he should wait on her the next morning, to make the demand in form. she told it directly to me and my niece waldegrave, who was in such transport for her friend, that she promised the duke of bedford to kiss him, and hurried home directly to write to her sisters.( ) the duke asked no questions about fortune, but has since slipped a bit of paper into lady elizabeth's hand, telling her, he hoped his son would live, but if he did not, there was something for her; it was a jointure of three thousand pounds a-year, and six hundred pounds pin-money. i dined with her the next day, at monsieur de guerchy's, and as i hindered the company from wishing her joy, and yet joked with her myself, madame de guerchy said, she perceived i would let nobody else tease her, that i might have all the teasing to myself she has behaved in the prettiest manner, in the world, and would not appear at a vast assembly at northumberland-house on tuesday, nor at a great haymaking at mrs. pitt's on wednesday. yesterday they all went to woburn, and tomorrow the ceremony is to be performed; for the duke has not a moment's patience till she is breeding. you would have been diverted at northumberland-house; besides the sumptuous liveries, the illuminations in the garden, the pages, the two chaplains in waiting in their gowns and scarves, `a l'irlandaise,( ) and dr. hill and his wife, there was a most delightful countess, who has just imported herself from mecklenburgh. she is an absolute princess of monomotapa; but i fancy you have seen her. for her hideousness and frantic accoutrements are so extraordinary, that they tell us she was hissed in the tuileries. she crossed the drawing-room on the birthday to speak to the queen en amie, after standing with her back to princess amelia. the queen was so ashamed of her, that she said cleverly, "this is not the dress at strelitz; but this woman always dressed herself as capriciously there, as your duchess of queensberry does here." the haymaking at wandsworth-hill( ) did not succeed from the excessive cold of the night; i proposed to bring one of the cocks into the great room, and make a bonfire. all the beauties were disappointed, and all the macaronies afraid of getting the toothache. the guerchys are gone to goodwood, and were to have been carried to portsmouth, but lord egmont( ) refused to let the ambassador see the place. the duke of richmond was in a rage, and i do not know how it has ended, for the duke of bedford defends the refusal, and says, they certainly would not let you see brest. the comte d'ayen is going a longer tour. he is liked here. the three great ambassadors danced at court--the prince of masserano they say well; he is extremely in fashion, and is a sensible very good-humoured man, though his appearance is so deceitful. they have given me the honour of a bon-mot, which, i assure you, does not belong to me, that i never saw a man so full of orders and disorders. he and his suite, and the guerchys and theirs, are to dine here next week. poor little strawberry never thought of such f`etes. i did invite them to breakfast, but they confounded it, and understood that they were asked to dinner, so i must do as well as i can. both the ambassadors are in love with my niece;( ) therefore, i trust they will not have unsentimental stomachs. shall i trouble you with a little commission? it is to send me a book that i cannot get here, nor am i quite sure of the exact title, but it is called "origine des moeurs,"( ) or something to that import. it is in three volumes, and has not been written above two or three years. adieu, my dear lord, from my fireside. p. s. do you know that madame de yertzin, the mecklenburgh countess, has had the honour of giving the king of prussia a box of the ear?--i am sure he deserved it, if he could take liberties with such a chimpanzee. colonel elliot died on thursday. ( ) the daughter of the second earl of albemarle; she was born in .-e. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) caroline russel, sister of the duke of bedford.-e. ( ) anne, daughter of charles, first duke of richmond.-e. ( ) lady dysart and mrs. keppel; the latter was married to lady elizabeth's brother.-e. ( ) lord northumberland was still lord-lieutenant of ireland.-e. ( ) mrs. pitt's villa. ( ) first lord of the admiralty. ( ) lady waldegrave. ( ) in a subsequent letter, he calls this work "essais les moeurs." i find a work of the latter title published in anonymously, and under the date of bruxelles. it was written by a m. soret, but it seems to have been in only one volume. can mr. walpole have meant duclos's celebrated "considerations sur les moeurs," published anonymously in , but subsequently under his name?--c. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i trust that you have thought i was dead, it is so long since you heard of me. in truth i had nothing to talk of but cold and hot weather, of rain and want of rain, subjects that have been our summer conversation for these twenty years. i am pleased that you was content with your pictures, and shall be glad if you have ancestors out of them. you may tell your uncle algernon that i go to-morrow, where he would not be ashamed to see me; as there are not many such spots at present, you and he will guess it is to park-place. strawberry, whose glories perhaps verge towards their setting-, have been more sumptuous to-day than ordinary, and banquetted their representative majesties of france and spain. i had monsieur and madame de guerchy, mademoiselle de nangis their daughter, two other french gentlemen, the prince of masserano, his brother and secretary, lord march, george selwyn, mrs. add pitt, and my niece waldegrave. the refectory never was so crowded; nor have any foreigners been here before that comprehended strawberry. indeed, every thing succeeded to a hair. a violent shower in the morning laid the dust, brightened the green, refreshed the roses, pinks, orange-flowers, and the blossoms with which the acacias are covered. a rich storm of thunder and lightning gave a dignity of colouring to the heavens; and the sun appeared enough to illuminate the landscape, without basking himself over it at his length. during dinner there were french horns and clarionets in the cloister, and after coffee i treated them with an english, and to them a very new collation, a syllabub milked under the cows that were brought to the brow of the terrace. thence they went to the printing-house, and saw a new fashionable french song printed. they drank tea in the gallery, and at eight went away to vauxhall. they really seemed quite pleased with the place and the day; but i must tell you, the treasury of the abbey will feel it, for without magnificence, all was handsomely done. i must keep maigre; at least till the interdict is taken off from my convent. i have kings and queens, i hear, in my neighbourhood, but this is no royal foundation. adieu; your poor beadsman, the abbot of strawberry. p. s. mr. t***'s servile poem is rewarded with one hundred and sixty pounds a ),ear in the post-office. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) mr. chute says you are peremptory that you will not cast a look southwards. do you know that in that case you will not set eyes on me the lord knows when? my mind is pretty much fixed on going to paris the beginning of september. i think i shall go, if it is only to scold my lord and lady hertford for sending me their cousins, the duke and duchess of berwick, who say they are come to see their relations. by their appearance, you would imagine they were come to beg money of their family. he has just the sort of capacity which you would expect in a stuart engrafted on a spaniard. he asked me which way he was to come to twickenham? i told him through kensington, to which i supposed his geography might reach. he replied, "oh! du cot`e de la mer." she, who is sister of the duke of alva, is a decent kind of a body: but they talk wicked french. i gave them a dinner here t'other day, with the marquis of jamaica, their only child, and a fat tutor, and the few fitzroys i could amass at this season. they were very civil, and seemed much pleased. to-day they arc gone to blenheim by invitation. i want to send you something from the strawberry press; tell me how i shall convey it; it is nothing less than the most curious book that ever set its foot into the world. i expect to hear you scream hither: if you don't i shall be disappointed, for i have kept it as a most profound secret from you, till i was ready to surprise you with it: i knew your impatience, and would not let you have it piecemeal. it is the life of the great philosopher, lord herbert, written by himself.( ) now are you disappointed? well, read it--not the first forty pages, of which you will be sick--i will not anticipate it, but i will tell you the history. i found it a year ago at lady hertford's, to whom lady powis had lent it. i took it up, and soon threw it down again, as the dullest thing i ever saw. she persuaded me to take it home. my lady waldegrave was here in all her grief; gray and i read it to amuse her. we could not get on for laughing, and screaming. i begged to have it to print: lord powis, sensible of the extravagance, refused--i persisted--he persisted. i told my lady hertford, it was no matter, i would print it, i was determined. i sat down and wrote a flattering dedication to lord powis, which i knew he would swallow: he did, and gave up his ancestor. but this was not enough; i was resolved the world should not think i admired it seriously, though there are really fine passages in it, and good sense too: i drew up an equivocal preface, in which you will discover my opinion, and sent it with the dedication. the earl gulped down the one under the palliative of the other, and here you will have all. pray take notice of the pedigree, of which i am exceedingly proud; observe how i have clearly arranged so involved a descent: one may boast at one's heraldry. i shall send you too lady temple's poems.( ) pray keep both under lock and key, for there are but two hundred copies of lord herbert, and but one hundred of the poems suffered to be printed. i am almost crying to find the glorious morsel of summer, that we have had, turned into just such a watery season as the last. even my excess of verdure, which used to comfort me for every thing, does not satisfy me now, as i live entirely alone. i am heartily tired of my large neighbourhood, who do not furnish me two or three rational beings at most, and the best of them have no vivacity. london, whither i go at least once a fortnight for a night, is a perfect desert. as the court is gone into a convent at richmond, the town is more abandoned than ever. i cannot, as you do, bring myself to be content without variety, without events; my mind is always wanting new food; summer does not suit me; but i will grow old some time or other. adieu! ( ) printed in quarto, this was the first edition of this celebrated piece of autobiography. it was reprinted at edinburgh in , with a prefatory notice, understood to be by sir walter scott; and a third edition, which also contained his letters written during his residence at the french court, was published in .-e. ( ) poems by anna chambers, countess temple.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) dear sir, you must think me a brute to have been so long without taking any notice of your obliging offer of coming hither. the truth is, i have not been at all settled here for three days together: nay, nor do i know when i shall be. i go tomorrow into sussex; in august into yorkshire, and in september into france. if, in any interval of these jaunts, i can be sure of remaining here a week, which i literally have not been this whole summer, i will certainly let you know, and will claim your promise. another reason for my writing now is, i want to know how i may send you lord herbert's life, which i have just printed. did i remember the favour you did me of asking for my own print? if i did not, it shall accompany this book. letter to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, july , . (page ) sir, you will have heard of the severe attendance which we have had for this last week in the house of commons. it will, i trust, have excused me to you for not having answered sooner your very kind letter. my books, i fear, have no merit over mr. harte's gustavus, but by being much shorter. i read his work, and was sorry so much curious matter should be so ill and so tediously, put together. his anecdotes are much more interesting than mine; luckily i was aware that mine were very trifling, and did not dwell upon them. to answer the demand, i am printing them with additions, but must wait a little for assistance and corrections to the two latter, as i have had for the former. you are exceedingly obliging, sir, to offer me one of your fergussons. i thank you for it, as i ought; but, in truth, i have more pictures than room to place them; both my houses are full, and i have even been thinking of getting rid of some i have. that this is no declension of your civility, sir, you will see, when i gladly accept either of your medals of king charles. i shall be proud to keep it as a mark of your friendship; but then i will undoubtedly rob you of but one. i condole with you, sir, for the loss of your friend and relation, as i heartily take my share in whatever concerns you. the great and unmerited kindness i have received from you will ever make me your most obliged, etc. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, july , . (page ) dear sir, i must never send you trifles; for you always make me real presents in return. the beauty of the coin surprises me. mr. white must be rich, when such are his duplicates. i am acquainted with him, and have often intended to visit his collection; but it is one of those things one never does, because one always may. i give you a thousand thanks in return, and what are not worth more, my own print, lord herbert's life, (this is curious, though it cost me little,) and some orange flowers. i wish you had mentioned the latter sooner: i have had an amazing profusion this year, and given them away to the right and left by handfuls. these are all i could collect to-day, as i was coming to town; but you shall have more if you want them. i consign these things as you ordered - i wish the print may arrive without being rumpled: it is difficult to convey mezzotintos; but if this is spoiled you shall have another. if i make any stay in france, which i do not think i shall, above six weeks at most, you shall certainly hear from me but i am a bad commissioner for searching you out a hermitage. it is too much against my interest- and i had much rather find you one in the neighbourhood of strawberry. adieu! letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) as my letters are seldom proper for the post now, i begin them at any time, and am forced to trust to chance for a conveyance. this difficulty renders my news very stale: but what can i do? there does not happen enough at this season of' the year to fill a mere gazette. i should be more sorry to have you think me silent too long. you must be so good as to recollect, when there is a large interval between my letters, that i have certainly one ready in my writing-box, and only wait for a messenger. i hope to send this by lord coventry. for the next three weeks, indeed, i shall not be able to write, as i go in a few days with your brother to chatsworth and wentworth castle. i am under more distress about my visit to you--but i will tell you the truth. as i think the parliament will not meet before christmas, though they now talk of it for november, i would quit our politics for a few weeks; but the expense frightens me, which did not use to be one of my fears. i cannot but expect, knowing the enemies i have, that the treasury may distress me.( ) i had laid by a little sum which i intended to bawble away at paris; but i may have very serious occasion for it. the recent example of lord holderness,( ) who has had every rag seized at the custom-house, alarms my present prudence. i cannot afford to buy even clothes, which i may lose in six weeks. these considerations dispose me to wait till i see a little farther into this chaos. you know enough of the present actors in the political drama to believe that the present system is not a permanent one, nor likely to roll on till christmas without some change. the first moment that i can quit party with honour, i shall seize. it neither suits my inclination nor the years i have lived in the world; for though i am not old, i have been in the world so long, and seen so much of those who figure in it, that i am heartily sick of its commerce. my attachment to your brother, and the apprehension that fear of my own interest would be thought the cause if i took no part for him, determined me to risk every thing rather than abandon him. i have done it, and cannot repent, whatever distresses may follow. one's good name is of more consequence than all the rest, my dear lord. do not think i say this with the least disrespect to you; it is only to convince you that i did not recommend any thing to you that i would avoid myself; nor engaged myself, nor wished to engage you, in party from pique, resentment, caprice, or choice. i am dipped in it much against my inclination. i can suffer by it infinitely more than you could. but there are moments when one must take one's part like a man. this i speak solely with regard to myself. i allow fairly and honestly that you was not circumstanced as i was. you had not voted with your brother as i did; the world knew your inclinations were different. all this certainly composed serious reasons for you not to follow him, if you did not choose it. my motives for thinking you had better have espoused his cause were for your own sake - i detailed those motives to you in my last long letter; that opinion is as strong within me as ever. the affront to you, the malice that aimed that affront, the importance that it gives one, upon the long-run to act steadily and uniformly with one's friends, the enemies you make in the opposition, composed of so many great families, and of your own principal allies,( ) and the little merit you gain with the ministry by the contrary conduct,--all these were, to me, unanswerable reasons, and remain so, for what i advised; yet, as i told you before, i think the season is passed, and that you must wait for an opportunity of disengaging yourself with credit. i am persuaded that occasion will be given you, from one or other of the causes i mentioned in my last; and if the fairest is, i entreat you by the good wishes which i am sure you know from my soul i bear you, to seize it. excuse me: i know i go too far, but my heart is set on your making a great figure, and your letters are so kind, that they encourage me to speak with a friendship which i am sensible is not discreet:--but you know you and your brother have ever been the objects of my warmest affection and however partial you may think me to him, i must labour to have the world think as highly of you, and to unite you firmly for your lives. if this was not my motive, you must be sure i should not be earnest. it is not one vote in the house of lords that imports us. party is grown so serious,( ) and will, i doubt, become every day more so, that one must make one's option; and it will go to my soul to see you embarked against all your friends, against the whig principles you have ever professed, and with men, amongst whom you have not one well-wisher, and with whom you will not even be able to remain upon tolerable terms, unless you take a vigorous part against all you love and esteem. in warm times lukewarmness is a crime with those on whose side you are ranged. your good sense and experience will judge whether what i say is not strictly the case. it is not your brother or i that have occasioned these circumstances. lord bute has thrown this country into a confusion which will not easily be dissipated without serious hours. changes may, and, as i said in the beginning of my letter, will probably happen but the seeds that have been sown will not be rooted up by one or two revolutions in the cabinet. it had taken an hundred and fifty years( ) to quiet the animosities of whig and tory; that contest is again set on foot, and though a struggle for places may be now, as has often been, the secret purpose of principals, the court and the nation are engaging on much deeper springs of action. i wish i could elucidate this truth, as i have the rest, but that is not fit for paper, nor to be comprised within the compass of a letter;--i have said enough to furnish you with ample reflections. i submit all to your own judgment:--i have even acted rightly by you, in laying before you what it was not easy for you, my dear lord, to see or know at a distance. i trust all to your indulgence, and your acquaintance with my character, which surely is not artful or mysterious, and which, to you, has ever been, as it ever shall be, most cordial and well-intentioned. i come to my gazette. there is nothing new, but the resignation of lord carnarvon,( ) who has thrown up the bedchamber, and they say, the lieutenancy of hampshire on stanley being made governor of the isle of wight. i have been much distressed this morning. the royal family reside chiefly at richmond, whither scarce necessary servants attend them, and no mortal else but lord bute. the king and queen have taken to going about to see places; they have been at oatlands and wanstead. a quarter before ten to-day, i heard the bell at the gate ring,--that is, i was not up, for my hours are not reformed, either at night or in the morning,--i inquired who it was? the prince of mecklenburgh and de witz had called to know if they could see the house; my two swiss, favre and louis, told them i was in bed, but if they would call again in an hour, they might see it. i shuddered at this report,--and would it were the worst part! the queen herself was behind, in a coach: i am shocked to death, and know not what to do! it is ten times worse just now than ever at any other time: it will certainly be said, that i refused to let the queen see my house. see what it is to have republican servants! when i made a tempest about it, favre said, with the utmost sang froid, "why could not he tell me he was the prince of mecklenburgh?" i shall go this evening and consult my oracle, lady suffolk. if she approves it, i will write to de witz, and pretend i know nothing of any body but the prince, and beg a thousand pardons, and assure him how proud i should be to have his master visit my castle at thundertentronk. august th. i have dined to-day at claremont, where i little thought i should dine,( ) but whither our affairs have pretty naturally conducted me. it turned out a very melancholy day. before i got into the house, i heard that letters were just arrived there, with accounts of the duke of devonshire having had two more fits. when i came to see lord john's( ) and lord frederick's letters, i found these two fits had been but one, and that very slight, much less than the former, and certainly nervous by all the symptoms, as sir edward wilmot, who has been at chatsworth, pronounces it. the duke perceived it coming, and directed what to have done, and it was over in four minutes. the next event was much more real. i had been half round the garden with the duke in his one-horse chair; we were passing to the other side of the house, when george onslow met us, arrived on purpose to advertise the duke of the sudden death of the duchess of leeds,( ) who expired yesterday at dinner in a moment: he called it apoplectic; but as the bishop of oxford,( ) who is at claremont, concluded, it was the gout flown up into the head. the duke received the news as men do at seventy-one: but the terrible part was to break it to the duchess, who is ill. george onslow would have taken me away to dinner with him, but the duke thought that would alarm the duchess too abruptly, and she is not to know it yet: with her very low spirits it is likely to make a deep impression. it is a heavy stroke too for her father, poor old lord godolphin, who is eighty-six. for the duke, his spirits, under so many mortifications and calamities, are surprising: the only effect they and his years seem to have made on him is to have abated his ridicules.( ) our first meeting to be sure was awkward, yet i never saw a man conduct any thing with more sense than he did. there were no notices of what is passed; nothing fulsome, no ceremony, civility enough, confidence enough, and the greatest ease. you would only have thought that i had been long abroad, and was treated like an old friend's son with whom he might make free. in truth, i never saw more rational behaviour: i expected a great deal of flattery, but we had nothing but business while we were alone, and common conversation while the bishop and the chaplain were present. the duke mentioned to me his having heard lord holland's inclination to your embassy. he spoke very obligingly of you, and said that, next to his own children, he believed there was nobody the late lord hardwicke loved so much as you. i cannot say that the duke spoke very affectionately of sir joseph yorke. who has never written a single line to him since he was out. i told him that did not surprise me, for sir joseph has treated your brother in the same manner, though the latter has written two letters to him since his dismission. arlington street, tuesday night, o'clock. i am here alone in the most desolate of all towns. i came to-day to visit my sovereign duchess( ) in her lying-in, and have been there till this moment, not a sole else but lady jane scott.( ) lady waldegrave came from tunbridge yesterday en passant, and reported a new woful history of a fracas there--don't my lady hertford's ears tingle? but she will not be surprised. a footman--a very homely footman--to a mrs. craster, had been most extremely impertinent to lord clanbrazil, frederick vane, and a son of lady anne pope; they threatened to have him turned away-- he replied, if he was, he knew where he should be protected. tunbridge is a quiet private place, where one does not imagine that every thing one does in one's private family will be known:- -yet so it happened that the morning after the fellow's dismission, it was reported that he was hired by another lady, the lord knows who. at night, that lady was playing at loo in the rooms. lord clanbrazil told her of the report, and hoped she would contradict it: she grew as angry as a fine lady could grow, told him it was no business of his, and--and i am afraid, still more. vane whispered her--one should have thought that name would have some weight--oh! worse and worse! the poor english language was ransacked for terms that came up to her resentment:- -the party broke up, and, i suppose, nobody went home to write an account of what happened to their acquaintance. o'brien and lady susan are to be transported to the ohio, and have a grant of forty thousand acres. the duchess of grafton says sixty thousand were bestowed; but a friend of yours, and a relation of lady susan, nibbled away twenty thousand for a mr. upton. by a letter from your brother to-day, i find our northern journey is laid aside; the duke of devonshire is coming to town; the physicians want him to go to spa. this derangement makes me turn my eyes eagerly towards paris; though i shall be ashamed to come thither after the wise reasons i have given you against it in the beginning of this letter; nous verrons--the temptation is strong, but patriots must resist temptations; it is not the etiquette to yield to them till a change happens. i enclose a letter, which your brother has sent me to convey to you, and two pamphlets.( ) the former is said to be written by shebbeare, under george grenville's direction: the latter, which makes rather more noise, is certainly composed by somebody who does not hate your brother--i even fancy you will guess the same person for the author that every body else does. i shall be able to send you soon another pamphlet, written by charles townshend, on the subject of the warrants:-you see, at least, we do not ransack newgate and the pillory( ) for writers. we leave those to the administration. i wish you would be so kind as to tell me, what is become of my sister and mr. churchill. i received a letter from lady mary to-day, telling me she was that instant setting out from paris, but does not say whither. the first storm that is likely to burst in politics, seems to be threatened from the bedford quarter. the duke and duchess have been in town but for two days the whole summer, and are now going to trentham, whither lord gower, qui se donnoit pour favori, is retired for three months. this is very unlike the declaration in spring, that the duke must reside at streatham,( ) because the king could not spare him for a day. the memorial( ) left by guerchy at his departure, and the late arr`ets in france on our american histories, make much noise, and seem to say that i have not been a false prophet! if our ministers can stand so many difficulties from abroad, and so much odium at home, they are abler men than i take them for. adieu, the whole h`otel de lassay!( ) i verily think i shall see it soon. ( ) he had the lucrative office of usher of the exchequer, and a couple of other less considerable sinecures.-c. ( ) robert, last earl of holderness, grandson of the great duke schomberg; he had been secretary of state at the accession.-c. ( ) lady hertford was daughter of the late, and cousin of the existing duke of grafton, who was one of the leaders of the opposition.-c. ( ) the state of the public mind at this time is thus described by gray:--"grumble, indeed, every one does; but, since wilkes's affair, they fall off their metal, and seem to shrink under the brazen hand of norton and his colleagues. i hear there will be no parliament till after christmas. if the french should be so unwise as to suffer the spanish court to go on in their present measures (for they refuse to pay the ransom of manilla, and have driven away our logwood cutters already,) down go their friends in the ministry, and all the schemes of right divine and prerogative; and this is perhaps the best chance we have. are you not struck with the great similarity there is between the first years of charles the first and the present times? who would have thought it possible five years ago?" works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) it is not easy to say what hundred and fifty years he alludes to; the contests of whig and tory were never so violent as in the last years of queen anne, just fifty years before this time.-c. ( ) the marquis of carnarvon, eldest son of the second duke of chandos.-e. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) lord john and lord frederick cavendish, his grace's brothers.-e. ( ) lady mary, daughter of the second lord godolphin, granddaughter of the great duke of marlborough, and sister of the duchess of newcastle.-e. ( ) dr. john hume.-e. ( ) the reader will not fail to observe the sudden effect of mr. walpole's conversion to the duke of newcastle's politics, how it abates all ridicules and sweetens all acerbities. as no writer has contributed so much as mr. walpole to depreciate the character of the duke of newcastle, this kind of palinode is not unimportant. see ant`e, p. , letter .-c. ( ) the duchess of grafton lay-in, on the th july , of her youngest son, lord charles.-e. ( ) eldest daughter of francis, second duke of buccleugh, born , died in , unmarried.-e. ( ) they were called "an address to the public on the late dismission of a general officer," and "a counter address." the latter was written by mr. walpole himself.-c. ( ) dr. shebbeare had been convicted of a libel, and, i believe, punished in the pillory-c. [by the indulgence of the under-sheriff of midllesex, the doctor was allowed to stand on, and not in, the pillory; for which indulgence he was prosecuted.) ( ) a villa of the duke's at streatham, derived from mr. howland, his maternal grandfather, from whom howland-street is named.-c. ( ) the points in dispute between france and england at this period arose out of the non-performance of certain articles of the treaty-the payment of the canada bills, and the expense of the prisoners of war, and certain claims for compensation for effects taken at bellisle.-c. ( ) the house which lord hertford hired in paris.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, aug. , . (page ) i am not gone north, so pray write to me. i am not going south, so pray come to me. the duke of devonshire's journey to spa has prevented the first, and twenty reasons the second; whenever therefore you are disposed to make a visit to strawberry, it will rejoice to receive you in its old ruffs and fardingales, and without rouge, blonde, and run silks. you have not said a word to me, ingrate as you are, about lord herbert; does not he deserve one line? tell me when i shall see you, that i may make no appointments to interfere with it. mr. conway, lady ailesbury, and lady lyttelton, have been at strawberry with me for four or five days, so i am come to town to have my house washed, for you know i am a very hollander in point of cleanliness. this town is a deplorable solitude; one meets nothing but mrs. holman, like the pelican in the wilderness. adieu! letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) i hope you received safe a parcel and a very long letter that i sent you, above a fortnight ago, by mr. strange the engraver. scarce any thing has happened since worth repeating, but what you know already, the death of poor legge, and the seizure of turk island:( ) the latter event very consonant to all ideas. it makes much noise here especially in the city, where the ministry grow every day more and more unpopular. indeed, i think there is not much probability of their standing their ground, even till christmas. several defections are already known, and others are ripe which they do not apprehend. doctor hunter, i conclude, has sent you charles townshend's pamphlet: it is well written, but does not sell much, as a notion prevails that it has been much altered and softened. the duke of devonshire is gone to spa; he was stopped for a week by a rash, which those who wished it so, called a miliary fever, but was so far from it that if he does not find immediate benefit from spa, he is to go to aix-la-chapelle, in hopes that the warm baths will supple his skin, and promote another eruption. i have been this evening to sion, which is becoming another mount palatine. adam has displayed great taste, and the earl matches it with magnificence. the gallery is converting into a museum in the style of a columbarium, according to an idea that i proposed to my lord northumberland. mr. boulby( ) and lady mary are there, and the primate,( ) who looks old and broken enough to aspire to the papacy. lord holland, i hear, advises what lord bute much wishes, the removal of george grenville, to make room for lord northumberland at the head of the treasury. the duchess of grafton is gone to her father. i wish you may hear no more of this journey! if you should, this time, the complaints will come from her side. you have got the sposo( ) coventry with you, have not you? and you are going to have the duke of york. you will not want such a nobody as me. when i have a good opportunity, i will tell you some very sensible advice that has been given me on that head, which i am sure you will approve. it is well for me i am not a russian. i should certainly be knouted. the murder of the young czar ivan has sluiced again all my abhorrence of the czarina. what a devil in a diadem! i wonder they can spare such a principal performer from hell! september th. i had left this letter unfinished, from want of common materials, if i should send it by the post; and from want of private conveyance, if i said more than was fit for the post. being just returned from park-place, where i have been for three days, i not only find your extremely kind letter of august st, but a card from madame de chabot, who tells me she sets out for paris in a day or two. and offers to carry a letter to you, which gives me the opportunity i wished for. i must begin with what you conclude-your most friendly offer,( ) if i should be distressed by the treasury. i can never thank you enough for this, nor the tender manner in which you clothe it: though, believe me, my dear lord, i could never blush to be obliged to you. in truth, though i do not doubt their disposition to hurt me, i have had prudence enough to make it much longer than their reign can last, before it could be in their power to make me feel want. with all my extravagance, i am much beforehand, and having perfected and paid for what i wished to do here, my common expenses are trifling, and nobody can live more frugally than i, when i have a mind to it. what i said of fearing temptations at paris, was barely serious: i thought it imprudent, just now, to throw away my money; but that consideration, singly, would not keep me here. i am eager to be with you, and my chief reason for delaying is, that i wish to make a longer stay than i could just now. the advice i hinted at, in the former part of this letter, was lady suffolk's, and i am sure you will think it very sensible. she told me, should i now go to paris, all the world would say i went to try to persuade you to resign; that even the report would be impertinent to you, to whom she knew and saw i wished so well; and that when i should return, it would be said i had failed in my errand. added to this, which was surely very prudent and friendly advice, i will own to you fairly, that i think i shall soon have it in my power to come to you on the foot i wish,--i mean, having done with politics, which i have told you all along, and with great truth, are as much my abhorrence as yours. i think this administration cannot last till christmas, and i believe they themselves think so. i am cautious when i say this, because i promise you faithfully, the last thing i will do shall be to give you any false lights knowingly. i am clear, i repeat it, against your resigning now; and there is no meaning in all i have taken the liberty to say to you, and which you receive with so much goodness and sense, but to put you on your guard in such ticklish times, and to pave imperceptibly to the world the way to your reunion with your friends. in your brother, i am persuaded, you will never find any alteration; and whenever you find an opportunity proper, his credit with particular persons will remove any coldness that may have happened. i admire the force and reasoning with which you have stated your own situation; and i think there are but two points in which we differ at all. i do not see how your brother could avoid the part he chose. it was the administration that made it--no inclination of his. the other is a trifle; it regards elliot, nor is it my opinion alone that he is at paris on business: every body believes it, and considering his abilities, and the present difficulties of lord bute, elliot's absence would be very extraordinary, if merely occasioned by idleness or amusement, or even to place his children, when it lasts so long. the affair of turk island, and the late promotion of colonel fletcher( ) over thirty-seven older officers, are the chief causes, added to the canada bills, logwood, and the manilla affairs, which have ripened our heats to such a height. lord mansfield's violence against the press has contributed much--but the great distress of all to the ministers, is the behaviour of the duke of bedford, who has twice or thrice peremptorily refused to attend council. he has been at trentham, and crossed the country back to woburn, without coming to town.( ) lord gower has been in town but one day. many causes are assigned for all this; the refusal of making lord waldegrave of the bedchamber; lord tavistocl('s inclination to the minority; and above all, a reversion, which it is believed lord bute has been so weak as to obtain, of ampthill, a royal grant, in which the duke has but sixteen years to come. you know enough of that court, to know that, in the article of bedfordshire, no influence has any weight with his grace. at present, indeed, i believe little is tried. the duchess and lady bute are as hostile as possible. rigby's journey convinces me of what i have long suspected, that his reign is at an end. i have even heard, though i am far from trusting to the quarter from which i had my intelligence, that the duke has been making overtures to mr. pitt,( ) which have not been received unfavourably; i shall know more of this soon, as i am to go to stowe in three or four days. mr. pitt is exceedingly well-disposed to your brother, talks highly of him, and of the injustice done to him, and they are to meet on the first convenient opportunity. thus much for politics, which, however, i cannot quit, without again telling you how sensible i am of all your goodness and friendly offers. the court, independent of politics, makes a strange figure. the recluse life led here at richmond, which is carried to such an excess of privacy and economy, that the queen's friseur waits on them at dinner, and that four pounds only of beef are allowed for their soup, disgusts all sorts of people. the drawing-rooms are abandoned: lady buckingham( ) was the only woman there on sunday se'nnight. the duke of york was commanded home. they stopped his remittances,( ) and then were alarmed on finding he still was somehow or other supplied with money. the two next princes( ) are at the pavilions at hampton court, in very private circumstances indeed; no household is to be established for prince william, who accedes nearer to the malcontents every day. in short, one hears of nothing but dissatisfaction, which in the city rises almost to treason. mrs. cornwallis( ) has found that her husband has been dismissed from the bedchamber this twelvemonth with no notice: his appointments were even paid; but on this discovery they are stopped. you ask about what i had mentioned in the beginning of my letter, the dissensions in the house of grafton. the world says they are actually parted: i do not believe that; but i will tell you exactly all i know. his grace, it seems, for many months has kept one nancy parsons,( ) one of the commonest creatures in london, one much liked, but out of date. he is certainly grown immoderately attached to her, so much, that it has put an end to all his decorum. she was publicly with him at ascot races, and is now in the forest;( ) i do not know if actually in the house. at first, i concluded this was merely stratagem to pique the duchess; but it certainly goes further. before the duchess laid in, she had a little house on richmond-hill, whither the duke sometimes, though seldom, came to dine. during her month of confinement, he was scarcely in town at all, nor did he even come up to see the duke of devonshire. the duchess is certainly gone to her father. she affected to talk of the duke familiarly, and said she would call in the forest as she went to lord ravensworth's. i suspect she is gone thither to recriminate and complain. she did not talk of returning till october. it was said the duke was going to france, but i hear no more of it. thus the affair stands, as far as i or your brother, or the cavendishes, know; nor have we heard one word from either duke or duchess of any rupture. i hope she will not be so weak as to part, and that her father and mother will prevent it. it is not unlucky that she has seen none of the bedfords lately, who would be glad to blow the coals. lady waldegrave was with her one day, but i believe not alone. there was nobody at park-place but lord and lady william campbell.( ) old sir john barnard( ) is dead; for other news, i have none. i beg you will always say a great deal for me to my lady. as i trouble you with such long letters, it would be unreasonable to overwhelm her too. you know my attachment to every thing that is yours. my warmest wish is to see an end of the present unhappy posture of public affairs, which operate so shockingly even on our private. if i can once get quit of them, it will be no easy matter to involve me in them again, however difficult it may be, as you have found, to escape them. nobody is more criminal in my eyes than george grenville, who had it in his power to prevent what has happened to your brother. nothing could be more repugnant to all the principles he has ever most avowedly and publicly professed--but he has opened my eyes--such a mixture of vanity and meanness, of falsehood( ) and hypocrisy, is not common even in this country! it is a ridiculous embarras after all the rest, and yet you may conceive the distress i am under about lady blandford,( ) and the negotiations i am forced to employ to avoid meeting him there, which i am determined not to do. i shall be able, when i see you, to divert you with some excellent stories of a principal figure on our side; but they are too long and too many for a letter, especially of a letter so prolix as this. adieu, my dear lord! ( ) a small island, also called tortuga, near st. domingo, of which a french squadron had dispossessed some english settlers. this proceeding was, however, immediately disavowed by the french, and orders were immediately despatched for restitution and compensation to the sufferers. we can easily gather from mr. walpole's own expressions why this affair was raised into such momentary importance.-c. ( ) thomas bouldby, esq. and his lady, sister of the first duke of montagu, of the second creation.-e. ( ) dr. george stone. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) this affair is creditable to all the parties. when general conway was turned out, mr walpole placed all his fortune at his disposal, in a very generous letter (p. , letter ). this induced mr. walpole to think of economy, and to state in a former letter (p. , letter ) some apprehension as to his circumstances; in reply to which, lord hertford, who had already made a similar proposition to general conway, now offers to place mr. walpole above the pecuniary difficulties which he apprehended.-c. ( ) colonel fletcher of the th foot.-e. ( ) not very surprising, however, as london would have been about eighty miles round.-c. ( ) the following is a passage from a letter written by mr. pitt to the duke of newcastle, in october, in reply to one of these overtures:--"as for my single self, i purpose to continue acting through life upon the best convictions i am able to form, and under the obligation of principles, not by the force of any particular bargains. i presume not to judge for those who think they see daylight to serve their country by such means: but shall continue myself, as often as i think it worth the while to go to the house of commons, to go there free from stipulation-, about every question under consideration, as well as to come out of the house as free as i entered it. having seen the close of last session, and the system of that great war, in which my share of the ministry was so largely arraigned, given up by silence in a full house, i have little thoughts of beginning the world again upon a new centre of union. your grace will not, i trust, wonder if, after so recent and so strange a phenomenon in politics, i have no disposition to quit the free condition of a man standing single, and daring to appeal to his country at large, upon the soundness of his principles and the rectitude of his conduct." see chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) mary anne drury, wife of john, second earl of buckinghamshire.-e. ( ) mr. walpole gives an unfair turn to this circumstance. the stopping the duke of york's remittances, and ordering him home, was a measure of prudence, not to say of necessity, for that young prince's extravagance abroad had made a public clamour; so much so, that a popular preacher delivered, about this time, a sermon on the following text:--"the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living." st. luke, xv. . the letters and even the publications of the day allude to this extravagance, and surely it was the duty of his brother and sovereign to repress an indiscretion which occasioned such observations.-c. ( ) william, created, in november, , duke of gloucester; and henry created, in , duke of cumberland. the injustice of mr. walpole's insinuations will be evident, when it is remembered that, at the date of this letter, the eldest of these princes was but twenty, and the other eighteen years of age, and that they were both created dukes, and had households established for them as soon as they respectively came of age-c. ( ) mary, daughter of charles, second viscount townshend, wife of edward, sixth son of the third lord cornwallis. i suspect that here again mr. walpole's accusation is not correct. general cornwallis had been groom of the bedchamber to george ii., and was continued in the same office by the successor, till he was appointed governor of gibraltar, when mr. henry seymour was appointed in his room.-c. ( ) this scandal has been immortalized by junius.-c. ( ) at wakefield lodge, in whittlebury forest, northamptonshire.-e. ( ) lord william, brother of general conway's lady, and third brother of the fifth duke of argyle; his wife was sarah, daughter of w. teard, esq. of charleston.-e. ( ) father of the city, which he had represented in six parliaments. he had been a very leading member of the house of commons, and was much deferred to on all matters of commerce.-c. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) maria catherine de jonge, a dutch lady, widow of william godolphin, marquis of blandford, and sister of isabella countess of denbigh; they were near neighbours and intimate acquaintances of mr. walpole's.@. letter to the right hon. william pitt.( ) arlington street, aug. , . (page ) sir, as you have always permitted me to offer you the trifles printed at my press, i am glad to have one to send you of a little more consequence than some in which i have had myself too great a share. the singularity of the work i now trouble you with is greater merit than its rarity; though there are but two hundred copies, of which only half are mine.( ) if it amuses an hour or two of your idle time, i am overpaid. my greatest ambition is to pay that respect which every englishman owes to your character and services; and therefore you must not wonder if an inconsiderable man seizes every opportunity, however awkwardly, of assuring you, sir, that he is your most devoted, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) the life of lord herbert of cherbury. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) dear sir, among the multitude of my papers i have mislaid, though not lost, the account you was so good as to give me of your ancestor toer, as a painter. i have been hunting for it to insert it in the new edition of my anecdotes. it is not very reasonable to save myself trouble at the expense of yours; but perhaps you can much sooner turn to your notes, than i find your letter. will you be so good as to send me soon all the particulars you recollect of him. i have a print of sir lionel jenkins from his painting. i did not send you any more orange flowers, as you desired; for the continued rains rotted all the latter blow: but i had made a vast potpourri, from whence you shall have as much as you please, when i have the pleasure of seeing you here, which i should be glad might be in the beginning of october, if it suits your convenience. at the same time you shall have a print of lord herbert, which i think i did not send you. p. s. i trust you will bring me a volume or two of your mss. of which i am most thirsty. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. september , . (page ) i send you the reply to the counter-address;( ) it is the lowest of all grub-street, and i hear is treated so. they have nothing better to say, than that i am in love with you, have been so these twenty years, and am no giant. i am a very constant old swain: they might have made the years above thirty; it is so long i have the same unalterable friendship for you, independent of being near relations and bred up together. for arguments, so far from any new ones, the man gives up or denies most of the former. i own i am rejoiced not only to see how little they can defend themselves, but to know the extent of their malice and revenge. they must be sorely hurt, to be reduced to such scurrility. yet there is one paragraph, however, which i think is of george grenville's own inditing. it says, "i flattered, solicited, and then basely deserted him." i no more expected to hear myself accused of flattery, than of being in love with you; but i shall not laugh at the former as i do at the latter. nothing but his own consummate vanity could suppose i had ever stooped to flatter him! or that any man was connected with him, but who was low enough to be paid for it. where has he one such attachment? you have your share too. the miscarriage at rochfort now directly laid at your door! repeated insinuations against your courage. but i trust you will mind them no more than i do, excepting the flattery, which i shall not forget, i promise them. i came to town yesterday on some business, and found a case. when i opened it, what was there but my lady ailesbury's most beautiful of all pictures!( ) don't imagine i can think it intended for me: or that, if it could be so, i would hear of such a thing. it is far above what can be parted with, or accepted. i am serious--there is no letting such a picture, when one has accomplished it, go from where one can see it every day. i should take the thought equally kind and friendly, but she must let me bring it back, if i am not to do any thing else with it, and it came by mistake. i am not so selfish as to deprive her of what she must have such pleasure in seeing. i shall have more satisfaction in seeing it at park-place; where, in spite of the worst kind of malice, i shall persist in saying my heart is fixed. they may ruin me, but no calumny shall make me desert you. indeed your case would be completely cruel, if it was more honourable for your relations and friends to abandon you than to stick to you. my option is made, and i scorn their abuse as much as i despise their power. i think of coming to you on thursday next for a day or two, unless your house is full, or you hear from me to the contrary. adieu! yours ever. ( ) a pamphlet written by mr. walpole, in answer to another, called ,an address to the public on the late dismissal of a general officer." ( ) a landscape executed in worsteds by lady ailesbury. it is now at strawberry hill. letter to the rev. dr. birch. september , . (page ) sir, i am extremely obliged to you for the favour of your letter, and the enclosed curious one of sir william herbert. it would have made a very valuable addition to lord herbert's life, which is now too late; as i have no hope that lord powis will permit any more to be printed. there were indeed so very few, and but half of those for my share, that i have not it in my power to offer you a copy, having disposed of my part. it is really a pity that so singular a curiosity should not be public; but i must not complain, as lord powis has been so good as to indulge my request thus far. i am, sir, your much obliged humble servant, h. w. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) my dear lord, though i wrote to you but a few days ago, i must trouble you with another line now. dr. blanchard, a cambridge divine, and who has a good paternal estate in yorkshire, is on his travels, which he performs as a gentleman; and, therefore, wishes not to have his profession noticed. he is very desirous of paying his respects to you, and of being countenanced by you while he stays at paris. it will much oblige a particular friend of mine, and consequently me, if you will favour him with your attention. every body experiences your goodness, but in the present case i wish to attribute it a little to my request. i asked you about two books, ascribed to madame de boufflers. if they are hers, i should be glad to know where she found, that oliver cromwell took orders and went over to holland to fight the dutch. as she has been on the spot where he reigned (which is generally very strong evidence), her countrymen will believe her in spite of our teeth; and voltaire, who loves all anecdotes that never happened, because they prove the manners of the times, will hurry it into the first history he publishes. i, therefore, enter my caveat against it; not as interested for oliver's character, but to save the world from one more fable. i know madame de boufflers will attribute this scruple to my partiality to cromwell (and, to be sure, if we must be ridden, there is some satisfaction when the man knows how to ride). i remember one night at the duke of grafton's, a bust of cromwell was produced: madame de boufflers, without uttering a syllable, gave me the most speaking look imaginable, as much as to say, is it possible you can admire this man! apropos: i am sorry to say the reports do not cease about the separation,( ) and yet i have heard nothing that confirms it. i once begged you to send me a book in three volumes, called "essais sur les moeurs;" forgive me if i put you in mind of it, and request you to send me that, or any other new book. i am wofully in want of reading, and sick to death of all our political stuff; which, as the parliament is happily at the distance of three months, i would fain forget till i cannot help hearing of it. i am reduced to guicciardin, and though the evenings are so long, i cannot get through one of his periods between dinner and supper. they tell me mr. hume has had sight of king james's journal:( ) i wish i could see all the trifling passages that he will not deign to admit into history. i do not love great folks till they have pulled off their buskins and put on their slippers, because i do not care sixpence for what they would be thought, but for what they are. mr. elliot brings us woful accounts of the french ladies, of the decency of their conversation, and the nastiness of their behaviour. nobody is dead, married, or gone mad, since my last. adieu! p. s. i enclose an epitaph on lord waldegrave, written by my brother,( ) which i think you will like, both for the composition and the strict truth of it. arlington street, friday evening. i was getting into my postchaise this morning with this letter in my pocket, and coming to town for a day or two, when i heard the duke of cumberland was dead: i find it is not so. he had two fits yesterday at newmarket, whither he would go. the princess amelia, who had observed great alteration in his speech, entreated him against it. he has had too some touches of the gout, but they were gone off, or might have prevented this attack. i hear since the fits yesterday, which are said to have been but slight, that his leg is broken out, and they hope will save him. still, i think, one cannot but expect the worst. the letters yesterday, from spa, give a melancholy account of the poor duke of devonshire as he cannot drink the waters they think of removing him; i suppose, to the baths at aix-la-chapelle; but i look on his case as a lost one. there's a chapter for moralizing! but five-and-forty, with forty thousand pounds a-year and happiness wherever he turned him! my reflection is, that it is folly to be unhappy at any thing, when felicity itself is such a phantom. ( ) of the duke and duchess of grafton.-e. ( ) since published, under the generous patronage of george the third, by dr. clarke, his majesty's librarian. the work is, however, not what mr. walpole contemplated: it is not a journal of private feelings, interests, and actions, but a relation rather of public affairs; and though the notes of james ii. were undoubtedly the foundation of the work, it was, in truth, written by another hand, and that too a hand the least likely to have given us the kind of memoirs which mr. walpole justly thinks would have been so valuable. when an eminent person writes his own memoirs, we have, at least, the motives which he thinks it creditable to assign to his conduct--he has, generally the candour of vanity, and even when he has not that candour, he is sometimes blinded into discovering truth unawares; but nothing can be more futile and fastidious than the meagre notes of the original actor, fresh woven and discoloured by the hands of an obsequious servant, who conceals all the facts he cannot explain, and all the motives he cannot justify. such memoirs resemble the real life as the skeleton does the living man.-c. ( ) sir edward walpole, k.b., second son of sir robert, and the father of ladies dysart and waldegrave, and mrs. keppel.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) it is over with us!--if i did not know your firmness, i would have prepared you by degrees; but you are a man, and can hear the worst at once. the duke of cumberland is dead. i have heard it but this instant. the duke of newcastle was come to breakfast with me, and pulled out a letter from lord frederick, with a hopeless account of the poor duke of devonshire. ere i could read it, colonel schutz called at the door and told my servant this fatal news! i know no more--it must be at newmarket, and very sudden; for the duke of newcastle had a letter from hodgson, dated on monday, which said the duke was perfectly well, and his gout gone:--yes, to be sure, into his head. princess amelia had endeavoured to prevent his going to newmarket, having perceived great alteration in his speech, as the duke of newcastle had. well! it will not be. every thing fights against this country! mr. pitt must save it himself--or, what i do not know whether he will not like as well, share in overturning its liberty--if they will admit him; -which i question now if they will be fools enough to do. you see i write in despair. i am for the whole, but perfectly tranquil. we have acted with honour, and have nothing to reproach ourselves with. we cannot combat fate. we shall be left almost alone; but i think you will no more go with the torrent than i will. could i have foreseen this tide of ill fortune, i would have done just as i have done; and my conduct shall show i am satisfied i have done right. for the rest, come what come may, i am perfectly prepared and while there is a free spot of earth upon the globe, that shall be my country. i am sorry it will not be this, but to-morrow i shall be able to laugh as usual. what signifies what happens when one is seven-and-forty, as i am to-day! "they tell me 'tis my birthday"--but i will not go on with antony, and say ----"and i'll keep it with double pomp of sadness." no. when they can smile, who ruin a great country'. sure those who would have saved it may indulge themselves in that cheerfulness which conscious integrity bestows. i think i shall come to you next week; and since we have no longer any plan of operations to settle, we will look over the map of europe, and fix upon a pleasant corner for our exile--for take notice, i do not design to fall upon my dagger, in hopes that some mr. addison a thousand years hence may write a dull tragedy about me. i will write my own story a little more cheerfully than he would; but i fear now i must not print it at my own press. adieu! you was a philosopher before you had any occasion to be so: pray continue so; you have ample occasion! yours ever, h. w. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) lord john cavendish has been so kind as to send me word of the duke of devonshire's( ) legacy to you.( ) you cannot doubt of the great joy this gives me; and yet it serves to aggravate the loss of so worthy a man! and when i feel it thus, i am sensible how much more it will add to your concern, instead of diminishing it. yet do not wholly reflect on your misfortune. you might despise the acquisition of five thousand pounds simply; but when that sum is a public testimonial to your virtue, and bequeathed by a man so virtuous, it is a million. measure it with the riches of those who have basely injured you, and it is still more! why, it is glory, it is conscious innocence, it is satisfaction--it is affluence without guilt--oh! the comfortable sound! it is a good name in the history of these corrupt days. there it will exist, when the wealth of your and their country's enemies will be wasted, or will be an indelible blemish on their descendants. my heart is full, and yet i will say no more. my best loves to all your opulent family. who says virtue is not rewarded in this world? it is rewarded by virtue, and it is persecuted by the bad. can greater honour be paid to it? ( ) william, fourth duke of devonshire. during his administration in ireland, mr. conway had been secretary of state there. he died at spa on the d of october.-e. ( ) the legacy was contained in the following codicil, written in the duke's own hand. "i give to general conway five thousand pounds as a testimony of my friendship to him, and of my sense of his honourable conduct and friendship for me."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i am glad you mentioned it: i would not have had you appear without your close mourning for the duke of devonshire upon any account. i was once going to tell you of it, knowing your inaccuracy in such matters; but thought it still impossible you should be ignorant how necessary it is. lord strafford, who has a legacy of only two hundred pounds, wrote to consult lady suffolk. she told him, for such a sum, which only implies a ring,, it was sometimes not done but yet advised him to mourn. in your case it is indispensable; nor can you see any of his family without it. besides it is much better on such an occasion to over, than under do. i answer this paragraph first, because i am so earnest not to have you blamed. besides wishing to see you all, i have wanted exceedingly to come to you, having much to say to you; but i am confined here, that is, mr. chute is: he was seized with the gout last wednesday se'nnight, the day he came hither to meet george montagu, and this is the first day he has been out of his bedchamber. i must therefore put off our meeting till saturday, when you shall certainly find me in town. we have a report here, but the authority bitter bad, that lord march is going to be married to lady conway. i don't believe it the less for our knowing nothing of it; for unless their daughter were breeding, and it were to save her character, neither your brother nor lady hertford would disclose a tittle about it. yet in charity they should advertise it, that parents and relations, if it is so, may lock up all knives, ropes, laudanum, and rivers, lest it should occasion a violent mortality among his fair admirers. i am charmed with an answer i have just read in the papers of a man in bedlam, who was ill-used by -,in apprentice because he would not tell him why he was confined there. the unhappy creature said at last, "because god has deprived me of a blessing which you never enjoyed." there never was any thing finer or more moving! your sensibility will not be quite so much affected by a story i heard t'other day of sir fletcher norton. he has a mother--yes, a mother: perhaps you thought that, like that tender urchin love, ----duris in cotibus illum ismarus, aut rhodope, aut extremi garamantes, nec nostri generis puerum nec sanguinis edunt. well, mrs. rhodope lives in a mighty shabby hovel at preston, which the dutiful and affectionate sir fletcher began to think not suitable to the dignity of one who has the honour of being his parent. he cheapened a better, in which were two pictures which the proprietor valued at threescore pounds. the attorney( ) insisted on having them for nothing, as fixtures- -the landlord refused, the bargain was broken off, and the dowager madam norton remains in her original hut. i could tell you another story which you would not dislike; but as it might hurt the person concerned, if it was known, i shall not send it by the post; but will tell you when i see you. adieu! ( ) sir fletcher norton, afterwards lord grantley, had been appointed attorney-general in the preceding december.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i am not only pleased, my dear lord, to have been the first to announce your brother's legacy to you, but i am glad whenever my news reach you without being quite stale. i see but few persons here. i begin my letters without knowing when i shall be able to fill them, and then am to winnow a little what i hear, that i may not send you absolute secondhand fables: for though i cannot warrant all i tell you, i hate to send you every improbable tale that is vented. you like, as one always does in absence, to hear the common occurrences of your own country; and you see i am very glad to be your gazetteer, provided you do not rank my letters upon any higher foot. i should be ashamed of such gossiping, if i did not consider it as chatting with you en famille, as we used to do at supper in grosvenor-street. the duke of devonshire has made splendid provision for his younger children; to lady dorothy,( ) , pounds; lord richard and lord george will have about , pounds a-year apiece: for, besides landed estates, he has left them his whole personal estate without exception, only obliging the present duke to redeem devonshire-house, and the entire collection in it, for , pounds: he gives pounds to each of his brothers, and pounds to lord strafford, with some other inconsiderable legacies. lord frederick carried the garter, and was treated by the king with very gracious speeches of concern. the duke of cumberland is quite recovered, after an incision of many inches in his knee. ranby( ) did not dare to propose that a hero should be tied, but was frightened out of his senses when the hero would hold the candle himself, which none of his generals could bear to do: in the middle of the operation, the duke said, "hold!" ranby said, "for god's sake, sir, let me proceed now--it will be worse to renew it." the duke repeated, "i say hold!" and then calmly bade them give ranby a clean waistcoat and cap; for, said he, the poor man has sweated through these. it was true; but the duke did not utter a groan. have you heard that lady susan o'brien's is not the last romance of the sort? lord rockingham's youngest sister, lady harriot,( ) has stooped even lower than a theatric swain, and married her footman; but still it is you irish( ) that commit all the havoc. lady harriot, however, has mixed a wonderful degree of prudence with her potion, and considering how plain she is, has not, i think, sweetened the draught too much for her lover: she settles a single hundred pound a-year upon him for his life; entails her whole fortune on their children, if they have any; and, if not, on her own family; nay, in the height of the novel, provides for a separation, and insures the same pin-money to damon, in case they part. this deed she has vested out of her power, by sending it to lord mansfield,( ) whom she makes her trustee; it is drawn up in her own hand, and lord mansfield says is as binding as any lawyer could make it. did one ever hear of more reflection in a delirium! well, but hear more: she has given away all her clothes, nay, and her ladyship, and says, linen gowns are properest for a footman's wife, and is gone to his family in ireland, plain mrs. henrietta surgeon. i think it is not clear that she is mad, but i have no doubt but lady bel( ) will be so who could not digest dr. duncan, nor even mr. milbank. my last told you of my sister's promotion.( ) i hear she is to be succeeded at kensington by miss floyd, who lives with lady bolingbroke; but i beg you not to report this till you see it in a gazette of better authority than mine, who have it only from fame and mrs. a. pitt. i have not seen m. de guerchy yet, having been in town but one night since his return. you are very kind in accepting, on your own account, his obliging expressions about me: i know no foundation on which i should like better to receive them,: the truth is he has distinguished me extremely, and when a person in his situation shows much attention to a person so very insignificant as i am, one is apt to believe it exceeds common compliment: at least, i attribute it to the esteem which he could not but see i conceived for him. his civility is so natural, and his good nature so strongly marked, that i connected much more with him than i am apt to do with new acquaintances. i pitied the various disgusts he received, and i believe he saw i did. if i felt for him, you may judge how much i am concerned that you have your share. i foresaw it was unavoidable, from the swarms of your countrymen that flock to paris, and generally the worst part; boys and governors are woful exports. i saw a great deal of it when i lived with poor sir horace mann at florence-but you have the whole market. we are a wonderful people-i would not be our king,( ) our minister, or our ambassador, for the indies. one comfort, however, i can truly give you; i have heard their complaints, if they have any, from nobody but yourself. jesus! if they are not content now, i wish they knew how the english were received at paris twenty years ago--why, you and i know they were not received at all. ay, and when the fashion of admiring english is past, it will be just so again; and very reasonably- -who would open their house to every staring booby from another country? arlington street, nov. . i came to town to-day to meet your brother, who is going to euston and thetford,( ) and hope he will bring back a good account of the domestic history,( ) of which we can learn nothing authentic. fitzroy( ) knows nothing. the town says the duchess is going thither. we have been this evening with duchess hamilton,( ) who is arrived from scotland, visibly promising another lord campbell. i shall take this opportunity of seeing m. de guerchy, and that opportunity, of sending this letter, and one from your brother. our politics are all at a stand. the duke of devonshire's death, i concluded, would make the ministry all powerful, all triumphant, and all insolent. it does not appear to have done so. they are, i believe, extremely ill among themselves, and not better in their affairs foreign or domestic. the cider counties have instructed their members to join the minority. the house of yorke seems to have laid aside their coldness and irresolution, and to look towards opposition. the unpopularity of the court is very great indeed--still i shall not be surprised if they maintain their ground a little longer. there is nothing new in the way of publication: the town itself' is still a desert. i have twice passed by arthur's( ) to-day, and not seen a chariot. hogarth is dead, and mrs. spence, who lived with the duchess of newcastle.( ) she had saved , pounds which she leaves to her sister for life, and after her, to tommy pelham. ned finch( ) has got an estate from an old mrs. hatton of pounds a year, and takes her name. adieu! my lord and lady, and your whole et cetera. ( ) lady dorothy married, in , the duke of portland.-e. ( ) a celebrated surgeon of the day. he was serjeant-surgeon to the king, and f. r. s.-e. ( ) lady henrietta alicia wentworth, born in ; married mr. william surgeon.-e. ( ) lord hertford was an irish peer; he had besides so large a fortune there, and paid so much attention to the interests of that country,, that mr. walpole calls him irish.-c. ( ) lord mansfield had married lady harriot's aunt.-e. ( ) lady isibella finch, lady of the bedchamber to princess amelia, was lady harriot's aunt. the mr. milbank here mentioned had married lady mary wentworth, the elder sister of lady harriot.-c. ( ) from being housekeeper at kensington palace, to the same office at windsor castle; but mr. walpole is mistaken as to the name of her successor: it was miss roche loyd.-c. ( ) it is due to the character of the king and the ministers, whom mr. walpole so often and so wantonly depreciates, to solicit the reader's attention to such passages as this, in which he imputes to others, and therefore implies in himself, an unfair disposition to criticise and censure.-c. ( ) he was member for thetford.-e. ( ) of the grafton family.-e. ( ) colonel charles fitzroy. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) elizabeth gunning, widow of james, sixth duke of hamilton, and wife, in , of john, fifth duke of argyle.-e. ( ) the fashionable club in st. james's street.-e. ( ) the duke of newcastle, in a letter to mr. pitt of the th of october, says, "the many great losses, both public and private, which we have had this summer, have very greatly affected the duchess; and the last of all, of her old friend and companion of above forty-five years, poor mrs. spence, has added much to the melancholy situation in which she was before." chatham correspondence, vol, ii. p. .-e. ( ) edward, fifth son of the sixth earl of winchelsea. mrs. hatton was his maternal aunt, sister of the last viscount hatton.-c. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i am much disappointed, i own, dear sir, at not seeing you: more so, as i fear it will be long before i shall, for i think of going to paris early in february. i ought indeed to go directly, as the winter does not agree with me here. without being positively ill, i am positively not well: about this time of year, i have little fevers every night, and pains in my breast and stomach, which bid me repair to a more flannel climate. these little complaints are already begun, and as soon as affairs will permit me, i mean to transport them southward. i am sorry it is out of my power to make the addition you wish to mr. tuer's article: many of the following sheets are printed off, and there is no inserting any thing now, without shoving the whole text forward, which you see is impossible. you promised to bring me a portrait of him: as i shall have four or five new plates, i can get his head into one of them: will you send it as soon as you can possibly to my house in arlington-street; i will take great care of it-, and return it to you safe. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) i don't know whether this letter will not reach you, my dear lord, before one that i sent to you last week by a private hand, along with one from your brother. i write this by my lord chamberlain's order--you may interpret it as you please, either as by some new connexion of the bedford squadron with the opposition, or as a commission to you, my lord ambassador. as yet, i believe you had better take it upon the latter foundation, though the duke of bedford has crossed the country from bath to woburn, without coming to town. be that as it may, here is the negotiation intrusted to you. you are desired by my lord gower to apply to the gentilhomme de la chambre for leave for doberval( ) the dancer, who was here last year, to return and dance at our opera forthwith. if the court of france -will comply with this request, we will send them a discharge in full, for the canada bills and the ransom of their prisoners, and we will permit monsieur d'estain to command in the west indies, whether we will or not. the city of london must not know a word of this treaty, for they hate any mortal should be diverted but themselves, especially by any thing relative to harmony. it is, i own, betraying my country and my patriotism to be concerned in a job of this kind. i am sensible that there is not a weaver in spitalfields but can dance better than the first performer in the french opera; and yet, how could i refuse this commission? mrs. george pitt delivered it to me just now, at lord holderness's at sion, and as my virtue has not yet been able to root out all my good-breeding--though i trust it will in time--i could not help promising that i would write to you--nay, and engaged that you would undertake it. when i venture, sure you may, who are out of the reach of a mob! i believe this letter will go by monsieur beaumont. he breakfasted here t'other morning, and pleased me exceedingly: he has great spirit and good-humour. it is incredible what pains he has taken to see. he has seen oxford, bath, blenheim, stowe, jews, quakers, mr. pitt, the royal society, the robinhood, lord chief-justice pratt, the arts-and-sciences, has dined at wildman's, and, i think, with my lord mayor, or is to do. monsieur de guerchy is full of your praises; i am to go to park-place with him next week, to make your brother a visit. you know how i hate telling you false news: all i can do, is to retract as fast as i can. i fear i was too hasty in an article i sent you in my last, though i then mentioned it only as a report. i doubt, what we wish in a private family( ) will not be exactly the event. the duke of cumberland has had a dangerous sore-throat, but is recovered. in one of the bitterest days that could be felt, he would go upon the course at newmarket with the windows of his landau down. newmarket-heath, at no time of the year, is placed under the torrid zone. i can conceive a hero welcoming death, or at least despising it; but if i was covered with more laurels than a boar's head at christmas, i should hate pain, and ranby, and an operation. his nephew of york has been at blenheim, where they gave him a ball, but did not put themselves to much expense in dancers; the figurantes were the maid-servants. you will not doubt my authority, when i tell you my lady bute was my intelligence. i heard to-day, at sion, of some bitter verses made at bath, on both their graces of bedford. i have not seen them, nor, if i had them, would i send them to you before they are in print, which i conclude they will be, for i am sorry to say, scandalous abuse is not the commodity which either side is sparing of. you can conceive nothing beyond the epigrams which have been in the papers, on a pair of doves and a parrot that lord bute has sent to the princess.( ) i hear-but this is another of my paragraphs that i am far from giving you for sterling--that lord sandwich is to have the duke of devonshire's garter; lord northumberland stands against lord morton,( ) for president of the royal society, in the room of lord macclesfield. as this latter article will have no bad consequences if it should prove true, you may believe it. earl poulet is dead, and soame, who married mrs. naylor's sister. you will wonder more at what i am going to tell you in the last place: i am preparing, in earnest, to make you a visit-not next week, but seriously in february. after postponing it for seven idle months, you will stare at my thinking of it just after the meeting of the parliament. why, that is just one of my principal reasons. i will stay and see the opening and one or two divisions; the minority will be able to be the majority, or they will not: if they can, they will not want me, who want nothing of them: if they cannot, i am sure i can do them no good, and shall take my leave of them;--i mean always, to be sure, if things do not turn on a few votes: they shall not call me a deserter. in every other case, i am so sick of politics, which i have long detested, that i must bid adieu to them. i have acted the part by your brother that i thought right. he approves what i have done, and what i mean to do; so do the few i esteem, for i have notified my intention; and for the rest of the world, they may think what they please. in truth, i have a better reason, which would prescribe my setting out directly, if it was consistent with my honour. i have a return of those nightly fevers and pains in my breast, which have come for the three last years -,it this season: change of air and a better climate are certainly necessary to me in winter. i shall thus indulge my inclinations every way. i long to see you and my lady hertford, and am wofully sick of the follies and distractions of this country, to which i see no end, come what changes will! now, do you wonder any longer at my resolution? in the mean time adieu for the present! ( ) d'auberval was not only a celebrated dancer, but a composer of ballets.@. ( ) the reconciliation of the duke and duchess of grafton.-e. ( ) the princess dowager of wales. ( ) lord morton was elected. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. november , . (page ) soh! madam, you expect to be thanked, because you have done a very obliging thing.( ) but i won't thank you, and i won't be obliged. it is very hard one can't come into your house and commend any thing, but you must recollect it and send it after one! i will never dine in your house again; and, when i do, i will like nothing; and when i do, i will commend nothing; and when i do, you shan't remember it. you are very grateful indeed to providence that give you so good a memory, to stuff it with nothing but bills of fare of what every body likes to eat and drink! i wonder you are not ashamed! do you think there is no such thing as gluttony of the memory?--you a christian! a pretty account you will be able to give of yourself!-your fine folks in france may call this friendship and attention, perhaps--but sure, if i was to go to the devil, it should be for thinking of nothing but myself, not of others, from morning to night. i would send back your temptations; but, as i will not be obliged to you for them, verily i shall retain them to punish you; ingratitude being a proper chastisement for sinful friendliness. thine in the spirit, pilchard whitfield. ( ) lady hervey, it is supposed, had sent mr. walpole some potted pilchards. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) could you be so kind, my dear lord, as to recollect dr. blanchard, after so long an interval. it will make me still more cautious of giving recommendations to you, instead of drawing upon the credit you give me. i saw mr. stanley last night at the opera, who made his court extremely to me by what he said of you. it was our first opera, and i went to town to hear manzoli,( ) who did not quite answer my expectation, though a very fine singer, but his voice has been younger, and wants the touching tones of elisi.( ) however, the audience was not so nice, but applauded him immoderately, and encored three of his songs. the first woman was advertised for a perfect beauty, with no voice; but her beauty and voice are by no means so unequally balanced: she has a pretty little small pipe, and only a pretty little small person, and share of beauty, and does not act ill. there is tenducci, a moderate tenor, and all the rest intolerable. if you don't make haste and send us doberval, i don't know what we shall do. the dances were not only hissed, as truly they deserved to be, but the gallery, `a la drury-lane, cried out, , off! off!" the boxes were empty, for so is the town, to a degree. the person,( ) who ordered me to write to you for dobeval, was reduced to languish in the duchess of hamilton's box. my duchess( ) does not appear yet--i fear. shall i tell you any thing about d'eon? it is sending coals to paris: you must know his story better than me; so in two words vergy, his antagonist, is become his convert:( ) has wrote for him and sworn for him,--nay, has made an affidavit before judge wilmot, that monsieur de guerchy had hired him to stab or poison d'eon. did you ever see a man who had less of an assassin than your pendant, as nivernois calls it! in short, the story is as clumsy, as abominable. the king's bench cited d'eon to receive his sentence: he absconds: that court issued a warrant to search for him and a house in scotland-yard, where he lodged, was broken open, but in vain. if there is any thing more, you know it yourself. this law transaction is buried in another. the master of the rolls, sir thomas clarke, is dead, and norton succeeds. who do you think succeeds him? his predecessor.( ) the house of york is returned to the house of lancaster: they could not keep their white roses pure. i have not a little suspicion that disappointment has contributed to this faux-pas. sir thomas made a new will the day before he died, and gave his vast fortune, not to mr. yorke, as was expected, but to lord macclesfield, to whom, it is come out, he was natural brother. norton, besides the rolls, which are for lite, and near , pounds a-year, has a pension of , pounds. mrs. anne pitt, too, has got a third pension: so you see we are not quite such beggars as you imagined! prince william, you know, is duke of gloucester, with the same appanage as the duke of york. legrand( ) is his cadogan; clinton( ) and ligonier( ) his grooms. colonel crawford is dead at minorca, and colonel burton has his regiment; the primate (stone) is better, but i suppose, from his distemper, which is a dropsy in his breast, irrecoverable. your irish queen( ) exceeds the english queen, and follows her with seven footmen before her chair--well! what trumperies i tell you! but i cannot help it--wilkes is outlawed, d'eon run away, and churchill dead--till some new genius arises, you must take up with the operas, and pensions, and seven footmen. but patience! your country is seldom sterile long. george selwyn has written hither his lamentations about that cossack princess. i am glad of it, for i did but hint it to my lady rervey, (though i give you my word, without quoting you, which i never do upon the most trifling occurrences,) and i was cut very short, and told it was impossible. a la bonne heure! pray, who is lord march( ) going to marry? we hear so, but nobody named. i had not heard of your losses at whisk; but if i had, should not have been terrified: you know whisk gives no fatal ideas to any body that has been at arthur's and seen hazard, quinze, and trente-et-quarante. i beg you will prevail on the king of france to let monsieur de richelieu give as many balls and f`etes as he pleases, if it is only for my diversion. this journey to paris is the last colt's tooth i intend ever to cut, and i insist upon being prodigiously entertained, like a sposa monacha, whom they cram with this world for a twelvemonth, before she bids adieu to it for ever. i think, when i shut myself up in my convent here, it will not be with the same regret. i have for some time been glutted with the world, and regret the friends that drop away every day; those, at least, with whom i came into the world, already begin to make it appear a great void. lord edgecumbe, lord waldegrave, and the duke of devonshire leave a very perceptible chasm. at the opera last night, i felt almost ashamed to be there. except lady townshend, lady schaub, lady albemarle, and lady northumberland, i scarce saw a creature whose debut there i could not remember: nay, the greater part were maccaronies. you see i am not likely, like my brother cholmondeley (who, by the way, was there too), to totter into a solitaire at threescore. the duke de richelieu( ) is one of the persons i am curious to see--oh! am i to find madame de boufflers, princess of conti? your brother and lady aylesbury are to be in town the day after to-morrow to hear manzoli, and on their way to mrs. cornwallis, who is acting l'agonisante; but that would be treason to lady ailesbury. i was at park-place last week: the bridge is finished, and a noble object. i shall come to you as soon as ever i have my cong`e, which i trust will be early in february. i will let you know the moment i can fix my time, because i shall beg you to order a small lodging to be taken for me at no great distance from your palace, and only for a short time, because, if i should like france enough to stay some months i can afterwards accommodate myself to my mind. i should like to be so near you that i could see you whenever it would not be inconvenient to you, and without being obliged to that intercourse with my countrymen, which i by no means design to cultivate. if i leave the best company here, it shall not be for the worst. i am getting out of the world, not coming into it, and shall therefore be most indifferent about their acquaintance, or what they think of my avoiding it. i come to see you and my lady hertford, to escape from politics, and to amuse myself with seeing, which i intend to do with all my eyes. i abhor show, am not passionately fond of literati, don't want to know people for a few months, and really think of nothing but some comfortable hours with you, and indulging my curiosity. excuse almost a page about myself, but it was to tell you how little trouble i hope to give you. ( ) "manzoli's voice was the most powerful and voluminous soprano that had been heard on our stage since the time of farinelli; and his manner of singing was grand and full of taste and dignity. the lovers of music in london were more unanimous in approving his voice and talents, than those of any other singer within my memory." burney.--e. ( ) elisi, though a great singer, was a still greater actor: his figure was large and majestic, and he had a great compass of voice." ibid.-e. ( ) probably mrs. george pitt.-c. ( ) of grafton. ( ) this is altogether a very mysterious affair: m. de vergy was the cause of d'eon's violent behaviour at lord halifax's (see ant`e, p. , letter ,); he afterwards took d'eon's part, and had the effrontery and the infamy to say, that he was suborned by the french ministry to quarrel with and ruin d'eon.-c. ( ) mr. charles yorke; but we shall see, in the next letter, that the fact on which all this imputation was built was false.-c. ( ) edward legrand, esq., treasurer to the duke of gloucester; as the hon. c. s. cadogan was to the duke of york.-e. ( ) colonel henry clinton, afterwards commander-in-chief in america, and k. b.-e. ( ) colonel edward ligonier, aide-de-camp to the king.-e. ( ) the countess of northumberland.-e. ( ) james, third earl of march, a lord of the bedchamber, who subsequently, in , succeeded to the dukedom of queensberry, and was the last of that title.-e. ( ) the celebrated mareschal duc de richelieu: he was born in , and died in . the whole of his long life was full of adventures so extraordinary as to justify mr. walpole's curiosity. the most remarkable, however, of all, had not at this period occurred. in the year , and at the age of eighty-four, he married his third wife, and was severely afflicted that a miscarriage of the duchess destroyed his hopes of another cardinal de richelieu; for to that eminence he destined the child of his age. his biographer adds, that the duchess was an affectionate and attentive wife, notwithstanding that her octogenarian husband tried her patience by reiterated infidelities.-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i love to contradict myself as fast as i can when i have told you a lie, lest you should take me for a chambermaid, or charles townshend. but how can i help it? is this a consistent age? how should i know people's minds, if they don't know them themselves? in short, charles yorke is not attorney-general, nor norton master of the rolls. a qualm came across the first, and my lord lorn across the second, who would not have norton in his court. i cannot imagine why; it is so gentle, amiable, honest a being! but i think the chancellor says, norton does not understand equity, so he remains prosecutor-general. yorke would have taken the rolls, if they would have made it much more considerable; but as they would not, he has recollected that it will be clever for one yorke to have the air of being disinterested, so he only disgraces himself,( ) and takes a patent of precedence over the solicitor-general:--but do not depend upon this--he was to have kissed hands on friday, but has put it off till wednesday next--between this and that, his virtue may have another fit. the court ridicule him even more than the opposition. what diverts me most, is, that the pious and dutiful house of yorke, who cried and roared over their father's memory, now throw all the blame on him, and say, he forced them into opposition--amorent nummi expellas furc`a, licet usque recurret.( ) sewell( ) is master of the rolls. well! i may grow a little more explicit to you; besides, this letter goes to you by a private hand. i gave you little hints, to prepare you for the separation of the house of grafton. it is so, and i am heartily sorry for it. your brother is chosen by the duke, and general ellison by the duchess, to adjust the terms, which are not yet settled. the duke takes all on himself, and assigns no reason but disagreement of tempers. he leaves lady georgina' with her mother, who, he says, is the properest person to educate her, and lord charles, till he is old enough to be taken from the women. this behaviour is noble and generous-- still i wish they could have agreed! this is not the only parting that makes a noise. his grace of kingston( ) has taken a pretty milliner from cranborn-alley, and carried her to thoresby. miss chudleigh, at the princess's birthday on friday, beat her side till she could not help having a real pain in it, that people might inquire what was the matter; on which she notified a pleurisy, and that she is going to the baths of carlsbad, in bohemia. i hope she will not meet with the bulgares that demolished the castle of thundertentronck.( y) my lady harrington's robbery is at last come to light, and was committed by the porter,( ) who is in newgate. lady northumberland (who, by the way, has added an eighth footman since i wrote to you last) told me this morning that the queen is very impatient to receive an answer from lady hertford, about prince george's letters coming through your hands, as she desired they might. a correspondence between legge and lord bute about the hampshire election is published to-day, by the express desire of the former, when he was dying.( ) he showed the letters to me in the spring, and i then did not-think them so strong or important as he did. i am very clear it does no honour to his memory to have them printed now. it implies want of resolution to publish them in his lifetime, and that he died with more resentment than i think one should care to own. i would send them to you, but i know dr. hunter takes care of such things. i hope he will send you, too, the finest piece that i think has been written for liberty since lord somers. it is called an inquiry into the late doctrine on libels, and is said to be written by one dunning,( ) a lawyer lately started up, who makes a great noise. he is a sharp thorn in the sides of lord mansfield and norton, and, in truth, this book is no plaster to their pain. it is bitter, has much unaffected wit, and is the only tract that ever made me understand law.( ) if dr. hunter does not send you these things, i suppose he will convey them himself, as i hear there will be a fourteenth occasion for him. charles fitzroy says, lord halifax told mrs. crosby that you are to go to ireland. i said he l(nows you are not the most communicative person in the world, and that you had not mentioned it--nor do i now, by way of asking impertinent questions; but i thought you would like to know what was said. i return to strawberry hill to-morrow, but must return on thursday, as there is to be something at the duke of york's that evening, for which i have received a card. he and his brother are most exceedingly civil and good-humoured--but i assure you every place is like one of shakspeare's plays:--flourish, enter the duke of york, gloucester, and attendants. lady irwin( ) died yesterday. past eleven. i have just come from a little impromptu ball at mrs. ann pitt's. i told you she had a new pension, but did i tell you it was five hundred pounds a year? it was entertaining to see the duchess of bedford and lady bute with their respective forces, drawn up on different sides of the room; the latter's were most numerous. my lord gower seemed very willing to promote a parley between the two armies. it would have made you shrug up your shoulders at dirty humanity, to see the two miss pelhams sit neglected, without being asked to dance. you may imagine this could not escape me, who have passed through the several grradations in which lady jane stuart and miss pelham are and have been; but i fear poor miss pelham feels hers a little more than ever i did.( ) the duke of york's is to be a dinner and a ball for princess amelia. lady mary bowlby( ) gave me a commission, a genealogical one, from my lady hertford, which i will execute to the best of my power. i am glad my part is not to prove eighteen generations of nobility for the bruces. i fear they have made some mes-alliances since the days of king robert-at least, the present scotch nobility are not less apt to go into lombard-street than the english. my lady suffolk was at the ball; i asked the prince of masserano whom he thought the oldest woman in the room, as i concluded he would not guess she was. he did not know my reason for asking, and would not tell me. at last, he said very cleverly, his own wife. mr. sarjent has sent me this evening from les consid`erations sur les moeurs," and "le testament politique,"( ) for which i give you, my dear lord, a thousand thanks. good night! p.s. manzoli( ) has come a little too late, or i think he would have as many diamond watches and snuff-boxes as farinelli. ( ) we can venture to state, that there never was any idea of mr. yorke's accepting the rolls; and it is believed that they never were offered to him; certainly, be himself never thought of taking that office. the patent of precedence which he did accept, was an arrangement, which, though convenient for the conduct of the business in court, could give no addition of either rank or profit to a person in mr. yorke's circumstances. the facts were as follow: when mr. yorke, in , was made solicitor-general, he was not a king's counsel; he succeeded to be attorney-general, but on his resignation in october , he lost the precedence which his offices had given him, and he returned to the outer bar and a stuff gown. it was a novel and anomalous sight to see a man who had led the chancery bar so long, and filled the greatest office of the law, retire to comparatively, so humble a rank in the court in which he might be every day expected to preside; and accordingly, on his first appearance after his resignation, the chancellor, with the concurrence (indeed, it has been said on the suggestion) of the bar, called to mr. yorke, out of his turn, next after the king's counsel: this irregular pre-audience had lasted above a year, when it was thought more proper and more convenient for the business of the court to give mr. yorke that formal patent of precedence, the value and circumstances of which mr walpole so much misunderstands. we have heard from old lawyers, that mr. yorke's business at this period was more extensive and less lucrative than any other man ever possessed in chancery, and we find no less than four other barristers had at this time patents of precedence.-c. ( ) the reader is requested to look back to p. , letter , where he will find mr. walpole himself stating--long before lord hardwickc's death, and even before his illness--that "the old chancellor was violent against the court, and that mr. charles yorke had resigned, contrary to his own; and lord royston's inclination." the fact was in no way true; for it is well known that there never was the slightest difference of opinion between the old lord hardwicke and his son charles upon their political conduct.-c. ( ) sir thomas sewell, knight.-e. ( ) evelyn, last duke of kingston: he soon after married miss chudleigh, who was supposed to have been already married to mr. augustus hervey, afterwards earl of bristol.-c. ( ) an allusion to a loose incident in voltaire's candide. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) mr. legge had, in , while chancellor of the exchequer to george ii. been requested by lord bute, in the name of the prince of wales, to pledge himself to support a mr. stuart at the next election for hampshire: this mr. legge, for very sufficient reasons, refused to do; and for this refusal (as he thought, and wished to persuade the public) he was turned out of office at the accession of the young king.-c. ( ) mr. dunning soon rose into great practice and eminence; in he was made solicitor-general, which office he held till . he then made a considerable figure in the opposition, till the accession to the ministry, in , of his friend lord shelburne, when he was created lord ashburton; he died next year.-c. ( ) mr. dunning's pamphlet was intituled "inquiry into the doctrine lately propagated concerning juries, libels, etc. upon the principles of the law and the constitution." gray, in a letter to walpole of the th, thus characterizes it:--"your canonical book i have been reading with great satisfaction. he speaketh as one having authority. if englishmen have any feeling, methinks they must feel now; and if the ministry have any feeling (whom nobody will suspect of insensibility) they must cut off the author's ears; for if is in all the forms a most wicked libel. is the old man and the lawyer put on, or is it real? or has some real lawyer furnished a good part of the materials, and another person employed them? this i guess." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) anne howard, daughter of the third earl of carlisle, and widow of the third viscount irwin. she was lady of the bedchamber to the princess dowager. mr. park has introduced her into his edition of the noble authors.-c. ( ) mr. walpole means that he was courted during his father's power, and neglected after his fall, as the daughters of a succeeding prime minister, mr. henry pelham, now were; but as lady jane stuart was but two-and-twenty years old, and miss pelham was thirty-six, we may account for the preference given to her ladyship at a ball, without any reference to the meanness and political time-serving of mankind. both the misses pelham died unmarried.-c. ( ) sister of the duke of montagu. ( ) a french forgery called "le testament politique du chevalier robert walpole," of which mr. walpole drew up an exposure, which is to be found in the second volume of his works.-c. ( ) the enthusiasm, however, ran pretty high, as we learn from the following passage, in one of the periodical papers of the day:--"signor manzoli, the italian singer at the haymarket, got no less, after paying all charges of every kind, by his benefit last week (march, ), than guineas. this added to a sum of , which he has already saved, and the remaining profits of the season, is surely an undoubted proof of british generosity. one particular lady complimented the singer with a pound bill for a ticket on that occasion."-c.'' letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) as i have not read in the paper that you died lately at greatworth, in northamptonshire, nor have met with any montagu or trevor in mourning, i conclude you are living: i send this, however, to inquire, and if you should happen to be departed, hope your executor will be so kind as to burn it. though you do not seem to have the same curiosity about my existence, you may gather from my handwriting that i am still in being; which being perhaps full as much as you want to know of me, i will trouble you with no farther particulars about myself--nay, nor about any body else; your curiosity seeming to be pretty much the same about all the world. news there are certainly none; nobody is even dead, as the bishop of carlisle told me to-day, which i repeat to you in general, though i apprehend in his own mind he meant no possessor of a better bishopric. if you like to know the state of the town, here it is. in the first place, it is very empty; in the next, there are more diversions than the week will hold. a charming italian opera, with no dances and no company, at least on tuesdays; to supply which defect, the subscribers are to have a ball and supper--a plan that in my humble opinion will fill the tuesdays and empty the saturdays. at both playhouses are woful english operas; which, however, fill better than the italian, patriotism being entirely confined to our ears: how long the sages of the law may leave us those i cannot say. mrs cornelis, apprehending the future assembly at almack's, has enlarged her vast room, and hung it with blue satin, and another with yellow satin; but almack's room, which is to be ninety feet long, proposes to swallow up both hers, as easy as moses's rod gobbled down those of the magicians. well, but there are more joys; a dinner and assembly every tuesday at the austrian minister's; ditto on thursdays at the spaniard's; ditto on wednesdays and sundays at the french ambassador's; besides madame de welderen's on wednesdays, lady harrington's sundays, and occasional private mobs at my lady northumberland's. then for the mornings, there are lev`ees and drawing-rooms without end. not to mention the maccaroni-club, which has quite absorbed arthur's; for you know old fools will hobble after young ones. of all these pleasures, i prescribe myself a very small pittance,--my dark corner in my own box at the opera, and now and then an ambassador, to keep my french going till my journey to paris. politics are gone to sleep, like a paroli at pharaoh, though there is the finest tract lately published that ever was written, called an inquiry into the doctrine of libels. it would warm your old algernon blood; but for what any body cares, might as well have been written about the wars of york and lancaster. the thing most in fashion is my edition of lord herbert's life; people are mad after it, i believe because only two hundred were printed; and, by the numbers that admire it, i am convinced that if i had kept his lordship's counsel, very few would have found out the absurdity of it. the caution with which i hinted at its extravagance, has passed with several for approbation, and drawn on theirs. this is nothing new to me; it is when one laughs out at their idols that one angers people. i do not wonder now that sir philip sydney was the darling hero, when lord herbert, who followed him so close and trod in his steps, is at this time of day within an ace of rivalling him. i wish i had let him; it was contradicting one of my own maxims, which i hold to be very just; that it is idle to endeavour to cure the world of any folly, unless we could cure it of being foolish. tell me whether i am likely to see you before i go to paris, which will be early in february. i hate you for being so indifferent about me. i live in the world, and yet love nothing, care a straw for nothing, but two or three old friends, that i have loved these thirty years. you have buried yourself with half a dozen parsons and isquires, and yet never cast a thought upon those you have always lived with. you come to town for two months, grow tired in six weeks, hurry away, and then one hears no more of you till next winter. i don't want you to like the world, i like it no more than you; but i stay awhile in it, because while one sees it one laughs at it, but when one gives it up one grows angry with it; and i hold it to be much wiser to laugh than to be out of humour. you cannot imagine how much ill blood this perseverance has cured me of; i used to say to myself, "lord! this person is so bad, that person is so bad, i hate them." i have now found out that they are all pretty much alike, and i hate nobody. having never found you out, but for integrity and sincerity, i am much disposed to persist in a friendship with you; but if i am to be at all the pains of keeping it up, i shall imitate my neighbours (i don't mean those at next door, but in the scripture sense of my neighbour, any body,) and say "that is a very good man, but i don't care a farthing for him." till i have taken my final resolution on that head, i am yours most cordially. letter to george montagu, esq. christmas-eve, . (page ) you are grown so good, and i delight so much in your letters when you please to write them, that though it is past midnight, and i am to go out of town tomorrow morning, i must thank you. i shall put your letter to rheims into the foreign post with a proper penny, and it will go much safer and quicker than if i sent it to lord hertford, for his letters lie very often till enough are assembled to compose a jolly caravan. i love your good brother john, as i always do, for keeping your birthday; i, who hate ceremonious customs, approve of what i know comes so much from the heart as all he and you do and say. the general surely need not ask leave to enclose letters to me. there is neither news, nor any body to make it, but the clergy, who are all gaping after or about the irish mitre,( ) which your old antagonist has quitted. keene has refused it; newton hesitates, and they think will not accept it; ewer pants for it, and many of the bench i believe do every thing but pray for it. goody carlisle hopes for worcester if it should be vacated, but i believe would not dislike to be her grace. this comes with your muff, my anecdotes of painting, the fine pamphlet on libels, and the castle of otranto, which came out to-day. all this will make some food for your fireside. since you will not come and see me before i go, i hope not to be gone before you come, though i am not quite in charity with you about it. oh! i had forgot; don't lend your lord herbert, it will grow as dirty as the street; and as there are so few, and they have been so lent about, and so dirtied, the few clean copies will be very valuable. what signifies whether they read it or not? there will be a new bishop, or a new separation, or a new something or other, that will do just as well, before you can convey your copy to them; and seriously, if you lose it, i have not another to give you; and i would fain have you keep my editions together, as you had the complete set. as i want to make you an economist of my books, i will inform you that this second' set of anecdotes sells for three guineas. adieu! p. s. i send you a decent smallish muff, that you may put in your pocket, and it costs but fourteen shillings. ( dr. john stone, archbishop of armagh and primate of all ireland, died on the th of december .-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) i should prove a miserable prophet or almanac maker, for my predictions are seldom verified. i thought the present session likely to be a very supine one, but unless the evening varies extremely from the morning, it will be a tempestuous day--and yet it was a very southerly and calm wind that began the hurricane. the king's speech was so tame, that, as george montagu said of the earthquake, you might have stroked it.( ) beckford (whom i certainly did not mean by the gentle gale) touched on draper's( ) letter about the manilla money. george grenville took up the defence of the spaniards, though he said he only stated their arguments. this roused your brother, who told grenville he had adopted the reasoning of spain; and showed the fallacy of their pretensions. he exhorted every body to support the king's government, "which i," said he, "ill-used as i have been, wish and mean to support-not that of ministers, when i see the laws and independence of parliament struck at in the most profligate manner." you may guess how deeply this wounded. grenville took it to himself, and asserted that his own life and character were as pure, uniform, and little profligate as your brother's. the silence of the house did not seem to ratify this declaration. your brother replied with infinite spirit, that he certainly could not have meant mr. grenville, for he did not take him for the minister-(i do not believe this was the least mortifying part)--that he spoke of public acts that were in every body's mouth, as the warrants, and the disgrace thrown on the army by dismissions for parliamentary reasons; that for himself he was an open enemy, and detested men who smiled in his face and stabbed him i do not believe he meant this personally, but unfortunately the whole house applied it to mr. grenville's grimace); that for his own disgrace, he did not know where to impute it, for every minister had disavowed it. it was to the warrants, he said, he owed what had happened; he had fallen for voting against them, but had he had ten regiments, he would have parted with them all to obey his conscience; that he now could fall no lower, and would speak as he did then, and would not be hindered nor intimidated from speaking the language of parliament. grenville answered, that he had never avowed nor disavowed the measure of dismissing mr. conway--(he disavowed it to mr. harris,)( ) that he himself had been turned out for voting against german connexions; that he had never approved inquiring into the king's prerogative on that head-(i can name a person who can repeat volumes of what he has said on the subject,) and that the king had as much right to dismiss military as civil officers, and then drew a ridiculous parallel betwixt the two, in which he seemed to give himself the rank of a civil lieutenant-general. this warmth was stopped by augustus hervey, who spoke to order, and called for the question; but young t. townshend confirmed, that the term profligacy was applied by all mankind to the conduct on the warrants. it was not the most agreeable circumstance to grenville, that lord granby closed the debate, by declaring how much he disapproved the dismission of officers for civil reasons, and the more, as he was persuaded it would not prevent officers from acting according to their consciences; and he spoke of your brother with many encomiums. sir w. meredith then notified his intention of taking up the affair of the warrants on monday se'nnight. mr. pitt was not there, nor lord temple in the house of lords; but the latter is ill. i should have told you that lord warkworth( ) and thomas pitt( ) moved our addresses; as lord townshend and lord botetourt did those of the lords. lord townshend said, though it was grown unpopular to praise the king, yet he should, and he was violent against libels; forgetting that the most ill-natured branch of them, caricatures, his own invention, are left off. nobody thought it worth while to answer him, at which he was much offended. so much for the opening of parliament, which does not promise serenity. your brother is likely to make a very great figure: they have given him the warmth he wanted, and may thank themselves for it. had mr. grenville taken my advice, @e had avoided an opponent that he will find a tough one, and must already repent having drawn upon him. with regard to yourself, my dear lord, you may be sure i did not intend to ask you any impertinent question. you requested me to tell you whatever i heard said about you; you was talked of for ireland, and are still; and lord holland within this week told me, that you had solicited it warmly. don't think yourself under any obligation to reply to me on these occasions. it is to comply with your desires that i repeat any thing i hear of you, not to make use of them to draw any explanation from you, to which i have no title; nor have i, you know, any troublesome curiosity. i mentioned ireland with the same indifference that i tell you that the town here has bestowed lady anne,( ) first on lord march, and now on stephen fox( )--tattle not worth your answering. you have lost another of your lords justices, lord shannon, of whose death an account came yesterday. lady harrington's porter was executed yesterday, and went to tyburn with a white cockade in his hat, as an emblem of his innocence. all the rest of my news i exhausted in my letter to lady hertford three days ago. the king's speech, as i told her it was to do, announced the contract between princess caroline( ) and the prince royal of denmark. i don't think the tone the session has taken will expedite my visit to you; however, i shall be able to judge when a few of the great questions are over. the american affairs are expected to occasion much discussion; but as i understand them no more than hebrew, they will throw no impediment in my way. adieu! my dear lord; you will probably hear no more politics these ten days. yours ever, horace walpole. friday. the debate on the warrants is put off to the tuesday; therefore, as it will probably be so long a day, i shall not be able to give you an account of it till this day fortnight. ( ) gray, in a letter to dr. wharton, written in july , in giving an account of an illness, says, "towards the end of my confinement, during which i lived on nothing, came, the gout in one foot, but so tame you might have stroked it." to this passage, the learned editor of the last edition of his works has sub-joined this note:--"i have mentioned several coincidences of thought and expression of this kind in the letters of gray and walpole, which i conceived to be a kind of common property; the reader, indeed, will recognise much of that species of humour which distinguishes gray's correspondence in the letters of walpole, inferior, i think, in its comic force; sometimes deviating too far from propriety in search of subjects for the display of its talent, and not altogether free from affectation." vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) sir william draper, k.b. best known by his controversy with junius. the letter here alluded to was entitled, "an answer to the spanish arguments for refusing the payment of the ransom bills."-e. ( ) general conway's brother-in-law.-e. ( ) afterwards duke of northumberland-e. ( ) afterwards lord camelford.-e. ( ) ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) second son of the first earl of ilchester-e. ( ) the unhappy queen of denmark, who was afterwards divorced and exiled.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. sunday, jan. , . (page ) do you forgive me, if i write to you two or three days sooner than i said i would. our important day on the warrants is put off for a week, in compliment to mr. pitt's gout--can it resist such attention i shall expect in it a prodigious quantity of black ribands. you have heard, to be sure, of the great fortune that is bequeathed to him by a sir william pynsent, an old man of near ninety, who quitted the world on the peace of utrecht; and, luckily for mr. pitt, lived to be as angry with its pendant, the treaty of paris. i did not send you the first report, which mounted it to an enormous sum: i think the medium account is two thousand pounds a-year, and thirty thousand pounds in money. this sir william pynsent, whose fame, like an aloe, did not blow till near an hundred, was a singularity. the scandalous chronicle of somersetshire talks terribly of his morals( ) *****. lady north was nearly related to lady pynsent, which encouraged lord north to flatter himself that sir william's extreme propensity to him would recommend even his wife's parentage for heirs; but the uncomeliness of lady north, and a vote my lord gave against the cider-bill, offended the old gentleman so much, that he burnt his would-be heir in effigy. how will all these strange histories sound at paris! this post, i suppose, will rain letters to my lady hertford. on her death and revival. i was dreadfully alarmed at it for a moment; my servant was so absurd as to wake me, and bid me not be frightened--an excellent precaution! of all moments, that between sleeping and waking is the most subject to terror. i started up, and my first thought was to send for dr. hunter; but, in two minutes, i recollected that it was impossible to be true, as your porter had the very day before been with me to tell me a courier was arrived from you, was to return that evening. your poor son henry, whom you will doat upon for it, was not tranquillized so soon. he instantly sent away a courier to your brother, who arrived in the middle of the night. lady milton,( ) lady george sackville,( ) and i, agreed this evening to tell my lady hertford, that we ought to have believed the news, and to have imputed it to the gaming rakehelly life my lady leads at paris, which scandalizes all us prudes, her old friends. in truth, i have not much right to rail at any body to.- living in a hurricane. i found myself with a violent cold on wednesday, and till then had not once reflected on all the hot and cold climates i have passed through the day before: i had been at the duke of cumberland's levee; then at the princess amelia's drawing-room; from thence to a crowded house of commons; to dinner at your brother's; to the opera; to madame seillern's; to arthur's; and to supper at mrs. george pitt's;--it is scandalous; but, who does less? the duke looked much better than i expected; is gone to windsor, and mends daily. it was lady harcourt's( ) death that occasioned the confusion, and our dismay. she died at a colonel oughton's; such a small house, that lord harcourt has been forced to take their family into his own house. poor lady digby( ) is dead too, of a fever, and was with child. they were extremely happy, and -her own family adored her. my sister has begged me to ask a favour, that will put you to a little trouble, though only for a moment. it is, if you will be so good to order one of your servants when you have done with the english newspapers, to put them in a cover, and send them to mr. churchill, au chateau de nubecourt, pr`es de clermont, en argone; they cannot get a gazette that does not cost them six livres. monday evening. we have had a sort of a day in the house of commons. the proposition for accepting the six hundred and seventy thousand pounds for the french prisoners passed easily. then came the navy: dowdeswell, in a long and very sensible speech, proposed to reduce the number of sailors to ten thousand. he was answered by--charles townshend--oh! yes!--are you surprised? nobody here was: no, not even at his assertion, that he had always applauded the peace, though the whole house and the whole town knew that, on the preliminaries, he came down prepared to speak against them; but that on mr. pitt's retiring, he plucked up courage, and spoke for them. well, you want to know what place he is to have- -so does he too. i don't want to know what place, but that he has some one; for i am sure he will always do most hurt to the side on which he professes to be; consequently, i wish him with the administration, and i wish so well to both sides, that i would have him more decried, if that be possible, than he is. colonel barr`e spoke against dowdeswell's proposal, though not setting himself up at auction, like charles, nor friendly to the ministry, but temperately and sensibly. there was no division. you know my opinion of charles townshend is neither new nor singular. when charles yorke left us,( ) i hoped for this event, and my wish then slid into this couplet: to the administration. one charles, who ne'er was ours, you've got-'tis true: to make the grace complete, take t'other too. the favours i ask of them, are not difficult to grant. adieu! my dear lord. yours ever, h. w. tuesday, o'clock. i had sealed my letter and given it to my sister, who sets out to-morrow, and will put it into the post at calais; but having received yours by the courier from spain, i must add a few words. you may be sure i shall not mention a tittle of what you say to me. indeed, if you think it necessary to explain to me, i shall be more cautious of telling you what i hear. if i had any curiosity, i should have nothing to do but to pretend i had heard some report, and so draw from you what you might not have a mind to mention: i do tell you when i hear any, for your information, but insist on your not replying. the vice-admiral of america is a mere feather; but there is more substance in the notion of the viceroy's quitting ireland. lord bute and george grenville are so ill together, that decency is scarce observed between their adherents: and the moment the former has an opportunity or resolution enough, he will remove the latter, and place his son-in-law( ) in the treasury. this goes so far, that charles townshend, who is openly dedicated to grenville, may possibly find himself disappointed, and get no place at last. however, i rejoice that we have got rid of him. it will tear up all connexion between him and your brother, root and branch: a circumstance you will not be more sorry for than i am. in the mean time, the opposition is so staunch that, i think, after the three questions on warrants, dismission of officers, and the manilla-money, i shall be at liberty to come to you, when i shall have a great deal to tell you. if charles townshend gets a place, lord george sackville expects another, by the same channel, interest, and connexion; but if charles may be disappointed himself, what may a man be who trusts to him? adieu! ( ) the original contains an imputation against sir w. pynsent, which, if true, would induce us to suspect him of a disordered mind.-c. ( ) lady caroline sackville, daughter of the duke of dorset, married, in , to the first lord milton.-e. ( ) diana, second daughter of j. sambrook, esq.-e. ( ) rebecca, daughter of charles le bas, esq., wife of the first earl of harcourt.-e. ( ) elizabeth fielding, niece to the fourth earl of denbigh, and wife of henry, first lord digby.-e. ( ) it is remarkable enough, that the epigram which mr. walpole thus introduces, admits that charles yorke had never joined them, and therefore could not be said to have left them.-c. ( ) there is some obscurity here: lord warkworth (afterwards duke of northumberland), who had lately married lord bute's third daughter, was, at this period, a very young man, little known but for his attachment to his profession--the army, and the idea of his being placed at the head of the treasury must have been absurd. his father, lord northumberland, indeed, had been spoken of for that office: and, perhaps, mr. walpole, in his epigrammatic way, has taken this mode of explaining the motive which might have induced lord bute to advance his son-in-law's father.-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, jan. , . (page ) the brother of your brother's neighbour, mr. freeman, who is going to paris, and i believe will not be sorry to be introduced to you, gives me an opportunity which i cannot resist, of sending you a private line or two, though i wrote you a long letter, which my sister was to put into the post at calais two or three days ago. we had a very remarkable day on wednesday in the house of commons--very glorious for us, and very mortifying to the administration, especially to the principal performer, who was severely galled by our troops, and abandoned by his own. the business of the day was the army, and, as nothing was expected, the house was not full. the very circumstance of nothing being expected, had encouraged charles townshend to soften a little what had passed on monday; he grew profuse of' his whispers and promises to us, and offered your brother to move the question on the dismission of officers: the debate began; beckford fell foul on the dismissions, and dropped some words on america. charles, who had placed himself again under the wing of grenville, replied on american affairs; but totally forgot your brother. beckford, in his boisterous indian style, told charles, that on a single idea he had poured forth a diarrhoea of words. he could not stand it, and in two minutes fairly stole out of the house. this battery being dismounted, the whole attack fell on grenville, and would have put you in mind of former days. you never heard any minister worse treated than he was for two hours together, by tommy townshend, sir george saville, and george onslow--and what was worse, no soul stepped forth in his defence, but rigby and lord strange, the latter of whom was almost as much abashed as charles townshend; conscience flew in his black face, and almost turned it red. t. townshend was still more bitter on lord sandwich, whom he called a profligate fellow--hoped he was present,( ) and added, if he is not, i am ready to call him so to his face in any private company: even rigby, his accomplice, said not a word in behalf of his brother culprit. you will wonder how all this ended--what would be the most ridiculous conclusion to such a scene'! as you cannot imagine, i will tell you. lord harry paulet( ) telling grenville, that if lord cobham was to rise from the dead, he would, if he could be ashamed of any thing, be ashamed of him; by the way, every body believes he meant the apostrophe stronger than he expressed it: grenville rose in a rage, like a basket-woman, and told lord harry that if he chose to use such language, he knew where to find him. did you ever hear of a prime minister, even soi-disant tel, challenging an opponent, when he could not answer him? poor lord harry, too, was an unfortunate subject to exercise his valour upon! the house interposed; lord harry declared he should have expected grenville to breakfast with him next morning; grenville explained off and on two or three times, the scotch laughed, the opposition roared, and the treasury-bench sat as mute as fishes. thus ended that wise hudibrastic encounter. grenville however, attended by every bad omen, provoked your brother, who had not intended to speak, by saying that some people had a good opinion of the dismissed officers, others had not. your brother rose, and surpassed himself: he was very warm, though less so than on the first day; very decent in terms, but most severe in effect; he more than hinted at the threats that had been used to him--said he would not reveal what was improper; yet left no mortal in the dark on that head. he called on the officers to assert their own freedom and independence. in short, made such a speech as silenced all his adversaries, but has filled the whole town with his praises: i believe, as soon as his speech reaches hayes, it will contribute extremely to expel the gout, and bring mr. pitt to town, lest his presence should be no longer missed. princess amelia told me the next night, that if she had heard nothing of mr. conway's speech, she should have known how well he had done by my spirits. i was not sorry she made this reflection, as i knew she would repeat it to lady (betty) waldegrave; and as i was willing that the duchess of bedford, who, when your brother was dismissed, asked the duchess of grafton if she was not sorry for poor mr. conway, who has lost every thing, should recollect that it is they who have cause to lament that dismission, not we. there was a paragraph in rigby's speech, and taken up, and adopted by goody grenville, which makes much noise, and, i suppose, has not given less offence; they talked of "arbitrary stuart principles," which are supposed to have been aimed at the stuart favourite: that breach is wider than ever: not one of lord bute's adherents have opened their lips this session. i conclude a few of them will be ordered to speak on friday; but unless we go on too triumphantly and reconcile them, i think this session will terminate mr. grenville's reign, and that of the bedfords too, unless they make great submissions. do you know that sir w. pynsent had your brother in his eye! he said to his lawyer, "i know mr. pitt is much younger than i but he has very bad health: as you will hear it before me, if he dies first, draw up another will with mr. conway's name instead of mr. pitt's, and bring it down to me directly." i beg britannia's pardon, but i fear i could have supported the loss on these grounds. a very unhappy affair happened last night at the star and garter; lord byron( ) killed a mr. chaworth there in a duel. i know none of the particulars, and never believe the first reports. my lady townshend was arrested two days ago in the street, at the suit of a house painter, who, having brought her a bill double the estimate he had given in, she would not pay it. as this is a breach of privilege, i should think the man would hear of it. there is no date set for our intended motion on the dismission of officers; but, i believe, lord john cavendish and fitzroy will be the movers and seconders. charles townshend, we conclude, will be very ill that day; if one could pity the poor toad, one should: there is jealousy of your brother,--fear of your brother,--fear of mr. pitt,--influence of his own brother,-- connexions entered into both with lord bute and mr. grenville, and a trimming plan concerted with lord george sackville and charles yorke, all tearing him or impelling him a thousand ways, with the addition of his own vanity and irresolution, and the contempt of every body else. i dined with him yesterday at mr. mackinsy's, where his whole discourse was in ridicule of george grenville. the enclosed novel( ) is much in vogue; the author is not known, but if you should not happen to like it, i could give you a reason why you need not say so. there is nothing else now, but a play called the matonic wife, written by an irish mrs. griffiths, which in charity to her was suffered to run three nights.( ) since i wrote my letter, the following, is the account nearest the truth that i can learn of the fatal duel last night: a club of nottinghamshire gentlemen had dined at the star and garter, and there had been a dispute between the combatants, whether lord byron, who took no care of his game, or mr. chaworth, who was active in the association, had most game on their manor. the company, however, had apprehended no consequences, and parted at eight o'clock; but lord byron stepping into an empty chamber, and sending the drawer for mr. chaworth, or calling him hither himself, took the candle from the waiter, and bidding mr. chaworth defend himself, drew his sword. mr. chaworth, who was an excellent fencer, ran lord byron through the sleeve of his coat, and then received a wound fourteen inches deep into his body. he was carried to his house in berkeley-street,--made his will with the greatest composure, and dictated a paper, which they say, allows it was a fair duel, and died at nine this morning. lord byron is not gone off, but says he will take his trial, which, if the coroner brings in a verdict of manslaughter, may, according to precedent, be in the house of lords, and without the ceremonial of westminster hall. george selwyn is much missed on this occasion, but we conclude it will bring him over.( ) i feel for both families, though i know none of either, but poor lady carlisle,( ) whom i am sure you will pity. our last three saturdays at the opera have been prodigious. and a new opera by bach( ) last night, was so crowded, that there were ladies standing behind the scenes during the whole performance. adieu! my dear lord: as this goes by a private hand, you may possibly receive its successor before it. ( ) it seems, from a subsequent letter, that lord sandwich was present. see post, p. , letter . ( ) lord henry paulet, member for hampshire, vice-admiral of the white, brother of the duke of bolton; to which dignity he himself succeeded on the th july, .-e. ( ) william, fifth lord byron, born in , died in . the star and garter was a tavern in pall mall.-c. ( ) his own castle of otranto.-e. ( ) it came out at drury-lane, and was acted six nights. the hint of it was taken from marmontel's "heureux divorce." ( ) mr. selwyn's morbid curiosity after trials and executions is well known.-c. ( ) isabella, only sister of lord byron, wife of the fourth earl of carlisle.-e. ( ) adriano in siria." the expectations of the public the first night this drama was performed occasioned such a crowd at the king's theatre as has seldom been seen there before; but whether from heat or inconvenience, the unreasonableness of expectation, the composer being out of fancy, or too anxious to please, dr. burney says the opera failed, and that every one came out of the theatre disappointed.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) a great many letters pass between us, my dear lord, but i think they are almost all of my writing. i have not heard from you this age. i sent you two packets together by mr. freeman, with an account of our chief debates. since the long day, i have been much out of order with a cold and cough, that turned to a fever: i am now taking james's powder, not without apprehensions of the gout, which it gave me two or three years ago. there has been nothing of note in parliament but one slight day on the american taxes,( ) which charles townshend supporting, received a pretty heavy thump from barr`e, who is the present pitt, and the dread of all the vociferous norths and rigbys, on whose lungs depended so much of mr. grenville's power. do you never hear them to paris? the operations of the opposition are suspended in compliment to mr. pitt, who has declared himself so warmly for the question on the dismission of officers, that that motion waits for his recovery. a call of the house is appointed for next wednesday, but as he has had a relapse, the motion will probably be deferred. i should be very glad if it was to be dropped entirely for this session, but the young men are warm and not easily bridled. if it was not too long to transcribe, i would send you an entertaining petition( ) of the periwig-makers to the king, in which they complain that men will wear their own hair. should one almost wonder if carpenters were to remonstrate, that since the peace their trade decays, and that there is no demand for wooden legs apropos, my lady hertford's friend, lady harriot vernon,( ) has quarrelled with me for smiling at the enormous head-gear of her daughter, lady grosvenor. she came one night to northumberland-house with such a display of friz, that it literally spread beyond her shoulders. i happened to say it looked as if her parents had stinted her in hair before marriage, and that she was determined to indulge her fancy now. this, among ten thousand things said by all the world, was reported to lady harriot, and has occasioned my disgrace. as she never found fault with any body herself, i excuse her! you will be less surprised to hear that the duchess of queensberry has not yet done dressing herself marvellously: she was at court on sunday in a gown and petticoat of red flannel. the same day the guerchys made a dinner for her, and invited lord and lady hyde,( ) the forbes's and her other particular friends: in the morning she sent word she was to go out of town, but as soon as dinner was over, arrived at madame de guerchy's, and said she had been at court. poor madame de seillern, the imperial ambassadress, has lost her only daughter and favourite child, a young widow of twenty-two, whom she was expecting from vienna. the news came this day se'nnight; and the ambassador, who is as brutal as she is gentle and amiable, has insisted on her having company at dinner to-day, and her assembly as usual. the town says that lord and lady abergavenny( ) are parted, and that he has not been much milder than monsieur de seillern on the chapter of a mistress he has taken. i don't know the truth of this; but his lordship's heart, i believe, is more inflammable than tender. lady sophia thomas,( ) has begged me to trouble you with a small commission. it is to send me for her twelve little bottles of "le baume de vie, compos`e par le sieur lievre, apoticaire distillateur du roi." if george selwyn or lord march are not set out, they would bring it with pleasure, especially as she lives at the duke of queensberry's. we have not a new book, play, intrigue, marriage, elopement, or quarrel; in short, we are very dull. for politics, unless the ministers wantonly thrust their hands into some fire, i think there will not even be a smoke. i am glad of it, for my heart is set on my journey to paris, and i hate every thing that stops me. lord byron's foolish trial is likely to protract the session a little; but unless there is any particular business, i shall not stay for a puppet-show. indeed, i can defend my staying here by nothing but my ties to your brother. my health, i am sure, would be better in another climate in winter. long days in the house kill me, and weary me into the bargain. the individuals of each party are alike indifferent to me; nor can i at this time of day grow to love men whom i have laughed at all my lifetime--no, i cannot alter;--charles yorke or charles townshend are alike to me, whether ministers or patriots. men do not change in my eyes, because they quit a black livery for a white one. when one has seen the whole scene shifted round and round so often, one only smiles, whoever is the present polonius or the grave digger, whether they jeer the prince, or flatter his frenzy. thursday night, th. the new assembly-room at almack's was opened the night before last, and they say is very magnificent, but it was empty; half the town is ill with colds, and many were afraid to go, as the house is scarcely built yet. almack advertised that it was built with hot brick and boiling water--think what a rage there must be for public places, if this notice, instead of terrifying, could draw any body thither. they tell me the ceilings were dropping with wet--but can you believe me, when i assure you the duke of cumberland was there?--nay, had had a levee in the morning, and went to the opera before the assembly! there is a vast flight of steps, and he was forced to rest two or three times. if he dies of it--and how should he not?--it will sound very silly when hercules or theseus ask him what he died of, to reply, "i caught my death on a damp staircase at a new club-room." williams, the reprinter of the north briton, stood in the pillory to-day in palace-yard. he went in a hackney-coach, the number of which was . the mob erected a gallows opposite to him, on which they hung a boot( ) with a bonnet of straw. then a collection was made for williams, which amounted to near pounds.( ) in short, every event informs the administration how thoroughly they are detested, and that they have not a friend whom they do not buy. who can wonder, when every man of virtue is proscribed, and they have neither parts nor characters to impose even upon the mob! think to what a government is sunk, when a secretary of state is called in parliament to his face "the most profligate sad dog in the kingdom,"( ) and not a man can open his lips in his defence. sure power must have some strange unknown charm, when it can compensate for such contempt! i see many who triumph in these bitter pills which the ministry are so often forced to swallow; i own i do not; it is more mortifying to me to reflect how great and respectable we were three years ago, than satisfactory to see those insulted who have brought such shame upon us. 'tis moor amends to national honour to know, that if a printer is set in the pillory, his country wishes it was my lord this, or mr. that. they will be gathered to the oxfords, and bolingbrokes, and ignominious( ) of former days; but the wound they have inflicted is perhaps indelible. that goes to my heart, who had felt all the roman pride of being one of the first nations upon earth!--good night!--i will go to bed, and dream of kings drawn in triumph; and then i will go to paris, and dream i am proconsul there; pray, take care not to let me be wakened with an account of an invasion having taken place from dunkirk!( ) yours ever, h. w. ( ) the resolutions which were the foundation of the famous stamp-act.-e. ( ) the substance of this petition, and the grave answer which the king was advised to give to such a ludicrous appeal, are preserved in the gentleman's magazine for , p. ; where also we learn that mr. walpole's idea of the carpenters' petition was put in practice, and his majesty was humbly entreated to wear a wooden leg himself, and to enjoin all his servants to do the same. it may, therefore, be presumed that this jeu d'esprit was from the pen of mr. walpole.-c. ( ) lady hirriot wentworth, sister of the last lord strafford, wife of henry vernon, esq., and mother of lady grosvenor, whose intrigue with the duke of cumberland made so much noise.-c. ( ) thomas villers, second son of lord jersey, first lord hyde of his family: his lady was charlotte, daughter of lady jane hyde, wife of william earl of essex, daughter of henry, second earl of clarendon, and sister of the duchess of queensberry.-c. ( ) george, fifteenth lord abergavenny; and his lady, henrieta pelham, sister of the first earl of chichester: she died in .-e. ( ) lady sophia keppel, daughter of the first earl of albemarle, and wife of colonel thomas.-e. ( ) a jack-boot, in allusion to the christian name and title of lord bute.-c. ( ) in a blue purse trimmed with orange, the colour of the revolution, in opposition to the stuart.-c. ( ) ant`e, p. , letter . ( ) we might be surprised at finding a person of mr. walpole's taste and judgment, describing harley and st. john as ignominious, if we did not recollect, that during their administration his father had been sent to the tower, and expelled the house of commons for alleged official corruptions. it were to be wished that mr. walpole's personal prejudices could always be traced to so amiable a source.-c. ( ) the demolition of dunkirk was one of the articles of the late treaty of peace, on which discussions were still depending.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) your health and spirits and youth delight me; yet i think you make but a bad use of them, when you destine them to a triste house in a country solitude. if you were condemned to retirement, it would be fortunate to have spirits to support it; but great vivacity is not a cause for making it one's option. why waste your sweetness on the desert air! at least, why bestow so little of your cheerfulness on your friends? i do not wish you to parade your rubicundity and gray hairs through the mobs and assemblies of london; i should think you bestowed them as ill as on greatworth; but you might find a few rational creatures here, who are heartily tired of what are called our pleasures, and who would be glad to have you in their chimney-corner. there you might have found me any time this fortnight; i have been dying of the worst and longest cold i ever had in my days, and have been blooded, and taken james's powder to no purpose. i look almost like the skeleton that frederick found in the oratory;( ) my only comfort was, that i should have owed my death to the long day in the house of commons, and have perished with our liberties; but i think i am getting the better of my martyrdom, and shall live to see you; nay, i shall not be gone to paris. as i design that journey for the term of my figuring in the world, i would fain wind up my politics too, and quit all public ties together. as i am not old yet, and have an excellent though delicate constitution, i may promise myself some agreeable years, if i could detach myself from all connexions, but with a very few persons that i value. oh, with what joy i could bid adieu to loving and hating; to crowds, public places, great dinners, visits; and above all, to the house of commons; but pray mind when i retire, it shall only be to london and strawberry hill--in london one can live as one will, and at strawberry i will live as i will. apropos, my good old tenant franklin is dead, and i am in possession of his cottage, which will be a delightfully additional plaything at strawberry. i shall be violently tempted to stick in a few cypresses and lilacs there before i go to paris. i don't know a jot of news: i have been a perfect hermit this fortnight, and buried in runic poetry and danish wars. in short, i have been deep in a late history of denmark, written by one mallet, a frenchman,( ) a sensible man, but i cannot say he has the art of making a very tiresome subject agreeable. there are six volumes, and i am stuck fast in the fourth. lord byron's trial i hear is to be in may. if you are curious about it, i can secure you a ticket for lord lincoln's gallery. the antiquarian society have got goody carlisle( ) for their president, and i suppose she will sit upon a saxon chalkstone till the return of king arthur. adieu! ( ) an allusion to the scene in the last chapter of his castle of otranto.- e. ( ) paul henry mallet was born at geneva in , and was for some time professor of history in his native city. he afterwards became professor royal of the belles lettres at copenhagen. the introduction to his history of denmark was afterwards translated by dr. percy, under the title of northern antiquities, including the edda.-e. ( ) dr. charles lyttelton, bishop of carlisle. see ant`e, p. , letter . on his death, in , he made a very valuable bequest of manuscripts and printed books to the society.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, as you do not deal with newspapers, nor trouble yourselves with occurrences of modern times, you may perhaps conclude from what i have told you, and from my silence, that i am in france. this will tell you that i am not; though i have been long thinking of it, and still intend it, though not exactly yet. my silence i must lay on this uncertainty, and from having been much out of order above a month with a very bad cold and cough, for which i am come hither to try change of air. your brother apthorpe, who was so good as to call upon me about a fortnight ago in town, found me too hoarse to speak to him. we both asked one another the same question--news of you? i have lately had an accession to my territory here, by the death of good old franklin, to whom i had given for his life the lease of the cottage and garden cross the road. besides a little pleasure in planting, and in crowding it with flowers, i intend to make, what i am sure you are antiquarian enough to approve, a bower, though your friends the abbots did not indulge in such retreats, at least not under that appellation: but though we love the same ages, you must excuse worldly me for preferring the romantic scenes of antiquity. if you will tell me how to send it, and are partial enough to me to read a profane work in the style of former centuries, i shall convey to you a little story-book, which i published some time ago, though not boldly with my own name: but it has succeeded so well, that i do not any longer entirely keep the secret. does the title, the castle of otranto( ) tempt you? i shall be glad to hear you are well and happy. ( ) in the first edition of this work, of which but very few copies were printed, the title ran thus:--"the castle of otranto, a story, translated by william marshal, gent., from the original italian of onuphrio muralto, canon of the church of st. nicholas at otranto. london: printed for thomas lownds, in fleet street, ."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, march , . (page ) dear sir, i had time to write but a short note with the castle of otranto, as your messenger called on me at four o'clock, as i was going to go abroad. your partiality to me and strawberry have, i hope, inclined you to excuse the wildness of the story. you will even have found some traits to put you in mind of this place.( )--when you read of the picture quitting its panel,( ) did not you recollect the portrait of lord falkland, all in white, in my gallery? shall i even confess to you, what was the origin of this romance! i waked one morning, in the beginning of last june, from a dream, of which, all i could recover was, that i had thought myself in an ancient castle, (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine with gothic story,) and that on the uppermost bannister of a great staircase i saw a gigantic hand in armour. in the evening i sat down, and began to write, without knowing in the least what i intended to say or relate. the work grew on my hands, and i grew fond of it--add, that. i was very glad to think of any thing, rather than politics. in short, i was so engrossed with my tale, which i completed in less than two months, that one evening, i wrote from the time i had drunk my tea, about six o'clock, till after one in the morning when my hand and fingers were so weary, that i- could not hold my pen to finish the sentence, but left matilda and isabella talking, in the middle of a paragraph. you will laugh at my earnestness; but if i have amused you by retracing with any fidelity the manners of ancient days, i am content, and give you leave to think me as idle as you please. you are, as you have long been to me, exceedingly kind, and i should, with great satisfaction, embrace your offer of visiting the solitude of bleckely, though my cold is in a manner gone, and my cough quite, if i was at liberty: but as i am preparing for my french journey, and have forty businesses upon my hands, and can only now and then purloin a day, or half a day, to come hither. you know i am not cordially disposed to your french journey, which is much more serious, as it is to be much more lasting. however, though i may suffer by your absence, i would not dissuade what may suit your inclination and circumstances. one thing, however, has struck me, which i must mention, though it would depend on a circumstance, that would give me the most real concern. it was suggested to me by that real fondness i have for your mss. for your kindness about which i feel the utmost gratitude. you would not, i think, leave them behind you: and are you aware of the danger you would run, if, you settled entirely in france? do you know that the king of france is heir to all strangers who die in his dominions, by what they call the droit d'aubaine. sometimes by great interest and favour, persons have obtained a remission of this right in their lifetime: and yet that, even that, has not secured their effects from being embezzled. old lady sandwich( ) had obtained this remission, and yet, though she left every thing to the present lord, her grandson, a man for whose rank one should have thought they would have had regard, the king's officers forced themselves into her house, after her death, and plundered. you see, if you go, i shall expect to have your mss. deposited with me. seriously, you must leave them in safe custody behind you. lord essex's trial is printed with the state trials. in return for your obliging offer, i can acquaint you with a delightful publication of this winter, a collection of old ballads and poetry, in three volumes, many from pepys's collection at cambridge.( ) there were three such published between thirty and forty years ago, but very carelessly, and wanting many in this set: indeed, there were others, a looser sort,( ) which the present editor, who is a clergyman, thought it decent to omit. when you go into cheshire, and upon your ramble, may i trouble you with a commission? but about which you must promise me not to go a step out of your way. mr. bateman has got a cloister at old windsor, furnished with ancient wooden chairs, most of them triangular, but all of various patterns, and carved and turned in the most uncouth and whimsical forms. he picked them up one by one, for two, three, five, or six shillings apiece from different farmhouses in herefordshire. i have long envied and coveted them. there may be such in poor cottages, in so neighbouring a county as cheshire. i should not grudge any expense for purchase or carriage; and should be glad even of a couple such for my cloister here. when you are copying inscriptions in a churchyard in any village, think of me, and step into the first cottage you see--but don't take further trouble than that. i long to know what your bundle of manuscripts from cheshire contains. my bower is determined, but not at all what it is to be. though i write romances, i cannot tell how to build all that belongs to them. madame danois, in the fairy tales, used to tapestry them with jonquils; but as that furniture will not last above a fortnight in the year, i shall prefer something more huckaback. i have decided that the outside shall be of treillage, which, however, i shall not commence, till i have again seen some of old louis's old-fashioned galanteries at versailles. rosamond's bower, you, and i, and tom hearne know, was a labyrinth:( ) but as my territory will admit of a very short clew, i lay aside all thoughts of a mazy habitation: though a bower is very different from an arbour, and must have more chambers than one. in short, i both know, and don't know, what it should be. i am almost afraid i must go and read spenser, and wade through his allegories, and drawling stanzas, to get at a picture. but, good night! you see how one gossips, when one is alone, and at quiet on one's own dunghill!--well! it may be trifling; yet it is such trifling as ambition never is happy enough to know! ambition orders palaces, but it is content that chats for a page or two over a bower. yours ever. ( ) "as, in his model of a gothic modern mansion, mr. walpole had studiously endeavoured to fit to the purpose of modern convenience or luxury the rich, varied, and complicated tracery and carving of the ancient cathedral, so, in the castle of otranto, it was his object to unite the marvellous turn of incident and imposing tone of chivalry exhibited in the ancient romance, with that accurate display of human character and contrast of feelings and passions, which is, or ought to be, delineated in the modern novel." sir walter scott; prose works, vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) the forms of the grim knight and pictured saint look living in the moon; and as you turn backward and forward, to the echoes faint of your own footsteps--voices from the urn appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, as if to ask how you can dare to keep a vigil there, where all but death should sleep." don juan, c. xvi. st. .-e. ( ) elizabeth, second daughter of john wilmot earl of rochester, and sister and co-heiress of charles third earl, and widow of edward montagu third earl of sandwich, who died th of october, .-e. ( ) edited by the rev. thomas percy, fellow of st. john's college, oxford, and afterwards bishop of dromore. "the reviver of minstrel poetry in scotland was the venerable bishop of dromore, who, in , published his elegant collection of heroic ballads, songs, and pieces of early poetry under the title of 'reliques of ancient english poetry.' the plan of the work was adjusted in concert with mr. shenstone, but we own we cannot regret that the execution of it devolved upon dr. percy alone; of whose labours, as an editor, it might be said, 'nihil quod tetigit non ornavit.'" sir w. scott. prose works, vol. xvii. p. .-e. ( ) the work was entitled "a collection of old ballads, corrected from the best and most ancient copies extant, with introductions, historical, critical, or humorous." sir walter scott observes, that the editor was an enthusiast in the cause of old poetry, and selected his matter without much regard to decency, as will appear from the following singular preface to one or two indelicate pieces of humour:--"one of the greatest complaints made by the ladies against the first volume of our collection, and, indeed, the only one which has reached my ears, is the want of merry songs. i believe i may give a pretty good guess at what they call mirth in such pieces as these, and shall endeavour to satisfy them." prose works, vol. xvii. p. .-e. ( ) the bower of rosamond is said, or rather fabled, to have been a retreat built at woodstock by henry ii. for the safe residence of his mistress, rosamond clifford; the approaches of which were so intricate, that it could not be entered without the guidance of a thread, which the king always kept in his own possession. his queen, eleanor, having, however, gained possession of the thread, obtained access to, and speedily destroyed her fair rival.-e. letter to monsieur elie de beaumont.( ) strawberry hill, march , . (page ) sir, when i had the honour of seeing you here, i believe i told you that i had written a novel, in which i was flattered to find that i had touched an effusion of the heart in a manner similar to a passage in the charming letters of the marquis de roselle.( ) i have since that time published my little story, but was so diffident of its merit, that i gave it as a translation from the italian. still i should not have ventured to offer it to so great a mistress of the passions as madame de beaumont, if the approbation of london, that is, of a country to which she and you, sir, are so good as to be partial, had not encouraged me to send it to you. after i have talked of the passions, and the natural effusion-, of the heart, how will you be surprised to find a narrative of the most improbable and absurd adventures! how will you be amazed to hear that a country of whose good sense you have an opinion should have applauded so wild a tale! but you must remember, sir, that whatever good sense we have, we are not yet in any light chained down to precepts and inviolable laws. all that aristotle or his superior commentators, your authors, have taught us, has not yet subdued us to regularity: we still prefer the extravagant beauties of shakspeare and milton to the cold and well-disciplined merit of addison, and even to the sober and correct march of pope. nay, it was but t'other day that we were transported to hear churchill rave in numbers less chastised than dryden's, but still in numbers like dryden's.( ) you will not, i hope, think i apply these mighty names to my own case with any vanity, when it is only their enormities that i quote, and that in defence, not of myself' but of my countrymen, who have good-humour enough to approve the visionary scenes and actors in the castle of otranto. to tell you the truth, it was not so much my intention to recall the exploded marvels of ancient romance, as to blend the wonderful of old stories with the natural of modern novels. the world is apt to wear out any plan whatever; and if the marquis de roselle had not appeared, i should have been inclined to say, that that species had been exhausted. madame de beaumont must forgive me if i add, that richardson had, to me at least, made that kind of writing insupportable. i thought the nodus was become dignus vindice, and that a god, at least a ghost, was absolutely necessary to frighten us out of too much senses. when i had so wicked a design, no wonder if the execution was answerable. if i make you laugh, for i cannot flatter myself that i shall make you cry, i shall be content; at least i shall be satisfied, till i have the pleasure of seeing you, with putting you in mind of, sir, your, etc. p. s. the passage i alluded to in the beginning of my letter is where matilda owns her passion to hippolita. i mention it, as i fear so unequal a similitude would not strike madame de beaumont. ( ) m. elie de beaumont was admitted an advocate at the french bar in . the weakness of his voice militated against his success as a pleader, but the beauty and eloquence with which he drew up his m`emoires, and especially the one in favour of the unfortunate calas family, gained him great reputation. he was born in , and died in .-e. ( ) a french epistolary novel written by madame elie de beaumont. she also wrote the third part of "anecdotes de la cour et du r`egne de edouard ii." she was born at caen in , and died in .-e. ( ) "churchill," observes mr. campbell, in his specimens of the british poets, " may be ranked as a satirist immediately after pope and dryden, with perhaps a greater share of humour than either. he has the bitterness of pope, with less wit to atone for it; but no mean share of the free manner and energetic plainness of dryden," vol. vi. p. .-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, march , . (page ) three weeks are a great while, my dear lord, for me to have been without writing to you; but besides that i have passed many days at strawberry, to cure my cold (which it has done), there has nothing happened worth sending across the sea. politics have dozed, and common events been fast asleep. of guerchy's affair,( ) you probably know more than i do; it is now forgotten. i told him i had absolute proof of his innocence, for i was sure, that if he had offered money for assassination, the men who swear against him would have taken it. the king has been very seriously ill,; and in great danger. i would not alarm you, as there were hopes when he was at the worst. i doubt he is not free yet from his complaint, as the humour fallen on his breast still oppresses him. they talk of his having a levee next week, but he has not appeared in public, and the bills are passed by commission; but he rides out. the royal family have suffered like us mortals; the duke of gloucester has had a fever, but i believe his chief complaint is of a youthful kind. prince frederick is thought to be in a deep consumption; and for the duke of cumberland, next post will probably certify you of his death, as he is relapsed, and there are no hopes of him. he fell into his lethargy again, and when they waked him, he said he did not know whether he could call himself obliged to them. i dined two days ago at monsieur de guerchy's, with the comte de caraman,( ) who brought me your letter. he seems a very agreeable man, and you may be sure, for your sake, and madame de mirepoix's, no civilities in my power shall be wanting. i have not yet seen schouvaloff,( ) about whom one has more curiosity--it is an opportunity of gratifying that passion which one can so seldom do in personages of his historic nature, especially remote foreigners. i wish m. de caraman had brought the "siege of calais,"( ) which he tells me is printed, though your account has a little abated my impatience. they tell us the french comedians are to act at calais this summer--is it possible they can be so absurd, or think us so absurd as to go thither, if we would not go further? i remember, at rheims, they believed that english ladies went to calais to drink champagne!--is this the suite of that belief? i was mightily pleased with the duc de choiseul's answer to the clairon;( ) but when i hear of the french admiration of garrick, it takes off something of my wonder at the prodigious admiration of him at home. i never could conceive the marvellous merit of repeating the words of other's in one's own language with propriety, however well delivered. shakspeare is not more admired for writing his plays, than garrick for acting them. i think him a very good and very various player--but several have pleased me more, though i allow not in so many parts. quin in falstaff, was as excellent as garrick in lear. old johnson far more natural in every thing he attempted. mrs. porter and your dumesnil surpassed him in passionate tragedy; cibber and o'brien were what garrick could never reach, coxcombs, and men of fashion.( ) mrs. clive is at least as perfect in low comedy--and yet to me, ranger was the part that suited garrick the best of all he ever performed. he was a poor lothario, a ridiculous othello, inferior to quin( ) in sir john brute and macbeth, and to cibber in bayes, and a woful lord hastings and lord townley. indeed, his bayes was original, but not the true part: cibber was the burlesque of a great poet, as the part was designed, but garrick made it a garretteer. the town did not like him in hotspur, and yet i don't know whether he did not succeed in it beyond all the rest. sir charles williams and lord holland thought so too, and they were no bad judges. i am impatient to see the clairon, and certainly will, as i have promised, though i have not fixed my day. but do you know you alarm me! there was a time when i was a match for madame de mirepoix at pharaoh, to any hour of the night, and believe did play, with her five nights in a week till three and four in the morning--but till eleven o'clock to-morrow morning- -oh! that is a little too much even at loo. besides, i shall not go to paris for pharaoh--if i play all night, how shall i see every thing all day? lady sophia thomas has received the baume de vie, for she gives you a thousand thanks, and i ten thousand. we are extremely amused with the wonderful histories of your hyena( ) in the gevaudan: but our fox-hunters despise you: it is exactly the enchanted monster of old romances. if i had known its history a few months ago, i believe it would have appeared in the castle of otranto,--the success of which has, at last, brought me to own it, though the wildness of it made me terribly afraid: but it was comfortable to have it please so much, before any mortal suspected the author: indeed, it met with too much honour far, for at first it was universally believed to be mr. gray's. as all the first impression is sold, i am hurrying out another, with a new preface, which i will send you. there is not so much delicacy of wit as in m. de choiseul's speech to the clairon, but i think the story i am going to tell you in return, will divert you as much: there was a vast assembly at marlborough-house, and a throng in the doorway. my lady talbot said, "bless me! i think this is like the straits of thermopylae!" my lady northumberland replied, "i don't know what street that is, but i wish i could get my - through." i hope you admire the contrast. adieu! my dear lord! yours ever. ( ) this alludes, it is presumed, to a bill of indictment which was found in the beginning of march, at the sessions at hick's hall, against the count de guerchy, for the absurd charge of a conspiracy to murder d'eon.-c. ( ) probably fran`cois joseph, count de caraman, who married a princess de chimay, heiress of the house of benin, niece of madame de mirepoix.-c. ( ) he had been favourite to the empress catherine; and, as mr. walpole elsewhere says, "a favourite without an enemy."-c. ( ) a tragedy by m. du belloy, which, with little other merit than its anti-anglicism, (which, in all times, has passed in france for patriotism,) "faisait fureur" at this time.-c. ( ) mademoiselle clairon was at this moment in such vogue on the french stage, that her admirers struck a medal in honour of her, and wore it as a kind of order. a critic of the name of fr`eron, however, did not partake these sentiments, and drew, in his journal, an injurious character of mademoiselle clairon. this insult so outraged the tragedy queen, that she and her admirers moved heaven and earth to have fr`ron sent to the bastile, and, failing in her solicitation to the inferior departments, she at last had recourse to the prime-minister, the duke of choiseul, himself. his answer, which lord hertford, no doubt, had communicated to mr. walpole, was admired for its polite persiflage of her theatric majesty. "i am," said the duke, "like yourself, a public performer, with this difference in your favour, that you choose the parts you please, and are sure to be crowned with the applause of the public (for i reckon as nothing the bad taste of one or two wretched individuals who have the misfortune of not admiring you). i, on the other hand, am obliged to act the parts imposed on me by necessity. i am sure to please nobody; i am satirized, criticised, libelled, hissed,--yet i continue to do my best. let us both, then, sacrifice our little resentments and enmities to the public service, and serve our country each in our own station. besides," he added, "the queen has condescended to forgive fr`eron, and you may, therefore, without compromising your dignity, imitate her majesty's clemency." m`emoires de bachaumont, t. i. p. . such were the miserable intrigues and squabbles, and such the examples of ministerial pleasantry and prudence which occupied and amused the parisian public!--this; is but a straw to show which way the wind blew; but such instances moderate our surprise and our sorrow at the storm which followed.-c. ( ) there was some little personal pique in mr. walpole's opinion of garrick; yet it would be difficult to imagine a more forcible eulogium on that great actor than is here inadvertently pronounced, when, in order to find an equivalent for him, mr. walpole is obliged to bring together old johnson and colley cibber, quin and clive, porter and dumesnil--two nations, two generations, and both sexes.-c. ( ) "in brute he shone unequalled; all agree garrick's not half so great a brute as he." rosciad.-e. ( ) a wolf of enormous size, and, in some respects, irregular conformation, which for a long time ravaged the gevaudan; it was, soon after the date of this letter, killed, and mr. walpole saw it in paris.-c. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) i sent you two letters t'other day from your kin, and might as well have written then as now, for i have nothing to tell you. mr. chute has quitted his bed to-day the first time for above five weeks, but is still swathed like a mummy. he was near relapsing; for old mildmay, whose lungs, and memory, and tongue, will never wear out, talked to him t'other night from eight till half an hour after ten, on the poor-bill; but he has been more comfortable with lord dacre and me this evening. i have read the siege of calais, and dislike it extremely, though there are fine lines, but the conduct is woful. the outrageous applause it has received ,it paris was certainly political, and intended to stir up their spirit and animosity against us, their good, merciful, and forgiving allies. they will have no occasion for this ardour; they may smite one cheek, and we shall turn t'other. though i have little to say, it is worth while to write, only to tell you two bon-mots of quin, to that turncoat hypocrite infidel, bishop warburton. that saucy priest was haranguing at bath in behalf of prerogative: quin said, "pray, my lord, spare me, you are not acquainted with my principles, i am a republican; and perhaps i even think that the execution of charles the first might be justified." "ay!" said warburton, "by what law?" quin replied, "by all the laws he had left them." the bishop( ) would have got off upon judgments, and bade the player remember, that all the regicides came to violent ends; a lie, but no matter. "i would not advise your lordship," said quin, "to make use of that inference; for, if i am not mistaken, that was the case of the twelve apostles." there was great wit ad hominem in the latter reply, but i think the former equal to any thing i ever heard. it is the sum of the whole controversy couched in eight monosyllables, and comprehends at once the king's guilt and the justice of punishing it. the more one examines it, the finer it proves. one can say nothing after it: so good night! yours ever. ( ) gray, in a letter of the th, relates the following anecdote:--"now i am talking of bishops, i must tell you that, not long ago, bishop warburton, in a sermon at court, asserted that all preferments were bestowed on the most illiterate and worthless objects; and, in speaking, turned himself about and stared at the bishop of london: he added, that if any one arose distinguished for merit and learning, there was a combination of dunces to keep him down. i need not tell you that he expected the bishopric of london when terrick got it: so ends my ecclesiastical history." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, easter sunday, april , . (page ) your first wish -will be to know how the king does: he came to richmond last monday for a week; but appeared suddenly and unexpected at his lev`ee at st. james's last wednesday; this was managed to prevent a crowd. next day he was at the drawing-room, and at chapel on good friday. they say, he looks pale; but it is the fashion to call him very well:--i wish it may be true.( ) the duke of cumberland is actually set out for newmarket to-day: he too is called much better; but it is often as true of the health of princes as of their prisons, that there is little distance between each and their graves.( ) there has been a fire at gunnersbury, which burned four rooms: her servants announced it to princess amalie with that wise precaution of " madam, don't be frightened!"--accordingly, she was terrified. when they told her the truth, she said, "i am very glad; i had concluded my brother was dead."--so much for royalties! lord march and george selwyn are arrived, after being wind-bound for nine days, at calais. george is so charmed with my lady hertford, that i believe it was she detained him at paris, not lord march. i am full as much transported with schouvaloff--i never saw so amiable a man! so much good breeding, humility, and modesty, with sense and dignity! an air of melancholy, without any thing abject. monsieur de caraman is agreeable too, informed and intelligent; he supped at your brother's t'other night, after being at mrs. anne pitt's. as the first curiosity of foreigners is to see mr. pitt, and as that curiosity is one of the most difficult points in the world to satisfy, he asked me if mr. pitt was like his sister? i told him, "qu'ils se ressembloient comme deux gouttes de feu." the parliament is adjourned till after the holidays, and the trial.( ) there have been two very long days in our own house, on a complaint from newfoundland merchants on french encroachments. the ministry made a woful piece of work of it the first day, and we the second. your brother, sir george savile, and barr`e shone; but on the second night, they popped a sudden division upon us about nothing; some went out, and some stayed in; they were , we but , and then they flung pillows upon the question, and stifled it,--and so the french have not encroached. there has been more serious work in the lords, upon much less important matter; a bill for regulating the poor,--(don't ask me how, for you know i am a perfect goose about details of business,) formed by one gilbert,( ) a member, and steward to the duke of bridgewater, or lord gower, or both,--had passed pacifically through the commons, but lord egmont set fire to it in the lords. on the second reading, he opposed it again, and made a most admired speech; however it passed on. but again, last tuesday, when it was to be in the committee, such forces were mustered against the bill, that behold all the world regarded it as a pitched battle between lord bute and lord holland on one side, and the bedfords and grenville on the other. you may guess if it grew a day of expectation. when it arrived, lord bute was not present, lord northumberland voted for the bill, and lord holland went away. still politicians do not give up the mystery. lord denbigh and lord pomfret, especially the latter, were the most personal against his grace of bedford. he and his friends, they say, (for i was not there, as you will find presently,) kept their temper well. at ten at night the house divided, and, to be sure, the minority was dignified; it consisted of the dukes of york and gloucester, the chancellor, chief justice, lord president, privy seal, lord chamberlain, chamberlain to the queen, lord lieutenant of ireland, and a secretary of state. lord halifax, the other secretary, was ill. the numbers were to . lord pomfret then moved to put off the bill for four months; but the cabinet rallied, and rejected the motion by a majority of one. so it is to come on again after the holidays. the duke of newcastle, lord temple, and the opposition, had once more the pleasure, which, i believe, they don't dislike, of being in a majority. now, for my disaster; you will laugh at it, though it was woful to me. i was to dine at northumberland-house, and went a little after four: there i found the countess, lady betty mekinsy, lady strafford; my lady finlater,( ) who was never out of scotland before; a tall lad of fifteen, her son; lord drogheda, and mr. worseley.( ) at five,( ) arrived mr. mitchell,( ) who said the lords had begun to read the poor-bill, which would take at least two hours, and perhaps would debate it afterwards. we concluded dinner would be called for, it not being very precedented for ladies to wait for gentlemen:--no such thing. six o'clock came,--seven o'clock came,--our coaches came,--well! we sent them away, and excuses were we were engaged. still the countess's heart did not relent, nor uttered a syllable of apology. we wore out the wind and the weather, the opera and the play, mrs. cornelys's and almack's, and every topic that would do in a formal circle. we hinted, represented--in vain. the clock struck eight: my lady, at last, said, she would go and order dinner; but it was a good half hour before it appeared. we then sat down to a table for fourteen covers; but instead of substantials, there was nothing but a profusion of plates striped red, green, and yellow, gilt plate, blacks and uniforms! my lady finlater, who had never seen these embroidered dinners, nor dined after three, was famished. the first course stayed as long as possible, in hopes of the lords: so did the second. the dessert at last arrived, and the middle dish was actually set on when lord finlater and mr. mackay( ) arrived!--would you believe it?--the dessert was remanded, and the whole first course brought back again!--stay, i have not done:--just as this second first course had done its duty, lord northumberland, lord strafford, and mekinsy came in, and the whole began a third time! then the second course, and the dessert! i thought we should have dropped from our chairs with fatigue and fumes! when the clock struck eleven, we were asked to return to the drawing-room, and drink tea and coffee, but i said i was engaged to supper, and came home to bed. my dear lord, think of four hours and a half in a circle of mixed company, and three great dinners, one after another, without interruption;--no, it exceeded our day at lord archer's! mrs. armiger,( ) and mrs. southwell,( ) lady gower's( ) niece, are dead, and old dr. young, the poet.( ) good night! ( ) "in april ," says the quarterly review for june , "his majesty had a serious illness: its particular character was then unknown, but we have the best authority for believing that it was of the nature of those which thrice after afflicted his majesty, and finally incapacitated him for the duties of government."-e. ( ) the french express this thought very dramatically; "monseigneur est malade--monscigneur est mieux--monseigneur est mort!"-c. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) of lord byron. ( ) thomas gilbert, esq. at this time member for newcastle-under-line, and comptroller of the king's wardrobe.-e. ( ) lady mary murray, daughter of john first duke of athol, and wife of james sixth earl of finlater: her son, afterwards seventh earl, was born in .-e. ( ) probably thomas worseley, esq. member for oxford, and surveyor-general of the board of works.-c. ( ) this was probably the hour of extreme fashion at this time.-c. ( ) afterwards sir andrew mitchell, k. b. he was at this time our minister at berlin, and also member for the burghs of elgin, etc.-e. ( ) probably j. ross mackie, member for kirkcudbright, treasurer of the ordnance.-c. ( ) the lady of major-general robert armiger, who had been aide-de-camp to george ii.-e. ( ) catherine, heiress of edward watson, viscount sondes, by lady catherine tufton, coheiress of the sixth earl of thanet, the son of lady margaret sackville, the heiress of the de cliffords: she was the mother of edward southwell, esq., member for gloucestershire, who, on the death of the great-aunt, margaret tufton, baroness de clifford, was confirmed in that barony.-c. ( ) mary, another daughter and coheiress of the sixth earl thanet, widow of anthony grey, earl of harold, and third wife of john first earl gower.-c. ( ) dr. young died on the th of april, in his eighty-fourth year.-e. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, april , . (page ) lady holland carries this, which enables me to write a little more explicitly than i have been able to do lately. the king has been in the utmost danger; the humour in his face having fallen upon his breast. he now appears constantly; yet, i fear, his life is very precarious, and that there is even apprehension of a consumption. after many difficulties from different quarters, a regency-bill is determined; the king named it first to the ministers, who said, they intended to mention it to him as soon as he was well; yet they are not thought to be fond of it. the king is to come to the house on tuesday, and recommend the provision to the parliament.( ) yet, if what is whispered proves true, that the nomination of the regent is to be reserved to the king's will, it is likely to cause great uneasiness. if the ministers propose such a clause, it is strong evidence of their own instability, and, i should think, would not save them, at least, some of them. the world expects changes soon, though not a thorough alteration; yet, if any takes place shortly, i should think it would be a material one than not. the enmity between lord bute and mr. grenville is not denied on either side. there is a notion, and i am inclined to think not ill founded, that the former and mr. pitt are treating. it is certain that the last has expressed wishes that the opposition may lie still for the remainder of the session. this, at least, puts an end to the question on your brother,( ) of which i am glad for the present. the common town-talk is, that lord northumberland does not care to return to ireland,--that you are to succeed him there, lord rochford you, and that sandwich is to go to spain. my belief is, that there will be no change, except, perhaps, a single one for lord northumberland, unless there are capital removals indeed. the chancellor, grenville, the bedfords, and the two secretaries are one body; at least, they pass for such: yet it is very lately, if one of them has dropped his prudent management with lord bute. there seems an unwillingness to discard the bedfords, though their graces themselves keep little terms of civility to lord bute, none to the princess (dowager). lord gower is a better courtier, and rigby would do any thing to save his place. this is the present state, which every day may alter: even to-morrow is a day of expectation, as the last struggle of the poor-bill. if the bedfords carry it, either by force or sufferance, (though lord bute has constantly denied being the author of the opposition to it,) i shall less expect any great change soon. in those less important, i shall not wonder to find the duke of richmond come upon the scene, perhaps for ireland, though he is not talked of. your brother is out of town, not troubling himself, though the time seems so critical. i am not so philosophic; as i almost wish for any thing that may put an end to my being concerned in the m`el`ee--for any end to a most gloomy prospect for the country: alas! i see it not. lord byron's trial lasted two days, and he was acquitted totally by four lords, beaulieu, falmouth, despenser,( ) and orford,( ) and found guilty of manslaughter by one hundred and twenty. the dukes of york and gloucester were present in their places. the prisoner behaved with great decorum, and seemed thoroughly shocked and mortified. indeed, the bitterness of the world against him has been great, and the stories they have revived or invented to load him, very grievous. the chancellor has behaved with his usual, or, rather greater vulgarness and blunders. lord pomfret( ) kept away decently, from the similitude of his own story. i have been to wait on messrs. choiseul( ) and de lauragais,( ) as you desired, but have not seen then yet. the former is lodged with my lord pembroke, and the guerchys are in terrible apprehensions of his exhibiting some scene. the duke of cumberland bore the journey to newmarket extremely well, but has been lethargic since,; yet they have found out that daffy's elixir agrees with, and does him good. prince frederick is very bad. there is no private news at all. as i shall not deliver this till the day after to-morrow, i shall be able to give you an account of the fate of the poor-bill. the medals that came for me from geneva, i forgot to mention to you, and to beg you to be troubled with them till i see you. i had desired lord stanhope( ) to send them; and will beg you too, if any bill is sent, to pay it for me, and i will repay it. you. i say nothing of my journey, which the unsettled state of my affairs makes it impossible for me to fix. i long for every reason upon earth to be with you. april th, saturday. the poor-bill is put off till monday; is then to be amended, and then dropped: a confession of weakness, in a set of people not famous for being moderate! i was assured, last night, that ireland had been twice offered to you, and that it hung on their insisting upon giving you a secretary, either wood or bunbury. i replied very truly that i knew nothing of it, that you had never mentioned it to me and i believed not even to your brother. the answer was, oh! his particular friends are always the last that know any thing about him. princess amalie loves this topic, and is for ever teasing us about your mystery. i defend myself by pleading that i have desired you never to tell me any thing till it was in the gazette. they say there is to be a new alliance in the house of montagu: that lord hinchinbrook( ) is to marry the sole remaining daughter of lord halifax; that her fortune is to be divided into three shares, of which each father is to take one, and the third is to be the provision for the victims. i don't think this the most unlikely part of the story. adieu! my dear lord. ( ) in a letter to his son, of the d of april, chesterfield says:--"apropos of a minority: the king is to come to the house tomorrow, to recommend a bill to settle a regency, in case of his demise while his successor is a minor. upon his late illness, which was no trifling one, the whole nation cried out aloud for such a bill, for reasons which will readily occur to you, who know situations, persons, and characters here. i do not know the provisions of this intended bill; but i wish it may b(@ copied exactly from that which was passed in the late king's reign, when the present king was a minor. i am sure there cannot be a better."-e. ( ) as to his dismissal.-c. ( ) sir francis dashwood, lately confirmed in this barony, as the heir of the fanes by his mother. he had been chancellor of the exchequer in lord bute's administration.-e. ( ) george, third earl of orford, mr. walpole's nephew; on whose death, in , he succeeded to the title.-e. ( ) george, second earl of pomfret, while lord lempster, had the misfortune to kill captain grey, of the guards, in a duel: he was tried at the old bailey in april , and found guilty of manslaughter only. see vol. ii. p. , letter .-e. ( ) the son, it is supposed, of the duc de praslin.-c. ( ) louis l`eon de brancas, the eldest son of the duc de villars brancas: he was, during his father's life, known as the comte, and afterwards duc, de lauragais, and was a very singular and eccentric person. he was a great anglomane, and was the first introducer into france of horseraces `a l'anglaise; it was to him that louis xv.--not pleased at his insolent anglomanie-- made so excellent a retort. the king had asked him after one of his journeys, what he had learned in england? lauragais answered, with a kind of republican dignity, "a panser" (penser).--"les chavaux?" inquired the king. on the other hand, he was one of the first promoters of the practice of inoculation. stories about him, both in england and france, are endless: "he was," says m. de segur, who knew him well, "one of the most singular men of the long period in which he lived; he united in his person a combination of great qualities and great faults, the smallest portion of which would have marked any other man with a striking originality." he died in , at the age of ninety-one--his youthful name and follies forgotten in the respectable old age of the duc de brancas.-c. ( ) philip, second earl stanhope; for a character of whom, by his great-grandson, lord mahon, see vol. i. p. , letter , note .-e. ( ) afterwards fifth earl of sandwich. the match with lady eliza savile took place on the st of march .-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, april , . (page ) sir, except the mass of conway papers, on which i have not yet had time to enter seriously, i am sorry i have nothing at present that would answer your purpose. lately, indeed, i have had little leisure, to attend to literary pursuits. i have been much out of order with a violent cold and cough for great part of the winter; and the distractions of this country, which reach even those who mean the least to profit by their country, have not left even me, who hate politics, without some share in them. yet as what one does not love, cannot engross one entirely, i have amused myself a little with writing. our friend lord finlater will perhaps show you the fruit of that trifling, though i had not the confidence to trouble you with such a strange thing as a miraculous story, of which i fear the greatest merit is the novelty. i have lately perused with much pleasure a collection of old ballads, to which i see, sir, you have contributed with your usual benevolence. continue this kindness to the public, and smile as i do, when the pains you take for them are misunderstood or perverted. authors must content themselves with hoping that two or three intelligent persons in an age will understand the merit of their writings, and those authors are bound in good breeding to suppose that the public in general is enlightened. they who arc in the secret know how few of that public they have any reason to wish should read their works. i beg pardon of my masters the public, and am confident, sir, you will not betray me; but let me beg you not to defraud the few that deserve your information, in compliment to those who are not capable of receiving it. do as i do about my small house here. every body that comes to see it or me, are so good as to wonder that i don't make this or that alteration. i never haggle with them; but always say i intend it. they are satisfied with the attention and themselves, and i remain with the enjoyment of my house as i like it. adieu! dear sir. ( ) now first collected. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, may , . (page ) the plot thickens; at least, it does not clear up. i don't know how to tell you in the compass of a letter, what is matter for a history, and it is the more difficult, as we are but just in the middle. during the recess, the king acquainted the ministry that he would have a bill of regency, and told them the particulars of his intention. the town gives lord holland the honour of the measure;( ) certain it is, the ministry, who are not the court, did not taste some of the items: such as the regent to be in petto, the princes( ) to be omitted, and four secret nominations to which the princes might be applied. however, thinking it was better to lose their share of future power than their present places, the ministers gave a gulp and swallowed the whole potion; still it lay so heavy at their stomachs, that they brought up part of it again, and obtained the queen's name to be placed, as one that might be regent. mankind laughed, and proclaimed their wisdoms bit. upon this, their wisdoms beat up for opponents, and set fire to the old stubble( ) of the princess and lord bute. every body took the alarm; and such uneasiness was raised, that after the king had notified the bill to both houses, a new message was sent, and instead of four secret nominations, the five princes were named, with power to the crown of supplying their places if they died off. last tuesday the bill was read a second time in the lords. lord lyttelton opposed an unknown regent, lord temple the whole bill, seconded by lord shelburne. the first division came on the commitment of the whole bill. the duke of newcastle and almost all the opposition were with the majority, for his grace could not decently oppose so great a likeness of his own child, the former bill, and so they were one hundred and twenty. lord temple, lord shelburne, the duke of grafton, and six more, composed the minority; the slenderness of which so enraged lord temple, though he had declared himself of no party, and connected with no party, that he and the duke of bolton came no more to the house. next day lord lyttelton moved an address to the king, to name the person he would recommend for regent. in the midst of this debate, the duke of richmond started two questions; whether the queen was naturalized, and if not, whether capable of being regent: and he added a third much more puzzling; who are the royal family? lord denbigh answered flippantly, all who are prayed for: the duke of bedford, more significantly, those, only who are in the order of succession--a direct exclusion of the princess; for the queen is named in the bill. the duke of richmond moved to consult the judges; lord mansfield fought this off, declared he had his opinion, but would not tell it--and stayed away next day! they then proceeded on lord lyttelton's motion, which was rejected by eighty-nine to thirty-one; after which, the duke of newcastle came no more; and grafton, rockingham, and many others, went to newmarket: for that rage is so strong, that i cease to wonder at the gentleman who was going out to hunt as the battle of edgehill began. the third day was a scene of folly and confusion, for when lord mansfield is absent, "lost is the nation's sense, nor can be found." the duke of richmond moved an amendment, that the persons capable of the regency should be the queen, the princess dowager, and all the descendants of the late king usually resident in england. lord halifax endeavoured to jockey this, by a previous amendment of now for usually. the duke persisted with great firmness and cleverness; lord halifax, with as much peevishness and absurdity; in truth, he made a woful figure. the duke of bedford supported t'other duke against the secretary, but would not yield to name the princess, though the chancellor declared her of the royal family.( ) this droll personage is exactly what woodward would be, if there was such a farce as trappolin chancellor. you will want a key to all this, but who has a key to chaos? after puzzling on for two hours how to adjust these motions, while the spectators stood laughing around, lord folkestone rose, and said, why not say now and usually? they adopted this amendment at once, and then rejected the duke of richmond's motion, but ordered the judges to attend next day on the questions of naturalization. now comes the marvellous transaction, and i defy mr. hume, an historian as he is, to parallel it. the judges had decided for the queen's capability, when lord halifax rose, by the king's permission, desired to have the bill recommitted, and then moved the duke of richmond's own words, with the single omission of the princess dowager's name, and thus she alone is rendered incapable of the regency--and stigmatized by act of parliament! the astonishment of the world is not to be described. lord bute's friends are thunderstruck. the duke of bedford almost danced about the house for joy. comments there are, various; and some palliate it, by saying it was done at the princess's desire; but the most inquisitive say, the king was taken by surprise, that lord halifax proposed the amendment to him, and hurried with it to the house of lords, before it could be recalled; and they even surmise that he did not observe to the king the omission of his mother's name. be that as it may, open war seems to be declared between the court and the administration, and men are gazing to see which side will be victorious. to-morrow the bill comes to us, and mr. pitt, too, violent against the whole bill, unless this wonderful event has altered his tone.- for my part i shall not be surprised, if he affects to be in astonishment at missing "a great and most respectable man!"( ) this is the sum total--but what a sum total! it is the worst of north britons published by act of parliament! i took the liberty, in my last, of telling you what i heard about your going to ireland. it was from one you know very well, and one i thought well informed, or i should not have mentioned it. positive as the information was, i find nothing to confirm it. on the contrary, lord harcourt( ) seems the most probable, if any thing is probable at this strange juncture. you will scarce believe me when i tell you, what i know is true, that the bedfords pressed strongly for lord weymouth--yes, for lord weymouth. is any thing extraordinary in them? will it be presuming, too much upon your friendship and indulgence, if i hint another point to you, which, i own, seems to me right to mention to you? you know how eagerly the ministry have laboured to deprive mr. thomas walpole of the french commerce of tobacco. his correspondent sends him word, that you was so persuaded it was taken away, that you had recommended another person. you know enough, my dear lord, of the little connexion i have with that part of my family,( ) though we do visit again; and therefore will, i hope, be convinced, that it is for your sake i principally mention it. if mr. walpole loses this vast branch of trade, he and sir joshua vanneck must shut up shop. judge the noise that would make in the city! mr. walpole's( ) alliance with the cavendishes (for i will say nothing of our family) would interest them deeply in his cause, and i think you would be sorry to have them think you instrumental to his ruin. your brother knows of my writing to you and giving this information, and we are both solicitous that your name should not appear in this transaction. this letter goes to you by a private hand, or i would not have spoken so plainly throughout. whenever you please to recall your positive order, that i should always tell you whatever i hear that relates to you, i shall willingly forbear, for i am sensible this is not the most agreeable province of friendship; yet, as it is certainly due whenever demanded, i don't consider myself, but sacrifice the more agreeable task of pleasing you to that of serving you, that i may show myself yours most sincerely, h. w. ( ) it was certainly the result of his majesty's own good sense, directed to the subject by his late serious indisposition; but the details, and the mismanagement of these details, were, no doubt, the acts of the ministers.-c. ( ) the king,'s uncle and brothers.-e. ( ) these hints as to the modes by which the extraordinary prejudices and clamours which disturbed the first years of the reign of george iii. were excited and maintained at the pleasure of a faction, are very valuable: and the spirit of the times was in nothing more evident than in the intrigues and violence which marked the progress of so simple and necessary a measure as the regency-bill.-c. ( ) this opinion of the chancellor's appears to have been considered by mr. walpole as very absurd, and he seems inclined to come to the same conclusion which sterne has treated with such admirable ridicule in the case of the duchess of suffolk, viz. that "the mother was not of kin to her own child." see tristram shandy, part . nothing in the debate of didius and triptolemus at the visitation dinner, is more absurd than this grave discussion in the house of lords, whether the king's mother is one of the royal family.-c. ( ) this was mr. pitt's expression on not finding lord anson's name in the list of the ministry formed in . mr. walpole, disliked lord anson, and on more than one occasion amuses himself with allusions to this phrase.-c. ( ) simon, first earl of harcourt: he was, in , ambassador to paris, and in , lord-lieutenant of ireland.-c. ( ) this coolness between mr. walpole and his uncle should be remembered, when we read that portion of the memoires which relates to lord walpole.-c. ( ) mr. thomas walpole's elder brother (second lord walpole, and first lord orford of his branch) married the youngest daughter of the third duke of devonshire.-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, sunday, may , . (page ) the clouds and mists that i raise by my last letter will not be dispersed by this; nor will the bill of regency, as long as it has a day's breath left (and it has but one to come) cease, i suppose, to produce extraordinary events. for agreeable events, it has not produced one to any set or side, except in gratifying malice; every other passion has received, or probably will receive, a box on the ear. in my last i left the princess dowager in the mire. the next incident was of a negative kind. mr. pitt, who, if he had been wise, would have come to help her out, chose to wait to see if she was to be left there, and gave himself a terrible fit of the gout. as nobody was ready to read his part to the audience, (though i assure you we do not want a genius or two who think themselves born to dictate,) the first day in our house did not last two minutes. the next, which was tuesday, we rallied our understandings (mine, indeed, did not go beyond being quiet, when the administration had done for us what we could not do for ourselves), and combated the bill till nine at night. barr`e, who will very soon be our first orator, especially as some( ) are a little afraid to dispute with him, attacked it admirably, and your brother ridiculed the house of lords delightfully, who, he said, had deliberated without concluding, and concluded without deliberating. however, we broke up without a division. can you devise what happened next? a buzz spread itself, that the tories would move to reinstate the princess. you will perhaps be so absurd as to think with me, that when the administration had excluded her, it was our business to pay her a compliment. alas! that was my opinion, but i was soon given to understand that patriots must be men of virtue, must be pharisees, and not countenance naughty women; and that when the duchess of bedford had thrown the first stone, we had nothing to do but continue pelting. unluckily i was not convinced; i could neither see the morality nor prudence of branding the king's mother upon no other authority than public fame: yet, willing to get something when i could not get all, i endeavoured to obtain that we should stay away. even this was warmly contested with me, and, though i persuaded several, particularly the two oldest cavendishes,( ) the townshends,( ) and your nephew fitzroy,( ) whom i trust you will thank me for saving, i could not convince lord john, [cavendish,] who, i am sorry to say, is the most obstinate, conceited young man i ever saw; george onslow, and that old simpleton the duke of newcastle, who had the impudence to talk to me of character, and that we should be ruined with the public if we did not divide against the princess. you will be impatient, and wonder i do not name your brother. you know how much he respects virtue and honour, even in their names; lord john, who, i really believe, respects them too, has got cunning enough to see their empire over your brother, and had fascinated him to agree to this outrageous, provoking, and most unjustifiable of all acts. still mr. conway was so good as to yield to my earnest and vehement entreaties, and it was at last agreed to propose the name of the queen; when we did not carry it, as we did not expect to do, to retire before the question came on the princess. but even this measure was not strictly observed. we divided for the nomination of the queen, against . then morton( ) moved to reinstate the princess. martin, her treasurer, made a most indiscreet and offensive speech in her behalf; said she had been stigmatized by the house of lords, and had lived long enough in this country to know the hearts and falsehood of those who had professed the most to her. grenville vows publicly he will never forgive this, and was not more discreet, declaring, though he agreed to the restoration of her name, that he thought the omission would have been universally acceptable. george onslow and all the cavendishes, gained over by lord john, and the most attached of the newcastle band, opposed the motion; but your brother, sir william meredith, and i, and others, came away, which reduced the numbers so much that there was no division;( ) but now to unfold all this black scene;( ) it comes out as i had guessed, and very plainly told them, that the bedfords had stirred up our fools to do what they did not dare to do themselves. old newcastle had even told me, that unless we opposed the princess, the duke of bedford would not. it was sedulously given out. that forrester,( ) the latter duke's lawyer, would speak against her; and after the question had passed, he told our people that we had given up the game when it was in our hands, for there had been many more noes than ayes. it was very true, many did not wish well enough to the princess to roar for her; and many will say no when the question is put, who will vote ay if it comes to a division. and of' this i do not doubt but the bedfords had taken care--well! duped by these gross arts, the cavendishes and pelhams determined to divide the next day on the report. i did not learn this mad resolution till four o'clock, when it was too late, and your brother in the house, and the report actually made; so i turned back and came away, learning afterwards to my great mortification, that he had voted with them. if any thing could comfort me, it would be, that even so early as last night, and only this happened on friday night, it was generally allowed how much i had been in the right, and foretold exactly all that had happened. they had vaunted to me how strong they should be. i had replied, "when you were but on the most inoffensive question, do you think you will be half that number on the most personal and indecent that can be devised?" accordingly, they were but to ; and to show how much the bedfords were at the bottom of all, rigby, they forrester, and lord charles spencer, went up into the speaker's chamber, and would not vote for the princess! at first i was not quite so well treated. sir william meredith, who, by the way, voted in the second question against his opinion, told me onslow had said that he, sir william, your brother, and lord townshend, had stayed away from conscience, but all the others from interest. i replied, "then i am included in the latter predicament.( ) but you may tell mr. onslow that he will take a place before i shall, and that i had rather be suspected of being mercenary, than stand up in my place and call god to witness that i meant nothing personal, when i was doing the most personal thing in the world." i beg your pardon, my dear lord, for talking so much about myself, but the detail was necessary and important to you; who i wish should see that i can act with a little common sense, and will not be governed by all the frenzy of party. the rest of the bill was contested inch by inch, and by division on division, till eleven at night, after our wise leaders had whittled down the minority to twenty-four.( ) charles townshend, they say, surpassed all he had ever done, in a wrangle with onslow, and was so lucky as to have barr`e absent, who has long lain in wait for him. when they told me how well charles had spoken on himself, i replied, "that is conformable to what i always thought of his parts, that he speaks best on what he understands the least." we have done with the bill, and to-morrow our correction goes to the lords. it will be a day of wonderful expectation.. to see in what manner they will swallow their vomit. the duke of bedford, it is conjectured, will stay away:--but what will that scape-goose, lord halifax, do, who is already convicted of having told the king a most notorious lie, that if the princess was not given up by the lords, she would be unanimously excluded by the commons! the duke of bedford, who had broke the ground, is little less blamable; but sandwich, who was present, has, with his usual address, contrived not to be talked of, since the first hour. when the bill shall be passed, the eyes of mankind will turn to see what will be the consequence. the princess, and lord bute, and the scotch, do not affect to conceal their indignation. if lord halifax is even reprieved, the king is more enslaved to a cabal than ever his grandfather was: yet how replace them! newcastle and the most desirable of the opposition have rendered themselves more obnoxious than ever, and even seem, or must seem to lord bute, in league with those he wishes to remove. the want of a proper person for chancellor of the exchequer is another difficulty, though i think easily removable by clapping a tied wig on ellis, barrington, or any other block, and calling it george grenville. one remedy is obvious, and at which, after such insults and provocations, were i lord bute, i should not stick; i would deliver myself up, bound hand and foot, to mr. pitt, rather than not punish such traitors and wretches, who murmur, submit, affront, and swallow in the most ignominious manner,--"oh! il faudra qu'il y vienne,"--as l`eonor says in the marquis de roselle,--"il y viendra." for myself, i have another little comfort, which is seeing that when the ministry encourage the opposition, they do but lessen our numbers. you may be easy about this letter, for monsieur de guerchy sends it for me by a private hand, as i did the last. i wish, by some such conveyance, you would tell me a little of your mind on all this embroil, and whether you approve or disapprove my conduct. after the liberties you have permitted me to take with you, my dear lord, and without them, as you know my openness, and how much i am accustomed to hear of my faults, i think you cannot hesitate. indeed, i must, i have done, or tried to do, just what you would have wished. could i, who have at least some experience and knowledge of the world, have directed, our party had not been in the contemptible and ridiculous situation it is. had i had more weight, things still more agreeable to you had happened. now, i could almost despair; but i have still perseverance, and some resources left. whenever i can get to you, i will unfold a great deal; but in this critical situation, i cannot trust what i can leave to no management but my own. your brother would have writ, if i had not: he is gone to park-place to-day, with his usual phlegm, but returns tomorrow. what would i give you were here yourself; perhaps you do not thank me for the wish. do not wonder if, except thanking you for d'alembert's book,( ) i say not a word of any thing but politics. i have not had a single other thought these three weeks. though in all the bloom of my passion, lilac-tide, i have not been at strawberry this fortnight. i saw things arrive at the point( ) i wished, and to which i had singularly contributed to bring them, as you shall know hereafter, and then i saw all my work kicked down by two or three frantic boys, and i see what i most dread, likely to happen, unless i can prevent it,--but i have said enough for you to understand me. i think we agree. however, this is for no ear or breast but your own. remember monsieur de nivernois,( ) and take care of the letters you receive. adieu! ( ) it seems from the next letter, that this alludes to charles townshend.-c. ( ) lord george and lord frederick.-e. ( ) probably messrs. thomas townshend, senior and junior, and charles townshend, a cousin of the great charles townshend's, who sat with sir edward walpole for north yarmouth.-c. ( ) colonel charles fitzroy, afterwards lord southampton.-e. ( ) john morton, esq. member for abingdon, and chief-justice of chester.-e. ( ) the following is lord temple's account of this debate, in a letter of the th, to his sister, lady chatham: "inability and meanness are the characteristics of this whole proceeding,. i shall pass over the very uninteresting parts of this matter, and relate only the phenomenon of morton's motion yesterday, seconded by kynaston, without a speech, and thirded by the illustrious sam martin. the speech of the first was dull, and of the latter very injudicious; saying that the house of lords had passed a stigma on the princess of wales; disclaiming all knowledge of her wishes, but concluding, with a strong affirmative. george onslow opposed the motion, with very bad reasons; lord palmerston, with much better. george grenville seemed to convey, that the alteration made in the lords was not without the king's knowledge; but that, to be sure, in his opinion, such a testimony of zeal and affection which now manifested itself in the house of commons in favour of his royal mother, could not but prove agreeable to his majesty, and that therefore he should concur in it. the cocoa-tree have thus her royal highness to be regent; it is well they have not given us a king, if they have not; for many think lord bute is king. no division: many noes." chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) it was, indeed, a black and scandalous intrigue, by which the character of the sovereign's mother, and the peace and comfort of the royal family, were thus made the counters with which contending factions played their game; and if we may believe mr. walpole himself, the motives which actuated those who attacked, and those who seemed to defend the princess dowager, were equally selfish and unworthy.-c. ( ) probably brook forrester, esq. of lincoln's inn, member for great wenlock, a barrister-at-law. see ante, p. , letter .-c. ( ) it certainly does seem, from the foregoing account of his own motives, that conscience had little to do with mr. walpole's conduct on this affair: as to his pledge, that mr. onslow would take a place before him, we must observe that it is not quite so generous as it may seem; for mr. walpole was already, by the provident care of his father, supplied with three sinecure places, and two rent-charges on two others, producing him altogether about pounds per annum. see quarterly review, vol. xxvii. p. .-c. ( ) on the question for the third reading of the bill, the numbers were and .-e. ( ) de la destruction des j`esuites."-e. ( this seems to imply that mr. walpole thought, that if the opposition had taken up the cause of the princess dowager when she had been abandoned by the ministers, the latter might have been removed, and the former brought into power.-c. ( ) he alludes to the infidelity of d'eon to the duke of nivernois. see ant`e, p. , letter .-c. letter to the earl of hertford. arlington street, monday evening, may , . (page ) i scarce know where to begin, and i am sure not where i shall end. i had comforted myself with getting over all my difficulties: my friends opened their eyes, and were ready, nay, some of them eager, to list under mr. pitt; for i must tell you, that by a fatal precipitation,( ) the king,--when his ministers went to him last thursday, th, to receive his commands for his speech at the end of the sessions which was to have been the day after to-morrow, the d,--forbid the parliament to be prorogued, which he said he would only have adjourned: they were thunderstruck, and asked if he intended to make any change in his administration? he replied, certainly; he could not bear it as it was. his uncle( ) was sent for, was ordered to form a new administration, and treat with mr. pitt. this negotiation proceeded for four days, and got wind in two. the town, more accommodating than mr. pitt, settled the whole list of employments. the facilities, however, were so few. that yesterday the hero of culloden went down in person to the conqueror of america, at hayes, and though tendering almost carte blanche,-- blanchissime for the constitution, and little short of it for the whole red-book of places,--brought back nothing but a flat refusal. words cannot paint the confusion into which every thing is thrown. the four ministers, i mean the duke of bedford, grenville, and the two secretaries, acquainted their master yesterday, that they adhere to one another, and shall all resign to-morrow, and, perhaps, must be recalled on wednesday,--must have a carte noire, not blanche, and will certainly not expect any stipulations to be offered for the constitution, by no means the object of their care! you are not likely to tell in gath, nor publish in ascalon, the alternative of humiliation to which the crown is reduced. but alas! this is far from being the lightest evil to which we are at the eve of being exposed. i mentioned the mob of weavers which had besieged the parliament, and attacked the duke of bedford, and i thought no more of it; but on friday, a well disciplined, and, i fear too well conducted a multitude, repaired again to westminster with red and black flags; the house of lords, where not thirty were present, acted with no spirit;--examined justice fielding, and the magistrates, and adjourned till to-day. at seven that evening, a prodigious multitude assaulted bedford-house, and began to pull down the walls, and another party surrounded the garden, where there were but fifty men on guard, and had forced their way, if another party of guards that had been sent for had arrived five minutes later. at last, after reading the proclamation, the gates of the court were thrown open, and sixty foot-soldiers marched out; the mob fled, but, being met by a party of horse, were much cut and trampled, but no lives lost. lady tavistock, and every thing valuable in the house, have been sent out of town. on saturday, all was pretty quiet; the duchess was blooded, and every body went to visit them. i hesitated, being afraid of an air of triumph: -however, lest it should be construed the other way, i went last night at eight o'clock; in the square i found a great multitude, not of weavers, but seemingly of sunday-passengers. at the gate, guarded by grenadiers, i found so large a throng, that i had not only difficulty to make my way, though in my chariot, but was hissed and pelted; and in two minutes after, the glass of lady grosvenor's coach was broken, as those of lady cork's chair were entirely demolished afterwards. i found bedford-house a perfect garrison, sustaining a siege, the court full of horse-guards, constables, and gentlemen. i told the duke that however i might happen to differ with him in politics, this was a common cause, and that every body must feel equal indignation at it. in the mean time the mob grew so riotous, that they were forced to make both horse and foot parade the square before the tumult was dispersed. to-morrow we expect much worse. the weavers have declared they will come down to the house of lords for redress, which they say they have been promised. a body of five hundred sailors were on the road from portsmouth to join them, but luckily the admiralty had notice of their intention, and stopped them.( ) a large body of weavers are on the road from norwich, and it is said have been joined by numbers in essex; guards are posted to prevent, if possible, their approaching the city. another troop of manufacturers are coming from manchester; and what is worst of' all, there is such a general spirit of mutiny and dissatisfaction in the lower people, that i think we are in danger of a rebellion in the heart of the capital in a week. in the mean time, there is neither administration nor government. the king is out of town, and this is the crisis in which mr. pitt, who could stop every evil, chooses to be more unreasonable than ever.( ) mr. craufurd, whom you have seen at the duchess of grafton's, carries this, or i should not venture being so explicit. wherever the storm may break out at first, i think lord bute cannot escape his share of it. the bedfords may triumph over him, the princess, and still higher, if they are fortunate enough to avoid the present ugly appearances; and yet how the load of odium will be increased, if they return to power! one can name many in whose situation one would not be,-not one who is not situated unpleasantly. adieu my dear lord; you shall hear as often as i can find a conveyance but these are not topics for the post! poor mrs. fitzroy has lost her eldest girl. i forgot to tell you that the young duke of devonshire goes to court to-morrow. yours ever. wednesday evening. i am forced to send you journals rather than letters. mr. craufurd, who was to carry this, has put off his journey till saturday, and i choose rather to defer my despatch than trust it to guerchy's courier, though he offered me that conveyance yesterday, but it is too serious to venture to their inspection. such precautions have been taken, and so many troops brought into town, that there has been no rising, though the sheriffs of london acquainted the lords on monday that a very formidable one was preparing for five o'clock the next morning. there was another tumult, indeed, at three o'clock yesterday, at bedford-house, but it was dispersed by reading the riot-act. in the mean time, the revolution has turned round again. the ministers desired the king to commission lord granby, the duke of richmond, and lord waldegrave, to suppress the riots, which, in truth, was little short of asking for the power of the sword against himself. on this, his majesty determined to name the duke of cumberland captain-general but the tranquillity of the rioters happily gave h. r. h. occasion to persuade the king to suspend that resolution. thank god! from eleven o'clock yesterday, when i heard it, till nine at night, when i learned that the resolution had dropped, i think i never passed such anxious hours! nay, i heard it was done, and looked upon the civil war as commenced. during these events, the duke was endeavouring to form a ministry, but, luckily, nobody would undertake it when mr. pitt had refused so the king is reduced to the mortification, and it is extreme, of taking his old ministers again. they are insolent enough, you may believe. grenville has treated his master in the most impertinent manner, and they are now actually digesting the terms that they mean to impose on their captive, and lord bute is the chief object of their rage; though i think lord holland will not escape, nor lord northumberland, whom they treat as an encourager of the rioters. both he and my lady went on monday night to bedford-house, and were received with every mark of insult.( ) the duke turned his back on the earl, without speaking to him, and he was kept standing an hour exposed to all their railery. still i have a more extraordinary event to tell you than all i have related. lord temple and george grenville were reconciled yesterday morning, by the intervention of augustus hervey; and, perhaps, the next thing you wilt hear, may be that lord temple is sent by this ministry to ireland, though lord weymouth is again much talked of for it. the report of norwich and manchester weavers on the road is now doubted. if lord bute is banished, i suppose the duke of bedford will become the hero of this very mob, and every act of power which they (the ministers] have executed, let who will have been the adviser, will be forgotten. it will be entertaining to see lord temple supporting lord halifax on general warrants! you have more than once seen your old master( ) reduced to surrender up his closet to a cabal--but never with such circumstances of insult, indignity, and humiliation! for our little party, it is more humbled than ever. still i prefer that state to what i dread; i mean, seeing your brother embarked in a desperate administration. it was proposed first to make him secretary at war, then secretary of state, but he declined both. yet i trembled, lest he should think bound in honour to obey the commands of the king and duke of cumberland; but, to my great joy, that alarm is over, unless the triumphant faction exact more than the king can possibly suffer. it will rejoice you, however, my dear lord, to hear that mr. conway is perfectly restored to the king's favour; and that if he continues in opposition, it will not be against the king, but a most abominable faction, who, having raged against the constitution and their country to pay court to lord bute, have even thrown off that paltry mask, and avowedly hoisted the standard of their own power. till the king has signed their demands, one cannot look upon this scene as closed. friday evening. you will think, my dear lord, and it is natural you should, that i write my letters at once, and compose one part with my prophecies, and the other with the completion of them; but you must recollect that i understand this country pretty well,-- attend closely to what passes,--have very good intelligence,--and know the characters of the actors thoroughly. a little sagacity added to such foundation, easily carries one's sight a good way; but you will care for my narrative more than my reflections, so i proceed. on wednesday, the ministers dictated their terms; you will not expect much moderation, and, accordingly, there was not a grain: they demanded a royal promise of never consulting lord bute, secondly, the dismission of mr. mckinsy from the direction of scotland; thirdly, and lastly, for they could go no further, the crown itself--or, in their words the immediate nomination of lord granby to be captain-general. you may figure the king's indignation--for himself, for his favourite, for his uncle. in my own opinion, the proposal of grounds for taxing his majesty himself hereafter with breaking his word,( ) was the bitterest affront of all. he expressed his anger and astonishment, and bade them return at ten at night for his answer; but, before that, he sent the chancellor to the junta, consenting to displace mekinsy,( ) refusing to promise not to consult lord bute, though acquiescing to his not interfering in business, but with a peremptory refusal to the article of lord granby. the rebels took till next morning to advise on their answer; when they gave up the point of lord granby, and contented themselves with the modification on the chapter of lord bute. however, not to be too complimentary, they demanded mekinsy's place for lord lorn,( ) and the instant removal of lord holland; both of which have been granted. charles townshend is paymaster, and lord weymouth viceroy of ireland; so lord northumberland remains on the pav`e, which, as there is no place vacant for him, it was not necessary to stipulate. the duchess of bedford, with colours flying, issued out of her garrison yesterday, and took possession of the drawing-room. to-day their majesties are gone to woburn; but as the duchess is a perfect methodist against all suspicious characters, it is said, to-day, that lord talbot is to be added to the list of proscriptions, and now they think themselves established for ever.--do they so? lord temple declares himself the warmest friend of the present administration;--there is a mystery still to be cleared up,--and, perhaps, a little to the mortification of bedford-house.--we shall see. the duke of cumberland is retired to windsor: your brother gone to park-place: i go to strawberry to-morrow, lest people should not think me a great man too. i don't know whether i shall not even think it necessary to order myself a fit of the gout.( ) i have received your short letter of the th, with the memorial of the family of brebeuf;--now my head will have a little leisure, i will examine it,. and see if i can do any thing in the affair. in that letter you say, you have been a month without hearing from any of your friends. i little expected to be taxed on that head: i have written you volumes almost every day; my last dates have been of april th, th, may th, th, and th. i beg you will look over them, and send me word exactly, and i beg you not to omit it, whether any of these are missing. three of them i trusted to guerchy, but took care they should contain nothing which it signified whether seen or not on t'other side of the water, though i did not care they should be perused on this. i had the caution not to let him have this, though by the eagerness with which he proffered both to-day and yesterday, to send any thing by his couriers, i suspected he wished to help them to better intelligence than he could give them himself. he even told me he should have another courier depart on tuesday next; but i excused myself, on the pretence of having too much to write at once, and shall send this, and a letter your brother has left me, by mr. craufurd, though he does not set out till sunday; but you had better wait for it from him, than from the duc de choiseul. pray commend my discretion--you see i grow a consummate politician; but don't approve of it too much, lest i only send you letters as prudent as your own. you may acquaint lady holland with the dismission of her lord, if she has not heard it, he being at kingsgate. your secretary( ) is likely to be prime minister in ireland. two months ago the new viceroy himself was going to france for debt, leaving his wife and children to be maintained by her mother.( ) i will be much obliged to you, my dear lord, if you will contrive to pay lady stanhope for the medals; they cost, i think, but pounds shillings or thereabout--but i have lost the note. adieu! here ends volume the first. omnia mutantur, sed non mutamur in illis. princess amelia, who has a little veered round to northwest, and by bedford, does not speak tenderly of her brother--but if some families are reconciled, others are disunited. the keppels are at open war with the keppels, and lady mary coke weeps with one eye over lady betty mackinsy, and smiles with t'other on lady dalkeith;( ) but the first eye is the sincerest. the duke of richmond, in exactly the same proportion, is divided between his sisters, holland and bunbury. thank you much for your kindness about mr. t. walpole-i have not had a moment's time to see him, but will do full justice to your goodness. yours ever, h. w. pray remember the dates of my letters--you will be strangely puzzled for a clue, if one of them has miscarried. sir charles bunbury is not to be secretary for ireland, but thurlow the lawyer:( ) they are to stay five years without returning. lord lorn has declined, and lord frederic campbell is to be lord privy seal for scotland. lord waldegrave, they say, chamberlain to the queen.( ) ( ) from the family, not from the rioters.-c. ( ) george the second. ( ) this alludes to the required promise not to consult lord bute. ( ) the following is from mr. stuart mackenzie's own account of his removal, in the mitchell mss:--"they demanded certain terms, without which they declined coming in; the principal of which was, that i should be dismissed from the administration of the affairs of scotland, and likewise from the office of privy seal. his majesty answered, that as to the first, it would be no great punishment, he believed, to me, as i had never been very fond of the employment; but as to the second, i had his promise to continue it for life. grenville replied to this purpose: 'in that case, sir, we must decline coming in.'--'no,' says the king, 'i will not, on that account, put the whole kingdom in confusion, and leave it without a government at all; but i will tell you how that matter stands --that he has my royal word to continue in the office; and if you force me, from the situation of things, to violate my royal word, remember you are responsible for it, and not i.' upon that very solemn charge, grenville answered, 'sir, we must make some arrangement for mr. mackenzie.' the king answered, 'if i know any thing of him, he will give himself very little trouble about your arrangements for him.' his majesty afterwards sent for me to his closet, where i was a very considerable time with him; and if it were possible for me to love my excellent prince now better than i ever did before, i should certainly do it; for i have every reason that can induce a generous mind to feel his goodness for me; but such was his majesty's situation at this time, that, had he absolutely rejected my dismission, he would have put me in the most disagreeable situation in the world; and, what was of much higher consequence, he would leave greatly distressed his affairs."-e. ( ) john marquis of lorn, afterwards fifth duke of argyle; a lieutenant-general in the army: he was brother of (general conway's lady.-c. ( ) an allusion to mr. pitt.-c. ( ) sir charles bunbury, secretary of embassy at paris, was nominated secretary to lord weymouth, and held that office for about two months.-e. ( ) the straitened circumstances of lord weymouth made his nomination very unpopular in ireland: he never went over.-c. ( ) in the recent arrangement, lady betty's husband was, as we have seen, dismissed from, and lady dalkeith's (charles townshend) acceded to, office.-c. ( ) this was a mistake.-e. ( ) this is the last of the series of letters written by walpole to lord hertford: to the publication is subjoined the following postscript:-"the state of the administration, as described in the foregoing letters, could evidently not last; and after the failure of several attempts to induce mr. pitt to take the government on terms which the king could grant, the duke of cumberland, at his majesty's desire, succeeded in forming the rockingham administration, in which general conway was secretary of state and leader of the house of commons, and lord hertford, lord lieutenant of ireland. there can be little doubt, that during these transactions, mr. walpole (although he had in the interval a severe fit of the gout) wrote to lord hertford, but no other letter of this series has been discovered; which is the more to be regretted, as the state of parties was it that moment particularly interesting. the refusal of mr. pitt raised the ministers to a pitch of confidence, (perhaps@, we might say, -arrogance,) which, as mr. walpole foresaw, accelerated their fall. so blind were they to their true situation, that mr. rigby, who was as deep as any man in the ministerial councils, writes to a private friend "i never thought, to tell you the truth, that we were in any danger from this last political cloud. the duke of cumberland's political system, grafted upon the earl of bute's stock, seems, of all others, the least capable of succeeding.' this letter was written on the th of july, and on the th the new ministry was formed."-c. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) if one of the one hundred events, and one hundredth part of the one hundred thousand reports that have passed, and been spread in this last month, have reached your solitary hill, you must be surprised at not a single word from me during that period. the number of events is my excuse. though mine is the pen of a pretty ready writer, i could not keep pace with the revolution of each day, each hour. i had not time to begin the narrative, much less to finish it: no, i must keep the whole to tell you at once, or to read it to you, for i think i shall write the history, which, let me tell you, buckinger himself could not have crowded into a nutshell. for your part, you will be content though the house of montagu has not made an advantageous figure in this political warfare; yet it is crowned with victory, and laurels you know compensate for every scar. you went out of town frightened out of your senses at the giant prerogative: alack! he is grown so tame, that, as you said of our earthquake, you may stroke him.( ) the regency-bill, not quite calculated with that intent, has produced four regents, king bedford, king grenville, king halifax, and king twitcher.( ) lord holland is turned out, and stuart mackenzie. charles townshend is paymaster, and lord bute annihilated; and all done without the help of the whigs. you love to guess what one is going to say. now you may what i am not going to say. your newspapers perhaps have given you a long roll of opposition names, who were coming into place, and so all the world thought; but the wind turned quite round, and left them on the strand, and just where they were, except in opposition which is declared to be at an end. enigma as all this may sound, the key would open it all to you in the twinkling of an administration. in the mean time we have family reconciliations without end. the king and the duke of cumberland have been shut up together day and night; lord temple and george grenville are sworn brothers; well, but mr. pitt, where is he? in the clouds, for aught i know; in one of which he may descend like the kings of bantam, and take quiet possession of the throne again. as a thorough-bass to these squabbles, we have had an insurrection and a siege. bedford-house, though garrisoned by horse and foot guards, was on the point of being taken. the besieged are in their turn triumphant; and, if any body now was to publish "droit le duc,"( ) i do not think the house of lords would censure his book. indeed the regents may do what they please, and turn out whom they will; i see nothing to resist them. lord bute will not easily be tempted to rebel when the last struggle has cost him so dear. i am sorry for some of my friends, to whom i wished more fortune. for myself, i am but just where i should have been had they succeeded. it is satisfaction enough to me to be delivered from politics; which you know i have long detested. when i was tranquil enough to write castles of otranto in the midst of grave nonsense and foolish councils of war, i am not likely to disturb myself with the diversions of the court where i am not connected with a soul. as it has proved to be the interest of the present ministers, however contrary to their torturer views, to lower the crown, they will scarce be in a hurry to aggrandize it again. that will satisfy you; and i, you know, am satisfied if i have any thing to laugh at--'tis a lucky age for a man who is so easily contented! the poor chute has had another relapse, but is out of bed again. i am thinking of my journey to france; but, as mr. conway has a mind i should wait for him, i don't know whether it will take place before the autumn. i will by no means release you from your promise of making me a visit here before i go. poor mr. bentley, i doubt, is under the greatest difficulties of any body. his poem, which he modestly delivered over to immortality, must be cut and turned; for lord halifax and lord bute cannot sit in the same canto together; then the horns and hoofs that he had bestowed on lord temple must be pared away, and beams of glory distributed over his whole person. 'tis a dangerous thing to write political panegyrics or satires; it draws the unhappy bard into a thousand scrapes and contradictions. the edifices and inscriptions at stowe should be a lesson not to erect monuments to the living. i will not place an ossuarium in my garden for my cat, before her bones are ready to be placed in it. i hold contradictions to be as essential to the definition of a political man, as any visible or featherless quality can be to man in general. good night! th. i shall send this by the coach; so whatever comes with it is only to make bundle. here are some lines that came into my head yesterday in the postchaise, as i was reading in the annual register an account of a fountain-tree in one of the canary islands, which never dies, and supplies the inhabitants with water. i don't warrant the longevity though the hypostatic union of a fountain may eternize the tree. "in climes adust, where rivers never flow, where constant suns repel approaching snow, how nature's various and inventive hand can pour unheard-of moisture o'er the land! immortal plants she bids on rocks arise, and from the dropping branches streams supplies, the thirsty native sucks the falling shower, nor asks for juicy fruit or blooming flower; but haply doubts when travellers maintain, that europe's forests melt not into rain." ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. ( ) wilkes, in the north briton, had applied to the earl of sandwich the sobriquet of jemmy twitcher.-e. ( ) ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , , eleven at night. (page ) i am just come out of the garden in the most oriental of all evenings, and from breathing odours beyond those of araby. the acacias, which the arabians have the sense to worship, are covered with blossoms, the honeysuckles dangle from every tree in festoons, the seringas are thickets of sweets, and the new-cut hay in the field tempers the balmy gales with simple freshness; while a thousand sky-rockets launched into the air at ranelagh or marybone illuminate the scene, and give it an air of haroun alraschid's paradise. i was not quite so content by daylight; some foreigners dined here, and, though they admired our verdure, it mortified me by its brownness--we have not had a drop of rain this month to cool the tip of our daisies. my company was lady lyttelton, lady schaub, a madame de juliac from the pyreneans, very handsome, not a girl, and of lady schaub's mould; the comte de caraman, nephew of madame de mirepoix, a monsieur de clausonnette, and general schouallow,( ) the favourite of the late czarina; absolute favourite for a dozen years, without making an enemy. in truth, he is very amiable, humble, and modest. had he been ambitious, he might have mounted the throne: as he was not, you may imagine they have plucked his plumes a good deal. there is a little air of melancholy about him, and, if i am not mistaken, some secret wishes for the fall of the present empress; which, if it were civil to suppose, i could heartily join with him in hoping for. as we have still liberty enough left to dazzle a russian, he seems charmed with england, and perhaps liked even this place the more as belonging to the son of one that, like himself, had been prime minister. if he has no more ambition left than i have, he must taste the felicity of being a private man. what has lord bute gained, but the knowledge of how many ungrateful sycophants favour and power can create? if you have received the parcel that i consined to richard brown for you, you will have found an explanation of my long silence. thank you for being alarmed for my health. the day after to-morrow i go to park-place for four or five days, and soon after to goodwood. my french journey is still in suspense; lord hertford talks of coming over for a fortnight; perhaps i may go back with him; but i have determined nothing yet, till i see farther into the present chase, that somehow or other i may take my leave of politics for ever; for can any thing be so wearisome as politics on the account of others? good night! shall i not see you here? yours ever. ( ) the comte de schouwaloff. see ant`e, p. , letter . walpole says, in a note to madame du deffand's letter to him of the th of april, , "il fut ic favori, l'on croit le mari, de la czarine elizabeth de russie, et pendant douze ans de faveur il ne se fit point un ennemi."-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am almost as much ashamed, madam, to plead the true cause of my faults towards your ladyship, as to have been guilty of any neglect. it is scandalous, at my age, to have been carried backwards and forwards to balls and suppers and parties by very young people, as i was all last week. my resolutions of growing old and staid are admirable: i wake with a sober plan, and intend to pass the day with my friends--then comes the duke of richmond, and hurries me down to whitehall to dinner-then the duchess of grafton sends for me to loo in upper grosvenor-street--before i can get thither, i am begged to step to kensington, to give mrs. anne pitt my opinion about a bow-window--after the loo, i am to march back to whitehall to supper-and after that, am to walk with miss pelham on the terrace till two in the morning, because it is moonlight and her chair is not come. all this does not help my morning laziness; and, by the time i have breakfasted, fed my birds and my squirrels, and dressed, there is an auction ready. in short, madam, this was my life last week, and is i think every week, with the addition of forty episodes. yet, ridiculous as it is, i send it your ladyship, because i had rather you should laugh at me than be angry. i cannot offend you in intention, but i fear my sins of omission are equal to many a good christian's. pray forgive me. i really will begin to be between forty and fifty by the time i am fourscore; and i truly believe i shall bring my resolutions within compass; for i have not chalked out any particular business that will take me above forty years more; so that, if i do not get acquainted with the grandchildren of all the present age, i shall lead a quiet sober life yet before i die. as mr. bateman's is the kingdom of flowers, i must not wish to send you any; else, madam, i should load wagons with acacias, honeysuckles, and seringas. madame de juliac, who dined here owned that the climate and odours equalled languedoc. i fear the want of rain made the turf put her in mind of it, too. monsieur de caraman entered into the gothic spirit of the place, and really seemed pleased, which was more than i expected; for, between you and me, madam, our friends the french have seldom eyes for any thing they have not been used to see all their lives. i beg my warmest compliments to your host and lord ilchester. i wish your ladyship all pleasure and health, and am, notwithstanding my idleness, your most faithful and devoted humble servant. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, saturday night. (page ) i must scrawl a line to you, though with the utmost difficulty, for i am in my bed; but i see they have foolishly put it into the chronicle that i am dangerously ill; and as i know you take in that paper, and are one of the very, very few, of whose tenderness and friendship i have not the smallest doubt, i give myself pain, rather than let you feel a moment's unnecessarily. it is true, i have had a terrible attack of the gout in my stomach, head, and both feet, but have truly never been in danger any more than one must be in such a situation. my head and stomach are perfectly well; my feet far from it. i have kept my room since this day se'nnight, and my bed these three days, but hope to get up to-morrow. you know my writing and my veracity, and that i would not deceive you. as to my person, it will not be so easy to reconnoitre it, for i question whether any of it will remain; it was easy to annihilate so airy a substance. adieu! letter to the hon. h. s. conway. wednesday noon, july , . (page ) the footing part of my dance with my shocking partner the gout is almost over. i had little pain there this last night, and got, at twice, about three hours' sleep; but, whenever i waked, found my head very bad, which mr. graham thinks gouty too. the fever is still very high: but the same sage is of opinion, with my lady londonderry, that if it was a fever from death, i should die; but as it is only a fever from the gout, i shall live. i think so too, and hope that, like the duke and duchess of marlborough., they are so inseparable, that when one goes t'other will. tell lady ailesbury, i fear it will be long before i shall be able to compass all your terraces again. the weather is very hot, and i have the (comfort of a window open all day. i have got a bushel of roses too, and a new scarlet nightingale, which does not sing nancy dawson from morning to night. perhaps you think all these poor pleasures; but you are ignorant what a provocative the gout is, and what charms it can bestow on a moment's amusement! oh! it beats all the refinements of a roman sensualist. it has made even my watch a darling plaything; i strike it as often as a child does. then the disorder of my sleep diverts me when i am awake. i dreamt that i went to see madame de bentheim at paris, and that she had the prettiest palace in the world, built like a pavilion, of yellow laced with blue; that i made love to her daughter, whom i called mademoiselle bleue et jaune, and thought it very clever. my next reverie was very serious, and lasted half an hour after i was awake; which you will perhaps think a little light-headed, and so do i. i thought mr. pitt had had a conference with madame de bentheim, and granted all her demands. i rung for louis at six in the morning, and wanted to get up and inform myself of what had been kept so secret from me. you must know, that all these visions of madame de bentheim flowed from george selwyn telling me last night, that she had carried most of her points, and was returning. what stuff i tell you! but alas! i have nothing better to do, sitting on my bed, and wishing to forget how brightly the sun shines, when i cannot be at strawberry. yours ever. letter to the countess of suffolk.( ) london, july , . (page ) your ladyship's goodness to me on all occasions makes me flatter myself that i am not doing an impertinence in telling you i am alive; though, after what i have suffered, you may be sure there cannot be much of me left. the gout has been a little in my stomach, much more in my head, but luckily never out of my right foot, and for twelve, thirteen, and seventeen hours together, insisting upon having its way as absolutely as ever my lady blandford( ) did. the extremity of pain seems to be over, though i sometimes think my tyrant puts in his claim to t'other foot; and surely he is, like most tyrants, mean as well as cruel, or he could never have thought the leg of a lark such a prize. the fever, the tyrant's first minister, has been as vexatious as his master, and makes use of this hot day to plague me more; yet, as i was sending a servant to twickenham, i could not help scrawling out a few lines to ask how your ladyship does, to tell you how i am, and to lament the roses, strawberries, and banks of the river. i know nothing, madam, of ,any kings or ministers but those i have mentioned; and this administration i fervently hope will be changed soon, and for all others i shall be very indifferent. had a (,real prince come to my bedside yesterday, i should have begged that the honour might last a very few minutes. i am, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) lady blandford was somewhat impatient in her temper. see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to the countess of suffolk.( ) arlington street, july , . (page ) madam, though instead of getting better, as i flattered myself i should, i have gone through two very painful and sleepless nights, yet as i give audience here in my bed to new ministers and foreign ministers, i think it full as much my duty to give an account of myself to those who are so good as to wish me well. i am reduced to nothing but bones and spirits; but the latter make me bear the inconvenience of the former, though they (i mean my bones) lie in a heap over one another like the bits of ivory at the game of straws. it is very melancholy, at the instant i was getting quit of politics, to be visited with the only thing that is still more plaguing. however, i believe the fit of politics going off makes me support the new-comer better. neither of them indeed will leave me plumper;( ) but if they will both leave me at peace, your ladyship knows it is all i have ever desired. the chiefs of' the new ministry were to have kissed hands to-day; but mr. charles townshend, who, besides not knowing either of his own minds, has his brother's minds to know too, could not determine last night. both brothers are gone to the king to-day. i was much concerned to hear so bad an account of your ladyship's health. other people would wish you a severe fit, which is a very cheap wish to them who do not feel it: i, who do, advise you to be content with it in detail. adieu! madam. pray keep a little summer for me. i will give you a bushel of politics, when i come to marble hill, for a teacup of strawberries and cream. mr. chetwynd,( ) i suppose, is making the utmost advantage of any absence, frisking and cutting capers before miss hotham, and advising her not to throw herself away on a decrepit old man.- -well, fifty years hence he may begin to be an old man too; and then i shall not pity him, though i own he is the best-humoured lad in the world now. yours, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) walpole was too fond of this boast of disinterestedness. what was it but politics that made his fortune so plump? his fortune from his father, we know from himself, was very inconsiderable;-but from his childhood he held sinecure offices which, during the greater part of his life, produced him between six and seven thousand pounds per annum.-c. ( ) william chetwynd, brother of the two first viscounts, and himself, in , third viscount chetwynd. he was at this time nearly eighty years of age.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, july , . (page ) you are so good, i must write you a few lines, and you will excuse my not writing many, my posture is so uncomfortable, lying on a couch by the side of my bed, and writing on the bed. i have in this manner been what they call out of bed for two days, but i mend very slowly, and get no strength in my feet at all; however, i must have patience. thank you for your kind offer; but, my dear sir, you can do me no good but what you always do me, in coming to see me. i should hope that would be before i go to france, whither i certainly go the beginning of september, if not sooner. the great and happy change-happy, i hope, for this country--is actually begun. the duke of bedford, george grenville, and the two secretaries are discarded. lord rockingham is first lord of the treasury, dowdeswell chancellor of the exchequer, the duke of grafton and mr. conway secretaries of state. you need not wish me joy, for i know you do. there is a good deal more to come,( ) and what is better, regulation of general warrants, and of undoing at least some of the mischiefs these - have been committing; some, indeed, is past recovery! i long to talk it all over with you; though it is hard that when i may write what i will, i am not able. the poor chute is relapsed again, and we are no comfort to one another but by messages. an offer from ireland was sent to lord hertford last night from his brother's office. adieu! ( ) "there has been pretty clean sweeping already," wrote lord chesterfield on the th; and i do not remember, in my time, to have seen so much at once, as an entire new board of treasury, and two new secretaries, etc. here is a new political arch built; but of materials of so different a nature, and without a keystone, that it does not, in my opinion, indicate either strength or duration. it will certainly require repairs and a keystone next winter, and that keystone will and must necessarily be mr. pitt."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) as i know that when you love people, you love them, i feel for the concern that the death of lady bab. montagu( ) will give you. though you have long lived out of the way of seeing her, you are not a man to forget by absence, or all your friends would have still more reason to complain of your retirement. your solitude prevents your filling up the places of those that are gone. in the world, new acquaintances slide into our habits, but you keep so strict a separation between your old friends and new faces, that the loss of any of the former must be more sensible to you than to most people. i heartily condole with you, and yet i must make you smile. the second miss jefferies was to go to a ball yesterday at hampton-court with lady sophia thomas's daughters. the news came, and your aunt cosby said the girl must not go to it. the poor child then cried in earnest. lady sophia went to intercede for her, and found her grandmother at backgammon, who would hear no entreaties. lady sophia represented that miss jefferies was but a second cousin, and could not have been acquainted. "oh! madam, if there is no tenderness left in the world-cinq ace--sir, you are to throw." we have a strange story come from london. lord fortescue was dead suddenly; there was a great mob about his house in grosvenor-square, and a buzz that my lady had thrown up the sash and cried murder, and that he then shot himself. how true all this i don't know: at least it is not so false as if it was in the newspapers. however, these sultry summers do not suit english heads: this last month puts even the month of november's nose out of joint for self-murders. if it was not for the queen the peerage would be extinct: she has given us another duke.( ) my two months are up, and yet i recover my feet very slowly. i have crawled once round my garden; but it sent me to my couch for the rest of the day. this duration of weakness makes me very impatient, as i wish much to be at paris before the fine season is quite gone. this will probably be the last time i shall travel to finish my education, and i should be glad to look once more at their gardens and villas: nay, churches and palaces are but uncomfortable sights in cold weather, and i have much more curiosity for their habitations than their company. they have scarce a man or a woman of note that one wants to see; and, for their authors, their style is grown so dull in imitation of us, they are si philosophes, si g`eom`etres, si moraux, that i certainly should not cross the sea in search of ennui, that i can have in such perfection at home. however, the change of scene is my chief inducement, and to get out of politics. there is no going through another course of patriotism in your cousin sandwich and george grenville. i think of setting out by the middle of september; have i any chance of seeing you here before that? won't you come and commission me to offer up your devotions to notre dame de livry?( or chez nos filles de sainte marie. if i don't make haste, the reformation in france will demolish half that i want to see. i tremble for the val de grace and st. cyr. the devil take luther for putting it into the heads of his methodists to pull down the churches! i believe in twenty years there will not be a convent left in europe but this at strawberry. i wished for you to-day; mr. chute and cowslade dined here; the day was divine: the sun gleamed down into the chapel in all the glory of popery; the gallery was all radiance; we drank our coffee on the bench under the great ash-tree; the verdure was delicious; our tea in the holbein room, by which a thousand chaises and barges passed; and i showed them my new cottage and garden over the way, which they had never seen, and with which they were enchanted. it is so retired, so modest, and yet so cheerful and trim, that i expect you to fall in love with it. i intend to bring it a handful of treillage and agr`emens from paris; for being cross the road, and quite detached, it is to have nothing gothic about it, nor pretend to call cousins with the mansion-house. i know no more of the big world at london, than if i had not a relation in the ministry. to be free from pain and politics is such a relief to me, that i enjoy my little comforts and amusements here beyond expression. no mortal ever entered the gate of ambition with such transport as i took leave of them all at the threshold. oh! if my lord temple knew what pleasures he could create for himself at stowe, he would not harass a shattered carcass, and sigh to be insolent at st. james's! for my part, i say with the bastard in king john, though with a little more reverence, and only as touching his ambition, oh! old sir robert, father, on my knee i give heaven thanks i was not like to thee. adieu! yours most cordially. ( ) lady barbara montagu, daughter of george second earl of halifax.-e. ( ) the duke of clarence, born on the st of august; afterwards king william the fourth.-'e. ( ) madame de s`evign`e, whom walpole frequently alludes to under this title.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) the less one is disposed, if one has any sense, to talk of oneself to people that inquire only out of compliment, and do not listen to the answer, the more satisfaction one feels in indulging a self-complacency, by sighing to those that really sympathize with our griefs. do not think it is pain that makes me give this low-spirited air to my letter. no, it is the prospect of what is to come, not the sensation of what is passing, that affects me. the loss of youth is melancholy enough; but to enter into old age through the gate of infirmity is most disheartening. my health and spirits make me take but slight notice of the transition, and under the persuasion of temperance being a talisman, i marched boldly on towards the descent of the hill, knowing i must fall at last, but not suspecting that i should stumble by the way. this confession explains the mortification i feel. a month's confinement to one who never kept his bed a day is a stinging lesson, and has humbled my insolence to almost indifference. judge, then, how little i interest myself about public events. i know nothing of them since i came hither, where i had not only the disappointment of not growing better, but a bad return in one of my feet, so that i am still wrapped up and upon a couch. it was the more unlucky as lord hertford is come to england for a few days. he has offered to come to me; but as i then should see him only for some minutes, i propose being carried to town tomorrow. it will be so long before i can expect to be able to travel, that my french journey will certainly not take place so soon as i intended, and if lord hertford goes to ireland, i shall be still more fluctuating; for though the duke and duchess of richmond will replace them at paris, and are as eager to have me with them, i have had so many more years heaped upon me within this month, that i have not the conscience to trouble young people, when i can no longer be as juvenile as they are. indeed i shall think myself decrepit till i again saunter into the garden in my slippers and without my hat in all weathers--a point i am determined to regain, if possible; for even this experience cannot make me resign my temperance and my hardiness. i am tired of the world, its politics, its pursuits, and its pleasures; but it will cost me some struggles before i submit to be tender and careful. christ! can i ever stoop to the regimen of old age? i do not wish to dress up a withered person, nor drag it about to public places; but to sit in one's room, clothed warmly, expecting visits from folk-, i don't wish to see, and tended and flattered by relations impatient for one's death let the gout do its worst as expeditiously as it can; it would be more welcome in my stomach than in my limbs. i am not made to bear a course of nonsense and advice, but must play the fool in my own way to the last, alone with all my heart, if i cannot be with the very few i wish to see: but, to depend for comfort on others, who would be no comfort to me; this surely is not a state to be preferred to death: and nobody can have truly enjoyed the advantages of youth, health, and spirits, who is content to exist without the two last, which alone bear any resemblance to the first.( ) you see how difficult it is to conquer my proud spirit: low and weak as i am, i think my resolution and perseverance will get me better, and that i shall still be a gay shadow; at least, i will impose any severity upon myself, rather than humour the gout, and sink into that indulgence with which most people treat it. bodily liberty is as dear to me as mental, and i would as soon flatter any other tyrant as the gout, my whiggism extending as much to my health as to my principles, and being as willing to part with life, when i cannot preserve it, as your uncle algernon when his freedom was at stake. adieu! ( ) upon this passage the quarterly review observes: "walpole's reflections on human life are marked by strong sense and knowledge of mankind; but our most useful lesson will perhaps be derived from considering this man of the world, full of information and sparkling with vivacity, stretched on a sick bed, and apprehending all the tedious languor of helpless decrepitude and deserted solitude." vol. xix. p. .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. saturday, aug. , , strawberry hill. (page ) i thought it would happen so; that i should not see you before i left england! indeed, i may as well give you quite up, for every year reduces our intercourse. i am prepared, because it must happen, if i live, to see my friends drop off; but my mind was not turned to see them entirely separated from me while they live. this is very uncomfortable, but so are many things!--well! i will go and try to forget you all--all! god knows that all that i have left to forget is small enough; but the warm heart, that gave me affections, is not so easily laid aside. if i could divest myself of that, i should not, i think, find much for friendship remaining; you, against whom i have no complaint, but that you satisfy yourself with loving me without any desire of seeing me, are one of the very last that i wish to preserve; but i will say no more on a subject that my heart is too full of. i shall set out on monday se'nnight, and force myself to believe that i am glad to go, and yet this will be my chief joy, for i promise myself little pleasure in arriving. can you think me boy enough to be fond of a new world at my time of life! if i did not hate the world i know, i should not seek another. my greatest amusement will be in reviving old ideas. the memory of what made impressions on one's youth is ten times dearer than any new pleasure can be. i shall probably write to you often, for i am not disposed to communicate myself' to any thing that i have not known these thirty years. my mind is such a compound from the vast variety that i have seen, acted, pursued, that it would cost me too much pains to be intelligible to young persons, if i had a mind to open myself to them. they certainly do not desire i should. you like my gossiping to you, though you seldom gossip with me. the trifles that amuse my mind are the only points i value now. i have seen the vanity of every thing serious, and the falsehood of every thing that pretended to be serious. i go to see french plays and buy french china, not to know their ministers, to look into their government, or think of the interests of nations--in short, unlike most people that are growing old, i am convinced that nothing is charming but what appeared important in one's youth, which afterwards passes for follies. oh! but those follies were sincere; if the pursuits of age are so, they are sincere alone to self-interest. thus i think, and have no other care but not to think aloud. i would not have respectable youth think me an old fool. for the old knaves, they may suppose me one of their number if they please; i shall not be so--but neither the one nor the other shall know what i am. i have done with them all, shall amuse myself as well as i can, and think as little as i can; a pretty hard task for an active mind! direct your letters to arlington-street, whence favre will take care to convey them to me. i leave him to manage all my affairs, and take no soul but louis. i am glad i don't know your mrs. anne; her partiality would make me love her; and it is entirely incompatible with my present system to leave even a postern-door open to any feeling which would steal in if i did not double-bolt every avenue. if you send me any parcel to arlington-street before monday .se'nnight i will take care of it. many english books i conclude are to be bought at paris. i am sure richardson's works are, for they have stupefied the whole french nation:( ) i will not answer for our best authors. you may send me your list, and, if i do not find them, i can send you word, and you may convey them to me by favre's means, who will know of messengers, etc., coming to paris. i have fixed no precise time for my absence. my wish is to like it enough to stay till february, which may happen, if i can support the first launching into new society. i know four or five very agreeable and sensible people there, as the guerchys, madame de mirepoix, madame de boufflers, and lady mary chabot,- -these intimately; besides the duc de nivernois, and several others that have been here. then the richmonds will follow me in a fortnight or three weeks, and their house will be a sort of home. i actually go into it at first, till i can suit myself with an -,apartment; but i shall take care to quit it before they come, for, though they are in a manner my children, i do not intend to adopt the rest of my countrymen; nor, when i quit the best company here, to live in the worst there; such @are young travelling boys, and, what is still worse, old travelling boys, governors. adieu! remember you have defrauded me of this summer; i will be amply repaid the next, so make your arrangements accordingly. ( ) "high as richardson's reputation stood in his own country, it was even more exalted in those of france and germany, whose imaginations are more easily excited, and their passions more easily moved, by tales of fictitious distress, than are the cold- blooded english. foreigners of distinction have been known to visit hampstead, and to inquire for the flask walk, distinguished as a scene in clarissa's history, just as travellers visit the rocks of meillerie to view the localities of rousseau's tale of passion. diderot vied with rousseau in heaping incense upon the shrine of the english author. the former compares him to homer, and predicts for his memory the same honours which are rendered to the father of epic poetry; and the last, besides his well-known burst of eloquent panegyric, records his opinion in a letter to d'alembert:--'on n'a jamais fait encore, en quelque langue que ce soit, de roman `egal `a clarisse, ni m`eme approchant.'" sir walter scott; prose works, vol. iii. p. .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) my dear lord, i cannot quit a country where i leave any thing that i honour so much as your lordship and lady strafford, without taking a sort of leave of you. i shall set out for paris on monday next the th, and shall be happy if i can execute any commission for you there. a journey to paris sounds youthful and healthy. i have certainly mended much this last week, though with no pretensions to a recovery of youth. half the view of my journey is to re-establish my health--the other half, to wash my hands of politics, which i have long determined to do whenever a change should happen. i would not abandon my friends while they were martyrs; but, now they have gained their crown of glory, they are well able to shift for themselves; and it was no part of my compact to go to that heaven, st. james's, with them. unless i dislike paris very much, i shall stay some time; but i make no declarations, lest i should be soon tired of it, and coming back again. at first, i must like it, for lady mary coke will be there, as if by assignation. the countesses of carlisle and berkeley, too, i hear, will set up their staves there for some time; but as my heart is faithful to lady mary, they would not charm me if they were forty times more disposed to it. the emperor' is dead,( )--but so are all the maximilians and leopolds his predecessors, and with no more influence on the present state of things. the empressqueen will still be master-dowager unless she marries an irishman, as i wish with all my soul she may. the duke and duchess of richmond will follow me in about a fortnight: lord and lady george lennox go with them; and sir charles banbury and lady sarah are to be at paris, too, for some time: so the english court there will be very juvenile and blooming. this set is rather younger than the dowagers with whom i pass so much of my summers and autumns; but this is to be my last sally into the world and when i return, i intend to be as sober as my cat, and purr quietly in my own chimney corner. adieu, my dear lord! may every happiness attend you both, and may i pass some agreeable days next summer with you at wentworth castle! ( ) francis the first, emperor of germany, died at inspruck, on sunday the th of august. he was in good health the greater part of the day, and assisted at divine service; but, between nine and ten in the evening, he was attacked by a fit of apoplexy, and expired in a few minutes afterwards in the arms of his son, the king of the romans.-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) the trouble your ladyship has given yourself so immediately, makes me, as i always am, ashamed of putting you to any. there is no persuading you to oblige moderately. do you know, madam, that i shall tremble to deliver the letters you have been so good as to send me? if you have said half so much of me, as you are, so partial as to think of me, i shall be undone. limited as i know myself, and hampered in bad french, how shall i keep up to any character at all? madame d'aiguillon and madame geoffrin will never believe that i am the true messenger, but will conclude that i have picked mr. walpole's portmanteau's pocket. i wish only to present myself to them as one devoted to your ladyship; that character i am sure i can support in any language, and it is the one to which they would pay the most regard. well! i don't care, madam-it is your reputation that is at stake more than mine; and, if they find me a simpleton that don't know how to express myself, it will all fall upon you at last.' if your ladyship will risk that, i will, if you please, thank you for a letter to madame d'egmont, too: i long to know your friends, though at the hazard of their knowing yours. would i were a jolly old man, to match, at least, in that respect, your jolly old woman!( )--but, alas! i am nothing but a poor worn-out rag, and fear, when i come to paris, that i shall be forced to pretend that i have had the gout in my understanding. my spirits, such as they are, will not bear translating; and i don't know whether i shall not find it the wisest part i can take to fling myself into geometry, or commerce, or agriculture, which the french now esteem, don't understand, and think we do. they took george selwyn for a poet, and a judge of planting and dancing-. why may i not pass for a learned man and a philosopher? if the worst comes to the worst, i will admire clarissa and sir charles grandison; and declare i have not a friend in the world that is not like my lord edward bomston, though i never knew a character like it in my days, and hope i never shall; nor do i think rousseau need to have gone so far out of his way to paint a disagreeable englishman. if you think, madam, this sally is not very favourable to the country i am going to, recollect, that all i object to them is their quitting their own agreeable style, to take up the worst of ours. heaven knows, we are unpleasing enough; but, in the first place, they don't understand us; and in the next, if they did, so much the worse for them. what have they gained by leaving moli`ere, boileau, corneille, racine, la rochefucault, crebillon, marivaux, voltaire, etc.? no nation can be another nation. we have been clumsily copying them for these hundred years, and are not we grown wonderfully like them? come, madam, you like what i like of them? i am going thither, and you have no aversion to going thither--but own the truth; had not we both rather go thither fourscore years ago? had you rather be acquainted with the charming madame scarron, or the canting madame de maintenon? with louis xiv. when the montespan governed him, or when p`ere le tellier? i am very glad when folks go to heaven, though it is after another body's fashion; but i 'wish to converse with them when they are themselves. i abominate a conqueror; but i do not think he makes the world much compensation, by cutting the throats of his protestant subjects to atone for the massacres caused by his ambition. the result of all this dissertation, madam--for i don't know how to call it a letter--is, that i shall look for paris in the midst of paris, and shall think more of the french that have been than the french that are, except of a few of your friends and mine. those i know, i admire and honour, and i am sure i will trust to your ladyship's taste for the others; and if they had no other merit, i can but like those that will talk to me of you. they will find more sentiment in me on that chapter, than they can miss parts; and i flatter myself that the one will atone for the other. ( ) la duchesse douairi`ere d'aiguillon, n`ee chabot, mother of the duc d'aiguillon, who succeeded the duc de choiseul as minister for foreign affairs. she was a correspondent of lady hervey's. in a letter to walpole, of the th of november , madame du deffand says:--"je soupai iiier chez madame d'aiguillon: elle nous lut la traduction de la lettre d'h`eloyse de pope, et d'un chant du po`eme de salomon, de prior; elle `ecrit admirablement bien; j'en `etais r`eellement dans l'enthousiasme: dites-le `a milady hervey." she died in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) dear sir, you cannot think how agreeable your letter was to me, and how luckily it was timed. i thought you in cheshire, and did not know how to direct; i now sit down to answer it instantly. i have been extremely ill indeed with the gout all over; in head, stomach, both feet, both wrists, and both shoulders. i kept my bed a fortnight in the most sultry part of this summer; and for nine weeks could not say i was recovered. though i am still weak, and very soon tired with the least walk, i am in other respects quite well. however, to promote my entire reestablishment, i shall set out for paris next monday. thus your letter came luckily. to hear you talk of going thither, too, made it most agreeable. why should you not advance your journey? why defer it till the winter is coming on? it would make me quite happy to visit churches and convents with you: but they are not comfortable in cold weather. do, i beseech you, follow me as soon as possible. the thought of your being there at the same time makes me much more pleased with my journey; you will not, i hope, like it the less; and, if our meeting there should tempt you to stay longer, it will make me still more happy. if, in the mean time, i can be of any use to you, i shall be glad either in taking a lodging for you, or any thing else. let me know, and direct to me in arlington-street, whence my servant will convey it to me. tell me above all things that you will set out sooner. if i have any money left when i return, and can find a place for it, i shall be very glad to purchase the ebony cabinet you mention, and will make it a visit with you next summer if you please--but first let us go to paris. i don't give up my passion for ebony; but, since the destruction of the jesuits, i hear one can pick up so many of their spoils that i am impatient for the opportunity. i must finish, as i have so much business before i set out; but i must repeat, how lucky the arrival of your letter was, how glad i was to hear of your intended journey, and how much i wish it may take place directly. i will only add that the court goes to fontainbleau, the last week in september, or first in october, and therefore it is the season in the world for seeing all versailles quietly, and at one's ease. adieu! dear sir, yours most cordially. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. amiens, wednesday, sept. , . (page ) beau cousin, i have had a very prosperous journey till just at entering this city. i escaped a prince of nassau at dover, and sickness at sea, though the voyage lasted seven hours and a half. i have recovered my strength surprisingly in the time; though almost famished for want of clean victuals, and comfortable tea and bread and butter. half a mile from hence i met a coach and four with an equipage of french, and a lady in pea-green and silver, a smart hat and feather., and two suivantes. my reason told me it was the archbishop's concubine; but luckily my heart whispered that it was lady mary coke. i jumped out of my chaise--yes, jumped, as mrs. nugent said of herself, fell on my knees, and said my first ave maria, grati`a plena. we just shot a few politics flying--heard that madame de mirepoix had toasted me t'other day in tea--shook hands, forgot to weep, and parted; she to the hereditary princess, i to this inn, where is actually resident the duchess of douglas. we are not likely to have an intercourse, or i would declare myself' a hamilton.( ) i find this country wonderfully enriched since i saw it four-and-twenty years ago. boulogne is grown quite a plump snug town, with a number of new houses. the worst villages are tight, and wooden shoes have disappeared. mr. pitt and the city of london may fancy what they will, but france will not come a-begging to the mansion-house this year or two. in truth. i impute this air of opulence a little to ourselves. the crumbs that fall from the chaises of the swarms of english that visit paris, must have contributed to fatten this province. it is plain i must have little to do when i turn my hand to calculating: but here is my observation. from boulogne to paris it will cost me near ten guineas; but then consider, i travel alone, and carry louis most part of the way in the chaise with me. nous autres milords anglais are not often so frugal. your brother, last year, had ninety-nine english to dinner on the king's birthday. how many of them do you think dropped so little as ten guineas on this road? in short, there are the seeds of a calculation for you, and if you will water them with a torrent of words, they will produce such a dissertation, that you will be able to vie with george grenville next session in plans of national economy-only be sure not to tax travelling till i come back, loaded with purchases; nor, till then, propagate my ideas. it will be time enough for me to be thrifty of the nation's money, when i have spent all my own. clermont, th. while they are getting my dinner, i continue my journal. the duchess of douglas (for english are generally the most extraordinary persons that we meet with even out of england) left amiens before me, on her way home. you will not guess what she carries with her--oh! nothing that will hurt our manufactures; nor what george grenville himself would seize. one of her servants died at paris: she had him embalmed, and the body is tied before her chaise: a droll way of being chief mourner. for a french absurdity, i have observed that along the great roads they plant walnut-trees, but strip them up for firing. it is like the owl that bit off the feet of mice, that they might lie still and fatten. at the foot of this hill is an old-fashioned ch`ateau belonging to the duke of fitz-james, with a parc en quincunx and clipped hedges. we saw him walking in his waistcoat and riband, very well powdered; a figure like guerchy. i cannot say his seat rivals goodwood or euston.( ) i shall lie at chantilly to-night, for i did not set out till ten this morning--not because i could not, as you will suspect, get up sooner--but because all the horses in the country have attended the queen to nancy.( ) besides, i have a little underplot of seeing chantilly and st. denis in my way: which you know one could not do in the dark to-night, nor in winter, if i return then. h`otel de feue madame l'ambassadrice d'angleterre, sept. , seven o'clock. i am just arrived. my lady hertford is not at home, and lady anne( ) will not come out of her burrow: so i have just time to finish this before madame returns; and brian sets out to-night and will carry it. i find i shall have a great deal to say: formerly i observed nothing, and now remark every thing minutely. i have already fallen in love with twenty things, and in hate with forty. adieu! yours ever. ( ) the memorable cause between the houses of douglas and hamilton was then pending.-e. ( ) the duc de fitzjames's father, mareschal berwick, was a natural son of james ii. mr. walpole therefore compares his country-seat with those of the dukes of richmond and grafton, similar descendants from his brother, charles ii.-e. ( ) stanislaus king of poland, father to the queen of louis xv. lived at nancy.-e. ( ) lady anne seymour conway, afterwards married to the earl of drogheda.-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, sept. , . (page ) i am but two days old here, madam, and i doubt i wish i was really so, and had my life to begin, to live it here. you see how just i am, and ready to make amende honorable to your ladyship. yet i have seen very little. my lady hertford has cut me to pieces, and thrown me into a caldron with tailors, periwig-makers, snuff-box-wrights, milliners, etc. which really took up but little time; and i am come out quite new, with every thing but youth. the journey recovered me with magic expedition. my strength, if mine could ever be called strength, is returned; and the gout going off in a minuet step. i will say nothing of my spirits, which are indecently juvenile, and not less improper for my age than for the country where i am; which, if you will give me leave to say it, has a thought too much gravity. i don't venture to laugh or talk nonsense, but in english. madame geoffrin came to town but last night, and is not visible on sundays; but i hope to deliver your ladyship's letter and packet to-morrow. mesdames d'aiguillon, d'egmont, and chabot, and the duc de nivernois are all in the country. madame de bouttlers is at l'isle adam, whither my lady hertford is gone to-night to sup, for the first time, being no longer chained down to the incivility of an ambassadress. she returns after supper; an irregularity that frightens me, who have not got rid of all my barbarisms. there is one, alas! i never shall get over--the dirt of this country: it is melancholy, after the purity of strawberry! the narrowness of the streets, trees clipped to resemble brooms, and planted on pedestals of chalk, and a few other points, do not edify me. the french opera, which i have heard to-night, disgusted me as much as ever; and the more for being followed by the devin de village, which shows that they can sing without cracking the drum of one's ear. the scenes and dances are delightful; the italian comedy charming. then i am in love with treillage and fountains, and will prove it at strawberry. chantilly is so exactly what it was when i saw it above twenty years ago, that i recollected the very position of monsieur le duc's chair and the gallery. the latter gave me the first idea of mine; but, presumption apart, mine is a thousand times prettier. i gave my lord herbert's compliments to the statue of his friend the constable -,( ) and, waiting some time for the concierge, i called out, o`u est vatel?( ) in short, madam, being as tired as one can be of one's own country,--i don't say whether that is much or little,--i find myself wonderfully disposed to like this. indeed i wish i could wash it. madame de guerchy is all goodness to me; but that is not new. i have already been prevented by great civilities from madame de bentheim and my old friend madame de mirepoix; but am not likely to see the latter much, who is grown a most particular favourite of the king, and seldom from him. the dauphin is ill, and thought in a very bad way. i hope he will live, lest the theatres should be shut up. your ladyship knows i never trouble my head about royalties, farther than it affects my own interest. in truth, the way that princes affect my interest is not the common way. i have not yet tapped the chapter of baubles, being desirous of making my revenues maintain me here as long as possible, it will be time enough to return to my parliament when i want money. mr. hume that is the mode,( ) asked much about your ladyship. i have seen madame de monaco( ) and think her very handsome, and extremely pleasing. the younger madame d'egmont,( ) i hear, disputes the palm with her: and madame de brionne( ) is not left without partisans. the nymphs of the theatres are laides `a faire peur which at my age is a piece of luck, like going into a shop of curiosities, and finding nothing to tempt one to throw away one's money. there are several english here, whether i will or not. i certainly did not come for them, and shall connect with them as little as possible. the few i value, i hope sometimes to hear of. your ladyship guesses how far that wish extends. consider too, madam, that one of my unworthinesses is washed and done away, by the confession i made in the beginning of my letter. ( ) the constable de montmorency.-e. ( ) the ma`itre-d'h`otel, who, during the visit which louis xiv. made to the grand cond`e at chantilly, put an end to his existence, because he feared the sea-fish would not arrive in time for one day's repast. ( ) "hume's conversation to strangers," says lord charlemont, "and still more particularly, one would suppose, to french women, could be little delightful; and yet no lady's toilette was complete without his attendance. at the opera, his broad, unmeaning face was usually seen entre deux jolis minois: the ladies in france gave the ton, and the ton was deism."-e. ( ) madame de monaco, afterwards princess de cond`e.-e. ( ) daughter of the celebrated marshal duc de richelieu. see vol. iii. p. , letter , note . she was one of the handsomest women in france.-e. ( ) madame de brionne, n`ee rohan rochefort, wife of m. de brionne of the house of lorraine, and mother of the prince de lambesc; known by his imprudent conduct at the head of his regiment in the garden of the tuileries, at the commencement of the revolution.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. paris, wednesday, sept. , . (page ) dear sir, i have this moment received your letter, and as a courier is just setting out, i had rather take the opportunity of writing to you a short letter than defer it for a longer. i had a very good passage, and pleasant journey, and find myself surprisingly recovered for the time. thank you for the good news you tell me of your coming: it gives me great joy. to the end of this week i shall be in lord hertford's house; so have not yet got a lodging: but when i do, you will easily find me. i have no banker, but credit on a merchant who is a private friend of ]lord hertford; consequently, i cannot give you credit on him: but you shall have the use of my credit, which will be the same thing; and we can settle our accounts together. i brought about a hundred pounds with me, as i would advise you to do. guineas you may change into louis or french crowns at calais and boulogne; and even small bank-bills will be taken here. in any shape i will assist you. be careful on the road. my portmanteau, with part of my linen, was stolen from before my chaise at noon, while i went to see chantilly. if you stir out of your room, lock the door of it in the inn, or leave your man in it. if you arrive near the time you propose, you will find me here, and i hope much longer. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, sept. , . (page ) the concern i felt at not seeing you before i left england, might make me express myself warmly, but i assure you it was nothing but concern, nor was mixed with a grain of pouting. i knew some of your reasons, and guessed others. the latter grieve me heartily; but i advise you to do as i do - when i meet with ingratitude, i take a short leave both of it and its host. formerly i used to look out for indemnification somewhere else; but having lived long enough to learn that the reparation generally proved a second evil of the same sort, i am content now to skin over such wounds with amusements, which at least have no scars. it is true, amusements do not always amuse when we bid them. i find it so here; nothing strikes me; every thing i do is indifferent to me. i like the people very well, and their way of life very well; but as neither were my object, i should not much care if they were any other people, or it was any other way of life. i am out of england and my purpose is answered. nothing can be more obliging than the reception i meet with every where. it may not be more sincere (and why should it?) than our cold and bare civility; but it is better dressed, and looks natural: one asks no more. i have begun to sup in french houses, and as lady hertford has left paris to-day, shall increase my intimacies. there are swarms of english here, but most of them are going, to my great satisfaction. as the greatest part are very young, they can no more be entertaining to me than i to them, and it certainly was not my countrymen that i came to live with. suppers please me extremely; i love to rise and breakfast late, and to trifle away the day as i like. there are sights enough to answer that end, and shops you know are an endless field for me the city appears much worse to me than i thought i remembered it. the french music as shocking as i knew it was. the french stage is fallen off though in the only part i have seen le kain( ) i admire him extremely. he is very ugly and ill made,( ) and yet has an heroic dignity which garrick wants, and great fire. the dumenil i have not seen yet, but shall in a day or two. it is a mortification that i cannot compare her with the clairon,( ) who has left the stage. grandval i saw through a whole play without suspecting it was he. alas! four-and-twenty years make strange havoc with us mortals! you cannot imagine how this struck me! the italian comedy, now united with their opera comique, is their most perfect diversion; but alas! harlequin, my dear favourite harlequin, my passion, makes me more melancholy than cheerful. instead of laughing, i sit silently reflecting how every thing loses charms when one's own youth does not lend. its gilding! when we are divested of that eagerness and illusion with which our youth presents objects to us, we are but the caput mortuum of pleasure. grave as these ideas are, they do not unfit me for french company. the present tone is serious enough in conscience. unluckily, the subjects of their conversation are duller to me than my own thoughts, which may be tinged with melancholy reflections, but i doubt from my constitution will never be insipid. the french affect philosophy, literature, and freethinking: the first never did, and never will possess me; of the two others i have long been tired. freethinking is for one's self, surely not for society; besides one has settled one's way of thinking, or knows it cannot be settled, and for others i do not see why there is not as much bigotry in attempting conversions from any religion as to it. i dined to-day with a dozen savans, and though all the servants were waiting, the conversation was much more unrestrained, even on the old testament, than i would suffer at my own table in england, if a single footman was present. for literature, it is very amusing when one has nothing else to do. i think it rather pedantic in society; tiresome when displayed professedly; and, besides, in this country one is sure, it is only the fashion of the day. their taste in it is worst of all: could one believe that when they read our authors, richardson and mr. hume should be their favourites? the latter is treated here with perfect veneration. his history, so falsified in many points, so partial in as many, so very unequal in its parts, is thought the standard of writing. in their dress and equipages they are grown very simple. we english are living upon their old gods and goddesses; i roll about in a chariot decorated with cupids, and look like the grandfather of adonis. of their parliaments and clergy i hear a good deal, and attend very little - i cannot take up any history in the middle, and was too sick of politics at home to enter into them here. in short, i have done with the world, and live in it rather than in a desert, like you. few men can bear absolute retirement, and we english worst of all. we grow so humoursome, so obstinate and capricious, and so prejudiced, that it requires a fund of good-nature like yours not to grow morose. company keeps our rind from growing too coarse and rough; and though at my return i design not to mix in public, i do not intend to be quite a recluse. my absence will put it in my power to take up or drop as much as i please. adieu! i shall inquire about your commission of books, but having been arrived but ten days, have not yet had time. need i say?--no i need not--that nobody can be more affectionately yours than, etc. ) le kain was born at paris in , and died there in . he was originally brought up a surgical instrument maker; but his dramatic talents having been made known to voltaire, he took him under his instructions, and secured him an engagement at the fran`cais, where he performed for the first time in .-e. ( ) "cet acteur," says baron de grimm, "n'est presque jamais faux, mais malheureusement il a voix, figure, tout, contre lui. une sensibilit`e forte et profonde, qui faisait disparaitre la laideur de ses traits sous le charme de l'expression dont elle les rendait susceptible, et ne laissait aper`cevoir que lea caract`ere et la passion dont son `ame `etait remplie, et lui donnait @ chaque instant de nouvelles formes et nouvel `etre."-e. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter . mademoiselle clairon was born in , and made her first appearance at paris in , in the character of ph`edre. she died at paris in . several of her letters to the british roscius will be found in the garrick correspondence. on her acting, when in the zenith of her reputation, dr. grimm passes the following judgment:--"belle clairon, vous avez beaucoup d'esprit: votre jeu est profond`ement raisonn`e; mais la passion a-t-elle le temps de raisoner? vous n'avez ni naturel ni entrailles; vous ne d`echirez jamais les miennes; vous ne faites jamais couler mes pleurs; vous mettez des silences `a tout; vous voulez faire sentir chaque hemistiche; et lorsque tout fait effet dans votre jeu, je vois que la totalit`e de la sc`ene n'en fait plus aucun."-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, oct. , . (page ) still, i have seen neither madame d'egmont nor the duchess d'aiguillon, who are in the country; but the latter comes to paris to-morrow. madame chabot i called on last night. she was not at home, but the h`otel de carnavalet;( ) was; and i stopped on purpose to say an ave-maria before it. it is a very singular building, not at all in the french style, and looks like an ex voto raised to her honour by some of her foreign votaries. i don't think her honoured half enough in her own country. i shall burn a little incense before your cardinal's heart,( ) madam, `a votre intention. i have been with madame geoffrin several times, and think she has one of the best understandings i ever met, and more knowledge of the world. i may be charmed with the french, but your ladyship must not expect that they will fall in love with me. without affecting to lower myself, the disadvantage of speaking a language worse than any idiot one meets, is insurmountable: the silliest frenchman is eloquent to me, and leaves me embarrassed and obscure. i could name twenty other reasons, if this one was not sufficient. as it is, my own defects are the sole cause of my not liking paris entirely: the constraint i am under from not being perfectly master of their language, and from being so much in the dark, as one necessarily must be, on half the subjects of their conversation, prevents me enjoying that ease for which their society is calculated. i am much amused, but not comfortable. the duc de nivernois is extremely good to me; he inquired much after your ladyship. so does colonel drumgold.( ) the latter complains; but both of them, especially the duc, seem better than when in england. i met the duchesse de coss`e,( ) this evening at madame geoffrin's. she is pretty, with a great resemblance to her father; lively and good-humoured, not genteel. yesterday i went through all my presentations at versailles. 'tis very convenient to gobble up a whole royal family in an hour's time, instead of being sacrificed one week at leicester-house, another in grosvenor-street, a third in cavendish-square, etc. etc. etc. la reine is le plus grand roi du monde,( ) and talked much to me, and would have said more if i would have let her; but i was awkward and shrunk back into the crowd. none of the rest spoke to me. the king is still much handsomer than his pictures, and has great sweetness in his countenance, instead of that farouche look which they give him. the mesdames are not beauties, and yet have something bourbon in their faces. the dauphiness i approve the least of all: with nothing good-humoured in her countenance, she has a look and accent that made me dread lest i should be invited to a private party at loo with her.( ) the poor dauphin is ghastly, and perishing before one's eyes. fortune bestowed on me a much more curious sight than a set of princes; the wild beast of the govaudan,( ) which is killed, and actually is in the queen's antechamber. it is a thought less than a leviathan, and the beast in the revelations, and has not half so many wings, and yes, and talons, as i believe they have, or will have some time or other; this being possessed but of two eyes, four feet, and no wings at all. it is as fine a wolf' as a commissary in the late war, except, notwithstanding all the stories, that it has not devoured near so many persons. in short, madam, now it is dead and come, a wolf it certainly was, and not more above the common size than mrs. cavendish is. it has left a dowager and four young princes. mr. stanley, who i hope will trouble himself with this, has been most exceedingly kind and obliging to me. i wish that, instead of my being so much in your ladyship's debt, you were a little in mine, and then i would beg you to thank him for me. well, but as it is, why should not you, madam? he will be charmed to be so paid, and you will not dislike to please him. in short, i would fain have him know my gratitude; and it is hearing it in the most agreeable way, if expressed by your ladyship. ( ) madame de s`evign`e's residence in paris.-e. ( ) the cardinal de richelieu's heart at the sorbonne.-e. ( ) colonel drumgold was born at paris in , and died there in . dr. johnson, in giving boswell an account of his visit to paris in , made the following mention of him: "i was just beginning to creep into acquaintance, by means of colonel drumgold, a very high man, sir, head of l,'ecole militaire, and a most complete character, for he had first been a professor of rhetoric, and then became a soldier." he was the author of "la gaiet`e," a poem, and several other pieces.-e. ( ) wife of the duc de coss`e brisac, governor of paris. she was a daughter of the duc de nivernois.-e. ( ) madame de s`evign`e thus expresses herself of louis xiv. after his having taken much notice of her at versailles.-e. ( ) he means, that the dauphiness had a resemblance to the princess amelia.-e. ( ) this enormous wolf, for wolf it proved to be, gave rise to many extraordinary reports. the following account of it is from the gentleman's magazine for : "a very strange description is given in the paris gazette of a wild beast that has appeared in the neighbourhood of langagne and the forest of mercoire, and has occasioned great consternation. it has already devoured twenty persons, chiefly children, and particularly young, girls; and scarce a day passes without some accidents. the terror it occasions prevents the woodcutters from working in the forest. those who have seen him say he is much higher than a wolf, low before, and his feet are armed with talons. his hair is reddish, his head large, and the muzzle of it shaped like that of a greyhound; his ears are small and straight, his breast wide and of a gray colour; his back streaked with black; and his mouth which is large, is provided with a set of teeth so very sharp that they have taken off several heads as clean as a razor could have done. he is of amazing swiftness; but when he aims at his prey, he couches so close to the ground that he hardly appears to be bigger than a large fox, and at the distance of one or two fathoms he rises upon his hind legs and springs upon his prey, which he always seizes by the neck or throat. the consternation is universal throughout the districts where he commits his ravages, and public prayers are offered up upon this occasion. the marquis de morangis has sent out four hundred peasants to destroy this fierce beast; but they have not been able to do it. he has since been killed by a soldier, and appears to be a hyena." e. letter to john chute, esq. paris, oct. , . (page ) i don't know where you are, nor when i am likely to hear of you. i write it random, and, as i talk, the first thing that comes into my pen. i am, as you certainly conclude, much more amused than pleased. at a certain time of life, sights and new objects may entertain one, but new people cannot find any place in one's affection. new faces with some name or other belonging to them, catch my attention for a minute--i cannot say many preserve it. five or six of the women that i have seen already are very sensible. the men are in general much inferior, and not even agreeable. they sent us their best, i believe, at first, the duc de nivernois. their authors, who by the way are every where, are worse than their own writings, which i don't mean as a compliment to either. in general, the style of conversation is solemn, pedantic, and seldom animated, but by a dispute. i was expressing my aversion to disputes mr. hume, who very gratefully admires the tone of paris, having never known any other tone, said with great surprise, "why, what do you like, if you hate both disputes and whisk?" what strikes me the most upon the whole is, the total difference of manners between them and us, from the greatest object to the least. there is not the smallest similitude in the twenty-four hours. it is, obvious in every trifle. servants carry their lady's train, and put her into her coach with their hat on. they walk about the streets in the rain with umbrellas to avoid putting on their hats - driving themselves in open chaises in the country without hats, in the rain too, and yet often wear them in a chariot in paris when it does not rain. the very footmen are powdered from the break of day, and yet wait behind their master, as i saw the duc of praslin's do, with a red pocket handkerchief about their necks. versailles, like every thing else, is a mixture of parade and poverty, and in every instance exhibits something most dissonant from our manners. in the colonnades, upon the staircases, nay in the antechambers of the royal family, there are people selling all sorts of wares. while we were waiting in the dauphin's sumptuous bedchamber, till his dressing-room door should be opened, two fellows were sweeping it, and dancing about in sabots to rub the floor. you perceive that i have been presented. the queen took great notice of me; none of the rest said a syllable. you are let into the king's bedchamber just as he has put on his shirt; he dresses and talks good-humouredly to a few, glares at strangers, goes to mass--to dinner, and a-hunting. the good old queen, who is like lady primrose in the face, and queen caroline in the immensity of her cap, is at her dressing-table, attended by two or three old ladies, who are languishing to be in abraham's bosom, as the only man's bosom to whom they can hope for admittance. thence you go to the dauphin, for all is done in an hour. he scarce stays a minute; indeed, poor creature, he is a ghost, and cannot possibly last three months. the dauphiness is in her bedchamber, but dressed and standing; looks cross, is not civil, and has the true westphalian grace and accents. the four mesdames, who are clumsy plump old wenches, with a bad likeness to their father, stand in a bedchamber in a row, with black cloaks and knotting-bags, looking good-humoured, not knowing what to say, and wriggling as if they wanted to make water. this ceremony too is very short: then you are carried to the dauphin's three boys, who you may be sure only bow and stare. the duke of berry( ) looks weak, and weak-eyed: the count de provence( ) is a fine boy; the count d'artois( ) well enough. the whole concludes with seeing the dauphin's little girl dine, who is as round and as fat as a pudding. the queen's antechamber we foreigners and the foreign ministers were shown the famous beast of the govaudan, just arrived, and covered with a cloth, which two chasseurs lifted up. it is an absolute wolf, but uncommonly large, and the expression of agony and fierceness remains strongly imprinted on its dead jaws. i dined at the duc of praslin's with four-and-twenty ambassadors and envoys, who never go out but on tuesdays to court. he does the honours sadly, and i believe nothing else well, looking important and empty. the duc de choiseul's face, which is quite the reverse of gravity, does not promise much more. his wife is gentle, pretty, and very agreeable. the duchess of praslin, jolly, red-faced, looking very vulgar, and being very attentive and civil. i saw the duc de richelieu in waiting, who is pale, except his nose, which is red, much wrinkled, and exactly a remnant of that age which produced general churchill, wilkes the player, the duke of argyle, etc. adieu! ( ) afterwards the unfortunate louis xvi.-e. ( ) afterwards louis xviii.-e. ( ) afterwards charles x.-e letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, oct, , . (page ) i am glad to find that you grow just, and that you do conceive at last, that i could do better than stay in england for politics. "tenez, mon enfant," as the duchesse de la fert`e said to madame staal;( ) "comme il n'y a que moi au monde qui aie toujours raison," i will be very reasonable; as you have made this concession to me, who knew i was in the right i will not expect you to answer all my reasonable letters. if you send a bullying letter to the king of spain,( ) or to chose, my neighbour here,( ) i will consider them as written to myself, and subtract so much from your bill. nay, i will accept a line from lady ailesbury now and then in part of payment. i shall continue to write as the wind sets in my pen; and do own my babble does not demand much reply. for so reasonable a person as i am, i have changed my mind very often about this country. the first five days i was in violent spirits; then came a dismal cloud of whisk and literature, and i could not bear it. at present i begin, very englishly indeed, to establish a right to my own way. i laugh, and talk nonsense, and make them hear me. there are two or three houses where i go quite at my ease, am never asked to touch a card, nor hold dissertations. nay, i don't pay homage to their authors. every woman has one or two planted in her house, and god knows how they water them. the old president hainault( ) is the pagod at madame du deffand's, an old blind debauch`ee of wit, where i supped last night. the president is very near deaf, and much nearer superannuated. he sits by the table: the mistress of the house, who formerly was his, inquires after every dish on the table, is told who has eaten of which, and then bawls the bill of fare of every individual into the president's ears. in short, every mouthful is proclaimed, and so is every blunder i make against grammar. some that i make on purpose, succeed: and one of them is to be reported to the queen to-day by hainault, who is her great favourite. i had been at versailles and having been much taken notice of by her majesty, i said, alluding to madame s`evign`e, la reine est le plus grand roi du monde. you may judge if i am in possession by a scene that passed after supper. sir james macdonald( ) had been mimicking hume: i told the women, who, besides the mistress, were the duchess de la vali`ere,( ) madame de forcalquier,( ) a demoiselle, that to be sure they would be glad to have a specimen of mr. pitt's manner of speaking; and that nobody mimicked him so well as elliot.( ) they firmly believed it, teased him for an hour, and at last said he was the rudest man in the world not to oblige them. it appeared the more strange, because here every body sings, reads their own works in public, or attempts any one thing without hesitation or capacity. elliot speaks miserable french; which added to the diversion. i had had my share of distress in the morning, by going through the operation of being presented to the royal family, down to the little madame's pap-dinner, and had behaved as sillily as you will easily believe; hiding myself behind every mortal. the queen called me up to her dressing-table, and seemed mightily disposed to gossip with me; but instead of enjoying my glory like madame de s`evign`e, i slunk back into the crowd after a few questions. she told monsieur de guerchy of it afterwards, and that i had run away from her, but said she would have her revenge at fontainbleau. so i must go thither, which i do not intend. the king, dauphin, dauphiness, mesdames, and the wild beasts did not say a word to me. yes, the wild beast, he of the gevaudan. he is killed, and actually in the queen's antechamber, where he was exhibited to us with as much parade as if it was mr. pitt. it is an exceedingly large wolf, and, the connoisseurs say, has twelve teeth more than any wolf ever had since the days of romulus's wet nurse. the critics deny it to be the true beast; and i find most people think the beast's name is legion,--for there are many. he was covered with a sheet, which two chasseurs lifted up for the foreign ministers and strangers. i dined at the duke of praslin's with five-and-twenty tomes of the corps diplomatique; and after dinner was presented, by monsieur de guerchy, to the duc de choiseul. the duc de praslin is as like his own letters in d'eon's book as he can stare; that is, i believe a very silly fellow. his wisdom is of the grave kind. his cousin, the first minister, is a little volatile being, whose countenance and manner had nothing to frighten me for my country. i saw him but for three seconds, which is as much as he allows to any one body or thing. monsieur de guerchy, whose goodness to me is inexpressible, took the trouble of walking every where with me, and carried me particularly to see the new office for state papers. i wish i could send it you. it is a large building, disposed like an hospital, with the most admirable order and method. lodgings for every officer; his name and business written over his door. in the body is a perspective of seven or eight large chambers: each is painted with emblems, and wainscoted with presses with wired doors and crimson curtains. over each press, in golden letters, the country to which the pieces relate, as angleterre, allemagne, etc. each room has a large funnel of bronze with or moulu, like a column to air the papers and preserve them. in short, it is as magnificent as useful. prom thence i went to see the reservoir of pictures at m. de marigny's. they are what are not disposed of in the palaces, though sometimes changed with others. this refuse, which fills many rooms from top to bottom, is composed of the most glorious works of raphael, l. da vinci, giorgione, titian, guido, correggio, etc. many pictures, which i knew by their prints, without an idea where they existed, i found there. the duc de nivernois is extremely obliging to me. i have supped at madame de bentheim's, who has a very fine house and a woful husband. she is much livelier than any frenchwoman. the liveliest i have seen is the duc de duras:( ) he is shorter and plumper lord halifax, but very like him in the face. i am to sup with the dussons( ) on sunday. in short, all that have been in england are exceedingly disposed to repay any civilities they received there. monsieur de caraman wrote from the country to excuse his not coming to see me, as his wife is on the point of being brought to bed, but begged i would come to them. so i would, if i was a man-midwife: but though they are easy on such heads, i am not used to it, and cannot make a party of pleasure of a labour. wilkes arrived here two days ago, and announced that he was going minister to constantinople.( ) to-day i hear he has lowered his credentials, and talks of going to england, if he can make his peace.( ) i thought by the manner in which this was mentioned to me, that the person meant to sound me: but i made no answer: for, having given up politics in england, i certainly did not come to transact them here. he has not been to make me the first visit, which, as the last arrived, depends on him: so, never having spoken to him in my life, i have no call to seek him. i avoid all politics so much, that i had not heard one word here about spain. i suppose my silence passes for very artful mystery, and puzzles the ministers who keep spies on the most insignificant foreigner. it would have been lucky if i had been as watchful. at chantilly i lost my portmanteau with half my linen; and the night before last i was robbed of a new frock, waistcoat, and breeches, laced with gold, a white and silver waistcoat, black velvet breeches, a knife, and a book. these are expenses i did not expect, and by no means entering into my system of extravagance. i am very sorry for the death of lord ophaly, and for his family. i knew the poor young man himself but little, but he seemed extremely good-natured. what the duke of richmond will do for a hotel, i cannot conceive. adieu! ( ) see m`emoires de madame de staal (the first authoress of that name) published with the rest of her works, in three small volumes.-e. ( ) mr. conway was now secretary of state for the foreign department.-e. ( ) louis xv.-e. ( ) le pr`esident hainault, surintendant de la maison de mademoiselle la dauphine, membre de l'acad`emie fran`caise et de l'acad`emie des inscriptions, known by his celebrated work, the abr`eg`e chronologique de l'histoire, de france, and from the excellent table which he kept, and which was the resort of all the wits and savans of the day. his cook was considered the best in paris, and the master was worthy of his cook; a fact which voltaire celebrates in the opening lines of the epitaph which he wrote for him-- "hainault, fameux par vos soupers, et votre chronologic," etc.-e. ( ) sir james macdonald of macdonald, the eighth baronet, who died at rome on the th of july , in the twenty-fifth year of his age, regretted by all who knew him. in the inscription on his monument, executed at rome and erected in the church of slate, his character is thus drawn by his friend lord lyttelton:--"he had attained to so eminent a degree of knowledge in mathematics, philosophy, languages, and in every branch of useful and polite learning, as few have acquired in a long life wholly devoted to study; yet to this erudition he joined, what can rarely be found with it, great talents for business, great propriety of behaviour, great politeness of manners: his eloquence was sweet, correct and flowing; his memory vast and exact; his judgment strong and acute." on visiting slate, in , dr. johnson observed to boswell, that this inscription "should have been in latin, as every thing intended to be universal and permanent should be." upon this mr. croker remarks,--"what a strange perversion of language!--universal! why, if it had been in latin, so far from being universally understood, it would have been an utter blank to one (the better) half of the creation, and even of the men who might visit it, ninety-nine will understand it in english for one who could in latin. something may be said for epitaphs and inscriptions addressed, as it were, to the world at large--a triumphal arch -- the pillar at blenheim--the monument on the field of waterloo: but a latin epitaph in an english church, appears, in principle, as absurd as the dinner, which the doctor gives in peregrine pickle, 'after the manner of the ancients.' a mortal may surely be well satisfied if his fame lasts as long as the language in which he spoke or wrote."-e. ( ) la duchesse de la vali`ere, daughter of the duc d'usez. she was one of the handsomest women in france, and preserved her beauty even to old age. she died about the year , at the age of eighty.-e. ( ) the comtesse de forcalquier, n`ee canizy. she had ben first married to the comte d'antin, son to the comtesse de toulouse, by a marriage previous to that with the comte de toulouse, one of the natural children of louis quatorze, whom he legitimated.-e. ( ) sir gilbert elliot of minto. he was appointed a lord of the admiralty in , treasurer of the chamber in , keeper of the signets for scotland in , and treasurer of the navy in . he died in .-e. ( ) le duc de duras, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber at the court of france.-e. ( ) m. d'usson, who had formerly been in england in a diplomatic capacity; see ant`e p. , letter . he was brother to the marquis de bonnac, the french ambassador at the hague.-e. ( ) wilkes's application for the embassy to constantinople was an unsuccessful one. it will be seen in the chatham correspondence, that in february , he had solicited of mr. pitt a seat at the board of trade. "i wish," he says, "the board of trade might be thought a place in which i could be of any service: whatever the scene is, i shall endeavour to have the reputation of acting in a manner worthy of the connexion i have the honour to be in; and, among all the chances and changes of a political world, i will never have an obligation in a parliamentary way but to mr. pitt and his friends." vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) after his outlawry. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, oct. , . (page ) how are the mighty fallen! yes, yes, madam, i am as like the duc de richelieu as two peas; but then they are two old withered gray peas. do you remember the fable of cupid and death, and what a piece of work they made with hustling their arrows together? this is just my case: love might shoot at me, but it was with a gouty arrow. i have had a relapse in both feet, and kept my bed six days but the fit seems to be going off; my heart can already go alone, and my feet promise themselves the mighty luxury of a cloth shoe in two or three days. mr. and mrs. ramsay,( ) who are here, and are, alas! to carry this, have been of great comfort to me, and have brought their delightful little daughter, who is as quick as ariel. mr. ramsay could want no assistance from me: what do we both exist upon here, madam, but your bounty and charity? when did you ever leave one of your friends in want of another? madame geotrrin came and sat two hours last night by my bedside: i could have sworn it had been my lady hervey,( ) she was so good to me. it was with so much sense, information, instruction, and correction! the manner of the latter charms me. i never saw any body in my days that catches one's faults and vanities and impositions so quick, that explains them to one so clearly, and convinces one so easily. i never liked to be set right before! you cannot imagine how i taste it! i make her both my confessor and director, and beam to think i shall be a reasonable creature at last, which i had never intended to be. the next time i see her, i believe i shall say, "oh! common sense, sit down: i have been thinking so and so; is not it absurd?" for t'other sense and wisdom, i never liked them; i shall now hate them for her sake. if it was worth her while, i assure your ladyship she might govern me like a child.( ) the duc de nivernois too is astonishingly good to me. in short, madam, i am going down hill, but the sun sets pleasingly. your two other friends have been in paris; but i was confined, and could not wait on them. i passed a whole evening with lady mary chabot most agreeably: she charged me over and over with a thousand compliments to your ladyship. for sights, alas! and pilgrimages, they have been cut short! i had destined the fine days of october to excursions; but you know, madam, what it is to reckon without one's host, the gout. it makes such a coward of me, that i shall be afraid almost of entering a church. i have lost, too, the dumenil in ph`edre and merope, two of her principal parts, but i hope not irrecoverably. thank you, madam, for the taliacotian extract: it diverted me much. it is true, in general i neither see nor desire to see our wretched political trash: i am sick of it up to the fountain-head. it was my principal motive for coming hither; and had long been my determination, the first moment i should be at liberty, to abandon it all. i have acted from no views of interest; i have shown i did not; i have not disgraced myself- -and i must be free. my comfort is, that, if i am blamed, it will be by all parties. a little peace of mind for the rest of my days is all i ask, to balance the gout. i have writ to madame de guerchy about your orange-flower water; and i sent your ladyship two little french pieces that i hope you received. the uncomfortable posture in which i write will excuse my saying any more; but it is no excuse against my trying to do any thing to please one, who always forgets pain when her friends are in question. ( ) allan ramsay, the painter. ( ) baron de grimm, in speaking of madame geoffrin, says:-- "this lady's religion seems to have always proceeded on two principles: the one, to do the greatest quantity of good in her power; the other, to respect scrupulously all established forms, and even to lend herself, with great complaisance, to all the different movements of public opinion."-e. ( ) gibbon, in a letter to his father, of the th of february , says:--"lady hervey's recommendation to madame geoffrin was a most excellent one: her house is a very good one; regular dinners there every wednesday, and the best company in paris, in men of letters and people of fashion. it was at her house i connected myself with m. helvetius, who, from his heart, his head, and his fortune, is a most valuable man."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, oct. , . (page ) i am here, in this supposed metropolis of pleasure, triste enough; hearing from nobody in england, and again confined with the gout in both feet: yes, i caught cold, and it has returned; but as i begin to be a little acquainted with the nature of its caresses, i think the violence of its passion this time will be wasted within the fortnight. indeed, a stick and a great shoe do not commonly compose the dress which the english come hither to learn; but i shall content myself if i can limp about enough to amuse my eyes; my ears have already had their fill, and are not at all edified. my confinement preserves me from the journey to fontainbleau, to which i had no great appetite; but then i lose the opportunity of seeing versailles and st. cloud at my leisure. i wrote to you soon after my arrival; did you receive it? all the english books you named to me are to be had here at the following prices. shakspeare in eight volumes unbound for twenty-one livres; in larger paper for twenty-seven. congreve, in three volumes for nine livres. swift, in twelve volumes for twenty-four livres, another edition for twenty-seven. so you see i do not forget your commissions: if you have farther orders, let me know. wilkes is here, and has been twice to see me in my illness. he was very civil, but i cannot say entertained me much. i saw no wit; his conversation shows how little he has lived in good company, and the chief turn of it is the grossest bawdy.( ) he has certainly one merit, notwithstanding the bitterness of his pen, that is, he has no rancour; not even against sandwich, of whom he talked with the utmost temper. he showed me some of his notes on churchill's works, but they contain little more than one note on each poem to explain the subject of it. the dumenil is still the dumenil, and nothing but curiosity could make me want the clairon. grandval is grown so fat and old, that i saw him through a whole play and did not guess him. not one other, that you remember on the stage, remains there. it is not a season for novelty in any way, as both the court and the world are out of town. the few that i know are almost all dispersed. the old president henault made me a visit yesterday: he is extremely amiable, but has the appearance of a superannuated bacchanal; superannuated, poor soul! indeed he is! the duc de richelieu is a lean old resemblance of old general churchill, and like him affects still to have his boothbies. alas! poor boothbies! i hope, by the time i am convalescent, to have the richmonds here. one of the miseries of chronical illnesses is, that you are a prey to every fool, who, not knowing what to do with himself, brings his ennui to you, and calls it charity. tell me a little the intended dates of your motions, that i may know where to write at you. commend me kindly to mr. john, and wish me a good night, of which i have had but one these ten days. ( ) "i scarcely ever," says gibbon, who happened to dine in the company of wilkes in september , "met with a better companion; he has inexhaustible spirits, infinite wit and humour, and a great deal of knowledge; but a thorough profligate in principle as in practice; his life stained with every vice, and his conversation full of blasphemy and indecency."-e. letter to the countess of suffolk.( ) paris, oct. , . (page ) though i begin my letter to-day, madam, it may not be finished and set out these four days; but serving a tyrant who does not allow me many holiday-minutes, i am forced to seize the first that offer. even now when i am writing upon the table, he is giving me malicious pinches under it. i was exceedingly obliged to miss hotham for her letter, though it did not give me so good an account of your ladyship as i wished. i will not advise you to come to paris, where, i assure you, one has not a nip less of the gout than at london, and where it is rather more difficult to keep one's chamber pure; water not being reckoned here one of the elements of cleanliness. if ever my lady blandford and i make a match, i shall insist on her coming hither for a month first, to learn patience. i need have a great stock, who have only travelled from one sick bed to another; who have seen nothing; and who hear of nothing but the braveries of fontainbleau, where the duc de richelieu, whose year it is, has ordered seven new operas besides other shows. however, if i cannot be diverted, my ruin at least is protracted, as i cannot go to a single shop. lady mary chabot has been so good as to make me a visit. she is again gone into the country till november, but charged me over and over to say a great deal for her to your ladyship, for whom she expresses the highest regard. lady brown is still in the country too; but as she loves laughing more than is fashionable here, i expect her return with great impatience. as i neither desire to change their religion or government, i am tired of their perpetual dissertations on those subjects. as when i was here last, which, alas! is four-and-twenty ears ago, i was much at mrs. hayes's, i thought it but civil to wait on her now that her situation is a little less brilliant. she was not at home, but invited me to supper next night. the moment she saw me i thought i had done very right not to neglect her; for she overwhelmed me with professions of her fondness for me and all my family. when the first torrent was over, she asked me if i was son of the horace walpole who had been ambassador here. i said no, he was my uncle. oh! then you are he i used to call my neddy! no, madam, i believe that is my brother. your brother! what is my lord walpole? my cousin, madam. your cousin! why, then, who are you? i found that if i had omitted my visit, her memory of me would not have reproached me much. lord and lady fife are expected here every day from spa; but we hear nothing certain yet of their graces of richmond, for whom i am a little impatient; and for pam too, who i hope comes with them. in french houses it is impossible to meet with any thing but whist, which i am determined never to learn again. i sit by and yawn; which, however, is better than sitting at it to yawn. i hope to be able to take the air in a few days; for though i have had sharp pain and terrible nights, this codicil to my gout promises to be of much shorter duration than what i had in england, and has kept entirely to my feet. my diet sounds like an english farmer's, being nothing but beef and pudding; in truth the beef' is bouilli, and the pudding bread. this last night has been the first in which i have got a wink of sleep before six in the morning: but skeletons can live very well without eating or sleeping; nay, they can laugh too, when they meet with a jolly mortal of this world. mr. chetwynd, i conclude, is dancing at country balls and horseraces. it is charming to be so young;( ) but i do not envy one whose youth is so good-humoured and good-natured. when he gallops post to town, or swims his horse through a millpodd in november, pray make my compliments to him, and to lady blandford and lady denbigh. the joys of the gout do not put one's old friends out of one's head, even at this distance. i am, etc. ( ) now first collected. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter .-e. letter to thomas brand, esq.( ) paris, oct. , . (page ) don't think i have forgot your commissions: i mentioned them to old mariette this evening, who says he has got one of them, but never could meet with the other, and that it will be impossible for me to find either at paris. you know, i suppose, that he would as soon part with an eye as with any thing in his own collection. you may, if you please, suppose me extremely diverted here, oh! exceedingly. in the first place, i have seen nothing; in the second, i have been confined this fortnight with a return of the gout in both feet; and in the third, i have not laughed since my lady hertford went away. i assure you, you may come hither very safely, and be in no danger from mirth. laughing is as much out of fashion as pantins or bilboquets. good folks, they have no time to laugh. there is god and the king to be pulled down first; and men and women, one and all, are devoutly employed in the demolition. they think me quite profane, for having any belief left. but this is not my only crime - i have told them, and am undone by it, that they have taken from us to admire the two dullest things we had, whisk and richardson. it is very true, and they -want nothing but george grenville to make their conversations, or rather dissertations, the most tiresome upon earth. for lord lyttelton, if he would come hither, and turn freethinker once more, he would be reckoned the most -,agreeable man in france--next to mr. hume, who is the only thing in the world that they believe implicitly; which they must do, for i defy them to understand any language that he speaks. if i could divest myself of my wicked--and unphilosophic bent to laughing, i should do very well. they are very civil and obliging to me, and several of the women are very agreeable, and some of the men. the duc de nivernois has been beyond measure kind to me, and scarce missed a day without coming to see me during my confinement. the guerchys are. as usual, all friendship. i had given entirely into supping, as i do not love rising early, and still less meat breakfasts. the misfortune is, that in several houses they dine, and at others sup. you will think it odd that i should want to laugh, when wilkes, sterne, and foote are here; but the first does not make me laugh, the second never could, and for the third, i choose to pay five shillings when i have a mind he should divert me. besides, i certainly did not come in search of english: and yet the man i have liked the best in paris is an englishman, lord ossory, who is one of the most sensible young men i ever saw, with a great deal of lord tavistock in his manner. the joys of fontainbleau i miss by my illness--patienza! if the gout deprived me of nothing better than a court. the papers say the duke of dorset( ) is dead; what has he done for lord george? you cannot be so unconscionable as not to answer me. i don't ask who is to have his riband; nor how many bushels of fruit the duke of newcastle's dessert for the hereditary prince contained, nor how often he kissed him for the sake of "the dear house of brunswick"--no, keep your politics to yourselves; i want to know none of them:-when i do, and authentically, i will write to my lady * * * * or charles townshend. mrs. pit's friend, madame de rochefort, is one of my principal attachments, and very agreeable indeed. madame de mirepoix another. for my admiration, madame de monaco--but i believe you don't doubt my lord hertford's taste in sensualities. march's passion, marechalle d'estr`ees, is affected, cross, and not all handsome. the princes of the blood are pretty much retired, do not go to portsmouth and salisbury once a week, nor furnish every other paragraph to the newspapers. their campaigns are confined to killing boars and stags, two or three hundred in a year. adieu! mr. foley is my banker; or it is still more sure if you send your letter to mr. conway's office. ( ) of the hoo, in hertfordshire. see vol. ii. p. , letter .-e. ( ) lionel cranfield sackville, seventh earl and first duke of dorset: he died on the th of october. lord george sackville was his third son.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, oct. , . (page ) mr. hume sends me word from fontainbleau, that your brother, some time in the spring of , transmitted to the english ministry a pretty exact and very authentic account of the french finances;" these are his words: and "that it will be easily found among his lordship's despatches of that period." to the other question i have received no answer: i suppose he has not yet been able to inform himself. this goes by an english coachman of count lauragais, sent over to buy more horses; therefore i shall write a little ministerially, and, perhaps, surprise you, if you are not already apprised of things in the light i see them. the dauphin will probably hold out very few days. his death, that is, the near prospect of it, fills the philosophers with the greatest joy, as it was feared he would endeavour the restoration of the jesuits. you will think the sentiments of the philosophers very odd stale news --but do you know who the philosophers are, or what the term means here? in the first place, it comprehends almost every body; and in the next, means men, who, avowing war against popery, aim, many of them, at a subversion of all religion, and still many more, at the destruction of regal power. how do you know this? you will say; you, who have been but six weeks in france, three of which you have been confined to your chamber? true: but in the first period i went every where, and heard nothing else: in the latter, i have been extremely visited, and have had long and explicit conversations with many, who think as i tell you, and with a few of the other side, who are no less persuaded that there are such intentions. in particular. i had two officers here t'other night, neither of them young, whom i had difficulty to keep from a serious quarrel, and who, in the heat of the dispute, informed me of much more than i could have learnt with great pains. as a proof that my ideas are not quite visions, i send you a most curious paper;( ) such as i believe no magistrate would have pronounced in the time of charles . i should not like to have it known to come from me, nor any part of the intelligence i send you; with regard to which, if you think it necessary to communicate it to particular persons, i desire my name may be suppressed. i tell it for your satisfaction and information, but would not have any body else think that i do any thing here but amuse myself; my amusements indeed are triste enough, and consist wholly in trying to get well; but my recovery moves very slowly. i have not yet had any thing but cloth shoes on, live sometimes a whole day on warm water, and am never tolerably well till twelve or one o'clock. i have had another letter from sir horace mann, who has much at heart his riband and increase of character. consequently you know, as i love him so much, i must have them at heart too. count lorenzi is recalled, because here they think it necessary to send a frenchman of higher rank to the new grand ducal court. i wish sir horace could be raised on this occasion. for his riband, his promise is so old and so positive, that it is quite a hardship. pray put the colonies in good-humour: i see they are violently disposed to the new administration. i have not time to say more, nor more to say if i had time; so good night! let me know if you receive this, and how soon: it goes the day after to-morrow. various reports say the duke of richmond comes this week. i sent you a letter by monsieur de guerchy. dusson, i hear, goes ambassador to poland. tell lady ailesbury that i have five or six little parcels, though not above one for her, of laces and ribands, which lady cecilic left wit me: but how to convey them the lord knows. yours ever. ( ) this paper does not appear. letter to mr. gray. paris, nov. , . (page ) you are very kind to inquire so particularly after my gout. i wish i may not be so circumstantial in my answer: but you have tapped a dangerous topic; i can talk gout by the hour. it is my great mortification, and has disappointed all the hopes that i had built on temperance and hardiness. i have resisted like a hermit, and exposed myself to all weathers and seasons like a smuggler; and in vain. i have, however, still so much of the obstinacy of both professions left, that i think i shall continue, and cannot obey you in keeping myself warm. i have gone through my second fit under one blanket, and already go about in a silk waistcoat with my bosom unbuttoned. in short, i am as prejudiced to try regimen, though so ineffectual, as i could have been to all i expected from it. the truth is, i am almost as willing to have the gout as to be liable to catch cold; and must run up stairs and down, in and out of doors, when i will, or i cannot have the least satisfaction. this will convince you how readily i comply with another of your precepts, walking as soon as am able.--for receipts, you may trust me for making use of none; i would not see a physician at the worst, but have quacked as boldly as quacks treat others. i laughed at your idea of quality receipts, it came so apropos. there is not a man or woman here that is not a perfect old nurse, and who does not talk gruel and anatomy with equal fluency and ignorance. one instance shall serve: madame de bouzols, marshal berwick's daughter, assured me there was nothing so good for the gout, as to preserve the parings of my nails in a bottle close stopped. when i try any illustrious nostrum, i shall give the preference to this. so much for the gout!( ) i told you what was coming. as to the ministry, i know and care very little about them. i told you and told them long ago, that if ever a change happened i would bid adieu to politics for ever. do me the justice to allow that i have not altered with the time. i was so impatient to put this resolution in execution that i hurried out of england before i was sufficiently recovered. i shall not run the same hazard again in haste; but will stay here till i am perfectly well, and the season of warm weather coming on or arrived; though the charms of paris have not the least attraction for me, nor would keep me an hour on their own account. for the city itself, i cannot conceive where my eyes were: it is the ugliest beastliest town in the universe. i have not seen a mouthful of verdure out of it, nor have they any thing green but their treillage and window-shutters. trees cut into fire-shovels, and stuck into pedestals of chalk, compose their country. their boasted knowledge of society is reduced to talking of their suppers, and every malady they have about them, or know of. the dauphin is at the point of death; every morning the physicians frame in account of him; and happy is he or she who can produce a copy of this lie, called a bulletin. the night before last, one of these was produced at supper where i was; it was read, and said he had une evacuation foetide. i beg your pardon, though you are not at supper. the old lady of the house( ) (who by the way is quite blind, was the regent's mistress for a fortnight, and is very agreeable) called out, "oh! they have forgot to mention that he threw down his chamber-pot, and was forced to change his bed." there were present several women of the first rank; as madame de la vali`ere, whom you remember duchesse de vaujour, and who is still miraculously pretty, though fifty-three; a very handsome madame de forcalquier, and others--nor was this conversation at all particular to that evening. their gaiety is not greater than their delicacy--but i will not expatiate. in short, they are another people from what they were. they may be growing wise, but the intermediate passage is dulness. several of the women are agreeable, and some of the men; but the latter are in general vain and ignorant. the savans--i beg their pardons, the philosophes--are insupportable, superficial, overbearing, and fanatic: they preach incessantly, and their avowed doctrine is atheism; you would not believe how openly--don't wonder, therefore, if i should return a jesuit. voltaire himself does not satisfy them. one of their lady devotees said of him, "il est bigot, c'est un d`eiste." i am as little pleased with their taste in trifles. cr`ebillon is entirely out of fashion, and marivaux a proverb: marivauder and marivaudage are established terms for being prolix and tiresome. i thought that we were fallen, but they are ten times lower. notwithstanding all i have said, i have found two or three societies that please me; am amused with the novelty of the whole, and should be sorry not to have come. the dumenil is, if possible, superior to what you remember. i am sorry not to see the clairon; but several persons whose judgments seem the soundest prefer the former. preville is admirable in low comedy. the mixture of italian comedy and comic operas, prettily written, and set to italian music, at the same theatre, is charming, and gets the better both of their operas and french comedy; the latter of which is seldom full, with all its merit. petit-maitres are obsolete, like our lords foppington--but le monde est philosophe--when i grow very sick of this last nonsense, i go and compose myself at the chartreuse, where i am almost tempted to prefer le soeur to every painter i know. yet what new old treasures are come to light, routed out of the louvre, and thrown into new lumber-rooms at versailles!--but i have not room to tell you what i have seen! i will keep this and other chapters for strawberry. adieu! and thank you. old mariette has shown me a print by diepenbecke of the duke and duchess of newcastle( ) at dinner with their family. you would oblige me, if you would look into all their graces' folios, and see if it is not a frontispiece to some one of them. then he has such a petitot of madame d'olonne! the pompadour offered him fifty louis for it( )--alack, so would i! ( ) the following is gray's reply, of the th of december:- -"you have long built your hopes on temperance, you say, and hardiness. on the first point we are agreed; the second has totally disappointed you, and therefore you will persist in it by all means. but then, be sure to persist too in being young, in stopping the course of time, and making the shadow return back upon your sun-dial. if you find this not so easy, acquiesce with a good grace in my anilities; put on your understockings of yarn, or woollen, even in the night-time. don't provoke me, or i shall order you two nightcaps, (which, by the way, would do your eyes good,) and put a little of any french liqueur into your water; they are nothing but brandy and sugar; and among their various flavours, some of them may surely be palatable enough, the pain in your feet i can bear; but shudder at the sickness of your stomach and the weakness that still continues. i conjure you, as you love yourself--i conjure you by strawberry, not to trifle with these edge-tools. there is no cure for the gout, when in the stomach, but to throw it into the limbs; there is no relief for gout in the limbs, but in gentle warmth and gradual perspiration." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) madame du deffand.-e. ( ) prefixed to some copies of the duchess's work, entitled "the world's olio,--nature's pictures drawn by fancy's pencil to the life," (folio, london, ,) is a print, diepenbeck, del., p. clouvet sc., half sheet, containing portraits of william cavendish, duke of newcastle, (celebrated as a cavalier general during the civil wars, and commonly styled the loyal duke of newcastle,) his duchess, and their family.-e. ( ) this miniature eventually became his property. in a letter from madame du deffand of the th of december , she says:- -"j'ai madame d'olonne entre les mains; vous voil`a au comble de la joie; mais moderez-en la, en apprenant que ses galans ne la payaient pas plus cher de son vivant que vous ne la payez apr`es sa mort; (@lle vous coute trois mille deux cents livres."-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, nov. , . (page ) madame geoffrin has given me a parcel for your ladyship with two knotting-bags, which i will send by the first opportunity that seems safe:'--but i hear of nothing but difficulties; and shall, i believe, be saved from ruin myself, from not being able to convey any purchases into england. thus i shall have made an almost fruitless journey to france, if i can neither fling away my money, nor preserve my health. at present, indeed, the gout is gone. i have had my house swept, and made as clean as i could-no very easy matter in this country; but i live in dread of seven worse spirits entering in. the terror i am under of a new fit has kept me from almost seeing any thing. the damps and fogs are full as great and frequent here as in london; but there is a little frost to-day, and i shall begin my devotions tomorrow. it is not being fashionable to visit churches: but i am de la vieille cour; and i beg your ladyship to believe that i have no youthful pretensions. the duchess of richmond tells me that they have made twenty foolish stories about me in england; and say that my person is admired here. i cannot help what is said without foundation; but the french have neither lost their eyes, nor i my senses. a skeleton i was born--skeleton i am--and death will have no trouble in making me one. i have not made any alteration in my dress, and certainly did not study it in england. had i had any such ridiculous thoughts, the gout is too sincere a monitor to leave one under any such error. pray, madam, tell lord and lady holland what i say: they have heard these idle tales; and they know so many of my follies, that i should be sorry they believed more of me than are true. if all arose from madame geoffrin calling me in joke le nouveau richelieu, i give it under my hand that i resemble him in nothing but wrinkles. your ladyship is much in the right to forbear reading politics. i never look at the political letters that come hither in the chronicles. i was sick to death of them before i set out; and perhaps should not have stirred from home, if i had not been sick of them and all they relate to. if any body could write ballads and epigrams, `a la bonne heure! but dull personal abuse in prose is tiresome indeed. a serious invective against a pickpocket, or written by a pickpocket, who has so little to do as to read? the dauphin continues languishing to his exit, and keeps every body at fontainbleau. there is a little bustle now about the parliament of bretagne; but you may believe, madam, that when i was tired of the squabbles at london, i did not propose to interest myself in quarrels at hull or liverpool. indeed, if the duc de chaulnes( ) commanded at rennes, or pomenars( ) was sent to prison, i might have a little curiosity. you wrong me in thinking i quoted a text from my saint( ) ludicrously. on the contrary i am so true a bigot, that if she could have talked nonsense, i should, like any other bigot, believe she was inspired. the season and the emptiness of paris, prevent any thing new from appearing. all i can send your ladyship is a very pretty logogriphe, made by the old blind madame du deffand, whom perhaps you know--certainly must have heard of. i sup there very often;( ) and she gave me this last night-you must guess it. quoique je forme un corps, je ne suis qu'une id`ee; plus ma beaut`e vieillit, plus elle est decid`ee: il faut, pour me trouver, ignorer d'o`u je viens; je tiens tout de lui, qui reduit tout `a rien.( ) lady mary chabot inquires often after your ladyship. your other two friends are not yet returned to paris; but i have had several obliging messages from the duchess d'aiguillon. it pleased me extremely, madam, to find no mention of your own gout in your letter. i always apprehend it for you, as you try its temper to the utmost, especially by staying late in the country, which you know it hates. lord! it has broken my spirit so, that i believe it might make me leave strawberry at a minute's warning. it has forbidden me tea, and been obeyed; and i thought that one of the most difficult points to carry with me. do let us be well, madam, and have no gouty notes to compare! i am your ladyship's most faithful, humble servant. ( ) governor of britany in the time of madame de s`evign`e. ( ) see madame de s`evign`e's letters. ( ) madame de s`evign`e. ( ) madame du deffand had, at this time, a supper at her house every sunday evening, at which walpole, during his stay at paris, constantly made one of the company.-e. ( ) the word is noblesse. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, nov. , . (page ) you must not be surprised when my letters arrive long after their date. i write them at my leisure, and send them when i find any englishman going to london, that i may not be kept in check, if they were to pass through both french and english posts. your letter to madame roland, and the books for her, will set out very securely in a day or two. my bookseller here happens to be of rheims, and knows madame roland, comme deux gouttes d'eau. this perhaps is not a well-placed simile, but the french always use one, and when they are once established, and one knows the tune, it does not signify sixpence for the sense. my gout and my stick have entirely left me. i totter still, it is true, but i trust shall be able to whisk about at strawberry as well almost as ever. when that hour strikes, to be sure i shall not be very sorry. the sameness of the life here is worse than any thing but english politics and the house of commons. indeed, i have a mind still to see more people here, more sights, and more of the dumenil. the dauphin, who is not dead yet, detains the whole court at fontainbleau, whither i dare not venture, as the situation is very damp, and the lodgings abominable. sights, too, i have scarce seen any yet; and i must satisfy my curiosity; for hither, i think, i shall never come again. no, let us sit down quietly and comfortably, and enjoy our coming old age. oh! if you are in earnest, and will transplant yourself to roehampton, how happy i shall be! you know, if you believe an experience of above thirty years, that you are one of the very, very few, for whom i really care a straw. you know how long i have been vexed at seeing so little of you. what has one to do, when one grows tired of the world, as we both do, but to draw nearer and nearer, and gently waste the remains of life with the friends with whom one began it! young and happy people will have no regard for us and our old stories, and they are in the right: but we shall not tire one another; we shall laugh together when nobody is by to laugh at us, and we may think ourselves young enough when we see nobody younger. roehampton is a delightful spot, at once cheerful and retired. you will amble in your chaise about richmond-park: we shall see one another as often as we like; i shall frequently peep at london, and bring you tales of it, and we shall sometimes touch a card with the clive, and laugh our fill; for i must tell you, i desire to die when i have nobody left to laugh with me. i have never yet seen or heard any thing serious, that was not ridiculous. jesuits, methodists, philosophers, politicians, the hypocrite rousseau, the scoffer voltaire, the encyclopedists, the humes, the lytteltons, the grenvilles, the atheist tyrant of prussia, and the mountebank of history, mr. pitt, all are to me but impostors in their various ways. fame or interest is their object; and after all their parade, i think a ploughman who sows, reads his almanack, and believes the stars but so many farthing candles, created to prevent his falling into a ditch as he goes home at night, a wiser and more rational being, and i am sure an honester than any of them. oh! i am sick of visions and systems, that shove one another aside, and come over again, like the figures in a moving picture. rabelais brightens up to me as i see more of the world; he treated it as it deserved, laughed at it all, and, as i judge from myself, ceased to hate it; for i find hatred an unjust preference. adieu! letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, nov. , . (page ) what, another letter! yes, madam; though i must whip and spur, i must try to make my thanks keep up with your favours: for any other return, you have quite distanced me. this is to acknowledge the receipt of the duchess d'aiguillon--you may set what sum you please against the debt. she is delightful, and has much the most of a woman of quality of any i have seen, and more cheerfulness too: for, to show your ladyship that i am sincere, that my head is not turned, and that i retain some of my prejudices still, i avow that gaiety, whatever it was formerly, is no longer the growth of this country, and i will own too that paris can produce women of quality that i should not call women of fashion; i will not use so ungentle a term as vulgar; but from their indelicacy, i could call it still worse. yet with these faults, and the latter is an enormous one in my english eyes, many of the women are exceedingly agreeable. i cannot say so much for the men--always excepting the duc de nivernois. you would be entertained, for a quarter of an hour, with his duchess--she is the duke of newcastle properly placed, that is, chattering incessantly out of devotion, and making interest against the devil, that she may dispose of bishoprics in the next world. madame d'egmont is expected to-day, which will run me again into arrears. i don't l(now how it is. yes, i do: it is natural to impose on bounty, and i am like the rest of the world; i am going to abuse your goodness because i know nobody's so great. besides being the best friend in the world, you are the best commissionnaire in the world, madam - you understand from friendship to scissors. the enclosed model was trusted to me, to have two pair made as well as possible--but i really blush at my impertinence. however, all the trouble i mean to give your ladyship is, to send your groom of the chambers to bespeak them; and a pair besides of the common size for a lady, as well made as possible, for the honour of england's steel. the two knotting-bags from madame geoffrin went away by a clergyman two days ago; and i concerted all the tricks the doctor and i could think of, to elude the vigilance of the customhouse officers. with this, i send your ladyship the orpheline legu`ee: its intended name was the anglomanie, my only reason for sending it; for it has little merit, and had as slender success, being acted but five times. however, there is nothing else new. the dauphin continues in the same languishing and hopeless state, but with great coolness and firmness. somebody gave him t'other day "the preparation for death:"( ) he said, "c'est la nouvelle du jour." i have nothing more to say, but what i have always to say, madam, from the beginning of my letters to the end, that i am your ladyship's most obliged and most devoted humble servant. nov. , three o'clock. oh, madam, madam, madam, what do you think i have found since i wrote my letter this morning? i am out of my wits! never was any thing like my luck; it never forsakes me! i have found count grammont's picture! i believe i shall see company upon it, certainly keep the day holy. i went to the grand augustins to see the pictures of the reception of' the knights of the holy ghost: they carried me into a chamber full of their portraits; i was looking for bassompierre; my laquais de louage opened a door, and said, "here are more." one of the first that struck me was philibert comte de grammont!( ) it is old, not at all handsome, but has a great deal of finesse in the countenance. i shall think of nothing now but having it copied. if i had seen or done nothing else, i should be content with my journey hither. ( ) the title of a french book of devotion. ( ) the witty count de grammont, who married elizabeth, daughter of sir george hamilton, fourth son of james first earl of abercorn, by mary, third sister of james first duke of ormond. tradition reports, that grammont, who is not recorded to have been a men of personal courage, having attached, if not engaged himself to hamilton, went off abruptly for france: the count george hamilton pursued and overtook him at dover, when he thus addressed him: "my dear friend, i believe you have forgot a circumstance that should take place before you return to france." to which grammont answered, "true, my dear friend; what a memory i have! i quite forgot that i was to marry your sister; but i will instantly accompany you back to london and rectify that forgetfulness." his celebrated memoirs were written by his brother-in-law, anthony, generally called count hamilton, who followed the fortunes of james the second, and afterwards entered the french service.-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, nov. , . (page ) as i answered your short letter with a very long one, i shall be shorter in answer to your long, which i received late last night from fontainbleau: it is not very necessary: but as lord william gordon sets out for england on monday, i take that opportunity. the duke of' richmond tells me that choiseul has promised every thing. i wish it may be performed, and speedily, as it will give you an opportunity of opening the parliament with great `eclat. my opinion you know is, that this is the moment for pushing them and obtaining. thank you for all you say about my gout. we have had a week of very hard frost, that has done me great good, and rebraced me. the swelling of my legs is quite gone. what has done me more good, is having entirely left off tea, to which i believe the weakness of my stomach was owing, having had no sickness since. in short, i think i am cured of every thing but my fears. you talk coolly of going as far as naples, and propose my going with you. i would not go so far, if naples was the direct road to the new jerusalem. i have no thought or wish but to get home, and be quiet for the rest of my days, which i shall most certainly do the first moment the season will let me; and if i once get to london again, shall be scarce tempted ever to lie in an inn more. i have refused to go to aubign`e, though i should lie but one night on the road. you may guess what i have suffered, when i am grown so timorous about my health, however, i am again reverted to my system of water, and trying to recover my hardiness--but nothing has at all softened me towards physicians. you see i have given you a serious answer, though i am rather disposed to smile at your proposal. go to italy! for what?--oh! to quit--do you know, i think that as idle a thought as the other. pray stay where you are, and do some good to your country, or retire when you cannot--but don't put your finger in your eye and cry after the holidays and sugar-plums of park-place. you have engaged and must go through or be hindered. could you tell the world the reason? would not all men say you had found yourself incapable of what you had undertaken? i have no patience with your thinking so idly. it would be a reflection on your understanding and character, and a want of resolution unworthy of you. my advice is, to ask for the first great government that falls, if you will not take your regiment again; to continue acting vigorously and honestly where you are. things are never stable enough in our country to give you a prospect of a long slavery. your defect is irresolution. when you have taken your post, act up to it; and if you are driven from it, your retirement will then be as honourable, and more satisfactory than your administration. i speak frankly, as my friendship for you directs. my way of acting (though a private instance) is agreeable to my doctrine. i determined, whenever our opposition should be over, to have done with politics; and you see i have adhered to my resolution by coming hither; and therefore you may be convinced that i speak my thoughts. i don't ask your pardon, because i should be forced to ask my own, if i did not tell you what i think the best for you. you have life and park-place enough to come, and you have not had five months of gout. make yourself independent honourably, which you may do by a government. but if you will take my advice, don't accept a ministerial place when you cease to be a minister. the former is a reward due to your profession and services; the latter is a degradation. you know the haughtiness of my spirit; i give you no advice but what i would follow. i sent lady ailesbury the "orpheline legu`ee:" a poor performance; but the subject made me think she would like to see it. i am over head and ears at count caylus's( ) auction, and have bought half of it for a song--but i am still in greater felicity and luck, having discovered, by mere accident, a portrait of count grammont, after having been in search of' one these fifteen years, and assured there was no such thing. apropos, i promised you my but besides that there is nobody here that excels in painting skeletons, seriously, their painters are bitter bad, and as much inferior to reynolds and ramsay, as hudson to vandyck. i had rather stay till my return. adieu! ( ) the count de caylus, member of the royal academy of inscriptions and belles-lettre, honorary member of the royal academy of painting and sculpture, and author of the "recueil d'antiquit`es egyptiennes, etrusques, grecques, romaines, et gauloises," in seven volumes, to., died at paris in september , in the sixty-third year of his age. he was said to be the protector of the arts and the torment of the artists; for though he assisted them with his advice, and, better still, with his purse, he exacted from them, in return, the greatest deference to his opinion. gibbon, in his journal for may, , thus speaks of the count:--"je le vis trois ou quatre fois, et je vis un homme simple, uni, bon, et qui me temoignoit une bont`e extreme. si je n'en ai point profits, je l'attribue moins `a son charact`ere qu'`a son genre de vie. il se l`eve de grand matin, court les atteliers des artistes pendant tout le jour, et rentre chez lui `a six heures du soir pour se mettre en robe de chambre, et s'enfermer dans son cabinet. le moyen de voir ses amis?"-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, dec. , . (page ) i have not above a note's worth to say; but as lord ossory sets out to-morrow, i just send you a line. the dauphin, if he is still alive, which some folks doubt, is kept so only by cordials; though the bishop of glandeve has assured the queen that he had god's own word for his recovery, which she still believes, whether her son is dead or not. the remonstrance of the parliament of paris, on the dissolution of that of bretagne, is very decent; they are to have an audience next week. they do not touch on chalotais, because the accusation against him is for treason. what do you think that treason is? a correspondence with mr. pitt, to whom he is made to say, that "rennes is nearer to london than paris." it is now believed that the anonymous letters, supposed to be written by chalotais, were forged by a jesuit--those to mr. pitt could not have even so good an author. the duke of richmond is still at aubign`e: i wonder he stays, for it is the hardest frost alive. mr. hume does not go to ireland; where your brother finds he would by no means be welcome. i have a notion he will stay here till your brother's return. the duc de praslin, it is said, will retire at christmas. as la borde, the great banker of the court, is trying to retire too, my consul, who is much connected with la borde, suspects that choiseul is not very firm himself. i have supped with monsieur de maurepas, and another night, with marshal richelieu: the first is extremely agreeable and sensible; and, i am glad, not minister. the other is an old piece of tawdry, worn out, but endeavouring to brush itself up; and put me in mind of lord chesterfield, for they laugh before they know what he has said-- and are in the right, for i think they would not laugh afterwards. i send lady ailesbury the words and music of the prettiest opera comique in the world. i wish i could send her the actors too. adieu! december . lord ossory put off his journey; which stopped this letter, and it will now go by mr. andrew stuart. the face of things is changed here; which i am impatient to tell you, that you may see it is truth, not system, which i pique myself on sending you. the vigour of the court has frightened the parliaments. that of pau has submitted. the procureurs, etc of rennes, who, it was said, would not plead before the new commission, were told, that if they did not plead the next day they should be hanged without a trial. no bribe ever operated faster! i heard t'other day, that some spanish minister, i forget his name, being dead, squillace would take his department, and grimaldi have that of the west indies. he is the worst that could have it, as we have no greater enemy. the dauphin is certainly alive, but in the most shocking way possible; his bones worn through his skin, a great swelling behind, and so relaxed, that his intestines appear from that part; and yesterday the mortification was suspected. i have received a long letter from lady ailesbury, for which i give her a thousand thanks; and would answer it directly, if i had not told you every thing i know. the duke and duchess of richmond are, i hear, at fontainbleau: the moment they return, i will give the duchess lady ailesbury's commission. letter to the countess of suffolk.( ) paris, dec. , ; but does not set out till the th. (page ) madam, miss hotham need not be in pain for what to say when she gives me an account of your ladyship; which is all the trouble i thought of giving her. if she could make those accounts more favourable, i should be better pleased; but i know what an untractable brute the gout is, and the joy it takes in plaguing every body that is connected with it. we have the sharpest frost here that ever lived; it has done me great good; and, if it has the same effect on your ladyship, i hope you are starved to death. since paris has begun to fill in spite of fontainbleau, i am much reconciled to it, and, have seen several people i like. i am established in two or three societies, where i sup every night; though i have still resisted whist, and am more constant to my old flame loo during its absence than i doubt i have been to my other passion. there is a young comtesse d'egmont, daughter of marshal richelieu, so pretty and pleasing, that, if i thought it would break any body's heart in england, i would be in love with her. nay, madam, i might be so within all rules here. i am twenty years the right side of red-heels, which her father wears still, and he has still a wrinkle to come before he leaves them off. the dauphin is still alive, but kept so only by cordials. the queen and dauphiness have no doubt of his recovery, having the bishop of glandeve's word for it, who got a promise from a vision under its own hand and seal. the dauphin has certainly behaved with great courage and tranquillity, but is so touched with the tenderness and attention of his family, that he now expresses a wish to live. if there is no talk in england of politics and parliaments, i can send your ladyship as much as you please from hence; or if you want english themselves, i can send you about fifty head; and i assure you, we shall still be well stocked. there were three card-tables at lady berkeley's. ( ) now first collected. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, jan. , . (page ) when i came to paris, madam, i did not know that by new year's-- day i should find myself in siberia; at least as cold. there have not been two good days together since the middle of october; however, i do not complain, as i am both well and pleased, though i wish for a little of your sultry english weather, all french as i am. i have entirely left off dinners, and the life i always liked, of lying late in bed, and sitting up late. i am told of nothing but how contradictory this is to your ladyship's orders; but as i shall have dull dinners and triste evenings enough when i return to england, all your kindness cannot persuade me to sacrifice my pleasures here, too. many of my opinions are fantastic; perhaps this is one, that nothing produces gout like doing any thing one dislikes. i believe the gouts like a near relation, always visits one when one has some other plague. your ladyship's dependence on the waters of sunning-hill is, i hope, better founded; but in the mean time my system is full as pleasant. madame d'aiguillon's goodness to me does not abate, nor madame geoffrin's. i have seen but little of madame d'egmont, who seems very good, and is universally in esteem. she is now in great affliction, having lost suddenly monsieur pignatelli, the minister at parma, whom she bred up, and whom she and her family had generously destined for her grand-daughter, an immense heiress. it was very delicate and touching what madame d'egmont said to her daughter-in-law on this occasion:--"vous voyez, ma ch`ere, combien j'aime mes enfans d'adoption!" this daughter-in-law is delightfully pretty, and civil, and gay, and conversable, though not a regular beauty like madame de monaco. the bitterness of the frost deters me, madam, from all sights; i console myself with good company, and still more, with being absent from bad. negative as this satisfaction is, it is incredibly great, to me in a town like this, and to be sure every day of not meeting one face one hates! i never know a positive pleasure equal to it. your ladyship and lord holland shall laugh at me as much as you please for by dread of being thought charming; yet i shall not deny my panic, for surely nothing is so formidable as to have one's limbs on crutches and one's understanding in leading-strings. the prince of conti laughed at me t'other day on the same account. i was complaining to the old blind charming madame du deffand, that she preferred mr. crawford to me: "what," said the prince, "does not she love you?" "no, sir," i replied, "she likes me no better than if she had seen me." mr. hume carries this letter and rousseau to england.( ) i wish the former may not repent having engaged with the latter, who contradicts and quarrels with all mankind, in order to obtain their admiration. i think both his means and his end below such a genius. if i had talents like his, i should despise any suffrage below my own standard, and should blush to owe any part of my fame to singularities and affectations. but great parts seem like high towers erected on high mountains, the more expose(] to every wind, and readier to tumble. charles townshend is blown round the compass; rousseau insists that the north and south blow at the same time; and voltaire demolishes the bible to erect fatalism in its stead:--so compatible are the greatest abilities and greatest absurdities! madame d'aiguillon gave me the enclosed letter for your ladyship. i wish i had any thing else to send you; but there are no new books, and the theatres are shut up for the dauphin's death; who, i believe, is the greatest loss they have had since harry v. ( ) the parliament of paris having issued an arr`et against rousseau, on account of his opinions, mr. hume was applied to by a friend in paris to discover for him a retreat in england, whither he accompanied him. the plan finally concluded on was, that he should be comfortably boarded in the mansion of mr. davenport, at wooton, in the county of derby; and mr. hume, by his interest with the government, obtained for him a pension of one hundred pounds a-year. on his arrival in london, he appeared in public in his armenian dress, and excited much general notice.-e letter to john chute, esq. paris, jan. . (page ) it is in vain, i know, my dear sir, to scold you, though i have such a mind to it--nay, i must. yes, you that will not lie a night at strawberry in autumn for fear of the gout, to stay in the country till this time, and till you caught it! i know you will tell me, it did not come till you were two days in town. do, and i shall have no more pity for you this if i was your wife, and had wanted to come to town two months ago. i am perfectly well, though to be sure lapland is the torrid zone in comparison of paris. we have had such a frost for this fortnight, that i went nine miles to dine in the country to-day, in a villa exactly like a green-house, except that there was no fire but in one room. we were four in a coach, and all our chinks stopped with furs, and yet all the glasses were frozen. we dined in a paved hall painted in fresco, with a fountain at one end; for in this country they live in a perpetual opera, and persist in being young when they are old, and hot when they are frozen. at the end of the hall sat shivering three glorious maccaws, a vast cockatoo, and two poor parroquets, who squalled like the children in the wood after their nursery-fire! i am come home, and blowing my billets between every paragraph, but can scarce move my fingers. however, i must be dressed presently, and go to the comtesse de la marche,( ) who has appointed nine at night for my audience. it seems a little odd to us to be presented to a princess of the blood at that hour-- but i told you, there is not a tittle in which our manners resemble one another; i was presented to her father-in-law the prince of conti last friday. in the middle of the lev`ee entered a young woman, too plain i thought to be any thing but his near relation. i was confirmed in my opinion, by seeing her, after he had talked to her, go round the circle and do the honours of it. i asked a gentleman near me if that was the comtesse de la marche? he burst into a violent laughter, and then told me it was mademoiselle auguste, a dancer!--now, who was in the wrong? i give you these as samples of many scenes that have amused me, and which will be charming food at strawberry. at the same time that i see all their ridicules, there is a douceur in the society of the women of fashion that captivates me. i like the way of life, though not lively; though the men are posts, and apt to be arrogant, and though there are twenty ingredients wanting to make the style perfect. i have totally washed my hands of their savans and philosophers, and do not even envy you rousseau, who has all the charlatanerie of count st. germain( to make himself singular and talked of. i suppose mrs. montagu, my lord lyttelton, and a certain lady friend of mine, will be in raptures with him, especially as conducted by mr. hume. but, however i admire his parts, neither he nor any genius i have known has had common sense enough to balance the impertinence of their pretensions. they hate priests, but love dearly to have an altar at their feet; for which reason it is much pleasanter to read them than to know them. adieu! my dear sir! jan. . this has been writ this week, and waiting for a conveyance, and as yet has got none. favre tells me you are recovered, but you don't tell me so yourself. i enclose a trifle that i wrote lately,( ) which got about and has made enormous noise in a city where they run and cackle after an event, like a parcel of hens after an accidental husk of a grape. it has made me the fashion, and made madame de boufflers and the prince of conti very angry with me; the former intending to be rapt to the temple of fame by clinging to rousseau's armenian robe. i am peevish that with his parts he should be such a mountebank: but what made me more peevish was, that after receiving wilkes with the greatest civilities, he paid court to mr. hume by complaining of wilkes's visit and intrusion.( ) upon the whole, i would not but have come hither; for, since i am doomed to live in england, it is some comfort to have seen that the french are ten times more contemptible than we are. i am a little ungrateful; but i cannot help seeing with my eyes, though i find other people make nothing of seeing without theirs. i have endless histories to amuse you with when we meet, which shall be at the end of march. it is much more tiresome to be fashionable than unpopular; i am used to the latter, and know how to behave under it: but i cannot stand for member of parliament of paris. adieu! ( ) la comtesse de la marche, princess of modena, married to the only son of the prince de conti. le comte de la marche was the only one of the princes of the blood who uniformly sided with the court in the disputes with the parliament of paris.-e. ( ) the comte de st. germain had acquired a considerable military reputation in france by his conduct at corbach in ; when he commanded the reserve, and saved the army by supporting the rear-guard and allowing the whole body to retire upon cassel. considering himself ill-used by the marshal de broglio, his commander-in-chief, he obtained leave to retire from the french service, and entered that of denmark, from which he retired into private life in . from this retirement he was summoned by louis xvi. upon the death of the comte de muy, minister-at-war.-e. ( ) the letter from the king of prussia to rousseau.-e. ( ) "one evening, at the mitre, johnson said sarcastically to me, 'it seems, sir, you have kept very good company abroad-- rousseau and wilkes!' i answered with a smile, 'my dear sir, you don't call rousseau bad company: do you r(@ally think him a f bad man?' johnson. 'sir, if you are talking jestingly of this, i don't talk with you. if you mean to be serious, i think him one of the worst of men; a rascal, who ought to be hunted out of society, as he has been. three or four nations have expelled him, and it is a shame that he is protected in this country. rousseau, sir, is a very bad man. i would sooner sign a sentence for his transportation than that of any felon who has gone from the old bailey these many years. yes, i should like to have him work in the plantations.' " boswell, vol. ii. p. , ed. .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, jan. , . (page ) lady beaulieu acts like herself, and so do you in being persuaded that nobody will feel any satisfaction that comes to you with more transport than i do; you deserve her friendship, because you are more sensible to the grace of the action than to the thing itself; of which, besides approving the sentiment, i am glad, for if my lady cardigan( ) is as happy in drawing a straw, as in picking straws, you will certainly miss your green coat. yet methinks you would make an excellent robin hood reform`e, with little john your brother. how you would carol mr. percy's old ballads under the greenwood tree! i had rather have you in my merry sherwood than at greatworth, and should delight in your picture drawn as a bold forester, in a green frock, with your rosy hue, gray locks, and comely belly. in short, the favour itself, and the manner are so agreeable, that i shall be at least as much disappointed as you can be, if it fails. one is not ashamed to wear a feather from the hand of a friend. we both scorn to ask or accept boons; but it is pleasing to have life painted with images by the pencil of friendship. visions you know have always been my pasture; and so far from growing old enough to quarrel with their emptiness, i almost think there is no wisdom comparable to that of exchanging what is called the realities of life for dreams. old castles, old pictures, old histories, and the babble of old people, make one live back into centuries, that cannot disappoint one. one holds fast and surely what is past. the dead have exhausted their power of deceiving; one can trust catherine of medicis now. in short, you have opened a new landscape to my fancy; and my lady beaulieu will oblige me as much as you, if she puts the long bow into your hands. i don't know but the idea may produce some other castle of otranto. the victorious arms of the present ministry in parliament will make me protract my stay here, lest it should be thought i awaited the decision of the event; next to successful enemies, i dread triumphant friends. to be sure, lord temple and george grenville are very proper to be tied to a conqueror's car, and to drag then, slow lengths along;" but it is too ridiculous to see goody newcastle exulting like old marius in a seventh consulship. don't tell it, but as far as i can calculate my own intention, i shall not set out before the twenty-fifth of march. that will meet your abode in london; and i shall get a day or two out of you for some chat at strawberry on all i have seen and done here. for this reason i will anticipate nothing now, but bid you good-morrow, after telling you a little story. the canton of berne ordered all the impressions of helvetius's esprit and voltaire's pucelle to be seized. the officer of justice employed by them came into the council and said, "magnifiques seigneurs, apr`es toutes les recherches possibles, on n'a p`u trouver dans toute la ville que tr`es peu de l'esprit, et pas une pucelle." adieu! robin and john. january th. i had not sent away my letter, being so disappointed of a messenger, and now receive yours of december the thirtieth. my house is most heartily at your service, and i shall write to favre to have it ready for you. you will see by the former part of this letter, that i do not think of being in england before the end of march. all i dislike in this contract is the fear, that if i drive you out of my house, i shall drive you out of town; and as you will find, i have not a bed to offer you but my own, and favre's, in which your servant will lie, for i have stripped arlington-street to furnish strawberry. in the mean time you will be comfortable in my bed, and need have no trouble about favre, as he lodges at his wife's while i am absent. let them know in time to have the beds aired. i don't understand one syllable of your paragraph about miss talbot, admiral cornish, and mr. hampden's son. i thought she was married, and i forget to whom. ( ) lady mary montagu, third daughter and coheiress of john second duke of montagu, and last of that creation; married, th july , george montagu, fourth earl of cardigan.-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, saturday night, jan. , . (page ) i have just now, madam, received the scissors, by general vernon, from mr. conway's office. unluckily, i had not received your ladyship's notification of them sooner, for want of a conveyance, and i wrote to my servant to inquire of yours how they had been sent; which i fear may have added a little trouble to all you had been so good as to take, and for which i give you ten thousand thanks: but your ladyship is so exact and friendly, that it almost discourages rather than encourages me. i cannot bring myself to think that ten thousand obligations are new letters of credit. i have -seen mrs. f *****, and her husband may be as happy as he will: i cannot help pitying him. she told me it is coulder here than in england; and in truth i believe so: i blow the fire between every paragraph, and am quite cut off from all sights. the agreeableness of the evenings makes me some amends. i am just going to sup at madame d'aiguillon's with madame d'egmont, and i hope madame de brionne, whom i have not yet seen; but she is not very well, and it is doubtful. my last new passion, and i think the strongest, is the duchesse de choiseul. her face is pretty, not very pretty; her person a little model. cheerful, modest, full of attentions, with the happiest propriety of expression, and greatest quickness of reason and judgment, you would take her for the queen of an allegory: one dreads its finishing, as much as a lover, if she would admit one, would wish it should finish. in short, madam, though you are the last person that will believe it, france is so agreeable, and england so much the reverse, that i don't know when i shall return. the civilities, the kindnesses, the honours i receive, are so many and so great, that i am continually forced to put myself in mind how little i am entitled to them, and how many of them i owe to your ladyship. i shall talk you to death at my return. shall you bear to hear me tell you a thousand times over, that madame geoffrin is the most rational woman in the world, and madame d'aiguillon the most animated and most obliging? i think you will. your ladyship can endure the panegyric of your friends. if you should grow impatient to hear them commended, you have nothing to do but to come over. the best air in the world is that where one is pleased: sunning waters are nothing to it. the frost is so hard, it is impossible to have the gout; and though the fountain of youth is not here, the fountain of age is, which comes to just the same thing. one is never old here, or never thought so. one makes verses as if one was but seventccn-for example:- on madame de forcalquier speaking english. soft sounds that steal from fair forcalquier's lips, like bee that murmuring the jasmin sips! are these my native accents? none so sweet, so gracious, yet my ravish'd ears did meet. o power of beauty! thy enchanting look can melodize each note in nature's book. the roughest wrath of russians, when they swear, pronounced by thee, flows soft as indian air; and dulcet breath, attemper'd by thine eyes, gives british prose o'er tuscan verse the prize. you must not look, madam, for much meaning in these lines; they were intended only to run smoothly, and to be easily comprehended by the fair scholar who is learning our language. still less must you show them: they are not calculated for the meridian of london, where you know i dread being represented as a shepherd. pray let them think that i am wrapped up in canada bills, and have all the pamphlets sent over about the colonies and the stamp-act. i am very sorry for the accounts your ladyship gives me of lord holland. he talks, i am told, of going to naples: one would do a great deal for health, but i question if i could buy it at that expense. if paris would answer his purpose, i should not wonder if he came hither; but to live with italians must be woful, and would ipso facto make me ill. it is true i am a bad judge: i never tasted illness but the gout, which, tormenting as it is, i prefer to all other distempers: one knows the fit will end, will leave one quite well, and dispenses with the nonsense of physicians, and absurdity is more painful than pain: at least the pain of the gout never takes away my spirits, which the other does. i have never heard from mr. chute this century, but am glad the gout is rather his excuse than the cause, and that it lies only in his pen. i am in too good humour to quarrel with any body, and consequently cannot be in haste to see england, where at least one is sure of being quarrelled with. if they vex me, i will come back hither directly; and i shall have the satisfaction of knowing that your ladyship will not blame me. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, jan. , . (page ) i have received your letter by general vernon, and another. to which i have writ an answer, but was disappointed of a conveyance i expected. you shall have it with additions, by the first messenger that goes; but i cannot send it by the post, as i have spoken very freely of some persons you name, in which we agree thoroughly. these few lines are only to tell you that i am not idle in writing to you. i almost repent having come hither: for i like the way of life and many of the people so well, that i doubt i shall feel more regret at leaving paris than i expected. it would sound vain to tell you the honours and distinctions i receive, and how much i am in fashion; yet when they come from the handsomest women in france, and the most respectable in point of character, can one help being a little proud? if i was twenty years younger, i should wish they were not quite so respectable. madame de brionne, whom i have never seen, and who was to have met me at supper last night at the charming madame d'egmont's, sent me an invitation by the latter for wednesday next. i was engaged, and hesitated. i was told, "comment! savez-vous que c'est qu'elle ne feroit pas pour toute la france?" however, lest you should dread my returning a perfect old swain, i study my wrinkles, compare myself and my limbs to every plate of larks i see, and treat my understanding with at least as little mercy. yet, do you know, my present fame is owing to a very trifling composition, but which has made incredible noise. i was one evening at madame geoffrin's joking on rousseau's affectations and contradictions, and said some things that diverted them. when i came home, i put them into a letter, and showed it next day to helvetius and the duc de nivernois-, who were so pleased with it, that, after telling me some faults in the language, which you may be sure there were, they encouraged me to let it be seen. as you know i willingly laugh at mountebanks, political or literary, let their talents be ever so great, i was not averse. the copies have spread like wildfire; et me voici `a la mode! i expect the end of my reign at the end of the week with great composure. here is the letter:-- le roi de prusse, a monsieur rousseau.( ) mon ch`ere jean jacques, vous avez renonc`e `a g`en`eve votre patrie; vous vous `etes fait chasser de la suisse, pays tant vant`e dans vos `ecrits; la france vous a d`ecret`e. venez done chez moi; j'admire vos talens; je m'amuse de vos r`everies, qui (soit dit en passant) vous occupent trop, et trop long tems. il faut `a la fin `etre sage et heureux. vous avez fait assez parler de vous par des singularit`es peu convenables `a un v`eritable grand homme. d`emontrez `a vos ennemis que vous pouvez avoir quelquefois le sens commun: cela les fachera, sans vous faire- tort. mes `etats vous offrent une retraite paisible; je vous veux du bien, et je vous en ferai, si vous le trouvez bon. mais si vous vous obstiniez `a rejetter mon secours, attendez-vous que je ne le dirai `a personne. si vous persistez @ vous creuser l'esprit pour trouver de nouveaux malheurs, choisissez les tels que vous voudrez. je suis roi, je puis vous en procurer au gr`e de vos souhaits: et ce qui s`urement ne vous arrivera pas vis `a vis de vos ennemis, je cesserai de vous pers`ecuter quand vous cesserez de mettre votre gloire `a l'`etre. votre bon ami, frederic. the princesse de ligne,( ) whose mother was an englishwoman made a good observation to me last night. she said, "je suis roi, je puis vous procurer de malheurs," was plainly the stroke of an english pen. i said, then i had certainly not well imitated the character in which i wrote. you will say i am an old man to attack both voltaire and rousseau. it is true; but i shoot at their heel, at their vulnerable part. i beg your pardon for taking up your time with these trifles. the day after to-morrow we go in cavalcade with the duchess of richmond to her audience;( ) i have got my cravat and shammy shoes. adieu! ( ) how much rousseau, who was naturally disposed to believe in plots and conspiracies against him, was annoyed by this jeu d'esprit, the reader will readily learn from the following letter, which he addressed to the editor of the london chronicle shortly after his arrival in england:-- wootton, d march . you have failed, sir, in the respect which every private person owes to a crowned head, in attributing publicly to the king of prussia a letter full of extravagance and malignity, of which, for these very reasons, you ought to have known be could not be the author. you have even dared to transcribe his signature, as if you had seen it written with his own hand. i inform you, sir, this letter was fabricated at paris; and what rends my heart is, that the impostor has accomplices in england. you owe to the king of prussia, to truth, and to me, to print the letter which i write to you, and which i sign, as an atonement for a fault with which you would doubtless reproach yourself severely, if you knew to what a dark transaction you have rendered yourself accessory. i salute you sir, very sincerely. rousseau. ( ) the princess de ligne was a daughter of the marquis de megi`eres, by miss oglethorpe, sister of general oglethorpe.-e. ( ) at versailles, as ambassadress. letter to the rev. mr. cole. paris, jan. , . (page ) dear sir, i had extreme satisfaction in receiving your letter, having been in great pain about you, and not knowing where to direct a letter. favre( ) told me, you had had an accident, did not say what it was, but that you was not come to town.( ) he received all the letters and parcels safe; for which i give you many thanks, and a thousand more for your kindness in thinking of them, when you was suffering so much. it was a dreadful conclusion of your travels; but i trust will leave no consequences behind it. the weather is by no means favourable for a recovery, if it is as severe in england as at paris. we have had two or three days of fog, rather than thaw; but the frost is set in again as sharp as ever. i persisted in going about to churches and convents, till i thought i should have lost my nose and fingers. i have submitted at last to the season, and lie a-bed all the morning; but i hope in february and march to recover the time i have lost. i shall not return to england before the end of march, being determined not to hazard any thing. i continue perfectly well, and few things could tempt me to risk five months more of gout. i will certainly bring you some pastils, and have them better packed, if it is possible. you know how happy i should be if you would send me any other commission. as you say nothing of the eton living, i fear that prospect has failed you; which gives me great regret, as it would give me very sensible pleasure to have you fixed somewhere (and not far from me) for your ease and satisfaction. i am glad the cathedral of amiens answered your expectation; so has the sainte chapelle mine; you did not tell me what charming enamels i should find in the ante-chapel. i have seen another vast piece, and very fine, of the constable montmorenci, at the mar`echale duchesse de luxembourg's. rousseau is gone to england with mr. hume. you will very probably see a letter to rousseau, in the name of the king of prussia, writ to laugh at his affectations. it has made excessive noise here, and i believe quite ruined the author with many philosophers. when i tell you i was the author, it is telling you how cheap i hold their anger. if it does not reach you, you shall see it at strawberry, where i flatter myself i shall see you this summer, and quite well. adieu! ( ) a servant of mr. walpole's left in london. ( ) in disembarking at dover, mr. cole met with an accident, that had confined him there three weeks to his bed. letter to mr. gray. paris, jan. , . ( ) i am much indebted to you for your kind letter and advice; and though it is late to thank you for it, it is at least a stronger proof that i do not forget it. however, i am a little obstinate, as you know, on the chapter of health, and have persisted through this siberian winter in not adding a grain to my clothes, and in going open-breasted without an under waistcoat. in short, though i like extremely to live, it must be in my own way, as long as i can: it is not youth i court, but liberty; and i think making oneself tender is issuing a general warrant against one's own person. i suppose i shall submit to confinement when i cannot help it; but i am indifferent enough to life not to care if it ends soon after my prison begins. i have not delayed so long to answer your letter, from not thinking of you, or from want of matter, but from want of time. i am constantly occupied, engaged, amused, till i cannot bring a hundredth part of what i have to say into the compass of a letter. you will lose nothing by this: you know my volubility, when i am full of new subjects; and i have at least many hours of conversation for you at my return. one does not learn a whole nation in four or five months; but, for the time, few, i believe, have seen, studied, or got so much acquainted with the french as i have. by what i said of their religious or rather irreligious opinions, you must not conclude their people of quality atheists--at least, not the men. happily for them, poor souls! they are not capable of going so far into thinking. they assent to a great deal, because it is the fashion, and because they don't know how to contradict. they are ashamed to defend the roman catholic religion, because it is quite exploded; but i am convinced they believe it in their hearts. they hate the parliaments and the philosophers, and are rejoiced that they may still idolize royalty. at present, too, they are a little triumphant: the court has shown a little spirit, and the parliament much less: but as the duc de choiseul, who is very fluttering, unsettled, and inclined to the philosophers, has made a compromise with the parliament of bretagne, the parliaments might venture out again, if, as i fancy will be the case, they are not glad to drop a cause, of which they began to be a little weary of the inconvenience. the generality of the men, and more than the generality, are dull and empty. they have taken up gravity, thinking it was philosophy and english, and so have acquired nothing in the room of their natural levity and cheerfulness. however, as their high opinion of their own country remains, for which they can no longer assign any reason, they are contemptuous and reserved, instead of being ridiculously, consequently pardonably, impertinent. i have wondered, knowing my own countrymen, that we had attained such a superiority. i wonder no longer, and have a little more respect for english heads than i had. the women do not seem of the same country: if they are less gay than they were, they are more informed, enough to make them very conversable. i know six or seven with very superior understandings. some of them with wit, or with softness, or very good sense. madame geoffrin, of whom you have heard much, is an extraordinary woman, with more common sense than i almost ever met with. great quickness in discovering characters, penetration in going to the bottom of them, and a pencil that never fails in a likeness-- seldom a favourable one. she exacts and preserves, spite of her birth and their nonsensical prejudices about nobility, great court and attention. this she acquires by a thousand little arts and offices of friendship: and by a freedom and severity, which seem to be her sole end of drawing a concourse to her; for she insists on scolding those she inveigles to her. she has little taste and less knowledge, but protects artisans and authors, and courts a few people to have the credit of serving her dependents. she was bred under the famous madame tencin, who advised her never to refuse any man; for, said her mistress, though nine in ten should not care a farthing for you, the tenth may live to be a useful friend. she did not adopt or reject the whole plan, but fully retained the purport of the maxim. in short, she is an epitome' of empire, subsisting by rewards and punishments. her great enemy, madame du deffand, was for a short time mistress of the regent, is now very old and stoneblind, but retains all her vivacity, wit, memory, judgment, passions, and agreeableness. she goes to operas, plays, suppers, and versailles; gives suppers twice a-week; has every thing new read to her; makes new songs and epigrams, admirably, and remembers every one that has been made these fourscore years. she corresponds with voltaire, dictates charming letters to him, contradicts him, is no bigot to him or any body, and laughs both at the clergy and the philosophers. in a dispute, into which she easily falls, she is very warm, and yet scarce ever in the wrong: her judgment on every subject, is as just as possible; on every point of conduct as wrong as possible: for she is all love and hatred, passionate for her friends to enthusiasm, still anxious to be loved, i don't mean by lovers, and a vehement enemy, but openly. as she can have no amusement but conversation, the least solitude and ennui are insupportable to her, and put her into the power of several worthless people, who eat her suppers when they can eat nobody's of higher rank; wink to one another and laugh at her; hate her because she has forty times more parts--and venture to hate her because she is not rich.( ) she has an old friend whom i must mention, a monsieur pondeveyle,( ) author of the fat puni, and the complaisant, and of those pretty novels, the comte de cominge, the siege of calais, and les malheurs de l'amour.( ) would not you expect this old man to be very agreeable? he can be so, but seldom is yet he has another very different and very amusing talent, the art of parody, and is unique in his kind. he composes tales to the tunes of long dances -. for instance, he has adapted the regent's daphnis and chloe to one, and made it ten times more indecent; but is so old, and sings it so well, that it is permitted in all companies. he has succeeded still better in les caract`eres de la danse, to which he has adapted words that express all the characters of love. with all this he has not the least idea of cheerfulness in conversation; seldom speaks but on grave subjects, and not often on them; is a humourist, very supercilious, and wrapt up in admiration of his own country, as the only judge of his merit. his air and look are cold and forbidding; but ask him to sing, or praise his works, his eyes and smiles open, and brighten up. in short, i can show him to you: the self-applauding poet in hogarth's rake's progress, the second print, is so like his very features and very wig, that you would know him by it, if you came hither--for he certainly will not go to you. madame de mirepoix's understanding is excellent of the useful kind, and can be so when she pleases of the agreeable kind. she has read, but seldom shows it, and has perfect taste. her manner is cold, but very civil; and she conceals even the blood of lorrain, without ever forgetting it. nobody in france knows the world better, and nobody is personally so well with the king. she is false, artful, and insinuating beyond measure when it is her interest,( ) but indolent and a coward. she never had any passion but gaming, and always loses. for ever paying court, the sole produce of a life of art is to get money from the king to carry on a course of paying debts or contracting new ones, which she discharges as fast as she is able. she advertised devotion, to get made dame du palais to the queen; and the very next day this princess of lorrain was seen riding backwards with madame pompadour in the latter's coach. when the king was stabbed, and heartily frightened, the mistress took a panic too, and consulted d'argenson,( ) whether she had not best make off in time. he hated her, and said, by all means. madame de mirepoix advised her to stay. the king recovered his spirits, d'argenson was banished, and la mar`echale inherited part of the mistress's credit. i must interrupt my history of illustrious women with an anecdote of monsieur de maurepas, with whom i am much acquainted, and who has one of the few heads which approach to good ones, and who luckily for us was disgraced, and the marine dropped, because it was his favourite object and province. he employed pondeveyle to make a song on the pompadour:( ) it was clever and bitter, and did not spare majesty. this was maurepas absurd enough to sing at supper at versailles.( ) banishment ensued; and lest he should ever be restored, the mistress persuaded the king that he had poisoned her predecessor madame de chateauroux. maurepas is very agreeable, and exceedingly cheerful; yet i have seen a transient silent cloud when politics are talked of. madame de boufflers, who was in england( ) is a savants mistress of the prince of conti, and very desirous of being his wife. she is two women, the upper and the lower. i need not tell you that the lower is gallant, and still has pretensions. the upper is very sensible, too, and has a measured eloquence that is just and pleasing--but all is spoiled by an unrelaxed attention to applause. you would think she was always sitting for her picture to her biographer. madame de rochfort( ) is different from all the rest. her understanding is just and delicate; with a finesse of wit that is the result of reflection. her manner is soft and feminine, and though a savants, without any declared pretensions. she is the decent friend of monsieur de nivernois; for you must not believe a syllable of what you read in their novels. it requires the greatest curiosity, or the greatest habitude, to discover the smallest connexion between the sexes here. no familiarity, but under the veil of friendship, is permitted, and love's dictionary is as much prohibited, as at first sight one should think his ritual was. all you hear, and that pronounced with nonchalance, is, that monsieur un tel has had madame un telle. the duc de nivernois has parts, and writes at the top of the mediocre, but, as madame geoffrin says, is manqu`e par tout; guerrier manqu`e, ambassadeur manqu`e, homme d'affaires manqu`e and auteur manqu`e--no, he is not homme de naissance manqu`e. he would think freely, but has some ambition of being governor to the dauphin, and is more afraid of his wife and daughter, who are ecclesiastic fagots. the former outchatters the duke of newcastle; and the latter madame de gisors, exhausts mr. pitt's eloquence in defense of the archbishop of paris. monsieur de nivernois lives in a small circle of dependent admirers, and madame de rochfort is high-priestess for a small salary of credit. the duchess of choiseul,( ) the only young one of these heroines, is not very pretty, but has fine eyes, and is a little model in wax-work, which not being allowed to speak for some time as incapable, has a hesitation and modesty, the latter of which the court has not cured, and the former of which is atoned for by the most interesting sound of voice, and forgotten in the most elegant turn and propriety of expression. oh! it is the gentlest, amiable, civil little creature that ever came out of a fairy egg! so just in its phrases and thoughts, so attentive and good-natured! every body loves it but its husband, who prefers his own sister the duchess de grammont,( ) an amazonian, fierce, haughty dame, who loves and hates arbitrarily, and is detested. madame de choiseul, passionately fond of her husband, was the martyr of this union, but at last submitted with a good grace; has gained a little credit with him, and is still believed to idolize him. but i doubt it--she takes too much pains to profess it. i cannot finish my list without adding a much more common character--but more complete in its kind than any of the foregoing, the mar`echale de luxembourg.( ) she has been very handsome, very abandoned, and very mischievous. her beauty is gone, her lovers are gone, and she thinks the devil is coming. this dejection has softened her into being rather agreeable, for she has wit and good-breeding; but you would swear, by the restlessness of her person and the horrors she cannot conceal, that she had signed the compact, and expected to be called upon in a week for the performance. i could add many pictures, but none so remarkable. in those i send you, there is not a feature bestowed gratis or exaggerated. for the beauties, of which there are a few considerable, as mesdames de brionne, de monaco, et d'egmont, they have not yet lost their characters, nor got any. you must not attribute my intimacy with paris to curiosity alone. an accident unlocked the doors for me. that passe-partout, called the fashion, has made them fly open-and what do you think was that fashion? i myself. yes, like queen elinor in the ballad, i sunk at charing-cross, and have risen in the fauxbourg st. germain. a plaisanterie on rousseau, whose arrival here in his way to you brought me acquainted with many anecdotes conformable to the idea i had conceived of him, got about, was liked much more than it deserved, spread like wildfire, and made me the subject of conversation. rousseau's devotees were offended. madame de boufflers, with a tone of sentiment, and the accents of lamenting humanity, abused me heartily, and then complained to myself with the utmost softness. i acted contrition, but had like to have spoiled all, by growing dreadfully tired of a second lecture from the prince of conti, who took up the ball, and made himself the hero of a history wherein he had nothing to do. i listened, did not understand half he said (nor he neither), forgot the rest, said yes when i should have said no, yawned when i should have smiled, and was very penitent when i should have rejoiced at my pardon. madame de boufflers was more distressed, for he owned twenty times more than i had said: she frowned and made him signs: but she had wound up his clack, and there was no stopping it. -the moment she grew angry, the lord of the house grew charmed, and it has been my fault if i am not at the head of a numerous sect:--but, when i left a triumphant party in england, i did not come hither to be at the head of a fashion. however, i have been sent for about like an african prince or a learned canary-bird, and was, in particular, carried by force to the princess of talmond,( ) the queen's cousin, who lives in a charitable apartment in the luxembourg, and was sitting on a small bed hung with saints and sobieskis, in a corner of one of those vast chambers, by two blinking tapers. i stumbled over a cat, a footstool, and a chamber-pot in my journey to her presence. she could not find a syllable to say to me, and the visit ended with her begging a lap-dog. thank the lord! though this is the first month, it is the last week, of my reign; and i shall resign my crown with great satisfaction to a bouillie of chestnuts, which is just invented and whose annals will be illustrated by so many indigestions, that paris will not want any thing else for three weeks. i will enclose the fatal letter after i have finished this enormous one; to which i will only add, that nothing has interrupted my s`evign`e researches but the frost. the abb`e de malherbes has given me full power to ransack i did not tell you, that by great accident, when i thought on nothing less, i stumbled on an original picture of the comte de grammont, adieu! you are generally in london in march: i shall be there by the end of it.( ) ( ) to the above portrait of madame du deffand it may be useful to subjoin the able development of her character which appeared in the quarterly review for may , in its critique on her letters to walpole:--"this lady seems to have united the lightness of the french character with the solidity of the english. she was easy and volatile, yet judicious and acute; sometimes profound and sometimes superficial. she had a wit playful, abundant, and well-toned; an admirable conception of the ridiculous, and great skill in exposing it; a turn for satire, which she indulged, not always in the best-natured manner, yet with irresistible effect; powers of expression varied, appropriate, flowing from the source, and curious without research; a refined taste for letters, and a judgment both of men and books in a high degree: enlightened and accurate. as her parts had been happily thrown together by nature, they were no less happy in the circumstances which attended their progress and development. they were refined, not by a course of solitary study, but by desultory reading, and chiefly by living intercourse with the brightest geniuses of her age. thus trained, they acquired a pliability of movement, which gave to all their exertions a bewitching air of freedom and negligence. and made even their last efforts seem only the exuberances or flowering-off of a mind capable of higher excellencies, but unambitious to attain them. there was nothing to alarm or overpower. on whatever topic she touched, trivial or severe, it was alike en badinant; but in the midst of this sportiveness, her genius poured itself forth in a thousand delightful fancies, and scattered new graces and ornaments on every object within its sphere. in its wanderings from the trifles of the day to grave questions of morals or philosophy, it carelessly struck out, and as carelessly abandoned, the most profound truths; and while it sought only to amuse, suddenly astonished and electrified by rapid traits of illumination, which opened the depths of difficult subjects, and roused the researches of more systematic reasoners. to these qualifications were added an independence in forming opinions, and a boldness in avowing them, which wore at least the semblance of honesty; a perfect knowledge of the world, and that facility of manners, which in the commerce of society supplies the place of benevolence."-e. ( ) m. de pontdeveyle, the younger brother of the marquis d'argental, the friend of voltaire and of the king of prussia. their mother, madame do ferioles, was sister to the celebrated madame de tencin and to the cardinal of the same name. he died in .-e. ( ) madame du deffand, in a letter to walpole of the th of march , states the malheurs de l'amour to be the production of madame de tencin. she describes it as un roman bien `ecrit, mais qui n'inspire que de la tristesse."-e. ( ) la mar`ecchale de mirepoix was the first woman of consequence who countenanced and appeared in public at versailles with madame du barri; while, on the other hand, her brother, the prince de beauvau and his wife, gave great offence by refusing to see her or be of any of her parties. her person is thus described by madame du deffand:--"sa figure est charmante, son teint est `eblouissant; ses traits, sans `etre parfaits, sont si bien assortis, que personne n'a l'air plus jeune et n'est plus jolie."-e. ( ) le comte d'argenson was minister-at-war, and, after damien's attempt upon the life of the king of france in , was disgraced, and exiled to his country-house at ormes in poitou. he was brother to the marquis d'argenson, who had been minister of foreign affairs, and died in . he it was who is said to have addressed m. bignon, his nephew, afterwards an academician, on conferring upon him the appointment of librarian to the king, "mon neveu, voil`a une belle occasion pour apprendre `a lire."-e. ( ) the following is the commencement of the song above alluded to by walpole:-- "une petite bourgeoise, elev`ee `a la grivoise, mesurant tout k sa toise, fait de la cour un tandis. le roi, malgr`e son scrupule, pour elle froidement br`ule. cette flamme ridicule si excite dans tout paris, ris, ris, ris." ( ) le comte de maurepas, who was married to a sister of the duc de la valli`ere, had been minister of marine, and disgraced, as walpole says, at the instigation of the reigning mistress, madame de pompadour. upon the death of louis quinze, he was immediately summoned to assist in the formation of the ministry of his successor.-e. ( see vol. iii. p. , letter .-e. ( ) madame de rochefort, n`ee brancas.-e. ( ) la duchesse de choiseul, n`ee du chatel. the husband appears to have been more attached to her than walpole supposed; at least if we may judge from his will, in which he desires to be buried in the same grave, and expresses his gratification at the idea of reposing by the side of one whom he had, during his lifetime, cherished and respected so highly.-e. ( ) la duchesse de grammont, sister of the duke of choiseul, does not appear to have deserved the character which walpole has here given of her. she was thus described, in , by mr. hans stanley, in a letter to mr. pitt:--"the duchess is the only person who has any weight with her brother, the duc de choiseul. she never dissembles her contempt or dislike of any man, in whatever degree of elevation. it is said she might have supplied the place of madame de pompadour, if she had pleased. she treats the ceremonies and pageants of courts as things beneath her: she possesses a most uncommon share of understanding, and has very high notions of honour and reputation." the crowning act of her life militates strongly against walpole's views. when brought before the revolutionary tribunal, in april , after having been seized by order of robespierre, she astonished her judges by the grace and dignity of her demeanour; and pleaded, not for her own life, but eloquently for that of her friend, the duchesse du chatelet: "que ma mmort soit d`ecid`ee," she said; "cela ne m'`etonne pas; mais," pointing to her friend, "pour cet ange, en quoi vous a-t-elle offens`e; elle qui n'a jamais fait tort `a personne; et dont la vie enti`ere n'offre qu'un tableau de vertu et de bienfaisance." both suffered upon the same scaffold. it was this lady who was selected to be made an example of, from among many others who slighted madame du barri; and for this she was exiled to the distance of fifteen leagues from paris, or from wheresoever the court was assembled.-e. ( ) la mar`echale duchesse de luxembourg, sister to the duc de villeroi, her first husband was the duc de boufflers, by whom she had a son, the duc de boufflers, who died at genoa of the small-pox. she afterwards married the mar`echal duc de luxembourg, at whose country-seat, montmorency, jean jacques rousseau was long an inmate.-e. ( ) the princess of talmond was born in poland, and said to be allied to the queen, maria leczinska, with whom she came to france, and there married a prince of the house of bouillon.-e. ( ) gray, in reference to this letter, writes thus to dr. wharton, on the th of march:--"mr. walpole writes me now and then a long and lively letter from paris, to which place he went the last summer, with the gout upon him; sometimes in his limbs; often in his stomach and head. he has got somehow well, (not by means of the climate, one would think,) goes to all public places, sees all the best company, and is very much in fashion. he says he sunk like queen eleanor, at charing-cross, and has risen again at paris. he returns again in april; but his health is certainly in a deplorable state." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, feb. , . )page ) i had the honour of writing to your ladyship on the th and th of last month, which i only mention, because the latter went by the post, which i have found is not always a safe conveyance. i am sorry to inform you, madam, that you will not see madame geoffrin this year, as she goes to poland in may. the king has invited her, promised her an apartment exactly in her own way, and that she shall see nobody but whom) she chooses to see. this will not surprise you, madam; but what i shall add, will: though i must beg your ladyship not to mention it even to her, as it is an absolute secret here, as she does not know that i know it, and as it was trusted to me by a friend of yours. in short, there are thoughts of sending her with a public character, or at least with a commission from hence--a very extraordinary honour, and i think never bestowed but on the mar`echale de gu`ebriant. as the dussons have been talked of, and as madame geoffrin has enemies, its being known might make her uneasy that it was known. i should have told it to no mortal but your ladyship; but i could not resist giving you such a pleasure. in your answer, madam, i need not warn you not to specify what i have told you. my favour here continues ; and favour never displeases. to me, too, it is a novelty, and i naturally love curiosities. however, i must be looking towards home, and have perhaps only been treasuring up regret. at worst i have filled my mind with a new set of ideas; some resource to a man who was heartily tired of his old ones. when i tell your ladyship that i play at whisk, and bear even french music, you will not wonder at any change in me. yet i am far from pretending to like every body, or every thing i see. there are some chapters on which i still fear we shall not agree; but i will do your ladyship the justice to own, that you have never said a syllable too much in behalf of the friends to whom you was so good as to recommend me. madame d'egmont, whom i have mentioned but little, is one of the best women in the world, and, though not at all striking at first, _fair)s upon one much. colonel gordon, with this letter, brings you, madam, some more seeds from her. i have a box of pomatums for you from madame de boufflers, which shall go by the next conveyance that offers. as he waits for my parcel, i can only repeat how much i am your ladyship's most obliged and faithful humble servant. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, feb. , . (page ) i write on small paper, that the nothing i have to say may look like a letter, paris, that supplies tine with diversions, affords me no news. england sends me none, on which i care to talk by the post. all seems in confusion; but i have done with politics! the marriage of your cousin puts me in mind of the two owls, whom the vizier in some eastern tale told the sultan were treating on a match between their children, on whom they were to settle i don't know how many ruined villages. trouble not your head about it. our ancestors were rogues, and so will our posterity be. madame roland has sent to me, by lady jerningham,( ) to beg my works. she shall certainly have them when i return to england; but how comes she to forget that you and i are friends? or does she think that all englishmen quarrel on party? if she does, methinks she is a good deal in the right, and it is one of the reasons why i have bid adieu to politics, that i may not be expected to love those i hate, and hate those i love. i supped last night with the duchess de choiseul, and saw a magnificent robe she is to wear to-day for a great wedding between a biron( ) and a boufflers. it is of blue satin, embroidered all over in mosaic, diamond-wise, with gold: in every diamond is a silver star edged with gold, and surrounded with spangles in the same way; it is trimmed with double sables, crossed with frogs and tassels of gold; her head, neck, breast, and arms, covered with diamonds. she will be quite the fairy queen, for it is the prettiest little reasonable amiable titania you ever saw; but oberon does not love it. he prefers a great mortal hermione his sister. i long to hear that you are lodged in arlington-street, and invested with your green livery; and i love lord beaulieu for his cudom. adieu! ( ) mary, eldest daughter, and eventually heiress, of francis plowden, esq. by mary eldest daughter of the hon. john stafford howard, younger son of the unfortunate lord stafford, wife of sir george jerningham.-e. ( ) the duc de lauzun, who upon the death of his uncle, the mar`echal de biron, became duc de biron, married the heiress and only child of the duc de boufflers, who died at genoa. the marriage proved an unhappy one, and the duchess twice took refuge in england at the breaking out of the french revolution; but having, in , unadvisedly returned to paris, she perished on the scaffold in one of the bloody proscriptions of robespierre. at the beginning of that revolution, the duke espoused the popular cause, and even commanded an army under the orders of the legislative assembly; but in the storms that succeeded, being altogether unequal to stem the torrent of popular fury or direct its course, he fell by the guillotine early in .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, sunday, feb. . (page ) i cannot know that you are in my house, and not say, you are welcome. indeed you are, and i am heartily glad you are pleased there. i have neither matter nor time for more, as i have heard of an opportunity of sending this away immediately with some other letters. news do not happen here as in london; the parliaments meet, draw up a remonstrance, ask a day for presenting it, have the day named a week after, and so forth. at their rate of going on, if methusalem was first president, he would not see the end of a single question. as your histories are somewhat more precipitate, i wait for their coming to some settlement, and then will return; but, if the old ministers are to be replaced, bastille for bastille, i think i had rather stay where i am. i am not half so much afraid of any power, as the french are of mr. pitt. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. paris, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, as you cannot, i believe, get a copy of the letter to rousseau, and are impatient for it, i send it you: though the brevity of it will not answer your expectation. it is no answer to any of his works, and is only a laugh at his affectations. i hear he does not succeed in england, where his singularities are no curiosity. yet he must stay there, or give up all his pretensions. to quit a country where he may live at ease, and unpersecuted, will be owning that tranquillity is not what he seeks. if he again seeks persecution, who will pity him? i should think even bigots would let him alone out of contempt. i have executed your commission in a way that i hope will please you. as you tell me you have a blue cup and saucer, and a red one, and would have them completed to six, without being all alike, i have bought one other blue, one other red, and two sprigged, in the same manner, with colours; so you will have just three pair, which seems preferable to six odd ones; and which, indeed, at nineteen livres a-piece, i think i could not have found. i shall keep very near the time i proposed returning; though i am a little tempted to wait for the appearance of' leaves. as i may never come hither again, i am disposed to see a little of their villas and gardens, though it will vex me to lose spring and lilac-tide at strawberry. the weather has been so bad, and continues so cold, that i have not yet seen all i intended in paris. to-day, i have been to the plaine de sablon, by the bois de boulogne, to see a horserace rid in person by the count lauragais and lord forbes.( ) all paris was in motion by nine o'clock this morning, and the coaches and crowds were innumerable at so novel a sight. would you believe it, that there was an englishman to whom it was quite as new? that englishman was i: though i live within two miles of hounslow, have been fifty times in my life at newmarket, and have passed through it at the time of the races, i never before saw a complete one. i once went from cambridge on purpose; saw the beginning, was tired, and went away. if there was to be a review in lapland, perhaps i might see a review, too; which yet i have never seen. lauragais was distanced at the second circuit. what added to the singularity was, that at the same instant his brother was gone to church to be married. but, as lauragais is at variance with his father and wife, he chose this expedient to show he was not at the wedding. adieu! ( ) james, sixteenth baron, who married, in , catherine, only daughter of sir robert innes, bart. of orton. he was deputy-governor of fort william, and died there in .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, march , . (page ) i write, because i ought, and because i have promised you i would, and because i have an opportunity by monsieur de lillebonne, and in spite of a better reason for being silent, which is, that i have nothing to say. people marry, die, and are promoted here about whom neither you nor i care a straw. no, truly, and i am heartily tired of them, as you may believe when i am preparing to return. there is a man in the next room actually nailing my boxes; yet it will be the beginning of april before i am at home. i have not had so much as a cold in all this siberian winter, and i will not venture the tempting the gout by lying in a bad inn, till the weather is warmer. i wish, too, to see a few leaves out at versailles, etc. if i stayed till august i could not see many; for there is not a tree for twenty miles, that is not hacked and hewed, till it looks like the stumps that beggars thrust into coaches to excite charity and miscarriages. i am going this evening in search of madame roland; i doubt we shall both miss each other's lilies and roses: she may have got some pionies in their room, but mine are replaced with crocuses. i love lord harcourt for his civility, to you; and i would fain see you situated under the greenwood-tree, even by a compromise. you may imagine i am pleased with the defeat, hisses, and mortification of george grenville, and the more by the disappointment it has occasioned here. if you have a mind to vex them thoroughly, you must make mr. pitt minister.( ) they have not forgot him, whatever we have done. the king has suddenly been here this morning to hold a lit de justice: i don't yet know the particulars, except that it was occasioned by some bold remonstrances of the parliament on the subject of that of bretagne. louis told me when i waked, that the duke de chevreuil, the governor of paris, was just gone by in great state. i long to chat with mr. chute and you in the blue room at strawberry: though i have little to write, i have a great deal to say. how do you like his new house? has he no gout? are your cousins cortez and pizarro heartily mortified that they are not to roast and plunder the americans? is goody carlisle disappointed at not being appointed grand inquisitor? adieu! i will not seal this till i have seen or missed madame roland. yours ever. p. s. i have been prevented going to madame roland, and defer giving an account of her by this letter. ( ) mr. gerard hamilton, in a letter to mr. calcraft, of the th, says:--"grenville and the duke of bedford's people continue to oppose, in every stage, the passage of the bill for the repeal of the stamp-act. the reports of the day are, that mr. pitt will go into the house of lords, and form an arrangement, which he will countenance."-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, march , . (page ) there are two points, madam, on which i must write to your ladyship, though i have been confined these three or four days with an inflammation in my eyes. my watchings and revellings had, i doubt, heated my blood, and prepared it to receive a stroke of cold, which in truth was amply administered. we were two-and-twenty at mar`echale du luxembourg's, and supped in a temple rather than in a hall. it is vaulted at top with gods and goddesses, and paved with marble; but the god of fire was not of the number. however, as this is neither of my points, i shall say no more of it. i send your ladyship lady albemarle's box, which madame geoffrin brought to me herself yesterday. i think it very neat and charming, and it exceeds the commission but by a guinea and a half. it is lined with wood between the two golds, as the price and necessary size would not admit metal enough without, to leave it of any solidity. the other point i am indeed ashamed to mention so late. i am more guilty than even about the scissors. lord hertford sent me word a fortnight ago, that an ensigncy was vacant, to which he should recommend mr. fitzgerald. i forgot both to thank him and to acquaint your ladyship, who probably know it without my communication. i have certainly lost my memory! this is so idle and young, that i begin to fear i have acquired something of the fashionable man, which i so much dreaded. it is to england then that i must return to recover friendship and attention? i literally wrote to lord hertford, and forgot to thank him. sure i did not use to be so abominable! i cannot account for it; i am as black as ink, and must turn methodist, to fancy that repentance can wash me white again. no, i will not; for then i may sin again, and trust to the same nostrum. i had the honour of sending your ladyship the funeral sermon on the dauphin, and a tract to laugh at sermons: "your bane and antidote are both before you." the first is by the archbishop of toulouse,( ) who is thought the first man of the clergy. it has some sense, no pathetic, no eloquence, and, i think, clearly no belief in his own doctrine. the latter is by the abb`e coyer,( ) written livelily, upon a single idea; and, though i agree upon the inutility of the remedy he rejects, i have no better opinion of that he would substitute. preaching has not failed from the beginning of the world till to-day, not because inadequate to the disease, but because the disease is incurable. if one preached to lions and tigers, would it cure them of thirsting for blood, and sucking it when they have an opportunity no; but when they are whelped in the tower, and both caressed and beaten, do they turn out a jot more tame when they are grown up? so far from it, all the kindness in the world, all the attention, cannot make even a monkey (that is no beast of prey) remember a pair of scissors or an ensigncy. adieu, madam! and pray don't forgive me, till i have forgiven myself. i dare not close my letter with any professions; for could you believe them in one that had so much reason to think himself your most obedient humble servant? ( ) brionne de lomenie, archbishop of toulouse, and afterwards cardinal de lomenie or as he was nicknamed by the populace of paris, "cardinal de l'ignominie," was great-nephew to madame du deffand. the spirit of political intrigue raised him to the administration of affairs during the last struggles of the old r`egime, and exposed him to the contempt he deserved for aspiring to such a situation at such a moment. he was arrested at the commencement of the revolution, and escaped the guillotine by dying in one of the prisons at paris in .-e. ( ) this pamphlet of the abb`e coyer, which was entitled "on preaching," produced a great sensation in paris at the time of its publication. its object is to prove, that those who have occupied themselves in preaching to others, ever since the world began, whether poets, priests, or philosophers, have been but a parcel of prattlers, listened to if eloquent, laughed at if dull; but who have never corrected any body: the true preacher being the government, which joins to the moral maxims which it inculcates the force of example and the power of execution. baron de grimm characterizes the abb`e as being "l'homme du monde le plus lourd, l'ennui personnifi`e," and relates the following anecdote of him during his visit to voltaire at the chateau de ferney:-" "the first day, the philosopher bore his company with tolerable politeness; but the next morning he interrupted him in a long prosing narrative of his travels, by this question: 'savez-vous bien, m. l'abb`e, la difference qu'il y a entre don quichotte et vous? c'est que don quichotte prenait toutes les auberges pour des chateaux; et vous, vous prenez tous les ch`ateaux pour des auberges.'" the abb`e died in .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, march , . (page ) i can write but two lines, for i have been confined these four or five days with a violent inflammation in my eyes, and which has prevented my returning to madame roland. i did not find her at home, but left your letter. my right eye is well again, and i have been to take air. how can you ask leave to carry any body to strawberry? may not you do what you please with me and mine? does not arlington-street comprehend strawberry? why don't you go and lie there if you like it'? it will be, i think, the middle of april, before i return; i have lost a week by this confinement, and would fain satisfy my curiosity entirely, now i am here. i have seen enough, and too much, of the people. i am glad you are upon civil terms with habiculeo. the less i esteem folks, the less i would quarrel with them. i don't wonder that colman and garrick write ill in concert,( ) when they write ill separately; however, i am heartily glad the clive shines. adieu! commend me to charles-street. kiss fanny, and mufti, and ponto for me, when you go to strawberry: dear souls, i long to kiss them myself. ( ) the popular comedy of the clandestine marriage, the joint production of garrick and colman, had just been brought out at drury-lane theatre.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, march , . (page ) you make me very happy, in telling me you have been so comfortable in my house. if you would set up a bed there, you need never go out of it. i want to invite you, not to expel you. april the tenth my pilgrimage will end, and the fifteenth, or sixteenth, you may expect to see me, not much fattened with the flesh-pots of egypt, but almost as glad to come amongst you again as i was to leave you. your madame roland is not half so fond of me as she tells me; i have been twice at her door, left your letter and my own direction, but have not received so much as a message to tell me she is sorry she was not at home. perhaps this is her first vision of paris, and it is natural for a frenchwoman to have her head turned with it; though what she takes for rivers of emerald, and hotels of ruby and topaz, are to my eyes, that have been purged with euphrasy and rue, a filthy stream, in which every thing is washed without being cleaned, and dirty houses, ugly streets, worse shops, and churches loaded with bad pictures.( ) such is the material part of this paradise; for the corporeal,,if madame roland admires it, i have nothing to say; however, i shall not be sorry to make one at lady frances elliot's. thank you for admiring my deaf old woman; if i could bring my old blind one with me, i should resign this paradise as willingly as if it was built of opal, and designed by a fisherman, who thought that what makes a fine necklace would make a finer habitation. we did not want your sun; it has shone here for a fortnight with all its lustre but yesterday a north wind, blown by the czarina herself i believe, arrived, and declared a month of march of full age. this morning it snowed; and now, clouds of dust are whisking about the streets and quays, edged with an east wind, that gets under one's very shirt. i should not be quite sorry if a little of it tapped my lilacs on their green noses, and bade them wait for their master. the princess of talmond sent me this morning a picture of two pup-dogs, and a black and white greyhound, wretchedly painted. i could not conceive what i was to do with this daub, but in her note she warned me not to hope to keep it. it was only to imprint on my memory the size, and features, and spots of diana, her departed greyhound, in order that i might get her exactly such another. don't you think my memory will return well stored, if it is littered with defunct lapdogs. she is so devout, that i did not dare send her word, that i am not possessed of a twig of jacob's broom, with which he streaked cattle as he pleased t'other day, in the street, i saw a child in a leading-string, whose nurse gave it a farthing for a beggar; the babe delivered its mite with a grace, and a twirl of the hand. i don't think your cousin's first grandson will be so well bred. adieu! yours ever. ( ) walpole's picture of paris, in , is not much more favourable than that of peter heylin, who visited that city in the preceding century:--"this i am confident of," says peter, "that the nastiest lane in london is frankincense and juniper to the sweetest street in this city. the ancient by-word was (and there is good reason for it) 'il destaient comme la fange de paris:' had i the power of making proverbs, i would only change destaient' into 'il put,' and make the by-word ten times more orthodox. that which most amazed me is, that in such a perpetuated constancy of stinks, there should yet be variety--a variety so special and distinct, that my chemical nose (i dare lay my life on it), after two or three perambulations, would hunt out blindfold each several street by the smell, as perfectly as another by the eye."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, april , . (page ) one must be just to all the world; madame roland, i find, has been in the country, and at versailles, and was so obliging as to call on me this morning, but i was so disobliging as not to be awake. i was dreaming dreams; in short, i had dined at livry; yes, yes, at livry, with a langlade and de la rochefoucaulds. the abbey is now possessed by an abb`e de malherbe, with whom i am acquainted, and who had given me a general invitation. i put it off to the last moment, that the bois and all`ees might set off the scene a little, and contribute to the vision; but it did not want it. livry is situated in the for`et de bondi, very agreeably on a flat, but with hills near it, and in prospect. there is a great air of simplicity and rural about it, more regular than our taste, but with an old-fashioned tranquillity, and nothing of coligichet. not a tree exists that remembers the charming woman, because in this country an old tree is a traitor, and forfeits its head to the crown; but the plantations are not young, and might very well be as they were in her time. the abb`e's house is decent and snug; a few paces from it is the sacred pavilion built for madame de s`evign`e by her uncle, and much as it was in her day; a small saloon below for dinner, then an arcade, but the niches now closed, and painted in fresco with medallions of her, the grignan, the fayette, and the rochefoucauld. above, a handsome large room, with a chimney-piece in the best taste of louis the fourteenth's time; a holy family in good relief over it, and the cipher of her uncle coulanges; a neat little bedchamber within, and two or three clean little chambers over them. on one side of the garden, leading to the great road, is a little bridge of wood, on which the dear woman used to wait for the courier that brought her daughter's letters. judge with what veneration and satisfaction i set my foot upon it! if you will come to france with me next year, we will go and sacrifice on that sacred spot together. on the road to livry i passed a new house on the pilasters of the gate to which were two sphinxes in stone, with their heads coquetly reclined, straw hats, and french cloaks slightly pinned, and not hiding their bosoms. i don't know whether i or memphis would have been more diverted. i shall set out this day se'nnight, the tenth, and be in london about the fifteenth or sixteenth, if the wind is fair. adieu! yours ever. p. s. i need not say, i suppose, that this letter is to mr. chute, too. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, april , . (page ) in a certain city of europe( ) it is the custom to wear slouched hats, long cloaks, and high capes. scandal and the government called this dress going in mask, and pretended that it contributed to assassination. an ordonnance was published, commanding free-born hats to be cocked, cloaks to be shortened, and capes laid aside. all the world obeyed for the first day: but the next, every thing returned into its old channel. in the evening a tumult arose, and cries of,, "god bless the king! god bless the kingdom! but confusion to squillaci, the prime minister."( ) the word was no sooner given, but his house was beset, the windows broken, and the gates attempted. the guards came and fired on the weavers( ) of cloaks. the weavers returned the fire, and many fell on each side. as the hour of supper approached and the mob grew hungry, they recollected a tax upon bread, and demanded the repeal. the king yielded to both requests, and hats and loaves were set at liberty. the people were not contented, and still insisted on the permission of murdering the first minister; though his majesty assured his faithful commons that the minister was never consulted on acts of government, and was only his private friend, who sometimes called upon him in an evening to drink a glass of wine and talk botany. the people were incredulous, and continued in mutiny when the last letters came away. if you should happen to suppose, as i did, that this history arrived in london, do not be alarmed; for it was at madrid; and a nation who has borne the inquisition cannot support a cocked hat. so necessary it is for governors to know when lead or a feather will turn the balance of human understandings, or will not! i should not have entrenched on lord george's( ) province of sending you news of revolutions, but he is at aubign`e; and i thought it right to advertise you in time, in case you should have a mind to send a bale of slouched hats to the support of the mutineers. as i have worn a flapped hat all my life, when i have worn any at all, i think myself qualified, and would offer my service to command them; but, being persuaded that you are a faithful observer of treaties, though a friend to repeals, i shall come and receive your commands in person. in the mean time i cannot help figuring what a pompous protest my lord lyttelton might draw up in the character of an old grandee against the revocation of the act for cocked hats. lady ailesbury forgot to send me word of your recovery, as she promised; but i was so lucky as to hear it from other hands. pray take care of yourself, and do not imagine that you are as weak as i am, and can escape the scythe, as i do, by being low: your life is of more consequence. if you don't believe me, step into the street and ask the first man you meet. this is sunday, and thursday is fixed for my departure, unless the clairon should return to the stage on tuesday se'nnight, as it is said; and i do not know whether i should not be tempted to borrow two or three days more, having never seen her; yet my lilacs pull hard, and i have not a farthing left in the world. be sure you do not leave a cranny open for george grenville to wriggle it), till i have got all my things out of the customhouse. adieu! yours ever. ( ) this account alludes to the insurrection at madrid, on the attempt of the court to introduce the french dress in spain. ( ) squillace, an italian, whom the king was obliged to banish. ( ) alluding to the mobs of silk-weavers which had taken place in london. ( ) lord george lenox, only brother to the duke of richmond. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. paris, april , . (page ) i sent you a few lines by the post yesterday with the first of the insurrection at madrid. i have since seen stahremberg,( ) the imperial minister, who has had a courier from thence; and if lord rochford( ) has not sent one, you will not be sorry to know more particulars. the mob disarmed the invalids; stopped all coaches, to prevent squillaci's flight; and meeting the duke de medina celi, forced him and the duke d'arcos to carry their demands to the king. his most frightened majesty granted them directly; on which his highness the people despatched a monk with their demands in writing, couched in four articles; the diminution of the gabel on bread and oil; the revocation of the ordonnance on hats and cloaks; the banishment of squillaci; and the abolition of some other tax, i don't know what. the king signed all; yet was still forced to appear at a balcony, and promise to observe what he had granted. squillaci was sent with an escort to carthagena, to embark for naples, and the first commissioner of the treasury appointed to succeed him; which does not look much like observation of the conditions. some say ensenada is recalled, and that grimaldi is in no good odour with the people. if the latter and squillaci are dismissed, we get rid of two enemies. the tumult ceased on the grant of the demands; but the king retiring that night to aranjuez, the insurrection was renewed the next morning on pretence that this flight was a breach of the capitulation the people seized the gates of the capital, and permitted nobody to go out. in this state were things when the courier came away. the ordonnance against going in disguise looks as if some suspicions had been conceived; and yet their confidence was so great as not to have two thousand guards in the town. the pitiful behaviour of the court makes one think that the italians were frightened, and that the spanish part of the ministry were not sorry it took that turn. as i suppose there is no great city in spain which has not at least a bigger bundle of grievances than the capital, one shall not wonder if the pusillanimous behaviour of the king encourages them to redress themselves too. there is what is called a change of the ministry here; but it is only a crossing over and figuring in. the duc de praslin has wished to retire for some time; and for this last fortnight there has been talk of his being replaced by the duc d'aiguillon. the duc de nivernois, etc.; but it is plain, though not believed till now, that the duc de choiseul is all-powerful. to purchase the stay of his cousin praslin, on whom he can depend, and to leave no cranny open, he has ceded the marine and colonies to the due de praslin, and taken the foreign and military department himself. his cousin is, besides, named chef du conseil des finances; a very honourable, very dignified, and very idle place, and never filled since the duc de bethune had it. praslin's hopeful cub, the viscount, whom you saw in england last year, goes to naples; and the marquis de durfort to vienna--a cold, dry, proud man, with the figure and manner of lord cornbury. great matters are expected to-day from the parliament, which re-assembles. a mousquetaire, his piece loaded with a lettre de cachet, went about a fortnight ago to the notary who keeps the parliamentary registers, and demanded them. they were refused-- but given up, on the lettre de cachet being produced. the parliament intends to try the notary for breach of trust, which i suppose will make his fortune; though he has not the merit of perjury, like carteret webb. there have been insurrections at bordeaux and tailless, on the militia, and twenty-seven persons were killed at the latter: but both are appeased. these things are so much in vogue, that i wonder the french do not dress `a la r`evolte. the queen is in a very dangerous way. this will be my last letter; but i am not sure i shall set out before the middle of next week. yours ever. ( ) prince stahremberg: he had married a daughter of the duc d'arembert, by his duchess, nee la marche. ( ) william henry zuleistein de nassau, earl of rochford, who was at this time the english ambassador extraordinary at the court of spain. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) at last i am come back, dear sir, and in good health. i have brought you four cups and saucers, one red and white, one blue and white, and two coloured; and a little box of pastils. tell me whether and how i shall convey them to you; or whether you will, as i hope, come to strawberry this summer, and fetch them yourself; but if you are in the least hurry, i will send them. i flatter myself you have quite recovered your accident, and have no remains of lameness. the spring is very wet and cold, but strawberry alone contains more verdure than all france. i scrambled very well through the custom-house at dover, and have got all my china safe from that here in town. you will see the fruits when you come to strawberry hill. adieu! letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) dear sir, i am forced to do a very awkward thing, and send you back one of your letters, and, what is still worse, opened. the case was this: i received your two at dinner, opened one and laid the other in my lap; but forgetting that i had taken one out of the first, i took up the wrong 'hand broke it open,. without perceiving my mistake, till i saw the words, dear sister. i give you my honour i read no farther, but had torn it too much to send it away. pray excuse me; and another time i beg you will put an envelope, for you write just where the seal comes; and besides, place the seals so together that though i did not quite open the fourth letter, yet it stuck so to the outer seal, that i could not help tearing it a little. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, may , . (page ) when the weather will please to be in a little better temper, i will call upon you to perform your promise; but i cannot in conscience invite you to a fireside. the guerchys and french dined here last monday, and it rained so that we could no more walk in the garden than noah could. i came again, to-day, but shall return to town to-morrow, as i hate to have no sun in may, but what i can make with a peck of coals. i know no news, but that the duke of richmond is secretary of state,( ) and that your cousin north has refused the vice-treasurer of ireland. it cost him bitter pangs, not to preserve his virtue, but his vicious connexions. he goggled his eyes, and groped in his money-pocket; more than half consented; nay, so much more, that when he got home he wrote an excuse to lord rockingham, which made it plain that he thought he had accepted. as nobody was dipped deeper in the warrants and prosecution of wilkes, there is no condoling with the ministers on missing so foul a bargain. they are only to be pitied, that they can purchase nothing but damaged goods. so, my lord grandison( ) is dead! does the general inherit much? have you heard the great loss the church of england has had? it is not avowed; but hear the evidence and judge. on sunday last, george selwyn was strolling home to dinner at half an hour after four. he saw my lady townshend's coach stop at caraccioli's( ) chapel. he watched, saw her go in; her footman laughed; he followed. she went up to the altar, a woman brought her a cushion; she knelt, crossed herself, and prayed. he stole up, and knelt by her. conceive her face, if you can, when she turned and found his close to her. in his demure voice, he said, "pray, madam, how long has your ladyship left the pale of our church!" she looked furies, and made no answer. next day he went to her, and she turned it off upon curiosity; but is any thing more natural? no, she certainly means to go armed with every viaticum, the church of england in one hand, methodism in the other, and the host in her mouth. have you ranged your forest, and seen your lodge yourself? i could almost wish it may not answer, and that you may cast an eye towards our neighbourhood. my lady shelburne( ) has taken a house here, and it has produced a bon-mot from mrs. clive. you know my lady suffolk is deaf, and i have talked much of a charming old passion i have at paris, who is blind; "well," said the clive, "if the new countess is but lame, i shall have no chance of ever seeing you." good night! ( ) when the duke of grafton quitted the seals, they were offered first to lord egmont, then to lord hardwicke, who both declined them; "but, after their going a-begging for some time," says lord chesterfield, " the duke of richmond begged them, and has them, faute de mieux."-e. ( ) john villiers, fifth viscount grandison. he had bee n elevated to the earldom in ; which title became extinct, and the viscounty devolved upon william third earl of jersey.-e. ( ) the marquis de carraccioli, ambassador from the court of naples.-e ( ) mary countess of shelburne, widow of the hon. john fitzmaurice, first earl of shelburne. she was likewise his first cousin, being the daughter of the hon. william fitzmaurice, of gailane, in the county of kerry.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i don't know when i shall see you, but therefore must not i write to you? yet i have as little to say as may be. i could cry through a whole page over the bad weather. i have but a lock of hay, you know; and i cannot get it dry, unless i bring it to the fire. i would give half-a-crown for a pennyworth of sun. it is abominable to be ruined in coals in the middle of june. what pleasure have you to come! there is a new thing published, that will make you split your cheeks with laughing. it is called the new bath guide.( ) it stole into the world, and for a fortnight no soul looked into it, concluding its name was the true name. no such thing. it is a set of letters in verse, in all kind of verses, describing the life at bath, and incidentally every thing else; but so much wit, so much humour, fun, and poetry, so much originality, never met together before. then the man has a better ear than dryden or handel. apropos to dryden, he has burlesqued his st. cecilia, that you will never read it again without laughing. there is a description of a milliner's box in all the terms of landscape, painted lawns and chequered shades, a moravian ode, and a methodist ditty, that are incomparable, and the best names that ever were composed. i can say it by heart, though a quarto, and if i had time would write it you down; for it is not yet reprinted, and not one to be had. there are two volumes, too, of swift's correspondence, that will not amuse you less in another way, though abominable, for there are letters of twenty persons now alive; fifty of lady betty germain, one that does her great honour in which she defends her friend lady suffolk, with all the spirit in the world,( ) against that brute, who hated every body that he hoped would get him a mitre, and did not. his own journal sent to stella during the four last years of the queen, is a fund of entertainment. you will see his insolence in full colours, and, at the same time, how daily vain he was of being noticed by the ministers he affected to treat arrogantly. his panic, at the mohocks is comical; but what strikes one, is bringing before one's eyes the incidents of a curious period. he goes to the rehearsal of cato, and says the drab that acted cato's daughter could not say her part. this was only mrs. oldfield. i was saying before george selwyn, that this journal put me in mind of the present time, there was the same indecision, irresolution, and want of system; but i added, "there is nothing new under the sun." "no," said selwyn, "nor under the grandson." my lord chesterfield has done me much honour: he told mrs. anne pitt that he would subscribe to any politics that i should lay down. when she repeated this to me, i said, "pray tell him i have laid down politics." i am got into puns and will tell you an excellent one of the king of france, though it does not spell any better than selwyn's. you must have heard of count lauragais, and his horserace, and his quacking his horse till he killed it. at his return the king asked him what he had been doing in england? "sire, j'ai appris `a penser"--"des chevaux?" replied the king.( ) good night! i am tired, and going to bed. yours ever. ( ) by christopher anstey. this production became highly popular for its pointed and original humour, and led to numerous imitations. gray, in a letter to dr. wharton, says--"have you read the new bath guide? it is the only thing in fashion, and is a new and original kind of humour. miss prue's conversation i doubt you will paste down, as sir w. st. quintyn did before he carried it to his daughter; yet i remember you all read crazy tales without pasting." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) the letter in question is dated feb. , - , and the following is the passage to which walpole refers;--"those out of power and place always see the faults of those in, with dreadful large spectacles. the strongest in my memory is sir robert walpole, being first pulled to pieces in the year , because the south sea did not rise high enough; and since that, he has been to the full as well banged about, because it did rise too high. i am determined never wholly to believe any side or party against@ the other; so my house receives them altogether, and those people meet here that have, and would fight in any other place. those of them that have great and good qualities and virtues, i love and admire; in which number is lady suffolk, because i know her to be a wise, discreet, honest, and sincere courtier."-e. ( ) see ant`e, p. , letter , note .-e. letter to the right hon. lady hervey. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) it is consonant to your ladyship's long experienced goodness, to remove my error as soon as you could. in fact, the same post that brought madame d'aiguillon's letter to you, brought me a confession from madame du deffand of her guilt.( ) i am not the less obliged to your ladyship for informing against the true criminal. it is well for me, however, that i hesitated, and did not, as monsieur guerchy pressed me to do, constitute myself prisoner. what a ridiculous vainglorious figure i should have made at versailles, with a laboured letter and my present! i still shudder when i think of it, and have scolded( ) madame du deffand black and blue. however, i feel very comfortable; and though it will be imputed to my own vanity, that i showed the box as madam de choiseul's present, i resign the glory, and submit to the shame with great satisfaction. i have no pain in receiving this present from madame du deffand; and must own have great pleasure that nobody but she could write that most charming of all letters. did not lord chesterfield think it so, madam? i doubt our friend mr. hume must allow that not only madame de boufflers, but voltaire himself, could not have written so well. when i give up madame de s`evign`e herself, i think his sacrifices will be trifling. pray, madam, continue your waters; and, if possible, wash away that original sin, the gout. what would one give for a little rainbow to tell one one should never have it again! well, but then one should have a burning fever--for i think the greatest comfort that good-natured divines give us is, that we are not to be drowned any more, in order that we may be burned. it will not at least be this summer. here is nothing but haycocks swimming round me. if it should cease raining by monday se'nnight, i think of' dining with your ladyship at old windsor; and if mr. bateman presses me mightily, i may take a bed there. as i have a waste of paper before me, and nothing more to say, i have a mind to fill it with a translation of a tale that i found lately in the dictionnaire d'anecdotes, taken from a german author. the novelty of it struck me, and i put it into verse-- ill enough; but as the old duchess of rutland used to say of a lie, it will do for news into the country. "from time's usurping power, i see, not acheron itself is free. his wasting hand my subjects feel, grow old, and wrinkle though in hell. decrepit is alecto grown, megaera worn to skin and bone; and t'other beldam is so old, she has not spirits left to scold. go, hermes, bid my brother jove send three new furies from above." to mercury thus pluto said: the winged deity obey'd. it was about the self same season that juno, with as little reason, rung for her abigail; and, you know, iris is chambermaid to juno. "iris, d'ye hear? mind what i say; i want three maids--inquire--no, stay! three virgins--yes, unspotted all; no characters equivocal. go find me three, whose manners pure can envy's sharpest tooth endure." the goddess curtsey'd, and retired; >from london to pekin inquired; search'd huts and palaces in vain; and tired, to heaven came back again. "alone! are you return'd alone? how wicked must the world be grown! what has my profligate been doing? on earth has he been spreading ruin? come, tell me all."--fair iris sigh'd, and thus disconsolate replied:-- "'tis true, o queen! three maids i found-- the like are not on christian ground-- so chaste, severe, immaculate, the very name of man they hate: these--but, alas! i came too late; for hermes had been there before-- in triumph off to pluto bore three sisters, whom yourself would own the true supports of virtue's throne." "to pluto!--mercy!" cried the queen, "what can my brother pluto mean? poor man! he doats, or mad he sure is! what can he want them for?"--"three furies." you will say i am an infernal poet; but every body cannot write as they do aux champs elys`ees. adieu, madam! ( ) madame du deffand had sent mr. walpole a snuff-box, on the lid of which was a portrait of madame de s`evign`e, accompanied by a letter written in her name from the elysian fields, and addressed to mr. walpole; who did not at first suspect madame du deffand as the author, but thought both the present and the letter had come from the duchess of choiseul. ("one of the principal features, and it must be called, when carried to such excess, one of the principal weaknesses of mr. walpole's character, was a fear of ridicule--a fear which, , like most others, often leads to greater dangers than that which it seeks to avoid. at the commencement of his acquaintance with madame du deffand, he was near fifty, and she above seventy years of age, and entirely blind. she had already long passed the first epoch in the life of a frenchwoman, that of gallantry, and had as long been established as a bel esprit; and it is to be remembered that, in the ante-revolutionary world of paris, these epochs in life were as determined, and as strictly observed, as the changes of dress on a particular day of the different seasons; and that a woman endeavouring to attract lovers after she ceased to be galante, would have been not less ridiculous as her wearing velvet when the rest of the world were in demi-soisons. madame du deffand, therefore, old and blind, had no more idea of attracting mr. walpole to her as a lover than she had of the possibility of any one suspecting her of such an intention; and indeed her lively feelings, and the violent fancy she had taken for his conversation and character, in every expression of admiration and attachment which she really felt, and which she never supposed capable of misinterpretation. by himself they were not misinterpreted; but he seems to have had ever before his eyes a very unnecessary dread of that being so by others--a fear lest madame du deffand's extreme partiality and high opinion should expose him to suspicions of entertaining the same opinion of himself, or of its leading her to some extravagant mark of attachment; and all this, he persuaded himself, was to be exposed in their letters to all the clerks of the post-office at paris and all the idlers at versailles. this accounts for the ungracious language in which he often replied to the importunities of her anxious affection; a language so foreign to his heart, and so contrary to his own habits in friendship: this too accounts for his constantly repressing on her part all effusions of sentiment, all disquisitions on the human heart, and all communications of its vexations, weaknesses, and pains." preface to "letters of madame du deffand to mr. walpole."-e. ( ) vous avez si bien fait," replied madame du deffand, "par vo le`cons, vos pr`eceptes, vos gronderies, et, le pis do tous, par vos ironies, que vous `etes presque parvenu `a me rendre fausse, ou, pour le moins, fort dissimul`ee."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, july , . (page ) don't you think a complete year enough for any administration to last? one, who at least can remove them, though he cannot make them, thinks so; and, accordingly, yesterday notified that he had sent for mr. pitt.( ) not a jot more is known; but as this set is sacrificed to their resolution to have nothing to do with lord bute, the new list will probably not be composed of such hostile ingredients. the arrangement i believe settled in the outlines; if it is not, it may still never take place: it will not be the first time this egg has been addled. one is very sure that many people on all sides will be displeased, and i think no side quite contented. your cousins, the house of yorke, lord george sackville, newcastle, and lord rockingham, will certainly not be of the elect. what lord temple will do, or if any thing will be done for george grenville, are great points of curiosity. the plan will probably be, to pick and cull from all quarters, and break all parties as much as possible.( ) from this moment i date the wane of mr. pitt's glory; he will want the thorough-bass of drums and trumpets, and is not made for peace. the dismission of a most popular administration, a leaven of lord bute, whom, too, he can never trust, and the numbers he will discontent, will be considerable objects against him. for my own part, i am much pleased, and much diverted. i have nothing to do but to sit by and laugh; a humour you know i am apt to indulge. you shall hear from me again soon. ( ) on the th the king addressed a letter to mr. pitt, expressing a desire to have his thoughts how an able and dignified ministry might be formed, and requesting him to come to town for that salutary purpose. the letter will be found in the chatham correspondence, vol. ii. p. .-e. ( ) "here are great bustles at court," writes lord chesterfield, on the th, "and a great change of persons is certainly very near. my conjecture is, that, be the new settlement what it will, mr. pitt will be at the head of it. if he is, i presume, qu'il aura mis de l'eau dans son vin par rapport `a my lord bute: when that shall come to be known, as known it certainly will soon be, he may bid adieu to his popularity."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, july , . (page ) you may strike up your sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer; for mr. pitt( ) comes in, and lord temple does not. can i send you a more welcome affirmative or negative? my sackbut is not very sweet, and here is the ode i have made for it: when britain heard the woful news, that temple was to be minister, to look upon it could she choose but as an omen most sinister? but when she heard he did refuse, in spite of lady chat. his sister, what could she do but laugh, o muse? and so she did, till she ***** her. if that snake had wriggled in, he would have drawn after him the whole herd of vipers; his brother demogorcon and all. 'tis a blessed deliverance. the changes i should think now would be few. they are not yet known; but i am content already, and shall go to strawberry to-morrow, where i shall be happy to receive you and mr. john any day after sunday next, the twenty-seventh, and for as many days as ever you will afford me. let me know your mind by the return of the post. strawberry is in perfection: the verdure has all the bloom of spring: the orange-trees are loaded with blossoms, the gallery all sun and gold, mrs. clive all sun and vermilion-- in short, come away to yours ever. p. s. i forgot to tell you, and i hate to steal and not tell, that my ode is imitated from fontaine. ( ) mr. pitt was gazetted, on the th of july, viscount pitt, of burton pynsent, and earl of chatham. the same gazette contained the notification of his appointment as lord privy seal in the room of the duke of newcastle. "what shall i say to you about the ministry?" writes gray to wharton: "i am as angry as a common-councilman of london about my lord chatham, but a little more patient, and will hold my tongue till the end of the year. in the mean time, i do mutter in secret, and to you, that to quit the house of commons, his natural strength, to sap his own popularity and grandeur, (which no man but himself could have done,) by assuming a foolish title; and to hope that he could win by it, and attach him to a court that hate him, and will dismiss him as soon as ever they dare, was the weakest thing that ever was done by so great a man. had it not been for this, i should have rejoiced at the breach between him and lord temple, and at the union between him and the duke of grafton and mr. conway: but patience! we shall see!" works, vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to david hume, esq.( ) arlington street, july , . (page ) dear sir, your set of literary friends are what a set of literary men are apt to be, exceedingly absurd. they hold a consistory to consult how to argue with a madman; and they think it very necessary for your character to give them the pleasure of seeing rousseau exposed, not because he has provoked you, but them. if rousseau prints, you must; but i certainly would not till he does.( ) i cannot be precise as to the time of my writing the king of prussia's letter; but i do assure you with the utmost truth that it was several days before you left paris, and before rousseau's arrival there, of which i can give you a strong proof; for i not only suppressed the letter while you stayed there, out of delicacy to you, but it was the reason why, out of delicacy to myself, i did not go to see him, as you often proposed to me, thinking it wrong to go and make a cordial visit to a man, with a letter in my pocket to laugh at him. you are at full liberty, dear sir, to make use of what i say in your justification, either to rousseau or any body else. i should be very sorry to have you blamed on my account; i have a hearty contempt of rousseau, and am perfectly indifferent what the literati of paris think of the matter. if there is any fault, which i am far from thinking, let it lie on me. no parts can hinder my laughing at their possessor, if he is a mountebank. if he has a bad and most ungrateful heart, as rousseau has shown in your case, into the bargain, he will have my scorn likewise, as he will of all good and sensible men. you may trust your sentence to such who are as respectable judges as any that have pored over ten thousand more volumes. p. s. i will look out the letter and the dates as soon as i go to strawberry hill. ( ) on the celebrated quarrel between hume and rousseau, d'alembert, and the other literary friends of the former, met at paris, and were unanimous in advising him to publish the particulars. this hume at first refused, but determined to collect them and for that purpose had written to mr. walpole respecting the pretended letter from the king of prussia. ( ) "your friend rousseau, i doubt, grows tired of mr. davenport and derbyshire: he has picked up a quarrel with david hume, and writes him letters of fourteen pages folio, upbraiding him with all his noirceurs; take one only as a specimen. he says that at calais they chanced to sleep in the same room together, and that he overheard david talking in his sleep, and saying, 'ah! je le tiens, ce jean jacques l`a.' in short, i fear, for want of persecution and admiration (for these are his real complaints), be will go back to the continent." gray to wharton; works, vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, sept. , . (page ) dear sir, i am exceedingly obliged to you for your very friendly letter, and hurt at the absurdity of the newspapers that occasioned the alarm. sure i am not of consequence enough to be lied about! it is true i am ill, have been extremely so, and have been ill long, but with nothing like paralytic, as they have reported me. it has been this long disorder alone that has prevented my profiting of your company at strawberry, according to the leave you gave me of asking it. i have lived upon the road between that place and this, never settled there, and uncertain whether i should go to bath or abroad. yesterday se'nnight i grew exceedingly ill indeed, with what they say has been the gout in my stomach, bowels, back, and kidneys. the worst seems over, and i have been to take the air to-day for the first time, but bore it so ill that i don't know how soon i shall be able to set out for bath, whither they want me to go immediately. as that journey makes it very uncertain when i shall be at strawberry again, and as you must want your cups and pastils, will you tell me if i can convey them to you any way safely? excuse my saying more to-day, as i am so faint and weak; but it was impossible not to acknowledge your kindness the first minute i was able. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sept. , . (page ) i am this moment come hither with mr. chute, who has showed me your most kind and friendly letter, for which i give you a thousand thanks. it did not surprise me, for you cannot alter. i have been most extremely ill; indeed, never well since i saw you. however, i think it is over, and that the gout is gone without leaving a codicil in my foot. weak i am to the greatest degree, and no wonder. such explosions make terrible havoc in a body of paper. i shall go to the bath in a few days. which they tell me will make my quire of paper hold out a vast while! as to that, i am neither credulous nor earnest. if it can keep me from pain and preserve me the power of motion, i shall be content. mr. chute, who has been good beyond measure, goes with me for a few days. a thousand thanks and compliments to mr. and mrs. whetenhall and mr. john, and excuse me writing more, as i am a little fatigued with my little journey. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. bath, oct. , . (page ) i arrived yesterday at noon, and bore my journey perfectly well, except that i had the headache all yesterday; but it is gone to-day, or at least made way for a little giddiness which the water gave me this morning at first. if it does not do me good very soon, i shall leave it; for i dislike the place exceedingly, and am disappointed in it. their new buildings that are so admired, look like a collection of little hospitals; the rest is detestable; and all crammed together, and surrounded with perpendicular hills that have no beauty. the river is paltry enough to be the seine or tiber. oh! how unlike my lovely thames! i met my lord chatham's coach yesterday full of such grenville-looking children, that i shall not go to see him this day or two; and to-day i spoke to lady rockingham in the street. my lords chancellor and president are here, and lord and lady powis. lady malpas arrived yesterday. i shall visit miss rich to-morrow. in the next apartment to [nine lodges *****. i have not seen him some years; and he is grown either mad or superannuated, and talks without cessation or coherence: you would think all the articles in a dictionary were prating together at once. the bedfords are expected this week. there are forty thousand others that i neither know nor intend to know. in short, it is living in a fair, and i am heartily sick of it already. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. bath, oct. , . (page ) yes, thank you, i am quite well again; and if i had not a mind to continue so, i would not remain here a day longer, for i am tired to death of the place. i sit down by the waters of babylon and weep, when i think of thee, oh strawberry! the elements certainly agree with me, but i shun the gnomes and salamanders, and have not once been at the rooms. mr. chute stays with me till tuesday; when he is gone, i do not know what i shall do; for i cannot play at cribbage by myself, and the alternative is to see my lady vane open the ball, and glimmer at fifty-four. all my comfort is, that i lodge close to the cross bath, by which means i avoid the pump-room and all its works. we go to dine and see bristol to-morrow, which will terminate our sights, for we are afraid of your noble cousins at badminton; and, as mrs. allen is dead and warburton entered upon the premises, you may swear we shall not go thither. lord chatham, the late and present chancellors, and sundry more, are here; and their graces of bedford expected. i think i shall make your mrs. trevor and lady lucy a visit; but it is such an age since we met, that i suppose we shall not know one another by sight. adieu! these watering places, that mimic a capital, and add vulgarisms and familiarities of their own, seem to me like abigails in cast gowns, and i am not young enough to take up with either. yours ever. letter to john chute, esq. bath, oct. , . (page ) i am impatient to hear that your charity to me has not ended in the gout to yourself--all my comfort is, if you have it, that you have good lady brown to nurse you. my health advances faster than my amusement. however, i have been at one opera, mr. wesley's.( ) they have boys and girls with charming voices, that sing hymns, in parts, to scotch ballad tunes but indeed so long, that one would think they were already in eternity, and knew how much time they had before them. the chapel is very neat, with true gothic windows (yet i am not converted); but i was glad to see that luxury is creeping in upon them before persecution: they have very neat mahogany stands for branches, and brackets of the same in taste. at the upper end is a broad hautpas of four steps, advancing in the middle: at each end of the broadest part are two of my eagles, with red cushions for the parson and clerk. behind them rise three more steps, in the midst of which is a third eagle for pulpit. scarlet armed chairs to all three. on either hand, a balcony for elect ladies. the rest of the congregation sit on forms. behind the pit, in a dark niche, is a plain table within rails; so you see the throne is for the apostle. wesley is a lean elderly man, fresh-coloured, his hair smoothly combed, but with a soup`con of curls at the ends. wondrous clean, but as evidently an actor as garrick. he spoke his sermon, but so fast, and with so little accent, that i am sure he has often uttered it, for it was like a lesson. there were parts and eloquence in it; but towards the end he exalted his voice, and acted very ugly enthusiasm; decried learning, and told stories, like latimer, of the fool of his college, who said, "i thanks god for every thing." except a few from curiosity, and some honourable women, the congregation was very mean. there was a scotch countess of buchan,( ) who is carrying a pure rosy vulgar face to heaven, and who asked miss rich, if that was the author of the poets. i believe she meant me and the noble authors. the bedfords came last night. lord chatham was with me yesterday two hours; looks and walks well, and is in excellent political spirits. yours ever. ( ) the idea of adapting the psalms of the church to secular tunes had been put in practice long before wesley's day. the celebrated clement marot wrote a number of psalms to sing to the popular airs of his time, for the accommodation of the ladies of the french court who were devoutly inclined; but he left it to wesley to assign as a reason for doing so, that there were no just grounds for letting the devil have all the best tunes himself.-e. ( ) agnes, second daughter of sir james stewart of goodtrees; married, in january , to henry david, fifth earl of buchan. she was the mother of the celebrated lord erskine.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. bath, oct. , . (page ) well, i went last night to see lady lucy and mrs. trevor, was let in, and received with great kindness. i found them little altered; lady lucy was much undressed, but looks better than when i saw her last, and as well as one could expect; no shyness nor singularity, but very easy and conversable. they have a very pretty house, with two excellent rooms on a floor, and extremely well furnished. you may be sure your name was much in request. if i had not been engaged, i could have staved much longer with satisfaction; and if i am doomed, as probably i shall be, to come hither again, they would be a great resource to me; for i find much more pleasure now in renewing old acquaintances than in forming new. the waters do not benefit me so much as at firs,; the pains in my stomach return almost every morning, but do not seem the least allied to the gout. this decrease of their virtue is not near so great a disappointment to me as you might imagine; for i am so childish as not to think health itself a compensation for passing my time very disagreeably. i can bear the loss of youth heroically, provided i am comfortable, and can amuse myself as i like. but health does not give one the sort of spirits that make one like diversions, public places, and mixed company. living here is being a shopkeeper, who is glad of all kinds of customers; but does not suit me, who am leaving off trade. i shall depart on wednesday, even on the penalty of coming again. to have lived three weeks in a fair appears to me a century! i am not at all in love with their country, which so charms every body. mountains are very good frames to a prospect, but here they run against one's nose, nor can one stir out of the town without clambering. it is true one may live as retired as one pleases, and may always have a small society. the place is healthy, every thing is cheap, and the provisions better than ever i tasted. still i have taken an insupportable aversion to it, which i feel rather than can account for; i do not think you would dislike it: so you see i am just in general, though very partial as to my own particular. you have raised my curiosity about lord scarsdale's, yet i question whether i shall ever take the trouble of visiting it. i grow every year more averse to stirring from home, and putting myself out of my way. if i can but be tolerably well at strawberry, my wishes bounded. if i am to live at watering-places, and keep what is called good hours, life itself will be very indifferent to me. i do not talk very sensibly, but i have a contempt for that fictitious character styled philosophy; i feel what i feel, and say i feel what i do feel. adieu! yours ever. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. bath, oct. , . (page ) you have made me laugh, and somebody else makes me stare. how can one wonder at any thing he does, when he knows so little of the world? i suppose the next step will be to propose me for groom of the bedchamber to the new duke of cumberland. but why me? here is that hopeful young fellow, sir john rushout, the oldest member of the house, and, as extremes meet, very proper to begin again; why overlook him? however, as the secret is kept from me myself, i am perfectly easy about it. i shall call to-day or to-morrow to ask his commands, but certainly shall not obey those you mention.( ) the waters certainly are not so beneficial to me as at first: i have almost every morning my pain in my stomach. i do not pretend this to be the cause of my leaving bath. the truth is, i cannot bear it any longer. you laugh at my regularity; but the contrary habit is so strong in me, that i cannot continue such sobriety. the public rooms, and the loo, where we play in a circle, like the hazard on twelfth-night, are insupportable. this coming into the world again, when i am so weary of it, is as bad and ridiculous as moving an address would be. i have no affectation; for affectation is a monster at nine-and-forty; but if i cannot live quietly, privately, and comfortably, i am perfectly indifferent about living at all. i would not kill myself, for that is a philosopher's affectation, and i will come hither again, if i must; but i shall always drive very near, before i submit to do any thing i do not like. in short, i must be as foolish as i please, as long as i can keep without the limits of absurdity. what has an old man to do but to preserve himself from parade on one hand, and ridicule on the other?( ) charming youth may indulge itself in either, may be censured, will be envied, and has time to correct. adieu monday evening. you are a delightful manager of the house of commons, to reckon , instead of ! sandwich was more accurate in lists, and would not have miscounted , which are something in a division. ( ) mr. conway had intimated to walpole, that it was the wish of lord chatham, that he should move the address on the king's speech at the opening of the session.-e. ( ) on the topic of ridicule, walpole had, a few days before, thus expressed himself in a letter to madame du deffand:--"il y avoit longtemps avant la date de notre connaissance, que cette crainte de ridicule s'`etoit plant`ee dans mon esprit, et vous devez assur`ement vous ressouvenir a quel point elle me poss`edoit, et combien de fois je vous en ai entretenu. n'allez pas lui chercher une naissance r`ecente. d`es le moment que je cessais d'`etre jeune, j'ai eu une peur horrible de devenir un veillard ridicule." to this the lady replied--"vos craintes sur le ridicule sont des terreurs paniques, mais on ne gu`erit point de la peur; je n'ai point une semblable foiblesse; je sais qu'`a mon age on est `a l'abri de donner du scandale: si l'on aime, on n'a point `a s'en cacher; l'amiti`e ne sera jamais un sentiment ridicule, quand elle ne fait pas faire des folies; mais gardons-nous d'en prof`erer le nom, puisque vous avez de si bonnes raisons de la vouloir proscrire."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) they may say what they will, but it does one ten times more good to leave bath than to go to it. i may sometimes drink the waters, as mr. bentley used to say i invited company hither that i did not care for, that i might enjoy the pleasure of their going away. my health is certainly amended, but i did not feel the satisfaction of it till i got home. i have still a little rheumatism in one shoulder, which was not dipped in styx, and is still mortal; but, while i went to the rooms, or stayed in my chambers in a dull court, i thought i had twenty complaints. i don't perceive one of them. having no companion but such as the place afforded, and which i did not accept, my excursions were very few; besides that the city is so guarded with mountains, that i had not patience to be jolted like a pea in a drum, in my chaise alone. i did go to bristol, the dirtiest great shop i ever saw, with so foul a river, that, had i seen the least appearance of cleanliness, i should have concluded they washed all their linen in it, as they do at paris. going into the town, i was struck with a large gothic building, coal-black, and striped with white; i took it for the devil's cathedral. when i came nearer, i found it was a uniform castle, lately built, and serving for stables and offices to a smart false gothic house on the other side of the road. the real cathedral is very neat and has pretty tombs, besides the two windows of painted glass, given by mrs. ellen gwyn. there is a new church besides of' st. nicholas, neat and truly gothic, besides a charming old church at the other end of the town. the cathedral, or abbey, at bath, is glaring and crowded with modern tablet-monuments; among others, i found two, of my cousin sir erasmus phillips, and of colonel madan. your cousin bishop montagu, decked it much. i dined one day with an agreeable family, two miles from bath, a captain miller( ) and his wife, and her mother, mrs. riggs. they have a small new-built house, with a bow-window, directly opposite to which the avon falls in a wide cascade, a church behind it in a vale, into which two mountains descend, leaving an opening into the distant country. a large village, with houses of gentry, is on one of the hills to the left. their garden is little, but pretty, and watered with several small rivulets among the bushes. meadows fall down to the road; and above, the garden is terminated by another view of the river, the city, and the mountains. 'tis a very diminutive principality, with large pretensions. i must tell you a quotation i lighted upon t'other day from persius, the application of which has much diverted mr. chute. you know my lord milton,( ) from nephew of the old usurer damer, of dublin, has endeavoured to erect himself into the representative of the ancient barons damory-- "----momento turbinis exit marcus dama." apropos, or rather not `apropos, i wish you joy of the restoration of the dukedom in your house, though i believe we both think it very hard upon my lady beaulieu. i made a second visit to lady lucy and mrs. trevor, and saw the latter one night at the rooms. she did not appear to me so little altered as in the dusk of her own chamber. adieu! yours ever. ( ) captain john miller, of ballicasy, in the county of clare. in the preceding year he had married anne, the only daughter of edward riggs, esq. in , he was created an irish baronet, and in , chosen representative for newport in parliament. see post, walpole's letter to general conway, of the th of january .-e. ( ) joseph damer lord milton, of shrone hill, in the kingdom of ireland, was created a baron of great britain in may , by the title of baron milton of milton abbey, dorsetshire.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, nov. , . (page ) sir, on my return from bath, i found your very kind and agreeable present of the papers in king charles's time;( ) for which and all your other obliging favours i give you a thousand thanks. i was particularly pleased with your just and sensible preface against the squeamish or bigoted persons who would bury in oblivion the faults and follies of princes, and who thence contribute to their guilt; for if princes, who living are above control, should think that no censure is to attend them when dead, it would be new encouragement to them to play the fool and act the tyrant. when they are so kind as to specify their crimes under their own hands, it would be foppish delicacy indeed to suppress them. i hope you will proceed, sir, and with the same impartiality. it was justice due to charles to publish the extravagancies of his enemies too. the comparison can never be fairly made, but when we see the evidence on both sides. i have done so in the trifles i have published, and have as much offended some by what i have said of the presbyterians at the beginning of my third volume of the painters, as i had others by condemnation of king charles in my noble authors. in the second volume of my anecdotes i praised him where he deserved praise; for truth is my sole object, and it is some proof, when one offends both. i am, sir, your most obliged and obedient servant. ( ) now first collected. in the march of this year, sir david dalrymple was made a judge of the court of session, when he assumed the name of lord hailes, by which he is best known.-e. ( ) "the memorials and letters relating to the history of britain in the reigns of james the first and charles the first, published from the originals in the advocates' library at edinburgh," had just appeared, in two volumes, octavo.-e. letter to david hume, esq. nov. , . (page ) dear sir, you have, i own, surprised me by suffering your quarrel with rousseau to be printed, contrary to your determination when you left london, and against the advice of all your best friends here; i may add, contrary to your own nature, which has always inclined you to despise literary squabbles, the jest and scorn of all men of sense. indeed, i am sorry you have let yourself be over-persuaded, and so are all that i have seen who wish you well: i ought rather to use your own word extorted. you say your parisian friends extorted your consent to this publication. i believe so. your good sense would not approve what your good heart could not refuse. you add, that they told you rousseau had sent letters of defiance against you all over europe? good god! my dear sir, could you pay any regard to such fustian? all europe laughs at being dragged every day into these idle quarrels, with which europe only ***. your friends talk as loftily as of a challenge between charles the fifth and francis the first. what are become of all the controversies since the days of scaliger and scioppius, of billingsgate memory? why, they sleep in oblivion, till some bayle drags them out of their dust, and takes mighty pains to ascertain the date of each author's death, which is of no more consequence to the world than the day of his birth. many a country squire quarrels with his neighbour about game and manors; yet they never print their wrangles, though as much abuse passes between them as if they could quote all the philippics of the learned. you have acted, as i should have expected if you would print, with sense, temper, and decency, and, what is still more uncommon, with your usual modesty. i cannot say so much for your editors. but editors and commentators are seldom modest. even to this day that race ape the dictatorial tone of the commentators at the restoration of learning, when the mob thought that greek and latin could give men the sense which they wanted in their native languages. but europe is now grown a little wiser, and holds these magnificent pretensions in proper contempt. what i have said is to explain why i am sorry my letter makes a part of this controversy. when i sent it to you, it was for your justification; and, had it been necessary, i could have added as much more, having been witness to your anxious and boundless friendship for rousseau. i told you, you might make what use of it you pleased. indeed, at that time i did not-could not think of its being printed, you seeming so averse to any publication on that head. however, i by no means take it ill, nor regret my part, if it tends to vindicate your honour. i must confess that i am more concerned that you have suffered my letter to be curtailed; nor should i have consented to that if you had asked me. i guessed that your friends consulted your interest less than their own inclination to expose rousseau; and i think their omission of what i said on that subject proves i was not mistaken in my guess. my letters hinted, too, my contempt of learned men and their miserable conduct. since i was to appear in print, i should not have been sorry that that opinion should have appeared at the same \time. in truth, there is nothing i hold so cheap as the generality of learned men; and i have often thought that young men ought to be made scholars, lest they should grow to reverence learned blockheads, and think there is any merit in having read more foolish books than other folks; which, as there are a thousand nonsensical books for one good one, must be the case of any man who has read much more than other people. your friend d'alembert, who, i suppose, has read a vast deal, is, it seems, offended with my letter to rousseau.( ) he is certainly as much at liberty to blame it, as i was to write it. unfortunately he does not convince me; nor can i think but that if rousseau may attack all governments and all religions, i might attack him: especially on his affectation and affected misfortunes; which you and your editors have proved are affected. d'alembert might be offended at rousseau's ascribing my letter to him; and he is in the right. i am a very indifferent author; and there is nothing so vexatious to an indifferent author as to be confounded with another of the same class. i should be sorry to have his eloges and translations of scraps of tacitus laid to me. however, i can forgive him any thing, provided he never translates me. adieu! my dear sir. i am apt to laugh, you know, and therefore you will excuse me, though i do not treat your friends up to the pomp of their claims. they may treat me as freely: i shall not laugh the less, and i promise you i will never enter into a controversy with them. yours ever. ( ) for writing the pretended letter from the king of prussia to rousseau, walpole was severely censured by warburton, in a letter to hurd:--"as to rousseau," says the bishop, "i entirely agree with you, that his long letter to his brother philosopher, hume, shows him to be a frank lunatic. his passion of tears, his suspicion of his friends in the midst of their services, and his incapacity of being set right, all consign him to monro. walpole's pleasantry upon him had baseness in its very conception. it was written when the poor man had determined to seek an asylum in england; and is, therefore, justly and generously condemned by d'alembert. this considered, hume failed both in honour and friendship not to show his dislike; which neglect seems to have kindled the first spark of combustion in this madman's brain. however, the contestation is very amusing, and i shall be very sorry if it stops, now it is in so good a train. i should be well pleased, particularly, to see so seraphic a madman attack so insufferable a coxcomb as walpole; and i think they are only fit for one another."-e. letter to david hume, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) indeed, dear sir, it was not necessary to make me any apology. d'alembert is certainly at liberty to say what he pleases of me; and undoubtedly you cannot think that it signifies a straw to me what he says. but how can you be surprised at his printing a thing that he sent you so long ago? all my surprise consists in your suffering him to curtail my letter to you, when you might be sure be would print his own at length. i am glad, however, that he has mangled mine: it not only shows his equity, but is the strongest proof that he was conscious i guessed right, when i supposed he urged you to publish, from his own private pique to rousseau. what you surmise of his censuring my letter because i am a friend of madame du deffand, is astonishing indeed, and not to be credited, unless you had suggested it. having never thought him any thing like a superior genius,( ) as you term him, i concluded his vanity was hurt by rousseau's ascribing my letter to him; but, to carry resentment to a woman, to an old and blind woman, so far as to hate a friend of hers qui ne lui avoit fait de mal is strangely weak and lamentable. i thought he was a philosopher, and that philosophers were virtuous, upright men, who loved wisdom, and were above the little passions and foibles of humanity. i thought they assumed that proud title as an earnest to the world, that they intended to be something more than mortal; that they engaged themselves to be patterns of excellence, and would utter no opinion, would pronounce no decision, but what they believed the quintessence of' truth; that they always acted without prejudice and respect of persons. indeed, we know that the ancient philosophers were a ridiculous composition of arrogance, disputation, and contradictions; that some of them acted against all ideas of decency; that others affected to doubt of their own senses; that some, for venting unintelligible nonsense, pretended to think themselves superior to kings; that they gave themselves airs of accounting for all that we do and do not see-and yet, that no two of them agreed in a single hypothesis; that one thought fire, another water, the origin of all things; and that some were even so absurd and impious, as to displace god, and enthrone matter in his place. i do not mean to disparage such wise men, for we are really obliged to them: they anticipated and helped us off with an exceeding deal of nonsense, through which we might possibly have passed, if they had not prevented us. but, when in this enlightened age, as it is called, i saw the term philosophers revived, i concluded the jargon would be omitted, and that we should be blessed with only the cream of sapience; and one had more reason still to expect this from any superior genius. but, alas! my dear sir, what a tumble is here! your d'alembert is a mere mortal oracle. who but would have laughed, if, when the buffoon aristophanes ridiculed socrates, plato had condemned the former, not for making sport with a great man in distress, but because plato hated some blind old woman with whom aristophanes was acquainted! d'alembert's conduct is the more unjust, as i never heard madame du deffand talk of him above three times in the seven months that i passed at paris; and never, though she does not love him, with any reflection to his prejudice. i remember the first time i ever heard her mention his name, i said i have been told he was a good man but could not think him a good writer. (craufurd( ) remembers this, and it is a proof that i always thought of d'alembert as i do now.) she took it up with warmth, defended his parts, and said he was extremely amusing. for her quarrel with him, i never troubled my head about it one way or other; which you will not wonder at. you know in england we read their works, but seldom or never take any notice of authors. we think them sufficiently paid if their books sell, and of course leave them to their colleges and obscurity, by which means we are not troubled with their variety and impertinence. in france, they spoil us; but that was no business of mine. i, who am an author must own this conduct very sensible; for in truth we are a most useless tribe. that d'alembert should have omitted passages in which you was so good as to mention me with approbation, agrees with his peevishness, not with his philosophy. however, for god's sake, do not state the passages. i do not love compliments, and will never give my consent to receive any. i have no doubt of your kind intentions to me, but beg they may rest there. i am much more diverted with the philosopher d'alembert's underhand dealings, than i should have been pleased with panegyric even from you. allow me to make one more remark, and i have done with this trifling business for ever. your moral friend pronounces me ill-natured for laughing at an unhappy man who had never offended me. rousseau certainly never did offend me. i believed, from many symptoms in his writings, and from what i heard of him, that his love of singularity made him choose to invite misfortunes, and that he hung out many more than he felt. i, who affect no philosophy, nor pretend to more virtue than my neighbours, thought this ridiculous in a man who is really a superior genius, and joked upon it in a few lines never certainly intended to appear in print. the sage d'alembert reprehends this--and where? in a book published to expose rousseau, and which confirms by serious proofs what i had hinted at in jest. what! does a philosopher condemn me, and in the very same, breath, only with ten times more ill-nature, act exactly as i had done? oh! but you will say, rousseau had offended d'alembert by ascribing the king of prussia's letter to him. worse and worse: if rousseau is unhappy, a philosopher should have pardoned. revenge is so unbecoming the rex regum, the man who is precipue sanus--nisi cum pituita molesta est. if rousseau's misfortunes are affected, what becomes of my ill-nature? in short, my dear sir, to conclude as d'alembert concludes his book, i do believe in the virtue of mr. hume, but not much in that of philosophers. adieu! yours ever. p. s. it occurs to me, that you may be apprehensive of my being indiscreet enough to let d'alembert learn your suspicions of him on madame du deffand's account! but you may be perfectly easy on that head. though i like such an advantage over him, and should be glad he saw this letter, and knew how little formidable i think him, i shall certainly not make an ill use of a private letter, and had much rather wave my triumph, than give a friend a moment's pain. i love to laugh at an impertinent savant, but respect learning when joined to such goodness as yours, and never confound ostentation and modesty. i wrote to you last thursday and, by lady hertford's advice, directed my letter to nine-wells: i hope you will receive it. yours ever. ( ) "i believe i said he was a man of superior parts, not a superior genius; words, if i mistake not, of a very different import." hume.-e. ( ) john craufurd, esq. of auchinames, in scotland.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) pray what are you doing? or reading or feeding? or drinking or thinking? or praying or playing? or walking or talking? or riding about to your neighbours?( ) i am sure you are not writing, for i have not had a word from you this century; nay, nor you from me. in truth, we have had a busy month, and many grumbles of a state-quake; but the session has however ended very triumphantly for the great earl. i mean, we are adjourned for the holidays for above a month, after two divisions of one hundred and sixty-six to forty-eight, and one hundred and forty to fifty-six.( ) the earl chaffered for the bedfords, and who so willing as they?( ) however, the bargain went off, and they are forced to return to george grenville. lord rockingham and the cavendishes have made a jaunt to the same quarter, but could carry only eight along with them, which swelled that little minority to fifty-six. i trust and i hope it will not rise higher in haste. your cousin, i hear, has been two hours with the earl, but to what purpose i know not. nugent is made lord clare, i think to no purpose at all.i came hither to-day for two or three days, and to empty my head. the weather is very warm and comfortable. when do you move your tents southward? i left little news in town, except politics. that pretty young woman, lady fortrose,( ) lady harrington's eldest daughter, is at the point of death, killed, like coventry and others, by white lead, of which nothing could break her. lord beauchamp is going to marry the second miss windsor.( ) it is odd that those two ugly girls, though such great fortunes, should get the two best figures in england, him and lord mount-stuart. the duke of york is erecting a theatre at his own palace, and is to play lothario in the fair penitent himself. apropos, have you seen that delightful paper composed out of scraps in the newspapers! i laughed till i cried, and literally burst out so loud, that i thought favre, who was waiting in the next room, would conclude i was in a fit; i mean the paper that says, "this day his majesty will go in state to fifteen notorious," etc. etc.( ) it is the newest piece of humour except the bath guide, that i have seen of many years. adieu! do let me hear from you soon. how does brother john? yours ever. ( thus playfully imitated by lord byron, in december, ; "what are you doing now, oh thomas moore? sighing or suing now? rhyming or wooing now? billing or cooing now? which, thomas moore?"-e. ( ) on the bill of indemnity for those concerned in the embargo on the exportation of corn.-e. ( ) the following is lord chesterfield's account of this negotiation:--"no mortal can comprehend the present state of affairs. eight or nine persons, of some consequence, have resigned their employments; upon which, lord chatham made overtures to the duke of bedford and his people; but they could by no means agree, and his grace went the next day, full of wrath, to woburn; so that negotiation is entirely at an end. people wait to see who lord chatham will take in, for some he must have; even he cannot be alone, contra mundum. such a state of things, to be sure, was never seen before, in this or in any other country. when this ministry shall be settled, it will be the sixth in six years' time."-e. ( ) caroline, eldest daughter of william second earl of harrington; married, on the th of october , to kenneth m'kenzie, created baron of andelon, viscount fortrose and earl of seaforth in the peerage of ireland. her ladyship died on the th of february .-e. ( ) francis lord beauchamp, son of the first marquis of hertford. his first wife, by whom he had no issue, was alice elizabeth, youngest daughter and coheiress of herbert second viscount windsor. this lady died in ; when his lordship married, secondly, in , isabella anne, daughter and heiress of charles ingram, viscount irvine of scotland.-e. ( ) cross-readings from the public advertiser, by caleb whitefoord. [the paper was entitled, "a new method of reading the newspapers," and was subscribed, "papyrius cursor;" a signature which dr. johnson thought singularly happy, it being the real name of an ancient roman, and expressive of the thing done in this lively conceit--of which the following may serve as a specimen:-- "yesterday dr. jones preached at st. james's and performed it with ease in less than minutes. the sword of state was carried before sir j. fielding, and committed to newgate. there was a numerous and brilliant court; a down look, and cast with one eye. last night the princess royal was baptized; mary, alias moll hacket, alias black nell. this morning the right hon. the speaker--was convicted of keeping a disorderly house. this day his majesty will go in state to fifteen notorious common prostitutes. their r. h. the dukes of york and gloucester were bound over to their good behaviour. at noon her r. h. the princess dowager was married to mr. jenkins, an eminent tailor. several changes are talked of at court, consisting of triple bob-majors. at a very full meeting of common council, the greatest show of horned cattle this season. an indictment for murder is preferred against the worshipful company of apothecaries. yesterday the new lord mayor was sworn in, and afterwards tossed and gored several persons. this morning will be married the lord viscount and afterwards hung in chains, pursuant to his sentence. escaped from the new gaol, terence m'dernan, if he will return, he will be kindly received," letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (p-age ) i wrote to you last post on the very day i ought to have received yours; but being at strawberry, did not get it in time. thank you for your offer of a doe; you know when i dine at home here, it is quite alone, and venison frightens my little meal; yet, as half of it is designed for dimidium animae meae mrs. clive (a pretty round half), i must not refuse it; venison will make such a figure at her christmas gambols! only let me know when and how i am to receive it, that she may prepare the rest of her banquet; i will convey it to her. i don't like your wintering so late in the country. adieu! letter to george montagu, esq. tuesday, jan. , . (page i am going to eat some of your venison, and dare to say it is very good; i am sure you are, and thank you for it. catherine, i do not doubt, is up to the elbows in currant jelly and gratitude. i have lost poor louis, who died last week at strawberry. he had no fault but what has fallen upon himself, poor. soul! drinking: his honesty and good-nature were complete; and i am heartily concerned for him, which i shall seldom say so sincerely. there has been printed a dull complimentary letter to me on the quarrel of hume and rousseau. in one of the reviews they are so obliging as to say i wrote it myself: it is so dull, that i should think they wrote it themselves--a kind of abuse i should dislike much more than their criticism. are not you frozen, perished? how do you keep yourself alive on your mountain! i scarce stir from my fireside. i have scarce been at strawberry for a day this whole christmas, and there is less appearance of a thaw to-day than ever. there has been dreadful havoc at margate and aldborough, and along the coast. at calais, the sea rose above sixty feet perpendicular, which makes people conclude there has been an earthquake somewhere or other. i shall not think of my journey to france yet; i suffered too much with the cold last year at paris, where they have not the least idea of comfortable, but sup in stone halls, with all the doors open. adieu! i must go dress for the drawing-room of the princess of wales. yours ever. letter to dr. ducarel. april , . (page ) mr. walpole has been out of town, or should have thanked dr. ducarel sooner for the obliging favour of his most curious and valuable work,( ) which mr. walpole has read with the greatest pleasure and satisfaction. he will be very much obliged to dr. ducarel if he will favour him with a set of the prints separate; which mr. walpole would be glad to put into his volumes of english heads; and shall be happy to have an opportunity of returning these obligations. ( ) entitled "anglo-norman antiquities considered, in a tour through part of normandy."-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) my dear lord, i am very sorry that i must speak of a loss that will give you and lady strafforct concern; an essential loss to me, who am deprived of a most agreeable friend, with whom i passed here many hours. i need not say i mean poor lady suffolk.( ) i was with her two hours on saturday night; and, indeed, found her much changed, though i did not apprehend her in danger. i was going to say she complained--but you know she never did complain--of the gout and rheumatism all over her, particularly in her face. it was a cold night, and she sat below stairs when she should have been in bed; and i doubt this want of care was prejudicial. i sent next morning. she had a bad night; but grew much better in the evening. lady dalkeith came to her; and, when she was gone, lady suffolk said to lord chetwynd, "she would eat her supper in her bedchamber." he went up with her, and thought the appearances promised a good night: but she was scarce sat down in her chair, before she pressed her hand to her side, and died in half an hour. i believe both your lordship and lady strafford will be surprised to hear that she was by no means in the situation that most people thought. lord chetwynd and myself were the only persons at all acquainted with her affairs, and they were far from being even easy to her. it is due to her memory to say, that i never saw more strict honour and justice. she bore knowingly the imputation of being covetous, at a time that the strictest economy could by no means prevent her exceeding her income considerably. the anguish of the last years of her life, though concealed, flowed from the apprehension of not satisfying her few wishes, which were, not to be in debt, and to make a provision for miss hotham.( ) i can give your lordship strong instances of the sacrifices she tried to make to her principles. i have not yet heard if her will is opened; but it will surprise those who thought her rich. lord chetwynd's friendship to her has been unalterably kind and zealous, and has not ceased. he stays in the house with miss hotham till some of her family come to take her away. i have perhaps dwelt too long on this subject; but, as it was not permitted me to do her justice when alive, i own i cannot help wishing that those who had a regard for her, may at least know how much more she deserved it than even they suspected. in truth, i never knew a woman more respectable for her honour and principles, and have lost few persons in my life whom i shall miss so much. i am, etc. ( ) henrietta hobart, countess of suffolk. she died at marble hall, on the th of july.-e. ( ) her great-niece. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, july , . (page ) i find one must cast you into debt, if one has a mind to hear of you. you would drop one with all your heart, if one would let you alone. did not you talk of passing by strawberry in june, on a visit to the bishop? i did not summon you, because i have not been sure of my own motions for two days together for these three months. at last all is subsided; the administration will go on pretty much as it was, with mr. conway for part of it. the fools and the rogues, or, if you like proper names, the rockinghams and the grenvilles, have bungled their own game, quarrelled, and thrown it away. where are you? what are you doing? where are you going or staying? i shall trip to paris in about a fortnight, for a month or six weeks. indeed, i have had such a loss in poor lady suffolk,( ) that my autumns at strawberry will suffer exceedingly, and will not be repaired by my lord buckingham. i have been in pain, too, and am not quite easy about my brother, who is in a bad state of health. have you waded through or into lord lyttelton?( ) how dull one may be, if one will but take pains for six or seven-and-twenty years together! except one day's gout, which i cured with the boolikins, i have been quite well since i saw you: nay, with a microscope you would perceive i am fatter. mr. hawkins saw it with his naked eye, and told me it was common for lean people to grow fat when they grow old. i am afraid the latter is more certain than the former, i submit to it with a good grace. there is no keeping off age by sticking roses and sweet peas in one's hair, as miss chudleigh does still. if you are not totally abandoned, you will send me a line before i go. the clive has been desperately nervous; but i have convinced her it did not become her, and she has recovered her rubicundity. adieu! ( ) "votre pauvre sourde!" writes madame du deffand to walpole, on the d of august. "ah! mon dieu! que j'en suis f`ach`ee; c'est une veritable perte, et je la partage: j'aimais qu'elle v`ecut; j'aimais son amiti`e pour vous; j'aimais votre attachement pour elle: tout cela, ce me semble, m'`etait bon."-e. ( ) his "history of the life of king henry the second, and of the age in which he lived," in four volumes quarto.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. friday, aug. , . (page ) as i am turned knight-errant, and going again in search of my old fairy,( ) i will certainly transport your enchanted casket, and will endeavour to procure some talisman, that may secrete it from the eyes of those unheroic harpies, the officers of the customhouse, you must take care to let me have it before to-morrow se'nnight. the house at twickenham with which you fell in love, is still unmarried; but they ask a hundred and thirty pounds a-year for it. if they asked one hundred and thirty thousand pounds for it, perhaps my lord clive might snap it up; but that not being the case, i don't doubt but it will fall, and i flatter myself, that you and it may meet at last upon reasonable terms. that of general trapaud is to be had at fifty pounds a-year, but with a fine on entrance of five hundred pounds. as i propose to return by the beginning of october, perhaps i may see you, and then you may review both. since the loss of poor lady suffolk, i am more desirous than ever of having you in my neighbourhood, as i have not a rational acquaintance left. adieu! ( ) madame du deffand. the following passages from her letters to walpole will best explain the reasons which induced him to undertake the journey:--"paris, juillet. je crois entrevoir que votre s`ejour ici vous inqui`ete, et que la complaisance qui vous am`ene vous coute beaucoup; mais, mon tuteur, songez au plaisir que vous me ferez, quelle sera ma reconnaissance. je ne vous dirai point combien cette visite m'est necessaire; vous jugerez par vous-m`eme si je vous en ai impose sur rien, et si vous pourrez jamais vous repentir des marques d'amiti`e que vous m'avez donn`ees. mon dieu! que nous aurons de sujets de conversations!"--"dimanche, ao`ut. enfin, enfin, il n'y a plus de mer qui nous s`epare; j'ai l'esperance de vous voir d`ees aujoqrd'hui. j'ai pri`e hier madame simonetti d'envoyer chez moi au moment de votre arriv`ee; si vous voulez venir chez moi, comme j'esp`ere, vous aurez sur le champ mon carrosse. je me flatte que demain vous dinerez et souperez avec moi t`ete-`a-t`ete; nous en aurons bien `a dire. sans cette maudite compagnie que j'ai si sottement rassembl`ee, vous m'auriez trouv`ee chez vous `a la d`escente de votre chaise; cela vous auroit fort d`eplu, mais je m'en serois mocqu`ee." madame simonetti kept the h`otel garni du parc royal, rue du colombie. in a journal which walpole kept of this journey to paris, is the following entry:--"august . arrived at paris a quarter before seven; at eight, to madame du deffand's; found the clairon acting agrippine and ph`edre. not tall; but i liked her acting better than i expected. supped there with her, and the duchesse de villeroi, d'aiguillon, etc. etc."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) paris, wednesday, sept. , . (page ) last night by lord rochford's courier, we heard of townshend's death;( ) for which indeed your letter had prepared me. as a man of incomparable parts, and most entertaining to a spectator, i regret his death. his good-humour prevented one from hating him, and his levity from loving him; but, in a political light, i own i cannot look upon it as a misfortune. his treachery alarmed me, and i apprehended every thing from it. it was not advisable to throw him into the arms of the opposition. his death avoids both kinds of mischief. i take for granted you will have lord north for chancellor of the exchequer.( ) he is very inferior to charles in parts; but what he wants in those, will be supplied by firmness and spirit. with regard to my brother, i should apprehend nothing, were he like other men; but i shall not be astonished, if he throws his life away; and i have seen so much of the precariousness of it lately, that i am prepared for the event, if it shall happen. i will say nothing about mr. harris; he is an old man, and his death will be natural. for lord chatham, he is really or intentionally mad,--but i still doubt which of the two. thomas walpole has writ to his brother here, that the day before lord chatham set out for pynsent, he executed a letter of attorney, with full powers to his wife, and the moment it was signed he began singing.( ) you may depend upon it i shall only stay here to the end of the month: but if you should want me sooner, i will set out at a moment's warning, on your sending me a line by lord rochf'ord's courier. this goes by lady mary coke, who sets out to-morrow morning early, on notice of mr. townshend's death, or she would have stayed ten days longer. i sent you a letter by mr. fletcher, but i fear he did not go away till the day before yesterday. i am just come from dining en famille with the duke de choiseul: he was very civil--but much more civil to mr. wood,( ) who dined there too. i imagine this gratitude to the peacemakers. i must finish; for i am going to lady mary, and then return to sup with the duchess de choiseul, who is not civiller to any body than to me. adieu! yours ever. ( ) now first printed. ( ) mr. charles townshend died very unexpectedly, on the th of september; he being then only in his forty-second year.-e. ( ) "the chancellorship of the exchequer," says adolphus, "was filled up ad interim by lord mansfield. it was offered to lord north, who, for some reasons which are not precisely known, declined accepting it. the offer was subsequently made to lord barrington; who declared his readiness to undertake the office, if a renewed application to lord north should fail: a fresh negotiation was attempted with the duke of bedford, but without effect, and at length lord north was prevailed on to accept the office. mr. thomas townshend succeeded lord north as paymaster, and mr. jenkinson was appointed a lord of the treasury; lord northington and general conway resigning, lord gower was made president of the council; lord weymouth, secretary of state; and lord sandwich, joint postmaster-general. these promotions indicated an accommodation between the ministry and the bedford party; and the cabinet was further strengthened by the appointment of lord hillsborough to the office of secretary of state for america. the ministry, thus modelled, was called the duke of grafton's administration; for, although lord chatham still retained his place, he was incapable of transacting business."-e. ( ) lord chatham's enemies were constantly insinuating, that his illness was a political one. for the real state of his health at the time walpole was penning this uncharitable passage, see lady chatham's letter to mr. nuthall of the th of august, and his lordship's own grateful and affectionate letter to mr. thomas walpole of the th of october. correspondence, vol. iii. p. , .-e. ( ) mr. robert wood. he was under-secretary of state at the time of the treaty of paris.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, oct. , . (page ) dear sir, it is an age since we have had any correspondence. my long and dangerous illness last year, with my journey to bath; my long attendance in parliament all winter, spring, and to the beginning of summer: and my journey to france since, from whence i returned but last week,( ) prevented my asking the pleasure of seeing you at strawberry hill. i wish to hear that you have enjoyed your health, and shall be glad of any news of you. the season is too late, and the parliament too near opening, for me to propose a winter journey to you. if you should happen to think at all of london, i trust you would do me the favour to call on me. in short, this is only a letter of inquiry after you, and to show you that i am always most truly yours. ( ) walpole left paris the th of october; on the morning of which madame du deffand thus resumes her correspondence with him:--"que de lachet`e, de faiblesse, et de ridicules je vous ai laiss`e voir! je m'`etais bien promis le contrire; mais, mais-- oubliez tout cela, pardonnez-le moi, mon tuteur, et ne pensez plus `a votre petite que pour vous dire qu'elle est raisonnable, ob`eissante, et par-dessus tout reconnaissante; que son respect, oui, je dis respect, que sa crainte, mais sa crainte filiale, son tendre mais s`erieux attachement, feront jusqu'`a son dernier moment le bonheur de sa vie. qu'importe d'`etre vielle, d'`etre aveugle; qu'importe le lieu qu'on habite; qu'importe que tout ce qui environne soit sot ou extravagant: quand l'`ame est fortement occup`ee, il ne lui manque rien que l'objet qui l'occupe; et quand cet objet repond `a ce qu'on sent pour lui, on n'a plus rien desirer."-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sunday, nov. , . (page ) the house is taken that you wot of, but i believe you may have general trapaud's for fifty pounds a-year, and a fine of two hundred and fifty, which is less by half, look you, than you was told at first. a jury of matrons, composed of lady frances, my dame bramston, lady pembroke, and lady carberry, and the merry catholic lady brown, have sat upon it, and decide that you should take it. but you must come and treat in person, and may hold the congress here. i hear lord guildford is much better, so that the exchequer will still find you in funds. you will not dislike to hear, shall you, that mr conway does not take the appointments of secretary of state. if it grows the fashion to give up above five thousand pounds a-year, this ministry will last for ever; for i do not think the opposition will struggle for places without salaries. if my lord ligonier does not go to heaven, or sir robert rich to the devil soon, our general will run considerably in debt; but he had better be too poor than too rich. i would not have him die like old pulteney, loaded with the spoils of other families and the crimes of his own. adieu! i will not write to you any more, so you may as well come. yours ever. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, dec. , . (page ) you are now, i reckon, settled in your new habitation:( ) i would not interrupt you in your journeyings, dear sir, but am not at all pleased that you are seated so little to your mind; and yet i think you will stay there. cambridge and ely are neighbourhoods to your taste, and if you do not again shift your quarters, i shall make them and you a visit: ely i have never seen. i could have wished that you had preferred this part of the world; and yet, i trust, i shall see you here oftener than i have done of late. this, to my great satisfaction, is my last session of parliament; to which, and to politics, i shall ever bid adieu! i did not go to paris for my health, though i found the journey and the seasickness, which i had never experienced before, contributed to it greatly. i have not been so well for some years as i am at present, and if i continue to plump up as i do at present, i do not know but by the time we may meet, whether you may not discover, without a microscope, that i am really fatter. i went to make a visit to my dear old blind woman, and to see some things i could not see in winter. for the catholic religion, i think it very consumptive. with a little patience, if whitfield, wesley, my lady huntingdon, and that rogue madan( ) live, i do not doubt but we shall have something very like it here. and yet i had rather live at the end of a tawdry religion, than at the beginning; which is always more stern and hypocritic. i shall be very glad to see your laborious work of the maps; you are indefatigable, i know: i think mapping would try my patience more than any thing. my richard the third will go to press this week, and you shall have one of the first copies, which i think will be in about a month, if you will tell me how to convey it: direct to arlington street. mr. gray went to cambridge yesterday se'nnight: i wait for some papers from him for my purpose. i grieve for your sufferings by the inundation; but you are not only an hermit, but, what is better, a real philosopher. let me hear from you soon. yours ever. ( ) mr. cole had lately removed from bleckeley, bucks, to waterbeach, near cambridge. ( ) the rev. martin madan, author of "thelypthora," a defence of a plurality of wives. in , he subjected himself to much obloquy, by dissuading a clerical friend from giving up a benefice, which he had accepted under a solemn promise of eventual resignation.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) strawberry hill, jan. , . (page ) i will begin, sir, with telling you that i have seen mr. sherriff and his son. the father desired my opinion on sending his son to italy. i own i could by no means advise it. where a genius is indubitable and has already made much progress, the study of antique and the works of the great masters may improve a young man extremely, and open lights to him which he might never discover of himself: but it is very different sending a young man to rome to try whether he has genius or not; which may be ascertained with infinitely less trouble and expense at home. young mr. sherriff has certainly a disposition to drawing; but that may not be genius. his misfortune may have made him embrace it as a resource in his melancholy hours. labouring under the misfortune of deafness, his friends should consider to what unhappiness they may expose him. his family have naturally applied to alleviate his misfortune, and to cultivate the parts they saw in him: but who, in so long a journey and at such a distance, is to attend him in the same affectionate manner? can he shift for himself, especially without the language? who will take the trouble at rome of assisting him, instructing him, pointing out to him what he should study? who will facilitate the means to him of gaining access to palaces and churches, and obtain permission for him to work there? i felt so much for the distresses he must undergo, that i could not see the benefits to accrue, and those eventual, as a compensation. surely, sir, it were better to place him here with some painter for a year or two. he does not seem to me to be grounded enough for such an expedition. i will beg to know how i may convey my richard to you, which will be published to-morrow fortnight. i do not wonder you could not guess the discovery i have made. it is one of the most marvellous that ever was made. in short, it is the original coronation roll of richard the third, by which it appears that very magnificent robes were ordered for edward the fifth, and that he did, or was to have walked at his uncle's coronation. this most valuable monument is in the great wardrobe. it is not, though the most extraordinary the only thing that will much surprise you in my work. but i will not anticipate what little amusement you may find there. i am, sir, etc. ( ) now first collected. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) dear sir, i have waited for the impression of my richard, to send you the whole parcel together. this moment i have conveyed to mr. cartwright a large bundle for you, containing richard the third,( ) the four volumes of the new edition of the anecdotes, and six prints of your relation tuer. you will find his head very small: but the original was too inconsiderable to allow it to be larger. i have sent you no patagon`eans;( ) for they are out of print: i have only my own copy, and could not get another. pray tell me how, or what you heard of it; and tell me sincerely, for i did not know it had made any noise. i shall be much obliged to you for the extract relating to the academy of which a walpole was president. i doubt if he was of our branch; and rather think he was of the younger and roman catholic branch. are you reconciled to your new habitation? don't you find it too damp? and if you do, don't deceive yourself, and try to surmount it, but remove immediately. health is the most important of all considerations. adieu! dear sir. ( ) "historic doubts on the life and reign of king richard the third, by mr. horace walpole;" london, , to. two editions of this work, which occasioned a good deal of historical controversy, were published during the year.-e. ( ) "an account of the giants lately discovered; in a letter to a friend in the country." london, , vo. it was afterwards translated into french by the chevalier redmond, an irish officer in the french service.-e. letter to sir david dalrymple.( ) arlington street, feb. , . (page ) i have sent to mr. cadell my historic doubts, sir, for you. i hope they may draw forth more materials, which i shall be very ready either to subscribe to or to adopt. in this view i must beg you, sir, to look into speed's history of england, and in his account of perkin warbeck you will find bishop leslie often quoted. may i trouble you to ask, to what work that alludes, and whether in print or ms.? bishop leslie lived under queen elizabeth, and though he could know nothing of perkin warbeck, was yet near enough to the time to have had much better materials than we have. may i ask, too, if perkin warbeck's proclamation exists any where authentically? you will see in my book the reason of all these questions. i am so much hurried with it just now, that you will excuse my being so brief. i can attribute to nothing but the curiosity of the subject, the great demand for it; though it was sold publicly but yesterday, and twelve hundred and fifty copies were printed, dodsley has been with me this morning to tell me he must prepare another edition directly. i am, sir, etc. ( ) now first collected. letter to mr. gray. arlington street, feb. , . (page ) you have sent me a long and very obliging letter, and yet i am extremely out of humour with you. i saw poems by mr. gray advertised: i called directly at dodsley's to know if this was to be more than a new edition? he was not at home himself, but his foreman told me he thought there were some new pieces, and notes to the whole. it was very unkind, not only to go out of town without mentioning them to me, without showing them to me, but not to say a word of them in this letter. do you think i am indifferent, or not curious, about what you write? i have ceased to ask you, because you have so long refused to show me any thing. you could not suppose i thought that you never write. no; but i concluded you did not intend, at least yet, to publish what you had written. as you did intend it, i might have expected a month's preference. you will do me the justice to own that i had always rather have seen your writings than have shown you mine; which you know are the most hasty trifles in the world, and which, though i may be fond of the subject when fresh, i constantly forget in a very short time after they are published. this would sound like affectation to others, but will not to you. it would be affected, even to you, to say i am indifferent to fame. i certainly am not, but i am indifferent to almost any thing i have done to acquire it. the greater part are mere compilations; and no wonder they are, as you say, incorrect, when they are commonly written with people in the room, as richard and the noble authors were. but i doubt there is a more intrinsic fault in them: which is, that i cannot correct them. if i write tolerably, it must be -,it once; i can neither mend nor add. the articles of lord capel and lord peterborough, in the second edition of the noble authors, cost me more trouble than all the rest together: and you may perceive that the worst part of richard, in point of ease and style, is what relates to the papers you gave me on jane shore, because it was taken on so long afterwards, and when my impetus was chilled. if some time or other you will take the trouble of pointing out the inaccuracies of' 'it, i shall be much obliged to you: at present i shall meddle no more with it. it has taken its fate; nor did i mean to complain. i found it was condemned indeed beforehand, which was what i alluded to. since publication (as has happened to me before) the success has gone beyond my expectation. not only at cambridge, but here there have been people wise enough to think me too free with the king of prussia!( ) a newspaper has talked of my known inveteracy to him. truly, i love him as well as i do most kings. the greater offence is my reflection on lord clarendon. it is forgotten that i had overpraised him before. pray turn to the new state papers, from which, it is said, he composed his history. you will find they are the papers from which he did not compose his history. and yet i admire my lord clarendon more than these pretended admirers do. but i do not intend to justify myself. i can as little satisfy those who complain that i do not let them know what really did happen. if this inquiry can ferret out any truth, i shall be glad. i have picked up a few more circumstances. i now want to know what perkin warbeck's proclamation was, which speed in his history says is preserved by bishop leslie. if you look in speed, perhaps you will be able to assist me. the duke of richmond and lord lyttelton agree with you, that i have not disculpated richard of the murder of henry vi. i own to you, it is the crime of which in my own mind i believe him most guiltless. had i thought he committed it, i should never have taken the trouble to apologize-for the rest. i am not at all positive or obstinate on your other objections, nor know exactly what i believe on many points of this story. and i am so sincere, that, except a few notes hereafter, i shall leave the matter to be settled or discussed by others. as you have written much too little, i have written a great deal too much, and think only of finishing the two or three other things i have begun--and of those, nothing but the last volume of painters is designed for the present public. what has one to do when turned fifty, but really think of finishing?( ) i am much obliged and flattered by mr. mason's approbation, and particularly by having had almost the same thought with him. i said, "people need not be angry at my excusing richard; i have not diminished their fund of hatred, i have only transferred it from richard to henry." well, but i have found you close with mason--no doubt, cry prating i, something will come out.( )- -oh! no--leave us, both of you, to annabellas and epistles to ferney,( ) that give voltaire an account of his own tragedies, to +macarony fables that are more unintelligible than pilpay's are in the original, to mr. thornton's hurdy-gurdy poetry'( ) and to mr. ***** who has imitated himself worse than any fop in a magazine would have done. in truth, if you should abandon us, i could not wonder--when garrick's prologues and epilogues, his own cymons and farces, and the comedies of the fools that pay court to him, are the delight of the age, it does not deserve any thing better. pray read the new account of corsica. what relates to paoli will amuse you much. there is a deal about the island and its divisions that one does not care a straw for. the author, boswell,( ) is a strange being, and, like cambridge, has a rage of knowing any body that ever was talked of. he forced himself upon me at paris in spite of my teeth and my doors, and i see has given a foolish account of all he could pick up from me about king theodore. he then took an antipathy to me on rousseau's account, abused me in the newspapers, and exhorted rousseau to do so too: but as he came to see me no more, i forgave all the rest. i see he now is a little sick of rousseau himself; but i hope it will not cure him of his anger to me. however, his book will i am sure entertain you.( ) i will add but a word or two more. i am criticised for the expression tinker up in the preface. is this one of those that you object to? i own i think such a low expression, placed to ridicule an absurd instance of wise folly, very forcible. replace it with an elevated word or phrase, and to my conception it becomes as flat as possible. george selwyn says i may, if i please, write historic doubts on the present duke of grafton too. indeed, they would be doubts, for i know nothing certainly. will you be so kind as to look into leslie de rebus scotorum, and see if perkin's proclamation is there, and if there, how authenticated. you will find in speed my reason for asking this. i have written in such a hurry, i believe you will scarce be able to read my letter--and as i have just been writing french, perhaps the sense may not be clearer than the writing. adieu! ( ) gray, in a letter to mr. walpole, of the th, had said-- "i have heard it objected, that you raise doubts and difficulties, and do not satisfy them by telling us what is really the case. i have heard you charged with disrespect to the king of prussia; and above all, to king william and the revolution. my own objections are little more essential: they relate chiefly to inaccuracies of style, which either debase the expression or obscure the meaning. as to your argument@ most of the principal parts are made out with a clearness and evidence that no one would expect, where materials are so scarce. yet i still suspect richard of the murder of henry the sixth." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) to this gray, on the th, replied--"to what you say to me so civilly, that i ought to write more, i answer in your own words, (like the pamphleteer, who is going to refute you out of your own mouth,) what has one to do, when turned fifty, but really to think of finishing? however, i will be candid (for you seem to be so with me), and avow to you, that, till fourscore and ten, whenever the humour takes me, i will write, because i like it; and because i like myself better when i do so. if i do not write much, it is because i cannot." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) "i found him close with swift."--"indeed?"--"no doubt," cries prating balbus, "something will come out." pope. ( ) keate's "ferney; an epistle to m. voltaire."-e. ( ) his burlesque ode on st. cecilia's day; with the humour of which dr. johnson was much diverted, and used to repeat this passage-- "in strains more exalted the salt-box shall join, and clattering and battering and clapping combine, with a rap and a tap, while the hollow side sounds, up and down leaps the flap, and with rattling rebounds.-e. ( ) "your history," wrote dr. johnson to boswell, "is like other histories, but your journal is, in a very high degree, curious and delightful: there is between them that difference which there will always be found between notions borrowed from without and notions generated within. your history was copied from books; your journal rose out of your own experience and observation. i know not whether i could name any narrative by which curiosity is better excited or better gratified."-e. ( ) to this gray replies--,'mr. boswell's book has pleased and moved me strangely; all, i mean, that relates to paoli. he is a man born two thousand years after his time! the pamphlet proves what i have always maintained, that any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity. of mr. boswell's truth i have not the least suspicion, because i am sure be could invent nothing of this kind. the true title of this part of his work is a dialogue between a green goose and a hero." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. letter to mr. gray. arlington street, friday night, feb. , . (page ) i plague you to death, but i must reply a few more words. i shall be very glad to see in print, and to have those that are worthy, see your ancient odes; but i was in hopes there were some pieces. too, that i had not seen. i am sorry there are not.( ) i troubled you about perkin's proclamation. because mr. hume lays great stress upon it, and insists, that if perkin affirmed that his brother was killed, it must have been true, if he was true duke of york. mr. hume would have persuaded me that the proclamation is in stowe, but i can find no such thing there; nor, what is more, in casley's catalogue, which i have twice looked over carefully. i wrote to sir david dalrymple in scotland, to inquire after it; because i would produce it if i could, though it should make against me: but he, i believe, thinking i inquired with the contrary view, replied very drily, that it was published at york, and was not to be found in scotland. whether he is displeased that i have plucked a hair from the tresses of their great historian; or whether, as i suspect, he is offended for king william; this reply was all the notice he took of my letter and book. i only smiled; as i must do when i find one party is angry with me on king william's, and the other on lord clarendon's account. the answer advertised is guthrie's, who is furious that i have taken no notice of his history. i shall take as little of his pamphlet; but his end will be answered, if he sells that and one or two copies of his history.( ) mr. hume, i am told, has drawn up an answer too, which i shall see, and, if i can, will get him to publish; for, if i should ever choose to say any thing more on this subject, i had rather reply to him than to hackney-writers:--to the latter, indeed, i never will reply. a few notes i have to add that will be very material; and i wish to get some account of a book that was once sold at osborn's, that exists perhaps at cambridge, and of which i found a memorandum t'other day in my note-book. it is called a paradox, or apology for richard the third, by sir william cornwallis.( ) if you could discover it, i should be much obliged to you. lord sandwich, with whom i have not exchanged a syllable since the general warrants, very obligingly sent me an account of the roll at kimbolton; and has since, at my desire, borrowed it for me and sent it to town.( ) it is as long as my lord lyttelton's history; but by what i can read of it (for it is both ill written and much decayed), it is not a roll of kings, but of all that have been possessed of, or been earls of warwick: or have not--for one of the first earls is aeneas. how, or wherefore, i do not know, but amongst the first is richard the third, in whose reign it was finished, and with whom it concludes. he is there again with his wife and son, and edward the fourth, and clarence and his wife, and edward their son (who unluckily is a little old man), and margaret countess of salisbury, their daughter.--but why do i say with these? there is every body else too and what is most meritorious, the habits of all the times are admirably well observed from the most savage ages. each figure is tricked with a pen, well drawn, but neither coloured nor shaded. richard is straight, but thinner than my print; his hair short, and exactly curled in the same manner; not so handsome as mine, but what one might really believe intended for the same countenance, as drawn by a different painter, especially when so small; for the figures in general are not so long as one's finger. his queen is ugly, and with just such a square forehead as in my print, but i cannot say like it. nor, indeed, where forty-five figures out of fifty (i have not counted the number) must have been imaginary, can one lay great stress on the five. i shall, however, have these figures copied, especially as i know of no other image of the son. mr. astle is to come to me tomorrow morning to explain the writing. i wish you had told me in what age your franciscan friars lived; and what the passage in comines is. i am very ready to make amende honorable. thank you for the notes on the noble authors. they shall be inserted when i make a new edition, for the sake of the trouble the person has taken, though they are of little consequence. dodsley has asked me for a new edition; but i have had little heart to undertake such work, no more than to mend my old linen. it is pity one cannot be born an ancient, and have commentators to do such jobs for one! adieu! yours ever. saturday morning. on reading over your letter again this morning, i do find the age in which the friars lived--i read and write in such a hurry, that i think i neither know what i read or say. ( ) gray, in his letter of the th, had said:--"the long story was to be totally omitted, as its only use (that of explaining the plates) was gone; but, to supply the place of it in bulk, lest my works should be mistaken for the works of a flea or a pismire i promised to send him an equal weight of poetry or prose; so i put up about two ounces of stuff, viz. the fatal sisters; the descent of odin; a bit of something from the welch, and certain little notes, partly from justice-,, partly from ill- temper, just to tell the gentle reader that edward . was not oliver cromwell, nor queen elizabeth the witch of endor. this is literally all; and with all this, i shall be but a shrimp of an author." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) gray, in his answer of the th of march, says--"guthrie, you see, has vented himself in the critical review. his history i never saw, nor is it here, nor do i know any one that ever saw it. he is a rascal; but rascals may chance to meet with curious records." works, vol. iv. p. .-e. ( ) "the praise of king richard the third," which was published by sir william cornwallis, knight, the celebrated "essayist," in , is reprinted in the third volume of the somers' collection of tracts.-e. ( ) from this roll were taken the two plates of portraits in the historic doubts. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, march , . (page ) the house, etc. described in the enclosed advertisement i should think might suit you; i am sure its being in my neighbourhood would make me glad, if it did. i know no more than what you will find in this scrap of paper, nor what the rent is, nor whether it has a chamber as big as westminster-hall; but as you have flown about the world, and are returned to your ark without finding a place to rest your foot, i should think you might as well inquire about the house i notify to you, as set out with your caravan to greatworth, like a tartar chief; especially as the laws of this country will not permit you to stop in the first meadow you like, and turn your horses to grazing without saying by your leave. as my senatorial dignity is gone,( ) and the sight of my name is no longer worth threepence, i shall not put you to the expense of a cover, and i hope the advertisement will not be taxed, as i seal it to the paper. in short, i retain so much iniquity from the last infamous parliament that you see i would still cheat the public. the comfort i feel in sitting peaceably here, instead of being at lynn in the high fever of a contested election, which at best would end in my being carried about that large town like the figure of a pope at a bonfire, is very great. i do not think, when that function is over, that i shall repent my resolution. what could i see but sons and grandsons playing over the same knaveries, that i have seen their fathers and grandfathers act? could i hear oratory beyond my lord chatham's? will there ever be parts equal to charles townshend's? will george grenville cease to be the most tiresome of beings? will he not be constantly whining, and droning, and interrupting, like a cigala( ) in a sultry day in italy. guthrie has published two criticisms on my richard;( ) one abusive in the critical review; t'other very civil and even flattering in a pamphlet; both so stupid and contemptible, that i rather prefer the first, as making some attempt at vivacity; but in point of argument, nay, and of humour, at which he makes an effort too, both things are below scorn. as an instance of the former, he says, the duke of clarence might die of drinking sack, and so be said to be drowned in a butt of malmsey; of the latter sort, are his calling the lady bridget lady biddy, and the duke of york poor little fellow! i will weary you with no more such stuff! the weather is so very march, that i cannot enjoy my new holidays at strawberry yet; i sit reading and writing close to the fire. sterne has published two little volumes, called sentimental travels. they are very pleasing, though too much dilated, and infinitely preferable to his tiresome tristram shandy, of which i never could get through three volumes. in these there is a great good-nature and strokes of delicacy. gray has added to his poems three ancient odes from norway and wales. the subjects of the two first are grand and picturesque, and there is his genuine vein in them; but they are not interesting, and do not, like his other poems, touch any passion. our human feelings, which he masters at will in his former pieces, are here not affected.( ) who can care through what horrors a runic savage arrived at all the joys and glories they could conceive, the supreme felicity of boozing ale out of the skull of an enemy in odin's hall? oh! yes, just now perhaps these odes would be toasted at many a contested election. adieu! yours ever. ( ) walpole had retired from parliament at the general election in the beginning of this year.-e. ( ) "the shrill cicalas, people of the pine, making their summer lives one ceaseless song, were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, and vesper-bells that rose the boughs along." don juan, c. iii. st. .-e. ( ) walpole's work is thus characterized by sir walter scott:- -"the historical doubts are an acute and curious example how minute antiquarian research may shake our faith in the facts most pointedly averred by general history. it is remarkable also to observe how, in defending a system, which was probably at first adopted as a mere literary exercise, mr. walpole's doubts acquired, in his own eyes, the respectability of certainties, in which he could not brook controversy." prose works; vol. iii. p. .-e. ( ) "they strike, rather than please; the images are magnified by affectation; the language is laboured into harshness. the mind of the writer seems to work with unnatural violence. double, double, toil and trouble! there is too little appearance of ease and nature." johnson.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, april , . (page ) mr. chute tells me that you have taken a new house in squireland, and have given yourself up for two years more to port and parsons. i am very angry, and resign you to the works of the devil or the church, i don't care which. you will get the gout, turn methodist, and expect to ride to heaven upon your own great foe. i was happy with your telling me how well you love me, and though i don't love loving, i could have poured out all the fullness of my heart to such an old and true friend; but what am i the better for it, if i am to see you but two or three days in the year? i thought you would at last come and while away the remainder of life on the banks of the thames in gaiety and old tales. i have quitted the stage, and the clive is preparing to leave it. we shall neither of us ever be grave: dowagers roost all round us and you could never want cards or mirth. will you end like a fat farmer, repeating annually the price of oats, and discussing stale newspapers? there have you got, i hear into an old gallery that has not been glazed since queen elizabeth, and under the nose of an infant duke and duchess, that will understand you no more than if you wore a ruff and a coif, and talked to them of a call of serjeants the year of the spanish armada! your wit and humour will be as much lost upon them, as if you talked the dialect of chaucer; for with all the divinity of wit, it grows out of fashion like a fardingale. i am convinced that the young men at white's already laugh at george selwyn's bon-mots only by tradition. i avoid talking before the youth of the age as i would dancing before them; for if one's tongue don't move in the steps of the day, and thinks to please by its old graces, it is only an object of ridicule, like mrs. hobart in her cotilion. i tell you we should get together, and comfort ourselves with reflecting on the brave days that we have known--not that i think people were a jot more clever or wise in our youth than now, are now; but as my system is always to live in a vision as much as i can, and as visions don't increase with years, there is nothing so natural as to think one remembers what one does not remember. i have finished my tragedy,( ) but as you would not bear the subject, i will say no more of it, but that mr. chute, who is not easily pleased, likes it, and gray, who is still more difficult, approves it.( ) i am not yet intoxicated enough with it to think it would do for the stage, though i wish to see it acted; but, as mrs. pritchard( ) leaves the stage next month, i know nobody could play the countess; nor am i disposed to expose myself to the impertinent eyes of that jackanapes garrick, who lets nothing appear but his own wretched stuff, or that of creatures still duller, who suffer him to alter their pieces as he pleases. i have written an epilogue in character for the clive, which she would speak admirably; but i am not so sure that she would like to speak it. mr. conway, lady aylesbury, lady lyttelton, and miss rich, are to come hither the day after to-morrow, and mr. conway and i are to read my play to them; for i have not strength enough to go through the whole alone.( ) my press is revived, and is printing a french play written by the old president henault.( ) it was damned many years ago at paris, and yet i think it is better than some that have succeeded, and much better than any of our modern tragedies. i print it to please the old man, as he was exceedingly kind to me at paris; but i doubt whether he will live till it is finished.( ) he is to have a hundred copies, and there are to be but a hundred more, of which you shall have one. adieu! though i am very angry with you, i deserve all your friendship, by that i have for you, witness my anger and disappointment. yours ever. p. s. send me your new direction, and tell me when i must begin to use it. ( ) the mysterious mother. see vol. i. p. .-e. ( ) of this tragedy lord byron was also an approver: "it is the fashion," he says, "to underrate horace walpole; firstly, because he was a nobleman; and secondly, because he was a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of his incomparable letters, and of the castle of otranto, he is the ultimus romanorum, the author of the mysterious mother; a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love.play."-e. ( ) this celebrated actress, who excelled alike in tragedy and comedy, took leave of the stage in may, in the part of lady macbeth, and died at bath in the following august.-e. ( ) walpole, in a letter to madame du deffand, of the th of march, speaking of the "honn`ete criminel," a copy of which she had sent him, gives her the following account of his own tragedy:--"l'honn`ete criminel me paroit assez m`ediocre. ma propre trag`edie a de bien plus grands d`efauts, mais au moins elle ne ressemble pas au toout compass`e tet r`egl`e du si`ecle. il ne vous plairoit pas assur`ement; il n'y a pas de beaux sentiments: il n'y a que des passions sans envelope, des crimes, des repentis, et des horreurs. je crois qu'il y a beaucoup plus de mauvais que de bon, et je sais s`urement que depuis le premier acte jusqu'a la derni`ere sc`ene l'int`er`et languit au lieu d'augmenter: peut-il avoir on plus grand d`efaut?"-e. ( ) corn`elie, a manuscript tragedy, written by the pr`esident henault in early life. ( ) he died in novembor , at the age of eighty-six.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, april , . (page ) well, dear sir, does your new habitation improve as the spring advances? there has been dry weather and east wind enough to parch the fens. we find that the severe beginning of this last winter has made terrible havoc among the evergreens, though of old standing. half my cypresses have been bewitched, and turned into brooms; and the laurustinus is every where perished. i am goth enough to choose now and then to believe in prognostics; and i hope this destruction imports, that, though foreigners should take root here, they cannot last in this climate. i would fain persuade myself, that we are to be our own empire to eternity. the duke of manchester has lent me an invaluable curiosity; i mean invaluable to us antiquaries: but perhaps i have already mentioned it to you; i forgot whether i have or no. it is the original roll of the earls of warwick, as long as my gallery, and drawn by john rous( ) himself. ay, and what is more, there are portraits of richard iii., his queen, and son; the two former corresponding almost exactly with my print; and a panegyric on the virtues of richard, and a satire, upwards and downwards, on the illegal marriage of edward iv., and on the extortions of henry vii. i have had these and seven other portraits copied, and shall, some time or other, give plates of them. but i wait for an excuse; i mean till mr. hume shall publish a few remarks he has made on my book: they are very far from substantial; yet still better than any other trash that has been written against it, nothing of which deserves an answer. i have long had thoughts of drawing up something for london like st. foix's rues de paris,( ) and have made some collections. i wish you would be so good, in the course of your reading, to mark down any passage to that end: as where any great houses of nobility were situated; or in what street any memorable event happened. i fear the subject will not furnish much till later times, as our princes kept their courts up and down the country in such a vagrant manner. i expect mr. gray and mr. mason to pass the day with me here to-morrow. when i am more settled here i shall put you in mind of your promise to bestow more than one day on me. i hope the methodist, your neighbour, does not, like his patriarch whitfield, encourage the people to forge, murder, etc. in order to have the benefit of being converted at the gallows. that arch-rogue preached lately a funeral sermon on one gibson, hanged for forgery, and told his audience, that he could assure them gibson was now in heaven, and that another fellow, executed at the same time, had the happiness of touching gibson's coat as he was turned off. as little as you and i agree about a hundred years ago, i don't desire a reign of fanatics. oxford has begun with these rascals, and i hope cambridge will wake. i don't mean that i would have them persecuted, which is what they wish; but i would have the clergy fight them and ridicule them. adieu! dear sir. yours ever. ( ) john rous, the historian of warwickshire, "who," according to walpole in his anecdotes of painting, "drew his own portrait, and other semblances, but in too rude a style to be called painting."-e. ( ) essais historiques sur paris, par germain-fran`cois-poulain de saint foix; of which an english translation was published in .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) you have told me what makes me both sorry and glad.( ) long have i expected the appearance of ely, and thought it at the eve of coming forth. now you tell me it is not half written; but then i am rejoiced you are to write it. pray do; the author is very much in the right to make you author for him. i cannot say you have addressed yourself quite so judiciously as he has. i never heard of cardinal lewis de luxembourg in my days, nor have a scrap of the history of normandy, but ducarel's tour to the conqueror's kitchen. but the best way will be to come and rummage my library yourself: not to set me to writing the lives of prelates: i shall strip them stark, and you will have them to reconsecrate. cardinal morton is at your service: pray say for him, and of me, what you please. i have very slender opinion of his integrity; but as i am not spiteful, it would be hard to exact from you a less favourable account of him than i conclude your piety will bestow on all his predecessors and successors. seriously, you know how little i take contradiction to heart, and beg you will have no scruples about defending morton. when i bestow but a momentary smile on the abuse of any answerers, i am not likely to stint a friend in a fair and obliging remark. the man that you mention, who calls himself "impartialis," is, i suppose some hackney historian, i shall never inquire, whom, angry at being censured in the jump, and not named. i foretold he would drop his criticisms before he entered on perkin warbeck, which i knew he could not answer; and so it happened. good night to him! unfortunately, i am no culinary antiquary - the bishop of carlisle, who is, i have oft heard talk of a sotelle, as an ancient dish. he is rambling between london, flagley, and carlisle, that i do not know where to consult him: but, if the book is not printed before winter, i am sure he could translate your bill of fare into modern phrase. as i trust i shall see you some time this summer, you might bring your papers with you, and we will try what we can make of them. tell me, do, when it will be most convenient for you to come, from now to the end of october. at the same time, i will beg to see the letters of the university to king richard; and shall be still more obliged to you for the print of jane shore.( ) i have a very bad mezzotinto of her, either from the picture at cambridge or eton. i wish i could return these favours by contributing to the decoration of your new old house: but, as you know, i erected an old house, not demolished one. i had no windows, or frames for windows, but what i bespoke on purpose for the places where they are. my painted glass was so exhausted, before i got through my design, that i was forced to have the windows in the battery painted on purpose by pecket. what scraps i have remaining are so bad i cannot make you pay for the carriage of them, as i think there is not one whole piece; but you shall see them when you come hither, and i will search if i can find any thing for your purpose. i am sure i owe it you. adieu! yours ever. ( ) this is in reply to one of mr. cole's letters, wherein he had informed mr. walpole, that he had undertaken to write the history of some of' the bishops of ely for the history of ely cathedral, and requested some particulars relating to cardinal lewis de luxembourg; and to be informed the meaning of the french word sotalle or sotelle. mr. cole also proposed to controvert an opinion of mr. walpole's respecting cardinal morton. ( ) this appears, from the copy of cole's previous letter, to have been an engraving done by mr. tyson of bennett's college, from the picture in the provost's lodge. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) no, i cannot be so false as to say i am glad you are pleased with your situation. you are so apt to take root, that it requires ten years to dig you out again when you once begin to settle. as you go pitching your tent up and down, i wish you were still more a tartar, and shifted your quarters perpetually. yes, i will come and see you, but tell me first, when do your duke and duchess travel to the north? i know that he is a very amiable lad, and i do not know that she is not as amiable a laddess, but i had rather see their house comfortably when they are not there. i perceive the deluge fell upon you before it reached us. it began here but on monday last, and then rained near eight-and-forty hours without intermission. my poor hay has not a dry thread to its back. i have had a fire these three days. in short, every summer one lives in a state of mutiny and murmur, and i have found the reason: it is because we will affect to have a summer, and we have no title to any such thing. our poets learnt their trade of the romans, and so adopted the terms of their masters. they talk of shady groves, purling streams, and cooling breezes, and we get sore throats and agues with attempting to realize these visions. master damon writes a song, and invites miss chloe to enjoy the cool of the evening, and the deuce a bit have we of any such thing as a cool evening. zephyr is a northeast wind, that makes damon button up to the chin, and pinches chloe's nose till it is red and blue; and then they cry, this is a bad summer! as if we ever had any other. the best sun we have is made of newcastle coal, and i am determined never to reckon upon any other. we ruin ourselves with inviting over foreign trees and make our houses clamber up hills to look at prospects. how our ancestors would laugh at us, who knew there was no being comfortable, unless you had a high hill before your nose, and a thick warm wood at your back! taste is too freezing a commodity for us, and, depend upon it, will go out of fashion again. there is indeed a natural warmth in this country, which, as you say, i am very glad not to enjoy any longer; i mean the hothouse in st. stephen's chapel. my own sagacity makes me very vain, though there was very little merit in it. i had seen so much of all parties, that i had little esteem left for any; it is most indifferent to me who is in or -who is out, or which is set in the pillory, mr. wilkes or my lord mansfield. i see the country going to ruin, and no man with brains enough to save it. that is mortifying ; but what signifies who has the undoing it? i seldom suffer myself to think on this subject: my patriotism could do no good, and my philosophy can make me be at peace. i am sorry you are likely to lose your poor cousin lady hinchinbrook;( ) i heard a very bad account of her when i was last in town. your letter to madame roland shall be taken care of; but as you are so scrupulous of making me pay postage, i must remember not to overcharge you, as i can frank my idle letters no longer; therefore, good night! p. s. i was in town last week, and found mr. chute still confined. he had a return in his shoulder, but i think it more rheumatism than gout. ( ) elizabeth, wife of john viscount hinchinbroke, afterwards fifth earl of sandwich, was the only surviving daughter of george, second and last earl of halifax. her ladyship died on the st of july , leaving a son, george viscount hinchinbroke, who died sine prole, in .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) strawberry hill, june , . (page ) i am glad you have writ to me, for i wanted to write to you, and did not know what to say. i have been but two nights in town, and then heard of nothing but wilkes, of whom i am tired to death, and of t. townshend, the truth of whose story i did not know; and indeed the tone of the age has made me so uncharitable, that i concluded his ill-humour was put on, in order to be mollified with the reversion of his father's place, which i know he has long wanted; and the destination of the pay-office has been so long notified, that i had no notion of his not liking the arrangement. for the new paymaster,( ) i could not think him worth writing a letter on purpose. by your letter and the enclosed i find townshend has been very ill-treated, and i like his spirit in not bearing such neglect and contempt, though wrapped up in pounds a-year. what can one say of the duke of grafton, but that his whole conduct is childish, insolent, inconstant, and absurd--nay, ruinous? because we are not in confusion enough, he makes every thing as bad as possible, neglecting on one hand, and taking no precaution on the other. i neither see how it is possible for him to remain minister, nor whom to put in his place. no government, no police, london and middlesex distracted, the colonies in rebellion, ireland ready to be so, and france arrogant, and on the point of being hostile! lord bute accused of all and dying of a panic; george grenville wanting to make rage desperate; lord rockingham the duke of portland, and the cavendishes thinking we have no enemies but lord bute and dyson, and that four mutes and an epigram can set every thing to rights, the duke of grafton like an apprentice, thinking the world should be postponed to a whore and a horserace; and the bedfords not caring what disgraces we undergo, while each of them has pounds a-year and three thousand bottles of claret and champagne! not but that i believe these last good folks are still not satisfied with the satisfaction of their wishes. they have the favour of the duke of grafton, but neither his confidence nor his company; so that they can neither sell the places in his gift nor his secrets. indeed, they,' have not the same reasons to be displeased with him as you have; for they were his enemies and you his friend--and therefore he embraced them and dropped you, and i believe would be puzzled to give a tolerable reason for either. as this is the light in which i see our present situation, you will not wonder that i am happy to have nothing to do with it. not that, were it more flourishing, i would ever meddle again. i have no good opinion of any of our factions, nor think highly of either their heads or their hearts. i can amuse myself much more to my satisfaction; and, had i not lived to see my country at the period of its greatest glory, i should bear our present state much better. i cannot mend it, and therefore will think as little of it as i can. the duke of northumberland asked me to dine at sion to-morrow; but, as his vanity of governing middlesex makes him absurdly meditate to contest the county, i concluded he wanted my interest here, and therefore excused myself; for i will have nothing to do with it. i shall like much to come to park-place, if your present company stays, or if the fitzroys or the richmonds are there; but i desire to be excused from the cavendishes, who have in a manner left me off, because i am so unlucky as not to think lord rockingham as great a man as my lord chatham, and lord john more able than either. if you will let me know when they leave you, you shall see me: but they would not be glad of my company, nor i of theirs. my hay and i are drowned; i comfort myself with a fire, but i cannot treat the other with any sun, at least not with one that has more warm than the sun in a harlequin-farce. i went this morning to see the duchess of grafton, who has got an excellent house and fine prospect, but melancholy enough, and so i thought was she herself: i did not ask wherefore. i go to town to-morrow to see the devil upon two sticks,( ) as i did last week, but could not get in. i have now secured a place in my niece cholmondeley's box, and am to have the additional entertainment of mrs. macauley in the same company; who goes to see herself represented, and i suppose figures herself very like socrates. i shall send this letter by the coach, as it is rather free spoken, and sandwich may be prying. mr. chute has found the subject of my tragedy, which i thought happened in tillotson's time, in the queen of navarre's tales; and what is very remarkable, i had laid my plot at narbonne and about the beginning of the reformation, and it really did happen in languedoc and in the time of francis the first. is not this singular?( ) i hope your canary hen was really with egg by the blue-bird, and that he will not plead that they are none of his and sue for a divorce. adieu! ( ) now first printed. in the preceding january mr. conway had resigned his situation of secretary of state for the northern department.-e. ( ) mr. rigby. ( ) foote's successful comedy of the devil upon two sticks was first acted at the haymarket on the st of may.-e. ( ) see vol. i. p. . letter to monsieur de voltaire. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) sir, you read english with so much more facility than i can write french, that i hope you will excuse my making use of my own tongue to thank you for the honour of your letter. if i employed your language, my ignorance in it might betray me into expressions that would not do justice to the sentiments i feel at being so distinguished. it is true, sir, i have ventured to contest the history of richard the third, as it has been delivered down to us; and i shall obey your commands, and send it to you, though with fear and trembling; for though i have given it to the world, as it is called, yet, as you have justly observed, that world is comprised within a very small circle of readers--and undoubtedly i could not expect that you would do me the honour of being one of the number. nor do i fear you, sir, only as the first genius in europe, who has illustrated every science; i have a more intimate dependence on you than you suspect. without knowing it, you have been my master, and perhaps the sole merit that may be found in my writings is owing to my having studied yours; so far, sir, am i from living in that state of barbarism and ignorance with which you tax me when you say que vous m'`etes peut-`etre inconnu. i was not a stranger to your reputation very many years ago, but remember to have then thought you honoured our house by dining with my mother--though i was at school, and had not the happiness of seeing you: and yet my father was in a situation that might have dazzled eyes older than mine. the plain name of that father, and the pride of having had so excellent a father, to whose virtues truth at last does justice , is all i have to boast. i am a very private man, distinguished by neither dignities nor titles, which i have never done any thing to deserve--but as i am certain that titles alone would not have procured me the honour of your notice, i am content without them.( ) but, sir, if i can tell you nothing good of myself, i can at least tell you something bad; and, after the obligation you have conferred on me by your letter, i should blush if you heard it from any body but myself. i had rather incur your indignation than deceive you. some time ago i took the liberty to find fault in print with the criticisms you had made on our shakspeare. this freedom, and no wonder, never came to your knowledge. it was in a preface to a trifling romance, much unworthy of your regard, but which i shall send you, because i cannot accept even the honour of your correspondence, without making you judge whether i deserve it. i might retract, i might beg your pardon; but having said nothing but what i thought, nothing illiberal or unbecoming a gentleman, it would be treating you with ingratitude and impertinence, to suppose that you would either be offended with my remarks, or pleased with my recantation. you are as much above wanting flattery, as i am above offering it to you. you would despise me, and i should despise myself--a sacrifice i cannot make, sir, even to you. though it is impossible not to know you, sir, i must confess my ignorance on the other part of your letter. i know nothing of the history of monsieur de jumonville, nor can tell whether it is true or false, as this is the first time i ever heard of it. but i will take care to inform myself as well as i can, and, if you allow me to trouble you again, will send you the exact account as far as i can obtain it. i love my country, but i do not love any of my countrymen that have been capable, if they have been so, of a foul assassination. i should have made this inquiry directly, and informed you of the result of it in this letter, had i been in london; but the respect i owe you, sir, and my impatience to thank you for so unexpected a mark of your favour, made me choose not to delay my gratitude for a single post. i have the honour to be, sir, your most obliged and most obedient humble servant. ( ) voltaire had said, "vous pardonnerez encore plus `a mon ignorance de vos titres; je n'en respecte pas moins votre personne; je connais plus votre m`erite que les dignit`es dont il doit `etre rev`etu."-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) you ordered me, my dear lord, to write to you, and i am ready to obey you, and to give you every proof of attachment in my power: but it is a very barren season for all but cabalists, who can compound, divide, multiply no. forty-five thousand different ways. i saw in the papers to-day, that somehow or other this famous number and the number of the beast in the revelations is the same--an observation from which different persons will draw various conclusions. for my part, who have no ill wishes to wilkes, i wish he was in patmos, or the new jerusalem, for i am exceedingly tired of his name. the only good thing i have heard in all this controversy was of a man who began his letter thus: "i take the wilkes-and-liberty to assure you," etc. i peeped at london last week, and found a tolerably full opera. but now the birthday is over, i suppose every body will go to waters and races till his majesty of denmark arrives. he is extremely amorous; but stays so short a time, that the ladies who intended to be undone must not hagle. they must do their business in the twinkling of an allemande, or he will be flown. don't you think he will be a little surprised, when he inquires for the seriglio in buckingham-house, to find, in full of all accounts, two old mecklenburgheresses? is it true that lady rockingham is turned methodist? it will be a great acquisition to the sect to have their hymns set by giardini. i hope joan huntingdon will be deposed, if the husband becomes first minister. i doubt, too, the saints will like to call at canterbury and winchester in their way to heaven. my charity is so small, that i do not think their virtue a jot more obdurate than that of patriots. we have had some severe rain; but the season is now beautiful, though scarce hot. the hay and the corn promise that we shall have no riots on their account. those black dogs the whiteboys or coal-heavers are dispersed or taken; and i really- see no reason to think we shall have another rebellion this fortnight. the most comfortable event to me is, that we shall have no civil war all the summer at brentford. i dreaded two kings there; but the writ for middlesex will not be issued till the parliament meets; so there will be no pretender against king glynn.( ) as i love peace, and have done with politics, i quietly acknowledge the king de facto; and hope to pass and repass unmolested through his majesty's long, lazy, lousy capital.( ) my humble duty to my lady strafford and all her pheasants. i have just made two cascades; but my naiads are fools to mrs. chetwynd or my lady sondes, and don't give me a gallon of water in a week.--well, this is a very silly letter! but you must take the will for the deed. adieu, my dear lord! your most faithful servant. ( ) serjeant glynn, member of parliament for middlesex. ( ) brentford. letter to monsieur de voltaire. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) one can never, sir, be sorry to have been in the wrong, when one's errors are pointed out to one in so obliging and masterly a manner. whatever opinion i may have of shakspeare, i should think him to blame, if he could have seen the letter you have done me the honour to -write to me, and yet not conform to the rules you have there laid down. when he lived, there had not been a voltaire both to give laws to the stage, and to show on what good sense those laws were founded. your art, sir, goes still farther: for you have supported your arguments, without having recourse to the best authority, your own words. it was my interest perhaps to defend barbarism and irregularity. a great genius is in the right, on the contrary, to show that when correctness, nay, when perfection is demanded, he can still shine, and be himself, whatever fetters are imposed on him. but i will say no more on this head; for i am neither so unpolished as to tell you to your face how much i admire you, nor, though i have taken the liberty to vindicate shakspeare against your criticisms, am i vain enough to think myself an adversary worthy of you. i am much more proud of receiving laws from you, than of contesting them. it was bold in me to dispute with you even before i had the honour of your acquaintance; it would be ungrateful now when you have not only taken notice of me, but forgiven me. the admirable letter you have been so good as to send me, is a proof that you are one of those truly great and rare men who know at once how to conquer and to pardon. i have made all the inquiry i could into the story of m. de jumonville; and though your and our accounts disagree, i own i do not think, sir, that the strongest evidence is in our favour. i am told we allow he was killed by a party of our men, going to the ohio. your countrymen say he was going with a flag of truce. the commanding officer of our party said m. de jumonville was going with hostile intentions; and that very hostile orders were found after his death in his pocket. unless that officer had proved that he had previous intelligence of those orders, i doubt he will not be justified by finding them afterwards; for i am not at all disposed to believe that he had the foreknowledge of your hermit,( ) who pitched the old woman's nephew into the river, because "ce jeune homme auroit assassin`e sa tante dans un an." i am grieved that such disputes should ever subsist between two nations who have every thing in themselves to create happiness, and who may find enough in each other to love and admire. it is your benevolence, sir, and your zeal for softening the manners of mankind; it is the doctrine of peace and amity which you preach which have raised my esteem for you even more than the brightness of your genius. france may claim you in the latter light, but all nations have a right to call you their countryman du c`ot`e du coeur. it is on the strength of that connexion that i beg you, sir, to accept the homage of, sir, your most obedient humble servant.( ) ( ) an allusion to the fable in zadig, which is said to have been founded on parnell's hermit, but which was most probably taken from one of the contes devots, "de l'hermite qu'un ange conduisit dans le si`ecle," and of which a translation, or rather modernization, is to be found in the fifth volume of le grand d'aussy, fabliaux (p. , ed. ). the original old french version has been printed by meou, in his nouveau recueil de fabliaux et contes, tom. ii. p. .-e. ( ) the letter of voltaire, to which the above is a reply, contained the following opinion of walpole's historical doubts:- -"avant le d`epart de ma lettre, j'ai eu le tems, monsieur, de lire votre richard trois. vous seriez un excellent attornei general; vous pesez toutes les probabilit`es; mais il paroit que vous avez une inclination secrette pour ce bossu. vous voulez qu'il ait `et`e beau gar`con, et m`eme galant homme. le b`en`edictin calmet a fait une dissertation pour prouver que jesus christ avait un fort beau visage. je veux croire avec vous, que richard trois n'`etait ni si laid, ni si m`echant, qu'on le dit; mais je n'aurais pas voulu avoir affaire `a lui. votre rose blanche et votre rose rouge avaient de terribles `epines pour la nation. "those gracious kings are all a pack of rogues. en lisant l'histoire des york et des lancastre, et de bien d'autres, on croit lire l'histoire des voleurs de grand chemin. pour votre henri sept, il n'`etait que coupeur de bourses. be a minister or an anti-minister, a lord or a philosopher, i will be, with an equal respect, sir, etc."-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) you are very kind, or else you saw into my mind, and knew that i have been thinking of writing to you, but had not a penfull of matter. true, i have been in town, but i am more likely to learn news here; where at least we have it like fish, that could not find vent in london. i saw nothing there but the ruins of loo, lady hertford's cribbage, and lord botetourt, like patience on a monument, smiling in grief. he is totally ruined, and quite charmed. yet i heartily pity him. to virginia he cannot be indifferent: he must turn their heads somehow or other. if his graces do not captivate them, he will enrage them to fury; for i take all his douceur to be enamelled on iron. my life is most uniform and void of events, and has nothing worth repeating. i have not had a soul with me, but accidental company now and then at dinner. lady holderness,. lady ancram, lady mary coke, mrs. ann pitt, and mr. hume, dined here the day before yesterday. they were but just gone, when george selwyn, lord bolingbroke, and sir william musgrave, who had been at hampton-court, came in, at nine at night, to drink tea. they told me, what i was very glad to hear, and what i could not doubt, as they had it from the duke of grafton himself, that bishop cornwallis( ) goes to canterbury. i feared it would be ****; but it seems he had secured all the backstairs, and not the great stairs. as the last head of the church had been in the midwife line, i supposed goody lyttelton( ) had hopes; and as he had been president of an atheistical club, to be sure warburton did not despair. i was thinking it would make a good article in the papers, that three bishops had supped with nancy parsons at vauxhall, in their way to lambeth. i am sure ****, would have been of the number; and **** who told the duke of newcastle, that if his grace had commanded the blues at minden, they would have behaved better, would make no scruple to cry up her chastity. the king of denmark comes on thursday; and i go to-morrow to see him. it has cost three thousand pounds to new furnish an apartment for him at st. james's; and now he will not go thither, supposing it would be a confinement. he is to lodge at his own minister dieden's. augustus hervey, thinking it the bel air, is going to sue for a divorce from the chudleigh.( ) he asked lord bolingbroke t'other day, who was his proctor'! as he would have asked for his tailor. the nymph has sent him word, that if he proves her his wife he must pay her debts; and she owes sixteen thousand pounds. this obstacle thrown in the way, looks as if she was not sure of being duchess of kingston. the lawyers say, it will be no valid plea; it not appearing that she was hervey's wife, and therefore the tradesmen could not reckon on his paying them. yes, it is my gray, gray the poet, who is made professor of modern history, and i believe it is worth five hundred a-year. i knew nothing of it till i saw it in the papers; but believe //it was stonehewer that obtained it for him.( ) yes, again; i use a bit of alum half as big as my nail, once or twice a-week, and let it dissolve in my mouth. i should not think that using it oftener could be prejudicial. you should inquire; but as you are in more hurry than i am, you should certainly use it oftener than i do. i wish i could cure my lady ailesbury too. ice-water has astonishing effect on my stomach, and removes all pain like a charm. pray, though the one's teeth may not be so white as formerly, nor t'other look in perfect health, let the danish king see such good specimens of the last age--though, by what i hear, he likes nothing but the very present age. however, sure you will both come and look at him: not that i believe he is a jot better than the apprentices that flirt to epsom in a tim-whisky; but i want to meet you in town. i don't very well know what i write, for i hear a caravan on my stairs, that are come to see the house; margaret is chattering, and the dogs barking; and this i call retirement! and yet i think it preferable to your visit at becket. adieu! let me know something more of your motions before you go to ireland, which i think a strange journey, and better compounded for: and when i see you in town i will settle with you another visit to park-place. yours ever. ( ) the hon. frederick cornwallis, seventh son of charles fourth baron cornwallis, was translated from the see of lichfield and coventry to that of canterbury, on the death of archbishop secker.-e. ( ) bishop of carlisle. he died in december following; upon which event, warburton wrote to dr. hurd--"a bishop, more or less, in the world, is nothing; and perhaps of as small account in the next. i used to despise him for his antiquarianism, but of late, since i grow old and dull myself, i cultivated an acquaintance with him for the sake of what formerly kept us asunder."-e. ( ) on the th of march, ,, the lady publicly espoused evelyn pierrepoint., duke of kingston; for which offence she was impeached before the house of peers, and the marriage declared illegal. she subsequently retired to the continent, where she died in .-e. ( ) the following is gray's own account, in a letter of the st of august:--"i write chiefly to tell you, that on sunday se'nnight brocket died by a fall from his horse, being, as i hear, drunk: that on the wednesday following i received a letter from the duke of grafton, saying he had the king's command to offer me the vacant professorship; and he adds, that from private as well as public considerations, he must take the warmest part in approving so well-judged a measure, etc. there's for you!"-- in a letter to dr. beattie, of the st of october, he says--"it is the best thing the crown has to bestow (on a layman) here; the salary is four hundred pounds per annum; but what enhances the value of it to me is, that it was bestowed without being asked. instances of a benefit so nobly conferred, i believe, are rare; and therefore i tell you of it as a thing that does honour, not only to me, but to the minister." works, vol. iv. pp. , .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, aug. , . (page ) indeed, what was become of you, as i had offered myself to you so long ago, and you did not accept my bill; and now it is payable at such short notice, that as i cannot find mr. chute, nor know where he is, whether at your brother's or the vine, i think i had better defer my visit till the autumn, when you say you will be less hurried, and more at leisure. i believe i shall go to ragley beginning of september, and possibly on to lord strafford's, and therefore i may call on you, if it will not be inconvenient to you, on my return. i came to town to see the danish king. he is as diminutive as if he came out of a kernel in the fairy tales. he is not ill made, nor weakly made, though so small; and though his face is pale and delicate, it is not at all ugly, yet has a strong cast of the late king, and enough of the late prince of wales to put one upon one's guard not to be prejudiced in his favour. still he has more royalty than folly in his air; and, considering he is not twenty, is as well as one expects any king in a puppet-show to be. he arrived on thursday, supped and lay at st. james's. yesterday evening he was at the queen's and carlton-house, and at night at lady hertford's assembly. he only takes the title of altesse, an absurd mezzotermine, but acts king exceedingly; struts in the circle like a cock-sparrow, and does the honours of himself very civilly. there is a favourite too, who seems a complete jackanapes; a young fellow called holke, well enough in his figure, and about three-and-twenty, but who will be tumbled down long before he is prepared for it. bernsdorff, a hanoverian, his first minister, is a decent sensible man; i pity him, though i suppose he is envied. from lady hertford's they went to ranelagh, and to-night go to the opera. there had like to have been an untoward circumstance: the last new opera in the spring, which was exceedingly pretty, was called "i viaggiatori ridicoli," and\ they were on the point of acting it for this royal traveller. i am sure you are not sorry that cornwallis is archbishop. he is no hypocrite, time-server, nor high-priest. i little expected so good a choice. adieu! yours ever. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) as you have been so good, my dear lord, as twice to take notice of my letter, i am bound in conscience and gratitude to try to amuse you with any thing new. a royal visiter, quite fresh, is a real curiosity--by the reception of him, i do not think many more of the breed will come hither. he came from dover in hackney-chaises; for somehow or other the master of the horse happened to be in lincolnshire; and the king's coaches having received no orders, were too good subjects to go and fetch a stranger king of their own heads. however, as his danish majesty travels to improve himself for the good of his people, he will go back extremely enlightened in the arts of government and morality, by having learned that crowned heads may be reduced to ride in a hired chaise. by another mistake, king george happened to go to richmond about an hour before king christiern arrived in london. an hour is exceedingly long; and the distance to richmond still longer: so with all the despatch that could possibly be made, king george could not get back to his capital till next day at noon. then, as the road from his closet at st. james's to the king of denmark's apartment on t'other side of the palace is about thirty miles, which posterity, having no conception of the prodigious extent and magnificence of st. james's, will never believe, it was half an hour after three before his danish majesty's courier could go, and return to let him know that his good brother and ally was leaving the palace in which they both were, in order to receive him at the queen's palace, which you know is about a million of snail's paces from st. james's. notwithstanding these difficulties and unavoidable delays, woden, thor, fria, and all the gods that watch over the kings of the north, did bring these two invincible monarchs to each other's embraces about half an hour after five that same evening. they passed an hour in projecting a family compact that will regulate the destiny of europe to latest posterity: and then, the fates so willing it, the british prince departed for richmond, and the danish potentate repaired to the widowed mansion of his royal mother-in-law, where he poured forth the fulness of his heart in praises on the lovely bride she had bestowed on him, from whom nothing but the benefit of his subjects could ever have torn him. and here let calumny blush, who has aspersed so chaste and faithful a monarch with low amours; pretending that he has raised to the honour of a seat in his sublime council, an artisan of hamburgh, known only by repairing the soles of buskins, because that mechanic would, on no other terms, consent to his fair daughter's being honoured with majestic embraces. so victorious over his passions is this young scipio from the pole, that though on shooter's-hill he fell into an ambush laid for him by an illustrious countess, of blood-royal herself, his majesty, after descending from his car, and courteously greeting her, again mounted his vehicle, without being one moment eclipsed from the eyes of the surrounding multitude. oh! mercy on me! i am out of breath--pray let me descend from my stilts, or i shall send you as fustiin and tedious a history as that of henry ii. well then, this great king is a very little one; not ugly, nor ill-made. he has the sublime strut of his grandfather, or of a cock-sparrow; and the divine white eyes of all his family by the mother's side. his curiosity seems to have consisted in the original plan of travelling for i cannot say he takes notice of any thing in particular. his manner is cold and dignified, but very civil and gracious and proper. the mob adore him and huzza him; and so they did the first instant. at present they begin to know why-- for he flings money to them out of his windows; and by the end of the week i do not doubt but they will want to choose him for middlesex. his court is extremely well ordered; for they bow as low to him at every word as if his name was sultan amurat. you would take his first minister for only the first of his slaves. i hope this example, which they have been so good as to exhibit at the opera, will contribute to civilize us. there is indeed a pert young gentleman, who a little discomposes this august ceremonial. his name is count holke, his age three-and-twenty and his post answers to one that we had formerly in england, many ages ago, and which in our tongue was called the lord high favourite. before the danish monarchs became absolute, the most refractory of that country used to write libels, called north danes, against this great officer; but that practice has long since ceased. count holke seems rather proud of his favour, than shy of displaying it. i hope, my dear lord, you will be content with my danish politics, for i trouble myself with no other. there is a long history about the baron de bottetourt and sir jeffery amherst, who has resigned his regiment but it is nothing to me, nor do i care a straw about it. i am deep in the anecdotes of the new court; and if you want to know more of count holke or count molke, or the grand vizier bernsdorff, or mynheer schimmelman, apply to me, and you shall be satisfied. but what do i talk of? you will see them yourself. minerva in the shape of count bernsdorff, or out of all shape in the person of the duchess of northumberland, is to conduct telemachus to york races; for can a monarch be perfectly accomplished in the mysteries of king-craft, as our solomon james i. called it, unless he is initiated in the arts of jockeyship? when this northern star travels towards its own sphere, lord hertford will go to ragley. i shall go with him; and, if i can avoid running foul of the magi that will be thronging from all parts to worship that star, i will endeavour to call at wentworth castle for a day or two, if it will not be inconvenient; i should think it would be about the second week in september, but your lordship shall hear again, unless you should forbid me, who am ever lady strafford's and your lordship's most faithful humble servant. letter to the hon. h. s. conway.( ) arlington street, aug. , . (page ) heartily glad you do not go to ireland; it is very well for the duke of bedford, who, as george selwyn says, is going to be made a mamamouchi. your brother sets out for ragley on wednesday next, and that day i intend to be at park--place, and from thence shall go to ragley on friday. i shall stay three or four days, and then go to lord strafford's for about as many; and shall call on george montagu on my return, so as to be at home in a fortnight, an infinite absence in my account. i wish you could join in with any part of this progress, before you go to worship the treasures that are pouring in upon your daughter by the old damer's death.( ) you ask me about the harvest--you might as well ask me about the funds. i thought the land flowed with milk and honey. we have had forty showers, but they have not lasted a minute each; and as the weather continues warm and my lawn green, "i bless my stars, and call it luxury." they tell me there are very bad accounts from several colonies, and the papers are full of their remonstrances; but i never read such things. i am happy to have nothing to do with them, and glad you have not much more. when one can do no good, i have no notion of sorrowing oneself for every calamity that happens in general. one should lead the life of a coffee-house politician, the most real patriots that i know, who amble out every morning to gather matter for lamenting over their country. i leave mine, like the king of denmark, to ministers and providence; the latter of which, like an able chancellor of the exchequer to an ignorant or idle first lord, luckily does the business. that little king has had the gripes, which have addled his journey to york. i know nothing more of his motions. his favourite is fallen in love with lady bel stanhope,( ) and the monarch himself demanded her for him. the mother was not averse, but lady bel very sensibly refused--so unfortunate are favourites the instant they set their foot in england! he is jealous of sackville,( ) and says, "ce gros noir n'est pas beau;" which implies that he thinks his own whiteness and pertness charming. adieu! i shall see you on wednesday. ( ) now first printed. ( ) j. damer, esq., of carne in dorsetshire, brother to the first lord milton.-e. ) ) afterwards countess of sefton.-e. ( ) who afterwards succeeded to the dukedom of dorset.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, aug. , . (page ) you are always heaping so many kindnesses on me, dear sir, i think i must break off all acquaintance with you, unless i can find some way of returning them. the print of the countess of exeter is the greatest present to me in the world. i have been trying for years to no purpose to get one. reynolds the painter promised to beg one for me of a person he knows, but i have never had it. i wanted it for four different purposes. . as a grandmother (in law, by the cranes and allingtons): . for my collection of heads: . for the volumes of prints after pieces in my collection: and, above all, for my collection of faithornes, which though so fine, wanted such a capital print: and to this last i have preferred it. i give you unbounded thanks for it: and yet i feel exceedingly ashamed to rob you. the print of jane shore i had: but as i have such various uses for prints i easily bestowed it. it is inserted in my anecdotes, where her picture is mentioned. thank you, too, for all your notices. i intend next summer to set about the last volume of my anecdotes, and to make still further additions to my former volumes, in which these notes find their place. i am going to reprint all my pieces together, and, to my shame be it spoken, find they will at least make two large quartos. you, i know, will be partial enough to give them a place on a shelf, but as i doubt many persons will not be so favourable, i only think of leaving the edition behind me. methinks i should like for your amusement and my own, that you settled to ely: yet i value your health so much beyond either, that i must advise milton, ely being, i believe, a very damp, and, consequently, a very unwholesome situation. pray let me know on which you fix; and if you do fix this summer, remember the hopes you have given me of a visit. my summer, that is, my fixed residence here, lasts till november. my gallery is not only finished, but i am going on with the round chamber at the end of it; and am besides playing with the little garden on the other side of the road, which was old franklin's, and by his death came into my hands. when the round tower is finished, i propose to draw up a description and catalogue of the whole house and collection, and i think you will not dislike lending me your assistance. mr. granger,( ) of shiplake, is printing his laborious and curious catalogue of english heads, with an accurate though succinct account of almost all the persons. it will be a very valuable and useful work, and i heartily wish may succeed; though i have some fears. there are of late a small number of persons who collect english heads but not enough to encourage such a work: i hope the anecdotic part will make it more known and tasted. it is essential to us, who shall love the performance, that it should sell: for he prints no farther at first than to the end of the first charles: and, if this part does not sell well, the bookseller will not purchase the remainder of the copy, though he gives but a hundred pounds for this half'; and good mr. granger is not in circumstances to afford printing it himself. i do not compare it with dr. robertson's writings, who has an excellent genius, with admirable style and manner; and yet i cannot help thinking, that there is a good deal of scotch puffing and partiality, when the booksellers have given the doctor three thousand pounds for his life of charles v., for composing which he does not pretend to have obtained any new materials. i am going into warwickshire; and i think shall go on to lord strafford's, but propose returning before the end of september. yours ever. ( ) the rev. james granger, vicar of shiplake in oxfordshire; where he died in . see post, may , .-e. letter to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, monday, oct. , . (page ) i give you a thousand thanks, my dear lord, for the account of the ball at welbeck. i shall not be able to repay it with a relation of the masquerade to-night;( ) for i have been confined here this week with the gout in my foot, and have not stirred off my bed or couch since tuesday. i was to have gone to the great ball at sion on friday, for which a new road, paddock, and bridge were made, as other folks make a dessert. i conclude lady mary coke has, and will tell you of all these pomps, which health thinks so serious, and sickness with her grave face tells one are so idle. sickness may make me moralize, but i assure you she does not want humour. she has diverted me extremely with drawing a comparison between the repose (to call neglect by its dignified name) which i have enjoyed in this fit, and the great anxiety in which the whole world was when i had the last gout, three years ago--you remember my friends were then coming into power. lord weymouth was so good as to call at least once every day, and inquire after me; and the foreign ministers insisted that i should give them the satisfaction of seeing me, that they might tranquillize their sovereigns with the certainty of my not being in any danger. the duke and duchess of newcastle were so kind, though very nervous themselves, as to send messengers and long messages every day from claremont. i cannot say this fit has alarmed europe quite so much. i heard the bell ring at the gate, and asked with much majesty if it was the duke of newcastle had sent? "no, sir, it was only the butcher's boy." the butcher's boy is, indeed, the only courier i have had. neither the king of france nor king of spain appears to be under the least concern about me. my dear lord, i have had so many of these transitions in my life, that you will not wonder they divert me more than a masquerade. i am ready to say to most people, "mask, i know you." i wish i might choose their dresses! 'when i have the honour of seeing lady strafford, i shall beseech her to tell me all the news: for i am too nigh and too far to know any. adieu, my dear lord! ( ) a masquerade given at the opera-house by the king of denmark; one of the most magnificent which had ever been given in england. the jewels worn on the occasion by the maskers were estimated to be of the value of two millions.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) i have not received the cheese, but i thank you as much beforehand. i have been laid up with a fit of the gout in both feet and a knee; at strawberry for an entire month, and eight days here: i took the air for the first time the day before yesterday, and am, considering, surprisingly recovered by the assistance of the bootikins and my own perseverance in drinking water. i moulted my stick to-day, and have no complaint but weakness left. the fit came just in time to augment my felicity in having quitted parliament. i do not find it so uncomfortable to grow old, when one is not obliged to expose oneself in public. i neither rejoice nor am sorry at your being accommodated in your new habitation. it has long been plain to me that you choose to bury yourself in the ugliest spot you can find, at a distance from almost all your acquaintance; so i give it up; and then i am glad you are pleased. nothing is stirring but politics, and chiefly the worst kind of politics, elections. i trouble myself with no sort, but seek to pass what days the gout leaves me or bestows on me, as quietly as i can. i do not wonder at others, because i doubt i am more singular than they are; and what makes me happy would probably not make them so. my best compliments to your brother; i shall be glad to see you both when you come; though for you, you don't care how little time you pass with your friends. yet i am, and ever shall be yours most sincerely. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, nov. , . (page ) you cannot wonder when i receive such kind letters from you, that i am vexed our intimacy should be reduced almost to those letters. it is selfish to complain, when you give me such good reasons for your system: but i grow old; and the less time we have to live together, the more i feel a separation from a person i love so well; and that reflection furnishes me with arguments in vindication of my peevishness. methinks, though the contrary is true in practice, prudence should be the attribute of youth, not of years. when we approach to the last gate of life, what does it signify to provide for new furnishing one's house? youth should have all those cares; indeed, charming youth is better employed. it leaves foresight to those that have little occasion for it. you and i have both done with the world, the busy world, and therefore i would smile with you over what we have both seen of it, and luckily we can smile both, for we have quitted it willingly, not from disgust nor mortifications. however, i do not pretend to combat your reasons, much less would i draw you to town a moment sooner than it is convenient to you, though i shall never forget your offering it. nay, it is not so much in town that i wish we were nearer, as in the country. unless one lives exactly in the same set of company, one is not much the better for one's friends being in london. i that talk of giving up the world, have only given up the troubles of it, as far as that is possible. i should speak more properly in saying, that i have retired out of the world into london. i always intend to place some months between me and the moroseness of retirement. we are not made for solitude. it gives us prejudices, it indulges us in our own humours, and at last we cannot live without them. my gout is quite gone; and if i had a mind to disguise its remains, i could walk very gracefully, except on going down stairs. happily, it is not the fashion to hand any body; the nymph and i should soon be at the bottom. your old cousin newcastle is going; he has had a stroke of the palsy, and they think will not last two days.( ) i hope he is not sensible, as i doubt he would be too averse to his situation. poor man! he is not like my late amiable friend, lady hervey;( ) two days before she died, she wrote to her son bristol these words: "i feel my dissolution coming on, but i have no pain; what can an old woman desire more?" this was consonant to her usual propriety--yes, propriety is grace, and thus every body may be graceful, when other graces are fled. oh! but you will cry, is not this a contradiction to the former part of your letter? prudence is one of the graces of age;-why--yes, i do not know but it may and yet i don't know how, it is a musty quality; one hates to allow it to be a grace--come, at least it is only like that one of the graces that hides her face. in short, i have ever been so imprudent, that though i have much corrected myself, i am not at all vain of such merit. i have purchased it for much more than it was worth. i wish you joy of lord guildford's amendment; and always take a full part in your satisfaction or sorrow. adieu! yours ever. ( ) the duke of newcastle died on the th.-e. ( ) lady hervey died on the d of september, in the sixty-eighth year of her age.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i like your letter, and have been looking at my next door but one. the ground-story is built, and the side walls will certainly be raised another floor, before you think of arriving. i fear nothing for you but the noise of workmen, and of this street in front and picadilly on the other side. if you can bear such a constant hammering and hurricane, it will rejoice me to have you so near me; and then i think i must see you oftener than i have done these ten years. nothing can be more dignified than this position. from my earliest memory arlington-street has been the ministerial street. the duke of grafton is actually coming into the house of mr. pelham, which my lord president is quitting, and which occupies too the ground on which my father lived; and lord weymouth has just taken the duke of dorset's; yet you and i, i doubt, shall always live on the wrong side of the way. lord chatham is reconciled to lord temple and george grenville.( ) the second is in great spirits on the occasion; and yet gives out that lord chatham earnestly solicited it. the insignificant lepidus patronizes antony, and is sued to by augustus! still do i doubt whether augustus will ever come forth again. is this a peace patched up by livia for the sake of her children, seeing the imbecility of her husband? or is augustus to own he has been acting changeling, like the first brutus, for near two years? i do not know, i remain in doubt. wilkes has struck an artful stroke.( ) the ministers, devoid of all management in the house of commons, consented that he should be heard at the bar of the house, and appointed to-morrow, forgetting the election for middlesex is to come on next thursday: one would think they were impatient to advance riots. last monday wilkes demanded to examine lord temple: when that was granted, he asked for lord sandwich and lord march. as the first had not been refused, the others could not. the lords were adjourned till to-day @ , and, i suppose, are now sitting on this perplexing demand. if lord temple desires to go to the bar of the commons, and the others desire to be excused, it will be difficult for the lords to know what to do. sandwich is frightened out of his senses,( ) and march does not like it. well! this will cure ministers and great lords of being flippant in dirty tyranny, when they see they may be worried for it four years afterwards. the commons, i suppose, are at this minute as hotly engaged on the cumberland election between sir james lowther and the duke of portland. oh! how delightful and comfortable to be sitting quietly here a scribbling to you, perfectly indifferent about both houses! you will just escape having your brains beaten out, by not coming this fortnight. the middlesex election will be over. adieu! yours ever. ( ) through the mediation of their mutual friend, mr. calcraft, a reconciliation between lord chatham and earl temple took place at hayes, on the th of november, to which mr. grenville heartily acceded. see chatham correspondence, vol, iii. p. .-e. ( ) mr. wilkes, on the th of november, had presented a petition to the house of commons, praying for a redress of his grievances.-e. ( ) by a reference to sir henry cavendish's debates, vol. i. pp. , , it will be seen, that lord sandwich expressed, through mr. rigby, his readiness to be examined, and that he was examined on the st of january.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, sunday, march , . (page ) i beg your pardon; i promised to send you news, and i had quite forgot that we have had a rebellion; at least, the duke of bedford says so. six or eight hundred merchants, english, dutch, jews, gentiles, had been entreated to protect the protestant succession, and consented.( ) they set out on wednesday noon in their coaches and chariots, chariots not armed with scythes like our gothic ancestors. at temple-bar they met several regiments of foot dreadfully armed with mud, who discharged a sleet of dirt on the royal troop. minerva, who had forgotten her dreadful egis, and who, in the shape of mr. boehm, carried the address, was forced to take shelter under a cloud in nando's coffeehouse, being more afraid of buckhorse than ever venus was of diomed; in short, it was a dismal day; and if lord talbot had not recollected the patriot feats of his youth,( ) and recommenced bruiser, i don't know but the duchess of kingston,( ) who has so long preserved her modesty, from both her husbands, might not have been ravished in the drawing-room. peace is at present restored, and the rebellion adjourned to the thirteenth of april; when wilkes and colonel luttrell are to fight a pitched battle at brentford, the phillippi of antoninus. tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fogi, know nothing of these broils. you don't convert your ploughshares into falchions, nor the mud of adderbury into gunpowder. i tremble for my painted windows, and write talismans of number forty-five on every gate and postern of my castle. mr. hume is writing the revolutions of middlesex, and a troop of barnacle geese are levied to defend the capital. these are melancholy times! heaven send we do not laugh till we cry! london, tuesday, th. our ministers, like their saxon ancestors, are gone to bold a wittenagemoot on horseback at newmarket. lord chatham, we are told, is to come forth after the holidays and place himself at the head of the discontented. when i see it i shall believe it. lord frederick campbell is, at last, to be married this evening to the dowager-countess of ferrers.( ) the duchess of grafton is actually countess of ossory.( ) this is a short gazette; but, consider, it is a time of truce. adieu! ( ) a great riot took place on the d of march , when a cavalcade of the merchants and tradesmen of the city of london, who were proceeding to st. james's with a loyal address, was so maltreated by the populace, that mr. boehm, the gentleman to whom the address was entrusted, was obliged to take refuge in nando's coffeehouse. his coach was rifled; but the address escaped the search of the rioters, and was, after considerable delay, during which a second had been voted and prepared, eventually presented at st. james's.-e. ( ) lord talbot behaved with great intrepidity upon this occasion: though he had his staff of office broken in his hand, and was deserted by his servants, he secured two of the most active of the rioters. his example recalled the military to their duty, who, without employing either guns or bayonets, captured fifteen more.-e. ( ) the duke of kingston had married miss chudleigh on the th of this instant; the consistory court of london having declared, on the th of february previous, that the lady was free from any matrimonial contract with the hon. augustus john hervey. on the th, she was presented, upon her marriage, to their majesties; who honoured her by wearing her favours, as did all the great officers of state.-e. ( ) see vol. iii. p. , letter . this unfortunate lady was burnt to death at lord frederick's seat at combe bank, in july .-e. ( ) lady anne liddel, only daughter of henry liddel, lord ravensworth, married, in , to augustus henry, third duke of grafton; from whom being divorced by act of parliament, she was married secondly, on the th of march, to the earl of ossory.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, april , . (page ) i should be very sorry to believe half your distempers. i am heartily grieved for the vacancy that has happened in your mouth, though you describe it so comically. as the only physic i believe in is prevention, you shall let me prescribe to you. use a little bit of alum twice or thrice in a week, no bigger than half your nail, till it has all dissolved in your mouth, and then spit out. this has fortified my teeth, that they are as strong as the pen of junius.( ) i learned it of mrs. grosvenor, who had not a speck in her teeth to her death. for your other complaints, i revert to my old sermon, temperance. if you will live in a hermitage, methinks it is no great addition to live like a hermit. look in sadeler's prints, they had beards down to their girdles; and with all their impatience to be in heaven, their roots and water kept them for a century from their wishes. i have lived all my life like an anchoret in london, and within ten miles, shed my skin after the gout, and am as lively as an eel in a week after. mr. chute, who has drunk no more wine than a fish, grows better every year. he has escaped this winter with only a little pain in one hand. consider that the physicians recommended wine, and then can you doubt of its being poison? medicines may cure a few acute distempers, but how should they mend a broken constitution? they would as soon mend a broken leg. abstinence and time may repair it, nothing else can; for when time has been employed to spoil the blood, it cannot be purified in a moment. wilkes, who has been chosen member of parliament almost as often as marius was consul, was again re-elected on thursday. the house of commons, who are as obstinate as the county, have again rejected him. to-day they are to instate colonel luttrell in his place.( ) what is to follow i cannot say, but i doubt grievous commotions. both sides seem so warm, that it will be difficult for either to be in the right. this is not a merry subject, and therefore i will have done with it. if it comes to blows, i intend to be as neutral as the gentleman that was going out with his hounds the morning of edgehill. i have seen too much of parties to list with any of them. you promised to return to town, but now say nothing of it. you had better come before a passport is necessary: adieu! ( ) the letters of junius, the first of which appeared on the st of january, were now in course of publication, and exciting great attention, not only in this country, but, as it would seem, also in france: "on parle ici beaucoup de votre `ecrit de junius," writes madame du deffand to walpole.-e. ( ) wilkes, having been expelled the house of commons on the d of february , was a third time elected for middlesex on the th of march. on the th, the election was declared by the house to be null and void, and a new writ was ordered to be issued. on the day of election, the th of april, wilkes, luttrell, and serjeant whitaker presented themselves as candidates, when the former, having a majority, was declared duly elected. on the th, this election was pronounced void, and on the th henry laws luttrell, esq. was duly elected, by against , and took his seat accordingly.-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, may , . (page ) you are so wayward, that i often resolve to give you up to your humours. then something happens with which i can divert you, and my good-humour returns. did not you say you should return to london long before this time? at least, could you not tell me you had changed your mind? why am i to pick it out from your absence and silence, as dr. warburton found a future state in moses's saying nothing of the matter! i could go on with a chapter of severe interrogatories, but i think it more cruel to treat you as a hopeless reprobate; yes, you are graceless, and as i have a respect for my own scolding, i shall not throw it away upon you. strawberry has been in great glory; i have given a festino there that will almost mortgage it. last tuesday all france dined there: monsieur and madame du chatelet,( ) the duc de liancourt,( ) three more french ladies, whose names you will find in the enclosed paper, eight other frenchmen, the spanish and portuguese ministers, the holdernesses, fitzroys, in short we were four-and-twenty. they arrived at two. at the gates of the castle i received them, dressed in the cravat of gibbons's carving, and a pair of gloves embroidered up to the elbows that had belonged to james the first. the french servants stared, and firmly believed this was the dress of english country gentlemen. after taking a survey of the apartments, we went to the printing-house, where i had prepared the enclosed verses, with translations by monsieur de lille,( ) one of the company. the moment they were printed off, i gave a private signal, and french horns and clarionets accompanied this compliment. we then went to see pope's grotto and garden, and returned to a magnificent dinner in the refectory. in the evening we walked, had tea, coffee, and lemonade in the gallery, which was illuminated with a thousand, or thirty candles, i forgot which, and played at whist and loo till midnight. then there was a cold supper, and at one the company returned to town, saluted by fifty nightingales, who, as tenants of the manor, came to do honour to their lord. i cannot say last night was equally agreeable. there was what they called a ridotto el fresco at vauxhall,( ) for which one paid half-a-guinea, though, except some thousand more lamps and a covered passage all round the garden, which took off from the gardenhood, there was nothing better than on a common night. mr. conway and i set out from his house at eight o'clock; the line and torrent of coaches was so prodigious, that it was half-an-hour after nine before we got half-way from westminster- bridge. we then alighted; and after scrambling under bellies of horses, through wheels, and over posts and rails, we reached the gardens, where were already many thousand persons. nothing diverted me but a man in a turk's dress and two nymphs in masquerade without masks, who sailed amongst the company, and, which was surprising seemed to surprise nobody. it had been given out that people were desired to come in fancied dresses without masks. we walked twice round and were rejoiced to come away, though with the same difficulties as at our entrance; for we found three strings of coaches all along the road, who did not move half a foot in half-an-hour. there is to be a rival mob in the same way at ranelagh to-morrow; for the greater the folly and imposition the greater is the crowd. i have suspended the vestimenta that were torn off my back to the god of repentance, and shall stay away. adieu! i have not a word more to say to you. yours ever. p. s. i hope you will not regret paying a shilling for this packet. ( ) le marquis du chatelet, was son to la marquise du chatelet, the commentator upon newton, and the am`elie of voltaire. the scandalous chronicles of the time accord to the philosopher the honour of his paternity.-e. ( ) the duc de liancourt, of the family de la rochefoucauld, grand ma`itre de la garde-robe du roi. at the commencement of the revolution, his conduct was much blamed by those attached to the court. he eventually emigrated to england, and, after residing here some time, visited america, and published an account of his travels in that country. in , after the th brumaire, he returned to france. he died in march , in his eightieth year.-e. ( ) m. de lille was an officer of the french cavalry, an agreeable man in society, and author of several pretty ballads and vers de soci`et`e. ( ) "they went to the ridotto-'tis a hall where people dance, and sup, and dance again; its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, but that's of no importance to my strain; 'tis (on a smaller scale) like our vauxhall, excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain: the company is 'mix'd'--the phrase i quote is as much as saying, they're below your notice." beppo, st. .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. arlington street, may , . (page ) dear sir, i have not heard from you this century, nor knew where you had fixed yourself. mr. gray tells me you are still at waterbeche. mr. granger has published his catalogue of prints and lives down to the revolution;( ) and as the work sells well, i believe, nay, do not doubt, we shall have the rest. there are a few copies printed but on one side of the leaf. as i know you love scribbling in such books as well as i do, i beg you will give me leave to make you a present of one set. i shall send it in about a week to mr. gray, and have desired him, as soon as he has turned it over, to convey it to you. i have found a few mistakes, and you will find more. to my mortification, though i have four thousand heads, i find, upon a rough calculation, that i still want three or four hundred. pray, give me some account of yourself, how you do, and whether you are fixed. i thought you rather inclined to ely. are we never to have the history of that cathedral? i wish you would tell me that you have any thoughts of coming this way, or that you would make me a visit this summer. i shall be little from home this summer till august, when i think of going to paris for six weeks. to be sure you have seen the history of british topography,( ) which was published this winter, and it is a delightful book in our way. adieu! dear sir. yours ever. ( ) a biographical history of england, from egbert the great to the revolution. a continuation, bringing the work down from the revolution to the end of george i.'s reign, was published in , by the rev. mark noble. in a letter to boswell, of the th of august , dr. johnson says--"i have read every word of granger's biographical history. it has entertained me exceedingly, and i do not think him the whig that you supposed. horace walpole being his patron is, indeed, no good sign of his political principles; but he denied to lord mansfield that he was a whig, and said he had been accused by both parties of partiality. it seems he was like pope-- 'while tories call me whig, and whigs a tory.' i wish you would look more into his book; and as lord mountstuart wishes much to find a proper person to continue the work upon granger's plan, and has desired i would mention it to you, if such a man occurs, please to let me know. his lordship will give him generous encouragement."-e. ( ) by richard gough, the well-known antiquary. the second edition, published in , is a far better one.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, june , . (page ) dear sir, among many agreeable passages in your last, there is nothing i like so well as the hope you give me of seeing you here in july. i will return that visit immediately: don't be afraid; i do not mean to incommode you at waterbeche; but, if you will come, i promise i will accompany you back as far as cambridge: nay, carry you on to ely, for thither i am bound. the bishop( ) has sent a dr. nichols to me, to desire i would assist him in a plan for the east window of his cathedral, which he intends to benefactorate with painted glass. the window is the most untractable of all saxon uncouthness: nor can i conceive what to do with it, but by taking off the bottoms for arms and mosaic, splitting the crucifixion into three compartments, and filling the five lights at top with prophets, saints, martyrs, and such like; after shortening the windows like the great ones. this i shall propose. however, i choose to see the spot myself, as it will be a proper attention to the bishop after his civility, and i really would give the best advice i could. the bishop, like alexander viii., feels that the clock has struck half-an-hour past eleven, and is impatient to be let depart in peace after his eyes shall have seen his vitrification: at least, he is impatient to give his eyes that treat; and yet it will be a pity to precipitate the work. if you can come to me first, i shall be happy; if not, i must come to you: that is, will meet you at cambridge. let me know your mind, for i would not press you unseasonably. i am enough obliged to you already; though, by mistake, you think it is you that are obliged to me. i do not mean to plunder you of any more prints; but shall employ a little collector to get me all that are getable. the rest, the greatest of us all must want. i am very sorry for the fever you have had: but, goodman frog, if you will live in the fens, do not expect to be as healthy as if you were a fat dominican at naples. you and your mss. will all grow mouldy. when our climate is subject to no sign but aquarius and pisces, would one choose the dampest country under the heavens! i do not expect to persuade you, and so i will say no more. i wish you joy of the treasure you have discovered: six saxon bishops and a duke of northumberland!( ) you have had fine sport this season. thank you much for wishing to see my name on a plate in the history. but, seriously, i have no such vanity. i did my utmost to dissuade mr. granger from the dedication, and took especial pains to get my virtues left out of the question; till i found he would be quite hurt if i did not let him express his gratitude, as he called it: so, to satisfy him, i was forced to accept of his present; for i doubt i have few virtues but what he has presented me with; and in a dedication, you know, one is permitted to have as many as the author can afford to bestow. i really have another objection to the plate: which is, the ten guineas. i have so many draughts on my extravagance for trifles, that i like better than vanity, that i should not care to be at that expense. but i should think either the duke or duchess of northumberland would rejoice at such an opportunity of buying incense; and i will tell you what you shall do. write to mr. percy, and vaunt the discovery of duke brithnoth's bones, and ask him to move their graces to contribute a plate. they could not be so unnatural as to refuse; especially if the duchess knew the size of his thigh-bone. i was very happy to show civilities to your friends, and should have asked them to stay and dine, but unluckily expected other company. dr. ewin seems a very good sort of man, and mr. rawlinson a very agreeable one. pray do not think it was any trouble to me to pay respect to your recommendation. i have been eagerly reading mr. shenstone's letters, which, though containing nothing but trifles, amused me extremely, as they mention so many persons i know; particularly myself. i found there, what i did not know, and what, i believe, mr. gray,( ) himself never knew, that his ode on my cat was written to ridicule lord lyttelton's monody. it is just as true as that the latter will survive, and the former be forgotten. there is another anecdote equally vulgar, and void of truth: that my father, sitting in george's coffee-house, (i suppose mr. shenstone thought that, after he quitted his place, he went to the coffee-houses to learn news,) was asked to contribute to a figure of himself that was to be beheaded by the mob. i do remember something like it, but it happened to myself. i met a mob, just after my father was out, in hanover-square, and drove up to it to know what was the matter. they were carrying about a figure of my sister.( ) this probably gave rise to the other story. that on my uncle i never heard; but it is a good story, and not at all improbable. i felt great pity on reading these letters for the narrow circumstances of the author, and the passion for fame that he was tormented with; and yet he had much more fame than his talents entitled him to. poor man! he wanted to have all the world talk of him for the pretty place he had made; and which he seems to have made only that it might be talked of.( ) the first time a company came to see my house, i felt this joy. i am now so tired of it, that i shudder when the bell rings at the gate. it is as bad as keeping an inn, and i am often tempted to deny its being shown, if it would not be ill-natured to those that come, and to my housekeeper. i own, i was one day too cross, i had been plagued all the week with staring crowds. at last, it rained a deluge. well, said i, at last, nobody will come to-day. the words were scarce uttered, when the bell rang. i replied, "tell them they cannot possibly see the house, but they are very welcome to walk in the garden."( ) observe; nothing above alludes to dr. ewin and mr. rawlinson: i was not only much pleased with them, but quite glad to show them how entirely you may command my house, and your most sincere friend and servant. ( ) dr. matthias mawson, translated from llandaff to the see of ely in . he died in november , in his eighty-seventh year. his character was thus drawn, in , by the rev. w. clarke:--"our bishop is a better sort of man than most of the mitred order. he is, indeed, awkward, absent, etc.; but then, he has no ambition, no desire to please, and is privately munificent when the world thinks him parsimonious. he has given more to the church than all the bishops put together for almost a century."-e. ( ) the following is an extract from a previous letter of mr. cole's, and to this mr. walpole alludes:--"an old wall being to be taken down behind the choir (at ely], on which were painted seven figures of six saxon bishops, and a duke, as he is called, of northumberland, one brithnoth; which painting i take to be as old as any we have in england--i guessed by seven arches in the wall, below the figures, that the bones of these seven benefactors to the old saxon conventual church were reposited in the wall under them: accordingly, we found seven separate holes, each with the remains of the said persons," etc. etc. mr. cole proposed that mr. walpole should contribute an engraving from this painting to the history of ely cathedral, a work about to be published, or to use his interest to induce the duke of northumberland to do so. ( ) "i have read," says gray, in a letter to mr. nicholls, "an octavo volume of shenstone's letters. poor man! he was always wishing for money, for fame, and other distinctions; and his whole philosophy consisted in living against his will in retirement, and in a place which his taste had adorned; but which he only enjoyed when people of note came to see and commend it: his correspondence is about nothing else but this place and his own writings, with two or three neighbouring clergy, who wrote verses too." works, vol. iv. p. -e. ( ) see vol. i. p. , letter .-e. ( ) "in the infancy of modern gardening, a false taste was introduced by shenstone, in his ferme orn`ee at the leasowes; where, instead of surrounding his house with such a quantity of ornamental lawn or park only, as might be consistent with the size of the mansion or the extent of the property, his taste, rather than his ambition, led him to ornament the whole of his estate; and in the vain attempt to combine the profits of a farm with the scenery of a park, he lived under the continual mortification of disappointed hope; and with a mind exquisitely sensible, he felt equally the sneer of the great man at the magnificence of his attempts and the ridicule of the farmer at the misapplication of his paternal acres." repton.-e. ( ) walpole having complained of these intrusions on his privacy to madame du deffand, the lady replied: "oh! vous n'`etes point f`ach`e qu'on vienne voir votre chateau; vous ne l'avez pas fait singulier; vous ne l'avez pas rempli de choses precieuses, de raret`es; vous ne b`atissez pas un cabinet rond, dans lequel le lit est un trone, et o`u il n'y a que des tabourets, pour y rester seul oou ne recevoir que vos amis. tout le monde a les m`emes passions, les m`emes vertus, les m`emes vices; il n'y a que les modifications qui en fond la diff`erence; amour propre, vanit`e, crainte de l'ennui," etc.-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, monday, june , . (page ) dear sir, oh! yes, yes, i shall like thursday or friday, th or th, exceedingly; i shall like your staying with me two days exceedinglier; and longer exceedingliest; and i will carry you back to cambridge on our pilgrirnage to ely. but i should not at all like to be catched in the glories of an installation, and find myself a doctor, before i knew where i was. it will be much more agreeable to find the whole caput asleep, digesting turtle, dreaming of bishoprics, and humming old catches of anacreon, and scraps of corelli. i wish mr. gray may not be set out for the north ; which is rather the case than setting out for the summer. we have no summers, i think, but what we raise, like pineapples, by fire. my bay is an absolute water-soochy, and teaches me how to feel for you. you are quite in the right to sell your fief in marshland. i should be glad if you would take one step more, and quit marshland. we live, at least, on terra firma in this part of the world, and can saunter out without stilts. item, we do not wade into pools, and call it going upon the water, and get sore throats. i trust yours is better ; but i recollect this is not the first you have complained of. pray be not incorrigible, but come to shore. be so good as to thank mr. smith, my old tutor, for his corrections, if ever the anecdotes are reprinted, i will certainly profit of them. i joked, it is true, about joscelin de louvain( ) and his duchess; but not at all in advising you to make mr. percy pimp for the plate. on the contrary, i wish you success , and think this an infallible method of obtaining the benefaction. it is right to lay vanity under contribution; for then both sides are pleased. it will not be easy for you to dine with mr. granger from hence, and return at night. it cannot be less than six or seven-and-twenty miles to shiplake. but i go to park-place to-morrow, which is within two miles of him, and i will try if i can tempt him to meet you here. adieu! ( ) the duke of northumberland. his grace having been originally a baronet, sir hugh smithson, and having married the daughter of algernon seymour, duke of somerset and earl of northumberland, in assumed the surname and arms of percy, and was created duke of northumberland in . walpole's allusion is to his becoming a percy by marriage, as joscelin had done before him: agnes de percy, daughter of william de percy the third baron, having only consented to marry joscelin of louvain, brother of queen adelicia, second wife of henry i., and son of godfrey barbatus, duke of lower lorraine and count of brabant, who was descended from the emperor charlemagne, upon his agreeing to adopt either the surname or arms of percy.-e. letter to the earl of strafford. arlington street, july , . (page ) when you have been so constantly good to me, my dear lord, without changing, do you wonder that our friendship has lasted so long? can i be so insensible to the honour or pleasure of your acquaintance when the advantage lies much on my side, am i likely to alter the first? oh, but it will last now! we have seen friendships without number born and die. ours was not formed on interest, nor alliance; and politics, the poison of all english connexions, never entered into ours. you have given me a new proof by remembering the chapel of luton. i hear it is to be preserved; and am glad of it, though i might have been the better for its ruins. i should have answered your lordship's last post, but was at park-place. i think lady ailesbury quite recovered; though her illness has made such an impression that she does not yet believe it. it is so settled that we are never to have tolerable weather in june, that the first hot day was on saturday-hot by comparison: for i think it is three years since we have really felt the feel of summer. i was, however, concerned to be forced to come to town yesterday on some business; for, however the country feels, it looks divine, and the verdure we buy so dear is delicious. i shall not be able, i fear, to profit of it this summer in the loveliest of all places, as i am to go to paris in august. but next year i trust i shall accompany mr. conway and lady ailesbury to wentworth castle. i shall be glad to visit castle howard and beverley; but neither would carry me so far, if wentworth castle was not in the way. the chatelets are gone, without any more battles with the russians.( ) the papers say the latter have been beaten by the turks;( ) which rejoices me, though against all rules of politics: but i detest that murderess, and like to have her humbled. i don't know that this piece of news is true: it is enough to me that it is agreeable. i had rather take it for granted, than be at the trouble of inquiring about what i have so little to do with. i am just the same about the city and surrey petitions. since i have dismembered( ) myself, it is incredible how cool i am to all politics. london is the abomination of desolation; and i rejoice to leave it again this evening. even pam has not a lev`ee above once or twice a week. next winter, i suppose, it will be a fashion to remove into the city: for, since it is the mode to choose aldermen at this end of the town, the maccaronis will certainly adjourn to bishopsgate-street, for fear of being fined for sheriffs. mr. james and mr. boothby will die of the thought of being aldermen of grosvenor-ward and berkeley-square-ward. adam and eve in their paradise laugh at all these tumults, and have not tasted of the tree that forfeits paradise; which i take to have been the tree of politics, not of knowledge. how happy you are not to have your son abel knocked on the head by his brother cain at the brentford election! you do not hunt the poor deer and hares that gambol around you. if eve has a sin, i doubt it is angling;( ) but as she makes all other creatures happy, i beg she would not impale worms nor whisk carp out of one element into another. if she repents of that guilt, i hope she will live as long as her grandson methuselah. there is a commentator that says his life was protracted for never having boiled a lobster alive. adieu, dear couple, that i honour as much as i could honour my first grandfather and grandmother! your most dutiful hor. japhet. ( ) the duc de chatelet, the french ambassador, had affronted comte czernicheff, the russian ambassador, at a ball at court, on a point of precedence, and a challenge ensued, but their meeting was prevented. ( ) before choczim. the russians were at first victorious; but, like the king of prussia at the battle of zorndorff, they despatched the messenger with the news too soon; for the turks having recovered their surprise, returned to the charge, and repulsed the russians with great slaughter.-e. ( ) mr. walpole means, since he quitted parliament. ( ) walpole's abhorrence of the pastime of angling has been already noticed. see vol. iii. p. , letter .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, friday, july , . (page ) you desired me to write, if i knew any thing particular. how particular will content you? don't imagine i would send you such hash as the livery's petition.( ) come; would the apparition of my lord chatham satisfy you? don't be frightened; it was not his ghost. he, he himself in propria persona, and not in a strait waistcoat, came into the king's lev`ee this morning, and was in the closet twenty minutes after the lev`ee; and was to go out of town to-night again.( ) the deuce is in it if this is not news. whether he is to be king, minister, lord mayor, or alderman, i do not know; nor a word more than i have told you. whether he was sent for to guard st. james's gate, or whether he came alone, like almanzor, to storm it, i cannot tell: by beckford's violence i should think the latter. i am so indifferent what he came for, that i shall wait till sunday to learn: when i lie in town on my way to ely. you will probably hear more from your brother before i can write again. i send this by my friend mr. granger, who will leave it at your park-gate as he goes through henley home. good-night! it is past twelve, and i am going to bed. yours ever. ( ) the petition of the livery of london, complaining of the unconstitutional conduct of the king's ministers, and the undue return of mr. luttrell, when he opposed mr. wilkes at the election for middlesex. ( ) in a letter to the earl of chatham, of the th, lord temple says:--"your reception at st. james's where i am glad you have been, turns out exactly such as i should have expected--full of the highest marks of regard to your lordship: full of condescension, and of all those sentiments of grace and goodness which his majesty can so well express. i think that you cannot but be happy at the result of this experiment." chatham correspondence, vol. iii. p. .-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, july , . (page ) dear sir, your fellow-travellers, rosette( ) and i, got home safe and perfectly contented with our expedition, and wonderfully obliged to you. pray receive our thanks and barking; and pray say, and bark a great deal for us to mr. and mrs. bentham, and all that good family. after gratitude, you know, always comes a little self-interest; for who would be at the trouble of being grateful, if he had no further expectations? imprimis, then, here are the directions for mr. essex for the piers of my gates. bishop luda must not be offended at my converting his tomb into a gateway. many a saint and confessor, i doubt, will be glad soon to be passed through, as it will, at least, secure his being passed over. when i was directing the east window at ely, i recollected the lines of prior:-- "how unlucky were nature and art to poor nell! she was painting her cheeks at the time her nose fell." adorning cathedrals when the religion itself totters, is very like poor nell's mishap.( ) ***** i will trouble you with no more at present, but to get from mr. lort the name of the norfolk monster, and to give it to jackson. don't forget the list of english heads in dr. ewin's book for mr. granger; particularly the duchess of chenreux. i will now release you, only adding my compliments to dr. ewin, mr. tyson, mr. lort, mr. essex, and once more to the benthams. adieu, dear sir! yours ever remember to ask me for icacias, and any thing else with which i can pay some of my debts to you.. ( ) a favourite dog of mr. walpole's. ( ) here follow some minute directions for building the gateway, unintelligible without the sketch that accompanied the letter, and uninteresting with it, and a list of prints that mr. walpole was anxious to procure. letter to the rev. mr. cole. strawberry hill, august , . (page ) dear sir, i was in town yesterday, and found the parcel arrived very safe. i give you a thousand thanks, dear sir, for all the contents; but when i sent you the list of heads i wanted, it was for mr. jackson, not at all meaning to rob you; but your generosity much outruns my prudence, and i must be upon my guard with you. the catherine bolen was particularly welcome; i had never seen it--it is a treasure, though i am persuaded not genuine, but taken from a french print of the queen of scots, which i have. i wish you could tell me from whence it was taken; i mean from what book: i imagine the same in which are two prints, which mr. granger mentions, and has himself (with italian inscriptions, too), of a duke of northumberland and an earl of arundel. mr. bernardiston i never saw before--i do not know in what reign he lived--i suppose lately: nor do i know the era of the master of benet. when i come back, i must beg you to satisfy these questions. the countess of kent is very curious, too; i have lately got a very dirty one, so that i shall return yours again. mrs. wooley i could not get high or low. but there is no end of thanking you- -and yet i must for sir j. finet, though mr. ; but i am sure they will be very useful to me. i hope he will not forget me in october. it will be a good opportunity of sending you some good acacias, or any thing you want from hence. i am sure you ought to ask me for any thing in my power, so much i am in your debt: i must beg to be a little more, by entreating you to pay mr. essex whatever he asks for his drawing, which is just what i wished. the iron gates i have. with regard to a history of gothic architecture, in which he desires my advices, the plan, i think, should lie in a very simple compass. was i to execute it, it should be thus:--i would give a series of plates, even from the conclusion of saxon architecture, beginning with the round roman arch, and going on to show how they plaistered and zigzagged it, and then how better ornaments crept in till the beautiful gothic arrived at its perfection: then how it deceased in henry the eighth's reign--abp. wareham's tomb at canterbury, being i believe the last example of unbastardized gothic. a very few plates more would demonstrate its change: though holbein embroidered it with some morsels of true architecture. in queen elizabeth's reign there was scarce any architecture at all: i mean no pillars, or seldom, buildings then becoming quite plain. under james a barbarous composition succeeded. a single plate of something of inigo jones, in his heaviest and worst style, should terminate the work; for he soon stepped into the true and perfect grecian. the next part, mr. essex can do better than any body, and is, perhaps, the only person that can do it. this should consist of observations on the art, proportions, and method of building, and the reasons observed by the gothic architects for what they did. this would show what great men they were, and how they raised such aerial and stupendous masses; though unassisted by half the lights now enjoyed by their successors. the prices and the wages of workmen, and the comparative value of money and provisions at the several periods, should be stated, as far as it is possible to get materials. the last part (i don't know whether it should not be the first part) nobody can do so well as yourself. this must be to ascertain the chronological period of each building; and not only of each building but of each tomb, that shall be exhibited: for you know the great delicacy and richness of gothic ornaments were exhausted on small chapels, oratories and tombs. for my own part, i should wish to have added detached samples of the various patterns of ornaments, which would not be a great many; as, excepting pinnacles, there is scarce one which does not branch from the trefoil; quadrefoils, cinquefoils, etc. being but various modifications of it. i believe almost all the ramifications of windows are so, and of them there should be samples, too. this work you see could not be executed by one hand; mr. tyson could give great assistance. i wish the plan was drawn out, and better digested. this is a very rude sketch, and first thought. i should be very glad to contribute what little i know, and to the expense too, which would be considerable; but i am sure we could get assistance-and it had better not be undertaken than executed superficially. mr. tyson's history of fashions and dresses would make a valuable part of the work; as, in elder times especially, much must be depended on tombs for dresses. i have a notion the king might be inclined to encourage such a work; and, if a proper plan was drawn out, for which i have not time now, i would endeavour to get it laid before him, and his patronage solicited. pray talk this over with mr. tyson and mr. essex. it is an idea worth pursuing. you was very kind to take me out of the scrape about the organ and yet if my insignificant name could carry it to one side, i would not scruple to lend it.( ) thank you, too, for st. alban and noailles. the very picture the latter describes was in my father's collection, and is now at worksop. i have scarce room to crowd in my compliments to the good house of bentham, and to say, yours ever. ( ) the rev. michael tyson, of bennet college, cambridge. he was elected f. s. a. in , and died in . he was greatly esteemed by mr. gough, and is described as a good antiquary and a gentleman artist. he engraved a remarkable portrait of jane shore, some of the old masters of his college, and some of the noted characters in and about cambridge.-e. ( ) there was a dispute among the chapter at ely respecting the situation of the organ. letter to george montagu, esq. august , . (page ) as i have heard nothing of you since the assyrian calends, which is much longer ago than the greek, you may perhaps have died in media, at ecbatana, or in chaldoea, and then to be sure i have no reason to take it ill that you have forgotten me. there is no post between europe and the elysian fields, where i hope in the lord pluto you are; and for the letters that are sent by orpheus, aeneas, sir george villiers, and such accidental passengers, to be sure one cannot wonder if they miscarry. you might indeed have sent one a scrawl by fanny, as cock-lane is not very distant from arlington-street; but, when i asked her, she scratched the ghost of a no, that made one's ears tingle again. if, contrary to all probability, you still be above ground, and if, which is still more improbable, you should repent of your sins while you are yet in good health, and should go strangely further, and endeavour to make atonement by writing to me again, i think it conscientiously right to inform you, that i am not in arlington-street, nor at strawberry-hill, nor even in middlesex; nay, not in england; i am--i am--guess where--not in corsica, nor at spa--stay, i am not at paris yet, but i hope to be there in two days. in short, i am at calais, having landed about two hours ago, after a tedious passage of nine hours. having no soul with me but rosette, i have been amusing myself with the arrival of a french officer and his wife in a berlin, which carried their ancestors to one of moli`ere's plays: as madame has no maid with her, she and monsieur very prudently untied the trunks, and disburthened the venerable machine of all its luggage themselves; and then with a proper resumption of their equality, monsieur gave his hand to madame, and conducted her in much ceremony through the yard to their apartment. here ends the beginning of my letter; when i have nothing else to do, perhaps, i may continue it. you cannot have the confidence to complain, if i give you no more than my moments perdus; have you deserved any better of me? saturday morning. having just recollected that the whole merit of this letter will consist in the surprise, i hurry to finish it, and send it away by the captain of the packet, who is returning. you may repay me this surprise by answering my letter, and by directing yours to arlington-street, from whence mary will forward it to me. you will not have much time to consider, for i shall set out on my return from paris the first of october,( ) according to my solemn promise to strawberry; and you must know, i keep my promises to strawberry much better than you do. adieu! boulogne hoy! ( ) mr. walpole arrived at paris on the th of august, and left it on the th of october. on the th of july, madame du deffand had written to him--"vous souhaitez que je vive quatre-vingt-huit ans; et pourquoi le souhaiter, si votre premier voyage ici doit `etre le dernier'! pour que ce souhait m'e`ut `et`e agr`eable, il falloit y ajouter, 'je verrai encore bien des fois ma petite, et je jouerai d'un bonheur qui n'`etoit r`eserv`e qu'a moi, l'amiti`e la plus tendre, la plus sincere, et la plus constants qu'il f`ut jamais.' adieu! mon plaisir est troubl`e, je l'avoue; je crains que ce ne soit un exc`es de complaisance qui vous fasse faire ce voyage."-e. letter to john chute, esq. paris, august , . (page ) i have been so hurried with paying and receiving visits, that i have not had a moment's worth of time to write. my passage was very tedious, and lasted near nine hours for want of wind. but i need not talk of my journey; for mr. maurice, whom i met on the road, will have told you that i was safe on terra firma. judge of my surprise at hearing four days ago, that my lord dacre( ) and my lady were arrived here. they are lodged within a few doors of me. he is come to consult a doctor pomme,( ) who has prescribed wine, and lord dacre already complains of the violence of his appetite. if you and i had pommed him to eternity, he would not have believed us. a man across the sea tells him the plainest thing in the world; that man happens to be called a doctor; and happening for novelty to talk common sense, is believed, as if he had talked nonsense! and what is more extraordinary, lord dacre thinks himself better, though he is so. my dear old woman( ) is in better health than when i left her, and her spirits so increased, that i tell her she will go mad with age. when they ask her how old she is, she answers, "j'ai soixante et mille ans." she and i went to the boulevard last night after supper, and drove about there till two in the morning. we are going to sup in the country this evening, and are to go tomorrow night at eleven to the puppet-show. a prot`eg`e of hers has written a piece for that theatre. i have not yet seen madame du barri, nor can get to see her picture at the exposition at the louvre, the crowds are so enormous that go thither for that purpose. as royal curiosities are the least part of my virt`u, i wait with patience. whenever i have an opportunity i visit gardens, chiefly with a view to rosette's having a walk. she goes nowhere else, because there is a distemper among the dogs. there is going to be represented a translation of hamlet: who when his hair is cut, and he is curled and powdered, i suppose will be exactly monsieur le prime oreste. t'other night i was at m`erope. the dumenil was as divine as mrs. porter; they said her familiar tones were those of a poisonni`ere. in the last act, when one expected the catastrophe, narbas, more interested than any body to see the event, remained coolly on the stage to hear the story. the queen's maid of honour entered without her handkerchief, and with her hair most artfully undressed, and reeling as if she was maudlin, sobbed out a long narrative, that did not prove true; while narbas, with all the good breeding in the world, was more attentive to her fright than to what had happened. so much for propriety. now for probability. voltaire has published a tragedy, called "les gu`e,bres." two roman colonels open the piece: they are brothers, and relate to one another, how they lately in company destroyed, by the emperor's mandate, a city of the guebres, in which were their own wives and children: and they recollect that they want prodigiously to know whether both their families did perish in the flames. the son of the one and the daughter of the other are taken up for heretics, and, thinking themselves brother and sister, insist upon being married, and upon being executed for their religion. the son stabs his father, who is half a gu`ebre, too. the high-priest rants and roars. the emperor arrives, blames the pontiff for being a persecutor, and forgives the son for assassinating his father (who does not die) because--i don't know why, but that he may marry his cousin. the grave-diggers in hamlet have no chance, when such a piece as the guebres is written agreeably to all rules and unities. adieu, my dear sir! i hope to find you quite well at my return. yours ever. ( ) thomas barret lennard, seventeenth baron dacre. his lordship married ann maria, daughter of sir john pratt, lord chief-justice of the court of king's bench.-e. ( ) at that time the fashionable physician of paris. he was originally from arles, and attained his celebrity by curing the ladies of fashion in the french metropolis of the vapours.-e. ( ) madame du deffand. \letter to george montagu, esq. paris, sept. , . (page ) your two letters flew here together in a breath. i shall answer the article of business first. i could certainly buy many things for you here, that you would like, the reliques of the last age's magnificence; but, since my lady holderness invaded the custom-house with a hundred and fourteen gowns, in the reign of that two-penny monarch george grenville, the ports are so guarded, that not a soul but a smuggler can smuggle any thing into england; and i suppose you would not care to pay seventy-five per cent, on second-hand commodities. all i transported three years ago, was conveyed under the canon of the duke of richmond. i have no interest in our present representative; nor if i had, is he returning. plate, of all earthly vanities, is the most impassable: it is not counerband in its metallic capacity, but totally so in its personal; and the officers of the custom-house not being philosophers enough to separate the substance from the superficies, brutally hammer both to pieces, and return you only the intrinsic: a compensation which you, who are a member of parliament, would not, i trow, be satisfied with. thus i doubt you must retrench your generosity to yourself, unless you can contract into an elzevir size, and be content with any thing one can bring in one's pocket. my dear old friend was charmed with your mention of her, and made me vow to return you a thousand compliments. she cannot conceive why you will not step hither. feeling in herself no difference between the spirits of twenty-three and seventy-three, she thinks there is no impediment to doing whatever one will but the want of eyesight. if she had that, i am persuaded no consideration would prevent her making me a visit at strawberry hill. she makes songs, sings them, remembers all that ever were made; and, having lived from the most agreeable to the most reasoning age, has all that was amiable in the last, all that is sensible in this, without the vanity of the former, or the pedant impertinence of the latter. i have heard her dispute with all sorts of people, on all sorts of subjects, and never knew her in the wrong. she humbles the learned, sets right their disciples, and finds conversation for every body. affectionate as madame de s`evign`e, she has none of her prejudices, but a more universal taste; and, with the most delicate frame, her spirits hurry her through a life of fatigue that would kill me, if i was to continue here. if we return by one in the morning from supping in the country, she proposes driving to the boulevard or to the foire st. ovide, because it is too early to go to bed. i had great difficulty last night to persuade her, though she was not well, not to sit up till' between two or three for the comet; for which purpose she had appointed an astronomer to bring his telescopes to the president henault's, as she thought it would amuse me. in short, her goodness to me is so excessive, that i feel unashamed at producing my withered person in a round of diversions, which i have quitted at home. i tell a story; i do feel ashamed, and sigh to be in my quiet castle and cottage; but it costs me many a pang, when i reflect that i shall probably never have resolution enough to take another journey to see this best and sincerest of friends, who loves me as much as my mother did! but it is idle to look forward--what is next year?-a bubble that may burst for her or me, before even the flying year can hurry to the end of its almanack! to form plans and projects in such a precarious life as this, resembles the enchanted castles"of fairy legends, in which every gate was guarded by giants, dragons, etc. death or diseases bar every portal through which we mean to pass; and, though we may escape them and reach the last chamber, what a wild adventurer is he that centres his hopes at the end of such an avenue! i am contented with the beggars of the threshold, and never propose going on, but as the gates open of themselves. the weather here is quite sultry, and i am sorry to say one can send to the corner of the street and buy better peaches than all our expense in kitchen gardens produces. lord and lady dacre are a few doors from me, having started from tunbridge more suddenly than i did from strawberry hill, but on a more unpleasant motive. my lord was persuaded to come and try a new physician. his faith is greater than mine! but, poor man! can one wonder that he is willing to believe? my lady has stood her shock, and i do not doubt will get over it. adieu, my t'other dear old friend! i am sorry to say i see you almost as seldom as i do madame du deffand. however, it is comfortable to reflect that we have not changed to each other for some five-and-thirty years, and neither you nor i haggle about naming so ancient a term. i made a visit yesterday to the abbess of panthemont, general oglethorpe's niece,( ) and no chicken. i inquired after her mother, madame de meziers, and i thought i might to a spiritual votary to immortality venture to say, that her mother must be very old; she interrupted me tartly, and said, no, her mother had been married extremely young. do but think of its seeming important to a saint to sink a wrinkle of her own through an iron grate! oh, we are ridiculous animals; and if animals have any fun in them, how we must divert them. ( ) sister of the princess de ligne. letter to the earl of strafford. paris, sept. , . (page ) t'other night, at the duchess of choiseul's at supper, the intendant of rouen asked me, if we have roads of communication all over england and scotland'@--i suppose he thinks that in general we inhabit trackless forests and wild mountains, and that once a year a few legislators come to paris to learn the arts of civil life, as to sow corn, plant vines, and make operas. if this letter should contrive to scramble through that desert yorkshire, where your lordship has attempted to improve a dreary hill and uncultivated vale, you will find i remember your commands of writing from this capital of the world, whither i am come for the benefit of my country, and where i am intensely studying those laws and that beautiful frame of government, which can alone render a nation happy, great, and flourishing; where lettres de cachet soften manners, and a proper distribution of luxury and beggary ensures a common felicity. as we have a prodigious number of students in legislature of both sexes here at present, i will not anticipate their discoveries; but as your particular friend, will communicate a rare improvement on nature, which these great philosophers have made, and which would add considerable beauties to those parts which your lordship has already recovered from the waste, and taught to look a little like a christian country. the secret is very simple, and yet demanded the effort of a mighty genius to strike it out. it is nothing but this: trees ought to be educated as much as men, and are strange awkward productions when not taught to hold themselves upright or bow on proper occasions. the academy de belles-lettres have even offered a prize for the man that shall recover the long lost art of an ancient greek, called le sieur orph`ee, who instituted a dancing-school for plants, and gave a magnificent ball on the birth of the dauphin of thrace, which was performed entirely by forest-trees. in this whole kingdom there is no such thing as seeing a tree that is not well-behaved. they are first stripped up and then cut down; and you would as soon meet a man with his hair about his ears as an oak or ash. as the weather is very hot now, and the soil chalk, and the dust white, i assure you it is very difficult, powdered as both are all over, to distinguish a tree from a hairdresser. lest this should sound like a travelling hyperbole, i must advertise your lordship, that there is little difference in their heights; for, a tree of thirty years' growth being liable to be marked as royal timber, the proprietors take care not to let their trees live to the age of being enlisted, but burn them, and plant others as often almost as they change their fashions. this gives an air of perpetual youth to the face of the country, and if adopted by us would realize mr. addison's visions, and "make our bleak rocks and barren mountains smile." what other remarks i have made in my indefatigable search after knowledge must be reserved to a future opportunity; but as your lordship is my friend, i may venture to say without vanity to you, that solon nor any of the ancient philosophers who travelled to egypt in quest of religions. mysteries, laws, and fables, never sat up so late with the ladies and priests and presidents de parlement at memphis, as i do here--and consequently were not half so well qualified as i am to new-model a commonwealth. i have learned how to make remonstrances, and how to answer them. the latter, it seems, is a science much wanted in my own country( )--and yet it is as easy and obvious as their treatment of trees, and not very unlike it. it was delivered many years ago in an oracular sentence of my namesake, "odi profanum vulgus, et arceo." you must drive away the vulgar, and you must have an hundred and fifty thousand men to drive them away with--that is all. i do not wonder the intendant of rouen thinks we are still in a state of barbarism, when we are ignorant of the very rudiments of government. the duke and duchess of richmond have been here a few days, and are gone to aubign`e. i do not think him at all well, and am exceedingly concerned for it; as i know no man who has more estimable qualities. they return by the end of the month. i am fluctuating whether i shall not return with them, as they have pressed me to do, through holland. i never was there, and could never go so agreeably; but then it would protract my absence three weeks, and i am impatient to be in my own cave, notwithstanding the wisdom i imbibe every day. but one cannot sacrifice one's self wholly to the public: titus and wilkes have now and then lost a day. adieu, my dear lord! be assured that i shall not disdain yours and lady strafford's conversation, though you have nothing but the goodness of your hearts, and the simplicity of your manners, to recommend you to the more enlightened understanding of your old friend. ( ) alluding to the number of remonstrances, under the name of petitions, which were presented this year from the livery of london, and many other corporate bodies, on the subject of the middlesex election. letter to george montagu, esq. paris, sunday night, sept. , . (page ) i am heartily tired; but, as it is too early to go to bed, i must tell you how agreeably i passed the day. i wished for you; the same scenes strike us both, and the same kind of visions has amused us both ever since we were born. well then: i went this morning to versailles with my niece mrs. cholmondeley, mrs. hart, lady denbigh's sister, and the count de grave, one of the most amiable, humane, and obliging men alive. our first object was to see madame du barri.( ) being too early for mass, we saw the dauphin and his brothers at dinner. the eldest is the picture of the duke of grafton, except that he is more fair, and will be taller. he has a sickly air, and no grace. the count de provence has a very pleasing countenance, with an air of more sense than the count d'artois, the genius of the family. they already tell as many bon-mots of the latter as of henri quatre and louis quatorze. he is very fat, and the most like his grandfather of all the children. you may imagine this royal mess did not occupy us long: thence to the chapel, where a first row in the balconies was kept for us. madame du barri arrived over against us below, without rouge, without powder, and indeed sans avoir fait sa toilette; an odd appearance, as she was so conspicuous, close to the altar, and amidst both court and people. she is pretty, when you consider her; yet so little striking, that i never should have asked who she was. there is nothing bold, assuming, or affected in her manner. her husband's sister was alone, with her. in the tribune above, surrounded by prelates, was the amorous and still handsome king. one could not help smiling at the mixture of piety, pomp, and carnality. from chapel we went to the dinner of the elder mesdames. we were almost stifled in the antechamber, where their dishes were heating over charcoal, and where we could not stir for the press. when the doors are opened every body rushes in, princes of the blood, cordons bleus, abb`es, housemaids, and the lord knows who and what. yet, so used are their highnesses to this trade, that they eat as comfortably and heartily as you or i could do in our own parlours. our second act was much more agreeable. we quitted the court and a reigning mistress, for a dead one and a cloister. in short, i had obtained leave from the bishop of chartres to enter into st. cyr; and, as madame du deffand never leaves any thing undone that can give me satisfaction, she had written to the abbess to desire i might see every thing that could be seen there. the bishop's order was to admit me, monsieur de grave, et les dames de ma compagnie: i begged the abbess to give me back the order, that i might deposit it in the archives of strawberry, and she complied instantly. every door flew open to us: and the nuns vied in attentions to please us. the first thing i desired to see was madame de maintenon's apartment. it consists of' two small rooms, a library, and a very small chamber, the same in which the czar saw her, and in which she died. the bed is taken away, and the room covered now with bad pictures of the royal family, which destroys the gravity and simplicity. it is wainscotted with oak, with plain chairs of the same, covered with dark blue damask. every where else the chairs are of blue cloth. the simplicity and extreme neatness of the whole house, which is vast, are very remarkable. a large apartment above, (for that i have mentioned is on the ground-floor,) consisting of five rooms, and destined by louis quatorze for madame de maintenon, is now the infirmary, with neat white linen beds, and decorated with every text of scripture by which could be insinuated that the foundress was a queen. the hour of vespers being come, we were conducted to the chapel, and, as it was my curiosity that had led us thither, i was placed in the maintenon's own tribune; my company in the adjoining gallery. the pensioners two and two, each band headed by a man, march orderly to their seats, and sing the whole service, which i confess was not a little tedious. the young ladies to the number of two hundred and fifty are dressed in black, with short aprons of the same, the latter and their stays bound with blue, yellow, green or red, to distinguish the classes; the captains and lieutenants have knots of a different colour for distinction. their hair is curled and powdered, their coiffure a sort of french round-eared caps, with white tippets, a sort of ruff and large tucker: in short, a very pretty dress. the nuns are entirely in black, with crape veils and long trains, deep white handkerchiefs, and forehead cloths, and a very long train. the chapel is plain but very pretty, and in the middle of the choir under a flat marble lies the foundress. madame de cambis, one of the nuns, who are about forty, is beautiful as a madonna.( ) the abbess has no distinction but a larger and richer gold cross: her apartment consists of two very small rooms. of madame de maintenon we did not see less than twenty pictures. the young one looking over her shoulder has a round face, without the least resemblance to those of her latter age. that in the roil mantle, of which you know i have a copy, is the most repeated; but there is another with a longer and leaner face, which has by far the most sensible look. she is in black, with a high point head and band, a long train, and is sitting in a chair of purple velvet. before her knees stands her niece madame de noailles, a child; at a distance a view of versailles or st. cyr, i could not distinguish which. we were shown some rich reliquaries, and the corpo santo that was sent to her by the pope. we were then carried into the public room of each class. in the first, the young ladies, who were playing at chess, were ordered to sing to us the choruses of athaliah; in another, they danced minuets and country-dances while a nun, not quite so able as st. cecilia, played on a violin. in the others, they acted before us the proverbs or conversations written by madame de maintenon for their instruction; for she was not only their foundress but their saint, and their adoration of her memory has quite eclipsed the virgin mary. we saw their dormitory, and saw them at supper; and at last were carried to their archives. where they produced volumes of her letters, and where one of the nuns gave me a small piece of paper with three sentences in her handwriting. i forgot to tell you, that this kind dame, who took to me extremely, asked me if we had many convents and many relics in england. i was much embarrassed for fear of destroying her good opinion of me, and so said we had but few now. oh! we went to the apothecaries where they treated us with cordials, and where one of the ladies told me inoculation was a sin, as it was a voluntary detention from mass, and as voluntary a cause of eating gras. our visit concluded in the garden, now grown very venerable, where the young ladies played at little games before us. after a stay of four hours we took our leave. i begged the abbess's blessing; she smiled, and said, she doubted i should not place much faith in it. she is a comely old gentlewoman, and very proud of having seen madame de maintenon. well! was not i in the right to wish you with me? could you have passed a day more agreeably! i will conclude my letter with a most charming trait of madame de mailly, which cannot be misplaced in such a chapter of royal concubines. going to st. sulpice, after she had lost the king's heart, a person present desired the crowd to make way for her. some brutal young officers said, "comment, pour cette catin-l`a!" she turned to them, and, with the most charming modesty said, "messieurs, puisque vous me connoissez, priez dieu pour moi." i am sure it will bring tears into your eyes. was not she the publican, and maintenon the pharisee? good night! i hope i am going to dream of all i have been seeing. as my impressions and my fancy, when i am pleased, are apt to be strong. my night perhaps, may still be more productive of ideas than the day has been. it will be charming, indeed, if madame de cambis is the ruling tint. adieu! yours ever. ( ) madame du barry, the celebrated mistress of louis xv., was born in the lowest rank of society, and brought up in the most depraved habits; being known only by the name which her beauty had acquired for her, mademoiselle l'ange. she became the mistress of the comte du barry, (a gentleman belonging to a family of toulon, of no distinction, well known as le grand du barry, or, du barry le rou`e,) and eventually the mistress of the king; and, when the influence she exercised over her royal protector had determined him to receive her publicly at court and a marriage was necessary to the purpose, du barry le rou`e brought forward his younger brother, the comte guillaume du barry, who readily submitted to this prostitution of his name and family.-e. ( ) madame du deffand, in her letter to walpole of the th of may , enclosed the following portrait of madame de cambise, by madame de la valli`ere:--"non, non, madame, je ne farai point votre portrait: vous avez une mani`ere d'`etre si noble, si fine, si piquante, si d`elicate, si s`eduisaitte; votre gentilesse et vos graces changent si souvent pour n'en `etre que plus aimable, que l'on ne peut saisir aucun de vos traits ni au physique ni au moral." she was niece of la marquise de boufflers, and, having fled to england at the breaking out of the french revolution, resided here until her death, which took place at richmond in january .-e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, oct. , . (page i arrived last night at eleven o'clock, and found a letter from you, which gave me so much pleasure, that i must write you a line, though i am hurried to death. you cannot imagine how rejoiced i am that lord north( ) drags you to light again; it is a satisfaction i little expected. when do you come? i am impatient. i long to know your projects. i had a dreadful passage of eight hours, was drowned, though not shipwrecked, and was sick to death. i have been six times at sea before, and never suffered the least, which makes the mortification the greater: but as hercules was not more robust than i, though with an air so little herculean, i have not so much as caught cold, though i was wet to the skin with the rain, had my lap full of waves, was washed from head to foot in the boat at ten o'clock at night, and stepped into the sea up to my knees. q'avois-je `a faire dans cette gal`ere?( ) in truth, it is a little late to be seeking adventures. adieu! i must finish, but i am excessively happy with what you have told me. yours ever. ( ) lord north had appointed mr. montagu his private secretary. ( ) walpole left paris on the th of october. early on the morning of the th, madame du deffand thus wrote to him:- -"n'exigez point de gaiet`e, contentez-vous de ne pas trouver de tristesse: je n'envoyai point chez vous hier matin; j'ignore `a quelle heure vous partites; tout ce que je sais c'est que vous n'`etes plus ici." and again, on the th:--"je ne respirerai `a mon aise qu'apr`es une lettre de douvres. ah! je me ha`is bien de tout le mal que je vous cause; trois journ`ees de route, autant de nuits d`etestables, une embarquement, un passage, le risque de mille accidens, voil`a le bien que je vous procure. ah! c'est bien vous qui pouvez dire en pensant de moi, 'qu'allais-je faire dans cette gal`ere?'"-e. letter to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, oct. , . (page ) i arrived at my own louvre last wednesday night, and am now at my versailles. your last letter reached me but two days before i left paris, for i have been an age at calais and upon the sea. i could execute no commission for you, and, in truth, you gave me no explicit one; but i have brought you a bit of china, and beg you will be content with a little present, instead of a bargain. said china is, or will be soon, in the custom-house; but i shall have it, i fear, long before you come to london. i am sorry those boys got at my tragedy. i beg you would keep it under lock and key; it is not at all food for the public; at least not till i am "food for worms, good percy." nay, it is not an age to encourage any body, that has the least vanity, to step forth. there is a total extinction of all taste: our authors are vulgar, gross, illiberal: the theatre swarms with wretched translations, and ballad operas, and we have nothing new but improving abuse. i have blushed at paris, when the papers came over crammed with ribaldry, or with garrick's insufferable nonsense about shakspeare. as that man's writings will be preserved by his name, who will believe that he was a tolerable actor? cibber wrote as bad odes, but then cibber wrote the careless husband and his own life, which both deserve immortality. garrick's prologues and epilogues are as bad as his pindarics and pantomimes.( ) i feel myself here like a swan, that, after living six weeks in a nasty pool upon a common, is got back into its own thames. i do nothing but plume and clean myself, and enjoy the verdure and silent waves. neatness and greenth are so essential in my opinion to the country, that in france, where i see nothing but chalk and dirty peasants, i seem in a terrestrial purgatory that is neither town nor country. the face of england is so beautiful, that i do not believe tempe or arcadia were half so rural; for both lying in hot climates, must have wanted the turf of our lawns. it is unfortunate to have so pastoral a taste, when i want a cane more than a crook. we are absurd creatures; at twenty, i loved nothing but london. tell me when you shall be in town. i think of passing most of my time here till after christmas. adieu! ( ) mr. j. sharp, in a letter to garrick, of the th of march in this year, says--"i met mr. gray at dinner last sunday: he spoke handsomely of your happy knack of epilogues; but he calls the stratford jubilee, vanity fair." see garrick correspondence, vol. i. p. .-e. letter to the hon. h. s. conway. strawberry hill, tuesday, nov. , . (page ) i am here quite alone, and did not think of going to town till friday for the opera, which i have not yet seen. in compliment to you and your countess, i will make an effort, and be there on thursday; and will either dine with you at your own house, or at your brother's; which you choose. this is a great favour, and beyond my lord temple's journey to dine with my lord mayor.( ) i am so sick of the follies of all sides, that i am happy to be at quiet here, and to know no more of them than what i am forced to see in the newspapers; and those i skip over as fast as i can. the account you give me of lady *** was just the same as i received from paris. i will show you a very particular letter i received by a private hand from france; which convinces me that i guessed right, contrary to all the wise, that the journey to fontainbleau would overset monsieur de choiseul. i think he holds but by a thread, which will snap soon.( ) i am labouring hard with the duchess( ) to procure the duke of richmond satisfaction in the favour he has asked about his duchy;' but he shall not know it till it is completed, if i can be so lucky as to succeed. i think i shall, if they do not fall immediately. you perceive how barren i am, and why i have not written to you. i pass my time in clipping and pasting prints; and do not think i have read forty pages since i came to england. i bought a poem called trinculo's trip to the jubilee; having been struck with two lines in an extract in the papers, "there the ear-piercing fife, and the ear-piercing wife--" alas! all the rest, and it is very long, is a heap of unintelligible nonsense, about shakspeare, politics, and the lord knows what. i am grieved that, with our admiration of shakspeare, we can do nothing but write worse than ever he did. one would think the age studied nothing but his love's labour lost, and titus andronicus. politics and abuse have totally corrupted our taste. nobody thinks of writing a line that is to last beyond the next fortnight. we might as well be given up to a controversial divinity, the times put me in mind of the constantinopolitan empire; where, in an age of learning, the subtlest wits of greece contrived to leave nothing behind them, but the memory of their follies and acrimony. milton did not write his paradise lost till he had outlived his politics. with all his parts, and noble sentiments of liberty, who would remember him for his barbarous prose? nothing is more true than that extremes meet. the licentiousness of the press makes us as savage as our saxon ancestors, who could only set their marks; and an outrageous pursuit of individual independence, grounded on selfish views, extinguishes genius as much as despotism does. the public good of our country is never thought of by men that hate half their country. heroes confine their ambition to be leaders of the mob. orators seek applause from their faction, not from posterity; and ministers forget foreign enemies, to defend themselves against a majority in parliament. when any caesar has conquered gaul, i will excuse him for aiming at the perpetual dictature. if he has only jockeyed somebody out of the borough of veii or falernum, it is too impudent to call himself a patriot or a statesman. adieu! ( ) at guildhall, on the th of november, in the second mayoralty of alderman beckford.-e. ( ) walpole had received a letter, of the d, from madame du deffand, describing the growing influence of madame du barry, and her increasing enmity to the duc de choiseul.-e. ( ) the duchess of aubign`e. letter to george montagu, esq. arlington street, dec. , . (page ) i cannot be silent, when i feel for you. i doubt not but the loss of mrs. trevor is very sensible to you, and i am heartily sorry for you. one cannot live any time, and not perceive the world slip away, as it were, from under one's feet: one's friends, one's connexions drop off, and indeed reconcile one to the same passage; but why repeat these things? i do not mean to write a fine consolation; all i intended was to tell you, that i cannot be indifferent to what concerns you. i know as little how to amuse you: news there are none but politics, and politics there will be as long as we have a shilling left. they are no amusement to me, except in seeing two or three sets of people worry one another, for none of whom i care a straw. mr. cumberland has produced a comedy called the brothers. it acts well, but reads ill; though i can distinguish strokes of mr. bentley in it. very few of the characters are marked, and the serious ones have little nature, and the comic ones are rather too much marked; however, the three middle acts diverted me very well.( ) i saw the bishop of durham( ) at carlton house, who told me he had given you a complete suit of armour. i hope you will have no occasion to lock yourself in it, though, between the fools and the knaves of the present time, i don't know but we may be reduced to defend our castles. if you retain any connexions with northampton, i should be much obliged to you if you could procure from thence a print of an alderman backwell.( ) it is valuable for nothing but its rarity, and it is not to be met with but there. i would give eight or ten shillings rather than not have it. when shall you look towards us?, how does your brother john? make my compliments to him. i need not say how much i am yours ever. ( ) "the brothers," cumberland's first comedy, came out at covent-garden theatre on the d of december, and met with no inconsiderable success.-e. ( ) the hon. dr. richard trevor, consecrated bishop of st. david's in , and translated to the see of durham in . he died in june .-e. ( ) edward backwell, alderman of london, of whom granger gives the following character:--"he was a banker of great ability, industry, integrity, and very extensive credit. with such qualifications, he, in a trading nation, would, in the natural event of things, have made a fortune, except in such an age as that of charles the second, when the laws were overborne by perfidy, violence, and rapacity; or in an age when bankers become gamesters, instead of merchant-adventurers; when they affect to live like princes, and are, with their miserable creditors, drawn into the prevailing vortex of luxury. backwell carried on his business in the same shop which was afterwards occupied by child. he, to avoid a prison, retired into holland, where he died. his body was brought for sepulture to tyringham church, near newport pagnel." frequent mention of the alderman is made by pepys, in whose diary is the following entry:--"april , . this evening, coming home, we overtook alderman backwell's coach and his lady, and followed them to their house, and there made them the, first visit, where they received us with extraordinary civility, and owning the obligation but i do, contrary to my expectation, find her something a proud and vainglorious woman, in telling the number of her servants and family, and expenses;. he is also so, but he was ever of that strain. but here he showed me the model of his houses that he is going to build in cornhill and lombard-street; but he has purchased so much there that it looks like a little town, and must have cost him a great deal of money."-e. letter to the rev. mr. cole.( ) arlington street, dec. , . (page ) dear sir, i am very grateful for all your communications, and for the trouble you are so good as to take for me. i am glad you have paid jackson, though he is not only dear, (for the prints he has got for me are very common,) but they are not what i wanted, and i do not believe were mentioned in my list. however, as paying him dear for what i do not want, may encourage him to hunt for what i do want, i am very well content he should cheat me a little. i take the liberty of troubling you with a list i have printed (to avoid copying it several times), and beg you will be so good as to give it to him, telling him these are exactly what i do want, and no others. i will pay him well for any of these, and especially those marked thus x; and still more for those with double or treble marks. the print i want most is the jacob hall. i do not know whether it is not one of the london cries, but he must be very sure it is the right. i will let you know certainly when mr. west comes to town, who has one. i shall be very happy to contribute to your garden: and if you will let me have exact notice in february how to send the shrubs, they shall not fail you; nor any thing else by which i can pay you any part of my debts. i am much pleased with the wolsey and cromwell, and beg to thank you and the gentleman from whom they came. mr. tyson's etchings will be particulary acceptable. i did hope to have seen or heard of him in october. pray tell him he is a visit in my debt, and that i will trust him no longer than to next summer. mr. bentham, i find, one must trust and trust without end. it is pity so good a sort of man should be so faithless. make my best compliments, however, to him and to my kind host and hostess. i found my dear old blind friend at paris perfectly well, and am returned so myself. london is very sickly, and full of bilious fevers, that have proved fatal to several persons, and in my lord gower's family have even seemed contagious. the weather is uncommonly hot, and we want frost to purify the air. i need not say, i suppose, that the names scratched out in my list are of such prints as i have got since i printed it, and therefore what i no longer want. if mr. jackson only stays at cambridge till the prints drop into his mouth, i shall never have them. if he would take the trouble of going to bury, norwich, ely, huntingdon, and such great towns, nay, look about in inns, i do not doubt but he would find at least some of them. he should be no loser by taking pains for me; but i doubt he chooses to be a great gainer without taking any. i shall not pay for any that are not in my list; but i ought not to trouble you, dear sir, with these particulars. it is a little your own fault, for you have spoiled me. mr. essex distresses me by his civility. i certainly would not have given him that trouble, if i had thought he would not let me pay him. be so good as to thank him for me, and to let me know if there is any other way i could return the obligation. i hope, at least, he will make me a visit at strawberry hill, whenever he comes westward. i shall be very impatient to see you, dear sir, both there and at milton. your faithful humble servant. ( ) now first printed, from the original in the british museum.-e. end of the third volume. none the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . chapter lv. henry brierly took the stand. requested by the district attorney to tell the jury all he knew about the killing, he narrated the circumstances substantially as the reader already knows them. he accompanied miss hawkins to new york at her request, supposing she was coming in relation to a bill then pending in congress, to secure the attendance of absent members. her note to him was here shown. she appeared to be very much excited at the washington station. after she had asked the conductor several questions, he heard her say, "he can't escape." witness asked her "who?" and she replied "nobody." did not see her during the night. they traveled in a sleeping car. in the morning she appeared not to have slept, said she had a headache. in crossing the ferry she asked him about the shipping in sight; he pointed out where the cunarders lay when in port. they took a cup of coffee that morning at a restaurant. she said she was anxious to reach the southern hotel where mr. simons, one of the absent members, was staying, before he went out. she was entirely self-possessed, and beyond unusual excitement did not act unnaturally. after she had fired twice at col. selby, she turned the pistol towards her own breast, and witness snatched it from her. she had seen a great deal with selby in washington, appeared to be infatuated with him. (cross-examined by mr. braham.) "mist-er.....er brierly!" (mr. braham had in perfection this lawyer's trick of annoying a witness, by drawling out the "mister," as if unable to recall the name, until the witness is sufficiently aggravated, and then suddenly, with a rising inflection, flinging his name at him with startling unexpectedness.) "mist-er.....er brierly! what is your occupation?" "civil engineer, sir." "ah, civil engineer, (with a glance at the jury). following that occupation with miss hawkins?" (smiles by the jury). "no, sir," said harry, reddening. "how long have you known the prisoner?" "two years, sir. i made her acquaintance in hawkeye, missouri." "m.....m...m. mist-er.....er brierly! were you not a lover of miss hawkins?" objected to. "i submit, your honor, that i have the right to establish the relation of this unwilling witness to the prisoner." admitted. "well, sir," said harry hesitatingly, "we were friends." "you act like a friend!" (sarcastically.) the jury were beginning to hate this neatly dressed young sprig. "mister......er....brierly! didn't miss hawkins refuse you?" harry blushed and stammered and looked at the judge. "you must answer, sir," said his honor. "she--she--didn't accept me." "no. i should think not. brierly do you dare tell the jury that you had not an interest in the removal of your rival, col. selby?" roared mr. braham in a voice of thunder. "nothing like this, sir, nothing like this," protested the witness. "that's all, sir," said mr. braham severely. "one word," said the district attorney. "had you the least suspicion of the prisoner's intention, up to the moment of the shooting?" "not the least," answered harry earnestly. "of course not, of course-not," nodded mr. braham to the jury. the prosecution then put upon the stand the other witnesses of the shooting at the hotel, and the clerk and the attending physicians. the fact of the homicide was clearly established. nothing new was elicited, except from the clerk, in reply to a question by mr. braham, the fact that when the prisoner enquired for col. selby she appeared excited and there was a wild look in her eyes. the dying deposition of col. selby was then produced. it set forth laura's threats, but there was a significant addition to it, which the newspaper report did not have. it seemed that after the deposition was taken as reported, the colonel was told for the first time by his physicians that his wounds were mortal. he appeared to be in great mental agony and fear; and said he had not finished his deposition. he added, with great difficulty and long pauses these words. "i--have --not--told--all. i must tell--put--it--down--i--wronged--her. years --ago--i--can't see--o--god--i--deserved----" that was all. he fainted and did not revive again. the washington railway conductor testified that the prisoner had asked him if a gentleman and his family went out on the evening train, describing the persons he had since learned were col. selby and family. susan cullum, colored servant at senator dilworthy's, was sworn. knew col. selby. had seen him come to the house often, and be alone in the parlor with miss hawkins. he came the day but one before he was shot. she let him in. he appeared flustered like. she heard talking in the parlor, i peared like it was quarrelin'. was afeared sumfin' was wrong: just put her ear to--the--keyhole of the back parlor-door. heard a man's voice, "i--can't--i can't, good god," quite beggin' like. heard--young miss' voice, "take your choice, then. if you 'bandon me, you knows what to 'spect." then he rushes outen the house, i goes in--and i says, "missis did you ring?" she was a standin' like a tiger, her eyes flashin'. i come right out. this was the substance of susan's testimony, which was not shaken in the least by severe cross-examination. in reply to mr. braham's question, if the prisoner did not look insane, susan said, "lord; no, sir, just mad as a hawnet." washington hawkins was sworn. the pistol, identified by the officer as the one used in the homicide, was produced washington admitted that it was his. she had asked him for it one morning, saying she thought she had heard burglars the night before. admitted that he never had heard burglars in the house. had anything unusual happened just before that. nothing that he remembered. did he accompany her to a reception at mrs. shoonmaker's a day or two before? yes. what occurred? little by little it was dragged out of the witness that laura had behaved strangely there, appeared to be sick, and he had taken her home. upon being pushed he admitted that she had afterwards confessed that she saw selby there. and washington volunteered the statement that selby, was a black-hearted villain. the district attorney said, with some annoyance; "there--there! that will do." the defence declined to examine mr. hawkins at present. the case for the prosecution was closed. of the murder there could not be the least doubt, or that the prisoner followed the deceased to new york with a murderous intent: on the evidence the jury must convict, and might do so without leaving their seats. this was the condition of the case two days after the jury had been selected. a week had passed since the trial opened; and a sunday had intervened. the public who read the reports of the evidence saw no chance for the prisoner's escape. the crowd of spectators who had watched the trial were moved with the most profound sympathy for laura. mr. braham opened the case for the defence. his manner was subdued, and he spoke in so low a voice that it was only by reason of perfect silence in the court room that he could be heard. he spoke very distinctly, however, and if his nationality could be discovered in his speech it was only in a certain richness and breadth of tone. he began by saying that he trembled at the responsibility he had undertaken; and he should, altogether despair, if he did not see before him a jury of twelve men of rare intelligence, whose acute minds would unravel all the sophistries of the prosecution, men with a sense, of honor, which would revolt at the remorseless persecution of this hunted woman by the state, men with hearts to feel for the wrongs of which she was the victim. far be it from him to cast any suspicion upon the motives of the able, eloquent and ingenious lawyers of the state; they act officially; their business is to convict. it is our business, gentlemen, to see that justice is done. "it is my duty, gentlemen, to untold to you one of the most affecting dramas in all, the history of misfortune. i shall have to show you a life, the sport of fate and circumstances, hurried along through shifting storm and sun, bright with trusting innocence and anon black with heartless villainy, a career which moves on in love and desertion and anguish, always hovered over by the dark spectre of insanity--an insanity hereditary and induced by mental torture,--until it ends, if end it must in your verdict, by one of those fearful accidents, which are inscrutable to men and of which god alone knows the secret. "gentlemen, i, shall ask you to go with me away from this court room and its minions of the law, away from the scene of this tragedy, to a distant, i wish i could say a happier day. the story i have to tell is of a lovely little girl, with sunny hair and laughing eyes, traveling with her parents, evidently people of wealth and refinement, upon a mississippi steamboat. there is an explosion, one of those terrible catastrophes which leave the imprint of an unsettled mind upon the survivors. hundreds of mangled remains are sent into eternity. when the wreck is cleared away this sweet little girl is found among the panic stricken survivors in the midst of a scene of horror enough to turn the steadiest brain. her parents have disappeared. search even for their bodies is in vain. the bewildered, stricken child--who can say what changes the fearful event wrought in her tender brain--clings to the first person who shows her sympathy. it is mrs. hawkins, this good lady who is still her loving friend. laura is adopted into the hawkins family. perhaps she forgets in time that she is not their child. she is an orphan. no, gentlemen, i will not deceive you, she is not an orphan. worse than that. there comes another day of agony. she knows that her father lives. who is he, where is he? alas, i cannot tell you. through the scenes of this painful history he flits here and there a lunatic! if he, seeks his daughter, it is the purposeless search of a lunatic, as one who wanders bereft of reason, crying where is my child? laura seeks her father. in vain just as she is about to find him, again and again-he disappears, he is gone, he vanishes. "but this is only the prologue to the tragedy. bear with me while i relate it. (mr. braham takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it slowly; crashes it in his nervous hand, and throws it on the table). laura grew up in her humble southern home, a beautiful creature, the joy, of the house, the pride of the neighborhood, the loveliest flower in all the sunny south. she might yet have been happy; she was happy. but the destroyer came into this paradise. he plucked the sweetest bud that grew there, and having enjoyed its odor, trampled it in the mire beneath his feet. george selby, the deceased, a handsome, accomplished confederate colonel, was this human fiend. he deceived her with a mock marriage; after some months he brutally, abandoned her, and spurned her as if she were a contemptible thing; all the time he had a wife in new orleans. laura was crushed. for weeks, as i shall show you by the testimony of her adopted mother and brother, she hovered over death in delirium. gentlemen, did she ever emerge from this delirium? i shall show you that when she recovered her health, her mind was changed, she was not what she had been. you can judge yourselves whether the tottering reason ever recovered its throne. "years pass. she is in washington, apparently the happy favorite of a brilliant society. her family have become enormously rich by one of those sudden turns, in fortune that the inhabitants of america are familiar with--the discovery of immense mineral wealth in some wild lands owned by them. she is engaged in a vast philanthropic scheme for the benefit of the poor, by, the use of this wealth. but, alas, even here and now, the same, relentless fate pursued her. the villain selby appears again upon the scene, as if on purpose to complete the ruin of her life. he appeared to taunt her with her dishonor, he threatened exposure if she did not become again the mistress of his passion. gentlemen, do you wonder if this woman, thus pursued, lost her reason, was beside herself with fear, and that her wrongs preyed upon her mind until she was no longer responsible for her acts? i turn away my head as one who would not willingly look even upon the just vengeance of heaven. (mr. braham paused as if overcome by his emotions. mrs. hawkins and washington were in tears, as were many of the spectators also. the jury looked scared.) "gentlemen, in this condition of affairs it needed but a spark--i do not say a suggestion, i do not say a hint--from this butterfly brierly; this rejected rival, to cause the explosion. i make no charges, but if this woman was in her right mind when she fled from washington and reached this city in company--with brierly, then i do not know what insanity is." when mr. braham sat down, he felt that he had the jury with him. a burst of applause followed, which the officer promptly, suppressed. laura, with tears in her eyes, turned a grateful look upon her counsel. all the women among the spectators saw the tears and wept also. they thought as they also looked at mr. braham; how handsome he is! mrs. hawkins took the stand. she was somewhat confused to be the target of so many, eyes, but her honest and good face at once told in laura's favor. "mrs. hawkins," said mr. braham, "will you' be kind enough to state the circumstances of your finding laura?" "i object," said mr. mcflinn; rising to his feet. "this has nothing whatever to do with the case, your honor. i am surprised at it, even after the extraordinary speech of my learned friend." "how do you propose to connect it, mr. braham?" asked the judge. "if it please the court," said mr. braham, rising impressively, "your honor has permitted the prosecution, and i have submitted without a word; to go into the most extraordinary testimony to establish a motive. are we to be shut out from showing that the motive attributed to us could not by reason of certain mental conditions exist? i purpose, may, it please your honor, to show the cause and the origin of an aberration of mind, to follow it up, with other like evidence, connecting it with the very moment of the homicide, showing a condition of the intellect, of the prisoner that precludes responsibility." "the state must insist upon its objections," said the district attorney. "the purpose evidently is to open the door to a mass of irrelevant testimony, the object of which is to produce an effect upon the jury your honor well understands." "perhaps," suggested the judge, "the court ought to hear the testimony, and exclude it afterwards, if it is irrelevant." "will your honor hear argument on that!" "certainly." and argument his honor did hear, or pretend to, for two whole days, from all the counsel in turn, in the course of which the lawyers read contradictory decisions enough to perfectly establish both sides, from volume after volume, whole libraries in fact, until no mortal man could say what the rules were. the question of insanity in all its legal aspects was of course drawn into the discussion, and its application affirmed and denied. the case was felt to turn upon the admission or rejection of this evidence. it was a sort of test trial of strength between the lawyers. at the end the judge decided to admit the testimony, as the judge usually does in such cases, after a sufficient waste of time in what are called arguments. mrs. hawkins was allowed to go on. chapter lvi. mrs. hawkins slowly and conscientiously, as if every detail of her family history was important, told the story of the steamboat explosion, of the finding and adoption of laura. silas, that its mr. hawkins, and she always loved laura, as if she had been their own, child. she then narrated the circumstances of laura's supposed marriage, her abandonment and long illness, in a manner that touched all hearts. laura had been a different woman since then. cross-examined. at the time of first finding laura on the steamboat, did she notice that laura's mind was at all deranged? she couldn't say that she did. after the recovery of laura from her long illness, did mrs. hawkins think there, were any signs of insanity about her? witness confessed that she did not think of it then. re-direct examination. "but she was different after that?" "o, yes, sir." washington hawkins corroborated his mother's testimony as to laura's connection with col. selby. he was at harding during the time of her living there with him. after col. selby's desertion she was almost dead, never appeared to know anything rightly for weeks. he added that he never saw such a scoundrel as selby. (checked by district attorney.) had he noticed any change in, laura after her illness? oh, yes. whenever, any allusion was made that might recall selby to mind, she looked awful--as if she could kill him. "you mean," said mr. braham, "that there was an unnatural, insane gleam in her eyes?" "yes, certainly," said washington in confusion. all this was objected to by the district attorney, but it was got before the jury, and mr. braham did not care how much it was ruled out after that. "beriah sellers was the next witness called. the colonel made his way to the stand with majestic, yet bland deliberation. having taken the oath and kissed the bible with a smack intended to show his great respect for that book, he bowed to his honor with dignity, to the jury with familiarity, and then turned to the lawyers and stood in an attitude of superior attention. "mr. sellers, i believe?" began mr. braham. "beriah sellers, missouri," was the courteous acknowledgment that the lawyer was correct. "mr. sellers; you know the parties here, you are a friend of the family?" "know them all, from infancy, sir. it was me, sir, that induced silas hawkins, judge hawkins, to come to missouri, and make his fortune. it was by my advice and in company with me, sir, that he went into the operation of--" "yes, yes. mr. sellers, did you know a major lackland?" "knew him, well, sir, knew him and honored him, sir. he was one of the most remarkable men of our country, sir. a member of congress. he was often at my mansion sir, for weeks. he used to say to me, 'col. sellers, if you would go into politics, if i had you for a colleague, we should show calhoun and webster that the brain of the country didn't lie east of the alleganies. but i said--" "yes, yes. i believe major lackland is not living, colonel?" there was an almost imperceptible sense of pleasure betrayed in the colonel's face at this prompt acknowledgment of his title. "bless you, no. died years ago, a miserable death, sir, a ruined man, a poor sot. he was suspected of selling his vote in congress, and probably he did; the disgrace killed' him, he was an outcast, sir, loathed by himself and by his constituents. and i think; sir"---- the judge. "you will confine yourself, col. sellers to the questions of the counsel." "of course, your honor. this," continued the colonel in confidential explanation, "was twenty years ago. i shouldn't have thought of referring to such a trifling circumstance now. if i remember rightly, sir"-- a bundle of letters was here handed to the witness. "do you recognize, that hand-writing?" "as if it was my own, sir. it's major lackland's. i was knowing to these letters when judge hawkins received them. [the colonel's memory was a little at fault here. mr. hawkins had never gone into detail's with him on this subject.] he used to show them to me, and say, 'col, sellers you've a mind to untangle this sort of thing.' lord, how everything comes back to me. laura was a little thing then. 'the judge and i were just laying our plans to buy the pilot knob, and--" "colonel, one moment. your honor, we put these letters in evidence." the letters were a portion of the correspondence of major lackland with silas hawkins; parts of them were missing and important letters were referred to that were not here. they related, as the reader knows, to laura's father. lackland had come upon the track of a man who was searching for a lost child in a mississippi steamboat explosion years before. the man was lame in one leg, and appeared to be flitting from place to place. it seemed that major lackland got so close track of him that he was able to describe his personal appearance and learn his name. but the letter containing these particulars was lost. once he heard of him at a hotel in washington; but the man departed, leaving an empty trunk, the day before the major went there. there was something very mysterious in all his movements. col. sellers, continuing his testimony, said that he saw this lost letter, but could not now recall the name. search for the supposed father had been continued by lackland, hawkins and himself for several years, but laura was not informed of it till after the death of hawkins, for fear of raising false hopes in her mind. here the distract attorney arose and said, "your honor, i must positively object to letting the witness wander off into all these irrelevant details." mr. braham. "i submit your honor, that we cannot be interrupted in this manner we have suffered the state to have full swing. now here is a witness, who has known the prisoner from infancy, and is competent to testify upon the one point vital to her safety. evidently he is a gentleman of character, and his knowledge of the case cannot be shut out without increasing the aspect of persecution which the state's attitude towards the prisoner already has assumed." the wrangle continued, waxing hotter and hotter. the colonel seeing the attention of the counsel and court entirely withdrawn from him, thought he perceived here his opportunity, turning and beaming upon the jury, he began simply to talk, but as the grandeur of his position grew upon him --talk broadened unconsciously into an oratorical vein. "you see how she was situated, gentlemen; poor child, it might have broken her, heart to let her mind get to running on such a thing as that. you see, from what we could make out her father was lame in the left leg and had a deep scar on his left forehead. and so ever since the day she found out she had another father, she never could, run across a lame stranger without being taken all over with a shiver, and almost fainting where she, stood. and the next minute she would go right after that man. once she stumbled on a stranger with a game leg; and she was the most grateful thing in this world--but it was the wrong leg, and it was days and days before she could leave her bed. once she found a man with a scar on his forehead and she was just going to throw herself into his arms,` but he stepped out just then, and there wasn't anything the matter with his legs. time and time again, gentlemen of the jury, has this poor suffering orphan flung herself on her knees with all her heart's gratitude in her eyes before some scarred and crippled veteran, but always, always to be disappointed, always to be plunged into new despair--if his legs were right his scar was wrong, if his scar was right his legs were wrong. never could find a man that would fill the bill. gentlemen of the jury; you have hearts, you have feelings, you have warm human sympathies; you can feel for this poor suffering child. gentlemen of the jury, if i had time, if i had the opportunity, if i might be permitted to go on and tell you the thousands and thousands and thousands of mutilated strangers this poor girl has started out of cover, and hunted from city to city, from state to state, from continent to continent, till she has run them down and found they wan't the ones; i know your hearts--" by this time the colonel had become so warmed up, that his voice, had reached a pitch above that of the contending counsel; the lawyers suddenly stopped, and they and the judge turned towards the colonel and remained far several seconds too surprised at this novel exhibition to speak. in this interval of silence, an appreciation of the situation gradually stole over the, audience, and an explosion of laughter followed, in which even the court and the bar could hardly keep from joining. sheriff. "order in the court." the judge. "the witness will confine his remarks to answers to questions." the colonel turned courteously to the judge and said, "certainly, your honor--certainly. i am not well acquainted with the forms of procedure in the courts of new york, but in the west, sir, in the west--" the judge. "there, there, that will do, that will do! "you see, your honor, there were no questions asked me, and i thought i would take advantage of the lull in the proceedings to explain to the, jury a very significant train of--" the judge. "that will do sir! proceed mr. braham." "col. sellers, have you any, reason to suppose that this man is still living?" "every reason, sir, every reason. "state why" "i have never heard of his death, sir. it has never come to my knowledge. in fact, sir, as i once said to governor--" "will you state to the jury what has been the effect of the knowledge of this wandering and evidently unsettled being, supposed to be her father, upon the mind of miss hawkins for so many years!" question objected to. question ruled out. cross-examined. "major sellers, what is your occupation?" the colonel looked about him loftily, as if casting in his mind what would be the proper occupation of a person of such multifarious interests and then said with dignity: "a gentleman, sir. my father used to always say, sir"-- "capt. sellers, did you; ever see this man, this supposed father?" "no, sir. but upon one occasion, old senator thompson said to me, its my opinion, colonel sellers"-- "did you ever see any body who had seen him?" "no, sir: it was reported around at one time, that"-- "that is all." the defense then sent a day in the examination of medical experts in insanity who testified, on the evidence heard, that sufficient causes had occurred to produce an insane mind in the prisoner. numerous cases were cited to sustain this opinion. there was such a thing as momentary insanity, in which the person, otherwise rational to all appearances, was for the time actually bereft of reason, and not responsible for his acts. the causes of this momentary possession could often be found in the person's life. [it afterwards came out that the chief expert for the defense, was paid a thousand dollars for looking into the case.] the prosecution consumed another day in the examination of experts refuting the notion of insanity. these causes might have produced insanity, but there was no evidence that they have produced it in this case, or that the prisoner was not at the time of the commission of the crime in full possession of her ordinary faculties. the trial had now lasted two weeks. it required four days now for the lawyers to "sum up." these arguments of the counsel were very important to their friends, and greatly enhanced their reputation at the bar but they have small interest to us. mr. braham in his closing speech surpassed himself; his effort is still remembered as the greatest in the criminal annals of new york. mr. braham re-drew for the jury the picture, of laura's early life; he dwelt long upon that painful episode of the pretended marriage and the desertion. col. selby, he said, belonged, gentlemen; to what is called the "upper classes:" it is the privilege of the "upper classes" to prey upon the sons and daughters of the people. the hawkins family, though allied to the best blood of the south, were at the time in humble circumstances. he commented upon her parentage. perhaps her agonized father, in his intervals of sanity, was still searching for his lost daughter. would he one day hear that she had died a felon's death? society had pursued her, fate had pursued her, and in a moment of delirium she had turned and defied fate and society. he dwelt upon the admission of base wrong in col. selby's dying statement. he drew a vivid, picture of the villain at last overtaken by the vengeance of heaven. would the jury say that this retributive justice, inflicted by an outraged, and deluded woman, rendered irrational by the most cruel wrongs, was in the nature of a foul, premeditated murder? "gentlemen; it is enough for me to look upon the life of this most beautiful and accomplished of her sex, blasted by the heartless villainy of man, without seeing, at the-end of it; the horrible spectacle of a gibbet. gentlemen, we are all human, we have all sinned, we all have need of mercy. but i do not ask mercy of you who are the guardians of society and of the poor waifs, its sometimes wronged victims; i ask only that justice which you and i shall need in that last, dreadful hour, when death will be robbed of half its terrors if we can reflect that we have never wronged a human being. gentlemen, the life of this lovely and once happy girl, this now stricken woman, is in your hands." the jury were risibly affected. half the court room was in tears. if a vote of both spectators and jury could have been taken then, the verdict would have been, "let her go, she has suffered enough." but the district attorney had the closing argument. calmly and without malice or excitement he reviewed the testimony. as the cold facts were unrolled, fear settled upon the listeners. there was no escape from the murder or its premeditation. laura's character as a lobbyist in washington which had been made to appear incidentally in the evidence was also against her: the whole body of the testimony of the defense was shown to be irrelevant, introduced only to excite sympathy, and not giving a color of probability to the absurd supposition of insanity. the attorney then dwelt upon, the insecurity of life in the city, and the growing immunity with which women committed murders. mr. mcflinn made a very able speech; convincing the reason without touching the feelings. the judge in his charge reviewed the, testimony with great show of impartiality. he ended by saying that the verdict must be acquittal or murder in the first, degree. if you find that the prisoner committed a homicide, in possession of her reason and with premeditation, your verdict will be accordingly. if you find she was not in her right mind, that she was the victim of insanity, hereditary or momentary, as it has been explained, your verdict will take that into account. as the judge finished his charge, the spectators anxiously watched the faces of the jury. it was not a remunerative study. in the court room the general feeling was in favor of laura, but whether this feeling extended to the jury, their stolid faces did not reveal. the public outside hoped for a conviction, as it always does; it wanted an example; the newspapers trusted the jury would have the courage to do its duty. when laura was convicted, then the public would tern around and abuse the governor if he did; not pardon her. the jury went out. mr. braham preserved his serene confidence, but laura's friends were dispirited. washington and col. sellers had been obliged to go to washington, and they had departed under the unspoken fear the verdict would be unfavorable, a disagreement was the best they could hope for, and money was needed. the necessity of the passage of the university bill was now imperative. the court waited, for, some time, but the jury gave no signs of coming in. mr. braham said it was extraordinary. the court then took a recess for a couple of hours. upon again coming in, word was brought that the jury had not yet agreed. but the, jury, had a question. the point upon which, they wanted instruction was this. they wanted to know if col. sellers was related to the hawkins family. the court then adjourned till morning. mr. braham, who was in something of a pet, remarked to mr. o'toole that they must have been deceived, that juryman with the broken nose could read! chapter lvii. the momentous day was at hand--a day that promised to make or mar the fortunes of hawkins family for all time. washington hawkins and col. sellers were both up early, for neither of them could sleep. congress was expiring, and was passing bill after bill as if they were gasps and each likely to be its last. the university was on file for its third reading this day, and to-morrow washington would be a millionaire and sellers no longer, impecunious but this day, also, or at farthest the next, the jury in laura's case would come to a decision of some kind or other--they would find her guilty, washington secretly feared, and then the care and the trouble would all come back again, and these would be wearing months of besieging judges for new trials; on this day, also, the re-election of mr. dilworthy to the senate would take place. so washington's mind was in a state of turmoil; there were more interests at stake than it could handle with serenity. he exulted when he thought of his millions; he was filled with dread when he thought of laura. but sellers was excited and happy. he said: "everything is going right, everything's going perfectly right. pretty soon the telegrams will begin to rattle in, and then you'll see, my boy. let the jury do what they please; what difference is it going to make? to-morrow we can send a million to new york and set the lawyers at work on the judges; bless your heart they will go before judge after judge and exhort and beseech and pray and shed tears. they always do; and they always win, too. and they will win this time. they will get a writ of habeas corpus, and a stay of proceedings, and a supersedeas, and a new trial and a nolle prosequi, and there you are! that's the routine, and it's no trick at all to a new york lawyer. that's the regular routine --everything's red tape and routine in the law, you see; it's all greek to you, of course, but to a man who is acquainted with those things it's mere--i'll explain it to you sometime. everything's going to glide right along easy and comfortable now. you'll see, washington, you'll see how it will be. and then, let me think ..... dilwortby will be elected to-day, and by day, after to-morrow night be will be in new york ready to put in his shovel--and you haven't lived in washington all this time not to know that the people who walk right by a senator whose term is up without hardly seeing him will be down at the deepo to say 'welcome back and god bless you; senator, i'm glad to see you, sir!' when he comes along back re-elected, you know. well, you see, his influence was naturally running low when he left here, but now he has got a new six-years' start, and his suggestions will simply just weigh a couple of tons a-piece day after tomorrow. lord bless you he could rattle through that habeas corpus and supersedeas and all those things for laura all by himself if he wanted to, when he gets back." "i hadn't thought of that," said washington, brightening, but it is so. a newly-elected senator is a power, i know that." "yes indeed he is.--why it, is just human nature. look at me. when we first came here, i was mr. sellers, and major sellers, captain sellers, but nobody could ever get it right, somehow; but the minute our bill went, through the house, i was col. sellers every time. and nobody could do enough for me, and whatever i said was wonderful, sir, it was always wonderful; i never seemed to say any flat things at all. it was colonel, won't you come and dine with us; and colonel why don't we ever see you at our house; and the colonel says this; and the colonel says that; and we know such-and-such is so-and-so because my husband heard col. sellers say so. don't you see? well, the senate adjourned and left our bill high, and dry, and i'll be hanged if i warn't old sellers from that day, till our bill passed the house again last week. now i'm the colonel again; and if i were to eat all the dinners i am invited to, i reckon i'd wear my teeth down level with my gums in a couple of weeks." "well i do wonder what you will be to-morrow; colonel, after the president signs the bill!" "general, sir?--general, without a doubt. yes, sir, tomorrow it will be general, let me congratulate you, sir; general, you've done a great work, sir;--you've done a great work for the niggro; gentlemen allow me the honor to introduce my friend general sellers, the humane friend of the niggro. lord bless me; you'll' see the newspapers say, general sellers and servants arrived in the city last night and is stopping at the fifth avenue; and general sellers has accepted a reception and banquet by the cosmopolitan club; you'll see the general's opinions quoted, too --and what the general has to say about the propriety of a new trial and a habeas corpus for the unfortunate miss hawkins will not be without weight in influential quarters, i can tell you." "and i want to be the first to shake your faithful old hand and salute you with your new honors, and i want to do it now--general!" said washington, suiting the action to the word, and accompanying it with all the meaning that a cordial grasp and eloquent eyes could give it. the colonel was touched; he was pleased and proud, too; his face answered for that. not very long after breakfast the telegrams began to arrive. the first was from braham, and ran thus: "we feel certain that the verdict will be rendered to-day. be it good or bad, let it find us ready to make the next move instantly, whatever it may be:" "that's the right talk," said sellers. "that braham's a wonderful man. he was the only man there that really understood me; he told me so himself, afterwards." the next telegram was from mr. dilworthy: "i have not only brought over the great invincible, but through him a dozen more of the opposition. shall be re-elected to-day by an overwhelming majority." "good again!" said the colonel. "that man's talent for organization is something marvelous. he wanted me to go out there and engineer that thing, but i said, no, dilworthy, i must be on hand here,--both on laura's account and the bill's--but you've no trifling genius for organization yourself, said i--and i was right. you go ahead, said i --you can fix it--and so he has. but i claim no credit for that--if i stiffened up his back-bone a little, i simply put him in the way to make his fight--didn't undertake it myself. he has captured noble--. i consider that a splendid piece of diplomacy--splendid, sir!" by and by came another dispatch from new york: "jury still out. laura calm and firm as a statue. the report that the jury have brought her in guilty is false and premature." "premature!" gasped washington, turning white. "then they all expect that sort of a verdict, when it comes in." and so did he; but he had not had courage enough to put it into words. he had been preparing himself for the worst, but after all his preparation the bare suggestion of the possibility of such a verdict struck him cold as death. the friends grew impatient, now; the telegrams did not come fast enough: even the lightning could not keep up with their anxieties. they walked the floor talking disjointedly and listening for the door-bell. telegram after telegram came. still no result. by and by there was one which contained a single line: "court now coming in after brief recess to hear verdict. jury ready." "oh, i wish they would finish!" said washington. "this suspense is killing me by inches!" then came another telegram: "another hitch somewhere. jury want a little more time and further instructions." "well, well, well, this is trying," said the colonel. and after a pause, "no dispatch from dilworthy for two hours, now. even a dispatch from him would be better than nothing, just to vary this thing." they waited twenty minutes. it seemed twenty hours. "come!" said washington. "i can't wait for the telegraph boy to come all the way up here. let's go down to newspaper row--meet him on the way." while they were passing along the avenue, they saw someone putting up a great display-sheet on the bulletin board of a newspaper office, and an eager crowd of men was collecting abort the place. washington and the colonel ran to the spot and read this: "tremendous sensation! startling news from saint's rest! on first ballot for u. s. senator, when voting was about to begin, mr. noble rose in his place and drew forth a package, walked forward and laid it on the speaker's desk, saying, 'this contains $ , in bank bills and was given me by senator dilworthy in his bed-chamber at midnight last night to buy --my vote for him--i wish the speaker to count the money and retain it to pay the expense of prosecuting this infamous traitor for bribery. the whole legislature was stricken speechless with dismay and astonishment. noble further said that there were fifty members present with money in their pockets, placed there by dilworthy to buy their votes. amidst unparalleled excitement the ballot was now taken, and j. w. smith elected u. s. senator; dilworthy receiving not one vote! noble promises damaging exposures concerning dilworthy and certain measures of his now pending in congress. "good heavens and earth!" exclaimed the colonel. "to the capitol!" said washington. "fly!" and they did fly. long before they got there the newsboys were running ahead of them with extras, hot from the press, announcing the astounding news. arrived in the gallery of the senate, the friends saw a curious spectacle--every senator held an extra in his hand and looked as interested as if it contained news of the destruction of the earth. not a single member was paying the least attention to the business of the hour. the secretary, in a loud voice, was just beginning to read the title of a bill: "house-bill--no. , ,--an-act-to-found-and-incorporate-the knobs- industrial-university!--read-first-and-second-time-considered-in- committee-of-the-whole-ordered-engrossed and-passed-to-third-reading-and- final passage!" the president--"third reading of the bill!" the two friends shook in their shoes. senators threw down their extras and snatched a word or two with each other in whispers. then the gavel rapped to command silence while the names were called on the ayes and nays. washington grew paler and paler, weaker and weaker while the lagging list progressed; and when it was finished, his head fell helplessly forward on his arms. the fight was fought, the long struggle was over, and he was a pauper. not a man had voted for the bill! col. sellers was bewildered and well nigh paralyzed, himself. but no man could long consider his own troubles in the presence of such suffering as washington's. he got him up and supported him--almost carried him indeed--out of the building and into a carriage. all the way home washington lay with his face against the colonel's shoulder and merely groaned and wept. the colonel tried as well as he could under the dreary circumstances to hearten him a little, but it was of no use. washington was past all hope of cheer, now. he only said: "oh, it is all over--it is all over for good, colonel. we must beg our bread, now. we never can get up again. it was our last chance, and it is gone. they will hang laura! my god they will hang her! nothing can save the poor girl now. oh, i wish with all my soul they would hang me instead!" arrived at home, washington fell into a chair and buried his face in his hands and gave full way to his misery. the colonel did not know where to turn nor what to do. the servant maid knocked at the door and passed in a telegram, saying it had come while they were gone. the colonel tore it open and read with the voice of a man-of-war's broadside: "verdict of jury, not guilty and laura is free!" chapter lviii. the court room was packed on the morning on which the verdict of the jury was expected, as it had been every day of the trial, and by the same spectators, who had followed its progress with such intense interest. there is a delicious moment of excitement which the frequenter of trials well knows, and which he would not miss for the world. it is that instant when the foreman of the jury stands up to give the verdict, and before he has opened his fateful lips. the court assembled and waited. it was an obstinate jury. it even had another question--this intelligent jury--to ask the judge this morning. the question was this: "were the doctors clear that the deceased had no disease which might soon have carried him off, if he had not been shot?" there was evidently one jury man who didn't want to waste life, and was willing to stake a general average, as the jury always does in a civil case, deciding not according to the evidence but reaching the verdict by some occult mental process. during the delay the spectators exhibited unexampled patience, finding amusement and relief in the slightest movements of the court, the prisoner and the lawyers. mr. braham divided with laura the attention of the house. bets were made by the sheriff's deputies on the verdict, with large odds in favor of a disagreement. it was afternoon when it was announced that the jury was coming in. the reporters took their places and were all attention; the judge and lawyers were in their seats; the crowd swayed and pushed in eager expectancy, as the jury walked in and stood up in silence. judge. "gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?" foreman. "we have." judge. "what is it?" foreman. "not guilty." a shout went up from the entire room and a tumult of cheering which the court in vain attempted to quell. for a few moments all order was lost. the spectators crowded within the bar and surrounded laura who, calmer than anyone else, was supporting her aged mother, who had almost fainted from excess of joy. and now occurred one of those beautiful incidents which no fiction-writer would dare to imagine, a scene of touching pathos, creditable to our fallen humanity. in the eyes of the women of the audience mr. braham was the hero of the occasion; he had saved the life of the prisoner; and besides he was such a handsome man. the women could not restrain their long pent-up emotions. they threw themselves upon mr. braham in a transport of gratitude; they kissed him again and again, the young as well as the advanced in years, the married as well as the ardent single women; they improved the opportunity with a touching self-sacrifice; in the words of a newspaper of the day they "lavished him with kisses." it was something sweet to do; and it would be sweet for a woman to remember in after years, that she had kissed braham! mr. braham himself received these fond assaults with the gallantry of his nation, enduring the ugly, and heartily paying back beauty in its own coin. this beautiful scene is still known in new york as "the kissing of braham." when the tumult of congratulation had a little spent itself, and order was restored, judge o'shaunnessy said that it now became his duty to provide for the proper custody and treatment of the acquitted. the verdict of the jury having left no doubt that the woman was of an unsound mind, with a kind of insanity dangerous to the safety of the community, she could not be permitted to go at large. "in accordance with the directions of the law in such cases," said the judge, "and in obedience to the dictates of a wise humanity, i hereby commit laura hawkins to the care of the superintendent of the state hospital for insane criminals, to be held in confinement until the state commissioners on insanity shall order her discharge. mr. sheriff, you will attend at once to the execution of this decree." laura was overwhelmed and terror-stricken. she had expected to walk forth in freedom in a few moments. the revulsion was terrible. her mother appeared like one shaken with an ague fit. laura insane! and about to be locked up with madmen! she had never contemplated this. mr. graham said he should move at once for a writ of 'habeas corpus'. but the judge could not do less than his duty, the law must have its way. as in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and not fully comprehending it, mrs. hawkins saw laura led away by the officer. with little space for thought she was, rapidly driven to the railway station, and conveyed to the hospital for lunatic criminals. it was only when she was within this vast and grim abode of madness that she realized the horror of her situation. it was only when she was received by the kind physician and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not insane; it was only when she passed through the ward to which she was consigned and saw the horrible creatures, the victims of a double calamity, whose dreadful faces she was hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the small, bare room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook her. she sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone--she had been searched by the matron--and tried to think. but her brain was in a whirl. she recalled braham's speech, she recalled the testimony regarding her lunacy. she wondered if she were not mad; she felt that she soon should be among these loathsome creatures. better almost to have died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement. --we beg the reader's pardon. this is not history, which has just been written. it is really what would have occurred if this were a novel. if this were a work of fiction, we should not dare to dispose of laura otherwise. true art and any attention to dramatic proprieties required it. the novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess could not escape condemnation. besides, the safety of society, the decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our modern civilization, all would demand that laura should be disposed of in the manner we have described. foreigners, who read this sad story, will be unable to understand any other termination of it. but this is history and not fiction. there is no such law or custom as that to which his honor is supposed to have referred; judge o'shaunnessy would not probably pay any attention to it if there were. there is no hospital for insane criminals; there is no state commission of lunacy. what actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided the sagacious reader will now learn. laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother and other friends, amid the congratulations of those assembled, and was cheered as she entered a carriage, and drove away. how sweet was the sunlight, how exhilarating the sense of freedom! were not these following cheers the expression of popular approval and affection? was she not the heroine of the hour? it was with a feeling of triumph that laura reached her hotel, a scornful feeling of victory over society with its own weapons. mrs. hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken with the disgrace and the long anxiety. "thank god, laura," she said, "it is over. now we will go away from this hateful city. let us go home at once." "mother," replied laura, speaking with some tenderness, "i cannot go with you. there, don't cry, i cannot go back to that life." mrs. hawkins was sobbing. this was more cruel than anything else, for she had a dim notion of what it would be to leave laura to herself. "no, mother, you have been everything to me. you know how dearly i love you. but i cannot go back." a boy brought in a telegraphic despatch. laura took it and read: "the bill is lost. dilworthy ruined. (signed) washington." for a moment the words swam before her eyes. the next her eyes flashed fire as she handed the dispatch to her m other and bitterly said, "the world is against me. well, let it be, let it. i am against it." "this is a cruel disappointment," said mrs. hawkins, to whom one grief more or less did not much matter now, "to you and, washington; but we must humbly bear it." "bear it;" replied laura scornfully, "i've all my life borne it, and fate has thwarted me at every step." a servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman below who wished to speak with miss hawkins. "j. adolphe griller" was the name laura read on the card. "i do not know such a person. he probably comes from washington. send him up." mr. griller entered. he was a small man, slovenly in dress, his tone confidential, his manner wholly void of animation, all his features below the forehead protruding--particularly the apple of his throat--hair without a kink in it, a hand with no grip, a meek, hang-dog countenance. a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for while every visible sign about him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless weakling, the truth was that he had the brains to plan great enterprises and the pluck to carry them through. that was his reputation, and it was a deserved one. he softly said: "i called to see you on business, miss hawkins. you have my card?" laura bowed. mr. griller continued to purr, as softly as before. "i will proceed to business. i am a business man. i am a lecture-agent, miss hawkins, and as soon as i saw that you were acquitted, it occurred to me that an early interview would be mutually beneficial." "i don't understand you, sir," said laura coldly. "no? you see, miss hawkins, this is your opportunity. if you will enter the lecture field under good auspices, you will carry everything before you." "but, sir, i never lectured, i haven't any lecture, i don't know anything about it." "ah, madam, that makes no difference--no real difference. it is not necessary to be able to lecture in order to go into the lecture tour. if ones name is celebrated all over the land, especially, and, if she is also beautiful, she is certain to draw large audiences." "but what should i lecture about?" asked laura, beginning in spite of herself to be a little interested as well as amused. "oh, why; woman--something about woman, i should say; the marriage relation, woman's fate, anything of that sort. call it the revelations of a woman's life; now, there's a good title. i wouldn't want any better title than that. i'm prepared to make you an offer, miss hawkins, a liberal offer,--twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights." laura thought. she hesitated. why not? it would give her employment, money. she must do something. "i will think of it, and let you know soon. but still, there is very little likelihood that i--however, we will not discuss it further now." "remember, that the sooner we get to work the better, miss hawkins, public curiosity is so fickle. good day, madam." the close of the trial released mr. harry brierly and left him free to depart upon his long talked of pacific-coast mission. he was very mysterious about it, even to philip. "it's confidential, old boy," he said, "a little scheme we have hatched up. i don't mind telling you that it's a good deal bigger thing than that in missouri, and a sure thing. i wouldn't take a half a million just for my share. and it will open something for you, phil. you will hear from me." philip did hear, from harry a few months afterward. everything promised splendidly, but there was a little delay. could phil let him have a hundred, say, for ninety days? philip himself hastened to philadelphia, and, as soon as the spring opened, to the mine at ilium, and began transforming the loan he had received from squire montague into laborers' wages. he was haunted with many anxieties; in the first place, ruth was overtaxing her strength in her hospital labors, and philip felt as if he must move heaven and earth to save her from such toil and suffering. his increased pecuniary obligation oppressed him. it seemed to him also that he had been one cause of the misfortune to the bolton family, and that he was dragging into loss and ruin everybody who associated with him. he worked on day after day and week after week, with a feverish anxiety. it would be wicked, thought philip, and impious, to pray for luck; he felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a blessing upon the sort of labor that was only a venture; but yet in that daily petition, which this very faulty and not very consistent young christian gentleman put up, he prayed earnestly enough for ruth and for the boltons and for those whom he loved and who trusted in him, and that his life might not be a misfortune to them and a failure to himself. since this young fellow went out into the world from his new england home, he had done some things that he would rather his mother should not know, things maybe that he would shrink from telling ruth. at a certain green age young gentlemen are sometimes afraid of being called milksops, and philip's associates had not always been the most select, such as these historians would have chosen for him, or whom at a later, period he would have chosen for himself. it seemed inexplicable, for instance, that his life should have been thrown so much with his college acquaintance, henry brierly. yet, this was true of philip, that in whatever company he had been he had never been ashamed to stand up for the principles he learned from his mother, and neither raillery nor looks of wonder turned him from that daily habit had learned at his mother's knees.--even flippant harry respected this, and perhaps it was one of the reasons why harry and all who knew philip trusted him implicitly. and yet it must be confessed that philip did not convey the impression to the world of a very serious young man, or of a man who might not rather easily fall into temptation. one looking for a real hero would have to go elsewhere. the parting between laura and her mother was exceedingly painful to both. it was as if two friends parted on a wide plain, the one to journey towards the setting and the other towards the rising sun, each comprehending that every, step henceforth must separate their lives, wider and wider. chapter lix. when mr. noble's bombshell fell, in senator dilworthy's camp, the statesman was disconcerted for a moment. for a moment; that was all. the next moment he was calmly up and doing. from the centre of our country to its circumference, nothing was talked of but mr. noble's terrible revelation, and the people were furious. mind, they were not furious because bribery was uncommon in our public life, but merely because here was another case. perhaps it did not occur to the nation of good and worthy people that while they continued to sit comfortably at home and leave the true source of our political power (the "primaries,") in the hands of saloon-keepers, dog-fanciers and hod-carriers, they could go on expecting "another" case of this kind, and even dozens and hundreds of them, and never be disappointed. however, they may have thought that to sit at home and grumble would some day right the evil. yes, the nation was excited, but senator dilworthy was calm--what was left of him after the explosion of the shell. calm, and up and doing. what did he do first? what would you do first, after you had tomahawked your mother at the breakfast table for putting too much sugar in your coffee? you would "ask for a suspension of public opinion." that is what senator dilworthy did. it is the custom. he got the usual amount of suspension. far and wide he was called a thief, a briber, a promoter of steamship subsidies, railway swindles, robberies of the government in all possible forms and fashions. newspapers and everybody else called him a pious hypocrite, a sleek, oily fraud, a reptile who manipulated temperance movements, prayer meetings, sunday schools, public charities, missionary enterprises, all for his private benefit. and as these charges were backed up by what seemed to be good and sufficient, evidence, they were believed with national unanimity. then mr. dilworthy made another move. he moved instantly to washington and "demanded an investigation." even this could not pass without, comment. many papers used language to this effect: "senator dilworthy's remains have demanded an investigation. this sounds fine and bold and innocent; but when we reflect that they demand it at the hands of the senate of the united states, it simply becomes matter for derision. one might as well set the gentlemen detained in the public prisons to trying each other. this investigation is likely to be like all other senatorial investigations--amusing but not useful. query. why does the senate still stick to this pompous word, 'investigation?' one does not blindfold one's self in order to investigate an object." mr. dilworthy appeared in his place in the senate and offered a resolution appointing a committee to investigate his case. it carried, of course, and the committee was appointed. straightway the newspapers said: "under the guise of appointing a committee to investigate the late mr. dilworthy, the senate yesterday appointed a committee to investigate his accuser, mr. noble. this is the exact spirit and meaning of the resolution, and the committee cannot try anybody but mr. noble without overstepping its authority. that dilworthy had the effrontery to offer such a resolution will surprise no one, and that the senate could entertain it without blushing and pass it without shame will surprise no one. we are now reminded of a note which we have received from the notorious burglar murphy, in which he finds fault with a statement of ours to the effect that he had served one term in the penitentiary and also one in the u. s. senate. he says, 'the latter statement is untrue and does me great injustice.' after an unconscious sarcasm like that, further comment is unnecessary." and yet the senate was roused by the dilworthy trouble. many speeches were made. one senator (who was accused in the public prints of selling his chances of re-election to his opponent for $ , and had not yet denied the charge) said that, "the presence in the capital of such a creature as this man noble, to testify against a brother member of their body, was an insult to the senate." another senator said, "let the investigation go on and let it make an example of this man noble; let it teach him and men like him that they could not attack the reputation of a united states-senator with impunity." another said he was glad the investigation was to be had, for it was high time that the senate should crush some cur like this man noble, and thus show his kind that it was able and resolved to uphold its ancient dignity. a by-stander laughed, at this finely delivered peroration; and said: "why, this is the senator who franked his, baggage home through the mails last week-registered, at that. however, perhaps he was merely engaged in 'upholding the ancient dignity of the senate,'--then." "no, the modern dignity of it," said another by-stander. "it don't resemble its ancient dignity but it fits its modern style like a glove." there being no law against making offensive remarks about u. s. senators, this conversation, and others like it, continued without let or hindrance. but our business is with the investigating committee. mr. noble appeared before the committee of the senate; and testified to the following effect: he said that he was a member of the state legislature of the happy-land-of-canaan; that on the --- day of ------ he assembled himself together at the city of saint's rest, the capital of the state, along with his brother legislators; that he was known to be a political enemy of mr. dilworthy and bitterly opposed to his re-election; that mr. dilworthy came to saint's rest and reported to be buying pledges of votes with money; that the said dilworthy sent for him to come to his room in the hotel at night, and he went; was introduced to mr. dilworthy; called two or three times afterward at dilworthy's request--usually after midnight; mr. dilworthy urged him to vote for him noble declined; dilworthy argued; said he was bound to be elected, and could then ruin him (noble) if he voted no; said he had every railway and every public office and stronghold of political power in the state under his thumb, and could set up or pull down any man he chose; gave instances showing where and how he had used this power; if noble would vote for him he would make him a representative in congress; noble still declined to vote, and said he did not believe dilworthy was going to be elected; dilworthy showed a list of men who would vote for him--a majority of the legislature; gave further proofs of his power by telling noble everything the opposing party had done or said in secret caucus; claimed that his spies reported everything to him, and that-- here a member of the committee objected that this evidence was irrelevant and also in opposition to the spirit of the committee's instructions, because if these things reflected upon any one it was upon mr. dilworthy. the chairman said, let the person proceed with his statement--the committee could exclude evidence that did not bear upon the case. mr. noble continued. he said that his party would cast him out if he voted for mr, dilworthy; dilwortby said that that would inure to his benefit because he would then be a recognized friend of his (dilworthy's) and he could consistently exalt him politically and make his fortune; noble said he was poor, and it was hard to tempt him so; dilworthy said he would fix that; he said, "tell, me what you want, and say you will vote for me;" noble could not say; dilworthy said "i will give you $ , ." a committee man said, impatiently, that this stuff was all outside the case, and valuable time was being wasted; this was all, a plain reflection upon a brother senator. the chairman said it was the quickest way to proceed, and the evidence need have no weight. mr. noble continued. he said he told dilworthy that $ , was not much to pay for a man's honor, character and everything that was worth having; dilworthy said he was surprised; he considered $ , a fortune--for some men; asked what noble's figure was; noble said he could not think $ , too little; dilworthy said it was a great deal too much; he would not do it for any other man, but he had conceived a liking for noble, and where he liked a man his heart yearned to help him; he was aware that noble was poor, and had a family to support, and that he bore an unblemished reputation at home; for such a man and such a man's influence he could do much, and feel that to help such a man would be an act that would have its reward; the struggles of the poor always touched him; he believed that noble would make a good use of this money and that it would cheer many a sad heart and needy home; he would give the, $ , ; all he desired in return was that when the balloting began, noble should cast his vote for him and should explain to the legislature that upon looking into the charges against mr. dilworthy of bribery, corruption, and forwarding stealing measures in congress he had found them to be base calumnies upon a man whose motives were pure and whose character was stainless; he then took from his pocket $ , in bank bills and handed them to noble, and got another package containing $ , out of his trunk and gave to him also. he---- a committee man jumped up, and said: "at last, mr. chairman, this shameless person has arrived at the point. this is sufficient and conclusive. by his own confession he has received a bribe, and did it deliberately. "this is a grave offense, and cannot be passed over in silence, sir. by the terms of our instructions we can now proceed to mete out to him such punishment as is meet for one who has maliciously brought disrespect upon a senator of the united states. we have no need to hear the rest of his evidence." the chairman said it would be better and more regular to proceed with the investigation according to the usual forms. a note would be made of mr. noble's admission. mr. noble continued. he said that it was now far past midnight; that he took his leave and went straight to certain legislators, told them everything, made them count the money, and also told them of the exposure he would make in joint convention; he made that exposure, as all the world knew. the rest of the $ , was to be paid the day after dilworthy was elected. senator dilworthy was now asked to take the stand and tell what he knew about the man noble. the senator wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, adjusted his white cravat, and said that but for the fact that public morality required an example, for the warning of future nobles, he would beg that in christian charity this poor misguided creature might be forgiven and set free. he said that it was but too evident that this person had approached him in the hope of obtaining a bribe; he had intruded himself time and again, and always with moving stories of his poverty. mr. dilworthy said that his heart had bled for him--insomuch that he had several times been on the point of trying to get some one to do something for him. some instinct had told him from the beginning that this was a bad man, an evil-minded man, but his inexperience of such had blinded him to his real motives, and hence he had never dreamed that his object was to undermine the purity of a united states senator. he regretted that it was plain, now, that such was the man's object and that punishment could not with safety to the senate's honor be withheld. he grieved to say that one of those mysterious dispensations of an inscrutable providence which are decreed from time to time by his wisdom and for his righteous, purposes, had given this conspirator's tale a color of plausibility,--but this would soon disappear under the clear light of truth which would now be thrown upon the case. it so happened, (said the senator,) that about the time in question, a poor young friend of mine, living in a distant town of my state, wished to establish a bank; he asked me to lend him the necessary money; i said i had no, money just then, but world try to borrow it. the day before the election a friend said to me that my election expenses must be very large specially my hotel bills, and offered to lend me some money. remembering my young, friend, i said i would like a few thousands now, and a few more by and by; whereupon he gave me two packages of bills said to contain $ , and $ , respectively; i did not open the packages or count the money; i did not give any note or receipt for the same; i made no memorandum of the transaction, and neither did my friend. that night this evil man noble came troubling me again: i could not rid myself of him, though my time was very precious. he mentioned my young friend and said he was very anxious to have the $ now to begin his banking operations with, and could wait a while for the rest. noble wished to get the money and take it to him. i finally gave him the two packages of bills; i took no note or receipt from him, and made no memorandum of the matter. i no more look for duplicity and deception in another man than i would look for it in myself. i never thought of this man again until i was overwhelmed the next day by learning what a shameful use he had made of the confidence i had reposed in him and the money i had entrusted to his care. this is all, gentlemen. to the absolute truth of every detail of my statement i solemnly swear, and i call him to witness who is the truth and the loving father of all whose lips abhor false speaking; i pledge my honor as a senator, that i have spoken but the truth. may god forgive this wicked man as i do. mr. noble--"senator dilworthy, your bank account shows that up to that day, and even on that very day, you conducted all your financial business through the medium of checks instead of bills, and so kept careful record of every moneyed transaction. why did you deal in bank bills on this particular occasion?" the chairman--"the gentleman will please to remember that the committee is conducting this investigation." mr. noble--"then will the committee ask the question?" the chairman--"the committee will--when it desires to know." mr. noble--"which will not be daring this century perhaps." the chairman--"another remark like that, sir, will procure you the attentions of the sergeant-at-arms." mr. noble--"d--n the sergeant-at-arms, and the committee too!" several committeemen--"mr. chairman, this is contempt!" mr. noble--"contempt of whom?" "of the committee! of the senate of the united states!" mr. noble--"then i am become the acknowledged representative of a nation. you know as well as i do that the whole nation hold as much as three-fifths of the united states senate in entire contempt.--three-fifths of you are dilworthys." the sergeant-at-arms very soon put a quietus upon the observations of the representative of the nation, and convinced him that he was not, in the over-free atmosphere of his happy-land-of-canaan: the statement of senator dilworthy naturally carried conviction to the minds of the committee.--it was close, logical, unanswerable; it bore many internal evidences of its, truth. for instance, it is customary in all countries for business men to loan large sums of money in bank bills instead of checks. it is customary for the lender to make no memorandum of the transaction. it is customary, for the borrower to receive the money without making a memorandum of it, or giving a note or a receipt for it's use--the borrower is not likely to die or forget about it. it is customary to lend nearly anybody money to start a bank with especially if you have not the money to lend him and have to borrow it for the purpose. it is customary to carry large sums of money in bank bills about your person or in your trunk. it is customary to hand a large sure in bank bills to a man you have just been introduced to (if he asks you to do it,) to be conveyed to a distant town and delivered to another party. it is not customary to make a memorandum of this transaction; it is not customary for the conveyor to give a note or a receipt for the money; it is not customary to require that he shall get a note or a receipt from the man he is to convey it to in the distant town. it would be at least singular in you to say to the proposed conveyor, "you might be robbed; i will deposit the money in a bank and send a check for it to my friend through the mail." very well. it being plain that senator dilworthy's statement was rigidly true, and this fact being strengthened by his adding to it the support of "his honor as a senator," the committee rendered a verdict of "not proven that a bribe had been offered and accepted." this in a manner exonerated noble and let him escape. the committee made its report to the senate, and that body proceeded to consider its acceptance. one senator indeed, several senators--objected that the committee had failed of its duty; they had proved this man noble guilty of nothing, they had meted out no punishment to him; if the report were accepted, he would go forth free and scathless, glorying in his crime, and it would be a tacit admission that any blackguard could insult the senate of the united states and conspire against the sacred reputation of its members with impunity; the senate owed it to the upholding of its ancient dignity to make an example of this man noble --he should be crushed. an elderly senator got up and took another view of the case. this was a senator of the worn-out and obsolete pattern; a man still lingering among the cobwebs of the past, and behind the spirit of the age. he said that there seemed to be a curious misunderstanding of the case. gentlemen seemed exceedingly anxious to preserve and maintain the honor and dignity of the senate. was this to be done by trying an obscure adventurer for attempting to trap a senator into bribing him? or would not the truer way be to find out whether the senator was capable of being entrapped into so shameless an act, and then try him? why, of course. now the whole idea of the senate seemed to be to shield the senator and turn inquiry away from him. the true way to uphold the honor of the senate was to have none but honorable men in its body. if this senator had yielded to temptation and had offered a bribe, he was a soiled man and ought to be instantly expelled; therefore he wanted the senator tried, and not in the usual namby-pamby way, but in good earnest. he wanted to know the truth of this matter. for himself, he believed that the guilt of senator dilworthy was established beyond the shadow of a doubt; and he considered that in trifling with his case and shirking it the senate was doing a shameful and cowardly thing--a thing which suggested that in its willingness to sit longer in the company of such a man, it was acknowledging that it was itself of a kind with him and was therefore not dishonored by his presence. he desired that a rigid examination be made into senator dilworthy's case, and that it be continued clear into the approaching extra session if need be. there was no dodging this thing with the lame excuse of want of time. in reply, an honorable senator said that he thought it would be as well to drop the matter and accept the committee's report. he said with some jocularity that the more one agitated this thing, the worse it was for the agitator. he was not able to deny that he believed senator dilworthy to be guilty--but what then? was it such an extraordinary case? for his part, even allowing the senator to be guilty, he did not think his continued presence during the few remaining days of the session would contaminate the senate to a dreadful degree. [this humorous sally was received with smiling admiration--notwithstanding it was not wholly new, having originated with the massachusetts general in the house a day or two before, upon the occasion of the proposed expulsion of a member for selling his vote for money.] the senate recognized the fact that it could not be contaminated by sitting a few days longer with senator dilworthy, and so it accepted the committee's report and dropped the unimportant matter. mr. dilworthy occupied his seat to the last hour of the session. he said that his people had reposed a trust in him, and it was not for him to desert them. he would remain at his post till he perished, if need be. his voice was lifted up and his vote cast for the last time, in support of an ingenious measure contrived by the general from massachusetts whereby the president's salary was proposed to be doubled and every congressman paid several thousand dollars extra for work previously done, under an accepted contract, and already paid for once and receipted for. senator dilworthy was offered a grand ovation by his friends at home, who said that their affection for him and their confidence in him were in no wise impaired by the persecutions that had pursued him, and that he was still good enough for them. --[the $ , left by mr. noble with his state legislature was placed in safe keeping to await the claim of the legitimate owner. senator dilworthy made one little effort through his protege the embryo banker to recover it, but there being no notes of hand or, other memoranda to support the claim, it failed. the moral of which is, that when one loans money to start a bank with, one ought to take the party's written acknowledgment of the fact.] chapter lx. for some days laura had been a free woman once more. during this time, she had experienced--first, two or three days of triumph, excitement, congratulations, a sort of sunburst of gladness, after a long night of gloom and anxiety; then two or three days of calming down, by degrees --a receding of tides, a quieting of the storm-wash to a murmurous surf-beat, a diminishing of devastating winds to a refrain that bore the spirit of a truce-days given to solitude, rest, self-communion, and the reasoning of herself into a realization of the fact that she was actually done with bolts and bars, prison, horrors and impending, death; then came a day whose hours filed slowly by her, each laden with some remnant, some remaining fragment of the dreadful time so lately ended--a day which, closing at last, left the past a fading shore behind her and turned her eyes toward the broad sea of the future. so speedily do we put the dead away and come back to our place in the ranks to march in the pilgrimage of life again. and now the sun rose once more and ushered in the first day of what laura comprehended and accepted as a new life. the past had sunk below the horizon, and existed no more for her; she was done with it for all time. she was gazing out over the trackless expanses of the future, now, with troubled eyes. life must be begun again--at eight and twenty years of age. and where to begin? the page was blank, and waiting for its first record; so this was indeed a momentous day. her thoughts drifted back, stage by stage, over her career. as far as the long highway receded over the plain of her life, it was lined with the gilded and pillared splendors of her ambition all crumbled to ruin and ivy-grown; every milestone marked a disaster; there was no green spot remaining anywhere in memory of a hope that had found its fruition; the unresponsive earth had uttered no voice of flowers in testimony that one who was blest had gone that road. her life had been a failure. that was plain, she said. no more of that. she would now look the future in the face; she would mark her course upon the chart of life, and follow it; follow it without swerving, through rocks and shoals, through storm and calm, to a haven of rest and peace or shipwreck. let the end be what it might, she would mark her course now --to-day--and follow it. on her table lay six or seven notes. they were from lovers; from some of the prominent names in the land; men whose devotion had survived even the grisly revealments of her character which the courts had uncurtained; men who knew her now, just as she was, and yet pleaded as for their lives for the dear privilege of calling the murderess wife. as she read these passionate, these worshiping, these supplicating missives, the woman in her nature confessed itself; a strong yearning came upon her to lay her head upon a loyal breast and find rest from the conflict of life, solace for her griefs, the healing of love for her bruised heart. with her forehead resting upon her hand, she sat thinking, thinking, while the unheeded moments winged their flight. it was one of those mornings in early spring when nature seems just stirring to a half consciousness out of a long, exhausting lethargy; when the first faint balmy airs go wandering about, whispering the secret of the coming change; when the abused brown grass, newly relieved of snow, seems considering whether it can be worth the trouble and worry of contriving its green raiment again only to fight the inevitable fight with the implacable winter and be vanquished and buried once more; when the sun shines out and a few birds venture forth and lift up a forgotten song; when a strange stillness and suspense pervades the waiting air. it is a time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death. it is a time when one is filled with vague longings; when one dreams of flight to peaceful islands in the remote solitudes of the sea, or folds his hands and says, what is the use of struggling, and toiling and worrying any more? let us give it all up. it was into such a mood as this that laura had drifted from the musings which the letters of her lovers had called up. now she lifted her head and noted with surprise how the day had wasted. she thrust the letters aside, rose up and went and stood at the window. but she was soon thinking again, and was only gazing into vacancy. by and by she turned; her countenance had cleared; the dreamy look was gone out of her face, all indecision had vanished; the poise of her head and the firm set of her lips told that her resolution was formed. she moved toward the table with all the old dignity in her carriage, and all the old pride in her mien. she took up each letter in its turn, touched a match to it and watched it slowly consume to ashes. then she said: "i have landed upon a foreign shore, and burned my ships behind me. these letters were the last thing that held me in sympathy with any remnant or belonging of the old life. henceforth that life and all that appertains to it are as dead to me and as far removed from me as if i were become a denizen of another world." she said that love was not for her--the time that it could have satisfied her heart was gone by and could not return; the opportunity was lost, nothing could restore it. she said there could be no love without respect, and she would only despise a man who could content himself with a thing like her. love, she said, was a woman's first necessity: love being forfeited; there was but one thing left that could give a passing zest to a wasted life, and that was fame, admiration, the applause of the multitude. and so her resolution was taken. she would turn to that final resort of the disappointed of her sex, the lecture platform. she would array herself in fine attire, she would adorn herself with jewels, and stand in her isolated magnificence before massed, audiences and enchant them with her eloquence and amaze them with her unapproachable beauty. she would move from city to city like a queen of romance, leaving marveling multitudes behind her and impatient multitudes awaiting her coming. her life, during one hour of each day, upon the platform, would be a rapturous intoxication--and when the curtain fell; and the lights were out, and the people gone, to nestle in their homes and forget her, she would find in sleep oblivion of her homelessness, if she could, if not she would brave out the night in solitude and wait for the next day's hour of ecstasy. so, to take up life and begin again was no great evil. she saw her way. she would be brave and strong; she would make the best of, what was left for her among the possibilities. she sent for the lecture agent, and matters were soon arranged. straightway, all the papers were filled with her name, and all the dead walls flamed with it. the papers called down imprecations upon her head; they reviled her without stint; they wondered if all sense of decency was dead in this shameless murderess, this brazen lobbyist, this heartless seducer of the affections of weak and misguided men; they implored the people, for the sake of their pure wives, their sinless daughters, for the sake of decency, for the sake of public morals, to give this wretched creature such a rebuke as should be an all-sufficient evidence to her and to such as her, that there was a limit where the flaunting of their foul acts and opinions before the world must stop; certain of them, with a higher art, and to her a finer cruelty, a sharper torture, uttered no abuse, but always spoke of her in terms of mocking eulogy and ironical admiration. everybody talked about the new wonder, canvassed the theme of her proposed discourse, and marveled how she would handle it. laura's few friends wrote to her or came and talked with her, and pleaded with her to retire while it was yet time, and not attempt to face the gathering storm. but it was fruitless. she was stung to the quick by the comments of the newspapers; her spirit was roused, her ambition was towering, now. she was more determined than ever. she would show these people what a hunted and persecuted woman could do. the eventful night came. laura arrived before the great lecture hall in a close carriage within five minutes of the time set for the lecture to begin. when she stepped out of the vehicle her heart beat fast and her eyes flashed with exultation: the whole street was packed with people, and she could hardly force her way to the hall! she reached the ante-room, threw off her wraps and placed herself before the dressing-glass. she turned herself this way and that--everything was satisfactory, her attire was perfect. she smoothed her hair, rearranged a jewel here and there, and all the while her heart sang within her, and her face was radiant. she had not been so happy for ages and ages, it seemed to her. oh, no, she had never been so overwhelmingly grateful and happy in her whole life before. the lecture agent appeared at the door. she waved him away and said: "do not disturb me. i want no introduction. and do not fear for me; the moment the hands point to eight i will step upon the platform." he disappeared. she held her watch before her. she was so impatient that the second-hand seemed whole tedious minutes dragging its way around the circle. at last the supreme moment came, and with head erect and the bearing of an empress she swept through the door and stood upon the stage. her eyes fell upon only a vast, brilliant emptiness--there were not forty people in the house! there were only a handful of coarse men and ten or twelve still coarser women, lolling upon the benches and scattered about singly and in couples. her pulses stood still, her limbs quaked, the gladness went out of her face. there was a moment of silence, and then a brutal laugh and an explosion of cat-calls and hisses saluted her from the audience. the clamor grew stronger and louder, and insulting speeches were shouted at her. a half-intoxicated man rose up and threw something, which missed her but bespattered a chair at her side, and this evoked an outburst of laughter and boisterous admiration. she was bewildered, her strength was forsaking her. she reeled away from the platform, reached the ante-room, and dropped helpless upon a sofa. the lecture agent ran in, with a hurried question upon his lips; but she put forth her hands, and with the tears raining from her eyes, said: "oh, do not speak! take me away-please take me away, out of this. dreadful place! oh, this is like all my life--failure, disappointment, misery--always misery, always failure. what have i done, to be so pursued! take me away, i beg of you, i implore you!" upon the pavement she was hustled by the mob, the surging masses roared her name and accompanied it with every species of insulting epithet; they thronged after the carriage, hooting, jeering, cursing, and even assailing the vehicle with missiles. a stone crushed through a blind, wounding laura's forehead, and so stunning her that she hardly knew what further transpired during her flight. it was long before her faculties were wholly restored, and then she found herself lying on the floor by a sofa in her own sitting-room, and alone. so she supposed she must have sat down upon the sofa and afterward fallen. she raised herself up, with difficulty, for the air was chilly and her limbs were stiff. she turned up the gas and sought the glass. she hardly knew herself, so worn and old she looked, and so marred with blood were her features. the night was far spent, and a dead stillness reigned. she sat down by her table, leaned her elbows upon it and put her face in her hands. her thoughts wandered back over her old life again and her tears flowed unrestrained. her pride was humbled, her spirit was broken. her memory found but one resting place; it lingered about her young girlhood with a caressing regret; it dwelt upon it as the one brief interval of her life that bore no curse. she saw herself again in the budding grace of her twelve years, decked in her dainty pride of ribbons, consorting with the bees and the butterflies, believing in fairies, holding confidential converse with the flowers, busying herself all day long with airy trifles that were as weighty to her as the affairs that tax the brains of diplomats and emperors. she was without sin, then, and unacquainted with grief; the world was full of sunshine and her heart was full of music. from that--to this! "if i could only die!" she said. "if i could only go back, and be as i was then, for one hour--and hold my father's hand in mine again, and see all the household about me, as in that old innocent time--and then die! my god, i am humbled, my pride is all gone, my stubborn heart repents --have pity!" when the spring morning dawned, the form still sat there, the elbows resting upon the table and the face upon the hands. all day long the figure sat there, the sunshine enriching its costly raiment and flashing from its jewels; twilight came, and presently the stars, but still the figure remained; the moon found it there still, and framed the picture with the shadow of the window sash, and flooded, it with mellow light; by and by the darkness swallowed it up, and later the gray dawn revealed it again; the new day grew toward its prime, and still the forlorn presence was undisturbed. but now the keepers of the house had become uneasy; their periodical knockings still finding no response, they burst open the door. the jury of inquest found that death had resulted from heart disease, and was instant and painless. that was all. merely heart disease. chapter lxi. clay hawkins, years gone by, had yielded, after many a struggle, to the migratory and speculative instinct of our age and our people, and had wandered further and further westward upon trading ventures. settling finally in melbourne, australia, he ceased to roam, became a steady-going substantial merchant, and prospered greatly. his life lay beyond the theatre of this tale. his remittances had supported the hawkins family, entirely, from the time of his father's death until latterly when laura by her efforts in washington had been able to assist in this work. clay was away on a long absence in some of the eastward islands when laura's troubles began, trying (and almost in vain,) to arrange certain interests which had become disordered through a dishonest agent, and consequently he knew nothing of the murder till he returned and read his letters and papers. his natural impulse was to hurry to the states and save his sister if possible, for he loved her with a deep and abiding affection. his business was so crippled now, and so deranged, that to leave it would be ruin; therefore he sold out at a sacrifice that left him considerably reduced in worldly possessions, and began his voyage to san francisco. arrived there, he perceived by the newspapers that the trial was near its close. at salt lake later telegrams told him of the acquittal, and his gratitude was boundless--so boundless, indeed, that sleep was driven from his eyes by the pleasurable excitement almost as effectually as preceding weeks of anxiety had done it. he shaped his course straight for hawkeye, now, and his meeting with his mother and the rest of the household was joyful--albeit he had been away so long that he seemed almost a stranger in his own home. but the greetings and congratulations were hardly finished when all the journals in the land clamored the news of laura's miserable death. mrs. hawkins was prostrated by this last blow, and it was well that clay was at her side to stay her with comforting words and take upon himself the ordering of the household with its burden of labors and cares. washington hawkins had scarcely more than entered upon that decade which carries one to the full blossom of manhood which we term the beginning: of middle age, and yet a brief sojourn at the capital of the nation had made him old. his hair was already turning gray when the late session of congress began its sittings; it grew grayer still, and rapidly, after the memorable day that saw laura proclaimed a murderess; it waxed grayer and still grayer during the lagging suspense that succeeded it and after the crash which ruined his last hope--the failure of his bill in the senate and the destruction of its champion, dilworthy. a few days later, when he stood uncovered while the last prayer was pronounced over laura's grave, his hair was whiter and his face hardly less old than the venerable minister's whose words were sounding in his ears. a week after this, he was sitting in a double-bedded room in a cheap boarding house in washington, with col. sellers. the two had been living together lately, and this mutual cavern of theirs the colonel sometimes referred to as their "premises" and sometimes as their "apartments"--more particularly when conversing with persons outside. a canvas-covered modern trunk, marked "g. w. h." stood on end by the door, strapped and ready for a journey; on it lay a small morocco satchel, also marked "g. w. h." there was another trunk close by--a worn, and scarred, and ancient hair relic, with "b. s." wrought in brass nails on its top; on it lay a pair of saddle-bags that probably knew more about the last century than they could tell. washington got up and walked the floor a while in a restless sort of way, and finally was about to sit down on the hair trunk. "stop, don't sit down on that!" exclaimed the colonel: "there, now that's all right--the chair's better. i couldn't get another trunk like that --not another like it in america, i reckon." "i am afraid not," said washington, with a faint attempt at a smile. "no indeed; the man is dead that made that trunk and that saddle-bags." "are his great-grand-children still living?" said washington, with levity only in the words, not in the tone. "well, i don't know--i hadn't thought of that--but anyway they can't make trunks and saddle-bags like that, if they are--no man can," said the colonel with honest simplicity. "wife didn't like to see me going off with that trunk--she said it was nearly certain to be stolen." "why?" "why? why, aren't trunks always being stolen?" "well, yes--some kinds of trunks are." "very well, then; this is some kind of a trunk--and an almighty rare kind, too." "yes, i believe it is." "well, then, why shouldn't a man want to steal it if he got a chance?" "indeed i don't know.--why should he?" "washington, i never heard anybody talk like you. suppose you were a thief, and that trunk was lying around and nobody watching--wouldn't you steal it? come, now, answer fair--wouldn't you steal it? "well, now, since you corner me, i would take it,--but i wouldn't consider it stealing. "you wouldn't! well, that beats me. now what would you call stealing?" "why, taking property is stealing." "property! now what a way to talk that is: what do you suppose that trunk is worth?" "is it in good repair?" "perfect. hair rubbed off a little, but the main structure is perfectly sound." "does it leak anywhere?" "leak? do you want to carry water in it? what do you mean by does it leak?" "why--a--do the clothes fall out of it when it is--when it is stationary?" "confound it, washington, you are trying to make fun of me. i don't know what has got into you to-day; you act mighty curious. what is the matter with you?" "well, i'll tell you, old friend. i am almost happy. i am, indeed. it wasn't clay's telegram that hurried me up so and got me ready to start with you. it was a letter from louise." "good! what is it? what does she say?" "she says come home--her father has consented, at last." "my boy, i want to congratulate you; i want to shake you by the hand! it's a long turn that has no lane at the end of it, as the proverb says, or somehow that way. you'll be happy yet, and beriah sellers will be there to see, thank god!" "i believe it. general boswell is pretty nearly a poor man, now. the railroad that was going to build up hawkeye made short work of him, along with the rest. he isn't so opposed to a son-in-law without a fortune, now." "without a fortune, indeed! why that tennessee land--" "never mind the tennessee land, colonel. i am done with that, forever and forever--" "why no! you can't mean to say--" "my father, away back yonder, years ago, bought it for a blessing for his children, and--" "indeed he did! si hawkins said to me--" "it proved a curse to him as long as he lived, and never a curse like it was inflicted upon any man's heirs--" "i'm bound to say there's more or less truth--" "it began to curse me when i was a baby, and it has cursed every hour of my life to this day--" "lord, lord, but it's so! time and again my wife--" "i depended on it all through my boyhood and never tried to do an honest stroke of work for my living--" "right again--but then you--" "i have chased it years and years as children chase butterflies. we might all have been prosperous, now; we might all have been happy, all these heart-breaking years, if we had accepted our poverty at first and gone contentedly to work and built up our own wealth by our own toil and sweat--" "it's so, it's so; bless my soul, how often i've told si hawkins--" "instead of that, we have suffered more than the damned themselves suffer! i loved my father, and i honor his memory and recognize his good intentions; but i grieve for his mistaken ideas of conferring happiness upon his children. i am going to begin my life over again, and begin it and end it with good solid work! i'll leave my children no tennessee land!" "spoken like a man, sir, spoken like a man! your hand, again my boy! and always remember that when a word of advice from beriah sellers can help, it is at your service. i'm going to begin again, too!" "indeed!" "yes, sir. i've seen enough to show me where my mistake was. the law is what i was born for. i shall begin the study of the law. heavens and earth, but that brabant's a wonderful man--a wonderful man sir! such a head! and such a way with him! but i could see that he was jealous of me. the little licks i got in in the course of my argument before the jury--" "your argument! why, you were a witness." "oh, yes, to the popular eye, to the popular eye--but i knew when i was dropping information and when i was letting drive at the court with an insidious argument. but the court knew it, bless you, and weakened every time! and brabant knew it. i just reminded him of it in a quiet way, and its final result, and he said in a whisper, 'you did it, colonel, you did it, sir--but keep it mum for my sake; and i'll tell you what you do,' says he, 'you go into the law, col. sellers--go into the law, sir; that's your native element!' and into the law the subscriber is going. there's worlds of money in it!--whole worlds of money! practice first in hawkeye, then in jefferson, then in st. louis, then in new york! in the metropolis of the western world! climb, and climb, and climb--and wind up on the supreme bench. beriah sellers, chief justice of the supreme court of the united states, sir! a made man for all time and eternity! that's the way i block it out, sir--and it's as clear as day--clear as the rosy-morn!" washington had heard little of this. the first reference to laura's trial had brought the old dejection to his face again, and he stood gazing out of the window at nothing, lost in reverie. there was a knock-the postman handed in a letter. it was from obedstown. east tennessee, and was for washington. he opened it. there was a note saying that enclosed he would please find a bill for the current year's taxes on the , acres of tennessee land belonging to the estate of silas hawkins, deceased, and added that the money must be paid within sixty days or the land would be sold at public auction for the taxes, as provided by law. the bill was for $ --something more than twice the market value of the land, perhaps. washington hesitated. doubts flitted through his mind. the old instinct came upon him to cling to the land just a little longer and give it one more chance. he walked the floor feverishly, his mind tortured by indecision. presently he stopped, took out his pocket book and counted his money. two hundred and thirty dollars--it was all he had in the world. "one hundred and eighty . . . . . . . from two hundred and thirty," he said to himself. "fifty left . . . . . . it is enough to get me home . . . .. . . shall i do it, or shall i not? . . . . . . . i wish i had somebody to decide for me." the pocket book lay open in his hand, with louise's small letter in view. his eye fell upon that, and it decided him. "it shall go for taxes," he said, "and never tempt me or mine any more!" he opened the window and stood there tearing the tax bill to bits and watching the breeze waft them away, till all were gone. "the spell is broken, the life-long curse is ended!" he said. "let us go." the baggage wagon had arrived; five minutes later the two friends were mounted upon their luggage in it, and rattling off toward the station, the colonel endeavoring to sing "homeward bound," a song whose words he knew, but whose tune, as he rendered it, was a trial to auditors. chapter lxii philip sterling's circumstances were becoming straightened. the prospect was gloomy. his long siege of unproductive labor was beginning to tell upon his spirits; but what told still more upon them was the undeniable fact that the promise of ultimate success diminished every day, now. that is to say, the tunnel had reached a point in the hill which was considerably beyond where the coal vein should pass (according to all his calculations) if there were a coal vein there; and so, every foot that the tunnel now progressed seemed to carry it further away from the object of the search. sometimes he ventured to hope that he had made a mistake in estimating the direction which the vein should naturally take after crossing the valley and entering the hill. upon such occasions he would go into the nearest mine on the vein he was hunting for, and once more get the bearings of the deposit and mark out its probable course; but the result was the same every time; his tunnel had manifestly pierced beyond the natural point of junction; and then his, spirits fell a little lower. his men had already lost faith, and he often overheard them saying it was perfectly plain that there was no coal in the hill. foremen and laborers from neighboring mines, and no end of experienced loafers from the village, visited the tunnel from time to time, and their verdicts were always the same and always disheartening--"no coal in that hill." now and then philip would sit down and think it all over and wonder what the mystery meant; then he would go into the tunnel and ask the men if there were no signs yet? none--always "none." he would bring out a piece of rock and examine it, and say to himself, "it is limestone--it has crinoids and corals in it--the rock is right" then he would throw it down with a sigh, and say, "but that is nothing; where coal is, limestone with these fossils in it is pretty certain to lie against its foot casing; but it does not necessarily follow that where this peculiar rock is coal must lie above it or beyond it; this sign is not sufficient." the thought usually followed:--"there is one infallible sign--if i could only strike that!" three or four tines in as many weeks he said to himself, "am i a visionary? i must be a visionary; everybody is in these days; everybody chases butterflies: everybody seeks sudden fortune and will not lay one up by slow toil. this is not right, i will discharge the men and go at some honest work. there is no coal here. what a fool i have been; i will give it up." but he never could do it. a half hour of profound thinking always followed; and at the end of it he was sure to get up and straighten himself and say: "there is coal there; i will not give it up; and coal or no coal i will drive the tunnel clear through the hill; i will not surrender while i am alive." he never thought of asking mr. montague for more money. he said there was now but one chance of finding coal against nine hundred and ninety nine that he would not find it, and so it would be wrong in him to make the request and foolish in mr. montague to grant it. he had been working three shifts of men. finally, the settling of a weekly account exhausted his means. he could not afford to run in debt, and therefore he gave the men their discharge. they came into his cabin presently, where he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands--the picture of discouragement and their spokesman said: "mr. sterling, when tim was down a week with his fall you kept him on half-wages and it was a mighty help to his family; whenever any of us was in trouble you've done what you could to help us out; you've acted fair and square with us every time, and i reckon we are men and know a man when we see him. we haven't got any faith in that hill, but we have a respect for a man that's got the pluck that you've showed; you've fought a good fight, with everybody agin you and if we had grub to go on, i'm d---d if we wouldn't stand by you till the cows come home! that is what the boys say. now we want to put in one parting blast for luck. we want to work three days more; if we don't find anything, we won't bring in no bill against you. that is what we've come to say." philip was touched. if he had had money enough to buy three days' "grub" he would have accepted the generous offer, but as it was, he could not consent to be less magnanimous than the men, and so he declined in a manly speech; shook hands all around and resumed his solitary communings. the men went back to the tunnel and "put in a parting blast for luck" anyhow. they did a full day's work and then took their leave. they called at his cabin and gave him good-bye, but were not able to tell him their day's effort had given things a mere promising look. the next day philip sold all the tools but two or three sets; he also sold one of the now deserted cabins as old, lumber, together with its domestic wares; and made up his mind that he would buy, provisions with the trifle of money thus gained and continue his work alone. about the middle of the after noon he put on his roughest clothes and went to the tunnel. he lit a candle and groped his way in. presently he heard the sound of a pick or a drill, and wondered, what it meant. a spark of light now appeared in the far end of the tunnel, and when he arrived there he found the man tim at work. tim said: "i'm to have a job in the golden brier mine by and by--in a week or ten days--and i'm going to work here till then. a man might as well be at some thing, and besides i consider that i owe you what you paid me when i was laid up." philip said, oh, no, he didn't owe anything; but tim persisted, and then philip said he had a little provision now, and would share. so for several days philip held the drill and tim did the striking. at first philip was impatient to see the result of every blast, and was always back and peering among the smoke the moment after the explosion. but there was never any encouraging result; and therefore he finally lost almost all interest, and hardly troubled himself to inspect results at all. he simply labored on, stubbornly and with little hope. tim staid with him till the last moment, and then took up his job at the golden brier, apparently as depressed by the continued barrenness of their mutual labors as philip was himself. after that, philip fought his battle alone, day after day, and slow work it was; he could scarcely see that he made any progress. late one afternoon he finished drilling a hole which he had been at work at for more than two hours; he swabbed it out, and poured in the powder and inserted the fuse; then filled up the rest of the hole with dirt and small fragments of stone; tamped it down firmly, touched his candle to the fuse, and ran. by and by the i dull report came, and he was about to walk back mechanically and see what was accomplished; but he halted; presently turned on his heel and thought, rather than said: "no, this is useless, this is absurd. if i found anything it would only be one of those little aggravating seams of coal which doesn't mean anything, and--" by this time he was walking out of the tunnel. his thought ran on: "i am conquered . . . . . . i am out of provisions, out of money. . . . . i have got to give it up . . . . . . all this hard work lost! but i am not conquered! i will go and work for money, and come back and have another fight with fate. ah me, it may be years, it may, be years." arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, he threw his coat upon the ground, sat down on, a stone, and his eye sought the westering sun and dwelt upon the charming landscape which stretched its woody ridges, wave upon wave, to the golden horizon. something was taking place at his feet which did not attract his attention. his reverie continued, and its burden grew more and more gloomy. presently he rose up and, cast a look far away toward the valley, and his thoughts took a new direction: "there it is! how good it looks! but down there is not up here. well, i will go home and pack up--there is nothing else to do" he moved off moodily toward his cabin. he had gone some distance before he thought of his coat; then he was about to turn back, but he smiled at the thought, and continued his journey--such a coat as that could be of little use in a civilized land; a little further on, he remembered that there were some papers of value in one of the pockets of the relic, and then with a penitent ejaculation he turned back picked up the coat and put it on. he made a dozen steps, and then stopped very suddenly. he stood still a moment, as one who is trying to believe something and cannot. he put a hand up over his shoulder and felt his back, and a great thrill shot through him. he grasped the skirt of the coat impulsively and another thrill followed. he snatched the coat from his back, glanced at it, threw it from him and flew back to the tunnel. he sought the spot where the coat had lain--he had to look close, for the light was waning--then to make sure, he put his hand to the ground and a little stream of water swept against his fingers: "thank god, i've struck it at last!" he lit a candle and ran into the tunnel; he picked up a piece of rubbish cast out by the last blast, and said: "this clayey stuff is what i've longed for--i know what is behind it." he swung his pick with hearty good will till long after the darkness had gathered upon the earth, and when he trudged home at length he knew he had a coal vein and that it was seven feet thick from wall to wall. he found a yellow envelope lying on his rickety table, and recognized that it was of a family sacred to the transmission of telegrams. he opened it, read it, crushed it in his hand and threw it down. it simply said: "ruth is very ill." chapter lxiii. it was evening when philip took the cars at the ilium station. the news of, his success had preceded him, and while he waited for the train, he was the center of a group of eager questioners, who asked him a hundred things about the mine, and magnified his good fortune. there was no mistake this time. philip, in luck, had become suddenly a person of consideration, whose speech was freighted with meaning, whose looks were all significant. the words of the proprietor of a rich coal mine have a golden sound, and his common sayings are repeated as if they were solid wisdom. philip wished to be alone; his good fortune at this moment seemed an empty mockery, one of those sarcasms of fate, such as that which spreads a dainty banquet for the man who has no appetite. he had longed for success principally for ruth's sake; and perhaps now, at this very moment of his triumph, she was dying. "shust what i said, mister sederling," the landlord of the ilium hotel kept repeating. "i dold jake schmidt he find him dere shust so sure as noting." "you ought to have taken a share, mr. dusenheimer," said philip. "yaas, i know. but d'old woman, she say 'you sticks to your pisiness. so i sticks to 'em. und i makes noting. dat mister prierly, he don't never come back here no more, ain't it?" "why?" asked philip. "vell, dere is so many peers, and so many oder dhrinks, i got 'em all set down, ven he coomes back." it was a long night for philip, and a restless one. at any other time the swing of the cars would have lulled him to sleep, and the rattle and clank of wheels and rails, the roar of the whirling iron would have only been cheerful reminders of swift and safe travel. now they were voices of warning and taunting; and instead of going rapidly the train seemed to crawl at a snail's pace. and it not only crawled, but it frequently stopped; and when it stopped it stood dead still and there was an ominous silence. was anything the matter, he wondered. only a station probably. perhaps, he thought, a telegraphic station. and then he listened eagerly. would the conductor open the door and ask for philip sterling, and hand him a fatal dispatch? how long they seemed to wait. and then slowly beginning to move, they were off again, shaking, pounding, screaming through the night. he drew his curtain from time to time and looked out. there was the lurid sky line of the wooded range along the base of which they were crawling. there was the susquehannah, gleaming in the moon-light. there was a stretch of level valley with silent farm houses, the occupants all at rest, without trouble, without anxiety. there was a church, a graveyard, a mill, a village; and now, without pause or fear, the train had mounted a trestle-work high in air and was creeping along the top of it while a swift torrent foamed a hundred feet below. what would the morning bring? even while he was flying to her, her gentle spirit might have gone on another flight, whither he could not follow her. he was full of foreboding. he fell at length into a restless doze. there was a noise in his ears as of a rushing torrent when a stream is swollen by a freshet in the spring. it was like the breaking up of life; he was struggling in the consciousness of coming death: when ruth stood by his side, clothed in white, with a face like that of an angel, radiant, smiling, pointing to the sky, and saying, "come." he awoke with a cry--the train was roaring through a bridge, and it shot out into daylight. when morning came the train was industriously toiling along through the fat lands of lancaster, with its broad farms of corn and wheat, its mean houses of stone, its vast barns and granaries, built as if, for storing the riches of heliogabalus. then came the smiling fields of chester, with their english green, and soon the county of philadelphia itself, and the increasing signs of the approach to a great city. long trains of coal cars, laden and unladen, stood upon sidings; the tracks of other roads were crossed; the smoke of other locomotives was seen on parallel lines; factories multiplied; streets appeared; the noise of a busy city began to fill the air;--and with a slower and slower clank on the connecting rails and interlacing switches the train rolled into the station and stood still. it was a hot august morning. the broad streets glowed in the sun, and the white-shuttered houses stared at the hot thoroughfares like closed bakers' ovens set along the highway. philip was oppressed with the heavy air; the sweltering city lay as in a swoon. taking a street car, he rode away to the northern part of the city, the newer portion, formerly the district of spring garden, for in this the boltons now lived, in a small brick house, befitting their altered fortunes. he could scarcely restrain his impatience when he came in sight of the house. the window shutters were not "bowed"; thank god, for that. ruth was still living, then. he ran up the steps and rang. mrs. bolton met him at the door. "thee is very welcome, philip." "and ruth?" "she is very ill, but quieter than, she has been, and the fever is a little abating. the most dangerous time will be when the fever leaves her. the doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from it. yes, thee can see her." mrs. bolton led the way to the little chamber where ruth lay. "oh," said her mother, "if she were only in her cool and spacious room in our old home. she says that seems like heaven." mr. bolton sat by ruth's bedside, and he rose and silently pressed philip's hand. the room had but one window; that was wide open to admit the air, but the air that came in was hot and lifeless. upon the table stood a vase of flowers. ruth's eyes were closed; her cheeks were flushed with fever, and she moved her head restlessly as if in pain. "ruth," said her mother, bending over her, "philip is here." ruth's eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of recognition in them, there was an attempt at a smile upon her face, and she tried to raise her thin hand, as philip touched her forehead with his lips; and he heard her murmur, "dear phil." there was nothing to be done but to watch and wait for the cruel fever to burn itself out. dr. longstreet told philip that the fever had undoubtedly been contracted in the hospital, but it was not malignant, and would be little dangerous if ruth were not so worn down with work, or if she had a less delicate constitution. "it is only her indomitable will that has kept her up for weeks. and if that should leave her now, there will be no hope. you can do more for her now, sir, than i can?" "how?" asked philip eagerly. "your presence, more than anything else, will inspire her with the desire to live." when the fever turned, ruth was in a very critical condition. for two days her life was like the fluttering of a lighted candle in the wind. philip was constantly by her side, and she seemed to be conscious of his presence, and to cling to him, as one borne away by a swift stream clings to a stretched-out hand from the shore. if he was absent a moment her restless eyes sought something they were disappointed not to find. philip so yearned to bring her back to life, he willed it so strongly and passionately, that his will appeared to affect hers and she seemed slowly to draw life from his. after two days of this struggle with the grasping enemy, it was evident to dr. longstreet that ruth's will was beginning to issue its orders to her body with some force, and that strength was slowly coming back. in another day there was a decided improvement. as philip sat holding her weak hand and watching the least sign of resolution in her face, ruth was able to whisper, "i so want to live, for you, phil!" "you will; darling, you must," said philip in a tone of faith and courage that carried a thrill of determination--of command--along all her nerves. slowly philip drew her back to life. slowly she came back, as one willing but well nigh helpless. it was new for ruth to feel this dependence on another's nature, to consciously draw strength of will from the will of another. it was a new but a dear joy, to be lifted up and carried back into the happy world, which was now all aglow with the light of love; to be lifted and carried by the one she loved more than her own life. "sweetheart," she said to philip, "i would not have cared to come back but for thy love." "not for thy profession?" "oh, thee may be glad enough of that some day, when thy coal bed is dug out and thee and father are in the air again." when ruth was able to ride she was taken into the country, for the pure air was necessary to her speedy recovery. the family went with her. philip could not be spared from her side, and mr. bolton had gone up to ilium to look into that wonderful coal mine and to make arrangements for developing it, and bringing its wealth to market. philip had insisted on re-conveying the ilium property to mr. bolton, retaining only the share originally contemplated for himself, and mr. bolton, therefore, once more found himself engaged in business and a person of some consequence in third street. the mine turned out even better than was at first hoped, and would, if judiciously managed, be a fortune to them all. this also seemed to be the opinion of mr. bigler, who heard of it as soon as anybody, and, with the impudence of his class called upon mr. bolton for a little aid in a patent car-wheel he had bought an interest in. that rascal, small, he said, had swindled him out of all he had. mr. bolton told him he was very sorry, and recommended him to sue small. mr. small also came with a similar story about mr. bigler; and mr. bolton had the grace to give him like advice. and he added, "if you and bigler will procure the indictment of each other, you may have the satisfaction of putting each other in the penitentiary for the forgery of my acceptances." bigler and small did not quarrel however. they both attacked mr. bolton behind his back as a swindler, and circulated the story that he had made a fortune by failing. in the pure air of the highlands, amid the golden glories of ripening september, ruth rapidly came back to health. how beautiful the world is to an invalid, whose senses are all clarified, who has been so near the world of spirits that she is sensitive to the finest influences, and whose frame responds with a thrill to the subtlest ministrations of soothing nature. mere life is a luxury, and the color of the grass, of the flowers, of the sky, the wind in the trees, the outlines of the horizon, the forms of clouds, all give a pleasure as exquisite as the sweetest music to the ear famishing for it. the world was all new and fresh to ruth, as if it had just been created for her, and love filled it, till her heart was overflowing with happiness. it was golden september also at fallkill. and alice sat by the open window in her room at home, looking out upon the meadows where the laborers were cutting the second crop of clover. the fragrance of it floated to her nostrils. perhaps she did not mind it. she was thinking. she had just been writing to ruth, and on the table before her was a yellow piece of paper with a faded four-leaved clover pinned on it--only a memory now. in her letter to ruth she had poured out her heartiest blessings upon them both, with her dear love forever and forever. "thank god," she said, "they will never know" they never would know. and the world never knows how many women there are like alice, whose sweet but lonely lives of self-sacrifice, gentle, faithful, loving souls, bless it continually. "she is a dear girl," said philip, when ruth showed him the letter. "yes, phil, and we can spare a great deal of love for her, our own lives are so full." appendix. perhaps some apology to the reader is necessary in view of our failure to find laura's father. we supposed, from the ease with which lost persons are found in novels, that it would not be difficult. but it was; indeed, it was impossible; and therefore the portions of the narrative containing the record of the search have been stricken out. not because they were not interesting--for they were; but inasmuch as the man was not found, after all, it did not seem wise to harass and excite the reader to no purpose. the authors the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . chapter xxviii. whatever may have been the language of harry's letter to the colonel, the information it conveyed was condensed or expanded, one or the other, from the following episode of his visit to new york: he called, with official importance in his mien, at no.-- wall street, where a great gilt sign betokened the presence of the head-quarters of the "columbus river slack-water navigation company." he entered and gave a dressy porter his card, and was requested to wait a moment in a sort of ante-room. the porter returned in a minute; and asked whom he would like to see? "the president of the company, of course." "he is busy with some gentlemen, sir; says he will be done with them directly." that a copper-plate card with "engineer-in-chief" on it should be received with such tranquility as this, annoyed mr. brierly not a little. but he had to submit. indeed his annoyance had time to augment a good deal; for he was allowed to cool his heels a frill half hour in the ante-room before those gentlemen emerged and he was ushered into the presence. he found a stately dignitary occupying a very official chair behind a long green morocco-covered table, in a room with sumptuously carpeted and furnished, and well garnished with pictures. "good morning, sir; take a seat--take a seat." "thank you sir," said harry, throwing as much chill into his manner as his ruffled dignity prompted. "we perceive by your reports and the reports of the chief superintendent, that you have been making gratifying progress with the work.--we are all very much pleased." "indeed? we did not discover it from your letters--which we have not received; nor by the treatment our drafts have met with--which were not honored; nor by the reception of any part of the appropriation, no part of it having come to hand." "why, my dear mr. brierly, there must be some mistake, i am sure we wrote you and also mr. sellers, recently--when my clerk comes he will show copies--letters informing you of the ten per cent. assessment." "oh, certainly, we got those letters. but what we wanted was money to carry on the work--money to pay the men." "certainly, certainly--true enough--but we credited you both for a large part of your assessments--i am sure that was in our letters." "of course that was in--i remember that." "ah, very well then. now we begin to understand each other." "well, i don't see that we do. there's two months' wages due the men, and----" "how? haven't you paid the men?" "paid them! how are we going to pay them when you don't honor our drafts?" "why, my dear sir, i cannot see how you can find any fault with us. i am sure we have acted in a perfectly straight forward business way.--now let us look at the thing a moment. you subscribed for shares of the capital stock, at $ , a share, i believe?" "yes, sir, i did." "and mr. sellers took a like amount?" "yes, sir." "very well. no concern can get along without money. we levied a ten per cent. assessment. it was the original understanding that you and mr. sellers were to have the positions you now hold, with salaries of $ a month each, while in active service. you were duly elected to these places, and you accepted them. am i right?" "certainly." "very well. you were given your instructions and put to work. by your reports it appears that you have expended the sum of $ , upon the said work. two months salary to you two officers amounts altogether to $ , --about one-eighth of your ten per cent. assessment, you see; which leaves you in debt to the company for the other seven-eighths of the assessment--viz, something over $ , apiece. now instead of requiring you to forward this aggregate of $ , or $ , to new york, the company voted unanimously to let you pay it over to the contractors, laborers from time to time, and give you credit on the books for it. and they did it without a murmur, too, for they were pleased with the progress you had made, and were glad to pay you that little compliment --and a very neat one it was, too, i am sure. the work you did fell short of $ , , a trifle. let me see--$ , from $ , salary $ ; added--ah yes, the balance due the company from yourself and mr. sellers is $ , , which i will take the responsibility of allowing to stand for the present, unless you prefer to draw a check now, and thus----" "confound it, do you mean to say that instead of the company owing us $ , , we owe the company $ , ?" "well, yes." "and that we owe the men and the contractors nearly ten thousand dollars besides?" "owe them! oh bless my soul, you can't mean that you have not paid these people?" "but i do mean it!" the president rose and walked the floor like a man in bodily pain. his brows contracted, he put his hand up and clasped his forehead, and kept saying, "oh, it is, too bad, too bad, too bad! oh, it is bound to be found out--nothing can prevent it--nothing!" then he threw himself into his chair and said: "my dear mr. brierson, this is dreadful--perfectly dreadful. it will be found out. it is bound to tarnish the good name of the company; our credit will be seriously, most seriously impaired. how could you be so thoughtless--the men ought to have been paid though it beggared us all!" "they ought, ought they? then why the devil--my name is not bryerson, by the way--why the mischief didn't the compa--why what in the nation ever became of the appropriation? where is that appropriation?--if a stockholder may make so bold as to ask." the appropriation?--that paltry $ , , do you mean?" "of course--but i didn't know that $ , was so very paltry. though i grant, of course, that it is not a large sum, strictly speaking. but where is it?" "my dear sir, you surprise me. you surely cannot have had a large acquaintance with this sort of thing. otherwise you would not have expected much of a result from a mere initial appropriation like that. it was never intended for anything but a mere nest egg for the future and real appropriations to cluster around." "indeed? well, was it a myth, or was it a reality? whatever become of it?" "why the--matter is simple enough. a congressional appropriation costs money. just reflect, for instance--a majority of the house committee, say $ , apiece--$ , ; a majority of the senate committee, the same each--say $ , ; a little extra to one or two chairman of one or two such committees, say $ , each--$ , ; and there's $ , of the money gone, to begin with. then, seven male lobbyists, at $ , each --$ , ; one female lobbyist, $ , ; a high moral congressman or senator here and there--the high moral ones cost more, because they. give tone to a measure--say ten of these at $ , each, is $ , ; then a lot of small-fry country members who won't vote for anything whatever without pay--say twenty at $ apiece, is $ , ; a lot of dinners to members--say $ , altogether; lot of jimcracks for congressmen's wives and children--those go a long way--you can't sped too much money in that line--well, those things cost in a lump, say $ , --along there somewhere; and then comes your printed documents--your maps, your tinted engravings, your pamphlets, your illuminated show cards, your advertisements in a hundred and fifty papers at ever so much a line --because you've got to keep the papers all light or you are gone up, you know. oh, my dear sir, printing bills are destruction itself. ours so far amount to--let me see-- ; ; ; ;--and then there's ; ; --well, never mind the details, the total in clean numbers foots up $ , . thus far!" "what!" "oh, yes indeed. printing's no bagatelle, i can tell you. and then there's your contributions, as a company, to chicago fires and boston fires, and orphan asylums and all that sort of thing--head the list, you see, with the company's full name and a thousand dollars set opposite --great card, sir--one of the finest advertisements in the world--the preachers mention it in the pulpit when it's a religious charity--one of the happiest advertisements in the world is your benevolent donation. ours have amounted to sixteen thousand dollars and some cents up to this time." "good heavens!" "oh, yes. perhaps the biggest thing we've done in the advertising line was to get an officer of the u. s. government, of perfectly himmalayan official altitude, to write up our little internal improvement for a religious paper of enormous circulation--i tell you that makes our bonds go handsomely among the pious poor. your religious paper is by far the best vehicle for a thing of this kind, because they'll 'lead' your article and put it right in the midst of the reading matter; and if it's got a few scripture quotations in it, and some temperance platitudes and a bit of gush here and there about sunday schools, and a sentimental snuffle now and then about 'god's precious ones, the honest hard-handed poor,' it works the nation like a charm, my dear sir, and never a man suspects that it is an advertisement; but your secular paper sticks you right into the advertising columns and of course you don't take a trick. give me a religious paper to advertise in, every time; and if you'll just look at their advertising pages, you'll observe that other people think a good deal as i do--especially people who have got little financial schemes to make everybody rich with. of course i mean your great big metropolitan religious papers that know how to serve god and make money at the same time--that's your sort, sir, that's your sort--a religious paper that isn't run to make money is no use to us, sir, as an advertising medium--no use to anybody--in our line of business. i guess our next best dodge was sending a pleasure trip of newspaper reporters out to napoleon. never paid them a cent; just filled them up with champagne and the fat of the land, put pen, ink and paper before them while they were red-hot, and bless your soul when you come to read their letters you'd have supposed they'd been to heaven. and if a sentimental squeamishness held one or two of them back from taking a less rosy view of napoleon, our hospitalities tied his tongue, at least, and he said nothing at all and so did us no harm. let me see--have i stated all the expenses i've been at? no, i was near forgetting one or two items. there's your official salaries--you can't get good men for nothing. salaries cost pretty lively. and then there's your big high-sounding millionaire names stuck into your advertisements as stockholders--another card, that--and they are stockholders, too, but you have to give them the stock and non-assessable at that--so they're an expensive lot. very, very expensive thing, take it all around, is a big internal improvement concern--but you see that yourself, mr. bryerman--you see that, yourself, sir." "but look here. i think you are a little mistaken about it's ever having cost anything for congressional votes. i happen to know something about that. i've let you say your say--now let me say mine. i don't wish to seem to throw any suspicion on anybody's statements, because we are all liable to be mistaken. but how would it strike you if i were to say that i was in washington all the time this bill was pending? and what if i added that i put the measure through myself? yes, sir, i did that little thing. and moreover, i never paid a dollar for any man's vote and never promised one. there are some ways of doing a thing that are as good as others which other people don't happen to think about, or don't have the knack of succeeding in, if they do happen to think of them. my dear sir, i am obliged to knock some of your expenses in the head--for never a cent was paid a congressman or senator on the part of this navigation company." the president smiled blandly, even sweetly, all through this harangue, and then said: "is that so?" "every word of it." "well it does seem to alter the complexion of things a little. you are acquainted with the members down there, of course, else you could not have worked to such advantage?" "i know them all, sir. i know their wives, their children, their babies --i even made it a point to be on good terms with their lackeys. i know every congressman well--even familiarly." "very good. do you know any of their signatures? do you know their handwriting?" "why i know their handwriting as well as i know my own--have had correspondence enough with them, i should think. and their signatures --why i can tell their initials, even." the president went to a private safe, unlocked it and got out some letters and certain slips of paper. then he said: "now here, for instance; do you believe that that is a genuine letter? do you know this signature here?--and this one? do you know who those initials represent--and are they forgeries?" harry was stupefied. there were things there that made his brain swim. presently, at the bottom of one of the letters he saw a signature that restored his equilibrium; it even brought the sunshine of a smile to his face. the president said: "that one amuses you. you never suspected him?" "of course i ought to have suspected him, but i don't believe it ever really occurred to me. well, well, well--how did you ever have the nerve to approach him, of all others?" "why my friend, we never think of accomplishing anything without his help. he is our mainstay. but how do those letters strike you?" "they strike me dumb! what a stone-blind idiot i have been!" "well, take it all around, i suppose you had a pleasant time in washington," said the president, gathering up the letters; "of course you must have had. very few men could go there and get a money bill through without buying a single" "come, now, mr. president, that's plenty of that! i take back everything i said on that head. i'm a wiser man to-day than i was yesterday, i can tell you." "i think you are. in fact i am satisfied you are. but now i showed you these things in confidence, you understand. mention facts as much as you want to, but don't mention names to anybody. i can depend on you for that, can't i?" "oh, of course. i understand the necessity of that. i will not betray the names. but to go back a bit, it begins to look as if you never saw any of that appropriation at all?" "we saw nearly ten thousand dollars of it--and that was all. several of us took turns at log-rolling in washington, and if we had charged anything for that service, none of that $ , would ever have reached new york." "if you hadn't levied the assessment you would have been in a close place i judge?" "close? have you figured up the total of the disbursements i told you of?" "no, i didn't think of that." "well, lets see: spent in washington, say, ........... $ , printing, advertising, etc., say .... $ , charity, say, ....................... $ , total, ............... $ , the money to do that with, comes from --appropriation, ...................... $ , ten per cent. assessment on capital of $ , , ..................... $ , total, ............... $ , "which leaves us in debt some $ , at this moment. salaries of home officers are still going on; also printing and advertising. next month will show a state of things!" "and then--burst up, i suppose?" "by no means. levy another assessment" "oh, i see. that's dismal." "by no means." "why isn't it? what's the road out?" "another appropriation, don't you see?" "bother the appropriations. they cost more than they come to." "not the next one. we'll call for half a million--get it and go for a million the very next month."--"yes, but the cost of it!" the president smiled, and patted his secret letters affectionately. he said: "all these people are in the next congress. we shan't have to pay them a cent. and what is more, they will work like beavers for us--perhaps it might be to their advantage." harry reflected profoundly a while. then he said: "we send many missionaries to lift up the benighted races of other lands. how much cheaper and better it would be if those people could only come here and drink of our civilization at its fountain head." "i perfectly agree with you, mr. beverly. must you go? well, good morning. look in, when you are passing; and whenever i can give you any information about our affairs and pro'spects, i shall be glad to do it." harry's letter was not a long one, but it contained at least the calamitous figures that came out in the above conversation. the colonel found himself in a rather uncomfortable place--no $ , salary forthcoming; and himself held responsible for half of the $ , due the workmen, to say nothing of being in debt to the company to the extent of nearly $ , . polly's heart was nearly broken; the "blues" returned in fearful force, and she had to go out of the room to hide the tears that nothing could keep back now. there was mourning in another quarter, too, for louise had a letter. washington had refused, at the last moment, to take $ , for the tennessee land, and had demanded $ , ! so the trade fell through, and now washington was wailing because he had been so foolish. but he wrote that his man might probably return to the city soon, and then he meant to sell to him, sure, even if he had to take $ , . louise had a good cry-several of them, indeed--and the family charitably forebore to make any comments that would increase her grief. spring blossomed, summer came, dragged its hot weeks by, and the colonel's spirits rose, day by day, for the railroad was making good progress. but by and by something happened. hawkeye had always declined to subscribe anything toward the railway, imagining that her large business would be a sufficient compulsory influence; but now hawkeye was frightened; and before col. sellers knew what he was about, hawkeye, in a panic, had rushed to the front and subscribed such a sum that napoleon's attractions suddenly sank into insignificance and the railroad concluded to follow a comparatively straight coarse instead of going miles out of its way to build up a metropolis in the muddy desert of stone's landing. the thunderbolt fell. after all the colonel's deep planning; after all his brain work and tongue work in drawing public attention to his pet project and enlisting interest in it; after all his faithful hard toil with his hands, and running hither and thither on his busy feet; after all his high hopes and splendid prophecies, the fates had turned their backs on him at last, and all in a moment his air-castles crumbled to ruins abort him. hawkeye rose from her fright triumphant and rejoicing, and down went stone's landing! one by one its meagre parcel of inhabitants packed up and moved away, as the summer waned and fall approached. town lots were no longer salable, traffic ceased, a deadly lethargy fell upon the place once more, the "weekly telegraph" faded into an early grave, the wary tadpole returned from exile, the bullfrog resumed his ancient song, the tranquil turtle sunned his back upon bank and log and drowsed his grateful life away as in the old sweet days of yore. chapter xxix. philip sterling was on his way to ilium, in the state of pennsylvania. ilium was the railway station nearest to the tract of wild land which mr. bolton had commissioned him to examine. on the last day of the journey as the railway train philip was on was leaving a large city, a lady timidly entered the drawing-room car, and hesitatingly took a chair that was at the moment unoccupied. philip saw from the window that a gentleman had put her upon the car just as it was starting. in a few moments the conductor entered, and without waiting an explanation, said roughly to the lady, "now you can't sit there. that seat's taken. go into the other car." "i did not intend to take the seat," said the lady rising, "i only sat down a moment till the conductor should come and give me a seat." "there aint any. car's full. you'll have to leave." "but, sir," said the lady, appealingly, "i thought--" "can't help what you thought--you must go into the other car." "the train is going very fast, let me stand here till we stop." "the lady can have my seat," cried philip, springing up. the conductor turned towards philip, and coolly and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot, with contempt in every line of his face, turned his back upon him without a word, and said to the lady, "come, i've got no time to talk. you must go now." the lady, entirely disconcerted by such rudeness, and frightened, moved towards the door, opened it and stepped out. the train was swinging along at a rapid rate, jarring from side to side; the step was a long one between the cars and there was no protecting grating. the lady attempted it, but lost her balance, in the wind and the motion of the car, and fell! she would inevitably have gone down under the wheels, if philip, who had swiftly followed her, had not caught her arm and drawn her up. he then assisted her across, found her a seat, received her bewildered thanks, and returned to his car. the conductor was still there, taking his tickets, and growling something about imposition. philip marched up to him, and burst out with, "you are a brute, an infernal brute, to treat a woman that way." "perhaps you'd like to make a fuss about it," sneered the conductor. philip's reply was a blow, given so suddenly and planted so squarely in the conductor's face, that it sent him reeling over a fat passenger, who was looking up in mild wonder that any one should dare to dispute with a conductor, and against the side of the car. he recovered himself, reached the bell rope, "damn you, i'll learn you," stepped to the door and called a couple of brakemen, and then, as the speed slackened; roared out, "get off this train." "i shall not get off. i have as much right here as you." "we'll see," said the conductor, advancing with the brakemen. the passengers protested, and some of them said to each other, "that's too bad," as they always do in such cases, but none of them offered to take a hand with philip. the men seized him, wrenched him from his seat, dragged him along the aisle, tearing his clothes, thrust him from the car, and, then flung his carpet-bag, overcoat and umbrella after him. and the train went on. the conductor, red in the face and puffing from his exertion, swaggered through the car, muttering "puppy, i'll learn him." the passengers, when he had gone, were loud in their indignation, and talked about signing a protest, but they did nothing more than talk. the next morning the hooverville patriot and clarion had this "item":-- slightually overboard. "we learn that as the down noon express was leaving h---- yesterday a lady! (god save the mark) attempted to force herself into the already full palatial car. conductor slum, who is too old a bird to be caught with chaff, courteously informed her that the car was full, and when she insisted on remaining, he persuaded her to go into the car where she belonged. thereupon a young sprig, from the east, blustered like a shanghai rooster, and began to sass the conductor with his chin music. that gentleman delivered the young aspirant for a muss one of his elegant little left-handers, which so astonished him that he began to feel for his shooter. whereupon mr. slum gently raised the youth, carried him forth, and set him down just outside the car to cool off. whether the young blood has yet made his way out of bascom's swamp, we have not learned. conductor slum is one of the most gentlemanly and efficient officers on the road; but he ain't trifled with, not much. we learn that the company have put a new engine on the seven o'clock train, and newly upholstered the drawing-room car throughout. it spares no effort for the comfort of the traveling public." philip never had been before in bascom's swamp, and there was nothing inviting in it to detain him. after the train got out of the way he crawled out of the briars and the mud, and got upon the track. he was somewhat bruised, but he was too angry to mind that. he plodded along over the ties in a very hot condition of mind and body. in the scuffle, his railway check had disappeared, and he grimly wondered, as he noticed the loss, if the company would permit him to walk over their track if they should know he hadn't a ticket. philip had to walk some five miles before he reached a little station, where he could wait for a train, and he had ample time for reflection. at first he was full of vengeance on the company. he would sue it. he would make it pay roundly. but then it occurred to him that he did not know the name of a witness he could summon, and that a personal fight against a railway corporation was about the most hopeless in the world. he then thought he would seek out that conductor, lie in wait for him at some station, and thrash him, or get thrashed himself. but as he got cooler, that did not seem to him a project worthy of a gentleman exactly. was it possible for a gentleman to get even with such a fellow as that conductor on the letter's own plane? and when he came to this point, he began to ask himself, if he had not acted very much like a fool. he didn't regret striking the fellow--he hoped he had left a mark on him. but, after all, was that the best way? here was he, philip sterling, calling himself a gentleman, in a brawl with a vulgar conductor, about a woman he had never seen before. why should he have put himself in such a ridiculous position? wasn't it enough to have offered the lady his seat, to have rescued her from an accident, perhaps from death? suppose he had simply said to the conductor, "sir, your conduct is brutal, i shall report you." the passengers, who saw the affair, might have joined in a report against the conductor, and he might really have accomplished something. and, now! philip looked at leis torn clothes, and thought with disgust of his haste in getting into a fight with such an autocrat. at the little station where philip waited for the next train, he met a man--who turned out to be a justice of the peace in that neighborhood, and told him his adventure. he was a kindly sort of man, and seemed very much interested. "dum 'em," said he, when he had heard the story. "do you think any thing can be done, sir?" "wal, i guess tain't no use. i hain't a mite of doubt of every word you say. but suin's no use. the railroad company owns all these people along here, and the judges on the bench too. spiled your clothes! wal, 'least said's soonest mended.' you haint no chance with the company." when next morning, he read the humorous account in the patriot and clarion, he saw still more clearly what chance he would have had before the public in a fight with the railroad company. still philip's conscience told him that it was his plain duty to carry the matter into the courts, even with the certainty of defeat. he confessed that neither he nor any citizen had a right to consult his own feelings or conscience in a case where a law of the land had been violated before his own eyes. he confessed that every citizen's first duty in such case is to put aside his own business and devote his time and his best efforts to seeing that the infraction is promptly punished; and he knew that no country can be well governed unless its citizens as a body keep religiously before their minds that they are the guardians of the law, and that the law officers are only the machinery for its execution, nothing more. as a finality he was obliged to confess that he was a bad citizen, and also that the general laxity of the time, and the absence of a sense of duty toward any part of the community but the individual himself were ingrained in him, am he was no better than the rest of the people. the result of this little adventure was that philip did not reach ilium till daylight the next morning, when he descended sleepy and sore, from a way train, and looked about him. ilium was in a narrow mountain gorge, through which a rapid stream ran. it consisted of the plank platform on which he stood, a wooden house, half painted, with a dirty piazza (unroofed) in front, and a sign board hung on a slanting pole--bearing the legend, "hotel. p. dusenheimer," a sawmill further down the stream, a blacksmith-shop, and a store, and three or four unpainted dwellings of the slab variety. as philip approached the hotel he saw what appeared to be a wild beast crouching on the piazza. it did not stir, however, and he soon found that it was only a stuffed skin. this cheerful invitation to the tavern was the remains of a huge panther which had been killed in the region a few weeks before. philip examined his ugly visage and strong crooked fore-arm, as he was waiting admittance, having pounded upon the door. "yait a bit. i'll shoost--put on my trowsers," shouted a voice from the window, and the door was soon opened by the yawning landlord. "morgen! didn't hear d' drain oncet. dem boys geeps me up zo spate. gom right in." philip was shown into a dirty bar-room. it was a small room, with a stove in the middle, set in a long shallow box of sand, for the benefit of the "spitters," a bar across one end--a mere counter with a sliding glass-case behind it containing a few bottles having ambitious labels, and a wash-sink in one corner. on the walls were the bright yellow and black handbills of a traveling circus, with pictures of acrobats in human pyramids, horses flying in long leaps through the air, and sylph-like women in a paradisaic costume, balancing themselves upon the tips of their toes on the bare backs of frantic and plunging steeds, and kissing their hands to the spectators meanwhile. as philip did not desire a room at that hour, he was invited to wash himself at the nasty sink, a feat somewhat easier than drying his face, for the towel that hung in a roller over the sink was evidently as much a fixture as the sink itself, and belonged, like the suspended brush and comb, to the traveling public. philip managed to complete his toilet by the use of his pocket-handkerchief, and declining the hospitality of the landlord, implied in the remark, "you won'd dake notin'?" he went into the open air to wait for breakfast. the country he saw was wild but not picturesque. the mountain before him might be eight hundred feet high, and was only a portion of a long unbroken range, savagely wooded, which followed the stream. behind the hotel, and across the brawling brook, was another level-topped, wooded range exactly like it. ilium itself, seen at a glance, was old enough to be dilapidated, and if it had gained anything by being made a wood and water station of the new railroad, it was only a new sort of grime and rawness. p. dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting groggery, when the trains stopped for water; never received from the traveling public any patronage except facetious remarks upon his personal appearance. perhaps a thousand times he had heard the remark, "ilium fuit," followed in most instances by a hail to himself as "aeneas," with the inquiry "where is old anchises?" at first he had replied, "dere ain't no such man;" but irritated by its senseless repetition, he had latterly dropped into the formula of, "you be dam." philip was recalled from the contemplation of ilium by the rolling and growling of the gong within the hotel, the din and clamor increasing till the house was apparently unable to contain it; when it burst out of the front door and informed the world that breakfast was on the table. the dining room was long, low and narrow, and a narrow table extended its whole length. upon this was spread a cloth which from appearance might have been as long in use as the towel in the barroom. upon the table was the usual service, the heavy, much nicked stone ware, the row of plated and rusty castors, the sugar bowls with the zinc tea-spoons sticking up in them, the piles of yellow biscuits, the discouraged-looking plates of butter. the landlord waited, and philip was pleased to observe the change in his manner. in the barroom he was the conciliatory landlord. standing behind his guests at table, he had an air of peremptory patronage, and the voice in which he shot out the inquiry, as he seized philip's plate, "beefsteak or liver?" quite took away philip's power of choice. he begged for a glass of milk, after trying that green hued compound called coffee, and made his breakfast out of that and some hard crackers which seemed to have been imported into ilium before the introduction of the iron horse, and to have withstood a ten years siege of regular boarders, greeks and others. the land that philip had come to look at was at least five miles distant from ilium station. a corner of it touched the railroad, but the rest was pretty much an unbroken wilderness, eight or ten thousand acres of rough country, most of it such a mountain range as he saw at ilium. his first step was to hire three woodsmen to accompany him. by their help he built a log hut, and established a camp on the land, and then began his explorations, mapping down his survey as he went along, noting the timber, and the lay of the land, and making superficial observations as to the prospect of coal. the landlord at ilium endeavored to persuade philip to hire the services of a witch-hazel professor of that region, who could walk over the land with his wand and tell him infallibly whether it contained coal, and exactly where the strata ran. but philip preferred to trust to his own study of the country, and his knowledge of the geological formation. he spent a month in traveling over the land and making calculations; and made up his mind that a fine vein of coal ran through the mountain about a mile from the railroad, and that the place to run in a tunnel was half way towards its summit. acting with his usual promptness, philip, with the consent of mr. bolton, broke ground there at once, and, before snow came, had some rude buildings up, and was ready for active operations in the spring. it was true that there were no outcroppings of coal at the place, and the people at ilium said he "mought as well dig for plug terbaccer there;" but philip had great faith in the uniformity of nature's operations in ages past, and he had no doubt that he should strike at this spot the rich vein that had made the fortune of the golden briar company. chapter xxx. once more louise had good news from her washington--senator dilworthy was going to sell the tennessee land to the government! louise told laura in confidence. she had told her parents, too, and also several bosom friends; but all of these people had simply looked sad when they heard the news, except laura. laura's face suddenly brightened under it--only for an instant, it is true, but poor louise was grateful for even that fleeting ray of encouragement. when next laura was alone, she fell into a train of thought something like this: "if the senator has really taken hold of this matter, i may look for that invitation to his house at, any moment. i am perishing to go! i do long to know whether i am only simply a large-sized pigmy among these pigmies here, who tumble over so easily when one strikes them, or whether i am really--." her thoughts drifted into other channels, for a season. then she continued:-- "he said i could be useful in the great cause of philanthropy, and help in the blessed work of uplifting the poor and the ignorant, if he found it feasible to take hold of our land. well, that is neither here nor there; what i want, is to go to washington and find out what i am. i want money, too; and if one may judge by what she hears, there are chances there for a--." for a fascinating woman, she was going to say, perhaps, but she did not. along in the fall the invitation came, sure enough. it came officially through brother washington, the private secretary, who appended a postscript that was brimming with delight over the prospect of seeing the duchess again. he said it would be happiness enough to look upon her face once more--it would be almost too much happiness when to it was added the fact that she would bring messages with her that were fresh from louise's lips. in washington's letter were several important enclosures. for instance, there was the senator's check for $ , --"to buy suitable clothing in new york with!" it was a loan to be refunded when the land was sold. two thousand--this was fine indeed. louise's father was called rich, but laura doubted if louise had ever had $ worth of new clothing at one time in her life. with the check came two through tickets--good on the railroad from hawkeye to washington via new york--and they were "dead-head" tickets, too, which had been given to senator dilworthy by the railway companies. senators and representatives were paid thousands of dollars by the government for traveling expenses, but they always traveled "deadhead" both ways, and then did as any honorable, high-minded men would naturally do--declined to receive the mileage tendered them by the government. the senator had plenty of railway passes, and could. easily spare two to laura--one for herself and one for a male escort. washington suggested that she get some old friend of the family to come with her, and said the senator would "deadhead" him home again as soon as he had grown tired, of the sights of the capital. laura thought the thing over. at first she was pleased with the idea, but presently she began to feel differently about it. finally she said, "no, our staid, steady-going hawkeye friends' notions and mine differ about some things --they respect me, now, and i respect them--better leave it so--i will go alone; i am not afraid to travel by myself." and so communing with herself, she left the house for an afternoon walk. almost at the door she met col. sellers. she told him about her invitation to washington. "bless me!" said the colonel. "i have about made up my mind to go there myself. you see we've got to get another appropriation through, and the company want me to come east and put it through congress. harry's there, and he'll do what he can, of course; and harry's a good fellow and always does the very best he knows how, but then he's young--rather young for some parts of such work, you know--and besides he talks too much, talks a good deal too much; and sometimes he appears to be a little bit visionary, too, i think the worst thing in the world for a business man. a man like that always exposes his cards, sooner or later. this sort of thing wants an old, quiet, steady hand--wants an old cool head, you know, that knows men, through and through, and is used to large operations. i'm expecting my salary, and also some dividends from the company, and if they get along in time, i'll go along with you laura--take you under my wing--you mustn't travel alone. lord i wish i had the money right now. --but there'll be plenty soon--plenty." laura reasoned with herself that if the kindly, simple-hearted colonel was going anyhow, what could she gain by traveling alone and throwing away his company? so she told him she accepted his offer gladly, gratefully. she said it would be the greatest of favors if he would go with her and protect her--not at his own expense as far as railway fares were concerned, of course; she could not expect him to put himself to so much trouble for her and pay his fare besides. but he wouldn't hear of her paying his fare--it would be only a pleasure to him to serve her. laura insisted on furnishing the tickets; and finally, when argument failed, she said the tickets cost neither her nor any one else a cent --she had two of them--she needed but one--and if he would not take the other she would not go with him. that settled the matter. he took the ticket. laura was glad that she had the check for new clothing, for she felt very certain of being able to get the colonel to borrow a little of the money to pay hotel bills with, here and there. she wrote washington to look for her and col. sellers toward the end of november; and at about the time set the two travelers arrived safe in the capital of the nation, sure enough. chapter xxxi she the, gracious lady, yet no paines did spare to doe him ease, or doe him remedy: many restoratives of vertues rare and costly cordialles she did apply, to mitigate his stubborne malady. spenser's faerie queens. mr. henry brierly was exceedingly busy in new york, so he wrote col. sellers, but he would drop everything and go to washington. the colonel believed that harry was the prince of lobbyists, a little too sanguine, may be, and given to speculation, but, then, he knew everybody; the columbus river navigation scheme was, got through almost entirely by his aid. he was needed now to help through another scheme, a benevolent scheme in which col. sellers, through the hawkinses, had a deep interest. "i don't care, you know," he wrote to harry, "so much about the niggroes. but if the government will buy this land, it will set up the hawkins family--make laura an heiress--and i shouldn't wonder if beriah sellers would set up his carriage again. dilworthy looks at it different, of course. he's all for philanthropy, for benefiting the colored race. there's old balsam, was in the interior--used to be the rev. orson balsam of iowa--he's made the riffle on the injun; great injun pacificator and land dealer. balaam'a got the injun to himself, and i suppose that senator dilworthy feels that there is nothing left him but the colored man. i do reckon he is the best friend the colored man has got in washington." though harry was in a hurry to reach washington, he stopped in philadelphia; and prolonged his visit day after day, greatly to the detriment of his business both in new york and washington. the society at the bolton's might have been a valid excuse for neglecting business much more important than his. philip was there; he was a partner with mr. bolton now in the new coal venture, concerning which there was much to be arranged in preparation for the spring work, and philip lingered week after week in the hospitable house. alice was making a winter visit. ruth only went to town twice a week to attend lectures, and the household was quite to mr. bolton's taste, for he liked the cheer of company and something going on evenings. harry was cordially asked to bring his traveling-bag there, and he did not need urging to do so. not even the thought of seeing laura at the capital made him restless in the society of the two young ladies; two birds in hand are worth one in the bush certainly. philip was at home--he sometimes wished he were not so much so. he felt that too much or not enough was taken for granted. ruth had met him, when he first came, with a cordial frankness, and her manner continued entirely unrestrained. she neither sought his company nor avoided it, and this perfectly level treatment irritated him more than any other could have done. it was impossible to advance much in love-making with one who offered no obstacles, had no concealments and no embarrassments, and whom any approach to sentimentality would be quite likely to set into a fit of laughter. "why, phil," she would say, "what puts you in the dumps to day? you are as solemn as the upper bench in meeting. i shall have to call alice to raise your spirits; my presence seems to depress you." "it's not your presence, but your absence when you are present," began philip, dolefully, with the idea that he was saying a rather deep thing. "but you won't understand me." "no, i confess i cannot. if you really are so low, as to think i am absent when i am present, it's a frightful case of aberration; i shall ask father to bring out dr. jackson. does alice appear to be present when she is absent?" "alice has some human feeling, anyway. she cares for something besides musty books and dry bones. i think, ruth, when i die," said philip, intending to be very grim and sarcastic, "i'll leave you my skeleton. you might like that." "it might be more cheerful than you are at times," ruth replied with a laugh. "but you mustn't do it without consulting alice. she might not. like it." "i don't know why you should bring alice up on every occasion. do you think i am in love with her?" "bless you, no. it never entered my head. are you? the thought of philip sterling in love is too comical. i thought you were only in love with the ilium coal mine, which you and father talk about half the time." this is a specimen of philip's wooing. confound the girl, he would say to himself, why does she never tease harry and that young shepley who comes here? how differently alice treated him. she at least never mocked him, and it was a relief to talk with one who had some sympathy with him. and he did talk to her, by the hour, about ruth. the blundering fellow poured all his doubts and anxieties into her ear, as if she had been the impassive occupant of one of those little wooden confessionals in the cathedral on logan square. has, a confessor, if she is young and pretty, any feeling? does it mend the matter by calling her your sister? philip called alice his good sister, and talked to her about love and marriage, meaning ruth, as if sisters could by no possibility have any personal concern in such things. did ruth ever speak of him? did she think ruth cared for him? did ruth care for anybody at fallkill? did she care for anything except her profession? and so on. alice was loyal to ruth, and if she knew anything she did not betray her friend. she did not, at any rate, give philip too much encouragement. what woman, under the circumstances, would? "i can tell you one thing, philip," she said, "if ever ruth bolton loves, it will be with her whole soul, in a depth of passion that will sweep everything before it and surprise even herself." a remark that did not much console philip, who imagined that only some grand heroism could unlock the sweetness of such a heart; and philip feared that he wasn't a hero. he did not know out of what materials a woman can construct a hero, when she is in the creative mood. harry skipped into this society with his usual lightness and gaiety. his good nature was inexhaustible, and though he liked to relate his own exploits, he had a little tact in adapting himself to the tastes of his hearers. he was not long in finding out that alice liked to hear about philip, and harry launched out into the career of his friend in the west, with a prodigality of invention that would have astonished the chief actor. he was the most generous fellow in the world, and picturesque conversation was the one thing in which he never was bankrupt. with mr. bolton he was the serious man of business, enjoying the confidence of many of the monied men in new york, whom mr. bolton knew, and engaged with them in railway schemes and government contracts. philip, who had so long known harry, never could make up his mind that harry did not himself believe that he was a chief actor in all these large operations of which he talked so much. harry did not neglect to endeavor to make himself agreeable to mrs. bolton, by paying great attention to the children, and by professing the warmest interest in the friends' faith. it always seemed to him the most peaceful religion; he thought it must be much easier to live by an internal light than by a lot of outward rules; he had a dear quaker aunt in providence of whom mrs. bolton constantly reminded him. he insisted upon going with mrs. bolton and the children to the friends meeting on first day, when ruth and alice and philip, "world's people," went to a church in town, and he sat through the hour of silence with his hat on, in most exemplary patience. in short, this amazing actor succeeded so well with mrs. bolton, that she said to philip one day, "thy friend, henry brierly, appears to be a very worldly minded young man. does he believe in anything?" "oh, yes," said philip laughing, "he believes in more things than any other person i ever saw." to ruth, harry seemed to be very congenial. he was never moody for one thing, but lent himself with alacrity to whatever her fancy was. he was gay or grave as the need might be. no one apparently could enter more fully into her plans for an independent career. "my father," said harry, "was bred a physician, and practiced a little before he went into wall street. i always had a leaning to the study. there was a skeleton hanging in the closet of my father's study when i was a boy, that i used to dress up in old clothes. oh, i got quite familiar with the human frame." "you must have," said philip. "was that where you learned to play the bones? he is a master of those musical instruments, ruth; he plays well enough to go on the stage." "philip hates science of any kind, and steady application," retorted harry. he didn't fancy philip's banter, and when the latter had gone out, and ruth asked, "why don't you take up medicine, mr. brierly?" harry said, "i have it in mind. i believe i would begin attending lectures this winter if it weren't for being wanted in washington. but medicine is particularly women's province." "why so?" asked ruth, rather amused. "well, the treatment of disease is a good deal a matter of sympathy. a woman's intuition is better than a man's. nobody knows anything, really, you know, and a woman can guess a good deal nearer than a man." "you are very complimentary to my sex." "but," said harry frankly; "i should want to choose my doctor; an ugly woman would ruin me, the disease would be sure to strike in and kill me at sight of her. i think a pretty physician, with engaging manners, would coax a fellow to live through almost anything." "i am afraid you are a scoffer, mr. brierly." "on the contrary, i am quite sincere. wasn't it old what's his name? that said only the beautiful is useful?" whether ruth was anything more than diverted with harry's company; philip could not determine. he scorned at any rate to advance his own interest by any disparaging communications about harry, both because he could not help liking the fellow himself, and because he may have known that he could not more surely create a sympathy for him in ruth's mind. that ruth was in no danger of any serious impression he felt pretty sure, felt certain of it when he reflected upon her severe occupation with her profession. hang it, he would say to himself, she is nothing but pure intellect anyway. and he only felt uncertain of it when she was in one of her moods of raillery, with mocking mischief in her eyes. at such times she seemed to prefer harry's society to his. when philip was miserable about this, he always took refuge with alice, who was never moody, and who generally laughed him out of his sentimental nonsense. he felt at his ease with alice, and was never in want of something to talk about; and he could not account for the fact that he was so often dull with ruth, with whom, of all persons in the world, he wanted to appear at his best. harry was entirely satisfied with his own situation. a bird of passage is always at its ease, having no house to build, and no responsibility. he talked freely with philip about ruth, an almighty fine girl, he said, but what the deuce she wanted to study medicine for, he couldn't see. there was a concert one night at the musical fund hall and the four had arranged to go in and return by the germantown cars. it was philip's plan, who had engaged the seats, and promised himself an evening with ruth, walking with her, sitting by her in the hall, and enjoying the feeling of protecting that a man always has of a woman in a public place. he was fond of music, too, in a sympathetic way; at least, he knew that ruth's delight in it would be enough for him. perhaps he meant to take advantage of the occasion to say some very serious things. his love for ruth was no secret to mrs. bolton, and he felt almost sure that he should have no opposition in the family. mrs. bolton had been cautious in what she said, but philip inferred everything from her reply to his own questions, one day, "has thee ever spoken thy mind to ruth?" why shouldn't he speak his mind, and end his doubts? ruth had been more tricksy than usual that day, and in a flow of spirits quite inconsistent, it would seem, in a young lady devoted to grave studies. had ruth a premonition of philip's intention, in his manner? it may be, for when the girls came down stairs, ready to walk to the cars; and met philip and harry in the hall, ruth said, laughing, "the two tallest must walk together" and before philip knew how it happened ruth had taken harry's arm, and his evening was spoiled. he had too much politeness and good sense and kindness to show in his manner that he was hit. so he said to harry, "that's your disadvantage in being short." and he gave alice no reason to feel during the evening that she would not have been his first choice for the excursion. but he was none the less chagrined, and not a little angry at the turn the affair took. the hall was crowded with the fashion of the town. the concert was one of those fragmentary drearinesses that people endure because they are fashionable; tours de force on the piano, and fragments from operas, which have no meaning without the setting, with weary pauses of waiting between; there is the comic basso who is so amusing and on such familiar terms with the audience, and always sings the barber; the attitudinizing tenor, with his languishing "oh, summer night;" the soprano with her "batti batti," who warbles and trills and runs and fetches her breath, and ends with a noble scream that brings down a tempest of applause in the midst of which she backs off the stage smiling and bowing. it was this sort of concert, and philip was thinking that it was the most stupid one he ever sat through, when just as the soprano was in the midst of that touching ballad, "comin' thro' the rye" (the soprano always sings "comin' thro' the rye" on an encore)--the black swan used to make it irresistible, philip remembered, with her arch, "if a body kiss a body" there was a cry of "fire!" the hall is long and narrow, and there is only one place of egress. instantly the audience was on its feet, and a rush began for the door. men shouted, women screamed, and panic seized the swaying mass. a second's thought would have convinced every one that getting out was impossible, and that the only effect of a rush would be to crash people to death. but a second's thought was not given. a few cried: "sit down, sit down," but the mass was turned towards the door. women were down and trampled on in the aisles, and stout men, utterly lost to self-control, were mounting the benches, as if to run a race over the mass to the entrance. philip who had forced the girls to keep their seats saw, in a flash, the new danger, and sprang to avert it. in a second more those infuriated men would be over the benches and crushing ruth and alice under their boots. he leaped upon the bench in front of them and struck out before him with all his might, felling one man who was rushing on him, and checking for an instant the movement, or rather parting it, and causing it to flow on either side of him. but it was only for an instant; the pressure behind was too great, and, the next philip was dashed backwards over the seat. and yet that instant of arrest had probably saved the girls, for as philip fell, the orchestra struck up "yankee doodle" in the liveliest manner. the familiar tune caught the ear of the mass, which paused in wonder, and gave the conductor's voice a chance to be heard--"it's a false alarm!" the tumult was over in a minute, and the next, laughter was heard, and not a few said, "i knew it wasn't anything." "what fools people are at such a time." the concert was over, however. a good many people were hurt, some of them seriously, and among them philip sterling was found bent across the seat, insensible, with his left arm hanging limp and a bleeding wound on his head. when he was carried into the air he revived, and said it was nothing. a surgeon was called, and it was thought best to drive at once to the bolton's, the surgeon supporting philip, who did not speak the whole way. his arm was set and his head dressed, and the surgeon said he would come round all right in his mind by morning; he was very weak. alice who was not much frightened while the panic lasted in the hall, was very much unnerved by seeing philip so pale and bloody. ruth assisted the surgeon with the utmost coolness and with skillful hands helped to dress philip's wounds. and there was a certain intentness and fierce energy in what she did that might have revealed something to philip if he had been in his senses. but he was not, or he would not have murmured "let alice do it, she is not too tall." it was ruth's first case. chapter, xxxii. washington's delight in his beautiful sister was measureless. he said that she had always been the queenliest creature in the land, but that she was only commonplace before, compared to what she was now, so extraordinary was the improvement wrought by rich fashionable attire. "but your criticisms are too full of brotherly partiality to be depended on, washington. other people will judge differently." "indeed they won't. you'll see. there will never be a woman in washington that can compare with you. you'll be famous within a fortnight, laura. everybody will want to know you. you wait--you'll see." laura wished in her heart that the prophecy might come true; and privately she even believed it might--for she had brought all the women whom she had seen since she left home under sharp inspection, and the result had not been unsatisfactory to her. during a week or two washington drove about the city every day with her and familiarized her with all of its salient features. she was beginning to feel very much at home with the town itself, and she was also fast acquiring ease with the distinguished people she met at the dilworthy table, and losing what little of country timidity she had brought with her from hawkeye. she noticed with secret pleasure the little start of admiration that always manifested itself in the faces of the guests when she entered the drawing-room arrayed in evening costume: she took comforting note of the fact that these guests directed a very liberal share of their conversation toward her; she observed with surprise, that famous statesmen and soldiers did not talk like gods, as a general thing, but said rather commonplace things for the most part; and she was filled with gratification to discover that she, on the contrary, was making a good many shrewd speeches and now and then a really brilliant one, and furthermore, that they were beginning to be repeated in social circles about the town. congress began its sittings, and every day or two washington escorted her to the galleries set apart for lady members of the households of senators and representatives. here was a larger field and a wider competition, but still she saw that many eyes were uplifted toward her face, and that first one person and then another called a neighbor's attention to her; she was not too dull to perceive that the speeches of some of the younger statesmen were delivered about as much and perhaps more at her than to the presiding officer; and she was not sorry to see that the dapper young senator from iowa came at once and stood in the open space before the president's desk to exhibit his feet as soon as she entered the gallery, whereas she had early learned from common report that his usual custom was to prop them on his desk and enjoy them himself with a selfish disregard of other people's longings. invitations began to flow in upon her and soon she was fairly "in society." "the season" was now in full bloom, and the first select reception was at hand that is to say, a reception confined to invited guests. senator dilworthy had become well convinced; by this time, that his judgment of the country-bred missouri girl had not deceived him--it was plain that she was going to be a peerless missionary in the field of labor he designed her for, and therefore it would be perfectly safe and likewise judicious to send her forth well panoplied for her work.--so he had added new and still richer costumes to her wardrobe, and assisted their attractions with costly jewelry-loans on the future land sale. this first select reception took place at a cabinet minister's--or rather a cabinet secretary's mansion. when laura and the senator arrived, about half past nine or ten in the evening, the place was already pretty well crowded, and the white-gloved negro servant at the door was still receiving streams of guests.--the drawing-rooms were brilliant with gaslight, and as hot as ovens. the host and hostess stood just within the door of entrance; laura was presented, and then she passed on into the maelstrom of be-jeweled and richly attired low-necked ladies and white-kid-gloved and steel pen-coated gentlemen and wherever she moved she was followed by a buzz of admiration that was grateful to all her senses--so grateful, indeed, that her white face was tinged and its beauty heightened by a perceptible suffusion of color. she caught such remarks as, "who is she?" "superb woman!" "that is the new beauty from the west," etc., etc. whenever she halted, she was presently surrounded by ministers, generals, congressmen, and all manner of aristocratic, people. introductions followed, and then the usual original question, "how do you like washington, miss hawkins?" supplemented by that other usual original question, "is this your first visit?" these two exciting topics being exhausted, conversation generally drifted into calmer channels, only to be interrupted at frequent intervals by new introductions and new inquiries as to how laura liked the capital and whether it was her first visit or not. and thus for an hour or more the duchess moved through the crush in a rapture of happiness, for her doubts were dead and gone, now she knew she could conquer here. a familiar face appeared in the midst of the multitude and harry brierly fought his difficult way to her side, his eyes shouting their gratification, so to speak: "oh, this is a happiness! tell me, my dear miss hawkins--" "sh! i know what you are going to ask. i do like washington--i like it ever so much!" "no, but i was going to ask--" "yes, i am coming to it, coming to it as fast as i can. it is my first visit. i think you should know that yourself." and straightway a wave of the crowd swept her beyond his reach. "now what can the girl mean? of course she likes washington--i'm not such a dummy as to have to ask her that. and as to its being her first visit, why bang it, she knows that i knew it was. does she think i have turned idiot? curious girl, anyway. but how they do swarm about her! she is the reigning belle of washington after this night. she'll know five hundred of the heaviest guns in the town before this night's nonsense is over. and this isn't even the beginning. just as i used to say--she'll be a card in the matter of--yes sir! she shall turn the men's heads and i'll turn the women's! what a team that will be in politics here. i wouldn't take a quarter of a million for what i can do in this present session--no indeed i wouldn't. now, here--i don't altogether like this. that insignificant secretary of legation is--why, she's smiling on him as if he--and now on the admiral! now she's illuminating that, stuffy congressman from massachusetts--vulgar ungrammatcal shovel-maker--greasy knave of spades. i don't like this sort of thing. she doesn't appear to be much distressed about me--she hasn't looked this way once. all right, my bird of paradise, if it suits you, go on. but i think i know your sex. i'll go to smiling around a little, too, and see what effect that will have on you" and he did "smile around a little," and got as near to her as he could to watch the effect, but the scheme was a failure--he could not get her attention. she seemed wholly unconscious of him, and so he could not flirt with any spirit; he could only talk disjointedly; he could not keep his eyes on the charmers he talked to; he grew irritable, jealous, and very, unhappy. he gave up his enterprise, leaned his shoulder against a fluted pilaster and pouted while he kept watch upon laura's every movement. his other shoulder stole the bloom from many a lovely cheek that brushed him in the surging crush, but he noted it not. he was too busy cursing himself inwardly for being an egotistical imbecile. an hour ago he had thought to take this country lass under his protection and show her "life" and enjoy her wonder and delight--and here she was, immersed in the marvel up to her eyes, and just a trifle more at home in it than he was himself. and now his angry comments ran on again: "now she's sweetening old brother balaam; and he--well he is inviting her to the congressional prayer-meeting, no doubt--better let old dilworthy alone to see that she doesn't overlook that. and now its splurge, of new york; and now its batters of new hampshire--and now the vice president! well i may as well adjourn. i've got enough." but he hadn't. he got as far as the door--and then struggled back to take one more look, hating himself all the while for his weakness. toward midnight, when supper was announced, the crowd thronged to the supper room where a long table was decked out with what seemed a rare repast, but which consisted of things better calculated to feast the eye than the appetite. the ladies were soon seated in files along the wall, and in groups here and there, and the colored waiters filled the plates and glasses and the, male guests moved hither and thither conveying them to the privileged sex. harry took an ice and stood up by the table with other gentlemen, and listened to the buzz of conversation while he ate. from these remarks he learned a good deal about laura that was news to him. for instance, that she was of a distinguished western family; that she was highly educated; that she was very rich and a great landed heiress; that she was not a professor of religion, and yet was a christian in the truest and best sense of the word, for her whole heart was devoted to the accomplishment of a great and noble enterprise--none other than the sacrificing of her landed estates to the uplifting of the down-trodden negro and the turning of his erring feet into the way of light and righteousness. harry observed that as soon as one listener had absorbed the story, he turned about and delivered it to his next neighbor and the latter individual straightway passed it on. and thus he saw it travel the round of the gentlemen and overflow rearward among the ladies. he could not trace it backward to its fountain head, and so he could not tell who it was that started it. one thing annoyed harry a great deal; and that was the reflection that he might have been in washington days and days ago and thrown his fascinations about laura with permanent effect while she was new and strange to the capital, instead of dawdling in philadelphia to no purpose. he feared he had "missed a trick," as he expressed it. he only found one little opportunity of speaking again with laura before the evening's festivities ended, and then, for the first time in years, his airy self-complacency failed him, his tongue's easy confidence forsook it in a great measure, and he was conscious of an unheroic timidity. he was glad to get away and find a place where he could despise himself in private and try to grow his clipped plumes again. when laura reached home she was tired but exultant, and senator dilworthy was pleased and satisfied. he called laura "my daughter," next morning, and gave her some "pin money," as he termed it, and she sent a hundred and fifty dollars of it to her mother and loaned a trifle to col. sellers. then the senator had a long private conference with laura, and unfolded certain plans of his for the good of the country, and religion, and the poor, and temperance, and showed her how she could assist him in developing these worthy and noble enterprises. chapter xxxiii. laura soon discovered that there were three distinct aristocracies in washington. one of these, (nick-named the antiques,) consisted of cultivated, high-bred old families who looked back with pride upon an ancestry that had been always great in the nation's councils and its wars from the birth of the republic downward. into this select circle it was difficult to gain admission. no. was the aristocracy of the middle ground--of which, more anon. no. lay beyond; of it we will say a word here. we will call it the aristocracy of the parvenus--as, indeed, the general public did. official position, no matter how obtained, entitled a man to a place in it, and carried his family with him, no matter whence they sprang. great wealth gave a man a still higher and nobler place in it than did official position. if this wealth had been acquired by conspicuous ingenuity, with just a pleasant little spice of illegality about it, all the better. this aristocracy was "fast," and not averse to ostentation. the aristocracy of the antiques ignored the aristocracy of the parvenus; the parvenus laughed at the antiques, (and secretly envied them.) there were certain important "society" customs which one in laura's position needed to understand. for instance, when a lady of any prominence comes to one of our cities and takes up her residence, all the ladies of her grade favor her in turn with an initial call, giving their cards to the servant at the door by way of introduction. they come singly, sometimes; sometimes in couples; and always in elaborate full dress. they talk two minutes and a quarter and then go. if the lady receiving the call desires a further acquaintance, she must return the visit within two weeks; to neglect it beyond that time means "let the matter drop." but if she does return the visit within two weeks, it then becomes the other party's privilege to continue the acquaintance or drop it. she signifies her willingness to continue it by calling again any time within twelve-months; after that, if the parties go on calling upon each other once a year, in our large cities, that is sufficient, and the acquaintanceship holds good. the thing goes along smoothly, now. the annual visits are made and returned with peaceful regularity and bland satisfaction, although it is not necessary that the two ladies shall actually see each other oftener than once every few years. their cards preserve the intimacy and keep the acquaintanceship intact. for instance, mrs. a. pays her annual visit, sits in her carriage and sends in her card with the lower right hand corner turned down, which signifies that she has "called in person;" mrs. b: sends down word that she is "engaged" or "wishes to be excused"--or if she is a parvenu and low-bred, she perhaps sends word that she is "not at home." very good; mrs. a. drives, on happy and content. if mrs. a.'s daughter marries, or a child is born to the family, mrs. b. calls, sends in her card with the upper left hand corner turned down, and then goes along about her affairs--for that inverted corner means "congratulations." if mrs. b.'s husband falls downstairs and breaks his neck, mrs. a. calls, leaves her card with the upper right hand corner turned down, and then takes her departure; this corner means "condolence." it is very necessary to get the corners right, else one may unintentionally condole with a friend on a wedding or congratulate her upon a funeral. if either lady is about to leave the city, she goes to the other's house and leaves her card with "p. p. c." engraved under the name--which signifies, "pay parting call." but enough of etiquette. laura was early instructed in the mysteries of society life by a competent mentor, and thus was preserved from troublesome mistakes. the first fashionable call she received from a member of the ancient nobility, otherwise the antiques, was of a pattern with all she received from that limb of the aristocracy afterward. this call was paid by mrs. major-general fulke-fulkerson and daughter. they drove up at one in the afternoon in a rather antiquated vehicle with a faded coat of arms on the panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachman on the box and a younger darkey beside him--the footman. both of these servants were dressed in dull brown livery that had seen considerable service. the ladies entered the drawing-room in full character; that is to say, with elizabethan stateliness on the part of the dowager, and an easy grace and dignity on the part of the young lady that had a nameless something about it that suggested conscious superiority. the dresses of both ladies were exceedingly rich, as to material, but as notably modest as to color and ornament. all parties having seated themselves, the dowager delivered herself of a remark that was not unusual in its form, and yet it came from her lips with the impressiveness of scripture: "the weather has been unpropitious of late, miss hawkins." "it has indeed," said laura. "the climate seems to be variable." "it is its nature of old, here," said the daughter--stating it apparently as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside all personal responsibility on account of it. "is it not so, mamma?" "quite so, my child. do you like winter, miss hawkins?" she said "like" as if she had, an idea that its dictionary meaning was "approve of." "not as well as summer--though i think all seasons have their charms." "it is a very just remark. the general held similar views. he considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer legitimate; frosts in the autumn the same, and rains in spring not objectionable. he was not an exacting man. and i call to mind now that he always admired thunder. you remember, child, your father always admired thunder?" "he adored it." "no doubt it reminded him of battle," said laura. "yes, i think perhaps it did. he had a great respect for nature. he often said there was something striking about the ocean. you remember his saying that, daughter?" "yes, often, mother. i remember it very well." "and hurricanes... he took a great interest in hurricanes. and animals. dogs, especially--hunting dogs. also comets. i think we all have our predilections. i think it is this that gives variety to our tastes." laura coincided with this view. "do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your home and friends, miss hawkins?" "i do find it depressing sometimes, but then there is so much about me here that is novel and interesting that my days are made up more of sunshine than shadow." "washington is not a dull city in the season," said the young lady. "we have some very good society indeed, and one need not be at a loss for means to pass the time pleasantly. are you fond of watering-places, miss hawkins?" "i have really had no experience of them, but i have always felt a strong desire to see something of fashionable watering-place life." "we of washington are unfortunately situated in that respect," said the dowager. "it is a tedious distance to newport. but there is no help for it." laura said to herself, "long branch and cape may are nearer than newport; doubtless these places are low; i'll feel my way a little and see." then she said aloud: "why i thought that long branch--" there was no need to "feel" any further--there was that in both faces before her which made that truth apparent. the dowager said: "nobody goes there, miss hawkins--at least only persons of no position in society. and the president." she added that with tranquility. "newport is damp, and cold, and windy and excessively disagreeable," said the daughter, "but it is very select. one cannot be fastidious about minor matters when one has no choice." the visit had spun out nearly three minutes, now. both ladies rose with grave dignity, conferred upon laura a formal invitation to call, aid then retired from the conference. laura remained in the drawing-room and left them to pilot themselves out of the house--an inhospitable thing, it seemed to her, but then she was following her instructions. she stood, steeped in reverie, a while, and then she said: "i think i could always enjoy icebergs--as scenery but not as company." still, she knew these two people by reputation, and was aware that they were not ice-bergs when they were in their own waters and amid their legitimate surroundings, but on the contrary were people to be respected for their stainless characters and esteemed for their social virtues and their benevolent impulses. she thought it a pity that they had to be such changed and dreary creatures on occasions of state. the first call laura received from the other extremity of the washington aristocracy followed close upon the heels of the one we have just been describing. the callers this time were the hon. mrs. oliver higgins, the hon. mrs. patrique oreille (pronounced o-relay,) miss bridget (pronounced breezhay) oreille, mrs. peter gashly, miss gashly, and miss emmeline gashly. the three carriages arrived at the same moment from different directions. they were new and wonderfully shiny, and the brasses on the harness were highly polished and bore complicated monograms. there were showy coats of arms, too, with latin mottoes. the coachmen and footmen were clad in bright new livery, of striking colors, and they had black rosettes with shaving-brushes projecting above them, on the sides of their stove-pipe hats. when the visitors swept into the drawing-room they filled the place with a suffocating sweetness procured at the perfumer's. their costumes, as to architecture, were the latest fashion intensified; they were rainbow-hued; they were hung with jewels--chiefly diamonds. it would have been plain to any eye that it had cost something to upholster these women. the hon. mrs. oliver higgins was the wife of a delegate from a distant territory--a gentleman who had kept the principal "saloon," and sold the best whiskey in the principal village in his wilderness, and so, of course, was recognized as the first man of his commonwealth and its fittest representative. he was a man of paramount influence at home, for he was public spirited, he was chief of the fire department, he had an admirable command of profane language, and had killed several "parties." his shirt fronts were always immaculate; his boots daintily polished, and no man could lift a foot and fire a dead shot at a stray speck of dirt on it with a white handkerchief with a finer grace than he; his watch chain weighed a pound; the gold in his finger ring was worth forty five dollars; he wore a diamond cluster-pin and he parted his hair behind. he had always been, regarded as the most elegant gentleman in his territory, and it was conceded by all that no man thereabouts was anywhere near his equal in the telling of an obscene story except the venerable white-haired governor himself. the hon. higgins had not come to serve his country in washington for nothing. the appropriation which he had engineered through congress for the maintenance, of the indians in his territory would have made all those savages rich if it had ever got to them. the hon. mrs. higgins was a picturesque woman, and a fluent talker, and she held a tolerably high station among the parvenus. her english was fair enough, as a general thing--though, being of new york origin, she had the fashion peculiar to many natives of that city of pronouncing saw and law as if they were spelt sawr and lawr. petroleum was the agent that had suddenly transformed the gashlys from modest hard-working country village folk into "loud" aristocrats and ornaments of the city. the hon. patrique oreille was a wealthy frenchman from cork. not that he was wealthy when he first came from cork, but just the reverse. when he first landed in new york with his wife, he had only halted at castle garden for a few minutes to receive and exhibit papers showing that he had resided in this country two years--and then he voted the democratic ticket and went up town to hunt a house. he found one and then went to work as assistant to an architect and builder, carrying a hod all day and studying politics evenings. industry and economy soon enabled him to start a low rum shop in a foul locality, and this gave him political influence. in our country it is always our first care to see that our people have the opportunity of voting for their choice of men to represent and govern them--we do not permit our great officials to appoint the little officials. we prefer to have so tremendous a power as that in our own hands. we hold it safest to elect our judges and everybody else. in our cities, the ward meetings elect delegates to the nominating conventions and instruct them whom to nominate. the publicans and their retainers rule the ward meetings (for every body else hates the worry of politics and stays at home); the delegates from the ward meetings organize as a nominating convention and make up a list of candidates--one convention offering a democratic and another a republican list of incorruptibles; and then the great meek public come forward at the proper time and make unhampered choice and bless heaven that they live in a free land where no form of despotism can ever intrude. patrick o'riley (as his name then stood) created friends and influence very, fast, for he was always on hand at the police courts to give straw bail for his customers or establish an alibi for them in case they had been beating anybody to death on his premises. consequently he presently became a political leader, and was elected to a petty office under the city government. out of a meager salary he soon saved money enough to open quite a stylish liquor saloon higher up town, with a faro bank attached and plenty of capital to conduct it with. this gave him fame and great respectability. the position of alderman was forced upon him, and it was just the same as presenting him a gold mine. he had fine horses and carriages, now, and closed up his whiskey mill. by and by he became a large contractor for city work, and was a bosom friend of the great and good wm. m. weed himself, who had stolen $ , , from the city and was a man so envied, so honored,--so adored, indeed, that when the sheriff went to his office to arrest him as a felon, that sheriff blushed and apologized, and one of the illustrated papers made a picture of the scene and spoke of the matter in such a way as to show that the editor regretted that the offense of an arrest had been offered to so exalted a personage as mr. weed. mr. o'riley furnished shingle nails to, the new court house at three thousand dollars a keg, and eighteen gross of -cent thermometers at fifteen hundred dollars a dozen; the controller and the board of audit passed the bills, and a mayor, who was simply ignorant but not criminal, signed them. when they were paid, mr. o'riley's admirers gave him a solitaire diamond pin of the size of a filbert, in imitation of the liberality of mr. weed's friends, and then mr. o'riley retired from active service and amused himself with buying real estate at enormous figures and holding it in other people's names. by and by the newspapers came out with exposures and called weed and o'riley "thieves,"--whereupon the people rose as one man (voting repeatedly) and elected the two gentlemen to their proper theatre of action, the new york legislature. the newspapers clamored, and the courts proceeded to try the new legislators for their small irregularities. our admirable jury system enabled the persecuted ex-officials to secure a jury of nine gentlemen from a neighboring asylum and three graduates from sing-sing, and presently they walked forth with characters vindicated. the legislature was called upon to spew them forth--a thing which the legislature declined to do. it was like asking children to repudiate their own father. it was a legislature of the modern pattern. being now wealthy and distinguished, mr. o'riley, still bearing the legislative "hon." attached to his name (for titles never die in america, although we do take a republican pride in poking fun at such trifles), sailed for europe with his family. they traveled all about, turning their noses up at every thing, and not finding it a difficult thing to do, either, because nature had originally given those features a cast in that direction; and finally they established themselves in paris, that paradise of americans of their sort.--they staid there two years and learned to speak english with a foreign accent--not that it hadn't always had a foreign accent (which was indeed the case) but now the nature of it was changed. finally they returned home and became ultra fashionables. they landed here as the hon. patrique oreille and family, and so are known unto this day. laura provided seats for her visitors and they immediately launched forth into a breezy, sparkling conversation with that easy confidence which is to be found only among persons accustomed to high life. "i've been intending to call sooner, miss hawkins," said the hon. mrs. oreille, "but the weather's been so horrid. how do you like washington?" laura liked it very well indeed. mrs. gashly--"is it your first visit?" yea, it was her first. all--"indeed?" mrs. oreille--"i'm afraid you'll despise the weather, miss hawkins. it's perfectly awful. it always is. i tell mr. oreille i can't and i won't put up with any such a climate. if we were obliged to do it, i wouldn't mind it; but we are not obliged to, and so i don't see the use of it. sometimes its real pitiful the way the childern pine for parry --don't look so sad, bridget, 'ma chere'--poor child, she can't hear parry mentioned without getting the blues." mrs. gashly--"well i should think so, mrs. oreille. a body lives in paris, but a body, only stays here. i dote on paris; i'd druther scrimp along on ten thousand dollars a year there, than suffer and worry here on a real decent income." miss gashly--"well then, i wish you'd take us back, mother; i'm sure i hate this stoopid country enough, even if it is our dear native land." miss emmeline gashly--"what and leave poor johnny peterson behind?" [an airy genial laugh applauded this sally]. miss gashly--"sister, i should think you'd be ashamed of yourself!" miss emmeline--"oh, you needn't ruffle your feathers so: i was only joking. he don't mean anything by coming to, the house every evening --only comes to see mother. of course that's all!" [general laughter]. miss g. prettily confused--"emmeline, how can you!" mrs. g.--"let your sister alone, emmeline. i never saw such a tease!" mrs. oreille--"what lovely corals you have, miss hawkins! just look at them, bridget, dear. i've a great passion for corals--it's a pity they're getting a little common. i have some elegant ones--not as elegant as yours, though--but of course i don't wear them now." laura--"i suppose they are rather common, but still i have a great affection for these, because they were given to me by a dear old friend of our family named murphy. he was a very charming man, but very eccentric. we always supposed he was an irishman, but after be got rich he went abroad for a year or two, and when he came back you would have been amused to see how interested he was in a potato. he asked what it was! now you know that when providence shapes a mouth especially for the accommodation of a potato you can detect that fact at a glance when that mouth is in repose--foreign travel can never remove that sign. but he was a very delightful gentleman, and his little foible did not hurt him at all. we all have our shams--i suppose there is a sham somewhere about every individual, if we could manage to ferret it out. i would so like to go to france. i suppose our society here compares very favorably with french society does it not, mrs. oreille?" mrs. o.--"not by any means, miss hawkins! french society is much more elegant--much more so." laura--"i am sorry to hear that. i suppose ours has deteriorated of late." mrs. o.--"very much indeed. there are people in society here that have really no more money to live on than what some of us pay for servant hire. still i won't say but what some of them are very good people--and respectable, too." laura--"the old families seem to be holding themselves aloof, from what i hear. i suppose you seldom meet in society now, the people you used to be familiar with twelve or fifteen years ago?" mrs. o.--"oh, no-hardly ever." mr. o'riley kept his first rum-mill and protected his customers from the law in those days, and this turn of the conversation was rather uncomfortable to madame than otherwise. hon. mrs. higgins--"is francois' health good now, mrs. oreille?" mrs. o.--(thankful for the intervention)--"not very. a body couldn't expect it. he was always delicate--especially his lungs--and this odious climate tells on him strong, now, after parry, which is so mild." mrs. h:--"i should think so. husband says percy'll die if he don't have a change; and so i'm going to swap round a little and see what can be done. i saw a lady from florida last week, and she recommended key west. i told her percy couldn't abide winds, as he was threatened with a pulmonary affection, and then she said try st. augustine. it's an awful distance--ten or twelve hundred mile, they say but then in a case of this kind--a body can't stand back for trouble, you know." mrs. o.--"no, of course that's off. if francois don't get better soon we've got to look out for some other place, or else europe. we've thought some of the hot springs, but i don't know. it's a great responsibility and a body wants to go cautious. is hildebrand about again, mrs. gashly?" mrs. g.--"yes, but that's about all. it was indigestion, you know, and it looks as if it was chronic. and you know i do dread dyspepsia. we've all been worried a good deal about him. the doctor recommended baked apple and spoiled meat, and i think it done him good. it's about the only thing that will stay on his stomach now-a-days. we have dr. shovel now. who's your doctor, mrs. higgins?" mrs. h.--"well, we had dr. spooner a good while, but he runs so much to emetics, which i think are weakening, that we changed off and took dr. leathers. we like him very much. he has a fine european reputation, too. the first thing he suggested for percy was to have him taken out in the back yard for an airing, every afternoon, with nothing at all on." mrs. o. and mrs. g.--"what!" mrs. h.--"as true as i'm sitting here. and it actually helped him for two or three days; it did indeed. but after that the doctor said it seemed to be too severe and so he has fell back on hot foot-baths at night and cold showers in the morning. but i don't think there, can be any good sound help for him in such a climate as this. i believe we are going to lose him if we don't make a change." mrs. o. "i suppose you heard of the fright we had two weeks ago last saturday? no? why that is strange--but come to remember, you've all been away to richmond. francois tumbled from the sky light--in the second-story hall clean down to the first floor--" everybody--"mercy!" mrs. o.--"yes indeed--and broke two of his ribs--" everybody--"what!" mrs. o. "just as true as you live. first we thought he must be injured internally. it was fifteen minutes past in the evening. of course we were all distracted in a moment--everybody was flying everywhere, and nobody doing anything worth anything. by and by i flung out next door and dragged in dr. sprague; president of the medical university no time to go for our own doctor of course--and the minute he saw francois he said, 'send for your own physician, madam;' said it as cross as a bear, too, and turned right on his heel, and cleared out without doing a thing!" everybody--"the mean, contemptible brute!" mrs. o--"well you may say it. i was nearly out of my wits by this time. but we hurried off the servants after our own doctor and telegraphed mother--she was in new york and rushed down on the first train; and when the doctor got there, lo and behold you he found francois had broke one of his legs, too!" everybody--"goodness!" mrs. o.--"yes. so he set his leg and bandaged it up, and fixed his ribs and gave him a dose of something to quiet down his excitement and put him to sleep--poor thing he was trembling and frightened to death and it was pitiful to see him. we had him in my bed--mr. oreille slept in the guest room and i laid down beside francois--but not to sleep bless you no. bridget and i set up all night, and the doctor staid till two in the morning, bless his old heart.--when mother got there she was so used up with anxiety, that she had to go to bed and have the doctor; but when she found that francois was not in immediate danger she rallied, and by night she was able to take a watch herself. well for three days and nights we three never left that bedside only to take an hour's nap at a time. and then the doctor said francois was out of danger and if ever there was a thankful set, in this world, it was us." laura's respect for these, women had augmented during this conversation, naturally enough; affection and devotion are qualities that are able to adorn and render beautiful a character that is otherwise unattractive, and even repulsive. mrs. gashly--"i do believe i would a died if i had been in your place, mrs. oreille. the time hildebrand was so low with the pneumonia emmeline and me were all, alone with him most of the time and we never took a minute's sleep for as much as two days, and nights. it was at newport and we wouldn't trust hired nurses. one afternoon he had a fit, and jumped up and run out on the portico of the hotel with nothing in the world on and the wind a blowing liken ice and we after him scared to death; and when the ladies and gentlemen saw that he had a fit, every lady scattered for her room and not a gentleman lifted his hand to help, the wretches! well after that his life hung by a thread for as much as ten days, and the minute he was out of danger emmeline and me just went to bed sick and worn out. i never want to pass through such a time again. poor dear francois--which leg did he break, mrs. oreille!" mrs. o.--"it was his right hand hind leg. jump down, francois dear, and show the ladies what a cruel limp you've got yet." francois demurred, but being coaxed and delivered gently upon the floor, he performed very satisfactorily, with his "right hand hind leg" in the air. all were affected--even laura--but hers was an affection of the stomach. the country-bred girl had not suspected that the little whining ten-ounce black and tan reptile, clad in a red embroidered pigmy blanket and reposing in mrs. oreille's lap all through the visit was the individual whose sufferings had been stirring the dormant generosities of her nature. she said: "poor little creature! you might have lost him!" mrs. o.--"o pray don't mention it, miss hawkins--it gives me such a turn!" laura--"and hildebrand and percy--are they--are they like this one?" mrs. g.--"no, hilly has considerable skye blood in him, i believe." mrs. h.--"percy's the same, only he is two months and ten days older and has his ears cropped. his father, martin farquhar tupper, was sickly, and died young, but he was the sweetest disposition.--his mother had heart disease but was very gentle and resigned, and a wonderful ratter." --[** as impossible and exasperating as this conversation may sound to a person who is not an idiot, it is scarcely in any respect an exaggeration of one which one of us actually listened to in an american drawing room --otherwise we could not venture to put such a chapter into a book which, professes to deal with social possibilities.--the authors.] so carried away had the visitors become by their interest attaching to this discussion of family matters, that their stay had been prolonged to a very improper and unfashionable length; but they suddenly recollected themselves now and took their departure. laura's scorn was boundless. the more she thought of these people and their extraordinary talk, the more offensive they seemed to her; and yet she confessed that if one must choose between the two extreme aristocracies it might be best, on the whole, looking at things from a strictly business point of view, to herd with the parvenus; she was in washington solely to compass a certain matter and to do it at any cost, and these people might be useful to her, while it was plain that her purposes and her schemes for pushing them would not find favor in the eyes of the antiques. if it came to choice--and it might come to that, sooner or later--she believed she could come to a decision without much difficulty or many pangs. but the best aristocracy of the three washington castes, and really the most powerful, by far, was that of the middle ground: it was made up of the families of public men from nearly every state in the union--men who held positions in both the executive and legislative branches of the government, and whose characters had been for years blemishless, both at home and at the capital. these gentlemen and their households were unostentatious people; they were educated and refined; they troubled themselves but little about the two other orders of nobility, but moved serenely in their wide orbit, confident in their own strength and well aware of the potency of their influence. they had no troublesome appearances to keep up, no rivalries which they cared to distress themselves about, no jealousies to fret over. they could afford to mind their own affairs and leave other combinations to do the same or do otherwise, just as they chose. they were people who were beyond reproach, and that was sufficient. senator dilworthy never came into collision with any of these factions. he labored for them all and with them all. he said that all men were brethren and all were entitled to the honest unselfish help and countenance of a christian laborer in the public vineyard. laura concluded, after reflection, to let circumstances determine the course it might be best for her to pursue as regarded the several aristocracies. now it might occur to the reader that perhaps laura had been somewhat rudely suggestive in her remarks to mrs. oreille when the subject of corals was under discussion, but it did not occur to laura herself. she was not a person of exaggerated refinement; indeed, the society and the influences that had formed her character had not been of a nature calculated to make her so; she thought that "give and take was fair play," and that to parry an offensive thrust with a sarcasm was a neat and legitimate thing to do. she some times talked to people in a way which some ladies would consider, actually shocking; but laura rather prided herself upon some of her exploits of that character. we are sorry we cannot make her a faultless heroine; but we cannot, for the reason that she was human. she considered herself a superior conversationist. long ago, when the possibility had first been brought before her mind that some day she might move in washington society, she had recognized the fact that practiced conversational powers would be a necessary weapon in that field; she had also recognized the fact that since her dealings there must be mainly with men, and men whom she supposed to be exceptionally cultivated and able, she would need heavier shot in her magazine than mere brilliant "society" nothings; whereupon she had at once entered upon a tireless and elaborate course of reading, and had never since ceased to devote every unoccupied moment to this sort of preparation. having now acquired a happy smattering of various information, she used it with good effect--she passed for a singularly well informed woman in washington. the quality of her literary tastes had necessarily undergone constant improvement under this regimen, and as necessarily, also; the duality of her language had improved, though it cannot be denied that now and then her former condition of life betrayed itself in just perceptible inelegancies of expression and lapses of grammar. chapter xxxiv. when laura had been in washington three months, she was still the same person, in one respect, that she was when she first arrived there--that is to say, she still bore the name of laura hawkins. otherwise she was perceptibly changed.-- she had arrived in a state of grievous uncertainty as to what manner of woman she was, physically and intellectually, as compared with eastern women; she was well satisfied, now, that her beauty was confessed, her mind a grade above the average, and her powers of fascination rather extraordinary. so she, was at ease upon those points. when she arrived, she was possessed of habits of economy and not possessed of money; now she dressed elaborately, gave but little thought to the cost of things, and was very well fortified financially. she kept her mother and washington freely supplied with money, and did the same by col. sellers --who always insisted upon giving his note for loans--with interest; he was rigid upon that; she must take interest; and one of the colonel's greatest satisfactions was to go over his accounts and note what a handsome sum this accruing interest amounted to, and what a comfortable though modest support it would yield laura in case reverses should overtake her. in truth he could not help feeling that he was an efficient shield for her against poverty; and so, if her expensive ways ever troubled him for a brief moment, he presently dismissed the thought and said to himself, "let her go on--even if she loses everything she is still safe--this interest will always afford her a good easy income." laura was on excellent terms with a great many members of congress, and there was an undercurrent of suspicion in some quarters that she was one of that detested class known as "lobbyists;" but what belle could escape slander in such a city? fairminded people declined to condemn her on mere suspicion, and so the injurious talk made no very damaging headway. she was very gay, now, and very celebrated, and she might well expect to be assailed by many kinds of gossip. she was growing used to celebrity, and could already sit calm and seemingly unconscious, under the fire of fifty lorgnettes in a theatre, or even overhear the low voice "that's she!" as she passed along the street without betraying annoyance. the whole air was full of a vague vast scheme which was to eventuate in filling laura's pockets with millions of money; some had one idea of the scheme, and some another, but nobody had any exact knowledge upon the subject. all that any one felt sure about, was that laura's landed estates were princely in value and extent, and that the government was anxious to get hold of them for public purposes, and that laura was willing to make the sale but not at all anxious about the matter and not at all in a hurry. it was whispered that senator dilworthy was a stumbling block in the way of an immediate sale, because he was resolved that the government should not have the lands except with the understanding that they should be devoted to the uplifting of the negro race; laura did not care what they were devoted to, it was said, (a world of very different gossip to the contrary notwithstanding,) but there were several other heirs and they would be guided entirely by the senator's wishes; and finally, many people averred that while it would be easy to sell the lands to the government for the benefit of the negro, by resorting to the usual methods of influencing votes, senator dilworthy was unwilling to have so noble a charity sullied by any taint of corruption--he was resolved that not a vote should be bought. nobody could get anything definite from laura about these matters, and so gossip had to feed itself chiefly upon guesses. but the effect of it all was, that laura was considered to be very wealthy and likely to be vastly more so in a little while. consequently she was much courted and as much envied: her wealth attracted many suitors. perhaps they came to worship her riches, but they remained to worship her. some of the noblest men of the time succumbed to her fascinations. she frowned upon no lover when he made his first advances, but by and by when she was hopelessly enthralled, he learned from her own lips that she had formed a resolution never to marry. then he would go away hating and cursing the whole sex, and she would calmly add his scalp to her string, while she mused upon the bitter day that col. selby trampled her love and her pride in the dust. in time it came to be said that her way was paved with broken hearts. poor washington gradually woke up to the fact that he too was an intellectual marvel as well as his gifted sister. he could not conceive how it had come about (it did not occur to him that the gossip about his family's great wealth had any thing to do with it). he could not account for it by any process of reasoning, and was simply obliged to accept the fact and give up trying to solve the riddle. he found himself dragged into society and courted, wondered at and envied very much as if he were one of those foreign barbers who flit over here now and then with a self-conferred title of nobility and marry some rich fool's absurd daughter. sometimes at a dinner party or a reception he would find himself the centre of interest, and feel unutterably uncomfortable in the discovery. being obliged to say something, he would mine his brain and put in a blast and when the smoke and flying debris had cleared away the result would be what seemed to him but a poor little intellectual clod of dirt or two, and then he would be astonished to see everybody as lost in admiration as if he had brought up a ton or two of virgin gold. every remark he made delighted his hearers and compelled their applause; he overheard people say he was exceedingly bright--they were chiefly mammas and marriageable young ladies. he found that some of his good things were being repeated about the town. whenever he heard of an instance of this kind, he would keep that particular remark in mind and analyze it at home in private. at first he could not see that the remark was anything better than a parrot might originate; but by and by he began to feel that perhaps he underrated his powers; and after that he used to analyze his good things with a deal of comfort, and find in them a brilliancy which would have been unapparent to him in earlier days--and then he would make a note, of that good thing and say it again the first time he found himself in a new company. presently he had saved up quite a repertoire of brilliancies; and after that he confined himself to repeating these and ceased to originate any more, lest he might injure his reputation by an unlucky effort. he was constantly having young ladies thrust upon his notice at receptions, or left upon his hands at parties, and in time he began to feel that he was being deliberately persecuted in this way; and after that he could not enjoy society because of his constant dread of these female ambushes and surprises. he was distressed to find that nearly every time he showed a young lady a polite attention he was straightway reported to be engaged to her; and as some of these reports got into the newspapers occasionally, he had to keep writing to louise that they were lies and she must believe in him and not mind them or allow them to grieve her. washington was as much in the dark as anybody with regard to the great wealth that was hovering in the air and seemingly on the point of tumbling into the family pocket. laura would give him no satisfaction. all she would say, was: "wait. be patient. you will see." "but will it be soon, laura?" "it will not be very long, i think." "but what makes you think so?" "i have reasons--and good ones. just wait, and be patient." "but is it going to be as much as people say it is?" "what do they say it is?" "oh, ever so much. millions!" "yes, it will be a great sum." "but how great, laura? will it be millions?" "yes, you may call it that. yes, it will be millions. there, now--does that satisfy you?" "splendid! i can wait. i can wait patiently--ever so patiently. once i was near selling the land for twenty thousand dollars; once for thirty thousand dollars; once after that for seven thousand dollars; and once for forty thousand dollars--but something always told me not to do it. what a fool i would have been to sell it for such a beggarly trifle! it is the land that's to bring the money, isn't it laura? you can tell me that much, can't you?" "yes, i don't mind saying that much. it is the land. "but mind--don't ever hint that you got it from me. don't mention me in the matter at all, washington." "all right--i won't. millions! isn't it splendid! i mean to look around for a building lot; a lot with fine ornamental shrubbery and all that sort of thing. i will do it to-day. and i might as well see an architect, too, and get him to go to work at a plan for a house. i don't intend to spare and expense; i mean to have the noblest house that money can build." then after a pause--he did not notice laura's smiles "laura, would you lay the main hall in encaustic tiles, or just in fancy patterns of hard wood?" laura laughed a good old-fashioned laugh that had more of her former natural self about it than any sound that had issued from her mouth in many weeks. she said: "you don't change, washington. you still begin to squander a fortune right and left the instant you hear of it in the distance; you never wait till the foremost dollar of it arrives within a hundred miles of you," --and she kissed her brother good bye and left him weltering in his dreams, so to speak. he got up and walked the floor feverishly during two hours; and when he sat down he had married louise, built a house, reared a family, married them off, spent upwards of eight hundred thousand dollars on mere luxuries, and died worth twelve millions. chapter xxxv. laura went down stairs, knocked at/the study door, and entered, scarcely waiting for the response. senator dilworthy was alone--with an open bible in his hand, upside down. laura smiled, and said, forgetting her acquired correctness of speech, "it is only me." "ah, come in, sit down," and the senator closed the book and laid it down. "i wanted to see you. time to report progress from the committee of the whole," and the senator beamed with his own congressional wit. "in the committee of the whole things are working very well. we have made ever so much progress in a week. i believe that you and i together could run this government beautifully, uncle." the senator beamed again. he liked to be called "uncle" by this beautiful woman. "did you see hopperson last night after the congressional prayer meeting?" "yes. he came. he's a kind of--" "eh? he is one of my friends, laura. he's a fine man, a very fine man. i don't know any man in congress i'd sooner go to for help in any christian work. what did he say?" "oh, he beat around a little. he said he should like to help the negro, his heart went out to the negro, and all that--plenty of them say that but he was a little afraid of the tennessee land bill; if senator dilworthy wasn't in it, he should suspect there was a fraud on the government." "he said that, did he?" "yes. and he said he felt he couldn't vote for it. he was shy." "not shy, child, cautious. he's a very cautious man. i have been with him a great deal on conference committees. he wants reasons, good ones. didn't you show him he was in error about the bill?" "i did. i went over the whole thing. i had to tell him some of the side arrangements, some of the--" "you didn't mention me?" "oh, no. i told him you were daft about the negro and the philanthropy part of it, as you are." "daft is a little strong, laura. but you know that i wouldn't touch this bill if it were not for the public good, and for the good of the colored race; much as i am interested in the heirs of this property, and would like to have them succeed." laura looked a little incredulous, and the senator proceeded. "don't misunderstand me, i don't deny that it is for the interest of all of us that this bill should go through, and it will. i have no concealments from you. but i have one principle in my public life, which i should like you to keep in mind; it has always been my guide. i never push a private interest if it is not justified and ennobled by some larger public good. i doubt christian would be justified in working for his own salvation if it was not to aid in the salvation of his fellow men." the senator spoke with feeling, and then added, "i hope you showed hopperson that our motives were pure?" "yes, and he seemed to have a new light on the measure: i think will vote for it." "i hope so; his name will give tone and strength to it. i knew you would only have to show him that it was just and pure, in order to secure his cordial support." "i think i convinced him. yes, i am perfectly sure he will vote right now." "that's good, that's good," said the senator; smiling, and rubbing his hands. "is there anything more?" "you'll find some changes in that i guess," handing the senator a printed list of names. "those checked off are all right." "ah--'m--'m," running his eye down the list. "that's encouraging. what is the 'c' before some of the names, and the 'b. b.'?" "those are my private marks. that 'c' stands for 'convinced,' with argument. the 'b. b.' is a general sign for a relative. you see it stands before three of the hon. committee. i expect to see the chairman of the committee to-day, mr. buckstone." "so, you must, he ought to be seen without any delay. buckstone is a worldly sort of a fellow, but he has charitable impulses. if we secure him we shall have a favorable report by the committee, and it will be a great thing to be able to state that fact quietly where it will do good." "oh, i saw senator balloon" "he will help us, i suppose? balloon is a whole-hearted fellow. i can't help loving that man, for all his drollery and waggishness. he puts on an air of levity sometimes, but there aint a man in the senate knows the scriptures as he does. he did not make any objections?" "not exactly, he said--shall i tell you what he said?" asked laura glancing furtively at him. "certainly." "he said he had no doubt it was a good thing; if senator dilworthy was in it, it would pay to look into it." the senator laughed, but rather feebly, and said, "balloon is always full of his jokes." "i explained it to him. he said it was all right, he only wanted a word with you,", continued laura. "he is a handsome old gentleman, and he is gallant for an old man." "my daughter," said the senator, with a grave look, "i trust there was nothing free in his manner?" "free?" repeated laura, with indignation in her face. "with me!" "there, there, child. i meant nothing, balloon talks a little freely sometimes, with men. but he is right at heart. his term expires next year and i fear we shall lose him." "he seemed to be packing the day i was there. his rooms were full of dry goods boxes, into which his servant was crowding all manner of old clothes and stuff: i suppose he will paint 'pub. docs' on them and frank them home. that's good economy, isn't it?" "yes, yes, but child, all congressmen do that. it may not be strictly honest, indeed it is not unless he had some public documents mixed in with the clothes." "it's a funny world. good-bye, uncle. i'm going to see that chairman." and humming a cheery opera air, she departed to her room to dress for going out. before she did that, however, she took out her note book and was soon deep in its contents; marking, dashing, erasing, figuring, and talking to herself. "free! i wonder what dilworthy does think of me anyway? one . . . two. . .eight . . . seventeen . . . twenty-one,. . 'm'm . . . it takes a heap for a majority. wouldn't dilworthy open his eyes if he knew some of the things balloon did say to me. there. . . . hopperson's influence ought to count twenty . . . the sanctimonious old curmudgeon. son-in-law. . . . sinecure in the negro institution . . . .that about gauges him . . . the three committeemen . . . . sons-in-law. nothing like a son-in-law here in washington or a brother- in-law . . . and everybody has 'em . . . let's see: . . . sixty- one. . . . with places . . . twenty-five . . . persuaded--it is getting on; . . . . we'll have two-thirds of congress in time . . . dilworthy must surely know i understand him. uncle dilworthy . . . . uncle balloon!--tells very amusing stories . . . when ladies are not present . . . i should think so . . . .'m . . . 'm. eighty-five. there. i must find that chairman. queer. . . . buckstone acts . . seemed to be in love . . . . . i was sure of it. he promised to come here. . . and he hasn't. . . strange. very strange . . . . i must chance to meet him to-day." laura dressed and went out, thinking she was perhaps too early for mr. buckstone to come from the house, but as he lodged near the bookstore she would drop in there and keep a look out for him. while laura is on her errand to find mr. buckstone, it may not be out of the way to remark that she knew quite as much of washington life as senator dilworthy gave her credit for, and more than she thought proper to tell him. she was acquainted by this time with a good many of the young fellows of newspaper row; and exchanged gossip with them to their mutual advantage. they were always talking in the row, everlastingly gossiping, bantering and sarcastically praising things, and going on in a style which was a curious commingling of earnest and persiflage. col. sellers liked this talk amazingly, though he was sometimes a little at sea in it--and perhaps that didn't lessen the relish of the conversation to the correspondents. it seems that they had got hold of the dry-goods box packing story about balloon, one day, and were talking it over when the colonel came in. the colonel wanted to know all about it, and hicks told him. and then hicks went on, with a serious air, "colonel, if you register a letter, it means that it is of value, doesn't it? and if you pay fifteen cents for registering it, the government will have to take extra care of it and even pay you back its full value if it is lost. isn't that so?" "yes. i suppose it's so.". "well senator balloon put fifteen cents worth of stamps on each of those seven huge boxes of old clothes, and shipped that ton of second-hand rubbish, old boots and pantaloons and what not through the mails as registered matter! it was an ingenious thing and it had a genuine touch of humor about it, too. i think there is more real: talent among our public men of to-day than there was among those of old times--a far more fertile fancy, a much happier ingenuity. now, colonel, can you picture jefferson, or washington or john adams franking their wardrobes through the mails and adding the facetious idea of making the government responsible for the cargo for the sum of one dollar and five cents? statesmen were dull creatures in those days. i have a much greater admiration for senator balloon." "yes, balloon is a man of parts, there is no denying it" "i think so. he is spoken of for the post of minister to china, or austria, and i hope will be appointed. what we want abroad is good examples of the national character. "john jay and benjamin franklin were well enough in their day, but the nation has made progress since then. balloon is a man we know and can depend on to be true to himself." "yes, and balloon has had a good deal of public experience. he is an old friend of mine. he was governor of one of the territories a while, and was very satisfactory." "indeed he was. he was ex-officio indian agent, too. many a man would have taken the indian appropriation and devoted the money to feeding and clothing the helpless savages, whose land had been taken from them by the white man in the interests of civilization; but balloon knew their needs better. he built a government saw-mill on the reservation with the money, and the lumber sold for enormous prices--a relative of his did all the work free of charge--that is to say he charged nothing more than the lumber world bring." "but the poor injuns--not that i care much for injuns--what did he do for them?" "gave them the outside slabs to fence in the reservation with. governor balloon was nothing less than a father to the poor indians. but balloon is not alone, we have many truly noble statesmen in our country's service like balloon. the senate is full of them. don't you think so colonel?" "well, i dunno. i honor my country's public servants as much as any one can. i meet them, sir, every day, and the more i see of them the more i esteem them and the more grateful i am that our institutions give us the opportunity of securing their services. few lands are so blest." "that is true, colonel. to be sure you can buy now and then a senator or a representative but they do not know it is wrong, and so they are not ashamed of it. they are gentle, and confiding and childlike, and in my opinion these are qualities that ennoble them far more than any amount of sinful sagacity could. i quite agree with you, col. sellers." "well"--hesitated the, colonel--"i am afraid some of them do buy their seats--yes, i am afraid they do--but as senator dilworthy himself said to me, it is sinful,--it is very wrong--it is shameful; heaven protect me from such a charge. that is what dilworthy said. and yet when you come to look at it you cannot deny that we would have to go without the services of some of our ablest men, sir, if the country were opposed to --to--bribery. it is a harsh term. i do not like to use it." the colonel interrupted himself at this point to meet an engagement with the austrian minister, and took his leave with his usual courtly bow. chapter xxxvi. in due time laura alighted at the book store, and began to look at the titles of the handsome array of books on the counter. a dapper clerk of perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile and an affable-- "can i--was there any particular book you wished to see?" "have you taine's england?" "beg pardon?" "taine's notes on england." the young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and reflected a moment: "ah--i see," [with a bright smile]--"train, you mean--not taine. george francis train. no, ma'm we--" "i mean taine--if i may take the liberty." the clerk reflected again--then: "taine . . . . taine . . . . is it hymns?" "no, it isn't hymns. it is a volume that is making a deal of talk just now, and is very widely known--except among parties who sell it." the clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion. he went away and conferred with the proprietor. both appeared to be non-plussed. they thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns. then both came forward and the proprietor said: "is it an american book, ma'm?" "no, it is an american reprint of an english translation." "oh! yes--yes--i remember, now. we are expecting it every day. it isn't out yet." "i think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago." "why no--can that be so?" "yes, i am sure of it. and besides, here is the book itself, on the counter." she bought it and the proprietor retired from the field. then she asked the clerk for the autocrat of the breakfast table--and was pained to see the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face. he said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their line, but he would order it if she desired it. she said, no, never mind. then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the inspection of the hawthornes, the longfellows, the tennysons, and other favorites of her idle hours. meantime the clerk's eyes were busy, and no doubt his admiration was returning again--or may be he was only gauging her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement only known to his guild. now he began to "assist" her in making a selection; but his efforts met with no success--indeed they only annoyed her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations. presently, while she was holding a copy of "venetian life" in her hand and running over a familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up a paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to dislodge the dust: "now here is a work that we've sold a lot of. everybody that's read it likes it"--and he intruded it under her nose; "it's a book that i can recommend--'the pirate's doom, or the last of the buccaneers.' i think it's one of the best things that's come out this season." laura pushed it gently aside her hand and went on and went on filching from "venetian life." "i believe i do not want it," she said. the clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another, but apparently not finding what he wanted. however, he succeeded at last. said he: "have you ever read this, ma'm? i am sure you'll like it. it's by the author of 'the hooligans of hackensack.' it is full of love troubles and mysteries and all sorts of such things. the heroine strangles her own mother. just glance at the title please,--'gonderil the vampire, or the dance of death.' and here is 'the jokist's own treasury, or, the phunny phellow's bosom phriend.' the funniest thing!--i've read it four times, ma'm, and i can laugh at the very sight of it yet. and 'gonderil,' --i assure you it is the most splendid book i ever read. i know you will like these books, ma'm, because i've read them myself and i know what they are." "oh, i was perplexed--but i see how it is, now. you must have thought i asked you to tell me what sort of books i wanted--for i am apt to say things which i don't really mean, when i am absent minded. i suppose i did ask you, didn't i?" "no ma'm,--but i--" "yes, i must have done it, else you would not have offered your services, for fear it might be rude. but don't be troubled--it was all my fault. i ought not to have been so heedless--i ought not to have asked you." "but you didn't ask me, ma'm. we always help customers all we can. you see our experience--living right among books all the time--that sort of thing makes us able to help a customer make a selection, you know." "now does it, indeed? it is part of your business, then?" "yes'm, we always help." "how good it is of you. some people would think it rather obtrusive, perhaps, but i don't--i think it is real kindness--even charity. some people jump to conclusions without any thought--you have noticed that?" "o yes," said the clerk, a little perplexed as to whether to feel comfortable or the reverse; "oh yes, indeed, i've often noticed that, ma'm." "yes, they jump to conclusions with an absurd heedlessness. now some people would think it odd that because you, with the budding tastes and the innocent enthusiasms natural to your time of life, enjoyed the vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, you should imagine that an older person would delight in them too--but i do not think it odd at all. i think it natural--perfectly natural in you. and kind, too. you look like a person who not only finds a deep pleasure in any little thing in the way of literature that strikes you forcibly, but is willing and glad to share that pleasure with others--and that, i think, is noble and admirable--very noble and admirable. i think we ought all--to share our pleasures with others, and do what we can to make each other happy, do not you?" "oh, yes. oh, yes, indeed. yes, you are quite right, ma'm." but he was getting unmistakably uncomfortable, now, notwithstanding laura's confiding sociability and almost affectionate tone. "yes, indeed. many people would think that what a bookseller--or perhaps his clerk--knows about literature as literature, in contradistinction to its character as merchandise, would hardly, be of much assistance to a person--that is, to an adult, of course--in the selection of food for the mind--except of course wrapping paper, or twine, or wafers, or something like that--but i never feel that way. i feel that whatever service you offer me, you offer with a good heart, and i am as grateful for it as if it were the greatest boon to me. and it is useful to me--it is bound to be so. it cannot be otherwise. if you show me a book which you have read--not skimmed over or merely glanced at, but read--and you tell me that you enjoyed it and that you could read it three or four times, then i know what book i want--" "thank you!--th--" --"to avoid. yes indeed. i think that no information ever comes amiss in this world. once or twice i have traveled in the cars--and there you know, the peanut boy always measures you with his eye, and hands you out a book of murders if you are fond of theology; or tupper or a dictionary or t. s. arthur if you are fond of poetry; or he hands you a volume of distressing jokes or a copy of the american miscellany if you particularly dislike that sort of literary fatty degeneration of the heart--just for the world like a pleasant spoken well-meaning gentleman in any, bookstore. but here i am running on as if business men had nothing to do but listen to women talk. you must pardon me, for i was not thinking.--and you must let me thank you again for helping me. i read a good deal, and shall be in nearly every day and i would be sorry to have you think me a customer who talks too much and buys too little. might i ask you to give me the time? ah-two-twenty-two. thank you very much. i will set mine while i have the opportunity." but she could not get her watch open, apparently. she tried, and tried again. then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be allowed to assist. she allowed him. he succeeded, and was radiant under the sweet influences of her pleased face and her seductively worded acknowledgements with gratification. then he gave her the exact time again, and anxiously watched her turn the hands slowly till they reached the precise spot without accident or loss of life, and then he looked as happy as a man who had helped a fellow being through a momentous undertaking, and was grateful to know that he had not lived in vain. laura thanked him once more. the words were music to his ear; but what were they compared to the ravishing smile with which she flooded his whole system? when she bowed her adieu and turned away, he was no longer suffering torture in the pillory where she had had him trussed up during so many distressing moments, but he belonged to the list of her conquests and was a flattered and happy thrall, with the dawn-light of love breaking over the eastern elevations of his heart. it was about the hour, now, for the chairman of the house committee on benevolent appropriations to make his appearance, and laura stepped to the door to reconnoiter. she glanced up the street, and sure enough-- the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . preface. this book was not written for private circulation among friends; it was not written to cheer and instruct a diseased relative of the author's; it was not thrown off during intervals of wearing labor to amuse an idle hour. it was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is submitted without the usual apologies. it will be seen that it deals with an entirely ideal state of society; and the chief embarrassment of the writers in this realm of the imagination has been the want of illustrative examples. in a state where there is no fever of speculation, no inflamed desire for sudden wealth, where the poor are all simple-minded and contented, and the rich are all honest and generous, where society is in a condition of primitive purity and politics is the occupation of only the capable and the patriotic, there are necessarily no materials for such a history as we have constructed out of an ideal commonwealth. no apology is needed for following the learned custom of placing attractive scraps of literature at the heads of our chapters. it has been truly observed by wagner that such headings, with their vague suggestions of the matter which is to follow them, pleasantly inflame the reader's interest without wholly satisfying his curiosity, and we will hope that it may be found to be so in the present case. our quotations are set in a vast number of tongues; this is done for the reason that very few foreign nations among whom the book will circulate can read in any language but their own; whereas we do not write for a particular class or sect or nation, but to take in the whole world. we do not object to criticism; and we do not expect that the critic will read the book before writing a notice of it: we do not even expect the reviewer of the book will say that he has not read it. no, we have no anticipations of anything unusual in this age of criticism. but if the jupiter, who passes his opinion on the novel, ever happens to peruse it in some weary moment of his subsequent life, we hope that he will not be the victim of a remorse bitter but too late. one word more. this is--what it pretends to be a joint production, in the conception of the story, the exposition of the characters, and in its literal composition. there is scarcely a chapter that does not bear the marks of the two writers of the book. s. l. c. c. d. w. [etext editor's note: the following chapters were written by mark twain: - , , , , , , - , , , , , , - , , - ; and portions of , , and . see twain's letter to dr. john brown feb. , d.w.] chapter i. june --. squire hawkins sat upon the pyramid of large blocks, called the "stile," in front of his house, contemplating the morning. the locality was obedstown, east tennessee. you would not know that obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, for there was nothing about the landscape to indicate it--but it did: a mountain that stretched abroad over whole counties, and rose very gradually. the district was called the "knobs of east tennessee," and had a reputation like nazareth, as far as turning out any good thing was concerned. the squire's house was a double log cabin, in a state of decay; two or three gaunt hounds lay asleep about the threshold, and lifted their heads sadly whenever mrs. hawkins or the children stepped in and out over their bodies. rubbish was scattered about the grassless yard; a bench stood near the door with a tin wash basin on it and a pail of water and a gourd; a cat had begun to drink from the pail, but the exertion was overtaxing her energies, and she had stopped to rest. there was an ash-hopper by the fence, and an iron pot, for soft-soap-boiling, near it. this dwelling constituted one-fifteenth of obedstown; the other fourteen houses were scattered about among the tall pine trees and among the corn-fields in such a way that a man might stand in the midst of the city and not know but that he was in the country if he only depended on his eyes for information. "squire" hawkins got his title from being postmaster of obedstown--not that the title properly belonged to the office, but because in those regions the chief citizens always must have titles of some sort, and so the usual courtesy had been extended to hawkins. the mail was monthly, and sometimes amounted to as much as three or four letters at a single delivery. even a rush like this did not fill up the postmaster's whole month, though, and therefore he "kept store" in the intervals. the squire was contemplating the morning. it was balmy and tranquil, the vagrant breezes were laden with the odor of flowers, the murmur of bees was in the air, there was everywhere that suggestion of repose that summer woodlands bring to the senses, and the vague, pleasurable melancholy that such a time and such surroundings inspire. presently the united states mail arrived, on horseback. there was but one letter, and it was for the postmaster. the long-legged youth who carried the mail tarried an hour to talk, for there was no hurry; and in a little while the male population of the village had assembled to help. as a general thing, they were dressed in homespun "jeans," blue or yellow--here were no other varieties of it; all wore one suspender and sometimes two--yarn ones knitted at home,--some wore vests, but few wore coats. such coats and vests as did appear, however, were rather picturesque than otherwise, for they were made of tolerably fanciful patterns of calico--a fashion which prevails thereto this day among those of the community who have tastes above the common level and are able to afford style. every individual arrived with his hands in his pockets; a hand came out occasionally for a purpose, but it always went back again after service; and if it was the head that was served, just the cant that the dilapidated straw hat got by being uplifted and rooted under, was retained until the next call altered the inclination; many' hats were present, but none were erect and no two were canted just alike. we are speaking impartially of men, youths and boys. and we are also speaking of these three estates when we say that every individual was either chewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on his own premises, or smoking the same in a corn-cob pipe. few of the men wore whiskers; none wore moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair under the chin and hiding the throat--the only pattern recognized there as being the correct thing in whiskers; but no part of any individual's face had seen a razor for a week. these neighbors stood a few moments looking at the mail carrier reflectively while he talked; but fatigue soon began to show itself, and one after another they climbed up and occupied the top rail of the fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like a company of buzzards assembled for supper and listening for the death-rattle. old damrell said: "tha hain't no news 'bout the jedge, hit ain't likely?" "cain't tell for sartin; some thinks he's gwyne to be 'long toreckly, and some thinks 'e hain't. russ mosely he tote ole hanks he mought git to obeds tomorrer or nex' day he reckoned." "well, i wisht i knowed. i got a 'prime sow and pigs in the, cote-house, and i hain't got no place for to put 'em. if the jedge is a gwyne to hold cote, i got to roust 'em out, i reckon. but tomorrer'll do, i 'spect." the speaker bunched his thick lips together like the stem-end of a tomato and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on a weed seven feet away. one after another the several chewers expressed a charge of tobacco juice and delivered it at the deceased with steady, aim and faultless accuracy. "what's a stirrin', down 'bout the forks?" continued old damrell. "well, i dunno, skasely. ole, drake higgins he's ben down to shelby las' week. tuck his crap down; couldn't git shet o' the most uv it; hit wasn't no time for to sell, he say, so he 'fotch it back agin, 'lowin' to wait tell fall. talks 'bout goin' to mozouri--lots uv 'ems talkin' that-away down thar, ole higgins say. cain't make a livin' here no mo', sich times as these. si higgins he's ben over to kaintuck n' married a high-toned gal thar, outen the fust families, an' he's come back to the forks with jist a hell's-mint o' whoop-jamboree notions, folks says. he's tuck an' fixed up the ole house like they does in kaintuck, he say, an' tha's ben folks come cler from turpentine for to see it. he's tuck an gawmed it all over on the inside with plarsterin'." "what's plasterin'?" "i dono. hit's what he calls it. 'ole mam higgins, she tole me. she say she wasn't gwyne to hang out in no sich a dern hole like a hog. says it's mud, or some sich kind o' nastiness that sticks on n' covers up everything. plarsterin', si calls it." this marvel was discussed at considerable length; and almost with animation. but presently there was a dog-fight over in the neighborhood of the blacksmith shop, and the visitors slid off their perch like so many turtles and strode to the battle-field with an interest bordering on eagerness. the squire remained, and read his letter. then he sighed, and sat long in meditation. at intervals he said: "missouri. missouri. well, well, well, everything is so uncertain." at last he said: "i believe i'll do it.--a man will just rot, here. my house my yard, everything around me, in fact, shows' that i am becoming one of these cattle--and i used to be thrifty in other times." he was not more than thirty-five, but he had a worn look that made him seem older. he left the stile, entered that part of his house which was the store, traded a quart of thick molasses for a coonskin and a cake of beeswax, to an old dame in linsey-woolsey, put his letter away, an went into the kitchen. his wife was there, constructing some dried apple pies; a slovenly urchin of ten was dreaming over a rude weather-vane of his own contriving; his small sister, close upon four years of age, was sopping corn-bread in some gravy left in the bottom of a frying-pan and trying hard not to sop over a finger-mark that divided the pan through the middle--for the other side belonged to the brother, whose musings made him forget his stomach for the moment; a negro woman was busy cooking, at a vast fire-place. shiftlessness and poverty reigned in the place. "nancy, i've made up my mind. the world is done with me, and perhaps i ought to be done with it. but no matter--i can wait. i am going to missouri. i won't stay in this dead country and decay with it. i've had it on my mind sometime. i'm going to sell out here for whatever i can get, and buy a wagon and team and put you and the children in it and start." "anywhere that suits you, suits me, si. and the children can't be any worse off in missouri than, they are here, i reckon." motioning his wife to a private conference in their own room, hawkins said: "no, they'll be better off. i've looked out for them, nancy," and his face lighted. "do you see these papers? well, they are evidence that i have taken up seventy-five thousand acres of land in this county --think what an enormous fortune it will be some day! why, nancy, enormous don't express it--the word's too tame! i tell your nancy----" "for goodness sake, si----" "wait, nancy, wait--let me finish--i've been secretly bailing and fuming with this grand inspiration for weeks, and i must talk or i'll burst! i haven't whispered to a soul--not a word--have had my countenance under lock and key, for fear it might drop something that would tell even these animals here how to discern the gold mine that's glaring under their noses. now all that is necessary to hold this land and keep it in the family is to pay the trifling taxes on it yearly--five or ten dollars --the whole tract would not sell for over a third of a cent an acre now, but some day people wild be glad to get it for twenty dollars, fifty dollars, a hundred dollars an acre! what should you say to" [here he dropped his voice to a whisper and looked anxiously around to see that there were no eavesdroppers,] "a thousand dollars an acre! "well you may open your eyes and stare! but it's so. you and i may not see the day, but they'll see it. mind i tell you; they'll see it. nancy, you've heard of steamboats, and maybe you believed in them--of course you did. you've heard these cattle here scoff at them and call them lies and humbugs,--but they're not lies and humbugs, they're a reality and they're going to be a more wonderful thing some day than they are now. they're going to make a revolution in this world's affairs that will make men dizzy to contemplate. i've been watching--i've been watching while some people slept, and i know what's coming. "even you and i will see the day that steamboats will come up that little turkey river to within twenty miles of this land of ours--and in high water they'll come right to it! and this is not all, nancy--it isn't even half! there's a bigger wonder--the railroad! these worms here have never even heard of it--and when they do they'll not believe in it. but it's another fact. coaches that fly over the ground twenty miles an hour--heavens and earth, think of that, nancy! twenty miles an hour. it makes a main's brain whirl. some day, when you and i are in our graves, there'll be a railroad stretching hundreds of miles--all the way down from the cities of the northern states to new orleans--and its got to run within thirty miles of this land--may be even touch a corner of it. well; do you know, they've quit burning wood in some places in the eastern states? and what do you suppose they burn? coal!" [he bent over and whispered again:] "there's world--worlds of it on this land! you know that black stuff that crops out of the bank of the branch?--well, that's it. you've taken it for rocks; so has every body here; and they've built little dams and such things with it. one man was going to build a chimney out of it. nancy i expect i turned as white as a sheet! why, it might have caught fire and told everything. i showed him it was too crumbly. then he was going to build it of copper ore--splendid yellow forty-per-cent. ore! there's fortunes upon fortunes of copper ore on our land! it scared me to death, the idea of this fool starting a smelting furnace in his house without knowing it, and getting his dull eyes opened. and then he was going to build it of iron ore! there's mountains of iron ore here, nancy--whole mountains of it. i wouldn't take any chances. i just stuck by him--i haunted him--i never let him alone till he built it of mud and sticks like all the rest of the chimneys in this dismal country. pine forests, wheat land, corn land, iron, copper, coal-wait till the railroads come, and the steamboats! we'll never see the day, nancy--never in the world---never, never, never, child. we've got to drag along, drag along, and eat crusts in toil and poverty, all hopeless and forlorn--but they'll ride in coaches, nancy! they'll live like the princes of the earth; they'll be courted and worshiped; their names will be known from ocean to ocean! ah, well-a-day! will they ever come back here, on the railroad and the steamboat, and say, 'this one little spot shall not be touched--this hovel shall be sacred--for here our father and our mother suffered for us, thought for us, laid the foundations of our future as solid as the hills!'" "you are a great, good, noble soul, si hawkins, and i am an honored woman to be the wife of such a man"--and the tears stood in her eyes when she said it. "we will go to missouri. you are out of your place, here, among these groping dumb creatures. we will find a higher place, where you can walk with your own kind, and be understood when you speak--not stared at as if you were talking some foreign tongue. i would go anywhere, anywhere in the wide world with you i would rather my body would starve and die than your mind should hunger and wither away in this lonely land." "spoken like yourself, my child! but we'll not starve, nancy. far from it. i have a letter from beriah sellers--just came this day. a letter that--i'll read you a line from it!" he flew out of the room. a shadow blurred the sunlight in nancy's face --there was uneasiness in it, and disappointment. a procession of disturbing thoughts began to troop through her mind. saying nothing aloud, she sat with her hands in her lap; now and then she clasped them, then unclasped them, then tapped the ends of the fingers together; sighed, nodded, smiled--occasionally paused, shook her head. this pantomime was the elocutionary expression of an unspoken soliloquy which had something of this shape: "i was afraid of it--was afraid of it. trying to make our fortune in virginia, beriah sellers nearly ruined us and we had to settle in kentucky and start over again. trying to make our fortune in kentucky he crippled us again and we had to move here. trying to make our fortune here, he brought us clear down to the ground, nearly. he's an honest soul, and means the very best in the world, but i'm afraid, i'm afraid he's too flighty. he has splendid ideas, and he'll divide his chances with his friends with a free hand, the good generous soul, but something does seem to always interfere and spoil everything. i never did think he was right well balanced. but i don't blame my husband, for i do think that when that man gets his head full of a new notion, he can out-talk a machine. he'll make anybody believe in that notion that'll listen to him ten minutes--why i do believe he would make a deaf and dumb man believe in it and get beside himself, if you only set him where he could see his eyes tally and watch his hands explain. what a head he has got! when he got up that idea there in virginia of buying up whole loads of negroes in delaware and virginia and tennessee, very quiet, having papers drawn to have them delivered at a place in alabama and take them and pay for them, away yonder at a certain time, and then in the meantime get a law made stopping everybody from selling negroes to the south after a certain day --it was somehow that way--mercy how the man would have made money! negroes would have gone up to four prices. but after he'd spent money and worked hard, and traveled hard, and had heaps of negroes all contracted for, and everything going along just right, he couldn't get the laws passed and down the whole thing tumbled. and there in kentucky, when he raked up that old numskull that had been inventing away at a perpetual motion machine for twenty-two years, and beriah sellers saw at a glance where just one more little cog-wheel would settle the business, why i could see it as plain as day when he came in wild at midnight and hammered us out of bed and told the whole thing in a whisper with the doors bolted and the candle in an empty barrel. oceans of money in it --anybody could see that. but it did cost a deal to buy the old numskull out--and then when they put the new cog wheel in they'd overlooked something somewhere and it wasn't any use--the troublesome thing wouldn't go. that notion he got up here did look as handy as anything in the world; and how him and si did sit up nights working at it with the curtains down and me watching to see if any neighbors were about. the man did honestly believe there was a fortune in that black gummy oil that stews out of the bank si says is coal; and he refined it himself till it was like water, nearly, and it did burn, there's no two ways about that; and i reckon he'd have been all right in cincinnati with his lamp that he got made, that time he got a house full of rich speculators to see him exhibit only in the middle of his speech it let go and almost blew the heads off the whole crowd. i haven't got over grieving for the money that cost yet. i am sorry enough beriah sellers is in missouri, now, but i was glad when he went. i wonder what his letter says. but of course it's cheerful; he's never down-hearted--never had any trouble in his life--didn't know it if he had. it's always sunrise with that man, and fine and blazing, at that--never gets noon; though--leaves off and rises again. nobody can help liking the creature, he means so well--but i do dread to come across him again; he's bound to set us all crazy, of coarse. well, there goes old widow hopkins--it always takes her a week to buy a spool of thread and trade a hank of yarn. maybe si can come with the letter, now." and he did: "widow hopkins kept me--i haven't any patience with such tedious people. now listen, nancy--just listen at this: "'come right along to missouri! don't wait and worry about a good price but sell out for whatever you can get, and come along, or you might be too late. throw away your traps, if necessary, and come empty-handed. you'll never regret it. it's the grandest country --the loveliest land--the purest atmosphere--i can't describe it; no pen can do it justice. and it's filling up, every day--people coming from everywhere. i've got the biggest scheme on earth--and i'll take you in; i'll take in every friend i've got that's ever stood by me, for there's enough for all, and to spare. mum's the word--don't whisper--keep yourself to yourself. you'll see! come! --rush!--hurry!--don't wait for anything!' "it's the same old boy, nancy, jest the same old boy--ain't he?" "yes, i think there's a little of the old sound about his voice yet. i suppose you--you'll still go, si?" "go! well, i should think so, nancy. it's all a chance, of course, and, chances haven't been kind to us, i'll admit--but whatever comes, old wife, they're provided for. thank god for that!" "amen," came low and earnestly. and with an activity and a suddenness that bewildered obedstown and almost took its breath away, the hawkinses hurried through with their arrangements in four short months and flitted out into the great mysterious blank that lay beyond the knobs of tennessee. chapter ii. toward the close of the third day's journey the wayfarers were just beginning to think of camping, when they came upon a log cabin in the woods. hawkins drew rein and entered the yard. a boy about ten years old was sitting in the cabin door with his face bowed in his hands. hawkins approached, expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it did not. he halted a moment, and then said: "come, come, little chap, you mustn't be going to sleep before sundown" with a tired expression the small face came up out of the hands,--a face down which tears were flowing. "ah, i'm sorry i spoke so, my boy. tell me--is anything the matter?" the boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture that the trouble was in the, house, and made room for hawkins to pass. then he put his face in his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering a grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry. hawkins stepped within. it was a poverty stricken place. six or eight middle-aged country people of both sexes were grouped about an object in the middle of the room; they were noiselessly busy and they talked in whispers when they spoke. hawkins uncovered and approached. a coffin stood upon two backless chairs. these neighbors had just finished disposing the body of a woman in it--a woman with a careworn, gentle face that had more the look of sleep about it than of death. an old lady motioned, toward the door and said to hawkins in a whisper: "his mother, po' thing. died of the fever, last night. tha warn't no sich thing as saving of her. but it's better for her--better for her. husband and the other two children died in the spring, and she hain't ever hilt up her head sence. she jest went around broken-hearted like, and never took no intrust in anything but clay--that's the boy thar. she jest worshiped clay--and clay he worshiped her. they didn't 'pear to live at all, only when they was together, looking at each other, loving one another. she's ben sick three weeks; and if you believe me that child has worked, and kep' the run of the med'cin, and the times of giving it, and sot up nights and nussed her, and tried to keep up her sperits, the same as a grown-up person. and last night when she kep' a sinking and sinking, and turned away her head and didn't know him no mo', it was fitten to make a body's heart break to see him climb onto the bed and lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and she not answer. but bymeby she roused up, like, and looked around wild, and then she see him, and she made a great cry and snatched him to her breast and hilt him close and kissed him over and over agin; but it took the last po' strength she had, and so her eyelids begin to close down, and her arms sort o' drooped away and then we see she was gone, po' creetur. and clay, he--oh, the po' motherless thing--i cain't talk abort it--i cain't bear to talk about it." clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the neighbors reverently fell apart and made way for him. he leaned upon the open coffin and let his tears course silently. then he put out his small hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly. after a bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three or four fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent over and kissed the unresponsive lips time and time again, and then turned away and went out of the house without looking at any of the company. the old lady said to hawkins: "she always loved that kind o' flowers. he fetched 'em for her every morning, and she always kissed him. they was from away north somers--she kep' school when she fust come. goodness knows what's to become o' that po' boy. no father, no mother, no kin folks of no kind. nobody to go to, nobody that k'yers for him--and all of us is so put to it for to get along and families so large." hawkins understood. all, eyes were turned inquiringly upon him. he said: "friends, i am not very well provided for, myself, but still i would not turn my back on a homeless orphan. if he will go with me i will give him a home, and loving regard--i will do for him as i would have another do for a child of my own in misfortune." one after another the people stepped forward and wrung the stranger's hand with cordial good will, and their eyes looked all that their hands could not express or their lips speak. "said like a true man," said one. "you was a stranger to me a minute ago, but you ain't now," said another. "it's bread cast upon the waters--it'll return after many days," said the old lady whom we have heard speak before. "you got to camp in my house as long as you hang out here," said one. "if tha hain't room for you and yourn my tribe'll turn out and camp in the hay loft." a few minutes afterward, while the preparations for the funeral were being concluded, mr. hawkins arrived at his wagon leading his little waif by the hand, and told his wife all that had happened, and asked her if he had done right in giving to her and to himself this new care? she said: "if you've done wrong, si hawkins, it's a wrong that will shine brighter at the judgment day than the rights that many' a man has done before you. and there isn't any compliment you can pay me equal to doing a thing like this and finishing it up, just taking it for granted that i'll be willing to it. willing? come to me; you poor motherless boy, and let me take your grief and help you carry it." when the child awoke in the morning, it was as if from a troubled dream. but slowly the confusion in his mind took form, and he remembered his great loss; the beloved form in the coffin; his talk with a generous stranger who offered him a home; the funeral, where the stranger's wife held him by the hand at the grave, and cried with him and comforted him; and he remembered how this, new mother tucked him in his bed in the neighboring farm house, and coaxed him to talk about his troubles, and then heard him say his prayers and kissed him good night, and left him with the soreness in his heart almost healed and his bruised spirit at rest. and now the new mother came again, and helped him to dress, and combed his hair, and drew his mind away by degrees from the dismal yesterday, by telling him about the wonderful journey he was going to take and the strange things he was going to see. and after breakfast they two went alone to the grave, and his heart went out to his new friend and his untaught eloquence poured the praises of his buried idol into her ears without let or hindrance. together they planted roses by the headboard and strewed wild flowers upon the grave; and then together they went away, hand in hand, and left the dead to the long sleep that heals all heart-aches and ends all sorrows. chapter iii. whatever the lagging dragging journey may have been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of enchantment; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. at the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house by house, into the hungry mississippi. the river astonished the children beyond measure. its mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before. "uncle dan'l"(colored,) aged ; his wife, "aunt jinny," aged , "young miss" emily hawkins, "young mars" washington hawkins and "young mars" clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed it. the moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a raving bank in the distance. the little company assembled on the log were all children (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with the character; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before then, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. suddenly uncle dan'l exclaimed: "chil'en, dah's sum fin a comin!" all crowded close together and every heart beat faster. uncle dan'l pointed down the river with his bony finger. a deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jetted into the stream a mile distant. all in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out froth behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. the coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. a huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. "what is it! oh, what is it, uncle dan'l!" with deep solemnity the answer came: "it's de almighty! git down on yo' knees!" it was not necessary to say it twice. they were all kneeling, in a moment. and then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's voice lifted up its supplications: "o lord', we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good lord, deah lord, we ain't ready yit, we ain't ready --let dese po' chilen hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. take de ole niggah if you's, got to hab somebody.--good lord, good deah lord, we don't know whah you's a gwyne to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by de way you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's a gwyne to ketch it. but good lord, dose chilen don't b'long heah, dey's f'm obedstown whah dey don't know nuffin, an' you knows, yo' own sef, dat dey ain't 'sponsible. an' deah lord, good lord, it ain't like yo' mercy, it ain't like yo' pity, it ain't like yo' long-sufferin' lovin' kindness for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sick little chil'en as dose is when dey's so many ornery grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. oh, lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off jes' dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. heah i is, lord, heah i is! de ole niggah's ready, lord, de ole----" the flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twenty steps away. the awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly uncle dan'l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. and then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebly:) "heah i is, lord, heah i is!" there was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and the comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. uncle dan'l headed a cautious reconnaissance in the direction of the log. sure enough "the lord" was just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and presently ceased altogether. "h'wsh! well now dey's some folks says dey ain't no 'ficiency in prah. dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah? dat's it. dat's it!" "uncle dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us?" said clay. "does i reckon? don't i know it! whah was yo' eyes? warn't de lord jes' a cumin' chow! chow! chow! an' a goin' on turrible--an' do de lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him? an' warn't he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em? an' d'you spec' he gwyne to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it? no indeedy!" "do you reckon he saw, us, uncle dan'l? "de law sakes, chile, didn't i see him a lookin' at us?". "did you feel scared, uncle dan'l?" "no sah! when a man is 'gaged in prah, he ain't fraid o' nuffin--dey can't nuffin tetch him." "well what did you run for?" "well, i--i--mars clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, he do-no, what he's 'bout--no sah; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. you mout take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. date's de hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah; dey was burnt considable--ob coase dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it--heal right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, (hair,) maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn." "i don't know but what they were girls. i think they were." "now mars clay, you knows bettern dat. sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a sayin' what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." "but how should i know whether they were boys or girls?" "goodness sakes, mars clay, don't de good book say? 'sides, don't it call 'em de he-brew chil'en? if dey was gals wouldn't dey be de she-brew chil'en? some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey do read." "well, uncle dan'l, i think that-----my! here comes another one up the river! there can't be two!" "we gone dis time--we done gone dis time, sho'! dey ain't two, mars clay--days de same one. de lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. goodness, how do fiah and de smoke do belch up! dat mean business, honey. he comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. come 'long, chil'en, time you's gwyne to roos'. go 'long wid you--ole uncle daniel gwyne out in de woods to rastle in prah--de ole nigger gwyne to do what he kin to sabe you agin" he did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if the lord heard him when he went by. chapter iv. --seventhly, before his voyage, he should make his peace with god, satisfie his creditors if he be in debt; pray earnestly to god to prosper him in his voyage, and to keep him from danger, and, if he be 'sui juris' he should make his last will, and wisely order all his affairs, since many that go far abroad, return not home. (this good and christian counsel is given by martinus zeilerus in his apodemical canons before his itinerary of spain and portugal.) early in the morning squire hawkins took passage in a small steamboat, with his family and his two slaves, and presently the bell rang, the stage-plank; was hauled in, and the vessel proceeded up the river. the children and the slaves were not much more at ease after finding out that this monster was a creature of human contrivance than they were the night before when they thought it the lord of heaven and earth. they started, in fright, every time the gauge-cocks sent out an angry hiss, and they quaked from head to foot when the mud-valves thundered. the shivering of the boat under the beating of the wheels was sheer misery to them. but of course familiarity with these things soon took away their terrors, and then the voyage at once became a glorious adventure, a royal progress through the very heart and home of romance, a realization of their rosiest wonder-dreams. they sat by the hour in the shade of the pilot house on the hurricane deck and looked out over the curving expanses of the river sparkling in the sunlight. sometimes the boat fought the mid-stream current, with a verdant world on either hand, and remote from both; sometimes she closed in under a point, where the dead water and the helping eddies were, and shaved the bank so closely that the decks were swept by the jungle of over-hanging willows and littered with a spoil of leaves; departing from these "points" she regularly crossed the river every five miles, avoiding the "bight" of the great binds and thus escaping the strong current; sometimes she went out and skirted a high "bluff" sand-bar in the middle of the stream, and occasionally followed it up a little too far and touched upon the shoal water at its head--and then the intelligent craft refused to run herself aground, but "smelt" the bar, and straightway the foamy streak that streamed away from her bows vanished, a great foamless wave rolled forward and passed her under way, and in this instant she leaned far over on her side, shied from the bar and fled square away from the danger like a frightened thing--and the pilot was lucky if he managed to "straighten her up" before she drove her nose into the opposite bank; sometimes she approached a solid wall of tall trees as if she meant to break through it, but all of a sudden a little crack would open just enough to admit her, and away she would go plowing through the "chute" with just barely room enough between the island on one side and the main land on the other; in this sluggish water she seemed to go like a racehorse; now and then small log cabins appeared in little clearings, with the never-failing frowsy women and girls in soiled and faded linsey-woolsey leaning in the doors or against woodpiles and rail fences, gazing sleepily at the passing show; sometimes she found shoal water, going out at the head of those "chutes" or crossing the river, and then a deck-hand stood on the bow and hove the lead, while the boat slowed down and moved cautiously; sometimes she stopped a moment at a landing and took on some freight or a passenger while a crowd of slouchy white men and negroes stood on the bank and looked sleepily on with their hands in their pantaloons pockets,--of course--for they never took them out except to stretch, and when they did this they squirmed about and reached their fists up into the air and lifted themselves on tip-toe in an ecstasy of enjoyment. when the sun went down it turned all the broad river to a national banner laid in gleaming bars of gold and purple and crimson; and in time these glories faded out in the twilight and left the fairy archipelagoes reflecting their fringing foliage in the steely mirror of the stream. at night the boat forged on through the deep solitudes of the river, hardly ever discovering a light to testify to a human presence--mile after mile and league after league the vast bends were guarded by unbroken walls of forest that had never been disturbed by the voice or the foot-fall of man or felt the edge of his sacrilegious axe. an hour after supper the moon came up, and clay and washington ascended to the hurricane deck to revel again in their new realm of enchantment. they ran races up and down the deck; climbed about the bell; made friends with the passenger-dogs chained under the lifeboat; tried to make friends with a passenger-bear fastened to the verge-staff but were not encouraged; "skinned the cat" on the hog-chains; in a word, exhausted the amusement-possibilities of the deck. then they looked wistfully up at the pilot house, and finally, little by little, clay ventured up there, followed diffidently by washington. the pilot turned presently to "get his stern-marks," saw the lads and invited them in. now their happiness was complete. this cosy little house, built entirely of glass and commanding a marvelous prospect in every direction was a magician's throne to them and their enjoyment of the place was simply boundless. they sat them down on a high bench and looked miles ahead and saw the wooded capes fold back and reveal the bends beyond; and they looked miles to the rear and saw the silvery highway diminish its breadth by degrees and close itself together in the distance. presently the pilot said: "by george, yonder comes the amaranth!" a spark appeared, close to the water, several miles down the river. the pilot took his glass and looked at it steadily for a moment, and said, chiefly to himself: "it can't be the blue wing. she couldn't pick us up this way. it's the amaranth, sure!" he bent over a speaking tube and said: "who's on watch down there?" a hollow, unhuman voice rumbled up through the tube in answer: "i am. second engineer." "good! you want to stir your stumps, now, harry--the amaranth's just turned the point--and she's just a--humping herself, too!" the pilot took hold of a rope that stretched out forward, jerked it twice, and two mellow strokes of the big bell responded. a voice out on the deck shouted: "stand by, down there, with that labboard lead!" "no, i don't want the lead," said the pilot, "i want you. roust out the old man--tell him the amaranth's coming. and go and call jim--tell him." "aye-aye, sir!" the "old man" was the captain--he is always called so, on steamboats and ships; "jim" was the other pilot. within two minutes both of these men were flying up the pilothouse stairway, three steps at a jump. jim was in his shirt sleeves,--with his coat and vest on his arm. he said: "i was just turning in. where's the glass" he took it and looked: "don't appear to be any night-hawk on the jack-staff--it's the amaranth, dead sure!" the captain took a good long look, and only said: "damnation!" george davis, the pilot on watch, shouted to the night-watchman on deck: "how's she loaded?" "two inches by the head, sir." "'t ain't enough!" the captain shouted, now: "call the mate. tell him to call all hands and get a lot of that sugar forrard--put her ten inches by the head. lively, now!" "aye-aye, sir." a riot of shouting and trampling floated up from below, presently, and the uneasy steering of the boat soon showed that she was getting "down by the head." the three men in the pilot house began to talk in short, sharp sentences, low and earnestly. as their excitement rose, their voices went down. as fast as one of them put down the spy-glass another took it up--but always with a studied air of calmness. each time the verdict was: "she's a gaining!" the captain spoke through the tube: "what steam are you carrying?" "a hundred and forty-two, sir! but she's getting hotter and hotter all the time." the boat was straining and groaning and quivering like a monster in pain. both pilots were at work now, one on each side of the wheel, with their coats and vests off, their bosoms and collars wide open and the perspiration flowing down heir faces. they were holding the boat so close to the shore that the willows swept the guards almost from stem to stern. "stand by!" whispered george. "all ready!" said jim, under his breath. "let her come!" the boat sprang away, from the bank like a deer, and darted in a long diagonal toward the other shore. she closed in again and thrashed her fierce way along the willows as before. the captain put down the glass: "lord how she walks up on us! i do hate to be beat!" "jim," said george, looking straight ahead, watching the slightest yawing of the boat and promptly meeting it with the wheel, "how'll it do to try murderer's chute?" "well, it's--it's taking chances. how was the cottonwood stump on the false point below boardman's island this morning?" "water just touching the roots." "well it's pretty close work. that gives six feet scant in the head of murderer's chute. we can just barely rub through if we hit it exactly right. but it's worth trying. she don't dare tackle it!"--meaning the amaranth. in another instant the boreas plunged into what seemed a crooked creek, and the amaranth's approaching lights were shut out in a moment. not a whisper was uttered, now, but the three men stared ahead into the shadows and two of them spun the wheel back and forth with anxious watchfulness while the steamer tore along. the chute seemed to come to an end every fifty yards, but always opened out in time. now the head of it was at hand. george tapped the big bell three times, two leadsmen sprang to their posts, and in a moment their weird cries rose on the night air and were caught up and repeated by two men on the upper deck: "no-o bottom!" "de-e-p four!" "half three!" "quarter three!" "mark under wa-a-ter three!" "half twain!" "quarter twain!-----" davis pulled a couple of ropes--there was a jingling of small bells far below, the boat's speed slackened, and the pent steam began to whistle and the gauge-cocks to scream: "by the mark twain!" "quar--ter--her--er--less twain!" "eight and a half!" "eight feet!" "seven-ana-half!" another jingling of little bells and the wheels ceased turning altogether. the whistling of the steam was something frightful now--it almost drowned all other noises. "stand by to meet her!" george had the wheel hard down and was standing on a spoke. "all ready!" the, boat hesitated seemed to hold her breath, as did the captain and pilots--and then she began to fall away to starboard and every eye lighted: "now then!--meet her! meet her! snatch her!" the wheel flew to port so fast that the spokes blended into a spider-web --the swing of the boat subsided--she steadied herself---- "seven feet!" "sev--six and a half!" "six feet! six f----" bang! she hit the bottom! george shouted through the tube: "spread her wide open! whale it at her!" pow-wow-chow! the escape-pipes belched snowy pillars of steam aloft, the boat ground and surged and trembled--and slid over into---- "m-a-r-k twain!" "quarter-her----" "tap! tap! tap!" (to signify "lay in the leads") and away she went, flying up the willow shore, with the whole silver sea of the mississippi stretching abroad on every hand. no amaranth in sight! "ha-ha, boys, we took a couple of tricks that time!" said the captain. and just at that moment a red glare appeared in the head of the chute and the amaranth came springing after them! "well, i swear!" "jim, what is the meaning of that?" "i'll tell you what's the meaning of it. that hail we had at napoleon was wash hastings, wanting to come to cairo--and we didn't stop. he's in that pilot house, now, showing those mud turtles how to hunt for easy water." "that's it! i thought it wasn't any slouch that was running that middle bar in hog-eye bend. if it's wash hastings--well, what he don't know about the river ain't worth knowing--a regular gold-leaf, kid-glove, diamond breastpin pilot wash hastings is. we won't take any tricks off of him, old man!" "i wish i'd a stopped for him, that's all." the amaranth was within three hundred yards of the boreas, and still gaining. the "old man" spoke through the tube: "what is she-carrying now?" "a hundred and sixty-five, sir!" "how's your wood?" "pine all out-cypress half gone-eating up cotton-wood like pie!" "break into that rosin on the main deck-pile it in, the boat can pay for it!" soon the boat was plunging and quivering and screaming more madly than ever. but the amaranth's head was almost abreast the boreas's stern: "how's your steam, now, harry?" "hundred and eighty-two, sir!" "break up the casks of bacon in the forrard hold! pile it in! levy on that turpentine in the fantail-drench every stick of wood with it!" the boat was a moving earthquake by this time: "how is she now?" "a hundred and ninety-six and still a-swelling!--water, below the middle gauge-cocks!--carrying every pound she can stand!--nigger roosting on the safety-valve!" "good! how's your draft?" "bully! every time a nigger heaves a stick of wood into the furnace he goes out the chimney, with it!" the amaranth drew steadily up till her jack-staff breasted the boreas's wheel-house--climbed along inch by inch till her chimneys breasted it --crept along, further and further, till the boats were wheel to wheel --and then they, closed up with a heavy jolt and locked together tight and fast in the middle of the big river under the flooding moonlight! a roar and a hurrah went up from the crowded decks of both steamers--all hands rushed to the guards to look and shout and gesticulate--the weight careened the vessels over toward each other--officers flew hither and thither cursing and storming, trying to drive the people amidships--both captains were leaning over their railings shaking their fists, swearing and threatening--black volumes of smoke rolled up and canopied the scene,--delivering a rain of sparks upon the vessels--two pistol shots rang out, and both captains dodged unhurt and the packed masses of passengers surged back and fell apart while the shrieks of women and children soared above the intolerable din---- and then there was a booming roar, a thundering crash, and the riddled amaranth dropped loose from her hold and drifted helplessly away! instantly the fire-doors of the boreas were thrown open and the men began dashing buckets of water into the furnaces--for it would have been death and destruction to stop the engines with such a head of steam on. as soon as possible the boreas dropped down to the floating wreck and took off the dead, the wounded and the unhurt--at least all that could be got at, for the whole forward half of the boat was a shapeless ruin, with the great chimneys lying crossed on top of it, and underneath were a dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing for help. while men with axes worked with might and main to free these poor fellows, the boreas's boats went about, picking up stragglers from the river. and now a new horror presented itself. the wreck took fire from the dismantled furnaces! never did men work with a heartier will than did those stalwart braves with the axes. but it was of no use. the fire ate its way steadily, despising the bucket brigade that fought it. it scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of the axemen--it drove them back, foot by foot-inch by inch--they wavered, struck a final blow in the teeth of the enemy, and surrendered. and as they fell back they heard prisoned voices saying: "don't leave us! don't desert us! don't, don't do it!" and one poor fellow said: "i am henry worley, striker of the amaranth! my mother lives in st. louis. tell her a lie for a poor devil's sake, please. say i was killed in an instant and never knew what hurt me--though god knows i've neither scratch nor bruise this moment! it's hard to burn up in a coop like this with the whole wide world so near. good-bye boys--we've all got to come to it at last, anyway!" the boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission. a shriek at intervals told of a captive that had met his doom. the wreck lodged upon a sandbar, and when the boreas turned the next point on her upward journey it was still burning with scarcely abated fury. when the boys came down into the main saloon of the boreas, they saw a pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful sounds. eleven poor creatures lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or pleading or screaming, while a score of good samaritans moved among them doing what they could to relieve their sufferings; bathing their chinless faces and bodies with linseed oil and lime water and covering the places with bulging masses of raw cotton that gave to every face and form a dreadful and unhuman aspect. a little wee french midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but never uttered a sound till a physician of memphis was about to dress his hurts. then he said: "can i get well? you need not be afraid to tell me." "no--i--i am afraid you can not." "then do not waste your time with me--help those that can get well." "but----" "help those that can get well! it is, not for me to be a girl. i carry the blood of eleven generations of soldiers in my veins!" the physician--himself a man who had seen service in the navy in his time--touched his hat to this little hero, and passed on. the head engineer of the amaranth, a grand specimen of physical manhood, struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle and strode toward his brother, the second engineer, who was unhurt. he said: "you were on watch. you were boss. you would not listen to me when i begged you to reduce your steam. take that!--take it to my wife and tell her it comes from me by the hand of my murderer! take it--and take my curse with it to blister your heart a hundred years--and may you live so long!" and he tore a ring from his finger, stripping flesh and skin with it, threw it down and fell dead! but these things must not be dwelt upon. the boreas landed her dreadful cargo at the next large town and delivered it over to a multitude of eager hands and warm southern hearts--a cargo amounting by this time to wounded persons and dead bodies. and with these she delivered a list of missing persons that had drowned or otherwise perished at the scene of the disaster. a jury of inquest was impaneled, and after due deliberation and inquiry they returned the inevitable american verdict which has been so familiar to our ears all the days of our lives--"nobody to blame." **[the incidents of the explosion are not invented. they happened just as they are told.--the authors.] chapter v. il veut faire secher de la neige au four et la vendre pour du sel blanc. when the boreas backed away from the land to continue her voyage up the river, the hawkinses were richer by twenty-four hours of experience in the contemplation of human suffering and in learning through honest hard work how to relieve it. and they were richer in another way also. in the early turmoil an hour after the explosion, a little black-eyed girl of five years, frightened and crying bitterly, was struggling through the throng in the boreas' saloon calling her mother and father, but no one answered. something in the face of mr. hawkins attracted her and she came and looked up at him; was satisfied, and took refuge with him. he petted her, listened to her troubles, and said he would find her friends for her. then he put her in a state-room with his children and told them to be kind to her (the adults of his party were all busy with the wounded) and straightway began his search. it was fruitless. but all day he and his wife made inquiries, and hoped against hope. all that they could learn was that the child and her parents came on board at new orleans, where they had just arrived in a vessel from cuba; that they looked like people from the atlantic states; that the family name was van brunt and the child's name laura. this was all. the parents had not been seen since the explosion. the child's manners were those of a little lady, and her clothes were daintier and finer than any mrs. hawkins had ever seen before. as the hours dragged on the child lost heart, and cried so piteously for her mother that it seemed to the hawkinses that the moanings and the wailings of the mutilated men and women in the saloon did not so strain at their heart-strings as the sufferings of this little desolate creature. they tried hard to comfort her; and in trying, learned to love her; they could not help it, seeing how she clung, to them and put her arms about their necks and found-no solace but in their kind eyes and comforting words: there was a question in both their hearts--a question that rose up and asserted itself with more and more pertinacity as the hours wore on--but both hesitated to give it voice--both kept silence --and--waited. but a time came at last when the matter would bear delay no longer. the boat had landed, and the dead and the wounded were being conveyed to the shore. the tired child was asleep in the arms of mrs. hawkins. mr. hawkins came into their presence and stood without speaking. his eyes met his wife's; then both looked at the child--and as they looked it stirred in its sleep and nestled closer; an expression of contentment and peace settled upon its face that touched the mother-heart; and when the eyes of husband and wife met again, the question was asked and answered. when the boreas had journeyed some four hundred miles from the time the hawkinses joined her, a long rank of steamboats was sighted, packed side by side at a wharf like sardines, in a box, and above and beyond them rose the domes and steeples and general architectural confusion of a city--a city with an imposing umbrella of black smoke spread over it. this was st. louis. the children of the hawkins family were playing about the hurricane deck, and the father and mother were sitting in the lee of the pilot house essaying to keep order and not greatly grieved that they were not succeeding. "they're worth all the trouble they are, nancy." "yes, and more, si." "i believe you! you wouldn't sell one of them at a good round figure?" "not for all the money in the bank, si." "my own sentiments every time. it is true we are not rich--but still you are not sorry---you haven't any misgivings about the additions?" "no. god will provide" "amen. and so you wouldn't even part with clay? or laura!" "not for anything in the world. i love them just the same as i love my own: they pet me and spoil me even more than the others do, i think. i reckon we'll get along, si." "oh yes, it will all come out right, old mother. i wouldn't be afraid to adopt a thousand children if i wanted to, for there's that tennessee land, you know--enough to make an army of them rich. a whole army, nancy! you and i will never see the day, but these little chaps will. indeed they will. one of these days it will be the rich miss emily hawkins--and the wealthy miss laura van brunt hawkins--and the hon. george washington hawkins, millionaire--and gov. henry clay hawkins, millionaire! that is the way the world will word it! don't let's ever fret about the children, nancy--never in the world. they're all right. nancy, there's oceans and oceans of money in that land--mark my words!" the children had stopped playing, for the moment, and drawn near to listen. hawkins said: "washington, my boy, what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world?" "i don't know, father. sometimes i think i'll have a balloon and go up in the air; and sometimes i think i'll have ever so many books; and sometimes i think i'll have ever so many weathercocks and water-wheels; or have a machine like that one you and colonel sellers bought; and sometimes i think i'll have--well, somehow i don't know--somehow i ain't certain; maybe i'll get a steamboat first." "the same old chap!--always just a little bit divided about things.--and what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world, clay?" "i don't know, sir. my mother--my other mother that's gone away--she always told me to work along and not be much expecting to get rich, and then i wouldn't be disappointed if i didn't get rich. and so i reckon it's better for me to wait till i get rich, and then by that time maybe i'll know what i'll want--but i don't now, sir." "careful old head!--governor henry clay hawkins!--that's what you'll be, clay, one of these days. wise old head! weighty old head! go on, now, and play--all of you. it's a prime lot, nancy; as the obedstown folk say about their hogs." a smaller steamboat received the hawkinses and their fortunes, and bore them a hundred and thirty miles still higher up the mississippi, and landed them at a little tumble-down village on the missouri shore in the twilight of a mellow october day. the next morning they harnessed up their team and for two days they wended slowly into the interior through almost roadless and uninhabited forest solitudes. and when for the last time they pitched their tents, metaphorically speaking, it was at the goal of their hopes, their new home. by the muddy roadside stood a new log cabin, one story high--the store; clustered in the neighborhood were ten or twelve more cabins, some new, some old. in the sad light of the departing day the place looked homeless enough. two or three coatless young men sat in front of the store on a dry-goods box, and whittled it with their knives, kicked it with their vast boots, and shot tobacco-juice at various marks. several ragged negroes leaned comfortably against the posts of the awning and contemplated the arrival of the wayfarers with lazy curiosity. all these people presently managed to drag themselves to the vicinity of the hawkins' wagon, and there they took up permanent positions, hands in pockets and resting on one leg; and thus anchored they proceeded to look and enjoy. vagrant dogs came wagging around and making inquiries of hawkins's dog, which were not satisfactory and they made war on him in concert. this would have interested the citizens but it was too many on one to amount to anything as a fight, and so they commanded the peace and the foreign dog coiled his tail and took sanctuary under the wagon. slatternly negro girls and women slouched along with pails deftly balanced on their heads, and joined the group and stared. little half dressed white boys, and little negro boys with nothing whatever on but tow-linen shirts with a fine southern exposure, came from various directions and stood with their hands locked together behind them and aided in the inspection. the rest of the population were laying down their employments and getting ready to come, when a man burst through the assemblage and seized the new-comers by the hands in a frenzy of welcome, and exclaimed--indeed almost shouted: "well who could have believed it! now is it you sure enough--turn around! hold up your heads! i want to look at you good! well, well, well, it does seem most too good to be true, i declare! lord, i'm so glad to see you! does a body's whole soul good to look at you! shake hands again! keep on shaking hands! goodness gracious alive. what will my wife say?--oh yes indeed, it's so!--married only last week--lovely, perfectly lovely creature, the noblest woman that ever--you'll like her, nancy! like her? lord bless me you'll love her--you'll dote on her --you'll be twins! well, well, well, let me look at you again! same old --why bless my life it was only jest this very morning that my wife says, 'colonel'--she will call me colonel spite of everything i can do--she says 'colonel, something tells me somebody's coming!' and sure enough here you are, the last people on earth a body could have expected. why she'll think she's a prophetess--and hanged if i don't think so too --and you know there ain't any, country but what a prophet's an honor to, as the proverb says. lord bless me and here's the children, too! washington, emily, don't you know me? come, give us a kiss. won't i fix you, though!--ponies, cows, dogs, everything you can think of that'll delight a child's heart-and--why how's this? little strangers? well you won't be any strangers here, i can tell you. bless your souls we'll make you think you never was at home before--'deed and 'deed we will, i can tell you! come, now, bundle right along with me. you can't glorify any hearth stone but mine in this camp, you know--can't eat anybody's bread but mine--can't do anything but just make yourselves perfectly at home and comfortable, and spread yourselves out and rest! you hear me! here--jim, tom, pete, jake, fly around! take that team to my place--put the wagon in my lot--put the horses under the shed, and get out hay and oats and fill them up! ain't any hay and oats? well get some--have it charged to me--come, spin around, now! now, hawkins, the procession's ready; mark time, by the left flank, forward-march!" and the colonel took the lead, with laura astride his neck, and the newly-inspired and very grateful immigrants picked up their tired limbs with quite a spring in them and dropped into his wake. presently they were ranged about an old-time fire-place whose blazing logs sent out rather an unnecessary amount of heat, but that was no matter-supper was needed, and to have it, it had to be cooked. this apartment was the family bedroom, parlor, library and kitchen, all in one. the matronly little wife of the colonel moved hither and thither and in and out with her pots and pans in her hands', happiness in her heart and a world of admiration of her husband in her eyes. and when at last she had spread the cloth and loaded it with hot corn bread, fried chickens, bacon, buttermilk, coffee, and all manner of country luxuries, col. sellers modified his harangue and for a moment throttled it down to the orthodox pitch for a blessing, and then instantly burst forth again as from a parenthesis and clattered on with might and main till every stomach in the party was laden with all it could carry. and when the new-comers ascended the ladder to their comfortable feather beds on the second floor--to wit the garret--mrs. hawkins was obliged to say: "hang the fellow, i do believe he has gone wilder than ever, but still a body can't help liking him if they would--and what is more, they don't ever want to try when they see his eyes and hear him talk." within a week or two the hawkinses were comfortably domiciled in a new log house, and were beginning to feel at home. the children were put to school; at least it was what passed for a school in those days: a place where tender young humanity devoted itself for eight or ten hours a day to learning incomprehensible rubbish by heart out of books and reciting it by rote, like parrots; so that a finished education consisted simply of a permanent headache and the ability to read without stopping to spell the words or take breath. hawkins bought out the village store for a song and proceeded to reap the profits, which amounted to but little more than another song. the wonderful speculation hinted at by col. sellers in his letter turned out to be the raising of mules for the southern market; and really it promised very well. the young stock cost but a trifle, the rearing but another trifle, and so hawkins was easily persuaded to embark his slender means in the enterprise and turn over the keep and care of the animals to sellers and uncle dan'l. all went well: business prospered little by little. hawkins even built a new house, made it two full stories high and put a lightning rod on it. people came two or three miles to look at it. but they knew that the rod attracted the lightning, and so they gave the place a wide berth in a storm, for they were familiar with marksmanship and doubted if the lightning could hit that small stick at a distance of a mile and a half oftener than once in a hundred and fifty times. hawkins fitted out his house with "store" furniture from st. louis, and the fame of its magnificence went abroad in the land. even the parlor carpet was from st. louis--though the other rooms were clothed in the "rag" carpeting of the country. hawkins put up the first "paling" fence that had ever adorned the village; and he did not stop there, but whitewashed it. his oil-cloth window-curtains had noble pictures on them of castles such as had never been seen anywhere in the world but on window-curtains. hawkins enjoyed the admiration these prodigies compelled, but he always smiled to think how poor and, cheap they were, compared to what the hawkins mansion would display in a future day after the tennessee land should have borne its minted fruit. even washington observed, once, that when the tennessee land was sold he would have a "store" carpet in his and clay's room like the one in the parlor. this pleased hawkins, but it troubled his wife. it did not seem wise, to her, to put one's entire earthly trust in the tennessee land and never think of doing any work. hawkins took a weekly philadelphia newspaper and a semi-weekly st. louis journal--almost the only papers that came to the village, though godey's lady's book found a good market there and was regarded as the perfection of polite literature by some of the ablest critics in the place. perhaps it is only fair to explain that we are writing of a by gone age--some twenty or thirty years ago. in the two newspapers referred to lay the secret of hawkins's growing prosperity. they kept him informed of the condition of the crops south and east, and thus he knew which articles were likely to be in demand and which articles were likely to be unsalable, weeks and even months in advance of the simple folk about him. as the months went by he came to be regarded as a wonderfully lucky man. it did not occur to the citizens that brains were at the bottom of his luck. his title of "squire" came into vogue again, but only for a season; for, as his wealth and popularity augmented, that title, by imperceptible stages, grew up into "judge;" indeed' it bade fair to swell into "general" bye and bye. all strangers of consequence who visited the village gravitated to the hawkins mansion and became guests of the "judge." hawkins had learned to like the people of his section very much. they were uncouth and not cultivated, and not particularly industrious; but they were honest and straightforward, and their virtuous ways commanded respect. their patriotism was strong, their pride in the flag was of the old fashioned pattern, their love of country amounted to idolatry. whoever dragged the national honor in the dirt won their deathless hatred. they still cursed benedict arnold as if he were a personal friend who had broken faith--but a week gone by. chapter vi. we skip ten years and this history finds certain changes to record. judge hawkins and col. sellers have made and lost two or three moderate fortunes in the meantime and are now pinched by poverty. sellers has two pairs of twins and four extras. in hawkins's family are six children of his own and two adopted ones. from time to time, as fortune smiled, the elder children got the benefit of it, spending the lucky seasons at excellent schools in st. louis and the unlucky ones at home in the chafing discomfort of straightened circumstances. neither the hawkins children nor the world that knew them ever supposed that one of the girls was of alien blood and parentage: such difference as existed between laura and emily is not uncommon in a family. the girls had grown up as sisters, and they were both too young at the time of the fearful accident on the mississippi to know that it was that which had thrown their lives together. and yet any one who had known the secret of laura's birth and had seen her during these passing years, say at the happy age of twelve or thirteen, would have fancied that he knew the reason why she was more winsome than her school companion. philosophers dispute whether it is the promise of what she will be in the careless school-girl, that makes her attractive, the undeveloped maidenhood, or the mere natural, careless sweetness of childhood. if laura at twelve was beginning to be a beauty, the thought of it had never entered her head. no, indeed. her mind wad filled with more important thoughts. to her simple school-girl dress she was beginning to add those mysterious little adornments of ribbon-knots and ear-rings, which were the subject of earnest consultations with her grown friends. when she tripped down the street on a summer's day with her dainty hands propped into the ribbon-broidered pockets of her apron, and elbows consequently more or less akimbo with her wide leghorn hat flapping down and hiding her face one moment and blowing straight up against her fore head the next and making its revealment of fresh young beauty; with all her pretty girlish airs and graces in full play, and that sweet ignorance of care and that atmosphere of innocence and purity all about her that belong to her gracious time of life, indeed she was a vision to warm the coldest heart and bless and cheer the saddest. willful, generous, forgiving, imperious, affectionate, improvident, bewitching, in short--was laura at this period. could she have remained there, this history would not need to be written. but laura had grown to be almost a woman in these few years, to the end of which we have now come--years which had seen judge hawkins pass through so many trials. when the judge's first bankruptcy came upon him, a homely human angel intruded upon him with an offer of $ , for the tennessee land. mrs. hawkins said take it. it was a grievous temptation, but the judge withstood it. he said the land was for the children--he could not rob them of their future millions for so paltry a sum. when the second blight fell upon him, another angel appeared and offered $ , for the land. he was in such deep distress that he allowed his wife to persuade him to let the papers be drawn; but when his children came into his presence in their poor apparel, he felt like a traitor and refused to sign. but now he was down again, and deeper in the mire than ever. he paced the floor all day, he scarcely slept at night. he blushed even to acknowledge it to himself, but treason was in his mind--he was meditating, at last, the sale of the land. mrs. hawkins stepped into the room. he had not spoken a word, but he felt as guilty as if she had caught him in some shameful act. she said: "si, i do not know what we are going to do. the children are not fit to be seen, their clothes are in such a state. but there's something more serious still.--there is scarcely a bite in the house to eat" "why, nancy, go to johnson----." "johnson indeed! you took that man's part when he hadn't a friend in the world, and you built him up and made him rich. and here's the result of it: he lives in our fine house, and we live in his miserable log cabin. he has hinted to our children that he would rather they wouldn't come about his yard to play with his children,--which i can bear, and bear easy enough, for they're not a sort we want to associate with much--but what i can't bear with any quietness at all, is his telling franky our bill was running pretty high this morning when i sent him for some meal --and that was all he said, too--didn't give him the meal--turned off and went to talking with the hargrave girls about some stuff they wanted to cheapen." "nancy, this is astounding!" "and so it is, i warrant you. i've kept still, si, as long as ever i could. things have been getting worse and worse, and worse and worse, every single day; i don't go out of the house, i feel so down; but you had trouble enough, and i wouldn't say a word--and i wouldn't say a word now, only things have got so bad that i don't know what to do, nor where to turn." and she gave way and put her face in her hands and cried. "poor child, don't grieve so. i never thought that of johnson. i am clear at my wit's end. i don't know what in the world to do. now if somebody would come along and offer $ , --uh, if somebody only would come along and offer $ , for that tennessee land." "you'd sell it, s!" said mrs. hawkins excitedly. "try me!" mrs. hawkins was out of the room in a moment. within a minute she was back again with a business-looking stranger, whom she seated, and then she took her leave again. hawkins said to himself, "how can a man ever lose faith? when the blackest hour comes, providence always comes with it--ah, this is the very timeliest help that ever poor harried devil had; if this blessed man offers but a thousand i'll embrace him like a brother!" the stranger said: "i am aware that you own , acres, of land in east tennessee, and without sacrificing your time, i will come to the point at once. i am agent of an iron manufacturing company, and they empower me to offer you ten thousand dollars for that land." hawkins's heart bounded within him. his whole frame was racked and wrenched with fettered hurrahs. his first impulse was to shout "done! and god bless the iron company, too!" but a something flitted through his mind, and his opened lips uttered nothing. the enthusiasm faded away from his eyes, and the look of a man who is thinking took its place. presently, in a hesitating, undecided way, he said: "well, i--it don't seem quite enough. that--that is a very valuable property--very valuable. it's brim full of iron-ore, sir--brim full of it! and copper, coal,--everything--everything you can think of! now, i'll tell you what i'll, do. i'll reserve everything except the iron, and i'll sell them the iron property for $ , cash, i to go in with them and own an undivided interest of one-half the concern--or the stock, as you may say. i'm out of business, and i'd just as soon help run the thing as not. now how does that strike you?" "well, i am only an agent of these people, who are friends of mine, and i am not even paid for my services. to tell you the truth, i have tried to persuade them not to go into the thing; and i have come square out with their offer, without throwing out any feelers--and i did it in the hope that you would refuse. a man pretty much always refuses another man's first offer, no matter what it is. but i have performed my duty, and will take pleasure in telling them what you say." he was about to rise. hawkins said, "wait a bit." hawkins thought again. and the substance of his thought was: "this is a deep man; this is a very deep man; i don't like his candor; your ostentatiously candid business man's a deep fox--always a deep fox; this man's that iron company himself--that's what he is; he wants that property, too; i am not so blind but i can see that; he don't want the company to go into this thing--o, that's very good; yes, that's very good indeed--stuff! he'll be back here tomorrow, sure, and take my offer; take it? i'll risk anything he is suffering to take it now; here--i must mind what i'm about. what has started this sudden excitement about iron? i wonder what is in the wind? just as sure as i'm alive this moment, there's something tremendous stirring in iron speculation" [here hawkins got up and began to pace the floor with excited eyes and with gesturing hands]--"something enormous going on in iron, without the shadow of a doubt, and here i sit mousing in the dark and never knowing anything about it; great heaven, what an escape i've made! this underhanded mercenary creature might have taken me up--and ruined me! but i have escaped, and i warrant me i'll not put my foot into--" he stopped and turned toward the stranger; saying: "i have made you a proposition, you have not accepted it, and i desire that you will consider that i have made none. at the same time my conscience will not allow me to--. please alter the figures i named to thirty thousand dollars, if you will, and let the proposition go to the company--i will stick to it if it breaks my heart!" the stranger looked amused, and there was a pretty well defined touch of surprise in his expression, too, but hawkins never noticed it. indeed he scarcely noticed anything or knew what he was about. the man left; hawkins flung himself into a chair; thought a few moments, then glanced around, looked frightened, sprang to the door---- "too late--too late! he's gone! fool that i am! always a fool! thirty thousand--ass that i am! oh, why didn't i say fifty thousand!" he plunged his hands into his hair and leaned his elbows on his knees, and fell to rocking himself back and forth in anguish. mrs. hawkins sprang in, beaming: "well, si?" "oh, con-found the con-founded--con-found it, nancy. i've gone and done it, now!" "done what si for mercy's sake!" "done everything! ruined everything!" "tell me, tell me, tell me! don't keep a body in such suspense. didn't he buy, after all? didn't he make an offer?" offer? he offered $ , for our land, and----" "thank the good providence from the very bottom of my heart of hearts! what sort of ruin do you call that, si!" "nancy, do you suppose i listened to such a preposterous proposition? no! thank fortune i'm not a simpleton! i saw through the pretty scheme in a second. it's a vast iron speculation!--millions upon millions in it! but fool as i am i told him he could have half the iron property for thirty thousand--and if i only had him back here he couldn't touch it for a cent less than a quarter of a million!" mrs. hawkins looked up white and despairing: "you threw away this chance, you let this man go, and we in this awful trouble? you don't mean it, you can't mean it!" "throw it away? catch me at it! why woman, do you suppose that man don't know what he is about? bless you, he'll be back fast enough to-morrow." "never, never, never. he never will comeback. i don't know what is to become of us. i don't know what in the world is to become of us." a shade of uneasiness came into hawkins's face. he said: "why, nancy, you--you can't believe what you are saying." "believe it, indeed? i know it, si. and i know that we haven't a cent in the world, and we've sent ten thousand dollars a-begging." "nancy, you frighten me. now could that man--is it possible that i --hanged if i don't believe i have missed a chance! don't grieve, nancy, don't grieve. i'll go right after him. i'll take--i'll take--what a fool i am!--i'll take anything he'll give!" the next instant he left the house on a run. but the man was no longer in the town. nobody knew where he belonged or whither he had gone. hawkins came slowly back, watching wistfully but hopelessly for the stranger, and lowering his price steadily with his sinking heart. and when his foot finally pressed his own threshold, the value he held the entire tennessee property at was five hundred dollars--two hundred down and the rest in three equal annual payments, without interest. there was a sad gathering at the hawkins fireside the next night. all the children were present but clay. mr. hawkins said: "washington, we seem to be hopelessly fallen, hopelessly involved. i am ready to give up. i do not know where to turn--i never have been down so low before, i never have seen things so dismal. there are many mouths to feed; clay is at work; we must lose you, also, for a little while, my boy. but it will not be long--the tennessee land----" he stopped, and was conscious of a blush. there was silence for a moment, and then washington--now a lank, dreamy-eyed stripling between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age--said: "if col. sellers would come for me, i would go and stay with him a while, till the tennessee land is sold. he has often wanted me to come, ever since he moved to hawkeye." "i'm afraid he can't well come for you, washington. from what i can hear--not from him of course, but from others--he is not far from as bad off as we are--and his family is as large, too. he might find something for you to do, maybe, but you'd better try to get to him yourself, washington--it's only thirty miles." "but how can i, father? there's no stage or anything." "and if there were, stages require money. a stage goes from swansea, five miles from here. but it would be cheaper to walk." "father, they must know you there, and no doubt they would credit you in a moment, for a little stage ride like that. couldn't you write and ask them?" "couldn't you, washington--seeing it's you that wants the ride? and what do you think you'll do, washington, when you get to hawkeye? finish your invention for making window-glass opaque?" "no, sir, i have given that up. i almost knew i could do it, but it was so tedious and troublesome i quit it." "i was afraid of it, my boy. then i suppose you'll finish your plan of coloring hen's eggs by feeding a peculiar diet to the hen?" "no, sir. i believe i have found out the stuff that will do it, but it kills the hen; so i have dropped that for the present, though i can take it up again some day when i learn how to manage the mixture better." "well, what have you got on hand--anything?" "yes, sir, three or four things. i think they are all good and can all be done, but they are tiresome, and besides they require money. but as soon as the land is sold----" "emily, were you about to say something?" said hawkins. yes, sir. if you are willing, i will go to st. louis. that will make another mouth less to feed. mrs. buckner has always wanted me to come." "but the money, child?" "why i think she would send it, if you would write her--and i know she would wait for her pay till----" "come, laura, let's hear from you, my girl." emily and laura were about the same age--between seventeen and eighteen. emily was fair and pretty, girlish and diffident--blue eyes and light hair. laura had a proud bearing, and a somewhat mature look; she had fine, clean-cut features, her complexion was pure white and contrasted vividly with her black hair and eyes; she was not what one calls pretty --she was beautiful. she said: "i will go to st. louis, too, sir. i will find a way to get there. i will make a way. and i will find a way to help myself along, and do what i can to help the rest, too." she spoke it like a princess. mrs. hawkins smiled proudly and kissed her, saying in a tone of fond reproof: "so one of my girls is going to turn out and work for her living! it's like your pluck and spirit, child, but we will hope that we haven't got quite down to that, yet." the girl's eyes beamed affection under her mother's caress. then she straightened up, folded her white hands in her lap and became a splendid ice-berg. clay's dog put up his brown nose for a little attention, and got it. he retired under the table with an apologetic yelp, which did not affect the iceberg. judge hawkins had written and asked clay to return home and consult with him upon family affairs. he arrived the evening after this conversation, and the whole household gave him a rapturous welcome. he brought sadly needed help with him, consisting of the savings of a year and a half of work--nearly two hundred dollars in money. it was a ray of sunshine which (to this easy household) was the earnest of a clearing sky. bright and early in the morning the family were astir, and all were busy preparing washington for his journey--at least all but washington himself, who sat apart, steeped in a reverie. when the time for his departure came, it was easy to see how fondly all loved him and how hard it was to let him go, notwithstanding they had often seen him go before, in his st. louis schooling days. in the most matter-of-course way they had borne the burden of getting him ready for his trip, never seeming to think of his helping in the matter; in the same matter-of-course way clay had hired a horse and cart; and now that the good-byes were ended he bundled washington's baggage in and drove away with the exile. at swansea clay paid his stage fare, stowed him away in the vehicle, and saw him off. then he returned home and reported progress, like a committee of the whole. clay remained at home several days. he held many consultations with his mother upon the financial condition of the family, and talked once with his father upon the same subject, but only once. he found a change in that quarter which was distressing; years of fluctuating fortune had done their work; each reverse had weakened the father's spirit and impaired his energies; his last misfortune seemed to have left hope and ambition dead within him; he had no projects, formed no plans--evidently he was a vanquished man. he looked worn and tired. he inquired into clay's affairs and prospects, and when he found that clay was doing pretty well and was likely to do still better, it was plain that he resigned himself with easy facility to look to the son for a support; and he said, "keep yourself informed of poor washington's condition and movements, and help him along all you can, clay." the younger children, also, seemed relieved of all fears and distresses, and very ready and willing to look to clay for a livelihood. within three days a general tranquility and satisfaction reigned in the household. clay's hundred and eighty or ninety, dollars had worked a wonder. the family were as contented, now, and as free from care as they could have been with a fortune. it was well that mrs. hawkins held the purse otherwise the treasure would have lasted but a very little while. it took but a trifle to pay hawkins's outstanding obligations, for he had always had a horror of debt. when clay bade his home good-bye and set out to return to the field of his labors, he was conscious that henceforth he was to have his father's family on his hands as pensioners; but he did not allow himself to chafe at the thought, for he reasoned that his father had dealt by him with a free hand and a loving one all his life, and now that hard fortune had broken his spirit it ought to be a pleasure, not a pain, to work for him. the younger children were born and educated dependents. they had never been taught to do anything for themselves, and it did not seem to occur to them to make an attempt now. the girls would not have been permitted to work for a living under any circumstances whatever. it was a southern family, and of good blood; and for any person except laura, either within or without the household to have suggested such an idea would have brought upon the suggester the suspicion of being a lunatic. chapter vii. via, pecunia! when she's run and gone and fled, and dead, then will i fetch her again with aqua vita, out of an old hogshead! while there are lees of wine, or dregs of beer, i'll never want her! coin her out of cobwebs, dust, but i'll have her! raise wool upon egg-shells, sir, and make grass grow out of marrow-bones, to make her come! b. jonson. bearing washington hawkins and his fortunes, the stage-coach tore out of swansea at a fearful gait, with horn tooting gaily and half the town admiring from doors and windows. but it did not tear any more after it got to the outskirts; it dragged along stupidly enough, then--till it came in sight of the next hamlet; and then the bugle tooted gaily again and again the vehicle went tearing by the horses. this sort of conduct marked every entry to a station and every exit from it; and so in those days children grew up with the idea that stage-coaches always tore and always tooted; but they also grew up with the idea that pirates went into action in their sunday clothes, carrying the black flag in one hand and pistolling people with the other, merely because they were so represented in the pictures--but these illusions vanished when later years brought their disenchanting wisdom. they learned then that the stagecoach is but a poor, plodding, vulgar thing in the solitudes of the highway; and that the pirate is only a seedy, unfantastic "rough," when he is out of the pictures. toward evening, the stage-coach came thundering into hawkeye with a perfectly triumphant ostentation--which was natural and proper, for hawkey a was a pretty large town for interior missouri. washington, very stiff and tired and hungry, climbed out, and wondered how he was to proceed now. but his difficulty was quickly solved. col. sellers came down the street on a run and arrived panting for breath. he said: "lord bless you--i'm glad to see you, washington--perfectly delighted to see you, my boy! i got your message. been on the look-out for you. heard the stage horn, but had a party i couldn't shake off--man that's got an enormous thing on hand--wants me to put some capital into it--and i tell you, my boy, i could do worse, i could do a deal worse. no, now, let that luggage alone; i'll fix that. here, jerry, got anything to do? all right-shoulder this plunder and follow me. come along, washington. lord i'm glad to see you! wife and the children are just perishing to look at you. bless you, they won't know you, you've grown so. folks all well, i suppose? that's good--glad to hear that. we're always going to run down and see them, but i'm into so many operations, and they're not things a man feels like trusting to other people, and so somehow we keep putting it off. fortunes in them! good gracious, it's the country to pile up wealth in! here we are--here's where the sellers dynasty hangs out. hump it on the door-step, jerry--the blackest niggro in the state, washington, but got a good heart--mighty likely boy, is jerry. and now i suppose you've got to have ten cents, jerry. that's all right--when a man works for me--when a man--in the other pocket, i reckon--when a man --why, where the mischief as that portmonnaie!--when a--well now that's odd--oh, now i remember, must have left it at the bank; and b'george i've left my check-book, too--polly says i ought to have a nurse--well, no matter. let me have a dime, washington, if you've got--ah, thanks. now clear out, jerry, your complexion has brought on the twilight half an hour ahead of time. pretty fair joke--pretty fair. here he is, polly! washington's come, children! come now, don't eat him up--finish him in the house. welcome, my boy, to a mansion that is proud to shelter the son of the best man that walks on the ground. si hawkins has been a good friend to me, and i believe i can say that whenever i've had a chance to put him into a good thing i've done it, and done it pretty cheerfully, too. i put him into that sugar speculation--what a grand thing that was, if we hadn't held on too long!" true enough; but holding on too long had utterly ruined both of them; and the saddest part of it was, that they never had had so much money to lose before, for sellers's sale of their mule crop that year in new orleans had been a great financial success. if he had kept out of sugar and gone back home content to stick to mules it would have been a happy wisdom. as it was, he managed to kill two birds with one stone--that is to say, he killed the sugar speculation by holding for high rates till he had to sell at the bottom figure, and that calamity killed the mule that laid the golden egg--which is but a figurative expression and will be so understood. sellers had returned home cheerful but empty-handed, and the mule business lapsed into other hands. the sale of the hawkins property by the sheriff had followed, and the hawkins hearts been torn to see uncle dan'l and his wife pass from the auction-block into the hands of a negro trader and depart for the remote south to be seen no more by the family. it had seemed like seeing their own flesh and blood sold into banishment. washington was greatly pleased with the sellers mansion. it was a two-story-and-a-half brick, and much more stylish than any of its neighbors. he was borne to the family sitting room in triumph by the swarm of little sellerses, the parents following with their arms about each other's waists. the whole family were poorly and cheaply dressed; and the clothing, although neat and clean, showed many evidences of having seen long service. the colonel's "stovepipe" hat was napless and shiny with much polishing, but nevertheless it had an almost convincing expression about it of having been just purchased new. the rest of his clothing was napless and shiny, too, but it had the air of being entirely satisfied with itself and blandly sorry for other people's clothes. it was growing rather dark in the house, and the evening air was chilly, too. sellers said: "lay off your overcoat, washington, and draw up to the stove and make yourself at home--just consider yourself under your own shingles my boy --i'll have a fire going, in a jiffy. light the lamp, polly, dear, and let's have things cheerful just as glad to see you, washington, as if you'd been lost a century and we'd found you again!" by this time the colonel was conveying a lighted match into a poor little stove. then he propped the stove door to its place by leaning the poker against it, for the hinges had retired from business. this door framed a small square of isinglass, which now warmed up with a faint glow. mrs. sellers lit a cheap, showy lamp, which dissipated a good deal of the gloom, and then everybody gathered into the light and took the stove into close companionship. the children climbed all over sellers, fondled him, petted him, and were lavishly petted in return. out from this tugging, laughing, chattering disguise of legs and arms and little faces, the colonel's voice worked its way and his tireless tongue ran blithely on without interruption; and the purring little wife, diligent with her knitting, sat near at hand and looked happy and proud and grateful; and she listened as one who listens to oracles and, gospels and whose grateful soul is being refreshed with the bread of life. bye and bye the children quieted down to listen; clustered about their father, and resting their elbows on his legs, they hung upon his words as if he were uttering the music of the spheres. a dreary old hair-cloth sofa against the wall; a few damaged chairs; the small table the lamp stood on; the crippled stove--these things constituted the furniture of the room. there was no carpet on the floor; on the wall were occasional square-shaped interruptions of the general tint of the plaster which betrayed that there used to be pictures in the house--but there were none now. there were no mantel ornaments, unless one might bring himself to regard as an ornament a clock which never came within fifteen strokes of striking the right time, and whose hands always hitched together at twenty-two minutes past anything and traveled in company the rest of the way home. "remarkable clock!" said sellers, and got up and wound it. "i've been offered--well, i wouldn't expect you to believe what i've been offered for that clock. old gov. hager never sees me but he says, 'come, now, colonel, name your price--i must have that clock!' but my goodness i'd as soon think of selling my wife. as i was saying to ---- silence in the court, now, she's begun to strike! you can't talk against her--you have to just be patient and hold up till she's said her say. ah well, as i was saying, when--she's beginning again! nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twen----ah, that's all.--yes, as i was saying to old judge ----go it, old girl, don't mind me.--now how is that?----isn't that a good, spirited tone? she can wake the dead! sleep? why you might as well try to sleep in a thunder-factory. now just listen at that. she'll strike a hundred and fifty, now, without stopping,--you'll see. there ain't another clock like that in christendom." washington hoped that this might be true, for the din was distracting --though the family, one and all, seemed filled with joy; and the more the clock "buckled down to her work" as the colonel expressed it, and the more insupportable the clatter became, the more enchanted they all appeared to be. when there was silence, mrs sellers lifted upon washington a face that beamed with a childlike pride, and said: "it belonged to his grandmother." the look and the tone were a plain call for admiring surprise, and therefore washington said (it was the only thing that offered itself at the moment:) "indeed!" "yes, it did, didn't it father!" exclaimed one of the twins. "she was my great-grandmother--and george's too; wasn't she, father! you never saw her, but sis has seen her, when sis was a baby-didn't you, sis! sis has seen her most a hundred times. she was awful deef--she's dead, now. aint she, father!" all the children chimed in, now, with one general babel of information about deceased--nobody offering to read the riot act or seeming to discountenance the insurrection or disapprove of it in any way--but the head twin drowned all the turmoil and held his own against the field: "it's our clock, now--and it's got wheels inside of it, and a thing that flutters every time she strikes--don't it, father! great-grandmother died before hardly any of us was born--she was an old-school baptist and had warts all over her--you ask father if she didn't. she had an uncle once that was bald-headed and used to have fits; he wasn't our uncle, i don't know what he was to us--some kin or another i reckon--father's seen him a thousand times--hain't you, father! we used to have a calf that et apples and just chawed up dishrags like nothing, and if you stay here you'll see lots of funerals--won't he, sis! did you ever see a house afire? i have! once me and jim terry----" but sellers began to speak now, and the storm ceased. he began to tell about an enormous speculation he was thinking of embarking some capital in--a speculation which some london bankers had been over to consult with him about--and soon he was building glittering pyramids of coin, and washington was presently growing opulent under the magic of his eloquence. but at the same time washington was not able to ignore the cold entirely. he was nearly as close to the stove as he could get, and yet he could not persuade himself, that he felt the slightest heat, notwithstanding the isinglass' door was still gently and serenely glowing. he tried to get a trifle closer to the stove, and the consequence was, he tripped the supporting poker and the stove-door tumbled to the floor. and then there was a revelation--there was nothing in the stove but a lighted tallow-candle! the poor youth blushed and felt as if he must die with shame. but the colonel was only disconcerted for a moment--he straightway found his voice again: "a little idea of my own, washington--one of the greatest things in the world! you must write and tell your father about it--don't forget that, now. i have been reading up some european scientific reports--friend of mine, count fugier, sent them to me--sends me all sorts of things from paris--he thinks the world of me, fugier does. well, i saw that the academy of france had been testing the properties of heat, and they came to the conclusion that it was a nonconductor or something like that, and of course its influence must necessarily be deadly in nervous organizations with excitable temperaments, especially where there is any tendency toward rheumatic affections. bless you i saw in a moment what was the matter with us, and says i, out goes your fires!--no more slow torture and certain death for me, sir. what you want is the appearance of heat, not the heat itself--that's the idea. well how to do it was the next thing. i just put my head, to work, pegged away, a couple of days, and here you are! rheumatism? why a man can't any more start a case of rheumatism in this house than he can shake an opinion out of a mummy! stove with a candle in it and a transparent door--that's it--it has been the salvation of this family. don't you fail to write your father about it, washington. and tell him the idea is mine--i'm no more conceited than most people, i reckon, but you know it is human nature for a man to want credit for a thing like that." washington said with his blue lips that he would, but he said in his secret heart that he would promote no such iniquity. he tried to believe in the healthfulness of the invention, and succeeded tolerably well; but after all he could not feel that good health in a frozen, body was any real improvement on the rheumatism. chapter viii. --whan pe horde is thynne, as of seruyse, nought replenesshed with grete diuersite of mete & drinke, good chere may then suffise with honest talkyng---- the book of curtesye. mammon. come on, sir. now, you set your foot on shore in novo orbe; here's the rich peru: and there within, sir, are the golden mines, great solomon's ophir!---- b. jonson the supper at col. sellers's was not sumptuous, in the beginning, but it improved on acquaintance. that is to say, that what washington regarded at first sight as mere lowly potatoes, presently became awe-inspiring agricultural productions that had been reared in some ducal garden beyond the sea, under the sacred eye of the duke himself, who had sent them to sellers; the bread was from corn which could be grown in only one favored locality in the earth and only a favored few could get it; the rio coffee, which at first seemed execrable to the taste, took to itself an improved flavor when washington was told to drink it slowly and not hurry what should be a lingering luxury in order to be fully appreciated--it was from the private stores of a brazilian nobleman with an unrememberable name. the colonel's tongue was a magician's wand that turned dried apples into figs and water into wine as easily as it could change a hovel into a palace and present poverty into imminent future riches. washington slept in a cold bed in a carpetless room and woke up in a palace in the morning; at least the palace lingered during the moment that he was rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings--and then it disappeared and he recognized that the colonel's inspiring talk had been influencing his dreams. fatigue had made him sleep late; when he entered the sitting room he noticed that the old hair-cloth sofa was absent; when he sat down to breakfast the colonel tossed six or seven dollars in bills on the table, counted them over, said he was a little short and must call upon his banker; then returned the bills to his wallet with the indifferent air of a man who is used to money. the breakfast was not an improvement upon the supper, but the colonel talked it up and transformed it into an oriental feast. bye and bye, he said: "i intend to look out for you, washington, my boy. i hunted up a place for you yesterday, but i am not referring to that,--now--that is a mere livelihood--mere bread and butter; but when i say i mean to look out for you i mean something very different. i mean to put things in your way than will make a mere livelihood a trifling thing. i'll put you in a way to make more money than you'll ever know what to do with. you'll be right here where i can put my hand on you when anything turns up. i've got some prodigious operations on foot; but i'm keeping quiet; mum's the word; your old hand don't go around pow-wowing and letting everybody see his k'yards and find out his little game. but all in good time, washington, all in good time. you'll see. now there's an operation in corn that looks well. some new york men are trying to get me to go into it--buy up all the growing crops and just boss the market when they mature--ah i tell you it's a great thing. and it only costs a trifle; two millions or two and a half will do it. i haven't exactly promised yet--there's no hurry--the more indifferent i seem, you know, the more anxious those fellows will get. and then there is the hog speculation --that's bigger still. we've got quiet men at work," [he was very impressive here,] "mousing around, to get propositions out of all the farmers in the whole west and northwest for the hog crop, and other agents quietly getting propositions and terms out of all the manufactories--and don't you see, if we can get all the hogs and all the slaughter horses into our hands on the dead quiet--whew! it would take three ships to carry the money.--i've looked into the thing--calculated all the chances for and all the chances against, and though i shake my head and hesitate and keep on thinking, apparently, i've got my mind made up that if the thing can be done on a capital of six millions, that's the horse to put up money on! why washington--but what's the use of talking about it--any man can see that there's whole atlantic oceans of cash in it, gulfs and bays thrown in. but there's a bigger thing than that, yes bigger----" "why colonel, you can't want anything bigger!" said washington, his eyes blazing. "oh, i wish i could go into either of those speculations--i only wish i had money--i wish i wasn't cramped and kept down and fettered with poverty, and such prodigious chances lying right here in sight! oh, it is a fearful thing to be poor. but don't throw away those things --they are so splendid and i can see how sure they are. don't throw them away for something still better and maybe fail in it! i wouldn't, colonel. i would stick to these. i wish father were here and were his old self again--oh, he never in his life had such chances as these are. colonel; you can't improve on these--no man can improve on them!" a sweet, compassionate smile played about the colonel's features, and he leaned over the table with the air of a man who is "going to show you" and do it without the least trouble: "why washington, my boy, these things are nothing. they look large of course--they look large to a novice, but to a man who has been all his life accustomed to large operations--shaw! they're well enough to while away an idle hour with, or furnish a bit of employment that will give a trifle of idle capital a chance to earn its bread while it is waiting for something to do, but--now just listen a moment--just let me give you an idea of what we old veterans of commerce call 'business.' here's the rothschild's proposition--this is between you and me, you understand----" washington nodded three or four times impatiently, and his glowing eyes said, "yes, yes--hurry--i understand----" ----"for i wouldn't have it get out for a fortune. they want me to go in with them on the sly--agent was here two weeks ago about it--go in on the sly" [voice down to an impressive whisper, now,] "and buy up a hundred and thirteen wild cat banks in ohio, indiana, kentucky, illinois and missouri--notes of these banks are at all sorts of discount now--average discount of the hundred and thirteen is forty-four per cent--buy them all up, you see, and then all of a sudden let the cat out of the bag! whiz! the stock of every one of those wildcats would spin up to a tremendous premium before you could turn a handspring--profit on the speculation not a dollar less than forty millions!" [an eloquent pause, while the marvelous vision settled into w.'s focus.] "where's your hogs now? why my dear innocent boy, we would just sit down on the front door-steps and peddle banks like lucifer matches!" washington finally got his breath and said: "oh, it is perfectly wonderful! why couldn't these things have happened in father's day? and i--it's of no use--they simply lie before my face and mock me. there is nothing for me but to stand helpless and see other people reap the astonishing harvest." "never mind, washington, don't you worry. i'll fix you. there's plenty of chances. how much money have you got?" in the presence of so many millions, washington could not keep from blushing when he had to confess that he had but eighteen dollars in the world. "well, all right--don't despair. other people have been obliged to begin with less. i have a small idea that may develop into something for us both, all in good time. keep your money close and add to it. i'll make it breed. i've been experimenting (to pass away the time), on a little preparation for curing sore eyes--a kind of decoction nine-tenths water and the other tenth drugs that don't cost more than a dollar a barrel; i'm still experimenting; there's one ingredient wanted yet to perfect the thing, and somehow i can't just manage to hit upon the thing that's necessary, and i don't dare talk with a chemist, of course. but i'm progressing, and before many weeks i wager the country will ring with the fame of beriah sellers' infallible imperial oriental optic liniment and salvation for sore eyes--the medical wonder of the age! small bottles fifty cents, large ones a dollar. average cost, five and seven cents for the two sizes. "the first year sell, say, ten thousand bottles in missouri, seven thousand in iowa, three thousand in arkansas, four thousand in kentucky, six thousand in illinois, and say twenty-five thousand in the rest of the country. total, fifty five thousand bottles; profit clear of all expenses, twenty thousand dollars at the very lowest calculation. all the capital needed is to manufacture the first two thousand bottles --say a hundred and fifty dollars--then the money would begin to flow in. the second year, sales would reach , bottles--clear profit, say, $ , --and in the meantime the great factory would be building in st. louis, to cost, say, $ , . the third year we could, easily sell , , bottles in the united states and----" "o, splendid!" said washington. "let's commence right away--let's----" "---- , , bottles in the united states--profit at least $ , --and then it would begin to be time to turn our attention toward the real idea of the business." "the real idea of it! ain't $ , a year a pretty real----" "stuff! why what an infant you are, washington--what a guileless, short-sighted, easily-contented innocent you, are, my poor little country-bred know-nothing! would i go to all that trouble and bother for the poor crumbs a body might pick up in this country? now do i look like a man who----does my history suggest that i am a man who deals in trifles, contents himself with the narrow horizon that hems in the common herd, sees no further than the end of his nose? now you know that that is not me--couldn't be me. you ought to know that if i throw my time and abilities into a patent medicine, it's a patent medicine whose field of operations is the solid earth! its clients the swarming nations that inhabit it! why what is the republic of america for an eye-water country? lord bless you, it is nothing but a barren highway that you've got to cross to get to the true eye-water market! why, washington, in the oriental countries people swarm like the sands of the desert; every square mile of ground upholds its thousands upon thousands of struggling human creatures--and every separate and individual devil of them's got the ophthalmia! it's as natural to them as noses are--and sin. it's born with them, it stays with them, it's all that some of them have left when they die. three years of introductory trade in the orient and what will be the result? why, our headquarters would be in constantinople and our hindquarters in further india! factories and warehouses in cairo, ispahan, bagdad, damascus, jerusalem, yedo, peking, bangkok, delhi, bombay--and calcutta! annual income--well, god only knows how many millions and millions apiece!" washington was so dazed, so bewildered--his heart and his eyes had wandered so far away among the strange lands beyond the seas, and such avalanches of coin and currency had fluttered and jingled confusedly down before him, that he was now as one who has been whirling round and round for a time, and, stopping all at once, finds his surroundings still whirling and all objects a dancing chaos. however, little by little the sellers family cooled down and crystalized into shape, and the poor room lost its glitter and resumed its poverty. then the youth found his voice and begged sellers to drop everything and hurry up the eye-water; and he got his eighteen dollars and tried to force it upon the colonel--pleaded with him to take it--implored him to do it. but the colonel would not; said he would not need the capital (in his native magnificent way he called that eighteen dollars capital) till the eye-water was an accomplished fact. he made washington easy in his mind, though, by promising that he would call for it just as soon as the invention was finished, and he added the glad tidings that nobody but just they two should be admitted to a share in the speculation. when washington left the breakfast table he could have worshiped that man. washington was one of that kind of people whose hopes are in the very, clouds one day and in the gutter the next. he walked on air, now. the colonel was ready to take him around and introduce him to the employment he had found for him, but washington begged for a few moments in which to write home; with his kind of people, to ride to-day's new interest to death and put off yesterday's till another time, is nature itself. he ran up stairs and wrote glowingly, enthusiastically, to his mother about the hogs and the corn, the banks and the eye-water--and added a few inconsequential millions to each project. and he said that people little dreamed what a man col. sellers was, and that the world would open its eyes when it found out. and he closed his letter thus: "so make yourself perfectly easy, mother-in a little while you shall have everything you want, and more. i am not likely to stint you in anything, i fancy. this money will not be for me, alone, but for all of us. i want all to share alike; and there is going to be far more for each than one person can spend. break it to father cautiously--you understand the need of that--break it to him cautiously, for he has had such cruel hard fortune, and is so stricken by it that great good news might prostrate him more surely than even bad, for he is used to the bad but is grown sadly unaccustomed to the other. tell laura--tell all the children. and write to clay about it if he is not with you yet. you may tell clay that whatever i get he can freely share in-freely. he knows that that is true--there will be no need that i should swear to that to make him believe it. good-bye--and mind what i say: rest perfectly easy, one and all of you, for our troubles are nearly at an end." poor lad, he could not know that his mother would cry some loving, compassionate tears over his letter and put off the family with a synopsis of its contents which conveyed a deal of love to then but not much idea of his prospects or projects. and he never dreamed that such a joyful letter could sadden her and fill her night with sighs, and troubled thoughts, and bodings of the future, instead of filling it with peace and blessing it with restful sleep. when the letter was done, washington and the colonel sallied forth, and as they walked along washington learned what he was to be. he was to be a clerk in a real estate office. instantly the fickle youth's dreams forsook the magic eye-water and flew back to the tennessee land. and the gorgeous possibilities of that great domain straightway began to occupy his imagination to such a degree that he could scarcely manage to keep even enough of his attention upon the colonel's talk to retain the general run of what he was saying. he was glad it was a real estate office--he was a made man now, sure. the colonel said that general boswell was a rich man and had a good and growing business; and that washington's work world be light and he would get forty dollars a month and be boarded and lodged in the general's family--which was as good as ten dollars more; and even better, for he could not live as well even at the "city hotel" as he would there, and yet the hotel charged fifteen dollars a month where a man had a good room. general boswell was in his office; a comfortable looking place, with plenty of outline maps hanging about the walls and in the windows, and a spectacled man was marking out another one on a long table. the office was in the principal street. the general received washington with a kindly but reserved politeness. washington rather liked his looks. he was about fifty years old, dignified, well preserved and well dressed. after the colonel took his leave, the general talked a while with washington--his talk consisting chiefly of instructions about the clerical duties of the place. he seemed satisfied as to washington's ability to take care of the books, he was evidently a pretty fair theoretical bookkeeper, and experience would soon harden theory into practice. by and by dinner-time came, and the two walked to the general's house; and now washington noticed an instinct in himself that moved him to keep not in the general's rear, exactly, but yet not at his side--somehow the old gentleman's dignity and reserve did not inspire familiarity. chapter ix washington dreamed his way along the street, his fancy flitting from grain to hogs, from hogs to banks, from banks to eyewater, from eye-water to tennessee land, and lingering but a feverish moment upon each of these fascinations. he was conscious of but one outward thing, to wit, the general, and he was really not vividly conscious of him. arrived at the finest dwelling in the town, they entered it and were at home. washington was introduced to mrs. boswell, and his imagination was on the point of flitting into the vapory realms of speculation again, when a lovely girl of sixteen or seventeen came in. this vision swept washington's mind clear of its chaos of glittering rubbish in an instant. beauty had fascinated him before; many times he had been in love even for weeks at a time with the same object but his heart had never suffered so sudden and so fierce an assault as this, within his recollection. louise boswell occupied his mind and drifted among his multiplication tables all the afternoon. he was constantly catching himself in a reverie--reveries made up of recalling how she looked when she first burst upon him; how her voice thrilled him when she first spoke; how charmed the very air seemed by her presence. blissful as the afternoon was, delivered up to such a revel as this, it seemed an eternity, so impatient was he to see the girl again. other afternoons like it followed. washington plunged into this love affair as he plunged into everything else--upon impulse and without reflection. as the days went by it seemed plain that he was growing in favor with louise,--not sweepingly so, but yet perceptibly, he fancied. his attentions to her troubled her father and mother a little, and they warned louise, without stating particulars or making allusions to any special person, that a girl was sure to make a mistake who allowed herself to marry anybody but a man who could support her well. some instinct taught washington that his present lack of money would be an obstruction, though possibly not a bar, to his hopes, and straightway his poverty became a torture to him which cast all his former sufferings under that held into the shade. he longed for riches now as he had ever longed for them before. he had been once or twice to dine with col. sellers, and had been discouraged to note that the colonel's bill of fare was falling off both in quantity and quality--a sign, he feared, that the lacking ingredient in the eye-water still remained undiscovered--though sellers always explained that these changes in the family diet had been ordered by the doctor, or suggested by some new scientific work the colonel had stumbled upon. but it always turned out that the lacking ingredient was still lacking--though it always appeared, at the same time, that the colonel was right on its heels. every time the colonel came into the real estate office washington's heart bounded and his eyes lighted with hope, but it always turned out that the colonel was merely on the scent of some vast, undefined landed speculation--although he was customarily able to say that he was nearer to the all-necessary ingredient than ever, and could almost name the hour when success would dawn. and then washington's heart world sink again and a sigh would tell when it touched bottom. about this time a letter came, saying that judge hawkins had been ailing for a fortnight, and was now considered to be seriously ill. it was thought best that washington should come home. the news filled him with grief, for he loved and honored his father; the boswells were touched by the youth's sorrow, and even the general unbent and said encouraging things to him.--there was balm in this; but when louise bade him good-bye, and shook his hand and said, "don't be cast down--it will all come out right--i know it will all come out right," it seemed a blessed thing to be in misfortune, and the tears that welled up to his eyes were the messengers of an adoring and a grateful heart; and when the girl saw them and answering tears came into her own eyes, washington could hardly contain the excess of happiness that poured into the cavities of his breast that were so lately stored to the roof with grief. all the way home he nursed his woe and exalted it. he pictured himself as she must be picturing him: a noble, struggling young spirit persecuted by misfortune, but bravely and patiently waiting in the shadow of a dread calamity and preparing to meet the blow as became one who was all too used to hard fortune and the pitiless buffetings of fate. these thoughts made him weep, and weep more broken-heartedly than ever; and be wished that she could see his sufferings now. there was nothing significant in the fact that louise, dreamy and distraught, stood at her bedroom bureau that night, scribbling "washington" here and there over a sheet of paper. but there was something significant in the fact that she scratched the word out every time she wrote it; examined the erasure critically to see if anybody could guess at what the word had been; then buried it under a maze of obliterating lines; and finally, as if still unsatisfied, burned the paper. when washington reached home, he recognized at once how serious his father's case was. the darkened room, the labored breathing and occasional moanings of the patient, the tip-toeing of the attendants and their whispered consultations, were full of sad meaning. for three or four nights mrs. hawkins and laura had been watching by the bedside; clay had arrived, preceding washington by one day, and he was now added to the corps of watchers. mr. hawkins would have none but these three, though neighborly assistance was offered by old friends. from this time forth three-hour watches were instituted, and day and night the watchers kept their vigils. by degrees laura and her mother began to show wear, but neither of them would yield a minute of their tasks to clay. he ventured once to let the midnight hour pass without calling laura, but he ventured no more; there was that about her rebuke when he tried to explain, that taught him that to let her sleep when she might be ministering to her father's needs, was to rob her of moments that were priceless in her eyes; he perceived that she regarded it as a privilege to watch, not a burden. and, he had noticed, also, that when midnight struck, the patient turned his eyes toward the door, with an expectancy in them which presently grew into a longing but brightened into contentment as soon as the door opened and laura appeared. and he did not need laura's rebuke when he heard his father say: "clay is good, and you are tired, poor child; but i wanted you so." "clay is not good, father--he did not call me. i would not have treated him so. how could you do it, clay?" clay begged forgiveness and promised not to break faith again; and as he betook him to his bed, he said to himself: "it's a steadfast little soul; whoever thinks he is doing the duchess a kindness by intimating that she is not sufficient for any undertaking she puts her hand to, makes a mistake; and if i did not know it before, i know now that there are surer ways of pleasing her than by trying to lighten her labor when that labor consists in wearing herself out for the sake of a person she loves." a week drifted by, and all the while the patient sank lower and lower. the night drew on that was to end all suspense. it was a wintry one. the darkness gathered, the snow was falling, the wind wailed plaintively about the house or shook it with fitful gusts. the doctor had paid his last visit and gone away with that dismal remark to the nearest friend of the family that he "believed there was nothing more that he could do" --a remark which is always overheard by some one it is not meant for and strikes a lingering half-conscious hope dead with a withering shock; the medicine phials had been removed from the bedside and put out of sight, and all things made orderly and meet for the solemn event that was impending; the patient, with closed eyes, lay scarcely breathing; the watchers sat by and wiped the gathering damps from his forehead while the silent tears flowed down their faces; the deep hush was only interrupted by sobs from the children, grouped about the bed. after a time--it was toward midnight now--mr. hawkins roused out of a doze, looked about him and was evidently trying to speak. instantly laura lifted his head and in a failing voice he said, while something of the old light shone in his eyes: "wife--children--come nearer--nearer. the darkness grows. let me see you all, once more." the group closed together at the bedside, and their tears and sobs came now without restraint. "i am leaving you in cruel poverty. i have been--so foolish--so short-sighted. but courage! a better day is--is coming. never lose sight of the tennessee land! be wary. there is wealth stored up for you there --wealth that is boundless! the children shall hold up their heads with the best in the land, yet. where are the papers?--have you got the papers safe? show them--show them to me!" under his strong excitement his voice had gathered power and his last sentences were spoken with scarcely a perceptible halt or hindrance. with an effort he had raised himself almost without assistance to a sitting posture. but now the fire faded out of his eyes and be fell back exhausted. the papers were brought and held before him, and the answering smile that flitted across his face showed that he was satisfied. he closed his eyes, and the signs of approaching dissolution multiplied rapidly. he lay almost motionless for a little while, then suddenly partly raised his head and looked about him as one who peers into a dim uncertain light. he muttered: "gone? no--i see you--still. it is--it is-over. but you are--safe. safe. the ten-----" the voice died out in a whisper; the sentence was never finished. the emaciated fingers began to pick at the coverlet, a fatal sign. after a time there were no sounds but the cries of the mourners within and the gusty turmoil of the wind without. laura had bent down and kissed her father's lips as the spirit left the body; but she did not sob, or utter any ejaculation; her tears flowed silently. then she closed the dead eyes, and crossed the hands upon the breast; after a season, she kissed the forehead reverently, drew the sheet up over the face, and then walked apart and sat down with the look of one who is done with life and has no further interest in its joys and sorrows, its hopes or its ambitions. clay buried his face in the coverlet of the bed; when the other children and the mother realized that death was indeed come at last, they threw themselves into each others' arms and gave way to a frenzy of grief. the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . chapter xlvi. philip left the capitol and walked up pennsylvania avenue in company with senator dilworthy. it was a bright spring morning, the air was soft and inspiring; in the deepening wayside green, the pink flush of the blossoming peach trees, the soft suffusion on the heights of arlington, and the breath of the warm south wind was apparent, the annual miracle of the resurrection of the earth. the senator took off his hat and seemed to open his soul to the sweet influences of the morning. after the heat and noise of the chamber, under its dull gas-illuminated glass canopy, and the all night struggle of passion and feverish excitement there, the open, tranquil world seemed like heaven. the senator was not in an exultant mood, but rather in a condition of holy joy, befitting a christian statesman whose benevolent plans providence has made its own and stamped with approval. the great battle had been fought, but the measure had still to encounter the scrutiny of the senate, and providence sometimes acts differently in the two houses. still the senator was tranquil, for he knew that there is an esprit de corps in the senate which does not exist in the house, the effect of which is to make the members complaisant towards the projects of each other, and to extend a mutual aid which in a more vulgar body would be called "log-rolling." "it is, under providence, a good night's work, mr. sterling. the government has founded an institution which will remove half the difficulty from the southern problem. and it is a good thing for the hawkins heirs, a very good thing. laura will be almost a millionaire." "do you think, mr. dilworthy, that the hawkinses will get much of the money?" asked philip innocently, remembering the fate of the columbus river appropriation. the senator looked at his companion scrutinizingly for a moment to see if he meant any thing personal, and then replied, "undoubtedly, undoubtedly. i have had their interests greatly at heart. there will of course be a few expenses, but the widow and orphans will realize all that mr. hawkins, dreamed of for them." the birds were singing as they crossed the presidential square, now bright with its green turf and tender foliage. after the two had gained the steps of the senator's house they stood a moment, looking upon the lovely prospect: "it is like the peace of god," said the senator devoutly. entering the house, the senator called a servant and said, "tell miss laura that we are waiting to see her. i ought to have sent a messenger on horseback half an hour ago," he added to philip, "she will be transported with our victory. you must stop to breakfast, and see the excitement." the servant soon came back, with a wondering look and reported, "miss laura ain't dah, sah. i reckon she hain't been dah all night!" the senator and philip both started up. in laura's room there were the marks of a confused and hasty departure, drawers half open, little articles strewn on the floor. the bed had not been disturbed. upon inquiry it appeared that laura had not been at dinner, excusing herself to mrs. dilworthy on the plea of a violent headache; that she made a request to the servants that she might not be disturbed. the senator was astounded. philip thought at once of col. selby. could laura have run away with him? the senator thought not. in fact it could not be. gen. leffenwell, the member from new orleans, had casually told him at the house last night that selby and his family went to new york yesterday morning and were to sail for europe to-day. philip had another idea which, he did not mention. he seized his hat, and saying that he would go and see what he could learn, ran to the lodgings of harry; whom he had not seen since yesterday afternoon, when he left him to go to the house. harry was not in. he had gone out with a hand-bag before six o'clock yesterday, saying that he had to go to new york, but should return next day. in harry's-room on the table philip found this note: "dear mr. brierly:--can you meet me at the six o'clock train, and be my escort to new york? i have to go about this university bill, the vote of an absent member we must have here, senator dilworthy cannot go. yours, l. h." "confound it," said phillip, "the noodle has fallen into her trap. and she promised she would let him alone." he only stopped to send a note to senator dilworthy, telling him what he had found, and that he should go at once to new york, and then hastened to the railway station. he had to wait an hour for a train, and when it did start it seemed to go at a snail's pace. philip was devoured with anxiety. where could they, have gone? what was laura's object in taking harry? had the flight anything to do with selby? would harry be such a fool as to be dragged into some public scandal? it seemed as if the train would never reach baltimore. then there was a long delay at havre de grace. a hot box had to be cooled at wilmington. would it never get on? only in passing around the city of philadelphia did the train not seem to go slow. philip stood upon the platform and watched for the boltons' house, fancied he could distinguish its roof among the trees, and wondered how ruth would feel if she knew he was so near her. then came jersey, everlasting jersey, stupid irritating jersey, where the passengers are always asking which line they are on, and where they are to come out, and whether they have yet reached elizabeth. launched into jersey, one has a vague notion that he is on many lines and no one in particular, and that he is liable at any moment to come to elizabeth. he has no notion what elizabeth is, and always resolves that the next time he goes that way, he will look out of the window and see what it is like; but he never does. or if he does, he probably finds that it is princeton or something of that sort. he gets annoyed, and never can see the use of having different names for stations in jersey. by and by. there is newark, three or four newarks apparently; then marshes; then long rock cuttings devoted to the advertisements of 'patent medicines and ready-made, clothing, and new york tonics for jersey agues, and jersey city is reached. on the ferry-boat philip bought an evening paper from a boy crying "'ere's the evening gram, all about the murder," and with breathless haste--ran his eyes over the following: shocking murder!!! tragedy in high life!! a beautiful woman shoots a distinguished confederate soldier at the southern hotel!!! jealousy the cause!!! this morning occurred another of those shocking murders which have become the almost daily food of the newspapers, the direct result of the socialistic doctrines and woman's rights agitations, which have made every woman the avenger of her own wrongs, and all society the hunting ground for her victims. about nine o'clock a lady deliberately shot a man dead in the public parlor of the southern hotel, coolly remarking, as she threw down her revolver and permitted herself to be taken into custody, "he brought it on himself." our reporters were immediately dispatched to the scene of the tragedy, and gathered the following particulars. yesterday afternoon arrived at the hotel from washington, col. george selby and family, who had taken passage and were to sail at noon to-day in the steamer scotia for england. the colonel was a handsome man about forty, a gentleman of wealth and high social position, a resident of new orleans. he served with distinction in the confederate army, and received a wound in the leg from which he has never entirely recovered, being obliged to use a cane in locomotion. this morning at about nine o'clock, a lady, accompanied by a gentleman, called at the office of the hotel and asked for col. selby. the colonel was at breakfast. would the clerk tell him that a lady and gentleman wished to see him for a moment in the parlor? the clerk says that the gentleman asked her, "what do you want to see him for?" and that she replied, "he is going to europe, and i ought to just say good by." col. selby was informed; and the lady and gentleman were shown to the parlor, in which were at the time three or four other persons. five minutes after two shots were fired in quick succession, and there was a rush to the parlor from which the reports came. col. selby was found lying on the floor, bleeding, but not dead. two gentlemen, who had just come in, had seized the lady, who made no resistance, and she was at once given in charge of a police officer who arrived. the persons who were in the parlor agree substantially as to what occurred. they had happened to be looking towards the door when the man--col. selby--entered with his cane, and they looked at him, because he stopped as if surprised and frightened, and made a backward movement. at the same moment the lady in the bonnet advanced towards him and said something like, "george, will you go with me?" he replied, throwing up his hand and retreating, "my god i can't, don't fire," and the next instants two shots were heard and he fell. the lady appeared to be beside herself with rage or excitement, and trembled very much when the gentlemen took hold of her; it was to them she said, "he brought it on himself." col. selby was carried at once to his room and dr. puffer, the eminent surgeon was sent for. it was found that he was shot through the breast and through the abdomen. other aid was summoned, but the wounds were mortal, and col selby expired in an hour, in pain, but his mind was clear to the last and he made a full deposition. the substance of it was that his murderess is a miss laura hawkins, whom he had known at washington as a lobbyist and had some business with her. she had followed him with her attentions and solicitations, and had endeavored to make him desert his wife and go to europe with her. when he resisted and avoided her she had threatened him. only the day before he left washington she had declared that he should never go out of the city alive without her. it seems to have been a deliberate and premeditated murder, the woman following him to washington on purpose to commit it. we learn that the, murderess, who is a woman of dazzling and transcendent beauty and about twenty six or seven, is a niece of senator dilworthy at whose house she has been spending the winter. she belongs to a high southern family, and has the reputation of being an heiress. like some other great beauties and belles in washington however there have been whispers that she had something to do with the lobby. if we mistake not we have heard her name mentioned in connection with the sale of the tennessee lands to the knobs university, the bill for which passed the house last night. her companion is mr. harry brierly, a new york dandy, who has been in washington. his connection with her and with this tragedy is not known, but he was also taken into custody, and will be detained at least as a witness. p. s. one of the persons present in the parlor says that after laura hawkins had fired twice, she turned the pistol towards herself, but that brierly sprung and caught it from her hand, and that it was he who threw it on the floor. further particulars with full biographies of all the parties in our next edition. philip hastened at once to the southern hotel, where he found still a great state of excitement, and a thousand different and exaggerated stories passing from mouth to mouth. the witnesses of the event had told it over so many time that they had worked it up into a most dramatic scene, and embellished it with whatever could heighten its awfulness. outsiders had taken up invention also. the colonel's wife had gone insane, they said. the children had rushed into the parlor and rolled themselves in their father's blood. the hotel clerk said that he noticed there was murder in the woman's eye when he saw her. a person who had met the woman on the stairs felt a creeping sensation. some thought brierly was an accomplice, and that he had set the woman on to kill his rival. some said the woman showed the calmness and indifference of insanity. philip learned that harry and laura had both been taken to the city prison, and he went there; but he was not admitted. not being a newspaper reporter, he could not see either of them that night; but the officer questioned him suspiciously and asked him who he was. he might perhaps see brierly in the morning. the latest editions of the evening papers had the result of the inquest. it was a plain enough case for the jury, but they sat over it a long time, listening to the wrangling of the physicians. dr. puffer insisted that the man died from the effects of the wound in the chest. dr. dobb as strongly insisted that the wound in the abdomen caused death. dr. golightly suggested that in his opinion death ensued from a complication of the two wounds and perhaps other causes. he examined the table waiter, as to whether col. selby ate any breakfast, and what he ate, and if he had any appetite. the jury finally threw themselves back upon the indisputable fact that selby was dead, that either wound would have killed him (admitted by the doctors), and rendered a verdict that he died from pistol-shot wounds inflicted by a pistol in the hands of laura hawkins. the morning papers blazed with big type, and overflowed with details of the murder. the accounts in the evening papers were only the premonitory drops to this mighty shower. the scene was dramatically worked up in column after column. there were sketches, biographical and historical. there were long "specials" from washington, giving a full history of laura's career there, with the names of men with whom she was said to be intimate, a description of senator dilworthy's residence and of his family, and of laura's room in his house, and a sketch of the senator's appearance and what he said. there was a great deal about her beauty, her accomplishments and her brilliant position in society, and her doubtful position in society. there was also an interview with col. sellers and another with washington hawkins, the brother of the murderess. one journal had a long dispatch from hawkeye, reporting the excitement in that quiet village and the reception of the awful intelligence. all the parties had been "interviewed." there were reports of conversations with the clerk at the hotel; with the call-boy; with the waiter at table with all the witnesses, with the policeman, with the landlord (who wanted it understood that nothing of that sort had ever happened in his house before, although it had always been frequented by the best southern society,) and with mrs. col. selby. there were diagrams illustrating the scene of the shooting, and views of the hotel and street, and portraits of the parties. there were three minute and different statements from the doctors about the wounds, so technically worded that nobody could understand them. harry and laura had also been "interviewed" and there was a statement from philip himself, which a reporter had knocked him up out of bed at midnight to give, though how he found him, philip never could conjecture. what some of the journals lacked in suitable length for the occasion, they made up in encyclopaedic information about other similar murders and shootings. the statement from laura was not full, in fact it was fragmentary, and consisted of nine parts of, the reporter's valuable observations to one of laura's, and it was, as the reporter significantly remarked, "incoherent", but it appeared that laura claimed to be selby's wife, or to have been his wife, that he had deserted her and betrayed her, and that she was going to follow him to europe. when the reporter asked: "what made you shoot him miss. hawkins?" laura's only reply was, very simply, "did i shoot him? do they say i shot him?". and she would say no more. the news of the murder was made the excitement of the day. talk of it filled the town. the facts reported were scrutinized, the standing of the parties was discussed, the dozen different theories of the motive, broached in the newspapers, were disputed over. during the night subtle electricity had carried the tale over all the wires of the continent and under the sea; and in all villages and towns of the union, from the. atlantic to the territories, and away up and down the pacific slope, and as far as london and paris and berlin, that morning the name of laura hawkins was spoken by millions and millions of people, while the owner of it--the sweet child of years ago, the beautiful queen of washington drawing rooms--sat shivering on her cot-bed in the darkness of a damp cell in the tombs. chapter xlvii. philip's first effort was to get harry out of the tombs. he gained permission to see him, in the presence of an officer, during the day, and he found that hero very much cast down. "i never intended to come to such a place as this, old fellow," he said to philip; "it's no place for a gentleman, they've no idea how to treat a gentleman. look at that provender," pointing to his uneaten prison ration. "they tell me i am detained as a witness, and i passed the night among a lot of cut-throats and dirty rascals--a pretty witness i'd be in a month spent in such company." "but what under heavens," asked philip, "induced you to come to new york with laura! what was it for?" "what for? why, she wanted me to come. i didn't know anything about that cursed selby. she said it was lobby business for the university. i'd no idea what she was dragging me into that confounded hotel for. i suppose she knew that the southerners all go there, and thought she'd find her man. oh! lord, i wish i'd taken your advice. you might as well murder somebody and have the credit of it, as get into the newspapers the way i have. she's pure devil, that girl. you ought to have seen how sweet she was on me; what an ass i am." "well, i'm not going to dispute a poor, prisoner. but the first thing is to get you out of this. i've brought the note laura wrote you, for one thing, and i've seen your uncle, and explained the truth of the case to him. he will be here soon." harry's uncle came, with; other friends, and in the course of the day made such a showing to the authorities that harry was released, on giving bonds to appear as a witness when wanted. his spirits rose with their usual elasticity as soon as he was out of centre street, and he insisted on giving philip and his friends a royal supper at delmonico's, an excess which was perhaps excusable in the rebound of his feelings, and which was committed with his usual reckless generosity. harry ordered, the supper, and it is perhaps needless to say, that philip paid the bill. neither of the young men felt like attempting to see laura that day, and she saw no company except the newspaper reporters, until the arrival of col. sellers and washington hawkins, who had hastened to new york with all speed. they found laura in a cell in the upper tier of the women's department. the cell was somewhat larger than those in the men's department, and might be eight feet by ten square, perhaps a little longer. it was of stone, floor and all, and tile roof was oven shaped. a narrow slit in the roof admitted sufficient light, and was the only means of ventilation; when the window was opened there was nothing to prevent the rain coming in. the only means of heating being from the corridor, when the door was ajar, the cell was chilly and at this time damp. it was whitewashed and clean, but it had a slight jail odor; its only furniture was a narrow iron bedstead, with a tick of straw and some blankets, not too clean. when col. sellers was conducted to this cell by the matron and looked in, his emotions quite overcame him, the tears rolled down his cheeks and his voice trembled so that he could hardly speak. washington was unable to say anything; he looked from laura to the miserable creatures who were walking in the corridor with unutterable disgust. laura was alone calm and self-contained, though she was not unmoved by the sight of the grief of her friends. "are you comfortable, laura?" was the first word the colonel could get out. "you see," she replied. "i can't say it's exactly comfortable." "are you cold?" "it is pretty chilly. the stone floor is like ice. it chills me through to step on it. i have to sit on the bed." "poor thing, poor thing. and can you eat any thing?" "no, i am not hungry. i don't know that i could eat any thing, i can't eat that." "oh dear," continued the colonel, "it's dreadful. but cheer up, dear, cheer up;" and the colonel broke down entirely. "but," he went on, "we'll stand by you. we'll do everything for you. i know you couldn't have meant to do it, it must have been insanity, you know, or something of that sort. you never did anything of the sort before." laura smiled very faintly and said, "yes, it was something of that sort. it's all a whirl. he was a villain; you don't know." "i'd rather have killed him myself, in a duel you know, all fair. i wish i had. but don't you be down. we'll get you the best counsel, the lawyers in new york can do anything; i've read of cases. but you must be comfortable now. we've brought some of your clothes, at the hotel. what else, can we get for you?" laura suggested that she would like some sheets for her bed, a piece of carpet to step on, and her meals sent in; and some books and writing materials if it was allowed. the colonel and washington promised to procure all these things, and then took their sorrowful leave, a great deal more affected than the criminal was, apparently, by her situation. the colonel told the matron as he went away that if she would look to laura's comfort a little it shouldn't be the worse for her; and to the turnkey who let them out he patronizingly said, "you've got a big establishment here, a credit to the city. i've got a friend in there--i shall see you again, sir." by the next day something more of laura's own story began to appear in the newspapers, colored and heightened by reporters' rhetoric. some of them cast a lurid light upon the colonel's career, and represented his victim as a beautiful avenger of her murdered innocence; and others pictured her as his willing paramour and pitiless slayer. her communications to the reporters were stopped by her lawyers as soon as they were retained and visited her, but this fact did not prevent--it may have facilitated--the appearance of casual paragraphs here and there which were likely to beget popular sympathy for the poor girl. the occasion did not pass without "improvement" by the leading journals; and philip preserved the editorial comments of three or four of them which pleased him most. these he used to read aloud to his friends afterwards and ask them to guess from which journal each of them had been cut. one began in this simple manner:-- history never repeats itself, but the kaleidoscopic combinations of the pictured present often seem to be constructed out of the broken fragments of antique legends. washington is not corinth, and lais, the beautiful daughter of timandra, might not have been the prototype of the ravishing laura, daughter of the plebeian house of hawkins; but the orators add statesmen who were the purchasers of the favors of the one, may have been as incorruptible as the republican statesmen who learned how to love and how to vote from the sweet lips of the washington lobbyist; and perhaps the modern lais would never have departed from the national capital if there had been there even one republican xenocrates who resisted her blandishments. but here the parallel: fails. lais, wandering away with the youth rippostratus, is slain by the women who are jealous of her charms. laura, straying into her thessaly with the youth brierly, slays her other lover and becomes the champion of the wrongs of her sex. another journal began its editorial with less lyrical beauty, but with equal force. it closed as follows:-- with laura hawkins, fair, fascinating and fatal, and with the dissolute colonel of a lost cause, who has reaped the harvest he sowed, we have nothing to do. but as the curtain rises on this awful tragedy, we catch a glimpse of the society at the capital under this administration, which we cannot contemplate without alarm for the fate of the republic. a third newspaper took up the subject in a different tone. it said:-- our repeated predictions are verified. the pernicious doctrines which we have announced as prevailing in american society have been again illustrated. the name of the city is becoming a reproach. we may have done something in averting its ruin in our resolute exposure of the great frauds; we shall not be deterred from insisting that the outraged laws for the protection of human life shall be vindicated now, so that a person can walk the streets or enter the public houses, at least in the day-time, without the risk of a bullet through his brain. a fourth journal began its remarks as follows:-- the fullness with which we present our readers this morning the details of the selby-hawkins homicide is a miracle of modern journalism. subsequent investigation can do little to fill out the picture. it is the old story. a beautiful woman shoots her absconding lover in cold-blood; and we shall doubtless learn in due time that if she was not as mad as a hare in this month of march, she was at least laboring under what is termed "momentary insanity." it would not be too much to say that upon the first publication of the facts of the tragedy, there was an almost universal feeling of rage against the murderess in the tombs, and that reports of her beauty only heightened the indignation. it was as if she presumed upon that and upon her sex, to defy the law; and there was a fervent, hope that the law would take its plain course. yet laura was not without friends, and some of them very influential too. she had in keeping a great many secrets and a great many reputations, perhaps. who shall set himself up to judge human motives. why, indeed, might we not feel pity for a woman whose brilliant career had been so suddenly extinguished in misfortune and crime? those who had known her so well in washington might find it impossible to believe that the fascinating woman could have had murder in her heart, and would readily give ear to the current sentimentality about the temporary aberration of mind under the stress of personal calamity. senator dilworthy, was greatly shocked, of course, but he was full of charity for the erring. "we shall all need mercy," he said. "laura as an inmate of my family was a most exemplary female, amiable, affectionate and truthful, perhaps too fond of gaiety, and neglectful of the externals of religion, but a woman of principle. she may have had experiences of which i am ignorant, but she could not have gone to this extremity if she had been in her own right mind." to the senator's credit be it said, he was willing to help laura and her family in this dreadful trial. she, herself, was not without money, for the washington lobbyist is not seldom more fortunate than the washington claimant, and she was able to procure a good many luxuries to mitigate the severity of her prison life. it enabled her also to have her own family near her, and to see some of them daily. the tender solicitude of her mother, her childlike grief, and her firm belief in the real guiltlessness of her daughter, touched even the custodians of the tombs who are enured to scenes of pathos. mrs. hawkins had hastened to her daughter as soon as she received money for the journey. she had no reproaches, she had only tenderness and pity. she could not shut out the dreadful facts of the case, but it had been enough for her that laura had said, in their first interview, "mother, i did not know what i was doing." she obtained lodgings near, the prison and devoted her life to her daughter, as if she had been really her own child. she would have remained in the prison day and night if it had been permitted. she was aged and feeble, but this great necessity seemed to give her new life. the pathetic story of the old lady's ministrations, and her simplicity and faith, also got into the newspapers in time, and probably added to the pathos of this wrecked woman's fate, which was beginning to be felt by the public. it was certain that she had champions who thought that her wrongs ought to be placed against her crime, and expressions of this feeling came to her in various ways. visitors came to see her, and gifts of fruit and flowers were sent, which brought some cheer into her hard and gloomy cell. laura had declined to see either philip or harry, somewhat to the former's relief, who had a notion that she would necessarily feel humiliated by seeing him after breaking faith with him, but to the discomfiture of harry, who still felt her fascination, and thought her refusal heartless. he told philip that of course he had got through with such a woman, but he wanted to see her. philip, to keep him from some new foolishness, persuaded him to go with him to philadelphia; and, give his valuable services in the mining operations at ilium. the law took its course with laura. she was indicted for murder in the first degree and held for trial at the summer term. the two most distinguished criminal lawyers in the city had been retained for her defence, and to that the resolute woman devoted her days with a courage that rose as she consulted with her counsel and understood the methods of criminal procedure in new york. she was greatly depressed, however, by the news from washington. congress adjourned and her bill had failed to pass the senate. it must wait for the next session. chapter xlviii it had been a bad winter, somehow, for the firm of pennybacker, bigler and small. these celebrated contractors usually made more money during the session of the legislature at harrisburg than upon all their summer work, and this winter had been unfruitful. it was unaccountable to bigler. "you see, mr. bolton," he said, and philip was present at the conversation, "it puts us all out. it looks as if politics was played out. we'd counted on the year of simon's re-election. and, now, he's reelected, and i've yet to see the first man who's the better for it." "you don't mean to say," asked philip, "that he went in without paying anything?" "not a cent, not a dash cent, as i can hear," repeated mr. bigler, indignantly. "i call it a swindle on the state. how it was done gets me. i never saw such a tight time for money in harrisburg." "were there no combinations, no railroad jobs, no mining schemes put through in connection with the election? "not that i knew," said bigler, shaking his head in disgust. "in fact it was openly said, that there was no money in the election. it's perfectly unheard of." "perhaps," suggested philip, "it was effected on what the insurance companies call the 'endowment,' or the 'paid up' plan, by which a policy is secured after a certain time without further payment." "you think then," said mr. bolton smiling, "that a liberal and sagacious politician might own a legislature after a time, and not be bothered with keeping up his payments?" "whatever it is," interrupted mr. bigler, "it's devilish ingenious and goes ahead of my calculations; it's cleaned me out, when i thought we had a dead sure thing. i tell you what it is, gentlemen, i shall go in for reform. things have got pretty mixed when a legislature will give away a united states senatorship." it was melancholy, but mr. bigler was not a man to be crushed by one misfortune, or to lose his confidence in human nature, on one exhibition of apparent honesty. he was already on his feet again, or would be if mr. bolton could tide him over shoal water for ninety days. "we've got something with money in it," he explained to mr. bolton, "got hold of it by good luck. we've got the entire contract for dobson's patent pavement for the city of mobile. see here." mr. bigler made some figures; contract so; much, cost of work and materials so much, profits so much. at the end of three months the city would owe the company three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars-two hundred thousand of that would be profits. the whole job was worth at least a million to the company--it might be more. there could be no mistake in these figures; here was the contract, mr. bolton knew what materials were worth and what the labor would cost. mr. bolton knew perfectly well from sore experience that there was always a mistake in figures when bigler or small made them, and he knew that he ought to send the fellow about his business. instead of that, he let him talk. they only wanted to raise fifty thousand dollars to carry on the contract--that expended they would have city bonds. mr. bolton said he hadn't the money. but bigler could raise it on his name. mr. bolton said he had no right to put his family to that risk. but the entire contract could be assigned to him--the security was ample--it was a fortune to him if it was forfeited. besides mr. bigler had been unfortunate, he didn't know where to look for the necessaries of life for his family. if he could only have one more chance, he was sure he could right himself. he begged for it. and mr. bolton yielded. he could never refuse such appeals. if he had befriended a man once and been cheated by him, that man appeared to have a claim upon him forever. he shrank, however, from telling his wife what he had done on this occasion, for he knew that if any person was more odious than small to his family it was bigler. "philip tells me," mrs. bolton said that evening, "that the man bigler has been with thee again to-day. i hope thee will have nothing more to do with him." "he has been very unfortunate," replied mr. bolton, uneasily. "he is always unfortunate, and he is always getting thee into trouble. but thee didn't listen to him again?" "well, mother, his family is in want, and i lent him my name--but i took ample security. the worst that can happen will be a little inconvenience." mrs. bolton looked grave and anxious, but she did not complain or remonstrate; she knew what a "little inconvenience" meant, but she knew there was no help for it. if mr. bolton had been on his way to market to buy a dinner for his family with the only dollar he had in the world in his pocket, he would have given it to a chance beggar who asked him for it. mrs. bolton only asked (and the question showed that she was no mere provident than her husband where her heart was interested), "but has thee provided money for philip to use in opening the coal mine?" "yes, i have set apart as much as it ought to cost to open the mine, as much as we can afford to lose if no coal is found. philip has the control of it, as equal partner in the venture, deducting the capital invested. he has great confidence in his success, and i hope for his sake he won't be disappointed." philip could not but feel that he was treated very much like one of the bolton-family--by all except ruth. his mother, when he went home after his recovery from his accident, had affected to be very jealous of mrs. bolton, about whom and ruth she asked a thousand questions --an affectation of jealousy which no doubt concealed a real heartache, which comes to every mother when her son goes out into the world and forms new ties. and to mrs. sterling; a widow, living on a small income in a remote massachusetts village, philadelphia was a city of many splendors. all its inhabitants seemed highly favored, dwelling in ease and surrounded by superior advantages. some of her neighbors had relations living in philadelphia, and it seemed to them somehow a guarantee of respectability to have relations in philadelphia. mrs. sterling was not sorry to have philip make his way among such well-to-do people, and she was sure that no good fortune could be too good for his deserts. "so, sir," said ruth, when philip came from new york, "you have been assisting in a pretty tragedy. i saw your name in the papers. is this woman a specimen of your western friends?" "my only assistance," replied philip, a little annoyed, was in trying to keep harry out of a bad scrape, and i failed after all. he walked into her trap, and he has been punished for it. i'm going to take him up to ilium to see if he won't work steadily at one thing, and quit his nonsense." "is she as beautiful as the newspapers say she is?" "i don't know, she has a kind of beauty--she is not like--' "not like alice?" "well, she is brilliant; she was called the handsomest woman in washington--dashing, you know, and sarcastic and witty. ruth, do you believe a woman ever becomes a devil?" "men do, and i don't know why women shouldn't. but i never saw one." "well, laura hawkins comes very near it. but it is dreadful to think of her fate." "why, do you suppose they will hang a woman? do you suppose they will be so barbarous as that?" "i wasn't thinking of that--it's doubtful if a new york jury would find a woman guilty of any such crime. but to think of her life if she is acquitted." "it is dreadful," said ruth, thoughtfully, "but the worst of it is that you men do not want women educated to do anything, to be able to earn an honest living by their own exertions. they are educated as if they were always to be petted and supported, and there was never to be any such thing as misfortune. i suppose, now, that you would all choose to have me stay idly at home, and give up my profession." "oh, no," said philip, earnestly, "i respect your resolution. but, ruth, do you think you would be happier or do more good in following your profession than in having a home of your own?" "what is to hinder having a home of my, own?" "nothing, perhaps, only you never would be in it--you would be away day and night, if you had any practice; and what sort of a home would that make for your husband?" "what sort of a home is it for the wife whose husband is always away riding about in his doctor's gig?" "ah, you know that is not fair. the woman makes the home." philip and ruth often had this sort of discussion, to which philip was always trying to give a personal turn. he was now about to go to ilium for the season, and he did not like to go without some assurance from ruth that she might perhaps love him some day; when he was worthy of it, and when he could offer her something better than a partnership in his poverty. "i should work with a great deal better heart, ruth," he said the morning he was taking leave, "if i knew you cared for me a little." ruth was looking down; the color came faintly to her cheeks, and she hesitated. she needn't be looking down, he thought, for she was ever so much shorter than tall philip. "it's not much of a place, ilium," philip went on, as if a little geographical remark would fit in here as well as anything else, "and i shall have plenty of time to think over the responsibility i have taken, and--" his observation did not seem to be coming out any where. but ruth looked up, and there was a light in her eyes that quickened phil's pulse. she took his hand, and said with serious sweetness: "thee mustn't lose heart, philip." and then she added, in another mood, "thee knows i graduate in the summer and shall have my diploma. and if any thing happens--mines explode sometimes--thee can send for me. farewell." the opening of the ilium coal mine was begun with energy, but without many omens of success. philip was running a tunnel into the breast of the mountain, in faith that the coal stratum ran there as it ought to. how far he must go in he believed he knew, but no one could tell exactly. some of the miners said that they should probably go through the mountain, and that the hole could be used for a railway tunnel. the mining camp was a busy place at any rate. quite a settlement of board and log shanties had gone up, with a blacksmith shop, a small machine shop, and a temporary store for supplying the wants of the workmen. philip and harry pitched a commodious tent, and lived in the full enjoyment of the free life. there is no difficulty in digging a bole in the ground, if you have money enough to pay for the digging, but those who try this sort of work are always surprised at the large amount of money necessary to make a small hole. the earth is never willing to yield one product, hidden in her bosom, without an equivalent for it. and when a person asks of her coal, she is quite apt to require gold in exchange. it was exciting work for all concerned in it. as the tunnel advanced into the rock every day promised to be the golden day. this very blast might disclose the treasure. the work went on week after week, and at length during the night as well as the daytime. gangs relieved each other, and the tunnel was every hour, inch by inch and foot by foot, crawling into the mountain. philip was on the stretch of hope and excitement. every pay day he saw his funds melting away, and still there was only the faintest show of what the miners call "signs." the life suited harry, whose buoyant hopefulness was never disturbed. he made endless calculations, which nobody could understand, of the probable position of the vein. he stood about among the workmen with the busiest air. when he was down at ilium he called himself the engineer of the works, and he used to spend hours smoking his pipe with the dutch landlord on the hotel porch, and astonishing the idlers there with the stories of his railroad operations in missouri. he talked with the landlord, too, about enlarging his hotel, and about buying some village lots, in the prospect of a rise, when the mine was opened. he taught the dutchman how to mix a great many cooling drinks for the summer time, and had a bill at the hotel, the growing length of which mr. dusenheimer contemplated with pleasant anticipations. mr. brierly was a very useful and cheering person wherever he went. midsummer arrived: philip could report to mr. bolton only progress, and this was not a cheerful message for him to send to philadelphia in reply to inquiries that he thought became more and more anxious. philip himself was a prey to the constant fear that the money would give out before the coal was struck. at this time harry was summoned to new york, to attend the trial of laura hawkins. it was possible that philip would have to go also, her lawyer wrote, but they hoped for a postponement. there was important evidence that they could not yet obtain, and he hoped the judge would not force them to a trial unprepared. there were many reasons for a delay, reasons which of course are never mentioned, but which it would seem that a new york judge sometimes must understand, when he grants a postponement upon a motion that seems to the public altogether inadequate. harry went, but he soon came back. the trial was put off. every week we can gain, said the learned counsel, braham, improves our chances. the popular rage never lasts long. chapter xlix. "we've struck it!" this was the announcement at the tent door that woke philip out of a sound sleep at dead of night, and shook all the sleepiness out of him in a trice. "what! where is it? when? coal? let me see it. what quality is it?" were some of the rapid questions that philip poured out as he hurriedly dressed. "harry, wake up, my boy, the coal train is coming. struck it, eh? let's see?" the foreman put down his lantern, and handed philip a black lump. there was no mistake about it, it was the hard, shining anthracite, and its freshly fractured surface, glistened in the light like polished steel. diamond never shone with such lustre in the eyes of philip. harry was exuberant, but philip's natural caution found expression in his next remark. "now, roberts, you are sure about this?" "what--sure that it's coal?" "o, no, sure that it's the main vein." "well, yes. we took it to be that" "did you from the first?" "i can't say we did at first. no, we didn't. most of the indications were there, but not all of them, not all of them. so we thought we'd prospect a bit." "well?" "it was tolerable thick, and looked as if it might be the vein--looked as if it ought to be the vein. then we went down on it a little. looked better all the time." "when did you strike it?" "about ten o'clock." "then you've been prospecting about four hours." "yes, been sinking on it something over four hours." "i'm afraid you couldn't go down very far in four hours--could you?" "o yes--it's a good deal broke up, nothing but picking and gadding stuff." "well, it does look encouraging, sure enough--but then the lacking indications--" "i'd rather we had them, mr. sterling, but i've seen more than one good permanent mine struck without 'em in my time." "well, that is encouraging too." "yes, there was the union, the alabama and the black mohawk--all good, sound mines, you know--all just exactly like this one when we first struck them." "well, i begin to feel a good deal more easy. i guess we've really got it. i remember hearing them tell about the black mohawk." "i'm free to say that i believe it, and the men all think so too. they are all old hands at this business." "come harry, let's go up and look at it, just for the comfort of it," said philip. they came back in the course of an hour, satisfied and happy. there was no more sleep for them that night. they lit their pipes, put a specimen of the coal on the table, and made it a kind of loadstone of thought and conversation. "of course," said harry, "there will have to be a branch track built, and a 'switch-back' up the hill." "yes, there will be no trouble about getting the money for that now. we could sell-out tomorrow for a handsome sum. that sort of coal doesn't go begging within a mile of a rail-road. i wonder if mr. bolton' would rather sell out or work it?" "oh, work it," says harry, "probably the whole mountain is coal now you've got to it." "possibly it might not be much of a vein after all," suggested philip. "possibly it is; i'll bet it's forty feet thick. i told you. i knew the sort of thing as soon as i put my eyes on it." philip's next thought was to write to his friends and announce their good fortune. to mr. bolton he wrote a short, business letter, as calm as he could make it. they had found coal of excellent quality, but they could not yet tell with absolute certainty what the vein was. the prospecting was still going on. philip also wrote to ruth; but though this letter may have glowed, it was not with the heat of burning anthracite. he needed no artificial heat to warm his pen and kindle his ardor when he sat down to write to ruth. but it must be confessed that the words never flowed so easily before, and he ran on for an hour disporting in all the extravagance of his imagination. when ruth read it, she doubted if the fellow had not gone out of his senses. and it was not until she reached the postscript that she discovered the cause of the exhilaration. "p. s.--we have found coal." the news couldn't have come to mr. bolton in better time. he had never been so sorely pressed. a dozen schemes which he had in hand, any one of which might turn up a fortune, all languished, and each needed just a little more, money to save that which had been invested. he hadn't a piece of real estate that was not covered with mortgages, even to the wild tract which philip was experimenting on, and which had, no marketable value above the incumbrance on it. he had come home that day early, unusually dejected. "i am afraid," he said to his wife, "that we shall have to give up our house. i don't care for myself, but for thee and the children." "that will be the least of misfortunes," said mrs. bolton, cheerfully, "if thee can clear thyself from debt and anxiety, which is wearing thee out, we can live any where. thee knows we were never happier than when we were in a much humbler home." "the truth is, margaret, that affair of bigler and small's has come on me just when i couldn't stand another ounce. they have made another failure of it. i might have known they would; and the sharpers, or fools, i don't know which, have contrived to involve me for three times as much as the first obligation. the security is in my hands, but it is good for nothing to me. i have not the money to do anything with the contract." ruth heard this dismal news without great surprise. she had long felt that they were living on a volcano, that might go in to active operation at any hour. inheriting from her father an active brain and the courage to undertake new things, she had little of his sanguine temperament which blinds one to difficulties and possible failures. she had little confidence in the many schemes which had been about to lift her father out of all his embarrassments and into great wealth, ever since she was a child; as she grew older, she rather wondered that they were as prosperous as they seemed to be, and that they did not all go to smash amid so many brilliant projects. she was nothing but a woman, and did not know how much of the business prosperity of the world is only a, bubble of credit and speculation, one scheme helping to float another which is no better than it, and the whole liable to come to naught and confusion as soon as the busy brain that conceived them ceases its power to devise, or when some accident produces a sudden panic. "perhaps, i shall be the stay of the family, yet," said ruth, with an approach to gaiety; "when we move into a little house in town, will thee let me put a little sign on the door: dr. ruth bolton?" "mrs. dr. longstreet, thee knows, has a great income." "who will pay for the sign, ruth?" asked mr. bolton. a servant entered with the afternoon mail from the office. mr. bolton took his letters listlessly, dreading to open them. he knew well what they contained, new difficulties, more urgent demands fox money. "oh, here is one from philip. poor fellow. i shall feel his disappointment as much as my own bad luck. it is hard to bear when one is young." he opened the letter and read. as he read his face lightened, and he fetched such a sigh of relief, that mrs. bolton and ruth both exclaimed. "read that," he cried, "philip has found coal!" the world was changed in a moment. one little sentence had done it. there was no more trouble. philip had found coal. that meant relief. that meant fortune. a great weight was taken off, and the spirits of the whole household rose magically. good money! beautiful demon of money, what an enchanter thou art! ruth felt that she was of less consequence in the household, now that philip had found coal, and perhaps she was not sorry to feel so. mr. bolton was ten years younger the next morning. he went into the city, and showed his letter on change. it was the sort of news his friends were quite willing to listen to. they took a new interest in him. if it was confirmed, bolton would come right up again. there would be no difficulty about his getting all the money he wanted. the money market did not seem to be half so tight as it was the day before. mr. bolton spent a very pleasant day in his office, and went home revolving some new plans, and the execution of some projects he had long been prevented from entering upon by the lack of money. the day had been spent by philip in no less excitement. by daylight, with philip's letters to the mail, word had gone down to ilium that coal had been found, and very early a crowd of eager spectators had come up to see for themselves. the "prospecting" continued day and night for upwards of a week, and during the first four or five days the indications grew more and more promising, and the telegrams and letters kept mr. bolton duly posted. but at last a change came, and the promises began to fail with alarming rapidity. in the end it was demonstrated without the possibility of a doubt that the great "find" was nothing but a worthless seam. philip was cast down, all the more so because he had been so foolish as to send the news to philadelphia before he knew what he was writing about. and now he must contradict it. "it turns out to be only a mere seam," he wrote, "but we look upon it as an indication of better further in." alas! mr. bolton's affairs could not wait for "indications." the future might have a great deal in store, but the present was black and hopeless. it was doubtful if any sacrifice could save him from ruin. yet sacrifice he must make, and that instantly, in the hope of saving something from the wreck of his fortune. his lovely country home must go. that would bring the most ready money. the house that he had built with loving thought for each one of his family, as he planned its luxurious apartments and adorned it; the grounds that he had laid out, with so much delight in following the tastes of his wife, with whom the country, the cultivation of rare trees and flowers, the care of garden and lawn and conservatories were a passion almost; this home, which he had hoped his children would enjoy long after he had done with it, must go. the family bore the sacrifice better than he did. they declared in fact --women are such hypocrites--that they quite enjoyed the city (it was in august) after living so long in the country, that it was a thousand tunes more convenient in every respect; mrs. bolton said it was a relief from the worry of a large establishment, and ruth reminded her father that she should have had to come to town anyway before long. mr. bolton was relieved, exactly as a water-logged ship is lightened by throwing overboard the most valuable portion of the cargo--but the leak was not stopped. indeed his credit was injured instead of helped by the prudent step be had taken. it was regarded as a sure evidence of his embarrassment, and it was much more difficult for him to obtain help than if he had, instead of retrenching, launched into some new speculation. philip was greatly troubled, and exaggerated his own share in the bringing about of the calamity. "you must not look at it so!" mr. bolton wrote him. "you have neither helped nor hindered--but you know you may help by and by. it would have all happened just so, if we had never begun to dig that hole. that is only a drop. work away. i still have hope that something will occur to relieve me. at any rate we must not give up the mine, so long as we have any show." alas! the relief did not come. new misfortunes came instead. when the extent of the bigler swindle was disclosed there was no more hope that mr. bolton could extricate himself, and he had, as an honest man, no resource except to surrender all his property for the benefit of his creditors. the autumn came and found philip working with diminished force but still with hope. he had again and again been encouraged by good "indications," but he had again and again been disappointed. he could not go on much longer, and almost everybody except himself had thought it was useless to go on as long as he had been doing. when the news came of mr. bolton's failure, of course the work stopped. the men were discharged, the tools were housed, the hopeful noise of pickman and driver ceased, and the mining camp had that desolate and mournful aspect which always hovers over a frustrated enterprise. philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost wished he were buried in them. how distant ruth was now from him, now, when she might need him most. how changed was all the philadelphia world, which had hitherto stood for the exemplification of happiness and prosperity. he still had faith that there was coal in that mountain. he made a picture of himself living there a hermit in a shanty by the tunnel, digging away with solitary pick and wheelbarrow, day after day and year after year, until he grew gray and aged, and was known in all that region as the old man of the mountain. perhaps some day--he felt it must be so some day--he should strike coal. but what if he did? who would be alive to care for it then? what would he care for it then? no, a man wants riches in his youth, when the world is fresh to him. he wondered why providence could not have reversed the usual process, and let the majority of men begin with wealth and gradually spend it, and die poor when they no longer needed it. harry went back to the city. it was evident that his services were no longer needed. indeed, he had letters from his uncle, which he did not read to philip, desiring him to go to san francisco to look after some government contracts in the harbor there. philip had to look about him for something to do; he was like adam; the world was all before him whereto choose. he made, before he went elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to philadelphia, painful but yet not without its sweetnesses. the family had never shown him so much affection before; they all seemed to think his disappointment of more importance than their own misfortune. and there was that in ruth's manner--in what she gave him and what she withheld--that would have made a hero of a very much less promising character than philip sterling. among the assets of the bolton property, the ilium tract was sold, and philip bought it in at the vendue, for a song, for no one cared to even undertake the mortgage on it except himself. he went away the owner of it, and had ample time before he reached home in november, to calculate how much poorer he was by possessing it. chapter l. it is impossible for the historian, with even the best intentions, to control events or compel the persons of his narrative to act wisely or to be successful. it is easy to see how things might have been better managed; a very little change here and there would have made a very, different history of this one now in hand. if philip had adopted some regular profession, even some trade, he might now be a prosperous editor or a conscientious plumber, or an honest lawyer, and have borrowed money at the saving's bank and built a cottage, and be now furnishing it for the occupancy of ruth and himself. instead of this, with only a smattering of civil engineering, he is at his mother's house, fretting and fuming over his ill-luck, and the hardness and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of nothing but how to get the coal out of the ilium hills. if senator dilworthy had not made that visit to hawkeye, the hawkins family and col. sellers would not now be dancing attendance upon congress, and endeavoring to tempt that immaculate body into one of those appropriations, for the benefit of its members, which the members find it so difficult to explain to their constituents; and laura would not be lying in the tombs, awaiting her trial for murder, and doing her best, by the help of able counsel, to corrupt the pure fountain of criminal procedure in new york. if henry brierly had been blown up on the first mississippi steamboat he set foot on, as the chances were that he would be, he and col. sellers never would have gone into the columbus navigation scheme, and probably never into the east tennessee land scheme, and he would not now be detained in new york from very important business operations on the pacific coast, for the sole purpose of giving evidence to convict of murder the only woman he ever loved half as much as he loves himself. if mr. bolton had said the little word "no" to mr. bigler, alice montague might now be spending the winter in philadelphia, and philip also (waiting to resume his mining operations in the spring); and ruth would not be an assistant in a philadelphia hospital, taxing her strength with arduous routine duties, day by day, in order to lighten a little the burdens that weigh upon her unfortunate family. it is altogether a bad business. an honest historian, who had progressed thus far, and traced everything to such a condition of disaster and suspension, might well be justified in ending his narrative and writing --"after this the deluge." his only consolation would be in the reflection that he was not responsible for either characters or events. and the most annoying thought is that a little money, judiciously applied, would relieve the burdens and anxieties of most of these people; but affairs seem to be so arranged that money is most difficult to get when people need it most. a little of what mr. bolton has weakly given to unworthy people would now establish his family in a sort of comfort, and relieve ruth of the excessive toil for which she inherited no adequate physical vigor. a little money would make a prince of col. sellers; and a little more would calm the anxiety of washington hawkins about laura, for however the trial ended, he could feel sure of extricating her in the end. and if philip had a little money he could unlock the stone door in the mountain whence would issue a stream of shining riches. it needs a golden wand to strike that rock. if the knobs university bill could only go through, what a change would be wrought in the condition of most of the persons in this history. even philip himself would feel the good effects of it; for harry would have something and col. sellers would have something; and have not both these cautious people expressed a determination to take an interest in the ilium mine when they catch their larks? philip could not resist the inclination to pay a visit to fallkill. he had not been at the montague's since the time he saw ruth there, and he wanted to consult the squire about an occupation. he was determined now to waste no more time in waiting on providence, but to go to work at something, if it were nothing better, than teaching in the fallkill seminary, or digging clams on hingham beach. perhaps he could read law in squire montague's office while earning his bread as a teacher in the seminary. it was not altogether philip's fault, let us own, that he was in this position. there are many young men like him in american society, of his age, opportunities, education and abilities, who have really been educated for nothing and have let themselves drift, in the hope that they will find somehow, and by some sudden turn of good luck, the golden road to fortune. he was not idle or lazy, he had energy and a disposition to carve his own way. but he was born into a time when all young men of his age caught the fever of speculation, and expected to get on in the world by the omission of some of the regular processes which have been appointed from of old. and examples were not wanting to encourage him. he saw people, all around him, poor yesterday, rich to-day, who had come into sudden opulence by some means which they could not have classified among any of the regular occupations of life. a war would give such a fellow a career and very likely fame. he might have been a "railroad man," or a politician, or a land speculator, or one of those mysterious people who travel free on all rail-roads and steamboats, and are continually crossing and recrossing the atlantic, driven day and night about nobody knows what, and make a great deal of money by so doing. probably, at last, he sometimes thought with a whimsical smile, he should end by being an insurance agent, and asking people to insure their lives for his benefit. possibly philip did not think how much the attractions of fallkill were increased by the presence of alice there. he had known her so long, she had somehow grown into his life by habit, that he would expect the pleasure of her society without thinking mach about it. latterly he never thought of her without thinking of ruth, and if he gave the subject any attention, it was probably in an undefined consciousness that, he had her sympathy in his love, and that she was always willing to hear him talk about it. if he ever wondered that alice herself was not in love and never spoke of the possibility of her own marriage, it was a transient thought for love did not seem necessary, exactly, to one so calm and evenly balanced and with so many resources in her herself. whatever her thoughts may have been they were unknown to philip, as they are to these historians; if she was seeming to be what she was not, and carrying a burden heavier than any one else carried, because she had to bear it alone, she was only doing what thousands of women do, with a self-renunciation and heroism, of which men, impatient and complaining, have no conception. have not these big babies with beards filled all literature with their outcries, their griefs and their lamentations? it is always the gentle sex which is hard and cruel and fickle and implacable. "do you think you would be contented to live in fallkill, and attend the county court?" asked alice, when philip had opened the budget of his new programme. "perhaps not always," said philip, "i might go and practice in boston maybe, or go to chicago." "or you might get elected to congress." philip looked at alice to see if she was in earnest and not chaffing him. her face was quite sober. alice was one of those patriotic women in the rural districts, who think men are still selected for congress on account of qualifications for the office. "no," said philip, "the chances are that a man cannot get into congress now without resorting to arts and means that should render hint unfit to go there; of course there are exceptions; but do you know that i could not go into politics if i were a lawyer, without losing standing somewhat in my profession, and without raising at least a suspicion of my intentions and unselfishness? why, it is telegraphed all over the country and commented on as something wonderful if a congressman votes honestly and unselfishly and refuses to take advantage of his position to steal from the government." "but," insisted alice, "i should think it a noble ambition to go to congress, if it is so bad, and help reform it. i don't believe it is as corrupt as the english parliament used to be, if there is any truth in the novels, and i suppose that is reformed." "i'm sure i don't know where the reform is to begin. i've seen a perfectly capable, honest man, time and again, run against an illiterate trickster, and get beaten. i suppose if the people wanted decent members of congress they would elect them. perhaps," continued philip with a smile, "the women will have to vote." "well, i should be willing to, if it were a necessity, just as i would go to war and do what i could, if the country couldn't be saved otherwise," said alice, with a spirit that surprised philip, well as he thought he knew her. "if i were a young gentleman in these times--" philip laughed outright. "it's just what ruth used to say, 'if she were a man.' i wonder if all the young ladies are contemplating a change of sex." "no, only a changed sex," retorted alice; "we contemplate for the most part young men who don't care for anything they ought to care for." "well," said philip, looking humble, "i care for some things, you and ruth for instance; perhaps i ought not to. perhaps i ought to care for congress and that sort of thing." "don't be a goose, philip. i heard from ruth yesterday." "can i see her letter?" "no, indeed. but i am afraid her hard work is telling on her, together with her anxiety about her father." "do you think, alice," asked philip with one of those selfish thoughts that are not seldom mixed with real love, "that ruth prefers her profession to--to marriage?" "philip," exclaimed alice, rising to quit the room, and speaking hurriedly as if the words were forced from her, "you are as blind as a bat; ruth would cut off her right hand for you this minute." philip never noticed that alice's face was flushed and that her voice was unsteady; he only thought of the delicious words he had heard. and the poor girl, loyal to ruth, loyal to philip, went straight to her room, locked the door, threw herself on the bed and sobbed as if her heart world break. and then she prayed that her father in heaven would give her strength. and after a time she was calm again, and went to her bureau drawer and took from a hiding place a little piece of paper, yellow with age. upon it was pinned a four-leaved clover, dry and yellow also. she looked long at this foolish memento. under the clover leaf was written in a school-girl's hand--"philip, june, -." squire montague thought very well of philip's proposal. it would have been better if he had begun the study of the law as soon as he left college, but it was not too late now, and besides he had gathered some knowledge of the world. "but," asked the squire, "do you mean to abandon your land in pennsylvania?" this track of land seemed an immense possible fortune to this new england lawyer-farmer. hasn't it good timber, and doesn't the railroad almost touch it?" "i can't do anything with it now. perhaps i can sometime." "what is your reason for supposing that there is coal there?" "the opinion of the best geologist i could consult, my own observation of the country, and the little veins of it we found. i feel certain it is there. i shall find it some day. i know it. if i can only keep the land till i make money enough to try again." philip took from his pocket a map of the anthracite coal region, and pointed out the position of the ilium mountain which he had begun to tunnel. "doesn't it look like it?" "it certainly does," said the squire, very much interested. it is not unusual for a quiet country gentleman to be more taken with such a venture than a speculator who, has had more experience in its uncertainty. it was astonishing how many new england clergymen, in the time of the petroleum excitement, took chances in oil. the wall street brokers are said to do a good deal of small business for country clergymen, who are moved no doubt with the laudable desire of purifying the new york stock board. "i don't see that there is much risk," said the squire, at length. "the timber is worth more than the mortgage; and if that coal seam does run there, it's a magnificent fortune. would you like to try it again in the spring, phil?" like to try it! if he could have a little help, he would work himself, with pick and barrow, and live on a crust. only give him one more chance. and this is how it came about that the cautious old squire montague was drawn into this young fellow's speculation, and began to have his serene old age disturbed by anxieties and by the hope of a great stroke of luck. "to be sure, i only care about it for the boy," he said. the squire was like everybody else; sooner or later he must "take a chance." it is probably on account of the lack of enterprise in women that they are not so fond of stock speculations and mine ventures as men. it is only when woman becomes demoralized that she takes to any sort of gambling. neither alice nor ruth were much elated with the prospect of philip's renewal of his mining enterprise. but philip was exultant. he wrote to ruth as if his fortune were already made, and as if the clouds that lowered over the house of bolton were already in the deep bosom of a coal mine buried. towards spring he went to philadelphia with his plans all matured for a new campaign. his enthusiasm was irresistible. "philip has come, philip has come," cried the children, as if some great good had again come into the household; and the refrain even sang itself over in ruth's heart as she went the weary hospital rounds. mr. bolton felt more courage than he had had in months, at the sight of his manly face and the sound of his cheery voice. ruth's course was vindicated now, and it certainly did not become philip, who had nothing to offer but a future chance against the visible result of her determination and industry, to open an argument with her. ruth was never more certain that she was right and that she was sufficient unto herself. she, may be, did not much heed the still small voice that sang in her maiden heart as she went about her work, and which lightened it and made it easy, "philip has come." "i am glad for father's sake," she said to philip, that thee has come. "i can see that he depends greatly upon what thee can do. he thinks women won't hold out long," added ruth with the smile that philip never exactly understood. "and aren't you tired sometimes of the struggle?" "tired? yes, everybody is tired i suppose. but it is a glorious profession. and would you want me to be dependent, philip?" "well, yes, a little," said philip, feeling his way towards what he wanted to say. "on what, for instance, just now?" asked ruth, a little maliciously philip thought. "why, on----" he couldn't quite say it, for it occurred to him that he was a poor stick for any body to lean on in the present state of his fortune, and that the woman before him was at least as independent as he was. "i don't mean depend," he began again. "but i love you, that's all. am i nothing--to you?" and philip looked a little defiant, and as if he had said something that ought to brush away all the sophistries of obligation on either side, between man and woman. perhaps ruth saw this. perhaps she saw that her own theories of a certain equality of power, which ought to precede a union of two hearts, might be pushed too far. perhaps she had felt sometimes her own weakness and the need after all of so dear a sympathy and so tender an interest confessed, as that which philip could give. whatever moved her--the riddle is as old as creation--she simply looked up to philip and said in a low voice, "everything." and philip clasping both her hands in his, and looking down into her eyes, which drank in all his tenderness with the thirst of a true woman's nature-- "oh! philip, come out here," shouted young eli, throwing the door wide open. and ruth escaped away to her room, her heart singing again, and now as if it would burst for joy, "philip has come." that night philip received a dispatch from harry--"the trial begins tomorrow." chapter, li december --, found washington hawkins and col. sellers once more at the capitol of the nation, standing guard over the university bill. the former gentleman was despondent, the latter hopeful. washington's distress of mind was chiefly on laura's account. the court would soon sit to try her, case, he said, and consequently a great deal of ready money would be needed in the engineering of it. the university bill was sure to pass this, time, and that would make money plenty, but might not the, help come too late? congress had only just assembled, and delays were to be feared. "well," said the colonel, "i don't know but you are more or less right, there. now let's figure up a little on, the preliminaries. i think congress always tries to do as near right as it can, according to its lights. a man can't ask any fairer, than that. the first preliminary it always starts out on, is, to clean itself, so to speak. it will arraign two or three dozen of its members, or maybe four or five dozen, for taking bribes to vote for this and that and the other bill last winter." "it goes up into the dozens, does it?" "well, yes; in a free country likes ours, where any man can run for congress and anybody can vote for him, you can't expect immortal purity all the time--it ain't in nature. sixty or eighty or a hundred and fifty people are bound to get in who are not angels in disguise, as young hicks the correspondent says; but still it is a very good average; very good indeed. as long as it averages as well as that, i think we can feel very well satisfied. even in these days, when people growl so much and the newspapers are so out of patience, there is still a very respectable minority of honest men in congress." "why a respectable minority of honest men can't do any good, colonel." "oh, yes it can, too" "why, how?" "oh, in many ways, many ways." "but what are the ways?" "well--i don't know--it is a question that requires time; a body can't answer every question right off-hand. but it does do good. i am satisfied of that." "all right, then; grant that it does good; go on with the preliminaries." "that is what i am coming to. first, as i said, they will try a lot of members for taking money for votes. that will take four weeks." "yes, that's like last year; and it is a sheer waste of the time for which the nation pays those men to work--that is what that is. and it pinches when a body's got a bill waiting." "a waste of time, to purify the fountain of public law? well, i never heard anybody express an idea like that before. but if it were, it would still be the fault of the minority, for the majority don't institute these proceedings. there is where that minority becomes an obstruction --but still one can't say it is on the wrong side.--well, after they have finished the bribery cases, they will take up cases of members who have bought their seats with money. that will take another four weeks." "very good; go on. you have accounted for two-thirds of the session." "next they will try each other for various smaller irregularities, like the sale of appointments to west point cadetships, and that sort of thing--mere trifling pocket-money enterprises that might better, be passed over in silence, perhaps, but then one of our congresses can never rest easy till it has thoroughly purified itself of all blemishes--and that is a thing to be applauded." "how long does it take to disinfect itself of these minor impurities?" "well, about two weeks, generally." "so congress always lies helpless in quarantine ten weeks of a session. that's encouraging. colonel, poor laura will never get any benefit from our bill. her trial will be over before congress has half purified itself.--and doesn't it occur to you that by the time it has expelled all its impure members there, may not be enough members left to do business legally?" "why i did not say congress would expel anybody." "well won't it expel anybody?" "not necessarily. did it last year? it never does. that would not be regular." "then why waste all the session in that tomfoolery of trying members?" "it is usual; it is customary; the country requires it." "then the country is a fool, i think." "oh, no. the country thinks somebody is going to be expelled." "well, when nobody is expelled, what does the country think then?" "by that time, the thing has strung out so long that the country is sick and tired of it and glad to have a change on any terms. but all that inquiry is not lost. it has a good moral effect." "who does it have a good moral effect on?" "well--i don't know. on foreign countries, i think. we have always been under the gaze of foreign countries. there is no country in the world, sir, that pursues corruption as inveterately as we do. there is no country in the world whose representatives try each other as much as ours do, or stick to it as long on a stretch. i think there is something great in being a model for the whole civilized world, washington" "you don't mean a model; you mean an example." "well, it's all the same; it's just the same thing. it shows that a man can't be corrupt in this country without sweating for it, i can tell you that." "hang it, colonel, you just said we never punish anybody for villainous practices." "but good god we try them, don't we! is it nothing to show a disposition to sift things and bring people to a strict account? i tell you it has its effect." "oh, bother the effect!--what is it they do do? how do they proceed? you know perfectly well--and it is all bosh, too. come, now, how do they proceed?" "why they proceed right and regular--and it ain't bosh, washington, it ain't bosh. they appoint a committee to investigate, and that committee hears evidence three weeks, and all the witnesses on one side swear that the accused took money or stock or something for his vote. then the accused stands up and testifies that he may have done it, but he was receiving and handling a good deal of money at the time and he doesn't remember this particular circumstance--at least with sufficient distinctness to enable him to grasp it tangibly. so of course the thing is not proven--and that is what they say in the verdict. they don't acquit, they don't condemn. they just say, 'charge not proven.' it leaves the accused is a kind of a shaky condition before the country, it purifies congress, it satisfies everybody, and it doesn't seriously hurt anybody. it has taken a long time to perfect our system, but it is the most admirable in the world, now." "so one of those long stupid investigations always turns out in that lame silly way. yes, you are correct. i thought maybe you viewed the matter differently from other people. do you think a congress of ours could convict the devil of anything if he were a member?" "my dear boy, don't let these damaging delays prejudice you against congress. don't use such strong language; you talk like a newspaper. congress has inflicted frightful punishments on its members--now you know that. when they tried mr. fairoaks, and a cloud of witnesses proved him to be--well, you know what they proved him to be--and his own testimony and his own confessions gave him the same character, what did congress do then?--come!" "well, what did congress do?" "you know what congress did, washington. congress intimated plainly enough, that they considered him almost a stain upon their body; and without waiting ten days, hardly, to think the thing over, the rose up and hurled at him a resolution declaring that they disapproved of his conduct! now you know that, washington." "it was a terrific thing--there is no denying that. if he had been proven guilty of theft, arson, licentiousness, infanticide, and defiling graves, i believe they would have suspended him for two days." "you can depend on it, washington. congress is vindictive, congress is savage, sir, when it gets waked up once. it will go to any length to vindicate its honor at such a time." "ah well, we have talked the morning through, just as usual in these tiresome days of waiting, and we have reached the same old result; that is to say, we are no better off than when we began. the land bill is just as far away as ever, and the trial is closer at hand. let's give up everything and die." "die and leave the duchess to fight it out all alone? oh, no, that won't do. come, now, don't talk so. it is all going to come out right. now you'll see." "it never will, colonel, never in the world. something tells me that. i get more tired and more despondent every day. i don't see any hope; life is only just a trouble. i am so miserable, these days!" the colonel made washington get up and walk the floor with him, arm in arm. the good old speculator wanted to comfort him, but he hardly knew how to go about it. he made many attempts, but they were lame; they lacked spirit; the words were encouraging; but they were only words--he could not get any heart into them. he could not always warm up, now, with the old hawkeye fervor. by and by his lips trembled and his voice got unsteady. he said: "don't give up the ship, my boy--don't do it. the wind's bound to fetch around and set in our favor. i know it." and the prospect was so cheerful that he wept. then he blew a trumpet-blast that started the meshes of his handkerchief, and said in almost his breezy old-time way: "lord bless us, this is all nonsense! night doesn't last always; day has got to break some time or other. every silver lining has a cloud behind it, as the poet says; and that remark has always cheered me; though --i never could see any meaning to it. everybody uses it, though, and everybody gets comfort out of it. i wish they would start something fresh. come, now, let's cheer up; there's been as good fish in the sea as there are now. it shall never be said that beriah sellers --come in?" it was the telegraph boy. the colonel reached for the message and devoured its contents: "i said it! never give up the ship! the trial's, postponed till february, and we'll save the child yet. bless my life, what lawyers they, have in new-york! give them money to fight with; and the ghost of an excuse, and they: would manage to postpone anything in this world, unless it might be the millennium or something like that. now for work again my boy. the trial will last to the middle of march, sure; congress ends the fourth of march. within three days of the end of the session they will be done putting through the preliminaries then they will be ready for national business: our bill will go through in forty-eight hours, then, and we'll telegraph a million dollar's to the jury--to the lawyers, i mean--and the verdict of the jury will be 'accidental murder resulting from justifiable insanity'--or something to, that effect, something to that effect.--everything is dead sure, now. come, what is the matter? what are you wilting down like that, for? you mustn't be a girl, you know." "oh, colonel, i am become so used to troubles, so used to failures, disappointments, hard luck of all kinds, that a little good news breaks me right down. everything has been so hopeless that now i can't stand good news at all. it is too good to be true, anyway. don't you see how our bad luck has worked on me? my hair is getting gray, and many nights i don't sleep at all. i wish it was all over and we could rest. i wish we could lie, down and just forget everything, and let it all be just a dream that is done and can't come back to trouble us any more. i am so tired." "ah, poor child, don't talk like that-cheer up--there's daylight ahead. don't give, up. you'll have laura again, and--louise, and your mother, and oceans and oceans of money--and then you can go away, ever so far away somewhere, if you want to, and forget all about this infernal place. and by george i'll go with you! i'll go with you--now there's my word on it. cheer up. i'll run out and tell the friends the news." and he wrung washington's hand and was about to hurry away when his companion, in a burst of grateful admiration said: "i think you are the best soul and the noblest i ever knew, colonel sellers! and if the people only knew you as i do, you would not be tagging around here a nameless man--you would be in congress." the gladness died out of the colonel's face, and he laid his hand upon washington's shoulder and said gravely: "i have always been a friend of your family, washington, and i think i have always tried to do right as between man and man, according to my lights. now i don't think there has ever been anything in my conduct that should make you feel justified in saying a thing like that." he turned, then, and walked slowly out, leaving washington abashed and somewhat bewildered. when washington had presently got his thoughts into line again, he said to himself, "why, honestly, i only meant to compliment him--indeed i would not have hurt him for the world." chapter lii. the weeks drifted by monotonously enough, now. the "preliminaries" continued to drag along in congress, and life was a dull suspense to sellers and washington, a weary waiting which might have broken their hearts, maybe, but for the relieving change which they got out of am occasional visit to new york to see laura. standing guard in washington or anywhere else is not an exciting business in time of peace, but standing guard was all that the two friends had to do; all that was needed of them was that they should be on hand and ready for any emergency that might come up. there was no work to do; that was all finished; this was but the second session of the last winter's congress, and its action on the bill could have but one result--its passage. the house must do its work over again, of course, but the same membership was there to see that it did it.--the senate was secure--senator dilworthy was able to put all doubts to rest on that head. indeed it was no secret in washington that a two-thirds vote in the senate was ready and waiting to be cast for the university bill as soon as it should come before that body. washington did not take part in the gaieties of "the season," as he had done the previous winter. he had lost his interest in such things; he was oppressed with cares, now. senator dilworthy said to washington that an humble deportment, under punishment, was best, and that there was but one way in which the troubled heart might find perfect repose and peace. the suggestion found a response in washington's breast, and the senator saw the sign of it in his face. from that moment one could find the youth with the senator even oftener than with col. sellers. when the statesman presided at great temperance meetings, he placed washington in the front rank of impressive dignitaries that gave tone to the occasion and pomp to the platform. his bald headed surroundings made the youth the more conspicuous. when the statesman made remarks in these meetings, he not infrequently alluded with effect to the encouraging spectacle of one of the wealthiest and most brilliant young favorites of society forsaking the light vanities of that butterfly existence to nobly and self-sacrificingly devote his talents and his riches to the cause of saving his hapless fellow creatures from shame and misery here and eternal regret hereafter. at the prayer meetings the senator always brought washington up the aisle on his arm and seated him prominently; in his prayers he referred to him in the cant terms which the senator employed, perhaps unconsciously, and mistook, maybe, for religion, and in other ways brought him into notice. he had him out at gatherings for the benefit of the negro, gatherings for the benefit of the indian, gatherings for the benefit of the heathen in distant lands. he had him out time and again, before sunday schools, as an example for emulation. upon all these occasions the senator made casual references to many benevolent enterprises which his ardent young friend was planning against the day when the passage of the university bill should make his means available for the amelioration of the condition of the unfortunate among his fellow men of all nations and all. climes. thus as the weeks rolled on washington grew up, into an imposing lion once more, but a lion that roamed the peaceful fields of religion and temperance, and revisited the glittering domain of fashion no more. a great moral influence was thus brought, to bear in favor of the bill; the weightiest of friends flocked to its standard; its most energetic enemies said it was useless to fight longer; they had tacitly surrendered while as yet the day of battle was not come. chapter liii. the session was drawing toward its close. senator dilworthy thought he would run out west and shake hands with his constituents and let them look at him. the legislature whose duty it would be to re-elect him to the united states senate, was already in session. mr. dilworthy considered his re-election certain, but he was a careful, painstaking man, and if, by visiting his state he could find the opportunity to persuade a few more legislators to vote for him, he held the journey to be well worth taking. the university bill was safe, now; he could leave it without fear; it needed his presence and his watching no longer. but there was a person in his state legislature who did need watching --a person who, senator dilworthy said, was a narrow, grumbling, uncomfortable malcontent--a person who was stolidly opposed to reform, and progress and him,--a person who, he feared, had been bought with money to combat him, and through him the commonwealth's welfare and its politics' purity. "if this person noble," said mr. dilworthy, in a little speech at a dinner party given him by some of his admirers, "merely desired to sacrifice me.--i would willingly offer up my political life on the altar of my dear state's weal, i would be glad and grateful to do it; but when he makes of me but a cloak to hide his deeper designs, when he proposes to strike through me at the heart of my beloved state, all the lion in me is roused--and i say here i stand, solitary and alone, but unflinching, unquailing, thrice armed with my sacred trust; and whoso passes, to do evil to this fair domain that looks to me for protection, must do so over my dead body." he further said that if this noble were a pure man, and merely misguided, he could bear it, but that he should succeed in his wicked designs through, a base use of money would leave a blot upon his state which would work untold evil to the morals of the people, and that he would not suffer; the public morals must not be contaminated. he would seek this man noble; he would argue, he would persuade, he would appeal to his honor. when he arrived on the ground he found his friends unterrified; they were standing firmly by him and were full of courage. noble was working hard, too, but matters were against him, he was not making much progress. mr. dilworthy took an early opportunity to send for mr. noble; he had a midnight interview with him, and urged him to forsake his evil ways; he begged him to come again and again, which he did. he finally sent the man away at o'clock one morning; and when he was gone, mr. dilworthy said to himself, "i feel a good deal relieved, now, a great deal relieved." the senator now turned his attention to matters touching the souls of his people. he appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer meetings; he met and encouraged the temperance societies; he graced the sewing circles of the ladies with his presence, and even took a needle now and then and made a stitch or two upon a calico shirt for some poor bibleless pagan of the south seas, and this act enchanted the ladies, who regarded the garments thus honored as in a manner sanctified. the senator wrought in bible classes, and nothing could keep him away from the sunday schools--neither sickness nor storms nor weariness. he even traveled a tedious thirty miles in a poor little rickety stagecoach to comply with the desire of the miserable hamlet of cattleville that he would let its sunday school look upon him. all the town was assembled at the stage office when he arrived, two bonfires were burning, and a battery of anvils was popping exultant broadsides; for a united states senator was a sort of god in the understanding of these people who never had seen any creature mightier than a county judge. to them a united states senator was a vast, vague colossus, an awe inspiring unreality. next day everybody was at the village church a full half hour before time for sunday school to open; ranchmen and farmers had come with their families from five miles around, all eager to get a glimpse of the great man--the man who had been to washington; the man who had seen the president of the united states, and had even talked with him; the man who had seen the actual washington monument--perhaps touched it with his hands. when the senator arrived the church was crowded, the windows were full, the aisles were packed, so was the vestibule, and so indeed was the yard in front of the building. as he worked his way through to the pulpit on the arm of the minister and followed by the envied officials of the village, every neck was stretched and, every eye twisted around intervening obstructions to get a glimpse. elderly people directed each other's attention and, said, "there! that's him, with the grand, noble forehead!" boys nudged each other and said, "hi, johnny, here he is, there, that's him, with the peeled head!" the senator took his seat in the pulpit, with the minister' on one side of him and the superintendent of the sunday school on the other. the town dignitaries sat in an impressive row within the altar railings below. the sunday school children occupied ten of the front benches. dressed in their best and most uncomfortable clothes, and with hair combed and faces too clean to feel natural. so awed were they by the presence of a living united states senator, that during three minutes not a "spit ball" was thrown. after that they began to come to themselves by degrees, and presently the spell was wholly gone and they were reciting verses and pulling hair. the usual sunday school exercises were hurried through, and then the minister, got up and bored the house with a speech built on the customary sunday school plan; then the superintendent put in his oar; then the town dignitaries had their say. they all made complimentary reference to "their friend the, senator," and told what a great and illustrious man he was and what he had done for his country and for religion and temperance, and exhorted the little boys to be good and diligent and try to become like him some day. the speakers won the deathless hatred of the house by these delays, but at last there was an end and hope revived; inspiration was about to find utterance. senator dilworthy rose and beamed upon the assemblage for a full minute in silence. then he smiled with an access of sweetness upon the children and began: "my little friends--for i hope that all these bright-faced little people are my friends and will let me be their friend--my little friends, i have traveled much, i have been in many cities and many states, everywhere in our great and noble country, and by the blessing of providence i have been permitted to see many gatherings like this--but i am proud, i am truly proud to say that i never have looked upon so much intelligence, so much grace, such sweetness of disposition as i see in the charming young countenances i see before me at this moment. i have been asking myself as i sat here, where am i? am i in some far-off monarchy, looking upon little princes and princesses? no. am i in some populous centre of my own country, where the choicest children of the land have been selected and brought together as at a fair for a prize? no. am i in some strange foreign clime where the children are marvels that we know not of? no. then where am i? yes--where am i? i am in a simple, remote, unpretending settlement of my own dear state, and these are the children of the noble and virtuous men who have made me what i am! my soul is lost in wonder at the thought! and i humbly thank him to whom we are but as worms of the dust, that he has been pleased to call me to serve such men! earth has no higher, no grander position for me. let kings and emperors keep their tinsel crowns, i want them not; my heart is here! "again i thought, is this a theatre? no. is it a concert or a gilded opera? no. is it some other vain, brilliant, beautiful temple of soul-staining amusement and hilarity? no. then what is it? what did my consciousness reply? i ask you, my little friends, what did my consciousness reply? it replied, it is the temple of the lord! ah, think of that, now. i could hardly keep the tears back, i was so grateful. oh, how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little faces assembled here to learn the way of life; to learn to be good; to learn to be useful; to learn to be pious; to learn to be great and glorious men and women; to learn to be props and pillars of the state and shining lights in the councils and the households of the nation; to be bearers of the banner and soldiers of the cross in the rude campaigns of life, and raptured souls in the happy fields of paradise hereafter. "children, honor your parents and be grateful to them for providing for you the precious privileges of a sunday school. "now my dear little friends, sit up straight and pretty--there, that's it--and give me your attention and let me tell you about a poor little sunday school scholar i once knew.--he lived in the far west, and his parents were poor. they could not give him a costly education; but they were good and wise and they sent him to the sunday school. he loved the sunday school. i hope you love your sunday school--ah, i see by your faces that you do! that is right! "well, this poor little boy was always in his place when the bell rang, and he always knew his lesson; for his teachers wanted him to learn and he loved his teachers dearly. always love your teachers, my children, for they love you more than you can know, now. he would not let bad boys persuade him to go to play on sunday. there was one little bad boy who was always trying to persuade him, but he never could. "so this poor little boy grew up to be a man, and had to go out in the world, far from home and friends to earn his living. temptations lay all about him, and sometimes he was about to yield, but he would think of some precious lesson he learned in his sunday school a long time ago, and that would save him. by and by he was elected to the legislature--then he did everything he could for sunday schools. he got laws passed for them; he got sunday schools established wherever he could. "and by and by the people made him governor--and he said it was all owing to the sunday school. "after a while the people elected him a representative to the congress of the united states, and he grew very famous.--now temptations assailed him on every hand. people tried to get him to drink wine; to dance, to go to theatres; they even tried to buy his vote; but no, the memory of his sunday school saved him from all harm; he remembered the fate of the bad little boy who used to try to get him to play on sunday, and who grew up and became a drunkard and was hanged. he remembered that, and was glad he never yielded and played on sunday. "well, at last, what do you think happened? why the people gave him a towering, illustrious position, a grand, imposing position. and what do you think it was? what should you say it was, children? it was senator of the united states! that poor little boy that loved his sunday school became that man. that man stands before you! all that he is, he owes to the sunday school. "my precious children, love your parents, love your teachers, love your sunday school, be pious, be obedient, be honest, be diligent, and then you will succeed in life and be honored of all men. above all things, my children, be honest. above all things be pure-minded as the snow. let us join in prayer." when senator dilworthy departed from cattleville, he left three dozen boys behind him arranging a campaign of life whose objective point was the united states senate. when be arrived at the state capital at midnight mr. noble came and held a three-hours' conference with him, and then as he was about leaving said: "i've worked hard, and i've got them at last. six of them haven't got quite back-bone enough to slew around and come right out for you on the first ballot to-morrow; but they're going to vote against you on the first for the sake of appearances, and then come out for you all in a body on the second--i've fixed all that! by supper time to-morrow you'll be re-elected. you can go to bed and sleep easy on that." after mr. noble was gone, the senator said: "well, to bring about a complexion of things like this was worth coming west for." chapter liv. the case of the state of new york against laura hawkins was finally set down for trial on the th day of february, less than a year after the shooting of george selby. if the public had almost forgotten the existence of laura and her crime, they were reminded of all the details of the murder by the newspapers, which for some days had been announcing the approaching trial. but they had not forgotten. the sex, the age, the beauty of the prisoner; her high social position in washington, the unparalleled calmness with which the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the event in the public mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders had occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life. no, the public read from time to time of the lovely prisoner, languishing in the city prison, the tortured victim of the law's delay; and as the months went by it was natural that the horror of her crime should become a little indistinct in memory, while the heroine of it should be invested with a sort of sentimental interest. perhaps her counsel had calculated on this. perhaps it was by their advice that laura had interested herself in the unfortunate criminals who shared her prison confinement, and had done not a little to relieve, from her own purse, the necessities of some of the poor creatures. that she had done this, the public read in the journals of the day, and the simple announcement cast a softening light upon her character. the court room was crowded at an early hour, before the arrival of judges, lawyers and prisoner. there is no enjoyment so keen to certain minds as that of looking upon the slow torture of a human being on trial for life, except it be an execution; there is no display of human ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as that made by trained lawyers in the trial of an important case, nowhere else is exhibited such subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence. all the conditions of intense excitement meet in a murder trial. the awful issue at stake gives significance to the lightest word or look. how the quick eyes of the spectators rove from the stolid jury to the keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anxious prisoner. nothing is lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on points of law, the measured decision's of the bench; the duels between the attorneys and the witnesses. the crowd sways with the rise and fall of the shifting, testimony, in sympathetic interest, and hangs upon the dicta of the judge in breathless silence. it speedily takes sides for or against the accused, and recognizes as quickly its favorites among the lawyers. nothing delights it more than the sharp retort of a witness and the discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney. a joke, even if it be a lame, one, is no where so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder trial. within the bar the young lawyers and the privileged hangers-on filled all the chairs except those reserved at the table for those engaged in the case. without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges and the standing room. the atmosphere was already something horrible. it was the peculiar odor of a criminal court, as if it were tainted by the presence, in different persons, of all the crimes that men and women can commit. there was a little stir when the prosecuting attorney, with two assistants, made his way in, seated himself at the table, and spread his papers before him. there was more stir when the counsel of the defense appeared. they were mr. braham, the senior, and mr. quiggle and mr. o'keefe, the juniors. everybody in the court room knew mr. braham, the great criminal lawyer, and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved to his place, bowing to his friends in the bar. a large but rather spare man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut curls which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit of shaking as a lion is supposed to shake his mane. his face was clean shaven, and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite too near together: mr. braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned across his breast, with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light pantaloons. a diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he seated himself and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed upon his white left hand. mr. braham having seated himself, deliberately surveyed the entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and then taking an ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his finger nails, rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly. a moment later judge o'shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took his seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round; reddish and rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a self-sufficient air. his career had nothing remarkable in it. he was descended from a long line of irish kings, and he was the first one of them who had ever come into his kingdom--the kingdom of such being the city of new york. he had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he found himself, when a boy, a sort of street arab in that city; but he had ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to boot-polishing, and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand boy of a law firm, picked up knowledge enough to get some employment in police courts, was admitted to the bar, became a rising young politician, went to the legislature, and was finally elected to the bench which he now honored. in this democratic country he was obliged to conceal his royalty under a plebeian aspect. judge o'shaunnessy never had a lucrative practice nor a large salary but he had prudently laid away money-believing that a dependant judge can never be impartial--and he had lands and houses to the value of three or four hundred thousand dollars. had he not helped to build and furnish this very court house? did he not know that the very "spittoon" which his judgeship used cost the city the sum of one thousand dollars? as soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened, with the "oi yis, oi yis" of the officer in his native language, the case called, and the sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner. in the midst of a profound hush laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was conducted to a seat by her counsel. she was followed by her mother and by washington hawkins, who were given seats near her. laura was very pale, but this pallor heightened the lustre of her large eyes and gave a touching sadness to her expressive face. she was dressed in simple black, with exquisite taste, and without an ornament. the thin lace vail which partially covered her face did not so much conceal as heighten her beauty. she would not have entered a drawing room with more self-poise, nor a church with more haughty humility. there was in her manner or face neither shame nor boldness, and when she took her seat in fall view of half the spectators, her eyes were downcast. a murmur of admiration ran through the room. the newspaper reporters made their pencils fly. mr. braham again swept his eyes over the house as if in approval. when laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw philip and harry within the bar, but she gave no token of recognition. the clerk then read the indictment, which was in the usual form. it charged laura hawkins, in effect, with the premeditated murder of george selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with a revolver, shotgun, rifle, repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shooter, with a gun, or some other, weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot, a bludgeon, carving knife, bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car, hook, dagger, hair pin, with a hammer, with a screw-driver; with a nail, and with all other weapons and utensils whatsoever, at the southern hotel and in all other hotels and places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day of march and all other days of the christian era wheresoever. laura stood while the long indictment was read; and at the end, in response to the inquiry, of the judge, she said in a clear, low voice; "not guilty." she sat down and the court proceeded to impanel a jury. the first man called was michael lanigan, saloon keeper. "have you formed or expressed any opinion on this case, and do you know any of the parties?" "not any," said mr. lanigan. "have you any conscientious objections to capital punishment?" "no, sir, not to my knowledge." "have you read anything about this case?" "to be sure, i read the papers, y'r honor." objected to by mr. braham, for cause, and discharged. patrick coughlin. "what is your business?" "well--i haven't got any particular business." "haven't any particular business, eh? well, what's your general business? what do you do for a living?" "i own some terriers, sir." "own some terriers, eh? keep a rat pit?" "gentlemen comes there to have a little sport. i never fit 'em, sir." "oh, i see--you are probably the amusement committee of the city council. have you ever heard of this case?" "not till this morning, sir." "can you read?" "not fine print, y'r honor." the man was about to be sworn, when mr. braham asked, "could your father read?" "the old gentleman was mighty handy at that, sir." mr. braham submitted that the man was disqualified judge thought not. point argued. challenged peremptorily, and set aside. ethan dobb, cart-driver. "can you read?" "yes, but haven't a habit of it." "have you heard of this case?" "i think so--but it might be another. i have no opinion about it." dist. a. "tha--tha--there! hold on a bit? did anybody tell you to say you had no opinion about it?" "n--n--o, sir." take care now, take care. then what suggested it to you to volunteer that remark?" "they've always asked that, when i was on juries." all right, then. have you any conscientious scruples about capital punishment?" "any which?" "would you object to finding a person guilty--of murder on evidence?" "i might, sir, if i thought he wan't guilty." the district attorney thought he saw a point. "would this feeling rather incline you against a capital conviction?" the juror said he hadn't any feeling, and didn't know any of the parties. accepted and sworn. dennis lafin, laborer. have neither formed nor expressed an opinion. never had heard of the case. believed in hangin' for them that deserved it. could read if it was necessary. mr. braham objected. the man was evidently bloody minded. challenged peremptorily. larry o'toole, contractor. a showily dressed man of the style known as "vulgar genteel," had a sharp eye and a ready tongue. had read the newspaper reports of the case, but they made no impression on him. should be governed by the evidence. knew no reason why he could not be an impartial juror. question by district attorney. "how is it that the reports made no impression on you?" "never believe anything i see in the newspapers." (laughter from the crowd, approving smiles from his honor and mr. braham.) juror sworn in. mr. braham whispered to o'keefe, "that's the man." avery hicks, pea-nut peddler. did he ever hear of this case? the man shook his head. "can you read?" "no." "any scruples about capital punishment?" "no." he was about to be sworn, when the district attorney turning to him carelessly, remarked, "understand the nature of an oath?" "outside," said the man, pointing to the door. "i say, do you know what an oath is?" "five cents," explained the man. "do you mean to insult me?" roared the prosecuting officer. "are you an idiot?" "fresh baked. i'm deefe. i don't hear a word you say." the man was discharged. "he wouldn't have made a bad juror, though," whispered braham. "i saw him looking at the prisoner sympathizingly. that's a point you want to watch for." the result of the whole day's work was the selection of only two jurors. these however were satisfactory to mr. braham. he had kept off all those he did not know. no one knew better than this great criminal lawyer that the battle was fought on the selection of the jury. the subsequent examination of witnesses, the eloquence expended on the jury are all for effect outside. at least that is the theory of mr. braham. but human nature is a queer thing, he admits; sometimes jurors are unaccountably swayed, be as careful as you can in choosing them. it was four weary days before this jury was made up, but when it was finally complete, it did great credit to the counsel for the defence. so far as mr. braham knew, only two could read, one of whom was the foreman, mr. braham's friend, the showy contractor. low foreheads and heavy faces they all had; some had a look of animal cunning, while the most were only stupid. the entire panel formed that boasted heritage commonly described as the "bulwark of our liberties." the district attorney, mr. mcflinn, opened the case for the state. he spoke with only the slightest accent, one that had been inherited but not cultivated. he contented himself with a brief statement of the case. the state would prove that laura hawkins, the prisoner at the bar, a fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, shot dead george selby, a southern gentleman, at the, time and place described. that the murder was in cold blood, deliberate and without provocation; that it had been long premeditated and threatened; that she had followed the deceased-from washington to commit it. all this would be proved by unimpeachable witnesses. the attorney added that the duty of the jury, however painful it might be, would be plain and simple. they were citizens, husbands, perhaps fathers. they knew how insecure life had become in the metropolis. tomorrow our own wives might be widows, their own children orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder hotel, deprived of husband and father by the jealous hand of some murderous female. the attorney sat down, and the clerk called?" "henry brierly." the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . chapter x. only two or three days had elapsed since the funeral, when something happened which was to change the drift of laura's life somewhat, and influence in a greater or lesser degree the formation of her character. major lackland had once been a man of note in the state--a man of extraordinary natural ability and as extraordinary learning. he had been universally trusted and honored in his day, but had finally, fallen into misfortune; while serving his third term in congress, and while upon the point of being elevated to the senate--which was considered the summit of earthly aggrandizement in those days--he had yielded to temptation, when in distress for money wherewith to save his estate; and sold his vote. his crime was discovered, and his fall followed instantly. nothing could reinstate him in the confidence of the people, his ruin was irretrievable--his disgrace complete. all doors were closed against him, all men avoided him. after years of skulking retirement and dissipation, death had relieved him of his troubles at last, and his funeral followed close upon that of mr. hawkins. he died as he had latterly lived--wholly alone and friendless. he had no relatives--or if he had they did not acknowledge him. the coroner's jury found certain memoranda upon his body and about the premises which revealed a fact not suspected by the villagers before-viz., that laura was not the child of mr. and mrs. hawkins. the gossips were soon at work. they were but little hampered by the fact that the memoranda referred to betrayed nothing but the bare circumstance that laura's real parents were unknown, and stopped there. so far from being hampered by this, the gossips seemed to gain all the more freedom from it. they supplied all the missing information themselves, they filled up all the blanks. the town soon teemed with histories of laura's origin and secret history, no two versions precisely alike, but all elaborate, exhaustive, mysterious and interesting, and all agreeing in one vital particular-to-wit, that there was a suspicious cloud about her birth, not to say a disreputable one. laura began to encounter cold looks, averted eyes and peculiar nods and gestures which perplexed her beyond measure; but presently the pervading gossip found its way to her, and she understood them--then. her pride was stung. she was astonished, and at first incredulous. she was about to ask her mother if there was any truth in these reports, but upon second thought held her peace. she soon gathered that major lackland's memoranda seemed to refer to letters which had passed between himself and judge hawkins. she shaped her course without difficulty the day that that hint reached her. that night she sat in her room till all was still, and then she stole into the garret and began a search. she rummaged long among boxes of musty papers relating to business matters of no, interest to her, but at last she found several bundles of letters. one bundle was marked "private," and in that she found what she wanted. she selected six or eight letters from the package and began to devour their contents, heedless of the cold. by the dates, these letters were from five to seven years old. they were all from major lackland to mr. hawkins. the substance of them was, that some one in the east had been inquiring of major lackland about a lost child and its parents, and that it was conjectured that the child might be laura. evidently some of the letters were missing, for the name of the inquirer was not mentioned; there was a casual reference to "this handsome-featured aristocratic gentleman," as if the reader and the writer were accustomed to speak of him and knew who was meant. in one letter the major said he agreed with mr. hawkins that the inquirer seemed not altogether on the wrong track; but he also agreed that it would be best to keep quiet until more convincing developments were forthcoming. another letter said that "the poor soul broke completely down when be saw laura's picture, and declared it must be she." still another said: "he seems entirely alone in the world, and his heart is so wrapped up in this thing that i believe that if it proved a false hope, it would kill him; i have persuaded him to wait a little while and go west when i go." another letter had this paragraph in it: "he is better one day and worse the next, and is out of his mind a good deal of the time. lately his case has developed a something which is a wonder to the hired nurses, but which will not be much of a marvel to you if you have read medical philosophy much. it is this: his lost memory returns to him when he is delirious, and goes away again when he is himself-just as old canada joe used to talk the french patois of his boyhood in the delirium of typhus fever, though he could not do it when his mind was clear. now this poor gentleman's memory has always broken down before he reached the explosion of the steamer; he could only remember starting up the river with his wife and child, and he had an idea that there was a race, but he was not certain; he could not name the boat he was on; there was a dead blank of a month or more that supplied not an item to his recollection. it was not for me to assist him, of course. but now in his delirium it all comes out: the names of the boats, every incident of the explosion, and likewise the details of his astonishing escape--that is, up to where, just as a yawl-boat was approaching him (he was clinging to the starboard wheel of the burning wreck at the time), a falling timber struck him on the head. but i will write out his wonderful escape in full to-morrow or next day. of course the physicians will not let me tell him now that our laura is indeed his child--that must come later, when his health is thoroughly restored. his case is not considered dangerous at all; he will recover presently, the doctors say. but they insist that he must travel a little when he gets well--they recommend a short sea voyage, and they say he can be persuaded to try it if we continue to keep him in ignorance and promise to let him see l. as soon as he returns." the letter that bore the latest date of all, contained this clause: "it is the most unaccountable thing in the world; the mystery remains as impenetrable as ever; i have hunted high and low for him, and inquired of everybody, but in vain; all trace of him ends at that hotel in new york; i never have seen or heard of him since, up to this day; he could hardly have sailed, for his name does not appear upon the books of any shipping office in new york or boston or baltimore. how fortunate it seems, now, that we kept this thing to ourselves; laura still has a father in you, and it is better for her that we drop this subject here forever." that was all. random remarks here and there, being pieced together gave laura a vague impression of a man of fine presence, abort forty-three or forty-five years of age, with dark hair and eyes, and a slight limp in his walk--it was not stated which leg was defective. and this indistinct shadow represented her father. she made an exhaustive search for the missing letters, but found none. they had probably been burned; and she doubted not that the ones she had ferreted out would have shared the same fate if mr. hawkins had not been a dreamer, void of method, whose mind was perhaps in a state of conflagration over some bright new speculation when he received them. she sat long, with the letters in her lap, thinking--and unconsciously freezing. she felt like a lost person who has traveled down a long lane in good hope of escape, and, just as the night descends finds his progress barred by a bridge-less river whose further shore, if it has one, is lost in the darkness. if she could only have found these letters a month sooner! that was her thought. but now the dead had carried their secrets with them. a dreary, melancholy settled down upon her. an undefined sense of injury crept into her heart. she grew very miserable. she had just reached the romantic age--the age when there is a sad sweetness, a dismal comfort to a girl to find out that there is a mystery connected with her birth, which no other piece of good luck can afford. she had more than her rightful share of practical good sense, but still she was human; and to be human is to have one's little modicum of romance secreted away in one's composition. one never ceases to make a hero of one's self, (in private,) during life, but only alters the style of his heroism from time to time as the drifting years belittle certain gods of his admiration and raise up others in their stead that seem greater. the recent wearing days and nights of watching, and the wasting grief that had possessed her, combined with the profound depression that naturally came with the reaction of idleness, made laura peculiarly susceptible at this time to romantic impressions. she was a heroine, now, with a mysterious father somewhere. she could not really tell whether she wanted to find him and spoil it all or not; but still all the traditions of romance pointed to the making the attempt as the usual and necessary, course to follow; therefore she would some day begin the search when opportunity should offer. now a former thought struck her--she would speak to mrs. hawkins. and naturally enough mrs. hawkins appeared on the stage at that moment. she said she knew all--she knew that laura had discovered the secret that mr. hawkins, the elder children, col. sellers and herself had kept so long and so faithfully; and she cried and said that now that troubles had begun they would never end; her daughter's love would wean itself away from her and her heart would break. her grief so wrought upon laura that the girl almost forgot her own troubles for the moment in her compassion for her mother's distress. finally mrs. hawkins said: "speak to me, child--do not forsake me. forget all this miserable talk. say i am your mother!--i have loved you so long, and there is no other. i am your mother, in the sight of god, and nothing shall ever take you from me!" all barriers fell, before this appeal. laura put her arms about her mother's neck and said: "you are my mother, and always shall be. we will be as we have always been; and neither this foolish talk nor any other thing shall part us or make us less to each other than we are this hour." there was no longer any sense of separation or estrangement between them. indeed their love seemed more perfect now than it had ever been before. by and by they went down stairs and sat by the fire and talked long and earnestly about laura's history and the letters. but it transpired that mrs. hawkins had never known of this correspondence between her husband and major lackland. with his usual consideration for his wife, mr. hawkins had shielded her from the worry the matter would have caused her. laura went to bed at last with a mind that had gained largely in tranquility and had lost correspondingly in morbid romantic exaltation. she was pensive, the next day, and subdued; but that was not matter for remark, for she did not differ from the mournful friends about her in that respect. clay and washington were the same loving and admiring brothers now that they had always been. the great secret was new to some of the younger children, but their love suffered no change under the wonderful revelation. it is barely possible that things might have presently settled down into their old rut and the mystery have lost the bulk of its romantic sublimity in laura's eyes, if the village gossips could have quieted down. but they could not quiet down and they did not. day after day they called at the house, ostensibly upon visits of condolence, and they pumped away at the mother and the children without seeming to know that their questionings were in bad taste. they meant no harm they only wanted to know. villagers always want to know. the family fought shy of the questionings, and of course that was high testimony "if the duchess was respectably born, why didn't they come out and prove it?--why did they, stick to that poor thin story about picking her up out of a steamboat explosion?" under this ceaseless persecution, laura's morbid self-communing was renewed. at night the day's contribution of detraction, innuendo and malicious conjecture would be canvassed in her mind, and then she would drift into a course of thinking. as her thoughts ran on, the indignant tears would spring to her eyes, and she would spit out fierce little ejaculations at intervals. but finally she would grow calmer and say some comforting disdainful thing--something like this: "but who are they?--animals! what are their opinions to me? let them talk--i will not stoop to be affected by it. i could hate----. nonsense--nobody i care for or in any way respect is changed toward me, i fancy." she may have supposed she was thinking of many individuals, but it was not so--she was thinking of only one. and her heart warmed somewhat, too, the while. one day a friend overheard a conversation like this: --and naturally came and told her all about it: "ned, they say you don't go there any more. how is that?" "well, i don't; but i tell you it's not because i don't want to and it's not because i think it is any matter who her father was or who he wasn't, either; it's only on account of this talk, talk, talk. i think she is a fine girl every way, and so would you if you knew her as well as i do; but you know how it is when a girl once gets talked about--it's all up with her--the world won't ever let her alone, after that." the only comment laura made upon this revelation, was: "then it appears that if this trouble had not occurred i could have had the happiness of mr. ned thurston's serious attentions. he is well favored in person, and well liked, too, i believe, and comes of one of the first families of the village. he is prosperous, too, i hear; has been a doctor a year, now, and has had two patients--no, three, i think; yes, it was three. i attended their funerals. well, other people have hoped and been disappointed; i am not alone in that. i wish you could stay to dinner, maria--we are going to have sausages; and besides, i wanted to talk to you about hawkeye and make you promise to come and see us when we are settled there." but maria could not stay. she had come to mingle romantic tears with laura's over the lover's defection and had found herself dealing with a heart that could not rise to an appreciation of affliction because its interest was all centred in sausages. but as soon as maria was gone, laura stamped her expressive foot and said: "the coward! are all books lies? i thought he would fly to the front, and be brave and noble, and stand up for me against all the world, and defy my enemies, and wither these gossips with his scorn! poor crawling thing, let him go. i do begin to despise thin world!" she lapsed into thought. presently she said: "if the time ever comes, and i get a chance, oh, i'll----" she could not find a word that was strong enough, perhaps. by and by she said: "well, i am glad of it--i'm glad of it. i never cared anything for him anyway!" and then, with small consistency, she cried a little, and patted her foot more indignantly than ever. chapter xi two months had gone by and the hawkins family were domiciled in hawkeye. washington was at work in the real estate office again, and was alternately in paradise or the other place just as it happened that louise was gracious to him or seemingly indifferent--because indifference or preoccupation could mean nothing else than that she was thinking of some other young person. col. sellers had asked him several times, to dine with him, when he first returned to hawkeye, but washington, for no particular reason, had not accepted. no particular reason except one which he preferred to keep to himself--viz. that he could not bear to be away from louise. it occurred to him, now, that the colonel had not invited him lately--could he be offended? he resolved to go that very day, and give the colonel a pleasant surprise. it was a good idea; especially as louise had absented herself from breakfast that morning, and torn his heart; he would tear hers, now, and let her see how it felt. the sellers family were just starting to dinner when washington burst upon them with his surprise. for an instant the colonel looked nonplussed, and just a bit uncomfortable; and mrs. sellers looked actually distressed; but the next moment the head of the house was himself again, and exclaimed: "all right, my boy, all right--always glad to see you--always glad to hear your voice and take you by the hand. don't wait for special invitations--that's all nonsense among friends. just come whenever you can, and come as often as you can--the oftener the better. you can't please us any better than that, washington; the little woman will tell you so herself. we don't pretend to style. plain folks, you know--plain folks. just a plain family dinner, but such as it is, our friends are always welcome, i reckon you know that yourself, washington. run along, children, run along; lafayette,--[**in those old days the average man called his children after his most revered literary and historical idols; consequently there was hardly a family, at least in the west, but had a washington in it--and also a lafayette, a franklin, and six or eight sounding names from byron, scott, and the bible, if the offspring held out. to visit such a family, was to find one's self confronted by a congress made up of representatives of the imperial myths and the majestic dead of all the ages. there was something thrilling about it, to a stranger, not to say awe inspiring.]--stand off the cat's tail, child, can't you see what you're doing?--come, come, come, roderick dhu, it isn't nice for little boys to hang onto young gentlemen's coat tails --but never mind him, washington, he's full of spirits and don't mean any harm. children will be children, you know. take the chair next to mrs. sellers, washington--tut, tut, marie antoinette, let your brother have the fork if he wants it, you are bigger than he is." washington contemplated the banquet, and wondered if he were in his right mind. was this the plain family dinner? and was it all present? it was soon apparent that this was indeed the dinner: it was all on the table: it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh water, and a basin of raw turnips--nothing more. washington stole a glance at mrs. sellers's face, and would have given the world, the next moment, if he could have spared her that. the poor woman's face was crimson, and the tears stood in her eyes. washington did not know what to do. he wished he had never come there and spied out this cruel poverty and brought pain to that poor little lady's heart and shame to her cheek; but he was there, and there was no escape. col. sellers hitched back his coat sleeves airily from his wrists as who should say "now for solid enjoyment!" seized a fork, flourished it and began to harpoon turnips and deposit them in the plates before him "let me help you, washington--lafayette pass this plate washington--ah, well, well, my boy, things are looking pretty bright, now, i tell you. speculation--my! the whole atmosphere's full of money. i would'nt take three fortunes for one little operation i've got on hand now--have anything from the casters? no? well, you're right, you're right. some people like mustard with turnips, but--now there was baron poniatowski --lord, but that man did know how to live!--true russian you know, russian to the back bone; i say to my wife, give me a russian every time, for a table comrade. the baron used to say, 'take mustard, sellers, try the mustard,--a man can't know what turnips are in perfection without, mustard,' but i always said, 'no, baron, i'm a plain man and i want my food plain--none of your embellishments for beriah sellers--no made dishes for me! and it's the best way--high living kills more than it cures in this world, you can rest assured of that.--yes indeed, washington, i've got one little operation on hand that--take some more water--help yourself, won't you?--help yourself, there's plenty of it. --you'll find it pretty good, i guess. how does that fruit strike you?" washington said he did not know that he had ever tasted better. he did not add that he detested turnips even when they were cooked loathed them in their natural state. no, he kept this to himself, and praised the turnips to the peril of his soul. "i thought you'd like them. examine them--examine them--they'll bear it. see how perfectly firm and juicy they are--they can't start any like them in this part of the country, i can tell you. these are from new jersey --i imported them myself. they cost like sin, too; but lord bless me, i go in for having the best of a thing, even if it does cost a little more--it's the best economy, in the long run. these are the early malcolm--it's a turnip that can't be produced except in just one orchard, and the supply never is up to the demand. take some more water, washington--you can't drink too much water with fruit--all the doctors say that. the plague can't come where this article is, my boy!" "plague? what plague?" "what plague, indeed? why the asiatic plague that nearly depopulated london a couple of centuries ago." "but how does that concern us? there is no plague here, i reckon." "sh! i've let it out! well, never mind--just keep it to yourself. perhaps i oughtn't said anything, but its bound to come out sooner or later, so what is the odds? old mcdowells wouldn't like me to--to --bother it all, i'll jest tell the whole thing and let it go. you see, i've been down to st. louis, and i happened to run across old dr. mcdowells--thinks the world of me, does the doctor. he's a man that keeps himself to himself, and well he may, for he knows that he's got a reputation that covers the whole earth--he won't condescend to open himself out to many people, but lord bless you, he and i are just like brothers; he won't let me go to a hotel when i'm in the city--says i'm the only man that's company to him, and i don't know but there's some truth in it, too, because although i never like to glorify myself and make a great to-do over what i am or what i can do or what i know, i don't mind saying here among friends that i am better read up in most sciences, maybe, than the general run of professional men in these days. well, the other day he let me into a little secret, strictly on the quiet, about this matter of the plague. "you see it's booming right along in our direction--follows the gulf stream, you know, just as all those epidemics do, and within three months it will be just waltzing through this land like a whirlwind! and whoever it touches can make his will and contract for the funeral. well you can't cure it, you know, but you can prevent it. how? turnips! that's it! turnips and water! nothing like it in the world, old mcdowells says, just fill yourself up two or three times a day, and you can snap your fingers at the plague. sh!--keep mum, but just you confine yourself to that diet and you're all right. i wouldn't have old mcdowells know that i told about it for anything--he never would speak to me again. take some more water, washington--the more water you drink, the better. here, let me give you some more of the turnips. no, no, no, now, i insist. there, now. absorb those. they're, mighty sustaining--brim full of nutriment--all the medical books say so. just eat from four to seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and drink from a pint and a half to a quart of water, and then just sit around a couple of hours and let them ferment. you'll feel like a fighting cock next day." fifteen or twenty minutes later the colonel's tongue was still chattering away--he had piled up several future fortunes out of several incipient "operations" which he had blundered into within the past week, and was now soaring along through some brilliant expectations born of late promising experiments upon the lacking ingredient of the eye-water. and at such a time washington ought to have been a rapt and enthusiastic listener, but he was not, for two matters disturbed his mind and distracted his attention. one was, that he discovered, to his confusion and shame, that in allowing himself to be helped a second time to the turnips, he had robbed those hungry children. he had not needed the dreadful "fruit," and had not wanted it; and when he saw the pathetic sorrow in their faces when they asked for more and there was no more to give them, he hated himself for his stupidity and pitied the famishing young things with all his heart. the other matter that disturbed him was the dire inflation that had begun in his stomach. it grew and grew, it became more and more insupportable. evidently the turnips were "fermenting." he forced himself to sit still as long as he could, but his anguish conquered him at last. he rose in the midst of the colonel's talk and excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement. the colonel followed him to the door, promising over and over again that he would use his influence to get some of the early malcolms for him, and insisting that he should not be such a stranger but come and take pot-luck with him every chance he got. washington was glad enough to get away and feel free again. he immediately bent his steps toward home. in bed he passed an hour that threatened to turn his hair gray, and then a blessed calm settled down upon him that filled his heart with gratitude. weak and languid, he made shift to turn himself about and seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hovered upon the brink of unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sigh, and said to himself that in his heart he had cursed the colonel's preventive of rheumatism, before, and now let the plague come if it must--he was done with preventives; if ever any man beguiled him with turnips and water again, let him die the death. if he dreamed at all that night, no gossiping spirit disturbed his visions to whisper in his ear of certain matters just then in bud in the east, more than a thousand miles away that after the lapse of a few years would develop influences which would profoundly affect the fate and fortunes of the hawkins family. chapter xii "oh, it's easy enough to make a fortune," henry said. "it seems to be easier than it is, i begin to think," replied philip. "well, why don't you go into something? you'll never dig it out of the astor library." if there be any place and time in the world where and when it seems easy to "go into something" it is in broadway on a spring morning, when one is walking city-ward, and has before him the long lines of palace-shops with an occasional spire seen through the soft haze that lies over the lower town, and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic. to the young american, here or elsewhere, the paths to fortune are innumerable and all open; there is invitation in the air and success in all his wide horizon. he is embarrassed which to choose, and is not unlikely to waste years in dallying with his chances, before giving himself to the serious tug and strain of a single object. he has no traditions to bind him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away from the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way for himself. philip sterling used to say that if he should seriously set himself for ten years to any one of the dozen projects that were in his brain, he felt that he could be a rich man. he wanted to be rich, he had a sincere desire for a fortune, but for some unaccountable reason he hesitated about addressing himself to the narrow work of getting it. he never walked broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life, without feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously taking the elastic step of one well-to-do in this prosperous world. especially at night in the crowded theatre--philip was too young to remember the old chambers' street box, where the serious burton led his hilarious and pagan crew--in the intervals of the screaming comedy, when the orchestra scraped and grunted and tooted its dissolute tunes, the world seemed full of opportunities to philip, and his heart exulted with a conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck. perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting, on the stage, where virtue had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps it was the excessive light of the house, or the music, or the buzz of the excited talk between acts, perhaps it was youth which believed everything, but for some reason while philip was at the theatre he had the utmost confidence in life and his ready victory in it. delightful illusion of paint and tinsel and silk attire, of cheap sentiment and high and mighty dialogue! will there not always be rosin enough for the squeaking fiddle-bow? do we not all like the maudlin hero, who is sneaking round the right entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife of his rich and tyrannical neighbor from the paste-board cottage at the left entrance? and when he advances down to the foot-lights and defiantly informs the audience that, "he who lays his hand on a woman except in the way of kindness," do we not all applaud so as to drown the rest of the sentence? philip never was fortunate enough to hear what would become of a man who should lay his hand on a woman with the exception named; but he learned afterwards that the woman who lays her hand on a man, without any exception whatsoever, is always acquitted by the jury. the fact was, though philip sterling did not know it, that he wanted several other things quite as much as he wanted wealth. the modest fellow would have liked fame thrust upon him for some worthy achievement; it might be for a book, or for the skillful management of some great newspaper, or for some daring expedition like that of lt. strain or dr. kane. he was unable to decide exactly what it should be. sometimes he thought he would like to stand in a conspicuous pulpit and humbly preach the gospel of repentance; and it even crossed his mind that it would be noble to give himself to a missionary life to some benighted region, where the date-palm grows, and the nightingale's voice is in tune, and the bul-bul sings on the off nights. if he were good enough he would attach himself to that company of young men in the theological seminary, who were seeing new york life in preparation for the ministry. philip was a new england boy and had graduated at yale; he had not carried off with him all the learning of that venerable institution, but he knew some things that were not in the regular course of study. a very good use of the english language and considerable knowledge of its literature was one of them; he could sing a song very well, not in time to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could make a magnetic speech at a moment's notice in the class room, the debating society, or upon any fence or dry-goods box that was convenient; he could lift himself by one arm, and do the giant swing in the gymnasium; he could strike out from his left shoulder; he could handle an oar like a professional and pull stroke in a winning race. philip had a good appetite, a sunny temper, and a clear hearty laugh. he had brown hair, hazel eyes set wide apart, a broad but not high forehead, and a fresh winning face. he was six feet high, with broad shoulders, long legs and a swinging gait; one of those loose-jointed, capable fellows, who saunter into the world with a free air and usually make a stir in whatever company they enter. after he left college philip took the advice of friends and read law. law seemed to him well enough as a science, but he never could discover a practical case where it appeared to him worth while to go to law, and all the clients who stopped with this new clerk in the ante-room of the law office where he was writing, philip invariably advised to settle--no matter how, but settle--greatly to the disgust of his employer, who knew that justice between man and man could only be attained by the recognized processes, with the attendant fees. besides philip hated the copying of pleadings, and he was certain that a life of "whereases" and "aforesaids" and whipping the devil round the stump, would be intolerable. [note: these few paragraphs are nearly an autobiography of the life of charles dudley warner whose contributions to the story start here with chapter xii. d.w.] his pen therefore, and whereas, and not as aforesaid, strayed off into other scribbling. in an unfortunate hour, he had two or three papers accepted by first-class magazines, at three dollars the printed page, and, behold, his vocation was open to him. he would make his mark in literature. life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man believes himself called into the immortal ranks of the masters of literature. it is such a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has usually such a shallow foundation. at the time of this history, philip had gone to new york for a career. with his talent he thought he should have little difficulty in getting an editorial position upon a metropolitan newspaper; not that he knew anything about news paper work, or had the least idea of journalism; he knew he was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate departments, but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was sure. the drudgery of the newspaper office was too distaste ful, and besides it would be beneath the dignity of a graduate and a successful magazine writer. he wanted to begin at the top of the ladder. to his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial department of the journals was full, always had been full, was always likely to be full. it seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn't want genius, but mere plodding and grubbing. philip therefore read diligently in the astor library, planned literary works that should compel attention, and nursed his genius. he had no friend wise enough to tell him to step into the dorking convention, then in session, make a sketch of the men and women on the platform, and take it to the editor of the daily grapevine, and see what he could get a line for it. one day he had an offer from some country friends, who believed in him, to take charge of a provincial daily newspaper, and he went to consult mr. gringo--gringo who years ago managed the atlas--about taking the situation. "take it of course," says gringo, take anything that offers, why not?" "but they want me to make it an opposition paper." "well, make it that. that party is going to succeed, it's going to elect the next president." "i don't believe it," said philip, stoutly, "its wrong in principle, and it ought not to succeed, but i don't see how i can go for a thing i don't believe in." "o, very well," said gringo, turning away with a shade of contempt, "you'll find if you are going into literature and newspaper work that you can't afford a conscience like that." but philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends, and declining because he said the political scheme would fail, and ought to fail. and he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening large enough for his dignified entrance into the literary world. it was in this time of rather impatient waiting that philip was one morning walking down broadway with henry brierly. he frequently accompanied henry part way down town to what the latter called his office in broad street, to which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity every day. it was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed in the largest sort of operations, about which there was a mysterious air. his liability to be suddenly summoned to washington, or boston or montreal or even to liverpool was always imminent. he never was so summoned, but none of his acquaintances would have been surprised to hear any day that he had gone to panama or peoria, or to hear from him that he had bought the bank of commerce. the two were intimate at that time,--they had been class, mates--and saw a great deal of each other. indeed, they lived together in ninth street, in a boarding-house, there, which had the honor of lodging and partially feeding several other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone their several ways into fame or into obscurity. it was during the morning walk to which reference has been made that henry brierly suddenly said, "philip, how would you like to go to st. jo?" "i think i should like it of all things," replied philip, with some hesitation, "but what for." "oh, it's a big operation. we are going, a lot of us, railroad men, engineers, contractors. you know my uncle is a great railroad man. i've no doubt i can get you a chance to go if you'll go." "but in what capacity would i go?" "well, i'm going as an engineer. you can go as one." "i don't know an engine from a coal cart." "field engineer, civil engineer. you can begin by carrying a rod, and putting down the figures. it's easy enough. i'll show you about that. we'll get trautwine and some of those books." "yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?" "why don't you see? we lay out a line, spot the good land, enter it up, know where the stations are to be, spot them, buy lots; there's heaps of money in it. we wouldn't engineer long." "when do you go?" was philip's next question, after some moments of silence. "to-morrow. is that too soon?" "no, its not too soon. i've been ready to go anywhere for six months. the fact is, henry, that i'm about tired of trying to force myself into things, and am quite willing to try floating with the stream for a while, and see where i will land. this seems like a providential call; it's sudden enough." the two young men who were by this time full of the adventure, went down to the wall street office of henry's uncle and had a talk with that wily operator. the uncle knew philip very well, and was pleased with his frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to give him a trial in the western venture. it was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are settled in new york, that they would start with the rest of the company next morning for the west. on the way up town these adventurers bought books on engineering, and suits of india-rubber, which they supposed they would need in a new and probably damp country, and many other things which nobody ever needed anywhere. the night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for philip would not take such an important step without informing his friends. if they disapprove, thought he, i've done my duty by letting them know. happy youth, that is ready to pack its valise, and start for cathay on an hour's notice. "by the way," calls out philip from his bed-room, to henry, "where is st. jo.?" "why, it's in missouri somewhere, on the frontier i think. we'll get a map." "never mind the map. we will find the place itself. i was afraid it was nearer home." philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love and glowing anticipations of his new opening. he wouldn't bother her with business details, but he hoped that the day was not far off when she would see him return, with a moderate fortune, and something to add to the comfort of her advancing years. to his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement with some new york capitalists to go to missouri, in a land and railroad operation, which would at least give him a knowledge of the world and not unlikely offer him a business opening. he knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he had at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter. it was to ruth bolton that philip wrote last. he might never see her again; he went to seek his fortune. he well knew the perils of the frontier, the savage state of society, the lurking indians and the dangers of fever. but there was no real danger to a person who took care of himself. might he write to her often and, tell her of his life. if he returned with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps. if he was unsuccessful, or if he never returned--perhaps it would be as well. no time or distance, however, would ever lessen his interest in her. he would say good-night, but not good-bye. in the soft beginning of a spring morning, long before new york had breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation hung about the wharves of the metropolis, our young adventurers made their way to the jersey city railway station of the erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked journey, over what a writer of a former day called a causeway of cracked rails and cows, to the west. chapter xiii. what ever to say be toke in his entente, his langage was so fayer & pertynante, yt semeth unto manys herying not only the worde, but veryly the thyng. caxton's book of curtesye. in the party of which our travelers found themselves members, was duff brown, the great railroad contractor, and subsequently a well-known member of congress; a bluff, jovial bost'n man, thick-set, close shaven, with a heavy jaw and a low forehead--a very pleasant man if you were not in his way. he had government contracts also, custom houses and dry docks, from portland to new orleans, and managed to get out of congress, in appropriations, about weight for weight of gold for the stone furnished. associated with him, and also of this party, was rodney schaick, a sleek new york broker, a man as prominent in the church as in the stock exchange, dainty in his dress, smooth of speech, the necessary complement of duff brown in any enterprise that needed assurance and adroitness. it would be difficult to find a pleasanter traveling party one that shook off more readily the artificial restraints of puritanic strictness, and took the world with good-natured allowance. money was plenty for every attainable luxury, and there seemed to be no doubt that its supply would continue, and that fortunes were about to be made without a great deal of toil. even philip soon caught the prevailing spirit; barry did not need any inoculation, he always talked in six figures. it was as natural for the dear boy to be rich as it is for most people to be poor. the elders of the party were not long in discovering the fact, which almost all travelers to the west soon find out; that the water was poor. it must have been by a lucky premonition of this that they all had brandy flasks with which to qualify the water of the country; and it was no doubt from an uneasy feeling of the danger of being poisoned that they kept experimenting, mixing a little of the dangerous and changing fluid, as they passed along, with the contents of the flasks, thus saving their lives hour by hour. philip learned afterwards that temperance and the strict observance of sunday and a certain gravity of deportment are geographical habits, which people do not usually carry with them away from home. our travelers stopped in chicago long enough to see that they could make their fortunes there in two week's tine, but it did not seem worth while; the west was more attractive; the further one went the wider the opportunities opened. they took railroad to alton and the steamboat from there to st. louis, for the change and to have a glimpse of the river. "isn't this jolly?" cried henry, dancing out of the barber's room, and coming down the deck with a one, two, three step, shaven, curled and perfumed after his usual exquisite fashion. "what's jolly?" asked philip, looking out upon the dreary and monotonous waste through which the shaking steamboat was coughing its way. "why, the whole thing; it's immense i can tell you. i wouldn't give that to be guaranteed a hundred thousand cold cash in a year's time." "where's mr. brown?" "he is in the saloon, playing poker with schaick and that long haired party with the striped trousers, who scrambled aboard when the stage plank was half hauled in, and the big delegate to congress from out west." "that's a fine looking fellow, that delegate, with his glossy, black whiskers; looks like a washington man; i shouldn't think he'd be at poker." "oh, its only five cent ante, just to make it interesting, the delegate said." "but i shouldn't think a representative in congress would play poker any way in a public steamboat." "nonsense, you've got to pass the time. i tried a hand myself, but those old fellows are too many for me. the delegate knows all the points. i'd bet a hundred dollars he will ante his way right into the united states senate when his territory comes in. he's got the cheek for it." "he has the grave and thoughtful manner of expectoration of a public man, for one thing," added philip. "harry," said philip, after a pause, "what have you got on those big boots for; do you expect to wade ashore?" "i'm breaking 'em in." the fact was harry had got himself up in what he thought a proper costume for a new country, and was in appearance a sort of compromise between a dandy of broadway and a backwoodsman. harry, with blue eyes, fresh complexion, silken whiskers and curly chestnut hair, was as handsome as a fashion plate. he wore this morning a soft hat, a short cutaway coat, an open vest displaying immaculate linen, a leathern belt round his waist, and top-boots of soft leather, well polished, that came above his knees and required a string attached to his belt to keep them up. the light hearted fellow gloried in these shining encasements of his well shaped legs, and told philip that they were a perfect protection against prairie rattle-snakes, which never strike above the knee. the landscape still wore an almost wintry appearance when our travelers left chicago. it was a genial spring day when they landed at st. louis; the birds were singing, the blossoms of peach trees in city garden plots, made the air sweet, and in the roar and tumult on the long river levee they found an excitement that accorded with their own hopeful anticipations. the party went to the southern hotel, where the great duff brown was very well known, and indeed was a man of so much importance that even the office clerk was respectful to him. he might have respected in him also a certain vulgar swagger and insolence of money, which the clerk greatly admired. the young fellows liked the house and liked the city; it seemed to them a mighty free and hospitable town. coming from the east they were struck with many peculiarities. everybody smoked in the streets, for one thing, they noticed; everybody "took a drink" in an open manner whenever he wished to do so or was asked, as if the habit needed no concealment or apology. in the evening when they walked about they found people sitting on the door-steps of their dwellings, in a manner not usual in a northern city; in front of some of the hotels and saloons the side walks were filled with chairs and benches--paris fashion, said harry--upon which people lounged in these warm spring evenings, smoking, always smoking; and the clink of glasses and of billiard balls was in the air. it was delightful. harry at once found on landing that his back-woods custom would not be needed in st. louis, and that, in fact, he had need of all the resources of his wardrobe to keep even with the young swells of the town. but this did not much matter, for harry was always superior to his clothes. as they were likely to be detained some time in the city, harry told philip that he was going to improve his time. and he did. it was an encouragement to any industrious man to see this young fellow rise, carefully dress himself, eat his breakfast deliberately, smoke his cigar tranquilly, and then repair to his room, to what he called his work, with a grave and occupied manner, but with perfect cheerfulness. harry would take off his coat, remove his cravat, roll up his shirt-sleeves, give his curly hair the right touch before the glass, get out his book on engineering, his boxes of instruments, his drawing paper, his profile paper, open the book of logarithms, mix his india ink, sharpen his pencils, light a cigar, and sit down at the table to "lay out a line," with the most grave notion that he was mastering the details of engineering. he would spend half a day in these preparations without ever working out a problem or having the faintest conception of the use of lines or logarithms. and when he had finished, he had the most cheerful confidence that he had done a good day's work. it made no difference, however, whether harry was in his room in a hotel or in a tent, philip soon found, he was just the same. in camp he would get himself, up in the most elaborate toilet at his command, polish his long boots to the top, lay out his work before him, and spend an hour or longer, if anybody was looking at him, humming airs, knitting his brows, and "working" at engineering; and if a crowd of gaping rustics were looking on all the while it was perfectly satisfactory to him. "you see," he says to philip one morning at the hotel when he was thus engaged, "i want to get the theory of this thing, so that i can have a check on the engineers." "i thought you were going to be an engineer yourself," queried philip. "not many times, if the court knows herself. there's better game. brown and schaick have, or will have, the control for the whole line of the salt lick pacific extension, forty thousand dollars a mile over the prairie, with extra for hard-pan--and it'll be pretty much all hardpan i can tell you; besides every alternate section of land on this line. there's millions in the job. i'm to have the sub-contract for the first fifty miles, and you can bet it's a soft thing." "i'll tell you what you do, philip," continued larry, in a burst of generosity, "if i don't get you into my contract, you'll be with the engineers, and you jest stick a stake at the first ground marked for a depot, buy the land of the farmer before he knows where the depot will be, and we'll turn a hundred or so on that. i'll advance the money for the payments, and you can sell the lots. schaick is going to let me have ten thousand just for a flyer in such operations." "but that's a good deal of money." "wait till you are used to handling money. i didn't come out here for a bagatelle. my uncle wanted me to stay east and go in on the mobile custom house, work up the washington end of it; he said there was a fortune in it for a smart young fellow, but i preferred to take the chances out here. did i tell you i had an offer from bobbett and fanshaw to go into their office as confidential clerk on a salary of ten thousand?" "why didn't you take it ?" asked philip, to whom a salary of two thousand would have seemed wealth, before he started on this journey. "take it? i'd rather operate on my own hook;" said harry, in his most airy manner. a few evenings after their arrival at the southern, philip and harry made the acquaintance of a very agreeable gentleman, whom they had frequently seen before about the hotel corridors, and passed a casual word with. he had the air of a man of business, and was evidently a person of importance. the precipitating of this casual intercourse into the more substantial form of an acquaintanceship was the work of the gentleman himself, and occurred in this wise. meeting the two friends in the lobby one evening, he asked them to give him the time, and added: "excuse me, gentlemen--strangers in st. louis? ah, yes-yes. from the east, perhaps? ah; just so, just so. eastern born myself--virginia. sellers is my name--beriah sellers. "ah! by the way--new york, did you say? that reminds me; just met some gentlemen from your state, a week or two ago--very prominent gentlemen --in public life they are; you must know them, without doubt. let me see --let me see. curious those names have escaped me. i know they were from your state, because i remember afterward my old friend governor shackleby said to me--fine man, is the governor--one of the finest men our country has produced--said he, 'colonel, how did you like those new york gentlemen?--not many such men in the world,--colonel sellers,' said the governor--yes, it was new york he said--i remember it distinctly. i can't recall those names, somehow. but no matter. stopping here, gentlemen--stopping at the southern?" in shaping their reply in their minds, the title "mr." had a place in it; but when their turn had arrived to speak, the title "colonel" came from their lips instead. they said yes, they were abiding at the southern, and thought it a very good house. "yes, yes, the southern is fair. i myself go to the planter's, old, aristocratic house. we southern gentlemen don't change our ways, you know. i always make it my home there when i run down from hawkeye--my plantation is in hawkeye, a little up in the country. you should know the planter's." philip and harry both said they should like to see a hotel that had been so famous in its day--a cheerful hostelrie, philip said it must have been where duels were fought there across the dining-room table. "you may believe it, sir, an uncommonly pleasant lodging. shall we walk?" and the three strolled along the streets, the colonel talking all the way in the most liberal and friendly manner, and with a frank open-heartedness that inspired confidence. "yes, born east myself, raised all along, know the west--a great country, gentlemen. the place for a young fellow of spirit to pick up a fortune, simply pick it up, it's lying round loose here. not a day that i don't put aside an opportunity; too busy to look into it. management of my own property takes my time. first visit? looking for an opening?" "yes, looking around," replied harry. "ah, here we are. you'd rather sit here in front than go to my apartments? so had i. an opening eh?" the colonel's eyes twinkled. "ah, just so. the country is opening up, all we want is capital to develop it. slap down the rails and bring the land into market. the richest land on god almighty's footstool is lying right out there. if i had my capital free i could plant it for millions." "i suppose your capital is largely in your plantation?" asked philip. "well, partly, sir, partly. i'm down here now with reference to a little operation--a little side thing merely. by the way gentlemen, excuse the liberty, but it's about my usual time"-- the colonel paused, but as no movement of his acquaintances followed this plain remark, he added, in an explanatory manner, "i'm rather particular about the exact time--have to be in this climate." even this open declaration of his hospitable intention not being understood the colonel politely said, "gentlemen, will you take something?" col. sellers led the way to a saloon on fourth street under the hotel, and the young gentlemen fell into the custom of the country. "not that," said the colonel to the bar-keeper, who shoved along the counter a bottle of apparently corn-whiskey, as if he had done it before on the same order; "not that," with a wave of the hand. "that otard if you please. yes. never take an inferior liquor, gentlemen, not in the evening, in this climate. there. that's the stuff. my respects!" the hospitable gentleman, having disposed of his liquor, remarking that it was not quite the thing--"when a man has his own cellar to go to, he is apt to get a little fastidious about his liquors"--called for cigars. but the brand offered did not suit him; he motioned the box away, and asked for some particular havana's, those in separate wrappers. "i always smoke this sort, gentlemen; they are a little more expensive, but you'll learn, in this climate, that you'd better not economize on poor cigars" having imparted this valuable piece of information, the colonel lighted the fragrant cigar with satisfaction, and then carelessly put his fingers into his right vest pocket. that movement being without result, with a shade of disappointment on his face, he felt in his left vest pocket. not finding anything there, he looked up with a serious and annoyed air, anxiously slapped his right pantaloon's pocket, and then his left, and exclaimed, "by george, that's annoying. by george, that's mortifying. never had anything of that kind happen to me before. i've left my pocket-book. hold! here's a bill, after all. no, thunder, it's a receipt." "allow me," said philip, seeing how seriously the colonel was annoyed, and taking out his purse. the colonel protested he couldn't think of it, and muttered something to the barkeeper about "hanging it up," but the vender of exhilaration made no sign, and philip had the privilege of paying the costly shot; col. sellers profusely apologizing and claiming the right "next time, next time." as soon as beriah sellers had bade his friends good night and seen them depart, he did not retire apartments in the planter's, but took his way to his lodgings with a friend in a distant part of the city. chapter xiv. the letter that philip sterling wrote to ruth bolton, on the evening of setting out to seek his fortune in the west, found that young lady in her own father's house in philadelphia. it was one of the pleasantest of the many charming suburban houses in that hospitable city, which is territorially one of the largest cities in the world, and only prevented from becoming the convenient metropolis of the country by the intrusive strip of camden and amboy sand which shuts it off from the atlantic ocean. it is a city of steady thrift, the arms of which might well be the deliberate but delicious terrapin that imparts such a royal flavor to its feasts. it was a spring morning, and perhaps it was the influence of it that made ruth a little restless, satisfied neither with the out-doors nor the in-doors. her sisters had gone to the city to show some country visitors independence hall, girard college and fairmount water works and park, four objects which americans cannot die peacefully, even in naples, without having seen. but ruth confessed that she was tired of them, and also of the mint. she was tired of other things. she tried this morning an air or two upon the piano, sang a simple song in a sweet but slightly metallic voice, and then seating herself by the open window, read philip's letter. was she thinking about philip, as she gazed across the fresh lawn over the tree tops to the chelton hills, or of that world which his entrance, into her tradition-bound life had been one of the means of opening to her? whatever she thought, she was not idly musing, as one might see by the expression of her face. after a time she took up a book; it was a medical work, and to all appearance about as interesting to a girl of eighteen as the statutes at large; but her face was soon aglow over its pages, and she was so absorbed in it that she did not notice the entrance of her mother at the open door. "ruth?" "well, mother," said the young student, looking up, with a shade of impatience. "i wanted to talk with thee a little about thy plans." "mother; thee knows i couldn't stand it at westfield; the school stifled me, it's a place to turn young people into dried fruit." "i know," said margaret bolton, with a half anxious smile, thee chafes against all the ways of friends, but what will thee do? why is thee so discontented?" "if i must say it, mother, i want to go away, and get out of this dead level." with a look half of pain and half of pity, her mother answered, "i am sure thee is little interfered with; thee dresses as thee will, and goes where thee pleases, to any church thee likes, and thee has music. i had a visit yesterday from the society's committee by way of discipline, because we have a piano in the house, which is against the rules." "i hope thee told the elders that father and i are responsible for the piano, and that, much as thee loves music, thee is never in the room when it is played. fortunately father is already out of meeting, so they can't discipline him. i heard father tell cousin abner that he was whipped so often for whistling when he was a boy that he was determined to have what compensation he could get now." "thy ways greatly try me, ruth, and all thy relations. i desire thy happiness first of all, but thee is starting out on a dangerous path. is thy father willing thee should go away to a school of the world's people?" "i have not asked him," ruth replied with a look that might imply that she was one of those determined little bodies who first made up her own mind and then compelled others to make up theirs in accordance with hers. "and when thee has got the education thee wants, and lost all relish for the society of thy friends and the ways of thy ancestors, what then?" ruth turned square round to her mother, and with an impassive face and not the slightest change of tone, said, "mother, i'm going to study medicine?" margaret bolton almost lost for a moment her habitual placidity. "thee, study medicine! a slight frail girl like thee, study medicine! does thee think thee could stand it six months? and the lectures, and the dissecting rooms, has thee thought of the dissecting rooms?" "mother," said ruth calmly, "i have thought it all over. i know i can go through the whole, clinics, dissecting room and all. does thee think i lack nerve? what is there to fear in a person dead more than in a person living?" "but thy health and strength, child; thee can never stand the severe application. and, besides, suppose thee does learn medicine?" "i will practice it." "here?" "here." "where thee and thy family are known?" "if i can get patients." "i hope at least, ruth, thee will let us know when thee opens an office," said her mother, with an approach to sarcasm that she rarely indulged in, as she rose and left the room. ruth sat quite still for a tine, with face intent and flushed. it was out now. she had begun her open battle. the sight-seers returned in high spirits from the city. was there any building in greece to compare with girard college, was there ever such a magnificent pile of stone devised for the shelter of poor orphans? think of the stone shingles of the roof eight inches thick! ruth asked the enthusiasts if they would like to live in such a sounding mausoleum, with its great halls and echoing rooms, and no comfortable place in it for the accommodation of any body? if they were orphans, would they like to be brought up in a grecian temple? and then there was broad street! wasn't it the broadest and the longest street in the world? there certainly was no end to it, and even ruth was philadelphian enough to believe that a street ought not to have any end, or architectural point upon which the weary eye could rest. but neither st. girard, nor broad street, neither wonders of the mint nor the glories of the hall where the ghosts of our fathers sit always signing the declaration; impressed the visitors so much as the splendors of the chestnut street windows, and the bargains on eighth street. the truth is that the country cousins had come to town to attend the yearly meeting, and the amount of shopping that preceded that religious event was scarcely exceeded by the preparations for the opera in more worldly circles. "is thee going to the yearly meeting, ruth?" asked one of the girls. "i have nothing to wear," replied that demure person. "if thee wants to see new bonnets, orthodox to a shade and conformed to the letter of the true form, thee must go to the arch street meeting. any departure from either color or shape would be instantly taken note of. it has occupied mother a long time, to find at the shops the exact shade for her new bonnet. oh, thee must go by all means. but thee won't see there a sweeter woman than mother." "and thee won't go?" "why should i? i've been again and again. if i go to meeting at all i like best to sit in the quiet old house in germantown, where the windows are all open and i can see the trees, and hear the stir of the leaves. it's such a crush at the yearly meeting at arch street, and then there's the row of sleek-looking young men who line the curbstone and stare at us as we come out. no, i don't feel at home there." that evening ruth and her father sat late by the drawing-room fire, as they were quite apt to do at night. it was always a time of confidences. "thee has another letter from young sterling," said eli bolton. "yes. philip has gone to the far west." "how far?" "he doesn't say, but it's on the frontier, and on the map everything beyond it is marked 'indians' and 'desert,' and looks as desolate as a wednesday meeting." "humph. it was time for him to do something. is he going to start a daily newspaper among the kick-a-poos?" "father, thee's unjust to philip. he's going into business." "what sort of business can a young man go into without capital?" "he doesn't say exactly what it is," said ruth a little dubiously, "but it's something about land and railroads, and thee knows, father, that fortunes are made nobody knows exactly how, in a new country." "i should think so, you innocent puss, and in an old one too. but philip is honest, and he has talent enough, if he will stop scribbling, to make his way. but thee may as well take care of theeself, ruth, and not go dawdling along with a young man in his adventures, until thy own mind is a little more settled what thee wants." this excellent advice did not seem to impress ruth greatly, for she was looking away with that abstraction of vision which often came into her grey eyes, and at length she exclaimed, with a sort of impatience, "i wish i could go west, or south, or somewhere. what a box women are put into, measured for it, and put in young; if we go anywhere it's in a box, veiled and pinioned and shut in by disabilities. father, i should like to break things and get loose!" what a sweet-voiced little innocent, it was to be sure. "thee will no doubt break things enough when thy time comes, child; women always have; but what does thee want now that thee hasn't?" "i want to be something, to make myself something, to do something. why should i rust, and be stupid, and sit in inaction because i am a girl? what would happen to me if thee should lose thy property and die? what one useful thing could i do for a living, for the support of mother and the children? and if i had a fortune, would thee want me to lead a useless life?" "has thy mother led a useless life?" "somewhat that depends upon whether her children amount to anything," retorted the sharp little disputant. "what's the good, father, of a series of human beings who don't advance any?" friend eli, who had long ago laid aside the quaker dress, and was out of meeting, and who in fact after a youth of doubt could not yet define his belief, nevertheless looked with some wonder at this fierce young eagle of his, hatched in a friend's dove-cote. but he only said, "has thee consulted thy mother about a career, i suppose it is a career thee wants?" ruth did not reply directly; she complained that her mother didn't understand her. but that wise and placid woman understood the sweet rebel a great deal better than ruth understood herself. she also had a history, possibly, and had sometime beaten her young wings against the cage of custom, and indulged in dreams of a new social order, and had passed through that fiery period when it seems possible for one mind, which has not yet tried its limits, to break up and re-arrange the world. ruth replied to philip's letter in due time and in the most cordial and unsentimental manner. philip liked the letter, as he did everything she did; but he had a dim notion that there was more about herself in the letter than about him. he took it with him from the southern hotel, when he went to walk, and read it over and again in an unfrequented street as he stumbled along. the rather common-place and unformed hand-writing seemed to him peculiar and characteristic, different from that of any other woman. ruth was glad to hear that philip had made a push into the world, and she was sure that his talent and courage would make a way for him. she should pray for his success at any rate, and especially that the indians, in st. louis, would not take his scalp. philip looked rather dubious at this sentence, and wished that he had written nothing about indians. chapter xv. eli bolton and his wife talked over ruth's case, as they had often done before, with no little anxiety. alone of all their children she was impatient of the restraints and monotony of the friends' society, and wholly indisposed to accept the "inner light" as a guide into a life of acceptance and inaction. when margaret told her husband of ruth's newest project, he did not exhibit so much surprise as she hoped for. in fact he said that he did not see why a woman should not enter the medical profession if she felt a call to it. "but," said margaret, "consider her total inexperience of the world, and her frail health. can such a slight little body endure the ordeal of the preparation for, or the strain of, the practice of the profession?" "did thee ever think, margaret, whether, she can endure being thwarted in an, object on which she has so set her heart, as she has on this? thee has trained her thyself at home, in her enfeebled childhood, and thee knows how strong her will is, and what she has been able to accomplish in self-culture by the simple force of her determination. she never will be satisfied until she has tried her own strength." "i wish," said margaret, with an inconsequence that is not exclusively feminine, "that she were in the way to fall in love and marry by and by. i think that would cure her of some of her notions. i am not sure but if she went away, to some distant school, into an entirely new life, her thoughts would be diverted." eli bolton almost laughed as he regarded his wife, with eyes that never looked at her except fondly, and replied, "perhaps thee remembers that thee had notions also, before we were married, and before thee became a member of meeting. i think ruth comes honestly by certain tendencies which thee has hidden under the friend's dress." margaret could not say no to this, and while she paused, it was evident that memory was busy with suggestions to shake her present opinions. "why not let ruth try the study for a time," suggested eli; "there is a fair beginning of a woman's medical college in the city. quite likely she will soon find that she needs first a more general culture, and fall, in with thy wish that she should see more of the world at some large school." there really seemed to be nothing else to be done, and margaret consented at length without approving. and it was agreed that ruth, in order to spare her fatigue, should take lodgings with friends near the college and make a trial in the pursuit of that science to which we all owe our lives, and sometimes as by a miracle of escape. that day mr. bolton brought home a stranger to dinner, mr. bigler of the great firm of pennybacker, bigler & small, railroad contractors. he was always bringing home somebody, who had a scheme; to build a road, or open a mine, or plant a swamp with cane to grow paper-stock, or found a hospital, or invest in a patent shad-bone separator, or start a college somewhere on the frontier, contiguous to a land speculation. the bolton house was a sort of hotel for this kind of people. they were always coming. ruth had known them from childhood, and she used to say that her father attracted them as naturally as a sugar hogshead does flies. ruth had an idea that a large portion of the world lived by getting the rest of the world into schemes. mr. bolton never could say "no" to any of them, not even, said ruth again, to the society for stamping oyster shells with scripture texts before they were sold at retail. mr. bigler's plan this time, about which he talked loudly, with his mouth full, all dinner time, was the building of the tunkhannock, rattlesnake and young-womans-town railroad, which would not only be a great highway to the west, but would open to market inexhaustible coal-fields and untold millions of lumber. the plan of operations was very simple. "we'll buy the lands," explained he, "on long time, backed by the notes of good men; and then mortgage them for money enough to get the road well on. then get the towns on the line to issue their bonds for stock, and sell their bonds for enough to complete the road, and partly stock it, especially if we mortgage each section as we complete it. we can then sell the rest of the stock on the prospect of the business of the road through an improved country, and also sell the lands at a big advance, on the strength of the road. all we want," continued mr. bigler in his frank manner, "is a few thousand dollars to start the surveys, and arrange things in the legislature. there is some parties will have to be seen, who might make us trouble." "it will take a good deal of money to start the enterprise," remarked mr. bolton, who knew very well what "seeing" a pennsylvania legislature meant, but was too polite to tell mr. bigler what he thought of him, while he was his guest; "what security would one have for it?" mr. bigler smiled a hard kind of smile, and said, "you'd be inside, mr. bolton, and you'd have the first chance in the deal." this was rather unintelligible to ruth, who was nevertheless somewhat amused by the study of a type of character she had seen before. at length she interrupted the conversation by asking, "you'd sell the stock, i suppose, mr. bigler, to anybody who was attracted by the prospectus?" "o, certainly, serve all alike," said mr. bigler, now noticing ruth for the first time, and a little puzzled by the serene, intelligent face that was turned towards him. "well, what would become of the poor people who had been led to put their little money into the speculation, when you got out of it and left it half way?" it would be no more true to say of mr. bigler that he was or could be embarrassed, than to say that a brass counterfeit dollar-piece would change color when refused; the question annoyed him a little, in mr. bolton's presence. "why, yes, miss, of course, in a great enterprise for the benefit of the community there will little things occur, which, which--and, of course, the poor ought to be looked to; i tell my wife, that the poor must be looked to; if you can tell who are poor--there's so many impostors. and then, there's so many poor in the legislature to be looked after," said the contractor with a sort of a chuckle, "isn't that so, mr. bolton?" eli bolton replied that he never had much to do with the legislature. "yes," continued this public benefactor, "an uncommon poor lot this year, uncommon. consequently an expensive lot. the fact is, mr. bolton, that the price is raised so high on united states senator now, that it affects the whole market; you can't get any public improvement through on reasonable terms. simony is what i call it, simony," repeated mr. bigler, as if he had said a good thing. mr. bigler went on and gave some very interesting details of the intimate connection between railroads and politics, and thoroughly entertained himself all dinner time, and as much disgusted ruth, who asked no more questions, and her father who replied in monosyllables: "i wish," said ruth to her father, after the guest had gone, "that you wouldn't bring home any more such horrid men. do all men who wear big diamond breast-pins, flourish their knives at table, and use bad grammar, and cheat?" "o, child, thee mustn't be too observing. mr. bigler is one of the most important men in the state; nobody has more influence at harrisburg. i don't like him any more than thee does, but i'd better lend him a little money than to have his ill will." "father, i think thee'd better have his ill-will than his company. is it true that he gave money to help build the pretty little church of st. james the less, and that he is, one of the vestrymen?" "yes. he is not such a bad fellow. one of the men in third street asked him the other day, whether his was a high church or a low church? bigler said he didn't know; he'd been in it once, and he could touch the ceiling in the side aisle with his hand." "i think he's just horrid," was ruth's final summary of him, after the manner of the swift judgment of women, with no consideration of the extenuating circumstances. mr. bigler had no idea that he had not made a good impression on the whole family; he certainly intended to be agreeable. margaret agreed with her daughter, and though she never said anything to such people, she was grateful to ruth for sticking at least one pin into him. such was the serenity of the bolton household that a stranger in it would never have suspected there was any opposition to ruth's going to the medical school. and she went quietly to take her residence in town, and began her attendance of the lectures, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. she did not heed, if she heard, the busy and wondering gossip of relations and acquaintances, gossip that has no less currency among the friends than elsewhere because it is whispered slyly and creeps about in an undertone. ruth was absorbed, and for the first time in her life thoroughly happy; happy in the freedom of her life, and in the keen enjoyment of the investigation that broadened its field day by day. she was in high spirits when she came home to spend first days; the house was full of her gaiety and her merry laugh, and the children wished that ruth would never go away again. but her mother noticed, with a little anxiety, the sometimes flushed face, and the sign of an eager spirit in the kindling eyes, and, as well, the serious air of determination and endurance in her face at unguarded moments. the college was a small one and it sustained itself not without difficulty in this city, which is so conservative, and is yet the origin of so many radical movements. there were not more than a dozen attendants on the lectures all together, so that the enterprise had the air of an experiment, and the fascination of pioneering for those engaged in it. there was one woman physician driving about town in her carriage, attacking the most violent diseases in all quarters with persistent courage, like a modern bellona in her war chariot, who was popularly supposed to gather in fees to the amount ten to twenty thousand dollars a year. perhaps some of these students looked forward to the near day when they would support such a practice and a husband besides, but it is unknown that any of them ever went further than practice in hospitals and in their own nurseries, and it is feared that some of them were quite as ready as their sisters, in emergencies, to "call a man." if ruth had any exaggerated expectations of a professional life, she kept them to herself, and was known to her fellows of the class simply as a cheerful, sincere student, eager in her investigations, and never impatient at anything, except an insinuation that women had not as much mental capacity for science as men. "they really say," said one young quaker sprig to another youth of his age, "that ruth bolton is really going to be a saw-bones, attends lectures, cuts up bodies, and all that. she's cool enough for a surgeon, anyway." he spoke feelingly, for he had very likely been weighed in ruth's calm eyes sometime, and thoroughly scared by the little laugh that accompanied a puzzling reply to one of his conversational nothings. such young gentlemen, at this time, did not come very distinctly into ruth's horizon, except as amusing circumstances. about the details of her student life, ruth said very little to her friends, but they had reason to know, afterwards, that it required all her nerve and the almost complete exhaustion of her physical strength, to carry her through. she began her anatomical practice upon detached portions of the human frame, which were brought into the demonstrating room--dissecting the eye, the ear, and a small tangle of muscles and nerves--an occupation which had not much more savor of death in it than the analysis of a portion of a plant out of which the life went when it was plucked up by the roots. custom inures the most sensitive persons to that which is at first most repellant; and in the late war we saw the most delicate women, who could not at home endure the sight of blood, become so used to scenes of carnage, that they walked the hospitals and the margins of battle-fields, amid the poor remnants of torn humanity, with as perfect self-possession as if they were strolling in a flower garden. it happened that ruth was one evening deep in a line of investigation which she could not finish or understand without demonstration, and so eager was she in it, that it seemed as if she could not wait till the next day. she, therefore, persuaded a fellow student, who was reading that evening with her, to go down to the dissecting room of the college, and ascertain what they wanted to know by an hour's work there. perhaps, also, ruth wanted to test her own nerve, and to see whether the power of association was stronger in her mind than her own will. the janitor of the shabby and comfortless old building admitted the girls, not without suspicion, and gave them lighted candles, which they would need, without other remark than "there's a new one, miss," as the girls went up the broad stairs. they climbed to the third story, and paused before a door, which they unlocked, and which admitted them into a long apartment, with a row of windows on one side and one at the end. the room was without light, save from the stars and the candles the girls carried, which revealed to them dimly two long and several small tables, a few benches and chairs, a couple of skeletons hanging on the wall, a sink, and cloth-covered heaps of something upon the tables here and there. the windows were open, and the cool night wind came in strong enough to flutter a white covering now and then, and to shake the loose casements. but all the sweet odors of the night could not take from the room a faint suggestion of mortality. the young ladies paused a moment. the room itself was familiar enough, but night makes almost any chamber eerie, and especially such a room of detention as this where the mortal parts of the unburied might--almost be supposed to be, visited, on the sighing night winds, by the wandering spirits of their late tenants. opposite and at some distance across the roofs of lower buildings, the girls saw a tall edifice, the long upper story of which seemed to be a dancing hall. the windows of that were also open, and through them they heard the scream of the jiggered and tortured violin, and the pump, pump of the oboe, and saw the moving shapes of men and women in quick transition, and heard the prompter's drawl. "i wonder," said ruth, "what the girls dancing there would think if they saw us, or knew that there was such a room as this so near them." she did not speak very loud, and, perhaps unconsciously, the girls drew near to each other as they approached the long table in the centre of the room. a straight object lay upon it, covered with a sheet. this was doubtless "the new one" of which the janitor spoke. ruth advanced, and with a not very steady hand lifted the white covering from the upper part of the figure and turned it down. both the girls started. it was a negro. the black face seemed to defy the pallor of death, and asserted an ugly life-likeness that was frightful. ruth was as pale as the white sheet, and her comrade whispered, "come away, ruth, it is awful." perhaps it was the wavering light of the candles, perhaps it was only the agony from a death of pain, but the repulsive black face seemed to wear a scowl that said, "haven't you yet done with the outcast, persecuted black man, but you must now haul him from his grave, and send even your women to dismember his body?" who is this dead man, one of thousands who died yesterday, and will be dust anon, to protest that science shall not turn his worthless carcass to some account? ruth could have had no such thought, for with a pity in her sweet face, that for the moment overcame fear and disgust, she reverently replaced the covering, and went away to her own table, as her companion did to hers. and there for an hour they worked at their several problems, without speaking, but not without an awe of the presence there, "the new one," and not without an awful sense of life itself, as they heard the pulsations of the music and the light laughter from the dancing-hall. when, at length, they went away, and locked the dreadful room behind them, and came out into the street, where people were passing, they, for the first time, realized, in the relief they felt, what a nervous strain they had been under. chapter xvi. while ruth was thus absorbed in her new occupation, and the spring was wearing away, philip and his friends were still detained at the southern hotel. the great contractors had concluded their business with the state and railroad officials and with the lesser contractors, and departed for the east. but the serious illness of one of the engineers kept philip and henry in the city and occupied in alternate watchings. philip wrote to ruth of the new acquaintance they had made, col. sellers, an enthusiastic and hospitable gentleman, very much interested in the development of the country, and in their success. they had not had an opportunity to visit at his place "up in the country" yet, but the colonel often dined with them, and in confidence, confided to them his projects, and seemed to take a great liking to them, especially to his friend harry. it was true that he never seemed to have ready money, but he was engaged in very large operations. the correspondence was not very brisk between these two young persons, so differently occupied; for though philip wrote long letters, he got brief ones in reply, full of sharp little observations however, such as one concerning col. sellers, namely, that such men dined at their house every week. ruth's proposed occupation astonished philip immensely, but while he argued it and discussed it, he did not dare hint to her his fear that it would interfere with his most cherished plans. he too sincerely respected ruth's judgment to make any protest, however, and he would have defended her course against the world. this enforced waiting at st. louis was very irksome to philip. his money was running away, for one thing, and he longed to get into the field, and see for himself what chance there was for a fortune or even an occupation. the contractors had given the young men leave to join the engineer corps as soon as they could, but otherwise had made no provision for them, and in fact had left them with only the most indefinite expectations of something large in the future. harry was entirely happy; in his circumstances. he very soon knew everybody, from the governor of the state down to the waiters at the hotel. he had the wall street slang at his tongue's end; he always talked like a capitalist, and entered with enthusiasm into all the land and railway schemes with which the air was thick. col. sellers and harry talked together by the hour and by the day. harry informed his new friend that he was going out with the engineer corps of the salt lick pacific extension, but that wasn't his real business. "i'm to have, with another party," said harry, "a big contract in the road, as soon as it is let; and, meantime, i'm with the engineers to spy out the best land and the depot sites." "it's everything," suggested' the colonel, "in knowing where to invest. i've known people throwaway their money because they were too consequential to take sellers' advice. others, again, have made their pile on taking it. i've looked over the ground; i've been studying it for twenty years. you can't put your finger on a spot in the map of missouri that i don't know as if i'd made it. when you want to place anything," continued the colonel, confidently, "just let beriah sellers know. that's all." "oh, i haven't got much in ready money i can lay my hands on now, but if a fellow could do anything with fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, as a beginning, i shall draw for that when i see the right opening." "well, that's something, that's something, fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, say twenty--as an advance," said the colonel reflectively, as if turning over his mind for a project that could be entered on with such a trifling sum. "i'll tell you what it is--but only to you mr. brierly, only to you, mind; i've got a little project that i've been keeping. it looks small, looks small on paper, but it's got a big future. what should you say, sir, to a city, built up like the rod of aladdin had touched it, built up in two years, where now you wouldn't expect it any more than you'd expect a light-house on the top of pilot knob? and you could own the land! it can be done, sir. it can be done!" the colonel hitched up his chair close to harry, laid his hand on his knee, and, first looking about him, said in a low voice, "the salt lick pacific extension is going to run through stone's landing! the almighty never laid out a cleaner piece of level prairie for a city; and it's the natural center of all that region of hemp and tobacco." "what makes you think the road will go there? it's twenty miles, on the map, off the straight line of the road?" "you can't tell what is the straight line till the engineers have been over it. between us, i have talked with jeff thompson, the division engineer. he understands the wants of stone's landing, and the claims of the inhabitants--who are to be there. jeff says that a railroad is for --the accommodation of the people and not for the benefit of gophers; and if, he don't run this to stone's landing he'll be damned! you ought to know jeff; he's one of the most enthusiastic engineers in this western country, and one of the best fellows that ever looked through the bottom of a glass." the recommendation was not undeserved. there was nothing that jeff wouldn't do, to accommodate a friend, from sharing his last dollar with him, to winging him in a duel. when he understood from col. sellers. how the land lay at stone's landing, he cordially shook hands with that gentleman, asked him to drink, and fairly roared out, "why, god bless my soul, colonel, a word from one virginia gentleman to another is 'nuff ced.' there's stone's landing been waiting for a railroad more than four thousand years, and damme if she shan't have it." philip had not so much faith as harry in stone's landing, when the latter opened the project to him, but harry talked about it as if he already owned that incipient city. harry thoroughly believed in all his projects and inventions, and lived day by day in their golden atmosphere. everybody liked the young fellow, for how could they help liking one of such engaging manners and large fortune? the waiters at the hotel would do more for him than for any other guest, and he made a great many acquaintances among the people of st. louis, who liked his sensible and liberal views about the development of the western country, and about st. louis. he said it ought to be the national capital. harry made partial arrangements with several of the merchants for furnishing supplies for his contract on the salt lick pacific extension; consulted the maps with the engineers, and went over the profiles with the contractors, figuring out estimates for bids. he was exceedingly busy with those things when he was not at the bedside of his sick acquaintance, or arranging the details of his speculation with col. sellers. meantime the days went along and the weeks, and the money in harry's pocket got lower and lower. he was just as liberal with what he had as before, indeed it was his nature to be free with his money or with that of others, and he could lend or spend a dollar with an air that made it seem like ten. at length, at the end of one week, when his hotel bill was presented, harry found not a cent in his pocket to meet it. he carelessly remarked to the landlord that he was not that day in funds, but he would draw on new york, and he sat down and wrote to the contractors in that city a glowing letter about the prospects of the road, and asked them to advance a hundred or two, until he got at work. no reply came. he wrote again, in an unoffended business like tone, suggesting that he had better draw at three days. a short answer came to this, simply saying that money was very tight in wall street just then, and that he had better join the engineer corps as soon as he could. but the bill had to be paid, and harry took it to philip, and asked him if he thought he hadn't better draw on his uncle. philip had not much faith in harry's power of "drawing," and told him that he would pay the bill himself. whereupon harry dismissed the matter then and thereafter from his thoughts, and, like a light-hearted good fellow as he was, gave himself no more trouble about his board-bills. philip paid them, swollen as they were with a monstrous list of extras; but he seriously counted the diminishing bulk of his own hoard, which was all the money he had in the world. had he not tacitly agreed to share with harry to the last in this adventure, and would not the generous fellow divide; with him if he, philip, were in want and harry had anything? the fever at length got tired of tormenting the stout young engineer, who lay sick at the hotel, and left him, very thin, a little sallow but an "acclimated" man. everybody said he was "acclimated" now, and said it cheerfully. what it is to be acclimated to western fevers no two persons exactly agree. some say it is a sort of vaccination that renders death by some malignant type of fever less probable. some regard it as a sort of initiation, like that into the odd fellows, which renders one liable to his regular dues thereafter. others consider it merely the acquisition of a habit of taking every morning before breakfast a dose of bitters, composed of whiskey and assafoetida, out of the acclimation jug. jeff thompson afterwards told philip that he once asked senator atchison, then acting vice-president: of the united states, about the possibility of acclimation; he thought the opinion of the second officer of our great government would be, valuable on this point. they were sitting together on a bench before a country tavern, in the free converse permitted by our democratic habits. "i suppose, senator, that you have become acclimated to this country?" "well," said the vice-president, crossing his legs, pulling his wide-awake down over his forehead, causing a passing chicken to hop quickly one side by the accuracy of his aim, and speaking with senatorial deliberation, "i think i have. i've been here twenty-five years, and dash, dash my dash to dash, if i haven't entertained twenty-five separate and distinct earthquakes, one a year. the niggro is the only person who can stand the fever and ague of this region." the convalescence of the engineer was the signal for breaking up quarters at st. louis, and the young fortune-hunters started up the river in good spirits. it was only the second time either of them had been upon a mississippi steamboat, and nearly everything they saw had the charm of novelty. col. sellers was at the landing to bid thorn good-bye. "i shall send you up that basket of champagne by the next boat; no, no; no thanks; you'll find it not bad in camp," he cried out as the plank was hauled in. "my respects to thompson. tell him to sight for stone's. let me know, mr. brierly, when you are ready to locate; i'll come over from hawkeye. goodbye." and the last the young fellows saw of the colonel, he was waving his hat, and beaming prosperity and good luck. the voyage was delightful, and was not long enough to become monotonous. the travelers scarcely had time indeed to get accustomed to the splendors of the great saloon where the tables were spread for meals, a marvel of paint and gilding, its ceiling hung with fancifully cut tissue-paper of many colors, festooned and arranged in endless patterns. the whole was more beautiful than a barber's shop. the printed bill of fare at dinner was longer and more varied, the proprietors justly boasted, than that of any hotel in new york. it must have been the work of an author of talent and imagination, and it surely was not his fault if the dinner itself was to a certain extent a delusion, and if the guests got something that tasted pretty much the same whatever dish they ordered; nor was it his fault if a general flavor of rose in all the dessert dishes suggested that they hid passed through the barber's saloon on their way from the kitchen. the travelers landed at a little settlement on the left bank, and at once took horses for the camp in the interior, carrying their clothes and blankets strapped behind the saddles. harry was dressed as we have seen him once before, and his long and shining boots attracted not a little the attention of the few persons they met on the road, and especially of the bright faced wenches who lightly stepped along the highway, picturesque in their colored kerchiefs, carrying light baskets, or riding upon mules and balancing before them a heavier load. harry sang fragments of operas and talked abort their fortune. philip even was excited by the sense of freedom and adventure, and the beauty of the landscape. the prairie, with its new grass and unending acres of brilliant flowers--chiefly the innumerable varieties of phlox-bore the look of years of cultivation, and the occasional open groves of white oaks gave it a park-like appearance. it was hardly unreasonable to expect to see at any moment, the gables and square windows of an elizabethan mansion in one of the well kept groves. towards sunset of the third day, when the young gentlemen thought they ought to be near the town of magnolia, near which they had been directed to find the engineers' camp, they descried a log house and drew up before it to enquire the way. half the building was store, and half was dwelling house. at the door of the latter stood a regress with a bright turban on her head, to whom philip called, "can you tell me, auntie, how far it is to the town of magnolia?" "why, bress you chile," laughed the woman, "you's dere now." it was true. this log horse was the compactly built town, and all creation was its suburbs. the engineers' camp was only two or three miles distant. "you's boun' to find it," directed auntie, "if you don't keah nuffin 'bout de road, and go fo' de sun-down." a brisk gallop brought the riders in sight of the twinkling light of the camp, just as the stars came out. it lay in a little hollow, where a small stream ran through a sparse grove of young white oaks. a half dozen tents were pitched under the trees, horses and oxen were corraled at a little distance, and a group of men sat on camp stools or lay on blankets about a bright fire. the twang of a banjo became audible as they drew nearer, and they saw a couple of negroes, from some neighboring plantation, "breaking down" a juba in approved style, amid the "hi, hi's" of the spectators. mr. jeff thompson, for it was the camp of this redoubtable engineer, gave the travelers a hearty welcome, offered them ground room in his own tent, ordered supper, and set out a small jug, a drop from which he declared necessary on account of the chill of the evening. "i never saw an eastern man," said jeff, "who knew how to drink from a jug with one hand. it's as easy as lying. so." he grasped the handle with the right hand, threw the jug back upon his arm, and applied his lips to the nozzle. it was an act as graceful as it was simple. "besides," said mr. thompson, setting it down, "it puts every man on his honor as to quantity." early to turn in was the rule of the camp, and by nine o'clock everybody was under his blanket, except jeff himself, who worked awhile at his table over his field-book, and then arose, stepped outside the tent door and sang, in a strong and not unmelodious tenor, the star spangled banner from beginning to end. it proved to be his nightly practice to let off the unexpended seam of his conversational powers, in the words of this stirring song. it was a long time before philip got to sleep. he saw the fire light, he saw the clear stars through the tree-tops, he heard the gurgle of the stream, the stamp of the horses, the occasional barking of the dog which followed the cook's wagon, the hooting of an owl; and when these failed he saw jeff, standing on a battlement, mid the rocket's red glare, and heard him sing, "oh, say, can you see?", it was the first time he had ever slept on the ground. chapter xvii. ----"we have view'd it, and measur'd it within all, by the scale the richest tract of land, love, in the kingdom! there will be made seventeen or eighteeen millions, or more, as't may be handled!" the devil is an ass. nobody dressed more like an engineer than mr. henry brierly. the completeness of his appointments was the envy of the corps, and the gay fellow himself was the admiration of the camp servants, axemen, teamsters and cooks. "i reckon you didn't git them boots no wher's this side o' sent louis?" queried the tall missouri youth who acted as commissariy's assistant. "no, new york." "yas, i've heern o' new york," continued the butternut lad, attentively studying each item of harry's dress, and endeavoring to cover his design with interesting conversation. "'n there's massachusetts.", "it's not far off." "i've heern massachusetts was a-----of a place. les, see, what state's massachusetts in?" "massachusetts," kindly replied harry, "is in the state of boston." "abolish'n wan't it? they must a cost right smart," referring to the boots. harry shouldered his rod and went to the field, tramped over the prairie by day, and figured up results at night, with the utmost cheerfulness and industry, and plotted the line on the profile paper, without, however, the least idea of engineering practical or theoretical. perhaps there was not a great deal of scientific knowledge in the entire corps, nor was very much needed. they were making, what is called a preliminary survey, and the chief object of a preliminary survey was to get up an excitement about the road, to interest every town in that part of the state in it, under the belief that the road would run through it, and to get the aid of every planter upon the prospect that a station would be on his land. mr. jeff thompson was the most popular engineer who could be found for this work. he did not bother himself much about details or practicabilities of location, but ran merrily along, sighting from the top of one divide to the top of another, and striking "plumb" every town site and big plantation within twenty or thirty miles of his route. in his own language he "just went booming." this course gave harry an opportunity, as he said, to learn the practical details of engineering, and it gave philip a chance to see the country, and to judge for himself what prospect of a fortune it offered. both he and harry got the "refusal" of more than one plantation as they went along, and wrote urgent letters to their eastern correspondents, upon the beauty of the land and the certainty that it would quadruple in value as soon as the road was finally located. it seemed strange to them that capitalists did not flock out there and secure this land. they had not been in the field over two weeks when harry wrote to his friend col. sellers that he'd better be on the move, for the line was certain to go to stone's landing. any one who looked at the line on the map, as it was laid down from day to day, would have been uncertain which way it was going; but jeff had declared that in his judgment the only practicable route from the point they then stood on was to follow the divide to stone's landing, and it was generally understood that that town would be the next one hit. "we'll make it, boys," said the chief, "if we have to go in a balloon." and make it they did in less than a week, this indomitable engineer had carried his moving caravan over slues and branches, across bottoms and along divides, and pitched his tents in the very heart of the city of stone's landing. "well, i'll be dashed," was heard the cheery voice of mr. thompson, as he stepped outside the tent door at sunrise next morning. "if this don't get me. i say, yon, grayson, get out your sighting iron and see if you can find old sellers' town. blame me if we wouldn't have run plumb by it if twilight had held on a little longer. oh! sterling, brierly, get up and see the city. there's a steamboat just coming round the bend." and jeff roared with laughter. "the mayor'll be round here to breakfast." the fellows turned out of the tents, rubbing their eyes, and stared about them. they were camped on the second bench of the narrow bottom of a crooked, sluggish stream, that was some five rods wide in the present good stage of water. before them were a dozen log cabins, with stick and mud chimneys, irregularly disposed on either side of a not very well defined road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly, and, after straggling through the town, wandered off over the rolling prairie in an uncertain way, as if it had started for nowhere and was quite likely to reach its destination. just as it left the town, however, it was cheered and assisted by a guide-board, upon which was the legend " mils to hawkeye." the road had never been made except by the travel over it, and at this season--the rainy june--it was a way of ruts cut in the black soil, and of fathomless mud-holes. in the principal street of the city, it had received more attention; for hogs; great and small, rooted about in it and wallowed in it, turning the street into a liquid quagmire which could only be crossed on pieces of plank thrown here and there. about the chief cabin, which was the store and grocery of this mart of trade, the mud was more liquid than elsewhere, and the rude platform in front of it and the dry-goods boxes mounted thereon were places of refuge for all the loafers of the place. down by the stream was a dilapidated building which served for a hemp warehouse, and a shaky wharf extended out from it, into the water. in fact a flat-boat was there moored by it, it's setting poles lying across the gunwales. above the town the stream was crossed by a crazy wooden bridge, the supports of which leaned all ways in the soggy soil; the absence of a plank here and there in the flooring made the crossing of the bridge faster than a walk an offense not necessary to be prohibited by law. "this, gentlemen," said jeff, "is columbus river, alias goose run. if it was widened, and deepened, and straightened, and made, long enough, it would be one of the finest rivers in the western country." as the sun rose and sent his level beams along the stream, the thin stratum of mist, or malaria, rose also and dispersed, but the light was not able to enliven the dull water nor give any hint of its apparently fathomless depth. venerable mud-turtles crawled up and roosted upon the old logs in the stream, their backs glistening in the sun, the first inhabitants of the metropolis to begin the active business of the day. it was not long, however, before smoke began to issue from the city chimneys; and before the engineers, had finished their breakfast they were the object of the curious inspection of six or eight boys and men, who lounged into the camp and gazed about them with languid interest, their hands in their pockets every one. "good morning; gentlemen," called out the chief engineer, from the table. "good mawning," drawled out the spokesman of the party. "i allow thish-yers the railroad, i heern it was a-comin'." "yes, this is the railroad; all but the rails and the ironhorse." "i reckon you kin git all the rails you want oaten my white oak timber over, thar," replied the first speaker, who appeared to be a man of property and willing to strike up a trade. "you'll have to negotiate with the contractors about the rails, sir," said jeff; "here's mr. brierly, i've no doubt would like to buy your rails when the time comes." "o," said the man, "i thought maybe you'd fetch the whole bilin along with you. but if you want rails, i've got em, haint i eph." "heaps," said eph, without taking his eyes off the group at the table. "well," said mr. thompson, rising from his seat and moving towards his tent, "the railroad has come to stone's landing, sure; i move we take a drink on it all round." the proposal met with universal favor. jeff gave prosperity to stone's landing and navigation to goose run, and the toast was washed down with gusto, in the simple fluid of corn; and with the return compliment that a rail road was a good thing, and that jeff thompson was no slouch. about ten o'clock a horse and wagon was descried making a slow approach to the camp over the prairie. as it drew near, the wagon was seen to contain a portly gentleman, who hitched impatiently forward on his seat, shook the reins and gently touched up his horse, in the vain attempt to communicate his own energy to that dull beast, and looked eagerly at the tents. when the conveyance at length drew up to mr. thompson's door, the gentleman descended with great deliberation, straightened himself up, rubbed his hands, and beaming satisfaction from every part of his radiant frame, advanced to the group that was gathered to welcome him, and which had saluted him by name as soon as he came within hearing. "welcome to napoleon, gentlemen, welcome. i am proud to see you here mr. thompson. you are, looking well mr. sterling. this is the country, sir. right glad to see you mr. brierly. you got that basket of champagne? no? those blasted river thieves! i'll never send anything more by 'em. the best brand, roederer. the last i had in my cellar, from a lot sent me by sir george gore--took him out on a buffalo hunt, when he visited our, country. is always sending me some trifle. you haven't looked about any yet, gentlemen? it's in the rough yet, in the rough. those buildings will all have to come down. that's the place for the public square, court house, hotels, churches, jail--all that sort of thing. about where we stand, the deepo. how does that strike your engineering eye, mr. thompson? down yonder the business streets, running to the wharves. the university up there, on rising ground, sightly place, see the river for miles. that's columbus river, only forty-nine miles to the missouri. you see what it is, placid, steady, no current to interfere with navigation, wants widening in places and dredging, dredge out the harbor and raise a levee in front of the town; made by nature on purpose for a mart. look at all this country, not another building within ten miles, no other navigable stream, lay of the land points right here; hemp, tobacco, corn, must come here. the railroad will do it, napoleon won't know itself in a year." "don't now evidently," said philip aside to harry. "have you breakfasted colonel?" "hastily. cup of coffee. can't trust any coffee i don't import myself. but i put up a basket of provisions,--wife would put in a few delicacies, women always will, and a half dozen of that burgundy, i was telling you of mr. briefly. by the way, you never got to dine with me." and the colonel strode away to the wagon and looked under the seat for the basket. apparently it was not there. for the colonel raised up the flap, looked in front and behind, and then exclaimed, "confound it. that comes of not doing a thing yourself. i trusted to the women folks to set that basket in the wagon, and it ain't there." the camp cook speedily prepared a savory breakfast for the colonel, broiled chicken, eggs, corn-bread, and coffee, to which he did ample justice, and topped off with a drop of old bourbon, from mr. thompson's private store, a brand which he said he knew well, he should think it came from his own sideboard. while the engineer corps went to the field, to run back a couple of miles and ascertain, approximately, if a road could ever get down to the landing, and to sight ahead across the run, and see if it could ever get out again, col. sellers and harry sat down and began to roughly map out the city of napoleon on a large piece of drawing paper. "i've got the refusal of a mile square here," said the colonel, "in our names, for a year, with a quarter interest reserved for the four owners." they laid out the town liberally, not lacking room, leaving space for the railroad to come in, and for the river as it was to be when improved. the engineers reported that the railroad could come in, by taking a little sweep and crossing the stream on a high bridge, but the grades would be steep. col. sellers said he didn't care so much about the grades, if the road could only be made to reach the elevators on the river. the next day mr. thompson made a hasty survey of the stream for a mile or two, so that the colonel and harry were enabled to show on their map how nobly that would accommodate the city. jeff took a little writing from the colonel and harry for a prospective share but philip declined to join in, saying that he had no money, and didn't want to make engagements he couldn't fulfill. the next morning the camp moved on, followed till it was out of sight by the listless eyes of the group in front of the store, one of whom remarked that, "he'd be doggoned if he ever expected to see that railroad any mo'." harry went with the colonel to hawkeye to complete their arrangements, a part of which was the preparation of a petition to congress for the improvement of the navigation of columbus river. chapter xviii. eight years have passed since the death of mr. hawkins. eight years are not many in the life of a nation or the history of a state, but they maybe years of destiny that shall fix the current of the century following. such years were those that followed the little scrimmage on lexington common. such years were those that followed the double-shotted demand for the surrender of fort sumter. history is never done with inquiring of these years, and summoning witnesses about them, and trying to understand their significance. the eight years in america from to uprooted institutions that were centuries old, changed the politics of a people, transformed the social life of half the country, and wrought so profoundly upon the entire national character that the influence cannot be measured short of two or three generations. as we are accustomed to interpret the economy of providence, the life of the individual is as nothing to that of the nation or the race; but who can say, in the broader view and the more intelligent weight of values, that the life of one man is not more than that of a nationality, and that there is not a tribunal where the tragedy of one human soul shall not seem more significant than the overturning of any human institution whatever? when one thinks of the tremendous forces of the upper and the nether world which play for the mastery of the soul of a woman during the few years in which she passes from plastic girlhood to the ripe maturity of womanhood, he may well stand in awe before the momentous drama. what capacities she has of purity, tenderness, goodness; what capacities of vileness, bitterness and evil. nature must needs be lavish with the mother and creator of men, and centre in her all the possibilities of life. and a few critical years can decide whether her life is to be full of sweetness and light, whether she is to be the vestal of a holy temple, or whether she will be the fallen priestess of a desecrated shrine. there are women, it is true, who seem to be capable neither of rising much nor of falling much, and whom a conventional life saves from any special development of character. but laura was not one of them. she had the fatal gift of beauty, and that more fatal gift which does not always accompany mere beauty, the power of fascination, a power that may, indeed, exist without beauty. she had will, and pride and courage and ambition, and she was left to be very much her own guide at the age when romance comes to the aid of passion, and when the awakening powers of her vigorous mind had little object on which to discipline themselves. the tremendous conflict that was fought in this girl's soul none of those about her knew, and very few knew that her life had in it anything unusual or romantic or strange. those were troublous days in hawkeye as well as in most other missouri towns, days of confusion, when between unionist and confederate occupations, sudden maraudings and bush-whackings and raids, individuals escaped observation or comment in actions that would have filled the town with scandal in quiet times. fortunately we only need to deal with laura's life at this period historically, and look back upon such portions of it as will serve to reveal the woman as she was at the time of the arrival of mr. harry brierly in hawkeye. the hawkins family were settled there, and had a hard enough struggle with poverty and the necessity of keeping up appearances in accord with their own family pride and the large expectations they secretly cherished of a fortune in the knobs of east tennessee. how pinched they were perhaps no one knew but clay, to whom they looked for almost their whole support. washington had been in hawkeye off and on, attracted away occasionally by some tremendous speculation, from which he invariably returned to gen. boswell's office as poor as he went. he was the inventor of no one knew how many useless contrivances, which were not worth patenting, and his years had been passed in dreaming and planning to no purpose; until he was now a man of about thirty, without a profession or a permanent occupation, a tall, brown-haired, dreamy person of the best intentions and the frailest resolution. probably however the, eight years had been happier to him than to any others in his circle, for the time had been mostly spent in a blissful dream of the coming of enormous wealth. he went out with a company from hawkeye to the war, and was not wanting in courage, but he would have been a better soldier if he had been less engaged in contrivances for circumventing the enemy by strategy unknown to the books. it happened to him to be captured in one of his self-appointed expeditions, but the federal colonel released him, after a short examination, satisfied that he could most injure the confederate forces opposed to the unionists by returning him to his regiment. col. sellers was of course a prominent man during the war. he was captain of the home guards in hawkeye, and he never left home except upon one occasion, when on the strength of a rumor, he executed a flank movement and fortified stone's landing, a place which no one unacquainted with the country would be likely to find. "gad," said the colonel afterwards, "the landing is the key to upper missouri, and it is the only place the enemy never captured. if other places had been defended as well as that was, the result would have been different, sir." the colonel had his own theories about war as he had in other things. if everybody had stayed at home as he did, he said, the south never would have been conquered. for what would there have been to conquer? mr. jeff davis was constantly writing him to take command of a corps in the confederate army, but col. sellers said, no, his duty was at home. and he was by no means idle. he was the inventor of the famous air torpedo, which came very near destroying the union armies in missouri, and the city of st. louis itself. his plan was to fill a torpedo with greek fire and poisonous and deadly missiles, attach it to a balloon, and then let it sail away over the hostile camp and explode at the right moment, when the time-fuse burned out. he intended to use this invention in the capture of st. louis, exploding his torpedoes over the city, and raining destruction upon it until the army of occupation would gladly capitulate. he was unable to procure the greek fire, but he constructed a vicious torpedo which would have answered the purpose, but the first one prematurely exploded in his wood-house, blowing it clean away, and setting fire to his house. the neighbors helped him put out the conflagration, but they discouraged any more experiments of that sort. the patriotic old gentleman, however, planted so much powder and so many explosive contrivances in the roads leading into hawkeye, and then forgot the exact spots of danger, that people were afraid to travel the highways, and used to come to town across the fields, the colonel's motto was, "millions for defence but not one cent for tribute." when laura came to hawkeye she might have forgotten the annoyances of the gossips of murpheysburg and have out lived the bitterness that was growing in her heart, if she had been thrown less upon herself, or if the surroundings of her life had been more congenial and helpful. but she had little society, less and less as she grew older that was congenial to her, and her mind preyed upon itself; and the mystery of her birth at once chagrined her and raised in her the most extravagant expectations. she was proud and she felt the sting of poverty. she could not but be conscious of her beauty also, and she was vain of that, and came to take a sort of delight in the exercise of her fascinations upon the rather loutish young men who came in her way and whom she despised. there was another world opened to her--a world of books. but it was not the best world of that sort, for the small libraries she had access to in hawkeye were decidedly miscellaneous, and largely made up of romances and fictions which fed her imagination with the most exaggerated notions of life, and showed her men and women in a very false sort of heroism. from these stories she learned what a woman of keen intellect and some culture joined to beauty and fascination of manner, might expect to accomplish in society as she read of it; and along with these ideas she imbibed other very crude ones in regard to the emancipation of woman. there were also other books-histories, biographies of distinguished people, travels in far lands, poems, especially those of byron, scott and shelley and moore, which she eagerly absorbed, and appropriated therefrom what was to her liking. nobody in hawkeye had read so much or, after a fashion, studied so diligently as laura. she passed for an accomplished girl, and no doubt thought herself one, as she was, judged by any standard near her. during the war there came to hawkeye a confederate officer, col. selby, who was stationed there for a time, in command of that district. he was a handsome, soldierly man of thirty years, a graduate of the university of virginia, and of distinguished family, if his story might be believed, and, it was evident, a man of the world and of extensive travel and adventure. to find in such an out of the way country place a woman like laura was a piece of good luck upon which col. selby congratulated himself. he was studiously polite to her and treated her with a consideration to which she was unaccustomed. she had read of such men, but she had never seen one before, one so high-bred, so noble in sentiment, so entertaining in conversation, so engaging in manner. it is a long story; unfortunately it is an old story, and it need not be dwelt on. laura loved him, and believed that his love for her was as pure and deep as her own. she worshipped him and would have counted her life a little thing to give him, if he would only love her and let her feed the hunger of her heart upon him. the passion possessed her whole being, and lifted her up, till she seemed to walk on air. it was all true, then, the romances she had read, the bliss of love she had dreamed of. why had she never noticed before how blithesome the world was, how jocund with love; the birds sang it, the trees whispered it to her as she passed, the very flowers beneath her feet strewed the way as for a bridal march. when the colonel went away they were engaged to be married, as soon as he could make certain arrangements which he represented to be necessary, and quit the army. he wrote to her from harding, a small town in the southwest corner of the state, saying that he should be held in the service longer than he had expected, but that it would not be more than a few months, then he should be at liberty to take her to chicago where he had property, and should have business, either now or as soon as the war was over, which he thought could not last long. meantime why should they be separated? he was established in comfortable quarters, and if she could find company and join him, they would be married, and gain so many more months of happiness. was woman ever prudent when she loved? laura went to harding, the neighbors supposed to nurse washington who had fallen ill there. her engagement was, of course, known in hawkeye, and was indeed a matter of pride to her family. mrs. hawkins would have told the first inquirer that. laura had gone to be married; but laura had cautioned her; she did not want to be thought of, she said, as going in search of a husband; let the news come back after she was married. so she traveled to harding on the pretence we have mentioned, and was married. she was married, but something must have happened on that very day or the next that alarmed her. washington did not know then or after what it was, but laura bound him not to send news of her marriage to hawkeye yet, and to enjoin her mother not to speak of it. whatever cruel suspicion or nameless dread this was, laura tried bravely to put it away, and not let it cloud her happiness. communication that summer, as may be imagined, was neither regular nor frequent between the remote confederate camp at harding and hawkeye, and laura was in a measure lost sight of--indeed, everyone had troubles enough of his own without borrowing from his neighbors. laura had given herself utterly to her husband, and if he had faults, if he was selfish, if he was sometimes coarse, if he was dissipated, she did not or would not see it. it was the passion of her life, the time when her whole nature went to flood tide and swept away all barriers. was her husband ever cold or indifferent? she shut her eyes to everything but her sense of possession of her idol. three months passed. one morning her husband informed her that he had been ordered south, and must go within two hours. "i can be ready," said laura, cheerfully. "but i can't take you. you must go back to hawkeye." "can't-take-me?" laura asked, with wonder in her eyes. "i can't live without you. you said-----" "o bother what i said,"--and the colonel took up his sword to buckle it on, and then continued coolly, "the fact is laura, our romance is played out." laura heard, but she did not comprehend. she caught his arm and cried, "george, how can you joke so cruelly? i will go any where with you. i will wait any where. i can't go back to hawkeye." "well, go where you like. perhaps," continued he with a sneer, "you would do as well to wait here, for another colonel." laura's brain whirled. she did not yet comprehend. "what does this mean? where are you going?" "it means," said the officer, in measured words, "that you haven't anything to show for a legal marriage, and that i am going to new orleans." "it's a lie, george, it's a lie. i am your wife. i shall go. i shall follow you to new orleans." "perhaps my wife might not like it!" laura raised her head, her eyes flamed with fire, she tried to utter a cry, and fell senseless on the floor. when she came to herself the colonel was gone. washington hawkins stood at her bedside. did she come to herself? was there anything left in her heart but hate and bitterness, a sense of an infamous wrong at the hands of the only man she had ever loved? she returned to hawkeye. with the exception of washington and his mother, no one knew what had happened. the neighbors supposed that the engagement with col. selby had fallen through. laura was ill for a long time, but she recovered; she had that resolution in her that could conquer death almost. and with her health came back her beauty, and an added fascination, a something that might be mistaken for sadness. is there a beauty in the knowledge of evil, a beauty that shines out in the face of a person whose inward life is transformed by some terrible experience? is the pathos in the eyes of the beatrice cenci from her guilt or her innocence? laura was not much changed. the lovely woman had a devil in her heart. that was all. the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . chapter xxxvii. that chairman was nowhere in sight. such disappointments seldom occur in novels, but are always happening in real life. she was obliged to make a new plan. she sent him a note, and asked him to call in the evening--which he did. she received the hon. mr. buckstone with a sunny smile, and said: "i don't know how i ever dared to send you a note, mr. buckstone, for you have the reputation of not being very partial to our sex." "why i am sure my, reputation does me wrong, then, miss hawkins. i have been married once--is that nothing in my favor?" "oh, yes--that is, it may be and it may not be. if you have known what perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue that inferiority cannot interest you now." "even if that were the case it could not affect you, miss hawkins," said the chairman gallantly. "fame does not place you in the list of ladies who rank below perfection." this happy speech delighted mr. buckstone as much as it seemed to delight laura. but it did not confuse him as much as it apparently did her. "i wish in all sincerity that i could be worthy of such a felicitous compliment as that. but i am a woman, and so i am gratified for it just as it is, and would not have it altered." "but it is not merely a compliment--that is, an empty complement--it is the truth. all men will endorse that." laura looked pleased, and said: "it is very kind of you to say it. it is a distinction indeed, for a country-bred girl like me to be so spoken of by people of brains and culture. you are so kind that i know you will pardon my putting you to the trouble to come this evening." "indeed it was no trouble. it was a pleasure. i am alone in the world since i lost my wife, and i often long for the society of your sex, miss hawkins, notwithstanding what people may say to the contrary." "it is pleasant to hear you say that. i am sure it must be so. if i feel lonely at times, because of my exile from old friends, although surrounded by new ones who are already very dear to me, how much more lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, and with no wholesome relief from the cares of state that weigh you down. for your own sake, as well as for the sake of others, you ought to go into society oftener. i seldom see you at a reception, and when i do you do not usually give me very, much of your attention" "i never imagined that you wished it or i would have been very glad to make myself happy in that way.--but one seldom gets an opportunity to say more than a sentence to you in a place like that. you are always the centre of a group--a fact which you may have noticed yourself. but if one might come here--" "indeed you would always find a hearty welcome, mr. buckstone. i have often wished you would come and tell me more about cairo and the pyramids, as you once promised me you would." "why, do you remember that yet, miss hawkins? i thought ladies' memories were more fickle than that." "oh, they are not so fickle as gentlemen's promises. and besides, if i had been inclined to forget, i--did you not give me something by way of a remembrancer?" "did i?" "think." "it does seem to me that i did; but i have forgotten what it was now." "never, never call a lady's memory fickle again! do you recognize this?" "a little spray of box! i am beaten--i surrender. but have you kept that all this time?" laura's confusion was very, pretty. she tried to hide it, but the more she tried the more manifest it became and withal the more captivating to look upon. presently she threw the spray of box from her with an annoyed air, and said: "i forgot myself. i have been very foolish. i beg that you will forget this absurd thing." mr. buckstone picked up the spray, and sitting down by laura's side on the sofa, said: "please let me keep it, miss hawkins. i set a very high value upon it now." "give it to me, mr. buckstone, and do not speak so. i have been sufficiently punished for my thoughtlessness. you cannot take pleasure in adding to my distress. please give it to me." "indeed i do not wish to distress you. but do not consider the matter so gravely; you have done yourself no wrong. you probably forgot that you had it; but if you had given it to me i would have kept it--and not forgotten it." "do not talk so, mr. buckstone. give it to me, please, and forget the matter." "it would not be kind to refuse, since it troubles you so, and so i restore it. but if you would give me part of it and keep the rest--" "so that you might have something to remind you of me when you wished to laugh at my foolishness?" "oh, by no means, no! simply that i might remember that i had once assisted to discomfort you, and be reminded to do so no more." laura looked up, and scanned his face a moment. she was about to break the twig, but she hesitated and said: "if i were sure that you--" she threw the spray away, and continued: "this is silly! we will change the subject. no, do not insist--i must have my way in this." then mr. buckstone drew off his forces and proceeded to make a wily advance upon the fortress under cover of carefully--contrived artifices and stratagems of war. but he contended with an alert and suspicious enemy; and so at the end of two hours it was manifest to him that he had made but little progress. still, he had made some; he was sure of that. laura sat alone and communed with herself; "he is fairly hooked, poor thing. i can play him at my leisure and land him when i choose. he was all ready to be caught, days and days ago --i saw that, very well. he will vote for our bill--no fear about that; and moreover he will work for it, too, before i am done with him. if he had a woman's eyes he would have noticed that the spray of box had grown three inches since he first gave it to me, but a man never sees anything and never suspects. if i had shown him a whole bush he would have thought it was the same. well, it is a good night's work: the committee is safe. but this is a desperate game i am playing in these days --a wearing, sordid, heartless game. if i lose, i lose everything--even myself. and if i win the game, will it be worth its cost after all? i do not know. sometimes i doubt. sometimes i half wish i had not begun. but no matter; i have begun, and i will never turn back; never while i live." mr. buckstone indulged in a reverie as he walked homeward: "she is shrewd and deep, and plays her cards with considerable discretion--but she will lose, for all that. there is no hurry; i shall come out winner, all in good time. she is the most beautiful woman in the world; and she surpassed herself to-night. i suppose i must vote for that bill, in the end maybe; but that is not a matter of much consequence the government can stand it. she is bent on capturing me, that is plain; but she will find by and by that what she took for a sleeping garrison was an ambuscade." chapter xxxviii. now this surprising news caus'd her fall in 'a trance, life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance, then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took and she spake up and said, o my poor heart is broke. the barnardcastle tragedy. "don't you think he is distinguished looking?" "what! that gawky looking person, with miss hawkins?" "there. he's just speaking to mrs. schoonmaker. such high-bred negligence and unconsciousness. nothing studied. see his fine eyes." "very. they are moving this way now. maybe he is coming here. but he looks as helpless as a rag baby. who is he, blanche?" "who is he? and you've been here a week, grace, and don't know? he's the catch of the season. that's washington hawkins--her brother." "no, is it?" "very old family, old kentucky family i believe. he's got enormous landed property in tennessee, i think. the family lost everything, slaves and that sort of thing, you know, in the war. but they have a great deal of land, minerals, mines and all that. mr. hawkins and his sister too are very much interested in the amelioration of the condition of the colored race; they have some plan, with senator dilworthy, to convert a large part of their property to something another for the freedmen." "you don't say so? i thought he was some guy from pennsylvania. but he is different from others. probably he has lived all his life on his plantation." it was a day reception of mrs. representative schoonmaker, a sweet woman, of simple and sincere manners. her house was one of the most popular in washington. there was less ostentation there than in some others, and people liked to go where the atmosphere reminded them of the peace and purity of home. mrs. schoonmaker was as natural and unaffected in washington society as she was in her own new york house, and kept up the spirit of home-life there, with her husband and children. and that was the reason, probably, why people of refinement liked to go there. washington is a microcosm, and one can suit himself with any sort of society within a radius of a mile. to a large portion of the people who frequent washington or dwell where, the ultra fashion, the shoddy, the jobbery are as utterly distasteful as they would he in a refined new england city. schoonmaker was not exactly a leader in the house, but he was greatly respected for his fine talents and his honesty. no one would have thought of offering to carry national improvement directors relief stock for him. these day receptions were attended by more women than men, and those interested in the problem might have studied the costumes of the ladies present, in view of this fact, to discover whether women dress more for the eyes of women or for effect upon men. it is a very important problem, and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would form one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which to estimate woman's character. we are inclined to take a medium ground, and aver that woman dresses to please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature. "they are coming this way," said blanche. people who made way for them to pass, turned to look at them. washington began to feel that the eyes of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now towards the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an effort to look unconscious. "good morning, miss hawkins. delighted. mr. hawkins. my friend, miss medlar." mr. hawkins, who was endeavoring to square himself for a bow, put his foot through the train of mrs. senator poplin, who looked round with a scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw who it was. in extricating himself, mr. hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the introduction on his mind, shambled against miss blanche, who said pardon, with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own. and mr. hawkins righted himself. "don't you find it very warm to-day, mr. hawkins?" said blanche, by way of a remark. "it's awful hot," said washington. "it's warm for the season," continued blanche pleasantly. "but i suppose you are accustomed to it," she added, with a general idea that the thermometer always stands at deg. in all parts of the late slave states. "washington weather generally cannot be very congenial to you?" "it's congenial," said washington brightening up, "when it's not congealed." "that's very good. did you hear, grace, mr. hawkins says it's congenial when it's not congealed." "what is, dear?" said grace, who was talking with laura. the conversation was now finely under way. washington launched out an observation of his own. "did you see those japs, miss leavitt?" "oh, yes, aren't they queer. but so high-bred, so picturesque. do you think that color makes any difference, mr. hawkins? i used to be so prejudiced against color." "did you? i never was. i used to think my old mammy was handsome." "how interesting your life must have been! i should like to hear about it." washington was about settling himself into his narrative style, when mrs. gen. mcfingal caught his eye. "have you been at the capitol to-day, mr. hawkins?" washington had not. "is anything uncommon going on?" "they say it was very exciting. the alabama business you know. gen. sutler, of massachusetts, defied england, and they say he wants war." "he wants to make himself conspicuous more like," said laura. "he always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while the other is on the speaker." "well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and wicked. he knows what war is. if we do have war, i hope it will be for the patriots of cuba. don't you think we want cuba, mr. hawkins?" "i think we want it bad," said washington. "and santo domingo. senator dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of the sea. we've got to round out our territory, and--" washington's further observations were broken off by laura, who whisked him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must make their adieux. "how stupid and tiresome these people are," she said. "let's go." they were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when laura's attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to mrs. schoonmaker. for a second her heart stopped beating. he was a handsome man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame. he might be less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale. no. it could not be, she said to herself. it is only a resemblance. but as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, laura put out her hand and clutched washington's arm to prevent herself from falling. washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked 'round in wonder. laura's eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her look so before; and her face, was livid. "why, what is it, sis? your face is as white as paper." "it's he, it's he. come, come," and she dragged him away. "it's who?" asked washington, when they had gained the carriage. "it's nobody, it's nothing. did i say he? i was faint with the heat. don't mention it. don't you speak of it," she added earnestly, grasping his arm. when she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and haggard face. "my god," she cried, "this will never do. i should have killed him, if i could. the scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. i ought to kill him. he has no right to live. how i hate him. and yet i loved him. oh heavens, how i did love that man. and why didn't he kill me? he might better. he did kill all that was good in me. oh, but he shall not escape. he shall not escape this time. he may have forgotten. he will find that a woman's hate doesn't forget. the law? what would the law do but protect him and make me an outcast? how all washington would gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. i wonder if he hates me as i do him?" so laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control. a servant came to summon her to dinner. she had a headache. the hour came for the president's reception. she had a raving headache, and the senator must go without her. that night of agony was like another night she recalled. how vividly it all came back to her. and at that time she remembered she thought she might be mistaken. he might come back to her. perhaps he loved her, a little, after all. now, she knew he did not. now, she knew he was a cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity. never a word in all these years. she had hoped he was dead. did his wife live, she wondered. she caught at that--and it gave a new current to her thoughts. perhaps, after all --she must see him. she could not live without seeing him. would he smile as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as when she last saw him? if be looked so, she hated him. if he should call her "laura, darling," and look so! she must find him. she must end her doubts. laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another--a nervous headache, a cold--to the great anxiety of the senator's household. callers, who went away, said she had been too gay--they did not say "fast," though some of them may have thought it. one so conspicuous and successful in society as laura could not be out of the way two days, without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary. when she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale may be, but unchanged in manner. if there were any deepened lines about the eyes they had been concealed. her course of action was quite determined. at breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the night? nobody had. washington never heard any noise of any kind after his eyes were shut. some people thought he never did when they were open either. senator dilworthy said he had come in late. he was detained in a little consultation after the congressional prayer meeting. perhaps it was his entrance. no, laura said. she heard that. it was later. she might have been nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house. mr. brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the members were occupied in night session. the senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that kind of newspaper slang. there might be burglars about. laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness. but she thought she world feel safer if washington would let her take one of his pistols. washington brought her one of his revolvers, and instructed her in the art of loading and firing it. during the morning laura drove down to mrs. schoonmaker's to pay a friendly call. "your receptions are always delightful," she said to that lady, "the pleasant people all seem to come here." "it's pleasant to hear you say so, miss hawkins. i believe my friends like to come here. though society in washington is mixed; we have a little of everything." "i suppose, though, you don't see much of the old rebel element?" said laura with a smile. if this seemed to mrs. schoonmaker a singular remark for a lady to make, who was meeting "rebels" in society every day, she did not express it in any way, but only said, "you know we don't say 'rebel' anymore. before we came to washington i thought rebels would look unlike other people. i find we are very much alike, and that kindness and good nature wear away prejudice. and then you know there are all sorts of common interests. my husband sometimes says that he doesn't see but confederates are just as eager to get at the treasury as unionists. you know that mr. schoonmaker is on the appropriations." "does he know many southerners?" "oh, yes. there were several at my reception the other day. among others a confederate colonel--a stranger--handsome man with gray hair, probably you didn't notice him, uses a cane in walking. a very agreeable man. i wondered why he called. when my husband came home and looked over the cards, he said he had a cotton claim. a real southerner. perhaps you might know him if i could think of his name. yes, here's his card--louisiana." laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure of the address, and then laid it down, with, "no, he is no friend of ours." that afternoon, laura wrote and dispatched the following note. it was in a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and it was directed to a number and street in georgetown:-- "a lady at senator dilworthy's would like to see col. george selby, on business connected with the cotton claims. can he call wednesday at three o'clock p. m.?" on wednesday at p. m, no one of the family was likely to be in the house except laura. chapter xxxix. col. selby had just come to washington, and taken lodgings in georgetown. his business was to get pay for some cotton that was destroyed during the war. there were many others in washington on the same errand, some of them with claims as difficult to establish as his. a concert of action was necessary, and he was not, therefore, at all surprised to receive the note from a lady asking him to call at senator dilworthy's. at a little after three on wednesday he rang the bell of the senator's residence. it was a handsome mansion on the square opposite the president's house. the owner must be a man of great wealth, the colonel thought; perhaps, who knows, said he with a smile, he may have got some of my cotton in exchange for salt and quinine after the capture of new orleans. as this thought passed through his mind he was looking at the remarkable figure of the hero of new orleans, holding itself by main strength from sliding off the back of the rearing bronze horse, and lifting its hat in the manner of one who acknowledges the playing of that martial air: "see, the conquering hero comes!" "gad," said the colonel to himself, "old hickory ought to get down and give his seat to gen. sutler--but they'd have to tie him on." laura was in the drawing room. she heard the bell, she heard the steps in the hall, and the emphatic thud of the supporting cane. she had risen from her chair and was leaning against the piano, pressing her left hand against the violent beating of her heart. the door opened and the colonel entered, standing in the full light of the opposite window. laura was more in the shadow and stood for an instant, long enough for the colonel to make the inward observation that she was a magnificent woman. she then advanced a step. "col. selby, is it not?" the colonel staggered back, caught himself by a chair, and turned towards her a look of terror. "laura? my god!" "yes, your wife!" "oh, no, it can't be. how came you here? i thought you were--" "you thought i was dead? you thought you were rid of me? not so long as you live, col. selby, not so long as you live;" laura in her passion was hurried on to say. no man had ever accused col. selby of cowardice. but he was a coward before this woman. may be he was not the man he once was. where was his coolness? where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he could have met, and would have met, any woman he had wronged, if he had only been forewarned. he felt now that he must temporize, that he must gain time. there was danger in laura's tone. there was something frightful in her calmness. her steady eyes seemed to devour him. "you have ruined my life," she said; "and i was so young, so ignorant, and loved you so. you betrayed me, and left me mocking me and trampling me into the dust, a soiled cast-off. you might better have killed me then. then i should not have hated you." "laura," said the colonel, nerving himself, but still pale, and speaking appealingly, "don't say that. reproach me. i deserve it. i was a scoundrel. i was everything monstrous. but your beauty made me crazy. you are right. i was a brute in leaving you as i did. but what could i do? i was married, and--" "and your wife still lives?" asked laura, bending a little forward in her eagerness. the colonel noticed the action, and he almost said "no," but he thought of the folly of attempting concealment. "yes. she is here." what little color had wandered back into laura's face forsook it again. her heart stood still, her strength seemed going from her limbs. her last hope was gone. the room swam before her for a moment, and the colonel stepped towards her, but she waved him back, as hot anger again coursed through her veins, and said, "and you dare come with her, here, and tell me of it, here and mock me with it! and you think i will have it; george? you think i will let you live with that woman? you think i am as powerless as that day i fell dead at your feet?" she raged now. she was in a tempest of excitement. and she advanced towards him with a threatening mien. she would kill me if she could, thought the colonel; but he thought at the same moment, how beautiful she is. he had recovered his head now. she was lovely when he knew her, then a simple country girl, now she was dazzling, in the fullness of ripe womanhood, a superb creature, with all the fascination that a woman of the world has for such a man as col. selby. nothing of this was lost on him. he stepped quickly to her, grasped both her hands in his, and said, "laura, stop! think! suppose i loved you yet! suppose i hated my fate! what can i do? i am broken by the war. i have lost everything almost. i had as lief be dead and done with it." the colonel spoke with a low remembered voice that thrilled through laura. he was looking into her eyes as he had looked in those old days, when no birds of all those that sang in the groves where they walked sang a note of warning. he was wounded. he had been punished. her strength forsook her with her rage, and she sank upon a chair, sobbing, "oh! my god, i thought i hated him!" the colonel knelt beside her. he took her hand and she let him keep it. she, looked down into his face, with a pitiable tenderness, and said in a weak voice. "and you do love me a little?" the colonel vowed and protested. he kissed her hand and her lips. he swore his false soul into perdition. she wanted love, this woman. was not her love for george selby deeper than any other woman's could be? had she not a right to him? did he not belong to her by virtue of her overmastering passion? his wife--she was not his wife, except by the law. she could not be. even with the law she could have no right to stand between two souls that were one. it was an infamous condition in society that george should be tied to her. laura thought this, believed it; because she desired to believe it. she came to it as an original propositions founded an the requirements of her own nature. she may have heard, doubtless she had, similar theories that were prevalent at that day, theories of the tyranny of marriage and of the freedom of marriage. she had even heard women lecturers say, that marriage should only continue so long as it pleased either party to it --for a year, or a month, or a day. she had not given much heed to this, but she saw its justice now in a dash of revealing desire. it must be right. god would not have permitted her to love george selby as she did, and him to love her, if it was right for society to raise up a barrier between them. he belonged to her. had he not confessed it himself? not even the religious atmosphere of senator dilworthy's house had been sufficient to instill into laura that deep christian principle which had been somehow omitted in her training. indeed in that very house had she not heard women, prominent before the country and besieging congress, utter sentiments that fully justified the course she was marking out for herself. they were seated now, side by side, talking with more calmness. laura was happy, or thought she was. but it was that feverish sort of happiness which is snatched out of the black shadow of falsehood, and is at the moment recognized as fleeting and perilous, and indulged tremblingly. she loved. she was loved. that is happiness certainly. and the black past and the troubled present and the uncertain future could not snatch that from her. what did they say as they sat there? what nothings do people usually say in such circumstances, even if they are three-score and ten? it was enough for laura to hear his voice and be near him. it was enough for him to be near her, and avoid committing himself as much as he could. enough for him was the present also. had there not always been some way out of such scrapes? and yet laura could not be quite content without prying into tomorrow. how could the colonel manage to free himself from his wife? would it be long? could he not go into some state where it would not take much time? he could not say exactly. that they must think of. that they must talk over. and so on. did this seem like a damnable plot to laura against the life, maybe, of a sister, a woman like herself? probably not. it was right that this man should be hers, and there were some obstacles in the way. that was all. there are as good reasons for bad actions as for good ones,--to those who commit them. when one has broken the tenth commandment, the others are not of much account. was it unnatural, therefore, that when george selby departed, laura should watch him from the window, with an almost joyful heart as he went down the sunny square? "i shall see him to-morrow," she said, "and the next day, and the next. he is mine now." "damn the woman," said the colonel as he picked his way down the steps. "or," he added, as his thoughts took a new turn, "i wish my wife was in new orleans." chapter xl. open your ears; for which of you will stop, the vent of hearing when loud rumor speaks? i, from the orient to the drooping west, making the wind my post-horse, still unfold the acts commenced on this ball of earth: upon my tongues continual slanders ride; the which in every, language i pronounce, stuffing the ears of men with false reports. king henry iv. as may be readily believed, col. beriah sellers was by this time one of the best known men in washington. for the first time in his life his talents had a fair field. he was now at the centre of the manufacture of gigantic schemes, of speculations of all sorts, of political and social gossip. the atmosphere was full of little and big rumors and of vast, undefined expectations. everybody was in haste, too, to push on his private plan, and feverish in his haste, as if in constant apprehension that tomorrow would be judgment day. work while congress is in session, said the uneasy spirit, for in the recess there is no work and no device. the colonel enjoyed this bustle and confusion amazingly; he thrived in the air of-indefinite expectation. all his own schemes took larger shape and more misty and majestic proportions; and in this congenial air, the colonel seemed even to himself to expand into something large and mysterious. if he respected himself before, he almost worshipped beriah sellers now, as a superior being. if he could have chosen an official position out of the highest, he would have been embarrassed in the selection. the presidency of the republic seemed too limited and cramped in the constitutional restrictions. if he could have been grand llama of the united states, that might have come the nearest to his idea of a position. and next to that he would have luxuriated in the irresponsible omniscience of the special correspondent. col. sellers knew the president very well, and had access to his presence when officials were kept cooling their heels in the waiting-room. the president liked to hear the colonel talk, his voluble ease was a refreshment after the decorous dullness of men who only talked business and government, and everlastingly expounded their notions of justice and the distribution of patronage. the colonel was as much a lover of farming and of horses as thomas jefferson was. he talked to the president by the hour about his magnificent stud, and his plantation at hawkeye, a kind of principality--he represented it. he urged the president to pay him a visit during the recess, and see his stock farm. "the president's table is well enough," he used to say, to the loafers who gathered about him at willard's, "well enough for a man on a salary, but god bless my soul, i should like him to see a little old-fashioned hospitality--open house, you know. a person seeing me at home might think i paid no attention to what was in the house, just let things flow in and out. he'd be mistaken. what i look to is quality, sir. the president has variety enough, but the quality! vegetables of course you can't expect here. i'm very particular about mine. take celery, now --there's only one spot in this country where celery will grow. but i an surprised about the wines. i should think they were manufactured in the new york custom house. i must send the president some from my cellar. i was really mortified the other day at dinner to see blacque bey leave his standing in the glasses." when the colonel first came to washington he had thoughts of taking the mission to constantinople, in order to be on the spot to look after the dissemination, of his eye water, but as that invention; was not yet quite ready, the project shrank a little in the presence of vaster schemes. besides he felt that he could do the country more good by remaining at home. he was one of the southerners who were constantly quoted as heartily "accepting the situation." "i'm whipped," he used to say with a jolly laugh, "the government was too many for me; i'm cleaned out, done for, except my plantation and private mansion. we played for a big thing, and lost it, and i don't whine, for one. i go for putting the old flag on all the vacant lots. i said to the president, says i, 'grant, why don't you take santo domingo, annex the whole thing, and settle the bill afterwards. that's my way. i'd, take the job to manage congress. the south would come into it. you've got to conciliate the south, consolidate the two debts, pay 'em off in greenbacks, and go ahead. that's my notion. boutwell's got the right notion about the value of paper, but he lacks courage. i should like to run the treasury department about six months. i'd make things plenty, and business look up.'" the colonel had access to the departments. he knew all the senators and representatives, and especially, the lobby. he was consequently a great favorite in newspaper row, and was often lounging in the offices there, dropping bits of private, official information, which were immediately, caught up and telegraphed all over the country. but it need to surprise even the colonel when he read it, it was embellished to that degree that he hardly recognized it, and the hint was not lost on him. he began to exaggerate his heretofore simple conversation to suit the newspaper demand. people used to wonder in the winters of - and -, where the "specials" got that remarkable information with which they every morning surprised the country, revealing the most secret intentions of the president and his cabinet, the private thoughts of political leaders, the hidden meaning of every movement. this information was furnished by col. sellers. when he was asked, afterwards, about the stolen copy of the alabama treaty which got into the "new york tribune," he only looked mysterious, and said that neither he nor senator dilworthy knew anything about it. but those whom he was in the habit of meeting occasionally felt almost certain that he did know. it must not be supposed that the colonel in his general patriotic labors neglected his own affairs. the columbus river navigation scheme absorbed only a part of his time, so he was enabled to throw quite a strong reserve force of energy into the tennessee land plan, a vast enterprise commensurate with his abilities, and in the prosecution of which he was greatly aided by mr. henry brierly, who was buzzing about the capitol and the hotels day and night, and making capital for it in some mysterious way. "we must create, a public opinion," said senator dilworthy. "my only interest in it is a public one, and if the country wants the institution, congress will have to yield." it may have been after a conversation between the colonel and senator dilworthy that the following special despatch was sent to a new york newspaper: "we understand that a philanthropic plan is on foot in relation to the colored race that will, if successful, revolutionize the whole character of southern industry. an experimental institution is in contemplation in tennessee which will do for that state what the industrial school at zurich did for switzerland. we learn that approaches have been made to the heirs of the late hon. silas hawkins of missouri, in reference to a lease of a portion of their valuable property in east tennessee. senator dilworthy, it is understood, is inflexibly opposed to any arrangement that will not give the government absolute control. private interests must give way to the public good. it is to be hoped that col. sellers, who represents the heirs, will be led to see the matter in this light." when washington hawkins read this despatch, he went to the colonel in some anxiety. he was for a lease, he didn't want to surrender anything. what did he think the government would offer? two millions? "may be three, may be four," said the colonel, "it's worth more than the bank of england." "if they will not lease," said washington, "let 'em make it two millions for an undivided half. i'm not going to throw it away, not the whole of it." harry told the colonel that they must drive the thing through, he couldn't be dallying round washington when spring opened. phil wanted him, phil had a great thing on hand up in pennsylvania. "what is that?" inquired the colonel, always ready to interest himself in anything large. "a mountain of coal; that's all. he's going to run a tunnel into it in the spring." "does he want any capital?", asked the colonel, in the tone of a man who is given to calculating carefully before he makes an investment. "no. old man bolton's behind him. he has capital, but i judged that he wanted my experience in starting." "if he wants me, tell him i'll come, after congress adjourns. i should like to give him a little lift. he lacks enterprise--now, about that columbus river. he doesn't see his chances. but he's a good fellow, and you can tell him that sellers won't go back on him." "by the way," asked harry, "who is that rather handsome party that's hanging 'round laura? i see him with her everywhere, at the capitol, in the horse cars, and he comes to dilworthy's. if he weren't lame, i should think he was going to run off with her." "oh, that's nothing. laura knows her business. he has a cotton claim. used to be at hawkeye during the war. "selby's his name, was a colonel. got a wife and family. very respectable people, the selby's." "well, that's all right," said harry, "if it's business. but if a woman looked at me as i've seen her at selby, i should understand it. and it's talked about, i can tell you." jealousy had no doubt sharpened this young gentleman's observation. laura could not have treated him with more lofty condescension if she had been the queen of sheba, on a royal visit to the great republic. and he resented it, and was "huffy" when he was with her, and ran her errands, and brought her gossip, and bragged of his intimacy with the lovely creature among the fellows at newspaper row. laura's life was rushing on now in the full stream of intrigue and fashionable dissipation. she was conspicuous at the balls of the fastest set, and was suspected of being present at those doubtful suppers that began late and ended early. if senator dilworthy remonstrated about appearances, she had a way of silencing him. perhaps she had some hold on him, perhaps she was necessary to his plan for ameliorating the condition the tube colored race. she saw col. selby, when the public knew and when it did not know. she would see him, whatever excuses he made, and however he avoided her. she was urged on by a fever of love and hatred and jealousy, which alternately possessed her. sometimes she petted him, and coaxed him and tried all her fascinations. and again she threatened him and reproached him. what was he doing? why had he taken no steps to free himself? why didn't he send his wife home? she should have money soon. they could go to europe--anywhere. what did she care for talk? and he promised, and lied, and invented fresh excuses for delay, like a cowardly gambler and roue as he was, fearing to break with her, and half the time unwilling to give her up. "that woman doesn't know what fear is," he said to himself, "and she watches me like a hawk." he told his wife that this woman was a lobbyist, whom he had to tolerate and use in getting through his claims, and that he should pay her and have done with her, when he succeeded. chapter xli. henry brierly was at the dilworthy's constantly and on such terms of intimacy that he came and went without question. the senator was not an inhospitable man, he liked to have guests in his house, and harry's gay humor and rattling way entertained him; for even the most devout men and busy statesmen must have hours of relaxation. harry himself believed that he was of great service in the university business, and that the success of the scheme depended upon him to a great degree. he spent many hours in talking it over with the senator after dinner. he went so far as to consider whether it would be worth his while to take the professorship of civil engineering in the new institution. but it was not the senator's society nor his dinners--at which this scapegrace remarked that there was too much grace and too little wine --which attracted him to the house. the fact was the poor fellow hung around there day after day for the chance of seeing laura for five minutes at a time. for her presence at dinner he would endure the long bore of the senator's talk afterwards, while laura was off at some assembly, or excused herself on the plea of fatigue. now and then he accompanied her to some reception, and rarely, on off nights, he was blessed with her company in the parlor, when he sang, and was chatty and vivacious and performed a hundred little tricks of imitation and ventriloquism, and made himself as entertaining as a man could be. it puzzled him not a little that all his fascinations seemed to go for so little with laura; it was beyond his experience with women. sometimes laura was exceedingly kind and petted him a little, and took the trouble to exert her powers of pleasing, and to entangle him deeper and deeper. but this, it angered him afterwards to think, was in private; in public she was beyond his reach, and never gave occasion to the suspicion that she had any affair with him. he was never permitted to achieve the dignity of a serious flirtation with her in public. "why do you treat me so?" he once said, reproachfully. "treat you how?" asked laura in a sweet voice, lifting her eyebrows. "you know well enough. you let other fellows monopolize you in society, and you are as indifferent to me as if we were strangers." "can i help it if they are attentive, can i be rude? but we are such old friends, mr. brierly, that i didn't suppose you would be jealous." "i think i must be a very old friend, then, by your conduct towards me. by the same rule i should judge that col. selby must be very new." laura looked up quickly, as if about to return an indignant answer to such impertinence, but she only said, "well, what of col. selby, sauce-box?" "nothing, probably, you'll care for. your being with him so much is the town talk, that's all?" "what do people say?" asked laura calmly. "oh, they say a good many things. you are offended, though, to have me speak of it?" "not in the least. you are my true friend. i feel that i can trust you. you wouldn't deceive me, harry?" throwing into her eyes a look of trust and tenderness that melted away all his petulance and distrust. "what do they say?" "some say that you've lost your head about him; others that you don't care any more for him than you do for a dozen others, but that he is completely fascinated with you and about to desert his wife; and others say it is nonsense to suppose you would entangle yourself with a married man, and that your intimacy only arises from the matter of the cotton, claims, for which he wants your influence with dilworthy. but you know everybody is talked about more or less in washington. i shouldn't care; but i wish you wouldn't have so much to do with selby, laura," continued harry, fancying that he was now upon such terms that his, advice, would be heeded. "and you believed these slanders?" "i don't believe anything against you, laura, but col. selby does not mean you any good. i know you wouldn't be seen with him if you knew his reputation." "do you know him?" laura asked, as indifferently as she could. "only a little. i was at his lodgings' in georgetown a day or two ago, with col. sellers. sellers wanted to talk with him about some patent remedy he has, eye water, or something of that sort, which he wants to introduce into europe. selby is going abroad very soon." laura started; in spite of her self-control. "and his wife!--does he take his family? did you see his wife?" "yes. a dark little woman, rather worn--must have been pretty once though. has three or four children, one of them a baby. they'll all go of course. she said she should be glad enough to get away from washington. you know selby has got his claim allowed, and they say he has had a run, of luck lately at morrissey's." laura heard all this in a kind of stupor, looking straight at harry, without seeing him. is it possible, she was thinking, that this base wretch, after, all his promises, will take his wife and children and leave me? is it possible the town is saying all these things about me? and a look of bitterness coming into her face--does the fool think he can escape so? "you are angry with me, laura," said harry, not comprehending in the least what was going on in her mind. "angry?" she said, forcing herself to come back to his presence. "with you? oh no. i'm angry with the cruel world, which, pursues an independent woman as it never does a man. i'm grateful to you harry; i'm grateful to you for telling me of that odious man." and she rose from her chair and gave him her pretty hand, which the silly fellow took, and kissed and clung to. and he said many silly things, before she disengaged herself gently, and left him, saying it was time to dress, for dinner. and harry went away, excited, and a little hopeful, but only a little. the happiness was only a gleam, which departed and left him thoroughly, miserable. she never would love him, and she was going to the devil, besides. he couldn't shut his eyes to what he saw, nor his ears to what he heard of her. what had come over this thrilling young lady-killer? it was a pity to see such a gay butterfly broken on a wheel. was there something good in him, after all, that had been touched? he was in fact madly in love with this woman. it is not for us to analyze the passion and say whether it was a worthy one. it absorbed his whole nature and made him wretched enough. if he deserved punishment, what more would you have? perhaps this love was kindling a new heroism in him. he saw the road on which laura was going clearly enough, though he did not believe the worst he heard of her. he loved her too passionately to credit that for a moment. and it seemed to him that if he could compel her to recognize her position, and his own devotion, she might love him, and that he could save her. his love was so far ennobled, and become a very different thing from its beginning in hawkeye. whether he ever thought that if he could save her from ruin, he could give her up himself, is doubtful. such a pitch of virtue does not occur often in real life, especially in such natures as harry's, whose generosity and unselfishness were matters of temperament rather than habits or principles. he wrote a long letter to laura, an incoherent, passionate letter, pouring out his love as he could not do in her presence, and warning her as plainly as he dared of the dangers that surrounded her, and the risks she ran of compromising herself in many ways. laura read the letter, with a little sigh may be, as she thought of other days, but with contempt also, and she put it into the fire with the thought, "they are all alike." harry was in the habit of writing to philip freely, and boasting also about his doings, as he could not help doing and remain himself. mixed up with his own exploits, and his daily triumphs as a lobbyist, especially in the matter of the new university, in which harry was to have something handsome, were amusing sketches of washington society, hints about dilworthy, stories about col. sellers, who had become a well-known character, and wise remarks upon the machinery of private legislation for the public-good, which greatly entertained philip in his convalescence. laura's name occurred very often in these letters, at first in casual mention as the belle of the season, carrying everything before her with her wit and beauty, and then more seriously, as if harry did not exactly like so much general admiration of her, and was a little nettled by her treatment of him. this was so different from harry's usual tone about women, that philip wondered a good deal over it. could it be possible that he was seriously affected? then came stories about laura, town talk, gossip which harry denied the truth of indignantly; but he was evidently uneasy, and at length wrote in such miserable spirits that philip asked him squarely what the trouble was; was he in love? upon this, harry made a clean breast of it, and told philip all he knew about the selby affair, and laura's treatment of him, sometimes encouraging him--and then throwing him off, and finally his belief that she would go, to the bad if something was not done to arouse her from her infatuation. he wished philip was in washington. he knew laura, and she had a great respect for his character, his opinions, his judgment. perhaps he, as an uninterested person whom she would have some confidence, and as one of the public, could say some thing to her that would show her where she stood. philip saw the situation clearly enough. of laura he knew not much, except that she was a woman of uncommon fascination, and he thought from what he had seen of her in hawkeye, her conduct towards him and towards harry, of not too much principle. of course he knew nothing of her history; he knew nothing seriously against her, and if harry was desperately enamored of her, why should he not win her if he could. if, however, she had already become what harry uneasily felt she might become, was it not his duty to go to the rescue of his friend and try to save him from any rash act on account of a woman that might prove to be entirely unworthy of him; for trifler and visionary as he was, harry deserved a better fate than this. philip determined to go to washington and see for himself. he had other reasons also. he began to know enough of mr. bolton's affairs to be uneasy. pennybacker had been there several times during the winter, and he suspected that he was involving mr. bolton in some doubtful scheme. pennybacker was in washington, and philip thought he might perhaps find out something about him, and his plans, that would be of service to mr. bolton. philip had enjoyed his winter very well, for a man with his arm broken and his head smashed. with two such nurses as ruth and alice, illness seemed to him rather a nice holiday, and every moment of his convalescence had been precious and all too fleeting. with a young fellow of the habits of philip, such injuries cannot be counted on to tarry long, even for the purpose of love-making, and philip found himself getting strong with even disagreeable rapidity. during his first weeks of pain and weakness, ruth was unceasing in her ministrations; she quietly took charge of him, and with a gentle firmness resisted all attempts of alice or any one else to share to any great extent the burden with her. she was clear, decisive and peremptory in whatever she did; but often when philip, opened his eyes in those first days of suffering and found her standing by his bedside, he saw a look of tenderness in her anxious face that quickened his already feverish pulse, a look that, remained in his heart long after he closed his eyes. sometimes he felt her hand on his forehead, and did not open his eyes for fear she world take it away. he watched for her coming to his chamber; he could distinguish her light footstep from all others. if this is what is meant by women practicing medicine, thought philip to himself, i like it. "ruth," said he one day when he was getting to be quite himself, "i believe in it?" "believe in what?" "why, in women physicians." "then, i'd better call in mrs. dr. longstreet." "oh, no. one will do, one at a time. i think i should be well tomorrow, if i thought i should never have any other." "thy physician thinks thee mustn't talk, philip," said ruth putting her finger on his lips. "but, ruth, i want to tell you that i should wish i never had got well if--" "there, there, thee must not talk. thee is wandering again," and ruth closed his lips, with a smile on her own that broadened into a merry laugh as she ran away. philip was not weary, however, of making these attempts, he rather enjoyed it. but whenever he inclined to be sentimental, ruth would cut him off, with some such gravely conceived speech as, "does thee think that thy physician will take advantage of the condition of a man who is as weak as thee is? i will call alice, if thee has any dying confessions to make." as philip convalesced, alice more and more took ruth's place as his entertainer, and read to him by the hour, when he did not want to talk --to talk about ruth, as he did a good deal of the time. nor was this altogether unsatisfactory to philip. he was always happy and contented with alice. she was the most restful person he knew. better informed than ruth and with a much more varied culture, and bright and sympathetic, he was never weary of her company, if he was not greatly excited by it. she had upon his mind that peaceful influence that mrs. bolton had when, occasionally, she sat by his bedside with her work. some people have this influence, which is like an emanation. they bring peace to a house, they diffuse serene content in a room full of mixed company, though they may say very little, and are apparently, unconscious of their own power. not that philip did not long for ruth's presence all the same. since he was well enough to be about the house, she was busy again with her studies. now and then her teasing humor came again. she always had a playful shield against his sentiment. philip used sometimes to declare that she had no sentiment; and then he doubted if he should be pleased with her after all if she were at all sentimental; and he rejoiced that she had, in such matters what he called the airy grace of sanity. she was the most gay serious person he ever saw. perhaps he waw not so much at rest or so contented with her as with alice. but then he loved her. and what have rest and contentment to do with love? chapter xlii mr. buckstone's campaign was brief--much briefer than he supposed it would be. he began it purposing to win laura without being won himself; but his experience was that of all who had fought on that field before him; he diligently continued his effort to win her, but he presently found that while as yet he could not feel entirely certain of having won her, it was very manifest that she had won him. he had made an able fight, brief as it was, and that at least was to his credit. he was in good company, now; he walked in a leash of conspicuous captives. these unfortunates followed laura helplessly, for whenever she took a prisoner he remained her slave henceforth. sometimes they chafed in their bondage; sometimes they tore themselves free and said their serfdom was ended; but sooner or later they always came back penitent and worshiping. laura pursued her usual course: she encouraged mr. buckstone by turns, and by turns she harassed him; she exalted him to the clouds at one time, and at another she dragged him down again. she constituted him chief champion of the knobs university bill, and he accepted the position, at first reluctantly, but later as a valued means of serving her--he even came to look upon it as a piece of great good fortune, since it brought him into such frequent contact with her. through him she learned that the hon. mr. trollop was a bitter enemy of her bill. he urged her not to attempt to influence mr. trollop in any way, and explained that whatever she might attempt in that direction would surely be used against her and with damaging effect. she at first said she knew mr. trollop, "and was aware that he had a blank-blank;"--[**her private figure of speech for brother--or son-in-law]--but mr. buckstone said that he was not able to conceive what so curious a phrase as blank-blank might mean, and had no wish to pry into the matter, since it was probably private, he "would nevertheless venture the blind assertion that nothing would answer in this particular case and during this particular session but to be exceedingly wary and keep clear away from mr. trollop; any other course would be fatal." it seemed that nothing could be done. laura was seriously troubled. everything was looking well, and yet it was plain that one vigorous and determined enemy might eventually succeed in overthrowing all her plans. a suggestion came into her mind presently and she said: "can't you fight against his great pension bill and, bring him to terms?" "oh, never; he and i are sworn brothers on that measure; we work in harness and are very loving--i do everything i possibly can for him there. but i work with might and main against his immigration bill, --as pertinaciously and as vindictively, indeed, as he works against our university. we hate each other through half a conversation and are all affection through the other half. we understand each other. he is an admirable worker outside the capitol; he will do more for the pension bill than any other man could do; i wish he would make the great speech on it which he wants to make--and then i would make another and we would be safe." "well if he wants to make a great speech why doesn't he do it?" visitors interrupted the conversation and mr. buckstone took his leave. it was not of the least moment to laura that her question had not been answered, inasmuch as it concerned a thing which did not interest her; and yet, human being like, she thought she would have liked to know. an opportunity occurring presently, she put the same question to another person and got an answer that satisfied her. she pondered a good while that night, after she had gone to bed, and when she finally turned over, to, go to sleep, she had thought out a new scheme. the next evening at mrs. gloverson's party, she said to mr. buckstone: "i want mr. trollop to make his great speech on the pension bill." "do you? but you remember i was interrupted, and did not explain to you--" "never mind, i know. you must' make him make that speech. i very. particularly desire, it." "oh, it is easy, to say make him do it, but how am i to make him!" "it is perfectly easy; i have thought it all out." she then went into the details. at length mr. buckstone said: "i see now. i can manage it, i am sure. indeed i wonder he never thought of it himself--there are no end of precedents. but how is this going to benefit you, after i have managed it? there is where the mystery lies." "but i will take care of that. it will benefit me a great deal." "i only wish i could see how; it is the oddest freak. you seem to go the furthest around to get at a thing--but you are in earnest, aren't you?" "yes i am, indeed." "very well, i will do it--but why not tell me how you imagine it is going to help you?" "i will, by and by.--now there is nobody talking to him. go straight and do it, there's a good fellow." a moment or two later the two sworn friends of the pension bill were talking together, earnestly, and seemingly unconscious of the moving throng about them. they talked an hour, and then mr. buckstone came back and said: "he hardly fancied it at first, but he fell in love with it after a bit. and we have made a compact, too. i am to keep his secret and he is to spare me, in future, when he gets ready to denounce the supporters of the university bill--and i can easily believe he will keep his word on this occasion." a fortnight elapsed, and the university bill had gathered to itself many friends, meantime. senator dilworthy began to think the harvest was ripe. he conferred with laura privately. she was able to tell him exactly how the house would vote. there was a majority--the bill would pass, unless weak members got frightened at the last, and deserted--a thing pretty likely to occur. the senator said: "i wish we had one more good strong man. now trollop ought to be on our side, for he is a friend of the negro. but he is against us, and is our bitterest opponent. if he would simply vote no, but keep quiet and not molest us, i would feel perfectly cheerful and content. but perhaps there is no use in thinking of that." "why i laid a little plan for his benefit two weeks ago. i think he will be tractable, maybe. he is to come here tonight." "look out for him, my child! he means mischief, sure. it is said that he claims to know of improper practices having been used in the interest of this bill, and he thinks be sees a chance to make a great sensation when the bill comes up. be wary. be very, very careful, my dear. do your very-ablest talking, now. you can convince a man of anything, when you try. you must convince him that if anything improper has been done, you at least are ignorant of it and sorry for it. and if you could only persuade him out of his hostility to the bill, too--but don't overdo the thing; don't seem too anxious, dear." "i won't; i'll be ever so careful. i'll talk as sweetly to him as if he were my own child! you may trust me--indeed you may." the door-bell rang. "that is the gentleman now," said laura. senator dilworthy retired to his study. laura welcomed mr. trollop, a grave, carefully dressed and very respectable looking man, with a bald head, standing collar and old fashioned watch seals. "promptness is a virtue, mr. trollop, and i perceive that you have it. you are always prompt with me." "i always meet my engagements, of every kind, miss hawkins." "it is a quality which is rarer in the world than it has been, i believe. i wished to see you on business, mr. trollop." "i judged so. what can i do for you?" "you know my bill--the knobs university bill?" "ah, i believe it is your bill. i had forgotten. yes, i know the bill." "well, would you mind telling me your opinion of it?" "indeed, since you seem to ask it without reserve, i am obliged to say that i do not regard it favorably. i have not seen the bill itself, but from what i can hear, it--it--well, it has a bad look about it. it--" "speak it out--never fear." "well, it--they say it contemplates a fraud upon the government." "well?" said laura tranquilly. "well! i say 'well?' too." "well, suppose it were a fraud--which i feel able to deny--would it be the first one?" "you take a body's breath away! would you--did you wish me to vote for it? was that what you wanted to see me about?" "your instinct is correct. i did want you--i do want you to vote for it." "vote for a fr--for a measure which is generally believed to be at least questionable? i am afraid we cannot come to an understanding, miss hawkins." "no, i am afraid not--if you have resumed your principles, mr. trollop." "did you send for we merely to insult me? it is time for me to take my leave, miss hawkins." "no-wait a moment. don't be offended at a trifle. do not be offish and unsociable. the steamship subsidy bill was a fraud on the government. you voted for it, mr. trollop, though you always opposed the measure until after you had an interview one evening with a certain mrs. mccarter at her house. she was my agent. she was acting for me. ah, that is right--sit down again. you can be sociable, easily enough if you have a mind to. well? i am waiting. have you nothing to say?" "miss hawkins, i voted for that bill because when i came to examine into it--" "ah yes. when you came to examine into it. well, i only want you to examine into my bill. mr. trollop, you would not sell your vote on that subsidy bill--which was perfectly right--but you accepted of some of the stock, with the understanding that it was to stand in your brother-in-law's name." "there is no pr--i mean, this is, utterly groundless, miss hawkins." but the gentleman seemed somewhat uneasy, nevertheless. "well, not entirely so, perhaps. i and a person whom we will call miss blank (never mind the real name,) were in a closet at your elbow all the while." mr. trollop winced--then he said with dignity: "miss hawkins is it possible that you were capable of such a thing as that?" "it was bad; i confess that. it was bad. almost as bad as selling one's vote for--but i forget; you did not sell your vote--you only accepted a little trifle, a small token of esteem, for your brother-in-law. oh, let us come out and be frank with each other: i know you, mr. trollop. i have met you on business three or four times; true, i never offered to corrupt your principles--never hinted such a thing; but always when i had finished sounding you, i manipulated you through an agent. let us be frank. wear this comely disguise of virtue before the public--it will count there; but here it is out of place. my dear sir, by and by there is going to be an investigation into that national internal improvement directors' relief measure of a few years ago, and you know very well that you will be a crippled man, as likely as not, when it is completed." "it cannot be shown that a man is a knave merely for owning that stock. i am not distressed about the national improvement relief measure." "oh indeed i am not trying to distress you. i only wished, to make good my assertion that i knew you. several of you gentlemen bought of that stack (without paying a penny down) received dividends from it, (think of the happy idea of receiving dividends, and very large ones, too, from stock one hasn't paid for!) and all the while your names never appeared in the transaction; if ever you took the stock at all, you took it in other people's names. now you see, you had to know one of two things; namely, you either knew that the idea of all this preposterous generosity was to bribe you into future legislative friendship, or you didn't know it. that is to say, you had to be either a knave or a--well, a fool --there was no middle ground. you are not a fool, mr. trollop." "miss hawking you flatter me. but seriously, you do not forget that some of the best and purest men in congress took that stock in that way?" "did senator bland?" "well, no--i believe not." "of course you believe not. do you suppose he was ever approached, on the subject?" "perhaps not." "if you had approached him, for instance, fortified with the fact that some of the best men in congress, and the purest, etc., etc.; what would have been the result?" "well, what would have been the result?" "he would have shown you the door! for mr. blank is neither a knave nor a fool. there are other men in the senate and the house whom no one would have been hardy enough to approach with that relief stock in that peculiarly generous way, but they are not of the class that you regard as the best and purest. no, i say i know you mr. trollop. that is to say, one may suggest a thing to mr. trollop which it would not do to suggest to mr. blank. mr. trollop, you are pledged to support the indigent congressmen's retroactive appropriation which is to come up, either in this or the next session. you do not deny that, even in public. the man that will vote for that bill will break the eighth commandment in any other way, sir!" "but he will not vote for your corrupt measure, nevertheless, madam!" exclaimed mr. trollop, rising from his seat in a passion. "ah, but he will. sit down again, and let me explain why. oh, come, don't behave so. it is very unpleasant. now be good, and you shall have, the missing page of your great speech. here it is!"--and she displayed a sheet of manuscript. mr. trollop turned immediately back from the threshold. it might have been gladness that flashed into his face; it might have been something else; but at any rate there was much astonishment mixed with it. "good! where did you get it? give it me!" "now there is no hurry. sit down; sit down and let us talk and be friendly." the gentleman wavered. then he said: "no, this is only a subterfuge. i will go. it is not the missing page." laura tore off a couple of lines from the bottom of the sheet. "now," she said, "you will know whether this is the handwriting or not. you know it is the handwriting. now if you will listen, you will know that this must be the list of statistics which was to be the 'nub' of your great effort, and the accompanying blast the beginning of the burst of eloquence which was continued on the next page--and you will recognize that there was where you broke down." she read the page. mr. trollop said: "this is perfectly astounding. still, what is all this to me? it is nothing. it does not concern me. the speech is made, and there an end. i did break down for a moment, and in a rather uncomfortable place, since i had led up to those statistics with some grandeur; the hiatus was pleasanter to the house and the galleries than it was to me. but it is no matter now. a week has passed; the jests about it ceased three or four days ago. the, whole thing is a matter of indifference to me, miss hawkins." "but you apologized; and promised the statistics for next day. why didn't you keep your promise." "the matter was not of sufficient consequence. the time was gone by to produce an effect with them." "but i hear that other friends of the soldiers' pension bill desire them very much. i think you ought to let them have them." "miss hawkins, this silly blunder of my copyist evidently has more interest for you than it has for me. i will send my private secretary to you and let him discuss the subject with you at length." "did he copy your speech for you?" "of course he did. why all these questions? tell me--how did you get hold of that page of manuscript? that is the only thing that stirs a passing interest in my mind." "i'm coming to that." then she said, much as if she were talking to herself: "it does seem like taking a deal of unnecessary pains, for a body to hire another body to construct a great speech for him and then go and get still another body to copy it before it can be read in the house." "miss hawkins, what do yo mean by such talk as that?" "why i am sure i mean no harm--no harm to anybody in the world. i am certain that i overheard the hon. mr. buckstone either promise to write your great speech for you or else get some other competent person to do it." "this is perfectly absurd, madam, perfectly absurd!" and mr. trollop affected a laugh of derision. "why, the thing has occurred before now. i mean that i have heard that congressmen have sometimes hired literary grubs to build speeches for them.--now didn't i overhear a conversation like that i spoke of?" "pshaw! why of course you may have overheard some such jesting nonsense. but would one be in earnest about so farcical a thing?" "well if it was only a joke, why did you make a serious matter of it? why did you get the speech written for you, and then read it in the house without ever having it copied?" mr. trollop did not laugh this time; he seemed seriously perplexed. he said: "come, play out your jest, miss hawkins. i can't understand what you are contriving--but it seems to entertain you--so please, go on." "i will, i assure you; but i hope to make the matter entertaining to you, too. your private secretary never copied your speech." "indeed? really you seem to know my affairs better than i do myself." "i believe i do. you can't name your own amanuensis, mr. trollop." "that is sad, indeed. perhaps miss hawkins can?" "yes, i can. i wrote your speech myself, and you read it from my manuscript. there, now!" mr. trollop did not spring to his feet and smite his brow with his hand while a cold sweat broke out all over him and the color forsook his face --no, he only said, "good god!" and looked greatly astonished. laura handed him her commonplace-book and called his attention to the fact that the handwriting there and the handwriting of this speech were the same. he was shortly convinced. he laid the book aside and said, composedly: "well, the wonderful tragedy is done, and it transpires that i am indebted to you for my late eloquence. what of it? what was all this for and what does it amount to after all? what do you propose to do about it?" "oh nothing. it is only a bit of pleasantry. when i overheard that conversation i took an early opportunity to ask mr. buckstone if he knew of anybody who might want a speech written--i had a friend, and so forth and so on. i was the friend, myself; i thought i might do you a good turn then and depend on you to do me one by and by. i never let mr. buckstone have the speech till the last moment, and when you hurried off to the house with it, you did not know there was a missing page, of course, but i did. "and now perhaps you think that if i refuse to support your bill, you will make a grand exposure?" "well i had not thought of that. i only kept back the page for the mere fun of the thing; but since you mention it, i don't know but i might do something if i were angry." "my dear miss hawkins, if you were to give out that you composed my speech, you know very well that people would say it was only your raillery, your fondness for putting a victim in the pillory and amusing the public at his expense. it is too flimsy, miss hawkins, for a person of your fine inventive talent--contrive an abler device than that. come!" "it is easily done, mr. trollop. i will hire a man, and pin this page on his breast, and label it, 'the missing fragment of the hon. mr. trollop's great speech--which speech was written and composed by miss laura hawkins under a secret understanding for one hundred dollars--and the money has not been paid.' and i will pin round about it notes in my handwriting, which i will procure from prominent friends of mine for the occasion; also your printed speech in the globe, showing the connection between its bracketed hiatus and my fragment; and i give you my word of honor that i will stand that human bulletin board in the rotunda of the capitol and make him stay there a week! you see you are premature, mr. trollop, the wonderful tragedy is not done yet, by any means. come, now, doesn't it improve?" mr trollop opened his eyes rather widely at this novel aspect of the case. he got up and walked the floor and gave himself a moment for reflection. then he stopped and studied laura's face a while, and ended by saying: "well, i am obliged to believe you would be reckless enough to do that." "then don't put me to the test, mr. trollop. but let's drop the matter. i have had my joke and you've borne the infliction becomingly enough. it spoils a jest to harp on it after one has had one's laugh. i would much rather talk about my bill." "so would i, now, my clandestine amanuensis. compared with some other subjects, even your bill is a pleasant topic to discuss." "very good indeed! i thought. i could persuade you. now i am sure you will be generous to the poor negro and vote for that bill." "yes, i feel more tenderly toward the oppressed colored man than i did. shall we bury the hatchet and be good friends and respect each other's little secrets, on condition that i vote aye on the measure?" "with all my heart, mr. trollop. i give you my word of that." "it is a bargain. but isn't there something else you could give me, too?" laura looked at him inquiringly a moment, and then she comprehended. "oh, yes! you may have it now. i haven't any, more use for it." she picked up the page of manuscript, but she reconsidered her intention of handing it to him, and said, "but never mind; i will keep it close; no one shall see it; you shall have it as soon as your vote is recorded." mr. trollop looked disappointed. but presently made his adieux, and had got as far as the hall, when something occurred to laura. she said to herself, "i don't simply want his vote under compulsion--he might vote aye, but work against the bill in secret, for revenge; that man is unscrupulous enough to do anything. i must have his hearty co-operation as well as his vote. there is only one way to get that." she called him back, and said: "i value your vote, mr. trollop, but i value your influence more. you are able to help a measure along in many ways, if you choose. i want to ask you to work for the bill as well as vote for it." "it takes so much of one's time, miss hawkins--and time is money, you know." "yes, i know it is--especially in congress. now there is no use in you and i dealing in pretenses and going at matters in round-about ways. we know each other--disguises are nonsense. let us be plain. i will make it an object to you to work for the bill." "don't make it unnecessarily plain, please. there are little proprieties that are best preserved. what do you propose?" "well, this." she mentioned the names of several prominent congressmen. "now," said she, "these gentlemen are to vote and work for the bill, simply out of love for the negro--and out of pure generosity i have put in a relative of each as a member of the university incorporation. they will handle a million or so of money, officially, but will receive no salaries. a larger number of statesmen are to, vote and work for the bill--also out of love for the negro--gentlemen of but moderate influence, these--and out of pure generosity i am to see that relatives of theirs have positions in the university, with salaries, and good ones, too. you will vote and work for the bill, from mere affection for the negro, and i desire to testify my gratitude becomingly. make free choice. have you any friend whom you would like to present with a salaried or unsalaried position in our institution?" "well, i have a brother-in-law--" "that same old brother-in-law, you good unselfish provider! i have heard of him often, through my agents. how regularly he does 'turn up,' to be sure. he could deal with those millions virtuously, and withal with ability, too--but of course you would rather he had a salaried position?" "oh, no," said the gentleman, facetiously, "we are very humble, very humble in our desires; we want no money; we labor solely, for our country and require no reward but the luxury of an applauding conscience. make him one of those poor hard working unsalaried corporators and let him do every body good with those millions--and go hungry himself! i will try to exert a little influence in favor of the bill." arrived at home, mr. trollop sat down and thought it all over--something after this fashion: it is about the shape it might have taken if he had spoken it aloud. "my reputation is getting a little damaged, and i meant to clear it up brilliantly with an exposure of this bill at the supreme moment, and ride back into congress on the eclat of it; and if i had that bit of manuscript, i would do it yet. it would be more money in my pocket in the end, than my brother-in-law will get out of that incorporatorship, fat as it is. but that sheet of paper is out of my reach--she will never let that get out of her hands. and what a mountain it is! it blocks up my road, completely. she was going to hand it to me, once. why didn't she! must be a deep woman. deep devil! that is what she is; a beautiful devil--and perfectly fearless, too. the idea of her pinning that paper on a man and standing him up in the rotunda looks absurd at a first glance. but she would do it! she is capable of doing anything. i went there hoping she would try to bribe me--good solid capital that would be in the exposure. well, my prayer was answered; she did try to bribe me; and i made the best of a bad bargain and let her. i am check-mated. i must contrive something fresh to get back to congress on. very well; a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; i will work for the bill--the incorporatorship will be a very good thing." as soon as mr. trollop had taken his leave, laura ran to senator dilworthy and began to speak, but he interrupted her and said distressfully, without even turning from his writing to look at her: "only half an hour! you gave it up early, child. however, it was best, it was best--i'm sure it was best--and safest." "give it up! i!" the senator sprang up, all aglow: "my child, you can't mean that you--" "i've made him promise on honor to think about a compromise tonight and come and tell me his decision in the morning." "good! there's hope yet that--" nonsense, uncle. i've made him engage to let the tennessee land bill utterly alone!" "impossible! you--" "i've made him promise to vote with us!" "incredible! abso--" "i've made him swear that he'll work for us!" "pre - - - posterous!--utterly pre--break a window, child, before i suffocate!" "no matter, it's true anyway. now we can march into congress with drums beating and colors flying!" "well--well--well. i'm sadly bewildered, sadly bewildered. i can't understand it at all--the most extraordinary woman that ever--it's a great day, it's a great day. there--there--let me put my hand in benediction on this precious head. ah, my child, the poor negro will bless--" "oh bother the poor negro, uncle! put it in your speech. good-night, good-bye--we'll marshal our forces and march with the dawn!" laura reflected a while, when she was alone, and then fell to laughing, peacefully. "everybody works for me,"--so ran her thought. "it was a good idea to make buckstone lead mr. trollop on to get a great speech written for him; and it was a happy part of the same idea for me to copy the speech after mr. buckstone had written it, and then keep back a page. mr. b. was very complimentary to me when trollop's break-down in the house showed him the object of my mysterious scheme; i think he will say, still finer things when i tell him the triumph the sequel to it has gained for us. "but what a coward the man was, to believe i would have exposed that page in the rotunda, and so exposed myself. however, i don't know--i don't know. i will think a moment. suppose he voted no; suppose the bill failed; that is to suppose this stupendous game lost forever, that i have played so desperately for; suppose people came around pitying me--odious! and he could have saved me by his single voice. yes, i would have exposed him! what would i care for the talk that that would have made about me when i was gone to europe with selby and all the world was busy with my history and my dishonor? it would be almost happiness to spite somebody at such a time." chapter xliii. the very next day, sure enough, the campaign opened. in due course, the speaker of the house reached that order of business which is termed "notices of bills," and then the hon. mr. buckstone rose in his place and gave notice of a bill "to found and incorporate the knobs industrial university," and then sat down without saying anything further. the busy gentlemen in the reporters' gallery jotted a line in their note-books, ran to the telegraphic desk in a room which communicated with their own writing-parlor, and then hurried back to their places in the gallery; and by the time they had resumed their seats, the line which they had delivered to the operator had been read in telegraphic offices in towns and cities hundreds of miles away. it was distinguished by frankness of language as well as by brevity: "the child is born. buckstone gives notice of the thieving knobs university job. it is said the noses have been counted and enough votes have been bought to pass it." for some time the correspondents had been posting their several journals upon the alleged disreputable nature of the bill, and furnishing daily reports of the washington gossip concerning it. so the next morning, nearly every newspaper of character in the land assailed the measure and hurled broadsides of invective at mr. buckstone. the washington papers were more respectful, as usual--and conciliatory, also, as usual. they generally supported measures, when it was possible; but when they could not they "deprecated" violent expressions of opinion in other journalistic quarters. they always deprecated, when there was trouble ahead. however, 'the washington daily love-feast' hailed the bill with warm approbation. this was senator balaam's paper--or rather, "brother" balaam, as he was popularly called, for he had been a clergyman, in his day; and he himself and all that he did still emitted an odor of sanctity now that he had diverged into journalism and politics. he was a power in the congressional prayer meeting, and in all movements that looked to the spread of religion and temperance. his paper supported the new bill with gushing affection; it was a noble measure; it was a just measure; it was a generous measure; it was a pure measure, and that surely should recommend it in these corrupt times; and finally, if the nature of the bill were not known at all, the 'love feast' would support it anyway, and unhesitatingly, for the fact that senator dilworthy was the originator of the measure was a guaranty that it contemplated a worthy and righteous work. senator dilworthy was so anxious to know what the new york papers would say about the bill; that he had arranged to have synopses of their editorials telegraphed to him; he could not wait for the papers themselves to crawl along down to washington by a mail train which has never run over a cow since the road was built; for the reason that it has never been able to overtake one. it carries the usual "cow-catcher" in front of the locomotive, but this is mere ostentation. it ought to be attached to the rear car, where it could do some good; but instead, no provision is made there for the protection of the traveling public, and hence it is not a matter of surprise that cows so frequently climb aboard that train and among the passengers. the senator read his dispatches aloud at the breakfast table. laura was troubled beyond measure at their tone, and said that that sort of comment would defeat the bill; but the senator said: "oh, not at all, not at all, my child. it is just what we want. persecution is the one thing needful, now--all the other forces are secured. give us newspaper persecution enough, and we are safe. vigorous persecution will alone carry a bill sometimes, dear; and when you start with a strong vote in the first place, persecution comes in with double effect. it scares off some of the weak supporters, true, but it soon turns strong ones into stubborn ones. and then, presently, it changes the tide of public opinion. the great public is weak-minded; the great public is sentimental; the great public always turns around and weeps for an odious murderer, and prays for-him, and carries flowers to his prison and besieges the governor with appeals to his clemency, as soon as the papers begin to howl for that man's blood.--in a word, the great putty-hearted public loves to 'gush,' and there is no such darling opportunity to gush as a case of persecution affords." "well, uncle, dear; if your theory is right, let us go into raptures, for nobody can ask a heartier persecution than these editorials are furnishing." "i am not so sure of that, my daughter. i don't entirely like the tone of some of these remarks. they lack vim, they lack venom. here is one calls it a 'questionable measure.' bah, there is no strength in that. this one is better; it calls it 'highway robbery.' that sounds something like. but now this one seems satisfied to call it an 'iniquitous scheme'. 'iniquitous' does not exasperate anybody; it is weak--puerile. the ignorant will imagine it to be intended for a compliment. but this other one--the one i read last--has the true ring: 'this vile, dirty effort to rob the public treasury, by the kites and vultures that now infest the filthy den called congress'--that is admirable, admirable! we must have more of that sort. but it will come--no fear of that; they're not warmed up, yet. a week from now you'll see." "uncle, you and brother balaam are bosom friends--why don't you get his paper to persecute us, too?" "it isn't worth while, my, daughter. his support doesn't hurt a bill. nobody reads his editorials but himself. but i wish the new york papers would talk a little plainer. it is annoying to have to wait a week for them to warm up. i expected better things at their hands--and time is precious, now." at the proper hour, according to his previous notice, mr. buckstone duly introduced his bill entitled "an act to found and incorporate the knobs industrial university," moved its proper reference, and sat down. the speaker of the house rattled off this observation: "'fnobjectionbilltakuzhlcoixrssoreferred!'" habitues of the house comprehended that this long, lightning-heeled word signified that if there was no objection, the bill would take the customary course of a measure of its nature, and be referred to the committee on benevolent appropriations, and that it was accordingly so referred. strangers merely supposed that the speaker was taking a gargle for some affection of the throat. the reporters immediately telegraphed the introduction of the bill.--and they added: "the assertion that the bill will pass was premature. it is said that many favorers of it will desert when the storm breaks upon them from the public press." the storm came, and during ten days it waxed more and more violent day by day. the great "negro university swindle" became the one absorbing topic of conversation throughout the union. individuals denounced it, journals denounced it, public meetings denounced it, the pictorial papers caricatured its friends, the whole nation seemed to be growing frantic over it. meantime the washington correspondents were sending such telegrams as these abroad in the land; under date of-- saturday. "congressmen jex and fluke are wavering; it is believed they will desert the execrable bill." monday. "jex and fluke have deserted!" thursday. "tubbs and huffy left the sinking ship last night" later on: "three desertions. the university thieves are getting scared, though they will not own it." later: "the leaders are growing stubborn--they swear they can carry it, but it is now almost certain that they no longer have a majority!" after a day or two of reluctant and ambiguous telegrams: "public sentiment seems changing, a trifle in favor of the bill --but only a trifle." and still later: "it is whispered that the hon. mr. trollop has gone over to the pirates. it is probably a canard. mr. trollop has all along been the bravest and most efficient champion of virtue and the people against the bill, and the report is without doubt a shameless invention." next day: "with characteristic treachery, the truckling and pusillanimous reptile, crippled-speech trollop, has gone over to the enemy. it is contended, now, that he has been a friend to the bill, in secret, since the day it was introduced, and has had bankable reasons for being so; but he himself declares that he has gone over because the malignant persecution of the bill by the newspapers caused him to study its provisions with more care than he had previously done, and this close examination revealed the fact that the measure is one in every way worthy of support. (pretty thin!) it cannot be denied that this desertion has had a damaging effect. jex and fluke have returned to their iniquitous allegiance, with six or eight others of lesser calibre, and it is reported and believed that tubbs and huffy are ready to go back. it is feared that the university swindle is stronger to-day than it has ever been before." later-midnight: "it is said that the committee will report the bill back to-morrow. both sides are marshaling their forces, and the fight on this bill is evidently going to be the hottest of the session.--all washington is boiling." chapter xliv. "it's easy enough for another fellow to talk," said harry, despondingly, after he had put philip in possession of his view of the case. "it's easy enough to say 'give her up,' if you don't care for her. what am i going to do to give her up?" it seemed to harry that it was a situation requiring some active measures. he couldn't realize that he had fallen hopelessly in love without some rights accruing to him for the possession of the object of his passion. quiet resignation under relinquishment of any thing he wanted was not in his line. and when it appeared to him that his surrender of laura would be the withdrawal of the one barrier that kept her from ruin, it was unreasonable to expect that he could see how to give her up. harry had the most buoyant confidence in his own projects always; he saw everything connected with himself in a large way and in rosy lines. this predominance of the imagination over the judgment gave that appearance of exaggeration to his conversation and to his communications with regard to himself, which sometimes conveyed the impression that he was not speaking the truth. his acquaintances had been known to say that they invariably allowed a half for shrinkage in his statements, and held the other half under advisement for confirmation. philip in this case could not tell from harry's story exactly how much encouragement laura had given him, nor what hopes he might justly have of winning her. he had never seen him desponding before. the "brag" appeared to be all taken out of him, and his airy manner only asserted itself now and then in a comical imitation of its old self. philip wanted time to look about him before he decided what to do. he was not familiar with washington, and it was difficult to adjust his feelings and perceptions to its peculiarities. coming out of the sweet sanity of the bolton household, this was by contrast the maddest vanity fair one could conceive. it seemed to him a feverish, unhealthy atmosphere in which lunacy would be easily developed. he fancied that everybody attached to himself an exaggerated importance, from the fact of being at the national capital, the center of political influence, the fountain of patronage, preferment, jobs and opportunities. people were introduced to each other as from this or that state, not from cities or towns, and this gave a largeness to their representative feeling. all the women talked politics as naturally and glibly as they talk fashion or literature elsewhere. there was always some exciting topic at the capitol, or some huge slander was rising up like a miasmatic exhalation from the potomac, threatening to settle no one knew exactly where. every other person was an aspirant for a place, or, if he had one, for a better place, or more pay; almost every other one had some claim or interest or remedy to urge; even the women were all advocates for the advancement of some person, and they violently espoused or denounced this or that measure as it would affect some relative, acquaintance or friend. love, travel, even death itself, waited on the chances of the dies daily thrown in the two houses, and the committee rooms there. if the measure went through, love could afford to ripen into marriage, and longing for foreign travel would have fruition; and it must have been only eternal hope springing in the breast that kept alive numerous old claimants who for years and years had besieged the doors of congress, and who looked as if they needed not so much an appropriation of money as six feet of ground. and those who stood so long waiting for success to bring them death were usually those who had a just claim. representing states and talking of national and even international affairs, as familiarly as neighbors at home talk of poor crops and the extravagance of their ministers, was likely at first to impose upon philip as to the importance of the people gathered here. there was a little newspaper editor from phil's native town, the assistant on a peddletonian weekly, who made his little annual joke about the "first egg laid on our table," and who was the menial of every tradesman in the village and under bonds to him for frequent "puffs," except the undertaker, about whose employment he was recklessly facetious. in washington he was an important man, correspondent, and clerk of two house committees, a "worker" in politics, and a confident critic of every woman and every man in washington. he would be a consul no doubt by and by, at some foreign port, of the language of which he was ignorant--though if ignorance of language were a qualification he might have been a consul at home. his easy familiarity with great men was beautiful to see, and when philip learned what a tremendous underground influence this little ignoramus had, he no longer wondered at the queer appointments and the queerer legislation. philip was not long in discovering that people in washington did not differ much from other people; they had the same meannesses, generosities, and tastes: a washington boarding house had the odor of a boarding house the world over. col. sellers was as unchanged as any one philip saw whom he had known elsewhere. washington appeared to be the native element of this man. his pretentions were equal to any he encountered there. he saw nothing in its society that equalled that of hawkeye, he sat down to no table that could not be unfavorably contrasted with his own at home; the most airy scheme inflated in the hot air of the capital only reached in magnitude some of his lesser fancies, the by-play of his constructive imagination. "the country is getting along very well," he said to philip, "but our public men are too timid. what we want is more money. i've told boutwell so. talk about basing the currency on gold; you might as well base it on pork. gold is only one product. base it on everything! you've got to do something for the west. how am i to move my crops? we must have improvements. grant's got the idea. we want a canal from the james river to the mississippi. government ought to build it." it was difficult to get the colonel off from these large themes when he was once started, but philip brought the conversation round to laura and her reputation in the city. "no," he said, "i haven't noticed much. we've been so busy about this university. it will make laura rich with the rest of us, and she has done nearly as much as if she were a man. she has great talent, and will make a big match. i see the foreign ministers and that sort after her. yes, there is talk, always will be about a pretty woman so much in public as she is. tough stories come to me, but i put'em away. 'taint likely one of si hawkins's children would do that--for she is the same as a child of his. i told her, though, to go slow," added the colonel, as if that mysterious admonition from him would set everything right. "do you know anything about a col. selby?" "know all about him. fine fellow. but he's got a wife; and i told him, as a friend, he'd better sheer off from laura. i reckon he thought better of it and did." but philip was not long in learning the truth. courted as laura was by a certain class and still admitted into society, that, nevertheless, buzzed with disreputable stories about her, she had lost character with the best people. her intimacy with selby was open gossip, and there were winks and thrustings of the tongue in any group of men when she passed by. it was clear enough that harry's delusion must be broken up, and that no such feeble obstacle as his passion could interpose would turn laura from her fate. philip determined to see her, and put himself in possession of the truth, as he suspected it, in order to show harry his folly. laura, after her last conversation with harry, had a new sense of her position. she had noticed before the signs of a change in manner towards her, a little less respect perhaps from men, and an avoidance by women. she had attributed this latter partly to jealousy of her, for no one is willing to acknowledge a fault in himself when a more agreeable motive can be found for the estrangement of his acquaintances. but now, if society had turned on her, she would defy it. it was not in her nature to shrink. she knew she had been wronged, and she knew that she had no remedy. what she heard of col. selby's proposed departure alarmed her more than anything else, and she calmly determined that if he was deceiving her the second time it should be the last. let society finish the tragedy if it liked; she was indifferent what came after. at the first opportunity, she charged selby with his intention to abandon her. he unblushingly denied it. he had not thought of going to europe. he had only been amusing himself with sellers' schemes. he swore that as soon as she succeeded with her bill, he would fly with her to any part of the world. she did not quite believe him, for she saw that he feared her, and she began to suspect that his were the protestations of a coward to gain time. but she showed him no doubts. she only watched his movements day by day, and always held herself ready to act promptly. when philip came into the presence of this attractive woman, he could not realize that she was the subject of all the scandal he had heard. she received him with quite the old hawkeye openness and cordiality, and fell to talking at once of their little acquaintance there; and it seemed impossible that he could ever say to her what he had come determined to say. such a man as philip has only one standard by which to judge women. laura recognized that fact no doubt. the better part of her woman's nature saw it. such a man might, years ago, not now, have changed her nature, and made the issue of her life so different, even after her cruel abandonment. she had a dim feeling of this, and she would like now to stand well with him. the spark of truth and honor that was left in her was elicited by his presence. it was this influence that governed her conduct in this interview. "i have come," said philip in his direct manner, "from my friend mr. brierly. you are not ignorant of his feeling towards you?" "perhaps not." "but perhaps you do not know, you who have so much admiration, how sincere and overmastering his love is for you?" philip would not have spoken so plainly, if he had in mind anything except to draw from laura something that would end harry's passion. "and is sincere love so rare, mr. sterling?" asked laura, moving her foot a little, and speaking with a shade of sarcasm. "perhaps not in washington," replied philip,--tempted into a similar tone. "excuse my bluntness," he continued, "but would the knowledge of his love; would his devotion, make any difference to you in your washington life?" "in respect to what?" asked laura quickly. "well, to others. i won't equivocate--to col. selby?" laura's face flushed with anger, or shame; she looked steadily at philip and began, "by what right, sir,--" "by the right of friendship," interrupted philip stoutly. "it may matter little to you. it is everything to him. he has a quixotic notion that you would turn back from what is before you for his sake. you cannot be ignorant of what all the city is talking of." philip said this determinedly and with some bitterness. it was a full minute before laura spoke. both had risen, philip as if to go, and laura in suppressed excitement. when she spoke her voice was very unsteady, and she looked down. "yes, i know. i perfectly understand what you mean. mr. brierly is nothing--simply nothing. he is a moth singed, that is all--the trifler with women thought he was a wasp. i have no pity for him, not the least. you may tell him not to make a fool of himself, and to keep away. i say this on your account, not his. you are not like him. it is enough for me that you want it so. mr. sterling," she continued, looking up; and there were tears in her eyes that contradicted the hardness of her language, "you might not pity him if you knew my history; perhaps you would not wonder at some things you hear. no; it is useless to ask me why it must be so. you can't make a life over--society wouldn't let you if you would--and mine must be lived as it is. there, sir, i'm not offended; but it is useless for you to say anything more." philip went away with his heart lightened about harry, but profoundly saddened by the glimpse of what this woman might have been. he told harry all that was necessary of the conversation--she was bent on going her own way, he had not the ghost of a chance--he was a fool, she had said, for thinking he had. and harry accepted it meekly, and made up his own mind that philip didn't know much about women. chapter xlv. the galleries of the house were packed, on the momentous day, not because the reporting of an important bill back by a committee was a thing to be excited about, if the bill were going to take the ordinary course afterward; it would be like getting excited over the empaneling of a coroner's jury in a murder case, instead of saving up one's emotions for the grander occasion of the hanging of the accused, two years later, after all the tedious forms of law had been gone through with. but suppose you understand that this coroner's jury is going to turn out to be a vigilance committee in disguise, who will hear testimony for an hour and then hang the murderer on the spot? that puts a different aspect upon the matter. now it was whispered that the legitimate forms of procedure usual in the house, and which keep a bill hanging along for days and even weeks, before it is finally passed upon, were going to be overruled, in this case, and short work made of the, measure; and so, what was beginning as a mere inquest might, torn out to be something very different. in the course of the day's business the order of "reports of committees" was finally reached and when the weary crowds heard that glad announcement issue from the speaker's lips they ceased to fret at the dragging delay, and plucked up spirit. the chairman of the committee on benevolent appropriations rose and made his report, and just then a blue-uniformed brass-mounted little page put a note into his hand. it was from senator dilworthy, who had appeared upon the floor of the house for a moment and flitted away again: "everybody expects a grand assault in force; no doubt you believe, as i certainly do, that it is the thing to do; we are strong, and everything is hot for the contest. trollop's espousal of our cause has immensely helped us and we grow in power constantly. ten of the opposition were called away from town about noon,(but--so it is said--only for one day). six others are sick, but expect to be about again tomorrow or next day, a friend tells me. a bold onslaught is worth trying. go for a suspension of the rules! you will find we can swing a two-thirds vote--i am perfectly satisfied of it. the lord's truth will prevail. "dilworthy." mr. buckstone had reported the bills from his committee, one by one, leaving the bill to the last. when the house had voted upon the acceptance or rejection of the report upon all but it, and the question now being upon its disposal--mr. buckstone begged that the house would give its attention to a few remarks which he desired to make. his committee had instructed him to report the bill favorably; he wished to explain the nature of the measure, and thus justify the committee's action; the hostility roused by the press would then disappear, and the bill would shine forth in its true and noble character. he said that its provisions were simple. it incorporated the knobs industrial university, locating it in east tennessee, declaring it open to all persons without distinction of sex, color or religion, and committing its management to a board of perpetual trustees, with power to fill vacancies in their own number. it provided for the erection of certain buildings for the university, dormitories, lecture-halls, museums, libraries, laboratories, work-shops, furnaces, and mills. it provided also for the purchase of sixty-five thousand acres of land, (fully described) for the purposes of the university, in the knobs of east tennessee. and it appropriated [blank] dollars for the purchase of the land, which should be the property of the national trustees in trust for the uses named. every effort had been made to secure the refusal of the whole amount of the property of the hawkins heirs in the knobs, some seventy-five thousand acres mr. buckstone said. but mr. washington hawkins (one of the heirs) objected. he was, indeed, very reluctant to sell any part of the land at any price; and indeed--this reluctance was justifiable when one considers how constantly and how greatly the property is rising in value. what the south needed, continued mr. buckstone, was skilled labor. without that it would be unable to develop its mines, build its roads, work to advantage and without great waste its fruitful land, establish manufactures or enter upon a prosperous industrial career. its laborers were almost altogether unskilled. change them into intelligent, trained workmen, and you increased at once the capital, the resources of the entire south, which would enter upon a prosperity hitherto unknown. in five years the increase in local wealth would not only reimburse the government for the outlay in this appropriation, but pour untold wealth into the treasury. this was the material view, and the least important in the honorable gentleman's opinion. [here he referred to some notes furnished him by senator dilworthy, and then continued.] god had given us the care of these colored millions. what account should we render to him of our stewardship? we had made them free. should we leave them ignorant? we had cast them upon their own resources. should we leave them without tools? we could not tell what the intentions of providence are in regard to these peculiar people, but our duty was plain. the knobs industrial university would be a vast school of modern science and practice, worthy of a great nation. it would combine the advantages of zurich, freiburg, creuzot and the sheffield scientific. providence had apparently reserved and set apart the knobs of east tennessee for this purpose. what else were they for? was it not wonderful that for more than thirty years, over a generation, the choicest portion of them had remained in one family, untouched, as if, separated for some great use! it might be asked why the government should buy this land, when it had millions of yes, more than the railroad companies desired, which, it might devote to this purpose? he answered, that the government had no such tract of land as this. it had nothing comparable to it for the purposes of the university: this was to be a school of mining, of engineering, of the working of metals, of chemistry, zoology, botany, manufactures, agriculture, in short of all the complicated industries that make a state great. there was no place for the location of such a school like the knobs of east tennessee. the hills abounded in metals of all sorts, iron in all its combinations, copper, bismuth, gold and silver in small quantities, platinum he--believed, tin, aluminium; it was covered with forests and strange plants; in the woods were found the coon, the opossum, the fox, the deer and many other animals who roamed in the domain of natural history; coal existed in enormous quantity and no doubt oil; it was such a place for the practice of agricultural experiments that any student who had been successful there would have an easy task in any other portion of the country. no place offered equal facilities for experiments in mining, metallurgy, engineering. he expected to live to see the day, when the youth of the south would resort to its mines, its workshops, its laboratories, its furnaces and factories for practical instruction in all the great industrial pursuits. a noisy and rather ill-natured debate followed, now, and lasted hour after hour. the friends of the bill were instructed by the leaders to make no effort to check it; it was deemed better strategy to tire out the opposition; it was decided to vote down every proposition to adjourn, and so continue the sitting into the night; opponents might desert, then, one by one and weaken their party, for they had no personal stake in the bill. sunset came, and still the fight went on; the gas was lit, the crowd in the galleries began to thin, but the contest continued; the crowd returned, by and by, with hunger and thirst appeased, and aggravated the hungry and thirsty house by looking contented and comfortable; but still the wrangle lost nothing of its bitterness. recesses were moved plaintively by the opposition, and invariably voted down by the university army. at midnight the house presented a spectacle calculated to interest a stranger. the great galleries were still thronged--though only with men, now; the bright colors that had made them look like hanging gardens were gone, with the ladies. the reporters' gallery, was merely occupied by one or two watchful sentinels of the quill-driving guild; the main body cared nothing for a debate that had dwindled to a mere vaporing of dull speakers and now and then a brief quarrel over a point of order; but there was an unusually large attendance of journalists in the reporters' waiting-room, chatting, smoking, and keeping on the 'qui vive' for the general irruption of the congressional volcano that must come when the time was ripe for it. senator dilworthy and philip were in the diplomatic gallery; washington sat in the public gallery, and col. sellers was, not far away. the colonel had been flying about the corridors and button-holing congressmen all the evening, and believed that he had accomplished a world of valuable service; but fatigue was telling upon him, now, and he was quiet and speechless--for once. below, a few senators lounged upon the sofas set apart for visitors, and talked with idle congressmen. a dreary member was speaking; the presiding officer was nodding; here and there little knots of members stood in the aisles, whispering together; all about the house others sat in all the various attitudes that express weariness; some, tilted back, had one or more legs disposed upon their desks; some sharpened pencils indolently; some scribbled aimlessly; some yawned and stretched; a great many lay upon their breasts upon the desks, sound asleep and gently snoring. the flooding gaslight from the fancifully wrought roof poured down upon the tranquil scene. hardly a sound disturbed the stillness, save the monotonous eloquence of the gentleman who occupied the floor. now and then a warrior of the opposition broke down under the pressure, gave it up, and went home. mr. buckstone began to think it might be safe, now, to "proceed to business." he consulted with trollop and one or two others. senator dilworthy descended to the floor of the house and they went to meet him. after a brief comparison of notes, the congressmen sought their seats and sent pages about the house with messages to friends. these latter instantly roused up, yawned, and began to look alert. the moment the floor was unoccupied, mr. buckstone rose, with an injured look, and said it was evident that the opponents of the bill were merely talking against time, hoping in this unbecoming way to tire out the friends of the measure and so defeat it. such conduct might be respectable enough in a village debating society, but it was trivial among statesmen, it was out of place in so august an assemblage as the house of representatives of the united states. the friends of the bill had been not only willing that its opponents should express their opinions, but had strongly desired it. they courted the fullest and freest discussion; but it seemed to him that this fairness was but illy appreciated, since gentlemen were capable of taking advantage of it for selfish and unworthy ends. this trifling had gone far enough. he called for the question. the instant mr. buckstone sat down, the storm burst forth. a dozen gentlemen sprang to their feet. "mr. speaker!" "mr. speaker!" "mr. speaker!" "order! order! order! question! question!" the sharp blows of the speaker's gavel rose above the din. the "previous question," that hated gag, was moved and carried. all debate came to a sudden end, of course. triumph no. . then the vote was taken on the adoption of the report and it carried by a surprising majority. mr. buckstone got the floor again and moved that the rules be suspended and the bill read a first time. mr. trollop--"second the motion!" the speaker--"it is moved and--" clamor of voices. "move we adjourn! second the motion! adjourn! adjourn! order! order!" the speaker, (after using his gavel vigorously)--"it is moved and seconded that the house do now adjourn. all those in favor--" voices--"division! division! ayes and nays! ayes and nays!" it was decided to vote upon the adjournment by ayes and nays. this was in earnest. the excitement was furious. the galleries were in commotion in an instant, the reporters swarmed to their places. idling members of the house flocked to their seats, nervous gentlemen sprang to their feet, pages flew hither and thither, life and animation were visible everywhere, all the long ranks of faces in the building were kindled. "this thing decides it!" thought mr. buckstone; "but let the fight proceed." the voting began, and every sound ceased but the calling if the names and the "aye!" "no!" "no!" "aye!" of the responses. there was not a movement in the house; the people seemed to hold their breath. the voting ceased, and then there was an interval of dead silence while the clerk made up his count. there was a two-thirds vote on the university side--and two over. the speaker--"the rules are suspended, the motion is carried--first reading of the bill!" by one impulse the galleries broke forth into stormy applause, and even some of the members of the house were not wholly able to restrain their feelings. the speaker's gavel came to the rescue and his clear voice followed: "order, gentlemen--! the house will come to order! if spectators offend again, the sergeant-at-arms will clear the galleries!" then he cast his eyes aloft and gazed at some object attentively for a moment. all eyes followed the direction of the speaker's, and then there was a general titter. the speaker said: "let the sergeant-at arms inform the gentleman that his conduct is an infringement of the dignity of the house--and one which is not warranted by the state of the weather." poor sellers was the culprit. he sat in the front seat of the gallery, with his arms and his tired body overflowing the balustrade--sound asleep, dead to all excitements, all disturbances. the fluctuations of the washington weather had influenced his dreams, perhaps, for during the recent tempest of applause he had hoisted his gingham umbrella, and calmly gone on with his slumbers. washington hawkins had seen the act, but was not near enough at hand to save his friend, and no one who was near enough desired to spoil the effect. but a neighbor stirred up the colonel, now that the house had its eye upon him, and the great speculator furled his tent like the arab. he said: "bless my soul, i'm so absent-minded when i, get to thinking! i never wear an umbrella in the house--did anybody 'notice it'? what-asleep? indeed? and did you wake me sir? thank you--thank you very much indeed. it might have fallen out of my hands and been injured. admirable article, sir--present from a friend in hong kong; one doesn't come across silk like that in this country--it's the real--young hyson, i'm told." by this time the incident was forgotten, for the house was at war again. victory was almost in sight, now, and the friends of the bill threw themselves into their work with enthusiasm. they soon moved and carried its second reading, and after a strong, sharp fight, carried a motion to go into committee of the whole. the speaker left his place, of course, and a chairman was appointed. now the contest raged hotter than ever--for the authority that compels order when the house sits as a house, is greatly diminished when it sits as committee. the main fight came upon the filling of the blanks with the sum to be appropriated for the purchase of the land, of course. buckstone--"mr. chairman, i move you, sir, that the words 'three millions of' be inserted." mr. hadley--"mr. chairman, i move that the words two and a half dollars be inserted." mr. clawson--"mr. chairman, i move the insertion of the words five and twenty cents, as representing the true value of this barren and isolated tract of desolation." the question, according to rule, was taken upon the smallest sum first. it was lost. then upon the nest smallest sum. lost, also. and then upon the three millions. after a vigorous battle that lasted a considerable time, this motion was carried. then, clause by clause the bill was read, discussed, and amended in trifling particulars, and now the committee rose and reported. the moment the house had resumed its functions and received the report, mr. buckstone moved and carried the third reading of the bill. the same bitter war over the sum to be paid was fought over again, and now that the ayes and nays could be called and placed on record, every man was compelled to vote by name on the three millions, and indeed on every paragraph of the bill from the enacting clause straight through. but as before, the friends of the measure stood firm and voted in a solid body every time, and so did its enemies. the supreme moment was come, now, but so sure was the result that not even a voice was raised to interpose an adjournment. the enemy were totally demoralized. the bill was put upon its final passage almost without dissent, and the calling of the ayes and nays began. when it was ended the triumph was complete--the two-thirds vote held good, and a veto was impossible, as far as the house was concerned! mr. buckstone resolved that now that the nail was driven home, he would clinch it on the other side and make it stay forever. he moved a reconsideration of the vote by which the bill had passed. the motion was lost, of course, and the great industrial university act was an accomplished fact as far as it was in the power of the house of representatives to make it so. there was no need to move an adjournment. the instant the last motion was decided, the enemies of the university rose and flocked out of the hall, talking angrily, and its friends flocked after them jubilant and congratulatory. the galleries disgorged their burden, and presently the house was silent and deserted. when col. sellers and washington stepped out of the building they were surprised to find that the daylight was old and the sun well up. said the colonel: "give me your hand, my boy! you're all right at last! you're a millionaire! at least you're going to be. the thing is dead sure. don't you bother about the senate. leave me and dilworthy to take care of that. run along home, now, and tell laura. lord, it's magnificent news--perfectly magnificent! run, now. i'll telegraph my wife. she must come here and help me build a house. everything's all right now!" washington was so dazed by his good fortune and so bewildered by the gaudy pageant of dreams that was already trailing its long ranks through his brain, that he wandered he knew not where, and so loitered by the way that when at last he reached home he woke to a sudden annoyance in the fact that his news must be old to laura, now, for of course senator dilworthy must have already been home and told her an hour before. he knocked at her door, but there was no answer. "that is like the duchess," said he. "always cool; a body can't excite her-can't keep her excited, anyway. now she has gone off to sleep again, as comfortably as if she were used to picking up a million dollars every day or two" then he vent to bed. but he could not sleep; so he got up and wrote a long, rapturous letter to louise, and another to his mother. and he closed both to much the same effect: "laura will be queen of america, now, and she will be applauded, and honored and petted by the whole nation. her name will be in every one's mouth more than ever, and how they will court her and quote her bright speeches. and mine, too, i suppose; though they do that more already, than they really seem to deserve. oh, the world is so bright, now, and so cheery; the clouds are all gone, our long struggle is ended, our, troubles are all over. nothing can ever make us unhappy any more. you dear faithful ones will have the reward of your patient waiting now. how father's wisdom is proven at last! and how i repent me, that there have been times when i lost faith and said, the blessing he stored up for us a tedious generation ago was but a long-drawn curse, a blight upon us all. but everything is well, now--we are done with poverty, sad toil, weariness and heart-break; all the world is filled with sunshine." the gilded age a tale of today by mark twain and charles dudley warner part . chapter xix. mr. harry brierly drew his pay as an engineer while he was living at the city hotel in hawkeye. mr. thompson had been kind enough to say that it didn't make any difference whether he was with the corps or not; and although harry protested to the colonel daily and to washington hawkins that he must go back at once to the line and superintend the lay-out with reference to his contract, yet he did not go, but wrote instead long letters to philip, instructing him to keep his eye out, and to let him know when any difficulty occurred that required his presence. meantime harry blossomed out in the society of hawkeye, as he did in any society where fortune cast him and he had the slightest opportunity to expand. indeed the talents of a rich and accomplished young fellow like harry were not likely to go unappreciated in such a place. a land operator, engaged in vast speculations, a favorite in the select circles of new york, in correspondence with brokers and bankers, intimate with public men at washington, one who could play the guitar and touch the banjo lightly, and who had an eye for a pretty girl, and knew the language of flattery, was welcome everywhere in hawkeye. even miss laura hawkins thought it worth while to use her fascinations upon him, and to endeavor to entangle the volatile fellow in the meshes of her attractions. "gad," says harry to the colonel, "she's a superb creature, she'd make a stir in new york, money or no money. there are men i know would give her a railroad or an opera house, or whatever she wanted--at least they'd promise." harry had a way of looking at women as he looked at anything else in the world he wanted, and he half resolved to appropriate miss laura, during his stay in hawkeye. perhaps the colonel divined his thoughts, or was offended at harry's talk, for he replied, "no nonsense, mr. brierly. nonsense won't do in hawkeye, not with my friends. the hawkins' blood is good blood, all the way from tennessee. the hawkinses are under the weather now, but their tennessee property is millions when it comes into market." "of course, colonel. not the least offense intended. but you can see she is a fascinating woman. i was only thinking, as to this appropriation, now, what such a woman could do in washington. all correct, too, all correct. common thing, i assure you in washington; the wives of senators, representatives, cabinet officers, all sorts of wives, and some who are not wives, use their influence. you want an appointment? do you go to senator x? not much. you get on the right side of his wife. is it an appropriation? you'd go 'straight to the committee, or to the interior office, i suppose? you'd learn better than that. it takes a woman to get any thing through the land office: i tell you, miss laura would fascinate an appropriation right through the senate and the house of representatives in one session, if she was in washington, as your friend, colonel, of course as your friend." "would you have her sign our petition?" asked the colonel, innocently. harry laughed. "women don't get anything by petitioning congress; nobody does, that's for form. petitions are referred somewhere, and that's the last of them; you can't refer a handsome woman so easily, when she is present. they prefer 'em mostly." the petition however was elaborately drawn up, with a glowing description of napoleon and the adjacent country, and a statement of the absolute necessity to the prosperity of that region and of one of the stations on the great through route to the pacific, of the, immediate improvement of columbus river; to this was appended a map of the city and a survey of the river. it was signed by all the people at stone's landing who could write their names, by col. beriah sellers, and the colonel agreed to have the names headed by all the senators and representatives from the state and by a sprinkling of ex-governors and ex-members of congress. when completed it was a formidable document. its preparation and that of more minute plots of the new city consumed the valuable time of sellers and harry for many weeks, and served to keep them both in the highest spirits. in the eyes of washington hawkins, harry was a superior being, a man who was able to bring things to pass in a way that excited his enthusiasm. he never tired of listening to his stories of what he had done and of what he was going to do. as for washington, harry thought he was a man of ability and comprehension, but "too visionary," he told the colonel. the colonel said he might be right, but he had never noticed anything visionary about him. "he's got his plans, sir. god bless my soul, at his age, i was full of plans. but experience sobers a man, i never touch any thing now that hasn't been weighed in my judgment; and when beriah sellers puts his judgment on a thing, there it is." whatever might have been harry's intentions with regard to laura, he saw more and more of her every day, until he got to be restless and nervous when he was not with her. that consummate artist in passion allowed him to believe that the fascination was mainly on his side, and so worked upon his vanity, while inflaming his ardor, that he scarcely knew what he was about. her coolness and coyness were even made to appear the simple precautions of a modest timidity, and attracted him even more than the little tendernesses into which she was occasionally surprised. he could never be away from her long, day or evening; and in a short time their intimacy was the town talk. she played with him so adroitly that harry thought she was absorbed in love for him, and yet he was amazed that he did not get on faster in his conquest. and when he thought of it, he was piqued as well. a country girl, poor enough, that was evident; living with her family in a cheap and most unattractive frame house, such as carpenters build in america, scantily furnished and unadorned; without the adventitious aids of dress or jewels or the fine manners of society--harry couldn't understand it. but she fascinated him, and held him just beyond the line of absolute familiarity at the same time. while he was with her she made him forget that the hawkins' house was nothing but a wooden tenement, with four small square rooms on the ground floor and a half story; it might have been a palace for aught he knew. perhaps laura was older than harry. she was, at any rate, at that ripe age when beauty in woman seems more solid than in the budding period of girlhood, and she had come to understand her powers perfectly, and to know exactly how much of the susceptibility and archness of the girl it was profitable to retain. she saw that many women, with the best intentions, make a mistake of carrying too much girlishness into womanhood. such a woman would have attracted harry at any time, but only a woman with a cool brain and exquisite art could have made him lose his head in this way; for harry thought himself a man of the world. the young fellow never dreamed that he was merely being experimented on; he was to her a man of another society and another culture, different from that she had any knowledge of except in books, and she was not unwilling to try on him the fascinations of her mind and person. for laura had her dreams. she detested the narrow limits in which her lot was cast, she hated poverty. much of her reading had been of modern works of fiction, written by her own sex, which had revealed to her something of her own powers and given her indeed, an exaggerated notion of the influence, the wealth, the position a woman may attain who has beauty and talent and ambition and a little culture, and is not too scrupulous in the use of them. she wanted to be rich, she wanted luxury, she wanted men at her feet, her slaves, and she had not--thanks to some of the novels she had read--the nicest discrimination between notoriety and reputation; perhaps she did not know how fatal notoriety usually is to the bloom of womanhood. with the other hawkins children laura had been brought up in the belief that they had inherited a fortune in the tennessee lands. she did not by any means share all the delusion of the family; but her brain was not seldom busy with schemes about it. washington seemed to her only to dream of it and to be willing to wait for its riches to fall upon him in a golden shower; but she was impatient, and wished she were a man to take hold of the business. "you men must enjoy your schemes and your activity and liberty to go about the world," she said to harry one day, when he had been talking of new york and washington and his incessant engagements. "oh, yes," replied that martyr to business, "it's all well enough, if you don't have too much of it, but it only has one object." "what is that?" "if a woman doesn't know, it's useless to tell her. what do you suppose i am staying in hawkeye for, week after week, when i ought to be with my corps?" "i suppose it's your business with col. sellers about napoleon, you've always told me so," answered laura, with a look intended to contradict her words. "and now i tell you that is all arranged, i suppose you'll tell me i ought to go?" "harry!" exclaimed laura, touching his arm and letting her pretty hand rest there a moment. "why should i want you to go away? the only person in hawkeye who understands me." "but you refuse to understand me," replied harry, flattered but still petulant. "you are like an iceberg, when we are alone." laura looked up with wonder in her great eyes, and something like a blush suffusing her face, followed by a look of langour that penetrated harry's heart as if it had been longing. "did i ever show any want of confidence in you, harry?" and she gave him her hand, which harry pressed with effusion--something in her manner told him that he must be content with that favor. it was always so. she excited his hopes and denied him, inflamed his passion and restrained it, and wound him in her toils day by day. to what purpose? it was keen delight to laura to prove that she had power over men. laura liked to hear about life at the east, and especially about the luxurious society in which mr. brierly moved when he was at home. it pleased her imagination to fancy herself a queen in it. "you should be a winter in washington," harry said. "but i have no acquaintances there." "don't know any of the families of the congressmen? they like to have a pretty woman staying with them." "not one." "suppose col. sellers should, have business there; say, about this columbus river appropriation?" "sellers!" and laura laughed. "you needn't laugh. queerer things have happened. sellers knows everybody from missouri, and from the west, too, for that matter. he'd introduce you to washington life quick enough. it doesn't need a crowbar to break your way into society there as it does in philadelphia. it's democratic, washington is. money or beauty will open any door. if i were a handsome woman, i shouldn't want any better place than the capital to pick up a prince or a fortune." "thank you," replied laura. "but i prefer the quiet of home, and the love of those i know;" and her face wore a look of sweet contentment and unworldliness that finished mr. harry brierly for the day. nevertheless, the hint that harry had dropped fell upon good ground, and bore fruit an hundred fold; it worked in her mind until she had built up a plan on it, and almost a career for herself. why not, she said, why shouldn't i do as other women have done? she took the first opportunity to see col. sellers, and to sound him about the washington visit. how was he getting on with his navigation scheme, would it be likely to take him from home to jefferson city; or to washington, perhaps? "well, maybe. if the people of napoleon want me to go to washington, and look after that matter, i might tear myself from my home. it's been suggested to me, but--not a word of it to mrs. sellers and the children. maybe they wouldn't like to think of their father in washington. but dilworthy, senator dilworthy, says to me, 'colonel, you are the man, you could influence more votes than any one else on such a measure, an old settler, a man of the people, you know the wants of missouri; you've a respect for religion too, says he, and know how the cause of the gospel goes with improvements: which is true enough, miss laura, and hasn't been enough thought of in connection with napoleon. he's an able man, dilworthy, and a good man. a man has got to be good to succeed as he has. he's only been in congress a few years, and he must be worth a million. first thing in the morning when he stayed with me he asked about family prayers, whether we had 'em before or after breakfast. i hated to disappoint the senator, but i had to out with it, tell him we didn't have 'em, not steady. he said he understood, business interruptions and all that, some men were well enough without, but as for him he never neglected the ordinances of religion. he doubted if the columbus river appropriation would succeed if we did not invoke the divine blessing on it." perhaps it is unnecessary to say to the reader that senator dilworthy had not stayed with col. sellers while he was in hawkeye; this visit to his house being only one of the colonel's hallucinations--one of those instant creations of his fertile fancy, which were always flashing into his brain and out of his mouth in the course of any conversation and without interrupting the flow of it. during the summer philip rode across the country and made a short visit in hawkeye, giving harry an opportunity to show him the progress that he and the colonel had made in their operation at stone's landing, to introduce him also to laura, and to borrow a little money when he departed. harry bragged about his conquest, as was his habit, and took philip round to see his western prize. laura received mr. philip with a courtesy and a slight hauteur that rather surprised and not a little interested him. he saw at once that she was older than harry, and soon made up his mind that she was leading his friend a country dance to which he was unaccustomed. at least he thought he saw that, and half hinted as much to harry, who flared up at once; but on a second visit philip was not so sure, the young lady was certainly kind and friendly and almost confiding with harry, and treated philip with the greatest consideration. she deferred to his opinions, and listened attentively when he talked, and in time met his frank manner with an equal frankness, so that he was quite convinced that whatever she might feel towards harry, she was sincere with him. perhaps his manly way did win her liking. perhaps in her mind, she compared him with harry, and recognized in him a man to whom a woman might give her whole soul, recklessly and with little care if she lost it. philip was not invincible to her beauty nor to the intellectual charm of her presence. the week seemed very short that he passed in hawkeye, and when he bade laura good by, he seemed to have known her a year. "we shall see you again, mr. sterling," she said as she gave him her hand, with just a shade of sadness in her handsome eyes. and when he turned away she followed him with a look that might have disturbed his serenity, if he had not at the moment had a little square letter in his breast pocket, dated at philadelphia, and signed "ruth." chapter xx. the visit of senator abner dilworthy was an event in hawkeye. when a senator, whose place is in washington moving among the great and guiding the destinies of the nation, condescends to mingle among the people and accept the hospitalities of such a place as hawkeye, the honor is not considered a light one. all, parties are flattered by it and politics are forgotten in the presence of one so distinguished among his fellows. senator dilworthy, who was from a neighboring state, had been a unionist in the darkest days of his country, and had thriven by it, but was that any reason why col. sellers, who had been a confederate and had not thriven by it, should give him the cold shoulder? the senator was the guest of his old friend gen. boswell, but it almost appeared that he was indebted to col. sellers for the unreserved hospitalities of the town. it was the large hearted colonel who, in a manner, gave him the freedom of the city. "you are known here, sir," said the colonel, "and hawkeye is proud of you. you will find every door open, and a welcome at every hearthstone. i should insist upon your going to my house, if you were not claimed by your older friend gen. boswell. but you will mingle with our people, and you will see here developments that will surprise you." the colonel was so profuse in his hospitality that he must have made the impression upon himself that he had entertained the senator at his own mansion during his stay; at any rate, he afterwards always spoke of him as his guest, and not seldom referred to the senator's relish of certain viands on his table. he did, in fact, press him to dine upon the morning of the day the senator was going away. senator dilworthy was large and portly, though not tall--a pleasant spoken man, a popular man with the people. he took a lively interest in the town and all the surrounding country, and made many inquiries as to the progress of agriculture, of education, and of religion, and especially as to the condition of the emancipated race. "providence," he said, "has placed them in our hands, and although you and i, general, might have chosen a different destiny for them, under the constitution, yet providence knows best." "you can't do much with 'em," interrupted col. sellers. "they are a speculating race, sir, disinclined to work for white folks without security, planning how to live by only working for themselves. idle, sir, there's my garden just a ruin of weeds. nothing practical in 'em." "there is some truth in your observation, colonel, but you must educate them." "you educate the niggro and you make him more speculating than he was before. if he won't stick to any industry except for himself now, what will he do then?" "but, colonel, the negro when educated will be more able to make his speculations fruitful." "never, sir, never. he would only have a wider scope to injure himself. a niggro has no grasp, sir. now, a white man can conceive great operations, and carry them out; a niggro can't." "still," replied the senator, "granting that he might injure himself in a worldly point of view, his elevation through education would multiply his chances for the hereafter--which is the important thing after all, colonel. and no matter what the result is, we must fulfill our duty by this being." "i'd elevate his soul," promptly responded the colonel; "that's just it; you can't make his soul too immortal, but i wouldn't touch him, himself. yes, sir! make his soul immortal, but don't disturb the niggro as he is." of course one of the entertainments offered the senator was a public reception, held in the court house, at which he made a speech to his fellow citizens. col. sellers was master of ceremonies. he escorted the band from the city hotel to gen. boswell's; he marshalled the procession of masons, of odd fellows, and of firemen, the good templars, the sons of temperance, the cadets of temperance, the daughters of rebecca, the sunday school children, and citizens generally, which followed the senator to the court house; he bustled about the room long after every one else was seated, and loudly cried "order!" in the dead silence which preceded the introduction of the senator by gen. boswell. the occasion was one to call out his finest powers of personal appearance, and one he long dwelt on with pleasure. this not being an edition of the congressional globe it is impossible to give senator dilworthy's speech in full. he began somewhat as follows: "fellow citizens: it gives me great pleasure to thus meet and mingle with you, to lay aside for a moment the heavy duties of an official and burdensome station, and confer in familiar converse with my friends in your great state. the good opinion of my fellow citizens of all sections is the sweetest solace in all my anxieties. i look forward with longing to the time when i can lay aside the cares of office--" ["dam sight," shouted a tipsy fellow near the door. cries of "put him out."] "my friends, do not remove him. let the misguided man stay. i see that he is a victim of that evil which is swallowing up public virtue and sapping the foundation of society. as i was saying, when i can lay down the cares of office and retire to the sweets of private life in some such sweet, peaceful, intelligent, wide-awake and patriotic place as hawkeye (applause). i have traveled much, i have seen all parts of our glorious union, but i have never seen a lovelier village than yours, or one that has more signs of commercial and industrial and religious prosperity --(more applause)." the senator then launched into a sketch of our great country, and dwelt for an hour or more upon its prosperity and the dangers which threatened it. he then touched reverently upon the institutions of religion, and upon the necessity of private purity, if we were to have any public morality. "i trust," he said, "that there are children within the sound of my voice," and after some remarks to them, the senator closed with an apostrophe to "the genius of american liberty, walking with the sunday school in one hand and temperance in the other up the glorified steps of the national capitol." col. sellers did not of course lose the opportunity to impress upon so influential a person as the senator the desirability of improving the navigation of columbus river. he and mr. brierly took the senator over to napoleon and opened to him their plan. it was a plan that the senator could understand without a great deal of explanation, for he seemed to be familiar with the like improvements elsewhere. when, however, they reached stone's landing the senator looked about him and inquired, "is this napoleon?" "this is the nucleus, the nucleus," said the colonel, unrolling his map. "here is the deepo, the church, the city hall and so on." "ah, i see. how far from here is columbus river? does that stream empty----" "that, why, that's goose run. thar ain't no columbus, thout'n it's over to hawkeye," interrupted one of the citizens, who had come out to stare at the strangers. "a railroad come here last summer, but it haint been here no mo'." "yes, sir," the colonel hastened to explain, "in the old records columbus river is called goose run. you see how it sweeps round the town--forty-nine miles to the missouri; sloop navigation all the way pretty much, drains this whole country; when it's improved steamboats will run right up here. it's got to be enlarged, deepened. you see by the map. columbus river. this country must have water communication!" "you'll want a considerable appropriation, col. sellers. "i should say a million; is that your figure mr. brierly." "according to our surveys," said harry, "a million would do it; a million spent on the river would make napoleon worth two millions at least." "i see," nodded the senator. "but you'd better begin by asking only for two or three hundred thousand, the usual way. you can begin to sell town lots on that appropriation you know." the senator, himself, to do him justice, was not very much interested in the country or the stream, but he favored the appropriation, and he gave the colonel and mr. brierly to and understand that he would endeavor to get it through. harry, who thought he was shrewd and understood washington, suggested an interest. but he saw that the senator was wounded by the suggestion. "you will offend me by repeating such an observation," he said. "whatever i do will be for the public interest. it will require a portion of the appropriation for necessary expenses, and i am sorry to say that there are members who will have to be seen. but you can reckon upon my humble services." this aspect of the subject was not again alluded to. the senator possessed himself of the facts, not from his observation of the ground, but from the lips of col. sellers, and laid the appropriation scheme away among his other plans for benefiting the public. it was on this visit also that the senator made the acquaintance of mr. washington hawkins, and was greatly taken with his innocence, his guileless manner and perhaps with his ready adaptability to enter upon any plan proposed. col. sellers was pleased to see this interest that washington had awakened, especially since it was likely to further his expectations with regard to the tennessee lands; the senator having remarked to the colonel, that he delighted to help any deserving young man, when the promotion of a private advantage could at the same time be made to contribute to the general good. and he did not doubt that this was an opportunity of that kind. the result of several conferences with washington was that the senator proposed that he should go to washington with him and become his private secretary and the secretary of his committee; a proposal which was eagerly accepted. the senator spent sunday in hawkeye and attended church. he cheered the heart of the worthy and zealous minister by an expression of his sympathy in his labors, and by many inquiries in regard to the religious state of the region. it was not a very promising state, and the good man felt how much lighter his task would be, if he had the aid of such a man as senator dilworthy. "i am glad to see, my dear sir," said the senator, "that you give them the doctrines. it is owing to a neglect of the doctrines, that there is such a fearful falling away in the country. i wish that we might have you in washington--as chaplain, now, in the senate." the good man could not but be a little flattered, and if sometimes, thereafter, in his discouraging work, he allowed the thought that he might perhaps be called to washington as chaplain of the senate, to cheer him, who can wonder. the senator's commendation at least did one service for him, it elevated him in the opinion of hawkeye. laura was at church alone that day, and mr. brierly walked home with her. a part of their way lay with that of general boswell and senator dilworthy, and introductions were made. laura had her own reasons for wishing to know the senator, and the senator was not a man who could be called indifferent to charms such as hers. that meek young lady so commended herself to him in the short walk, that he announced his intentions of paying his respects to her the next day, an intention which harry received glumly; and when the senator was out of hearing he called him "an old fool." "fie," said laura, "i do believe you are jealous, harry. he is a very pleasant man. he said you were a young man of great promise." the senator did call next day, and the result of his visit was that he was confirmed in his impression that there was something about him very attractive to ladies. he saw laura again and again daring his stay, and felt more and more the subtle influence of her feminine beauty, which every man felt who came near her. harry was beside himself with rage while the senator remained in town; he declared that women were always ready to drop any man for higher game; and he attributed his own ill-luck to the senator's appearance. the fellow was in fact crazy about her beauty and ready to beat his brains out in chagrin. perhaps laura enjoyed his torment, but she soothed him with blandishments that increased his ardor, and she smiled to herself to think that he had, with all his protestations of love, never spoken of marriage. probably the vivacious fellow never had thought of it. at any rate when he at length went away from hawkeye he was no nearer it. but there was no telling to what desperate lengths his passion might not carry him. laura bade him good bye with tender regret, which, however, did not disturb her peace or interfere with her plans. the visit of senator dilworthy had become of more importance to her, and it by and by bore the fruit she longed for, in an invitation to visit his family in the national capital during the winter session of congress. chapter xxi. o lift your natures up: embrace our aims: work out your freedom. girls, knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed; drink deep until the habits of the slave, the sins of emptiness, gossip and spite and slander, die. the princess. whether medicine is a science, or only an empirical method of getting a living out of the ignorance of the human race, ruth found before her first term was over at the medical school that there were other things she needed to know quite as much as that which is taught in medical books, and that she could never satisfy her aspirations without more general culture. "does your doctor know any thing--i don't mean about medicine, but about things in general, is he a man of information and good sense?" once asked an old practitioner. "if he doesn't know any thing but medicine the chance is he doesn't know that:" the close application to her special study was beginning to tell upon ruth's delicate health also, and the summer brought with it only weariness and indisposition for any mental effort. in this condition of mind and body the quiet of her home and the unexciting companionship of those about her were more than ever tiresome. she followed with more interest philip's sparkling account of his life in the west, and longed for his experiences, and to know some of those people of a world so different from here, who alternately amused and displeased him. he at least was learning the world, the good and the bad of it, as must happen to every one who accomplishes anything in it. but what, ruth wrote, could a woman do, tied up by custom, and cast into particular circumstances out of which it was almost impossible to extricate herself? philip thought that he would go some day and extricate ruth, but he did not write that, for he had the instinct to know that this was not the extrication she dreamed of, and that she must find out by her own experience what her heart really wanted. philip was not a philosopher, to be sure, but he had the old fashioned notion, that whatever a woman's theories of life might be, she would come round to matrimony, only give her time. he could indeed recall to mind one woman--and he never knew a nobler--whose whole soul was devoted and who believed that her life was consecrated to a certain benevolent project in singleness of life, who yielded to the touch of matrimony, as an icicle yields to a sunbeam. neither at home nor elsewhere did ruth utter any complaint, or admit any weariness or doubt of her ability to pursue the path she had marked out for herself. but her mother saw clearly enough her struggle with infirmity, and was not deceived by either her gaiety or by the cheerful composure which she carried into all the ordinary duties that fell to her. she saw plainly enough that ruth needed an entire change of scene and of occupation, and perhaps she believed that such a change, with the knowledge of the world it would bring, would divert ruth from a course for which she felt she was physically entirely unfitted. it therefore suited the wishes of all concerned, when autumn came, that ruth should go away to school. she selected a large new england seminary, of which she had often heard philip speak, which was attended by both sexes and offered almost collegiate advantages of education. thither she went in september, and began for the second time in the year a life new to her. the seminary was the chief feature of fallkill, a village of two to three thousand inhabitants. it was a prosperous school, with three hundred students, a large corps of teachers, men and women, and with a venerable rusty row of academic buildings on the shaded square of the town. the students lodged and boarded in private families in the place, and so it came about that while the school did a great deal to support the town, the town gave the students society and the sweet influences of home life. it is at least respectful to say that the influences of home life are sweet. ruth's home, by the intervention of philip, was in a family--one of the rare exceptions in life or in fiction--that had never known better days. the montagues, it is perhaps well to say, had intended to come over in the mayflower, but were detained at delft haven by the illness of a child. they came over to massachusetts bay in another vessel, and thus escaped the onus of that brevet nobility under which the successors of the mayflower pilgrims have descended. having no factitious weight of dignity to carry, the montagues steadily improved their condition from the day they landed, and they were never more vigorous or prosperous than at the date of this narrative. with character compacted by the rigid puritan discipline of more than two centuries, they had retained its strength and purity and thrown off its narrowness, and were now blossoming under the generous modern influences. squire oliver montague, a lawyer who had retired from the practice of his profession except in rare cases, dwelt in a square old fashioned new england mile away from the green. it was called a mansion because it stood alone with ample fields about it, and had an avenue of trees leading to it from the road, and on the west commanded a view of a pretty little lake with gentle slopes and nodding were now blossoming under the generous modern influences. squire oliver montague, a lawyer who had retired from the practice of his profession except in rare cases, dwelt in a square old fashioned new england groves. but it was just a plain, roomy house, capable of extending to many guests an unpretending hospitality. the family consisted of the squire and his wife, a son and a daughter married and not at home, a son in college at cambridge, another son at the seminary, and a daughter alice, who was a year or more older than ruth. having only riches enough to be able to gratify reasonable desires, and yet make their gratifications always a novelty and a pleasure, the family occupied that just mean in life which is so rarely attained, and still more rarely enjoyed without discontent. if ruth did not find so much luxury in the house as in her own home, there were evidences of culture, of intellectual activity and of a zest in the affairs of all the world, which greatly impressed her. every room had its book-cases or book-shelves, and was more or less a library; upon every table was liable to be a litter of new books, fresh periodicals and daily newspapers. there were plants in the sunny windows and some choice engravings on the walls, with bits of color in oil or water-colors; the piano was sure to be open and strewn with music; and there were photographs and little souvenirs here and there of foreign travel. an absence of any "what-pots" in the corners with rows of cheerful shells, and hindoo gods, and chinese idols, and nests of use less boxes of lacquered wood, might be taken as denoting a languidness in the family concerning foreign missions, but perhaps unjustly. at any rate the life of the world flowed freely into this hospitable house, and there was always so much talk there of the news of the day, of the new books and of authors, of boston radicalism and new york civilization, and the virtue of congress, that small gossip stood a very poor chance. all this was in many ways so new to ruth that she seemed to have passed into another world, in which she experienced a freedom and a mental exhilaration unknown to her before. under this influence she entered upon her studies with keen enjoyment, finding for a time all the relaxation she needed, in the charming social life at the montague house. it is strange, she wrote to philip, in one of her occasional letters, that you never told me more about this delightful family, and scarcely mentioned alice who is the life of it, just the noblest girl, unselfish, knows how to do so many things, with lots of talent, with a dry humor, and an odd way of looking at things, and yet quiet and even serious often--one of your "capable" new england girls. we shall be great friends. it had never occurred to philip that there was any thing extraordinary about the family that needed mention. he knew dozens of girls like alice, he thought to himself, but only one like ruth. good friends the two girls were from the beginning. ruth was a study to alice; the product of a culture entirely foreign to her experience, so much a child in some things, so much a woman in others; and ruth in turn, it must be confessed, probing alice sometimes with her serious grey eyes, wondered what her object in life was, and whether she had any purpose beyond living as she now saw her. for she could scarcely conceive of a life that should not be devoted to the accomplishment of some definite work, and she had-no doubt that in her own case everything else would yield to the professional career she had marked out. "so you know philip sterling," said ruth one day as the girls sat at their sewing. ruth never embroidered, and never sewed when she could avoid it. bless her. "oh yes, we are old friends. philip used to come to fallkill often while he was in college. he was once rusticated here for a term." "rusticated?" "suspended for some college scrape. he was a great favorite here. father and he were famous friends. father said that philip had no end of nonsense in him and was always blundering into something, but he was a royal good fellow and would come out all right." "did you think he was fickle?" "why, i never thought whether he was or not," replied alice looking up. "i suppose he was always in love with some girl or another, as college boys are. he used to make me his confidant now and then, and be terribly in the dumps." "why did he come to you?" pursued ruth you were younger than he." "i'm sure i don't know. he was at our house a good deal. once at a picnic by the lake, at the risk of his own life, he saved sister millie from drowning, and we all liked to have him here. perhaps he thought as he had saved one sister, the other ought to help him when he was in trouble. i don't know." the fact was that alice was a person who invited confidences, because she never betrayed them, and gave abundant sympathy in return. there are persons, whom we all know, to whom human confidences, troubles and heart-aches flow as naturally its streams to a placid lake. this is not a history of fallkill, nor of the montague family, worthy as both are of that honor, and this narrative cannot be diverted into long loitering with them. if the reader visits the village to-day, he will doubtless be pointed out the montague dwelling, where ruth lived, the cross-lots path she traversed to the seminary, and the venerable chapel with its cracked bell. in the little society of the place, the quaker girl was a favorite, and no considerable social gathering or pleasure party was thought complete without her. there was something in this seemingly transparent and yet deep character, in her childlike gaiety and enjoyment of the society about her, and in her not seldom absorption in herself, that would have made her long remembered there if no events had subsequently occurred to recall her to mind. to the surprise of alice, ruth took to the small gaieties of the village with a zest of enjoyment that seemed foreign to one who had devoted her life to a serious profession from the highest motives. alice liked society well enough, she thought, but there was nothing exciting in that of fallkill, nor anything novel in the attentions of the well-bred young gentlemen one met in it. it must have worn a different aspect to ruth, for she entered into its pleasures at first with curiosity, and then with interest and finally with a kind of staid abandon that no one would have deemed possible for her. parties, picnics, rowing-matches, moonlight strolls, nutting expeditions in the october woods,--alice declared that it was a whirl of dissipation. the fondness of ruth, which was scarcely disguised, for the company of agreeable young fellows, who talked nothings, gave alice opportunity for no end of banter. "do you look upon them as i subjects, dear?" she would ask. and ruth laughed her merriest laugh, and then looked sober again. perhaps she was thinking, after all, whether she knew herself. if you should rear a duck in the heart of the sahara, no doubt it would swim if you brought it to the nile. surely no one would have predicted when ruth left philadelphia that she would become absorbed to this extent, and so happy, in a life so unlike that she thought she desired. but no one can tell how a woman will act under any circumstances. the reason novelists nearly always fail in depicting women when they make them act, is that they let them do what they have observed some woman has done at sometime or another. and that is where they make a mistake; for a woman will never do again what has been done before. it is this uncertainty that causes women, considered as materials for fiction, to be so interesting to themselves and to others. as the fall went on and the winter, ruth did not distinguish herself greatly at the fallkill seminary as a student, a fact that apparently gave her no anxiety, and did not diminish her enjoyment of a new sort of power which had awakened within her. chapter xxii. in mid-winter, an event occurred of unusual interest to the inhabitants of the montague house, and to the friends of the young ladies who sought their society. this was the arrival at the sassacua hotel of two young gentlemen from the west. it is the fashion in new england to give indian names to the public houses, not that the late lamented savage knew how to keep a hotel, but that his warlike name may impress the traveler who humbly craves shelter there, and make him grateful to the noble and gentlemanly clerk if he is allowed to depart with his scalp safe. the two young gentlemen were neither students for the fallkill seminary, nor lecturers on physiology, nor yet life assurance solicitors, three suppositions that almost exhausted the guessing power of the people at the hotel in respect to the names of "philip sterling and henry brierly, missouri," on the register. they were handsome enough fellows, that was evident, browned by out-door exposure, and with a free and lordly way about them that almost awed the hotel clerk himself. indeed, he very soon set down mr. brierly as a gentleman of large fortune, with enormous interests on his shoulders. harry had a way of casually mentioning western investments, through lines, the freighting business, and the route through the indian territory to lower california, which was calculated to give an importance to his lightest word. "you've a pleasant town here, sir, and the most comfortable looking hotel i've seen out of new york," said harry to the clerk; "we shall stay here a few days if you can give us a roomy suite of apartments." harry usually had the best of everything, wherever he went, as such fellows always do have in this accommodating world. philip would have been quite content with less expensive quarters, but there was no resisting harry's generosity in such matters. railroad surveying and real-estate operations were at a standstill during the winter in missouri, and the young men had taken advantage of the lull to come east, philip to see if there was any disposition in his friends, the railway contractors, to give him a share in the salt lick union pacific extension, and harry to open out to his uncle the prospects of the new city at stone's landing, and to procure congressional appropriations for the harbor and for making goose run navigable. harry had with him a map of that noble stream and of the harbor, with a perfect net-work of railroads centering in it, pictures of wharves, crowded with steamboats, and of huge grain-elevators on the bank, all of which grew out of the combined imaginations of col. sellers and mr. brierly. the colonel had entire confidence in harry's influence with wall street, and with congressmen, to bring about the consummation of their scheme, and he waited his return in the empty house at hawkeye, feeding his pinched family upon the most gorgeous expectations with a reckless prodigality. "don't let 'em into the thing more than is necessary," says the colonel to harry; "give 'em a small interest; a lot apiece in the suburbs of the landing ought to do a congressman, but i reckon you'll have to mortgage a part of the city itself to the brokers." harry did not find that eagerness to lend money on stone's landing in wall street which col. sellers had expected, (it had seen too many such maps as he exhibited), although his uncle and some of the brokers looked with more favor on the appropriation for improving the navigation of columbus river, and were not disinclined to form a company for that purpose. an appropriation was a tangible thing, if you could get hold of it, and it made little difference what it was appropriated for, so long as you got hold of it. pending these weighty negotiations, philip has persuaded harry to take a little run up to fallkill, a not difficult task, for that young man would at any time have turned his back upon all the land in the west at sight of a new and pretty face, and he had, it must be confessed, a facility in love making which made it not at all an interference with the more serious business of life. he could not, to be sure, conceive how philip could be interested in a young lady who was studying medicine, but he had no objection to going, for he did not doubt that there were other girls in fallkill who were worth a week's attention. the young men were received at the house of the montagues with the hospitality which never failed there. "we are glad to see you again," exclaimed the squire heartily, "you are welcome mr. brierly, any friend of phil's is welcome at our house" "it's more like home to me, than any place except my own home," cried philip, as he looked about the cheerful house and went through a general hand-shaking. "it's a long time, though, since you have been here to say so," alice said, with her father's frankness of manner; "and i suspect we owe the visit now to your sudden interest in the fallkill seminary." philip's color came, as it had an awkward way of doing in his tell-tale face, but before he could stammer a reply, harry came in with, "that accounts for phil's wish to build a seminary at stone's landing, our place in missouri, when col. sellers insisted it should be a university. phil appears to have a weakness for seminaries." "it would have been better for your friend sellers," retorted philip, "if he had had a weakness for district schools. col. sellers, miss alice, is a great friend of harry's, who is always trying to build a house by beginning at the top." "i suppose it's as easy to build a university on paper as a seminary, and it looks better," was harry's reflection; at which the squire laughed, and said he quite agreed with him. the old gentleman understood stone's landing a good deal better than he would have done after an hour's talk with either of it's expectant proprietors. at this moment, and while philip was trying to frame a question that he found it exceedingly difficult to put into words, the door opened quietly, and ruth entered. taking in the, group with a quick glance, her eye lighted up, and with a merry smile she advanced and shook hands with philip. she was so unconstrained and sincerely cordial, that it made that hero of the west feel somehow young, and very ill at ease. for months and months he had thought of this meeting and pictured it to himself a hundred times, but he had never imagined it would be like this. he should meet ruth unexpectedly, as she was walking alone from the school, perhaps, or entering the room where he was waiting for her, and she would cry "oh! phil," and then check herself, and perhaps blush, and philip calm but eager and enthusiastic, would reassure her by his warm manner, and he would take her hand impressively, and she would look up timidly, and, after his' long absence, perhaps he would be permitted to good heavens, how many times he had come to this point, and wondered if it could happen so. well, well; he had never supposed that he should be the one embarrassed, and above all by a sincere and cordial welcome. "we heard you were at the sassacus house," were ruth's first words; "and this i suppose is your friend?" "i beg your pardon," philip at length blundered out, "this is mr. brierly of whom i have written you." and ruth welcomed harry with a friendliness that philip thought was due to his friend, to be sure, but which seemed to him too level with her reception of himself, but which harry received as his due from the other sex. questions were asked about the journey and about the west, and the conversation became a general one, until philip at length found himself talking with the squire in relation to land and railroads and things he couldn't keep his mind on especially as he heard ruth and harry in an animated discourse, and caught the words "new york," and "opera," and "reception," and knew that harry was giving his imagination full range in the world of fashion. harry knew all about the opera, green room and all (at least he said so) and knew a good many of the operas and could make very entertaining stories of their plots, telling how the soprano came in here, and the basso here, humming the beginning of their airs--tum-ti-tum-ti-ti --suggesting the profound dissatisfaction of the basso recitative--down --among--the--dead--men--and touching off the whole with an airy grace quite captivating; though he couldn't have sung a single air through to save himself, and he hadn't an ear to know whether it was sung correctly. all the same he doted on the opera, and kept a box there, into which he lounged occasionally to hear a favorite scene and meet his society friends. if ruth was ever in the city he should be happy to place his box at the disposal of ruth and her friends. needless to say that she was delighted with the offer. when she told philip of it, that discreet young fellow only smiled, and said that he hoped she would be fortunate enough to be in new york some evening when harry had not already given the use of his private box to some other friend. the squire pressed the visitors to let him send for their trunks and urged them to stay at his house, and alice joined in the invitation, but philip had reasons for declining. they staid to supper, however, and in; the evening philip had a long talk apart with ruth, a delightful hour to him, in which she spoke freely of herself as of old, of her studies at philadelphia and of her plans, and she entered into his adventures and prospects in the west with a genuine and almost sisterly interest; an interest, however, which did not exactly satisfy philip--it was too general and not personal enough to suit him. and with all her freedom in speaking of her own hopes, philip could not, detect any reference to himself in them; whereas he never undertook anything that he did not think of ruth in connection with it, he never made a plan that had not reference to her, and he never thought of anything as complete if she could not share it. fortune, reputation these had no value to him except in ruth's eyes, and there were times when it seemed to him that if ruth was not on this earth, he should plunge off into some remote wilderness and live in a purposeless seclusion. "i hoped," said philip; "to get a little start in connection with this new railroad, and make a little money, so that i could came east and engage in something more suited to my tastes. i shouldn't like to live in the west. would you? "it never occurred to me whether i would or not," was the unembarrassed reply. "one of our graduates went to chicago, and has a nice practice there. i don't know where i shall go. it would mortify mother dreadfully to have me driving about philadelphia in a doctor's gig." philip laughed at the idea of it. "and does it seem as necessary to you to do it as it did before you came to fallkill?" it was a home question, and went deeper than philip knew, for ruth at once thought of practicing her profession among the young gentlemen and ladies of her acquaintance in the village; but she was reluctant to admit to herself that her notions of a career had undergone any change. "oh, i don't think i should come to fallkill to practice, but i must do something when i am through school; and why not medicine?" philip would like to have explained why not, but the explanation would be of no use if it were not already obvious to ruth. harry was equally in his element whether instructing squire montague about the investment of capital in missouri, the improvement of columbus river, the project he and some gentlemen in new york had for making a shorter pacific connection with the mississippi than the present one; or diverting mrs. montague with his experience in cooking in camp; or drawing for miss alice an amusing picture of the social contrasts of new england and the border where he had been. harry was a very entertaining fellow, having his imagination to help his memory, and telling his stories as if he believed them--as perhaps he did. alice was greatly amused with harry and listened so seriously to his romancing that he exceeded his usual limits. chance allusions to his bachelor establishment in town and the place of his family on the hudson, could not have been made by a millionaire, more naturally. "i should think," queried alice, "you would rather stay in new york than to try the rough life at the west you have been speaking of." "oh, adventure," says harry, "i get tired of new york. and besides i got involved in some operations that i had to see through. parties in new york only last week wanted me to go down into arizona in a big diamond interest. i told them, no, no speculation for me. i've got my interests in missouri; and i wouldn't leave philip, as long as he stays there." when the young gentlemen were on their way back to the hotel, mr. philip, who was not in very good humor, broke out, "what the deuce, harry, did you go on in that style to the montagues for?" "go on?" cried harry. "why shouldn't i try to make a pleasant evening? and besides, ain't i going to do those things? what difference does it make about the mood and tense of a mere verb? didn't uncle tell me only last saturday, that i might as well go down to arizona and hunt for diamonds? a fellow might as well make a good impression as a poor one." "nonsense. you'll get to believing your own romancing by and by." "well, you'll see. when sellers and i get that appropriation, i'll show you an establishment in town and another on the hudson and a box at the opera." "yes, it will be like col. sellers' plantation at hawkeye. did you ever see that?" "now, don't be cross, phil. she's just superb, that little woman. you never told me." "who's just superb?" growled philip, fancying this turn of the conversation less than the other. "well, mrs. montague, if you must know." and harry stopped to light a cigar, and then puffed on in silence. the little quarrel didn't last over night, for harry never appeared to cherish any ill-will half a second, and philip was too sensible to continue a row about nothing; and he had invited harry to come with him. the young gentlemen stayed in fallkill a week, and were every day at the montagues, and took part in the winter gaieties of the village. there were parties here and there to which the friends of ruth and the montagues were of course invited, and harry in the generosity of his nature, gave in return a little supper at the hotel, very simple indeed, with dancing in the hall, and some refreshments passed round. and philip found the whole thing in the bill when he came to pay it. before the week was over philip thought he had a new light on the character of ruth. her absorption in the small gaieties of the society there surprised him. he had few opportunities for serious conversation with her. there was always some butterfly or another flitting about, and when philip showed by his manner that he was not pleased, ruth laughed merrily enough and rallied him on his soberness--she declared he was getting to be grim and unsocial. he talked indeed more with alice than with ruth, and scarcely concealed from her the trouble that was in his mind. it needed, in fact, no word from him, for she saw clearly enough what was going forward, and knew her sex well enough to know there was no remedy for it but time. "ruth is a dear girl, philip, and has as much firmness of purpose as ever, but don't you see she has just discovered that she is fond of society? don't you let her see you are selfish about it, is my advice." the last evening they were to spend in fallkill, they were at the montagues, and philip hoped that he would find ruth in a different mood. but she was never more gay, and there was a spice of mischief in her eye and in her laugh. "confound it," said philip to himself, "she's in a perfect twitter." he would have liked to quarrel with her, and fling himself out of the house in tragedy style, going perhaps so far as to blindly wander off miles into the country and bathe his throbbing brow in the chilling rain of the stars, as people do in novels; but he had no opportunity. for ruth was as serenely unconscious of mischief as women can be at times, and fascinated him more than ever with her little demurenesses and half-confidences. she even said "thee" to him once in reproach for a cutting speech he began. and the sweet little word made his heart beat like a trip-hammer, for never in all her life had she said "thee" to him before. was she fascinated with harry's careless 'bon homie' and gay assurance? both chatted away in high spirits, and made the evening whirl along in the most mirthful manner. ruth sang for harry, and that young gentleman turned the leaves for her at the piano, and put in a bass note now and then where he thought it would tell. yes, it was a merry evening, and philip was heartily glad when it was over, and the long leave-taking with the family was through with. "farewell philip. good night mr. brierly," ruth's clear voice sounded after them as they went down the walk. and she spoke harry's name last, thought philip. chapter xxiii. "o see ye not yon narrow road so thick beset wi' thorns and briers? that is the path of righteousness, though after it but few inquires. "and see ye not yon braid, braid road, that lies across the lily leven? that is the path of wickedness, though some call it the road to heaven." thomas the rhymer. phillip and harry reached new york in very different states of mind. harry was buoyant. he found a letter from col. sellers urging him to go to washington and confer with senator dilworthy. the petition was in his hands. it had been signed by everybody of any importance in missouri, and would be presented immediately. "i should go on myself," wrote the colonel, "but i am engaged in the invention of a process for lighting such a city as st. louis by means of water; just attach my machine to the water-pipes anywhere and the decomposition of the fluid begins, and you will have floods of light for the mere cost of the machine. i've nearly got the lighting part, but i want to attach to it a heating, cooking, washing and ironing apparatus. it's going to be the great thing, but we'd better keep this appropriation going while i am perfecting it." harry took letters to several congressmen from his uncle and from mr. duff brown, each of whom had an extensive acquaintance in both houses where they were well known as men engaged in large private operations for the public good and men, besides, who, in the slang of the day, understood the virtues of "addition, division and silence." senator dilworthy introduced the petition into the senate with the remark that he knew, personally, the signers of it, that they were men interested; it was true, in the improvement of the country, but he believed without any selfish motive, and that so far as he knew the signers were loyal. it pleased him to see upon the roll the names of many colored citizens, and it must rejoice every friend of humanity to know that this lately emancipated race were intelligently taking part in the development of the resources of their native land. he moved the reference of the petition to the proper committee. senator dilworthy introduced his young friend to influential members, as a person who was very well informed about the salt lick extension of the pacific, and was one of the engineers who had made a careful survey of columbus river; and left him to exhibit his maps and plans and to show the connection between the public treasury, the city of napoleon and legislation for the benefit off the whole country. harry was the guest of senator dilworthy. there was scarcely any good movement in which the senator was not interested. his house was open to all the laborers in the field of total abstinence, and much of his time was taken up in attending the meetings of this cause. he had a bible class in the sunday school of the church which he attended, and he suggested to harry that he might take a class during the time he remained in washington, mr. washington hawkins had a class. harry asked the senator if there was a class of young ladies for him to teach, and after that the senator did not press the subject. philip, if the truth must be told, was not well satisfied with his western prospects, nor altogether with the people he had fallen in with. the railroad contractors held out large but rather indefinite promises. opportunities for a fortune he did not doubt existed in missouri, but for himself he saw no better means for livelihood than the mastery of the profession he had rather thoughtlessly entered upon. during the summer he had made considerable practical advance in the science of engineering; he had been diligent, and made himself to a certain extent necessary to the work he was engaged on. the contractors called him into their consultations frequently, as to the character of the country he had been over, and the cost of constructing the road, the nature of the work, etc. still philip felt that if he was going to make either reputation or money as an engineer, he had a great deal of hard study before him, and it is to his credit that he did not shrink from it. while harry was in washington dancing attendance upon the national legislature and making the acquaintance of the vast lobby that encircled it, philip devoted himself day and night, with an energy and a concentration he was capable of, to the learning and theory of his profession, and to the science of railroad building. he wrote some papers at this time for the "plow, the loom and the anvil," upon the strength of materials, and especially upon bridge-building, which attracted considerable attention, and were copied into the english "practical magazine." they served at any rate to raise philip in the opinion of his friends the contractors, for practical men have a certain superstitious estimation of ability with the pen, and though they may a little despise the talent, they are quite ready to make use of it. philip sent copies of his performances to ruth's father and to other gentlemen whose good opinion he coveted, but he did not rest upon his laurels. indeed, so diligently had he applied himself, that when it came time for him to return to the west, he felt himself, at least in theory, competent to take charge of a division in the field. chapter xxiv. the capital of the great republic was a new world to country-bred washington hawkins. st. louis was a greater city, but its floating. population did not hail from great distances, and so it had the general family aspect of the permanent population; but washington gathered its people from the four winds of heaven, and so the manners, the faces and the fashions there, presented a variety that was infinite. washington had never been in "society" in st. louis, and he knew nothing of the ways of its wealthier citizens and had never inspected one of their dwellings. consequently, everything in the nature of modern fashion and grandeur was a new and wonderful revelation to him. washington is an interesting city to any of us. it seems to become more and more interesting the oftener we visit it. perhaps the reader has never been there? very well. you arrive either at night, rather too late to do anything or see anything until morning, or you arrive so early in the morning that you consider it best to go to your hotel and sleep an hour or two while the sun bothers along over the atlantic. you cannot well arrive at a pleasant intermediate hour, because the railway corporation that keeps the keys of the only door that leads into the town or out of it take care of that. you arrive in tolerably good spirits, because it is only thirty-eight miles from baltimore to the capital, and so you have only been insulted three times (provided you are not in a sleeping car--the average is higher there): once when you renewed your ticket after stopping over in baltimore, once when you were about to enter the "ladies' car" without knowing it was a lady's car, and once when you asked the conductor at what hour you would reach washington. you are assailed by a long rank of hackmen who shake their whips in your face as you step out upon the sidewalk; you enter what they regard as a "carriage," in the capital, and you wonder why they do not take it out of service and put it in the museum: we have few enough antiquities, and it is little to our credit that we make scarcely any effort to preserve the few we have. you reach your hotel, presently--and here let us draw the curtain of charity--because of course you have gone to the wrong one. you being a stranger, how could you do otherwise? there are a hundred and eighteen bad hotels, and only one good one. the most renowned and popular hotel of them all is perhaps the worst one known to history. it is winter, and night. when you arrived, it was snowing. when you reached the hotel, it was sleeting. when you went to bed, it was raining. during the night it froze hard, and the wind blew some chimneys down. when you got up in the morning, it was foggy. when you finished your breakfast at ten o'clock and went out, the sunshine was brilliant, the weather balmy and delicious, and the mud and slush deep and all-pervading. you will like the climate when you get used to it. you naturally wish to view the city; so you take an umbrella, an overcoat, and a fan, and go forth. the prominent features you soon locate and get familiar with; first you glimpse the ornamental upper works of a long, snowy palace projecting above a grove of trees, and a tall, graceful white dome with a statue on it surmounting the palace and pleasantly contrasting with the background of blue sky. that building is the capitol; gossips will tell you that by the original estimates it was to cost $ , , , and that the government did come within $ , , of building it for that sum. you stand at the back of the capitol to treat yourself to a view, and it is a very noble one. you understand, the capitol stands upon the verge of a high piece of table land, a fine commanding position, and its front looks out over this noble situation for a city--but it don't see it, for the reason that when the capitol extension was decided upon, the property owners at once advanced their prices to such inhuman figures that the people went down and built the city in the muddy low marsh behind the temple of liberty; so now the lordly front of the building, with, its imposing colonades, its, projecting, graceful wings, its, picturesque groups of statuary, and its long terraced ranges of steps, flowing down in white marble waves to the ground, merely looks out upon a sorrowful little desert of cheap boarding houses. so you observe, that you take your view from the back of the capitol. and yet not from the airy outlooks of the dome, by the way, because to get there you must pass through the great rotunda: and to do that, you would have to see the marvelous historical paintings that hang there, and the bas-reliefs--and what have you done that you should suffer thus? and besides, you might have to pass through the old part of the building, and you could not help seeing mr. lincoln, as petrified by a young lady artist for $ , --and you might take his marble emancipation proclamation, which he holds out in his hand and contemplates, for a folded napkin; and you might conceive from his expression and his attitude, that he is finding fault with the washing. which is not the case. nobody knows what is the matter with him; but everybody feels for him. well, you ought not to go into the dome anyhow, because it would be utterly impossible to go up there without seeing the frescoes in it--and why should you be interested in the delirium tremens of art? the capitol is a very noble and a very beautiful building, both within and without, but you need not examine it now. still, if you greatly prefer going into the dome, go. now your general glance gives you picturesque stretches of gleaming water, on your left, with a sail here and there and a lunatic asylum on shore; over beyond the water, on a distant elevation, you see a squat yellow temple which your eye dwells upon lovingly through a blur of unmanly moisture, for it recalls your lost boyhood and the parthenons done in molasses candy which made it blest and beautiful. still in the distance, but on this side of the water and close to its edge, the monument to the father of his country towers out of the mud--sacred soil is the, customary term. it has the aspect of a factory chimney with the top broken off. the skeleton of a decaying scaffolding lingers about its summit, and tradition says that the spirit of washington often comes down and sits on those rafters to enjoy this tribute of respect which the nation has reared as the symbol of its unappeasable gratitude. the monument is to be finished, some day, and at that time our washington will have risen still higher in the nation's veneration, and will be known as the great-great-grandfather of his country. the memorial chimney stands in a quiet pastoral locality that is full of reposeful expression. with a glass you can see the cow-sheds about its base, and the contented sheep nimbling pebbles in the desert solitudes that surround it, and the tired pigs dozing in the holy calm of its protecting shadow. now you wrench your gaze loose, and you look down in front of you and see the broad pennsylvania avenue stretching straight ahead for a mile or more till it brings up against the iron fence in front of a pillared granite pile, the treasury building-an edifice that would command respect in any capital. the stores and hotels that wall in this broad avenue are mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment. beyond the treasury is a fine large white barn, with wide unhandsome grounds about it. the president lives there. it is ugly enough outside, but that is nothing to what it is inside. dreariness, flimsiness, bad taste reduced to mathematical completeness is what the inside offers to the eye, if it remains yet what it always has been. the front and right hand views give you the city at large. it is a wide stretch of cheap little brick houses, with here and there a noble architectural pile lifting itself out of the midst-government buildings, these. if the thaw is still going on when you come down and go about town, you will wonder at the short-sightedness of the city fathers, when you come to inspect the streets, in that they do not dilute the mud a little more and use them for canals. if you inquire around a little, you will find that there are more boardinghouses to the square acre in washington than there are in any other city in the land, perhaps. if you apply for a home in one of them, it will seem odd to you to have the landlady inspect you with a severe eye and then ask you if you are a member of congress. perhaps, just as a pleasantry, you will say yes. and then she will tell you that she is "full." then you show her her advertisement in the morning paper, and there she stands, convicted and ashamed. she will try to blush, and it will be only polite in you to take the effort for the deed. she shows you her rooms, now, and lets you take one--but she makes you pay in advance for it. that is what you will get for pretending to be a member of congress. if you had been content to be merely a private citizen, your trunk would have been sufficient security for your board. if you are curious and inquire into this thing, the chances are that your landlady will be ill-natured enough to say that the person and property of a congressman are exempt from arrest or detention, and that with the tears in her eyes she has seen several of the people's representatives walk off to their several states and territories carrying her unreceipted board bills in their pockets for keepsakes. and before you have been in washington many weeks you will be mean enough to believe her, too. of course you contrive to see everything and find out everything. and one of the first and most startling things you find out is, that every individual you encounter in the city of washington almost--and certainly every separate and distinct individual in the public employment, from the highest bureau chief, clear down to the maid who scrubs department halls, the night watchmen of the public buildings and the darkey boy who purifies the department spittoons--represents political influence. unless you can get the ear of a senator, or a congressman, or a chief of a bureau or department, and persuade him to use his "influence" in your behalf, you cannot get an employment of the most trivial nature in washington. mere merit, fitness and capability, are useless baggage to you without "influence." the population of washington consists pretty much entirely of government employee and the people who board them. there are thousands of these employees, and they have gathered there from every corner of the union and got their berths through the intercession (command is nearer the word) of the senators and representatives of their respective states. it would be an odd circumstance to see a girl get employment at three or four dollars a week in one of the great public cribs without any political grandee to back her, but merely because she was worthy, and competent, and a good citizen of a free country that "treats all persons alike." washington would be mildly thunderstruck at such a thing as that. if you are a member of congress, (no offence,) and one of your constituents who doesn't know anything, and does not want to go into the bother of learning something, and has no money, and no employment, and can't earn a living, comes besieging you for help, do you say, "come, my friend, if your services were valuable you could get employment elsewhere--don't want you here?" oh, no: you take him to a department and say, "here, give this person something to pass away the time at--and a salary"--and the thing is done. you throw him on his country. he is his country's child, let his country support him. there is something good and motherly about washington, the grand old benevolent national asylum for the helpless. the wages received by this great hive of employees are placed at the liberal figure meet and just for skilled and competent labor. such of them as are immediately employed about the two houses of congress, are not only liberally paid also, but are remembered in the customary extra compensation bill which slides neatly through, annually, with the general grab that signalizes the last night of a session, and thus twenty per cent. is added to their wages, for--for fun, no doubt. washington hawkins' new life was an unceasing delight to him. senator dilworthy lived sumptuously, and washington's quarters were charming --gas; running water, hot and cold; bath-room, coal-fires, rich carpets, beautiful pictures on the walls; books on religion, temperance, public charities and financial schemes; trim colored servants, dainty food --everything a body could wish for. and as for stationery, there was no end to it; the government furnished it; postage stamps were not needed --the senator's frank could convey a horse through the mails, if necessary. and then he saw such dazzling company. renowned generals and admirals who had seemed but colossal myths when he was in the far west, went in and out before him or sat at the senator's table, solidified into palpable flesh and blood; famous statesmen crossed his path daily; that once rare and awe-inspiring being, a congressman, was become a common spectacle--a spectacle so common, indeed, that he could contemplate it without excitement, even without embarrassment; foreign ministers were visible to the naked eye at happy intervals; he had looked upon the president himself, and lived. and more; this world of enchantment teemed with speculation--the whole atmosphere was thick with hand that indeed was washington hawkins' native air; none other refreshed his lungs so gratefully. he had found paradise at last. the more he saw of his chief the senator, the more he honored him, and the more conspicuously the moral grandeur of his character appeared to stand out. to possess the friendship and the kindly interest of such a man, washington said in a letter to louise, was a happy fortune for a young man whose career had been so impeded and so clouded as his. the weeks drifted by;--harry brierly flirted, danced, added lustre to the brilliant senatorial receptions, and diligently "buzzed" and "button-holed" congressmen in the interest of the columbus river scheme; meantime senator dilworthy labored hard in the same interest--and in others of equal national importance. harry wrote frequently to sellers, and always encouragingly; and from these letters it was easy to see that harry was a pet with all washington, and was likely to carry the thing through; that the assistance rendered him by "old dilworthy" was pretty fair--pretty fair; "and every little helps, you know," said harry. washington wrote sellers officially, now and then. in one of his letters it appeared that whereas no member of the house committee favored the scheme at first, there was now needed but one more vote to compass a majority report. closing sentence: "providence seems to further our efforts." (signed,) "abner dilworthy, u. s. s., per washington hawkins, p. s." at the end of a week, washington was able to send the happy news, officially, as usual,--that the needed vote had been added and the bill favorably reported from the committee. other letters recorded its perils in committee of the whole, and by and by its victory, by just the skin of its teeth, on third reading and final passage. then came letters telling of mr. dilworthy's struggles with a stubborn majority in his own committee in the senate; of how these gentlemen succumbed, one by one, till a majority was secured. then there was a hiatus. washington watched every move on the board, and he was in a good position to do this, for he was clerk of this committee, and also one other. he received no salary as private secretary, but these two clerkships, procured by his benefactor, paid him an aggregate of twelve dollars a day, without counting the twenty percent extra compensation which would of course be voted to him on the last night of the session. he saw the bill go into committee of the whole and struggle for its life again, and finally worry through. in the fullness of time he noted its second reading, and by and by the day arrived when the grand ordeal came, and it was put upon its final passage. washington listened with bated breath to the "aye!" "no!" "no!" "aye!" of the voters, for a few dread minutes, and then could bear the suspense no longer. he ran down from the gallery and hurried home to wait. at the end of two or three hours the senator arrived in the bosom of his family, and dinner was waiting. washington sprang forward, with the eager question on his lips, and the senator said: "we may rejoice freely, now, my son--providence has crowned our efforts with success." chapter xxv. washington sent grand good news to col. sellers that night. to louise he wrote: "it is beautiful to hear him talk when his heart is full of thankfulness for some manifestation of the divine favor. you shall know him, some day my louise, and knowing him you will honor him, as i do." harry wrote: "i pulled it through, colonel, but it was a tough job, there is no question about that. there was not a friend to the measure in the house committee when i began, and not a friend in the senate committee except old dil himself, but they were all fixed for a majority report when i hauled off my forces. everybody here says you can't get a thing like this through congress without buying committees for straight-out cash on delivery, but i think i've taught them a thing or two--if i could only make them believe it. when i tell the old residenters that this thing went through without buying a vote or making a promise, they say, 'that's rather too thin.' and when i say thin or not thin it's a fact, anyway, they say, 'come, now, but do you really believe that?' and when i say i don't believe anything about it, i know it, they smile and say, 'well, you are pretty innocent, or pretty blind, one or the other--there's no getting around that.' why they really do believe that votes have been bought--they do indeed. but let them keep on thinking so. i have found out that if a man knows how to talk to women, and has a little gift in the way of argument with men, he can afford to play for an appropriation against a money bag and give the money bag odds in the game. we've raked in $ , of uncle sam's money, say what they will--and there is more where this came from, when we want it, and i rather fancy i am the person that can go in and occupy it, too, if i do say it myself, that shouldn't, perhaps. i'll be with you within a week. scare up all the men you can, and put them to work at once. when i get there i propose to make things hum." the great news lifted sellers into the clouds. he went to work on the instant. he flew hither and thither making contracts, engaging men, and steeping his soul in the ecstasies of business. he was the happiest man in missouri. and louise was the happiest woman; for presently came a letter from washington which said: "rejoice with me, for the long agony is over! we have waited patiently and faithfully, all these years, and now at last the reward is at hand. a man is to pay our family $ , for the tennessee land! it is but a little sum compared to what we could get by waiting, but i do so long to see the day when i can call you my own, that i have said to myself, better take this and enjoy life in a humble way than wear out our best days in this miserable separation. besides, i can put this money into operations here that will increase it a hundred fold, yes, a thousand fold, in a few months. the air is full of such chances, and i know our family would consent in a moment that i should put in their shares with mine. without a doubt we shall be worth half a million dollars in a year from this time--i put it at the very lowest figure, because it is always best to be on the safe side--half a million at the very lowest calculation, and then your father will give his consent and we can marry at last. oh, that will be a glorious day. tell our friends the good news--i want all to share it." and she did tell her father and mother, but they said, let it be kept still for the present. the careful father also told her to write washington and warn him not to speculate with the money, but to wait a little and advise with one or two wise old heads. she did this. and she managed to keep the good news to herself, though it would seem that the most careless observer might have seen by her springing step and her radiant countenance that some fine piece of good fortune had descended upon her. harry joined the colonel at stone's landing, and that dead place sprang into sudden life. a swarm of men were hard at work, and the dull air was filled with the cheery music of labor. harry had been constituted engineer-in-general, and he threw the full strength of his powers into his work. he moved among his hirelings like a king. authority seemed to invest him with a new splendor. col. sellers, as general superintendent of a great public enterprise, was all that a mere human being could be --and more. these two grandees went at their imposing "improvement" with the air of men who had been charged with the work of altering the foundations of the globe. they turned their first attention to straightening the river just above the landing, where it made a deep bend, and where the maps and plans showed that the process of straightening would not only shorten distance but increase the "fall." they started a cut-off canal across the peninsula formed by the bend, and such another tearing up of the earth and slopping around in the mud as followed the order to the men, had never been seen in that region before. there was such a panic among the turtles that at the end of six hours there was not one to be found within three miles of stone's landing. they took the young and the aged, the decrepit and the sick upon their backs and left for tide-water in disorderly procession, the tadpoles following and the bull-frogs bringing up the rear. saturday night came, but the men were obliged to wait, because the appropriation had not come. harry said he had written to hurry up the money and it would be along presently. so the work continued, on monday. stone's landing was making quite a stir in the vicinity, by this time. sellers threw a lot or two on the market, "as a feeler," and they sold well. he re-clothed his family, laid in a good stock of provisions, and still had money left. he started a bank account, in a small way--and mentioned the deposit casually to friends; and to strangers, too; to everybody, in fact; but not as a new thing--on the contrary, as a matter of life-long standing. he could not keep from buying trifles every day that were not wholly necessary, it was such a gaudy thing to get out his bank-book and draw a check, instead of using his old customary formula, "charge it" harry sold a lot or two, also--and had a dinner party or two at hawkeye and a general good time with the money. both men held on pretty strenuously for the coming big prices, however. at the end of a month things were looking bad. harry had besieged the new york headquarters of the columbus river slack-water navigation company with demands, then commands, and finally appeals, but to no purpose; the appropriation did not come; the letters were not even answered. the workmen were clamorous, now. the colonel and harry retired to consult. "what's to be done?" said the colonel. "hang'd if i know." "company say anything?" "not a word." "you telegraphed yesterday?" yes, and the day before, too." "no answer?" "none-confound them!" then there was a long pause. finally both spoke at once: "i've got it!" "i've got it!" "what's yours?" said harry. "give the boys thirty-day orders on the company for the back pay." "that's it-that's my own idea to a dot. but then--but then----" "yes, i know," said the colonel; "i know they can't wait for the orders to go to new york and be cashed, but what's the reason they can't get them discounted in hawkeye?" "of course they can. that solves the difficulty. everybody knows the appropriation's been made and the company's perfectly good." so the orders were given and the men appeased, though they grumbled a little at first. the orders went well enough for groceries and such things at a fair discount, and the work danced along gaily for a time. two or three purchasers put up frame houses at the landing and moved in, and of course a far-sighted but easy-going journeyman printer wandered along and started the "napoleon weekly telegraph and literary repository"--a paper with a latin motto from the unabridged dictionary, and plenty of "fat" conversational tales and double-leaded poetry--all for two dollars a year, strictly in advance. of course the merchants forwarded the orders at once to new york--and never heard of them again. at the end of some weeks harry's orders were a drug in the market--nobody would take them at any discount whatever. the second month closed with a riot.--sellers was absent at the time, and harry began an active absence himself with the mob at his heels. but being on horseback, he had the advantage. he did not tarry in hawkeye, but went on, thus missing several appointments with creditors. he was far on his flight eastward, and well out of danger when the next morning dawned. he telegraphed the colonel to go down and quiet the laborers--he was bound east for money --everything would be right in a week--tell the men so--tell them to rely on him and not be afraid. sellers found the mob quiet enough when he reached the landing. they had gutted the navigation office, then piled the beautiful engraved stock-books and things in the middle of the floor and enjoyed the bonfire while it lasted. they had a liking for the colonel, but still they had some idea of hanging him, as a sort of make-shift that might answer, after a fashion, in place of more satisfactory game. but they made the mistake of waiting to hear what he had to say first. within fifteen minutes his tongue had done its work and they were all rich men.--he gave every one of them a lot in the suburbs of the city of stone's landing, within a mile and a half of the future post office and railway station, and they promised to resume work as soon as harry got east and started the money along. now things were blooming and pleasant again, but the men had no money, and nothing to live on. the colonel divided with them the money he still had in bank--an act which had nothing surprising about it because he was generally ready to divide whatever he had with anybody that wanted it, and it was owing to this very trait that his family spent their days in poverty and at times were pinched with famine. when the men's minds had cooled and sellers was gone, they hated themselves for letting him beguile them with fine speeches, but it was too late, now--they agreed to hang him another time--such time as providence should appoint. chapter xxvi. rumors of ruth's frivolity and worldliness at fallkill traveled to philadelphia in due time, and occasioned no little undertalk among the bolton relatives. hannah shoecraft told another, cousin that, for her part, she never believed that ruth had so much more "mind" than other people; and cousin hulda added that she always thought ruth was fond of admiration, and that was the reason she was unwilling to wear plain clothes and attend meeting. the story that ruth was "engaged" to a young gentleman of fortune in fallkill came with the other news, and helped to give point to the little satirical remarks that went round about ruth's desire to be a doctor! margaret bolton was too wise to be either surprised or alarmed by these rumors. they might be true; she knew a woman's nature too well to think them improbable, but she also knew how steadfast ruth was in her purposes, and that, as a brook breaks into ripples and eddies and dances and sports by the way, and yet keeps on to the sea, it was in ruth's nature to give back cheerful answer to the solicitations of friendliness and pleasure, to appear idly delaying even, and sporting in the sunshine, while the current of her resolution flowed steadily on. that ruth had this delight in the mere surface play of life that she could, for instance, be interested in that somewhat serious by-play called "flirtation," or take any delight in the exercise of those little arts of pleasing and winning which are none the less genuine and charming because they are not intellectual, ruth, herself, had never suspected until she went to fallkill. she had believed it her duty to subdue her gaiety of temperament, and let nothing divert her from what are called serious pursuits: in her limited experience she brought everything to the judgment of her own conscience, and settled the affairs of all the world in her own serene judgment hall. perhaps her mother saw this, and saw also that there was nothing in the friends' society to prevent her from growing more and more opinionated. when ruth returned to philadelphia, it must be confessed--though it would not have been by her--that a medical career did seem a little less necessary for her than formerly; and coming back in a glow of triumph, as it were, and in the consciousness of the freedom and life in a lively society and in new and sympathetic friendship, she anticipated pleasure in an attempt to break up the stiffness and levelness of the society at home, and infusing into it something of the motion and sparkle which were so agreeable at fallkill. she expected visits from her new friends, she would have company, the new books and the periodicals about which all the world was talking, and, in short, she would have life. for a little while she lived in this atmosphere which she had brought with her. her mother was delighted with this change in her, with the improvement in her health and the interest she exhibited in home affairs. her father enjoyed the society of his favorite daughter as he did few things besides; he liked her mirthful and teasing ways, and not less a keen battle over something she had read. he had been a great reader all his life, and a remarkable memory had stored his mind with encyclopaedic information. it was one of ruth's delights to cram herself with some out of the way subject and endeavor to catch her father; but she almost always failed. mr. bolton liked company, a house full of it, and the mirth of young people, and he would have willingly entered into any revolutionary plans ruth might have suggested in relation to friends' society. but custom and the fixed order are stronger than the most enthusiastic and rebellious young lady, as ruth very soon found. in spite of all her brave efforts, her frequent correspondence, and her determined animation, her books and her music, she found herself settling into the clutches of the old monotony, and as she realized the hopelessness of her endeavors, the medical scheme took new hold of her, and seemed to her the only method of escape. "mother, thee does not know how different it is in fallkill, how much more interesting the people are one meets, how much more life there is." "but thee will find the world, child, pretty much all the same, when thee knows it better. i thought once as thee does now, and had as little thought of being a friend as thee has. perhaps when thee has seen more, thee will better appreciate a quiet life." "thee married young. i shall not marry young, and perhaps not at all," said ruth, with a look of vast experience. "perhaps thee doesn't know thee own mind; i have known persons of thy age who did not. did thee see anybody whom thee would like to live with always in fallkill?" "not always," replied ruth with a little laugh. "mother, i think i wouldn't say 'always' to any one until i have a profession and am as independent as he is. then my love would be a free act, and not in any way a necessity." margaret bolton smiled at this new-fangled philosophy. "thee will find that love, ruth, is a thing thee won't reason about, when it comes, nor make any bargains about. thee wrote that philip sterling was at fallkill." "yes, and henry brierly, a friend of his; a very amusing young fellow and not so serious-minded as philip, but a bit of a fop maybe." "and thee preferred the fop to the serious-minded?" "i didn't prefer anybody; but henry brierly was good company, which philip wasn't always." "did thee know thee father had been in correspondence with philip?" ruth looked up surprised and with a plain question in her eyes. "oh, it's not about thee." "what then?" and if there was any shade of disappointment in her tone, probably ruth herself did not know it. "it's about some land up in the country. that man bigler has got father into another speculation." "that odious man! why will father have anything to do with him? is it that railroad?" "yes. father advanced money and took land as security, and whatever has gone with the money and the bonds, he has on his hands a large tract of wild land." "and what has philip to do with that?" "it has good timber, if it could ever be got out, and father says that there must be coal in it; it's in a coal region. he wants philip to survey it, and examine it for indications of coal." "it's another of father's fortunes, i suppose," said ruth. "he has put away so many fortunes for us that i'm afraid we never shall find them." ruth was interested in it nevertheless, and perhaps mainly because philip was to be connected with the enterprise. mr. bigler came to dinner with her father next day, and talked a great deal about mr. bolton's magnificent tract of land, extolled the sagacity that led him to secure such a property, and led the talk along to another railroad which would open a northern communication to this very land. "pennybacker says it's full of coal, he's no doubt of it, and a railroad to strike the erie would make it a fortune." "suppose you take the land and work the thing up, mr. bigler; you may have the tract for three dollars an acre." "you'd throw it away, then," replied mr. bigler, "and i'm not the man to take advantage of a friend. but if you'll put a mortgage on it for the northern road, i wouldn't mind taking an interest, if pennybacker is willing; but pennybacker, you know, don't go much on land, he sticks to the legislature." and mr. bigler laughed. when mr. bigler had gone, ruth asked her father about philip's connection with the land scheme. "there's nothing definite," said mr. bolton. "philip is showing aptitude for his profession. i hear the best reports of him in new york, though those sharpers don't 'intend to do anything but use him. i've written and offered him employment in surveying and examining the land. we want to know what it is. and if there is anything in it that his enterprise can dig out, he shall have an interest. i should be glad to give the young fellow a lift." all his life eli bolton had been giving young fellows a lift, and shouldering the loses when things turned out unfortunately. his ledger, take-it-altogether, would not show a balance on the right side; but perhaps the losses on his books will turn out to be credits in a world where accounts are kept on a different basis. the left hand of the ledger will appear the right, looked at from the other side. philip, wrote to ruth rather a comical account of the bursting up of the city of napoleon and the navigation improvement scheme, of harry's flight and the colonel's discomfiture. harry left in such a hurry that he hadn't even time to bid miss laura hawkins good-bye, but he had no doubt that harry would console himself with the next pretty face he saw --a remark which was thrown in for ruth's benefit. col. sellers had in all probability, by this time, some other equally brilliant speculation in his brain. as to the railroad, philip had made up his mind that it was merely kept on foot for speculative purposes in wall street, and he was about to quit it. would ruth be glad to hear, he wondered, that he was coming east? for he was coming, in spite of a letter from harry in new york, advising him to hold on until he had made some arrangements in regard to contracts, he to be a little careful about sellers, who was somewhat visionary, harry said. the summer went on without much excitement for ruth. she kept up a correspondence with alice, who promised a visit in the fall, she read, she earnestly tried to interest herself in home affairs and such people as came to the house; but she found herself falling more and more into reveries, and growing weary of things as they were. she felt that everybody might become in time like two relatives from a shaker establishment in ohio, who visited the boltons about this time, a father and son, clad exactly alike, and alike in manners. the son; however, who was not of age, was more unworldly and sanctimonious than his father; he always addressed his parent as "brother plum," and bore himself, altogether in such a superior manner that ruth longed to put bent pins in his chair. both father and son wore the long, single breasted collarless coats of their society, without buttons, before or behind, but with a row of hooks and eyes on either side in front. it was ruth's suggestion that the coats would be improved by a single hook and eye sewed on in the small of the back where the buttons usually are. amusing as this shaker caricature of the friends was, it oppressed ruth beyond measure; and increased her feeling of being stifled. it was a most unreasonable feeling. no home could be pleasanter than ruth's. the house, a little out of the city; was one of those elegant country residences which so much charm visitors to the suburbs of philadelphia. a modern dwelling and luxurious in everything that wealth could suggest for comfort, it stood in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns, with groups of trees, parterres of flowers massed in colors, with greenhouse, grapery and garden; and on one side, the garden sloped away in undulations to a shallow brook that ran over a pebbly bottom and sang under forest trees. the country about teas the perfection of cultivated landscape, dotted with cottages, and stately mansions of revolutionary date, and sweet as an english country-side, whether seen in the soft bloom of may or in the mellow ripeness of late october. it needed only the peace of the mind within, to make it a paradise. one riding by on the old germantown road, and seeing a young girl swinging in the hammock on the piazza and, intent upon some volume of old poetry or the latest novel, would no doubt have envied a life so idyllic. he could not have imagined that the young girl was reading a volume of reports of clinics and longing to be elsewhere. ruth could not have been more discontented if all the wealth about her had been as unsubstantial as a dream. perhaps she so thought it. "i feel," she once said to her father, "as if i were living in a house of cards." "and thee would like to turn it into a hospital?" "no. but tell me father," continued ruth, not to be put off, "is thee still going on with that bigler and those other men who come here and entice thee?" mr. bolton smiled, as men do when they talk with women about "business" "such men have their uses, ruth. they keep the world active, and i owe a great many of my best operations to such men. who knows, ruth, but this new land purchase, which i confess i yielded a little too much to bigler in, may not turn out a fortune for thee and the rest of the children?" "ah, father, thee sees every thing in a rose-colored light. i do believe thee wouldn't have so readily allowed me to begin the study of medicine, if it hadn't had the novelty of an experiment to thee." "and is thee satisfied with it?" "if thee means, if i have had enough of it, no. i just begin to see what i can do in it, and what a noble profession it is for a woman. would thee have me sit here like a bird on a bough and wait for somebody to come and put me in a cage?" mr. bolton was not sorry to divert the talk from his own affairs, and he did not think it worth while to tell his family of a performance that very day which was entirely characteristic of him. ruth might well say that she felt as if she were living in a house of cards, although the bolton household had no idea of the number of perils that hovered over them, any more than thousands of families in america have of the business risks and contingences upon which their prosperity and luxury hang. a sudden call upon mr. bolton for a large sum of money, which must be forthcoming at once, had found him in the midst of a dozen ventures, from no one of which a dollar could be realized. it was in vain that he applied to his business acquaintances and friends; it was a period of sudden panic and no money. "a hundred thousand! mr. bolton," said plumly. "good god, if you should ask me for ten, i shouldn't know where to get it." and yet that day mr. small (pennybacker, bigler and small) came to mr. bolton with a piteous story of ruin in a coal operation, if he could not raise ten thousand dollars. only ten, and he was sure of a fortune. without it he was a beggar. mr. bolton had already small's notes for a large amount in his safe, labeled "doubtful;" he had helped him again and again, and always with the same result. but mr. small spoke with a faltering voice of his family, his daughter in school, his wife ignorant of his calamity, and drew such a picture of their agony, that mr. bolton put by his own more pressing necessity, and devoted the day to scraping together, here and there, ten thousand dollars for this brazen beggar, who had never kept a promise to him nor paid a debt. beautiful credit! the foundation of modern society. who shall say that this is not the golden age of mutual trust, of unlimited reliance upon human promises? that is a peculiar condition of society which enables a whole nation to instantly recognize point and meaning in the familiar newspaper anecdote, which puts into the mouth of a distinguished speculator in lands and mines this remark:--"i wasn't worth a cent two years ago, and now i owe two millions of dollars." chapter xxvii. it was a hard blow to poor sellers to see the work on his darling enterprise stop, and the noise and bustle and confusion that had been such refreshment to his soul, sicken and die out. it was hard to come down to humdrum ordinary life again after being a general superintendent and the most conspicuous man in the community. it was sad to see his name disappear from the newspapers; sadder still to see it resurrected at intervals, shorn of its aforetime gaudy gear of compliments and clothed on with rhetorical tar and feathers. but his friends suffered more on his account than he did. he was a cork that could not be kept under the water many moments at a time. he had to bolster up his wife's spirits every now and then. on one of these occasions he said: "it's all right, my dear, all right; it will all come right in a little while. there's $ , coming, and that will set things booming again: harry seems to be having some difficulty, but that's to be expected--you can't move these big operations to the tune of fisher's hornpipe, you know. but harry will get it started along presently, and then you'll see! i expect the news every day now." "but beriah, you've been expecting it every day, all along, haven't you?" "well, yes; yes--i don't know but i have. but anyway, the longer it's delayed, the nearer it grows to the time when it will start--same as every day you live brings you nearer to--nearer--" "the grave?" "well, no--not that exactly; but you can't understand these things, polly dear--women haven't much head for business, you know. you make yourself perfectly comfortable, old lady, and you'll see how we'll trot this right along. why bless you, let the appropriation lag, if it wants to--that's no great matter--there's a bigger thing than that." "bigger than $ , , beriah?" "bigger, child?--why, what's $ , ? pocket money! mere pocket money! look at the railroad! did you forget the railroad? it ain't many months till spring; it will be coming right along, and the railroad swimming right along behind it. where'll it be by the middle of summer? just stop and fancy a moment--just think a little--don't anything suggest itself? bless your heart, you dear women live right in the present all the time--but a man, why a man lives---- "in the future, beriah? but don't we live in the future most too much, beriah? we do somehow seem to manage to live on next year's crop of corn and potatoes as a general thing while this year is still dragging along, but sometimes it's not a robust diet,--beriah. but don't look that way, dear--don't mind what i say. i don't mean to fret, i don't mean to worry; and i don't, once a month, do i, dear? but when i get a little low and feel bad, i get a bit troubled and worrisome, but it don't mean anything in the world. it passes right away. i know you're doing all you can, and i don't want to seem repining and ungrateful--for i'm not, beriah--you know i'm not, don't you?" "lord bless you, child, i know you are the very best little woman that ever lived--that ever lived on the whole face of the earth! and i know that i would be a dog not to work for you and think for you and scheme for you with all my might. and i'll bring things all right yet, honey --cheer up and don't you fear. the railroad----" "oh, i had forgotten the railroad, dear, but when a body gets blue, a body forgets everything. yes, the railroad--tell me about the railroad." "aha, my girl, don't you see? things ain't so dark, are they? now i didn't forget the railroad. now just think for a moment--just figure up a little on the future dead moral certainties. for instance, call this waiter st. louis. "and we'll lay this fork (representing the railroad) from st. louis to this potato, which is slouchburg: "then with this carving knife we'll continue the railroad from slouchburg to doodleville, shown by the black pepper: "then we run along the--yes--the comb--to the tumbler that's brimstone: "thence by the pipe to belshazzar, which is the salt-cellar: "thence to, to--that quill--catfish--hand me the pincushion, marie antoinette: "thence right along these shears to this horse, babylon: "then by the spoon to bloody run--thank you, the ink: "thence to hail columbia--snuffers, polly, please move that cup and saucer close up, that's hail columbia: "then--let me open my knife--to hark-from-the-tomb, where we'll put the candle-stick--only a little distance from hail columbia to hark-from-the-tomb--down-grade all the way. "and there we strike columbus river--pass me two or throe skeins of thread to stand for the river; the sugar bowl will do for hawkeye, and the rat trap for stone's landing-napoleon, i mean--and you can see how much better napoleon is located than hawkeye. now here you are with your railroad complete, and showing its continuation to hallelujah and thence to corruptionville. "now then-them you are! it's a beautiful road, beautiful. jeff thompson can out-engineer any civil engineer that ever sighted through an aneroid, or a theodolite, or whatever they call it--he calls it sometimes one and sometimes the other just whichever levels off his sentence neatest, i reckon. but ain't it a ripping toad, though? i tell you, it'll make a stir when it gets along. just see what a country it goes through. there's your onions at slouchburg--noblest onion country that graces god's footstool; and there's your turnip country all around doodleville --bless my life, what fortunes are going to be made there when they get that contrivance perfected for extracting olive oil out of turnips--if there's any in them; and i reckon there is, because congress has made an appropriation of money to test the thing, and they wouldn't have done that just on conjecture, of course. and now we come to the brimstone region--cattle raised there till you can't rest--and corn, and all that sort of thing. then you've got a little stretch along through belshazzar that don't produce anything now--at least nothing but rocks--but irrigation will fetch it. then from catfish to babylon it's a little swampy, but there's dead loads of peat down under there somewhere. next is the bloody run and hail columbia country--tobacco enough can be raised there to support two such railroads. next is the sassparilla region. i reckon there's enough of that truck along in there on the line of the pocket-knife, from hail columbia to hark-from-the tomb to fat up all the consumptives in all the hospitals from halifax to the holy land. it just grows like weeds! i've got a little belt of sassparilla land in there just tucked away unobstrusively waiting for my little universal expectorant to get into shape in my head. and i'll fix that, you know. one of these days i'll have all the nations of the earth expecto--" "but beriah, dear--" "don't interrupt me; polly--i don't want you to lose the run of the map --well, take your toy-horse, james fitz-james, if you must have it--and run along with you. here, now--the soap will do for babylon. let me see --where was i? oh yes--now we run down to stone's lan--napoleon--now we run down to napoleon. beautiful road. look at that, now. perfectly straight line-straight as the way to the grave. and see where it leaves hawkeye-clear out in the cold, my dear, clear out in the cold. that town's as bound to die as--well if i owned it i'd get its obituary ready, now, and notify the mourners. polly, mark my words--in three years from this, hawkeye'll be a howling wilderness. you'll see. and just look at that river--noblest stream that meanders over the thirsty earth! --calmest, gentlest artery that refreshes her weary bosom! railroad goes all over it and all through it--wades right along on stilts. seventeen bridges in three miles and a half--forty-nine bridges from hark-from-the-tomb to stone's landing altogether--forty nine bridges, and culverts enough to culvert creation itself! hadn't skeins of thread enough to represent them all--but you get an idea--perfect trestle-work of bridges for seventy two miles: jeff thompson and i fixed all that, you know; he's to get the contracts and i'm to put them through on the divide. just oceans of money in those bridges. it's the only part of the railroad i'm interested in,--down along the line--and it's all i want, too. it's enough, i should judge. now here we are at napoleon. good enough country plenty good enough--all it wants is population. that's all right--that will come. and it's no bad country now for calmness and solitude, i can tell you--though there's no money in that, of course. no money, but a man wants rest, a man wants peace--a man don't want to rip and tear around all the time. and here we go, now, just as straight as a string for hallelujah--it's a beautiful angle --handsome up grade all the way --and then away you go to corruptionville, the gaudiest country for early carrots and cauliflowers that ever--good missionary field, too. there ain't such another missionary field outside the jungles of central africa. and patriotic?--why they named it after congress itself. oh, i warn you, my dear, there's a good time coming, and it'll be right along before you know what you're about, too. that railroad's fetching it. you see what it is as far as i've got, and if i had enough bottles and soap and boot-jacks and such things to carry it along to where it joins onto the union pacific, fourteen hundred miles from here, i should exhibit to you in that little internal improvement a spectacle of inconceivable sublimity. so, don't you see? we've got the rail road to fall back on; and in the meantime, what are we worrying about that $ , appropriation for? that's all right. i'd be willing to bet anything that the very next letter that comes from harry will--" the eldest boy entered just in the nick of time and brought a letter, warm from the post-office. "things do look bright, after all, beriah. i'm sorry i was blue, but it did seem as if everything had been going against us for whole ages. open the letter--open it quick, and let's know all about it before we stir out of our places. i am all in a fidget to know what it says." the letter was opened, without any unnecessary delay. memoirs of the life of the rt. hon. richard brinsley sheridan by thomas moore in two volumes vol. ii. [illustration] contents to vol. ii. chapter i. impeachment of mr. hastings. chapter ii. death of mr. sheridan's father.--verses by mrs. sheridan on the death of her sister, mrs. tickell. chapter iii. illness of the king.--regency.--private life of mr. sheridan. chapter iv. french revolution.--mr. burke.--his breach with mr. sheridan.--dissolution of parliament.--mr. burke and mr. fox.--russian armament.--royal scotch boroughs. chapter v. death of mrs. sheridan. chapter vi. drury-lane theatre.--society of "the friends of the people."--madame de genlis.--war with france.--whig seceders.--speeches in parliament--death of tickell. chapter vii. speech in answer to lord mornington.--coalition of the whig seceders with mr. pitt.--mr. canning.--evidence on the trial of horne tooke.--the "glorious first of june."--marriage of mr. sheridan.--pamphlet of mr. reeves--debts of the prince of wales.--shakspeare manuscripts.--trial of stone.--mutiny at the nore.--secession of mr. fox from parliament. chapter viii. play of "the stranger."--speeches in parliament.--pizarro.--ministry of mr. addington.--french institute.--negotiations with mr. kemble. chapter ix. state of parties.--offer of a place to mr. t. sheridan.--receivership of the duchy of cornwall bestowed upon mr. sheridan.--return of mr. pitt to power.--catholic question.--administration of lord grenville and mr. fox.--death of mr. fox.--representation of westminster.--dismission of the ministry.--theatrical negotiation.--spanish question.--letter to the prince. chapter x. destruction of the theatre of drury-lane by fire.--mr. whitbread--plan for a third theatre.--illness of the king.--regency.--lord grey and lord grenville.--conduct of mr. sheridan.--his vindication of himself. chapter xi. affairs of the new theatre.--mr. whitbread.--negotiations with lord grey and lord grenville.--conduct of mr. sheridan relative to the household.--his last words in parliament.--failure at stafford. --correspondence with mr. whitbread.--lord byron.--distresses of sheridan.--illness.--death and funeral.--general remarks. memoirs of the life of the right honorable richard brinsley sheridan. chapter i. impeachment of mr. hastings. the motion of mr. burke on the th of may, , "that warren hastings, esq., be impeached," having been carried without a division, mr. sheridan was appointed one of the managers, "to make good the articles" of the impeachment, and, on the d of june in the following year, brought forward the same charge in westminster hall which he had already enforced with such wonderful talent in the house of commons. to be called upon for a second great effort of eloquence, on a subject of which all the facts and the bearings remained the same, was, it must be acknowledged, no ordinary trial to even the most fertile genius; and mr. fox, it is said, hopeless of any second flight ever rising to the grand elevation of the first, advised that the former speech should be, with very little change, repeated. but such a plan, however welcome it might be to the indolence of his friend, would have looked too like an acknowledgment of exhaustion on the subject to be submitted to by one so justly confident in the resources both of his reason and fancy. accordingly, he had the glory of again opening, in the very same field, a new and abundant spring of eloquence, which, during four days, diffused its enchantment among an assembly of the most illustrious persons of the land, and of which mr. burke pronounced at its conclusion, that "of all the various species of oratory, of every kind of eloquence that had been heard, either in ancient or modern times; whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, or the morality of the pulpit could furnish, had not been equal to what that house had that day heard in westminster hall. no holy religionist, no man of any description as a literary character, could have come up, in the one instance, to the pure sentiments of morality, or in the other, to the variety of knowledge, force of imagination, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance of diction, and strength of expression, to which they had that day listened. from poetry up to eloquence there was not a species of composition of which a complete and perfect specimen might not have been culled, from one part or the other of the speech to which he alluded, and which, he was persuaded, had left too strong an impression on the minds of that house to be easily obliterated." as some atonement to the world for the loss of the speech in the house of commons, this second master-piece of eloquence on the same subject has been preserved to us in a report, from the short-hand notes of mr. gurney, which was for some time in the possession of the late duke of norfolk, but was afterwards restored to mr. sheridan, and is now in my hands. in order to enable the reader fully to understand the extracts from this report which i am about to give, it will be necessary to detail briefly the history of the transaction, on which the charge brought forward in the speech was founded. among the native princes who, on the transfer of the sceptre of tamerlane to the east india company, became tributaries or rather slaves to that honorable body, none seems to have been treated with more capricious cruelty than cheyte sing, the rajah of benares. in defiance of a solemn treaty, entered into between him and the government of mr. hastings, by which it was stipulated that, besides his fixed tribute, no further demands, of any kind, should be made upon him, new exactions were every year enforced;--while the humble remonstrances of the rajah against such gross injustice were not only treated with slight, but punished by arbitrary and enormous fines. even the proffer of bribe succeeded only in being accepted [footnote: this was the transaction that formed one of the principal grounds of the seventh charge brought forward in the house of commons by mr. sheridan. the suspicious circumstances attending this present are thus summed up by mr. mill: "at first, perfect concealment of the transaction--such measures, however, taken as may, if afterwards necessary, appear to imply a design of future disclosure;--when concealment becomes difficult and hazardous, then disclosure made."--_history of british india_.]--the exactions which it was intended to avert being continued as rigorously as before. at length, in the year , mr. hastings, who invariably, among the objects of his government, placed the interests of leadenhall street first on the list, and those of justice and humanity _longo intervallo_ after,--finding the treasury of the company in a very exhausted state, resolved to sacrifice this unlucky rajah to their replenishment; and having as a preliminary step, imposed upon him a mulct of £ , , set out immediately for his capital, benares, to compel the payment of it. here, after rejecting with insult the suppliant advances of the prince, he put him under arrest, and imprisoned him in his own palace. this violation of the rights and the roof of their sovereign drove the people of the whole province into a sudden burst of rebellion, of which mr. hastings himself was near being the victim. the usual triumph, however, of might over right ensued; the rajah's castle was plundered of all its treasures, and his mother, who had taken refuge in the fort, and only surrendered it on the express stipulation that she and the other princesses should pass out safe from the dishonor of search, was, in violation of this condition, and at the base suggestion of mr. hastings himself, [footnote: in his letter to the commanding officer at bidgegur. the following are the terms in which he conveys the hint: "i apprehend that she will contrive to defraud the captors of a considerable part of the booty, by being suffered to retire _without examination_. but this is your consideration, and not mine. i should be very sorry that your officers and soldiers lost any part of the reward to which they are so well entitled; but i cannot make any objection, as you must be the best judge of the expediency of the _promised_ indulgence to the rannee."] rudely examined and despoiled of all her effects. the governor-general, however, in this one instance, incurred the full odium of iniquity without reaping any of its reward. the treasures found in the castle of the rajah were inconsiderable, and the soldiers, who had shown themselves so docile in receiving the lessons of plunder, were found inflexibly obstinate in refusing to admit their instructor to a share. disappointed, therefore, in the primary object of his expedition, the governor-general looked round for some richer harvest of rapine, and the begums of oude presented themselves as the most convenient victims. these princesses, the mother and grandmother of the reigning nabob of oude, had been left by the late sovereign in possession of certain government-estates, or jaghires, as well as of all the treasure that was in his hands at the time of his death, and which the orientalized imaginations of the english exaggerated to an enormous sum. the present nabob had evidently looked with an eye of cupidity on this wealth, and had been guilty of some acts of extortion towards his female relatives, in consequence of which the english government had interfered between them,--and had even guaranteed to the mother of the nabob the safe possession of her property, without any further encroachment whatever. guarantees and treaties, however, were but cobwebs in the way of mr. hastings; and on his failure at benares, he lost no time in concluding an agreement with the nabob, by which (in consideration of certain measures of relief to his dominions) this prince was bound to plunder his mother and grandmother of all their property, and place it at the disposal of the governor-general. in order to give a color of justice to this proceeding, it was [footnote: "it was the practice of mr. hastings (says burke, in his fine speech on mr. pitt's india bill, march , ) to examine the country, and wherever he found money to affix guilt. a more dreadful fault could not be alleged against a native than that he was rich."] pretended that these princesses had taken advantage of the late insurrection at benares, to excite a similar spirit of revolt in oude against the reigning nabob and the english government. as law is but too often, in such cases, the ready accomplice of tyranny, the services of the chief justice, sir elijah impey, were called in to sustain the accusations; and the wretched mockery was exhibited of a judge travelling about in search of evidence, [footnote: this journey of the chief justice in search of evidence is thus happily described by sheridan in the speech:--"when, on the th of november, he was busied at lucknow on that honorable business, and when, three days after, he was found at chunar, at the distance of miles, still searching for affidavits, and, like hamlet's ghost, exclaiming, 'swear,' his progress on that occasion was so whimsically rapid, compared with the gravity of his employ, that an observer would be tempted to quote again from the same scene, 'ha! old truepenny, canst thou mole so fast i' the ground?' here, however, the comparison ceased; for, when sir elijah made his visit to lucknow 'to whet the almost blunted purpose' of the nabob, his language was wholly different from that of the poet--for it would have been totally against his purpose to have said, taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught."] for the express purpose of proving a charge, upon which judgment had been pronounced and punishment decreed already. the nabob himself, though sufficiently ready to make the wealth of those venerable ladies occasionally minister to his wants, yet shrunk back, with natural reluctance, from the summary task now imposed upon him; and it was not till after repeated and peremptory remonstrances from mr. hastings, that he could be induced to put himself at the head of a body of english troops, and take possession, by unresisted force, of the town and palace of these princesses. as the treasure, however, was still secure in the apartments of the women,--that circle, within which even the spirit of english rapine did not venture,--an expedient was adopted to get over this inconvenient delicacy. two aged eunuchs of high rank and distinction, the confidential agents of the begums, were thrown into prison, and subjected to a course of starvation and torture, by which it was hoped that the feelings of their mistresses might be worked upon, and a more speedy surrender of their treasure wrung from them. the plan succeeded:--upwards of , _l_. was procured to recruit the finances of the company; and thus, according to the usual course of british power in india, rapacity but levied its contributions in one quarter, to enable war to pursue its desolating career in another. to crown all, one of the chief articles of the treaty, by which the nabob was reluctantly induced to concur in these atrocious measures, was, as soon as the object had been gained, infringed by mr. hastings, who, in a letter to his colleagues in the government, honestly confesses that the concession of that article was only a fraudulent artifice of diplomacy, and never intended to be carried into effect. such is an outline of the case, which, with all its aggravating details, mr. sheridan had to state in these two memorable speeches; and it was certainly most fortunate for the display of his peculiar powers, that this should be the charge confided to his management. for, not only was it the strongest, and susceptible of the highest charge of coloring, but it had also the advantage of grouping together all the principal delinquents of the trial, and affording a gradation of hue, from the showy and prominent enormities of the governor-general and sir elijah impey in the front of the picture, to the subordinate and half-tint iniquity of the middletons and bristows in the back-ground. mr. burke, it appears, had at first reserved this grand part in the drama of the impeachment for himself; but, finding that sheridan had also fixed his mind upon it, he, without hesitation, resigned it into his hands; thus proving the sincerity of his zeal in the cause, [footnote: of the lengths to which this zeal could sometimes carry his fancy and language, rather, perhaps, than his actual feelings, the following anecdote is a remarkable proof. on one of the days of the trial, lord ----, who was then a boy, having been introduced by a relative into the manager's box, burke said to him, "i am glad to see you here--i shall be still gladder to see you there--(pointing to the peers' seats) i hope you will be _in at the death_--i should like to _blood_ you."] by sacrificing even the vanity of talent to its success. the following letters from him, relative to the impeachment, will be read with interest. the first is addressed to mrs. sheridan, and was written, i think, early in the proceedings; the second is to sheridan himself:-- "madam, "i am sure you will have the goodness to excuse the liberty i take with you, when you consider the interest which i have and which the public have (the said public being, at least, half an inch a taller person than i am) in the use of mr. sheridan's abilities. i know that his mind is seldom unemployed; but then, like all such great and vigorous minds, it takes an eagle flight by itself, and we can hardly bring it to rustle along the ground, with us birds of meaner wing, in coveys. i only beg that you will prevail on mr. sheridan to be with us _this day_, at half after three, in the committee. mr. wombell, the paymaster of oude, is to be examined there _to-day_. oude is mr. sheridan's particular province; and i do most seriously ask that he would favor us with his assistance. what will come of the examination i know not; but, without him, i do not expect a great deal from it; with him, i fancy we may get out something material. once more let me entreat your interest with mr. sheridan and your forgiveness for being troublesome to you, and do me the justice to believe me, with the most sincere respect, "madam, your most obedient "and faithful humble servant, _"thursday, o'clock._ "edm. burke." "my dear sir, "you have only to wish to be excused to succeed in your wishes; for, indeed, he must be a great enemy to himself who can consent, on account of a momentary ill-humor, to keep himself at a distance from you. "well, all will turn out right,--and half of you, or a quarter, is worth five other men. i think that this cause, which was originally yours, will be recognized by you, and that you will again possess yourself of it. the owner's mark is on it, and all our docking and cropping cannot hinder its being known and cherished by its original master. my most humble respects to mrs. sheridan. i am happy to find that she takes in good part the liberty i presumed to take with her. grey has done much and will do every thing. it is a pity that he is not always toned to the full extent of his talents. "most truly yours, _"monday._ "edm. burke. "i feel a little sickish at the approaching day. i have read much--too much, perhaps,--and, in truth, am but poorly prepared. many things, too, have broken in upon me." [footnote: for this letter, as well as some other valuable communications, i am indebted to the kindness of mr. burgess,--the solicitor and friend of sheridan during the last twenty years of his life.] though a report, however accurate, must always do injustice to that effective kind of oratory which is intended rather to be heard than read, and, though frequently, the passages that most roused and interested the hearer, are those that seem afterwards the tritest and least animated to the reader, [footnote: the converse assertion is almost equally true. mr. fox used to ask of a printed speech, "does it read well?" and, if answered in the affirmative, said, "then it was a bad speech."] yet, with all this disadvantage, the celebrated oration in question so well sustains its reputation in the perusal, that it would be injustice, having an authentic report in my possession, not to produce some specimens of its style and spirit. in the course of his exordium, after dwelling upon the great importance of the inquiry in which they were engaged, and disclaiming for himself and his brother-managers any feeling of personal malice against the defendant, or any motive but that of retrieving the honor of the british name in india, and bringing down punishment upon those whose inhumanity and injustice had disgraced it,--he thus proceeds to conciliate the court by a warm tribute to the purity of english justice:-- "however, when i have said this, i trust your lordships will not believe that, because something is necessary to retrieve the british character, we call for an example to be made, without due and solid proof of the guilt of the person whom we pursue:--no, my lords, we know well that it is the glory of this constitution, that not the general fame or character of any man--not the weight or power of any prosecutor--no plea of moral or political expediencey--not even the secret consciousness of guilt, which may live in the bosom of the judge, can justify any british court in passing any sentence, to touch a hair of the head, or an atom in any respect, of the property, of the fame, of the liberty of the poorest or meanest subject that breathes the air of this just and free land. we know, my lords, that there can be no legal guilt without legal proof, and that the rule which defines the evidence is as much the law of the land as that which creates the crime. it is upon that ground we mean to stand." among those ready equivocations and disavowals, to which mr. hastings had recourse upon every emergency, and in which practice seems to have rendered him as shameless as expert, the step which he took with regard to his own defence during the trial was not the least remarkable for promptness and audacity. he had, at the commencement of the prosecution, delivered at the bar of the house of commons, as his own, a written refutation of the charges then pending against him in that house, declaring at the same time, that "if truth could tend to convict him, he was content to be, himself, the channel to convey it." afterwards, however, on finding that he had committed himself rather imprudently in this defence, he came forward to disclaim it at the bar of the house of lords, and brought his friend major scott to prove that it had been drawn up by messrs. shore, middleton, &c. &c.--that he himself had not even seen it, and therefore ought not to be held accountable for its contents. in adverting to this extraordinary evasion, mr. sheridan thus shrewdly and playfully exposes all the persons concerned in it:-- "major scott comes to your bar--describes the shortness of time--represents mr. hastings as it were _contracting for_ a character--putting his memory _into commission_--making _departments_ for his conscience. a number of friends meet together, and he, knowing (no doubt) that the accusation of the commons had been drawn up by a committee, thought it necessary, as a point of punctilio, to answer it by a committee also. one furnishes the raw material of fact, the second spins the argument, and the third twines up the conclusion; while mr. hastings, with a master's eye, is cheering and looking over this loom. he says to one, 'you have got my good faith in your hands--_you_, my veracity to manage. mr. shore, i hope you will make me a good financier--mr. middleton, you have my humanity in commission.'--when it is done, he brings it to the house of commons, and says, 'i was equal to the task. i knew the difficulties, but i scorn them: here is the truth, and if the truth will convict me, i am content myself to be the channel of it.' his friends hold up their heads, and say, 'what noble magnanimity! this must be the effect of conscious and real innocence.' well, it is so received, it is so argued upon,--but it fails of its effect. "then says mr. hastings,--'that my defence! no, mere journeyman-work,--good enough for the commons, but not fit for your lordships' consideration.' he then calls upon his counsel to save him:--'i fear none of my accusers' witnesses--i know some of them well--i know the weakness of their memory, and the strength of their attachment--i fear no testimony but my own--save me from the peril of my own panegyric--preserve me from that, and i shall be safe.' then is this plea brought to your lordships' bar, and major scott gravely asserts,--that mr. hastings did, at the bar of the house of commons, vouch for facts of which he was ignorant, and for arguments which he had never read. "after such an attempt, we certainly are left in doubt to decide, to _which_ set of his friends mr. hastings is least obliged, those who assisted him in making his defence, or those who advised him to deny it." he thus describes the feelings of the people of the east with respect to the unapproachable sanctity of their zenanas:-- "it is too much, i am afraid, the case, that persons, used to european manners, do not take up these sort of considerations at first with the seriousness that is necessary. for your lordships cannot even learn the right nature of those people's feelings and prejudices from any history of other mahometan countries,--not even from that of the turks, for they are a mean and degraded race in comparison with many of these great families, who, inheriting from their persian ancestors, preserve a purer style of prejudice and a loftier superstition. women there are not as in turkey--they neither go to the mosque nor to the bath--it is not the thin veil alone that hides them--but in the inmost recesses of their zenana they are kept from public view by those reverenced and protected walls, which, as mr. hastings and sir elijah impey admit, are held sacred even by the ruffian hand of war or by the more uncourteous hand of the law. but, in this situation, they are not confined from a mean and selfish policy of man--not from a coarse and sensual jealousy--enshrined rather than immured, their habitation and retreat is a sanctuary, not a prison--their jealousy is their own--a jealousy of their own honor, that leads them to regard liberty as a degradation, and the gaze of even admiring eyes as inexpiable pollution to the purity of their fame and the sanctity of their honor. "such being the general opinion (or prejudices, let them be called) of this country, your lordships will find, that whatever treasures were given or lodged in a zenana of this description must, upon the evidence of the thing itself, be placed beyond the reach of resumption. to dispute with the counsel about the original right to those treasures--to talk of a title to them by the mahometan law!--their title to them is the title of a saint to the relics upon an altar, placed there by piety, [footnote: this metaphor was rather roughly handled afterwards ( ) by mr. law, one of the adverse counsel, who asked, how could the begum be considered as "a saint," or how were the camels, which formed part of the treasure, to be "placed upon the altar?" sheridan, in reply, said, "it was the first time in his life he had ever heard of _special pleading_ on a _metaphor_, or a _bill of indictment_ against a trope. but such was the turn of the learned counsel's mind, that, when he attempted to be humorous, no jest could be found, and, when serious, no fact was visible."] guarded by holy superstition, and to be snatched from thence only by sacrilege." in showing that the nabob was driven to this robbery of his relatives by other considerations than those of the pretended rebellion, which was afterwards conjured up by mr. hastings to justify it, he says,-- "the fact is, that through all his defences--through all his various false suggestions--through all these various rebellions and disaffections, mr. hastings never once lets go this plea--of extinguishable right in the nabob. he constantly represents the seizing the treasures as a resumption of a right which he could not part with;--as if there were literally something in the koran, that made it criminal in a true mussulman to keep his engagements with his relations, and impious in a son to abstain from plundering his mother. i do gravely assure your lordships that there is no such doctrine in the koran, and no such principle makes a part in the civil or municipal jurisprudence of that country. even after these princesses had been endeavoring to dethrone the nabob and to extirpate the english, the only plea the nabob ever makes, is his right under the mahometan law; and the truth is, he appears never to have heard any other reason, and i pledge myself to make it appear to your lordships, however extraordinary it may be, that not only had the nabob never heard of the rebellion till the moment of seizing the palace, but, still further, that he never heard of it at all--that this extraordinary rebellion, which was as notorious as the rebellion of in london, was carefully concealed from those two parties--the begums who plotted it, and the nabob who was to be the victim of it. "the existence of this rebellion was not the secret, but the notoriety of it was the secret; it was a rebellion which had for its object the destruction of no human creature but those who planned it;--it was a rebellion which, according to mr. middleton's expression, no man, either horse or foot, ever marched to quell. the chief justice was the only man who took the field against it,--the force against which it was raised, instantly withdrew to give it elbow-room,--and, even then, it was a rebellion which perversely showed itself in acts of hospitality to the nabob whom it was to dethrone, and to the english whom it was to extirpate;--it was a rebellion plotted by two feeble old women, headed by two eunuchs, and suppressed by an affidavit." the acceptance, or rather exaction, of the private present of £ , is thus animadverted upon: "my lords, such was the distressed situation of the nabob about a twelvemonth before mr. hastings met him at chunar. it was a twelvemonth, i say, after this miserable scene--a mighty period in the progress of british rapacity--it was (if the counsel will) after some natural calamities had aided the superior vigor of british violence and rapacity--it was after the country had felt other calamities besides the english--it was after the angry dispensations of providence had, with a progressive severity of chastisement, visited the land with a famine one year, and with a col. hannay the next--it was after he, this hannay, had returned to retrace the steps of his former ravages--it was after he and his voracious crew had come to plunder ruins which himself had made, and to glean from desolation the little that famine had spared, or rapine overlooked;--_then_ it was that this miserable bankrupt prince marching through his country, besieged by the clamors of his starving subjects, who cried to him for protection through their cages--meeting the curses of some of his subjects, and the prayers of others--with famine at his heels, and reproach following him,--then it was that this prince is represented as exercising this act of prodigal bounty to the very man whom he here reproaches--to the very man whose policy had extinguished his power, and whose creatures had desolated his country. to talk of a free-will gift! it is audacious and ridiculous to name the supposition. it was _not_ a free-will gift. what was it then? was it a bribe? or was it extortion? i shall prove it was both--it was an act of gross bribery and of rank extortion." again he thus adverts to this present:-- "the first thing he does is, to leave calcutta, in order to go to the relief of the distressed nabob. the second thing, is to take , _l_ from that distressed nabob on account of the distressed company. and the third thing is to ask of the distressed company this very same sum on account of the distresses of mr. hastings. there never were three distresses that seemed so little reconcilable with one another." anticipating the plea of state-necessity, which might possibly be set up in defence of the measures of the governor-general, he breaks out into the following rhetorical passage:-- "state necessity! no, my lords; that imperial tyrant, _state necessity_, is yet a generous despot,--bold is his demeanor, rapid his decisions, and terrible his grasp. but what he does, my lords, he dares avow, and avowing, scorns any other justification, than the great motives that placed the iron sceptre in his hand. but a quibbling, pilfering, prevaricating state-necessity, that tries to skulk behind the skirts of justice;--a state-necessity that tries to steal a pitiful justification from whispered accusations and fabricated rumors. no, my lords, that is no state necessity;--tear off the mask, and you see coarse, vulgar avarice,--you see speculation, lurking under the gaudy disguise, and adding the guilt of libelling the public honor to its own private fraud. "my lords, i say this, because i am sure the managers would make every allowance that state-necessity could claim upon any great emergency. if any great man in bearing the arms of this country;--if any admiral, bearing the vengeance and the glory of britain to distant coasts, should be compelled to some rash acts of violence, in order, perhaps, to give food to those who are shedding their blood for britain;--if any great general, defending some fortress, barren itself, perhaps, but a pledge of the pride, and, with the pride, of the power of britain; if such a man were to * * * while he himself was * * at the top, like an eagle besieged in its imperial nest; [footnote: the reporter, at many of these passages, seems to have thrown aside his pen in despair.]--would the commons of england come to accuse or to arraign such acts of state-necessity? no." in describing that swarm of english pensioners and placemen, who were still, in violation of the late purchased treaty, left to prey on the finances of the nabob, he says,-- "here we find they were left, as heavy a weight upon the nabob as ever,--left there with as keen an appetite, though not so clamorous. they were reclining on the roots and shades of that spacious tree, which their predecessors had stripped branch and bough--watching with eager eyes the first budding of a future prosperity, and of the opening harvest which they considered as the prey of their perseverance and rapacity." we have in the close of the following passage, a specimen of that lofty style, in which, as if under the influence of eastern associations, almost all the managers of this trial occasionally indulged: [footnote: much of this, however, is to be set down to the gratuitous bombast of the reporter. mr. fox, for instance, is made to say, "yes, my lords, happy is it for the world, that the penetrating gaze of providence searches after man, and in the dark den where he has stifled the remonstrances of conscience darts his compulsatory ray, that, bursting the secrecy of guilt, drives the criminal frantic to confession and expiation." _history of the trial._--even one of the counsel, mr. dallas, is represented as having caught this oriental contagion, to such a degree as to express himself in the following manner:--"we are now, however, (said the counsel,) advancing from the star-light of circumstance to the day-light of discovery: the sun of certainty is melting the darkness, and--we are arrived at facts admitted by both parties!"]-- "i do not mean to say that mr. middleton had _direct_ instructions from mr. hastings,--that he told him to go and give that fallacious assurance to the nabob,--that he had that order _under his hand_. no, but in looking attentively over mr. middleton's correspondence, you will find him say, upon a more important occasion, 'i don't expect your public authority for this;--it is enough if you but _hint_ your pleasure.' he knew him well; he could interpret every nod and motion of that head; he understood the glances of that eye which sealed the perdition of nations, and at whose throne princes waited, in pale expectation, for their fortune or their doom." the following is one of those labored passages, of which the orator himself was perhaps most proud, but in which the effort to be eloquent is too visible, and the effect, accordingly, falls short of the pretension:-- "you see how truth--empowered by that will which gives a giant's nerve to an infant's arm--has burst the monstrous mass of fraud that has endeavored to suppress it.--it calls now to your lordships, in the weak but clear tone of that cherub, innocence, whose voice is more persuasive than eloquence, more convincing than argument, whose look is supplication, whose tone is conviction,--it calls upon you for redress, it calls upon you for vengeance upon the oppressor, and points its heaven-directed hand to the detested, but unrepenting author of its wrongs!" his description of the desolation brought upon some provinces of oude by the misgovernment of colonel hannay, and of the insurrection at goruckpore against that officer in consequence, is, perhaps, the most masterly portion of the whole speech:-- "if we could suppose a person to have come suddenly into the country unacquainted with any circumstances that had passed since the days of sujah ul dowlah, he would naturally ask--what cruel hand has wrought this wide desolation, what barbarian foe has invaded the country, has desolated its fields, depopulated its villages? he would ask, what disputed succession, civil rage, or frenzy of the inhabitants, had induced them to act in hostility to the words of god, and the beauteous works of man? he would ask what religious zeal or frenzy had added to the mad despair and horrors of war? the ruin is unlike any thing that appears recorded in any age; it looks like neither the barbarities of men, nor the judgments of vindictive heaven. there is a waste of desolation, as if caused by fell destroyers, never meaning to return and making but a short period of their rapacity. it looks as if some fabled monster had made its passage through the country, whose pestiferous breath had blasted more than its voracious appetite could devour." "if there had been any men in the country, who had not their hearts and souls so subdued by fear, as to refuse to speak the truth at all upon such a subject, they would have told him, there had been no war since the time of sujah ul dowlah,--tyrant, indeed, as he was, but then deeply regretted by his subjects--that no hostile blow of any enemy had been struck in that land--that there had been no disputed succession--no civil war--no religious frenzy. but that these were the tokens of british friendship, the marks left by the embraces of british allies--more dreadful than the blows of the bitterest enemy. they would tell him that these allies had converted a prince into a slave, to make him the principal in the extortion upon his subjects;--that their rapacity increased in proportion as the means of supplying their avarice diminished; that they made the sovereign pay as if they had a right to an increased price, because the labor of extortion and plunder increased. to such causes, they would tell him, these calamities were owing. "need i refer your lordships to the strong testimony of major naylor when he rescued colonel hannay from their hands--where you see that this people, born to submission and bent to most abject subjection--that even they, in whose meek hearts injury had never yet begot resentment, nor even despair bred courage--that _their_ hatred, _their_ abhorrence of colonel hannay was such that they clung round him by thousands and thousands;--that when major naylor rescued him, they refused life from the hand that could rescue hannay;--that they nourished this desperate consolation, that by their death they should at least thin the number of wretches who suffered by his devastation and extortion. he says that, when he crossed the river, he found the poor wretches quivering upon the parched banks of the polluted river, encouraging their blood to flow, and consoling themselves with the thought, that it would not sink into the earth, but rise to the common god of humanity, and cry aloud for vengeance on their destroyers!--this warm description--which is no declamation of mine, but founded in actual fact, and in fair, clear proof before your lordships--speaks powerfully what the cause of these oppressions were, and the perfect justness of those feelings that were occasioned by them. and yet, my lords, i am asked to prove _why_ these people arose in such concert:--'there must have been machinations, forsooth, and the begums' machinations, to produce all this!'--why did they rise!--because they were people in human shape; because patience under the detested tyranny of man is rebellion to the sovereignty of god; because allegiance to that power that gives us the _forms_ of men commands us to maintain the _rights_ of men. and never yet was this truth dismissed from the human heart--never in any time, in any age--never in any clime, where rude man ever had any social feeling, or where corrupt refinement had subdued all feelings,--never was this one unextinguishable truth destroyed from the heart of man, placed, as it is, in the core and centre of it by his maker, that man was not made the property of man; that human power is a trust for human benefit and that when it is abused, revenge becomes justice, if not the bounden duty of the injured! these, my lords, were the causes why these people rose." another passage in the second day's speech is remarkable, as exhibiting a sort of tourney of intellect between sheridan and burke, and in that field of abstract speculation, which was the favorite arena of the latter. mr. burke had, in opening the prosecution, remarked, that prudence is a quality incompatible with vice, and can never be effectively enlisted in its cause:--"i never (said he) knew a man who was bad, fit for _service_ that was good. there is always some disqualifying ingredient, mixing and spoiling the compound. the man seems paralytic on that side, his muscles there have lost their very tone and character--they cannot move. in short, the accomplishment of any thing good is a physical impossibility for such a man. there is decrepitude as well as distortion: he could not, if he would, is not more certain than that he would not, if he could." to this sentiment the allusions in the following passage refer:-- "i am perfectly convinced that there is one idea, which must arise in your lordships' minds as a subject of wonder,--how a person of mr. hastings' reputed abilities can furnish such matter of accusation against himself. for, it must be admitted that never was there a person who seems to go so rashly to work, with such an arrogant appearance of contempt for all conclusions, that may be deduced from what he advances upon the subject. when he seems most earnest and laborious to defend himself, it appears as if he had but one idea uppermost in his mind--a determination not to care what he says, provided he keeps clear of fact. he knows that truth must convict him, and concludes, _à converso_, that falsehood will acquit him; forgetting that there must be some connection, some system, some co-operation, or, otherwise, his host of falsities fall without an enemy, self-discomfited and destroyed. but of this he never seems to have had the slightest apprehension. he falls to work, an artificer of fraud, against all the rules of architecture;--he lays his ornamental work first, and his massy foundation at the top of it; and thus his whole building tumbles upon his head. other people look well to their ground, choose their position, and watch whether they are likely to be surprised there; but he, as if in the ostentation of his heart, builds upon a precipice, and encamps upon a mine, from choice. he seems to have no one actuating principle, but a steady, persevering resolution not to speak the truth or to tell the fact. "it is impossible almost to treat conduct of this kind with perfect seriousness; yet i am aware that it ought to be more seriously accounted for--because i am sure it has been a sort of paradox, which must have struck your lordships, how any person having so many motives to conceal--having so many reasons to dread detection--should yet go to work so clumsily upon the subject. it is possible, indeed, that it may raise this doubt--whether such a person is of sound mind enough to be a proper object of punishment; or at least it may give a kind of confused notion, that the guilt cannot be of so deep and black a grain, over which such a thin veil was thrown, and so little trouble taken to avoid detection. i am aware that, to account for this seeming paradox, historians, poets, and even philosophers--at least of ancient times--have adopted the superstitious solution of the vulgar, and said that the gods deprive men of reason whom they devote to destruction or to punishment. but to unassuming or unprejudiced reason, there is no need to resort to any supposed supernatural interference; for the solution will be found in the eternal rules that formed the mind of man, and gave a quality and nature to every passion that inhabits in it. "an honorable friend of mine, who is now, i believe, near me,--a gentleman, to whom i never can on any occasion refer without feelings of respect, and, on this subject, without feelings of the most grateful homage;--a gentleman, whose abilities upon this occasion, as upon some former ones, happily for the glory of the age in which we live, are not entrusted merely to the perishable eloquence of the day, but will live to be the admiration of that hour when all of us are mute, and most of us forgotten;--that honorable gentleman has told you that prudence, the first of virtues, never can be used in the cause of vice. if, reluctant and diffident, i might take such a liberty, i should express a doubt, whether experience, observation, or history, will warrant us in fully assenting to this observation. it is a noble and a lovely sentiment, my lords, worthy the mind of him who uttered it, worthy that proud disdain, that generous scorn of the means and instruments of vice, which virtue and genius must ever feel. but i should doubt whether we can read the history of a philip of macedon, a caesar, or a cromwell, without confessing, that there have been evil purposes, baneful to the peace and to the rights of men, conducted--if i may not say, with prudence or with wisdom--yet with awful craft and most successful and commanding subtlety. if, however, i might make a distinction, i should say that it is the proud attempt to mix a _variety_ of lordly crimes, that unsettles the prudence of the mind, and breeds this distraction of the brain. "_one_ master-passion, domineering in the breast, may win the faculties of the understanding to advance its purpose, and to direct to that object every thing that thought or human knowledge can effect; but, to succeed, it must maintain a solitary despotism in the mind;--each rival profligacy must stand aloof, or wait in abject vassalage upon its throne. for, the power, that has not forbad the entrance of evil passions into man's mind, has, at least, forbad their union;--if they meet they defeat their object, and their conquest, or their attempt at it, is tumult. turn to the virtues--how different the decree! formed to connect, to blend, to associate, and to cooperate; bearing the same course, with kindred energies and harmonious sympathy, each perfect in its own lovely sphere, each moving in its wider or more contracted orbit, with different, but concentering, powers, guided by the same influence of reason, and endeavoring at the same blessed end--the happiness of the individual, the harmony of the species, and the glory of the creator. in the vices, on the other hand, it is the discord that insures the defeat--each clamors to be heard in its own barbarous language; each claims the exclusive cunning of the brain; each thwarts and reproaches the other; and even while their fell rage assails with common hate the peace and virtue of the world, the civil war among their own tumultuous legions defeats the purpose of the foul conspiracy. these are the furies of the mind, my lords, that unsettle the understanding; these are the furies, that destroy the virtue, prudence,--while the distracted brain and shivered intellect proclaim the tumult that is within, and bear their testimonies, from the mouth of god himself, to the foul condition of the heart." the part of the speech which occupied the third day (and which was interrupted by the sudden indisposition of mr. sheridan) consists chiefly of comments upon the affidavits taken before sir elijah impey,--in which the irrelevance and inconsistency of these documents is shrewdly exposed, and the dryness of detail, inseparable from such a task, enlivened by those light touches of conversational humor, and all that by-play of eloquence of which mr. sheridan was such a consummate master. but it was on the fourth day of the oration that he rose into his most ambitious flights, and produced some of those dazzling bursts of declamation, of which the traditional fame is most vividly preserved. among the audience of that day was gibbon, and the mention of his name in the following passage not only produced its effect at the moment, but, as connected with literary anecdote, will make the passage itself long memorable. politics are of the day, but literature is of all time--and, though it was in the power of the orator, in his brief moment of triumph, to throw a lustre over the historian by a passing epithet, [footnote: gibbon himself thought it an event worthy of record in his memoirs. "before my departure from england (he says) i was present at the august spectacle of mr. hastings's trial in westminster hall. it was not my province to absolve or condemn the governor of india, but mr. sheridan's eloquence demanded my applause, nor could i hear without emotion the personal compliment which he paid me in the presence of the british nation. from this display of genius, which blazed four successive days," &c &c.] the name of the latter will, at the long run, pay back the honor with interest. having reprobated the violence and perfidy of the governor-general, in forcing the nabob to plunder his own relatives and friends, he adds:-- "i do say, that if you search the history of the world, you will not find an act of tyranny and fraud to surpass this; if you read all past histories, peruse the annals of tacitus, read the luminous page of gibbon, and all the ancient and modern writers, that have searched into the depravity of former ages to draw a lesson for the present, you will not find an act of treacherous, deliberate, cool cruelty that could exceed this." on being asked by some honest brother whig, at the conclusion of the speech, how he came to compliment gibbon with the epithet "luminous," sheridan answered in a half whisper, "i said '_vo_luminous.'" it is well known that the simile of the vulture and the lamb, which occurs in the address of rolla to the peruvians, had been previously employed by mr. sheridan, in this speech; and it showed a degree of indifference to criticism,--which criticism, it must be owned, not unfrequently deserves,--to reproduce before the public an image, so notorious both from its application and its success. but, called upon, as he was, to levy, for the use of that drama, a hasty conscription of phrases and images, all of a certain altitude and pomp, this veteran simile, he thought, might be pressed into the service among the rest. the passage of the speech in which it occurs is left imperfect in the report:-- "this is the character of all the protection ever afforded to the allies of britain under the government of mr. hastings. they send their troops to drain the produce of industry, to seize all the treasures, wealth, and prosperity of the country, and then they call it protection!--it is the protection of the vulture to the lamb. * * *" the following is his celebrated delineation of filial affection, to which reference is more frequently made than to any other part of the speech;--though the gross inaccuracy of the printed report has done its utmost to belie the reputation of the original passage, or rather has substituted a changeling to inherit its fame. "when i see in many of these letters the infirmities of age made a subject of mockery and ridicule; when i see the feelings of a son treated by mr. middleton as puerile and contemptible; when i see an order given by mr. hastings to harden that son's heart, to choke the struggling nature in his bosom; when i see them pointing to the son's name, and to his standard while marching to oppress the mother, as to a banner that gives dignity, that gives a holy sanction and a reverence to their enterprise; when i see and hear these things done--when i hear them brought into three deliberate defences set up against the charges of the commons--my lords, i own i grow puzzled and confounded, and almost begin to doubt whether, where such a defence can be offered, it may not be tolerated. "and yet, my lords, how can i support the claim of filial love by argument--much less the affection of a son to a mother--where love loses its awe, and veneration is mixed with tenderness? what can i say upon such a subject, what can i do but repeat the ready truths which, with the quick impulse of the mind, must spring to the lips of every man on such a theme? filial love! the morality of instinct, the sacrament of nature and duty--or rather let me say it is miscalled a duty, for it flows from the heart without effort, and is its delight, its indulgence, its enjoyment. it is guided, not by the slow dictates of reason; it awaits not encouragement from reflection or from thought; it asks no aid of memory; it is an innate, but active, consciousness of having been the object of a thousand tender solicitudes, a thousand waking watchful cares, of meek anxiety and patient sacrifices unremarked and unrequited by the object. it is a gratitude founded upon a conviction of obligations, not remembered, but the more binding because not remembered,--because conferred before the tender reason could acknowledge, or the infant memory record them--a gratitude and affection, which no circumstances should subdue, and which few can strengthen; a gratitude, in which even injury from the object, though it may blend regret, should never breed resentment; an affection which can be increased only by the decay of those to whom we owe it, and which is then most fervent when the tremulous voice of age, resistless in its feebleness, inquires for the natural protector of its cold decline. "if these are the general sentiments of man, what must be their depravity, what must be their degeneracy, who can blot out and erase from the bosom the virtue that is deepest rooted in the human heart, and twined within the cords of life itself--aliens from nature, apostates from humanity! and yet, if there is a crime more fell, more foul--if there is any thing worse than a wilful persecutor of his mother--it is to see a deliberate, reasoning instigator and abettor to the deed:--this it is that shocks, disgusts, and appals the mind more than the other--to view, not a wilful parricide, but a parricide by compulsion, a miserable wretch, not actuated by the stubborn evils of his own worthless heart, not driven by the fury of his own distracted brain, but lending his sacrilegious hand, without any malice of his own, to answer the abandoned purposes of the human fiends that have subdued his will!--to condemn crimes like these, we need not talk of laws or of human rules--their foulness, their deformity does not depend upon local constitutions, upon human institutes or religious creeds:--they are crimes--and the persons who perpetrate them are monsters who violate the primitive condition, upon which the earth was given to man--they are guilty by the general verdict of human kind." in some of the sarcasms we are reminded of the quaint contrasts of his dramatic style. thus:-- "i must also do credit to them whenever i see any thing like lenity in mr. middleton or his agent:--they do seem to admit here, that it was not worth while to commit a massacre for the discount of a small note of hand, and to put two thousand women and children to death, in order to procure prompt payment." of the length to which the language of crimination was carried, as well by mr. sheridan as by mr. burke, one example, out of many, will suffice. it cannot fail, however, to be remarked that, while the denunciations and invectives of burke are filled throughout with a passionate earnestness, which leaves no doubt as to the sincerity of the hate and anger professed by him,--in sheridan, whose nature was of a much gentler cast, the vehemence is evidently more in the words than in the feeling, the tone of indignation is theatrical and assumed, and the brightness of the flash seems to be more considered than the destructiveness of the fire:-- "it is this circumstance of deliberation and consciousness of his guilt--it is this that inflames the minds of those who watch his transactions, and roots out all pity for a person who could act under such an influence. we conceive of such tyrants as caligula and nero, bred up to tyranny and oppression, having had no equals to control them--no moment for reflection--we conceive that, if it could have been possible to seize the guilty profligates for a moment, you might bring conviction to their hearts and repentance to their minds. but when you see a cool, reasoning, deliberate tyrant--one who was not born and bred to arrogance,--who has been nursed in a mercantile line--who has been used to look round among his fellow-subjects--to transact business with his equals--to account for conduct to his master, and, by that wise system of the company, to detail all his transactions--who never could fly one moment from himself, but must be obliged every night to sit down and hold up a glass to his own soul--who could never be blind to his deformity, and who must have brought his conscience not only to connive at but to approve of it--_this_ it is that distinguishes it from the worst cruelties, the worst enormities of those, who, born to tyranny, and finding no superior, no adviser, have gone to the last presumption that there were none above to control them hereafter. this is a circumstance that aggravates the whole of the guilt of the unfortunate gentleman we are now arraigning at your bar." we now come to the peroration, in which, skilfully and without appearance of design, it is contrived that the same sort of appeal to the purity of british justice, with which the oration opened, should, like the repetition of a solemn strain of music, recur at its close,--leaving in the minds of the judges a composed and concentrated feeling of the great public duty they had to perform, in deciding upon the arraignment of guilt brought before them. the court of directors, it appeared, had ordered an inquiry into the conduct of the begums, with a view to the restitution of their property, if it should appear that the charges against them were unfounded; but to this proceeding mr. hastings objected, on the ground that the begums themselves had not called for such interference in their favor, and that it was inconsistent with the "majesty of justice" to condescend to volunteer her services. the pompous and jesuitical style in which this singular doctrine [footnote: "if nothing (says mr. mill) remained to stain the reputation of mr. hastings but the principles avowed in this singular pleading, his character, among the friends of justice, would be sufficiently determined."] is expressed, in a letter addressed by the governor-general to mr. macpherson, is thus ingeniously turned to account by the orator, in winding up his masterly statement to a close:-- 'and now before i come to the last magnificent paragraph, let me call the attention of those who, possibly, think themselves capable of judging of the dignity and character of justice in this country;--let me call the attention of those who, arrogantly perhaps, presume that they understand what the features, what the duties of justice are here and in india;--let them learn a lesson from this great statesman, this enlarged, this liberal philosopher:--'i hope i shall not depart from the simplicity of official language, in saying that the majesty of justice ought to be approached with solicitation, not descend to provoke or invite it, much less to debase itself by the suggestion of wrongs and the promise of redress, with the denunciation of punishment before trial, and even before accusation.' this is the exhortation which mr. hastings makes to his counsel. this is the character which he gives of british justice. * * * * * "but i will ask your lordships, do you approve this representation? do you feel that this is the true image of justice? is this the character of british justice? are these her features? is this her countenance? is this her gait or her mien? no, i think even now i hear you calling upon me to turn from this vile libel, this base caricature, this indian pagod, formed by the hand of guilty and knavish tyranny, to dupe the heart of ignorance,--to turn from this deformed idol to the true majesty of justice here. _here_, indeed, i see a different form, enthroned by the sovereign hand of freedom,--awful without severity--commanding without pride--vigilant and active without restlessness or suspicion--searching and inquisitive without meanness or debasement--not arrogantly scorning to stoop to the voice of afflicted innocence, and in its loveliest attitude when bending to uplift the suppliant at its feet. "it is by the majesty, by the form of that justice, that i do conjure and implore your lordships to give your minds to this great business; that i exhort you to look, not so much to words, which may be denied or quibbled away, but to the plain facts,--to weigh and consider the testimony in your own minds: we know the result must be inevitable. let the truth appear and our cause is gained. it is this, i conjure your lordships, for your own honor, for the honor of the nation, for the honor of human nature, now entrusted to your care,--it is this duty that the commons of england, speaking through us, claims at your hands. "they exhort you to it by every thing that calls sublimely upon the heart of man, by the majesty of that justice which this bold man has libelled, by the wide fame of your own tribunal, by the sacred pledge by which you swear in the solemn hour of decision, knowing that that decision will then bring you the highest reward that ever blessed the heart of man, the consciousness of having done the greatest act of mercy for the world, that the earth has ever yet received from any hand but heaven.--my lords, i have done." though i have selected some of the most remarkable passages of this speech, [footnote: i had selected many more, but must confess that they appeared to me, when in print, so little worthy of the reputation of the speech, that i thought it would be, on the whole, more prudent to omit them. even of the passages, here cited, i speak rather from my imagination of what they must have been, than from my actual feeling of what they are. the character, given of such reports, by lord loughborough, is, no doubt, but too just. on a motion made by lord stanhope, (april , ), that the short-hand writers, employed on hastings's trial, should be summoned to the bar of the house, to read their minutes, lord loughborough, in the course of his observations on the motion, said, "god forbid that ever their lordships should call on the short-hand writers to publish their notes; for, of all people, short-hand writers were ever the farthest from correctness, and there were no man's words they ever heard that they again returned. they were in general ignorant, as acting mechanically; and by not considering the antecedent, and catching the sound, and not the sense, they perverted the sense of the speaker, and made him appear as ignorant as themselves."] it would be unfair to judge of it even from these specimens. a report, _verbatim_, of any effective speech must always appear diffuse and ungraceful in the perusal. the very repetitions, the redundancy, the accumulation of epithets which gave force and momentum in the career of delivery, but weaken and encumber the march of the style, when read. there is, indeed, the same sort of difference between a faithful short-hand report, and those abridged and polished records which burke has left us of his speeches, as there is between a cast taken directly from the face, (where every line is accurately preserved, but all the blemishes and excrescences are in rigid preservation also,) and a model, over which the correcting hand has passed, and all that was minute or superfluous is generalized and softened away. neither was it in such rhetorical passages as abound, perhaps, rather lavishly, in this speech, that the chief strength of mr. sheridan's talent lay. good sense and wit were the great weapons of his oratory--shrewdness in detecting the weak points of an adversary, and infinite powers of raillery in exposing it. these were faculties which he possessed in a greater degree than any of his contemporaries; and so well did he himself know the stronghold of his powers, that it was but rarely, after this display in westminster hall, that he was tempted to leave it for the higher flights of oratory, or to wander after sense into that region of metaphor, where too often, like angelica in the enchanted palace of atlante, she is sought for in vain. [footnote: curran used to say laughingly, "when i can't talk sense, i talk metaphor."] his attempts, indeed, at the florid or figurative style, whether in his speeches or his writings, were seldom very successful. that luxuriance of fancy, which in burke was natural and indigenous, was in him rather a forced and exotic growth. it is a remarkable proof of this difference between them, that while, in the memorandums of speeches left behind by burke, we find, that the points of argument and business were those which he prepared, trusting to the ever ready wardrobe of his fancy for their adornment,--in mr. sheridan's notes it is chiefly the decorative passages, that are worked up beforehand to their full polish; while on the resources of his good sense, ingenuity, and temper, he seems to have relied for the management of his reasonings and facts. hence naturally it arises that the images of burke, being called up on the instant, like spirits, to perform the bidding of his argument, minister to it throughout, with an almost coordinate agency; while the figurative fancies of sheridan, already prepared for the occasion, and brought forth to adorn, not assist, the business of the discourse, resemble rather those sprites which the magicians used to keep inclosed in phials, to be produced for a momentary enchantment, and then shut up again. in truth, the similes and illustrations of burke form such an intimate, and often essential, part of his reasoning, that if the whole strength of the samson does not lie in those luxuriant locks, it would at least be considerably diminished by their loss. whereas, in the speech of mr. sheridan, which we have just been considering, there is hardly one of the rhetorical ornaments that might not be detached, without, in any great degree, injuring the force of the general statement. another consequence of this difference between them is observable in their respective modes of transition, from what may be called the _business_ of a speech its more generalized and rhetorical parts. when sheridan rises, his elevation is not sufficiently prepared; he starts abruptly and at once from the level of his statement, and sinks down into it again with the same suddenness. but burke, whose imagination never allows even business to subside into mere prose, sustains a pitch throughout which accustoms the mind to wonder, and, while it prepares us to accompany him in his boldest flights, makes us, even when he walks, still feel that he has wings:-- "_même quand l'oiseau marche, on sent qu'il a des ailes._" the sincerity of the praises bestowed by burke on the speech of his brother manager has sometimes been questioned, but upon no sufficient grounds. his zeal for the success of the impeachment, no doubt, had a considerable share in the enthusiasm, with which this great effort in its favor filled him. it may be granted, too, that, in admiring the apostrophes that variegate this speech, he was, in some degree, enamored of a reflection of himself; "_cunctaque miratur, quibus est mirabilis ipse._" he sees reflected there, in fainter light. all that combines to make himself so bright. but whatever mixture of other motives there may have been in the feeling, it is certain that his admiration of the speech was real and unbounded. he is said to have exclaimed to mr. fox, during the delivery of some passages of it, "there,--that is the true style;--something between poetry and prose, and better than either." the severer taste of mr. fox dissented, as might be expected, from this remark. he replied, that "he thought such a mixture was for the advantage of neither--as producing poetic prose, or, still worse, prosaic poetry." it was, indeed, the opinion of mr. fox, that the impression made upon burke by these somewhat too theatrical tirades is observable in the change that subsequently took place in his own style of writing; and that the florid and less chastened taste which some persons discover in his later productions, may all be traced to the example of this speech. however this may be, or whether there is really much difference, as to taste, between the youthful and sparkling vision of the queen of france in , and the interview between the angel and lord bathurst in , it is surely a most unjust disparagement of the eloquence of burke, to apply to it, at any time of his life, the epithet "flowery,"--a designation only applicable to that ordinary ambition of style, whose chief display, by necessity, consists of ornament without thought, and pomp without substance. a succession of bright images, clothed in simple, transparent language,--even when, as in burke, they "crowd upon the aching sense" too dazzlingly,--should never be confounded with that mere verbal opulence of style, which mistakes the glare of words for the glitter of ideas, and, like the helen of the sculptor lysippus, makes finery supply the place of beauty. the figurative definition of eloquence in the book of proverbs--"apples of gold in a net-work of silver"--is peculiarly applicable to that enshrinement of rich, solid thoughts in clear and shining language, which is the triumph of the imaginative class of writers and orators,--while, perhaps, the net-work, _without_ the gold inclosed, is a type equally significant of what is called "flowery" eloquence. it is also, i think, a mistake, however flattering to my country, to call the school of oratory, to which burke belongs, _irish_. that irishmen are naturally more gifted with those stores of fancy, from which the illumination of this high order of the art must be supplied, the names of burke, grattan, sheridan, curran, canning, and plunkett, abundantly testify. yet had lord chatham, before any of these great speakers were heard, led the way, in the same animated and figured strain of oratory; [footnote: his few noble sentences on the privilege of the poor man's cottage are universally known. there is also his fanciful allusion to the confluence of the saone and rhone, the traditional reports of which vary, both as to the exact terms in which it was expressed, and the persons to whom he applied it. even lord orford does not seem to have ascertained the latter point. to these may be added the following specimen:--"i don't inquire from what quarter the wind cometh, but whither it goeth; and, if any measure that comes from the right honorable gentleman tends to the public good, my bark is ready." of a different kind is that grand passage,--"america, they tell me, has resisted--i rejoice to hear it,"--which mr. grattan used to pronounce finer than anything in demosthenes.] while another englishman, lord bacon, by making fancy the hand-maid of philosophy, had long since set an example of that union of the imaginative and the solid, which, both in writing and in speaking, forms the characteristic distinction of this school. the speech of mr. sheridan in westminster hall, though so much inferior in the opinion of mr. fox and others, to that which he had delivered on the same subject in the house of commons, seems to have produced, at the time, even a more lively and general sensation;--possibly from the nature and numerousness of the assembly before which it was spoken, and which counted among its multitude a number of that sex, whose lips are in general found to be the most rapid conductors of fame. but there was _one_ of this sex, more immediately interested in his glory, who seems to have felt it as women alone can feel. "i have delayed writing," says mrs. sheridan, in a letter to her sister-in-law, dated four days after the termination of the speech, "till i could gratify myself and you by sending you the news of our dear dick's triumph!--of _our_ triumph i may call it; for surely, no one, in the slightest degree connected with him, but must feel proud and happy. it is impossible, my dear woman, to convey to you the delight, the astonishment, the adoration, he has excited in the breasts of every class of people! every party-prejudice has been overcome by a display of genius, eloquence and goodness, which no one with any thing like a heart about them, could have listened to without being the wiser and the better for the rest of their lives. what must _my_ feelings be!--you can only imagine. to tell you the truth, it is with some difficulty that i can 'let down my mind,' as mr. burke said afterwards, to talk or think on any other subject. but pleasure, too exquisite, becomes pain, and i am at this moment suffering for the delightful anxieties of last week." it is a most happy combination when the wife of a man of genius unites intellect enough to appreciate the talents of her husband, with the quick, feminine sensibility, that can thus passionately feel his success. pliny tells us, that his calpurnia, whenever he pleaded an important cause, had messengers ready to report to her every murmur of applause that he received; and the poet statius, in alluding to his own victories at the albanian games, mentions the "breathless kisses," with which his wife, claudia, used to cover the triumphal garlands he brought home. mrs. sheridan may well take her place beside these roman wives;--and she had another resemblance to one of them, which was no less womanly and attractive. not only did calpurnia sympathize with the glory of her husband abroad, but she could also, like mrs. sheridan, add a charm to his talents at home, by setting his verses to music and singing them to her harp,--"with no instructor," adds pliny, "but love, who is, after all, the best master." this letter of mrs. sheridan thus proceeds:--"you were perhaps alarmed by the account of s.'s illness in the papers; but i have the pleasure to assure you he is now perfectly well, and i hope by next week we shall be quietly settled in the country, and suffered to repose, in every sense of the word; for indeed we have, both of us, been in a constant state of agitation, of one kind or other, for some time back. "i am very glad to hear your father continues so well. surely he must feel happy and proud of such a son. i take it for granted you see the newspapers: i assure you the accounts in them are not exaggerated, and only echo the exclamation of admiration that is in every body's mouth. i make no excuse for dwelling on this subject: i know you will not find it tedious. god bless you--i am an invalid at present, and not able to write long letters." the agitation and want of repose, which mrs. sheridan here complains of, arose not only from the anxiety which she so deeply felt, for the success of this great public effort of her husband, but from the share which she herself had taken, in the labor and attention necessary to prepare him for it. the mind of sheridan being, from the circumstances of his education and life, but scantily informed upon all subjects for which reading is necessary, required, of course, considerable training and feeding, before it could venture to grapple with any new or important task. he has been known to say frankly to his political friends, when invited to take part in some question that depended upon authorities, "you know i'm an ignoramus--but here i am--instruct me and i'll do my best." it is said that the stock of numerical lore, upon which he ventured to set up as the aristarchus of mr. pitt's financial plans, was the result of three weeks' hard study of arithmetic, to which he doomed himself, in the early part of his parliamentary career, on the chance of being appointed, some time or other, chancellor of the exchequer. for financial display it must be owned that this was rather a crude preparation. but there are other subjects of oratory, on which the outpourings of information, newly acquired, may have a freshness and vivacity which it would be vain to expect, in the communication of knowledge that has lain long in the mind, and lost in circumstantial spirit what it has gained in general mellowness. they, indeed, who have been regularly disciplined in learning, may be not only too familiar with what they know to communicate it with much liveliness to others, but too apt also to rely upon the resources of the memory, and upon those cold outlines which it retains of knowledge whose details are faded. the natural consequence of all this is that persons, the best furnished with general information, are often the most vague and unimpressive on particular subjects; while, on the contrary, an uninstructed man of genius, like sheridan, who approaches a topic of importance for the first time, has not only the stimulus of ambition and curiosity to aid him in mastering its details, but the novelty of first impressions to brighten his general views of it--and, with a fancy thus freshly excited, himself, is most sure to touch and rouse the imaginations of others. this was particularly the situation of mr. sheridan with respect to the history of indian affairs; and there remain among his papers numerous proofs of the labor which his preparation for this arduous task cost not only himself but mrs. sheridan. among others, there is a large pamphlet of mr. hastings, consisting of more than two hundred pages, copied out neatly in her writing, with some assistance from another female hand. the industry, indeed, of all around him was put in requisition for this great occasion--some, busy with the pen and scissors, making extracts--some pasting and stitching his scattered memorandums in their places. so that there was hardly a single member of the family that could not boast of having contributed his share, to the mechanical construction of this speech. the pride of its success was, of course, equally participated; and edwards, a favorite servant of mr. sheridan, who lived with him many years, was long celebrated for his professed imitation of the manner in which his master delivered (what seems to have struck edwards as the finest part of the speech) his closing words, "my lords, i have done!" the impeachment of warren hastings is one of those pageants in the drama of public life, which show how fleeting are the labors and triumphs of politicians--"what shadows they are, and what shadows they pursue." when we consider the importance which the great actors in that scene attached to it,--the grandeur with which their eloquence invested the cause, as one in which the liberties and rights of the whole human race were interested,--and then think how all that splendid array of law and of talent has dwindled away, in the view of most persons at present, into an unworthy and harassing persecution of a meritorious and successful statesman;--how those passionate appeals to justice, those vehement denunciations of crime, which made the halls of westminster and st. stephen's ring with their echoes, are now coldly judged, through the medium of disfiguring reports, and regarded, at the best, but as rhetorical effusions, indebted to temper for their warmth, and to fancy for their details;--while so little was the reputation of the delinquent himself even scorched by the bolts of eloquence thus launched at him, that a subsequent house of commons thought themselves honored by his presence, and welcomed him with such cheers [footnote: when called as a witness before the house, in , on the subject of the renewal of the east india company's charter.] as should reward only the friends and benefactors of freedom;--when we reflect on this thankless result of so much labor and talent, it seems wonderful that there should still be found high and gifted spirits, to waste themselves away in such temporary struggles, and, like that spendthrift of genius, sheridan, to _discount_ their immortality, for the payment of fame in hand which these triumphs of the day secure to them. for this direction, however, which the current of opinion has taken, with regard to mr. hastings and his eloquent accusers, there are many very obvious reasons to be assigned. success, as i have already remarked, was the dazzling talisman, which he waved in the eyes of his adversaries from the first, and which his friends have made use of to throw a splendor over his tyranny and injustice ever since. [footnote: in the important article of finance, however, for which he made so many sacrifices of humanity, even the justification of success was wanting to his measures. the following is the account given by the select committee of the house of commons in , of the state in which india was left by his administration:--"the revenues had been absorbed; the pay and allowances of both the civil and military branches of the service were greatly in arrear; the credit of the company was extremely depressed; and, added to all, the whole system had fallen into such irregularity and confusion, that the real state of affairs could not be _ascertained_ till the conclusion of the year - ."--_third report_.] too often in the moral logic of this world, it matters but little what the premises of conduct may be, so the conclusion but turns out showy and prosperous. there is also, it must be owned, among the english, (as perhaps, among all free people,) a strong taste for the arbitrary, when they themselves are not to be the victims of it, which invariably secures to such accomplished despotisms, as that of lord strafford in ireland, and hastings in india, even a larger share of their admiration than they are, themselves, always willing to allow. the rhetorical exaggerations, in which the managers of the prosecution indulged,--mr. sheridan, from imagination, luxuriating in its own display, and burke from the same cause, added to his overpowering autocracy of temper--were but too much calculated to throw suspicion on the cause in which they were employed, and to produce a reaction in favor of the person whom they were meant to overwhelm. "_rogo vos, judices_,"--mr. hastings might well have said,--"_si iste disertus est, ideo me damnari oportet?_" [footnote: seneca, controvers. lib. iii. c. .] there are also, without doubt, considerable allowances to be made, for the difficult situations in which mr. hastings was placed, and those impulses to wrong which acted upon him from all sides--allowances which will have more or less weight with the judgment, according as it may be more or less fastidiously disposed, in letting excuses for rapine and oppression pass muster. the incessant and urgent demands of the directors upon him for money may palliate, perhaps, the violence of those methods which he took to procure it for them; and the obstruction to his policy which would have arisen from a strict observance of treaties, may be admitted, by the same gentle casuistry, as an apology for his frequent infractions of them. another consideration to be taken into account, in our estimate of the character of mr. hastings as a ruler, is that strong light of publicity, which the practice in india of carrying on the business of government by written documents threw on all the machinery of his measures, deliberative as well as executive. these minutes, indeed, form a record of fluctuation and inconsistency--not only on the part of the governor-general, but of all the members of the government--a sort of weather-cock diary of opinions and principles, shifting with the interests or convenience of the moment, [footnote: instances of this, on the part of mr. hastings, are numberless. in remarking upon his corrupt transfer of the management of the nabob's household in , the directors say, "it is with equal surprise and concern that we observe this request introduced, and the nabob's ostensible rights so solemnly asserted at this period by our governor-general; because, on a late occasion, to serve a very different purpose, he has not scrupled to declare it as visible as the light of the sun, that the nabob is a mere pageant, and without even the shadow of authority." on another transaction in , mr. mill remarks:--"it is a curious moral spectacle to compare the minutes and letters of the governor-general, when, at the beginning of the year , maintaining the propriety of condemning the nabob to sustain the whole of the burden imposed upon him, and his minutes and letters maintaining the propriety of relieving him from those burthens in . the arguments and facts adduced on the one occasion, as well as the conclusion, are a flat contradiction to those exhibited on the other."] which entirely takes away our respect even for success, when issuing out of such a chaos of self-contradiction and shuffling. it cannot be denied, however, that such a system of exposure--submitted, as it was in this case, to a still further scrutiny, under the bold, denuding hands of a burke and a sheridan--was a test to which the councils of few rulers could with impunity be brought. where, indeed, is the statesman that could bear to have his obliquities thus chronicled? or where is the cabinet that would not shrink from such an inroad of light into its recesses? the undefined nature, too, of that power which the company exercised in india, and the uncertain state of the law, vibrating between the english and the hindoo codes, left such tempting openings for injustice as it was hardly possible to resist. with no public opinion to warn off authority from encroachment, and with the precedents set up by former rulers all pointing the wrong way, it would have been difficult, perhaps, for even more moderate men than hastings, not occasionally to break bounds and go continually astray. to all these considerations in his favor is to be added the apparently triumphant fact, that his government was popular among the natives of india, and that his name is still remembered by them with gratitude and respect. allowing mr. hastings, however, the full advantage of these and other strong pleas in his defence, it is yet impossible, for any real lover of justice and humanity, to read the plainest and least exaggerated history of his government, [footnote: nothing can be more partial and misleading than the coloring given to these transactions by mr. nicholls and other apologists of hastings. for the view which i have myself taken of the whole case i am chiefly indebted to the able history of british india by mr. mill--whose industrious research and clear analytical statements make him the most valuable authority that can be consulted on the subject. the mood of mind in which mr. nicholls listened to the proceedings of the impeachment may be judged from the following declaration, which he has had the courage to promulgate to the public:--"on this charge (the begum charge) mr. sheridan made a speech, which both sides of the house professed greatly to admire--for mr. pitt now openly approved of the impeachment. _i will acknowledge, that i did not admire this speech of mr. sheridan."_] without feeling deep indignation excited at almost every page of it. his predecessors had, it is true, been guilty of wrongs as glaring--the treachery of lord clive to omichund in , and the abandonment of ramnarain to meer causim under the administration of mr. vansittart, are stains upon the british character which no talents or glory can do away. there are precedents, indeed, to be found, through the annals of our indian empire, for the formation of the most perfect code of tyranny, in every department, legislative, judicial, and executive, that ever entered into the dreams of intoxicated power. but, while the practice of mr. hastings was, at least, as tyrannical as that of his predecessors, the principles upon which he founded that practice were still more odious and unpardonable. in his manner, indeed, of defending himself he is his own worst accuser--as there is no outrage of power, no violation of faith, that might not be justified by the versatile and ambidextrous doctrines, the lessons of deceit and rules of rapine, which he so ably illustrated by his measures, and has so shamelessly recorded with his pen. nothing but an early and deep initiation in the corrupting school of indian politics could have produced the facility with which, as occasion required, he could belie his own recorded assertions, turn hostilely round upon his own expressed opinions, disclaim the proxies which he himself had delegated, and, in short, get rid of all the inconveniences of personal identity, by never acknowledging himself to be bound by any engagement or opinion which himself had formed. to select the worst features of his administration is no very easy task; but the calculating cruelty with which he abetted the extermination of the rohillas--his unjust and precipitate execution of nuncomar, who had stood forth as his accuser, and, therefore, became his victim,--his violent aggression upon the raja of benares, and that combination of public and private rapacity, which is exhibited in the details of his conduct to the royal family of oude;--these are acts, proved by the testimony of himself and his accomplices, from the disgrace of which no formal acquittal upon points of law can absolve him, and whose guilt the allowances of charity may extenuate, but never can remove. that the perpetrator of such deeds should have been popular among the natives of india only proves how low was the standard of justice, to which the entire tenor of our policy had accustomed them;--but that a ruler of this character should be held up to admiration in england, is one of those anomalies with which england, more than any other nation, abounds, and only inclines us to wonder that the true worship of liberty should so long have continued to flourish in a country, where such heresies to her sacred cause are found. i have dwelt so long upon the circumstances and nature of this trial, not only on account of the conspicuous place which it occupies in the fore-ground of mr. sheridan's life, but because of that general interest which an observer of our institutions must take in it, from the clearness with which it brought into view some of their best and worst features. while, on one side, we perceive the weight of the popular scale, in the lead taken, upon an occasion of such solemnity and importance, by two persons brought forward from the middle ranks of society into the very van of political distinction and influence, on the other hand, in the sympathy and favor extended by the court to the practical assertor of despotic principles, we trace the prevalence of that feeling, which, since the commencement of the late king's reign, has made the throne the rallying point of all that are unfriendly to the cause of freedom. again, in considering the conduct of the crown lawyers during the trial--the narrow and irrational rules of evidence which they sought to establish--the unconstitutional control assumed by the judges, over the decisions of the tribunal before which the cause was tried, and the refusal to communicate the reasons upon which those decisions were founded--above all, too, the legal opinions expressed on the great question relative to the abatement of an impeachment by dissolution, in which almost the whole body of lawyers [footnote: among the rest, lord erskine, who allowed his profession, on this occasion, to stand in the light of his judgment. "as to a nisi-prius lawyer (said burke) giving an opinion on the duration of an impeachment--as well might a rabbit, that breeds six times a year, pretend to know any thing of the gestation of an elephant."] took the wrong, the pedantic, and the unstatesmanlike side of the question,--while in all these indications of the spirit of that profession, and of its propensity to tie down the giant truth, with its small threads of technicality and precedent, we perceive the danger to be apprehended from the interference of such a spirit in politics, on the other side, arrayed against these petty tactics of the forum, we see the broad banner of constitutional law, upheld alike by a fox and a pitt, a sheridan and a dundas, and find truth and good sense taking refuge from the equivocations of lawyers, in such consoling documents as the report upon the abuses of the trial by burke--a document which, if ever a reform of the english law should be attempted, will stand as a great guiding light to the adventurers in that heroic enterprise. it has been frequently asserted, that on the evening of mr. sheridan's grand display in the house of commons, the school for scandal and the duenna were acted at covent garden and drury lane, and thus three great audiences were at the same moment amused, agitated, and, as it were, wielded by the intellect of one man. as this triple triumph of talent--this manifestation of the power of genius to multiply itself, like an indian god--was, in the instance of sheridan, not only possible, but within the scope of a very easy arrangement, it is to be lamented that no such coincidence did actually take place, and that the ability to have achieved the miracle is all that can be with truth attributed to him. from a careful examination of the play-bills of the different theatres during this period, i have ascertained, with regret, that neither on the evening of the speech in the house of commons, nor on any of the days of the oration in westminster hall, was there, either at covent-garden, drury-lane, or haymarket theatres, any piece whatever of mr. sheridan's acted. the following passages of a letter from miss sheridan to her sister in ireland, written while on a visit with her brother in london, though referring to a later period of the trial, may without impropriety be inserted here:-- "just as i received your letter yesterday, i was setting out for the trial with mrs. crewe and mrs. dixon. i was fortunate in my day, as i heard all the principal speakers--mr. burke i admired the least--mr. fox very much indeed. the subject in itself was not particularly interesting, as the debate turned merely on a point of law, but the earnestness of his manner and the amazing precision with which he conveys his ideas is truly delightful. and last, not least, i heard my brother! i cannot express to you the sensation of pleasure and pride that filled my heart at the moment he rose. had i never seen him or heard his name before, i should have conceived him the first man among them at once. there is a dignity and grace in his countenance and deportment, very striking--at the same time that one cannot trace the smallest degree of conscious superiority in his manner. his voice, too, appeared to me extremely fine. the speech itself was not much calculated to display the talents of an orator, as of course it related only to dry matter. you may suppose i am not so lavish of praises before indifferent persons, but i am sure you will acquit me of partiality in what i have said. when they left the hall we walked about some time, and were joined by several of the managers--among the rest by mr. burke, whom we set down at his own house. they seem now to have better hopes of the business than they have had for some time; as the point urged with so much force and apparent success relates to very material evidence which the lords have refused to hear, but which, once produced, must prove strongly against mr. hastings; and, from what passed yesterday, they think their lordships must yield.--we sat in the king's box," &c. chapter ii. death of mr. sheridan's father.--verses by mrs. sheridan on the death of her sister, mrs. tickell. in the summer of this year the father of mr. sheridan died. he had been recommended to try the air of lisbon for his health, and had left dublin for that purpose, accompanied by his younger daughter. but the rapid increase of his malady prevented him from proceeding farther than margate, where he died about the beginning of august, attended in his last moments by his son richard. we have seen with what harshness, to use no stronger term, mr. sheridan was for many years treated by his father, and how persevering and affectionate were the efforts, in spite of many capricious repulses, that he made to be restored to forgiveness and favor. in his happiest moments, both of love and fame, the thought of being excluded from the paternal roof came across him with a chill that seemed to sadden all his triumph. [footnote: see the letter written by him immediately after his marriage, vol. i. page , and the anecdote in page , same vol.] when it is considered, too, that the father, to whom he felt thus amiably, had never distinguished him by any particular kindness but, on the contrary, had always shown a marked preference for the disposition and abilities of his brother charles--it is impossible not to acknowledge, in such true filial affection, a proof that talent was not the only ornament of sheridan, and that, however unfavorable to moral culture was the life that he led, nature, in forming his mind, had implanted there virtue, as well as genius. of the tender attention which he paid to his father on his death-bed, i am enabled to lay before the reader no less a testimony than the letters written at the time by miss sheridan, who, as i have already said, accompanied the old gentleman from ireland, and now shared with her brother the task of comforting his last moments. and here,--it is difficult even for contempt to keep down the indignation, that one cannot but feel at those slanderers, under the name of biographers, who calling in malice to the aid of their ignorance, have not scrupled to assert that the father of sheridan died unattended by any of his nearest relatives!--such are ever the marks that dulness leaves behind, in its gothic irruptions into the sanctuary of departed genius--defacing what it cannot understand, polluting what it has not the soul to reverence, and taking revenge for its own darkness, by the wanton profanation of all that is sacred in the eyes of others. immediately on the death of their father, sheridan removed his sister to deepden--a seat of the duke of norfolk in surrey, which his grace had lately lent him--and then returned, himself, to margate, to pay the last tribute to his father's remains. the letters of miss sheridan are addressed to her elder sister in ireland, and the first which i shall give entire, was written a day or two after her arrival at deepden. "my dear love, "_dibden, august ._ "though you have ever been uppermost in my thoughts, yet it has not been in my power to write since the few lines i sent from margate. i hope this will find you, in some degree, recovered from the shock you must have experienced from the late melancholy event. i trust to your own piety and the tenderness of your worthy husband, for procuring you such a degree of calmness of mind as may secure your health from injury. in the midst of what i have suffered i have been thankful that you did not share a scene of distress which you could not have relieved. i have supported myself, but i am sure, had we been together, we should have suffered more. "with regard to my brother's kindness, i can scarcely express to you how great it has been. he saw my father while he was still sensible, and never quitted him till the awful moment was past--i will not now dwell on particulars. my mind is not sufficiently recovered to enter on the subject, and you could only be distressed by it. he returns soon to margate to pay the last duties in the manner desired by my father. his feelings have been severely tried, and earnestly i pray he may not suffer from that cause, or from the fatigue he has endured. his tenderness to me i never can forget. i had so little claim on him, that i still feel a degree of surprise mixed with my gratitude. mrs. sheridan's reception of me was truly affectionate. they leave me to myself now as much as i please, as i had gone through so much fatigue of body and mind that i require some rest. i have not, as you may suppose, looked much beyond the present hour, but i begin to be more composed. i could now enjoy your society, and i wish for it hourly. i should think i may hope to see you sooner in england than you had intended; but you will write to me very soon, and let me know everything that concerns you. i know not whether you will feel like me a melancholy pleasure in the reflection that my father received the last kind offices from my brother richard, [footnote: in a letter, from which i have given an extract in the early part of this volume, written by the elder sister of sheridan a short time after his death, in referring to the differences that existed between him and his father, she says--"and yet it was that son, and not the object of his partial fondness, who at last closed his eyes." it generally happens that the injustice of such partialities is revenged by the ingratitude of those who are the objects of them; and the present instance, as there is but too much reason to believe, was not altogether an exception to the remark.] whose conduct on this occasion must convince every one of the goodness of his heart and the truth of his filial affection. one more reflection of consolation is, that nothing was omitted that could have prolonged his life or eased his latter hours. god bless and preserve you, my dear love. i shall soon write more to you, but shall for a short time suspend my journal, as still too many painful thoughts will crowd upon me to suffer me to regain such a frame of mind as i should wish when i write to you. "ever affectionately your "e. sheridan." in another letter, dated a few days after, she gives an account of the domestic life of mrs. sheridan, which, like everything that is related of that most interesting woman, excites a feeling towards her memory, little short of love. "my dear love, "_dibden, friday, ._ "i shall endeavor to resume my journal, though my anxiety to hear from you occupies my mind in a way that unfits me for writing. i have been here almost a week in perfect quiet. while there was company in the house, i stayed in my room, and since my brother's leaving us to go to margate, i have sat at times with mrs. sheridan, who is kind and considerate; so that i have entire liberty. her poor sister's [footnote: mrs. tickell.] children are all with her. the girl gives her constant employment, and seems to profit by being under so good an instructor. their father was here for some days, but i did not see him. last night mrs. s. showed me a picture of mrs. tickell, which she wears round her neck. the thing was misrepresented to you;--it was not done after her death, but a short time before it. the sketch was taken while she slept, by a painter at bristol. this mrs. sheridan got copied by cosway, who has softened down the traces of illness in such a way that the picture conveys no gloomy idea. it represents her in a sweet sleep; which must have been soothing to her friend, after seeing her for a length of time in a state of constant suffering. "my brother left us wednesday morning, and we do not expect him to return for some days. he meant only to stay at margate long enough to attend the last melancholy office, which it was my poor father's express desire should be performed in whatever parish he died. * * * * * "_sunday_. "dick is still in town, and we do not expect him for some time. mrs. sheridan seems now quite reconciled to these little absences, which she knows are unavoidable. i never saw any one so constant in employing every moment of her time, and to that i attribute, in a great measure, the recovery of her health and spirits. the education of her niece, her music, books, and work, occupy every minute of the day. after dinner, the children, who call her "mamma-aunt," spend some time with us, and her manner to them is truly delightful. the girl, you know, is the eldest. the eldest boy is about five years old, very like his father, but extremely gentle in his manners. the youngest is past three. the whole set then retire to the music-room. as yet i cannot enjoy their parties;--a song from mrs. sheridan affected me last night in a most painful manner. i shall not try the experiment soon again. mrs. s. blamed herself for putting me to the trial, and, after tea, got a book, which she read to us till supper. this, i find, is the general way of passing the evening. "they are now at their music, and i have retired to add a few lines. this day has been more gloomy than we have been for some days past;--it is the first day of our getting into mourning. all the servants in deep mourning made a melancholy appearance, and i found it very difficult to sit out the dinner. but as i have dined below since there has been only mrs. sheridan and miss linley here, i would not suffer a circumstance, to which i must accustom myself, to break in on their comfort." these children, to whom mrs. sheridan thus wholly devoted herself, and continued to do so for the remainder of her life, had lost their mother, mrs. tickell, in the year , by the same complaint that afterwards proved fatal to their aunt. the passionate attachment of mrs. sheridan to this sister, and the deep grief with which she mourned her loss, are expressed in a poem of her own so touchingly, that, to those who love the language of real feeling, i need not apologize for their introduction here. poetry, in general, is but a cold interpreter of sorrow; and the more it displays its skill, as an art, the less is it likely to do justice to nature. in writing these verses, however, the workmanship was forgotten in the subject; and the critic, to feel them as he ought, should forget his own craft in reading them. "_written in the spring of the year ._ "the hours and days pass on;--sweet spring returns, and whispers comfort to the heart that mourns: but not to mine, whose dear and cherish'd grief asks for indulgence, but ne'er hopes relief. for, ah, can changing seasons e'er restore the lov'd companion i must still deplore? shall all the wisdom of the world combin'd erase thy image, mary, from my mind, or bid me hope from others to receive the fond affection thou alone could'st give? ah, no, my best belov'd, thou still shalt be my friend, my sister, all the world to me. "with tender woe sad memory woos back time, and paints the scenes when youth was in its prime; the craggy hill, where rocks, with wild flow'rs crown'd, burst from the hazle copse or verdant ground; where sportive nature every form assumes, and, gaily lavish, wastes a thousand blooms; where oft we heard the echoing hills repeat our untaught strains and rural ditties sweet, till purpling clouds proclaimed the closing day, while distant streams detain'd the parting ray. then on some mossy stone we'd sit us down, and watch the changing sky and shadows brown, that swiftly glided o'er the mead below, or in some fancied form descended slow. how oft, well pleas'd each other to adorn, we stripped the blossoms from the fragrant thorn, or caught the violet where, in humble bed, asham'd its own sweets it hung its head. but, oh, what rapture mary's eyes would speak, through her dark hair how rosy glow'd her cheek, if, in her playful search, she saw appear the first-blown cowslip of the opening year. thy gales, oh spring, then whisper'd life and joy;-- now mem'ry wakes thy pleasures to destroy, and all thy beauties serve but to renew regrets too keen for reason to subdue. ah me! while tender recollections rise, the ready tears obscure my sadden'd eyes, and, while surrounding objects they conceal, _her_ form belov'd the trembling drops reveal. "sometimes the lovely, blooming girl i view. my youth's companion, friend for ever true, whose looks, the sweet expressions of her heart so gaily innocent, so void of art, with soft attraction whisper'd blessings drew from all who stopp'd, her beauteous face to view. then in the dear domestic scene i mourn, and weep past pleasures never to return! there, where each gentle virtue lov'd to rest. in the pure mansion of my mary's breast, the days of social happiness are o'er, the voice of harmony is heard no more; no more her graceful tenderness shall prove the wife's fond duty or the parent's love. those eyes, which brighten'd with maternal pride, as her sweet infants wanton'd by her side, 'twas my sad fate to see for ever close on life, on love, the world, and all its woes; to watch the slow disease, with hopeless care, and veil in painful smiles my heart's despair; to see her droop, with restless languor weak, while fatal beauty mantled in her cheek, like fresh flow'rs springing from some mouldering clay, cherish'd by death, and blooming from decay. yet, tho' oppress'd by ever-varying pain, the gentle sufferer scarcely would complain, hid every sigh, each trembling doubt reprov'd, to spare a pang to those fond hearts she lov'd. and often, in short intervals of ease, her kind and cheerful spirit strove to please; whilst we, alas, unable to refuse the sad delight we were so soon to lose, treasur'd each word, each kind expression claim'd,-- ''twas me she look'd at,'--'it was me she nam'd.' thus fondly soothing grief, too great to bear, with mournful eagerness and jealous care. "but soon, alas, from hearts with sorrow worn e'en this last comfort was for ever torn: that mind, the seat of wisdom, genius, taste. the cruel hand of sickness now laid waste; subdued with pain, it shar'd the common lot. all, all its lovely energies forgot! the husband, parent, sister, knelt in vain, one recollecting look alone to gain: the shades of night her beaming eyes obscur'd, and nature, vanquished, no sharp pain endur'd; calm and serene--till the last trembling breath wafted an angel from the bed of death! "oh, if the soul, releas'd from mortal cares, views the sad scene, the voice of mourning hears, then, dearest saint, didst thou thy heav'n forego, lingering on earth in pity to our woe. 'twas thy kind influence sooth'd our minds to peace. and bade our vain and selfish murmurs cease; 'twas thy soft smile, that gave the worshipp'd clay of thy bright essence one celestial ray, making e'en death so beautiful, that we, gazing on it, forgot our misery. then--pleasing thought!--ere to the realms of light thy franchis'd spirit took its happy flight, with fond regard, perhaps, thou saw'st me bend o'er the cold relics of my heart's best friend, and heard'st me swear, while her dear hand i prest. and tears of agony bedew'd my breast, for her lov'd sake to act the mother's part, and take her darling infants to my heart, with tenderest care their youthful minds improve, and guard her treasure with protecting love. once more look down, blest creature, and behold these arms the precious innocence enfold; assist my erring nature to fulfil the sacred trust, and ward off every ill! and, oh, let _her_, who is my dearest care, thy blest regard and heavenly influence share; teach me to form her pure and artless mind, like thine, as true, as innocent, as kind,-- that when some future day my hopes shall bless, and every voice her virtue shall confess, when my fond heart delighted hears her praise, as with unconscious loveliness she strays, 'such,' let me say, with tears of joy the while, 'such was the softness of my mary's smile; such was _her_ youth, so blithe, so rosy sweet, and such _her_ mind, unpractis'd in deceit; with artless elegance, unstudied grace, thus did _she_ gain in every heart a place!' "then, while the dear remembrance i behold, time shall steal on, nor tell me i am old, till, nature wearied, each fond duty o'er, i join my angel friend--to part no more!" to the conduct of mr. sheridan, during the last moments of his father, a further testimony has been kindly communicated to me by mr. jarvis, a medical gentleman of margate, who attended mr. thomas sheridan on that occasion, and whose interesting communication i shall here give in his own words:-- "on the th of august, , i was first called on to visit mr. sheridan, who was then fast declining at his lodgings in this place, where he was in the care of his daughter. on the next day mr. r. b. sheridan arrived here from town, having brought with him dr. morris, of parliament street. i was in the bedroom with mr. sheridan when the son arrived, and witnessed an interview in which the father showed himself to be strongly impressed by his son's attention, saying with considerable emotion, 'oh dick, i give you a great deal of trouble!' and seeming to imply by his manner, that his son had been less to blame than himself, for any previous want of cordiality between them. "on my making my last call for the evening, mr. r. b. sheridan, with delicacy, but much earnestness, expressed his fear that the nurse in attendance on his father, might not be so competent as myself to the requisite attentions, and his hope that i would consent to remain in the room for a few of the first hours of the night; as he himself, having been travelling the preceding night, required some short repose. i complied with his request, and remained at the father's bed-side till relieved by the son, about three o'clock in the morning:--he then insisted on taking my place. from this time he never quitted the house till his father's death; on the day after which he wrote me a letter, now before me, of which the annexed is an exact copy: 'sir, '_friday morning_, 'i wished to see you this morning before i went, to thank you for your attention and trouble. you will be so good to give the account to mr. thompson, who will settle it; and i must further beg your acceptance of the inclosed from myself. 'i am, sir, 'your obedient servant, 'r. b. sheridan. 'i have explained to dr. morris (who has informed me that you will recommend a proper person), that it is my desire to have the hearse, and the manner of coming to town, as respectful as possible.' "the inclosure, referred to in this letter, was a bank-note of ten pounds,--a most liberal remuneration. mr. r. b. sheridan left margate, intending that his father should be buried in london; but he there ascertained that it had been his father's expressed wish that he should be buried in the parish next to that in which he should happen to die. he then, consequently, returned to margate, accompanied by his brother-in-law, mr. tickell, with whom and mr. thompson and myself, he followed his father's remains to the burial-place, which was not in margate church-yard, but in the north aisle of the church of st. peter's." mr. jarvis, the writer of the letter from which i have given this extract, had once, as he informs me, the intention of having a cenotaph raised, to the memory of mr. sheridan's father, in the church of margate. [footnote: though this idea was relinquished, it appears that a friend of mr. jarvis, with a zeal for the memory of talent highly honorable to him, has recently caused a monument to mr. thomas sheridan to be raised in the church of st. peter.] with this view he applied to dr. parr for an inscription, and the following is the tribute to his old friend with which that learned and kind-hearted man supplied him:-- "this monument, a. d. , was, by subscription, erected to the memory of thomas sheridan, esq., who died in the neighboring parish of st. john, august , , in the th year of his age, and, according to his own request, was there buried. he was grandson to dr. thomas sheridan, the brother of dr. william, a conscientious non-juror, who, in , was deprived of the bishopric of kilmore. he was the son of dr. thomas sheridan, a profound scholar and eminent schoolmaster, intimately connected with dean swift and other illustrious writers in the reign of queen anne. he was husband to the ingenious and amiable author of sidney biddulph and several dramatic pieces favorably received. he was father of the celebrated orator and dramatist, richard brinsley sheridan. he had been the schoolfellow, and, through life, was the companion, of the amiable archbishop markham. he was the friend of the learned dr. sumner, master of harrow school, and the well-known dr. parr. he took his first academical degree in the university of dublin, about . he was honored by the university of oxford with the degree of a. m. in , and in he obtained the same distinction at cambridge. he, for many years, presided over the theatre of dublin; and, at drury lane, he in public estimation stood next to david garrick. in the literary world he was distinguished by numerous and useful writings on the pronunciation of the english language. through some of his opinions ran a vein of singularity, mingled with the rich ore of genius. in his manners there was dignified ease;--in his spirit, invincible firmness;--and in his habits and principles, unsullied integrity." chapter iii. illness of the king.--regency.--private life of mr. sheridan. mr. sheridan had assuredly no reason to complain of any deficiency of excitement in the new career to which he now devoted himself. a succession of great questions, both foreign and domestic, came, one after the other, like the waves described by the poet;-- "and one no sooner touched the shore, and died, than a new follower rose, and swell'd as proudly." scarcely had the impulse, which his own genius had given to the prosecution of hastings, begun to abate, when the indisposition of the king opened another field, not only for the display of all his various powers, but for the fondest speculations of his interest and ambition. the robust health and temperate habits of the monarch, while they held out the temptation of a long lease of power, to those who either enjoyed or were inclined to speculate in his favor, gave proportionally the grace of disinterestedness to the followers of an heir-apparent, whose means of rewarding their devotion were, from the same causes, uncertain and remote. the alarming illness of the monarch, however, gave a new turn to the prospect:--hope was now seen, like the winged victory of the ancients, to change sides; and both the expectations of those who looked forward to the reign of the prince, as the great and happy millennium of whiggism, and the apprehensions of the far greater number, to whom the morals of his royal highness and his friends were not less formidable than their politics, seemed now on the very eve of being realized. on the first meeting of parliament, after the illness of his majesty was known, it was resolved, from considerations of delicacy, that the house should adjourn for a fortnight; at the end of which period it was expected that another short adjournment would be proposed by the minister. in this interval, the following judicious letter was addressed to the prince of wales by mr. sheridan:-- "sir, "prom the intelligence of to-day we are led to think that pitt will make something more of a speech, in moving to adjourn on thursday, than was at first imagined. in this case we presume your royal highness will be of opinion that we must not be wholly silent. i possessed payne yesterday with my sentiments on the line of conduct which appeared to me best to be adopted on this occasion, that they might be submitted to your royal highness's consideration; and i take the liberty of repeating my firm conviction, that it will greatly advance your royal highness's credit, and, in case of events, lay the strongest grounds to baffle every attempt at opposition to your royal highness's just claims and right, that the language of those who may be, in any sort, suspected of knowing your royal highness's wishes and feelings, should be that of great moderation in disclaiming all party views, and avowing the utmost readiness to acquiesce in any reasonable delay. at the same time, i am perfectly aware of the arts which will be practised, and the advantages which some people will attempt to gain by time: but i am equally convinced that we should advance their evil views by showing the least impatience or suspicion at present; and i am also convinced that a third party will soon appear, whose efforts may, in the most decisive manner, prevent this sort of situation and proceeding from continuing long. payne will probably have submitted to your royal highness more fully my idea on this subject, towards which i have already taken some successful steps. [footnote: this must allude to the negotiation with lord thurlow.] your royal highness will, i am sure, have the goodness to pardon the freedom with which i give my opinion;--after which i have only to add, that whatever your royal highness's judgment decides, shall be the guide of my conduct, and will undoubtedly be so to others." captain (afterwards admiral) payne, of whom mention is made in this letter, held the situation of comptroller of the household of the prince of wales, and was in attendance upon his royal highness, during the early part of the king's illness, at windsor. the following letters, addressed by him to mr. sheridan at this period, contain some curious particulars, both with respect to the royal patient himself, and the feelings of those about him, which, however secret and confidential they were at the time, may now, without scruple, be made matters of history:-- "my dear sheridan, "_half past ten at night_. "i arrived here about three quarters of an hour after pitt had left it. i inclose you the copy of a letter the prince has just written to the chancellor, and sent by express, which will give you the outline of the conversation with the prince, as well as the situation of the king's health. i think it an advisable measure, [footnote: meaning, the communication to the chancellor] as it is a sword that cuts both ways, without being unfit to be shown to whom he pleases,--but which he will, i think, understand best himself. pitt desired the longest delay that could be granted with propriety, previous to the declaration of the present calamity. the duke of york, who is looking over me, and is just come out of the king's room, bids me add that his majesty's situation is every moment becoming worse. his pulse is weaker and weaker; and the doctors say it is impossible to survive it long, if his situation does not take some _extraordinary_ change in a few hours. "so far i had got when your servant came, meaning to send this by the express that carried the chancellor's letter; in addition to which, the prince has desired doctor warren to write an account to him, which he is now doing. his letter says, if an amendment does not take place in twenty-four hours, it is impossible for the king to support it:--he adds to me, he will answer for his never living to be declared a lunatic. i say all this to you in confidence, (though i will not answer for being intelligible,) as it goes by your own servant; but i need not add, your own discretion will remind you how necessary it is that neither my name nor those i use should be quoted even to many of our best friends, whose repetition, without any ill intention, might frustrate views they do not see. "with respect to the papers, the prince thinks you had better leave them to themselves, as we cannot authorize any report, nor can he contradict the worst; a few hours must, every individual says, terminate our suspense, and, therefore, all precaution must be needless:--however, do what you think best. his royal highness would write to you himself; the agitation he is in will not permit it. since this letter was begun, all articulation even seems to be at an end with the poor king: but for the two hours preceding, he was in a most determined frenzy. in short, i am myself in so violent a state of agitation, from participating in the feelings of those about me, that if i am intelligible to you, 'tis more than i am to myself. cataplasms are on his majesty's feet, and strong fomentations have been used without effect: but let me quit so painful a subject. the prince was much pleased with my conversation with lord loughborough, to whom i do not write, as i conceive 'tis the same, writing to you. "the archbishop has written a very handsome letter, expressive of his duty and offer of service; but he is not required to come down, it being thought too late. "good night.--i will write upon every occasion that information may be useful. "ever yours, most sincerely, "j. w. payne. "i have been much pleased with the _duke's_ zeal since my return, especially in this communication to you." "dear sheridan, "_twelve o'clock, noon._ "the king last night about twelve o'clock, being then in a situation he could not long have survived, by the effect of james's powder, had a profuse stool, after which a strong perspiration appeared, and he fell into a profound sleep. we were in hopes this was the crisis of his disorder, although the doctors were fearful it was so only with respect to one part of his disorder. however, these hopes continued not above an hour, when he awoke, with a well-conditioned skin, no extraordinary degree of fever, but with the exact state he was in before, with all the gestures and ravings of the most confirmed maniac, and a new noise, in imitation of the howling of a dog; in this situation he was this morning at one o'clock, when we came to bed. the duke of york, who has been twice in my room in the course of the night, immediately from the king's apartment, says there has not been one moment of lucid interval during the whole night,--which, i must observe to you, is the concurring, as well as _fatal_ testimony of all about him, from the first moment of his majesty's confinement. the doctors have since had their consultation, and find his majesty calmer, and his pulse tolerably good and much reduced, but the most decided symptoms of insanity. his theme has been all this day on the subject of religion, and of his being inspired, from which his physicians draw the worst consequences, as to any hopes of amendment. in this situation his majesty remains at the present moment, which i give you at length, to prevent your giving credit to the thousand ridiculous reports that we hear, even upon the spot. truth is not easily got at in palaces, and so i find here; and time only slowly brings it to one's knowledge. one hears a little bit every day from somebody, that has been reserved with great costiveness, or purposely forgotten; and by all such accounts i find that the present distemper has been very palpable for some time past, previous to any confinement from sickness; and so apprehensive have the people about him been of giving offence by interruption, that the two days (viz. yesterday se'nnight and the monday following) that he was five hours each on horseback, he was in a confirmed frenzy. on the monday at his return he burst out into tears to the duke of york, and said, 'he wished to god he might die, i for he was going to be mad;' and the queen, who sent to dr. warren, on his arrival, privately communicated her knowledge of his situation for some time past, and the melancholy event as it stood exposed. i am prolix upon all these different reports, that you may be completely master of the subject as it stands, and which i shall continue to advertise you of in all its variations. warren, who is the living principle in this business, (for poor baker is half crazed himself,) and who i see every half hour, is extremely attentive to the king's disorder. the various fluctuations of his ravings, as well as general situation of his health, are accurately written down throughout the day, and this we have got signed by the physician every day, and all proper inquiry invited; for i think it necessary to do every thing that may prevent their making use hereafter of any thing like jealousy, suspicion, or mystery, to create public distrust; and, therefore, the best and most unequivocal means of satisfaction shall be always attended to. "_five o'clock, p.m._ "so far i had proceeded when i was, on some business of importance, obliged to break off till now; and, on my return, found your letter;--i need not, i hope, say your confidence is as safe as if it was returned to your own mind, and your advice will always be thankfully adopted. the event we looked for last night is postponed, perhaps for a short time, so that, at least, we shall have time to consider more maturely. the doctors told pitt they would beg not to be obliged to make their declaration for a fortnight as to the incurability of the king's mind, and not to be surprised if, at the expiration of that time, they should ask more time; but that they were perfectly ready to declare now for the furtherance of public business, that he is now insane; that it appears to be unconnected with any other disease of his body, and that they have tried all their skill without effect, and that to the _disease they at present see no end in their contemplation:_--these are their own words, which is all that can be implied in an absolute declaration,--for infallibility cannot be ascribed to them. "should not something be done about the public amusements? if it was represented to pitt, it might embarrass them either way; particularly as it might call for a public account every day. i think the chancellor might take a good opportunity to break with his colleagues, if they propose restriction, the law authority would have great weight with us, as well as preventing even a design of moving the city;--at all events, i think parliament would not confirm their opinion. if pitt stirs much, i think any attempt to _grasp at power_ might be fatal to his interest, at least, well turned against it. "the prince has sent for me directly, so i'll send this now, and write again." in the words, "i think the chancellor might take a good opportunity to break with his colleagues," the writer alludes to a negotiation which sheridan had entered into with lord thurlow, and by which it was expected that the co-operation of that learned lord might be secured, in consideration of his being allowed to retain the office of chancellor under the regency. lord thurlow was one of those persons who, being taken by the world at their own estimate of themselves, contrive to pass upon the times in which they live for much more than they are worth. his bluntness gained him credit for superior honesty, and the same peculiarity of exterior gave a weight, not their own, to his talents; the roughness of the diamond being, by a very common mistake, made the measure of its value. the negotiation for his alliance on this occasion was managed, if not first suggested, by sheridan; and mr. fox, on his arrival from the continent, (having been sent for express upon the first announcement of the king's illness,) found considerable progress already made in the preliminaries of this heterogeneous compact. the following letter from admiral payne, written immediately after the return of mr. fox, contains some further allusions to the negotiations with the chancellor:-- "my dear sheridan, "i am this moment returned with the prince from riding, and heard, with great pleasure, of charles fox's arrival; on which account, he says, i must go to town to-morrow, when i hope to meet you at his house some time before dinner. the prince is to see the chancellor to-morrow, and therefore he wishes i should be able to carry to town the result of this interview, or i would set off immediately. due deference is had to our _former opinion_ upon this subject, and no courtship will be practised; for the chief object in the visit is to show him the king, who has been worse the two last days than ever: this morning he made an effort to jump out of the window, and is now very turbulent and incoherent. sir g. baker went yesterday to give pitt a little specimen of his loquacity, in his discovery of some material state-secrets, at which he looked astonished. the physicians wish him to be removed to kew; on which we shall proceed as we settled. have you heard any thing of the foreign ministers respecting what the p. said at bagshot? the frenchman has been here two days running, but has not seen the prince. he sat with me half an hour this morning, and seemed much disposed to confer a little closely. he was all admiration and friendship for the prince, and said he was sure _every body_ would unite to give vigor to his government. "to-morrow you shall hear particulars; in the mean time i can only add i have none of the apprehensions contained in lord l.'s letter. i have had correspondence enough myself on this subject to convince me of the impossibility of the ministry managing the present parliament by any contrivance hostile to the prince. dinner is on table; so adieu; and be assured of the truth and sincerity of "yours affectionately, "_windsor, monday, o'clock, p. m._ "j. w. p. "i have just got rodney's proxy sent." the situation in which mr. fox was placed by the treaty thus commenced, before his arrival, with the chancellor, was not a little embarrassing. in addition to the distaste which he must have felt for such a union, he had been already, it appears, in some degree pledged to bestow the great seal, in the event of a change, upon lord loughborough. finding, however, the prince and his party so far committed in the negotiation with lord thurlow, he thought it expedient, however contrary to his own wishes, to accede to their views; and a letter, addressed by him to mr. sheridan on the occasion, shows the struggle with his own feelings and opinions, which this concession cost him:-- "dear sheridan, "i have swallowed the pill,--a most bitter one it was,--and have written to lord loughborough, whose answer of course must be consent. what is to be done next? should the prince himself, you, or i, or warren, be the person to speak to the chancellor? the objection to the last is, that he must probably wait for an opportunity, and that no time is to be lost. pray tell me what is to be done: i am convinced, after all, the negotiation will not succeed, and am not sure that i am sorry for it. i do not remember ever feeling so uneasy about any political thing i ever did in my life. call if you can. "yours ever, "c. j. f." _sat. past ._ lord loughborough, in the mean time, with a vigilance quickened by his own personal views, kept watch on the mysterious movements of the chancellor; and, as appears by the following letter, not only saw reason to suspect duplicity himself, but took care that mr. fox and mr. sheridan should share in his distrust:-- "my dear s. "i was afraid to pursue the conversation on the circumstance of the inspection committed to the chancellor, lest the reflections that arise upon it might have made too strong an impression on some of our neighbors last night. it does indeed appear to me full of mischief, and of that sort most likely to affect the apprehensions of our best friends, (of lord john for instance,) and to increase their reluctance to take any active part. "the chancellor's object evidently is to make his way by himself, and he has managed hitherto as one very well practised in that game. his conversations, both with you and mr. fox, were encouraging, but at the same time checked all explanations on his part under a pretence of delicacy towards his colleagues. when he let them go to salthill and contrived to dine at windsor, he certainly took a step that most men would have felt not very delicate in its appearance, and unless there was some private understanding between him and them, not altogether fair; especially if you add to it the sort of conversation he held with regard to them. i cannot help thinking that the difficulties of managing the patient have been excited or improved to lead to the proposal of his inspection, (without the prince being conscious of it,) for by that situation he gains an easy and frequent access to him, and an opportunity of possessing the confidence of the queen. i believe this the more from the account of the tenderness he showed at his first interview, for i am sure, it is not in his character to feel any. with a little instruction from lord hawksbury, the sort of management that was carried on by means of the princess-dowager, in the early part of the reign, may easily be practised. in short, i think he will try to find the key of the back stairs, and, with that in his pocket, take any situation that preserves his access, and enables him to hold a line between different parties. in the present moment, however, he has taken a position that puts the command of the house of lords in his hands, for * * * * * * *. [footnote: the remainder of this sentence is effaced by damp] "i wish mr. fox and you would give these considerations what weight you think they deserve, and try if any means can be taken to remedy this mischief, if it appears in the same light to you. "ever yours, &c." what were the motives that induced lord thurlow to break off so suddenly his negotiation with the prince's party, and declare himself with such vehemence on the side of the king and mr. pitt, it does not appear very easy to ascertain. possibly, from his opportunities of visiting the royal patient, he had been led to conceive sufficient hopes of recovery, to incline the balance of his speculation that way; or, perhaps, in the influence of lord loughborough [footnote: lord loughborough is supposed to have been the person who instilled into the mind of mr. fox the idea of advancing that claim of right for the prince, which gave mr. pitt, in principle as well as in fact, such an advantage over him.] over mr. fox, he saw a risk of being supplanted in his views on the great seal. whatever may have been the motive, it is certain that his negotiation with the whigs had been amicably carried on, till within a few hours of his delivery of that speech, from whose enthusiasm the public could little suspect how fresh from the incomplete bargain of defection was the speaker, and in the course of which he gave vent to the well-known declaration, that "his debt of gratitude to his majesty was ample, for the many favors he had graciously conferred upon him, which, when he forgot, might god forget him!" [footnote: "forget you!" said wildes, "he'll see you d---d first."] as it is not my desire to imitate those biographers, who swell their pages with details that belong more properly to history, i shall forbear to enter into a minute or consecutive narrative of the proceedings of parliament on the important subject of the regency. a writer of political biography has a right, no doubt, like an engineer who constructs a navigable canal, to lay every brook and spring in the neighborhood under contribution for the supply and enrichment of his work. but, to turn into it the whole contents of the annual register and parliamentary debates is a sort of literary engineering, not quite so laudable, which, after the example set by a right reverend biographer of mr. pitt, will hardly again be attempted by any one, whose ambition, at least, it is to be read as well as bought. mr. fox and mr. pitt, it is well known, differed essentially, not only with respect to the form of the proceedings, which the latter recommended in that suspension of the royal authority, but also with respect to the abstract constitutional principles, upon which those proceedings of the minister were professedly founded. as soon as the nature of the malady, with which the king was afflicted, had been ascertained by a regular examination of the physicians in attendance on his majesty, mr. pitt moved (on the th of december), that a "committee be appointed to examine and report precedents of such proceedings as may have been had, in case of the personal exercise of the royal authority being prevented or interrupted, by infancy, sickness, infirmity, or otherwise, with a view to provide for the same." [footnote: mr. burke and mr. sheridan were both members of this committee, and the following letter from the former to sheridan refers to it:-- "my dear sir, "my idea was, that on fox's declaring that the precedents, neither individually nor collectively, do at all apply, our attendance ought to have been merely formal. but as you think otherwise, i shall certainly be at the committee soon after one. i rather think, that they will not attempt to garble: because, supposing the precedents to apply, the major part are certainly in their favor. it is not likely that they mean to suppress,--but it is good to be on our guard. "ever most truly yours, &c. "edmund burke." _gerard street, thursday morning_.] it was immediately upon this motion that mr. fox advanced that inconsiderate claim of right for the prince of wales, of which his rival availed himself so dexterously and triumphantly. having asserted that there existed no precedent whatever that could bear upon the present case, mr. fox proceeded to say, that "the circumstance to be provided for did not depend upon their deliberations as a house of parliament,--it rested elsewhere. there was then a person in the kingdom, different from any other person that any existing precedents could refer to,--an heir apparent, of full age and capacity to exercise the royal power. it behoved them, therefore, to waste not a moment unnecessarily, but to proceed with all becoming speed and diligence to restore the sovereign power and the exercise of the royal authority. from what he had read of history, from the ideas he had formed of the law, and, what was still more precious, of the spirit of the constitution, from every reasoning and analogy drawn from those sources, he declared that he had not in his mind a doubt, and he should think himself culpable if he did not take the first opportunity of declaring it, that, in the present condition of his majesty, his royal highness the prince of wales had as clear, as express a right to exercise the power of sovereignty, during the continuance of the illness and incapacity, with which it had pleased god to afflict his majesty, as in the case of his majesty's having undergone a natural demise." it is said that, during the delivery of this adventurous opinion, the countenance of mr. pitt was seen to brighten with exultation at the mistake into which he perceived his adversary was hurrying; and scarcely had the sentence, just quoted, been concluded, when, slapping his thigh triumphantly, he turned to the person who sat next to him, and said, "i'll _un-whig_ the gentleman for the rest of his life!" even without this anecdote, which may be depended upon as authentic, we have sufficient evidence that such were his feelings in the burst of animation and confidence with which he instantly replied to mr. fox,--taking his ground, with an almost equal temerity, upon the directly opposite doctrine, and asserting, not only that "in the case of the interruption of the personal exercise of the royal authority, it devolved upon the other branches of the legislature to provide a substitute for that authority," but that "the prince of wales had no more right to exercise the powers of government than any other person in the realm." the truth is, the assertion of a _right_ was equally erroneous, on both sides of the question. the constitution having provided no legal remedy for such an exigence as had now occurred, the two houses of parliament had as little right (in the strict sense of the word) to supply the deficiency of the royal power, as the prince had to be the person elected or adjudged for that purpose. constitutional analogy and expediency were the only authorities by which the measures necessary in such a conjuncture could be either guided or sanctioned; and if the disputants on each side had softened down their tone to this true and practical view of the case, there would have been no material difference, in the first stage of the proceedings between them,--mr. pitt being ready to allow that the heir apparent was the obvious person to whom expediency pointed as the depository of the royal power, and mr. fox having granted, in a subsequent explanation of his doctrine, that, strong as was the right upon which the claim of the prince was founded, his royal highness could not assume that right till it had been formally adjudicated to him by parliament. the principle, however, having been imprudently broached, mr. pitt was too expert a tactician not to avail himself of the advantage it gave him. he was thus, indeed, furnished with an opportunity, not only of gaining time by an artful protraction of the discussions, but of occupying victoriously the ground of whiggism, which mr. fox had, in his impatience or precipitancy, deserted, and of thus adding to the character, which he had recently acquired, of a defender of the prerogatives of the crown, the more brilliant reputation of an assertor of the rights of the people. in the popular view which mr. pitt found it convenient to take of this question, he was led, or fell voluntarily into some glaring errors, which pervaded the whole of his reasonings on the subject. in his anxiety to prove the omnipotence of parliament, he evidently confounded the estates of the realm with the legislature, [footnote: mr. grattan and the irish parliament carried this error still farther, and founded all their proceedings on the necessity of "providing for the deficiency of the third _estate_."] and attributed to two branches of the latter such powers as are only legally possessed by the whole three in parliament assembled. for the purpose, too, of flattering the people with the notion that to them had now reverted the right of choosing their temporary sovereign, he applied a principle, which ought to be reserved for extreme cases, to an exigence by no means requiring this ultimate appeal,--the defect in the government being such as the still existing estates of the realm, appointed to speak the will of the people, but superseding any direct exercise of their power, were fully competent, as in the instance of the revolution, to remedy. [footnote: the most luminous view that has been taken of this question is to be found in an article of the edinburgh review, on the regency of ,--written by one of the most learned and able men of our day, mr. john allen.] indeed, the solemn use of such language as mr. pitt, in his over-acted whiggism, employed upon this occasion,--namely, that the "right" of appointing a substitute for the royal power was "to be found in the voice and the sense of the people,"--is applicable only to those conjunctures, brought on by misrule and oppression, when all forms are lost in the necessity of relief, and when the right of the people to change and choose their rulers is among the most sacred and inalienable that either nature or social polity has ordained. but, to apply the language of that last resource to the present emergency was to brandish the sword of goliath [footnote: a simile applied by lord somers to the power of impeachment, which, he said, "should be like goliath's sword, kept in the temple, and not used but upon great occasions."] on an occasion that by no means called for it. the question of the prince's claim,--in spite of the efforts of the prince himself and of his royal relatives to avert the agitation of it,--was, for evident reasons, forced into discussion by the minister, and decided by a majority, not only of the two houses but of the nation, in his favor. during one of the long debates to which the question gave rise, mr. sheridan allowed himself to be betrayed into some expressions, which, considering the delicate predicament in which the prince was placed by the controversy, were not marked with his usual tact and sagacity. in alluding to the claim of right advanced for his royal highness, and deprecating any further agitation of it, he "reminded the right honorable gentleman (mr. pitt) of the danger of provoking that claim to be asserted [a loud cry of hear! hear!], which, he observed, had not yet been preferred. [another cry of hear! hear!]" this was the very language that mr. pitt most wished his adversaries to assume, and, accordingly, he turned it to account with all his usual mastery and haughtiness. "he had now," he said, "an additional reason for asserting the authority of the house, and defining the boundaries of right, when the deliberative faculties of parliament were invaded, and an indecent menace thrown out to awe and influence their proceedings. in the discussion of the question, the house, he trusted, would do their duty, in spite of any threat that might be thrown out. men, who felt their native freedom, would not submit to a threat, however high the authority from which it might come." [footnote: _impartial report of all the proceedings on the subject of the regency_] the restrictions of the prerogative with which mr. pitt thought proper to encumber the transfer of the royal power to the prince, formed the second great point of discussion between the parties, and brought equally adverse principles into play. mr. fox, still maintaining his position on the side of royalty, defended it with much more tenable weapons than the question of right had enabled him to wield. so founded, indeed, in the purest principles of whiggism did he consider his opposition, on this memorable occasion, to any limitation of the prerogative in the hands of a regent, that he has, in his history of james ii., put those principles deliberately upon record, as a fundamental article in the creed of his party. the passage to which i allude occurs in his remarks upon the exclusion bill; and as it contains, in a condensed form, the spirit of what he urged on the same point in , i cannot do better than lay his own words before the reader. after expressing his opinion that, at the period of which he writes, the measure of exclusion from the monarchy altogether would have been preferable to any limitation of its powers, he proceeds to say:--"the whigs, who consider the powers of the crown as a trust for the people, a doctrine which the tories themselves, when pushed in argument, will sometimes admit, naturally think it their duty rather to change the manager of the trust than impair the subject of it; while others, who consider them as the right or property of the king, will as naturally act as they would do in the case of any other property, and consent to the loss or annihilation of any part of it, for the purpose of preserving the remainder to him, whom they style the rightful owner." further on he adds:--"the royal prerogative ought, according to the whigs, to be reduced to such powers as are in their exercise beneficial to the people; and of the benefit of these they will not rashly suffer the people to be deprived, whether the executive power be in the hands of an hereditary or of an elective king, of a regent, or of any other denomination of magistrate; while, on the other hand, they who consider prerogative with reference only to royalty will, with equal readiness, consent either to the extension or the suspension of its exercise, as the occasional interests of the prince may seem to require." taking this as a correct exposition of the doctrines of the two parties, of which mr. fox and mr. pitt may be considered to have been the representatives in the regency question of , it will strike some minds that, however the whig may flatter himself that the principle by which he is guided in such exigencies is favorable to liberty, and however the tory may, with equal sincerity, believe his suspension of the prerogative on these occasions to be advantageous to the crown, yet that in both of the principles, so defined, there is an evident tendency to produce effects, wholly different from those which the parties professing them contemplate. on the one side, to sanction from authority the notion, that there are some powers of the crown which may be safely dispensed with,--to accustom the people to an abridged exercise of the prerogative, with the risk of suggesting to their minds that its full efficacy needs not be resumed,--to set an example, in short, of reducing the kingly power, which, by its success, may invite and authorize still further encroachments,--all these are dangers to which the alleged doctrine of toryism, whenever brought into practice, exposes its idol; and more particularly in enlightened and speculative times, when the minds of men are in quest of the right and the useful, and when a superfluity of power is one of those abuses, which they are least likely to overlook or tolerate. in such seasons, the experiment of the tory might lead to all that he most deprecates, and the branches of the prerogative, once cut away, might, like the lopped boughs of the fir-tree, never grow again. on the other hand, the whig, who asserts that the royal prerogative ought to be reduced to such powers as are beneficial to the people, and yet stipulates, as an invariable principle, for the transfer of that prerogative full and unimpaired, whenever it passes into other hands, appears, even more perhaps than the tory, to throw an obstacle in the way of his own object. circumstances, it is not denied, may arise when the increase of the powers of the crown, in other ways, may render it advisable to control some of its established prerogatives. but, where are we to find a fit moment for such a reform,--or what opening will be left for it by this fastidious whig principle, which, in , could see no middle step between a change of the succession and an undiminished maintenance of the prerogative, and which, in , almost upon the heels of a declaration that "the power of the crown had increased and ought to be diminished," protested against even an experimental reduction of it! according to mr. fox, it is a distinctive characteristic of the tory, to attach more importance to the person of the king than to his office. but, assuredly, the tory is not singular in this want of political abstraction; and, in england, (from a defect, hume thinks, inherent in all limited monarchies,) the personal qualities and opinions of the sovereign have considerable influence upon the whole course of public affairs,--being felt alike in that courtly sphere around them where their attraction acts, and in that outer circle of opposition where their repulsion comes into play. to this influence, then, upon the government and the community, of which no abstraction can deprive the person of the monarch, the whig principle in question (which seems to consider entireness of prerogative as necessary to a king, as the entireness of his limbs was held to be among the athenians,) superadds the vast power, both actual and virtual, which would flow from the inviolability of the royal office, and forecloses, so far, the chance which the more pliant tory doctrine would leave open, of counteracting the effects of the king's indirect personal influence, by curtailing or weakening the grasp of some of his direct regal powers. ovid represents the deity of light (and on an occasion, too, which may be called a regency question) as crowned with movable rays, which might be put off when too strong or dazzling. but, according to this principle, the crown of prerogative must keep its rays fixed and immovable, and (as the poet expresses it) "_circa caput_ omne _micantes_." upon the whole, however high the authorities, by which this whig doctrine was enforced in , its manifest tendency, in most cases, to secure a perpetuity of superfluous powers to the crown, appears to render it unfit, at least as an invariable principle, for any party professing to have the liberty of the people for their object. the prince, in his admirable letter upon the subject of the regency to mr. pitt, was made to express the unwillingness which he felt "that in his person an experiment should be made to ascertain with how small a portion of kingly power the executive government of the country might be carried on;"--but imagination has not far to go in supposing a case, where the enormous patronage vested in the crown, and the consequent increase of a royal bias through the community, might give such an undue and unsafe preponderance to that branch of the legislature, as would render any safe opportunity, however acquired, of ascertaining with _how much less power_ the executive government could be carried on, most acceptable, in spite of any dogmas to the contrary, to all true lovers as well of the monarchy as of the people. having given thus much consideration to the opinions and principles, professed on both sides of this constitutional question, it is mortifying, after all, to be obliged to acknowledge, that, in the relative situation of the two parties at the moment, may be found perhaps the real, and but too natural, source of the decidedly opposite views which they took of the subject. mr. pitt, about to surrender the possession of power to his rival, had a very intelligible interest in reducing the value of the transfer, and (as a retreating army spike the guns they leave behind) rendering the engines of prerogative as useless as possible to his successor. mr. fox, too, had as natural a motive to oppose such a design; and, aware that the chief aim of these restrictive measures was to entail upon the whig ministry of the regent a weak government and strong opposition, would, of course, eagerly welcome the aid of any abstract principle, that might sanction him in resisting such a mutilation of the royal power;--well knowing that (as in the case of the peerage bill in the reign of george i.) the proceedings altogether were actuated more by ill-will to the successor in the trust, than by any sincere zeal for the purity of its exercise. had the situations of the two leaders been reversed, it is more than probable that their modes of thinking and acting would have been so likewise. mr. pitt, with the prospect of power before his eyes, would have been still more strenuous, perhaps, for the unbroken transmission of the prerogative--his natural leaning on the side of power being increased by his own approaching share in it. mr. fox, too, if stopped, like his rival, in a career of successful administration, and obliged to surrender up the reins of the state to tory guidance, might have found in his popular principles a still more plausible pretext, for the abridgment of power in such unconstitutional hands. he might even too, perhaps, (as his india bill warrants us in supposing) have been tempted into the same sort of alienation of the royal patronage, as that which mr. pitt now practised in the establishment of the queen, and have taken care to leave behind him a stronghold of whiggism, to facilitate the resumption of his position, whenever an opportunity might present itself. such is human nature, even in its noblest specimens, and so are the strongest spirits shaped by the mould in which chance and circumstances have placed them. mr. sheridan spoke frequently in the debates on this question, but his most important agency lay in the less public business connected with it. he was the confidential adviser of the prince throughout, directed every step he took, and was the author of most of his correspondence on the subject. there is little doubt, i think, that the celebrated and masterly letter to mr. pitt, which by some persons has been attributed to burke, and by others to sir gilbert elliot (afterwards lord minto), was principally the production of mr. sheridan. for the supposition that it was written by burke there are, besides the merits of the production, but very scanty grounds. so little was he at that period in those habits of confidence with the prince, which would entitle him to be selected for such a task in preference to sheridan, that but eight or ten days before the date of this letter (jan. .) he had declared in the house of commons, that "he knew as little of the inside of carlton house as he did of buckingham house." indeed, the violent state of this extraordinary man's temper, during the whole of the discussions and proceedings on the regency, would have rendered him, even had his intimacy with the prince been closer, an unfit person for the composition of a document, requiring so much caution, temper, and delicacy. the conjecture that sir gilbert elliot was the author of it is somewhat more plausible,--that gentleman being at this period high in the favor of the prince, and possessing talents sufficient to authorize the suspicion (which was in itself a reputation) that he had been the writer of a composition so admirable. but it seems hardly necessary to go farther, in quest of its author, than mr. sheridan, who, besides being known to have acted the part of the prince's adviser through the whole transaction, is proved by the rough copies found among his papers, to have written several other important documents connected with the regency. i may also add that an eminent statesman of the present day, who was at that period, though very young, a distinguished friend of mr. sheridan, and who has shown by the ability of his own state papers that he has not forgot the lessons of that school from which this able production emanated, remembers having heard some passages of the letter discussed in bruton-street, as if it were then in the progress of composition, and has always, i believe, been under the impression that it was principally the work of mr. sheridan. [footnote: to this authority may be added also that of the bishop of winchester, who says,--"mr. sheridan was supposed to have been materially concerned in drawing up this admirable composition."] i had written thus far on the subject of this letter--and shall leave what i have written as a memorial of the fallacy of such conjectures--when, having still some doubts of my correctness in attributing the honor of the composition to sheridan, i resolved to ask the opinion of my friend, sir james mackintosh, a person above all others qualified, by relationship of talent, to recognize and hold parley with the mighty spirit of burke, in whatever shape the "royal dane" may appear. the strong impression on his mind--amounting almost to certainty--was that no other hand but that of burke could have written the greater part of the letter; [footnote: it is amusing to observe how tastes differ;--the following is the opinion entertained of this letter by a gentleman, who, i understand, and can easily believe, is an old established reviewer. after mentioning that it was attributed to the pen of burke, he adds,--"the story, however, does not seem entitled to much credit, for the internal character of the paper is too vapid and heavy for the genius of burke, whose ardent mind would assuredly have diffused vigor into the composition, and the correctness of whose judgment would as certainly have preserved it from the charge of inelegance and grammatical deficiency."--dr. watkins, _life of sheridan_. such, in nine cases out of ten, are the periodical guides of public taste.] and by a more diligent inquiry, in which his kindness assisted me, it has been ascertained that his opinion was, as it could not fail to be, correct. the following extract from a letter written by lord minto at the time, referring obviously to the surmise that he was, himself, the author of the paper, confirms beyond a doubt the fact, that it was written almost solely by burke:-- "_january st, ._ "there was not a word of the prince's letter to pitt mine. it was originally burke's, altered a little, but not improved, by sheridan and other critics. the answer made by the prince yesterday to the address of the two houses was entirely mine, and done in a great hurry half an hour before it was to be delivered." while it is with regret i give up the claim of mr. sheridan to this fine specimen of english composition, it but adds to my intense admiration of burke--not on account of the beauty of the writing, for his fame required no such accession--but from that triumph of mind over temper which it exhibits--that forgetfulness of _self_, the true, transmigrating power of genius, which enabled him thus to pass his spirit into the station of royalty, and to assume all the calm dignity, both of style and feeling, that became it. it was to be expected that the conduct of lord thurlow at this period should draw down upon him all the bitterness of those who were in the secret of his ambidextrous policy, and who knew both his disposition to desert, and the nature of the motives that prevented him. to sheridan, in particular, such a result of a negotiation, in which he had been the principal mover and mediator, could not be otherwise than deeply mortifying. of all the various talents with which he was gifted, his dexterity in political intrigue and management was that of which he appears to have been most vain; and this vanity it was that, at a later period of his life, sometimes led him to branch off from the main body of his party, upon secret and solitary enterprises of ingenuity, which--as may be expected from all such independent movements of a partisan--generally ended in thwarting his friends and embarrassing himself. in the debate on that clause of the bill, which restricted the regent from granting places or pensions in reversion, mr. sheridan is represented as having attacked lord thurlow in terms of the most unqualified severity,--speaking of "the natural ferocity and sturdiness of his temper," and of "his brutal bluffness." but to such abuse, unseasoned by wit, mr. sheridan was not at all likely to have condescended, being well aware that, "as in smooth oil the razor best is set," so satire is whetted to its most perfect keenness by courtesy. his clumsy reporters have, in this, as in almost all other instances, misrepresented him. with equal personality, but more playfulness, mr. burke, in exposing that wretched fiction, by which the great seal was converted into the third branch of the legislature, and the assent of the king forged to a bill, in which his incapacity to give either assent or dissent was declared, thus expressed himself:--"but what is to be done when the crown is in a _deliquium_? it was intended, he had heard, to set up a man with black brows and a large wig, a kind of scare-crow to the two houses, who was to give a fictitious assent in the royal name--and this to be binding on the people at large!" the following remarkable passage, too, in a subsequent speech, is almost too well known to be cited:--"the other house," he said, "were not yet perhaps recovered from that extraordinary burst of the pathetic which had been exhibited the other evening; they had not yet dried their eyes, or been restored to their former placidity, and were unqualified to attend, to new business. the tears shed in that house on the occasion to which he alluded, were not the tears of patriots for dying laws, but of lords for their expiring places. the iron tears, which flowed down pluto's cheek, rather resembled the dismal bubbling of the styx, than the gentle murmuring streams of aganippe." while lord thurlow was thus treated by the party whom he had so nearly joined, he was but coldly welcomed back by the minister whom he had so nearly deserted. his reconciliation, too, with the latter was by no means either sincere or durable,--the renewal of friendship between politicians, on such occasions, being generally like that which the diable boiteux describes, as having taken place between himself and a brother sprite,--"we were reconciled, embraced, and have hated each other heartily ever since." in the regency, indeed, and the transactions connected with it, may be found the source of most of those misunderstandings and enmities, which broke out soon after among the eminent men of that day, and were attended with consequences so important to themselves and the country. by the difference just mentioned, between mr. pitt and lord thurlow, the ministerial arrangements of were facilitated, and the learned lord, after all his sturdy pliancy, consigned to a life of ineffectual discontent ever after. the disagreement between mr. burke and mr. fox, if not actually originating now--and its foundation had been, perhaps, laid from the beginning, in the total dissimilarity of their dispositions and sentiments--was, at least, considerably ripened and accelerated by the events of this period, and by the discontent that each of them, like partners in unsuccessful play, was known to feel at the mistakes which the other had committed in the game. mr. fox had, unquestionably, every reason to lament as well as blame the violence and virulence by which his associate had disgraced the contest. the effect, indeed, produced upon the public by the irreverent sallies of burke, and by the too evident triumph, both of hate and hope, with which he regarded the calamitous situation of the king, contributed not a little to render still lower the already low temperature of popularity at which his party stood throughout the country. it seemed as if a long course of ineffectual struggle in politics, of frustrated ambition and unrewarded talents, had at length exasperated his mind to a degree beyond endurance; and the extravagances into which he was hurried in his speeches on this question, appear to have been but the first workings of that impatience of a losing cause-- that resentment of failure, and disgust at his partners in it--which soon afterwards found such a signal opportunity of exploding. that mr. burke, upon far less grounds, was equally discontented with his co-operators in this emergency, may be collected from the following passage of a letter addressed by him in the summer of this year to lord charlemont, and given by hardy in his memoirs of that nobleman:-- "perpetual failure, even though nothing in that failure can be fixed on the improper choice of the object or the injudicious choice of means, will detract every day more and more from a man's credit, until he ends without success and without reputation. in fact, a constant pursuit even of the best objects, without adequate instruments, detracts something from the opinion of a man's judgment. this, i think, may be in part the cause of the inactivity of others of our friends who are in the vigor of life and in possession of a great degree of lead and authority. i do not blame them, though i lament that state of the public mind, in which the people can consider the exclusion of such talents and such virtues from their service, as a point gained to them. the only point in which i can find any thing to blame in these friends, is their not taking the effectual means, which they certainly had in their power, of making an honorable retreat from their prospect of power into the possession of reputation, by an effectual defence of themselves. there was an opportunity which was not made use of for that purpose, and which could scarcely have failed of turning the tables on their adversaries." another instance of the embittering influence of these transactions may be traced in their effects upon mr. burke and mr. sheridan--between whom there had arisen a degree of emulation, amounting to jealousy, which, though hitherto chiefly confined to one of the parties, received on this occasion such an addition of fuel, as spread it equally through the minds of both, and conduced, in no small degree, to the explosion that followed. both irishmen, and both adventurers in a region so much elevated above their original station, it was but natural that some such feeling should kindle between them; and that, as burke was already mid-way in his career, when sheridan was but entering the field, the stirrings, whether of emulation or envy, should first be felt by the latter. it is, indeed, said that in the ceremonial of hastings's trial, the privileges enjoyed by burke, as a privy-councillor, were regarded with evident uneasiness by his brother manager, who could not as yet boast the distinction of right honorable before his name. as soon, however, as the rapid run of sheridan's success had enabled him to overtake his veteran rival, this feeling of jealousy took possession in full force of the latter,--and the close relations of intimacy and confidence, to which sheridan was now admitted both by mr. fox and the prince, are supposed to have been not the least of those causes of irritation and disgust, by which burke was at length driven to break with the party altogether, and to show his gigantic strength at parting, by carrying away some of the strongest pillars of whiggism in his grasp. lastly, to this painful list of the feuds, whose origin is to be found in the times and transactions of which we are speaking, may be added that slight, but too visible cloud of misunderstanding, which arose between mr. fox and mr. sheridan, and which, though it never darkened into any thing serious, continued to pervade their intercourse with each other to the last--exhibiting itself, on the part of mr. fox, in a degree of distrustful reserve not natural to him, and, on the side of sheridan, in some of those counter-workings of influence, which, as i have already said, he was sometimes induced by his love of the diplomacy of politics to practise. among the appointments named in contemplation of a regency, the place of treasurer of the navy was allotted to mr. sheridan. he would never, however, admit the idea of certainty in any of the arrangements so sanguinely calculated upon, but continually impressed upon his impatient friends the possibility, if not probability, of the king's recovery. he had even refused to look at the plan of the apartments, which he himself was to occupy in somerset house; and had but just agreed that it should be sent to him for examination, on the very day when the king was declared convalescent by dr. warren. "he entered his own house (to use the words of the relater of the anecdote) at dinner-time with the news. there were present,--besides mrs. sheridan and his sister,--tickell, who, on the change of administration, was to have been immediately brought into parliament,--joseph richardson, who was to have had tickell's place of commissioner of the stamp-office,--mr. reid, and some others. not one of the company but had cherished expectations from the approaching change--not one of them, however, had lost so much as mr. sheridan. with his wonted equanimity he announced the sudden turn affairs had taken, and looking round him cheerfully, as he filled a large glass, said,--'let us all join in drinking his majesty's speedy recovery.'" the measures which the irish parliament adopted on this occasion, would have been productive of anomalies, both theoretical and practical, had the continued illness of the king allowed the projected regency to take place. as it was, the most material consequence that ensued was the dismissal from their official situations of mr. ponsonby and other powerful individuals, by which the whig party received such an accession of strength, as enabled them to work out for their country the few blessings of liberty that still remain to her. among the victims to their votes on this question was mr. charles sheridan, who, on the recovery of the king, was dismissed from his office of secretary of war, but received compensation by a pension of _l_. a year, with the reversion of _l_. a year to his wife. the ready and ardent burst of devotion with which ireland, at this moment, like the pythagoreans at their morning worship, turned to welcome with her harp the rising sun, was long remembered by the object of her homage with pride and gratitude,--and, let us trust, is not even yet entirely forgotten. [footnote: this vain hope was expressed before the late decision on the catholic question had proved to the irish that, where their rights are concerned, neither public nor private pledges are regarded.] it has already been mentioned that to mr. sheridan, at this period, was entrusted the task of drawing up several of the state papers of the heir-apparent. from the rough copies of these papers that have fallen into my hands, i shall content myself with selecting two letters--the first of which was addressed by the prince to the queen, immediately after the communication to her majesty of the resolution of the two houses placing the royal household under her control. "before your majesty gives an answer to the application for your royal permission to place under your majesty's separate authority the direction and appointment of the king's household, and thereby to separate from the difficult and arduous situation which i am unfortunately called upon to fill, the accustomed and necessary support which has ever belonged to it, permit me, with every sentiment of duty and affection towards your majesty, to entreat your attentive perusal of the papers which i have the honor to enclose. they contain a sketch of the plan now proposed to be carried into execution as communicated to me by mr. pitt, and the sentiments which i found myself bound in duty to declare in reply to that communication. i take the liberty of lodging these papers in your majesty's hands, confiding that, whenever it shall please providence to remove the malady with which the king my father is now unhappily afflicted, your majesty will, in justice to me and to those of the royal family whose affectionate concurrence and support i have received, take the earliest opportunity of submitting them to his royal perusal, in order that no interval of time may elapse before he is in possession of the true motives and principles upon which i have acted. i here solemnly repeat to your majesty, that among those principles there is not one which influences my mind so much as the firm persuasion i have, that my conduct in endeavoring to maintain unimpaired and undivided the just rights, prerogatives, and dignity of the crown, in the person of the king's representative, is the only line of conduct which would entitle me to his majesty's approbation, or enable me to stand with confidence in his royal presence on the happy day of his recovery;--and, on the contrary, that those who, under color of respect and attachment to his royal person, have contrived this project for enfeebling and degrading the executive authority of the realm, will be considered by him as having risked the happiness of his people and the security of the throne itself, by establishing a fatal precedent which may hereafter be urged against his own authority, on as plausible pretences, or revived against the just rights of his family. in speaking my opinions of the motive of the projectors of this scheme, i trust i need not assure your majesty that the respect, duty, and affection i owe to your majesty have never suffered me for a single moment to consider you as countenancing, in the slightest degree, their plan or their purposes. i have the firmest reliance on your majesty's early declaration to me, on the subject of public affairs, at the commencement of our common calamity; and, whatever may be the efforts of evil or interested advisers, i have the same confidence that you will never permit or endure that the influence of your respected name shall be profaned to the purpose of distressing the government and insulting the person of your son. how far those, who are evidently pursuing both these objects, may be encouraged by your majesty's acceptance of one part of the powers purposed to be lodged in your hands, i will not presume to say. [footnote: in speaking of the extraordinary _imperium in imperio_, with which the command of so much power and patronage would have invested the queen, the annual register (robinson's) remarks justly, "it was not the least extraordinary circumstance in these transactions, that the queen could be prevailed upon to lend her name to a project which would eventually have placed her in avowed rivalship with her son, and, at a moment when her attention might seem to be absorbed by domestic calamity, have established her at the head of a political party."] the proposition has assumed the shape of a resolution of parliament, and therefore i am silent. "your majesty will do me the honor to weigh the opinions i formed and declared before parliament had entertained the plan, and, with those before you, your own good judgment will decide. i have only to add that whatever that decision may be, nothing will ever alter the interest of true affection and inviolable duty," &c. &c. the second letter that i shall give, from the rough copy of mr. sheridan, was addressed by the prince to the king after his recovery, announcing the intention of his royal highness to submit to his majesty a memorial, in vindication of his own conduct and that of his royal brother the duke of york throughout the whole of the proceedings consequent upon his majesty's indisposition. "sir, "thinking it probable that i should have been honored with your commands to attend your majesty on wednesday last, i have unfortunately lost the opportunity of paying my duty to your majesty before your departure from weymouth. the account? i have received of your majesty's health have given me the greatest satisfaction, and should it be your majesty's intention to return to weymouth, i trust, sir, there will be no impropriety in my _then_ entreating your majesty's gracious attention to a point of the greatest moment to the peace of my own mind, and one in which i am convinced your majesty's feelings are equally interested. your majesty's letter to my brother the duke of clarence, in may last, was the first direct intimation i had ever received that my conduct, and that of my brother the duke of york, during your majesty's late lamented illness, had brought on us the heavy misfortune of your majesty's displeasure. i should be wholly unworthy the return of your majesty's confidence and good opinion, which will ever be the first objects of my life, if i could have read the passage i refer to in that letter without the deepest sorrow and regret for the effect produced on your majesty's mind; though at the same time i felt the firmest persuasion that your majesty's generosity and goodness would never permit that effect to _remain_, without affording us an opportunity of knowing what had been urged against us, of replying to our accusers, and of justifying ourselves, if the means of justification were in our power. "great however as my impatience and anxiety were on this subject, i felt it a superior consideration not to intrude any unpleasing or agitating discussions upon your majesty's attention, during an excursion devoted to the ease and amusement necessary for the re-establishment of your majesty's health. i determined to sacrifice my own feelings, and to wait with resignation till the fortunate opportunity should arrive, when your majesty's own paternal goodness would, i was convinced, lead you even to _invite_ your sons to that fair hearing, which your justice would not deny to the meanest individual of your subjects. in this painful interval i have employed myself in drawing up a full statement and account of my conduct during the period alluded to, and of the motives and circumstances which influenced me. when these shall be humbly submitted to your majesty's consideration, i may be possibly found to have erred in judgment, and to have acted on mistaken principles, but i have the most assured conviction that i shall not be found to have been deficient in that duteous affection to your majesty which nothing shall ever diminish. anxious for every thing that may contribute to the comfort and satisfaction of your majesty's mind, i cannot omit this opportunity of lamenting those appearances of a less gracious disposition in the queen, towards my brothers and myself, than we were accustomed to experience; and to assure your majesty that if by your affectionate interposition these most unpleasant sensations should be happily removed, it would be an event not less grateful to our minds than satisfactory to your majesty's own benign disposition. i will not longer. &c. &c. "g. p." the statement here announced by his royal highness (a copy of which i have seen, occupying, with its appendix, near a hundred folio pages), is supposed to have been drawn up by lord minto. to descend from documents of such high import to one of a much humbler nature, the following curious memorial was presented this year to mr. sheridan, by a literary gentleman whom the whig party thought it worth while to employ in their service, and who, as far as industry went, appears to have been not unworthy of his hire, simonides is said to be the first author that ever wrote for pay, but simonides little dreamt of the perfection to which his craft would one day be brought. _memorial for dr. w. t.,_ [footnote: this industrious scotchman (of whose name i have only given the initials) was not without some share of humor. on hearing that a certain modern philosopher had carried his belief in the perfectibility of all living things so far, as to say that he did not despair of seeing the day when tigers themselves might be educated, dr. t. exclaimed, "i should like dearly to see him in a cage with _two_ of his pupils!"] _fitzroy-street, fitzroy-chapel._ "in may, , dr. parr, in the name of his political friends, engaged dr. t. to embrace those opportunities, which his connections with booksellers and periodical publications might afford him, of supporting the principles of their party. mr. sheridan in august, , gave two notes, _l_. each, to dr. t. for the first year's service, which notes were paid at different periods--the first by mr. sheridan at brookes's, in january, , the second by mr. windham in may, . mr. sheridan, in different conversations, encouraged dr. t. to go on with the expectation of a like sum yearly, or _l_. half yearly. dr. t. with this encouragement engaged in different publications for the purpose of this agreement. he is charged for the most part with the political and historical articles in the analytic review, and he also occasionally writes the political appendix to the english review, of which particularly he wrote that for april last, and that for june last. he also every week writes an abridgment of politics for the whitehall evening post, and a political review every month for a sunday paper entitled the review and sunday advertiser. in a romance, entitled 'mammoth, or human nature displayed, &c.,' dr. t. has shown how mindful he is on all occasions of his engagements to those who confide in him. he has also occasionally moved other engines, which it would be tedious and might appear too trifling to mention. dr. t. is not ignorant that uncommon charges have happened in the course of this last year, that is, the year preceding may, . instead of _l_., therefore, he will be satisfied with _l_ for that year, provided that this abatement shall not form a precedent against his claim of _l_. annually, if his further services shall be deemed acceptable. there is one point on which dr. t. particularly reserved himself, namely, to make no attack on mr. hastings, and this will be attested by dr. parr, mr. sheridan, and, if the doctor rightly recollects, by mr. windham. "_fitzroy-street, st july, ."_ taking into account all the various circumstances that concurred to glorify this period of sheridan's life, we may allow ourselves, i think, to pause upon it as the apex of the pyramid, and, whether we consider his fame, his talents, or his happiness, may safely say, "here is their highest point." the new splendor which his recent triumphs in eloquence had added to a reputation already so illustrious,--the power which he seemed to have acquired over the future destinies of the country, by his acknowledged influence in the councils of the heir apparent, and the tribute paid to him, by the avowal both of friends and foes, that he had used this influence in the late trying crisis of the regency, with a judgment and delicacy that proved him worthy of it,--all these advantages, both brilliant and solid, which subsequent circumstances but too much tended to weaken, at this moment surrounded him in their newest lustre and promise. he was just now, too, in the first enjoyment of a feeling, of which habit must have afterwards dulled the zest, namely, the proud consciousness of having surmounted the disadvantages of birth and station, and placed himself on a level with the highest and noblest of the land. this footing in the society of the great he could only have attained by parliamentary eminence;--as a mere writer, with all his genius, he never would have been thus admitted _ad eundem_ among them. talents, in literature or science, unassisted by the advantages of birth, may lead to association with the great, but rarely to equality;--it is a passport through the well-guarded frontier, but no title to naturalization within. by him, who has not been born among them, this can only be achieved by politics. in that arena, which they look upon as their own, the legislature of the land, let a man of genius, like sheridan, but assert his supremacy,--at once all these barriers of reserve and pride give way, and he takes, by storm, a station at their side, which a shakspeare or a newton would but have enjoyed by courtesy. in fixing upon this period of sheridan's life, as the most shining aera of his talents as well as his fame, it is not meant to be denied that in his subsequent warfare with the minister, during the stormy time of the french revolution, he exhibited a prowess of oratory no less suited to that actual service, than his eloquence on the trial of hastings had been to such lighter tilts and tournaments of peace. but the effect of his talents was far less striking;--the current of feeling through england was against him;--and, however greatly this added to the merit of his efforts, it deprived him of that echo from the public heart, by which the voice of the orator is endued with a sort of multiplied life, and, as it were, survives itself. in the panic, too, that followed the french revolution, all eloquence, but that from the lips of power, was disregarded, and the voice of him at the helm was the only one listened to in the storm. of his happiness, at the period of which we are speaking, in the midst of so much success and hope, there can be but little doubt. though pecuniary embarrassment, as appears from his papers, had already begun to weave its fatal net around him, there was as yet little more than sufficed to give exercise to his ingenuity, and the resources of the drury-lane treasury were still in full nightly flow. the charms, by which his home was embellished, were such as few other homes could boast; and, if any thing made it less happy than it ought to be, the cause was to be found in the very brilliancy of his life and attractions, and in those triumphs out of the sphere of domestic love, to which his vanity, perhaps, oftener than his feelings, impelled him. among his own immediate associates, the gaiety of his spirits amounted almost to boyishness. he delighted in all sorts of dramatic tricks and disguises; and the lively parties, with which his country-house was always filled, were kept in momentary expectation of some new device for their mystification or amusement. [footnote: to give some idea of the youthful tone of this society, i shall mention one out of many anecdotes related to me by persons who themselves been ornaments of it. the ladies having one evening received the gentlemen in masquerade dresses, which with their obstinate silence, made it impossible to distinguish one from the other, the gentlemen, in their turn invited the ladies next evening, to a similar trial of conjecture on themselves; and notice being given that they were ready dressed, mrs. sheridan and her companions were admitted into the dining room, where they found a party of turks, sitting silent and masked around the table. after a long course of the usual guesses, examinations, &c, &c., and each lady having taken the arm of the person she was most sure of, they heard a burst of laughter through the half open door, and looking there, saw the gentlemen themselves in their proper person--the masks upon whom they had been lavishing their sagacity being no other than the maid servants of the house, who had been thus dressed up to deceive them.] it was not unusual to dispatch a man and horse seven or eight miles for a piece of crape or a mask, or some other such trifle for these frolics. his friends tickell and richardson, both men of wit and humor, and the former possessing the same degree of light animal spirits as himself, were the constant companions of all his social hours, and kept up with him that ready rebound of pleasantry, without which the play of wit languishes. there is a letter, written one night by richardson at tunbridge [footnote: in the year , when mrs. sheridan was trying the waters of tunbridge for her health. in a letter to sheridan's sister from this place, dated september , she says: "i drink the waters once a day, and ride and drive all the forenoon, which makes me ravenous when i return. i feel i am in very good health, and i am in high beauty, two circumstances which ought and do put me in high good humor."] (after waiting five long hours for sheridan,) so full of that mixture of melancholy and humor, which chequered the mind of this interesting man, that, as illustrative of the character of one of sheridan's most intimate friends, it may be inserted here:-- "dear sheridan, "_half-past nine, mount ephraim._ "after you had been gone an hour or two i got moped damnably. perhaps there is a sympathy between the corporeal and the mind's eye. in the temple i can't see far before me, and seldom extend my speculations on things to come into any fatiguing sketch of reflection.--from your window, however, there was a tedious scope of black atmosphere, that i think won my mind into a sort of fellow-travellership, pacing me again through the cheerless waste of the past, and presenting hardly one little rarified cloud to give a dim ornament to the future;--not a star to be seen;--no permanent light to gild my horizon;--only the fading helps to transient gaiety in the lamps of tunbridge;--no law coffee-house at hand, or any other house of relief;--no antagonist to bicker one into a control of one's cares by a successful opposition, [footnote: richardson was remarkable for his love of disputation; and tickell, when hard pressed by him in argument, used often, as a last resource, to assume the voice and manner of mr. fox, which he had the power of mimicking so exactly, that richardson confessed he sometimes stood awed and silenced by the resemblance. this disputatious humor of richardson was once turned to account by sheridan in a very characteristic manner. having had a hackney-coach in employ for five or six hours, and not being provided with the means of paying it, he happened to espy richardson in the street, and proposed to take him in the coach some part of his way. the offer being accepted, sheridan lost no time in starting a subject of conversation, on which he knew his companion was sure to become argumentative and animated. having, by well-managed contradiction, brought him to the proper pitch of excitement, he affected to grow impatient and angry, himself, and saying that "he could not think of staying in the same coach with a person that would use such language," pulled the check-string, and desired the coachman to let him out. richardson, wholly occupied with the argument, and regarding the retreat of his opponent as an acknowledgment of defeat, still pressed his point, and even hollowed "more last words" through the coach-window after sheridan, who, walking quietly home, left the poor disputant responsible for the heavy fare of the coach.] nor a softer enemy to soothe one into an oblivion of them. "it is damned foolish for ladies to leave their scissors about;--the frail thread of a worthless life is soon snipped. i wish to god my fate had been true to its first destination, and made a parson of me;--i should have made an excellent country joll. i think i can, with confidence, pronounce the character that would have been given of me:--he was an indolent good-humored man, civil at all times, and hospitable at others, namely, when he was able to be so, which, truth to say, happened but seldom. his sermons were better than his preaching, and his doctrine better than his life; though often grave, and sometimes melancholy, he nevertheless loved a joke,--the more so when overtaken in his cups, which, a regard to the faith of history compels us to subjoin, fell out not unfrequently. he had more thought than was generally imputed to him, though it must be owned no man alive ever exercised thought to so little purpose. rebecca, his wife, the daughter of an opulent farmer in the neighborhood of his small living, brought him eighteen children; and he now rests with those who, being rather _not_ absolutely vicious than actively good, confide in the bounty of providence to strike a mild average between the contending negations of their life, and to allow them in their future state, what he ordained them in this earthly pilgrimage, a snug neutrality and a useless repose.--i had written thus far, absolutely determined, under an irresistible influence of the megrims, to set off for london on foot, when, accidentally searching for a cardialgic, to my great delight, i discovered three fugitive sixpences, headed by a vagrant shilling, immerged in the heap in my waistcoat pocket. this discovery gave an immediate elasticity to my mind; and i have therefore devised a scheme, worthier the improved state of my spirits, namely, to swindle your servants out of a horse, under the pretence of a ride upon the heath, and to jog on contentedly homewards. so, under the protection of providence, and the mercy of footpads, i trust we shall meet again to-morrow; at all events, there is nothing huffish in this; for, whether sad or merry, i am always, "most affectionately yours, "j. richardson. "p.s. your return only confirmed me in my resolution of going; for i had worked myself, in five hours solitude, into such a state of nervous melancholy, that i found i could not help the meanness of crying, even if any one looked me in the face. i am anxious to avoid a regular conviction of so disreputable an infirmity;--besides, the night has become quite pleasant." between tickell and sheridan there was a never-ending "skirmish of wit," both verbal and practical; and the latter kind, in particular, was carried on between them with all the waggery, and, not unfrequently, the malice of school-boys. [footnote: on one occasion, sheridan having covered the floor of a dark passage, leading from the drawing room, with all the plates and dishes of the house, ranged closely together, provoked his unconscious play-fellow to pursue him into the midst of them. having left a path for his own escape, he passed through easily, but tickell, falling at full length into the ambuscade, was very much cut in several places. the next day, lord john townshend, on paying a visit to the bed-side of tickell, found him covered over with patches, and indignantly vowing vengeance against sheridan for this unjustifiable trick. in the midst of his anger, however, he could not help exclaiming, with the true feeling of an amateur of this sort of mischief, "but how amazingly well done it was!"] tickell, much less occupied by business than his friend, had always some political _jeux d'esprit_ on the anvil; and sometimes these trifles were produced by them jointly. the following string of pasquinades so well known in political circles, and written, as the reader will perceive, at different dates, though principally by sheridan, owes some of its stanzas to tickel, and a few others, i believe, to lord john townshend. i have strung together, without regard to chronology, the best of these detached lampoons. time having removed their venom, and with it, in a great degree, their wit, they are now, like dried snakes, mere harmless objects of curiosity. "johnny w--lks, johnny w--lks, [ ] thou greatest of bilks, how chang'd are the notes you now sing! your fam'd forty-five is prerogative, and your blasphemy, 'god save the king,' johnny w-lks, and your blasphemy, 'god save the king.'" "jack ch--ch--ll, jack ch--ch--ll, the town sure you search ill, your mob has disgraced all your brags; when next you draw out your hospital rout, do, prithee, afford them clean rags, jack ch--ch--ll, do, prithee, afford them clean rags." "captain k--th, captain k--th, keep your tongue 'twixt your teeth, lest bed-chamber tricks you betray; and, if teeth you want more, why, my bold commodore,-- you may borrow of lord g--ll--y, captain k--th, you may borrow of lord g--ll--y." [ ]"joe m--wb--y, joe m--wb--y, your throat sure must raw be, in striving to make yourself heard; but it pleased not the pigs. nor the westminster whigs, that your knighthood should utter one word, joe m--wb--y, that your knighthood should utter one word." "m--ntm--res, m--ntm--res, whom nobody for is, and _for_ whom we none of us care; from dublin you came-- it had much been the same if your lordship had staid where you were, m--ntm--res, if your lordship had staid where you were." "lord o--gl--y, lord o--gl--y, you spoke mighty strongly-- who you _are_, tho', all people admire! but i'll let you depart, for i believe in my heart, you had rather they did not inquire, lord o--gl--y, you had rather they did not inquire." "gl--nb--e, gl--nb--e, what's good for the scurvy? for ne'er be your old trade forgot-- in your arms rather quarter a pestle and mortar, and your crest be a spruce gallipot, gl--nb--e, and your crest be a spruce gallipot." "gl--nb--e, gl--nb--e, the world's topsy-turvy, of this truth you're the fittest attester; for, who can deny that the low become high, when the king makes a lord of silvester, gl--nb--e, when the king makes a lord of silvester." "mr. p--l, mr. p--l, in return for your zeal, i am told they have dubb'd you sir bob; having got wealth enough by coarse manchester stuff, for honors you'll now drive a job, mr. p--l, for honors you'll now drive a job." "oh poor b--ks, oh poor b--ks, still condemned to the ranks, nor e'en yet from a private promoted; pitt ne'er will relent, though he knows you repent, having once or twice honestly voted, poor b--ks, having once or twice honestly voted." "dull h--l--y, dull h--l--y, your audience feel ye a speaker of very great weight, and they wish you were dumb, when, with ponderous hum, you lengthened the drowsy debate, dull h--l--y, you lengthened the drowsy debate." [footnote : in sheridan's copy of the stanzas written by him in this metre at the time of the union, (beginning "zooks, harry! zooks, harry!") he entitled them, "an admirable new ballad, which goes excellently well to the tune of "mrs. arne, mrs. arne, it gives me concern," &c.] [footnote : this stanza and, i rather think, the next were by lord john townshend.] there are about as many more of these stanzas, written at different intervals, according as new victims, with good names for rhyming, presented themselves,--the metre being a most tempting medium for such lampoons. there is, indeed, appended to one of sheridan's copies of them, a long list (like a tablet of proscription), containing about fifteen other names marked out for the same fate; and it will be seen by the following specimen that some of them had a very narrow escape: "will c--rt--s...." "v--ns--t--t, v--ns--t--t,--for little thou fit art." "will d--nd--s, will d--nd--s,--were you only an ass." "l--ghb--h,--thorough." "sam h--rsl--y, sam h--rsl--y, ... coarsely." "p--ttym--n, p--ttym--n,--speak truth, if you can." but it was not alone for such lively purposes [footnote: as i have been mentioning some instances of sheridan's love of practical jests, i shall take this opportunity of adding one more anecdote, which i believe is pretty well known, but which i have had the advantage of hearing from the person on whom the joke was inflicted. the rev. mr. o'b---- (afterwards bishop of ----) having arrived to dinner at sheridan's country-house, near osterley, where, as usual, a gay party was collected, (consisting of general burgoyne, mrs. crewe, tickell, &c.) it was proposed that on the next day (sunday) the rev. gentleman should, on gaining the consent of the resident clergyman, give a specimen of his talents as a preacher in the village church. on his objecting that he was not provided with a sermon, his host offered to write one for him, if he would consent to preach it; and, the offer being accepted, sheridan left the company early, and did not return for the remainder of the evening. the following morning mr. o'b---- found the manuscript by his bed-side, tied together neatly (as he described it) with riband;--the subject of the discourse being the "abuse of riches." having read it over and corrected some theological errors, (such as "it is easier for a camel, _as moses says_," &c.) he delivered the sermon in his most impressive style, much to the delight of his own party, and to the satisfaction, as he unsuspectingly flattered himself, of all the rest of the congregation, among whom was mr. sheridan's wealthy neighbor mr. c---- some months afterwards, however, mr. o'b---- perceived that the family of mr. c----, with whom he had previously been intimate, treated him with marked coldness; and, on his expressing some innocent wonder at the circumstance, was at length informed, to his dismay, by general burgoyne, that the sermon which sheridan had written for him was, throughout, a personal attack upon mr. c----, who had at that time rendered himself very unpopular in the neighborhood by some harsh conduct to the poor, and to whom every one in the church, except the unconscious preacher, applied almost every sentence of the sermon.] that sheridan and his two friends drew upon their joint wits; they had also but too much to do with subjects of a far different nature)--with debts, bonds, judgments, writs, and all those other humiliating matters of fact, that bring law and wit so often and so unnaturally in contact. that they were serviceable to each other, in their defensive alliance against duns, is fully proved by various documents; and i have now before me articles of agreement, dated in , by which tickell, to avert an execution from the theatre, bound himself as security for sheridan in the sum of _l_.,--the arrears of an annuity charged upon sheridan's moiety of the property. so soon did those pecuniary difficulties, by which his peace and character were afterwards undermined, begin their operations. yet even into transactions of this nature, little as they are akin to mirth, the following letter of richardson will show that these brother wits contrived to infuse a portion of gaiety: "dear sheridan, "_essex-street, saturday evening._ "i had a terrible long batch with bobby this morning, after i wrote to you by francois. i have so far succeeded that he has agreed to continue the day of trial as _we_ call it (that is, in vulgar, unlearned language, to put it off) from tuesday till saturday. he demands, as preliminaries, that wright's bill of _l_. should be given up to him, as a prosecution had been commenced against him, which, however, he has stopped by an injunction from the court of chancery. this, if the transaction be as he states it, appears reasonable enough. he insists, besides, that the bill should undergo the most rigid examination; that you should transmit your objections, to which he will send answers, (for the point of a personal interview has not been yet carried,) and that the whole amount at last, whatever it may be, should have your clear and satisfied approbation:--nothing to be done without this--almighty honor! "all these things being done, i desired to know what was to be the result at last:--'surely, after having carried so many points, you will think it only common decency to relax a little as to the time of payment? you will not cut your pound of flesh the nearest from the merchant's heart?' to this bobides, 'i must have _l_. put in a shape of practicable use, and payment immediately;--for the rest i will accept security.' this was strongly objected to by me, as jewish in the extreme; but, however, so we parted. you will think with me, i hope, that something has been done, however, by this meeting. it has opened an access to a favorable adjustment, and time and trust may do much. i am to see him again on monday morning at two, so pray don't go out of town to-morrow without my seeing you. the matter is of immense consequence. i never knew till to-day that the process had been going on so long. i am convinced he could force you to trial next tuesday with all your infirmities green upon your head; so pray attend to it. "_r. b. sheridan, esq._ "yours ever, "_lower grosvenor-street_. "j. richardson." this letter was written in the year , when sheridan's involvements had begun to thicken around him more rapidly. there is another letter, about the same date, still more characteristic,--where, after beginning in evident anger and distress of mind, the writer breaks off, as if irresistibly, into the old strain of playfulness and good humor. "dear sheridan, "_wednesday, essex-street, july _. "i write to you with more unpleasant feelings than i ever did in my life. westly, after having told me for the last three weeks that nothing was wanting for my accommodation but your consent, having told me so, so late as friday, sends me word on monday that he would not do it at all. in four days i have a _cognovit_ expires for _l_. i can't suffer my family to be turned into the streets if i can help it. i have no resource but my abilities, such as they are. i certainly mean to write something in the course of the summer. as a matter of business and bargain i _can_ have no higher hope about it than that you won't suffer by it. however, if you won't take it somebody else _must_, for no human consideration will induce me to leave any means untried, that may rescue my family from this impending misfortune. "for the sake of convenience you will probably give me the importance of construing this into an incendiary letter. i wish to god you may, and order your treasurer to deposit the acceptance accordingly; for nothing can be so irksome to me as that the nations of the earth should think there had been any interruption of friendship between you and me; and though that would not be the case in fact, both being influenced, i must believe, by a necessity which we could not control, yet the said nations would so interpret it. if i don't hear from you before friday, i shall conclude that you leave me in this dire scrape to shift for myself. "_r. b. sheridan, esq._ "yours ever, "_isleworth, middlesex._ "j. richardson." _diben, friday, d._ chapter iv. french revolution.--mr. burke.--his breach with mr. sheridan.--dissolution of parliament.--mr. burke and mr. fox.--russian armament.--royal scotch boroughs. we have now to consider the conduct and opinions of mr. sheridan, during the measures and discussions consequent upon the french revolution,--an event, by which the minds of men throughout all europe were thrown into a state of such feverish excitement, that a more than usual degree of tolerance should be exercised towards the errors and extremes into which all parties were hurried during the paroxysm. there was, indeed, no rank or class of society, whose interests and passions were not deeply involved in the question. the powerful and the rich, both of state and church, must naturally have regarded with dismay the advance of a political heresy, whose path they saw strewed over with the broken talismans of rank and authority. many, too, with a disinterested reverence for ancient institutions, trembled to see them thus approached by rash hands, whose talents for ruin were sufficiently certain, but whose powers of reconstruction were yet to be tried. on the other hand, the easy triumph of a people over their oppressors was an example which could not fail to excite the hopes of the many as actively as the fears of the few. the great problem of the natural rights of mankind seemed about to be solved in a manner most flattering to the majority; the zeal of the lover of liberty was kindled into enthusiasm, by a conquest achieved for his cause upon an arena so vast; and many, who before would have smiled at the doctrine of human perfectibility, now imagined they saw, in what the revolution performed and promised, almost enough to sanction the indulgence of that splendid dream. it was natural, too, that the greater portion of that unemployed, and, as it were, homeless talent, which, in all great communities, is ever abroad on the wing, uncertain where to settle, should now swarm round the light of the new principles,--while all those obscure but ambitious spirits, who felt their aspirings clogged by the medium in which they were sunk, would as naturally welcome such a state of political effervescence, as might enable them, like enfranchised air, to mount at once to the surface. amidst all these various interests, imaginations, and fears, which were brought to life by the dawn of the french revolution, it is not surprising that errors and excesses, both of conduct and opinion, should be among the first products of so new and sudden a movement of the whole civilized world;--that the friends of popular rights, presuming upon the triumph that had been gained, should, in the ardor of pursuit, push on the vanguard of their principles, somewhat farther than was consistent with prudence and safety; or that, on the other side, authority and its supporters, alarmed by the inroads of the revolutionary spirit, should but the more stubbornly intrench themselves in established abuses, and make the dangers they apprehended from liberty a pretext for assailing its very existence. it was not long before these effects of the french revolution began to show themselves very strikingly in the politics of england; and, singularly enough, the two extreme opinions, to which, as i have just remarked, that disturbing event gave rise, instead of first appearing, as might naturally be expected, the one on the side of government, and the other on that of the opposition, both broke out simultaneously in the very heart of the latter body. on such an imagination as that of burke, the scenes now passing in france were every way calculated to make a most vivid impression. so susceptible was he, indeed, of such impulses, and so much under the control of the imaginative department of his intellect, that, whatever might have been the accidental mood of his mind, at the moment when this astounding event first burst upon him, it would most probably have acted as a sort of mental catalepsy, and fixed his reason in the very attitude in which it found it. he had, however, been prepared for the part which he now took by much more deep and grounded causes. it was rather from circumstances than from choice, or any natural affinity, that mr. burke had ever attached himself to the popular party in politics. there was, in truth, nothing democratic about him but his origin;--his tastes were all on the side of the splendid and the arbitrary. the chief recommendation of the cause of india to his fancy and his feeling was that it involved the fate of ancient dynasties, and invoked retribution for the downfall of thrones and princedoms, to which his imagination, always most affected by objects at a distance, lent a state and splendor that did not, in sober reality, belong to them. though doomed to make whiggism his habitual haunt, he took his perch at all times on its loftiest branches, as far as possible away from popular contact; and, upon most occasions, adopted a sort of baronial view of liberty, as rather a question lying between the throne and the aristocracy, than one in which the people had a right to any efficient voice or agency. accordingly, the question of parliamentary reform, from the first moment of its agitation, found in him a most decided opponent. this inherent repugnance to popular principles became naturally heightened into impatience and disgust, by the long and fruitless warfare which he had waged under their banner, and the uniform ill success with which they had blasted all his struggles for wealth and power. nor was he in any better temper with his associates in the cause,--having found that the ascendancy, which he had formerly exercised over them, and which, in some degree, consoled him for the want of official dominion, was of late considerably diminished, if not wholly transferred to others. sheridan, as has been stated, was the most prominent object of his jealousy;--and it is curious to remark how much, even in feelings of this description, the aristocratical bias of his mind betrayed itself. for, though mr. fox, too, had overtaken and even passed him in the race, assuming that station in politics which he himself had previously held, yet so paramount did those claims of birth and connection, by which the new leader came recommended, appear in his eyes, that he submitted to be superseded by him, not only without a murmur, but cheerfully. to sheridan, however, who had no such hereditary passport to pre-eminence, he could not give way without heart burning and humiliation; and to be supplanted thus by a rival son of earth seemed no less a shock to his superstitious notions about rank, than it was painful to his feelings of self-love and pride. such, as far as can be ascertained by a distant observer of those times, was the temper in which the first events of the revolution found the mind of this remarkable man;--and, powerfully as they would, at any time, have appealed to his imagination and prejudices, the state of irritability to which he had been wrought by the causes already enumerated peculiarly predisposed him, at this moment, to give way to such impressions without restraint, and even to welcome as a timely relief to his pride, the mighty vent thus afforded to the "_splendida bilis_" with which it was charged. there was indeed much to animate and give a zest to the new part which he now took. he saw those principles, to which he owed a deep grudge, for the time and the talents he had wasted in their service, now embodied in a shape so wild and alarming, as seemed to justify him, on grounds of public safety, in turning against them the hole powers of his mind, and thus enabled him, opportunely, to dignify desertion, by throwing the semblance of patriotism and conscientiousness round the reality of defection and revenge. he saw the party, too, who, from the moment they had ceased to be ruled by him, were associated only in his mind with recollections of unpopularity and defeat, about to adopt a line of politics which his long knowledge of the people of england, and his sagacious foresight of the consequences of the french revolution, fully convinced him would lead to the same barren and mortifying results. on the contrary, the cause to which he proffered his alliance, would, he was equally sure, by arraying on its side all the rank, riches, and religion of europe, enable him at length to feel that sense of power and triumph, for which his domineering spirit had so long panted in vain. in this latter hope, indeed, of a speedy triumph over jacobinism, his temperament, as was often the case, outran his sagacity; for, while he foresaw clearly that the dissolution of social order in france would at last harden into a military tyranny, he appeared not to be aware that the violent measures which he recommended against her would not only hasten this formidable result, but bind the whole mass of the people into union and resistance during the process. lastly--to these attractions, of various kinds, with which the cause of thrones was now encircled in the eyes of burke, must be added one, which, however it may still further disenchant our views of his conversion, cannot wholly be omitted among the inducements to his change,--and this was the strong claim upon the gratitude of government, which his seasonable and powerful advocacy in a crisis so difficult established for him, and which the narrow and embarrassed state of his circumstances rendered an object by no means of secondary importance in his views. unfortunately,--from a delicate wish, perhaps, that the reward should not appear to come in too close coincidence with the service,--the pension bestowed upon him arrived too late to admit of his deriving much more from it than the obloquy by which it was accompanied. the consequence, as is well known, of the new course taken by burke was that the speeches and writings which he henceforward produced, and in which, as usual, his judgment was run away with by his temper, form a complete contrast, in spirit and tendency, to all that he had put on record in the former part of his life. he has, indeed, left behind him two separate and distinct armories of opinion, from which both whig and tory may furnish themselves with weapons, the most splendid, if not the most highly tempered, that ever genius and eloquence have condescended to bequeath to party. he has thus too, by his own personal versatility, attained, in the world of politics, what shakspeare, by the versatility of his characters, achieved for the world in general,--namely, such a universality of application to all opinions and purposes, that it would be difficult for any statesman of any party to find himself placed in any situation, for which he could not select some golden sentence from burke, either to strengthen his position by reasoning or illustrate and adorn it by, fancy. while, therefore, our respect for the man himself is diminished by this want of moral identity observable through his life and writings, we are but the more disposed to admire that unrivalled genius, which could thus throw itself out in so many various directions with equal splendor and vigor. in general, political deserters lose their value and power in the very act, and bring little more than their treason to the new cause which they espouse:-- _"fortis in armis caesaris labienus erat; nunc transfuga vilis."_ but burke was mighty in either camp; and it would have taken _two_ great men to effect what he, by this division of himself achieved. his mind, indeed, lies parted asunder in his works, like some vast continent severed by a convulsion of nature,--each portion peopled by its own giant race of opinions, differing altogether in features and language, and committed in eternal hostility with each other. it was during the discussions on the army estimates, at the commencement of the session of , that the difference between mr. burke and his party in their views of the french revolution first manifested itself. mr. fox having taken occasion to praise the late conduct of the french guards in refusing to obey the dictates of the court, and having declared that he exulted, "both from feelings and from principles," in the political change that had been brought about in that country, mr. burke, in answering him, entered fully, and, it must be owned, most luminously into the question,--expressing his apprehension, lest the example of france, which had, at a former period, threatened england with the contagion of despotism, should now be the means of introducing among her people the no less fatal taint of democracy and atheism. after some eloquent tributes of admiration to mr. fox, rendered more animated, perhaps, by the consciousness that they were the last offerings thrown into the open grave of their friendship, he proceeded to deprecate the effects which the language of his right honorable friend might have, in appearing to countenance the disposition observable among "some wicked persons" to "recommend an imitation of the french spirit of reform," and then added a declaration, equally remarkable for the insidious charge which it implied against his own party, and the notice of his approaching desertion which it conveyed to the other,--that "so strongly opposed was he to any the least tendency towards the _means_ of introducing a democracy like that of the french, as well as to the _end_ itself, that, much as it would afflict him, if such a thing should be attempted, and that any friend of his could concur in such measures (he was far, very far, from believing they could), he would abandon his best friends, and join with his worst enemies to oppose either the means or the end." it is pretty evident, from these words, that burke had already made up his mind as to the course he should pursue, and but delayed his declaration of a total breach, in order to prepare the minds of the public for such an event, and, by waiting to take advantage of some moment of provocation, make the intemperance of others responsible for his own deliberate schism. the reply of mr. fox was not such as could afford this opportunity;--it was, on the contrary, full of candor and moderation, and repelled the implied charge of being a favorer of the new doctrines of france in the most decided, but, at the same time, most conciliatory terms. "did such a declaration," he asked, "warrant the idea that he was a friend to democracy? he declared himself equally the enemy of all absolute forms of government, whether an absolute monarchy, an absolute aristocracy, or an absolute democracy. he was adverse to all extremes, and a friend only to a mixed government like our own, in which, if the aristocracy, or indeed either of the three branches of the constitution, were destroyed, the good effect of the whole, and the happiness derived under it would, in his mind, be at an end." in returning, too, the praises bestowed upon him by his friend, he made the following memorable and noble acknowledgment of all that he himself had gained by their intercourse:-- "such (he said) was his sense of the judgment of his right honorable friend, such his knowledge of his principles, such the value which he set upon them, and such the estimation in which he held his friendship, that if he were to put all the political information which he had learned from books, all which he had gained from science, and all which any knowledge of the world and its affairs had taught him, into one scale, and the improvement which he had derived from his right honorable friend's instruction and conversation were placed in the other, he should be at a loss to decide to which to give the preference." this, from a person so rich in acquirements as mr. fox, was the very highest praise,--nor, except in what related to the judgment and principles of his friend, was it at all exaggerated. the conversation of burke must have been like the procession of a roman triumph, exhibiting power and riches at every step--occasionally, perhaps, mingling the low fescennine jest with the lofty music of its march, but glittering all over with the spoils of the whole ransacked world. mr. burke, in reply, after reiterating his praises of mr. fox, and the full confidence which he felt in his moderation and sagacity, professed himself perfectly satisfied with the explanations that had been given. the conversation would thus have passed off without any explosion, had not sheridan, who was well aware that against him, in particular, the charge of a tendency to the adoption of french principles was directed, risen immediately after, and by a speech warmly in favor of the revolution and of the national assembly, at once lighted the train in the mind of burke, and brought the question, as far as regarded themselves, to an immediate issue. "he differed," he said, "decidedly, from his right honorable friend in almost every word that be had uttered respecting the french revolution. he conceived it to be as just a revolution as ours, proceeding upon as sound a principle and as just a provocation. he vehemently defended the general views and conduct of the national assembly. he could not even understand what was meant by the charges against them of having overturned the laws, the justice, and the revenues of their country. what were their laws? the arbitrary mandates of capricious despotism. what their justice? the partial adjudications of venal magistrates. what their revenues? national bankruptcy. this he thought the fundamental error of his right honorable friend's argument, that he accused the national assembly of creating the evils, which they had found existing in full deformity at the first hour of their meeting. the public creditor had been defrauded; the manufacturer was without employ; trade was languishing; famine clung upon the poor; despair on all. in this situation, the wisdom and feelings of the nation were appealed to by the government; and was it to be wondered at by englishmen, that a people, so circumstanced, should search for the cause and source of all their calamities, or that they should find them in the arbitrary constitution of their government, and in the prodigal and corrupt administration of their revenues? for such an evil when proved, what remedy could be resorted to, but a radical amendment of the frame and fabric of the constitution itself? this change was not the object and wish of the national assembly only; it was the claim and cry of all france, united as one man for one purpose." all this is just and unanswerable--as indeed was the greater part of the sentiments which he uttered. but he seems to have failed, even more signally than mr. fox, in endeavoring to invalidate the masterly view which burke had just taken of the revolution of , as compared, in its means and object, with that of france. there was, in truth, but little similarity between them,--the task of the former being to preserve liberty, that of the latter to destroy tyranny; the one being a regulated movement of the aristocracy against the throne for the nation, the other a tumultuous rising of the whole nation against both for itself. the reply of mr. burke was conclusive and peremptory,--such, in short, as might be expected from a person who came prepared to take the first plausible opportunity of a rupture. he declared that "henceforth, his honorable friend and he were separated in politics,"--complained that his arguments had been cruelly misrepresented, and that "the honorable gentleman had thought proper to charge him with being the advocate of despotism." having endeavored to defend himself from such an imputation, he concluded by saying,-- "was that a fair and candid mode of treating his arguments? or was it what he ought to have expected _in the moment of departed friendship?_ on the contrary, was it not evident that the honorable gentleman had made a sacrifice of his friendship, for the sake of catching some momentary popularity? if the fact were such, even greatly as he should continue to admire the honorable gentleman's talents, he must tell him that his argument was chiefly an argument _ad invidiam_, and all the applause for which he could hope from clubs was scarcely worth the sacrifice which he had chosen to make for so insignificant an acquisition." i have given the circumstances of this debate somewhat in detail, not only on account of its own interest and of the share which mr. sheridan took in it, but from its being the first scene of that great political schism, which in the following year assumed a still more serious aspect, and by which the policy of mr. pitt at length acquired a predominance, not speedily to be forgotten in the annals of this country. mr. sheridan was much blamed for the unseasonable stimulant which, it was thought, his speech on this occasion had administered to the temper of burke; nor can it be doubted that he had thereby, in some degree, accelerated the public burst of that feeling which had so long been treasured up against himself but, whether hastened or delayed, such a breach was ultimately inevitable; the divergence of the parties once begun, it was in vain to think of restoring their parallelism. that some of their friends, however, had more sanguine hopes appears from an effort which was made, within two days after the occurrence of this remarkable scene, to effect a reconciliation between burke and sheridan. the interview that took place on that occasion is thus described by mr. dennis o'brien, one of the persons chiefly instrumental in the arrangements for it:-- "it appeared to the author of this pamphlet [footnote: entitled "utrum horum."] that the difference between these two great men would be a great evil to the country and to their own party. full of this persuasion he brought them both together the second night after the original contest in the house of commons; and carried them to burlington house to mr. fox and the duke of portland, according to a previous arrangement. this interview, which can never be forgotten by those who were present, lasted from ten o'clock at night until three in the morning, and afforded a very remarkable display of the extraordinary talents of the parties." it will easily be believed that to the success of this conciliatory effort the temper on one side would be a greater obstacle than even the hate on both. mr. sheridan, as if anxious to repel from himself the suspicion of having contributed to its failure, took an opportunity, during his speech upon the tobacco act, in the month of april following, to express himself in the most friendly terms of mr. burke, as "one, for whose talents and personal virtue he had the highest esteem, veneration, and regard, and with whom he might be allowed to differ in opinion upon the subject of france, persuaded, as he was, that they never could differ in principle." of this and some other compliments of a similar nature, mr. burke did not deign to take the slightest notice--partly, from an implacable feeling towards him who offered them, and partly, perhaps, from a suspicion that they were intended rather for the ears of the public than his own, and that, while this tendency to conciliation appeared on the surface, the under-current of feeling and influence set all the other way. among the measures which engaged the attention of mr. sheridan during this session, the principal was a motion of his own for the repeal of the excise duties on tobacco, which appears to have called forth a more than usual portion of his oratory,--his speeches on the subject occupying nearly forty pages. it is upon topics of this unpromising kind, and from the very effort, perhaps, to dignity and enliven them, that the peculiar characteristics of an orator are sometimes most racily brought out. to the cider tax we are indebted for one of the grandest bursts of the constitutional spirit and eloquence of lord chatham; and, in these orations of sheridan upon tobacco, we find examples of the two extreme varieties of his dramatic talent--both of the broad, natural humor of his farce, and the pointed, artificial wit of his comedy. for instance, in representing, as one of the abuses that might arise from the discretionary power of remitting fines to manufacturers, the danger that those only should feel the indulgence, who were found to be supporters of the existing administration, [footnote: a case of this kind formed the subject of a spirited speech of mr. windham, in . see his speeches, vol. i. p. .] he says:-- "were a man whose stock had increased or diminished beyond the standard table in the act, to attend the commissioners and assure them that the weather alone had caused the increase or decrease of the article, and that no fraud whatever had been used on the occasion, the commissioners might say to him, 'sir, you need not give yourself so much trouble to prove your innocence;--we see honesty in your orange cape.' but should a person of quite a different side in politics attend for the same purpose, the commissioners might say, 'sir, you are not to be believed; we see fraud in your blue and buff, and it is impossible that you should not be a smuggler." again, in stating the case between the manufacturers and the minister, the former of whom objected to the bill altogether, while the latter determined to preserve its principle and only alter its form, he says:-- "the manufacturers ask the right honorable gentleman, if he will consent to give up the principle? the right honorable gentleman answers, 'no; the principle must not be abandoned, but do you inform me how i shall alter the bill.' this the manufacturers refused; and they wisely refused it in his opinion; for, what was it but the minister's saying, 'i have a yoke to put about your necks,--do you help me in fitting it on--only assist me with your knowledge of the subject, and i'll fit you with the prettiest pair of fetters that ever were seen in the world.'" as a specimen of his quaint and far-sought witticisms, the following passage in the same speech may vie with trip's "post-obit on the blue and silver, &c."--having described the effects of the weather in increasing or decreasing the weight of the stock, beyond the exact standard established in the act, he adds, "the commissioners, before they could, in justice, levy such fines, ought to ascertain that the weather is always in that precise state of heat or cold which the act supposed it would be. they ought to make christmas give security for frost, take a bond for hot weather from august, and oblige damps and fogs to take out permits." it was in one of these speeches on the tobacco act, that he adverted with considerable warmth to a rumor, which, he complained, had been maliciously circulated, of a misunderstanding between himself and the duke of portland, in consequence (as the report expresses it) of "a certain opposition affirmed to have been made by this noble duke, to some views or expectations which he (mr. sheridan) was said to have entertained." after declaring that "there was not in these rumors one grain of truth," he added that-- "he would not venture to state to the committee the opinion that the noble duke was pleased to entertain of him, lest he should be accused of vanity in publishing what he might deem highly flattering. all that he would assert on this occasion was, that if he had it in his power to make the man whose good opinion he should most highly prize think flatteringly of him, he would have that man think of him precisely as the noble duke did, and then his wish on that subject would be most amply gratified." as it is certain, that the feelings which burke entertained towards sheridan were now in some degree shared by all those who afterwards seceded from the party, this boast of the high opinion of the duke of portland must be taken with what, in heraldry, is called _abatement_--that is, a certain degree of diminution of the emblazonry. among the papers of mr. sheridan, i find a letter addressed to him this year by one of his most distinguished friends, relative to the motions that had lately been brought forward for the relief of the dissenters. the writer, whose alarm for the interest of the church had somewhat disturbed his sense of liberality and justice, endeavors to impress upon mr. sheridan, and through him upon mr. fox, how undeserving the dissenters were, as a political body, of the recent exertions on their behalf, and how ungratefully they had more than once requited the services which the whigs had rendered them. for this latter charge there was but too much foundation in truth, however ungenerous might be the deduction which the writer would draw from it. it is, no doubt, natural that large bodies of men, impatiently suffering under the ban of disqualification, should avail themselves, without much regard to persons or party, of every aid they can muster for their cause, and should (to use the words of an old earl of pembroke) "lean on both sides of the stairs to get up." but, it is equally natural that the occasional desertion and ingratitude, of which, in pursuit of this selfish policy, they are but too likely to be guilty towards their best friends, should, if not wholly indispose the latter to their service, at least considerably moderate their zeal in a cause, where all parties alike seem to be considered but as instruments, and where neither personal predilections nor principle are regarded in the choice of means. to the great credit, however, of the whig party, it must be said, that, though often set aside and even disowned by their clients, they have rarely suffered their high duty, as advocates, to be relaxed or interrupted by such momentary suspensions of confidence. in this respect, the cause of ireland has more than once been a trial of their constancy. even lord north was able, by his reluctant concessions, to supersede them for a time in the favor of my too believing countrymen,--whose despair of finding justice at any hands has often led them thus to carry their confidence to market, and to place it in the hands of the first plausible bidder. the many vicissitudes of popularity which their own illustrious whig, grattan, had to encounter, would have wearied out the ardor of any less magnanimous champion. but high minds are as little affected by such unworthy returns for services, as the sun is by those fogs which the earth throws up between herself and his light. with respect to the dissenters, they had deserted mr. fox in his great struggle with the crown in , and laid their interest and hopes at the feet of the new idol of the day. notwithstanding this, we find him, in the year , warmly maintaining, and in opposition to his rival, the cause of the very persons who had contributed to make that rival triumphant,--and showing just so much remembrance of their late defection as served to render this sacrifice of personal to public feelings more signal. "he was determined," he said, "to let them know that, though they could upon some occasions lose sight of their principles of liberty, he would not upon any occasion lose sight of his principles of toleration." in the present session, too, notwithstanding that the great organ of the dissenters, dr. price, had lately in a sermon, published with a view to the test, made a pointed attack on the morals of mr. fox and his friends, this generous advocate of religious liberty not the less promptly acceded to the request of the body, that he would himself bring the motion for their relief before the house. on the th of june the parliament was dissolved,--and mr. sheridan again succeeded in being elected for stafford. the following letters, however, addressed to him by mrs. sheridan during the election, will prove that they were not without some apprehensions of a different result. the letters are still more interesting, as showing how warmly alive to each other's feelings the hearts of both husband wife could remain, after the long lapse of near twenty years, and after trials more fatal to love than even time itself. "this letter will find you, my dear dick. i hope, encircled with honors at stafford. i take it for granted you entered it triumphantly on sunday, --but i am very impatient to hear the particulars, and of the utter discomfiture of s---- and his followers. i received your note from birmingham this morning, and am happy to find that you and my dear cub were well, so far on your journey. you could not be happier than i should be in the proposed alteration for tom, but we will talk more of this when we meet. i sent you cartwright yesterday, and to-day i pack you off perry with the soldiers. i was obliged to give them four guineas for their expenses. i send you, likewise, by perry, the note from mrs. crewe, to enable you to speak of your qualification if you should be called upon. so i think i have executed all your commissions, sir; and if you want any of these doubtful votes which i mentioned to you, you will have time enough to send for them, for i would not let them go till i hear they can be of any use. "and, now for my journal, sir, which i suppose you expect. saturday, i was at home all day busy for you,--kept mrs. reid to dinner,--went to the opera,--afterwards to mrs. st. john's, where i lost my money sadly, sir,--eat strawberries and cream for supper,--sat between lord salisbury and mr. meynell, (hope you approve of that, sir,)--overheard lord salisbury advise miss boyle by no means to subscribe to taylor's opera, as o'reilly's would certainly have the patent,--confess i did not come home till past two. sunday, called on lady julia,--father and mr. reid to dinner,--in the evening at lady hampden's,--lost my money again, sir, and came home by one o'clock. 'tis now near one o'clock,--my father is established in my boudoir, and, when i have finished this, i am going with him to hear abbé vogler play on the stafford organ. i have promised to dine with mrs. crewe, who is to have a female party only,--no objection to that, i suppose. sir? whatever the party do, i shall do of course,--i suppose it will end in mrs. hobart's. mr. james told me on saturday, and i find it is the report of the day, that bond hopkins has gone to stafford. i am sorry to tell you there is an opposition at york, mr. montague opposes sir willam milner. mr. beckford has given up at dover, and lord ** is so provoked at it, that he has given up too, though they say they were both sure. st. ives is gone for want of a candidate. mr. barham is beat at stockbridge. charles lenox has offered for surry, and they say lord egremont might drive him to the deuce, if he would set any body up against him. you know, i suppose, mr. crewe has likewise an opponent. i am sorry to tell you all this bad news, and, to complete it, mr. adam is sick in bed, and there is nobody to do any good left in town. "i am more than ever convinced we must look to other resources for wealth and independence, and consider politics merely as an amusement,--and in that light 'tis best to be in opposition, which i am afraid we are likely to be for some years again. "i see the rumors of war still continue--stocks continue to fall--is that good or bad for the ministers? the little boys are come home to me to-day. i could not help showing in my answer to mr. t's letter, that i was hurt at his conduct,--so i have got another flummery letter, and the boys, who (as he is pretty sure) will be the best peace-makers. god bless you, my dear dick. i am very well, i assure you; pray don't neglect to write to your ever affectionate "e. s." "my dearest dick, "_wednesday_. "i am full of anxiety and fright about you.--i cannot but think your letters are very alarming. deuce take the corporation! is it impossible to make them resign their pretensions, and make peace with the burgesses? i have sent thomas after mr. cocker. i suppose you have sent for the out-votes; but, if they are not good, what a terrible expense will that be!--however, they are ready. i saw mr. cocker yesterday,--he collected them together last night, and gave them a treat,--so they are in high good humor. i inclose you a letter which b. left here last night,--i could not resist opening it. every thing seems going wrong. i think. i thought he was not to do anything in your absence.--it strikes me the bad business he mentions was entirely owing to his own stupidity, and want of a little patience,--is it of much consequence? i don't hear that the report is true of basilico's arrival;--a messenger came to the spanish embassy, which gave rise to this tale, i believe. "if you were not so worried, i should scold you for the conclusion of your letter of to-day. might not i as well accuse you of coldness, for not filling your letter with professions, at a time when your head must be full of business? i think of nothing all day long, but how to do good, some how or other, for you. i have given you a regular journal of my time, and all to please you,--so don't, dear dick, lay so much stress on words. i should use them oftener, perhaps, but i feel as if it would look like deceit. you know me well enough, to be sure that i can never do what i'm bid, sir,--but, pray, don't think i meant to send you a cold letter, for indeed nothing was ever farther from my heart. "you will see mr. horne tooke's advertisement to-day in the papers;--what do you think of that to complete the thing? bishop dixon has just called from the hustings:--he says the late recorder. adair, proposed charles with a good speech, and great applause,--captain berkeley, lord hood, with a bad speech, not much applauded; and then horne tooke came forward, and, in the most impudent speech that ever was heard, proposed himself,--abused both the candidates, and said he should have been ashamed to have sat and heard such ill-deserved praises given him. but he told the crowd that, since so many of these fine virtues and qualifications had never yet done them the least good, they might as well now choose a candidate without them. he said, however, that if they were sincere in their professions of standing alone, he was sure of coming in, for they must all give him their second votes. there was an amazing deal of laughing and noise in the course of his speech. charles fox attempted to answer him, and so did lord hood,--but they would hear neither, and they are now polling away. "do, my dearest love, if you have possibly time, write me a few more particulars, for your letters are very unsatisfactory, and i am full of anxiety. make richardson write,--what has he better to do? god bless thee, my dear, dear dick,--would it were over and all well! i am afraid, at any rate, it will be ruinous work. "ever your true and affectionate "e. s. "_near five_. i am just come from the hustings;--the state of the poll when i left it was, fox, ; hood, ; home tooke, ! but he still persists in his determination of polling a man an hour for the whole time--i saw mr. wilkes go up to vote for tooke and hood, amidst the hisses and groans of a multitude," "my poor dick, how you are worried! this is the day.--you will easily guess how anxious i shall be; but you seem pretty sanguine yourself, which is my only comfort, for richardson's letter is rather croaking. you have never said a word of little monkton:--has he any chance, or none? i ask questions without considering that, before you receive this, every thing will be decided--i hope triumphantly for you. what a sad set of venal rascals your favorites the blacks must be, to turn so suddenly from their professions and promises! i am half sorry you have any thing more to do with them, and more than ever regret you did not stand for westminster with charles, instead of lord john;--in that case you would have come in now, and we should not have been persecuted by this horne tooke. however, it is the dullest contested election that ever was seen--no canvassing, no houses open, no cockades. but i heard that a report prevails now, that horne tooke polling so few the two or three first days is an artful trick to put the others off their guard, and that he means to pour in his votes on the last days, when it will be too late for them to repair their neglect. but i don't think it possible, either, for such a fellow to beat charles in westminster. "i have just had a note from reid--he is at canterbury:--the state of the poll there, thursday night, was as follows:--gipps, ; lord * *, ; sir t. honeywood, ; mr. warton, . we have got two members for wendover, and two at ailsbury. mr. barham is beat at stockbridge. mr. tierney says he shall be beat, owing to bate dudley's manoeuvres, and the dissenters having all forsaken him,--a set of ungrateful wretches. e. fawkener has just sent me a state of the poll at northampton, as it stood yesterday, when they adjourned to dinner:--lord compton, ; bouverie, ; colonel manners, . they are in hopes mr. manners will give up, this is all my news, sir. "we had a very pleasant musical party last night at lord erskine's, where i supped. i am asked to dine to-day with lady palmerston, at sheen; but i can't go, unless mrs. crewe will carry me, as the coach is gone to have its new lining. i have sent to ask her, for 'tis a fine day, and i should like it very well. god thee bless, my dear dick. "yours ever, true and affectionate, "e.s. "duke of portland has just left me:--he is full of anxiety about you:-- this is the second time he has called to inquire." having secured his own election, mr. sheridan now hastened to lend his aid, where such a lively reinforcement was much wanted, on the hustings at westminster. the contest here was protracted to the d of july; and it required no little exercise both of wit and temper to encounter the cool personalities of tooke, who had not forgotten the severe remarks of sheridan upon his pamphlet the preceding year, and who, in addition to his strong powers of sarcasm, had all those advantages which, in such a contest, contempt for the courtesies and compromises of party warfare gives. among other sallies of his splenetic humor it is related, that mr. fox having, upon one occasion, retired from the hustings, and left to sheridan the task of addressing the multitude, tooke remarked, that such was always the practice of quack-doctors, who, whenever they quit the stage themselves, make it a rule to leave their merry-andrews behind. [footnote: tooke, it is said, upon coming one monday morning to the hustings, was thus addressed by a pietism of his opponent, not of a very reputable character--"well, mr. tooke, you will have all the blackguards with you to day"--"i am delighted to hear it, sir," (said tooke, bowing,) "and from such good authority."] the french revolution still continued, by its comet-like course, to dazzle, alarm, and disturb all europe. mr. burke had published his celebrated "reflections" in the month of november, ; and never did any work, with the exception, perhaps, of the eikon basilike, produce such a rapid, deep, and general sensation. the eikon was the book of a king, and this might, in another sense, be called the book of kings. not only in england, but throughout all europe,--in every part of which monarchy was now trembling for its existence,--this lofty appeal to loyalty was heard and welcomed. its effect upon the already tottering whig party was like that of "the voice," in the ruins of rome, "disparting towers." the whole fabric of the old rockingham confederacy shook to its base. even some, who afterwards recovered their equilibrium, at first yielded to the eloquence of this extraordinary book,--which, like the aera of chivalry, whose loss it deplores, mixes a grandeur with error, and throws a charm round political superstition, that will long render its pages a sort of region of royal romance, to which fancy will have recourse for illusions that have lost their last hold on reason. the undisguised freedom with which mr. fox and mr. sheridan expressed every where their opinions of this work and its principles had, of course, no small influence on the temper of the author, and, while it confirmed him in his hatred and jealousy of the one, prepared him for the breach which he meditated with the other. this breach was now, indeed, daily expected, as a natural sequel to the rupture with mr. sheridan in the last session; but, by various accidents and interpositions, the crisis was delayed till the th of may, when the recommitment of the quebec bill,--a question upon which both orators had already taken occasion to unfold their views of the french revolution,--furnished burke with an opportunity, of which he impetuously took advantage, to sever the tie between himself and mr. fox forever. this scene, so singular in a public assembly, where the natural affections are but seldom called out, and where, though bursts of temper like that of burke are common, such tears as those shed by mr. fox are rare phenomena,--has been so often described in various publications, that it would be superfluous to enter into the details of it here. the following are the solemn and stern words in which sentence of death was pronounced upon a friendship, that had now lasted for more than the fourth part of a century. "it certainly," said mr. burke, "was indiscretion at any period, but especially at his time of life, to provoke enemies, or to give his friends occasion to desert him; yet, if his firm and steady adherence to the british constitution placed him in such a dilemma, he would risk all, and, as public duty and public prudence taught him, with his last words exclaim, 'fly from the french constitution.'" [mr. fox here whispered, that "there was no loss of friendship."] mr. burke said, "yes, there _was_ a loss of friendship;--he knew the price of his conduct;--he had done his duty at the price of his friend; their friendship was at an end." in rising to reply to the speech of burke, mr. fox was so affected as to be for some moments unable to speak:--he wept, it is said, even to sobbing; and persons who were in the gallery at the time declare, that, while he spoke, there was hardly a dry eye around them. had it been possible for two natures so incapable of disguise--the one from simplicity and frankness, the other from ungovernable temper,--to have continued in relations of amity, notwithstanding their disagreement upon a question which was at that moment setting the world in arms, both themselves and the country would have been the better for such a compromise between them. their long habits of mutual deference would have mingled with and moderated the discussion of their present differences; --the tendency to one common centre to which their minds had been accustomed, would have prevented them from flying so very widely asunder; and both might have been thus saved from those extremes of principle, which mr. burke always, and mr. fox sometimes, had recourse to in defending their respective opinions, and which, by lighting, as it were, the torch at both ends, but hastened a conflagration in which liberty herself might have been the sufferer. but it was evident that such a compromise would have been wholly impossible. even granting that mr. burke did not welcome the schism as a relief, neither the temper of the men nor the spirit of the times, which converted opinions at once into passions, would have admitted of such a peaceable counterbalance of principles, nor suffered them long to slumber in that hollow truce, which tacitus has described,--"_manente in speciem amicitia_" mr. sheridan saw this from the first; and, in hazarding that vehement speech, by which he provoked the rupture between himself and burke, neither his judgment nor his temper were so much off their guard as they who blamed that speech seemed inclined to infer. but, perceiving that a separation was in the end inevitable, he thought it safer, perhaps, as well as manlier, to encounter the extremity at once, than by any temporizing delay, or too complaisant suppression of opinion, to involve both himself and mr. fox in the suspicion of either sharing or countenancing that spirit of defection, which, he saw, was fast spreading among the rest of their associates. it is indeed said, and with every appearance of truth, that mr. sheridan had felt offended by the censures which some of his political friends had pronounced upon the indiscretion (as it was called) of his speech in the last year, and that, having, in consequence, withdrawn from them the aid of his powerful talents during a great part of the present session, he but returned to his post under the express condition, that he should be allowed to take the earliest opportunity of repeating, fully and explicitly, the same avowal of his sentiments. the following letter from dr. parr to mrs. sheridan, written immediately after the scene between burke and sheridan in the preceding year, is curious:-- "dear madam, "i am most fixedly and most indignantly on the side of mr. sheridan and mr. fox against mr. burke. it is not merely french politics that produced this dispute;--they might have been settled privately. no, no,--there is jealousy lurking underneath;--jealousy of mr. sheridan's eloquence; --jealousy of his popularity;--jealousy of his influence with mr. fox;--jealousy, perhaps, of his connection with the prince. "mr. sheridan was, i think, not too warm; or, at least, i should have myself been warmer. why, burke accused mr. fox and mr. sheridan of acts leading to rebellion,--and he made mr. fox a dupe, and mr. sheridan a traitor! i think _this_,--and i am sure, yes, positively sure, that nothing else will allay the ferment of men's minds. mr. sheridan ought, publicly in parliament, to demand proof, or a retractation, of this horrible charge. pitt's words never did the party half the hurt;--and, just on the eve of an election, it is worse. as to private bickerings, or private concessions and reconciliations, they are all nothing. in public all must be again taken up; for, if drowned, the public will say, and pitt will insinuate, that the charge is well founded, and that they dare not provoke an inquiry. "i know burke is not addicted to giving up,--and so much the worse for him and his party. as to mr. fox's yielding, well had it been for all, all, all the party, if mr. fox had, now and then, stood out against mr. burke. the ferment and alarm are universal, and something must be done; for it is a conflagration in which they must perish, unless it be stopped. all the papers are with burke,--even the foxite papers, which i have seen. i know his violence, and temper, and obstinacy of opinion, and--but i will not speak out, for, though i think him the greatest man upon the earth, yet, in politics i think him,--what he has been found, to the sorrow of those who act with him. he is uncorrupt, i know; but his passions are quite headstrong; [footnote: it was well said, (i believe, by mr. fox,) that it was lucky both for burke and windham that they took the royal side on the subject of the french revolution, as they would have got hanged on the other.] and age, and disappointment, and the sight of other men rising into fame and consequence, sour him. pray tell me when they are reconciled,--though, as i said, it is nothing to the purpose without a public explanation. "i am, dear madam, "yours truly, "s. parr." another letter, communicated to me as having been written about this period to sheridan by a gentleman, then abroad, who was well acquainted with the whole party, contains allusions to the breach, which make its introduction here not irrelevant:-- "i wish very much to have some account of the state of things with you that i can rely on. i wish to know how all my old companions and fellow-laborers do; if the club yet exists; if you, and richardson, and lord john, and ellis, and lawrence, and fitzpatrick, &c., meet, and joke, and write, as of old. what is become of becket's, and the supper-parties,--the _noctes coenaeque_? poor burgoyne! i am sure you all mourned him as i did, particularly richardson:--pray remember me affectionately to richardson. it is a shame for you all, and i will say ungrateful in many of you, to have so totally forgotten me, and to leave me in ignorance of every thing public and private in which i am interested. the only creature who writes to me is the duke of portland; but in the great and weighty occupations that engross his mind, you can easily conceive that the little details of our society cannot enter into his grace's correspondence. i have indeed carried on a pretty regular correspondence with young burke. but that is now at an end. _he_ is so wrapt up in the importance of his present pursuits, that it is too great an honor for me to continue to correspond with him. his father i ever must venerate and ever love; yet i never could admire, even in him, what his son has inherited from him, a tenacity of opinion and a violence of _principle_, that makes him lose his friendships in his politics, and quarrel with every one who differs from him. bitterly have i lamented that greatest of these quarrels, and, indeed, the only important one; nor can i conceive it to have been less afflicting to my private feelings than fatal to the party. the worst of it to me was, that i was obliged to condemn the man i loved, and that all the warmth of my affection, and the zeal of my partiality, could not suggest a single excuse to vindicate him either to the world or to myself, from the crime (for such it was) of giving such a triumph to the common enemy. he failed, too, in what i most loved him for,--his heart. there it was that _mr. fox principally rose above him_; nor, amiable as he ever has been, did he ever appear half so amiable as on that trying occasion." the topic upon which sheridan most distinguished himself during this session was the meditated interference of england in the war between russia and the porte,--one of the few measures of mr. pitt on which the sense of the nation was opposed to him. so unpopular, indeed, was the armament, proposed to be raised for this object, and so rapidly did the majority of the minister diminish during the discussion of it, that there appeared for some time a probability that the whig party would be called into power,--an event which, happening at this critical juncture, might, by altering the policy of england, have changed the destinies of all europe. the circumstance to which at present this russian question owes its chief hold upon english memories is the charge, arising out of it, brought against mr. fox of having sent mr. adair as his representative to petersburg, for the purpose of frustrating the objects for which the king's ministers were then actually negotiating. this accusation, though more than once obliquely intimated during the discussions upon the russian armament in , first met the public eye, in any tangible form, among those celebrated articles of impeachment against mr. fox, which were drawn up by burke's practised hand [footnote: this was the third time that his talent for impeaching was exercised, as he acknowledged having drawn up, during the administration of lord north, seven distinct articles of impeachment against that nobleman, which, however, the advice of lord rockingham induced him to relinquish] in , and found their way surreptitiously into print in . the angry and vindictive tone of this paper was but little calculated to inspire confidence in its statements, and the charge again died away, unsupported and unrefuted, till the appearance of the memoirs of mr. pitt by the bishop of winchester; when, upon the authority of documents said to be found among the papers of mr. pitt, but not produced, the accusation was revived,--the right reverend biographer calling in aid of his own view of the transaction the charitable opinion of the turks, who, he complacently assures us, "expressed great surprise that mr. fox had not lost his head for such conduct." notwithstanding, however, this _concordat_ between the right reverend prelate and the turks, something more is still wanting to give validity to so serious an accusation. until the production of the alleged proofs (which mr. adair has confidently demanded) shall have put the public in possession of more recondite materials for judging, they must regard as satisfactory and conclusive the refutation of the whole charge, both as regards himself and his illustrious friend, which mr. adair has laid before the world; and for the truth of which not only his own high character, but the character of the ministries of both parties, who have since employed him in missions of the first trust and importance, seem to offer the strongest and most convincing pledges. the empress of russia, in testimony of her admiration of the eloquence of mr. fox on this occasion, sent an order to england, through her ambassador, for a bust of that statesman, which it was her intention, she said, to place between those of demosthenes and cicero. the following is a literal copy of her imperial majesty's note on the subject: [footnote: found among mr. sheridan's papers, with these words, in his own hand-writing, annexed:--"n. b. fox would have lost it, if i had not made him look for it, and taken a copy."]-- "ecrivés au cte. worenzof qu'il me fasse avoir en marbre blanc le buste resemblant de charle fox. je veut le mettre sur ma colonade entre eux de demosthene et ciceron. "il a delivré par son eloquence sa patrie et la russie d'une guerre a la quelle il n'y avoit ni justice ni raisons." another subject that engaged much of the attention of mr. sheridan this year was his own motion relative to the constitution of the royal scotch boroughs. he had been, singularly enough, selected, in the year , by the burgesses of scotland, in preference to so many others possessing more personal knowledge of that country, to present to the house the petition of the convention of delegates, for a reform of the internal government of the royal boroughs. how fully satisfied they were with his exertions in their cause may be judged by the following extract from the minutes of convention, dated th august, :-- "mr. mills of perth, after a suitable introductory speech, moved a vote of thanks to mr. sheridan, in the following words:-- "the delegates of the burgesses of scotland, associated for the purpose of reform, taking into their most serious consideration the important services rendered to their cause by the manly and prudent exertions of richard brinsley sheridan, esq., the genuine and fixed attachment to it which the whole tenor of his conduct has evinced, and the admirable moderation he has all along displayed, "resolved unanimously, that the most sincere thanks of this meeting be given to the said richard brinsley sheridan, esq., for his steady, honorable, and judicious conduct in bringing the question relative to the violated rights of the scottish boroughs to its present important and favorable crisis; and the burgesses with firm confidence hope that, from his attachment to the cause, which he has shown to be deeply rooted in principle, he will persevere to exert his distinguished, abilities, till the objects of it are obtained, with that inflexible firmness, and constitutional moderation, which have appeared so conspicuous and exemplary throughout the whole of his conduct, as to be highly deserving of the imitation of all good citizens. "john ewen, secretary." from a private letter written this year by one of the scottish delegates to a friend of mr. sheridan, (a copy of which letter i have found among the papers of the latter,) it appears that the disturbing effects of mr. burke's book had already shown themselves so strongly among the whig party as to fill the writer with apprehensions of their defection, even on the safe and moderate question of scotch reform. he mentions one distinguished member of the party, who afterwards stood conspicuously in the very van of the opposition, but who at that moment, if the authority of the letter may be depended upon, was, like others, under the spell of the great alarmist, and yielding rapidly to the influence of that anti-revolutionary terror, which, like the panic dignified by the ancients with the name of one of their gods, will be long associated in the memories of englishmen with the mighty name and genius of burke. a consultation was, however, held among this portion of the party, with respect to the prudence of lending their assistance to the measure of scotch reform; and sir james mackintosh, as i have heard him say, was in company with sheridan, when dr. lawrence came direct from the meeting, to inform him that they had agreed to support his motion. the state of the scotch representation is one of those cases where a dread of the ulterior objects of reform induces many persons to oppose its first steps, however beneficial and reasonable they may deem them, rather than risk a further application of the principle, or open a breach by which a bolder spirit of innovation may enter. as it is, there is no such thing as popular election in scotland. we cannot, indeed, more clearly form to ourselves a notion of the manner in which so important a portion of the british empire is represented, than by supposing the lords of the manor throughout england to be invested with the power of electing her representatives,--the manorial rights, too, being, in a much greater number of instances than at present, held independently of the land from which they derive their claim, and thus the natural connection between property and the right of election being, in most cases, wholly separated. such would be, as nearly as possible, a parallel to the system of representation now existing in scotland;--a system, which it is the understood duty of all present and future lord advocates to defend, and which neither the lively assaults of a sheridan nor the sounder reasoning and industry of an abercrombie have yet been able to shake. the following extract from another of the many letters of dr. parr to sheridan shows still further the feeling entertained towards burke, even by some of those who most violently differed with him:-- "during the recess of parliament i hope you will read the mighty work of my friend and your friend, and mr. fox's friend, mackintosh: there is some obscurity and there are many scotticisms in it; yet i do pronounce it the work of a most masculine and comprehensive mind. the arrangement is far more methodical than mr. burke's, the sentiments are more patriotic, the reasoning is more profound, and even the imagery in some places is scarcely less splendid. i think mackintosh a better philosopher, and a better citizen, and i know him to be a far better scholar and a far better man, than payne; in whose book there are great irradiations of genius, but none of the glowing and generous warmth which virtue inspires; that warmth which is often kindled in the bosom of mackintosh, and which pervades almost every page of mr. burke's book--though i confess, and with sorrow i confess, that the holy flame was quite extinguished in his odious altercation with you and mr. fox." a letter from the prince of wales to sheridan this year furnishes a new proof of the confidence reposed in him by his royal highness. a question of much delicacy and importance having arisen between that illustrious personage and the duke of york, of a nature, as it appears, too urgent to wait for a reference to mr. fox, sheridan had alone the honor of advising his royal highness in the correspondence that took place between him and his royal brother on that occasion. though the letter affords no immediate clue to the subject of these communications, there is little doubt that they referred to a very important and embarrassing question, which is known to have been put by the duke of york to the heir-apparent, previously to his own marriage this year;--a question which involved considerations connected with the succession to the crown, and which the prince, with the recollection of what occurred on the same subject in , could only get rid of by an evasive answer. chapter v. death of mrs. sheridan. in the year , after a long illness, which terminated in consumption, mrs. sheridan died at bristol, in the thirty-eighth year of her age. there has seldom, perhaps, existed a finer combination of all those qualities that attract both eye and heart, than this accomplished and lovely person exhibited. to judge by what we hear, it was impossible to see her without admiration, or know her without love; and a late bishop used to say that she "seemed to him the connecting link between woman and angel." [footnote: jackson of exeter, too, giving a description of her, in some memoirs of his own life that were never published, said that to see her, as she stood singing beside him at the piano-forte, was "like looking into the face of an angel."] the devotedness of affection, too, with which she was regarded, not only by her own father and sisters, but by all her husband's family, showed that her fascination was of that best kind which, like charity, "begins at home;" and that while her beauty and music enchanted the world, she had charms more intrinsic and lasting for those who came nearer to her. we have already seen with what pliant sympathy she followed her husband through his various pursuits,-- identifying herself with the politician as warmly and readily as with the author, and keeping love still attendant on genius through all his transformations. as the wife of the dramatist and manager, we find her calculating the receipts of the house, assisting in the adaptation of her husband's opera, and reading over the plays sent in by dramatic candidates. as the wife of the senator and orator we see her, with no less zeal, making extracts from state-papers, and copying out ponderous pamphlets,--entering with all her heart and soul into the details of elections, and even endeavoring to fathom the mysteries of the funds. the affectionate and sensible care with which she watched over, not only her own children, but those which her beloved sister, mrs. tickell, confided to her, in dying, gives the finish to this picture of domestic usefulness. when it is recollected, too, that the person thus homelily employed was gifted with every charm that could adorn and delight society, it would be difficult, perhaps, to find any where a more perfect example of that happy mixture of utility and ornament, in which all that is prized by the husband and the lover combines, and which renders woman what the sacred fire was to the parsees,--not only an object of adoration on their altars, but a source of warmth and comfort to their hearths. to say that, with all this, she was not happy, nor escaped the censure of the world, is but to assign to her that share of shadow, without which nothing bright ever existed on this earth. united not only by marriage, but by love, to a man who was the object of universal admiration, and whose vanity and passions too often led him to yield to the temptations by which he was surrounded, it was but natural that, in the consciousness of her own power to charm, she should be now and then piqued into an appearance of retaliation, and seem to listen with complaisance to some of those numerous worshippers, who crowd around such beautiful and unguarded shrines. not that she was at any time unwatched by sheridan,--on the contrary, he followed her with a lover's eyes throughout; and it was believed of both, by those who knew them best, that, even when they seemed most attracted by other objects, they would willingly, had they consulted the real wishes of their hearts, have given up every one in the world for each other. so wantonly do those, who have happiness in their grasp, trifle with that rare and delicate treasure, till, like the careless hand playing with the rose, "in swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas, they snap it--it falls to ground." they had, immediately after their marriage, as we have seen, passed some time in a little cottage at eastburnham, and it was a period, of course, long remembered by them both for its happiness. i have been told by a friend of sheridan, that he once overheard him exclaiming to himself, after looking for some moments at his wife, with a pang, no doubt, of melancholy self-reproach,--"could anything bring back those first feelings?" then adding with a sigh, "yes, perhaps, the cottage at eastburnham might." in this as well as in some other traits of the same kind, there is assuredly any thing but that common-place indifference, which too often clouds over the evening of married life. on the contrary, it seems rather the struggle of affection with its own remorse; and, like the humorist who mourned over the extinction of his intellect so eloquently as to prove that it was still in full vigor, shows love to be still warmly alive in the very act of lamenting its death. i have already presented the reader with some letters of mrs. sheridan, in which the feminine character of her mind very interestingly displays itself. their chief charm is unaffectedness, and the total absence of that literary style, which in the present day infects even the most familiar correspondence. i shall here give a few more of her letters, written at different periods to the elder sister of sheridan,--it being one of her many merits to have kept alive between her husband and his family, though so far separated, a constant and cordial intercourse, which, unluckily, after her death, from his own indolence and the new connections into which he entered, was suffered to die away, almost entirely. the first letter, from its allusion to the westminster scrutiny, must have been written in the year , mr. fox having gained his great victory over sir cecil wray on the th of may, and the scrutiny having been granted on the same day. "my dear lissy, "_london, june ._ "i am happy to find by your last that our apprehensions on charles's account were useless. the many reports that were circulated here of his accident gave us a good deal of uneasiness; but it is no longer wonderful that he should be buried here, when mr. jackman has so barbarously murdered him with you. i fancy he would risk another broken head, rather than give up his title to it as an officer of the crown. we go on here wrangling as usual, but i am afraid all to no purpose. those who are in possession of power are determined to use it without the least pretence to justice or consistency. they have ordered a scrutiny for westminster, in defiance of all law or precedent, and without any other hope or expectation but that of harassing and tormenting mr. fox and his friends, and obliging them to waste their time and money, which perhaps they think might otherwise be employed to a better purpose in another cause. we have nothing for it but patience and perseverance, which i hope will at last be crowned with success, though i fear it will be a much longer trial than we at first expected. i hear from every body that your ... are vastly disliked--but are you not all kept in awe by such beauty? i know she flattered herself to subdue all your volunteers by the fire of her eyes only:--how astonished she must be to find that they have not yet laid down their arms! there is nothing would tempt me to trust my sweet person upon the water sooner than the thoughts of seeing you; but i fear my friendship will hardly ever be put to so hard a trial. though sheridan is not in office, i think he is more engaged by politics than ever. "i suppose we shall not leave town till september. we have promised to pay many visits, but i fear we shall be obliged to give up many of our schemes, for i take it for granted parliament will meet again as soon as possible. we are to go to chatsworth, and to another friend of mine in that neighborhood, so that i doubt our being able to pay our annual visit to crewe hall. mrs. crewe has been very ill all this winter with your old complaint, the rheumatism--she is gone to brightelmstone to wash it away in the sea. do you ever see mrs. greville? i am glad to hear my two nephews are both in so thriving a way. are you still a nurse? i should like to take a peep at your bantlings. which is the handsomest? have you candor enough to think any thing equal to your own boy? if you have, you have more merit than i can claim. pray remember me kindly to bess, mr. l., &c., and don't forget to kiss the little squaller for me when you have nothing better to do. god bless you. "ever yours." "the inclosed came to dick in one of charles's franks; he said he should write to you himself with it, but i think it safest not to trust him." in another letter, written in the same year, there are some touches both of sisterly and of conjugal feeling, which seem to bespeak a heart happy in all its affections. "my dear lissy, _putney, august ._ "you will no doubt be surprised to find me still dating from this place, but various reasons have detained me here from day to day, to the great dissatisfaction of my dear mary, who has been expecting me hourly for the last fortnight. i propose going to hampton-court tonight, if dick returns in any decent time from town. "i got your letter and a half the day before yesterday, and shall be very well pleased to have such blunders occur more frequently. you mistake, if you suppose i am a friend to your tarrers and featherers:--it is such wretches that always ruin a good cause. there is no reason on earth why you should not have a new parliament as well as us:--it might not, perhaps, be quite as convenient to our immaculate minister, but i sincerely hope he will not find your volunteers so accommodating as the present india troops in our house of commons. what! does the secretary at war condescend to reside in any house but his own?--'tis very odd he should turn himself out of doors in his situation. i never could perceive any economy in dragging furniture from one place to another; but, of course, he has more experience in these matters than i have. "mr. forbes dined here the other day, and i had a great deal of conversation with him on various subjects relating to you all. he says, charles's manner of talking of his wife, &c. is so ridiculous, that, whenever he comes into company, they always cry out,--'now s----a, we allow you half an hour to talk of the beauties of mrs. s.----, half an hour to your child, and another half hour to your farm,--and then we expect you will behave like a reasonable person.' "so mrs. ---- is not happy: poor thing, i dare say, if the truth were known, he teazes her to death. your _very good_ husbands generally contrive to make you sensible of their merit somehow or other. "from a letter mr. canning has just got from dublin, i find you have been breaking the heads of some of our english heroes. i have no doubt in the world that they deserved it; and if half a score more that i know had shared the same fate, it might, perhaps become less the fashion among our young men to be such contemptible coxcombs as they certainly are. "my sister desired me to say all sorts of affectionate things to you, in return for your kind remembrance of her in your last. i assure you, you lost a great deal by not seeing her in her maternal character:--it is the prettiest sight in the world to see her with her children:--they are both charming creatures, but my little namesake is my delight:--'tis impossible to say how foolishly fond of her i am. poor mary! she is in a way to have more;--and what will become of them all is sometimes a consideration that gives me many a painful hour. but _they_ are happy, with _their_ little portion of the goods of this world:--then, what are riches good for? for my part, as you know, poor dick and i have always been struggling against the stream, and shall probably continue to do so to the end of our lives,--yet we would not change sentiments or sensations with ... for all his estate. by the bye, i was told t'other day he was going to receive eight thousand pounds as a compromise for his uncle's estate, which has been so long in litigation;--is it true?--i dare say it is, though, or he would not be so discontented as you say he is. god bless you.--give my love to bess, and return a kiss to my nephew for me. remember me to mr. l. and believe me "truly yours." the following letter appears to have been written in , some months after the death of her sister, miss maria linley. her playful allusions to the fame of her own beauty might have been answered in the language of paris to helen:-- "_minor est tua gloria vero famaque de forma pene maligna est_." "thy beauty far outruns even rumor's tongue, and envious fame leaves half thy charms unsung." "my dear lissy, "_delapre abbey, dec. ._ "notwithstanding your incredulity, i assure you i wrote to you from hampton-court, very soon after bess came to england. my letter was a dismal one; for my mind was at that time entirely occupied by the affecting circumstance of my poor sister's death. perhaps you lost nothing by not receiving my letter, for it was not much calculated to amuse you. "i am still a recluse, you see, but i am preparing to _launch_ for the winter in a few days. dick was detained in town by a bad fever:--you may suppose i was kept in ignorance of his situation, or i should not have remained so quietly here. he came last week, and the fatigue of the journey very nearly occasioned a relapse:--but by the help of a jewel of a doctor that lives in this neighborhood we are both quite stout and well again, (for _i_ took it into my head to fall sick again, too, without rhyme or reason.) "we purpose going to town to-morrow or next day. our own house has been painting and papering, and the weather has been so unfavorable to the business, that it is probable it will not be fit for us to go into this month; we have, therefore, accepted a most pressing invitation of general burgoyne to take up our abode with him, till our house is ready; so your next must be directed to bruton-street, under cover to dick, unless charles will frank it again. i don't believe what you say of charles's not being glad to have seen me in dublin. you are very flattering in the reasons you give, but i rather think his vanity would have been more gratified by showing every body how much prettier and younger his wife was than the mrs. sheridan in whose favor they have been prejudiced by your good-natured partiality. if i could have persuaded myself to trust the treacherous ocean, the pleasure of seeing you and your nursery would have compensated for all the fame i should have lost by a comparison. but my guardian sylph, vainer of my beauty, perhaps, than myself, would not suffer me to destroy the flattering illusion _you_ have so often displayed to your irish friends. no,--i shall stay till i am past all pretensions, and then you may excuse your want of taste by saying, 'oh, if you had seen her when she was young!' "i am very glad that bess is satisfied with my attention to her. the unpleasant situation i was in prevented my seeing her as often as i could wish. for _her_ sake i assure you i shall be glad to have dick and your father on good terms, without entering into any arguments on the subject; but i fear, where _one_ of the parties, at least, has a _tincture_ of what they call in latin _damnatus obstinatus mulio_, the attempt will be difficult, and the success uncertain. god bless you, and believe me "_mrs. lefanu, great cuff-street, dublin_. "truly yours." the next letter i shall give refers to the illness with which old mr. sheridan was attacked in the beginning of the year , and of which he died in the month of august following. it is unnecessary to direct the reader's attention to the passages in which she speaks of her lost sister, mrs. tickell, and her children:--they have too much of the heart's best feelings in them to be passed over slightly. "my dear lissy, "_london, april ._ "your last letter i hope was written when you were low spirited, and consequently inclined to forebode misfortune. i would not show it to sheridan:--he has lately been much harassed by business, and i could not bear to give him the pain i know your letter would have occasioned. partial as your father has always been to charles, i am confident _he_ never has, nor ever will feel half the duty and affections that dick has always exprest. i know how deeply he will be afflicted, if you confirm the melancholy account of his declining health;--but i trust your next will remove my apprehensions, and make it unnecessary for me to wound his affectionate heart by the intelligence. i flatter myself likewise, that you have been without reason alarmed about poor bess. her life, to be sure, must be dreadful;--but i should hope the good nature and kindness of her disposition will support her, and enable her to continue the painful duty so necessary, probably, to the comfort of your poor father. if charles has not or does not do every thing in his power to contribute to the happiness of the few years which nature can allow him, he will have more to answer to his conscience than i trust any of those dear to me will have. mrs. crewe told us, the other day, she had heard from mrs. greville, that every thing was settled much to your father's satisfaction. i _will_ hope, therefore, as i have said before, you were in a gloomy fit when you wrote, and in the mean time i will congratulate you on the recovery of your own health and that of your children. "i have been confined now near two months:--i caught cold almost immediately on coming to town, which brought on all those dreadful complaints with which i was afflicted at crewe-hall. by constant attention and strict regimen i am once more got about again; but i never go out of my house after the sun is down, and on those terms only can i enjoy tolerable health. i never knew dick better. my dear boy is now with me for his holydays, and a charming creature he is, i assure you, in every respect. my sweet little charge, too, promises to reward me for all my care and anxiety. the little ones come to me every day, though they do not at present live with me. we think of taking a house in the country this summer as necessary for my health and convenient to s., who must be often in town. i shall then have _all_ the children with me, as they now constitute a very great part of my happiness. the scenes of sorrow and sickness i have lately gone through have depressed my spirits, and made me incapable of finding pleasure in the amusements which used to occupy me perhaps too much. my greatest delight is in the reflection that i am acting according to the wishes of my ever dear and lamented sister, and that by fulfilling the sacred trust bequeathed me in her last moments, i insure my own felicity in the grateful affection of the sweet creatures,--whom, though i love for their own sakes, i idolize when i consider them as the dearest part of her who was the first and nearest friend of my heart! god bless you, my dear liss:--this is a subject that always carries me away. i will therefore bid you adieu,--only entreating you as soon as you can to send me a more comfortable letter. my kind love to bess, and mr. l. "yours, ever affectionately." i shall give but one more letter; which is perhaps only interesting as showing how little her heart went along with the gayeties into which her husband's connection with the world of fashion and politics led her. "my dear lissy, "_may ._ "i have only time at present to write a few lines at the request of mrs. crewe, who is made very unhappy by an account of mrs. greville's illness, as she thinks it possible mrs. g. has not confessed the whole of her situation. she earnestly wishes you would find out from dr. quin what the nature of her complaint is, with every other particular you can gather on the subject, and give me a line as soon as possible. "i am very glad to find your father is better. as there has been a recess lately from the trial, i thought it best to acquaint sheridan with his illness. i hope now, however, there is but little reason to be alarmed about him. mr. tickell has just received an account from holland, that poor mrs. berkeley, (whom you know best as betty tickell,) was at the point of death in a consumption. "i hope in a very short time now to get into the country. the duke of norfolk has lent us a house within twenty miles of london; and i am impatient to be once more out of this noisy, dissipated town, where i do nothing that i really like, and am forced to appear pleased with every thing odious to me. god bless you. i write in the hurry of dressing for a great ball given by the duke of york to night, which i had determined not to go to till late last night, when i was persuaded that it would be very improper to refuse a royal invitation, if i was not absolutely confined by illness. adieu. believe me truly yours. "you must pay for this letter, for dick has got your last with the direction; and any thing in his hands is _irrecoverable_!" the health of mrs. sheridan, as we see by some of her letters, had been for some time delicate; but it appears that her last, fatal illness originated in a cold, which she had caught in the summer of the preceding year. though she continued from that time to grow gradually worse, her friends were flattered with the hope that as soon as her confinement should take place, she would be relieved from all that appeared most dangerous in her complaint. that event, however, produced but a temporary intermission of the malady, which returned after a few days with such increased violence, that it became necessary for her, as a last hope, to try the waters of bristol. the following affectionate letter of tickell must have been written at this period:-- "my dear sheridan, "i was but too well prepared for the melancholy intelligence contained in your last letter, in answer to which, as richardson will give you this, i leave it to his kindness to do me justice in every sincere and affectionate expression of my grief for your situation, and my entire readiness to obey and further your wishes by every possible exertion. "if you have any possible opportunity, let me entreat you to remember me to the dearest, tenderest friend and sister of my heart. sustain yourself, my dear sheridan, "and believe me yours, "most affectionately and faithfully, "r. tickell." the circumstances of her death cannot better be told than in the language of a lady whose name it would be an honor to mention, who, giving up all other cares and duties, accompanied her dying friend to bristol, and devoted herself, with a tenderness rarely equalled even among women, to the soothing and lightening of her last painful moments. from the letters written by this lady at the time, some extracts have lately been given by miss lefanu [footnote: the talents of this young lady are another proof of the sort of _garet kind_ of genius allotted to the whole race of sheridan. i find her very earliest poetical work, "the sylphid queen," thus spoken of in a letter from the second mrs. sheridan to her mother, mrs. lefanu--"i should have acknowledged your very welcome present immediately, had not mr. sheridan, on my telling him what it was, run off with it, and i have been in vain endeavoring to get it from him ever since. what little i did read of it, i admired particularly, but it will be much more gratifying to you and your daughter to hear that _he_ read it with the greatest attention, and thought it showed a great deal of imagination."] in her interesting memoirs of her grandmother, mrs. frances sheridan. but their whole contents are so important to the characters of the persons concerned, and so delicately draw aside the veil from a scene of which sorrow and affection were the only witnesses, that i feel myself justified not only in repeating what has already been quoted, but in adding a few more valuable particulars, which, by the kindness of the writer and her correspondent, i am enabled to give from the same authentic source. the letters are addressed to mrs. h. lefanu, the second sister of mr. sheridan. "_bristol, june , ._ * * * * * "i am happy to have it in my power to give you any information on a subject so interesting to you, and to all that have the happiness of knowing dear mrs. sheridan; though i am sorry to add, it cannot be such as will relieve your anxiety, or abate your fears. the truth is, our poor friend is in a most precarious state of health, and quite given over by the faculty. her physician here, who is esteemed very skilful in consumptive cases, assured me from the first that it was a _lost case_; but as your brother seemed unwilling to know the truth, he was not so explicit with him, and only represented her as being in a very critical situation. poor man! he cannot bear to think her in danger himself, or that any one else should; though he is as attentive and watchful as if he expected every moment to be her last. it is impossible for any man to behave with greater tenderness, or to feel more on such an occasion, than he does. * * * * * "at times the dear creature suffers a great deal from weakness, and want of rest. she is very patient under her sufferings, and perfectly resigned. she is well aware of her danger, and talks of dying with the greatest composure. i am sure it will give you and mr. lefanu pleasure to know that her mind is well prepared for any change that may happen, and that she derives every comfort from religion that a sincere christian can look for." on the th of the same month mrs. sheridan died; and a letter from this lady, dated july th, thus touchingly describes her last moments. as a companion-picture to the close of sheridan's own life, it completes a lesson of the transitoriness of this world, which might sadden the hearts of the beautiful and gifted, even in their most brilliant and triumphant hours. far happier, however, in her death than he was, she had not only his affectionate voice to soothe her to the last, but she had one devoted friend, out of the many whom she had charmed and fascinated, to watch consolingly over her last struggle, and satisfy her as to the fate of the beloved objects which she left behind. "_july , ._ "our dear departed friend kept her bed only two days, and seemed to suffer less during that interval than for some time before. she was perfectly in her senses to the last moment, and talked with the greatest composure of her approaching dissolution; assuring us all that she had the most perfect confidence in the mercies of an all-powerful and merciful being, from whom alone she could have derived the inward comfort and support she felt at that awful moment! she said, she had no fear of death, and that all her concern arose from the thoughts of leaving so many dear and tender ties, and of what they would suffer from her loss. her own family were at bath, and had spent one day with her, when she was tolerably well. your poor brother now thought it proper to send for them, and to flatter them no longer. they immediately came;--it was the morning before she died. they were introduced one at a time at her bed-side, and were prepared as much as possible for this sad scene. the women bore it very well, but all our feelings were awakened for her poor father. the interview between him and the dear angel was afflicting and heart-breaking to the greatest degree imaginable. i was afraid she would have sunk under the cruel agitation:--she said it was indeed too much for her. she gave some kind injunction to each of them, and said everything she could to comfort them under this severe trial. they then parted, in the hope of seeing her again in the evening, but they never saw her more! mr. sheridan and i sat up all that night with her:--indeed he had done so for several nights before, and never left her one moment that could be avoided. about four o'clock in the morning we perceived an alarming change, and sent for her physician. [footnote: this physician was dr. bain, then a very young man, whose friendship with sheridan began by this mournful duty to his wife, and only ended with the performance of the same melancholy office for himself. as the writer of the above letters was not present during the interview which she describes between him and mrs. sheridan, there are a few slight errors in her account of what passed, the particulars of which, as related by dr. bain himself, are as follows:--on his arrival, she begged of sheridan and her female friend to leave the room, and then, desiring him to lock the door after them, said, "you have never deceived me:--tell me truly, shall i live over this night." dr. bain immediately felt her pulse, and, finding that she was dying, answered, "i recommend you to take some laudanum;" upon which she replied, "i understand you:--then give it me." dr. bain fully concurs with the writer of these letters in bearing testimony to the tenderness and affection that sheridan evinced on this occasion:--it was, he says, quite "the devotedness of a lover." the following note, addressed to him after the sad event was over, does honor alike to the writer and the receiver:-- "my dear sir, "i must request your acceptance of the inclosed for your professional attendance. for the kind and friendly attentions, which have accompanied your efforts, i must remain your debtor. the recollection of them will live in my mind with the memory of the dear lost object, whose sufferings you soothed, and whose heart was grateful for it. "believe me, "dear sir, "very sincerely yours, "_friday night_. "r. b. sheridan."] she said to him, 'if you can relieve me, do it quickly;--if not do not let me struggle, but give me some laudanum.' his answer was, 'then i will give you some laudanum.' she desired to see tom and betty tickell before she took it, of whom she took a most affecting leave! your brother behaved most wonderfully, though his heart was breaking; and at times his feelings were so violent, that i feared he would have been quite ungovernable at the last. yet he summoned up courage to kneel by the bed-side, till he felt the last pulse of expiring excellence, and then withdrew. she died at five o'clock in the morning, th of june. "i hope, my dear mrs. lefanu, you will excuse my dwelling on this most agonizing scene. i have a melancholy pleasure in so doing, and fancy it will not be disagreeable to you to hear all the particulars of an event so interesting, so afflicting, to all who knew the beloved creature! for my part, i never beheld such a scene--never suffered such a conflict--much as i have suffered on my own account. while i live, the remembrance of it and the dear lost object can never be effaced from my mind. "we remained ten days after the event took place at bristol; and on the th instant mr. sheridan and tom, accompanied by all her family (except mrs. linley), mr. and mrs. leigh, betty tickell and myself, attended the dear remains [footnote: the following striking reflection, which i have found upon a scrap of paper, in sheridan's handwriting, was suggested, no doubt, by his feelings on this occasion-- "the loss of the breath from a beloved object, long suffering in pain and certainly to die, is not so great a privation as the last loss of her beautiful remains, if they remain so. the victory of the grave is sharper than the sting of death."] to wells, where we saw her laid beside her beloved sister in the cathedral. the choir attended; and there was such a concourse of people of all sorts assembled on the occasion that we could hardly move along. mr. leigh read the service in a most affecting manner. indeed, the whole scene, as you may easily imagine, was awful and affecting to a very great degree. though the crowd certainly interrupted the solemnity very much, and, perhaps, happily for us abated somewhat of our feelings, which, had we been less observed, would not have been so easily kept down. "the day after the sad scene was closed we separated, your brother choosing to be left by himself with tom for a day or two. he afterwards joined us at bath, where we spent a few days with our friends, the leighs. last saturday we took leave of them, and on sunday we arrived at isleworth, where with much regret, i left your brother to his own melancholy reflections, with no other companions but his two children, in whom he seems at present entirely wrapped up. he suffered a great deal in returning the same road, and was most dreadfully agitated on his arrival at isleworth. his grief is deep and sincere, and i am sure will be lasting. he is in very good spirits, and at times is even cheerful, but the moment he is left alone he feels all the anguish of sorrow and regret. the dear little girl is the greatest comfort to him:--he cannot bear to be a moment without her. she thrives amazingly, and is indeed a charming little creature. tom behaves with constant and tender attention to his father:--he laments his dear mother sincerely, and at the time was violently affected;--but, at his age, the impressions of grief are not lasting; and his mind is naturally too lively and cheerful to dwell long on melancholy objects. he is in all respects truly amiable and in many respects so like his dear, charming mother, that i am sure he will be ever dear to my heart. i expect to have the pleasure of seeing mr. sheridan again next week, when i hope to find him more composed than when i took leave of him last sunday." to the mention which is made, in this affecting letter, of the father of mrs. sheridan, whose destiny it had been to follow to the grave, within a few short years, so many of his accomplished children, [footnote: in his eldest son thomas was drowned, while amusing himself in a pleasure-boat at the seat of the duke of ancaster. the pretty lines of mrs. sheridan to his violin are well known. a few years after, samuel, a lieutenant in the navy, was carried off by a fever. miss maria linley died in , and mrs. tickell in . i have erroneously stated, in a former part of this work, that mr. william linley is the only surviving branch of this family;--there is another brother, mr. ozias linley, still living.] i must add a few sentences more from another letter of the same lady, which, while they increase our interest in this amiable and ingenious man, bear testimony to sheridan's attaching powers, and prove how affectionate he must have been to her who was gone, to be thus loved by the father to whom she was so dear:-- "poor mr. linley has been here among us these two months. he is very much broke, but is still a very interesting and agreeable companion. i do not know any one more to be pitied than he is. it is evident that the recollection of past misfortunes preys on his mind, and he has no comfort in the surviving part of his family, they being all scattered abroad. mr. sheridan seems more his child than any one of his own, and i believe he likes being near him and his grandchildren." [footnote: in the memoirs of mrs. crouch i find the following anecdote:--"poor mr. linley after the death of one of his sons, when seated at the harpsichord in drury-lane theatre, in order to accompany the vocal parts of an interesting little piece taken from prior's henry and emma, by mr. tickell, and excellently represented by paduer and miss farren,--when the tutor of henry, mr. aikin gave an impressive description of a promising young man, in speaking of his pupil henry, the feelings of mr. linley could not be suppressed. his tears fell fast--nor did he weep alone." in the same work mrs. crouch is made to say that, after miss maria linley died, it was melancholy for her to sing to mr. linley, whose tears continually fell on the keys as he accompanied her; and if, in the course of her profession, she was obliged to practise a song which he had been accustomed to hear his lost daughter sing, the similarity of their manners and their voices, which he had once remarked with pleasure, then affected him to such a degree, that he was frequently forced to quit the instrument and walk about the room to recover his composure.] towards the autumn, (as we learn from another letter of this lady,) mr. sheridan endeavored to form a domestic establishment for himself at wanstead. "_wanstead, october_ , . "your brother has taken a house in this village very near me, where he means to place his dear little girl to be as much as possible under my projection. this was the dying request of my beloved friend; and the last effort of her mind and pen [footnote: there are some touching allusions to these last thoughts of mrs. sheridan, in an elegy, written by her brother, mr. william linley, soon after the news of the sad event reached him in india:-- "oh most beloved! my sister and my friend! while kindred woes still breathe around thine urn, long with the tear of absence must _i_ blend the sigh, that speaks thou never shall return. * * * * "'twas faith, that, bending o'er the bed of death, shot o'er thy pallid cheek a transient ray, with softer effort soothed thy laboring breath, gave grace to anguish, beauty to decay. "thy friends, thy children, claim'd thy latest care; theirs was the last that to thy bosom clung; for them to heaven thou sent'st the expiring prayer, the last that falter'd on thy trembling tongue."] was made the day before she expired, to draw up a solemn promise for both of us to sign, to ensure the strict performance of this last awful injunction: so anxious was she to commit this dear treasure to my care, well knowing how impossible it would be for a father, situated as your brother is, to pay that constant attention to her which a daughter so articularly requires. * * * you may be assured i shall engage in the task with the greatest delight and alacrity:--would to god that i were in the smallest degree qualified to supply the place of that angelic, all-accomplished mother, of whose tender care she has been so early 'deprived. all i _can_ do for her i _will_ do; and if i can succeed so far as to give her early and steady principles of religion, and to form her mind to virtue, i shall think my time well employed, and shall feel myself happy in having fulfilled the first wish of her beloved mother's heart. * * * * * "to return to your brother, he talks of having his house here immediately furnished and made ready for the reception of his nursery. it is a very good sort of common house, with an excellent garden, roomy and fit for the purpose, but will admit of no show or expense. i understand he has taken a house in jermyn-street, where he may see company, but he does not intend having any other country-house but this. isleworth he gives up, his time being expired there. i believe he has got a private tutor for tom--somebody very much to his mind. at one time he talked of sending him abroad with this gentleman, but i know not at present what his determinations are. he is too fond of tom's society to let him go from him for any time; but i think it would be more to his advantage if he would consent to part with him for two or three years. it is impossible for any man to be more devotedly attached to his children than he is and i hope they will be a comfort and a blessing to him, when the world loses its charms. the last time i saw him, which was for about five minutes, i thought he looked remarkably well, and seemed tolerably cheerful. but i have observed in general that this affliction has made a wonderful alteration in the expression of his countenance and in his manners. [footnote: i have heard a noble friend of sheridan say that, happening about this time to sleep in the room next to him, he could plainly hear him sobbing throughout the greater part of the night.] the leighs and my family spent a week with him at isleworth the beginning of august, where we were indeed most affectionately and hospitably entertained. i could hardly believe him to be the same man. in fact, we never saw him do the honors of his house before; _that,_ you know, he always left the dear, elegant creature, who never failed to please and charm every one who came within the sphere of her notice. nobody could have filled her place so well:--he seemed to have pleasure in making much of those whom she loved, and who, he knew, sincerely loved her. we all thought he never appeared to such advantage. he was attentive to every body and every thing, though grave and thoughtful; and his feelings, poor fellow, often ready to break forth in spite of his efforts to suppress them. he spent his evenings mostly by himself. he desired me, when i wrote, to let you know that she had by will made a little distribution of what she called 'her own property,' and had left you and your sister rings of remembrance, and her _fausse montre,_ containing mr. sheridan's picture to you, [footnote: this bequest is thus announced by sheridan himself in a letter to his sister, dated june , :--"i mean also to send by miss patrick a picture which has long been your property, by a bequest from one whose image is not often from my mind, and whose memory, i am sure, remains in yours."]--mrs. joseph lefanu having got hers. she left rings also to mr. and mrs. leigh, my sister, daughter, and myself, and positively forbids any others being given on any pretence, but these i have specified,--evidently precluding all her _fine friends_ from this last mark of her esteem and approbation. she had, poor thing, with some justice, turned from them all in disgust, and i observed, during her illness, never mentioned any of them with regard or kindness." the consolation which sheridan derived from his little daughter was not long spared to him. in a letter, without a date, from the same amiable writer, the following account of her death is given:-- "the circumstances attending this melancholy event were particularly distressing. a large party of young people were assembled at your brother's to spend a joyous evening in dancing. we were all in the height of our merriment,--he himself remarkably cheerful, and partaking of the amusement, when the alarm was given that the dear little angel was dying. it is impossible to describe the confusion and horror of the scene:--he was quite frantic, and i knew not what to do. happily there were present several kind, good-natured men, who had their recollection, and pointed out what should be done. we very soon had every possible assistance, and for a short time we had some hope that her precious life would have been spared to us--but that was soon at an end! "the dear babe never throve to my satisfaction:--she was small and delicate beyond imagination, and gave very little expectation of long life; but she had visibly declined during the last month. * * * mr. sheridan made himself very miserable at first, from an apprehension that she had been neglected or mismanaged; but i trust he is perfectly convinced that this was not the case. he was severely afflicted at first. the dear babe's resemblance to her mother after her death was so much more striking, that it was impossible to see her without recalling every circumstance of that afflicting scene, and he was continually in the room indulging the sad remembrance. in this manner he indulged his feelings for four or five days; then, having indispensable business, he was obliged to go to london, from whence he returned, on sunday, apparently in good spirits and as well as usual. but, however he may assume the appearance of ease or cheerfulness, his heart is not of a nature to be quickly reconciled to the loss of any thing he loves. he suffers deeply and secretly; and i dare say he will long and bitterly lament both mother and child." the reader will, i think, feel with me, after reading the foregoing letters, as well as those of mrs. sheridan, given in the course of this work, that the impression which they altogether leave on the mind is in the highest degree favorable to the characters both of husband and wife. there is, round the whole, an atmosphere of kindly, domestic feeling, which seems to answer for the soundness of the hearts that breathed in it. the sensibility, too, displayed by sheridan at this period, was not that sort of passionate return to former feelings, which the prospect of losing what it once loved might awaken in even the most alienated heart;--on the contrary, there was a depth and mellowness in his sorrow which could proceed from long habits of affection alone. the idea, indeed, of seeking solace for the loss of the mother in the endearments of the children would occur only to one who had been accustomed to find happiness in his home, and who therefore clung for comfort to what remained of the wreck. such, i have little doubt, were the natural feelings and dispositions of sheridan; and if the vanity of talent too often turned him aside from their influence, it is but another proof of the danger of that "light which leads astray," and may console those who, safe under the shadow of mediocrity, are unvisited by such disturbing splendors. the following letters on this occasion, from his eldest sister and her husband, are a further proof of the warm attachment which he inspired in those connected with him:-- "my dearest brother, "charles has just informed me that the fatal, the dreaded event has taken place. on my knees i implore the almighty to look down upon you in your affliction, to strengthen your noble, your feeling heart to bear it. oh my beloved brother, these are sad, sad trials of fortitude. one consolation, at least, in mitigation of your sorrow, i am sure you possess,--the consciousness of having done all you could to preserve the dear angel you have lost, and to soften the last painful days of her mortal existence. mrs. canning wrote to me that she was in a resigned and happy frame of mind: she is assuredly among the blest; and i feel and i think she looks down with benignity at my feeble efforts to soothe that anguish i participate. let me then conjure you, my dear brother, to suffer me to endeavor to be of use to you. could i have done it, i should have been with you from the time of your arrival at bristol. the impossibility of my going has made me miserable, and injured my health, already in a very bad state. it would give value to my life, could i be of that service i think i _might_ be of, if i were near you; and as i cannot go to you, and as there is every reason for your quitting the scene and objects before you, perhaps you may let us have the happiness of having you here, and my dear tom; i will write to him when my spirits are quieter. i entreat you, my dear brother, try what change of place can do for you: your character and talents are here held in the highest estimation; and you have here some who love you beyond the affection any in england can feel for you. "_cuff-street, th july_. "a. lefanu." "my dear good sir, "_wednesday, th july, ._ "permit me to join my entreaties to lissy's to persuade you to come over to us. a journey might be of service to you, and change of objects a real relief to your mind. we would try every thing to divert your thoughts from too intensely dwelling on certain recollections, which are yet too keen and too fresh to be entertained with safety, at least to occupy you too entirely. having been so long separated from your sister, you can hardly have an adequate idea of her love for you. i, who on many occasions have observed its operation, can truly and solemnly assure you that it far exceeds any thing i could ever have supposed to have been felt by a sister towards a brother. i am convinced you would experience such soothing in her company and conversation as would restore you to yourself sooner than any thing that could be imagined. come, then, my dear sir, and be satisfied you will add greatly to her comfort, and to that of your very affectionate friend, "j. lefanu." chapter vi. drury-lane theatre.--society of "the friends of the people."--madame de genlis.--war with france.--whig seceders.--speeches in parliament.--death of tickell. the domestic anxieties of mr. sheridan, during this year, left but little room in his mind for public cares. accordingly, we find that, after the month of april, he absented himself from the house of commons altogether. in addition to his apprehensions for the safety of mrs. sheridan, he had been for some time harassed by the derangement of his theatrical property, which was now fast falling into a state of arrear and involvement, from which it never after entirely recovered. the theatre of drury-lane having been, in the preceding year, reported by the surveyors to be unsafe and incapable of repair, it was determined to erect an entirely new house upon the same site; for the accomplishment of which purpose a proposal was made, by mr. sheridan and mr. linley, to raise the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, by the means of three hundred debentures, of five hundred pounds each. this part of the scheme succeeded instantly; and i have now before me a list of the holders of the shares, appended to the proposal of , at the head of which the names of the three trustees, on whom the theatre was afterwards vested in the year , stand for the following number of shares:--albany wallis, ; hammersley, ; richard ford, . but, though the money was raised without any difficulty, the completion of the new building was delayed by various negotiations and obstacles, while, in the mean time, the company were playing, at an enormous expense, first in the opera-house, and afterwards at the haymarket-theatre, and mr. sheridan and mr. linley were paying interest for the first instalment of the loan. to these and other causes of the increasing embarrassments of sheridan is to be added the extravagance of his own style of living, which became much more careless and profuse after death had deprived him of her, whose maternal thoughtfulness alone would have been a check upon such improvident waste. we are enabled to form some idea of his expensive habits, by finding, from the letters which have just been quoted, that he was, at the same time, maintaining three establishments,--one at wanstead, where his son resided with his tutor; another at isleworth, which he still held, (as i learn from letters directed to him there,) in ; and the third, his town-house, in jermyn street. rich and ready as were the resources which the treasury of the theatre opened to him, and fertile as was his own invention in devising new schemes of finance, such mismanaged expenditure would exhaust even _his_ magic wealth, and the lamp must cease to answer to the rubbing at last. the tutor, whom he was lucky enough to obtain for his son at this time, was mr. william smythe, a gentleman who has since distinguished himself by his classical attainments and graceful talent for poetry. young sheridan had previously been under the care of dr. parr, with whom he resided a considerable time at hatton; and the friendship of this learned man for the father could not have been more strongly shown than in the disinterestedness with which he devoted himself to the education of the son. the following letter from him to mr. sheridan, in the may of this year, proves the kind feeling by which he was actuated towards him:-- "dear sir, "i hope tom got home safe, and found you in better spirits. he said something about drawing on your banker; but i do not understand the process, and shall not take any step. you will consult your own convenience about these things; for my connection with you is that of friendship and personal regard. i feel and remember slights from those i respect, but acts of kindness i cannot forget; and, though my life has been passed far more in doing than receiving services, yet i know and i value the good dispositions of yourself and a few other friends,--men who are worthy of that name from me. "if you choose tom to return, he knows and you know how glad i am always to see him. if not, pray let him do something, and i will tell you what he should do. "believe me, dear sir, "yours sincerely, "s. parr." in the spring of this year was established the society of "the friends of the people," for the express purpose of obtaining a parliamentary reform. to this association, which, less for its professed object than for the republican tendencies of some of its members, was particularly obnoxious to the loyalists of the day, mr. sheridan, mr. grey, and many others of the leading persons of the whig party, belonged. their address to the people of england, which was put forth in the month of april, contained an able and temperate exposition of the grounds upon which they sought for reform; and the names of sheridan, mackintosh, whitbread, &c., appear on the list of the committee by which this paper was drawn up. it is a proof of the little zeal which mr. fox felt at this period on the subject of reform, that he withheld the sanction of his name from a society, to which so many of his most intimate political friends belonged. some notice was, indeed, taken in the house of this symptom of backwardness in the cause; and sheridan, in replying to the insinuation, said that "they wanted not the signature of his right honorable friend to assure them i of his concurrence. they had his bond in the steadiness of his political principles and the integrity of his heart." mr. fox himself, however, gave a more definite explanation of the circumstance. "he might be asked," he said, "why his name was not on the list of the society for reform? his reason was, that though he saw great and enormous grievances, he did not see the remedy." it is to be doubted, indeed, whether mr. fox ever fully admitted the principle upon which the demand for a reform was founded. when he afterward espoused the question so warmly, it seems to have been merely as one of those weapons caught up in the heat of a warfare, in which liberty itself appeared to him too imminently endangered to admit of the consideration of any abstract principle, except that summary one of the right of resistance to power abused. from what has been already said, too, of the language held by sheridan on this subject, it may be concluded that, though far more ready than his friend to inscribe reform upon the banner of the party, he had even still less made up his mind as to the practicability or expediency of the measure. looking upon it as a question, the agitation of which was useful to liberty, and at the same time counting upon the improbability of its objects being ever accomplished, he adopted at once, as we have seen, the most speculative of all the plans that had been proposed, and flattered himself that he thus secured the benefit of the general principle, without risking the inconvenience of any of the practical details. the following extract of a letter from sheridan to one of his female correspondents, at this time, will show that he did not quite approve the policy of mr. fox in holding aloof from the reformers:-- "i am down here with mrs. canning and her family, while all my friends and party are meeting in town, where i have excused myself, to lay their wise heads together in this crisis. again i say there is nothing but what is unpleasant before my mind. i wish to occupy and fill my thoughts with public matters, and to do justice to the times, they afford materials enough; but nothing is in prospect to make activity pleasant, or to point one's efforts against one common enemy, making all that engage in the attack cordial, social, and united. on the contrary, every day produces some new schism and absurdity. windham has signed a nonsensical association with lord mulgrave; and when i left town yesterday, i was informed that the _divan_, as the meeting at debrett's is called, were furious at an _authentic_ advertisement from the duke of portland against charles fox's speech in the whig club, which no one before believed to be genuine, but which they now say dr. lawrence brought from burlington-house. if this is so, depend on it there will be a direct breach in what has been called the whig party. charles fox must come to the reformers openly and avowedly; and in a month four-fifths of the whig club will do the same." the motion for the abolition of the slave-trade, brought forward this year by mr. wilberforce, (on whose brows it may be said, with much more truth than of the roman general, "_annexuit africa lauros_,") was signalized by one of the most splendid orations that the lofty eloquence of mr. pitt ever poured forth. [footnote: it was at the conclusion of this speech that, in contemplating the period when africa would, he hoped, participate in those blessings of civilization and knowledge which were now enjoyed by more fortunate regions, he applied the happy quotation, rendered still more striking, it is said, by the circumstance of the rising sun just then shining in through the windows of the house:-- "_nos ... primus equis oriens afflavit anhelis, illic sera rubens accendit lumina vesper_."] i mention the debate, however, for the mere purpose of remarking, as a singularity, that, often as this great question was discussed in parliament, and ample as was the scope which it afforded for the grander appeals of oratory, mr. sheridan was upon no occasion tempted to utter even a syllabic on the subject,-- except once for a few minutes, in the year , upon some point relating to the attendance of a witness. the two or three sentences, however, which he did speak on that occasion were sufficient to prove, (what, as he was not a west-india proprietor, no one can doubt,) that the sentiments entertained by him on this interesting topic were, to the full extent, those which actuated not only his own party, but every real lover of justice and humanity throughout the world. to use a quotation which he himself applied to another branch of the question in :-- "i would not have a slave to till my ground, to fan me when i sleep, and tremble when i wake, for all that human sinews, bought and sold, have ever earn'd." the national convention having lately, in the first paroxysm of their republican vanity, conferred the honor of citizenship upon several distinguished englishmen, and, among others, upon mr. wilberforce and sir james mackintosh, it was intended, as appears by the following letter from mr. stone, (a gentleman subsequently brought into notice by the trial of his brother for high treason,) to invest mr. fox and mr. sheridan with the same distinction, had not the prudent interference of mr. stone saved them from this very questionable honor. the following is the letter which this gentleman addressed to sheridan on the occasion. "_paris, nov. , year , of the french republic._ "dear sir, "i have taken a liberty with your name, of which i ought to give you notice, and offer some apology. the convention, having lately enlarged their connections in europe, are ambitious of adding to the number of their friends by bestowing some mark of distinction on those who have stood forth in support of their cause, when its fate hung doubtful. the french conceive that they owe this obligation very eminently to you and mr. fox; and, to show their gratitude, the committee appointed to make the report has determined to offer to you and mr. fox the honor of citizenship. had this honor never been conferred before, had it been conferred only on worthy members of society, or were you and mr. fox only to be named at this moment, i should not have interfered. but as they have given the title to obscure and vulgar men and scoundrels, of which they are now very much ashamed themselves, i have presumed to suppose that you would think yourself much more honored in the breach than the observance, and have therefore caused your nomination to be suspended. but i was influenced in this also by other considerations, of which one was, that, though the committee would be more careful in their selection than the last had been, yet it was probable you would not like to share the honors with such as would be chosen. but another more important one that weighed with me was, that this new character would not be a small embarrassment in the route which you have to take the next session of parliament, when the affairs of france must necessarily be often the subject of discussion. no one will suspect mr. wilberforce of being seduced, and no one has thought that he did any thing to render him liable to seduction; as his superstition and devotedness to mr. pitt have kept him perfectly _à l'abri_ from all temptations to err on the side of liberty, civil or religious. but to you and mr. fox the reproach will constantly be made, and the blockheads and knaves in the house will always have the means of influencing the opinions of those without, by opposing with success your english character to your french one; and that which is only a mark of gratitude for past services will be construed by malignity into a bribe of some sort for services yet to be rendered. you may be certain that, in offering the reasons for my conduct, i blush that i think it necessary to stoop to such prejudices. of this, however, you will be the best judge, and i should esteem it a favor if you would inform me whether i have done right, or whether i shall suffer your names to stand as they did before my interference. there will be sufficient time for me to receive your answer, as i have prevailed on the reporter, m. brissot, to delay a few days. i have given him my reasons for wishing the suspension, to which he has assented. mr. o'brien also prompted me to this deed, and, if i have done wrong, he must take half the punishment. my address is "rose, huissier," under cover of the president of the national convention. "i have the honor to be "your most obedient "and most humble servant, "j.h. stone." it was in the month of october of this year that the romantic adventure of madame de genlis, (in the contrivance of which the practical humor of sheridan may, i think, be detected,) occurred on the road between london and dartford. this distinguished lady had, at the dose of the year , with a view of escaping the turbulent scenes then passing in france, come over with her illustrious pupil, mademoiselle d'orleans, and her adopted daughter, pamela, [footnote: married at tournay in the month of december, , to lord edward fitzgerald. lord edward was the only one, among the numerous suitors of mrs. sheridan, to whom she is supposed to have listened with any thing like a return of feeling; and that there should be mutual admiration between two such noble specimens of human nature, it is easy, without injury to either of them, to believe. some months before her death, when sheridan had been describing to her and lord edward a beautiful french girl whom he had lately seen, and added that she put him strongly in mind of what his own wife had been in the first bloom of her youth and beauty, mrs. sheridan turned to lord edward, and said with a melancholy smile, "i should like you, when i am dead, to marry that girl." this was pamela, whom sheridan had just seen during his visit of a few hours to madame de genlis, at bury, in suffolk, and whom lord edward married in about a year after.] to england, where she received both from mr. fox and mr. sheridan, all that attention to which her high character for talent, as well as the embarrassing nature of her situation at that moment, claimed for her. the following letter from her to mr. fox i find inclosed in one from the latter to mr. sheridan:-- "sir, "you have, by your infinite kindness, given me the right to show you the utmost confidence. the situation i am in makes me desire to have with me, during two days, a person perfectly well instructed in the laws, and very sure and honest. i desire such a person that i could offer to him all the money he would have for this trouble. but there is not a moment to be lost on the occasion. if you could send me directly this person, you would render me the most important service. to calm the most cruel agitation of a sensible and grateful soul shall be your reward.--oh could i see you but a minute!--i am uneasy, sick, unhappy; surrounded by the most dreadful snares of the fraud and wickedness; i am intrusted with the most interesting and sacred charge!--all these are my claims to hope your advices, protection and assistance. my friends are absent in that moment; there is only two names in which i could place my confidence and my hopes, pardon this bad language. as hypolite i may say, "'songez que je vous parle une langue étrangère,' but the feelings it expresses cannot be strangers to your heart. "sans avoir l'avantage d'être connue de monsieur fox, je prens la liberté de le supplier de comuniquer cette lettre à mr. sheridan, et si ce dernier n'est pas à londres, j'ose espérer de monsieur fox la même bonté que j'attendois de mr. shéridan dans l'embarras où je me trouve. je m'adresse aux deux personnes de l'angleterre que j'admire le plus, et je serois doublement heureuse d'être tirée de cette perplexité et de leur en avoir l'obligation. je serai peut être à londres incessament. je désirerois vivement les y trouver; mais en attendant je souhaite avec ardeur avoir ici le plus promptement possible l'homme de loi, ou seulement en êtat de donner de bons conseils que je demande. je renouvelle toutes mes excuses de tant d'importunités." it was on her departure for france in the present year that the celebrated adventure to which i have alluded, occurred; and as it is not often that the post boys between london and dartford are promoted into agents of mystery or romance, i shall give the entire narrative of the event in the lady's own words,--premising, (what mr. sheridan, no doubt discovered,) that her imagination had been for some time on the watch for such incidents, as she mentions, in another place, her terrors at the idea of "crossing the desert plains of newmarket without an escort." "we left london," says madame de genlis, "on our return to france the th of october, , and a circumstance occurred to us so extraordinary, that i ought not, i feel, to pass it over in silence. i shall merely, however, relate the fact, without any attempt to explain it, or without adding to my recital any of those reflections which the impartial reader will easily supply. we set out at ten o'clock in the morning in two carriages, one with six horses, and the other, in which were our maids, with four. i had, two months before, sent off four of my servants to paris, so that we had with us only one french servant, and a footman, whom we had hired to attend us as far as dover. when we were about a quarter of a league from london, the french servant, who had never made the journey from dover to london but once before, thought he perceived that we were not in the right road, and on his making the remark to me, i perceived it also. the postillions, on being questioned, said that they had only wished to avoid a small hill, and that they would soon return into the high road again. after an interval of three quarters of an hour, seeing that we still continued our way through a country that was entirely new to me, i again interrogated both the footman and the postillions, and they repeated their assurance that we should soon regain the usual road. "notwithstanding this, however, we still pursued our course with extreme rapidity, in the same unknown route; and as i had remarked that the post-boys and footman always answered me in a strange sort of laconic manner, and appeared as if they were afraid to stop, my companions and i began to look at each other with a mixture of surprise and uneasiness. we renewed our inquiries, and at last they answered that it was indeed true they had lost their way, but that they had wished to conceal it from us till they had found the cross-road to dartford (our first stage,) and that now, having been for an hour and a half in that road, we had but two miles to go before we should reach dartford. it appeared to us very strange that people should lose their way between london and dover, but the assurance that we were only half a league from dartford dispelled the sort of vague fear that had for a moment agitated us. at last, after nearly an hour had elapsed, seeing that we still were not arrived at the end of the stage, our uneasiness increased to a degree which amounted even to terror. it was with much difficulty that i made the post-boys stop opposite a small village which lay to our left; in spite of my shouts they still went on, till at last the french servant, (for the other did not interfere,) compelled them to stop. i then sent to the village to ask how far we were from dartford, and my surprise may be guessed when i received for answer that we were now miles, (more than seven leagues,) distant from that place. concealing my suspicions, i took a guide in the village, and declared that it was my wish to return to london, as i found i was now at a less distance from that city than from dartford. the post-boys made much resistance to my desire, and even behaved with an extreme degree of insolence, but our french servant, backed by the guide, compelled them to obey. "as we returned at a very slow pace, owing to the sulkiness of the postboys and the fatigue of the horses, we did not reach london before nightfall, when i immediately drove to mr. sheridan's house. he was extremely surprised to see me returned, and on my relating to him our adventure, agreed with us that it could not have been the result of mere chance. he then sent for a justice of the peace to examine the post-boys, who were detained till his arrival under the pretence of calculating their account; but in the meantime, the hired footman disappeared and never returned. the post-boys being examined by the justice according to the legal form, and in the presence of witnesses, gave their answers in a very confused way, but confessed that an unknown gentleman had come in the morning to their masters, and carrying them from thence to a public-house, had, by giving them something to drink, persuaded them to take the road by which we had gone. the examination was continued for a long time, but no further confession could be drawn from them. mr. sheridan told me, that there was sufficient proof on which to ground an action against these men, but that it would be a tedious process, and cost a great deal of money. the post-boys were therefore dismissed, and we did not pursue the inquiry any further. as mr. sheridan saw the terror i was in at the very idea of again venturing on the road to dover, he promised to accompany us thither himself, but added that, having some indispensable business on his hands, he could not go for some days. he took us then to isleworth, a country-house which he had near richmond, on the banks of the thames, and as he was not able to dispatch his business so quickly as he expected, we remained for a month in that hospitable retreat, which both gratitude and friendship rendered so agreeable to us." it is impossible to read this narrative, with the recollection, at the same time, in our minds of the boyish propensity of sheridan to what are called practical jokes, without strongly suspecting that he was himself the contriver of the whole adventure. the ready attendance of the justice,--the "unknown gentleman" deposed to by the post-boys,--the disappearance of the laquais, and the advice given by sheridan that the affair should be pursued no further,--all strongly savor of dramatic contrivance, and must have afforded a scene not a little trying to the gravity of him who took the trouble of getting it up. with respect to his motive, the agreeable month at his country-house sufficiently explains it; nor could his conscience have felt much scruples about an imposture, which, so far from being attended with any disagreeable consequences, furnished the lady with an incident of romance, of which she was but too happy to avail herself, and procured for him the presence of such a distinguished party, to grace and enliven the festivities of isleworth. [footnote: in the memoirs of madame genlis, lately published, she supplies a still more interesting key to his motives for such a contrivance. it appears, from the new recollections of this lady, that "he was passionately in love with pamela," and that, before her departure from england, the following scene took place--"two days before we set out, mr. sheridan made, in my presence, his dedication of love to pamela, who was affected by his agreeable manner and high character, and accepted the offer of his hand with pleasure. in consequence of this, it was settled that he was to marry her on our return from france, which was expected to take place in a fortnight." i suspect this to be but a continuation of the romance of dartford.] at the end of the month, (adds madame de genlis,) "mr. sheridan having finished his business, we set off together for dover, himself, his son, and an english friend of his, mr. reid, with whom i was but a few days acquainted. it was now near the end of the month of november, . the wind being adverse, detained us for five days at dover, during all which time mr. sheridan remained with us. at last the wind grew less unfavorable, but still blew so violently that nobody would advise me to embark. i resolved, however, to venture, and mr. sheridan attended us into the very packet-boat, where i received his farewell with a feeling of sadness which i cannot express. he would have crossed with us, but that some indispensable duty, at that moment, required his presence in england. he, however, left us mr. reid, who had the goodness to accompany us to paris." in war was declared between england and france. though hostilities might, for a short time longer, have been avoided, by a more accommodating readiness in listening to the overtures of france, and a less stately tone on the part of the english negotiator, there could hardly have existed in dispassionate minds any hope of averting the war entirely, or even of postponing it for any considerable period. indeed, however rational at first might have been the expectation, that france, if left to pass through the ferment of her own revolution, would have either settled at last into a less dangerous form of power, or exhausted herself into a state of harmlessness during the process, this hope had been for some time frustrated by the crusade proclaimed against her liberties by the confederated princes of europe. the conference at pilnitz and the manifesto of the duke of brunswick had taught the french people what they were to expect, if conquered, and had given to that inundation of energy, under which the republic herself was sinking, a vent and direction outwards that transferred all the ruin to her enemies. in the wild career of aggression and lawlessness, of conquest without, and anarchy within, which naturally followed such an outbreak of a whole maddened people, it would have been difficult for england, by any management whatever, to keep herself uninvolved in the general combustion,--even had her own population been much less heartily disposed than they were then, and ever have been, to strike in with the great discords of the world. that mr. pitt himself was slow and reluctant to yield to the necessity of hostile measures against france, appears from the whole course of his financial policy, down to the very close of the session of . the confidence, indeed, with which he looked forward to a long continuance of peace, in the midst of events, that were audibly the first mutterings of the earthquake, seemed but little indicative of that philosophic sagacity, which enables a statesman to see the rudiments of the future in the present. [footnote: from the following words in his speech on the communication from france in , he appears, himself, to have been aware of his want of foresight at the commencement of the war:-- "besides this, the reduction of our peace establishment in the year , and continued to the subsequent year, is a fact, from which the inference is indisputable; a fact, which, i am afraid, shows not only that we were not waiting for the occasion of war, but that, in our partiality for a pacific system, we had indulged ourselves in a fond and credulous security, which wisdom and discretion would not have dictated."] "it is not unreasonable," said he on the st of february, , "to expect that the peace which we now enjoy should continue at least fifteen years, since at no period of the british history, whether we consider the internal situation of this kingdom or its relation to foreign powers, has the prospect of war been farther removed than at present." in pursuance of this feeling of security, he, in the course of the session of - , repealed taxes to the amount of , _l_. a year, made considerable reductions in the naval and military establishments, and allowed the hessian subsidy to expire, without any movement towards its renewal. he likewise showed his perfect confidence in the tranquillity of the country, by breaking off a negotiation into which he had entered with the holders of the four per cents, for the reduction of their stock to three per cent.--saying, in answer to their demand of a larger bonus than he thought proper to give, "then we will put off the reduction of this stock till next year." the truth is, mr. pitt was proud of his financial system;--the abolition of taxes and the reduction of the national debt were the two great results to which he looked as a proof of its perfection; and while a war, he knew, would produce the very reverse of the one, it would leave little more than the name and semblance of the other. the alarm for the safety of their establishments, which at this time pervaded the great mass of the people of england, earned the proof of its own needlessness in the wide extent to which it spread, and the very small minority that was thereby left to be the object of apprehension. that in this minority, (which was, with few exceptions, confined to the lower classes,) the elements of sedition and insurrection were actively at work, cannot be denied. there was not a corner of europe where the same ingredients were not brought into ferment; for the french revolution had not only the violence, but the pervading influence of the simoom, and while it destroyed where it immediately passed, made itself felt every where. but, surrounded and watched as were the few disaffected in england, by all the rank, property and power of the country,--animated at that moment by a more than usual portion of loyalty,--the dangers from sedition, as yet, were by no means either so deep or extensive, as that a strict and vigilant exercise of the laws already in being, would not have been abundantly adequate to all the purposes of their suppression. the admiration, indeed, with which the first dawn of the revolution was hailed had considerably abated. the excesses into which the new republic broke loose had alienated the worship of most of its higher class of votaries, and in some, as in mr. windham, had converted enthusiastic admiration into horror;--so that, though a strong sympathy with the general cause of the revolution was still felt among the few whigs that remained, the profession of its wild, republican theories was chiefly confined to two classes of persons, who coincide more frequently than they themselves imagine,--the speculative and the ignorant. the minister, however, gave way to a panic which, there is every reason to believe, he did not himself participate, and in going out of the precincts of the constitution for new and arbitrary powers, established a series of fatal precedents, of which alarmed authority will be always but too ready to avail itself. by these stretches of power he produced--what was far more dangerous than all the ravings of club politicians--that vehement reaction of feeling on the part of mr. fox and his followers, which increased with the increasing rigor of the government, and sometimes led them to the brink of such modes and principles of opposition, as aggressions, so wanton, upon liberty alone could have either provoked or justified. the great promoters of the alarm were mr. burke, and those other whig seceders, who had for some time taken part with the administration against their former friends, and, as is usual with such proselytes, outran those whom they joined, on every point upon which they before most differed from them. to justify their defection, the dangers upon which they grounded it, were exaggerated; and the eagerness with which they called for restrictions upon the liberty of the subject was but too worthy of deserters not only from their post but from their principles. one striking difference between these new pupils of toryism and their master was with respect to the ultimate object of the war.--mr. pitt being of opinion that security against the power of france, without any interference whatever with her internal affairs, was the sole aim to which hostilities should be directed; while nothing less than the restoration of the bourbons to the power which they possessed before the assembling of the etats genereaux could satisfy mr. burke and his fellow converts to the cause of thrones and hierarchies. the effect of this diversity of objects upon the conduct of the war--particularly after mr. pitt had added to "security for the future," the suspicious supplement of "indemnity for the past"--was no less fatal to the success of operations abroad than to the unity of councils at home. so separate, indeed, were the views of the two parties considered, that the unfortunate expedition, in aid of the vendean insurgents in , was known to be peculiarly the measure of the _burke_ part of the cabinet, and to have been undertaken on the sole responsibility of their ministerial organ, mr. windham. it must be owned, too, that the obect of the alarmists in the war, however grossly inconsistent with their former principles, had the merit of being far more definite than that of mr. pitt; and, had it been singly and consistently pursued from the first, with all the vigor and concentration of means so strenuously recommended by mr. burke, might have justified its quixotism in the end by a more speedy and less ruinous success. as it was, however, the divisions, jealousies and alarms which mr. pitt's views towards a future dismemberment of france excited not only among the continental powers, but among the french themselves, completely defeated every hope and plan for either concert without or co operation within. at the same time, the distraction of the efforts of england from the heart of french power to its remote extremities, in what mr. windham called "a war upon sugar islands," was a waste of means as unstatesmanlike as it was calamitous, and fully entitled mr. pitt to the satire on his policy, conveyed in the remark of a certain distinguished lady, who said to him, upon hearing of some new acquisition in the west indies, "i protest, mr. pitt, if you go on thus, you will soon be master of every island in the world except just those two little ones, england and ireland." [footnote: mr. sheridan quoted this anecdote in one of his speeches in .] that such was the light in which mr. sheridan himself viewed the mode of carrying on the war recommended by the alarmists, in comparison with that which mr. pitt in general adopted, appears from the following passage in his speech upon spanish affairs in the year :-- "there was hardly a person, except his right honorable friend near him, (mr. windham,) and mr. burke, who since the revolution of france had formed adequate notions of the necessary steps to be taken. the various governments which this country had seen during that period were always employed in filching for a sugar-island, or some other object of comparatively trifling moment, while the main and principal purpose was lost and forgotten," whatever were the failures of mr. pitt abroad, at home his ascendancy was fixed and indisputable; and, among all the triumphs of power which he enjoyed during his career, the tribute now paid to him by the whig aristocracy, in taking shelter under his ministry from the dangers of revolution, could not have been the least gratifying to his haughty spirit. the india bill had ranged on his side the king and the people, and the revolution now brought to his banner the flower of the nobility of both parties. his own estimate of rank may be fairly collected both from the indifference which he showed to its honors himself, and from the depreciating profusion with which he lavished them upon others. it may be doubted whether his respect for aristocracy was much increased, by the readiness which he now saw in some of his high-born opponents, to volunteer for safety into his already powerful ranks, without even pausing to try the experiment, whether safety might not have been reconcilable with principle in their own. it is certain that, without the accession of so much weight and influence, he never could have ventured upon the violations of the constitution that followed--nor would the opposition, accordingly, have been driven by these excesses of power into that reactive violence which was the natural consequence of an effort to resist them. the prudent apprehensions, therefore, of these noble whigs would have been much more usefully as well as honorably employed, in mingling with, and moderating the proceedings of the friends of liberty, than in ministering fresh fuel to the zeal and vindictiveness of her enemies. [footnote: the case against these noble seceders is thus spiritedly stated by lord moira:-- "i cannot ever sit in a cabinet with the duke of portland. he appears to me to have done more injury to the constitution and to the estimation of the higher ranks in this country than any man on the political stage. by his union with mr. pitt he has given it to be understood by the people, that either all the constitutional charges which he and his friends for so many years urged against mr. put were groundless, or that, being solid, there was no difficulty in waving them when a convenient partition of powers and emoluments was proposed. in either case the people must infer that the constitutional principle which can be so played with is unimportant, and that parliamentary professions are no security." --_letter from the earl of moira to colonel m'mahon, in . parliamentary history_.] it may be added, too, that in allowing themselves to be persuaded by burke, that the extinction of the ancient noblesse of france portended necessarily any danger to the english aristocracy, these noble persons did injustice to the strength of their own order, and to the characteristics by which it is proudly distinguished from every other race of nobility in europe. placed, as a sort of break-water, between the people and the throne, in a state of double responsibility to liberty on one side, and authority on the other, the aristocracy of england hold a station which is dignified by its own great duties, and of which the titles transmitted by their ancestors form the least important ornament. unlike the nobility of other countries, where the rank and privileges of the father are multiplied through his offspring, and equally elevate them all above the level of the community, the very highest english nobleman must consent to be the father but of commoners. thus, connected with the class below him by private as well as public sympathies, he gives his children to the people as hostages for the sincerity of his zeal in their cause--while on the other hand, the people, in return for these pledges of the aristocracy, sends a portion of its own elements aloft into that higher region, to mingle with its glories and assert their claim to a share in its power. by this mutual transfusion an equilibrium is preserved, like that which similar processes maintain in the natural world, and while a healthy, popular feeling circulates through the aristocracy, a sense of their own station in the scale elevates the people. to tremble for the safety of a nobility so constituted, without much stronger grounds for alarm than appear to have existed in , was an injustice not only to that class itself, but the whole nation. the world has never yet afforded an example, where this artificial distinction between mankind has been turned to such beneficial account; and as no monarchy can exist without such an order, so, in any other shape than this, such an order is a burden and a nuisance. in england, so happy a conformation of her aristocracy is one of those fortuitous results which time and circumstances have brought out in the long-tried experiment of her constitution; and, while there is no chance of its being ever again attained in the old world, there is but little, probability of its being attempted in the new,--where the youthful nations now springing into life, will, if they are wise, make the most of the free career before them, and unencumbered with the costly trappings of feudalism, adopt, like their northern neighbors, that form of government, whose simplicity and cheapness are the best guarantees for its efficacy and purity. in judging of the policy of mr. pitt, during the revolutionary war, his partisans, we know, laud it as having been the means of salvation to england, while his opponents assert that it was only prevented by chance from being her ruin--and though the event gives an appearance of triumph to the former opinion, it by no means removes or even weakens the grounds of the latter. during the first nine years of his administration, mr. pitt was, in every respect, an able and most useful minister, and, "while the sea was calm, showed mastership in floating." but the great events that happened afterwards took him by surprise. when he came to look abroad from his cabinet into the storm that was brewing through europe, the clear and enlarged view of the higher order of statesman was wanting. instead of elevating himself above the influence of the agitation and alarm that prevailed, he gave way to it with the crowd of ordinary minds, and even took counsel from the panic of others. the consequence was a series of measures, violent at home and inefficient abroad--far short of the mark where vigor was wanting, and beyond it, as often, where vigor was mischievous. when we are told to regard his policy as the salvation of the country--when, (to use a figure of mr. dundas,) a _claim of salvage_ is made for him--it may be allowed us to consider a little the nature of the measures by which this alleged salvation was achieved. if entering into a great war without either consistency of plan, or preparation of means, and with a total ignorance of the financial resources of the enemy [footnote: into his erroneous calculations upon this point he is supposed to have been led by sir francis d'ivernois.]--if allowing one part of the cabinet to flatter the french royalists, with the hope of seeing the bourbons restored to undiminished power, while the other part acted, whenever an opportunity offered, upon the plan of dismembering france for the aggrandizement of austria, and thus, at once, alienated prussia at the very moment of subsidizing him, and lost the confidence of all the royalist party in france, [footnote: among other instances, the abbé maury is reported to have said at rome in a large company of his countrymen--"still we have one remedy--let us not allow france to be divided--we have seen the partition of poland we must all turn jacobins to preserve our country."] except the few who were ruined by english assistance at quiberon--if going to war in for the right of the dutch to a river, and so managing it that in the dutch lost their whole seven provinces--if lavishing more money upon failures than the successes of a century had cost, and supporting this profusion by schemes of finance, either hollow and delusive, like the sinking fund, or desperately regardless of the future, like the paper issues--if driving ireland into rebellion by the perfidious recall of lord fitzwilliam, and reducing england to two of the most, fearful trials, that a nation, depending upon credit and a navy, could encounter, the stoppage of her bank and a mutiny in her fleet--if, finally, floundering on from effort to effort against france, and then dying upon the ruins of the last coalition he could muster against her--if all this betokens a wise and able minister, then is mr. pitt most amply entitled to that name;--then are the lessons of wisdom to be read, like hebrew, backward, and waste and rashness and systematic failure to be held the only true means of saving a country. had even success, by one of those anomalous accidents, which sometimes baffle the best founded calculations of wisdom, been the immediate result of this long monotony of error, it could not, except with those to whom the event is every thing--"_eventus, stultorum magister_" [footnote: a saying of the wise fabius.]--reflect back merit upon the means by which it was achieved, or, by a retrospective miracle, convert that into wisdom, which chance had only saved from the worst consequences of folly. just as well might we be called upon to pronounce alchemy a wise art, because a perseverance in its failures and reveries had led by accident to the discoveries of chemistry. but even this sanction of good-luck was wanting to the unredeemed mistakes of mr. pitt. during the eight years that intervened between his death and the termination of the contest, the adoption of a far wiser policy was forced upon his more tractable pupils; and the only share that his measures can claim in the successful issue of the war, is that of having produced the grievance that was then abated--of having raised up the power opposed to him to the portentous and dizzy height, from which it then fell by the giddiness of its own elevation, [footnote: --"_summisque negatum stare din_." lucan.] and by the reaction, not of the princes, but the people of europe against its yoke. what would have been the course of affairs, both foreign and domestic, had mr. fox--as was, at one time, not improbable--been the minister during this period, must be left to that superhuman knowledge, which the schoolmen call "_media scientia_," and which consists in knowing all that would have happened, had events been otherwise than they have been. it is probable that some of the results would not have been so different as the respective principles of mr. pitt and mr. fox might naturally lead us, on the first thought, to assert. if left to himself, there is little doubt that the latter, from the simple and fearless magnanimity of his nature, would have consulted for the public safety with that moderation which true courage inspires; and that, even had it been necessary to suspend the constitution for a season, he would have known how to veil the statue of liberty, [footnote: "_il y a des cas ou il faut mettre pour un moment un voile sur la liberté, comme l'on cache les statues des dieux_."--montesquieu, liv. xii. chap. .] without leaving like his rival, such marks of mutilation on its limbs. but it is to be recollected that he would have had to encounter, in his own ranks, the very same patrician alarm, which could even to mr. pitt give an increase of momentum against liberty, and which the possession of power would have rendered but more sensitive and arbitrary. accustomed, too, as he had long been, to yield to the influence of burke, it would have required more firmness than habitually belonged to mr. fox, to withstand the persevering impetuosity of such a counsellor, or keep the balance of his mind unshaken by those stupendous powers, which, like the horses of the sun breaking out of the ecliptic, carried every thing they seized upon, so splendidly astray:-- "_quaque impetus egit, hac sine lege ruunt, altoque sub aethere fixis incursant stellis, rapiuntque per avia currum_." where'er the impulse drives, they burst away in lawless grandeur;--break into the array of the fix'd stars, and bound and blaze along their devious course, magnificently wrong! having hazarded these general observations, upon the views and conduct of the respective parties of england, during the crusade now begun against the french people, i shall content myself with briefly and cursorily noticing the chief questions upon which mr. sheridan distinguished himself, in the course of the parliamentary campaigns that followed. the sort of _guerilla_ warfare, which he and the rest of the small band attached to mr. fox carried on, during this period, against the invaders of the constitution, is interesting rather by its general character than its detail; for in these, as usual, the episodes of party personality are found to encroach disproportionately on the main design, and the grandeur of the cause, as viewed at a distance, becomes diminished to our imaginations by too near an approach. englishmen, however, will long look back to that crisis with interest; and the names of fox, of sheridan, and of grey will be affectionately remembered, when that sort of false elevation, which party-feeling now gives to the reputations of some who were opposed to them, shall have subsided to its due level, or been succeeded by oblivion. they who act against the general sympathies of mankind, however they may be artificially buoyed up for the moment, have the current against them in the long run of fame; while the reputation of those, whose talents have been employed upon the popular and generous side of human feelings, receives, through all time, an accelerating impulse from the countless hearts that go with it in its course. lord chatham, even now, supersedes his son in fame, and will leave him at an immeasurable distance with posterity. of the events of the private life of mr. sheridan, during this stormy part of his political career, there remain but few memorials among his papers. as an illustration, however, of his love of betting--the only sort of gambling in which he ever indulged--the following curious list of his wagers for the year is not unamusing:-- _" th may, ._--mr. sheridan bets gen. fitzpatrick one hundred guineas to fifty guineas, that within two years from this date some measure is adopted in parliament which shall be (_bonâ fide_) considered as the adoption of a parliamentary reform. "_ th january, ._--mr. s. bets mr. boothby clopton five hundred guineas, that there is a reform in the representation of the people of england within three years from the date hereof. "_ th january, _.--mr. s. bets mr. hardy one hundred guineas to fifty guineas, that mr. w. windham does not represent norwich at the next general election. "_ th january, ._--mr. s. bets gen. fitzpatrick fifty guineas, that a corps of british troops are sent to holland within two months of the date hereof. "_ th march, ._--mr. s. bets lord titchfield two hundred guineas, that the d. of portland is at the head of an administration on or before the th of march, ; mr. fox to decide whether any place the duke may then fill shall _bonâ fide_ come within the meaning of this bet. "_ th march, _.--mr. s. bets mr. hardy one hundred guineas, that the three per cent. consols are as high this day twelvemonth as at the date hereof. "mr. s. bets gen. tarleton one hundred guineas to fifty guineas, that mr. pitt is first lord of the treasury on the th of may, .--mr. s. bets mr. st. a. st. john fifteen guineas to five guineas, ditto.--mr. s. bets lord sefton one hundred and forty guineas to forty guineas, ditto. _" th march, _.--lord titchfield and lord w. russell bet mr. s. three hundred guineas to two hundred guineas, that mr. pitt is first lord of the treasury on the th of march, . "_ th march, _.--lord titchfield bets mr. s. twenty-five guineas to fifty guineas, that mr. w. windham represents norwich at the next general election." as a sort of moral supplement to this strange list, and one of those insights into character and conduct which it is the duty of a biographer to give, i shall subjoin a letter, connected evidently with one of the above speculations:-- "sir, "i am very sorry that i have been so circumstanced as to have been obliged to disappoint you respecting the payment of the five hundred guineas: when i gave the draughts on lord * * i had every reason to be assured he would accept them, as * * had also. i enclose you, as you will see by his desire, the letter in which he excuses his not being able to pay me this part of a larger sum he owes me, and i cannot refuse him any time he requires, however inconvenient to me. i also enclose you two draughts accepted by a gentleman from whom the money will be due to me, and on whose punctuality i can rely. i extremely regret that i cannot at this juncture command the money. "at the same time that i regret your being put to any inconvenience by this delay, i cannot help adverting to the circumstance which perhaps misled me into the expectation that you would not unwillingly allow me any reasonable time i might want for the payment of this bet. the circumstance i mean, however discreditable the plea, is the total inebriety of some of the party, particularly of myself, when i made this preposterous bet. i doubt not you will remember having yourself observed on this circumstance to a common friend the next day, with an intimation that you should not object to being off; and for my part, when i was informed that i had made such a bet and for such a sum,--the first, such folly on the face of it on my part, and the latter so out of my practice,--i certainly should have proposed the cancelling it, but that, from the intimation imparted to me, i hoped the proposition might come from you. "i hope i need not for a moment beg you not to imagine that i am now alluding to these circumstances as the slightest invalidation of your due. so much the contrary, that i most perfectly admit that from your not having heard any thing further from me on the subject, and especially after i might have heard that if i desired it the bet might be off, you had every reason to conclude that i was satisfied with the wager, and whether made in wine or not, was desirous of abiding by it. and this was further confirmed by my receiving soon after from you _l_, on another bet won by me. "having, i think, put this point very fairly, i again repeat that my only motive for alluding to the matter was, as some explanation of my seeming dilatoriness, which certainly did in part arise from always conceiving that, whenever i should state what was my real wish the day after the bet was made, you would be the more disposed to allow a little time;--the same statement admitting, as it must, the bet to be as clearly and as fairly won as possible; in short, as if i had insisted on it myself the next morning. "i have said more perhaps on the subject than can be necessary; but i should regret to appear negligent to an application for a just claim. "i have the honor to be, "sir, "your obedient servant, "_hertford st. feb. ._ "r. b. sheridan." of the public transactions of sheridan at this time, his speeches are the best record. to them, therefore, i shall henceforward principally refer my readers,--premising, that though the reports of his latter speeches are somewhat better, in general, than those of his earlier displays, they still do great injustice to his powers, and exhibit little more than the mere _torso_ of his eloquence, curtailed of all those accessories that lent motion and beauty to its form. the attempts to give the terseness of his wit particularly fail, and are a strong illustration of what he himself once said to lord * *. that nobleman, who among his many excellent qualities does not include a very lively sense of humor, having exclaimed, upon hearing some good anecdote from sheridan, "i'll go and tell that to our friend * *." sheridan called him back instantly and said, with much gravity, "for god's sake, don't, my dear * *: a joke is no laughing matter in your mouth." it is, indeed, singular, that all the eminent english orators--with the exception of mr. burke and mr. windham--should have been so little anxious for the correct transmission of their eloquence to posterity. had not cicero taken more care of even his extemporaneous effusions, we should have lost that masterly burst of the moment, to which the clemency of caesar towards marcellus gave birth. the beautiful fragments we have of lord chatham are rather traditional than recorded;--there are but two, i believe, of the speeches of mr. pitt corrected by himself, those on the budget of , and on the union with ireland;--mr. fox committed to writing but one of his, namely, the tribute to the memory of the duke of bedford;--and the only speech of mr. sheridan, that is known with certainty to have passed under his own revision, was that which he made at the opening of the following session, ( ,) in answer to lord mornington. in the course of the present year he took frequent opportunities of expressing his disgust at that spirit of ferocity which had so deeply disgraced the cause of the revolution. so earnest was his interest in the fate of the royal family of france, that, as appears from one of his speeches, he drew up a paper on the subject, and transmitted it to the republican rulers;--with the view, no doubt, of conveying to them the feelings of the english opposition, and endeavoring to avert, by the influence of his own name and that of mr. fox, the catastrophe that awaited those royal victims of liberty. of this interesting document i cannot discover any traces. in one of his answers to burke on the subject of the french revolution, adverting to the charge of deism and atheism brought against the republicans, he says, "as an argument to the feelings and passions of men, the honorable member had great advantages in dwelling on this topic; because it was a subject which those who disliked everything that had the air of cant and profession on the one hand, or of indifference on the other, found it awkward to meddle with. establishments, tests, and matters of that nature, were proper objects of political discussion in that house, but not general charges of atheism and deism, as pressed upon their consideration by the honorable gentleman. thus far, however, he would say, and it was an opinion he had never changed or concealed, that, although no man can command his conviction, he had ever considered a deliberate disposition to make proselytes in infidelity as an unaccountable depravity. whoever attempted to pluck the belief or the prejudice on this subject, style it which he would, from the bosom of one man, woman, or child, committed a brutal outrage, the motive for which he had never been able to trace or conceive." i quote these words as creditable to the feeling and good sense of sheridan. whatever may be thought of particular faiths and sects, a belief in a life beyond this world is the only thing that pierces through the walls of our prison-house, and lets hope shine in upon a scene, that would be otherwise bewildered and desolate. the proselytism of the atheist is, indeed, a dismal mission. that believers, who have each the same heaven in prospect, should invite us to join them on their respective ways to it, is at least a benevolent officiousness,--but that he, who has no prospect or hope himself, should seek for companionship in his road to annihilation, can only be explained by that tendency in human creatures to count upon each other in their despair, as well as their hope. in the speech upon his own motion relative to the existence of seditious practices in the country, there is some lively ridicule, upon the panic then prevalent. for instance:-- "the alarm had been brought forward in great pomp and form on saturday morning. at night all the mail-coaches were stopped; the duke of richmond stationed himself, among other curiosities, at the tower; a great municipal officer, too, had made a discovery exceedingly beneficial to the people of this country. he meant the lord mayor of london, who had found out that there was at the king's arms at cornhill a debating society, where principles of the most dangerous tendency were propagated; where people went to buy treason at sixpence a head; where it was retailed to them by the glimmering of an inch of candle; and five minutes, to be measured by the glass, were allowed to each traitor to perform his part in overturning the state." it was in the same speech that he gave the well-known and happy turn to the motto of the sun newspaper, which was at that time known to be the organ of the alarmists. "there was one paper," he remarked, "in particular, said to be the property of members of that house, and published and conducted under their immediate direction, which had for its motto a garbled part of a beautiful sentence, when it might, with much more propriety, have assumed the whole-- "solem quis dicere falsum audeat? ille etiam cacos instare tumultus saepe monet, fraudemque et operta tumescere bella." among the subjects that occupied the greatest share of his attention during this session, was the memorial of lord auckland to the states-general,--which document he himself brought under the notice of parliament as deserving of severe reprobation for the violent and vindictive tone which it assumed towards the commissioners of the national convention. it was upon one of the discussions connected with this subject that a dispute, as to the correct translation of the word "_malheureux_" was maintained with much earnestness between him and lord melville--two persons, the least qualified, perhaps, of any in the house, to volunteer as either interpreters or pronouncers of the french language. according to sheridan, "_ces malheureux_" was to be translated "these wretches," while lord melville contended, to the no small amusement of the house, that "_mollyroo_" (as he pronounced it,) meant no more than "these unfortunate gentlemen." in the november of this year mr. sheridan lost by a kind of death which must have deepened the feeling of the loss, the most intimate of all his companions, tickell. if congeniality of dispositions and pursuits were always a strengthener of affection, the friendship between tickell and sheridan ought to have been of the most cordial kind; for they resembled each other in almost every particular--in their wit, their wants, their talent, and their thoughtlessness. it is but too true, however, that friendship in general gains far less by such a community of pursuit than it loses by the competition that naturally springs out of it; and that two wits or two beauties form the last sort of alliance, in which we ought to look for specimens of sincere and cordial friendship. the intercourse between tickell and sheridan was not free from such collisions of vanity. they seem to have lived, indeed, in a state of alternate repulsion and attraction; and, unable to do without the excitement of each other's vivacity, seldom parted without trials of temper as well as of wit. being both, too, observers of character, and each finding in the other rich materials for observation, their love of ridicule could not withstand such a temptation, and they freely criticised each other to common friends, who, as is usually the case, agreed with both. still, however, there was a whim and sprightliness even about their mischief, which made it seem rather an exercise of ingenuity than an indulgence of ill nature; and if they had not carried on this intellectual warfare, neither would have liked the other half so well. the two principal productions of tickell, the "wreath of fashion" and "anticipation," were both upon temporary subjects, and have accordingly passed into oblivion. there are, however, some graceful touches of pleasantry in the poem; and the pamphlet, (which procured for him not only fame but a place in the stamp-office,) contains passages of which the application and the humor have not yet grown stale. as sheridan is the hero of the wreath of fashion, it is but right to quote the verses that relate to him; and i do it with the more pleasure, because they also contain a well-merited tribute to mrs. sheridan. after a description of the various poets of the day that deposit their offerings in lady millar's "vase of sentiment," the author thus proceeds:-- "at fashion's shrine behold a gentler bard gaze on the mystic vase with fond regard-- but see, thalia checks the doubtful thought, 'canst thou, (she cries,) with sense, with genius fraught, canst thou to fashion's tyranny submit, secure in native, independent wit? or yield to sentiment's insipid rule, by taste, by fancy, chac'd through scandal's school? ah no--be sheridan's the comic page, or let me fly with garrick from the stage. haste then, my friend, (for let me boast that name,) haste to the opening path of genuine fame; or, if thy muse a gentler theme pursue, ah, 'tis to love and thy eliza due! for, sure, the sweetest lay she well may claim, whose soul breathes harmony o'er all her frame; while wedded love, with ray serenely clear, beams from her eye, as from its proper sphere." in the year , tickell brought out at drury-lane an opera called "the carnival of venice," on which there is the following remark in mrs. crouch's memoirs:--"many songs in this piece so perfectly resemble in poetic beauty those which adorn the duenna, that they declare themselves to be the offspring of the same muse." i know not how far this conjecture may be founded, but there are four pretty lines which i remember in this opera, and which, it may be asserted without hesitation, sheridan never wrote. he had no feeling for natural scenery, [footnote: in corroboration of this remark, i have been allowed to quote the following passage of a letter written by a very eminent person, whose name all lovers of the picturesque associate with their best enjoyment of its beauties:-- "at one time i saw a good deal of sheridan--he and his first wife passed some time here, and he is an instance that a taste for poetry and for scenery are not always united. had this house been in the midst of hounslow heath, he could not have taken less interest in all around it: his delight was in shooting, all and every day, and my game-keeper said that of all the gentlemen he had ever been out with he never knew so bad a shot."] nor is there a trace of such a sentiment discoverable through his poetry. the following, as well as i can recollect, are the lines:-- "and while the moon shines on the stream, and as soft music breathes around, the feathering oar returns the gleam, and dips in concert to the sound." i have already given a humorous dedication of the rivals, written by tickell on the margin of a copy of that play in my possession. i shall now add another piece of still more happy humor, with which he has filled, in very neat hand-writing, the three or four first pages of the same copy. "the rivals, a comedy--one of the best in the english language--written as long ago as the reign of george the third. the author's name was sheridan--he is mentioned by the historians of that age as a man of uncommon abilities, very little improved by cultivation. his confidence in the resources of his own genius and his aversion to any sort of labor were so great that he could not be prevailed upon to learn either to read or write. he was, for a short time, manager of one the play-houses, and conceived the extraordinary and almost incredible project of composing a play extempore, which he was to recite in the green-room to the actors, who were immediately to come on the stage and perform it. the players refusing to undertake their parts at so short a notice, and with so little preparation, he threw up the management in disgust. "he was a member of the last parliaments that were summoned in england, and signalized himself on many occasions by his wit and eloquence, though he seldom came to the house till the debate was nearly concluded, and never spoke, unless he was drunk. he lived on a footing of great intimacy with the famous fox, who is said to have concerted with him the audacious attempt which he made, about the year , to seize the whole property of the east india company, amounting at that time to above , , _l_. sterling, and then to declare himself lord protector of the realm by the title of carlo khan. this desperate scheme actually received the consent of the lower house of parliament, the majority of whom were bribed by fox, or intimidated by his and sheridan's threats and violence: and it is generally believed that the revolution would have taken place, if the lords of the king's bedchamber had not in a body surrounded the throne and shown the most determined resolution not to abandon their posts but with their lives. the usurpation being defeated, parliament was dissolved and loaded with infamy. sheridan was one of the few members of it who were re-elected:--the burgesses of stafford, whom he had kept in a constant state of intoxication for near three weeks, chose him again to represent them, which he was well qualified to do. "fox's whig party being very much reduced, or rather almost annihilated, he and the rest of the conspirators remained quiet for some time; till, in the year , the french, in conjunction with tippoo sultan, having suddenly seized and divided between themselves the whole of the british possessions in india, the east india company broke, and a national bankruptcy was apprehended. during this confusion fox and his partisans assembled in large bodies, and made a violent attack in parliament on pitt, the king's first minister:--sheridan supported and seconded him. parliament seemed disposed to inquire into the cause of the calamity: the nation was almost in a state of actual rebellion; and it is impossible for us, at the distance of three hundred years, to form any judgment what dreadful consequences might have followed, if the king, by the advice of the lords of the bedchamber, had not dissolved the parliament, and taken the administration of affairs into his own hands, and those of a few confidential servants, at the head of whom he was pleased to place one mr. atkinson, a merchant, who had acquired a handsome fortune in the jamaica trade, and passed universally for a man of unblemished integrity. his majesty having now no farther occasion for pitt, and being desirous of rewarding him for his past services, and, at the same time, finding an adequate employment for his great talents, caused him to enter into holy orders, and presented him with the deanery of windsor; where he became an excellent preacher, and published several volumes of sermons, all of which are now lost. "to return to sheridan:--on the abrogation of parliaments, he entered into a closer connection than ever with fox and a few others of lesser note, forming together as desperate and profligate a gang as ever disgraced a civilized country. they were guilty of every species of enormity, and went so far as even to commit robberies on the highway, with a degree of audacity that could be equalled only by the ingenuity with which they escaped conviction. sheridan, not satisfied with eluding, determined to mock the justice of his country, and composed a masque called 'the foresters,' containing a circumstantial account of some of the robberies he had committed, and a good deal of sarcasm on the pusillanimity of those whom he had robbed, and the inefficacy of the penal laws of the kingdom. this piece was acted at drury-lane theatre with great applause, to the astonishment of all sober persons, and the scandal of the nation. his majesty, who had long wished to curb the licentiousness of the press and the theatres, thought this a good opportunity. he ordered the performers to be enlisted into the army, the play-house to be shut up, and all theatrical exhibitions to be forbid on pain of death, drury-lane play-house was soon after converted into a barrack for soldiers, which it has continued to be ever since. sheridan was arrested, and, it was imagined, would have suffered the rack, if he had not escaped from his guard by a stratagem, and gone over to ireland in a balloon with which his friend fox furnished him. immediately on his arrival in ireland, he put himself at the head of a party of the most violent reformers, commanded a regiment of volunteers at the siege of dublin in , and was supposed to be the person who planned the scheme for tarring and feathering mr. jenkinson, the lord lieutenant, and forcing him in that condition to sign the capitulation of the castle. the persons who were to execute this strange enterprise had actually got into the lord lieutenant's apartment at midnight, and would probably have succeeded in their project, if sheridan, who was intoxicated with whiskey, a strong liquor much in vogue with the volunteers, had not attempted to force open the door of mrs. ----'s bed-chamber, and so given the alarm to the garrison, who instantly flew to arms, seized sheridan and every one of his party, and confined them in the castle-dungeon. sheridan was ordered for execution the next day, but had no sooner got his legs and arms at liberty, than he began capering, jumping, dancing, and making all sorts of antics, to the utter amazement of the spectators. when the chaplain endeavored, by serious advice and admonition, to bring him to a proper sense of his dreadful situation, he grinned, made faces at him, tried to tickle him, and played a thousand other pranks with such astonishing drollery, that the gravest countenances became cheerful, and the saddest hearts glad. the soldiers who attended at the gallows were so delighted with his merriment, which they deemed magnanimity, that the sheriffs began to apprehend a rescue, and ordered the hangman instantly to do his duty. he went off in a loud horse-laugh, and cast a look towards the castle, accompanied with a gesture expressive of no great respect. "thus ended the life of this singular and unhappy man--a melancholy instance of the calamities that attend the misapplication of great and splendid ability. he was married to a very beautiful and amiable woman, for whom he is said to have entertained an unalterable affection. he had one son, a boy of the most promising hopes, whom he would never suffer to be instructed in the first rudiments of literature. he amused himself, however, with teaching the boy to draw portraits with his toes, in which he soon became so astonishing a proficient that he seldom failed to take a most exact likeness of every person who sat to him. "there are a few more plays by the same author, all of them excellent. "for further information concerning this strange man, vide 'macpherson's moral history,' art. '_drunkenness_.'" chapter vii. speech in answer to lord mornington.--coalition of the whig seceders with mr. pitt.--mr. canning.--evidence on the trial of horne tooke.--the "glorious first of june."--marriage of mr. sheridan.--pamphlet of mr. reeves.--debts of the prince of wales.--shakspeare manuscripts.--trial of stone.--mutiny at the nore.--secession of mr. fox from parliament. in the year , the natural consequences of the policy pursued by mr. pitt began rapidly to unfold themselves both at home and abroad. [footnote: see, for a masterly exposure of the errors of the war, the speech of lord lansdowne this year on bringing forward his motion for peace. i cannot let the name of this nobleman pass, without briefly expressing the deep gratitude which i feel to him, not only for his own kindness to me, when introduced, as a boy, to his notice, but for the friendship of his truly noble descendant, which i, in a great degree, owe to him, and which has long been the pride and happiness of my life.] the confederated princes of the continent, among whom the gold of england was now the sole bond of union, had succeeded as might be expected from so noble an incentive, and, powerful only in provoking france, had by every step they took but ministered to her aggrandizement. in the mean time, the measures of the english minister at home were directed to the two great objects of his legislation--the raising of supplies and the suppressing of sedition; or, in other words, to the double and anomalous task of making the people pay for the failures of their royal allies, and suffer for their sympathy with the success of their republican enemies. it is the opinion of a learned jesuit that it was by _aqua regia_ the golden calf of the israelites was dissolved--and the cause of kings was the royal solvent, in which the wealth of great britain now melted irrecoverably away. while the successes, too, of the french had already lowered the tone of the minister from projects of aggression to precautions of defence, the wounds which in the wantonness of alarm, he had inflicted on the liberties of the country, were spreading an inflammation around them that threatened real danger. the severity of the sentence upon muir and palmer in scotland, and the daring confidence with which charges of high treason were exhibited against persons who were, at the worst, but indiscreet reformers, excited the apprehensions of even the least sensitive friends of freedom. it is, indeed, difficult to say how far the excited temper of the government, seconded by the ever ready subservience of state-lawyers and bishops, might have proceeded at this moment, had not the acquittal of tooke and his associates, and the triumph it diffused through the country, given a lesson to power such as england is alone capable of giving, and which will long be remembered, to the honor of that great political safeguard,--that life-preserver in stormy times,--the trial by jury. at the opening of the session, mr. sheridan delivered his admirable answer to lord mornington, the report of which, as i have already said, was corrected for publication by himself. in this fine speech, of which the greater part must have been unprepared, there is a natural earnestness of feeling and argument that is well contrasted with the able but artificial harangue that preceded it. in referring to the details which lord mornington had entered into of the various atrocities committed in france, he says:-- "but what was the sum of all that he had told the house? that great and dreadful enormities had been committed, at which the heart shuddered, and which not merely wounded every feeling of humanity, but disgusted and sickened the soul. all this was most true; but what did all this prove? what, but that eternal and unalterable truth which had always presented itself to his mind, in whatever way he had viewed the subject, namely, that a long established despotism so far degraded and debased human nature, as to render its subjects, on the first recovery of their rights, unfit for the exercise of them. but never had he, or would he meet but with re probation that mode of argument which went, in fact, to establish, as an inference from this truth, that those who had been long slaves, ought therefore to remain so for over! no; the lesson ought to be, he would again repeat, a tenfold horror of that despotic form of government, which had so profaned and changed the nature of civilized man, and a still more jealous apprehension of any system tending to withhold the rights and liberties of our fellow-creatures. such a form of government might be considered as twice cursed; while it existed, it was solely responsible for the miseries and calamities of its subjects; and should a day of retribution come, and the tyranny be destroyed, it was equally to be charged with all the enormities which the folly or frenzy of those who overturned it should commit. "but the madness of the french people was not confined to their proceedings within their own country; we, and all the powers of europe, had to dread it. true; but was not this also to be accounted for? wild and unsettled as their state of mind was, necessarily, upon the events which had thrown such power so suddenly into their hands, the surrounding states had goaded them into a still more savage state of madness, fury, and desperation. we had unsettled their reason, and then reviled their insanity; we drove them to the extremities that produced the evils we arraigned; we baited them like wild beasts, until at length we made them so. the conspiracy of pilnitz, and the brutal threats of the royal abettors of that plot against the rights of nations and of men, had, in truth, to answer for all the additional misery, horrors, and iniquity, which had since disgraced and incensed humanity. such has been your conduct towards france, that you have created the passions which you persecute; you mark a nation to be cut off from the world; you covenant for their extermination; you swear to hunt them in their inmost recesses; you load them with every species of execration; and you now come forth with whining declamations on the horror of their turning upon you with the fury which you inspired." having alluded to an assertion of condorcet, quoted by lord mornington, that "revolutions are always the work of the minority," he adds livelily:-- "--if this be true, it certainly is a most ominous thing for the enemies of reform in england; for, if it holds true, of necessity, that the minority still prevails, in national contests, it must be a consequence that the smaller the minority the more certain must be the success. in what a dreadful situation then must the noble lord be and all the alarmists!--for, never surely was a minority so small, so thin in number as the present. conscions, however, that m. condorcet was mistaken in our object, i am glad to find that we are terrible in proportion as we are few; i rejoice that the liberality of secession which has thinned our ranks has only served to make us more formidable. the alarmists will hear this with new apprehensions; they will no doubt return to us with a view to diminish our force, and encumber us with their alliance in order to reduce us to insignificance." we have here another instance, in addition to the many that have been given, of the beauties that sprung up under sheridan's correcting hand. this last pointed sentence was originally thus: "and we shall swell our numbers in order to come nearer in a balance of insignificance to the numerous host of the majority." it was at this time evident that the great whig seceders would soon yield to the invitations of mr. pitt and the vehement persuasions of burke, and commit themselves still further with the administration by accepting of office. though the final arrangements to this effect were not completed till the summer, on account of the lingering reluctance of the duke of portland and mr. windham, lord loughborough and others of the former opposition had already put on the official livery of the minister. it is to be regretted that, in almost all cases of conversion to the side of power, the coincidence of some worldly advantage with the change should make it difficult to decide upon the sincerity or disinterestedness of the convert. that these noble whigs were sincere in their alarm there is no reason to doubt; but the lesson of loyalty they have transmitted would have been far more edifying, had the usual corollary of honors and emoluments not followed, and had they left at least one instance of political conversion on record, where the truth was its own sole reward, and the proselyte did not subside into the placeman. mr. sheridan was naturally indignant at these desertions, and his bitterness overflows in many passages of the speech before us. lord mornington having contrasted the privations and sacrifices demanded of the french by their minister of finance with those required of the english nation, he says in answer:-- "the noble lord need not remind us, that there is no great danger of our chancellor of the exchequer making any such experiment. i can more easily fancy another sort of speech for our prudent minister. i can more easily conceive him modestly comparing himself and his own measures with the character and conduct of his rival, and saying,--'do i demand of you, wealthy citizens, to lend your hoards to government without interest? on the contrary, when i shall come to propose a loan, there is not a man of you to whom i shall not hold out at least a job in every part of the subscription, and an usurious profit upon every pound you devote to the necessities of your country. do i demand of you, my fellow-placemen and brother-pensioners, that you should sacrifice any part of your stipends to the public exigency? on the contrary; am i not daily increasing your emoluments and your numbers in proportion as the country becomes unable to provide for you? do i require of you, my latest and most zealous proselytes, of you who have come over to me for the special purpose of supporting the war--a war, on the success of which you solemnly protest, that the salvation of britain, and of civil society itself, depend--do i require of you, that you should make a temporary sacrifice, in the cause of human nature, of the greater part of your private incomes? no, gentlemen, i scorn to take advantage of the eagerness of your zeal; and to prove that i think the sincerity of your attachment to me needs no such test, i will make your interest co-operate with your principle: i will quarter many of you on the public supply, instead of calling on you to contribute to it; and, while their whole thoughts are absorbed in patriotic apprehensions for their country, i will dexterously force upon others the favorite objects of the vanity or ambition of their lives. * * * * * "good god, sir, that he should have thought it prudent to have forced this contrast upon our attention; that he should triumphantly remind us of everything that shame should have withheld, and caution would have buried in oblivion! will those who stood forth with a parade of disinterested patriotism, and vaunted of the _sacrifices_ they had made, and the _exposed situation_ they had chosen, in order the better to oppose the friends of brissot in england--will they thank the noble lord for reminding us how soon these lofty professions dwindled into little jobbing pursuits for followers and dependents, as unfit to fill the offices procured for them, as the offices themselves were unfit to be created?--will the train of newly titled alarmists, of supernumerary negotiators, of pensioned paymasters, agents and commissaries, thank him for remarking to us how profitable their panic has been to themselves, and how expensive to their country? what a contrast, indeed, do we exhibit!--what! in such an hour as this, at a moment pregnant with the national fate, when, pressing as the exigency may be, the hard task of squeezing the money from the pockets of an impoverished people, from the toil, the drudgery of the shivering poor, must make the most practised collector's heart ache while he tears it from them--can it be that people of high rank, and professing high principles, that _they_ or _their families_ should seek to thrive on the spoils of misery and fatten on the meals wrested from industrious poverty? can it be that that should be the case with the very persons, who state the _unprecedented peril of the country_ as the _sole_ cause of their being found in the ministerial ranks? the constitution is in danger, religion is in danger, the very existence of the nation itself is endangered; all personal and party considerations ought to vanish; the war must be supported by every possible exertion, and by every possible sacrifice; the people must not murmur at their burdens, it is for their salvation, their all is at stake. the time is come, when all honest and disinterested men should rally round the throne as round a standard;--for what? ye honest and disinterested men, to receive, for your own private emolument, a portion of those very taxes wrung from the people on the pretence of saving them from the poverty and distress which you say the enemy would inflict, but which you take care no enemy shall be able to aggravate. oh! shame! shame! is this a time for selfish intrigues, and the little dirty traffic for lucre and emolument? does it suit the honor of a gentleman to ask at such a moment? does it become the honesty of a minister to grant? is it intended to confirm the pernicious doctrine, so industriously propagated by many, that all public men are impostors, and that every politician has his price? or even where there is no principle in the bosom, why does not prudence hint to the mercenary and the vain to abstain a while at least, and wait the fitting of the times? improvident impatience! nay, even from those who seem to have no direct object of office or profit, what is the language which their actions speak? the throne is in danger!--'we will support the throne; but let us share the smiles of royalty;'--the order of nobility is in danger!--'i will fight for nobility,' says the viscount, 'but my zeal would be much greater if i were made an earl.' 'rouse all the marquis within me,' exclaims the earl, 'and the peerage never turned forth a more undaunted champion in its cause than i shall prove.' 'stain my green riband blue,' cries out the illustrious knight, 'and the fountain of honor will have a fast and faithful servant.' what are the people to think of our sincerity?--what credit are they to give to our professions?--is this system to be persevered in? is there nothing that whispers to that right honorable gentleman that the crisis is too big, that the times are too gigantic, to be ruled by the little hackneyed and every-day means of ordinary corruption?" the discussions, indeed, during the whole of this session, were marked by a degree of personal acrimony, which in the present more sensitive times would hardly be borne. mr. pitt and mr. sheridan came, most of all, into collision; and the retorts of the minister not unfrequently proved with what weight the haughty sarcasms of power may descend even upon the tempered buckler of wit. it was in this session, and on the question of the treaty with the king of sardinia, that mr. canning made his first appearance, as an orator, in the house. he brought with him a fame, already full of promise, and has been one of the brightest ornaments of the senate and the country ever since. from the political faith in which he had been educated, under the very eyes of mr. sheridan, who had long been the friend of his family, and at whose house he generally passed his college vacations, the line that he was to take in the house of commons seemed already, according to the usual course of events, marked out for him. mr. sheridan had, indeed, with an eagerness which, however premature, showed the value which he and others set upon the alliance, taken occasion in the course of a laudatory tribute to mr. jenkinson, [footnote: now lord liverpool] on the success of his first effort in the house, to announce the accession which his own party was about to receive, in the talents of another gentleman,--the companion and friend of the young orator who had now distinguished himself. whether this and other friendships, formed by mr. canning at the university, had any share in alienating him from a political creed, which he had hitherto, perhaps, adopted rather from habit and authority than choice--or, whether he was startled at the idea of appearing for the first time in the world, as the announced pupil and friend of a person who, both by the vehemence of his politics and the irregularities of his life, had put himself, in some degree, under the ban of public opinion--or whether, lastly, he saw the difficulties which even genius like his would experience, in rising to the full growth of its ambition, under the shadowing branches of the whig aristocracy, and that superseding influence of birth and connections, which had contributed to keep even such men as burke and sheridan out of the cabinet--_which_ of these motives it was that now decided the choice of the young political hercules, between the two paths that equally wooed his footsteps, none, perhaps, but himself can fully determine. his decision, we know, was in favor of the minister and toryism; and, after a friendly and candid explanation to sheridan of the reasons and feelings that urged him to this step, he entered into terms with mr. pitt, and was by him immediately brought into parliament. however dangerous it might be to exalt such an example into a precedent, it is questionable whether, in thus resolving to join the ascendant side, mr. canning has not conferred a greater benefit on the country than he ever would have been able to effect in the ranks of his original friends. that party, which has now so long been the sole depository of the power of the state, had, in addition to the original narrowness of its principles, contracted all that proud obstinacy, in antiquated error, which is the invariable characteristic of such monopolies; and which, however consonant with its vocation, as the chosen instrument of the crown, should have long since _invalided_ it in the service of a free and enlightened people. some infusion of the spirit of the times into this body had become necessary, even for its own preservation,--in the same manner as the inhalement of youthful breath has been recommended, by some physicians, to the infirm and superannuated. this renovating inspiration the genius of mr. canning has supplied. his first political lessons were derived from sources too sacred to his young admiration to be forgotten. he has carried the spirit of these lessons with him into the councils which he joined, and by the vigor of the graft, which already, indeed, shows itself in the fruits, bids fair to change altogether the nature of toryism. among the eminent persons summoned as witnesses on the trial of horne tooke, which took place in november of this year, was mr. sheridan; and, as his evidence contains some curious particulars, both with regard to himself and the state of political feeling in the year , i shall here transcribe a part of it:-- "he, (mr. sheridan,) said he recollects a meeting to celebrate the establishment of liberty in france in the year . upon that occasion he moved a resolution drawn up the day before by the whig club. mr. horne tooke, he says, made no objection to his motion, but proposed an amendment. mr. tooke stated that an unqualified approbation of the french revolution, in the terms moved, might produce an ill effect out of doors, a disposition to a revolution in this country, or, at least, be misrepresented to have that object; he adverted to the circumstance of their having all of them national cockades in their hats; he proposed to add some qualifying expression to the approbation of the french revolution, a declaration of attachment to the principles of our own constitution; he said mr. tooke spoke in a figurative manner of the former government of france; he described it as a vessel so foul and decayed, that no repair could save it from destruction, that in contrasting our state with that, he said, thank god, the main timbers of our constitution are sound; he had before observed, however, that some reforms might be necessary; he said that sentiment was received with great disapprobation, and with very rude interruption, insomuch that lord stanhope, who was in the chair, interfered; he said it had happened to him, in many public meetings, to differ with and oppose the prisoner, and that he has frequently seen him received with very considerable marks of disapprobation, but he never saw them affect him much; he said that he himself objected to mr. tooke's amendment; he thinks he withdrew his amendment, and moved it as a separate motion; he said it was then carried as unanimously as his own motion had been; that original motion and separate motion are in these words:--'that this meeting does most cordially rejoice in the establishment and confirmation of liberty in france; and it beholds with peculiar satisfaction the sentiments of amity and good will which appear to pervade the people of that country towards this kingdom, especially at a time when it is the manifest interest of both states that nothing should interrupt the harmony which at present subsists between them, and which is so essentially necessary to the freedom and happiness, not only of the french nation, but of all mankind.' "mr. tooke wished to add to his motion some qualifying clause, to guard against misunderstanding and misrepresentation:--that there was a wide difference between england and france; that in france the vessel was so foul and decayed, that no repair could save it from destruction, whereas, in england, we had a noble and stately vessel, sailing proudly on the bosom of the ocean; that her main timbers were sound, though it was true, after so long a course of years, she might want some repairs. mr. tooke's motion was,--'that we feel equal satisfaction that the subjects of england, by the virtuous exertions of their ancestors, have not so arduous a task to perform as the french have had, but have only to maintain and improve the constitution which their ancestors have transmitted to them.'--this was carried unanimously." the trial of warren hastings still "dragged its slow length along," and in the may of this year mr. sheridan was called upon for his reply on the begum charge. it was usual, on these occasions, for the manager who spoke to be assisted by one of his brother managers, whose task it was to carry the bag that contained his papers, and to read out whatever minutes might be referred to in the course of the argument. mr. michael angelo taylor was the person who undertook this office for sheridan; but, on the morning of the speech, upon his asking for the bag that he was to carry, he was told by sheridan that there was none--neither bag nor papers. they must manage, he said, as well as they could without them;--and when the papers were called for, his friend must only put the best countenance he could upon it. as for himself "he would abuse ned law--ridicule plumer's long orations--make the court laugh--please the women, and, in short, with taylor's aid would get triumphantly through his task." his opening of the case was listened to with the profoundest attention; but when he came to contrast the evidence of the commons with that adduced by hastings, it was not long before the chancellor interrupted him, with a request that the printed minutes to which he referred should be read. sheridan answered that his friend mr. taylor would read them; and mr. taylor affected to send for the bag, while the orator begged leave, in the meantime, to proceed. again, however, his statements rendered a reference to the minutes necessary, and again he was interrupted by the chancellor, while an outcry after mr. sheridan's bag was raised in all directions. at first the blame was laid on the solicitor's clerk--then a messenger was dispatched to mr. sheridan's house. in the meantime, the orator was proceeding brilliantly and successfully in his argument; and, on some further interruption and expostulation from the chancellor, raised his voice and said, in a dignified tone, "on the part of the commons, and as a manager of this impeachment, i shall conduct my case as i think proper. i mean to be correct, and your lordships, having the printed minutes before you, will afterwards see whether i am right or wrong." during the bustle produced by the inquiries after the bag, mr. fox, alarmed at the inconvenience which, he feared, the want of it might occasion sheridan, ran up from the managers' room, and demanded eagerly the cause of this mistake from mr. taylor; who, hiding his mouth with his hand, whispered him, (in a tone of which they alone, who have heard this gentleman relate the anecdote, can feel the full humor,) "the man has no bag!" the whole of this characteristic contrivance was evidently intended by sheridan to raise that sort of surprise at the readiness of his resources, which it was the favorite triumph of his vanity to create. i have it on the authority of mr. william smythe, that, previously to the delivery of this speech, he passed two or three days alone at wanstead, so occupied from morning till night in writing and reading of papers, as to complain in the evenings that he "had motes before his eyes." this mixture of real labor with apparent carelessness was, indeed, one of the most curious features of his life and character. together with the political contests of this stormy year, he had also on his mind the cares of his new theatre, which opened on the st of april, with a prologue, not by himself, as might have been expected, but by his friend general fitzpatrick. he found time, however, to assist in the rapid manufacture of a little piece called "the glorious first of june," which was acted immediately after lord howe's victory, and of which i have found some sketches [footnote: one of these is as follows:-- "scene i.--miss _leake_--miss _decamp--walsh_. "short dialogue--nancy persuading susan to go to the fair, where there is an entertainment to be given by the lord of the manor--susan melancholy because henry, her lover, is at sea with the british admiral--_song_ --her old mother scolds from the cottage--her little brother (_walsh_) comes from the house, with a message--laughs at his sister's fears and sings--_trio_. "scene ii.--_the fair_ "puppet show--dancing bear--bells--hurdy-gurdy--recruiting party--song and chorus. "_ballet_--d'egville. "susan says she has no pleasure, and will go and take a solitary walk. "scene iii.--_dark wood._ "susan--gipsy--tells her fortune--recitative and ditty. "scene iv. "sea-fight--hell and the devil! "henry and susan meet--chorus introducing burden, "rule britannia." among other occasional trifles of this kind, to which sheridan condescended for the advantage of the theatre, was the pantomime of robinson crusoe, brought out, i believe, in , of which he is understood to have been the author. there was a practical joke in this pantomime, (where, in pulling off a man's boot, the leg was pulled off with it,) which the famous delpini laid claim to as his own, and publicly complained of sheridan's having stolen it from him. the punsters of the day said it was claimed as literary property--being "in usum _delpini_." another of these inglorious tasks of the author of the school for scandal, was the furnishing of the first outline or _programme_ of "the forty thieves." his brother in law, ward, supplied the dialogue, and mr. colman was employed to season it with an infusion of jokes. the following is sheridan's sketch of one of the scenes-- "ali baba. "bannister called out of the cavern boldly by his son--comes out and falls on the ground a long time, not knowing him--says he would only have taken a little gold to keep off misery and save his son, &c. "afterwards, when he loads his asses, his son reminds him to be moderate--but it was a promise made to thieves--'it gets nearer the owner, if taken from the stealer'--the son disputes this morality--'they stole it, _ergo_, they have no right to it; and we steal it from the stealer, _ergo_, our title is twice as bad as theirs.'"] in sheridan's hand-writing,--though the dialogue was, no doubt, supplied (as mr. boaden says,) "by cobb, or some other such _pedissequus_ of the dramatic muse. this piece was written, rehearsed, and acted within three days. the first operation of mr. sheridan towards it was to order the mechanist of the theatre to get ready two fleets. it was in vain that objections were started to the possibility of equipping these pasteboard armaments in so short an interval--lord chatham's famous order to lord anson was not more peremptory. [footnote: for the expedition to the coast of france, after the convention of closter seven. when he ordered the fleet to be equipped, and appointed the time and place of its rendezvous, lord anson said it would be impossible to have it prepared so soon. "it may," said mr. pitt, "be done, and if the ships are not ready at the time specified, i shall signify your lordship's neglect to the king, and impeach you in the house of commons." this intimation produced the desired effect--the ships were ready. see anecdotes of lord chatham, vol. i] the two fleets were accordingly ready at the time, and the duke of clarence attended the rehearsal of their evolutions. this mixture of the cares of the statesman and the manager is one of those whimsical peculiarities that made sheridan's own life so dramatic, and formed a compound altogether too singular ever to occur again. in the spring of the following year, ( ,) we find mr. sheridan paying that sort of tribute to the happiness of a first marriage which is implied by the step of entering into a second. the lady to whom he now united himself was miss esther jane ogle, daughter of the dean of winchester, and grand-daughter, by the mother's side, of the former bishop of winchester. we have here another proof of the ready mine of wealth which the theatre opened,--as in gratitude it ought,--to him who had endowed, it with such imperishable treasures. the fortune of the lady being five thousand pounds, he added to it fifteen thousand more, which he contrived to raise by the sale of drury-lane shares; and the whole of the sum was subsequently laid out in the purchase from sir w. geary of the estate of polesden, in surrey, near leatherhead. the trustees of this settlement were mr. grey, (now lord grey,) and mr. whitbread. to a man at the time of life which sheridan had now attained--four years beyond that period, at which petrarch thought it decorous to leave off writing love-verses [footnote: see his epistle, "ad posteritatem," where, after lamenting the many years which he had devoted to love, he adds: "mox vero ad _quadragesimum annum_ appropinquans, dum adhuc et caloris satis esset," &c.]--a union with a young and accomplished girl, ardently devoted to him, must have been like a renewal of his own youth; and it is, indeed, said by those who were in habits of intimacy with him at this period, that they had seldom seen his spirits in a state of more buoyant vivacity. he passed much of his time at the house of his father-in-law near southampton;--and in sailing about with his lively bride on the southampton river, (in a small cutter called the phaedria, after the magic boat in the "fairy queen,") forgot for a while his debts, his theatre, and his politics. it was on one of these occasions that my friend mr. bowles, who was a frequent companion of his parties, [footnote: among other distinguished persons present at these excursions were mr. joseph richardson, dr. howley, now bishop of london, and mrs. wilmot, now lady dacre, a lady, whose various talents,--not the less delightful for being so feminine,--like the group of the graces, reflect beauty on each other.] wrote the following verses, which were much admired, as they well deserved to be, by sheridan, for the sweetness of their thoughts, and the perfect music of their rhythm:-- "smooth went our boat upon the summer seas, leaving, (for so it seem'd.) the world behind, its cares, its sounds, its shadows: we reclin'd upon the sunny deck, heard but the breeze that o'er us whispering pass'd or idly play'd with the lithe flag aloft.--a woodland scene on either side drew its slope line of green, and hung the water's shining edge with shade. above the woods, netley! thy ruins pale peer'd, as we pass'd; and vecta's [ ] azure hue beyond the misty castle [ ] met the view; where in mid channel hung the scarce-seen sail. so all was calm and sunshine as we went cheerily o'er the briny element. oh! were this little boat to us the world, as thus we wander'd far from sounds of care, circled with friends and gentle maidens fair, whilst morning airs the waving pendant curl'd, how sweet were life's long voyage, till in peace we gain'd that haven still, where all things cease!" [footnote : isle of wight] [footnote : kelshot castle] the events of this year but added fresh impetus to that reaction upon each other of the government and the people, which such a system of misrule is always sure to produce. among the worst effects, as i have already remarked, of the rigorous policy adopted by the minister, was the extremity to which it drove the principles and language of opposition, and that sanction which the vehement rebound against oppression of such influencing spirits as fox and sheridan seemed to hold out to the obscurer and more practical assertors of freedom. this was at no time more remarkable than in the present session, during the discussion of those arbitrary measures, the treason and sedition bills, when sparks were struck out, in the collision of the two principles, which the combustible state of public feeling at the moment rendered not a little perilous. on the motion that the house should resolve itself into a committee upon the treason bill, mr. fox said, that "if ministers were determined, by means of the corrupt influence they already possessed in the two houses of parliament, to pass these bills, in violent opposition to the declared sense of the great majority of the nation, and they should be put in force with all their rigorous provisions,--if his opinion were asked by the people as to their obedience, he should tell them, that it was no longer a question of moral obligation and duty, but of prudence." mr. sheridan followed in the bold footsteps of his friend, and said, that "if a degraded and oppressed majority of the people applied to him, he would advise them to acquiesce in those bills only as long as resistance was imprudent." this language was, of course, visited with the heavy reprobation of the ministry;--but their own partisans had already gone as great lengths on the side of absolute power, and it is the nature of such extremes to generate each other. bishop horsley had preached the doctrine of passive obedience in the house of lords, asserting that "man's abuse of his delegated authority is to be borne with resignation, like any other of god's judgments; and that the opposition of the individual to the sovereign power is an opposition to god's providential arrangements." the promotion of the right reverend prelate that followed, was not likely to abate his zeal in the cause of power; and, accordingly, we find him in the present session declaring, in his place in the house of lords, that "the people have nothing to do with the laws but to obey them." the government, too, had lately given countenance to writers, the absurd slavishness of whose doctrines would have sunk below contempt, but for such patronage. among the ablest of them was arthur young,--one of those renegades from the cause of freedom, who, like the incendiary that set fire to the temple with the flame he had stolen from its altar, turn the fame and the energies which they have acquired in _defence_ of liberty _against_ her. this gentleman, to whom his situation as secretary to the board of agriculture afforded facilities for the circulation of his political heresies, did not scruple, in one of his pamphlets, roundly to assert, that unequal representation, rotten boroughs, long parliaments, extravagant courts, selfish ministers, and corrupt majorities, are not only intimately interwoven with the practical freedom of england, but, in a great degree, the causes of it. but the most active and notorious of these patronized advocates of the court was mr. john reeves,--a person who, in his capacity of president of the association against republicans and levellers, had acted as a sort of sub-minister of alarm to mr. burke. in a pamphlet, entitled "thoughts on the english government," which mr. sheridan brought under the notice of the house, as a libel on the constitution, this pupil of the school of filmer advanced the startling doctrine that the lords and commons of england derive their existence and authority from the king, and that the kingly government could go on, in all its functions, without them. this pitiful paradox found an apologist in mr. windham, whose chivalry in the new cause he had espoused left mr. pitt himself at a wondering distance behind. his speeches in defence of reeves, (which are among the proofs that remain of that want of equipoise observable in his fine, rather than solid, understanding,) have been with a judicious charity towards his memory, omitted in the authentic collection by mr. amyot. when such libels against the constitution were not only promulgated, but acted upon, on one side, it was to be expected, and hardly, perhaps, to be regretted, that the repercussion should be heard loudly and warningly from the other. mr. fox, by a subsequent explanation, softened down all that was most menacing in his language; and, though the word "resistance," at full length, should, like the hand-writing on the wall, be reserved for the last intoxication of the belshazzars of this world, a letter or two of it may, now and then, glare out upon their eyes, without producing any thing worse than a salutary alarm amid their revels. at all events, the high and constitutional grounds on which mr. fox defended the expressions he had hazarded, may well reconcile us to any risk incurred by their utterance. the tribute to the house of russell, in the grand and simple passage beginning, "dear to this country are the descendants of the illustrious russell," is as applicable to that noble family now as it was then; and will continue to be so, i trust, as long as a single vestige of a race, so pledged to the cause of liberty, remains. in one of mr. sheridan's speeches on the subject of reeves's libel, there are some remarks on the character of the people of england, not only candid and just, but, as applied to them at that trying crisis, interesting:-- "never was there," he said, "any country in which there was so much absence of public principle, and at the same time so many instances of private worth. never was there so much charity and humanity towards the poor and the distressed; any act of cruelty or oppression never failed to excite a sentiment of general indignation against its authors. it was a circumstance peculiarly strange, that though luxury had arrived to such a pitch, it had so little effect in depraving the hearts and destroying the morals of people in private life; and almost every day produced some fresh example of generous feelings and noble exertions of benevolence. yet amidst these phenomena of private virtue, it was to be remarked, that there was an almost total want of public spirit, and a most deplorable contempt of public principle. * * * * * "when great britain fell, the case would not be with her as with rome in former times. when rome fell, she fell by the weight of her own vices. the inhabitants were so corrupted and degraded, as to be unworthy of a continuance of prosperity, and incapable to enjoy the blessings of liberty; their minds were bent to the state in which a reverse of fortune placed them. but when great britain falls, she will fall with a people full of private worth and virtue; she will be ruined by the profligacy of the governors, and the security of her inhabitants,--the consequence of those pernicious doctrines which have taught her to place a false confidence in her strength and freedom, and not to look with distrust and apprehension to the misconduct and corruption of those to whom she has trusted the management of her resources." to this might have been added, that when great britain falls, it will not be from either ignorance of her rights, or insensibility to their value, but from that want of energy to assert them which a high state of civilization produces. the love of ease that luxury brings along with it,--the selfish and compromising spirit, in which the members of a polished society countenance each other, and which reverses the principle of patriotism, by sacrificing public interests to private ones,--the substitution of intellectual for moral excitement, and the repression of enthusiasm by fastidiousness and ridicule,--these are among the causes that undermine a people,--that corrupt in the very act of enlightening them; till they become, what a french writer calls "_esprits exigeans et caracteres complaisans_," and the period in which their rights are best understood may be that in which they most easily surrender them. it is, indeed, with the advanced age of free states, as with that of individuals,--they improve in the theory of their existence as they grow unfit for the practice of it; till, at last, deceiving themselves with the semblance of rights gone by, and refining upon the forms of their institutions after they have lost the substance, they smoothly sink into slavery, with the lessons of liberty on their lips. besides the treason and sedition bills, the suspension of the habeas corpus act was another of the momentous questions which, in this as well as the preceding session, were chosen as points of assault by mr. sheridan, and contested with a vigor and reiteration of attack, which, though unavailing against the massy majorities of the minister, yet told upon public opinion so as to turn even defeats to account. the marriage of the prince of wales to the princess caroline of brunswick having taken place in the spring of this year, it was proposed by his majesty to parliament, not only to provide an establishment for their royal highnesses, but to decide on the best manner of liquidating the debts of the prince, which were calculated at , _l_. on the secession of the leading whigs, in , his royal highness had also separated himself from mr. fox, and held no further intercourse either with him or any of his party,--except, occasionally, mr. sheridan,--till so late, i believe, as the year . the effects of this estrangement are sufficiently observable in the tone of the opposition throughout the debates on the message of the king. mr. grey said, that he would not oppose the granting of an establishment to the prince equal to that of his ancestors; but neither would he consent to the payment of his debts by parliament. a refusal, he added, to liberate his royal highness from his embarrassments would certainly prove a mortification; but it would, at the same time, awaken a just sense of his imprudence. mr. fox asked, "was the prince well advised in applying to that house on the subject of his debts, after the promise made in ?"--and mr. sheridan, while he agreed with his friends that the application should not have been made to parliament, still gave it as his "positive opinion that the debts ought to be paid immediately, for the dignity of the country and the situation of the prince, who ought not to be seen rolling about the streets, in his state-coach, as an insolvent prodigal." with respect to the promise given in , and now violated, that the prince would not again apply to parliament for the payment of his debts, mr. sheridan, with a communicativeness that seemed hardly prudent, put the house in possession of some details of the transaction, which, as giving an insight into royal character, are worthy of being extracted. "in , a pledge was given to the house that no more debts should be contracted. by that pledge the prince was bound as much as if he had given it knowingly and voluntarily. to attempt any explanation of it now would be unworthy of his honor,--as if he had suffered it to be wrung from him, with a view of afterwards pleading that it was against his better judgment, in order to get rid of it. he then advised the prince not to make any such promise, because it was not to be expected that he could himself enforce the details of a system of economy; and, although he had men of honor and abilities about him, he was totally unprovided with men of business, adequate to such a task. the prince said he could not give such a pledge, and agree at the same time to take back his establishment. he (mr. sheridan) drew up a plan of retrenchment, which was approved of by the prince, and afterwards by his majesty; and the prince told him that the promise was not to be insisted upon. in the king's message, however, the promise was inserted,--by whose advice he knew not. he heard it read with surprise, and, on being asked next day by the prince to contradict it in his place, he inquired whether the prince had seen the message before it was brought down. being told that it had been read to him, but that he did not understand it as containing a promise, he declined contradicting it, and told the prince that he must abide by it in whatever way it might have been obtained. by the plan then settled, ministers had a check upon the prince's expenditure, which they never exerted, nor enforced adherence to the plan. * * * * * "while ministers never interfered to check expenses, of which they could not pretend ignorance, the prince had recourse to means for relieving himself from his embarrassments, which ultimately tended to increase them. it was attempted to raise a loan for him in foreign countries, a measure which he thought unconstitutional, and put a stop to; and, after a consultation with lord loughborough, all the bonds were burnt, although with a considerable loss to the prince. after that, another plan of retrenchment was proposed, upon which he had frequent consultations with lord thurlow, who gave the prince fair, open, and manly advice. that noble lord told the prince, that, after the promise he had made, he must not think of applying to parliament;--that he must avoid being of any party in politics, but, above all, exposing himself to the suspicion of being influenced in political opinion by his embarrassments;--that the only course he could pursue with honor, was to retire from public life for a time, and appropriate the greater part of his income to the liquidation of his debts. this plan was agreed upon in the autum of . why, it might be asked, was it not carried into effect? about that period his royal highness began to receive unsolicited advice from another quarter. he was told by lord loughborough, both in words and in writing, that the plan savored too much of the advice given to m. egalité, and he could guess from what quarter it came. for his own part, he was then of opinion, that to have avoided meddling in the great political questions which were then coming to be discussed, and to have put his affairs in a train of adjustment, would have better become his high station, and tended more to secure public respect to it, than the pageantry of state-liveries." the few occasions on which the name of mr. sheridan was again connected with literature, after the final investment of his genius in political speculations, were such as his fame might have easily dispensed with;--and one of them, the forgery of the shakspeare papers, occurred in the course of the present year. whether it was that he looked over these manuscripts with the eye more of a manager than of a critic, and considered rather to what account the belief in their authenticity might be turned, than how far it was founded upon internal evidence;--or whether, as mr. ireland asserts, the standard at which he rated the genius of shakspeare was not so high as to inspire him with a very watchful fastidiousness of judgment; certain it is that he was, in some degree, the dupe of this remarkable imposture, which, as a lesson to the self-confidence of criticism, and an exposure of the fallibility of taste, ought never to be forgotten in literary history. the immediate payment of _l_. and a moiety of the profits for the first sixty nights, were the terms upon which mr. sheridan purchased the play of vortigern from the irelands. the latter part of the conditions was voided the first night; and, though it is more than probable that a genuine tragedy of shakspeare, if presented under similar circumstances, would have shared the same fate, the public enjoyed the credit of detecting and condemning a counterfeit, which had passed current through some of the most learned and tasteful hands of the day. it is but justice, however, to mr. sheridan to add, that, according to the account of ireland himself, he was not altogether without misgivings during his perusal of the manuscripts, and that his name does not appear among the signatures to that attestation of their authenticity which his friend dr. parr drew up, and was himself the first to sign. the curious statement of mr. ireland, with respect to sheridan's want of enthusiasm for shakspeare, receives some confirmation from the testimony of mr. boaden, the biographer of kemble, who tells us that "kemble frequently expressed to him his wonder that sheridan should trouble himself _so little_ about shakspeare." this peculiarity of taste,--if it really existed to the degree that these two authorities would lead us to infer,--affords a remarkable coincidence with the opinions of another illustrious genius, lately lost to the world, whose admiration of the great demiurge of the drama was leavened with the same sort of heresy. in the january of this year, mr. william stone--the brother of the gentleman whose letter from paris has been given in a preceding chapter--was tried upon a charge of high treason, and mr. sheridan was among the witnesses summoned for the prosecution. he had already in the year , in consequence of a reference from mr. stone himself, been examined before the privy council, relative to a conversation which he had held with that gentleman, and, on the day after his examination, had, at the request of mr. dundas, transmited to that minister in writing the particulars of his testimony before the council. there is among his papers a rough draft of this statement, in comparing which with his evidence upon the trial in the present year, i find rather a curious proof of the faithlessness of even the best memories. the object of the conversation which he had held with mr. stone in --and which constituted the whole of their intercourse with each other--was a proposal on the part of the latter, submitted also to lord lauderdale and others, to exert his influence in france, through those channels which his brother's residence there opened to him, for the purpose of averting the threatened invasion of england, by representing to the french rulers the utter hopelessness of such an attempt. mr. sheridan, on the trial, after an ineffectual request to be allowed to refer to his written statement, gave the following as part of his recollections of the conversation:-- "mr. stone stated that, in order to effect this purpose, he had endeavored to collect the opinions of several gentlemen, political characters in this country, whose opinions he thought would be of authority sufficient to advance his object; that for this purpose he had had interviews with different gentlemen; he named mr. smith and, i think, one or two more, whose names i do not now recollect. he named some gentlemen connected with administration--if the counsel will remind me of the name--" here mr. law, the examining counsel, remarked, that "upon the cross-examination, if the gentlemen knew the circumstance, they would mention it." the cross-examination of sheridan by sergeant adair was as follows:-- "you stated in the course of your examination that mr. stone said there was a gentleman connected with government, to whom he had made a similar communication, should you recollect the name of that person if you were reminded of it?--i certainly should.--was it general murray?--general murray certainly." notwithstanding this, however, it appears from the written statement in my possession, drawn up soon after the conversation in question, that this "gentleman connected with government," so difficult to be remembered, was no other than the prime minister, mr. pitt himself. so little is the memory to be relied upon in evidence, particularly when absolved from responsibility by the commission of its deposit to writing. the conduct of mr. sheridan throughout this transaction appears to have been sensible and cautious. that he was satisfied with it himself may be collected from the conclusion of his letter to mr. dundas:--"under the circumstances in which the application, (from mr. dundas,) has been made to me, i have thought it equally a matter of respect to that application and of respect to myself, as well as of justice to the person under suspicion, to give this relation more in detail than at first perhaps might appear necessary. my own conduct in the matter not being in question, i can only say that were a similar case to occur, i think i should act in every circumstance precisely in the manner i did on this occasion." the parliamentary exertions of mr. sheridan this year, though various and active, were chiefly upon subordinate questions; and, except in the instance of mr. fox's motion of censure upon ministers for advancing money to the emperor without the consent of parliament, were not distinguished by any signal or sustained displays of eloquence. the grand questions, indeed, connected with the liberty of the subject, had been so hotly contested, that but few new grounds were left on which to renew the conflict. events, however,--the only teachers of the great mass of mankind,--were beginning to effect what eloquence had in vain attempted. the people of england, though generally eager for war, are seldom long in discovering that "the cup but sparkles near the brim;" and in the occurrences of the following year they were made to taste the full bitterness of the draught. an alarm for the solvency of the bank, an impending invasion, a mutiny in the fleet, and an organized rebellion in ireland,--such were the fruits of four years' warfare, and they were enough to startle even the most sanguine and precipitate into reflection. the conduct of mr. sheridan on the breaking out of the mutiny at the nore is too well known and appreciated to require any illustration here. it is placed to his credit on the page of history, and was one of the happiest impulses of good feeling and good sense combined, that ever public man acted upon in a situation demanding so much of both. the patriotic promptitude of his interference was even more striking than it appears in the record of his parliamentary labors; for, as i have heard at but one remove from his own authority, while the ministry were yet hesitating as to the steps they should take, he went to mr. dundas and said.--"my advice is that you cut the buoys on the river--send sir charles grey down to the coast, and set a price on parker's head. if the administration take this advice instantly, they ill save the country--if not, they will lose it; and, on their refusal, i will impeach them in the house of commons this very evening." without dwelling on the contrast which is so often drawn--less with a view to elevate sheridan than to depreciate his party--between the conduct of himself and his friends at this fearful crisis, it is impossible not to concede that, on the scale of public spirit, he rose as far superior to them as the great claims of the general safety transcend all personal considerations and all party ties. it was, indeed, a rare triumph of temper and sagacity. with less temper, he would have seen in this awful peril but an occasion of triumph over the minister whom he had so long been struggling to overturn--and, with less sagacity, he would have thrown away the golden opportunity of establishing himself for ever in the affections and the memories of englishmen, as one whose heart was in the common-weal, whatever might be his opinions, and who, in the moment of peril, could sink the partisan in the patriot. as soon as he had performed this exemplary duty, he joined mr. fox and the rest of his friends who had seceded from parliament about a week before, on the very day after the rejection of mr. grey's motion for a reform. this step, which was intended to create a strong sensation, by hoisting, as it were, the signal of despair to the country, was followed by no such striking effects, and left little behind but a question as to its prudence and patriotism. the public saw, however, with pleasure, that there were still a few champions of the constitution, who did not "leave her fair side all unguarded" in this extremity. mr. tierney, among others, remained at his post, encountering mr. pitt on financial questions with a vigor and address to which the latter had been hitherto unaccustomed, and perfecting by practice that shrewd power of analysis, which has made him so formidable a sifter of ministerial sophistries ever since. sir francis burdett, too, was just then entering into his noble career of patriotism; and, like the youthful servant of the temple in euripides, was aiming his first shafts at those unclean birds, that settle within the sanctuary of the constitution and sully its treasures:-- [greek: "ptaenon t'agalas a blaptusae semn' anathaemata"] by a letter from the earl of moira to col. m'mahon in the summer of this year it appears, that in consequence of the calamitous state of the country, a plan had been in agitation among some members of the house of commons, who had hitherto supported the measures of the minister, to form an entirely new administration, of which the noble earl was to be the head, and from which both mr. pitt and mr. fox, as equally obnoxious to the public, were to be excluded. the only materials that appear to have been forthcoming for this new cabinet were lord moira himself, lord thurlow, and sir william pulteney--the last of whom it was intended to make chancellor of the exchequer. such a tottering balance of parties, however, could not have been long maintained; and its relapse, after a short interval, into toryism, would but have added to the triumph of mr. pitt, and increased his power. accordingly lord moira, who saw from the beginning the delicacy and difficulty of the task, wisely abandoned it. the share that mr. sheridan had in this transaction is too honorable to him not to be recorded, and the particulars cannot be better given than in lord moira's own words:-- "you say that mr. sheridan has been traduced, as wishing to abandon mr. fox, and to promote a new administration. i had accidentally a conversation with that gentleman at the house of lords. i remonstrated strongly with him against a principle which i heard mr. fox's friends intended to lay down, namely, that they would support a new administration, but that not any of them would take part in it. i solemnly declare, upon my honor, that i could not shake mr. sheridan's conviction of the propriety of that determination. he said that he and mr. fox's other friends, as well as mr. fox himself, would give the most energetic support to such an administration as was in contemplation; but that their acceptance of office would appear an acquiescence under the injustice of the interdict supposed to be fixed upon mr. fox. i did not and never can admit the fairness of that argument. but i gained nothing upon mr. sheridan, to whose uprightness in that respect i can therefore bear the most decisive testimony. indeed i am ashamed of offering testimony, where suspicion ought not to have been conceived." chapter viii. play of "the stranger"--speeches in parliament.--pizarro.--ministry of mr. addington.--french institute.--negotiation with mr. kemble. the theatrical season of introduced to the public the german drama of "the stranger," translated by mr. thompson, and (as we are told by this gentleman in his preface) altered and improved by sheridan. there is reason, however, to believe that the contributions of the latter to the dialogue were much more considerable than he was perhaps willing to let the translator acknowledge. my friend mr. rogers has heard him, on two different occasions, declare that he had written every word of the stranger from beginning to end; and, as his vanity could not be much interested in such a claim, it is possible that there was at least some virtual foundation for it. the song introduced in this play, "i have a silent sorrow here," was avowedly written by sheridan, as the music of it was by the duchess of devonshire--two such names, so brilliant in their respective spheres, as the muses of song and verse have seldom had the luck to bring together. the originality of these lines has been disputed; and that expedient of borrowing which their author _ought_ to have been independent of in every way, is supposed to have been resorted to by his indolence on this occasion. some verses by tickell are mentioned as having supplied one of the best stanzas; but i am inclined to think, from the following circumstances, that this theft of sheridan was of that venial and domestic kind--from himself. a writer, who brings forward the accusation in the gentleman's magazine, (vol. lxxi. p. ,) thus states his grounds:-- "in a song which i purchased at bland's music-shop in holborn in the year , intitled, 'think not, my love' and professing to be set to music by thomas wright. (i conjecture, organist of newcastle-upon-tyne, and composer of the pretty opera called rusticity.) are the following words:-- "the song to which the writer alludes, "think not, my love," was given to me, as a genuine production of mr. sheridan, by a gentleman nearly connected with his family; and i have little doubt of its being one of those early love-strains which, in his _tempo de' dolci sospiri_, he addressed to miss linley. as, therefore, it was but "a feather of his own" that the eagle made free with, he may be forgiven. the following is the whole of the song:-- "this treasured grief, this loved despair, my lot forever be; but, dearest, may the pangs i bear be never known to thee!' "now, without insisting that the opening thought in mr. sheridan's famous song has been borrowed from that of 'think not, my love,' the second verse is manifestly such a theft of the lines i have quoted as entirely overturns mr. sheridan's claim to originality in the matter, unless 'think not, my love,' has been written by him, and he can be proved to have only stolen from himself." "think not, my love, when secret grief preys on my saddened heart, think not i wish a mean relief. or would from sorrow part. "dearly i prize the sighs sincere, that my true fondness prove. nor would i wish to check the tear, that flows from hapless love! "alas! tho' doom'd to hope in vain the joys that love requite, yet will i cherish all its pain, with sad, but dear delight. "this treasured grief, this lov'd despair, my lot for ever be; but, dearest, may the pangs i bear be never known to thee!" among the political events of this year, the rebellion of ireland holds a memorable and fearful preeminence. the only redeeming stipulation which the duke of portland and his brother alarmists had annexed to their ill-judged coalition with mr. pitt was, that a system of conciliation and justice should, at last, be adopted towards ireland. had they but carried thus much wisdom into the ministerial ranks with them, their defection might have been pardoned for the good it achieved, and, in one respect at least, would have resembled the policy of those missionaries, who join in the ceremonies of the heathen for the purpose of winning him over to the truth. on the contrary, however, the usual consequence of such coalitions with power ensued,--the good was absorbed in the evil principle, and, by the false hope which it created, but increased the mischief. lord fitzwilliam was not only deceived himself, but, still worse to a noble and benevolent nature like his, was made the instrument of deception and mockery to millions. his recall, in , assisted by the measures of his successor, drove ireland into the rebellion which raged during the present year, and of which the causes have been so little removed from that hour to this, that if the people have become too wise to look back to it, as an example, it is assuredly not because their rulers have much profited by it as a lesson. i am aware that, on the subject of ireland and her wrongs, i can ill trust myself with the task of expressing what i feel, or preserve that moderate, historical tone, which it has been my wish to maintain through the political opinions of this work. on every other point, my homage to the high character of england, and of her institutions, is prompt and cordial;--on this topic alone, my feelings towards her have been taught to wear "the badge of bitterness." as a citizen of the world, i would point to england as its brightest ornament,--but, as a disfranchised irishman, i blush to belong to her. instead, therefore, of hazarding any farther reflections of my own on the causes and character of the rebellion of , i shall content myself with giving an extract from a speech which mr. sheridan delivered on the subject, in the june of that year:-- "what! when conciliation was held out to the people of ireland, was there any discontent? when the government of ireland was agreeable to the people, was there any discontent? after the prospect of that conciliation was taken away,--after lord fitzwilliam was recalled,--after the hopes which had been raised were blasted,--when the spirit of the people was beaten down, insulted, despised, i will ask any gentleman to point out a single act of conciliation which has emanated from the government of ireland? on the contrary; has not that country exhibited one continual scene of the most grievous oppression, of the most vexatious proceedings; arbitrary punishments inflicted; torture declared necessary by the highest authority in the sister-kingdom next to that of the legislature? and do gentlemen say that the indignant spirit which is roused by such exercise of government is unprovoked? is this conciliation? is this lenity? has everything been done to avert the evils of rebellion? it is the fashion to say, and the address holds the same language, that the rebellion which now rages in the sister-kingdom has been owing to the machinations of 'wicked men.' agreeing to the amendment proposed, it was my first intention to move that these words should be omitted. but, sir, the fact they assert is true. it is, indeed, to the measures of wicked men that the deplorable state of ireland is to be imputed. it is to those wicked ministers who have broken the promises they held out, who betrayed the party they seduced into their views, to be the instruments of the foulest treachery that ever was practised against any people. it is to those wicked ministers who have given up that devoted country to plunder,--resigned it a prey to this faction, by which it has so long been trampled upon, and abandoned it to every species of insult and oppression by which a country was ever overwhelmed, or the spirit of a people insulted, that we owe the miseries into which ireland is plunged, and the dangers by which england is threatened. these evils are the doings of wicked ministers, and applied to them, the language of the address records a fatal and melancholy truth." the popularity which the conduct of mr. sheridan, on the occasion of the mutiny, had acquired for him,--everywhere but among his own immediate party,--seems to have produced a sort of thaw in the rigor of his opposition to government; and the language which he now began to hold, with respect to the power and principles of france, was such as procured for him, more than once in the course of the present session, the unaccustomed tribute of compliments from the treasury-bench. without, in the least degree, questioning his sincerity in this change of tone, it may be remarked, that the most watchful observer of the tide of public opinion could not have taken it at the turn more seasonably or skilfully. there was, indeed, just at this time a sensible change in the feeling of the country. the dangers to which it had been reduced were great, but the crisis seemed over. the new wings lent to credit by the paper-currency, --the return of the navy to discipline and victory,--the disenchantment that had taken place with respect to french principles, and the growing persuasion, since strengthened into conviction, that the world has never committed a more gross mistake than in looking to the french as teachers of liberty,--the insulting reception of the late pacific overtures at lisle, and that never-failing appeal to the pride and spirit of englishmen, which a threat of invading their sacred shore brings with it,--all these causes concurred, at this moment, to rally the people of england round the government, and enabled the minister to extract from the very mischiefs which himself had created the spirit of all others most competent to bear and surmount them. such is the elasticity of a free country, however, for the moment, misgoverned,--and the only glory due to the minister under whom such a people, in spite of misgovernment, flourishes, is that of having proved, by the experiment, how difficult it is to ruin them. while mr. sheridan took these popular opportunities of occasionally appearing before the public, mr. fox persevered, with but little interruption, in his plan of secession from parliament altogether. from the beginning of the session of this year, when, at the instance of his constituents, he appeared in his place to oppose the assessed taxes bill, till the month of february, , he raised his voice in the house but upon two questions,--each "dignus vindice,"--the abolition of the slave-trade, and a change of system in ireland. he had thrown into his opposition too much real feeling and earnestness to be able, like sheridan, to soften it down, or shape it to the passing temper of the times. in the harbor of private life alone could that swell subside; and, however the country missed his warning eloquence, there is little doubt that his own mind and heart were gainers by a retirement, in which he had leisure to "prune the ruffled wings" of his benevolent spirit,--to exchange the ambition of being great for that of being useful, and to listen, in the stillness of retreat, to the lessons of a mild wisdom, of which, had his life been prolonged, his country would have felt the full influence. from one of sheridan's speeches at this time we find that the change which had lately taken place in his public conduct had given rise to some unworthy imputations upon his motives. there are few things less politic in an eminent public man than a too great readiness to answer accusations against his character. for, as he is, in general, more extensively read or heard than his accusers, the first intimation, in most cases, that the public receives of any charge against him will be from his own answer to it. neither does the evil rest here;--for the calumny remains embalmed in the defence, long after its own ephemeral life is gone. to this unlucky sort of sensitiveness mr. sheridan was but too much disposed to give way, and accordingly has been himself the chronicler of many charges against him, of which we should have been otherwise wholly ignorant. of this nature were the imputations founded on his alleged misunderstanding with the duke of portland, in , to which i have already made some allusion, and of which we should have known nothing but for his own notice of it. his vindication of himself, in , from the suspicion of being actuated by self-interest, in his connection with the prince, or of having received from him, (to use his own expressions,) "so much as the present of a horse or a picture," is another instance of the same kind, where he has given substance and perpetuity to rumor, and marked out the track of an obscure calumny, which would otherwise have been forgotten. at the period immediately under our consideration he has equally enabled us to collect, from his gratuitous defence of himself, that the line lately taken by him in parliament, on the great questions of the mutiny and invasion, had given rise to suspicions of his political steadiness, and to rumors of his approaching separation from mr. fox. "i am sorry," he said, on one occasion, "that it is hardly possible for any man to speak in this house, and to obtain credit for speaking from a principle of public spirit; that no man can oppose a minister without being accused of faction, and none, who usually opposed, can support a minister, or lend him assistance in anything, without being accused of doing so from interested motives. i am not such a coxcomb as to say, that it is of much importance what part i may take; or that it is essential that i should divide a little popularity, or some emolument, with the ministers of the crown; nor am i so vain as to imagine, that my services might be solicited. certainly they have not. that might have arisen from want of importance in myself, or from others, whom i have been in the general habit of opposing, conceiving that i was not likely either to give up my general sentiments, or my personal attachments. however that may be, certain it is, they never have made any attempt to apply to me for my assistance." in reviewing his parliamentary exertions during this year, it would be injustice to pass over his speech on the assessed taxes bill, in which, among other fine passages, the following vehement burst of eloquence occurs: "but we have gained, forsooth, several ships by the victory of the first of june,--by the capture of toulon,--by the acquisition of those charnel-houses in the west indies, in which , men have been lost to this country. consider the price which has been paid for these successes. for these boasted successes, i will say, give me back the blood of englishmen which has been shed in this fatal contest.--give me back the millions of debt which it has occasioned.--give me back the honor of the country which has been tarnished,--give me back the credit of the country, which has been destroyed,--give me back the solidity of the bank of england, which has been overthrown; the attachment of the people to their ancient constitution, which has been shaken by acts of oppression and tyrannical laws,--give me back the kingdom of ireland, the connection of which is endangered by a cruel and outrageous system of military coercion,--give me back that pledge of eternal war, which must be attended with inevitable ruin !" the great success which had attended the stranger, and the still increasing taste for the german drama, induced mr. sheridan, in the present year, to embark his fame even still more responsibly in a venture to the same romantic shores. the play of pizarro was brought out on the th of may, . the heroic interest of the plot, the splendor of the pageantry, and some skilful appeals to public feeling in the dialogue, obtained for it at once a popularity which has seldom been equalled. as far, indeed, as multiplied representations and editions are a proof of success, the legitimate issue of his muse might well have been jealous of the fame and fortune of their spurious german relative. when the author of the critic made puff say, "now for my magnificence,--my noise and my procession!" he little anticipated the illustration which, in twenty years afterwards, his own example would afford to that ridicule. not that in pageantry, when tastefully and subordinately introduced, there is any thing to which criticism can fairly object:--it is the dialogue of this play that is unworthy of its author, and ought never, from either motives of profit or the vanity of success, to have been coupled with his name. the style in which it is written belongs neither to verse nor prose, but is a sort of amphibious native of both,--neither gliding gracefully through the former element, nor walking steadily on the other. in order to give pomp to the language, inversion is substituted for metre; and one of the worst faults of poetry, a superfluity of epithet, is adopted, without that harmony which alone makes it venial or tolerable. it is some relief however, to discover, from the manuscripts in my possession, that mr. sheridan's responsibility for the defects of pizarro is not very much greater than his claim to a share in its merits. in the plot, and the arrangement of the scenes, it is well known, there is but little alteration from the german original. the omission of the comic scene of diego, which kotzebue himself intended to omit,--the judicious suppression of elvira's love for alonzo,--the introduction, so striking in representation, of rolla's passage across the bridge, and the re-appearance of elvira in the habit of a nun, form, i believe, the only important points in which the play of mr. sheridan deviates from the structure of the original drama. with respect to the dialogue, his share in its composition is reducible to a compass not much more considerable. a few speeches, and a few short scenes, re-written, constitute almost the whole of the contribution he has furnished to it. the manuscript- translation, or rather imitation, of the "spaniards in pern," which he used as the ground-work of pizarro, has been preserved among his papers:--and, so convenient was it to his indolence to take the style as he found it, that, except, as i have said, in a few speeches and scenes, which might be easily enumerated, he adopted, with scarcely any alteration, the exact words of the translator, whose taste, therefore, (whoever he may have been,) is answerable for the spirit and style of three-fourths of the dialogue. even that scene where cora describes the "white buds" and "crimson blossoms" of her infant's teeth, which i have often heard cited as a specimen of sheridan's false ornament, is indebted to this unknown paraphrast for the whole of its embroidery. but though he is found to be innocent of much of the contraband matter, with which his co-partner in this work had already vitiated it, his own contributions to the dialogue are not of a much higher or purer order. he seems to have written down, to the model before him, and to have been inspired by nothing but an emulation of its faults. his style, accordingly, is kept hovering in the same sort of limbo, between blank verse and prose,--while his thoughts and images, however shining and effective on the stage, are like the diamonds of theatrical royalty, and will not bear inspection off it. the scene between alonzo and pizarro, in the third act, is one of those almost entirely rewritten by sheridan; and the following medley group of personifications affords a specimen of the style to which his taste could descend:-- "then would i point out to him where now, in clustered villages, they live like brethren, social and confiding, while through the burning day content sits basking on the cheek of toil, till laughing pastime leads them to the hour of rest." the celebrated harangue of rolla to the peruvians, into which kemble used to infuse such heroic dignity, is an amplification of the following sentences of the original, as i find them given in lewis's manuscript translation of the play:-- "_rolla_. you spaniards fight for gold; we for our country. "_alonzo_. they follow an adventurer to the field; we a monarch whom we love. "_atalib_. and a god whom we adore!" this speech, to whose popular sentiments the play owed much of its success, was chiefly made up by sheridan of loans from his own oratory. the image of the vulture and the lamb was taken, as i have already remarked, from a passage in his speech on the trial of hastings;--and he had, on the subject of invasion, in the preceding year, ( ,) delivered more than once the substance of those patriotic sentiments, which were now so spirit-stirring in the mouth of rolla. for instance, on the king's message relative to preparation for invasion:-- "the directory may instruct their guards to make the fairest professions of how their army is to act; but of these professions surely not one can be believed. the victorious buonaparte may say that he comes like a minister of grace, with no other purpose than to give peace to the cottager, to restore citizens to their rights, to establish real freedom, and a liberal and humane government. but can there be an englishman so stupid, so besotted, so befooled, as to give a moment's credit to such ridiculous professions? ... what, then, is their object? they come for what they really want: they come for ships, for commerce, for credit, and for capital. yes; they come for the sinews, the bones--for the marrow and the very heart's blood of great britain. but let us examine what we are to purchase at this price. liberty, it appears, is now their staple commodity: but attend, i say, and examine how little of real liberty they themselves enjoy, who are so forward and prodigal in bestowing it on others." the speech of rolla in the prison-scene is also an interpolation of his own,--kotzebue having, far more judiciously, (considering the unfitness of the moment for a _tirade_,) condensed the reflections of rolla into the short exclamation, "oh, sacred nature! thou art still true to thyself," and then made him hurry into the prison to his friend. of the translation of this play by lewis, which has been found among the papers, mr. sheridan does not appear to have made any use;--except in so far as it may have suggested to him the idea of writing a song for cora, of which that gentleman had set him an example in a ballad, beginning "soft are thy slumbers, soft and sweet, hush thee, hush thee, hush thee, boy." the song of mr. lewis, however, is introduced, with somewhat less violence to probability, at the beginning of the third act, where the women are waiting for the tidings of the battle, and when the intrusion of a ballad from the heroine, though sufficiently unnatural, is not quite so monstrous as in the situation which sheridan has chosen for it. the following stanza formed a part of the song, as it was originally written:-- 'those eyes that beam'd this morn the light of youth, this morn i saw their gentle rays impart the day-spring sweet of hope, of love, of truth, the pure aurora of my lover's heart. yet wilt thou rise, oh sun, and waste thy light, while my alonzo's beams are quench'd in night.' the only question upon which he spoke this year was the important measure of the union, which he strenuously and at great length opposed. like every other measure, professing to be for the benefit of ireland, the union has been left incomplete in the one essential point, without which there is no hope of peace or prosperity for that country. as long as religious disqualification is left to "lie like lees at the bottom of men's hearts," [footnote: "it lay like lees at the bottom of men's hearts; and, if the vessel was but stirred, it would come up."--bacon, henry vii.] in vain doth the voice of parliament pronounce the word "union" to the two islands--a feeling, deep as the sea that breaks between them, answers back, sullenly, "separation." through the remainder of mr. sheridan's political career it is my intention, for many reasons, to proceed with a more rapid step; and merely to give the particulars of his public conduct, together with such documents as i can bring to illustrate it, without entering into much discussion or comment on either. of his speeches in ,--during which year, on account, perhaps, of the absence of mr. fox from the house, he was particularly industrious,--i shall select a few brief specimens for the reader. on the question of the grant to the emperor of germany, he said:-- "i do think, sir, jacobin principles never existed much in this country; and even admitting they had, i say they have been found so hostile to true liberty, that, in proportion as we love it, (and, whatever may be said, i must still consider liberty an inestimable blessing,) we must hate and detest these principles. but more,--i do not think they even exist in france. they have there died the best of deaths; a death i am more pleased to see than if it had been effected by foreign force,--they have stung themselves to death, and died by their own poison." the following is a concise and just summary of the causes and effects of the french revolutionary war:-- "france, in the beginning of the revolution, had conceived many romantic notions; she was to put an end to war, and produce, by a pure form of government, a perfectibility of mind which before had never been realized. the monarchs of europe, seeing the prevalence of these new principles, trembled for their thrones. france, also, perceiving the hostility of kings to her projects, supposed she could not be a republic without the overthrow of thrones. such has been the regular progress of cause and effect; but who was the first aggressor, with whom the jealousy first arose, need not now be a matter of discussion. both the republic and the monarchs who opposed her acted on the same principles;--the latter said they must exterminate jacobins, and the former that they must destroy monarchs. from this source have all the calamities of europe flowed; and it is now a waste of time and argument to inquire further into the subject." adverting, in his speech on the negotiation with france, to the overtures that had been made for a maritime truce, he says, with that national feeling, which rendered him at this time so popular,-- "no consideration for our ally, no hope of advantage to be derived from joint negotiation, should have induced the english government to think for a moment of interrupting the course of our naval triumphs. this measure, sir, would have broken the heart of the navy, and would have damped all its future exertions. how would our gallant sailors have felt, when, chained to their decks like galley-slaves, they saw the enemy's vessels sailing under their bows in security, and proceeding, without a possibility of being molested, to revictual those places which had been so long blockaded by their astonishing skill, perseverance, and valor? we never stood more in need of their services, and their feelings at no time deserved to be more studiously consulted. the north of europe presents to england a most awful and threatening aspect. without giving an opinion as to the origin of these hostile dispositions, or pronouncing decidedly whether they are wholly ill-founded, i hesitate not to say, that if they have been excited because we have insisted upon enforcing the old established maritime law of europe,--because we stood boldly forth in defence of indisputable privileges,--because we have refused to abandon the source of our prosperity, the pledge of our security, and the foundation of our naval greatness,--they ought to be disregarded or set at defiance. if we are threatened to be deprived of that which is the charter of our existence, which has procured us the commerce of the world, and been the means of spreading our glory over every land,--if the rights and honors of our flag are to be called in question, every risk should be run, and every danger braved. then we should have a legitimate cause of war;--then the heart of every briton would burn with indignation, and his hand be stretched forth in defence of his country. if our flag is to be insulted, let us nail it to the top-mast of the nation; there let it fly while we shed the last drop of our blood in protecting it, and let it be degraded only when the nation itself is overwhelmed." he thus ridicules, in the same speech, the etiquette that had been observed in the selection of the ministers who were to confer with m. otto:-- "this stiff-necked policy shows insincerity. i see mr. napean and mr. hammond also appointed to confer with m. otto, because they are of the same rank. is not this as absurd as if lord whitworth were to be sent to petersburgh, and told that he was not to treat but with some gentleman of six feet high, and as handsome as himself? sir, i repeat, that this is a stiff-necked policy, when the lives of thousands are at stake." in the following year mr. pitt was succeeded, as prime minister, by mr. addington. the cause assigned for this unexpected change was the difference of opinion that existed between the king and mr. pitt, with respect to the further enfranchisement of the catholics of ireland. to this measure the minister and some of his colleagues considered themselves to have been pledged by the act of union; but, on finding that they could not carry it, against the scruples of their royal master, resigned. though mr. pitt so far availed himself of this alleged motive of his abdication as to found on it rather an indecorous appeal to the catholics, in which he courted popularity for himself at the expense of that of the king, it was suspected that he had other and less disinterested reasons for his conduct. indeed, while he took merit to himself for thus resigning his supremacy, he well knew that he still commanded it with "a falconer's voice," and, whenever he pleased, "could lure the tassel-gentle back again." the facility with which he afterwards returned to power, without making any stipulation for the measure now held to be essential, proves either that the motive now assigned for his resignation was false, or that, having sacrificed power to principle in , he took revenge by making principle, in its turn, give way to power in . during the early part of the new administration, mr. sheridan appears to have rested on his arms,--having spoken so rarely and briefly throughout the session as not to have furnished to the collector of his speeches a single specimen of oratory worth recording. it is not till the discussion of the definitive treaty, in may, , that he is represented as having professed himself friendly to the existing ministry:--"certainly," he said, "i have in several respects given my testimony in favor of the present ministry,--in nothing more than for making the best peace, perhaps, they could, after their predecessors had left them in such a deplorable situation." it was on this occasion, however, that, in ridiculing the understanding supposed to exist between the ex-minister and his successor, he left such marks of his wit on the latter as all his subsequent friendship could not efface. among other remarks, full of humor, he said,-- "i should like to support the present minister on fair ground; but what is he? a sort of _outside passenger_,--or rather a man leading the horses round a corner, while reins, whip, and all, are in the hands of the coachman on the _box_! (_looking at mr. pitt's elevated seat, three or four benches above that of the treasury_.) why not have an union of the two ministers, or, at least, some intelligible connection? when the ex-minister quitted office, almost all the _subordinate_ ministers kept their places. how was it that the whole family did not move together? had he only one _covered waggon_ to carry _friends and goods_? or has he left directions behind him that they may know where to call? i remember a fable of _aristophanes's_, which is translated from greek into decent english. i mention this for the country gentlemen. it is of a man that sat so long on a seat, (about as long, perhaps, as the ex-minister did on the treasury-bench,) that he grew to it. when hercules pulled him off, he left all the sitting part of the man behind him. the house can make the allusion." [footnote: the following is another highly humorous passage from this speech:--"but let france have colonies! oh, yes! let her have a good trade, that she may be afraid of war, says the learned member,--that's the way to make buonaparte love peace. he has had, to be sure, a sort of military education. he has been abroad, and is rather _rough company_; but if you put him behind the _counter_ a little, he will mend exceedingly. when i was reading the treaty, i thought all the names of foreign places, viz. poindicherry, chandenenagore, cochin, martinico, &c, all _cessions_. not they--they are all so many _traps_ and _holes_ to catch this silly fellow in, and make a _merchant_ of him! i really think the best way upon this principle would be this:--let the merchants of london open a _public subscription_, and set him up at once. i hear a great deal respecting a certain _statue_ about to be erected to the right honorable gentleman, (mr. pitt,) now in my eye, at a great expense. send all that money over to the first consul, and give him, what you talk of so much, _capital_, to begin trade with. i hope the right honorable gentleman over the way will, like the first consul, refuse a statue for the present, and postpone it as a work to posterity. there is no harm, however, in marking out the place. the right honorable gentleman is musing, perhaps, on what square, or place, he will choose for its erection. i recommend the _bank of england_. now for the material. not gold: no, no!--he has not left enough of it. i should, however, propose _papier mache_ and old banknotes."] we have here an instance, in addition to the many which i have remarked, of his adroitness, not only in laying claim to all _waifs_ of wit, "_ubi non apparebat dominus,_" but in stealing the wit himself, wherever he could find it. this happy application of the fable of hercules and theseus to the ministry had been first made by gilbert wakefield, in a letter to mr. fox, which the latter read to sheridan a few days before the debate; and the only remark that sheridan made, on hearing it, was, "what an odd pedantic fancy!" but the wit knew well the value of the jewel that the pedant had raked up, and lost no time in turning it to account with all his accustomed skill. the letter of wakefield, in which the application of the fable occurs, has been omitted, i know not why, in his published correspondence with mr. fox: but a letter of mr. fox in the same collection, thus alludes to it:--"your story of theseus is excellent, as applicable to our present rulers; if you could point out to me where i could find it, i should be much obliged to you. the scholiast on aristophanes is too wide a description." mr. wakefield in answer, says,--"my aristophanes, with the scholia, is not here. if i am right in my recollection, the story probably occurs in the scholia on the frogs, and would soon be found by reference to the name of theseus in kuster's index." another instance of this propensity in sheridan, (which made him a sort of catiline in wit, "covetous of another's wealth, and profuse of his own,") occurred during the preceding session. as he was walking down to the house with sir philip francis and another friend, on the day when the address of thanks on the peace as moved, sir philip francis pithily remarked, that "it was a peace which every one would be glad of, but no one would be proud of." sheridan, who was in a hurry to get to the house, did not appear to attend to the observation;--but, before he had been many minutes in his seat, he rose, and, in the course of a short speech, (evidently made for the purpose of passing his stolen coin as soon as possible,) said, "this, sir, is a peace which every one will be glad of, but no one can be proud of." [footnote: a similar theft was his observation, that "half the debt of england had been incurred in pulling down the bourbons, and the other half in setting them up"--which pointed remark he had heard, in conversation, from sir arthur pigott.] the following letter from dr. parr to sheridan, this year, records an instance of delicate kindness which renders it well worthy of preservation:-- "dear sir, "i believe that you and my old pupil tom feel a lively interest in my happiness, and, therefore, i am eager to inform you that, without any solicitation, and in the most handsome manner, sir francis burdett has offered me the rectory of graffham in huntingdonshire; that the yearly value of it now amounts to _l_., and is capable of considerable improvement; that the preferment is tenable with my northamptonshire rectory; that the situation is pleasant; and that, by making it my place of residence, i shall be nearer to my respectable scholar and friend, edward maltby, to the university of cambridge, and to those norfolk connections which i value most highly. "i am not much skilled in ecclesiastical negotiations; and all my efforts to avail myself of the very obliging kindness conditionally intended for me by the duke of norfolk completely failed. but the noble friendship of sir francis burdett has set everything right. i cannot refuse myself the great satisfaction of laying before you the concluding passage in sir francis's letter:-- "'i acknowledge that a great additional motive with me to the offer i now make dr. parr, is, that i believe i cannot do any thing more pleading to his friends, mr. fox, mr. sheridan, and mr. knight; and i desire you, sir, to consider yourself as obliged to them only.' "you will readily conceive, that i was highly gratified with this striking and important passage, and that i wish for an early opportunity of communicating with yourself, and mr. fox, and mr. knight. "i beg my best compliments to mrs. sheridan and tom; and i have the honor to be, dear sir, your very faithful well-wisher, and respectful, obedient servant, "_september , buckden_. "s. parr." "sir francis sent his own servant to my house at hilton with the letter; and my wife, on reading it, desired the servant to bring it to me at buckden, near huntingdon, where i yesterday received it." it was about this time that the primary electors of the national institute of france having proposed haydn, the great composer, and mr. sheridan, as candidates for the class of literature and the fine arts, the institute, with a choice not altogether indefensible, elected haydn. some french epigrams on this occurrence, which appeared in the courier, seem to have suggested to sheridan the idea of writing a few english _jeux-d'esprit_ on the same subject, which were intended for the newspapers, but i rather think never appeared. these verses show that he was not a little piqued by the decision of the institute; and the manner in which he avails himself of his anonymous character to speak of his own claims to the distinction, is, it must be owned, less remarkable for modesty than for truth. but vanity, thus in masquerade, may be allowed some little license. the following is a specimen:-- "the wise decision all admire; 'twas just, beyond dispute-- sound taste! which, to apollo's lyre preferred--a german flute!" mr. kemble, who had been for some time manager of drury-lane theatre, was, in the course of the year - , tempted, notwithstanding the knowledge which his situation must have given him of the embarrassed state of the concern, to enter into negotiation with sheridan for the purchase of a share in the property. how much anxiety the latter felt to secure such an associate in the establishment appears strongly from the following paper, drawn up by him, to accompany the documents submitted to kemble during the negotiation, and containing some particulars of the property of drury-lane, which will be found not uninteresting:-- "outline of the terms on which it is proposed that mr. kemble shall purchase a quarter in the property of drury-lane theatre. "i really think there cannot be a negotiation, in matter of purchase and sale, so evidently for the advantage of both parties, if brought to a satisfactory conclusion. "i am decided that the management of the theatre cannot be respected, or successful, but in the hands of an actual proprietor; and still the better, if he is himself in the profession, and at the head of it. i am desirous, therefore, that mr. kemble should be a proprietor and manager. "mr. kemble is the person, of all others, who must naturally be desirous of both situations. he is at the head of his profession, without a rival; he is attached to it, and desirous of elevating its character. he may be assured of proper respect, &c., while i have the theatre; but i do not think he could brook his situation were the property to pass into vulgar and illiberal hands,--an event which he knows contingencies might produce. laying aside then all affectation of indifference, so common in making bargains, let us set out with acknowledging that it is mutually our interest to agree, if we can. at the same time, let it be avowed, that i must be considered as trying to get as good a price as i can, and mr. kemble to buy as cheap as he can. in parting with theatrical property, there is no standard, or measure, to direct the price: the whole question is, what are the probable profits, and what is such a proportion of them worth? "i bought of mr. garrick at the rate of , _l_. for the whole theatre. i bought of mr. lacey at the rate of , _l_. ditto. i bought of dr. ford at the rate of ,ooo_l_. ditto. in all these cases there was a perishable patent, and an expiring lease, each having to run, at the different periods of the purchases, from ten to twenty years only. "all these purchases have undoubtedly answered well; but in the chance of a third theatre consisted the risk; and the want of size and accommodation must have produced it, had the theatres continued as they were. but the _great_ and _important feature_ in the present property, and which is never for a moment to be lost sight of, is, that the monopoly is, morally speaking, established for ever, at least as well as the monarchy, constitution, public funds, &c.,--as appears by no. . being the copy of' the final arrangement' signed by the lord chamberlain, by authority of his majesty, the prince of wales, the duke of bedford, &c.; and the dormant patent of covent-garden, that former terror of drury-lane, is perpetually annexed to the latter. so that the value of drury-lane at present, and in the former sales, is out of all comparison,--independently of the new building, superior size, raised prices, &c., &c. but the incumbrances on the theatre, whose annual charge must be paid before there can be any surplus profit, are much greater than in mr. garrick's time, or on the old theatre afterwards. undoubtedly they are, and very considerably greater; but what is the proportion of the receipts? mr. garrick realized and left a fortune, of ,ooo_l_. (having lived, certainly, at no mean expense,) acquired in ---- years, on an average annual receipt of , _l_. (qu. this?) our receipts cannot be stated at less than , _l_. per ann.; and it is demonstrable that preventing the most palpable frauds and abuses, with even a tolerable system of exertion in the management, must bring it, at the least, to , _l_.; and this estimate does not include the advantages to be derived from the new tavern, passages, chinese hall, &c.,--an aid to the receipt, respecting the amount of which i am very sanguine. what then, is the probable profit, and what is a quarter of it worth? no. . is the amount of three seasons' receipts, the only ones on which an attempt at an average could be justifiable. no. . is the future estimate, on a system of exertion and good management. no. . the actual annual incumbrauces. no. . the nightly expenses. no. . the estimated profits. calculating on which, i demand for a quarter of the property, * * * *, reserving to myself the existing private boxes, but no more to be created, and the fruit-offices and houses not part of the theatre. "i assume that mr. kemble and i agree as to the price, annexing the following conditions to our agreement:--mr. kemble shall have his engagement as an actor for any rational time he pleases. mr. kemble shall be manager, with a clear salary of guineas per annum, and * * per cent. on the clear profits. mr. sheridan engages to procure from messrs. hammersleys a loan to mr. kemble of ten thousand pounds, part of the purchase-money for four years, for which loan he is content to become collateral security, and also to leave his other securities, now in their hands, in mortgage for the same. and for the payment of the rest of the money, mr. sheridan is ready to give mr. kemble every facility his circumstances will admit of. it is not to be overlooked, that if a private box is also made over to mr. kemble, for the whole term of the theatre lease, its value cannot be stated at less than , _l_. indeed, it might at any time produce to mr. kemble, or his assigns, _l_ per annum. vide no. . this is a material deduction from the purchase-money to be paid. "supposing all this arrangement made, i conceive mr. kemble's income would stand thus: £ s. d. salary as an actor, in lieu of benefit, as manager, percentage on clear profit, dividend on quarter-share, [footnote: "i put this on the very lowest speculation"] ______________ £ ______________ i need not say how soon this would clear the whole of the purchase. with regard to the title, &c. mr. crews and mr. pigott are to decide. as to debts, the share must be made over to mr. kemble free from a claim even; and for this purpose all demands shall be called in, by public advertisement, to be sent to mr. kemble's own solicitor. in short, mr. crews shall be satisfied that there does not exist an unsatisfied demand on the theatre, or a possibility of mr. kemble being involved in the risk of a shilling. mr. hammersley, or such person as mr. kemble and mr. sheridan shall agree on, to be treasurer, and receive and account for the whole receipts, pay the charges, trusts, &c.; and, at the close of the season, the surplus profits to the proprietors. a clause in case of death, or sale, to give the refusal to each other." the following letter from sheridan to kemble in answer, as it appears, to some complaint or remonstrance from the latter, in his capacity of manager, is too curiously characteristic of the writer to be omitted:-- "dear kemble, "if i had not a real good opinion of your principles and intentions upon all subjects, and a very bad opinion of your nerves and philosophy upon some, i should take very ill indeed, the letter i received from you this evening. "that the management of the theatre is a situation capable of becoming _troublesome_ is information which i do not want, and a discovery which i thought you had made long since. "i should be sorry to write to you gravely on your offer, because i must consider it as a nervous flight, which it would be as unfriendly in me to notice seriously as it would be in you seriously to have made it. "what i _am_ most serious in is a determination that, while the theatre is indebted, and others, for it and for me, are so involved and pressed as they are, i will exert myself, and give every attention and judgment in my power to the establishment of its interests. in you i hoped, and do hope, to find an assistant, on principles of liberal and friendly confidence,--i mean confidence that should be above touchiness and reserve, and that should trust to me to estimate the value of that assistance. "if there is any thing amiss in your mind, not arising from the _troublesomeness_ of your situation, it is childish and unmanly not to disclose it to me. the frankness with which i have always dealt towards you entitles me to expect that you should have done so. "but i have no reason to believe this to be the case; and, attributing your letter to a disorder which i know ought not to be indulged, i prescribe that you shall keep your appointment at the piazza coffee-house, to-morrow at five, and, taking four bottles of claret instead of three, to which in sound health you might stint yourself, forget that you ever wrote the letter, as i shall that i ever received it. "r. b. sheridan." chapter ix. state of parties.--offer of a place to mr. t. sheridan.--receivership of the duchy of cornwall bestowed upon mr. sheridan.--return of mr. pitt to power.--catholic question.--administration of lord grenville and mr. fox.--death of mr. fox.--representation of westminster.--dismission of the ministry.--theatrical negotiation.--spanish question.--letter to the prince. during the short interval of peace into which the country was now lulled,--like a ship becalmed for a moment in the valley between two vast waves,--such a change took place in the relative positions and bearings of the parties that had been so long arrayed against each other, and such new boundaries and divisions of opinion were formed, as considerably altered the map of the political world. while mr. pitt lent his sanction to the new administration, they, who had made common cause with him in resigning, violently opposed it; and, while the ministers were thus thwarted by those who had hitherto always agreed with them, they were supported by those whigs with whom they had before most vehemently differed. among this latter class of their friends was, as i have already remarked, mr. sheridan,--who, convinced that the only chance of excluding mr. pitt from power lay in strengthening the hands of those who were in possession, not only gave them the aid of his own name and eloquence, but endeavored to impress the same views upon mr. fox, and exerted his influence also to procure the sanction of carlton-house in their favor. it cannot, indeed, he doubted that sheridan, at this time, though still the friend of mr. fox, had ceased, in a great degree, to be his follower. their views with respect to the renewal of the war were wholly different. while sheridan joined in the popular feeling against france, and showed his knowledge of that great instrument, the public mind, by approaching it only with such themes as suited the martial mood to which it was tuned, the too confiding spirit of fox breathed nothing but forbearance and peace;--and he who, in , had proclaimed the "natural enmity" of england and france, as an argument against their commercial intercourse, now asked, with the softened tone which time and retirement had taught him, "whether france was for ever to be considered our rival?" [footnote: speech on the address of thanks in .] the following characteristic note, written by him previously to the debate on the army estimates, (december , ,) shows a consciousness that the hold which he had once had upon his friend was loosened:-- "dear sheridan, "i mean to be in town for monday,--that is, for the army. as for to-morrow, it is no matter;--i am _for_ a largish fleet, though perhaps not quite so large as they mean. pray, do not be absent monday, and let me have a quarter of an hour's conversation before the business begins. remember, i do not wish you to be inconsistent, at any rate. pitt's opinion by proxy is ridiculous beyond conception, and i hope you will show it in that light. i am very much against your abusing bonaparte, because i am sure it is impolitic both for the country and ourselves. but, as you please;--only, for god's sake, peace. [footnote: these last words are an interesting illustration of the line in mr. rogers's verses on this statesman:--"'peace,' when he spoke, was ever on his tongue"] "yours ever "_tuesday night._ "c. j. fox." it was about this period that the writer of these pages had, for the first time, the gratification of meeting mr. sheridan, at donington-park, the seat of the present marquis of hastings;--a circumstance which he recalls, not only with those lively impressions, that our first admiration of genius leaves behind, but with many other dreams of youth and hope, that still endear to him the mansion where that meeting took place, and among which gratitude to its noble owner is the only one, perhaps, that has not faded. mr. sheridan, i remember, was just then furnishing a new house, and talked of a plan he had of levying contributions on his friends for a library. a set of books from each would, he calculated, amply accomplish it, and already the intimation of his design had begun to "breathe a soul into the silent walls." [footnote: rogers.] the splendid and well-chosen library of donington was, of course, not slow in furnishing its contingent; and little was it foreseen into what badges of penury these gifts of friendship would be converted at last. as some acknowledgment of the services which sheridan had rendered to the ministry, (though professedly as a tribute to his public character in general,) lord st. vincent, about this time, made an offer to his son, mr. thomas sheridan, of the place of registrar of the vice-admiralty court of malta,--an office which, during a period of war, is supposed to be of considerable emolument. the first impulse of sheridan, when consulted on the proposal, was, as i have heard, not unfavorable to his son's acceptance of it. but, on considering the new position which he had, himself, lately taken in politics, and the inference that might be drawn against the independence of his motives, if he submitted to an obligation which was but too liable to be interpreted, as less a return for past services than a _lien_ upon him for future ones, he thought it safest for his character to sacrifice the advantage, and, desirable as was the provision for his son, obliged him to decline it. the following passages of a letter to him from mrs. sheridan on this subject do the highest honor to her generosity, spirit, and good sense. they also confirm what has generally been understood, that the king, about this time, sent a most gracious message to sheridan, expressive of the approbation with which he regarded his public conduct, and of the pleasure he should feel in conferring upon him some mark of his royal favor:-- "i am more anxious than i can express about tom's welfare. it is, indeed, unfortunate that you have been obliged to refuse these things for him, but surely there could not be two opinions; yet why will you neglect to observe those attentions that honor does not compel you to refuse? don't you know that when once the king takes offence, he was never known to forgive? i suppose it would be impossible to have your motives explained to him, because it would touch his weak side, yet any thing is better than his attributing your refusal to contempt and indifference. would to god i could bear these necessary losses instead of tom, particularly as i so entirely approve of your conduct." "i trust you will be able to do something positive for tom about money. i am willing to make any sacrifice in the world for that purpose, and to live in any way whatever. whatever he has _now ought_ to be certain, or how will he know how to regulate his expenses?" the fate, indeed, of young sheridan was peculiarly tantalizing. born and brought up in the midst of those bright hopes, which so long encircled his father's path, he saw them all die away as he became old enough to profit by them, leaving difficulty and disappointment, his only inheritance, behind. unprovided with any profession by which he could secure his own independence, and shut out, as in this instance, from those means of advancement, which, it was feared, might compromise the independence of his father, he was made the victim even of the distinction of his situation, and paid dearly for the glory of being the son of sheridan. in the expression of his face, he resembled much his beautiful mother, and derived from her also the fatal complaint of which he died. his popularity in society was unexampled,--but he knew how to attach as well as amuse; and, though living chiefly with that class of persons, who pass over the surface of life, like camilla over the corn, without leaving any impression of themselves behind, he had manly and intelligent qualities, that deserved a far better destiny. there are, indeed, few individuals, whose lives have been so gay and thoughtless, whom so many remember with cordiality and interest: and, among the numerous instances of discriminating good nature, by which the private conduct of his royal highness the duke of york is distinguished, there are, none that do him more honor than his prompt and efficient kindness to the interesting family that the son of sheridan has left behind him. soon after the declaration of war against france, when an immediate invasion was threatened by the enemy, the heir apparent, with the true spirit of an english prince, came forward to make an offer of his personal service to the country. a correspondence upon the subject, it is well known, ensued, in the course of which his royal highness addressed letters to mr. addington, to the duke of york, and the king. it has been sometimes stated that these letters were from the pen of mr. sheridan; but the first of the series was written by sir robert wilson, and the remainder by lord hutchinson. the death of joseph richardson, which took place this year, was felt as strongly by sheridan as any thing _can_ be felt, by those who, in the whirl of worldly pursuits, revolve too rapidly round self, to let any thing rest long upon their surface. with a fidelity to his old habits of unpunctuality, at which the shade of richardson might have smiled, he arrived too late at bagshot for the funeral of his friend, but succeeded in persuading the good-natured clergyman to perform the ceremony over again. mr. john taylor, a gentleman, whose love of good-fellowship and wit has made him the welcome associate of some of the brightest men of his day, was one of the assistants at this singular scene, and also joined in the party at the inn at bedfont afterwards, where sheridan, it is said, drained the "cup of memory" to his friend, till he found oblivion at the bottom. at the close of the session of , that strange diversity of opinions, into which the two leading parties were decomposed by the resignation of mr. pitt, had given way to new varieties, both of cohesion and separation, quite as little to be expected from the natural affinities of the ingredients concerned in them. mr. pitt, upon perceiving, in those to whom he had delegated his power, an inclination to surround themselves with such strength from the adverse ranks as would enable them to contest his resumption of the trust, had gradually withdrawn the sanction which he at first afforded them, and taken his station by the side of the other two parties in opposition, without, however, encumbering himself, in his views upon office, with either. by a similar movement, though upon different principles, mr. fox and the whigs, who had begun by supporting the ministry against the strong war-party of which lord grenville and mr. windham were the leaders, now entered into close co-operation with this new opposition, and seemed inclined to forget, both recent and ancient differences in a combined assault upon the tottering administration of mr. addington. the only parties, perhaps, that acted with consistency through these transactions, were mr. sheridan and the few who followed him on one side, and lord grenville and his friends on the other. the support which the former had given to the ministry,--from a conviction that such was the true policy of his party,--he persevered in, notwithstanding the suspicion it drew down upon him, to the last; and, to the last, deprecated the connection with the grenvilles, as entangling his friends in the same sort of hollow partnership, out of which they had come bankrupts in character and confidence before. [footnote: in a letter written this year by mr. thomas sheridan to his father, there is the following passage--"i am glad you intended wrong to lord ----, he is _quite right_ about politics--reprobates the idea most strongly of any union with the granvilles, &c which, he says he sees as fox's leaning. 'i agreed with your father perfectly on the subject, when i left him in town, but when i saw charles at st. ann's hill, i perceived he was wrong and obstinate.'"] in like manner, it must be owned the opposition, of which lord grenville was the head, held a course direct and undeviating from beginning to end. unfettered by those reservations in favor of addington, which so long embarrassed the movements of their former leader, they at once started in opposition to the peace and the ministry, and, with not only mr. pitt and mr. fox, but the whole people of england against them, persevered till they had ranged all these several parties on their side:--nor was it altogether without reason that this party afterwards boasted that, if any abandonment of principle had occurred in the connection between them and the whigs, the surrender was assuredly not from their side. early in the year , on the death of lord elliot, the office of receiver of the duchy of cornwall, which had been held by that nobleman, was bestowed by the prince of wales upon mr. sheridan, "as a trifling proof of that sincere friendship his royal highness had always professed and felt for him through a long series of years." his royal highness also added, in the same communication, the very cordial words, "i wish to god it was better worth your acceptance." the following letter from sheridan to mr. addington, communicating the intelligence of this appointment, shows pretty plainly the terms on which he not only now stood, but was well inclined to continue, with that minister:-- "dear sir, "_george-street, tuesday evening._ "convinced as i am of the sincerity of your good will towards me, i do not regard it as an impertinent intrusion to inform you that the prince has, in the most gracious manner, and wholly unsolicited, been pleased to appoint me to the late lord elliot's situation in the duchy of cornwall. i feel a desire to communicate this to you myself, because i feel a confidence that you will be glad of it. it has been my pride and pleasure to have exerted my humble efforts to serve the prince without ever accepting the slightest obligation from him; but, in the present case, and under the present circumstances, i think it would have been really false pride and apparently mischievous affectation to have declined this mark of his royal highness's confidence and favor. i will not disguise that, at this peculiar crisis, i am greatly gratified at this event. had it been the result of a mean and subservient devotion to the prince's every wish and object, i could neither have respected the gift, the giver, nor myself; but when i consider how recently it was my misfortune to find myself compelled by a sense of duty, stronger than my attachment to him, wholly to risk the situation i held in his confidence and favor, and that upon a subject [footnote: the offer made by the prince of his personal services in ,--on which occasion sheridan coincided with the views of mr. addington somewhat more than was agreeable to his royal highness.] on which his feelings were so eager and irritable, i cannot but regard the increased attention, with which he has since honored me, as a most gratifying demonstration that he has clearness of judgment and firmness of spirit to distinguish the real friends to his true glory and interests from the mean and mercenary sycophants, who fear and abhor that such friends should be near him. it is satisfactory to me, also, that this appointment gives me the title and opportunity of seeing the prince, on trying occasions, openly and in the face of day, and puts aside the mask of mystery and concealment. i trust i need not add, that whatever small portion of fair influence i may at any time possess with the prince, it shall be uniformly exerted to promote those feelings of duty and affection towards their majesties, which, though seemingly interrupted by adverse circumstances, i am sure are in his heart warm and unalterable--and, as far as i may presume, that general concord throughout his illustrious family, which must be looked to by every honest subject, as an essential part of the public strength at this momentous period. i have the honor to be, with great respect and esteem, "your obedient servant, "_right hon. henry addington_. "r. b. sheridan." the same views that influenced mr. sheridan, lord moira, and others, in supporting an administration which, with all its defects, they considered preferable to a relapse into the hands of mr. pitt, had led mr. tierney, at the close of the last session, to confer upon it a still more efficient sanction, by enrolling himself in its ranks as treasurer of the navy. in the early part of the present year, another ornament of the whig party, mr. erskine, was on the point of following in the same footsteps, by accepting, from mr. addington, the office of attorney-general. he had, indeed, proceeded so far in his intention as to submit the overtures of the minister to the consideration of the prince, in a letter which was transmitted to his royal highness by sheridan. the answer of the prince, conveyed also through sheridan, while it expressed the most friendly feelings towards erskine, declined, at the same time, giving any opinion as to either his acceptance or refusal of the office of attorney-general, if offered to him under the present circumstances. his royal highness also added the expression of his sincere regret, that a proposal of this nature should have been submitted to his consideration by one, of whose attachment and fidelity to himself he was well convinced, but who ought to have felt, from the line of conduct adopted and persevered in by his royal highness, that he was the very last person that should have been applied to for either his opinion or countenance respecting the political conduct or connection of any public character,--especially of one so intimately connected with him, and belonging to his family. if, at any time, sheridan had entertained the idea of associating himself, by office, with the ministry of mr. addington, (and proposals to this effect were, it is certain, made to him,) his knowledge of the existence of such feelings as prompted this answer to mr. erskine would, of course, have been sufficient to divert him from the intention. the following document, which i have found, in his own handwriting, and which was intended, apparently, for publication in the newspapers, contains some particulars with respect to the proceedings of his party at this time, which, coming from such a source, may be considered as authentic:-- "state of parties. "among the various rumors of coalitions, or attempted coalitions, we have already expressed our disbelief in that reported to have taken place between the grenville-windhamites and mr. fox. at least, if it was ever in negotiation, we have reason to think it received an early check, arising from a strong party of the _old opposition_ protesting against it. the account of this transaction, as whispered in the political circles, is as follows:-- "in consequence of some of the most respectable members of the old opposition being sounded on the subject, a meeting was held at norfolk-house; when it was determined, with very few dissentient voices, to present a friendly remonstrance on the subject to mr. fox, stating the manifold reasons which obviously presented themselves against such a procedure, both as affecting character and party. it was urged that the present ministers had, on the score of innovation on the constitution, given the whigs no pretence for complaint whatever; and, as to their alleged incapacity, it remained to be proved that they were capable of committing errors and producing miscarriages, equal to those which had marked the councils of their predecessors, whom the measure in question was expressly calculated to replace in power. at such a momentous crisis, therefore, waving all considerations of past political provocation, to attempt, by the strength and combination of party, to expel the ministers of his majesty's choice, and to force into his closet those whom the whigs ought to be the first to rejoice that he had excluded from it, was stated to be a proceeding which would assuredly revolt the public feeling, degrade the character of parliament, and produce possibly incalculable mischief to the country. "we understand that mr. fox's reply was, that he would never take any political step against the wishes and advice of the majority of his old friends. "the paper is said to have been drawn up by mr. erskine, and to have been presented to mr. fox by his grace of norfolk, on the day his majesty was pronounced to be recovered from his first illness. rumor places among the supporters of this measure the written authority of the duke of northumberland and the earl of moira, with the signatures of messrs. erskine, sheridan, shum, curwen, western, brogden, and a long _et caetera_. it is said also that the prince's sanction had been previously given to the duke,--his royal highness deprecating all party struggle, at a moment when the defence of all that is dear to britons ought to be the single sentiment that should fill the public mind. "we do not vouch for the above being strictly accurate; but we are confident that it is not far from the truth." the illness of the king, referred to in this paper, had been first publicly announced in the month of february, and was for some time considered of so serious a nature, that arrangements were actually in progress for the establishment of a regency. mr. sheridan, who now formed a sort of connecting link between carlton-house and the minister, took, of course, a leading part in the negotiations preparatory to such a measure. it appears, from a letter of mr. fox on the subject, that the prince and another person, whom it is unnecessary to name, were at one moment not a little alarmed by a rumor of an intention to associate the duke of york and the queen in the regency. mr. fox, however, begs of sheridan to tranquillize their minds on this point:--the intentions, (he adds,) of "the doctor," [footnote: to the infliction of this nickname on his friend, mr. addington, sheridan was, in no small degree, accessory, by applying to those who disapproved of his administration, and yet gave no reasons for their disapprobation, the well-known lines,-- "i do not love thee, doctor fell, and why i cannot tell; but this i know full well, i do not love thee, doctor fell."] though bad enough in all reason, do not go to such lengths; and a proposal of this nature, from any other quarter, could be easily defeated. within about two months from the date of the remonstrance, which, according to a statement already given, was presented to mr. fox by his brother whigs, one of the consequences which it prognosticated from the connection of their party with the grenvilles took place, in the resignation of mr. addington and the return of mr. pitt to power. the confidence of mr. pitt, in thus taking upon himself, almost single-handed, the government of the country at such an awful crisis, was, he soon perceived, not shared by the public. a general expectation had prevailed that the three great parties, which had lately been encamped together on the field of opposition, would have each sent its chiefs into the public councils, and thus formed such a congress of power and talent as the difficulties of the empire, in that trying moment, demanded. this hope had been frustrated by the repugnance of the king to mr. fox, and the too ready facility with which mr. pitt had given way to it. not only, indeed, in his undignified eagerness for office, did he sacrifice without stipulation the important question, which, but two years before, had been made the _sine-qua non_ of his services, but, in yielding so readily to the royal prejudices against his rival, he gave a sanction to that unconstitutional principle of exclusion, [footnote: "this principle of personal exclusion, (said lord grenville,) is one of which i never can approve, because, independently of its operation to prevent parliament and the people from enjoying the administration they desired, and which it was their particular interest to have, it tends to establish a dangerous precedent, that would afford too much opportunity of private pique against the public interest. i, for one, therefore, refused to connect myself with any one argument that should sanction that principle; and, in my opinion, every man who accepted office under that administration is, according to the letter and spirit of the constitution, responsible for its character and construction, and the principle upon which it is founded."--_speech of lord grenville on the motion of lord darnley for the repeal of the additional force bill, feb. , ._] which, if thus acted upon by the party-feelings of the monarch, would soon narrow the throne into the mere nucleus of a favored faction. in allowing, too, his friends and partisans to throw the whole blame of this exclusive ministry on the king, he but repeated the indecorum of which he had been guilty in . for, having at that time made use of the religious prejudices of the monarch, as a pretext for his manner of quitting office, he now employed the political prejudices of the same personage, as an equally convenient excuse for his manner of returning to it. a few extracts from the speech of mr. sheridan upon the additional force bill,--the only occasion on which he seems to have spoken during the present year,--will show that the rarity of his displays was not owing to any failure of power, but rather, perhaps, to the increasing involvement of his circumstances, which left no time for the thought and preparation that all his public efforts required. mr. pitt had, at the commencement of this year, condescended to call to his aid the co-operation of mr. addington, lord buckinghamshire, and other members of that administration, which had withered away, but a few months before, under the blight of his sarcasm and scorn. in alluding to this coalition, sheridan says-- "the right honorable gentleman went into office alone;--but, lest the government should become too full of vigor from his support, he thought proper to beckon back some of the weakness of the former administration. he, i suppose, thought that the ministry became, from his support, like spirits above proof, and required to be diluted; that, like gold refined to a certain degree, it would be unfit for use without a certain mixture of alloy; that the administration would be too brilliant, and dazzle the house, unless he called back a certain part of the mist and fog of the last administration to render it tolerable to the eye. as to the great change made in the ministry by the introduction of the right honorable gentleman himself, i would ask, does he imagine that he came back to office with the same estimation that he left it? i am sure he is much mistaken if he fancies that he did. the right honorable gentleman retired from office because, as was stated, he could not carry an important question, which he deemed necessary to satisfy the just claims of the catholics; and in going out he did not hesitate to tear off the sacred veil of majesty, describing his sovereign as the only person that stood in the way of this desirable object. after the right honorable gentleman's retirement, he advised the catholics to look to no one but him for the attainment of their rights, and cautiously to abstain from forming a connection with any other person. but how does it appear, now that the right honorable gentleman is returned to office? he declines to perform his promise; and has received, as his colleagues in office, those who are pledged to resist the measure. does not the right honorable gentleman then feel that he comes back to office with a character degraded by the violation of a solemn pledge, given to a great and respectable body of the people, upon a particular and momentous occasion? does the right honorable gentleman imagine either that he returns to office with the same character for political wisdom, after the description which he gave of the talents and capacity of his predecessors, and after having shown, by his own actions, that his description was totally unfounded?" in alluding to lord melville's appointment to the admiralty; he says,-- "but then, i am told, there is the first lord of the admiralty,--'do you forget the leader of the grand catamaran project? are you not aware of the important change in that department, and the advantage the country is likely to derive from that change?' why, i answer, that i do not know of any peculiar qualifications the noble lord has to preside over the admiralty; but i do know, that if i were to judge of him from the kind of capacity he evinced while minister of war, i should entertain little hopes of him. if, however, the right honorable gentleman should say to me, 'where else would you put that noble lord, would you have him appointed war-minister again?' i should say, oh no, by no means,--i remember too well the expeditions to toulon, to quiberon, to corsica, and to holland, the responsibility for each of which the noble lord took on himself, entirely releasing from any responsibility the commander in chief and the secretary at war. i also remember that, which, although so glorious to our arms in the result, i still shall call a most unwarrantable project.--the expedition to egypt. it may be said, that as the noble lord was so unfit for the military department, the naval was the proper place for him. perhaps there wore people who would adopt this whimsical reasoning. i remember a story told respecting mr. garrick, who was once applied to by an eccentric scotchman, to introduce a production of his on the stage. this scotchman was such a good-humored fellow, that he was called 'honest johnny m'cree.' johnny wrote four acts of a tragedy, which he showed to mr. garrick, who dissuaded him from finishing it; telling him that his talent did not lie that way; so johnny abandoned the tragedy, and set about writing a comedy. when this was finished, he showed it to mr. garrick, who found it to be still more exceptionable than the tragedy, and of course could not be persuaded to bring it forward on the stage. this surprised poor johnny, and he remonstrated. 'nay, now, david, (said johnny,) did you not tell me my talents did not lie in tragedy?'--'yes, (replied garrick,) but i did not tell you that they lay in comedy.'--'then, (exclaimed johnny,) gin they dinna lie there, where the de'il dittha lie, mon?' unless the noble lord at the head of the admiralty has the same reasoning in his mind as johnny m'cree, he cannot possibly suppose that his incapacity for the direction of the war-department necessarily qualifies him for the presidency of the naval. perhaps, if the noble lord be told that he has no talents for the latter, his lordship may exclaim with honest johnny m'cree, 'gin they dinna lie there, where the de'il dittha lie, mon?'" on the th of may, the claims of the roman catholics of ireland, were, for the first time, brought under the notice of the imperial parliament, by lord grenville in the house of lords, and by mr. fox in the house of commons. a few days before the debate, as appears, by the following remarkable letter, mr. sheridan was made the medium of a communication from carlton house, the object of which was to prevent mr. fox from presenting the petition. "dear sheridan, "i did not receive your letter till last night. "i did, on thursday, consent to be the presenter of the catholic petition, at the request of the delegates, and had further conversation on the subject with them at lord grenville's yesterday morning. lord grenville also consented to present the petition to the house of lords. now, therefore, any discussion on this part of the subject would be too late; but i will fairly own, that, if it were not, i could not be dissuaded from doing the public act, which, of all others, it will give me the greatest satisfaction and pride to perform. no past event in my political life ever did, and no future one ever can, give me such pleasure. "i am sure you know how painful it would be to me to disobey any command of his royal highness's, or even to act in any manner that might be in the slightest degree contrary to his wishes, and therefore i am not sorry that your intimation came too late. i shall endeavor to see the prince today; but, if i should fail, pray take care that he knows how things stand before we meet at dinner, lest any conversation there should appear to come upon him by surprise. "yours ever, _"arlington street, sunday,_ "c. j. f." it would be rash, without some further insight into the circumstances of this singular interference, to enter into any speculations with respect to its nature or motives, or to pronounce how far mr. sheridan was justified in being the instrument of it. but on the share of mr. fox in the transaction, such suspension of opinion is unnecessary. we have here his simple and honest words before us,--and they breathe a spirit of sincerity from which even princes might take a lesson with advantage. mr. pitt was not long in discovering that place does not always imply power, and that in separating himself from the other able men of the day, he had but created an opposition as much too strong for the government, as the government itself was too weak for the country. the humiliating resource to which he was driven, in trying, as a tonic, the reluctant alliance of lord sidmouth,--the abortiveness of his efforts to avert the full of his old friend, lord melville, and the fatality of ill luck that still attended his exertions against france,--all concurred to render this reign of the once powerful minister a series of humiliations, shifts, and disasters, unlike his former proud period in every thing but ill success. the powerful coalition opposed to him already had a prospect of carrying by storm the post which he occupied, when, by his death, it was surrendered, without parley, into their hands. the administration that succeeded, under the auspices of lord greville and mr. fox, bore a resemblance to the celebrated brass of corinth, more, perhaps, in the variety of the metals brought together, than in the perfection of the compound that resulted from their fusion. [footnote: see in the annual register of , some able remarks upon coalitions in general, as well as a temperate defence of this coalition in particular,--for which that work is, i suspect, indebted to a hand such as has not often, since the time of burke, enriched its pages.] there were comprised in it, indeed, not only the two great parties of the leading chiefs, but those whigs who differed with them both under the addington ministry, and the addingtons that differed with them all on the subject of the catholic claims. with this last anomalous addition to the miscellany the influence of sheridan is mainly chargeable. having, for some time past, exerted all his powers of management to bring about a coalition between carlton-house and lord sidmouth, he had been at length so successful, that upon the formation of the present ministry, it was the express desire of the prince that lord sidmouth should constitute a part of it. to the same unlucky influence, too, is to be traced the very questionable measure, (notwithstanding the great learning and ability with which it was defended,) of introducing the chief justice, lord ellenborough, into the cabinet. as to sheridan's own share in the arrangements, it was, no doubt, expected by him that he should now be included among the members of the cabinet; and it is probable that mr. fox, at the head of a purely whig ministry, would have so far considered the services of his ancient ally, and the popularity still attached to his name through the country, as to confer upon him this mark of distinction and confidence. but there were other interests to be consulted;--and the undisguised earnestness with which sheridan had opposed the union of his party with the grenvilles, left him but little supererogation of services to expect in that quarter. some of his nearest friends, and particularly mrs. sheridan, entreated, as i understand, in the most anxious manner, that he would not accept any such office as that of treasurer of the navy, for the responsibility and business of which they knew his habits so wholly unfitted him,--but that, if excluded by his colleagues from the distinction of a seat in the cabinet, he should decline all office whatsoever, and take his chance in a friendly independence of them. but the time was now past when he could afford to adopt this policy,--the emoluments of a place were too necessary to him to be rejected;--and, in accepting the same office that had been allotted to him in the regency--arrangements of , he must have felt, with no small degree of mortification, how stationary all his efforts since then had left him, and what a blank was thus made of all his services in the interval. the period of this ministry, connected with the name of mr. fox, though brief, and in some respects, far from laudable, was distinguished by two measures,--the plan of limited service, and the resolution for the abolition of the slave-trade,--which will long be remembered to the honor of those concerned in them. the motion of mr. fox against the slave-trade was the last he ever made in parliament;--and the same sort of melancholy admiration that pliny expressed, in speaking of a beautiful picture, the painter of which had died in finishing it,--"dolor manas dum id ageret, abreptae"--comes naturally over our hearts in thinking of the last, glorious work, to which this illustrious statesman, in dying, set his hand. though it is not true, as has been asserted, that mr. fox refused to see sheridan in his last illness, it is but too certain that those appearances of alienation or reserve, which had been for some time past observable in the former, continued to throw a restraint over their intercourse with each other to the last. it is a proof, however, of the absence of any serious grounds for this distrust, that sheridan as the person selected by the relatives of mr. fox to preside over and direct the arrangements of the funeral, and that he put the last, solemn seal to their long intimacy, by following his friend, as mourner, to the grave. the honor of representing the city of westminster in parliament had been, for some time, one of the dreams of sheridan's ambition. it was suspected, indeed,--i know not with what justice,--that in advising mr. fox, as he is said to have done, about the year , to secede from public life altogether, he was actuated by a wish to succeed him in the representation of westminster, and had even already set on foot some private negotiations towards that object. whatever grounds there may have been for this suspicion, the strong wish that he felt on the subject had long been sufficiently known to his colleagues; and on the death of mr. fox, it appeared, not only to himself, but the public, that he was the person naturally pointed out as most fit to be his parliamentary successor. it was, therefore, with no slight degree of disappointment he discovered, that the ascendancy of aristocratic influence was, as usual, to prevail, and that the young son of the duke of northumberland would be supported by the government in preference to him, it is but right, however, in justice to the ministry, to state, that the neglect with which they appear to have treated him on this occasion,--particularly in not apprising him of their decision in favor of lord percy, sufficiently early to save him from the humiliation of a fruitless attempt,--is proved, by the following letters, to have originated in a double misapprehension, by which, while sheridan, on one side, was led to believe that the ministers would favor his pretensions, the ministers, on the other, were induced to think that he had given up all intentions of being a candidate. the first letter is addressed to the gentleman, (one of sheridan's intimate friends,) who seems to have been, unintentionally, the cause of the mistake on both sides. "dear ----, "_somerset-place, september ._ "you must have seen by my manner, yesterday, how much i was surprised and hurt at learning, for the first time, that lord grenville had, many days previous to mr. fox's death, decided to support lord percy on the expected vacancy for westminster, and that you had since been the active agent in the canvass actually commenced. i do not like to think i have grounds to complain or change my opinion of any friend, without being very explicit, and opening my mind, without reserve, on such a subject. i must frankly declare, that i think you have brought yourself and me into a very unpleasant dilemma. you seemed to say, last night, that you had not been apprised of my intention to offer for westminster on the apprehended vacancy. i am confident you have acted under that impression; but i must impute to you either great inattention to what fell from me in our last conversation on the subject, or great inaccuracy of recollection; for i solemnly protest i considered you as the individual most distinctly apprised, that at this moment to succeed that great man and revered friend in westminster, should the fatal event take place, would be the highest object of my ambition; for, in that conversation i thanked you expressly for informing me that lord grenville had said to yourself, upon lord percy being suggested to him, that he, lord grenville, '_would decide on nothing until mr. sheridan had been spoken to, and his intentions known_' or words precisely to that effect. i expressed my grateful sense of lord grenville's attention, and said, that it would confirm me in my intention of making no application, however hopeless myself respecting mr. fox, while life remained with him,--and these words of lord grenville you allowed last night to have been so stated to me, though not as a message from his lordship. since that time i think we have not happened to meet; at least sure i am, we have had no conversation on the subject. having the highest opinion of lord grenville's honor and sincerity, i must be confident that he must have had another impression made on his mind respecting my wishes before i was entirely passed by. i do not mean to say that my offering myself was immediately to entitle me to the support of government, but i do mean to say, that my pretensions were entitled to consideration before that support was offered to another without the slightest notice taken of me,--the more especially as the words of lord grenville, reported by you to me, had been stated by me to many friends as my reliance and justification in not following their advice by making a direct application to government. i pledged myself to them that lord grenville would not promise the support of government till my intentions had been asked, and i quoted your authority for doing so: i never heard a syllable of that support being promised to lord percy until from you on the evening of mr. fox's death. did i ever authorize you to inform lord grenville that i had abandoned the idea of offering myself? these are points which it is necessary, for the honor of all parties, should be amicably explained. i therefore propose, as the shortest way of effecting it,--wishing you not to consider this letter as in any degree confidential,--that my statements in this letter may be submitted to any two common friends, or to the lord chancellor alone, and let it be ascertained where the error has arisen, for error is all i complain of; and, with regard to lord grenville, i desire distinctly to say, that i feel myself indebted for the fairness and kindness of his intentions towards me. my disappointment of the protection of government may be a sufficient excuse to the friends i am pledged to, should i retire; but i must have it understood whether or not i deceived them, when i led them to expect that i should have that support. "i hope to remain ever yours sincerely, "r. b. sheridan. "the sooner the reference i propose the better." the second letter, which is still further explanatory of the misconception, was addressed by sheridan to lord grenville: "my dear lord, "since i had the honor of your lordship's letter, i have received one from mr. ----, in which, i am sorry to observe he is silent as to my offer of meeting, in the presence of a third person, in order to ascertain whether he did or not so report a conversation with your lordship as to impress on my mind a belief that my pretensions would be considered, before the support of government should be pledged elsewhere. instead of this, he not only does not admit the precise words quoted by me, but does not state what he allows he did say. if he denies that he ever gave me reason to adopt the belief i have stated, be it so; but the only stipulation i have made is that we should come to an explicit understanding on this subject,--not with a view to quoting words or repeating names, but that the misapprehension, whatever it was, may be so admitted as not to leave me under an unmerited degree of discredit and disgrace. mr. ---- certainly never encouraged me to stand for westminster, but, on the contrary, advised me to support lord percy, which made me the more mark at the time the fairness with which i thought he apprised me of the preference my pretensions were likely to receive in your lordship's consideration. "unquestionably your lordship's recollection of what passed between mr. ---- and yourself must be just; and were it no more than what you said on the same subject to lord howick, i consider it as a mark of attention; but what has astonished me is, that mr. ---- should ever have informed your lordship, as he admits he did, that i had no intention of offering myself. this naturally must have put from your mind whatever degree of disposition was there to have made a preferable application to me; and lord howick's answer to your question, on which i have ventured to make a friendly remonstrance, must have confirmed mr. ----'s report. but allow me to suppose that i had myself seen your lordship, and that you had explicitly promised me the support of government, and had afterwards sent for me and informed me that it was at all an object to you that i should give way to lord percy, i assure you, with the utmost sincerity, that i should cheerfully have withdrawn myself, and applied every interest i possessed as your lordship should have directed. "all i request is, that what passed between me and mr. ---- may take an intelligible shape before any common friend, or before your lordship. this i conceive to be a preliminary due to my own honor, and what he ought not to evade." the address which he delivered, at the crown and anchor tavern, in declining the offer of support which many of the electors still pressed upon him, contains some of those touches of personal feeling which a biographer is more particularly bound to preserve. in speaking of mr. fox, he said,-- "it is true there have been occasions upon which i have differed with him --painful recollections of the most painful moments of my political life! nor were there wanting those who endeavored to represent these differences as a departure from the homage which his superior mind, though unclaimed by him, was entitled to, and from the allegiance of friendship which our hearts all swore to him. but never was the genuine and confiding texture of his soul more manifest than on such occasions; he knew that nothing on earth could detach me from him; and he resented insinuations against the sincerity and integrity of a friend, which he would not have noticed had they been pointed against himself. with such a man to have battled in the cause of genuine liberty,--with such a man to have struggled against the inroads of oppression and corruption,--with such an example before me, to have to boast that i never in my life gave one vote in parliament that was not on the side of freedom, is the congratulation that attends the retrospect of my public life. his friendship was the pride and honor of my days. i never, for one moment, regretted to share with him the difficulties, the calumnies, and sometimes even the dangers, that attended an honorable course. and now, reviewing my past political life, were the option possible that i should retread the path. i solemnly and deliberately declare that i would prefer to pursue the same course; to bear up under the same pressure; to abide by the same principles; and remain by his side an exile from power, distinction, and emolument, rather than be at this moment a splendid example of successful servility or prosperous apostacy, though clothed with power, honor, titles, gorged with sinecures, and lord of hoards obtained from the plunder of the people." at the conclusion of his address he thus alludes, with evidently a deep feeling of discontent, to the circumstances that had obliged him to decline the honor now proposed to him:-- "illiberal warnings have been held out, most unauthoritatively i know, that by persevering in the present contest i may risk my official situation, and if i retire, i am aware, that minds, as coarse and illiberal, may assign the dread of that as my motive. to such insinuations i shall scorn to make any other reply than a reference to the whole of my past political career. i consider it as no boast to say, that any one who has struggled through such a portion of life as i have, without obtaining an office, is not likely to i abandon his principles to retain one when acquired. if riches do not give independence, the next-best thing to being very rich is to have been used to be very poor. but independence is not allied to wealth, to birth, to rank, to power, to titles, or to honor. independence is in the mind of a man, or it is no where. on this ground were i to decline the contest, should scorn the imputation that should bring the purity of my purpose into doubt. no minister can expect to find in me a servile vassal. no minister can expect from me the abandonment of any principle i have avowed, or any pledge i have given. i know not that i have hitherto shrunk in place from opinions i have maintained while in opposition. did there exist a minister of a different cast from any i know in being, were he to attempt to exact from me a different conduct, my office should be at his service tomorrow. such a minister might strip me of my situation, in some respects of considerable emolument, but he could not strip me of the proud conviction that i was right; he could not strip me of my own self-esteem; he could not strip me, i think, of some portion of the confidence and good opinion of the people. but i am noticing the calumnious threat i allude to more than it deserves. there can be no peril, i venture to assert, under the present government, in the free exercise of discretion, such as belongs to the present question. i therefore disclaim the merit of putting anything to hazard. if i have missed the opportunity of obtaining all the support i might, perhaps, have had on the present occasion, from a very scrupulous delicacy, which i think became and was incumbent upon me, but which i by no means conceive to have been a fit rule for others, i cannot repent it. while the slightest aspiration of breath passed those lips, now closed for ever,--while one drop of life's blood beat in that heart, now cold for ever,--i could not, i ought not, to have acted otherwise than i did.--i now come with a very embarrassed feeling to that declaration which i yet think you must have expected from me, but which i make with reluctance, because, from the marked approbation i have experienced from you, i fear that with reluctance you will receive it.--i feel myself under the necessity of retiring from this contest." about three weeks after, ensued the dissolution of parliament,--a measure attended with considerable unpopularity to the ministry, and originating as much in the enmity of one of its members to lord sidmouth, as the introduction of that noble lord among them, at all, was owing to the friendship of another. in consequence of this event, lord percy having declined offering himself again, mr. sheridan became a candidate for westminster, and after a most riotous contest with a demagogue of the moment, named paul, was, together with sir samuel hood, declared duly elected. the moderate measure in favor of the roman catholics, which the ministry now thought it due to the expectations of that body to bring forward, was, as might be expected, taken advantage of by the king to rid himself of their counsels, and produced one of those bursts of bigotry, by which the people of england have so often disgraced themselves. it is sometimes a misfortune to men of wit, that they put their opinions in a form to be remembered. we might, perhaps, have been ignorant of the keen, but worldly view which mr. sheridan, on this occasion, took of the hardihood of his colleagues, if he had not himself expressed it in a form so portable to the memory. "he had often," he said, "heard of people knocking out their brains against a wall, but never before knew of any one building a wall expressly for the purpose." it must be owned, indeed, that, though far too sagacious and liberal not to be deeply impressed with the justice of the claims advanced by the catholics, he was not altogether disposed to go those generous lengths in their favor, of which mr. fox and a few others of their less calculating friends were capable. it was his avowed opinion, that, though the measure, whenever brought forward, should be supported and enforced by the whole weight of the party, they ought never so far to identify or encumber themselves with it, as to make its adoption a sine-qua-non of their acceptance or retention of office. his support, too, of the ministry of mr. addington, which was as virtually pledged against the catholics as that which now succeeded to power, sufficiently shows the secondary station that this great question occupied in his mind; nor can such a deviation from the usual tone of his political feelings be otherwise accounted for, than by supposing that he was aware of the existence of a strong indisposition to the measure in that quarter, by whose views and wishes his public conduct was, in most cases, regulated. on the general question, however, of the misgovernment of ireland, and the disabilities of the catholics, as forming its most prominent feature, his zeal was always forthcoming and ardent,--and never more so than during the present session, when, on the question of the irish arms bill, and his own motion upon the state of ireland, he distinguished himself by an animation and vigor worthy of the best period of his eloquence. mr. grattan, in supporting the coercive measures now adopted against his country, had shown himself, for once, alarmed into a concurrence with the wretched system of governing by insurrection acts, and, for once, lent his sanction to the principle upon which all such measures are founded, namely, that of enabling power to defend itself against the consequences of its own tyranny and injustice. in alluding to some expressions used by this great man, sheridan said:-- "he now happened to recollect what was said by a right honorable gentleman, to whose opinions they all deferred, (mr. grattan,) that notwithstanding he voted for the present measure, with all its defects, rather than lose it altogether, yet that gentleman said, that he hoped to secure the revisionary interest of the constitution to ireland. but when he saw that the constitution was suspended from the year to the present period, and that it was now likely to be continued for three years longer, the danger was that we might lose the interest altogether;--when we were mortgaged for such a length of time, at last a foreclosure might take place." the following is an instance of that happy power of applying old stories, for which mr. windham, no less than sheridan, was remarkable, and which, by promoting anecdote into the service of argument and wit, ennobles it, when trivial, and gives new youth to it, when old. "when they and others complain of the discontents of the irish, they never appear to consider the cause. when they express their surprise that the irish are not contented, while according to their observation, that people have so much reason to be happy, they betray a total ignorance of their actual circumstances. the fact is, that the tyranny practised upon the irish has been throughout unremitting. there has been no change but in the manner of inflicting it. they have had nothing but variety in oppression, extending to all ranks and degrees of a certain description of the people. if you would know what this varied oppression consisted in, i refer you to the penal statutes you have repealed, and to some of those which still exist. there you will see the high and the low equally subjected to the lash of persecution; and yet still some persons affect to be astonished at the discontents of the irish. but with all my reluctance to introduce any thing ludicrous upon so serious an occasion, i cannot help referring to a little story which those very astonished persons call to my mind. it was with respect to an irish drummer, who was employed to inflict punishment upon a soldier. when the boy struck high, the poor soldier exclaimed, 'lower, bless you,' with which the boy complied. but soon after the soldier exclaimed, 'higher if you please,' but again he called out, 'a little lower:' upon which the accommodating boy addressed him--'now, upon my conscience, i see you are a discontented man; for, strike where i may, there's no pleasing you.' now your complaint of the discontents of the irish appears to me quite as rational, while you continue to strike, only altering the place of attack." upon this speech, which may be considered as the _bouquet_, or last parting blaze of his eloquence, he appears to have bestowed considerable care and thought. the concluding sentences of the following passage, though in his very worst taste, were as anxiously labored by him, and put through as many rehearsals on paper, as any of the most highly finished witticisms in the school for scandal. "i cannot think patiently of such petty squabbles, while bonaparte is grasping the nations; while he is surrounding france, not with that iron frontier, for which the wish and childish ambition of louis xiv. was so eager, but with kingdoms of his own creation; securing the gratitude of higher minds as the hostage, and the fears of others as pledges for his safety. his are no ordinary fortifications. his martello towers are thrones; sceptres tipt with crowns are the palisadoes of his entrenchments, and kings are his sentinels." the reporter here, by "tipping" the sceptres "with crowns," has improved, rather unnecessarily, upon the finery of the original. the following are specimens of the various trials of this passage which i find scribbled over detached scraps of paper:-- "contrast the different attitudes and occupations of the two governments:--b. eighteen months from his capital,--head-quarters in the villages,--neither berlin nor warsaw,--dethroning and creating thrones,-- the works he raises are monarchies,--sceptres his palisadoes, thrones his martello towers." "commissioning kings,--erecting thrones,--martello towers,--cambaceres count noses,--austrians, fine dressed, like pompey's troops." "b. fences with sceptres,--his martello towers are thrones,--he alone is, france." another dissolution of parliament having taken place this year, he again became a candidate for the city of westminster. but, after a violent contest, during which he stood the coarse abuse of the mob with the utmost good humor and playfulness, the election ended in favor of sir francis burdett and lord cochrane, and sheridan was returned, with his friend mr. michael angelo taylor, for the borough of ilchester. in the autumn of he had conceived some idea of leasing the property of drury-lane theatre, and with that view had set on foot, through mr. michael kelly, who was then in ireland, a negotiation with mr. frederick jones, the proprietor of the dublin theatre. in explaining his object to mr. kelly, in a letter dated august , , he describes it as "a plan by which the property may be leased to those who have the skill and the industry to manage it as it should be for their own advantage, upon terms which would render any risk to them almost impossible;--the profit to them, (he adds,) would probably be beyond what i could now venture to state, and yet upon terms which would be much better for the real proprietors than any thing that can arise from the careless and ignorant manner in which the undertaking is now misconducted by those who, my son excepted, have no interest in its success, and who lose nothing by its failure." the negotiation with mr. jones was continued into the following year; and, according to a draft of agreement, which this gentleman has been kind enough to show me, in sheridan's handwriting, it was intended that mr. jones should, on becoming proprietor of one quarter-share of the property, "undertake the management of the theatre in conjunction with mr. t. sheridan, and be entitled to the same remuneration, namely, £. per annum certain income, and a certain per centage on the net profits arising from the office-receipts, as should be agreed upon," &c. &c. the following memorandum of a bet connected with this transaction, is of somewhat a higher class of wagers than the one tun tavern has often had the honor of recording among its archives:-- "_one tun, st. james's market, may , ._" "in the presence of messrs. g. ponsonby, r. power, and mr. becher, [footnote: it is not without a deep feeling of melancholy that i transcribe this paper. of three of my most valued friends,--whose names are signed to it,--becher, ponsonby, and power,--the last has, within a few short months, been snatched away, leaving behind him the recollection of as many gentle and manly virtues as ever concurred to give sweetness and strength to character.] mr. jones bets mr. sheridan five hundred guineas that he, mr. sheridan, does not write, and produce under his name, a play of five acts, or a first piece of three, within the term of three years from the th of september next.--it is distinctly to be understood that this bet is not valid unless mr. jones becomes a partner in drury-lane theatre before the commencement of the ensuing season. "richard power, "r. b. sheridan, "george ponsonby, "fred. edw. jones. "w. w. becher. "n. b.--w. w. becher and richard power join, one fifty,--the other one hundred pounds in this bet. "r. power." the grand movement of spain, in the year , which led to consequences so important to the rest of europe, though it has left herself as enslaved and priest-ridden as ever, was hailed by sheridan with all that prompt and well-timed ardor, with which he alone, of all his party, knew how to meet such great occasions. had his political associates but learned from his example thus to place themselves in advance of the procession of events, they would not have had the triumphal wheels pass by them and over them so frequently. immediately on the arrival of the deputies from spain, he called the attention of the house to the affairs of that country; and his speech on the subject, though short and unstudied, had not only the merit of falling in with the popular feeling at the moment, but, from the views which it pointed out through the bright opening now made by spain, was every way calculated to be useful both at home and abroad. "let spain," he said, "see, that we were not inclined to stint the services we had it in our power to render her; that we were not actuated by the desire of any petty advantage to ourselves; but that our exertions were to be solely directed to the attainment of the grand and general object, the emancipation of the world. if the flame were once fairly caught, our success was certain. france would then find, that she had hitherto been contending only against principalities, powers, and authorities, but that she had now to contend against a people." the death of lord lake this year removed those difficulties which had, ever since the appointment of sheridan to the receivership of the duchy of cornwall, stood in the way of his reaping the full advantages of that office. previously to the departure of general lake for india, the prince had granted to him the reversion of this situation which was then filled by lord elliot. it was afterwards, however, discovered that, according to the terms of the grant, the place could not be legally held or deputed by any one who had not been actually sworn into it before the prince's council. on the death of lord elliot, therefore, his royal highness thought himself authorized, as we have seen, in conferring the appointment upon mr. sheridan. this step, however, was considered by the friends of general lake as not only a breach of promise, but a violation of right; and it would seem from one of the documents which i am about to give, that measures were even in train for enforcing the claim by law. the first is a letter on the subject from sheridan to colonel m'mahon:-- "my dear m'mahon, "_thursday evening_. "i have thoroughly considered and reconsidered the subject we talked upon today. nothing on earth shall make me risk the possibility of the prince's goodness to me furnishing an opportunity for a single scurrilous fool's presuming to hint even that he had, in the slightest manner, departed from the slightest engagement. the prince's right, in point of law and justice, on the present occasion to recall the appointment given, i hold to be incontestible; but, believe me, i am right in the proposition i took the liberty of submitting to his royal highness, and which (so far is he from wishing to hurt general lake,) he graciously approved. but understand me,--my meaning is to give i up the emoluments of the situation to general lake, holding the situation at the prince's pleasure, and abiding by an arbitrated estimate of general lake's claim, supposing his royal highness had appointed him; in other words, to value his interest in the appointment as if he had it, and to pay him for it or resign to him. "with the prince's permission i should be glad to meet mr. warwick lake, and i am confident that no two men of common sense and good intentions can fail, in ten minutes, to arrange it so as to meet the prince's wishes, and not to leave the shadow of a pretence for envious malignity to whisper a word against his decision. "yours ever, "r. b. sheridan. "i write in great haste--going to a----." the other paper that i shall give, as throwing light on the transaction, is a rough and unfinished sketch by sheridan of a statement, intended to be transmitted to general lake, containing the particulars of both grants, and the documents connected with them:-- "dear general, "i am commanded by the prince of wales to transmit to you a correct statement of a transaction in which your name is so much implicated, and in which his feelings have been greatly wounded from a quarter, i am commanded to say, whence he did not expect such conduct. "as i am directed to communicate the particulars in the most authentic form, you will, i am sure, excuse on this occasion my not adopting the mode of a familiar letter. "authentic statement respecting the appointment by his royal highness the prince of wales to the receivership of the duchy of cornwall, in the year , to be transmitted by his royal highness's command, to lieutenant-general lake, commander-in-chief of the forces in india. "the circumstances attending the original reversionary grant to general lake are stated in the brief for counsel on this occasion by mr. bignell, the prince's solicitor, to be as follow: (no. i.) it was afterwards understood by the prince that the service he had wished to render general lake, by this grant, had been defeated by the terms of it; and so clearly had it been shown that there were essential duties attached to the office, which no deputy was competent to execute, and that a deputy, even for the collection of the rents, could not be appointed but by a principal actually in possession of the office, (by having been sworn into it before his council,) that upon general appointment to the command in india, the prince could have no conception that general lake, could have left the country under an impression or expectation that the prince would appoint him, in case of a vacancy, to the place in question. accordingly, his royal highness, on the very day he heard of the death of lord elliot, unsolicited, and of his own gracious suggestion, appointed mr. sheridan. mr. sheridan returned, the next day, in a letter to the prince, such an answer and acknowledgment as might be expected from him; and, accordingly, directions were given to make out his patent. on the ensuing ---- his royal highness was greatly surprised at receiving the following letter from mr. warwick lake. (no. ii.) "his royal highness immediately directed mr. sheridan to see mr. w. lake, and to state his situation, and how the office was circumstanced; and for further distinctness to make a minute in writing * * * *." such were the circumstances that had, at first, embarrassed his enjoyment of this office; but, on the death of lord lake, all difficulties were removed, and the appointment was confirmed to sheridan for his life. in order to afford some insight into the nature of that friendship, which existed so long between the heir apparent and sheridan,--though unable, of course, to produce any of the numerous letters, on the royal side of the correspondence, that have been found among the papers in my possession,--i shall here give, from a rough copy in sheridan's hand-writing, a letter which he addressed about this time to the prince:-- "it is matter of surprise to myself, as well as of deep regret, that i should have incurred the appearance of ungrateful neglect and disrespect towards the person to whom i am most obliged on earth, to whom i feel the most ardent, dutiful, and affectionate attachment, and in whose service i would readily sacrifice my life. yet so it is, and to nothing but a perverse combination of circumstances, which would form no excuse were i to recapitulate them, can i attribute a conduct so strange on my part; and from nothing but your royal highness's kindness and benignity alone can i expect an indulgent allowance and oblivion of that conduct: nor could i even hope for this were i not conscious of the unabated and unalterable devotion towards your royal highness which lives in my heart, and will ever continue to be its pride and boast. "but i should ill deserve the indulgence i request did i not frankly state what has passed in my mind, which, though it cannot justify, may, in some degree, extenuate what must have appeared so strange to your royal highness, previous to your royal highness's having actually restored me to the office i had resigned. "i was mortified and hurt in the keenest manner by having repeated to me from an authority which _i then trusted,_ some expressions of your royal highness respecting me, which it was impossible i could have deserved. though i was most solemnly pledged never to reveal the source from which the communication came, i for some time intended to unburthen my mind to my sincere friend and your royal highness's most attached and excellent servant, m'mahon--but i suddenly discovered, beyond a doubt, that i had been grossly deceived, and that there had not existed the slightest foundation for the tale that had been imposed on me; and i do humbly ask your royal highness's pardon for having for a moment credited a fiction suggested by mischief and i malice. yet, extraordinary as it must seem, i had so long, under this false impression, neglected the course which duty and gratitude required from me, that i felt an unaccountable shyness and reserve in repairing my error, and to this procrastination other unlucky circumstances contributed. one day when i had the honor of meeting your royal highness on horseback in oxford-street, though your manner was as usual gracious and kind to me, you said that i had deserted you privately and _politically_. i had long before that been assured, though falsely i am convinced, that your royal highness had promised to make a point that i should neither speak nor vote on lord wellesly's business. my view of this topic, and my knowledge of the delicate situation in which your royal highness stood in respect to the catholic question, though weak and inadequate motives, i confess, yet encouraged the continuance of that reserve which my original error had commenced. these subjects being passed by,--and sure i am your royal highness would never deliberately ask me to adopt a course of debasing inconsistency,--it was my hope fully and frankly to have explained myself and repaired my fault, when i was informed that a circumstance that happened at burlington-house, and which must have been heinously misrepresented, had greatly offended you; and soon after it was stated to me, by an authority which i have no objection to disclose, that your royal highness had quoted, with marked disapprobation, words supposed to have been spoken by me on the spanish question, and of which words, as there is a god in heaven, i never uttered one syllable. "most justly may your royal highness answer to all this, why have i not sooner stated these circumstances, and confided in that uniform friendship and protection which i have so long experienced at your hands. i can only plead a nervous, procrastinating nature, abetted, perhaps, by sensations of, i trust, no false pride, which, however i may blame myself, impel me involuntarily to fly from the risk of even a cold look from the quarter to which i owe so much, and by whom to be esteemed is the glory and consolation of my private and public life. "one point only remains for me to intrude upon your royal highness's consideration, but it is of a nature fit only for personal communication. i therefore conclude, with again entreating your royal highness to continue and extend the indulgence which the imperfections in my character have so often received from you, and yet to be assured that there never did exist to monarch, prince, or man, a firmer or purer attachment than i feel, and to my death shall feel, to you, my gracious prince and master." chapter x. destruction of the theatre of drury-lane by fire.--mr. whitbread.--plan for a third theatre.--illness of the king.--regency. lord obey and lord grenville.--conduct of mr. sheridan.--his vindication of himself. with the details of the embarrassments of drury-lane theatre, i have endeavored, as little as possible, to encumber the attention of the reader. this part of my subject would, indeed, require a volume to itself. the successive partnerships entered into with mr. grubb and mr. richardson,--the different trust-deeds for the general and individual property,--the various creations of shares,--the controversies between the trustees and proprietors, as to the obligations of the deed of , which ended in a chancery-suit in ,--the perpetual entanglements of the property which sheridan's private debts occasioned, and which even the friendship and skill of mr. adam were wearied out in endeavoring to rectify,--all this would lead to such a mass of details and correspondence as, though i have waded through it myself, it is by no means necessary to inflict upon others. the great source of the involvements, both of sheridan himself and of the concern, is to be found in the enormous excess of the expense of rebuilding the theatre in , over the amount stated by the architect in his estimate. this amount was , _l_.; and the sum of , £. then raised by subscription, would, it was calculated, in addition to defraying this charge, pay off also the mortgage-debts with which the theatre was encumbered. it was soon found, however, that the expense of building the house alone would exceed the whole amount raised by subscription; and, notwithstanding the advance of a considerable sum beyond the estimate, the theatre was delivered in n very unfinished state into the hands of the proprietors,--only part of the mortgage-debts was paid off, and, altogether a debt of , £ was left upon the property. this debt mr. sheridan and the other proprietors took, voluntarily, and, as it has been thought, inconsiderately, upon themselves,--the builders, by their contracts, having no legal claim upon them,--and the payment of it being at various times enforced, not only against the theatre, but against the private property of mr. sheridan, involved both in a degree of embarrassment from which there appeared no hope of extricating them. such was the state of this luckless property,--and it would have been difficult to imagine any change for the worse that could befall it,--when, early in the present year, an event occurred, that seemed to fill up at once the measure of its ruin. on the night of the th of february, while the house of commons was occupied with mr. ponsonby's motion on the conduct of the war in spain, and mr. sheridan was in attendance, with the intention, no doubt, of speaking, the house was suddenly illuminated by a blaze of light; and, the debate being interrupted, it was ascertained that the theatre of drury-lane was on fire. a motion was made to adjourn; but mr. sheridan said with much calmness, that "whatever might be the extent of the private calamity, he hoped it would not interfere with the public business of the country." he then left the house; and, proceeding to drury-lane, witnessed, with a fortitude which strongly interested all who observed him, the entire destruction of his property. [footnote: it is said that, as he sat at the piazza coffee-house, during the fire, taking some refreshment, a friend of his having remarked on the philosophic calmness with which he bore his misfortune, sheridan answered, "a man may surely be allowed to take a glass of wine _by his own fire-side._" without vouching for the authenticity or novelty of this anecdote, (which may have been, for aught i know, like the wandering jew, a regular attendant upon all fires, since the time of hierocles,) i give it as i heard it.] among his losses on the occasion there was one which, from being associated with feelings of other times, may have affected him, perhaps, more deeply than many that were far more serious. a harpsichord, that had belonged to his first wife, and had long survived her sweet voice in silent widowhood, was, with other articles of furniture that had been moved from somerset-house to the theatre, lost in the flames. the ruin thus brought upon this immense property seemed, for a time, beyond all hope of retrieval. the embarrassments of the concern were known to have been so great, and such a swarm of litigious claims lay slumbering under those ashes, that it is not surprising the public should have been slow and unwilling to touch them. nothing, indeed, short of the intrepid zeal of mr. whitbread could have ventured upon the task of remedying so complex a calamity; nor could any industry less persevering have compassed the miracle of rebuilding and re-animating that edifice, among the many-tongued claims that beset and perplexed his enterprise. in the following interesting letter to him from sheridan, we trace the first steps of his friendly interference on the occasion:-- "my dear whithbread, "procrastination is always the consequence of an indolent man's resolving to write a long detailed letter, upon any subject, however important to himself, or whatever may be the confidence he has in the friend he proposes to write to. to this must be attributed your having escaped the statement i threatened you with in my last letter, and the brevity with which i now propose to call your attention to the serious, and, to me, most important request, contained in this,--reserving all i meant to have written for personal communication. "i pay you no compliment when i say that, without comparison, you are the man living, in my estimation, the most disposed and the most competent to bestow a portion of your time and ability to assist the call of friendship,--on the condition that that call shall be proved to be made in a cause just and honorable, and in every respect entitled to your protection. "on this ground alone i make my application to you. you said, some time since, in my house, but in a careless conversation only, that you would be a member of a committee for rebuilding drury-lane theatre, if it would serve me; and, indeed, you very kindly suggested, yourself, that these were more persons disposed to assist that object than i might be aware of. i most thankfully accept the offer of your interference, and am convinced of the benefits your friendly exertions are competent to produce. i have worked the whole subject in my own mind, and see a clear way to retrieve a great property, at least to my son and his family, if my plan meets the support i hope it will appear to merit. "writing thus to you in the sincerity of private friendship, and the reliance i place on my opinion of your character, i need not ask of you, though eager and active in politics as you are, not to be severe in criticising my palpable neglect of all parliamentary duty. it would not be easy to explain to you, or even to make you comprehend, or any one in prosperous and affluent plight, the private difficulties i have to struggle with. my mind, and the resolute independence belonging to it, has not been in the least subdued by the late calamity; but the consequences arising from it have more engaged and embarrassed me than, perhaps, i have been willing to allow. it has been a principle of my life, persevered in through great difficulties, never to borrow money of a private friend and this resolution i would starve rather than violate. of course, i except the political aid of election-subscription. when i ask you to take a part in the settlement of my shattered affairs, i ask you only to do so after a previous investigation of every part of the past circumstances which relate to the trust i wish you to accept, in conjunction with those who wish to serve me, and to whom i think you could not object. i may be again seized with an illness as alarming as that i lately experienced. assist me in relieving my mind from the greatest affliction that such a situation can again produce,--the fear of others suffering by my death. "to effect this little more is necessary than some resolution on my part, and the active superintending advice of a mind like yours. "thus far on paper. i will see you next ----, and therefore will not trouble you for a written reply." encouraged by the opening which the destruction of drury-lane seemed to offer to free adventure in theatrical property, a project was set on foot for the establishment of a third great theatre, which, being backed by much of the influence and wealth of the city of london, for some time threatened destruction to the monopoly that had existed so long. but, by the exertions of mr. sheridan and his friends, this scheme was defeated, and a bill for the erection of drury-lane theatre by subscription, and for the incorporation of the subscribers, was passed through parliament. that mr. sheridan himself would have had no objection to a third theatre, if held by a joint grant to the proprietors of the other two, appears not only from his speeches and petitions on the subject at this time, but from the following plan for such an establishment, drawn up by him, some years before, and intended to be submitted to the consideration of the proprietors of both houses:-- "gentlemen, "according to your desire, the plan of the proposed assistant theatre, is here explained in writing for your further consideration. "from our situations in the theatres royal of drury-lane and covent-garden we have had opportunities of observing many circumstances relative to our general property, which must have escaped those who do not materially interfere in the management of that property. one point in particular has lately weighed extremely in our opinions, which is, an apprehension of a new theatre being erected for some species or other of dramatic entertainment. were this event to take place on an opposing interest, our property would sink in value one-half, and in all probability, the contest that would ensue would speedily end in the absolute ruin of one of the present established theatres. we have reason, it is true, from his majesty's gracious patronage to the present houses, to hope, that a third patent for a winter theatre is not easily to be obtained; but the motives which appear to call for one are so many, (and those of such a nature, as to increase every day,) that we cannot, on the maturest consideration of the subject, divest ourselves of the dread that such an event may not be very remote. with this apprehension before us, we have naturally fallen into a joint consideration of the means of preventing so fatal a blow to the present theatres, or of deriving a general advantage from a circumstance which might otherwise be our ruin. "some of the leading motives for the establishment of a third theatre are as follows:-- " st. the great extent of the town and increased residence of a higher class of people, who, on account of many circumstances, seldom frequent the theatre. " d. the distant situation of the theatres from the politer streets, and the difficulty with which ladies reach their carriages or chairs. " d. the small number of side-boxes, where only, by the uncontrollable influence of fashion, ladies of any rank can be induced to sit. " th. the earliness of the hour, which renders it absolutely impossible for those who attend on parliament, live at any distance, or, indeed, for any person who dines at the prevailing hour, to reach the theatre before the performance is half over. "these considerations have lately been strongly urged to me by many leading persons of rank. there has also prevailed, as appears by the number of private plays at gentlemen's seats, an unusual fashion for theatrical entertainments among the politer class of people; and it is not to be wondered at that they, feeling themselves, (from the causes above enumerated,) in a manner, excluded from our theatres, should persevere in an endeavor to establish some plan of similar entertainment, on principles of superior elegance and accommodation. "in proof of this disposition, and the effects to be apprehended from it, we need but instance one fact, among many, which might be produced, and that is the well-known circumstance of a subscription having actually been begun last winter, with very powerful patronage, for the importation of a french company of comedians, a scheme which, though it might not have answered to the undertaking, would certainly have been the foundation of other entertainments, whose opposition we should speedily have experienced. the question, then, upon a full view of our situation, appears to be, whether the proprietors of the present theatres will contentedly wait till some other person takes advantage of the prevailing wish for a third theatre, or, having the remedy in their power, profit by a turn of fashion which they cannot control. "a full conviction that the latter is the only line of conduct which can give security to the patents of drury-lane and covent-garden theatres, and yield a probability of future advantage in the exercise of them, has prompted us to endeavor at modelling this plan, on which we conceive those theatres may unite in the support of a third, to the general and mutual advantage of all the proprietors. "proposals. "the proprietors of the theatre-royal in covent-garden appear to be possessed of two patents, for the privilege of acting plays, &c., under one of which the above-mentioned theatre is opened,--the other lying dormant and useless;--it is proposed that this dormant patent shall be exercised, (with his majesty's approbation,) in order to license the dramatic performance of the new theatre to be erected. "it is proposed that the performances of this new theatre shall be supported from the united establishments of the two present theatres, so that the unemployed part of each company may exert themselves for the advantage of the whole. "as the object of this assistant theatre will be to reimburse the proprietors of the other two, at the full season, for the expensive establishment they are obliged to maintain when the town is almost empty, it is proposed, that the scheme of business to be adopted in the new theatre shall differ as much as possible from that of the other two, and that the performances at the new house shall be exhibited at a superior price, and shall commence at a later hour. "the proposers will undertake to provide a theatre for the purpose, in a proper situation, and on the following terms:--if they engage a theatre to be built, being the property of the builder or builders, it must be for an agreed on rent, with security for a term of years. in this case the proprietors of the two present theatres shall jointly and severally engage in the whole of the risk; and the proposers are ready, on equitable terms, to undertake the management of it. but, if the proposers find themselves enabled, either on their own credit, or by the assistance of their friends, or on a plan of subscription, the mode being devised, and the security given by themselves, to become the builders of the theatre, the interest in the building will, in that case, be the property of the proposers, and they will undertake to demand no rent for the performances therein to be exhibited for the mutual advantage of the two present theatres. "the proposers will, in this case, conducting the business under the dormant patent above mentioned, bind themselves, that no theatrical entertainments, as plays, farces, pantomimes, or english operas, shall at any time be exhibited in this theatre but for the general advantage of the proprietors of the two other theatres; the proposers reserving to themselves any profit they can make of their building, converted to purposes distinct from the business of the theatres. "the proposers, undertaking the management of the new theatre, shall be entitled to a sum to be settled by the proprietors at large, or by an equitable arbitration. "it is proposed, that all the proprietors of the two present theatres royal of drury-lane and covent-garden shall share all profits from the dramatic entertainments exhibited at the new theatre; that is, each shall be entitled to receive a dividend in proportion to the shares he or she possesses of the present theatres: first only deducting a certain nightly sum to be paid to the proprietors of covent-garden theatre, as a consideration for the license furnished by the exercise of their present dormant patent. "'fore heaven! the plan's a good plan! i shall add a little epilogue to-morrow. "r. b. s." "'tis now too late, and i've a letter to write before i go to bed,--and then, good night." in the month of july, this year, the installation of lord grenville, as chancellor of oxford, took place, and mr. sheridan was among the distinguished persons that attended the ceremony. as a number of honorary degrees were to be conferred on the occasion, it was expected, as a matter of course, that his name would be among those selected for that distinction; and, to the honor of the university, it was the general wish among its leading members that such a tribute should be paid to his high political character. on the proposal of his name, however, (in a private meeting, i believe, held previously to the convocation.) the words _"non placet"_ were heard from two scholars, one of whom, it is said, had no nobler motive for his opposition than that sheridan did not pay his father's tithes very regularly. several efforts were made to win over these dissentients; and the rev. mr. ingram delivered an able and liberal latin speech, in which he indignantly represented the shame that it would bring on the university, if such a name as that of sheridan should be _"clam subductum"_ from the list. the two scholars, however, were immovable; and nothing remained but to give sheridan intimation of their intended opposition, so as to enable him to decline the honor of having his name proposed. on his appearance, afterwards, in the theatre, a burst of acclamation broke forth, with a general cry of "mr. sheridan among the doctors,--sheridan among the doctors;" in compliance with which he was passed to the seat occupied by the honorary graduates, and sat, in unrobed distinction, among them, during the whole of the ceremonial. few occurrences, of a public nature, ever gave him more pleasure than this reception. at the close of the year , the malady, with which the king had been thrice before afflicted, returned; and, after the usual adjournments of parliament, it was found necessary to establish a regency. on the question of the second adjournment, mr. sheridan took a line directly opposed to that of his party, and voted with the majority. that in this step he did not act from any previous concert with the prince, appears from the following letter, addressed by him to his royal highness on the subject, and containing particulars which will prepare the mind of the reader to judge more clearly of the events that followed:-- "sir, "i felt infinite satisfaction when i was apprised that your royal highness had been far from disapproving the line of conduct i had presumed to pursue, on the last question of adjournment in the house of commons. indeed, i never had a moment's doubt but that your royal highness would give me credit that i was actuated on that, as i shall on every other occasion through my existence, by no possible motive but the most sincere and unmixed desire to look to your royal highness's honor and true interest, as the objects of my political life,--directed, as i am sure your efforts will ever be, to the essential interests of the country and the constitution. to this line of conduct i am prompted by every motive of personal gratitude, and confirmed by every opportunity, which peculiar circumstances and long experience have afforded me, of judging of your heart and understanding,--to the superior excellence of which, (beyond all, i believe, that ever stood in your rank and high relation to society,) i fear not to advance my humble testimony, because i scruple not to say for myself, that i am no flatterer, and that i never found that to _become_ one was the road to your real regard. "i state thus much because it has been under the influence of these feelings that i have not felt myself warranted, (without any previous communication with your royal highness,) to follow implicitly the dictates of others, in whom, however they may be my superiors in many qualities, i can subscribe to no superiority as to devoted attachment and duteous affection to your royal highness, or in that practical knowledge of the public mind and character, upon which alone must be built that popular and personal estimation of your royal highness, so necessary to your future happiness and glory, and to the prosperity of the nation you are destined to rule over. "on these grounds, i saw no policy or consistency in unnecessarily giving a general sanction to the examination of the physicians before the council, and then attempting, on the question of adjournment, to hold that examination as naught. on these grounds, i have ventured to doubt the wisdom or propriety of any endeavor, (if any such endeavor has been made,) to induce your royal highness, during so critical a moment, to stir an inch from the strong reserved post you have chosen, or give the slightest public demonstration of any future intended political preferences;--convinced as i was that the rule of conduct you had prescribed to yourself was precisely that which was gaining you the general heart, and rendering it impracticable for any quarter to succeed in annexing unworthy conditions to that most difficult situation, which you were probably so soon to be called on to accept. "i may, sir, have been guilty of error of judgment in both these respects, differing, as i fear i have done, from those whom i am bound so highly to respect; but, at the same time, i deem it no presumption to say that, until better instructed, i feel a strong confidence in the justness of my own view of the subject; and simply because of this--i am sure that the decisions of that judgment, be they sound or mistaken, have not, at least, been rashly taken up, but were founded on deliberate zeal for your service and glory, unmixed, i will confidently say, with any one selfish object or political purpose of my own." the same limitations and restrictions that mr. pitt proposed in , were, upon the same principles, adopted by the present minister: nor did the opposition differ otherwise from their former line of argument, than by omitting altogether that claim of right for the prince, which mr. fox had, in the proceedings of , asserted. the event that ensued is sufficiently well known. to the surprise of the public, (who expected, perhaps, rather than wished, that the coalesced party of which lord grey and lord grenville were the chiefs, should now succeed to power,) mr. perceval and his colleagues were informed by the regent that it was the intention of his royal highness to continue them still in office. the share taken by mr. sheridan in the transactions that led to this decision, is one of those passages of his political life upon which the criticism of his own party has been most severely exercised, and into the details of which i feel most difficulty in entering:--because, however curious it may be to penetrate into these _"postscenia"_ of public life, it seems hardly delicate, while so many of the chief actors are still upon the stage. as there exists, however, a paper drawn up by mr. sheridan, containing what he considered a satisfactory defence of his conduct on this occasion, i should ill discharge my duty towards his memory, were i, from any scruples or predilections of my own, to deprive him of the advantage of a, statement, on which he appears to have relied so confidently for his vindication. but, first,--in order fully to understand the whole course of feelings and circumstances, by which not only sheridan, but his royal master, (for their cause is, in a great degree, identified,) were for some time past, predisposed towards the line of conduct which they now pursued,--it will be necessary to recur to a few antecedent events. by the death of mr. fox the chief personal tie that connected the heir-apparent with the party of that statesman was broken. the political identity of the party itself had, even before that event, been, in a great degree, disturbed by a coalition against which sheridan had always most strongly protested, and to which the prince, there is every reason to believe, was by no means friendly. immediately after the death of mr. fox, his royal highness made known his intentions of withdrawing from all personal interference in politics; and, though still continuing his sanction to the remaining ministry, expressed himself as no longer desirous of being considered "a party man." [footnote: this is the phrase used by the prince himself, in a letter addressed to a noble lord,(not long after the dismissal of the grenville ministry,) for the purpose of vindicating his own character from some imputations cast upon it, in consequence of an interview which he had lately had with the king. this important exposition of the feelings of his royal highness, which, more than any thing, throws light upon his subsequent conduct, was drawn up by sheridan; and i had hoped that i should have been able to lay it before the reader:--but the liberty of perusing the letter is all that has been allowed me.] during the short time that these ministers continued in office, the understanding between them and the prince was by no means of that cordial and confidential kind, which had been invariably maintained during the life-time of mr. fox. on the contrary, the impression on the mind, of his royal highness, us well as on those of his immediate friends in the ministry, lord moira and mr. sheridan, was, that a cold neglect had succeeded to the confidence with which they had hitherto been treated; and that, neither in their opinions nor feelings, were they any longer sufficiently consulted or considered. the very measure, by which the ministers ultimately lost their places, was, it appears, one of those which the illustrious personage in question neither conceived himself to have been sufficiently consulted upon before its adoption, nor approved of afterwards. such were the gradual loosenings of a bond, which at no time had promised much permanence; and such the train of feelings and circumstances which, (combining with certain prejudices in the royal mind against one of the chief leaders of the party,) prepared the way for that result by which the public was surprised in , and the private details of which i shall now, as briefly as possible, relate. as soon as the bill for regulating the office of regent had passed the two houses, the prince, who, till then, had maintained a strict reserve with respect to his intentions, signified, through mr. adam, his pleasure that lord grenville should wait upon him. he then, in the most gracious manner, expressed to that noble lord his wish that he should, in conjunction with lord grey, prepare the answer which his royal highness was, in a few days, to return to the address of the houses. the same confidential task was entrusted also to lord moira, with an expressed desire that he should consult with lord grey and lord grenville on the subject. but this co-operation, as i understand, the two noble lords declined. one of the embarrassing consequences of coalitions now appeared. the recorded opinions of lord grenville on the regency question differed wholly and in principle not only from those of his coadjutor in this task, but from those of the royal person himself, whose sentiments he was called upon to interpret. in this difficulty, the only alternative that remained was so to neutralize the terms of the answer upon the great point of difference, as to preserve the consistency of the royal speaker, without at the same time compromising that of his noble adviser. it required, of course, no small art and delicacy thus to throw into the shade that distinctive opinion of whigism, which burke had clothed in his imperishable language in , and which fox had solemnly bequeathed to the party, when "in his upward flight he left his mantle there." [footnote: joanna baithe] the answer, drawn up by the noble lords, did not, it must be confessed, surmount this difficulty very skilfully. the assertion of the prince's consistency was confined to two meagre sentences, in the first of which his royal highness was made to say:--"with respect to the proposed limitation of the authority to be entrusted to me, i retain my former opinion:"--and in the other, the expression of any decided opinion upon the constitutional point is thus evaded:--"for such a purpose no restraint can be necessary to be imposed upon me." somewhat less vague and evasive, however, was the justification of the opinion opposed to that of the prince, in the following sentence:--"that day when i may restore to the king those powers, which _as belonging only to him_, [footnote: the words which i have put in italics in these quotations, are, in the same manner, underlined in sheridan's copy of the paper,--doubtless, from a similar view of their import to that which i have taken.] are in his name and in his behalf," &c. &c. this, it will be recollected, is precisely the doctrine which, on the great question of limiting the prerogative, mr. fox attributed to the tories. in another passage, the whig opinion of the prince was thus tamely surrendered:--"conscious that, whatever _degree_ of confidence you may _think fit_ to repose in me," &c. [footnote: on the back of sheridan's own copy of this answer, i find, written by him, the following words "grenville's and grey's proposed answer from the prince to the address of the two houses,--very flimsy, and attempting to cover grenville's conduct and consistency in supporting the present restrictions at the expense of the prince."] the answer, thus constructed, was, by the two noble lords, transmitted through mr. adam, to the prince, who, "strongly objecting, (as we are told), to almost every part of it," acceded to the suggestion of sheridan, whom he consulted on the subject, that a new form of answer should be immediately sketched out, and submitted to the consideration of lord grey and lord grenville. there was no time to be lost, as the address of the houses was to be received the following day. accordingly, mr. adam and mr. sheridan proceeded that night, with the new draft of the answer to holland-house, where, after a warm discussion upon the subject with lord grey, which ended unsatisfactorily to both parties, the final result was that the answer drawn up by the prince and sheridan was adopted.--such is the bare outline of this transaction, the circumstances of which will be found fully detailed in the statement that shall presently be given. the accusation against sheridan is, that chiefly to his undermining influence the view taken by the prince of the paper of these noble lords is to be attributed; and that not only was he censurable in a constitutional point of view, for thus interfering between the sovereign and his responsible advisers, but that he had been also guilty of an act of private perfidy, in endeavoring to represent the answer drawn up by these noble lords, as an attempt to sacrifice the consistency and dignity of their royal master to the compromise of opinions and principles which they had entered into themselves. under the impression that such were the nature and motives of his interference, lord grey and lord grenville, on the th of january, (the day on which the answer substituted for their own was delivered), presented a joint representation to the regent, in which they stated that "the circumstances which had occurred, respecting his royal highness's answer to the two houses, had induced them, most humbly, to solicit permission to submit to his royal highness the following considerations, with the undisguised sincerity which the occasion seemed to require, but, with every expression that could best convey their respectful duty and inviolable attachment. when his royal highness, (they continued), did lord grenville the honor, through mr. adam, to command his attendance, it was distinctly expressed to him, that his royal highness had condescended to select him, in conjunction with lord grey, to be consulted with, as the public and responsible advisers of that answer; and lord grenville could never forget the gracious terms in which his royal highness had the goodness to lay these his orders upon him. it was also on the same grounds of public and responsible advice, that lord grey, honored in like manner by the most gracious expression of his royal highness's confidence on this subject, applied himself to the consideration of it conjointly with lord grenville. they could not but feel the difficulty of the undertaking, which required them to reconcile two objects essentially different,--to uphold and distinctly to manifest that unshaken adherence to his royal highness's past and present opinion, which consistency and honor required, but to conciliate, at the same time, the feelings of the two houses, by expressions of confidence and affection, and to lay the foundation of that good understanding between his royal highness and the parliament, the establishment of which must be the first wish of every man who is truly attached to his royal highness, and who knows the value of the constitution of his country. lord grey and lord grenville were far from the presumption of believing that their humble endeavors for the execution of so difficult a task might not be susceptible of many and great amendments. "the draft, (their lordships said), which they humbly submitted to his royal highness was considered by them as open to every remark which might occur to his royal highness's better judgment. on every occasion, but more especially in the preparation of his royal highness's first act of government, it would have been no less their desire than their duty to have profited by all such objections, and to have labored to accomplish, in the best manner they were able, every command which his royal highness might have been pleased to lay upon them. upon the objects to be obtained there could be no difference of sentiment. these, such as above described, were, they confidently believed, not less important in his royal highness's view of the subject than in that which they themselves had ventured to express. but they would be wanting in that sincerity and openness by which they could alone hope, however imperfectly, to make any return to that gracious confidence with which his royal highness had condescended to honor them, if they suppressed the expression of their deep concern, in finding that their humble endeavors in his royal highness's service had been submitted to the judgment of another person, by whose advice his royal highness had been guided in his final decision, on a matter on which they alone had, however unworthily, been honored with his royal highness's commands. it was their most sincere and ardent wish that, in the arduous station which his royal highness was about to fill, he might have the benefit of the public advice and responsible services of those men, whoever they might be, by whom his royal highness's glory and the interests of the country could best be promoted. it would be with unfeigned distrust of their own means of discharging such duties that they could, in any case, venture to undertake them; and, in this humble but respectful representation which they had presumed to make of their feelings on this occasion, they were conscious of being actuated not less by their dutiful and grateful attachment to his royal highness, than by those principles of constitutional responsibility, the maintenance of which they deemed essential to any hope of a successful administration of the public interests." on receiving this representation, in which, it must be confessed, there was more of high spirit and dignity than of worldly wisdom, [footnote: to the pure and dignified character of the noble whig associated in this remonstrance, it is unnecessary for me to say how heartily i bear testimony. the only fault, indeed, of this distinguished person is, that knowing but one high course of conduct for himself, he impatiently resents any sinking from that pitch in others. then, only, in his true station, when placed between the people and the crown, as one of those fortresses that ornament and defend the frontier of democracy, he has shown that he can but ill suit the dimensions of his spirit to the narrow avenues of a court, or, like that pope who stooped to look for the keys of st. peter, accommodate his natural elevation to the pursuit of official power. all the pliancy of his nature is, indeed, reserved for private life, where the repose of the valley succeeds to the grandeur of the mountain, and where the lofty statesman gracefully subsides into the gentle husband and father, and the frank, social friend. the eloquence of lord grey, more than that of any other person, brings to mind what quintilian says of the great and noble orator, messala:--"_quodammodo prae se ferens in dicendo nobilitatem suam_."] his royal highness lost no time in communicating it to sheridan, who, proud of the influence attributed to him by the noble writers, and now more than ever stimulated to make them feel its weight, employed the whole force of his shrewdness and ridicule [footnote: he called rhymes also to his aid, as appears by the following:-- "_an address to the prince_, . "in all humility we crave our regent may become our slave, and being so, we trust that he will thank us for our loyalty. then, if he'll help us to pull down his father's dignity and crown, we'll make him, in some time to come, the greatest prince in christendom."] in exposing the stately tone of dictation which, according to his view, was assumed throughout this paper, and in picturing to the prince the state of tutelage he might expect under ministers who began thus early with their lectures. such suggestions, even if less ably urged, were but too sure of a willing audience in the ears to which they were adressed. shortly after, his royal highness paid a visit to windsor, where the queen and another royal personage completed what had been so skilfully begun; and the important resolution was forthwith taken to retain mr. perceval and his colleagues in the ministry. i shall now give the statement of the whole transaction, which mr. sheridan thought it necessary to address, in his own defence, to lord holland, and of which a rough and a fair copy have been found carefully preserved among his papers:-- _queen-street, january_ , . "dear holland, "as you have been already apprised by his royal highness the prince that he thought it becoming the frankness of his character, and consistent with the fairness and openness of proceeding due to any of his servants whose conduct appears to have incurred the disapprobation of lord grey and lord grenville, to communicate their representations on the subject to the person so censured, i am confident you will give me credit for the pain i must have felt, to find myself an object of suspicion, or likely, in the slightest degree, to become the cause of any temporary misunderstanding between his royal highness amid those distinguished characters, whom his royal highness appears to destine to those responsible situations, which must in all public matters entitle them to his exclusive confidence. "i shall as briefly as i can state the circumstances of the fact, so distinctly referred to in the following passage of the noble lord's representation:-- "'but they would be wanting in that sincerity and openness by which they can alone hope, however imperfectly, to make any return to that gracious confidence with which your royal highness has condescended to honor them, if they suppressed the expression of their deep concern in finding that their humble endeavors in your royal highness's service have been submitted to the judgment of another person, _by whose advice_ your royal highness has been guided in your final decision on a matter in which they alone had, however unworthily, been honored with your royal highness's commands.' "i must premise, that from my first intercourse with the prince during the present distressing emergency, such conversations as he may have honored me with have been communications of resolutions already formed on his part, and not of matter referred to consultation or submitted to _advice_. i know that my declining to vote for the further adjournment of the privy council's examination of the physicians gave offence to some, and was considered as a difference from the party i as rightly esteemed to belong to. the intentions of the leaders of the party upon that question were in no way distinctly known to me; my secession was entirely my own act, and not only unauthorized, but perhaps unexpected by the prince. my motives for it i took the liberty of communicating to his royal highness by letter, [footnote: this letter has been given in page .] the next day, and, previously to that, i had not even seen his royal highness since the confirmation of his majesty's malady. "if i differed from those who, equally attached to his royal highness's interest and honor, thought that his royal highness should have taken the step which, in my humble opinion, he has since, precisely at the proper period, taken of sending to lord grenville and lord grey, i may certainly have erred in forming an imperfect judgment on the occasion, but, in doing so, i meant no disrespect to those who had taken a different view of the subject. but, with all deference, i cannot avoid adding, that experience of the impression made on the public mind by the reserved and retired conduct which the prince thought proper to adopt, has not shaken my opinion of the wisdom which prompted him to that determination. but here, again, i declare, that i must reject the presumption that any suggestion of mine led to the rule which the prince had prescribed to himself. my knowledge of it being, as i before said, the communication of a resolution formed on the part of his royal highness, and not of a proposition awaiting the advice, countenance, or corroboration, of any other person. having thought it necessary to premise thus much, as i wish to write to you without reserve or concealment of any sort, i shall as briefly as i can relate the facts which attended the composing the answer itself, as far as i was concerned. "on sunday, or on monday the th instant, i mentioned to lord moira, or to adam, that the address of the two houses would come very quickly upon the prince, and that he should be prepared with his answer, without entertaining the least idea of meddling with the subject myself, having received no authority from his royal highness to do so. either lord moira or adam informed me, before i left carlton-house, that his royal highness had directed lord moira to sketch an outline of the answer proposed, and i left town. on tuesday evening it occurred to me to try at a sketch also of the intended reply. on wednesday morning i read it, at carlton-house, very hastily to adam, before i saw the prince. and here i must pause to declare, that i have entirely withdrawn from my mind any doubt, if for a moment i ever entertained any, of the perfect propriety of adam's conduct at that hurried interview; being also long convinced, as well from intercourse with him at carlton-house as in every transaction i have witnessed, that it is impossible for him to act otherwise than with the most entire sincerity and honor towards all he deals with. i then read the paper i had put together to the prince,--the most essential part of it literally consisting of sentiments and expressions, which had fallen from the prince himself in different conversations; and i read it to him without _having once heard lord grenville's name_ even mentioned as in any way connected with the answer proposed to be submitted to the prince. on the contrary, indeed, i was under an impression that the framing this answer was considered as the single act which it would be an unfair and embarrassing task to require the performance of from lord grenville. the prince approved the paper i read to him, objecting, however, to some additional paragraphs of my own, and altering others. in the course of his observations, he cursorily mentioned that lord grenville had undertaken to sketch out his idea of a proper answer, and that lord moira had done the same,--evidently expressing himself, to my apprehension, as not considering the framing of this answer as a matter of official responsibility any where, but that it was his intention to take the choice and decision respecting it on himself. if, however, i had known, before i entered the prince's apartment, that lord grenville and lord grey had in any way undertaken to frame the answer, and had thought themselves authorized to do so, i protest the prince would never even have heard of the draft which i had prepared, though containing, as i before said, the prince's own ideas. "his royal highness having laid his commands on adam and me to dine with him alone on the next day, thursday, i then, for the first time, learnt that lord grey and lord grenville had transmitted, through adam, a formal draft of an answer to be submitted to the prince. "under these circumstances i thought it became me humbly to request the prince not to refer to me, in any respect, the paper of the noble lords, or to insist even on my hearing its contents; but that i might be permitted to put the draft he had received from me into the fire. the prince, however, who had read the noble lords' paper, declining to hear of this, proceeded to state, how strongly he objected to almost every part of it. the draft delivered by adam he took a copy of himself, as mr. adam read it, affixing shortly, but warmly, his comments to each paragraph. finding his royal highness's objections to the whole radical and insuperable, and seeing no means myself by which the noble lords could change their draft, so as to meet the prince's ideas, i ventured to propose, as the only expedient of which the time allowed, that both the papers should be laid aside, and that a very short answer, indeed, keeping clear of all topics liable to disagreement, should be immediately sketched out and be submitted that night to the judgment of lord grey and lord grenville. the lateness of the hour prevented any but very hasty discussion, and adam and myself proceeded, by his royal highness's orders, to your house to relate what had passed to lord grey. i do not mean to disguise, however, that when i found myself bound to give my opinion, i did fully assent to the force and justice of the prince's objections, and made other observations of my own, which i thought it my duty to do, conceiving, as i freely said, that the paper could not have been drawn up but under the pressure of embarrassing difficulties, and, as i conceived also, in considerable haste. "before we left carlton-house, it was agreed between adam and myself that we were not so strictly enjoined by the prince, as to make it necessary for us to communicate to the noble lords the marginal comments of the prince, and we determined to withhold them. but at the meeting with lord grey, at your house, he appeared to me, erroneously perhaps, to decline considering the objections as coming from the prince, but as originating in my suggestions. upon this, i certainly called on adam to produce the prince's copy, with his notes, in his royal highness's own hand-writing. "afterwards, finding myself considerably hurt at an expression of lord grey's, which could only be pointed at me, and which expressed his opinion that the whole of the paper, which he assumed me to be responsible for, was 'drawn up in an invidious spirit,' i certainly did, with more warmth than was, perhaps, discreet, comment on the paper proposed to be substituted; and there ended, with no good effect, our interview. "adam and i saw the prince again that night, when his royal highness was graciously pleased to meet our joint and earnest request, by striking out from the draft of the answer, to which he still resolved to adhere, every passage which we conceived to be most liable to objection on the part of lord grey and lord grenville. "on the next morning, friday,--a short time before he was to receive the address,--when adam returned from the noble lords, with their expressed disclaimer of the preferred answer, altered as it was, his royal highness still persevered to eradicate every remaining word which he thought might yet appear exceptionable to them, and made further alterations, although the fair copy of the paper had been made out. "thus the answer, nearly reduced to the expression of the prince's own suggestions, and without an opportunity of farther meeting the wishes of the noble lords, was delivered by his royal highness, and presented by the deputation of the two houses. "i am ashamed to have been thus prolix and circumstantial, upon a matter which may appear to have admitted of much shorter explanation; but when misconception has produced distrust among those, i hope, not willingly disposed to differ, and, who can have, i equally trust, but one common object in view in their different stations, i know no better way than by minuteness and accuracy of detail to remove whatever may have appeared doubtful in conduct, while unexplained, or inconsistent in principle not clearly re-asserted. "and now, my dear lord, i have only shortly to express my own personal mortification, i will use no other word, that i should have been considered by any persons however high in rank, or justly entitled to high political pretensions, as one so little 'attached to his royal highness,' or so ignorant of the value 'of the constitution of his country,' as to be held out to him, whose fairly-earned esteem i regard as the first honor and the sole reward of my political life, in the character of an interested contriver of a double government, and, in some measure, as an apostate from all my former principles,--which have taught me, as well as the noble lords, that 'the maintenance of constitutional responsibility in the ministers of the crown is essential to any hope of success in the administration of the public interest.' "at the same time, i am most ready to admit that it could not be their _intention_ so to characterize me; but it is the direct inference which others must gather from the first paragraph i have quoted from their representation, and an inference which, i understand, has already been raised in public opinion. a departure, my dear lord, on my part, from upholding the principle declared by the noble lords, much more a presumptuous and certainly ineffectual attempt to inculcate a contrary doctrine on the mind of the prince of wales, would, i am confident, lose me every particle of his favor and confidence at once and for ever. but i am yet to learn what part of my past public life,--and i challenge observation on every part of my present proceedings,--has warranted the adoption of any such suspicion of me, or the expression of any such imputation against me. but i will dwell no longer on this point, as it relates only to my own feelings and character; which, however, i am the more bound to consider, as others, in my humble judgment, have so hastily disregarded both. at the same time, i do sincerely declare, that no personal disappointment in my own mind interferes with the respect and esteem i entertain for lord grenville, or in addition to those sentiments, the friendly regard i owe to lord grey. to lord grenville i have the honor to be but very little personally known. from lord grey, intimately acquainted as he was with every circumstance of my conduct and principles in the years - , i confess i should have expected a very tardy and reluctant interpretation of any circumstance to my disadvantage. what the nature of my endeavors were at that time, i have the written testimonies of mr. fox and the duke of portland. to you i know those testimonies are not necessary, and perhaps it has been my recollection of what passed in those times that may have led me too securely to conceive myself above the reach even of a suspicion that i could adopt different principles now. such as they were they remain untouched and unaltered. i conclude with sincerely declaring, that to see the prince meeting the reward which his own honorable nature, his kind and generous disposition, and his genuine devotion to the true objects of our free constitution so well entitle him to, by being surrounded and supported by an administration affectionate to his person, and ambitious of gaining and meriting his entire esteem, (yet tenacious, above all things, of the constitutional principle, that exclusive confidence must attach to the responsibility of those whom he selects to be his public servants,) i would with heartfelt satisfaction rather be a looker on of such a government, giving it such humble support as might be in my power, than be the possessor of any possible situation either of profit or ambition, to be obtained by any indirectness, or by the slightest departure from the principles i have always professed, and which i have now felt myself in a manner called upon to re-assert. "i have only to add, that my respect for the prince, and my sense of the frankness he has shown towards me on this occasion, decide me, with all duty, to submit this letter to his perusal, before i place it in your hands; meaning it undoubtedly to be by you shown to those to whom your judgment may deem it of any consequence to communicate it. "i have the honor to be, &c. "_to lord holland_. (signed) "r. b. sheridan "read and approved by the prince, january , . "r.b.s." though this statement, it must be recollected, exhibits but one side of the question, and is silent as to the part that sheridan took after the delivery of the remonstrance of the two noble lords, yet, combined with preceding events and with the insight into motives which they afford, it may sufficiently enable the reader to form his own judgment, with respect to the conduct of the different persons concerned in the transaction. with the better and more ostensible motives of sheridan, there was, no doubt, some mixture of, what the platonists call, "the material alluvion" of our nature. his political repugnance to the coalesced leaders would have been less strong but for the personal feelings that mingled with it; and his anxiety that the prince should not be dictated to by others was at least equalled by his vanity in showing that he could govern him himself. but, whatever were the precise views that impelled him to this trial of strength, the victory which he gained in it was far more extensive than he himself had either foreseen or wished. he had meant the party to _feel_ his power,--not to sink under it. though privately alienated from them, on personal as well as political grounds, he knew that, publicly he was too much identified with their ranks, ever to serve, with credit or consistency, in any other. he had, therefore, in the ardor of undermining, carried the ground from beneath his own feet. in helping to disband his party, he had cashiered himself; and there remained to him now, for the residue of his days, but that frailest of all sublunary treasures, a prince's friendship. with this conviction, (which, in spite of all the sanguineness of his disposition, could hardly have failed to force itself on his mind,) it was not, we should think, with very self-gratulatory feelings that he undertook the task, a few weeks after, of inditing, for the regent, that memorable letter to mr. perceval, which sealed the fate at once both of his party and himself, and whatever false signs of re-animation may afterwards have appeared, severed the last life-lock by which the "struggling spirit" [footnote: _lavtans anima_] of this friendship between royalty and whiggism still held:-- --"_dextra crinem secat, omnis et una dilapsus calor, atque in ventos vita recessit_." with respect to the chief personage connected with these transactions, it is a proof of the tendency of knowledge, to produce a spirit of tolerance, that they who, judging merely from the surface of events, have been most forward in reprobating his separation from the whigs, as a rupture of political ties and an abandonment of private friendships, must, on becoming more thoroughly acquainted with all the circumstances that led to this crisis, learn to soften down considerably their angry feelings; and to see, indeed, in the whole history of the connection,--from its first formation, in the hey-day of youth and party, to its faint survival after the death of mr. fox,--but a natural and destined gradation towards the result at which it at last arrived, after as much fluctuation of political principle, on one side, as there was of indifference, perhaps, to all political principle on the other. among the arrangements that had been made, in contemplation of a new ministry, at this time, it was intended that lord moira should go, as lord lieutenant, to ireland, and that mr. sheridan should accompany him, as chief secretary. chapter xi. affairs of the new theatre.--mr. whitbread.--negotiations with lord grey and lord grenville.--conduct of mr. sheridan relative to the household.--his last words in parliament.--failure at stafford. --correspondence with mr. whitbread.--lord byron.--distresses of sheridan.--illness.--death and funeral.--general remarks. it was not till the close of this year that the reports of the committee appointed under the act for rebuilding the theatre of drury-lane, were laid before the public. by these it appeared that sheridan was to receive, for his moiety of the property, , _l_., out of which sum the claims of the linley family and others were to be satisfied;--that a further sum of _l_. was to be paid to him for the property of the fruit offices and reversion of boxes and shares;--and that his son, mr. thomas sheridan, was to receive, for his quarter of the patent property, , _l_. the gratitude that sheridan felt to mr. whitbread at first, for the kindness with which he undertook this most arduous task, did not long remain unembittered when they entered into practical details. it would be difficult indeed to find two persons less likely to agree in a transaction of this nature,--the one, in affairs of business, approaching almost as near to the extreme of rigor as the other to that of laxity. while sheridan, too,--like those painters, who endeavor to disguise their ignorance of anatomy by an indistinct and _furzy_ outline,--had an imposing method of generalizing his accounts and statements, which, to most eyes, concealed the negligence and fallacy of the details, mr. whitbread, on the contrary, with an unrelenting accuracy, laid open the minutiae of every transaction, and made evasion as impossible to others, as it was alien and inconceivable to himself. he was, perhaps, the only person, whom sheridan had ever found proof against his powers of persuasion,--and this rigidity naturally mortified his pride full as much as it thwarted and disconcerted his views. among the conditions to which he agreed, in order to facilitate the arrangements of the committee, the most painful to him was that which stipulated that he, himself, should "have no concern or connection, of any kind whatever, with the new undertaking." this concession, however, he, at first, regarded as a mere matter of form--feeling confident that, even without any effort of his own, the necessity under which the new committee would find themselves of recurring to his advice and assistance, would, ere long, reinstate him in all his former influence. but in this hope he was disappointed--his exclusion from all concern in the new theatre, (which, it is said, was made a _sine-qua-non_ by all who embarked in it,) was inexorably enforced by whitbread; and the following letter addressed by him to the latter will show the state of their respective feelings on this point:-- "my dear whitbread, "i am not going to write you a controversial or even an argumentative letter, but simply to put down the heads of a few matters which i wish shortly to converse with you upon, in the most amicable and temperate manner, deprecating the impatience which may sometimes have mixed in our discussions, and not contending who has been the aggressor. "the main point you seem to have had so much at heart you have carried, so there is an end of that; and i shall as fairly and cordially endeavor to advise and assist mr. benjamin wyatt in the improving and perfecting his plan as if it had been my own preferable selection, assuming, as i must do, that there cannot exist an individual in england so presumptuous or so void of common sense as not sincerely to solicit the aid of my practical experience on this occasion, even were i not, in justice to the subscribers, bound spontaneously to offer it. "but it would be unmanly dissimulation in me to retain the sentiments i do with respect to _your_ doctrine on this subject, and not express what i so strongly feel. that doctrine was, to my utter astonishment, to say no more, first promulgated to me in a letter from you, written in town, in the following terms. speaking of building and plans, you say to me, '_you are in no, way answerable if a bad theatre is built: it is not_ you _who built it; and if we come to the_ strict right _of the thing, you have_ no business to interfere;' and further on you say, '_will_ you _but_ stand aloof, _and every thing will go smooth_, and a good theatre shall be built;' and in conversation you put, as a similar case, that, '_if a man sold another a piece of land, it was nothing to the seller whether the purchaser built himself a good or a bad house upon it._' now i declare before god i never felt more amazement than that a man of your powerful intellect, just view of all subjects, and knowledge of the world, should hold such language or resort to such arguments; and i must be convinced, that, although in an impatient moment this opinion may have fallen from you, upon the least reflection or the slightest attention to the reason of the case, you would, 'albeit unused to the retracting mood,' confess the erroneous view you had taken of the subject. otherwise, i must think, and with the deepest regret would it be, that although you originally engaged in this business from motives of the purest and kindest regard for me and my family, your ardor and zealous eagerness to accomplish the difficult task you had undertaken have led you, in this instance, to overlook what is due to my feelings, to my honor, and my just interests. for, supposing i were to '_stand aloof_,' totally unconcerned, provided i were paid for my share, whether the new theatre were excellent or execrable, and that the result should be that the subscribers, instead of profit, could not, through the misconstruction of the house, obtain one per cent. for their money, do you seriously believe you could find a single man, woman, or child, in the kingdom, out of the committee, who would believe that i was wholly guiltless of the failure, having been so stultified and proscribed by the committee, (a committee of _my own nomination)_ as to have been compelled to admit, as the condition of my being paid for my share, that 'it was nothing to me whether the theatre was good or bad' or, on the contrary? can it be denied that the reproaches of disappointment, through the great body of the subscribers, would be directed against me and me alone? "so much as to _character_:--now as to my feelings on the subject;--i must say that in friendship, at least, if not in '_strict right_,' they ought to be consulted, even though the committee could either prove that i had not to apprehend any share in the discredit and discontent which might follow the ill success of their plan, or that i was entitled to brave whatever malice or ignorance might direct against me. next, and lastly, as to my just interest in the property i am to part with, a consideration to which, however careless i might be were i alone concerned, i am bound to attend in justice to my own private creditors, observe how the matter stands:--i agree to wave my own '_strict right_' to be paid before the funds can be applied to the building, and this in the confidence and on the continued understanding, that my advice should be so far respected, that, even should the subscription not fill, i should at least see a theatre capable of being charged with and ultimately of discharging what should remain justly due to the proprietors. to illustrate this i refer to the size of the pit, the number of private boxes, and the annexation of a tavern; but in what a situation would the doctrine of your committee leave me and my son? 'it is nothing to us how the theatre is built, or whether it prospers or not.' these are two circumstances we have nothing to do with; only, unfortunately, upon them may depend our best chance of receiving any payment for the property we part with. it is nothing to us how the ship is refitted or manned, only we must leave all we are worth on board her, and abide the chance of her success. now i am confident your justice will see, that in order that the committee should, in '_strict right_,' become entitled to deal thus with us, and bid us _stand aloof_, they should buy us out, and make good the payment. but the reverse of this has been my own proposal, and i neither repent nor wish to make any change in it. "i have totally departed from my intention, when i first began this letter, for which i ought to apologize to you; but it may save much future talk: other less important matters will do in conversation. you will allow that i have placed in you the most implicit confidence--have the reasonable trust in me that, in any communication i may have with b. wyatt, my object will not be to _obstruct_, as you have hastily expressed it, but _bonâ fide_ to assist him to render his theatre as perfect as possible, as well with a view to the public accommodation as to profit to the subscribers; neither of which can be obtained without establishing a reputation for him which must be the basis of his future fortune. "and now, after all this statement, you will perhaps be surprised to find how little i require;--simply some resolution of the committee to the effect of that i enclose. "i conclude with heartily thanking you for the declaration you made respecting me, and reported to me by peter moore, at the close of the last meeting of the committee. i am convinced of your sincerity; but as i have before described the character of the gratitude i feel towards you in a letter written likewise in this house, i have only to say, that every sentiment in that letter remains unabated and unalterable. "ever, my dear whitbread, "yours, faithfully. "p.s. the discussion we had yesterday respecting some investigation of the _past_, which i deem so essential to my character and to my peace of mind, and your present concurrence with me on that subject, have relieved my mind from great anxiety, though i cannot but still think the better opportunity has been passed by. one word more, and i release you. tom informed me that you had hinted to him that any demands, not practicable to be settled by the committee, must fall on the proprietors. my resolution is to take all such on myself, and to leave tom's share untouched." another concession, which sheridan himself had volunteered, namely, the postponement of his right of being paid the amount of his claim, till after the theatre should be built, was also a subject of much acrimonious discussion between the two friends,--sheridan applying to this condition that sort of lax interpretation, which would have left him the credit of the sacrifice without its inconvenience, and whitbread, with a firmness of grasp, to which, unluckily, the other had been unaccustomed in business, holding him to the strict letter of his voluntary agreement with the subscribers. never, indeed, was there a more melancholy example than sheridan exhibited, at this moment, of the last, hard struggle of pride and delicacy against the most deadly foe of both, pecuniary involvement,--which thus gathers round its victims, fold after fold, till they are at length crushed in its inextricable clasp. the mere likelihood of a sum of money being placed at his disposal was sufficient--like the "bright day that brings forth the adder"--to call into life the activity of all his duns; and how liberally he made the fund available among them, appears from the following letter of whitbread, addressed, not to sheridan himself, but, apparently, (for the direction is wanting,) to some man of business connected with him:-- "my dear sir, "i had determined not to give any written answer to the note you put into my hands yesterday morning; but a further perusal of it leads me to think it better to make a statement in writing, why i, for one, cannot comply with the request it contains, and to repel the impression which appears to have existed in mr. sheridan's mind at the time that note was written. he insinuates that to some postponement of his interests, by the committee, is owing the distressed situation in which he is unfortunately placed. "whatever postponement of the interests of the proprietors may ultimately be resorted to, as matter of indispensable necessity from the state of the subscription fund, will originate in the written suggestion of mr. sheridan himself; and, in certain circumstances, unless such latitude were allowed on his part, the execution of the act could not have been attempted. "at present there is no postponement of his interests,--but there is an utter impossibility of touching the subscription fund at all, except for very trifling specified articles, until a supplementary act of parliament shall have been obtained. "by the present act, even if the subscription were full, and no impediments existed to the use of the money, the act itself, and the incidental expenses of plans, surveys, &c., are first to be paid for,--then the portion of killegrew's patent,--then the claimants,--and _then_ the proprietors. now the act is not paid for: white and martindale are not paid; and not one single claimant is paid, nor can any one of them _be_ paid, until we have fresh powers and additional subscriptions. "how then can mr. sheridan attribute to any postponement of his interests, actually made by the committee, the present condition of his affairs? and why are we driven to these observations and explanations? "we cannot but all deeply lament his distress, but the palliation he proposes it is not in our power to give. "we cannot guarantee mr. hammersley upon the fund coming eventually to mr. sheridan. he alludes to the claims he has already created upon that fund. he must, besides, recollect the list of names he sent to me some time ago, of persons to whom he felt himself in honor bound to appropriate to each his share of that fund, in common with others for whose names he left a blank, and who, he says in the same letter, have written engagements from him. besides, he has communicated both to mr. taylor and to mr. shaw, through me, offers to impound the whole of the sum to answer the issue of the unsettled demands made upon him by those gentlemen respectively. "how then can we guarantee mr. hammersley in the payment of any sum out of this fund, so circumstanced? mr. hammersley's possible profits are prospective, and the prospect remote. i know the positive losses he sustains, and the sacrifices he is obliged to make to procure the chance of the compromise he is willing to accept. "add to all this, that we are still struggling with difficulties which we may or may not overcome; that those difficulties are greatly increased by the persons whose interest and duty should equally lead them to give us every facility and assistance in the labors we have disinterestedly undertaken, and are determined faithfully to discharge. if we fail at last, from whatever cause, the whole vanishes. "you know, my dear sir, that i grieve for the sad state of mr. sheridan's affairs. i would contribute my mite to their temporary relief, if it would be acceptable; but as one of the committee, intrusted with a public fund, i can do nothing. i cannot be a party to any claim upon mr. hammersley; and i utterly deny that, individually, or as part of the committee, any step taken by me, or with my concurrence, has pressed upon the circumstances of mr. sheridan. "i am, "my dear sir, "faithfully yours, "_southill, dec. , ."_ "samuel whitbread." a dissolution of parliament being expected to take place, mr. sheridan again turned his eyes to stafford; and, in spite of the estrangement to which his infidelities at westminster had given rise, saw enough, he thought, of the "_veteris vestigia flammae_" to encourage him to hope for a renewal of the connection. the following letter to sir oswald moseley explains his views and expectations on the subject:-- "dear sir oswald, "_cavendish-square, nov. , ._ "being apprised that you have decided to decline offering yourself a candidate for stafford, when a future election may arrive,--a place where you are highly esteemed, and where every humble service in my power, as i have before declared to you, should have been at your command,--i have determined to accept the very cordial invitations i have received from _old friends_ in that quarter, and, (though entirely secure of my seat at ilchester, and, indeed, even of the second seat for my son, through the liberality of sir w. manners), to return to the old goal from whence i started thirty-one years since! you will easily see that arrangements at ilchester may be made towards assisting me, in point of expense, to meet _any opposition_, and, _in that respect,_ nothing will be _wanting._ it will, i confess, be very gratifying to me to be again elected _by the sons of those_ who chose me in the year _eighty_, and adhered to me so stoutly and so long. i think i was returned for stafford seven, if not eight, times, including two most tough and expensive contests; and, in taking a temporary leave of them i am sure my credit must stand well, for not a shilling did i leave unpaid. i have written to the jerninghams, who, in the handsomest manner, have ever given me their warmest support; and, as no political object interests my mind so much as the catholic cause, i have no doubt that independent of their personal friendship, i shall receive a continuation of their honorable support. i feel it to be no presumption to add, that other respectable interests in the neighborhood will be with me. "i need scarcely add my sanguine hope, that whatever interest rests with you, (which ought to be much), will also be in my favor. "i have the honor to be, "with great esteem and regard, "yours most sincerely, "r. b. sheridan." "i mean to be in stafford, from lord g. levison's, in about a fortnight." among a number of notes addressed to his former constituents at this time, (which i find written in his neatest hand, as if _intended_ to be sent), is this curious one:-- "dear king john, "_cavendish-square, sunday night_, "i shall be in stafford in the course of next week, and if your majesty does not renew our old alliance i shall never again have faith in any potentate on earth. "yours very sincerely, "_mr. john k_. "r. b. sheridan." the two attempts that were made in the course of the year --the one, on the cessation of the regency restrictions, and the other after the assassination of mr. perceval,--to bring the whigs into official relations with the court, were, it is evident, but little inspired on either side, with the feelings likely to lead to such a result. it requires but a perusal of the published correspondence in both cases to convince us that, at the bottom of all these evolutions of negotiation, there was anything but a sincere wish that the object to which they related should be accomplished. the maréchal bassompiere was not more afraid of succeeding in his warfare, when he said, _"je crois que nous serons assez fous pour prendre la rochelle_," than was one of the parties, at least, in these negotiations, of any favorable turn that might inflict success upon its overtures. even where the court, as in the contested point of the household, professed its readiness to accede to the surrender so injudiciously demanded of it, those who acted as its discretionary organs knew too well the real wishes in that quarter, and had been too long and faithfully zealous in their devotion to those wishes to leave any fear that advantage would be taken of the concession. but, however high and chivalrous was the feeling with which lord moira, on this occasion, threw himself into the breach for his royal master, the service of sheridan, though flowing partly from the same zeal, was not, i grieve to say, of the same clear and honorable character. lord yarmouth, it is well known, stated in the house of commons that he had communicated to mr. sheridan the intention of the household to resign, with the view of having that intention conveyed to lord grey and lord grenville, and thus removing the sole ground upon which these noble lords objected to the acceptance of office. not only, however, did sheridan endeavor to dissuade the noble vice-chamberlain from resigning, but with an unfairness of dealing which admits, i own, of no vindication, he withheld from the two leaders of opposition the intelligence thus meant to be conveyed to them; and, when questioned by mr. tierney as to the rumored intentions of the household to resign, offered to bet five hundred guineas that there was no such step in contemplation. in this conduct, which he made but a feeble attempt to explain, and which i consider as the only indefensible part of his whole public life, he was, in some degree, no doubt, influenced by personal feelings against the two noble lords, whom his want of fairness on the occasion was so well calculated to thwart and embarrass. but the main motive of the whole proceeding is to be found in his devoted deference to what he knew to be the wishes and feelings of that personage, who had become now, more than ever, the mainspring of all his movements,--whose spell over him, in this instance, was too strong for even his sense of character; and to whom he might well have applied the words of one of his own beautiful songs-- "friends, fortune, _fame itself_ i'd lose, to gain one smile from thee!" so fatal, too often, are royal friendships, whose attraction, like the loadstone-rock in eastern fable, that drew the nails out of the luckless ship that came near it, steals gradually away the strength by which character is held together, till, at last, it loosens at all points, and falls to pieces, a wreck! in proof of the fettering influence under which he acted on this occasion, we find him in one of his evasive attempts at vindication, suppressing, from delicacy to his royal master, a circumstance which, if mentioned, would have redounded considerably to his own credit. after mentioning that the regent had "asked his opinion with respect to the negotiations that were going on," he adds, "i gave him my opinion, and i most devoutly wish that that opinion could be published to the world, that it might serve to shame those who now belie me." the following is the fact to which these expressions allude. when the prince-regent, on the death of mr. perceval, entrusted to lord wellesley the task of forming an administration, it appears that his royal highness had signified either his intention or wish to exclude a certain noble earl from the arrangements to be made under that commission. on learning this, sheridan not only expressed strongly his opinion against such a step, but having, afterwards, reason to fear that the freedom with which he spoke on the subject had been displeasing to the regent, he addressed a letter to that illustrious person, (a copy of which i have in my possession,) in which, after praising the "wisdom and magnanimity" displayed by his royal highness, in confiding to lord wellesley the powers that had just been entrusted to him, he repeated his opinion that any "proscription" of the noble earl in question, would be "a proceeding equally derogatory to the estimation of his royal highness's personal dignity and the security of his political power;"--adding, that the advice, which he took the liberty of giving against such a step, did not proceed "from any peculiar partiality to the noble earl or to many of those with whom he was allied; but was founded on what he considered to be best for his royal highness's honor and interest, and for the general interests of the country." the letter (in alluding to the displeasure which he feared he had incurred by venturing this opinion) concludes thus:-- "junius said in a public letter of his, addressed to your royal father, 'the fate that made you a king forbad your having a friend.' i deny his proposition as a general maxim--i am confident that your royal highness possesses qualities to win and secure to you the attachment and devotion of private friendship, in spite of your being a sovereign. at least i feel that i am entitled to make this declaration as far as relates to myself--and i do it under the assured conviction that you will never require from me any proof of that attachment and devotion inconsistent with the clear and honorable independence of mind and conduct, which constitute my sole value as a public man, and which have hitherto been my best recommendation to your gracious favor, confidence, and protection." it is to be regretted that while by this wise advice he helped to save his royal master from the invidious _appearance_ of acting upon a principle of exclusion, he should, by his private management afterwards, have but too well contrived to secure to him all the advantage of that principle in _reality_. the political career of sheridan was now drawing fast to a close. he spoke but upon two or three other occasions during the session; and among the last sentences uttered by him in the house were the following;--which, as calculated to leave a sweeter flavor on the memory, at parting, than those questionable transactions that have just been related, i have great pleasure in citing:-- "my objection to the present ministry, is that they are avowedly arrayed and embodied against a principle,--that of concession to the catholics of ireland,--which i think, and must always think, essential to the safety of this empire. i will never give my vote to any administration that opposes the question of catholic emancipation. i will not consent to receive a furlough upon that particular question, even though a ministry were carrying every other that i wished. in fine, i think the situation of ireland a paramount consideration. if they were to be the last words i should ever utter in this house, i should say, 'be just to ireland, as you value your own honor,--be just to ireland, as you value your own peace.'" his very last words in parliament, on his own motion relative to the overtures of peace from france, were as follow:-- "yet after the general subjugation and ruin of europe, should there ever exist an independent historian to record the awful events that produced this universal calamity, let that historian have to say,--'great britain fell, and with her fell all the best securities for the charities of human life, for the power and honor, the fame, the glory, and the liberties, not only of herself, but of the whole civilized world.'" in the month of september following, parliament was dissolved; and, presuming upon the encouragement which he had received from some of his stafford friends, he again tried his chance of election for that borough, but without success. this failure he, himself, imputed, as will be seen by the following letter, to the refusal of mr. whitbread to advance him _l._ out of the sum due to him by the committee for his share of the property:-- "dear whitbread, "_cook's hotel, nov._ , . "i was misled to expect you in town the beginning of last week, but being positively assured that you will arrive to-morrow, i have declined accompanying hester into hampshire as i intended, and she has gone to-day without me; but i must leave town to join her _as soon as i can_. we must have some serious but yet, i hope, friendly conversation respecting my unsettled claims on the drury-lane theatre corporation. a concluding paragraph, in one of your last letters to burgess, which he thought himself justified in showing me, leads me to believe that it is not your object to distress or destroy me. on the subject of your refusing to advance to me the _l._. i applied for to take with me to stafford, out of the large sum confessedly due to me, (unless i signed some paper containing i know not what, and which you presented to my breast like a cocked pistol on the last day i saw you,) i will not dwell. _this, and this alone, lost me my election._ you deceive yourself if you give credit to any other causes, which the pride of my friends chose to attribute our failure to, rather than confess our poverty. i do not mean now to expostulate with you, much less to reproach you, but sure i am that when you contemplate the positive injustice of refusing me the accommodation i required, and the irreparable injury that refusal has cast on me, overturning, probably, all the honor and independence of what remains of my political life, you will deeply reproach yourself. "i shall make an application to the committee, when i hear you have appointed one, for the assistance which most pressing circumstances now compel me to call for; and all i desire is, through a sincere wish that our friendship may not be interrupted, that the answer to that application may proceed from a _bonâ fide committee, with their signatures_, testifying their decision. "i am, yet, "yours very sincerely, "_s. whitbread, esq._ "r. b. sheridan." notwithstanding the angry feeling which is expressed in this letter, and which the state of poor sheridan's mind, goaded as he was now by distress and disappointment, may well excuse, it will be seen by the following letter from whitbread, written on the very eve of the elections in september, that there was no want of inclination, on the part of this honorable and excellent man, to afford assistance to his friend,--but that the duties of the perplexing trust which he had undertaken rendered such irregular advances as sheridan required impossible:-- 'my dear sheridan, "we will not enter into details, although you are quite mistaken in them. you know how happy i shall be to propose to the committee to agree to anything practicable; and you may make all practicable, if you will have resolution to look at the state of the account between you and the committee, and agree to the mode of its liquidation. "you will recollect the _l_. pledged to peter moore to answer demands; the certificates given to giblet, ker, ironmonger, cross, and hirdle, five each at your request; the engagements given to ellis and myself, and the arrears to the linley family. all this taken into consideration will leave a large balance still payable to you. still there are upon that balance the claims upon you by shaw, taylor, and grubb, for all of which you have offered to leave the whole of your compensation in my hands, to abide the issue of arbitration. "this may be managed by your agreeing to take a considerable portion of your balance in bonds, leaving those bonds in trust to answer the events. "i shall be in town on monday to the committee, and will be prepared with a sketch of the state of your account with the committee, and with the mode in which i think it would be prudent for you and them to adjust it; which if you will agree to, and direct the conveyance to be made forthwith, i will undertake to propose the advance of money you wish. but without a clear arrangement, as a justification, nothing can be done. "i shall be in dover-street at nine o'clock, and be there and in drury-lane all day. the queen comes, but the day is not fixed. the election will occupy me after monday. after that is over, i hope we shall see you. "yours very truly, "_southill, sept. , ._ "s. whitbread." the feeling entertained by sheridan towards the committee had already been strongly manifested this year by the manner in which mrs. sheridan received the resolution passed by them, offering her the use of a box in the new theatre. the notes of whitbread to mrs. sheridan on this subject, prove how anxious he was to conciliate the wounded feelings of his friend:-- "my dear esther, "i have delayed sending the enclosed resolution of the drury-lane committee to you, because i had hoped to have found a moment to have called upon you, and to have delivered it into your hands. but i see no chance of that, and therefore literally obey my instructions in writing to you. "i had great pleasure in proposing the resolution, which was cordially and unanimously adopted. i had it always in contemplation,--but to have proposed it earlier would have been improper. i hope you will derive much amusement from your visits to the theatre, and that you and all of your name will ultimately be pleased with what has been done. i have just had a most satisfactory letter from tom sheridan. "i am, "my dear esther, "affectionately yours, "_dover-street, july , ._ "samuel whitbread." "my dear esther, "it has been a great mortification and disappointment to me, to have met the committee twice, since the offer of the use of a box at the new theatre was made to you, and that i have not had to report the slightest acknowledgment from you in return. "the committee meet again tomorrow, and after that there will be no meeting for some time. if i shall be compelled to return the same blank answer i have hitherto done, the inference drawn will naturally be, that what was designed by himself, who moved it, and by those who voted it, as a gratifying mark of attention to sheridan through you, (as the most gratifying mode of conveying it,) has, for some unaccountable reason, been mistaken and is declined. "but i shall be glad to know before to-morrow, what is your determination on the subject. "i am, dear esther, "affectionately yours, "_dover-street, july_ , ." "s. whitbread. the failure of sheridan at stafford completed his ruin. he was now excluded both from the theatre and from parliament:--the two anchors by which he held in life were gone, and he was left a lonely and helpless wreck upon the waters. the prince regent offered to bring him into parliament; but the thought of returning to that scene of his triumphs and his freedom, with the royal owner's mark, as it were, upon him, was more than he could bear--and he declined the offer. indeed, miserable and insecure as his life was now, when we consider the public humiliations to which he would have been exposed, between his ancient pledge to whiggism and his attachment and gratitude to royalty, it is not wonderful that he should have preferred even the alternative of arrests and imprisonments to the risk of bringing upon his political name any further tarnish in such a struggle. neither could his talents have much longer continued to do themselves justice, amid the pressure of such cares, and the increased indulgence of habits, which, as is usual, gained upon him, as all other indulgences vanished. the ancients, we are told, by a significant device, inscribed on the wreaths they wore at banquets the name of minerva. unfortunately, from the festal wreath of sheridan this name was now but too often effaced; and the same charm, that once had served to give a quicker flow to thought, was now employed to muddy the stream, as it became painful to contemplate what was at the bottom of it. by his exclusion, therefore, from parliament, he was, perhaps, seasonably saved from affording to that "folly, which loves the martyrdom of fame," [footnote: "and folly loves the martyrdom of fame." this fine line is in lord byron's monody to his memory. there is another line, equally true and touching, where, alluding to the irregularities of the latter part of sheridan's life, he says-- "and what to them seem'd vice might be but woe."] the spectacle of a great mind, not only surviving itself, but, like the champion in berni, continuing the combat after life is gone:-- _"andava combattendo, ed era morto."_ in private society, however, he could, even now, (before the rubicon of the cup was passed,) fully justify his high reputation for agreeableness and wit; and a day which it was my good fortune to spend with him, at the table of mr. rogers, has too many mournful, as well as pleasant, associations connected with it, to be easily forgotten by the survivors of the party. the company consisted but of mr. rogers himself, lord byron, mr. sheridan, and the writer of this memoir. sheridan knew the admiration his audience felt for him; the presence of the young poet, in particular, seemed to bring back his own youth and wit; and the details he gave of his early life were not less interesting and animating to himself than delightful to us. it was in the course of this evening that, describing to us the poem which mr. whitbread had written and sent in, among the other addresses, for the opening of drury-lane, and which, like the rest, turned chiefly on allusions to the phenix, he said,--"but whitbread made more of this bird than any of them:--he entered into particulars, and described its wings, beak, tail, &c.; in short, it was a _poulterer's_ description of a phenix!" the following extract from a diary in my possession, kept by lord byron during six months of his residence in london, - , will show the admiration which this great and generous spirit felt for sheridan:-- "_saturday, december , ._ "lord holland told me a curious piece of _sentimentality_ in sheridan. the other night we were all delivering our respective and various opinions on him and other '_hommes marquans,_' and mine was this:--'whatever sheridan has done or chosen to do has been _par excellence_, always the _best_ of its kind. he has written the _best_ comedy, (school for scandal,) the _best_ opera, (the duenna--in my mind far before that st. giles's lampoon, the beggar's opera,) the _best_ farce, (the critic--it is only too good for an after-piece,) and the _best_ address, (monologue on garrick,)--and to crown all, delivered the very _best_ oration, (the famous begum speech,) ever conceived or heard in this country.' somebody told sheridan this the next day, and on hearing it, he burst into tears!--poor brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, i would rather have said those few, but sincere, words, than have written the iliad, or made his own celebrated philippic. nay, his own comedy never gratified me more than to hear that he had derived a moment's gratification from any praise of mine --humble as it must appear to 'my elders and my betters.'" the distresses of sheridan now increased every day, and through the short remainder of his life it is a melancholy task to follow him. the sum arising from the sale of his theatrical property was soon exhausted by the various claims upon it, and he was driven to part with all that he most valued, to satisfy further demands and provide for the subsistence of the day. those books which, as i have already mentioned, were presented to him by various friends, now stood in their splendid bindings, [footnote: in most of them, too, were the names of the givers. the delicacy with which mr. harrison of wardour-street, (the pawnbroker with whom the books and the cup were deposited,) behaved, after the death of mr. sheridan, deserves to be mentioned with praise. instead of availing himself of the public feeling at that moment, by submitting these precious relics to the competition of a sale, he privately communicated to the family and one or two friends of sheridan the circumstance of his having such articles in his hands, and demanded nothing more than the sum regularly due on them. the stafford cup is in the possession of mr. charles sheridan.] on the shelves of the pawnbroker. the handsome cup, given him by the electors of stafford, shared the same fate. three or four fine pictures by gainsborough, and one by morland, were sold for little more than five hundred pounds; [footnote: in the following extract from a note to his solicitor, he refers to these pictures: "dear burgess, "i am perfectly satisfied with your account;--nothing can be more clear or fair, or more disinterested on your part;--but i must grieve to think that five or six hundred pounds for my poor pictures are added to the expenditure. however, we shall come through!"] and even the precious portrait of his first wife, [footnote: as saint cecilia. the portrait of mrs. sheridan at knowle, though less ideal than that of sir joshua, is, (for this very reason, perhaps, as bearing a closer resemblance to the original,) still more beautiful.] by reynolds, though not actually sold during his life, vanished away from his eyes into other hands. one of the most humiliating trials of his pride was yet to come. in the spring of this year he was arrested and carried to a spunging-house, where he remained two or three days. this abode, from which the following painful letter to whitbread was written, formed a sad contrast to those princely halls, of which he had so lately been the most brilliant and favored guest, and which were possibly, at that very moment, lighted up and crowded with gay company, unmindful of him within those prison walls:-- "_tooke's court, cursitor-street, thursday, past two._ "i have done everything in my power with the solicitors, white and founes, to obtain my release, by substituting a better security for them than their detaining me--but in vain. "whitbread, putting all false professions of friendship and feeling out of the question, you have no right to keep me here!--for it is in truth _your_ act--if you had not forcibly withheld from me the _twelve thousand pounds_, in consequence of a threatening letter from a miserable swindler, whose claim you in particular knew to _be a lie_, i should at least have been out of the reach of _this_ state of miserable insult--for that, and that only, lost me my seat in parliament. and i assert that you cannot find a lawyer in the land, that is not either a natural-born fool or a corrupted scoundrel, who will not declare that your conduct in this respect was neither warrantable nor legal--but let that pass _for the present_. "independently of the _l_. ignorantly withheld from me on the day of considering my last claim. i require of you to answer the draft i send herewith on the part of the committee, pledging myself to prove to them on the first day i can _personally_ meet them, that there are still thousands and thousands due to me, both legally, and equitably, from the theatre. my word ought to be taken on this subject; and you may produce to them this document, if one, among them could think that, under all the circumstances, your conduct required a justification. o god! with what mad confidence have i trusted _your word_,--i ask _justice_ from you, and _no boon_. i enclosed you yesterday three different securities, which had you been disposed to have acted even as a private friend, would have made it _certain_ that you might have done so _without the smallest risk_. these you discreetly offered to put into the fire, when you found the object of your humane visit satisfied by seeing me safe in prison. "i shall only add, that, i think, if i know myself, had our lots been reversed, and i had seen you in my situation, and had left lady e. in that of my wife, i would have risked _l_. rather than have left you so--although i had been in no way accessory in bringing you into that condition. "_s. whitbread. esq._ "r. b. sheridan." even in this situation the sanguineness of his disposition did not desert him; for he was found by mr. whitbread, on his visit to the spunging-house, confidently calculating on the representation for westminster, in which the proceedings relative to lord cochrane at that moment promised a vacancy. on his return home, however, to mrs. sheridan, (some arrangements having been made by whitbread for his release,) all his fortitude forsook him, and he burst into a long and passionate fit of weeping at the profanation, as he termed it, which his person had suffered. he had for some months had a feeling that his life was near its close; and i find the following touching passage in a letter from him to mrs. sheridan, after one of those differences which will sometimes occur between the most affectionate companions, and which, possibly, a remonstrance on his irregularities and want of care of himself occasioned:--"never again let one harsh word pass between us, during the period, which may not perhaps be long, that we are in this world together, and life, however clouded to me, is mutually spared to us. i have expressed this same sentiment to my son, in a letter i wrote to him a few days since, and i had his answer--a most affecting one, and, i am sure, very sincere--and have since cordially embraced him. don't imagine that i am expressing an interesting apprehension about myself, which i do not feel." though the new theatre of drury-lane had now been three years built, his feelings had never allowed him to set his foot within its walls. about this time, however, he was persuaded by his friend, lord essex, to dine with him and go in the evening to his lordship's box, to see kean. once there, the "_genius loci_" seems to have regained its influence over him; for, on missing him from the box, between the acts, lord essex, who feared that he had left the house, hastened out to inquire, and, to his great satisfaction, found him installed in the green-room, with all the actors around him, welcoming him back to the old region of his glory, with a sort of filial cordiality. wine was immediately ordered, and a bumper to the health of mr. sheridan was drank by all present, with the expression of many a hearty wish that he would often, very often, re-appear among them. this scene, as was natural, exhilarated his spirits, and, on parting with lord essex that night, at his own door, in saville-row, he said triumphantly that the world would soon hear of him, for the duke of norfolk was about to bring him into parliament. this, it appears, was actually the case; but death stood near as he spoke. in a few days after his last fatal illness began. amid all the distresses of these latter years of his life, he appears but rarely to have had recourse to pecuniary assistance from friends. mr. peter moore, mr. ironmonger, and one or two others, who did more for the comfort of his decline than any of his high and noble associates, concur in stating that, except for such an occasional trifle as his coach-hire, he was by no means, as has been sometimes asserted, in the habit of borrowing. one instance, however, where he laid himself under this sort of obligation, deserves to be mentioned. soon after the return of mr. canning from lisbon, a letter was put into his hands, in the house of commons, which proved to be a request from his old friend sheridan, then lying ill in bed, that he would oblige him with the loan of a hundred pounds. it is unnecessary to say that the request was promptly and feelingly complied with; and if the pupil has ever regretted leaving the politics of his master, it was not at _that_ moment, at least, such a feeling was likely to present itself. there are, in the possession of a friend of sheridan, copies of a correspondence in which he was engaged this year with two noble lords and the confidential agent of an illustrious personage, upon a subject, as it appears, of the utmost delicacy and importance. the letters of sheridan, it is said, (for i have not seen them,) though of too secret and confidential a nature to meet the public eye, not only prove the great confidence reposed in him by the parties concerned, but show the clearness and manliness of mind which he could still command, under the pressure of all that was most trying to human intellect. the disorder, with which he was now attacked, arose from a diseased state of the stomach, brought on partly by irregular living, and partly by the harassing anxieties that had, for so many years, without intermission, beset him. his powers of digestion grew every day worse, till he was at length unable to retain any sustenance. notwithstanding this, however, his strength seemed to be but little broken, and his pulse remained, for some time, strong and regular. had he taken, indeed, but ordinary care of himself through life, the robust conformation of his frame, and particularly, as i have heard his physician remark, the peculiar width and capaciousness of his chest, seemed to mark him out for a long course of healthy existence. in general nature appears to have a prodigal delight in enclosing her costliest essences in the most frail and perishable vessels:--but sheridan was a signal exception to this remark; for, with a spirit so "finely touched," he combined all the robustness of the most uninspired clay. mrs. sheridan was, at first, not aware of his danger; but dr. bain--whose skill was now, as it ever had been, disinterestedly at the service of his friend, [footnote: a letter from sheridan to this amiable man, (of which i know not the date,) written in reference to a caution which he had given mrs. sheridan, against sleeping in the same bed with a lady who was consumptive, expresses feelings creditable alike to the writer and his physician:-- "my dear sir, "_july ._ "the caution you recommend proceeds from that attentive kindness which hester always receives from you, and upon which i place the greatest reliance for her safety. i so entirely agree with your apprehensions on the subject, that i think it was very giddy in me not to have been struck with them when she first mentioned having slept with her friend. nothing can abate my love for her; and the manner in which you apply the interest you take in her happiness, and direct the influence you possess in her mind, render you, beyond comparison, the person i feel most obliged to upon earth. i take this opportunity of saying this upon paper, because it is a subject on which i always find it difficult to speak. "with respect to that part of your note in which you express such friendly partiality, as to my parliamentary conduct, i need not add that there is no man whose good opinion can be more flattering to me. "i am ever, my dear bain, "your sincere and obliged "r. b. sheridan."]--thought it right to communicate to her the apprehensions that he felt. from that moment, her attentions to the sufferer never ceased day or night; and, though drooping herself with an illness that did not leave her long behind him, she watched over his every word and wish, with unremitting anxiety, to the last. connected, no doubt, with the disorganization of his stomach, was an abscess, from which, though distressingly situated, he does not appear to have suffered much pain. in the spring of this year, however, he was obliged to confine himself, almost entirely, to his bed. being expected to attend the st. patrick's dinner, on the th of march, he wrote a letter to the duke of kent, who was president, alleging severe indisposition as the cause of his absence. the contents of this letter were communicated to the company, and produced, as appears by the following note from the duke of kent, a strong sensation:-- _kensington palace, march_ , . "my dear sheridan, "i have been so hurried ever since st. patrick's day, as to be unable earlier to thank you for your kind letter, which i received while presiding at the festive board; but i can assure you, i was not unmindful of it _then_, but announced the afflicting cause of your absence to the company, who expressed, in a manner that could not be _misunderstood_, their continued affection for the writer of it. it now only remains for me to assure you, that i appreciate as i ought the sentiments of attachment it contains for me, and which will ever be most cordially returned by him, who is with the most friendly regard, my dear sheridan, "yours faithfully, "_the right hon. r. b. sheridan_. "edward." the following letter to him at this time from his elder sister will be read with interest:-- "my dear brother, "_dublin, may , ._ "i am very, very sorry you are ill; but i trust in god your naturally strong constitution will retrieve all, and that i shall soon have the satisfaction of hearing that you are in a fair way of recovery. i well know the nature of your complaint, that it is extremely painful, but if properly treated, and no doubt you have the best advice, not dangerous. i know a lady now past seventy four, who many years since was attacked with a similar complaint, and is now as well as most persons of her time of life. where poulticing is necessary, i have known oatmeal used with the best effect. forgive, dear brother, this officious zeal. your son thomas told me he felt obliged to me for not prescribing for him. i did not, because in his case i thought it would be ineffectual; in yours i have reason to hope the contrary. i am very glad to hear of the good effect change of climate has made in him;--i took a great liking to him; there was something kind in his manner that won upon my affections. of your son charles i hear the most delightful accounts:--that he has an excellent and cultivated understanding, and a heart as good. may he be a blessing to you, and a compensation for much you have endured! that i do not know him, that i have not seen you, (so early and so long the object of my affection,) for so many years, has not been my fault; but i have ever considered it as a drawback upon a situation not otherwise unfortunate; for, to use the words of goldsmith, i have endeavored to 'draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune;' and truly i have had some employment in that way, for considerable have been our worldly disappointments. but those are not the worst evils of life, and we have good children, which is its first blessing. i have often told you my son tom bore a strong resemblance to you, when i loved you preferably to any thing the world contained. this, which was the case with him in childhood and early youth, is still so in mature years. in character of mind, too, he is very like you, though education and situation have made a great difference. at that period of existence, when the temper, morals, and propensities are formed, tom had a mother who watched over his health, his well-being, and every part of education in which a female could be useful. _you_ had lost a mother who would have cherished you, whose talents you inherited, who would have softened the asperity of our father's temper, and probably have prevented his unaccountable partialities. you have always shown a noble independence of spirit, that the pecuniary difficulties you often had to encounter could not induce you to forego. as a public man, you have been, like the motto of the lefanu family, '_sine macula_,' and i am persuaded had you not too early been thrown upon the world, and alienated from your family, you would have been equally good as a private character. my son is eminently so. * * * "do, dear brother, send me one line to tell me you are better, and believe me, most affectionately, "yours, "alicia leeanu." while death was thus gaining fast on sheridan, the miseries of his life were thickening around him also; nor did the last corner, in which he now lay down to die, afford him any asylum from the clamors of his legal pursuers. writs and executions came in rapid succession, and bailiffs at length gained possession of his house. it was about the beginning of may that lord holland, on being informed by mr. rogers, (who was one of the very few that watched the going out of this great light with interest,) of the dreary situation in which his old friend was lying, paid him a visit one evening, in company with mr. rogers, and by the cordiality, suavity, and cheerfulness of his conversation, shed a charm round that chamber of sickness, which, perhaps, no other voice but his own could have imparted. sheridan was, i believe, sincerely attached to lord holland, in whom he saw transmitted the same fine qualities, both of mind and heart, which, notwithstanding occasional appearances to the contrary, he had never ceased to love and admire in his great relative;--the same ardor for right and impatience of wrong--the same mixture of wisdom and simplicity, so tempering each other, as to make the simplicity refined and the wisdom unaffected--the same gentle magnanimity of spirit, intolerant only of tyranny and injustice--and, in addition to all this, a range and vivacity of conversation, entirely his own, which leaves no subject untouched or unadorned, but is, (to borrow a fancy of dryden,) "as the morning of the mind," bringing new objects and images successively into view, and scattering its own fresh light over all. such a visit, therefore, could not fail to be soothing and gratifying to sheridan; and, on parting, both lord holland and mr. rogers comforted him with the assurance that some steps should be taken to ward off the immediate evils that he dreaded. an evening or two after, (wednesday, may ,) i was with mr. rogers, when, on returning home, he found the following afflicting note upon his table:-- "_saville-row_. "i find things settled so that _l_. will remove all difficulty. i am absolutely undone and broken-hearted. i shall negotiate for the plays successfully in the course of a week, when all shall be returned. i have desired fairbrother to get back the guarantee for thirty. "they are going to put the carpets out of window, and break into mrs. s.'s room and _take me_--for god's sake let me see you. "r. b. s." it was too late to do any thing when this note was received, being then between twelve and one at night; but mr. rogers and i walked down to saville-row together to assure ourselves that the threatened arrest had not yet been put in execution. a servant spoke to us out of the area, and said that all was safe for the night, but that it was intended, in pursuance of this new proceeding, to paste bills over the front of the house next day. on the following morning i was early with mr. rogers, and willingly undertook to be the bearer of a draft for _l_. [footnote: lord holland afterwards insisted upon paying the half of this sum,--which was not the first of the same amount that my liberal friend, mr. rogers, had advanced for sheridan.] to saville-row. i found mr. sheridan good-natured and cordial as ever; and though he was then within a few weeks of his death, his voice had not lost its fulness or strength, nor was that lustre, for which his eyes were so remarkable, diminished. he showed, too, his usual sanguineness of disposition in speaking of the price that he expected for his dramatic works, and of the certainty he felt of being able to arrange all his affairs, if his complaint would but suffer him to leave his bed. in the following month, his powers began rapidly to fail him;--his stomach was completely worn out, and could no longer bear any kind of sustenance. during the whole of this time, as far as i can learn, it does not appear that, (with the exceptions i have mentioned,) any one of his noble or royal friends ever called at his door, or even sent to inquire after him! about this period doctor bain received the following note from mr. vaughan:-- "my dear sir, "an apology in a case of humanity is scarcely necessary, besides i have the honor of a slight acquaintance with you. a friend of mine, hearing of _our friend_ sheridan's forlorn situation, and that he has neither money nor credit for a few comforts, has employed me to convey a small sum for his use, through such channel as i think right. i can devise none better than through you. if i had had the good fortune to have seen you, i should have left for this purpose a draft for _l_. perhaps as much more might be had if it will be conducive to a good end--of course you must feel it is not for the purpose of satisfying troublesome people. i will say more to you if you will do me the honor of a call in your way to saville-street to-morrow. i am a mere agent. "i am, "my dear sir, "most truly yours, " , _grafton-street_. "john taylor vaughan. "if i should not see you before twelve, i will come through the passage to you." in his interview with dr. bain, mr. vaughan stated, that the sum thus placed at his disposal was, in all, _l_.; [footnote: mr. vaughan did not give doctor bain to understand that he was authorized to go beyond the _l_.; but, in a conversation which i had with him a year or two after, in contemplation of this memoir, he told me that a further supply was intended.] and the proposition being submitted to mrs. sheridan, that lady, after consulting with some of her relatives, returned for answer that, as there was a sufficiency of means to provide all that was necessary for her husband's comfort, as well as her own, she begged leave to decline the offer. mr. vaughan always said, that the donation, thus meant to be doled out, came from a royal hand;--but this is hardly credible. it would be safer, perhaps, to let the suspicion rest upon that gentleman's memory, of having indulged his own benevolent disposition in this disguise, than to suppose it possible that so scanty and reluctant a benefaction was the sole mark of attention accorded by a "gracious prince and master" [footnote: see sheridan's letter, page .] to the last, death-bed wants of one of the most accomplished and faithful servants, that royalty ever yet raised or ruined by its smiles. when the philosopher anaxagoras lay dying for want of sustenance, his great pupil, pericles, sent him a sum of money. "take it back," said anaxagoras--"if he wished to keep the lamp alive, he ought to have administered the oil before!" in the mean time, the clamors and incursions of creditors increased. a sheriff's officer at length arrested the dying man in his bed, and was about to carry him off, in his blankets, to a spunging-house, when doctor bain interfered--and, by threatening the officer with the responsibility he must incur, if, as was but too probable, his prisoner should expire on the way, averted this outrage. about the middle of june, the attention and sympathy of the public were, for the first time, awakened to the desolate situation of sheridan, by an article that appeared in the morning post,--written, as i understand, by a gentleman, who, though on no very cordial terms with him, forgot every other feeling in a generous pity for his fate, and in honest indignation against those who now deserted him. "oh delay not," said the writer, without naming the person to whom he alluded--"delay not to draw aside the curtain within which that proud spirit hides its sufferings." he then adds, with a striking anticipation of what afterwards happened:--"prefer ministering in the chamber of sickness to mustering at 'the splendid sorrows that adorn the hearse;' i say, _life_ and _succor_ against westminster-abbey and a funeral!" this article produced a strong and general sensation, and was reprinted in the same paper the following day. its effect, too, was soon visible in the calls made at sheridan's door, and in the appearance of such names as the duke of york, the duke of argyle, &c. among the visitors. but it was now too late;--the spirit, that these unavailing tributes might once have comforted, was now fast losing the consciousness of every thing earthly, but pain. after a succession of shivering fits, he fell into a state of exhaustion, in which he continued, with but few more signs of suffering, till his death. a day or two before that event, the bishop of london read prayers by his bed-side; and on sunday, the seventh of july, in the sixty-fifth year of his age, he died. on the following saturday the funeral took place;--his remains having been previously removed from saville-row to the house of his friend, mr. peter moore, in great george-street, westminster. from thence, at one o'clock, the procession moved on foot to the abbey, where, in the only spot in poet's corner that remained unoccupied, the body was interred; and the following simple inscription marks its resting-place:-- "richard brinsley sheridan, born, , died, th july, . this marble is the tribute of an attached friend, peter moore." seldom has there been seen such an array of rank as graced this funeral. [footnote: it was well remarked by a french journal, in contrasting the penury of sheridan's latter years with the splendor of his funeral, that "france is the place for a man of letters to live in, and england the place for him to die in."] the pall-bearers were the duke of bedford, the earl of lauderdale, earl mulgrave, the lord bishop of london, lord holland, and lord spencer. among the mourners were his royal highness the duke of york, his royal highness the duke of sussex, the duke of argyle, the marquisses of anglesea and tavistock; the earls of thanet, jersey, harrington, besborough, mexborough, rosslyn, and yarmouth; lords george cavendish and robert spencer; viscounts sidmouth, granville, and duncannon; lords rivers, erskine, and lynedoch; the lord mayor; right hon. g. canning and w. w. pole, &c., &c. [footnote: in the train of all this phalanx of dukes, marquisses, earls, viscounts, barons, honorables, and right honorables, princes of the blood royal, and first officers of the state, it was not a little interesting to see, walking humbly, side by side, the only two men whose friendship had not waited for the call of vanity to display itself--dr. bain and mr. rogers.] where were they all, these royal and noble persons, who now crowded to "partake the gale" of sheridan's glory--where were they all while any life remained in him? where were they all, but a few weeks before, when their interposition might have saved his heart from breaking,--or when the zeal, now wasted on the grave, might have soothed and comforted the death-bed? this is a subject on which it is difficult to speak with patience. if the man was unworthy of the commonest offices of humanity while he lived, why all this parade of regret and homage over his tomb? there appeared some verses at the time, which, however intemperate in their satire and careless in their style, came, evidently, warm from the heart of the writer, and contained sentiments to which, even in his cooler moments, he needs not hesitate to subscribe:-- "oh it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, and friendships so false in the great and high-born;-- to think what a long line of titles may follow the relics of him who died, friendless and lorn! "how proud they can press to the funeral array of him whom they shunn'd, in his sickness and sorrow-- how bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!" the anonymous writer thus characterizes the talents of sheridan:-- "was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man, the pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall-- the orator, dramatist, minstrel,--who ran through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all. "whose mind was an essence, compounded, with art, from the finest and best of all other men's powers;-- who rul'd, like a wizard, the world of the heart, and could call up its sunshine, or draw down its showers;-- "whose humor, as gay as the fire-fly's light, play'd round every subject, and shone, as it play'd;-- whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright, ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;-- "whose eloquence brightened whatever it tried, whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide, as ever bore freedom aloft on its wave!" * * * * * though a perusal of the foregoing pages has, i trust, sufficiently furnished the reader with materials out of which to form his own estimate of the character of sheridan, a few general remarks may, at parting, be allowed me--rather with a view to convey the impressions left upon myself, than with any presumptuous hope of influencing the deductions of others. in considering the intellectual powers of this extraordinary man, the circumstance that first strikes us is the very scanty foundation of instruction, upon which he contrived to raise himself to such eminence both as a writer and a politician. it is true, in the line of authorship he pursued, erudition was not so much wanting; and his wit, like the laurel of caesar, was leafy enough to hide any bareness in this respect. in politics, too, he had the advantage of entering upon his career, at a time when habits of business and a knowledge of details were less looked for in public men than they are at present, and when the house of commons was, for various reasons, a more open play-ground for eloquence and wit. the great increase of public business, since then, has necessarily made a considerable change in this respect. not only has the time of the legislature become too precious to be wasted upon the mere gymnastics of rhetoric, but even those graces, with which true oratory surrounds her statements, are but impatiently borne, where the statement itself is the primary and pressing object of the hearer. [footnote: the new light that as been thrown on political science may also, perhaps, be assigned as a reason for this evident revolution in parliamentary taste. "truth." says lord bacon, "is a naked and open daylight, that doth not show the masques, and mummeries, and triumphs of the present world half so stately and daintily as candle-lights;"--and there can be little doubt that the clearer and important truths are made, the less controversy they will excite among fair and rational men, and the less passion and fancy accordingly can eloquence infuse into the discussion of them. mathematics have produced no quarrels among mankind--it is by the mysterious and the vague, that temper as well as imagination is most roused. in proof of this while the acknowledged clearness almost to truism, which the leading principles of political science have attained, has tended to simplify and tame down the activities of eloquence on that subject. there is still another arena left, in the science of the law, where the same illumination of truth has not yet penetrated, and where oratory will still continue to work her perplexing spells, till common sense and the plain principles of utility shall find their way there also to weaken them.] burke, we know, was, even for his own time, too much addicted to what falconers would call _raking_, or flying wide of his game; but there was hardly, perhaps, one among his great contemporaries, who, if beginning his career at present, would not find it, in some degree, necessary to conform his style to the taste for business and matter-of-fact that is prevalent. mr. pitt would be compelled to curtail the march of his sentences--mr. fox would learn to repeat himself less lavishly--nor would mr. sheridan venture to enliven a question of evidence by a long and pathetic appeal to filial piety. in addition to this change in the character and taste of the house of commons, which, while it has lowered the value of some of the qualifications possessed by sheridan, has created a demand for others of a more useful but less splendid kind, which his education and habits of life would have rendered less easily attainable by him, we must take also into account the prodigious difference produced by the general movement, at present, of the whole civilized world towards knowledge;--a movement, which no public man, however great his natural talents, could now lag behind with impunity, and which requires nothing less than the versatile and _encyclopaedic_ powers of a brougham to keep pace with it. another striking characteristic of sheridan, as an orator and a writer, was the great degree of labor and preparation which his productions in both lines cost him. of this the reader has seen some curious proofs in the preceding pages. though the papers left behind by him have added nothing to the stock of his _chef-d'oeuvres_, they have given us an insight into his manner of producing his great works, which is, perhaps, the next most interesting thing to the works themselves. though no new star has been discovered, the history of the formation of those we already possess, and of the gradual process by which they were brought "firm to retain their gathered beams," has, as in the instance of the school for scandal, been most interestingly unfolded to us. the same marks of labor are discoverable throughout the whole of his parliamentary career. he never made a speech of any moment, of which the sketch, more or less detailed, has not been found among his papers--with the showier passages generally written two or three times over, (often without any material change in their form,) upon small detached pieces of paper, or on cards. to such minutiae of effect did he attend, that i have found, in more than one instance, a memorandum made of the precise place in which the words "good god, mr. speaker," were to be introduced. these preparatory sketches are continued down to his latest displays; and it is observable that when from the increased derangement of his affairs, he had no longer leisure or collectedness enough to prepare, he ceased to speak. the only time he could have found for this pre-arrangement of his thoughts, (of which few, from the apparent idleness of his life, suspected him,) must have been during the many hours of the day that he remained in bed,--when, frequently, while the world gave him credit for being asleep, he was employed in laying the frame-work of his wit and eloquence for the evening. that this habit of premeditation was not altogether owing to a want of quickness, appears from the power and liveliness of his replies in parliament, and the vivacity of some of his retorts in conversation. [footnote: his best _bon mots_ are in the memory of every one. among those less known, perhaps, is his answer to general t----, relative to some difference of opinion between them on the war in spain:--"well, t----, are you still on your high horse?"--"if i was on a horse before, i am upon an elephant now." "no, t----, you were upon an _ass_ before, now you are upon a _mule_." some mention having been made in his presence of a tax upon milestones. sheridan said, "such a tax would be unconstitutional,--as they were a race that could not meet to remonstrate." as an instance of his humor, i have been told that, in some country-house where he was on a visit, an elderly maiden lady having set her heart on being his companion in a walk, he excused himself at first on account of the badness of the weather. soon afterwards, however, the lady intercepted him in an attempt to escape without her:--"well," she said, "it has cleared up, i see." "why, yes," he answered, "it has cleared up enough for _one_, but not for _two_."] the labor, indeed, which he found necessary for his public displays, was, in a great degree, the combined effect of his ignorance and his taste;--the one rendering him fearful of committing himself on the _matter_ of his task, and the other making him fastidious and hesitating as to the _manner_ of it. i cannot help thinking, however, that there must have been, also, a degree of natural slowness in the first movements of his mind upon any topic; and, that, like those animals which remain gazing upon their prey before they seize it, he found it necessary to look intently at his subject for some time, before he was able to make the last, quick spring that mastered it. among the proofs of this dependence of his fancy upon time and thought for its development, may be mentioned his familiar letters, as far as their fewness enables us to judge. had his wit been a "fruit, that would fall without shaking," we should, in these communications at least, find some casual windfalls of it. but, from the want of sufficient time to search and cull, he seems to have given up, in despair, all thoughts of being lively in his letters; and accordingly, as the reader must have observed in the specimens that have been given, his compositions in this way are not only unenlivened by any excursions beyond the bounds of mere matter of fact, but, from the habit or necessity of taking a certain portion of time for correction, are singularly confused, disjointed, and inelegant in their style. it is certain that even his _bon-mots_ in society were not always to be set down to the credit of the occasion; but that frequently, like skilful priests, he prepared the miracle of the moment before-hand. nothing, indeed, could be more remarkable than the patience and tact, with which he would wait through a whole evening for the exact moment, when the shaft which he had ready feathered, might be let fly with effect. there was no effort, either obvious or disguised, to lead to the subject--no "question detached, (as he himself expresses it,) to draw you into the ambuscade of his ready-made joke"--and, when the lucky moment did arrive, the natural and accidental manner in which he would let this treasured sentence fall from his lips, considerably added to the astonishment and the charm. so bright a thing, produced so easily, seemed like the delivery of wieland's [footnote: see sotheby's admirable translation of oberon, canto .] amanda in a dream;--and his own apparent unconsciousness of the value of what he said might have deceived dull people into the idea that there was really nothing in it. the consequence of this practice of waiting for the moment of effect was, (as all, who have been much in his society, must have observed,) that he would remain inert in conversation, and even taciturn, for hours, and then suddenly come out with some brilliant sally, which threw a light over the whole evening, and was carried away in the memories of all present. nor must it be supposed that in the intervals, either before or after these flashes, he ceased to be agreeable; on the contrary, he had a grace and good nature in his manner, which gave a charm to even his most ordinary sayings,--and there was, besides, that ever-speaking lustre in his eye, which made it impossible, even when he was silent, to forget who he was. a curious instance of the care with which he treasured up the felicities of his wit, appears in the use he made of one of those epigrammatic passages, which the reader may remember among the memorandums for his comedy of affectation, and which, in its first form, ran thus:--"he certainly has a great deal of fancy, and a very good memory; but, with a perverse ingenuity, he employs these qualities as no other person does--for he employs his fancy in his narratives, and keeps his recollection for his wit:--when he makes his jokes, you applaud the accuracy of his memory, and 'tis only when he states his facts that you admire the flights of his imagination." after many efforts to express this thought more concisely, and to reduce the language of it to that condensed and elastic state, in which alone it gives force to the projectiles of wit, he kept the passage by him patiently some years,--till at length he found an opportunity of turning it to account, in a reply, i believe, to mr. dundas, in the house of commons, when, with the most extemporaneous air, he brought it forth, in the following compact and pointed form:--"the right honorable gentleman is indebted to his memory for his jests, and to his imagination for his facts." his political character stands out so fully in these pages, that it is needless, by any comments, to attempt to raise it into stronger relief. if to watch over the rights of the subject, and guard them against the encroachments of power, be, even in safe and ordinary times, a task full of usefulness and honor, how much more glorious to have stood sentinel over the same sacred trust, through a period so trying as that with which sheridan had to struggle--when liberty itself had become suspected and unpopular--when authority had succeeded in identifying patriotism with treason, and when the few remaining and deserted friends of freedom were reduced to take their stand on a narrowing isthmus, between anarchy on one side, and the angry incursions of power on the other. how manfully he maintained his ground in a position so critical, the annals of england and of the champions of her constitution will long testify. the truly national spirit, too, with which, when that struggle was past, and the dangers to liberty from without seemed greater than any from within, he forgot all past differences, in the one common cause of englishmen, and, while others "gave but the _left_ hand to the country," [footnote: his own words] proffered her _both_ of his, stamped a seal of sincerity on his public conduct, which, in the eyes of all england, authenticated it as genuine patriotism. to his own party, it is true, his conduct presented a very different phasis; and if implicit partisanship were the sole merit of a public man, his movements, at this and other junctures, were far too independent and unharnessed to lay claim to it. but, however useful may be the bond of party, there are occasions that supersede it; and, in all such deviations from the fidelity which it enjoins, the two questions to be asked are--were they, as regarded the public, right? were they, as regarded the individual himself, unpurchased? to the former question, in the instance of sheridan, the whole country responded in the affirmative; and to the latter, his account with the treasury, from first to last, is a sufficient answer. even, however, on the score of fidelity to party, when we recollect that he more than once submitted to some of the worst martyrdoms which it imposes--that of sharing in the responsibility of opinions from which he dissented, and suffering by the ill consequences of measures against which he had protested;--when we call to mind, too, that during the administration of mr. addington, though agreeing wholly with the ministry and differing with the whigs, he even then refused to profit by a position so favorable to his interests, and submitted, like certain religionists, from a point of honor, to suffer for a faith in which he did not believe--it seems impossible not to concede that even to the obligations of party he was as faithful as could be expected from a spirit that so far outgrew its limits, and, in paying the tax of fidelity while he asserted the freedom of dissent, showed that he could sacrifice every thing to it, except his opinion. through all these occasional variations, too, he remained a genuine whig to the last; and, as i have heard one of his own party happily express it, was "like pure gold, that changes color in the fire, but comes out unaltered." the transaction in , relative to the household, was, as i have already said, the least defensible part of his public life. but it should be recollected hove broken he was, both in mind and body, at that period;--his resources from the theatre at an end,--the shelter of parliament about to be taken from over his head also,--and old age and sickness coming on, as every hope and comfort vanished. in that wreck of all around him, the friendship of carlton-house was the last asylum left to his pride and his hope; and that even character itself should, in a too zealous moment, have been one of the sacrifices offered up at the shrine that protected him, is a subject more of deep regret than of wonder. the poet cowley, in speaking of the unproductiveness of those pursuits connected with wit and fancy, says beautifully-- "where such fairies once have danc'd, no grass will ever grow;" but, unfortunately, thorns _will_ grow there;--and he who walks unsteadily among such thorns as now beset the once enchanted path of sheridan, ought not, after all, to be very severely criticised. his social qualities were, unluckily for himself but too attractive. in addition to his powers of conversation, there was a well-bred good-nature in his manner, as well as a deference to the remarks and opinions of others, the want of which very often, in distinguished wits, offends the self-love of their hearers, and makes even the dues of admiration that they levy a sort of "_droit de seigneur_," paid with unwillingness and distaste. no one was so ready and cheerful in promoting the amusements of a country-house; and on a rural excursion he was always the soul of the party. his talent at dressing a little dish was often put in requisition on such occasions, and an irish stew was that on which he particularly plumed himself. some friends of his recall with delight a day of this kind which they passed with him, when he made the whole party act over the battle of the pyramids on marsden moor, and ordered "captain" creevey and others upon various services, against the cows and donkeys entrenched in the ditches. being of so playful a disposition himself, it was not wonderful that he should take such pleasure in the society of children. i have been told, as doubly characteristic of him, that he has often, at mr. monckton's, kept a chaise and four waiting half the day for him at the door, while he romped with the children. in what are called _ver de sociétié_, or drawing-room verses, he took great delight; and there remain among his papers several sketches of these trifles. i once heard him repeat in a ballroom, some verses which he had lately written on waltzing, and of which i remember the following: "with tranquil step, and timid, downcast glance, behold the well-pair'd couple now advance. in such sweet posture our first parents mov'd, while, hand in hand, through eden's bowers they rov'd; ere yet the devil, with promise foul and false, turn'd their poor heads and taught them how to _walse_. one hand grasps hers, the other holds her hip-- * * * * * for so the law's laid down by baron trip." [footnote: this gentleman, whose name suits so aptly as legal authority on the subject of waltzing, was at the time these verses were written, well known in the dancing circles.] he had a sort of hereditary fancy for difficult trifling in poetry;--particularly for that sort, which consists in rhyming to the same word through a long string of couplets, till every rhyme that the language supplies for it is exhausted, [footnote: some verses by general fitzpatrick on lord holland's father are the best specimen that i know of this sort of _scherzo_.] the following are specimens from a poem of this kind, which he wrote on the loss of a lady's trunk:-- "my trunk! "(_to anne_.) "have you heard, my deer anne, how my spirits are sunk? have you heard of the cause? oh, the loss of my _trunk_! from exertion or firmness i've never yet slunk; but my fortitude's gone with the loss of my _trunk_! stout lucy, my maid, is a damsel of spunk; yet she weeps night and day for the loss of my _trunk_! i'd better turn nun, and coquet with a monk; for with whom can i flirt without aid from my _trunk_! * * * * * accurs'd be the thief, the old rascally hunks; who rifles the fair, and lays hands on their _trunks_! he, who robs the king's stores of the least bit of junk, is hang'd--while he's safe, who has plunder'd my _trunk_! * * * * * there's a phrase amongst lawyers, when _nune's_ put for _tune_; but, tune and nune both, must i grieve for my _trunk_! huge leaves of that great commentator, old brunck, perhaps was the paper that lin'd my poor _trunk_! but my rhymes are all out;--for i dare not use st--k; [ ] 'twould shock sheridan more than the loss of my _trunk_!" [footnote : he had a particular horror of this word.] from another of these trifles, (which, no doubt, produced much gaiety at the breakfast-table,) the following extracts will be sufficient:-- "muse, assist me to complain, while i grieve for lady _jane_. i ne'er was in so sad a vein, deserted now by lady _jane_. * * * * * lord petre's house was built by payne-- no mortal architect made _jane_. if hearts had windows, through the pane of mine you'd see sweet lady _jane_. * * * * * at breakfast i could scarce refrain from tears at missing lovely _jane_, nine rolls i eat, in hopes to gain the roll that might have fall'n to _jane_," &c. another written on a mr. _bigg_, contains some ludicrous couplets:-- "i own he's not fam'd for a reel or a jig, tom sheridan there surpasses tom _bigg_.-- for lam'd in one thigh, he is obliged to go zig- zag, like a crab--for no dancer is _bigg_. those who think him a coxcomb, or call him a prig, how little they know of the mind of my _bigg_! tho' he ne'er can be mine, hope will catch a twig-- two deaths--and i yet may become mrs. _bigg_. oh give me, with him, but a cottage and pig, and content i would live on beans, bacon, and _bigg_." a few more of these light productions remain among his papers, but their wit is gone with those for whom they were written;--the wings of time "eripuere _jocos_." of a very different description are the following striking and spirited fragments, (which ought to have been mentioned in a former part of this work,) written by him, apparently, about the year , and addressed to the naval heroes of that period, to console them for the neglect they experienced from the government, while ribands and titles were lavished on the whig seceders:-- "never mind them, brave black dick, though they've played thee such a trick-- damn their ribands and their garters, get you to your post and quarters. look upon the azure sea, there's a sailor's taffety! mark the zodiac's radiant bow, that's a collar fit for howe!-- and, then p--tl--d's brighter far, the pole shall furnish you a star! [ ] damn their ribands and their garters, get you to your post and quarters, think, on what things are ribands showered-- the two sir georges--y---- and h---! look to what rubbish stars will stick, to dicky h----n and johnny d----k! would it be for your country's good, that you might pass for alec. h----d, or, perhaps,--and worse by half-- to be mistaken for sir r----h! would you, like c----, pine with spleen, because your bit of silk was green? would you, like c----, change your side, to have your silk new dipt and dyed?-- like him exclaim, 'my riband's hue was green--and now, by heav'ns! 'tis blue,' and, like him--stain your honor too? damn their ribands and their garters, get you to your post and quarters. on the foes of britain close, while b----k garters his dutch hose, and cons, with spectacles on nose, (while to battle _you_ advance,) his '_honi soit qui mal y pense_.'" * * * * * [footnote : this reminds me of a happy application which he made, upon a subsequent occasion, of two lines of dryden:-- "when men like erskine go astray, the stars are more in fault than they."] it has been seen, by a letter of his sister already given, that, when young, he was generally accounted handsome; but, in later years, his eyes were the only testimonials of beauty that remained to him. it was, indeed, in the upper part of his face that the spirit of the man chiefly reigned;--the dominion of the world and the senses being rather strongly marked out in the lower. in his person, he was above the middle size, and his general make was, as i have already said, robust and well proportioned. it is remarkable that his arms, though of powerful strength, were thin, and appeared by no means muscular. his hands were small and delicate; and the following couplet, written on a cast from one of them, very livelily enumerates both its physical and moral qualities:-- "good at a fight, but better at a play, godlike in giving, but--the devil to pay!" among his habits, it may not be uninteresting to know that his hours of composition, as long as he continued to be an author, were at night, and that he required a profusion of lights around him while he wrote. wine, too, was one of his favorite helps to inspiration;--"if the thought, (he would say,) is slow to come, a glass of good wine encourages it, and, when it _does_ come, a glass of good wine rewards it." having taken a cursory view of his literary, political, and social qualities, it remains for me to say a few words upon that most important point of all, his moral character. there are few persons, as we have seen, to whose kind and affectionate conduct, in some of the most interesting relations of domestic life, so many strong and honorable testimonies remain. the pains he took to win back the estranged feelings of his father, and the filial tenderness with which he repaid long years of parental caprice, show a heart that had, at least, set out by the right road, however, in after years, it may have missed the way. the enthusiastic love which his sister bore him, and retained unblighted by distance or neglect, is another proof of the influence of his amiable feelings, at that period of life when he was as yet unspoiled by the world. we have seen the romantic fondness which he preserved towards the first mrs. sheridan, even while doing his utmost, and in vain, to extinguish the same feeling in her. with the second wife, a course, nearly similar, was run;--the same "scatterings and eclipses" of affection, from the irregularities and vanities, in which he continued to indulge, but the same hold kept of each other's hearts to the last. her early letters to him breathe a passion little short of idolatry, and her devoted attentions beside his death-bed showed that the essential part of the feeling still remained. to claim an exemption for frailties and irregularities on the score of genius, while there are such names as milton and newton on record, were to be blind to the example which these and other great men have left, of the grandest intellectual powers combined with the most virtuous lives. but, for the bias given early to the mind by education and circumstances, even the least charitable may be inclined to make large allowances. we have seen how idly the young days of sheridan were wasted--how soon he was left, (in the words of the prophet,) "to dwell carelessly ," and with what an undisciplined temperament he was thrown upon the world, to meet at every step that never-failing spring of temptation, which, like the fatal fountain in the garden of armida, sparkles up for ever in the pathway of such a man:-- "un fonte sorge in lei, che vaghe e monde ha l'acque si, che i riguardanti asseta, ma dentro ai freddi suoi cristalli asconde di tosco estran malvagita secreta." even marriage, which is among the sedatives of other men's lives, but formed a part of the romance of his. the very attractions of his wife increased his danger, by doubling, as it were the power of the world over him, and leading him astray by her light as well as by his own. had his talents, even then, been subjected to the _manège_ of a profession, there was still a chance that business, and the round of regularity which it requires, might have infused some spirit of order into his life. but the stage--his glory and his ruin--opened upon him; and the property of which it made him master was exactly of that treacherous kind which not only deceives a man himself, but enables him to deceive others, and thus combined all that a person of his carelessness and ambition had most to dread. an uncertain income, which, by eluding calculation, gives an excuse for improvidence, [footnote: how feelingly aware he was of this great source of all his misfortunes appears from a passage in the able speech which he delivered before the chancellor, as counsel in his own case, in the year or :-- "it is a great disadvantage, relatively speaking, to any man, and especially to a very careless, and a very sanguine man, to have possessed an uncertain and fluctuating income. that disadvantage is greatly increased, if the person so circumstanced has conceived himself to be in some degree entitled to presume that, by the exertion of his own talents, he may at pleasure increase that income--thereby becoming induced to make promises to himself which he may afterwards fail to fulfil. "occasional excess and frequent unpunctuality will be the natural consequences of such a situation. but, my lord, to exceed an ascertained and limited income, i hold to be a very different matter. in that situation i have placed myself, (not since the present unexpected contention arose, for since then i would have adopted no arrangements,) but months since, by my deed of trust to mr. adam, and in that situation i shall remain until every debt on earth, in which the theatre or i am concerned, shall be fully and fairly discharged. till then i will live on what remains to me--preserving that spirit of undaunted independence, which, both as a public and a private man, i trust, i have hitherto maintained."] and, still more fatal, a facility of raising money, by which the lesson, that the pressure of distress brings with it, is evaded till it comes too late to be of use--such was the dangerous power put into his hands, in his six-and-twentieth year, and amidst the intoxication of as deep and quick draughts of fame as ever young author quaffed. scarcely had the zest of this excitement begun to wear off, when he was suddenly transported into another sphere, where successes still more flattering to his vanity awaited him. without any increase of means, he became the companion and friend of the first nobles and princes, and paid the usual tax of such unequal friendships, by, in the end, losing them and ruining himself. the vicissitudes of a political life, and those deceitful vistas into office that were for ever opening on his party, made his hopes as fluctuating and uncertain as his means, and encouraged the same delusive calculations on both. he seemed, at every new turn of affairs, to be on the point of redeeming himself; and the confidence of others in his resources was no less fatal to him than his own, as it but increased the facilities of ruin that surrounded him. such a career as this--so shaped towards wrong, so inevitably devious--it is impossible to regard otherwise than with the most charitable allowances. it was one long paroxysm of excitement--no pause for thought--no inducements to prudence--the attractions all drawing the wrong way, and a voice, like that which bossuet describes, crying inexorably from behind him "on, on!" [footnote: "la loi est prononcee; il faut avancer toujours. je voudrois retourner sur mes pas; 'marche, marche!' un poids invincible nous entraine; il faut sans cesse avancer vers le precipice. on se console pourtant, parce que de tems en tems on rencontre des objets qui nous divertissent, des eaux courantes, des fleurs qui passent. on voudroit arreter; 'marche, marche!'"--_sermon sur la resurrection_.] instead of wondering at the wreck that followed all this, our only surprise should be, that so much remained uninjured through the trial,--that his natural good feelings should have struggled to the last with his habits, and his sense of all that was right in conduct so long survived his ability to practise it. numerous, however, as were the causes that concurred to disorganize his moral character, in his pecuniary embarrassment lay the source of those blemishes, that discredited him most in the eyes of the world. he might have indulged his vanity and his passions, like others, with but little loss of reputation, if the consequence of these indulgences had not been obtruded upon observation in the forbidding form of debts and distresses. so much did his friend richardson, who thoroughly knew him, consider his whole character to have been influenced by the straitened circumstances in which he was placed, that he used often to say, "if an enchanter could, by the touch of his wand, endow sheridan suddenly with fortune, he would instantly transform him into a most honorable and moral man." as some corroboration of this opinion, i must say that, in the course of the inquiries which my task of biographer imposed upon me, i have found all who were ever engaged in pecuniary dealings with him, not excepting those who suffered most severely by his irregularities, (among which class i may cite the respected name of mr. hammersley,) unanimous in expressing their conviction that he always _meant_ fairly and honorably; and that to the inevitable pressure of circumstances alone, any failure that occurred in his engagements was to be imputed. there cannot, indeed, be a stronger exemplification of the truth, that a want of regularity [footnote: his improvidence in every thing connected with money was most remarkable. he would frequently be obliged to stop on his journies, for want of the means of getting on, and to remain living expensively at an inn, till a remittance could reach him. his letters to the treasurer of the theatre on these occasions were generally headed with the words "money-bound." a friend of his told me, that one morning, while waiting for him in his study, he cast his eyes over the heap of unopened letters that lay upon the table, and, seeing one or two with coronets on the seals, said to mr. westley, the treasurer, who was present, "i see we are all treated alike." mr. westley then informed him that he had once found, on looking over this table, a letter which he had himself sent, a few weeks before, to mr. sheridan, enclosing a ten-pound note, to release him from some inn, but which sheridan, having raised the supplies in some other way, had never thought of opening. the prudent treasurer took away the letter, and reserved the enclosure for some future exigence. among instances of his inattention to letters, the following is mentioned. going one day to the banking-house, where he was accustomed to receive his salary, as receiver of cornwall, and where they sometimes accommodated him with small sums before the regular time of payment, he asked, with all due humility, whether they could oblige him with the loan of twenty pounds. "certainly, sir," said the clerk,--"would you like any more--fifty, or a hundred?" sheridan, all smiles and gratitude, answered that a hundred pounds would be of the greatest convenience to him. "perhaps you would like to take two hundred, or three?" said the clerk. at every increase of the sum, the surprise of the borrower increased. "have not you then received our letter?" said the clerk;--on which it turned out that, in consequence of the falling in of some fine, a sum of twelve hundred pounds had been lately placed to the credit of the receiver-general, and that, from not having opened the letter written to apprise him, he had been left in ignorance of his good luck.] becomes, itself, a vice, from the manifold evils to which it leads, than the whole history of mr. sheridan's pecuniary transactions. so far from never paying his debts, as is often asserted of him, he was, in fact, always paying;--but in such a careless and indiscriminate manner, and with so little justice to himself or others, as often to leave the respectable creditor to suffer for his patience, while the fraudulent dun was paid two or three times over. never examining accounts nor referring to receipts, he seemed as if, (in imitation of his own charles, preferring generosity to justice,) he wished to make paying as like as possible to giving. interest, too, with its usual, silent accumulation, swelled every debt; and i have found several instances among his accounts where the interest upon a small sum had been suffered to increase till it outgrew the principal;--"_minima pars ipsa puella sui_." notwithstanding all this, however, his debts were by no means so considerable as has been supposed. in the year , he empowered sir r. berkely, mr. peter moore, and mr. frederick homan, by power of attorney, to examine into his pecuniary affairs and take measures for the discharge of all claims upon him. these gentlemen, on examination, found that his _bona fide_ debts were about ten thousand pounds, while his apparent debts amounted to five or six times as much. whether from conscientiousness or from pride, however, he would not suffer any of the claims to be contested, but said that the demands were all fair, and must be paid just as they were stated;--though it was well known that many of them had been satisfied more than once. these gentlemen, accordingly, declined to proceed any further with their commission. on the same false feeling he acted in - , when the balance due on the sale of his theatrical property was paid him, in a certain number of shares. when applied to by any creditor, he would give him one of these shares, and allowing his claim entirely on his own showing, leave him to pay himself out of it, and refund the balance. thus irregular at all times, even when most wishing to be right, he deprived honesty itself of its merit and advantages; and, where he happened to be just, left it doubtful, (as locke says of those religious people, who believe right by chance, without examination,) "whether even the luckiness of the accident excused the irregularity of the proceeding." [footnote: chapter on reason] the consequence, however, of this continual paying was that the number of his creditors gradually diminished, and that ultimately the amount of his debts was, taking all circumstances into account, by no means considerable. two years after his death it appeared by a list made up by his solicitor from claims sent in to him, in consequence of an advertisement in the newspapers, that the _bonâ fide_ debts amounted to about five thousand five hundred pounds. if, therefore, we consider his pecuniary irregularities in reference to the injury that they inflicted upon others, the quantum of evil for which he is responsible becomes, after all, not so great. there are many persons in the enjoyment of fair characters in the world, who would be happy to have no deeper encroachment upon the property of others to answer for; and who may well wonder by what unlucky management sheridan could contrive to found so extensive a reputation for bad pay upon so small an amount of debt. let it never, too, be forgotten, in estimating this part of his character, that had he been less consistent and disinterested in his public conduct, he might have commanded the means of being independent and respectable in private. he might have died a rich apostate, instead of closing a life of patriotism in beggary. he might, (to use a fine expression of his own,) have 'hid his head in a coronet,' instead of earning for it but the barren wreath of public gratitude. while, therefore, we admire the great sacrifice that he made, let us be tolerant to the errors and imprudences which it entailed upon him; and, recollecting how vain it is to look for any thing unalloyed in this world, rest satisfied with the martyr, without requiring, also, the saint. the end. [illustration: the senator and "bud" haines.] a gentleman from mississippi a novel founded on the popular play of the same title produced under the management of wm.a. brady and jos.r. grismer list of illustrations the senator and bud haines "from new york, eh? the vicksburg of the north" "strange, how the langdon's treat him as a friend" the senator accepts an invitation to tea the langdon family "you'll have to take your medicine like a man" "to-morrow, at . " "after i have finished, i dare one of you to deny a word" _introduction_ _here is a story of an epoch-making battle of right against wrong, of honesty against corruption, of simplicity and sincerity against deceit, bribery and intrigue. it is the story of to-day in this country. it vitally concerns every man, woman and child in the united states, so far-reaching is its influence. the warfare is now going on--the warfare of honest men against corrupt political machines. the story tells the "inside" of the political maneuvers in washington and of the workings of bosses there and elsewhere--how they shape men and women to their ends, how their cunning intrigues extend into the very social life of the nation's capital. you will find inspiration in the career of the honest old southern planter elected to the united states senate and the young newspaper reporter who becomes his private secretary and political pilot. your heart will beat in sympathy with the love of the secretary and the senator's youngest daughter. you will read of the lobbyists and find that not all of them are men. you will see how avarice causes a daughter to conspire against her father. you will hear the note of a gripping national tragedy in the words of peabody, the "boss of the senate." but cause for laughter as well will not be found lacking in this truly many-sided narrative._ a gentleman from mississippi * * * * * chapter i practical politics that bids him flout the law he makes; that bids him make the law he flouts. _--kipling_. in buoyant spirit the hon. charles norton rode up the bridle path leading through the langdon plantation to the old antebellum homestead which, on a shaded knoll, overlooked the winding waters of the pearl river. no finer prospect was to be had in all mississippi than greeted the eye from the wide southwest porch, where on warm evenings the langdons and their frequent guests gathered to dine or to watch the golden splendor of the dying sun. the langdon family had long been a power in the south. its sons fought under andrew jackson at new orleans, under zachary taylor in the war with mexico, and in the civil war men of that name left their blood on the fields of antietam, shiloh, the wilderness and gettysburg. but this family of fighting men, of unselfish patriots, had also marked influence in the ways of peace, as real patriots should. generations of langdons had taken deepest pride in developing the hundreds of acres of cotton land, whose thousands of four-foot rows planted each april spread open the silvery lined bolls in july and august, and the ripened cotton fiber, pure white beneath the sun, gave from a distance the picture of an expanse of driven snow. the hon. charles norton had reason for feeling well pleased with the world as he fastened his bay virginia hunter to a convenient post and strode up the steps of the mansion, which was a characteristic survivor of the "old south," the south of gilded romance and of gripping tragedy. now in this second year of his first term as congressman and a promising member of the younger set of southern lawyers, he had just taken active part in securing the election of colonel william h. langdon, present head of the family, to the united states senate, though the ultimate action of the legislature had been really brought about by a lifelong friend of colonel langdon, the senior senator from the state, james stevens, who had not hesitated to flatter norton and use him as a cat's-paw. this use the hon. charles norton seemed to consider an honor of large proportions. not every first-term congressman can hope for intimacy with a senator. norton believed that his work for langdon would win him the family's gratitude and thus further his ambition to marry carolina, the planter's oldest daughter, whose beauty made her the recipient of many attentions. a complacent gleam shone in norton's eyes as they swept over the fertile acres of the plantation. he thought of the material interest he might one day have in them if his suit for the hand of carolina progressed favorably. suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the voice of young randolph langdon, a spirited lad in his early twenties, who had just been made plantation manager, by his father. "well, how is the honorable to-day?" said randolph, approaching from the doorway. "i didn't think a congressman could be spared from washington but rarely, especially when the papers say the country needs such a lot of saving." "oh, this 'saving the country' talk goes all right in the story books," replied norton, who exercised considerable influence over the youth through a long acquaintanceship and by frequently taking him into his confidence, "but this country can take pretty good care of itself. in congress we representatives put the job of saving it over on the senate, and the senate hands back the job to us. so what's everybody's business isn't anybody's; a fine scheme so long as we have a president who keeps his hands off and doesn't--" "but how about the speeches and the bills?" broke in randolph. "i thought--" "yes, yes; to be sure," the congressman quickly added. "nearly all of us introduce these so-called reform bills. when they're printed at government expense we send copies, carried free by the post-office department, to our constituents, and when we allow the bills to die in some committee we can always blame the committee. but if there's a big fight by our constituents over the bill we let it pass the house, but arrange to kill it in the senate. then we do the same thing for the senators. like in every other business, my boy," continued norton as he led the way into the house, "it's a case of 'you tickle me and i'll tickle you' in politics. and don't let any one fool you about the speeches either. they are pretty things to mail to the voters, but all the wise boys in washington know they aren't meant seriously. it's all play acting, and there are better actors in the senate than henry irving or edwin booth ever were." "i don't think my father looks at things in the way you do, charlie." "no? well, maybe he doesn't now, but he will later on when he takes his seat in the senate. if he isn't wise enough to play around with the rest of the senators he won't get any bills passed, especially any bill carrying an appropriation or of any other particular importance." "what!" ejaculated the planter's son. "do you mean to say that if father won't do what the other senators want him to do they will combine against him and destroy his usefulness, make him powerless--a failure?" the congressman smiled patronizingly on the youth. "why, of course they will. that's politics, practical politics, the only kind that's known in washington. you see--" "but the leaders of the great parties!" cried the young plantation manager, in amazement. "why don't they prevent this?" "because they invented the system and because political party differences don't amount to a whole lot much of the time in washington. the politicians do most of their criticizing of the other party away from washington, where the voters can hear them. but when circumstances sometimes force a man to rise to assail the other side in congress he afterward apologizes in secret for his words. or, sometimes he apologizes beforehand, saying: 'i've got to hand out some hot shot to you fellows just to please a crowd of sovereign voters from my district who have come up to washington to see me perform. so, of course, i've got to make a showing. don't mind what i say. you know i don't mean it, but the old fogies will go back home and tell their neighbors what a rip-snortin' reformer i be.'" "is that the way you represent your district; norton?" asked planter langdon, who at this juncture entered the room. "no, no, mr. langdon--i should say senator now, i suppose. i was merely telling randolph how some legislators conduct themselves." the senator-elect paused momentarily, gazing at the congressman, who, dark-visaged, tall, black-haired, broad-shouldered and athletic, was visibly uneasy at having his conversation with randolph overheard by the father. "no doubt it won't be all plain sailing in washington for an old-fashioned man like me, but i believe in the american people and the men they send to congress," slowly spoke the planter. "there's senator stevens, for instance. he has always stood for the rights of the people. i've read all his speeches. just why he brought about my election it is hard to tell, for i've been a planter all my life, except when i fought under beauregard. i feel that he did it out of friendship, and i simply can't say how much i appreciate the honor. i am indebted to you, too, congressman." tactfully disclaiming any credit for his work, only norton's congressional training in repression enabled him to refrain from smiling at langdon's innocence, his belief in stevens' sincerity and his wonder over his election. stevens, the keen, cold and resourceful, who forced his officeholders to yield him parts of their government salaries; stevens, who marketed to railway companies his influence with the department of justice; stevens, who was a republican in the committee room in washington and a democrat on the platform in mississippi; stevens, who had consummated the deal with martin sanders, boss of seven counties, to elect langdon because of the planter's trustfulness and simplicity of character, which should make him easy to influence and to handle in the all-important matter of the gulf naval base project! the entry of carolina langdon and her younger sister, hope georgia, gave norton a welcome opportunity to shift the trend of conversation. "you ladies will have a gay time in washington," he began, after directing a particularly enthusiastic greeting to carolina. "you will be in great demand at all the big affairs, and i don't think you will ever want to come back to old mississippi, forty miles from a railroad, with few chances to wear your new york gowns." carolina spoke quickly, her face flushing at the thought of the new vista of life now opening. "yes, i have always longed to be a part of the real life of this world; the life of constant action--meeting new people every day, and prominent people. balls, receptions, teas, theater parties, afternoon drives, plenty of money and plenty of gayety are what i want. i'm not a bit like hope georgia, who thinks these ideas are extravagant because she has not seen real life yet--" "carolina, you must not think me 'only your little sister' now. i have seen life. haven't i spent a week in jackson?" "that's enough proof. you know all about life, i'm sure, miss hope georgia," smilingly remarked norton. later, rising to join planter langdon on the veranda, where he had gone to smoke, the congressman gazed intently at carolina. "you will probably forget your old friends when you enter the dizzy social race in washington." "no, charlie, i couldn't forget you, anyhow. you will be there, too. i shall depend on you a great deal to take me about, unless you are too busy making speeches and fighting your opponents." again it was norton's turn to be inwardly amused at the political ignorance of the langdon family. speeches? the first-term congressman doesn't make speeches in washington, because no one cares what he thinks--except the lobbyists, whose business it is to provide new members with a complete set of thoughts. neither does he have opponents--he is not considered important enough by the veterans to be opposed. skilfully approaching the subject which next to carolina langdon had been uppermost in his mind during his visit, norton asked the senator-elect on joining him if he did not believe that the entire south would benefit if the plan to establish a naval base on the gulf was successfully carried through. "most certainly i do, and, as i said during the senatorial fight, the whole country as well will be the gainer," responded langdon. "don't you think the people who want altacoola chosen as the site have the best arguments?" was the visitor's next question, the reply to which he anxiously awaited. "yes, i do, from what i've already heard; but i haven't heard very much of what the folks who advocate other sites have to say. so, until i've heard all sides and made my own examination, i couldn't give any one my final answer, but altacoola seems to have the necessary qualifications." "senator stevens is in favor of altacoola," eagerly suggested norton. "yes, and that's a pretty good argument in its favor," responded langdon. norton now excused himself, pleading an appointment with a client at a neighboring village. waving farewell to carolina and hope georgia, who stood at a window, he rode away. "the old man is sure to be all right," he muttered. "he leans toward altacoola and believes in stevens. he'll lean some more until he falls over--into the trap. there's a fortune in sight--within reach. langdon has faith in his friends. he won't suspect a thing." still another thought occurred to the hon. charles norton. "stevens elected langdon out of friendship," he chuckled, gleefully. "that will be well worth telling in washington." chapter ii the wars of peace "big bill" langdon was the term by which the new senator from mississippi had been affectionately known to his intimates for years. he carried his pounds with ease, bespeaking great muscular power in spite of his gray hairs. his rugged courage, unswerving honesty and ready belief in his friends won him a loyal following, some of whom frequently repeated what was known as "bill langdon's golden rule": "there never was a man yet who didn't have some good in him, but most folks don't know this because their own virtues pop up and blind 'em when they look at somebody else." at the reunions of his old war comrades langdon was always depended on to describe once again how the third mississippi charged at crawfordsville and defeated the eighth illinois. but the stirring events of the past had served to increase the planter's fondness for his home life and his children, whose mother had died years before. at times he regretted that his unexpected political duties would take him away from the old plantation even though the enthusiastic approval of carolina and hope georgia proved considerable compensation. although not sworn in as senator, colonel langdon's political duties were already pressing. a few days after congressman norton's visit he sat in his library conferring with several prominent citizens of his county regarding a plan to ask congress to appropriate money to dredge a portion of the channel of the pearl river, which would greatly aid a large section of the state. during the deliberations the name of martin sanders was announced by jackson, the colonel's gravely decorous negro bodyguard, who boasted that he "wuz brung up by cunel marse langdon, suh, a fightin' mississippi cunel, suh, sence long befo' de wah and way befo' dat, suh." "show mr. sanders right in," commanded colonel langdon. "good-day, senator," spoke sanders, the boss of seven counties, as he entered. glancing around the room, he continued, bending toward the colonel and muffling his now whispering voice with his hand: "i want to speak to you alone. i'm here on politics." "that's all right; but these gentlemen here are my friends and constituents," was the reply in no uncertain voice. "when i talk politics they have a perfect right to hear what i, as their senator, say. out with it, mr. sanders." as sanders was introduced to the members of the conference he grew red in the face and stared at langdon, amazed. at last he had discovered something new in politics. "say," he finally blurted out, "when i talk business i--" "are you in politics as a business?" quickly spoke colonel langdon. "why--i--er--no, of course not," the visitor stammered. "i am in politics for my party's sake, just like everybody else," and sanders grinned suggestively at his questioner. "have you anything further to say?" asked langdon, in a tone hinting that he would like to be rid of his caller. "well, since you are so very new in this game, senator, i'll talk right out in meetin', as they call it. i came to ask about an appointment an' to tip you off on a couple o' propositions. i want jim hagley taken care of--you've heard of jim--was clerk o' fenimore county. a $ , a year job'll do for him; $ o' that he gives to the organization." "you're the organization, aren't you?" queried langdon. "why, yes. are you just gettin' wise?" cried sanders. "haven't i got fellers, voters, voters, voters, d--n it, hangin' on to me that needs to be taken care of! an' so i make the fellers that work help those that don't. why, langdon, what'n h--l are you kickin' an' questioning' about? didn't you get my twelve votes in the legislature? did you have a chance for senator without 'em? answer me that, will you? why, with 'em you only had two more than needed to elect, an' the opposition crowd was solid for wilson," cried the angry boss, pounding the long table before which langdon sat. "i'll answer you almighty quick," retorted the now thoroughly aroused senator-elect, rising and shaking his clenched fist at sanders. "those twelve votes you say were yours--yours?" "yes, mine. them noble legislators that cast 'em was an' is mine, mine. i tell you, jest like i had 'em in my pocket, an' that's where i mostly carry 'em, so as they won't go strayin' aroun' careless like." "you didn't have to vote those men for me. i told you at the capitol that i would not make you or anybody else any promises. you voted them for me of your own accord. that's my answer." at this point the gentlemen of the county present when sanders entered and who had no desire to witness further the unpleasant episode, rose to leave, in spite of the urgent request of colonel langdon that they remain. the only one reluctant to go was deacon amos smallwood, who, coming to the plantation to seek employment for his son, had not been denied of his desire to join the assemblage of his neighbors. last to move toward the door, he stopped in front of sanders, stretched his five feet three inches of stature on tiptoe, and shook a withered fist in the boss' firmly set, determined face. "infamous!" shrieked the deacon. "you're a monster! you're unrighteous! you should have belonged to the political machine of cataline or pontius pilate!" "never heard tell o' them," muttered sanders, deeply puzzled. "guess they was never in mississippi in my time." his accompanying gesture of perplexity caused the deacon to hasten his exit. tripping over the leg of a chair, he fell headlong into the arms of the watchful jackson, who received the deacon's blessing for "uplifting the righteous in the hour of their fall." relieved at the departure of the witnesses, sanders showed increased aggressiveness. "to be sure, senator, you were careful not to personally promise me anything for my support at the election, as you say," the leader sneered; "but you had jim stevens to make promises for you, which was smooth, absolute an' artistic smooth--" "stop, sir!" langdon furiously shouted. "you forget, sir, that your insinuation is an insult to a man elected senator from mississippi, an insult to my state and to my friend senator stevens, who i know would make you no promises for me, for he had not my authority." "certainly you're a senator, but what's a senator, anyhow? i'll tell you, mr. colonel langdon, a senator is a man who holds out for his own pocket as much as us fellows that make him will stand for. when we don't get our rightful share, he's through." with a sudden start, as though to spring at sanders' throat, langdon, with compressed lips and eyes blazing, grasped the edge of the table with a grip that threatened to rend the polished boards. with intensest effort he slowly regained control of himself. his fury had actually weakened him. his knees shook, and he sank weakly into a chair. when he finally spoke his voice was strained and laborious. "sanders, you and i, sir, must never meet again, because i might not succeed in keeping my hands off you. what would my old comrades of the third mississippi say if they saw me sitting here and you there with a whole body, sir, after what you have said? they would not believe their eyes, thank god, sir. they would all go over to stuart city and buy new glasses, sir." a suspicious moisture appeared on the colonel's cheeks which he could not dry too quickly to escape sanders' observation. "but i had to let you stay, sir, because you, the sole accuser, are the only one who can tell me what i must know." "what do you want to know?" asked sanders, who had realized his great mistake in losing his temper, in talking as openly and as violently as he had and in dragging the name of senator stevens into the controversy. he must try to keep stevens from hearing of this day's blunder, for jim stevens knew as well as he, didn't he, that the man who loses his temper, like the man who talks too much, is of no use in politics. "i want to know how you formed your opinion of political matters--of senators. is it possible, sir, that you have actual knowledge of actual happenings that give you the right to talk as you have? i want to know if i must feel shame, feel disgrace, sir, to be a senator from mississippi; that state, sir, that the almighty himself, sir, would choose to live in if he came to earth." "there, there, senator, don't take too seriously what i have said," sanders replied in reassuring tone, having outlined his course of action. "i lost my head because you wouldn't promise me something i needed--that appointment for hagley. what i said about senators an' such was all wild words--nothin' in 'em. why, how could there be, senator?" this query was a happy afterthought which sanders craftily suggested in a designedly artless manner. "just what i thought and know!" exclaimed langdon, sharply. "it couldn't be; it isn't possible. now you go, sir, and let it be your greatest disgrace that you are not fit to enter any gentleman's house." "oh, don't rub it in too hard, senator. you may need my help some day, but you'll have to deliver the goods beforehand." "i said, 'go!'" "i'm goin', but here's a tip. don't blame me for fightin' you. i've got to fight to live. i'm a human bein', an' humans are pretty much the same all over the world; all except you--you're only half natural. the rest of you is reformer." after sanders' departure the colonel sat at his table, his head resting in his hand, the events of the day crowding his brain bewilderingly. "the battles of peace are worse than any beauregard ever led me into," he murmured. "fighting o conquer oneself is harder than turning the left flank of the eighth illinois in an enfilading fire." but the new senator from mississippi did not know that for him the wars of peace had only just begun, that perhaps his own flesh and blood and that of the wife and mother who had gone before would turn traitor to his colors in the very thickest of the fray. chapter iii how to please a senator the international hotel in washington was all hustle and bustle. was it not preparing for its first senator since ? no less a personage than the hon. william h. langdon of mississippi, said to be a warm personal friend of senator stevens, one of the leading members of his party at the capital, had engaged a suit of rooms for himself and two daughters. "ain't it the limit?" remarked the chief clerk to bud haines, correspondent of the new york _star_. "the senator wrote us that he was coming here because his old friend, the late senator moseley, said back in ' that this was the best hotel in washington and where all the prominent men ought to stay." haines, the ablest political reporter in washington, had come to the international to interview the new senator, to describe for his paper what kind of a citizen langdon was. he glanced around at the dingy woodwork, the worn cushions, the nicked and uneven tiles of the hotel lobby, and smiled at the clerk. "well, if this is the new senator's idea of princely luxury he will fit right into the senatorial atmosphere." both laughed derisively. "by the way," added haines, "i suppose you'll raise your rates now that you've got a senator here." the clerk brought his fist down on the register with a thud. "we could have them every day if we wanted them. this fellow, though, we'll have all winter, i guess. his son's here now. been breaking all records for drinking. congressman norton of mississippi has been down here with him a few times. there young langdon is now." haines turned quickly, just in time to bump into a tall, slender young man, who was walking unevenly in the direction of the café. "well, can't you see what you're doing?" muttered the tall young man thickly. haines smiled. the chap who has played halfback four years on his college eleven and held the boxing championship in his class is apt to be good-natured. he does not have to take offense easily. besides, randolph langdon was plainly under the influence of whisky. so haines smiled pleasantly at the taller young man. "beg your pardon--my fault," haines said. "well, don't let it occur again," mumbled langdon, as he strolled with uneven dignity toward the door. bud haines laughed. "i guess young langdon is going to be one of the boys, isn't he?" "he's already one of them when it comes to a question of fluid capacity," laughed some one behind him, and bud whirled to meet the gaze of his friend, dick gullen, representative of one of the big chicago dailies. "you down here to see langdon, too?" commented bud. cullen nodded. "queer roost where this senator is to hang out, isn't it?" "he can't be a rich one, then," suggested haines. cullen chuckled. "perhaps he's an honest one." "i hadn't thought of that. you always were original, dickie," commented haines, dryly. "by the way, what do you know about him?" "nothing, except that the _evening call_ printed a picture of his eldest daughter--says she's the queen daughter of the south, a famous beauty, rich planter for a father, mother left her a fortune--" "she'll cut quite a social caper with this hotel's name on her cards, won't she?" broke in haines, as he led cullen to a seat to await the expected legislator, whose train was late. "i don't know very much about him myself," said haines. "all i've been able to discover is that stevens said the word which elected him, and that looks bad. great glory! when i think what a senator of the right sort has a chance to do here in washington--a nonpartisan, straight-out-from-the-shoulder man!" he paused to shake his head in disgust. "you know these fellows here in the senate don't even see their chance. why, if you and i didn't do any more to hold our jobs than they do, we'd be fired by wire the first day. they know just the old political game, that's all." "its a great game, though, bud," sighed cullen, longingly, for, like many newspaper men, he had the secret feeling that he was cut out to be a great politician. "sure, it's a great game, as a game," agreed haines. "so is bridge, and stud poker, and three-card monte, and flim-flam generally. take this new man langdon, for instance. chosen by stevens, he'll probably be perfectly obedient, perfectly easy going, perfectly blind and--perfectly useless. what's wanted now is to get the work done, not play the game." thoroughly a cynic through his years of experience as a newspaper man, which had shown the inside workings of many important phases of the seemingly conventional life of this complex world, cullen pretended unbounded enthusiasm. "hear! hear!" he shouted. "all you earnest citizens come vote for reformer haines. i'm for you, bud. what do i get in your cabinet? i've joined the reformers, too, and, like all of them, me for p-u-r-i-t-y as long as she gives me a meal ticket." but not even cullen could make haines consider his views on the necessity of political regeneration to be ridiculous. his optimism could not be snuffed out, for he was a genuine believer that the natural tendency of humankind was to do right. wrong he believed to be the outcome of unnatural causes. this quality, combined with his practical knowledge of the world and his courage, made him a formidable man, one who would one day accomplish big things--if he got the chance. "you know you can't shut me up, dick," was his response to cullen's oratorical flight. "i'm going to have my say. i don't see why a senator shouldn't be honest. all i want them to do is to play a new game. let 'em at least seem to be honest, attend to their business, forget politics. the country sends them here to work, and if they do the work the people really don't care a hang what party they belong to." "come out of it, bud. your brain is wabbly," yawned cullen, wearily. "i'll buy a drink if you'll quiet down. let's be comfortable till this fellow langdon appears." he caught his friend by the arm and in spite of protest dragged him off to the café just as young langdon and congressman norton came down through the lobby. though but few years older than randolph langdon, charles norton had long exercised strong influence over him because of his wider experience in the world's affairs. like his father, young langdon had stayed close to the plantation most of his life, particularly after leaving school, devoting his attention to studying the business of conducting the family's big estate. norton brought him the atmosphere of the big outside world he yearned to see even as did his sister carolina, and he imitated norton's manners, his dress and mode of speech. the congressman's habit of confiding in randolph, a subtle compliment, was deeply appreciated by the lad, who unconsciously became a continual advertiser of norton's many virtues to carolina and to his father, all of which the congressman knew. that norton's political career was the outcome of carolina langdon's ambition to shine in gay society was known to his friends as well as his family, and his desire to win her and place her where she could satisfy every whim had developed almost to a frenzy. seeing evidences of senator stevens' vast influence, he did not hesitate to seek a close relationship with him, and the senator was clever enough to lead norton to consider him his friend. at the start of his political career norton had higher ideas of honor than guided his actions now that he had become a part of the political machine that controlled his native state of mississippi, and of the bipartisan combination that dominated both houses of congress in the interest of the great railway and industrial corporations. senator stevens and other powers had so distorted norton's view of the difference between public and private interests and their respective rights that he had come to believe captial to be the sacred heritage of the nation which must be protected at any cost. the acceptance of a retainer from the c. st. and p. railroad company for wholly unnecessary services in washington--only another way of buying a man--a transaction arranged by senator stevens, was but another stage in the disintegration of the young congressman's character, but it brought him just that much closer to the point where he could claim carolina langdon as his own. and opportunity does not knock twice at a man's door--unless he is at the head of the machine. norton, the persevering young law student who loved the girl who had been his boyhood playmate, was now norton who coveted her father's lands, who boasted that he was on the "inside" in washington, who was on the way to fortune--if the new senator from mississippi would or could be forced to stand in favor of the altacoola naval base. his conversation with randolph langdon, as haines and cullen saw them pass through the hotel lobby, illustrated the nature of the norton of the present and his interest in the altacoola scheme. "there's no reason why you shouldn't come in on the ground floor in this proposition, randolph," he was urging in continuance of the conversation begun over a table in the café. "no reason why you shouldn't do it, my boy. why, are you still a child, or are you really a man? you have now drafts for $ , , haven't you?" "yeah," agreed langdon, chagrined at norton's insinuation of youthfulness and anxious to prove that he was really a man of affairs, "i've got the fifty thousand, charlie, but--but, you see, that's the money for improvements on the plantation. as father has put me in as manager i want to make a showing." "you can't make it until spring," urged norton. "the money's got to lie in the bank all winter. now, why don't you make a hundred thousand with it instead of letting it lie idle? isn't that simple?" the younger man's eyes opened wide, and his imagination, stimulated by the special brand of bourbon whisky norton had ordered for him, took rapid bounds. "one hundred thousand! you mean i could make a hundred thousand with my fifty between now and spring?" "sure as a nigger likes gin," replied norton, confidently. "how?" asked langdon. the young congressman leaned over confidentially. "this is under your hat, randolph. you can keep quiet?" langdon nodded eagerly. "then put it into altacoola land." "the naval base?" gasped langdon. norton nodded. "now you've hit it. the government will select altacoola for a naval base. then land will jump 'way up to never, and you'll clean up a hundred thousand at the least. isn't it simple? there are, a thousand people with money who would just love to have this chance. and i'm giving it to you because of our friendship. i want to do you a good turn. i've got my money in there." young langdon was visibly impressed. "you've always--treated me right, charlie; you've been for me, i know. but suppose the government doesn't select altacoola. gulf city's in the running." norton laughed sarcastically. "gulf city is a big bunch of mud flats. besides, i'll tell you something else. just between us, remember." he waited for the boy's eager nod before he went on. "the big men are behind altacoola. standard steel wants altacoola, and what standard steel wants from congress you can bet your bottom dollar standard steel gets. they know their business at no. broadway. now, then, are you satisfied?" randolph was more than satisfied. already he felt himself rich, and honestly rich, too, for norton had convinced him that there was no reason why he should not use the $ , of his father's, when it had to lie in the bank anyhow all winter, and he would have it back in time to use on the plantation in the spring when it was needed. how proud of him his father would be when he showed him a clear profit of $ , ! "i'll go get the drafts at once, charlie, and i'm mighty much obliged to you," he said, with gratitude in his voice. norton's smile was one of deep satisfaction. "that's all right, randolph. you know i want to do anything i can for you." randolph was starting for his room when haines and cullen turned sharply around the corner of the hotel desk. again bud and the young southerner accidentally collided. "where are you going? can't you look out?" blurted langdon. haines grinned. "guess it's your fault this time." "oh, it is, is it?" irritably replied randolph, who as the "young marse" had been accustomed to considerable deference on the plantation. "well, take that," he angrily cried, aiming a savage swing at haines. the reporter's athletic training proved of ready service. dodging under the clenched fist, he turned dexterously, seized young langdon's outstretched wrist and bent the arm down over his (haines') shoulder as though to throw the young attacker with the wrestler's "flying mare." langdon was helpless, as haines had also secured his free hand, but instead of completing the "throw" the reporter walked away with his foe held securely on his back--to put him to bed, a kindly service, in view of randolph's mental state. from across the lobby charles norton had watched randolph's discomfiting encounter with haines with amusement. "now that i've got the young fellow to sew up his old man's money in altacoola land," he chuckled, "reckon senator william h. langdon won't see anything wrong with that same noble tract of universe when he comes to vote for the naval base. senator stevens will be pleased." chapter iv "just the man we need" as bud haines returned from young langdon's room, where he had left the latter in bed, with a towel filled with cracked ice around his head, he saw two familiar figures standing in a secluded corner of the lobby. they were talking earnestly in a low voice. "whew!" whistled the newspaper man. "it must be something important that brings both the boss of the senate and stevens of mississippi here." "good-afternoon, haines. how are you?" senator stevens said, cordially, as, looking up, he saw the newspaper man approaching. "senator peabody, you know haines, don't you? the brightest young correspondent in washington." senator peabody of pennsylvania, the leading power in the upper house, was a man of commanding character and of strong personality. the fact he used these attributes to advance in the senate the financial interests of himself, of standard steel and other commercial organizations met with very little protest in washington. that he deserved the title frequently used in referring to him, "boss of the senate," none would deny who had knowledge of the inner workings of the senate and the various committees. senator peabody was very affable to the reporters, especially to those of haines' stamp, who had never accepted any favors from him and who opposed his methods. he aimed to win the friendship of these opponents by diplomacy--as he had found that reporters of the haines sort could not be influenced by money. he considered a reporter who would take a bribe as a constructive, conservative member of society, and frequently regretted that so many of the correspondents sent to washington could not be bought nor had bills they wanted passed or defeated. he extended his hand to haines as stevens concluded and said, warmly: "of course i know the representative of the _morning star_! how do you do, haines?" "i wonder if we're not all here on the same errand," suggested the newspaper man. senator peabody appeared to be all candor. "we came to call on senator langdon, senator stevens' new colleague," he said. bud haines opened his eyes wide. "by jove! langdon stock is going up when the chairman of the naval committee drops in to welcome him." "you see, langdon went in on a naval base platform," explained stevens. "our section of the south is red hot in favor of the government spending its naval base appropriation right there." "certainly," interrupted haines, "but--" "and, there being a vacancy on the committee on naval affairs," continued stevens, whose dignity was offended by the reporter's interruption, "the friends of senator langdon are working to have him appointed on that committee, because he comes from the state where the naval base will be located and will, like myself, be more familiar with the availability of the various sites suggested than a man from another state." haines nodded. "yes, of course. what town's going to get it, senator?" senator stevens paused judiciously. "well," he said, "altacoola and gulf city are the chief candidates. i suppose you had better talk to langdon about it." the reporter smiled. "that's just what i came for, senator, but i have to go up to the war department now. when senator langdon comes will you be kind enough to tell him i want to interview him?" stevens bowed cordially. "indeed i shall. i'll tell him he's in luck to have the smartest young man in washington on the job." "all right," laughed bud, "only don't make it so strong that he won't recognize me when he sees me. good-day." and he hurried away to keep a belated appointment. "clever boy," said stevens as the newspaper man disappeared. the boss of the senate agreed. "yes, only i'm not sure it's a good thing for a newspaper man to be too clever. spoils his usefulness. makes him ask too many confounded questions." stevens acquiesced, for it would never do to disagree with the boss. "it's very kind of you, senator," he began, changing the subject, "to come with me to welcome the new senator from my state, my old friend and colleague." an inscrutable smile--a smile, yet a cold one--accompanied peabody's answer. "i have always found, stevens," he said, "that a little attention like this to a new man is never wasted, and i make it a rule not to overlook opportunities." again the senior senator from mississippi acquiesced, and he laughed heartily at peabody's keen insight into human nature. "i think you'll like langdon," stevens remarked after a pause, "and you'll find him easy to deal with. just put up any measure for the benefit of the south and langdon will go the limit on it. even a republican majority doesn't mind a little democratic support, you know. i think he's just the man you can use in this gulf naval base bill." "you can swing him?" asked peabody, sharply. stevens drew closer to peabody. "i elected him, and he knows it," he chuckled. the boss nodded. "and it's likely that a man like langdon, new to politics--a simple gentleman of the old school, as you describe him--might have considerable influence on opinion throughout the country." langdon's colleague grasped the arm of the senatorial dictator. "he's just the man we want, senator. he's one of those old fellows you just have to believe when he talks. he'll do what i suggest, and he can make the public believe what we think." "then you guarantee him?" snapped the boss. "unreservedly, senator." "all right," said peabody. "he goes on the naval committee. that ought to be enough honor for a man who a year ago was growing cotton on an old plantation miles away from civilization." "we have control now of all the land about altacoola that can be used," said stevens. "i have had norton, the congressman from langdon's district, working on it. there isn't a foot of land there which we do not now control under options, and," he added, with a chuckle, "the options were dirt cheap." peabody grunted approvingly. "there won't be any new york fortune in it, but it ought to be a pretty tidy bit," he said. "now, if we could only get langdon interested, directly or indirectly, in a financial way, that would clinch everything." the senior senator from mississippi shook his head. "it's too risky. he's old-fashioned, you know--has about as much idea about practical politics as--well, as we have of the golden rule. fact is, he rather lives by that antiquated standard. that's where we get him. he owes everything to me, you see, so naturally he'll do anything i want him to. by the way, there's norton now. perhaps he can tell us something." "call him over," said peabody. norton had been strolling about the lobby, hoping to be noticed. the flame had lured the moth, and it liked the manner of the singeing. the congressman hurried precipitately across at stevens' summons. "i've been wanting to speak to you, gentlemen," said norton, full of the good trick he had turned, "but i didn't like to interrupt you. i think i've done a big stroke for altacoola to-day." even peabody pricked up his ears. "yes?" said both senators together. with a keen sense of the dramatic, the congressman let his next words drawl out with full effect. "i've got senator langdon interested--financially interested," he said. his two hearers exchanged a significant glance. "how?" asked peabody, sharply. norton smiled shrewdly. "well, i just let his son invest $ , of the senator's money in altacoola land. that ought to help some." stevens stared in amazement at his congressman, his eyes threatening to bulge out of his head. "what!" he gasped. "you got langdon's money in altacoola, through his son?" "i sure have, senator," chuckled norton. "he's in to the extent of fifty thousand, and i've promised that the fifty shall make a hundred by spring." "it'll make three hundred thousand at least," snapped peabody. "norton, you've done a good day's work. by the way, a new york client of mine has a little business that i cannot attend to handily. doesn't involve much work, and a young, hustling lawyer like you ought to take charge of it easily. the fee, i should say, would be about $ , . have you the time to undertake it?" the congressman drew a long breath. his eyes beamed with gratitude. "i should say i have, senator. of course, it won't interfere with any of my duties as a congressman." peabody smiled. "of course not, norton. i see that your sense of humor is improving. if convenient, run over to new york the last of the week. i'll give you a card. my client's office is at broadway." the ruler of the senate nodded a curt dismissal. "thank you, senator; thank you very much." and norton bowed and left, rejoicing. peabody turned to stevens. "you see, even a congressman can be useful sometimes," remarked stevens, dryly. "keep your eye on that young man, stevens. he's the most valuable congressman we've had from your state in a long while. does just what he is told and doesn't ask any fool questions. this was good work. langdon's on the naval committee now sure. come, stevens; let's go to some quiet corner in the smoking-room. i want to talk to you about something else the standard has on hand for you to do." hardly had they departed from the lobby when resounding commotion at the entrance, followed by the rushing of porters and bellboys and an expectant pose on the part of the clerk, indicated that the new senator from mississippi had arrived. chapter v the boss of the senate inspects a new member an actor playing the rôle of a high type of southern planter would score a decided success by picturing the character exactly after the fashion of senator william h. langdon as he strode to the desk of the international hotel. a wide-brimmed black hat thrust back on his head, a long black perfecto in his mouth, coattails spreading out behind as he walked, and the "big bill" langdon smile on his face that carried sunshine and good will wherever he went, he was good to look on, an inspiration, particularly in washington. following the senator were miss langdon and hope georgia, leading a retinue of hotel attendants staggering under a large assortment of luggage. both beautiful girls, they caused a sensation all of their own. carolina, a different type from the younger, had an austere loveliness denoting pride and birth, a brunette of the quality that has contributed so much to the fame of southern women. hope georgia, more girlish, and a vivacious blonde, was the especial pet of her father, and usually succeeded in doing with him what she chose. a real senator and two such young women handsomely gowned seemed to take the old hotel back a score of years--back to the times when such sights were of daily occurrence. the ancient greatness of the now dingy international lived again. "how are you, senator? glad to welcome you, sir," was the clerk's greeting. the genial senator held out his hand. everybody was his friend. "glad to meet you, sir; glad to meet you," he exclaimed. "must make you acquainted with my daughters. this is miss carolina langdon, this miss hope georgia langdon." the two girls, with their father's idea of courtesy, shook hands with the clerk, who was not at all taken aback by the unexpected honor. hope georgia was thoroughly delighted with everything, but carolina looked at the worn and faded walls and furnishings with evident distaste. "oh, this is washington," murmured hope georgia ecstatically, clasping her hands and gazing at a vista of artificial palms in a corridor. "ah, this is washington," sighed the new senator contentedly, as he gazed across a hall at the biggest and most gorgeous cigar stand he had ever seen or ever hoped to see--the only new thing added to the hotel since grant was president. "truly magnificent establishment you have here, sir; magnificent!" he exclaimed as an imitation marble column came within his purview. "i remember my friend senator moseley speaking to me of it thirty years ago. are our rooms ready?" the clerk, hugely pleased, hastened to assure him that everything was in first-class order, waiting. "you better go up, girls, while i look around a bit and sort of get the hang of things." "yes, i think we had better look around a bit, too, before we decide, father," said carolina, diplomatically. her father patted her affectionately on the arm. "now, don't you worry, carolina. i see you think this place too expensive from its looks--too good for us. but i tell you the best, even this, isn't too good for you girls and your dad. run away, and i'll come up and see you soon." the new senator leaned his elbow on the desk, surveying the place. "i understand this is a favorite haunt for the big men of washington," he said. the clerk eagerly agreed. "yes, indeed, senator; we have them all. senator peabody and senator stevens were here just a moment ago. boy, find senator peabody and senator stevens and tell them senator langdon is here." the two senators came quickly. "i'm glad to see you, langdon; glad to see you," exclaimed stevens, with an assumption of effusiveness. "i want to introduce you to senator peabody of pennsylvania." peabody bowed, and langdon held out his hand. "i'm delighted to meet you, senator. this is a proud day for me, sir." peabody had put on his smoothest and most polished manner. "i came especially to meet you, senator langdon," he said. "although we are on different sides we may be interested in the same things. i hope we shall see a great deal of each other." langdon chuckled. "that's mighty good of you, senator. i'm depending on you experienced fellows to put me through. don't know much about this lawmaking business, you know. raising cotton, arguing the government and bossing niggers have been about the extent of my occupation for the last forty years, so i reckon i'm not much of a practical lawmaker." "oh, you'll learn; you'll learn quickly," assured peabody. "with stevens, here, for a guide you can't go wrong. we all look up to stevens. he's one of the powers on your side. he's an able man, is stevens." the new senator from mississippi gladly corroborated this. "you're right, sir. a great man! i tell you, when he told that legislature what they ought to do, senator peabody, they did it. if it wasn't for stevens i wouldn't be here now." in mock protest the senior senator from mississippi raised his hands. "now, now, langdon, don't say that. your worth, your integrity, your character and our old friendship got you the senatorship." the old planter laughed gleefully. "sure, stevens, i have the character and the integrity, but i reckon the character and integrity wouldn't have done much business if you hadn't had the legislature." clearly delighted, peabody considered it certain that this new senator knew just the way he should go and would cause no difficulty. his keen sense of gratitude made him appreciate how he had been elected. peabody literally beamed on langdon. "i hope we shall be able to work a good deal together, senator," he said. "i have the interests of the south at heart, particularly with regard to this new naval base. perhaps we may be able to get you on the naval committee." "me!" laughed langdon. "well, that would be going strong! but i tell you i'm for the naval base." "for altacoola?" suggested stevens. langdon hesitated. peabody and stevens watched him as eagles watch their prey from the mountain crag. "well, it looks to me like altacoola ought to be a fine site. but the actual place isn't so important to me. i tell you, gentlemen," he said in impressive seriousness that rang with sturdy american manhood--"i tell you that what is important is that the great, sweeping curve of the gulf shall hold some of those white ships of ours to watch over the indies and the canal and to keep an eye on south america. "and right there on our own southern coast i want these ships built and equipped and the guns cast and the men found to man them. i want the south to have her part in the nation's defense. i want her to have this great naval city as the living proof that there is again just one country--the united states--and the north and the south both have forgiven." senator peabody clapped the new member on the back. "good!" he exclaimed. "you've got to make some speeches like that. we'll have you as the orator for the naval base." langdon's eyes opened wide. "orator!" he gasped. "me! an orator!" "why, that was oratory, good oratory," exclaimed stevens, with enthusiasm. "huh!" grunted the planter. "you call that oratory. why, that was only the truth." "we'll see that you do some more of it, then," laughed peabody. "remember, we count on you for the naval base." "for rural simplicity he's perfection," whispered peabody to stevens as they left the planter. "he's a living picture of innocence. we'll push him forward and let him do the talking for the naval affairs committee. hiding behind him, we could put through almost any kind of a proposition." once more did the senior senator from mississippi acquiesce. chapter vi new friends--and an old enemy langdon gazed at the two departing senators with varied emotions. he sat down to think over what they had said and to carefully consider what manner of man was peabody, who showed such an interest in him. he realized that he would have considerable intercourse with peabody in the processes of legislation, and finally had to admit to himself that he did not like the senator from pennsylvania. just what it was langdon could not at this time make certain, but he was mystified by traces of contradictions in the senator's character--slight traces, true, but traces nevertheless. peabody's cordiality and sympathy were to langdon's mind partly genuine and partly false. just what was the cause of or the necessity for the alloy in the true metal he could not fathom. his talk with these famous lawmakers was unsatisfactory also in that it had conveyed to langdon the suggestion that the senate was not primarily a great forum for the general and active consideration of weighty measures and of national policies. it had been his idea that the senate was primarily such a forum, but the attitude of peabody and stevens had hinted to him that there were matters of individual interest that outweighed public or national considerations. for instance, they were anxious that altacoola should have the naval base regardless of the claims or merits of any other section. that was unusual, puzzling to langdon. moreover, it was poor business, yet there were able business men in the senate. not one of them would, for instance, think of buying a site for a factory until he had investigated many possible locations and then selected the most favorable one. why was it, he pondered, that the business of the great united states of america was not conducted on business lines? he must study the whole question intelligently; that was imperative. he must have advice, help. to whom was he to go for it? stevens? yes, his old friend, who knew all "the ropes." yet even stevens seemed different in washington than stevens in mississippi. here he played "second fiddle." he was even obsequious, langdon had observed, to peabody. in mississippi he was a leader, and a strong one, too. but senator langdon had not yet learned of the many founts from which political strength and political leadership may be gained. what he finally decided on was the engaging of a secretary, but he must be one with knowledge of political operations, one who combined wisdom with honesty. such an aid could prevent langdon from making the many mistakes that invariably mark the new man in politics, and he could point out the most effective modes of procedure under given circumstances. it might prove difficult to find a man of the necessary qualifications who was not already employed, but in the meantime langdon would watch the playing of the game himself and make his own deductions as best he could. the senator started toward the hotel desk to ask regarding the whereabouts of his son randolph, when his attention was caught by the sight of three powerful negro porters endeavoring to thrust outdoors a threadbare old man. the victim's flowing white hair, white mustache and military bearing received short shrift. "come along, colonel! yo' can't sit heah all day. them chairs is for the guests in the hotel," the head porter was urging as he jerked the old man toward the door. the mississippian's fighting blood was instantly aroused at such treatment of a respectable old white man by negroes. his lips tightly compressed as he hurried to the rescue. he cried sharply: "take your hands off that gentleman! what do you mean by touching a friend of mine?" the negroes stepped back amazed. "'scuse me, senator, is this gent'man a friend of yours?" the head porter gasped apologetically. langdon looked at him. "you heard what i said," he drawled in the slow way natural to some men of the south when trouble threatens. "i'd like to have you down in mississippi for about ten minutes." the head porter turned quickly on his assistants and drove them away, shouting at the top of his voice: "get about yo' wuk. how dare yo' intehfere wid a friend of de senator's? i'll teach yo' to be putting yoh nose in where it ain't got no business." the old man, astonished at the turn of events, came forward hesitatingly to langdon. "i'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said. "i'm colonel stoneman, an old soldier." the mississippian stretched forth his hand. "my name is langdon, sir--senator langdon of mississippi. i am an old soldier, too." "delighted, senator," exclaimed the seedy-looking old man, taking the offered hand gratefully. langdon's easy method of making friends was well illustrated as he clapped his new companion on the back. everybody he met was the mississippian's friend until he had proved himself the contrary. that had been his rule through life. "come right over, colonel; have a cigar, sir." then, as they lighted their cigars, he inquired, "what army corps were you with, colonel?" "i was under grant along the tennessee," replied the old g.a.r. man. familiarity with a senator was something new for him, and already he was straightening up and becoming more of a man every moment. langdon was thoroughly interested. "i was along the tennessee under beauregard," he said. "great generals, sir! great generals!" exclaimed colonel stoneman. "and great fighting, i reckon!" echoed the confederate. "you remember the battle of crawfordsville?" the old federal smiled with joyous recollection. "do i? well, i should say i did! were you there, senator?" "was i there? why, i remember every shot that was fired. i was under kirby, who turned your left wing." the attitude of the northern soldier changed instantly. he drew himself up with cold dignity. plainly he felt that he had the honor of his army to sustain. "our left wing was never turned, sir!" he exclaimed with dignity. langdon stared at him with amazement. this was a point of view the confederate had never heard before. "never turned!" he gasped. "don't tell me that! i was there, and, besides, i've fought this battle on an average of twice a week ever since ' down in mississippi, and in all these years i never heard such a foolish statement." "what rank were you, sir?" asked the union soldier, haughtily. "i was a captain that morning," confessed the southerner. his old enemy smiled with superiority. "as a colonel i've probably got more accurate information," he said. "i was a colonel that evening," came the dry retort. "but in an inferior army. we licked you, sir!" cried stoneman, hotly. the mississippian drew himself up with all the dignity common to the old confederate soldier explaining the war. "the south was never whipped, sir. we honorably surrendered, sir. we surrendered to save the country, sir, but we were never whipped." "did you not run at kenyon hill?" taunted stoneman. langdon brought down his fist in the palm of the other hand violently. "yes, sir; we ran at you. i ought to remember. i got my wound there. you remember that long lane--" he pulled off his hat and threw it on the floor, indicating it with one hand--"here was the second alabama." the hat of the old federal dropped on the floor opposite the hat of the confederate. "and here the eighth illinois," exclaimed stoneman. langdon excitedly seized a diminutive bellboy passing by and planted him alongside his hat. "stay there a moment, sonny," he cried. "you are the fourth virginia." the newspaper stoneman was carrying came down opposite the startled bellboy, who was trying not to appear frightened. "this is the clump of cedars," he exclaimed. both, in their eagerness, were bending down over their improvised battle plan, their heads close together. "and here a farmhouse beside your cedars," cried langdon. "that's where the rebels charged us," echoed the union man. langdon brought down his fist again with emphatic gesture. "you bet we charged you! the third mississippi charged you! i charged you, sir!" stoneman nodded. "i remember a young fool of a johnnie reb dashing up the hill fifty yards ahead of his men, waving his sword and yelling like a wild indian." the southerner straightened up. "well, where in thunderation would you expect me to be, sir?" he exclaimed. "behind them? i got my wound there. laid me up for three months; like to have killed me." then a new idea struck him. "why, colonel, it must have been a bullet from one of your men--from your regiment, sir!" the old northerner pushed his fingers through his hair and shook his head apologetically. "why, senator, i'm afraid it was," he hesitated. langdon's eyes were big with the afterglow of a fighter discussing the mighty struggles of the past, those most precious of all the jewels in the treasure store of a soldier's memory. "why, it might have been a bullet fired by you, sir," he cried. "it might be that you were the man who almost killed me. why, confound you, sir, i'm glad to meet you!" each old veteran of tragic days gone by had quite unconsciously awakened a responsive chord in the heart of the other. a senator and a penniless old "down and outer" are very much the same in the human scale that takes note of the inside and not the outside of a man. and they fell into each other's arms then and there, for what strong fighter does not respect another of his kind? there they stood, arms around each other, clapping each other on the back, actually chortling in the pure ecstasy of comradeship, now serious, again laughing, when on the scene appeared bud haines, the correspondent, who had returned to interview the new senator from mississippi. "great heavens!" ejaculated the newspaper man. "a senator, a united states senator, hugging a broken-down old 'has-been!' what is the world coming to?" haines suddenly paused. "i wonder if it can be a pose;--merely for effect. it's getting harder every day to tell what's genuine and what isn't in this town." chapter vii langdon learns of things unpleasant haines quickly walked over and touched the southerner on the arm. "well, my boy, what can i do for you?" asked the new senator, turning with a pleasant smile. "my name is haines. senator stevens was to speak to you about me. i'm the first of the newspaper correspondents come to interview you." langdon's familiar smile broadened. "well, you don't look as though you'd bite. reckon i can stand for it. is it very painful?" "i hope it won't be, senator," haines said, feeling instinctively that he was going to like this big, hearty citizen. "all right, mr. haines, just as soon as i've said good-by to my old friend, colonel stoneman, i'll be with you." and to his continued amazement haines saw the senator walk away with the old union colonel, slap him on the back, cheer him up and finally bid him good-by after extending a cordial invitation to come around to dinner, meet his daughters and talk over old times. the antiquated federal soldier marched away more erect, more brisk, than in years, completely restored to favor in the eyes of the hotel people. langdon turned to the reporter. "all right, mr. haines; my hands are up. do your worst. senator stevens spoke to me about you; said you were the smartest young newspaper man in washington. you must come from the south." bud shook his head. "no, just new york," he said. "well, that's a promising town," drawled the southerner. "they tell me that's the vicksburg of the north." "i suppose you haven't been to new york of late, senator?" suggested the newspaper man. "well, i started up there with general lee once," responded langdon reminiscently, "but we changed our minds and came back. you may have heard about that trip." haines admitted that he had. "since that time," went on langdon, "i've confined my travels to new orleans and vicksburg. ever been in new orleans about mardi gras time, mr. haines?" "sorry, but i don't believe i have," confessed the reporter reluctantly. the senator seemed surprised. "well, sir, you have something to live for. i'll make it my special business to personally conduct you through one mardi gras, with a special understanding, of course, that you don't print anything in the paper. i'm a vestryman in my church, but since misfortune has come upon our state i have to be careful." haines searched his brain. he knew of no grave calamity that had happened recently in mississippi. "misfortune?" he questioned. senator langdon nodded. [illustration: "from new york, eh? the vicksburg of the north,"] "yes, sir, the great old state of mississippi went prohibition at the last election. i don't know how it happened. we haven't found anybody in the state that says he voted for it, but the fact is a fact. i assure you, mr. haines, that prohibition stops at my front door, in mississippi. so i've been living a quiet life down on my plantation." "this new life will be a great change for you, then?" suggested the reporter. "change! it's revolutionary, sir! when you've expected to spend your old days peacefully in the country, mr. haines, suddenly to find that your state has called on you--" a flavor of sarcasm came into haines' reply. "the office seeking the man?" he could not help the slight sneer. was a man never to admit that he had sought the office? haines knew only too well of the arduous work necessary to secure nominations for high office in conventions and to win an election to the senate from a state legislature. in almost every case, he knew, the candidate must make a dozen different "deals" to secure votes, might promise the same office to two or three different leaders, force others into line by threats, send a trusted agent to another with a roll of bank bills--the recipient of which would immediately conclude that this candidate was the only man in the state who could save the nation from destruction. had not haines seen men who had sold their unsuspecting delegates for cash to the highest bidder rise in the convention hall and in impassioned, dramatic voice exclaim in praise of the buyer, "gentlemen, it would be a crying shame, a crime against civilization, if the chosen representatives of our grand old state of ---- did not go on record in favor of such a man, such a true citizen, such an inspired patriot, as he whose name i am about to mention"? so the reporter may be forgiven for the ironical tinge in his hasty interruption of the new senator's remarks. langdon could not suppress a chuckle at the doubting note in haines' attitude. "i think the man would be pretty small potatoes who wouldn't seek the office of united states senator, mr. haines," he said, "if he could get it. when i was a young man, sir, politics in the south was a career for a gentleman, and i still can't see how he could be better engaged than in the service of his state or his country." "that's right," agreed the reporter, further impressed by the frank sincerity of the mississippian. "the only condition in my mind, mr. haines, is that the man should ask himself searchingly whether or not he's competent to give the service. but i seem to be talking a good deal. suppose we get to the interview. expect your time is short. we'd better begin." "i thought we were in the interview?" smiled the correspondent. "in it!" exclaimed langdon. "well, if this is it, it isn't so bad. i see you use a painless method. when i was down in vicksburg a reporter backed me up in a corner, slipped his hand in his hip pocket and pulled out a list of questions just three feet four inches long. "he wanted to know what i thought concerning the tariff on aluminium hydrates, and how i stood about the opening of the tento pu reservation of the comanche indians, and what were my ideas about the differential rate of hauls from the missouri river. "he was a wonder, that fellow! kinder out of place on a mississippi paper. i started to offer him a job, but he was so proud i was afraid he wouldn't accept it. however, it gives you my idea of a reporter." "if you've been against that, i ought to thank you for talking to me," laughed haines. "then you don't want to know anything about that sort of stuff?" said langdon, with a huge sigh of relief. "no, senator," was the amused reply. "i think generally if i know what sort of a man a man is i can tell a great deal about what he will think on various questions." langdon started interestedly. "you mean, mr. haines, if you know whether i'm honest or not you can fit me up with a set of views. is that the idea? seems to me you're the sort of man i'm looking for." the other smilingly shook his head. "i wouldn't dare fix up a united states senator with a set of views," he said. "i only mean that i think what a man is is important. i've been doing washington for a number of years. i've had an exceptional opportunity to see how politics work. i don't believe in party politics. i don't believe in parties, but i do believe in men." langdon nodded approvingly, then a twinkle shone in his eyes. "we don't believe in parties in mississippi," he drawled. "we've only one--the democratic party,--and a few kickers." haines grinned broadly at this description of southern politics. "what was this you were saying about national politics?" continued the mississippian. "i'm a beginner, you know, and i'm always ready to learn." "this is a new thing--a reporter teaching a senator politics," laughed haines. senator langdon joined in the merriment. "i reckon reporters could teach united states senators lots of things, mr. haines, if the senators had sense enough to go to school. now, i come up here on a platform the chief principle of which is the naval base for the gulf. now, how are we going to put that through? my state wants it." "you're probably sure it will be a wonderful thing for the country and the south," suggested haines. "of course." "but why do you think most of the congressmen and senators will vote for it?" the southerner took off his hat, leaned back and gazed across the lobby thoughtfully. "seems to me the benefit to the south and country would be sufficient reason, mr. haines," he finally replied. the newspaper man's brain worked rapidly. going over the entire conversation with langdon and what he had seen of him, he was certain that the mississippian believed what he said--that, moreover, the belief was deeply rooted. his long newspaper training had educated haines in the ways of men, their actions and mental processes--what naturally to expect from a given set of circumstances. he felt a growing regard, an affection, for this unassuming old man before him, who did not know and probably would be slow to understand the hypocrisy, the cunning trickery of lawmakers who unmake laws. "sufficient reason for you, senator," haines added. "you have not been in politics very long, have you?" he queried dryly. a wry smile wrinkled the mississippian's face. "been in long enough to learn some unpleasant things i didn't know before." he remembered martin sanders. "will you allow me to tell you a few more?" asked haines. langdon inclined his head in acquiescence. "reckon i'd better know the worst and get through with it." "well, then, senator, somebody from nebraska will vote for what you want in the way of the naval base because he'll think then you'll help him demand money to dredge some muddy creek that he has an interest in. "somebody in pennsylvania will vote for it because he owes a grudge and wants to hurt the philadelphia ship people. "you'll get the democrats because it's for the south, but if your bill was for the west coast they might fight it tooth and nail, even with the japanese fleet cruising dangerously near. "and the republicans may vote for it because they see a chance to claim glory and perhaps break the solid south in the next presidential campaign. you catch the idea?" "what!" exclaimed the astounded langdon. "well, who in hades will vote for it because it's for the good of the united states?" he gasped. "i believe you will, senator," replied haines, with ready confidence. chapter viii how senator langdon gets a secretary langdon leaned over and seized the arm of his interviewer. "see here, young man, why aren't you in politics?" he said. "too busy, senator," replied haines. "besides, i like the newspaper game." "game?" queried langdon. "oh, i use the word in a general sense, senator," replied haines. "pretty much everything is a 'game'--society, politics, newspaper work, business of every sort. men and women make 'moves' to meet the moves of other men and women. why, even in religion, the way some people play a--" the speaker was interrupted by the appearance of hope georgia, who was searching for her father. "stay here and listen to what a hard task your old father has got," said the mississippian to his daughter, whom he presented to haines with a picturesque flourish reminiscent of the pride and chivalry of the old south. "he has the idea that those new yorkers who read his paper would actually like to know something about me." hope georgia stole many glances at the reporter as he talked with her father. he made a deep impression on her young mind. she had spent almost all her life on the plantation, her father providing her with a private tutor instead of sending her to boarding-school, where her elder sister had been educated. owing to the death of her mother the planter had desired to keep hope georgia at home for companionship. this good-looking, clean-cut, well-built young man who was taking so big and so active a part of the world's work brought to her the atmosphere that her spirit craved. he gave one an impression of ability, of earnestness, of sincerity, and she was glad that her father approved of him. hope georgia, by the same token, did not escape the attention of the interviewer. her appealing charm of face and figure was accentuated by her daintiness and a fleeting suggestion of naïveté in poise and expression when she was amused. his first glance revealed to haines that her eyes were gray, the gray that people say indicates the possessor to have those priceless qualities--the qualities that make the sweetest women true, that make the maiden's eyes in truth the windows of her soul, the qualities that make women womanly. she sat close to her father, her hand in his, listening intently to the unfolding of a story of what to her was a mysterious world--the man's world, the strong man's world--which many a woman would give her all to enter and play a part therein. "what else have you against a political career, mr. haines?" went on the senator, taking up their conversation. "well, my age, for one thing. i haven't any gray hairs." langdon waved this objection aside. "i might arrange to pool ages with you. sometimes i think we want young men in politics, like you." the reporter shook his head. "old in age and young in politics, like you, senator langdon," he replied. "politics i sometimes think is pure hypocrisy and sometimes something worse. a man gets disgusted with the trickery and dishonesty and corruption." "then," drawled langdon, "the thing to do is to jump in and stop it! i read in the newspapers a great deal about corruption. the gentlemen in national politics whom i have had the honor of knowing--senator moseley, an intimate friend of thirty years; my present colleague, senator stevens, and others--have been as honest as the day is long." "but the days do get short in november, when congress meets, don't they?" laughed haines, rising. "i'm afraid i've taken too much of your time, and i seem to have talked a lot." langdon was amused. "does look like i'd been interviewing you. i reckon each one of us has got a pretty good notion of what the other man's like. i wanted it that way, and i like you, mr. haines. i've got a proposition to make to you. they tell me i'll need a secretary. now, i think i need just such a young man as you. i don't know just exactly what the work would be or what the financial arrangements should be, but i think you and i would make a pretty good team. i wish you'd come." he turned to his daughter, with a smile. "what do you think of that, hope georgia? isn't your dad right?" smiling her approval, the young girl squeezed her father's hand in her enthusiasm. "i think it's a splendid idea, dad; just great! won't you come, mr. haines? we--eh--i--i know my father would like to have you." as he stood before his two new-found friends--for such haines now considered the mississippian and his daughter--he could not suppress feelings of surprise tinged with uncertainty. he had, like other newspaper men, received offers of employment from politicians who desired to increase their influence with the press. sometimes the salary offered had been large, the work so light that the reporter could "earn" the money and yet retain his newspaper position, a scantily disguised species of bribery, which had wrecked the careers of several promising reporters well known to haines, young men who had been thus led into "selling their columns" by unscrupulous machine dictators. haines knew that the mississippian had no ulterior purpose to serve in his offer, yet he must have time to think over the proposal. "i thank you, senator," he finally said. "i appreciate the opportunity, coming from you, but i've never thought of giving up the newspaper profession. it's a fascinating career, one that i am too fond of to leave." langdon started to reply, when a delightfully modulated southern voice interrupted: "father, i've been out with mrs. spangler to look for some other rooms. i don't like this hotel, and i found some that i do like." haines turned to see a handsomely gowned young woman who had the stamp of a patrician's daughter in her bearing and her countenance--a brunette, with delicate features, though determination shone in her eyes and appeared in the self-contained poise of her head. she was the imperious type of beauty and suggested to haines the dry point etchings of paul helleu. he instinctively conceived her to be intensely ambitious, and of this haines was soon to have unexpected evidence. gazing at her with a sense of growing admiration, haines gave an involuntary start as senator langdon spoke. "my daughter, miss carolina langdon, mr. haines," said the senator. carolina was interested. "are you the newspaper man who is interviewing father? i hope you'll do a nice one. we want him to be a successful and popular senator. we'd like to help him if we could." the correspondent bowed. "i should say you certainly would help him to be a popular senator," he declared, emphatically, failing to notice that hope georgia was somewhat annoyed at the enthusiasm displayed over her elder sister. in fact, hope georgia was suffering a partial, if not total, eclipse. "i'm leaving it to mr. haines to put down the things i ought to say," broke in the senator. "he knows." "yes, he knows everything about washington, carolina," exclaimed hope georgia, spiritedly. the older girl spoke eagerly. "i wish you'd interview me, mr. haines. ask me how i like washington. i feel as though i must tell some one just how much i do like it! it is too wonderful!" "i'd like mighty well to interview you, miss langdon," enthusiastically exclaimed haines. "i hope you will some time, mr. haines," remarked carolina, as she said good-by. watching her as she turned away, haines saw her extend a warm greeting to congressman charles norton, who had advanced toward the group. [illustration: "strange how the langdons treat him as a friend."] "strange how the langdons treat him as a friend--intimate one, too," he thought. "what if they should learn of norton's questionable operations at the capitol; of his connection with two unsavory 'deals,' one of which resulted in an amendment to the pure food law so that manufacturers of a valueless 'consumption cure' could continue to mislead the victims of the 'white plague'; norton, who had uttered an epigram now celebrated in the tap-rooms of washington, 'the paths of glory lead but to the graft.'" "miss langdon is very beautiful and attractive, sir," said haines, resuming with the senator. "yes," drawled the mississippian. "girls in the south generally are." "well, i must be going. i'll think about your secretaryship, senator langdon. perhaps i can find some one." "wish you'd think about it for yourself," observed the senator, while hope georgia again nodded approval. "it would be a hard job. there are so many matters of political detail about which i am sadly inexperienced that really most of the work would fall on the secretary." bud haines paused. again he thought over langdon's offer. its genuineness appealed to him. suddenly there dawned on him an idea of just what it might mean to be associated with this honest old citizen who had asked for his help--who needed it, as haines knew only too well. he would be the senator's guide and confidant--his adviser in big matters. why, he would practically be united states senator himself. he knew the "inside" as few others in washington. here was a chance to match his wit against that of peabody, the boss of the senate; a chance to spoil some of the dishonest schemes of those who were adroitly "playing the game." he could bother, too, the intriguing members of the "third house," as the lobbyists are called. he could direct a lightning bolt into the camp of andy corrigan, who claimed the honor of being "speaker of the third house." these thoughts crowded into his mind. then, too, he would become practically a member of the langdon family and have association with the two charming daughters--with carolina langdon. "it would be a great chance," he murmured half aloud; "next thing to being a senator." the old mississippian heard the young man's words. "i reckon it would," he drawled, in agreement. "you feel sure you want me?" urged the other. langdon chuckled. "i asked you," he said. haines came abruptly to decision. "i've thought it over, senator, and it seems to me it will be a great chance in every way. i'll accept. we'll fix it up to-morrow, and i'll try to make you a good secretary." langdon held forth his hand. "and i'll try to make you a good senator, my boy. fix up nothing to-morrow. your duties begin to-night. you are to come to dinner with me and my daughters." chapter ix a new kind of political partnership the combination of the forces of langdon and haines did not find much favor among the powers that are--at the capitol. senator peabody peremptorily demanded an explanation from stevens as to how he had allowed "his senator" to engage as his secretary "this inquisitive man haines, a reporter who didn't know his place." "here we've put langdon on naval affairs because we knew he didn't understand what's going on, and you, stevens, supposed to be the finished, product of the political mill, _you_ fall asleep and let him take up a man whom nobody can control, one who knows the inside workings of washington and who will take par-tic-u-lar pleasure in teaching your fellow mississippian far too much for our good." stevens' reply, to effect that probably haines would consent to be "taken care of" if judiciously approached, was derided by the observant peabody. "a young reformer grows fat on notoriety," he laughed, "and think what a scandal he would have for his newspaper if we took a chance on disclosing our hand to him. no, no, stevens; we must have him watched and try to discredit him in some way. perhaps we can make langdon believe that his secretary is dishonest." congressman norton was another man who was dismayed at the formation of the firm of langdon and haines. young randolph, too, could not forget the defeat and humiliation he had previously suffered at haines' hands and grew more bitter as the reporter's influence over his father grew stronger. but haines' most effective enemy had arisen in the person he would be the last to suspect; one whom he unceasingly admired, one whose very words he had come to cherish. and possibly it was not all her own fault that carolina langdon had enlisted her services, subtle and quite overwhelming (owing to haines' fervent worship of her), against the secretary. perhaps the social system of which she had become a part in washington had something to do with the craving to become a leader in that fascinating world whose dazzling variety and infinite diversion seemed to fill her soul with all that it yearned for. love she had, for she had now promised to wed congressman norton. she loved him fondly, she had confessed to him, and gradually she came to work desperately against haines, who, she had been convinced by norton and randolph, would prove a stumbling-block to them, to her father, to herself in her career at the capital, if his influence over the senator should be permitted to exist or to increase. and so on the surface carolina langdon was most amiable to the secretary, encouraged him in his attentions to her, led him surely into her power, norton having prevailed, on her to keep the knowledge of their engagement secret from every one, even her father. the days and nights became filled with important work for senator langdon and his secretary. together they went over the important measures, outlined what appeared to be the best course of procedure, and carried it into effect as far as possible. langdon became a prominent figure in the senate, owing to his consistent support of measures that fitted in with the public policy, or what should be the public policy, of the nation. he had learned that the only practicable way to outwit or to cope with the members of the dominating machine, made up, he was surprised to see, of members of both the parties--the only two in washington--was to oppose what the machine wanted with enough power to force it to grant him what he believed the public ought to have. he was described by some of the hide-bound "insiders" on capitol hill as "the only brainy man who had fought the machine in thirty years." at the home he had later established in washington as preferable to the international hotel were frequently seen a small coterie of senators and congressmen who had become known to the sarcastic party bosses in both houses of congress as the "langdon crowd," which crowd was admitted to be somewhat a factor when it finally prevailed on the president to take over , postmasters from the appointment class and put them under the control of the civil service commission, resulting in the necessity of a competitive examination for these postmasters instead of their securing positions through political favoritism. those who did not know langdon intimately suggested that "this fellow ought to be 'taken care of.' what in god's name does he want? a committee chairmanship? an ambassadorship for some mississippi charcoal burner? a couple of federal judgeships for his friends? well, whatever it is, give it to him and get him in with the rest of us!" again it was peabody who had the deciding say. "there's only one thing worse than a young reformer, and that's an old one," he laughed bitterly at a secret conclave at his apartment in the luxurious louis napoleon hotel. "the young one thinks he is going to live and wants our future profits for himself. the old one thinks he's going to die, and he's sore at leaving so much graft behind him." heads and hearts thinking and throbbing together, langdon and his secretary had learned to lean on each other, the young gaining inspiration from the old, the old gaining strength from the young. they loved each other, and, more than any love, they trusted one another. and hope georgia watched it all and rejoiced, for she believed with all the accrued erudition of eighteen years of innocent girlhood that mr. bud haines was quite the finest specimen of young manhood this world had ever produced. how could he have happened? she was sure that she had never met his equal, not even in that memorable week she had spent in jackson. the passing weeks taught haines that he was deeply in love with carolina, and, though he had endeavored to keep the knowledge of this from her, her woman's intuition had told her his secret, and she stifled the momentary regrets that flitted into her mind, because she was now in "the game" herself, the washington game, that ensnares the woman as well as the man and makes her a slave to its fancy. no one but herself and norton knew how deeply she had "plunged" on a certain possible turn of the political cards. she must not, she could not, lose if life itself were to remain of value to her, and on her sway over this secretary she was told it all depended. a subject that for some unexplained reason frequently lodged in haines' mind was that of the apparent assiduity with which mrs. spangler cultivated senator langdon's friendship. for several years she had occupied a high social position at the capital, he well knew, but various indefinite, intangible rumors he had heard, he could not state exactly where, had made him regret her growing intimacy with the girls and with the senator. they had met her through letters of introduction of the most trustworthy and assuring character from people of highest social rank in virginia, where the langdons had many friends; but even so, haines realized, people who write introductory letters are sometimes thoughtless in considering all the circumstances of the parties they introduce, and residents of virginia who had not been in the capital for years might be forgiven for not knowing of all the more recent developments in the lives of those they knew in washington. while not wishing to have the senator know of his intention, the secretary determined to investigate mrs. spangler and her present mode of life at his first opportunity, hoping the while that his quest would reveal her to be what the langdons considered her--a widow of wealth, fashion and reserve who resided at the capital because the memories of her late husband, a former congressman of high standing, were associated with it. calling at the langdons' house one evening in february to receive directions regarding important work for the next day, haines was somewhat puzzled at the peculiar smile on the senator's face. answering the secretary's look of inquiry, the mississippian said: "i've been told that i can name the new holder of a five-thousand-dollar-a-year position in the department of commerce and labor, and that if i have no one in particular from my state to name--that--that you would be a good man for the job. first i was glad for your sake, my boy, for if you wanted it you could have the position. but on thinking it over it seemed there might be something behind it not showing on the surface." "it's a trick," said haines. "who made the offer?" "senator stevens." "i might have known," hotly responded the secretary. "there's a crowd that wants you and me separated. thought this bait too much for me to resist, did they?" then he paused, rubbing his fingers through his hair in a perplexed manner. "strange, isn't it, senator, that a man of your party is offered this desirable piece of patronage, entirely unsolicited on your part, from the administration of another, a different political party? especially when that other party has so many hungry would-be 'tax eaters' clamoring to enter the 'land of milk and honey.' i think stevens deliberately--" "there, there, bud," broke in langdon, "you mustn't say anything against senator stevens to me. true, he associates with some folks i don't approve of, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything wrong, and i myself have always found him thoroughly honest." "yes," muttered the secretary, following the senator into the library, "you've always found him honest because you think everybody's honest--but stevens is just the doctor who will cure you of this ailment--this chronic trustfulness." haines laughed softly. "when peabody's little stevie gets through hacking at the prostrate body of political purity his two-handed sword of political corruption will need new edges." thus far neither the senator nor his secretary had suspicion of any questionable deal in regard to the gulf naval base. the rush of other events, particularly the fight over the reduction of the tariff, had pushed this project temporarily into the background so far as they were concerned, though the "boss of the senate" and his satellites had been losing no time in perfecting their plans regarding the choice of altacoola as the site. peabody and stevens had ingeniously exploited langdon at every possible opportunity in relation to the naval base. asked about new developments in the committee on naval affairs, the ready answer was: "better see senator langdon. he knows all about the naval base; has the matter in full charge. i really know little about it." so, by hiding behind the unsuspecting old hero of crawfordsville, they diverted from themselves any possible suspicion and placed langdon where he would have to bear the brunt of the great scandal that would, they well knew, come out at some future time--after their foul conspiracy against the nation had been consummated, after the fruits of their betrayal had been secured. what, after all, the schemers concluded, is the little matter of an investigation among senators to guilty senators who, deeply versed in the law, have destroyed every compromising document that could be admissible as evidence? why, the senate would appoint an investigating committee and investigate itself, would it not, when the ridiculous scandal came? and what senator would fear himself, or for himself, as he investigated himself, when the blame had already been put publicly on some one else, some simple-minded old soul who could go back to his cotton fields in mississippi and forget all about it, strong in his innocence, even though shorn of reputation, and desire to live? chapter x when senators disagree the wiseacres of washington had rightly predicted, that the site of the hundred-million-dollar gulf naval base would be decided on in march, after the excitement and gayety attending the presidential inauguration had subsided. on the morning of the day before this action of the committee on naval affairs was to be taken secretary haines sat at his desk in senator langdon's committee room in the capitol. richard cullen, the favorite associate of haines in his journalistic days, out earlier than usual on his daily round of the departments for news for his chicago paper, had strolled in and attempted a few of his characteristic cynicisms. haines usually found them entertaining, but these were directed at senator langdon. "now, let me tell you something, dick," the secretary answered, firmly. "don't you work off all your dyspeptic ideas in this neighborhood. my senator is a great man. they can't appreciate him up here because he's honest--crystal clear. i used to think i knew what a decent citizen, a real man, ought to be, but he's taught me some new things. he'll teach them all something before he gets through." cullen hung one leg over haines' desk. "you're a nice, quiet, gentlemanly little optimist, and i like you, old fellow," retorted cullen. "but don't deceive yourself too much. your senator langdon is personally one of the best ever. but he was born a mark, and a mark he'll be to the end of time. "he looks good now. sure, i like his speeches, and all that, but just wait. when some of those old foxes in the senate want to put his head in the bag and tie it down, they won't have any trouble at all." smiling, haines looked up at his cynical friend. "the bag'll have to go over my head, too," he said, with a nod. "well, i don't know that peabody'd have to strain himself very much to get such an awful big bag to drop you both in, if it comes right down to that, old chap. you're making a mistake. you're as bad as your old man. you're a beautiful pair of optimists, and you a good newspaper man, too--it's a shame!" after momentary hesitation, cullen continued, thoroughly serious. "but, my old friend," he said in low tone, glancing quickly about, "there's one thing that you've got to put a stop to. it's hurting you." the secretary's face showed his bewilderment. "what do you mean?" he snapped, abruptly. "out with it!" "i mean," replied cullen, "that rumors are going around that you are keeping langdon away from the crowd of 'insiders' in the senate for your own purposes--that, in short, you plan to--" "i understand," was the quick interruption. "i am accused of wanting to 'deliver' senator langdon, guarantee his vote, on some graft proposition, so that i can get the money and not he himself. consequently i'm tipping him off on what measures are honest, so that he'll vote for them, until--until i'm offered my price, then influence him to vote for some big crooked scheme, telling him it is all right. he votes as i suggest, and i get the money!" "that's what 'delivering a man' means in washington," dryly answered the chicago correspondent. "it means winning a man's confidence, his support, his vote, through friendship, and then selling it for cash--" "but you, dick, you have--" "of course, old man, i have denied the truth of this. i knew you too well to doubt you. still, the yarn is hurting you. remember that western senator who was 'delivered' twice, both ways, on a graft bill?" he laughingly asked the secretary. "should say i did, dick. that is the record for that game. it was a corporation measure. one railroad wanted it; another opposed it. the senator innocently told an eastern senator that he was going to vote for the bill. then the easterner went to the railroad wanting the bill passed and got $ , on his absolute promise that he would get senator x. to vote for it, who, of course, did vote for it." "yes," said cullen, "and later, when senator x. heard that senator z. had got money for his vote, he was wild. then when another effort was made to pass the bill (which had been defeated) the 'delivered' senator said to z. as he met him unexpectedly: 'you scoundrel, here's where i get square with you to some extent. anyway, i'm going to vote against that bill this time and make a long speech against it, too.' senator z. then hustled to the lobbyist of the railroad that wanted the bill killed and guaranteed him that for $ , he could get senator x. to change his vote, to vote against the bill." "and he got the money, too, both ways," added haines, as cullen concluded, "and both railroads to this day think that x. received the money from z." "of course," said cullen, "but x. was to blame, though. he didn't know enough to keep to himself how he was going to vote. any man that talks that way will be 'delivered.'" "i know how to stop those rumors, for i'm sure it's peabody's work, he thinking langdon will hear the talk and mistrust me," began haines, when in came senator langdon himself, his face beaming contentedly. little did the junior senator from mississippi realize that he was soon to face the severest trial, the most vital crisis, of his entire life. cullen responded to the senator's cheery greeting of "mornin', everybody!" "senator," he asked, "my paper wants your opinion on the question of the election of senators by popular vote. do you think the system of electing senators by vote of state legislatures should be abolished?" the mississippian cocked his head to one side. "i reckon that's a question that concerns future senators, and not those already elected," he chuckled. haines laughed at cullen, who thrust his pad into his pocket and hurried away. "it is to-day that i appear before the ways and means committee, isn't it?" langdon queried of his secretary. "yes," said haines, consulting his memorandum book. "at o'clock you go before ways and means to put forward the needs of your state on the matter of the reduction of the tariff on aluminium hydrates. the people of mississippi believe it has actually put back life into the exhausted cotton lands. in virginia they hope to use it on the tobacco fields." "where does the pesky stuff come from?" asked the senator. "from south america," coached the secretary. "the south is in a hurry for it, so the duty must come down. you'll have to bluff a bit, because peabody and his crowd will try to make a kind of bargain--wanting you to keep up iron and steel duties. but you don't believe that iron and steel need help, you will tell them, don't you see, so that they will feel the necessity of giving you what you want for the south in order to gain your support for the iron and steel demands." the office door opened and senator peabody appeared. "peabody," whispered the secretary. instantly the mississippian had his cue. his back to peabody, he rose, brought down his fist heavily upon the desk, and expounded oratorically to haines: "what we can produce of aluminium hydrates, my boy, is problematical, but the south is in a hurry for it, and the duty must come down. it's got to come down, and i'm not going to do anything else until it does." the secretary stretched across the desk. "excuse me, senator; senator peabody is here," he said, loudly and surprisedly, as though he had just sighted the boss of the senate. the mississippian turned. "oh, good-morning, senator. i was just talking with my secretary about that hydrate clause." peabody bowed slightly. "yes, i knew it was coming up," he said, "so i just dropped over. i'm not opposed to it or any southern measure; but it makes it more difficult for me when you southern people oppose certain pittsburg interests that i have to take care of." langdon smiled. "i've never been in pittsburg, but they tell me it looks as if it could take care of itself." the visitor shrugged his shoulders. "that's true enough; but give and take is the rule in political matters, langdon." this remark brought a frown to langdon's face. "i don't like bargaining between gentlemen, peabody. more important still, i don't believe american politics has to be run on that plan. why can't we change a lot of things now that we are here?" langdon became so enthused that he paced up and down the room as he spoke. "peabody, you and stevens and i," continued langdon, "could get our friends together and right now start to make this great capital of our great country the place of the 'square deal,' the place where give and take, bargain and sale, are unknown. we could start a movement that would drive out all secret influences--" the secretary noticed peabody's involuntary start. "the newspapers would help us," went on langdon. "public opinion would be with us, and both houses of congress would have to join in the work if we went out in front, led the way and showed them their plain duty. and i tell you, senator peabody, that the principles that gave birth to this country, the principles of truth, honesty, justice and independence, would rule in washington--" "if washington cared anything about them, langdon," interjected the pennsylvanian. "that's my point," cried the mississippian--"let us teach washington to care about them!" "langdon, langdon," said peabody, patronizingly, "you've seized on a bigger task than you know. after you reform washington you will have to go on and reform human nature, human instincts, every human being in the country, if you want to make politics this angelic thing you describe. it isn't politics, it's humanity, that's wrong," waving aside a protest from langdon. "anyway, your idea is not constitutional, langdon," continued peabody. "you want everybody to have a share in the national government. that wouldn't meet the theory of centralization woven into our political system by its founders. they intended that our government should be controlled by a limited number of representatives, so that authority can be fixed and responsibility ascertained." "you distort my meaning!" cried langdon. "and, senator, i would like to ask why so many high-priced constitutional lawyers who enter congress spend so much time in placing the constitution of the united states between themselves and their duty, sir, between the people and their government, sir, between the nation and its destiny? i want to know if in your opinion the constitution was designed to throttle expression of the public will?" "of course not. that's the reason you and i, langdon, and the others are elected to the senate," added peabody, starting to leave. then he halted. "by the way, senator," he said, "i'll do my best to arrange what you want regarding aluminium hydrates for the sake of the south, and i'll also stand with you for altacoola for the naval base. our committee is to make its report to-morrow." langdon observed the penetrating gaze that peabody had fixed on him. it seemed to betray that the pennsylvanian's apparently careless manner was assumed. "h'm!" coughed langdon, glancing at haines. "i'm not absolutely committed to altacoola until i'm sure it's the best place. i'll make up my mind to-day definitely, and i _think_ it will be for altacoola." the boss of the senate went out, glaring venomously at haines, slamming the door. a moment later a page boy brought in a card. "colonel j.d. telfer, gulf city," read the senator. "bud," he remarked to the secretary, "i'm going to send my old acquaintance, telfer, mayor of gulf city, in here for you to talk to. he'll want to know about his town's chances for being chosen as the naval base. i must hurry away, as i have an appointment with my daughters and mrs. spangler before going before ways and means." [illustration: the senator accepts an invitation to tea.] chapter xi on the trail of the "insiders" colonel j.d. telfer (j.d. standing for jefferson davis, he explained proudly to haines) proved a warm advocate of the doubtful merits of gulf city as a hundred-million-dollar naval base. his flushed face grew redder, his long white hair became disordered, and he tugged at his white mustache continually as he waxed warmer in his efforts to impress the senator's secretary. "i tell you, mr. haines, gulf city, sah, leads all the south when it comes to choosin' ground fo' a naval base. her vast expanse of crystal sea, her miles upon miles of silvah sands, sah, protected by a natural harbor and th' islands of mississippi sound, make her th' only spot to be considered. she's god's own choice and the people's, too, for a naval base." "but, unfortunately, congress also has something to say about choosing it," spoke haines. "to be shuah they do," said gulf city's mayor, "but--" "and there was a man here from altacoola yesterday," again interrupted the secretary, "who said that gulf city was fit only to be the state refuge for aged and indigent frogs." "say, they ain't a man in altacoola wot can speak th' truth," indignantly shrieked the old colonel, almost losing control of himself; "because their heads is always a-buzzin' and a-hummin' from th' quinine they have to take to keep th' fever away, sah!" the mayor sat directly in front of haines, at the opposite side of his desk. regaining his composure, he suddenly leaned forward and half whispered to the secretary: "mah young friend, don't let senator langdon get switched away from gulf city by them cheap skates from altacoola. now, if you'll get th' senator to vote fo' gulf city we'll see--i'll see, sah, as an officer of th' gulf city lan' company--that you get taken ca-ah of." haines' eyes opened wide. "go on, colonel; go on with your offer," he said. "well, i'll see that a block of stock, sah--a big block--is set aside fo' senator langdon an' another fo' you, too. we've made this ah-rangomont else-wheah. we'll outbid altacoola overall time. they're po' sports an' hate to give up." "so altacoola is bidding, too?" excitedly asked haines. "why, of co'se it is. ah yo' as blind as that o' ah yo' foolin' with me?" questioned telfer, suspiciously. "seems to me yo' ought to know more about that end of it than a fellah clear from th' gulf." "certainly, certainly," mumbled haines, impatiently, as he endeavored to associate coherently, intelligently, in his mind those startling new revelations of telfer with certain incidents he had previously noted in the operations of the committee on naval affairs. then he looked across at the mayor and smiled. apparently he had heard nothing to amaze him. "colonel," he returned calmly, dropping into a voice that sounded of pity for the gray hairs of the lobbyist, "about fifty men a day come to me with propositions like that. there is nothing doing, colonel. i couldn't possibly interest senator langdon, because he has the faculty of judging for himself, and he would be prejudiced against either town that came out with such, a proposition." "lan' speculation is legitimate," protested, the colonel, cunningly. haines agreed. "certainly--by outsiders. but it's d--d thievery when engaged in by any one connected with putting a bill through. if i were to tell senator langdon what you have told me it would decide him unalterably in favor of altacoola. senator langdon, sir, is one of the few men in washington who would rather be thought a fool than a grafter if it came down to that." the mayor of gulf city jumped to his feet, his face blazing in rage, not in shame. "seems to me yo're mighty fresh, young man," he blustered. "what kind of politics is langdon playin'?" "not fresh, colonel; only friendly. i'm just tipping you off how not to be a friend to altacoola. as to his politics, the senator will answer you himself." a scornful laugh accompanied telfer's reply. "altacoola, huh! i reckon yo' must be a fool, after all. why, everybody knows of the speculatin' in land around altacoola, and everybody knows it ain't outsiders that's doin' it. it's the insiders, right here in washington. if yo' ain't in, yo' can easy get a latchkey. young man, yo'll find out things some day, and yo'll drop to it all. "i guess i was too late with yo'. that's about the size of it. i guess altacoola'll talk to yo'," went on the mayor. "if that feller fairbrother of altacoola had been able to hold his tongue maybe i wouldn't know so much. but now i know what's what. i know this--that yo're either a big fool or--an insider. yo're a nice young feller. i have kind-a taken a fancy to yo'. i like to see yo' young fellers get along and not miss yo'r chances. come, my boy, get wise to yo'rself, get wise to yo'rself! climb on to the band wagon with yo' friends." bud concluded that he might be able to get more definite information out of telfer if he humored him a bit. "i tell you, colonel," he finally said, "these are pretty grave charges you're making, but i'll tell you confidentially, owing to your liking for me, that it is not yet too late to do something for gulf city. now, just suppose you and i dine together to-night early, and we'll go over the whole ground to see how things lie. will you?" the colonel held out his hand, smiling broadly. he felt that at last he had won the secretary over; that the young man was at heart anxious to take money for his influence with the senator. "all right, my boy, yo're on. we'll dine together. yo' are absolutely certain that it won't be too late to get to senator langdon?" "absolutely positive. i wouldn't make a mistake in a matter like this, would i, unless i was what you said i was--a fool?" "of course not. oh, yo're a slick one. i like to do business with folks like yo'. it's mighty educatin'!" "thanks," answered bud, dryly. "it's certain that langdon won't decide which place he's for until to-morrow. i promise you that he won't decide until after i have my talk with you." "yo' see," said telfer, "i asked that question because, as yo' probably know, congressman norton and his crowd is pretty close to senator langdon--" haines cut him short with a gasp of surprise. "norton!" telfer, wrinkling his forehead incredulously, looked at haines. "surest thing you know, my boy." bud turned his head away in thought. "oh, leave the norton outfit to me. i'll fool them," he finally said. "good." telfer shook the secretary's hand heartily. "yo're no fool, my boy. anybody can see that--after they get to know yo' all. that's what comes of bein' one of them smooth new yorkers. they 'pear mighty sanctimonious on th' outside, but on th' inside they're the real goods, all right." the lobbyist hurried away, his bibulous soul swelling with satisfaction. he was sure of triumphing over altacoola, and he was willing to pay the price. haines sank back into his chair. "i wonder what washington 'insiders,'" he murmured, "are speculating in altacoola land. telfer mentions norton's name. i wonder--" the door opened, and before him stood carolina langdon. "ah, miss langdon," he exclaimed, "i am glad to see you!" she walked to him and extended cordially a slender gloved hand. "this is a real pleasure, mr. haines," she began. "i've been waiting to talk to you for some time. it's about something important." "something important," smiled haines. "you want to see me about something important? well, let me tell you a secret. every time i see you it is an important occasion to me." carolina langdon had never appeared more charming, more beautiful to young haines than she did that day. perhaps she appeared more inspiring because of the contrast her presence afforded to the unpleasant episodes through which he had just passed; also, carolina was dressed in her most becoming street gown, which she well realized, as she was enacting a carefully planned part with the unfortunate secretary. his frankness and the sincere admiration that shone in his eyes caused her to falter momentarily, almost made her weaken in her purpose, but she made an effort and secured a firmer grip on herself, for she must play a rôle that would crush to earth the air castles this young secretary was building, a rôle that would crush the ideals of this young optimist as well. chapter xii the cure of a woman's love carolina had come to find out from haines, if possible, how her father was going to vote on the naval base and to induce the secretary to persuade him to stand for altacoola--if there seemed danger that he would vote for another site. that was her scheme, for carolina had put $ , into altacoola land--money left by her mother. norton had persuaded carolina to invest in the enterprise to defraud the government, promising her $ , clear profit. how much she could do in washington society with that! the continued uncertainty over her father's final attitude had strained her nerves almost to the breaking, for the success of the conspiracy depended on his vote. not even the words of norton, her future husband, could reassure her. her worry was increased by the knowledge of randolph's investment of her father's $ , . that carolina must sacrifice haines on the altar of her consuming desire for money, for a higher worldly position, was an unimportant consideration. he stood in the way. any moment he might discover the existence of the altacoola scheme, he would immediately tell her father, and she knew her father would immediately decide against altacoola--the bright hopes of her future would turn to ashes. norton's money as well was invested in altacoola. he, too, would be ruined. she was sure that she loved norton, but she could not marry a penniless man. carolina resumed the conversation. "it isn't anything so very important, mr. haines. it's about father." haines beamed. "i have the honor to report, miss langdon," he bowed, "that your father is making the very best kind of a senator." the girl hesitated. "yes; he might, if he had some ambition." "don't worry! if it comes down to that, i have ambition for two. you want him to be a success, don't you? well, he is the biggest kind of a success." "i never believed that he would be," confessed the daughter. haines laughed. "why, do you realize that to-day he is one of the most popular men in public life throughout the country; that 'what does langdon think?' has become the watchword of the big body of independents who want honesty and decent government without graft? "i tell you that's a big thing, miss langdon. that's success--real success in politics, especially in washington politics. "now, if there's anything else you want him to have, i'll see that he gets it i'll try to get it for him"--he paused a minute, then added, with heartfelt meaning in his voice--"and for you, miss langdon." carolina played coquettishly with the secretary. "for me, mr. haines?" she questioned, archly, with an effective glance into his eyes. bud's pulses began to throb violently--to leap. "yes," he exclaimed, unsteadily, "for you, and you know it. that's the inspiration now, my inspiration--the chance of winning your belief in me, of winning something more, the biggest thing i ever thought to win--because, miss langdon--carolina--i love you." he bent over and seized the girl's hand. "ever since the day i first saw you i--" she shook her head indulgently and in a moment drew her hand from his. "you mustn't be so serious, mr. haines. you don't understand southern girls at all. we are not just like northern girls. we are used to being made love to from the time we are knee-high. sometimes, i fear, we flirt a little, but we don't mean any harm. all girls flirt--a little." "but somebody wins even the southern girls," declared haines, eagerly. the girl's face became serious, earnest, sincere. "yes, somebody does, always," she said. "and when a southern girl is won she stays won, mr. haines." "and i have a chance to win?" questioned the determined young northerner. carolina smiled sweetly and expressively. "who knows? first make my father even a bigger success--that's first. oh, i wonder if you can realize what all this life means to me! if you can realize what those years of stagnating on the plantation meant to me! no man would have endured it!" she exclaimed bitterly. "i am more of a man than a woman in some ways; i'm ambitious. from the time i was a little girl i've wanted the world, power, fame, money. i want them still. i mean to get them somehow, anyhow. if i can't get them myself, some one must get them for me." "and love?" suggested the man. "you are leaving love out. suppose i get all these things for you?" bud's pounding heart almost stopped. he could scarcely gain his breath as he saw creep into carolina's eyes what he believed to be the light of hope for him, the light even of a woman's promise. "who knows, mr. haines? there's no reward guaranteed. there may be others trying," she answered. haines laughed--the strong, hopeful, fighting laugh of the man who would combat the boss of the senate on ground of the boss' own choosing. "all right!" he cried. "if it's an open fight i'll enlist. i'll give them all a run. what are your orders?" carolina appeared indifferent. "i don't know that i have any particular orders, sir knight, except to see that my father does all he can for the altacoola naval base." haines paused, seized by a sudden tremor. "the altacoola naval base?" he stammered. "well, all i can say is that the senator will do what he thinks right. that might bring power and fame--a right decision in this case--but it can't bring money." carolina shrugged her shoulders. "money?" she laughed with affected carelessness. "well, we'll have to let the money take care of itself for a time. but i do want him to vote for altacoola, because i believe that will be the best for him. you believe in altacoola, don't you?" haines hesitated, then answered: "well, between the two sites merely as sites altacoola seems to me rather better." miss langdon held out her hand impulsively. "then it will be altacoola!" she cried. "thank you, mr. haines. we are partners, then, for altacoola." the young man grasped her hand earnestly. "i'd like to be your partner for good, carolina!" he cried. they stood there close together, holding each other's hands, looking into each other's eyes, when the door opened and in came charles norton. chapter xiii an old-fashioned father congressman norton was startled at the sight of carolina and haines apparently so wrapped up in each other. perhaps she was getting interested in the handsome, interfering secretary. that a woman sometimes breaks her promise to wed he well knew. plainly carolina was carrying things too far for a girl who was the promised wife of another. carolina and haines showed surprise at norton's entrance. the congressman advanced and spoke sneeringly, his demeanor marking him to be in a dangerous mood. "do i intrude?" he drawled, deliberately. carolina drew away her hands from haines and faced the newcomer. "intrude!" she exclaimed, contemptuously, in a tone that norton construed as in his favor and haines in his own. "intrude!" haines laughed, sarcastically, feeling that now he was leader in the race for love against this mississippi representative, who was, he knew, a subservient tool and a taker of bribes. "you surely do intrude, norton. wouldn't any man who had interrupted a tête-á-tête another man was having with miss langdon be intruding?" "i suppose i can't deny that," he replied. the secretary smiled again. "i'll match you to see who stays," he said. but norton's turn to defeat his rival had come. he held out a paper to haines. "senator langdon gave me this for you. i reckon i don't have to match." the secretary opened the note to read: "where in thunder does that hydrate come from--south america or russia? how much off on the tariff on the creature do we want? come over to the committee room, where i am, right away. say it's an urgent message and get in with a tip." the secretary looked up, with a laugh. "you win, norton. i'm off. good-by." and he started on a run to the senator's aid. norton turned angrily on the girl as the door closed. "see here, carolina," he cried, "what do you mean by letting that fellow make love to you?" carolina langdon would not permit rebuke, even from the man she cared for. she tossed back her head and said, coolly: "why shouldn't i let him make love to me if i choose?" "you know why," exclaimed norton, his dark face flushing sullenly. "because i love you and you love me!" and he seized her and pressed her to him. "that is why!" he cried, and he kissed her again and again. "yes, i love you, charlie; you know that," carolina said, simply. she was conquered by the southerner's masterfulness. "then why do you stand for that whippersnapper's talk?" asked norton, perplexedly. carolina laughed. "don't you see, charlie, i have to stand for it? i have to stand for it for your sake, for randolph's sake, for my own sake, for all our sakes. you know the influence he has over father. "he can make father do anything he wants, and suppose i don't lead him on? where's our project? let him suspect a thing and let him go to father, and you know what will happen. father would turn against that altacoola scheme in a moment. he'd beggar himself, if it were necessary, rather than let a single one of us make a dollar out of a thing he had to decide." "you're right, i reckon, carolina," said norton, dejectedly. "your father is a real type of the southern gentleman. he hasn't seen any real money in so long he can't even bear to think of it. somebody's got to make money out of this, and we should be the ones." "we'd lose frightfully, charlie, if they changed to gulf city, wouldn't we?" said the girl, apprehensively. "i'm horribly afraid sometimes, charlie. that's why i came here to-day. i wanted to influence haines, to keep him straight. is there any danger that they'll change? you don't think there is, do you?" "of course not, child. stevens has got his money in, and peabody. there are only five on the committee. it's bound to go through." "then why is father so important to them?" asked carolina. "it's past my understanding, carolina. i don't see how he's done it, but the whole country has come to believe whatever your father does is right, and they've got to have him." "and father is completely under the domination of this secretary," murmured the girl, thoughtfully. norton nodded. "we've got to get rid of him, carolina. that's all there is to it. he has to go! when it comes to bossing the senator and making love to you, too, he's getting too strong." "how can you do it?" she asked. "you know when father likes any one he won't believe a thing against him." norton agreed, sorrowfully. "that's right. seems like the senator's coming to think more of this fellow than he does of his own family. why, i wouldn't be surprised if he'd even let one of you girls marry him if he wanted to marry you." "we'd have something to say about that," carolina laughed, amusedly. "do you think that hope or i could ever care for a man like this fellow? of course not. this altacoola business must go through right. it would be too cruel not to have it so. and then--" "and then you and i'll be married at once, carolina, whether your father likes it or not," ended norton for her. "with altacoola safe, we can do as we please, as between us we'll be rich. what does it matter how we get the money, as long as we get it?" chapter xiv when a daughter betrays her father bud returned to find miss langdon and norton still in the room. new buoyancy, new courage, thrilled in his veins. he would give this congressman the battle of his life for this prize, of that he was confident. "i have an engagement with mrs. holcomb, senator holcomb's wife," she said, "so i must hurry away, but i expect to be back to see father." "i think i'll just wait," suggested norton. "i have to see the senator as soon as possible, and he ought to return from that ways and means committee meeting pretty soon." when carolina had gone a slight feeling of constraint settled over the two. "the senator's pretty busy these days with his naval base matter coming up, isn't he?" "yes; keeps him pretty busy receiving delegations from altacoola and gulf city and patting them both on the back," said haines. "had a man from gulf city in this morning with some pretty strong arguments." the secretary watched norton keenly to note the effect of this hint in favor of gulf city." "gulf city!" norton sneered. "shucks! who'd put a naval base on a bunch of mud flats? i reckon those gulf city fellows are wasting their time." "think so?" suggested haines. "are you absolutely sure?" norton started. "why, you don't mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that senator langdon would vote for gulf city for the naval base?" "i don't mean to tell you anything, congressman," was the cool rejoinder. "it's not my business. the senator's the one who does the talking." an ugly sneer wrinkled the congressman's face. "well, i'm glad he attends to his own business and doesn't trust too many people," he said pointedly. the secretary smiled in puzzling fashion. "that's exactly why i don't talk, congressman," he said pleasantly. "the senator doesn't trust too many people. if he did, there might be too much money made out of land speculation. senator langdon doesn't happen to be one of those senators who care for that kind of thing." "i suppose you think you're pretty strong with the senator," ventured the mississippian. "tell you the truth, i haven't thought very much about it," replied haines, "but, if you come right down to it, i guess i am pretty strong." "suppose you've influenced him in the naval base business, then." still the secretary smiled, keeping his temper under the adroit attack. "well, i think he'd listen to me with considerable interest." "but you're for altacoola, of course." haines shook his head. "no, i can't say that i'm for altacoola. fellow who was in here this morning put up a pretty good argument, to my mind, for gulf city. in fact, he made it pretty strong. seemed to show it was all to my interest to go in with gulf city. think i'll have to investigate a little more. i tell you, norton," spoke haines in a confidential manner, "this land speculation fever is a frightful thing. while i was talking to this fellow from gulf city i almost caught it myself. probably if i met the head of the altacoola speculation i might catch the fever from him too." "why don't you put your money into gulf city and lose it, then?" replied norton, nodding his head scornfully. "that'd be a good lesson for a rising young politician like you." senator langdon's secretary peered straight into norton's eyes. "because, congressman," he said, "if i were to put my money in gulf city perhaps i wouldn't lose it." the southerner took a step forward, leaned over and glared angrily at haines. his face whitened. "you don't mean that you could swing langdon into gulf city?" he gasped. haines smiled. "i can't say that, norton, but i guess people interested in altacoola would hate to have me try." "i didn't know you were that kind, haines," said norton, his virtue aroused at the thought of losing his money. "so you're playing the game like all the rest?" "why shouldn't i?" shrugged the secretary. "i guess perhaps i'm a little sore because the altacoola people haven't even paid me the compliment of thinking i had any influence, so they can't expect me to work for them. the gulf city people have. as things stand, gulf city looks pretty good to me." "is this straight talk?" exclaimed norton. "take it or leave it," retorted bud. the mississippian leaned with his hands on the desk. "well, haines, if you're like the rest and are really interested in altacoola, i don't know that you'd have to go very far to talk." "you know something of altacoola lands, then, norton?" said robert, tingling with suppressed excitement. he felt that he was getting close to real facts in a colossal "deal." norton was sure of his man now. "well, i am in touch with some people who've got lands and options on more. i might fix it for you to come in," he whispered. haines shook his head. "you know i haven't much money, norton. all i could put in would be my influence. who are these people? are they cheap little local folks or are they real people here who have some power and can do something that is worth while?" "do i look like i'd fool with cheap skates, haines? they're the real people. i think, haines, that either senator stevens or senator peabody would advise you that you are safe." "ah! then stevens and peabody are the ones. they'll make it altacoola, then sell to the government at a big advance and move to 'easy street.'" "that's right," agreed norton. bud haines straightened abruptly. the expression on his face gave norton a sudden chill--made him tremble. "now i've got you," cried the secretary. "you've given yourself dead away. i've known all along you're a d--d thief, norton, and you've just proved it to me yourself." "what do you mean?" norton was clenching his fist. "words like that mean fight to a southerner!" "i mean that before senator langdon goes one step further in this matter he shall know that his colleagues and you are thieves, mr. norton, trying to use him for a cat's-paw to steal for them from the government. i suspected something this morning when gulf city tried to bribe me and a visitor from there gave me what turns out to be a pretty good tip." "so that was your dirty trick," exclaimed the congressman as he regained his composure. "set a make-believe thief to catch a real one," laughed the secretary. "very good trick, i think." "i'll make you pay for that!" cried norton, shaking his fist. "all right. send in your bill any old time," laughed haines. "the sooner the better. meantime i'm going to talk to langdon." he had started for the door when carolina langdon re-entered, followed by her brother randolph. "wait a minute," said norton, with unexpected quietness. "i wouldn't do what you're about to do, mr. haines." "of course you wouldn't," sneered haines. "i mean that you will be making a mistake, haines, to tell the senator what you have learned," rejoined the southerner, struggling to keep calm at this critical moment when all was at stake. he realized, further, that now was the time to put haines out of the way--if that were possible. "a mistake, mr. haines," he continued, "because, you see, you don't know as much as you think. i wouldn't talk to langdon if i were you. it will only embarrass him and do no good, because langdon's money is in this scheme, too, and langdon's in the same boat with the rest of us." haines stopped short at this astounding charge against his chief. "norton, you lie! i'll believe it of langdon when he tells me so; not otherwise." norton turned to randolph. "perhaps you'll believe mr. langdon's son, mr. haines?" randolph langdon stepped forward. "it's true, haines," he said; "my father's money is in altacoola lands." haines looked him up and down, with a sneer. "_your_ money may be," he said. "i don't think you're a bit too good for it, but your father is a different kind." carolina langdon stood at the back of the room, nervously awaiting the moment when, she knew, she would be forced into the unpleasant discussion. "i reckon you can't refuse to believe miss langdon," drawled norton, with aggravated deliberation. "of course," stammered haines, "i'd believe it if miss langdon says it's so." the congressman turned toward carolina as he spoke and fixed on her a tense look which spelled as plainly as though spoken, "it's all in your hands, my fortune--yours." she slowly drew across the room. haines could hardly conceal the turmoil of his mind. the world seemed suddenly snatched from around him, leaving her figure alone before him. would she affirm what norton and randolph had said? he must believe her. but surely it was impossible that she-- carolina played for time. she feared the making of a false move. "i don't understand?" she said inquiringly to norton. he calmly began an elaborate explanation. "miss langdon, this secretary has discovered that there is a certain perfectly legitimate venture in altacoola lands being carried on through certain influential people we know and by me. the blood of the young reformer is boiling. he is going straight to your father with the facts. "i have tried to explain to him how it will needlessly embarrass the senator and spoil his own future. he won't believe me. he won't believe your brother. perhaps you can make it clear." at last carolina nerved herself to speak. "you had better not go to my father, mr. haines. it will do no good. he--is--in--the deal! you must believe me when i tell you so." the girl took her eyes from the secretary. he was plainly suffering. chapter xv carolina langdon's advice "let me speak to mr. haines alone," said carolina to norton and her brother. norton turned a triumphant grin at randolph as he beckoned him out and whispered: "leave him to her. it's all right. that new york dude has been riding for a fall--he's going to get it now." "i am sorry, so sorry this should have occurred, mr. haines," carolina said gently. the secretary looked up slowly, his face drawn. it was an effort for him to speak. "i can't understand it," he said. "i mightn't have thought so much of this a month ago, but i have come to love the senator almost as a son, and to think that he could be like the rest of that bunch is awful." "you are too much of an idealist, mr. haines," said the girl. "and you? what do you think of it?" he demanded. the girl's glance wavered. "don't idealize me too much, either, mr. haines. i didn't think it was much. perhaps i don't understand business any too well." "but you see now?" insisted the man. the girl looked up at him sorrowfully. "yes; i see at least that you and father can never work together now." haines nodded affirmatively. "i suppose so. i'm thinking of that. how am i to leave him? we've been so close. i've been so fond of him. i don't know how i could tell him." in girlish, friendly fashion carolina rested her hand on his arm. "won't you take my advice, mr. haines? go away without seeing him. just leave a note to say you have gone. he will understand. it will be easier for both that way--easier for him, easier for you." she paused, looking at him appealingly as she ended very softly, "and easier for me, mr. haines." he looked at her thoughtfully. "easier for you?" he said. "very well, i'll do it that way." the secretary stepped slowly to his desk, sat down and started to write the note. carolina watched him curiously. "what will you do," she asked, "now that you have given up this position?" "oh, i can always go back to newspaper work," he answered without looking up. the term "newspaper work" gave carolina a shock. she had forgotten that this man had been a reporter. here he was turned loose with the knowledge of this "deal," which she knew would be popular material for newspapers to print. she must gain still another point, and she felt that she had enough power to win against him. "i'm going to ask you still another favor," she said. bud returned her look with a bitter smile. "what is it?" "you have learned about this--this land matter and--" "oh, yes! i can guess. you want me to keep quiet about it--to hush it up," a shade of scorn in his tone. "i only asked this so that you would not disgrace me," she pleaded. disillusioned at last, robbed of his lifelong optimism, shorn of his ideals, even his love--for he began to despise this beautiful, misguided woman--haines sat broken in spirit, thinking how quickly the brightness of life fades to blackness. "very well," he said sadly. "i suppose _you_ are innocent. i'll save you. if they're all--your father, too--crooked, why shouldn't i be crooked? all right; i won't say anything." "i only ask you not to disgrace me," pleaded the girl. "you will promise that?" "it's a promise." she sighed in relief. "father will be coming back soon," she said. "you won't want to see him." haines arose. "no, i won't want to see him. give him this note. i'll have to come back while he's away to clear up some things. good-by." haines bowed and hurried from the room through a side doorway just as senator langdon came in through the main entrance. "bud! bud!" he called, but the secretary did not halt. carolina langdon stood with haines' note in her hand, wondering at what she had done. she regretted having become entangled in the wars of men in washington. she saw that the man's game was played too strongly, too furiously fast, for most women to enter, yet she rejoiced that the coveted fortune had not been lost. she was sorry that her means of saving it had not been less questionable. she saw that ambition and honesty, ambition and truth, with difficulty follow the same path. senator langdon's face was unusually grave as he came to greet carolina. lines showed in his face that the daughter had never noticed before. she saw norton and randolph, who had followed him, exchange significant glances--jubilant glances--and wondered what new development they had maneuvered. "he's gone without a word," the senator sighed. "well, perhap's that's best." "he left a note for you," said the girl, handing him the letter which haines had given her. langdon opened it and read: "i am giving up the job. you can understand why. the least said about it between us the better. i am sorry. that's all. bud haines." slowly he read the letter a second time. "and he was making the best kind of a secretary, i thought." divining that something against haines had been told her father, carolina glanced at norton. "i told your father how we caught mr. haines," he spoke as an answer to her. the girl was startled. she had not thought that things would go this far. "i told him how haines wanted to get in some land speculation scheme with altacoola, how we tricked him and caught him with the goods when he made the proposition to me and how we forced him to confess." "you told father that?" gasped carolina. norton nodded. "i don't understand it," said langdon. "to think that he was that kind!" son randolph now took his turn in the case against the secretary. "we were both here, father. i heard him--carolina heard him," he said. "didn't you, carolina?" "yes," said the girl weakly, "i was here." then she turned abruptly. "i must go," she said, "must go right away. mrs. holcomb is waiting for me." the senator turned to his desk bent and discouraged. "i suppose i should have taken a secretary who was a southerner and a gentleman. well, randolph, you'll have to act now. take this letter--" the young man sat down and took the following from the senator's diction: "mr. haines-- "sir: i quite understand your feelings and the impossibility of your continuing in my employ. the least said about it the better. i am sorry, too. "william h. langdon." "you boys run away. i've got to think," said the senator. when the pair had gone the old man drew the letter to him, and below his signature he added a postscript: "don't forget there's some money coming to you." walking across the room to leave, he sighed: "he was making the best kind of a secretary." chapter xvi a rescue in the nick of time later in that never-to-be-forgotten day bud haines ventured back to his desk in the committee room, after first ascertaining that senator langdon would not return. some of the senator's papers must be straightened out, and he wanted personal documents of his own. the secretary regretfully, sorrowfully performed these final duties and found himself stopping at various intervals to try to explain to himself how he had been deceived in both the langdons, father and daughter. he had to give up both problems. to him neither was explainable. "i've known enough senators to know that i'd never meet an honest one," he muttered. "but as to women--well, there's too much carefully selected wisdom in their innocence to suit me." this cynic, new born from the shell of the chronic idealist that was, suddenly was disturbed in his ruminations by a sound at the door. looking up, he saw hope georgia langdon standing, shyly, embarrassed, in the main entrance. "mr. haines," she said, timidly. bud jumped to his feet. "yes, miss hope georgia." as the senator's younger daughter came toward him he noticed that she was excited over something, and for a newly made cynic he took altogether too much notice of her youthful beauty, her fresh, rosy complexion and her dancing, sparkling eyes. the thought occurred to him, "what a woman she will make--if she doesn't imitate her sister!" "i couldn't let you go, mr. haines, without telling you good-by and letting you know that, no matter what the others say, i don't think there has been anything wrong." before haines could reply, the young girl rushed on, excitedly: "that's why i came. i know father and carolina won't like it--they won't think it's nice--but i wanted to say to you that i don't think one ought to believe things against one you've liked and trusted." "you think one ought not," said haines. "so do i; but in this case the proofs were very strong. what are you going to do when people you can't doubt pledge their word?" the girl tossed her head. "well, the only one's word i'd like to take would be the person accused. i know i'm only a girl, mr. haines, and i'm not grown up, but you've made a mistake. do try to clear things up. why don't you see father and talk with him? please do, mr. haines." little realizing that the girl was speaking in his own favor, for he knew not the need for such speaking, he believed her to be defending her father. he grasped her hands impulsively. "you have grown up very much since you came to the capital, haven't you?" he said. "and you are right, miss hope. i ought to have known even when the facts were against him that your father couldn't have been really crooked. he can't be." hope langdon's face flushed indignantly. "father crooked? who said so? who dared say that?" she exclaimed. "why, they told me he had sold out on the altacoola bill. they said he was trying to make money on altacoola. that's why i quit." the flame of anger still was spread on the girl's face. "they said that!" she exclaimed. "then they lied. they said you were the crooked one. why, father thinks you sold out on altacoola. they said you were trying to make money on that navy yard." "what! they said i was crooked!" haines fairly shouted. he rushed around the desk and caught the girl by both hands. "i see it!" he cried. "i see it! there's something i'm not just on to. you thought it was i; your father thinks--" "of course," exclaimed hope, quite as excited as he. "i couldn't believe it. that's why i came back to get you to explain. i wanted you to disprove the charge." "i should say i would," cried the secretary. "i knew it! i knew it! they couldn't make me believe anything against you. i knew you were all i thought you. oh, mr. haines, prove you are that for my--" then hope georgia abruptly stopped. she had lost her head, and in the enthusiasm of the moment had revealed her real feelings--something she would never do presumably when she grew more wise in the ways of women. she suddenly thrust haines' hands from her own and stood staring at him, wondering--wondering if he had guessed. strangely enough, under the circumstances, the girl was the first to recover and break the awkward silence. "come to our house to-night, mr. haines. there's to be a dinner and a musicale, as you know; but that won't matter. no matter who says no, i promise you that you shall see father. there shall be an explanation." "thank you, miss hope. you don't realize all you've done for me," said bud, seriously. "it's a wonderful thing to find a girl who believes in a man. you've taught me a lot, miss hope. thank you." "good-by, mr. haines. come to-night," she said, as she turned and hurried away. bud haines stood looking after her, thoughtfully. "what a stunning girl she is! i've seemed to overlook her, with the rush of events--and carolina," he murmured, softly. "we never were such very great friends, yet she believes in me. what a beauty she is!" a messenger boy broke in on his musings with a letter for senator langdon marked "important." "guess i'm secretary enough yet to answer this," he thought, tearing it open. "great heavens!" he exclaimed as he read it. "here's the chance to get to the bottom of this altacoola proposition. it's from peabody." haines read the following: "dear senator langdon: i am going to philadelphia to-night. urgent call from a company for which i am counsel, so i probably won't be able to confer with you regarding the committee's choice for the naval base. but i know you are for altacoola and trust to you to do all you can for that site. i, of course, consider the matter definitely settled." * * * * * "this situation will enable langdon to bluff peabody and draw out of him all the inside of the altacoola business--ought to, anyway. guess some gulf city talk will smoke him out." haines rushed out and across the hall, to reappear literally hauling in a stenographer by the scruff of the neck. "here, you, take this dictation--record time," he cried: "senator horatio peabody, louis napoleon hotel: you are going to philadelphia to-night, i know, leaving the report on the naval base to me. i have just come on various aspects of the situation which make me incline very favorably toward gulf city. i am looking into the matter and, of course, shall act according to my best judgment. that is what you will want me to do, i know. sincerely yours, "william h. langdon." "i don't think senator peabody will go to philadelphia to-night," laughed haines grimly, as he addressed the envelope, "and i think that when the 'boss of the senate' hurries around to the langdon house instead there will be more than one kind of music, more than one kind of food eaten--perhaps crow--before the evening is over." seizing his hat, bud rushed to the door to look up a messenger. "it's all in langdon's hands now," he cried. "here's where i resign my position as united states senator." chapter xvii the conspirators outwitted senator langdon's dinners had well won popularity in washington. invitations to them were rarely answered by the sending of "regrets." he had brought his old mississippi cook from the plantation, whose southern dishes had caused the secretary of state himself to make the senator an offer for the chef's services. "no use bidding for old general washington," said the senator on that notable occasion. "he wouldn't leave my kitchen, sir, even to accept the presidency itself. why, i couldn't even discharge him if i wanted to. i tried to let him go once, sir, and the old general made me feel so ashamed of myself that i actually cried, sir." peabody and stevens were the dinner guests to-night, as they were to confer afterward with langdon and settle on the action of the naval affairs committee regarding the naval base. the three, being a majority, could control the action of the committee. senator peabody had finally postponed leaving for philadelphia until the midnight train in order to be present, he assured langdon as the trio entered the library. the girls, norton and randolph were left to oversee preparations for the prominent washingtonians invited to attend the musicale to be given later in the evening. carolina and hope georgia were in distinctly different moods--the elder, vivacious, elated over the bright outlook for her future; the younger, cast down and wearing a worried expression. norton and randolph in jubilant spirit tried to cheer her, and failing, resorted to taunts about some imaginary love affair. the courage of the afternoon, which had enabled her to speak to haines as she had, was gone; girlish fears now swept over her as to the outcome of the evening. haines had not come! was he really guilty and had promised to come merely to get rid of her? why was he late? if he did come, would she be able to have her father see him, as she had promised? if she failed, and she might, she would never see this young man again. "if i looked as unhappy as you, hope, i'd go to bed and not discourage our guests as they arrive," carolina suggested. "our floral decorations alone for to-night cost $ , and the musical program cost over $ , . the most fashionable folks in washington coming--what more could you want, hope? isn't it perfectly glorious? why--" "mr. haines is below, asking to see senator langdon," announced a servant, entering. "oh, i knew he'd come! i knew it! i knew it!" cried hope georgia in pure ecstasy, clapping her hands. the three plotters turned on the girl in amazement; then they stared at each other. "mr. haines!" ejaculated carolina. "haines!" exclaimed randolph, hurriedly leaving the room. "haines!" sneered norton. "we can take care of him. the senator won't see him." carolina caught the suggestion. "tell mr. haines that senator langdon regrets that he cannot possibly receive him," she directed. "carolina!" there was a ring of protest and pain in hope georgia's voice as she darted out of the door after the servant. "what's the matter with that girl?" asked norton, trying to be calm. carolina shook her head. "i don't know. she's queer to-day. i believe she imagines herself in love with mr. haines." "aren't you afraid she'll make trouble?" the other sister laughed confidently. "little hope make trouble? of course not. if she does, we can always frighten her into obedience." the door reopened and hope entered, followed by bud haines. the girl's head was high; her cheeks were red; her eyes glittered ominously. "i brought him back, carolina," she said coolly. "father will want to see him. i know there has been some mistake." "yes," supplemented bud, "there has been a decided mistake, and i must refuse to accept the word that came to me from senator langdon." carolina langdon drew herself up in her most dignified manner. "i'm sorry, mr. haines, but you must accept it," she said. "exactly," seconded norton. "senator langdon entirely declines to receive you." "i don't trust anything you say, congressman norton, and i may say also that i recognize no right of yours to interfere in any affair between me and the langdon family." "perhaps i can explain my right, mr. haines," norton said coolly, stepping beside carolina. "i have just had the pleasure of announcing to miss hope georgia langdon my engagement to miss carolina langdon." haines, entirely unprepared for such a dénoûement, shot a searching glance at carolina. she bowed her head in affirmation. "so that's why you tried to ruin me!" he cried. "you're both from the same mold," turning from carolina langdon to congressman norton, then back to the girl. they stood facing each other when randolph langdon returned. at sight of bud haines he started, stopped short a second, then came forward quickly. "mr. haines, my father has declared that he will not see you, and either you leave this house at once or i shall call the servants." bud looked at young langdon contemptuously. "yes, i think you would need some help," he sneered, feeling in his veins the rush of red blood, the determination in his heart that had a few years back carried him through eighty yards of struggling yale football players to a touchdown. the senator's son drew back his arm, but the confident look of the new yorker restrained him. "mr. haines, in the south gentlemen do not make scenes of violence before ladies." the cold rebuke of carolina cut into the silence. haines stood in perplexity. he did not know what to do or how to get to the senator. it was hope who came to his rescue. "i'll tell father you are here. i'll make him come, mr. haines. he shall see you." with the air of a defiant little princess she started for the door. "hope, i forbid you doing any such thing," exclaimed her older sister, but the younger girl paid no attention. randolph caught her arm. "you shall not, hope," he cried. hope georgia struggled and pulled her arm free. "i reckon i just got to do what seems right to me, randolph," she exclaimed. "i reckon i've grown up to-night, and i tell you--i tell all of you"--she whirled and faced them--"there's something wrong here, and father is going to see mr. haines to-night, and they are going to settle it." norton alone was equal to the situation, temporarily at least. "i'll be fair with you, hope," he said reassuringly, and she stopped in her flight to the hall door. "i'll take carolina and randolph in to see the senator, and we'll tell him mr. haines is here. perhaps we had better tell the senator," norton suggested, beckoning to carolina and her brother. "let mr. haines wait here, and we will make the situation clear to the senator." "you'd better make it very clear," exclaimed the younger girl, "for i'm going to stay here with mr. haines until he has seen father." the guilty trio, fearful of this new and unexplainable activity of hope georgia, slowly departed in search of senator langdon to make a last desperate attempt to prevent him from meeting this pestilential secretary that was--and might be again. when the door closed after them hope came down to the table where bud haines was standing. "won't you sit down, mr. haines?" she said. "i'll--i'll try to entertain you until father comes," she said weakly, realizing that again she was alone with the man she loved. chapter xviii hope langdon's hour of triumph haines sat at a table in the reception-room, across from hope georgia, and his gratitude for her battle in his favor mingled with a realization of qualities in this young lady that he had never before noticed. probably he did not know that what he had really seen in her that day and that evening was the sudden transition from girlhood to womanhood, her casting aside of thoughtless, irresponsive youth and the shouldering of the responsibilities of the grown woman who would do her share in the world's work. he stared across in astonishment at this slip of a girl who had outwitted two resourceful men and an older sister of unquestioned ability. "i do not recognize you, miss hope," he said finally. "perhaps you never looked at me before," she suggested archly, feeling instinctively that this was her hour; that the man she loved was at this moment thinking more about her than of anything else in the world. haines made a gesture of regret. "that must be it," he agreed. then he leaned forward eagerly. "but i'm looking at you now, and i like looking at you. i like what you've done for me." "oh, that was nothing, mr. haines," she exclaimed airily, her intuition telling her of her sway over the man. "nothing!" he exclaimed. "well, it's more than any one ever did for me before. i've known lots of girls--" "i don't doubt that, mr. haines," hope interjected, with a light laugh. "yes, i say i've known lots of girls, but there's never been one who showed herself such a true friend as you have been. there's never been any one who believed in me this way when i was practically down and out." "perhaps you've never been down and out before, mr. haines, so they never had a chance to show whether they believed in you or not." "that may be one reason," he answered. "i wonder why"--he paused--"i wonder why your sister carolina did not believe in me." "you were quite fond of her, weren't you?" the girl began, then stopped and turned away her head. haines gazed curiously at hope. "i was, yes. i even thought i loved her, but i soon saw my mistake. it wasn't love. it was only a kind of--" suddenly pausing, bud haines shot a swift glance at the girl. "what wonderful hair you have, miss hope." the girl smiled invitingly. "think so?" "yes," he declared earnestly. "i know so. i never noticed it before, but i guess lots of fellows down in mississippi have." hope's tantalizing smile worried him. "i hope you are not secretly engaged too!" he exclaimed. "no, oh, no!" she answered quickly, before she thought. "or in love?" he asked seriously. haines had stood up and was now leaning intently over the table. he realized the difference between the feeling he had had for carolina and the tender emotion that thrilled him as he thought of the sweet girl before him. this time he knew he was not mistaken. he knew that he truly loved hope langdon. "or in love?" he asked again, anxious at her silence. hope looked at him slowly. a faint blush illumined her face. "oh, don't let's talk about me," she exclaimed. "but i want to talk about you," he cried. "i don't want to talk about anything else. i must talk about you, and i'm going to talk whether you want to hear or not. you've believed in me when nobody else believed. you've fought for me when everybody else was fighting against me. you've shown that you think i am honest and worthy of a woman's faith. you fought your own family for me. nobody has ever done for me what you have, and--and--" he faltered, full of what he was about to say. "and you're grateful," she ended. he looked her squarely in the eyes as though to fathom her thoughts. then he reached toward the girl and seized both her hands. "grateful nothing!" he cried. "i'm not grateful. i'm in love--in love with you. i want you--want you as i never wanted anything or anybody before, and i tell you i'm going to have you. do you hear?" hope could not hide her agitation. the light in her eyes showed she was all a woman. [illustration: the langdon family.] "oh, nothing in the world could happen as quickly as that, mr. haines!" she protested, with her last attempt at archness. "nothing could?" he threatened. "i'll show you." he advanced quickly around the table, but the girl darted just beyond his grasp. then she paused--and her lover gathered her in his arms. "hope, my dear, you are my own," was all he could say as he bent over to kiss the lips that were not refused to him. hope released herself from his fervent grasp. "i love you, i do love you," she said fondly. "i believe in you, and father must too. you've got to straighten this tangle out now, for my sake as well as your own. father will listen." "it's all so strange, so wonderful, i can hardly understand it," began haines slowly, as he held the girl's hands. unknown to both, the door leading from the hall had opened to admit senator langdon into the lower end of the room. surprised at the sight of the couple, so seriously intent on each other, he made a sudden gesture of anger, then, apparently changing his mind, advanced toward them. "i believe you want to see me, sir," he said to haines. "i hope you'll be brief. i have very little time to spare from my guests." hope's bosom fluttered timorously at the interruption. the man nervously stepped forward. "i sha'n't take much of your time, senator langdon," he said. "there has been a misunderstanding, a terrible mistake. i am sure i can convince you." senator langdon hesitated doubtfully, half turned toward carolina, randolph and norton, who had followed him, and again faced haines. hope pressed her father's arm and looked up into his face entreatingly. randolph, observing this, quickly stepped close to the senator's side, saying, "i can settle with this mr. haines for you." waving his son aside, the senator finally spoke. "i reckon there's been too many attending to my business and settling my affairs, randolph," he said. "i think for a change i'll settle a few of my own. all of you children go out and leave me here with mr. haines." chapter xix senator langdon learns the truth when they were alone haines faced the senator and spoke determinedly. "they told you i was not running straight," he said. the senator nodded, and the lines about his mouth deepened. "yes." bud haines stiffened at the word. every muscle in his body seemed to become rigid as he mentally vowed that he would retaliate against his traducers if it cost him his life to do it. hope had informed him only too accurately, he now realized. little did the senator know that what he was now about to hear would give him one of the severest shocks of his life. "they told me you weren't running straight," said haines deliberately. "now, neither one of us has been crooked, but somebody else has been, and this was the plan to keep us apart." "norton told me you were speculating in altacoola lands," said langdon. "and norton told me the same of you," retorted bud. the senator's face grew very serious. "but my daughter, miss carolina langdon, confirmed norton's story." haines here faced the most difficult part of his interview. he hardly knew how to answer. his manhood rebelled against placing any blame on a woman. he revolted at the thought of ruining a father's faith in his daughter's honesty, especially when that father was the man he most admired, a man for whom he had genuine, deep-rooted affection. but it was necessary that the words be spoken. "i hate to tell you, sir," he said in a low, uncertain voice, "that it was your daughter carolina who made me believe this story told about you and vouched for by your son randolph." langdon started back aghast. he stared at haines and knew that he spoke the truth. then his white head sank pathetically. tears welled into the eyes of the planter, and this sturdy old fighting man dropped weakly into a chair, sobbing convulsively, broken in spirit and wearied in body. at length haines spoke to his stricken chief. "i know it hurts," he said. "it hurt me to have to say it. don't believe it until you get it out of norton, but then you must do something." langdon came to his feet, mopping his cheeks. but there was no weakness in him now. yes, he would do something. he would go after the thieves that had turned his own flesh and blood against him and root them all out--show them all up. "oh, i'll do something," he said grimly. "i'm going to make up for lost time. of course, norton is speculating. who's behind him?" "stevens and peabody, i'm positive," answered haines, "and behind them is standard steel." "what!" exclaimed langdon. "stevens in a swindle like this! are you sure? how do you know?" "a gulf city man who couldn't carry his liquor gave me some clues, and i worked norton into telling some more," answered the secretary. "where is peabody?" "he's here now." "then he hasn't got my letter yet. i sent him a note and signed your name, senator, to the effect that the gulf city claims have been brought before you so strongly that you might vote for gulf city." langdon was amazed. "you sent that note," he exclaimed, "when you know altacoola is the only proper place and gulf city is a mud bank?" the newspaper man smiled. "of course," he agreed, "but i had to get a rise out of peabody. this will show where he stands." "oh," said langdon, "i understand. thanks, boy." a servant entered with a note. "for senator peabody, sir, marked 'urgent.' the messenger's been hunting him for some hours." langdon looked shrewdly at bud, then turned to the servant. "you keep that note until i ring for you, then bring it to senator peabody. understand? no matter how urgent it's marked." the man bowed. "yes, sir." "now tell mr. norton, miss langdon and mr. randolph to come here." the senator turned back to his secretary. "i expect i'm going to be pretty busy the rest of the evening, bud, so in case i forget to mention it again, remember to show up at your old desk in the morning." "i will. thank you, sir." "you sent for us, senator," said norton, approaching with his two dupes. "you are interested in altacoola lands," the senator angrily charged. "i am, sir," he said. "and you told mr. haines that i was interested in altacoola lands?" the schemer hesitated, and the senator broke in on him in rage. "speak out, man! tell the truth, if you can." "i did," admitted the congressman finally. "was there any particular reason for your not telling the truth?" demanded the mississippian in threatening tone. "i told the truth," replied norton. "you are interested in them." for an instant langdon seemed about to step toward him, then he controlled himself. "i didn't know it," he said. "you have several things to learn, senator," declared the congressman. "i have things to learn and things to teach," he said. "but go on. why am i interested?" "you are interested, senator," replied the trickster, making his big play, "through your son, randolph, who invested $ , of your money in altacoola, and also through your daughter, miss carolina, who, acting on my advice, has put her own money--$ , --in altacoola land also." for a moment langdon was speechless. it was too much at first for the honest old southerner to comprehend. "you mean," he gasped at last, "that you induce a boy to put $ , in altacoola land when you knew i had to vote on the bill? and you even let my daughter put her money in the same scheme?" "of course, i did. it was a splendid chance, and i let your son in for friendship and your daughter because she has done me the honor to promise to become my wife." "what! you have my daughter's promise to marry you, you--" "she admits it herself." "then i reckon here's where i lose a prospective son-in-law," sneered langdon. "but that's unimportant. now, norton, who's behind you?" "i must decline to answer that." langdon looked at him sternly. "very well," he said. "you are too small to count. i'll find out for myself. now you go to my study and wait there until i send for you. i must be alone with my children." when norton and haines had left them, langdon turned sadly to the two children who had disgraced him. "can you understand?" he said. "do you know what you've done to me?" "what, father? we've done nothing wrong!" protested carolina. "they told me it was perfectly legitimate," urged randolph. "they said everybody--peabody and stevens and the rest--were in it, and peabody is the boss of the senate." "yes, my boy," assented the old planter, "he's the leader in the senate, and that's the shameful part of all this--that a man of his high standing should set you so miserable an example." randolph langdon was not a vicious lad, not a youth who preferred or chose wrongdoing for the increased rewards it offered. he was at heart a chivalrous, straightforward, trustful southern boy who believed in the splendid traditions of his family and loved his father as a son should a parent having the qualities of the old hero of crawfordsville. jealous of his honor, he had been a victim of norton's wiles because of the congressman's position and persuasiveness, because this companion of his young days had won his confidence and had not hesitated to distort the lad's idea of what was right and what was wrong. randolph began an indignant protest against his father's reproof when the senator cut him short. "don't you see?" said the senator. "i can understand there being rascals in the outside world and that they should believe your careless, foolish old father lawful game, but that he should be thought a tool for dishonest thieving by members of his own family is incomprehensible. "randolph, my son, carolina, my daughter, through all their generations the langdons have been honorable. your mother was a randolph, and this from you! oh, carolina! and you, randolph! how could you? how could you betray or seek to betray your father, who sees in you the image of your dear mother, who has gone?" chapter xx the call to arms both randolph, and carolina were deeply affected by their father's words. the daughter attempted to take on herself the blame for her brother's action. "i was the older one. i might have stopped him if i had wished, and should bear the burden." "no, no, father," exclaimed the youth, his inborn self-reliance prompting him to shoulder the consequences of his own mistakes. "i, and i alone, am responsible for what i did. i did not realize that it was wrong. i will not hide behind carolina." carolina langdon bore herself better than was to have been expected under the strain of the painful interview. she saw more clearly now how she had erred. she was undergoing an inward revolution that would make it impossible for her ever again to veer so far from the line of duty to her father, her family and to herself. when randolph had finished carolina took up her own defense, and eloquently she pleaded the defense of many a woman who yearns for what she has not got, for what may be beyond her reach--the defense of the woman who chafes under the limitations of worldly position, of sex and of opportunity. it was the defense of an ambitious woman. "perhaps i ought to have been a man of the langdon family," she exclaimed. "father, oh, can't you understand that i couldn't doze my life away down on those plantations? you don't know what ambition is. i had to have the world. i had to have money. if i had been a man i would have tried big financial enterprises. i should have liked to fight for a fortune. you wouldn't have condemned me then. you might have said my methods were bold, but if i succeeded i would have been a great man. but just because i am a woman you think i must sit home with my knitting. no, father, the world does move. women must have an equal chance with men, but i wish i had been a man!" "even then i hope you would have been a gentleman," rebuked her father sternly. "women should have an equal chance, carolina. they should have an equal chance for the same virtues as men, not for the same vices." "but an equal chance," returned the girl fervidly. "there, father, you have admitted what i have tried to prove. the woman with the spirit of a man, the spirit that cries to a woman. 'advance,' 'accomplish,' 'be something,' 'strike for yourself,' cannot sit idly by while all the world moves on. if it is true that i have chosen the wrong means, the wrong way, to better my lot i did it through ignorance, and that ignorance is the fault of the times in which i live, of the system that guides the era in which i live. "i am what the world calls 'educated,' but the world, the world of men, knows better. it laughs at me. it has cheated me because i am a woman. the world of men has fenced me in and hobbled me with convention, with precedent, with fictitious sentiment. if i pursue the business of men as they themselves would pursue it i am called an ungrateful daughter. if i should adopt the morals of men i would be called a fallen woman. if i adopted the religion of men i would have no religion at all. turn what way i will--" [illustration: "you'll have to take your medicine like a man."] "but not every woman feels the way you do, my daughter," broke in the senator. "no, you are right, because their spirit has been crushed by generations, by centuries of forced subserviency to men. they tell us we should be thankful that we do not live in china, where women are physical slaves to men. in our country they are forced to be mental and social slaves to men. is one very much worse than the other?" "then, dear," and her father's tone was very gentle, "if you want an equal chance--want to be equal to a man--you must take your medicine with randolph, like a man." "what are you going to do, sir?" she asked, afraid. "i'm going to spoil all your little scheme, dear," he returned, smiling sadly. "i'm going, i fear, to make you lose all your money. i'd like to make it easy for you, but i can't. you've got to take your medicine, children, and when it's all over back there in mississippi i shall be able, i hope, to patch up your broken lives, and together we will work out your mistakes. i can't think of that now. the honor of the langdons calls. this is the time for the fight, and any one who fights against me must take the consequences." he walked over and touched the bell. "thomas," he said to the servant who responded, "take that letter at once to senator peabody, in the library." "what is it, sir?" asked randolph. "it's the call to arms," responded his father grimly. senator peabody read the letter to which haines had signed langdon's name and jumped up from his chair in the library in astonishment. without a word to the startled stevens he rushed to confront langdon. "what's the meaning of this?" he shouted as he burst in on the junior senator from mississippi. "of what?" asked the southerner, with a blandness that added fuel to peabody's irritation. "don't trifle with me, sir!" cried "the boss of the senate." "this letter. you sent it. explain it! i'm in no mood to joke." langdon looked at him calmly. "i think the letter is quite plain, senator," he said. "you can read." then he turned to his daughter. "this discussion cannot possibly interest you, my dear. will you go to the drawing-room to receive our guests?" carolina obeyed. she seemed to be discovering new qualities in this father whom she had considered to be too old-fashioned for his time. "now, senator, go ahead, and, randolph, you bring stevens." "you're switching to gulf city?" demanded peabody. "i'm considering gulf city," agreed langdon. peabody brought down his fist on the table. "it's too late to consider anything, langdon," he cried. "we're committed to altacoola, and altacoola it is. i don't care what you heard of gulf city. now, i'd like to settle this thing in a friendly manner, langdon. i like always for every member of the senate to have his share of the power and the patronage. we've been glad to put you forward in this naval base matter. we appreciate the straightforwardness, the honesty of your character. you look well. you're the kind of politician the public thinks it wants nowadays, but you've been in the senate long enough to know that bills have to pass, and you know you can't get through anything without my friends, and i tell you now i'll throttle any gulf city plan you bring up." "then if you are as sure of that you can't object to my being for gulf city?" asked langdon. "are you financially interested in gulf city?" demanded peabody. "senator peabody!" exclaimed langdon. "don't flare up, langdon," retorted peabody. "that sort of thing has happened in the senate. there are often perfectly legitimate profits to be made in some regular commercial venture by a man who has inside information as to what's doing up on capitol hill." "senator peabody," asked langdon, "why are you so strong for altacoola?" the pennsylvanian hesitated. "its natural advantages," he said at last. the southerner shook his head. "oh, that's all? well, if natural advantages are going to settle it, and not influence, go ahead and vote, and i'll just bring in a minority report for gulf city." "the boss of the senate" was in a corner now. "confound it, langdon, if you will have it, i am interested in altacoola." langdon nodded. "that's all i wanted to know," he said. "now you see why it's got to be altacoola," persisted the boss. "i don't mind telling you, then, senator peabody," answered langdon calmly, "that my being for gulf city was a bluff. i've been trying to draw you out. gulf city is a mud bank and no more fitted to be a naval base than keokuk, ia. altacoola it's got to be, for the good of the country and the honor of mississippi. "and one thing more, senator. i'd just like to add that not a single man connected with that committee is going to make a cent out of the deal. you get that straight?" chapter xxi "if you can't buy a senator, threaten him" senator peabody was the most surprised man in washington when he heard the junior senator from mississippi state that no one was to enrich himself out of the government naval base project. he heaped a mental anathema on the head of stevens for saddling such a man on the senate "machine," for langdon would of course never had been put on "naval affairs" (just now very important to the machine) without the "o.k." of stevens, who had won a heretofore thoroughly reliable reputation as a judge of men, or of what purported to be men. the thought that at this time, of all times, there should be a man on the committee on naval affairs that could not be "handled" was sufficient to make him who reveled in the title of "boss of the senate" determine that he must get another chief lieutenant to replace stevens, who had proved so trustworthy in the past. stevens had lost his cunning! as the vote of langdon could not be secured by humbug or in exchange for favors and as it could not be "delivered," peabody, of course, was willing to pay in actual cash for the vote. this was the final step but one in political conspiracies of this nature?--cash. but langdon would not take cash, so peabody had to resort to the last agency of the trained and corrupt manipulator of legislation. he would threaten. moreover, he knew that to make threats effective, if it is possible to do so, they must be led up to systematically--that is, they should be made at the right time. the scene must be set, as in a play. senator peabody glared at langdon as though to convince the latter that to stand in his way would mean political destruction. "so nobody is going to make a cent, eh? well, i suppose you want all the profits for yourself." turning to stevens, who had just entered, the pennsylvanian cried: "do you but listen to our suddenly good friend langdon. he wants to be the only man to make money out of the naval base. he won't listen to any other member of the naval committee making a cent out of it. why, he--" "great god, sir!" exclaimed langdon. "you are going too far, peabody. you state what is false, and you know it, you--you--" "then you are willing that others should have their rightful share?" put in stevens. "oh, i understand now, senator." "no, no, no!" cried langdon. "you do not understand, senator stevens, and i must say i am ashamed to speak of you by the honorable title of senator, sir. i will not listen to any person enriching himself at the government's expense, and i am your enemy, you, peabody, and you, stevens, beyond recall. you both know you misrepresent me." langdon walked over to stevens and faced him. "do you remember, stevens, lorimer hawkslee, back in wartime?" "yes," said stevens, puzzled, "i remember him--a very fine gentleman." the old planter sneered. "yes, a very fine gentleman! you remember he got rich out of contracts for supplies furnished to the confederate government when it wasn't any too easy for the confederate government to pay and when he was in that government himself. i never quite thought that the act of a gentleman, stevens. it seemed to me to be very like dishonesty. i refused to speak to lorimer hawkslee in the carroll hotel at vicksburg, and when the people there asked me why i told them. i want to warn you, stevens, that i'm likely to meet you some time in the carroll hotel at vicksburg." stevens backed away angrily. "i catch your insinuation, but"--he received a warning glance from peabody and broke into a pleasant smile calculated to deceive the old planter--"this once i will overlook it because of our old friendship and the old days in mississippi." "you are a fine talker, langdon," said peabody, coming to stevens' rescue, "but i can readily see what you are driving at. you want an investigation. you think you will catch some of us with what you reformers call 'the goods,' but forget evidently the entirely simple facts that your family has invested in altacoola lands more heavily probably than any one else among us. you want to raise a scandal, do you? well, go on and raise it, but remember that you will have to explain how it happened that there is $ , invested in the name of your son, and $ , in the name of your daughter, miss carolina, not to mention a few thousands put in by the gentleman who, i am given to understand, is to be your son-in-law, congressman norton. "how about that, norton?" peabody asked, turning to the congressman, who had followed stevens. "i corroborate all you've said," remarked norton. "i can state positively that senator langdon knew that his money was going into altacoola land. i will swear to it if necessary," and he glared bitterly at carolina's father, feeling certain that the girl would cling to him as opposed to her parent. langdon made a threatening move at the congressman. "i consider my riddance of you mighty cheap at the price," he cried. "come, come, langdon," fumed peabody, "i must get away from here to catch the midnight train. let's get through with this matter. you must realize that you cannot fight me in washington. you must know that men call me the 'king of the senate.' i can beat any measure you introduce. i can pass any measure you want passed. i can make you a laughing-stock or a power. "why, my friend from mississippi, i can even have your election to the senate contested, have a committee appointed to investigate the manner of your election, have that committee decide that you bought your way into the honorable body, the senate of the united states, and on the strength of that decision have you forfeit your seat! what a pretty heritage to hand down to posterity such a disgrace will be! why, the very school children of the future will hear about you as 'looter langdon,' and their parents will tell them how particularly degrading it was for a man of your reputation to drag into your dishonest schemes your son, sir, and your daughter. for who will believe that this money was not put in these lands without your consent, without your direction, your order? did you not sign the mortgage on which this $ , was raised?" senator langdon waved his hand deprecatingly. "i'm learning the under-handed ways of you professional politicians. i'm getting wise. i'm learning 'the game,' so i know you're bluffing me, peabody. but you forget that the game of poker was invented in mississippi--my native state." pressing a button, langdon summoned a servant and said: "send in mr. haines. i guess i've got to have a witness for my side." "it's no bluff," spoke stevens as haines entered. "peabody can and will break you like a pipestem; he's done it to other men before you who--who tried to dispute his power. but i'll try to save you. i'll ask him to be merciful. you are not of any importance in the senate. we do not need to deal with you--" "then why do you both spend so much time on me?" asked langdon innocently. "why doesn't peabody go to philadelphia?" "langdon," said peabody, "you know my control of the senate is no piece of fiction. but i will forgive your obstinacy, even forget it. i--" "look here," cried langdon, "just because i'm a fat man don't think that i can't lose my temper." he stopped and gazed at his two colleagues. "now, you two men stay still one moment, and i'll tell you what really will happen to-morrow," he exploded, "and i'm only a beginner in the game that's your specialty. the naval base is going to altacoola--" "good!" simultaneously cried both peabody and stevens. "you're coming in with us?" "no, i'm not, but i'll pass the bill so that nobody makes a cent, just as i said i would. i'll fool you both and make you both honest for once in spite of your natural dispositions." stevens and the pennsylvanian stared at each other in disgust. "furthermore," continued langdon, "altacoola must have the base because i've known for some time that gulf city was impossible. but some crooked senators would have made money if they'd known it, so they didn't learn it. altacoola, that proud arm of our great gulf, will have those battleships floating on her broad bosom and the country will be the better off, and so will the sovereign state of mississippi--god bless it--but neither senator peabody of pennsylvania nor senator stevens of mississippi is going to be any better because of it. no, and if you men come to my committee room at : to-morrow noon you'll have a chance to hear how all that's coming about. if you are not there by that time i'll bring in a minority report in favor of gulf city, just to show you that i know how to play the game--this washington game--" "come, let's go. we can do nothing with him," said peabody to the senior senator from mississippi. "well, senator, in the name of goodness, what are you going to do? how can you win for altacoola without letting these grafters make money out of it?" asked haines in astonishment as the other two walked away. "what are you going to do at : to-morrow?" langdon turned to him and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling despairingly. "i'm blamed if i know!" he exclaimed. [illustration: "to-morrow at : ."] chapter xxii lobbyists--and one in particular washington has known many lobbyists in its time, and it keeps on knowing them. the striking increase in legislation that aims to restrict unlawful or improper practices in business, the awakening of the public conscience, has caused a greater demand than ever for influence at the national capital, for these restrictive measures must be either killed or emasculated to a point of uselessness by that process which is the salvation of many a corrupt manipulator, the process of amendment. predatory corporations, predatory business associations of different sorts and predatory individuals have their representatives on the field at washington to ward off attack by any means that brains can devise or money procure and to obtain desired favors at a cost that will leave a profitable balance for the purchaser. when commercial tricksters, believing in the lobbyists' favorite maxim, "the people forget," feel that they have outlived the latest reform movement and see "the good old days" returning, the professional politicians introduce a few reform measures themselves, most stringent measures. they push these measures ahead until somebody pays up, then the bills die. the lobbyist knows all about these "strike" bills, but does not frown on them. no, no. per-haps he helped draw up one of these bills so that, with the aid of his inside knowledge of his employer's business, the measure is made to give a greater scare than might otherwise have resulted. the bigger the scare the bigger the fund advanced, of course, for the lobbyist to handle. all this also helps the lobbyist to secure and retain employment. not all the washington lobbyists are outside of congress. the senator or congressman has unequaled facilities for oiling or blocking the course of a bill. sometimes he confines himself to the interests of his own clients, whoever they may be. but sometimes he notices a bill that promises to be a pretty good thing for the client of some other member if it passes. then he begins to fight this bill so actively that he must be "let in on the deal" himself. this is very annoying to the other member, but the experience is worth something. he has learned the value of observing other people's legislation. the outsiders (members of the "third house") and the insiders have a bond of freemasonry uniting them; they exchange information as to what members of both houses can be "reached," how they can be "got to" (through whom) and how much they want. this information is carefully tabulated, and now prices for passing or defeating legislation can be quoted to interested parties just as the price of a carload of pork can be ascertained at a given time and place. perhaps it is this system that leads grafting members of short experience to wonder how knowledge of their taking what is termed "the sugar" got out and became known to their associates. did they not have pledge of absolute secrecy? yes, but the purchaser never intended to keep the information from those of his kind. lobbyists must be honest with each other. not all lobbyists are men. the woman legislative agent has been known to occupy an important position in washington, and she does yet. she is hard to detect and frequently more unprincipled than the men similarly engaged, if that is possible. a woman with a measure of social standing would naturally prove the most successful as a lobbyist in washington because of the opportunities her position would afford her to meet people of prominence. and just such a one was mrs. cora spangler, with whom the langdons had been thrown in contact quite intimately since their arrival at the capital. pretty and vivacious, mrs. spangler bore her thirty-seven years with uncommon ease, aided possibly by the makeup box and the modiste. her dinners and receptions were attended by people of acknowledged standing. always a lavish spender of money, this was explained as possible because of a fortune left her by her late husband, congressman spangler of pennsylvania. that this "fortune" had consisted largely of stock and bonds of a bankrupt copper smelting plant in michigan remained unknown, except to her husband's family, one or two of her own relatives and senator peabody, who, coming from pennsylvania, had known her husband intimately. he it was who had suggested to her that she might make money easily by cultivating the acquaintance of the new members of both houses and their families, exerting her influence in various "perfectly legitimate ways," he argued, for or against matters pending in legislation. the standard steel corporation kept mrs. spangler well supplied with funds deposited monthly to her account in a philadelphia trust company. she avoided suspicion by reason of her sex and her many acquaintances of undisputed rank. senator peabody was never invited to her home, had never attended a single dinner, reception or musicale she had given, all of which was a part of the policy they had mutually agreed on to deaden any suspicion that might some time arise as to her relation to the standard steel company. it was well known that peabody had been put into the senate by standard steel to look after its interests. he had found mrs. spangler chiefly valuable thus far as a source of information regarding the members of congress, which she obtained largely from their families. he was thus able to gain an idea of their associations, their particular interests and their aspirations in coming to congress, which proved of much use to him in forming and promoting acquaintances, all for the glory of standard steel. senator holcomb of missouri told mrs. spangler at an afternoon tea confidentially that he was going to vote against the ship subsidy bill. senator peabody was informed of this two hours later by a note written in cipher. when the vote was called two days later senator holcomb voted for the bill. standard steel supplies steel for ocean liners, and their building must be encouraged. mrs. windsor, wife of congressman windsor of indiana, remarked to mrs. spangler at a reception that she was "so glad jimmie is going to do something for us women at last. he says we ought to get silk gowns ever so much cheaper next year," jimmie windsor was a member of the house committee on ways and means and was busily engaged in the matter of tariff revision. when president anders of the federal silk company heard from senator peabody that windsor favored lowering the tariff on silk a way was found to convince the congressman that the american silk industry was a weakling, and many investors would suffer if the foreign goods should be admitted any cheaper than at present. president anders would be willing to do senator peabody a favor some day. sometimes cora spangler shuddered at the thought of what would become of her if she should make some slip, some fatal error, and be discovered to her friends as a betrayer of confidences for money. a secret agent of standard steel! what a newspaper story she would make--"society favorite a paid spy"; "woman lobbyist flees capital." the sensational headlines flitted through her mind. then she would grit her teeth and dig her finger nails into her palms. she had to have money to carry on the life she loved so well. she must continue as she had begun. after all, she reasoned, nothing definite could ever be proved regarding the past. let the future care for itself. she might marry again and free herself from this mode of life--who knows? so reasoned cora spangler for the hundredth time during the last two years as she sat in her boudoir at her home. she had spent part of the day with carolina and hope langdon and in the evening had attended the musicale at their house. but she had been forced to leave early owing to a severe headache. now, after an hour or two of rest, she felt better and was about to retire. suddenly the telephone bell rang at a writing-table near a window. she had two telephones, one in the lower hall and one in her boudoir--to save walking downstairs unnecessarily, she explained to her woman friends. but the number of this upstairs telephone was not in the public book. it had a private number, known to but two people except herself. taking down the receiver, she asked in low voice, "hello! who is it?" "mr. wall." it was the name senator peabody used in telephone conversation with her. "yes, congressman!" she responded. she always said, "yes, congressman," in replying to "mr. wall," a prearranged manner of indicating that he was talking to the desired person. "i will need your services to-morrow," senator peabody said, "on a very important matter, i am afraid. decline any engagements and hold yourself in readiness." "yes." "i may send my friend s. to explain things at : in the morning. if he does not arrive at that time, telephone me at : sharp. you know where. understand? i have put off going to philadelphia to-night." "yes." "that is all; good-by." "something very important," she murmured nervously as she turned from the desk. "i don't like his tone of voice; sounds strained and worried--something unusual for the cold, flinty gentleman from pennsylvania. and his 'friend s.,' of course, means stevens! great heavens! then stevens must now have knowledge of my--my--business!" she calmed herself and straightened a dainty, slender finger against her cheek. "it must be something about that naval base bill, i'm sure. that's been worrying peabody all session," she mused as she pressed a button to summon her maid. chapter xxiii "the boss of the senate" gains a new ally mrs. spangler would have flattered herself on guessing correctly as to senator peabody's uneasiness had she heard and seen all that had taken place in his apartment at the louis napoleon hotel, where he had hurriedly taken senator stevens on leaving the langdon house. not only would the two senators lose their immense profits on the altacoola transaction if langdon persisted in his opposition, but they would lose as well the thousands of dollars spent by their agents in purchasing options on hundreds of acres, and where they could not get options, the land itself. this land would be on their hands, unsalable, if the base went somewhere else. moreover, they feared that langdon's revolt would bring unpleasant newspaper publicity to their operations. "there's only one course to pursue, stevens," snapped peabody as they took off their overcoats. "that is to be prepared as best we can for the very worst and meet it in some way yet to be determined. but first we must try to figure out what langdon is going to do--what it can be that he says he will tell us to-morrow at : if we appear. he must have something very startling up his sleeve if he makes good his assertions. i can't see how--" "nor i," frowned stevens, "and my political eyesight is far better than that fool langdon's. under ordinary circumstances we could let him go ahead with his minority report for gulf city, but as things stand he'll have every newspaper reporter in washington buzzing around and asking impertinent questions--" "yes, and you and i would have to go to paris to live with our life insurance friends from new york, wouldn't we?" laughed peabody sarcastically. "i'm going to send for jake steinert," he added. "steinert?" stevens ejaculated. "what--" "oh, that's all right. maybe he can suggest something," said peabody, going to the telephone. "we've too much at stake to make a mistake, and jake may see a point that we've overlooked. luckily i saw him downstairs in the grill-room as we came through to the elevator." "steinert is all right himself," continued stevens, "but his methods--" "can't be too particular now about his methods--or ours, stevens, when a bull like langdon breaks loose in the political china shop. fortune and reputation are both fragile." a ring of a bell announced the arrival of jake steinert, whose reputation as a lobbyist of advanced ability had spread wide in the twenty years he had spent in washington. of medium height, sallow complexion, dark hair and dark eyes, his broad shoulders filled the doorway as he entered. an illy kept mustache almost hid a thin-lipped, forceful mouth, almost as forceful as some of the language he used. his eyes darted first to peabody and then to stevens, waiting for either of them to open the conversation. the highest class lobbyists, those who "swing" the "biggest deals," concern themselves only with men who can "handle" or who control lawmakers. they get regular reports and outline the campaign. like crafty spiders they hide in the center of a great web, a web of bribery, threat, cajolery and intrigue, intent on every victim that is lured into the glistening meshes. only the small fry mingle freely with the legislators in the open, in the hotels and cafés and in the capitol corridors. jake steinert did not belong in either of these classes; he ranked somewhere between the biggest and the smallest. he coupled colossal boldness with the most expert knowledge of all the intricate workings of the congressional mechanism. given money to spend among members to secure the defeat of a bill, he would frequently put most of the money in his own pocket and for a comparatively small sum defeat it by influencing the employees through whose hands it must pass. "sit down, jake. something to drink?" asked peabody, reaching for a decanter. "no," grunted the lobbyist; "don't drink durin' business hours; only durin' the day." "well, jake," said the pennsylvanian, "you probably know something of what's going on in the naval affairs committee." "you mean the biggest job of the session?" "yes." "sure thing, senator. it's the work of an artist." "the boss of the senate" smiled grimly. "now, suppose a committeeman named langdon absolutely refused to be taken care of, and insisted on handing in a minority report to-morrow, with a speech that read like the declaration of independence?" steinert jerked his head forward quickly. "you mean what would i do if i was--er--if i was runnin' the job?" "yes." steinert leaned toward peabody. "where do i come in on this?" he asked, suspiciously. "come, come, man," was the irritable retort. "i never let a few dollars stand between myself and my friends." "all right, senator." the lobbyist thrust himself down in his chair, puffed slowly at a cigar, and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. "few years ago," he began, after a minute or two, "there was a feller who was goin' to squeal about a bond issue. he had his speech all really to warn the country that he thought a crowd of the plutocracy was goin' to get the bonds to resell to the public at advanced rates. well, sir, i arranged to have a carriage, a closed carriage, call that night to take him to see the president, for he was told the president sent the carriage for him. when he got out he was at the insane asylum, an' i can tell you he was bundled into a padded cell in jig time, where he stayed for three days. 'he thinks he's a member of congress,' i told the two huskies that handled him, an' gave 'em each a twenty-case note. the doctor that signed the necessary papers got considerable more." stevens' gasp of amazement caused the narrator genuine enjoyment. "i know of a certain senator who was drunk an' laid away in a turkish bath when the roll was called on a certain bill. he was a friend of peabody's," laughed the lobbyist to the mississippian. "but in this case," said stevens, "we must be very careful. possibly some of your methods in handling the men you go after--" "say," interposed steinert, "you know i don't do all pursuin', all the goin' after, any more than others in my business. why, senator, some of these congressmen worry the life out of us folks that sprinkle the sugar. they accuse us of not lettin' 'em in on things when they haven't been fed in some time. they come down the trail like greyhounds coursin' a coyote." the speaker paused and glanced across at peabody, who, however, was too busily engaged in writing in a memorandum book to notice him. "why, senator stevens," went on the lobbyist, "only to-day a down east member held me up to tell me that he was strong for that proposition to give the a.k. and l. railroad grants of government timber land in oregon. he says to me, he says: 'what'n h--l do my constituents in new england care about things 'way out on the pacific coast? i'd give 'em yellowstone national park for a freight sidin' if 'twas any use to 'em,' he says. so you see--" "i must go," broke in stevens, rising and glancing at his watch. "it will soon be daylight." "if you must have sleep, go; but you must be here at o'clock sharp in the morning," said peabody. "steinert will sleep here with me. we'll all have breakfast together here in my rooms and a final consultation." "you won't plan anything really desperate, peabody, will you? i think i'd rather--" "nonsense, stevens, of course not. our game will be to try to weaken langdon, to prove to him in the morning that he alone will suffer, because our names do not appear in the land deals. the options were signed and the deeds signed by our agents. don't you see? whereas his daughter and son and future son-in-law actually took land in their own names." "how clumsy!" "yes. such amateurism lowers the dignity of the united states senate," peabody answered, dryly. "but suppose langdon does not weaken?" asked stevens, anxiously, as he picked up his hat and coat. "then we will go into action with our guns loaded," was the reply. chapter xxiv. the honeybird in the african jungle dwells a pretty little bird that lives on honey. the saccharine dainty is there found in the hollows of trees and under the bark, where what is known as the carpenter bee bores and deposits his extract from the buds and blossoms of the tropical forest. the bird is called the "honeybird" because it is a sure guide to the deposits of the delicacy. the bird dislikes the laborious task of pecking its way through the bark to reach the honey, and so, wise in the ways of men, it procures help. it locates a nest of honey, then flies about until it sees some natives or hunters, to whom it shows itself. they know the honeybird and know that it will lead them to the treasure store. following the bird, which flits just in advance, they reach the cache of dripping sweetness and readily lay it open with hatchets or knives. taking what they want, there is always enough left clinging to the tree and easily accessible to satisfy the appetite of the clever little bird. senator stevens of mississippi bears a marked resemblance to the honeybird--so much so that he has well won the bird's appellation for himself. abnormally keen at locating possibilities for extracting "honey" from the governmental affairs in washington, he invariably led peabody, representing the hunter with the ax, to the repository. he would then rely on the pennsylvanian's superior force to break down the barriers. stevens would flutter about and gather up the leavings. equally as mercenary as "the boss of the senate," he lacked peabody's iron nerve, determination, resourcefulness and daring. he needed many hours of sleep. peabody could work twenty hours at a stretch. he had to have his meals regularly or else suffer from indigestion. peabody sometimes did a day's work on two boiled eggs and a cup of coffee. the senior senator from mississippi had been the first to point out to peabody the possibilities for profit in the gulf naval base project, but the morning following the conference with steinert when he rejoined them for breakfast at the louis napoleon he was far from comfortable. he did not mind fighting brain against brain, even though unprincipled methods were resorted to, but indications were that more violent agencies would be called into play owing to the complications that had arisen. stevens ate heartily to strengthen his courage. steinert ate hugely to strengthen his body. peabody ate scarcely anything at all--to strengthen his brain. waving away the hotel waiter who had brought the breakfast to his apartment, senator peabody outlined the probable campaign of the day. "if our best efforts to weaken and scare off langdon fail to-day," he said, "it will naturally develop that we must render it impossible in some way for him to appear in the senate at all, or we must delay his arrival until after the report of the committee on naval affairs has been made. in either event he would not have another opportunity to speak on that subject. "of course, later, at : , we will know his plan of action. then we can act to the very point, but we must be prepared for any situation that can arise." "cannot the president of the senate be persuaded not to recognize langdon on the floor? then we could adjourn and shut him off," asked stevens. "no," responded peabody; "he has already promised langdon to recognize him, and the president of the senate cannot be persuaded to break his word. i am painfully aware of this fact." but stevens was not yet dissuaded from the hope of defeating the junior senator from mississippi by wit alone. "can we not have a speaker get the floor before langdon and have him talk for hours--tire out the old kicker--and await a time when he leaves the senate chamber to eat or talk to some visitor we could have call on him, then shove the bill through summarily?" he suggested. "i've gone over all that." answered peabody, quickly. "it would only be delaying the evil hour. you wouldn't be able to move that old codger away from the senate chamber with a team of oxen--once he gets to his seat. his secretary, haines--another oversight of yours, stevens"--the latter winced--"will warn him. langdon would stick pins through his eyelids to keep from falling asleep." "i've been thinkin'," put in steinert, slowly, "that a little fine-esse like this might keep him away: when langdon's in his committee room before goin' to the senate send him a telegram signed by one of his frien's' name that one of his daughters is dyin' from injuries in a automobile collision a few miles out o' town. that 'ud--" "ridiculous," snorted peabody. "he'd know where they were. they're always--" "huh! then put in more fine-esse." "how? what?" "hev some 'un take 'em out a-autoin'--" "no, no, man!" snapped peabody. "they'd stick in town to hear their father's wonderful speech." "well," went on the lobbyist, "i'll hev langd'n watched by a careful picked man, a nigger that won't talk. he'll pick a row with the colonel on some street, say, w'en he's comin' from his home after lunch. the coon kin bump into langd'n an' call him names. then w'en ole fireworks sails into 'im, yellin' about what 'e'd do in mississippi, the coon pulls a gun on the colonel an' fires a couple o' shots random. cops come up, an' our pertickeler copper'll lug langd'n away as a witness, refusin' to believe 'e's a senator. i kin arrange to hev him kept in the cooler a couple o' hours without gettin' any word out, or i'll hev 'im entered up as drunk an' disorderly. he'll look drunk, he'll be so mad." "but the negro--how could you get a man to undergo arrest on such a serious charge, attempted murder!" exclaimed stevens. "there, there," said steinert, patronizingly; "coons has more genteel home life in jail than they does out. an' don't forget the district of columbia is governed by folks that ain't residents of it, only durin' the session. th' politicians don't leave their frien's in the cooler very long. say, senator stevens, are you kiddin' me? is it any different down in your--" the mississippian choked and spluttered over a gulp of unusually hot coffee, and peabody again decided steinert to be on the wrong tack. "that proceeding would attract too much attention from the newspapers," he added. "well, i thought you wanted to win," grunted steinert. "i've been offerin' you good stuff, too--new stuff. none of yer druggin' with chloroform or ticklin' with blackjacks. why, i've gone from fine-esse to common sense. but, come to think of it, how about some woman? i c'n get one to introduce to--" "this is the wrong kind of a man," interrupted peabody. "unless you got the right kind of a woman," went on steinert. senator stevens choked some more. "the boss of the senate" sank down in his chair, crossed one knee over the other and drummed his fingers lightly on the table. he gazed thoughtfully at stevens. "yes," he observed, slowly, "unless you've got the right sort of a woman." rising, he led the mississippian to one side. the lobbyist heard the southerner give a short exclamation of astonishment as peabody whispered to him. "it's all right. it's all right," he then heard the pennsylvanian say, irritably. "she'll understand. she can be trusted. _she expects you_." stevens gave a violent start at the last assurance, but his colleague hurriedly helped him into his coat. "go in a closed carriage," was peabody's final warning. "be sure to tell her to get hold of his two daughters on some pretext at once. she knows them well. maybe we can influence the old man through his girls, don't you see?" and while senator peabody and jake steinert recurred to a previous discussion concerning one j.d. telfer, mayor of gulf city, senator stevens started on the most memorable drive of his career on this bright winter morning, to the house of the fascinating mrs. spangler--who for the past week had been considering his proposal of marriage. chapter xxv carolina langdon's renunciation senator langdon's committee room at the capitol presented a busy scene at an unusually early hour the morning after the entertainment at his home. bud haines, reinstated as secretary, was picking up the thread of routine where he had dropped it the day before, though his frequent thought of hope and the words that had thrilled him--"i love you, i love you fondly"--made this task unusually difficult. he impatiently wished the afternoon to hasten along, as he knew he would then see her in the senate gallery, where she would go to hear her father's speech. this speech had to be revised in some particulars by bud, and the work he knew would take up much of the morning. the senator's speech was "the south of the future," which he would deliver when recognized by the president of the senate in connection with the naval base bill, that officer having agreed to recognize langdon at : , at which time the report of the naval affairs committee would be received. just how langdon would turn the tables on peabody and stevens and yet win for the altacoola site not even the ex-newspaper man, experienced in politics, had solved. clearly the senator would have to do some tall thinking during the morning. the junior senator from mississippi burst into the office with his habitual cheery greeting, his broad-brimmed black felt hat in its usual position on the back of his head, like a symbol of undying defiance. "a busy day for us, eh, senator?" queried bud. "now, look here, my boy, don't begin to remind me of work right off," he said, with a humorous gleam in his eye. "go easy on me. don't forget i'm her father." bud laughed through the flush that rose in his cheeks. "no, i won't forget that. but have you decided what to tell peabody and stevens as your plan of action if they come in here at : ?" "if they come?" exclaimed langdon. "they'll come. watch 'em." then he hesitated, worriedly. "i'll have to incubate an idea between now and noon, somehow. but don't forget this, bud--we're worried about them, true enough, but they're worried a heap more about us." senator langdon stepped into an adjoining room, where he could be alone, to "incubate." as haines resumed his work carolina langdon entered. avoiding the secretary's direct gaze, she asked for her father. "he ought to be back shortly, miss langdon," responded haines. "you can wait here. i must ask pardon for leaving, as i must run over to the library." as the secretary bowed himself out of the door he almost collided with congressman norton. both glared at each other and remained silent. "carolina," spoke norton, as he entered, "i hope--i know you won't allow your father to influence you against me--because of last night. i--" carolina would rather not have met charles norton on this morning. she had hardly slept for the night. she had fought a battle with herself. her father had shown her plainly the mistake she had made. she saw that her influence had not been without effect on randolph. probably for the first time she realized that there are glory and luxury, pleasure and prestige for which too big a price can be paid. the senator's daughter turned slowly and faced the man she had promised to marry. "charlie, i have come to a decision. i came here to talk with father about it." norton started toward carolina, a look of apprehension on his face. he gathered from the trend of her words and her demeanor that she had turned against him. "you couldn't be so cruel, carolina," he protested. "charlie," she went on, determinedly, "i will always cherish our friendship, our happy younger days down in mississippi, but, i must give up thinking of you as my future husband. we've both made a mistake, mine probably greater than yours, but i now am convinced that i should not marry you. your way of thinking about life is all wrong, and you are too deeply entangled with the dishonest men in washington to draw back. i cannot love you." "but i am doing it all for your sake, carolina. don't let an old-fashioned father come between a man and a woman and their love," he cried. "charlie, i must give you up." the girl turned to one side, as though to give norton a chance to leave. he looked at her in silence for a moment or two. then a change came into his bearing. wrinkling his face into a sneer, he stepped before the girl. "you've been converted mighty sudden, i reckon, from land speculating to preaching--and preaching, too, against folks who tried to make a fortune for you." norton stopped, expecting a reply, but the girl remained silent. "you think i'm done for, that i've lost my money; that's why you turned from me so quickly," he laughed, scornfully. "but i'll show you, you and your blundering old father. i'll win you yet, and i'll ruin your father's political reputation. i'll--" "are you quite sure about that?" spoke a voice, sharply, behind the congressman. he swung around vigorously. bud haines had returned in time to hear norton's threat. "yes; and while i'm doing that i'll take time to show you up, too, somehow. i guess a congressman's word will count against that of a cheap secretary--that's what miss langdon said you were." carolina looked appealingly to haines to rid her of the presence of this man, whose last words she knew haines would not believe. but norton had had his say. he retreated to the door. "miss langdon," he cried, as he backed out and away, "you have an idea that i am dishonest, but kindly remember that, whatever you think i am, i never was a hypocrite." haines advanced and procured a chair for miss langdon. "i'm very sorry to have come back at such a time," he began. the girl cut him short with a gesture. "i want to say to you," she said, then halted--"that i want to be friends with you. i want you to forget the happenings of yesterday--last evening--so far as i was concerned in them. i want to work together with you and father--and so does randolph. father and you are standing together to uphold the honor of the langdons of mississippi, and randolph and i, no matter the cost of our former folly, want to share in that work." before haines could reply senator langdon burst into the room. "bud! bud!" he cried, "i've got it! i've got it!" "you've got what, senator?" exclaimed the secretary. "that idea, my boy, that idea! it's incubated all right, and peabody and stevens can come just as soon as they want to." chapter xxvi the battles of washington at twenty minutes after senator langdon and secretary haines were still undisturbed by any move on the part of peabody and stevens, who maintained a silence that to haines was distinctly ominous. his experience at the capitol had taught him that when the senate machine was quiet it was time for some one to get out from under. miss williams, the naval committee's stenographer, entered. "senator langdon," she said, "senator peabody and senator stevens are in committee room , and they told me to tell you that they'd be--i can't say it. please, sir, i--" "d--d," interpolated langdon, laughing. "yes, sir, that's it. they'll be--that--if they come in here at : . you must come to them, they say." "tell the gentlemen i'm sitting here with my hat on the back of my head, smoking a good see-gar, with nails driven through both shoes into the floor--and looking at the clock." at : senator stevens entered. "i came to warn you, langdon," he said, "that senator peabody's patience is nearly exhausted. you must come to see him at once if you expect the south to get a naval base at altacoola or anywhere else. if you do not agree to take his advice this naval bill and any other that you are interested in now or in future will be trampled underfoot in the senate. mississippi will have no use for a senator who cannot produce results in washington, and that will prove the bitterest lesson you have ever learned." "i'm waiting for peabody here, stevens." "oh, ridiculous! of course he's not coming. why, langdon, he's the king of the senate. he has the biggest men of the country at his call. he's--" "he's got one minute left," observed langdon, looking at the clock, "but he'll come. i trust peabody more than the best clock made at a time like this, when--" the figure of the senior senator from pennsylvania appeared in the doorway. "good-day, senator langdon," he remarked, icily. "same to you. have a see-gar, senator?" said langdon. he turned and winked significantly at haines. the three senators seated themselves. "i suppose you wouldn't consider yourself so important, langdon, if you knew that we now find we can get another member of the naval affairs committee over to our side for altacoola?" began peabody. "that gives us a majority of the committee without your vote." "that wouldn't prevent me from making a minority report for gulf city and explaining why i made that report, would it?" the mississippian asked, blandly. peabody and stevens both knew that it wouldn't. stevens exchanged glances with "the boss of the senate," and in low voice began making to langdon a proposition to which peabody's assent had been gained. "langdon, we would like to be alone," and he nodded toward haines. "sorry can't oblige, senator," langdon replied. "bud and i together make up the senator from mississippi." "all right. what i want to say is this: the president is appointing a commission to investigate the condition of the unemployed. the members are to go to europe, five or six countries, and look into conditions there, leisurely, of course, so as to formulate a piece of legislation that will solve the existing problems in this country. a most generous expense account will be allowed by the government. a member can take his family. a son, for instance, could act as financial secretary under liberal pay." "i've heard of that commission," said langdon. "well, senator peabody has the naming of two senators who will go on that commission, and i suggested that your character and ability would make you--" "good glory!" exclaimed langdon. "you mean that my character and ability would make me something or other if i kept my mouth shut in the senate this afternoon! stevens, i've been surprised so many times since i came to the capital that it doesn't affect me any more. i'm just amused at your offer or senator peabody's. "i want to tell you two senators that there's only one thing that i want in washington--and you haven't offered it to me yet. when you do i'll do business with you." "what's that? speak out, man!" said peabody, quickly. "a square deal for the people of the united states." "good lord!" exclaimed "the boss of the senate. is this washington or is it heaven?" "it is not heaven, senator," put in haines. "man alive!" cried peabody, "i've been in washington so long that--" "so long that you've forgotten that the american people really exist," retorted langdon; "and there are more like you in the senate, all because the voters have no chance to choose their own senators. the public in most states have to take the kind of a senator that the legislature, made up mostly of politicians, feels like making them take. you, peabody, wouldn't be in the senate to-day if the voters had anything to say about it." the pennsylvanian shrugged his shoulders. "and now i'll tell you honorable senators," went on langdon, thoroughly aroused, "something to surprise you. i have discovered that you were not working for yourselves alone in the altacoola deal, but that you intend to turn your land over to the standard steel company at a big profit as soon as this naval base bill is passed. then that company will squeeze the government for the best part of the hundred millions that are to be spent." the senator sank back in his chair and gazed at his two opponents. those two statesmen jumped to their feet. "come, stevens, let him do what he will. we cannot stay here to be insulted by the ravings of a madman," cried the pennsylvanian. but he brought his associate to a standstill midway to the door. "by the way, langdon, what is it you are going to do in the senate this afternoon?" he asked, "you said you were going to make us honest against our will. you know you can't do anything." bud haines turned his face toward the speaker and grinned broadly, to the senator's intense discomfort. "i'll do more than that," announced langdon, rising and pounding a fist into his open hand. "i'll make you and stevens more popular than you ever were in your lives before." "bah!" shouted peabody. "i'll do even more yet. i'm going to make you generous--patriots. and, i regret to say, i'll give you the chance to make the hits of your careers." the polished hypocrites looked at him, too astonished to move. "how? what?" they gasped. swept on by his own enthusiasm and the force of his own courageous honesty, the voice of the southerner rose to oratorical height. "this afternoon," he exclaimed, "when the naval base committee makes its report, i will rise in my place and declare that for once in the history of the senate men have been found who place the interests of the government they serve above any chance of pecuniary reward. these men are the members of the naval base committee. "with this idea in view, realizing that dishonest men would try to make money out of the government, these members of the naval base committee, after they settled on altacoola, went out quietly and secured control of all the land that will be needed for the naval base, and these men secured this at a very nominal figure. now they are ready to turn over their land to the government at exactly what they paid for it, without a cent of profit. "then they're going to sit up over there in that senate. they're going to realize that a new kind of politics has arrived in washington--the kind that i and lots of others always thought there was here. "and, gentlemen"--he advanced on his colleagues triumphantly--"when i, senator langdon of mississippi, your creation in politics, have finished that speech, i dare one of you to get up and deny a word!" "the boss of the senate" and his satellite were dumfounded. firmly believing that langdon could find no way to pass the bill for altacoola and yet spoil their crooked scheme, they were totally unprepared for any such dénoûement. to think that a simple, old-fashioned planter from the cotton fields of mississippi could originate such a plan to outwit the two ablest political tricksters in the senate! langdon eyed his colleagues triumphantly. peabody, however, was thinking quickly. he was never beaten until the last vote was counted on a roll call. he knew that, no matter how apparently insurmountable an opposition was, a way to overcome it might often be found by the man who exercises strong self-control and a trained brain. this corrupt victor in scores of bitter political engagements on the battlefield of washington was now in his most dangerous mood. he would marshal all his forces. the man to defeat him now must defeat the entire senate machine and the allies it could gain in an emergency; he must overcome the power of standard steel; he must fight the resourceful brain of the masterful peabody himself. peabody whispered to stevens, "we must pretend to be beaten," [illustration: "after i have finished i dare one of you to deny a word!"] then the pennsylvanian advanced, smiling, to langdon and held out his hand. "senator langdon," he said, "i'm beaten. you've beaten the leader of the senate, something difficult to believe. what's more, you've given me the chance of a lifetime to become known as a public benefactor. as soon as you've finished your speech in the senate i will get up and make another one--to second yours. here's my hand. anything you may ever want out of peabody in the future shall be yours for the asking." langdon refused to grasp the proffered hand. senator stevens made a show of protesting against his superior's seeming surrender. "but," he objected, "look here--" peabody turned upon him instantly. "oh, shut up, stevens; don't be a fool. come on in. the water's fine." the pair of schemers, with norton at their heels, turned away. the pennsylvanian drew stevens into committee room and, ordering the stenographer to leave, drew up chairs where both could sit, facing the door. "we've thrown dust in that old gander's eyes," whispered peabody. "it's now ten after . he is to be recognized to make his speech at : . that gives us two hours and twenty minutes--" "yes, but for what?" asked stevens, excitedly. "i've been trying myself to think of something. what will you do--what _can_ you do?" "the boss of the senate" smiled patronizingly on the senior senator from mississippi, as though amused and scornful of his limitations as a strategist, as a tenacious fighter. then his jaw set hard, and his brows contracted. "i will not do anything. i cannot do anything"--he hesitated a full ten seconds--"but jake steinert can." stevens' hands twitched nervously. "and," continued peabody, "i'm expecting a 'phone call from him any moment. i told him this morning that he might be able to make $ , before night if--" the telephone bell at the desk interrupted him. peabody leaned over and eagerly clutched the receiver. the senior senator from mississippi jerked himself to his feet. he stood at a window and looked out over the roof tops of the city. chapter xxvii mrs. spangler gives a luncheon when senators peabody and stevens had gone langdon and bud went over the situation together and concluded that their opponents had no means of defeating langdon's program--that, after all, peabody might really have meant his words of surrender. "but they might try foul play. better stay right here in the capitol the rest of the day," suggested bud. langdon scoffed at the idea. haines bustled away to get a few mouthfuls of lunch to fortify himself for a busy afternoon--one that was going to be far busier than he imagined. the telephone bell rang at the senator's desk. it was mrs. spangler's voice that spoke. "senator langdon," she said, "carolina and hope georgia are here at my home for luncheon, and we all want you to join us." "sorry i cannot accept," answered the mississippian, "but i am to make an important speech this afternoon--" "oh, yes, i know. the girls and i are coming to hear it. but you have two hours' time, and if you come we can all go over to the senate together. now, senator, humor us a little. don't disappoint the girls and me. we can all drive over to the capitol in my carriage." the planter hesitated, then replied: "all right. i'll be over, but it mustn't be a very long luncheon." "gone to eat; back by o'clock," he scratched quickly on a pad on the secretary's desk, and departed. mrs. spangler's luncheons were equally as popular in washington as senator langdon's dinners. the mississippian and his daughters enjoyed the delicacies spread lavishly before them. time passed quickly. the old planter enjoyed seeing his daughters have so happy a time, and he was not insensible to the charm of his hostess' conversation, for mrs. spangler had studied carefully the art of ingratiating herself with her guests. suddenly realizing that he had probably reached the limit of the time he could spare, the senator drew out his watch. "what a stunning fob you wear," quickly spoke mrs. spangler, reaching out her hand and taking the watch from her guest's hands as the case snapped open. "oh, that's carolina's doings," laughed langdon. "she said the old gold chain that my grandfather left me was--" "why, how lovely," murmured mrs. spangler, glancing at the watch. "we have plenty of time yet. won't have to hurry. your time is the same as mine," she added, nodding her head toward a french renaissance clock on the black marble mantel. as the hostess did this she deftly turned back the hands of the senator's watch thirty-five minutes. "do you care to smoke, senator," mrs. spangler asked, as her guests concluded their repast, "if the young ladies do not object?" langdon inclined his head gratefully, and laughed. "they wouldn't be southern girls, i reckon, if they didn't want to see a man have everything to make him happy--er, i beg pardon, mrs. spangler, i mean, comfortable. nobody that's your guest could be unhappy." the hostess beamed on the chivalrous southerner. langdon drew forth a thick black perfecto and settled back luxuriously in his chair, after another glance at mrs. spangler's clock. he was absorbed in a mental résumé of his forthcoming speech and did not hear the next words of the woman, addressed pointedly to his daughters. "do you know, really, why this luncheon was given to-day?" she queried. then she continued before carolina and hope georgia could formulate replies: "because your father and i wanted to take this opportunity to announce to you--our engagement." the speaker smiled her sweetest smile. the two girls gazed at each other in uncontrollable amazement, then at mrs. spangler, then at their father, who had turned partly away from the table and was gazing abstractedly at the ceiling. hope georgia was the first to regain her voice. "oh, mrs. spangler," she ejaculated, "you are very kind to marry father, but--" "what's that?" exclaimed the senator, roused from his thoughts by his youngest daughter's words and thrusting himself forward. mrs. spangler laid her hand on his arm. "oh, senator, i have just told the dear girls that you had asked me to marry you--that we were soon to be married," she said, archly, looking him straight in the eye. she clasped her hands and murmured: "i am so happy!" the hero of crawfordsville tried to speak, but he could not. he stared at his hostess, who smiled the smile of the budding debutante. his own open-mouthed astonishment was reflected in the faces of carolina and hope georgia as they observed their father's expression. he forgot he was in washington. he did not know he was a senator. the fact that he had ever even thought of making a speech was furthest from his mind. what did it all mean? had mrs. spangler gone suddenly insane? his daughters--what did they think? these thoughts surged through his flustered brain. then it flashed over him--she was joking in some new fashionable way. he turned toward the fair widow to laugh, but her face was losing its smile. a pained expression, a suggestion of intense suffering, appeared in her face. "why do you so hesitate, senator langdon?" she finally asked in low voice, just loud enough for the two girls to overhear. the junior senator from mississippi looked at his hostess. she had entertained him and had done much for his daughters in washington. she was alone in the world--a widow. he felt that he could not shame her before carolina and hope georgia. his southern chivalry would not permit that. then, too, she was a most charming person, and the thought, "why not--why not take her at her word?" crept into his mind. "yes, father, why do you hesitate?" asked carolina. senator langdon mustered his voice into service at last. "i've been thinking," he said, slowly, "that--" "that your daughters did not know," interrupted mrs. spangler, "of our--" "the telephone--upstairs--is ringing, madam," said a maid who had entered to mrs. spangler. the adventuress could not leave the senator and his daughters alone, though she knew it must be peabody calling her. at any moment he might remember his speech and leave. already late, he would still be later, though, because he would have no carriage--hers would purposely be delayed. "tell the person speaking that you are empowered to bring me any message--that i cannot leave the dining-hall," she said to the maid. to gain time and to hold the senator's attention, mrs. spangler asked, slowly: "well, senator, what was it that you were going to say when i interrupted you a few moments ago?" langdon had been racking his brain for some inspiration that would enable him to save the feelings of his hostess, and yet indicate his position clearly. he would not commit himself in any way. he would jump up and pronounce her an impostor first. after a moment of silence his clouded face cleared. "mrs. spangler," he began, "your announcement to-day i have considered to be--" "premature," she suggested. the maid returned. "mr. wall says senator langdon is wanted at once at the capitol." "great heavens!" exclaimed langdon, springing to his feet and glancing at the clock. "i'm late! i'm late! i hope to god i'm not too late!" "mr. wall says a carriage is coming for senator langdon," concluded the maid. "we must talk this matter over some other time, mrs. spangler," the mississippian cried, as he sent a servant for his hat and coat. "i hope that carriage hurries, else i'll try it on the run for the capitol!" "it's a half hour away on foot," said mrs. spangler. "better wait. you'll save time." but to herself she muttered, as though mystified: "i wonder why peabody changed his mind so suddenly? why should he now want the old fool at the capitol?" the rumble of wheels was heard outside. "hurry, father!" cried hope georgia. the senator hurried down the stone steps of mrs. spangler's residence as rapidly as his weight and the excitement under which he labored would permit. opening the coach door, he plunged inside--to come face to face with bud haines, who had huddled down in a corner to avoid observance from the spangler windows. the driver started his horses off on a run. struggling to regain his breath, the senator cried: "well, what are--" "never mind now. but first gather in all i say, senator, as we've no time to lose. when i couldn't locate you and i saw you probably wouldn't be at the senate chamber in time to make your speech on the naval base bill, i persuaded senator milbank of arkansas to rise and make a speech on the currency question, which subject was in order. he was under obligation to me for some important information i once obtained for him, and he consented to keep the floor until you arrived, though he knew he would earn the vengeance of peabody. that was over an hour and a half ago. he must be reading quotations from 'pilgrim's progress' to the senate by now to keep the floor." bud paused to look at his watch. the senator stretched his head out of the window and cried: "drive faster!" "got your speech all right?" called bud above the din of the rattling wheels. "yes, here," was the response, the senator tapping his inner breast pocket. "thought maybe she--" cried bud, jerking his head back in the direction from which they had come. the mississippian shook his head negatively, and set his jaws determinedly. the coach swung up to the capitol entrance. "tell me," asked langdon, as both jumped out, "how did you find out that--" "i 'phoned the house--gave a name peabody uses--" "great heavens! but how did you know where to 'phone?" they were at the door of the senate chamber. "norton gave me the tip--for your sake and carolina's--for old times' sake, he said," was bud's reply. chapter xxviii on the floor of the senate too much occupied in concentrating his thoughts on his speech, langdon failed to notice the consternation on the faces of peabody and stevens as he walked to his seat in the senate. they had failed to succeed in getting milbank to conclude, and consequently could not push the naval base report through. but they noted the passing of over an hour after their opponent's appointed time and had felt certain that he would not appear at all. "the boss of the senate" leaned across to stevens and whispered, hurriedly: "we must tear him to pieces now--discredit him publicly. it's his own fault. our agents can sell the land to standard steel. our connection with the scheme will be impossible to discover--after we have made the public believe langdon is a crook." "but how about our supposed combination to protect the government that langdon will tell about?" asked stevens. "we can't deny that, of course." "no," answered peabody. "we can't deny it, but we will not affirm it. we will tell interviewers that we prefer not to talk about it." "it's our only chance," replied stevens, cautiously. "yes; and we owe it all to jake steinert," went on peabody. "that fellow telfer will do anything to please jake. jake has convinced telfer that langdon was responsible for the defeat of gulf city, and the mayor is wild for revenge." "the boss of the senate" rose and walked to the rear of the senate chamber to issue orders to two of his colleagues. "report of the committee on naval affairs." droned the clerk, mechanically. "house bill no. , is amended to read as follows--" and his voice sank to an unintelligible mumble, for every senator present he well knew was aware that the amendment named altacoola as the naval base site. senator langdon rose in his seat. "mr. president," he called. "chair recognizes the gentleman from mississippi," said the presiding officer, as he leaned back to speak to senator winans of kansas, who had approached to the side of the rostrum. the langdon speech on "the new south and the south of the future" proved more than a document suited only to a reverent burial in the _congressional record_. although wearied at the start owing to the exciting happenings of the day, the mississippian's enthusiasm for his cause gave him strength and stimulation as he progressed. his voice rose majestically as he came to the particular points he wished to accentuate, and even those in the uppermost rows in the galleries could hear every word. at the close of his formal speech he began on his statement of the action of the naval affairs committee in buying control of the altacoola land to foil attempts to rob the government. as he had predicted, the senate did "sit up." the senate did agree that a new kind of politics had arrived. during this latter part of the speech many curious glances were directed at peabody and stevens, who sat in the same tier of seats, in the middle of the chamber, only an aisle separating them. through this choice of seats they could confer without leaving their places. various senatorial associates of these two men in other deals found it difficult to believe their ears--but was not old langdon at this moment narrating the amazing transaction on the floor of the senate? would the statue on the pedestal step down? would the sphinx of the desert speak the story of the lost centuries? would honor take the place of expediency in the affairs of state? what might not happen, thought the senate machine, now that peabody and stevens had taken to their bosoms what they termed the purple pup of political purity? neither did the full portent of the situation escape the attention of the reporters' gallery. dick cullen observed to hansel of the _record_: "virtue's getting so thick around here it's a menace to navigation." "blocking the traffic, eh?" queried hansel; and both laughed. "hello! what's this?" exclaimed cullen a few minutes later. "horton has been recognized, when the program was to adjourn when the naval base bill was over with." langdon's speech had proved the hit, the sensation of the session. after he concluded, amid resounding applause, in which senators joined, as well as occupants of the galleries, senator horton of montana rose and caught the presiding officer's eye. "i ask unanimous consent to offer a resolution." hearing no objection, he continued, in a manner that instantly attracted unusual attention: "it is my unpleasant duty"--peabody and stevens exchanged glances--"to place a matter before this body that to me, as a member of this honorable body, is not only distasteful, but deeply to be regretted. "there has arisen ground to suspect a member of this body with having endeavored to make money at the government's expense out of land which he is alleged to have desired his own committee to choose as the naval base. "i therefore offer this resolution providing for the appointment of an investigating committee to look into these charges." langdon was intensely excited over this new development. "some one has learned something about peabody or stevens," he muttered. he feared that this new complication might in some way affect the fate of the naval base--that the south, and mississippi, might lose it. he rose slowly in his seat, while the senate hummed with the murmur of suppressed voices. "i ask for more definite information," he began, when recognized and after the president of the senate had pounded with the gavel to restore quiet, "so that this house can consider this important matter more intelligently." senator horton rose. he said: "i will take the liberty of adding that the senator accused is none other than the junior senator from mississippi." langdon's eyes blazed. he strode swiftly into the aisle. "mr. president," he cried, passionately, "i know this is not the time or place for a discussion like this, but ask that senatorial courtesy permit me to ask"--then he concluded strongly before he could be stopped--"what is the evidence in support of this preposterous charge?" "this is all out of order," said the presiding officer, after a pause, "but in view of the circumstances i will entertain a motion to suspend the rules." this motion passing, horton replied to langdon: "your name is signed to a contract with j.d. telfer, mayor of gulf city, miss., calling for , shares in the gulf city land company, and--" "a lie! a lie!" screamed langdon. "that official," went on horton, coolly, "is now in washington. he has the contract and will swear to conversations with you and your secretary. his testimony will be corroborated by no less a personage than congressman norton, of your own district, who says you asked him to conduct part of the negotiations. "and i might add," cried horton, "that it is known to more than one member of this honorable body that you had drawn up a minority report in favor of gulf city because of your anger at the defeat of your plan to lake the naval base away from altacoola." langdon sank into his chair, bewildered, even stunned. there was a conspiracy against him, but how could he prove it? the ground seemed crumbling from under him--not even a straw to grasp. then the old fighting blood that carried him along in beauregard's van tugged at the valves of his heart, revived his spirit, ran through his veins. he leaped to his feet. a sound as of a scuffle--a body falling heavily--drew all eyes from langdon to the rear of the main aisle. an assistant sergeant-at-arms was lying face downward on the carpet. another was vainly trying to hold bud haines, who, tearing himself free, rushed down to his chief, waving a sheet of paper in the senator's eyes. "read that!" gasped the secretary, breathlessly, and he hurried away up a side passageway and out to reach the stairs leading to the press gallery. langdon spread the paper before him with difficulty with his trembling hands. slowly his whirling brain gave him the ability to read. slowly what appeared to him as a jumbled nothing resolved into orderly lines and words. he read and again stood before the senate, which had regained its usual composure after the fallen sergeant-at-arms had regained his feet and rubbed his bruises. "i do not think there will be any investigation," he said, with decided effort, struggling to down the emotion that choked him. "i ask this house to listen to the following letter: "dear senator langdon: when you receive this letter i shall be well on my way to take a steamer for cuba. i write to ask you not to think too harshly of me, for i will always cherish thoughts of the friendship you have shown me. "peabody and stevens have finally proved too much for me. when they got old telfer to swear to a forged contract and wanted me to forge your name in the land records at gulf city, i threw up my hands. their game will always go on, i suppose, but you gave them a shock when you broke up their altacoola graft scheme. and i'm glad you did they cast me aside to-day, probably thinking they could get me again if they needed me. "i am going on the sugar plantation of a friend, where i can make a new start and forget that i ever went to washington." langdon paused deliberately. the senate was hushed. the galleries were stifled. not even the rustle of a sheet of paper was heard in the reporters' gallery. the mississippian gazed around the senate chamber. he saw stevens and peabody craning their necks across the aisle and talking excitedly to each other. then he stepped forward and spoke, waving the paper in the air. "this letter is signed 'charles norton.'" the old southerner gazed triumphantly at the men who had sought to destroy him. it was with difficulty that the presiding officer could hammer down the burst of handclapping that arose from the galleries. senator horton, however, was not satisfied with langdon's sudden ascendency. "how do we know that that letter is not a forgery, a trick?" he exclaimed. "go get congressman norton--if you can--and get his denial," responded langdon. the junior senator from mississippi hurriedly pushed his way out of the senate chamber. his day's work was done. down on a broad plantation along the pearl river an old planter, who has borne his years well, as life goes nowadays, passes his days contentedly. he delights in the rompings of his grandchildren as they rouse the echoes of the mansion and prides himself on the achievements of their father, randolph, who has improved the plantation to a point never reached before. sometimes he receives a letter from his daughter. hope georgia, now mrs. haines, telling him of her happy life, or perhaps it is a letter from carolina, describing the good times she is having in london with the friends she is visiting. and the old planter goes out on the broad veranda in the warm southern twilight, and he thinks of the days that were. he remembers how the third mississippi won the day at crawfordsville. he thinks of the days when he fought the good fight in washington. his thoughts turn to the memory of her who went before these many years and whom he is soon to see again, and peace descends on the soul of the gentleman from mississippi as the world drops to slumber around him. the end. proofreading team. [illustration] letters of horace walpole selected and edited by charles duke yonge, m.a. author of "the history of france under the bourbons," "a life of marie antoinette," etc., etc. with portraits and illustrations volume ii london t. fisher unwin paternoster square new york: g.p. putnam's sons mdcccxc contents. - . . to mann, _dec._ , .--madame de boufflers at strawberry--the french opinion of the english character--richardson's novels--madame de beaumont . to the earl of hertford, _feb._ , .--debate on american taxes--petition of the periwig-makers--female head-dresses--lord byron's duel--opening of almack's--no. . to cole, _march_ , .--his "castle of otranto"--bishop percy's collection of old ballads . to the earl of hertford, _march_ , .--illness of the king--french and english actors and actresses: clairon, garrick, quin, mrs. clive . to mann, _may_ , .--riots of weavers--ministerial changes--factious conduct of mr. pitt . to montagu, _july_ , .--prospects of old age when joined to gout . to lady hervey, _sept._ , .--has reached paris--the french opera--illness of the dauphin--popularity of mr. hume . to montagu, _sept._ , .--is making new friends in paris--decay of the french stage--le kain--dumenil--new french inclination for philosophy and free-thinking--general admiration of hume's history and richardson's novels . to chute, _oct._ , .--his presentation at court--illness of the dauphin--description of his three sons . to conway, _jan._ , .--supper parties at paris--walpole writes a letter from le roi de prusse à monsieur rousseau . to gray, _jan._ , .--a constant round of amusements--a gallery of female portraits--madame geoffrin--madame du deffand--madame de mirepoix--madame de boufflers--madame de rochfort--the maréchale de luxemburg--the duchesse de choiseul--an old french dandy--m. de maurepas--popularity of his letter to rousseau . to mann, _feb._ , .--situation of affairs in england--cardinal york--death of stanilaus leczinski, ex-king of poland . to conway, _april_ , .--singular riot in madrid--changes in the french ministry--insurrections in the provinces . to montagu, _june _, .--the bath guide--swift's correspondence . to chute, _oct._ , .--bath--wesley . to mann, _july_ , .--ministerial difficulties--return of lord clive . to the same, _sept._ , .--death of charles townshend and of the duke of york--whist the new fashion in france . to gray, _feb._ , .--some new poems of gray--walpole's "historic doubts"--boswell's "corsica" . to mann, _march_ , .--wilkes is returned m.p. for middlesex--riots in london--violence of the mob . to montagu, _april_ , .--fleeting fame of witticisms--"the mysterious mother" . to mann, _june_ , .--case of wilkes . to montagu, _june_ , .--the english climate . to voltaire, _july_ , .--voltaire's criticisms on shakespeare--parnell's "hermit" . to the earl of strafford, _aug._ , .--arrival of the king of denmark--his popularity with the mob . to mann, _jan._ , .--wilkes's election--the comtesse de barri--the duc de choiseul's indiscretion . to montagu, _may_ , .--a garden party at strawberry--a ridotto at vauxhall . to mann, _june_ , .--paoli--ambassadorial etiquette . to chute, _aug._ , .--his return to paris--madame deffand--a translation of "hamlet"--madame dumenil--voltaire's "mérope" and "les guèbres" . to montagu, _sept._ , .--the french court--the young princes--st. cyr--madame de mailly . to mann, _feb._ , .--a masquerade--state of russia . to the same, _may_ , .--wilkes--burke's pamphlet--prediction of american republics--extravagance in england . to montagu, _may_ , .--masquerades in fashion--a lady's club . to mann, _june_ , ,--the princess of wales is gone to germany--terrible accident in paris . to the same, _dec._ , .--fall of the duc de choiseul's ministry . to the same, _feb._ , .--peace with spain--banishment of the french parliament--mrs. cornelys's establishment--the queen of denmark . to the same, _april_ , .--quarrel of the house of commons with the city--dissensions in the french court and royal family--extravagance in england . to conway, _july_ , .--great distress at the french court . to chute, _august_ , .--english gardening in france--anglomanie--he is weary of paris--death of gray . to cole, _jan._ , .--scantiness of the relics of gray--garrick's prologues, &c.--wilkes's squint . to mann, _april_ , .--marriage of the pretender--the princess louise, and her protection of the clergy--fox's eloquence . to cole, _jan._ , .--an answer to his "historic doubts"--his edition of grammont . to mann, _july_ , .--popularity of louis xvi.--death of lord holland--bruce's "travels" . to the same, _oct._ , .--discontent in america--mr. grenville's act for the trial of election petitions--highway robberies . to the same, _oct._ , .--the pope's death--wilkes is returned for middlesex--a quaker at versailles . to the countess of ailesbury, _nov._ , .--burke's election at bristol--resemblance of one house of commons to another--comfort of old age . to mann, _nov._ , .--death of lord clive--restoration of the french parliament--prediction of great men to arise in america--the king's speech . to conway and lady aylesbury, _jan._ , .--riots at boston--a literary coterie at bath-easton . to gem, _april_ , .--opposition of the french parliaments to turgot's measures . to conway, _june_ , .--his decorations at "strawberry"--his estimate of himself, and his admiration of conway . to mann, _dec._ , .--anglomanie in paris--horse-racing . to cole, _june_ , .--ossian--chatterton . to mann, _oct._ , .--affairs in america--the czarina and the emperor of china . to the same, _may_ , .--death of lord chatham--thurlow becomes lord chancellor . to cole, _june_ , .--exultation of france at our disasters in america--franklin--necker--chatterton . to mann, _july_ , .--admiral keppel's success--threats of invasion--funeral of lord chatham . to conway, _july_ , .--suggestion of negotiations with france--partition of poland . to mann, _oct._ , .--unsuccessful cruise of keppel--character of lord chatham . to the same, _march_ , .--capture of pondicherry--changes in the ministry--la fayette in america . to the same, _july_ , .--divisions in the ministry--character of the italians and of the french . to the same, _sept._ , .--eruption of vesuvius--death of lord temple . to the same, _jan._ , .--chances of war with holland--his father's policy--pope--character of bolingbroke . to the same, _feb._ , .--political excitement--lord g. gordon--extraordinary gambling affairs in india . to the same, _march_ , .--rodney's victory--walpole inclines to withdraw from amusements . to the same, _june_ , .--the gordon riots . to dalrymple, _dec._ , .--hogarth--colonel charteris--archbishop blackburne--jervas--richardson's poetry . to mann, _dec._ , .--the prince of wales--hurricane at barbadoes--a "voice from st. helena" . to the same, _sept._ , .--naval movements--siege of gibraltar--female fashions . to the same, _nov._ , .--capitulation of lord cornwallis--pitt and fox . to cole, _april_ , .--the language proper for inscriptions in england--fall of lord north's ministry--bryant . to mann, _sept._ , .--highwaymen and footpads . to the same, _dec._ , .--fox's india bill--balloons . to conway, _oct._ , .--balloons . to pinkerton, _june_ , .--his letters on literature--disadvantage of modern writers--comparison of lady mary wortley with madame de sévigné . to the same, _june_ , .--criticism on various authors: greek, latin, french, and english--humour of addison, and of fielding--waller--milton--boileau's "lutrin"--"the rape of the lock"--madame de sévigné . to mann, _aug._ , .--ministerial difficulties--the affair of the necklace in paris--fluctuating unpopularity of statesmen--fallacies of history . to the same, _oct._ , .--brevity of modern addresses--the old duchess of marlborough . to the same, _oct._ , .--lady craven--madame piozzi--"the rolliad"--herschel's astronomical discovery . to miss more, _oct._ , .--mrs. yearsley--madame piozzi--gibbon--"le mariage de figaro" . to the same, _july_ , .--gentlemen writers--his own reasons for writing when young--voltaire--"evelina"--miss seward--hayley . to mann, _feb._ , .--divisions in the royal family--the regency--the irish parliament . to miss berry, _june_ , .--"the arabian nights"--the aeneid--boccalini--orpheus and eurydice . to conway, _july_ , .--dismissal of necker--baron de breteuil--the duc d'orléans--mirabeau . to the same, _july_ , .--bruce's "travels"--violence of the french jacobins--necker . to miss berrys, _june_ , .--the prince of wales--growth of london and other towns . to the same, _aug._ , .--sir w. and lady hamilton--a boat-race--the margravine of anspach . to the same, _oct._ , .--arrest of the duchesse de biron--the queen of france--pythagoras . to conway, _july _, .--expectations of a visit to strawberry by the queen . to the same, _july_ , .--report of the visit list of illustrations. i. lady mary wortley-montagu ii. thomas gray, the poet photographed from a drawing in the national portrait gallery, made by james basire, the engraver, from a sketch from life by gray's friend, the rev. william mason. iii. strawberry hill, from the north-west iv. sir robert walpole from a mezzotint by j. simon, after a picture by sir godfrey kneller. v. view of garden, strawberry hill, from the great bed-chamber vi. reproductions of handwriting of thomas gray and horace walpole a selection from the letters of horace walpole. volume ii. _madame de boufflers at strawberry--the french opinion of the english character--richardson's novels--madame de beaumont._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _dec._ , . ... my journey to paris is fixed for some time in february, where i hear i may expect to find madame de boufflers, princess of conti. her husband is just dead; and you know the house of bourbon have an alacrity at marrying their old mistresses. she was here last year, being extremely infected with the _anglomanie_, though i believe pretty well cured by her journey. she is past forty, and does not appear ever to have been handsome, but is one of the most agreeable and sensible women i ever saw; yet i must tell you a trait of her that will not prove my assertion. lady holland asked her how she liked strawberry hill? she owned that she did not approve of it, and that it was not _digne de la solidité angloise_. it made me laugh for a quarter of an hour. they allot us a character we have not, and then draw consequences from that idea, which would be absurd, even if the idea were just. one must not build a gothic house because the nation is _solide_. perhaps, as everything now in france must be _à la grecque_, she would have liked a hovel if it pretended to be built after epictetus's--but heaven forbid that i should be taken for a philosopher! is it not amazing that the most sensible people in france can never help being domineered by sounds and general ideas? now everybody must be a _géomètre_, now a _philosophe_, and the moment they are either, they are to take up a character and advertise it: as if one could not study geometry for one's amusement or for its utility, but one must be a geometrician at table, or at a visit! so the moment it is settled at paris that the english are solid, every englishman must be wise, and, if he has a good understanding, he must not be allowed to play the fool. as i happen to like both sense and nonsense, and the latter better than what generally passes for the former, i shall disclaim, even at paris, the _profondeur_, for which they admire us; and i shall nonsense to admire madame de boufflers, though her nonsense is not the result of nonsense, but of sense, and consequently not the genuine nonsense that i honour. when she was here, she read a tragedy in prose to me, of her own composition, taken from "the spectator:" the language is beautiful and so are the sentiments. there is a madame de beaumont who has lately written a very pretty novel, called "lettres du marquis du roselle." it is imitated, too, from an english standard, and in my opinion a most woful one; i mean the works of richardson, who wrote those deplorably tedious lamentations, "clarissa" and "sir charles grandison," which are pictures of high life as conceived by a bookseller, and romances as they would be spiritualized by a methodist teacher: but madame de beaumont has almost avoided sermons, and almost reconciled sentiments and common sense. read her novel--you will like it. _debate on american taxes--petition of the periwig-makers--female head-dresses--lord byron's duel--opening of almack's--no. ._ to the earl of hertford. arlington street, _feb._ , . a great many letters pass between us, my dear lord, but i think they are almost all of my writing. i have not heard from you this age. i sent you two packets together by mr. freeman, with an account of our chief debates. since the long day, i have been much out of order with a cold and cough, that turned to a fever: i am now taking james's powder, not without apprehensions of the gout, which it gave me two or three years ago. there has been nothing of note in parliament but one slight day on the american taxes,[ ] which, charles townshend supporting, received a pretty heavy thump from barré, who is the present pitt, and the dread of all the vociferous norths and rigbys, on whose lungs depended so much of mr. grenville's power. do you never hear them to paris? [footnote : mr. grenville's taxation of stamps and other articles in our american colonies, which caused great discontent, and was repealed by lord rockingham's ministry.] the operations of the opposition are suspended in compliment to mr. pitt, who has declared himself so warmly for the question on the dismission of officers, that that motion waits for his recovery. a call of the house is appointed for next wednesday, but as he has had a relapse, the motion will probably be deferred. i should be very glad if it was to be dropped entirely for this session, but the young men are warm and not easily bridled. if it was not too long to transcribe, i would send you an entertaining petition of the periwig-makers to the king, in which they complain that men will wear their own hair. should one almost wonder if carpenters were to remonstrate, that since the peace their trade decays, and that there is no demand for wooden legs? _apropos_ my lady hertford's friend, lady harriot vernon, has quarrelled with me for smiling at the enormous head-gear of her daughter, lady grosvenor. she came one night to northumberland house with such display of friz, that it literally spread beyond her shoulders. i happened to say it looked as if her parents had stinted her in hair before marriage, and that she was determined to indulge her fancy now. this, among ten thousand things said by all the world, was reported to lady harriot, and has occasioned my disgrace. as she never found fault with anybody herself, i excuse her. you will be less surprised to hear that the duchess of queensberry has not yet done dressing herself marvellously: she was at court on sunday in a gown and petticoat of red flannel.... we have not a new book, play, intrigue, marriage, elopement, or quarrel; in short, we are very dull. for politics, unless the ministers wantonly thrust their hands into some fire, i think there will not even be a smoke. i am glad of it, for my heart is set on my journey to paris, and i hate everything that stops me. lord byron's[ ] foolish trial is likely to protract the session a little; but unless there is any particular business, i shall not stay for a puppet-show. indeed, i can defend my staying here by nothing but my ties to your brother. my health, i am sure, would be better in another climate in winter. long days in the house kill me, and weary me into the bargain. the individuals of each party are alike indifferent to me; nor can i at this time of day grow to love men whom i have laughed at all my lifetime--no, i cannot alter;--charles yorke or a charles townshend are alike to me, whether ministers or patriots. men do not change in my eyes, because they quit a black livery for a white one. when one has seen the whole scene shifted round and round so often, one only smiles, whoever is the present polonius or the gravedigger, whether they jeer the prince, or flatter his phrenzy. [footnote : in a previous letter walpole mentions the duel caused by a dispute at cards, in which lord byron was so unfortunate as to kill his cousin, mr. chaworth.] _thursday night, th._ the new assembly room at almack's[ ] was opened the night before last, and they say is very magnificent, but it was empty; half the town is ill with colds, and many were afraid to go, as the house is scarcely built yet. almack advertized that it was built with hot bricks and boiling water--think what a rage there must be for public places, if this notice, instead of terrifying, could draw anybody thither. they tell me the ceilings were dropping with wet--but can you believe me, when i assure you the duke of cumberland was there?--nay, had had a levée in the morning, and went to the opera before the assembly! there is a vast flight of steps, and he was forced to rest two or three times. if he dies of it,--and how should he not?--it will sound very silly when hercules or theseus ask him what he died of, to reply, "i caught my death on a damp staircase at a new club-room." [footnote : almack was a scotchman, who got up a sort of female club in king street, st. james's, at the place since known as willis's rooms. in the first half of the present century the balls of almack's were the most fashionable and exclusive in london, under the government of six lady patronesses, without a voucher from one of whom no one could obtain admittance. for a long time after trousers had become the ordinary wear they were proscribed at almack's, and gentlemen were required to adhere to the more ancient and showy attire of knee-breeches; and it was said that in consequence of one having attempted unsuccessfully to obtain admission in trousers the tickets for the next ball were headed with a notice that "gentlemen would not be admitted without breeches and stockings."] williams, the reprinter of the _north briton_, stood in the pillory to-day in palace yard.[ ] he went in a hackney-coach, the number of which was . the mob erected a gallows opposite him, on which they hung a boot[ ] with a bonnet of straw. then a collection was made for williams, which amounted to near £ . in short, every public event informs the administration how thoroughly they are detested, and that they have not a friend whom they do not buy. who can wonder, when every man of virtue is proscribed, and they have neither parts nor characters to impose even upon the mob! think to what a government is sunk, when a secretary of state is called in parliament to his face "the most profligate sad dog in the kingdom," and not a man can open his lips in his defence. sure power must have some strange unknown charm, when it can compensate for such contempt! i see many who triumph in these bitter pills which the ministry are so often forced to swallow; i own i do not; it is more mortifying to me to reflect how great and respectable we were three years ago, than satisfactory to see those insulted who have brought such shame upon us. 'tis poor amends to national honour to know, that if a printer is set in the pillory, his country wishes it was my lord this, or mr. that. they will be gathered to the oxfords, and bolingbrokes, and ignominious of former days; but the wound they have inflicted is perhaps indelible. that goes to _my_ heart, who had felt all the roman pride of being one of the first nations upon earth!--good night!--i will go to bed, and dream of kings drawn in triumph; and then i will go to paris, and dream i am pro-consul there: pray, take care not to let me be awakened with an account of an invasion having taken place from dunkirk![ ] yours ever, h.w. [footnote : this was the last occasion on which the punishment of the pillory was inflicted.] [footnote : a scandal, for which there was no foundation, imputed to the princess of wales an undue intimacy with john earl of bute; and with a practical pun on his name the mob in some of the riots which were common in the first years of his reign showed their belief in the lie by fastening a _jack-boot_ and a petticoat together and feeding a bonfire with them.] [footnote : one article in the late treaty of peace had stipulated for the demolition of dunkirk.] _his "castle of otranto"--bishop percy's collection of old ballads._ to the rev. william cole. strawberry hill, _march_ , . dear sir,--i had time to write but a short note with the "castle of otranto," as your messenger called on me at four o'clock, as i was going to dine abroad. your partiality to me and strawberry have, i hope, inclined you to excuse the wildness of the story. you will even have found some traits to put you in mind of this place. when you read of the picture quitting its panel, did not you recollect the portrait of lord falkland, all in white, in my gallery? shall i even confess to you, what was the origin of this romance! i waked one morning, in the beginning of last june, from a dream, of which, all i could recover was, that i had thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine with gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a great staircase i saw a gigantic hand in armour. in the evening i sat down, and began to write, without knowing in the least what i intended to say or relate. the work grew on my hands, and i grew fond of it--add, that i was very glad to think of anything, rather than politics. in short, i was so engrossed with my tale, which i completed in less than two months, that one evening, i wrote from the time i had drunk my tea, about six o'clock, till half an hour after one in the morning, when my hand and fingers were so weary, that i could not hold the pen to finish the sentence, but left matilda and isabella talking, in the middle of a paragraph. you will laugh at my earnestness; but if i have amused you, by retracing with any fidelity the manners of ancient days, i am content, and give you leave to think me idle as you please.... lord essex's trial is printed with the state trials. in return for your obliging offer, i can acquaint you with a delightful publication of this winter, "a collection of old ballads and poetry," in three volumes, many from pepys's collection at cambridge. there were three such published between thirty and forty years ago, but very carelessly, and wanting many in this set: indeed, there were others, of a looser sort, which the present editor [dr. percy[ ]], who is a clergyman, thought it decent to omit.... [footnote : dr. percy, bishop of dromore, in ireland, was the heir male of the ancient earls of northumberland, and the title of his collection was "reliques of english poetry." he was also himself the author of more than one imitation of the old ballads, one of which is mentioned by johnson in a letter to mr. langton: "dr. percy has written a long ballad in many _fits_ [fyttes]. it is pretty enough: he has printed and will soon publish it" (boswell, iii., ann. ).] my bower is determined, but not at all what it is to be. though i write romances, i cannot tell how to build all that belongs to them. madame danois, in the fairy tales, used to _tapestry_ them with _jonquils_; but as that furniture will not last above a fortnight in the year, i shall prefer something more huckaback. i have decided that the outside shall be of _treillage_, which, however, i shall not commence, till i have again seen some of old louis's old-fashioned _galanteries_ at versailles. rosamond's bower, you, and i, and tom hearne know, was a labyrinth: but as my territory will admit of a very short clew, i lay aside all thoughts of a mazy habitation: though a bower is very different from an arbour, and must have more chambers than one. in short, i both know, and don't know what it should be. i am almost afraid i must go and read spenser, and wade through his allegories, and drawling stanzas, to get at a picture. but, good night! you see how one gossips, when one is alone, and at quiet on one's own dunghill!--well! it may be trifling; yet it is such trifling as ambition never is happy enough to know! ambition orders palaces, but it is content that chats for a page or two over a bower. _illness of the king--french and english actors and actresses: clairon, garrick, quin, mrs. clive._ to the earl of hertford. arlington street, _march_ , . three weeks are a great while, my dear lord, for me to have been without writing to you; but besides that i have passed many days at strawberry, to cure my cold (which it has done), there has nothing happened worth sending across the sea. politics have dozed, and common events been fast asleep. of guerchy's affair, you probably know more than i do; it is now forgotten. i told him i had absolute proof of his innocence, for i was sure, that if he had offered money for assassination, the men who swear against him would have taken it. the king has been very seriously ill, and in great danger. i would not alarm you, as there were hopes when he was at the worst. i doubt he is not free yet from his complaint, as the humour fallen on his breast still oppresses him. they talk of his having a levée next week, but he has not appeared in public, and the bills are passed by commission; but he rides out. the royal family have suffered like us mortals; the duke of gloucester has had a fever, but i believe his chief complaint is of a youthful kind. prince frederick is thought to be in a deep consumption; and for the duke of cumberland, next post will probably certify you of his death, as he is relapsed, and there are no hopes of him. he fell into his lethargy again, and when they waked him, he said he did not know whether he could call himself obliged to them. i dined two days ago at monsieur de guerchy's, with the count de caraman, who brought me your letter. he seems a very agreeable man, and you may be sure, for your sake, and madame de mirepoix's, no civilities in my power shall be wanting. i have not yet seen schouvaloff,[ ] about whom one has more curiosity--it is an opportunity of gratifying that passion which one can so seldom do in personages of his historic nature, especially remote foreigners. i wish m. de caraman had brought the "siege of calais," which he tells me is printed, though your account has a little abated my impatience. they tell us the french comedians are to act at calais this summer--is it possible they can be so absurd, or think us so absurd as to go thither, if we would not go further? i remember, at rheims, they believed that english ladies went to calais to drink champagne--is this the suite of that belief? i was mightily pleased with the duc de choiseul's answer to the clairon;[ ] but when i hear of the french admiration of garrick, it takes off something of my wonder at the prodigious adoration of him at home. i never could conceive the marvellous merit of repeating the works of others in one's own language with propriety, however well delivered. shakespeare is not more admired for writing his plays, than garrick for acting them. i think him a very good and very various player--but several have pleased me more, though i allow not in so many parts. quin[ ] in falstaff, was as excellent as garrick[ ] in lear. old johnson far more natural in everything he attempted. mrs. porter and your dumesnil surpassed him in passionate tragedy; cibber and o'brien were what garrick could never reach, coxcombs, and men of fashion. mrs. clive is at least as perfect in low comedy--and yet to me, ranger was the part that suited garrick the best of all he ever performed. he was a poor lothario, a ridiculous othello, inferior to quin in sir john brute and macbeth, and to cibber in bayes, and a woful lord hastings and lord townley. indeed, his bayes was original, but not the true part: cibber was the burlesque of a great poet, as the part was designed, but garrick made it a garretteer. the town did not like him in hotspur, and yet i don't know whether he did not succeed in it beyond all the rest. sir charles williams and lord holland thought so too, and they were no bad judges. i am impatient to see the clairon, and certainly will, as i have promised, though i have not fixed my day. but do you know you alarm me! there was a time when i was a match for madame de mirepoix at pharaoh, to any hour of the night, and i believe did play with her five nights in a week till three and four in the morning--but till eleven o'clock to-morrow morning--oh! that is a little too much, even at loo. besides, i shall not go to paris for pharaoh--if i play all night, how shall i see everything all day? [footnote : schouvaloff was notorious as a favourite of the empress catharine.] [footnote : mdlle. clairon had been for some years the most admired tragic actress in france. in that age actors and actresses in france were exposed to singular insults. m. lacroix, in his "france in the eighteenth century," tells us: "they were considered as inferior beings in the social scale; excommunicated by the church, and banished from society, they were compelled to endure all the humiliations and affronts which the public chose to inflict on them in the theatre; and, if any of them had the courage to make head against the storm, and to resist the violence and cruelty of the pit, they were sent to prison, and not released but on condition of apologising to the tyrants who had so cruelly insulted them. many had a sufficient sense of their own dignity to withdraw themselves from this odious despotism after having been in prison in fort l'evêcque, their ordinary place of confinement, by the order of the gentlemen of the chamber or the lieutenant of police; and it was in this way that mdlle. clairon bade farewell to the comédie française and gave up acting in , when at the very height of her talent, and in the middle of her greatest dramatic triumphs." the incident here alluded to by walpole was that "a critic named fréron had libelled her in a journal to which he contributed; and, as she could not obtain justice, she applied to the duc de choiseul, the prime minister. even he was unable to put her in the way of obtaining redress, and sought to pacify her by comparing her position to his own. 'i am,' said he, 'mademoiselle, like yourself, a public performer; with this difference in your favour, that you choose what parts you please, and are sure to be crowned with the applause of the public; for i reckon as nothing the bad taste of one or two wretched individuals who have the misfortune of not adoring you. i, on the other hand, am obliged to act the parts imposed on me by necessity. i am sure to please nobody; i am satirised, criticised, libelled, hissed; yet i continue to do my best. let us both, then, sacrifice our little resentments and enmities to the public service, and serve our country, each in our own station. besides, the queen has condescended to forgive fréron, and you may therefore, without compromising your dignity, imitate her majesty's clemency'" ("mem. de bachaumont," i. ). but mdlle. was not to be pacified, nor to be persuaded to expose herself to a repetition of insult; but, though only forty-one, she retired from the stage for ever.] [footnote : quin was employed by the princess of wales to teach her son elocution, and when he heard how generally his young sovereign was praised for the grace and dignity of his delivery of his speech to his parliament, he boasted, "ah, it was i taught the boy to speak."] [footnote : garrick was not only a great actor, but also a great reformer of the stage. he seems to have excelled equally both in tragedy and comedy, which makes it natural to suppose that in some parts he may have been excelled by other actors; though he had no equal (and perhaps never has had) in both lines. he was also himself the author of several farces of more than average merit.] lady sophia thomas has received the baume de vie, for which she gives you a thousand thanks, and i ten thousand. we are extremely amused with the wonderful histories of your hyena[ ] in the gevaudan; but our fox-hunters despise you: it is exactly the enchanted monster of old romances. if i had known its history a few months ago, i believe it would have appeared in the "castle of otranto,"--the success of which has, at last, brought me to own it, though the wildness of it made me terribly afraid; but it was comfortable to have it please so much, before any mortal suspected the author: indeed, it met with too much honour far, for at first it was universally believed to be mr. gray's. as all the first impression is sold, i am hurrying out another, with a new preface, which i will send you. [footnote : a wolf of enormous size, and, in some respects, irregular conformation, which for a long time ravaged the gevaudan; it was, soon after the date of this letter, killed, and mr. walpole saw it in paris.] _riots of weavers--ministerial changes--factious conduct of mr. pitt._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _may_ , , _sent by way of paris_. my last i think was of the th. since that we have had events of almost every sort. a whole administration dismissed, taken again, suspended, confirmed; an insurrection; and we have been at the eve of a civil war. many thousand weavers rose, on a bill for their relief being thrown out of the house of lords by the duke of bedford. for four days they were suffered to march about the town with colours displayed, petitioning the king, surrounding the house of lords, mobbing and wounding the duke of bedford, and at last besieging his house, which, with his family, was narrowly saved from destruction. at last it grew a regular siege and blockade; but by garrisoning it with horse and foot literally, and calling in several regiments, the tumult is appeased. lord bute rashly taking advantage of this unpopularity of his enemies, advised the king to notify to his ministers that he intended to dismiss them,--and by this step, no _succedaneum_ being prepared, reduced his majesty to the alternative of laying his crown at the foot of mr. pitt, or of the duke of bedford; and as it proved at last, of both. the duke of cumberland was sent for, and was sent to mr. pitt, from whom, though offering almost _carte blanche_, he received a peremptory refusal. the next measure was to form a ministry from the opposition. willing were they, but timid. without mr. pitt nobody would engage. the king was forced to desire his old ministers to stay where they were. they, who had rallied their very dejected courage, demanded terms, and hard ones indeed--_promise_ of never consulting lord bute, dismission of his brother, and the appointment of lord granby to be captain-general--so soon did those tools of prerogative talk to their exalted sovereign in the language of the parliament to charles i. the king, rather than resign his sceptre on the first summons, determined to name his uncle captain-general. thus the commanders at least were ready on each side; but the ministers, who by the treaty of paris showed how little military glory was the object of their ambition, having contented themselves with seizing st. james's without bloodshed. they gave up their general, upon condition mr. mackenzie and lord holland were sacrificed to them, and, tacitly, lord northumberland, whose government they bestow on lord weymouth without furnishing another place to the earl, as was intended for him. all this is granted. still there are inexplicable riddles. in the height of negotiation, lord temple was reconciled to his brother george, and declares himself a fast friend to the late and present ministry. what part mr. pitt will act is not yet known--probably not a hostile one; but here are fine seeds of division and animosity sown! i have thus in six words told you the matter of volumes. you must analyse them yourself, unless you have patience to wait till the consequences are the comment. don't you recollect very similar passages in the time of mr. pelham, the duke of newcastle, lord granville, and mr. fox? but those wounds did not penetrate so deep as these! here are all the great, and opulent noble families engaged on one side or the other. here is the king insulted and prisoner, his mother stigmatised, his uncle affronted, his favourite persecuted. it is again a scene of bohuns, montforts, and plantagenets. while i am writing, i received yours of the th, containing the revolutions in the fabric and pictures of the palace pitti. my dear sir, make no excuse; we each write what we have to write; and if our letters remain, posterity will read the catastrophes of st. james's and the palace pitti with equal indifference, however differently they affect you and me now. for my part, though agitated like ludlow or my lord clarendon on the events of the day, i have more curiosity about havering in the bower, the jointure house of ancient royal dowagers, than about queen isabella herself. mr. wilkes, whom you mention, will be still more interested, when he hears that his friend lord temple has shaken hands with his foes halifax and sandwich; and i don't believe that any amnesty is stipulated for the exile. churchill, wilkes's poet, used to wish that he was at liberty to attack mr. pitt and charles townshend,--the moment is come, but churchill is gone! charles townshend has got lord holland's place--and yet the people will again and again believe that nothing is intended but their interest. when i recollect all i have seen and known, i seem to be as old as methuselah: indeed i was born in politics,--but i hope not to die in them. with all my experience, these last five weeks have taught me more than any other ten years; accordingly, a retreat is the whole scope of my wishes; but not yet arrived. your amiable sister, mrs. foote, is settled in town; i saw her last night at the opera with lady ailesbury. she is enchanted with manzuoli--and you know her approbation is a test, who has heard all the great singers, learnt of all, and sings with as much taste as any of them. adieu! _prospects of old age when joined to gout._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _july_ , . the less one is disposed, if one has any sense, to talk of oneself to people that inquire only out of compliment, and do not listen to the answer, the more satisfaction one feels in indulging a self-complacency, by sighing to those that really sympathise with our griefs. do not think it is pain that makes me give this low-spirited air to my letter. no, it is the prospect of what is to come, not the sensation of what is passing, that affects me. the loss of youth is melancholy enough; but to enter into old age through the gate of infirmity most disheartening. my health and spirits make me take but slight notice of the transition, and, under the persuasion of temperance being a talisman, i marched boldly on towards the descent of the hill, knowing i must fall at last, but not suspecting that i should stumble by the way. this confession explains the mortification i feel. a month's confinement to one who never kept his bed a day is a stinging lesson, and has humbled my insolence to almost indifference. judge, then, how little i interest myself about public events. i know nothing of them since i came hither, where i had not only the disappointment of not growing better, but a bad return in one of my feet, so that i am still wrapped up and upon a couch. it was the more unlucky as lord hertford is come to england for a very few days. he has offered to come to me; but as i then should see him only for some minutes, i propose being carried to town to-morrow. it will be so long before i can expect to be able to travel, that my french journey will certainly not take place so soon as i intended, and if lord hertford goes to ireland, i shall be still more fluctuating; for though the duke and duchess of richmond will replace them at paris, and are as eager to have me with them, i have had so many more years heaped upon me within this month, that i have not the conscience to trouble young people, when i can no longer be as juvenile as they are. indeed i shall think myself decrepit, till i again saunter into the garden in my slippers and without my hat in all weathers,--a point i am determined to regain if possible; for even this experience cannot make me resign my temperance and my hardiness. i am tired of the world, its politics, its pursuits, and its pleasures; but it will cost me some struggles before i submit to be tender and careful. christ! can i ever stoop to the regimen of old age? i do not wish to dress up a withered person, nor drag it about to public places; but to sit in one's room, clothed warmly, expecting visits from folks i don't wish to see, and tended and nattered by relations impatient for one's death! let the gout do its worse as expeditiously as it can; it would be more welcome in my stomach than in my limbs. i am not made to bear a course of nonsense and advice, but must play the fool in my own way to the last, alone with all my heart, if i cannot be with the very few i wished to see: but, to depend for comfort on others, who would be no comfort to me; this surely is not a state to be preferred to death: and nobody can have truly enjoyed the advantages of youth, health, and spirits, who is content to exist without the two last, which alone bear any resemblance to the first. you see how difficult it is to conquer my proud spirit: low and weak as i am, i think my resolution and perseverance will get the better, and that i shall still be a gay shadow; at least, i will impose any severity upon myself, rather than humour the gout, and sink into that indulgence with which most people treat it. bodily liberty is as dear to me as mental, and i would as soon flatter any other tyrant as the gout, my whiggism extending as much to my health as to my principles, and being as willing to part with life, when i cannot preserve it, as your uncle algernon when his freedom was at stake. adieu! _has reached paris--the french opera--illness of the dauphin--popularity of mr. hume._ to the right hon. lady hervey. paris, _sept._ , . i am but two days old here, madam, and i doubt i wish i was really so, and had my life to begin, to live it here. you see how just i am, and ready to make _amende honorable_ to your ladyship. yet i have seen very little. my lady hertford has cut me to pieces, and thrown me into a caldron with tailors, periwig-makers, snuff-box-wrights, milliners, &c., which really took up but little time; and i am come out quite new, with everything but youth. the journey recovered me with magic expedition. my strength, if mine could ever be called strength, is returned; and the gout going off in a minuet step. i will say nothing of my spirits, which are indecently juvenile, and not less improper for my age than for the country where i am; which, if you will give me leave to say it, has a thought too much gravity. i don't venture to laugh or talk nonsense, but in english. madame geoffrin came to town but last night, and is not visible on sundays; but i hope to deliver your ladyship's letter and packet to-morrow. mesdames d'aiguillon, d'egmont, and chabot, and the duc de nivernois are all in the country. madame de boufflers is at l'isle adam, whither my lady hertford is gone to-night to sup, for the first time, being no longer chained down to the incivility of an ambassadress. she returns after supper; an irregularity that frightens me, who have not yet got rid of all my barbarisms. there is one, alas! i never shall get over--the dirt of this country: it is melancholy, after the purity of strawberry! the narrowness of the streets, trees clipped to resemble brooms, and planted on pedestals of chalk, and a few other points, do not edify me. the french opera, which i have heard to-night, disgusted me as much as ever; and the more for being followed by the devin de village, which shows that they can sing without cracking the drum of one's ear. the scenes and dances are delightful: the italian comedy charming. then i am in love with _treillage_ and fountains, and will prove it at strawberry. chantilly is so exactly what it was when i saw it above twenty years ago, that i recollected the very position of monsieur le duc's chair and the gallery. the latter gave me the first idea of mine; but, presumption apart, mine is a thousand times prettier. i gave my lord herbert's compliments to the statue of his friend the constable; and, waiting some time for the concierge, i called out, _où est vatel_? in short, madam, being as tired as one can be of one's own country,--i don't say whether this is much or little,--i find myself wonderfully disposed to like this. indeed i wish i could wash it. madame de guerchy is all goodness to me; but that is not new. i have already been prevented by great civilities from madame de brentheim and my old friend madame de mirepoix; but am not likely to see the latter much, who is grown a most particular favourite of the king, and seldom from him. the dauphin is ill, and thought in a very bad way. i hope he will live, lest the theatres should be shut up. your ladyship knows i never trouble my head about royalties, farther than it affects my interest. in truth, the way that princes affect my interest is not the common way. i have not yet tapped the chapter of baubles, being desirous of making my revenues maintain me here as long as possible. it will be time enough to return to my parliament when i want money. mr. hume, that is _the mode_, asked much about your ladyship. i have seen madame de monaco, and think her very handsome, and extremely pleasing. the younger madame d'egmont, i hear, disputes the palm with her; and madame de brionne is not left without partisans. the nymphs of the theatres are _laides à faire peur_, which at my age is a piece of luck, like going into a shop of curiosities, and finding nothing to tempt one to throw away one's money. there are several english here, whether i will or not. i certainly did not come for them, and shall connect with them as little as possible. the few i value, i hope sometimes to hear of. your ladyship guesses how far that wish extends. consider, too, madam, that one of my unworthinesses is washed and done away, by the confession i made in the beginning of my letter. _is making new friends in paris--decay of the french stage--le kain--dumenil--new french inclination for philosophy and free-thinking--general admiration of hume's history and richardson's novels._ to george montagu, esq. paris, _sept._ , . the concern i felt at not seeing you before i left england, might make me express myself warmly, but i assure you it was nothing but concern, nor was mixed with a grain of pouting. i knew some of your reasons, and guessed others. the latter grieve me heartily; but i advise you to do as i do: when i meet with ingratitude, i take a short leave both of it and its host. formerly i used to look out for indemnification somewhere else; but having lived long enough to learn that the reparation generally proved a second evil of the same sort, i am content now to skin over such wounds with amusements, which at least leave no scars. it is true, amusements do not always amuse when we bid them. i find it so here; nothing strikes me; everything i do is indifferent to me. i like the people very well, and their way of life very well; but as neither were my object, i should not much care if they were any other people, or it was any other way of life. i am out of england, and my purpose is answered. nothing can be more obliging than the reception i meet with everywhere. it may not be more sincere (and why should it?) than our cold and bare civility; but it is better dressed, and looks natural; one asks no more. i have begun to sup in french houses, and as lady hertford has left paris to-day, shall increase my intimacies. there are swarms of english here, but most of them are going, to my great satisfaction. as the greatest part are very young, they can no more be entertaining to me than i to them, and it certainly was not my countrymen that i came to live with. suppers please me extremely; i love to rise and breakfast late, and to trifle away the day as i like. there are sights enough to answer that end, and shops you know are an endless field for me. the city appears much worse to me than i thought i remembered it. the french music as shocking as i knew it was. the french stage is fallen off, though in the only part i have seen le kain i admire him extremely. he is very ugly and ill made, and yet has an heroic dignity which garrick wants, and great fire. the dumenil i have not seen yet, but shall in a day or two. it is a mortification that i cannot compare her with the clairon, who has left the stage. grandval i saw through a whole play without suspecting it was he. alas! four-and-twenty years make strange havoc with us mortals! you cannot imagine how this struck me! the italian comedy, now united with their _opera comique_, is their most perfect diversion; but alas! harlequin, my dear favourite harlequin, my passion, makes me more melancholy than cheerful. instead of laughing, i sit silently reflecting how everything loses charms when one's own youth does not lend it gilding! when we are divested of that eagerness and illusion with which our youth presents objects to us, we are but the _caput mortuum_ of pleasure. grave as these ideas are, they do not unfit me for french company. the present tone is serious enough in conscience. unluckily, the subjects of their conversation are duller to me than my own thoughts, which may be tinged with melancholy reflections, but i doubt from my constitution will never be insipid. the french affect philosophy, literature, and free-thinking: the first never did, and never will possess me; of the two others i have long been tired. free-thinking is for one's self, surely not for society; besides one has settled one's way of thinking, or knows it cannot be settled, and for others i do not see why there is not as much bigotry in attempting conversions from any religion as to it. i dined to-day with a dozen _savans_, and though all the servants were waiting, the conversation was much more unrestrained, even on the old testament, than i would suffer at my own table in england, if a single footman was present. for literature, it is very amusing when one has nothing else to do. i think it rather pedantic in society; tiresome when displayed professedly; and, besides, in this country one is sure it is only the fashion of the day. their taste in it is worst of all: could one believe that when they read our authors, richardson and mr. hume should be their favourites? the latter is treated here with perfect veneration. his history, so falsified in many points, so partial in as many, so very unequal in its parts, is thought the standard of writing. in their dress and equipages they are grown very simple. we english are living upon their old gods and goddesses; i roll about in a chariot decorated with cupids, and look like the grandfather of adonis. of their parliaments and clergy i hear a good deal, and attend very little: i cannot take up any history in the middle, and was too sick of politics at home to enter into them here. in short, i have done with the world, and live in it rather than in a desert, like you. few men can bear absolute retirement, and we english worst of all. we grow so humorsome, so obstinate and capricious, and so prejudiced, that it requires a fund of good-nature like yours not to grow morose. company keeps our rind from growing too coarse and rough; and though at my return i design not to mix in public, i do not intend to be quite a recluse. my absence will put it in my power to take up or drop as much as i please. adieu! i shall inquire about your commission of books, but having been arrived but ten days, have not yet had time. need i say?--no i need not--that nobody can be more affectionately yours than, &c. _his presentation at court--illness of the dauphin--description of his three sons._ to john chute, esq. paris, _oct._ , . i don't know where you are, nor when i am likely to hear of you. i write at random, and, as i talk, the first thing that comes into my pen. i am, as you certainly conclude, much more amused than pleased. at a certain time of life, sights and new objects may entertain one, but new people cannot find any place in one's affection. new faces with some name or other belonging to them, catch my attention for a minute--i cannot say many preserve it. five or six of the women that i have seen already are very sensible. the men are in general much inferior, and not even agreeable. they sent us their best, i believe, at first, the duc de nivernois. their authors, who by the way are everywhere, are worse than their own writings, which i don't mean as a compliment to either. in general, the style of conversation is solemn, pedantic, and seldom animated, but by a dispute. i was expressing my aversion to disputes: mr. hume, who very gratefully admires the tone of paris, having never known any other tone, said with great surprise, "why, what do you like, if you hate both disputes and whisk?" what strikes me the most upon the whole is, the total difference of manners between them and us, from the greatest object to the least. there is not the smallest similitude in the twenty-four hours. it is obvious in every trifle. servants carry their lady's train, and put her into her coach with their hat on. they walk about the streets in the rain with umbrellas to avoid putting on their hats; driving themselves in open chaises in the country without hats, in the rain too, and yet often wear them in a chariot in paris when it does not rain. the very footmen are powdered from the break of day, and yet wait behind their master, as i saw the duc of praslin's do, with a red pocket-handkerchief about their necks. versailles, like everything else, is a mixture of parade and poverty, and in every instance exhibits something most dissonant from our manners. in the colonnades, upon the staircases, nay in the antechambers of the royal family, there are people selling all sorts of wares. while we were waiting in the dauphin's sumptuous bedchamber, till his dressing-room door should be opened, two fellows were sweeping it, and dancing about in sabots to rub the floor. you perceive that i have been presented. the queen took great notice of me; none of the rest said a syllable. you are let into the king's bedchamber just as he has put on his shirt; he dresses and talks good-humouredly to a few, glares at strangers, goes to mass, to dinner, and a-hunting. the good old queen, who is like lady primrose in the face, and queen caroline in the immensity of her cap, is at her dressing-table, attended by two or three old ladies, who are languishing to be in abraham's bosom, as the only man's bosom to whom they can hope for admittance. thence you go to the dauphin, for all is done in an hour. he scarce stays a minute; indeed, poor creature, he is a ghost, and cannot possibly last three months. the dauphiness is in her bedchamber, but dressed and standing; looks cross, is not civil, and has the true westphalian grace and accents. the four mesdames, who are clumsy plump old wenches, with a bad likeness to their father, stand in a bedchamber in a row, with black cloaks and knotting-bags, looking good-humoured, not knowing what to say, and wriggling as if they wanted to make water. this ceremony too is very short; then you are carried to the dauphin's three boys, who you may be sure only bow and stare. the duke of berry[ ] looks weak and weak-eyed: the count de provence is a fine boy; the count d'artois well enough. the whole concludes with seeing the dauphin's little girl dine, who is as round and as fat as a pudding. [footnote : the duc de berri was afterwards louis xvi.; the comte de provence became louis xviii.; and the comte d'artois, charles x.] in the queen's antechamber we foreigners and the foreign ministers were shown the famous beast of the gevaudan, just arrived, and covered with a cloth, which two chasseurs lifted up. it is an absolute wolf, but uncommonly large, and the expression of agony and fierceness remains strongly imprinted on its dead jaws. i dined at the duc of praslin's with four-and-twenty ambassadors and envoys, who never go but on tuesdays to court. he does the honours sadly, and i believe nothing else well, looking important and empty. the duc de choiseul's face, which is quite the reverse of gravity, does not promise much more. his wife is gentle, pretty, and very agreeable. the duchess of praslin, jolly, red-faced, looking very vulgar, and being very attentive and civil. i saw the duc de richelieu in waiting, who is pale, except his nose, which is red, much wrinkled, and exactly a remnant of that age which produced general churchill, wilks the player, the duke of argyll, &c. adieu! _supper parties at paris--walpole writes a letter from le roi de prusse À monsieur rousseau._ to the hon. h.s. conway. paris, _jan._ , . i have received your letter by general vernon, and another, to which i have writ an answer, but was disappointed of a conveyance i expected. you shall have it with additions, by the first messenger that goes; but i cannot send it by the post, as i have spoken very freely of some persons you name, in which we agree thoroughly. these few lines are only to tell you i am not idle in writing to you. i almost repent having come hither; for i like the way of life and many of the people so well, that i doubt i shall feel more regret at leaving paris than i expected. it would sound vain to tell you the honours and distinctions i receive, and how much i am in fashion; yet when they come from the handsomest women in france, and the most respectable in point of character, can one help being a little proud? if i was twenty years younger, i should wish they were not quite so respectable. madame de brionne, whom i have never seen, and who was to have met me at supper last night at the charming madame d'egmont's, sent me an invitation by the latter for wednesday next. i was engaged, and hesitated. i was told, "comment! savez-vous que c'est qu'elle ne feroit pas pour toute la france?" however, lest you should dread my returning a perfect old swain, i study my wrinkles, compare myself and my limbs to every plate of larks i see, and treat my understanding with at least as little mercy. yet, do you know, my present fame is owing to a very trifling composition, but which has made incredible noise. i was one evening at madame geoffrin's joking on rousseau's affectations and contradictions, and said some things that diverted them. when i came home, i put them into a letter, and showed it next day to helvetius and the duc de nivernois; who were so pleased with it, that after telling me some faults in the language, which you may be sure there were, they encouraged me to let it be seen. as you know i willingly laugh at mountebanks, _political_ or literary, let their talents be ever so great, i was not averse. the copies have spread like wild-fire; _et me voici à la mode_! i expect the end of my reign at the end of the week with great composure. here is the letter:-- le roi de prusse a monsieur rousseau.[ ] mon cher jean jacques, vous avez renoncé à génève votre patrie; vous vous êtes fait chasser de la suisse, pays tant vanté dans vos écrits; la france vous a décreté. venez donz chez moi; j'admire vos talens; je m'amuse de vos rêveries, qui (soit dit en passant) vous occupent trop, et trop long tems. il faut à la fin être sage et heureux. vous avez fait assez parler de vous par des singularités peu convenables à un véritable grand homme. démontrez à vos ennemis que vous pouvez avoir quelquefois le sens commun: cela les fachera, sans vous faire tort. mes états vous offrent une retraite paisible; je vous veux du bien, et je vous en ferai, si vous le trouvez bon. mais si vous vous obstiniez à rejetter mons secours, attendez-vous que je ne le dirai à personne. si vous persistez à vous creuser l'esprit pour trouver de nouveaux malheurs, choisissez les tels que vous voudrez. je suis roi, je puis vous en procurer au gré de vos souhaits: et ce qui sûrement ne vous arrivera pas vis à vis de vos ennemis, je cesserai de vous persecuter quand vous cesserez de mettre votre gloire à l'être. votre bon ami, frÉdÉric. [footnote : rousseau was always ready to believe in plots to mortify and injure him; and he was so much annoyed by this composition of walpole's, that, shortly after his arrival in england, he addressed the following letter to _the london chronicle_:-- "wootton [in derbyshire], _march_ , "you have failed, sir, in the respect which every private person owes to a crowned head, in attributing publicly to the king of prussia a letter full of extravagance and malignity, of which, for those very reasons, you ought to have known he could not be the author. you have even dared to transcribe his signature, as if you had seen him write it with his own hand. i inform you, sir, that the letter was fabricated at paris, and what rends my heart is that the impostor has accomplices in england. you owe to the king of prussia, to truth, and to me to print the letter which i write to you, and which i sign, as an atonement for a fault with which you would doubtless reproach yourself severely, if you knew to what a dark transaction you have rendered yourself an accessory. i salute you, sir, very sincerely, "rousseau."] the princesse de ligne, whose mother was an englishwoman, made a good observation to me last night. she said, "je suis roi, je puis vous procurer de malheurs," was plainly the stroke of an english pen. i said, then i had certainly not well imitated the character in which i wrote. you will say i am a bold man to attack both voltaire and rousseau. it is true; but i shoot at their heel, at their vulnerable part. i beg your pardon for taking up your time with these trifles. the day after to-morrow we go in cavalcade with the duchess of richmond to her audience; i have got my cravat and shammy shoes. adieu! _a constant round of amusements--a gallery of female portraits--madame geoffrin--madame du deffand--madame de mirepoix--madame de boufflers--madame de rochfort--the marÉchale de luxemburg--the duchesse de choiseul--an old french dandy--m. de maurepas--popularity of his letter to rousseau._ to mr. gray. paris, _jan._ , . i am much indebted to you for your kind letter and advice; and though it is late to thank you for it, it is at least a stronger proof that i do not forget it. however, i am a little obstinate, as you know, on the chapter of health, and have persisted through this siberian winter in not adding a grain to my clothes, and going open-breasted without an under waistcoat. in short, though i like extremely to live, it must be in my own way, as long as i can: it is not youth i court, but liberty; and i think making oneself tender is issuing a _general warrant_ against one's own person. i suppose i shall submit to confinement when i cannot help it; but i am indifferent enough to life not to care if it ends soon after my prison begins. i have not delayed so long to answer your letter, from not thinking of it, or from want of matter, but from want of time. i am constantly occupied, engaged, amused, till i cannot bring a hundredth part of what i have to say into the compass of a letter. you will lose nothing by this: you know my volubility, when i am full of new subjects; and i have at least many hours of conversation for you at my return. one does not learn a whole nation in four or five months; but, for the time, few, i believe, have seen, studied, or got so much acquainted with the french as i have. by what i said of their religious or rather irreligious opinions, you must not conclude their people of quality atheists--at least, not the men. happily for them, poor souls! they are not capable of going so far into thinking. they assent to a great deal, because it is the fashion, and because they don't know how to contradict. they are ashamed to defend the roman catholic religion, because it is quite exploded; but i am convinced they believe it in their hearts. they hate the parliaments and the philosophers, and are rejoiced that they may still idolise royalty. at present, too, they are a little triumphant: the court has shown a little spirit, and the parliaments much less: but as the duc de choiseul, who is very fluttering, unsettled, and inclined to the philosophers, has made a compromise with the parliament of bretagne, the parliaments might venture out again, if, as i fancy will be the case, they are not glad to drop a cause, of which they began to be a little weary of the inconveniences. the generality of the men, and more than the generality are dull and empty. they have taken up gravity, thinking it was philosophy and english, and so have acquired nothing in the room of their natural levity and cheerfulness. however, as their high opinion of their own country remains, for which they can no longer assign any reason, they are contemptuous and reserved, instead of being ridiculously, consequently pardonably, impertinent. i have wondered, knowing my own countrymen, that we had attained such a superiority. i wonder no longer, and have a little more respect for english _heads_ than i had. the women do not seem of the same country: if they are less gay than they were, they are more informed, enough to make them very conversable. i know six or seven with very superior understandings; some of them with wit, or with softness, or very good sense. [illustration: thomas gray, the poet. _from a drawing in the national portrait gallery by james basire, after a sketch by gray's friend and biographer, the rev. william mason._] madame geoffrin, of whom you have heard much, is an extraordinary woman, with more common sense than i almost ever met with. great quickness in discovering characters, penetration in going to the bottom of them, and a pencil that never fails in a likeness--seldom a favourable one. she exacts and preserves, spite of her birth and their nonsensical prejudices about nobility, great court and attention. this she acquires by a thousand little arts and offices of friendship: and by a freedom and severity, which seem to be her sole end of drawing a concourse to her; for she insists on scolding those she inveigles to her. she has little taste and less knowledge, but protects artisans and authors, and courts a few people to have the credit of serving her dependents. she was bred under the famous madame tencin,[ ] who advised her never to refuse any man; for, said her mistress, though nine in ten should not care a farthing for you, the tenth may live to be an useful friend. she did not adopt or reject the whole plan, but fully retained the purport of the maxim. in short, she is an epitome of empire, subsisting by rewards and punishments. her great enemy, madame du deffand,[ ] was for a short time mistress of the regent, is now very old and stoneblind, but retains all her vivacity, wit, memory, judgment, passions, and agreeableness. she goes to operas, plays, suppers, and versailles; gives suppers twice a week; has everything new read to her; makes new songs and epigrams, ay, admirably, and remembers every one that has been made these four-score years. she corresponds with voltaire, dictates charming letters to him, contradicts him, is no bigot to him or anybody, and laughs both at the clergy and the philosophers. in a dispute, into which she easily falls, she is very warm, and yet scarce ever in the wrong: her judgment on every subject is as just as possible; on every point of conduct as wrong as possible: for she is all love and hatred, passionate for her friends to enthusiasm, still anxious to be loved, i don't mean by lovers, and a vehement enemy, but openly. as she can have no amusement but conversation, the least solitude and _ennui_ are insupportable to her, and put her into the power of several worthless people, who eat her suppers when they can eat nobody's of higher rank; wink to one another and laugh at her; hate her because she has forty times more parts--and venture to hate her because she is not rich.[ ] she has an old friend whom i must mention, a monsieur pondeveyle, author of the "fatpuni," and the "complaisant," and of those pretty novels, the "comte de cominge," the "siege of calais," and "les malheurs de l'amour." would you not expect this old man to be very agreeable? he can be so, but seldom is: yet he has another very different and very amusing talent, the art of parody, and is unique in his kind. he composes tales to the tunes of long dances: for instance, he has adapted the regent's "daphnis and chloe" to one, and made it ten times more indecent; but is so old, and sings it so well, that it is permitted in all companies. he has succeeded still better in _les caractères de la danse_, to which he has adapted words that express all the characters of love. with all this he has not the least idea of cheerfulness in conversation; seldom speaks but on grave subjects, and not often on them; is a humourist, very supercilious, and wrapt up in admiration of his own country, as the only judge of his merit. his air and look are cold and forbidding; but ask him to sing, or praise his works, his eyes and smiles open and brighten up. in short, i can show him to you: the self-applauding poet in hogarth's rake's progress, the second print, is so like his very features and very wig, that you would know him by it, if you came hither--for he certainly will not go to you. [footnote : _"the famous mme. tencin._" "infamous" would be more appropriate. she had been the mistress of dubois, and was the mother of d'alembert.] [footnote : his description of her on first making her acquaintance was not altogether complimentary. in a letter of the preceding october he calls her "an old blind debauchée of wit." in fact, she had been one of the mistresses of the regent, duc d'orléans, and at first his chief inducement to court her society was to hear anecdotes of the regent. but gradually he became so enamoured of her society that he kept up an intimacy with her till her death in . there must be allowed to be much delicate perception and delineation of character in this description of the french fine ladies of the time.] [footnote : to the above portrait of madame du deffand it may be useful to subjoin the able development of her character which appeared in the _quarterly review_ for may, , in its critique on her letters to walpole:--"this lady seems to have united the lightness of the french character with the solidity of the english. she was easy and volatile, yet judicious and acute; sometimes profound and sometimes superficial. she had a wit playful, abundant, and well-toned; an admirable conception of the ridiculous, and great skill in exposing it; a turn for satire, which she indulged, not always in the best-natured manner, yet with irresistible effect; powers of expression varied, appropriate, flowing from the source, and curious without research; a refined taste for letters, and a judgment both of men and books in a high degree enlightened and accurate."] madame de mirepoix's understanding is excellent of the useful kind, and can be so when she pleases of the agreeable kind. she has read, but seldom shows it, and has perfect taste. her manner is cold, but very civil; and she conceals even the blood of lorraine, without ever forgetting it. nobody in france knows the world better, and nobody is personally so well with the king. she is false, artful, and insinuating beyond measure when it is her interest, but indolent and a coward. she never had any passion but gaming, and always loses. for ever paying court, the sole produce of a life of art is to get money from the king to carry on a course of paying debts or contracting new ones, which she discharges as fast as she is able. she advertised devotion to get made _dame du palais_ to the queen; and the very next day this princess of lorraine was seen riding backwards with madame pompadour in the latter's coach. when the king was stabbed, and heartily frightened, the mistress took a panic too, and consulted d'argenson, whether she had not best make off in time. he hated her, and said, by all means. madame de mirepoix advised her to stay. the king recovered his spirits, d'argenson was banished,[ ] and la maréchale inherited part of the mistress's credit.--i must interrupt my history of illustrious women with an anecdote of monsieur de maurepas, with whom i am much acquainted, and who has one of the few heads which approach to good ones, and who luckily for us was disgraced, and the marine dropped, because it was his favourite object and province. he employed pondeveyle to make a song on the pompadour: it was clever and bitter, and did not spare even majesty. this was maurepas absurd enough to sing at supper at versailles. banishment ensued; and lest he should ever be restored, the mistress persuaded the king that he had poisoned her predecessor madame de chateauroux. maurepas is very agreeable, and exceedingly cheerful; yet i have seen a transient silent cloud when politics are talked of. [footnote : the comte d'argenson was minister at war.] madame de boufflers, who was in england, is a _savante_, mistress of the prince of conti, and very desirous of being his wife. she is two women, the upper and the lower. i need not tell you that the lower is gallant, and still has pretensions. the upper is very sensible, too, and has a measured eloquence that is just and pleasing--but all is spoiled by an unrelaxed attention to applause. you would think she was always sitting for her picture to her biographer. madame de rochfort is different from all the rest. her understanding is just and delicate; with a finesse of wit that is the result of reflection. her manner is soft and feminine, and though a _savante_, without any declared pretensions. she is the _decent_ friend of monsieur de nivernois; for you must not believe a syllable of what you read in their novels. it requires the greatest curiosity, or the greatest habitude, to discover the smallest connexion between the sexes here. no familiarity, but under the veil of friendship, is permitted, and love's dictionary is as much prohibited, as at first sight one should think his ritual was. all you hear, and that pronounced with _nonchalance_, is, that _monsieur un tel_ has had _madame une telle_. the duc de nivernois has parts, and writes at the top of the mediocre, but, as madame geoffrin says, is _manqué par tout; guerrier manqué, ambassadeur manqué, homme d'affaires manqué_, and _auteur manque_--no, he is not _homme de naissance manqué_. he would think freely, but has some ambition of being governor to the dauphin, and is more afraid of his wife and daughter, who are ecclesiastic fagots. the former out-chatters the duke of newcastle; and the latter, madame de gisors, exhausts mr. pitt's eloquence in defence of the archbishop of paris. monsieur de nivernois lives in a small circle of dependent admirers, and madame de rochfort is high-priestess for a small salary of credit. the duchess of choiseul, the only young one of these heroines, is not very pretty, but has fine eyes, and is a little model in waxwork, which not being allowed to speak for some time as incapable, has a hesitation and modesty, the latter of which the court has not cured, and the former of which is atoned for by the most interesting sound of voice, and forgotten in the most elegant turn and propriety of expression. oh! it is the gentlest, amiable, civil little creature that ever came out of a fairy egg! so just in its phrases and thoughts, so attentive and good-natured! everybody loves it but its husband, who prefers his own sister the duchesse de granmont, an amazonian, fierce, haughty dame, who loves and hates arbitrarily, and is detested. madame de choiseul, passionately fond of her husband, was the martyr of this union, but at last submitted with a good grace; has gained a little credit with him, and is still believed to idolize him. but i doubt it--she takes too much pains to profess it. i cannot finish my list without adding a much more common character--but more complete in its kind than any of the foregoing, the maréchale de luxembourg. she has been very handsome, very abandoned, and very mischievous. her beauty is gone, her lovers are gone, and she thinks the devil is coming. this dejection has softened her into being rather agreeable, for she has wit and good-breeding; but you would swear, by the restlessness of her person and the horrors she cannot conceal, that she had signed the compact, and expected to be called upon in a week for the performance. i could add many pictures, but none so remarkable. in those i send you there is not a feature bestowed gratis or exaggerated. for the beauties, of which there are a few considerable, as mesdames de brionne, de monaco, et d'egmont, they have not yet lost their characters, nor got any. you must not attribute my intimacy with paris to curiosity alone. an accident unlocked the doors for me. that _passe-par-tout_ called the fashion has made them fly open--and what do you think was that fashion?--i myself. yes, like queen eleanor in the ballad, i sunk at charing cross, and have risen in the fauxbourg st. germain. a _plaisanterie_ on rousseau, whose arrival here in his way to you brought me acquainted with many anecdotes conformable to the idea i had conceived of him, got about, was liked much more than it deserved, spread like wild-fire, and made me the subject of conversation. rousseau's devotees were offended. madame de boufflers, with a tone of sentiment, and the accents of lamenting humanity, abused me heartily, and then complained to myself with the utmost softness. i acted contrition, but had liked to have spoiled all, by growing dreadfully tired of a second lecture from the prince of conti, who took up the ball, and made himself the hero of a history wherein he had nothing to do. i listened, did not understand half he said (nor he either), forgot the rest, said yes when i should have said no, yawned when i should have smiled, and was very penitent when i should have rejoiced at my pardon. madame de boufflers was more distressed, for he owned twenty times more than i had said: she frowned, and made him signs; but she had wound up his clack, and there was no stopping it. the moment she grew angry, the lord of the house grew charmed, and it has been my fault if i am not at the head of a numerous sect; but, when i left a triumphant party in england, i did not come here to be at the head of a fashion. however, i have been sent for about like an african prince, or a learned canary-bird, and was, in particular, carried by force to the princess of talmond,[ ] the queen's cousin, who lives in a charitable apartment in the luxembourg, and was sitting on a small bed hung with saints and sobieskis, in a corner of one of those vast chambers, by two blinking tapers. i stumbled over a cat and a footstool in my journey to her presence. she could not find a syllable to say to me, and the visit ended with her begging a lap-dog. thank the lord! though this is the first month, it is the last week of my reign; and i shall resign my crown with great satisfaction to a _bouillie_ of chestnuts, which is just invented, and whose annals will be illustrated by so many indigestions, that paris will not want anything else these three weeks. i will enclose the fatal letter[ ] after i have finished this enormous one; to which i will only add, that nothing has interrupted my sévigné researches but the frost. the abbé de malesherbes has given me full power to ransack livry. i did not tell you, that by great accident, when i thought on nothing less, i stumbled on an original picture of the comte de grammont. adieu! you are generally in london in march; i shall be there by the end of it.[ ] [footnote : the princess of talmond was born in poland, and said to be allied to the queen, marie leczinska, with whom she came to france, and there married a prince of the house of bouillon.] [footnote : the letter from the king of prussia to rousseau.--walpole.] [footnote : gray, in reference to this letter, writes thus to dr. wharton, on the th of march:--"mr. walpole writes me now and then a long and lively letter from paris, to which place he went the last summer, with the gout upon him; sometimes in his limbs; often in his stomach and head. he has got somehow well (not by means of the climate, one would think) goes to all public places, sees all the best company, and is very much in fashion. he says he sunk, like queen eleanor, at charing cross, and has risen again at paris. he returns again in april; but his health is certainly in a deplorable state."--_works by mitford_, vol. iv. p. .] _situation of affairs in england--cardinal york--death of stanilaus leczinski, ex-king of poland._ to sir horace mann. paris, _feb._ , . i have received your letters very regularly, and though i have not sent you nearly so many, yet i have not been wanting to our correspondence, when i have had anything particular to say, or knew what to say. the duke of richmond has been gone to england this fortnight; he had a great deal of business, besides engagements here; and if he has failed writing, at least i believe he received yours. mr. conway, i suppose, has received them too, but not to my knowledge; for i have received but one from him this age. he has had something else to do than to think of pretenders, and pretenders to pretensions. it has been a question (and a question scarcely decided yet) not only whether he and his friends should remain ministers, but whether we should not draw the sword on our colonies, and provoke them and the manufacturers at home to rebellion. the goodness of providence, or fortune by its permission, has interposed, and i hope prevented blood; though george grenville and the duke of bedford, who so mercifully checked our victories, in compassion to france, grew heroes the moment there was an opportunity of conquering our own brethren. it was actually moved by them and their banditti to send troops to america. the stout earl of bute, who is never afraid when not personally in danger, joined his troops to his ancient friends, late foes, and now new allies. yet this second race of spaniards, so fond of gold and thirsting after american blood, were routed by ; their whole force amounting but to . the earl, astonished at this defeat, had recourse to that kind of policy which machiavel recommends in his chapter of _back-stairs_. caesar himself disavowed his ministers, and declared he had not been for the repeal, and that his servants had used his name without his permission. a paper was produced to his eyes, which proved this denial an equivocation. the ministers, instead of tossing their places into the middle of the closet, as i should have done, had the courage and virtue to stand firm, and save both europe and america from destruction. at that instant, who do you think presented himself as lord bute's guardian angel? only one of his bitterest enemies: a milk-white angel [duke of york], white even to his eyes and eyelashes, very purblind, and whose tongue runs like a fiddlestick. you have seen this divinity, and have prayed to it for a riband. well, this god of love became the god of politics, and contrived meetings between bute, grenville, and bedford; but, what happens to highwaymen _after_ a robbery, happened to them _before_; they quarrelled about the division of the plunder, before they had made the capture--and thus, when the last letters came away, the repeal was likely to pass in both houses, and tyranny once more despairs. this is the quintessence of the present situation in england. to how many _north britons_, no. , will that wretched scot furnish matter? but let us talk of your _cardinal duke of york_[ ]: so his folly has left his brother in a worse situation than he took him up! _york_ seems a title fated to sit on silly heads--or don't let us talk of him; he is not worth it. [footnote : cardinal york was the younger brother of charles edward. he lived in italy; and, after the death of his brother, assumed the title of king of england as henry ix. after the confiscation of the greater part of the papal revenues by napoleon, his chief means of livelihood was a pension of £ , a year allowed him by george iv. out of his private purse.] i am so sorry for the death of lady hillsborough, as i suppose mr. skreene is glad of his consort's departure. she was a common creature, bestowed on the public by lord sandwich. lady hillsborough had sense and merit, and is a great loss to her family. by letters hither, we hear miserable accounts of poor sir james macdonald; pray let him know that i have written to him, and how much i am concerned for his situation. this court is plunged into another deep mourning for the death of old stanislaus,[ ] who fell into the fire; it caught his night-gown and burnt him terribly before he got assistance. his subjects are in despair, for he was a model of goodness and humanity; uniting or rather creating, generosity from economy. the poles had not the sense to re-elect him, after his virtues were proved, they who had chosen him before they knew him. i am told such was the old man's affection for his country, and persuasion that he ought to do all the good he could, that he would have gone to poland if they had offered him the crown. he has left six hundred thousand livres, and a _rente viagere_ of forty thousand crowns to the queen, saved from the sale of his polish estates, from his pension of two millions, and from his own liberality. his buildings, his employment of the poor, his magnificence, and his economy, were constant topics of admiration. not only the court-tables were regularly and nobly served, but he treated, and defrayed his old enemy's grand-daughter, the princess christina, on her journey hither to see her sister the dauphiness. when mesdames his grand-daughters made him an unexpected visit, he was so disturbed for fear it should derange his finances, which he thought were not in advance, that he shut himself up for an hour with his treasurer, to find resources; was charmed to know he should not run in debt, and entertained them magnificently. his end was calm and gay, like his life, though he suffered terribly, and he said so extraordinary a life could not finish in a common way. to a lady who had set her ruffle on fire, and scorched her arm about the same time, he said, "madame, nous brulons du même feu." the poor queen had sent him the very night-gown that occasioned his death: he wrote to her, "c'étoit pour me tenir chaud, mais il m'a tenu trop chaud." [footnote : stanislaus leczinski was the father of the queen of louis xv. on the conclusion of peace between france and the empire it was arranged that the duke of lorraine should exchange that duchy for tuscany, and that lorraine should be allotted to stanislaus, with a reversion to his daughter and to france after his death.] yesterday we had the funeral oration on the dauphin; and are soon to have one on stanislaus. it is a noble subject; but if i had leisure, i would compose a grand funeral oration on the number of princes dead within these six months. what fine pictures, contrasts, and comparisons they would furnish! the duke of parma and the king of denmark reigning virtuously with absolute power! the emperor at the head of europe, and encompassed with mimic roman eagles, tied to the apron-strings, of a bigoted and jealous virago. the dauphin cultivating virtues under the shade of so bright a crown, and shining only at the moment that he was snatched from the prospect of empire. the old pretender wasting away in obscurity and misfortune, after surviving the duke of cumberland, who had given the last blow to the hopes of his family; and stanislaus perishing by an accident,--he who had swam over the billows raised by peter the great and charles xii., and reigning, while his successor and second of his name was reigning on his throne. it is not taking from the funereal part to add, that when so many good princes die, the czarina is still living! the public again thinks itself on the eve of a war, by the recall of stahremberg, the imperial minister. it seems at least to destroy the expectation of a match between the youngest archduchess and the dauphin, which it was thought stahremberg remained here to bring about. i like your great duke for feeling the loss of his minister. it is seldom that a young sovereign misses a governor before he tastes the fruits of his own incapacity. _march_ _st_. we have got more letters from england, where the ministers are still triumphant. they had a majority of on the day that it was voted to bring in a bill to repeal the stamp act. george grenville's ignorance and blunders were displayed to his face and to the whole world; he was hissed through the court of requests, where mr. conway was huzza'd. it went still farther for mr. pitt, whom the mob accompanied home with "io pitts!" this is new for an opposition to be so unpopular. adieu! _singular riot in madrid--changes in the french ministry--insurrections in the provinces._ to the hon. h.s. conway. paris, _april_ , . i sent you a few lines by the post yesterday with the first accounts of the insurrections at madrid.[ ] i have since seen stahremberg, the imperial minister,[ ] who has had a courier from thence; and if lord rochford has not sent one, you will not be sorry to know more particulars. the mob disarmed the invalids; stopped all coaches, to prevent squillaci's[ ] flight; and meeting the duke de medina celi, forced him and the duke d'arcos to carry their demands to the king. his most frightened majesty granted them directly; on which his highness the people despatched a monk with their demands in writing, couched in four articles: the diminution of the gabel on bread and oil; the revocation of the ordonnance on hats and cloaks; the banishment of squillaci; and the abolition of some other tax, i don't know what. the king signed all; yet was still forced to appear in a balcony, and promise to observe what he had granted. squillaci was sent with an escort to carthagena, to embark for naples, and the first commissioner of the treasury appointed to succeed him; which does not look much like observation of the conditions. some say ensenada is recalled, and that grimaldi is in no good odour with the people. if the latter and squillaci are dismissed, we get rid of two enemies. [footnote : the spanish government had taken on itself to regulate dress, and to introduce french fashions into madrid--an innovation so offensive to spanish pride, that it gave rise to a formidable insurrection, of which the populace took advantage to demand the removal of some obnoxious taxes.] [footnote : prince stahremberg was the imperial ambassador at madrid.] [footnote : signor squillaci, an italian, was the spanish prime minister.] the tumult ceased on the grant of the demands; but the king retiring that night to aranjuez, the insurrection was renewed the next morning, on pretence that this flight was a breach of the capitulation. the people seized the gates of the capital, and permitted nobody to go out. in this state were things when the courier came away. the ordonnance against going in disguise looks as if some suspicions had been conceived; and yet their confidence was so great as not to have two thousand guards in the town. the pitiful behaviour of the court makes one think that the italians were frightened, and that the spanish part of the ministry were not sorry it took that turn. as i suppose there is no great city in spain which has not at least a bigger bundle of grievances than the capital, one shall not wonder if the pusillanimous behaviour of the king encourages them to redress themselves too. there is what is called a change of the ministry here; but it is only a crossing over and figuring in. the duc de praslin has wished to retire for some time; and for this last fortnight there has been much talk of his being replaced by the duc d'aiguillon, the duc de nivernois, &c.; but it is plain, though not believed till _now_, that the duc de choiseul is all-powerful. to purchase the stay of his cousin praslin, on whom he can depend, and to leave no cranny open, he has ceded the marine and colonies to the duc de praslin, and taken the foreign and military department himself. his cousin is, besides, named _chef du conseil des finances_; a very honourable, very dignified, and very idle place, and never filled since the duc de bethune had it. praslin's hopeful cub, the viscount, whom you saw in england last year, goes to naples; and the marquis de durfort to vienna--a cold, dry, proud man, with the figure and manner of lord cornbury. great matters are expected to-day from the parliament, which re-assembles. a _mousquetaire_, his piece loaded with a _lettre de cachet_, went about a fortnight ago to the notary who keeps the parliamentary registers, and demanded them. they were refused--but given up, on the _lettre de cachet_ being produced. the parliament intends to try the notary for breach of trust, which i suppose will make his fortune; though he has not the merit of perjury, like carteret webb. there have been insurrections at bourdeaux and toulouse on the militia, and twenty-seven persons were killed at the latter; but both are appeased. these things are so much in vogue, that i wonder the french do not dress _à la révolte_. the queen is in a very dangerous way. this will be my last letter; but i am not sure i shall set out before the middle of next week. yours ever. _the bath guide--swift's correspondence._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _june_ , . i don't know when i shall see you, but therefore must not i write to you? yet i have as little to say as may be. i could cry through a whole page over the bad weather. i have but a lock of hay, you know, and i cannot get it dry, unless i bring it to the fire. i would give half-a-crown for a pennyworth of sun. it is abominable to be ruined in coals in the middle of june. what pleasure have you to come! there is a new thing published, that will make you burst your cheeks with laughing. it is called the "new bath guide."[ ] it stole into the world, and for a fortnight no soul looked into it, concluding its name was its true name. no such thing. it is a set of letters in verse, in all kind of verses, describing the life at bath, and incidentally everything else; but so much wit, so much humour, fun, and poetry, so much originality, never met together before. then the man has a better ear than dryden or handel. _apropos_ to dryden, he has burlesqued his st. cecilia, that you will never read it again without laughing. there is a description of a milliner's box in all the terms of landscape, _painted lawns and chequered shades_, a moravian ode, and a methodist ditty, that are incomparable, and the best names that ever were composed. i can say it by heart, though a quarto, and if i had time would write it you down; for it is not yet reprinted, and not one to be had. [footnote : by christopher anstey. "have you read the 'new bath guide'? it is the only thing in fashion, and is a new and original kind of humour. miss prue's conversation i doubt you will paste down, as sir w. st. quintyn did before he carried it to his daughter; yet i remember you all read 'crazy tales' without pasting" (_gray to wharton.--works by mitford_, vol. iv. p. ).] there are two new volumes, too, of swift's correspondence, that will not amuse you less in another way, though abominable, for there are letters of twenty persons now alive; fifty of lady betty germain, one that does her great honour, in which she defends her friend my lady suffolk, with all the spirit in the world,[ ] against that brute, who hated everybody that he hoped would get him a mitre, and did not. there is one to his miss vanhomrigh, from which i think it plain he lay with her, notwithstanding his supposed incapacity, yet not doing much honour to that capacity, for he says he can drink coffee but once a week, and i think you will see very clearly what he means by coffee. his own journal sent to stella during the four last years of the queen, is a fund of entertainment. you will see his insolence in full colours, and, at the same time, how daily vain he was of being noticed by the ministers he affected to treat arrogantly. his panic at the mohocks is comical; but what strikes one, is bringing before one's eyes the incidents of a curious period. he goes to the rehearsal of "cato," and says the _drab_ that acted cato's daughter could not say her part. this was only mrs. oldfield. i was saying before george selwyn, that this journal put me in mind of the present time, there was the same indecision, irresolution, and want of system; but i added, "there is nothing new under the sun." "no," said selwyn, "nor under the grandson." [footnote : the letter dated feb. , - .] my lord chesterfield has done me much honour: he told mrs. anne pitt that he would subscribe to any politics i should lay down. when she repeated this to me, i said, "pray tell him i have laid down politics." i am got into puns, and will tell you an excellent one of the king of france, though it does not spell any better than selwyn's. you must have heard of count lauragais, and his horse-race, and his quacking his horse till he killed it.[ ] at his return the king asked him what he had been doing in england? "sire, j'ai appris à penser"--"des chevaux?"[ ] replied the king. good night! i am tired and going to bed. yours ever. [footnote : in a previous letter walpole mentioned that the count and the english lord forbes had had a race, which the count lost; and that, as his horse died the following night, surgeons were employed to open the body, and they declared he had been poisoned. "the english," says walpole, "suspect that a groom, who, i suppose, had been reading livy or demosthenes, poisoned it on patriotic principles to secure victory to his country. the french, on the contrary, think poison as common as oats or beans in the stables at newmarket. in short, there is no impertinence which they have not uttered; and it has gone so far that two nights ago it was said that the king had forbidden another race which was appointed for monday between the prince de nassau and a mr. forth, to prevent national animosities."] [footnote : louis pretending to think he had said _pansen_.] _bath--wesley._ to john chute, esq. bath, _oct._ , . i am impatient to hear that your charity to me has not ended in the gout to yourself--all my comfort is, if you have it, that you have good lady brown to nurse you.[ ] [footnote : in a letter of the preceding week he mentions having gone to bath to drink the waters there, but "is disappointed in the city. their new buildings, that are so admired, look like a collection of little hospitals. the rest is detestable, and all crammed together, and surrounded with perpendicular hills that have no beauty. the river [the avon] is paltry enough to be the seine or the tiber. oh! how unlike my lovely thames!"] my health advances faster than my amusement. however, i have been to one opera, mr. wesley's. they have boys and girls with charming voices, that sing hymns, in parts, to scotch ballad tunes; but indeed so long, that one would think they were already in eternity, and knew how much time they had before them. the chapel is very neat, with true gothic windows (yet i am not converted); but i was glad to see that luxury is creeping in upon them before persecution: they have very neat mahogany stands for branches, and brackets of the same in taste. at the upper end is a broad _hautpas_ of four steps, advancing in the middle: at each end of the broadest part are two of _my_ eagles, with red cushions for the parson and clerk. behind them rise three more steps, in the midst of which is a third eagle for pulpit. scarlet armed chairs to all three. on either hand, a balcony for elect ladies. the rest of the congregation sit on forms. behind the pit, in a dark niche, is a plain table within rails; so you see the throne is for the apostle. wesley is a lean elderly man, fresh-coloured, his hair smoothly combed, but with a _soupçon_ of curl at the ends. wondrous clean, but as evidently an actor as garrick. he spoke his sermon, but so fast, and with so little accent, that i am sure he has often uttered it, for it was like a lesson. there were parts and eloquence in it; but towards the end he exalted his voice, and acted very ugly enthusiasm; decried learning, and told stories, like latimer, of the fool of his college, who said, "i _thanks_ god for everything." except a few from curiosity, and _some honourable women_, the congregation was very mean. there was a scotch countess of buchan, who is carrying a pure rosy vulgar face to heaven, and who asked miss rich, if that was _the author of the poets_. i believe she meant me and the "noble authors." the bedfords came last night. lord chatham was with me yesterday two hours; looks and walks well, and is in excellent political spirits. _ministerial difficulties--return of lord clive._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _july_ , . you have heard enough, even in the late reign, of our _interministeriums_, not to be surprised that the present lasts so long. i am not writing now to tell you it is at an end; but i thought you might grow impatient. the parliament was scarcely separated when a negotiation was begun with the bedfords, through lord gower; with a view to strengthen the remains of administration by that faction,[ ] but with no intention of including george grenville, who is more hated at court than he is even in other places. after some treaty, lord gower, much against his will, i believe, was forced to bring word, that there was no objection made by his friends to the treasury remaining in the duke of grafton; that grenville would support without a place; but lord temple (who the deuce thought of lord temple?) insisted on equal power, as he had demanded with lord chatham. there was no end of that treaty! another was then begun with lord rockingham. he pleaded want of strength in his party, and he might have pleaded almost every other want--and asked if he might talk to the bedfords. yes! he might talk to whom he pleased, but the king insisted on keeping the chancellor, "and me," said the duke of grafton; but added, that for himself, he was very willing to cede the treasury to his lordship. away goes the marquis to woburn; and, to charm the king more, negotiates with both grenvilles too. these last, who had demanded everything of the crown, were all submission to the marquis, and yet could not dupe him so fast as he tried to be duped. oh! all, all were ready to stay out, or turn their friends in, or what he pleased. he took this for his own talents in negotiation, came back highly pleased, and notified his success. the duke of grafton wrote to him that the king meant they should come in, _to extend and strengthen his administration_. too elated with his imaginary power, the marquis returned an answer, insolently civil to the duke, and not commonly decent for the place it was to be carried to. it said, that his lordship had laid it down for a principle of the treaty, that the present administration was at an end. that supposed, _he_ was ready to _form_ a comprehensive ministry, but first must talk to the king. [footnote : the difficulties were caused by lord chatham's illness. he, though prime minister, only held the office of lord privy seal, the duke of grafton being first lord of the treasury; consequently, when lord chatham became incapable of transacting any business whatever, even of signing a resignation of his office, the duke became the prime minister, and continued so for three years.] instead of such an answer as such a _remonstrance_ deserved, a very prudent reply was made. the king approved the idea of a comprehensive administration: he desired to unite the hearts of _all_ his subjects: he meant to exclude men of no denomination attached to his person and government; it was such a ministry that _he_ intended to _appoint_. when his lordship should have _formed a plan_ on such views, his majesty would be ready to receive it from him. the great statesman was wofully puzzled on receiving this message. however, he has summoned his new allies to assist in composing a scheme or list. when they bring it, how they will bring it formed, or whether they will ever bring it, the lord knows. there the matter rests at present. if the marquis does not alter his tone, he sinks for ever, and from being the head of a separate band, he must fall into the train of grenville, the man whom he and his friends opposed on all the arbitrary acts of that ministry, and whom they have irremissibly offended by repealing his darling stamp act. _apropos_, america is pacified, and the two factions cannot join to fish in troubled waters, there, at least. lord clive[ ] is arrived, has brought a million for himself, two diamond drops worth twelve thousand pounds for the queen, a scimitar dagger, and other matters, covered with brilliants, for the king, and worth twenty-four thousand more. these _baubles_ are presents from the deposed and imprisoned mogul, whose poverty can still afford to give such bribes. lord clive refused some overplus, and gave it to some widows of officers: it amounted to ninety thousand pounds. he has _reduced_ the appointments of the governor of bengal to thirty-two thousand pounds a year; and, what is better, has left such a chain of forts and distribution of troops as will entirely secure possession of the country--till we lose it. thus having composed the eastern and western worlds, we are at leisure to kick and cuff for our own little island, which is great satisfaction; and i don't doubt but my lord temple hopes that we shall be so far engaged before france and spain are ripe to meddle with us, that when they do come, they will not be able to re-unite us. [footnote : it is hardly necessary to point out that this is the taker of arcot, the victor of plassey, and even now second to none but warren hastings in the splendid roll of governors-general.] don't let me forget to tell you, that of all the friends you have shot flying, there is no one whose friendship for you is so little dead as lord hillsborough's. he spoke to me earnestly about your riband the other day, and said he had pressed to have it given to you. write and thank him. you have missed one by lord clive's returning alive, unless he should give a hamper of diamonds for the garter. well! i have remembered every point but one--and see how he is forgotten! lord chatham! he was pressed to come forth and set the administration on its legs again. he pleaded total incapacity; grew worse and grows better. oh! how he ought to dread recovering! mr. conway resigns the day after to-morrow. i hope in a week to tell you something more positive than the uncertainties in this letter. good-night. _death of charles townshend and of the duke of york--whist the new fashion in france._ to sir horace mann. paris, _sept._ , . since you insist on my writing from hence, i will; i intended to defer it a few days longer, as i shall set out on my return this day se'nnight. within the five weeks of my being here, there have happened three deaths, which certainly nobody expected six weeks ago. yet, though the persons were all considerable, their loss will make little impression on the state of any affairs. monsieur de guerchy returned from his embassy with us about a month before my arrival. he had been out of order some time, and had taken waters, yet seeing him so often i had perceived no change, till i was made to remark it, and then i did not think it considerable. on my arrival, i was shocked at the precipitate alteration. he was emaciated, yellow, and scarcely able to support himself. a fever came on in ten days, mortification ensued, and carried him off. it is said that he had concealed and tampered indiscreetly with an old complaint, acquired before his marriage. this was his radical death; i doubt, vexation and disappointment fermented the wound. instead of the duchy he hoped, his reception was freezing. he was a frank, gallant gentleman; universally beloved with us; hated i believe by nobody, and by no means inferior in understanding to many who affected to despise his abilities. but our comet is set too! charles townshend[ ] is dead. all those parts and fire are extinguished; those volatile salts are evaporated; that first eloquence of the world is dumb! that duplicity is fixed, that cowardice terminated heroically. he joked on death as naturally as he used to do on the living, and not with the affectation of philosophers, who wind up their works with sayings which they hope to have remembered. with a robust person he had always a menacing constitution. he had had a fever the whole summer, recovered as it was thought, relapsed, was neglected, and it turned to an incurable putrid fever. [footnote : mr. townshend was chancellor of the exchequer; and he might have been added by lord macaulay to his list of men whom their eloquence had caused to be placed in offices for which they were totally unfit; for he had not only no special knowledge of finance, but he was one of the most careless and incautious of mankind, even in his oratory. in that, however, after the retirement of lord chatham, he seems to have had no rival in either house but mr. burke. it was to his heedless resumption of grenville's plan of taxing our colonies in north america that our loss of them was owing. in his "memoirs of the reign of george iii." walpole gives the following description of him: "charles townshend, who had studied nothing with accuracy or attention, had parts that embraced all knowledge with such quickness that he seemed to create knowledge, instead of searching for it; and, ready as burke's wit was, it appeared artificial when set by that of townshend, which was so abundant that in him it seemed a loss of time to think. he had but to speak, and all he said was new, natural, and yet uncommon. if burke replied extempore, his very answers that sprang from what had been said by others were so pointed and artfully arranged that they wore the appearance of study and preparation; like beautiful translations, they seemed to want the soul of the original author. townshend's speeches, like the 'satires' of pope, had a thousand times more sense and meaning than the majestic blank verse of pitt; and yet the latter, like milton, stalked with a conscious dignity of pre-eminence, and fascinated his audience with that respect which always attends the pompous but often hollow idea of the sublime." burke, too, in one of his speeches on american affairs, utters a still warmer panegyric on his character and abilities, while lamenting his policy and its fruits: "i speak of charles townshend, officially the reproducer of this fatal scheme [the taxation of the colonies], whom i cannot, even now, remember without some degree of sensibility. in truth, sir, he was the delight and ornament of this house, and the charm of every private society which he honoured with his presence. perhaps there never arose in this country, nor in any country, a man of a more pointed and finished wit, and (where his passions were not concerned) of a more refined, exquisite, and penetrating judgment. if he had not so great a stock, as some have had who flourished formerly, of knowledge long treasured up, he knew better by far than any man i was ever acquainted with how to bring together within a short time all that was necessary to establish, to illustrate, and to decorate that side of the question he supported. he stated his matter skillfully and powerfully. he particularly excelled in a most luminous explanation and display of his subject. his style of argument was neither trite nor vulgar, nor subtle and abstruse. he hit the house between wind and water; and, not being troubled with too anxious a zeal for any matter in question, he was never more tedious nor more earnest than the preconceived opinions and present temper of his hearers required, with whom he was always in perfect unison. he conformed exactly to the temper of the house; and he seemed to lead because he was always sure to follow it."] the opposition expected that the loss of this essential pin would loosen the whole frame; but it had been hard, if both his life and death were to be pernicious to the administration. he had engaged to betray the latter to the former, as i knew early, and as lord mansfield has since declared. i therefore could not think the loss of him a misfortune. his seals were immediately offered to lord north,[ ] who declined them. the opposition rejoiced; but they ought to have been better acquainted with one educated in their own school. lord north has since accepted the seals--and the reversion of his father's pension. [footnote : lord north succeeded townshend as chancellor of the exchequer; and, when the duke of grafton retired, he became first lord of the treasury also, and continued to hold both offices till the spring of .] while that eccentric genius, charles townshend, whom no system could contain, is whirled out of existence, our more artificial meteor, lord chatham, seems to be wheeling back to the sphere of business--at least his health is declared to be re-established; but he has lost his adorers, the mob, and i doubt the wise men will not travel after his light. you, my dear sir, will be most concerned for the poor duke of york,[ ] who has ended his silly, good-humoured, troublesome career, in a piteous manner. he had come to the camp at compiègne, without his brother's approbation, but had been received here not only with every proper mark of distinction, but with the utmost kindness. he had succeeded, too, was attentive, civil, obliging, lively, pleased, and very happy in his replies. charmed with a court so lively in comparison of the monastic scene at home, he had promised to return for fontainebleau, and then scampered away as fast as he could ride or drive all round the south of france, intending to visit a lady at genoa, with whom he was in love, whenever he had a minute's time. the duc de villars gave him a ball at his country-house, between aix and marseilles; the duke of york danced at it all night as hard as if it made part of his road, and then in a violent sweat, and without changing his linen, got into his postchaise. at marseilles the scene changed. he arrived in a fever, and found among his letters, which he had ordered to meet him there, one from the king his brother, forbidding him to go to compiègne, by the advice of the hereditary prince. he was struck with this letter, which he had ignorantly disobeyed, and by the same ignorance had not answered. he proceeded, however, on his journey, but grew so ill that his gentlemen carried him to monaco, where he arrived on the third, and languished with great suffering until the seventeenth. he behaved with the most perfect tranquillity and courage, made a short will, and the day before he died dictated to colonel st. john, a letter to the king, in which he begged his forgiveness for every instance in which he had offended him, and entreated his favour to his servants. he would have particularly recommended st. john, but the young man said handsomely, "sir, if the letter were written by your royal highness yourself, it would be most kind to me; but i cannot name myself." the prince of monaco, who happened to be on the spot, was unbounded in his attentions to him, both of care and honours; and visited him every hour till the duke grew too weak to see him. two days before he died the duke sent for the prince, and thanked him. the prince burst into tears and could not speak, and retiring, begged the duke's officers to prevent his being sent for again, for the shock was too great. they made as magnificent a coffin and pall for him as the time and place would admit, and in the evening of the th the body was embarked on board an english ship, which received the corpse with military honours, the cannon of the town saluting it with the same discharge as is paid to a marshal of france. st. john and morrison embarked with the body, and colonel wrottesley passed through here with the news. the poor lad was in tears the whole time he stayed.... [footnote : the duke of york was the king's younger brother.] you tell me of the french playing at whist;[ ] why, i found it established when i was last here. i told them they were very good to imitate us in anything, but that they had adopted the two dullest things we have, whist and richardson's novels. [footnote : walpole here speaks of whist as a game of but new introduction in paris, though it had been for some time established with us. and the great authority on that scientific and beautiful game, the late mr. james clay, writing about twenty years ago, fixes "thirty or more years" before that date as the time when first "we began to hear of the great paris players. there was," he says, "a wide difference between their system and our own," the special distinction being that "the english player of the old school never thought of winning the game until he saw that it was saved; the french player never thought of saving the game until he saw that he could not win it;" and "if forced to take his choice between these systems carried to their extremes." mr. clay "would, without hesitation, prefer the game of rash attack" (that is, the french system) "to that of over-cautious defence." and he assigns to a french player, m. des chapelles, "the credit of being the finest whist-player, beyond any comparison, the world has ever seen."] so you and the pope are going to have the emperor! times are a little altered; no guelphs and ghibellines[ ] now. i do not think the caesar of the day will hold his holiness's stirrup[ ] while he mounts his palfrey. adieu! [footnote : "_guelfs and ghibellines._" these two names were first heard in the latter part of the twelfth century, to distinguish the partisans of the emperor and the pope. "the guelfs or welfs were the ancestors of henry the proud, who, through his mother, represented the ancient dukes of saxony. the word ghibelin is derived from wibelung, a town in franconia, from which the emperors of that time are said to nave sprung. the house of swabia were considered in germany as representing that of franconia" (hallam, "middle ages," ii. p. ).] [footnote : "_his holiness's stirrup._" this refers to the humiliation imposed on the emperor frederic barbarossa by pope alexander iii., as related by byron in his note on "childe harold," c. iv. st. .] _some new poems of gray--walpole's "historic doubts"--boswell's "corsica."_ to mr. gray. arlington street, _feb._ , . you have sent me a long and very obliging letter, and yet i am extremely out of humour with you. i saw _poems_ by _mr. gray_ advertised: i called directly at dodsley's to know if this was to be more than a new edition? he was not at home himself, but his foreman told me he thought there were some new pieces, and notes to the whole. it was very unkind, not only to go out of town without mentioning them to me, without showing them to me, but not to say a word of them in this letter. do you think i am indifferent, or not curious about what you write? i have ceased to ask you, because you have so long refused to show me anything. you could not suppose i thought that you never write. no; but i concluded you did not intend, at least yet, to publish what you had written. as you did intend it, i might have expected a month's preference. you will do me the justice to own that i had always rather have seen your writings than have shown you mine; which you know are the most hasty trifles in the world, and which though i may be fond of the subject when fresh, i constantly forget in a very short time after they are published. this would sound like affectation to others, but will not to you. it would be affected, even to you, to say i am indifferent to fame. i certainly am not, but i am indifferent to almost anything i have done to acquire it. the greater part are mere compilations; and no wonder they are, as you say, incorrect, when they are commonly written with people in the room, as "richard"[ ] and the "noble authors" were. but i doubt there is a more intrinsic fault in them: which is, that i cannot correct them. if i write tolerably, it must be at once; i can neither mend nor add. the articles of lord capel and lord peterborough, in the second edition of the "noble authors," cost me more trouble than all the rest together: and you may perceive that the worst part of "richard," in point of ease and style, is what relates to the papers you gave me on jane shore, because it was tacked on so long afterwards, and when my impetus was chilled. if some time or other you will take the trouble of pointing out the inaccuracies of it, i shall be much obliged to you: at present i shall meddle no more with it. it has taken its fate: nor did i mean to complain. i found it was condemned indeed beforehand, which was what i alluded to. since publication (as has happened to me before) the success has gone beyond my expectation. [footnote : he is here alluding to his own very clever essay, entitled "historic doubts on the life and reign of richard iii." it failed to convince hume; but can hardly be denied to be a singularly acute specimen of historical criticism. it does not, indeed, prove richard to have been innocent of all the crimes imputed to him; but it proves conclusively that much of the evidence by which the various charges are supported is false. in an earlier letter he mentions having first made "a discovery, one of the most marvellous ever made. in short, it is the original coronation roll of richard, by which it appears that very magnificent robes were ordered for edward v., and that he did or was to walk at his uncle's coronation." the letter, from which this passage is an extract, was to a certain extent an answer to one from gray, who, while praising the ingenuity of his arguments, avowed himself still unconvinced by them.] not only at cambridge, but here, there have been people wise enough to think me too free with the king of prussia! a newspaper has talked of my known inveteracy to him. truly, i love him as well as i do most kings. the greater offence is my reflection on lord clarendon. it is forgotten that i had overpraised him before. pray turn to the new state papers, from which, _it is said_, he composed his history. you will find they are the papers from which he did _not_ compose his history. and yet i admire my lord clarendon more than these pretended admirers do. but i do not intend to justify myself. i can as little satisfy those who complain that i do not let them know what _really did_ happen. if this inquiry can ferret out any truth, i shall be glad. i have picked up a few more circumstances. i now want to know what perkin warbeck's proclamation was, which speed in his history says is preserved by bishop leslie. if you look in speed perhaps you will be able to assist me. the duke of richmond and lord lyttelton agree with you, that i have not disculpated richard of the murder of henry vi. i own to you, it is the crime of which in my own mind i believe him most guiltless. had i thought he committed it, i should never have taken the trouble to apologize for the rest. i am not at all positive or obstinate on your other objections, nor know exactly what i believe on many points of this story. and i am so sincere, that, except a few notes hereafter, i shall leave the matter to be settled or discussed by others. as you have written much too little, i have written a great deal too much, and think only of finishing the two or three other things i have begun--and of those, nothing but the last volume of painters is designed for the present public. what has one to do when turned fifty, but really think of _finishing_? i am much obliged and flattered by mr. mason's approbation, and particularly by having had almost the same thought with him. i said, "people need not be angry at my excusing richard; i have not diminished their fund of hatred, i have only transferred it from richard to henry." well, but i have found you close with mason--no doubt, cry prating i, something will come out....[ ] [footnote : "_something will come out._" walpole himself points out in a note that this is a quotation from pope: "i have found him close with swift." "indeed?" "no doubt, (cries prating balbus) something will come out" (prologue to the "satires").] pray read the new account of corsica.[ ] what relates to paoli will amuse you much. there is a deal about the island and its divisions that one does not care a straw for. the author, boswell, is a strange being, and, like cambridge, has a rage of knowing anybody that ever was talked of. he forced himself upon me at paris in spite of my teeth and my doors, and i see has given a foolish account of all he could pick up from me about king theodore.[ ] he then took an antipathy to me on rousseau's account, abused me in the newspapers, and exhorted rousseau to do so too: but as he came to see me no more, i forgave all the rest. i see he now is a little sick of rousseau himself; but i hope it will not cure him of his anger to me. however, his book will i am sure entertain you. [footnote : boswell, dr. johnson's celebrated biographer, had taken great interest in the affairs of corsica, which, in this year ( ), choiseul, the prime minister of france, had bought of genoa, to which state it had long belonged. paoli was a corsican noble, who had roused his countrymen to throw off the domination of genoa; and, on the arrival of french troops to take possession of their purchase, he made a vigorous resistance to the french general, the comte de marboeuf; but eventually he was overpowered, and forced to fly. he took refuge in england, where george iii. granted him a pension, which he enjoyed till his death in , when he was buried in westminster abbey. one of his relations was m. charles buonaparte, the father of napoleon, who was only prevented from accompanying him in his abandonment of corsica by the persuasion of his uncle, the archdeacon of ajaccio. boswell, who was apt to be enthusiastic in his hero-worship and anxiety for new acquaintances (whom, it must be admitted, he commonly chose with judgement, if with little dignity), introduced him to johnson, who also conceived a high regard for him, and on one occasion remarked that "he had the loftiest port of any man he had ever seen."] [footnote : after several outbreaks within a few years, the corsicans in embarked in a revolt so formal and complete that they altogether threw off their allegiance to genoa, and chose as their king theodore neuhof, a westphalian baron. but cardinal fleury, the french prime minister, from a belief that theodore was an instrument of walpole, lent the genoese a force of three thousand men, which at last succeeded in crushing the insurrection and expelling theodore. (see the editor's "france under the bourbons," iii. .) theodore is one of the six ex-kings whom, in voltaire's "candide," his hero met at a hotel in venice during the carnival, when he gave a melancholy account of his reverse of fortune. "he had been called 'your majesty;' now he can hardly find any one to call him 'sir.' he had coined money; now he has not a penny of his own. he had had two secretaries of state; now he has but one valet. he had sat on a throne; but since that time he had laid on straw in a london prison." in fact, his state was so doleful, that the other ex-kings subscribed twenty sequins apiece to buy him some coats and shirts ("candide," c. ).] i will add but a word or two more. i am criticised for the expression _tinker up_ in the preface. is this one of those that you object to? i own i think such a low expression, placed to ridicule an absurd instance of wise folly, very forcible. replace it with an elevated word or phrase, and to my conception it becomes as flat as possible. george selwyn says i may, if i please, write historic doubts on the present duke of g[loucester] too. indeed, they would be doubts, for i know nothing certainly. will you be so kind as to look into leslie "de rebus scotorum," and see if perkin's proclamation is there, and if there, how authenticated. you will find in speed my reason for asking this. i have written in such a hurry, i believe you will scarce be able to read my letter--and as i have just been writing french, perhaps the sense may not be clearer than the writing. adieu! _wilkes is returned m.p. for middlesex--riots in london--violence of the mob._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _thursday, march_ , . i have received your letter, with the extract of that from mr. mackenzie. i do not think any honours will be bestowed yet. the peerages are all postponed to an indefinite time. if you are in a violent hurry, you may petition the ghosts of your neighbours--masaniello and the gracchi. the spirit of one of them walks here; nay, i saw it go by my window yesterday, at noon, in a hackney chair. _friday._ i was interrupted yesterday. the ghost is laid for a time in a red sea of port and claret. the spectre is the famous wilkes. he appeared the moment the parliament was dissolved. the ministry despise him. he stood for the city of london, and was the last on the poll of seven candidates, none but the mob, and most of them without votes, favouring him. he then offered himself to the county of middlesex. the election came on last monday. by five in the morning a very large body of weavers, &c., took possession of piccadilly, and the roads and turnpikes leading to brentford, and would suffer nobody to pass without blue cockades, and papers inscribed "_no. , wilkes and liberty_." they tore to pieces the coaches of sir w. beauchamp proctor, and mr. cooke, the other candidates, though the latter was not there, but in bed with the gout, and it was with difficulty that sir william and mr. cooke's cousin got to brentford. there, however, lest it should be declared a void election, wilkes had the sense to keep everything quiet. but, about five, wilkes, being considerably ahead of the other two, his mob returned to town and behaved outrageously. they stopped every carriage, scratched and spoilt several with writing all over them "no. ," pelted, threw dirt and stones, and forced everybody to huzza for wilkes. i did but cross piccadilly at eight, in my coach with a french monsieur d'angeul, whom i was carrying to lady hertford's; they stopped us, and bid us huzza. i desired him to let down the glass on his side, but, as he was not alert, they broke it to shatters. at night they insisted, in several streets, on houses being illuminated, and several scotch refusing, had their windows broken. another mob rose in the city, and harley, the present mayor, being another sir william walworth, and having acted formerly and now with great spirit against wilkes, and the mansion house not being illuminated, and he out of town, they broke every window, and tried to force their way into the house. the trained bands were sent for, but did not suffice. at last a party of guards, from the tower, and some lights erected, dispersed the tumult. at one in the morning a riot began before lord bute's house, in audley street, though illuminated. they flung two large flints into lady bute's chamber, who was in bed, and broke every window in the house. next morning, wilkes and cooke were returned members. the day was very quiet, but at night they rose again, and obliged almost every house in town to be lighted up, even the duke of cumberland's and princess amelia's. about one o'clock they marched to the duchess of hamilton's in argyle buildings (lord lorn being in scotland). she was obstinate, and would not illuminate, though with child, and, as they hope, of an heir to the family, and with the duke, her son, and the rest of her children in the house. there is a small court and parapet wall before the house: they brought iron crows, tore down the gates, pulled up the pavement, and battered the house for three hours. they could not find the key of the back door, nor send for any assistance. the night before, they had obliged the duke and duchess of northumberland to give them beer, and appear at the windows, and drink "wilkes's health." they stopped and opened the coach of count seilern, the austrian ambassador, who has made a formal complaint, on which the council met on wednesday night, and were going to issue a proclamation, but, hearing that all was quiet, and that only a few houses were illuminated in leicester fields from the terror of the inhabitants, a few constables were sent with orders to extinguish the lights, and not the smallest disorder has happened since. in short, it has ended like other election riots, and with not a quarter of the mischief that has been done in some other towns. there are, however, difficulties to come. wilkes has notified that he intends to surrender himself to his outlawry, the beginning of next term, which comes on the th of this month. there is said to be a flaw in the proceedings, in which case his election will be good, though the king's bench may fine or imprison him on his former sentence. in my own opinion, the house of commons is the place where he can do the least hurt, for he is a wretched speaker, and will sink to contempt, like admiral vernon,[ ] who i remember just such an illuminated hero, with two birthdays in one year. you will say, he can write better than vernon--true; and therefore his case is more desperate. besides, vernon was rich: wilkes is undone; and, though he has had great support, his patrons will be sick of maintaining him. he must either sink to poverty and a jail, or commit new excesses, for which he will get knocked on the head. the scotch are his implacable enemies to a man. a rienzi[ ] cannot stop: their histories are summed up in two words--a triumph and an assassination. [footnote : in our government had declared war against spain. "there was at the time among the members of the opposition in the house of commons a naval captain named vernon, a man of bold, blustering tongue, and presumed therefore by many to be of a corresponding readiness of action. in some of the debates he took occasion to inveigh against the timidity of our officers, who had hitherto, as he phrased it, spared porto bello; and he affirmed that he could take it himself with a squadron of six ships. the ministry caught at the prospect of delivering themselves from his harangues, and gave him half as many ships again as he desired, with the temporary rank of vice-admiral; and on july, , he sailed for the american coast. when he reached it he found that the news of the rupture of the peace had not yet reached the governor of the city, and that it was in no condition to resist an attack. many of the guns were dismounted; and for those that were serviceable there was not sufficient ammunition. a fire of musketry alone sufficed to win the fort that protected the entrance to the harbour, and an equally brief cannonade drove the garrison from the castle. the governor had no further means of defence; and thus in forty-eight hours after his arrival vernon had accomplished his boast, and was master of the place." in a clever paper in the "cambridge museum philologicum" bishop thirlwall compared the man and his exploit to cleon and his achievement at sphacteria in the peloponnesian war. (see the editor's "history of the british navy," c. .)] [footnote : "_rienzi._" then turn we to her latest tribune's name, from her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, redeemer of dark centuries of shame, the friend of petrarch, hope of italy, rienzi; last of romans. ("childe harold," iv. .) his story is told with almost more than his usual power by gibbon (c. ). born in the lowest class, "he could inherit neither dignity nor fortune; and the gift of a liberal education, which they painfully bestowed, was the cause of his glory and his untimely end." he, while still little more than a youth, had established such a reputation for eloquence, that he was one of the deputies sent by the commons to avignon to plead with the pope (clement vi.). the state of rome, aggravated by the absence of the pope, was miserable in the extreme. the citizens "were equally oppressed by the arrogance of the nobles and the corruption of the magistrates." rienzi recalled to their recollection "the ancient glories of the senate and people from whom all legal authority was derived. he raised the enthusiasm of the populace; collected a band of conspirators, at whose head, clad in complete armour, he marched to the capitol, and assumed the government of the city, declining "the names of senator or consul, of king or emperor, and preferring the ancient and modern appellation of tribune.... never perhaps has the energy and effect of a single mind been more remarkably felt than in the sudden, though transient, reformation of rome by the tribune rienzi. a den of robbers was converted to the discipline of a camp or convent. patient to hear, swift to redress, inexorable to punish, his tribunal was always accessible to the poor and the stranger; nor could birth, nor dignity, nor the immunities of the church protect the offender or his accomplices." but his head was turned by his success. he even caused himself to be crowned, while "his wife, his son, and his uncle, a barber, exposed the contrast of vulgar manners and princely expense; and, without acquiring the majesty, rienzi degenerated into the vices of a king." the people became indignant; the nobles whom he had degraded found it easy to raise the public feeling against him. before the end of the same year ( ) he was forced to fly from rome, and lived in exile or imprisonment at avignon seven years; and returned to rome in , only to be murdered in an insurrection.] i must finish, for lord hertford is this moment come in, and insists on my dining with the prince of monaco, who is come over to thank the king for the presents his majesty sent him on his kindness and attention to the late duke of york. you shall hear the suite of the above histories, which i sit quietly and look at, having nothing more to do with the storm, and sick of politics, but as a spectator, while they pass over the stage of the world. adieu! _fleeting fame of witticisms--"the mysterious mother."_ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _april_ , . mr. chute tells me that you have taken a new house in squireland, and have given yourself up for two years more to port and parsons. i am very angry, and resign you to the works of the devil or the church, i don't care which. you will get the gout, turn methodist, and expect to ride to heaven upon your own great toe. i was happy with your telling me how well you love me, and though i don't love loving, i could have poured out all the fulness of my heart to such an old and true friend; but what am i the better for it, if i am to see you but two or three days in the year? i thought you would at last come and while away the remainder of life on the banks of the thames in gaiety and old tales. i have quitted the stage, and the clive[ ] is preparing to leave it. we shall neither of us ever be grave: dowagers roost all around us, and you could never want cards or mirth. will you end like a fat farmer, repeating annually the price of oats, and discussing stale newspapers? there have you got, i hear, into an old gallery, that has not been glazed since queen elizabeth, and under the nose of an infant duke and duchess, that will understand you no more than if you wore a ruff and a coif, and talk to them of a call of serjeants the year of the spanish armada! your wit and humour will be as much lost upon them, as if you talked the dialect of chaucer; for with all the divinity of wit, it grows out of fashion like a fardingale. i am convinced that the young men at white's already laugh at george selwyn's _bon mots_ only by tradition. i avoid talking before the youth of the age as i would dancing before them; for if one's tongue don't move in the steps of the day, and thinks to please by its old graces, it is only an object of ridicule, like mrs. hobart in her cotillon. i tell you we should get together, and comfort ourselves with reflecting on the brave days that we have known--not that i think people were a jot more clever or wise in our youth than they are now; but as my system is always to live in a vision as much as i can, and as visions don't increase with years, there is nothing so natural as to think one remembers what one does not remember. [footnote : mrs. clive was a celebrated comic actress and wit, and a near neighbour of walpole at twickenham.] [illustration: strawberry hill, from the north-west.] i have finished my tragedy ["the mysterious mother"], but as you would not bear the subject, i will say no more of it, but that mr. chute, who is not easily pleased, likes it, and gray, who is still more difficult, approves it. i am not yet intoxicated enough with it to think it would do for the stage, though i wish to see it acted; but, as mrs. pritchard[ ] leaves the stage next month, i know nobody could play the countess; nor am i disposed to expose myself to the impertinences of that jackanapes garrick, who lets nothing appear but his own wretched stuff, or that of creatures still duller, who suffer him to alter their pieces as he pleases. i have written an epilogue in character for the clive, which she would speak admirably: but i am not so sure that she would like to speak it. mr. conway, lady aylesbury, lady lyttelton, and miss rich, are to come hither the day after to-morrow, and mr. conway and i are to read my play to them; for i have not strength enough to go through the whole alone. [footnote : mrs. pritchard was the most popular tragic actress of the day. churchill gives her high praise-- in spite of outward blemishes, she shone for humour fam'd, and humour all her own. ("rosciad," .)] my press is revived, and is printing a french play written by the old president hénault.[ ] it was damned many years ago at paris, and yet i think is better than some that have succeeded, and much better than any of our modern tragedies. i print it to please the old man, as he was exceedingly kind to me at paris; but i doubt whether he will live till it is finished. he is to have a hundred copies, and there are to be but a hundred more, of which you shall have one. [footnote : m. hénault was president of the parliament of paris. his tragedy was "cornelie." he died in , at the age of eighty-six.] adieu! though i am very angry with you, i deserve all your friendship, by that i have for you, witness my anger and disappointment. yours ever. p.s.--send me your new direction, and tell me when i must begin to use it. _case of wilkes._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _june_ , . to send you empty paragraphs when you expect and want news is tantalising, is it not? pray agree with me, and then you will allow that i have acted very kindly in not writing till i had something to tell you. _something_, of course, means wilkes, for everything is nothing except the theme of the day. there has appeared a violent _north briton_, addressed to, and written against lord mansfield, threatening a rebellion if he continued to persecute mr. wilkes. this paper, they say, wilkes owned to the chevalier de chastelux, a french gentleman, who went to see him in the king's bench, and who knew him at paris. a rebellion threatened in print is not very terrible. however, it was said that the paper was outrageous enough to furnish the law with every handle it could want. but modern mountains do not degenerate from their ancestors; their issue are still mice. you know, too, that this agrees with my system, that this is an age of abortions. prosecutions were ordered against the publishers and vendors, and there, i suppose, it will end. yesterday was fixed for the appearance of wilkes in westminster hall. the judges went down by nine in the morning, but the mob had done breakfast still sooner, and was there before them; and as judges stuffed out with dignity and lamb-skins are not absolute sprites, they had much ado to glide through the crowd. wilkes's counsel argued against the outlawry, and then lord mansfield, in a speech of an hour and a half, set it aside; not on _their_ reasons, but on grounds which he had discovered in it himself. i think they say it was on some flaw in the christian name of the county, which should not have been _middlesex to wit_,--but i protest i don't know, for i am here alone, and picked up my intelligence as i walked in our meadows by the river. you, who may be walking by the arno, will, perhaps, think there was some timidity in this; but the depths of the law are wonderful! so pray don't make any rash conclusions, but stay till you get better information. well! now he is gone to prison again,--i mean wilkes; and on tuesday he is to return to receive sentence on the old guilt of writing, as the scotch would _not_ call it, _the_ ,[ ] though they call the rebellion so. the sentence may be imprisonment, fine, or pillory; but as i am still near the thames, i do not think the latter will be chosen. oh! but stay, he may plead against the indictment, and should there be an improper _middlesex to wit_ in that too, why then in that case, you know, he did _not_ write _the_ , and then he is as white as milk, and as free as air, and as good a member of parliament as if he had never been expelled. in short, my dear sir, i am trying to explain to you what i literally do not understand; all i do know is, that mr. cooke, the other member for middlesex, is just dead, and that we are going to have another middlesex election, which is very unpleasant to me, who hate mobs so near as brentford. sergeant glynn, wilkes's counsel, is the candidate, and i suppose the only one in the present humour of the people, who will care to have his brains dashed out, in order to sit in parliament. in truth, this enthusiasm is confined to the very mob or little higher, and does not extend beyond the county. all other riots are ceased, except the little civil war between the sailors and coal-heavers, in which two or three lives are lost every week. [footnote : "_the_ " here serves for the scotch rebellion of , and for no. of the _north briton_.] what is most disagreeable, even the emperor of morocco has taken courage on these tumults, and has dared to mutiny for increase of wages, like our journeymen tailors. france is pert too, and gives herself airs in the mediterranean. our paolists were violent for support of corsica, but i think they are a little startled on a report that the hero paoli is like other patriots, and is gone to versailles, for a peerage and pension. i was told to-day that at london there are murmurs of a war. i shall be sorry if it prove so. deaths! suspense, say victory;--how end all our victories? in debts and a wretched peace! mad world, in the individual or the aggregate! well! say i to myself, and what is all this to me? have not i done with that world? am not i here at peace, unconnected with courts and ministries, and indifferent who is minister? what is a war in europe to me more than a war between the turkish and persian emperors? true; yet self-love makes one love the nation one belongs to, and vanity makes one wish to have that nation glorious. well! i have seen it so; i have seen its conquests spread farther than roman eagles thought there was land. i have seen too the pretender at derby; and, therefore, you must know that i am content with historic seeing, and wish fame and history would be quiet and content without entertaining me with any more sights. we were down at derby, we were up at both indies; i have no curiosity for any intermediate sights. your brother was with me just before i came out of town, and spoke of you with great kindness, and accused himself of not writing to you, but protested it was from not knowing what to say to you about the riband. i engaged to write for him, so you must take this letter as from him too. i hope there will be no war for some hero to take your honours out of your mouth, sword in hand. the first question i shall ask when i go to town will be, how my lord chatham does? i shall mind his health more than the stocks. the least symptom of a war will certainly cure him. adieu! my dear sir. _the english climate._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _june_ , . no, i cannot be so false as to say i am glad you are pleased with your situation. you are so apt to take root, that it requires ten years to dig you out again when you once begin to settle. as you go pitching your tent up and down, i wish you were still more a tartar, and shifted your quarters perpetually. yes, i will come and see you; but tell me first, when do your duke and duchess [the argylls] travel to the north? i know that he is a very amiable lad, and i do not know that she is not as amiable a _laddess_, but i had rather see their house comfortably when they are not there. i perceive the deluge fell upon you before it reached us. it began here but on monday last, and then rained near eight-and-forty hours without intermission. my poor hay has not a dry thread to its back. i have had a fire these three days. in short, every summer one lives in a state of mutiny and murmur, and i have found the reason: it is because we will affect to have a summer, and we have no title to any such thing. our poets learnt their trade of the romans, and so adopted the terms of their masters. they talk of shady groves, purling streams, and cooling breezes, and we get sore-throats and agues with attempting to realise these visions. master damon writes a song, and invites miss chloe to enjoy the cool of the evening, and the deuce a bit have we of any such thing as a cool evening. zephyr is a north-east wind, that makes damon button up to the chin, and pinches chloe's nose till it is red and blue; and then they cry, _this is a bad summer_! as if we ever had any other. the best sun we have is made of newcastle coal, and i am determined never to reckon upon any other. we ruin ourselves with inviting over foreign trees, and making our houses clamber up hills to look at prospects. how our ancestors would laugh at us, who knew there was no being comfortable, unless you had a high hill before your nose, and a thick warm wood at your back! taste is too freezing a commodity for us, and, depend upon it, will go out of fashion again. there is indeed a natural warmth in this country, which, as you say, i am very glad not to enjoy any longer; i mean the hot-house in st. stephen's chapel. my own sagacity makes me very vain, though there was very little merit in it. i had seen so much of all parties, that i had little esteem left for any; it is most indifferent to me who is in or who is out, or which is set in the pillory, mr. wilkes or my lord mansfield. i see the country going to ruin, and no man with brains enough to save it. that is mortifying; but what signifies who has the undoing it? i seldom suffer myself to think on this subject: _my_ patriotism could do no good, and my philosophy can make me be at peace. i am sorry you are likely to lose your poor cousin lady hinchinbrook: i heard a very bad account of her when i was last in town. your letter to madame roland shall be taken care of; but as you are so scrupulous of making me pay postage, i must remember not to overcharge you, as i can frank my idle letters no longer; therefore, good night! p.s.--i was in town last week, and found mr. chute still confined. he had a return in his shoulder, but i think it more rheumatism than gout. _voltaire's criticisms on shakespeare--parnell's "hermit."_ to monsieur de voltaire. strawberry hill, _july_ , . one can never, sir, be sorry to have been in the wrong, when one's errors are pointed out to one in so obliging and masterly a manner. whatever opinion i may have of shakspeare, i should think him to blame, if he could have seen the letter you have done me the honour to write to me, and yet not conform to the rules you have there laid down. when he lived, there had not been a voltaire both to give laws to the stage, and to show on what good sense those laws were founded. your art, sir, goes still farther: for you have supported your arguments, without having recourse to the best authority, your own works. it was my interest perhaps to defend barbarism and irregularity. a great genius is in the right, on the contrary, to show that when correctness, nay, when perfection is demanded, he can still shine, and be himself, whatever fetters are imposed on him. but i will say no more on this head; for i am neither so unpolished as to tell you to your face how much i admire you, nor, though i have taken the liberty to vindicate shakspeare against your criticisms, am i vain enough to think myself an adversary worthy of you. i am much more proud of receiving laws from you, than of contesting them. it was bold in me to dispute with you even before i had the honour of your acquaintance; it would be ungrateful now when you have not only taken notice of me, but forgiven me. the admirable letter you have been so good as to send me, is a proof that you are one of those truly great and rare men who know at once how to conquer and to pardon. i have made all the inquiry i could into the story of m. de jumonville; and though your and our accounts disagree, i own i do not think, sir, that the strongest evidence is in our favour. i am told we allow he was killed by a party of our men, going to the ohio. your countrymen say he was going with a flag of truce. the commanding officer of our party said m. de jumonville was going with hostile intentions; and that very hostile orders were found after his death in his pocket. unless that officer had proved that he had previous intelligence of those orders, i doubt he will not be justified by finding them afterwards; for i am not at all disposed to believe that he had the foreknowledge of your hermit,[ ] who pitched the old woman's nephew into the river, because "ce jeune homme auroit assassiné sa tante dans un an." i am grieved that such disputes should ever subsist between two nations who have everything in themselves to create happiness, and who may find enough in each other to love and admire. it is your benevolence, sir, and your zeal for softening the manners of mankind; it is the doctrine of peace and amity which you preach, that have raised my esteem for you even more than the brightness of your genius. france may claim you in the latter light, but all nations have a right to call you their countryman _du côté du coeur_. it is on the strength of that connection that i beg you, sir, to accept the homage of, sir, your most obedient humble servant.[ ] [footnote : the idea of voltaire's fable in "zadig," c. , is believed to have been borrowed from parnell's "hermit," but mr. wright suggests that it was more probably taken from one of the "contes devots, de l'hermite qu'un ange conduisit dans le siècle," which is published in the "nouveau recueil de fabliaux et contes."] [footnote : the letter of voltaire to which the above is a reply, contained the following opinion of walpole's "historic doubts";--"avant le départ de ma lettre, j'ai eu le tems, monsieur, de lire votre richard trois. vous seriez un excellent attornei général; vous pesez toutes les probabilités; mais il paroit que vous avez une inclination secrete pour ce bossu. vous voulez qu'il ait été beau garçon, et même galant homme. le bénédictin calmet a fait une dissertation pour prouver que jesus christ avait un fort beau visage. je veux croire avec vous, que richard trois n'était ni si laid, ni si méchant, qu'on le dit; mais je n'aurais pas voulu avoir affaire à lui. votre rose blanche et votre rose rouge avaient de terribles épines pour la nation. "those gracious kings are all a pack of rogues. en lisant l'histoire des york et des lancastre, et de bien d'autres, on croit lire l'histoire des voleurs de grand chemin. pour votre henri sept, il n'était que coupeur de bourses. be a minister or an anti-minister, a lord or a philosopher, i will be, with an equal respect, sir, &c."] _arrival of the king of denmark--his popularity with the mob._ to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, _aug._ , . as you have been so good, my dear lord, as twice to take notice of my letter, i am bound in conscience and gratitude to try to amuse you with anything new. a royal visitor, quite fresh, is a real curiosity--by the reception of him, i do not think many more of the breed will come hither. he came from dover in hackney-chaises; for somehow or other the master of the horse happened to be in lincolnshire; and the king's coaches having received no orders, were too good subjects to go and fetch a stranger king of their own heads. however, as his danish majesty travels to improve himself for the good of his people, he will go back extremely enlightened in the arts of government and morality, by having learned that crowned heads may be reduced to ride in a hired chaise.[ ] [footnote : the king, travelling, as is usual with kings, _incognito_, assumed the title of the comte de travendahl.] by another mistake, king george happened to go to richmond about an hour before king christiern arrived in london. an hour is exceedingly long; and the distance to richmond still longer; so that with all the dispatch that could possibly be made, king george could not get back to his capital till next day at noon. then, as the road from his closet at st. james's to the king of denmark's apartment on t'other side of the palace is about thirty miles, which posterity, having no conception of the prodigious extent and magnificence of st. james's, will never believe, it was half an hour after three before his danish majesty's courier could go and return to let him know that his good brother and ally was leaving the palace in which they both were, in order to receive him at the queen's palace, which you know is about a million of snail's paces from st. james's. notwithstanding these difficulties and unavoidable delays, woden, thor, friga, and all the gods that watch over the kings of the north, did bring these two invincible monarchs to each other's embraces about half an hour after five that same evening. they passed an hour in projecting a family compact that will regulate the destiny of europe to latest posterity: and then, the fates so willing it, the british prince departed for richmond, and the danish potentate repaired to the widowed mansion of his royal mother-in-law, where he poured forth the fulness of his heart in praises on the lovely bride she had bestowed on him, from whom nothing but the benefit of his subjects could ever have torn him.--and here let calumny blush, who has aspersed so chaste and faithful a monarch with low amours; pretending that he has raised to the honour of a seat in his sublime council, an artisan of hamburgh, known only by repairing the soles of buskins, because that mechanic would, on no other terms, consent to his fair daughter's being honoured with majestic embraces. so victorious over his passions is this young scipio from the pole, that though on shooter's hill he fell into an ambush laid for him by an illustrious countess, of blood-royal herself, his majesty, after descending from his car, and courteously greeting her, again mounted his vehicle, without being one moment eclipsed from the eyes of the surrounding multitude.--oh! mercy on me! i am out of breath--pray let me descend from my stilts, or i shall send you as fustian and tedious a history as that of [lyttelton's] henry ii. well, then, this great king is a very little one; not ugly, nor ill-made. he has the sublime strut of his grandfather, or of a cock-sparrow; and the divine white eyes of all his family by the mother's side. his curiosity seems to have consisted in the original plan of travelling, for i cannot say he takes notice of anything in particular. his manner is cold and dignified, but very civil and gracious and proper. the mob adore him and huzza him; and so they did the first instant. at present they begin to know why--for he flings money to them out of his windows; and by the end of the week i do not doubt but they will want to choose him for middlesex. his court is extremely well ordered; for they bow as low to him at every word as if his name was sultan amurat. you would take his first minister for only the first of his slaves.--i hope this example, which they have been so good as to exhibit at the opera, will contribute to civilize us. there is indeed a pert young gentleman, who a little discomposes this august ceremonial. his name is count holke, his age three-and-twenty; and his post answers to one that we had formerly in england, many ages ago, and which in our tongue was called the lord high favourite. before the danish monarchs became absolute, the most refractory of that country used to write libels, called _north danes_, against this great officer; but that practice has long since ceased. count holke seems rather proud of his favour, than shy of displaying it. i hope, my dear lord, you will be content with my danish politics, for i trouble myself with no other. there is a long history about the baron de bottetourt and sir jeffery amherst, who has resigned his regiment; but it is nothing to me, nor do i care a straw about it. i am deep in the anecdotes of the new court; and if you want to know more of count holke or count molke, or the grand vizier bernsdorff, or mynheer schimmelman, apply to me, and you shall be satisfied. but what do i talk of? you will see them yourself. minerva in the shape of count bernsdorff, or out of all shape in the person of the duchess of northumberland, is to conduct telemachus to york races; for can a monarch be perfectly accomplished in the mysteries of king-craft, as our solomon james i. called it, unless he is initiated in the arts of jockeyship? when this northern star travels towards its own sphere, lord hertford will go to ragley. i shall go with him; and, if i can avoid running foul of the magi that will be thronging from all parts to worship that star, i will endeavour to call at wentworth castle for a day or two, if it will not be inconvenient; i should think it would be about the second week in september, but your lordship shall hear again, unless you should forbid me, who am ever lady strafford's and your lordship's most faithful humble servant. _wilkes's election--the comtesse de barri--the duc de choiseul's indiscretion._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _jan._ , . the affair of wilkes is rather undecided yet, than in suspense.[ ] it has been a fair trial between faction and corruption; of two such common creatures, the richest will carry it. [footnote : wilkes had been elected a member of the common council.] the court of aldermen set aside the election of wilkes on some informality, but he was immediately re-chosen. this happened on friday last, the very day of his appearance at the house of commons. he went thither without the least disturbance or mob, having dispersed his orders accordingly, which are obeyed implicitly. he did not, however, appear at the bar till ten at night, the day being wasted in debating whether he should be suffered to enter on his case at large, or be restrained to his two chief complaints. the latter was carried by to , a majority that he will not easily reduce. he was then called in, looked ill, but behaved decently, and demanded to take the oaths and his seat. this affair, after a short debate, was refused; and his counsel being told the restrictions imposed, the house adjourned at midnight. to-day he goes again to the house, but whatever steps he takes there, or however long debates he may occasion, you may look upon his fate as decided in that place. we are in hourly expectation of hearing that a nymph, more common still than the two i have mentioned, has occasioned what wilkes has failed in now, a change in an administration. i mean the comtesse du barri.[ ] the _grands habits_ are made, and nothing wanting for her presentation but--what do you think? some woman of quality to present her. in that servile court and country, the nobility have had spirit enough to decline paying their court, though the king has stooped _à des bassesses_ to obtain it. the duc de choiseul will be the victim; and they pretend to say that he has declared he will resign _à l'anglaise_, rather than be _chassé_ by such a creature. his indiscretion is astonishing: he has said at his own table, and she has been told so, "madame du barri est très mal informée; on ne parle pas des catins chez moi." catin diverts herself and king solomon the wise with tossing oranges into the air after supper, and crying, "_saute, choiseul! saute, praslin_!" and then solomon laughs heartily. sometimes she flings powder in his sage face, and calls him _jean farine_! well! we are not the foolishest nation in europe yet! it is supposed that the duc d'aiguillon will be the successor. [footnote : this woman, one of the very lowest of the low, had caught the fancy of louis xv.; and, as according to the curious etiquette of the french court, it was indispensable that a king's mistress should be married, the comte du barri, a noble of old family, but ruined by gambling, was induced to marry her.] i am going to send away this letter, because you will be impatient, and the house will not rise probably till long after the post is gone out. i did not think last may that you would hear this february that there was an end of mobs, that wilkes was expelled, and the colonies quieted. however, pray take notice that i do not stir a foot out of the province of gazetteer into that of prophet. i protest, i know no more than a prophet what is to come. adieu! _a garden party at strawberry--a ridotto at vauxhall._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _may_ , . you are so wayward, that i often resolve to give you up to your humours. then something happens with which i can divert you, and my good-nature returns. did not you say you should return to london long before this time? at least, could you not tell me you had changed your mind? why am i to pick it out from your absence and silence, as dr. warburton found a future state in moses's saying nothing of the matter! i could go on with a chapter of severe interrogatories, but i think it more cruel to treat you as a hopeless reprobate; yes, you are graceless, and as i have a respect for my own scolding, i shall not throw it away upon you. strawberry has been in great glory; i have given a festino there that will almost mortgage it. last tuesday all france dined there: monsieur and madame du châtelet, the duc de liancourt, three more french ladies, whose names you will find in the enclosed paper, eight other frenchmen, the spanish and portuguese ministers, the holdernesses, fitzroys, in short, we were four and twenty. they arrived at two. at the gates of the castle i received them, dressed in the cravat of gibbons's carving, and a pair of gloves embroidered up to the elbows that had belonged to james i. the french servants stared, and firmly believed this was the dress of english country gentlemen. after taking a survey of the apartment, we went to the printing-house, where i had prepared the enclosed verses, with translations by monsieur de lille, one of the company. the moment they were printed off, i gave a private signal, and french horns and clarionets accompanied this compliment. we then went to see pope's grotto and garden, and returned to a magnificent dinner in the refectory. in the evening we walked, had tea, coffee, and lemonade in the gallery, which was illuminated with a thousand, or thirty candles, i forget which, and played at whisk and loo till midnight. then there was a cold supper, and at one the company returned to town, saluted by fifty nightingales, who, as tenants of the manor, came to do honour to their lord. i cannot say last night was equally agreeable. there was what they called a _ridotto al fresco_ at vauxhall,[ ] for which one paid half-a-guinea, though, except some thousand more lamps and a covered passage all round the garden, which took off from the gardenhood, there was nothing better than on a common night. mr. conway and i set out from his house at eight o'clock; the tide and torrent of coaches was so prodigious, that it was half-an-hour after nine before we got half way from westminster bridge. we then alighted; and after scrambling under bellies of horses, through wheels, and over posts and rails, we reached the gardens, where were already many thousand persons. nothing diverted me but a man in a turk's dress and two nymphs in masquerade without masks, who sailed amongst the company, and, which was surprising, seemed to surprise nobody. it had been given out that people were desired to come in fancied dresses without masks. we walked twice round and were rejoiced to come away, though with the same difficulties as at our entrance; for we found three strings of coaches all along the road, who did not move half a foot in half-an-hour. there is to be a rival mob in the same way at ranelagh to-morrow; for the greater the folly and imposition the greater is the crowd. i have suspended the vestimenta[ ] that were torn off my back to the god of repentance, and shall stay away. adieu! i have not a word more to say to you. yours ever. p.s.--i hope you will not regret paying a shilling for this packet. [footnote : the ridotto was a venetian entertainment-- they went to the _ridotto_--'tis a hall where people dance, and sup, and dance again; its proper name, perhaps, was a masqued ball, but that's of no importance to my strain; 'tis (on a smaller scale) like our vauxhall, excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain; the company is "mix'd"--the phrase i quote is as much as saying, they're below your notice. beppo, st. .] [footnote : "_vestimenta._" imitating horace, who relates of himself-- me tabulà sacer votivâ paries indicat uvida suspendisse potenti vestimenta maris deo (od. i. ).] _paoli--ambassadorial etiquette._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _june_ , . i thank you for the history of the pope and his genealogy, or, rather, for what is to be his genealogy; for i suppose all those tailors and coachmen his relations will now found noble families. they may enrich their blood with the remaining spoils of the jesuits, unless, which would not surprise me, his new holiness should now veer about, and endeavour to save the order; for i think the church full as likely to fall by sacrificing its janissaries, as by any attacks that can be made upon it. _deme unum, deme etiam unum._ if i care little about your roman politics, i am not so indifferent about your corsican. poor brave paoli!--but he is not disgraced! we, that have sat still and seen him overwhelmed, must answer it to history. nay, the mediterranean will taunt us in the very next war. choiseul triumphs over us and madame du barri; her star seems to have lost its influence. i do not know what another lady[ ] will say to choiseul on the late behaviour of his friend, the ambassador, here. as the adventure will make a chapter in the new edition of wiquefort, and, consequently, will strike _you_, i will give you the detail. at the ball on the king's birthday, count czernichew was sitting in the box of the foreign ministers next to count seilern, the imperial ambassador. the latter, who is as fierce as the spread eagle itself, and as stiff as the chin of all the ferdinands, was, according to his custom, as near to jupiter as was possible. monsieur du châtelet and the prince de masserano came in. châtelet sidled up to the two former, spoke to them and passed behind them, but on a sudden lifted up his leg and thrust himself in between the two imperials. the russian, astonished and provoked, endeavoured to push him away, and a jostle began that discomposed the faces and curls of both; and the russian even dropped the word _impertinent_. czernichew, however, quitted the spot of battle, and the prince de masserano, in support of the family-compact, hobbled into the place below châtelet. as the two champions retired, more words at the door. however, the russian's coach being first, he astonished everybody by proposing to set monsieur du châtelet down at his own house. in the coach, _it is said_, the frenchman protested he had meant nothing personal either to count czernichew, or to the russian minister, but having received orders from his court to take place on all occasion _next_ to the imperial ambassador, he had but done his duty. next morning he visited czernichew, and they are _personally_ reconciled. it was, however, feared that the dispute would be renewed, for, at the king's next levée, both were at the door, ready to push in when it should be opened; but the russian kept behind, and at the bottom of the room without mixing with the rest of the foreign ministers. the king, who was much offended at what had passed, called count czernichew into the middle of the room, and talked to him for a very considerable time. since then, the lord chamberlain has been ordered to notify to all the foreign ministers that the king looks on the ball at court as a private ball, and declares, _to prevent such disagreeable altercations for the future_, that there is no precedence there. this declaration is ridiculed, because the ball at court is almost the only ceremony that is observed there, and certainly the most formal, the princes of the blood dancing first, and everybody else being taken out according to their rank. yet the king, being the fountain of all rank, may certainly declare what he pleases, especially in his own palace. the public papers, which seldom spare the french, are warm for the russian. châtelet, too, is not popular, nor well at court. he is wrong-headed, and at vienna was very near drawing his court into a scrape by his haughtiness. his own friends even doubt whether this last exploit will not offend at versailles, as the duc de choiseul has lately been endeavouring to soften the czarina, wishes to send a minister thither, and has actually sent an agent. châtelet was to have gone this week, but i believe waits to hear how his behaviour is taken. personally, i am quite on his side, though i think him in the wrong; but he is extremely civil to me; i live much at his house, admire his wife exceedingly, and, besides, you know, have declared war with the czarina; so what i say is quite in confidence to you, and for your information. as an englishman, i am whatever madam great britain can expect of me. as intimate with the châtelets, and extremely attached to the duchess of choiseul, i detest madame du barri and her faction. you, who are a foreign minister, and can distinguish like a theologian between the _two natures_ perfectly comprehend all this; and, therefore, to the charity of your casuistry i recommend myself in this jumble of contradictions, which you may be sure do not give me any sort of trouble either way. at least i have not _three_ distinctions, like châtelet when he affronted czernichew, but neither in his private nor public capacity. [footnote : the czarina.] this fracas happens very luckily, as we had nothing left to talk of; for of the pope we think no more, according to the old saying, than of the pope of rome. of wilkes there is no longer any question, and of the war under the pole we hear nothing. corsica, probably, will occasion murmurs, but they will be preserved in pickle till next winter. i am come hither for two months, very busy with finishing my round tower, which has stood still these five years, and with an enchanting new cottage that i have built, and other little works. in august i shall go to paris for six weeks. in short, i am delighted with having bid adieu to parliament and politics, and with doing nothing but what i like all the year round. _his return to paris--madame deffand--a translation of "hamlet"--madame dumenil--voltaire's "merope" and "les guÈbres._" to john chute, esq. paris, _aug._ , . i have been so hurried with paying and receiving visits, that i have not had a moment's worth of time to write. my passage was very tedious, and lasted near nine hours for want of wind.--but i need not talk of my journey; for mr. maurice, whom i met on the road, will have told you that i was safe on _terra firma_. judge of my surprise at hearing four days ago, that my lord dacre and my lady were arrived here. they are lodged within a few doors of me. he is come to consult a doctor pomme who has prescribed wine, and lord dacre already complains of the violence of his appetite. if you and i had _pommed_ him to eternity, he would not have believed us. a man across the sea tells him the plainest thing in the world; that man happens to be called a doctor; and happening for novelty to talk common sense, is believed, as if he had talked nonsense! and what is more extraordinary, lord dacre thinks himself better, _though_ he is so. my dear old woman [madame du deffand] is in better health than when i left her, and her spirits so increased, that i tell her she will go mad with age. when they ask her how old she is, she answers, "j'ai soixante et mille ans." she and i went to the boulevard last night after supper, and drove about there till two in the morning. we are going to sup in the country this evening, and are to go to-morrow night at eleven to the puppet-show. a _protégé_ of hers has written a piece for that theatre. i have not yet seen madame du barri, nor can get to see her picture at the exposition at the louvre, the crowds are so enormous that go thither for that purpose. as royal curiosities are the least part of my _virtù_, i wait with patience. whenever i have an opportunity i visit gardens, chiefly with a view to rosette's having a walk. she goes nowhere else, because there is a distemper among the dogs. there is going to be represented a translation of hamlet; who when his hair is cut, and he is curled and powdered, i suppose will be exactly _monsieur le prince oreste_. t'other night i was at "mérope." the dumenil was as divine as mrs. porter[ ]; they said her familiar tones were those of a _poissonnière_. in the last act, when one expected the catastrophe, narbas, more interested than anybody to see the event, remained coolly on the stage to hear the story. the queen's maid of honour entered without her handkerchief, and her hair most artfully undressed, and reeling as if she was maudlin, sobbed out a long narrative, that did not prove true; while narbas, with all the good breeding in the world, was more attentive to her fright than to what had happened. so much for propriety. now for probability. voltaire has published a tragedy, called "les guèbres." two roman colonels open the piece: they are brothers, and relate to one another, how they lately in company destroyed, by the emperor's mandate, a city of the guèbres, in which were their own wives and children; and they recollect that they want prodigiously to know whether both their families did perish in the flames. the son of the one and the daughter of the other are taken up for heretics, and, thinking themselves brother and sister, insist upon being married, and upon being executed for their religion. the son stabs his father, who is half a guèbre, too. the high-priest rants and roars. the emperor arrives, blames the pontiff for being a persecutor, and forgives the son for assassinating his father (who does not die) because--i don't know why, but that he may marry his cousin. the grave-diggers in hamlet have no chance, when such a piece as the guèbres is written agreeably to all rules and unities. adieu, my dear sir! i hope to find you quite well at my return. yours ever. [footnote : mme. dumenil, as has been mentioned in a former note, was the most popular of the french tragic actresses at this time, as mrs. porter was of the english actresses.] _the french court--the young princes--st. cyr--madame de mailly._ to george montagu, esq. paris, _sunday night, sept._ , . i am heartily tired; but, as it is too early to go to bed, i must tell you how agreeably i have passed the day. i wished for you; the same scenes strike us both, and the same kind of visions has amused us both ever since we were born. well then; i went this morning to versailles with my niece mrs. cholmondeley, mrs. hart, lady denbigh's sister, and the count de grave, one of the most amiable, humane, and obliging men alive. our first object was to see madame du barri. being too early for mass, we saw the dauphin and his brothers at dinner. the eldest is the picture of the duke of grafton, except that he is more fair, and will be taller. he has a sickly air, and no grace. the count de provence has a very pleasing countenance, with an air of more sense than the count d'artois, the genius of the family. they already tell as many _bon-mots_ of the latter as of henri quatre and louis quatorze. he is very fat, and the most like his grandfather of all the children. you may imagine this royal mess did not occupy us long: thence to the chapel, where a first row in the balconies was kept for us. madame du barri arrived over against us below, without rouge, without powder, and indeed _sans avoir fait sa toilette_; an odd appearance, as she was so conspicuous, close to the altar, and amidst both court and people. she is pretty, when you consider her; yet so little striking, that i never should have asked who she was. there is nothing bold, assuming or affected in her manner. her husband's sister was along with her. in the tribune above, surrounded by prelates, was the amorous and still handsome king. one could not help smiling at the mixture of piety, pomp, and carnality. from chapel we went to the dinner of the elder mesdames. we were almost stifled in the antechamber, where their dishes were heating over charcoal, and where we could not stir for the press. when the doors are opened, everybody rushes in, princes of the blood, _cordons bleus_, abbés, housemaids, and the lord knows who and what. yet, so used are their highnesses to this trade, that they eat as comfortably and heartily as you or i could do in our own parlours. our second act was much more agreeable. we quitted the court and a reigning mistress, for a dead one and a cloister. in short, i had obtained leave from the bishop of chartres to enter _into_ st. cyr; and, as madame du deffand never leaves anything undone that can give me satisfaction, she had written to the abbess to desire i might see everything that could be seen there. the bishop's order was to admit me, _monsieur de grave, et les dames de ma compagnie_: i begged the abbess to give me back the order, that i might deposit it in the archives of strawberry, and she complied instantly. every door flew open to us: and the nuns vied in attentions to please us. the first thing i desired to see was madame de maintenon's apartment. it consists of two small rooms, a library, and a very small chamber, the same in which the czar saw her, and in which she died. the bed is taken away, and the room covered now with bad pictures of the royal family, which destroys the gravity and simplicity. it is wainscotted with oak, with plain chairs of the same, covered with dark blue damask. everywhere else the chairs are of blue cloth. the simplicity and extreme neatness of the whole house, which is vast, are very remarkable. a large apartment above (for that i have mentioned is on the ground-floor), consisting of five rooms, and destined by louis quatorze for madame de maintenon, is now the infirmary, with neat white linen beds, and decorated with every text of scripture by which could be insinuated that the foundress was a queen. the hour of vespers being come, we were conducted to the chapel, and, as it was _my_ curiosity that had led us thither, i was placed in the maintenon's own tribune; my company in the adjoining gallery. the pensioners, two and two, each band headed by a man, march orderly to their seats, and sing the whole service, which i confess was not a little tedious. the young ladies, to the number of two hundred and fifty, are dressed in black, with short aprons of the same, the latter and their stays bound with blue, yellow, green, or red, to distinguish the classes; the captains and lieutenants have knots of a different colour for distinction. their hair is curled and powdered, their coiffure a sort of french round-eared caps, with white tippets, a sort of ruff and large tucker: in short, a very pretty dress. the nuns are entirely in black, with crape veils and long trains, deep white handkerchiefs, and forehead cloths, and a very long train. the chapel is plain but very pretty, and in the middle of the choir under a flat marble lies the foundress. madame de cambis, one of the nuns, who are about forty, is beautiful as a madonna.[ ] the abbess has no distinction but a larger and richer gold cross: her apartment consists of two very small rooms. of madame de maintenon we did not see fewer than twenty pictures. the young one looking over her shoulder has a round face, without the least resemblance to those of her latter age. that in the royal mantle, of which you know i have a copy, is the most repeated; but there is another with a longer and leaner face, which has by far the most sensible look. she is in black, with a high point head and band, a long train, and is sitting in a chair of purple velvet. before her knees stands her niece madame de noailles, a child; at a distance a view of versailles or st. cyr,[ ] i could not distinguish which. we were shown some rich reliquaires and the _corpo santo_ that was sent to her by the pope. we were then carried into the public room of each class. in the first, the young ladies, who were playing at chess, were ordered to sing to us the choruses of athaliah; in another, they danced minuets and country dances, while a nun, not quite so able as st. cecilia, played on a violin. in the others, they acted before us the proverbs or conversations written by madame de maintenon for their instruction; for she was not only their foundress but their saint, and their adoration of her memory has quite eclipsed the virgin mary. we saw their dormitory, and saw them at supper; and at last were carried to their archives, where they produced volumes of her letters, and where one of the nuns gave me a small piece of paper with three sentences in her handwriting. i forgot to tell you, that this kind dame who took to me extremely, asked me if we had many convents and relics in england. i was much embarrassed for fear of destroying her good opinion of me, and so said we had but few now. oh! we went too to the _apothecairie_, where they treated us with cordials, and where one of the ladies told me inoculation was a sin, as it was a voluntary detention from mass, and as voluntary a cause of eating _gras_. our visit concluded in the garden, now grown very venerable, where the young ladies played at little games before us. after a stay of four hours we took our leave. i begged the abbess's blessing; she smiled, and said, she doubted i should not place much faith in it. she is a comely old gentlewoman, and very proud of having seen madame de maintenon. well! was not i in the right to wish you with me?--could you have passed a day more agreeably. [footnote : madame du deffand, in her letter to walpole of the th of may, , encloses the following portrait of madame de cambise, by madame de la vallière:--"non, non, madame, je ne ferai point votre portrait: vous avez une manière d'être si noble, si fine, si piquante, si délicate, si séduisante; votre gentilesse et vos graces changent si souvent pour n'en être que plus aimable, que l'on ne peut saisir aucun de vos traits ni au physique ni au moral." she was niece of la marquise de boufflers, and, having fled to england at the breaking out of the french revolution, resided here until her death, which took place at richmond in january, .] [footnote : st. cyr was a school founded by mme. de maintenon for the education of girls of good families who were in reduced circumstances. mme. de maintenon was the daughter of m. d'aubigné, a writer of fair repute both as a historian and a satirist. her first husband had been a m. paul scarron, a comic poet of indifferent reputation. after his death, she was induced, after an artful show of affected reluctance, to become governess to the children of louis xiv. and mme. de montespan. louis gave her the small estate of maintenon, and, after the death of his queen, privately married her. she became devout, and, under the tuition of the jesuits, a violent promoter of the persecution of the huguenots. it was probably her influence that induced louis to issue the edict revoking the edict of nantes promulgated by henry iv. in . she outlived the king, and died in .] i will conclude my letter with a most charming trait of madame de mailly,[ ] which cannot be misplaced in such a chapter of royal concubines. going to st. sulpice, after she had lost the king's heart, a person present desired the crowd to make way for her. some brutal young officers said, "comment, pour cette catin là!" she turned to them, and with the most charming modesty said--"messieurs, puisque vous me connoissez, priez dieu pour moi." i am sure it will bring tears into your eyes. was she not the publican and maintenon the pharisee? good night! i hope i am going to dream of all i have been seeing. as my impressions and my fancy, when i am pleased, are apt to be strong, my night perhaps may still be more productive of ideas than the day has been. it will be charming indeed if madame de cambis is the ruling tint. adieu! yours ever. [footnote : mme. de mailly was the first of the mistresses of louis xv. she was the elder sister of the duchesse de chateauroux and mme. de lauragais. she has the credit, such as it is, of having been really in love with the king before she became acquainted with him; but she soon retired, feeling repentance and shame at her position, and being superseded in his fancy by the more showy attractions of her younger sisters.] _a masquerade--state of russia._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _feb._ , . it is very lucky, seeing how much of the tiger enters into the human composition, that there should be a good dose of the monkey too. if aesop had not lived so many centuries before the introduction of masquerades and operas, he would certainly have anticipated my observation, and worked it up into a capital fable. as we still trade upon the stock of the ancients, we seldom deal in any other manufacture; and, though nature, after new combinations, lets forth new characteristics, it is very rarely that they are added to the old fund; else how could so striking a remark have escaped being made, as mine, on the joint ingredients of tiger and monkey? in france the latter predominates, in england the former; but, like orozmades and arimanius,[ ] they get the better by turns. the bankruptcy in france, and the rigours of the new comptroller-general, are half forgotten, in the expectation of a new opera at the new theatre. our civil war has been lulled asleep by a subscription masquerade, for which the house of commons literally adjourned yesterday. instead of fairfaxes and cromwells, we have had a crowd of henry the eighths, wolseys, vandykes, and harlequins; and because wilkes was not mask enough, we had a man dressed like him, with a visor, in imitation of his squint, and a cap of liberty on a pole. in short, sixteen or eighteen young lords have given the town a masquerade; and politics, for the last fortnight, were forced to give way to habit-makers. the ball was last night at soho; and, if possible, was more magnificent than the king of denmark's. the bishops opposed: he of london formally remonstrated to the king, who did not approve it, but could not help him. the consequence was, that four divine vessels belonging to the holy fathers, alias their wives, were at this masquerade. monkey again! a fair widow,[ ] who once bore my whole name, and now bears half of it, was there, with one of those whom the newspapers call _great personages_--he dressed like edward the fourth, she like elizabeth woodville,[ ] in grey and pearls, with a black veil. methinks it was not very difficult to find out the meaning of those masks. [footnote : "_orozmades and arimanius._" in the persian theology orozmades and ahriman are the good and bad angels. in scott's "talisman" the disguised saracen (saladin) invokes ahriman as "the dark spirit." in one of his earlier letters walpole describes his friend gray as orozmades.] [footnote : "_a fair widow._" lady waldegrave, a natural daughter of walpole's uncle, married the king's favourite brother, the duke of gloucester, the _great personage_. the king was very indignant at the _mésalliance_; and this marriage, with that of the king's other brother, the duke of cumberland, to mrs. horton, led to the enactment of the royal marriage act.] [footnote : elizabeth woodville was the daughter of a sir richard woodville, and his wife, the duchess of bedford, the widow of the illustrious brother of henry v. her first husband had been sir john grey, a knight of the lancastrian party; and, after his death, edward iv., attracted by her remarkable beauty, married her in .] as one of my ancient passions, formerly, was masquerades, i had a large trunk of dresses by me. i dressed out a thousand young conways and cholmondeleys, and went with more pleasure to see them pleased than when i formerly delighted in that diversion myself. it has cost me a great headache, and i shall probably never go to another. a symptom appeared of the change that has happened in the people. the mob was beyond all belief: they held flambeaux to the windows of every coach, and demanded to have the masks pulled off and put on at their pleasure, but with extreme good-humour and civility. i was with my lady hertford and two of her daughters, in their coach: the mob took me for lord hertford, and huzzaed and blessed me! one fellow cried out, "are you for wilkes?" another said, "d--n you, you fool, what has wilkes to do with a masquerade?" in good truth, that stock is fallen very low. the court has recovered a majority of seventy-five in the house of commons; and the party has succeeded so ill in the lords, that my lord chatham has betaken himself to the gout, and appears no more. what wilkes may do at his enlargement in april, i don't know, but his star is certainly much dimmed. the distress of france, the injustice they have been induced to commit on public credit, immense bankruptcies, and great bankers hanging and drowning themselves, are comfortable objects in our prospect; for one tiger is charmed if another tiger loses his tail. there was a stroke of the monkey last night that will sound ill in the ears of your neighbour the pope. the heir-apparent of the house of norfolk, a drunken old mad fellow, was, though a catholic, dressed like a cardinal: i hope he was scandalised at the wives of our bishops. so you agree with me, and don't think that the crusado from russia will recover the holy land! it is a pity; for, if the turks kept it a little longer, i doubt it will be the holy land no longer. when rome totters, poor jerusalem! as to your count orloff's[ ] denying the murder of the late czar, it is no more than every felon does at the old bailey. if i could write like shakspeare, i would make peter's ghost perch on the dome of sancta sophia, and, when the russian fleet comes in sight, roar, with a voice of thunder that should reach to petersburg, let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow! [footnote : count orloff was one of the czarina's earlier lovers, and was universally understood to have been the principal agent in the murder of her husband.] we have had two or three simpletons return from russia, charmed with the murderess, believing her innocent, _because_ she spoke graciously to _them_ in the drawing-room. i don't know what the present grand signior's name is, osman, or mustapha, or what, but i am extremely on his side against catherine of zerbst; and i never intend to ask him for a farthing, nor write panegyrics on him for pay, like voltaire and diderot; so you need not say a word to him of my good wishes. benedict xiv. deserved my friendship, but being a sound protestant, one would not, you know, make all turk and pagan and infidel princes too familiar. adieu! [illustration: sir robert walpole _from a mezzotint by j. simon after a picture by sir godfrey kneller_] _wilkes--burke's pamphlet--prediction of american republics--extravagance in england._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _may_ , . i don't know whether wilkes is subdued by his imprisonment, or waits for the rising of parliament, to take the field; or whether his dignity of alderman has dulled him into prudence, and the love of feasting; but hitherto he has done nothing but go to city banquets and sermons, and sit at guildhall as a sober magistrate. with an inversion of the proverb, "si ex quovis mercurio fit lignum!" what do you italians think of harlequin potesta?[ ] in truth, his party is crumbled away strangely. lord chatham has talked on the middlesex election till nobody will answer him; and mr. burke (lord rockingham's governor) has published a pamphlet[ ] that has sown the utmost discord between that faction and the supporters of the bill of rights. mrs. macaulay[ ] has written against it. in parliament their numbers are shrunk to nothing, and the session is ending very triumphantly for the court. but there is another scene opened of a very different aspect. you have seen the accounts from boston. the tocsin seems to be sounded to america. i have many visions about that country, and fancy i see twenty empires and republics forming upon vast scales over all that continent, which is growing too mighty to be kept in subjection to half a dozen exhausted nations in europe. as the latter sinks, and the others rise, they who live between the eras will be a sort of noahs, witnesses to the period of the old world and origin of the new. i entertain myself with the idea of a future senate in carolina and virginia, where their future patriots will harangue on the austere and incorruptible virtue of the ancient english! will tell their auditors of our disinterestedness and scorn of bribes and pensions, and make us blush in our graves at their ridiculous panegyrics. who knows but even our indian usurpations and villanies may become topics of praise to american schoolboys? as i believe our virtues are extremely like those of our predecessors the romans, so i am sure our luxury and extravagance are too. [footnote : podesta was an officer in some of the smaller italian towns, somewhat corresponding to our mayor. the name is italianised from the roman potestas-- hajus, quo trahitur, praetextam sumere mavis, an fidenarum, gabiorumque esse potestas. (juv., x. ).] [footnote : the pamphlet is, "thoughts on the present discontents," founding them especially on the unconstitutional influence of "the king's friends."] [footnote : mrs. macaulay was the wife of a london physician, and authoress of a "history of england" from the accession of james i. to that of george i., written in a spirit of the fiercest republicanism, but long since forgotten.] what do you think of a winter ranelagh[ ] erecting in oxford road, at the expense of sixty thousand pounds? the new bank, including the value of the ground, and of the houses demolished to make room for it, will cost three hundred thousand; and erected, as my lady townley[ ] says, _by sober citizens too_! i have touched before to you on the incredible profusion of our young men of fashion. i know a younger brother who literally gives a flower-woman half a guinea every morning for a bunch of roses for the nosegay in his button-hole. there has lately been an auction of stuffed birds; and, as natural history is in fashion, there are physicians and others who paid forty and fifty guineas for a single chinese pheasant; you may buy a live one for five. after this, it is not extraordinary that pictures should be dear. we have at present three exhibitions. one west,[ ] who paints history in the taste of poussin, gets three hundred pounds for a piece not too large to hang over a chimney. he has merit, but is hard and heavy, and far unworthy of such prices. the rage to see these exhibitions is so great, that sometimes one cannot pass through the streets where they are. but it is incredible what sums are raised by mere exhibitions of anything; a new fashion, and to enter at which you pay a shilling or half-a-crown. another rage, is for prints of english portraits: i have been collecting them above thirty years, and originally never gave for a mezzotinto above one or two shillings. the lowest are now a crown; most, from half a guinea to a guinea. lately, i assisted a clergyman [granger] in compiling a catalogue of them; since the publication, scarce heads in books, not worth threepence, will sell for five guineas. then we have etruscan vases, made of earthenware, in staffordshire, [by wedgwood] from two to five guineas, and _ormoulu_, never made here before, which succeeds so well, that a tea-kettle, which the inventor offered for one hundred guineas, sold by auction for one hundred and thirty. in short, we are at the height of extravagance and improvements, for we do improve rapidly in taste as well as in the former. i cannot say so much for our genius. poetry is gone to bed, or into our prose; we are like the romans in that too. if we have the arts of the antonines,--we have the fustian also. [footnote : _"a winter ranelagh._"--the pantheon in oxford street.] [footnote : lady townley is the principal character in "the provoked husband."] [footnote : west, as a painter, was highly esteemed by george iii., and, on the death of sir j. reynolds, succeeded him as president of the royal academy.] well! what becomes of your neighbours, the pope and turk? is one babylon to fall, and the other to moulder away? i begin to tremble for the poor greeks; they will be sacrificed like the catalans, and left to be impaled for rebellion, as soon as that vainglorious woman the czarina has glutted her lust of fame, and secured azoph by a peace, which i hear is all she insists on keeping. what strides modern ambition takes! _we_ are the successors of aurungzebe; and a virago under the pole sends a fleet into the aegean sea to rouse the ghosts of leonidas and epaminondas, and burn the capital of the second roman empire! folks now scarce meddle with their next door neighbours; as many english go to visit st. peter's who never thought of stepping into st. paul's. i shall let lord beauchamp know your readiness to oblige him, probably to-morrow, as i go to town. the spring is so backward here that i have little inducement to stay; not an entire leaf is out on any tree, and i have heard a syren as much as a nightingale. lord fitzwilliam, who, i suppose, is one of your latest acquaintance, is going to marry lady charlotte ponsonby, lord besborough's second daughter, a pretty, sensible, and very amiable girl. i seldom tell you that sort of news, but when the parties are very fresh in your memory. adieu! _masquerades in fashion--a lady's club._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _may_ , . if you are like me, you are fretting at the weather. we have not a leaf, yet, large enough to make an apron for a miss eve of two years old. flowers and fruits, if they come at all this year, must meet together as they do in a dutch picture; our lords and ladies, however, couple as if it were the real _gioventù dell' anno_. lord albemarle, you know, has disappointed all his brothers and my niece; and lord fitzwilliam is declared _sposo_ to lady charlotte ponsonby. it is a pretty match, and makes lord besborough as happy as possible. masquerades proceed in spite of church and king. that knave the bishop of london persuaded that good soul the archbishop to remonstrate against them; but happily the age prefers silly follies to serious ones, and dominos, _comme de raison_, carry it against lawn sleeves. there is a new institution that begins to make, and if it proceeds, will make a considerable noise. it is a club of _both_ sexes to be erected at almack's, on the model of that of the men of white's. mrs. fitzroy, lady pembroke, mrs. meynell, lady molyneux, miss pelham, and miss loyd, are the foundresses. i am ashamed to say i am of so young and fashionable a society; but as they are people i live with, i choose to be idle rather than morose. i can go to a young supper, without forgetting how much sand is run out of the hour-glass. yet i shall never pass a triste old age in turning the psalms into latin or english verse. my plan is to pass away calmly; cheerfully if i can; sometimes to amuse myself with the rising generation, but to take care not to fatigue them, nor weary them with old stories, which will not interest them, as their adventures do not interest me. age would indulge prejudices if it did not sometimes polish itself against younger acquaintance; but it must be the work of folly if one hopes to contract friendships with them, or desires it, or thinks one can become the same follies, or expects that they should do more than bear one for one's good-humour. in short, they are a pleasant medicine, that one should take care not to grow fond of. medicines hurt when habit has annihilated their force; but you see i am in no danger. i intend by degrees to decrease my opium, instead of augmenting the dose. good night! you see i never let our long-lived friendship drop, though you give it so few opportunities of breathing. _the princess of wales is gone to germany--terrible accident in paris._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _june_ , . i have no public event to tell you, though i write again sooner than i purposed. the journey of the princess dowager to germany is indeed an extraordinary circumstance, but besides its being a week old, as i do not know the motives, i have nothing to say upon it. it is much canvassed and sifted, and yet perhaps she was only in search of a little repose from the torrents of abuse that have been poured upon her for some years. yesterday they publicly sung about the streets a ballad, the burthen of which was, _the cow has left her calf_. with all this we are grown very quiet, and lord north's behaviour is so sensible and moderate that he offends nobody. our family has lost a branch, but i cannot call it a misfortune. lord cholmondeley died last saturday. he was seventy, and had a constitution to have carried him to a hundred, if he had not destroyed it by an intemperance, especially in drinking, that would have killed anybody else in half the time. as it was, he had outlived by fifteen years all his set, who have reeled into the ferry-boat so long before him. his grandson seems good and amiable, and though he comes into but a small fortune for an earl, five-and-twenty hundred a-year, his uncle the general may re-establish him upon a great footing--but it will not be in his life, and the general does not sail after his brother on a sea of claret. you have heard details, to be sure, of the horrible catastrophe at the fireworks at paris.[ ] francèes, the french minister, told me the other night that the number of the killed is so great that they now try to stifle it; my letters say between five and six hundred! i think there were not fewer than ten coach-horses trodden to death. the mob had poured down from the _etoile_ by thousands and ten thousands to see the illuminations, and did not know the havoc they were occasioning. the impulse drove great numbers into the seine, and those met with the most favourable deaths. [footnote : the dauphin had been married to the archduchess marie antoinette on may th, and on may th the city of paris closed a succession of balls and banquets with which they had celebrated the marriage of the heir of the monarchy by a display of fireworks in the place louis xv., in which the ingenuity of the most fashionable pyrotechnists had been exhausted to outshine all previous displays of the sort. but towards the end of the exhibition one of the explosives set fire to a portion of the platforms on which the different figures were constructed, and in a moment the whole woodwork was in a flame. three sides of the place were enclosed, and the fourth was so blocked up with carriages, that the spectators, who saw themselves surrounded with flames, had no way to escape open. the carriage-horses, too, became terrified and unmanageable. in their panic-stricken flight the spectators trampled one another down; hundreds fell, and were crushed to death by their companions; hundreds were pushed into the river and drowned. the number of killed could never be precisely ascertained; but it was never estimated below six hundred, and was commonly believed to have greatly exceeded that number, as many of the victims were of the poorer class--many, too, the bread-winners of their families. the dauphin and dauphiness devoted the whole of their month's income to the relief of the sufferers; and marie antoinette herself visited many of the families whose loss seemed to have been the most severe: this personal interest in their affliction which she thus displayed making a deep impression on the citizens.] this is a slight summer letter, but you will not be sorry it is so short, when the dearth of events is the cause. last year i did not know but we might have a battle of edgehill[ ] by this time. at present, my lord chatham could as soon raise money as raise the people; and wilkes will not much longer have more power of doing either. if you were not busy in burning constantinople, you could not have a better opportunity for taking a trip to england. have you never a wish this way? think what satisfaction it would be to me?--but i never advise; nor let my own inclinations judge for my friends. i had rather suffer their absence, than have to reproach myself with having given them bad counsel. i therefore say no more on what would make me so happy. adieu! [footnote : edgehill was the first battle in the great rebellion, fought october , .] _fall of the duc de choiseul's ministry._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _saturday evening, dec._ , . we are alarmed, or very glad, we don't know which. the duke de choiseul is fallen! but we cannot tell yet whether the mood of his successors will be peaceable or martial. the news arrived yesterday morning, and the event happened but last monday evening. he was allowed but three hours to prepare for his journey, and ordered to retire to his seat at chanteloup; but there are letters that say, _qu'il ira plus loin_. the duke de praslin is banished too--a disagreeable man; but his fate is a little hard, for he was just going to resign the marine to châtelet, who, by the way, is forbidden to visit choiseul. i shall shed no tears for châtelet, the most peevish and insolent of men, our bitter enemy, and whom m. de choiseul may thank in some measure for his fall; for i believe while châtelet was here, he drew the spaniards into the attack of falkland's island. choiseul's own conduct seems to have been not a little equivocal. his friends maintained that his existence as a minister depended on his preventing a war, and he certainly confuted the comptroller-general's plan of raising supplies for it. yet, it is now said, that on the very morning of the duke's disgrace, the king reproached him, and said "monsieur, je vous avois dit, que je ne voulois pas la guerre;" and the duke d'aiguillon's friends have officiously whispered, that if choiseul was out it would certainly be peace; but did not lord chatham, immediately before he was minister, protest not half a man should be sent to germany, and yet, were not all our men and all our money sent thither? the chevalier de muy is made secretary-at-war, and it is supposed monsieur d'aiguillon is, or will be, the minister. thus abishag[ ] has strangled an administration that had lasted fourteen years. i am sincerely grieved for the duchess de choiseul, the most perfect being i know of either sex. i cannot possibly feel for her husband: corsica is engraved in my memory, as i believe it is on your heart. his cruelties there, i should think, would not cheer his solitude or prison. in the mean time, desolation and confusion reign all over france. they are almost bankrupts, and quite famished. the parliament of paris has quitted its functions, and the other tribunals threaten to follow the example. some people say, that maupéou,[ ] the chancellor, told the king that they were supported underhand by choiseul, and must submit if he were removed. the suggestion is specious at least, as the object of their antipathy is the duke d'aiguillon. if the latter should think a war a good diversion to their enterprises, i should not be surprised if they went on, especially if a bankruptcy follows famine. the new minister and the chancellor are in general execration. on the latter's lately obtaining the _cordon bleu_,[ ] this epigram appeared:-- ce tyran de la france, qui cherche à mettre tout en feu, mérite un cordon, mais ce n'est pas le cordon bleu. [footnote : madame du barri.--walpole.] [footnote : maupéou was the chancellor who had just abolished the parliaments, the restoration of which in the next reign was perhaps one of the causes which contributed to the revolution.] [footnote : the _cordon bleu_ was the badge of the order of st. louis, established by louis xiv.; the _cordon not_ blue was the hangman's rope.] we shall see how spain likes the fall of the author of the "family-compact."[ ] there is an empress[ ] will not be pleased with it, but it is not the russian empress; and much less the turks, who are as little obliged to that bold man's intrigues as the poor corsicans. how can one regret such a general _boute-feu_? [footnote : choiseul was the minister when the "family compact" of was concluded between france and spain. the duc de praslin, who shared his fall, had been secretary at war, and for some little time neither his office nor that of choiseul was filled up, but the work of their departments was performed by secretaries of state, the duc d'aiguillon, in spite of the contempt in which he was deservedly held, being eventually made secretary for foreign affairs through the interest of mme. du barri (lacretelle, iv. ).] [footnote : "_an empress._" the empress-queen maria theresa, who considered herself and her family under obligations to choiseul for his abandonment of the long-standing policy of enmity to the house of austria which had been the guiding principle of all french statesmen since the time of henry iv., and for the marriage of her favourite daughter to the dauphin.] perhaps our situation is not very stable neither. the world, who are ignorant of lord weymouth's motives, suspect a secret intelligence with lord chatham. oh! let us have peace abroad before we quarrel any more at home! judge bathurst is to be lord keeper, with many other arrangements in the law; but as you neither know the persons, nor i care about them, i shall not fill my paper with the catalogue, but reserve the rest of my letter for tuesday, when i shall be in town. no englishman, you know, will sacrifice his saturday and sunday. i have so little to do with all these matters, that i came hither this morning, and left this new chaos to arrange itself as it pleases. it certainly is an era, and may be an extensive one; not very honourable to old king capet,[ ] whatever it may be to the intrigues of his new ministers. the jesuits will not be without hopes. they have a friend that made mischief _ante helenam_. [footnote : louis xv.--walpole.] _jan._ , . i hope the new year will end as quietly as it begins, for i have not a syllable to tell you. no letters are come from france since friday morning, and this is tuesday noon. as we had full time to reason--in the dark, the general persuasion is, that the french revolution will produce peace--i mean in europe--not amongst themselves. probably i have been sending you little but what you will have heard long before you receive my letter; but no matter; if we did not chat about our neighbour kings, i don't know how we should keep up our correspondence, for we are better acquainted with king louis, king carlos, and empresses katharine and teresa, than you with the english that i live amongst, or i with your florentines. adieu! _peace with spain--banishment of the french parliament--mrs. cornelys's establishment--the queen of denmark._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _feb._ , . two days ago there began to be an alarm at the delay of the spanish courier, and people were persuaded that the king of spain had refused to ratify his ambassador's declaration; who, on the warrant of the french king, had ventured to sign it, though expecting every hour to be recalled, as he actually was two days afterwards. however, the night before last, to the great comfort of prince masserano and our ministers, the ratification arrived; and, after so many delays and untoward accidents, fortune has interposed (for there has been great luck, too, in the affair), and peace is again established. with you, i am not at all clear that choiseul was in earnest to make it. if he was, it was entirely owing to his own ticklish situation. other people think, that this very situation had made him desperate; and that he was on the point of striking a hardy stroke indeed; and meditated sending a strong army into holland, to oblige the dutch to lend twelve men-of-war to invade us. count welderen,[ ] who is totally an anti-gaul, assured me he did not believe this project. still i am very glad such a _boute-feu_ is removed. [footnote : the dutch minister in england. he married a sister of sir john griffin, maid of honour to anne princess of orange.--walpole.] this treaty is an epoch; and puts a total end to all our preceding histories. long quiet is never probable, nor shall i guess who will disturb it; but, whatever happens, must be thoroughly new matter, though some of the actors perhaps may not be so. both lord chatham and wilkes are at the end of their reckoning, and the opposition can do nothing without fresh fuel. the scene that is closed here seems to be but opening in france. the parliament of paris banished; a new one arbitrarily appointed;[ ] the princes of the blood refractory and disobedient; the other parliament as mutinous; and distress everywhere: if the army catches the infection, what may not happen, when the king is despised, his agents detested, and no ministry settled? some say the mistress and her faction keep him hourly diverted or drunk; others, that he has got a new passion: how creditable at sixty! still i think it is the crisis of their constitution. if the monarch prevails, he becomes absolute as a czar; if he is forced to bend, will the parliament stop there? [footnote : "_a new one appointed._" this is a mistake of walpole's. a new parliament was not, nor indeed could be, appointed; but maupéou created six new sovereign courts at arras, blois, chalons sur marne, clermont, lyon, and poitiers, at which "justice should be done at the sovereign's expense" (lacretelle, iv. ).] in the mean time our most serious war is between two operas. mr. hobart, lord buckingham's brother, is manager of the haymarket. last year he affronted guadagni, by preferring the zamperina, his own mistress, to the singing hero's sister. the duchess of northumberland, lady harrington, and some other great ladies, espoused the brother, and without a license erected an opera for him at madame cornelys's. this is a singular dame, and you must be acquainted with her. she sung here formerly, by the name of the pompeiati. of late years she has been the heidegger of the age, and presided over our diversions. her taste and invention in pleasures and decorations are singular. she took carlisle house in soho square, enlarged it, and established assemblies and balls by subscription. at first they scandalised, but soon drew in both righteous and ungodly. she went on building, and made her house a fairy palace for balls, concerts, and masquerades. her opera, which she called _harmonic meetings_, was splendid and charming. mr. hobart began to starve, and the managers of the theatres were alarmed. to avoid the act, she pretended to take no money, and had the assurance to advertise that the subscription was to provide coals for the poor, for she has vehemently courted the mob, and succeeded in gaining their princely favour. she then declared her masquerades were for the benefit of commerce. i concluded she would open another sort of house next for the interests of the foundling hospital, and i was not quite mistaken, for they say one of her maids, gained by mr. hobart, affirms that she could not undergo the fatigue of managing such a house. at last mr. hobart informed against her, and the bench of justices, less soothable by music than orpheus's beasts, have pronounced against her. her opera is quashed, and guadagni, who governed so haughtily at vienna, that, to pique some man of quality there, he named a minister to venice, is not only fined, but was threatened to be sent to bridewell, which chilled the blood of all the caesars and alexanders he had ever represented; nor could any promises of his lady-patronesses rehabilitate his courage--so for once an act of parliament goes for something. you have got three new companions;[ ] general montagu, a west indian mr. paine, and mr. lynch, your brother at turin. [footnote : as knights of the bath.--walpole.] there is the devil to pay in denmark. the queen[ ] has got the ascendant, has turned out favourites and ministers, and literally wears the breeches, actual buckskin. there is a physician, who is said to rule both their majesties, and i suppose is sold to france, for that is the predominant interest now at copenhagen. the czarina has whispered her disapprobation, and if she has a talon left, when she has done with the ottomans, may chance to scratch the little king. [footnote : the queen was caroline matilda, a sister of george iii., and was accused of a criminal intimacy with count struenzee, the prime minister. struenzee, "after a trial with only a slight semblance of the forms of justice" (to quote the words of lord stanhope), was convicted and executed; and the queen was at first imprisoned in the castle of cronenburg, but after a time was released, and allowed to retire to zell, hanover, where she died in .] for eight months to come i should think we shall have little to talk of, you and i, but distant wars and distant majesties. for my part, i reckon the volume quite shut in which i took any interest. the succeeding world is young, new, and half unknown to me. tranquillity comprehends every wish i have left, and i think i should not even ask what news there is, but for fear of seeming wedded to old stories--the rock of old men; and yet i should prefer that failing to the solicitude about a world one belongs to no more! adieu! _quarrel of the house of commons with the city--dissensions in the french court and royal family--extravagance in england._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _april_ , . you may wonder that i have been so silent, when i had announced a war between the house of commons and the city--nay, when hostilities were actually commenced; but many a campaign languishes that has set out very flippantly. my letters depend on events, and i am like the man in the weather-house who only comes forth on a storm. the wards in the city have complimented the prisoners,[ ] and some towns; but the train has not spread much. wilkes is your only gun-powder that makes an explosion. he and his associates are more incensed at each other than against the ministry, and have saved the latter much trouble. the select committees have been silent and were forgotten, but there is a talk now of their making some report before the session closes. [footnote : the prisoners were crosby, the lord mayor, and oliver, one of the aldermen, both members of parliament. the selection of the tower for their imprisonment was greatly remarked upon, because hitherto that had never been so used except for persons accused of high treason; while their offence was but a denial of the right of the house of commons to arrest a liveryman within the city, and the entertaining a charge of assault against the messenger who had endeavoured to arrest him. these riots, which for the moment appeared likely to become formidable, arose out of the practice of reporting the parliamentary debates, a practice contrary to the standing orders of parliament, passed as far back as the reign of elizabeth, but the violation of which had lately begun to be attempted.] the serious war is at last absolutely blown over. spain has sent us word she is disarming. so are we. who would have expected that a courtesan at paris would have prevented a general conflagration? madame du barri has compensated for madame helen, and is _optima pacis causa_. i will not swear that the torch she snatched from the hands of spain may not light up a civil war in france. the princes of the blood[ ] are forbidden the court, twelve dukes and peers, of the most complaisant, are banished, or going to be banished; and even the captains of the guard. in short, the king, his mistress, and the chancellor, have almost left themselves alone at versailles. but as the most serious events in france have always a ray of ridicule mixed with them, some are to be exiled _to_ paris, and some to st. germain. how we should laugh at anybody being banished to soho square and hammersmith? the chancellor desired to see the prince of conti; the latter replied, "qu'il lui donnoit rendezvous à la grève."[ ] [footnote : the "princes of the blood" in france were those who, though of royal descent, were not children of a king--such, for instance, as the dukes of orléans and bourbon; and they were reckoned of a rank so inferior to the princes of the royal family, that, as marie antoinette on one occasion told the duke of orléans, in a well-deserved reproof for his factious insolence, princes of the blood had never pretended to the honour of supping with the king and herself. (see the editor's "life of marie antoinette," c. ). their offence, in this instance, was having protested against the holding and the proceedings of a _lit de justice_, which had been held on april th, about three months after the banishment of all the members of parliament (lacretelle, c. ).] [footnote : la grève was the place of execution in paris. who has e'er been at paris must needs know the grève, the fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave; where honour and justice most oddly contribute to ease hero's pains by a halter and gibbet (prior).] if we laugh at the french, they stare at us. our enormous luxury and expense astonishes them. i carried their ambassador, and a comte de levi, the other morning to see the new winter ranelagh [the pantheon] in oxford road, which is almost finished. it amazed me myself. imagine balbec in all its glory! the pillars are of artificial _giallo antico_. the ceilings, even of the passages, are of the most beautiful stuccos in the best taste of grotesque. the ceilings of the ball-rooms and the panels painted like raphael's _loggias_ in the vatican. a dome like the pantheon, glazed. it is to cost fifty thousand pounds. monsieur de guisnes said to me, "ce n'est qu'à londres qu'on peut faire tout cela." it is not quite a proof of the same taste, that two views of verona, by canaletti, have been sold by auction for five hundred and fifty guineas; and, what is worse, it is come out that they are copies by marlow, a disciple of scott. both master and scholar are indeed better painters than the venetian; but the purchasers did not mean to be so well cheated. the papers will have told you that the wheel of fortune has again brought up lord holdernesse, who is made governor to the prince of wales. the duchess of queensberry, a much older veteran, is still figuring in the world, not only by giving frequent balls, but really by her beauty. reflect, that she was a goddess in prior's days![ ] i could not help adding these lines on her--you know his end: kitty, at heart's desire, obtained the chariot for a day, and set the world on fire. this was some fifty-six years ago, or more. i gave her this stanza: to many a kitty, love his car will for a day engage, but prior's kitty, ever fair, obtained it for an age! and she is old enough to be pleased with the compliment. [footnote : prior died in .] my brother [sir edward walpole] has lost his son; and it is no misfortune, though he was but three-and-thirty, and had very good parts; for he was sunk into such a habit of drinking and gaming, that the first ruined his constitution, and the latter would have ruined his father. shall i send away this short scroll, or reserve it to the end of the session? no, it is already somewhat obsolete: it shall go, and another short letter shall be the other half of it--so, good night! _great distress at the french court._ to the hon. h.s. conway. paris, _july_ , . i do not know where you are, nor where this will find you, nor when it will set out to seek you, as i am not certain by whom i shall send it. it is of little consequence, as i have nothing material to tell you, but what you probably may have heard. the distress here is incredible, especially at court. the king's tradesmen are ruined, his servants starving, and even angels and archangels cannot get their pensions and salaries, but sing "woe! woe! woe!" instead of hosannahs. compiègne is abandoned; villars coterets[ ] and chantilly crowded, and chanteloup still more in fashion, whither everybody goes that pleases; though, when they ask leave, the answer is, "je ne le défends ni le permets." this is the first time that ever the will of a king of france was interpreted against his inclination. yet, after annihilating his parliament, and ruining public credit, he tamely submits to be affronted by his own servants. madame de beauveau, and two or three high-spirited dames, defy this czar of gaul. yet they and their cabal are as inconsistent on the other hand. they make epigrams, sing vaudevilles,[ ] against the mistress, hand about libels against the chancellor [maupéou], and have no more effect than a sky-rocket; but in three months will die to go to court, and to be invited to sup with madame du barri. the only real struggle is between the chancellor [maupéou] and the duc d'aiguillon. the first is false, bold, determined, and not subject to little qualms. the other is less known, communicates himself to nobody, is suspected of deep policy and deep designs, but seems to intend to set out under a mask of very smooth varnish; for he has just obtained the payment of all his bitter enemy la chalotais' pensions and arrears. he has the advantage, too, of being but moderately detested in comparison of his rival, and, what he values more, the interest of the mistress. the comptroller-general[ ] serves both, by acting mischief more sensibly felt; for he ruins everybody but those who purchase a respite from his mistress. he dispenses bankruptcy by retail, and will fall, because he cannot even by these means be useful enough. they are striking off nine millions from _la caisse militaire_, five from the marine, and one from the _affaires étrangères_: yet all this will not extricate them. you never saw a great nation in so disgraceful a position. their next prospect is not better: it rests on an _imbécille_ [louis xvi.], both in mind and body. [footnote : villars coterets was the country residence of the duc d'orléans; chantilly that of the prince de condé; and chanteloup that of the duc de choiseul: and the mere fact of their being in disgrace at court was sufficient to make them popular with the people.] [footnote : the following specimen of these vaudevilles was given by madame du deffand to walpole:-- "l'avez-vous vue, ma du barry, elle a ravi mon áme; pour elle j'ai perdu l'esprit, des français j'ai le blâme: charmants enfans de la gourdon, est-elle chez vous maintenant? rendez-la-moi, je suis le roi, soulagez mon martyre; rendez-la-moi, elle est à moi, je suis son pauvre sire. l'avez-vous vue," &c. "je sais qu'autrefois les laquais on fêté ses jeunes attraits; que les cochers, les perruquiers, l'aimaient, l'aimaient d'amour extrême, mais pas autant que je l'aime. l'avez-vous vue," &c.] [footnote : the comptroller-general was the abbé terrai, notoriously as corrupt as he was incompetent. one of his measures, reducing the interest on the debt by one-half, was tantamount to an act of bankruptcy; but the national levity comforted itself by jests, and one evening, when the pit at the theatre was crowded to suffocation, one of the sufferers carried the company with him by shouting out a suggestion to send for the abbé terrai to reduce them all to one-half their size.] _english gardening in france--anglomanie--he is weary of paris--death of gray._ to john chute, esq. paris, _august_ , . it is a great satisfaction to me to find by your letter of the th, that you have had no return of your gout. i have been assured here, that the best remedy is to cut one's nails in hot water. it is, i fear, as certain as any other remedy! it would at least be so here, if their bodies were of a piece with their understandings; or if both were as curable as they are the contrary. your prophecy, i doubt, is not better founded than the prescription. i may be lame; but i shall never be a duck, nor deal in the garbage of the alley. i envy your _strawberry tide_, and need not say how much i wish i was there to receive you. methinks, i should be as glad of a little grass, as a seaman after a long voyage. yet english gardening gains ground here prodigiously--not much at a time, indeed--i have literally seen one, that is exactly like a tailor's paper of patterns. there is a monsieur boutin, who has tacked a piece of what he calls an english garden to a set of stone terraces, with steps of turf. there are three or four very high hills, almost as high as, and exactly in the shape of, a tansy pudding. you squeeze between these and a river, that is conducted at obtuse angles in a stone channel, and supplied by a pump; and when walnuts come in i suppose it will be navigable. in a corner enclosed by a chalk wall are the samples i mentioned; there is a strip of grass, another of corn, and a third _en friche_, exactly in the order of beds in a nursery. they have translated mr. whately's book,[ ] and the lord knows what barbarism is going to be laid at our door. this new _anglomanie_ will literally be _mad english_. [footnote : mr. whately, the secretary to the treasury, had published an essay on gardening.] new _arrêts_, new retrenchments, new misery, stalk forth every day. the parliament of besançon is dissolved; so are the _grenadiers de france_. the king's tradesmen are all bankrupt; no pensions are paid, and everybody is reforming their suppers and equipages. despotism makes converts faster than ever christianity did. louis _quinze_ is the true _rex christianissimus_, and has ten times more success than his dragooning great-grandfather. adieu, my dear sir! yours most faithfully. _friday th._ ... it is very singular that i have not half the satisfaction in going into churches and convents that i used to have. the consciousness that the vision is dispelled, the want of fervour so obvious in the religious, the solitude that one knows proceeds from contempt, not from contemplation, make those places appear like abandoned theatres destined to destruction. the monks trot about as if they had not long to stay there; and what used to be holy gloom is now but dirt and darkness. there is no more deception than in a tragedy acted by candle-snuffers. one is sorry to think that an empire of common sense would not be very picturesque; for, as there is nothing but taste that can compensate for the imagination of madness, i doubt there will never be twenty men of taste for twenty thousand madmen. the world will no more see athens, rome, and the medici again, than a succession of five good emperors, like nerva, trajan, adrian, and the two antonines. _august_ . mr. edmonson has called on me; and, as he sets out to-morrow, i can safely trust my letter to him. i have, i own, been much shocked at reading gray's[ ] death in the papers. 'tis an hour that makes one forget any subject of complaint, especially towards one with whom i lived in friendship from thirteen years old. as self lies so rooted in self, no doubt the nearness of our ages made the stroke recoil to my own breast; and having so little expected his death, it is plain how little i expect my own. yet to you, who of all men living are the most forgiving, i need not excuse the concern i feel. i fear most men ought to apologise for their want of feeling, instead of palliating that sensation when they have it. i thought that what i had seen of the world had hardened my heart; but i find that it had formed my language, not extinguished my tenderness. in short, i am really shocked--nay, i am hurt at my own weakness, as i perceive that when i love anybody, it is for my life; and i have had too much reason not to wish that such a disposition may very seldom be put to the trial. you, at least, are the only person to whom i would venture to make such a confession. [footnote : gray died of gout in the stomach on july th. he was only fifty-five.] adieu! my dear sir! let me know when i arrive, which will be about the last day of the month, when i am likely to see you. i have much to say to you. of being here i am most heartily tired, and nothing but this dear old woman should keep me here an hour--i am weary of them to death--but that is not new! yours ever. _scantiness of the relics of gray--garrick's prologues, etc.--wilkes's squint._ to the rev. william cole arlington street, _jan._ , . it is long indeed, dear sir, since we corresponded. i should not have been silent if i had anything worth telling you in your way; but i grow such an antiquity myself, that i think i am less fond of what remains of our predecessors. i thank you for bannerman's proposal; i mean, for taking the trouble to send it, for i am not at all disposed to subscribe. i thank you more for the note on king edward; i mean, too, for your friendship in thinking of me. of dean milles i cannot trouble myself to think any more. his piece is at strawberry: perhaps i may look at it for the sake of your note. the bad weather keeps me in town, and a good deal at home; which i find very comfortable, literally practising what so many persons pretend they intend, being quiet and enjoying my fire-side in my elderly days. mr. mason has shown me the relics of poor mr. gray. i am sadly disappointed at finding them so very inconsiderable. he always persisted, when i inquired about his writings, that he had nothing by him. i own i doubted. i am grieved he was so very near exact--i speak of my own satisfaction; as to his genius, what he published during his life will establish his fame as long as our language lasts, and there is a man of genius left. there is a silly fellow, i don't know who, that has published a volume of letters on the english nation, with characters of our modern authors. he has talked such nonsense on mr. gray, that i have no patience with the compliments he has paid me. he must have an excellent taste! and gives me a woful opinion of my own trifles, when he likes them, and cannot see the beauties of a poet that ought to be ranked in the first line. i am more humbled by any applause in the present age, than by hosts of such critics as dean milles. is not garrick reckoned a tolerable actor? his cymon, his prologues and epilogues, and forty such pieces of trash, are below mediocrity, and yet delight the mob in the boxes as well as in the footman's gallery. i do not mention the things written in his praise; because he writes most of them himself. but you know any one popular merit can confer all merit. two women talking of wilkes, one said he squinted--t'other replied, "squints!--well, if he does, it is not more than a man should squint." for my part, i can see how extremely well garrick acts, without thinking him six feet high.[ ] [footnote : he is quoting churchill's "rosciad"-- when the pure genuine flame, by nature taught, springs into sense, and every action's thought; before such merit all objections fly, pritchard's genteel, and garrick six feet high-- the great actor being a short man.] it is said shakespeare was a bad actor; why do not his divine plays make our wise judges conclude that he was a good one? they have not a proof of the contrary, as they have in garrick's works--but what is it to you or me what he is? we may see him act with pleasure, and nothing obliges us to read his writings. _marriage of the pretender--the princess louise, and her protection of the clergy--fox's eloquence._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _april_ , . it is uncommon for _me_ to send _you_ news of the pretender. he has been married in paris by proxy, to a princess of stolberg. all that i can learn of her is, that she is niece to a princess of salm, whom i knew there, without knowing any more of her. the new pretendress is said to be but sixteen, and a lutheran: i doubt the latter; if the former is true, i suppose they mean to carry on the breed in the way it began, by a spurious child. a fitz-pretender is an excellent continuation of the patriarchal line. mr. chute says, when the royal family are prevented from marrying,[ ] it is a right time for the stuarts to marry. this event seems to explain the pretender's disappearance last autumn; and though they sent him back from paris, they may not dislike the propagation of thorns in our side. [footnote : in a previous letter walpole mentions the enactment of the royal marriage act by a very narrow majority, after more than one violent debate. it had been insisted on by the king, who was highly indignant at his brothers, the dukes of gloucester and cumberland, having married two subjects. singularly enough they were both widows, lady waldegrave and mrs. horton. and this act made the consent of the sovereign indispensable to the marriage of any member of the royal family except the descendants of princesses married to foreign princes.] i hear the credit of the french chancellor declines. he had strongly taken up the clergy; and soeur louise,[ ] the king's carmelite daughter, was the knot of the intrigue. the new parliament has dared to remonstrate against a declaration obtained by the chancellor for setting aside an _arrêt_ of , occasioned by the excommunication of parma. the spanish and neapolitan ministers interposed, and pronounced the declaration an infringement of the family compact: the _arrêt_ of has been confirmed to satisfy them, and the pope's authority, and everything that comes from rome, except what regards _the penitential_, (i do not know what that means,) restrained. this is supported by d'aiguillon and all the other ministers, who are labouring the reconciliation of the princes of the blood, that the chancellor may not have the honour of reconciling them. perhaps the princess of stolberg sprung out of my sister louise's cell. the king has demanded twelve millions of the clergy: they consent to give ten. we shall see whether madame louise, on her knees, or madame du barri will fight the better fight. i should think the king's knees were more of an age for praying, than for fighting. [footnote : the soeur louise was the youngest daughter of louis xv.; and, very different from her sisters, who were ill-tempered, political intriguers. she, on the contrary, was deeply religious, and had, some years before, taken the vows of the carmelite order; and had fixed her residence at the convent of st. denis, where she was more than once visited by marie antoinette.] the house of commons is embarked on the ocean of indian affairs, and will probably make a long session. i went thither the other day to hear charles fox, contrary to a resolution i had made of never setting my foot there again. it is strange how disuse makes one awkward: i felt a palpitation, as if i were going to speak there myself. the object answered: fox's abilities are amazing at so very early a period, especially under the circumstances of such a dissolute life. he was just arrived from newmarket, had sat up drinking all night, and had not been in bed. how such talents make one laugh at tully's rules for an orator, and his indefatigable application. his laboured orations are puerile in comparison with this boy's manly reason. we beat rome in eloquence and extravagance; and spain in avarice and cruelty; and, like both, we shall only serve to terrify schoolboys, and for lessons of morality! "here stood st. stephen's chapel; here young catiline spoke; here was lord clive's diamond-house; this is leadenhall street, and this broken column was part of the palace of a company of merchants[ ] who were sovereigns of bengal! they starved millions in india by monopolies and plunder, and almost raised a famine at home by the luxury occasioned by their opulence, and by that opulence raising the price of everything, till the poor could not purchase bread!" conquest, usurpation, wealth, luxury, famine--one knows how little farther the genealogy has to go. if you like it better in scripture phrase, here it is: lord chatham begot the east india company; the east india company begot lord clive; lord clive begot the maccaronis, and they begot poverty; all the race are still living; just as clodius was born before the death of julius caesar. there is nothing more like than two ages that are very like; which is all that rousseau means by saying, "give him an account of any great metropolis, and he will foretell its fate." adieu! [footnote : "_a company of merchants._" "a mighty prince held domination over india; his name was koompanee jehan. although this monarch had innumerable magnificent palaces at delhi and agra, at benares, boggleywallah, and ahmednuggar, his common residence was in the beautiful island of ingleez, in the midst of the capital of which, the famous city of lundoon, koompanee jehan had a superb castle. it was called the hall of lead, and stood at the foot of the mountain of corn, close by the verdure-covered banks of the silvery tameez, where the cypresses wave, and zendewans, or nightingales, love to sing" (thackeray, "life of sir c. napier," iv. p. ).] _an answer to his "historic doubts"--his edition of grammont._ to the rev. william cole. arlington street, _jan._ , . in return to your very kind inquiries, dear sir, i can let you know, that i am quite free from pain, and walk a little about my room, even without a stick: nay, have been four times to take the air in the park. indeed, after fourteen weeks this is not saying much; but it is a worse reflection, that when one is subject to the gout and far from young, one's worst account will probably be better than that after the next fit. i neither flatter myself on one hand, nor am impatient on the other--for will either do one any good? one must bear one's lot whatever it be. i rejoice mr. gulston has justice,[ ] though he had no bowels. how gertrude more escaped him i do not guess. it will be wrong to rob you of her, after she has come to you through so many hazards--nor would i hear of it either, if you have a mind to keep her, or have not given up all thoughts of a collection since you have been visited by a visigoth. [footnote : mr. gulston now fully remunerated mr. cole in a valuable present of books.--walpole.] i am much more impatient to see mr. gray's print, than mr. what-d'ye-call-him's [masters's] answer to my "historic doubts."[ ] he may have made himself very angry; but i doubt whether he will make me at all so. i love antiquities; but i scarce ever knew an antiquary who knew how to write upon them. their understandings seem as much in ruins as the things they describe. for the antiquarian society, i shall leave them in peace with whittington and his cat. as my contempt for them has not, however, made me disgusted with what they do not understand, antiquities, i have published two numbers of "miscellanies," and they are very welcome to mumble them with their toothless gums. i want to send you these--not their gums, but my pieces, and a "grammont,"[ ] of which i have printed only a hundred copies, and which will be extremely scarce, as twenty-five copies are gone to france. tell me how i shall convey them safely. [footnote : mr. masters's pamphlet, printed at the expense of the antiquarian society in the second volume of the "archaeologia."--walpole.] [footnote : he had just published a small edition of grammont's memoirs, "augmentée de notes et éclaircissemens nécessaires, par m. horace walpole," and had dedicated it to mme. du deffand.] another thing you must tell me, if you can, is, if you know anything ancient of the freemasons. governor pownall,[ ] a whittingtonian, has a mind they should have been a corporation erected by the popes. as you see what a good creature i am, and return good for evil, i am engaged to pick up what i can for him, to support this system, in which i believe no more than in the pope: and the work is to appear in a volume of the society's pieces. i am very willing to oblige him, and turn my cheek, that they may smite that, also. lord help them! i am sorry they are such numskulls, that they almost make me think myself something; but there are great authors enough to bring me to my senses again. posterity, i fear, will class me with the writers of this age, or forget me with them, not rank me with any names that deserve remembrance. if i cannot survive the milles's, the what-d'ye-call-him's [masters's], and the compilers of catalogues of topography, it would comfort me very little to confute them. i should be as little proud of success as if i had carried a contest for churchwarden. [footnote : thomas pownall, esq., the antiquary, and a constant contributor to the "archaeologia." having been governor of south carolina and other american colonies, he was always distinguished from his brother john, who was likewise an antiquary, by the title of governor.] not being able to return to strawberry hill, where all my books and papers are, and my printer lying fallow, i want some short bills to print. have you anything you wish printed? i can either print a few to amuse ourselves, or, if very curious, and not too dry, could make a third number of "miscellaneous antiquities." i am not in any eagerness to see mr. what-d'ye-call-him's pamphlet against me; therefore pray give yourself no trouble to get it for me. the specimens i have seen of his writing take off all edge from curiosity. a print of mr. gray will be a real present. would it not be dreadful to be commended by an age that had not taste enough to admire his "odes"? is not it too great a compliment to me to be abused, too? i am ashamed. indeed our antiquaries ought to like me. i am but too much on a par with them. does not mr. henshaw come to london? is he a professor, or only a lover of engraving? if the former, and he were to settle in town, i would willingly lend him heads to copy. adieu! _popularity of louis xvi--death of lord holland--bruce's "travels."_ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _july_ , . the month is come round, and i have, besides, a letter of yours to answer; and yet if i were not as regular as a husband or a merchant in paying my just dues, i think i should not perform the function, for i certainly have no natural call to it at present. nothing in yours requires a response, and i have nothing new to tell you. yet, if one once breaks in upon punctuality, adieu to it! i will not give out, after a perseverance of three-and-thirty years; and so far i will not resemble a husband. the whole blood royal of france is recovered from the small-pox. both choiseul and broglie are recalled, and i have some idea that even the old parliament will be so. the king is adored, and a most beautiful compliment has been paid to him: somebody wrote under the statue of henri quatre, _resurrexit_.[ ] [footnote : "_resurrexit._" a courtly picture-dealer, eager to make a market of the new sovereign's popularity, devised even a neater compliment to him, issuing a picture of the three sovereigns--louis xii., henri iv., and the young king--with an explanation that and made .] lord holland is at last dead, and lady holland is at the point of death. his sons would still be in good circumstances, if they were not _his_ sons; but he had so totally spoiled the two eldest, that they would think themselves bigots if they were to have common sense. the prevailing style is not to reform, though lord lyttelton [the bad lord] pretends to have set the example. gaming, for the last month, has exceeded its own outdoings, though the town is very empty. it will be quite so to-morrow, for newmarket begins, or rather the youth adjourn thither. after that they will have two or three months of repose; but if they are not severely blooded and blistered, there will be no alteration. their pleasures are no more entertaining to others, than delightful to themselves; one is tired of asking every day, who has won or lost? and even the portentous sums they lose, cease to make impression. one of them has committed a murder, and intends to repeat it. he betted £ , that a man could live twelve hours under water; hired a desperate fellow, sunk him in a ship, by way of experiment, and both ship and man have not appeared since. another man and ship are to be tried for their lives, instead of mr. blake, the assassin. christina, duchess of kingston, is arrived, in a great fright, i believe, for the duke's nephews are going to prove her first marriage, and hope to set the will aside. it is a pity her friendship with the pope had not begun earlier; he might have given her a dispensation. if she loses her cause, the best thing he can do will be to give her the veil. i am sorry all europe will not furnish me with another paragraph. africa is, indeed, coming into fashion. there is just returned a mr. bruce,[ ] who has lived three years in the court of abyssinia, and breakfasted every morning with the maids of honour on live oxen. otaheite and mr. banks are quite forgotten; but mr. blake, i suppose, will order a live sheep for supper at almack's, and ask whom he shall help to a piece of the shoulder. oh, yes; we shall have negro butchers, and french cooks will be laid aside. my lady townshend [harrison], after the rebellion, said, everybody was so bloodthirsty, that she did not dare to dine abroad, for fear of meeting with a rebel-pie--now one shall be asked to come and eat a bit of raw mutton. in truth, i do think we are ripe for any extravagance. i am not wise enough to wish the world reasonable--i only desire to have follies that are amusing, and am sorry cervantes laughed chivalry out of fashion. adieu! [footnote : when bruce's "travels" were first published, his account of the strange incidents which had occurred to him was very generally disbelieved and ridiculed; "baron munchausen" was even written in derision of them; but the discoveries of subsequent travellers have confirmed his narrative in almost every respect.] _discontent in america--mr. grenville's act for the trial of election petitions--highway robberies._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . it would be unlike my attention and punctuality, to see so large an event as an irregular dissolution of parliament, without taking any notice of it to you. it happened last saturday, six months before its natural death, and without the design being known but the tuesday before, and that by very few persons. the chief motive is supposed to be the ugly state of north america,[ ] and the effects that a cross winter might have on the next elections. whatever were the causes, the first consequences, as you may guess, were such a ferment in london as is seldom seen at this dead season of the year. couriers, despatches, post-chaises, post-horses, hurrying every way! sixty messengers passed through one single turnpike on friday. the whole island is by this time in equal agitation; but less wine and money will be shed than have been at any such period for these fifty years. [footnote : "_america_"--the discontents in that country were caused by mr. charles townshend's policy, who, before his death, had revived mr. grenville's plan of imposing taxes on the colonies, and by the perseverance in that policy of lord north, who succeeded him at the exchequer, and who had also been first lord of the treasury since the resignation of the duke of grafton.] we have a new famous bill,[ ] devised by the late mr. grenville, that has its first operation now; and what changes it may occasion, nobody can yet foresee. the first symptoms are not favourable to the court; the great towns are casting off submission, and declaring for popular members. london, westminster, middlesex, seem to have no monarch but wilkes, who is at the same time pushing for the mayoralty of london, with hitherto a majority on the poll. it is strange how this man, like a phoenix, always revives from his embers! america, i doubt, is still more unpromising. there are whispers of their having assembled an armed force, and of earnest supplications arrived for succours of men and ships. a civil war is no trifle; and how we are to suppress or pursue in such a vast region, with a handful of men, i am not an alexander to guess; and for the fleet, can we put it upon casters and wheel it from hudson's bay to florida? but i am an ignorant soul, and neither pretend to knowledge nor foreknowledge. all i perceive already is, that our parliaments are subjected to america and india, and must be influenced by their politics; yet i do not believe our senators are more universal than formerly.... [footnote : mr. grenville's act had been passed in ; but there had been no general election since till this year. it altered the course of proceeding for the trial of election petitions, substituting for the whole house a select committee of fifteen members; but after a time it was found that it had not secured any greater purity of decision, but that the votes of the committee were influenced by considerations of the interest of the dominant party as entirely as they had been in the days of sir r. walpole. and eventually, in the present reign, mr. d'israeli induced the house to surrender altogether its privilege of judging of elections, and to submit the investigation of election petitions to the only tribunal sufficiently above suspicion to command and retain the confidence of the nation, namely, the judges of the high court of law. (see the editor's "constitutional history of england, - ," pp. - .)] in the midst of this combustion, we are in perils by land and water. it has rained for this month without intermission; there is sea between me and richmond, and sunday was se'nnight i was hurried down to isleworth in the ferry-boat by the violence of the current, and had great difficulty to get to shore. our roads are so infested by highwaymen, that it is dangerous stirring out almost by day. lady hertford was attacked on hounslow heath at three in the afternoon. dr. eliot was shot at three days ago, without having resisted; and the day before yesterday we were near losing our prime minster, lord north; the robbers shot at the postillion, and wounded the latter. in short, all the freebooters, that are not in india, have taken to the highway. the ladies of the bedchamber dare not go the queen at kew in an evening. the lane between me and the thames is the only safe road i know at present, for it is up to the middle of the horses in water. next week i shall not venture to london even at noon, for the middlesex election is to be at brentford, where the two demagogues, wilkes and townshend, oppose each other; and at richmond there is no crossing the river. how strange all this must appear to you florentines; but you may turn to your machiavelli and guicciardini, and have some idea of it. i am the quietest man at present in the whole island; not but i might take some part, if i would. i was in my garden yesterday, seeing my servants lop some trees; my brewer walked in and pressed me to go to guildhall for the nomination of members for the county. i replied, calmly, "sir, when i would go no more to my own election, you may be very sure i will go to that of nobody else." my old tune is, suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis, &c. adieu! p.s.--arlington street, _ th_. i am just come to town, and find your letter, with the notification of lord cowper's marriage; i recollect that i ought to be sorry for it, as you will probably lose an old friend. the approaching death of the pope will be an event of no consequence. that old mummery is near its conclusion, at least as a political object. the history of the latter popes will be no more read than that of the last constantinopolitan emperors. wilkes is a more conspicuous personage in modern story than the pontifex maximus of rome. the poll for lord mayor ended last night; he and his late mayor had above , votes, and their antagonists not , . it is strange that the more he is opposed, the more he succeeds! i don't know whether sir w. duncan's marriage proved platonic or not; but i cannot believe that a lady of great birth, and greater pride, quarrels with her family, to marry a scotch physician for platonic love, which she might enjoy without marriage. i remember an admirable _bon-mot_ of george selwyn; who said, "how often lady mary will repeat, with macbeth, 'wake, duncan, with this knocking--would thou couldst!" _the pope's death--wilkes is returned for middlesex--a quaker at versailles._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . though i have been writing two letters, of four sides each, one of which i enclose, i must answer your two last, if my fingers will move; and talk to you on the contents of the enclosed. if the jesuits have precipitated the pope's death,[ ] as seems more than probable, they have acted more by the spirit of their order, than by its good sense. great crimes may raise a growing cause, but seldom retard the fall of a sinking one. this i take to be almost an infallible maxim. great crimes, too, provoke more than they terrify; and there is no poisoning all that are provoked, and all that are terrified; who alternately provoke and terrify each other, till common danger produces common security. the bourbon monarchs will be both angry and frightened, the cardinals frightened. it will be the interest of both not to revive an order that bullies with arsenic in its sleeve. the poisoned host will destroy the jesuits, as well as the pope: and perhaps the church of rome will fall by a wafer, as it rose by it; for such an edifice will tumble when once the crack has begun. [footnote : pope benedict xiv. had died in september; but there was not any suspicion that his death had not been entirely natural.] our elections are almost over. wilkes has taken possession of middlesex without an enemy appearing against him; and, being as puissant a monarch as henry the eighth, and as little scrupulous, should, like him, date his acts _from our palace of bridewell, in the tenth year of our reign_. he has, however, met with a heroine to stem the tide of his conquests; who, though not of arc, nor a _pucelle_, is a true _joan_ in spirit, style, and manners. this is her grace of northumberland [lady elizabeth seymour], who has carried the mob of westminster from him; sitting daily in the midst of covent garden; and will elect her son [earl percy] and lord thomas clinton,[ ] against wilkes's two candidates, lord mahon[ ] and lord mountmorris. she puts me in mind of what charles the second said of a foolish preacher, who was very popular in his parish: "i suppose his nonsense suits their nonsense." [footnote : second son of henry, duke of newcastle.--walpole.] [footnote : only son of earl stanhope.--walpole.] let me sweeten my letter by making you smile. a quaker has been at versailles; and wanted to see the comtes de provence and d'artois dine in public, but would not submit to pull off his hat. the princes were told of it; and not only admitted him with his beaver on, but made him sit down and dine with them. was it not very sensible and good-humoured? you and i know one who would not have been so gracious: i do not mean my nephew lord cholmondeley.[ ] adieu! i am tired to death. [footnote : he means the duke of gloucester.--walpole.] p.s.--i have seen the duchess of beaufort; who sings your praises quite in a tune i like. her manner is much unpinioned to what it was, though her person remains as stately as ever; and powder is vastly preferable to those brown hairs, of whose preservation she was so fond. i am not so struck with the beauty of lady mary[ ] as i was three years ago. your nephew, sir horace, i see, by the papers, is come into parliament: i am glad of it. is not he yet arrived at florence? [footnote : lady mary somerset, youngest daughter of charles noel, duke of beaufort. she was afterwards married to the duke of rutland.--walpole.] _burke's election at bristol--resemblance of one house of commons to another--comfort of old age._ to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, _nov._ , . i have written such tomes to mr. conway,[ ] madam, and so nothing new to write, that i might as well, methinks, begin and end like the lady to her husband; "je vous écris parceque je n'ai rien à faire: je finis parceque je n'ai rien à vous dire." yes, i have two complaints to make, one of your ladyship, the other of myself. you tell me nothing of lady harriet [stanhope]: have you no tongue, or the french no eyes? or are her eyes employed in nothing but seeing? what a vulgar employment for a fine woman's eyes after she is risen from her toilet? i declare i will ask no more questions--what is it to me, whether she is admired or not? i should know how charming she is, though all europe were blind. i hope i am not to be told by any barbarous nation upon earth what beauty and grace are! [footnote : mr. conway and lady aylesbury were now at paris together.--walpole.] for myself, i am guilty of the gout in my elbow; the left--witness my handwriting. whether i caught cold by the deluge in the night, or whether the bootikins, like the water of styx, can only preserve the parts they surround, i doubt they have saved me but three weeks, for so long my reckoning has been out. however, as i feel nothing in my feet, i flatter myself that this pindaric transition will not be a regular ode, but a fragment, the more valuable for being imperfect. now for my gazette.--marriages--nothing done. intrigues--more in the political than civil way. births--under par since lady berkeley left off breeding. gaming--low water. deaths--lord morton, lord wentworth, duchess douglas. election stock--more buyers than sellers. promotions--mr. wilkes as high as he can go.--_apropos_, he was told the lord chancellor intended to signify to him, that the king did not approve the city's choice: he replied, "then i shall signify to his lordship, that i am at least as fit to be lord mayor as he is to be lord chancellor." this being more gospel than everything mr. wilkes says, the formal approbation was given. mr. burke has succeeded in bristol, and sir james peachey will miscarry in sussex. but what care you, madam, about our parliament? you will see the _rentrée_ of the old one, with songs and epigrams into the bargain. we do not shift our parliaments with so much gaiety. money in one hand, and abuse in t'other--those are all the arts we know. _wit and a gamut_[ ] i don't believe ever signified a parliament, whatever the glossaries may say; for they never produce pleasantry and harmony. perhaps you may not taste this saxon pun, but i know it will make the antiquarian society die with laughing. [footnote : walpole is punning on the old saxon name of the national council, witangemot.] expectation hangs on america. the result of the general assembly is expected in four or five days. if one may believe the papers, which one should not believe, the other side of the waterists are not _doux comme des moutons_, and yet we do intend to eat them. i was in town on monday; the duchess of beaufort graced our loo, and made it as rantipole as a quaker's meeting. _loois quinze_,[ ] i believe, is arrived by this time, but i fear without _quinze louis_. [footnote : this was a cant name given to a lady [lady powis], who was very fond of loo, and who had lost much money at that game.] your herb-snuff and the four glasses are lying in my warehouse, but i can hear of no ship going to paris. you are now at fontainbleau, but not thinking of francis i., the queen of sweden, and monaldelschi. it is terrible that one cannot go to courts that are gone! you have supped with the chevalier de boufflers: did he act everything in the world and sing everything in the world? has madame de cambis sung to you "_sans dépit, sans légèreté_?"[ ] has lord cholmondeley delivered my pacquet? i hear i have hopes of madame d'olonne. gout or no gout, i shall be little in town till after christmas. my elbow makes me bless myself that i am not in paris. old age is no such uncomfortable thing, if one gives oneself up to it with a good grace, and don't drag it about to midnight dances and the public show. [footnote : the first words of a favourite french air.--walpole.] if one stays quietly in one's own house in the country, and cares for nothing but oneself, scolds one's servants, condemns everything that is new, and recollects how charming a thousand things were formerly that were very disagreeable, one gets over the winters very well, and the summers get over themselves. _death of lord clive--restoration of the french parliament--prediction of great men to arise in america--the king's speech._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _nov._ , . ... a great event happened two days ago--a political and moral event; the sudden death of that second kouli khan, lord clive.[ ] there was certainly illness in the case; the world thinks more than illness. his constitution was exceedingly broken and disordered, and grown subject to violent pains and convulsions. he came unexpectedly to town last monday, and they say, ill. on tuesday his physician gave him a dose of laudanum, which had not the desired effect. on the rest, there are two stories; one, that the physician repeated the dose; the other, that he doubled it himself, contrary to advice. in short, he has terminated at fifty a life of so much glory, reproach, art, wealth, and ostentation! he had just named ten members for the new parliament. [footnote : lord clive had committed suicide in his house in berkeley square. as he was passing through his library his niece, who was writing a letter, asked him to mend a pen for her. he did it, and, passing on into the next room, cut his throat with the same knife he had just used. it is remarkable that, when little more than a youth, he had once tried to destroy himself. in a fit, apparently of constitutional melancholy, he had put a pistol to his head, but it did not go off. he pulled the trigger more than once; always with the same result. anxious to see whether there was any defect in the weapon or the loading, he aimed at the door of the room, and the pistol went off, the bullet going through the door; and from that day he conceived himself reserved by providence for great things, though in his most sanguine confidence he could never have anticipated such glory as he was destined to win.] next tuesday that parliament is to meet--and a deep game it has to play! few parliaments a greater. the world is in amaze here that no account is arrived from america of the result of their general congress--if any is come it is very secret; and _that_ has no favourable aspect. the combination and spirit there seem to be universal, and is very alarming. i am the humble servant of events, and you know never meddle with prophecy. it would be difficult to descry good omens, be the issue what it will. the old french parliament is restored with great _éclat_.[ ] monsieur de maurepas, author of the revolution, was received one night at the opera with boundless shouts of applause. it is even said that the mob intended, when the king should go to hold the _lit de justice_,[ ] to draw his coach. how singular it would be if wilkes's case should be copied for a king of france! do you think rousseau was in the right, when he said that he could tell what would be the manners of any capital city from certain given lights? i don't know what he may do on constantinople and pekin--but paris and london! i don't believe voltaire likes these changes. i have seen nothing of his writing for many months; not even on the poisoning jesuits. for our part, i repeat it, we shall contribute nothing to the _histoire des moeurs_, not for want of materials, but for want of writers. we have comedies without novelty, gross satires without stings, metaphysical eloquence, and antiquarians that discover nothing. boeotûm in crasso jurares aere natos! [footnote : in the chancellor, maupéou, had abolished the parliament, as has been mentioned in a former note. their conduct ever since the death of richelieu had been factious and corrupt. but, though the sovereign courts, which maupéou had established in their stead, had worked well, their extinction had been unpopular in paris; and, on the accession of louis xvi., the new prime minister, maurepas, proposed their re-establishment, and the queen, most unfortunately, was persuaded by the duc de choiseul to exert her influence in support of the measure. turgot, the great finance minister--indeed, the greatest statesman that france ever produced--resisted it with powerful arguments, but louis yielded to the influence of his consort. the parliaments were re-established, and soon verified all the predictions of turgot by conduct more factious and violent than ever. (see the editor's "france under the bourbons," iii. .)] [footnote : a _lit de justice_ was an extraordinary meeting of the parliament, presided over by the sovereign in person, and one in which no opposition, or even discussion, was permitted; but any edict which had been issued was at once registered.] don't tell me i am grown old and peevish and supercilious--name the geniuses of , and i submit. the next augustan age will dawn on the other side of the atlantic. there will, perhaps, be a thucydides at boston, a xenophon at new york, and, in time, a virgil at mexico, and a newton at peru. at last, some curious traveller from lima will visit england and give a description of the ruins of st. paul's, like the editions of balbec and palmyra; but am i not prophesying, contrary to my consummate prudence, and casting horoscopes of empires like rousseau? yes; well, i will go and dream of my visions. _ th._ ... the parliament opened just now--they say the speech talks of the _rebellion_ of the province of massachusetts; but if _they-say_ tells a lie, i wash my hands of it. as your gazetteer, i am obliged to send you all news, true or false. i have believed and unbelieved everything i have heard since i came to town. lord clive has died every death in the parish register; at present it is most fashionable to believe he cut his throat. that he is dead, is certain; so is lord holland--and so is not the bishop of worcester [johnson]; however, to show you that i am at least as well informed as greater personages, the bishopric was on saturday given to lord north's brother--so for once the irishman was in the right, and a pigeon, at least a dove, can be in two places at once. _riots at boston--a literary coterie at bath--easton._ to the hon. h.s. conway and lady aylesbury. arlington street, _jan._ , . you have made me very happy by saying your journey to naples is laid aside. perhaps it made too great an impression on me; but you must reflect, that all my life i have satisfied myself with your being perfect, instead of trying to be so myself. i don't ask you to return, though i wish it: in truth, there is nothing to invite you. i don't want you to come and breathe fire and sword against the bostonians,[ ] like that second duke of alva,[ ] the inflexible lord george germaine.... [footnote : the open resistance to the new taxation of the american colonies began at boston, the capital of massachusetts, where, on the arrival of the first tea-ship, a body of citizens, disguised as red indians, boarded the ship and threw the tea into the sea.] [footnote : the first duke of alva was the first governor of the netherlands appointed by philip ii.; and it was his bloodthirsty and intolerable cruelty that caused the revolt of the netherlands, and cost spain those rich provinces.] an account is come of the bostonians having voted an army of sixteen thousand men, who are to be called _minutemen_, as they are to be ready at a minute's warning. two directors or commissioners, i don't know what they are called, are appointed. there has been too a kind of mutiny in the fifth regiment. a soldier was found drunk on his post. gage, in his time of _danger_, thought rigour necessary, and sent the fellow to a court-martial. they ordered two hundred lashes. the general ordered them to improve their sentence. next day it was published in the _boston gazette_. he called them before him, and required them on oath to abjure the communication: three officers refused. poor gage is to be scapegoat, not for this, but for what was a reason against employing him, incapacity. i wonder at the precedent! howe is talked of for his successor.--well, i have done with _you_!--now i shall go gossip with lady aylesbury. you must know, madam, that near bath is erected a new parnassus, composed of three laurels, a myrtle-tree, a weeping-willow, and a view of the avon, which has been new christened helicon. ten years ago there lived a madam riggs, an old rough humourist who passed for a wit; her daughter, who passed for nothing, married to a captain miller, full of good-natured officiousness. these good folks were friends of miss rich, who carried me to dine with them at bath-easton, now pindus. they caught a little of what was then called taste, built and planted, and begot children, till the whole caravan were forced to go abroad to retrieve. alas! mrs. miller is returned a beauty, a genius, a sappho, a tenth muse, as romantic as mademoiselle scudéri, and as sophisticated as mrs. vesey. the captain's fingers are loaded with cameos, his tongue runs over with _virtù_, and that both may contribute to the improvement of their own country, they have introduced _bouts-rimes_ as a new discovery. they hold a parnassus fair every thursday, give out rhymes and themes, and all the flux of quality at bath contend for the prizes. a roman vase dressed with pink ribbons and myrtles receives the poetry,[ ] which is drawn out every festival; six judges of these olympic games retire and select the brightest compositions, which the respective successful acknowledge, kneel to mrs. calliope miller, kiss her fair hand, and are crowned by it with myrtle, with--i don't know what. you may think this is fiction, or exaggeration. be dumb, unbelievers! the collection is printed, published.--yes, on my faith, there are _bouts-rimes_ on a buttered muffin, made by her grace the duchess of northumberland; receipts to make them by corydon the venerable, alias george pitt; others very pretty, by lord palmerston; some by lord carlisle: many by mrs. miller herself, that have no fault but wanting metre; an immorality promised to her without end or measure. in short, since folly, which never ripens to madness but in this hot climate, ran distracted, there never was anything so entertaining or so dull--for you cannot read so long as i have been telling. [footnote : four volumes of this poetry were published under the title of "poetical amusements at a villa near bath." the following lines are a fair sample of the _bouts-rimes_. the pen which i now take and brandish has long lain useless in my standish. know, every maid, from her own patten, to her who shines in glossy sattin, that could they now prepare an oglio from best receipt of book in folio, ever so fine, for all their puffing, i should prefer a butter'd muffin; a muffin jove himself might feast on, if eat with miller at batheaston. the following are the concluding lines of a poem on beauty, by lord palmerston:-- in vain the stealing hand of time may pluck the blossoms of their prime; envy may talk of bloom decay'd, how lilies droop and roses fade; but constancy's unalter'd truth, regardful of the vows of youth-- affection that recalls the past, and bids the pleasing influence last, shall still preserve the lover's flame in every scene of life the same; and still with fond endearments blend the wife, the mistress, and the friend! "lady miller's collection of verses by fashionable people, which were put into her vase at bath-easton, in competition for honorary prizes, being mentioned, dr. johnson held them very cheap: '_bouts-rimés_,' said he, 'is a mere conceit, and an old conceit; i wonder how people were persuaded to write in that manner for this lady.' i named a gentleman of his acquaintance who wrote for the vase. johnson--'he was a blockhead for his pains!' boswell--'the duchess of northumberland wrote.'--'sir, the duchess of northumberland may do what she pleases; nobody will say anything to a lady of her high rank: but i should be apt to throw ... verses in his face." (boswell, vol. v. p. .)] _opposition of the french parliaments to turgot's measures._ to dr. gem.[ ] [footnote : dr. gem was an english physician who had been for some time settled in paris. he was uncle to canning's friend and colleague, mr. huskisson.] arlington street, _april_ , . it is but fair, when one quits one's party, to give notice to those one abandons--at least, modern patriots, who often imbibe their principles of honour at newmarket, use that civility. you and i, dear sir, have often agreed in our political notions; and you, i fear, will die without changing your opinion. for my part, i must confess i am totally altered; and, instead of being a warm partisan of liberty, now admire nothing but despotism. you will naturally ask, what place i have gotten, or what bribe i have taken? those are the criterions of political changes in england--but, as my conversion is of foreign extraction, i shall not be the richer for it. in one word, it is the _relation du lit de justice_ that has operated the miracle. when two ministers are found so humane, so virtuous, so excellent, as to study nothing but the welfare and deliverance of the people; when a king listens to such excellent men; and when a parliament, from the basest, most interested motives, interposes to intercept the blessing, must i not change my opinions, and admire arbitrary power? or can i retain my sentiments, without varying the object? yes, sir, i am shocked at the conduct of the parliament--one would think it was an english one! i am scandalised at the speeches of the _avocat-général_,[ ] who sets up the odious interests of the nobility and clergy against the cries and groans of the poor; and who employs his wicked eloquence to tempt the good young monarch, by personal views, to sacrifice the mass of his subjects to the privileges of the few--but why do i call it eloquence? the fumes of interest had so clouded his rhetoric, that he falls into a downright iricism.--he tells the king, that the intended tax on the proprietors of land will affect the property not only of the rich, but of the poor. i should be glad to know what is the property of the poor? have the poor landed estates? are those who have landed estates the poor? are the poor that will suffer by the tax, the wretched labourers who are dragged from their famishing families to work on the roads?--but _it is_ wicked eloquence when it finds a reason, or gives a reason for continuing the abuse. the advocate tells the king, those abuses _presque consacrés par l'ancienneté_; indeed, he says all that can be said for nobility, it is _consacrée par l'ancienneté_; and thus the length of the pedigree of abuses renders them respectable! [footnote : the _avocat-général_ was m. de seguier; and, under his guidance, the parliament had passed the monstrous resolution that "the _people_ in france was liable to the tax of _la taille_, and to _corvée_ at discretion" (_était tailleable et corvéable à volonté_), and that their "liability was an article of the constitution which it was not in the power of even the king himself to change" ("france under the bourbons," iii. ).] his arguments are as contemptible when he tries to dazzle the king by the great names of henri quatre and sully,[ ] of louis xiv. and colbert, two couple whom nothing but a mercenary orator would have classed together. nor, were all four equally venerable, would it prove anything. even good kings and good ministers, if such have been, may have erred; nay, may have done the best they could. they would not have been good, if they wished their errors should be preserved, the longer they had lasted. [footnote : sully and colbert were the two great finance ministers of henry iv. and louis xiv.] in short, sir, i think this resistance of the parliament to the adorable reformation planned by messrs. de turgot and malesherbes[ ] is more phlegmatically scandalous than the wildest tyranny of despotism. i forget what the nation was that refused liberty when it was offered. this opposition to so noble a work is worse. a whole people may refuse its own happiness; but these profligate magistrates resist happiness for others, for millions, for posterity!--nay, do they not half vindicate maupéou, who crushed them? and you, dear sir, will you now chide my apostasy? have i not cleared myself to your eyes? i do not see a shadow of sound logic in all monsieur seguier's speeches, but in his proposing that the soldiers should work on the roads, and that passengers should contribute to their fabric; though, as france is not so luxuriously mad as england, i do not believe passengers could support the expense of their roads. that argument, therefore, is like another that the avocat proposes to the king, and which, he modestly owns, he believes would be impracticable. [footnote : malesherbes was the chancellor, and in he was accepted by louis xvi. as his counsel on his trial--a duty which he performed with an ability which drew on him the implacable resentment of robespierre and the jacobins, and which led to his execution in .] i beg your pardon, sir, for giving you this long trouble; but i could not help venting myself, when shocked to find such renegade conduct in a parliament that i was rejoiced had been restored. poor human kind! is it always to breed serpents from its own bowels? in one country, it chooses its representatives, and they sell it and themselves; in others, it exalts despots; in another, it resists the despot when he consults the good of his people! can we wonder mankind is wretched, when men are such beings? parliaments run wild with loyalty, when america is to be enslaved or butchered. they rebel, when their country is to be set free! i am not surprised at the idea of the devil being always at our elbows. they who invented him, no doubt could not conceive how men could be so atrocious to one another, without the intervention of a fiend. don't you think, if he had never been heard of before, that he would have been invented on the late partition of poland! adieu, dear sir. yours most sincerely. _his decorations at "strawberry"--his estimate of himself, and his admiration of conway._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _june_ , . i was very glad to receive your letter, not only because always most glad to hear of you, but because i wished to write to you, and had absolutely nothing to say till i had something to answer. i have lain but two nights in town since i saw you; have been, else, constantly here, very much employed, though doing, hearing, knowing exactly nothing. i have had a gothic architect [mr. essex] from cambridge to design me a gallery, which will end in a mouse, that is, in an hexagon closet of seven feet diameter. i have been making a beauty room, which was effected by buying two dozen of small copies of sir peter lely, and hanging them up; and i have been making hay, which is not made, because i put it off for three days, as i chose it should adorn the landscape when i was to have company; and so the rain is come, and has drowned it. however, as i can even turn calculator when it is to comfort me for not minding my interest, i have discovered that it is five to one better for me that my hay should be spoiled than not; for, as the cows will eat it if it is damaged, which horses will not, and as i have five cows and but one horse, is not it plain that the worse my hay is the better? do not you with your refining head go, and, out of excessive friendship, find out something to destroy my system. i had rather be a philosopher than a rich man; and yet have so little philosophy, that i had much rather be content than be in the right. mr. beauclerk and lady di have been here four or five days--so i had both content and exercise for my philosophy. i wish lady ailesbury was as fortunate! the pembrokes, churchills, le texier, as you will have heard, and the garricks have been with us. perhaps, if alone, i might have come to you; but you are all too healthy and harmonious. i can neither walk nor sing; nor, indeed, am fit for anything but to amuse myself in a sedentary trifling way. what i have most certainly not been doing, is writing anything: a truth i say to you, but do not desire you to repeat. i deign to satisfy scarce anybody else. whoever reported that i was writing anything, must have been so totally unfounded, that they either blundered by guessing without reason, or knew they lied--and that could not be with any kind intention; though saying i am going to do what i am not going to do, is wretched enough. whatever is said of me without truth, anybody is welcome to believe that pleases. in fact, though i have scarce a settled purpose about anything, i think i shall never write any more. i have written a great deal too much, unless i had written better, and i know i should now only write still worse. one's talent, whatever it is, does not improve at near sixty--yet, if i liked it, i dare to say a good reason would not stop my inclination;--but i am grown most indolent in that respect, and most absolutely indifferent to every purpose of vanity. yet without vanity i am become still prouder and more contemptuous. i have a contempt for my countrymen that makes me despise their approbation. the applause of slaves and of the foolish mad is below ambition. mine is the haughtiness of an ancient briton, that cannot write what would please this age, and would not, if he could. whatever happens in america, this country is undone. i desire to be reckoned of the last age, and to be thought to have lived to be superannuated, preserving my senses only for myself and for the few i value. i cannot aspire to be traduced like algernon sydney, and content myself with sacrificing to him amongst my lares. unalterable in my principles, careless about most things below essentials, indulging myself in trifles by system, annihilating myself by choice, but dreading folly at an unseemly age, i contrive to pass my time agreeably enough, yet see its termination approach without anxiety. this is a true picture of my mind; and it must be true, because drawn for you, whom i would not deceive, and could not, if i would. your question on my being writing drew it forth, though with more seriousness than the report deserved--yet talking to one's dearest friend is neither wrong nor out of season. nay, you are my best apology. i have always contented myself with your being perfect, or, if your modesty demands a mitigated term, i will say, unexceptionable. it is comical, to be sure, to have always been more solicitous about the virtue of one's friend than about one's own; yet, i repeat it, you are my apology--though i never was so unreasonable as to make you answerable for my faults in return; i take them wholly to myself. but enough of this. when i know my own mind, for hitherto i have settled no plan for my summer, i will come to you. adieu! _anglomanie in paris--horse-racing._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _dec._ , . i don't know who the englishwoman is of whom you give so ridiculous a description; but it will suit thousands. i distrust my age continually, and impute to it half the contempt i feel for my countrymen and women. if i think the other half well-founded, it is by considering what must be said hereafter of the present age. what is to impress a great idea of us on posterity? in truth, what do our contemporaries of all other countries think of us? they stare at and condemn our politics and follies; and if they retain any respect for us, i doubt it is for the sense we have had. i do know, indeed, one man who still worships us, but his adoration is testified so very absurdly, as not to do us much credit. it is a monsieur de marchais, first valet-de-chambre to the king of france. he has the _anglomanie_ so strong, that he has not only read more english than french books, but if any valuable work appears in his own language, he waits to peruse it till it is translated into english; and to be sure our translations of french are admirable things! to do the rest of the french justice, i mean such as like us, they adopt only our egregious follies, and in particular the flower of them, horse-racing![ ] _le roi pepin_, a racer, is the horse in fashion. i suppose the next shameful practice of ours they naturalize will be the personal scurrilities in the newspapers, especially on young and handsome women, in which we certainly are originals! voltaire, who first brought us into fashion in france, is stark mad at his own success. out of envy to writers of his own nation, he cried up shakspeare; and now is distracted at the just encomiums bestowed on that first genius of the world in the new translation. he sent to the french academy an invective that bears all the marks of passionate dotage. mrs. montagu happened to be present when it was read. suard, one of their writers, said to her, "je crois, madame, que vous êtes un peu fâché de ce que vous venez d'entendre." she replied, "moi, monsieur! point du tout! je ne suis pas amie de monsieur voltaire." i shall go to town the day after to-morrow, and will add a postscript, if i hear any news. [footnote : "a rage for adopting english fashions (anglomanie, as it was called) began to prevail; and, among the different modes in which it was exhibited, it is especially noticed that tea was introduced, and began to share with coffee the privilege of affording sober refreshment to those who aspired in their different ways to give the tone to french society. a less innocent novelty was a passion for horse-racing, in which the comte d'artois and the duc de chartres set the example of indulging, establishing a racecourse in the bois de boulogne. the count had but little difficulty in persuading the queen to attend it, and she soon showed so decided a fancy for the sport, and became so regular a visitor of it, that a small stand was built for her, which in subsequent years provoked unfavourable comments, when the prince obtained her leave to give luncheon to some of their racing friends, who were not in every instance of a character entitled to be brought into a royal presence" (the editor's "life of marie antoinette," c. ii).] _dec. rd._ i am come late, have seen nobody, and must send away my letter. _ossian--chatterton._ to the rev. william cole. strawberry hill, _june_ , . i thank you for your notices, dear sir, and shall remember that on prince william. i did see the _monthly review_, but hope one is not guilty of the death of every man who does not make one the dupe of a forgery. i believe m'pherson's success with "ossian"[ ] was more the ruin of chatterton[ ] than i. two years passed between my doubting the authenticity of rowley's poems and his death. i never knew he had been in london till some time after he had undone and poisoned himself there. the poems he sent me were transcripts in his own hand, and even in that circumstance he told a lie: he said he had them from the very person at bristol to whom he had given them. if any man was to tell you that monkish rhymes had been dug up at herculaneum, which was destroyed several centuries before there was any such poetry, should you believe it? just the reverse is the case of rowley's pretended poems. they have all the elegance of waller and prior, and more than lord surrey--but i have no objection to anybody believing what he pleases. i think poor chatterton was an astonishing genius--but i cannot think that rowley foresaw metres that were invented long after he was dead, or that our language was more refined at bristol in the reign of henry v. than it was at court under henry viii. one of the chaplains of the bishop of exeter has found a line of rowley in "hudibras"--the monk might foresee that too! the prematurity of chatterton's genius is, however, full as wonderful, as that such a prodigy as rowley should never have been heard of till the eighteenth century. the youth and industry of the former are miracles, too, yet still more credible. there is not a symptom in the poems, but the old words, that savours of rowley's age--change the old words for modern, and the whole construction is of yesterday. [footnote : macpherson was a scotch literary man, who in published "fingal" in six books, which he declared he had translated from a poem by ossian, son of fingal, a gaelic prince of the third century. for a moment the work was accepted as genuine in some quarters, especially by some of the edinburgh divines. but dr. johnson denounced it as an imposture from the first. he pointed out that macpherson had never produced the manuscripts from which he professed to have translated it when challenged to do so. he maintained also that the so-called poem had no merits; that "it was a mere unconnected rhapsody, a tiresome repetition of the same images;" and his opinion soon became so generally adopted, that macpherson wrote him a furious letter of abuse, even threatening him with personal violence; to which johnson replied "that he would not be deterred from exposing what he thought a cheat by the menaces of a ruffian"--a reply which seems to have silenced mr. macpherson (boswell's "life of johnson," i. , ii. ).] [footnote : chatterton's is a melancholy story. in , when a boy of only sixteen, he published a volume of ballads which he described as the work of rowley, a priest of bristol in the fifteenth century, and which he affirmed he had found in an old chest in the crypt of the church of st. mary redcliffe at bristol, of which his father was sexton. they gave proofs of so rich and precocious a genius, that if he had published them as his own works, he would "have found himself famous" in a moment, as byron did forty years afterwards. but people resented the attempt to impose on them, walpole being among the first to point out the proofs of their modern composition; and consequently the admiration which his genius might have excited was turned into general condemnation of his imposture, and in despair he poisoned himself in , when he was only eighteen years old.] _affairs in america--the czarina and the emperor of china._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _oct._ , . it is past my usual period of writing to you; which would not have happened but from an uncommon, and indeed, considering the moment, an extraordinary dearth of matter. i could have done nothing but describe suspense, and every newspaper told you that. still we know nothing certain of the state of affairs in america; the very existence where, of the howes, is a mystery. the general is said to have beaten washington, clinton to have repulsed three attacks, and burgoyne[ ] to be beaten. the second alone is credited. impatience is very high, and uneasiness increases with every day. there is no sanguine face anywhere, but many alarmed ones. the pains taken, by circulating false reports, to keep up some confidence, only increase the dissatisfaction by disappointing. some advantage gained may put off clamour for some months: but i think, the longer it is suspended, the more terrible it will be; and how the war should end but in ruin, i am not wise enough to conjecture. france suspends the blow, to make it more inevitable. she has suffered us to undo ourselves: will she allow us time to recover? we have begged her indulgence in the first: will she grant the second prayer?... [footnote : in june and july general burgoyne, a man of some literary as well as military celebrity, achieved some trifling successes over the colonial army, alternating, however, with some defeats. he took ticonderoga, but one of his divisions was defeated with heavy loss at bennington--a disaster which, lord stanhope says, exercised a fatal influence over the rest of the campaign; and finally, a week before this letter was written, he and all his army were so hemmed in at saratoga, that they were compelled to lay down their arms--a disgrace which was the turning-point of the war, and which is compared by lord stanhope to the capitulation of his own ancestor at brihuega in the war of the spanish succession. the surrender of saratoga was the event which determined the french and spaniards to recognise the independence of the colonies, and consequently to unite with them in the war against england.] you have heard of the inundation at petersburg. that ill wind produced luck to somebody. as the empress had not distressed objects enough among her own people to gratify her humanity, she turned the torrent of her bounty towards that unhappy relict the duchess of kingston, and ordered her admiralty to take particular care of the marvellous yacht that bore messalina and her fortune. pray mind that i bestow the latter empress's name on the duchess, only because she married a second husband in the lifetime of the first. amongst other benevolences, the czarina lent her grace a courier to despatch to england--i suppose to acquaint lord bristol that he is not a widower. that courier brought a letter from a friend to dr. hunter, with the following anecdote. her imperial majesty proposed to her brother of china to lay waste a large district that separates their two empires, lest it should, as it has been on the point of doing, produce war between them; the two empires being at the two extremities of the world, not being distance enough to keep the peace. the ill-bred tartar sent no answer to so humane a project. on the contrary, he dispersed a letter to the russian people, in which he tells them that a woman--he might have said the minerva of the french _literati_--had proposed to him to extirpate all the inhabitants of a certain region belonging to him, but that he knew better what to do with his own country: however, he could but wonder that the people of all the russias should still submit to be governed by a creature that had assassinated her husband.--oh! if she had pulled the ottoman by the nose in the midst of constantinople, as she intended to do, this savage would have been more civilised. i doubt the same rude monarch is still on the throne, who would not suffer prince czernichew to enter his territories, when sent to notify her majesty's _hereditary_ succession to her husband; but bade him be told, he would not receive an ambassador from a murderess. is it not shocking that the law of nations, and the law of politeness, should not yet have abrogated the laws of justice and good-sense in a nation reckoned so civilised as the chinese? what an age do we live in, if there is still a country where the crown does not take away all defects! good night! _death of lord chatham--thurlow becomes lord chancellor._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _may_ , . i am forced to look at the dates i keep of my letters, to see what events i have or have not told you; for at this crisis something happens every day; though nothing very striking since the death of lord chatham, with which i closed my last. no?--yes, but there has. all england, which had abandoned him, found out, the moment his eyes were closed, that nothing but lord chatham could have preserved them. how lucky for him that the experiment cannot be made! grief is fond, and grief is generous. the parliament will bury him; the city begs the honour of being his grave; and the important question is not yet decided, whether he is to lie at westminster or in st. paul's; on which it was well said, that it would be "robbing peter to pay paul." an annuity of four thousand pounds is settled on the title of chatham, and twenty thousand pounds allotted to pay his debts. the opposition and the administration disputed zeal; and neither care a straw about him. he is already as much forgotten as john of gaunt. general burgoyne has succeeded and been the topic, and for two days engrossed the attention of the house of commons; and probably will be heard of no more. he was even forgotten for three hours while he was on the tapis, by a violent quarrel between temple luttrell (a brother of the duchess of cumberland) and lord george germaine; but the public has taken affection for neither them nor the general: being much more disposed at present to hate than to love--except the dead. it will be well if the ill-humour, which increases, does not break out into overt acts. i know not what to say of war. the toulon squadron was certainly blown back. that of brest is supposed to be destined to invade some part of this country or ireland; or rather, it is probable, will attempt our fleet. in my own opinion, there is no great alacrity in france--i mean, in the court of france--for war; and, as we have had time for great preparations, their eagerness will not increase. we shall suffer as much as they can desire by the loss of america, without their risk, and in a few years shall be able to give them no umbrage; especially as our frenzy is still so strong, that, if france left us at quiet, i am persuaded we should totally exhaust ourselves in pursuing the vision of reconquest. spain continues to disclaim hostility as you told me. if the report is true of revolts in mexico, they would be as good as a bond under his catholic majesty's hand. we shall at least not doze, as we are used to do, in summer. the parliament is to have only short adjournments; and our senators, instead of retiring to horse-races (_their_ plough), are all turned soldiers, and disciplining militia. camps everywhere, and the ladies in the uniform of their husbands! in short, if the dose is not too strong, a little adversity would not be quite unseasonable.--a little! you will cry; why what do you call the loss of america? oh! my dear sir, do you think a capital as enormous as london has its nerves affected by what happens beyond the atlantic? what has become of all your reading? there is nothing so unnatural as the feelings of a million of persons who live together in one city. they have not one conception like those in villages and in the country. they presume or despond from quite different motives. they have both more sense and less, than those who are not in contact with a multitude. wisdom forms empires, but folly dissolves them; and a great capital, which dictates to the rest of the community, is always the last to perceive the decays of the whole, because it takes its own greatness for health. lord holdernesse is dead; not quite so considerable a personage as he once expected to be, though nature never intended him for anything that he was. the chancellor, another child of fortune, quits the seals; and they are, or are to be, given to the attorney-general, thurlow, whom nobody will reproach with want of abilities. as the parliament will rise on tuesday, you will not expect my letters so frequently as of late, especially if hostilities do not commence. in fact, our newspapers tell you everything faster than i can: still i write, because you have more faith in my intelligence; yet all its merit consists in my not telling you fables. i hear no more than everybody does, but i send you only what is sterling; or, at least, give you reports for no more than they are worth. i believe sir john dick is much more punctual, and hears more; but, till you displace me, i shall execute my office of being your gazetteer. _exultation of france at our disasters in america--franklin--necker--chatterton._ to the rev. william cole. strawberry hill, _june_ , . i will not dispute with you, dear sir, on patriots and politics. one point is past controversy, that the ministers have ruined this country; and if the church of england is satisfied with being reconciled to the church of rome, and thinks it a compensation for the loss of america and all credit in europe, she is as silly an old woman as any granny in an almshouse. france is very glad we have grown such fools, and soon saw that the presbyterian dr. franklin[ ] had more sense than our ministers together. she has got over all her prejudices, has expelled the jesuits, and made the protestant swiss, necker,[ ] her comptroller-general. it is a little woful, that we are relapsing into the nonsense the rest of europe is shaking off! and it is more deplorable, as we know by repeated experience, that this country has always been disgraced by tory administrations. the rubric is the only gainer by them in a few martyrs. [footnote : dr. franklin, as a man of science, may almost be called the father of electrical science. he was the discoverer of the electrical character of lightning, a discovery which he followed up by the invention of iron conductors for the protection of buildings, &c., from lightning. he was also a very zealous politician, and one of the leaders of the american colonists in their resistance to the taxation imposed first by mr. grenville and afterwards by mr. c. townshend. he resided for several years in england as agent for the state of pennsylvania, and in that character, in the year , was examined before the committee of the house of commons on the stamp act of mr. grenville. after the civil war broke out he was elected a member of the american congress, and was sent as an envoy to france to negotiate a treaty with that country. as early as he was elected a member of the royal society in england, and received the honorary degree of d.c.l. from the university of oxford.] [footnote : necker was originally a banker, in which business he made a large fortune; but after a time he turned his attention to politics. he began by opposing the financial and constitutional schemes of the great turgot, and shortly after the dismissal of that minister he himself was admitted into the ministry as a sort of secretary to the treasury, his religion, as a protestant, being a bar to his receiving the title of "comptroller-general," though, in fact, he had the entire management of the finance of the kingdom, which, by artful misrepresentation of his measures and suppression of such important facts, that he had contracted loans to the amount of twenty millions of money, he represented as far more flourishing than in reality it was. at the end of two or three years he resigned his office in discontent at his services not receiving the rewards to which he considered himself entitled. but in he was again placed in office, on this occasion as comptroller-general, and, practically, prime minister, a post for which he was utterly unfit; for he had not one qualification for a statesman, was a prey to the most overweening vanity, and his sole principles of action were a thirst for popularity and a belief in "the dominion of reason and the abstract virtues of mankind." under the influence of these notions he frittered away the authority and dignity of the king; and, as napoleon afterwards truly told his grandson, was, in truth, the chief cause of all the horrors of the revolution.] i do not know yet what is settled about the spot of lord chatham's interment. i am not more an enthusiast to his memory than you. i knew his faults and his defects--yet one fact cannot only not be controverted, but i doubt more remarkable every day--i mean, that under him we attained not only our highest elevation, but the most solid authority in europe. when the names of marlborough and chatham are still pronounced with awe in france, our little cavils make a puny sound. nations that are beaten cannot be mistaken. i have been looking out for your friend a set of my heads of painters, and i find i want six or seven. i think i have some odd ones in town; if i have not, i will have deficiencies supplied from the plates, though i fear they will not be good, as so many have been taken off. i should be very ungrateful for all your kindnesses, if i neglected any opportunity of obliging you, dear sir. indeed, our old and unalterable friendship is creditable to us both, and very uncommon between two persons who differ so much in their opinions relative to church and state. i believe the reason is, that we are both sincere, and never meant to take advantage of our principles; which i allow is too common on both sides, and i own, too, fairly more common on my side of the question than on yours. there is a reason, too, for that; the honours and emoluments are in the gift of the crown; the nation has no separate treasury to reward its friends. if mr. tyrwhitt has opened his eyes to chatterton's forgeries,[ ] there is an instance of conviction against strong prejudice! i have drawn up an account of my transaction with that marvellous young man; you shall see it one day or other, but i do not intend to print it. i have taken a thorough dislike to being an author; and if it would not look like begging you to compliment me, by contradicting me, i would tell you, what i am most seriously convinced of, that i find what small share of parts i had, grown dulled--and when i perceive it myself, i may well believe that others would not be less sharp-sighted. it is very natural; mine were spirits rather than parts; and as time has abated the one, it must surely destroy their resemblance to the other: pray don't say a syllable in reply on this head, or i shall have done exactly what i said i would not do. besides, as you have always been too partial to me, i am on my guard, and when i will not expose myself to my enemies, i must not listen to the prejudices of my friends; and as nobody is more partial to me than you, there is nobody i must trust less in that respect. yours most sincerely. [footnote : mr. tyrrhwitt, a critic of great eminence, especially as the editor of "chaucer," had at first believed the poems published by chatterton to be the genuine works of rowley, but was afterwards convinced, as dr. johnson also was, by the inspection of the manuscripts which the poor youth called the "originals," that they were quite recent.] _admiral keppel's success--threats of invasion--funeral of lord chatham._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _july _, . you tell me in yours of the rd of last month, which i received to-day, that my letters are necessary to your tranquillity. that is sufficient to make me write, though i have nothing very positive to tell you. i did not mention admiral keppel's skirmish with and capture of two frigates of the brest squadron; not because i thought it trifling, but concluding that it would produce immediate declaration of war; and, for the fact itself, i knew both our papers and the french would anticipate me. indeed, sir john dick has talked to me so much of his frequency and punctuality with you, that i might have concluded he would not neglect so public an event; not that i trust to anybody else for sending you intelligence. no declaration has followed on either side. i, who know nothing but what everybody knows, am disposed to hope that both nations are grown rational; that is, humane enough to dislike carnage. both kings are pacific by nature, and the voice of europe now prefers legislators to _heroes_, which is but a name for destroyers of their species. it is true, we are threatened with invasion.[ ] you ask me why i seem to apprehend less than formerly? for many reasons. in the first place, i am above thirty years older. can one fear anything in the dregs of life as at the beginning? experience, too, has taught me that nothing happens in proportion to our conceptions. i have learnt, too, exceedingly to undervalue human policy. chance and folly counteract most of its wisdom. from the "mémoires de noailles"[ ] i have learnt, that, between the years and , when i,--ay, and my lord chesterfield too,--had such gloomy thoughts, france was trembling with dread of us. these are general reasons. my particular ones are, that, if france meditated a considerable blow, she has neglected her opportunity. last year, we had neither army nor a manned fleet at home. now, we have a larger and better army than ever we had in the island, and a strong fleet. within these three days, our west india and mediterranean fleets, for which we have been in great pain, are arrived, and bring not only above two millions, but such a host of sailors as will supply the deficiencies in our unequipped men-of-war. the country is covered with camps; general conway, who has been to one of them, speaks with astonishment of the fineness of the men, of the regiments, of their discipline and manoeuvring. in short, the french court has taught all our young nobility to be soldiers. the duke of grafton, who was the most indolent of ministers, is the most indefatigable of officers. for my part, i am almost afraid that there will be a larger military spirit amongst our men of quality than is wholesome for our constitution: france will have done us hurt enough, if she has turned us into generals instead of senators. [footnote : the design of invading england, first conceived by philip ii. of spain and the duke of parma, had been entertained also by louis xiv.; and after walpole's death ostentatious preparations for such an expedition were made in by napoleon. but some years afterwards napoleon told metternich, the austrian prime minister, that he had never really designed to undertake the enterprise, being convinced of the impossibility of succeeding in it, and that the sole object of his preparations and of the camp at boulogne had been to throw austria off her guard.] [footnote : the duc de noailles had been the french commander-in-chief at the battle of dettingen in .] i can conceive another reason why france should not choose to venture an invasion. it is certain that at least five american provinces wish for peace with us. nor can i think that thirteen english provinces would be pleased at seeing england invaded. any considerable blow received by us, would turn their new allies into haughty protectors. should we accept a bad peace, america would find her treaty with them a very bad one: in short, i have treated you with speculations instead of facts. i know but one of the latter sort. the king's army has evacuated philadelphia, from having eaten up the country, and has returned to new york. thus it is more compact, and has less to defend. general howe is returned, richer in money than laurels. i do not know, indeed, that his wealth is great. fanaticism in a nation is no novelty; but you must know, that, though the effects were so solid, the late appearance of enthusiasm about lord chatham was nothing but a general affectation of enthusiasm. it was a contention of hypocrisy between the opposition and the court, which did not last even to his burial. not three of the court attended it, and not a dozen of the minority of any note. he himself said, between his fall in the house of lords and his death, that, when he came to himself, not one of his old acquaintance of the court but lord despencer so much as asked how he did. do you imagine people are struck with the death of a man, who were not struck with the sudden appearance of his death? we do not counterfeit so easily on a surprise, as coolly; and, when we are cool on surprise, we do not grow agitated on reflection. the last account i heard from germany was hostile. four days ago both the imperial and prussian ministers[ ] expected news of a battle. o, ye fathers of your people, do you thus dispose of your children? how many thousand lives does a king save, who signs a peace! it was said in jest of our charles ii., that he was the real _father_ of his people, so many of them did he beget himself. but tell me, ye divines, which is the most virtuous man, he who begets twenty bastards, or he who sacrifices a hundred thousand lives? what a contradiction is human nature! the romans rewarded the man who got three children, and laid waste the world. when will the world know that peace and propagation are the two most delightful things in it? as his majesty of france has found out the latter, i hope he will not forget the former. [footnote : towards the close of maximilian, the elector of bavaria, died, and the emperor joseph claimed many of his fiefs as having escheated to him. frederic the great, who was still jealous of austria, endeavoured to form a league to aid the new elector in his resistance to joseph's demands, and even invaded bohemia with an army of eighty thousand men; but the austrian army was equally strong. no action of any importance took place; and in the spring of the treaty of teschen was concluded between the empire, prussia, and bavaria, by which a small portion of the district claimed by joseph was ceded to austria.] _suggestion of negotiations with france--partition of poland._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _july_ , . i have had some conversation with a ministerial person, on the subject of pacification with france; and he dropped a hint, that as we should not have much of a good peace, the opposition would make great clamour on it. i said a few words on the duty of ministers to do what they thought right, be the consequence what it would. but as honest men do not want such lectures, and dishonest will not let them weigh, i waived that theme, to dwell on what is more likely to be persuasive, and which i am firmly persuaded is no less true than the former maxim; and that was, that the ministers are _still_ so strong, that if they could get a peace that would save the nation, though not a brilliant or glorious one, the nation in general would be pleased with it, and the clamours of the opposition be insignificant. i added, what i think true, too, that no time is to be lost in treating; not only for preventing a blow, but from the consequences the first misfortune would have. the nation is not yet alienated from the court, but it is growing so; is grown so enough, for any calamity to have violent effects. any internal disturbance would advance the hostile designs of france. an insurrection from distress would be a double invitation to invasion; and, i am sure, much more to be dreaded, even personally, by the ministers, than the ill-humours of opposition for even an inglorious peace. to do the opposition justice, it is not composed of incendiaries. parliamentary speeches raise no tumults: but tumults would be a dreadful thorough bass to speeches. the ministers do not know the strength they have left (supposing they apply it in time), if they are afraid of making any peace. they were too sanguine in making war; i hope they will not be too timid of making peace. what do you think of an idea of mine of offering france a neutrality? that is, to allow her to assist both us and the americans. i know she would assist only them: but were it not better to connive at her assisting them, without attacking us, than her doing both? a treaty with her would perhaps be followed by one with america. we are sacrificing all the essentials we _can_ recover, for a few words; and risking the independence of this country, for the nominal supremacy over america. france seems to leave us time for treating. she mad no scruple of begging peace of us in ' , that she might lie by and recover her advantages. was not that a wise precedent? does not she _now_ show that it was? is not policy the honour of nations? i mean, not morally, but has europe left itself any other honour? and since it has really left itself no honour, and as little morality, does not the morality of a nation consist in its preserving itself in as much happiness as it can? the invasion of portugal by spain in the last war, and the partition of poland,[ ] have abrogated the law of nations. kings have left no ties between one another. their duty to their people is still allowed. he is a good king that preserves his people; and if temporising answers that end, is it not justifiable? you, who are as moral as wise, answer my questions. grotius[ ] is obsolete. dr. joseph and dr. frederic, with four hundred thousand commentators, are reading new lectures--and i should say, thank god, to one another, if the four hundred thousand commentators were not in worse danger than they. louis xvi. is grown a casuist compared to those partitioners. well, let us simple individuals keep our honesty, and bless our stars that we have not armies at our command, lest we should divide kingdoms that are at our _bienséance_! what a dreadful thing it is for such a wicked little imp as man to have absolute power! but i have travelled into germany, when i meant to talk to you only of england; and it is too late to recall my text. good night! [footnote : a partition of poland had been proposed by the great elector of brandenburgh as early as the middle of the seventeenth century, his idea being that he, the emperor, and the king of sweden should divide the whole country between them. at that time, however, the mutual jealousies of the three princes prevented the scheme from being carried out. but in the idea was revived by frederic the great, who sent his brother henry to discuss it with the czarina. she eagerly embraced it; and the new emperor joseph had so blind an admiration for frederic, that it was not hard to induce him to become a confederate in the scheme of plunder. and the three allies had less difficulty than might have been expected in arranging the details. in extent of territory austria was the principal gainer, her share being of sufficient importance to receive a new name as the kingdom of galicia; the share of prussia being west prussia and pomerania, with the exception of dantzic and the fortress of thorn; while russia took polish livonia and the rich provinces to the east of the dwina. but the spoilers were not long contented with their acquisitions. in intrigues among the polish nobles, probably fomented by the czarina herself, gave her a pretence for interfering in their affairs; and the result was a second partition, which gave the long-coveted port of dantzic and a long district on the shore of the baltic to prussia, and such extensive provinces adjoining russia to catharine, that all that was left to the polish sovereign was a small territory with a population that hardly amounted to four millions of subjects. the partition excited great indignation all over europe, but in england was sufficiently occupied with the troubles beginning to arise in america, and france was still too completely under the profligate and imbecile rule of louis xv. and mme. du barri, and too much weakened by her disasters in the seven years' war, for any manly counsels or indication of justice and humanity to be expected from that country.] [footnote : grotius (a latinised form of groot) was an eminent statesman and jurist of holland at the beginning of the seventeenth century. he was a voluminous author; his most celebrated works being a treatise, "de jure belli et pacis," and another on the "truth of the christian religion."] [illustration: view of garden, strawberry hill, from the great bed-chamber.] _unsuccessful cruise of keppel--character of lord chatham._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . as you are so earnest for news, i am concerned when i have not a paragraph to send you. it looks as if distance augmented your apprehensions; for, i assure you, at home we have lost almost all curiosity. though the two fleets have been so long at sea, and though, before their last _sortie_, one heard nothing but _what news of the fleets?_ of late there has been scarcely any inquiry; and so the french one is returned to brest, and ours is coming home. admiral keppel is very unlucky in having missed them, for they had not above twenty-five ships. letters from paris say that their camps, too, are to break up at the end of this month: but we do not intend to be the dupes of that _finesse_, if it is one, but shall remain on our guard. one must hope that winter will produce some negotiation; and that, peace. indeed, as war is not declared, i conclude there is always some treating on the anvil; and, should it end well, at least this age will have made a step towards humanity, in omitting the ceremonial of proclamation, which seems to make it easier to cease being at war. but i am rather making out a proxy for a letter than sending you news. but, you see, even armies of hundred thousands in germany can execute as little as we; and you must remember what the grand condé, or the great prince of orange--i forget which--said, that unmarried girls imagine husbands are always on duty, unmilitary men that soldiers are always fighting. one of the duke of marlborough's generals dining with the lord mayor, an alderman who sat next to him said, "sir, yours must be a very laborious profession."--"no," replied the general, "we fight about four hours in the morning, and two or three after dinner, and then we have all the rest of the day to ourselves." the king has been visiting camps,--and so has sir william howe, who, one should think, had had enough of them; and who, one should think too, had not achieved such exploits as should make him fond of parading himself about, or expect many hosannahs. to have taken one town, and retreated from two, is not very glorious in military arithmetic; and to have marched twice to washington, and returned without attacking him, is no addition to the sum total. did i tell you that mrs. anne pitt is returned, and acts great grief for her brother? i suppose she was the dupe of the farce acted by the two houses and the court, and had not heard that none of them carried on the pantomime even to his burial. her nephew gave a little into that mummery even to me; forgetting how much i must remember of his aversion to his uncle. lord chatham was a meteor, and a glorious one; people discovered that he was not a genuine luminary, and yet everybody in mimickry has been an _ignis fatuus_ about him. why not allow his magnificent enterprises and good fortune, and confess his defects; instead of being bombast in his praises, and at the same time discover that the amplification is insincere? a minister who inspires great actions must be a great minister; and lord chatham will always appear so,--by comparison with his predecessors and successors. he retrieved our affairs when ruined by a most incapable administration; and we are fallen into a worse state since he was removed. therefore, i doubt, posterity will allow more to his merit, than it is the present fashion to accord to it. our historians have of late been fond of decrying queen elizabeth, in order if possible to raise the stuarts: but great actions surmount foibles; and folly and guilt would always remain folly and guilt, though there had never been a great man or woman in the world. our modern tragedies, hundreds of them do not contain a good line; nor are they a jot the better, because shakspeare, who was superior to all mankind, wrote some whole plays that are as bad as any of our present writers. i shall be very glad to see your nephew, and talk of you with him; which will be more satisfactory than questioning accidental travellers. _capture of pondicherry--changes in the ministry--la fayette in america._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _march_ , . if your representative dignity is impaired westward, you may add to your eastern titles those of "rose of india" and "pearl of pondicherry."[ ] the latter gem is now set in one of the vacant sockets of the british diadem. [footnote : the authority of the great warren hastings, originally limited to five years, was renewed this year; and he signalised the prolongation of his authority by more vigorous attacks than ever on the french fortresses in india. he sent one body of troops against chandemagore, their chief stronghold in bengal; another against pondicherry, their head-quarters in the south of hindostan; while a third, under colonel goddard, defeated the two mahratta chieftains scindia and holkar, and took some of their strongest fortresses.] i have nothing to subjoin to this high-flown paragraph, that will at all keep pace with the majesty of it. i should have left to the _gazette_ to wish you joy, nor have begun a new letter without more materials, if i did not fear you would be still uneasy about your nephew. i hear he has, _since his parenthesis_, voted again with the court; therefore he has probably not taken a new _part_, but only made a pindaric transition on a particular question. i have seen him but twice since his arrival, and from both those visits i had no reason to expect he would act differently from what you wished. perhaps it may never happen again. i go so little into the world, that i don't at all know what company he frequents. he talked so reasonably and tenderly with regard to you, that i shall be much deceived if he often gives you any inquietude. the place of secretary of state is not replenished yet. several different successors have been talked of. at least, at present, there is a little chance of its being supplied by the opposition. their numbers have fallen off again, though they are more alert than they used to be. i do not love to foretell, because no elijah left me his mantle, in which, it seems, the gift of prophecy resides; and, if i see clouds gathering, i less care to announce their contents to foreign post-offices. on the other hand, it is no secret, nor one to disguise if it were, that the french trade must suffer immensely by our captures. private news i know none. the bishops are trying to put a stop to one staple commodity of that kind, adultery. i do not suppose that they expect to lessen it; but, to be sure, it was grown to a sauciness that did call for a decenter veil. i do not think they have found out a good cure; and i am of opinion, too, that flagrancy proceeds from national depravity, which tinkering one branch will not remedy. perhaps polished manners are a better proof of virtue in an age than of vice, though system-makers do not hold so: at least, decency has seldom been the symptom of a sinking nation. when one talks on general themes, it is a sign of having little to say. it is not that there is a dearth of topics; but i only profess sending you information on events that really have happened, to guide you towards forming a judgment. at home, we are fed with magnificent hopes and promises that are never realized. for instance, to prove discord in america, monsieur de la fayette[ ] was said to rail at the congress, and their whole system and transactions. there is just published an intercourse between them that exhibits enthusiasm in him towards their cause, and the highest esteem for him on their side. for my part, i see as little chance of recovering america as of re-conquering the holy land. still, i do not amuse you with visions on either side, but tell you nakedly what advantage has been gained or lost. this caution abbreviates my letters; but, in general, you can depend on what i tell you. adieu! [footnote : monsieur de la fayette was a young french marquis of ancient family, but of limited fortune. he was a man of no ability, civil or military, and not even of much resolution, unless a blind fanaticism for republican principles can be called so. when the american war broke out he conceived such an admiration for washington, that he resigned his commission in the french army to cross over to america and serve with the colonists; but it cannot be said that he was of any particular service to their cause. afterwards, in , he entered warmly into the schemes of the leaders of the revolution, and contributed greatly to the difficulties and misfortunes of the royal family, especially by his conduct as commander of the national guard, which was a contemptible combination of treachery and imbecility.] _tuesday th._ i hear this moment that an account is come this morning of d'estaing with sixteen ships being blocked up by byron at martinico, and that rowley with eight more was expected by the latter in a day or two. d'estaing, it is supposed, will be starved to surrender, and the island too. i do not answer for this intelligence or consequences; but, if the first is believed, you may be sure the rest is. _divisions in the ministry--character of the italians and of the french._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _july_ , . how much larger the war will be for the addition of spain, i do not know. hitherto it has produced no events but the shutting of our ports against france, and the junction of nine ships from ferrol with the french squadron. they talk of a great navy getting ready at cadiz, and of mighty preparations in the ports of france for an embarkation. as all this must have been foreseen, i suppose we are ready to resist all attacks. the parliament rose last saturday, not without an open division in the ministry: lord gower, president of the council, heading an opposition to a bill for doubling the militia, which had passed the commons, and throwing it out; which lord north as publicly resented. i make no comments on this, because i really know nothing of the motives. thoroughly convinced that all my ideas are superannuated, and too old to learn new lessons, i only hear what passes, pretend to understand nothing, and wait patiently for events as they present themselves. i listen enough to be able to acquaint you with facts of public notoriety; but attempt to explain none of them, if they do not carry legibility in the van. your nephew, who lives more in the world, and is coming to you, will be far more master of the details. he called here some few days ago, as i was going out to dinner, but has kindly promised to come and dine here before he sets out. his journey is infinitely commendable, as entirely undertaken to please you. it will be very comfortable too, as surely the concourse of english must much abate, especially as france is interdicted. travelling boys and self-sufficient governors would be an incumbrance to you, could you see more of your countrymen of more satisfactory conversation. florence probably is improved since it had a court of its own, and there must be men a little more enlightened than the poor italians. scarcely any of the latter that ever i knew but, if they had parts, were buffoons. i believe the boasted _finesse_ of the ruling clergy is pretty much a traditionary notion, like their jealousy. more nations than one live on former characters after they are totally changed. i have been often and much in france. in the provinces they may still be gay and lively; but at paris, bating the pert _étourderie_ of very young men, i protest i scarcely ever saw anything like vivacity--the duc de choiseul alone had more than any hundred frenchmen i could select. their women are the first in the world in everything but beauty; sensible, agreeable, and infinitely informed. the _philosophes_, except buffon, are solemn, arrogant, dictatorial coxcombs--i need not say superlatively disagreeable. the rest are amazingly ignorant in general, and void of all conversation but the routine with women. my dear and very old friend [madame du deffand] is a relic of a better age, and at nearly eighty-four has all the impetuosity that _was_ the character of the french. they have not found out, i believe, how much their nation is sunk in europe;--probably the goths and vandals of the north will open their eyes before a century is past. i speak of the swarming empires that have conglomerated within our memories. _we_ dispelled the vision twenty years ago: but let us be modest till we do so again.... _ th._ last night i received from town the medal you promised me on the moorish alliance.[ ] it is at least as magnificent as the occasion required, and yet not well executed. the medallist siriez, i conclude, is grandson of my old acquaintance louis siriez of the palazzo vecchio. [footnote : a treaty had just been concluded between the duke of tuscany and the emperor of morocco.] yesterday's gazette issued a proclamation on the expected invasion from havre, where they are embarking mightily. some think the attempt will be on portsmouth. to sweeten this pill, clinton has taken a fort and seventy men--not near portsmouth, but new york; and there were reports at the latter that charleston is likely to surrender. this would be something, if there were not a french war and a spanish war in the way between us and carolina. sir charles hardy is at torbay with the whole fleet, which perhaps was not a part of the plan at havre: we shall see, and you shall hear, if anything passes. _friday night, july th._ your nephew has sent me word that he will breakfast with me to-morrow, but shall not have time to dine. i have nothing to add to the foregoing general picture. we have been bidden even by proclamation to expect an invasion, and troops and provisions have for this week said to have been embarked. still i do not much expect a serious descent. the french, i think, have better chances with less risk. they may ruin us in detail. the fleet is at present at home or very near, and very strong; nor do i think that the french plan is activity:--but it is idle to talk of the present moment, when it will be some time before you receive this. i am infinitely in more pain about mr. conway, who is in the midst of the storm in a nutshell, and i know will defend himself as if he was in the strongest fortification in flanders--and, which is as bad, i believe the court would sacrifice the island to sacrifice him. they played that infamous game last year on keppel, when ten thousand times more was at stake. they look at the biggest objects through the diminishing end of every telescope; and, the higher they who look, the more malignant and mean the eye.... adieu! my dear sir. in what manner we are to be undone, i do not guess; but i see no way by which we can escape happily out of this crisis--i mean, preserve the country and recover the constitution. i thought for four years that calamity would bring us to our senses: but alas! we have none left to be brought to. we shall now suffer a greal deal, submit at last to a humiliating peace, and people will be content.--so adieu, england! it will be more or less a province or kind of province to france, and its viceroy will be, in what does not concern france, its despot--and will be content too! i shall not pity the country; i shall feel only for those who grieve with me at its abject state; or for posterity, if they do not, like other degraded nations, grow callously reconciled to their ignominy. _eruption of vesuvius--death of lord temple._ to sir horace mann. _sept._ , . i have received your letter by colonel floyd, and shall be surprised indeed if caesar does not find his own purple a little rumpled, as well as his brother's mantle. but how astonished was i at finding that you did not mention the dreadful eruption of vesuvius. surely you had not heard of it! what are kings and their popguns to that wrath of nature! how sesostris, at the head of an army of nations, would have fallen prostrate to earth before a column of blazing embers eleven thousand feet high! i am impatient to hear more, as you are of the little conflict of us pigmies. three days after my last set out, we received accounts of d'estaing's success against byron and barrington, and of the capture of grenada. i do not love to send first reports, which are rarely authentic. the subsequent narrative of the engagement is more favourable. it allows the victory to the enemy, but makes their loss of men much the more considerable. of ships we lost but one, taken after the fight as going into port to refit. sir charles hardy and d'orvilliers have not met; the latter is at brest, the former at portsmouth. i never penetrated an inch into what is to be; and into some distant parts of our history, i mean the eastern, i have never liked to look. i believe it an infamous scene; you know i have always thought it so; and the marattas are a nation of banditti very proper to scourge the heroes of europe, who go so far to plunder and put themselves into their way. nature gave to mankind a beautiful world, and larger than it could occupy,--for, as to the eruption of goths and vandals occasioned by excess of population, i very much doubt it; and mankind prefers deforming the ready paradise, to improving and enjoying it. ambition and mischief, which one should not think were natural appetites, seem almost as much so as the impulse to propagation; and those pious rogues, the clergy, preach against what nature forces us to practise (or she could not carry on her system), and not twice in a century say a syllable against the lust of destruction! oh! one is lost in moralising, as one is in astronomy! in the ordinance and preservation of the great universal system one sees the divine artificer, but our intellects are too bounded to comprehend anything more. lord temple is dead by an accident. i never had any esteem for his abilities or character. he had grown up in the bask of lord chatham's glory, and had the folly to mistake half the rays for his own. the world was not such a dupe; and his last years discovered a selfish restlessness, and discovered to him, too, that no mortal regarded him but himself. the lucans are in my neighbourhood, and talk with much affection of you. adieu! _chances of war with holland--his father's policy--pope--character of bolingbroke._ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _jan._ , . in consequence of my last, it is right to make you easy, and tell you that i think we shall not have a dutch war;[ ] at least, nobody seems to expect it. what excuses we have made, i do not know; but i imagine the hollanders are glad to gain by both sides, and glad not to be forced to quarrel with either. [footnote : walpole was mistaken in his calculations. "holland at this time was divided by two great parties--the party of the staatholder, the prince of orange, and the party inclining to france--of which the pensionary, van bethel, was among the principal members; and this party was so insulting in their tone and measures, that at the end of we were compelled to declare war against them" (lord stanhope, "history of england," c. ). but the war was not signalised by any action of importance.] what might have been expected much sooner, appears at last--a good deal of discontent; but chiefly where it was not much expected. the country gentlemen, after encouraging the court to war with america, now, not very decently, are angry at the expense. as they have long seen the profusion, it would have been happy had they murmured sooner. very serious associations are forming in many counties; and orders, under the title of petitions, coming to parliament for correcting abuses. they talk of the waste of money; are silent on the thousands of lives that have been sacrificed--but when are human lives counted by any side? the french, who may measure with us in folly, and have exceeded us in ridiculous boasts, have been extravagant in their reception of d'estaing,[ ] who has shown nothing but madness and incapacity. how the northern monarchs, who have at least exhibited talents for war and politics, must despise the last campaign of england and france! [footnote : the comte d'estaing was the commander-in-chief of the french fleet in the west indies in the years - . but, though his force was always superior to ours, he always endeavoured to avoid a battle; and succeeded in that timorous policy except on two occasions, when lord howe and afterwards admiral byron brought him to action, but only with indecisive results.] i am once more got abroad, but more pleased to be able to do so, than charmed with anything i have to do. having outlived the glory and felicity of my country, i carry that reflection with me wherever i go. last night, at strawberry hill, i took up, to divert my thoughts, a volume of letters to swift from bolingbroke, bathurst, and gay; and what was there but lamentations on the ruin of england, in that era of its prosperity and peace, from wretches who thought their own want of power a proof that their country was undone! oh, my father! twenty years of peace, and credit, and happiness, and liberty, were punishments to rascals who weighed everything in the scales of self? it was to the honour of pope, that, though leagued with such a crew, and though an idolater of their archfiend bolingbroke and in awe of the malignant swift, he never gave in to their venomous railings; railings against a man who, in twenty years, never attempted a stretch of power, did nothing but the common business of administration, and by that temperance and steady virtue, and unalterable good-humour and superior wisdom, baffled all the efforts of faction, and annihilated the falsely boasted abilities of bolingbroke,[ ] which now appear as moderate as his character was in every light detestable. but, alas! that retrospect doubled my chagrin instead of diverting it. i soon forgot an impotent cabal of mock-patriots; but the scene they vainly sought to disturb rushed on my mind, and, like hamlet on the sight of yorick's skull, i recollected the prosperity of denmark when my father ruled, and compared it with the present moment! i look about for a sir robert walpole; but where is he to be found? [footnote: it is only the excess of party spirit that could lead walpole to call bolingbroke's abilities moderate; and he had no attacks on his father to resent, since, though bolingbroke was in permitted to return to england, he only received a partial pardon, and was not permitted to take his seat in parliament. walpole has more reason to pronounce his character detestable; for which opinion he might have quoted dr. johnson, who, in reference to an infidel treatise which he bequeathed to mallet for publication, called him "a scoundrel and a coward--a scoundrel who spent his life in charging a popgun against christianity, which he had not the courage to let off, but left it to a hungry scotchman to pull the trigger after he was dead."] this is not a letter, but a codicil to my last. you will soon probably have news enough--yet appearances are not always pregnancies. when there are more follies in a nation than principles and system, they counteract one another, and sometimes, as has just happened in ireland, are composed _pulveris exigui jactu_. i sum up my wishes in that for peace: but we are not satisfied with persecuting america, though the mischief has recoiled on ourselves; nor france with wounding us, though with little other cause for exultation, and with signal mischief to her own trade, and with heavy loss of seamen; not to mention how her armies are shrunk to raise her marine, a sacrifice she will one day rue, when the _disciplined_ hosts of goths and huns begin to cast an eye southward. but i seem to choose to read futurity, because i am not likely to see it: indeed i am most rational when i say to myself, what is all this to me? my thread is almost spun! almost all my business here is to bear pain with patience, and to be thankful for intervals of ease. though emperors and kings may torment mankind, they will not disturb my bedchamber; and so i bid them and you good-night! p.s.--i have made use of a term in this letter, which i retract, having bestowed a title on the captains and subalterns which was due only to the colonel, and not enough for his dignity. bolingbroke was more than a rascal--he was a villain. bathurst, i believe, was not a dishonest man, more than he was prejudiced by party against one of the honestest and best of men. gay was a simple poor soul, intoxicated by the friendship of men of genius, and who thought _they_ must be good who condescended to admire _him_. swift was a wild beast, who baited and worried all mankind almost, because his intolerable arrogance, vanity, pride, and ambition were disappointed; he abused lady suffolk, who tried and wished to raise him, only because she had not power to do so: and one is sure that a man who could deify that silly woman queen anne, would have been more profuse of incense to queen caroline, who had sense, if the court he paid to her had been crowned with success. such were the men who wrote of virtue to one another; and even that mean, exploded miser, lord bath, presumed to talk of virtue too! _political excitement--lord g. gordon--extraordinary gambling affairs in india._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _feb._ , . i write only when i have facts to send. detached scenes there have been in different provinces: they will be collected soon into a drama in st. stephen's chapel. one or two and twenty counties, and two or three towns, have voted petitions.[ ] but in northamptonshire lord spencer was disappointed, and a very moderate petition was ordered. the same happened at carlisle. at first, the court was struck dumb, but have begun to rally. counter-protests have been signed in hertford and huntingdon shires, in surrey and sussex. last wednesday a meeting was summoned in westminster hall: charles fox harangued the people finely and warmly; and not only a petition was voted, but he was proposed for candidate for that city at the next general election, and was accepted joyfully. wilkes was his zealous advocate: how few years since a public breakfast was given at holland house to support lord luttrell against wilkes! charles fox and his brother rode thence at the head of their friends to brentford. ovid's "metamorphoses" contains not stranger transformations than party can work. [footnote : these petitions were chiefly for economical reform, for which burke was preparing a bill.] i must introduce a new actor to you, a lord george gordon,--metamorphosed a little, too, for his family were jacobites and roman catholics: he is the lilburne of the scottish presbyterians, and an apostle against the papists. he dresses, that is, wears long lank hair about his shoulders, like the first methodists; though i take the modern ones to be no anti-catholics. this mad lord, for so all his family have been too, and are, has likewise assumed the patronage of ireland. last thursday he asked an audience of the king, and, the moment he was admitted into the closet, began reading an irish pamphlet, and continued for an hour, till it was so dark he could not see; and then left the pamphlet, exacting a promise on royal honour that his majesty would finish it. were i on the throne, i would make dr. monro a groom of my bedchamber: indeed it has been necessary for some time; for, of the king's lords, lord bolingbroke is in a mad-house, and lord pomfret and my nephew ought to be there. the last, being fond of onions, has lately distributed bushels of that root to his militia; mr. wyndham will not be surprised. by the tenor of the petitions you would think we were starving; yet there is a little coin stirring. within this week there has been a cast at hazard at the cocoa tree, the difference of which amounted to a hundred and four-score thousand pounds. mr. o'birne, an irish gamester, had won one hundred thousand pounds of a young mr. harvey of chigwell, just started from a midshipman[ ] into an estate by his elder brother's death. o'birne said, "you can never pay me." "i can," said the youth; "my estate will sell for the debt." "no," said o.; "i will win ten thousand--you shall throw for the odd ninety." they did, and harvey won. [footnote : mr. harvey was afterwards sir eliab harvey, one of nelson's captains at trafalgar. but unfortunately he so violently resented the appointment of lord cochrane, who was only a post-captain, to carry out the attack on the french fleet in basque roads, which he himself, who was an admiral, had also suggested, and used such violent and insubordinate language towards lord gambier, the commander-in-chief (who, though a most incompetent officer, had had nothing to do with the appointment), that it was unavoidable that a court-martial should sentence him to be cashiered. he was, however, restored to his rank shortly afterwards. he was member of parliament for essex for many years, and died in .] however, as it is a little necessary to cast about for resources, it is just got abroad, that about a year ago we took possession of a trifling district in india called the province of oude,[ ] which contains four millions of inhabitants, produces between three and four millions of revenue, and has an army of , men: it was scarce thought of consequence enough to deserve an article in the newspapers. if you are so _old-style_ as to ask how we came to take possession, i answer, by the new law of nations; by the law by which poland was divided. you will find it in the future editions of grotius, tit. "si une terre est à la bienséance d'un grand prince." oude appertained by that very law to the late sujah dowla. his successors were weak men, which _in india_ is incapacity. their majesties the east india company, whom god long preserve, have _succeeded_. [footnote : warren hastings claimed large arrears of tribute from asaph ul dowlah, the nabob of oude; but walpole was misinformed when he understood that he had in consequence annexed the province--a measure which was never adopted till the spring of , when its annexation by lord dalhousie was among the causes that led to the outbreak of the mutiny.] this petty event has ascertained the existence of a certain being, who, till now, has not been much more than a matter of faith--the grand lama. there are some affairs of trade between the sovereigns of oude and his holiness the lama. do not imagine the east india company have leisure to trouble their heads about religion. their commanding officer corresponded with the tartar pope, who, it seems, is a very sensible man. the attorney-general asked this officer, who is come over, how the lama wrote. "oh," said he, "like any person."--"could i see his letters?" said mr. wedderburne.--"upon my word," said the officer, "when the business was settled, i threw them into the fire." however, i hear that somebody, not quite so mercantile, has published one of the lama's letters in the "philosophical transactions." well! when we break in europe, we may pack up and remove to india, and be emperors again! do you believe me, my good sir, when i tell you all these strange tales? do you think me distracted, or that your country is so? does not this letter seem an olio composed of ingredients picked out of the history of charles i., of clodius and sesostris, and the "arabian nights"? yet i could have coloured it higher without trespassing on truth; but when i, inured to the climate of my own country, can scarcely believe what i hear and see, how should you, who converse only with the ordinary race of men and women, give credit to what i have ventured to relate, merely because in forty years i have constantly endeavoured to tell you nothing but truth? moreover, i commonly reserve passages that are not of public notoriety, not having the smallest inclination to put the credulity of foreign post-offices to the test. i would have them think that we are only mad with valour, and that lord chatham's cloak has been divided into shreds no bigger than a silver penny amongst our soldiers and sailors. adieu! _rodney's victory--walpole inclines to withdraw from amusements._ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _march_ , . as my last letter probably alarmed you, i write again to tell you that nothing decisive has happened. the troops of the palace even rallied a little yesterday on mr. burke's bill of reformation, or reduction, yet with evident symptoms of _caution_; for lord north, who wished to defer the second reading, ventured to put it only to next wednesday, instead of to-day; and would have carried a longer adjournment with still greater difficulty, for his majority was but of , and the minority remained , a very formidable number. the associations in the counties increase, though not rapidly: yet it will be difficult for the court to stem such a torrent; and, i imagine, full as difficult for any man of temper to direct them wholesomely. ireland is still more impetuous. fortunately, happily, the tide abroad seems turned. sir george rodney's victory[ ] proves more considerable than it appeared at first. it secures gibraltar, eases your mediterranean a little, and must vex the spaniards and their monarch, not satisfied before with his cousin of bourbon. admiral parker has had great success too amongst the latter's transports. oh! that all these elements of mischief may jumble into peace! monsieur necker[ ] alone shines in the quarter of france; but he is carrying the war into the domains of the church, where one cannot help wishing him success. if he can root out monks, the pope will have less occasion to allow _gras_, because we cannot supply them with _maigre_. it is droll that the protestant necker, and we protestant fishmongers, should overset the system of fasting; but ancient alcorans could not foresee modern contingencies. [footnote : on january th sir george rodney defeated the spanish fleet, which was on its way to join the force blockading gibraltar, and took the commander himself, don juan de langara, prisoner.] [footnote : necker's measure, to which walpole alludes, was the imposition of a property tax of per cent. on all classes, even on the clergy.] i have told you that politics absorb all private news. i am going to a ball this evening, which the duke and duchess of bolton give to their royal highnesses of gloucester, who have now a very numerous court. it seems very improper for me to be at a ball; but you see that, on the contrary, it is propriety that carries me thither. i am heartily weary both of diversions and politics, and am more than half inclined to retire to strawberry. i have renounced dining abroad, and hide myself as much as i can; but can one pin on one's breast a label to signify, that, though one is sensible of being methusalem in constitution, one must sometimes be seen in a crowd for such and such reasons? i do often exaggerate my pleas of bad health; and, could i live entirely alone, would proclaim myself incurable; but, should one repent, one becomes ridiculous by returning to the world; or one must have a companion, which i never will have; or one opens a door to legatees, if one advertises ill-health. well! i must act with as much common sense as i can; and, when one takes no part, one must temper one's conduct; and, when the world is too young for one, not shock it, nor contradict it, nor affix a peculiar character, but trust to its indifference for not drawing notice, when one does not desire to be noticed. rabelais's "fais ce que tu voudras" is not very difficult when one wishes to do nothing. i have always been offended at those who will belong to a world with which they have nothing to do. i have perceived that every age has not only a new language and new modes, but a new way of articulating. at first i thought myself grown deaf when with young people; but perceived that i understood my contemporaries, though they whispered. well! i must go amongst those i do not comprehend so well, but shall leave them when they go to supper. _the gordon riots._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _june_ , . not a syllable yet from general clinton. there has been a battle at sea in the west indies, which we might have gained; know we did not, but not why: and all this is forgotten already in a fresher event. i have said for some time that the field is so extensive, and the occurrences so numerous, and so much pains are taken to involve them in falsehoods and mystery, and opinions are so divided, that all evidences will be dead before a single part can be cleared up; but i have not time, nor you patience, for my reflections. i must hurry to the history of the day. the jack of leyden of the age, lord george gordon,[ ] gave notice to the house of commons last week, that he would, on friday, bring in the petition of the protestant association; and he openly declared to his disciples, that he would not carry it unless _a noble army of martyrs, not fewer than forty thousand_, would accompany him. forty thousand, led by such a lamb, were more likely to prove butchers than victims; and so, in good truth, they were very near being. have you faith enough in me to believe that the sole precaution taken was, that the cabinet council on thursday empowered the first lord of the treasury to give proper orders to the civil magistrates to keep the peace,--and his lordship forgot it! [footnote : lord george gordon was a younger son of the duke of gordon; and because the parliament had passed a bill to relieve the roman catholics from some of the disabilities which seemed no longer desirable nor just to maintain, he instigated a body calling itself the protestant association to present a monster petition to the house of commons, and headed a procession of at least fifty thousand to march with it to the house. the processionists behaved with great violence on their march, insulting those members of both houses whom they thought unfavourable to their views; and, when the house adjourned without taking their petition into consideration, they began to commit the most violent outrages. they burnt newgate; they burnt the house of the great chief justice, lord mansfield; and for two days seemed masters of london, till the king himself summoned a privy council, and issued orders for the troops to put down the rioters. many of the rioters were brought to trial and executed. lord george, being prosecuted for high treason, to which his offence did not amount, instead of for sedition, was acquitted, to the great indignation of the french historian, lacretelle, that "cet extravagant scélérat ne paya point de sa tête un tel crime."] early on friday morning the conservators of the church of england assembled in _st. george's_ fields to encounter the dragon, the old serpent, and marched in lines of six and six--about thirteen thousand only, as they were computed--with a petition as long as the procession, which the apostle himself presented; but, though he had given out most christian injunctions for peaceable behaviour, he did everything in his power to promote a massacre. he demanded immediate repeal of toleration, told lord north he could have him torn to pieces, and, running every minute to the door or windows, bawled to the populace that lord north would give them no redress, and that now this member, now that, was speaking against them. in the mean time, the peers, going to their own chamber, and as yet not concerned in the petition, were assaulted; many of their glasses were broken, and many of their persons torn out of the carriages. lord boston was thrown down and almost trampled to death; and the two secretaries of state, the master of the ordnance, and lord willoughby were stripped of their bags or wigs, and the three first came into the house with their hair all dishevelled. the chariots of sir george savile and charles turner, two leading advocates for the late toleration, though in opposition, were demolished; and the duke of richmond and burke were denounced to the mob as proper objects for sacrifice. lord mahon laboured to pacify the tempest, and towards eight and nine, prevailed on so many to disperse, that the lords rose and departed in quiet; but every avenue to the other house was besieged and blockaded, and for four hours they kept their doors locked, though some of the warmest members proposed to sally out, sword in hand, and cut their way. lord north and that house behaved with great firmness, and would not submit to give any other satisfaction to the rioters, than to consent to take the popish laws into consideration on the following tuesday; and, calling the justices of the peace, empowered them to call out the whole force of the country to quell the riot. the magistrates soon brought the horse and foot guards, and the pious ragamuffins soon fled; so little enthusiasm fortunately had inspired them; at least all their religion consisted in outrage and plunder; for the duke of northumberland, general grant, mr. mackinsy, and others, had their pockets picked of their watches and snuff-boxes. happily, not a single life was lost. this tumult, which was over between nine and ten at night, had scarce ceased before it broke out in two other quarters. old haslang's[ ] chapel was broken open and plundered; and, as he is a prince of smugglers as well as bavarian minister, great quantities of run tea and contraband goods were found in his house. this one cannot lament; and still less, as the old wretch has for these forty years usurped a hired house, and, though the proprietor for many years has offered to remit his arrears of rent, he will neither quit the house nor pay for it. [footnote : count haslang was the bavarian minister.] monsieur cordon, the sardinian minister, suffered still more. the mob forced his chapel, stole two silver lamps, demolished everything else, threw the benches into the street, set them on fire, carried the brands into the chapel, and set fire to that; and, when the engines came, would not suffer them to play till the guards arrived, and saved the house and probably all that part of the town. poor madame cordon was confined by illness. my cousin, thomas walpole, who lives in lincoln's inn fields, went to her rescue, and dragged her, for she could scarce stand with terror and weakness, to his own house. i doubt this narrative will not re-approach you and mr. wyndham. i have received yours of the th of last month. you will be indignant that such a mad dog as lord george should not be knocked on the head. colonel murray did tell him in the house, that, if any lives were lost, his lordship should join the number. nor yet is he so lunatic as to deserve pity. besides being very debauched, he has more knavery than mission. what will be decided on him, i do not know; every man that heard him can convict him of the worst kind of sedition: but it is dangerous to constitute a rascal a martyr. i trust we have not much holy fury left; i am persuaded that there was far more dissoluteness than enthusiasm in the mob: yet the episode is very disagreeable. i came from town yesterday to avoid the birthday [june ]. we have a report here that the papists last night burnt a presbyterian meeting-house, but i credit nothing now on the first report. it was said to be intended on saturday, and the guards patrolled the streets at night; but it is very likely that saint george gordon spread the insinuation himself. my letter cannot set out before to-morrow; therefore i will postpone the conclusion. in the mean time i must scold you very seriously for the cameo you have sent me by mr. morrice. this house is full of your presents and of my blushes. i love any one of them as an earnest of your friendship; but i hate so many. you force upon me an air most contrary to my disposition. i cannot thank you for your kindness; i entreated you to send me nothing more. you leave me no alternative but to seem interested or ungrateful. i can only check your generosity by being brutal. if i had a grain of power, i would affront you and call your presents bribes. i never gave you anything but a coffee-pot. if i could buy a diamond as big as the caligula, and a less would not be so valuable, i would send it you. in one word, i will not accept the cameo, unless you give me a promise under your hand that it shall be the last present you send me. i cannot stir about this house without your gifts staring me in the face. do you think i have no conscience? i am sorry mr. morrice is no better, and wonder at his return. what can invite him to this country? home never was so homely. _ th._ it is not true that a meeting-house has been burnt. i believe a popish chapel in the city has been attacked: and they talk here of some disturbance yesterday, which is probable; for, when grace, robbery, and mischief make an alliance, they do not like to give over:--but ten miles from the spot are a thousand from truth. my letter must go to town before night, or would be too late for the post. if you do not hear from me again immediately, you will be sure that this _bourrasque_ has subsided. _thursday th._ i am exceedingly vexed. i sent this letter to berkeley square on tuesday, but by the present confusions my servant did not receive it in time. i came myself yesterday, and found a horrible scene. lord mansfield's house was just burnt down, and at night there were shocking disorders. london and southwark were on fire in six places; but the regular troops quelled the sedition by daybreak, and everything now is quiet. a camp of ten thousand men is formed in hyde park, and regiments of horse and foot arrive every hour. _friday morn, th._ all has been quiet to-night. i am going to strawberry for a little rest. your nephew told me last night that he sends you constant journals just now. _hogarth--colonel charteris--archbishop blackburne--jervas--richardson's poetry._ to sir david dalrymple. _dec._ , . i should have been shamefully ungrateful, sir, if i could ever forget all the favours i have received from you, and had omitted any mark of respect to you that it was in my power to show. indeed, what you are so good as to thank me for was a poor trifle, but it was all i had or shall have of the kind. it was imperfect too, as some painters of name have died since it was printed, which was nine years ago. they will be added with your kind notices, should i live, which is not probable, to see a new edition wanted. sixty-three years, and a great deal of illness, are too speaking mementos not to be attended to; and when the public has been more indulgent than one had any right to expect, it is not decent to load it with one's dotage! i believe, sir, that i may have been over-candid to hogarth, and that his spirit and youth and talent may have hurried him into more real caricatures than i specified; yet he certainly restrained his bent that way pretty early. charteris,[ ] i have seen; but though some years older than you, sir, i cannot say i have at all a perfect idea of him; nor did i ever hear the curious anecdote you tell me of the banker and my father. i was much better acquainted with archbishop blackburne. he lived within two doors of my father in downing street, and took much notice of me when i was near man.... he was a little hurt at not being raised to canterbury on wake's death [ ], and said to my father, "you did not think on me; but it is true, i am too old, i am too old." perhaps, sir, these are gossiping stories, but at least they hurt nobody now. [footnote : colonel charteris, satirised by hogarth's introduction of his portrait in the "harlot's progress," was at his death still more bitterly branded by swift's friend, dr. arbuthnot, in the epitaph he proposed for him: "here continueth to rot the body of francis charteris, who, in the course of his long life, displayed every vice except prodigality and hypocrisy. his insatiable avarice saved him from the first: his matchless impudence from the second." and he concludes it with the explanation that his life was not useless, since "it was intended to show by his example of how small estimation inordinate wealth is in the sight of almighty god, since he bestowed it on the most unworthy of mortals."] i can say little, sir, for my stupidity or forgetfulness about hogarth's poetry, which i still am not sure i ever heard, though i knew him so well; but it is an additional argument for my distrusting myself, if my memory fails, which is very possible. a whole volume of richardson's[ ] poetry has been published since my volume was printed, not much to the honour of his muse, but exceedingly so to that of his piety and amiable heart. you will be pleased, too, sir, with a story lord chesterfield told me (too late too) of jervas,[ ] who piqued himself on the reverse, on total infidelity. one day that he had talked very indecently in that strain, dr. arbuthnot,[ ] who was as devout as richardson, said to him, "come, jervas, this is all an air and affectation; nobody is a sounder believer than you."--"i!" said jervas, "i believe nothing."--"yes, but you do," replied the doctor; "nay, you not only believe, but practise: you are so scrupulous an observer of the commandments, that you never make the likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or on the earth beneath, or," &c. [footnote : richardson was a london bookseller, the author of the three longest novels in the english language--"pamela," "clarissa harbour," and "sir charles grandison." they were extravagantly praised in their day. but it was to ridicule "pamela" that fielding wrote "joseph andrews."] [footnote : jervas was a fashionable portrait-painter in the first half of the century. lady mary montague, in one of her letters, speaks of him in terms of the highest praise.] [footnote : dr. arbuthnot was the author of the celebrated satire on the partition treaties, entitled "the history of john bull," to which englishmen have ever since owed their popular nickname. it is to him also that pope dedicated the prologue to his "satires and epistles."] i fear, sir, this letter is too long for thanks, and that i have been proving what i have said, of my growing superannuated; but, having made my will in my last volume, you may look on this as a codicil. p.s.--i had sealed my letter, sir, but break it open, lest you should think soon, that i do not know what i say, or break my resolution lightly. i shall be able to send you in about two months a very curious work that i am going to print, and is actually in the press; but there is not a syllable of my writing in it. it is a discovery just made of two very ancient manuscripts, copies of which were found in two or three libraries in germany, and of which there are more complete manuscripts at cambridge. they are of the eleventh century at lowest, and prove that painting in oil was then known, above three hundred years before the pretended invention of van eyck. the manuscripts themselves will be printed, with a full introductory dissertation by the discoverer, mr. raspe, a very learned german, formerly librarian to the landgrave of hesse, and who writes english surprisingly well. the manuscripts are in the most barbarous monkish latin, and are much such works as our booksellers publish of receipts for mixing colours, varnishes, &c. one of the authors, who calls himself theophilus, was a monk; the other, heraclius, is totally unknown; but the proofs are unquestionable. as my press is out of order, and that besides it would take up too much time to print them there, they will be printed here at my expense, and if there is any surplus, it will be for raspe's benefit. _the prince of wales--hurricane at barbadoes--a "voice from st. helena."_ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _dec._ , . i have received, and thank you much for the curious history of the count and countess of albany; what a wretched conclusion of a wretched family! surely no royal race was ever so drawn to the dregs! the other countess [orford] you mention seems to approach still nearer to dissolution. her death a year or two ago might have prevented the sale of the pictures,--not that i know it would. who can say what madness in the hands of villany would or would not have done? now, i think, her dying would only put more into the reach of rascals. but i am indifferent what they do; nor, but thus occasionally, shall i throw away a thought on that chapter. all chance of accommodation with holland is vanished. count welderen and his wife departed this morning. all they who are to gain by privateers and captures are delighted with a new field of plunder. piracy is more practicable than victory. not being an admirer of wars, i shall reserve my _feux de joie_ for peace. my letters, i think, are rather eras than journals. three days ago commenced another date--the establishment of a family for the prince of wales. i do not know all the names, and fewer of the faces that compose it; nor intend. i, who kissed the hand of george i., have no colt's tooth for the court of george iv. nothing is so ridiculous as an antique face in a juvenile drawing-room. i believe that they who have spirits enough to be absurd in their decrepitude, are happy, for they certainly are not sensible of their folly; but i, who have never forgotten what i thought in my youth of such superannuated idiots, dread nothing more than misplacing myself in my old age. in truth, i feel no such appetite; and, excepting the young of my own family, about whom i am interested, i have mighty small satisfaction in the company of _posterity_; for so the present generation seem to me. i would contribute anything to their pleasure, but what cannot contribute to it--my own presence. alas! how many of this age are swept away before me: six thousand have been mowed down at once by the late hurricane at barbadoes alone! how europe is paying the debts it owes to america! were i a poet, i would paint hosts of mexicans and peruvians crowding the shores of styx, and insulting the multitudes of the usurpers of their continent that have been sending themselves thither for these five or six years. the poor africans, too, have no call to be merciful to european ghosts. those miserable slaves have just now seen whole crews of men-of-war swallowed by the late hurricane. we do not yet know the extent of our loss. you would think it very slight, if you saw how little impression it makes on a luxurious capital. an overgrown metropolis has less sensibility than marble; nor can it be conceived by those not conversant in one. i remember hearing what diverted me then; a young gentlewoman, a native of our rock, st. helena, and who had never stirred beyond it, being struck with the emotion occasioned there by the arrival of one or two of our china ships, said to the captain, "there must be a great solitude in london as often as the china ships come away!" her imagination could not have compassed the idea, if she had been told that six years of war, the absence of an army of fifty or sixty thousand men of all our squadrons, and a new debt of many, many millions, would not make an alteration in the receipts at the door of a single theatre in london. i do not boast of, or applaud, this profligate apathy. when pleasure is our business, our business is never pleasure; and, if four wars cannot awaken us, we shall die in a dream! _naval movements--siege of gibraltar--female fashions._ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _sept._ , . the combined fleets, to the amount of forty-seven or forty-nine sail, brought news of their own arrival at the mouth of the channel a day or two before your letter, of august the th, brought an account of that probability, and of the detachment for minorca. admiral darby, on a false alarm, or perhaps, a true one, had returned to torbay a week ago, where he is waiting for reinforcements. this is the fourth or fifth day since the appearance of the enemy off scilly. it is thought, i find here (whither i came to-day), that the great object is our jamaica fleet; but that a detachment is gone to ireland to do what mischief they can on the coast before our ally, the equinox, will beseech them to retire. much less force than this armada would have done more harm two years ago, when they left a card at plymouth, than this can do; as plymouth is now very strong, and that there are great disciplined armies now in both islands. of gibraltar we have no apprehensions.[ ] i know less of minorca. [footnote : the spaniards and french had been blockading gibraltar for more than two years, and continued the siege till the autumn of , when the blockading fleet was totally destroyed by the governor, general eliot, who was created lord heathfield for the achievement.] lord george gordon is standing candidate for the city of london on an accidental vacancy; but his premature alarm last year has had a sinister effect. in short, those riots have made mankind sick of them, and give him no chance of success. what can i say more? nothing at present; but i will the moment any event presents itself. my hope is that, after a fermentation, there will be a settlement, and that peace will arise out of it. the decree[ ] you sent me against high heads diverted me. it is as necessary here, but would not have such expeditious effect. the queen has never admitted feathers at court; but, though the nation has grown excellent courtiers, fashion remained in opposition, and not a plume less was worn anywhere else. some centuries ago, the clergy preached against monstrous head-dresses; but religion had no more power than our queen. it is better to leave the mode to its own vagaries; if she is not contradicted, she seldom remains long in the same mood. she is very despotic; but, though her reign is endless, her laws are repealed as fast as made. [footnote : _"the decree."_ the grand duke of tuscany had just issued an order prohibiting high head-dresses.] mrs. damer,[ ] general conway's daughter, is going abroad to confirm a very delicate constitution--i believe, at naples. i will say very few words on her, after telling you that, besides being his daughter, i love her as my own child. it is not from wanting matter, but from having too much. she has one of the most solid understandings i ever knew, astonishingly improved, but with so much reserve and modesty, that i have often told mr. conway he does not know the extent of her capacity and the solidity of her reason. we have by accident discovered, that she writes latin like pliny, and is learning greek. in italy she will be a prodigy. she models like bernini, has excelled the moderns in the similitudes of her busts, and has lately begun one in marble. you must keep all knowledge of these talents and acquisitions to yourself; she would never forgive my mentioning, at least her mental qualities. you may just hint that i talked of her statuary, as you may assist her if she has a mind to borrow anything to copy from the great duke's collection. lady william campbell, her uncle's widow, accompanies, who is a very reasonable woman too, and equally shy. if they return through florence, pray give them a parcel of my letters. i had been told your nephew would make you a visit this autumn, but i have heard nothing from him. if you should see him, pray give him the parcel, for he will return sooner than they. [footnote : mrs. damer had devoted herself to sculpture with an ability which has given her a high place among artists. the bust of nelson in the armoury at windsor is her work.] i have a gouty pain in my hand, that would prevent my saying more, had i more to say. _capitulation of lord cornwallis--pitt and fox._ to sir horace mann. _nov._ , . your nephew is arrived, as he has told you himself; the sight of him, for he called on me the next morning, was more than ordinarily welcome, though your letter of the th, which i received the night before, had dispelled many of my fears. i will now unfold them to you. a packet-boat from ostend was lost last week, and your nephew was named for one of the passengers. as mrs. noel had expected him for a fortnight, i own my apprehensions were strengthened; but i will say no more on a dissipated panic. however, this incident and his half-wreck at lerici will, i hope, prevent him from the future from staying with you so late in the year; and i see by your letter that you agree with me, of which i should be sure though you had not said so. i mentioned on tuesday the captivity of lord cornwallis and his army, the columbus who was to bestow america on us again. a second army[ ] taken in a drag-net is an uncommon event, and happened but once to the romans, who sought adventures everywhere. we have not lowered our tone on this new disgrace, though i think we shall talk no more of insisting on _implicit submission_, which would rather be a gasconade than firmness. in fact, there is one very unlucky circumstance already come out, which must drive every american, to a man, from ever calling himself our friend. by the tenth article of the capitulation, lord cornwallis demanded that the loyal americans in his army should not be punished. this was flatly refused, and he has left them to be hanged. i doubt no vote of parliament will be able to blanch such a--such a--i don't know what the word is for it; he must get his uncle the archbishop to christen it; there is no name for it in any pagan vocabulary. i suppose it will have a patent for being called necessity. well! there ends another volume of the american war. it looks a little as if the history of it would be all we should have for it, except forty millions[ ] of debt, and three other wars that have grown out of it, and that do not seem so near to a conclusion. they say that monsieur de maurepas, who is dying, being told that the duc de lauzun had brought the news of lord cornwallis's surrender, said, from racine's "mithridate" i think:-- mes derniers regards out vu fuir les romains. how lord chatham will frown when they meet! for, since i began my letter, the papers say that maurepas is dead. the duc de nivernois, it is said, is likely to succeed him as minister; which is probable, as they were brothers-in-law and friends, and the one would naturally recommend the other. perhaps, not for long, as the queen's influence gains ground. [footnote : the capitulation of burgoyne at saratoga has been mentioned in a previous letter; and in october, , lord cornwallis, whose army was reduced to seven thousand men, was induced to surrender to washington, who, with eighteen thousand, had blockaded him at a village called yorktown; and it was the news of this disaster which at last compelled the king to consent to relinquish the war.] [footnote : "_forty millions._" burke, in one of his speeches, asserted the expense to have been £ , , , "besides one hundred thousand men."] the warmth in the house of commons is prodigiously rekindled; but lord cornwallis's fate has cost the administration no ground _there_. the names of most _éclat_ in the opposition are two names to which those walls have been much accustomed at the same period--charles fox and william pitt, second son of lord chatham.[ ] eloquence is the only one of our brilliant qualities that does not seem to have degenerated rapidly--but i shall leave debates to your nephew, now an ear-witness: i could only re-echo newspapers. is it not another odd coincidence of events, that while the father laurens is prisoner to lord cornwallis as constable of the tower, the son laurens signed the capitulation by which lord cornwallis became prisoner? it is said too, i don't know if truly, that this capitulation and that of saratoga were signed on the same anniversary. these are certainly the speculations of an idle man, and the more trifling when one considers the moment. but alas! what would _my_ most grave speculations avail? from the hour that fatal egg, the stamp act, was laid, i disliked it and all the vipers hatched from it. i now hear many curse it, who fed the vermin with poisonous weeds. yet the guilty and the innocent rue it equally hitherto! i would not answer for what is to come! seven years of miscarriages may sour the sweetest tempers, and the most sweetened. oh! where is the dove with the olive-branch? long ago i told you that you and i might not live to see an end of the american war. it is very near its end indeed now--its consequences are far from a conclusion. in some respects, they are commencing a new date, which will reach far beyond _us_. i desire not to pry into that book of futurity. could i finish my course in peace--but one must take the chequered scenes of life as they come. what signifies whether the elements are serene or turbulent, when a private old man slips away? what has he and the world's concerns to do with one another? he may sigh for his country, and babble about it; but he might as well sit quiet and read or tell old stories; the past is as important to him as the future. [footnote : charles fox and william pitt were the second sons of the first lord holland and the first lord chatham, fox being by some years the older. they were both men of great eloquence; but in this (as in every other point) pitt was the superior, even by the confession of lord macaulay. as prime minister from to , and afterwards in - , pitt proved himself the greatest statesman, the man more in advance of his age than any of his predecessors or successors; while fox's career was for the most part one of an opposition so rancorous, and so destitute of all patriotism, that he even exulted over the disasters of burgoyne and cornwallis, and afterwards over the defeat of the austrians at marengo in , avowedly because the austrians were our allies, and it was a heavy blow to pitt and his policy.] _dec. ._ i had not sealed my letter, as it cannot set out till to-morrow; and since i wrote it i have received yours, of the th of november, by your courier. i congratulate you on the success of your attempts, and admire the heroic refusal of the general.[ ] i shall certainly obey you, and not mention it. indeed, it would not easily be believed here, where as many pence are irresistible.... [footnote : general the hon. james murray was governor of minorca, which was besieged by the spaniards, and was offered a vast bribe by the duc de crillon, the commander of the besiegers, to give up port st. philip.] don't trouble yourself about the third set of "galuzzi." they are to be had here now, and those for whom i intended them can buy them. i have not made so much progress as i intended, and have not yet quite finished the second volume. i detest cosmo the great. i am sorry, either that he was so able a man, or so successful a man. when tyrants are great men they should miscarry; if they are fools, they will miscarry of course. pray, is there any picture of camilla martelli, cosmo's last wife? i had never heard of her. the dolt, his son, i find used her ill, and then did the same thing. our friend, bianca capello, it seems, was a worthless creature. i don't expect much entertainment but from the life of ferdinand the great. it is true i have dipped into the others, particularly into the story of cosmo the third's wife, of whom i had read much in french mémoires; and into that of john gaston, which was so fresh when i was at florence; but as the author, in spite of the great duke's injunctions, has tried to palliate some of the worst imputations on cosmo and his son ferdinand, so he has been mighty modest about the caprean amours of john gaston and his eldest brother. adieu! i have been writing a volume here myself. pray remember to answer me about camilla martelli. p.s.--is there any china left in the great duke's collection, made by duke francis the first himself? perhaps it was lately sold with what was called the refuse of the wardrobe, whence i hear some charming things were purchased, particularly the medallions of the medici, by benvenuto cellini. that sale and the "history" are enough to make the old electress[ ] shudder in her coffin. [footnote : the electress palatine dowager was sister of john gaston, the last grand duke of the house of medici; after her husband's death she returned to florence and died there.] _the language proper for inscriptions in england--fall of lord north's ministry--bryant._ to the rev. william cole. _april_ , . your partiality to me, my good sir, is much overseen, if you think me fit to correct your latin. alas! i have not skimmed ten pages of latin these dozen years. i have dealt in nothing but english, french, and a little italian; and do not think, if my life depended on it, i could write four lines of pure latin. i have had occasion once or twice to speak that language, and soon found that all my verbs were italian with roman terminations. i would not on any account draw you into a scrape, by depending on my skill in what i have half forgotten. but you are in the metropolis of latium. if you distrust your own knowledge, which i do not, especially from the specimen you have sent me, surely you must have good critics at your elbow to consult. in truth, i do not love roman inscriptions in lieu of our own language,[ ] though, if anywhere, proper in an university; neither can i approve writing what the romans themselves would not understand. what does it avail to give a latin tail to a guildhall? though the words are used by moderns, would _major_ convey to cicero the idea of a _mayor_? _architectus_, i believe, is the right word; but i doubt whether _veteris jam perantiquae_ is classic for a dilapidated building--but do not depend on me; consult some better judges. [footnote : walpole certainly here shows himself superior in judgement to johnson, who, when burke, reynolds, and others, in a "round-robin," requested that the epitaph on goldsmith, which was entrusted to him to draw up, should be in english instead of latin, refused, with the absurd expression that "he would never be guilty of defacing westminster abbey with an english inscription."] though i am glad of the late _revolution_,[ ] a word for which i have great reverence, i shall certainly not dispute with you thereon. i abhor exultation. if the change produces peace, i shall make a bonfire in my heart. personal interest i have none; you and i shall certainly never profit by the politics to which we are attached. the "archaeologic epistle" i admire exceedingly, though i am sorry it attacks mr. bryant,[ ] whom i love and respect. the dean is so absurd an oaf, that he deserves to be ridiculed. is anything more hyperbolic than his preferences of rowley to homer, shakspeare, and milton? whether rowley or chatterton was the author, are the poems in any degree comparable to those authors? is not a ridiculous author an object of ridicule? i do not even guess at your meaning in your conclusive paragraph on that subject: dictionary-writer i suppose alludes to johnson; but surely you do not equal the compiler of a dictionary to a genuine poet? is a brickmaker on a level with mr. essex? nor can i hold that exquisite wit and satire are billingsgate; if they were, milles and johnson would be able to write an answer to the "epistle." i do as little guess whom you mean that got a pension by toryism: if johnson too, he got a pension for having abused pensioners, and yet took one himself, which was contemptible enough. still less know i who preferred opposition to principles, which is not a very common case; whoever it was, as pope says, the way he took was strangely round about. [footnote : in march lord north resigned, and been replaced by lord rockingham, who had been prime minister before in .] [footnote : bryant, the celebrated or notorious critic, who published a treatise in which he denied the existence of troy, and even called in question that of homer--a work which, whether walpole agreed with him on this point or not, afterwards drew down on him the indignant denunciations of byron. it was well for him that he wrote before the discoveries of dr. schliemann.] _highwaymen and footpads._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _sept._ , . ... i am perfectly ignorant of the state of the war abroad; they say we are in no pain for gibraltar: but i know that we are in a state of war at home that is shocking. i mean, from the enormous profusion of housebreakers, highwaymen, and footpads; and, what is worse, from the savage barbarities of the two latter, who commit the most wanton cruelties. this evil is another fruit of the american war. having no vent for the convicts that used to be transported to our late colonies, a plan was adopted for confining them on board of lighters for the term of their sentences. in those colleges, undergraduates in villainy commence masters of arts, and at the expiration of their studies issue as mischievous as if they had taken their degrees in law, physic, or divinity, at one of our regular universities; but, having no profession, nor testimonial to their characters, they can get no employment, and therefore live upon the public. in short, the grievance is so crying, that one dare not stir out after dinner but well-armed. if one goes abroad to dinner, you would think one was going to the relief of gibraltar. you may judge how depraved we are, when the war has not consumed half the reprobates, nor press-gangs thinned their numbers! but no wonder--how should the morals of the people be purified, when such frantic dissipation reigns above them? contagion does not mount, but descend. a new theatre is going to be erected merely for people of fashion, that they may not be confined to vulgar hours--that is, to day or night. fashion is always silly, for, before it can spread far, it must be calculated for silly people; as examples of sense, wit, or ingenuity could be imitated only by a few. all the discoveries that i can perceive to have been made by the present age, is to prefer riding about the streets rather than on the roads or on the turf, and being too late for everything. thus, though we have more public diversions than would suffice for two capitals, nobody goes to them till they are over. this is literally true. ranelagh, that is, the music there, finishes at half an hour after ten at night; but the most fashionable set out for it, though above a mile out of town, at eleven or later. well! but is not this censure being old and cross? were not the charming people of my youth guilty of equivalent absurdities? oh yes; but the sensible folks of my youth had not lost america, nor dipped us in wars with half europe, that cost us fifteen millions a year. i believe the jews went to ranelagh at midnight, though titus was at knightsbridge. but titus demolished their ranelagh as well as jerusalem. adieu! _fox's india bill--balloons._ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _dec._ , . ... your nephew is in town, but confined by the gout. i called on him, but did not see him; yet you may be very easy, for he expects to be abroad in a day or two. i can make you as easy about another point, too; but, if you have not learnt it from him, do not take notice to him that you know it. mrs. noel has informed me that his daughter's treaty of marriage is broken off, and in a fortunate way. the peer, father of the lover, obliged _him_ to declare off; and mrs. noel says that your niece is in good spirits. all this is just what one should have wished. your nephew has sent me a good and most curious print from you of the old pretender's marriage: i never saw one before. it is a great present to my collection of english portraits. the farnesian books i have not yet received, and have forgotten the name of the gentleman to whom you entrusted them, and must search among your letters for it; or, tell it me again. the politicians of london, who at present are not the most numerous corporation, are warm on a bill for a new regulation of the east indies, brought in by mr. fox.[ ] some even of his associates apprehended his being defeated, or meant to defeat him; but his marvellous abilities have hitherto triumphed conspicuously, and on two divisions in the house of commons he had majorities of and . on _that_ field he will certainly be victorious: the forces will be more nearly balanced when the lords fight the battle; but, though the opposition will have more generals and more able, he is confident that his troops will overmatch theirs; and, in parliamentary engagements, a superiority of numbers is not vanquished by the talents of the commanders, as often happens in more martial encounters. his competitor, mr. pitt, appears by no means an adequate rival. just like their fathers, mr. pitt has brilliant language, mr. fox solid sense; and such luminous powers of displaying it clearly, that mere eloquence is but a bristol stone, when set by the diamond reason. [footnote : in the session of fox, as the leader of the coalition ministry in the house of commons, brought in a bill for the reform of the government of india on the expiration of the existing charter of the company. it was denounced by pitt as having for its principal object the perpetuation of the administration by the enormous patronage it would place at the disposal of the treasury; and, through the interposition of the king, whose conduct on this occasion must be confessed to have been wholly unconstitutional, it was defeated in the house of lords. the king on this dismissed the ministry, and pitt became prime minister.] do not wonder that we do not entirely attend to things of earth: fashion has ascended to a higher element. all our views are directed to the air. _balloons_ occupy senators, philosophers, ladies, everybody. france gave us the _ton_; and, as yet, we have not come up to our model. their monarch is so struck with the heroism of two of his subjects who adventured their persons in two of these new _floating batteries_, that he has ordered statues of them, and contributed a vast sum towards their marble immortality. all this may be very important: to me it looks somewhat foolish. very early in my life i remember this town at gaze on a man who _flew down_ a rope from the top of st. martin's steeple; now, late in my day, people are staring at a voyage to the moon. the former icarus broke his neck at a subsequent flight: when a similar accident happens to modern knights-errant, adieu to air-balloons. _apropos_, i doubt these new kites have put young astley's nose out of joint, who went to paris lately under their queen's protection,[ ] and expected to be prime minister, though he only ventured his neck by dancing a minuet on three horses at full gallop, and really in that attitude has as much grace as the apollo belvedere. when the arts are brought to such perfection in europe, who would go, like sir joseph banks, in search of islands in the atlantic, where the natives in six thousand years have not improved the science of carving fishing-hooks out of bones or flints! well! i hope these new mechanic meteors will prove only playthings for the learned and the idle, and not be converted into new engines of destruction to the human race, as is so often the case of refinements or discoveries in science. _the wicked wit of man always studies to apply the result of talents to enslaving, destroying, or cheating his fellow-creatures._ could we reach the moon, we should think of reducing it to a province of some european kingdom. [footnote : in the spring montgolfier had made the first ascent in a balloon, which as a novelty created great excitement in paris. the queen gave permission for the balloon to be called by her name; and the next year, during a visit of gustavus, king of sweden, to versailles, it went up from the grounds of the trianon, and made a successful voyage to chantilly (the editor's "life of marie antoinette," c. ).] _ th._ p.s.--the opposition in the house of commons were so humbled by their two defeats, that, though mr. pitt had declared he would contest every clause (of the india bill) in the committee, (where in truth, if the bill is so bad as he says, he ought at least to have tried to amend it,) that he slunk from the contest, and all the blanks were filled up without obstruction, the opponents promising only to resist it in its last stage on monday next; but really, having no hopes but in the house of lords, where, however, i do not believe they expect to succeed. mr. pitt's reputation is much sunk; nor, though he is a much more correct logician than his father, has he the same firmness and perseverance. it is no wonder that he was dazzled by his own premature fame; yet his late checks may be of use to him, and teach him to appreciate his strength better, or to wait till it is confirmed. had he listed under mr. fox, who loved and courted him, he would not only have discovered modesty, but have been more likely to succeed him, than by commencing his competitor. but what have i to do to look into futurity?[ ] [footnote : evidently not much: as few prophecies have been more strikingly and speedily falsified.] _balloons._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . as i have heard nothing from you, i flatter myself lady aylesbury mends, or i think you would have brought her again to the physicians: you will, i conclude, next week, as towards the end of it the ten days they named will be expired. i must be in town myself about thursday on some little business of my own. as i was writing this, my servants called me away to see a balloon; i suppose blanchard's, that was to be let off from chelsea this morning. i saw it from the common field before the window of my round tower. it appeared about a third of the size of the moon, or less, when setting, something above the tops of the trees on the level horizon. it was then descending; and, after rising and declining a little, it sunk slowly behind the trees, i should think about or beyond sunbury, at five minutes after one. but you know i am a very inexact guesser at measures and distances, and may be mistaken in many miles; and you know how little i have attended to these _airgonauts_: only t'other night i diverted myself with a sort of meditation on future _airgonation_, supposing that it will not only be perfected, but will depose navigation. i did not finish it, because i am not skilled, like the gentleman that used to write political ship-news, in that style which i wanted to perfect my essay: but in the prelude i observed how ignorant the ancients were in supposing icarus melted the wax of his wings by too near access to the sun, whereas he would have been frozen to death before he made the first post on that road. next, i discovered an alliance between bishop wilkins's[ ] art of flying and his plan of universal language; the latter of which he no doubt calculated to prevent the want of an interpreter when he should arrive at the moon. [footnote : dr. wilkins, bishop of chester in the reign of charles ii., was chiefly instrumental in the foundation of the royal society. among his works was a treatise to prove that "it is probable there may be another habitable world in the moon, with a discourse concerning the possibility of a passage thither." burnet ("hist. of his own times," anno ) says of him, "he was a great observer and promoter of experimental philosophy, which was then a new thing. he was naturally ambitious, but was the wisest clergyman i ever knew." he married cromwell's sister, and his daughter was the wife of archbishop tillotson.] but i chiefly amused myself with ideas of the change that would be made in the world by the substitution of balloons to ships. i supposed our seaports to become _deserted villages_; and salisbury plain, newmarket heath, (another canvass for alteration of ideas,) and all downs (but _the_ downs) arising into dockyards for aërial vessels. such a field would be ample in furnishing new speculations. but to come to my ship-news:-- "the good balloon daedalus, captain wing-ate, will fly in a few days for china; he will stop at the top of the monument to take in passengers. "arrived on brand-sands, the vulture, captain nabob; the tortoise snow, from lapland; the pet-en-l'air, from versailles; the dreadnought, from mount etna, sir w. hamilton, commander; the tympany, montgolfier; and the mine-a-in-a-bandbox, from the cape of good hope. foundered in a hurricane, the bird of paradise, from mount ararat. the bubble, sheldon, took fire, and was burnt to her gallery; and the phoenix is to be cut down to a second-rate." in those days old sarum will again be a town and have houses in it. there will be fights in the air with wind-guns and bows and arrows; and there will be prodigious increase of land for tillage, especially in france, by breaking up all public roads as useless. but enough of my fooleries; for which i am sorry you must pay double postage. _his letters on literature--disadvantage of modern writers--comparison of lady mary wortley with madame de sÉvignÉ._ to john pinkerton, esq. _june_ , . since i received your book,[ ] sir, i scarce ceased from reading till i had finished it; so admirable i found it, and so full of good sense, brightly delivered. nay, i am pleased with myself, too, for having formed the same opinions with you on several points, in which we do not agree with the generality of men. on some topics, i confess frankly, i do not concur with you: considering how many you have touched, it would be wonderful if we agreed on all, or i should not be sincere if i said i did. there are others on which i have formed no opinion; for i should give myself an impertinent air, with no truth, if i pretended to have any knowledge of many subjects, of which, young as you are, you seem to have made yourself master. indeed, i have gone deeply into nothing, and therefore shall not discuss those heads on which we differ most; as probably i should not defend my own opinions well. there is but one part of your work to which i will venture any objection, though you have considered it much, and i little, very little indeed, with regard to your proposal, which to me is but two days old: i mean your plan for the improvement of our language, which i allow has some defects, and which wants correction in several particulars. the specific amendment which you propose, and to which i object, is the addition of _a's_ and _o's_ to our terminations. to change _s_ for _a_ in the plural number of our substantives and adjectives, would be so violent an alteration, that i believe neither the power of power nor the power of genius would be able to effect it. in most cases i am convinced that very strong innovations are more likely to make impression than small and almost imperceptible differences, as in religion, medicine, politics, &c.; but i do not think that language can be treated in the same manner, especially in a refined age. [footnote : mr. pinkerton was a scotch lawyer, who published a volume entitled "letters on literature" under the name of heron; which, however, he afterwards suppressed, as full of ill-considered ideas, which was not strange, as he was only twenty-five.] when a nation first emerges from barbarism, two or three masterly writers may operate wonders; and the fewer the number of writers, as the number is small at such a period, the more absolute is their authority. but when a country has been polishing itself for two or three centuries, and when, consequently, authors are innumerable, the most super-eminent genius (or whoever is esteemed so, though without foundation) possesses very limited empire, and is far from meeting implicit obedience. every petty writer will contest very novel institutions: every inch of change in any language will be disputed; and the language will remain as it was, longer than the tribunal which should dictate very heterogeneous alterations. with regard to adding _a_ or _o_ to final consonants, consider, sir, should the usage be adopted, what havoc it would make! all our poetry would be defective in metre, or would become at once as obsolete as chaucer; and could we promise ourselves, that, though we should acquire better harmony and more rhymes, we should have a new crop of poets, to replace milton, dryden, gray, and, i am sorry you will not allow me to add, pope! you might enjoin our prose to be reformed, as you have done by the "spectator" in your thirty-fourth letter; but try dryden's "ode" by your new institution. i beg your pardon for these trivial observations: i assure you i could write a letter ten times as long, if i were to specify all i like in your work. i more than like most of it; and i am charmed with your glorious love of liberty, and your other humane and noble sentiments. your book i shall with great pleasure send to mr. colman[ ]: may i tell him, without naming you, that it is written by the author of the comedy i offered to him? he must be struck with your very handsome and generous conduct in printing your encomiums on him, after his rejecting your piece. it is as great as uncommon, and gives me as good an opinion of your heart, sir, as your book does of your great sense. both assure me that you will not take ill the liberty i have used in expressing my doubts on your plan for amending our language, or for any i may use in dissenting from a few other sentiments in your work; as i shall in what i think your too low opinion of some of the french writers, of your preferring lady mary wortley to madame de sévigné, and of your esteeming mr. hume a man of deeper and more solid understanding than mr. gray. in the two last articles it is impossible to think more differently than we do.[ ] in lady mary's "letters," which i never could read but once, i discovered no merit of any sort; yet i have seen others by her (unpublished) that have a good deal of wit; and for mr. hume, give me leave to say that i think your opinion, "that he might have ruled a state," ought to be qualified a little; as in the very next page you say, his "history" is "a mere apology for prerogative," and a very weak one. if he could have ruled a state, one must presume, at best, that he would have been an able tyrant; and yet i should suspect that a man, who, sitting coolly in his chamber, could forge but a weak apology for the prerogative, would not have exercised it very wisely. i knew personally and well both mr. hume and mr. gray, and thought there was no degree of comparison between their understandings; and, in fact, mr. hume's writings were so superior to his conversation, that i frequently said he understood nothing till he had written upon it. what you say, sir, of the discord in his "history" from his love of prerogative and hatred of churchmen, flatters me much; as i have taken notice of that very unnatural discord in a piece i printed some years ago, but did not publish, and which i will show to you when i have the pleasure of seeing you here; a satisfaction i shall be glad to taste, whenever you will let me know you are at leisure after the beginning of next week. i have the honour to be, sir, &c. [footnote : mr. colman was manager of the haymarket theatre.] [footnote : it is difficult to judge what were the published letters of lady mary which walpole could have seen. if mr. pinkerton preferred them to those of mme. de sévigné, he could certainly have adduced plausible reasons for his preference. there is far greater variety in them, as was natural from the different lives led by the two fair writers. mme. de sévigné's was almost confined to paris and the court; lady mary was a great traveller. her husband was english ambassador at constantinople and other places, and her letters give descriptions of that city, of vienna, the hague, venice, rome, naples, &c., &c. it may be fitly pointed out here that in a letter to lord strafford walpole expresses an opinion that letter-writing is a branch of literature in which women are likely to excel men; "for our sex is too jealous of the reputation of good sense to hazard a thousand trifles and negligences which give grace, ease, and familiarity to correspondence."] _criticism on various authors: greek, latin, french, and english--humour of addison, and of fielding--waller--milton--boileau's "lutrin"--"the rape of the lock"--madame de sÉvignÉ._ to john pinkerton, esq. _june_ , . i have sent your book to mr. colman, sir, and must desire you in return to offer my grateful thanks to mr. knight, who has done me an honour, to which i do not know how i am entitled, by the present of his poetry, which is very classic, and beautiful, and tender, and of chaste simplicity. to _your_ book, sir, i am much obliged on many accounts; particularly for having recalled my mind to subjects of delight, to which it was grown dulled by age and indolence. in consequence of your reclaiming it, i asked myself whence you feel so much disregard for certain authors whose fame is established: you have assigned good reasons for withholding your approbation from some, on the plea of their being imitators: it was natural, then, to ask myself again, whence they had obtained so much celebrity. i think i have discovered a cause, which i do not remember to have seen noted; and _that_ cause i suspect to have been, that certain of those authors possessed grace:--do not take me for a disciple of lord chesterfield, nor imagine that i mean to erect grace into a capital ingredient of writing, but i do believe that it is a perfume that will serve from putrefaction, and is distinct even from style, which regards expression. _grace_, i think, belongs to _manner_. it is from the charm of grace that i believe some authors, not in your favour, obtained part of their renown; virgil, in particular: and yet i am far from disagreeing with you on his subject in general. there is such a dearth of invention in the aeneid (and when he did invent, it was often so foolishly), so little good sense, so little variety, and so little power over the passions, that i have frequently said, from contempt for his matter, and from the charm of his harmony, that i believe i should like his poem better, if i was to hear it repeated, and did not understand latin. on the other hand, he has more than harmony: whatever he utters is said gracefully, and he ennobles his images, especially in the georgics; or, at least, it is more sensible there, from the humility of the subject. a roman farmer might not understand his diction in agriculture; but he made a roman courtier understand farming, the farming of that age, and could captivate a lord of augustus's bedchamber, and tempt him to listen to themes of rusticity. on the contrary, statius and claudian, though talking of war, would make a soldier despise them as bullies. that graceful manner of thinking in virgil seems to me to be more than style, if i do not refine too much: and i admire, i confess, mr. addison's phrase, that virgil "tossed about his dung with an air of majesty." a style may be excellent without grace: for instance, dr. swift's. eloquence may bestow an immortal style, and one of more dignity; yet eloquence may want that ease, that genteel air that flows from or constitutes grace. addison himself was master of that grace, even in his pieces of humour, and which do not owe their merit to style; and from that combined secret he excels all men that ever lived; but shakspeare, in humour,[ ] by never dropping into an approach towards burlesque and buffoonery, when even his humour descended to characters that in other hands would have been vulgarly low. is not it clear that will wimble was a gentleman, though he always lived at a distance from good company? fielding had as much humour, perhaps, as addison; but, having no idea of grace, is perpetually disgusting. his innkeepers and parsons are the grossest of their profession; and his gentlemen are awkward when they should be at their ease. [footnote : "_addison's humour._" undoubtedly there is much gentlemanlike humour in addison's sir roger de coverley; but to say that he "excels all men that ever lived" in that quality is an exaggeration hardly to be understood in a man who had seen the "rivals" and the "critic." in the present day no one, it may be supposed, would echo it, after scott with the baron, the antiquary, dalgetty, &c., and thackeray with mrs. o'dowd, major pendennis, and colonel newcome. the epithet "_vafer_" applied to horace by persius is not inapplicable to addison. there is a slyness about some of his sketches which breathes something of the horatian facetiousness. it is remarkable that in all this long and varied criticism walpole scarcely mentions _wit_, which he seems to allow to no one but horace and boileau. his comparative denial of it to aristophanes and lucian creates a supposition that his greek was inferior to his latin scholarship. it is not always easy to distinguish humour from wit; of the two, the former seems the higher quality. wit is verbal, conversant with language, combining keenness and terseness of expression with a keen perception of resemblances or differences; humour has, comparatively speaking, little to do with language, and is of different kinds, varying with the class of composition in which it is found. in one of his "imaginary conversations" savage landor remarks that "it is no uncommon thing to hear, 'such an one has humour rather than wit.' here the expression can only mean _pleasantry_, for whoever has humour has wit, although it does not follow that whoever has wit has humour.... the french have little humour, because they have little _character_; they excel all nations in wit, because of their levity and sharpness."] the grecians had grace in everything; in poetry, in oratory, in statuary, in architecture, and probably, in music and painting. the romans, it is true, were their imitators; but, having grace too, imparted it to their copies, which gave them a merit that almost raises them to the rank of originals. horace's "odes" acquired their fame, no doubt, from the graces of his manner and purity of his style--the chief praise of tibullus and propertius, who certainly cannot boast of more meaning than horace's "odes." waller, whom you proscribe, sir, owed his reputation to the graces of his manner, though he frequently stumbled, and even fell flat; but a few of his smaller pieces are as graceful as possible: one might say that he excelled in painting ladies in enamel, but could not succeed in portraits in oil, large as life. milton had such superior merit, that i will only say, that if his angels, his satan, and his adam have as much dignity as the apollo belvedere, his eve has all the delicacy and graces of the venus of medicis; as his description of eden has the colouring of albano. milton's tenderness imprints ideas as graceful as guido's madonnas: and the "allegro," "penseroso," and "comus" might be denominated from the three graces; as the italians gave similar titles to two or three of petrarch's best sonnets. cowley, i think, would have had grace (for his mind was graceful) if he had had any ear, or if his task had not been vitiated by the pursuit of wit; which, when it does not offer itself naturally, degenerates into tinsel or pertness. pertness is the mistaken affection of grace, as pedantry produces erroneous dignity; the familiarity of the one, and the clumsiness of the other, distort or prevent grace. nature, that furnishes samples of all qualities, and on the scale of gradation exhibits all possible shades, affords us types that are more apposite than words. the eagle is sublime, the lion majestic, the swan graceful, the monkey pert, the bear ridiculously awkward. i mention these as more expressive and comprehensive than i could make definitions of my meaning; but i will apply the swan only, under whose wings i will shelter an apology for racine, whose pieces give me an idea of that bird. the colouring of the swan is pure; his attitudes are graceful; he never displeases you when sailing on his proper element. his feet may be ugly, his notes hissing, not musical, his walk not natural; he can soar, but it is with difficulty;--still, the impression the swan leaves is that of grace. so does racine. boileau may be compared to the dog, whose sagacity is remarkable, as well as its fawning on its master, and its snarling at those it dislikes. if boileau was too austere to admit the pliability of grace, he compensates by good sense and propriety. he is like (for i will drop animals) an upright magistrate, whom you respect, but whose justice and severity leave an awe that discourages familiarity. his copies of the ancients may be too servile: but, if a good translator deserves praise, boileau deserves more. he certainly does not fall below his originals; and, considering at what period he wrote, has greater merit still. by his imitations he held out to his countrymen models of taste, and banished totally the bad taste of his predecessors. for his "lutrin,"[ ] replete with excellent poetry, wit, humour, and satire, he certainly was not obliged to the ancients. excepting horace, how little idea had either greeks or romans of wit and humour! aristophanes and lucian, compared with moderns, were, the one a blackguard, and the other a buffoon. in my eyes, the "lutrin," the "dispensary," and the "rape of the lock," are standards of grace and elegance, not to be paralleled by antiquity; and eternal reproaches to voltaire, whose indelicacy in the "pucelle" degraded him as much, when compared with the three authors i have named, as his "henriade" leaves virgil, and even lucan, whom he more resembles, by far his superiors. [footnote : the "lutrin" is a critical poem in six cantos. lutrin means a desk; and hallam, who does not seem to rate it very highly, regards the plan of it as borrowed from tassoni's "secchia rapita," secchia meaning a pitcher.] "the dunciad" is blemished by the offensive images of the games; but the poetry appears to me admirable; and, though the fourth book has obscurities, i prefer it to the three others: it has descriptions not surpassed by any poet that ever existed, and which surely a writer merely ingenious will never equal. the lines on italy, on venice, on convents, have all the grace for which i contend as distinct from poetry, though united with the most beautiful; and the "rape of the lock," besides the originality of great part of the invention, is a standard of graceful writing. in general, i believe that what i call grace, is denominated elegance; but by grace i mean something higher. i will explain myself by instances--apollo is graceful, mercury is elegant. petrarch, perhaps, owed his whole merit to the harmony of his numbers and the graces of his style. they conceal his poverty of meaning and want of variety. his complaints, too, may have added an interest, which, had his passion been successful, and had expressed itself with equal sameness, would have made the number of his sonnets insupportable. melancholy in poetry, i am inclined to think, contributes to grace, when it is not disgraced by pitiful lamentations, such as ovid's and cicero's in their banishments. we respect melancholy, because it imparts a similar affection, pity. a gay writer, who should only express satisfaction without variety, would soon be nauseous. madame de sévigné shines both in grief and gaiety. there is too much of sorrow for her daughter's absence; yet it is always expressed by new terms, by new images, and often by wit, whose tenderness has a melancholy air. when she forgets her concern, and returns to her natural disposition--gaiety, every paragraph has novelty: her allusions, her applications are the happiest possible. she has the art of making you acquainted with all her acquaintance, and attaches you even to the spots she inhabited. her language is correct, though unstudied; and, when her mind is full of any great event, she interests you with the warmth of a dramatic writer, not with the chilling impartiality of an historian. pray read her accounts of the death of turenne, and of the arrival of king james in france, and tell me whether you do not know their persons as if you had lived at the time. for my part, if you will allow me a word of digression (not that i have written with any method), i hate the cold impartiality recommended to historians: "si vis me flere, dolendum est primùm ipsi tibi:"[ ] but, that i may not wander again, nor tire, nor contradict you any more, i will finish now, and shall be glad if you will dine at strawberry hill next sunday, and take a bed there, when i will tell you how many more parts of your book have pleased me, than have startled my opinions, or, perhaps, prejudices. i have the honour to be, sir, with regard, &c. [footnote : a quotation from horace's "ars poetica," .] _ministerial difficulties--the affair of the necklace in paris--fluctuating unpopularity of statesmen--fallacies of history._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _aug._ , . though i am delighted to see your handwriting, i beg you will indulge me no more with it. it fatigues you, and that gives me more pain than your letters can give me satisfaction. dictate a few words on your health to your secretary; it will suffice. i don't care a straw about the king and queen of naples, nor whether they visit your little great duke and duchess. i am glad when monarchs are playing with one another, instead of scratching: it is better they should be idle than mischievous. as i desire you not to write, i cannot be alarmed at a strange hand. your philosophic account of yourself is worthy of you. still, i am convinced you are better than you seem to think. a cough is vexatious, but in old persons is a great preservative. it is one of the forms in which the gout appears, and exercises and clears the lungs. i know actually two persons, no chickens, who are always very ill if they have no annual cough. you may imagine that i have made observations in plenty on the gout: yes, yes, i know its ways and its jesuitic evasions. i beg its pardon, it is a better soul than it appears to be; it is we that misuse it: if it does not appear with all its credentials, we take it for something else, and attempt to cure it. being a remedy, and not a disease, it will not be cured; and it is better to let it have its way. if it is content to act the personage of a cough, pray humour it: it will prolong your life, if you do not contradict it and fling it somewhere else. the administration has received a total defeat in ireland, which has probably saved us another civil war.[ ] don't wonder that i am continually recollecting my father's _quieta non movere_. i have never seen that maxim violated with impunity. they say, that in town a change in the ministry is expected. i am not of that opinion; but, indeed, nobody can be more ignorant than i. i see nobody here but people attached to the court, and who, however, know no more than i do; and if i did see any of the other side, they would not be able to give me better information; nor am i curious. [footnote : in the session of grattan opposed a body of "resolutions" calculated to relieve the distress of the irish manufacturers, and altogether to emancipate the trade and commerce of ireland from many mischievous restrictions which had hitherto restrained their progress. lord stanhope, in his "life of pitt," i. , quotes a description of grattan's speech as "a display of perhaps the most beautiful eloquence ever heard, but seditious and inflammatory to a degree hardly credible;" and he so far prevailed, that in the irish house of commons the resolutions were only carried by a majority of twenty-nine--one so small, that the duke of rutland, the lord-lieutenant, felt it safer to withdraw them.] a stranger event than a revolution in politics has happened at paris. the cardinal de rohan is committed to the bastile for forging the queen's hand to obtain a collar of diamonds;[ ] i know no more of the story: but, as he is very gallant, it is guessed (_here_ i mean) that it was a present for some woman. these circumstances are little apostolic, and will not prop the falling church of rome. they used to forge donations and decretals. this is a new manoeuvre. nor were cardinals wont to be treated so cavalierly for peccadilloes. the house of rohan is under a cloud: his eminence's cousin, the prince of guemené,[ ] was forced to fly, two or three years ago, for being the prince of swindlers. _our_ nabobs are not treated so roughly; yet i doubt they collect diamonds still more criminally. [footnote : "_a collar of diamonds._" the transaction here referred to--though, strangely enough, it is looked on as one that had a political interest--was, in fact, a scheme of a broken-down gambler to swindle a jeweller out of a diamond necklace of great value. the court jeweller had collected a large number of unusually fine diamonds, which he had made into a necklace, in the hope that the queen would buy it, and the cardinal de rohan, who was a member of one of the noblest families in france, but a man of a character so notoriously profligate, that, when he was ambassador at vienna, maria teresa had insisted on his recall, was mixed up in the fraud in a manner scarcely compatible with ignorance of its character. he was brought to trial with the more evident agents in the fraud, and the whole history of the french parliaments scarcely records any transaction more disgraceful than his acquittal. for some months the affair continued to furnish pretext to obscure libellers to calumniate the queen with insinuations not less offensive than dangerous from their vagueness; all such writers finding a ready paymaster in the infamous duc d'orléans.] [footnote : the prince de guemenée, a very profligate and extravagant man, by had become so hopelessly embarrassed that he was compelled to leave paris, and consequently the princess, his wife, who ever since the birth of louis xvi. had held the office of "governess of the royal children," a life-appointment, was forced to resign it, much to the pleasure of the queen, who disapproved of her character, and bestowed the office on mme. de polignac, and when, at the beginning of the revolution, she also fled from paris, on mme. de tourzel. but, in truth, under marie antoinette the office was almost a sinecure. she considered superintendence of the education of her children as among the most important of her duties; and how judiciously she performed it is seen in an admirable letter of hers to mme. de tourzel, which can hardly be surpassed for its discernment and good-feeling. (see the editor's "life of marie antoinette," iii. .)] your nephew will be sorry to hear that the duke of montrose's third grandson, master william douglas, died yesterday of a fever. these poor montroses are most unfortunate persons! they had the comfort this spring of seeing lord graham marry: the duchess said, "i thought i should die of grief, and now i am ready to die of joy." lady graham soon proved with child, but soon miscarried; and the duke and duchess may not live to have the consolation of seeing an heir--for we must hope and make visions to the last! _i_ am asking for samples of ginori's porcelain at sixty-eight! well! are not heirs to great names and families as frail foundations of happiness? and what signifies what baubles we pursue? philosophers make systems, and we simpletons collections: and we are as wise as they--wiser perhaps, for we know that in a few years our rarities will be dispersed at an auction; and they flatter themselves that their reveries will be immortal, which has happened to no system yet. a curiosity may rise in value; a system is exploded. such reflections are applicable to politics, and make me look on them as equally nugatory. last year mr. fox was burnt in effigy; now mr. pitt is. oh! my dear sir, it is all a farce! on _this day_, about a hundred years ago (look at my date), was born the wisest man i have seen.[ ] he kept this country in peace for twenty years, and it flourished accordingly. he injured no man; was benevolent, good-humoured, and did nothing but the common necessary business of the state. yet was he burnt in effigy too; and so traduced, that his name is not purified yet!--ask why his memory is not in veneration? you will be told, from libels and trash, that he was _the grand corruptor_.--what! did he corrupt the nation to make it happy, rich, and peaceable? who was oppressed during his administration? those saints bolingbroke and pulteney were kept out of the paradise of the court; ay, and the pretender was kept out and was kept quiet. sir robert fell: a rebellion ensued in four years, and the crown shook on the king's head. the nation, too, which had been tolerably corrupted before his time, and which, with all its experience and with its eyes opened, has not cured itself of being corrupt, is not quite so prosperous as in the day of that man, who, it seems, poisoned its morals. formerly it was the most virtuous nation on the earth! [footnote : he means his own father, the prime minister from to .] under henry viii. and his children there was no persecution, no fluctuation of religion: their ministers shifted their faith four times, and were sincere honest men! there was no servility, no flattery, no contempt of the nation abroad, under james i. no tyranny under charles i. and laud; no factions, no civil war! charles ii., however, brought back all the virtues and morality, which, somehow or other, were missing! his brother's was a still more blessed reign, though in a different way! king william was disturbed and distressed by no contending factions, and did not endeavour to bribe them to let him pursue his great object of humbling france! the duke of marlborough was not overborne in a similar and more glorious career by a detestable cabal!--and if oxford and bolingbroke did remove him, from the most patriot motives, they, good men! used no corruption! twelve peerages showered at once, to convert the house of lords, were no bribes; nor was a shilling issued for secret services; nor would a member of either house have received it! sir r. walpole came, and strange to tell, found the whole parliament, and every parliament, at least a great majority of every parliament, ready to take his money. for what?--to undo their country!--which, however, wickedly as he meant, and ready as they were to concur, he left in every respect in the condition he found it, except in being improved in trade, wealth, and tranquillity; till _its friends_ who expelled him, had dipped their poor country in a war; which was far from mending its condition. sir robert died, foretelling a rebellion, which happened in less than six months, and for predicting which he had been ridiculed: and in detestation of a maxim ascribed to him by his enemies, that _every man has his price_, the tariff of every parliament since has been as well known as the price of beef and mutton; and the universal electors, who cry out against that traffic, are not a jot less vendible than their electors.--was not sir robert walpole an abominable minister? _ th._ p.s.--the man who certainly provoked ireland _to think_, is dead--lord sackville.[ ] [footnote : lord george sackville germaine, third son of lionel [first] duke of dorset, who, when secretary to his father, when lord-lieutenant of ireland, gave rise, by his haughty behaviour, to the factions that have ever since disturbed that country, and at last shaken off its submission to this country.--walpole.] _ th._ i see, by the _gazette_, that lord cowper's pinchbeck principality is allowed. i wonder his highness does not desire the pope to make one of his sons a bishop _in partibus infidelium_. _brevity of modern addresses--the old duchess of marlborough._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . i don't love to transgress my monthly regularity; yet, as you must prefer facts to words, why should i write when i have nothing to tell you? the newspapers themselves in a peaceable autumn coin wonders from ireland, or live on the accidents of the equinox. they, the newspapers, have been in high spirits on the prospect of a campaign in holland; but the dutch, without pity for the gazetteers of europe, are said to have submitted to the emperor's terms: however, the intelligence-merchants may trust that _he_ will not starve them long! your neighbour, the queen of sardinia, it seems, is dead: but, if there was anything to say about her, you must tell it to me, not i to you; for, till she died, i scarce knew she had been alive. our parliament is put off till after christmas; so, i have no more resource from domestic politics than from foreign wars. for my own particular, i desire neither. i live here in tranquillity and idleness, can content myself with trifles, and think the world is much the happier when it has nothing to talk of. most people ask, "is there any news?"--how can one want to know one does not know what? when anything has happened, one hears it. there is one subject on which i wish i had occasion to write; i think it long since i heard how you go on: i flatter myself, as i have no letter from you or your nephew, prosperously. i should prefer a letter from him, that you may not have the trouble; and i shall make this the shorter, as a precedent for his not thinking more than a line necessary. the post does not insist on a certain quantity; it is content with being paid for whatever it carries--nay, is a little unreasonable, as it doubles its price for a cover that contains nothing but a direction: and now it is the fashion to curtail the direction as much as possible. formerly, a direction was an academy of compliments: "to the most noble and my singularly respected friend," &c., &c.--and then, "haste! haste, for your life, haste!" now, we have banished even the monosyllable _to_! henry conway,[ ] lord hertford's son, who is very indolent, and has much humour, introduced that abridgment. writing to a mr. tighe at the temple, he directed his letter only thus: "t. ti., temple"[ ]--and it was delivered! dr. bentley was mightily flattered on receiving a letter superscribed "to dr. bentley in england." times are altered; postmen are now satisfied with a hint. one modern retrenchment is a blessing; one is not obliged to study for an ingenious conclusion, as if writing an epigram--oh! no; nor to send compliments that never were delivered. i had a relation who always finished his letters with "his love to all that was near and dear to us," though he did not care a straw for me or any of his family. it was said of old sarah, duchess of marlborough, that she never put dots over her _i's_, to save ink: how she would have enjoyed modern economy in that article! she would have died worth a thousand farthings more than she did--nay, she would have known exactly how many; as sir robert brown[ ] did, who calculated what he had saved by never having an orange or lemon on his sideboard. i am surprised that no economist has retrenched second courses, which always consist of the dearest articles, though seldom touched, as the hungry at least dine on the first. mrs. leneve,[ ] one summer at houghton, counted thirty-six turkey-pouts[ ] that had been served up without being meddled with. [footnote : second son of francis seymour conway, first earl of hertford.--walpole.] [footnote : this address was surpassed towards the end of the reign, by a letter which arrived in london addressed to "srumfredafi, england;" and was correctly interpreted at the post office as being designed for sir humphrey davy.] [footnote : a noted miser, who raised a great fortune as a merchant at venice, though his whole wealth, when he went thither, consisted in one of those vast wigs (a second-hand one, given to him) which were worn in the reign of queen anne, and which he sold for five guineas. he returned to england, very rich, in the reign of george ii., with his wife and three daughters, who would have been great fortunes. the eldest, about eighteen, fell into a consumption, and, being ordered to ride, her father drew a map of the by-lanes about london, which he made the footman carry in his pocket and observe, that she might ride without paying a turnpike. when the poor girl was past recovery, sir robert sent for an undertaker, to cheapen her funeral, as she was not dead, and there was a possibility of her living. he went farther; he called his other daughters, and bade them curtsy to the undertaker, and promise to be his friends; and so they proved, for both died consumptive in two years.--walpole.] [footnote : a lady who lived with sir robert walpole, to take care of his youngest daughter, lady maria, after her mother's death. after sir robert's death, and lady mary's marriage with mr. churchill, she lived with mr. h. walpole to her death.--walpole.] [footnote : as the sons of rajahs in india are called rajah pouts, and as turkeys came from the east, quaere if they were not called turkey-pouts, as an eastern diminutive?--walpole.] _ th._ i had written thus far yesterday. this minute i receive your nephew's of sept. th; it is not such an one by any means as i had wished for. he tells me you have had a return of your disorder--indeed, he consoles me with your recovery; but i cannot in a moment shake off the impression of a sudden alarm, though the cause was ceased, nor can a second agitation calm a first on such shattered nerves as mine. my fright is over, but i am not composed. i cannot begin a new letter, and therefore send what i had written. i will only add, what you may be sure i feel, ardent wishes for your perfect health, and grateful thanks to your nephew for his attention--he is rather your son; but indeed he is gal.'s son, and that is the same thing. how i love him for his attendance on you! and how very kind he is in giving me accounts of you! i hope he will continue, and i ask it still more for your sake than for my own, that you may not think of writing yourself. if he says but these words, "my uncle has had no return of his complaint," i shall be satisfied--satisfied!--i shall be quite happy! indeed, indeed, i ask no more. _lady craven--madame piozzi--"the rolliad"--herschel's astronomical discovery._ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _oct._ , . i am a contradiction, yet very naturally so; i wish you not to write yourself, and yet am delighted when i receive a letter in your own hand: however, i don't desire it should be of four pages, like this last of the th. when i have had the gout, i have always written by proxy. you will make me ashamed, if you don't use the precedent. your account of yourself is quite to my satisfaction. i approve, too, of your not dining with your company. since i must be old and have the gout, i have long turned those disadvantages to my own account, and plead them to the utmost when they will save me from doing anything i dislike. i am so lame, or have such a sudden pain, when i do not care to do what is proposed to me! nobody can tell how rapidly the gout may be come, or be gone again; and then it is so pleasant to have had the benefit, and none of the anguish! i did send you a line last week in the cover of a letter to lady craven,[ ] which i knew would sufficiently tell your quickness how much i shall be obliged to you for any attentions to her. i thought her at paris, and was surprised to hear of her at florence. she has, i fear, been _infinitamente_ indiscreet; but what is that to you or me? she is very pretty, has parts, and is good-natured to the greatest degree; has not a grain of malice or mischief (almost always the associates, in women, of tender hearts), and never has been an enemy but to herself. for that ridiculous woman madame piozzi,[ ] and t'other more impertinent one, of whom i never heard before, they are like the absurd english dames with whom we used to divert ourselves when i was at florence. as to your little knot of poets, i do not hold the cocks higher than the hens; nor would i advise them to repatriate. we have at present here a most incomparable set, not exactly known by their names, but who, till the dead of summer, kept the town in a roar, and, i suppose, will revive by the meeting of parliament. they have poured forth a torrent of odes, epigrams, and part of an imaginary epic poem, called the "rolliad,"[ ] with a commentary and notes, that is as good as the "dispensary"[ ] and "dunciad," with more ease. these poems are all anti-ministerial, and the authors very young men, and little known or heard of before. i would send them, but you would want too many keys: and indeed i want some myself; for, as there are continually allusions to parliamentary speeches and events, they are often obscure to me till i get them explained; and besides, i do not know several of the satirised heroes even by sight: however, the poetry and wit make amends, for they are superlative. [footnote : lady craven, _née_ berkeley, had given abundant cause for scandal during her husband's life, which did not abate when, a month after his death, she married the margrave of anspach.] [footnote : mme. piozzi, the mrs. thrale of boswell's "life of johnson." mr. thrale was a brewer, the founder of the great firm now known as barclay and perkins. she was many years younger than he; and, after his death, she married signor piozzi, a professional musician of eminence. johnson, who had been an habitual guest of her husband and her at their villa at streatham, set the fashion of condemning this second marriage as a disgraceful _mésalliance_; but it is not very easy to see in what respect it was so. in social position she had certainly had the advantage over mr. thrale, being the daughter of a carnarvonshire baronet of ancient family. but a first-rate musician was surely the equal of a brewer. after johnson's death she published a volume of her reminiscences of him, which may be allowed to have been worthy neither of him nor of her, and which was ridiculed by peter pindar in "a town eclogue," in which the rivals bozzy and piozzi, on virgil's principle--_alternis dicetis, amant alterna camaenae_--relate in turn anecdotes of johnson's way of life, his witty sayings, &c., &c. sir john hawkins, as judge of the contest, gives neither a prize; tells the lady, "sam's life, dear ma'am, will only _damn your own_;" calls the gentleman "a chattering magpie;" and-- then to their pens and paper rush'd the twain, to kill the mangled rambler o'er again.] [footnote : in the wits of brooks's, being much disappointed at the result of the political conflict of , gave some vent to their spleen in verse. for their subject they selected an imaginary epic, of which they gave fictitious extracts, and for their hero they took the member for devonshire, john rolle, invoking him-- illustrious rolle! oh may thy honoured name roll down distinguished on the rolls of fame. it is a little odd that they abstained from similar puns on pitt and _pit_; but their indignation was chiefly directed at his youth as ill-suited to his powers-- a sight to make surrounding nations stare, a kingdom trusted to a schoolboy's care. the chief contributors were burke's friend, dr. lawrence; sheridan's brother-in-law, tickell; general fitzpatrick, mr. g. ellis, lord g. townshend, and general burgoyne.] [footnote : "the dispensary" was a poem by a physician named garth, to advocate the cause of the physicians in a quarrel between them and the apothecaries about the price to be charged for medicines. johnson, in his "lives of the poets," allows it the credit of smooth and free versification, but denies it that of elegance. "no passage falls below mediocrity, and few rise above it." it may be doubted whether byron himself could have risen high "above it" on subjects so unpoetical as pills and black-doses.] news i have none, wet or dry, to send you: politics are stagnated, and pleasure is not come to town. you may be sure i am glad that caesar is baffled; i neither honour nor esteem him. if he is preferring his nephew to his brother, it is using the latter as ill as the rest of the world. mrs. damer is again set out for the continent to-day, to avoid the winter, which is already begun severely; we have had snow twice. till last year, i never knew snow in october since i can remember; which is no short time. mrs. damer has taken with her her cousin miss campbell, daughter of poor lady william, whom you knew, and who died last year. miss campbell has always lived with lady aylesbury, and is a very great favourite and a very sensible girl. i believe they will proceed to italy, but it is not certain. if they come to florence, the grand duke should beg mrs. damer to give him something of her statuary; and it would be a greater curiosity than anything in his chamber of painters. she has executed several marvels since you saw her; and has lately carved two colossal heads for the bridge at henley, which is the most beautiful one in the world, next to the ponte di trinità, and was principally designed by her father, general conway. lady spencer draws--incorrectly indeed, but has great expression. italy probably will stimulate her, and improve her attention. you see we blossom in ruin! poetry, painting, statuary, architecture, music, linger here, on this sea-encircled coast (gray), as if they knew not whither to retreat farther for shelter, and would not trust to the despotic patronage of the attilas, alarics, amalasuntas of the north! they leave such heroic scourges to be decorated by the voltaires and d'alemberts of the gauls, or wait till by the improvement of balloons they may be transported to some of those millions of worlds that herschel[ ] is discovering every day; for this new columbus has thrown open the great gates of astronomy, and neither spanish inquisitors nor english nabobs will be able to torture and ransack the new regions and their inhabitants. adieu! [footnote : herschel, having constructed the largest telescope that at that time had ever been seen, in had given proof of its value by the discovery of the _georgium sidus_.] _mrs. yearsley--madame piozzi--gibbon--"le mariage de figaro."_ to miss hannah more.[ ] [footnote : miss h. more was a remarkable woman. she was the daughter of the village schoolmaster of stapleton, near bristol. but though she had no higher education than he could give her, she soon began to show a considerable literary talent. her first compositions were dramas, one of which, "percy," garrick accepted for the stage, where for a season it had fair success. but she soon quitted that line for works of morality, intended to promote the religious improvement of society in her day. the most celebrated of them was "coelebs in search of a wife." but some of the tales which she published in "the cheap repository," a series of stories for the common people, had a greater sale. one, "the shepherd of salisbury plain," was so popular that it is said that a million copies of it were sold. her talents led to her acquaintance being cultivated by such men as johnson, reynolds, burke, and bishop porteus; and her exercise of them was so profitable, that though she gave large sums in charity, she left a fortune of £ , .] strawberry hill, _oct._ , . my dear madam,--i am shocked for human nature at the repeated malevolence of this woman! [mrs. yearsley.] the rank soil of riches we are accustomed to see overrun with seeds and thistles; but who could expect that the kindest seeds sown on poverty and dire misfortunes should meet with nothing but a rock at bottom? catherine de' medici, suckled by hopes and transplanted to a throne, seems more excusable. thank heaven, madam, for giving you so excellent a heart; ay, and so good a head. you are not only benevolence itself, but, with fifty times the genius of a yearsley, you are void of vanity. how strange, that vanity should expel gratitude! does not the wretched woman owe her fame to you, as well as her affluence? i can testify your labours for both. dame yearsley reminds me of the troubadours, those vagrants whom i used to admire till i knew their history; and who used to pour out trumpery verses, and flatter or abuse accordingly as they were housed and clothed, or dismissed to the next parish. yet you did not set this person in the stocks, after procuring an annuity for her! i beg your pardon for renewing so disgusting a subject, and will never mention it again. you have better amusement; you love good works, a temper superior to revenge. i have again seen our poor friend in clarges street [mrs. vesey]: her faculties decay rapidly, and of course she suffers less. she has not an acquaintance in town; and yet told me the town was very full, and that she had had a good deal of company. her health is re-established, and we must now be content that her mind is not restless. my pity now feels most for mrs. hancock, whose patience is inexhaustible, though not insensible. mrs. piozzi, i hear, has two volumes of dr. johnson's letters ready for publication. bruce is printing his travels, which i suppose will prove that his narratives were fabulous, as he will scarce repeat them by the press. these, and two more volumes of mr. gibbon's "history," are all the literary news i know. france seems sunk indeed in all respects. what stuff are their theatrical goods, their "richards," "ninas," and "tarares"! but when their "figaro"[ ] could run threescore nights, how despicable must their taste be grown! i rejoice that their political intrigues are not more creditable. i do not dislike the french from the vulgar antipathy between neighbouring nations, but for their insolent and unfounded airs of superiority. in arms, we have almost always outshone them: and till they have excelled newton, and come near to shakspeare, pre-eminence in genius must remain with us. i think they are most entitled to triumph over the italians; as, with the most meagre and inharmonious of all languages, the french have made more of that poverty in tragedy and eloquence, than the italians have done with the language the most capable of both. but i did not mean to send you a dissertation. i hope it will not be long before you remove to hampton.--yet why should i wish that? you will only be geographically nearer to london till february. cannot you, now and then, sleep at the adelphi on a visit to poor vesey and your friends, and let one know if you do? [footnote : "le mariage de figaro" was a play by a man who assumed the name of beaumarchais (as poquelin had taken the name of molière and arouet that of voltaire); and the histories of both the author and the play are curious. the author's real name was caron, and he had been bred a watchmaker. but he was ambitious; he gave up his trade, and bought a place about the court, which was among those which conferred gentility, and which enabled him afterwards on one occasion to boast that he could establish a better claim to the rank of noble than most of that body, since he could produce a stamped receipt for it. he married two rich widows. he next obtained the place of music-master on the harp to the daughters of louis xv., and conducted some of their concerts. he became involved in a law-suit, which he conducted in person against some of the most renowned advocates of the day, and gained great applause for the talent he had exhibited in his pleadings. he crossed over to england, where he made acquaintance with wilkes and the agents of some of the north american colonies, and became a volunteer agent for them himself at the beginning of the american war, expending, according to his own statement, , francs in the purchase of arms and stores, which he sent out, when the president of congress contented himself with thanking him for his liberality, but refused to pay his bill. he resolved to try his skill as a dramatist. his earlier plays were not particularly successful, but in he produced "the marriage of figaro," a sort of sequel to one of its predecessors, "the barber of seville." during the progress of its composition he had shown some of the scenes to his critical friends, who had pronounced it witty, and prophesied its success. but it had also become known that it contained sarcasms on some of the exclusive privileges of the nobles, and the officer who had charge of such matters in consequence refused to license it for performance, as a dangerous satire on the institutions of the country. he had by this time made friends enough to form a party to remonstrate against the hardship of the censor's decision; till the king determined to judge for himself, and caused mme. campau to read it to himself and the queen, when he fully agreed with the censor, and expressed a positive determination not to permit its performance. unluckily he was never firm in his resolutions; and beaumarchais having secured the patronage of louis's brother, the comte d'artois, and mme. de polignac, felt confident of carrying his point at last. his royal and noble patrons arranged parties for private readings of the play. he then declared, untruly, that he had altered all the passages which had been deemed offensive, and louis was weak enough to believe him without further examination, and to sanction a private performance of it at the country house of the comte de vandreuel. after this it was impossible to exclude it from the theatre in paris; and in april, , it was acted before an audience whom the long-continued contest had brought in unprecedented numbers to hear it. if it had not been for the opposition which had been made to it, it probably would never have attracted any particular attention; for, though it was lively, and what managers call a fair "acting play," it had no remarkable merit as a composition, and depended for its attraction more on some of its surprises and discoveries than on its wit. but its performance and the reception it met with were regarded by a large political party as a triumph over the ministry; and french historical writers, to whatever party they belong, agree in declaring that it had given a death-blow to many of the oldest institutions of the country, and that beaumarchais proved at once the herald and the pioneer of the approaching revolution. (see the editor's "life of marie antoinette," c. .)] _gentlemen writers--his own reasons for writing when young--voltaire--"evelina"--miss seward--hayley._ to miss hannah more. strawberry hill, _july_ , . won't you repent having opened the correspondence, my dear madam, when you find my letters come so thick upon you? in this instance, however, i am only to blame in part, for being too ready to take advice, for the sole reason for which advice ever is taken,--because it fell in with my inclination. you said in your last that you feared you took up time of mine to the prejudice of the public; implying, i imagine, that i might employ it in composing. waving both your compliment and my own vanity, i will speak very seriously to you on that subject, and with exact truth. my simple writings have had better fortune than they had any reason to expect; and i fairly believe, in a great degree, because gentlemen-writers, who do not write for interest, are treated with some civility if they do not write absolute nonsense. i think so, because i have not unfrequently known much better works than mine much more neglected, if the name, fortune, and situation of the authors were below mine. i wrote early from youth, spirits, and vanity; and from both the last when the first no longer existed. i now shudder when i reflect on my own boldness; and with mortification, when i compare my own writings with those of any great authors. this is so true, that i question whether it would be possible for me to summon up courage to publish anything i have written, if i could recall time past, and should yet think as i think at present. so much for what is over and out of my power. as to writing now, i have totally forsworn the profession, for two solid reasons. one i have already told you; and it is, that i know my own writings are trifling and of no depth. the other is, that, light and futile as they were, i am sensible they are better than i could compose now. i am aware of the decay of the middling parts i had, and others may be still more sensible of it. how do i know but i am superannuated? nobody will be so coarse as to tell me so; but if i published dotage, all the world would tell me so. and who but runs that risk who is an author after seventy? what happened to the greatest author of this age, and who certainly retained a very considerable portion of his abilities for ten years after my age?[ ] voltaire, at eighty-four, i think, went to paris to receive the incense, in person, of his countrymen, and to be witness of their admiration of a tragedy he had written, at that methusalem age. incense he did receive till it choked him; and, at the exhibition of his play, he was actually crowned with laurel in the box where he sat. but what became of his poor play? it died as soon as he did--was buried with him; and no mortal, i dare to say, has ever read a line of it since, it was so bad. [footnote : voltaire had for several years been in disgrace at court, and had been living in switzerland; but in he returned to paris to superintend the performance of a new tragedy, "irene." he was, however, greatly mortified at the refusal of marie antoinette to allow him to be presented to her, and was but partly comforted by the enthusiasm of the audience at the theatre, who crowned him on the stage after the performance. mme. du deffand, who, in a letter to walpole a few days before, had said that if the tragedy did not succeed it would kill him, says in a subsequent letter that its success had been very moderate--that the enthusiasm of the audience had been for voltaire himself; and at all events her prophecy was fulfilled, for he died a few weeks afterwards.] as i am neither by a thousandth part so great, nor a quarter so little, i will herewith send you a fragment that an accidental _rencontre_ set me upon writing, and which i find so flat, that i would not finish it. don't believe that i am either begging praise by the stale artifice of hoping to be contradicted; or that i think there is any occasion to make you discover my caducity. no; but the fragment contains a curiosity--english verses written by a french prince[ ] of the blood, and which at first i had a mind to add to my "royal and noble authors;" but as he was not a royal author of ours, and as i could not please myself with an account of him, i shall revert to my old resolution of not exposing my pen's grey hairs. [footnote : he was the duc d'orléans, who was taken prisoner by henry v. at agincourt, and was detained in england for twenty-five years. the verses are published in "walpole's works," i. .] of one passage i must take notice; it is a little indirect sneer at our crowd of authoresses. my choosing to send this to _you_, is a proof that i think you an author, that is, a classic. but, in truth, i am nauseated by the madams piozzi, &c., and the host of novel-writers in petticoats, who think they imitate what is inimitable, "evelina" and "cecilia."[ ] your candour, i know, will not agree with me, when i tell you i am not at all charmed with miss seward[ ] and mr. hayley[ ] piping to one another: but _you_ i exhort, and would encourage to write; and flatter myself you will never be royally gagged and promoted to fold muslins, as has been lately wittily said on miss burney, in the list of five hundred living authors. _your_ writings promote virtues; and their increasing editions prove their worth and utility. if you question my sincerity, can you doubt my admiring you, when you have gratified _my_ self-love so amply in your "bas bleu"? still, as much as i love your writings, i respect yet more your heart and your goodness. you are so good that i believe you would go to heaven, even though there were no sunday, and only six _working_ days in the week. adieu, my best madam! [footnote : "evelina" and "cecilia" are novels by miss burney, afterwards mme. d'arblay. the former was extravagantly praised by johnson and the literary club, and is probably a favourable specimen of the style of the conversation of the day.] [footnote : miss seward was the authoress of that most ingenious riddle on the letter _h_, and also of some volumes of poetry.] [footnote : mr. hayley was the author of several works in prose and verse; in the latter, of a poem called "the triumphs of temper," and entitled to the name, according to byron, since "at least they triumphed over his" ("english bards and scotch reviewers").] _divisions in the royal family--the regency--the irish parliament._ to sir horace mann. berkeley square, _feb._ , . i now do believe that the king is coming to _him_self: not in the language of the courtiers, to his senses--but from their proof, viz., that he is returned to his _what! what! what!_ which he used to prefix to every sentence, and which is coming to his nonsense. i am corroborated in this opinion by his having said much more sensible things in his lunacy than he did when he was reckoned sane, which i do not believe he has been for some years. well! now, how will this new change of scene operate? i fancy if any one could win access to him, who would tell him the truth, he would be as little pleased with his queen, and his or her pitt, as they will take care he shall be with his sons. would he admire the degradation of his family in the person of all the princes? or with the tripartite division of royalty between the queen, the prince, and mr. pitt, which i call a _trinity in disunity_? will he be charmed with the queen's admission to power, which he never imparted to her? will he like the discovery of his vast private hoard? will he be quite satisfied with the codicil to his will,[ ] which she surreptitiously obtained from him in his frenzy _in the first agony of her grief_? how will he digest that discovery of his treasure, which will not diffuse great compassion when he shall next ask a payment of his pretended debts? before his madness he was indisposed towards pitt; will he be better pleased with him for his new dictatorial presumption? [footnote : "_his will._" this refers to a scandal propagated by some of the opposition newspapers, for which there was not the slightest foundation.] turn to the next page--to ireland. they have chosen for themselves, it is believed, a regent without restrictions,[ ] in scorn of the parliament of england, and in order further to assert their independence. will they recede? especially when their courtiers have flown in the face of our domineering minister? i do not think they will. they may receive the king again on his recovery; but they have united interests with the prince, and act in league with him, that he may pledge himself to them more deeply in future at least; they will never again acknowledge any superiority in our parliament, but rather act in contradistinction. [footnote : "_regent without restrictions._" the king, in the autumn of , having fallen into a state of temporary derangement, pitt proposed that the parliament should appoint the prince of wales regent, with some temporary limitations in the exercise of the power. fox and his followers contended that the prince, being of full age, was as absolutely entitled to the regency as his right, as he would have been to the crown in the event of his father's death; and grattan, who had a paramount influence over the irish parliament, adopting fox's view, carried an address to the prince, entreating him to take upon himself the regency as his right--a view which, of course, was incompatible with any power of limiting his authority. fortunately, before this address could be acted upon, the king recovered. the matter unfortunately caused great divisions in the royal family, to which walpole alludes in the latter part of the letter; the queen considering (not without grounds) that the prince had shown unfilial eagerness to grasp at power; and indeed he had already made it known that he had intended to dismiss pitt and to appoint fox prime minister.] [illustration: hand-written letter] _feb. nd._ the person who was to have brought you this was prevented leaving town, and therefore i did not finish my letter; but i believe i shall have another opportunity of sending, and therefore i will make it ready. much has happened this last week. the prince is regent of ireland without limitations--a great point for his character; for europe will now see that it was a faction which fettered him here, and not his unpopularity, for then would not he have been as much distasted in ireland? indeed, their own attorney-general made way for him by opposing on the most injudicious of all pleas, that it would be necessary before he could be regent there, to set the _great seal of england_ to the act! how could the fool imagine, that when that phantom had been invented here, it would not be equally easy for the irish to invent a parallel phantom of their own? but though this compliment is most grateful to the prince at present, he will probably find hereafter that he has in effect lost ireland, who meant more to emancipate themselves from this country than to compliment the prince or contradict the english ministerial faction. what will be the consequence of that rapid turn in ireland, even immediately, who can tell? for the king is called recovered, and the english regency is suspended, with fresh and grievous insults to the prince, who with the duke of york are violently hindered by the queen from even seeing their father, though she and their sisters play at cards with him in an evening; and that the chancellor was with him for an hour and three quarters on the th. under colour of what new phantom her majesty, the chancellor,[ ] and pitt will assume the government, we shall know in two or three days; for i do not suppose they will produce the king instantly, at the risk of oversetting his head again, though they seem half as mad as he, and capable of any violent act to maintain themselves. and so much the better: i do not wish them temperate; and it looks as if people never were so in minorities and incapacities of their kings. the prince set out as indiscreetly as pitt. [footnote : the chancellor was lord thurlow, an able but unprincipled man. johnson expressed a high opinion of him as an arguer "who brought his mind to bear upon yours." but fox declared his very face "proved him an impostor, since no man could be as wise as he looked."] of the event i am very glad; it saves the prince and the opposition from the rashness of changing the administration on so precarious and shackled a tenure, and it saves them too from the expense of re-elections. if the king recovers, they are but where they were, but with the advantage of having the prince and duke of york rooted in aversion to the ministers, and most unlikely to be governed by the queen. if the king relapses, the opposition stock will rise; though in the mean time i do not doubt but the nation will grow drunk with the loyalty of rejoicing, for kings grow popular by whatever way they lose their heads. still, whatever eccentricity he attempts, it will be imputed to his deranged understanding. and, however even lord hawkesbury[ ] may meditate the darkest mischiefs under the new fund of pity and loyalty, he will _not_ be for extending the prerogative, which must devolve (on any accident to the king) on the prince, duke of york, or some of the princes, who will all be linked in a common cause with their brothers, who have been so grossly affronted; and prince william, the third, particularly so by the last cause of hindering his peerage while abroad. the king's recovery before the regency act was passed will be another great advantage to the prince; his hands would have been so shackled, that he could not have found places for half the expectants, who will now impute their disappointments to the king's amendment, and not to the prince. [footnote : lord hawkesbury was afterwards promoted to the earldom of liverpool, and was the father of the sagacious, prudent, but resolute minister under whose administration the french revolutionary war was brought to a conclusion by the final overthrow of napoleon.] _monday, th._ the king has seen the prince [of wales], and received him kindly, but the queen was present. iron pluto (as burke called the chancellor) wept again when with the king; but what is much more remarkable, his majesty has not asked for pitt, and did abuse him constantly during his frenzy. the chancellor certainly did not put him in mind of pitt, whom he detests; so there is a pretty portion of hatred to be quaffed amongst them! and swallowed, if they can; yet _aurum potabile_ will make it sit on their stomachs. _"the arabian nights"--the aeneid--boccalini--orpheus and eurydice._ to miss berry.[ ] [footnote : the lady to whom this letter is addressed was the elder of two sisters who in came to reside with their father in walpole's neighbourhood. both the sisters, according to his description of them, were very accomplished and sufficiently good-looking. he gradually became so enthusiastic in his regard for her, that he proposed to marry her, old as he was, in order that he might have an excuse for leaving her all his fortune; and he wrote the "reminiscences of the courts of george i. and ii.," which are among his published works, for the amusement of the two sisters.] strawberry hill, _june_ , . were there any such thing as sympathy at the distance of two hundred miles, you would have been in a mightier panic than i was; for, on saturday se'nnight, going to open the glass case in the tribune, my foot caught in the carpet, and i fell with my whole weight (_si_ weight _y a_) against the corner of the marble altar, on my side, and bruised the muscles so badly, that for two days i could not move without screaming. i am convinced i should have broken a rib, but that i fell on the cavity whence two of my ribs were removed, that are gone to yorkshire. i am much better both of my bruise and of my lameness, and shall be ready to dance at my own wedding when my wives return. and now to answer your letter. if you grow tired of the "arabian nights," you have no more taste than bishop atterbury,[ ] who huffed pope for sending him them (or the "persian tales"), and fancied he liked virgil better, who had no more imagination than dr. akenside. read "sinbad the sailor's voyages," and you will be sick of aeneas's. what woful invention were the nasty poultry that dunged on his dinner, and ships on fire turned into nereids! a barn metamorphosed into a cascade in a pantomime is full as sublime an effort of genius. i do not know whether the "arabian nights" are of oriental origin or not: i should think not, because i never saw any other oriental composition that was not bombast without genius, and figurative without nature; like an indian screen, where you see little men on the foreground, and larger men hunting tigers above in the air, which they take for perspective. i do not think the sultaness's narratives very natural or very probable, but there is a wildness in them that captivates. however, if you could wade through two octavos of dame piozzi's _though's_ and _so's_ and _i trow's_, and cannot listen to seven volumes of scheherezade's narrations, i will sue for a divorce _in foro parnassi_, and boccalini shall be my proctor. the cause will be a counterpart to the sentence of the lacedaemonian, who was condemned for breach of the peace, by saying in three words what he might have said in two. [footnote : atterbury (pope's "mitred rochester") was bishop of rochester in the reigns of anne and george i. he was so violent in his jacobitism, that on the death of queen anne he offered to head a procession to proclaim james iii. as king at charing cross. afterwards sir r. walpole had evidence of his maintaining a treasonable correspondence with the court of st. germains, sufficient to have ensured his conviction, but, being always of a merciful disposition, and naturally unwilling to bring a bishop to the block, he contented himself with passing a bill of pains and penalties to deprive him of his bishopric and banish him for life.] you are not the first eurydice[ ] that has sent her husband to the devil, as you have kindly proposed to me; but i will not undertake the jaunt, for if old nicholas pluto should enjoin me not to look back to you, i should certainly forget the prohibition like my predecessor. besides, i am a little too close to take a voyage twice which i am so soon to repeat; and should be laughed at by the good folks on the other side of the water, if i proposed coming back for a twinkling only. no; i choose as long as i can still with my fav'rite berrys to remain. so, you was not quite satisfied, though you ought to have been transported, with king's college chapel, because it has no aisles, like every common cathedral. i suppose you would object to a bird of paradise, because it has no legs, but shoots to heaven in a trail, and does not rest on earth. criticism and comparison spoil many tastes. you should admire all bold and unique essays that resemble nothing else; the "botanic garden,"[ ] the "arabian nights," and king's chapel are above all rules: and how preferable is what no one can imitate, to all that is imitated even from the best models! your partiality to the pageantry of popery i do approve, and i doubt whether the world would not be a loser (in its visionary enjoyments) by the extinction of that religion, as it was by the decay of chivalry and the proscription of the heathen deities. reason has no invention; and as plain sense will never be the legislator of human affairs, it is fortunate when taste happens to be regent. [footnote : the story of eurydice's death and the descent of orpheus, her husband, to hell for her recovery, with which virgil closes the fourth georgic, is among the most exquisite passages in all latin poetry. pope made it the subject of his ode on st. cecilia's day; but if pluto and proserpine really relented at the doggerel that the english poet puts into the mouth of the half-divine minstrel, they cannot deserve the title of _illacrymabiles_ which horace gives them. some of the pedantic scientists (to borrow a new word) have discovered in this tale of true love an allegory about the alternations of day and night, sun and moon, and what not, for which they deserve the anathema of every scholar and lover of true poetry.] [footnote : "the botanic garden," a poem by dr. darwin; chiefly remembered for mr. gladstone's favourite "upas-tree," a plant which has not, and never had, any existence except in the fancy of some traveller, who hoaxed the too-scientific poet with the story, which, years afterwards, hoaxed the orator also.] _dismissal of necker--baron de breteuil--the duc d'orlÉans--mirabeau._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _wednesday night, july_ , . i write a few lines only to confirm the truth of much of what you will read in the papers from paris. worse may already be come, or is expected every hour. mr. mackenzie and lady betty called on me before dinner, after the post was gone out; and he showed me a letter from dutens, who said two couriers arrived yesterday from the duke of dorset and the duchess of devonshire, the latter of whom was leaving paris directly. necker had been dismissed, and was thought to be set out for geneva.[ ] breteuil, who was at his country-house, had been sent for to succeed him. paris was in an uproar; and, after the couriers had left it, firing of cannon was heard for four hours together. that must have been from the bastile, as probably the _tiers état_ were not so provided. it is shocking to imagine what may have happened in such a thronged city! one of the couriers was stopped twice or thrice, as supposed to pass from the king; but redeemed himself by pretending to be despatched by the _tiers état_. madame de calonne[ ] told dutens, that the newly encamped troops desert by hundreds. [footnote : the baron de breteuil had been the controller of the household, and was appointed necker's successor; but his ministry did not last above a fortnight, as the king found himself compelled to restore necker.] [footnote : mme. de calonne's husband had been prime minister for some years, having succeeded necker in .] here seems the egg to be hatched, and imagination runs away with the idea. i may fancy i shall hear of the king and queen leaving versailles, like charles the first, and then skips imagination six-and-forty years lower, and figures their fugitive majesties taking refuge in this country. i have besides another idea. if the bastile conquers, still is it impossible, considering the general spirit in the country, and the numerous fortified places in france, but some may be seized by the _dissidents_, and whole provinces be torn from the crown? on the other hand, if the king prevails, what heavy despotism will the _états_, by their want of temper and moderation, have drawn on their country! they might have obtained many capital points, and removed great oppression. no french monarch will ever summon _états_ again, if this moment has been thrown away. though i have stocked myself with such a set of visions for the event either way, i do not pretend to foresee what will happen. penetration argues from reasonable probabilities; but chance and folly are apt to contradict calculation, and hitherto they seem to have full scope for action. one hears of no genius on either side, nor do symptoms of any appear. there will perhaps: such times and tempests bring forth, at least bring out, great men. i do not take the duke of orléans[ ] or mirabeau[ ] to be built _du bois dont on les fait_; no, nor monsieur necker. he may be a great traitor, if he made the confusion designedly: but it is a woful evasion, if the promised financier slips into a black politician! i adore liberty, but i would bestow it as honestly as i could; and a civil war, besides being a game of chance, is paying a very dear price for it. [footnote : the duke of orléans, the infamous Égalité, fomented the revolution in the hope that it might lead to the deposition of the king, and to his own election to the throne, as in england, a century before, the prince of orange had succeeded james ii. he voted for the death of his cousin and king, and was, in just retribution, sent to the guillotine by robespierre at the end of the same year.] [footnote : mirabeau was the most celebrated of all the earlier leaders of the revolution. at the time of this letter he had connected himself closely with the duc d'orléans, in whose pay, in fact, he was, as his profligacy and extravagance had long before dissipated all the property which had fallen to his share as a younger son. afterwards, on discovering the cowardice and baseness of the duke, he broke with him, and exerted himself in the cause of the king, whom, indeed, he had originally desired to support, if his advances had not been, with incredible folly, rejected by necker. but he had no time to repair the mischief he had done, even if it had been in his power, which it probably would not have been, since he died, after a short illness, in april, .] for us, we are in most danger of a deluge; though i wonder we so frequently complain of long rains. the saying about st. swithin is a proof of how often they recur; for proverbial sentences are the children of experience, not of prophecy. good night! in a few days i shall send you a beautiful little poem from the strawberry press. _bruce's "travels"--violence of the french jacobins--necker._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _wednesday night, july_ , . it is certainly not from having anything to tell you, that i reply so soon, but as the most agreeable thing i can do in my confinement. the gout came into my heel the night before last, perhaps from the deluge and damp. i increased it yesterday by limping about the house with a party i had to breakfast. to-day i am lying on the settee, unable to walk alone, or even to put on a slipper. however, as i am much easier this evening, i trust it will go off. i do not love disputes, and shall not argue with you about bruce; but, if you like him, you shall not choose an author for me. it is the most absurd, obscure, and tiresome book i know. i shall admire if you have a clear conception about most of the persons and matters in his work; but, in fact, i do not believe you have. pray, can you distinguish between his _cock_ and _hen_ heghes, and between all yasouses and ozoros? and do you firmly believe that an old man and his son were sent for and put to death, because the king had run into a thorn-bush, and was forced to leave his clothes behind him! is it your faith, that one of their abyssinian majesties pleaded not being able to contribute towards sending for a new abuna, because he had spent all his money at venice in looking-glasses? and do you really think that peter paez was a jack-of-all-trades, and built palaces and convents without assistance, and furnished them with his own hands? you, who are a little apt to contest most assertions, must have strangely let out your credulity! i could put forty questions to you as wonderful; and, for my part, could as soon credit ----. i am tired of railing at french barbarity and folly. they are more puerile now serious, than when in the long paroxysm of gay levity. legislators, a senate, to neglect laws, in order to annihilate coats of arms and liveries! to pull down a king, and set up an emperor! they are hastening to establish the tribunal of the praetorian guards; for the sovereignty, it seems, is not to be hereditary. one view of their fête of the th,[ ] i suppose, is to draw money to paris; and the consequence will be, that the deputies will return to the provinces drunk with independence and self-importance, and will commit fifty times more excesses, massacres, and devastations, than last year. george selwyn says, that _monsieur_, the king's brother, is the only man of rank from whom they cannot take a title. [footnote : the grand federation in the champ de mars, on the anniversary of the taking of the bastile.] how franticly have the french acted, and how rationally the americans! but franklin and washington were great men. none have appeared yet in france; and necker has only returned to make a wretched figure! he is become as insignificant as his king; his name is never mentioned, but now and then as disapproving something that is done. why then does he stay? does he wait to strike some great stroke, when everything is demolished? his glory, which consisted in being minister though a protestant, is vanished by the destruction of popery; the honour of which, i suppose, he will scarce assume to himself. i have vented my budget, and now good night! i feel almost as if i could walk up to bed. _the prince of wales--growth of london and other towns._ to the miss berrys. berkeley square, _june_ , . your no. , that was interrupted, and of which the last date was of may th, i received on the th, and if i could find fault, it would be in the length; for i do not approve of your writing so much in hot weather, for, be it known to you ladies, that from the first of the month, june is not more june at florence. my hay is crumbling away; and i have ordered it to be cut, as a sure way of bringing rain. i have a selfish reason, too, for remonstrating against long letters. i feel the season advancing, when mine will be piteous short; for what can i tell you from twickenham in the next three or four months? scandal from richmond and hampton court, or robberies at my own door? the latter, indeed, are blown already. i went to strawberry on saturday, to avoid the birthday [ th june] crowd and squibs and crackers. at six i drove to lord strafford's, where his goods are to be sold by auction; his sister, lady anne [conolly], intending to pull down the house and rebuild it. i returned a quarter before seven; and in the interim between my gothic gate and ashe's nursery, a gentleman and gentlewoman, in a one-horse chair and in the broad face of the sun, had been robbed by a single highwayman, _sans_ mask. ashe's mother and sister stood and saw it; but having no notion of a robbery at such an hour in the high-road, and before their men had left work, concluded it was an acquaintance of the robber's. i suppose lady cecilia johnstone will not descend from her bedchamber to the drawing-room without life-guard men. the duke of bedford eclipsed the whole birthday by his clothes, equipage, and servants: six of the latter walked on the side of the coach to keep off the crowd--or to tempt it; for their liveries were worth an argosie. the prince [of wales] was gorgeous too: the latter is to give madame d'albany[ ] a dinner. she has been introduced to mrs. fitzherbert.[ ] you know i used to call mrs. cosway's concerts charon's boat: now, methinks, london is so. i am glad mrs. c. [osway] is with you; she is pleasing--but surely it is odd to drop a child and her husband and country all in a breath! [footnote : mme. d'albany was the widow of prince charles edward, who had died in in italy. she was presented at court, and was graciously received by the queen. she was generally believed to be married to the great italian tragic poet, alfieri. since her husband's death she had been living in paris, but had now fled to england for safety.] [footnote : mrs. fitzherbert, the roman catholic lady whom the prince of wales had married.] i am glad you are dis_franchised_ of the exiles. we have several, i am told, here; but i strictly confine myself to those i knew formerly at paris, and who all are quartered on richmond-green. i went to them on sunday evening, but found them gone to lord fitzwilliam's, the next house to madame de boufflers', to hear his organ; whither i followed them, and returned with them. the comtesse emilie played on her harp; then we all united at loto. i went home at twelve, unrobbed; and lord fitzwilliam, who asked much after you both, was to set out the next morning for dublin, though intending to stay there but four days, and be back in three weeks. i am sorry you did not hear all monsieur de lally tollendal's[ ] tragedy, of which i have had a good account. i like his tribute to his father's memory. of french politics you must be tired; and so am i. nothing appears to me to promise their chaos duration; consequently i expect more chaos, the sediment of which is commonly despotism. poland ought to make the french blush; but that, they are not apt to do on any occasion.... [footnote : m. de lally tollendal was the son of that unfortunate count lally, so iniquitously condemned for his conduct in the government of india, as is mentioned in a former note.] the duke of st. albans has cut down all the brave old trees at hanworth, and consequently reduced his park to what it issued from--hounslow-heath: nay, he has hired a meadow next to mine, for the benefit of embarkation; and there lie all the good old corpses of oaks, ashes, and chestnuts, directly before _your_ windows, and blocking up one of my views of the river! but so impetuous is the rage for building, that his grace's timber will, i trust, not annoy us long. there will soon be one street from london to brentford; ay, and from london to every village ten miles round! lord camden has just let ground at kentish town for building fourteen hundred houses--nor do i wonder; london is, i am certain, much fuller than ever i saw it. i have twice this spring been going to stop my coach in piccadilly, to inquire what was the matter, thinking there was a mob--not at all; it was only passengers. nor is there any complaint of depopulation from the country: bath shoots out into new crescents, circuses, and squares every year: birmingham, manchester, hull, and liverpool would serve any king in europe for a capital, and would make the empress of russia's mouth water. of the war with catherine slay-czar i hear not a breath, and thence conjecture it is dozing into peace. mr. dundas[ ] has kissed hands for secretary of state; and bishop barrington, of salisbury, is transferred to durham, which he affected not to desire, having large estates by his wife in the south--but from the triple mitre downwards, it is almost always true, what i said some years ago, that "_nolo episcopari_ is latin for _i lie_." tell it not in gath that i say so; for i am to dine to-morrow at the bishop of london's at fulham, with hannah _bonner_, my _imprimée_.[ ] this morning i went with lysons the reverend to see dulwich college, founded in by alleyn, a player, which i had never seen in my many days. we were received by a smart divine, _très bien poudré_, and with black satin breeches--but they are giving new wings and red satin breeches to the good old hostel too, and destroying a gallery with a very rich ceiling; and nothing will remain of ancient but the front, and an hundred mouldy portraits, among apostles, sibyls, and kings of england. on sunday i shall settle at strawberry; and then woe betide you on post-days! i cannot make news without straw. the johnstones are going to bath, for the healths of both; so richmond will be my only staple. adieu, all three! [footnote : mr. dundas, president of the board of control, subsequently raised to the peerage as lord melville. in pitt's second administration he became first lord of the admiralty, but in was impeached by the house of commons on a charge of malversation while treasurer of the navy in pitt's first ministry. of that he was acquitted; but it was proved that some of the subordinate officers of the department had misapplied large sums of the public money, which they could not have done if he had not been grossly negligent of his duties as head of the department, and he was consequently removed from the privy council.] [footnote : miss hannah more is meant; but i do not know what peculiar cruelty of temper or practice entitled her to the name of mary's persecuting and pitiless bishop.] _sir w. and lady hamilton--a boat-race--the margravine of anspach._ to the miss berrys. berkeley square, _tuesday, aug._ , . i am come to town to meet mr. conway and lady aylesbury; and, as i have no letter from you yet to answer, i will tell you how agreeably i have passed the last three days; though they might have been improved had you shared them, as i wished, and as i _sometimes_ do wish. on saturday evening i was at the duke of queensberry's (at richmond, _s'entend_) with a small company: and there were sir william hamilton and mrs. harte[ ]; who, on the rd of next month, previous to their departure, is to be made madame l'envoyée à naples, the neapolitan queen having promised to receive her in that quality. here she cannot be presented, where only such over-virtuous wives as the duchess of kingston and mrs. hastings[ ]--who could go with a husband in each hand--are admitted. why the margravine of anspach, with the same pretensions, was not, i do not understand; perhaps she did not attempt it. but i forget to retract, and make _amende honorable_ to mrs. harte. i had only heard of her attitudes; and those, in dumb show, i have not yet seen. oh! but she sings admirably; has a very fine, strong voice; is an excellent buffa, and an astonishing tragedian. she sung nina in the highest perfection; and there her attitudes were a whole theatre of grace and various expressions. [footnote : mrs. harte, the celebrated lady hamilton, with whom nelson was so intimately acquainted, though old lord st. vincent always maintained that it had never been more than a purely platonic attachment. her previous life, however, had been notoriously such as rendered her inadmissible at our court, though that of naples was less particular.] [footnote : mrs. hastings, the wife of the great governor-general, had previously been married to baron imhoff, a german miniature painter; but she had obtained a divorce from him, and, as the baron returned to germany with an amount of riches that he could hardly have earned by skill in his profession, the scandalous tongues of some of hastings's enemies imputed to him that he had, in fact, bought her of her husband.] the next evening i was again at queensberry house, where the comtesse emilie de boufflers played on her harp, and the princesse di castelcigala, the neapolitan minister's wife, danced one of her country dances, with castanets, very prettily, with her husband. madame du barry was there too, and i had a good deal of frank conversation with her about monsieur de choiseul; having been at paris at the end of his reign and the beginning of hers, and of which i knew so much by my intimacy with the duchesse de choiseul. on monday was the boat-race [at richmond]. i was in the great room at the castle, with the duke of clarence, lady di., lord robert spencer, and the house of bouverie, to see the boats start from the bridge to thistleworth, and back to a tent erected on lord dysart's meadow, just before lady di.'s windows; whither we went to see them arrive, and where we had breakfast. for the second heat, i sat in my coach on the bridge; and did not stay for the third. the day had been coined on purpose, with my favourite south-east wind. the scene, both up the river and down, was what only richmond upon earth can exhibit. the crowds on those green velvet meadows and on the shores, the yachts, barges, pleasure and small boats, and the windows and gardens lined with spectators, were so delightful, that when i came home from that vivid show, i thought strawberry looked as dull and solitary as a hermitage. at night there was a ball at the castle, and illuminations, with the duke's cypher, &c. in coloured lamps, as were the houses of his royal highness's tradesmen. i went again in the evening to the french ladies on the green, where there was a bonfire; but, you may believe, not to the ball. well! but you, who have had a fever with _fêtes_, had rather hear the history of the new _soi-disante_ margravine. she has been in england with her foolish prince, and not only notified their marriage to the earl [of berkeley] her brother, who did not receive it propitiously, but his highness informed his lordship by a letter, that they have an usage in his country of taking a wife with the left hand; that he had espoused his lordship's sister in that manner; and intends, as soon as she shall be a widow, to marry her with his right hand also. the earl replied, that he knew she was married to an english peer [lord craven], a most respectable man, and can know nothing of her marrying any other man; and so they are gone to lisbon. adieu! _arrest of the duchesse de biron--the queen of france--pythagoras._ to the miss berrys. strawberry hill, _tuesday evening, eight o'clock, oct._ , . though i do not know when it will have its whole lading, i must begin my letter this very moment, to tell you what i have just heard. i called on the princesse d'hennin, who has been in town a week. i found her quite alone, and i thought she did not answer quite clearly about her two knights: the prince de poix has taken a lodging in town, and she talks of letting her house here, if she can. in short, i thought she had a little of an ariadne-air--but this was not what i was in such a hurry to tell you. she showed me several pieces of letters, i think from the duchesse de bouillon: one says, the poor duchesse de biron is again arrested[ ] and at the jacobins, and with her "une jeune étourdie, qui ne fait que chanter toute la journée;" and who, think you, may that be?--only our pretty little wicked duchesse de fleury! by her singing and not sobbing, i suppose she was weary of her _tircis_, and is glad to be rid of him. this new blow, i fear, will overset madame de biron again. the rage at paris seems to increase daily or hourly; they either despair, or are now avowed banditti. i tremble so much for the great and most suffering victim of all, the queen,[ ] that one cannot feel so much for many, as several perhaps deserve: but her tortures have been of far longer duration than any martyrs, and more various; and her courage and patience equal to her woes! [footnote : the duchess, with scores of other noble ladies, was put to death in the course of these two horrible years, - .] [footnote : marie antoinette was put to death the very next day. and i cannot more fitly close the allusions to the revolution so frequent in the letters of the past four years than by burke's description of this pure and noble queen in her youth: "it is now sixteen or seventeen years since i saw the queen of france, then the dauphiness of versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. i saw her, just above the horizon, glittering like the morning star, full of life and splendour and joy. oh! what a revolution! and what a heart must i have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! little did i dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did i dream that i should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men and cavaliers. i thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult" ("reflections on the french revolution ").] my poor old friend, the duchesse de la valière, past ninety and stone-deaf, has a guard set upon her, but in her own house; her daughter, the duchesse de chatillon, mother of the duchesse de la tremouille, is arrested; and thus the last, with her attachment to the queen, must be miserable indeed!--but one would think i feel for nothing but duchesses: the crisis has crowded them together into my letter, and into a prison;--and to be a prisoner among cannibals is pitiable indeed! _thursday morning, th, past ten._ i this moment receive the very comfortable twin-letter. i am so conjugal, and so much in earnest upon the article of recovery, that i cannot think of _a pretty thing_ to say to very pretty mrs. stanhope; nor do i know what would be a pretty thing in these days. i might come out with some old-fashioned compliment, that would have been very genteel in good queen bess's golden day, when i was a dame of honour. let mrs. stanhope imagine that i have said all she deserves: i certainly think it, and will ratify it, when i have learnt the language of the nineteenth century; but i really am so ancient, that as pythagoras imagined he had been panthoides euphorbus[ ] in the trojan war, i am not sure that i did not ride upon a pillion behind a gentleman-usher, when her majesty elizabeth went into procession to st. paul's on the defeat of the armada! adieu! the postman puts an end to my idle speculations--but, scarborough for ever! with three huzzas! [footnote : "_euphorbus._" this is an allusion to the doctrine of metempsychosis taught by the ancient philosopher pythagoras of samos, according to which when a man died his soul remained in the shades below suffering any punishment which the man had deserved, till after a certain lapse of time all the taint of the former existence had been worn away, when the soul returned to earth to animate some other body. the passage referred to here by walpole occurs in ovid's "metamorphoses," xvi. , where pythagoras is expounding his theory, which is also explained to aeneas by anchises in the shades below (aeneid, vi. ). but the two poets differ in more points than one. according to anchises, one thousand years are required between the two existences; according to pythagoras, not above four hundred or five hundred. according to anchises, before the soul revives in another body it must have forgotten all that happened to it in the body of its former owner. as dryden translates virgil-- whole droves of minds are by the driving god compell'd to drink the deep lethaean flood, in large forgetful draughts to steep the cares of their past labours, and their irksome years; that unremembering of its former pain the soul may suffer mortal flesh again. (aeneid, vi. ). pythagoras, on the other hand, professes a distinct recollection of who he was and what he suffered in his former life. he remembers that in the time of the trojan war (at the outside not five hundred years before his time) he was a trojan--euphorbus, the son of panthous--and that in the war he was killed by menelaus; and his memory is so accurate, that not long before he had recognised the very shield which he had borne in the conflict hanging up as a trophy in the temple of juno at argos.] _expectations of a visit to strawberry by the queen._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _july_ , . i will write a word to you, though scarce time to write one, to thank you for your great kindness about the soldier, who shall get a substitute if he can. as you are, or have been in town, your daughter will have told you in what a bustle i am, preparing--not to resist, but to receive an invasion of royalties to-morrow; and cannot even escape them like admiral cornwallis, though seeming to make a semblance; for i am to wear a sword, and have appointed two aides-de-camp, my nephews, george and horace churchill. if i _fall_, as ten to one but i do, to be sure it will be a superb tumble, at the feet of a queen and eight daughters of kings; for, besides the six princesses, i am to have the duchess of york and the princess of orange! woe is me, at seventy-eight, and with scarce a hand and foot to my back! adieu! yours, &c. a poor old remnant. _report of the visit._ _july_ , . i am not dead of fatigue with my royal visitors, as i expected to be, though i was on my poor lame feet three whole hours. your daughter [mrs. damer], who kindly assisted me in doing the honours, will tell you the particulars, and how prosperously i succeeded. the queen was uncommonly condescending and gracious, and deigned to drink my health when i presented her with the last glass, and to thank me for all my attentions.[ ] indeed my memory _de la vieille cour_ was but once in default. as i had been assured that her majesty would be attended by her chamberlain, yet was not, i had no glove ready when i received her at the step of her coach: yet she honoured me with her hand to lead her up stairs; nor did i recollect my omission when i led her down again. still, though gloveless, i did not squeeze the royal hand, as vice-chamberlain smith[ ] did to queen mary. [footnote : there cannot be a more fitting conclusion than this letter recording the greatest honour conferred on the writer and his strawberry by the visit of the queen of the realm and her condescending proposal of his health at his own table.] [footnote : "_vice-chamberlain smith._" an allusion to a gossiping story of king william's time, that when queen mary came back to england she asked one of her ladies what a squeeze of the hand was supposed to intimate; and when the reply was, "love," "then," said her majesty, "my vice-chancellor must be in love with me; for he always squeezes my hand."] you will have stared, as i did, at the elector of hanover deserting his ally the king of great britain, and making peace with the monsters. but mr. fawkener, whom i saw at my sister's [churchill's] on sunday, laughs at the article in the newspapers, and says it is not an unknown practice for stock-jobbers to hire an emissary at the rate of five hundred pounds, and dispatch to franckfort, whence he brings forged attestations of some marvellous political event, and spreads it on 'change, which produces such a fluctuation in the stocks as amply overpays the expense of his mission. this was all i learnt in the single night i was in town. i have not read the new french constitution, which seems longer than probably its reign will be. the five sovereigns will, i suppose, be the first guillotined. adieu! yours ever. unwin brothers, the gresham press, chilworth and london. [linda cantoni <linda.cantoni@verizon.net>] american statesmen edited by john t. morse, jr. american statesmen daniel webster by henry cabot lodge boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge and , by henry cabot lodge contents. chapter i. childhood and youth chapter ii. law and politics in new hampshire chapter iii. the dartmouth college case.--mr. webster as a lawyer chapter iv. the massachusetts convention and the plymouth oration chapter v. return to congress chapter vi. the tariff of and the reply to hayne chapter vii. the struggle with jackson and the rise of the whig party chapter viii. secretary of state.--the ashburton treaty chapter ix. return to the senate.--the seventh of march speech chapter x. the last years daniel webster. [note.--in preparing this volume i have carefully examined all the literature contemporary and posthumous relating to mr. webster. i have not gone beyond the printed material, of which there is a vast mass, much of it of no value, but which contains all and more than is needed to obtain a correct understanding of the man and of his public and private life. no one can pretend to write a life of webster without following in large measure the narrative of events as given in the elaborate, careful, and scholarly biography which we owe to mr. george t. curtis. in many of my conclusions i have differed widely from those of mr. curtis, but i desire at the outset to acknowledge fully my obligations to him. i have sought information in all directions, and have obtained some fresh material, and, as i believe, have thrown a new light upon certain points, but this does not in the least diminish the debt which i owe to the ample biography of mr. curtis in regard to the details as well as the general outline of mr. webster's public and private life.] chapter i. childhood and youth. no sooner was the stout puritan commonwealth of massachusetts firmly planted than it began rapidly to throw out branches in all directions. with every succeeding year the long, thin, sinuous line of settlements stretched farther and farther away to the northeast, fringing the wild shores of the atlantic with houses and farms gathered together at the mouths or on the banks of the rivers, and with the homes of hardy fishermen which clustered in little groups beneath the shelter of the rocky headlands. the extension of these plantations was chiefly along the coast, but there was also a movement up the river courses toward the west and into the interior. the line of northeastern settlements began first to broaden in this way very slowly but still steadily from the plantations at portsmouth and dover, which were nearly coeval with the flourishing towns of the bay. these settlements beyond the massachusetts line all had one common and marked characteristic. they were all exposed to indian attack from the earliest days down to the period of the revolution. long after the dangers of indian raids had become little more than a tradition to the populous and flourishing communities of massachusetts bay, the towns and villages of maine and new hampshire continued to be the outposts of a dark and bloody border land. french and indian warfare with all its attendant horrors was the normal condition during the latter part of the seventeenth and the first quarter of the eighteenth century. even after the destruction of the jesuit missions, every war in europe was the signal for the appearance of frenchmen and savages in northeastern new england, where their course was marked by rapine and slaughter, and lighted by the flames of burning villages. the people thus assailed were not slow in taking frequent and thorough vengeance, and so the conflict, with rare intermissions, went on until the power of france was destroyed, and the awful danger from the north, which had hung over the land for nearly a century, was finally extinguished. the people who waged this fierce war and managed to make headway in despite of it were engaged at the same time in a conflict with nature which was hardly less desperate. the soil, even in the most favored places, was none of the best, and the predominant characteristic of new hampshire was the great rock formation which has given it the name of the granite state. slowly and painfully the settlers made their way back into the country, seizing on every fertile spot, and wringing subsistence and even a certain prosperity from a niggardly soil and a harsh climate. their little hamlets crept onward toward the base of those beautiful hills which have now become one of the favorite play-grounds of america, but which then frowned grimly even in summer, dark with trackless forests, and for the larger part of the year were sheeted with the glittering, untrampled snow from which they derive their name. stern and strong with the force of an unbroken wilderness, they formed at all times a forbidding background to the sparse settlements in the valleys and on the seashore. this life of constant battle with nature and with the savages, this work of wresting a subsistence from the unwilling earth while the hand was always armed against a subtle and cruel foe, had, of course, a marked effect upon the people who endured it. that, under such circumstances, men should have succeeded not only in gaining a livelihood, but should have attained also a certain measure of prosperity, established a free government, founded schools and churches, and built up a small but vigorous and thriving commonwealth, is little short of marvellous. a race which could do this had an enduring strength of character which was sure to make itself felt through many generations, not only on their ancestral soil, but in every region where they wandered in search of a fortune denied to them at home. the people of new hampshire were of the english puritan stock. they were the borderers of new england, and were among the hardiest and boldest of their race. their fierce battle for existence during nearly a century and a half left a deep impress upon them. although it did not add new traits to their character, it strengthened and developed many of the qualities which chiefly distinguished the puritan englishman. these borderers, from lack of opportunity, were ruder than their more favored brethren to the south, but they were also more persistent, more tenacious, and more adventurous. they were a vigorous, bold, unforgiving, fighting race, hard and stern even beyond the ordinary standard of puritanism. among the puritans who settled in new hampshire about the year , during the great emigration which preceded the long parliament, was one bearing the name of thomas webster. he was said to be of scotch extraction, but was, if this be true, undoubtedly of the lowland or saxon scotch as distinguished from the gaels of the highlands. he was, at all events, a puritan of english race, and his name indicates that his progenitors were sturdy mechanics or handicraftsmen. this thomas webster had numerous descendants, who scattered through new hampshire to earn a precarious living, found settlements, and fight indians. in kingston, in the year , was born one of this family named ebenezer webster. the struggle for existence was so hard for this particular scion of the webster stock, that he was obliged in boyhood to battle for a living and pick up learning as he best might by the sole aid of a naturally vigorous mind. he came of age during the great french war, and about enlisted in the then famous corps known as "rogers's rangers." in the dangers and the successes of desperate frontier fighting, the "rangers" had no equal; and of their hard and perilous experience in the wilderness, in conflict with indians and frenchmen, ebenezer webster, strong in body and daring in temperament, had his full share. when the war closed, the young soldier and indian fighter had time to look about him for a home. as might have been expected, he clung to the frontier to which he was accustomed, and in the year settled in the northernmost part of the town of salisbury. here he built a log-house, to which, in the following year, he brought his first wife, and here he began his career as a farmer. at that time there was nothing civilized between him and the french settlements of canada. the wilderness stretched away from his door an ocean of forest unbroken by any white man's habitation; and in these primeval woods, although the war was ended and the french power overthrown, there still lurked roving bands of savages, suggesting the constant possibilities of a midnight foray or a noonday ambush, with their accompaniments of murder and pillage. it was a fit home, however, for such a man as ebenezer webster. he was a borderer in the fullest sense in a commonwealth of borderers. he was, too, a splendid specimen of the new england race; a true descendant of ancestors who had been for generations yeomen and pioneers. tall, large, dark of hair and eyes, in the rough world in which he found himself he had been thrown at once upon his own resources without a day's schooling, and compelled to depend on his own innate force of sense and character for success. he had had a full experience of desperate fighting with frenchmen and indians, and, the war over, he had returned to his native town with his hard-won rank of captain. then he had married, and had established his home upon the frontier, where he remained battling against the grim desolation of the wilderness and of the winter, and against all the obstacles of soil and climate, with the same hardy bravery with which he had faced the indians. after ten years of this life, in , his wife died and within a twelvemonth he married again. soon after this second marriage the alarm of war with england sounded, and among the first to respond was the old ranger and indian fighter, ebenezer webster. in the town which had grown up near his once solitary dwelling he raised a company of two hundred men, and marched at their head, a splendid looking leader, dark, massive, and tall, to join the forces at boston. we get occasional glimpses of this vigorous figure during the war. at dorchester, washington consulted him about the state of feeling in new hampshire. at bennington, we catch sight of him among the first who scaled the breastworks, and again coming out of the battle, his swarthy skin so blackened with dust and gunpowder that he could scarcely be recognized. we hear of him once more at west point, just after arnold's treason, on guard before the general's tent, and washington says to him, "captain webster, i believe i can trust you." that was what everybody seems to have felt about this strong, silent, uneducated man. his neighbors trusted him. they gave him every office in their gift, and finally he was made judge of the local court. in the intervals of his toilsome and adventurous life he had picked up a little book-learning, but the lack of more barred the way to the higher honors which would otherwise have been easily his. there were splendid sources of strength in this man, the outcome of such a race, from which his children could draw. he was, to begin with, a magnificent animal, and had an imposing bodily presence and appearance. he had courage, energy, and tenacity, all in high degree. he was business-like, a man of few words, determined, and efficient. he had a great capacity for affection and self-sacrifice, noble aspirations, a vigorous mind, and, above all, a strong, pure character which invited trust. force of will, force of mind, force of character; these were the three predominant qualities in ebenezer webster. his life forms the necessary introduction to that of his celebrated son, and it is well worth study, because we can learn from it how much that son got from a father so finely endowed, and how far he profited by such a rich inheritance. by his first wife, ebenezer webster had five children. by his second wife, abigail eastman, a woman of good sturdy new hampshire stock, he had likewise five. of these, the second son and fourth child was born on the eighteenth of january, , and was christened daniel. the infant was a delicate and rather sickly little being. some cheerful neighbors predicted after inspection that it would not live long, and the poor mother, overhearing them, caught the child to her bosom and wept over it. she little dreamed of the iron constitution hidden somewhere in the small frail body, and still less of all the glory and sorrow to which her baby was destined. for many years, although the boy disappointed the village cassandras by living, he continued weak and delicate. manual labor, which began very early with the children of new hampshire farmers, was out of the question in his case, and so daniel was allowed to devote much of his time to play, for which he showed a decided aptitude. it was play of the best sort, in the woods and fields, where he learned to love nature and natural objects, to wonder at floods, to watch the habits of fish and birds, and to acquire a keen taste for field sports. his companion was an old british sailor, who carried the child on his back, rowed with him on the river, taught him the angler's art, and, best of all, poured into his delighted ear endless stories of an adventurous life, of admiral byng and lord george germaine, of minden and gibraltar, of prince ferdinand and general gage, of bunker hill, and finally of the american armies, to which the soldier-sailor had deserted. the boy repaid this devoted friend by reading the newspapers to him; and he tells us in his autobiography that he could not remember when he did not read, so early was he taught by his mother and sisters, in true new england fashion. at a very early age he began to go to school; sometimes in his native town, sometimes in another, as the district school moved from place to place. the masters who taught in these schools knew nothing but the barest rudiments, and even some of those imperfectly. one of them who lived to a great age, enlightened perhaps by subsequent events, said that webster had great rapidity of acquisition and was the quickest boy in school. he certainly proved himself the possessor of a very retentive memory, for when this pedagogue offered a jack-knife as a reward to the boy who should be able to recite the greatest number of verses from the bible, webster, on the following day, when his turn came, arose and reeled off verses until the master cried "enough," and handed him the coveted prize. another of his instructors kept a small store, and from him the boy bought a handkerchief on which was printed the constitution just adopted, and, as he read everything and remembered much, he read that famous instrument to which he was destined to give so much of his time and thought. when mr. webster said that he read better than any of his masters, he was probably right. the power of expression and of speech and readiness in reply were his greatest natural gifts, and, however much improved by cultivation, were born in him. his talents were known in the neighborhood, and the passing teamsters, while they watered their horses, delighted to get "webster's boy," with his delicate look and great dark eyes, to come out beneath the shade of the trees and read the bible to them with all the force of his childish eloquence. he describes his own existence at that time with perfect accuracy. "i read what i could get to read, went to school when i could, and when not at school, was a farmer's youngest boy, not good for much for want of health and strength, but expected to do something." that something consisted generally in tending the saw-mill, but the reading went on even there. he would set a log, and while it was going through would devour a book. there was a small circulating library in the village, and webster read everything it contained, committing most of the contents of the precious volumes to memory, for books were so scarce that he believed this to be their chief purpose. in the year the brave old soldier, ebenezer webster, was made a judge of the local court, and thus got a salary of three or four hundred dollars a year. this accession of wealth turned his thoughts at once toward that education which he had missed, and he determined that he would give to his children what he had irretrievably lost himself. two years later he disclosed his purpose to his son, one hot day in the hay-field, with a manly regret for his own deficiencies and a touching pathos which the boy never forgot. the next spring his father took daniel to exeter academy. this was the boy's first contact with the world, and there was the usual sting which invariably accompanies that meeting. his school-mates laughed at his rustic dress and manners, and the poor little farm lad felt it bitterly. the natural and unconscious power by which he had delighted the teamsters was stifled, and the greatest orator of modern times never could summon sufficient courage to stand up and recite verses before these exeter school-boys. intelligent masters, however, perceived something of what was in the lad, and gave him a kindly encouragement. he rose rapidly in the classes, and at the end of nine months his father took him away in order to place him as a pupil with a neighboring clergyman. as they drove over, about a month later, to boscawen, where dr. wood, the future preceptor, lived, ebenezer webster imparted to his son the full extent of his plan, which was to end in a college education. the joy at the accomplishment of his dearest and most fervent wish, mingled with a full sense of the magnitude of the sacrifice and of the generosity of his father, overwhelmed the boy. always affectionate and susceptible of strong emotion, these tidings overcame him. he laid his head upon his father's shoulder and wept. with dr. wood webster remained only six months. he went home on one occasion, but haying was not to his tastes. he found it "dull and lonesome," and preferred rambling in the woods with his sister in search of berries, so that his indulgent father sent him back to his studies. with the help of dr. wood in latin, and another tutor in greek, he contrived to enter dartmouth college in august, . he was, of course, hastily and poorly prepared. he knew something of latin, very little of greek, and next to nothing of mathematics, geography, or history. he had devoured everything in the little libraries of salisbury and boscawen, and thus had acquired a desultory knowledge of a limited amount of english literature, including addison, pope, watts, and "don quixote." but however little he knew, the gates of learning were open, and he had entered the precincts of her temple, feeling dimly but surely the first pulsations of the mighty intellect with which he was endowed. "in those boyish days," he wrote many years afterwards, "there were two things which i did dearly love, reading and playing,--passions which did not cease to struggle when boyhood was over, (have they yet altogether?) and in regard to which neither _cita mors_ nor the _victoria laeta_ could be said of either." in truth they did not cease, these two strong passions. one was of the head, the other of the heart; one typified the intellectual, the other the animal strength of the boy's nature; and the two contending forces went with him to the end. the childhood of webster has a deep interest which is by no means usual. great men in their earliest years are generally much like other boys, despite the efforts of their biographers to the contrary. if they are not, they are very apt to be little prigs like the second pitt, full of "wise saws and modern instances." webster was neither the one nor the other. he was simple, natural, affectionate, and free from pertness or precocity. at the same time there was an innate power which impressed all those who approached him without their knowing exactly why, and there was abundant evidence of uncommon talents. webster's boyish days are pleasant to look upon, but they gain a peculiar lustre from the noble character of his father, the deep solicitude of his mother, and the generous devotion and self-sacrifice of both parents. there was in this something prophetic. every one about the boy was laboring and sacrificing for him from the beginning, and this was not without its effect upon his character. a little anecdote which was current in boston many years ago condenses the whole situation. the story may be true or false,--it is very probably unfounded,--but it contains an essential truth and illustrates the character of the boy and the atmosphere in which he grew up. ezekiel, the oldest son, and daniel were allowed on one occasion to go to a fair in a neighboring town, and each was furnished with a little money from the slender store at home. when they returned in the evening, daniel was radiant with enjoyment; ezekiel rather silent. their mother inquired as to their adventures, and finally asked daniel what he did with his money. "spent it," was the reply. "and what did you do with yours, ezekiel?" "lent it to daniel." that answer well sums up the story of webster's home life in childhood. all were giving or lending to daniel of their money, their time, their activity, their love and affection. this petting was partly due to webster's delicate health, but it was also in great measure owing to his nature. he was one of those rare and fortunate beings who without exertion draw to themselves the devotion of other people, and are always surrounded by men and women eager to do and to suffer for them. the boy accepted all that was showered upon him, not without an obvious sense that it was his due. he took it in the royal spirit which is characteristic of such natures; but in those childish days when laughter and tears came readily, he repaid the generous and sacrificing love with the warm and affectionate gratitude of an earnest nature and a naturally loving heart. he was never cold, or selfish, or designing. others loved him, and sacrificed to him, but he loved them in return and appreciated their sacrifices. these conditions of his early days must, however, have had an effect upon his disposition and increased his belief in the fitness of having the devotion of other people as one of his regal rights and privileges, while, at the same time, it must have helped to expand his affections and give warmth to every generous feeling. the passions for reading and play went with him to dartmouth, the little new hampshire college of which he was always so proud and so fond. the instruction there was of good quality enough, but it was meagre in quantity and of limited range, compared to what is offered by most good high schools of the present day. in the reminiscences of his fellow-students there is abundant material for a picture of webster at that time. he was recognized by all as the foremost man in the college, as easily first, with no second. yet at the same time mr. webster was neither a student nor a scholar in the truest sense of the words. he read voraciously all the english literature he could lay his hands on, and remembered everything he read. he achieved familiarity with latin and with latin authors, and absorbed a great deal of history. he was the best general scholar in the college. he was not only not deficient but he showed excellence at recitation in every branch of study. he could learn anything if he tried. but with all this he never gained more than a smattering of greek and still less of mathematics, because those studies require, for anything more than a fair proficiency, a love of knowledge for its own sake, a zeal for learning incompatible with indolence, and a close, steady, and disinterested attention. these were not the characteristics of mr. webster's mind. he had a marvellous power of rapid acquisition, but he learned nothing unless he liked the subject and took pleasure in it or else was compelled to the task. this is not the stuff from which the real student, with an original or inquiring mind, is made. it is only fair to say that this estimate, drawn from the opinions of his fellow-students, coincided with his own, for he was too large-minded and too clear-headed to have any small vanity or conceit in judging himself. he said soon after he left college, and with perfect truth, that his scholarship was not remarkable, nor equal to what he was credited with. he explained his reputation after making this confession by saying that he read carefully, meditated on what he had read, and retained it so that on any subject he was able to tell all he knew to the best advantage, and was careful never to go beyond his depth. there is no better analysis of mr. webster's strongest qualities of mind than this made by himself in reference to his college standing. rapid acquisition, quick assimilation of ideas, an iron memory, and a wonderful power of stating and displaying all he knew characterized him then as in later life. the extent of his knowledge and the range of his mind, not the depth or soundness of his scholarship, were the traits which his companions remembered. one of them says that they often felt that he had a more extended understanding than the tutors to whom he recited, and this was probably true. the faculty of the college recognized in webster the most remarkable man who had ever come among them, but they could not find good grounds to award him the prizes, which, by his standing among his fellows, ought by every rule to have been at his feet. he had all the promise of a great man, but he was not a fine scholar. he was studious, punctual, and regular in all his habits. he was so dignified that his friends would as soon have thought of seeing president wheelock indulge in boyish disorders as of seeing him. but with all his dignity and seriousness of talk and manner, he was a thoroughly genial companion, full of humor and fun and agreeable conversation. he had few intimates, but many friends. he was generally liked as well as universally admired, was a leader in the college societies, active and successful in sports, simple, hearty, unaffected, without a touch of priggishness and with a wealth of wholesome animal spirits. but in these college days, besides the vague feeling of students and professors that they had among them a very remarkable man, there is a clear indication that the qualities which afterwards raised him to fame and power were already apparent, and affected the little world about him. all his contemporaries of that time speak of his eloquence. the gift of speech, the unequalled power of statement, which were born in him, just like the musical tones of his voice, could not be repressed. there was no recurrence of the diffidence of exeter. his native genius led him irresistibly along the inevitable path. he loved to speak, to hold the attention of a listening audience. he practised off-hand speaking, but he more commonly prepared himself by meditating on his subject and making notes, which, however, he never used. he would enter the class-room or debating society and begin in a low voice and almost sleepy manner, and would then gradually rouse himself like a lion, and pour forth his words until he had his hearers completely under his control, and glowing with enthusiasm. we see too, at this time, the first evidence of that other great gift of bountiful nature in his commanding presence. he was then tall and thin, with high cheek bones and dark skin, but he was still impressive. the boys about him never forgot the look of his deep-set eyes, or the sound of the solemn tones of his voice, his dignity of mien, and his absorption in his subject. above all they were conscious of something indefinable which conveyed a sense of greatness. it is not usual to dwell so much upon mere physical attributes and appearance, but we must recur to them again and again, for mr. webster's personal presence was one of the great elements of his success; it was the fit companion and even a part of his genius, and was the cause of his influence, and of the wonder and admiration which followed him, as much almost as anything he ever said or did. to mr. webster's college career belong the first fruits of his intellect. he edited, during one year, a small weekly journal, and thus eked out his slender means. besides his strictly editorial labors, he printed some short pieces of his own, which have vanished, and he also indulged in poetical effusions, which he was fond of sending to absent friends. his rhymes are without any especial character, neither much better nor much worse than most college verses, and they have no intrinsic value beyond showing that their author, whatever else he might be, was no poet. but in his own field something of this time, having a real importance, has come down to us. the fame of his youthful eloquence, so far beyond anything ever known in the college, was noised abroad, and in the year the citizens of hanover, the college town, asked him to deliver the fourth of july oration. in this production, which was thought of sufficient merit to deserve printing, mr. webster sketched rapidly and exultingly the course of the revolution, threw in a little federal politics, and eulogized the happy system of the new constitution. of this and his other early orations he always spoke with a good deal of contempt, as examples of bad taste, which he wished to have buried and forgotten. accordingly his wholesale admirers and supporters who have done most of the writing about him, and who always sneezed when mr. webster took snuff, have echoed his opinions about these youthful productions, and beyond allowing to them the value which everything websterian has for the ardent worshipper, have been disposed to hurry them over as of no moment. compared to the reply to hayne or the plymouth oration, the hanover speech is, of course, a poor and trivial thing. considered, as it ought to be, by itself and in itself, it is not only of great interest as mr. webster's first utterance on public questions, but it is something of which he had no cause to feel ashamed. the sentiments are honest, elevated, and manly, and the political doctrine is sound. mr. webster was then a boy of eighteen, and he therefore took his politics from his father and his father's friends. for the same reason he was imitative in style and mode of thought. all boys of that age, whether geniuses or not, are imitative, and mr. webster, who was never profoundly original in thought, was no exception to the rule. he used the style of the eighteenth century, then in its decadence, and very florid, inflated, and heavy it was. yet his work was far better and his style simpler and more direct than that which was in fashion. he indulged in a good deal of patriotic glorification. we smile at his boyish federalism describing napoleon as "the gasconading pilgrim of egypt," and columbia as "seated in the forum of nations, and the empires of the world amazed at the bright effulgence of her glory." these sentences are the acme of fine writing, very boyish and very poor; but they are not fair examples of the whole, which is much simpler and more direct than might have been expected. moreover, the thought is the really important thing. we see plainly that the speaker belongs to the new era and the new generation of national measures and nationally-minded men. there is no colonialism about him. he is in full sympathy with the washingtonian policy of independence in our foreign relations and of complete separation from the affairs of europe. but the main theme and the moving spirit of this oration are most important of all. the boy webster preached love of country, the grandeur of american nationality, fidelity to the constitution as the bulwark of nationality, and the necessity and the nobility of the union of the states; and that was the message which the man webster delivered to his fellow-men. the enduring work which mr. webster did in the world, and his meaning and influence in american history, are all summed up in the principles enunciated in that boyish speech at hanover. the statement of the great principles was improved and developed until it towered above this first expression as mont blanc does above the village nestled at its foot, but the essential substance never altered in the least. two other college orations have been preserved. one is a eulogy on a classmate who died before finishing his course, the other is a discourse on "opinion," delivered before the society of the "united fraternity." there is nothing of especial moment in the thought of either, and the improvement in style over the hanover speech, though noticeable, is not very marked. in the letters of that period, however, amid the jokes and fun, we see that mr. webster was already following his natural bent, and turning his attention to politics. he manifests the same spirit as in his oration, and shows occasionally an unusual maturity of judgment. his criticism of hamilton's famous letter to adams, to take the most striking instance, is both keen and sound. after taking his degree in due course in , mr. webster returned to his native village, and entered the office of a lawyer next door to his father's house, where he began the study of the law in compliance with his father's wish, but without any very strong inclination of his own. here he read some law and more english literature, and passed a good deal of time in fishing and shooting. before the year was out, however, he was obliged to drop his legal studies and accept the post of schoolmaster in the little town of fryeburg, maine. this change was due to an important event in the webster family which had occurred some time before. the affection existing between daniel and his elder brother ezekiel was peculiarly strong and deep. the younger and more fortunate son, once started in his education, and knowing the desire of his elder brother for the same advantages, longed to obtain them for him. one night in vacation, after daniel had been two years at dartmouth, the two brothers discussed at length the all-important question. the next day, daniel broached the matter to his father. the judge was taken by surprise. he was laboring already under heavy pecuniary burdens caused by the expenses of daniel's education. the farm was heavily mortgaged, and ebenezer webster knew that he was old before his time and not destined to many more years of life. with the perfect and self-sacrificing courage which he always showed, he did not shrink from this new demand, although ezekiel was the prop and mainstay of the house. he did not think for a moment of himself, yet, while he gave his consent, he made it conditional on that of the mother and daughters whom he felt he was soon to leave. but mrs. webster had the same spirit as her husband. she was ready to sell the farm, to give up everything for the boys, provided they would promise to care in the future for her and their sisters. more utter self-abnegation and more cheerful and devoted self-sacrifice have rarely been exhibited, and it was all done with a simplicity which commands our reverence. it was more than should have been asked, and a boy less accustomed than daniel webster to the devotion of others, even with the incentive of brotherly love, might have shrunk from making the request. the promise of future support was easily made, but the hard pinch of immediate sacrifice had to be borne at once. the devoted family gave themselves up to the struggle to secure an education for the two boys, and for years they did battle with debt and the pressure of poverty. ezekiel began his studies and entered college the year daniel graduated; but the resources were running low, so low that the law had to be abandoned and money earned without delay; and hence the schoolmastership. at no time in his life does mr. webster's character appear in a fairer or more lovable light than during this winter at fryeburg. he took his own share in the sacrifices he had done so much to entail, and he carried it cheerfully. out of school hours he copied endless deeds, an occupation which he loathed above all others, in order that he might give all his salary to his brother. the burden and heat of the day in this struggle for education fell chiefly on the elder brother in the years which followed; but here daniel did his full part, and deserves the credit for it. he was a successful teacher. his perfect dignity, his even temper, and imperturbable equanimity made his pupils like and respect him. the survivors, in their old age, recalled the impression he made upon them, and especially remembered the solemn tones of his voice at morning and evening prayer, extemporaneous exercises which he scrupulously maintained. his letters at this time are like those of his college days, full of fun and good humor and kind feeling. he had his early love affairs, but was saved from matrimony by the liberality of his affections, which were not confined to a single object. he laughs pleasantly and good-naturedly over his fortunes with the fair sex, and talks a good deal about them, but his first loves do not seem to have been very deep or lasting. wherever he went, he produced an impression on all who saw him. in fryeburg it was his eyes which people seem to have remembered best. he was still very thin in face and figure, and he tells us himself that he was known in the village as "all-eyes;" and one of the boys, a friend of later years, refers to mr. webster's "full, steady, large, and searching eyes." there never was a time in his life when those who saw him did not afterwards speak of his looks, generally either of the wonderful eyes or the imposing presence. there was a circulating library in fryeburg, and this he read through in his usual rapacious and retentive fashion. here, too, he was called on for a fourth of july oration. this speech, which has been recently printed, dwells much on the constitution and the need of adhering to it in its entirety. there is a distinct improvement in his style in the direction of simplicity, but there is no marked advance in thought or power of expression over the hanover oration. two months after delivering this address he returned to salisbury and resumed the study of the law in mr. thompson's office. he now plunged more deeply into law books, and began to work at the law with zeal, while at the same time he read much and thoroughly in the best latin authors. in the months which ensued his mind expanded, and ambition began to rise within him. his horizon was a limited one; the practice of his profession, as he saw it carried on about him, was small and petty; but his mind could not be shackled. he saw the lions in the path plainly, but he also perceived the great opportunities which the law was to offer in the united states, and he prophesied that we, too, should soon have our mansfields and kenyons. the hand of poverty was heavy upon him, and he was chafing and beating his wings against the iron bars with which circumstances had imprisoned him. he longed for a wider field, and eagerly desired to finish his studies in boston, but saw no way to get there, except by a "miracle." this miracle came through ezekiel, who had been doing more for himself and his family than any one else, but who, after three years in college, was at the end of his resources, and had taken, in his turn, to keeping school. daniel went to boston, and there obtained a good private school for his brother. the salary thus earned by ezekiel was not only sufficient for himself, but enabled daniel to gratify the cherished wish of his heart, and come to the new england capital to conclude his professional studies. the first thing to be done was to gain admittance to some good office. mr. webster was lucky enough to obtain an introduction to mr. gore, with whom, as with the rest of the world, that wonderful look and manner, apparent even then, through boyishness and rusticity, stood him in good stead. mr. gore questioned him, trusted him, and told him to hang up his hat, begin work as clerk at once, and write to new hampshire for his credentials. the position thus obtained was one of fortune's best gifts to mr. webster. it not only gave him an opportunity for a wide study of the law under wise supervision, but it brought him into daily contact with a trained barrister and an experienced public man. christopher gore, one of the most eminent members of the boston bar and a distinguished statesman, had just returned from england, whither he had been sent as one of the commissioners appointed under the jay treaty. he was a fine type of the aristocratic federalist leader, one of the most prominent of that little group which from the "headquarters of good principles" in boston so long controlled the politics of massachusetts. he was a scholar, gentleman, and man of the world, and his portrait shows us a refined, high-bred face, suggesting a french marquis of the eighteenth century rather than the son of a new england sea-captain. a few years later, mr. gore was chosen governor of massachusetts, and defeated when a candidate for reëlection, largely, it is supposed, because he rode in a coach and four (to which rumor added outriders) whenever he went to his estate at waltham. this mode of travel offended the sensibilities of his democratic constituents, but did not prevent his being subsequently chosen to the senate of the united states, where he served a term with much distinction. the society of such a man was invaluable to mr. webster at this time. it taught him many things which he could have learned in no other way, and appealed to that strong taste for everything dignified and refined which was so marked a trait of his disposition and habits. he saw now the real possibilities which he had dreamed of in his native village; and while he studied law deeply and helped his brother with his school, he also studied men still more thoroughly and curiously. the professional associates and friends of mr. gore were the leaders of the boston bar when it had many distinguished men whose names hold high places in the history of american law. among them were theophilus parsons, chief justice of massachusetts; samuel dexter, the ablest of them all, fresh from service in congress and the senate and as secretary of the treasury; harrison gray otis, fluent and graceful as an orator; james sullivan, and daniel davis, the solicitor-general. all these and many more mr. webster saw and watched, and he has left in his diary discriminating sketches of parsons and dexter, whom he greatly admired, and of sullivan, of whom he had a poor opinion professionally. towards the end of the year , while mr. webster was thus pleasantly engaged in studying his profession, getting a glimpse of the world, and now and then earning a little money, an opening came to him which seemed to promise immediate and assured prosperity. the judges of his father's court of common pleas offered him the vacant clerkship, worth about fifteen hundred dollars annually. this was wealth to mr. webster. with this income he could relieve the family from debt, make his father's last years comfortable, and smooth ezekiel's path to the bar. when, however, he announced his good luck to mr. gore, and his intention of immediately going home to accept the position, that gentleman, to mr. webster's great surprise, strongly urged a contrary course. he pointed out the possible reduction of the salary, the fact that the office depended on the favor of the judges, and, above all, that it led to nothing, and destroyed the chances of any really great career. this wise mentor said: "go on and finish your studies. you are poor enough, but there are greater evils than poverty; live on no man's favor; what bread you do eat, let it be the bread of independence; pursue your profession, make yourself useful to your friends and a little formidable to your enemies, and you have nothing to fear." mr. webster, always susceptible to outside influences, saw the wisdom of this advice, and accepted it. it would have been well if he had never swerved even by a hair's breadth from the high and sound principles which it inculcated. he acted then without delay. going at once to salisbury, he broke the news of his unlooked-for determination to his father, who was utterly amazed. pride in his son's high spirit mingled somewhat with disappointment at the prospect of continued hardships; but the brave old man accepted the decision with the puritan stoicism which was so marked a trait in his character, and the matter ended there. returning to boston, mr. webster was admitted to the bar in march, . mr. gore moved his admission, and, in the customary speech, prophesied his student's future eminence with a sure knowledge of the latent powers which had dictated his own advice in the matter of the clerkship. soon after this, mr. webster returned to new hampshire and opened his office in the little town of boscawen, in order that he might be near his father. here he devoted himself assiduously to business and study for more than two years, working at his profession, and occasionally writing articles for the "boston anthology." during this time he made his first appearance in court, his father being on the bench. he gathered together a practice worth five or six hundred a year, a very creditable sum for a young country practitioner, and won a reputation which made him known in the state. in april, , after a noble, toiling, unselfish life of sixty-seven years, ebenezer webster died. daniel assumed his father's debts, waited until ezekiel was admitted to the bar, and then, transferring his business to his brother, moved, in the autumn of , to portsmouth. this was the principal town of the state, and offered, therefore, the larger field which he felt he needed to give his talents sufficient scope. thus the first period in his life closed, and he started out on the extended and distinguished career which lay before him. these early years had been years of hardship, but they were among the best of his life. through great difficulties and by the self-sacrifice of his family, he had made his way to the threshold of the career for which he was so richly endowed. he had passed an unblemished youth; he had led a clean, honest, hard-working life; he was simple, manly, affectionate. poverty had been a misfortune, not because it had warped or soured him, for he smiled at it with cheerful philosophy, nor because it had made him avaricious, for he never either then or at any time cared for money for its own sake, and nothing could chill the natural lavishness of his disposition. but poverty accustomed him to borrowing and to debt, and this was a misfortune to a man of mr. webster's temperament. in those early days he was anxious to pay his debts; but they did not lie heavy upon him or carry a proper sense of responsibility, as they did to ezekiel and to his father. he was deeply in debt; his books, even, were bought with borrowed money, all which was natural and inevitable; but the trouble was that it never seems to have weighed upon him or been felt by him as of much importance. he was thus early brought into the habit of debt, and was led unconsciously to regard debts and borrowing as he did the sacrifices of others, as the normal modes of existence. such a condition was to be deplored, because it fostered an unfortunate tendency in his moral nature. with this exception, mr. webster's early years present a bright picture, and one which any man had a right to regard with pride and affection. chapter ii. law and politics in new hampshire. the occasion of mr. webster's first appearance in court has been the subject of varying tradition. it is certain, however, that in the counties where he practised during his residence at boscawen, he made an unusual and very profound impression. the effect then produced is described in homely phrase by one who knew him well. the reference is to a murder trial, in which mr. webster gained his first celebrity. "there was a man tried for his life, and the judges chose webster to plead for him; and, from what i can learn, he never has spoken better than he did there where he first began. he was a black, raven-haired fellow, with an eye as black as death's, and as heavy as a lion's,--that same heavy look, not sleepy, but as if he didn't care about anything that was going on about him or anything anywhere else. he didn't look as if he was thinking about anything, but as if he _would_ think like a hurricane if he once got waked up to it. they say the lion looks so when he is quiet.... webster would sometimes be engaged to argue a case just as it was coming to trial. that would set him to thinking. it wouldn't wrinkle his forehead, but made him restless. he would shift his feet about, and run his hand up over his forehead, through his indian-black hair, and lift his upper lip and show his teeth, which were as white as a hound's." of course the speech so admired then was infinitely below what was done afterwards. the very next was probably better, for mr. webster grew steadily. this observer, however, tells us not what mr. webster said, but how he looked. it was the personal presence which dwelt with every one at this time. thus with his wonderful leonine look and large, dark eyes, and with the growing fame which he had won, mr. webster betook himself to portsmouth. he had met some of the leading lawyers already, but now he was to be brought into direct and almost daily competition with them. at that period in new england there was a great rush of men of talent to the bar, then casting off its colonial fetters and emerging to an independent life. the pulpit had ceased to attract, as of old; medicine was in its infancy; there were none of the other manifold pursuits of to-day, and politics did not offer a career apart. outside of mercantile affairs, therefore, the intellectual forces of the old puritan commonwealths, overflowing with life, and feeling the thrill of youthful independence and the confidence of rapid growth in business, wealth, and population, were concentrated in the law. even in a small state like new hampshire, presenting very limited opportunities, there was, relatively speaking, an extraordinary amount of ability among the members of the bar, notwithstanding the fact that they had but just escaped from the condition of colonists. common sense was the divinity of both the courts and the profession. the learning was not extensive or profound, but practical knowledge, sound principles, and shrewd management were conspicuous. jeremiah smith, the chief justice, a man of humor and cultivation, was a well read and able judge; george sullivan was ready of speech and fertile in expedients; and parsons and dexter of massachusetts, both men of national reputation, appeared from time to time in the new hampshire courts. among the most eminent was william plumer, then senator, and afterwards governor of the state, a well-trained, clear-headed, judicious man. he was one of mr. webster's early antagonists, and defeated him in their first encounter. yet at the same time, although a leader of the bar and a united states senator, he seems to have been oppressed with a sense of responsibility and even of inequality by this thin, black-eyed young lawyer from the back country. mr. plumer was a man of cool and excellent judgment, and he thought that mr. webster on this occasion was too excursive and declamatory. he also deemed him better fitted by mind and temperament for politics than for the law, an opinion fully justified in the future, despite mr. webster's eminence at the bar. in another case, where they were opposed, mr. plumer quoted a passage from peake's "law of evidence." mr. webster criticised the citation as bad law, pronounced the book a miserable two-penny compilation, and then, throwing it down with a fine disdain, said, "so much for mr. thomas peake's compendium of the 'law of evidence.'" such was his manner that every one present appeared to think the point settled, and felt rather ashamed of ever having heard of mr. peake or his unfortunate book. thereupon mr. plumer produced a volume of reports by which it appeared that the despised passage was taken word for word from one of lord mansfield's decisions. the wretched peake's character was rehabilitated, and mr. webster silenced. this was an illustration of a failing of mr. webster at that time. he was rough and unceremonious, and even overbearing, both to court and bar, the natural result of a new sense of power in an inexperienced man. this harshness of manner, however, soon disappeared. he learned rapidly to practise the stately and solemn courtesy which distinguished him through life. there was one lawyer, however, at the head of his profession in new hampshire, who had more effect upon mr. webster than any other whom he ever met there or elsewhere. this was the man to whom the shaker said: "by thy size and thy language[ ] i judge that thou art jeremiah mason." mr. mason was one of the greatest common-lawyers this country has ever produced. keen and penetrating in intellect, he was master of a relentless logic and of a style which, though simple and homely, was clear and correct to the last point. slow and deliberate in his movements, and sententious in his utterances, he dealt so powerfully with evidence and so lucidly with principles of law that he rarely failed to carry conviction to his hearers. he was particularly renowned for his success in getting verdicts. many years afterwards mr. webster gave it as his deliberate opinion that he had never met with a stronger intellect, a mind of more native resources or quicker and deeper vision than were possessed by mr. mason, whom in mental reach and grasp and in closeness of reasoning he would not allow to be second even to chief justice marshall. mr. mason on his side, with his usual sagacity, at once detected the great talents of mr. webster. in the first case where they were opposed, a murder trial, mr. webster took the place of the attorney-general for the prosecution. mr. mason, speaking of the impression made by his youthful and then unknown opponent, said:-- "he broke upon me like a thunder shower in july, sudden, portentous, sweeping all before it. it was the first case in which he appeared at our bar; a criminal prosecution in which i had arranged a very pretty defence, as against the attorney-general, atkinson, who was able enough in his way, but whom i knew very well how to take. atkinson being absent, webster conducted the case for him, and turned, in the most masterly manner, the line of my defences, carrying with him all but one of the jurors, so that i barely saved my client by my best exertions. i was nevermore surprised than by this remarkable exhibition of unexpected power. it surpassed, in some respects, anything which i have ever since seen even in him." [footnote : mr. mason, as is well known, was six feet seven inches in height, and his language, always very forcible and direct, was, when he was irritated, if we may trust tradition, at times somewhat profane.] with all his admiration for his young antagonist, however, one cannot help noticing that the generous and modest but astute counsel for the defence ended by winning his case. fortune showered many favors upon mr. webster, but none more valuable than that of having jeremiah mason as his chief opponent at the new hampshire bar. mr. mason had no spark of envy in his composition. he not only regarded with pleasure the great abilities of mr. webster, but he watched with kindly interest the rapid rise which soon made this stranger from the country his principal competitor and the champion commonly chosen to meet him in the courts. he gave mr. webster his friendship, staunch and unvarying, until his death; he gave freely also of his wisdom and experience in advice and counsel. best of all was the opportunity of instruction and discipline which mr. webster gained by repeated contests with such a man. the strong qualities of mr. webster's mind rapidly developed by constant practice and under such influences. he showed more and more in every case his wonderful instinct for seizing on the very heart of a question, and for extricating the essential points from the midst of confused details and clashing arguments. he displayed, too, more strongly every day his capacity for close, logical reasoning and for telling retort, backed by a passion and energy none the less effective from being but slowly called into activity. in a word, the unequalled power of stating facts or principles, which was the predominant quality of mr. webster's genius, grew steadily with a vigorous vitality while his eloquence developed in a similar striking fashion. much of this growth and improvement was due to the sharp competition and bright example of mr. mason. but the best lesson that mr. webster learned from his wary yet daring antagonist was in regard to style. when he saw mr. mason go close to the jury box, and in a plain style and conversational manner, force conviction upon his hearers, and carry off verdict after verdict, mr. webster felt as he had never done before the defects of his own modes of expression. his florid phrases looked rather mean, insincere, and tasteless, besides being weak and ineffective. from that time he began to study simplicity and directness, which ended in the perfection of a style unsurpassed in modern oratory. the years of mr. webster's professional life in portsmouth under the tuition of mr. mason were of inestimable service to him. early in this period, also, mr. webster gave up his bachelor existence, and made for himself a home. when he first appeared at church in portsmouth the minister's daughter noted and remembered his striking features and look, and regarded him as one with great capacities for good or evil. but the interesting stranger was not destined to fall a victim to any of the young ladies of portsmouth. in the spring of he slipped away from his new friends and returned to salisbury, where, in may, he was married. the bride he brought back to portsmouth was grace fletcher, daughter of the minister of hopkinton. mr. webster is said to have seen her first at church in salisbury, whither she came on horseback in a tight-fitting black velvet dress, and looking, as he said, "like an angel." she was certainly a very lovely and charming woman, of delicate and refined sensibilities and bright and sympathetic mind. she was a devoted wife, the object of her husband's first and strongest love, and the mother of his children. it is very pleasant to look at mr. webster in his home during these early years of his married life. it was a happy, innocent, untroubled time. he was advancing in his profession, winning fame and respect, earning a sufficient income, blessed in his domestic relations, and with his children growing up about him. he was social by nature, and very popular everywhere. genial and affectionate in disposition, he attached everybody to him, and his hearty humor, love of mimicry, and fund of anecdote made him a delightful companion, and led mr. mason to say that the stage had lost a great actor in webster. but while he was thus enjoying professional success and the contented happiness of his fireside, he was slowly but surely drifting into the current of politics, whither his genius led him, and which had for him an irresistible attraction. mr. webster took both his politics and his religion from his father, and does not appear to have questioned either. he had a peculiarly conservative cast of mind. in an age of revolution and scepticism he showed no trace of the questioning spirit which then prevailed. even in his earliest years he was a firm believer in existing institutions, in what was fixed and established. he had a little of the disposition of lord thurlow, who, when asked by a dissenter why, being a notorious free-thinker, he so ardently supported the established church, replied: "i support the church of england because it is established. establish your religion, and i'll support that." but if mr. webster took his religion and politics from his father in an unquestioning spirit, he accepted them in a mild form. he was a liberal federalist because he had a wide mental vision, and by nature took broad views of everything. his father, on the other hand, was a rigid, intolerant federalist of a thorough-going puritan type. being taken ill once in a town of democratic proclivities, he begged to be carried home. "i was born a federalist," he said, "i have lived a federalist, and i won't die in a democratic town." in the same way ezekiel webster's uncompromising federalism shut him out from political preferment, and he would never modify his principles one jot in order to gain the seat in congress which he might easily have obtained by slight concessions. the broad and liberal spirit of daniel webster rose superior to the rigid and even narrow opinions of his father and brother, but perhaps it would have been better for him if he had had in addition to his splendid mind the stern, unbending force of character which made his father and brother stand by their principles with immovable puritan determination. liberal as he was, however, in his political opinions, the same conservative spirit which led him to adopt his creed made him sustain it faithfully and constantly when he had once accepted it. he was a steady and trusted party man, although neither then nor at any time a blind, unreasoning partisan. mr. webster came forward gradually as a political leader by occasional addresses and speeches, at first with long intervals between them, and then becoming more frequent, until at last he found himself fairly engaged in a public career. in , at the request of some of his father's friends, he published a pamphlet, entitled, "an appeal to old whigs," in the interest of gilman, the federal candidate for governor. he seems to have had a very poor opinion of this performance, and his interest in the success of the party at that juncture was very slight. in he delivered a fourth of july oration at salisbury, which has not been preserved; and in the following year he gave another before the "federal gentlemen" of concord, which was published. the tone of this speech is not very partisan, nor does it exhibit the bitter spirit of the federalists, although he attacked the administration, was violent in urging the protection of commerce, and was extremely savage in his remarks about france. at times the style is forcible, and even rich, but, as a rule, it is still strained and artificial. the oration begins eagerly with an appeal for the constitution and the republic, the ideas always uppermost in mr. webster's mind. as a whole, it shows a distinct improvement in form, but there are no marks of genius to raise it above the ordinary level of fourth of july speeches. his next production was a little pamphlet, published in , on the embargo, which was then paralyzing new england, and crushing out her prosperity. this essay is important because it is the first clear instance of that wonderful faculty which mr. webster had of seizing on the vital point of a subject, and bringing it out in such a way that everybody could see and understand it. in this case the point was the distinction between a temporary embargo and one of unlimited duration. mr. webster contended that the latter was unconstitutional. the great mischief of the embargo was in jefferson's concealed intention that it should be unlimited in point of time, a piece of recklessness and deceit never fully appreciated until it had all passed into history. this mr. webster detected and brought out as the most illegal and dangerous feature of the measure, while he also discussed the general policy in its fullest extent. in he spoke before the phi beta kappa society, upon "the state of our literature," an address without especial interest except as showing a very marked improvement in style, due, no doubt, to the influence of mr. mason. during the next three years mr. webster was completely absorbed in the practice of his profession, and not until the declaration of war with england had stirred and agitated the whole country did he again come before the public. the occasion of his reappearance was the fourth of july celebration in , when he addressed the washington benevolent society at portsmouth. the speech was a strong, calm statement of the grounds of opposition to the war. he showed that "maritime defence, commercial regulations, and national revenue" were the very corner-stones of the constitution, and that these great interests had been crippled and abused by the departure from washington's policy. he developed, with great force, the principal and the most unanswerable argument of his party, that the navy had been neglected and decried because it was a federalist scheme, when a navy was what we wanted above all things, and especially when we were drifting into a maritime conflict. he argued strongly in favor of a naval war, and measures of naval defence, instead of wasting our resources by an invasion of canada. so far he went strictly with his party, merely invigorating and enforcing their well-known principles. but when he came to defining the proper limits of opposition to the war he modified very essentially the course prescribed by advanced federalist opinions. the majority of that party in new england were prepared to go to the very edge of the narrow legal line which divides constitutional opposition from treasonable resistance. they were violent, bitter, and uncompromising in their language and purposes. from this mr. webster was saved by his breadth of view, his clear perceptions, and his intense national feeling. he says on this point:-- "with respect to the war in which we are now involved, the course which our principles require us to pursue cannot be doubtful. it is now the law of the land, and as such we are bound to regard it. resistance and insurrection form no part of our creed. the disciples of washington are neither tyrants in power nor rebels out. if we are taxed to carry on this war we shall disregard certain distinguished examples and shall pay. if our personal services are required we shall yield them to the precise extent of our constitutional liability. at the same time the world may be assured that we know our rights and shall exercise them. we shall express our opinions on this, as on every measure of the government,--i trust without passion, i am certain without fear. by the exercise of our constitutional right of suffrage, by the peaceable remedy of election, we shall seek to restore wisdom to our councils, and peace to our country." this was a sensible and patriotic opposition. it represented the views of the moderate federalists, and traced the lines which mr. webster consistently followed during the first years of his public life. the address concluded by pointing out the french trickery which had provoked the war, and by denouncing an alliance with french despotism and ambition. this oration was printed, and ran at once through two editions. it led to the selection of mr. webster as a delegate to an assembly of the people of the county of rockingham, a sort of mass convention, held in august, . there he was placed on the committee to prepare the address, and was chosen to write their report, which was adopted and published. this important document, widely known at the time as the "rockingham memorial," was a careful argument against the war, and a vigorous and able presentation of the federalist views. it was addressed to the president, whom it treated with respectful severity. with much skill it turned mr. madison's own arguments against himself, and appealed to public opinion by its clear and convincing reasoning. in one point the memorial differed curiously from the oration of a month before. the latter pointed to the suffrage as the mode of redress; the former distinctly hinted at and almost threatened secession even while it deplored a dissolution of the union as a possible result of the administration's policy. in the one case mr. webster was expressing his own views, in the other he was giving utterance to the opinions of the members of his party among whom he stood. this little incident shows the susceptibility to outside influences which formed such an odd trait in the character of a man so imperious by nature. when acting alone, he spoke his own opinions. when in a situation where public opinion was concentrated against him, he submitted to modifications of his views with a curious and indolent indifference. the immediate result to mr. webster of the ability and tact which he displayed at the rockingham convention was his election to the thirteenth congress, where he took his seat in may, . there were then many able men in the house. mr. clay was speaker, and on the floor were john c. calhoun, langdon cheves and william lowndes of south carolina, forsyth and troup of georgia, ingersoll of pennsylvania, grundy of tennessee, and mclean of ohio, all conspicuous in the young nationalist war party. macon and eppes were representatives of the old jeffersonian republicans, while the federalists were strong in the possession of such leaders as pickering of massachusetts, pitkin of connecticut, grosvenor and benson of new york, hanson of maryland, and william gaston of north carolina. it was a house in which any one might have been glad to win distinction. that mr. webster was considered, at the outset, to be a man of great promise is shown by the fact that he was placed on the committee on foreign relations, of which mr. calhoun was the head, and which, in the war time, was the most important committee of the house. mr. webster's first act was a characteristic one. early in june he introduced a set of resolutions calling upon the president for information as to the time and mode in which the repeal of the french decrees had been communicated to our government. his unerring sagacity in singling out the weak point in his enemy's armor and in choosing his own keenest weapon, was never better illustrated than on this occasion. we know now that in the negotiations for the repeal of the decrees, the french government tricked us into war with england by most profligate lying. it was apparent then that there was something wrong, and that either our government had been deceived, or had withheld the publication of the repealing decree until war was declared, so that england might not have a pretext for rescinding the obnoxious orders. either horn of the dilemma, therefore, was disagreeable to the administration, and a disclosure could hardly fail to benefit the federalists. mr. webster supported his resolutions with a terse and simple speech of explanation, so far as we can judge from the meagre abstract which has come down to us. the resolutions, however, were a firebrand, and lighted up an angry and protracted debate, but the ruling party, as mr. webster probably foresaw, did not dare to vote them down, and they passed by large majorities. mr. webster spoke but once, and then very briefly, during the progress of the debate, and soon after returned to new hampshire. with the exception of these resolutions, he took no active part whatever in the business of the house beyond voting steadily with his party, a fact of which we may be sure because he was always on the same side as that staunch old partisan, timothy pickering. after a summer passed in the performance of his professional duties, mr. webster returned to washington. he was late in his coming, congress having been in session nearly three weeks when he arrived to find that he had been dropped from the committee on foreign relations. the dominant party probably discovered that he was a young man of rather too much promise and too formidable an opponent for such an important post. his resolutions had been answered at the previous session, after his departure, and the report, which consisted of a lame explanation of the main point, and an elaborate defence of the war, had been quietly laid aside. mr. webster desired debate on this subject, and succeeded in carrying a reference of the report to a committee of the whole, but his opponents prevented its ever coming to discussion. in the long session which ensued, mr. webster again took comparatively little part in general business, but he spoke oftener than before. he seems to have been reserving his strength and making sure of his ground. he defended the federalists as the true friends of the navy, and he resisted with great power the extravagant attempt to extend martial law to all citizens suspected of treason. on january , , he made a long and well reported speech against a bill to encourage enlistments. this is the first example of the eloquence which mr. webster afterwards carried to such high perfection. some of his subsequent speeches far surpass this one, but they differ from it in degree, not in kind. he was now master of the style at which he aimed. the vehicle was perfected and his natural talent gave that vehicle abundance of thought to be conveyed. the whole speech is simple in form, direct and forcible. it has the elasticity and vigor of great strength, and glows with eloquence in some passages. here, too, we see for the first time that power of deliberate and measured sarcasm which was destined to become in his hands such a formidable weapon. the florid rhetoric of the early days is utterly gone, and the thought comes to us in those short and pregnant sentences and in the choice and effective words which were afterwards so typical of the speaker. the speech itself was a party speech and a presentation of party arguments. it offered nothing new, but the familiar principles had hardly ever been stated in such a striking and impressive fashion. mr. webster attacked the war policy and the conduct of the war, and advocated defensive warfare, a navy, and the abandonment of the restrictive laws that were ruining our commerce, which had been the main cause of the adoption of the constitution. the conclusion of this speech is not far from the level of mr. webster's best work. it is too long for quotation, but a few sentences will show its quality:-- "give up your futile projects of invasion. extinguish the fires that blaze on your inland frontier. establish perfect safety and defence there by adequate force. let every man that sleeps on your soil sleep in security. stop the blood that flows from the veins of unarmed yeomanry and women and children. give to the living time to bury and lament their dead in the quietness of private sorrow. having performed this work of beneficence and mercy on your inland border, turn, and look with the eye of justice and compassion on your vast population along the coast. unclench the iron grasp of your embargo. take measures for that end before another sun sets.... let it no longer be said that not one ship of force, built by your hands, yet floats upon the ocean.... if then the war must be continued, go to the ocean. if you are seriously contending for maritime rights, go to the theatre where alone those rights can be defended. thither every indication of your fortune points you. there the united wishes and exertions of the nation will go with you. even our party divisions, acrimonious as they are, cease at the water's edge." events soon forced the policy urged by mr. webster upon the administration, whose friends carried first a modification of the embargo, and before the close of the session introduced a bill for its total repeal. the difficult task of advocating this measure devolved upon mr. calhoun, who sustained his cause more ingeniously than ingenuously. he frankly admitted that restriction was a failure as a war measure, but he defended the repeal on the ground that the condition of affairs in europe had changed since the restrictive policy was adopted. it had indeed changed since the embargo of , but not since the imposition of that of , which was the one under discussion. mr. calhoun laid himself open to most unmerciful retorts, which was his misfortune, not his fault, for the embargo had been utterly and hopelessly wrong from the beginning. mr. webster, however, took full advantage of the opportunity thus presented. his opening congratulations are in his best vein of stately sarcasm, and are admirably put. he followed this up by a new argument of great force, showing the colonial spirit of the restrictive policy. he also dwelt with fresh vigor on the identification with france necessitated by the restrictive laws, a reproach which stung mr. calhoun and his followers more than anything else. he then took up the embargo policy and tore it to pieces,--no very difficult undertaking, but well performed. the shifty and shifting policy of the government was especially distasteful to mr. webster, with his lofty conception of consistent and steady statesmanship, a point which is well brought out in the following passage:-- "in a commercial country, nothing can be more objectionable than frequent and violent changes. the concerns of private business do not endure such rude shocks but with extreme inconvenience and great loss. it would seem, however, that there is a class of politicians to whose taste all change is suited, to whom whatever is unnatural seems wise, and all that is violent appears great.... the embargo act, the non-importation act, and all the crowd of additions and supplements, together with all their garniture of messages, reports, and resolutions, are tumbling undistinguished into one common grave. but yesterday this policy had a thousand friends and supporters; to-day it is fallen and prostrate, and few 'so poor as to do it reverence.' sir, a government which cannot administer the affairs of a nation without so frequent and such violent alterations in the ordinary occupations and pursuits of private life, has, in my opinion, little claim to the regard of the community." all this is very characteristic of mr. webster's temperament in dealing with public affairs, and is a very good example of his power of dignified reproach and condemnation. mr. calhoun had said at the close of his speech, that the repeal of the restrictive measures should not be allowed to affect the double duties which protected manufactures. mr. webster discussed this point at length, defining his own position, which was that of the new england federalists, who believed in free trade as an abstract principle, and considered protection only as an expedient of which they wanted as little as possible. mr. webster set forth these views in his usual effective and lucid manner, but they can be considered more fitly at the period when he dealt with the tariff as a leading issue of the day and of his own public life. mr. webster took no further action of importance at this session, not even participating in the great debate on the loan bill; but, by the manner in which these two speeches were referred to and quoted in congress for many days after they were delivered, we can perceive the depth of their first impression. i have dwelt upon them at length because they are not in the collected edition of his speeches, where they well deserve a place, and, still more, because they are the first examples of his parliamentary eloquence which show his characteristic qualities and the action of his mind. mr. webster was a man of slow growth, not reaching his highest point until he was nearly fifty years of age, but these two speeches mark an advanced stage in his progress. the only fresh point that he made was when he declared that the embargo was colonial in spirit; and this thought proceeded from the vital principle of mr. webster's public life, his intense love for nationality and union, which grew with his growth and strengthened with his strength. in other respects, these speeches presented simply the arguments and opinions of his party. they fell upon the ear of congress and the country with a new and ringing sound because they were stated so finely and with such simplicity. certainly one of them, and probably both, were delivered without any immediate preparation, but they really had the preparation of years, and were the utterance of thoughts which had been garnered up by long meditation. he wisely confined himself at this time to a subject which had been long before his mind, and upon which he had gathered all the essential points by observation and by a study of the multitude of speeches and essays with which the country had been deluged. these early speeches, like some of the best of his prime, although nominally unprepared, were poured forth from the overflowing resources which had been the fruit of months of reflection, and which had been stored up by an unyielding memory. they had really been in preparation ever since the embargo pamphlet of , and that was one reason for their ripeness and terseness, for their easy flow and condensed force. i have examined with care the debates in that congress. there were many able and experienced speakers on the floor. mr. clay, it is true, took no part, and early in the session went to europe. but mr. calhoun led in debate, and there were many others second only to him. among all the speeches, however, mr. webster's stand out in sharp relief. his utterances were as clear and direct as those of mr. calhoun, but they had none of the south carolinian's dryness. we can best judge of their merit and their effect by comparing them with those of his associates. they were not only forcible, but they were vivid also and full of life, and his words when he was roused fell like the blows of a hammer on an anvil. they lacked the polish and richness of his later efforts, but the force and power of statement and the purity of diction were all there, and men began to realize that one destined to great achievements had entered the field of american politics. this was very apparent when mr. webster came back to washington for the extra session called in september, . although he had made previously but two set speeches, and had taken comparatively little part in every-day debate, he was now acknowledged, after his few months of service, to be one of the foremost men in the house, and the strongest leader in his party. he differed somewhat at this time from the prevailing sentiment of the federalists in new england, for the guiding principle of his life, his love of nationality, overrode all other influences. he discountenanced the measures which led to the hartford convention, and he helped to keep new hampshire out of that movement; but it is an entire mistake to represent him as an independent federalist at this period. the days of mr. webster's independent politics came later, when the federalists had ceased to exist as a party and when no new ties had been formed. in the winter of and , although, like many of the moderate federalists, he disapproved of the separatist movement in new england, on all other party questions he acted consistently with the straitest of the sect. sensibly enough, he did not consider the convention at hartford, although he had nothing to do with it, either treasonable or seditious; and yet, much as he disliked its supposed purposes, he did not hesitate, in a speech on the enlistment bill, to use them as a threat to deter the administration from war measures. this was a favorite federalist practice, gloomily to point out at this time the gathering clouds of domestic strife, in order to turn the administration back from war, that poor frightened administration of mr. madison, which had for months been clutching frantically at every straw which seemed to promise a chance of peace. but although mr. webster went as steadily and even more strongly with his party in this session, he did more and better service than ever before, partly, perhaps, because on the questions which arose, his party was, in the main, entirely right. the strength of his party feeling is shown by his attitude in regard to the war taxes, upon which he made a quiet but effective speech. he took the ground that, as a member of the minority, he could not prevent the taxes nor stop hostilities, but he could protest against the war, its conduct, and its authors, by voting against the taxes. there is a nice question of political ethics here as to how far an opposition ought to go in time of national war and distress, but it is certainly impossible to give a more extreme expression to parliamentary opposition than to refuse the supplies at a most critical moment in a severe conflict. to this last extreme of party opposition to the administration, mr. webster went. it was as far as he could go and remain loyal to the union. but there he stopped absolutely. with the next step, which went outside the union, and which his friends at home were considering, he would have nothing to do, and he would not countenance any separatist schemes. in the national congress, however, he was prepared to advance as far as the boldest and bitterest in opposition, and he either voted against the war taxes or abstained from voting on them, in company with the strictest partisans of the pickering type. there is no need to suppose from this that mr. webster had lost in the least the liberality or breadth of view which always characterized him. he was no narrower then than when he entered congress, or than when he left it. he went with his party because he believed it to be right,--as at that moment it undoubtedly was. the party, however, was still extreme and bitter, as it had been for ten years, but mr. webster was neither. he went all lengths with his friends in congress, but he did not share their intensity of feeling or their fierce hostility to individuals. the federalists, for instance, as a rule had ceased to call upon mr. madison, but in such intolerance mr. webster declined to indulge. he was always on good terms with the president and with all the hostile leaders. his opposition was extreme in principle, but not in manner; it was vigorous and uncompromising, but also stately and dignified. it was part of his large and indolent nature to accept much and question little; to take the ideas most easy and natural to him, those of his friends and associates, and of his native new england, without needless inquiry and investigation. it was part of the same nature, also, to hold liberal views after he had fairly taken sides, and never, by confounding individuals with principles and purposes, to import into politics the fiery, biting element of personal hatred and malice. his position in the house once assured, we find mr. webster taking a much more active part in the daily debates than before. on these occasions we hear of his "deliberate, conversational" manner, another of the lessons learned from mr. mason when that gentleman, standing so close to the jury-box that he could have "laid his finger on the foreman's nose," as mr. webster said, chatted easily with each juryman, and won a succession of verdicts. but besides the daily debate, mr. webster spoke at length on several important occasions. this was the case with the enlistment bill, which involved a forced draft, including minors, and was deemed unconstitutional by the federalists. mr. webster had "a hand," as he puts it,--a strong one, we may be sure,--in killing "mr. monroe's conscription." the most important measure, however, with which mr. webster was called to deal, and to which he gave his best efforts, was the attempt to establish a national bank. there were three parties in the house on this question. the first represented the "old republican" doctrines, and was opposed to any bank. the second represented the theories of hamilton and the federalists, and favored a bank with a reasonable capital, specie-paying, and free to decide about making loans to the government. the third body was composed of members of the national war-party, who were eager for a bank merely to help the government out of its appalling difficulties. they, therefore, favored an institution of large capital, non-specie-paying, and obliged to make heavy loans to the government, which involved, of course, an irredeemable paper currency. in a word, there was the party of no bank, the party of a specie bank, and the party of a huge paper-money bank. the second of these parties, with which of course mr. webster acted, held the key of the situation. no bank could be established unless it was based on their principles. the first bill, proposing a paper-money bank, originated in the house, and was killed there by a strong majority, mr. webster making a long speech against it which has not been preserved. the next bill came from the senate, and was also for a paper-money bank. against this scheme mr. webster made a second elaborate speech, which is reprinted in his works. his genius for arranging and stating facts held its full strength in questions of finance, and he now established his reputation as a master in that difficult department of statesmanship. his recent studies of economical questions in late english works and in english history gave freshness to what he said, and in clearness of argument, in range of view, and wisdom of judgment, he showed himself a worthy disciple of the school of hamilton. his argument proceeded on the truest economical and commercial principles, and was, indeed, unanswerable. he then took his stand as the foe of irredeemable paper, whether in war or peace, and of wild, unrestrained banking, a position from which he never wavered, and in support of which he rendered to the country some of his best service as a public man. the bill was defeated by the casting vote of the speaker. when the result was announced, mr. calhoun was utterly overwhelmed. he cared little for the bank but deeply for the government, which, as it was not known that peace had been made, seemed to be on the verge of ruin. he came over to mr. webster, and, bursting into tears, begged the latter to aid in establishing a proper bank, a request which was freely granted. the vote was then reconsidered, the bill recommitted and brought back, with a reduced capital, and freed from the government power to force loans and suspend specie payments. this measure was passed by a large majority, composed of the federalists and the friends of the government, but it was the plan of the former which had prevailed. the president vetoed the bill for a variety of reasons, duly stated, but really, as mr. webster said, because a sound bank of this sort was not in favor with the administration. another paper-money scheme was introduced, and the conflict began again, but was abruptly terminated by the news of peace, and on march the thirteenth congress came to an end. the fourteenth congress, to which he had been reëlected, mr. webster said many years afterward, was the most remarkable for talents of any he had ever seen. to the leaders of marked ability in the previous congress, most of whom had been reëlected, several others were added. mr. clay returned from europe to take again an active part. mr. pinkney, the most eminent practising lawyer in the country, recently attorney-general and minister to england, whom john randolph, with characteristic insolence, "believed to be from maryland," was there until his appointment to the russian mission. last, but not least, there was john randolph himself, wildly eccentric and venomously eloquent,--sometimes witty, always odd and amusing, talking incessantly on everything, so that the reporters gave him up in despair, and with whom mr. webster came to a definite understanding before the close of the session. mr. webster did not take his seat until february, being detained at the north by the illness of his daughter grace. when he arrived he found congress at work upon a bank bill possessing the same objectionable features of paper money and large capital as the former schemes which he had helped to overthrow. he began his attack upon this dangerous plan by considering the evil condition of the currency. he showed that the currency of the united states was sound because it was gold and silver, in his opinion the only constitutional medium, but that the country was flooded by the irredeemable paper of the state banks. congress could not regulate the state banks, but they could force them to specie payments by refusing to receive any notes which were not paid in specie by the bank which issued them. passing to the proposed national bank, he reiterated the able arguments which he had made in the previous congress against the large capital, the power to suspend specie payments, and the stock feature of the bank, which he thought would lead to speculation and control by the state banks. this last point is the first instance of that financial foresight for which mr. webster was so remarkable, and which shows so plainly the soundness of his knowledge in regard to economical matters. a violent speculation in bank stock did ensue, and the first years of the new institution were troubled, disorderly, and anything but creditable. the opposition of mr. webster and those who thought with him, resulted in the reduction of the capital and the removal of the power to suspend specie payments. but although shorn of its most obnoxious features, mr. webster voted against the bill on its final passage on account of the participation permitted to the government in its management. he was quite right, but, after the bank was well established, he supported it as lord thurlow promised to do in regard to the dissenter's religion. indeed, mr. webster ultimately so far lost his original dislike to this bank that he became one of its warmest adherents. the plan was defective, but the scheme, on the whole, worked better than had been expected. immediately after the passage of the bank bill, mr. calhoun introduced a bill requiring the revenue to be collected in lawful money of the united states. a sharp debate ensued, and the bill was lost. mr. webster at once offered resolutions requiring all government dues to be paid in coin, in treasury notes, or in notes of the bank of the united states. he supported these resolutions, thus daringly put forward just after the principle they involved had been voted down, in a speech of singular power, clear, convincing, and full of information and illustration. he elaborated the ideas contained in his previous remarks on the currency, displaying with great force the evils of irredeemable paper, and the absolute necessity of a sound currency based on specie payments. he won a signal victory by the passage of his resolutions, which brought about resumption, and, after the bank was firmly established, gave us a sound currency and a safe medium of exchange. this was one of the most conspicuous services ever rendered by mr. webster to the business interests and good government of the country, and he deserves the full credit, for he triumphed where mr. calhoun had just been defeated. mr. webster took more or less part in all the questions which afterwards arose in the house, especially on the tariff, but his great efforts were those devoted to the bank and the currency. the only other incident of the session was an invitation to fight a duel sent him by john randolph. this was the only challenge ever received by mr. webster. he never could have seemed a very happy subject for such missives, and, moreover, he never indulged in language calculated to provoke them. randolph, however, would have challenged anybody or anything, from henry clay to a field-mouse, if the fancy happened to strike him. mr. webster's reply is a model of dignity and veiled contempt. he refused to admit randolph's right to an explanation, alluded to that gentleman's lack of courtesy in the house, denied his right to call him out, and wound up by saying that he did not feel bound to risk his life at any one's bidding, but should "always be prepared to repel, in a suitable manner, the aggression of any man who may presume on this refusal." one cannot help smiling over this last clause, with its suggestion of personal violence, as the two men rise before the fancy,--the big, swarthy black-haired son of the northern hills, with his robust common sense, and the sallow, lean, sickly virginia planter, not many degrees removed mentally from the patients in bedlam. in the affairs of the next session of the fourteenth congress mr. webster took scarcely any part. he voted for mr. calhoun's internal improvement bill, although without entering the debate, and he also voted to pass the bill over mr. madison's veto. this was sound hamiltonian federalism, and in entire consonance with the national sentiments of mr. webster. on the constitutional point, which he is said to have examined with some care, he decided in accordance with the opinions of his party, and with the doctrine of liberal construction, to which he always adhered. on march , , the fourteenth congress expired, and with it the term of mr. webster's service. five years were to intervene before he again appeared in the arena of national politics. this retirement from active public life was due to professional reasons. in nine years mr. webster had attained to the very summit of his profession in new hampshire. he was earning two thousand dollars a year, and in that hardy and poor community he could not hope to earn more. to a man with such great and productive talents, and with a growing family, a larger field had become an absolute necessity. in june, , therefore, mr. webster removed from portsmouth to boston. that he gained by the change is apparent from the fact that the first year after his removal his professional income did not fall short of twenty thousand dollars. the first suggestion of the possibilities of wealth offered to his abilities in a suitable field came from his going to washington. there, in the winter of and , he was admitted to the bar of the supreme court of the united states, before which he tried two or three cases, and this opened the vista of a professional career, which he felt would give him verge and room enough, as well as fit remuneration. from this beginning the supreme court practice, which soon led to the removal to boston, rapidly increased, until, in the last session of his term, it occupied most of his time. this withdrawal from the duties of congress, however, was not due to a sacrifice of his time to his professional engagements, but to the depression caused by his first great grief, which must have rendered the noise and dust of debate most distasteful to him. mr. and mrs. webster had arrived in washington for this last session, in december, , and were recalled to boston by the illness of their little daughter grace, who was their oldest child, singularly bright and precocious, with much of her father's look and talent, and of her mother's sensibility. she was a favorite with her father, and tenderly beloved by him. after her parents' return she sank rapidly, the victim of consumption. when the last hour was at hand, the child, rousing from sleep, asked for her father. he came, raised her upon his arm, and, as he did so, she smiled upon him and died. it is a little incident in the life of a great man, but a child's instinct does not err at such a moment, and her dying smile sheds a flood of soft light upon the deep and warm affections of mr. webster's solemn and reserved nature. it was the first great grief. mr. webster wept convulsively as he stood beside the dead, and those who saw that stately creature so wrung by anguish of the heart never forgot the sight. thus the period which began at portsmouth in closed in boston, in , with the death of the eldest born. in that decade mr. webster had advanced with great strides from the position of a raw and youthful lawyer in a back country town of new hampshire. he had reached the highest professional eminence in his own state, and had removed to a wider sphere, where he at once took rank with the best lawyers. he was a leading practitioner in the highest national court. during his two terms in congress he had become a leader of his party, and had won a solid national reputation. in those years he had rendered conspicuous service to the business interests of the nation, and had established himself as one of the ablest statesmen of the country in matters of finance. he had defined his position on the tariff as a free-trader in theory and a very moderate protectionist when protection was unavoidable, a true representative of the doctrine of the new england federalists. he had taken up his ground as the champion of specie payments and of the liberal interpretation of the constitution, which authorized internal improvements. while he had not shrunk from extreme opposition to the administration during the war, he had kept himself entirely clear from the separatist sentiment of new england in the year . he left congress with a realizing sense of his own growing powers, and, rejoicing in his strength, he turned to his profession and to his new duties in his new home. chapter iii. the dartmouth college case.--mr. webster as a lawyer. there is a vague tradition that when mr. webster took up his residence in boston, some of the worthies of that ancient puritan town were disposed at first to treat him rather cavalierly and make him understand that because he was great in new hampshire it did not follow that he was also great in massachusetts. they found very quickly, however, that it was worse than useless to attempt anything of this sort with a man who, by his mere look and presence whenever he entered a room, drew all eyes to himself and hushed the murmur of conversation. it is certain that mr. webster soon found himself the friend and associate of all the agreeable and distinguished men of the town, and that he rapidly acquired that general popularity which, in those days, went with him everywhere. it is also certain that he at once and without effort assumed the highest position at the bar as the recognized equal of its most eminent leaders. with an income increased tenfold and promising still further enlargement, a practice in which one fee probably surpassed the earnings of three months in new hampshire, with an agreeable society about him, popular abroad, happy and beloved at home, nothing could have been more auspicious than these opening years of his life in boston. the period upon which he then entered, and during which he withdrew from active public service to devote himself to his profession, was a very important one in his career. it was a period marked by a rapid intellectual growth and by the first exhibition of his talents on a large scale. it embraces, moreover, two events, landmarks in the life of mr. webster, which placed him before the country as one of the first and the most eloquent of her constitutional lawyers, and as the great master in the art of occasional oratory. the first of these events was the argument in the dartmouth college case; the second was the delivery of the plymouth oration. i do not propose to enter into or discuss the merits or demerits of the constitutional and legal theories and principles involved in the famous "college causes," or in any other of the great cases subsequently argued by mr. webster. in a biography of this kind it is sufficient to examine mr. webster's connection with the dartmouth college case, and endeavor, by a study of his arguments in that and in certain other hardly less important causes, to estimate properly the character and quality of his abilities as a lawyer, both in the ordinary acceptation of the term and in dealing with constitutional questions. the complete history of the dartmouth college case is very curious and deserves more than a passing notice. until within three years it is not too much to say that it was quite unknown, and its condition is but little better now. in mr. john m. shirley published a volume entitled the "dartmouth college causes," which is a monument of careful study and thorough research. most persons would conclude that it was a work of merely legal interest, appealing to a limited class of professional readers. even those into whose hands it chanced to come have probably been deterred from examining it as it deserves by the first chapter, which is very obscure, and by the confusion of the narrative which follows. yet this monograph, which has so unfortunately suffered from a defective arrangement of material, is of very great value, not only to our legal and constitutional history, but to the political history of the time and to a knowledge of the distinguished actors in a series of events which resulted in the establishment of one of the most far-reaching of constitutional doctrines, one that has been a living question ever since the year , and is at this moment of vast practical importance. mr. shirley has drawn forth from the oblivion of manuscript a collection of documents which, taken in conjunction with those already in print, throws a flood of light upon a dark place of the past and gives to a dry constitutional question the vital and human interest of political and personal history. in his early days, eleazer wheelock, the founder of dartmouth college, had had much religious controversy with dr. bellamy of connecticut, who was like himself a graduate of yale. wheelock was a presbyterian and a liberal, bellamy a congregationalist and strictly orthodox. the charter of dartmouth was free from any kind of religious discrimination. by his will the elder wheelock provided in such a way that his son succeeded him in the presidency of the college. in judge niles, a pupil of bellamy, became a trustee of the college, and he and john wheelock represented the opposite views which they respectively inherited from tutor and father. they were formed for mutual hostility, and the contest began some twelve years before it reached the public. the trustees and the president were then all federalists, and there would seem to have been no differences of either a political or a religious nature. the trouble arose from the resistance of a minority of the trustees to what they termed the "family dynasty." wheelock, however, maintained his ascendency until , when his enemies obtained a majority in the board of trustees, and thereafter admitted no friend of the president to the government, and used every effort to subdue the dominant dynasty. in new hampshire, at that period, the federalists were the ruling party, and the congregationalists formed the state church. the people were, in practice, taxed to support congregational churches, and the clergy of that denomination were exempted from taxation. all the congregational ministers were stanch federalists and most of their parishioners were of the same party. the college, the only seat of learning in the state, was one of the federalist and congregational strongholds. after several years of fruitless and bitter conflict, the wheelock party, in , brought their grievances before the public in an elaborate pamphlet. this led to a rejoinder and a war of pamphlets ensued, which was soon transferred to the newspapers, and created a great sensation and a profound interest. wheelock now contemplated legal proceedings. mr. plumer was in ill health, judge smith and mr. mason were allied with the trustees, and the president therefore went to mr. webster, consulted him professionally, paid him, and obtained a promise of his future services. about the time of this consultation, wheelock sent a memorial to the legislature, charging the trustees with misapplication of the funds, and various breaches of trust, religious intolerance, and a violation of the charter in their attacks upon the presidential office, and prayed for a committee of investigation. the trustees met him boldly and offered a sturdy resistance, denying all the charges, especially that of religious intolerance; but the committee was voted by a large majority. on august th, wheelock, as soon as he learned that the committee was to have a hearing, wrote to mr. webster, reminding him of their consultation, inclosing a fee of twenty dollars, and asking him to appear before the committee. mr. webster did not come, and wheelock had to go on as best he could without him. one of wheelock's friends, mr. dunham, wrote a very indignant letter to mr. webster on his failure to appear; to which mr. webster replied that he had seen wheelock and they had contemplated a suit in court, but that at the time of the hearing he was otherwise engaged, and moreover that he did not regard a summons to appear before a legislative committee as a professional call, adding that he was by no means sure that the president was wholly in the right. the truth was, that many of mr. webster's strongest personal and political friends, and most of the leaders with whom he was associated in the control of the federalist party, were either trustees themselves or closely allied with the trustees. in the interval between the consultation with wheelock and the committee hearing, these friends and leaders saw mr. webster, and pointed out to him that he must not desert them, and that this college controversy was fast developing into a party question. mr. webster was convinced, and abandoned wheelock, making, as has been seen, a very unsatisfactory explanation of his conduct. in this way he finally parted company with wheelock, and was thereafter irrevocably engaged on the side of the trustees. events now moved rapidly. the trustees, without heeding the advice of mr. mason to delay, removed wheelock from the presidency, and appointed in his place the rev. francis brown. this fanned the flame of popular excitement, and such a defiance of the legislative committee threw the whole question into politics. as mr. mason had foreseen when he warned the trustees against hasty action, all the democrats, all members of sects other than the congregational, and all freethinkers generally, were united against the trustees, and consequently against the federalists. the election came on. wheelock, who was a federalist, went over to the enemy, carrying his friends with him, and mr. plumer, the democratic candidate, was elected governor, together with a democratic legislature. mr. webster perceived at once that the trustees were in a bad position. he advised that every effort should be made to soothe the democrats, and that the purpose of founding a new college should be noised abroad, in order to create alarm. strategy, however, was vain. governor plumer declared against the trustees in his message, and the legislature in june, , despite every sort of protest and remonstrance, passed an act to reorganize the college, and virtually to place it within the control of the state. the governor and council at once proceeded to choose trustees and overseers under the new law, and among those thus selected was joseph story of massachusetts. both boards of trustees assembled. the old board turned out judge woodward, their secretary, who was a friend to wheelock and secretary also of the new board, and, receiving a thousand dollars from a friend of one of the professors, resolved to fight. president brown refused to obey the summons of the new trustees, who expelled the old board by resolution. thereupon the old board brought suit against woodward for the college seal and other property, and the case came on for trial in may, . mr. mason and judge smith appeared for the college, george sullivan and ichabod bartlett for woodward and the state board. the case was argued and then went over to the september term of the same year, at exeter, when mason and smith were joined by mr. webster. the cause was then argued again on both sides and with signal ability. in point of talent the counsel for the college were vastly superior to their opponents, but sullivan and bartlett were nevertheless strong men and thoroughly prepared. sullivan was a good lawyer and a fluent and ready speaker, with great power of illustration. bartlett was a shrewd, hard-headed man, very keen and incisive, and one whom it was impossible to outwit or deceive. he indulged, in his argument, in some severe reflections upon mr. webster's conduct toward wheelock, which so much incensed mr. webster that he referred to mr. bartlett's argument in a most contemptuous way, and strenuously opposed the publication of the remarks "personal or injurious to counsel." the weight of the argument for the college fell upon mason and smith, who spoke for two and four hours respectively. sullivan and bartlett occupied three hours, and the next day mr. webster closed for the plaintiffs in a speech of two hours. mr. webster spoke with great force, going evidently beyond the limits of legal argument, and winding up with a splendid sentimental appeal which drew tears from the crowd in the exeter court-room, and which he afterwards used in an elaborated form and with similar effect before the supreme court at washington. it now becomes necessary to state briefly the points at issue in this case, which were all fully argued by the counsel on both sides. mr. mason's brief, which really covered the whole case, was that the acts of the legislature were not obligatory, , because they were not within the general scope of legislative power; , because they violated certain provisions of the constitution of new hampshire restraining legislative power; , because they violated the constitution of the united states. in farrar's report of mason's speech, twenty-three pages are devoted to the first point, eight to the second, and six to the third. in other words, the third point, involving the great constitutional doctrine on which the case was finally decided at washington, the doctrine that the legislature, by its acts, had impaired the obligation of a contract, was passed over lightly. in so doing mr. mason was not alone. neither he nor judge smith nor mr. webster nor the court nor the counsel on the other side, attached much importance to this point. curiously enough, the theory had been originated many years before, by wheelock himself, at a time when he expected that the minority of the trustees would invoke the aid of the legislature against him, and his idea had been remembered. it was revived at the time of the newspaper controversy, and was pressed upon the attention of the trustees and upon that of their counsel. but the lawyers attached little weight to the suggestion, although they introduced it and argued it briefly. mason, smith, and webster all relied for success on the ground covered by the first point in mason's brief. this is called by mr. shirley the "parsons view," from the fact that it was largely drawn from an argument made by chief justice parsons in regard to visitatorial powers at harvard college. briefly stated, the argument was that the college was an institution founded by private persons for particular uses; that the charter was given to perpetuate such uses; that misconduct of the trustees was a question for the courts, and that the legislature, by its interference, transcended its powers. to these general principles, strengthened by particular clauses in the constitution of new hampshire, the counsel for the college trusted for victory. the theory of impairing the obligation of contracts they introduced, but they did not insist on it, or hope for much from it. on this point, however, and, of course, on this alone, the case went up to the supreme court. in december, , mr. webster wrote to mr. mason, regretting that the case went up on "one point only." he occupied himself at this time in devising cases which should raise what he considered the really vital points, and which, coming within the jurisdiction of the united states, could be taken to the circuit court, and thence to the supreme court at washington. these cases, in accordance with his suggestion, were begun, but before they came on in the circuit court, mr. webster made his great effort in washington. three quarters of his legal argument were there devoted to the points in the circuit court cases, which were not in any way before the supreme court in the college vs. woodward. so little, indeed, did mr. webster think of the great constitutional question which has made the case famous, that he forced the other points in where he admitted that they had no proper standing, and argued them at length. they were touched upon by marshall, who, however, decided wholly upon the constitutional question, and they were all thrown aside by judge washington, who declared them irrelevant, and rested his decision solely and properly on the constitutional point. two months after his washington argument, mr. webster, still urging forward the circuit court cases, wrote to mr. mason that all the questions must be brought properly before the supreme court, and that, on the "general principle" that the state legislature could not divest vested rights, strengthened by the constitutional provisions of new hampshire, he was sure they could defeat their adversaries. thus this doctrine of "impairing the obligation of contracts," which produced a decision in its effects more far-reaching and of more general interest than perhaps any other ever made in this country, was imported into the case at the suggestion of laymen, was little esteemed by counsel, and was comparatively neglected in every argument. it is necessary to go back now, for a moment, in the history of the case. the new hampshire court decided against the plaintiffs on every point, and gave a very strong and elaborate judgment, which mr. webster acknowledged was "able, plausible, and ingenious." after much wrangling, the counsel agreed on a special verdict, and took the case up on a writ of error to the supreme court. mason and smith were unable or unwilling to go to washington, and the case was intrusted to mr. webster, who secured the assistance of mr. joseph hopkinson of philadelphia. the case for the state, hitherto ably managed, was now confided to mr. john holmes of maine, and mr. wirt, the attorney-general, who handled it very badly. holmes, an active, fluent democratic politician, made a noisy, rhetorical, political speech, which pleased his opponents and disgusted his clients and their friends. mr. wirt, loaded with business cares of every sort, came into court quite unprepared, and endeavored to make up for his deficiencies by declamation. on the other side the case was managed with consummate skill. hopkinson was a sound lawyer, and, being thoroughly prepared, made a good legal argument. the burden of the conflict was, however, borne by mr. webster, who was more interested personally than professionally, and who, having raised money in boston to defray the expenses of the suit, came into the arena at washington armed to the teeth, and in the full lustre of his great powers. the case was heard on march , , and was opened by mr. webster. he had studied the arguments of his adversaries below, and the vigorous hostile opinion of the new hampshire judges. he was in possession of the thorough argument emanating from the penetrating mind of mr. mason and fortified and extended by the ample learning and judicial wisdom of judge smith. to the work of his eminent associates he could add nothing more than one not very important point, and a few cases which his far-ranging and retentive memory supplied. all the notes, minutes, and arguments of smith and mason were in his hands. it is only just to say that mr. webster tells all this himself, and that he gives all credit to his colleagues, whose arguments he says "he clumsily put together," and of which he adds that he could only be the reciter. the faculty of obtaining and using the valuable work of other men, one of the characteristic qualities of a high and commanding order of mind, was even then strong in mr. webster. but in that bright period of early manhood it was accompanied by a frank and generous acknowledgment of all and more than all the intellectual aid he received from others. he truly and properly awarded to mason and smith all the credit for the law and for the legal points and theories set forth on their side, and modestly says that he was merely the arranger and reciter of other men's thoughts. but how much that arrangement and recitation meant! there were, perhaps, no lawyers better fitted than mason and smith to examine a case and prepare an argument enriched with everything that learning and sagacity could suggest. but when mr. webster burst upon the court and the nation with this great appeal, it was certain that there was no man in the land who could so arrange arguments and facts, who could state them so powerfully and with such a grand and fitting eloquence. the legal part of the argument was printed in farrar's report and also in wheaton's, after it had been carefully revised by mr. webster with the arguments of his colleagues before him. this legal and constitutional discussion shows plainly enough mr. webster's easy and firm grasp of facts and principles, and his power of strong, effective, and lucid statement; but it is in its very nature dry, cold, and lawyer-like. it gives no conception of the glowing vehemence of the delivery, or of those omitted portions of the speech which dealt with matters outside the domain of law, and which were introduced by mr. webster with such telling and important results. he spoke for five hours, but in the printed report his speech occupies only three pages more than that of mr. mason in the court below. both were slow speakers, and thus there is a great difference in time to be accounted for, even after making every allowance for the peroration which we have from another source, and for the wealth of legal and historical illustration with which mr. webster amplified his presentation of the question. "something was left out," mr. webster says, and that something which must have occupied in its delivery nearly an hour was the most conspicuous example of the generalship by which mr. webster achieved victory, and which was wholly apart from his law. this art of management had already been displayed in the treatment of the cases made up for the circuit courts, and in the elaborate and irrelevant legal discussion which mr. webster introduced before the supreme court. but this management now entered on a much higher stage, where it was destined to win victory, and exhibited in a high degree tact and knowledge of men. mr. webster was fully aware that he could rely, in any aspect of the case, upon the sympathy of marshall and washington. he was equally certain of the unyielding opposition of duvall and todd; the other three judges, johnson, livingston, and story, were known to be adverse to the college, but were possible converts. the first point was to increase the sympathy of the chief justice to an eager and even passionate support. mr. webster knew the chord to strike, and he touched it with a master hand. this was the "something left out," of which we know the general drift, and we can easily imagine the effect. in the midst of all the legal and constitutional arguments, relevant and irrelevant, even in the pathetic appeal which he used so well in behalf of his alma mater, mr. webster boldly and yet skilfully introduced the political view of the case. so delicately did he do it that an attentive listener did not realize that he was straying from the field of "mere reason" into that of political passion. here no man could equal him or help him, for here his eloquence had full scope, and on this he relied to arouse marshall, whom he thoroughly understood. in occasional sentences he pictured his beloved college under the wise rule of federalists and of the church. he depicted the party assault that was made upon her. he showed the citadel of learning threatened with unholy invasion and falling helplessly into the hands of jacobins and freethinkers. as the tide of his resistless and solemn eloquence, mingled with his masterly argument, flowed on, we can imagine how the great chief justice roused like an old war-horse at the sound of the trumpet. the words of the speaker carried him back to the early years of the century, when, in the full flush of manhood, at the head of his court, the last stronghold of federalism, the last bulwark of sound government, he had faced the power of the triumphant democrats. once more it was marshall against jefferson,--the judge against the president. then he had preserved the ark of the constitution. then he had seen the angry waves of popular feeling breaking vainly at his feet. now, in his old age, the conflict was revived. jacobinism was raising its sacrilegious hand against the temples of learning, against the friends of order and good government. the joy of battle must have glowed once more in the old man's breast as he grasped anew his weapons and prepared with all the force of his indomitable will to raise yet another constitutional barrier across the path of his ancient enemies. we cannot but feel that mr. webster's lost passages, embodying this political appeal, did the work, and that the result was settled when the political passions of the chief justice were fairly aroused. marshall would probably have brought about the decision by the sole force of his imperious will. but mr. webster did a good deal of effective work after the arguments were all finished, and no account of the case would be complete without a glance at the famous peroration with which he concluded his speech and in which he boldly flung aside all vestige of legal reasoning, and spoke directly to the passions and emotions of his hearers. when he had finished his argument he stood silent for some moments, until every eye was fixed upon him, then, addressing the chief justice, he said:-- this, sir, is my case. it is the case not merely of that humble institution, it is the case of every college in our land.... "sir, you may destroy this little institution; it is weak; it is in your hands! i know it is one of the lesser lights in the literary horizon of our country. you may put it out. but if you do so you must carry through your work! you must extinguish, one after another, all those greater lights of science which for more than a century have thrown their radiance over our land. it is, sir, as i have said, a small college. and yet there are those who love it." here his feelings mastered him; his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivered, his voice was choked. in broken words of tenderness he spoke of his attachment to the college, and his tones seemed filled with the memories of home and boyhood; of early affections and youthful privations and struggles. "the court room," says mr. goodrich, to whom we owe this description, "during these two or three minutes presented an extraordinary spectacle. chief justice marshall, with his tall and gaunt figure bent over as if to catch the slightest whisper, the deep furrows of his cheek expanded with emotion and his eyes suffused with tears; mr. justice washington, at his side, with his small and emaciated frame, and countenance more like marble than i ever saw on any other human being,--leaning forward with an eager, troubled look; and the remainder of the court at the two extremities, pressing, as it were, to a single point, while the audience below were wrapping themselves round in closer folds beneath the bench, to catch each look and every movement of the speaker's face.... "mr. webster had now recovered his composure, and, fixing his keen eye on the chief justice, said in that deep tone with which he sometimes thrilled the heart of an audience:-- "'sir, i know not how others may feel' (glancing at the opponents of the college before him), 'but for myself, when i see my alma mater surrounded, like caesar in the senate-house, by those who are reiterating stab after stab, i would not, for this right hand, have her turn to me, and say, _et tu quoque, mi fili! and thou too, my son!_'" this outbreak of feeling was perfectly genuine. apart from his personal relations to the college, he had the true oratorical temperament, and no man can be an orator in the highest sense unless he feels intensely, for the moment at least, the truth and force of every word he utters. to move others deeply he must be deeply moved himself. yet at the same time mr. webster's peroration, and, indeed, his whole speech, was a model of consummate art. great lawyer as he undoubtedly was, he felt on this occasion that he could not rely on legal argument and pure reason alone. without appearing to go beyond the line of propriety, without indulging in a declamation unsuited to the place, he had to step outside of legal points and in a freer air, where he could use his keenest and strongest weapons, appeal to the court not as lawyers but as men subject to passion, emotion, and prejudice. this he did boldly, delicately, successfully, and thus he won his case. the replies of the opposing counsel were poor enough after such a speech. holmes's declamation sounded rather cheap, and mr. wirt, thrown off his balance by mr. webster's exposure of his ignorance, did but slight justice to himself or his cause. march th the arguments were closed, and the next day, after a conference, the chief justice announced that the court could agree on nothing and that the cause must be continued for a year, until the next term. the fact probably was that marshall found the judges five to two against the college, and that the task of bringing them into line was not a light one. in this undertaking, however, he was powerfully aided by the counsel and all the friends of the college. the old board of trustees had already paid much attention to public opinion. the press was largely federalist, and, under the pressure of what was made a party question, they had espoused warmly the cause of the college. letters and essays had appeared, and pamphlets had been circulated, together with the arguments of the counsel at exeter. this work was pushed with increased eagerness after the argument at washington, and the object now was to create about the three doubtful judges an atmosphere of public opinion which should imperceptibly bring them over to the college. johnson, livingston, and story were all men who would have started at the barest suspicion of outside influence even in the most legitimate form of argument, which was all that was ever thought of or attempted. this made the task of the trustees very delicate and difficult in developing a public sentiment which should sway the judges without their being aware of it. the printed arguments of mason, smith, and webster were carefully sent to certain of the judges, but not to all. all documents of a similar character found their way to the same quarters. the leading federalists were aroused everywhere, so that the judges might be made to feel their opinion. with story, as a new england man, a democrat by circumstances, a federalist by nature, there was but little difficulty. a thorough review of the case, joined with mr. webster's argument, caused him soon to change his first impression. to reach livingston and johnson was not so easy, for they were out of new england, and it was necessary to go a long way round to get at them. the great legal upholder of federalism in new york was chancellor kent. his first impression, like that of story, was decidedly against the college, but after much effort on the part of the trustees and their able allies, kent was converted, partly through his reason, partly through his federalism, and then his powers of persuasion and his great influence on opinion came to bear very directly on livingston, more remotely on johnson. the whole business was managed like a quiet, decorous political campaign. the press and the party were everywhere actively interested. at first, and in the early summer of , before kent was converted, matters looked badly for the trustees. mr. webster knew the complexion of the court, and hoped little from the point raised in trustees vs. woodward. still, no one despaired, and the work was kept up until, in september, president brown wrote to mr. webster in reference to the argument:-- "it has already been, or shortly will be, read by all the _commanding_ men of new england and new york; and so far as it has gone it has united them all, without a single exception within my knowledge, in one broad and impenetrable phalanx for our defence and support. new england and new york _are gained_. will not this be sufficient for our present purposes? if not, i should recommend reprinting. and on this point you are the best judge. i prevailingly think, however, that the current of opinion from this part of the country is setting so strongly towards the south that we may safely trust to its force alone to accomplish whatever is necessary." the worthy clergyman writes of public opinion as if the object was to elect a president. all this effort, however, was well applied, as was found when the court came together at the next term. in the interval the state had become sensible of the defects of their counsel, and had retained mr. pinkney, who stood at that time at the head of the bar of the united states. he had all the qualifications of a great lawyer, except perhaps that of robustness. he was keen, strong, and learned; diligent in preparation, he was ready and fluent in action, a good debater, and master of a high order of eloquence. he was a most formidable adversary, and one whom mr. webster, then just at the outset of his career, had probably no desire to meet in such a doubtful case as this.[ ] even here, however, misfortune seemed to pursue the state, for mr. pinkney was on bad terms with mr. wirt, and acted alone. he did all that was possible; prepared himself elaborately in the law and history of the case, and then went into court ready to make the wisest possible move by asking for a re-argument. marshall, however, was also quite prepared. turning his "blind ear," as some one said, to pinkney, he announced, as soon as he took his seat, that the judges had come to a conclusion during the vacation. he then read one of his great opinions, in which he held that the college charter was a contract within the meaning of the constitution, and that the acts of the new hampshire legislature impaired this contract, and were therefore void. to this decision four judges assented in silence, although story and washington subsequently wrote out opinions. judge todd was absent, through illness, and judge duvall dissented. the immediate effect of the decision was to leave the college in the hands of the victorious federalists. in the precedent which it established, however, it had much deeper and more far-reaching results. it brought within the scope of the constitution of the united states every charter granted by a state, limited the action of the states in a most important attribute of sovereignty, and extended the jurisdiction of the highest federal court more than any other judgment ever rendered by them. from the day when it was announced to the present time, the doctrine of marshall in the dartmouth college case has continued to exert an enormous influence, and has been constantly sustained and attacked in litigation of the greatest importance. [footnote : mr. peter harvey, in his _reminiscences_ (p. ), has an anecdote in regard to webster and pinkney, which places the former in the light of a common and odious bully, an attitude as alien to mr. webster's character as can well be conceived. the story is undoubtedly either wholly fictitious or so grossly exaggerated as to be practically false. on the page preceding the account of this incident, mr. harvey makes webster say that he never received a challenge from randolph, whereas in webster's own letter, published by mr. curtis, there is express reference to a note of challenge received from randolph. this is a fair example of these _reminiscences_. a more untrustworthy book it would be impossible to imagine. there is not a statement in it which can be safely accepted, unless supported by other evidence. it puts its subject throughout in the most unpleasant light, and nothing has ever been written about webster so well calculated to injure and belittle him as these feeble and distorted recollections of his loving and devoted boswell. it is the reflection of a great man upon the mirror of a very small mind and weak memory.] the defendant woodward having died, mr. webster moved that the judgment be entered _nunc pro tunc_. pinkney and wirt objected on the ground that the other causes on the docket contained additional facts, and that no final judgment should be entered until these causes had been heard. the court, however, granted mr. webster's motion. mr. pinkney then tried to avail himself of the stipulation in regard to the special verdict, that any new and material facts might be added or any facts expunged. mr. webster peremptorily declined to permit any change, obtained judgment against woodward, and obliged mr. pinkney to consent that the other causes should be remanded, without instructions, to the circuit court, where they were heard by judge story, who rendered a decree _nisi_ for the college. this closed the case, and such were the last displays of mr. webster's dexterous and vigorous management of the famous "college causes." the popular opinion of this case seems to be that mr. webster, with the aid of mr. mason and judge smith, developed a great constitutional argument, which he forced upon the acceptance of the court by the power of his close and logical reasoning, and thus established an interpretation of the constitution of vast moment. the truth is, that the suggestion of the constitutional point, not a very remarkable idea in itself, originated, as has been said, with a layman, was regarded by mr. webster as a forlorn hope, and was very briefly discussed by him before the supreme court. he knew, of course, that if the case were to be decided against woodward, it could only be on the constitutional point, but he evidently thought that the court would not take the view of it which was favorable to the college. the dartmouth college case was unquestionably one of mr. webster's great achievements at the bar, but it has been rightly praised on mistaken grounds. mr. webster made a very fine presentation of the arguments mainly prepared by mason and smith. he transcended the usual legal limits with a burst of eloquent appeal which stands high among the famous passages of his oratory. in what may be called the strategy of the case he showed the best generalship and the most skilful management. he also proved himself to be possessed of great tact and to be versed in the knowledge of men, qualities not usually attributed to him because their exercise involved an amount of care and painstaking foreign to his indolent and royal temperament, which almost always relied on weight and force for victory. mr. webster no doubt improved in details, and made better arguments at the bar than he did upon this occasion, but the dartmouth college case, on the whole, shows his legal talents so nearly at their best, and in such unusual variety, that it is a fit point at which to pause in order to consider some of his other great legal arguments and his position and abilities as a lawyer. for this purpose it is quite sufficient to confine ourselves to the cases mentioned by mr. curtis, and to the legal arguments preserved in the collection of mr. webster's speeches. five years after the dartmouth college decision, mr. webster made his famous argument in the case of gibbons vs. ogden. the case was called suddenly, and mr. webster prepared his argument in a single night of intense labor. the facts were all before him, but he showed a readiness in arrangement only equalled by its force. the question was whether the state of new york had a right under the constitution to grant a monopoly of steam navigation in its waters to fulton and livingston. mr. webster contended that the acts making such a grant were unconstitutional, because the power of congress to regulate commerce was, within certain limitations, exclusive. he won his cause, and the decision, from its importance, probably enhanced the contemporary estimate of his effort. the argument was badly reported, but it shows all its author's strongest qualities of close reasoning and effective statement. the point in issue was neither difficult nor obscure, and afforded no opportunity for a display of learning. it was purely a matter of constitutional interpretation, and could be discussed chiefly in a historical manner and from the standpoint of public interests. this was particularly fitted to mr. webster's cast of mind, and he did his subject full justice. it was pure argument on general principles. mr. webster does not reach that point of intense clearness and condensation which characterized marshall and hamilton, in whose writings we are fascinated by the beauty of the intellectual display, and are held fast by each succeeding line, which always comes charged with fresh meaning. nevertheless, mr. webster touches a very high point in this most difficult form of argument, and the impressiveness of his manner and voice carried all that he said to its mark with a direct force in which he stood unrivalled. in ogden v. saunders, heard in , mr. webster argued that the clause prohibiting state laws impairing the obligation of contracts covered future as well as past contracts. he defended his position with astonishing ability, but the court very correctly decided against him. the same qualities which appear in these cases are shown in the others of a like nature, which were conspicuous among the multitude with which he was intrusted. we find them also in cases involving purely legal questions, such as the bank of the united states v. primrose, and the providence railroad co. v. the city of boston, accompanied always with that ready command of learning which an extraordinary memory made easy. there seemed to be no diminution of mr. webster's great powers in this field as he advanced in years. in the rhode island case and in the passenger tax cases, argued when he was sixty-six years old, he rose to the same high plane of clear, impressive, effective reasoning as when he defended his alma mater. two causes, however, demand more than a passing mention,--the girard will case and the rhode island case. the former involved no constitutional points. the suit was brought to break the will of stephen girard, and the question was whether the bequest to found a college could be construed to be a charitable devise. on this question mr. webster had a weak case in point of law, but he readily detected a method by which he could go boldly outside the law, as he had done to a certain degree in the dartmouth college case, and substitute for argument an eloquent and impassioned appeal to emotion and prejudice. girard was a free-thinker, and he provided in his will that no priest or minister of any denomination should be admitted to his college. assuming that this excluded all religious teaching, mr. webster then laid down the proposition that no bequest or gift could be charitable which excluded christian teaching. in other words, he contended that there was no charity except christian charity, which, the poet assures us, is so rare. at this day such a theory would hardly be gravely propounded by any one. but mr. webster, on the ground that girard's bequest was derogatory to christianity, pronounced a very fine discourse defending and eulogizing, with much eloquence, the christian religion. the speech produced a great effect. one is inclined to think that it was the cause of the court's evading the question raised by mr. webster, and sustaining the will, a result they were bound to reach in any event, on other grounds. the speech certainly produced a great sensation, and was much admired, especially by the clergy, who caused it to be printed and widely distributed. it did not impress lawyers quite so favorably, and we find judge story writing to chancellor kent that "webster did his best for the other side, but it seems to me altogether an address to the prejudices of the clergy." the subject, in certain ways, had a deep attraction for mr. webster. his imagination was excited by the splendid history of the church, and his conservatism was deeply stirred by a system which, whether in the guise of the romish hierarchy, as the church of england, or in the form of powerful dissenting sects, was, as a whole, imposing by its age, its influence, and its moral grandeur. moreover, it was one of the great established bulwarks of well-ordered and civilized society. all this appealed strongly to mr. webster, and he made the most of his opportunity and of his shrewdly-chosen ground. yet the speech on the girard will is not one of his best efforts. it has not the subdued but intense fire which glowed so splendidly in his great speeches in the senate. it lacked the stately pathos which came always when mr. webster was deeply moved. it was delivered in , and was slightly tinged with the pompousness which manifested itself in his late years, and especially on religious topics. no man has a right to question the religious sincerity of another, unless upon evidence so full and clear that, in such cases, it is rarely to be found. there is certainly no cause for doubt in mr. webster's case. he was both sincere and honest in religion, and had a real and submissive faith. but he accepted his religion as one of the great facts and proprieties of life. he did not reach his religious convictions after much burning questioning and many bitter experiences. in this he did not differ from most men of this age, and it only amounts to saying that mr. webster did not have a deeply religious temperament. he did not have the ardent proselyting spirit which is the surest indication of a profoundly religious nature; the spirit of the saracen emir crying, "forward! paradise is under the shadow of our swords." when, therefore, he turned his noble powers to a defence of religion, he did not speak with that impassioned fervor which, coming from the depths of a man's heart, savors of inspiration and seems essential to the highest religious eloquence. he believed thoroughly every word he uttered, but he did not feel it, and in things spiritual the heart must be enlisted as well as the head. it was wittily said of a well-known anti-slavery leader, that had he lived in the middle ages he would have gone to the stake for a principle, under a misapprehension as to the facts. mr. webster not only could never have misapprehended facts, but, if he had flourished in the middle ages he would have been a stanch and honest supporter of the strongest government and of the dominant church. perhaps this defines his religious character as well as anything, and explains why the argument in the girard will case, fine as it was, did not reach the elevation and force which he so often displayed on other themes. the rhode island case grew out of the troubles known at that period as dorr's rebellion. it involved a discussion not only of the constitutional provisions for suppressing insurrections and securing to every state a republican form of government, but also of the general history and theory of the american governments, both state and national. there was thus offered to mr. webster that full scope and large field in which he delighted, and which were always peculiarly favorable to his talents. his argument was purely constitutional, and although not so closely reasoned, perhaps, as some of his earlier efforts, is, on the whole, as fine a specimen as we have of his intellectual power as a constitutional lawyer at the bar of the highest national tribunal. mr. webster did not often transcend the proper limits of purely legal discussion in the courts, and yet even when the question was wholly legal, the court-room would be crowded by ladies as well as gentlemen, to hear him speak. it was so at the hearing of the girard suit; and during the strictly legal arguments in the charles river bridge case, the court-room, judge story says, was filled with a brilliant audience, including many ladies, and he adds that "webster's closing reply was in his best manner, but with a little too much _fierté_ here and there." the ability to attract such audiences gives an idea of the impressiveness of his manner and of the beauty of his voice and delivery better than anything else, for these qualities alone could have drawn the general public and held their attention to the cold and dry discussion of laws and constitutions. there is a little anecdote told by mr. curtis in connection with this rhode island case, which illustrates very well two striking qualities in mr. webster as a lawyer. the counsel in the court below had been assisted by a clever young lawyer named bosworth, who had elaborated a point which he thought very important, but which his seniors rejected. mr. bosworth was sent to washington to instruct mr. webster as to the cause, and, after he had gone through the case, mr. webster asked if that was all. mr. bosworth modestly replied that there was another view of his own which his seniors had rejected, and then stated it briefly. when he concluded, mr. webster started up and exclaimed, "mr. bosworth, by the blood of all the bosworths who fell on bosworth field, that is _the_ point of the case. let it be included in the brief by all means." this is highly characteristic of one of mr. webster's strongest attributes. he always saw with an unerring glance "_the_ point" of a case or a debate. a great surgeon will detect the precise spot where the knife should enter when disease hides it from other eyes, and often with apparent carelessness will make the necessary incision at the exact place when a deflection of a hair's breadth or a tremor of the hand would bring death to the patient. mr. webster had the same intellectual dexterity, the mingled result of nature and art. as the tiger is said to have a sure instinct for the throat of his victim, so mr. webster always seized on the vital point of a question. other men would debate and argue for days, perhaps, and then mr. webster would take up the matter, and grasp at once the central and essential element which had been there all along, pushed hither and thither, but which had escaped all eyes but his own. he had preëminently "the calm eye that seeks 'midst all the huddling silver little worth the one thin piece that comes, pure gold." the anecdote further illustrates the use which mr. webster made of the ideas of other people. he did not say to mr. bosworth, here is the true point of the case, but he saw that something was wanting, and asked the young lawyer what it was. the moment the proposition was stated he recognized its value and importance at a glance. he might and probably would have discovered it for himself, but his instinct was to get it from some one else. it is one of the familiar attributes of great intellectual power to be able to select subordinates wisely; to use other people and other people's labor and thought to the best advantage, and to have as much as possible done for one by others. this power of assimilation mr. webster had to a marked degree. there is no depreciation in saying that he took much from others, for it is a capacity characteristic of the strongest minds, and so long as the debt is acknowledged, such a faculty is a subject for praise, not criticism. but when the recipient becomes unwilling to admit the obligation which is no detraction to himself, and without which the giver is poor indeed, the case is altered. in his earliest days mr. webster used to draw on one parker noyes, a mousing, learned new hampshire lawyer, and freely acknowledged the debt. in the dartmouth college case, as has been seen, he over and over again gave simply and generously all the credit for the learning and the points of the brief to mason and smith, and yet the glory of the case has rested with mr. webster and always will. he gained by his frank honesty and did not lose a whit. but in his latter days, when his sense of justice had grown somewhat blunted and his nature was perverted by the unmeasured adulation of the little immediate circle which then hung about him, he ceased to admit his obligations as in his earlier and better years. from no one did mr. webster receive so much hearty and generous advice and assistance as from judge story, whose calm judgment and wealth of learning were always at his disposal. they were given not only in questions of law, but in regard to the crimes act, the judiciary act, and the ashburton treaty. after judge story's death, mr. webster not only declined to allow the publication by the judge's son and biographer of story's letters to himself, but he refused to permit even the publication of extracts from his own letters, intended merely to show the nature of the services rendered to him by story. a cordial assent would have enhanced the reputation of both. the refusal is a blot on the intellectual greatness of the one and a source of bitterness to the descendants and admirers of the other. it is to be regretted that the extraordinary ability which mr. webster always showed in grasping and assimilating masses of theories and facts, and in drawing from them what was best, should ever have been sullied by a want of gratitude which, properly and freely rendered, would have made the lustre of his own fame shine still more brightly. a close study of mr. webster's legal career, in the light of contemporary reputation and of the best examples of his work, leads to certain quite obvious conclusions. he had not a strongly original or creative legal mind. this was chiefly due to nature, but in some measure to a dislike to the slow processes of investigation and inquiry which were always distasteful to him, although he was entirely capable of intense and protracted exertion. he cannot, therefore, be ranked with the illustrious few, among whom we count mansfield and marshall as the most brilliant examples, who not only declared what the law was, but who made it. mr. webster's powers were not of this class, but, except in these highest and rarest qualities, he stands in the front rank of the lawyers of his country and his age. without extraordinary profundity of thought or depth of learning, he had a wide, sure, and ready knowledge both of principles and cases. add to this quick apprehension, unerring sagacity for vital and essential points, a perfect sense of proportion, an almost unequalled power of statement, backed by reasoning at once close and lucid, and we may fairly say that mr. webster, who possessed all these qualities, need fear comparison with but very few among the great lawyers of that period either at home or abroad. chapter iv. the massachusetts convention and the plymouth oration. the conduct of the dartmouth college case, and its result, at once raised mr. webster to a position at the bar second only to that held by mr. pinkney. he was now constantly occupied by most important and lucrative engagements, but in he was called upon to take a leading part in a great public work which demanded the exertion of all his talents as statesman, lawyer, and debater. the lapse of time and the setting off of the maine district as a state had made a convention necessary, in order to revise the constitution of massachusetts. this involved the direct resort to the people, the source of all power, which is only required to effect a change in the fundamental law of the state. on these rare occasions it has been the honored custom in massachusetts to lay aside all the qualifications attaching to ordinary legislatures and to choose the best men, without regard to party, public office, or domicile, for the performance of this important work. no better or abler body could have been assembled for this purpose than that which met in convention at boston in november, . among these distinguished men were john adams, then in his eighty-fifth year, and one of the framers of the original constitution of , chief justice parker, of the supreme bench, the federal judges, and many of the leaders at the bar and in business. the two most conspicuous men in the convention, however, were joseph story and daniel webster, who bore the burden in every discussion; and there were three subjects, upon which mr. webster spoke at length, that deserve more than a passing allusion. questions of party have, as a rule, found but little place in the constitutional assemblies of massachusetts. this was peculiarly the case in , when the old political divisions were dying out, and new ones had not yet been formed. at the same time widely opposite views found expression in the convention. the movement toward thorough and complete democracy was gathering headway, and directing its force against many of the old colonial traditions and habits of government embodied in the existing constitution. that portion of the delegates which favored certain radical changes was confronted and stoutly opposed by those who, on the whole, inclined to make as few alterations as possible, and desired to keep things about as they were. mr. webster, as was natural, was the leader of the conservative party, and his course in this convention is an excellent illustration of this marked trait in his disposition and character. one of the important questions concerned the abolition of the profession of christian faith as a qualification for holding office. on this point the line of argument pursued by mr. webster is extremely characteristic. although an unvarying conservative throughout his life, he was incapable of bigotry, or of narrow and illiberal views. at the same time the process by which he reached his opinion in favor of removing the religious test shows more clearly than even ultra-conservatism could, how free he was from any touch of the reforming or innovating spirit. he did not urge that, on general principles, religious tests were wrong, that they were relics of the past and in hopeless conflict with the fundamental doctrines of american liberty and democracy. on the contrary, he implied that a religious test was far from being of necessity an evil. he laid down the sound doctrine that qualifications for office were purely matters of expediency, and then argued that it was wise to remove the religious test because, while its principle would be practically enforced by a christian community, it was offensive to some persons to have it engrafted on the constitution. the speech in which he set forth these views was an able and convincing one, entirely worthy of its author, and the removal of the test was carried by a large majority. it is an interesting example of the combination of steady conservatism and breadth of view which mr. webster always displayed. but it also brings into strong relief his aversion to radical general principles as grounds of action, and his inborn hostility to far-reaching change. his two other important speeches in this convention have been preserved in his works, and are purely and wholly conservative in tone and spirit. the first related to the basis of representation in the senate, whose members were then apportioned according to the amount of taxable property in the districts. this system, mr. webster thought, should be retained, and his speech was a most masterly discussion of the whole system of government by two houses. he urged the necessity of a basis of representation for the upper house different from that of the lower, in order to make the former fully serve its purpose of a check and balance to the popular branch. this important point he handled in the most skilful manner, and there is no escape from his conclusion that a difference of origin in the two legislative branches of the government is essential to the full and perfect operation of the system. this difference of origin, he argued, could be obtained only by the introduction of property as a factor in the basis of representation. the weight of his speech was directed to defending the principle of a suitable representation of property, which was a subject requiring very adroit treatment. the doctrine is one which probably would not be tolerated now in any part of this country, and even in , in massachusetts, it was a delicate matter to advocate it, for it was hostile to the general sentiment of the people. having established his position that it was all important to make the upper branch a strong and effective check, he said that the point in issue was not whether property offered the best method of distinguishing between the two houses, but whether it was not better than no distinction at all. this being answered affirmatively, the next question to be considered was whether property, not in the sense of personal possessions and personal power, but in a general sense, ought not to have its due influence in matters of government. he maintained the justice of this proposition by showing that our constitutions rest largely on the general equality of property, which, in turn, is due to our laws of distribution. this led him into a discussion of the principles of the distribution of property. he pointed out the dangers arising in england from the growth of a few large estates, while on the other hand he predicted that the rapid and minute subdivision of property in france would change the character of the government, and, far from strengthening the crown, as was then generally prophesied, would have a directly opposite effect, by creating a large and united body of small proprietors, who would sooner or later control the country. he illustrated, in this way, the value and importance of a general equality of property, and of steadiness in legislation affecting it. these were the reasons, he contended, for making property the basis of the check and balance furnished to our system of government by an upper house. moreover, all property being subject to taxation for the purpose of educating the children of both rich and poor, it deserved some representation for this valuable aid to government. it is impossible, in a few lines,[ ] to do justice to mr. webster's argument. it exhibited a great deal of tact and ingenuity, especially in the distinction so finely drawn between property as an element of personal power and property in a general sense, and so distributed as to be a bulwark of liberty. the speech is, on this account, an interesting one, for mr. webster was rarely ingenious, and hardly ever got over difficulties by fine-spun distinctions. in this instance adroitness was very necessary, and he did not hesitate to employ it. by his skilful treatment, by his illustrations drawn from england and france, which show the accuracy and range of his mental vision in matters of politics and public economy, both at home and abroad, and with the powerful support of judge story, mr. webster carried his point. the element of property representation in the senate was retained, but so wholly by the ability of its advocate, that it was not long afterwards removed. [footnote : my brief statement is merely a further condensation of the excellent abstract of this speech made by mr curtis.] mr. webster's other important speech related to the judiciary. the constitution provided that the judges, who held office during good behavior, should be removable by the governor on an address from the legislature. this was considered to meet cases of incompetency or of personal misconduct, which could not be reached by impeachment. mr. webster desired to amend the clause so as to require a two thirds vote for the passage of the address, and that reasons should be assigned, and a hearing assured to the judge who was the subject of the proceedings. these changes were all directed to the further protection of the bench, and it was in this connection that mr. webster made a most admirable and effective speech on the well-worn but noble theme of judicial independence. he failed to carry conviction, however, and his amendments were all lost. the perils which he anticipated have never arisen, and the good sense of the people of massachusetts has prevented the slightest abuse of what mr. webster rightly esteemed a dangerous power. mr. webster's continual and active exertion throughout the session of this convention brought him great applause and admiration, and showed his powers in a new light. judge story, with generous enthusiasm, wrote to mr. mason, after the convention adjourned:-- "our friend webster has gained a noble reputation. he was before known as a lawyer; but he has now secured the title of an eminent and enlightened statesman. it was a glorious field for him, and he has had an ample harvest. the whole force of his great mind was brought out, and, in several speeches, he commanded universal admiration. he always led the van, and was most skilful and instantaneous in attack and retreat. he fought, as i have told him, in the 'imminent deadly breach;' and all i could do was to skirmish, in aid of him, upon some of the enemy's outposts. on the whole, i never was more proud of any display than his in my life, and i am much deceived if the well-earned popularity, so justly and so boldly acquired by him on this occasion, does not carry him, if he lives, to the presidency." while this convention, so memorable in the career of mr. webster and so filled with the most absorbing labors, was in session, he achieved a still wider renown in a very different field. on the d of december, , he delivered at plymouth the oration which commemorated the two hundredth anniversary of the landing of the pilgrims. the theme was a splendid one, both in the intrinsic interest of the event itself, in the character of the pilgrims, in the vast results which had grown from their humble beginnings, and in the principles of free government, which had spread from the cabins of the exiles over the face of a continent, and had become the common heritage of a great people. we are fortunate in having a description of the orator, written at the time by a careful observer and devoted friend, mr. ticknor, who says:-- "_friday evening._--i have run away from a great levee there is down-stairs, thronging in admiration round mr. webster, to tell you a little word about his oration. yet i do not dare to trust myself about it, and i warn you beforehand that i have not the least confidence in my own opinion. his manner carried me away completely; not, i think, that i could have been so carried away if it had been a poor oration, for of that, i apprehend, there can be no fear. it _must_ have been a great, a very great performance, but whether it was so absolutely unrivalled as i imagined when i was under the immediate influence of his presence, of his tones, of his looks, i cannot be sure till i have read it, for it seems to me incredible. "i was never so excited by public speaking before in my life. three or four times i thought my temples would burst with the gush of blood; for, after all, you must know that i am aware it is no connected and compacted whole, but a collection of wonderful fragments of burning eloquence, to which his whole manner gave tenfold force. when i came out i was almost afraid to come near to him. it seemed to me as if he was like the mount that might not be touched and that burned with fire. i was beside myself, and am so still." "_saturday._--mr. webster was in admirable spirits. on thursday evening he was considerably agitated and oppressed, and yesterday morning he had not his natural look at all; but since his entire success he has been as gay and playful as a kitten. the party came in one after another, and the spirits of all were kindled brighter and brighter, and we fairly sat up till after two o'clock. i think, therefore, we may now safely boast the plymouth expedition has gone off admirably." mr. ticknor was a man of learning and scholarship, just returned from a prolonged sojourn in europe, where he had met and conversed with all the most distinguished men of the day, both in england and on the continent. he was not, therefore, disposed by training or recent habits to indulge a facile enthusiasm, and such deep emotion as he experienced must have been due to no ordinary cause. he was, in fact, profoundly moved because he had been listening to one of the great masters of eloquence exhibiting, for the first time, his full powers in a branch of the art much more cultivated in america by distinguished men of all professions than is the custom elsewhere. the plymouth oration belongs to what, for lack of a better name, we must call occasional oratory. this form of address, taking an anniversary, a great historical event or character, a celebration, or occasion of any sort as a starting point, permits either a close adherence to the original text or the widest latitude of treatment. the field is a broad and inviting one. that it promises an easy success is shown by the innumerable productions of this kind which, for many years, have been showered upon the country. that the promise is fallacious is proved by the very small number among the countless host of such addresses which survive the moment of their utterance. the facility of saying something is counterbalanced by the difficulty of saying anything worth hearing. the temptation to stray and to mistake platitude for originality is almost always fatal. mr. webster was better fitted than any man who has ever lived in this country for the perilous task of occasional oratory. the freedom of movement which renders most speeches of this class diluted and commonplace was exactly what he needed. he required abundant intellectual room for a proper display of his powers, and he had the rare quality of being able to range over vast spaces of time and thought without becoming attenuated in what he said. soaring easily, with a powerful sweep he returned again to earth without jar or shock. he had dignity and grandeur of thought, expression, and manner, and a great subject never became small by his treatment of it. he had, too, a fine historical imagination, and could breathe life and passion into the dead events of the past. mr. ticknor speaks of the plymouth oration as impressing him as a series of eloquent fragments. the impression was perfectly correct. mr. webster touched on the historical event, on the character of the pilgrims, on the growth and future of the country, on liberty and constitutional principles, on education, and on human slavery. this was entirely proper to such an address. the difficulty lay in doing it well, and mr. webster did it as perfectly as it ever has been done. the thoughts were fine, and were expressed in simple and beautiful words. the delivery was grand and impressive, and the presentation of each successive theme glowed with subdued fire. there was no straining after mere rhetorical effect, but an artistic treatment of a succession of great subjects in a general and yet vivid and picturesque fashion. the emotion produced by the plymouth oration was akin to that of listening to the strains of music issuing from a full-toned organ. those who heard it did not seek to gratify their reason or look for conviction to be brought to their understanding. it did not appeal to the logical faculties or to the passions, which are roused by the keen contests of parliamentary debate. it was the divine gift of speech, the greatest instrument given to man, used with surpassing talent, and the joy and pleasure which it brought were those which come from listening to the song of a great singer, or looking upon the picture of a great artist. the plymouth oration, which was at once printed and published, was received with a universal burst of applause. it had more literary success than anything which had at that time appeared, except from the pen of washington irving. the public, without stopping to analyze their own feelings, or the oration itself, recognized at once that a new genius had come before them, a man endowed with the noble gift of eloquence, and capable by the exercise of his talents of moving and inspiring great masses of his fellow-men. mr. webster was then of an age to feel fully the glow of a great success, both at the moment and when the cooler and more critical approbation came. he was fresh and young, a strong man rejoicing to run the race. mr. ticknor says, in speaking of the oration:-- "the passage at the end, where, spreading his arms as if to embrace them, he welcomed future generations to the great inheritance which we have enjoyed, was spoken with the most attractive sweetness and that peculiar smile which in him was always so charming. the effect of the whole was very great. as soon as he got home to our lodgings, all the principal people then in plymouth crowded about him. he was full of animation, and radiant with happiness. but there was something about him very grand and imposing at the same time. i never saw him at any time when he seemed to me to be more conscious of his own powers, or to have a more true and natural enjoyment from their possession." amid all the applause and glory, there was one letter of congratulation and acknowledgment which must have given mr. webster more pleasure than anything else, it came from john adams, who never did anything by halves. whether he praised or condemned, he did it heartily and ardently, and such an oration on new england went straight to the heart of the eager, warm-blooded old patriot. his commendation, too, was worth having, for he spoke as one having authority. john adams had been one of the eloquent men and the most forcible debater of the first congress. he had listened to the great orators of other lands. he had heard pitt and fox, burke and sheridan, and had been present at the trial of warren hastings. his unstinted praise meant and still means a great deal, and it concludes with one of the finest and most graceful of compliments. the oration, he says, "is the effort of a great mind, richly stored with every species of information. if there be an american who can read it without tears, i am not that american. it enters more perfectly into the genuine spirit of new england than any production i ever read. the observations on the greeks and romans; on colonization in general; on the west india islands; on the past, present, and future of america, and on the slave-trade, are sagacious, profound, and affecting in a high degree." "mr. burke is no longer entitled to the praise--the most consummate orator of modern times." "what can i say of what regards myself? to my humble name, _exegisti monumentum aere perennius_." many persons consider the plymouth oration to be the finest of all mr. webster's efforts in this field. it is certainly one of the very best of his productions, but he showed on the next great occasion a distinct improvement, which he long maintained. five years after the oration at plymouth, he delivered the address on the laying of the corner-stone of bunker hill monument. the superiority to the first oration was not in essentials, but in details, the fruit of a ripening and expanding mind. at bunker hill, as at plymouth, he displayed the massiveness of thought, the dignity and grandeur of expression, and the range of vision which are all so characteristic of his intellect and which were so much enhanced by his wonderful physical attributes. but in the later oration there is a greater finish and smoothness. we appreciate the fact that the plymouth oration is a succession of eloquent fragments; the same is true of the bunker hill address, but we no longer realize it. the continuity is, in appearance, unbroken, and the whole work is rounded and polished. the style, too, is now perfected. it is at once plain, direct, massive, and vivid. the sentences are generally short and always clear, but never monotonous. the preference for anglo-saxon words and the exclusion of latin derivatives are extremely marked, and we find here in rare perfection that highest attribute of style, the union of simplicity, picturesqueness, and force. in the first bunker hill oration mr. webster touched his highest point in the difficult task of commemorative oratory. in that field he not only stands unrivalled, but no one has approached him. the innumerable productions of this class by other men, many of a high degree of excellence, are forgotten, while those of webster form part of the education of every american school-boy, are widely read, and have entered into the literature and thought of the country. the orations of plymouth and bunker hill are grouped in webster's works with a number of other speeches professedly of the same kind. but only a very few of these are strictly occasional; the great majority are chiefly, if not wholly, political speeches, containing merely passages here and there in the same vein as his great commemorative addresses. before finally leaving the subject, however, it will be well to glance for a moment at the few orations which properly belong to the same class as the first two which we have been considering. the bunker hill oration, after the lapse of only a year, was followed by the celebrated eulogy upon adams and jefferson. this usually and with justice is ranked in merit with its two immediate predecessors. as a whole it is not, perhaps, quite so much admired, but it contains the famous imaginary speech of john adams, which is the best known and most hackneyed passage in any of these orations. the opening lines, "sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, i give my hand and my heart to this vote," since mr. webster first pronounced them in faneuil hall, have risen even to the dignity of a familiar quotation. the passage, indeed, is perhaps the best example we have of the power of mr. webster's historical imagination. he had some fragmentary sentences, the character of the man, the nature of the debate, and the circumstances of the time to build upon, and from these materials he constructed a speech which was absolutely startling in its lifelike force. the revolutionary congress, on the verge of the tremendous step which was to separate them from england, rises before us as we read the burning words which the imagination of the speaker put into the mouth of john adams. they are not only instinct with life, but with the life of impending revolution, and they glow with the warmth and strength of feeling so characteristic of their supposed author. it is well known that the general belief at the time was that the passage was an extract from a speech actually delivered by john adams. mr. webster, as well as mr. adams's son and grandson, received numerous letters of inquiry on this point, and it is possible that many people still persist in this belief as to the origin of the passage. such an effect was not produced by mere clever imitation, for there was nothing to imitate, but by the force of a powerful historic imagination and a strong artistic sense in its management. in mr. webster delivered an address before the mechanics' institute in boston, on "science in connection with the mechanic arts," a subject which was outside of his usual lines of thought, and offered no especial attractions to him. this oration is graceful and strong, and possesses sufficient and appropriate eloquence. it is chiefly interesting, however, from the reserve and self-control, dictated by a nice sense of fitness, which it exhibited. omniscience was not mr. webster's foible. he never was guilty of lord brougham's weakness of seeking to prove himself master of universal knowledge. in delivering an address on science and invention, there was a strong temptation to an orator like mr. webster to substitute glittering rhetoric for real knowledge; but the address at the mechanics' institute is simply the speech of a very eloquent and a liberally educated man upon a subject with which he had only the most general acquaintance. the other orations of this class were those on "the character of washington," the second bunker hill address, "the landing at plymouth," delivered in new york at the dinner of the pilgrim society, the remarks on the death of judge story and of mr. mason, and finally the speech on laying the corner-stone for the addition to the capitol, in . these were all comparatively brief speeches, with the exception of that at bunker hill, which, although very fine, was perceptibly inferior to his first effort when the corner-stone of the monument was laid. the address on the character of washington, to an american the most dangerous of great and well-worn topics, is of a high order of eloquence. the theme appealed to mr. webster strongly and brought out his best powers, which were peculiarly fitted to do justice to the noble, massive, and dignified character of the subject. the last of these addresses, that on the addition to the capitol, was in a prophetic vein, and, while it shows but little diminution of strength, has a sadness even in its splendid anticipations of the future, which makes it one of the most impressive of its class. all those which have been mentioned, however, show the hand of the master and are worthy to be preserved in the volumes which contain the noble series that began in the early flush of genius with the brilliant oration in the plymouth church, and closed with the words uttered at washington, under the shadow of the capitol, when the light of life was fading and the end of all things was at hand. chapter v. return to congress. the thorough knowledge of the principles of government and legislation, the practical statesmanship, and the capacity for debate shown in the state convention, combined with the splendid oration at plymouth to make mr. webster the most conspicuous man in new england, with the single exception of john quincy adams. there was, therefore, a strong and general desire that he should return to public life. he accepted with some reluctance the nomination to congress from the boston district in , and in december, , took his seat. the six years which had elapsed since mr. webster left washington had been a period of political quiet. the old parties had ceased to represent any distinctive principles, and the federalists scarcely existed as an organization. mr. webster, during this interval, had remained almost wholly quiescent in regard to public affairs. he had urged the visit of mr. monroe to the north, which had done so much to hasten the inevitable dissolution of parties. he had received mr. calhoun when that gentleman visited boston, and their friendship and apparent intimacy were such that the south carolinian was thought to be his host's candidate for the presidency. except for this and the part which he took in the boston opposition to the missouri compromise and to the tariff, matters to be noticed in connection with later events, mr. webster had held aloof from political conflict. when he returned to washington in , the situation was much altered from that which he had left in . in reality there were no parties, or only one; but the all-powerful republicans who had adopted, under the pressure of foreign war, most of the federalist principles so obnoxious to jefferson and his school, were split up into as many factions as there were candidates for the presidency. it was a period of transition in which personal politics had taken the place of those founded on opposing principles, and this "era of good feeling" was marked by the intense bitterness of the conflicts produced by these personal rivalries. in addition to the factions which were battling for the control of the republican party and for the great prize of the presidency, there was still another faction, composed of the old federalists, who, although without organization, still held to their name and their prejudices, and clung together more as a matter of habit than with any practical object. mr. webster had been one of the federalist leaders in the old days, and when he returned to public life with all the distinction which he had won in other fields, he was at once recognized as the chief and head of all that now remained of the great party of washington and hamilton. no federalist could hope to be president, and for this very reason federalist support was eagerly sought by all republican candidates for the presidency. the favor of mr. webster as the head of an independent and necessarily disinterested faction was, of course, strongly desired in many quarters. his political position and his high reputation as a lawyer, orator, and statesman made him, therefore, a character of the first importance in washington, a fact to which mr. clay at once gave public recognition by placing his future rival at the head of the judiciary committee of the house. the six years of congressional life which now ensued were among the most useful if not the most brilliant in mr. webster's whole public career. he was free from the annoyance of opposition at home, and was twice returned by a practically unanimous popular vote. he held a commanding and influential and at the same time a thoroughly independent position in washington, where he was regarded as the first man on the floor of the house in point of ability and reputation. he was not only able to show his great capacity for practical legislation, but he was at liberty to advance his own views on public questions in his own way, unburdened by the outside influences of party and of association which had affected him so much in his previous term of service and were soon to reassert their sway in all his subsequent career. his return to congress was at once signalized by a great speech, which, although of no practical or immediate moment, deserves careful attention from the light which it throws on the workings of his mind and the development of his opinions in regard to his country. the house had been in session but a few days when mr. webster offered a resolution in favor of providing by law for the expenses incident to the appointment of a commissioner to greece, should the president deem such an appointment expedient. the greeks were then in the throes of revolution, and the sympathy for the heirs of so much glory in their struggle for freedom was strong among the american people. when mr. webster rose on january , , to move the adoption of the resolution which he had laid upon the table of the house, the chamber was crowded and the galleries were filled by a large and fashionable audience attracted by the reputation of the orator and the interest felt in his subject. his hearers were disappointed if they expected a great rhetorical display, for which the nature of the subject and the classic memories clustering about it offered such strong temptations. mr. webster did not rise for that purpose, nor to make capital by an appeal to a temporary popular interest. his speech was for a wholly different purpose. it was the first expression of that grand conception of the american union which had vaguely excited his youthful enthusiasm. this conception had now come to be part of his intellectual being, and then and always stirred his imagination and his affections to their inmost depths. it embodied the principle from which he never swerved, and led to all that he represents and to all that his influence means in our history. as the first expression of his conception of the destiny of the united states as a great and united nation, mr. webster was, naturally, "more fond of this child" than of any other of his intellectual family. the speech itself was a noble one, but it was an eloquent essay rather than a great example of the oratory of debate. this description can in no other case be applied to mr. webster's parliamentary efforts, but in this instance it is correct, because the occasion justified such a form. mr. webster's purpose was to show that, though the true policy of the united states absolutely debarred them from taking any part in the affairs of europe, yet they had an important duty to perform in exercising their proper influence on the public opinion of the world. europe was then struggling with the monstrous principles of the "holy alliance." those principles mr. webster reviewed historically. he showed their pernicious tendency, their hostility to all modern theories of government, and their especial opposition to the principles of american liberty. if the doctrines of the congress of laybach were right and could be made to prevail, then those of america were wrong and the systems of popular government adopted in the united states were doomed. against such infamous principles it behooved the people of the united states to raise their voice. mr. webster sketched the history of greece, and made a fine appeal to americans to give an expression of their sympathy to a people struggling for freedom. he proclaimed, so that all men might hear, the true duty of the united states toward the oppressed of any land, and the responsibility which they held to exert their influence upon the opinions of mankind. the national destiny of his country in regard to other nations was his theme; to give to the glittering declaration of canning, that he would "call in the new world to redress the balance of the old," a deep and real significance was his object. the speech touched mr. clay to the quick. he supported mr. webster's resolution with all the ardor of his generous nature, and supplemented it by another against the interference of spain in south america. a stormy debate followed, vivified by the flings and taunts of john randolph, but the unwillingness to take action was so great that mr. webster did not press his resolution to a vote. he had at the outset looked for a practical result from his resolution, and had desired the appointment of mr. everett as commissioner, a plan in which he had been encouraged by mr. calhoun, who had given him to understand that the executive regarded the greek mission with favor. before he delivered his speech he became aware that calhoun had misled him, that mr. adams, the secretary of state, considered everett too much of a partisan, and that the administration was wholly averse to any action in the premises. this destroyed all hope of a practical result, and made an adverse vote certain. the only course was to avoid a decision and trust to what he said for an effect on public opinion. the real purpose of the speech, however, was achieved. mr. webster had exposed and denounced the holy alliance as hostile to the liberties of mankind, and had declared the unalterable enmity of the united states to its reactionary doctrines. the speech was widely read, not only wherever english was spoken, but it was translated into all the languages of europe, and was circulated throughout south america. it increased mr. webster's fame at home and laid the foundation of his reputation abroad. above all, it stamped him as a statesman of a broad and national cast of mind. he now settled down to hard and continuous labor at the routine business of the house, and it was not until the end of march that he had occasion to make another elaborate and important speech. at that time mr. clay took up the bill for laying certain protective duties and advocated it strenuously as part of a general and steady policy which he then christened with the name of "the american system." against this bill, known as the tariff of , mr. webster made, as mr. adams wrote in his diary at the time, "an able and powerful speech," which can be more properly considered when we come to his change of position on this question a few years later. as chairman of the judiciary committee, the affairs of the national courts were his particular care. western expansion demanded an increased number of judges for the circuits, but, unfortunately, decisions in certain recent cases had offended the sensibilities of virginia and kentucky, and there was a renewal of the old jeffersonian efforts to limit the authority of the supreme court. instead of being able to improve, he was obliged to defend the court, and this he did successfully, defeating all attempts to curtail its power by alterations of the act of . these duties and that of investigating the charges brought by ninian edwards against mr. crawford, the secretary of the treasury, made the session an unusually laborious one, and detained mr. webster in washington until midsummer. the short session of the next winter was of course marked by the excitement attendant upon the settlement of the presidential election which resulted in the choice of mr. john quincy adams by the house of representatives. the intense agitation in political circles did not, however, prevent mr. webster from delivering one very important speech, nor from carrying through successfully one of the most important and practically useful measures of his legislative career. the speech was delivered in the debate on the bill for continuing the national cumberland road. mr. webster had already, many years before, defined his position on the constitutional question involved in internal improvements. he now, in response to mr. mcduffie of south carolina, who denounced the measure as partial and sectional, not merely defended the principle of internal improvements, but declared that it was a policy to be pursued only with the purest national feeling. it was not the business of congress, he said, to legislate for this state or that, or to balance local interests, and because they helped one region to help another, but to act for the benefit of all the states united, and in making improvements to be guided only by their necessity. he showed that these roads would open up the west to settlement, and incidentally defended the policy of selling the public lands at a low price as an encouragement to emigration, telling his southern friends very plainly that they could not expect to coerce the course of population in favor of their own section. the whole speech was conceived in the broadest and wisest spirit, and marks another step in the development of mr. webster as a national statesman. it increased his reputation, and brought to him a great accession of popularity in the west. the measure which he carried through was the famous "crimes act," perhaps the best monument that there is of his legislative and constructive ability. the criminal law of the united states had scarcely been touched since the days of the first congress, and was very defective and unsatisfactory. mr. webster's first task, in which he received most essential and valuable though unacknowledged assistance from judge story, was to codify and digest the whole body of criminal law. this done, the hardly less difficult undertaking followed of carrying the measure through congress. in the latter, mr. webster, by his skill in debate and familiarity with his subject, and by his influence in the house, was perfectly successful. that he and judge story did their work well in perfecting the bill is shown by the admirable manner in which the act stood the test of time and experience. when the new congress came together in , mr. webster at once turned his attention to the improvement of the judiciary, which he had been obliged to postpone in order to ward off the attacks upon the court. after much deliberation and thought, aided by judge story, and having made some concessions to his committee, he brought in a bill increasing the supreme court judges to ten, making ten instead of seven circuits, and providing that six judges should constitute a quorum for the transaction of business. although not a party question, the measure excited much opposition, and was more than a month in passing through the house. mr. webster supported it at every stage with great ability, and his two most important speeches, which are in their way models for the treatment of such a subject, are preserved in his works. the bill was carried by his great strength in debate and by height of forcible argument. but in the senate, where it was deprived of the guardianship of its author, it hung along in uncertainty, and was finally lost through the apathy or opposition of those very western members for whose benefit it had been devised. mr. webster took its ultimate defeat very coolly. the eastern states did not require it, and were perfectly contented with the existing arrangements, and he was entirely satisfied with the assurance that the best lawyers and wisest men approved the principles of the bill. the time and thought which he had expended were not wasted so far as he was personally concerned, for they served to enhance his influence and reputation both as a lawyer and statesman. this session brought with it also occasions for debate other than those which were offered by measures of purely legislative and practical interest. the administration of mr. adams marks the close of the "era of good feeling," as it was called, and sowed the germs of those divisions which were soon to result in new and definite party combinations. mr. adams and mr. clay represented the conservative and general jackson and his friends the radical or democratic elements in the now all-embracing republican party. it was inevitable that mr. webster should sympathize with the former, and it was equally inevitable that in doing so he should become the leader of the administration forces in the house, where "his great and commanding influence," to quote the words of an opponent, made him a host himself. the desire of mr. adams to send representatives to the panama congress, a scheme which lay very near his heart and to which mr. clay was equally attached, encountered a bitter and factious resistance in the senate, sufficient to deprive the measure of any real utility by delaying its passage. in the house a resolution was introduced declaring simply that it was expedient to appropriate money to defray the expenses of the proposed mission. the opposition at once undertook by amendments to instruct the ministers, and generally to go beyond the powers of the house. the real ground of the attack was slavery, threatened, as was supposed, by the attitude of the south american republics--a fact which no one understood or cared to recognize. mr. webster stood forth as the champion of the executive. in an elaborate speech of great ability he denounced the unconstitutional attempt to interfere with the prerogative of the president, and discussed with much effect the treaty-making power assailed on another famous occasion, many years before, by the south, and defended at that time also by the eloquence of a representative of massachusetts. mr. webster showed the nature of the panama congress, defended its objects and the policy of the administration, and made a full and fine exposition of the intent of the "monroe doctrine." the speech was an important and effective one. it exhibited in an exceptional way mr. webster's capacity for discussing large questions of public and constitutional law and foreign policy, and was of essential service to the cause which he espoused. it was imbued, too, with that sentiment of national unity which occupied a larger space in his thoughts with each succeeding year, until it finally pervaded his whole career as a public man. at the second session of the same congress, after a vain effort to confer upon the country the benefit of a national bankrupt law, mr. webster was again called upon to defend the executive in a much more heated conflict than that aroused by the panama resolution. georgia was engaged in oppressing and robbing the creek indians, in open contempt of the treaties and obligations of the united states. mr. adams sent in a message reciting the facts and hinting pretty plainly that he intended to carry out the laws by force unless georgia desisted. the message was received with great wrath by the southern members. they objected to any reference to a committee, and mr. forsyth of georgia declared the whole business to be "base and infamous," while a gentleman from mississippi announced that georgia would act as she pleased. mr. webster, having said that she would do so at her peril, was savagely attacked as the organ of the administration, daring to menace and insult a sovereign state. this stirred mr. webster, although slow to anger, to a determination to carry through the reference at all hazards. he said:-- "he would tell the gentleman from georgia that if there were rights of the indians which the united states were bound to protect, that there were those in the house and in the country who would take their part. if we have bound ourselves by any treaty to do certain things, we must fulfil such obligation. high words will not terrify us, loud declamation will not deter us from the discharge of that duty. in my own course in this matter i shall not be dictated to by any state or the representative of any state on this floor. i shall not be frightened from my purpose nor will i suffer harsh language to produce any reaction on my mind. i will examine with great and equal care all the rights of both parties.... i have made these few remarks to give the gentleman from georgia to understand that it was not by bold denunciation nor by bold assumption that the members of this house are to be influenced in the decision of high public concerns." when mr. webster was thoroughly roused and indignant there was a darkness in his face and a gleam of dusky light in his deep-set eyes which were not altogether pleasant to contemplate. how well mr. forsyth and his friends bore the words and look of mr. webster we have no means of knowing, but the message was referred to a select committee without a division. the interest to us in all this is the spirit in which mr. webster spoke. he loved the union as intensely then as at any period of his life, but he was still far distant from the frame of mind which induced him to think that his devotion to the union would be best expressed and the cause of the union best served by mildness toward the south and rebuke to the north. he believed in that dignified courage and firm language were the surest means of keeping the peace. he was quite right then, and he would have been always right if he had adhered to the plain words and determined manner to which he treated mr. forsyth and his friends. this session was crowded with work of varying importance, but the close of mr. webster's career in the lower house was near at hand. the failing health of mr. e.h. mills made it certain that massachusetts would soon have a vacant seat in the senate, and every one turned to mr. webster as the person above all others entitled to this high office. he himself was by no means so quick in determining to accept the position. he would not even think of it until the impossibility of mr. mills's return was assured, and then he had to meet the opposition of the administration and all its friends, who regarded with alarm the prospect of losing such a tower of strength in the house. mr. webster, indeed, felt that he could render the best service in the lower branch, and urged the senatorship upon governor lincoln, who was elected, but declined. after this there seemed to be no escape from a manifest destiny. despite the opposition of his friends in washington, and his own reluctance, he finally accepted the office of united states senator, which was conferred upon him by the legislature of massachusetts in june, . in tracing the labors of mr. webster during three years spent in the lower house, no allusion has been made to the purely political side of his career at this time, nor to his relations with the public men of the day. the period was important, generally speaking, because it showed the first signs of the development of new parties, and to mr. webster in particular, because it brought him gradually toward the political and party position which he was to occupy during the rest of his life. when he took his seat in congress, in the autumn of , the intrigues for the presidential succession were at their height. mr. webster was then strongly inclined to mr. calhoun, as was suspected at the time of that gentleman's visit to boston. he soon became convinced, however, that mr. calhoun's chances of success were slight, and his good opinion of the distinguished south carolinian seems also to have declined. it was out of the question for a man of mr. webster's temperament and habits of thought, to think for a moment of supporting jackson, a candidate on the ground of military glory and unreflecting popular enthusiasm. mr. adams, as the representative of new england, and as a conservative and trained statesman, was the natural and proper candidate to receive the aid of mr. webster. but here party feelings and traditions stepped in. the federalists of new england had hated mr. adams with the peculiar bitterness which always grows out of domestic quarrels, whether in public or private life; and although the old strife had sunk a little out of sight, it had never been healed. the federalist leaders in massachusetts still disliked and distrusted mr. adams with an intensity none the less real because it was concealed. in the nature of things mr. webster now occupied a position of political independence; but he had been a steady party man when his party was in existence, and he was still a party man so far as the old federalist feelings retained vitality and force. he had, moreover, but a slight personal acquaintance with mr. adams and no very cordial feeling toward him. this disposed of three presidential candidates. the fourth was mr. clay, and it is not very clear why mr. webster refused an alliance in this quarter. mr. clay had treated him with consideration, they were personal friends, their opinions were not dissimilar and were becoming constantly more alike. possibly there was an instinctive feeling of rivalry on this very account. at all events, mr. webster would not support clay. only one candidate remained: mr. crawford, the representative of all that was extreme among the republicans, and, in a party sense, most odious to the federalists. but it was a time when personal factions flourished rankly in the absence of broad differences of principle. mr. crawford was bidding furiously for support in every and any quarter, and to mr. crawford, accordingly, mr. webster began to look as a possible leader for himself and his friends. just how far mr. webster went in this direction cannot be readily or surely determined, although we get some light on the subject from an attack made on mr. crawford just at this time. ninian edwards, recently senator from illinois, had a quarrel with mr. crawford, and sent in a memorial to congress containing charges against the secretary of the treasury which were designed to break him down as a candidate for the presidency. of the merits of this quarrel it is not very easy to judge, even if it were important. the character of edwards was none of the best, and mr. crawford had unquestionably made a highly unscrupulous use, politically, of his position. the members of the administration, although with no great love for edwards, who had been appointed minister to mexico, were distinctly hostile to mr. crawford, and refused to attend a dinner from which edwards had been expressly excluded. mr. webster's part in the affair came from his being on the committee charged with the investigation of the edwards memorial. mr. adams, who was of course excited by the presidential contest, disposed to regard his rivals with extreme disfavor, and especially and justly suspicious of mr. crawford, speaks of mr. webster's conduct in the matter with the utmost bitterness. he refers to it again and again as an attempt to screen crawford and break down edwards, and denounces mr. webster as false, insidious, and treacherous. much of this may be credited to the heated animosities of the moment, but there can be no doubt that mr. webster took the matter into his own hands in the committee, and made every effort to protect mr. crawford, in whose favor he also spoke in the house. it is likewise certain that there was an attempt to bring about an alliance between crawford and the federalists of the north and east. the effort was abortive, and even before the conclusion of the edwards business mr. webster avowed that he should take but little part in the election, and that his only purpose was to secure the best terms possible for the federalists, and obtain recognition for them from the next administration. at that time he wished mr. mason to be attorney-general, and had already turned his thoughts toward the english mission for himself. to this waiting policy he adhered, but when the popular election was over, and the final decision had been thrown into the house of representatives, more definite action became necessary. from the questions which he put to his brother and others as to the course which he ought to pursue in the election by the house, it is obvious that he was far from anxious to secure the choice of mr. adams, and was weighing carefully other contingencies. the feeling of new england could not, however, be mistaken. public opinion there demanded that the members of the house should stand by the new england candidate to the last. to this sentiment mr. webster submitted, and soon afterwards took occasion to have an interview with mr. adams in order to make the best terms possible for the federalists, and obtain for them suitable recognition. mr. adams assured mr. webster that he did not intend to proscribe any section or any party, and added that although he could not give the federalists representation in the cabinet, he should give them one of the important appointments. mr. webster was entirely satisfied with this promise and with all that was said by mr. adams, who, as everybody knows, was soon after elected by the house on the first ballot. mr. adams on his side saw plainly the necessity of conciliating mr. webster, whose great ability and influence he thoroughly understood. he told mr. clay that he had a high opinion of mr. webster, and wished to win his support; and the savage tone displayed in regard to the edwards affair now disappears from the diary. mr. adams, however, although he knew, as he says, that "webster was panting for the english mission," and hinted that the wish might be gratified hereafter, was not ready to go so far at the moment, and at the same time he sought to dissuade mr. webster from being a candidate for the speakership, for which in truth the latter had no inclination. their relations, indeed, soon grew very pleasant. mr. webster naturally became the leader of the administration forces in the house, while the president on his side sought mr. webster's advice, admired his oration on adams and jefferson, dined at his house, and lived on terms of friendship and confidence with him. it is to be feared, however, that all this was merely on the surface. mr. adams at the bottom of his heart never, in reality, relaxed in his belief that mr. webster was morally unsound. mr. webster, on the other hand, whose federalist opposition to mr. adams had only been temporarily allayed, was not long in coming to the conclusion that his services, if appreciated, were not properly recognized by the administration. there was a good deal of justice in this view. the english mission never came, no help was to be obtained for mr. mason's election as senator from new hampshire, the speakership was to be refused in order to promote harmony and strength in the house. to all this mr. webster submitted, and fought the battles of the administration in debate as no one else could have done. nevertheless, all men like recognition, and mr. webster would have preferred something more solid than words and confidence or the triumph of a common cause. when the massachusetts senatorship was in question mr. adams urged the election of governor lincoln, and objected on the most flattering grounds to mr. webster's withdrawal from the house. it is not a too violent conjecture to suppose that mr. webster's final acceptance of a seat in the senate was due in large measure to a feeling that he had sacrificed enough for the administration. there can be no doubt that coolness grew between the president and the senator, and that the appointment to england, if still desired, never was made, so that when the next election came on mr. webster was inactive, and, despite his hostility to jackson, viewed the overthrow of mr. adams with a good deal of indifference and some satisfaction. it is none the less true, however, that during these years when the first foundations of the future whig party were laid, mr. webster formed the political affiliations which were to last through life. he inevitably found himself associated with clay and adams, and opposed to jackson, benton, and van buren, while at the same time he and calhoun were fast drifting apart. he had no specially cordial feeling to his new associates; but they were at the head of the conservative elements of the country, they were nationalists in policy, and they favored the views which were most affected in new england. as a conservative and nationalist by nature and education, and as the great new england leader, mr. webster could not avoid becoming the parliamentary chief of mr. adams's administration, and thus paved the way for leadership in the whig party of the future. in narrating the history of these years, i have confined myself to mr. webster's public services and political course. but it was a period in his career which was crowded with work and achievement, bringing fresh fame and increased reputation, and also with domestic events both of joy and sorrow. mr. webster steadily pursued the practice of the law, and was constantly engaged in the supreme court. to these years belong many of his great arguments, and also the prosecution of the spanish claims, a task at once laborious and profitable. in the summer of mr. webster first saw marshfield, his future home, and in the autumn of the same year he visited monticello, where he had a long interview with mr. jefferson, of whom he has left a most interesting description. during the winter he formed the acquaintance and lived much in the society of some well-known englishmen then travelling in this country. this party consisted of the earl of derby, then mr. stanley, lord wharncliffe, then mr. stuart wortley; lord taunton, then mr. labouchere, and mr. denison, afterwards speaker of the house of commons. with mr. denison this acquaintance was the foundation of a lasting and intimate friendship maintained by correspondence. in june, , came the splendid oration at bunker hill, and then a visit to niagara, which, of course, appealed strongly to mr. webster. his account of it, however, although indicative of a deep mental impression, shows that his power of describing nature fell far short of his wonderful talent for picturing human passions and action. the next vacation brought the eulogy on adams and jefferson, when perhaps mr. webster may be considered to have been in his highest physical and intellectual perfection. such at least was the opinion of mr. ticknor, who says:-- "he was in the perfection of manly beauty and strength; his form filled out to its finest proportions, and his bearing, as he stood before the vast multitude, that of absolute dignity and power. his manner of speaking was deliberate and commanding. i never heard him when his manner was so grand and appropriate; ... when he ended the minds of men were wrought up to an uncontrollable excitement, and then followed three tremendous cheers, inappropriate indeed, but as inevitable as any other great movement of nature." he had held the vast audience mute for over two hours, as john quincy adams said in his diary, and finally their excited feelings found vent in cheers. he spoke greatly because he felt greatly. his emotions, his imagination, his entire oratorical temperament were then full of quick sensibility. when he finished writing the imaginary speech of john adams in the quiet of his library and the silence of the morning hour, his eyes were wet with tears. a year passed by after this splendid display of eloquence, and then the second congressional period, which had been so full of work and intellectual activity and well-earned distinction, closed, and he entered upon that broader field which opened to him in the senate of the united states, where his greatest triumphs were still to be achieved. chapter vi. the tariff of and the reply to hayne. the new dignity conferred on mr. webster by the people of massachusetts had hardly been assumed when he was called upon to encounter a trial which must have made all his honors seem poor indeed. he had scarcely taken his seat when he was obliged to return to new york, where failing health had arrested mrs. webster's journey to the capital, and where, after much suffering, she died, january , . the blow fell with terrible severity upon her husband. he had many sorrows to bear during his life, but this surpassed all others. his wife was the love of his youth, the mother of his children, a lovely woman whose strong but gentle influence for good was now lost to him irreparably. in his last days his thoughts reverted to her, and as he followed her body to the grave, on foot in the wet and cold, and leading his children by the hand, it must indeed have seemed as if the wine of life had been drunk and only the lees remained. he was excessively pale, and to those who looked upon him seemed crushed and heart-broken. the only relief was to return to his work and to the excitement of public affairs; but the cloud hung over him long after he was once more in his place in the senate. death had made a wound in his life which time healed but of which the scar remained. whatever were mr. webster's faults, his affection for those nearest to him, and especially for the wife of his youth, was deep and strong. "the very first day of mr. webster's arrival and taking his seat in the senate," judge story writes to mr. ticknor, "there was a process bill on its third reading, filled, as he thought, with inconvenient and mischievous provisions. he made, in a modest undertone, some inquiries, and, upon an answer being given, he expressed in a few words his doubts and fears. immediately mr. tazewell from virginia broke out upon him in a speech of two hours. mr. webster then moved an adjournment, and on the next day delivered a most masterly speech in reply, expounding the whole operation of the intended act in the clearest manner, so that a recommitment was carried almost without an effort. it was a triumph of the most gratifying nature, and taught his opponents the danger of provoking a trial of his strength, even when he was overwhelmed by calamity. in the labors of the court he has found it difficult to work himself up to high efforts; but occasionally he comes out with all his powers, and when he does, it is sure to attract a brilliant audience." it would be impossible to give a better picture than that presented by judge story of mr. webster's appearance and conduct in the month immediately following the death of his wife. we can see how his talents, excited by the conflicts of the senate and the court, struggled, sometimes successfully, sometimes in vain, with the sense of loss and sorrow which oppressed him. he did not again come prominently forward in the senate until the end of april, when he roused himself to prevent injustice. the bill for the relief of the surviving officers of the revolution seemed on the point of being lost. the object of the measure appealed to mr. webster's love for the past, to his imagination, and his patriotism. he entered into the debate, delivered the fine and dignified speech which is preserved in his works, and saved the bill. a fortnight after this he made his famous speech on the tariff of , a bill making extensive changes in the rates of duties imposed in and . this speech marks an important change in mr. webster's views and in his course as a statesman. he now gave up his position as the ablest opponent in the country of the protective policy, and went over to the support of the tariff and the "american system" of mr. clay. this change, in every way of great importance, subjected mr. webster to severe criticism both then and subsequently. it is, therefore, necessary to examine briefly his previous utterances on this question in order to reach a correct understanding of his motives in taking this important step and to appreciate his reasons for the adoption of a policy with which, after the year , he was so closely identified. when mr. webster first entered congress he was a thorough-going federalist. but the federalists of new england differed from their great chief, alexander hamilton, on the question of a protective policy. hamilton, in his report on manufactures, advocated with consummate ability the adoption of the principle of protection for nascent industries as an integral and essential part of a true national policy, and urged it on its own merits, without any reference to its being incident to revenue. the new england federalists, on the other hand, coming from exclusively commercial communities, were in principle free-traders. they regarded with disfavor the doctrine that protection was a good thing in itself, and desired it, if at all, only in the most limited form and purely as an incident to raising revenue. with these opinions mr. webster was in full sympathy, and he took occasion when mr. calhoun, in , spoke in favor of the existing double duties as a protective measure, and also in favor of manufactures, during the debate on the repeal of the embargo, to define his position on this important question. a few brief extracts will show his views, which were expressed very clearly and with his wonted ability and force. "i consider," he said, "the imposition of double duties as a mere financial measure. its great object was to raise revenue, not to foster manufactures.... i do not say the double duties ought to be continued. i think they ought not. but what i particularly object to is the holding out of delusive expectations to those concerned in manufactures.... in respect to manufactures it is necessary to speak with some precision. i am not, generally speaking, their enemy. i am their friend; but i am not for rearing them or any other interest in hot-beds. i would not legislate precipitately, even in favor of them; above all, i would not profess intentions in relation to them which i did not purpose to execute. i feel no desire to push capital into extensive manufactures faster than the general progress of our wealth and population propels it. "i am not in haste to see sheffields and birminghams in america. until the population of the country shall be greater in proportion to its extent, such establishments would be impracticable if attempted, and if practicable they would be unwise." he then pointed out the inferiority and the perils of manufactures as an occupation in comparison with agriculture, and concluded as follows:-- "i am not anxious to accelerate the approach of the period when the great mass of american labor shall not find its employment in the field; when the young men of the country shall be obliged to shut their eyes upon external nature, upon the heavens and the earth, and immerse themselves in close and unwholesome workshops; when they shall be obliged to shut their ears to the bleatings of their own flocks upon their own hills, and to the voice of the lark that cheers them at the plough, that they may open them in dust and smoke and steam to the perpetual whirl of spools and spindles, and the grating of rasps and saws. i have made these remarks, sir, not because i perceive any immediate danger of carrying our manufactures to an extensive height, but for the purpose of guarding and limiting my opinions, and of checking, perhaps, a little the high-wrought hopes of some who seem to look to our present infant establishments for 'more than their nature or their state can bear.' "_it is the true policy of government to suffer the different pursuits of society to take their own course, and not to give excessive bounties or encouragements to one over another. this, also, is the true spirit of the constitution. it has not, in my opinion, conferred on the government the power of changing the occupations of the people of different states and sections, and of forcing them into other employments._ it cannot prohibit commerce any more than agriculture, nor manufactures any more than commerce. it owes protection to all." the sentences in italics constitute a pretty strong and explicit statement of the _laissez faire_ doctrine, and it will be observed that the tone of all the extracts is favorable to free trade and hostile to protection and even to manufactures in a marked degree. we see, also, that mr. webster, with his usual penetration and justice of perception, saw very clearly that uniformity and steadiness of policy were more essential than even the policy itself, and in his opinion were most likely to be attained by refraining from protection as much as possible. when the tariff of was under discussion mr. webster made no elaborate speech against it, probably feeling that it was hopeless to attempt to defeat the measure as a whole, but he devoted himself with almost complete success to the task of reducing the proposed duties and to securing modifications of various portions of the bill. in , when the tariff recommended at the previous session was about to come before congress, mr. webster was not in public life. he attended, however, a meeting of merchants and agriculturists, held in faneuil hall in the summer of that year, to protest against the proposed tariff, and he spoke strongly in favor of the free trade resolutions which were then adopted. he began by saying that he was a friend to manufactures, but not to the tariff, which he considered as most injurious to the country. "he certainly thought it might be doubted whether congress would not be acting somewhat against the spirit and intention of the constitution in exercising a power to control essentially the pursuits and occupations of individuals in their private concerns--a power to force great and sudden changes both of occupation and property upon individuals, _not as incidental to the exercise of any other power, but as a substantial and direct power_." it will be observed that he objects to the constitutionality of protection as a "direct power," and in the speech of , in the portion quoted in italics, he declared against any general power still more forcibly and broadly. it is an impossible piece of subtlety and refining, therefore, to argue that mr. webster always held consistently to his views as to the limitations of the revenue power as a source of protection, and that he put protection in , and subsequently sustained it after his change of position, on new and general constitutional grounds. in the speeches of and he declared expressly against the doctrine of a general power of protection, saying, in the latter instance:-- "it would hardly be contended that congress possessed that sort of general power by which it might declare that particular occupations should be pursued in society and that others should not. _if such power belonged to any government in this country, it certainly did not belong to the general government._" mr. webster took the new england position that there was no general power, and having so declared in this speech of , he then went on to show that protection could only come as incidental to revenue, and that, even in this way, it became unconstitutional when the incident was turned into the principle and when protection and not revenue was the object of the duties. after arguing this point, he proceeded to discuss the general expediency of protection, holding it up as a thoroughly mistaken policy, a failure in england which that country would gladly be rid of, and defending commerce as the truest and best support of the government and of general prosperity. he took up next the immediate effects of the proposed tariff, and, premising that it would confessedly cause a diminution of the revenue, said:-- "in truth, every man in the community not immediately benefited by the new duties would suffer a double loss. in the first place, by shutting out the former commodity, the price of the domestic manufacture would be raised. the consumer, therefore, must pay more for it, and insomuch as government will have lost the duty on the imported article, a tax equal to that duty must be paid to the government. the real amount, then, of this bounty on a given article will be precisely the amount of the present duty added to the amount of the proposed duty." he then went on to show the injustice which would be done to all manufacturers of unprotected articles, and ridiculed the idea of the connection between home industries artificially developed and national independence. he concluded by assailing manufacturing as an occupation, attacking it as a means of making the rich richer and the poor poorer; of injuring business by concentrating capital in the hands of a few who obtained control of the corporations; of distributing capital less widely than commerce; of breeding up a dangerous and undesirable population; and of leading to the hurtful employment of women and children. the meeting, the resolutions, and the speech were all in the interests of commerce and free trade, and mr. webster's doctrines were on the most approved pattern of new england federalism, which, professing a mild friendship for manufactures and unwillingly conceding the minimum of protection solely as an incident to revenue, was, at bottom, thoroughly hostile to both. in mr. webster stood forth, both politically and constitutionally, as a free-trader, moderate but at the same time decided in his opinions. when the tariff of was brought before congress and advocated with great zeal by mr. clay, who upheld it as the "american system," mr. webster opposed the policy in the fullest and most elaborate speech he had yet made on the subject. a distinguished american economist, mr. edward atkinson, has described this speech of briefly and exactly in the following words:-- "it contains a refutation of the exploded theory of the balance of trade, of the fallacy with regard to the exportation of specie, and of the claim that the policy of protection is distinctively the american policy which can never be improved upon, and it indicates how thoroughly his judgment approved and his better nature sympathized with the movement towards enlightened and liberal commercial legislation, then already commenced in great britain." this speech was in truth one of great ability, showing a remarkable capacity for questions of political economy, and opening with an admirable discussion of the currency and of finance, in regard to which mr. webster always held and advanced the soundest, most scientific, and most enlightened views. now, as in , he stood forth as the especial champion of commerce, which, as he said, had thriven without protection, had brought revenue to the government and wealth to the country, and would be grievously injured by the proposed tariff. he made his principal objection to the protection policy on the ground of favoritism to some interests at the expense of others when all were entitled to equal consideration. of england he said, "because a thing has been wrongly done, it does not follow that it can be undone; and this is the reason, as i understand it, for which exclusion, prohibition, and monopoly are suffered to remain in any degree in the english system." after examining at length the different varieties of protection, and displaying very thoroughly the state of current english opinion, he defined the position which he, in common with the federalists of new england, then as always adhered to in the following words:-- "protection, when carried to the point which is now recommended, that is, to entire prohibition, seems to me destructive of all commercial intercourse between nations. we are urged to adopt the system on general principles; ... i do not admit the general principle; on the contrary, i think freedom of trade the general principle, and restriction the exception." he pointed out that the proposed protective policy involved a decline of commerce, and that steadiness and uniformity, the most essential requisites in any policy, were endangered. he then with great power dealt with the various points summarized by mr. atkinson, and concluded with a detailed and learned examination of the various clauses of the bill, which finally passed by a small majority and became law. in came another tariff bill, so bad and so extreme in many respects that it was called the "bill of abominations." it originated in the agitation of the woollen manufacturers which had started the year before, and for this bill mr. webster spoke and voted. he changed his ground on this important question absolutely and entirely, and made no pretence of doing anything else. the speech which he made on this occasion is a celebrated one, but it is so solely on account of the startling change of position which it announced. mr. webster has been attacked and defended for his action at this time with great zeal, and all the constitutional and economic arguments for and against protection are continually brought forward in this connection. from the tone of the discussion, it is to be feared that many of those who are interested in the question have not taken the trouble to read what he said. the speech of is by no means equal in any way to its predecessors in the same field. it is brief and simple to the last degree. it has not a shred of constitutional argument, nor does it enter at all into a discussion of general principles. it makes but one point, and treats that point with great force as the only one to be made under the circumstances, and thereby presents the single and sufficient reason for its author's vote. a few lines from the speech give the marrow of the whole matter. mr. webster said:-- "new england, sir, has not been a leader in this policy. on the contrary, she held back herself and tried to hold others back from it, from the adoption of the constitution to . up to she was accused of sinister and selfish designs, _because she discountenanced the progress of this policy_.... under this angry denunciation against her the act of passed. now the imputation is of a precisely opposite character.... both charges, sir, are equally without the slightest foundation. the opinion of new england up to was founded in the conviction that, on the whole, it was wisest and best, both for herself and others, that manufactures should make haste slowly.... when, at the commencement of the late war, duties were doubled, we were told that we should find a mitigation of the weight of taxation in the new aid and succor which would be thus afforded to our own manufacturing labor. like arguments were urged, and prevailed, but not by the aid of new england votes, when the tariff was afterwards arranged at the close of the war in . finally, after a winter's deliberation, the act of received the sanction of both houses of congress and settled the policy of the country. what, then, was new england to do?... was she to hold out forever against the course of the government, and see herself losing on one side and yet make no effort to sustain herself on the other? no, sir. nothing was left to new england but to conform herself to the will of others. nothing was left to her but to consider that the government had fixed and determined its own policy; and that policy was _protection_.... i believe, sir, almost every man from new england who voted against the law of declared that if, notwithstanding his opposition to that law, it should still pass, there would be no alternative but to consider the course and policy of the government as then settled and fixed, and to act accordingly. the law did pass; and a vast increase of investment in manufacturing establishments was the consequence." opinion in new england changed for good and sufficient business reasons, and mr. webster changed with it. free trade had commended itself to him as an abstract principle, and he had sustained and defended it as in the interest of commercial new england. but when the weight of interest in new england shifted from free trade to protection mr. webster followed it. his constituents were by no means unanimous in support of the tariff in , but the majority favored it, and mr. webster went with the majority. at a public dinner given to him in boston at the close of the session, he explained to the dissentient minority the reasons for his vote, which were very simple. he thought that good predominated over evil in the bill, and that the majority throughout the whole state of which he was the representative favored the tariff, and therefore he had voted in the affirmative. much fault has been found, as has been said, both at the time and since, with mr. webster's change of position on this question. it has been held up as a monument of inconsistency, and as indicating a total absence of deep conviction. that mr. webster was, in a certain sense, inconsistent is beyond doubt, but consistency is the bugbear of small minds, as well as a mark of strong characters, while its reverse is often the proof of wisdom. on the other hand, it may be fairly argued that, holding as he did that the whole thing was purely a business question to be decided according to circumstances, his course, in view of the policy adopted by the government, was at bottom perfectly consistent. as to the want of deep conviction, mr. webster's vote on this question proves nothing. he believed in free trade as an abstract general principle, and there is no reason to suppose that he ever abandoned his belief on this point. but he had too clear a mind ever to be run away with by the extreme vagaries of the manchester school. he knew that there was no morality, no immutable right and wrong, in an impost or a free list. it has been the fashion to refer to mr. disraeli's declaration that free trade was "a mere question of expediency" as a proof of that gentleman's cynical indifference to moral principles. that the late earl of beaconsfield had no deep convictions on any subject may be readily admitted, but in this instance he uttered a very plain and simple truth, which all the talk in the world about free trade as the harbinger and foundation of universal peace on earth, cannot disguise. mr. webster never at any time treated the question of free trade or protection as anything but one of expediency. under the lead of mr. calhoun, in , the south and west initiated a protective policy, and after twelve years it had become firmly established and new england had adapted herself to it. mr. webster, as a new england representative, resisted the protective policy at the outset as against her interests, but when she had conformed to the new conditions, he came over to its support simply on the ground of expediency. he rested the defence of his new position upon the doctrine which he had always consistently preached, that uniformity and permanency were the essential and sound conditions of any policy, whether of free trade or protection. in , neither at the dinner in boston nor in the senate, did he enter into any discussion of general principles or constitutional theories. he merely said, in substance, you have chosen to make protection necessary to new england, and therefore i am now forced to vote for it. this was the position which he continued to hold to the end of his life. as he was called upon, year after year, to defend protection, and as new england became more and more wedded to the tariff, he elaborated his arguments on many points, but the essence of all he said afterwards is to be found in the speech of . on the constitutional point he was obliged to make a more violent change. he held, of course, to his opinion that, under the revenue power, protection could be incidental only, because from that doctrine there was no escape. but he dropped the condemnation expressed in and the doubts uttered in as to the theory that it was within the direct power of congress to enact a protective tariff, and assumed that they had this right as one of the general powers in the constitution, or that at all events they had exercised it, and that therefore the question was henceforward to be considered as _res adjudicata_. the speech of marks the separation of mr. webster from the opinions of the old school of new england federalism. thereafter he stood forth as the champion of the tariff and of the "american system" of henry clay. regarding protection in its true light, as a mere question of expediency, he followed the interests of new england and of the great industrial communities of the north. that he shifted his ground at the proper moment, bad as the "bill of abominations" was, and that, as a northern statesman, he was perfectly justified in doing so, cannot be fairly questioned or criticised. it is true that his course was a sectional one, but everybody else's on this question was the same, and it could not be, it never has been, and never will be otherwise. the tariff of was destined indirectly to have far more important results to mr. webster than the brief speech in which he signalized his change of position on the question of protection. soon after the passage of the act, in may, , the south carolina delegation held a meeting to take steps to resist the operation of the tariff, but nothing definite was then accomplished. popular meetings in south carolina, characterized by much violent talk, followed, however, during the summer, and in the autumn the legislature of the state put forth the famous "exposition and protest" which emanated from mr. calhoun, and embodied in the fullest and strongest terms the principles of "nullification." these movements were viewed with regret and with some alarm throughout the country, but they were rather lost sight of in the intense excitement of the presidential election. the accession of jackson then came to absorb the public attention, and brought with it the sweeping removals from office which mr. webster strongly denounced. at the same time he was not led into the partisan absurdity of denying the president's power of removal, and held to the impregnable position of steady resistance to the evils of patronage, which could be cured only by the operation of an enlightened public sentiment. it is obvious now that, in the midst of all this agitation about other matters, mr. calhoun and the south carolinians never lost sight of the conflict for which they were preparing, and that they were on the alert to bring nullification to the front in a more menacing and pronounced fashion than had yet been attempted. the grand assault was finally made in the senate, under the eye of the great nullifier, who then occupied the chair of the vice-president, and came in an unexpected way. in december, , mr. foote of connecticut introduced a harmless resolution of inquiry respecting the sales and surveys of the western lands. in the long-drawn debate which ensued, general hayne of south carolina, on january , , made an elaborate attack on the new england states. he accused them of a desire to check the growth of the west in the interests of the protective policy, and tried to show the sympathy which should exist between the west and south, and lead them to make common cause against the tariff. mr. webster felt that this attack could not be left unanswered, and the next day he replied to it. this first speech on foote's resolution has been so obscured by the greatness of the second that it is seldom referred to and but little read. yet it is one of the most effective retorts, one of the strongest pieces of destructive criticism, ever uttered in the senate, although its purpose was simply to repel the charge of hostility to the west on the part of new england. the accusation was in fact absurd, and but few years had elapsed since mr. webster and new england had been assailed by mr. mcduffie for desiring to build up the west at the expense of the south by the policy of internal improvements. it was not difficult, therefore, to show the groundlessness of this new attack, but mr. webster did it with consummate art and great force, shattering hayne's elaborate argument to pieces and treading it under foot. mr. webster only alluded incidentally to the tariff agitation in south carolina, but the crushing nature of the reply inflamed and mortified mr. hayne, who, on the following day, insisted on mr. webster's presence, and spoke for the second time at great length. he made a bitter attack upon new england, upon mr. webster personally, and upon the character and patriotism of massachusetts. he then made a full exposition of the doctrine of nullification, giving free expression of the views and principles entertained by his master and leader, who presided over the discussion. the debate had now drifted far from the original resolution, but its real object had been reached at last. the war upon the tariff had been begun, and the standard of nullification and of resistance to the union and to the laws of congress had been planted boldly in the senate of the united states. the debate was adjourned and mr. hayne did not conclude till january . the next day mr. webster replied in the second speech on foote's resolution, which is popularly known as the "reply to hayne." this great speech marks the highest point attained by mr. webster as a public man. he never surpassed it, he never equalled it afterwards. it was his zenith intellectually, politically, and as an orator. his fame grew and extended in the years which followed, he won ample distinction in other fields, he made many other splendid speeches, but he never went beyond the reply which he made to the senator from south carolina on january , . the doctrine of nullification, which was the main point both with hayne and webster, was no new thing. the word was borrowed from the kentucky resolutions of , and the principle was contained in the more cautious phrases of the contemporary virginia resolutions and of the hartford convention in . the south carolinian reproduction in was fuller and more elaborate than its predecessors and supported by more acute reasoning, but the principle was unchanged. mr. webster's argument was simple but overwhelming. he admitted fully the right of revolution. he accepted the proposition that no one was bound to obey an unconstitutional law; but the essential question was who was to say whether a law was unconstitutional or not. each state has that authority, was the reply of the nullifiers, and if the decision is against the validity of the law it cannot be executed within the limits of the dissenting state. the vigorous sarcasm with which mr. webster depicted practical nullification, and showed that it was nothing more or less than revolution when actually carried out, was really the conclusive answer to the nullifying doctrine. but mr. calhoun and his school eagerly denied that nullification rested on the right to revolt against oppression. they argued that it was a constitutional right; that they could live within the constitution and beyond it,--inside the house and outside it at one and the same time. they contended that, the constitution being a compact between the states, the federal government was the creation of the states; yet, in the same breath, they declared that the general government was a party to the contract from which it had itself emanated, in order to get rid of the difficulty of proving that, while the single dissenting state could decide against the validity of a law, the twenty or more other states, also parties to the contract, had no right to deliver an opposite judgment which should be binding as the opinion of the majority of the court. there was nothing very ingenious or very profound in the argument by which mr. webster demonstrated the absurdity of the doctrine which attempted to make nullification a peaceable constitutional privilege, when it could be in practice nothing else than revolution. but the manner in which he put the argument was magnificent and final. as he himself said, in this very speech of samuel dexter, "his statement was argument, his inference demonstration." the weak places in his armor were historical in their nature. it was probably necessary, at all events mr. webster felt it to be so, to argue that the constitution at the outset was not a compact between the states, but a national instrument, and to distinguish the cases of virginia and kentucky in and of new england in , from that of south carolina in . the former point he touched upon lightly, the latter he discussed ably, eloquently, ingeniously, and at length. unfortunately the facts were against him in both instances. when the constitution was adopted by the votes of states at philadelphia, and accepted by the votes of states in popular conventions, it is safe to say that there was not a man in the country from washington and hamilton on the one side, to george clinton and george mason on the other, who regarded the new system as anything but an experiment entered upon by the states and from which each and every state had the right peaceably to withdraw, a right which was very likely to be exercised. when the virginia and kentucky resolutions appeared they were not opposed on constitutional grounds, but on those of expediency and of hostility to the revolution which they were considered to embody. hamilton, and no one knew the constitution better than he, treated them as the beginnings of an attempt to change the government, as the germs of a conspiracy to destroy the union. as dr. von holst tersely and accurately states it, "there was no time as yet to attempt to strangle the healthy human mind in a net of logical deductions." that was the work reserved for john c. calhoun. what is true of is true of the new england leaders at washington when they discussed the feasibility of secession in ; of the declaration in favor of secession made by josiah quincy in congress a few years later; of the resistance of new england during the war of , and of the right of "interposition" set forth by the hartford convention. in all these instances no one troubled himself about the constitutional aspect; it was a question of expediency, of moral and political right or wrong. in every case the right was simply stated, and the uniform answer was, such a step means the overthrow of the present system. when south carolina began her resistance to the tariff in , times had changed, and with them the popular conception of the government established by the constitution. it was now a much more serious thing to threaten the existence of the federal government than it had been in , or even in . the great fabric which had been gradually built up made an overthrow of the government look very terrible; it made peaceable secession a mockery, and a withdrawal from the union equivalent to civil war. the boldest hesitated to espouse any principle which was avowedly revolutionary, and on both sides men wished to have a constitutional defence for every doctrine which they promulgated. this was the feeling which led mr. calhoun to elaborate and perfect with all the ingenuity of his acute and logical mind the arguments in favor of nullification as a constitutional principle. at the same time the theory of nullification, however much elaborated, had not altered in its essence from the bald and brief statement of the kentucky resolutions. the vast change had come on the other side of the question, in the popular idea of the constitution. it was no longer regarded as an experiment from which the contracting parties had a right to withdraw, but as the charter of a national government. "it is a critical moment," said mr. bell of new hampshire to mr. webster, on the morning of january , "and it is time, it is high time that the people of this country should know what this constitution _is_." "then," answered mr. webster, "by the blessing of heaven they shall learn, this day, before the sun goes down, what i understand it to be." with these words on his lips he entered the senate chamber, and when he replied to hayne he stated what the union and the government had come to be at that moment. he defined the character of the union as it existed in , and that definition so magnificently stated, and with such grand eloquence, went home to the hearts of the people, and put into noble words the sentiment which they felt but had not expressed. this was the significance of the reply to hayne. it mattered not what men thought of the constitution in . the government which was then established might have degenerated into a confederation little stronger than its predecessor. but the constitution did its work better, and converted a confederacy into a nation. mr. webster set forth the national conception of the union. he expressed what many men were vaguely thinking and believing, and the principles which he made clear and definite went on broadening and deepening until, thirty years afterwards, they had a force sufficient to sustain the north and enable her to triumph in the terrible struggle which resulted in the preservation of national life. when mr. webster showed that practical nullification was revolution, he had answered completely the south carolinian doctrine, for revolution is not susceptible of constitutional argument. but in the state of public opinion at that time it was necessary to discuss nullification on constitutional grounds also, and mr. webster did this as eloquently and ably as the nature of the case admitted. whatever the historical defects of his position, he put weapons into the hands of every friend of the union, and gave reasons and arguments to the doubting and timid. yet after all is said, the meaning of mr. webster's speech in our history and its significance to us are, that it set forth with every attribute of eloquence the nature of the union as it had developed under the constitution. he took the vague popular conception and gave it life and form and character. he said, as he alone could say, the people of the united states are a nation, they are the masters of an empire, their union is indivisible, and the words which then rang out in the senate chamber have come down through long years of political conflict and of civil war, until at last they are part of the political creed of every one of his fellow-countrymen. the reply to hayne cannot, however, be dismissed with a consideration of its historical and political meaning or of its constitutional significance. it has a personal and literary importance of hardly less moment. there comes an occasion, a period perhaps, in the life of every man when he touches his highest point, when he does his best, or even, under a sudden inspiration and excitement, something better than his best, and to which he can never again attain. at the moment it is often impossible to detect this point, but when the man and his career have passed into history, and we can survey it all spread out before us like a map, the pinnacle of success can easily be discovered. the reply to hayne was the zenith of mr. webster's life, and it is the place of all others where it is fit to pause and study him as a parliamentary orator and as a master of eloquence. before attempting, however, to analyze what he said, let us strive to recall for a moment the scene of his great triumph. on the morning of the memorable day, the senate chamber was packed by an eager and excited crowd. every seat on the floor and in the galleries was occupied, and all the available standing-room was filled. the protracted debate, conducted with so much ability on both sides, had excited the attention of the whole country, and had given time for the arrival of hundreds of interested spectators from all parts of the union, and especially from new england. the fierce attacks of the southern leaders had angered and alarmed the people of the north. they longed with an intense longing to have these assaults met and repelled, and yet they could not believe that this apparently desperate feat could be successfully accomplished. men of the north and of new england could be known in washington, in those days, by their indignant but dejected looks and downcast eyes. they gathered in the senate chamber on the appointed day, quivering with anticipation, and with hope and fear struggling for the mastery in their breasts. with them were mingled those who were there from mere curiosity, and those who had come rejoicing in the confident expectation that the northern champion would suffer failure and defeat. in the midst of the hush of expectation, in that dead silence which is so peculiarly oppressive because it is possible only when many human beings are gathered together, mr. webster rose. he had sat impassive and immovable during all the preceding days, while the storm of argument and invective had beaten about his head. at last his time had come; and as he rose and stood forth, drawing himself up to his full height, his personal grandeur and his majestic calm thrilled all who looked upon him. with perfect quietness, unaffected apparently by the atmosphere of intense feeling about him, he said, in a low, even tone: "mr. president: when the mariner has been tossed for many days in thick weather and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first pause in the storm, the earliest glance of the sun, to take his latitude and ascertain how far the elements have driven him from his true course. let us imitate this prudence; and, before we float farther on the waves of this debate, refer to the point from which we departed, that we may, at least, be able to conjecture where we now are. i ask for the reading of the resolution before the senate." this opening sentence was a piece of consummate art. the simple and appropriate image, the low voice, the calm manner, relieved the strained excitement of the audience, which might have ended by disconcerting the speaker if it had been maintained. every one was now at his ease; and when the monotonous reading of the resolution ceased mr. webster was master of the situation, and had his listeners in complete control. with breathless attention they followed him as he proceeded. the strong masculine sentences, the sarcasm, the pathos, the reasoning, the burning appeals to love of state and country, flowed on unbroken. as his feelings warmed the fire came into his eyes; there was a glow on his swarthy cheek; his strong right arm seemed to sweep away resistlessly the whole phalanx of his opponents, and the deep and melodious cadences of his voice sounded like harmonious organ-tones as they filled the chamber with their music. as the last words died away into silence, those who had listened looked wonderingly at each other, dimly conscious that they had heard one of the grand speeches which are land-marks in the history of eloquence; and the men of the north and of new england went forth full of the pride of victory, for their champion had triumphed, and no assurance was needed to prove to the world that this time no answer could be made. as every one knows, this speech contains much more than the argument against nullification, which has just been discussed, and exhibits all its author's intellectual gifts in the highest perfection. mr. hayne had touched on every conceivable subject of political importance, including slavery, which, however covered up, was really at the bottom of every southern movement, and was certain sooner or later to come to the surface. all these various topics mr. webster took up, one after another, displaying a most remarkable strength of grasp and ease of treatment. he dealt with them all effectively and yet in just proportion. throughout there are bursts of eloquence skilfully mingled with statement and argument, so that the listeners were never wearied by a strained and continuous rhetorical display; and yet, while the attention was closely held by the even flow of lucid reasoning, the emotions and passions were from time to time deeply aroused and strongly excited. in many passages of direct retort mr. webster used an irony which he employed always in a perfectly characteristic way. he had a strong natural sense of humor, but he never made fun or descended to trivial efforts to excite laughter against his opponent. he was not a witty man or a maker of epigrams. but he was a master in the use of a cold, dignified sarcasm, which at times, and in this instance particularly, he used freely and mercilessly. beneath the measured sentences there is a lurking smile which saves them from being merely savage and cutting attacks, and yet brings home a keen sense of the absurdity of the opponent's position. the weapon resembled more the sword of richard than the scimetar of saladin, but it was none the less a keen and trenchant blade. there is probably no better instance of mr. webster's power of sarcasm than the famous passage in which he replied to hayne's taunt about the "murdered coalition," which was said to have existed between adams and calhoun. in a totally different vein is the passage about massachusetts, perhaps in its way as good an example as we have of webster's power of appealing to the higher and more tender feelings of human nature. the thought is simple and even obvious, and the expression unadorned, and yet what he said had that subtle quality which stirred and still stirs the heart of every man born on the soil of the old puritan commonwealth. the speech as a whole has all the qualities which made mr. webster a great orator, and the same traits run through his other speeches. an analysis of the reply to hayne, therefore, gives us all the conditions necessary to forming a correct idea of mr. webster's eloquence, of its characteristics and its value. the attic school of oratory subordinated form to thought to avoid the misuse of ornament, and triumphed over the more florid practice of the so-called "asiatics." rome gave the palm to atticism, and modern oratory has gone still farther in the same direction, until its predominant quality has become that of making sustained appeals to the understanding. logical vigilance and long chains of reasoning, avoided by the ancients, are the essentials of our modern oratory. many able men have achieved success under these conditions as forcible and convincing speakers. but the grand eloquence of modern times is distinguished by the bursts of feeling, of imagery or of invective, joined with convincing argument. this combination is rare, and whenever we find a man who possesses it we may be sure that, in greater or less degree, he is one of the great masters of eloquence as we understand it. the names of those who in debate or to a jury have been in every-day practice strong and effective speakers, and also have thrilled and shaken large masses of men, readily occur to us. to this class belong chatham and burke, fox, sheridan and erskine, mirabeau and vergniaud, patrick henry and daniel webster. mr. webster was of course essentially modern in his oratory. he relied chiefly on the sustained appeal to the understanding, and he was a conspicuous example of the prophetic character which christianity, and protestantism especially, has given to modern eloquence. at the same time mr. webster was in some respects more classical, and resembled more closely the models of antiquity, than any of those who have been mentioned as belonging to the same high class. he was wont to pour forth the copious stream of plain, intelligible observations, and indulge in the varied appeals to feeling, memory, and interest, which lord brougham sets down as characteristic of ancient oratory. it has been said that while demosthenes was a sculptor, burke was a painter. mr. webster was distinctly more of the former than the latter. he rarely amplified or developed an image or a description, and in this he followed the greek rather than the englishman. dr. francis lieber wrote: "to test webster's oratory, which has ever been very attractive to me, i read a portion of my favorite speeches of demosthenes, and then read, always aloud, parts of webster; then returned to the athenian; and webster stood the test." apart from the great compliment which this conveys, such a comparison is very interesting as showing the similarity between mr. webster and the greek orator. not only does the test indicate the merit of mr. webster's speeches, but it also proves that he resembled the athenian, and that the likeness was more striking than the inevitable difference born of race and time. yet there is no indication that webster ever made a study of the ancient models or tried to form himself upon them. the cause of the classic self-restraint in webster was partly due to the artistic sense which made him so devoted to simplicity of diction, and partly to the cast of his mind. he had a powerful historic imagination, but not in the least the imagination of the poet, which "bodies forth the forms of things unknown." he could describe with great vividness, brevity, and force what had happened in the past, what actually existed, or what the future promised. but his fancy never ran away with him or carried him captive into the regions of poetry. imagination of this sort is readily curbed and controlled, and, if less brilliant, is safer than that defined by shakespeare. for this reason, mr. webster rarely indulged in long, descriptive passages, and, while he showed the highest power in treating anything with a touch of humanity about it, he was sparing of images drawn wholly from nature, and was not peculiarly successful in depicting in words natural scenery or phenomena. the result is, that in his highest flights, while he is often grand and affecting, full of life and power, he never shows the creative imagination. but if he falls short on the poetic side, there is the counterbalancing advantage that there is never a false note nor an overwrought description which offends our taste and jars upon our sensibilities. mr. webster showed his love of direct simplicity in his style even more than in his thought or the general arrangement and composition of his speeches. his sentences are, as a rule, short, and therefore pointed and intelligible, but they never become monotonous and harsh, the fault to which brevity is always liable. on the contrary, they are smooth and flowing, and there is always a sufficient variety of form. the choice of language is likewise simple. mr. webster was a remorseless critic of his own style, and he had an almost extreme preference for anglo-saxon words and a corresponding dislike of latin derivatives. the only exception he made was in his habit of using "commence" instead of its far superior synonym "begin." his style was vigorous, clear, and direct in the highest degree, and at the same time warm and full of vitality. he displayed that rare union of strength with perfect simplicity, the qualities which made swift the great master of pure and forcible english. charles fox is credited with saying that a good speech never reads well. this opinion, taken in the sense in which it was intended, that a carefully-prepared speech, which reads like an essay, lacks the freshness and glow that should characterize the oratory of debate, is undoubtedly correct. but it is equally true that when a speech which we know to have been good in delivery is equally good in print, a higher intellectual plane is reached and a higher level of excellence is attained than is possible to either the mere essay or to the effective retort or argument, which loses its flavor with the occasion which draws it forth. mr. webster's speeches on the tariff, on the bank, and on like subjects, able as they are, are necessarily dry, but his speeches on nobler themes are admirable reading. this is, of course, due to the variety and ease of treatment, to their power, and to the purity of the style. at the same time, the immediate effect of what he said was immense, greater, even, than the intrinsic merit of the speech itself. there has been much discussion as to the amount of preparation which mr. webster made. his occasional orations were, of course, carefully written out beforehand, a practice which was entirely proper; but in his great parliamentary speeches, and often in legal arguments as well, he made but slight preparation in the ordinary sense of the term. the notes for the two speeches on foote's resolution were jotted down on a few sheets of note-paper. the delivery of the second one, his masterpiece, was practically extemporaneous, and yet it fills seventy octavo pages and occupied four hours. he is reported to have said that his whole life had been a preparation for the reply to hayne. whether he said it or not, the statement is perfectly true. the thoughts on the union and on the grandeur of american nationality had been garnered up for years, and this in a greater or less degree was true of all his finest efforts. the preparation on paper was trifling, but the mental preparation extending over weeks or days, sometimes, perhaps, over years, was elaborate to the last point. when the moment came, a night's work would put all the stored-up thoughts in order, and on the next day they would pour forth with all the power of a strong mind thoroughly saturated with its subject, and yet with the vitality of unpremeditated expression, having the fresh glow of morning upon it, and with no trace of the lamp. more than all this, however, in the immediate effect of mr. webster's speeches was the physical influence of the man himself. we can but half understand his eloquence and its influence if we do not carefully study his physical attributes, his temperament and disposition. in face, form, and voice, nature did her utmost for daniel webster. no envious fairy was present at his birth to mar these gifts by her malign influence. he seemed to every one to be a giant; that, at least, is the word we most commonly find applied to him, and there is no better proof of his enormous physical impressiveness than this well-known fact, for mr. webster was not a man of extraordinary stature. he was five feet ten inches in height, and, in health, weighed a little less than two hundred pounds. these are the proportions of a large man, but there is nothing remarkable about them. we must look elsewhere than to mere size to discover why men spoke of webster as a giant. he had a swarthy complexion and straight black hair. his head was very large, the brain weighing, as is well known, more than any on record, except those of cuvier and of the celebrated bricklayer. at the same time his head was of noble shape, with a broad and lofty brow, and his features were finely cut and full of massive strength. his eyes were extraordinary. they were very dark and deep-set, and, when he began to rouse himself to action, shone with the deep light of a forge-fire, getting ever more glowing as excitement rose. his voice was in harmony with his appearance. it was low and musical in conversation; in debate it was high but full, ringing out in moments of excitement like a clarion, and then sinking to deep notes with the solemn richness of organ-tones, while the words were accompanied by a manner in which grace and dignity mingled in complete accord. the impression which he produced upon the eye and ear it is difficult to express. there is no man in all history who came into the world so equipped physically for speech. in this direction nature could do no more. the mere look of the man and the sound of his voice made all who saw and heard him feel that he must be the embodiment of wisdom, dignity, and strength, divinely eloquent, even if he sat in dreamy silence or uttered nothing but heavy commonplaces. it is commonly said that no one of the many pictures of mr. webster gives a true idea of what he was. we can readily believe this when we read the descriptions which have come down to us. that indefinable quality which we call personal magnetism, the power of impressing by one's personality every human being who comes near, was at its height in mr. webster. he never, for instance, punished his children, but when they did wrong he would send for them and look at them silently. the look, whether of anger or sorrow, was punishment and rebuke enough. it was the same with other children. the little daughter of mr. wirt once came into a room where mr. webster was sitting with his back toward her, and touched him on the arm. he turned suddenly, and the child started back with an affrighted cry at the sight of that dark, stern, melancholy face. but the cloud passed as swiftly as the shadows on a summer sea, and the next moment the look of affection and humor brought the frightened child into mr. webster's arms, and they were friends and playmates in an instant. the power of a look and of changing expression, so magical with a child, was hardly less so with men. there have been very few instances in history where there is such constant reference to merely physical attributes as in the case of mr. webster. his general appearance and his eyes are the first and last things alluded to in every contemporary description. every one is familiar with the story of the english navvy who pointed at mr. webster in the streets of liverpool and said, "there goes a king." sidney smith exclaimed when he saw him, "good heavens, he is a small cathedral by himself." carlyle, no lover of america, wrote to emerson:-- "not many days ago i saw at breakfast the notablest of all your notabilities, daniel webster. he is a magnificent specimen. you might say to all the world, 'this is our yankee englishman; such limbs we make in yankee land!' as a logic fencer, or parliamentary hercules, one would incline to back him at first sight against all the extant world. the tanned complexion; that amorphous crag-like face; the dull black eyes under the precipice of brows, like dull anthracite furnaces needing only to be _blown_; the mastiff mouth accurately closed; i have not traced so much of _silent berserkir rage_ that i remember of in any man. 'i guess i should not like to be your nigger!' webster is not loquacious, but he is pertinent, conclusive; a dignified, perfectly bred man, though not english in breeding; a man worthy of the best reception among us, and meeting such i understand." such was the effect produced by mr. webster when in england, and it was a universal impression. wherever he went men felt in the depths of their being the amazing force of his personal presence. he could control an audience by a look, and could extort applause from hostile listeners by a mere glance. on one occasion, after the th of march speech, there is a story that a noted abolitionist leader was present in the crowd gathered to hear mr. webster, and this bitter opponent is reported to have said afterwards, "when webster, speaking of secession, asked 'what is to become of me,' i was thrilled with a sense of some awful impending calamity." the story may be apocryphal, but there can be no doubt of its essential truth so far as the effect of mr. webster's personal presence goes. people looked at him, and that was enough. mr. parton in his essay speaks of seeing webster at a public dinner, sitting at the head of the table with a bottle of madeira under his yellow waistcoat, and looking like jove. when he presided at the cooper memorial meeting in new york he uttered only a few stately platitudes, and yet every one went away with the firm conviction that they had heard him speak words of the profoundest wisdom and grandest eloquence. the temptation to rely on his marvellous physical gifts grew on him as he became older, which was to be expected with a man of his temperament. even in his early days, when he was not in action, he had an impassible and slumberous look; and when he sat listening to the invective of hayne, no emotion could be traced on his cold, dark, melancholy face, or in the cavernous eyes shining with a dull light. this all vanished when he began to speak, and, as he poured forth his strong, weighty sentences, there was no lack of expression or of movement. but mr. webster, despite his capacity for work, and his protracted and often intense labor, was constitutionally indolent, and this sluggishness of temperament increased very much as he grew older. it extended from the periods of repose to those of action until, in his later years, a direct stimulus was needed to make him exert himself. even to the last the mighty power was still there in undiminished strength, but it was not willingly put forth. sometimes the outside impulse would not come; sometimes the most trivial incident would suffice, and like a spark on the train of gunpowder would bring a sudden burst of eloquence, electrifying all who listened. on one occasion he was arguing a case to the jury. he was talking in his heaviest and most ponderous fashion, and with half-closed eyes. the court and the jurymen were nearly asleep as mr. webster argued on, stating the law quite wrongly to his nodding listeners. the counsel on the other side interrupted him and called the attention of the court to mr. webster's presentation of the law. the judge, thus awakened, explained to the jury that the law was not as mr. webster stated it. while this colloquy was in progress mr. webster roused up, pushed back his thick hair, shook himself, and glanced about him with the look of a caged lion. when the judge paused, he turned again to the jury, his eyes no longer half shut but wide open and glowing with excitement. raising his voice, he said, in tones which made every one start: "if my client could recover under the law as i stated it, how much more is he entitled to recover under the law as laid down by the court;" and then, the jury now being thoroughly awake, he poured forth a flood of eloquent argument and won his case. in his latter days mr. webster made many careless and dull speeches and carried them through by the power of his look and manner, but the time never came when, if fairly aroused, he failed to sway the hearts and understandings of men by a grand and splendid eloquence. the lion slept very often, but it never became safe to rouse him from his slumber. it was soon after the reply to hayne that mr. webster made his great argument for the government in the white murder case. one other address to a jury in the goodridge case, and the defence of judge prescott before the massachusetts senate, which is of similar character, have been preserved to us. the speech for prescott is a strong, dignified appeal to the sober, and yet sympathetic, judgment of his hearers, but wholly free from any attempt to confuse or mislead, or to sway the decision by unwholesome pathos. under the circumstances, which were very adverse to his client, the argument was a model of its kind, and contains some very fine passages full of the solemn force so characteristic of its author. the goodridge speech is chiefly remarkable for the ease with which mr. webster unravelled a complicated set of facts, demonstrated that the accuser was in reality the guilty party, and carried irresistible conviction to the minds of the jurors. it was connected with a remarkable exhibition of his power of cross-examination, which was not only acute and penetrating, but extremely terrifying to a recalcitrant witness. the argument in the white case, as a specimen of eloquence, stands on far higher ground than either of the other two, and, apart from the nature of the subject, ranks with the very best of mr. webster's oratorical triumphs. the opening of the speech, comprising the account of the murder and the analysis of the workings of a mind seared with the remembrance of a horrid crime, must be placed among the very finest masterpieces of modern oratory. the description of the feelings of the murderer has a touch of the creative power, but, taken in conjunction with the wonderful picture of the deed itself, the whole exhibits the highest imaginative excellence, and displays the possession of an extraordinary dramatic force such as mr. webster rarely exerted. it has the same power of exciting a kind of horror and of making us shudder with a creeping, nameless terror as the scene after the murder of duncan, when macbeth rushes out from the chamber of death, crying, "i have done the deed. didst thou not hear a noise?" i have studied this famous exordium with extreme care, and i have sought diligently in the works of all the great modern orators, and of some of the ancient as well, for similar passages of higher merit. my quest has been in vain. mr. webster's description of the white murder, and of the ghastly haunting sense of guilt which pursued the assassin, has never been surpassed in dramatic force by any speaker, whether in debate or before a jury. perhaps the most celebrated descriptive passage in the literature of modern eloquence is the picture drawn by burke of the descent of hyder ali upon the plains of the carnatic, but even that certainly falls short of the opening of webster's speech in simple force as well as in dramatic power. burke depicted with all the ardor of his nature and with a wealth of color a great invasion which swept thousands to destruction. webster's theme was a cold-blooded murder in a quiet new england town. comparison between such topics, when one is so infinitely larger than the other, seems at first sight almost impossible. but mr. webster also dealt with the workings of the human heart under the influence of the most terrible passions, and those have furnished sufficient material for the genius of shakespeare. the test of excellence is in the treatment, and in this instance mr. webster has never been excelled. the effect of that exordium, delivered as he alone could have delivered it, must have been appalling. he was accused of having been brought into the case to hurry the jury beyond the law and evidence, and his whole speech was certainly calculated to drive any body of men, terror-stricken by his eloquence, wherever he wished them to go. mr. webster did not have that versatility and variety of eloquence which we associate with the speakers who have produced the most startling effect upon that complex thing called a jury. he never showed that rapid alternation of wit, humor, pathos, invective, sublimity, and ingenuity which have been characteristic of the greatest advocates. before a jury as everywhere else he was direct and simple. he awed and terrified jurymen; he convinced their reason; but he commanded rather than persuaded, and carried them with him by sheer force of eloquence and argument, and by his overpowering personality. the extravagant admiration which mr. webster excited among his followers has undoubtedly exaggerated his greatness in many respects; but, high as the praise bestowed upon him as an orator has been, in that direction at least he has certainly not been overestimated. the reverse rather is true. mr. webster was, of course, the greatest orator this country has ever produced. patrick henry's fame rests wholly on tradition. the same is true of hamilton, who, moreover, never had an opportunity adequate to his talents, which were unquestionably of the first order. fisher ames's reputation was due to a single speech which is distinctly inferior to many of webster's. clay's oratory has not stood the test of time; his speeches, which were so wonderfully effective when he uttered them, seem dead and cold and rather thin as we read them to-day. calhoun was a great debater, but was too dry and hard for the highest eloquence. john quincy adams, despite his physical limitations, carried the eloquence of combat and bitter retort to the highest point in the splendid battles of his congressional career, but his learning, readiness, power of expression, argument, and scathing sarcasm were not rounded into a perfect whole by the more graceful attributes which also form an essential part of oratory. mr. webster need not fear comparison with any of his countrymen, and he has no reason to shun it with the greatest masters of speech in england. he had much of the grandeur of chatham, with whom it is impossible to compare him or indeed any one else, for the great commoner lives only in fragments of doubtful accuracy. sheridan was universally considered to have made the most splendid speech of his day. yet the speech on the begums as given by moore does not cast webster's best work at all into the shade. webster did not have sheridan's brilliant wit, but on the other hand he was never forced, never involved, never guilty of ornament, which fastidious judges would now pronounce tawdry. webster's best speeches read much better than anything of sheridan, and, so far as we can tell from careful descriptions, his manner, look, and delivery were far more imposing. the "manly eloquence" of fox seems to have resembled webster's more closely than that of any other of his english rivals. fox was more fertile, more brilliant, more surprising than webster, and had more quickness and dash, and a greater ease and charm of manner. but he was often careless, and sometimes fell into repetitions, from which, of course, no great speaker can be wholly free any more than he can keep entirely clear of commonplaces. webster gained upon him by superior finish and by greater weight of argument. before a jury webster fell behind erskine as he did behind choate, although neither of them ever produced anything at all comparable to the speech on the white murder; but in the senate, and in the general field of oratory, he rises high above them both. the man with whom webster is oftenest compared, and the last to be mentioned, is of course burke. it may be conceded at once that in creative imagination, and in richness of imagery and language, burke ranks above webster. but no one would ever have said of webster as goldsmith did of burke:-- "who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, and thought of convincing while they thought of dining." webster never sinned by over refinement or over ingenuity, for both were utterly foreign to his nature. still less did he impair his power in the senate as burke did in the commons by talking too often and too much. if he did not have the extreme beauty and grace of which burke was capable, he was more forcible and struck harder and more weighty blows. he was greatly aided in this by his brief and measured periods, and his strength was never wasted in long and elaborate sentences. webster, moreover, would never have degenerated into the ranting excitement which led burke to draw a knife from his bosom and cast it on the floor of the house. this illustrates what was, perhaps, mr. webster's very strongest point,--his absolute good taste. he may have been ponderous at times in his later years. we know that he was occasionally heavy, pompous, and even dull, but he never violated the rules of the nicest taste. other men have been more versatile, possessed of a richer imagination, and more gorgeous style, with a more brilliant wit and a keener sarcasm, but there is not one who is so absolutely free from faults of taste as webster, or who is so uniformly simple and pure in thought and style, even to the point of severity.[ ] [footnote : a volume might be written comparing mr. webster with other great orators. only the briefest and most rudimentary treatment of the subject is possible here. a most excellent study of the comparative excellence of webster's eloquence has been made by judge chamberlain, librarian of the boston public library, in a speech at the dinner of the dartmouth alumni, which has since been printed as a pamphlet.] it is easy to compare mr. webster with this and the other great orator, and to select points of resemblance and of difference, and show where mr. webster was superior and where he fell behind. but the final verdict must be upon all his qualities taken together. he had the most extraordinary physical gifts of face, form, and voice, and employed them to the best advantage. thus equipped, he delivered a long series of great speeches which can be read to-day with the deepest interest, instruction, and pleasure. he had dignity, grandeur, and force, a strong historic imagination, and great dramatic power when he chose to exert it. he possessed an unerring taste, a capacity for vigorous and telling sarcasm, a glow and fire none the less intense because they were subdued, perfect clearness of statement joined to the highest skill in argument, and he was master of a style which was as forcible as it was simple and pure. take him for all in all, he was not only the greatest orator this country has ever known, but in the history of eloquence his name will stand with those of demosthenes and cicero, of chatham and burke. chapter vii. the struggle with jackson and the rise of the whig party. in the year preceding the delivery of his great speech mr. webster had lost his brother ezekiel by sudden death, and he had married for his second wife miss leroy of new york. the former event was a terrible grief to him, and taken in conjunction with the latter seemed to make a complete break with the past, and with its struggles and privations, its joys and successes. the slender girl whom he had married in salisbury church and the beloved brother were both gone, and with them went those years of youth in which,-- "he had sighed deep, laughed free, starved, feasted, despaired, been happy." one cannot come to this dividing line in mr. webster's life without regret. there was enough of brilliant achievement and substantial success in what had gone before to satisfy any man, and it had been honest, simple, and unaffected. a wider fame and a greater name lay before him, but with them came also ugly scandals, bitter personal attacks, an ambition which warped his nature, and finally a terrible mistake. one feels inclined to say of these later years, with the roman lover:-- "shut them in with their triumphs and their glories and the rest, love is best." the home changed first, and then the public career. the reply which, as john quincy adams said, "utterly demolished the fabric of hayne's speech and left scarcely a wreck to be seen," went straight home to the people of the north. it gave eloquent expression to the strong but undefined feeling in the popular mind. it found its way into every house and was read everywhere; it took its place in the school books, to be repeated by shrill boy voices, and became part of the literature and of the intellectual life of the country. in those solemn sentences men read the description of what the united states had come to be under the constitution, and what american nationality meant in . the leaders of the young war party in were the first to arouse the national sentiment, but no one struck the chord with such a master hand as mr. webster, or drew forth such long and deep vibrations. there is no single utterance in our history which has done so much by mere force of words to strengthen the love of nationality and implant it deeply in the popular heart, as the reply to hayne. before the delivery of that speech mr. webster was a distinguished statesman, but the day after he awoke to a national fame which made all his other triumphs pale. such fame brought with it, of course, as it always does in this country, talk of the presidency. the reply to hayne made mr. webster a presidential candidate, and from that moment he was never free from the gnawing, haunting ambition to win the grand prize of american public life. there was a new force in his career, and in all the years to come the influence of that force must be reckoned and remembered. mr. webster was anxious that the party of opposition to general jackson, which then passed by the name of national republicans, should be in some way strengthened, solidified, and placed on a broad platform of distinct principles. he saw with great regret the ruin which was threatened by the anti-masonic schism, and it would seem that he was not indisposed to take advantage of this to stop the nomination of mr. clay, who was peculiarly objectionable to the opponents of masonry. he earnestly desired the nomination himself, but even his own friends in the party told him that this was out of the question, and he acquiesced in their decision. mr. clay's personal popularity, moreover, among the national republicans was, in truth, invincible, and he was unanimously nominated by the convention at baltimore. the action of the anti-masonic element in the country doomed clay to defeat, which he was likely enough to encounter in any event; but the consolidation of the party so ardently desired by mr. webster was brought about by acts of the administration, which completely overcame any intestine divisions among its opponents. the session of - , when the country was preparing for the coming presidential election, marks the beginning of the fierce struggle with andrew jackson which was to give birth to a new and powerful organization known in our history as the whig party, and destined, after years of conflict, to bring overwhelming defeat to the "jacksonian democracy." there is no occasion here to enter into a history of the famous bank controversy. established in , the bank of the united states, after a period of difficulties, had become a powerful and valuable financial organization. in it applied for a continuance of its charter, which then had three years still to run. mr. webster did not enter into the personal contest which had already begun, but in a speech of great ability advocated a renewal of the charter, showing, as he always did on such themes, a knowledge and a grasp of the principles and intricacies of public finance unequalled in our history except by hamilton. in a second speech he made a most effective and powerful argument against a proposition to give the states authority to tax the bank, defending the doctrines laid down by chief justice marshall in mccullough vs. maryland, and denying the power of congress to give the states the right of such taxation, because by so doing they violated the constitution. the amendment was defeated, and the bill for the continuance of the charter passed both houses by large majorities. jackson returned the bill with a veto. he had the audacity to rest his veto upon the ground that the bill was unconstitutional, and that it was the duty of the president to decide upon the constitutionality of every measure without feeling in the least bound by the opinion of congress or of the supreme court. his ignorance was so crass that he failed to perceive the distinction between a new bill and one to continue an existing law, while his vanity and his self-assumption were so colossal that he did not hesitate to assert that he had the right and the power to declare an existing law, passed by congress, approved by madison, and held to be constitutional by an express decision of the supreme court, to be invalid, because he thought fit to say so. to overthrow such doctrines was not difficult, but mr. webster refuted them with a completeness and force which were irresistible. at the same time he avoided personal attack in the dignified way which was characteristic of him, despite the extraordinary temptation to indulge in invective and telling sarcasm to which jackson by his ignorance and presumption had so exposed himself. the bill was lost, the great conflict with the bank was begun, and the whig party was founded. another event of a different character, which had occurred not long before, helped to widen the breach and to embitter the contest between the parties of the administration and of the opposition. when in mr. mclane had received his instructions as minister to england, he had been directed by mr. van buren to reopen negotiations on the subject of the west indian trade, and in so doing the secretary of state had reflected on the previous administration, and had said that the party in power would not support the pretensions of its predecessors. such language was, of course, at variance with all traditions, was wholly improper, and was mean and contemptible in dealing with a foreign nation. in mr. van buren was nominated as minister to england, and came up for confirmation in the senate some time after he had actually departed on his mission. mr. webster opposed the confirmation in an eloquent speech full of just pride in his country and of vigorous indignation against the slight which mr. van buren had put upon her by his instructions to mr. mclane. he pronounced a splendid "rebuke upon the first instance in which an american minister had been sent abroad as the representative of his party and not as the representative of his country." the opposition was successful, and mr. van buren's nomination was rejected. it is no doubt true that the rejection was a political mistake, and that, as was commonly said at the time, it created sympathy for mr. van buren and insured his succession to the presidency. yet no one would now think as well of mr. webster if, to avoid awakening popular sympathy and party enthusiasm in behalf of mr. van buren, he had silently voted for that gentleman's confirmation. to do so was to approve the despicable tone adopted in the instructions to mclane. as a patriotic american, above all as a man of intense national feelings, mr. webster could not have done otherwise than resist with all the force of his eloquence the confirmation of a man who had made such an undignified and unworthy exhibition of partisanship. politically he may have been wrong, but morally he was wholly right, and his rebuke stands in our history as a reproach which mr. van buren's subsequent success can neither mitigate nor impair. there was another measure, however, which had a far different effect from those which tended to build up the opposition to jackson and his followers. a movement was begun by mr. clay looking to a revision and reduction of the tariff, which finally resulted in a bill reducing duties on many articles to a revenue standard, and leaving those on cotton and woollen goods and iron unchanged. in the debates which occurred during the passage of this bill mr. webster took but little part, but they caused a furious outbreak on the part of the south carolinians led by hayne, and ended in the confirmation of the protective policy. when mr. webster spoke at the new york dinner in , he gave his hearers to understand very clearly that the nullification agitation was not at an end, and after the passage of the new tariff bill he saw close at hand the danger which he had predicted. in november, , south carolina in convention passed her famous ordinance nullifying the revenue laws of the united states, and her legislature, which assembled soon after, enacted laws to carry out the ordinance, and gave an open defiance to the federal government. the country was filled with excitement. it was known that mr. calhoun, having published a letter in defence of nullification, had resigned the vice-presidency, accepted the senatorship of south carolina, and was coming to the capital to advocate his favorite doctrine. but the south carolinians had made one trifling blunder. they had overlooked the president. jackson was a southerner and a democrat, but he was also the head of the nation, and determined to maintain its integrity. on december , before congress assembled, he issued his famous proclamation in which he took up rigorously the position adopted by mr. webster in his reply to hayne, and gave the south carolinians to understand that he would not endure treason, but would enforce constitutional laws even though he should be compelled to use bayonets to do it. the legislature of the recalcitrant state replied in an offensive manner which only served to make jackson angry. he, too, began to say some pretty violent things, and, as he generally meant what he said, the gallant leaders of nullification and other worthy people grew very uneasy. there can be no doubt that the outlook was very threatening, and the nullifiers were extremely likely to be the first to suffer from the effects of the impending storm. mr. webster was in new jersey, on his way to washington, when he first received the proclamation, and at philadelphia he met mr. clay, and from a friend of that gentleman received a copy of a bill which was to do away with the tariff by gradual reductions, prevent the imposition of any further duties, and which at the same time declared against protection and in favor of a tariff for revenue only. this headlong plunge into concession and compromise was not at all to mr. webster's taste. he was opposed to the scheme for economical reasons, but still more on the far higher ground that there was open resistance to laws of undoubted constitutionality, and until that resistance was crushed under foot any talk of compromise was a blow at the national dignity and the national existence which ought not to be tolerated for an instant. his own course was plain. he proposed to sustain the administration, and when the national honor should be vindicated and all unconstitutional resistance ended, then would come the time for concessions. jackson was not slow in giving mr. webster something to support. at the opening of the session a message was sent to congress asking that provision might be made to enable the president to enforce the laws by means of the land and naval forces if necessary. the message was referred to a committee, who at once reported the celebrated "force bill," which embodied the principles of the message and had the entire approval of the president. but jackson's party broke, despite the attitude of their chief, for many of them were from the south and could not bring themselves to the point of accepting the "force bill." the moment was critical, and the administration turned to mr. webster and took him into their councils. on february mr. webster rose, and, after explaining in a fashion which no one was likely to forget, that this was wholly an administration measure, he announced his intention, as an independent senator, of giving it his hearty and inflexible support. the combination thus effected was overwhelming. mr. calhoun was now thoroughly alarmed, and we can well imagine that the threats of hanging, in which it was rumored that the president had indulged, began to have a good deal of practical significance to a gentleman who, as secretary of war, had been familiar with the circumstances attending the deaths of arbuthnot and ambrister. at all events, mr. calhoun lost no time in having an interview with mr. clay, and the result was, that the latter, on february , announced that he should, on the following day, introduce a tariff bill, a measure of the same sort having already been started in the house. the bill as introduced did not involve such a complete surrender as that which mr. webster had seen in philadelphia, but it necessitated most extensive modifications and gave all that south carolina could reasonably demand. mr. clay advocated it in a brilliant speech, resting his defence on the ground that this was the only way to preserve the tariff, and that it was founded on the great constitutional doctrine of compromise. mr. webster opposed the bill briefly, and then introduced a series of resolutions combating the proposed measure on economical principles and on those of justice, and especially assailing the readiness to abandon the rightful powers of congress and yield them up to any form of resistance. before, however, he could speak in support of his resolutions, the "force bill" came up, and mr. calhoun made his celebrated argument in support of nullification. this mr. webster was obliged to answer, and he replied with the great speech known in his works as "the constitution not a compact between sovereign states." in a general way the same criticism is applicable to this debate as to that with hayne, but there were some important differences. mr. calhoun's argument was superior to that of his follower. it was dry and hard, but it was a splendid specimen of close and ingenious reasoning, and, as was to be expected, the originator and master surpassed the imitator and pupil. mr. webster's speech, on the other hand, in respect to eloquence, was decidedly inferior to the masterpiece of . mr. curtis says, "perhaps there is no speech ever made by mr. webster that is so close in its reasoning, so compact, and so powerful." to the first two qualities we can readily assent, but that it was equally powerful may be doubted. so long as mr. webster confined himself to defending the constitution as it actually was and as what it had come to mean in point of fact, he was invincible. just in proportion as he left this ground and attempted to argue on historical premises that it was a fundamental law, he weakened his position, for the historical facts were against him. in the reply to hayne he touched but slightly on the historical, legal, and theoretical aspects of the case, and he was overwhelming. in the reply to calhoun he devoted his strength chiefly to these topics, and, meeting his keen antagonist on the latter's own chosen ground, he put himself at a disadvantage. in the actual present and in the steady course of development, the facts were wholly with mr. webster. whatever the people of the united states understood the constitution to mean in , there can be no question that a majority in regarded it as a fundamental law, and not as a compact--an opinion which has now become universal. but it was quite another thing to argue that what the constitution had come to mean was what it meant when it was adopted. the identity of meaning at these two periods was the proposition which mr. webster undertook to maintain, and he upheld it as well and as plausibly as the nature of the case admitted. his reasoning was close and vigorous; but he could not destroy the theory of the constitution as held by leaders and people in , or reconcile the virginia and kentucky resolutions or the hartford convention with the fundamental-law doctrines. nevertheless, it would be an error to suppose that because the facts of history were against mr. webster in these particulars, this able, ingenious, and elaborate argument was thrown away. it was a fitting supplement and complement to the reply to hayne. it reiterated the national principles, and furnished those whom the statement and demonstration of an existing fact could not satisfy, with an immense magazine of lucid reasoning and plausible and effective arguments. the reply to hayne gave magnificent expression to the popular feeling, while that to calhoun supplied the arguments which, after years of discussion, converted that feeling into a fixed opinion, and made it strong enough to carry the north through four years of civil war. but in his final speech in this debate mr. webster came back to his original ground, and said, in conclusion, "shall we have a general government? shall we continue the union of states under a _government_ instead of a league? this vital and all-important question the people will decide." the vital question went to the great popular jury, and they cast aside all historical premises and deductions, all legal subtleties and refinements, and gave their verdict on the existing facts. the world knows what that verdict was, and will never forget that it was largely due to the splendid eloquence of daniel webster when he defended the cause of nationality against the slave-holding separatists of south carolina. while this great debate was in progress, and mr. webster and the faithful adherents of jackson were pushing the "force bill" to a vote, mr. clay was making every effort to carry the compromise tariff. in spite of his exertions, the force bill passed on february , but close behind came the tariff, which mr. webster opposed, on its final passage, in a vigorous speech. there is no need to enter into his economical objections, but he made his strongest stand against the policy of sacrificing great interests to soothe south carolina. mr. clay replied, but did not then press a vote, for, with that dexterous management which he had exhibited in and was again to display in , he had succeeded in getting his tariff bill carried rapidly through the house, in order to obviate the objection that all money bills must originate in the lower branch. the house bill passed the senate, mr. webster voting against it, and became law. there was no further need of the force bill. clay, calhoun, even the daring jackson ultimately, were very glad to accept the easy escape offered by a compromise. south carolina had in reality prevailed, although mr. clay had saved protection in a modified form. her threats of nullification had brought the united states government to terms, and the doctrines of calhoun went home to the people of the south with the glory of substantial victory about them, to breed and foster separatism and secession, and prepare the way for armed conflict with the nobler spirit of nationality which mr. webster had roused in the north. speaking of mr. webster at this period, mr. benton says:-- "he was the colossal figure on the political stage during that eventful time, and his labors, splendid in their day, survive for the benefit of distant posterity."... "it was a splendid era in his life, both for his intellect and his patriotism. no longer the advocate of classes or interests, he appeared as the great defender of the union, of the constitution, of the country, and of the administration to which he was opposed. released from the bonds of party and the narrow confines of class and corporation advocacy, his colossal intellect expanded to its full proportions in the field of patriotism, luminous with the fires of genius, and commanding the homage not of party but of country. his magnificent harangues touched jackson in his deepest-seated and ruling feeling, love of country, and brought forth the response which always came from him when the country was in peril and a defender presented himself. he threw out the right hand of fellowship, treated mr. webster with marked distinction, commended him with public praise, and placed him on the roll of patriots. and the public mind took the belief that they were to act together in future, and that a cabinet appointment or a high mission would be the reward of his patriotic service. it was a crisis in the life of mr. webster. he stood in public opposition to mr. clay and mr. calhoun. with mr. clay he had a public outbreak in the senate. he was cordial with jackson. the mass of his party stood by him on the proclamation. he was at a point from which a new departure might be taken: one at which he could not stand still; from which there must be either advance or recoil. it was a case in which _will_ more than _intellect_ was to rule. he was above mr. clay and mr. calhoun in intellect, below them in will: and he was soon seen cooperating with them (mr. clay in the lead) in the great measure condemning president jackson." this is of course the view of a jacksonian leader, but it is none the less full of keen analysis and comprehension of mr. webster, and in some respects embodies very well the conditions of the situation. mr. benton naturally did not see that an alliance with jackson was utterly impossible for mr. webster, whose proper course was therefore much less simple than it appeared to the senator from missouri. there was in reality no common ground possible between webster and jackson except defence of the national integrity. mr. webster was a great orator, a splendid advocate, a trained statesman and economist, a remarkable constitutional lawyer, and a man of immense dignity, not headstrong in temper and without peculiar force of will. jackson, on the other hand, was a rude soldier, unlettered, intractable, arbitrary, with a violent temper and a most despotic will. two men more utterly incompatible it would have been difficult to find, and nothing could have been more wildly fantastic than to suppose an alliance between them, or to imagine that mr. webster could ever have done anything but oppose utterly those mad gyrations of personal government which the president called his "policy." yet at the same time it is perfectly true that just after the passage of the tariff bill mr. webster was at a great crisis in his life. he could not act with jackson. that way was shut to him by nature, if by nothing else. but he could have maintained his position as the independent and unbending defender of nationality and as the foe of compromise. he might then have brought mr. clay to his side, and remained himself the undisputed head of the whig party. the coalition between clay and calhoun was a hollow, ill-omened thing, certain to go violently to pieces, as, in fact, it did, within a few years, and then mr. clay, if he had held out so long, would have been helpless without mr. webster. but such a course required a very strong will and great tenacity of purpose, and it was on this side that mr. webster was weak, as mr. benton points out. instead of waiting for mr. clay to come to him, mr. webster went over to clay and calhoun, and formed for a time the third in that ill-assorted partnership. there was no reason for his doing so. in fact every good reason was against it. mr. clay had come to mr. webster with his compromise, and had been met with the reply "that it would be yielding great principles to faction; and that the time had come to test the strength of the constitution and the government." this was a brave, manly answer, but mr. clay, nationalist as he was, had straightway deserted his friend and ally, and gone over to the separatists for support. then a sharp contest had occurred between mr. webster and mr. clay in the debate on the tariff; and when it was all over, the latter wrote with frank vanity and a slight tinge of contempt: "mr. webster and i came in conflict, and i have the satisfaction to tell you that he gained nothing. my friends flatter me with my having completely triumphed. there is no permanent breach between us. i think he begins already to repent his course." mr. clay was intensely national, but his theory of preserving the union was by continual compromise, or, in other words, by constant yielding to the aggressive south. mr. webster's plan was to maintain a firm attitude, enforce absolute submission to all constitutional laws, and prove that agitation against the union could lead only to defeat. this policy would not have resulted in rebellion, but, if it had, the hanging of calhoun and a few like him, and the military government of south carolina, by the hero of new orleans, would have taught slave-holders such a lesson that we should probably have been spared four years of civil war. peaceful submission, however, would have been the sure outcome of mr. webster's policy. but a compromise appealed as it always does to the timid, balance-of-power party. mr. clay prevailed, and the manufacturers of new england, as well as elsewhere, finding that he had secured for them the benefit of time and of the chapter of accidents, rapidly came over to his support. the pressure was too much for mr. webster. mr. clay thought that if mr. webster "had to go over the work of the last few weeks he would have been for the compromise, which commands the approbation of a great majority." whether mr. webster repented his opposition to the compromise no one can say, but the change of opinion in new england, the general assent of the whig party, and the dazzling temptations of presidential candidacy prevailed with him. he fell in behind mr. clay, and remained there in a party sense and as a party man for the rest of his life. the terrible prize of the presidency was indeed again before his eyes. mr. clay's overthrow at the previous election had removed him, for the time being at least, from the list of candidates, and thus freed mr. webster from his most dangerous rival. in the summer of mr. webster made a tour through the western states, and was received everywhere with enthusiasm, and hailed as the great expounder and defender of the constitution. the following winter he stood forward as the preëminent champion of the bank against the president. everything seemed to point to him as the natural candidate of the opposition. the legislature of massachusetts nominated him for the presidency, and he himself deeply desired the office, for the fever now burned strongly within him. but the movement came to nothing. the anti-masonic schism still distracted the opposition. the kentucky leaders were jealous of mr. webster, and thought him "no such man" as their idol henry clay. they admitted his greatness and his high traits of character, but they thought his ambition mixed with too much self-love. governor letcher wrote to mr. crittenden in that clay was more elevated, disinterested and patriotic than webster, and that the verdict of the country had had a good effect on the latter. despite the interest and enthusiasm which mr. webster aroused in the west, he had no real hold upon that section or upon the masses of the people and the western whigs turned to harrison. there was no hope in for mr. webster, or, for that matter, for his party either. he received the electoral vote of faithful massachusetts, and that was all. as it was then, so it had been at the previous election, and so it was to continue to be at the end of every presidential term. there never was a moment when mr. webster had any real prospect of attaining to the presidency. unfortunately he never could realize this. he would have been more than human, perhaps, if he had done so. the tempting bait hung always before his eyes. the prize seemed to be always just coming within his reach, and was really never near it. but the longing had entered his soul. he could not rid himself of the idea of this final culmination to his success; and it warped his feelings and actions, injured his career, and embittered his last years. this notice of the presidential election of has somewhat anticipated the course of events. soon after the tariff compromise had been effected, mr. webster renewed his relations with mr. clay, and, consequently, with mr. calhoun, and their redoutable antagonist in the president's chair soon gave them enough to do. the most immediate obstacle to mr. webster's alliance with general jackson was the latter's attitude in regard to the bank. mr. webster had become satisfied that the bank was, on the whole, a useful and even necessary institution. no one was better fitted than he to decide on such a question, and few persons would now be found to differ from his judgment on this point. in a general way he may be said to have adopted the hamiltonian doctrine in regard to the expediency and constitutionality of a national bank. there were intimations in the spring of that the president, not content with preventing the re-charter of the bank, was planning to strike it down, and practically deprive it of even the three years of life which still remained to it by law. the scheme was perfected during the summer, and, after changing his secretary of the treasury until he got one who would obey, president jackson dealt his great blow. on september mr. taney signed the order removing the deposits of the government from the bank of the united states. the result was an immediate contraction of loans, commercial distress, and great confusion. the president had thrown down the gage, and the leaders of the opposition were not slow to take it up. mr. clay opened the battle by introducing two resolutions,--one condemning the action of the president as unconstitutional, the other attacking the policy of removal, and a long and bitter debate ensued. a month later, mr. webster came forward with resolutions from boston against the course of the president. he presented the resolutions in a powerful and effective speech, depicting the deplorable condition of business, and the injury caused to the country by the removal of the deposits. he rejected the idea of leaving the currency to the control of the president, or of doing away entirely with paper, and advocated the re-charter of the present bank, or the creation of a new one; and, until the time for that should arrive, the return of the deposits, with its consequent relief to business and a restoration of stability and of confidence for the time being at least. he soon found that the administration had determined that no law should be passed, and that the doctrine that congress had no power to establish a bank should be upheld. he also discovered that the constitutional pundit in the white house, who was so opposed to a single national bank, had created, by his own fiat, a large number of small national banks in the guise of state banks, to which the public deposits were committed, and the collection of the public revenues intrusted. such an arbitrary policy, at once so ignorant, illogical, and dangerous, aroused mr. webster thoroughly, and he entered immediately upon an active campaign against the president. between the presentation of the boston resolutions and the close of the session he spoke on the bank, and the subjects necessarily connected with it, no less than sixty-four times. he dealt entirely with financial topics,--chiefly those relating to the currency, and with the constitutional questions raised by the extension of the executive authority. this long series of speeches is one of the most remarkable exhibitions of intellectual power ever made by mr. webster, or indeed by any public man in our history. in discussing one subject in all its bearings, involving of necessity a certain amount of repetition, he not only displayed an extraordinary grasp of complicated financial problems and a wide knowledge of their scientific meaning and history, but he showed an astonishing fertility in argument, coupled with great variety and clearness of statement and cogency of reasoning. with the exception of hamilton, mr. webster is the only statesman in our history who was capable of such a performance on such a subject, when a thorough knowledge had to be united with all the resources of debate and all the arts of the highest eloquence. the most important speech of all was that delivered in answer to jackson's "protest," sent in as a reply to mr. clay's resolutions which had been sustained by mr. webster as chairman of the committee on finance. the "protest" asserted, in brief, that the legislature could not order a subordinate officer to perform certain duties free from the control of the president; that the president had the right to put his own conception of the law into execution; and, if the subordinate officer refused to obey, then to remove such officer; and that the senate had therefore no right to censure his removal of the secretary of the treasury, in order to reach the government deposits. to this doctrine mr. webster replied with great elaboration and ability. the question was a very nice one. there could be no doubt of the president's power of removal, and it was necessary to show that this power did not extend to the point of depriving congress of the right to confer by law specified and independent powers upon an inferior officer, or of regulating the tenure of office. to establish this proposition, in such a way as to take it out of the thick and heated atmosphere of personal controversy, and put it in a shape to carry conviction to the popular understanding, was a delicate and difficult task, requiring, in the highest degree, lucidity and ingenuity of argument. it is not too high praise to say that mr. webster succeeded entirely. the real contest was for the possession of that debatable ground which lies between the defined limits of the executive and legislative departments. the struggle consolidated and gave coherence to the whig party as representing the opposition to executive encroachments. at the time jackson, by his imperious will and marvellous personal popularity, prevailed and obtained the acceptance of his doctrines. but the conflict has gone on, and the balance of advantage now rests with the legislature. this tendency is quite as dangerous as that of which jackson was the exponent, if not more so. the executive department has been crippled; and the influence and power of congress, and especially of the senate, have become far greater than they should be, under the system of proportion and balance embodied in the constitution. despite jackson's victory there is, to-day, far more danger of undue encroachments on the part of the senate than on that of the president. at the next session the principal subject of discussion was the trouble with france. irritated at the neglect of the french government to provide funds for the payment of their debt to us, jackson sent in a message severely criticising them, and recommending the passage of a law authorizing reprisals on french property. the president and his immediate followers were eager for war, calhoun and his faction regarded the whole question as only matter for "an action of assumpsit," while mr. webster and mr. clay desired to avoid hostilities, but wished the country to maintain a firm and dignified attitude. under the lead of mr. clay, the recommendation of reprisals was rejected, and under that of mr. webster a clause smuggled into the fortification bill to give the president three millions to spend as he liked was struck out and the bill was subsequently lost. this affair, which brought us to the verge of war with france, soon blew over, however, and caused only a temporary ripple, although mr. webster's attack on the fortification bill left a sting behind. in this same session mr. webster made an exhaustive speech on the question of executive patronage and the president's power of appointment and removal. he now went much farther than in his answer to the "protest," asserting not only the right of congress to fix the tenure of office, but also that the power of removal, like the power of appointment, was in the president and senate jointly. the speech contained much that was valuable, but in its main doctrine was radically unsound. the construction of , which decided that the power of removal belonged to the president alone, was clearly right, and mr. webster failed to overthrow it. his theory, embodied in a bill which provided that the president should state to the senate, when he appointed to a vacancy caused by removal, his reasons for such removal, was thoroughly mischievous. it was more dangerous than jackson's doctrine, for it tended to take the power of patronage still more from a single and responsible person and vest it in a large and therefore wholly irresponsible body which has always been too much inclined to degenerate into an office-broking oligarchy, and thus degrade its high and important functions. mr. webster argued his proposition with his usual force and perspicuity, but the speech is strongly partisan and exhibits the disposition of an advocate to fit the constitution to his particular case, instead of dealing with it on general and fundamental principles. the session closed with a resolution offered by mr. benton to expunge the resolutions of censure upon the president, which was overwhelmingly defeated, and was then laid upon the table, on the motion of mr. webster. he also took the first step to prevent the impending financial disaster growing out of the president's course toward the bank, by carrying a bill to stop the payment of treasury warrants by the deposit banks in current banknotes, and to compel their payment in gold and silver. the rejection of benton's resolutions served to embitter the already intense conflict between the president and his antagonists, and mr. webster's bill, while it showed the wisdom of the opposition, was powerless to remedy the mischief which was afoot. in this same year ( ) the independence of texas was achieved, and in the session of - the slavery agitation began its march, which was only to terminate on the field of battle and in the midst of contending armies. mr. webster's action at this time in regard to this great question, which was destined to have such an effect upon his career, can be more fitly narrated when we come to consider his whole course in regard to slavery in connection with the " th of march" speech. the other matters of this session demand but a brief notice. the president animadverted in his message upon the loss of the fortification bill, due to the defeat of the three million clause. mr. webster defended himself most conclusively and effectively, and before the session closed the difficulties with france were practically settled. he also gave great attention to the ever-pressing financial question, trying to mitigate the evils which the rapid accumulation of the public funds was threatening to produce. he felt that he was powerless, that nothing indeed could be done to avert the approaching disaster; but he struggled to modify its effects and delay its progress. complications increased rapidly during the summer. the famous "specie circular," issued by the secretary of the treasury without authority of law, weakened all banks which did not hold the government deposits, forced them to contract their loans, and completed the derangement of domestic exchange. this grave condition of affairs confronted congress when it assembled in december, . a resolution was introduced to rescind the specie circular, and mr. webster spoke at length in the debate, defining the constitutional duties of the government toward the regulation of the currency, and discussing in a masterly manner the intricate questions of domestic exchanges and the excessive circulation of bank notes. on another occasion he reiterated his belief that a national bank was the true remedy for existing ills, but that only hard experience could convince the country of its necessity. at this session the resolution to expunge the vote of censure of was again brought forward by mr. benton. the senate had at last come under the sway of the president, and it was clear that the resolution would pass. this precious scheme belongs to the same category of absurdities as the placing oliver cromwell's skull on temple bar, and throwing robert blake's body on a dung-hill by charles stuart and his friends. it was not such a mean and cowardly performance as that of the heroes of the restoration, but it was far more "childish-foolish." the miserable and ludicrous nature of such a proceeding disgusted mr. webster beyond measure. before the vote was taken he made a brief speech that is a perfect model of dignified and severe protest against a silly outrage upon the constitution and upon the rights of senators, which he was totally unable to prevent. the original censure is part of history. no "black lines" can take it out. the expunging resolution, which mr. curtis justly calls "fantastic and theatrical," is also part of history, and carries with it the ineffaceable stigma affixed by mr. webster's indignant protest. before the close of the session mr. webster made up his mind to resign his seat in the senate. he had private interests which demanded his attention, and he wished to travel both in the united states and in europe. he may well have thought, also, that he could add nothing to his fame by remaining longer in the senate. but besides the natural craving for rest, it is quite possible that he believed that a withdrawal from active and official participation in politics was the best preparation for a successful candidacy for the presidency in . this certainly was in his mind in the following year ( ), when the rumor was abroad that he was again contemplating retirement from the senate; and it is highly probable that the same motive was at bottom the controlling one in . but whatever the cause of his wish to resign, the opposition of his friends everywhere, and of the legislature of massachusetts, formally and strongly expressed, led him to forego his purpose. he consented to hold his seat for the present, at least, and in the summer of made an extended tour through the west, where he was received as before with the greatest admiration and enthusiasm. the distracted condition of the still inchoate whig party in , and the extraordinary popularity of jackson, resulted in the complete victory of mr. van buren. but the general's chosen successor and political heir found the great office to which he had been called, and which he so eagerly desired, anything but a bed of roses. the ruin which jackson's wild policy had prepared was close at hand, and three months after the inauguration the storm burst with full fury. the banks suspended specie payments and universal bankruptcy reigned throughout the country. our business interests were in the violent throes of the worst financial panic which had ever been known in the united states. the history of mr. van buren's administration, in its main features, is that of a vain struggle with a hopeless network of difficulties, and with the misfortune and prostration which grew out of this wide-spread disaster. it is not necessary here to enter into the details of these events. mr. webster devoted himself in the senate to making every effort to mitigate the evils which he had prophesied, and to prevent their aggravation by further injudicious legislation. his most important speech was delivered at the special session against the first sub-treasury bill and mr. calhoun's amendment. mr. calhoun, who had wept over the defeat of the bank bill in , was now convinced that all banks were mistakes, and wished to prevent the acceptance of the notes of specie paying banks for government dues. mr. webster's speech was the fullest and most elaborate he ever made on the subject of the currency, and the relations of the government to it. his theme was the duty and right of the general government under the constitution to regulate and control the currency, and his masterly argument was the best that has ever been made, leaving in fact nothing to be desired. in the spring of there was talk of sending mr. webster to london as commissioner to settle the boundary disputes, but it came to nothing, and in the following summer he went to england in his private capacity accompanied by his family. the visit was in every way successful. it brought rest and change as well as pleasure, and was full of interest. mr. webster was very well received, much attention was paid him, and much admiration shown for him. he commanded all this, not only by his appearance, his reputation, and his intellectual force, but still more by the fact that he was thoroughly and genuinely american in thought, feeling, and manner. he reached new york on his return at the end of december, and was there met by the news of general harrison's nomination by the whigs. in the previous year it had seemed as if, with clay out of the way by the defeat of , and harrison by that of , the great prize must fall to mr. webster. his name was brought forward by the whigs of massachusetts, but it met with no response even in new england. it was the old story; mr. clay and his friends were cool, and the masses of the party did not desire mr. webster. the convention turned from the massachusetts statesman and again nominated the old western soldier. mr. webster did not hesitate as to the course he should pursue upon his return. he had been reëlected to the senate in january, , and after the session closed in july, , he threw himself into the campaign in support of harrison. the people did not desire mr. webster to be their president, but there was no one whom they so much wished to hear. he was besieged from all parts of the country with invitations to speak, and he answered generously to the call thus made upon him. on his way home from washington, in march, , more than three years before, he had made a speech at niblo's garden in new york,--the greatest purely political speech which he ever delivered. he then reviewed and arraigned with the greatest severity the history of jackson's administration, abstaining in his characteristic way from all personal attack, but showing, as no one else could show, what had been done, and the results of the policy, which were developing as he had predicted. he also said that the worst was yet to come. the speech produced a profound impression. people were still reading it when the worst really came, and the great panic broke over the country. mr. webster had, in fact, struck the key-note of the coming campaign in the niblo-garden speech of . in the summer of he spoke in massachusetts, new york, pennsylvania, and virginia, and was almost continually upon the platform. the great feat of - , when he made sixty-four speeches in the senate on the bank question, was now repeated under much more difficult conditions. in the first instance he was addressing a small and select body of trained listeners, all more or less familiar with the subject. in he was obliged to present these same topics, with all their infinite detail and inherent dryness, to vast popular audiences, but nevertheless he achieved a marvellous success. the chief points which he brought out were the condition of the currency, the need of government regulation, the responsibility of the democrats, the miserable condition of the country, and the exact fulfillment of the prophecies he had made. the argument and the conclusion were alike irresistible, but mr. webster showed, in handling his subject, not only the variety, richness, and force which he had displayed in the senate, but the capacity of presenting it in a way thoroughly adapted to the popular mind, and yet, at the same time, of preserving the impressive tone of a dignified statesman, without any degeneration into mere stump oratory. this wonderful series of speeches produced the greatest possible effect. they were heard by thousands and read by tens of thousands. they fell, of course, upon willing ears. the people, smarting under bankruptcy, poverty, and business depression, were wild for a change; but nothing did so much to swell the volume of public resentment against the policy of the ruling party as these speeches of mr. webster, which gave character and form to the whole movement. jackson had sown the wind, and his unlucky successor was engaged in the agreeable task of reaping the proverbial crop. there was a political revolution. the whigs swept the country by an immense majority, the great democratic party was crushed to the earth, and the ignorant misgovernment of andrew jackson found at last its fit reward. general harrison, as soon as he was elected, turned to the two great chiefs of his party to invite them to become the pillars of his administration. mr. clay declined any cabinet office, but mr. webster, after some hesitation, accepted the secretaryship of state. he resigned his seat in the senate february , , and on march following took his place in the cabinet, and entered upon a new field of public service. chapter viii. secretary of state.--the ashburton treaty. there is one feature in the history, or rather in the historic scenery of this period, which we are apt to overlook. the political questions, the debates, the eloquence of that day, give us no idea of the city in which the history was made, or of the life led by the men who figured in that history. their speeches might have been delivered in any great centre of civilization, and in the midst of a brilliant and luxurious society. but the washington of , when mr. webster took the post which is officially the first in the society of the capital and of the country, was a very odd sort of place, and widely different from what it is to-day. it was not a village, neither was it a city. it had not grown, but had been created for a special purpose. a site had been arbitrarily selected, and a city laid out on the most magnificent scale. but there was no independent life, for the city was wholly official in its purposes and its existence. there were a few great public buildings, a few large private houses, a few hotels and boarding houses, and a large number of negro shanties. the general effect was of attempted splendor, which had resulted in slovenliness and straggling confusion. the streets were unpaved, dusty in summer, and deep with mud in winter, so that the mere difficulty of getting from place to place was a serious obstacle to general society. cattle fed in the streets, and were milked by their owners on the sidewalk. there was a grotesque contrast between the stately capitol where momentous questions were eloquently discussed and such queerly primitive and rude surroundings. few persons were able to entertain because few persons had suitable houses. members of congress usually clubbed together and took possession of a house, and these "messes," as they were called,--although without doubt very agreeable to their members,--did not offer a mode of life which was easily compatible with the demands of general society. social enjoyments, therefore, were pursued under difficulties; and the city, although improving, was dreary enough. society, too, was in a bad condition. the old forms and ceremonies of the men of and the manners and breeding of our earliest generation of statesmen had passed away, and the new democracy had not as yet a system of its own. it was a period of transition. the old customs had gone, the new ones had not crystallized. the civilization was crude and raw, and in washington had no background whatever,--such as was to be found in the old cities and towns of the original thirteen states. the tone of the men in public life had deteriorated and was growing worse, approaching rapidly its lowest point, which it reached during the polk administration. this was due partly to the jacksonian democracy, which had rejected training and education as necessary to statesmanship, and had loudly proclaimed the great truths of rotation in office, and the spoils to the victors, and partly to the slavery agitation which was then beginning to make itself felt. the rise of the irrepressible conflict between freedom and slavery made the south overbearing and truculent; it produced that class of politicians known as "northern men with southern principles," or, in the slang of the day, as "doughfaces;" and it had not yet built up a strong, vigorous, and aggressive party in the north. the lack of proper social opportunities, and this deterioration among men in public life, led to an increasing violence and roughness in debate, and to a good deal of coarse dissipation in private. there was undoubtedly a brighter side, but it was limited, and the surroundings of the distinguished men who led our political parties in at the national capital, do not present a very cheerful or attractive picture. when the new president appeared upon the scene he was followed by a general rush of hungry office-seekers, who had been starving for places for many years. general harrison was a brave, honest soldier and pioneer, simple in heart and manners, unspoiled and untaught by politics of which he had had a good share. he was not a great man, but he was honorable and well intentioned. he wished to have about him the best and ablest men of his party, and to trust to their guidance for a successful administration. but although he had no desire to invent a policy, or to draft state papers, he was determined to be the author of his own inaugural speech, and he came to washington with a carefully-prepared manuscript in his pocket. when mr. webster read this document he found it full of gratitude to the people, and abounding in allusions to roman history. with his strong sense of humor, and of the unities and proprieties as well, he was a good deal alarmed at the proposed speech; and after much labor, and the expenditure of a good deal of tact, he succeeded in effecting some important changes and additions. when he came home in the evening, mrs. seaton, at whose house he was staying, remarked that he looked worried and fatigued, and asked if anything had happened. mr. webster replied, "you would think that something had happened if you knew what i have done. i have killed seventeen roman proconsuls." it was a terrible slaughter for poor harrison, for the proconsuls were probably very dear to his heart. his youth had been passed in the time when the pseudo classicism of the french republic and empire was rampant, and now that, in his old age, he had been raised to the presidency, his head was probably full of the republics of antiquity, and of cincinnatus called from the plough, to take the helm of state. m. de bacourt, the french minister at this period, a rather shallow and illiberal man who disliked mr. webster, gives, in his recently published correspondence, the following amusing account of the presentation of the diplomatic corps to president harrison,--a little bit of contemporary gossip which carries us back to those days better than anything else could possibly do. the diplomatic corps assembled at the house of mr. fox, the british minister, who was to read a speech in behalf of the whole body, and thence proceeded to the white house where "the new secretary of state, mr. webster, who is much embarrassed by his new functions, came to make his arrangements with mr. fox. this done, we were ranged along the wall in order of seniority, and after too long a delay for a country where the chief magistrate has no right to keep people waiting, the old general came in, followed by all the members of his cabinet, who walked in single file, and so kept behind him. he then advanced toward mr. fox, whom mr. webster presented to him. mr. fox read to him his address. then the president took out his spectacles and read his reply. then, after having shaken hands with the english minister, he walked from one end of our line to the other, mr. webster presenting each of us by name, and he shaking hands with each one without saying a word. this ceremony finished he returned to the room whence he had come, and reappeared with mrs. harrison--the widow of his eldest son--upon his arm, whom he presented to the diplomatic corps _en masse_. mr. webster, who followed, then presented to us mrs. finley, the mother of this mrs. harrison, in the following terms: 'gentlemen, i introduce to you mrs. finley, the lady who attends mrs. harrison;' and observe that this good lady who attends the others--takes care of them--is blind. then all at once, a crowd of people rushed into the room. they were the wives, sisters, daughters, cousins, and lady friends of the president and of all his ministers, who were presented to us, and _vice versa_, in the midst of an inconceivable confusion." fond, however, as mr. webster was of society, and punctilious as he was in matters of etiquette and propriety, m. de bacourt to the contrary notwithstanding, he had far more important duties to perform than those of playing host and receiving foreign ministers. our relations with england when he entered the cabinet were such as to make war seem almost inevitable. the northeastern boundary, undetermined by the treaty of , had been the subject of continual and fruitless negotiation ever since that time, and was still unsettled and more complicated than ever. it was agreed that there should be a new survey and a new arbitration, but no agreement could be reached as to who should arbitrate or what questions should be submitted to the arbitrators, and the temporary arrangements for the possession of the territory in dispute were unsatisfactory and precarious. much more exciting and perilous than this old difficulty was a new one and its consequences growing out of the canadian rebellion in . certain of the rebels fled to the united states, and there, in conjunction with american citizens, prepared to make incursions into canada. for this purpose they fitted out an american steamboat, the caroline. an expedition from canada crossed the niagara river to the american shore, set fire to the caroline, and let her drift over the falls. in the fray which occurred, an american named durfree was killed. the british government avowed this invasion to be a public act and a necessary measure of self-defence; but it was a question when mr. van buren went out of office whether this avowal had been made in an authentic manner. there was another incident, however, also growing out of this affair, even more irritating and threatening than the invasion itself. in november, , one alexander mcleod came from canada to new york, where he boasted that he was the slayer of durfree, and thereupon was at once arrested on a charge of murder and thrown into prison. this aroused great anger in england, and the conviction of mcleod was all that was needed to cause immediate war. in addition to these complications was the question of the right of search for the impressment of british seamen and for the suppression of the slave-trade. our government was, of course, greatly hampered in action by the rights of maine and massachusetts on the northeastern boundary, and by the fact that mcleod was within the jurisdiction and in the power of the new york courts, and wholly out of reach of those of the united states. the character of the national representatives on both sides in london tended, moreover, to aggravate the growing irritation between the two countries. lord palmerston was sharp and domineering, and mr. stevenson, our minister, was by no means mild or conciliatory. between them they did what they could to render accommodation impossible. to evolve a satisfactory and permanent peace from these conditions was the task which confronted mr. webster, and he was hardly in office before he received a demand from mr. fox for the release of mcleod, in which full avowal was made that the burning of the caroline was a public act. mr. webster determined that the proper method of settling the boundary question, when that subject should be reached, was to agree upon a conventional and arbitrary line, and that in the mean time the only way to dispose of mcleod was to get him out of prison, separate him, diplomatically speaking, from the affair of the caroline, and then take that up as a distinct matter for negotiation with the british government. the difficulty in regard to mcleod was the most pressing, and so to that he gave his immediate attention. his first step was to instruct the attorney-general to proceed to lockport, where mcleod was imprisoned, and communicate with the counsel for the defence, furnishing them with authentic information that the destruction of the caroline was a public act, and that therefore mcleod could not be held responsible. he then replied to the british minister that mcleod could, of course, be released only by judicial process, but he also informed mr. fox of the steps which had been taken by the administration to assure the prisoner a complete defence based on the avowal of the british government that the attack on the caroline was a public act. this threw the responsibility for mcleod, and for consequent peace or war, where it belonged, on the new york authorities, who seemed, however, but little inclined to assist the general government. mcleod came before the supreme court of new york in july, on a writ of _habeas corpus_, but they refused to release him on the grounds set forth in mr. webster's instructions to the attorney-general, and he was remanded for trial in october, which was highly embarrassing to our government, as it kept this dangerous affair open. but this and all other embarrassments to the secretary of state sank into insignificance beside those caused him by the troubles in his own political party. between the time of the instructions to the attorney-general and that of the letter to mr. fox, president harrison died, after only a month of office. mr. tyler, of whose views but little was known, at once succeeded, and made no change in the cabinet of his predecessor. on the last day of may, congress, called in extra session by president harrison, convened. a bill establishing a bank was passed, and mr. tyler vetoed it on account of constitutional objections to some of its features. the triumphant whigs were filled with wrath at this unlooked-for check. mr. clay reflected on the president with great severity in the senate, the members of the party in the house were very violent in their expressions of disapproval, and another measure, known as the "fiscal corporation act," was at once prepared. mr. webster regarded this state of affairs with great anxiety and alarm. he said that such a contest, if persisted in, would ruin the party and deprive them of the fruits of their victory, besides imperilling the important foreign policy then just initiated. he strove to allay the excitement, and resisted the passage of any new bank measure, much as he wished the establishment of such an institution, advising postponement and delay for the sake of procuring harmony if possible. but the party in congress would not be quieted. they were determined to force mr. tyler's hand at all hazards, and while the new bill was pending, mr. clay, stung by the taunts of mr. buchanan, made a savage attack upon the president. as a natural consequence, the "fiscal corporation" scheme shared the fate of its predecessor. the breach between the president and his party was opened irreparably, and four members of the cabinet at once resigned. mr. webster was averse to becoming a party to an obvious combination between the senate and the cabinet to harass the president, and he was determined not to sacrifice the success of his foreign negotiations to a political quarrel. he therefore resolved to remain in the cabinet for the present, at least, and, after consulting the massachusetts delegation in congress, who fully approved his course, he announced his decision to the public in a letter to the "national intelligencer." his action soon became the subject of much adverse criticism from the whigs, but at this day no one would question that he was entirely right. it was not such an easy thing to do, however, as it now appears, for the excitement was running high among the whigs, and there was great bitterness of feeling toward the president. mr. webster behaved in an independent and patriotic manner, showing a liberality of spirit, a breadth of view, and a courage of opinion which entitle him to the greatest credit. events, which had seemed thus far to go steadily against him in his negotiations, and which had been supplemented by the attacks of the opposition in congress for his alleged interference with the course of justice in new york, now began to turn in his favor. the news of the refusal of the new york court to release mcleod on a _habeas corpus_ had hardly reached england when the melbourne ministry was beaten in the house of commons, and sir robert peel came in, bringing with him lord aberdeen as the successor of lord palmerston in the department of foreign affairs. the new ministry was disposed to be much more peaceful than their predecessors had been, and the negotiations at once began to move more smoothly. great care was still necessary to prevent outbreaks on the border, but in october mcleod proved an _alibi_ and was acquitted, and thus the most dangerous element in our relations with england was removed. matters were still further improved by the retirement of mr. stevenson, whose successor in london was mr. everett, eminently conciliatory in disposition and in full sympathy with the secretary of state. mr. webster was now able to turn his undivided attention to the long-standing boundary question. his proposition to agree upon a conventional line had been made known by mr. fox to his government, and soon afterwards mr. everett was informed that lord ashburton would be sent to washington on a special mission. the selection of an envoy well known for his friendly feeling toward the united states, which was also traditional with the great banking-house of his family, was in itself a pledge of conciliation and good will. lord ashburton reached washington in april, , and the negotiation at once began. it is impossible and needless to give here a detailed account of that negotiation. we can only glance briefly at the steps taken by mr. webster and at the results achieved by him. there were many difficulties to be overcome, and in the winter of - the case of the creole added a fresh and dangerous complication. the creole was a slave-ship, on which the negroes had risen, and, taking possession, had carried her into an english port in the west indies, where assistance was refused to the crew, and where the slaves were allowed to go free. this was an act of very doubtful legality, it touched both england and the southern states in a very sensitive point, and it required all mr. webster's tact and judgment to keep it out of the negotiation until the main issue had been settled. the principal obstacle in the arrangement of the boundary dispute arose from the interests and the attitude of massachusetts and maine. mr. webster obtained with sufficient ease the appointment of commissioners from the former state, and, through the agency of mr. sparks, who was sent to augusta for the purpose, commissioners were also appointed in maine; but these last were instructed to adhere to the line of as claimed by the united states. lord ashburton and mr. webster readily agreed that a treaty must come from mutual conciliation and compromise; but, after a good deal of correspondence, it became apparent that the maine commissioners and the english envoy could not be brought to an agreement. a dead-lock and consequent loss of the treaty were imminent. mr. webster then had a long interview with lord ashburton. by a process of give and take they agreed on a conventional line and on the concession of certain rights, which made a fair bargain, but unluckily the loss was suffered by maine and massachusetts, while the benefits received by the united states accrued to new york, vermont, and new hampshire. this brought the negotiators to the point at which they had already been forced to halt so many times before. mr. webster now cut the knot by proposing that the united states should indemnify maine and massachusetts in money for the loss they were to suffer in territory, and by his dexterous management the commissioners of the two states were persuaded to assent to this arrangement, while lord ashburton was induced to admit the agreement into a clause of the treaty. this disposed of the chief question in dispute, but two other subjects were included in the treaty besides the boundary. the first related to the right of search claimed by england for the suppression of the slave-trade. this was met by what was called the "cruising convention," a clause which stipulated that each nation should keep its own squadron on the coast of africa, to enforce separately its own laws against the slave-trade, but in mutual coöperation. the other subject of agreement grew out of the creole case. england supposed that we sought the return of the negroes because they were slaves, but mr. webster argued that they were demanded as mutineers and murderers. the result was an article which, while it carefully avoided even the appearance of an attempt to bind england to return fugitive slaves, provided amply for the extradition of criminals. the case of the caroline was disposed of by a formal admission of the inviolability of national territory and by an apology for the burning of the steamboat. as to the action in regard to the slaves on the creole, mr. webster could only obtain the assurance that there should be "no officious interference with american vessels driven by accident or violence into british ports," and with this he was content to let the matter drop. on the subject of impressment, the old _casus belli_ of , mr. webster wrote a forcible letter to lord ashburton. in it he said that, in future, "in every regularly-documented american merchant vessel, the crew who navigate it will find their protection in the flag which is over them." in other words, if you take sailors out of our vessels, we shall fight; and this simple statement of fact ended the whole matter and was quite as binding on england as any treaty could have been. thus the negotiation closed. the only serious objection to its results was that the interests of maine were sacrificed perhaps unduly,--as a recent discussion of that point seems to show. but such a sacrifice was fully justified by what was achieved. a war was averted, a long standing and menacing dispute was settled, and a treaty was concluded which was creditable and honorable to all concerned. by his successful introduction of the extradition clause, mr. webster rendered a great service to civilization and to the suppression and punishment of crime. mr. webster was greatly aided throughout--both in his arguments, and in the construction of the treaty itself--by the learned and valuable assistance freely given by judge story. but he conducted the whole negotiation with great ability and in the spirit of a liberal and enlightened statesman. he displayed the highest tact and dexterity in reconciling so many clashing interests, and avoiding so many perilous side issues, until he had brought the main problem to a solution. in all that he did and said he showed a dignity and an entire sufficiency, which make this negotiation one of the most creditable--so far as its conduct was concerned--in which the united states was ever engaged. while the negotiation was in progress there was a constant murmur among the whigs about mr. webster's remaining in the cabinet, and as soon as the treaty was actually signed a loud clamor began--both among the politicians and in the newspapers--for his resignation. in the midst of this outcry the senate met and ratified the treaty by a vote of thirty-nine to nine,--a great triumph for its author. but the debate disclosed a vigorous opposition, benton and buchanan both assailing mr. webster for neglecting and sacrificing american, and particularly southern, interests. at the same time the controversy which mr. webster called "the battle of the maps," and which was made a great deal of in england, began to show itself. a map of , which mr. webster obtained, had been discovered in paris, sustaining the english view, while another was afterwards found in london, supporting the american claim. neither was of the least consequence, as the new line was conventional and arbitrary; but the discoveries caused a great deal of unreasonable excitement. mr. webster saw very plainly that the treaty was not yet secure. it was exposed to attacks both at home and abroad, and had still to pass parliament. until it was entirely safe, mr. webster determined to remain at his post. the clamor continued about his resignation, and rose round him at his home in marshfield, whither he had gone for rest. at the same time the whig convention of massachusetts declared formally a complete separation from the president. in the language of to-day, they "read mr. tyler out of the party." there was a variety of motives for this action. one was to force mr. webster out of the cabinet, another to advance the fortunes of mr. clay, in favor of whose presidential candidacy movements had begun in massachusetts, even among mr. webster's personal friends, as well as elsewhere. mr. webster had just declined a public dinner, but he now decided to meet his friends in faneuil hall. an immense audience gathered to hear him, many of them strongly disapproving his course, but after he had spoken a few moments, he had them completely under control. he reviewed the negotiation; he discussed fully the differences in the party; he deplored, and he did not hesitate strongly to condemn these quarrels, because by them the fruits of victory were lost, and whig policy abandoned. with boldness and dignity he denied the right of the convention to declare a separation from the president, and the implied attempt to coerce himself and others. "i am, gentlemen, a little hard to coax," he said, "but as to being driven, that is out of the question. if i choose to remain in the president's councils, do these gentlemen mean to say that i cease to be a massachusetts whig? i am quite ready to put that question to the people of massachusetts." he was well aware that he was losing party strength by his action; he knew that behind all these resolutions was the intention to raise his great rival to the presidency; but he did not shrink from avowing his independence and his intention of doing what he believed to be right, and what posterity admits to have been so. mr. webster never appeared to better advantage, and he never made a more manly speech than on this occasion, when, without any bravado, he quietly set the influence and the threats of his party at defiance. he was not mistaken in thinking that the treaty was not yet in smooth water. it was again attacked in the senate, and it had a still more severe ordeal to go through in parliament. the opposition, headed by lord palmerston, assailed the treaty and lord ashburton himself, with the greatest virulence, denouncing the one as a capitulation, and the other as a grossly unfit appointment. moreover, the language of the president's message led england to believe that we claimed that the right of search had been abandoned. after much correspondence, this misunderstanding drew forth an able letter from mr. webster, stating that the right of search had not been included in the treaty, but that the "cruising convention" had rendered the question unimportant. finally, all complications were dispersed, and the treaty ratified; and then came an attack from an unexpected quarter. general cass--our minister at paris--undertook to protest against the treaty, denounce it, and leave his post on account of it. this wholly gratuitous assault led to a public correspondence, in which general cass, on his own confession, was completely overthrown and broken down by the secretary of state. this was the last difficulty, and the work was finally accepted and complete. during this important and absorbing negotiation, other matters of less moment, but still of considerable consequence, had been met by mr. webster, and successfully disposed of. he made a treaty with portugal, respecting duties on wines; he carried on a long correspondence with our minister to mexico in relation to certain american prisoners; he vindicated the course of the united states in regard to the independence of texas, teaching m. de bocanegra, the mexican secretary of state, a lesson as to the duties of neutrality, and administering a severe reproof to that gentleman for imputing bad faith to the united states; he conducted the correspondence, and directed the policy of the government in regard to the troubles in rhode island; he made an effort to settle the oregon boundary; and, finally, he set on foot the chinese mission, which, after being offered to mr. everett, was accepted by mr. cushing with the best results. but his real work came to an end with the correspondence with general cass at the close of , and in may of the following year he resigned the secretaryship. in the two years during which he had been at the head of the cabinet, he had done much. his work added to his fame by the ability which it exhibited in a new field, and has stood the test of time. in a period of difficulty, and even danger, he proved himself singularly well adapted for the conduct of foreign affairs,--a department which is most peculiarly and traditionally the employment and test of a highly-trained statesman. it may be fairly said that no one, with the exception of john quincy adams, has ever shown higher qualities, or attained greater success in the administration of the state department, than mr. webster did while in mr. tyler's cabinet. on his resignation, he returned at once to private life, and passed the next summer on his farm at marshfield,--now grown into a large estate,--which was a source of constant interest and delight, and where he was able to have beneath his eyes his beloved sea. his private affairs were in disorder, and required his immediate attention. he threw himself into his profession, and his practice at once became active, lucrative, and absorbing. to this period of retirement belong the second bunker hill oration and the girard argument, which made so much noise in its day. he kept himself aloof from politics, but could not wholly withdraw from them. the feeling against him, on account of his continuance in the cabinet, had subsided, and there was a feeble and somewhat fitful movement to drop clay, and present mr. webster as a candidate for the presidency. mr. webster, however, made a speech at andover, defending his course and advocating whig principles, and declared that he was not a candidate for office. he also refused to allow new hampshire to mar party harmony by bringing his name forward. when mr. clay was nominated, in may, , mr. webster, who had beheld with anxiety the rise of the liberty party and prophesied the annexation of texas, decided, although he was dissatisfied with the silence of the whigs on this subject, to sustain their candidate. this was undoubtedly the wisest course; and, having once enlisted, he gave mr. clay a hearty and vigorous support, making a series of powerful speeches, chiefly on the tariff, and second in variety and ability only to those which he had delivered in the harrison campaign. mr. clay was defeated largely by the action of the liberty party, and the silence of the whigs about texas and slavery cost them the election. at the beginning of the year mr. webster had declined a reëlection to the senate, but it was impossible for him to remain out of politics, and the pressure to return soon became too strong to be resisted. when mr. choate resigned in the winter of - , mr. webster was reëlected senator, from massachusetts. on the first of march the intrigue, to perfect which mr. calhoun had accepted the state department, culminated, and the resolutions for the annexation of texas passed both branches of congress. four days later mr. polk's administration, pledged to the support and continuance of the annexation policy, was in power, and mr. webster had taken his seat in the senate for his last term. chapter ix. return to the senate.--the seventh of march speech. the principal events of mr. polk's administration belong to or grow out of the slavery agitation, then beginning to assume most terrible proportions. so far as mr. webster is concerned, they form part of the history of his course on the slavery question, which culminated in the famous speech of march , . before approaching that subject, however, it will be necessary to touch very briefly on one or two points of importance in mr. webster's career, which have no immediate bearing on the question of slavery, and no relation to the final and decisive stand which mr. webster took in regard to it. the ashburton treaty was open to one just criticism. it did not go far enough. it did not settle the northwestern as it did the northeastern boundary. mr. webster, as has been said, made an effort to deal with the former as well as the latter, but he met with no encouragement, and as he was then preparing to retire from office, the matter dropped. in regard to the northwestern boundary mr. webster agreed with the opinion of mr. monroe's cabinet, that the forty-ninth parallel was a fair and proper line; but the british undertook to claim the line of the columbia river, and this excited corresponding claims on our side. the democracy for political purposes became especially warlike and patriotic. they declared in their platform that we must have the whole of oregon and reoccupy it at once. mr. polk embodied this view in his message, together with the assertion that our rights extended to the line of ° ' north, and a shout of "fifty-four-forty or fight" went through the land from the enthusiastic democracy. if this attitude meant anything it meant war, inasmuch as our proposal for the forty-ninth parallel, and the free navigation of the columbia river, made in the autumn of , had been rejected by england, and then withdrawn by us. under these circumstances mr. webster felt it his duty to come forward and exert all his influence to maintain peace, and to promote a clear comprehension, both in the united states and in europe, of the points at issue. his speech on this subject and with this aim was delivered in faneuil hall. he spoke of the necessity of peace, of the fair adjustment offered by an acceptance of the forty-ninth parallel, and derided the idea of casting two great nations into war for such a question as this. he closed with a forcible and solemn denunciation of the president or minister who should dare to take the responsibility for kindling the flames of war on such a pretext. the speech was widely read. it was translated into nearly all the languages of europe, and on the continent had a great effect. about a month later he wrote to mr. macgregor of glasgow, suggesting that the british government should offer to accept the forty-ninth parallel, and his letter was shown to lord aberdeen, who at once acted upon the advice it contained. while this letter, however, was on its way, certain resolutions were introduced in the senate relating to the national defences, and to give notice of the termination of the convention for the joint occupation of oregon, which would of course have been nearly equivalent to a declaration of war. mr. webster opposed the resolutions, and insisted that, while the executive, as he believed, had no real wish for war, this talk was kept up about "all or none," which left nothing to negotiate about. the notice finally passed, but before it could be delivered by our minister in london, lord aberdeen's proposition of the forty-ninth parallel, as suggested by mr. webster, had been received at washington, where it was accepted by the truculent administration, agreed to by the senate, and finally embodied in a treaty. mr. webster's opposition had served its purpose in delaying action and saving bluster from being converted into actual war,--a practical conclusion by no means desired by the dominant party, who had talked so loud that they came very near blundering into hostilities merely as a matter of self-justification. the declarations of the democratic convention and of the democratic president in regard to england were really only sound and fury, although they went so far that the final retreat was noticeable and not very graceful. the democratic leaders had had no intention of fighting with england when all they could hope to gain would be glory and hard knocks, but they had a very definite idea of attacking without bluster and in good earnest another nation where there was territory to be obtained for slavery. the oregon question led, however, to an attack upon mr. webster which cannot be wholly passed over. he had, of course, his personal enemies in both parties, and his effective opposition to war with england greatly angered some of the most warlike of the democrats, and especially mr. c.j. ingersoll of pennsylvania, a bitter anglophobist. mr. ingersoll, in february, made a savage attack upon the ashburton negotiation, the treaty of washington, and upon mr. webster personally, alleging that as secretary of state he had been guilty of a variety of grave misdemeanors, including a corrupt use of the public money. some of these charges, those relating to the payment of mcleod's counsel by our government, to instructions to the attorney-general to take charge of mcleod's defence, and to a threat by mr. webster that if mcleod were not released new york would be laid in ashes, were repeated in the senate by mr. dickinson of new york. mr. webster peremptorily called for all the papers relating to the negotiation of , and on the sixth and seventh of april ( ), he made the elaborate speech in defence of the ashburton treaty, which is included in his collected works. it is one of the strongest and most virile speeches he ever delivered. he was profoundly indignant, and he had the completest mastery of his subject. in fact, he was so deeply angered by the charges made against him, that he departed from his almost invariable practice, and indulged in a severe personal denunciation of ingersoll and dickinson. although he did not employ personal invective in his oratory, it was a weapon which he was capable of using with most terrible effect, and his blows fell with crushing force upon ingersoll, who writhed under the strokes. through some inferior officers of the state department ingersoll got what he considered proofs, and then introduced resolutions calling for an account of all payments from the secret service fund; for communications made by mr. webster to messrs. adams and gushing of the committee on foreign affairs; for all papers relating to mcleod, and for the minutes of the committee on foreign affairs, to show that mr. webster had expressed an opinion adverse to our claim in the oregon dispute. mr. ingersoll closed his speech by a threat of impeachment as the result and reward of all this evil-doing, and an angry debate followed, in which mr. webster was attacked and defended with equal violence. president polk replied to the call of the house by saying that he could not feel justified, either morally or legally, in revealing the uses of the secret service fund. meantime a similar resolution was defeated in the senate by a vote of forty-four to one, mr. webster remarking that he was glad that the president had refused the request of the house; that he should have been sorry to have seen an important principle violated, and that he was not in the least concerned at being thus left without an explanation; he needed no defence, he said, against such attacks. mr. ingersoll, rebuffed by the president, then made a personal explanation, alleging specifically that mr. webster had made an unlawful use of the secret service money, that he had employed it to corrupt the press, and that he was a defaulter. mr. ashmun of massachusetts replied with great bitterness, and the charges were referred to a committee. it appeared, on investigation, that mr. webster had been extremely careless in his accounts, and had delayed in making them up and in rendering vouchers, faults to which he was naturally prone; but it also appeared that the money had been properly spent, that the accounts had ultimately been made up, and that there was no evidence of improper use. the committee's report was laid upon the table, the charges came to nothing, and mr. ingersoll was left in a very unpleasant position with regard to the manner in which he had obtained his information from the state department. the affair is of interest now merely as showing how deeply rooted was mr. webster's habitual carelessness in money matters, even when it was liable to expose him to very grave imputations, and what a very dangerous man he was to arouse and put on the defensive. mr. webster was absent when the intrigue and scheming of mr. polk culminated in war with mexico, and so his vote was not given either for or against it. he opposed the volunteer system as a mongrel contrivance, and resisted it as he had the conscription bill in the war of , as unconstitutional. he also opposed the continued prosecution of the war, and, when it drew toward a close, was most earnest against the acquisition of new territory. in the summer of he made an extended tour through the southern states, and was received there, as he had been in the west, with every expression of interest and admiration. the mexican war, however, cost mr. webster far more than the anxiety and disappointment which it brought to him as a public man. his second son, major edward webster, died near the city of mexico, from disease contracted by exposure on the march. this melancholy news reached mr. webster when important matters which demanded his attention were pending in congress. measures to continue the war were before the senate even after they had ratified the peace. these measures mr. webster strongly resisted, and he also opposed, in a speech of great power, the acquisition of new territories by conquest, as threatening the very existence of the nation, the principles of the constitution, and the constitution itself. the increase of senators, which was, of course, the object of the south in annexing texas and in the proposed additions from mexico, he regarded as destroying the balance of the government, and therefore he denounced the plan of acquisition by conquest in the strongest terms. the course about to be adopted, he said, will turn the constitution into a deformity, into a curse rather than a blessing; it will make a frame of government founded on the grossest inequality, and will imperil the existence of the union. with this solemn warning he closed his speech, and immediately left washington for boston, where his daughter, mrs. appleton, was sinking in consumption. she died on april th and was buried on may st. three days later, mr. webster followed to the grave the body of his son edward, which had been brought from mexico. two such terrible blows, coming so near together, need no comment. they tell their own sad story. one child only remained to him of all who had gathered about his knees in the happy days at portsmouth and boston, and his mind turned to thoughts of death as he prepared at marshfield a final resting-place for himself and those he had loved. whatever successes or defeats were still in store for him, the heavy cloud of domestic sorrow could never be dispersed in the years that remained, nor could the gaps which had been made be filled or forgotten. but the sting of personal disappointment and of frustrated ambition, trivial enough in comparison with such griefs as these, was now added to this heavy burden of domestic affliction. the success of general taylor in mexico rendered him a most tempting candidate for the whigs to nominate. his military services and his personal popularity promised victory, and the fact that no one knew taylor's political principles, or even whether he was a whig or a democrat, seemed rather to increase than diminish his attractions in the eyes of the politicians. a movement was set on foot to bring about this nomination, and its managers planned to make mr. webster vice-president on the ticket with the victorious soldier. such an offer was a melancholy commentary on his ambitious hopes. he spurned the proposition as a personal indignity, and, disapproving always of the selection of military men for the presidency, openly refused to give his assent to taylor's nomination. other trials, however, were still in store for him. mr. clay was a candidate for the nomination, and many whigs, feeling that his success meant another party defeat, turned to taylor as the only instrument to prevent this danger. in february, , a call was issued in new york for a public meeting to advance general taylor's candidacy, which was signed by many of mr. webster's personal and political friends. mr. webster was surprised and grieved, and bitterly resented this action. his biographer, mr. curtis, speaks of it as a blunder which rendered mr. webster's nomination hopeless. the truth is, that it was a most significant illustration of the utter futility of mr. webster's presidential aspirations. these friends in new york, who no doubt honestly desired his nomination, were so well satisfied that it was perfectly impracticable, that they turned to general taylor to avoid the disaster threatened, as they believed, by mr. clay's success. mr. webster predicted truly that clay and taylor would be the leading candidates before the convention, but he was wholly mistaken in supposing that the movement in new york would bring about the nomination of the former. his friends had judged rightly. taylor was the only man who could defeat clay, and he was nominated on the fourth ballot. massachusetts voted steadily for webster, but he never approached a nomination. even scott had twice as many votes. the result of the convention led mr. webster to take a very gloomy view of the prospects of the whigs, and he was strongly inclined to retire to his tent and let them go to deserved ruin. in private conversation he spoke most disparagingly of the nomination, the whig party, and the whig candidate. his strictures were well deserved, but, as the election drew on, he found or believed it to be impossible to live up to them. he was not ready to go over to the free-soil party, he could not remain silent, yet he could not give taylor a full support. in september, , he made his famous speech at marshfield, in which, after declaring that the "sagacious, wise, far-seeing doctrine of _availability_ lay at the root of the whole matter," and that "the nomination was one not fit to be made," he said that general taylor was personally a brave and honorable man, and that, as the choice lay between him and the democratic candidate, general cass, he should vote for the former and advised his friends to do the same. he afterwards made another speech, in a similar but milder strain, in faneuil hall. mr. webster's attitude was not unlike that of hamilton when he published his celebrated attack on adams, which ended by advising all men to vote for that objectionable man. the conclusion was a little impotent in both instances, but in mr. webster's case the results were better. the politicians and lovers of availability had judged wisely, and taylor was triumphantly elected. before the new president was inaugurated, in the winter of - , the struggle began in congress, which led to the delivery of the th of march speech by mr. webster in the following year. at this point, therefore, it becomes necessary to turn back and review briefly and rapidly mr. webster's course in regard to the question of slavery. his first important utterance on this momentous question was in , when the land was distracted with the conflict which had suddenly arisen over the admission of missouri. massachusetts was strongly in favor of the exclusion of slavery from the new states, and utterly averse to any compromise. a meeting was held in the state-house at boston, and a committee was appointed to draft a memorial to congress, on the subject of the prohibition of slavery in the territories. this memorial,--which was afterwards adopted,--was drawn by mr. webster, as chairman of the committee. it set forth, first, the belief of its signers that congress had the constitutional power "to make such a prohibition a condition on the admission of a new state into the union, and that it is just and proper that they should exercise that power." then came an argument on the constitutional question, and then the reasons for the exercise of the power as a general policy. the first point was that it would prevent further inequality of representation, such as existed under the constitution in the old states, but which could not be increased without danger. the next argument went straight to the merits of the question, as involved in slavery as a system. after pointing out the value of the ordinance of to the northwest, the memorial continued:-- "we appeal to the justice and the wisdom of the national councils to prevent the further progress of a great and serious evil. we appeal to those who look forward to the remote consequences of their measures, and who cannot balance a temporary or trifling convenience, if there were such, against a permanent growing and desolating evil. "... the missouri territory is a new country. if its extensive and fertile fields shall be opened as a market for slaves, the government will seem to become a party to a traffic, which in so many acts, through so many years, it has denounced as impolitic, unchristian, and inhuman.... the laws of the united states have denounced heavy penalties against the traffic in slaves, because such traffic is deemed unjust and inhuman. we appeal to the spirit of these laws; we appeal to this justice and humanity; we ask whether they ought not to operate, on the present occasion, with all their force? we have a strong feeling of the injustice of any toleration of slavery. circumstances have entailed it on a portion of our community, which cannot be immediately relieved from it without consequences more injurious than the suffering of the evil. but to permit it in a new country, where yet no habits are formed which render it indispensable, what is it but to encourage that rapacity and fraud and violence against which we have so long pointed the denunciation of our penal code? what is it but to tarnish the proud fame of the country? what is it but to render questionable all its professions of regard for the rights of humanity and the liberties of mankind." a year later mr. webster again spoke on one portion of this subject, and in the same tone of deep hostility and reproach. this second instance was that famous and much quoted passage of his plymouth oration in which he denounced the african slave-trade. every one remembers the ringing words:-- "i hear the sound of the hammer, i see the smoke of the furnaces where manacles and fetters are still forged for human limbs. i see the visages of those who, by stealth and at midnight, labor in this work of hell,--foul and dark as may become the artificers of such instruments of misery and torture. let that spot be purified, or let it cease to be of new england. let it be purified, or let it be set aside from the christian world; let it be put out of the circle of human sympathies and human regards, and let civilized man henceforth have no communion with it." this is directed against the african slave-trade, the most hideous feature, perhaps, in the system. but there was no real distinction between slavers plying from one american port to another and those which crossed the ocean for the same purpose. there was no essential difference between slaves raised for the market in virginia--whence they were exported and sold--and those kidnapped for the same object on the guinea coast. the physical suffering of a land journey might be less than that of a long sea-voyage, but the anguish of separation between mother and child was the same in all cases. the chains which clanked on the limbs of the wretched creatures, driven from the auction block along the road which passed beneath the national capitol, and the fetters of the captured fugitive were no softer or lighter than those forged for the cargo of the slave-ships. yet the man who so magnificently denounced the one in , found no cause to repeat the denunciation in , when only domestic traffic was in question. the memorial of and the oration of place the african slave-trade and the domestic branch of the business on precisely the same ground of infamy and cruelty. in mr. webster seems to have discovered that there was a wide gulf fixed between them, for the latter wholly failed to excite the stern condemnation poured forth by the memorialist of and the orator of . the fugitive slave law, more inhuman than either of the forms of traffic, was defended in on good constitutional grounds; but the eloquent invective of the early days against an evil which constitutions might necessitate but could not alter or justify, does not go hand in hand with the legal argument. the next occasion after the missouri compromise, on which slavery made its influence strongly felt at washington, was when mr. adams's scheme of the panama mission aroused such bitter and unexpected resistance in congress. mr. webster defended the policy of the president with great ability, but he confined himself to the international and constitutional questions which it involved, and did not discuss the underlying motive and true source of the opposition. the debate on foote's resolution in , in the wide range which it took, of course included slavery, and mr. hayne had a good deal to say on that subject, which lay at the bottom of the tariff agitation, as it did at that of every southern movement of any real importance. in his reply, mr. webster said that he had made no attack upon this sensitive institution, that he had simply stated that the northwest had been greatly benefited by the exclusion of slavery, and that it would have been better for kentucky if she had come within the scope of the ordinance of . the weight of his remarks was directed to showing that the complaint of northern attacks on slavery as existing in the southern states, or of northern schemes to compel the abolition of slavery, was utterly groundless and fallacious. at the same time he pointed out the way in which slavery was continually used to unite the south against the north. "this feeling," he said, "always carefully kept alive, and maintained at too intense a heat to admit discrimination or reflection, is a lever of great power in our political machine. there is not and never has been a disposition in the north to interfere with these interests of the south. such interference has never been supposed to be within the power of government; nor has it been in any way attempted. the slavery of the south has always been regarded as a matter of domestic policy left with the states themselves, and with which the federal government had nothing to do. certainly, sir, i am and ever have been of that opinion. the gentleman, indeed, argues that slavery, in the abstract, is no evil. most assuredly, i need not say i differ with him altogether and most widely on that point. i regard domestic slavery as one of the greatest evils, both moral and political." his position is here clearly defined. he admits fully that slavery within the states cannot be interfered with by the general government, under the constitution. but he also insists that it is a great evil, and the obvious conclusion is, that its extension, over which the government does have control, must and should be checked. this is the attitude of the memorial and the oration. nothing has yet changed. there is less fervor in the denunciation of slavery, but that may be fairly attributed to circumstances which made the maintenance of the general government and the enforcement of the revenue laws the main points in issue. in the anti-slavery movement, destined to grow to such vast proportions, began to show itself in the senate. the first contest came on the reception of petitions for the abolition of slavery in the district of columbia. mr. calhoun moved that these petitions should not be received, but his motion was rejected by a large majority. the question then came on the petitions themselves, and, by a vote of thirty-four to six, their prayer was rejected, mr. webster voting with the minority because he disapproved this method of disposing of the matter. soon after, mr. webster presented three similar petitions, two from massachusetts and one from michigan, and moved their reference to a committee of inquiry. he stated that, while the government had no power whatever over slavery in the states, it had complete control over slavery in the district, which was a totally distinct affair. he urged a respectful treatment of the petitions, and defended the right of petition and the motives and characters of the petitioners. he spoke briefly, and, except when he was charged with placing himself at the head of the petitioners, coldly, and did not touch on the merits of the question, either as to the abolition of slavery in the district or as to slavery itself. the southerners, especially the extremists and the nullifiers, were always more ready than any one else to strain the powers of the central government to the last point, and use them most tyrannically and illegally in their own interest and in that of their pet institution. the session of furnished a striking example of this characteristic quality. mr. calhoun at that time introduced his monstrous bill to control the united states mails in the interests of slavery, by authorizing postmasters to seize and suppress all anti-slavery documents. against this measure mr. webster spoke and voted, resting his opposition on general grounds, and sustaining it by a strong and effective argument. in the following year, on his way to the north, after the inauguration of mr. van buren, a great public reception was given to him in new york, and on that occasion he made the speech in niblo's garden, where he defined the whig principles, arraigned so powerfully the policy of jackson, and laid the foundation for the triumphs of the harrison campaign. in the course of that speech he referred to texas, and strongly expressed his belief that it should remain independent and should not be annexed. this led him to touch upon slavery. he said:-- "i frankly avow my entire unwillingness to do anything that shall extend the slavery of the african race on this continent, or add other slave-holding states to the union. when i say that i regard slavery in itself as a great moral, social, and political evil, i only use the language which has been adopted by distinguished men, themselves citizens of slave-holding states. i shall do nothing, therefore, to favor or encourage its further extension. we have slavery already amongst us. the constitution found it in the union, it recognized it, and gave it solemn guaranties. to the full extent of the guaranties we are all bound in honor, in justice, and by the constitution.... but when we come to speak of admitting new states, the subject assumes an entirely different aspect.... in my opinion, the people of the united states will not consent to bring into the union a new, vastly extensive, and slave-holding country, large enough for half a dozen or a dozen states. in my opinion, they ought not to consent to it.... on the general question of slavery a great portion of the community is already strongly excited. the subject has not only attracted attention as a question of politics, but it has struck a far deeper-toned chord. it has arrested the religious feeling of the country; it has taken strong hold on the consciences of men. he is a rash man, indeed, and little conversant with human nature, and especially has he a very erroneous estimate of the character of the people of this country, who supposes that a feeling of this kind is to be trifled with or despised. it will assuredly cause itself to be respected. it may be reasoned with, it may be made willing--i believe it is entirely willing--to fulfil all existing engagements and all existing duties, to uphold and defend the constitution as it is established, with whatever regrets about some provisions which it does actually contain. but to coerce it into silence, to endeavor to restrain its free expression, to seek to compress and confine it, warm as it is and more heated as such endeavors would inevitably render it,--should this be attempted, i know nothing, even in the constitution or in the union itself, which would not be endangered by the explosion which might follow." thus mr. webster spoke on slavery and upon the agitation against it, in . the tone was the same as in , and there was the same ring of dignified courage and unyielding opposition to the extension and perpetuation of a crying evil. in the session of congress preceding the speech at niblo's garden, numerous petitions for the abolition of slavery in the district had been offered. mr. webster reiterated his views as to the proper disposition to be made of them; but announced that he had no intention of expressing an opinion as to the merits of the question. objections were made to the reception of the petitions, the question was stated on the reception, and the whole matter was laid on the table. the senate, under the lead of calhoun, was trying to shut the door against the petitioners, and stifle the right of petition; and there was no john quincy adams among them to do desperate battle against this infamous scheme. in the following year came more petitions, and mr. calhoun now attempted to stop the agitation in another fashion. he introduced a resolution to the effect that these petitions were a direct and dangerous attack on the "institution" of the slave-holding states. this mr. clay improved in a substitute, which stated that any act or measure of congress looking to the abolition of slavery in the district would be a violation of the faith implied in the cession by virginia and maryland,--a just cause of alarm to the south, and having a direct tendency to disturb and endanger the union. mr. webster wrote to a friend that this was an attempt to make a new constitution, and that the proceedings of the senate, when they passed the resolutions, drew a line which could never be obliterated. mr. webster also spoke briefly against the resolutions, confining himself strictly to demonstrating the absurdity of mr. clay's doctrine of "plighted faith." he disclaimed carefully, and even anxiously, any intention of expressing an opinion on the merits of the question; although he mentioned one or two reasonable arguments against abolition. the resolutions were adopted by a large majority, mr. webster voting against them on the grounds set forth in his speech. whether the approaching presidential election had any connection with his careful avoidance of everything except the constitutional point, which contrasted so strongly with his recent utterances at niblo's garden, it is, of course, impossible to determine. john quincy adams, who had no love for mr. webster, and who was then in the midst of his desperate struggle for the right of petition, says, in his diary, in march, , speaking of the delegation from massachusetts:-- "their policy is dalliance with the south; and they care no more for the right of petition than is absolutely necessary to satisfy the feeling of their constituents. they are jealous of cushing, who, they think, is playing a double game. they are envious of my position as the supporter of the right of petition; and they truckle to the south to court their favor for webster. he is now himself tampering with the south on the slavery and the texas question." this harsh judgment may or may not be correct, but it shows very plainly that mr. webster's caution in dealing with these topics was noticed and criticised at this period. the annexation of texas, moreover, which he had so warmly opposed, seemed to him, at this juncture, and not without reason, to be less threatening, owing to the course of events in the young republic. mr. adams did not, however, stand alone in thinking that mr. webster, at this time, was lukewarm on the subject. in mr. giddings says "that it was impossible for any man, who submitted so quietly to the dictation of slavery as mr. webster, to command that influence which was necessary to constitute a successful politician." how much mr. webster's attitude had weakened, just at this period, is shown better by his own action than by anything mr. giddings could say. the ship enterprise, engaged in the domestic slave-trade from virginia to new orleans, had been driven into port hamilton, and the slaves had escaped. great britain refused compensation. thereupon, early in , mr. calhoun introduced resolutions declaratory of international law on this point, and setting forth that england had no right to interfere with, or to permit, the escape of slaves from vessels driven into her ports. the resolutions were idle, because they could effect nothing, and mischievous because they represented that the sentiment of the senate was in favor of protecting the slave-trade. upon these resolutions, absurd in character and barbarous in principle, mr. webster did not even vote. there is a strange contrast here between the splendid denunciation of the plymouth oration and this utter lack of opinion, upon resolutions designed to create a sentiment favorable to the protection of slave-ships engaged in the domestic traffic. soon afterwards, when mr. webster was secretary of state, he advanced much the same doctrine in the discussion of the creole case, and his letter was approved by calhoun. there may be merit in the legal argument, but the character of the cargo, which it was sought to protect, put it beyond the reach of law. we have no need to go farther than the plymouth oration to find the true character of the trade in human beings as carried on upon the high seas. after leaving the cabinet, and resuming his law practice, mr. webster, of course, continued to watch with attention the progress of events. the formation of the liberty party, in the summer of , appeared to him a very grave circumstance. he had always understood the force of the anti-slavery movement at the north, and it was with much anxiety that he now saw it take definite shape, and assume extreme grounds of opposition. this feeling of anxiety was heightened when he discovered, in the following winter, while in attendance upon the supreme court at washington, the intention of the administration to bring about the annexation of texas, and spring the scheme suddenly upon the country. this policy, with its consequence of an enormous extension of slave territory, mr. webster had always vigorously and consistently opposed, and he was now thoroughly alarmed. he saw what an effect the annexation would produce upon the anti-slavery movement, and he dreaded the results. he therefore procured the introduction of a resolution in congress against annexation; wrote some articles in the newspapers against it himself; stirred up his friends in washington and new york to do the same, and endeavored to start public meetings in massachusetts. his friends in boston and elsewhere, and the whigs generally, were disposed to think his alarm ill-founded. they were absorbed in the coming presidential election, and were too ready to do mr. webster the injustice of supposing that his views upon the probability of annexation sprang from jealousy of mr. clay. the suspicion was unfounded and unfair. mr. webster was wholly right and perfectly sincere. he did a good deal in an attempt to rouse the north. the only criticism to be made is that he did not do more. one public meeting would have been enough, if he had spoken frankly, declared that he knew, no matter how, that annexation was contemplated, and had then denounced it as he did at niblo's garden. "one blast upon his bugle-horn were worth a thousand men." such a speech would have been listened to throughout the length and breadth of the land; but perhaps it was too much to expect this of him in view of his delicate relations with mr. clay. at a later period, in the course of the campaign, he denounced annexation and the increase of slave territory, but unfortunately it was then too late. the whigs had preserved silence on the subject at their convention, and it was difficult to deal with it without reflecting on their candidate. mr. webster vindicated his own position and his own wisdom, but the mischief could not then be averted. the annexation of texas after the rejection of the treaty in was carried through, nearly a year later, by a mixture of trickery and audacity in the last hours of the tyler administration. four days after the consummation of this project mr. webster took his seat in the senate, and on march wrote to his son that, "while we feel as we ought about the annexation of texas, we ought to keep in view the true grounds of objection to that measure. those grounds are,--want of constitutional power,--danger of too great an extent of territory, and opposition to the increase of slavery and slave representation. it was properly considered, also, as a measure tending to produce war." he then goes on to argue that mexico had no good cause for war; but it is evident that he already dreaded just that result. when congress assembled again, in the following december, the first matter to engage their attention was the admission of texas as a state of the union. it was impossible to prevent the passage of the resolution, but mr. webster stated his objections to the measure. his speech was brief and very mild in tone, if compared with the language which he had frequently used in regard to the annexation. he expressed his opposition to this method of obtaining new territory by resolution instead of treaty, and to acquisition of territory as foreign to the true spirit of the republic, and as endangering the constitution and the union by increasing the already existing inequality of representation, and extending the area of slavery. he dwelt on the inviolability of slavery in the states, and did not touch upon the evils of the system itself. by the following spring the policy of mr. polk had culminated, intrigue had done its perfect work, hostilities had been brought on with mexico, and in may congress was invited to declare a war which the administration had taken care should already exist. mr. webster was absent at this time, and did not vote on the declaration of war; and when he returned he confined himself to discussing the war measures, and to urging the cessation of hostilities, and the renewal of efforts to obtain peace. the next session--that of the winter of - --was occupied, of course, almost entirely with the affairs of the war. in these measures mr. webster took scarcely any part; but toward the close of the session, when the terms on which the war should be concluded were brought up, he again came forward. february , , mr. wilmot of pennsylvania introduced the famous proviso, which bears his name, as an amendment to the bill appropriating three millions of dollars for extraordinary expenses. by this proviso slavery was to be excluded from all territory thereafter acquired or annexed by the united states. a fortnight later mr. webster, who was opposed to the acquisition of more territory on any terms, introduced two resolutions in the senate, declaring that the war ought not to be prosecuted for the acquisition of territory, and that mexico should be informed that we did not aim at seizing her domain. a similar resolution was offered by mr. berrien of georgia, and defeated by a party vote. on this occasion mr. webster spoke with great force and in a tone of solemn warning against the whole policy of territorial aggrandizement. he denounced all that had been done in this direction, and attacked with telling force the northern democracy, which, while it opposed slavery and favored the wilmot proviso, was yet ready to admit new territory, even without the proviso. his attitude at this time, in opposition to any further acquisition of territory on any terms, was strong and determined, but his policy was a terrible confession of weakness. it amounted to saying that we must not acquire territory because we had not sufficient courage to keep slavery out of it. the whigs were in a minority, however, and mr. webster could effect nothing. when the wilmot proviso came before the senate mr. webster voted for it, but it was defeated, and the way was clear for mr. polk and the south to bring in as much territory as they could get, free of all conditions which could interfere with the extension of slavery. in september, , after speaking and voting as has just been described in the previous session of congress, mr. webster addressed the whig convention at springfield on the subject of the wilmot proviso. what he then said is of great importance in any comparison which may be made between his earlier views and those which he afterwards put forward, in march, , on the same subject. the passage is as follows:-- "we hear much just now of a panacea for the dangers and evils of slavery and slave annexation, which they call the 'wilmot proviso.' that certainly is a just sentiment, but it is not a sentiment to found any new party upon. it is not a sentiment on which massachusetts whigs differ. there is not a man in this hall who holds to it more firmly than i do, nor one who adheres to it more than another. "i feel some little interest in this matter, sir. did i not commit myself in to the whole doctrine, fully, entirely? and i must be permitted to say that i cannot quite consent that more recent discoverers should claim the merit, and take out a patent. "i deny the priority of their invention. allow me to say, sir, it is not their thunder. "there is no one who can complain of the north for resisting the increase of slave representation, because it gives power to the minority in a manner inconsistent with the principles of our government. what is past must stand; what is established must stand; and with the same firmness with which i shall resist every plan to augment the slave representation, or to bring the constitution into hazard by attempting to extend our dominions, shall i contend to allow existing rights to remain. "sir, i can only say that, in my judgment, we are to use the first, the last, and every occasion which occurs, in maintaining our sentiments against the extension of the slave-power." in the following winter mr. webster continued his policy of opposition to all acquisitions of territory. although the cloud of domestic sorrow was already upon him, he spoke against the legislative powers involved in the "ten regiment" bill, and on the d of march, after the ratification of the treaty of peace, which carried with it large cessions of territory, he delivered a long and elaborate speech on the "objects of the mexican war." the weight of his speech was directed against the acquisition of territory, on account of its effect on the constitution, and the increased inequality of representation which it involved. he referred to the plan of cutting up texas so as to obtain ten senators, as "borough mongering" on a grand scale, a course which he proposed to resist to the last; and he concluded by denouncing the whole project as one calculated to turn the constitution into a curse rather than a blessing. "i resist it to-day and always," he said. "whoever falters or whoever flies, i continue the contest." in june general taylor was nominated, and soon after mr. webster left washington, although congress was still in session. he returned in august, in time to take part in the settlement of the oregon question. the south, with customary shrewdness, was endeavoring to use the territorial organization of oregon as a lever to help them in their struggle to gain control of the new conquests. a bill came up from the house with no provision in regard to slavery, and mr. douglas carried an amendment to it, declaring the missouri compromise to be in full force in oregon. the house disagreed, and, on the question of receding, mr. webster took occasion to speak on the subject of slavery in the territories. he was disgusted with the nomination of taylor and with the cowardly silence of the whigs on the question of the extension of slavery. in this frame of mind he made one of the strongest and best speeches he ever delivered on this topic. he denied that slavery was an "institution;" he denied that the local right to hold slaves implied the right of the owner to carry them with him and keep them in slavery on free soil; he stated in the strongest possible manner the right of congress to control slavery or to prohibit it in the territories; and he concluded with a sweeping declaration of his opposition to any extension of slavery or any increase of slave representation. the oregon bill finally passed under the pressure of the "free-soil" nominations, with a clause inserted in the house, embodying substantially the principles of the wilmot proviso. when congress adjourned, mr. webster returned to marshfield, where he made the speech on the nomination of general taylor. it was a crisis in his life. at that moment he could have parted with the whigs and put himself at the head of the constitutional anti-slavery party. the free-soilers had taken the very ground against the extension of slavery which he had so long occupied. he could have gone consistently, he could have separated from the whigs on a great question of principle, and such a course would have been no stronger evidence of personal disappointment than was afforded by the declaration that the nomination of taylor was one not fit to be made. mr. webster said that he fully concurred in the main object of the buffalo convention, that he was as good a free-soiler as any of them, but that the free-soil party presented nothing new or valuable, and he did not believe in mr. van buren. he then said it was not true that general taylor was nominated by the south, as charged by the free-soilers; but he did not confess, what was equally true, that taylor was nominated through fear of the south, as was shown by his election by southern votes. mr. webster's conclusion was, that it was safer to trust a slave-holder, a man without known political opinions, and a party which had not the courage of its convictions, than to run the risk of the election of another democrat. mr. webster's place at that moment was at the head of a new party based on the principles which he had himself formulated against the extension of slavery. such a change might have destroyed his chances for the presidency, if he had any, but it would have given him one of the greatest places in american history and made him the leader in the new period. he lost his opportunity. he did not change his party, but he soon after accepted the other alternative and changed his opinions. his course once taken, he made the best of it, and delivered a speech in faneuil hall, in which it is painful to see the effort to push aside slavery and bring forward the tariff and the sub-treasury. he scoffed at this absorption in "one idea," and strove to thrust it away. it was the cry of "peace, peace," when there was no peace, and when daniel webster knew there could be none until the momentous question had been met and settled. like the great composer who heard in the first notes of his symphony "the hand of fate knocking at the door," the great new england statesman heard the same warning in the hoarse murmur against slavery, but he shut his ears to the dread sound and passed on. when mr. webster returned to washington, after the election of general taylor, the strife had already begun over our mexican conquests. the south had got the territory, and the next point was to fasten slavery upon it. the north was resolved to prevent the further spread of slavery, but was by no means so determined or so clear in its views as its opponent. president polk urged in his message that congress should not legislate on the question of slavery in the territories, but that if they did, the right of slave-holders to carry their slaves with them to the new lands should be recognized, and that the best arrangement was to extend the line of the missouri compromise to the pacific. for the originator and promoter of the mexican war this was a very natural solution, and was a fit conclusion to one of the worst presidential careers this country has ever seen. the plan had only one defect. it would not work. one scheme after another was brought before the senate, only to fail. finally, mr. webster introduced his own, which was merely to authorize military government and the maintenance of existing laws in the mexican cessions, and a consequent postponement of the question. the proposition was reasonable and sensible, but it fared little better than the others. the southerners found, as they always did sooner or later, that facts were against them. the people of new mexico petitioned for a territorial government and for the exclusion of slavery. mr. calhoun pronounced this action "insolent." slavery was not only to be permitted, but the united states government was to be made to force it upon the people of the territories. finally, a resolution was offered "to extend the constitution" to the territories,--one of those utterly vague propositions in which the south delighted to hide well-defined schemes for extending, not the constitution, but slave-holding, to fresh fields and virgin soil. this gave rise to a sharp debate between mr. webster and mr. calhoun as to whether the constitution extended to the territories or not. mr. webster upheld the latter view, and the discussion is chiefly interesting from the fact that mr. webster got the better of mr. calhoun in the argument, and as an example of the latter's excessive ingenuity in sustaining and defending a more than doubtful proposition. the result of the whole business was, that nothing was done, except to extend the revenue laws of the united states to new mexico and california. before congress again assembled, one of the subjects of their debates had taken its fortunes into its own hands. california, rapidly peopled by the discoveries of gold, had held a convention and adopted a frame of government with a clause prohibiting slavery. when congress met, the senators and representatives of california were in washington with their free constitution in their hands, demanding the admission of their state into the union. new mexico was involved in a dispute with texas as to boundaries, and if the claim of texas was sanctioned, two thirds of the disputed territory would come within the scope of the annexation resolutions, and be slave-holding states. then there was the further question whether the wilmot proviso should be applied to new mexico on her organization as a territory. the president, acting under the influence of mr. seward, advised that california should be admitted, and the question of slavery in the other territories be decided when they should apply for admission. feeling was running very high in washington, and there was a bitter and protracted struggle of three weeks, before the house succeeded in choosing a speaker. the state legislatures on both sides took up the burning question, and debated and resolved one way or the other with great excitement. the southern members held meetings, and talked about secession and about withdrawing from congress. the air was full of murmurs of dissolution and intestine strife. the situation was grave and even threatening. in this state of affairs mr. clay, now an old man, and with but a short term of life before him, resolved to try once more to solve the problem and tide over the dangers by a grand compromise. the main features of his plan were: the admission of california with her free constitution; the organization of territorial governments in the mexican conquests without any reference to slavery; the adjustment of the texan boundary; a guaranty of the existence of slavery in the district of columbia until maryland should consent to its abolition; the prohibition of the slave-trade in the district; provision for the more effectual enforcement of the fugitive slave law, and a declaration that congress had no power over the slave-trade between the slave-holding states. as the admission of california was certain, the proposition to bring about the prohibition of the slave-trade in the district was the only concession to the north. everything else was in the interest of the south; but then that was always the manner in which compromises with slavery were made. they could be effected in no other way. this outline mr. clay submitted to mr. webster january , , and mr. webster gave it his full approval, subject, of course, to further and more careful consideration. february mr. clay introduced his plan in the senate, and supported it in an eloquent speech. on the th the president submitted the constitution of california, and mr. foote moved to refer it, together with all matters relating to slavery, to a select committee. it now became noised about that mr. webster intended to address the senate on the pending measures, and on the th of march he delivered the memorable speech which has always been known by its date. it may be premised that in a literary and rhetorical point of view the speech of the th of march was a fine one. the greater part of it is taken up with argument and statement, and is very quiet in tone. but the famous passage beginning "peaceable secession," which came straight from the heart, and the peroration also, have the glowing eloquence which shone with so much splendor all through the reply to hayne. the speech can be readily analyzed. with extreme calmness of language mr. webster discussed the whole history of slavery in ancient and modern times, and under the constitution of the united states. his attitude is so judicial and historical, that if it is clear he disapproved of the system, it is not equally evident that he condemned it. he reviewed the history of the annexation of texas, defended his own consistency, belittled the wilmot proviso, admitted substantially the boundary claims of texas, and declared that the character of every part of the country, so far as slavery or freedom was concerned, was now settled, either by law or nature, and that he should resist the insertion of the wilmot proviso in regard to new mexico, because it would be merely a wanton taunt and reproach to the south. he then spoke of the change of feeling and opinion both at the north and the south in regard to slavery, and passed next to the question of mutual grievances. he depicted at length the grievances of the south, including the tone of the northern press, the anti-slavery resolutions of the legislature, the utterances of the abolitionists, and the resistance to the fugitive slave law. the last, which he thought the only substantial and legally remediable complaint, he dwelt on at great length, and severely condemned the refusal of certain states to comply with this provision of the constitution. then came the grievances of the north against the south, which were dealt with very briefly. in fact, the northern grievances, according to mr. webster, consisted of the tone of the southern press and of southern speeches which, it must be confessed, were at times a little violent and somewhat offensive. the short paragraph reciting the unconstitutional and high-handed action of the south in regard to free negroes employed as seamen on northern vessels, and the outrageous treatment of mr. hoar at charleston in connection with this matter, was not delivered, mr. giddings says, but was inserted afterwards and before publication, at the suggestion of a friend. after this came the fine burst about secession, and a declaration of faith that the southern convention called at nashville would prove patriotic and conciliatory. the speech concluded with a strong appeal in behalf of nationality and union. mr. curtis correctly says that a great majority of mr. webster's constituents, if not of the whole north, disapproved this speech. he might have added that that majority has steadily increased. the popular verdict has been given against the th of march speech, and that verdict has passed into history. nothing can now be said or written which will alter the fact that the people of this country who maintained and saved the union have passed judgment upon mr. webster and condemned what he said on the th of march, , as wrong in principle and mistaken in policy. this opinion is not universal,--no opinion is,--but it is held by the great body of mankind who know or care anything about the subject, and it cannot be changed or substantially modified, because subsequent events have fixed its place and worth irrevocably. it is only necessary, therefore, to examine very briefly the grounds of this adverse judgment, and the pleas put in against it by mr. webster and by his most devoted partisans. from the sketch which has been given of mr. webster's course on the slavery question, we see that in and he denounced in the strongest terms slavery and every form of slave-trade; that while he fully admitted that congress had no power to touch slavery in the states, he asserted that it was their right and their paramount duty absolutely to stop any further extension of slave territory. in he was opposed to any compromise on this question. ten years later he stood out to the last, unaffected by defeat, against the principle of compromise which sacrificed the rights and the dignity of the general government to the resistance and threatened secession of a state. after the reply to hayne in , mr. webster became a standing candidate for the presidency, or for the whig nomination to that office. from that time forth, the sharp denunciation of slavery and traffic in slaves disappears, although there is no indication that he ever altered his original opinion on these points; but he never ceased, sometimes mildly, sometimes in the most vigorous and sweeping manner, to attack and oppose the extension of slavery to new regions, and the increase of slave territory. if, then, in the th of march speech, he was inconsistent with his past, such inconsistency must appear, if at all, in his general tone in regard to slavery, in his views as to the policy of compromise, and in his attitude toward the extension of slavery, the really crucial question of the time. as to the first point, there can be no doubt that there is a vast difference between the tone of the plymouth oration and the boston memorial toward slavery and the slave-trade, and that of the th of march speech in regard to the same subjects. for many years mr. webster had had but little to say against slavery as a system, but in the th of march speech, in reviewing the history of slavery, he treats the matter in such a very calm manner, that he not only makes the best case possible for the south, but his tone is almost apologetic when speaking in their behalf. to the grievances of the south he devotes more than five pages of his speech, to those of the north less than two. as to the infamy of making the national capital a great slave-mart, he has nothing to say--although it was a matter which figured as one of the elements in mr. clay's scheme. but what most shocked the north in this connection were his utterances in regard to the fugitive slave law. there can be no doubt that under the constitution the south had a perfect right to claim the extradition of fugitive slaves. the legal argument in support of that right was excellent, but the northern people could not feel that it was necessary for daniel webster to make it. the fugitive slave law was in absolute conflict with the awakened conscience and moral sentiment of the north. to strengthen that law, and urge its enforcement, was a sure way to make the resistance to it still more violent and intolerant. constitutions and laws will prevail over much, and allegiance to them is a high duty, but when they come into conflict with a deep-rooted moral sentiment, and with the principles of liberty and humanity, they must be modified, or else they will be broken to pieces. that this should have been the case in was no doubt to be regretted, but it was none the less a fact. to insist upon the constitutional duty of returning fugitive slaves, to upbraid the north with their opposition, and to urge upon them and upon the country the strict enforcement of the extradition law, was certain to embitter and intensify the opposition to it. the statesmanlike course was to recognize the ground of northern resistance, to show the south that a too violent insistence upon their constitutional rights would be fatal, and to endeavor to obtain such concessions as would allay excited feelings. mr. webster's strong argument in favor of the fugitive slave law pleased the south, of course; but it irritated and angered the north. it promoted the very struggle which it proposed to allay, for it admitted the existence of only one side to the question. the consciences of men cannot be coerced; and when mr. webster undertook to do it he dashed himself against the rocks. people did not stop to distinguish between a legal argument and a defence of the merits of catching runaway slaves. to refer to the original law of was idle. public opinion had changed in half a century; and what had seemed reasonable at the close of the eighteenth century was monstrous in the middle of the nineteenth. all this mr. webster declined to recognize. he upheld without diminution or modification the constitutional duty of sending escaping slaves back to bondage; and from the legal soundness of this position there is no escape. the trouble was that he had no word to say against the cruelty and barbarity of the system. to insist upon the necessity of submitting to the hard and repulsive duty imposed by the constitution was one thing. to urge submission without a word of sorrow or regret was another. the north felt, and felt rightly, that while mr. webster could not avoid admitting the force of the constitutional provisions about fugitive slaves, and was obliged to bow to their behest, yet to defend them without reservation, to attack those who opposed them, and to urge the rigid enforcement of a fugitive slave law, was not in consonance with his past, his conscience, and his duty to his constituents. the constitutionality of a fugitive slave law may be urged and admitted over and over again, but this could not make the north believe that advocacy of slave-catching was a task suited to daniel webster. the simple fact was that he did not treat the general question of slavery as he always had treated it. instead of denouncing and deploring it, and striking at it whenever the constitution permitted, he apologized for its existence, and urged the enforcement of its most obnoxious laws. this was not his attitude in ; this was not what the people of the north expected of him in . in regard to the policy of compromise there is a much stronger contrast between mr. webster's attitude in and his earlier course than in the case of his views on the general subject of slavery. in , although not in public life, mr. webster, as is clear from the tone of the boston memorial, was opposed to any compromise involving an extension of slavery. in - he was the most conspicuous and unyielding enemy of the principle of compromise in the country. he then took the ground that the time had come to test the strength of the constitution and the union, and that any concession would have a fatally weakening effect. in he supported a compromise which was so one-sided that it hardly deserves the name. the defence offered by his friends on this subject--and it is the strongest point they have been able to make--is that these sacrifices, or compromises, were necessary to save the union, and that--although they did not prevent ultimate secession--they caused a delay of ten years, which enabled the north to gather sufficient strength to carry the civil war to a successful conclusion. it is not difficult to show historically that the policy of compromise between the national principle and unlawful opposition to that principle was an entire mistake from the very outset, and that if illegal and partisan state resistance had always been put down with a firm hand, civil war might have been avoided. nothing strengthened the general government more than the well-judged and well-timed display of force by which washington and hamilton crushed the whiskey rebellion, or than the happy accident of peace in , which brought the separatist movement in new england to a sudden end. after that period mr. clay's policy of compromise prevailed, and the result was that the separatist movement was identified with the maintenance of slavery, and steadily gathered strength. in the south threatened and blustered in order to prevent the complete prohibition of slavery in the louisiana purchase. in south carolina passed the nullification ordinance because she suffered by the operation of a protective tariff. in a great advance had been made in their pretensions. secession was threatened because the south feared that the mexican conquests would not be devoted to the service of slavery. nothing had been done, nothing was proposed even, prejudicial to southern interests; but the inherent weakness of slavery, and the mild conciliatory attitude of northern statesmen, incited the south to make imperious demands for favors, and seek for positive gains. they succeeded in , and in they had reached the point at which they were ready to plunge the country into the horrors of civil war solely because they lost an election. they believed, first, that the north would yield everything for the sake of union, and secondly, that if there was a limit to their capacity for surrender in this direction, yet a people capable of so much submission in the past would never fight to maintain the union. the south made a terrible mistake, and was severely punished for it; but the compromises of , , and furnished some excuse for the wild idea that the north would not and could not fight. whether a strict adherence to the strong, fearless policy of hamilton, which was adopted by jackson and advocated by webster in - , would have prevented civil war, must, of course, remain matter of conjecture. it is at least certain that in that way alone could war have been avoided, and that the clay policy of compromise made war inevitable by encouraging slave-holders to believe that they could always obtain anything they wanted by a sufficient show of violence. it is urged, however, that the policy of compromise having been adopted, a change in would have simply precipitated the sectional conflict. in judging mr. webster, the practical question, of course, is as to the best method of dealing with matters as they actually were and not as they might have been had a different course been pursued in and . the partisans of mr. webster have always taken the ground that in the choice was between compromise and secession; that the events of showed that the south, in , was not talking for mere effect; that the maintenance of the union was the paramount consideration of a patriotic statesman; and that the only practicable and proper course was to compromise. admitting fully that mr. webster's first and highest duty was to preserve the union, it is perfectly clear now, when all these events have passed into history, that he took the surest way to make civil war inevitable, and that the position of should not have been abandoned. in the first place, the choice was not confined to compromise or secession. the president, the official head of the whig party, had recommended the admission of california, as the only matter actually requiring immediate settlement, and that the other questions growing out of the new territories should be dealt with as they arose. mr. curtis, mr. webster's biographer, says this was an impracticable plan, because peace could not be kept between new mexico and texas, and because there was great excitement about the slavery question throughout the country. these seem very insufficient reasons, and only the first has any practical bearing on the matter. general taylor said: admit california, for that is an immediate and pressing duty, and i will see to it that peace is preserved on the texan boundary. zachary taylor may not have been a great statesman, but he was a brave and skilful soldier, and an honest man, resolved to maintain the union, even if he had to shoot a few texans to do it. his policy was bold and manly, and the fact that it was said to have been inspired by mr. seward, a leader in the only northern party which had any real principle to fight for, does not seem such a monstrous idea as it did in or does still to those who sustain mr. webster's action. that general taylor's policy was not so wild and impracticable as mr. webster's friends would have us think, is shown by the fact that mr. benton, democrat and southerner as he was, but imbued with the vigor of the jackson school, believed that each question should be taken up by itself and settled on its own merits. a policy which seemed wise to three such different men as taylor, seward, and benton, could hardly have been so utterly impracticable and visionary as mr. webster's partisans would like the world to believe. it was in fact one of the cases which that extremely practical statesman nicolo machiavelli had in mind when he wrote that, "dangers that are seen afar off are easily prevented; but protracting till they are near at hand, the remedies grow unseasonable and the malady incurable." it may be readily admitted that there was a great and perilous political crisis in , as mr. webster said. in certain quarters, in the excitement of party strife, there was a tendency to deride mr. webster as a "union-saver," and to take the ground that there had been no real danger of secession. this, as we can see now very plainly, was an unfounded idea. when congress met, the danger of secession was very real, although perhaps not very near. the south, although they intended to secede as a last resort, had no idea that they should be brought to that point. menaces of disunion, ominous meetings and conventions, they probably calculated, would effect their purpose and obtain for them what they wanted, and subsequent events proved that they were perfectly right in this opinion. on february mr. webster wrote to mr. harvey:-- "i do not partake in any degree in those apprehensions which you say some of our friends entertain of the dissolution of the union or the breaking up of the government. i am mortified, it is true, at the violent tone assumed here by many persons, because such violence in debate only leads to irritation, and is, moreover, discreditable to the government and the country. but there is no serious danger, be assured, and so assure our friends." the next day he wrote to mr. furness, a leader of the anti-slavery party, expressing his abhorrence of slavery as an institution, his unwillingness to break up the existing political system to secure its abolition, and his belief that the whole matter must be left with divine providence. it is clear from this letter that he had dismissed any thought of assuming an aggressive attitude toward slavery, but there is nothing to indicate that he thought the union could be saved from wreck only by substantial concessions to the south. between the date of the letter to harvey and march , mr. curtis says that the aspect of affairs had materially changed, and that the union was in serious peril. there is nothing to show that mr. webster thought so, or that he had altered the opinion which he had expressed on february . in fact, mr. curtis's view is the exact reverse of the true state of affairs. if there was any real and immediate danger to the union, it existed on february , and ceased immediately afterwards, on february , as dr. von holst correctly says, when the house of representatives laid on the table the resolution of mr. root of ohio, prohibiting the extension of slavery to the territories. by that vote, the victory was won by the slave-power, and the peril of speedy disunion vanished. nothing remained but to determine how much the south would get from their victory, and how hard a bargain they could drive. the admission of california was no more of a concession than a resolution not to introduce slavery in massachusetts would have been. all the rest of the compromise plan, with the single exception of the prohibition of the slave-trade in the district of columbia, was made up of concessions to the southern and slave-holding interest. that henry clay should have originated and advocated this scheme was perfectly natural. however wrong or mistaken, this had been his steady and unbroken policy from the outset, as the best method of preserving the union and advancing the cause of nationality. mr. clay was consistent and sincere, and, however much he may have erred in his general theory, he never swerved from it. but with mr. webster the case was totally different. he had opposed the principle of compromise from the beginning, and in , when concession was more reasonable than in , he had offered the most strenuous and unbending resistance. now he advocated a compromise which was in reality little less than a complete surrender on the part of the north. on the general question of compromise he was, of course, grossly inconsistent, and the history of the time, as it appears in the cold light of the present day, shows plainly that, while he was brave and true and wise in , in he was not only inconsistent, but that he erred deeply in policy and statesmanship. it has also been urged in behalf of mr. webster that he went no farther than the republicans in in the way of concession, and that as in so in , anything was permissible which served to gain time. in the first place, the _tu quoque_ argument proves nothing and has no weight. in the second place, the situations in and in were very different. there were at the former period, in reference to slavery, four parties in the country--the democrats, the free-soilers, the abolitionists, and the whigs. the three first had fixed and widely-varying opinions; the last was trying to live without opinions, and soon died. the pro-slavery democrats were logical and practical; the abolitionists were equally logical but thoroughly impracticable and unconstitutional, avowed nullifiers and secessionists; the free-soilers were illogical, constitutional, and perfectly practical. as republicans, the free-soilers proved the correctness and good sense of their position by bringing the great majority of the northern people to their support. but at the same time their position was a difficult one, for while they were an anti-slavery party and had set on foot constitutional opposition to the extension of slavery, their fidelity to the constitution compelled them to admit the legality of the fugitive slave law and of slavery in the states. they aimed, of course, first to check the extension of slavery and then to efface it by gradual restriction and full compensation to slave-holders. when they had carried the country in , they found themselves face to face with a breaking union and an impending war. that many of them were seriously frightened, and, to avoid war and dissolution, would have made great concessions, cannot be questioned; but their controlling motive was to hold things together by any means, no matter how desperate, until they could get possession of the government. this was the only possible and the only wise policy, but that it involved them in some contradictions in that winter of excitement and confusion is beyond doubt. history will judge the men and events of according to the circumstances of the time, but nothing that happened then has any bearing on mr. webster's conduct. he must be judged according to the circumstances of , and the first and most obvious fact is, that he was not fighting merely to gain time and obtain control of the general government. the crisis was grave and serious in the extreme, but neither war nor secession were imminent or immediate, nor did mr. webster ever assert that they were. he thought war and secession might come, and it was against this possibility and probability that he sought to provide. he wished to solve the great problem, to remove the source of danger, to set the menacing agitation at rest. he aimed at an enduring and definite settlement, and that was the purpose of the th of march speech. his reasons--and of course they were clear and weighty in his own mind--proceeded from the belief that this wretched compromise measure offered a wise, judicious, and permanent settlement of questions which, in their constant recurrence, threatened more and more the stability of the union. history has shown how wofully mistaken he was in this opinion. the last point to be considered in connection with the th of march speech is the ground then taken by mr. webster with reference to the extension of slavery. to this question the speech was chiefly directed, and it is the portion which has aroused the most heated discussion. what mr. webster's views had always been on the subject of slavery extension every one knew then and knows now. he had been the steady and uncompromising opponent of the southern policy, and in season and out of season, sometimes vehemently sometimes gently, but always with firmness and clearness, he had declared against it. the only question is, whether he departed from these often-expressed opinions on the th of march. in the speech itself he declared that he had not abated one jot in his views in this respect, and he argued at great length to prove his consistency, which, if it were to be easily seen of men, certainly needed neither defence nor explanation. the crucial point was, whether, in organizing the new territories, the principle of the wilmot proviso should be adopted as part of the measure. this famous proviso mr. webster had declared in to represent exactly his own views. he had then denied that the idea was the invention of any one man, and scouted the notion that on this doctrine there could be any difference of opinion among whigs. on march he announced that he would not have the proviso attached to the territorial bills, and should oppose any effort in that direction. the reasons he gave for this apparent change were, that nature had forbidden slavery in the newly-conquered regions, and that the proviso, under such circumstances, would be a useless taunt and wanton insult to the south. the famous sentence in which he said that he "would not take pains uselessly to reaffirm an ordinance of nature, nor to reënact the will of god," was nothing but specious and brilliant rhetoric. it was perfectly easy to employ slaves in california, if the people had not prohibited it, and in new mexico as well, even if there were no cotton nor sugar nor rice plantations in either, and but little arable land in the latter. there was a classic form of slave-labor possible in those countries. any school-boy could have reminded mr. webster of "seius whose eight hundred slaves sicken in ilva's mines." mining was one of the oldest uses to which slave-labor had been applied, and it still flourished in siberia as the occupation of serfs and criminals. mr. webster, of course, was not ignorant of this very obvious fact; and that nature, therefore, instead of forbidding slave-labor in the mexican conquests, opened to it a new and almost unlimited field in a region which is to-day one of the greatest mining countries in the world. still less could he have failed to know that this form of employment for slaves was eagerly desired by the south; that the slave-holders fully recognized their opportunity, announced their intention of taking advantage of it, and were particularly indignant at the action of california because it had closed to them this inviting field. mr. clingman of north carolina, on january , when engaged in threatening war in order to bring the north to terms, had said, in the house of representatives: "but for the anti-slavery agitation our southern slave-holders would have carried their negroes into the mines of california in such numbers that i have no doubt but that the majority there would have made it a slave-holding state."[ ] at a later period mr. mason of virginia declared, in the senate, that he knew of no law of nature which excluded slavery from california. "on the contrary," he said, "if california had been organized with a territorial form of government only, the people of the southern states would have gone there freely, and have taken their slaves there in great numbers. they would have done so because the value of the labor of that class would have been augmented to them many hundred fold."[ ] these were the views of practical men and experienced slave-owners who represented the opinions of their constituents, and who believed that domestic slavery could be employed to advantage anywhere. moreover, the southern leaders openly avowed their opposition to securing any region to free labor exclusively, no matter what the ordinances of nature might be. in , it must be remembered in this connection, mr. webster not only urged the limitation of slave area, and sustained the power of congress to regulate this matter in the territories, but he did not resist the final embodiment of the principle of the wilmot proviso in the bill for the organization of oregon, where the introduction of slavery was infinitely more unlikely than in new mexico. cotton, sugar, and rice were excluded, perhaps, by nature from the mexican conquests, but slavery was not. it was worse than idle to allege that a law of nature forbade slaves in a country where mines gaped to receive them. the facts are all as plain as possible, and there is no escape from the conclusion that in opposing the wilmot proviso, in , mr. webster abandoned his principles as to the extension of slavery. he practically stood forth as the champion of the southern policy of letting the new territories alone, which could only result in placing them in the grasp of slavery. the consistency which he labored so hard to prove in his speech was hopelessly shattered, and no ingenuity, either then or since, can restore it. [footnote : _congressional globe_, st congress, st session, p. .] [footnote : ibid., appendix, p. .] a dispassionate examination of mr. webster's previous course on slavery, and a careful comparison of it with the ground taken in the th of march speech, shows that he softened his utterances in regard to slavery as a system, and that he changed radically on the policy of compromise and on the question of extending the area of slavery. there is a confused story that in the winter of - he had given the anti-slavery leaders to understand that he proposed to come out on their ground in regard to mexico, and to sustain corwin in his attack on the democratic policy, but that he failed to do so. the evidence on this point is entirely insufficient to make it of importance, but there can be no doubt that in the winter of mr. webster talked with mr. giddings, and led him, and the other free-soil leaders, to believe that he was meditating a strong anti-slavery speech. this fact was clearly shown in the recent newspaper controversy which grew out of the celebration of the centennial anniversary of webster's birth. it is a little difficult to understand why this incident should have roused such bitter resentment among mr. webster's surviving partisans. to suppose that mr. webster made the th of march speech after long deliberation, without having a moment's hesitation in the matter, is to credit him with a shameless disregard of principle and consistency, of which it is impossible to believe him guilty. he undoubtedly hesitated, and considered deeply whether he should assume the attitude of , and stand out unrelentingly against the encroachments of slavery. he talked with mr. clay on one side. he talked with mr. giddings, and other free-soilers, on the other. with the latter the wish was no doubt father to the thought, and they may well have imagined that mr. webster had determined to go with them, when he was still in doubt and merely trying the various positions. there is no need, however, to linger over matters of this sort. the change made by mr. webster can be learned best by careful study of his own utterances, and of his whole career. yet, at the same time, the greatest trouble lies not in the shifting and inconsistency revealed by an examination of the specific points which have just been discussed, but in the speech as a whole. in that speech mr. webster failed quite as much by omissions as by the opinions which he actually announced. he was silent when he should have spoken, and he spoke when he should have held his peace. the speech, if exactly defined, is, in reality, a powerful effort, not for compromise or for the fugitive slave law, or any other one thing, but to arrest the whole anti-slavery movement, and in that way put an end to the dangers which threatened the union and restore lasting harmony between the jarring sections. it was a mad project. mr. webster might as well have attempted to stay the incoming tide at marshfield with a rampart of sand as to seek to check the anti-slavery movement by a speech. nevertheless, he produced a great effect. his mind once made up, he spared nothing to win the cast. he gathered all his forces; his great intellect, his splendid eloquence, his fame which had become one of the treasured possessions of his country,--all were given to the work. the blow fell with terrible force, and here, at last, we come to the real mischief which was wrought. the th of march speech demoralized new england and the whole north. the abolitionists showed by bitter anger the pain, disappointment, and dismay which this speech brought. the free-soil party quivered and sank for the moment beneath the shock. the whole anti-slavery movement recoiled. the conservative reaction which mr. webster endeavored to produce came and triumphed. chiefly by his exertions the compromise policy was accepted and sustained by the country. the conservative elements everywhere rallied to his support, and by his ability and eloquence it seemed as if he had prevailed and brought the people over to his opinions. it was a wonderful tribute to his power and influence, but the triumph was hollow and short-lived. he had attempted to compass an impossibility. nothing could kill the principles of human liberty, not even a speech by daniel webster, backed by all his intellect and knowledge, his eloquence and his renown. the anti-slavery movement was checked for the time, and pro-slavery democracy, the only other positive political force, reigned supreme. but amid the falling ruins of the whig party, and the evanescent success of the native americans, the party of human rights revived; and when it rose again, taught by the trials and misfortunes of , it rose with a strength which mr. webster had never dreamed of, and, in , polled nearly a million and a half of votes for fremont. the rise and final triumph of the republican party was the condemnation of the th of march speech and of the policy which put the government of the country in the hands of franklin pierce and james buchanan. when the war came, inspiration was not found in the th of march speech. in that dark hour, men remembered the daniel webster who replied to hayne, and turned away from the man who had sought for peace by advocating the great compromise of henry clay. the disapprobation and disappointment which were manifested in the north after the th of march speech could not be overlooked. men thought and said that mr. webster had spoken in behalf of the south and of slavery. whatever his intentions may have been, this was what the speech seemed to mean and this was its effect, and the north saw it more and more clearly as time went on. mr. webster never indulged in personal attacks, but at the same time he was too haughty a man ever to engage in an exchange of compliments in debate. he never was in the habit of saying pleasant things to his opponents in the senate merely as a matter of agreeable courtesy. in this direction, as in its opposite, he usually maintained a cold silence. but on the th of march he elaborately complimented calhoun, and went out of his way to flatter virginia and mr. mason personally. this struck close observers with surprise, but it was the real purpose of the speech which went home to the people of the north. he had advocated measures which with slight exceptions were altogether what the south wanted, and the south so understood it. on the th of march mr. morehead wrote to mr. crittenden that mr. webster's appointment as secretary of state would now be very acceptable to the south. no more bitter commentary could have been made. the people were blinded and dazzled at first, but they gradually awoke and perceived the error that had been committed. mr. webster, however, needed nothing from outside to inform him as to his conduct and its results. at the bottom of his heart and in the depths of his conscience he knew that he had made a dreadful mistake. he did not flinch. he went on in his new path without apparent faltering. his speech on the compromise measures went farther than that of the th of march. but if we study his speeches and letters between and the day of his death, we can detect changes in them, which show plainly enough that the writer was not at ease, that he was not master of that real conscience of which he boasted. his friends, after the first shock of surprise, rallied to his support, and he spoke frequently at union meetings, and undertook, by making immense efforts, to convince the country that the compromise measures were right and necessary, and that the doctrines of the th of march speech ought to be sustained. in pursuance of this object, during the winter of and the summer of the following year, he wrote several public letters on the compromise measures, and he addressed great meetings on various occasions, in new england, new york, and as far south as virginia. we are at once struck by a marked change in the character and tone of these speeches, which produced a great effect in establishing the compromise policy. it had never been mr. webster's habit to misrepresent or abuse his opponents. now he confounded the extreme separatism of the abolitionists and the constitutional opposition of the free-soil party, and involved all opponents of slavery in a common condemnation. it was wilful misrepresentation to talk of the free-soilers as if they were identical with the abolitionists, and no one knew better than mr. webster the distinction between the two, one being ready to secede to get rid of slavery, the other offering only a constitutional resistance to its extension. his tone toward his opponents was correspondingly bitter. when he first arrived in boston, after his speech, and spoke to the great crowd in front of the revere house, he said, "i shall support no agitations having their foundations in unreal, ghostly abstractions." slavery had now become "an unreal, ghostly abstraction," although it must still have appeared to the negroes something very like a hard fact. there were men in that crowd, too, who had not forgotten the noble words with which mr. webster in had defended the character of the opponents of slavery, and the sound of this new gospel from his lips fell strangely on their ears. so he goes on from one union meeting to another, and in speech after speech there is the same bitter tone which had been so foreign to him in all his previous utterances. the supporters of the anti-slavery movement he denounces as insane. he reiterates his opposition to slave extension, and in the same breath argues that the union must be preserved by giving way to the south. the feeling is upon him that the old parties are breaking down under the pressure of this "ghostly abstraction," this agitation which he tries to prove to the young men of the country and to his fellow-citizens everywhere is "wholly factitious." the fugitive slave law is not in the form which he wants, but still he defends it and supports it. the first fruits of his policy of peace are seen in riots in boston, and he personally advises with a boston lawyer who has undertaken the cases against the fugitive slaves. it was undoubtedly his duty, as mr. curtis says, to enforce and support the law as the president's adviser, but his personal attention and interest were not required in slave cases, nor would they have been given a year before. the wilmot proviso, that doctrine which he claimed as his own in , when it was a sentiment on which whigs could not differ, he now calls "a mere abstraction." he struggles to put slavery aside for the tariff, but it will not down at his bidding, and he himself cannot leave it alone. finally he concludes this compromise campaign with a great speech on laying the foundation of the capitol extension, and makes a pathetic appeal to the south to maintain the union. they are not pleasant to read, these speeches in the senate and before the people in behalf of the compromise policy. they are harsh and bitter; they do not ring true. daniel webster knew when he was delivering them that that was not the way to save the union, or that, at all events, it was not the right way for him to do it. the same peculiarity can be discerned in his letters. the fun and humor which had hitherto run through his correspondence seems now to fade away as if blighted. on september , , he writes to mr. harvey that since march there has not been an hour in which he has not felt a "crushing sense of anxiety and responsibility." he couples this with the declaration that his own part is acted and he is satisfied; but if his anxiety was solely of a public nature, why did it date from march , when, prior to that time, there was much greater cause for alarm than afterwards. in everything he said or wrote he continually recurs to the slavery question and always in a defensive tone, usually with a sneer or a fling at the abolitionists and anti-slavery party. the spirit of unrest had seized him. he was disturbed and ill at ease. he never admitted it, even to himself, but his mind was not at peace, and he could not conceal the fact. posterity can see the evidences of it plainly enough, and a man of his intellect and fame knew that with posterity the final reckoning must be made. no man can say that mr. webster anticipated the unfavorable judgment which his countrymen have passed upon his conduct, but that in his heart he feared such a judgment cannot be doubted. it is impossible to determine with perfect accuracy any man's motives in what he says or does. they are so complex, they are so often undefined, even in the mind of the man himself, that no one can pretend to make an absolutely correct analysis. there have been many theories as to the motives which led mr. webster to make the th of march speech. in the heat of contemporary strife his enemies set it down as a mere bid to secure southern support for the presidency, but this is a harsh and narrow view. the longing for the presidency weakened mr. webster as a public man from the time when it first took possession of him after the reply to hayne. it undoubtedly had a weakening effect upon him in the winter of , and had some influence upon the speech of the th of march. but it is unjust to say that it did more. it certainly was far removed from being a controlling motive. his friends, on the other hand, declare that he was governed solely by the highest and most disinterested patriotism, by the truest wisdom. this explanation, like that of his foes, fails by going too far and being too simple. his motives were mixed. his chief desire was to preserve and maintain the union. he wished to stand forth as the great saviour and pacificator. on the one side was the south, compact, aggressive, bound together by slavery, the greatest political force in the country. on the other was a weak free-soil party, and a widely diffused and earnest moral sentiment without organization or tangible political power. mr. webster concluded that the way to save the union and the constitution, and to achieve the success which he desired, was to go with the heaviest battalions. he therefore espoused the southern side, for the compromise was in the southern interest, and smote the anti-slavery movement with all his strength. he reasoned correctly that peace could come only by administering a severe check to one of the two contending parties. he erred in attempting to arrest the one which all modern history showed was irresistible. it is no doubt true, as appears by his cabinet opinion recently printed, that he stood ready to meet the first overt act on the part of the south with force. mr. webster would not have hesitated to have struck hard at any body of men or any state which ventured to assail the union. but he also believed that the true way to prevent any overt act on the part of the south was by concession, and that was precisely the object which the southern leaders sought to obtain. we may grant all the patriotism and all the sincere devotion to the cause of the constitution which is claimed for him, but nothing can acquit mr. webster of error in the methods which he chose to adopt for the maintenance of peace and the preservation of the union. if the th of march speech was right, then all that had gone before was false and wrong. in that speech he broke from his past, from his own principles and from the principles of new england, and closed his splendid public career with a terrible mistake. chapter x. the last years. the story of the remainder of mr. webster's public life, outside of and apart from the slavery question, can be quickly told. general taylor died suddenly on july , , and this event led to an immediate and complete reorganization of the cabinet. mr. fillmore at once offered the post of secretary of state to mr. webster, who accepted it, resigned his seat in the senate, and, on july , assumed his new position. no great negotiation like that with lord ashburton marked this second term of office in the department of state, but there were a number of important and some very complicated affairs, which mr. webster managed with the wisdom, tact, and dignity which made him so admirably fit for this high position. the best-known incident of this period was that which gave rise to the famous "hülsemann letter." president taylor had sent an agent to hungary to report upon the condition of the revolutionary government, with the intention of recognizing it if there were sufficient grounds for doing so. when the agent arrived, the revolution was crushed, and he reported to the president against recognition. these papers were transmitted to the senate in march, . mr. hülsemann, the austrian _chargé_, thereupon complained of the action of our administration, and mr. clayton, then secretary of state, replied that the mission of the agent had been simply to gather information. on receiving further instructions from his government, mr. hülsemann rejoined to mr. clayton, and it fell to mr. webster to reply, which he did on december , . the note of the austrian _chargé_ was in a hectoring and highly offensive tone, and mr. webster felt the necessity of administering a sharp rebuke. "the hülsemann letter," as it was called, was accordingly dispatched. it set forth strongly the right of the united states and their intention to recognize any _de facto_ revolutionary government, and to seek information in all proper ways in order to guide their action. the argument on this point was admirably and forcibly stated, and it was accompanied by a bold vindication of the american policy, and by some severe and wholesome reproof. mr. webster had two objects. one was to awaken the people of europe to a sense of the greatness of this country, the other to touch the national pride at home. he did both. the foreign representatives learned a lesson which they never forgot, and which opened their eyes to the fact that we were no longer colonies, and the national pride was also aroused. mr. webster admitted that the letter was, in some respects, boastful and rough. this was a fair criticism, and it may be justly said that such a tone was hardly worthy of the author. but, on the other hand, hülsemann's impertinence fully justified such a reply, and a little rough domineering was, perhaps, the very thing needed. it is certain that the letter fully answered mr. webster's purpose, and excited a great deal of popular enthusiasm. the affair did not, however, end here. mr. hülsemann became very mild, but he soon lost his temper again. kossuth and the refugees in turkey were brought to this country in a united states frigate. the hungarian hero was received with a burst of enthusiasm that induced him to hope for substantial aid, which was, of course, wholly visionary. the popular excitement made it difficult for mr. webster to steer a proper course, but he succeeded, by great tact, in showing his own sympathy, and, so far as possible, that of the government, for the cause of hungarian independence and for its leader, without going too far or committing any indiscretion which could justify a breach of international relations with austria. mr. webster's course, including a speech at a dinner in boston, in which he made an eloquent allusion to hungary and kossuth, although carefully guarded, aroused the ire of mr. hülsemann, who left the country, after writing a letter of indignant farewell to the secretary of state. mr. webster replied, through mr. hunter, with extreme coolness, confining himself to an approval of the gentleman selected by mr. hülsemann to represent austria after the latter's departure. the other affairs which occupied mr. webster's official attention at this time made less noise than that with austria, but they were more complicated and some of them far more perilous to the peace of the country. the most important was that growing out of the clayton-bulwer treaty in regard to the neutrality of the contemplated canal in nicaragua. this led to a prolonged correspondence about the protectorate of great britain in nicaragua, and to a withdrawal of her claim to exact port-charges. it is interesting to observe the influence which mr. webster at once obtained with sir henry bulwer and the respect in which he was held by that experienced diplomatist. besides this discussion with england, there was a sharp dispute with mexico about the right of way over the isthmus of tehuantepec, and the troubles on the texan boundary before congress had acted upon the subject. then came the lopez invasion of cuba, supported by bodies of volunteers enlisted in the united states, which, by its failure and its results, involved our government in a number of difficult questions. the most serious was the riot at new orleans, where the spanish consulate was sacked by a mob. to render due reparation for this outrage without wounding the national pride by apparent humiliation was no easy task. mr. webster settled everything, however, with a judgment, tact, and dignity which prevented war with spain and yet excited no resentment at home. at a later period, when the kossuth affair was drawing to an end, the perennial difficulty about the fisheries revived and was added to our central american troubles with great britain, and this, together with the affair of the lobos islands, occupied mr. webster's attention, and drew forth some able and important dispatches during the summer of , in the last months of his life. while the struggle was in progress to convince the country of the value and justice of the compromise measures and to compel their acceptance, another presidential election drew on. it was the signal for the last desperate attempt to obtain the whig nomination for mr. webster, and it seemed at first sight as if the party must finally take up the new england leader. mr. clay was wholly out of the race, and his last hour was near. there was absolutely no one who, in fame, ability, public services, and experience could be compared for one moment with mr. webster. the opportunity was obvious enough; it awakened all mr. webster's hopes, and excited the ardor of his friends. a formal and organized movement, such as had never before been made, was set on foot to promote his candidacy, and a vigorous and earnest address to the people was issued by his friends in massachusetts. the result demonstrated, if demonstration were needed, that mr. webster had not, even under the most favorable circumstances, the remotest chance for the presidency. his friends saw this plainly enough before the convention met, but he himself regarded the great prize as at last surely within his grasp. mr. choate, who was to lead the webster delegates, went to washington the day before the convention assembled. he called on mr. webster and found him so filled with the belief that he should be nominated that it seemed cruel to undeceive him. mr. choate, at all events, had not the heart for the task, and went back to baltimore to lead the forlorn hope with gallant fidelity and with an eloquence as brilliant if not so grand as that of mr. webster himself. a majority[ ] of the convention divided their votes very unequally between mr. fillmore and mr. webster, the former receiving , the latter , on the first ballot, while general scott had . forty-five ballots were taken, without any substantial change, and then general scott began to increase his strength, and was nominated on the fifty-third ballot, receiving votes. most of general scott's supporters were opposed to resolutions sustaining the compromise measures, while those who voted for mr. fillmore and mr. webster favored that policy. general scott owed his nomination to a compromise, which consisted in inserting in the platform a clause strongly approving mr. clay's measures. mr. webster expected the fillmore delegates to come to him, an unlikely event when they were so much more numerous than his friends, and, moreover, they never showed the slightest inclination to do so. they were chiefly from the south, and as they chose to consider mr. fillmore and not his secretary the representative of compromise, they reasonably enough expected the latter to give way. the desperate stubbornness of mr. webster's adherents resulted in the nomination of scott. it seemed hard that the southern whigs should have done so little for mr. webster after he had done and sacrificed so much to advance and defend their interests. but the south was practical. in the th of march speech they had got from mr. webster all they could expect or desire. it was quite possible, in fact it was highly probable, that, once in the presidency, he could not be controlled or guided by the slave-power or by any other sectional influence. mr. fillmore, inferior in every way to mr. webster in intellect, in force, in reputation, would give them a mild, safe administration and be easily influenced by the south. mr. webster had served his turn, and the men whose cause he had advocated and whose interests he had protected cast him aside. [footnote : mr. curtis says a "great majority continued to divide their votes between mr. fillmore and mr. webster." the highest number reached by the combined webster and fillmore votes, on any one ballot, was , three more than was received on the last ballot by general scott, who, mr. curtis correctly says, obtained only a "few votes more than the necessary majority."] the loss of the nomination was a bitter disappointment to mr. webster. it was the fashion in certain quarters to declare that it killed him, but this was manifestly absurd. the most that can be said in this respect was, that the excitement and depression caused by his defeat preyed upon his mind and thereby facilitated the inroads of disease, while it added to the clouds which darkened round him in those last days. but his course of action after the convention cannot be passed over without comment. he refused to give his adhesion to general scott's nomination, and he advised his friends to vote for mr. pierce, because the whigs were divided, while the democrats were unanimously determined to resist all attempts to renew the slavery agitation. this course was absolutely indefensible. if the whig party was so divided on the slavery question that mr. webster could not support their nominee, then he had no business to seek a nomination at their hands, for they were as much divided before the convention as afterwards. he chose to come before that convention, knowing perfectly well the divisions of the party, and that the nomination might fall to general scott. he saw fit to play the game, and was in honor bound to abide by the rules. he had no right to say "it is heads i win, and tails you lose." if he had been nominated he would have indignantly and justly denounced a refusal on the part of general scott and his friends to support him. it is the merest sophistry to say that mr. webster was too great a man to be bound by party usages, and that he owed it to himself to rise above them, and refuse his support to a poor nomination and to a wrangling party. if mr. webster could no longer act with the whigs, then his name had no business in that convention at baltimore, for the conditions were the same before its meeting as afterward. great man as he was, he was not too great to behave honorably; and his refusal to support scott, after having been his rival for a nomination at the hands of their common party, was neither honorable nor just. if mr. webster had decided to leave the whigs and act independently, he was in honor bound to do so before the baltimore convention assembled, or to have warned the delegates that such was his intention in the event of general scott's nomination. he had no right to stand the hazard of the die, and then refuse to abide by the result. the whig party, in its best estate, was not calculated to excite a very warm enthusiasm in the breast of a dispassionate posterity, and it is perfectly true that it was on the eve of ruin in . but it appeared better then, in the point of self-respect, than four years before. in the whigs nominated a successful soldier conspicuous only for his availability and without knowing to what party he belonged. they maintained absolute silence on the great question of the extension of slavery, and carried on their campaign on the personal popularity of their candidate. mr. webster was righteously disgusted at their candidate and their negative attitude. he could justly and properly have left them on a question of principle; but he swallowed the nomination, "not fit to be made," and gave to his party a decided and public support. in the whigs nominated another successful soldier, who was known to be a whig, and who had been a candidate for their nomination before. in their platform they formally adopted the essential principle demanded by mr. webster, and declared their adhesion to the compromise measures. if there was disaffection in regard to this declaration of , there was disaffection also about the silence of . in the former case, mr. webster adhered to the nomination; in the latter, he rejected it. in he might still hope to be president through a whig nomination. in he knew that, even if he lived, there would never be another chance. he gave vent to his disappointment, put no constraint upon himself, prophesied the downfall of his party, and advised his friends to vote for franklin pierce. it was perfectly logical, after advocating the compromise measures, to advise giving the government into the hands of a party controlled by the south. mr. webster would have been entirely reasonable in taking such a course before the baltimore convention. he had no right to do so after he had sought a nomination from the whigs, and it was a breach of faith to act as he did, to advise his friends to desert a falling party and vote for the democratic candidate. after the acceptance of the department of state, mr. webster's health became seriously impaired. his exertions in advocating the compromise measures, his official labors, and the increased severity of his annual hay-fever,--all contributed to debilitate him. his iron constitution weakened in various ways, and especially by frequent periods of intense mental exertion, to which were superadded the excitement and nervous strain inseparable from his career, was beginning to give way. slowly but surely he lost ground. his spirits began to lose their elasticity, and he rarely spoke without a tinge of deep sadness being apparent in all he said. in may, , while driving near marshfield, he was thrown from his carriage with much violence, injuring his wrists, and receiving other severe contusions. the shock was very great, and undoubtedly accelerated the progress of the fatal organic disease which was sapping his life. this physical injury was followed by the keen disappointment of his defeat at baltimore, which preyed upon his heart and mind. during the summer of his health gave way more rapidly. he longed to resign, but mr. fillmore insisted on his retaining his office. in july he came to boston, where he was welcomed by a great public meeting, and hailed with enthusiastic acclamations, which did much to soothe his wounded feelings. he still continued to transact the business of his department, and in august went to washington, where he remained until the th of september, when he returned to marshfield. on the th he went to boston, for the last time, to consult his physician. he appeared at a friend's house, one evening, for a few moments, and all who then saw him were shocked at the look of illness and suffering in his face. it was his last visit. he went back to marshfield the next day, never to return. he now failed rapidly. his nights were sleepless, and there were scarcely any intervals of ease or improvement. the decline was steady and sure, and as october wore away the end drew near. mr. webster faced it with courage, cheerfulness, and dignity, in a religious and trusting spirit, with a touch of the personal pride which was part of his nature. he remained perfectly conscious and clear in his mind almost to the very last moment, bearing his sufferings with perfect fortitude, and exhibiting the tenderest affection toward the wife and son and friends who watched over him. on the evening of october it became apparent that he was sinking, but his one wish seemed to be that he might be conscious when he was actually dying. after midnight he roused from an uneasy sleep, struggled for consciousness, and ejaculated, "i still live." these were his last words. shortly after three o'clock the labored breathing ceased, and all was over. a hush fell upon the country as the news of his death sped over the land. a great gap seemed to have been made in the existence of every one. men remembered the grandeur of his form and the splendor of his intellect, and felt as if one of the pillars of the state had fallen. the profound grief and deep sense of loss produced by his death were the highest tributes and the most convincing proofs of his greatness. in accordance with his wishes, all public forms and ceremonies were dispensed with. the funeral took place at his home on friday, october . thousands flocked to marshfield to do honor to his memory, and to look for the last time at that noble form. it was one of those beautiful days of the new england autumn, when the sun is slightly veiled, and a delicate haze hangs over the sea, shining with a tender silvery light. there is a sense of infinite rest and peace on such a day which seems to shut out the noise of the busy world and breathe the spirit of unbroken calm. as the crowds poured in through the gates of the farm, they saw before them on the lawn, resting upon a low mound of flowers, the majestic form, as impressive in the repose of death as it had been in the fullness of life and strength. there was a wonderful fitness in it all. the vault of heaven and the spacious earth seemed in their large simplicity the true place for such a man to lie in state. there was a brief and simple service at the house, and then the body was borne on the shoulders of marshfield farmers, and laid in the little graveyard which already held the wife and children who had gone before, and where could be heard the eternal murmur of the sea. * * * * * in may, , mr. webster said to professor silliman: "i have given my life to law and politics. law is uncertain and politics are utterly vain." it is a sad commentary for such a man to have made on such a career, but it fitly represents mr. webster's feelings as the end of life approached. his last years were not his most fortunate, and still less his best years. domestic sorrows had been the prelude to a change of policy, which had aroused a bitter opposition, and to the pangs of disappointed ambition. a sense of mistake and failure hung heavily upon his spirits, and the cry of "vanity, vanity, all is vanity," came readily to his lips. there is an infinite pathos in those melancholy words which have just been quoted. the sun of life, which had shone so splendidly at its meridian, was setting amid clouds. the darkness which overspread him came from the action of the th of march, and the conflict which it had caused. if there were failure and mistake they were there. the presidency could add nothing, its loss could take away nothing from the fame of daniel webster. he longed for it eagerly; he had sacrificed much to his desire for it; his disappointment was keen and bitter at not receiving what seemed to him the fit crown of his great public career. but this grief was purely personal, and will not be shared by posterity, who feel only the errors of those last years coming after so much glory, and who care very little for the defeat of the ambition which went with them. those last two years awakened such fierce disputes, and had such an absorbing interest, that they have tended to overshadow the half century of distinction and achievement which preceded them. failure and disappointment on the part of such a man as webster seem so great, that they too easily dwarf everything else, and hide from us a just and well proportioned view of the whole career. mr. webster's success had, in truth, been brilliant, hardly equalled in measure or duration by that of any other eminent man in our history. for thirty years he had stood at the head of the bar and of the senate, the first lawyer and the first statesman of the united states. this is a long tenure of power for one man in two distinct departments. it would be remarkable anywhere. it is especially so in a democracy. this great success mr. webster owed solely to his intellectual power supplemented by great physical gifts. no man ever was born into the world better formed by nature for the career of an orator and statesman. he had everything to compel the admiration and submission of his fellow-men:-- "the front of jove himself; an eye like mars to threaten and command; a station like the herald mercury new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; a combination and a form indeed, where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man." hamlet's words are a perfect picture of mr. webster's outer man, and we have but to add to the description a voice of singular beauty and power with the tone and compass of an organ. the look of his face and the sound of his voice were in themselves as eloquent as anything mr. webster ever uttered. but the imposing presence was only the outward sign of the man. within was a massive and powerful intellect, not creative or ingenious, but with a wonderful vigor of grasp, capacious, penetrating, far-reaching. mr. webster's strongest and most characteristic mental qualities were weight and force. he was peculiarly fitted to deal with large subjects in a large way. he was by temperament extremely conservative. there was nothing of the reformer or the zealot about him. he could maintain or construct where other men had built; he could not lay new foundations or invent. we see this curiously exemplified in his feeling toward hamilton and madison. he admired them both, and to the former he paid a compliment which has become a familiar quotation. but hamilton's bold, aggressive genius, his audacity, fertility, and resource, did not appeal to mr. webster as did the prudence, the constructive wisdom, and the safe conservatism of the gentle madison, whom he never wearied of praising. the same description may be given of his imagination, which was warm, vigorous, and keen, but not poetic. he used it well, it never led him astray, and was the secret of his most conspicuous oratorical triumphs. he had great natural pride and a strong sense of personal dignity, which made him always impressive, but apparently cold, and sometimes solemn in public. in his later years this solemnity degenerated occasionally into pomposity, to which it is always perilously near. at no time in his life was he quick or excitable. he was indolent and dreamy, working always under pressure, and then at a high rate of speed. this indolence increased as he grew older; he would then postpone longer and labor more intensely to make up the lost time than in his earlier days. when he was quiescent, he seemed stern, cold, and latterly rather heavy, and some outer incentive was needed to rouse his intellect or touch his heart. once stirred, he blazed forth, and, when fairly engaged, with his intellect in full play, he was as grand and effective in his eloquence as it is given to human nature to be. in the less exciting occupations of public life, as, for instance, in foreign negotiations, he showed the same grip upon his subject, the same capacity and judgment as in his speeches, and a mingling of tact and dignity which proved the greatest fitness for the conduct of the gravest public affairs. as a statesman mr. webster was not an "opportunist," as it is the fashion to call those who live politically from day to day, dealing with each question as it arises, and exhibiting often the greatest skill and talent. still less was he a statesman of the type of charles fox, who preached to the deaf ears of one generation great principles which became accepted truisms in the next. mr. webster stands between the two classes. he viewed the present with a strong perception of the future, and shaped his policy not merely for the daily exigency, but with a keen eye to subsequent effects. at the same time he never put forward and defended single-handed a great principle or idea which, neglected then, was gradually to win its way and reign supreme among a succeeding generation. his speeches have a heat and glow which we can still feel, and a depth and reality of thought which have secured them a place in literature. he had not a fiery nature, although there is often so much warmth in what he said. he was neither high tempered nor quick to anger, but he could be fierce, and, when adulation had warped him in those later years, he was capable of striking ugly blows which sometimes wounded friends as well as enemies. there remains one marked quality to be noticed in mr. webster, which was of immense negative service to him. this was his sense of humor. mr. nichol, in his recent history of american literature, speaks of mr. webster as deficient in this respect. either the critic himself is deficient in humor or he has studied only webster's collected works, which give no indication of the real humor in the man. that mr. webster was not a humorist is unquestionably true, and although he used a sarcasm which made his opponents seem absurd and even ridiculous at times, and in his more unstudied efforts would provoke mirth by some happy and playful allusion, some felicitous quotation or ingenious antithesis, he was too stately in every essential respect ever to seek to make mere fun or to excite the laughter of his hearers by deliberate exertions and with malice aforethought. he had, nevertheless, a real and genuine sense of humor. we can see it in his letters, and it comes out in a thousand ways in the details and incidents of his private life. when he had thrown aside the cares of professional or public business, he revelled in hearty, boisterous fun, and he had that sanest of qualities, an honest, boyish love of pure nonsense. he delighted in a good story and dearly loved a joke, although no jester himself. this sense of humor and appreciation of the ridiculous, although they give no color to his published works, where, indeed, they would have been out of place, improved his judgment, smoothed his path through the world, and saved him from those blunders in taste and those follies in action which are ever the pitfalls for men with the fervid, oratorical temperament. this sense of humor gave, also, a great charm to his conversation and to all social intercourse with him. he was a good, but never, so far as can be judged from tradition, an overbearing talker. he never appears to have crushed opposition in conversation, nor to have indulged in monologue, which is so apt to be the foible of famous and successful men who have a solemn sense of their own dignity and importance. what lord melbourne said of the great whig historian, "that he wished he was as sure of anything as tom macaulay was of everything," could not be applied to mr. webster. he owed his freedom from such a weakness partly, no doubt, to his natural indolence, but still more to the fact that he was not only no pedant, but not even a very learned man. he knew no greek, but was familiar with latin. his quotations and allusions were chiefly drawn from shakespeare, milton, homer, and the bible, where he found what most appealed to him--simplicity and grandeur of thought and diction. at the same time, he was a great reader, and possessed wide information on a vast variety of subjects, which a clear and retentive memory put always at his command. the result of all this was that he was a most charming and entertaining companion. these attractions were heightened by his large nature and strong animal spirits. he loved outdoor life. he was a keen sportsman and skilful fisherman. in all these ways he was healthy and manly, without any tinge of the mere student or public official. he loved everything that was large. his soul expanded in the free air and beneath the blue sky. all natural scenery appealed to him,--niagara, the mountains, the rolling prairie, the great rivers,--but he found most contentment beside the limitless sea, amid brown marshes and sand-dunes, where the sense of infinite space is strongest. it was the same in regard to animals. he cared but little for horses or dogs, but he rejoiced in great herds of cattle, and especially in fine oxen, the embodiment of slow and massive strength. in england the things which chiefly appealed to him were the tower of london, westminster abbey, smithfield cattle market, and english agriculture. so it was always and everywhere. he loved mountains and great trees, wide horizons, the ocean, the western plains, and the giant monuments of literature and art. he rejoiced in his strength and the overflowing animal vigor that was in him. he was so big and so strong, so large in every way, that people sank into repose in his presence, and felt rest and confidence in the mere fact of his existence. he came to be regarded as an institution, and when he died men paused with a sense of helplessness, and wondered how the country would get on without him. to have filled so large a space in a country so vast, and in a great, hurrying, and pushing democracy, implies a personality of a most uncommon kind. he was, too, something more than a charming companion in private life. he was generous, liberal, hospitable, and deeply affectionate. he was adored in his home, and deeply loved his children, who were torn from him, one after another. his sorrow, like his joy, was intense and full of force. he had many devoted friends, and a still greater body of unhesitating followers. to the former he showed, through nearly all his life, the warm affection which was natural to him. it was not until adulation and flattery had deeply injured him, and the frustrated ambition for the presidency had poisoned both heart and mind, that he became dictatorial and overbearing. not till then did he quarrel with those who had served and followed him, as when he slighted mr. lawrence for expressing independent opinions, and refused to do justice to the memory of story because it might impair his own glories. they do not present a pleasant picture, these quarrels with friends, but they were part of the deterioration of the last years, and they furnish in a certain way the key to his failure to attain the presidency. the country was proud of mr. webster; proud of his intellect, his eloquence, his fame. he was the idol of the capitalists, the merchants, the lawyers, the clergy, the educated men of all classes in the east. the politicians dreaded and feared him because he was so great, and so little in sympathy with them, but his real weakness was with the masses of the people. he was not popular in the true sense of the word. for years the whig party and henry clay were almost synonymous terms, but this could never be said of mr. webster. his following was strong in quality, but weak numerically. clay touched the popular heart. webster never did. the people were proud of him, wondered at him, were awed by him, but they did not love him, and that was the reason he was never president, for he was too great to succeed to the high office, as many men have, by happy or unhappy accident. there was also another feeling which is suggested by the differences with some of his closest friends. there was a lurking distrust of mr. webster's sincerity. we can see it plainly in the correspondence of the western whigs, who were not, perhaps, wholly impartial. but it existed, nevertheless. there was a vague, ill-defined feeling of doubt in the public mind; a suspicion that the spirit of the advocate was the ruling spirit in mr. webster, and that he did not believe with absolute and fervent faith in one side of any question. there was just enough correctness, just a sufficient grain of truth in this idea, when united with the coldness and dignity of his manner and with his greatness itself, to render impossible that popularity which, to be real and lasting in a democracy, must come from the heart and not from the head of the people, which must be instinctive and emotional, and not the offspring of reason. there is no occasion to discuss, or hold up to reprobation, mr. webster's failings. he was a splendid animal as well as a great man, and he had strong passions and appetites, which he indulged at times to the detriment of his health and reputation. these errors may be mostly fitly consigned to silence. but there was one failing which cannot be passed over in this way. this was in regard to money. his indifference to debt was perceptible in his youth, and for many years showed no sign of growth. but in his later years it increased with terrible rapidity. he earned twenty thousand a year when he first came to boston,--a very great income for those days. his public career interfered, of course, with his law practice, but there never was a period when he could not, with reasonable economy, have laid up something at the end of every year, and gradually amassed a fortune. but he not only never saved, he lived habitually beyond his means. he did not become poor by his devotion to the public service, but by his own extravagance. he loved to spend money and to live well. he had a fine library and handsome plate; he bought fancy cattle; he kept open house, and indulged in that most expensive of all luxuries, "gentleman-farming." he never stinted himself in any way, and he gave away money with reckless generosity and heedless profusion, often not stopping to inquire who the recipient of his bounty might be. the result was debt; then subscriptions among his friends to pay his debts; then a fresh start and more debts, and more subscriptions and funds for his benefit, and gifts of money for his table, and checks or notes for several thousand dollars in token of admiration of the th of march speech.[ ] this was, of course, utterly wrong and demoralizing, but mr. webster came, after a time, to look upon such transactions as natural and proper. in the ingersoll debate, mr. yancey accused him of being in the pay of the new england manufacturers, and his biographer has replied to the charge at length. that mr. webster was in the pay of the manufacturers in the sense that they hired him, and bade him do certain things, is absurd. that he was maintained and supported in a large degree by new england manufacturers and capitalists cannot be questioned; but his attitude toward them was not that of servant and dependent. he seems to have regarded the merchants and bankers of state street very much as a feudal baron regarded his peasantry. it was their privilege and duty to support him, and he repaid them with an occasional magnificent compliment. the result was that he lived in debt and died insolvent, and this was not the position which such a man as daniel webster should have occupied. [footnote : the story of the gift of ten thousand dollars in token of admiration of the th of march speech, referred to by dr. von holst (_const. hist. of the united states_) may be found in a volume entitled, _in memoriam, b. ogle tayloe_, p. , and is as follows: "my opulent and munificent friend and neighbor mr. william w. corcoran," says mr. tayloe, "after the perusal of webster's celebrated march speech in defence of the constitution and of southern rights, inclosed to mrs. webster her husband's note for ten thousand dollars given him for a loan to that amount. mr. webster met mr. corcoran the same evening, at the president's, and thanked him for the 'princely favor.' next day he addressed to mr. corcoran a letter of thanks which i read at mr. corcoran's request." this version is substantially correct. the morning of march mr. corcoran inclosed with a letter of congratulation some notes of mr. webster's amounting to some six thousand dollars. reflecting that this was not a very solid tribute, he opened his letter and put in a check for a thousand dollars, and sent the notes and the check to mr. webster, who wrote him a letter expressing his gratitude, which mr. tayloe doubtless saw, and which is still in existence. i give the facts in this way because mr. george t. curtis, in a newspaper interview, referring to an article of mine in the _atlantic monthly_, said, "with regard to the story of the ten thousand dollar check, which story mr. lodge gives us to understand he found in the pages of that very credulous writer dr. von holst, although i have not looked into his volumes to see whether he makes the charge, i have only to say that i never heard of such an occurrence before, and that it would require the oath of a very credible witness to the fact to make me believe it." i may add that i have taken the trouble not only to look into dr. von holst's volumes but to examine the whole matter thoroughly. the proof is absolute and indeed it is not necessary to go beyond mr. webster's own letter of acknowledgment in search of evidence, were there the slightest reason to doubt the substantial correctness of mr. tayloe's statement. the point is a small one, but a statement of fact, if questioned, ought always to be sustained or withdrawn.] he showed the same indifference to the source of supplies of money in other ways. he took a fee from wheelock, and then deserted him. he came down to salem to prosecute a murderer, and the opposing counsel objected that he was brought there to hurry the jury beyond the law and the evidence, and it was even murmured audibly in the court-room that he had a fee from the relatives of the murdered man in his pocket. a fee of that sort he certainly received either then or afterwards. every ugly public attack that was made upon him related to money, and it is painful that the biographer of such a man as webster should be compelled to give many pages to show that his hero was not in the pay of manufacturers, and did not receive a bribe in carrying out the provisions of the treaty of guadaloupe-hidalgo. the refutation may be perfectly successful, but there ought to have been no need of it. the reputation of a man like mr. webster in money matters should have been so far above suspicion that no one would have dreamed of attacking it. debts and subscriptions bred the idea that there might be worse behind, and although there is no reason to believe that such was the case, these things are of themselves deplorable enough. when mr. webster failed it was a moral failure. his moral character was not equal to his intellectual force. all the errors he ever committed, whether in public or in private life, in political action or in regard to money obligations, came from moral weakness. he was deficient in that intensity of conviction which carries men beyond and above all triumphs of statesmanship, and makes them the embodiment of the great moral forces which move the world. if mr. webster's moral power had equalled his intellectual greatness, he would have had no rival in our history. but this combination and balance are so rare that they are hardly to be found in perfection among the sons of men. the very fact of his greatness made his failings all the more dangerous and unfortunate. to be blinded by the splendor of his fame and the lustre of his achievements and prate about the sin of belittling a great man is the falsest philosophy and the meanest cant. the only thing worth having, in history as in life, is truth; and we do wrong to our past, to ourselves, and to our posterity if we do not strive to render simple justice always. we can forgive the errors and sorrow for the faults of our great ones gone; we cannot afford to hide or forget their shortcomings. but after all has been said, the question of most interest is, what mr. webster represented, what he effected, and what he means in our history. the answer is simple. he stands to-day as the preëminent champion and exponent of nationality. he said once, "there are no alleghanies in my politics," and he spoke the exact truth. mr. webster was thoroughly national. there is no taint of sectionalism or narrow local prejudice about him. he towers up as an american, a citizen of the united states in the fullest sense of the word. he did not invent the union, or discover the doctrine of nationality. but he found the great fact and the great principle ready to his hand, and he lifted them up, and preached the gospel of nationality throughout the length and breadth of the land. in his fidelity to this cause he never wavered nor faltered. from the first burst of boyish oratory to the sleepless nights at marshfield, when, waiting for death, he looked through the window at the light which showed him the national flag fluttering from its staff, his first thought was of a united country. to his large nature the union appealed powerfully by the mere sense of magnitude which it conveyed. the vision of future empire, the dream of the destiny of an unbroken union touched and kindled his imagination. he could hardly speak in public without an allusion to the grandeur of american nationality, and a fervent appeal to keep it sacred and intact. for fifty years, with reiteration ever more frequent, sometimes with rich elaboration, sometimes with brief and simple allusion, he poured this message into the ears of a listening people. his words passed into text-books, and became the first declamations of school-boys. they were in every one's mouth. they sank into the hearts of the people, and became unconsciously a part of their life and daily thoughts. when the hour came, it was love for the union and the sentiment of nationality which nerved the arm of the north, and sustained her courage. that love had been fostered, and that sentiment had been strengthened and vivified by the life and words of webster. no one had done so much, or had so large a share in this momentous task. here lies the debt which the american people owe to webster, and here is his meaning and importance in his own time and to us to-day. his career, his intellect, and his achievements are inseparably connected with the maintenance of a great empire, and the fortunes of a great people. so long as english oratory is read or studied, so long will his speeches stand high in literature. so long as the union of these states endures, or holds a place in history, will the name of daniel webster be honored and remembered, and his stately eloquence find an echo in the hearts of his countrymen. index. aberdeen, lord, succeeds lord palmerston as secretary for foreign affairs, ; offers forty-ninth parallel, in accordance with mr. webster's suggestion, . adams, john, in massachusetts convention, ; letter to webster on plymouth oration, ; eulogy on, ; supposed speech of, . adams, john quincy, most conspicuous man in new england, ; opposed to greek mission, ; opinion of webster's speech against tariff of , ; elected president, , ; anxious for success of panama mission, ; message on georgia and creek indians, ; webster's opposition to, ; bitter tone toward webster in edwards's affair, ; interview with webster, , ; conciliates webster, ; real hostility to webster, ; defeated for presidency, ; comment on eulogy on adams and jefferson, ; compared with webster as an orator, ; opinion of reply to hayne, ; opinion of mr. webster's attitude toward the south in , . ames, fisher, compared with webster as an orator, . appleton, julia webster, daughter of mr. webster, death of, . ashburton, lord, appointed special commissioner, ; arrives in washington, ; negotiation with mr. webster, ff.; attacked by lord palmerston, . ashmun, george, defends mr. webster, . atkinson, edward, summary of mr. webster's tariff speech of , - . bacourt, m. de, french minister, description of harrison's reception of diplomatic corps, . baltimore, whig convention at, . bank of the united states, debate on establishment, and defeat of, in - , ; established, ; beginning of attack on, . bartlett, ichabod, counsel for state against college, ; attack on mr. webster, . bell, samuel, remarks to webster before reply to hayne, . bellamy, dr., early opponent of eleazer wheelock, . benton, thomas h., account of mr. webster in , , ; error in view of webster, ; fails in first attempt to carry expunging resolution, ; carries second expunging resolution, ; attacks ashburton treaty, ; supports taylor's policy in , . bocanegra, m. de, webster's correspondence with, . "boston memorial," . bosworth, mr., junior counsel in rhode island case, . brown, rev. francis, elected president of dartmouth college, ; refuses to obey new board of trustees, ; writes to webster as to state of public opinion, . buchanan, james, taunts mr. clay, ; attacks ashburton treaty, . bulwer, sir henry, respect for mr. webster, . burke, edmund, webster compared with as an orator, , , . calhoun, john c., speech in favor of repealing embargo, ; sustains double duties, , ; asks webster's assistance to establish a bank, ; introduces bill to compel revenue to be collected in specie, ; internal improvement bill of, ; visit to webster, who regards him as his choice for president, - ; misleads webster as to greek mission, ; author of exposition and protest, ; presides over debate on foote's resolution, ; compared with webster as an orator, ; resigns vice-presidency and returns as senator to support nullification, ; alarmed at jackson's attitude and at force bill, ; consults clay, ; nullification speech on force bill, ; merits of speech, ; supports compromise, ; alliance with clay, ; and webster, ; attitude in regard to france, ; change on bank question, ; accepts secretaryship of state to bring about annexation of texas, ; moves that anti-slavery petitions be not received, , ; bill to control united states mails, ; tries to stifle petitions, ; resolutions on enterprise affair, ; approves webster's treatment of creole case, ; pronounces anti-slavery petition of new mexico "insolent," ; argument as to constitution in territories, ; webster's compliments to on th of march, . california, desires admission as a state, ; slavery possible in, . carlyle, thomas, description of webster, . caroline, affair of steamboat, . cass, lewis, attack upon ashburton treaty, ; democratic candidate for presidency and defeated, . chamberlain, mellen, comparison of webster with other orators, , note. chatham, earl of, compared with webster as an orator, . choate, rufus, compared with webster as an orator, ; resigns senatorship, ; leads webster delegates at baltimore, . clay, henry, makes mr. webster chairman of judiciary committee, ; active support of greek resolutions, ; author of american system and tariff of , , ; desires panama mission, ; webster's opposition to, ; candidate for presidency in , ; bill for reduction of tariff, - , ; consults with calhoun, ; introduces compromise bill, ; carries compromise bill, , ; alliance with calhoun, ; opinion of webster's course in , , ; alliance with webster, ; introduces resolutions of censure on jackson, ; attitude in regard to france, ; declines to enter harrison's cabinet, ; attacks president tyler, , ; movement in favor of, in massachusetts, ; nominated for presidency and defeated, ; movement to nominate in , ; resolutions as to slavery in the district, ; plan for compromise in , ; introduces compromise bill in senate, ; policy of compromise, , ; consistent supporter of compromise policy, ; not a candidate for presidency in , ; popularity of, . clingman, thomas l., advocates slavery in california, . congregational church, power and politics of, in new hampshire, . congress, leaders in thirteenth, ; leaders in fourteenth, . cooper, james fenimore, webster's speech, at memorial meeting, . corcoran, wm. w., gift to mr. webster, , note. crawford, william h., attack on by ninian edwards, , , ; bids for support of webster and federalists, ; defended by webster, ; fails to get support of federalists, . creole, case of the, , , . crimes act, . crittenden, john j., morehead's letter to, about th of march speech, . cruising convention, the, , . cumberland road, bill for, . curtis, george t., biography of webster, , note; opinion of reply to calhoun, ; of expunging resolution, ; describes new york movement for taylor as a blunder, ; says majority disapproved th of march speech, ; considers taylor's policy in impracticable, ; views as to danger of secession in , . cushing, caleb, minister to china, ; course in , . dartmouth college case, account of, - . davis, daniel, . denison, john evelyn, friendship and correspondence with mr. webster, . dexter, samuel, a leader at boston bar, ; practises in new hampshire, . dickinson, daniel s., attack upon mr. webster, . disraeli, benjamin, free trade a question of expediency, . douglas, stephen a., offers amendment to oregon bill, . dunham, josiah, attacks webster for deserting wheelock, . durfree, american citizen killed on caroline, . duvall, judge, opposed to dartmouth college, ; writes dissenting opinion, . edwards, ninian, charges against mr. crawford, , , ; character of, , . enterprise, case of the, . erskine, lord, compared with webster as an orator, . everett, edward, webster desires appointment of as commissioner to greece, ; minister to england, ; refuses chinese mission, . farrar, timothy, report of dartmouth college case, , . federalists, ruling party in new hampshire, ; defeated on college issue, ; movement of to get decision for college, - ; position of in , , ; hostility to john quincy adams, , ; attempted alliance with crawford, - ; to be recognized by adams, ; free-traders in new england, ff. fillmore, millard, offers mr. webster secretaryship of state, ; candidate for whig nomination, ; urges mr. webster to stay in the cabinet, . foote, henry s., moves to refer admission of california to a select committee, . foote, samuel a., resolution regarding public lands, . force bill, introduced, ; debated, , . forsyth, john, attacks mr. adams's message on creek indians, ; answered by webster, , . fox, charles james, "no good speech reads well," ; compared with webster as an orator, ; as a statesman, . fox, henry s., british minister at harrison's reception of diplomatic corps, ; demands release of mcleod, . free-soil party, nominations in do not obtain webster's support, , ; attitude in regard to slavery in , ; injured by th of march speech, ; revival and victory, . fryeburg, maine, webster's school at, ; oration before citizens of, . gibbons vs. ogden, case of, . giddings, joshua r., opinion of mr. webster's attitude toward the south in , ; says mr. webster inserted passage about free negroes and mr. hoar after delivery of th of march speech, ; interview with mr. webster, . girard will case, , . goodrich, dr. chauncey a., description of close of mr. webster's argument in dartmouth case, , . goodridge, major, case of, . gore, christopher, admits mr. webster as a student in his office, ; character of, ; advises webster to refuse clerkship, moves his admission to the bar, . greece, revolution in, . hamilton, alexander, compared with webster as an orator, ; as a financier, , , ; in regard to attack on adams, ; webster's opinion of, and feeling to, . hanover, oration before citizens of, , . harrison, william henry, nominee of whigs in , ; nominated by whigs again in ; elected president, ; character of inaugural speech, anecdote, ; reception of diplomatic corps, ; death of, . hartford convention, mr. webster's view of, . harvey, peter, character of his reminiscences, , note. hayne, robert y., first attack on new england, ; second speech, ; webster's reply to, ff., ; effect of reply to, . henry, patrick, compared with webster as an orator, . hoar, samuel, treatment of at charleston, . holmes, john, counsel for state at washington, poor argument, , . hopkinson, joseph, with mr. webster in dartmouth case at washington, good argument of, . hülsemann, mr., austrian chargé, mr. webster's correspondence with, ; leaves the country in anger, . ingersoll, c.j., attack on mr. webster, - . jackson, andrew, webster's opposition to as candidate for presidency, ; accession to the presidency, ; sweeping removals, ; begins attack on bank, ; vetoes bill for renewal of bank charter, ; determined to maintain integrity of union, ; issues his proclamation, ; message asking for force bill, cannot hold his party, supported by webster, ; threatens to hang calhoun, ; not sorry for compromise, ; alliance with webster impossible, ; removes the deposits, ; sends "protest" to senate, , ; struggle with senate and policy toward france, . jefferson, thomas, intends an unlimited embargo, ; eulogy on, . johnson, judge, adverse at first to dartmouth college, ; converted to support of college, . kent, james, chancellor, brought over to support of college, . kentucky, leaders in, opposed to webster, , . kossuth, arrival and reception of in united states, . labouchere, mr., . lawrence, abbot, treatment of by mr. webster, . leroy, caroline, miss, second wife of mr. webster, . letcher, robert p., opinion of webster, . liberty party, , . lieber, dr. francis, opinion of webster's oratory, . lincoln, levi, elected senator from massachusetts and declines, . livingston, judge, adverse at first to dartmouth college, ; converted to support of college, . lobes islands, affair of the, . lopez, invasion of cuba, . madison, james, federalists refuse to call on, ; vetoes bank bill, ; mr. webster's admiration for, . macgregor, mr., of glasgow, webster's letter to, . maine, conduct in regard to northeastern boundary, , , . marshall, john, sympathy for dartmouth college, ; his political prejudices aroused by webster, ; announces that decision is reserved, ; declines to hear pinkney, ; his decision, . marshfield, mr. webster's first visit to, ; his affection for, ; accident to mr. webster at, ; mr. webster returns to, to die, ; mr. webster buried at, , . mason, jeremiah, character and ability, ; effect upon, and friendship for webster, ; plain style and effect with juries, ; thinks webster would have made a good actor, ; allied with trustees of college, ; advises delay in removal of wheelock, ; appears for college, ; brief in college case, ; attaches but little importance to doctrine of impairing contracts, ; unable to go to washington, ; webster's remarks on death of, ; supported by webster for attorney-generalship, ; and for senatorship, . mason, john y., advocates slavery in california, ; webster's compliment to on th of march, . massachusetts, settlement of, , ; constitutional convention of in , ; webster's defence of, ; conduct in regard to northeastern boundary, , ; whig convention of, declares against tyler, . mcduffie, george, webster's reply to, on cumberland road bill, , . mclane, louis, instructions of van buren to, as minister to england, . mcleod, alexander, boasts of killing durfree, ; arrested in new york, ; habeas corpus refused, ; proves an alibi and is acquitted, . melbourne, lord, ministry of, beaten, . mexico, war with, declared, , . mills, e.h., failing health, leaves senate, . monroe, james, visit to the north urged by webster, . new hampshire, settlement of, ; soil, etc., ; people of, ; bar of, , ; webster refuses to have his name brought forward by, in , . new mexico, petitions against slavery, ; quarrel with texas, ; slavery possible in, . new orleans, destruction of spanish consulate at, . new york, attitude of, in mcleod affair, , . niagara, webster's visit to, and account of, . niblo's garden, mr. webster's speech at, . nicaragua, british protectorate of . niles, nathaniel, judge, pupil of bellamy and opponent of john wheelock, . noyes, parker, early assistance to webster, . nullification, webster's discussion, and history of, ff. ogden vs. saunders, case of, . oregon, boundary of, webster's effort to settle, - ; webster's opinion in regard to boundary of, ; claims of british and of democracy, ; territorial organization of, . otis, harrison gray, a leader at boston bar, . palmerston, lord, hostile to the united states, ; assails ashburton treaty and lord ashburton, . panama congress, debate on mission to, , . parker, isaac, chief justice, in massachusetts convention, . parsons, theophilus, chief justice of massachusetts, ; practice in new hampshire, ; argument as to visitatorial powers at harvard college, . parton, james, description of webster at public dinner, . peake, thomas, "law of evidence," webster's attack on, . peel, sir robert, effect of his obtaining office in , . pickering, timothy, unwavering federalist, . pinkney, william, member of fourteenth congress, ; counsel of state in dartmouth, case, , ; anecdote of, with webster, , note. plumer, william, leading lawyer in new hampshire and early opponent of webster; opinion of webster, ; refutes mr. webster's attack on "peake," ; in ill health and unable to act for wheelock, ; elected governor and attacks trustees, . plymouth, oration at, - , . polk, james k., elected president; committed to annexation policy, ; principal events of his administration connected with slavery, ; declarations as to oregon, ; accepts lord aberdeen's offer of forty-ninth parallel, ; real intentions as to mexico and england, ; refuses information as to secret service fund, ; brings on mexican war, , ; policy as to slavery in territories, . portugal, treaty with, . prescott, james, judge, webster's defence of, . randolph, john, member of fourteenth congress, ; challenges webster, ; takes part in debate on greek resolution, . rhode island, case of, , ; troubles in, . "rockingham memorial," . "rogers' rangers," . root, mr., of ohio, resolution against extension of slavery in , . scott, winfield, nominated, for presidency, - . seaton, mrs., webster at house of, . seward, william h., advises taylor as to policy in , . sheridan, r.b., compared with webster as an orator, , . shirley, john m., history of dartmouth college causes, . silliman, prof. benj., mr. webster's remark to on his own career, . smith, jeremiah, chief justice of new hampshire, ; allied with trustees of the college, ; appears for college, , ; unable to go to washington, . smith, sidney, remark on webster's appearance, . spanish claims, . sparks, jared, obtains appointment of boundary commissioners by maine, . "specie circular," debate on, , . south carolina, agitation in against the tariff in , ; ordinance of nullification, ; substantial victory of, in , . stanley, mr., earl of darby, . stevenson, andrew, minister to england, unconciliatory, ; retires, and is succeeded by mr. everett, . story, joseph, chosen trustee of dartmouth college by the state, ; adverse to dartmouth college, ; converted to support of college, ; writes opinion in dartmouth case, ; opinion of girard will case argument, ; webster's obligations to, ; a member of massachusetts convention, ; supports property qualification for the senate, ; opinion of webster's work in the convention, , ; webster's remarks on death of, ; assists webster in preparing crimes act, ; and judiciary bill, ; description of mr. webster after his wife's death, ; assists webster in ashburton negotiation, ; treatment of, by webster, . sullivan, george, leading lawyer in new hampshire, ; counsel for woodward and state trustees, able argument, . sullivan, james, . taney, roger, removes the deposits, . tayloe, b. ogle, anecdote of mr. corcoran's gift to webster, . taylor, zachary, tempting candidate for whigs, ; movement for, in new york, ; nominated for presidency, ; elected president, ; elected by southern votes, ; advises admission of california, ; attitude and policy in , , ; death, ; agent sent to hungary by, . tazewell, l.w., mr. webster's reply to on process bill, . tehuantepec, isthmus of, right of way over, . texas, independence of, achieved, ; annexation of, , ; mr. webster's warning against annexation, ; admission as a state, ; plan to divide, ; troubles with new mexico, . thompson, thomas w., webster a student in his office, . ticknor, george, account of plymouth oration, , ; impression of plymouth oration, ; description of webster at plymouth, ; account of webster's appearance in eulogy on adams and jefferson, , . todd, judge, opposed to dartmouth college, ; absent at decision, . tyler, john, succeeds to presidency on death of harrison; vetoes bank bill, ; quarrels with whigs, ; read out of party by massachusetts whigs, . van buren, martin, instructions to mclane, ; confirmation as minister to england, opposed, ; confirmation of, defeated, ; elected president, character of his administration, ; defeated for a second term, ; candidate of free-soil party in , , . washington, bushrod, judge, friendly to college, ; opinion in favor of college, . washington, city of, appearance of, and society in, in , - . washington, george, opinion of ebenezer webster, ; oration upon, . webster, abigail eastman, second wife of ebenezer and mother of daniel, ; assents to ezekiel's going to college, . webster, daniel. birth, delicacy, friendship with old sailor, ; at the district schools, ; reads to the teamsters, reads books in circulating library, ; at exeter academy, with dr. wood, learns that he is to go to college, ; enters dartmouth college, ; sacrifices made to him in childhood, ; ezekiel lends him money, manner of accepting devotion of those about him, ; studies and scholarship, , ; opinions of fellow students; his general conduct, ; eloquence and appearance in college, ; edits newspaper, writes verses, ; oration at hanover, - ; other orations in college, begins study of law, ; obtains his father's consent to ezekiel's going to college, ; teaches school at fryeburg, ; conduct and appearance at fryeburg, ; delivers oration at fryeburg; returns to salisbury and studies law, ; goes to boston and is admitted to mr. gore's office, ; sees leaders of boston bar, ; appointed clerk of his father's court, ; declines the office, ; opens an office at boscawen; moves to portsmouth, ; early habit of debt, ; first appearance in court, ; early manner, ; described by mason, opinion of mason's ability, ; value of mason's example, ; married to miss grace fletcher, at salisbury, ; home in portsmouth, popularity, mimicry, conservatism in religion and politics, ; moderate and liberal federalist, ; gradual entrance into politics, "appeal to old whigs," speeches at salisbury and concord, pamphlet on embargo, ; line of argument against embargo, "the state of our literature," speech at portsmouth, , ; character of opposition to war in this speech, , ; writes the "rockingham memorial," ; elected to congress, placed on committee on foreign relations, ; introduces resolutions on french decrees, votes steadily with his party, ; dropped from committee on foreign relations, tries to obtain debate on his resolutions, ; strong speech against enlistment bill, ; speech on repeal of embargo, replies to calhoun, ; remarks on double duties, ; character of these speeches, ; superiority to other speakers in congress, ; views as to hartford convention, ; votes against war taxes, ; partisanship, calls on mr. madison, ; conversational manner in debate, ; takes a leading part in debate on establishment of bank, - , ; power of his argument against irredeemable paper, ; opinion of fourteenth congress, ; speech against bank bill in session of - , ; votes against bank bill, introduces specie resolutions, carries them, ; challenged by randolph, ; votes for internal improvements, retires from public life, ; removal to boston, success in supreme court of united states, ; grief at the death of his daughter grace, ; position on leaving congress, ; reception in boston, ; importance of period upon which he then entered, ; consulted by john wheelock on troubles with trustees, ; refuses to appear before legislative committee for wheelock, and goes over to side of trustees, his excuse, ; advises efforts to soothe democrats and circulation of rumors of founding a new college, ; joins mason and smith in re-argument at exeter, ; anger at bartlett's attack, fine argument at exeter, ; relies for success on general principles, and has but little faith in doctrine of impairing obligation of contracts, , ; gives but little space to this doctrine in his argument at washington, ; raises money in boston to defray expenses of college case, ; adds but little to argument of mason and smith, ; "something left out" in report of his argument, ; dexterous argument, appeal to political sympathies of marshall, ; depicts democratic attack on the college, ; description of concluding passage of his argument, - ; moves for judgment _nunc pro tunc_, ; true character of success in this case, , ; argument in gibbons vs. ogden, ; in ogden vs. saunders and other cases, ; in girard will case, , ; nature of his religious feeling, ; argument in rhode island case, ; attracts audiences even to legal arguments, anecdote of mr. bosworth, ; skill in seizing vital points, ; capacity for using others, early acknowledgment, later ingratitude, ; refusal to acknowledge judge story's assistance, ; comparative standing as a lawyer, ; leader of conservative party in massachusetts convention, ; speech on abolition of religious test, ; on property qualification, for the senate, , ; on the independence of the judiciary, ; plymouth oration, ; manner and appearance, ; fitness for occasional oratory, ; great success at plymouth, , ; improvement in first bunker hill oration, quality of style, ; oration on adams and jefferson, ; supposed speech of john adams, ; oration, before mechanics institute, other orations, ; oration on laying corner-stone of addition to capitol, ; reëlected to congress, ; political position in , ; placed at head of judiciary committee, ; speech on revolution in greece, ; its objects and purposes, , ; withdraws his resolutions, success of his speech, ; speech against tariff of , defends supreme court, ; speech on the cumberland road bill, ; carries through the crimes act, ; carries judiciary bill through house, lost in senate, ; supports mission to panama congress, , ; supports reference of message on georgia and creek indians, ; tone of his speech, ; elected senator from massachusetts, ; early inclination to support calhoun, opposition to jackson and adams, ; to clay, relations with crawford, ; on committee to examine charges of edwards, defends crawford, ; wishes mr. mason to be attorney-general, and english mission for himself, takes but little part in election, ; interview with mr. adams, , ; friendly relations with mr. adams, supports administration, ; real hostility to, feels that he is not properly recognized, and accepts senatorship, ; inactive in election, allied with clay and adams, and founders of whig party, ; spanish claims, first sees marshfield, english friends, niagara, oration at bunker hill, and eulogy on adams and jefferson, , ; grief on death of his wife, ; appearance in washington after death of his wife, ; speech on bill for revolutionary officers, on tariff of , , ; free-trade federalist when he entered congress, ; remarks in on protective duties, , ; advocates modifications in tariff of , ; speech at faneuil hall against tariff in , - ; speech against tariff of , - ; reasons for his change of position, as to tariff in , , ; speech at boston dinner, ; character of this change of policy, and question of consistency, ; treats free trade or protection as a question of expediency, ; change on the constitutional question, ; opposes jackson's removals from office, ; first speech on foote's resolution, ; second speech, reply to hayne, ; argument on nullification, ; weak places in his argument, ; intention in this speech, definition of the union as it is, , ; scene of the speech and feeling at the north, ; opening sentence of the speech, ; manner and appearance on that day, ; variety in the speech, ; sarcasm, defence of massachusetts, ; character of his oratory, , ; of his imagination, ; of his style, ; preparation of speeches, ; physical appearance and attributes, , ; manner with and effect on children, ; effect of his appearance in england, ; anecdotes of effect produced by his look and appearance, ; constitutional indolence, needs something to excite him in later life, anecdote, ; defence of prescott, ; goodridge case, white case, greatness of argument in latter, ; opening passage compared with burke's description of hyder ali's invasion, ; as a jury lawyer, ; compared in eloquence with other great orators, , ; perfect taste of as an orator, ; rank as an orator, ; change made by death of ezekiel and by second marriage, ; general effect on the country of reply to hayne, ; ambition for presidency begins, desires consolidation of party, no chance for nomination, ; advocates renewal of bank charter, ; overthrows doctrines of bank veto, ; opposes confirmation of van buren as minister to england, ; defeats confirmation, ; predicts trouble from tariff, ; sees proclamation, wholly opposed to clay's first compromise bill, ; sustains the administration and supports the force bill, ; reply to calhoun, "the constitution not a compact," , ; opposes the compromise bill, ; benton's view of, , ; impossible to ally himself with jackson, ; joins clay and calhoun, ; soundness of his opposition to compromise, ; falls in behind clay, tour in the west, nominated by massachusetts for presidency, ; no chance of success, effect of desire for presidency, ; alliance with clay and calhoun, opinion as to the bank, ; presents boston resolutions against president's course, ; speaks sixty-four times on bank during session, ; speech on the "protest," ; attitude in regard to troubles with france, ; defeats fortification bill, speech on executive patronage, ; defeat of benton's first expunging resolution, ; defence of his course on fortification bill, ; speech on "specie circular" and against expunging resolution, ; desires to retire from the senate but is persuaded to remain, ; efforts to mitigate panic, ; visits england, hears of harrison's nomination for presidency, ; enters campaign, speech of at niblo's garden, ; speeches during campaign, ; accepts secretaryship of state, ; modifies harrison's inaugural, "kills proconsuls," ; de bacourt's account of, at reception of diplomatic corps, , ; opinion as to general conduct of difficulties with england, ; conduct of mcleod affair, ; deprecates quarrel with tyler, ; decides to remain in the cabinet, ; conduct of the creole case, ; management of maine and massachusetts, settles boundary, ; obtains "cruising convention," and extradition clause, letter on impressment, ; character of negotiation and its success, ; treaty signed, "the battle of the maps," continues in cabinet, ; refuses to be forced from cabinet, ; speech in faneuil hall defending his course, ; character of this speech, explains "cruising convention," ; refutes cass, other labors in state department, ; resigns secretaryship of state and resumes his profession, ; anxiety about texas and liberty party, supports clay, ; reëlected to the senate, ; efforts to maintain peace with england, speech in faneuil hall, ; letter to macgregor suggesting forty-ninth parallel, opposition to war in the senate, ; attacked by ingersoll and dickinson, ; speech in defence of ashburton treaty, ; remarks on president polk's refusal of information as to secret service fund, careless in his accounts, ; absent when mexican war declared, course on war measures, tour in the south, ; denounces acquisition of territory, death of his son and daughter, visit to boston for funerals, ; refuses nomination for vice-presidency and opposes the nomination of taylor, ; has only a few votes in convention of , ; disgusted with the nomination of taylor, decides to support it, speech at marshfield, ; course on slavery, draws boston memorial, ; character of this memorial, ; attack on slave-trade in plymouth oration, ; compared with tone on same subject in , ; silence as to slavery in panama speech, ; treatment of slavery in reply to hayne, , ; treatment of anti-slavery petitions in , ; treatment of slavery in speech at niblo's garden, , ; treatment of anti-slavery petitions in , ; views as to abolition in the district, ; attitude toward the south in , ; adopts principle of calhoun's enterprise resolutions in creole case, ; attempts to arouse the north as to annexation of texas, ; objections to admission of texas, ; absent when mexican war declared, ; views on wilmot proviso, ; speech at springfield, ; speech on objects of mexican war, ; oregon, speech on slavery in the territories, ; speech on oregon bill, and at marshfield on taylor's nomination, ; adheres to whigs, declares his belief in free soil principles, ; effort to put slavery aside, ; plan for dealing with slavery in mexican conquests, refutes calhoun's argument as to constitution in territories, ; clay's plan of compromise submitted to, ; delivers th of march speech, ; analysis of th of march speech, , ; speech disapproved at the north, ; previous course as to slavery summed up, change after reply to hayne, ; grievances of south, ; treatment of fugitive slave law, - ; course in regard to general policy of compromise; merits of that policy, - ; views as to danger of secession, , ; necessity of compromise in , ; attitude of various parties in regard to slavery, ; wishes to finally settle slavery question, ; treatment of extension of slavery, ; disregards use of slaves in mines, ; inconsistent on this point, ; interviews with giddings and free-soilers, ; real object of speech, ; immediate effect of speech in producing conservative reaction, ; compliments southern leaders in th of march speech, , ; effort to sustain the compromise measures, bitter tone, ; attacks anti-slavery movement, , ; uneasiness evident, ; motives of speech, - ; accepts secretaryship of state, ; writes the hülsemann letter, ; treatment of kossuth and hungarian question, ; of other affairs of the department, : hopes for nomination for presidency, ; belief that he will be nominated, ; loss of the nomination, ; refuses to support scott, ; character of such a course, - ; declining health, accident at marshfield, ; death and burial, ; disappointments in his later years, ; his great success in life, ; his presence, ; character of his intellect, , ; dignity, ; character as a statesman, ; sense of humor, ; charm in conversation, ; large nature, love of large things, ; affection, generosity, treatment of friends, ; admired but not generally popular, ; distrust of his sincerity, , ; failings, indifference to debt, ; extravagance, ; attacked on money matters, ; attitude toward new england capitalists and in regard to sources of money, ; moral force not equal to intellectual, ; devotion to union, place in history, - . webster, ebenezer, born in kingston, enlists in "rangers," ; settles at salisbury, ; marries again, serves in revolution, ; physical and mental qualities, ; made a judge, ; resolves to educate daniel, ; consents to let ezekiel go to college, ; disappointment at daniel's refusal of clerkship, ; death, ; strong federalist, anecdote, . webster, edward, major, death of, . webster, ezekiel, anecdote of his lending daniel money, ; obtains consent of his father to go to college, ; teaches school in boston, ; admitted to bar, ; strong federalist, ; death of, . webster, grace, daughter of daniel webster, illness, ; death, . webster, grace fletcher, first wife of mr. webster; marriage and character, , ; death, . webster, thomas, first of name, . wheelock, eleazer, founder of dartmouth college, . wheelock, john, succeeds his father as president of dartmouth college, ; begins war on trustees; consults mr. webster, ; writes to webster to appear before legislative committee, ; removed from presidency and goes over to the democrats, ; originator of the doctrine of impairing obligation of contracts, ; fees mr. webster, . whig party, origin of, ; condition in , ; nominate harrison, , ; carries the country in , ; anger against tyler, ; murmurs against mr. webster's remaining in tyler's cabinet, ; attacks of, in massachusetts, upon tyler, ; silence about slavery and texas, are defeated in , , ; nominate taylor, ; indifference to mr. webster's warning as to texas, ; attitude in regard to slavery in , ; nomination of scott by, in , - . white, stephen, case of murder of, webster's speech for prosecution, ff.; webster's fee in, . wilmot proviso, mr. webster's views on, - ; embodied in oregon bill, ; shall it be applied to new mexico, ; attacked in th of march speech, , . wirt, william, counsel for state in dartmouth case at washington, unprepared, makes poor argument, , ; anecdote of daughter of and mr. webster, . wood, dr., of boscawen, webster's tutor, , . woodward, william h., secretary of new board of trustees; action against, . wortley, mr. stuart, . yancey, william l., attack on webster, . memoirs of the life of the rt. hon. richard brinsley sheridan by thomas moore in two volumes vol. i. to george bryan, esq., this work is inscribed, by his sincere and affectionate friend, thomas moore. preface. the first four chapters of this work were written nearly seven years ago. my task was then suspended during a long absence from england; and it was only in the course of the last year that i applied myself seriously to the completion of it. to my friend, mr. charles sheridan, whose talents and character reflect honor upon a name, already so distinguished, i am indebted for the chief part of the materials upon which the following memoirs of his father are founded. i have to thank him, not only for this mark of confidence, but for the delicacy with which, though so deeply interested in the subject of my task, he has refrained from all interference with the execution of it:--neither he, nor any other person, beyond the printing-office, having ever read a single sentence of the work. i mention this, in order that the responsibility of any erroneous views or indiscreet disclosures, with which i shall be thought chargeable in the course of these pages, may not be extended to others, but rest solely with myself. the details of mr. sheridan's early life were obligingly communicated to me by his younger sister, mrs. lefanu, to whom, and to her highly gifted daughter, i offer my best thanks for the assistance which they have afforded me. the obligations, of a similar nature, which i owe to the kindness of mr. william linley, doctor bain, mr. burgess, and others, are acknowledged, with due gratitude, in my remarks on their respective communications. contents to vol. i. chapter i. birth and education of mr. sheridan.--his first attempts in literature. chapter ii. duels with mr. mathews.--marriage with miss linley chapter iii. domestic circumstances.--fragments of essays found among his papers.-- comedy of "the rivals."--answer to "taxation no tyranny."--farce of "st. patrick's day." chapter iv. the duenna.--purchase of drury-lane theatre.--the trip to scarborough.-- poetical correspondence with mrs. sheridan chapter v. the school for scandal chapter vi. further purchase of theatrical property.--monody to the memory of garrick.--essay on metre.--the critic.--essay on absentees.--political connections.--"the englishman."--elected for stafford chapter vii. unfinished plays and poems chapter viii. his first speeches in parliament.--rockingham administration.-- coalition.--india bill.--re-election for stafford chapter ix. the prince of wales.--financial measures.--mr. pitt's east india bill.-- irish commercial propositions.--plan of the duke of richmond.--sinking fund. chapter x. charges against mr. hastings.--commercial treaty with france.--debts of the prince of wales. chapter i. birth and education of mr. sheridan.--his first attempts in literature. richard brinsley [footnote: he was christened also by the name of butler, after the earl of lanesborough.] sheridan was born in the month of september, , at no. , dorset street, dublin, and baptized in st. mary's church, as appears by the register of the parish, on the fourth of the following month. his grandfather, dr. sheridan, and his father, mr. thomas sheridan, have attained a celebrity, independent of that which he has conferred on them, by the friendship and correspondence with which the former was honored by swift, and the competition and even rivalry which the latter so long maintained with garrick. his mother, too, was a woman of considerable talents, and affords one of the few instances that have occurred, of a female indebted for a husband to her literature; as it was a pamphlet she wrote concerning the dublin theatre that first attracted to her the notice of mr. thomas sheridan. her affecting novel, sidney biddulph, could boast among its warm panegyrists mr. fox and lord north; and in the tale of nourjahad she has employed the graces of eastern fiction to inculcate a grave and important moral,--putting on a fairy disguise, like her own mandane, to deceive her readers into a taste for happiness and virtue. besides her two plays, the discovery and the dupe,--the former of which garrick pronounced to be "one of the best comedies he ever read,"--she wrote a comedy also, called the trip to bath, which was never either acted or published, but which has been supposed by some of those sagacious persons, who love to look for flaws in the titles of fame, to have passed, with her other papers, into the possession of her son, and, after a transforming sleep, like that of the chrysalis, in his hands, to have taken wing at length in the brilliant form of the rivals. the literary labors of her husband were less fanciful, but not, perhaps, less useful, and are chiefly upon subjects connected with education, to the study and profession of which he devoted the latter part of his life. such dignity, indeed, did his favorite pursuit assume in his own eyes, that he is represented (on the authority, however, of one who was himself a schoolmaster) to have declared, that "he would rather see his two sons at the head of respectable academies, than one of them prime minister of england, and the other at the head of affairs in ireland." at the age of seven years, richard brinsley sheridan was, with his elder brother, charles francis, placed under the tuition of mr. samuel whyte, of grafton street, dublin,--an amiable and respectable man, who, for near fifty years after, continued at the head of his profession in that metropolis. to remember our school-days with gratitude and pleasure, is a tribute at once to the zeal and gentleness of our master, which none ever deserved more truly from his pupils than mr. whyte, and which the writer of these pages, who owes to that excellent person all the instructions in english literature he has ever received, is happy to take this opportunity of paying. the young sheridans, however, were little more than a year under his care--and it may be consoling to parents who are in the first crisis of impatience, at the sort of hopeless stupidity which some children exhibit, to know, that the dawn of sheridan's intellect was as dull and unpromising as its meridian day was bright; and that in the year , he who, in less than thirty years afterwards, held senates enchained by his eloquence and audiences fascinated by his wit, was, by common consent both of parent and preceptor, pronounced to be "a most impenetrable dunce." from mr. whyte's school the boys were removed to england, where mr. and mrs. sheridan had lately gone to reside, and in the year richard was sent to harrow--charles being kept at home as a fitter subject for the instructions of his father, who, by another of those calculations of poor human foresight, which the deity, called eventus by the romans, takes such wanton pleasure in falsifying, considered his elder son as destined to be the brighter of the two brother stars. at harrow, richard was remarkable only as a very idle, careless, but, at the same time, engaging boy, who contrived to win the affection, and even admiration of the whole school, both masters and pupils, by the mere charm of his frank and genial manners, and by the occasional gleams of superior intellect, which broke through all the indolence and indifference of his character. harrow, at this time, possessed some peculiar advantages, of which a youth like sheridan might have powerfully availed himself. at the head of the school was doctor robert sumner, a man of fine talents, but, unfortunately, one of those who have passed away without leaving any trace behind, except in the admiring recollection of their contemporaries. his taste is said to have been of a purity almost perfect, combining what are seldom seen together, that critical judgment which is alive to the errors of genius, with the warm sensibility that deeply feels its beauties. at the same period, the distinguished scholar, dr. parr, who, to the massy erudition of a former age, joined all the free and enlightened intelligence of the present, was one of the under masters of the school; and both he and dr. sumner endeavored, by every method they could devise, to awaken in sheridan a consciousness of those powers which, under all the disadvantages of indolence and carelessness, it was manifest to them that he possessed. but remonstrance and encouragement were equally thrown away upon the good- humored but immovable indifference of their pupil; and though there exist among mr. sheridan's papers some curious proofs of an industry in study for which few have ever given him credit, they are probably but the desultory efforts of a later period of his life, to recover the loss of that first precious time, whose susceptibility of instruction, as well as of pleasure, never comes again. one of the most valuable acquisitions he derived from harrow was that friendship, which lasted throughout his life, with dr. parr,--which mutual admiration very early began, and the "_idem sentire de re publica_" of course not a little strengthened. as this learned and estimable man has, within the last few weeks, left a void in the world which will not be easily filled up, i feel that it would be unjust to my readers not to give, in his own words, the particulars of sheridan's school-days, with which he had the kindness to favor me, and to which his name gives an authenticity and interest too valuable on such a subject to be withheld: "hatton, august , . "dear sir, "with the aid of a scribe i sit down to fulfil my promise about mr. sheridan. there was little in his boyhood worth communication. he was inferior to many of his school-fellows in the ordinary business of a school, and i do not remember any one instance in which he distinguished himself by latin or english composition, in prose or verse. [footnote: it will be seen, however, though dr. parr was not aware of the circumstance, that sheridan did try his talent at english verse before he left harrow.] nathaniel halhed, one of his school-fellows, wrote well in latin and greek. richard archdall, another school-fellow, excelled in english verse. richard sheridan aspired to no rivalry with either of them. he was at the uppermost part of the fifth form, but he never reached the sixth, and, if i mistake not, he had no opportunity of attending the most difficult and the most honorable of school business, when the greek plays were taught--and it was the custom at harrow to teach these at least every year. he went through his lessons in horace, and virgil, and homer well enough for a time. but, in the absence of the upper master, doctor sumner, it once fell in my way to instruct the two upper forms, and upon calling up dick sheridan, i found him not only slovenly in construing, but unusually defective in his greek grammar. knowing him to be a clever fellow, i did not fail to probe and to tease him. i stated his case with great good-humor to the upper master, who was one of the best tempered men in the world; and it was agreed between us, that richard should be called oftener and worked more severely. the varlet was not suffered to stand up in his place; but was summoned to take his station near the master's table, where the voice of no prompter could reach him; and, in this defenceless condition, he was so harassed, that he at last gathered up some grammatical rules, and prepared himself for his lessons. while this tormenting process was inflicted upon him, i now and then upbraided him. but you will take notice that he did not incur any corporal punishment for his idleness: his industry was just sufficient to protect him from disgrace. all the while sumner and i saw in him vestiges of a superior intellect. his eye, his countenance, his general manner, were striking. his answers to any common question were prompt and acute. we knew the esteem, and even admiration, which, somehow or other, all his school-fellows felt for him. he was mischievous enough, but his pranks were accompanied by a sort of vivacity and cheerfulness, which delighted sumner and myself. i had much talk with him about his apple-loft, for the supply of which all the gardens in the neighborhood were taxed, and some of the lower boys were employed to furnish it. i threatened, but without asperity, to trace the depredators, through his associates, up to their leader. he with perfect good-humor set me at defiance, and i never could bring the charge home to him. all boys and all masters were pleased with him. i often praised him as a lad of great talents,--often exhorted him to use them well; but my exhortations were fruitless. i take for granted that his taste was silently improved, and that he knew well the little which he did know. he was removed from school too soon by his father, who was the intimate friend of sumner, and whom i often met at his house. sumner had a fine voice, fine ear, fine taste, and, therefore, pronunciation was frequently the favorite subject between him and tom sheridan. i was present at many of their discussions and disputes, and sometimes took a very active part in them,--but richard was not present. the father, you know, was a wrong-headed, whimsical man, and, perhaps, his scanty circumstances were one of the reasons which prevented him from sending richard to the university. he must have been aware, as sumner and i were, that richard's mind was not cast in any ordinary mould. i ought to have told you that richard, when a boy, was a great reader of english poetry; but his exercises afforded no proof of his proficiency. in truth, he, as a boy, was quite careless about literary fame. i should suppose that his father, without any regular system, polished his taste, and supplied his memory with anecdotes about our best writers in our augustan age. the grandfather, you know, lived familiarly with swift. i have heard of him, as an excellent scholar. his boys in ireland once performed a greek play, and when sir william jones and i were talking over this event, i determined to make the experiment in england. i selected some of my best boys, and they performed the oedipus tyrannus, and the trachinians of sophocles. i wrote some greek iambics to vindicate myself from the imputation of singularity, and grieved i am that i did not keep a copy of them. milton, you may remember, recommends what i attempted. "i saw much of sheridan's father after the death of sumner, and after my own removal from harrow to stanmer. i respected him,--he really liked me, and did me some important services,--but i never met him and richard together. i often inquired about richard, and, from the father's answers, found they were not upon good terms,--but neither he nor i ever spoke of his son's talents but in terms of the highest praise." in a subsequent letter dr. parr says: "i referred you to a passage in the gentleman's magazine, where i am represented as discovering and encouraging in richard sheridan those intellectual powers which had not been discovered and encouraged by sumner. but the statement is incorrect. we both of us discovered talents, which neither of us could bring into action while sheridan was a school-boy. he gave us few opportunities of praise in the course of his school business, and yet he was well aware that we thought highly of him, and anxiously wished more to be done by him than he was disposed to do. "i once or twice met his mother,--she was quite celestial. both her virtues and her genius were highly esteemed by robert sumner. i know not whether tom sheridan found richard tractable in the art of speaking,-- and, upon such a subject, indolence or indifference would have been resented by the father as crimes quite inexpiable. one of richard's sisters now and then visited harrow, and well do i remember that, in the house where i lodged, she triumphantly repeated dryden's ode upon st. cecilia's day, according to the instruction given to her by her father. take a sample: _none_ but the brave, none but the _brave_, none _but_ the brave deserve the fair. whatever may have been the zeal or the proficiency of the sister, naughty richard, like gallio, seemed to care naught for these things. "in the later periods of his life richard did not cast behind him classical reading. he spoke copiously and powerfully about cicero. he had read, and he had understood, the four orations of demosthenes, read and taught in our public schools. he was at home in virgil and in horace. i cannot speak positively about homer,--but i am very sure that he read the iliad now and then; not as a professed scholar would do, critically, but with all the strong sympathies of a poet reading a poet. [footnote: it was not one of the least of the triumphs of sheridan's talent to have been able to persuade so acute a scholar as dr. parr, that the extent of his classical acquirements was so great as is here represented, and to have thus impressed with the idea of his remembering so much, the person who best knew how little he had learned.] richard did not, and could not forget what he once knew, but his path to knowledge was his own,--his steps were noiseless,--his progress was scarcely felt by himself,--his movements were rapid but irregular. "let me assure you that richard, when a boy, was by no means vicious. the sources of his infirmities were a scanty and precarious allowance from the father, the want of a regular plan for some profession, and, above all, the act of throwing him upon the town, when he ought to have been pursuing his studies at the university. he would have done little among mathematicians at cambridge;--he would have been a rake, or an idler, or a trifler, at dublin;--but i am inclined to think that at oxford he would have become an excellent scholar. "i have now told you all that i know, and it amounts to very little. i am very solicitous for justice to be done to robert sumner. he is one of the six or seven persons among my own acquaintance whose taste i am accustomed to consider perfect, and, were he living, his admiration...." [footnote: the remainder of the letter relates to other subjects.] during the greater part of richard's stay at harrow his father had been compelled, by the embarrassment of his affairs, to reside with the remainder of the family in france, and it was at blois, in the september of , that mrs. sheridan died--leaving behind her that best kind of fame, which results from a life of usefulness and purity, and which it requires not the aid of art or eloquence to blazon. she appears to have been one of those rare women, who, united to men of more pretensions, but less real intellect than themselves, meekly conceal this superiority even from their own hearts, and pass their lives without remonstrance or murmur, in gently endeavoring to repair those evils which the indiscretion or vanity of their partners has brought upon them. as a supplement to the interesting communication of dr. parr, i shall here subjoin an extract from a letter which the eldest sister of sheridan, mrs. e. lefanu, wrote a few months after his death to mrs. sheridan, in consequence of a wish expressed by the latter that mrs. lefanu would communicate such particulars as she remembered of his early days. it will show, too, the feeling which his natural good qualities, in spite of the errors by which they were obscured and weakened, kept alive to the last, in the hearts of those connected with him, that sort of retrospective affection, which, when those whom we have loved become altered, whether in mind or person, brings the recollection of what they once were, to mingle with and soften our impression of what they are. after giving an account of the residence of the family in france, she continues: "we returned to england, when i may say i first became acquainted with my brother--for faint and imperfect were my recollections of him, as might be expected from my age. i saw him; and my childish attachment revived with double force. he was handsome, not merely in the eyes of a partial sister, but generally allowed to be so. his cheeks had the glow of health; his eyes,--the finest in the world,-- the brilliancy of genius, and were soft as a tender and affectionate heart could render them. the same playful fancy, the same sterling and innoxious wit, that was shown afterwards in his writings, cheered and delighted the family circle. i admired--i almost adored him. i would most willingly have sacrificed my life for him, as i, in some measure, proved to him at bath, where we resided for some time, and where events that you must have heard of engaged him in a duel. my father's displeasure threatened to involve me in the denunciations against him, for committing what he considered as a crime. yet i risked everything, and in the event was made happy by obtaining forgiveness for my brother.... you may perceive, dear sister, that very little indeed have i to say on a subject so near your heart, and near mine also. that for years i lost sight of a brother whom i loved with unabated affection--a love that neither absence nor neglect could chill--i always consider as a great misfortune." on his leaving harrow, where he continued till near his eighteenth year, he was brought home by his father, who, with the elder son, charles, had lately returned from france, and taken a house in london. here the two brothers for some time received private tuition from mr. lewis kerr, an irish gentleman, who had formerly practised as a physician, but having, by loss of health, been obliged to give up his profession, supported himself by giving lessons in latin and mathematics. they attended also the fencing and riding schools of mr. angelo, and received instructions from their father in english grammar and oratory. of this advantage, however, it is probable, only the elder son availed himself, as richard, who seems to have been determined to owe all his excellence to nature alone, was found as impracticable a pupil at home as at school. but, however inattentive to his studies he may have been at harrow, it appears, from one of the letters of his school-fellow, mr. halhed, that in poetry, which is usually the first exercise in which these young athletae of intellect try their strength, he had already distinguished himself; and, in conjunction with his friend halhed, had translated the seventh idyl, and many of the lesser poems of theocritus. this literary partnership was resumed soon after their departure from harrow. in the year , when halhed was at oxford, and sheridan residing with his father at bath, they entered into a correspondence, (of which, unluckily, only halhed's share remains,) and, with all the hope and spirit of young adventurers, began and prosecuted a variety of works together, of which none but their translation of aristaenetus ever saw the light. there is something in the alliance between these boys peculiarly interesting. their united ages, as halhed boasts in one of his letters, did not amount to thirty-eight. they were both abounding in wit and spirits, and as sanguine as the consciousness of talent and youth could make them; both inspired with a taste for pleasure, and thrown upon their own resources for the means of gratifying it; both carelessly embarking, without rivalry or reserve, their venture of fame in the same bottom, and both, as halhed discovered at last, passionately in love with the same woman. it would have given me great pleasure to have been enabled to enliven my pages with even a few extracts from that portion of their correspondence, which, as i have just mentioned, has fallen into my hands. there is in the letters of mr. halhed a fresh youthfulness of style, and an unaffected vivacity of thought, which i question whether even his witty correspondent could have surpassed. as i do not, however, feel authorized to lay these letters before the world, i must only avail myself of the aid which their contents supply towards tracing the progress of his literary partnership with sheridan, and throwing light on a period so full of interest in the life of the latter. their first joint production was a farce, or rather play, in three acts, called "jupiter," written in imitation of the burletta of midas, whose popularity seems to have tempted into its wake a number of these musical parodies upon heathen fable. the amour of jupiter with _major_ amphitryon's wife, and _sir richard_ ixion's courtship of juno, who substitutes _miss peggy nubilis_ in her place, form the subject of this ludicrous little drama, of which halhed furnished the burlesque scenes,--while the form of a rehearsal, into which the whole is thrown, and which, as an anticipation of "the critic" is highly curious, was suggested and managed entirely by sheridan. the following extracts will give some idea of the humor of this trifle; and in the character of simile the reader will at once discover a sort of dim and shadowy pre- existence of puff:-- "_simile._ sir, you are very ignorant on the subject,--it is the method most in vogue. "_o'cul._ what! to make the music first, and then make the sense to it afterwards! "_sim._ just so. "_monop._ what mr. simile says is very true, gentlemen; and there is nothing surprising in it, if we consider now the general method of writing _plays to scenes._ "_o'cul._ writing _plays to scenes_!--oh, you are joking. "_monop._ not i, upon my word. mr. simile knows that i have frequently a complete set of scenes from italy, and then i have nothing to do but to get some ingenious hand to write a play to them. "_sim._ i am your witness, sir. gentlemen, you perceive you know nothing about these matters. "_o'cul._ why, mr. simile, i don't pretend to know much relating to these affairs, but what i think is this, that in this method, according to your principles, you must often commit blunders. "_sim._ blunders! to be sure i must, but i always could get myself out of them again. why, i'll tell you an instance of it.--you must know i was once a journeyman sonnet-writer to signor squallini. now, his method, when seized with the _furor harmonicus_, was constantly to make me sit by his side, while he was thrumming on his harpsichord, in order to make extempore verses to whatever air he should beat out to his liking. i remember, one morning, as he was in this situation, _thrum, thrum, thrum, (moving his fingers as if beating on the harpsichord,)_ striking out something prodigiously great, as he thought,--'hah!' said he,--'hah! mr. simile, _thrum, thrum, thrum,_ by gar here is vary fine,--_thrum, thrum, thrum_, write me some words directly.'--i durst not interrupt him to ask on what subject, so instantly began to describe a fine morning. "'calm was the land and calm the seas, and calm the heaven's dome serene, hush'd was the gale and hush'd the breeze, and not a vapor to be seen.' i sang it to his notes,--'hah! upon my vord vary pritt,--_thrum, thrum, thrum,_--stay, stay,--_thrum, thrum,_--hoa? upon my vord, here it must be an adagio,--_thrum, thrum,_--oh! let it be an _ode to melancholy.'_ "_monop._ the devil!--there you were puzzled sure. "_sim._ not in the least,--i brought in a _cloud_ in the next stanza, and matters, you see, came about at once. "_monop._ an excellent transition. " _o'cul._ vastly ingenious indeed. "_sim._ was it not? hey! it required a little command,--a little presence of mind,--but i believe we had better proceed. "_monop._ the sooner the better,--come, gentlemen, resume your seats. "_sim._ now for it. draw up the curtain, and _(looking at his book)_ enter sir richard ixion,--but stay,--zounds, sir richard ought to overhear jupiter and his wife quarrelling,--but, never mind,--these accidents have spoilt the division of my piece.--so enter sir richard, and look as cunning as if you had overheard them. now for it, gentlemen,--you can't be too attentive. "_enter_ sir richard ixion _completely dressed, with bag, sword, &c._ "_ix._ 'fore george, at logger-heads,--a lucky minute, 'pon honor, i may make my market in it. dem it, my air, address, and mien must touch her, now out of sorts with him,--less god than butcher. o rat the fellow,--where can all his sense lie, to gallify the lady so immensely? ah! _le grand bete qu'il est!_--how rude the bear is! the world to two-pence he was ne'er at _paris_. perdition stop my vitals,--now or never i'll niggle snugly into juno's favor. let's see,--(_looking in a glass_) my face,--toll loll-- 'twill work upon her. my person--oh, immense, upon my honor. my eyes,--oh fie.--the naughty glass it flatters,-- courage,--ixion flogs the world to tatters. [_exit ixion_.] "_sim._ there is a fine gentleman for you,--in the very pink of the mode, with not a single article about him his own,--his words pilfered from magazines, his address from french valets, and his clothes not paid for. "_macd._ but pray, mr. simile, how did ixion get into heaven? "_sim._ why, sir, what's that to any body?--perhaps by salmoneus's brazen bridge, or the giant's mountain, or the tower of babel, or on theobald's bull-dogs, or--who the devil cares how?--he is there, and that's enough." * * * * * "_sim._ now for a phoenix of a song. "_song by_ jupiter. "you dogs, i'm jupiter imperial, king, emperor, and pope aetherial, master of th' ordnance of the sky.-- "_sim._ z----ds, where's the ordnance? have you forgot the pistol? (_to the orchestra_.) "_orchestra._ (_to some one behind the scenes_.) tom, are not you prepared? "_tom._ (_from behind the scenes_.) yes, sir, but i flash'd in the pan a little out of time, and had i staid to prime, i should have shot a bar too late. "_sim._ oh then, jupiter, begin the song again.--we must not lose our ordnance. "you dogs, i'm jupiter imperial, king, emperor, and pope aetherial, master of th' ordnance of the sky; &c. &c. [_here a pistol or cracker is fired from behind the scenes_.] "_sim._ this hint i took from handel.--well, how do you think we go on? "_o'cul._ with vast spirit,--the plot begins to thicken. "_sim._ thicken! aye,--'twill be as thick as the calf of your leg presently. well, now for the real, original, patentee amphitryon. what, ho, amphitryon! amphitryon!--'tis simile calls.--why, where the devil is he? "_enter_ servant. "_monop._ tom, where is amphitryon? "_sim._ zounds, he's not arrested too, is he? "_serv._ no, sir, but there was but _one black eye_ in the house, and he is waiting to get it from jupiter. "_sim._ to get a black eye from jupiter,--oh, this will never do. why, when they meet, they ought to match like two beef-eaters." according to their original plan for the conclusion of this farce, all things were at last to be compromised between jupiter and juno; amphitryon was to be comforted in the birth of so mighty a son; ixion, for his presumption, instead of being fixed to a _torturing_ wheel, was to have been fixed to a vagrant monotroche, as knife-grinder, and a grand chorus of deities (intermixed with "knives, scissors, pen-knives to grind," set to music as nearly as possible to the natural cry,) would have concluded the whole. that habit of dilatoriness, which is too often attendant upon genius, and which is for ever making it, like the pistol in the scene just quoted, "shoot a bar too late," was, through life, remarkable in the character of mr. sheridan,--and we have here an early instance of its influence over him. though it was in august, , that he received the sketch of this piece from his friend, and though they both looked forward most sanguinely to its success, as likely to realize many a dream of fame and profit, it was not till the month of may in the subsequent year, as appears by a letter from mr. ker to sheridan, that the probability of the arrival of the manuscript was announced to mr. foote. "i have dispatched a card, as from h. h., at owen's coffee-house, to mr. foote, to inform him that he may expect to see your dramatic piece about the th instant." their hopes and fears in this theatrical speculation are very naturally and livelily expressed throughout halhed's letters, sometimes with a degree of humorous pathos, which is interesting as characteristic of both the writers:--"the thoughts," he says, "of _l_. shared between us are enough to bring the tears into one's eyes." sometimes, he sets more moderate limits to their ambition, and hopes that they will, at least, get the freedom of the play-house by it. but at all times he chides, with good-humored impatience, the tardiness of his fellow- laborer in applying to the managers. fears are expressed that foote may have made other engagements,--and that a piece, called "dido," on the same mythological plan, which had lately been produced with but little success, might prove an obstacle to the reception of theirs. at drury lane, too, they had little hopes of a favorable hearing, as dibdin was one of the principal butts of their ridicule. the summer season, however, was suffered to pass away without an effort; and in october, , we find mr. halhed flattering himself with hopes from a negotiation with mr. garrick. it does not appear, however, that sheridan ever actually presented this piece to any of the managers; and indeed it is probable, from the following fragment of a scene found among his papers, that he soon abandoned the groundwork of halhed altogether, and transferred his plan of a rehearsal to some other subject, of his own invention, and, therefore, more worthy of his wit. it will be perceived that the puffing author was here intended to be a scotchman. "_m._ sir, i have read your comedy, and i think it has infinite merit, but, pray, don't you think it rather grave? "_s._ sir, you say true; it _is_ a grave comedy. i follow the opinion of longinus, who says comedy ought always to be sentimental. sir, i value a sentiment of six lines in my piece no more than a nabob does a rupee. i hate those dirty, paltry equivocations, which go by the name of puns, and pieces of wit. no, sir, it ever was my opinion that the stage should be a place of rational entertainment; instead of which, i am very sorry to say, most people go there for their diversion: accordingly, i have formed my comedy so that it is no laughing, giggling piece of work. he must be a very light man that shall discompose his muscles from the beginning to the end. "_m._ but don't you think it may be too grave? "_s._ o never fear; and as for hissing, mon, they might as well hiss the common prayer-book; for there is the viciousness of vice and the virtuousness of virtue in every third line. "_m._ i confess there is a great deal of moral in it; but, sir, i should imagine if you tried your hand at tragedy-- "_s._ no, mon, there you are out, and i'll relate to you what put me first on writing a comedy. you must know i had composed a very fine tragedy about the valiant bruce. i showed it my laird of mackintosh, and he was a very candid mon, and he said my genius did not lie in tragedy: i took the hint, and, as soon as i got home, began my comedy." we have here some of the very thoughts and words that afterwards contributed to the fortune of puff; and it is amusing to observe how long this subject was played with by the current of sheridan's fancy, till at last, like "a stone of lustre from the brook," it came forth with all that smoothness and polish which it wears in his inimitable farce, the critic. thus it is, too, and but little to the glory of what are called our years of discretion, that the life of the _man_ is chiefly employed in giving effect to the wishes and plans of the _boy_. another of their projects was a periodical miscellany, the idea of which originated with sheridan, and whose first embryo movements we trace in a letter to him from mr. lewis kerr, who undertook, with much good nature, the negotiation of the young author's literary concerns in london. the letter is dated th of october, : "as to your intended periodical paper, if it meets with success, there is no doubt of profit accruing, as i have already engaged a publisher, of established reputation, to undertake it for the account of the authors. but i am to indemnify him in case it should not sell, and to advance part of the first expense, all which i can do without applying to mr. ewart."--"i would be glad to know what stock of papers you have already written, as there ought to be ten or a dozen at least finished before you print any, in order to have time to prepare the subsequent numbers, and ensure a continuance of the work. as to the coffee-houses, you must not depend on their taking it in at first, except you go on the plan of the tatler, and give the news of the week. for the first two or three weeks the expense of advertising will certainly prevent any profit being made. but when that is over, if a thousand are sold weekly, you may reckon on receiving l clear. one paper a week will do better than two. pray say no more as to our accounts." the title intended by sheridan for this paper was "hernan's miscellany," to which his friend halhed objected, and suggested, "the reformer," as a newer and more significant name. but though halhed appears to have sought among his oxford friends for an auxiliary or two in their weekly labors, this meditated miscellany never proceeded beyond the first number, which was written by sheridan, and which i have found among his papers. it is too diffuse and pointless to be given entire; but an extract or two from it will not be unwelcome to those who love to trace even the first, feeblest beginnings of genius: hernan's miscellany. no. i. "'i will sit down and write for the good of the people--for (said i to myself, pulling off my spectacles, and drinking up the remainder of my sixpen'worth) it cannot be but people must be sick of these same rascally politics. all last winter nothing but--god defend me! 'tis tiresome to think of it.' i immediately flung the pamphlet down on the table, and taking my hat and cane walked out of the coffee-house. "i kept up as smart a pace as i could all the way home, for i felt myself full of something, and enjoyed my own thoughts so much, that i was afraid of digesting them, lest any should escape me. at last i knocked at my own door.--'so!' said i to the maid who opened it, (for i never would keep a man; not, but what i could afford it--however, the reason is not material now,) 'so!' said i with an unusual smile upon my face, and immediately sent her for a quire of paper and half a hundred of pens--the only thing i had absolutely determined on in my way from the coffee-house. i had now got seated in my arm chair,--i am an infirm old man, and i live on a second floor,--when i began to ruminate on my project. the first thing that occurred to me (and certainly a very natural one) was to examine my common-place book. so i went to my desk and took out my old faithful red-leather companion, who had long discharged the office of treasurer to all my best hints and memorandums: but, how was i surprised, when one of the first things that struck my eyes was the following memorandum, legibly written, and on one of my best sheets of vellum:--'mem.--_oct. th, , left the grecian after having read ----'s poems, with a determined resolution to write a periodical paper, in order to reform the vitiated taste of the age; but, coming home and finding my fire out, and my maid gone abroad, was obliged to defer the execution of my plan to another opportunity._' now though this event had absolutely slipped my memory, i now recollected it perfectly,--ay, so my fire _was_ out indeed, and my maid _did_ go abroad sure enough.--'good heavens!' said i, 'how great events depend upon little circumstances!' however, i looked upon this as a memento for me no longer to trifle away my time and resolution; and thus i began to reason,--i mean, i _would_ have reasoned, had i not been interrupted by a noise of some one coming up stairs. by the alternate thump upon the steps, i soon discovered it must be my old and intimate friend rudliche. * * * * * "but, to return, in walked rudliche.--'so, fred.'--'so, bob.'--'were you at the grecian to-day?'--'i just stepped in.'--'well, any news?'--'no, no, there was no news.' now, as bob and i saw one another almost every day, we seldom abounded in conversation; so, having settled one material point, he sat in his usual posture, looking at the fire and beating the dust out of his wooden leg, when i perceived he was going to touch upon _the_ other subject; but, having by chance cast his eye on my face, and finding (i suppose) something extraordinary in my countenance, he immediately dropped all concern for the weather, and putting his hand into his pocket, (as if he meant to find what he was going to say, under pretence of feeling for his tobacco-box,) 'hernan! (he began) why, man, you look for all the world as if you had been thinking of something.'-- 'yes,' replied i, smiling, (that is, not actually smiling, but with a conscious something in my face,) 'i have, indeed, been thinking a little.'--'what, is't a secret?'--'oh, nothing very material.' here ensued a pause, which i employed in considering whether i should reveal my scheme to bob; and bob in trying to disengage his thumb from the string of his cane, as if he were preparing to take his leave. this latter action, with the great desire i had of disburdening myself, made me instantly resolve to lay my whole plan before him. 'bob,' said i, (he immediately quitted his thumb,) 'you remarked that i looked as if i had been thinking of something,--your remark is just, and i'll tell you the subject of my thought. you know, bob, that i always had a strong passion for literature:--you have often seen my collection of books, not very large indeed, however i believe i have read every volume of it twice over, (excepting ----'_s divine legation of moses_, and ----'_s lives of the most notorious malefactors_,) and i am now determined to profit by them.' i concluded with a very significant nod; but, good heavens! how mortified was i to find both my speech and my nod thrown away, when rudliche calmly replied, with the true phlegm of ignorance, 'my dear friend, i think your resolution in regard to your books a very prudent one; but i do not perfectly conceive your plan as to the _profit_; for, though your volumes may be very curious, yet you know they are most of them secondhand.'--i was so vexed with the fellow's stupidity that i had a great mind to punish him by not disclosing a syllable more. however, at last my vanity got the better of my resentment, and i explained to him the whole matter. * * * * * "in examining the beginning of the spectators, &c., i find they are all written by a society.--now i profess to write all myself, though i acknowledge that, on account of a weakness in my eyes, i have got some understrappers who are to write the poetry, &c.... in order to find the different merits of these my subalterns, i stipulated with them that they should let me feed them as i would. this they consented to do, and it is surprising to think what different effects diet has on the writers. the same, who after having been fed two days upon artichokes produced as pretty a copy of verses as ever i saw, on beef was as dull as ditch-water...." "it is a characteristic of fools," says some one, "to be always beginning,"--and this is not the only point in which folly and genius resemble each other. so chillingly indeed do the difficulties of execution succeed to the first ardor of conception, that it is only wonderful there should exist so many finished monuments of genius, or that men of fancy should not oftener have contented themselves with those first vague sketches, in the production of which the chief luxury of intellectual creation lies. among the many literary works shadowed out by sheridan at this time were a collection of occasional poems, and a volume of crazy tales, to the former of which halhed suggests that "the old things they did at harrow out of theocritus" might, with a little pruning, form a useful contribution. the loss of the volume of crazy tales is little to be regretted, as from its title we may conclude it was written in imitation of the clever but licentious productions of john hall stephenson. if the same kind oblivion had closed over the levities of other young authors, who, in the season of folly and the passions, have made their pages the transcript of their lives, it would have been equally fortunate for themselves and the world. but whatever may have been the industry of these youthful authors, the translation of aristaenetus, as i have already stated, was the only fruit of their literary alliance that ever arrived at sufficient maturity for publication. in november, , halhed had completed and forwarded to bath his share of the work, and in the following month we find sheridan preparing, with the assistance of a greek grammar, to complete the task. "the th ult., (says mr. ker, in a letter to him from london, dated dec. , ,) i was favored with yours, and have since been hunting for aristaenetus, whom i found this day, and therefore send to you, together with a greek grammar. i might have dispatched at the same time some numbers of the dictionary, but not having got the last two numbers, was not willing to send any without the whole of what is published, and still less willing to delay aristaenetus's journey by waiting for them." the work alluded to here is the dictionary of arts and sciences, to which sheridan had subscribed, with the view, no doubt, of informing himself upon subjects of which he was as yet wholly ignorant, having left school, like most other young men at his age, as little furnished with the knowledge that is wanted in the world, as a person would be for the demands of a market, who went into it with nothing but a few ancient coins in his pocket. the passion, however, that now began to take possession of his heart was little favorable to his advancement in any serious studies, and it may easily be imagined that, in the neighborhood of miss linley, the arts and sciences were suffered to sleep quietly on their shelves. even the translation of aristaenetus, though a task more suited, from its amatory nature, to the existing temperature of his heart, was proceeded in but slowly; and it appears from one of halhed's letters, that this impatient ally was already counting upon the _spolia opima_ of the campaign, before sheridan had fairly brought his greek grammar into the field. the great object of the former was a visit to bath, and he had set his heart still more anxiously upon it, after a second meeting with miss linley at oxford. but the profits expected from their literary undertakings were the only means to which he looked for the realizing of this dream; and he accordingly implores his friend, with the most comic piteousness, to drive the farce on the stage by main force, and to make aristaenetus sell whether he will or not. in the november of this year we find them discussing the propriety of prefixing their names to the work--sheridan evidently not disinclined to venture, but halhed recommending that they should wait to hear how "sumner and the wise few of their acquaintance" would talk of the book, before they risked anything more than their initials. in answer to sheridan's inquiries as to the extent of sale they may expect in oxford, he confesses that, after three coffee-houses had bought one a-piece, not two more would be sold. that poverty is the best nurse of talent has long been a most humiliating truism; and the fountain of the muses, bursting from a barren rock, is but too apt an emblem of the hard source from which much of the genius of this world has issued. how strongly the young translators of aristaenetus were under the influence of this sort of inspiration appears from every paragraph of halhed's letters, and might easily, indeed, be concluded of sheridan, from the very limited circumstances of his father, who had nothing besides the pension of l a year, conferred upon him in consideration of his literary merits, and the little profits he derived from his lectures in bath, to support with decency himself and his family. the prospects of halhed were much more golden, but he was far too gay and mercurial to be prudent; and from the very scanty supplies which his father allowed him, had quite as little of "le superflu, chose si necessaire," as his friend. but whatever were his other desires and pursuits, a visit to bath,--to that place which contained the two persons he most valued in friendship and in love,--was the grand object of all his financial speculations; and among other ways and means that, in the delay of the expected resources from aristaenetus, presented themselves, was an exhibition of l a year, which the college had lately given him, and with five pounds of which he thought he might venture "adire corinthum." though sheridan had informed his friend that the translation was put to press some time in march, , it does not appear to have been given into the hands of wilkie, the publisher, till the beginning of may, when mr. ker writes thus to bath: "your aristaenetus is in the hands of mr. wilkie, in st. paul's churchyard, and to put you out of suspense at once, will certainly make his appearance about the first of june next, in the form of a neat volume, price s or s d, as may best suit his size, &c., which cannot be more nearly determined at present, i have undertaken the task of correcting for the press.... some of the epistles that i have perused seem to me elegant and poetical; in others i could not observe equal beauty, and here and there i could wish there was some little amendment. you will pardon this liberty i take, and set it down to the account of old-fashioned friendship." mr. ker, to judge from his letters, (which, in addition to their other laudable points, are dated with a precision truly exemplary,) was a very kind, useful, and sensible person, and in the sober hue of his intellect exhibited a striking contrast to the sparkling vivacity of the two sanguine and impatient young wits, whose affairs he so good naturedly undertook to negotiate. at length in august, , aristaenetus made its appearance--contrary to the advice of the bookseller, and of mr. ker, who represented to sheridan the unpropitiousness of the season, particularly for a first experiment in authorship, and advised the postponement of the publication till october. but the translators were too eager for the rich harvest of emolument they had promised themselves, and too full of that pleasing but often fatal delusion--that calenture, under the influence of which young voyagers to the shores of fame imagine they already see her green fields and groves in the treacherous waves around them--to listen to the suggestions of mere calculating men of business. the first account they heard of the reception of the work was flattering enough to prolong awhile this dream of vanity. "it begins (writes mr. ker, in about a fortnight after the publication,) to make some noise, and is fathered on mr. johnson, author of the english dictionary, &c. see to-day's gazetteer. the critics are admirable in discovering a concealed author by his style, manner, &c." their disappointment at the ultimate failure of the book was proportioned, we may suppose, to the sanguineness of their first expectations. but the reluctance with which an author yields to the sad certainty of being unread, is apparent in the eagerness with which halhed avails himself of every encouragement for a rally of his hopes. the critical reviewers, it seems, had given the work a tolerable character, and quoted the first epistle. [footnote: in one of the reviews i have seen it thus spoken of:--"no such writer as aristaenetus ever existed in the classic era; nor did even the unhappy schools, after the destruction of the eastern empire, produce such a writer. it was left to the latter times of monkish imposition to give such trash as this, on which the translator has ill spent his time. we have been as idly employed in reading it, and our readers will in proportion lose their time in perusing this article."] the weekly review in the public ledger had also spoken well of it, and cited a specimen. the oxford magazine had transcribed two whole epistles, without mentioning from whence they were taken. every body, he says, seemed to have read the book, and one of those _hawking booksellers_ who attend the coffeehouses assured him it was written by dr. armstrong, author of the oeconomy of love. on the strength of all this he recommends that another volume of the epistles should be published immediately--being of opinion that the readers of the first volume would be sure to purchase the second, and that the publication of the second would put it in the heads of others to buy the first. under a sentence containing one of these sanguine anticipations, there is written, in sheridan's hand, the word "quixote!" they were never, of course, called upon for the second part, and, whether we consider the merits of the original or of the translation, the world has but little to regret in the loss. aristaenetus is one of those weak, florid sophists, who flourished in the decline and degradation of ancient literature, and strewed their gaudy flowers of rhetoric over the dead muse of greece. he is evidently of a much later period than alciphron, to whom he is also very inferior in purity of diction, variety of subject, and playfulness of irony. but neither of them ever deserved to be wakened from that sleep, in which the commentaries of bergler, de pauw, and a few more such industrious scholars have shrouded them. the translators of aristaenetus, in rendering his flowery prose into verse, might have found a precedent and model for their task in ben jonson, whose popular song, "drink to me only with thine eyes," is, as mr. cumberland first remarked, but a piece of fanciful mosaic, collected out of the love-letters of the sophist philostratus. but many of the narrations in aristaenetus are incapable of being elevated into poetry; and, unluckily, these familiar parts seem chiefly to have fallen to the department of halhed, who was far less gifted than his coadjutor with that artist-like touch, which polishes away the mark of vulgarity, and gives an air of elegance even to poverty. as the volume is not in many hands, the following extract from one of the epistles may be acceptable --as well from the singularity of the scene described, as from the specimen it affords of the merits of the translation: "listen--another pleasure i display, that help'd delightfully the time away. from distant vales, where bubbles from its source a crystal rill, they dug a winding course: see! thro' the grove a narrow lake extends, crosses each plot, to each plantation bends; and while the fount in new meanders glides, the forest brightens with refreshing tides. tow'rds us they taught the new-born stream to flow, tow'rds us it crept, irresolute and slow; scarce had the infant current crickled by, when lo! a wondrous fleet attracts our eye; laden with draughts might greet a monarch's tongue, the mimic navigation swam along. hasten, ye ship-like goblets, down the vale, [footnote: "in the original, this luxurious image is pursued so far that the very leaf which is represented as the sail of the vessel, is particularized as of a medicinal nature, capable of preventing any ill effects the wine might produce."--_note by the translator.] your freight a flagon, and a leaf your sail; o may no envious rush thy course impede, or floating apple stop thy tide-born speed. his mildest breath a gentle zephyr gave; the little vessels trimly stem'd the wave: their precious merchandise to land they bore, and one by one resigned the balmy store. stretch but a hand, we boarded them, and quaft with native luxury the tempered draught. for where they loaded the nectareous fleet, the goblet glow'd with too intense a heat; cool'd by degrees in these convivial ships, with nicest taste it met our thirsty lips." as a scholar, such as halhed, could hardly have been led into the mistake, of supposing [greek: pa medika phuxa phullon] to mean "a leaf of a medicinal nature," we may, perhaps, from this circumstance not less than from the superior workmanship of the verses, attribute the whole of this epistle and notes to sheridan. there is another epistle, the th, as evidently from the pen of his friend, the greater part of which is original, and shows, by its raciness and vigor, what difference there is between "the first sprightly runnings" of an author's own mind, and his cold, vapid transfusion of the thoughts of another. from stanza th to the end is all added by the translator, and all spirited--though full of a bold defying libertinism, as unlike as possible to the effeminate lubricity of the poor sophist, upon whom, in a grave, treacherous note, the responsibility of the whole is laid. but by far the most interesting part of the volume is the last epistle of the book, "from a lover resigning his mistress to his friend,"--in which halhed has contrived to extract from the unmeaningness of the original a direct allusion to his own fate; and, forgetting aristaenetus and his dull personages, thinks only of himself, and sheridan, and miss linley. "thee, then, my friend,--if yet a wretch may claim a last attention by that once dear name,-- thee i address:--the cause you must approve; i yield you--what i cannot cease to love. be thine the blissful lot, the nymph be thine: i yield my love,--sure, friendship may be mine. yet must no thought of me torment thy breast; forget me, if my griefs disturb thy rest, whilst still i'll pray that thou may'st never know the pangs of baffled love, or feel my woe. but sure to thee, dear, charming--fatal maid! (for me thou'st charmed, and me thou hast betray'd,) this last request i need not recommend-- forget the lover thou, as he the friend. bootless such charge! for ne'er did pity move a heart that mock'd the suit of humble love. yet, in some thoughtful hour--if such can be, where love, timocrates, is join'd with thee-- in some lone pause of joy, when pleasures pall, and fancy broods o'er joys it can't recall, haply a thought of me, (for thou, my friend, may'st then have taught that stubborn heart to bend,) a thought of him whose passion was not weak, may dash one transient blush upon her cheek; haply a tear--(for i shall surely then be past all power to raise her scorn again--) haply, i say, one self-dried tear may fall:-- one tear she'll give, for whom i yielded all! * * * * * * * * * * my life has lost its aim!--that fatal fair was all its object, all its hope or care: she was the goal, to which my course was bent, where every wish, where every thought was sent; a secret influence darted from her eyes,-- each look, attraction, and herself the prize. concentred there, i liv'd for her alone; to make her glad and to be blest was one. * * * * * * * * * * adieu, my friend,--nor blame this _sad_ adieu, though sorrow guides my pen, it blames not you. forget me--'tis my pray'r; nor seek to know the fate of him whose portion must be woe, till the cold earth outstretch her friendly arms, and death convince me that he _can_ have charms." but halhed's was not the only heart that sighed deeply and hopelessly for the young maid of bath, who appears, indeed, to have spread her gentle conquests to an extent almost unparalleled in the annals of beauty. her personal charms, the exquisiteness of her musical talents, and the full light of publicity which her profession threw upon both, naturally attracted round her a crowd of admirers, in whom the sympathy of a common pursuit soon kindled into rivalry, till she became at length an object of vanity as well as of love. her extreme youth, too,--for she was little more than sixteen when sheridan first met her,--must have removed, even from minds the most fastidious and delicate, that repugnance they might justly have felt to her profession, if she had lived much longer under its tarnishing influence, or lost, by frequent exhibitions before the public, that fine gloss of feminine modesty, for whose absence not all the talents and accomplishments of the whole sex can atone. she had been, even at this early age, on the point of marriage with mr. long, an old gentleman of considerable fortune in wiltshire, who proved the reality of his attachment to her in a way which few young lovers would be romantic enough to imitate. on her secretly representing to him that she never could be happy as his wife, he generously took upon himself the whole blame of breaking off the alliance, and even indemnified the father, who was proceeding to bring the transaction into court, by settling l upon his daughter. mr. sheridan, who owed to this liberal conduct not only the possession of the woman he loved, but the means of supporting her during the first years of their marriage, spoke invariably of mr. long, who lived to a very advanced age, with all the kindness and respect which such a disinterested character merited. it was about the middle of the year that the sheridans took up their residence in king's mead [footnote: they also lived, during a part of their stay at bath, in new king street.] street, bath, where an acquaintance commenced between them and mr. linley's family, which the kindred tastes of the young people soon ripened into intimacy. it was not to be expected,--though parents, in general, are as blind to the first approach of these dangers as they are rigid and unreasonable after they have happened,--that such youthful poets and musicians [footnote: dr. burney, in his biographical sketch of mr. linley, written for rees' cyclopaedia, calls the linley family "a nest of nightingales." the only surviving member of this accomplished family is mr. william linley, whose taste and talent, both in poetry and music, most worthily sustain the reputation of the name that he bears.]--should come together without love very soon making one of the party. accordingly the two brothers became deeply enamored of miss linley. her heart, however, was not so wholly un-preoccupied as to yield at once to the passion which her destiny had in store for her. one of those transient preferences, which in early youth are mistaken for love, had already taken lively possession of her imagination; and to this the following lines, written at that time by mr. sheridan, allude: to the recording angel. cherub of heaven, that from my secret stand dost note the follies of each mortal here, oh, if eliza's steps employ thy hand, blot the sad legend with a mortal tear. nor when she errs, through passion's wild extreme, mark then her course, nor heed each trifling wrong; nor, when her sad attachment is her theme, note down the transports of her erring tongue. but, when she sighs for sorrows not her own, let that dear sigh to mercy's cause be given; and bear that tear to her creator's throne, which glistens in the eye upraised to heaven! but in love, as in everything else, the power of a mind like sheridan's must have made itself felt through all obstacles and difficulties. he was not long in winning the entire affections of the young "syren," though the number and wealth of his rivals, the ambitious views of her father, and the temptations to which she herself was hourly exposed, kept his jealousies and fears perpetually on the watch. he is supposed, indeed, to have been indebted to self-observation for that portrait of a wayward and morbidly sensitive lover, which he has drawn so strikingly in the character of falkland. with a mind in this state of feverish wakefulness, it is remarkable that he should so long have succeeded in concealing his attachment from the eyes of those most interested in discovering it. even his brother charles was for some time wholly unaware of their rivalry, and went on securely indulging in a passion which it was hardly possible, with such opportunities of intercourse, to resist, and which survived long after miss linley's selection of another had extinguished every hope in his heart, but that of seeing her happy. halhed, too, who at that period corresponded constantly with sheridan, and confided to him the love with which he also had been inspired by this enchantress, was for a length of time left in the same darkness upon the subject, and without the slightest suspicion that the epidemic had reached his friend, whose only mode of evading the many tender inquiries and messages with which halhed's letters abounded, was by referring to answers which had by some strange fatality miscarried, and which, we may conclude, without much uncharitableness, had never been written. miss linley went frequently to oxford, to perform at the oratorios and concerts; and it may easily be imagined that the ancient allegory of the muses throwing chains over cupid was here reversed, and the quiet shades of learning not a little disturbed by the splendor of these "angel visits." the letters of halhed give a lively idea, not only of his own intoxication, but of the sort of contagious delirium, like that at abdera described by lucian, with which the young men of oxford were affected by this beautiful girl. in describing her singing he quotes part of a latin letter which he himself had written to a friend upon first hearing her; and it is a curious proof of the readiness of sheridan, notwithstanding his own fertility, to avail himself of the thoughts of others, that we find in this extract, word for word, the same extravagant comparison of the effects of music to the process of egyptian embalmment--"extracting the brain through the ears"--which was afterwards transplanted into the dialogue of the duenna: "_mortuum quondam ante aegypti medici quam pollincirent cerebella de auribus unco quodam hamo solebant extrahere; sic de meis auribus non cerebrum, sed cor ipsum exhausit lusciniola, &c., &c._" he mentions, as the rivals most dreaded by her admirers, norris, the singer, whose musical talents, it was thought, recommended him to her, and mr. watts, a gentleman commoner, of very large fortune. while all hearts and tongues were thus occupied about miss linley, it is not wonderful that rumors of matrimony and elopement should, from time to time, circulate among her apprehensive admirers; or that the usual ill-compliment should be paid to her sex of supposing that wealth must be the winner of the prize. it was at one moment currently reported at oxford that she had gone off to scotland with a young man of l , a year, and the panic which the intelligence spread is described in one of these letters to sheridan, (who, no doubt, shared in it) as producing "long faces" everywhere. not only, indeed, among her numerous lovers, but among all who delighted in her public performances, an alarm would naturally be felt at the prospect of her becoming private property: "_te juga taygeti, posito te maenala flebunt venatu, maestoque diu lugebere cyntho. delphica quinetiam fratris delubra tacebunt._" [footnote: claudian. de rapt. proserp. lib. ii. v. .] thee, thee, when hurried from our eyes away, laconia's hills shall mourn for many a day-- the arcadian hunter shall forget his chase, and turn aside to think upon that face; while many an hour apollo's songless shrine shall wait in silence for a voice like thine! but to the honor of her sex, which is, in general, more disinterested than the other, it was found that neither rank nor wealth had influenced her heart in its election; and halhed, who, like others, had estimated the strength of his rivals by their rent-rolls, discovered at last that his unpretending friend, sheridan, (whose advances in courtship and in knowledge seem to have been equally noiseless and triumphant,) was the chosen favorite of her, at whose feet so many fortunes lay. like that saint, cecilia, by whose name she was always called, she had long welcomed to her soul a secret visitant, [footnote: "the youth, found in her chamber, had in his hand two crowns or wreaths, the one of lilies, the other of roses, which he had brought from paradise."--_legend of st. cecilia_.] whose gifts were of a higher and more radiant kind than the mere wealthy and lordly of this world can proffer. a letter, written by halhed on the prospect of his departure for india, [footnote: the letter is evidently in answer to one which he had just received from sheridan, in which miss linley had written a few words expressive of her wishes for his health and happiness. mr. halhed sailed for india about the latter end of this year.] alludes so delicately to this discovery, and describes the state of his own heart so mournfully, that i must again, in parting with him and his correspondence, express the strong regret that i feel at not being able to indulge the reader with a perusal of these letters. not only as a record of the first short flights of sheridan's genius, but as a picture, from the life, of the various feelings of youth, its desires and fears, its feverish hopes and fanciful melancholy, they could not have failed to be read with the deepest interest. to this period of mr. sheridan's life we are indebted for most of those elegant love-verses, which are so well known and so often quoted. the lines "uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone," were addressed to miss linley, after having offended her by one of those lectures upon decorum of conduct, which jealous lovers so frequently inflict upon their mistresses,--and the grotto, immortalized by their quarrel, is supposed to have been in spring gardens, then the fashionable place of resort in bath. i have elsewhere remarked that the conceit in the following stanza resembles a thought in some verses of angerianus:-- and thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew, let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve as tears of my sorrow entrusted to you. _at quum per niveam cervicem influxerit humor dicite non roris sed pluvia haec lacrimae._ whether sheridan was likely to have been a reader of angerianus is, i think, doubtful--at all events the coincidence is curious. "dry be that tear, my gentlest love," is supposed to have been written at a later period; but it was most probably produced at the time of his courtship, for he wrote but few love verses after his marriage--like the nightingale (as a french editor of bonefonius says, in remarking a similar circumstance of that poet) "qui developpe le charme de sa voix tant qu'il vent plaire a sa compagne--sont-ils unis? il se tait, il n'a plus le besoin de lui plaire." this song having been hitherto printed incorrectly, i shall give it here, as it is in the copies preserved by his relations. dry be that tear, my gentlest love, be hush'd that struggling sigh, nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove more fix'd, more true than i. hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.-- dry be that tear. ask'st thou how long my love will stay, when all that's new is past;-- how long, ah delia, can i say how long my life will last? dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh, at least i'll love thee till i die.-- hush'd be that sigh. and does that thought affect thee too, the thought of sylvio's death, that he who only breathed for you, must yield that faithful breath? hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, nor let us lose our heaven here.-- dry be that tear. [footnote: an elegy by halhed, transcribed in one of his letters to sheridan, begins thus: "dry be that tear, be hush'd that struggling sigh."] there is in the second stanza here a close resemblance to one of the madrigals of montreuil, a french poet, to whom sir j. moore was indebted for the point of his well known verses, "if in that breast, so good, so pure." [footnote: the grief that on my quiet preys, that rends my heart and checks my tongue, i fear will last me all my days, and feel it will not last me long. it is thus in montreuil: c'est un mal que j'aurai tout le terns de ma vie mais je ne l'aurai pas long-tems.] mr. sheridan, however, knew nothing of french, and neglected every opportunity of learning it, till, by a very natural process, his ignorance of the language grew into hatred of it. besides, we have the immediate source from which he derived the thought of this stanza, in one of the essays of hume, who, being a reader of foreign literature, most probably found it in montreuil. [footnote: or in an italian song of menage, from which montreuil, who was accustomed to such thefts, most probably stole it. the point in the italian is, as far as i can remember it, expressed thus: in van, o filli, tu chiedi se lungamente durera pardore * * * * * chi lo potrebbe dire? incerta, o filli, e l'ora del morire.] the passage in hume (which sheridan has done little more than versify) is as follows:--"why so often ask me, _how long my love shall yet endure?_ alas, my caelia, can i resolve the question? _do i know how long my life shall yet endure?"_ [footnote: the epicurean] the pretty lines, "mark'd you her cheek of rosy hue?" were written not upon miss linley, as has been generally stated, but upon lady margaret fordyce, and form part of a poem which he published in , descriptive of the principal beauties of bath, entitled "clio's protest, or the picture varnished,"--being an answer to some verses by mr. miles peter andrews, called "the bath picture," in which lady margaret was thus introduced: "remark too the dimpling, sweet smile lady marg'ret's fine countenance wears." the following is the passage in mr. sheridan's poem, entire; and the beauty of the six favorite lines shines out so conspicuously, that we cannot wonder at their having been so soon detached, like ill-set jems, from the loose and clumsy workmanship around them. "but, hark!--did not our bard repeat the love-born name of m-rg-r-t?-- attention seizes every ear; "we pant for the description _here_: if ever dulness left thy brow, '_pindar,_' we say, ''twill leave thee now.' but o! old dulness' son anointed his mother never disappointed!-- and here we all were left to seek a dimple in f-rd-ce's cheek! "and could you really discover, in gazing those sweet beauties over, no other charm, no winning grace, adorning either mind or face, but one poor _dimple_ to express the _quintessence_ of _loveliness_? ....mark'd you her cheek of rosy hue? mark'd you her eye of sparkling blue? that eye in liquid circles moving; that cheek abash'd at man's approving; the _one_, love's arrows darting round; the _other_, blushing at the wound: did she not speak, did she not move, now _pallas_--now the queen of love!" there is little else in this poem worth being extracted, though it consists of about four hundred lines; except, perhaps, his picture of a good country housewife, which affords an early specimen of that neat pointedness of phrase, which gave his humor, both poetic and dramatic, such a peculiar edge and polish:-- "we see the dame, in rustic pride, a bunch of keys to grace her side, stalking across the well-swept entry, to hold her council in the pantry; or, with prophetic soul, foretelling the peas will boil well by the shelling; or, bustling in her private closet, prepare her lord his morning posset; and, while the hallowed mixture thickens, signing death-warrants for the chickens: else, greatly pensive, poring o'er accounts her cook had thumbed before; one eye cast up upon that _great book_, yclep'd _the family receipt book_; by which she's ruled in all her courses, from stewing figs to drenching horses. --then pans and pickling skillets rise, in dreadful lustre, to our eyes, with store of sweetmeats, rang'd in order, and _potted nothings_ on the border; while salves and caudle-cups between, with squalling children, close the scene." we find here, too, the source of one of those familiar lines, which so many quote without knowing whence they come;--one of those stray fragments, whose parentage is doubtful, but to which (as the law says of illegitimate children) "_pater est populus_." "you write with ease, to show your breeding, _but easy writing's curst hard reading_." in the following passage, with more of the tact of a man of the world than the ardor of a poet, he dismisses the object nearest his heart with the mere passing gallantry of a compliment:-- "o! should your genius ever rise, and make you _laureate_ in the skies, i'd hold my life, in twenty years, you'd spoil the _music_ of the _spheres_. --nay, should the rapture-breathing nine in one celestial concert join, their sovereign's power to rehearse, --were you to furnish them with verse, by jove, i'd fly the heavenly throng, though _phoebus_ play'd and _linley_ sung." on the opening of the new assembly rooms at bath, which commenced with a ridotto, sept. , , he wrote a humorous description of the entertainment, called "an epistle from timothy screw to his brother henry, waiter at almack's," which appeared first in the bath chronicle, and was so eagerly sought after, that crutwell, the editor, was induced to publish it in a separate form. the allusions in this trifle have, of course, lost their zest by time; and a specimen or two of its humor will be all that is necessary here. "two rooms were first opened--the _long_ and the _round_ one, (these _hogstyegon_ names only serve to confound one,) both splendidly lit with the new chandeliers, with drops hanging down like the bobs at peg's ears: while jewels of _paste_ reflected the rays, and _bristol-stone_ diamonds gave strength to the blaze: so that it was doubtful, to view the bright clusters, which sent the most light out, the ear-rings or lustres. * * * * nor less among you was the medley, ye fair! i believe there were some besides quality there: miss _spiggot_, miss _brussels_, miss _tape_, and miss _socket_, miss _trinket_, and aunt, with her leathern pocket, with good mrs. _soaker_, who made her old chin go, for hours, hobnobbing with mrs. _syringo_: had tib staid at home, i b'lieve none would have miss'd her, or pretty _peg runt_, with her tight little sister," &c. &c. chapter ii. duels with mr. mathews.--marriage with miss linley. towards the close of the year , the elder mr. sheridan went to dublin, to perform at the theatre of that city,--leaving his young and lively family at bath, with nothing but their hearts and imaginations to direct them. the following letters, which passed between him and his son richard during his absence, though possessing little other interest than that of having been written at such a period, will not, perhaps, be unwelcome to the reader:-- "dublin, dec. th, . "my dear richard, "how could you be so wrong-headed as to commence cold bathing at such a season of the year, and i suppose without any preparation too? you have paid sufficiently for your folly, but i hope the ill effects of it have been long since over. you and your brother are fond of quacking, a most dangerous disposition with regard to health. let slight things pass away themselves; in a case that requires assistance do nothing without advice. mr. crook is a very able man in his way. should a physician be at any time wanting, apply to dr. nesbitt, and tell him at leaving bath i recommended you all to his care. this indeed i intended to have mentioned to him, but it slipped my memory. i forgot mr. crook's bill, too, but desire i may have the amount by the next letter. pray what is the meaning of my hearing so seldom from bath? six weeks here, and but two letters! you were very tardy; what are your sisters about? i shall not easily forgive any future omissions. i suppose charles received my answer to his, and the _l_ from whately. i shall order another to be sent at christmas for the rent and other necessaries. i have not time at present to enter upon the subject of english authors, &c. but shall write to you upon that head when i get a little leisure. nothing can be conceived in a more deplorable state than the stage of dublin. i found two miserable companies opposing and starving each other. i chose the least bad of them; and, wretched as they are, it has had no effect on my nights, numbers having been turned away every time i played, and the receipts have been larger than when i had barry, his wife, and mrs. fitz-henry to play with me. however, i shall not be able to continue it long, as there is no possibility of getting up a sufficient number of plays with such poor materials. i purpose to have done the week after next, and apply vigorously to the material point which brought me over. i find all ranks and parties very zealous for forwarding my scheme, and have reason to believe it will be carried in parliament after the recess, without opposition. it was in vain to have attempted it before, for never was party violence [footnote: the money-bill, brought forward this year under lord townsend's administration, encountered violent opposition, and was finally rejected.] carried to such a height as in this sessions; the house seldom breaking up till eleven or twelve at night. from these contests, the desire of improving in the article of elocution is become very general. there are no less than five persons of rank and fortune now waiting my leisure to become my pupils. remember me to all friends, particularly to our good landlord and landlady. i am, with love and blessing to you all, "your affectionate father, "thomas sheridan. "p. s.--tell your sisters i shall send the poplins as soon as i can get an opportunity." "dear father, "we have been for some time in hopes of receiving a letter, that we might know that you had acquitted us of neglect in writing. at the same time we imagine that the time is not far when writing will be unnecessary; and we cannot help wishing to know the posture of the affairs, which, as you have not talked of returning, seem probable to detain you longer than you intended. i am perpetually asked when mr. sheridan is to have his patent for the theatre, which all the irish here take for granted, and i often receive a great deal of information from them on the subject. yet i cannot help being vexed when i see in the dublin papers such bustling accounts of the proceedings of your house of commons, as i remember it was your argument against attempting any thing from parliamentary authority in england. however, the folks here regret you, as one that is to be fixed in another kingdom, and will scarcely believe that you will ever visit bath at all; and we are often asked if we have not received the letter which is to call us over. "i could scarcely have conceived that the winter was so near departing, were i not now writing after dinner by daylight. indeed the first winter-season is not yet over at bath. they have balls, concerts, &c. at the rooms, from the old subscription still, and the spring ones are immediately to succeed them. they are likewise going to perform oratorios here. mr. linley and his whole family, down to the seven year olds, are to support one set at the new rooms, and a band of singers from london another at the old. our weather here, or the effects of it, have been so uninviting to all kinds of birds, that there has not been the smallest excuse to take a gun into the fields this winter;--a point more to the regret of charles than myself. "we are all now in dolefuls for the princess dowager; but as there was no necessity for our being dressed or weeping mourners, we were easily provided. our acquaintances stand pretty much the same as when you left us,--only that i think in general we are less intimate, by which i believe you will not think us great losers. indeed, excepting mr. wyndham, i have not met with one person with whom i would wish to be intimate; though there was a mr. lutterel, (brother to the colonel,)-- who was some months ago introduced to me by an old harrow acquaintance, --who made me many professions at parting, and wanted me vastly to name some way in which he could be useful to me; but the relying on _acquaintances_, or _seeking_ of friendships, is a fault which i think i shall always have prudence to avoid. "lissy begins to be tormented again with the tooth-ache;--otherwise, we are all well. "i am, sir, your sincerely dutiful and affectionate son, "friday, feb. . "r. b. sheridan. "i beg you will not judge of my attention to the improvement of my hand- writing by this letter, as i am out of the way of a better pen." charles sheridan, now one-and-twenty, the oldest and gravest of the party, finding his passion for miss linley increase every day, and conscious of the imprudence of yielding to it any further, wisely determined to fly from the struggle altogether. having taken a solemn farewell of her in a letter, which his youngest sister delivered, he withdrew to a farm-house about seven or eight miles from bath, little suspecting that he left his brother in full possession of that heart, of which he thus reluctantly and hopelessly raised the siege. nor would this secret perhaps have been discovered for some time, had not another lover, of a less legitimate kind than either, by the alarming importunity of his courtship, made an explanation on all sides necessary. captain mathews, a married man and intimate with miss linley's family, presuming upon the innocent familiarity which her youth and his own station permitted between them, had for some time not only rendered her remarkable by his indiscreet attentions in public, but had even persecuted her in private with those unlawful addresses and proposals, which a timid female will sometimes rather endure, than encounter that share of the shame, which may be reflected upon herself by their disclosure. to the threat of self-destruction, often tried with effect in these cases, he is said to have added the still more unmanly menace of ruining, at least, her reputation, if he could not undermine her virtue. terrified by his perseverance, and dreading the consequences of her father's temper, if this violation of his confidence and hospitality were exposed to him, she at length confided her distresses to richard sheridan; who, having consulted with his sister, and, for the first time, disclosed to her the state of his heart with respect to miss linley, lost no time in expostulating with mathews, upon the cruelty, libertinism, and fruitlessness of his pursuit. such a remonstrance, however, was but little calculated to conciliate the forbearance of this professed man of gallantry, who, it appears by the following allusion to him under the name of lothario, in a poem written by sheridan at the time, still counted upon the possibility of gaining his object, or, at least, blighting the fruit which he could not reach:-- nor spare the flirting _cassoc'd rogue_, nor ancient cullin's polish'd brogue; nor gay _lothario's_ nobler name, that _nimrod_ to all female fame. in consequence of this persecution, and an increasing dislike to her profession, which made her shrink more and more from the gaze of the many, in proportion as she became devoted to the love of one, she adopted, early in , the romantic resolution of flying secretly to france and taking refuge in a convent,--intending, at the same time, to indemnify her father, to whom she was bound till the age of , by the surrender to him of part of the sum which mr. long had settled upon her. sheridan, who, it is probable, had been the chief adviser of her flight, was, of course, not slow in offering to be the partner of it. his sister, whom he seems to have persuaded that his conduct in this affair arose solely from a wish to serve miss linley, as a friend, without any design or desire to take advantage of her elopement, as a lover, not only assisted them with money out of her little fund for house-expenses, but gave them letters of introduction to a family with whom she had been acquainted at st. quentin. on the evening appointed for their departure,--while mr. linley, his eldest son, and miss maria linley, were engaged at a concert, from which the young cecilia herself had been, on a plea of illness, excused,--she was conveyed by sheridan in a sedan-chair from her father's house in the crescent, to a post-chaise which waited for them on the london road, and in which she found a woman whom her lover had hired, as a sort of protecting minerva, to accompany them in their flight. it will be recollected that sheridan was at this time little more than twenty, and his companion just entering her eighteenth year. on their arrival in london, with an adroitness which was, at least, very dramatic, he introduced her to an old friend of his family, (mr. ewart, a respectable brandy-merchant in the city,) as a rich heiress who had consented to elope with him to the continent;--in consequence of which the old gentleman, with many commendations of his wisdom for having given up the imprudent pursuit of miss linley, not only accommodated the fugitives with a passage on board a ship, which he had ready to sail from the port of london to dunkirk, but gave them letters of recommendation to his correspondents at that place, who with the same zeal and dispatch facilitated their journey to lisle. on their leaving dunkirk, as was natural to expect, the chivalrous and disinterested protector degenerated into a mere selfish lover. it was represented by him, with arguments which seemed to appeal to prudence as well as feeling, that, after the step which they had taken, she could not possibly appear in england again but as his wife. he was therefore, he said, resolved not to deposit her in a convent till she had consented, by the ceremony of a marriage, to confirm to him that right of protecting her, which he had now but temporarily assumed. it did not, we may suppose, require much eloquence to convince her heart of the truth of this reasoning; and, accordingly, at a little village, not far from calais, they were married about the latter end of march, , by a priest well known for his services on such occasions. they thence immediately proceeded to lisle, where miss linley, as she must still be called, giving up her intention of going on to st. quentin, procured an apartment in a convent, with the determination of remaining there, till sheridan should have the means of supporting her as his acknowledged wife. a letter which he wrote to his brother from this place, dated april , though it throws but little additional light on the narrative, is too interesting an illustration of it to be omitted here: "dear brother, "most probably you will have thought me very inexcusable for not having writ to you. you will be surprised, too, to be told that, except your letter just after we arrived, we have never received one line from bath. we suppose for certain that there are letters somewhere, in which case we shall have sent to every place almost but the right, whither, i hope, i have now sent also. you will soon see me in england. everything on our side has at last succeeded. miss l--- is now fixing in a convent, where she has been entered some time. this has been a much more difficult point than you could have imagined, and we have, i find, been extremely fortunate. she has been ill, but is now recovered; this, too, has delayed me. we would have wrote, but have been kept in the most tormenting expectation, from day to day, of receiving your letters; but as everything is now so happily settled here, i will delay no longer giving you that information, though probably i shall set out for england without knowing a syllable of what has happened with you. all is well, i hope; and i hope, too, that though you may have been ignorant, for some time, of our proceedings, _you_ never could have been uneasy lest anything should tempt me to depart, even in a thought, from the honor and consistency which engaged me at first. i wrote to m--- [footnote: mathews] above a week ago, which, i think, was necessary and right. i hope he has acted the one proper part which was left him; and, to speak from my _feelings_, i cannot but say that i shall be very happy to find no further disagreeable consequence pursuing him; for, as brutus says of caesar, &c.--if i delay one moment longer, i lose the post. "i have writ now, too, to mr. adams, and should apologize to you for having writ to him first, and lost my time for you. love to my sisters, miss l--- to all. "ever, charles, your affect. brother, "r. b. sheridan. "i need not tell you that we altered quite our route." the illness of miss linley, to which he alludes, and which had been occasioned by fatigue and agitation of mind, came on some days after her retirement to the convent; but an english physician, dr. dolman, of york, who happened to be resident at lisle at the time, was called in to attend her; and in order that she might be more directly under his care, he and mrs. dolman invited her to their house, where she was found by mr. linley, on his arrival in pursuit of her. after a few words of private explanation from sheridan, which had the effect of reconciling him to his truant daughter, mr. linley insisted upon her returning with him immediately to england, in order to fulfil some engagements which he had entered into on her account; and a promise being given that, as soon as these engagements were accomplished, she should be allowed to resume her plan of retirement at lisle, the whole party set off amicably together for england. on the first discovery of the elopement, the landlord of the house in which the sheridans resided had, from a feeling of pity for the situation of the young ladies,--now left without the protection of either father or brother,--gone off, at break of day, to the retreat of charles sheridan, and informed him of the event which had just occurred. poor charles, wholly ignorant till then of his brother's attachment to miss linley, felt all that a man may be supposed to feel, who had but too much reason to think himself betrayed, as well as disappointed. he hastened to bath, where he found a still more furious lover, mr. mathews, inquiring at the house every particular of the affair, and almost avowing, in the impotence of his rage, the unprincipled design which this summary step had frustrated. in the course of their conversation, charles sheridan let fall some unguarded expressions of anger against his brother, which this gentleman, who seems to have been eminently qualified for a certain line of characters indispensable in all romances, treasured up in his memory, and, as it will appear, afterwards availed himself of them. for the four or five weeks during which the young couple were absent, he never ceased to haunt the sheridan family, with inquiries, rumors, and other disturbing visitations; and, at length, urged on by the restlessness of revenge, inserted the following violent advertisement in the bath chronicle: "wednesday, april th, . "mr. richard s--- having attempted, in a letter left behind him for that purpose, to account for his scandalous method of running away from this place, by insinuations derogating from _my_ character, and that of a young lady, innocent as far as relates to _me_, or _my_ knowledge; since which he has neither taken any notice of letters, or even informed his own family of the place where he has hid himself; i can no longer think he deserves the treatment of a gentleman, and therefore shall trouble myself no further about him than, in this public method, to post him as a l---, and a treacherous s---. "and as i am convinced there have been many malevolent incendiaries concerned in the propagation of this infamous lie, if any of them, unprotected by _age_, _infirmities_, or profession, will dare to acknowledge the part they have acted, and affirm _to_ what they have said _of_ me, they may depend on receiving the proper reward of their villany, in the most public manner. the world will be candid enough to judge properly (i make no doubt) of any private abuse on this subject for the future; as nobody can defend himself from an accusation he is ignorant of. "thomas mathews." on a remonstrance from miss sheridan upon this outrageous proceeding, he did not hesitate to assert that her brother charles was privy to it;--a charge which the latter with indignation repelled, and was only prevented by the sudden departure of mathews to london from calling him to a more serious account for the falsehood. at this period the party from the continent arrived; and as a detail of the circumstances which immediately followed has been found in mr. sheridan's own hand-writing,--drawn up hastily, it appears, at the parade coffee-house, bath, the evening before his second duel with mr. mathews,--it would be little better than profanation to communicate them in any other words. "it has ever been esteemed impertinent to appeal to the public in concerns entirely private; but there now and then occurs a _private_ incident which, by being explained, may be productive of _public_ advantage. this consideration, and the precedent of a public appeal in the same affair, are my only apologies for the following lines:-- "mr. t. mathews thought himself essentially injured by mr. e. sheridan's having co-operated in the virtuous efforts of a young lady to escape the snares of vice and dissimulation. he wrote several most abusive threats to mr. s., then in france. he labored, with a cruel industry, to vilify his character in england. he publicly posted him as a scoundrel and a liar. mr. s. answered him from france (hurried and surprised), that he would never sleep in england till he had thanked him as he deserved. "mr. s. arrived in london at o'clock at night. at he is informed, by mr. s. ewart, that mr. m. is in town. mr. s. had sat up at canterbury, to keep his idle promise to mr. m.--he resolved to call on him that night, as, in case he had not found him in town, he had called on mr. ewart to accompany him to bath, being bound by mr. linley not to let anything pass between him and mr. m. till he had arrived thither. mr. s. came to mr. cochlin's, in crutched friars, (where mr. m. was lodged,) about half after twelve. the key of mr. c.'s door was lost; mr. s. was denied admittance. by two o'clock he got in. mr. m. had been previously down to the door, and told mr. s. he should be admitted, and had retired to bed again. he dressed, complained of the cold, endeavored to get heat into him, called mr. s. his _dear friend_, and forced him to--_sit down_. "mr. s. had been informed that mr. m. had sworn his death;--that mr. m. had, in numberless companies, produced bills on france, whither he meant to retire on the completion of his revenge. mr. m. had warned mr. ewart to advise his friend not even to come in his way without a sword, as he could not answer for the consequence. "mr. m. had left two letters for mr. s., in which he declares he is to be met with at any hour, and begs mr. s. will not _'deprive himself of so much sleep, or stand on any ceremony'_. mr. s. called on him at the hour mentioned. mr. s. was admitted with the difficulty mentioned. mr. s. declares that, on mr. m.'s perceiving that he came to answer then to his challenge, he does not remember ever to have seen a _man_ behave so perfectly dastardly. mr. m. detained mr. s. till seven o'clock the next morning. he (mr. m.) said he never meant to quarrel with mr. s. he convinced mr. s. that his enmity ought to be directed solely against his brother and another gentleman at bath. mr. s. went to bath...." [footnote: the remainder of this paper is omitted, as only briefly referring to circumstances which will be found more minutely detailed in another document.] on his arrival in bath, (whither he travelled with miss linley and her father,) sheridan lost not a moment in ascertaining the falsehood of the charge against his brother. while charles, however, indignantly denied the flagitious conduct imputed to him by mathews, he expressed his opinion of the step which sheridan and miss linley had taken, in terms of considerable warmth, which were overheard by some of the family. as soon as the young ladies had retired to bed, the two brothers, without any announcement of their intention, set off post together for london, sheridan having previously written the following letter to mr. wade, the master of the ceremonies. "sir, "i ought to apologize to you for troubling you again on a subject which should concern so few. "i find mr. mathews's behavior to have been such that i cannot be satisfied with his _concession_, as a _consequence_ of an _explanation_ from me. i called on mr. mathews last wednesday night at mr. cochlin's, without the smallest expectation of coming to any _verbal_ explanation with him. a proposal of a _pacific_ meeting the next day was the consequence, which ended in those advertisements and the letter to you. as for mr. mathews's honor or _spirit_ in this whole affair, i shall only add that a few hours may possibly give some proof of the latter; while, in my own justification, i affirm that it was far from being my fault that this point now remains to be determined. "on discovering mr. mathews's _benevolent_ interposition in my own family, i have counter-ordered the advertisements that were agreed on, as i think even an _explanation_ would now misbecome me; an agreement to them was the effect more of mere _charity_ than _judgment_. as i find it necessary to make _all_ my sentiments as public as possible, your declaring this will greatly oblige "g your very humble servant, "r. b. sheridan." "sat. o'clock, may d, . "to william wade, esq." on the following day (sunday), when the young gentlemen did not appear, the alarm of their sisters was not a little increased, by hearing that high words had been exchanged the evening before, and that it was feared a duel between the brothers would be the consequence. though unable to credit this dreadful surmise, yet full of the various apprehensions which such mystery was calculated to inspire, they had instant recourse to miss linley, the fair _helen_ of all this strife, as the person most likely to be acquainted with their brother richard's designs, and to relieve them from the suspense under which they labored. she, however, was as ignorant of the transaction as themselves, and their mutual distress being heightened by sympathy, a scene of tears and fainting-fits ensued, of which no less remarkable a person than doctor priestley, who lodged in mr. linley's house at the time, happened to be a witness. on the arrival of the brothers in town, richard sheridan instantly called mathews out. his second on the occasion was mr. ewart, and the particulars of the duel are thus stated by himself, in a letter which he addressed to captain knight, the second of mathews, soon after the subsequent duel in bath. "sir, "on the evening preceding my last meeting with mr. mathews, mr. barnett [footnote: the friend of mathews in the second duel.] produced a paper to me, written by mr. mathews, containing an account of our former meetings in london. as i had before frequently heard of mr. mathews's relation of that affair, without interesting myself much in contradicting it, i should certainly have treated this in the same manner, had it not been seemingly authenticated by mr. knight's name being subscribed to it. my asserting that the paper contains much misrepresentation, equivocation, and falsity, might make it appear strange that i should apply to you in this manner for information on the subject: but, as it likewise contradicts what i have been told were mr. knight's sentiments and assertions on that affair, i think i owe it to his credit, as well as my own justification, first, to be satisfied from himself whether he really subscribed and will support the truth of the account shown by mr. mathews. give me leave previously to relate what _i_ have affirmed to have been a real state of our meeting in london, and which i am now ready to support on my honor, or my oath, as the best account i can give of mr. mathews's relation is, that it is almost directly opposite to mine. "mr. ewart accompanied me to hyde park, about six in the evening, where we met you and mr. mathews, and we walked together to the ring.--mr. mathews refusing to make any other acknowledgment than he had done, i observed that we were come to the ground: mr. mathews objected to the spot, and appealed to you.--we proceeded to the back of a building on the other side of the ring, the ground was there perfectly level. i called on him and drew my sword (he having previously declined pistols). mr. ewart observed a sentinel on the other side of the building; we advanced to another part of the park. i stopped again at a seemingly convenient place: mr. mathews objected to the observation of some people at a great distance, and proposed to retire to the hercules' pillars till the park should be clear: we did so. in a little time we returned. --i again drew my sword; mr. mathews again objected to the observation of a person who seemed to watch us. mr. ewart observed that the chance was equal, and engaged that no one should stop him, should it be necessary for him to retire to the gate, where we had a chaise and four, which was equally at his service. mr. mathews declared that he would not engage while any one was within sight, and proposed to defer it till next morning. i turned to you and said that 'this was trifling work,' that i could not admit of any delay, and engaged to remove the gentleman (who proved to be an officer, and who, on my going up to him, and assuring him that any interposition would be ill-timed, politely retired). mr. mathews, in the mean time, had returned towards the gate: mr. ewart and i called to you, and followed. we returned to the hercules' pillars, and went from thence, by agreement, to the bedford coffee house, where, the master being alarmed, you came and conducted us to mr. mathews at the castle tavern, henrietta street. mr. ewart took lights up in his hand, and almost immediately on our entering the room we engaged. i struck mr. mathews's point so much out of the line, that i stepped up and caught hold of his wrist, or the hilt of his sword, while the point of mine was at his breast. you ran in and caught hold of my arm, exclaiming, _'don't kill him.'_ i struggled to disengage my arm, and said his sword was in my power. mr. mathews called out twice or thrice, _'i beg my life.'_--we were parted. you immediately said, _'there, he has begged his life, and now there is an end of it;'_ and, on mr. ewart saying that, when his sword was in my power, as i attempted no more you should not have interfered, you replied that you _were wrong_, but that you had _done it hastily, and to prevent mischief_--or words to that effect. mr. mathews then hinted that i was rather _obliged to your interposition_ for the advantage; you declared that '_before_ you did so, both the swords were in mr. sheridan's power.' mr. mathews still seemed resolved to give it another turn, and observed that _he had never quitted his sword_.--provoked at this, i then swore (with too much heat, perhaps) that he should either give up his sword and i would break it, or go to his guard again. he refused-- but, on my persisting, either gave it into my hand, or flung it on the table, or the ground (_which_ i will not absolutely affirm). i broke it, and flung the hilt to the other end of the room. he exclaimed at this. i took a mourning sword from mr. ewart, and presenting him with mine, gave my honor that what had passed should never be mentioned by me, and he might now right himself again. he replied that he _'would never draw a sword against the man who had given him his life;'_-- but, on his still exclaiming against the indignity of breaking his sword (which he had brought upon himself), mr. ewart offered him the pistols, and some altercation passed between them. mr. mathews said, that he _could never show his face if it were known how his sword was broke-- that such a thing had never been done--that it cancelled all obligations, &c. &c._ you seemed to think it was wrong, and we both proposed, that if he never misrepresented the affair, it should not be mentioned by us. this was settled. i then asked mr. mathews, whether (as he had expressed himself sensible of, and shocked at the injustice and indignity he had done me in his advertisement) it did not occur to him that he owed me another satisfaction; and that, as it was now in his power to do it without discredit, i supposed he would not hesitate. this he absolutely refused, unless conditionally; i insisted on it, and said i would not leave the room till it was settled. after much altercation, and with much ill-grace, he gave the apology, which afterwards appeared. we parted, and i returned immediately to bath. i, there, to colonel gould, captain wade, mr. creaser, and others, mentioned the affair to mr. mathews's credit--said that chance having given me the advantage, mr. mathews had consented to that apology, and mentioned nothing of the sword. mr. mathews came down, and in two days i found the whole affair had been stated in a different light, and insinuations given out to the same purpose as in the paper, which has occasioned this trouble. i had _undoubted authority_ that these accounts proceeded from mr. mathews, and likewise that mr. knight had never had any share in them. i then thought i no longer owed mr. mathews the compliment to conceal any circumstance, and i related the affair to several gentlemen exactly as above. "now, sir, as i have put down nothing in this account but upon the most assured recollection, and as mr. mathews's paper either directly or equivocally contradicts almost every article of it, and as your name is subscribed to that paper, i flatter myself that i have a right to expect your answer to the following questions:--first, "is there any falsity or misrepresentation in what i have advanced above? "with regard to mr. mathews's paper--did i, in the park, seem in the smallest article inclined to enter into conversation with mr. mathews?-- he insinuates that i did. "did mr. mathews not _beg his life_?--he affirms he did not. "did i break his sword _without warning_?--he affirms i did it without warning, on his laying it on the table. "did i not offer him mine?--he omits it. "did mr. mathews give me the apology, as a point of generosity, _on my desisting to demand it_?--he affirms he did. "i shall now give my reasons for doubting your having authenticated this paper. " . because i think it full of falsehood and misrepresentation, and mr. knight has the character of a man of truth and honor. " . when you were at bath, i was informed that you had never expressed any such sentiments. " . i have been told that, in wales, mr. mathews never _told his story_ in the presence of mr. knight, who had never there insinuated any thing to my disadvantage. " . the paper shown me by mr. barnett contains (if my memory does not deceive me) three separate sheets of writing paper. mr. knight's evidence is annexed to the last, which contains chiefly a copy of our _first_ proposed advertisements, which mr. mathews had, in mr. knight's presence, agreed should be destroyed as totally void; and which (in a letter to colonel gould, by whom i had insisted on it) he declared upon his honor he knew nothing about, nor should ever make the least use of. "these, sir, are my reasons for applying to yourself, in preference to any appeal to mr. ewart, my second on that occasion, which is what i would wish to avoid. as for mr. mathews's assertions, i shall never be concerned at them. i have ever avoided any verbal altercation with that gentleman, and he has now secured himself from any other. "i am your very humble servant, "r. b. sheridan." it was not till tuesday morning that the young ladies at bath were relieved from their suspense by the return of the two brothers, who entered evidently much fatigued, not having been in bed since they left home, and produced the apology of mr. mathews, which was instantly sent to crutwell for insertion. it was in the following terms:-- "being convinced that the expressions i made use of to mr. sheridan's disadvantage were the effects of passion and misrepresentation, i retract what i have said to that gentleman's disadvantage, and particularly beg his pardon for my advertisement in the bath chronicle. "thomas mathews." [footnote: this appeared in the bath chronicle of may th. in another part of the same paper there is the following paragraph: "we can with authority contradict the account in the london evening post of last night, of a duel between mr. m--t--ws and mr. s--r--n, as to the time and event of their meeting, mr. s. having been at his place on saturday, and both these gentlemen being here at present."] with the odor of this transaction fresh about him, mr. mathews retired to his estate in wales, and, as he might have expected, found himself universally shunned. an apology may be, according to circumstances, either the noblest effort of manliness or the last resource of fear, and it was evident, from the reception which this gentleman experienced every where, that the former, at least, was not the class to which his late retraction had been referred. in this crisis of his character, a mr. barnett, who had but lately come to reside in his neighborhood, observing with pain the mortifications to which he was exposed, and perhaps thinking them, in some degree, unmerited, took upon him to urge earnestly the necessity of a second meeting with sheridan, as the only means of removing the stigma left by the first; and, with a degree of irish friendliness, not forgotten in the portrait of sir lucius o'trigger, offered himself to be the bearer of the challenge. the desperation of persons, in mr. mathews's circumstances, is in general much more formidable than the most acknowledged valor; and we may easily believe that it was with no ordinary eagerness he accepted the proposal of his new ally, and proceeded with him, full of vengeance, to bath. the elder mr. sheridan, who had but just returned from ireland, and had been with some little difficulty induced to forgive his son for the wild achievements he had been engaged in during his absence, was at this time in london, making arrangements for the departure of his favorite, charles, who, through the interest of mr. wheatley, an old friend of the family, had been appointed secretary to the embassy in sweden. miss linley--wife and no wife,--obliged to conceal from the world what her heart would have been most proud to avow, was also absent from bath, being engaged at the oxford music-meeting. the letter containing the preliminaries of the challenge was delivered by mr. barnett, with rather unnecessary cruelty, into the hands of miss sheridan, under the pretext, however, that it was a note of invitation for her brother, and on the following morning, before it was quite daylight, the parties met at kingsdown--mr. mathews, attended by his neighbor mr. barnett, and sheridan by a gentleman of the name of paumier, nearly as young as himself, and but little qualified for a trust of such importance and delicacy. the account of the duel, which i shall here subjoin, was drawn up some months after, by the second of mr. mathews, and deposited in the hands of captain wade, the master of the ceremonies. though somewhat partially colored, and (according to mr. sheridan's remarks upon it, which shall be noticed presently) incorrect in some particulars, it is, upon the whole, perhaps as accurate a statement as could be expected, and received, as appears by the following letter from mr. brereton, (another of mr. sheridan's intimate friends,) all the sanction that captain paumier's concurrence in the truth of its most material facts could furnish. "dear sir, "in consequence of some reports spread to the disadvantage of mr. mathews, it seems he obtained from mr. barnett an impartial relation of the last affair with mr. sheridan, directed to you. this account mr. paumier has seen, and i, at mr. mathews's desire, inquired from him if he thought it true and impartial: he says it differs, in a few immaterial circumstances only, from his opinion, and has given me authority to declare this to you. "i am, dear sir, "your most humble and obedient servant, "(signed) william brereton. "bath, oct. , ." _copy of a paper left by mr. barnett in the hands of captain william wade, master of the ceremonies at bath._ "on quitting our chaises at the top of kingsdown, i entered into a conversation with captain paumier, relative to some preliminaries i thought ought to be settled in an affair which was likely to end very seriously;--particularly the method of using their pistols, which mr. mathews had repeatedly signified his desire to use prior to swords, from a conviction that mr. sheridan would run in on him, and an ungentlemanlike scuffle probably be the consequence. this, however, was refused by mr. sheridan, declaring he had no pistols: captain paumier replied he had a brace (which i know were loaded).--by my advice, mr. mathews's were not loaded, as i imagined it was always customary to load on the field, which i mentioned to captain paumier at the white-hart, before we went out, and desired he would draw his pistols. he replied, as they were already loaded, and they going on a public road at that time of the morning, he might as well let them remain so, till we got to the place appointed; when he would on his honor draw them, which i am convinced he would have done had there been time; but mr. sheridan immediately drew his sword, and, in a vaunting manner, desired mr. mathews to draw (their ground was very uneven, and near the post- chaises).--mr. mathews drew; mr. sheridan advanced on him at first; mr. mathews in turn advanced fast on mr. sheridan; upon which he retreated, till he very suddenly ran in upon mr. mathews, laying himself exceedingly open, and endeavoring to get hold of mr. mathews's sword; mr. mathews received him on his point, and, i believe, disengaged his sword from mr. sheridan's body, and gave him another wound; which, i suppose, must have been either against one of his ribs, or his breast- bone, as his sword broke, which i imagine happened from the resistance it met with from one of those parts; but whether it was broke by that, or on the closing, i cannot aver. "mr. mathews, i think, on finding his sword broke, laid hold of mr. sheridan's sword-arm, and tripped up his heels: they both fell; mr. mathews was uppermost, with the hilt of his sword in his hand, having about six or seven inches of the blade to it, with which i saw him give mr. sheridan, as i imagined, a skin-wound or two in the neck; for it could be no more,--the remaining part of the sword being broad and blunt; he also beat him in the face either with his fist or the hilt of his sword. upon this i turned from them, and asked captain paumier if we should not take them up; but i cannot say whether he heard me or not, as there was a good deal of noise; however, he made no reply. i again turned to the combatants, who were much in the same situation: i found mr. sheridan's sword was bent, and he slipped his hand up the small part of it, and gave mr. mathews a slight wound in the left part of his belly: i that instant turned again to captain paumier, and proposed again our taking them up. he in the same moment called out, 'oh! he is killed, he is killed!'--i as quick as possible turned again, and found mr. mathews had recovered the point of his sword, that was before on the ground, with which he had wounded mr. sheridan in the belly: i saw him drawing the point out of the wound. by this time mr. sheridan's sword was broke, which he told us.--captain paumier called out to him, 'my dear sheridan, beg your life, and i will be yours for ever.' i also desired him to ask his life: he replied, 'no, by god, i won't.' i then told captain paumier it would not do to wait for those punctilios (or words to that effect), and desired he would assist me in taking them up. mr. mathews most readily acquiesced first, desiring me to see mr. sheridan was disarmed. i desired him to give me the tuck, which he readily did, as did mr. sheridan the broken part of his sword to captain paumier. mr. sheridan and mr. mathews both got up; the former was helped into one of the chaises, and drove off for bath, and mr. mathews made the best of his way for london. "the whole of this narrative i declare, on the word and honor of a gentleman, to be exactly true; and that mr. mathews discovered as much genuine, cool, and intrepid resolution as man could do. "i think i may be allowed to be an impartial relater of facts, as my motive for accompanying mr. mathews was no personal friendship, (not having any previous intimacy, or being barely acquainted with him,) but from a great desire of clearing up so ambiguous an affair, without prejudice to either party,--which a stranger was judged the most proper to do,--particularly as mr. mathews had been blamed before for taking a relation with him on a similar occasion. "(signed) william barnett. "october, ." [footnote: the following account is given as an "extract of a letter from bath," in the st. james's chronicle, july : "young sheridan and captain mathews of this town, who lately had a rencontre in a tavern in london, upon account of the maid of bath, miss linley, have had another this morning upon kingsdown, about four miles hence. sheridan is much wounded, but whether mortally or not is yet uncertain. both their swords breaking upon the first lunge, they threw each other down, and with the broken pieces hacked at each other, rolling upon the ground, the seconds standing by, quiet spectators. mathews is but slightly wounded, and is since gone off." the bath chronicle, on the day after the duel, (july d,) gives the particulars thus: "this morning, about three o'clock, a second duel was fought with swords, between captain mathews and mr. r. sheridan, on kingsdown, near this city, in consequence of their former dispute respecting an amiable young lady, which mr. m. considered as improperly adjusted; mr. s. having, since their first rencontre, declared his sentiments respecting mr. m. in a manner that the former thought required satisfaction. mr. sheridan received three or four wounds in his breast and sides, and now lies very ill. mr. m. was only slightly wounded, and left this city soon after the affair was over."] the comments which mr. sheridan thought it necessary to make upon this narrative have been found in an unfinished state among his papers; and though they do not, as far as they go, disprove anything material in its statements, (except, perhaps, with respect to the nature of the wounds which he received,) yet, as containing some curious touches of character, and as a document which he himself thought worth preserving, it is here inserted. "to william barnett, esq. "sir, "it has always appeared to me so impertinent for individuals to appeal to the public on transactions merely private, that i own the most apparent necessity does not prevent my entering into such a dispute without an awkward consciousness of its impropriety. indeed, i am not without some apprehension, that i may have no right to plead your having led the way in my excuse; as it appears not improbable that some ill- wisher to you, sir, and the cause you have been engaged in, betrayed you first into this _exact narrative,_ and then exposed it to the public eye, under pretence of vindicating your friend. however, as it is the opinion of some of my friends, that i ought not to suffer these papers to pass wholly unnoticed, i shall make a few observations on them with that moderation which becomes one who is highly conscious of the impropriety of staking his single assertion against the apparent testimony of three. this, i say, would be an impropriety, as i am supposed to write to those who are not acquainted with the parties. i had some time ago a copy of these papers from captain wade, who informed me that they were lodged in his hands, to be made public only by judicial authority. i wrote to you, sir, on the subject, to have from yourself an avowal that the account was yours; but as i received no answer, i have reason to compliment you with the supposition that you are not the author of it. however, as the name _william barnett_ is subscribed to it, you must accept my apologies for making use of that as the ostensible signature of the writer--mr. paumier likewise (the gentleman who went out with me on that occasion in the character of a second) having assented to everything material in it, i shall suppose the whole account likewise to be his; and as there are some circumstances which could come from no one but mr. mathews, i shall (without meaning to take from its authority) suppose it to be mr. mathews's also. "as it is highly indifferent to me whether the account i am to observe on be considered as accurately true or not, and i believe it is of very little consequence to any one else, i shall make those observations just in the same manner as i conceive any indifferent person of common sense, who should think it worth his while to peruse the matter with any degree of attention. in this light, the _truth_ of the articles which are asserted under mr. barnett's name is what i have no business to meddle with; but if it should appear that this _accurate narrative_ frequently contradicts itself as well as all probability, and that there are some positive facts against it, which do not depend upon any one's assertion, i must repeat that i shall either compliment mr. barnett's judgment, in supposing it not his, or his humanity in proving the _narrative_ to partake of that confusion and uncertainty, which his well-wishers will plead to have possessed him in the transaction. on this account, what i shall say on the subject need be no further addressed to you; and, indeed, it is idle, in my opinion, to address even the publisher of a newspaper on a point that can concern so few, and ought to have been forgotten by them. this you must take as my excuse for having neglected the matter so long. "the first point in mr. barnett's narrative that is of the least consequence to take notice of, is, where mr. m. is represented as having repeatedly signified his desire to use pistols prior to swords, from a conviction that mr. sheridan would run in upon him, and an ungentlemanlike scuffle probably be the consequence. this is one of those articles which evidently must be given to mr. mathews: for, as mr. b.'s part is simply to relate a matter of fact, of which he was an eye- witness, he is by no means to answer for mr. mathews's _private convictions_. as this insinuation bears an obscure allusion to a past transaction of mr. m.'s, i doubt not but he will be surprised at my indifference in not taking the trouble even to explain it. however, i cannot forbear to observe here, that had i, at the period which this passage alludes to, known what was the theory which mr. m. held of _gentlemanly scuffle_, i might, possibly, have been so unhappy as to put it out of his power ever to have brought it into practice. "mr. b. now charges me with having cut short a number of pretty preliminaries, concerning which he was treating with captain paumier, by drawing my sword, and, in a vaunting manner, desiring mr. m. to draw. though i acknowledge (with deference to these gentlemen) the full right of interference which seconds have on such occasions, yet i may remind mr. b. that he was acquainted with my determination with regard to pistols before we went on the down, nor could i have expected it to have been proposed. 'mr. m. drew; mr. s. advanced, &c.:'--here let me remind mr. b. of a circumstance, which i am convinced his memory will at once acknowledge." this paper ends here: but in a rougher draught of the same letter (for he appears to have studied and corrected it with no common care) the remarks are continued, in a hand not very legible, thus: "but mr. b. here represents me as drawing my sword in a _vaunting_ manner. this i take to be a reflection; and can only say, that a person's demeanor is generally regulated by their idea of their antagonist, and, for what i know, i may now be writing in a vaunting style. here let me remind mr. b. of an omission, which, i am convinced, nothing but want of recollection could occasion, yet which is a material point in an exact account of such an affair, nor does it reflect in the least on mr. m. mr. m. could not possibly have drawn his sword on my calling to him, as.... [footnote: it is impossible to make any connected sense of the passage that follows.] "mr. b.'s account proceeds, that i 'advanced first on mr. m.,' &c. &c.; 'which, (says mr. b.) i imagine, happened from the resistance it met with from one of those parts; but whether it was broke by that, or on the closing, i cannot aver.' how strange is the confusion here!--first, it certainly broke;--whether it broke against rib or no, doubtful;-- then, indeed, whether it broke at all, uncertain.... but of all times mr. b. could not have chosen a worse than this for mr. m.'s sword to break; for the relating of the action unfortunately carries a contradiction with it;--since if, on closing, mr. m. received me on his point, it is not possible for him to have made a lunge of such a nature as to break his sword against a rib-bone. but as the time chosen is unfortunate, so is the place on which it is said to have broke,--as mr. b. might have been informed, by inquiring of the surgeons, that i had no wounds on my breast or rib with the point of a sword, they being the marks of the jagged and blunted part." he was driven from the ground to the white-hart; where ditcher and sharpe, the most eminent surgeons of bath, attended and dressed his wounds,--and, on the following day, at the request of his sisters, he was carefully removed to his own home. the newspapers which contained the account of the affair, and even stated that sheridan's life was in danger, reached the linleys at oxford, during the performance, but were anxiously concealed from miss linley by her father, who knew that the intelligence would totally disable her from appearing. some persons who were witnesses of the performance that day, still talk of the touching effect which her beauty and singing produced upon all present--aware, as they were, that a heavy calamity had befallen her, of which she herself was perhaps the only one in the assembly ignorant. in her way back to bath, she was met at some miles from the town by a mr. panton, a clergyman, long intimate with the family, who, taking her from her father's chaise into his own, employed the rest of the journey in cautiously breaking to her the particulars of the alarming event that had occurred. notwithstanding this precaution, her feelings were so taken by surprise, that in the distress of the moment, she let the secret of her heart escape, and passionately exclaimed, "my husband! my husband!"--demanding to see him, and insisting upon her right as his wife to be near him, and watch over him day and night. her entreaties, however, could not be complied with; for the elder mr. sheridan, on his return from town, incensed and grieved at the catastrophe to which his son's imprudent passion had led, refused for some time even to see him, and strictly forbade all intercourse between his daughters and the linley family. but the appealing looks of a brother lying wounded and unhappy, had more power over their hearts than the commands of a father, and they, accordingly, contrived to communicate intelligence of the lovers to each other. in the following letter, addressed to him by charles at this time, we can trace that difference between the dispositions of the brothers, which, with every one except their father, rendered richard, in spite of all his faults, by far the most popular and beloved of the two. "london, july d, . "dear dick, "it was with the deepest concern i received the late accounts of you, though it was somewhat softened by the assurance of your not being in the least danger. you cannot conceive the uneasiness it occasioned to my father. both he and i were resolved to believe the best, and to suppose you safe, but then we neither of us could approve of the cause in which you suffer. all your friends here condemned you. you risked every thing, where you had nothing to gain, to give your antagonist the thing he wished, a chance for recovering his reputation. your courage was past dispute:--he wanted to get rid of the contemptible opinion he was held in, and you were good-natured enough to let him do it at your expense. it is not now a time to scold, but all your friends were of opinion you could, with the greatest propriety, have refused to meet him. for my part, i shall suspend my judgment till better informed, only i cannot forgive your preferring swords. "i am exceedingly unhappy at the situation i leave you in with respect to money matters, the more so as it is totally out of my power to be of any use to you. ewart was greatly vexed at the manner of your drawing for the last l .--i own, i think with some reason. "as to old ewart, what you were talking about is absolutely impossible; he is already surprised at mr. linley's long delay, and, indeed, i think the latter much to blame in this respect. i did intend to give you some account of myself since my arrival here, but you cannot conceive how i have been hurried,--even much pressed for time at this _present writing_. i must therefore conclude, with wishing you speedily restored to health, and that if i could make your purse as whole as that will shortly be, i hope, it would make me exceedingly happy. "i am, dear dick, yours sincerely, "c. f. sheridan." finding that the suspicion of their marriage, which miss linley's unguarded exclamation had suggested, was gaining ground in the mind of both fathers,--who seemed equally determined to break the tie, if they could arrive at some positive proof of its existence,--sheridan wrote frequently to his young wife, (who passed most of this anxious period with her relations at wells,) cautioning her against being led into any acknowledgment, which might further the views of the elders against their happiness. many methods were tried upon both sides, to ensnare them into a confession of this nature; but they eluded every effort, and persisted in attributing the avowal which had escaped from miss linley, before mr. panton, and others, to the natural agitation and bewilderment into which her mind was thrown at the instant. as soon as sheridan was sufficiently recovered of his wounds, [footnote: the bath chronicle of the th of july has the following paragraph: "it is with great pleasure we inform our readers that mr. sheridan is declared by his surgeon to be out of danger."] his father, in order to detach him, as much as possible, from the dangerous recollections which continually presented themselves in bath, sent him to pass some months at waltham abbey, in essex, under the care of mr. and mrs. parker of farm hill, his most particular friends. in this retirement, where he continued, with but few and short intervals of absence, from august or september, , till the spring of the following year, it is probable that, notwithstanding the ferment in which his heart was kept, he occasionally and desultorily occupied his hours in study. among other proofs of industry, which i have found among his manuscripts, and which may possibly be referred to this period, is an abstract of the history of england--nearly filling a small quarto volume of more than a hundred pages, closely written. i have also found in his early hand-writing (for there was a considerable change in his writing afterwards) a collection of remarks on sir william temple's works, which may likewise have been among the fruits of his reading at waltham abbey. these remarks are confined chiefly to verbal criticism, and prove, in many instances, that he had not yet quite formed his taste to that idiomatic english, which was afterwards one of the great charms of his own dramatic style. for instance, he objects to the following phrases:-- "then i _fell to_ my task again."--"these things _come_, with time, to be habitual."--"by which these people _come_ to be either scattered or destroyed."--"which alone could pretend to _contest_ it with them:" (upon which phrase he remarks, "it refers to nothing here:") and the following graceful idiom in some verses by temple:-- "thy busy head can find no gentle rest for thinking on the events," &c. &c. some of his observations, however, are just and tasteful. upon the essay "of popular discontents," after remarking, that "sir w. t. opens all his essays with something as foreign to the purpose as possible," he has the following criticism:--"page , 'represent misfortunes for faults, and _mole-hills_ for _mountains_,'--the metaphorical and literal expression too often coupled. p. , 'upon these four wheels the chariot of state may in all appearance drive easy and safe, or at least not be too much _shaken_ by the usual _roughness_ of ways, unequal _humors_ of _men_, or any common accidents,'--another instance of the confusion of the metaphorical and literal expression." among the passages he quotes from temple's verses, as faulty, is the following:-- "--that we may _see_, thou art indeed the empress of the _sea_." it is curious enough that he himself was afterwards guilty of nearly as illicit a rhyme in his song "when 'tis night," and always defended it:-- "but when the fight's _begun_, each serving at his _gun_." whatever grounds there may be for referring these labors of sheridan to the period of his retirement at waltham abbey, there are certainly but few other intervals in his life that could be selected as likely to have afforded him opportunities of reading. even here, however, the fears and anxieties that beset him were too many and incessant to leave much leisure for the pursuits of scholarship. however, a state of excitement may be favorable to the development of genius--which is often of the nature of those seas, that become more luminous the more they are agitated,--for a student, a far different mood is necessary; and in order to reflect with clearness the images that study presents, the mind should have its surface level and unruffled. the situation, indeed, of sheridan was at this time particularly perplexing. he had won the heart, and even hand, of the woman he loved, yet saw his hopes of possessing her farther off than ever. he had twice risked his life against an unworthy antagonist, yet found the vindication of his honor still incomplete, from the misrepresentations of enemies, and the yet more mischievous testimony of friends. he felt within himself all the proud consciousness of genius, yet, thrown on the world without even a profession, looked in vain for a channel through which to direct its energies. even the precarious hope, which his father's favor held out, had been purchased by an act of duplicity which his conscience could not approve; for he had been induced, with the view, perhaps, of blinding his father's vigilance, not only to promise that he would instantly give up a pursuit so unpleasing to him, but to take "an oath equivocal" that he never would marry miss linley. the pressure of these various anxieties upon so young and so ardent a mind, and their effects in alternately kindling and damping its spirit, could only have been worthily described by him who felt them, and there still exist some letters which he wrote during this time, to a gentleman well known as one of his earliest and latest friends. i had hoped that such a picture, as these letters must exhibit, of his feelings at that most interesting period of his private life, would not have been lost to the present work. but scruples--over-delicate, perhaps, but respectable, as founded upon a systematic objection to the exposure of _any_ papers, received under the seal of private friendship--forbid the publication of these precious documents. the reader must, therefore, be satisfied with the few distant glimpses of their contents, which are afforded by the answers of his correspondent, found among the papers entrusted to me. from these it appears, that through all his letters the same strain of sadness and despondency prevailed,--sometimes breaking out into aspirings of ambition, and sometimes rising into a tone of cheerfulness, which but ill concealed the melancholy under it. it is evident also, and not a little remarkable, that in none of these overflowings of his confidence, had he as yet suffered the secret of his french marriage with miss linley to escape; and that his friend accordingly knew but half the wretched peculiarities of his situation. like most lovers, too, imagining that every one who approached his mistress must be equally intoxicated with her beauty as himself, he seems anxiously to have cautioned his young correspondent (who occasionally saw her at oxford and at bath) against the danger that lay in such irresistible charms. from another letter, where the writer refers to some message, which sheridan had requested him to deliver to miss linley, we learn, that she was at this time so strictly watched, as to be unable to achieve--what to an ingenious woman is seldom difficult --an answer to a letter which her lover had contrived to convey to her. it was at first the intention of the elder mr. sheridan to send his daughters, in the course of this autumn, under the care of their brother richard, to france. but, fearing to entrust them to a guardian who seemed himself so much in need of direction, he altered his plan, and, about the beginning of october, having formed an engagement for the ensuing winter with the manager of the dublin theatre, gave up his house in bath, and set out with his daughters for ireland. at the same time mr. grenville, (afterwards marquis of buckingham,) who had passed a great part of this and the preceding summer at bath, for the purpose of receiving instruction from mr. sheridan in elocution, went also to dublin on a short visit, accompanied by mr. cleaver, and by his brother mr. thomas grenville--between whom and richard sheridan an intimacy had at this period commenced, which continued with uninterrupted cordiality ever after. some time previous to the departure of the elder mr. sheridan for ireland, having taken before a magistrate the depositions of the postillions who were witnesses of the duel at kingsdown, he had earnestly entreated of his son to join him in a prosecution against mathews, whose conduct on the occasion he and others considered as by no means that of a fair and honorable antagonist. it was in contemplation of a measure of this nature, that the account of the meeting already given was drawn up by mr. barnett, and deposited in the hands of captain wade. though sheridan refused to join in legal proceedings--from an unwillingness, perhaps, to keep miss linley's name any longer afloat upon public conversation--yet this revival of the subject, and the conflicting statements to which it gave rise, produced naturally in both parties a relapse of angry feelings, which was very near ending in a third duel between them. the authenticity given by captain paumier's name to a narrative which sheridan considered false and injurious, was for some time a source of considerable mortification to him; and it must be owned, that the helpless irresolution of this gentleman during the duel, and his weak acquiescence in these misrepresentations afterwards, showed him as unfit to be trusted with the life as with the character of his friend. how nearly this new train of misunderstanding had led to another explosion, appears from one of the letters already referred to, written in december, and directed to sheridan at the bedford coffee-house, covent garden, in which the writer expresses the most friendly and anxious alarm at the intelligence which he has just received,--implores of sheridan to moderate his rage, and reminds him how often he had resolved never to have any concern with mathews again. some explanation, however, took place, as we collect from a letter dated a few days later; and the world was thus spared not only such an instance of inveteracy, as three duels between the same two men would have exhibited, but, perhaps, the premature loss of a life to which we are indebted, for an example as noble in its excitements, and a lesson as useful in its warnings, as ever genius and its errors have bequeathed to mankind. the following lent, miss linley appeared in the oratorios at covent garden; and sheridan, who, from the nearness of his retreat to london, (to use a phrase of his own, repeated in one of his friend's letters), "trod upon the heels of perilous probabilities," though prevented by the vigilance of her father from a private interview, had frequent opportunities of seeing her in public. among many other stratagems which he contrived, for the purpose of exchanging a few words with her, he more than once disguised himself as a hackney-coachman, and drove her home from the theatre. it appears, however, that a serious misunderstanding at this time occurred between them,--originating probably in some of those paroxysms of jealousy, into which a lover like sheridan must have been continually thrown, by the numerous admirers and pursuers of all kinds, which the beauty and celebrity of his mistress attracted. among various alliances invented for her by the public at this period, it was rumored that she was about to be married to sir thomas clarges; and in the bath chronicle of april, , a correspondence is given as authentic between her and "lord grosvenor," which, though pretty evidently a fabrication, yet proves the high opinion entertained of the purity of her character. the correspondence is thus introduced, in a letter to the editor:--"the following letters are confidently said to have passed between lord g---r and the celebrated english syren, miss l--y. i send them to you for publication, not with any view to increase the volume of literary scandal, which, i am sorry to say, at present needs no assistance, but with the most laudable intent of setting an example for our modern belles, by holding out the character of a young woman, who, notwithstanding the solicitations of her profession, and the flattering example of higher ranks, has added _incorruptible virtue_ to a number of the most elegant qualifications." whatever may have caused the misunderstanding between her and her lover, a reconcilement was with no great difficulty effected, by the mediation of sheridan's young friend, mr. ewart; and, at length, after a series of stratagems and scenes, which convinced mr. linley that it was impossible much longer to keep them asunder, he consented to their union, and on the th of april, , they were married by license [footnote: thus announced in the gentleman's magazine:--"mr. sheridan of the temple to the celebrated miss linley of bath."]--mr. ewart being at the same time wedded to a young lady with whom he also had eloped clandestinely to france, but was now enabled, by the forgiveness of his father, to complete this double triumph of friendship and love. a curious instance of the indolence and procrastinating habits of sheridan used to be related by woodfall, as having occurred about this time. a statement of his conduct in the duels having appeared in one of the bath papers, so false and calumnious as to require an immediate answer, he called upon woodfall to request that his paper might be the medium of it. but wishing, as he said, that the public should have the whole matter fairly before them, he thought it right that the offensive statement should first be inserted, and in a day or two after be followed by his answer, which would thus come with more relevancy and effect. in compliance with his wish, woodfall lost not a moment in transcribing the calumnious article into his columns--not doubting, of course, that the refutation of it would be furnished with still greater eagerness. day after day, however, elapsed, and, notwithstanding frequent applications on the one side, and promises on the other, not a line of the answer was ever sent by sheridan,--who, having expended all his activity in assisting the circulation of the poison, had not industry enough left to supply the antidote. throughout his whole life, indeed, he but too consistently acted upon the principles, which the first lord holland used playfully to impress upon his son:--"never do to-day what you can possibly put off till to-morrow, nor ever do, yourself, what you can get any one else to do for you." chapter iii domestic circumstances.--fragments of essays found among his papers.-- comedy of "the rivals."--answer to "taxation no tyranny."--farce of "st. patrick's day." a few weeks previous to his marriage, sheridan, had been entered a student of the middle temple. it was not, however, to be expected that talents like his, so sure of a quick return of fame and emolument, would wait for the distant and dearly-earned emoluments which a life of labor in this profession promises. nor, indeed, did his circumstances admit of any such patient speculation. a part of the sum which mr. long had settled upon miss linley, and occasional assistance from her father (his own having withdrawn all countenance from him), were now the only resources, besides his own talents, left him. the celebrity of mrs. sheridan as a singer was, it is true, a ready source of wealth; and offers of the most advantageous kind were pressed upon them, by managers of concerts both in town and country. but with a pride and delicacy, which received the tribute of dr. johnson's praise, he rejected at once all thoughts of allowing her to reappear in public; and, instead of profiting by the display of his wife's talents, adopted the manlier resolution of seeking an independence by his own. an engagement had been made for her some months before by her father, to perform at the music- meeting that was to take place at worcester this summer. but sheridan, who considered that his own claims upon her had superseded all others, would not suffer her to keep this engagement. how decided his mind was upon the subject will appear from the following letter, written by him to mr. linley about a month after his marriage, and containing some other interesting particulars, that show the temptations with which his pride had, at this time, to struggle:-- "east burnham, may , . "dear sir, "i purposely deferred writing to you till i should have settled _all_ matters in london, and in some degree settled ourselves at our little home. some unforeseen delays prevented my finishing with swale till thursday last, when everything was concluded. i likewise settled with him for his own account, as he brought it to me, and, for a _friendly_ bill, it is pretty decent.--yours of the d instant did not reach me till yesterday, by reason of its missing us at morden. as to the principal point it treats of, i had given my answer some days ago, to mr. isaac of worcester. he had enclosed a letter to storace for my wife, in which he dwells much on the nature of the agreement you had made for her eight months ago, and adds, that 'as this is no new application, but a request that you (mrs. s.) will fulfil a positive engagement, the breach of which would prove of fatal consequence to our meeting, i hope mr. sheridan will think his honor in some degree concerned in fulfilling it.'--mr. storace, in order to enforce mr. isaac's argument, showed me his letter on the same subject to him, which begins with saying, 'we must have mrs. sheridan, somehow or other, if possible!'--the plain english of which is that, if her husband is not willing to let her perform, we will persuade him that he acts _dishonorably_ in preventing her from fulfilling a _positive engagement_. this i conceive to be the very worst mode of application that could have been taken; as there really is not common sense in the idea that my _honor_ can be concerned in my wife's fulfilling an engagement, which it is impossible she should ever have made.--nor (as i wrote to mr. isaac) can you, who gave the promise, whatever it was, be in the least charged with the breach of it, as your daughter's marriage was an event which must always have been looked to by them as quite as natural a period to your right over her as her death. and, in my opinion, it would have been just as reasonable to have applied to you to fulfil your engagement in the latter case as in the former. as to the _imprudence_ of declining this engagement, i do not think, even were we to suppose that my wife should ever on any occasion appear again in public, there would be the least at present. for instance, i have had a gentleman with me from oxford (where they do not claim the least _right_ as from an engagement), who has endeavored to place the idea of my complimenting the university with betsey's performance in the strongest light of advantage to me. this he said, on my declining to let her perform on any agreement. he likewise informed me, that he had just left lord north (the chancellor), who, he assured me, would look upon it as the highest compliment, and had expressed himself so to him. now, should it be a point of inclination or convenience to me to break my resolution with regard to betsey's performing, there surely would be more sense in obliging lord north (and probably from _his own_ application) and the university, than lord coventry and mr. isaac. for, were she to sing at worcester, there would not be the least compliment in her performing at oxford. indeed, they would have a right to _claim it_--particularly, as that is the mode of application they have chosen from worcester. i have mentioned the oxford matter merely as an argument, that i can have no kind of inducement to accept of the proposal from worcester. and, as i have written fully on the subject to mr. isaac, i think there will be no occasion for you to give any further reasons to lord coventry--only that i am sorry i cannot accept of his proposal, civilities, &c. &c., and refer him for my motives to mr. isaac, as what i have said to you on the subject i mean for you only, and, if more remains to be argued on the subject in general, we must defer it till we meet, which you have given us reason to hope will not be long first. "as this is a letter of business chiefly, i shall say little of our situation and arrangement of affairs, but that i think we are as happy as those who wish us best could desire. there is but one thing that has the least weight upon me, though it is one i was prepared for. but time, while it strengthens the other blessings we possess, will, i hope, add that to the number. you will know that i speak with regard to my father. betsey informs me you have written to him again--have you heard from him?.... "i should hope to hear from you very soon, and i assure you, you shall now find me a very exact correspondent; though i hope you will not give me leave to confirm my character in that respect before we meet. "as there is with this a letter for polly and you, i shall only charge you with mine and betsey's best love to her, mother, and tom, &c. &c., and believe me your sincere friend and affectionate son, "r. b. sheridan." at east burnham, from whence this letter is dated, they were now living in a small cottage, to which they had retired immediately on their marriage, and to which they often looked back with a sigh in after- times, when they were more prosperous, but less happy. it was during a very short absence from this cottage, that the following lines were written by him:-- "teach me, kind hymen, teach, for thou must be my only tutor now,-- teach me some innocent employ, that shall the hateful thought destroy, that i this whole long night must pass in exile from my love's embrace. alas, thou hast no wings, oh time! [footnote: it will be perceived that the eight following lines are the foundation of the song "what bard, oh time," in the duenna.] it was some thoughtless lover's rhyme, who, writing in his chloe's view, paid her the compliment through you. for had he, if he truly lov'd, but once the pangs of absence prov'd, he'd cropt thy wings, and, in their stead, have painted thee with heels of lead. but 'tis the temper of the mind, where we thy regulator find. still o'er the gay and o'er the young unfelt steps you flit along,-- as virgil's nymph o'er ripen'd corn, with such ethereal haste was borne, that every stock, with upright head, denied the pressure of her tread. but o'er the wretched, oh, how slow and heavy sweeps thy scythe of woe! oppress'd beneath each stroke they bow, thy course engraven on their brow: a day of absence shall consume the glow of youth and manhood's bloom, and one short night of anxious fear shall leave the wrinkles of a year. for me who, when i'm happy, owe no thanks to fortune that i'm so, who long have learned to look at one dear object, and at one alone, for all the joy, or all the sorrow, that gilds the day, or threats the morrow, i never felt thy footsteps light, but when sweet love did aid thy flight, and, banish'd from his blest dominion, i cared not for thy borrowed pinion. true, she is mine, and, since she's mine, at trifles i should not repine; but oh, the miser's real pleasure is not in knowing he has treasure; he must behold his golden store, and feel, and count his riches o'er. thus i, of one dear gem possest, and in that treasure only blest, there every day would seek delight, and clasp the casket every night." towards the winter they went to lodge for a short time with storace, the intimate friend of mr. linley, and in the following year attained that first step of independence, a house to themselves; mr. linley having kindly supplied the furniture of their new residence, which was in orchard-street, portman-square. during the summer of , they passed some time at mr. canning's and lord coventry's; but, so little did these visits interfere with the literary industry of sheridan, that, as appears from the following letter, written to mr. linley in november, he had not only at that time finished his play of the rivals, but was on the point of "sending a hook to the press:"-- "dear sir, "nov. th . "if i were to attempt to make as many apologies as my long omission in writing to you requires, i should have no room for any other subject. one excuse only i shall bring forward, which is, that i have been exceedingly employed, and i believe _very profitably_. however, before i explain how, i must ease my mind on a subject that much more nearly concerns me than any point of business or profit. i must premise to you that betsey is now very well, before i tell you abruptly that she has encountered another disappointment, and consequent indisposition.... however, she is now getting entirely over it, and she shall never take any journey of the kind again. i inform you of this now, that you may not be alarmed by any accounts from some other quarter, which might lead you to fear she was going to have such an illness as last year, of which i assure you, upon my honor, there is not the least apprehension. if i did not write now, betsey would write herself, and in a day she will make you quite easy on this head. "i have been very seriously at work on a book, which i am just now sending to the press, and which i think will do me some credit, if it leads to nothing else. however, the profitable affair is of another nature. there will be a _comedy_ of mine in rehearsal at covent- garden within a few days. i did not set to work on it till within a few days of my setting out for _crome_, so you may think i have not, for these last six weeks, been very idle. i have done it at mr. harris's (the manager's) own request; it is now complete in his hands, and preparing for the stage. he, and some of his friends also who have heard it, assure me in the most flattering terms that there is not a doubt of its success. it will be very well played, and harris tells me that the least shilling i shall get (if it succeeds) will be six hundred pounds. i shall make no secret of it towards the time of representation, that it may not lose any support my friends can give it. i had not written a line of it two months ago, except a scene or two, which i believe you have seen in an odd act of a little farce. "mr. stanley was with me a day or two ago on the subject of the oratorios. i found mr. smith has declined, and is retiring to bath. mr. stanley informed me that on his applying to the king for the continuance of his favor, he was desired by his majesty to make me an offer of mr. smith's situation and partnership in them, and that he should continue his protection, &c. i declined the matter very civilly and very peremptorily. i should imagine that mr. stanley would apply to you;--i started the subject to him, and said you had twenty mrs. sheridans more. however, he said very little:--if he does, and you wish to make an alteration in your system at once, i should think you may stand in smith's place. i would not listen to him on any other terms, and i should think the king might be made to signify his pleasure for such an arrangement. on this you will reflect, and if any way strikes you that i can move in it, i need not add how happy i shall be in its success. * * * * * "i hope you will let me have the pleasure to hear from you soon, as i shall think any delay unfair,--unless you can plead that you are writing an opera, and a folio on music besides. accept betsey's love and duty. "your sincere and affectionate "r. b. sheridan." what the book here alluded to was, i cannot with any accuracy ascertain. besides a few sketches of plays and poems, of which i shall give some account in a subsequent chapter, there exist among his papers several fragments of essays and letters, all of which--including the unfinished plays and poems--must have been written by him in the interval between , when he left harrow, and the present year; though at what precise dates during that period there are no means of judging. among these there are a few political letters, evidently designed for the newspapers;--some of them but half copied out, and probably never sent. one of this description, which must have been written immediately on his leaving school, is a piece of irony against the duke of grafton, giving reasons why that nobleman should not lose his head, and, under the semblance of a defence, exaggerating all the popular charges against him. the first argument (he says) of the duke's adversaries, "is founded on the regard which ought to be paid to justice, and on the good effects which, they affirm, such an example would have, in suppressing the ambition of any future minister. but if i can prove that his ---- might be made a much greater example of by being suffered to live, i think i may, without vanity, affirm that their whole argument will fall to the ground. by pursuing the methods which they propose, viz. chopping off his ----'s head, i allow the impression would be stronger at first; but we should consider how soon that wears off. if, indeed, his ----'s crimes were of such a nature, as to entitle his head to a place on temple-bar, i should allow some weight to their argument. but, in the present case, we should reflect how apt mankind are to relent after they have inflicted punishment;--so that, perhaps, the same men who would have detested the noble lord, while alive and in prosperity, pointing him as a scarecrow to their children, might, after being witnesses to the miserable fate that had overtaken him, begin in their hearts to pity him; and from the fickleness so common to human nature, perhaps, by way of compensation, acquit him of part of his crimes; insinuate that he was dealt hardly with, and thus, by the remembrance of their compassion, on this occasion, be led to show more indulgence to any future offender in the same circumstances." there is a clearness of thought and style here very remarkable in so young a writer. in affecting to defend the duke against the charge of fickleness and unpunctuality, he says, "i think i could bring several instances which should seem to promise the greatest steadiness and resolution. i have known him make the council wait, on the business of the whole nation, when he has had an appointment to newmarket. surely, this is an instance of the greatest honor; and, if we see him so punctual in private appointments, must we not conclude that he is infinitely more so in greater matters? nay, when w----s [footnote: wilkes.] came over, is it not notorious that the late lord mayor went to his grace on that evening, proposing a scheme which, by securing this fire-brand, might have put an end to all the troubles he has caused? but his grace did not see him;--no, he was a man of too much honor;--he had _promised_ that evening to attend nancy parsons to ranelagh, and he would not disappoint her, but made three thousand people witnesses of his punctuality." there is another letter, which happens to be dated ( ), addressed to "novus,"--some writer in woodfall's public advertiser,--and appearing to be one of a series to the same correspondent. from the few political allusions introduced in this letter, (which is occupied chiefly in an attack upon the literary style of "novus,") we can collect that the object of sheridan was to defend the new ministry of lord north, who had, in the beginning of that year, succeeded the duke of grafton. junius was just then in the height of his power and reputation; and as, in english literature, one great voice always produces a multitude of echoes, it was thought at that time indispensable to every letter-writer in a newspaper, to be a close copyist of the style of junius: of course, our young political tyro followed this "mould of form" as well as the rest. thus, in addressing his correspondent:--"that gloomy seriousness in your style,--that seeming consciousness of superiority, together with the consideration of the infinite pains it must have cost you to have been so elaborately wrong,--will not suffer me to attribute such numerous errors to any thing but real ignorance, joined with most consummate vanity." the following is a specimen of his acuteness in criticising the absurd style of his adversary:--"you leave it rather dubious whether you were most pleased with the glorious opposition to charles i. or the dangerous designs of that monarch, which you emphatically call 'the arbitrary projects of a stuart's nature.' what do you mean by the projects of a man's _nature_? a man's natural disposition may urge him to the commission of some actions;--nature may instigate and encourage, but i believe you are the first that ever made her a projector." it is amusing to observe, that, while he thus criticises the style and language of his correspondent, his own spelling, in every second line, convicts him of deficiency in at least one common branch of literary acquirement:--we find _thing_ always spelt _think_;-- _whether_, _where_, and _which_, turned into _wether_, _were_, and _wich_;--and double _m's_ and _s's_ almost invariably reduced to "single blessedness." this sign of a neglected education remained with him to a very late period, and, in his hasty writing, or scribbling, would occasionally recur to the last. from these essays for the newspapers it may be seen how early was the bias of his mind towards politics. it was, indeed, the rival of literature in his affections during all the early part of his life, and, at length,--whether luckily for himself or not it is difficult to say,-- gained the mastery. there are also among his manuscripts some commencements of periodical papers, under various names, "the detector," "the dramatic censor," &c.;--none of them, apparently, carried beyond the middle of the first number. but one of the most curious of these youthful productions is a letter to the queen, recommending the establishment of an institution, for the instruction and maintenance of young females in the better classes of life, who, from either the loss of their parents, or from poverty, are without the means of being brought up suitably to their station. he refers to the asylum founded by madame de maintenon, at st. cyr, as a model, and proposes that the establishment should be placed under the patronage of her majesty, and entitled "the royal sanctuary." the reader, however, has to arrive at the practical part of the plan, through long and flowery windings of panegyric, on the beauty, genius, and virtue of women, and their transcendent superiority, in every respect, over men. the following sentence will give some idea of the sort of eloquence with which he prefaces this grave proposal to her majesty:--"the dispute about the proper sphere of women is idle. that men should have attempted to draw a line for their orbit, shows that god meant them for comets, and above our jurisdiction. with them the enthusiasm of poetry and the idolatry of love is the simple voice of nature." there are, indeed, many passages of this boyish composition, a good deal resembling in their style those ambitious apostrophes with which he afterwards ornamented his speeches on the trial of hastings. he next proceeds to remark to her majesty, that in those countries where "man is scarce better than a brute, he shows his degeneracy by his treatment of women," and again falls into metaphor, not very clearly made out:--"the influence that women have over us is as the medium through which the finer arts act upon us. the incense of our love and respect for them creates the atmosphere of our souls, which corrects and meliorates the beams of knowledge." the following is in a better style:--"however, in savage countries, where the pride of man has not fixed the first dictates of ignorance into law, we see the real effects of nature. the wild huron shall, to the object of his love, become gently as his weary rein-deer;--he shall present to her the spoil of his bow on his knee;-he shall watch without reward the cave where she sleeps;--he shall rob the birds for feathers for her hair, and dive for pearls for her neck;--her look shall be his law, and her beauties his worship!" he then endeavors to prove that, as it is the destiny of man to be ruled by woman, he ought, for his own sake, to render her as fit for that task as possible:--" how can we be better employed than in perfecting that which governs us? the brighter they are, the more we shall be illumined. were the minds of all women cultivated by inspiration, men would become wise of course. they are a sort of pentagraphs with which nature writes on the heart of man;--what _she_ delineates on the original map will appear on the copy." in showing how much less women are able to struggle against adversity than men, he says,--"as for us, we are born in a state of warfare with poverty and distress. the sea of adversity is our natural element, and he that will not buffet with the billows deserves to sink. but you, oh you, by nature formed of gentler kind, can _you_ endure the biting storm? shall you be turned to the nipping blast, and not a door be open to give you shelter?" after describing, with evident seriousness, the nature of the institution of madame de maintenon, at st. cyr, he adds the following strange romantic allusion: "had such a charity as i have been speaking of existed here, the mild _parthenia_ and my poor _laura_ would not have fallen into untimely graves." the practical details of his plan, in which it is equally evident that he means to be serious, exhibit the same flightiness of language and notions. the king, he supposes, would have no objection to "grant hampton-court, or some other palace, for the purpose;" and "as it is (he continues, still addressing the queen) to be immediately under your majesty's patronage, so should your majesty be the first member of it. let the constitution of it be like that of a university, your majesty, chancellor; some of the first ladies in the kingdom sub-chancellors; whose care it shall be to provide instructors of real merit. the classes are to be distinguished by age--none by degree. for, as their qualification shall be gentility, they are all on a level. the instructors shall be women, except for the languages. latin and greek should not be learned;--the frown of pedantry destroys the blush of humility. the practical part of the sciences, as of astronomy, &c., should be taught. in history they would find that there are other passions in man than love. as for novels, there are some i would strongly recommend; but romances infinitely more. the one is a representation of the effects of the passions as they should be, though extravagant; the other, as they are. the latter is falsely called nature, and is a picture of depraved and corrupted society; the other is the glow of nature. i would therefore exclude all novels that show human nature depraved:--however well executed, the design will disgust." he concludes by enumerating the various good effects which the examples of female virtue, sent forth from such an institution, would produce upon the manners and morals of the other sex; and in describing, among other kinds of coxcombs, the cold, courtly man of the world, uses the following strong figure: "they are so clipped, and rubbed, and polished, that god's image and inscription is worn from them, and when he calls in his coin, he will no longer know them for his own." there is still another essay, or rather a small fragment of an essay, on the letters of lord chesterfield, which, i am inclined to think, may have formed a part of the rough copy of the book, announced by him to mr. linley as ready in the november of this year. lord chesterfield's letters appeared for the first time in , and the sensation they produced was exactly such as would tempt a writer in quest of popular subjects to avail himself of it. as the few pages which i have found, and which contain merely scattered hints of thoughts, are numbered as high as , it is possible that the preceding part of the work may have been sufficiently complete to go into the printer's hands, and that there,--like so many more of his "unshelled brood,"--it died without ever taking wing. a few of these memorandums will, i have no doubt, be acceptable to the reader. "lord c.'s whole system in no one article calculated to make a great man.--a noble youth should be ignorant of the things he wishes him to know;--such a one as he wants would be _too soon_ a man. "emulation is a dangerous passion to encourage, in some points, in young men; it is so linked with envy: if you reproach your son for not surpassing his school-fellows, he will hate those who are before him. emulation not to be encouraged even in virtue. true virtue will, like the athenian, rejoice in being surpassed; a friendly emulation cannot exist in two minds; one must hate the perfections in which he is eclipsed by the other;--thus, from hating the quality in his competitor, he loses the respect for it in himself:--a young man by himself better educated than two.--a roman's emulation was not to excel his countrymen, but to make his country excel: this is the true, the other selfish.--epaminondas, who reflected on the pleasure his success would give his father, most glorious;--an emulation for that purpose, true. "the selfish vanity of the father appears in all these letters--his sending the copy of a letter for his sister.--his object was the praise of his own mode of education.--how much more noble the affection of morni in ossian; 'oh, that the name of morni,' &c. &c. [footnote: "oh, that the name of morni were forgot among the people; that the heroes would only say, 'behold the father of gaul!'" sheridan applied this, more than thirty years after, in talking of his own son, on the hustings of westminster, and said that, in like manner, he would ask no greater distinction than for men to point at him and say, "there goes the father of tom sheridan."] "his frequent directions for constant employment entirely ill founded: --a wise man is formed more by the action of his own thoughts than by continually feeding it. 'hurry,' he says, 'from play to study; never be doing nothing'--i say, 'frequently be unemployed; sit and think.' _there are on every subject but a few leading and fixed ideas; their tracks may be traced by your own genius as well as by reading_:--a man of deep thought, who shall have accustomed himself to support or attack all he has read, will soon find nothing new: thought is exercise, and the mind, like the body, must not be wearied." these last two sentences contain the secret of sheridan's confidence in his own powers. his subsequent success bore him out in the opinions he thus early expressed, and might even have persuaded him that it was in consequence, not in spite, of his want of cultivation that he succeeded. on the th of january, , the comedy of the rivals was brought out at covent-garden, and the following was the cast of the characters on the first night:-- sir anthony absolute _mr. shuter_. captain absolute _mr. woodward_. falkland _mr. lewis_. acres _mr. quick_. sir lucius o'trigger _mr. lee_. fag _mr. lee lewes_. david _mr. dunstal_. coachman _mr. fearon_. mrs. malaprop _mrs. green_. lydia languish _miss barsanti_. julia _mrs. bulkley_. lucy _mrs. lessingham_. this comedy, as is well known, failed on its first representation,-- chiefly from the bad acting of mr. lee in sir lucius o'trigger. another actor, however, mr. clinch, was substituted in his place, and the play being lightened of this and some other incumbrances, rose at once into that high region of public favor, where it has continued to float so buoyantly and gracefully ever since. the following extracts from letters written at that time by miss linley (afterwards mrs. tickell) to her sister, mrs. sheridan, though containing nothing remarkable, yet, as warm with the feelings of a moment so interesting in sheridan's literary life, will be read, perhaps, with some degree of pleasure. the slightest outline of a celebrated place, taken on the spot, has often a charm beyond the most elaborate picture finished at a distance. "bath. "my dearest eliza, "we are all in the greatest anxiety about sheridan's play,--though i do not think there is the least doubt of its succeeding. i was told last night that it was his own story, and therefore called "the rivals;" but i do not give any credit to this intelligence.... "i am told he will get at least _l_. for his play." "bath, january, . "it is impossible to tell you what pleasure we felt at the receipt of sheridan's last letter, which confirmed what we had seen in the newspapers of the success of his play. the _knowing ones_ were very much disappointed, as they had so very bad an opinion of its success. after the first night we were indeed all very fearful that the audience would go very much prejudiced against it. but now, there can be no doubt of its success, as it has certainly got through more difficulties than any comedy which has not met its doom the first night. i know you have been very busy in writing for sheridan,--i don't mean _copying_, but _composing_;--it's true, indeed;--you must not contradict me when i say you wrote the much admired epilogue to the rivals. how i long to read it! what makes it more certain is, that my _father_ guessed it was _yours_ the first time he saw it praised in the paper." this statement respecting the epilogue would, if true, deprive sheridan of one of the fairest leaves of his poetic crown. it appears, however, to be but a conjecture hazarded at the moment, and proves only the high idea entertained of mrs. sheridan's talents by her own family. the cast of the play at bath, and its success there and elsewhere, are thus mentioned in these letters of miss linley: "bath, february , . "what shall i say of the rivals!--a compliment must naturally be expected; but really it goes so far beyond any thing i can say in its praise, that i am afraid my modesty must keep me silent. when you and i meet i shall be better able to explain myself, and tell you how much i am delighted with it. we expect to have it _here_ very soon:--it is now in rehearsal. you pretty well know the merits of our principal performers:--i'll show you how it is cast. sir anthony _mr. edwin_. captain absolute _mr. didier_. falkland _mr. dimond_. (a new actor of great merit, and a sweet figure.) sir lucius _mr. jackson_. acres _mr. keasberry_. fag _mr. brunsdon_. mrs. malaprop _mrs. wheeler_. miss lydia _miss wheeler_. (literally, a very pretty romantic girl, of seventeen.) julia _mrs. didier_ lucy _mrs. brett_. there, madam, do not you think we shall do your rivals some justice? i'm convinced it won't be done better any where out of london. i don't think mrs. mattocks can do julia very well." "bath, march , . "you will know by what you see enclosed in this frank my reason for not answering your letter sooner was, that i waited the success of sheridan's play in bath; for, let me tell you, i look upon our theatrical tribunal, though not in _quantity_, in _quality_ as good as yours, and i do not believe there was a critic in the whole city that was not there. but, in my life, i never saw any thing go off with such uncommon applause. i must first of all inform you that there was a very full house:--the play was performed inimitably well; nor did i hear, for the honor of our bath actors, one single prompt the whole night; but i suppose the poor creatures never acted with such shouts of applause in their lives, so that they were incited by that to do their best. they lost many of malaprop's good sayings by the applause: in short, i never saw or heard any thing like it;--before the actors spoke, they began their clapping. there was a new scene of the n. parade, painted by mr. davis, and a most delightful one it is, i assure you. every body says,--bowers in particular,--that yours in town is not so good. most of the dresses were entirely new, and very handsome. on the whole, i think sheridan is vastly obliged to poor dear keasberry for getting it up so well. we only wanted a good julia to have made it quite complete. you must know that it was entirely out of mrs. didier's style of playing: but i never saw better acting than keasberry's,--so all the critics agreed." "bath, august d, . "tell sheridan his play has been acted at southampton:--above a hundred people were turned away the first night. they say there never was any thing so universally liked. they have very good success at bristol, and have played the rivals several times:--miss barsanti, lydia, and mrs. canning, julia." to enter into a regular analysis of this lively play, the best comment on which is to be found in the many smiling faces that are lighted up around wherever it appears, is a task of criticism that will hardly be thought necessary. with much less wit, it exhibits perhaps more humor than the school for scandal, and the dialogue, though by no means so pointed or sparkling, is, in this respect, more natural, as coming nearer the current coin of ordinary conversation; whereas, the circulating medium of the school for scandal is diamonds. the characters of the rivals, on the contrary, are _not_ such as occur very commonly in the world; and, instead of producing striking effects with natural and obvious materials, which is the great art and difficulty of a painter of human life, he has here overcharged most of his persons with whims and absurdities, for which the circumstances they are engaged in afford but a very disproportionate vent. accordingly, for our insight into their characters, we are indebted rather to their confessions than their actions. lydia languish, in proclaiming the extravagance of her own romantic notions, prepares us for events much more ludicrous and eccentric, than those in which the plot allows her to be concerned; and the young lady herself is scarcely more disappointed than we are, at the tameness with which her amour concludes. among the various ingredients supposed to be mixed up in the composition of sir lucius o'trigger, his love of fighting is the only one whose flavor is very strongly brought out; and the wayward, captious jealousy of falkland, though so highly colored in his own representation of it, is productive of no incident answerable to such an announcement:--the imposture which he practises upon julia being perhaps weakened in its effect, by our recollection of the same device in the nut-brown maid and peregrine pickle. the character of sir anthony absolute is, perhaps, the best sustained and most natural of any, and the scenes between him and captain absolute are richly, genuinely dramatic. his surprise at the apathy with which his son receives the glowing picture which he draws of the charms of his destined bride, and the effect of the question, "and which is to be mine, sir,--the niece or the aunt?" are in the truest style of humor. mrs. malaprop's mistakes, in what she herself calls "orthodoxy," have been often objected to as improbable from a woman in her rank of life; but, though some of them, it must be owned, are extravagant and farcical, they are almost all amusing,--and the luckiness of her simile, "as headstrong as an _allegory_ on the banks of the nile," will be acknowledged as long as there are writers to be run away with, by the wilfulness of this truly "headstrong" species of composition. of the faults of sheridan both in his witty and serious styles--the occasional effort of the one, and the too frequent false finery of the other--some examples may be cited from the dialogue of this play. among the former kind is the following elaborate conceit:-- "_falk._ has lydia changed her mind? i should have thought her duty and inclination would now have pointed to the same object. "_abs._ ay, just as the eyes of a person who squints: when her love-eye was fixed on me, t'other--her eye of duty--was finely obliqued: but when duty bade her point that the same way, off turned t'other on a swivel, and secured its retreat with a frown." this, though ingenious, is far too labored--and of that false taste by which sometimes, in his graver style, he was seduced into the display of second-rate ornament, the following speeches of julia afford specimens:-- "then on the bosom of your wedded julia, you may lull your keen regret to slumbering; while virtuous love, with a cherub's hand, shall smooth the brow of upbraiding thought, and pluck the thorn from compunction." again:--"when hearts deserving happiness would unite their fortunes, virtue would crown them with an unfading garland of modest hurtless flowers: but ill-judging passion will force the gaudier rose into the wreath, whose thorn offends them when its leaves are dropt." but, notwithstanding such blemishes,--and it is easy for the microscopic eye of criticism to discover gaps and inequalities in the finest edge of genius,--this play, from the liveliness of its plot, the variety and whimsicality of its characters, and the exquisite humor of its dialogue, is one of the most amusing in the whole range of the drama; and even without the aid of its more splendid successor, the school for scandal, would have placed sheridan in the first rank of comic writers. a copy of the rivals has fallen into my hands, which once belonged to tickell, the friend and brother-in-law of sheridan, and on the margin of which i find written by him in many places his opinion of particular parts of the dialogue. [footnote: these opinions are generally expressed in two or three words, and are, for the most part, judicious. upon mrs. malaprop's quotation from shakspeare, "hesperian curls," &c. he writes, "overdone--fitter for farce than comedy." acres's classification of oaths, "this we call the _oath referential,"_ &c. he pronounces to be "very good, but above the speaker's capacity." of julia's speech, "oh woman, how true should be your judgment, when your resolution is so weak!" he remarks, "on the contrary, it seems to be of little consequence whether any person's judgment be weak or not, who wants resolution to act according to it."] he has also prefixed to it, as coming from sheridan, the following humorous dedication, which, i take for granted, has never before met the light, and which the reader will perceive, by the allusions in it to the two whig ministries, could not have been written before the year :-- "dedication to idleness. "my dear friend, "if it were necessary to make any apology for this freedom, i know you would think it a sufficient one, that i shall find it easier to dedicate my play to you than to any other person. there is likewise a propriety in prefixing your name to a work begun entirely at your suggestion, and finished under your auspices; and i should think myself wanting in gratitude to you, if i did not take an early opportunity of acknowledging the obligations which i owe you. there was a time--though it is so long ago that i now scarcely remember it, and cannot mention it without compunction--but there was a time, when the importunity of parents, and the example of a few injudicious young men of my acquaintance, had almost prevailed on me to thwart my genius, and prostitute my abilities by an application to serious pursuits. and if you had not opened my eyes to the absurdity and profligacy of such a perversion of the best gifts of nature, i am by no means clear that i might not have been a wealthy merchant or an eminent lawyer at this very moment. nor was it only on my first setting out in life that i availed myself of a connection with you, though perhaps i never reaped such signal advantages from it as at that critical period. i have frequently since stood in need of your admonitions, and have always found you ready to assist me--though you were frequently brought by your zeal for me into new and awkward situations, and such as you were at first, naturally enough, unwilling to appear in. amongst innumerable other instances, i cannot omit two, where you afforded me considerable and unexpected relief, and in fact converted employments, usually attended by dry and disgusting business, into scenes of perpetual merriment and recreation. i allude, as you will easily imagine, to those cheerful hours which i spent in the secretary of state's office and the treasury, during all which time you were my inseparable companion, and showed me such a preference over the rest of my colleagues, as excited at once their envy and admiration. indeed, it was very natural for them to repine at your having taught me a way of doing business, which it was impossible for them to follow--it was both original and inimitable. "if i were to say here all that i think of your excellencies, i might be suspected of flattery; but i beg leave to refer you for the test of my sincerity to the constant tenor of my life and actions; and shall conclude with a sentiment of which no one can dispute the truth, nor mistake the application,--that those persons usually deserve most of their friends who expect least of them. "i am, &c. &c. &c., "r. b. sheridan." the celebrity which sheridan had acquired, as the chivalrous lover of miss linley, was of course considerably increased by the success of the rivals; and, gifted as he and his beautiful wife were with all that forms the magnetism of society,--the power to attract, and the disposition to be attracted,--their life, as may easily be supposed, was one of gaiety both at home and abroad. though little able to cope with the entertainments of their wealthy acquaintance, her music and the good company which his talents drew around him, were an ample repayment for the more solid hospitalities which they received. among the families visited by them was that of mr. coote (purden), at whose musical parties mrs. sheridan frequently sung, accompanied occasionally by the two little daughters [footnote: the charm of her singing, as well as her fondness for children, are interestingly described in a letter to my friend mr. rogers, from one of the most tasteful writers of the present day:--"hers was truly 'a voice as of the cherub choir,' and she was always ready to sing without any pressing. she sung here a great deal, and to my infinite delight; but what had a particular charm was, that she used to take my daughter, then a child, on her lap, and sing a number of childish songs with such a playfulness of manner, and such a sweetness of look and voice, as was quite enchanting."] of mr. coote, who were the originals of the children introduced into sir joshua reynolds's portrait of mrs. sheridan as st. cecilia. it was here that the duchess of devonshire first met sheridan; and, as i have been told, long hesitated as to the propriety of inviting to her house two persons of such equivocal rank in society, as he and his wife were at that time considered. her grace was reminded of these scruples some years after, when "the player's son" had become the admiration of the proudest and fairest; and when a house, provided for the duchess herself at bath, was left two months unoccupied, in consequence of the social attractions of sheridan, which prevented a party then assembled at chatsworth from separating. these are triumphs which, for the sake of all humbly born heirs of genius, deserve to be commemorated. in gratitude, it is said, to clinch, the actor, for the seasonable reinforcement which he had brought to the rivals, mr. sheridan produced this year a farce called "st. patrick's day, or the scheming lieutenant," which was acted on the d of may, and had considerable success. though we must not look for the usual point of sheridan in this piece, where the hits of pleasantry are performed with the broad end or _mace_ of his wit, there is yet a quick circulation of humor through the dialogue,--and laughter, the great end of farce, is abundantly achieved by it. the moralizing of doctor rosy, and the dispute between the justice's wife and her daughter, as to the respective merits of militia-men and regulars, are highly comic:-- "psha, you know, mamma, i hate militia officers; a set of dunghill cocks with spurs on--heroes scratched off a church door. no, give me the bold upright youth, who makes love to-day, and has his head shot off to- morrow. dear! to think how the sweet fellows sleep on the ground, and fight in silk stockings and lace ruffles. "_mother._ oh barbarous! to want a husband that may wed you to-day and be sent the lord knows where before night; then in a twelve-month, perhaps, to have him come like a colossus, with one leg at new york and the other at chelsea hospital." sometimes, too, there occurs a phrase or sentence, which might be sworn to, as from the pen of sheridan, any where. thus, in the very opening:-- "_ st soldier._ i say you are wrong; we should all speak together, each for himself, and all at once, that we may be heard the better. "_ d soldier._ right, jack, we'll _argue in platoons_." notwithstanding the great success of his first attempts in the drama, we find politics this year renewing its claims upon his attention, and tempting him to enter into the lists with no less an antagonist than dr. johnson. that eminent man had just published his pamphlet on the american question, entitled "taxation no tyranny;"--a work whose pompous sarcasms on the congress of philadelphia, when compared with what has happened since, dwindle into puerilities, and show what straws upon the great tide of events are even the mightiest intellects of this world. some notes and fragments, found among the papers of mr. sheridan, prove that he had it in contemplation to answer this pamphlet; and, however inferior he might have been in style to his practised adversary, he would at least have had the advantage of a good cause, and of those durable materials of truth and justice, which outlive the mere workmanship, however splendid, of talent. such arguments as the following, which johnson did not scruple to use, are, by the haughtiness of their tone and thought, only fit for the lips of autocrats:-- "when they apply to our compassion, by telling us that they are to be carried from their own country to be tried for certain offences, we are not so ready to pity them, as to advise them not to offend. while they are innocent, they are safe. "if they are condemned unheard, it is because there is no need of a trial. the crime is manifest and notorious," &c. &c. it appears from the fragments of the projected answer, that johnson's pension was one of the points upon which mr. sheridan intended to assail him. the prospect of being able to neutralize the effects of his zeal, by exposing the nature of the chief incentive from which it sprung, was so tempting, perhaps, as to overrule any feelings of delicacy, that might otherwise have suggested the illiberality of such an attack. the following are a few of the stray hints for this part of his subject:-- "it is hard when a learned man thinks himself obliged to commence politician.--such pamphlets will be as trifling and insincere as the venal quit-rent of a birth-day ode. [footnote: on another scrap of paper i find "the miserable quit-rent of an annual pamphlet." it was his custom in composition (as will be seen by many other instances) thus to try the same thought in a variety of forms and combinations, in order to see in which it would yield the greatest produce of wit.] "dr. j.'s other works, his learning and infirmities, fully entitled him to such a mark of distinction.--there was no call on him to become politician,--the easy quit-rent of refined panegyric, and a few grateful rhymes or flowery dedications to the intermediate benefactor.... "the man of letters is rarely drawn from obscurity by the inquisitive eye of a sovereign:--it is enough for royalty to gild the laurelled brow, not explore the garret or the cellar.--in this case, the return will generally be ungrateful--the patron is most possibly disgraced or in opposition--if he (the author) follows the dictates of gratitude, he must speak his patron's language, but he may lose his pension--but to be a standing supporter of ministry, is probably to take advantage of that competence against his benefactor.--when it happens that there is great experience and political knowledge, this is more excusable; but it is truly unfortunate where the fame of far different abilities adds weight to the attempts of rashness...." he then adds this very striking remark: "men seldom think deeply on subjects on which they have no choice of opinion:--they are fearful of encountering obstacles to their faith (as in religion), and so are content with the surface." dr. johnson says, in one part of his pamphlet,--"as all are born the subjects of some state or other, we may be said to have been all born consenting to some system of government." on this sheridan remarks:-- "this is the most slavish doctrine that ever was inculcated. if by our birth we give a tacit bond for our acquiescence in that form of government under which we were born, there never would have been an alteration of the first modes of government--no revolution in england." upon the argument derived from the right of conquest he observes--"this is the worst doctrine that can be with respect to america.--if america is ours by conquest, it is the conquerors who settled there that are to claim these powers." he expresses strong indignation at the "arrogance" with which such a man as montesquieu is described as "the fanciful montesquieu," by "an eleemosynary politician, who writes on the subject merely because he has been rewarded for writing otherwise all his lifetime." in answer to the argument against the claims of the americans, founded on the small proportion of the population that is really represented even in england, he has the following desultory memorandums:--"in fact, every man in england is represented--every man can influence people, so as to get a vote, and even if in an election votes are divided, each candidate is supposed equally worthy--as in lots--fight ajax or agamemnon. [footnote: he means to compare an election of this sort to the casting of lots between the grecian chiefs in the th book of the iliad.]--this an american cannot do in any way whatever. "the votes in england are perpetually shifting:--were it an object, few could be excluded.--wherever there is any one ambitious of assisting the empire, he need not put himself to much inconvenience.--if the doctor indulged his studies in cricklade or old sarum, he might vote:--the dressing meat, the simplest proof of existence, begets a title.--his pamphlet shows that he thinks he can influence some one: not an anonymous writer in the paper but contributes his mite to the general tenor of opinion.--at the eve of an election, his patriot [footnote: the name of a short pamphlet, published by dr. johnson, on the dissolution of parliament in .] was meant to influence more than the single voice of a rustic.--even the mob, in shouting, give votes where there is not corruption." it is not to be regretted that this pamphlet was left unfinished. men of a high order of genius, such as johnson and sheridan, should never enter into warfare with each other, but, like the gods in homer, leave the strife to inferior spirits. the publication of this pamphlet would most probably have precluded its author from the distinction and pleasure which he afterwards enjoyed in the society and conversation of the eloquent moralist, who, in the following year, proposed him as a member of the literary club, and always spoke of his character and genius with praise. nor was sheridan wanting on his part with corresponding tributes; for, in a prologue which he wrote about this time to the play of sir thomas overbury, he thus alludes to johnson's life of its unfortunate author:-- "so pleads the tale, that gives to future times the son's misfortunes, and the parent's crimes; there shall his fame, if own'd to-night, survive; fix'd by the hand that bids our language live." chapter iv. the duenna.--purchase of drury lane theatre.--the trip to scarborough.-- poetical correspondence with mrs. sheridan. mr. sheridan had now got into a current of dramatic fancy, of whose prosperous flow he continued to avail himself actively. the summer recess was employed in writing the duenna; and his father-in-law, mr. linley, assisted in selecting and composing the music for it. as every thing connected with the progress of a work, which is destined to be long the delight of english ears, must naturally have a charm for english readers, i feel happy at being enabled to give, from letters written at the time by mr. sheridan himself to mr. linley, some details relating to their joint adaptation of the music, which, judging from my own feelings, i cannot doubt will be interesting to others. mr. linley was at this time at bath, and the following letter to him is dated in october, , about a month or five weeks before the opera was brought out:-- "dear sir, "we received your songs to-day, with which we are exceedingly pleased. i shall profit by your proposed alterations; but i'd have you to know that we are much too chaste in london to admit such strains as your bath spring inspires. we dare not propose a peep beyond the ankle on any account; for the critics in the pit at a new play are much greater prudes than the ladies in the boxes. betsey intended to have troubled you with some music for correction, and i with some stanzas, but an interview with harris to-day has put me from the thoughts of it, and bent me upon a much more important petition. you may easily suppose it is nothing else than what i said i would not ask in my last. but, in short, unless you can give us three days in town, i fear our opera will stand a chance to be ruined. harris is extravagantly sanguine of its success as to plot and dialogue, which is to be rehearsed next wednesday at the theatre. they will exert themselves to the utmost in the scenery, &c., but i never saw any one so disconcerted as he was at the idea of there being no one to put them in the right way as to music. they have no one there whom he has any opinion of--as to fisher (one of the managers), he don't choose he should meddle with it. he entreated me in the most pressing terms to write instantly to you, and wanted, if he thought it could be any weight, to write himself. "is it impossible to contrive this? couldn't you leave tom [footnote: mrs. sheridan's eldest brother] to superintend the concert for a few days? if you can manage it, you will really do me the greatest service in the world. as to the state of the music, i want but three more airs, but there are some glees and quintets in the last act, that will be inevitably ruined, if we have no one to set the performers at least in the right way. harris has set his heart so much on my succeeding in this application, that he still flatters himself we may have a rehearsal of the music in orchard street to-morrow se'nnight. every hour's delay is a material injury both to the opera and the theatre, so that if you can come and relieve us from this perplexity, the return of the post must only forerun your arrival; or (what will make us much happier) might it not bring _you_? i shall say nothing at present about the lady 'with the soft look and manner,' because i am full of more than hopes of seeing you. for the same reason i shall delay to speak about g---; [footnote: garrick] only this much i will say, that i am more than ever positive i could make good my part of the matter; but that i still remain an infidel as to g.'s retiring, or parting with his share, though i confess he _seems_ to come closer to the point in naming his price. "your ever sincere and affectionate, "r. b. sheridan." on the opposite leaf of this letter is written, in mrs. s.'s handwriting,--"dearest father, i shall have no spirits or hopes of the opera, unless we see you. "eliza ann sheridan." in answer to these pressing demands, mr. linley, as appears by the following letter, signified his intention of being in town as soon as the music should be put in rehearsal. in the instructions here given by the poet to the musician, we may perceive that he somewhat apprehended, even in the tasteful hands of mr. linley, that predominance of harmony over melody, and of noise over both, which is so fatal to poetry and song, in their perilous alliance with an orchestra. indeed, those elephants of old, that used to tread down the ranks they were brought to assist, were but a type of the havoc that is sometimes made both of melody and meaning by the overlaying aid of accompaniments. "dear sir, "mr. harris wishes so much for us to get you to town, that i could not at first convince him that your proposal of not coming till the music was in rehearsal, was certainly the best, as you could stay but so short a time. the truth is, that what you mention of my getting a _master_ to teach the performers is the very point where the matter sticks, there being no such person as a master among them. harris is sensible there ought to be such a person; however, at present, every body sings there according to their own ideas, or what chance instruction they can come at. we are, however, to follow your plan in the matter; but can at no rate relinquish the hopes of seeing you in eight or ten days from the date of this; when the music (by the specimen of expedition you have given me) will be advanced as far as you mention. the parts are all writ out and doubled, &c. as we go on, as i have assistance from the theatre with me. "my intention was, to have closed the first act with a song, but i find it is not thought so well. hence i trust you with one of the inclosed papers; and, at the same time, you must excuse my impertinence in adding an idea of the cast i would wish the music to have; as i think i have heard you say you never heard leoni, [footnote: leoni played don carlos.] and i cannot briefly explain to you the character and situation of the persons on the stage with him. the first (a dialogue between quick and mrs. mattocks [footnote: isaac and donna louisa.]), i would wish to be a pert, sprightly air; for, though some of the words mayn't seem suited to it, i should mention that they are neither of them in earnest in what they say. leoni takes it up seriously, and i want him to show himself advantageously in the six lines beginning 'gentle maid.' i should tell you, that he sings nothing well but in a plaintive or pastoral style; and his voice is such as appears to me always to be hurt by much accompaniment. i have observed, too, that he never gets so much applause as when he makes a cadence. therefore my idea is, that he should make a flourish at 'shall i grieve thee?' and return to 'gentle maid,' and so sing that part of the tune again. [footnote: it will be perceived, by a reference to the music of the opera, that mr. linley followed these instructions implicitly and successfully.] after that, the two last lines, sung by the three, with the persons only varied, may get them off with as much spirit as possible. the second act ends with a _slow_ glee, therefore i should think the two last lines in question had better be brisk, especially as quick and mrs. mattocks are concerned in it. "the other is a song of wilson's in the third act. i have written it to your tune, which you put some words to, beginning, 'prithee, prithee, pretty man!' i think it will do vastly well for the words: don jerome sings them when he is in particular spirits; therefore the tune is not too light, though it might seem so by the last stanza--but he does not mean to be grave there, and i like particularly the returning to 'o the days when i was young!' we have mislaid the notes, but tom remembers it. if you don't like it for words, will you give us one? but it must go back to 'o the days,' and be _funny_. i have not done troubling you yet, but must wait till monday." a subsequent letter contains further particulars of their progress. "dear sir, "sunday evening next is fixed for our first musical rehearsal, and i was in great hopes we might have completed the score. the songs you have sent up of 'banna's banks,' and 'deil take the wars,' i had made words for before they arrived, which answer excessively well; and this was my reason for wishing for the next in the same manner, as it saved so much time. they are to sing 'wind, gentle evergreen,' just as you sing it (only with other words), and i wanted only such support from the instruments, or such joining in, as you should think would help to set off and assist the effort. i inclose the words i had made for 'wind, gentle evergreen,' which will be sung, as a catch, by mrs. mattocks, dubellamy, [footnote: don antonio.] and leoni. i don't mind the words not fitting the notes so well as the original ones. 'how merrily we live,' and 'let's drink and let's sing,' are to be sung by a company of _friars_ over their wine. [footnote: for these was afterwards substituted mr. linley's lively glee, "this bottle's the sun of our table."] the words will be parodied, and the chief effect i expect from them must arise from their being _known_; for the joke will be much less for these jolly fathers to sing any thing new, than to give what the audience are used to annex the idea of jollity to. for the other things betsey mentioned, i only wish to have them with such accompaniment as you would put to their _present_ words, and i shall have got words to my liking for them by the time they reach me. "my immediate wish at present is to give the performers their parts in the music (which they expect on sunday night), and for any assistance the orchestra can give to help the effect of the glees, &c., that may be judged of and added at a rehearsal, or, as you say, on inquiring how they have been done; though i don't think it follows that what dr. arne's method is must be the best. if it were possible for saturday and sunday's post to bring us what we asked for in our last letters, and what i now enclose, we should still go through it on sunday, and the performers should have their parts complete by monday night. we have had our rehearsal of the speaking part, and are to have another on saturday. i want dr. harrington's catch, but, as the sense must be the same, i am at a loss how to put other words. can't the under part ('a smoky house, &c.') be sung by one person and the other two change? the situation is-- quick and dubellamy, two lovers, carrying away father paul (reinold) in great raptures, to marry them:--the friar has before warned them of the ills of a married life, and they break out into this. the catch is particularly calculated for a stage effect; but i don't like to take another person's words, and i don't see how i can put others, keeping the same idea ('of seven squalling brats, &c.') in which the whole affair lies. however, i shall be glad of the notes, with reynold's part, if it is possible, as i mentioned. [footnote: this idea was afterwards relinquished.] "i have literally and really not had time to write the words of any thing more first and then send them to you, and this obliges me to use this apparently awkward way.... * * * * * "my father was astonishingly well received on saturday night in cato: i think it will not be many days before we are reconciled. "the inclosed are the words for 'wind, gentle evergreen;' a passionate song for mattocks, [footnote: the words of this song, in composing which the directions here given were exactly followed, are to be found in scarce any of the editions of the duenna. they are as follows:-- sharp is the woe that wounds the jealous mind, when treachery two fond hearts would rend; but oh! how keener far the pang to find that traitor in our bosom friend.] and another for miss brown, [footnote: "adieu, thou dreary pile."] which solicit to be clothed with melody by you, and are all i want. mattocks's i could wish to be a broken, passionate affair, and the first two lines may be recitative, or what you please, uncommon. miss brown sings hers in a joyful mood: we want her to show in it as much execution as she is capable of, which is pretty well; and, for variety, we want mr. simpson's hautboy to cut a figure, with replying passages, &c., in the way of fisher's '_m' ami, il bel idol mio_,' to abet which i have lugged in 'echo,' who is always allowed to play her part. i have not a moment more. yours ever sincerely." the next and last extract i shall give at present is from a letter, dated nov. , , about three weeks before the first representation of the opera. "our music is now all finished and rehearsing, but we are greatly impatient to see _you_. we hold your coming to be _necessary_ beyond conception. you say you are at our service after tuesday next; then 'i conjure you by that you do possess,' in which i include all the powers that preside over harmony, to come next thursday night (this day se'nnight), and we will fix a rehearsal for friday morning. from what i see of their rehearsing at present, i am become still more anxious to see you. "we have received all your songs, and are vastly pleased with them. you misunderstood me as to the hautboy song; i had not the least intention to fix on '_bel idol mio_,' however, i think it is particularly well adapted, and, i doubt not, will have a great effect...." an allusion which occurs in these letters to the prospect of a reconciliation with his father gives me an opportunity of mentioning a circumstance, connected with their difference, for the knowledge of which i am indebted to one of the persons most interested in remembering it, and which, as a proof of the natural tendency of sheridan's heart to let all its sensibilities flow in the right channel, ought not to be forgotten. during the run of one of his pieces, having received information from an old family servant that his father (who still refused to have any intercourse with him) meant to attend, with his daughters, at the representation of the piece, sheridan took up his station by one of the side scenes, opposite to the box where they sat, and there continued, unobserved, to look at them during the greater part of the night. on his return home, he was so affected by the various recollections that came upon him, that he burst into tears, and, being questioned as to the cause of his agitation by mrs. sheridan, to whom it was new to see him returning thus saddened from the scene of his triumph, he owned how deeply it had gone to his heart "to think that _there_ sat his father and his sisters before him, and yet that he alone was not permitted to go near them or speak to them." on the st of november, , the duenna was performed at covent garden, and the following is the original cast of the characters, as given in the collection of mr. sheridan's dramatic works:-- don ferdinand _mr. mattocks_. isaac mendoza _mr. quick_. don jerome _mr. wilson_. don antonio _mr. dubellamy_. father paul _mr. watson_. lopez _mr. wewitzer_. don carlos _mr. leoni_. francis _mr. fox_. lay brother _mr. baker_. donna louisa _mrs. mattocks_. donna clara _mrs. cargill_. [footnote: this is incorrect: it was miss brown that played donna clara for the first few nights.] the duenna _mrs. green_. the run of this opera has, i believe, no parallel in the annals of the drama. sixty-three nights was the career of the beggar's opera; but the duenna was acted no less than seventy-five times during the season, the only intermissions being a few days at christmas, and the fridays in every week;--the latter on account of leoni, who, being a jew, could not act on those nights. in order to counteract this great success of the rival house, garrick found it necessary to bring forward all the weight of his own best characters; and even had recourse to the expedient of playing off the mother against the son, by reviving mrs. frances sheridan's comedy of the discovery, and acting the principal part in it himself. in allusion to the increased fatigue which this competition with the duenna brought upon garrick, who was then entering on his sixtieth year, it was said, by an actor of the day, that "the old woman would be the death of the old man." the duenna is one of the very few operas in our language, which combine the merits of legitimate comedy with the attractions of poetry and song;--that divorce between sense and sound, to which dr. brown and others trace the cessation of the early miracles of music, being no where more remarkable than in the operas of the english stage. the "sovereign of the willing soul" (as gray calls music) always loses by being made exclusive sovereign,--and the division of her empire with poetry and wit, as in the instance of the duenna, doubles her real power. the intrigue of this piece (which is mainly founded upon an incident borrowed from the "country wife" of wycherley) is constructed and managed with considerable adroitness, having just material enough to be wound out into three acts, without being encumbered by too much intricacy, or weakened by too much extension. it does not appear, from the rough copy in my possession, that any material change was made in the plan of the work, as it proceeded. carlos was originally meant to be a jew, and is called "cousin moses" by isaac, in the first sketch of the dialogue; but possibly from the consideration that this would apply too personally to leoni, who was to perform the character, its designation was altered. the scene in the second act, where carlos is introduced by isaac to the duenna, stood, in its original state, as follows:-- "_isaac._ moses, sweet coz, i thrive, i prosper. "_moses._ where is your mistress? "_isaac._ there, you booby, there she stands. "_moses._ why she's damn'd ugly. "_isaac._ hush! (_stops his mouth_.) "_duenna._ what is your friend saying, don? "_isaac._ oh, ma'am, he's expressing his raptures at such charms as he never saw before. "_moses._ ay, such as i never saw before indeed. (_aside_.) "_duenna._ you are very obliging, gentlemen; but, i dare say, sir, your friend is no stranger to the influence of beauty. i doubt not but he is a lover himself. "_moses._ alas! madam, there is now but one woman living, whom i have any love for, and truly, ma'am, you resemble her wonderfully. "_duenna._ well, sir, i wish she may give you her hand as speedily as i shall mine to your friend. "_moses._ me her hand!--o lord, ma'am--she is the last woman in the world i could think of marrying. "_duenna._ what then, sir, are you comparing me to some wanton-- some courtezan? "_isaac._ zounds! he durstn't. "_moses._ o not i, upon my soul. "_duenna._ yes, he meant some young harlot--some-- "_moses._ oh, dear madam, no--it was my mother i meant, as i hope to be saved. "_isaac._ oh the blundering villain! (_aside_.) "_duenna._ how, sir--am i so like your mother? "_isaac._ stay, dear madam--my friend meant--that you put him in mind of what his mother was when a girl--didn't you, moses? "_moses._ oh yes, madam, my mother was formerly a great beauty, a great toast, i assure you;--and when she married my father about thirty years ago, as you may perhaps remember, ma'am-- "_duenna._ _i_, sir! i remember thirty years ago! "_isaac._ oh, to be sure not, ma'am--thirty years! no, no--it was thirty months he said, ma'am--wasn't it, moses? "_moses._ yes, yes, ma'am--thirty months ago, on her marriage with my father, she was, as i was saying, a great beauty;--but catching cold, the year afterwards, in child-bed of your humble servant-- "_duenna._ of you, sir!--and married within these thirty months! "_isaac._ oh the devil! he has made himself out but a year old!-- come, moses, hold your tongue.--you must excuse him, ma'am--he means to be civil--but he is a poor, simple fellow--an't you, moses? "_moses._ 'tis true, indeed, ma'am," &c. &c. &c. the greater part of the humor of moses here was afterwards transferred to the character of isaac, and it will be perceived that a few of the points are still retained by him. the wit of the dialogue, except in one or two instances, is of that accessible kind which lies near the surface--which may be enjoyed without wonder, and rather plays than shines. he had not yet searched his fancy for those curious fossils of thought which make the school for scandal such a rich museum of wit. of this precious kind, however, is the description of isaac's neutrality in religion--"like the blank leaf between the old and new testament." as an instance, too, of the occasional abuse of this research, which led him to mistake labored conceits for fancies, may be mentioned the far-fetched comparison of serenaders to egyptian embalmers, "extracting the brain through the ears." for this, however, his taste, not his invention, is responsible, as we have already seen that the thought was borrowed from a letter of his friend halhed. in the speech of lopez, the servant, with which the opera opens, there are, in the original copy, some humorous points, which appear to have fallen under the pruning knife, but which are not unworthy of being gathered up here:-- "a plague on these haughty damsels, say i:--when they play their airs on their whining gallants, they ought to consider that we are the chief sufferers,--we have all their ill-humors at second-hand. donna louisa's cruelty to my master usually converts itself into blows, by the time it gets to me:--she can frown me black and blue at any time, and i shall carry the marks of the last box on the ear she gave him to my grave. nay, if she smiles on any one else, i am the sufferer for it:--if she says a civil word to a rival, i am a rogue and a scoundrel; and, if she sends him a letter, my back is sure to pay the postage." in the scene between ferdinand and jerome (act ii. scene ) the following lively speech of the latter was, i know not why, left out:-- "_ferdin._ ....but he has never sullied his honor, which, with his title, has outlived his means. "_jerome._ have they? more shame for them!--what business have honor or titles to survive, when property is extinct? nobility is but as a helpmate to a good fortune, and, like a japanese wife, should perish on the funeral pile of the estate!" in the first act, too, (scene ) where jerome abuses the duenna, there is an equally unaccountable omission of a sentence, in which he compares the old lady's face to "parchment, on which time and deformity have engrossed their titles." though some of the poetry of this opera is not much above that ordinary kind, to which music is so often doomed to be wedded--making up by her own sweetness for the dulness of her help-mate--by far the greater number of the songs are full of beauty, and some of them may rank among the best models of lyric writing. the verses, "had i a heart for falsehood framed," notwithstanding the stiffness of this word "framed," and one or two other slight blemishes, are not unworthy of living in recollection with the matchless air to which they are adapted. there is another song, less known, from being connected with less popular music, which, for deep, impassioned feeling and natural eloquence, has not, perhaps, its rival, through the whole range of lyric poetry. as these verses, though contained in the common editions of the duenna, are not to be found in the opera, as printed in the british theatre, and, still more strangely, are omitted in the late collection of mr. sheridan's works, [footnote: for this edition of his works i am no further responsible than in having communicated to it a few prefatory pages, to account and apologize to the public for the delay of the life.] i should feel myself abundantly authorized in citing them here, even if their beauty were not a sufficient excuse for recalling them, under any circumstances, to the recollection of the reader:-- "ah, cruel maid, how hast thou changed the temper of my mind! my heart, by thee from love estrang'd, becomes, like thee, unkind. "by fortune favor'd, clear in fame, i once ambitious was; and friends i had who fann'd the flame, and gave my youth applause. "but now my weakness all accuse, yet vain their taunts on me; friends, fortune, fame itself i'd lose, to gain one smile from thee. "and only thou should'st not despise my weakness or my woe; if i am mad in others' eyes, 'tis thou hast made me so. "but days, like this, with doubting curst, i will not long endure-- am i disdain'd--i know the worst, and likewise know my cure. "if, false, her vow she dare renounce, that instant ends my pain; for, oh! the heart must break at once, that cannot hate again." it is impossible to believe that such verses as these had no deeper inspiration than the imaginary loves of an opera. they bear, burnt into every line, the marks of personal feeling, and must have been thrown off in one of those passionate moods of the heart, with which the poet's own youthful love had made him acquainted, and under the impression or vivid recollection of which these lines were written. in comparing this poem with the original words of the air to which it is adapted, (parnell's pretty lines, "my days have been so wondrous free,") it will be felt, at once, how wide is the difference between the cold and graceful effusions of taste, and the fervid bursts of real genius-- between the delicate product of the conservatory, and the rich child of the sunshine. i am the more confirmed in the idea that this song was written previously to the opera, and from personal feeling, by finding among his earlier pieces the originals of two other songs--"i ne'er could any lustre see," and "what bard, oh time, discover." the thought, upon which the latter turns, is taken from a poem already cited, addressed by him to mrs. sheridan in ; and the following is the passage that supplied the material:-- "alas, thou hast no wings, oh time, it was some thoughtless lover's rhyme, who, writing in his chloe's view, paid her the compliment through you. for, had he, if he truly lov'd, but once the pangs of absence prov'd, he'd cropt thy wings, and, in their stead, have painted thee with heels of lead." it will be seen presently, that this poem was again despoiled of some of its lines, for an epilogue which he began a few years after, upon a very different subject. there is something, it must be owned, not very sentimental in this conversion of the poetry of affection to other and less sacred uses--as if, like the ornaments of a passing pageant, it might be broken up after the show was over, and applied to more useful purposes. that the young poet should be guilty of such sacrilege to love, and thus steal back his golden offerings from the altar, to melt them down into utensils of worldly display, can only be excused by that demand upon the riches of his fancy, which the rapidity of his present career in the service of the dramatic muse occasioned. there is not the same objection to the approbation of the other song, which, it will be seen, is a selection of the best parts of the following anacreontic verses:-- "i ne'er could any lustre see [footnote: another mode of beginning this song in the ms.-- "go tell the maid who seeks to move my lyre to praise, my heart to love, no rose upon her cheek can live, like those assenting blushes give."] in eyes that would not look on me: when a glance aversion hints, i always think the lady squints. i ne'er saw nectar on a lip, but where my own did hope to sip. no pearly teeth rejoice my view, unless a 'yes' displays their hue-- the prudish lip, that _noes_ me back. convinces me the teeth are black, to me the cheek displays no roses, like that th' assenting blush discloses; but when with proud disdain 'tis spread, to me 'tis but a scurvy red. would she have me praise her hair? let her place my garland there. is her hand so white and pure? i must press it to be sure; nor can i be certain then, till it grateful press again. must i praise her melody? let her sing of love and me. if she choose another theme, i'd rather hear a peacock scream. must i, with attentive eye, watch her heaving bosom sigh? i will do so, when i see that heaving bosom sigh for me. none but bigots will in vain adore a heav'n they cannot gain. if i must religious prove to the mighty god of love, sure i am it is but fair he, at least, should hear my prayer. but, by each joy of his i've known, and all i yet shall make my own, never will i, with humble speech, pray to a heav'n i cannot reach." in the song, beginning "friendship is the bond of reason," the third verse was originally thus:-- "and, should i cheat the world and thee, one smile from her i love to win, such breach of human faith would be a sacrifice, and not a sin." to the song "'give isaac the nymph," there were at first two more verses, which, merely to show how judicious was the omission of them, i shall here transcribe. next to the advantage of knowing what to put into our writings, is that of knowing what to leave out:-- "to one thus accomplished i durst speak my mind, and flattery doubtless would soon make her kind; for the man that should praise her she needs must adore, who ne'er in her life receiv'd praises before. "but the frowns of a beauty in hopes to remove, should i prate of her charms, and tell of my love; no thanks wait the praise which she knows to be true, nor smiles for the homage she takes as her due." among literary piracies or impostures, there are few more audacious than the dublin edition of the duenna,--in which, though the songs are given accurately, an entirely new dialogue is substituted for that of sheridan, and his gold, as in the barter of glaucus, exchanged for such copper as the following:-- "_duen._ well, sir, i don't want to stay in your house; but i must go and lock up my wardrobe." "_isaac._ your wardrobe! when you came into my house you could carry your wardrobe in your comb-case, you could, you old dragon." another specimen:-- "_isaac._ her voice, too, you told me, was like a virginia nightingale; why, it is like a cracked warming-pan:--and as for dimples!--to be sure, she has the devil's own dimples.--yes! and you told me she had a lovely down upon her chin, like the down of a peach; but, damn me if ever i saw such down upon any creature in my life, except once upon an old goat." these jokes, i need not add, are all the gratuitous contributions of the editor. towards the close of the year , it was understood that garrick meant to part with his moiety of the patent of drury lane theatre, and retire from the stage. he was then in the sixtieth year of his age, and might possibly have been influenced by the natural feeling, so beautifully expressed for a great actor of our own time, by our greatest living writer: ----"higher duties crave some space between the theatre and the grave; that, like the roman in the capitol, i may adjust my mantle, ere i fall." [footnote: kemble's farewell address on taking leave of the edinburgh stage, written by sir walter scott.] the progress of the negotiation between him and mr. sheridan, which ended in making the latter patentee and manager, cannot better be traced than in sheridan's own letters, addressed at the time to mr. linley, and most kindly placed at my disposal by my friend mr. william linley. "sunday, dec. , . "dear sir, "i was always one of the slowest letter-writers in the world, though i have had more excuses than usual for my delay in this instance. the principal matter of business on which i was to have written to you, related to our embryo negotiation with garrick, of which i will now give you an account. "since you left town, mrs. ewart has been so ill, as to continue near three weeks at the point of death. this, of course, has prevented mr. e. from seeing anybody on business, or from accompanying me to garrick's. however, about ten days ago, i talked the matter over with him by myself, and the result was, appointing thursday evening last to meet him, and to bring ewart, which i did accordingly. on the whole of our conversation that evening, i began (for the first time) to think him _really serious_ in the business. he still, however, kept the reserve of giving the refusal to colman, though at the same time he did not hesitate to assert his confidence that colman would decline it. i was determined to push him on this point, (as it was really farcical for us to treat with him under such an evasion,) and at last he promised to put the question to colman, and to give me a decisive answer by the ensuing sunday (to-day). accordingly, within this hour, i have received a note from him, which (as i meant to show it my father) i here transcribe for you. "'mr. garrick presents his compliments to mr. sheridan, and, as he is obliged to go into the country for three days, he should be glad to see him upon his return to town, either on wednesday about or o'clock, or whenever he pleases. the party has no objection to the whole, but chooses no partner but mr. g. not a word of this yet. mr. g. sent a messenger on purpose, (i.e. to colman). he would call upon mr. s., but he is confined at home. your name is upon our list'. "this _decisive answer_ may be taken two ways. however, as mr. g. informed mr. ewart and me, that he had no authority or pretensions to treat for _the whole_, it appears to me that mr. garrick's meaning in this note is, that mr. colman _declines_ the purchase of _mr. garrick's share_, which is the point in debate, and the only part at present to be sold. i shall, therefore, wait on g. at the time mentioned, and, if i understand him right, we shall certainly without delay appoint two men of business and the law to meet on the matter, and come to a conclusion without further delay. "_according_ to his demand, the whole is valued at , _l_. he appears very shy of letting his books be looked into, as the test of the profits on this sum, but says it must be, in its nature, a purchase on speculation. however, he has promised me a rough estimate, of _his own_, of the entire receipts for the last seven years. but, after all, it must certainly be a _purchase on speculation_, without _money's worth_ being _made out_. one point he solemnly avers, which is, that he will never part with it under the price above- mentioned. "this is all i can say on the subject till wednesday, though i can't help adding, that i think we might _safely_ give five thousand pounds more on this purchase than richer people. the whole valued at , _l_., the annual interest is , _l_.; while this is _cleared_, the proprietors are safe,--but i think it must be _infernal_ management indeed that does not double it. "i suppose mr. stanley has written to you relative to your oratorio orchestra. the demand, i reckon, will be diminished one third, and the appearance remain very handsome, which, if the other affair takes place, you will find your account in; and, if you discontinue your partnership with stanley at drury lane, the orchestra may revert to whichever wants it, on the other's paying his proportion for the use of it this year. this is mr. garrick's idea, and, as he says, might in that case be settled by arbitration. "you have heard of our losing miss brown; however, we have missed her so little in the duenna, that the managers have not tried to regain her, which i believe they might have done. i have had some books of the music these many days to send you down. i wanted to put tom's name in the new music, and begged mrs. l. to ask you, and let me have a line on her arrival, for which purpose i kept back the index of the songs. if you or he have no objection, pray let me know. i'll send the music to-morrow. "i am finishing a two act comedy for covent-garden, which will be in rehearsal in a week. we have given the duenna a respite this christmas, but nothing else at present brings money. we have every place in the house taken for the three next nights, and shall, at least, play it fifty nights, with only the friday's intermission. "my best love and the compliments of the season to all your fire-side. "your grandson is a very magnificent fellow. [footnote: sheridan's first child, thomas, born in the preceding year.] "yours ever sincerely, "r. b. sheridan." "january , . "dear sir, "i left garrick last night too late to write to you. he has offered colman the refusal, and showed me his answer; which was (as in the note) that he was willing to purchase the whole, but would have no partner but garrick. on this, mr. garrick appointed a meeting with his partner, young leasy, and, in presence of their solicitor, treasurer, &c., declared to him that he was absolutely on the point of settling, and, if _he_ was willing, he might have the same price for his share; but that if he (leasy) would not sell, mr. garrick would, instantly, to another party. the result was, leasy's declaring his intention of not parting with his share. of this garrick again informed colman, who immediately gave up the whole matter. "garrick was extremely explicit, and, in short, we came to a final resolution. so that, if the necessary matters are made out to all our satisfactions, we may sign and seal a previous agreement within a fortnight. "i meet him again to-morrow evening, when we are to name a day for a conveyancer on our side, to meet his solicitor, wallace. i have pitched on a mr. phips, at the recommendation and by the advice of dr. ford. the three first steps to be taken are these,--our lawyer is to look into the titles, tenures, &c. of the house and adjoining estate, the extent and limitations of the patent, &c. we should then employ a builder (i think, mr. collins,) to survey the state and repair in which the whole premises are, to which g. entirely assents. mr. g. will then give us a fair and attested estimate from his books of what the profits have been, at an average, for these last seven years. [footnote: these accounts were found among mr. sheridan's papers. garrick's income from the theatre for the year - is thus stated:--"author _l_., salary, _l_., manager _l_."] this he has shown me in rough, and valuing the property at , _l_, the interest has exceeded ten percent. "we should, after this, certainly make an interest to get the king's promise, that, while the theatre is well conducted, &c. he will grant no patent to a third,--though g. seems confident that he never will. if there is any truth in professions and appearances, g. seems likely always to continue our friend, and to give every assistance in his power. "the method of our sharing the purchase, i should think, may be thus,-- ewart, to take , _l_., you , _l_, and i, , _l_.--dr. ford agrees, with the greatest pleasure, to embark the other five; and if you do not choose to venture so much, will, i dare say, share it with you. ewart is preparing his money, and i have a certainty of my part. we shall have a very useful ally in dr. ford; and my father offers his services on our own terms. we cannot unite garrick to our interests too firmly; and i am convinced his influence will bring leasy to our terms, if he should be ill-advised enough to desire to interfere in what he is totally unqualified for. "i'll write to you to-morrow relative to leasy's mortgage (which garrick has, and advises us to take), and many other particulars. when matters are in a certain train (which i hope will be in a week,) i suppose you will not hesitate to come to town for a day or two. garrick proposes, when we are satisfied with the bargain, to sign a previous article, with a penalty of ten thousand pounds on the parties who break from fulfilling the purchase. when we are once satisfied and determined in the business (which, i own, is my case), the sooner that is done the better. i must urge it particularly, as my confidential connection with the other house is peculiarly distressing, till i can with prudence reveal my situation, and such a treaty (however prudently managed) cannot long be kept secret, especially as leasy is now convinced of garrick's resolution. "i am exceedingly hurried at present, so, excuse omissions, and do not flag when we come to the point. i'll answer for it, we shall see many golden campaigns. "yours ever, "r. b. sheridan. "you have heard, i suppose, that foote is likely never to show his face again." "january st, . "dear sir, "i am glad you have found a person who will let you have the money at four per cent. the security will be very clear; but, as there is some degree of risk, as in case of fire, i think four per cent uncommonly reasonable.--it will scarcely be any advantage to pay it off, for your houses and chapel, i suppose, bring in much more. therefore, while you can raise money at four per cent, on the security of your theatrical share _only_, you will be right to alter, as little as you can, the present disposition of your property. "as to your quitting bath, i cannot see why you should doubt a moment about it. surely, the undertaking in which you embark such a sum as , _l_. ought to be the chief object of your attention--and, supposing you did not choose to give up all your time to the theatre, you may certainly employ yourself more profitably in london than in bath. but, if you are willing (as i suppose you will be) to make the theatre the great object of your attention, rely on it you may lay aside every doubt of not finding your account in it; for the fact is, we shall have nothing but our own equity to consult in making and obtaining any demand for exclusive trouble. leasy is utterly unequal to any department in the theatre. he has an opinion of me, and is very willing to let the whole burthen and ostensibility be taken off his shoulders. but i certainly should not give up my time and labor (for his superior advantage, having so much greater a share) without some exclusive advantage. yet, i should by no means make the demand till i had shown myself equal to the task. my father purposes to be with us but one year; and that only to give me what advantage he can from his experience. he certainly must be paid for his trouble, and so certainly must you. you have experience and character equal to the line you would undertake; and it never can enter into any body's head that you were to give your time or any part of your attention gratis, because you had a share in the theatre. i have spoke on this subject both to garrick and leasy, and you will find no demur on any side to your gaining a _certain_ income from the theatre--greater, i think, than you could make out of it--and in this the theatre will be acting only for its own advantage. at the same time you may always make leisure for a few select scholars, whose interest may also serve the greater cause of your patentee-ship. "i have had a young man with me who wants to appear as a singer in plays or oratorios. i think you'll find him likely to be serviceable in either. he is not one-and-twenty, and has no conceit. he has a good tenor voice--very good ear and a great deal of execution, of the right kind. he reads notes very quick, and can accompany himself. this is betsey's verdict, who sat in judgment on him on sunday last. i have given him no answer, but engaged him to wait till you come to town. "you must not regard the reports in the paper about a third theatre-- that's all nonsense. "betsey's and my love to all. your grandson astonishes every body by his vivacity, his talents for music and poetry, and the most perfect integrity of mind. "yours most sincerely, "r. b. sheridan." in the following june the contract with garrick was perfected; and in a paper drawn up by mr. sheridan many years after, i find the shares of the respective purchasers thus stated:- mr. sheridan, two fourteenths of the whole. , _l_. mr. linley, ditto , _l_. dr. ford, ditto , _l_. mr. ewart, it will be perceived, though originally mentioned as one of the parties, had no concern in the final arrangement. though the letters, just cited, furnish a more detailed account than has yet been given to the public of this transaction by which mr. sheridan became possessed of his theatrical property, they still leave us in the dark with respect to the source from which his own means of completing the purchase were derived. not even to mr. linley, while entering into all other details, does he hint at the fountain head from which this supply is to come:-- _"--gentes maluit ortus mirari, quam nosse tuos."_ there was, indeed, something mysterious and miraculous about all his acquisitions, whether in love, in learning, in wit, or in wealth. how or when his stock of knowledge was laid in, nobody knew--it was as much a matter of marvel to those who never saw him read, as the existence of the chameleon has been to those who fancied it never eat. his advances in the heart of his mistress were, as we have seen, equally trackless and inaudible, and his triumph was the first that even rivals knew of his love. in like manner, the productions of his wit took the world by surprise,--being perfected in secret, till ready for display, and then seeming to break from under the cloud of his indolence in full maturity of splendor. his financial resources had no less an air of magic about them; and the mode by which he conjured up, at this time, the money for his first purchase into the theatre, remains, as far as i can learn, still a mystery. it has been said that mr. garrick supplied him with the means--but a perusal of the above letters must set that notion to rest. there was evidently, at this time, no such confidential understanding between them as an act of friendship of so signal a nature would imply; and it appears that sheridan had the purchase money ready, even before the terms upon which garrick would sell were ascertained. that doctor ford should have advanced the money is not less improbable; for the share of which, contrary to his first intention, he ultimately became proprietor, absorbed, there is every reason to think, the whole of his disposable means. he was afterwards a sufferer by the concern to such an extent, as to be obliged, in consequence of his embarrassments, to absent himself for a considerable time from england; and there are among the papers of mr. sheridan, several letters of remonstrance addressed to him by the son of dr. ford, in which some allusion to such a friendly service, had it ever occurred, would hardly have been omitted. about the end of this year some dissensions arose between the new patentees and mr. lacy, in consequence of the expressed intention of the latter to introduce two other partners into the establishment, by the disposal of his share to captain thomson and a mr. langford. by an account of this transaction, which appears in a periodical paper published at the time, [footnote: the selector] and which, from its correctness in other particulars, i rather think may be depended on, it would seem that sheridan, in his opposition to lacy, had proceeded to the extremity of seceding from his own duties at the theatre, and inducing the principal actors to adopt the same line of conduct. "does not the rage (asks this writer) of the new managers, all directed against the innocent and justifiable conduct of mr. lacy, look as if they meant to rule a theatre, of which they have only a moiety among them, and feared the additional weight and influence which would be given to mr. lacy by the assistance of captain thomson and mr. langford? if their intentions were right, why should they fear to have their power balanced, and their conduct examined? is there a precedent in the annals of the theatre, where the acting manager deserted the general property, left the house, and seduced the actors from their duties--why? forsooth, because he was angry. is not such conduct actionable? in any concern of common property, lord mansfield would make it so. and, what an insult to the public, from whose indulgence and favor this conceited young man, with his wife and family, are to receive their daily bread! because mr. lacy, in his opinion, had used him ill--his patrons and benefactors might go to the devil! mr. lacy acted with great temper and moderation; and, in order that the public might not be wholly disappointed, he brought on old stock-plays--his brother manager having robbed him of the means and instruments to do otherwise, by taking away the performers." it is also intimated in the same publication that mr. garrick had on this occasion "given mr. sheridan credit on his banker for , _l_. for law expenses or for the purchase of messrs. langford and thomson's shares." the dispute, however, was adjusted amicably. mr. lacy was prevailed upon to write an apology to the public, and the design of disposing of his share in the theatre was, for the present, relinquished. there is an allusion to this reconciliation in the following characteristic letter, addressed by sheridan to mr. linley in the spring of the following year. "dear sir, "you write to me though you tell me you have nothing to say--now, i have reversed the case, and have not wrote to you, because i have had so much to say. however, i find i have delayed too long to attempt now to transmit you a long detail of our theatrical manoeuvres; but you must not attribute my not writing to idleness, but on the contrary to my _not_ having been idle. "you represent your situation of mind between _hopes_ and _fears_. i am afraid i should argue in vain (as i have often on this point before) were i to tell you, that it is always better to encourage the former than the latter. it may be very prudent to mix a little _fear_ by way of alloy with a good solid mass of _hope_; but you, on the contrary, always deal in _apprehension_ by the pound, and take _confidence_ by the grain, and spread as thin as leaf gold. in fact, though a metaphor mayn't explain it, the truth is, that, in all undertakings which depend principally on ourselves, the surest way not to fail is to _determine to succeed_. "it would be endless to say more at present about theatrical matters, only, that every thing is going on very well. lacy promised me to write to you, which i suppose, however, he has not done. at our first meeting after you left town, he cleared away all my doubts about his sincerity; and i dare swear we shall never have the least misunderstanding again, nor do i believe he will ever take any distinct counsel in future. relative to your affair he has not the shade of an objection remaining, and is only anxious that you may not take amiss his boggling at first. we have, by and with the advice of the privy council, concluded to have noverre over, and there is a species of pantomime to be shortly put on foot, which is to draw all the human kind to drury. [footnote: i find that the pantomime at drury lane this year was a revival of "harlequin's invasion," and that at covent garden, "harlequin's frolics."] this is become absolutely necessary on account of a marvellous preparation of the kind which is making at covent garden. "touching the tragedies you mention, if you speak of them merely as certain tragedies that may be had, i should think it impossible we could find the least room, as you know garrick saddles us with one which we _must_ bring out. but, if you have any particular desire that one of them should be done, it is another affair, and i should be glad to see them. otherwise, i would much rather you would save the disagreeableness of giving my opinion to a fresh tragic bard, being already in disgrace with about nine of that irascible fraternity. "betsey has been alarmed about tom, but without reason. he is in my opinion better than when you left him, at least to appearance, and the cold he caught is gone. we sent to see him at battersea, and would have persuaded him to remove to orchard street; but he thinks the air does him good, and he seems with people where he is at home, and may divert himself, which, perhaps, will do him more good than the air,--but he is to be with us soon. "ormsby has sent me a silver branch on the score of the duenna. this will cost me, what of all things i am least free of, a letter: and it should have been a poetical one, too, if the present had been any piece of plate but a candlestick!--i believe i must melt it into a bowl to make verses on it, for there is no possibility of bringing candle, candlestick, or snuffers, into metre. however, as the gift was owing to the muse, and the manner of it very friendly, i believe i shall try to jingle a little on the occasion; at least, a few such stanzas as might gain a cup of tea from the urn at bath-easton. "betsey is very well, and on the point of giving tom up to feed like a christian and a gentleman, or, in other words, of weaning, waining, or weening him. as for the young gentleman himself, his progress is so rapid, that one may plainly see the astonishment the sun is in of a morning, at the improvement of the night. our loves to all. "yours ever, and truly, "r. b. sheridan." the first contribution which the dramatic talent of the new manager furnished to the stock of the theatre, was an alteration of vanbrugh's comedy, the relapse, which was brought out on the th of february, , under the title of "a trip to scarborough." in reading the original play, we are struck with surprise, that sheridan should ever have hoped to be able to _defecate_ such dialogue, and yet leave any of the wit, whose whole spirit is in the lees, behind. the very life of such characters as berinthia is their licentiousness, and it is with them, as with objects that are luminous from putrescence,--to remove their taint is to extinguish their light. if sheridan, indeed, had substituted some of his own wit for that which he took away, the inanition that followed the operation would have been much less sensibly felt. but to be so liberal of a treasure so precious, and for the enrichment of the work of another, could hardly have been expected from him. besides, it may be doubted whether the subject had not already yielded its utmost to vanbrugh, and whether even in the hands of sheridan, it could have been brought to bear a second crop of wit. here and there through the dialogue, there are some touches from his pen-- more, however, in the style of his farce than his comedy. for instance, that speech of lord foppington, where, directing the hosier not "to thicken the calves of his stockings so much," he says, "you should always remember, mr. hosier, that if you make a nobleman's spring legs as robust as his autumnal calves, you commit a monstrous impropriety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of the winter." again, the following dialogue:-- "_jeweller._ i hope, my lord, those buckles have had the unspeakable satisfaction of being honored with your lordship's approbation? "_lord f._ why, they are of a pretty fancy; but don't you think them rather of the smallest? "_jeweller._ my lord, they could not well be larger, to keep on your lordship's shoe. "_lord f._ my good sir, you forget that these matters are not as they used to be: formerly, indeed, the buckle was a sort of machine, intended to keep on the shoe; but the case is now quite reversed, and the shoe is of no earthly use but to keep on the buckle." about this time mrs. sheridan went to pass a few weeks with her father and mother at bath, while sheridan himself remained in town, to superintend the concerns of the theatre. during this interval he addressed to her the following verses, which i quote, less from their own peculiar merit, than as a proof how little his heart had yet lost of those first feelings of love and gallantry which too often expire in matrimony, as faith and hope do in heaven, and from the same causes-- "one lost in certainty, and one in joy." to laura. "near avon's ridgy bank there grows a willow of no vulgar size, that tree first heard poor silvio's woes, and heard how bright were laura's eyes. its boughs were shade from heat or show'r, its roots a moss-grown seat became; its leaves would strew the maiden's bow'r, its bark was shatter'd with her name! once on a blossom-crowned day of mirth-inspiring may, silvio, beneath this willow's sober shade, in sullen contemplation laid, did mock the meadow's flowery pride,-- rail'd at the dance and sportive ring;-- the tabor's call he did deride, and said, _it was not spring_. he scorn'd the sky of azure blue, he scorn'd whate'er could mirth bespeak; he chid the beam that drank the dew, and chid the gale that fann'd his glowing cheek. unpaid the season's wanton lay, for still he sigh'd, and said, it _was not may_. "ah, why should the glittering stream reflect thus delusive the scene? ah, why does a rosy-ting'd beam thus vainly enamel the green? to me nor joy nor light they bring: i tell thee, phoebus, _'tis not spring_. "sweet tut'ress of music and love, sweet bird, if 'tis thee that i hear, why left you so early the grove, to lavish your melody here? cease, then, mistaken thus to sing, sweet nightingale! it _is not spring_. "the gale courts my locks but to tease, and, zephyr, i call not on thee: thy fragrance no longer can please, then rob not the blossoms for me: but hence unload thy balmy wing, believe me, zephyr, 'tis _not spring_. "yet the lily has drank of the show'r, and the rose 'gins to peep on the day; and yon bee seems to search for a flow'r, as busy as if it were may:-- in vain, thou senseless flutt'ring thing, my heart informs me, _'tis not spring."_ may pois'd her roseate wings, for she had heard the mourner, as she pass'd the vales along; and, silencing her own indignant bird, she thus reprov'd poor silvio's song. "how false is the sight of a lover; how ready his spleen to discover what reason would never allow! why,--silvio, my sunshine and showers, my blossoms, my birds, and my flow'rs, were never more perfect than now. "the water's reflection is true, the green is enamell'd to view, and philomel sings on the spray; the gale is the breathing of spring, 'tis fragrance it bears on its wing, and the bee is assur'd it is _may_." "pardon (said silvio with a gushing tear), _'tis_ spring, sweet nymph, _but laura is not here_." in sending these verses to mrs. sheridan, he had also written her a description of some splendid party, at which he had lately been present, where all the finest women of the world of fashion were assembled. his praises of their beauty, as well as his account of their flattering attentions to himself, awakened a feeling of at least poetical jealousy in mrs. sheridan, which she expressed in the following answer to his verses--taking occasion, at the same time, to pay some generous compliments to the most brilliant among his new fashionable friends. though her verses are of that kind which we read more with interest than admiration, they have quite enough of talent for the gentle themes to which she aspired; and there is, besides, a charm about them, as coming from mrs. sheridan, to which far better poetry could not pretend. to silvio. "soft flow'd the lay by avon's sedgy side, while o'er its streams the drooping willow hung beneath whose shadow silvio fondly tried to check the opening roses as they sprung. in vain he bade them cease to court the gale, that wanton'd balmy on the zephyr's wing; in vain, when philomel renew'd her tale, he chid her song, and said _'it was not spring.'_ for still they bloom'd, tho' silvio's heart was sad, nor did sweet philomel neglect to sing; the zephyrs scorned them not, tho' silvio had, for love and nature told them it was spring. [footnote: as the poem altogether would be too long, i have here omitted five or six stanzas] * * * * * to other scenes doth silvio now repair, to nobler themes his daring muse aspires; around him throng the gay, the young, the fair, his lively wit the listening crowd admires. and see, where radiant beauty smiling stands, with gentle voice and soft beseeching eyes, to gain the laurel from his willing hands, her every art the fond enchantress tries. what various charms the admiring youth surround, how shall he sing, or how attempt to praise? so lovely all--where shall the bard be found, who can to _one_ alone attune his lays? behold with graceful step and smile serene, majestic stella moves to claim the prize: [footnote: according to the key which has been given me, the name of stella was meant to designate the duchess of rutland] "'tis thine," he cries, "for thou art beauty's queen." mistaken youth! and sees't thou myra's eyes? [footnote: the duchess of devonshire] with beaming lustre see they dart at thee: ah i dread their vengeance--yet withhold thy hand,-- that deepening blush upbraids thy rash decree; hers is the wreath--obey the just demand. "pardon, bright nymph,"(the wond'ring silvio cries) "and oh, receive the wreath thy beauty's due"-- his voice awards what still his hand denies, for beauteous amoret now his eyes pursue. [footnote: mrs. (afterward lady) crewe] with gentle step and hesitating grace, unconscious of her pow'r the fair one came; if, while he view'd the glories of that face, poor silvio doubted,--who shall dare to blame? a rosy blush his ardent gaze reprov'd, the offer'd wreath she modestly declined;-- "if sprightly wit and dimpled smiles are lov'd, my brow," said flavia, "shall that garland bind." [footnote: lady craven, afterwards margravine of anspach.] with wanton gaiety the prize she seized-- silvio in vain her snowy hand repell'd; the fickle youth unwillingly was pleas'd, reluctantly the wreath he yet withheld. but jessie's all-seducing form appears, [footnote: the late countess of jersey.] nor more the playful flavia could delight; lovely in smiles, more lovely still in tears, her every glance shone eloquently bright. those radiant eyes in safety none could view, did not those fringed lids their brightness shade-- mistaken youths! their beams, too late ye knew, are by that soft defence more fatal made. "o god of love!" with transport silvio cries, "assist me thou, this contest to decide; and since to _one_ i cannot yield the prize, permit thy slave the garland to divide. "on myra's breast the opening rose shall blow, reflecting from her cheek a livelier bloom; for stella shall the bright carnation glow-- beneath her eyes' bright radiance meet its doom. "smart pinks and daffodils shall flavia grace, the modest eglantine and violet blue on gentle amoret's placid brow i'll place-- of elegance and love an emblem true." in gardens oft a beauteous flow'r there grows, by vulgar eyes unnoticed and unseen; in sweet security it humbly blows, and rears its purple head to deck the green. this flower, as nature's poet sweetly sings, was once milk-white, and _hearts-ease_ was its name; till wanton cupid pois'd his roseate wings, a vestal's sacred bosom to inflame; with treacherous aim the god his arrow drew, which she with icy coldness did repel; rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew, till on this lonely flow'r at last it fell. heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherds found, no more the nymphs its snowy form possess; its white now chang'd to purple by love's wound, heart's-ease no more, 'tis "love in idleness." "this flow'r with sweet-brier join'd shall thee adorn, sweet jessie, fairest 'mid ten thousand fair! but guard thy gentle bosom from the thorn, which, tho' conceal'd, the sweet-brier still must bear. "and place not love, tho' _idle_, in thy breast, tho' bright its hues, it boasts no other charm-- so may thy future days be ever blest, and friendship's calmer joys thy bosom warm !" but where does laura pass her lonely hours? does she still haunt the grot and willow-tree? shall silvio from his wreath of various flowr's neglect to cull one simple sweet for thee? "ah, laura, no," the constant silvio cries, "for thee a never-fading wreath i'll twine; though bright the rose, its bloom too swiftly flies, no emblem meet for love so true as mine. "for thee, my love, the myrtle, ever-green, shall every year its blossom sweet disclose, which, when our spring of youth no more is seen, shall still appear more lovely than the rose." "forgive, dear youth," the happy laura said, "forgive each doubt, each fondly anxious fear, which from my heart for ever now is fled-- thy love and truth, thus tried, are doubly dear. "with pain i mark'd the various passions rise, when beauty so divine before thee mov'd; with trembling doubt beheld thy wandering eyes, for still i fear'd;--alas! because i lov'd. "each anxious doubt shall laura _now_ forego, no more regret those joys so lately known, conscious, that tho' thy breast to _all_ may glow, thy faithful _heart_ shall beat for _her_ alone. "then, silvio, seize again thy tuneful lyre, nor yet sweet beauty's power forbear to praise; again let charms divine thy strains inspire, and laura's voice shall aid the poet's lays." chapter v. the school for scandal. mr. sheridan was now approaching the summit of his dramatic fame;--he had already produced the best opera in the language, and there now remained for him the glory of writing also the best comedy. as this species of composition seems, more, perhaps, than any other, to require that knowledge of human nature and the world which experience alone can give, it seems not a little extraordinary that nearly all our first-rate comedies should have been the productions of very young men. those of congreve were all written before he was five-and-twenty. farquhar produced the constant couple in his two-and-twentieth year, and died at thirty. vanbrugh was a young ensign when he sketched out the relapse and the provoked wife, and sheridan crowned his reputation with the school for scandal at six-and-twenty. it is, perhaps, still more remarkable to find, as in the instance before us, that works which, at this period of life, we might suppose to have been the rapid offspring of a careless, but vigorous fancy,-- anticipating the results of experience by a sort of second-sight inspiration,--should, on the contrary, have been the slow result of many and doubtful experiments, gradually unfolding beauties unforeseen even by him who produced them, and arriving, at length, step by step, at perfection. that such was the tardy process by which the school for scandal was produced, will appear from the first sketches of its plan and dialogue, which i am here enabled to lay before the reader, and which cannot fail to interest deeply all those who take delight in tracing the alchemy of genius, and in watching the first slow workings of the menstruum, out of which its finest transmutations arise. "genius," says buffon, "is patience;" or, (as another french writer has explained his thought)--"la patience cherche, et le genie trouve;" and there is little doubt that to the co-operation of these two powers all the brightest inventions of this world are owing;--that patience must first explore the depths where the pearl lies hid, before genius boldly dives and brings it up full into light. there are, it is true, some striking exceptions to this rule; and our own times have witnessed more than one extraordinary intellect, whose depth has not prevented their treasures from lying ever ready within reach. but the records of immortality furnish few such instances; and all we know of the works, that she has hitherto marked with her seal, sufficiently authorize the general position,--that nothing great and durable has ever been produced with ease, and that labor is the parent of all the lasting wonders of this world, whether in verse or stone, whether poetry or pyramids. the first sketch of the school for scandal that occurs was written, i am inclined to think, before the rivals, or at least very soon after it;-- and that it was his original intention to satirize some of the gossips of bath appears from the title under which i find noted down, as follows, the very first hints, probably, that suggested themselves for the dialogue. "the slanderers.--_a pump-room scene_. "friendly caution to the newspapers. "it is whispered-- "she is a constant attendant at church, and very frequently takes dr. m'brawn home with her. "mr. worthy is very good to the girl;--for my part, i dare swear he has no ill intention. "what! major wesley's miss montague? "lud, ma'am, the match is certainly broke--no creature knows the cause; some say a flaw in the lady's character, and others, in the gentleman's fortune. "to be sure they do say-- "i hate to repeat what i hear. "she was inclined to be a little too plump before she went. "the most intrepid blush;--i've known her complexion stand fire for an hour together. "'she had twins,'--how ill-natured! as i hope to be saved, ma'am, she had but one; and that a little starved brat not worth mentioning." the following is the opening scene of his first sketch, from which it will be perceived that the original plot was wholly different from what it is at present,--sir peter and lady teazle being at that time not in existence. "lady sneerwell and spatter. "_lady s._ the paragraphs, you say, were all inserted. "_spat._ they were, madam. "_lady s._ did you circulate the report of lady brittle's intrigue with captain boastall? "_spat._ madam, by this lady brittle is the talk of half the town; and in a week will be treated as a demirep. "_lady s._ what have you done as to the innuendo of miss niceley's fondness for her own footman? "_spat._ 'tis in a fair train, ma'am. i told it to my hair- dresser,--he courts a milliner's girl in pall mall, whose mistress has a first cousin who is waiting-woman to lady clackit. i think in about fourteen hours it must reach lady clackit, and then you know the business is done. "_lady s._ but is that sufficient, do you think? "_spat._ o lud, ma'am, i'll undertake to ruin the character of the primmest prude in london with half as much. ha! ha! did your ladyship never hear how poor miss shepherd lost her lover and her character last summer at scarborough? this was the whole of it. one evening at lady ----'s, the conversation happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding nova scotia sheep in england. 'i have known instances,' says miss ---, 'for last spring, a friend of mine, miss shepherd of ramsgate, had a nova scotia sheep that produced her twins.'--'what!' cries the old deaf dowager lady bowlwell, 'has miss shepherd of ramsgate been brought to bed of twins?' this mistake, as you may suppose, set the company laughing. however, the next day, miss verjuice amarilla lonely, who had been of the party, talking of lady bowlwell's deafness, began to tell what had happened; but unluckily, forgetting to say a word of sheep, it was understood by the company, and, in every circle, many believed, that miss shepherd of ramsgate had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and a girl; and, in less than a fortnight, there were people who could name the father, and the farm-house where the babies were put out to nurse. "_lady s._ ha! ha! well, for a stroke of luck, it was a very good one. i suppose you find no difficulty in spreading the report on the censorious miss ----. "_spat._ none in the world,--she has always been so prudent and reserved, that every body was sure there was some reason for it at bottom. "_lady s._ yes, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prude as a fever to those of the strongest constitutions; but there is a sort of sickly reputation that outlives hundreds of the robuster character of a prude. "_spat._ true, ma'am, there are valetudinarians in reputation as in constitutions; and both are cautious from their appreciation and consciousness of their weak side, and avoid the least breath of air. [footnote: this is one of the many instances, where the improving effect of revision may be traced. the passage at present stands thus:--"there are valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply the want of stamina by care and circumspection."] "_lady s._ but, spatter, i have something of greater confidence now to entrust you with. i think i have some claim to your gratitude. "_spat._ have i ever shown myself one moment unconscious of what i owe you? "_lady s._ i do not charge you with it, but this is an affair of importance. you are acquainted with my situation, but not all my weaknesses. i was hurt, in the early part of my life, by the envenom'd tongue of scandal, and ever since, i own, have no joy but in sullying the fame of others. in this i have found you an apt tool: you have often been the instrument of my revenge, but you must now assist me in a softer passion. a young widow with a little beauty and easy fortune is seldom driven to sue,--yet is that my case. of the many you have seen here, have you ever observed me, secretly, to favor one? "_spat._ egad! i never was more posed: i'm sure you cannot mean that ridiculous old knight, sir christopher crab? "_lady s._ a wretch! his assiduities are my torment. "_spat._ perhaps his nephew, the baronet, sir benjamin backbite, is the happy man? "_lady s._ no, though he has ill-nature, and a good person on his side, he is not to my taste. what think you of clerimont? [footnote: afterwards called florival.] "_spat._ how! the professed lover of your ward, maria; between whom, too, there is a mutual affection. "_lady s._ yes, that insensible, that doater on an idiot, is the man. "_spat._ but how can you hope to succeed? "_lady s._ by poisoning both with jealousy of the other, till the credulous fool, in a pique, shall be entangled in my snare. "_spat._ have you taken any measure for it? "_lady s._ i have. maria has made me the confidante of clerimont's love for her: in return, i pretended to entrust her with my affection for sir benjamin, who is her warm admirer. by strong representation of my passion, i prevailed on her not to refuse to see sir benjamin, which she once promised clerimont to do. i entreated her to plead my cause, and even drew her in to answer sir benjamin's letters with the same intent. of this i have made clerimont suspicious; but 'tis you must inflame him to the pitch i want. "_spat._ but will not maria, on the least unkindness of clerimont, instantly come to an explanation? "_lady s._ this is what we must prevent by blinding...." the scene that follows, between lady sneerwell and maria, gives some insight into the use that was to be made of this intricate ground-work, [footnote: the following is his own arrangement of the scenes of the second act. "act ii. scene st. all.-- d. lady s. and mrs. c.-- d. lady s. and ... em. and mrs. c. listening.-- th. l. s. and flor. shows him into the room,--bids him return the other way.--l. s. and emma.--emma and florival;--fits,--maid.--emma fainting and sobbing:--'death, don't expose me!'--enter maid,--will call out--all come on with cards and smelling bottles."] and it was, no doubt, the difficulty of managing such an involvement of his personages dramatically, that drove him, luckily for the world, to the construction of a simpler, and, at the same time, more comprehensive plan. he might also, possibly, have been influenced by the consideration, that the chief movement of this plot must depend upon the jealousy of the lover,--a spring of interest which he had already brought sufficiently into play in the rivals. "_lady sneerwell._ well, my love, have you seen clerimont to-day? "_maria._ i have not, nor does he come as often as he used. indeed, madam, i fear what i have done to serve you has by some means come to his knowledge, and injured me in his opinion. i promised him faithfully never to see sir benjamin. what confidence can he ever have in me, if he once finds i have broken my word to him? "_lady s._ nay, you are too grave. if he should suspect any thing, it will always be in my power to undeceive him. "_mar._ well, you have involved me in deceit, and i must trust to you to extricate me. "_lady s._ have you answered sir benjamin's last letter in the manner i wished? "_mar._ i have written exactly as you desired me: but i wish you would give me leave to tell the whole truth to clerimont at once. there is a coldness in his manner of late, which i can no ways account for. "_lady s._ (_aside_.) i'm glad to find i have worked on him so far;--fie, maria, have you so little regard for me? would you put me to the shame of being known to love a man who disregards me? had you entrusted me with such a secret, not a husband's power should have forced it from me. but, do as you please. go, forget the affection i have shown you: forget that i have been as a mother to you, whom i found an orphan. go, break through all ties of gratitude, and expose me to the world's derision, to avoid one sullen hour from a moody lover. "_mar._ indeed, madam, you wrong me; and you who know the apprehension of love, should make allowance for its weakness. my love for clerimont is so great-- "_lady s._ peace; it cannot exceed mine. "_mar._ for sir benjamin, perhaps not, ma'am--and, i am sure, clerimont has as sincere an affection for me. "_lady s._ would to heaven i could say the same! "_mar._ of sir benjamin:--i wish so too, ma'am. but i am sure you would be extremely hurt, if, in gaining your wishes, you were to injure me in the opinion of clerimont. "_lady s._ undoubtedly; i would not for the world--simple fool! (_aside._) but my wishes, my happiness depend on you--for, i doat so on the insensible, that it kills me to see him so attached to you. give me but clerimont, and-- "_mar._ clerimont! "_lady s._ sir benjamin, you know, i meant. is he not attached to you? am i not slighted for you? yet, do i bear any enmity to you, as my rival? i only request your friendly intercession, and you are so ungrateful, you would deny me that. "_mar._ nay, madam, have i not done everything you wished? for you, i have departed from truth, and contaminated my mind with falsehood-- what could i do more to serve you? "_lady s._ well, forgive me, i was too warm. i know you would not betray me. i expect sir benjamin and his uncle this morning--why, maria, do you always leave our little parties? "_mar._ i own, madam, i have no pleasure in their conversation. i have myself no gratification in uttering detraction, and therefore none in hearing it. "_lady s._ oh fie, you are serious--'tis only a little harmless raillery. "_mar._ i never can think that harmless which hurts the peace of youth, draws tears from beauty, and gives many a pang to the innocent. "_lady s._ nay, you must allow that many people of sense and wit have this foible--sir benjamin backbite, for instance. "_mar._ he may, but i confess i never can perceive wit where i see malice. "_lady s._ fie, maria, you have the most unpolished way of thinking! it is absolutely impossible to be witty without being a little ill-natured. the malice of a good thing is the barb that makes it stick. i protest now when i say an ill-natured thing, i have not the least malice against the person; and, indeed, it may be of one whom i never saw in my life; for i hate to abuse a friend--but i take it for granted, they all speak as ill-naturedly of me. "_mar._ then you are, very probably, conscious you deserve it--for my part, i shall only suppose myself ill-spoken of, when i am conscious i deserve it." "_enter servant._ "_ser._ mrs. candor. "_mar._ well, i'll leave you. "_lady s._ no, no, you have no reason to avoid her, she is good nature itself. "_mar._ yes, with an artful affectation of candor, she does more injury than the worst backbiter of them all." "_enter_ mrs. candor. "_mrs. cand._ so, lady sneerwell, how d'ye do? maria, child, how dost? well, who is't you are to marry at last? sir benjamin or clerimont? the town talks of nothing else." through the remainder of this scene the only difference in the speeches of mrs. candor is, that they abound more than at present in ludicrous names and anecdotes, and occasionally straggle into that loose wordiness, which, knowing how much it weakens the sap of wit, the good taste of sheridan was always sure to lop away. the same may be said of the greater part of that scene of scandal which at present occurs in the second act, and in which all that is now spoken by lady teazle, was originally put into the mouths of sir christopher crab and others--the caustic remarks of sir peter teazle being, as well as himself, an after creation. it is chiefly, however, in clerimont, the embryo of charles surface, that we perceive how imperfect may be the first lineaments, that time and taste contrive to mould gradually into beauty. the following is the scene that introduces him to the audience, and no one ought to be disheartened by the failure of a first attempt after reading it. the spiritless language--the awkward introduction of the sister into the plot--the antiquated expedient [footnote: this objection seems to have occurred to himself; for one of his memorandums is--"not to drop the letter, but take it from the maid.] of dropping the letter--all, in short, is of the most undramatic and most unpromising description, and as little like what it afterwards turned to as the block is to the statue, or the grub to the butterfly. "_sir c._ this clerimont is, to be sure, the drollest mortal! he is one of your moral fellows, who does unto others as he would they should do unto him. "_lady sneer._ yet he is sometimes entertaining. "_sir c._ oh hang him, no--he has too much good nature to say a witty thing himself, and is too ill-natured to praise wit in others. "_enter_ clerimont. "_sir b._ so, clerimont--we were just wishing for you to enliven us with your wit and agreeable vein. "_cler._ no, sir benjamin, i cannot join you. "_sir b._ why, man, you look as grave as a young lover the first time he is jilted. "_cler._ i have some cause to be grave, sir benjamin. a word with you all. i have just received a letter from the country, in which i understand that my sister has suddenly left my uncle's house, and has not since been heard of. "_lady s._ indeed! and on what provocation? "_cler._ it seems they were urging her a little too hastily to marry some country squire that was not to her taste. "_sir b._ positively i love her for her spirit. "_lady s._ and so do i, and would protect her, if i knew where she was. "_cler._ sir benjamin, a word with you--(_takes him apart_.) i think, sir, we have lived for some years on what the world calls the footing of friends. "_sir b._ to my great honor, sir.--well, my dear friend? "_cler._ you know that you once paid your addresses to my sister. my uncle disliked you; but i have reason to think you were not indifferent to her. "_sir b._ i believe you are pretty right there; but what follows? "_cler._ then i think i have a right to expect an implicit answer from you, whether you are in any respect privy to her elopement? "_sir b._ why, you certainly have a right to ask the question, and i will answer you as sincerely--which is, that though i make no doubt but that she would have gone with me to the world's end, i am at present entirely ignorant of the whole affair. this i declare to you upon my honor--and, what is more, i assure you my devotions are at present paid to another lady--one of your acquaintance, too. "_cler._ (_aside_.) now, who can this other be whom he alludes to?--i have sometimes thought i perceived a kind of mystery between him and maria--but i rely on her promise, though, of late, her conduct to me has been strangely reserved. "_lady s._ why, clerimont, you seem quite thoughtful. come with us; we are going to kill an hour at ombre--your mistress will join us. "_cler._ madam, i attend you. "_lady s. (taking sir b. aside.)_ sir benjamin, i see maria is now coming to join us--do you detain her awhile, and i will contrive that clerimont should see you, and then drop this letter. "[exeunt all but sir. b.] "_enter_ maria. "_mar._ i thought the company were here, and clerimont-- "_sir b._ one, more your slave than clerimont, is here. "_mar._ dear sir benjamin, i thought you promised me to drop this subject. if i have really any power over you, you will oblige me-- "_sir b._ power over me! what is there you could not command me in? have you not wrought on me to proffer my love to lady sneerwell? yet though you gain this from me, you will not give me the smallest token of gratitude. "enter clerimont behind. "_mar._ how can i believe your love sincere, when you continue still to importune me? "_sir b._ i ask but for your friendship, your esteem. "_mar._ that you shall ever be entitled to--then i may depend upon your honor? "_sir b._ eternally--dispose of my heart as you please. "_mar._ depend upon it, i shall study nothing but its happiness. i need not repeat my caution as to clerimont? "_sir b._ no, no, he suspects nothing as yet. "_mar._ for, within these few days, i almost believed that he suspects me. "_sir b._ never fear, he does not love well enough to be quick sighted; for just now he taxed me with eloping with his sister. "_mar._ well, we had now best join the company. "[_exeunt._] "_cler._ so, now--who can ever have faith in woman! d--d deceitful wanton! why did she not fairly tell me that she was weary of my addresses? that, woman-like, her mind was changed, and another fool succeeded. "_enter_ lady sneerwell. "_lady s._ clerimont, why do you leave us? think of my losing this hand. (_cler._ she has no heart)--five mate--(_cler._ deceitful wanton!) spadille. "_cler._ oh yes, ma'am--'twas very hard. "_lady s._ but you seem disturbed; and where are maria and sir benjamin? i vow i shall be jealous of sir benjamin. "_cler._ i dare swear they are together very happy,--but, lady sneerwell--you may perhaps often have perceived that i am discontented with maria. i ask you to tell me sincerely--have you ever perceived it? "_lady s._ i wish you would excuse me. "_cler._ nay, you have perceived it--i know you hate deceit." * * * * * i have said that the other sketch, in which sir peter and lady teazle are made the leading personages, was written subsequently to that of which i have just given specimens. of this, however, i cannot produce any positive proof. there is no date on the manuscripts, nor any other certain clue, to assist in deciding the precedency of time between them. in addition to this, the two plans are entirely distinct,--lady sneerwell and her associates being as wholly excluded from the one, as sir peter and lady teazle are from the other; so that it is difficult to say, with certainty, which existed first, or at what time the happy thought occurred of blending all that was best in each into one. the following are the dramatis personae of the second plan:-- sir rowland harpur. ---- plausible. capt. harry plausible. freeman. old teazle. [footnote: the first intention was, as appears from his introductory speech, to give old teazle the christian name of solomon. sheridan was, indeed, most fastidiously changeful in his names. the present charles surface was at first clerimont, then florival, then captain harry plausible, then harry pliant or pliable, then young harrier, and then frank--while his elder brother was successively plausible, pliable, young pliant, tom, and, lastly, joseph surface. trip was originally called spunge; the name of snake was in the earlier sketch spatter, and, even after the union of the two plots into one, all the business of the opening scene with lady sneerwell, at present transacted by snake, was given to a character, afterwards wholly omitted, miss verjuice.] (_left off trade_.) mrs. teazle. maria. from this list of the personages we may conclude that the quarrels of old teazle and his wife, the attachment between maria and one of the plausibles, and the intrigue of mrs. teazle with the other, formed the sole materials of the piece, as then constructed. [footnote: this was most probably the "two act comedy," which he announced to mr. linley as preparing for representation in .] there is reason too to believe, from the following memorandum, which occurs in various shapes through these manuscripts, that the device of the screen was not yet thought of, and that the discovery was to be effected in a very different manner-- "making love to aunt and niece--meeting wrong in the dark--some one coming--locks up the aunt, thinking it to be the niece." i shall now give a scene or two from the second sketch--which shows, perhaps, even more strikingly than the other, the volatilizing and condensing process which his wit must have gone through, before it attained its present proof and flavor. "act i.--scene i "old teazle _alone._ "in the year i married my first wife; the wedding was at the end of the year--aye, 'twas in december; yet, before ann. dom. , i repented. a month before we swore we preferred each other to the whole world-- perhaps we spoke truth; but, when we came to promise to love each other till death, there i am sure we lied. well, fortune owed me a good turn; in she died. ah, silly solomon, in i find thee married again! here, too, is a catalogue of ills--thomas, born february ; jane born jan. ; so they go on to the number of five. however, by death i stand credited but by one. well, margery, rest her soul! was a queer creature; when she was gone, i felt awkward at first, and being sensible that wishes availed nothing, i often wished for her return. for ten years more i kept my senses and lived single. oh, blockhead, dolt solomon! within this twelvemonth thou art married again--married to a woman thirty years younger than thyself; a fashionable woman. yet i took her with caution; she had been educated in the country; but now she has more extravagance than the daughter of an earl, more levity than a countess. what a defect it is in our laws, that a man who has once been branded in the forehead should be hanged for the second offence. "_enter_ jarvis. "_teaz._ who's there? well, jarvis? "_jarv._ sir, there are a number of my mistress's tradesmen without, clamorous for their money. "_teaz._ are those their bills in your hand? "_jarv._ something about a twentieth part, sir. "_teaz._ what! have you expended the hundred pounds i gave you for her use? "_jarv._ long ago, sir, as you may judge by some of the items:-- 'paid the coach-maker for lowering the front seat of the coach.' "_teaz._ what the deuce was the matter with the seat? "_jarv._ oh lord, the carriage was too low for her by a foot when she was dressed--so that it must have been so, or have had a tub at top like a hat-case on a travelling trunk. well, sir, (_reads._) 'paid her two footmen half a year's wages, _l_.' "_teaz._ 'sdeath and fury! does she give her footmen a hundred a year? "_jarv._ yes, sir, and i think, indeed, she has rather made a good bargain, for they find their own bags and bouquets. "_teaz._ bags and bouquets for footmen!--halters and bastinadoes! [footnote: transferred afterwards to trip and sir oliver.] "_jarv._ 'paid for my lady's own nosegays, _l_.' "_teaz._ fifty pounds for flowers! enough to turn the pantheon into a green-house, and give a fete champetre at christmas. [footnote: we observe here a change in his plan, with respect both to the titles of old teazle and his wife, and the presence of the latter during this scene, which was evidently not at first intended. from the following skeleton of the scenes of this piece it would appear that (inconsistently, in some degree, with my notion of its being the two act comedy announced in ) he had an idea of extending the plot through five acts. "act st, scene st, sir peter and steward-- d, sir p. and lady--then young pliable. "act d, sir p. and lady--young harrier--sir p. and sir rowland, and old jeremy--sir r. and daughter--y. p. and y. h. "act d, sir r., sir p. and o. j.-- d, y. p. and company, y. r. o. r.-- d, y. h. and maria--y. h., o. r. and young harrier, to borrow. "act th, y. p. and maria, to borrow his money; gets away what he had received from his uncle--y. p. old jer. and tradesmen.--p. and lady t." &c. &c.] "_lady teaz._ lord, sir peter, i wonder you should grudge me the most innocent articles in dress--and then for the expense--flowers cannot be cheaper in winter--you should find fault with the climate, and not with me. i am sure i wish with all my heart, that it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under one's feet. "_sir p._ nay, but, madam, then you would not wear them; but try snowballs and icicles. but tell me, madam, how can you feel any satisfaction in wearing these, when you might reflect that one of the rose-buds would have furnished a poor family with a dinner? "_lady t._ upon my word, sir peter, begging your pardon, that is a very absurd way of arguing. by that rule, why do you indulge in the least superfluity? i dare swear a beggar might dine tolerably on your great-coat, or sup off your laced waistcoat--nay, i dare say, he wouldn't eat your gold-headed cane in a week. indeed, if you would reserve nothing but necessaries, you should give the first poor man you meet your wig, and walk the streets in your night-cap, which, you know, becomes you very much. "_sir p._ well, go on to the articles. "_jarv._ (_reading._) 'fruit for my lady's monkey, _l._ per week.' "_sir p._ five pounds for a monkey!--why 'tis a dessert for an alderman! "_lady t._ why, sir peter, would you starve the poor animal? i dare swear he lives as reasonably as other monkeys do. "_sir p._ well, well, go on. "_jarv._ 'china for ditto'-- "_sir p._ what, does he eat out of china? "_lady t._ repairing china that he breaks--and i am sure no monkey breaks less. "_jarv._ paid mr. warren for perfumes--milk of roses, _l_.' "_lady t._ very reasonable. "_sir p._ 'sdeath, madam, if you had been born to these expenses i should not have been so much amazed; but i took you, madam, an honest country squire's daughter-- "_lady t._ oh, filthy; don't name it. well, heaven forgive my mother, but i do believe my father must have been a man of quality. "_sir p._ yes, madam, when first i saw you, you were dressed in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys by your side; your occupations, madam, to superintend the poultry; your accomplishments, a complete knowledge of the family receipt-book--then you sat in a room hung round with fruit in worsted of your own working; your amusements were to play country-dances on an old spinnet to your father while he went asleep after a fox-chase--to read tillotson's sermons to your aunt deborah. these, madam, were your recreations, and these the accomplishments that captivated me. now, forsooth, you must have two footmen to your chair, and a pair of white dogs in a phaeton; you forget when you used to ride double behind the butler on a docked bay coach- horse.... now you must have a french hair-dresser; do you think you did not look as well when you had your hair combed smooth over a roller?.... then you could be content to sit with me, or walk by the side of the-- ha! ha! "_lady t._ true, i did; and, when you asked me if i could love an old fellow, who would deny me nothing, i simpered and said 'till death.' "_sir p._ why did you say so? "_lady t._ shall i tell you the truth? "_sir p._ if it is not too great a favor. "_lady t._ why, then, the truth is, i was heartily tired of all these agreeable recreations you have so well remembered, and having a spirit to spend and enjoy fortune, i was determined to marry the first fool i should meet with.... you made me a wife, for which i am much obliged to you, and if you have a wish to make me more grateful still, make me a widow." [footnote: the speeches which i have omitted consist merely of repetitions of the same thoughts, with but very little variation of the language.] * * * * * "_sir p._ then, you never had a desire to please me, or add to my happiness? "_lady t._ sincerely, i never thought about you; did you imagine that age was catching? i think you have been overpaid for all you could bestow on me. here am i surrounded by half a hundred lovers, not one of whom but would buy a single smile by a thousand such baubles as you grudge me. "_sir p._ then you wish me dead? "_lady t._ you know i do not, for you have made no settlement on me. * * * * * "_sir p._ i am but middle-aged. "_lady t._ there's the misfortune; put yourself on, or back, twenty years, and either way i should like you the better. * * * * * yes, sir, and then your behavior too was different; you would dress, and smile, and bow; fly to fetch me anything i wanted; praise every thing i did or said; fatigue your stiff face with an eternal grin; nay, you even committed poetry, and muffled your harsh tones into a lover's whisper to sing it yourself, so that even my mother said you were the smartest old bachelor she ever saw--a billet-doux engrossed on buckram!!!!!! [footnote: these notes of admiration are in the original, and seem meant to express the surprise of the author at the extravagance of his own joke.] * * * * * let girls take my advice and never marry an old bachelor. he must be so either because he could find nothing to love in women, or because women could find nothing to love in him." the greater part of this dialogue is evidently _experimental_, and the play of repartee protracted with no other view, than to take the chance of a trump of wit or humor turning up. in comparing the two characters in this sketch with what they are at present, it is impossible not to be struck by the signal change that they have undergone. the transformation of sir peter into a gentleman has refined, without weakening, the ridicule of his situation; and there is an interest created by the respectability, and amiableness of his sentiments, which, contrary to the effect produced in general by elderly gentlemen so circumstanced, makes us rejoice, at the end, that he has his young wife all to himself. the improvement in the character of lady teazle is still more marked and successful. instead of an ill-bred young shrew, whose readiness to do wrong leaves the mind in but little uncertainty as to her fate, we have a lively and innocent, though imprudent country girl, transplanted into the midst of all that can bewilder and endanger her, but with still enough of the purity of rural life about her heart, to keep the blight of the world from settling upon it permanently. there is indeed in the original draught a degree of glare and coarseness, which proves the eye of the artist to have been fresh from the study of wycherly and vanbrugh; and this want of delicacy is particularly observable in the subsequent scene between lady teazle and surface--the chastening down of which to its present tone is not the least of those triumphs of taste and skill, which every step in the elaboration of this comedy exhibits. "_scene_ [footnote: the third of the fourth act in the present form of the comedy. this scene underwent many changes afterwards, and was oftener put back into the crucible than any other part of the play] young pliant's _room_. "_young p._ i wonder her ladyship is not here: she promised me to call this morning. i have a hard game to play here, to pursue my designs on maria. i have brought myself into a scrape with the mother-in-law. however, i think we have taken care to ruin my brother's character with my uncle, should he come to-morrow. frank has not an ill quality in his nature; yet, a neglect of forms, and of the opinion of the world, has hurt him in the estimation of all his graver friends. i have profited by his errors, and contrived to gain a character, which now serves me as a mask to lie under. "_enter_ lady teazle. "_lady t._ what, musing, or thinking of me? "_young p._ i was thinking unkindly of you; do you know now that you must repay me for this delay, or i must be coaxed into good humor? "_lady t._ nay, in faith you should pity me--this old curmudgeon of late is growing so jealous, that i dare scarce go out, till i know he is secure for some time. "_young p._ i am afraid the insinuations we have had spread about frank have operated too strongly on him--we meant only to direct his suspicions to a wrong object. "_lady t._ oh, hang him! i have told him plainly that if he continues to be so suspicious, i'll leave him entirely, and make him allow me a separate maintenance. "_young p._ but, my charmer, if ever that should be the case, you see before you the man who will ever be attached to you. but you must not let matters come to extremities; you can never be revenged so well by leaving him, as by living with him, and let my sincere affection make amends for his brutality. "_lady t._ but how shall i be sure now that you are sincere? i have sometimes suspected that you loved my niece. [footnote: he had not yet decided whether to make maria the daughter-in-law or niece of lady teazle.] "_young p._ oh, hang her, a puling idiot, without sense or spirit. "_lady t._ but what proofs have i of your love to me, for i have still so much of my country prejudices left, that if i were to do a foolish thing (and i think i can't promise) it shall be for a man who would risk every thing for me alone. how shall i be sure you love me? "_young p._ i have dreamed of you every night this week past. "_lady t._ that's a sign you have slept every night for this week past; for my part, i would not give a pin for a lover who could not wake for a month in absence. "_young p._ i have written verses on you out of number. "_lady t._ i never saw any. "_young p._ no--they did not please me, and so i tore them. "_lady t._ then it seems you wrote them only to divert yourself. "_young p._ am i doomed for ever to suspense? "_lady t._ i don't know--if i was convinced-- "_young p._ then let me on my knees-- "_lady t._ nay, nay, i will have no raptures either. this much i can tell you, that if i am to be seduced to do wrong, i am not to be taken by storm, but by deliberate capitulation, and that only where my reason or my heart is convinced. "_young p._ then, to say it at once--the world gives itself liberties-- "_lady t._ nay, i am sure without cause; for i am as yet unconscious of any ill, though i know not what i may be forced to. "_young p._ the fact is, my dear lady teazle, that your extreme innocence is the very cause of your danger; it is the integrity of your heart that makes you run into a thousand imprudences which a full consciousness of error would make you guard against. now, in that case, you can't conceive how much more circumspect you would be. "_lady t._ do you think so? "_young p._ most certainly. your character is like a person in a plethora, absolutely dying of too much health. "_lady t._ so then you would have me sin in my own defence, and part with my virtue to preserve my reputation. [footnote: this sentence seems to have haunted him--i find it written in every direction, and without any material change in its form, over the pages of his different memorandum books.] "_young p. exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am." * * * * * it will be observed, from all i have cited, that much of the original material is still preserved throughout; but that, like the ivory melting in the hands of pygmalion, it has lost all its first rigidity and roughness, and, assuming at every touch some variety of aspect, seems to have gained new grace by every change. "_mollescit ebur, positoque rigore subsidit digitis, ceditque ut hymettia sole cera remollescit, tractataque pollice multas flectitur in facies, ipsoque fit utilis usu._" where'er his fingers move his eye can trace the once rude ivory softening into grace-- pliant as wax that, on hymettus' hill, melts in the sunbeam, it obeys his skill; at every touch some different aspect shows, and still, the oftener touch'd the lovelier grows. i need not, i think, apologize for the length of the extracts i have given, as they cannot be otherwise than interesting to all lovers of literary history. to trace even the mechanism of an author's style through the erasures and alterations of his rough copy, is, in itself, no ordinary gratification of curiosity; and the _brouillon_ of rousseau's heloise, in the library of the chamber of deputies at paris, affords a study in which more than the mere "auceps syllabarum" might delight. but it is still more interesting to follow thus the course of a writer's thoughts--to watch the kindling of new fancies as he goes--to accompany him in his change of plans, and see the various vistas that open upon him at every step. it is, indeed, like being admitted by some magical power, to witness the mysterious processes of the natural world --to see the crystal forming by degrees round its primitive nucleus, or observe the slow ripening of "the imperfect ore, and know it will be gold another day!" in respect of mere style, too, the workmanship of so pure a writer of english as sheridan is well worth the attention of all who would learn the difficult art of combining ease with polish, and being, at the same time, idiomatic and elegant. there is not a page of these manuscripts that does not bear testimony to the fastidious care with which he selected, arranged, and moulded his language, so as to form it into that transparent channel of his thoughts, which it is at present. his chief objects in correcting were to condense and simplify--to get rid of all unnecessary phrases and epithets, and, in short, to strip away from the thyrsus of his wit every leaf that could render it less light and portable. one instance out of many will show the improving effect of these operations. [footnote: in one or two sentences he has left a degree of stiffness in the style, not so much from inadvertence as from the sacrifice of ease to point. thus, in the following example, he has been tempted by an antithesis into an inversion of phrase by no means idiomatic. "the plain state of the matter is this--i am an extravagant young fellow _who want money to borrow_; you, i take to be a prudent old fellow who have got money to lend." in the collection of his works this phrase is given differently--but without authority from any of the manuscript copies.] the following is the original form of a speech of sir peter's:-- "people who utter a tale of scandal, knowing it to be forged, deserve the pillory more than for a forged bank-note. they can't pass the lie without putting their names on the back of it. you say no person has a right to come on you because you didn't invent it; but you should know that, if the drawer of the lie is out of the way, the injured party has a right to come on any of the indorsers." when this is compared with the form in which the same thought is put at present, it will be perceived how much the wit has gained in lightness and effect by the change:-- "_mrs. candor._ but sure you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear? "_sir p._ yes, madam, i would have law-merchant for them too, and in all cases of slander currency, [footnote: there is another simile among his memorandums of the same mercantile kind:--"a sort of broker in scandal, who transfers lies without fees."] whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured party should have a right to come on any of the indorsers." another great source of the felicities of his style, and to which he attended most anxiously in revision, was the choice of epithets; in which he has the happy art of making these accessary words not only minister to the clearness of his meaning, but bring out new effects in his wit by the collateral lights which they strike upon it--and even where the principal idea has but little significance, he contrives to enliven it into point by the quaintness or contrast of his epithets. among the many rejected scraps of dialogue that lie about, like the chippings of a phidias, in this workshop of wit, there are some precious enough to be preserved, at least, as relics. for instance,--"she is one of those, who convey a libel in a frown, and wink a reputation down." the following touch of costume, too, in sir peter's description of the rustic dress of lady teazle before he married her:--"you forget when a little wire and gauze, with a few beads, made you a fly-cap not much bigger than a blue-bottle." the specimen which sir benjamin backbite gives of his poetical talents was taken, it will be seen, from the following verses, which i find in mr. sheridan's hand-writing--one of those trifles, perhaps, with which he and his friend tickell were in the constant habit of amusing themselves, and written apparently with the intention of ridiculing some woman of fashion:-- "then behind, all my hair is done up in a plat, and so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under my hat. then i mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark, and, follow'd by john, take the dust in high park. [footnote: this phrase is made use of in the dialogue:--"as lady betty curricle was taking the dust in hyde park."] in the way i am met by some smart macaroni, who rides by my side on a little bay poney-- no sturdy hibernian, with shoulders so wide, but as taper and slim as the ponies they ride; their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider, dear sweet little creatures, both poney and rider! but sometimes, when hotter, i order my chaise, and manage, myself, my two little grays. sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies, other horses are clowns, and these macaronies, and to give them this title, i'm sure isn't wrong, their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long. in kensington gardens to stroll up and down, you know was the fashion before you left town,-- the thing's well enough, when allowance is made for the size of the trees and the depth of the shade, but the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords to those noisy, impertinent creatures called birds, whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen. yet, tho' 'tis too rural--to come near the mark, we all herd in _one_ walk, and that, nearest the park, there with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket, the chimneys of knightsbridge and--footmen at cricket. i must tho', in justice, declare that the grass, which, worn by our feet, is diminished apace, in a little time more will be brown and as flat as the sand at vauxhall or as ranelagh mat. improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees, we may see rolls and butter spread under the trees, with a small pretty band in each seat of the walk, to play little tunes and enliven our talk." though mr. sheridan appears to have made more easy progress, after he had incorporated his two first plots into one, yet, even in the details of the new plan, considerable alterations were subsequently made--whole scenes suppressed or transposed, and the dialogue of some entirely re- written. in the third act, for instance, as it originally stood, there was a long scene, in which rowley, by a minute examination of snake, drew from him, in the presence of sir oliver and sir peter, a full confession of his designs against the reputation of lady teazle. nothing could be more ill-placed and heavy; it was accordingly cancelled, and the confession of snake postponed to its natural situation, the conclusion. the scene, too, where sir oliver, as old stanley, comes to ask pecuniary aid of joseph, was at first wholly different from what it is at present; and in some parts approached much nearer to the confines of caricature than the watchful taste of mr. sheridan would permit. for example, joseph is represented in it as giving the old suitor only half- a-guinea, which the latter indignantly returns, and leaves him; upon which joseph, looking at the half-guinea, exclaims, "well, let him starve--this will do for the opera." it was the fate of mr. sheridan, through life,--and, in a great degree, perhaps, his policy,--to gain credit for excessive indolence and carelessness, while few persons, with so much natural brilliancy of talents, ever employed more art and circumspection in their display. this was the case, remarkably, in the instance before us. notwithstanding the labor which he bestowed upon this comedy, (or we should rather, perhaps, say in consequence of that labor,) the first representation of the piece was announced before the whole of the copy was in the hands of the actors. the manuscript, indeed, of the five last scenes bears evident marks of this haste in finishing,--there being but one rough draught of them scribbled upon detached pieces of paper; while, of all the preceding acts, there are numerous transcripts, scattered promiscuously through six or seven books, with new interlineations and memorandums to each. on the last leaf of all, which exists just as we may suppose it to have been despatched by him to the copyist, there is the following curious specimen of doxology, written hastily, in the hand-writing of the respective parties, at the bottom:-- "finished at last. thank god! "r. b. sheridan. "amen! "w. hopkins." [footnote: the prompter,] the cast of the play, on the first night of representation (may , ), was as follows:-- sir peter teazle _mr. king._ sir oliver surface _mr. yates._ joseph surface _mr. palmer._ charles _mr. smith._ crabtree _mr. parsons._ sir benjamin backbite _mr. dodd._ rowley _mr. aickin._ moses _mr. baddeley._ trip _mr. lamash._ snake _mr. packer._ careless _mr. farren._ sir harry bumper _mr. gawdry._ lady teazle _mrs. abington._ maria _miss p. hopkins_ lady sneerwell _miss sherry._ mrs. candor _miss pope._ the success of such a play, so acted, could not be doubtful. long after its first uninterrupted run, it continued to be played regularly two or three times a week; and a comparison of the receipts of the first twelve nights, with those of a later period, will show how little the attraction of the piece had abated by repetition:-- may th, . l s. d. school for scandal ditto ditto a. b. (author's night) (expenses) ditto ditto ditto a. b. committee school for scandal ditto ditto a. b ditto k. (the king) ditto ditto the following extracts are taken at hazard from an account of the weekly receipts of the theatre, for the year , kept with exemplary neatness and care by mrs. sheridan herself: [footnote: it appears from a letter of holcroft to mrs. sheridan, (given in his memoirs, vol. i. p. ,) that she was also in the habit of reading for sheridan the new pieces sent in by dramatic candidates:--"mrs. crewe (he says) has spoken to mr. sheridan concerning it (the shepherdess of the alps), as he informed me last night, desiring me at the same time to send it to you, who, he said, would not only read it yourself, but remind him of it."] . l s. d. january d. twelfth night queen mab th. macbeth queen mab th. tempest queen mab th. school for scandal comus th. school for fathers queen mab th. school for scandal padlock march th. school for scandal deserter th. venice preserved belphegor (new) th. hamlet belphegor th. school for scandal belphegor such, indeed, was the predominant attraction of this comedy during the two years subsequent to its first appearance, that, in the official account of receipts for , we find the following remark subjoined by the treasurer:--"school for scandal damped the new pieces." i have traced it by the same unequivocal marks of success through the years and , and find the nights of its representation always rivalling those on which the king went to the theatre, in the magnitude of their receipts. the following note from garrick [footnote: murphy tells us that mr. garrick attended the rehearsals, and "was never known on any former occasion to be more anxious for a favorite piece. he was proud of the new manager; and in a triumphant manner boasted of the genius to whom he had consigned the conduct of the theatre."--_life of garrick_.] to the author, dated may (four days after the first appearance of the comedy), will be read with interest by all those for whom the great names of the drama have any charm:-- "mr. garrick's best wishes and compliments to mr. sheridan. "how is the saint to-day? a gentleman who is as mad as myself about ye school remark'd, that the characters upon the stage at ye falling of the screen stand too long before they speak;--i thought so too ye first night:--he said it was the same on ye nd, and was remark'd by others;-- tho' they should be astonish'd, and a little petrify'd, yet it may be carry'd to too great a length.--all praise at lord lucan's last night." the beauties of this comedy are so universally known and felt, that criticism may be spared the trouble of dwelling upon them very minutely. with but little interest in the plot, with no very profound or ingenious development of character, and with a group of personages, not one of whom has any legitimate claims upon either our affection or esteem, it yet, by the admirable skill with which its materials are managed,--the happy contrivance of the situations, at once both natural and striking, --the fine feeling of the ridiculous that smiles throughout, and that perpetual play of wit which never tires, but seems, like running water, to be kept fresh by its own flow,--by all this general animation and effect, combined with a finish of the details almost faultless, it unites the suffrages, at once, of the refined and the simple, and is not less successful in ministering to the natural enjoyment of the latter, than in satisfying and delighting the most fastidious tastes among the former. and this is the true triumph of genius in all the arts,--whether in painting, sculpture, music, or literature, those works which have pleased the greatest number of people of all classes, for the longest space of time, may without hesitation be pronounced the best; and, however mediocrity may enshrine itself in the admiration of the select few, the palm of excellence can only be awarded by the many. the defects of the school for scandal, if they can be allowed to amount to defects, are, in a great measure, traceable to that amalgamation of two distinct plots, out of which, as i have already shown, the piece was formed. from this cause,--like an accumulation of wealth from the union of two rich families,--has devolved that excessive opulence of wit, with which, as some critics think, the dialogue is overloaded; and which mr. sheridan himself used often to mention, as a fault of which he was conscious in his work. that he had no such scruple, however, in writing it, appears evident from the pains which he took to string upon his new plot every bright thought and fancy which he had brought together for the two others; and it is not a little curious, in turning over his manuscript, to see how the outstanding jokes are kept in recollection upon the margin, till he can find some opportunity of funding them to advantage in the text. the consequence of all this is, that the dialogue, from beginning to end, is a continued sparkling of polish and point: and the whole of the dramatis personae might be comprised under one common designation of wits. even trip, the servant, is as pointed and shining as the rest, and has his master's wit, as he has his birth- day clothes, "with the gloss on." [footnote: this is one of the phrases that seem to have perplexed the taste of sheridan,--and upon so minute a point, as, whether it should be "with the gloss on," or, "with the gloss on them." after various trials of it in both ways, he decided, as might be expected from his love of idiom, for the former.] the only personage among them that shows any "temperance in jesting," is old rowley; and he, too, in the original, had his share in the general largess of _bon-mots_,--one of the liveliest in the piece [footnote: the answer to the remark, that "charity begins at home,"--"and his, i presume, is of that domestic sort which never stirs abroad at all."] being at first given to him, though afterwards transferred, with somewhat more fitness, to sir oliver. in short, the entire comedy is a sort of el-dorado of wit, where the precious metal is thrown about by all classes, as carelessly as if they had not the least idea of its value. another blemish that hypercriticism has noticed, and which may likewise be traced to the original conformation of the play, is the uselessness of some of the characters to the action or business of it--almost the whole of the "scandalous college" being but, as it were, excrescences, through which none of the life-blood of the plot circulates. the cause of this is evident:--sir benjamin backbite, in the first plot to which he belonged, was a principal personage; but, being transplanted from thence into one with which he has no connection, not only he, but his uncle crabtree, and mrs. candor, though contributing abundantly to the animation of the dialogue, have hardly anything to do with the advancement of the story; and, like the accessories in a greek drama, are but as a sort of chorus of scandal throughout. that this defect, or rather peculiarity, should have been observed at first, when criticism was freshly on the watch for food, is easily conceivable; and i have been told by a friend, who was in the pit on the first night of performance, that a person, who sat near him, said impatiently, during the famous scene at lady sneerwell's, in the second act,--"i wish these people would have done talking, and let the play begin." it has often been remarked as singular, that the lovers, charles and maria, should never be brought in presence of each other till the last scene; and mr. sheridan used to say, that he was aware, in writing the comedy, of the apparent want of dramatic management which such an omission would betray; but that neither of the actors, for whom he had destined those characters, was such as he could safely trust with a love scene. there might, perhaps, too, have been, in addition to this motive, a little consciousness, on his own part, of not being exactly in his element in that tender style of writing, which such a scene, to make it worthy of the rest, would have required; and of which the specimens left us in the serious parts of the rivals are certainly not among his most felicitous efforts. by some critics the incident of the screen has been censured, as a contrivance unworthy of the dignity of comedy. [footnote: "in the old comedy, the catastrophe is occasioned, in general, by a change in the mind of some principal character, artfully prepared and cautiously conducted;--in the modern, the unfolding of the plot is effected by the overturning of a screen, the opening of a door, or some other equally dignified machine."--gifford, _essay on the writings of massinger_.] but in real life, of which comedy must condescend to be the copy, events of far greater importance are brought about by accidents as trivial; and in a world like ours, where the falling of an apple has led to the discovery of the laws of gravitation, it is surely too fastidious to deny to the dramatist the discovery of an intrigue by the falling of a screen. there is another objection as to the manner of employing this machine, which, though less grave, is perhaps less easily answered. joseph, at the commencement of the scene, desires his servant to draw the screen before the window, because "his opposite neighbor is a maiden lady of so anxious a temper;" yet, afterwards, by placing lady teazle between the screen and the window, he enables this inquisitive lady to indulge her curiosity at leisure. it might be said, indeed, that joseph, with the alternative of exposure to either the husband or neighbor, chooses the lesser evil;--but the oversight hardly requires a defence. from the trifling nature of these objections to the dramatic merits of the school for scandal, it will be seen, that, like the criticism of momus on the creaking of venus's shoes, they only show how perfect must be the work in which no greater faults can be found. but a more serious charge has been brought against it on the score of morality, and the gay charm thrown around the irregularities of charles is pronounced to be dangerous to the interests of honesty and virtue. there is no doubt that in this character only the fairer side of libertinism is presented,-- that the merits of being in debt are rather too fondly insisted upon, and with a grace and spirit that might seduce even creditors into admiration. it was, indeed, playfully said, that no tradesman who applauded charles could possibly have the face to dun the author afterwards. in looking, however, to the race of rakes that had previously held possession of the stage, we cannot help considering our release from the contagion of so much coarseness and selfishness to be worth even the increased risk of seduction that may have succeeded to it; and the remark of burke, however questionable in strict ethics, is, at least, true on the stage,--that "vice loses half its evil by losing all its grossness." it should be recollected, too, that, in other respects, the author applies the lash of moral satire very successfully. that group of slanderers who, like the chorus of the eumenides, go searching about for their prey with "eyes that drop poison," represent a class of persons in society who richly deserve such ridicule, and who--like their prototypes in aeschylus trembling before the shafts of apollo--are here made to feel the full force of the archery of wit. it is indeed a proof of the effect and use of such satire, that the name of "mrs. candor" has become one of those formidable bye-words, which have more power in putting folly and ill-nature out of countenance, than whole volumes of the wisest remonstrance and reasoning. the poetical justice exercised upon the tartuffe of sentiment, joseph, is another service to the cause of morals, which should more than atone for any dangerous embellishment of wrong that the portraiture of the younger brother may exhibit. indeed, though both these characters are such as the moralist must visit with his censure, there can be little doubt to which we should, in real life, give the preference;--the levities and errors of the one, arising from warmth of heart and of youth, may be merely like those mists that exhale from summer streams, obscuring them awhile to the eye, without affecting the native purity of their waters; while the hypocrisy of the other is like the _mirage_ of the desert, shining with promise on the surface, but all false and barren beneath. in a late work, professing to be the memoirs of mr. sheridan, there are some wise doubts expressed as to his being really the author of the school for scandal, to which, except for the purpose of exposing absurdity, i should not have thought it worth while to allude. it is an old trick of detraction,--and one, of which it never tires,--to father the works of eminent writers upon others; or, at least, while it kindly leaves an author the credit of his worst performances, to find some one in the background to ease him of the fame of his best. when this sort of charge is brought against a cotemporary, the motive is intelligible; but, such an abstract pleasure have some persons in merely unsettling the crowns of fame, that a worthy german has written an elaborate book to prove, that the iliad was written, not by that particular homer the world supposes, but by some _other_ homer! indeed, if mankind were to be influenced by those _qui tam_ critics, who have, from time to time, in the course of the history of literature, exhibited informations of plagiarism against great authors, the property of fame would pass from its present holders into the hands of persons with whom the world is but little acquainted. aristotle must refund to one ocellus lucanus --virgil must make a _cessio bonorum_ in favor of pisander--the metamorphoses of ovid must be credited to the account of parthenius of nicaea, and (to come to a modern instance) mr. sheridan must, according to his biographer, dr. watkins, surrender the glory of having written the school for scandal to a certain anonymous young lady, who died of a consumption in thames street! to pass, however, to less hardy assailants of the originality of this comedy,--it is said that the characters of joseph and charles were suggested by those of blifil and tom jones; that the incident of the arrival of sir oliver from india is copied from that of the return of warner in sidney biddulph; and that the hint of the famous scandal scene at lady sneerwell's is borrowed from a comedy of moliere. mr. sheridan, it is true, like all men of genius, had, in addition to the resources of his own wit, a quick apprehension of what suited his purpose in the wit of others, and a power of enriching whatever he adopted from them with such new grace, as gave him a sort of claim of paternity over it, and made it all his own. "c'est mon bien," said moliere, when accused of borrowing, "et je le reprens partout ou je le trouve;" and next, indeed, to creation, the re-production, in a new and more perfect form, of materials already existing, or the full development of thoughts that had but half blown in the hands of others, are the noblest miracles for which we look to the hand of genius. it is not my intention therefore to defend mr. sheridan from this kind of plagiarism, of which he was guilty in common with the rest of his fellow-descendants from prometheus, who all steal the spark wherever they can find it. but the instances, just alleged, of his obligations to others, are too questionable and trivial to be taken into any serious account. contrasts of character, such as charles and joseph exhibit, are as common as the lights and shadows of a landscape, and belong neither to fielding nor sheridan, but to nature. it is in the manner of transferring them to the canvas that the whole difference between the master and the copyist lies; and charles and joseph would, no doubt, have been what they are, if tom jones had never existed. with respect to the hint supposed to be taken from the novel of his mother, he at least had a right to consider any aid from that quarter as "son bien"--talent being the only patrimony to which he had succeeded. but the use made of the return of a relation in the play is wholly different from that to which the same incident is applied in the novel. besides, in those golden times of indian delinquency, the arrival of a wealthy relative from the east was no very unobvious ingredient in a story. the imitation of moliere (if, as i take for granted, the misanthrope be the play, in which the origin of the famous scandal scene is said to be found) is equally faint and remote, and, except in the common point of scandal, untraceable. nothing, indeed, can be more unlike than the manner in which the two scenes are managed. celimene, in moliere, bears the whole _frais_ of the conversation; and this female la bruyere's tedious and solitary dissections of character would be as little borne on the english stage, as the quick and dazzling movement of so many lancets of wit as operate in the school for scandal would be tolerated on that of the french. it is frequently said that mr. sheridan was a good deal indebted to wycherley; and he himself gave, in some degree, a color to the charge, by the suspicious impatience which he betrayed whenever any allusion was made to it. he went so far, indeed, it is said, as to deny having ever read a line of wycherley (though of vanbrugh's dialogue he always spoke with the warmest admiration);--and this assertion, as well as some others equally remarkable, such as, that he never saw garrick on the stage, that he never had seen a play throughout in his life, however strange and startling they may appear, are, at least, too curious and characteristic not to be put upon record. his acquaintance with wycherley was possibly but at second-hand, and confined, perhaps, to garrick's alteration of the country wife, in which the incident, already mentioned as having been borrowed for the duenna, is preserved. there is, however, a scene in the plain dealer (act ii.), where nevil and olivia attack the characters of the persons with whom nevil had dined, of which it is difficult to believe that mr. sheridan was ignorant: as it seems to contain much of that _hyle_, or first matter, out of which his own more perfect creations were formed. in congreve's double dealer, too, (act iii. scene ) there is much which may, at least, have mixed itself with the recollections of sheridan, and influenced the course of his fancy--it being often found that the images with which the memory is furnished, like those pictures hung up before the eyes of pregnant women at sparta, produce insensibly a likeness to themselves in the offspring which the imagination brings forth. the admirable drollery in congreve about lady froth's verses on her coachman-- "for as the sun shines every day, so of our coachman i may say"-- is by no means unlikely to have suggested the doggerel of sir benjamin backbite; and the scandalous conversation in this scene, though far inferior in delicacy and ingenuity to that of sheridan, has somewhat, as the reader will see, of a parental resemblance to it:-- "_lord froth._ hee, hee, my dear; have you done? won't you join with us? we were laughing at my lady whifler and mr. sneer. "_lady f._ ay, my dear, were you? oh, filthy mr. sneer! he is a nauseous figure, a most fulsamick fop. he spent two days together in going about covent garden to suit the lining of his coach with his complexion. "_ld. f._ oh, silly! yet his aunt is as fond of him, as if she had brought the ape into the world herself. "_brisk._ who? my lady toothless? oh, she is a mortifying spectacle; she's always chewing the cud like an old ewe, "_ld. f._ then she's always ready to laugh, when sneer offers to speak; and sits in expectation of his no jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth open-- "_brisk._ like an oyster at low ebb, egad--ha, ha, ha! "_cynthia._ _(aside.)_ well, i find there are no fools so inconsiderable themselves, but they can render other people contemptible by exposing their infirmities. "_lady f._ then that t'other great strapping lady--i can't hit off her name: the old fat fool, that paints so exorbitantly. "_brisk._ i know whom you mean--but, deuce take her, i can't hit off her name either--paints, d'ye say? why she lays it on with a trowel. then she has a great beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she was plastered with lime and hair, let me perish." it would be a task not uninteresting, to enter into a detailed comparison of the characteristics and merits of mr. sheridan, as a dramatic writer, with those of the other great masters of the art; and to consider how far they differed or agreed with each other, in the structure of their plots and management of their dialogue--in the mode of laying the train of their repartee, or pointing the artillery of their wit. but i have already devoted to this part of my subject a much ampler space, than to some of my readers will appear either necessary or agreeable;--though by others, more interested in such topics, my diffuseness will, i trust, be readily pardoned. in tracking mr. sheridan through his too distinct careers of literature and of politics, it is on the highest point of his elevation in each that the eye naturally rests; and the school for scandal in one, and the begum speeches in the other, are the two grand heights--the "_summa biverticis umbra parnassi_" --from which he will stand out to after times, and round which, therefore, his biographer may be excused for lingering with most fondness and delay. it appears singular that, during the life of mr. sheridan, no authorized or correct edition of this play should have been published in england. he had, at one time, disposed of the copy right to mr. ridgway of piccadilly, but, after repeated applications from the latter for the manuscript, he was told by mr. sheridan, as an excuse for keeping it back, that he had been nineteen years endeavoring to satisfy himself with the style of the school for scandal, but had not yet succeeded. mr. ridgway, upon this, ceased to give him any further trouble on the subject. the edition printed in dublin is, with the exception of a few unimportant omissions and verbal differences, perfectly correct. it appears that, after the success of the comedy in london, he presented a copy of it to his eldest sister, mrs. lefanu, to be disposed of, for her own advantage, to the manager of the dublin theatre. the sum of a hundred guineas, and free admissions for her family, were the terms upon which ryder, the manager at that period, purchased from this lady the right of acting the play; and it was from the copy thus procured that the edition afterwards published in dublin was printed. i have collated this edition with the copy given by mr. sheridan to lady crewe (the last, i believe, ever revised by himself), [footnote: among the corrections in this copy (which are in his own hand-writing, and but few in number), there is one which shows not only the retentiveness of his memory, but the minute attention which he paid to the structure of his sentences. lady teazle, in her scene with sir peter in the second act, says: "that's very true, indeed, sir peter: and, after having married you, i should never pretend to taste again, i allow." it was thus that the passage stood at first in lady crewe's copy,--as it does still, too, in the dublin edition, and in that given in the collection of his works,--but in his final revision of this copy, the original reading of the sentence, such as i find it in all his earlier manuscripts of the play, is restored.--"that's very true, indeed, sir peter; and, after having married you, i am sure i should never pretend to taste again."] and find it, with the few exceptions already mentioned, correct throughout. the school for scandal has been translated into most of the languages of europe, and, among the french particularly, has undergone a variety of metamorphoses. a translation, undertaken, it appears, with the permission of sheridan himself, was published in london, in the year , by a monsieur bunell delille, who, in a dedication to "milord macdonald," gives the following account of the origin of his task: "vous savez, milord, de quelle maniere mysterieuse cette piece, qui n'a jamais ete imprime que furtivement, se trouva l'ete dernier sur ma table, en manuscrit, in-folio; et, si vous daignez vous le rappeler, apres vous avoir fait part de l'aventure, je courus chez monsieur sheridan pour lui demander la permission," &c. &c. the scenes of the auction and the screen were introduced, for the first time, i believe, on the french stage, in a little piece called, "_les deux neveux_," acted in the year , by the young comedians of the comte de beaujolais. since then, the story has been reproduced under various shapes and names:--"les portraits de famille," "valsain et florville," and, at the theatre francais, under the title of the "tartuffe de moeurs." lately, too, the taste for the subject has revived. the vaudeville has founded upon it a successful piece, called "les deux cousins;" and there is even a melodrame at the porte st. martin, entitled "l'ecole du scandale." chapter vi. further purchase of theatrical property.--monody to the memory of garrick.--essay on metre.-the critic.--essay on absentees.--political connections.--the "englishman."--elected for stafford. the document in mr. sheridan's handwriting, already mentioned, from which i have stated the sums paid in by him, dr. ford, and mr. linley, for garrick's moiety of the drury lane theatre, thus mentions the new purchase, by which he extended his interest in this property in the year :--"mr. sheridan afterwards was obliged to buy mr. lacy's moiety at a price exceeding , _l_.: this was in the year ." he then adds--what it may be as well to cite, while i have the paper before me, though relating to subsequent changes in the property:--"in order to enable mr. s. to complete this purpose, he afterwards consented to divide his original share between dr. ford and mr. linley, so as to make up each of theirs a quarter. but the price at which they purchased from mr. sheridan was not at the rate which he bought from lacy, though at an advance on the price paid to garrick. mr. s. has since purchased dr. ford's quarter for the sum of , _l_., subject to the increased incumbrance of the additional renters." by what spell all these thousands were conjured up, it would be difficult accurately to ascertain. that happy art--in which the people of this country are such adepts--of putting the future in pawn for the supply of the present, must have been the chief resource of mr. sheridan in all these later purchases. among the visible signs of his increased influence in the affairs of the theatre, was the appointment, this year, of his father to be manager;--a reconciliation having taken place between them, which was facilitated, no doubt, by the brightening prospects of the son, and by the generous confidence which his prosperity gave him in making the first advances towards such a reunion. one of the novelties of the year was a musical entertainment called the camp, which was falsely attributed to mr. sheridan at the time, and has since been inconsiderately admitted into the collection of his works. this unworthy trifle (as appears from a rough copy of it in my possession) was the production of tickell, and the patience with which his friend submitted to the imputation of having written it was a sort of "martyrdom of fame" which few but himself could afford. at the beginning of the year garrick died, and sheridan, as chief mourner, followed him to the grave. he also wrote a monody to his memory, which was delivered by mrs. yates, after the play of the west indian, in the month of march following. during the interment of garrick in poet's corner, mr. burke had remarked that the statue of shakspeare seemed to point to the grave where the great actor of his works was laid. this hint did not fall idly on the ear of sheridan, as the following _fixation_ of the thought, in the verses which he afterwards wrote, proved:-- "the throng that mourn'd, as their dead favorite pass'd, the grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last; while shakspeare's image, from its hallow'd base, seem'd to prescribe the grave and point the place." this monody, which was the longest flight ever sustained by its author in verse, is more remarkable, perhaps, for refinement and elegance, than for either novelty of thought or depth of sentiment. there is, however, a fine burst of poetical eloquence in the lines beginning "superior hopes the poet's bosom fire;" and this passage, accordingly, as being the best in the poem, was, by the gossiping critics of the day, attributed to tickell,--from the same laudable motives that had induced them to attribute tickell's bad farce to sheridan. there is no end to the variety of these small missiles of malice, with which the gullivers of the world of literature are assailed by the lilliputians around them. the chief thought which pervades this poem,--namely, the fleeting nature of the actor's art and fame,--had already been more simply expressed by garrick himself in his prologue to the clandestine marriage:-- "the painter's dead, yet still he charms the eye; while england lives, his fame can never die; but he who struts his hour upon the stage, can scarce protract his fame through half an age; nor pen nor pencil can the actor save; the art and artist have one common grave." colley cibber, too, in his portrait (if i remember right) of betterton, breaks off into the same reflection, in the following graceful passage, which is one of those instances, where prose could not be exchanged for poetry without loss:--"pity it is that the momentary beauties, flowing from an harmonious elocution, cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record; that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or, at best, can but faintly glimmer through the memory of a few surviving spectators." with respect to the style and versification of the monody, the heroic couplet in which it is written has long been a sort of ulysses' bow, at which poetry tries her suitors, and at which they almost all fail. redundancy of epithet and monotony of cadence are the inseparable companions of this metre in ordinary hands; nor could all the taste and skill of sheridan keep it wholly free from these defects in his own. to the subject of metre, he had, nevertheless, paid great attention. there are among his papers some fragments of an essay [footnote: or rather memorandums collected, as was his custom, with a view to the composition of such an essay. he had been reading the writings of dr. foster, webb, &c. on this subject, with the intention, apparently, of publishing an answer to them. the following (which is one of the few consecutive passages i can find in these notes) will show how little reverence he entertained for that ancient prosody, upon which, in the system of english education, so large and precious a portion of human life is wasted:--"i never desire a stronger proof that an author is on a wrong scent on these subjects, than to see quintilian, aristotle, &c., quoted on a point where they have not the least business. all poetry is made by the ear, which must be the sole judge--it is a sort of musical rhythmus. if then we want to reduce our practical harmony to rules, every man, with a knowledge of his own language and a good ear, is at once competent to the undertaking. let him trace it to music--if he has no knowledge, let him inquire. "we have lost all notion of the ancient accent;--we have lost their pronunciation;--all puzzling about it is ridiculous, and trying to find out the melody of our own verse by theirs is still worse. we should have had all our own metres, if we never had heard a word of their language, --this i affirm. every nation finds out for itself a national melody; and we may say of it, as of religion, no place has been discovered without music. a people, likewise, as their language improves, will introduce a music into their poetry, which is simply (that is to say, the numerical part of poetry, which must be distinguished from the imaginary) the transferring the time of melody into speaking. what then have the greeks or romans to do with our music? it is plain that our admiration of their verse is mere pedantry, because we could not adopt it. sir philip sidney failed. if it had been melody, we should have had it; our language is just as well calculated for it. "it is astonishing that the excessive ridiculousness of a gradus or prosodial dictionary has never struck our scholars. the idea of looking into a book to see whether the _sound_ of a syllable be short or long is absolutely as much a bull of boeotian pedantry as ever disgraced ireland." he then adds, with reference to some mistakes which dr. foster had appeared to him to have committed in his accentuation of english words:--"what strange effects has this system brought about! it has so corrupted the ear, that absolutely our scholars cannot tell an english long syllable from a short one. if a boy were to make the _a_ in 'cano' or 'amo' long, dr. f. would no doubt feel his ear hurt, and yet...." of the style in which some of his observations are committed to paper, the following is a curious specimen:--"dr. foster says that short syllables, when inflated with that emphasis which the sense demands, swell in height, length, and breadth beyond their natural size.--the devil they do! here is a most omnipotent power in emphasis. quantity and accent may in vain toil to produce a little effect, but emphasis comes at once and monopolizes the power of them both."] which he had commenced on the nature of poetical accent and emphasis; and the adaptation of his verses to the airs in the duenna--even allowing for the aid which he received from mrs. sheridan--shows a degree of musical feeling, from which a much greater variety of cadence might be expected, than we find throughout the versification of this poem. the taste of the time, however, was not prepared for any great variations in the music of the couplet. the regular foot-fall, established so long, had yet been but little disturbed; and the only license of this kind hazarded through the poem--"all perishable"--was objected to by some of the author's critical friends, who suggested, that it would be better thus: "all doom'd to perish." whatever in more important points may be the inferiority of the present school of poetry to that which preceded it, in the music of versification there can be but little doubt of its improvement; nor has criticism, perhaps, ever rendered a greater service to the art, than in helping to unseal the ears of its worshippers to that true spheric harmony of the elders of song, which, during a long period of our literature, was as unheard as if it never existed. the monody does not seem to have kept the stage more than five or six nights;--nor is this surprising. the recitation of a long, serious address must always be, to a certain degree, ineffective on the stage; and, though this subject contained within it many strong sources of interest, as well personal as dramatic, they were not, perhaps, turned to account by the poet with sufficient warmth and earnestness on his own part, to excite a very ready response of sympathy in others. feeling never wanders into generalities--it is only by concentrating his rays upon one point that even genius can kindle strong emotion; and, in order to produce any such effect in the present instance upon the audience, garrick himself ought to have been kept prominently and individually before their eyes in almost every line. instead of this, however, the man is soon forgotten in his art, which is then deliberately compared with other arts, and the attention, through the greater part of the poem, is diffused over the transitoriness of actors in general, instead of being brought strongly to a focus upon the particular loss just sustained. even in those parts which apply most directly to garrick, the feeling is a good deal diluted by this tendency to the abstract; and, sometimes, by a false taste of personification, like that in the very first line,-- "if dying _excellence_ deserves a tear," where the substitution of a quality of the man for the man himself [footnote: another instance of this fault occurs in his song "when sable night:"-- "as some fond mother, o'er her babe deploring, wakes _its beauty_ with a tear;" where the clearness and reality of the picture are spoiled by the affectation of representing the _beauty_ of the child as waked, instead of the child itself.] puts the mind, as it were, one remove farther from the substantial object of its interest, and disturbs that sense of reality, on which the operations even of fancy itself ought to be founded. but it is very easy to play the critic--so easy as to be a task of but little glory. for one person who could produce such a poem as this, how many thousands exist and have existed, who could shine in the exposition of its faults! though insufficient, perhaps, in itself, to create a reputation for an author, yet, as a "_stella coronae_"--one of the stars in that various crown, which marks the place of sheridan in the firmament of fame,--it not only well sustains its own part in the lustre, but draws new light from the host of brilliancy around it. it was in the course of this same year that he produced the entertainment of the critic--his last legitimate offering on the shrine of the dramatic muse. in this admirable farce we have a striking instance of that privilege which, as i have already said, genius assumes, of taking up subjects that had passed through other hands, and giving them a new value and currency by his stamp. the plan of a rehearsal was first adopted for the purpose of ridiculing dryden, by the duke of buckingham; but, though there is much laughable humor in some of the dialogue between bayes and his friends, the salt of the satire altogether was not of a very conservative nature, and the piece continued to be served up to the public long after it had lost its relish. fielding tried the same plan in a variety of pieces--in his pasquin, his historical register, his author's farce, his eurydice, &c.,--but without much success, except in the comedy of pasquin, which had, i believe, at first a prosperous career, though it has since, except with the few that still read it for its fine tone of pleasantry, fallen into oblivion. it was reserved for sheridan to give vitality to this form of dramatic humor, and to invest even his satirical portraits --as in the instance of sir fretful plagiary, which, it is well known, was designed for cumberland--with a generic character, which, without weakening the particular resemblance, makes them representatives for ever of the whole class to which the original belonged. bayes, on the contrary, is a caricature--made up of little more than personal peculiarities, which may amuse as long as reference can be had to the prototype, but, like those supplemental features furnished from the living subject by taliacotius, fall lifeless the moment the individual that supplied them is defunct. it is evident, however, that bayes was not forgotten in the composition of the critic. his speech, where the two kings of brentford are singing in the clouds, may be considered as the exemplar which sheridan had before him in writing some of the rehearsal scenes of puff:-- "_smith._ well, but methinks the sense of this song is not very plain. "_bayes._ plain! why did you ever hear any people in the clouds sing plain? they must be all for flight of fancy at its fullest range, without the least check or control upon it. when once you tie up spirits and people in clouds to speak plain, you spoil all." there are particular instances of imitation still more direct. thus in the critic: "_enter_ sir walter raleigh _and_ sir christopher hatton. "_sir christ. h._ true, gallant raleigh.-- "_dangle._ what, had they been talking before? "_puff._ oh yes, all the way as they came along." in the same manner in the rehearsal, where the physician and usher of the two kings enter:-- "_phys._ sir, to conclude-- "_smith._ what, before he begins? "_bayes._ no, sir, you must know they had been talking of this a pretty while without. "_smith._ where? in the tyring room? "_bayes._ why, ay, sir. he's so dull." bayes, at the opening of the fifth act, says, "now, gentlemen, i will be bold to say, i'll show you the greatest scene that england ever saw; i mean not for words, for those i don't value, but for state, show, and magnificence." puff announces his grand scene in much the same manner:-- "now then for my magnificence! my battle! my noise! and my procession!" in fielding, too, we find numerous hints or germs, that have come to their full growth of wit in the critic. for instance, in trapwit (a character in "pasquin") there are the rudiments of sir fretful as well as of puff:-- "_sneerwell._ yes, faith, i think i would cut that last speech. "_trapwit._ sir, i'll sooner cut off an ear or two; sir, that's the very best thing in the whole play.... "_trapwit._ now, mr. sneerwell, we shall begin my third and last act; and i believe i may defy all the poets who have ever writ, or ever will write, to produce its equal: it is, sir, so crammed with drums and trumpets, thunder and lightning, battles and ghosts, that i believe the audience will want no entertainment after it." the manager, marplay, in "the author's farce," like him of drury lane in the critic, "does the town the honor of writing himself;" and the following incident in "the historical register" suggested possibly the humorous scene of lord burleigh:-- "enter four patriots from different doors, who meet in the centre and shake hands. "_sour-wit._ these patriots seem to equal your greatest politicians in their silence. "_medley._ sir, what they think now cannot well be spoke, but you may conjecture a good deal from their shaking their heads." such coincidences, whether accidental or designed, are at least curious, and the following is another of somewhat a different kind:--"steal! (says sir fretful) to be sure they may; and egad, serve your best thoughts as gipsies do stolen children, disfigure them, to make 'em pass for their own." [footnote: this simile was again made use of by him in a speech upon mr. pitt's india bill, which he declared to be "nothing more than a bad plagiarism on mr. fox's, disfigured, indeed, as gipsies do stolen children, in order to make them pass for their own."] churchill has the same idea in nearly the same language:-- "still pilfers wretched plans and makes them worse, like gipsies, lest the stolen brat be known, defacing first, then claiming for their own." the character of puff, as i have already shown, was our author's first dramatic attempt; and, having left it unfinished in the porch as he entered the temple of comedy, he now, we see, made it worthy of being his farewell oblation in quitting it. like eve's flowers, it was his "early visitation, and his last." we must not, however, forget a lively epilogue which he wrote this year, for miss hannah more's tragedy of fatal falsehood, in which there is a description of a blue-stocking lady, executed with all his happiest point. of this dense, epigrammatic style, in which every line is a cartridge of wit in itself, sheridan was, both in prose and verse, a consummate master; and if any one could hope to succeed, after pope, in a mock epic, founded upon fashionable life, it would have been, we should think, the writer of this epilogue. there are some verses, written on the "_immortelle emilie_" of voltaire, in which her employments, as a _savante_ and a woman of the world, are thus contrasted:-- _"tout lui plait, tout convient a son vaste genie, les livres, les bijoux, les compas, les pompons, les vers, les diamans, les beribis, l'optique, l'algebre, les soupers, le latin, les jupons, l'opera, les proces, le bal, et la physique."_ how powerfully has sheridan, in bringing out the same contrasts, shown the difference between the raw material of a thought, and the fine fabric as it comes from the hands of a workman:-- "what motley cares corilla's mind perplex, whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! in studious deshabille behold her sit, a letter'd gossip and a housewife wit: at once invoking, though for different views, her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse. round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies, a chequer'd wreck of notable and wise. bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; unfinished here an epigram is laid, and there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. there new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, there dormant patterns pine for future gauze. a moral essay now is all her care, a satire next, and then a bill of fare. a scene she now projects, and now a dish, here act the first, and here 'remove with fish.' now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, that soberly casts up a bill for coals; black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks. and tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix." we must now prepare to follow the subject of this memoir into a field of display, altogether different, where he was in turn to become an actor before the public himself, and where, instead of inditing lively speeches for others, he was to deliver the dictates of his eloquence and wit from his own lips. however the lovers of the drama may lament this diversion of his talents, and doubt whether even the chance of another school for scandal were not worth more than all his subsequent career, yet to the individual himself, full of ambition, and conscious of versatility of powers, such an opening into a new course of action and fame, must have been like one of those sudden turnings of the road in a beautiful country, which dazzle the eyes of a traveller with new glories, and invite him on to untried paths of fertility and sunshine. it has been before remarked how early, in a majority of instances, the dramatic talent has come to its fullest maturity. mr. sheridan would possibly never have exceeded what he had already done, and his celebrity had now reached that point of elevation, where, by a sort of optical deception in the atmosphere of fame, to remain stationary is to seem, in the eyes of the spectators, to fall. he had, indeed, enjoyed only the triumphs of talent, and without even descending to those ovations, or minor triumphs, which in general are little more than celebrations of escape from defeat, and to which they, who surpass all but themselves, are often capriciously reduced. it is questionable, too, whether, in any other walk of literature, he would have sustained the high reputation which he acquired by the drama. very rarely have dramatic writers, even of the first rank, exhibited powers of equal rate, when out of the precincts of their own art; while, on the other hand, poets of a more general range, whether epic, lyric, or satiric, have as rarely succeeded on the stage. there is, indeed, hardly one of our celebrated dramatic authors (and the remark might be extended to other countries) who has left works worthy of his reputation in any other line; and mr. sheridan, perhaps, might only have been saved from adding to the list of failures, by such a degree of prudence or of indolence as would have prevented him from making the attempt. he may, therefore, be said to have closed his account with literature, when not only the glory of his past successes, but the hopes of all that he might yet have achieved, were set down fully, and without any risk of forfeiture, to his credit; and, instead of being left, like alexander, to sigh for new worlds to vanquish, no sooner were his triumphs in one sphere of action complete than another opened to invite him to new conquests. we have already seen that politics, from the very commencement of his career, had held divided empire with literature in the tastes and studies of mr. sheridan; and, even in his fullest enjoyment of the smiles of the comic muse, while he stood without a rival in _her_ affections, the "_musa severior_" of politics was estranging the constancy of his-- "_te tenet, absentes alios suspirat amores_" "_e'en while perfection lies within his arms, he strays in thought, and sighs for other charms._" among his manuscripts there are some sheets of an essay on absentees, which, from the allusions it contains to the measures then in contemplation for ireland, must have been written, i rather think, about the year --when the school for scandal was in its first career of success, and the critic preparing, at no very long interval, to partake its triumph. it is obvious, from some expressions used in this pamphlet, that his intention was, if not to publish it in ireland, at least to give it the appearance of having been written there--and, except the pure unmixed motive of rendering a service to his country, by the discussion of a subject so closely connected with her interests, it is difficult to conceive what inducement he could have had to select at that moment such a topic for his pen. the plain, unpretending style of the greater part of the composition sufficiently proves that literary display was not the object of it; while the absence of all criminatory matter against the government precludes the idea of its having originated in party zeal. as it is curious to observe how soberly his genius could yoke itself to grave matter of fact, after the winged excursions in which it had been indulging, i shall here lay some paragraphs of this pamphlet before the reader. in describing the effects of the prevailing system of pasturage--one of the evils attributed by him to absentees,--he thus, with occasional irradiations of eloquence and ingenuity, expresses himself:-- "now it must ever be the interest of the absentee to place his estates in the hands of as few tenants as possible, by which means there will be less difficulty or hazard in collecting his rents, and less intrusted to an agent, if his estate require one. the easiest method of effecting this is by laying the land out for pasturage, and letting it in gross to those who deal only in 'a fatal living crop'--whose produce we are not allowed a market for when manufactured, while we want art, honesty, and encouragement to fit it for home consumption. thus the indolent extravagance of the lord becomes subservient to the interest of a few mercenary graziers--shepherds of most unpastoral principles--while the veteran husbandman may lean on the shattered, unused plough, and view himself surrounded with flocks that furnish raiment without food. or, if his honesty be not proof against the hard assaults of penury, he may be led to revenge himself on these dumb innovators of his little field-- then learn too late that some portion of the soil is reserved for a crop more fatal even than that which tempted and destroyed him. "without dwelling on the particular ill effects of non-residence in this case, i shall conclude with representing that principal and supreme prerogative which the absentee foregoes--the prerogative of mercy, of charity. the estated resident is invested with a kind of relieving providence--a power to heal the wounds of undeserved misfortune--to break the blows of adverse fortune, and leave chance no power to undo the hopes of honest persevering industry. there cannot surely be a more happy station than that wherein prosperity and worldly interest are to be best forwarded by an exertion of the most endearing offices of humanity. this is his situation who lives on the soil which furnishes him with means to live. it is his interest to watch the devastation of the storm, the ravage of the flood--to mark the pernicious extremes of the elements, and, by a judicious indulgence and assistance, to convert the sorrows and repinings of the sufferer into blessings on his humanity. by such a conduct he saves his people from the sin of unrighteous murmurs, and makes heaven his debtor for their resignation. "it will be said that the residing in another kingdom will never erase from humane minds the duty and attention which they owe to those whom they have left to cultivate their demesnes. i will not say that absence lessens their humanity, or that the superior dissipation which they enjoy in it contracts their feelings to coarser enjoyments--without this, we know that agents and stewards are seldom intrusted with full powers of aiding and remitting. in some, compassion would be injustice. they are, in general, content with the virtue of justice and punctuality towards their employer; part of which they conceive to be a rigorous exaction of his rents, and, where difficulty occurs, their process is simply to distrain and to eject--a rigor that must ever be prejudicial to an estate, and which, practised frequently, betrays either an original negligence, or want of judgment in choosing tenants, or an extreme inhumanity towards their incidental miscarriages. "but, granting an undiminished benevolence to exist on the part both of the landlord and the agent, yet can we expect any great exertion of pathetic eloquence to proceed from the latter to palliate any deficiency of the tenants?--or, if there were, do we not know how much lighter an impression is made by distresses related to us than by those which are '_oculis subjecta fidelibus?_ the heart, the seat of charity and compassion, is more accessible to the senses than the understanding. many, who would be unmoved by any address to the latter, would melt into charity at the eloquent persuasion of silent sorrow. when he _sees_ the widow's tear, and hears the orphan's sigh, every one will act with a sudden uniform rectitude, because he acts from the divine impulse of 'free love dealt equally to all.'" the blind selfishness of those commercial laws, which england so long imposed upon ireland,--like ligatures to check the circulation of the empire's life-blood,--is thus adverted to: "though i have mentioned the decay of trade in ireland as insufficient to occasion the great increase of emigration, yet is it to be considered as an important ill effect, arising from the same cause. it may be said that trade is now in higher repute in ireland, and that the exports and imports (which are always supposed the test of it) are daily increasing. this may be admitted to be true, yet cannot it be said that the trade of the kingdom flourishes. the trade of a kingdom should increase in exact proportion to its luxuries, and those of the nations connected with it. therefore it is no argument to say, that, on examining the accounts of customs fifty years back, they appear to be trebled now; for england, by some sudden stroke, might lose such a proportion of its trade, as would ruin it as a commercial nation, yet the amount of what remained might be tenfold of what it enjoyed in the reign of queen elizabeth. trade, properly speaking, is the commutations of the product of each country-- this extends itself to the exchange of commodities in which art has fixed a price. where a nation hath free power to export the works of its industry, the balance in such articles will certainly be in its favor. thus had we in ireland power to export our manufactured silks, stuffs, and woollens, we should be assured that it would be our interest to import and cultivate their materials. but, as this is not the case, the gain of individuals is no proof that the nation is benefited by such commerce. for instance, the exportation of un-wrought wool may be very advantageous to the dealer, and, through his hands, bring money, or a beneficial return of commodities into the kingdom; but trace the ill effects of depopulating such tracts of land as are necessary for the support of flocks to supply this branch, and number those who are deprived of support and employment by it, and so become a dead weight on the community--we shall find that the nation in fact will be the poorer for this apparent advantage. this would be remedied were we allowed to export it manufactured; because the husbandman might get his bread as a manufacturer. "another principal cause that the trade may increase, without proportionally benefiting the nation, is that a great part of the stock which carries on the foreign trade of ireland belongs to those who reside out of the country--thus the ultimate and material profits on it are withdrawn to another kingdom. it is likewise to be observed, that, though the exportations may appear to exceed the importations, yet may this in part arise from the accounts of the former being of a more certain nature, and those of the latter very conjectural, and always falling short of the fact." though mr. sheridan afterwards opposed a union with ireland, the train of reasoning which he pursued in this pamphlet naturally led him to look forward to such an arrangement between the two countries, as, perhaps, the only chance of solving the long-existing problem of their relationship to each other. "it is the state, (he continues,) the luxury, and fashions of the wealthy, that give life to the artificers of elegance and taste;--it is their numerous train that sends the rapid shuttle through the loom;-- and, when they leave their country, they not only beggar these dependents, but the tribes that lived by clothing them. "an extravagant passion for luxuries hath been in all nations a symptom of an approaching dissolution. however, in commercial states, while it predominates only among the higher ranks, it brings with it the conciliating advantage of being greatly beneficial to trade and manufactures. but, how singularly unfortunate is that kingdom, where the luxurious passions of the great beggar those who should be supported by them,--a kingdom, whose wealthy members keep equal pace with their numbers in the dissipated and fantastical pursuits of life, without suffering the lower class to glean even the dregs of their vices. while this is the case with ireland the prosperity of her trade must be all forced and unnatural; and if, in the absence of its wealthy and estated members, the state already feels all the disadvantages of a union, it cannot do better than endeavor at a free trade by effecting it in reality." having demonstrated, at some length, the general evil of absenteeism, he thus proceeds to inquire into the most eligible remedy for it:-- "the evil complained of is simply the absence of the proprietors of a certain portion of the landed property. this is an evil unprovided against by the legislature;--therefore, we are not to consider whether it might not with propriety have been guarded against, but whether a remedy or alleviation of it can now be attempted consistently with the spirit of the constitution. on examining all the most obvious methods of attempting this, i believe there will appear but two practicable. the first will be by enacting a law for the frequent summoning the proprietors of landed property to appear _de facto_ at stated times. the second will be the voting a supply to be raised from the estates of such as do never reside in the kingdom. "the first, it is obvious, would be an obligation of no use, without a penalty was affixed to the breach of it, amounting to the actual forfeiture of the estate of the recusant. this, we are informed, was once the case in ireland. but at present, whatever advantage the kingdom might reap by it, it could not possibly be reconciled to the genius of the constitution: and, if the fine were trifling, it would prove the same as the second method, with the disadvantage of appearing to treat as an act of delinquency what in no way infringes the municipal laws of the kingdom. "in the second method the legislature is, in no respect, to be supposed to regard the _person_ of the absentee. it prescribes no place of residence to him, nor attempts to summon or detain him. the light it takes up the point in is this--that the welfare of the whole is injured by the produce of a certain portion of the soil being sent out of the kingdom.... it will be said that the produce of the soil is not exported by being carried to our own markets; but if the value received in exchange for it, whatever it be, whether money or commodities, be exported, it is exactly the same in its ultimate effects as if the grain, flocks, &c. were literally sent to england. in this light, then, if the state is found to suffer by such an exportation, its deducting a small part from the produce is simply a reimbursing the public, and putting the loss of the public (to whose welfare the interest of individuals is always to be subservient) upon those very members who occasion that loss. "this is only to be effected by a tax." though to a political economist of the present day much of what is so loosely expressed in these extracts will appear but the crudities of a tyro in the science, yet, at the time when they were written,--when both mr. fox and mr. burke could expatiate on the state of ireland, without a single attempt to develop or enforce those simple, but wise principles of commercial policy, every one of which had been violated in the restrictions on her industry,--it was no small merit in mr. sheridan to have advanced even thus far in a branch of knowledge so rare and so important. in addition to his own early taste for politics, the intimacies which he had now formed with some of the most eminent public men of the day must have considerably tended to turn his ambition in that direction. at what time he first became acquainted with mr. fox i have no means of ascertaining exactly. among the letters addressed to him by that statesman, there is one which, from the formality of its style, must have been written at the very commencement of their acquaintance--but, unluckily, it is not dated. lord john townshend, who first had the happiness of bringing two such men together, has given the following interesting account of their meeting, and of the impressions which they left upon the minds of each other. his lordship, however, has not specified the period of this introduction:-- "i made the first dinner-party at which they met, having told fox that all the notions he might have conceived of sheridan's talents and genius from the comedy of the rivals, &c. would fall infinitely short of the admiration of his astonishing powers, which i was sure he would entertain at the first interview. the first interview between them (there were very few present, only tickell and myself, and one or two more) i shall never forget. fox told me, after breaking up from dinner, that he had always thought hare, after my uncle, charles townshend, the wittiest man he ever met with, but that sheridan surpassed them both infinitely; and sheridan told me next day that he was quite lost in admiration of fox, and that it was a puzzle to him to say what he admired most, his commanding superiority of talent and universal knowledge, or his playful fancy, artless manners, and benevolence of heart, which showed itself in every word he uttered." with burke mr. sheridan became acquainted at the celebrated turk's head club,--and, if any incentive was wanting to his new passion for political distinction, the station to which he saw his eloquent fellow- countryman exalted, with no greater claims from birth or connection than his own, could not have failed to furnish it. his intimacy with mr. windham began, as we have seen, very early at bath, and the following letter, addressed to him by that gentleman from norfolk, in the year , is a curious record not only of the first political movements of a person so celebrated as mr. windham, but of the interest with which sheridan then entered into the public measures of the day:-- "jan. , . "i fear my letter will greatly disappoint your hopes. [footnote: mr. windham had gone down to norfolk, in consequence of a proposed meeting in that county, under the auspices of lord townshend, for the purpose of raising a subscription in aid of government, to be applied towards carrying on the war with the american colonies. in about three weeks after the date of this letter, the meeting was held, and mr. windham, in a spirited answer to lord townshend, made the first essay of his eloquence in public.] i have no account to send you of my answering lord townshend--of hard-fought contests--spirited resolves--ballads, mobs, cockades, and lord north burnt in effigy. we have had a bloodless campaign, but not from backwardness in our troops, but for the most creditable reason that can be--want of resolution in the enemy to encounter us. when i got down here early this morning, expecting to find a room prepared, a chair set for the president, and nothing wanting but that the orators should begin, i was surprised to learn that no advertisement had appeared on the other part; but that lord t. having dined at a meeting, where the proposal was received very coldly, had taken fright, and for the time at least had dropped the proposal. it had appeared, therefore, to those whom i applied to (and i think very rightly) that till an advertisement was inserted by them, or was known for certain to be intended, it would not be proper for any thing to be done by us. in this state, therefore, it rests. the advertisement which we agreed upon is left at the printer's, ready to be inserted upon the appearance of one from them. we lie upon our arms, and shall begin to act upon any motion of the enemy. i am very sorry that things have taken this turn, as i came down in full confidence of being able to accomplish something distinguished. i had drawn up, as i came along, a tolerably good paper, to be distributed to-morrow in the streets, and settled pretty well in my head the terms of a protest--besides some pretty smart pieces of oratory, delivered upon newmarket heath. i never felt so much disposition to exert myself before--i hope from my never having before so fair a prospect of doing it with success. when the coach comes in, i hope i shall receive a packet from you, which shall not be lost, though it may not be used immediately. "i must leave off writing, for i have got some other letters to send by to-night's post. writing in this ink is like speaking with respect to the utter annihilation of what is past;--by the time it gets to you, perhaps, it may have become legible, but i have no chance of reading over my letter myself. "i shall not suffer this occasion to pass over entirely without benefit. "believe me yours most truly, "w. wlndham. "tell mrs. sheridan that i hope she will have a closet ready, where i may remain till the heat of the pursuit is over. my friends in france have promised to have a vessel ready upon the coast. "richard brinsley sheridan, esq., "queen street, lincoln's inn fields." the first political service rendered by mr. sheridan to the party with whom he now closely connected himself, was the active share which he took in a periodical paper called the englishman, set up by the whigs for the purpose of seconding, out of parliament, the crimination and invective of which they kept up such a brisk fire within. the intention, as announced by sheridan in the first number, [footnote: published th of march, .] was, like swift in the drapier's letters, to accommodate the style of the publication to the comprehension of persons in "that class of the community, who are commonly called the _honest_ and _industrious_." but this plan,--which not even swift, independent as was his humor of the artifices of style, could adhere to,--was soon abandoned, and there is in most of sheridan's own papers a finesse and ingenuity of allusion, which only the most cultivated part of his readers could fully enjoy. for instance, in exposing the inconsistency of lord north, who had lately consented in a committee of the whole house, to a motion which he had violently opposed in the house itself,--thus "making (says sheridan) that respectable assembly disobey its own orders, and the members reject with contempt, under the form of a chairman, the resolutions they had imposed on themselves under the authority of a speaker;"--he proceeds in a strain of refined raillery, as little suited to the "honest and industrious" class of the community, as swift's references to locke, molyneux, and sydney, were to the readers for whom he also professed to write:-- "the burlesque of any plan, i know, is rather a recommendation of it to your lordship; and the ridicule you might throw on this assembly, by continuing to support this athanasian distinction of powers in the unity of an apparently corporate body, might in the end compensate to you for the discredit you have incurred in the attempt. "a deliberative body of so _uncommon a form_, would probably be deemed a kind of state monster by the ignorant and the vulgar. this might at first increase their _awe_ for it, and so far counteract your lordship's intentions. they would probably approach it with as much reverence as stephano does the monster in the tempest:--'what, one body and two voices--a most delicate monster!' however, they would soon grow familiarized to it, and probably hold it in as little respect as they were wished to do. they would find it on many occasions 'a very shallow monster,' and particularly 'a most poor _credulous_ monster,'-- while your lordship, as keeper, would enjoy every advantage and profit that could be made of it. you would have the benefit of the _two voices_, which would be the monster's great excellencies, and would be peculiarly serviceable to your lordship. with 'the forward voice' you would aptly promulgate those vigorous schemes and productive resources, in which your lordship's fancy is so pregnant; while 'the backward voice' might be kept solely for _recantation_. the monster, to maintain its character, must appear no novice in the science of flattery, or in the talents of servility,--and while it could never scruple to bear any burdens your lordship should please to lay on it, you would always, on the _approach of a storm_, find a shelter under its gabardine." the most celebrated of these papers was the attack upon lord george germaine, written also by mr. sheridan,--a composition which, for unaffected strength of style and earnestness of feeling, may claim a high rank among the models of political vituperation. to every generation its own contemporary press seems always more licentious than any that had preceded it; but it may be questioned, whether the boldness of modern libel has ever gone beyond the direct and undisguised personality, with which one cabinet minister was called a liar and another a coward, in this and other writings of the popular party at that period. the following is the concluding paragraph of this paper against lord george germaine, which is in the form of a letter to the freeholders of england:-- "it would be presuming too much on your attention, at present, to enter into an investigation of the measures and system of war which this minister has pursued,--these shall certainly be the subject of a future paper. at present i shall only observe that, however mortifying it may be to reflect on the ignominy and disasters which this inauspicious character has brought on his country, yet there are consoling circumstances to be drawn even from his ill success. the calamities which may be laid to his account are certainly great; but, had the case been otherwise, it may fairly be questioned whether the example of a degraded and reprobated officer (preposterously elevated to one of the first stations of honor and confidence in the state) directing the military enterprises of this country with unlooked-for prosperity, might not ultimately be the cause of more extensive evils than even those, great as they are, which we at present experience: whether from so fatal a precedent we might not be led to introduce characters under similar disqualifications into every department:--to appoint atheists to the mitre, _jews_ to the exchequer,--to select a treasury-bench from the _justitia_, to place _brown dignam_ on the wool-sack, and sir hugh palliser at the head of the admiralty." the englishman, as might be expected from the pursuits and habits of those concerned in it, was not very punctually conducted, and after many apologies from the publisher for its not appearing at the stated times, (wednesdays and saturdays,) ceased altogether on the d of june. from an imperfect sketch of a new number, found among mr. sheridan's manuscripts, it appears that there was an intention of reviving it a short time after--probably towards the autumn of the same year, from the following allusion to mr. gibbon, whose acceptance of a seat at the board of trade took place, if i recollect right, in the summer of :-- "this policy is very evident among the majority in both houses, who, though they make no scruple in private to acknowledge the total incapacity of ministers, yet, in public, speak and vote as if they believed them to have every virtue under heaven; and, on this principle, some gentlemen,--as mr. gibbon, for instance,--while, in private, they indulge their opinion pretty freely, will yet, in their zeal for the public good, even condescend to accept a place, in order to give a color to their confidence in the wisdom of the government." it is needless to say that mr. sheridan had been for some time among the most welcome guests at devonshire house--that rendezvous of all the wits and beauties of fashionable life, where politics was taught to wear its most attractive form, and sat enthroned, like virtue among the epicureans, with all the graces and pleasures for handmaids. without any disparagement of the manly and useful talents, which are at present no where more conspicuous than in the upper ranks of society, it may be owned that for wit, social powers, and literary accomplishments, the political men of the period under consideration formed such an assemblage as it would be flattery to say that our own times can parallel. the natural tendency of the excesses of the french revolution was to produce in the higher classes of england an increased reserve of manner, and, of course, a proportionate restraint on all within their circle, which have been fatal to conviviality and humor, and not very propitious to wit--subduing both manners and conversation to a sort of polished level, to rise above which is often thought almost as vulgar as to sink below it. of the greater ease of manners that existed some forty or fifty years ago, one trifling, but not the less significant, indication was the habit, then prevalent among men of high station, of calling each other by such familiar names as dick, jack, tom, &c. [footnote: dick sheridan, ned burke, jack townshend, tom grenville, &c. &c.]--a mode of address that brings with it, in its very sound, the notion of conviviality and playfulness, and, however unrefined, implies, at least, that ease and _sea-room_, in which wit spreads its canvas most fearlessly. with respect to literary accomplishments, too,--in one branch of which, poetry, almost all the leading politicians of that day distinguished themselves--the change that has taken place in the times, independently of any want of such talent, will fully account for the difference that we witness, in this respect, at present. as the public mind becomes more intelligent and watchful, statesmen can the less afford to trifle with their talents, or to bring suspicion upon their fitness for their own vocation, by the failures which they risk in deviating into others. besides, in poetry, the temptation of distinction no longer exists--the commonness of that talent in the market, at present, being such as to reduce the value of an elegant copy of verses very far below the price it was at, when mr. hayley enjoyed an almost exclusive monopoly of the article. in the clever epistle, by tickell, "from the hon. charles fox, partridge-shooting, to the hon. john townshend, cruising," some of the most shining persons in that assemblage of wits and statesmen, who gave a lustre to brooks's club-house at the period of which we are speaking, are thus agreeably grouped:-- "soon as to brooks's thence thy footsteps bend, [footnote: the well-known lines on brooks himself are perhaps the perfection of this drawing-room style of humor:-- "and know, i've bought the best champagne from brooks; from liberal brooks, whose speculative skill is hasty credit, and a distant bill; who, nurs'd in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade, exults to trust, and blushes to be paid."] what gratulations thy approach attend! see gibbon rap his box-auspicious sign that classic compliment and wit combine; see beauclerk's cheek a tinge of red surprise, and friendship give what cruel health denies;-- * * * * * on that auspicious night, supremely grac'd with chosen guests, the pride of liberal taste, not in contentious heat, nor madd'ning strife, not with the busy ills, nor cares of life, we'll waste the fleeting hours--far happier themes shall claim each thought and chase ambition's dreams. each _beauty_ that _sublimity_ can boast _he_ best shall tell, who still unites them most. of wit, of taste, of fancy we'll debate, if sheridan, for once, be not too late: but scarce a thought on politics we'll spare, unless on polish politics, with hare. good-natur'd devon! oft shall then appear the cool complacence of thy friendly sneer: oft shall fitzpatrick's wit and stanhope's case and burgoyne's manly sense unite to please. and while each guest attends our varied feats of scattered covies and retreating fleets, me shall they wish some better sport to gain, and thee more glory, from the next campaign." in the society of such men the destiny of mr. sheridan could not be long in fixing. on the one side, his own keen thirst for distinction, and on the other, a quick and sanguine appreciation of the service that such talents might render in the warfare of party, could not fail to hasten the result that both desired. his first appearance before the public as a political character was in conjunction with mr. fox, at the beginning of the year , when the famous resolutions on the state of the representation, signed by mr. fox as chairman of the westminster committee, together with a report on the same subject from the sub-committee, signed by sheridan, were laid before the public. annual parliaments and universal suffrage were the professed objects of this meeting; and the first of the resolutions, subscribed by mr. fox, stated that "annual parliaments are the undoubted right of the people of england." notwithstanding this strong declaration, it may be doubted whether sheridan was, any more than mr. fox, a very sincere friend to the principle of reform; and the manner in which he masked his disinclination or indifference to it was strongly characteristic both of his humor and his tact. aware that the wild scheme of cartwright and others, which these resolutions recommended, was wholly impracticable, he always took refuge in it when pressed upon the subject, and would laughingly advise his political friends to do the same:--"whenever any one," he would say, "proposes to you a specific plan of reform, always answer that you are for nothing short of annual parliaments and universal suffrage--there you are safe." he also had evident delight, when talking on this question, in referring to a jest of burke, who said that there had arisen a new party of reformers, still more orthodox than the rest, who thought annual parliaments far from being sufficiently frequent, and who, founding themselves upon the latter words of the statute of edward iii., that "a parliament shall be holden every year once and _more often if need be_" were known by the denomination of the _oftener-if-need-bes_. "for my part," he would add, in relating this, "i am an oftener-if-need-be." even when most serious on the subject (for, to the last he professed himself a warm friend to reform) his arguments had the air of being ironical and insidious. to annual parliaments and universal suffrage, he would say, the principles of representation naturally and necessarily led,--any less extensive proposition was a base compromise and a dereliction of right; and the first encroachment on the people was the act of henry vi., which limited the power of election to forty-shilling freeholders within the county, whereas the real right was in the "outrageous and excessive" number of people by whom the preamble recites [footnote: "elections of knights of shires have now of late been made by very great outrageous and excessive number of people, dwelling within the same counties, of the which most part was people of small substance and of no value." h. . c. .] that the choice had been made of late.--such were the arguments by which he affected to support his cause, and it is not difficult to detect the eyes of the snake glistening from under them. the dissolution of parliament that took place in the autumn of this year ( ) afforded at length the opportunity to which his ambition had so eagerly looked forward. it has been said, i know not with what accuracy, that he first tried his chance of election at honiton--but stafford was the place destined to have the honor of first choosing him for its representative; and it must have been no small gratification to his independent spirit, that, unfurnished as he was with claims from past political services, he appeared in parliament, not as the nominee of any aristocratic patron, but as member for a borough, which, whatever might be its purity in other respects, at least enjoyed the freedom of choice. elected conjointly with mr. monckton, to whose interest and exertions he chiefly owed his success, he took his seat in the new parliament which met in the month of october;--and, from that moment giving himself up to the pursuit of politics, bid adieu to the worship of the dramatic muse for ever. "_comoedia luget; scena est deserta: hinc ludus risusque jocusgue et numeri innumeri simul omnes collacrumarunt._" comedy mourns--the stage neglected sleeps-- e'en mirth in tears his languid laughter steeps-- and song, through all her various empire, weeps. chapter vii. unfinished plays and poems. before i enter upon the sketch of mr. sheridan's political life, i shall take this opportunity of laying before the reader such information with respect to his unfinished literary designs, both dramatic and poetic, as the papers in my possession enable me to communicate. some of his youthful attempts in literature have already been mentioned, and there is a dramatic sketch of his, founded on the vicar of wakefield, which from a date on the manuscript ( ), appears to have been produced at a still earlier age, and when he was only in his seventeenth year. a scene of this piece will be sufficient to show how very soon his talent for lively dialogue displayed itself:-- "scene ii. "thornhill _and_ arnold. "_thornhill._ nay, prithee, jack, no more of that if you love me. what, shall i stop short with the game in full view? faith, i believe the fellow's turned puritan. what think you of turning methodist, jack? you have a tolerable good canting countenance, and, if escaped being taken up for a jesuit, you might make a fortune in moor-fields. "_arnold._ i was serious, tom. "_thorn._ splenetic you mean. come, fill your glass, and a truce to your preaching. here's a pretty fellow has let his conscience sleep for these five years, and has now plucked morality from the leaves of his grandmother's bible, beginning to declaim against what he has practised half his life-time. why, i tell you once more, my schemes are all come to perfection. i am now convinced olivia loves me--at our last conversation, she said she would rely wholly on my honor. "_arn._ and therefore you would deceive her. "_thorn._ why no--deceive her?--why--indeed--as to that--but--but, for god's sake, let me hear no more on this subject, for, 'faith, you make me sad, jack. if you continue your admonitions, i shall begin to think you have yourself an eye on the girl. you have promised me your assistance, and when you came down into the country, were as hot on the scheme as myself: but, since you have been two or three times with me at primrose's, you have fallen off strangely. no encroachments, jack, on my little rose-bud--if you have a mind to beat up game in this quarter, there's her sister--but no poaching. "_arn._ i am not insensible to her sister's merit, but have no such views as you have. however, you have promised me that if you find in this lady that real virtue which you so firmly deny to exist in the sex, you will give up the pursuit, and, foregoing the low considerations of fortune, make atonement by marriage. "_thorn._ such is my serious resolution. "_arn._ i wish you'd forego the experiment. but, you have been so much in raptures with your success, that i have, as yet, had no clear account how you came acquainted in the family. "_thorn._ oh, i'll tell you immediately. you know lady patchet? "_arn._ what, is she here? "_thorn._ it was by her i was first introduced. it seems that, last year, her ladyship's reputation began to suffer a little; so that she thought it prudent to retire for a while, till people learned better manners or got worse memories. she soon became acquainted with this little family, and, as the wife is a prodigious admirer of quality, grew in a short time to be very intimate, and imagining that she may one day make her market of the girls, has much ingratiated herself with them. she introduced me--i drank, and abused this degenerate age with the father--promised wonders to the mother for all her brats--praised her gooseberry wine, and ogled the daughters, by which means in three days i made the progress i related to you. "_arn._ you have been expeditious indeed. i fear where that devil lady patchet is concerned there can be no good--but is there not a son? "_thorn._ oh! the most ridiculous creature in nature. he has been bred in the country a bumpkin all his life, till within these six years, when he was sent to the university, but the misfortunes that have reduced his father falling out, he is returned, the most ridiculous animal you ever saw, a conceited, disputing blockhead. so there is no great matter to fear from _his_ penetration. but come, let us begone, and see this moral family, we shall meet them coming from the field, and you will see a man who was once in affluence, maintaining by hard labor a numerous family. "_arn._ oh! thornhill, can you wish to add infamy to their poverty? "[exeunt.]" there also remain among his papers three acts of a drama, without a name,--written evidently in haste, and with scarcely any correction,-- the subject of which is so wild and unmanageable, that i should not have hesitated in referring it to the same early date, had not the introduction into one of the scenes of "dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh," proved it to have been produced after that pretty song was written. the chief personages upon whom the story turns are a band of outlaws, who, under the name and disguise of _devils_, have taken up their residence in a gloomy wood, adjoining a village, the inhabitants of which they keep in perpetual alarm by their incursions and apparitions. in the same wood resides a hermit, secretly connected with this band, who keeps secluded within his cave the beautiful reginilla, hid alike from the light of the sun and the eyes of men. she has, however, been indulged in her prison with a glimpse of a handsome young huntsman, whom she believes to be a phantom, and is encouraged in her belief by the hermit, by whose contrivance this huntsman (a prince in disguise) has been thus presented to her. the following is--as well as i can make it out from a manuscript not easily decipherable--the scene that takes place between the fair recluse and her visitant. the style, where style is attempted, shows, as the reader will perceive, a taste yet immature and unchastened:-- "_scene draws, and discovers_ reginilla _asleep in the cave. "enter_ pevidor _and other devils, with the_ huntsman--_unbind him, and exeunt._ "_hunts._ ha! where am i now? is it indeed the dread abode of guilt, or refuge of a band of thieves? it cannot be a dream (_sees_ reginilla.) ha! if this be so, and i _do_ dream, may i never wake-- it is--my beating heart acknowledges my dear, gentle reginilla. i'll not wake her, lest, if it be a phantom, it should vanish. oh, balmy breath! but for thy soft sighs that come to tell me it is no image, i should believe ... (_bends down towards her_.) a sigh from her heart!-- thus let me arrest thee on thy way. (_kisses her_.) a deeper blush has flushed her cheek--sweet modesty! that even in sleep is conscious and resentful.--she will not wake, and yet some fancy calls up those frequent sighs--how her heart beats in its ivory cage, like an imprisoned bird--or as if to reprove the hand that dares approach its sanctuary! oh, would she but wake, and bless this gloom with her bright eyes!--soft, here's a lute--perhaps her soul will hear the call of harmony. "oh yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart, release those beams, that make this mansion bright; from her sweet sense, slumber! tho' sweet thou art, begone, and give the air she breathes in light. "or while, oh sleep, thou dost those glances hide, let rosy slumbers still around her play, sweet as the cherub innocence enjoy'd, when in thy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay. "and thou, oh dream, that com'st her sleep to cheer, oh take my shape, and play a lover's part; kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear, till her eyes shine, 'tis night within my heart. [footnote: i have taken the liberty here of supplying a few rhymes and words that are wanting in the original copy of the song. the last line of all runs thus in the manuscript:-- "till her eye shines i live in darkest night," which, not rhyming as it ought, i have ventured to alter as above.] "_reg._ (_waking_.) the phantom, father! (_seizes his hand._) ah, do not, do not wake me then. (_rises._) "_hunts._ (_kneeling to her._) thou beauteous sun of this dark world, that mak'st a place, so like the cave of death, a heaven to me, instruct me how i may approach thee--how address thee and not offend. "_reg._ oh how my soul would hang upon those lips! speak on--and yet, methinks, he should not kneel so--why are you afraid, sir? indeed, i cannot hurt you. "_hunts._ sweet innocence, i'm sure thou would'st not. "_reg._ art thou not he to whom i told my name, and didst thou not say thine was-- "_hunts._ oh blessed be the name that then thou told'st--it has been ever since my charm, and kept me from distraction. but, may i ask how such sweet excellence as thine could be hid in such a place? "_reg._ alas, i know not--for such as thou i never saw before, nor any like myself. "_hunts._ nor like thee ever shall--but would'st thou leave this place, and live with such as i am? "_reg._ why may not you live here with such as i? "_hunts._ yes--but i would carry thee where all above an azure canopy extends, at night bedropt with gems, and one more glorious lamp, that yields such bashful light as love enjoys--while underneath, a carpet shall be spread of flowers to court the pressure of thy step, with such sweet whispered invitations from the leaves of shady groves or murmuring of silver streams, that thou shalt think thou art in paradise. "_reg._ indeed! "_hunts._ ay, and i'll watch and wait on thee all day, and cull the choicest flowers, which while thou bind'st in the mysterious knot of love, i'll tune for thee no vulgar lays, or tell thee tales shall make thee weep yet please thee--while thus i press thy hand, and warm it thus with kisses. "_reg._ i doubt thee not--but then my governor has told me many a tale of faithless men who court a lady but to steal her peace and fame, and then to leave her. "_hunts._ oh never such as thou art--witness all.... "_reg._ then wherefore couldst thou not live here? for i do feel, tho' tenfold darkness did surround this spot, i could be blest, would you but stay here; and, if it made you sad to be imprison'd thus, i'd sing and play for thee, and dress thee sweetest fruits, and though you chid me, would kiss thy tear away and hide my blushing face upon thy bosom--indeed, i would. then what avails the gaudy day, and all the evil things i'm told inhabit there, to those who have within themselves all that delight and love, and heaven can give. "_hunts._ my angel, thou hast indeed the soul of love. "_reg._ it is no ill thing, is it? "_hunts._ oh most divine--it is the immediate gift of heaven, which steals into our breast ... 'tis that which makes me sigh thus, look thus--fear and tremble for thee. "_reg._ sure i should learn it too, if you would teach me. (_sound of horn without--huntsman starts._) "_reg._ you must not go--this is but a dance preparing for my amusement--oh we have, indeed, some pleasures here--come, i will sing for you the while. "_song._ "wilt thou then leave me? canst thou go from me, to woo the fair that love the gaudy day? yet, e'en among those joys, thou'lt find that she, who dwells in darkness, loves thee more than they. for these poor hands, and these unpractised eyes, and this poor heart is thine without disguise. but, if thou'lt stay with me, my only care shall be to please and make thee love to stay, with music, song, and dance * * * * * but, if you go, nor music, song, nor dance, * * * * * if thou art studious, i will read thee tales of pleasing woe-- if thou art sad, i'll kiss away the tears.... that flow. if thou would'st play, i'll kiss thee till i blush, then hide that blush upon thy breast, if thou would'st sleep.... shall rock thy aching head to rest. "_hunts._ my soul's wonder, i will never leave thee. "(_the dance.--allemande by two bears_.) "_enter_ pevidor. "_pev._ so fond, so soon! i cannot bear to see it. what ho, within (_devils enter._) secure him. (_seize and bind the huntsman._)" the duke or sovereign of the country, where these events are supposed to take place, arrives at the head of a military force, for the purpose of investing the haunted wood, and putting down, as he says, those "lawless renegades, who, in infernal masquerade, make a hell around him." he is also desirous of consulting the holy hermit of the wood, and availing himself of his pious consolations and prayers--being haunted with remorse for having criminally gained possession of the crown by contriving the shipwreck of the rightful heir, and then banishing from the court his most virtuous counsellors. in addition to these causes of disquietude, he has lately lost, in a mysterious manner, his only son, who, he supposes, has fallen a victim to these satanic outlaws, but who, on the contrary, it appears, has voluntarily become an associate of their band, and is amusing himself, heedless of his noble father's sorrow, by making love, in the disguise of a dancing bear, to a young village coquette of the name of mopsa. a short specimen of the manner in which this last farcical incident is managed, will show how wide even sheridan was, at first, of that true vein of comedy, which, on searching deeper into the mine, he so soon afterwards found:-- "scene.--_the inside of the cottage_.--mopsa, lubin _(her father), and_ colin _(her lover), discovered_. "_enter_ pevidor, _leading the bear, and singing._ "and he dances, dances, dances, and goes upright like a christian swain, and he shows you pretty fancies, nor ever tries to shake off his chain. "_lubin._ servant, master. now, mopsa, you are happy--it is, indeed, a handsome creature. what country does your bear come from? "_pev._ dis bear, please your worship, is of de race of dat bear of st. anthony, who was the first convert he made in de woods. st. anthony bade him never more meddle with man, and de bear observed de command to his dying day. "_lub._ wonderful! "_pev._ dis generation be all de same--all born widout toots. "_colin._ what, can't he bite? (_puts his finger to the bear's mouth, who bites him_.) oh lord, no toots! why you ---- "_pev._ oh dat be only his gum. (_mopsa laughs_.) "_col._ for shame, mopsa--now, i say maister lubin, mustn't she give me a kiss to make it well? "_lub._ ay, kiss her, kiss her, colin. "_col._ come, miss. (_mopsa runs to the bear, who kisses her_.)" the following scene of the devils drinking in their subterraneous dwelling, though cleverly imagined, is such as, perhaps, no cookery of style could render palatable to an english audience. "scene.--_the devils' cave_. "_ st dev._ come, urial, here's to our resurrection. "_ d dev._ it is a toast i'd scarcely pledge--by my life, i think we're happier here. "_ d dev._ why, so think i--by jove, i would despise the man, who could but wish to rise again to earth, unless we were to lord there. what! sneaking pitiful in bondage, among vile money-scrapers, treacherous friends, fawning flatterers--or, still worse, deceitful mistresses. shall we who reign lords here, again lend ourselves to swell the train of tyranny and usurpation? by my old father's memory, i'd rather be the blindest mole that ever skulked in darkness, the lord of one poor hole, where he might say, 'i'm master here.' "_ d dev._ you are too hot--where shall concord be found, if even the devils disagree?--come fill the glass, and add thy harmony--while we have wine to enlighten us, the sun be hanged! i never thought he gave so fine a light for my part--and then, there are such vile inconveniences-- high winds and storms, rains, &c.--oh hang it! living on the outside of the earth is like sleeping on deck, when one might, like us, have a snug berth in the cabin. "_ st dev._ true, true,--helial, where is thy catch? "in the earth's centre let me live, there, like a rabbit will i thrive, nor care if fools should call my life infernal; while men on earth crawl lazily about, like snails upon the surface of the nut, we are, like maggots, feasting in the kernel. "_ st dev._ bravo, by this glass. meli, what say you? "_ d dev._ come, here's to my mina--i used to toast her in the upper regions. "_ st dev._ ay, we miss them here. "_glee._ "what's a woman good for? rat me, sir, if i know. * * * * * she's a savor to the glass, an excuse to make it pass. * * * * * "_ st dev._ i fear we are like the wits above, who abuse women only because they can't get them,--and, after all, it must be owned they are a pretty kind of creatures. "_all._ yes, yes. "_catch._ "'tis woman after all is the blessing of this ball, 'tis she keeps the balance of it even. we are devils, it is true, but had we women too, our tartarus would turn to a heaven!" a scene in the third act, where these devils bring the prisoners whom they have captured to trial, is an overcharged imitation of the satire of fielding, and must have been written, i think, after a perusal of that author's satirical romance, "a journey from this world to the next,"--the first half of which contains as much genuine humor and fancy as are to be found in any other production of the kind. the interrogatories of minos in that work suggested, i suspect, the following scene:-- "_enter a number of devils.--others bring in_ ludovico. "_ st dev._ just taken, in the wood, sir, with two more. "_chorus of devils_. "welcome, welcome * * * * * "_pev._ what art thou? "_ludov._ i went for a man in the other world. "_pev._ what sort of a man? "_ludov._ a soldier at your service. "_pev._ wast thou in the battle of--? "_ludov._ truly i was. "_pev._ what was the quarrel? "_ludov._ i never had time to ask. the children of peace, who make our quarrels, must be your worship's informants there. "_pev._ and art thou not ashamed to draw the sword for thou know'st not what--and to be the victim and food of others' folly? "_ludov._ vastly. "_pev._ (_to the devils_.) well, take him for to-day, and only score his skin and pepper it with powder--then chain him to a cannon, and let the devils practise at his head--his be the reward who hits it with a single ball. "_ludov._ oh mercy, mercy! "_pev._ bring savodi. "(_a devil brings in_ savodi.) "_chorus as before_. "welcome, welcome, &c. "_pev._ who art thou? "_sav._ a courtier at your grace's service. "_pev._ your name? "_sav._ savodi, an' please your highnesses. "_pev._ your use? "_sav._ a foolish utensil of state--a clock kept in the waiting- chamber, to count the hours. "_pev._ are you not one of those who fawn and lie, and cringe like spaniels to those a little higher, and take revenge by tyranny on all beneath? "_sav._ most true, your highnesses. "_pev._ is't not thy trade to promise what thou canst not do,--to gull the credulous of money, to shut the royal door on unassuming merit --to catch the scandal for thy master's ear, and stop the people's voice.... "_sav._ exactly, an' please your highnesses' worships. "_pev._ thou dost not now deny it? "_sav._ oh no, no, no. "_pev._ here--baths of flaming sulphur!--quick--stir up the cauldron of boiling lead--this crime deserves it. "_ st dev._ great judge of this infernal place, allow him but the mercy of the court. "_sav._ oh kind devil!--yes, great judge, allow. "_ st dev._ the punishment is undergone already--truth from him is something. "_sav._ oh, most unusual--sweet devil! "_ st dev._ then, he is tender, and might not be able to endure-- "_sav._ endure! i shall be annihilated by the thoughts of it--dear devil. "_ st dev._ then let him, i beseech you, in scalding brimstone be first soaked a little, to inure and prepare him for the other. "_sav._ oh hear me, hear me. "_pev._ well, be it so. "(_devils take him out and bring in_ pamphiles.) "_pev._ this is he we rescued from the ladies--a dainty one, i warrant. "_pamphil._ (_affectedly_.) this is hell certainly by the smell. "_pev._ what, art thou a soldier too? "_pamphil._ no, on my life--a colonel, but no soldier--innocent even of a review, as i exist. "_pev._ how rose you then? come, come--the truth. "_pamphil._ nay, be not angry, sir--if i was preferred it was not my fault--upon my soul, i never did anything to incur preferment. "_pev._ indeed! what was thy employment then, friend? "_pamphil._ hunting-- "_pev._ 'tis false. "_pamphil._ hunting women's reputations. "_pev._ what, thou wert amorous? "_pamphil._ no, on my honor, sir, but vain, confounded vain--the character of bringing down my game was all i wished, and, like a true sportsman, i would have given my birds to my pointers. "_pev._ this crime is new--what shall we do with him?" &c. &c. this singular drama does not appear to have been ever finished. with respect to the winding up of the story, the hermit, we may conclude, would have turned out to be the banished counsellor, and the devils, his followers; while the young huntsman would most probably have proved to be the rightful heir of the dukedom. in a more crude and unfinished state are the fragments that remain of his projected opera of "the foresters." to this piece (which appears to have been undertaken at a later period than the preceding one) mr. sheridan often alluded in conversation--particularly when any regret was expressed at his having ceased to assist old drury with his pen,--"wait (he would say smiling) till i bring out my foresters." the plot, as far as can be judged from the few meagre scenes that exist, was intended to be an improvement upon that of the drama just described--the devils being transformed into foresters, and the action commencing, not with the loss of a son, but the recovery of a daughter, who had fallen by accident into the hands of these free-booters. at the opening of the piece the young lady has just been restored to her father by the heroic captain of the foresters, with no other loss than that of her heart, which she is suspected of having left with her preserver. the list of the dramatis personae (to which however he did not afterwards adhere) is as follows:-- old oscar. young oscar. colona. morven. harold. nico. miza. malvina. allanda. dorcas. emma. to this strange medley of nomenclature is appended a memorandum-- "_vide_ petrarch for names." the first scene represents the numerous lovers of malvina rejoicing at her return, and celebrating it by a chorus; after which oscar, her father, holds the following dialogue with one of them:-- "_osc._ i thought, son, you would have been among the first and most eager to see malvina upon her return. "_colin._ oh, father, i would give half my flock to think that my presence would be welcome to her. "_osc._ i am sure you have never seen her prefer any one else. "_col._ there's the torment of it--were i but once sure that she loved another better, i think i should be content--at least she should not know but that i was so. my love is not of that jealous sort that i should pine to see her happy with another--nay, i could even regard the man that would make her so. "_osc._ haven't you spoke with her since her return? "_col._ yes, and i think she is colder to me than ever. my professions of love used formerly to make her laugh, but now they make her weep--formerly she seemed wholly insensible; now, alas, she seems to feel--but as if addressed by the wrong person," &c. &c. in a following scene are introduced two brothers, both equally enamored of the fair malvina, yet preserving their affection unaltered towards each other. with the recollection of sheridan's own story fresh in our minds, we might suppose that he meant some reference to it in this incident, were it not for the exceeding _niaiserie_ that he has thrown into the dialogue. for instance:-- "_osc._ but we are interrupted--here are two more of her lovers-- brothers, and rivals, but friends. "_enter_ nico _and_ lubin. "so, nico--how comes it you are so late in your inquiries after your mistress? "_nico._ i should have been sooner; but lubin would stay to make himself fine--though he knows that he has no chance of appearing so to malvina. "_lubin._ no, in truth--nico says right--i have no more chance than himself. "_osc._ however, i am glad to see you reconciled, and that you live together, as brothers should do. "_nico._ yes, ever since we found your daughter cared for neither of us, we grew to care for one another. there is a fellowship in adversity that is consoling; and it is something to think that lubin is as unfortunate as myself. "_lub._ yes, we are well matched--i think malvina dislikes him, if possible, more than me, and that's a great comfort. "_nico._ we often sit together, and play such woeful tunes on our pipes, that the very sheep are moved at it. "_osc._ but why don't you rouse yourselves, and, since you can meet with no requital of your passion, return the proud maid scorn for scorn? "_nico._ oh mercy, no--we find a great comfort in our sorrow--don't we, lubin? "_lubin._ yes, if i meet no crosses, i shall be undone in another twelve-month--i let all go to wreck and ruin. "_osc._ but suppose malvina should be brought to give you encouragement. "_nico._ heaven forbid! that would spoil all. "_lubin._ truly i was almost assured within this fortnight that she was going to relax. "_nico._ ay, i shall never forget how alarmed we were at the appearance of a smile one day," &c. &c. of the poetical part of this opera, the only specimens he has left are a skeleton of a chorus, beginning "bold foresters we are," and the following song, which, for grace and tenderness, is not unworthy of the hand that produced the duenna:-- "we two, each other's only pride, each other's bliss, each other's guide, far from the world's unhallow'd noise, its coarse delights and tainted joys, through wilds will roam and deserts rude-- for, love, thy home is solitude. "there shall no vain pretender be, to court thy smile and torture me, no proud superior there be seen, but nature's voice shall hail thee, queen. "with fond respect and tender awe, i will receive thy gentle law, obey thy looks, and serve thee still, prevent thy wish, foresee thy will, and, added to a lover's care, be all that friends and parents are." but, of all mr. sheridan's unfinished designs, the comedy which he meditated on the subject of affectation is that of which the abandonment is most to be regretted. to a satirist, who would not confine his ridicule to the mere outward demonstrations of this folly, but would follow and detect it through all its windings and disguises, there could hardly perhaps be a more fertile theme. affectation, merely of _manner_, being itself a sort of acting, does not easily admit of any additional coloring on the stage, without degenerating into farce; and, accordingly, fops and fine ladies--with very few exceptions--are about as silly and tiresome in representation as in reality. but the aim of the dramatist, in this comedy, would have been far more important and extensive;--and how anxious he was to keep before his mind's eye the whole wide horizon of folly which his subject opened upon him, will appear from the following list of the various species of affectation, which i have found written by him, exactly as i give it, on the inside cover of the memorandum-book, that contains the only remaining vestiges of this play:-- "an affectation of business. of accomplishments, of love of letters and "wit music. of intrigue. of sensibility. of vivacity. of silence and importance. of modesty. of profligacy. of moroseness." in this projected comedy he does not seem to have advanced as far as even the invention of the plot or the composition of a single scene. the memorandum-book alluded to--on the first leaf of which he had written in his neatest hand (as if to encourage himself to begin) "affectation"-- contains, besides the names of three of the intended personages, sir babble bore, sir peregrine paradox, and feignwit, nothing but unembodied sketches of character, and scattered particles of wit, which seem waiting, like the imperfect forms and seeds in chaos, for the brooding of genius to nurse them into system and beauty. the reader will not, i think, be displeased at seeing some of these curious materials here. they will show that in this work, as well as in the school for scandal, he was desirous of making the vintage of his wit as rich as possible, by distilling into it every drop that the collected fruits of his thought and fancy could supply. some of the jests are far- fetched, and others, perhaps, abortive--but it is pleasant to track him in his pursuit of a point, even when he misses. the very failures of a man of real wit are often more delightful than the best successes of others--the quick-silver, even in escaping from his grasp, shines; "it still eludes him, but it glitters still." i shall give the memorandums as i find them, with no other difference, than that of classing together those that have relation to the same thought or subject. "_character_--mr. bustle. "a man who delights in hurry and interruption--will take any one's business for them--leaves word where all his plagues may follow him-- governor of all hospitals, &c.--share in ranelagh--speaker every where, from the vestry to the house of commons--'i am not at home--gad, now he heard me and i must be at home.'--'here am i so plagued, and there is nothing i love so much as retirement and quiet.'--'you never sent after me.'--let servants call in to him such a message as 'tis nothing but the window tax,' he hiding in a room that communicates.--a young man tells him some important business in the middle of fifty trivial interruptions, and the calling in of idlers; such as fidlers, wild-beast men, foreigners with recommendatory letters, &c.--answers notes on his knee, 'and so your uncle died?--for your obliging inquiries--and left you an orphan--to cards in the evening.' "can't bear to be doing nothing.--'can i do anything for any body any where?'--'have been to the secretary--written to the treasury.'--'must proceed to meet the commissioners, and write mr. price's little boy's exercise.'--the most active idler and laborious trifler. "he does not in reality love business--only the appearance of it. 'ha! ha! did my lord say that i was always very busy? what, plagued to death?' "keeps all his letters and copies--' mem. to meet the hackney-coach commissioners--to arbitrate between,' &c. &c. "contrast with the man of indolence, his brother.--'so, brother, just up! and i have been,' &c. &c.--one will give his money from indolent generosity, the other his time from restlessness--' 'twill be shorter to pay the bill than look for the receipt.'--files letters, answered and unanswered--'why, here are more unopened than answered!' * * * * * "he regulates every action by a love for fashion--will grant annuities though he doesn't want money--appear to intrigue, though constant; to drink, though sober--has some fashionable vices--affects to be distressed in his circumstances, and, when his new vis-a-vis comes out, procures a judgment to be entered against him--wants to lose, but by ill-luck wins five thousand pounds. * * * * * "one who changes sides in all arguments the moment any one agrees with him. "an irresolute arguer, to whom it is a great misfortune that there are not three sides to a question--a libertine in argument; conviction, like enjoyment, palls him, and his rakish understanding is soon satiated with truth--more capable of being faithful to a paradox--'i love truth as i do my wife; but sophistry and paradoxes are my mistresses--i have a strong domestic respect for her, but for the other the passion due to a mistress.' "one, who agrees with every one, for the pleasure of speaking their sentiments for them--so fond of talking that he does not contradict only because he can't wait to hear people out. "a tripping casuist, who veers by others' breath, and gets on to information by tacking between the two sides--like a hoy, not made to go straight before the wind. "the more he talks, the further he is off the argument, like a bowl on a wrong bias. * * * * * "what are the affectations you chiefly dislike? "there are many in this company, so i'll mention others.--to see two people affecting intrigue, having their assignations in public places only; he affecting a warm pursuit, and the lady, acting the hesitation of retreating virtue--'pray, ma'am, don't you think,' &c.--while neither party have words between 'em to conduct the preliminaries of gallantry, nor passion to pursue the object of it. "a plan of public flirtation--not to get beyond a profile. * * * * * "then i hate to see one, to whom heaven has given real beauty, settling her features at the glass of fashion, while she speaks--not thinking so much of what she says as how she looks, and more careful of the action of her lips than of what shall come from them. * * * * * "a pretty woman studying looks and endeavoring to recollect an ogle, like lady ----, who has learned to play her eyelids like venetian blinds. [footnote: this simile is repeated in various shapes through his manuscripts--"she moves her eyes up and down like venetian blinds"-- "her eyelids play like a venetian blind," &c &c.] "an old woman endeavoring to put herself back to a girl. * * * * * "a true-trained wit lays his plan like a general--foresees the circumstances of the conversation--surveys the ground and contingencies --detaches a question to draw you into the palpable ambuscade of his ready-made joke. * * * * * "a man intriguing, only for the reputation of it--to his confidential servant: 'who am i in love with now?'--'the newspapers give you so and so--you are laying close siege to lady l., in the morning post, and have succeeded with lady g. in the herald--sir f. is very jealous of you in the gazetteer.'--'remember to-morrow the first thing you do, to put me in love with mrs. c.' "'i forgot to forget the billet-doux at brooks's'--'by the bye, an't i in love with you?'--'lady l. has promised to meet me in her carriage to- morrow--where is the most public place?' "'you were rude to her!'--'oh, no, upon my soul, i made love to her directly.' "an old man, who affects intrigue, and writes his own reproaches in the morning post, trying to scandalize himself into the reputation of being young, as if he could obscure his age by blotting his character--though never so little candid as when he's abusing himself. * * * * * "'shall you be at lady ----'s? i'm told the bramin is to be there, and the new french philosopher.'--'no--it will be pleasanter at lady ----'s conversazione--the cow with two heads will be there.' * * * * * "'i shall order my valet to shoot me the very first thing he does in the morning.' "'you are yourself affected and don't know it--you would pass for morose.' "he merely wanted to be singular, and happened to find the character of moroseness unoccupied in the society he lived with. "he certainly has a great deal of fancy and a very good memory; but with a perverse ingenuity he employs these qualities as no other person does --for he employs his fancy in his narratives, and keeps his recollections for his wit--when he makes his jokes you applaud the accuracy of his memory, and 'tis only when he states his facts that you admire the flights of his imagination. [footnote: the reader will find how much this thought was improved upon afterwards.] * * * * * "a fat woman trundling into a room on castors--in sitting can only lean against her chair--rings on her fingers, and her fat arms strangled with bracelets, which belt them like corded brawn--rolling and heaving when she laughs with the rattles in her throat, and a most apoplectic ogle-- you wish to draw her out, as you would an opera-glass. * * * * * "a long lean man with all his limbs rambling--no way to reduce him to compass, unless you could double him like a pocket rule--with his arms spread, he'd lie on the bed of ware like a cross on a good friday bun-- standing still, he is a pilaster without a base--he appears rolled out or run up against a wall--so thin that his front face is but the moiety of a profile--if he stands cross-legged, he looks like a caduceus, and put him in a fencing attitude, you will take him for a piece of chevaux- de-frise--to make any use of him, it must be as a spontoon or a fishing- rod--when his wife's by, he follows like a note of admiration--see them together, one's a mast, and the other all hulk--she's a dome and he's built like a glass-house--when they part, you wonder to see the steeple separate from the chancel, and were they to embrace, he must hang round her neck like a skein of thread on a lace-maker's bolster--to sing her praise you should choose a rondeau, and to celebrate him you must write all alexandrines. "i wouldn't give a pin to make fine men in love with me--every coquette can do that, and the pain you give these creatures is very trifling. i love out-of-the-way conquests; and as i think my attractions are singular, i would draw singular objects. "the loadstone of true beauty draws the heaviest substances--not like the fat dowager, who frets herself into warmth to get the notice of a few _papier mache_ fops, as you rub dutch sealing-wax to draw paper. * * * * * "if i were inclined to flatter i would say that, as you are unlike other women, you ought not to be won as they are. every woman can be gained by time, therefore you ought to be by a sudden impulse. sighs, devotion, attention weigh with others; but they are so much your due that no one should claim merit from them.... "you should not be swayed by common motives--how heroic to form a marriage for which no human being can guess the inducement--what a glorious unaccountableness! all the world will wonder what the devil you could see in me; and, if you should doubt your singularity, i pledge myself to you that i never yet was endured by woman; so that i should owe every thing to the effect of your bounty, and not by my own superfluous deserts make it a debt, and so lessen both the obligation and my gratitude. in short, every other woman follows her inclination, but you, above all things, should take me, if you do not like me. you will, besides, have the satisfaction of knowing that we are decidedly the worst match in the kingdom--a match, too, that must be all your own work, in which fate could have no hand, and which no foresight could foresee. * * * * * "a lady who affects poetry.--'i made regular approaches to her by sonnets and rebusses--a rondeau of circumvallation--her pride sapped by an elegy, and her reserve surprised by an impromptu--proceeding to storm with pindarics, she, at last, saved the further effusion of ink by a capitulation.' * * * * * "her prudish frowns and resentful looks are as ridiculous as 'twould be to see a board with notice of spring-guns set in a highway, or of steel- traps in a common--because they imply an insinuation that there is something worth plundering where one would not, in the least, suspect it. "the expression of her face is at once a denial of all love-suit, and a confession that she never was asked--the sourness of it arises not so much from her aversion to the passion, as from her never having had an opportunity to show it.--her features are so unfortunately formed that she could never dissemble or put on sweetness enough to induce any one to give her occasion to show her bitterness.--i never saw a woman to whom you would more readily give credit for perfect chastity. "_lady clio._ 'what am i reading?'--'have i drawn nothing lately?-- is the work-bag finished?--how accomplished i am!--has the man been to untune the harpsichord?--does it look as if i had been playing on it? "'shall i be ill to-day?--shall i be nervous?'--'your la'ship was nervous yesterday.'--'was i?--then i'll have a cold--i haven't had a cold this fortnight--a cold is becoming--no--i'll not have a cough; that's fatiguing--i'll be quite well.'--'you become sickness--your la'ship always looks vastly well when you're ill.' "'leave the book half read and the rose half finished--you know i love to be caught in the fact.' * * * * * "one who knows that no credit is ever given to his assertions has the more right to contradict his words. "he goes the western circuit, to pick up small fees and impudence. * * * * * "a new wooden leg for sir charles easy. * * * * * "an ornament which proud peers wear all the year round--chimneysweepers only on the first of may. * * * * * "in marriage if you possess any thing very good, it makes you eager to get every thing else good of the same sort. * * * * * "the critic when he gets out of his carriage should always recollect, that his footman behind is gone up to judge as well as himself. * * * * * "she might have escaped in her own clothes, but i suppose she thought it more romantic to put on her brother's regimentals." the rough sketches and fragments of poems, which mr. sheridan left behind him, are numerous; but those among them that are sufficiently finished to be cited, bear the marks of having been written when he was very young, and would not much interest the reader--while of the rest it is difficult to find four consecutive lines, that have undergone enough of the _toilette_ of composition to be presentable in print. it was his usual practice, when he undertook any subject in verse, to write down his thoughts first in a sort of poetical prose,--with, here and there, a rhyme or a metrical line, as they might occur--and then, afterwards to reduce with much labor, this anomalous compound to regular poetry. the birth of his prose being, as we have already seen, so difficult, it may be imagined how painful was the travail of his verse. indeed, the number of tasks which he left unfinished are all so many proofs of that despair of perfection, which those best qualified to attain it are always most likely to feel. there are some fragments of an epilogue apparently intended to be spoken in the character of a woman of fashion, which give a lively notion of what the poem would have been, when complete. the high carriages, that had just then come into fashion, are thus adverted to:-- "my carriage stared at!--none so high or fine-- palmer's mail-coach shall be a sledge to mine. * * * * * no longer now the youths beside us stand, and talking lean, and leaning press the hand; but ogling upward, as aloft we sit, straining, poor things, their ankles and their wit, and, much too short the inside to explore, hang like supporters, half way up the door." the approach of a "veteran husband," to disturb these flirtations and chase away the lovers, is then hinted at:-- "to persecuted virtue yield assistance, and for one hour teach younger men their distance, make them, in very spite, appear discreet, and mar the public mysteries of the street." the affectation of appearing to make love, while talking on different matters, is illustrated by the following simile: "so when dramatic statesmen talk apart, with practis'd gesture and heroic start, the plot's their theme, the gaping galleries guess, while hull and fearon think of nothing less." the following lines seem to belong to the same epilogue:-- "the campus martius of st. james's street, where the beau's cavalry pace to and fro, before they take the field in rotten row; where brooks' blues and weltze's light dragoons dismount in files and ogle in platoons." he had also begun another epilogue, directed against female gamesters, of which he himself repeated a couplet or two to mr. rogers a short time before his death, and of which there remain some few scattered traces among his papers:-- "a night of fretful passion may consume all that thou hast of beauty's gentle bloom, and one distemper'd hour of sordid fear print on thy brow the wrinkles of a year. [footnote: these four lines, as i have already remarked, are taken--with little change of the words, but a total alteration of the sentiment--from the verses which he addressed to mrs. sheridan in the year . see page .] * * * * * great figure loses, little figure wins. * * * * * ungrateful blushes and disorder'd sighs, which love disclaims nor even shame supplies. * * * * * gay smiles, which once belong'd to mirth alone, and startling tears, which pity dares not own." the following stray couplet would seem to have been intended for his description of corilla:-- "a crayon cupid, redd'ning into shape, betrays her talents to design and scrape." the epilogue, which i am about to give, though apparently finished, has not, as far as i can learn, yet appeared in print, nor am i at all aware for what occasion it was intended. "in this gay month when, through the sultry hour, the vernal sun denies the wonted shower, when youthful spring usurps maturer sway, and pallid april steals the blush of may, how joys the rustic tribe, to view displayed the liberal blossom and the early shade! but ah! far other air our soil delights; _here_ 'charming weather' is the worst of blights. no genial beams rejoice our rustic train, their harvest's still the better for the rain. to summer suns our groves no tribute owe, they thrive in frost, and flourish best in snow. when other woods resound the feather'd throng, our groves, our woods, are destitute of song. the thrush, the lark, all leave our mimic vale, no more we boast our christmas nightingale; poor rossignol--the wonder of his day, sung through the winter--but is mute in may. then bashful spring, that gilds fair nature's scene, o'ercasts our lawns, and deadens every green; obscures our sky, embrowns the wooden shade, and dries the channel of each tin cascade! oh hapless we, whom such ill fate betides, hurt by the beam which cheers the world besides! who love the ling'ring frost, nice, chilling showers, while nature's _benefit_--is death to ours; who, witch-like, best in noxious mists perform, thrive in the tempest, and enjoy the storm. o hapless we--unless your generous care bids us no more lament that spring is fair, but plenteous glean from the dramatic soil, the vernal harvest of our winter's toil. for april suns to us no pleasure bring-- your presence here is all we feel of spring; may's riper beauties here no bloom display, your fostering smile alone proclaims it may." a poem upon windsor castle, half ludicrous and half solemn, appears, from the many experiments which he made upon it, to have cost him considerable trouble. the castle, he says, "its base a mountain, and itself a rock, in proud defiance of the tempests' rage, like an old gray-hair'd veteran stands each shock-- the sturdy witness of a nobler age." he then alludes to the "cockney" improvements that had lately taken place, among which the venerable castle appears, like "a helmet on a macaroni's head-- or like old talbot, turn'd into a fop, with coat embroider'd and scratch wig at top." some verses, of the same mixed character, on the short duration of life and the changes that death produces, thus begin:-- "of that same tree which gave the box, now rattling in the hand of fox, perhaps his coffin shall be made.--" he then rambles into prose, as was his custom, on a sort of knight- errantry after thoughts and images:--"the lawn thou hast chosen for thy bridal shift--thy shroud may be of the same piece. that flower thou hast bought to feed thy vanity--from the same tree thy corpse may be decked. reynolds shall, like his colors, fly; and brown, when mingled with the dust, manure the grounds he once laid out. death is life's second childhood; we return to the breast from whence we came, are weaned,...." there are a few detached lines and couplets of a poem, intended to ridicule some fair invalid, who was much given to falling in love with her physicians:-- "who felt her pulse, obtained her heart." the following couplet, in which he characterizes an amiable friend of his, dr. bain, with whom he did not become acquainted till the year , proves these fragments to have been written after that period:-- "not savage ... nor gentle bain-- she was in love with warwick lane." an "address to the prince," on the exposed style of women's dress, consists of little more than single lines, not yet wedded into couplets; such as--"the more you show, the less we wish to see."--"and bare their bodies, as they mask their minds," &c. this poem, however, must have been undertaken many years after his entrance into parliament, as the following curious political memorandum will prove:--"i like it no better for being from france--whence all ills come--altar of liberty, begrimed at once with blood and mire." there are also some anacreontics--lively, but boyish and extravagant. for instance, in expressing his love of bumpers:-- "were mine a goblet that had room for a whole vintage in its womb, i still would have the liquor swim an inch or two above the brim." the following specimen is from one of those poems, whose length and completeness prove them to have been written at a time of life when he was more easily pleased, and had not yet arrived at that state of glory and torment for the poet, when "_toujours mecontent de ce qu'il vient de faire, il plait a tout le monde et ne scaurait se plaire:_"-- "the muses call'd, the other morning, on phoebus, with a friendly warning that invocations came so fast, they must give up their trade at last, and if he meant t' assist them all, the aid of nine would be too small. me then, as clerk, the council chose, to tell this truth in humble prose.-- but phoebus, possibly intending to show what all their hopes must end in, to give the scribbling youths a sample, and frighten them by my example, bade me ascend the poet's throne, and give them verse--much like their own. "who has not heard each poet sing the powers of heliconian spring? its noble virtues we are told by all the rhyming crew of old.-- drink but a little of its well, and strait you could both write and spell, while such rhyme-giving pow'rs run through it, a quart would make an epic poet," &c. &c. a poem on the miseries of a literary drudge begins thus promisingly:-- "think ye how dear the sickly meal is bought, by him who works at verse and trades in thought?" the rest is hardly legible; but there can be little doubt that he would have done this subject justice;--for he had himself tasted of the bitterness with which the heart of a man of genius overflows, when forced by indigence to barter away (as it is here expressed) "the reversion of his thoughts," and "forestall the blighted harvest of his brain." it will be easily believed that, in looking over the remains, both dramatic and poetical, from which the foregoing specimens are taken, i have been frequently tempted to indulge in much ampler extracts. it appeared to me, however, more prudent to rest satisfied with the selections here given; for, while less would have disappointed the curiosity of the reader, more might have done injustice to the memory of the author. chapter viii. his first speeches in parliament.--rockingham administration.-- coalition.--india bill.--re-election for stafford. the period at which mr. sheridan entered upon his political career was, in every respect, remarkable. a persevering and vindictive war against america, with the folly and guilt of which the obstinacy of the court and the acquiescence of the people are equally chargeable, was fast approaching that crisis, which every unbiassed spectator of the contest had long foreseen,--and at which, however humiliating to the haughty pretensions of england, every friend to the liberties of the human race rejoiced. it was, perhaps, as difficult for this country to have been long and virulently opposed to such principles as the americans asserted in this contest, without being herself corrupted by the cause which she maintained, as it was for the french to have fought, in the same conflict, by the side of the oppressed, without catching a portion of that enthusiasm for liberty, which such an alliance was calculated to inspire. accordingly, while the voice of philosophy was heard along the neighboring shores, speaking aloud those oracular warnings, which preceded the death of the great pan of despotism, the courtiers and lawyers of england were, with an emulous spirit of servility, advising and sanctioning such strides of power, as would not have been unworthy of the most dark and slavish times. when we review, indeed, the history of the late reign, and consider how invariably the arms and councils of great britain, in her eastern wars, her conflict with america, and her efforts against revolutionary france, were directed to the establishment and perpetuation of despotic principles, it seems little less than a miracle that her own liberty should have escaped with life from the contagion. never, indeed, can she be sufficiently grateful to the few patriot spirits of this period, to whose courage and eloquence she owes the high station of freedom yet left to her;--never can her sons pay a homage too warm to the memory of such men as a chatham, a fox, and a sheridan; who, however much they may have sometimes sacrificed to false views of expediency, and, by compromise with friends and coalition with foes, too often weakened their hold upon public confidence; however the attraction of the court may have sometimes made them librate in their orbit, were yet the saving lights of liberty in those times, and alone preserved the ark of the constitution from foundering in the foul and troubled waters that encompassed it. not only were the public events, in which mr. sheridan was now called to take a part, of a nature more extraordinary and awful than had often been exhibited on the theatre of politics, but the leading actors in the scene were of that loftier order of intellect, which nature seems to keep in reserve for the ennoblement of such great occasions. two of these, mr. burke and mr. fox, were already in the full maturity of their fame and talent,--while the third, mr. pitt, was just upon the point of entering, with the most auspicious promise, into the same splendid career: "_nunc cuspide patris inclytus, herculeas olim mature sagittas._" though the administration of that day, like many other ministries of the same reign, was chosen more for the pliancy than the strength of its materials, yet lord north himself was no ordinary man, and, in times of less difficulty and under less obstinate dictation, might have ranked as a useful and most popular minister. it is true, as the defenders of his measures state, that some of the worst aggressions upon the rights of the colonies had been committed before he succeeded to power. but his readiness to follow in these rash footsteps, and to deepen every fatal impression which they had made;--his insulting reservation of the tea duty, by which he contrived to embitter the only measure of concession that was wrung from him;--the obsequiousness, with which he made himself the channel of the vindictive feelings of the court, in that memorable declaration (rendered so truly mock-heroic by the event) that "a total repeal of the port duties could not be thought of, till america was prostrate at the feet of england;"--all deeply involve him in the shame of that disastrous period, and identify his name with measures as arbitrary and headstrong, as have ever disgraced the annals of the english monarchy. the playful wit and unvarying good-humor of this nobleman formed a striking contrast to the harsh and precipitate policy, which it was his lot, during twelve stormy years, to enforce:--and, if his career was as headlong as the torrent near its fall, it may also be said to have been as shining and as smooth. these attractive qualities secured to him a considerable share of personal popularity; and, had fortune ultimately smiled on his councils, success would, as usual, have reconciled the people of england to any means, however arbitrary, by which it had been attained. but the calamities, and, at last, the hopelessness of the conflict, inclined them to moralize upon its causes and character. the hour of lord north's ascendant was now passing rapidly away, and mr. sheridan could not have joined the opposition, at a conjuncture more favorable to the excitement of his powers, or more bright in the views which it opened upon his ambition. he made his first speech in parliament on the th of november, , when a petition was presented to the house, complaining of the undue election of the sitting members (himself and mr. monckton) for stafford. it was rather lucky for him that the occasion was one in which he felt personally interested, as it took away much of that appearance of anxiety for display, which might have attended his first exhibition upon any general subject. the fame, however, which he had already acquired by his literary talents, was sufficient, even on this question, to awaken all the curiosity and expectation of his audience; and accordingly we are told in the report of his speech, that "he was heard with particular attention, the house being uncommonly still while he was speaking." the indignation, which he expressed on this occasion at the charges brought by the petition against the electors of stafford, was coolly turned into ridicule by mr. rigby, paymaster of the forces. but mr. fox, whose eloquence was always ready at the call of good nature, and, like the shield of ajax, had "ample room and verge enough," to protect not only himself but his friends, came promptly to the aid of the young orator; and, in reply to mr. rigby, observed, that "though those ministerial members, who chiefly robbed and plundered their constituents, might afterwards affect to despise them, yet gentlemen, who felt properly the nature of the trust allotted to them, would always treat them and speak of them with respect." it was on this night, as woodfall used to relate, that mr. sheridan, after he had spoken, came up to him in the gallery, and asked, with much anxiety, what he thought of his first attempt. the answer of woodfall, as he had the courage afterwards to own, was, "i am sorry to say i do not think that this is your line--you had much better have stuck to your former pursuits." on hearing which, sheridan rested his head upon his hand for a few minutes, and then vehemently exclaimed, "it is in me, however, and, by g--, it shall come out." it appears, indeed, that upon many persons besides mr. woodfall the impression produced by this first essay of his oratory was far from answerable to the expectations that had been formed. the chief defect remarked in him was a thick and indistinct mode of delivery, which, though he afterwards greatly corrected it, was never entirely removed. it is not a little amusing to find him in one of his early speeches, gravely rebuking mr. rigby and mr. courtenay [footnote: feb. .--on the second reading of the bill for the better regulation of his majesty's civil list revenue.] for the levity and raillery with which they treated the subject before the house,--thus condemning the use of that weapon in other hands, which soon after became so formidable in his own. the remarks by which mr. courtenay (a gentleman, whose lively wit found afterwards a more congenial air on the benches of the opposition) provoked the reprimand of the new senator for stafford, are too humorous to be passed over without, at least, a specimen of their spirit. in ridiculing the conduct of the opposition, he observed:-- "oh liberty! oh virtue! oh my country! had been the pathetic, though fallacious cry of former oppositions; but the present he was sure acted on purer motives. they wept over their bleeding country, he had no doubt. yet the patriot 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling' sometimes deigned to cast a wishful squint on the riches and honors enjoyed by the minister and his venal supporters. if he were not apprehensive of hazarding a ludicrous allusion, (which he knew was always improper on a serious subject) he would compare their conduct to that of the sentimental alderman in one of hogarth's prints, who, when his daughter is expiring, wears indeed a parental face of grief and solicitude, but it is to secure her diamond ring which he is drawing gently from her finger." "mr. sheridan (says the report) rose and reprehended mr. courtenay for turning every thing that passed into ridicule; for having introduced into the house a style of reasoning, in his opinion, every way unsuitable to the gravity and importance of the subjects that came under their discussion. if they would not act with dignity, he thought they might, at least, debate with decency. he would not attempt to answer mr. courtenay's arguments, for it was impossible seriously to reply to what, in every part, had an infusion of ridicule in it. two of the honorable gentlemen's similes, however, he must take notice of. the one was his having insinuated that the opposition was envious of those who basked in court sunshine; and desirous merely to get into their places. he begged leave to remind the honorable gentleman that, though the sun afforded a genial warmth, it also occasioned an intemperate heat, that tainted and infected everything it reflected on. that this excessive heat tended to corrupt as well as to cherish; to putrefy as well as to animate; to dry and soak up the wholesome juices of the body politic, and turn the whole of it into one mass of corruption. if those, therefore, who sat near him did not enjoy so genial a warmth as the honorable gentleman, and those who like him kept close to the noble lord in the blue ribbon, he was certain they breathed a purer air, an air less infected and less corrupt." this florid style, in which mr. sheridan was not very happy, he but rarely used in his speeches afterwards. the first important subject that drew forth any thing like a display of his oratory was a motion which he made on the th of march, , "for the better regulation of the police of westminster." the chief object of the motion was to expose the unconstitutional exercise of the prerogative that had been assumed, in employing the military to suppress the late riots, without waiting for the authority of the civil power. these disgraceful riots, which proved to what christianity consequences the cry of "no popery" may lead, had the effect, which follows all tumultuary movements of the people, of arming the government with new powers, and giving birth to doctrines and precedents permanently dangerous to liberty. it is a little remarkable that the policy of blending the army with the people and considering soldiers as citizens, which both montesquieu and blackstone recommend as favorable to freedom, should, as applied by lord mansfield on this occasion, be pronounced, and perhaps with more justice, hostile to it; the tendency of such a practice being, it was said, to weaken that salutary jealousy, with which the citizens of a free state should ever regard a soldier, and thus familiarize the use of this dangerous machine, in every possible service to which capricious power may apply it. the opposition did not deny that the measure of ordering out the military, and empowering their officers to act at discretion without any reference to the civil magistrate, was, however unconstitutional, not only justifiable but wise, in a moment of such danger. but the refusal of the minister to acknowledge the illegality of the proceeding by applying to the house for an act of indemnity, and the transmission of the same discretionary orders to the soldiery throughout the country, where no such imminent necessity called for it, were the points upon which the conduct of the government was strongly, and not unjustly, censured. indeed, the manifest design of the ministry, at this crisis, to avail themselves of the impression produced by the riots, as a means of extending the frontier of their power, and fortifying the doctrines by which they defended it, spread an alarm among the friends of constitutional principles, which the language of some of the advocates of the court was by no means calculated to allay. among others, a noble earl,--one of those awkward worshippers of power, who bring ridicule alike upon their idol and themselves,--had the foolish effrontery, in the house of lords, to eulogize the moderation which his majesty had displayed, in not following the recent example of the king of sweden, and employing the sword, with which the hour of difficulty had armed him, for the subversion of the constitution and the establishment of despotic power. though this was the mere ebullition of an absurd individual, yet the bubble on the surface often proves the strength of the spirit underneath, and the public were justified by a combination of circumstances, in attributing designs of the most arbitrary nature to such a court and such an administration. meetings were accordingly held in some of the principal counties, and resolutions passed, condemning the late unconstitutional employment of the military. mr. fox had adverted to it strongly at the opening of the session, and it is a proof of the estimation in which mr. sheridan already stood with his party, that he was the person selected to bring forward a motion, upon a subject in which the feelings of the public were so much interested. in the course of his speech he said:-- "if this doctrine was to be laid down, that the crown could give orders to the military to interfere, when, where, and for what length of time it pleases, then we might bid farewell to freedom. if this was the law, we should then be reduced to a military government of the very worst species, in which we should have all the evils of a despotic state, without the discipline or the security. but we were given to understand, that we had the best protection against this evil, in the virtue, the moderation, and the constitutional principles of the sovereign. no man upon earth thought with more reverence than himself of the virtues and moderation of the sovereign; but this was a species of liberty which he trusted would never disgrace an english soil. the liberty that rested on the virtuous inclinations of any one man, was but suspended despotism; the sword was not indeed upon their necks, but it hung by the small and brittle thread of human will." the following passage of this speech affords an example of that sort of antithesis of epithet, which, as has been already remarked, was one of the most favorite contrivances of his style:-- "was not the conduct of that man or men criminal, who had permitted those justices to continue in the commission? men of _tried inability_ and _convicted deficiency_! had no attempt been made to establish some more effectual system of police, in order that we might still depend upon the remedy of the bayonet, and that the military power might be called in to the aid of _contrived weakness_ and _deliberate inattention_?" one of the few instances in which he ever differed with his friend, mr. fox, occurred during this session, upon the subject of a bill which the latter introduced for the repeal of the marriage act, and which he prefaced by a speech as characteristic of the ardor, the simplicity, the benevolence and fearlessness of his disposition, as any ever pronounced by him in public. some parts, indeed, of this remarkable speech are in a strain of feeling so youthful and romantic, that they seem more fit to be addressed to one of those parliaments of love, which were held during the times of chivalry, than to a grave assembly employed about the sober realities of life, and legislating with a view to the infirmities of human nature. the hostility of mr. fox to the marriage act was hereditary, as it had been opposed with equal vehemence by his father, on its first introduction in , when a debate not less memorable took place, and when sir dudley ryder, the attorney-general of the day, did not hesitate to advance, as one of his arguments in favor of the bill, that it would tend to keep the aristocracy of the country pure, and prevent their mixture by intermarriage with the mass of the people. however this anxiety for the "streams select" of noble blood, or views, equally questionable, for the accumulation of property in great families, may have influenced many of those with whom the bill originated,--however cruel, too, and mischievous, some of its enactments may be deemed, yet the general effect which the measure was intended to produce, of diminishing as much as possible the number of imprudent marriages, by allowing the pilotage of parental authority to continue till the first quicksands of youth are passed, is, by the majority of the civilized world, acknowledged to be desirable and beneficial. mr. fox, however, thought otherwise, and though--"bowing," as he said, "to the prejudices of mankind,"--he consented to fix the age at which young people should be marriageable without the consent of parents, at sixteen years for the woman and eighteen for the man, his own opinion was decidedly for removing all restriction whatever, and for leaving the "heart of youth" which, in these cases, was "wiser than the head of age," without limit or control, to the choice which its own desires dictated. he was opposed in his arguments, not only by mr. sheridan, but by mr. burke, whose speech on this occasion was found among his manuscripts after his death, and is enriched, though short, by some of those golden sentences, which he "scattered from his urn" upon every subject that came before him. [footnote: in alluding to mr. fox's too favorable estimate of the capability of very young persons to choose for themselves, he pays the following tribute to his powers:--"he is led into it by a natural and to him inevitable and real mistake, that the ordinary race of mankind advance as fast towards maturity of judgment and understanding as he has done." his concluding words are:--"have mercy on the youth of both sexes; protect them from their ignorance and inexperience; protect one part of life by the wisdom of another; protect them by the wisdom of laws and the care of nature."] mr. sheridan, for whose opinions upon this subject the well-known history of his own marriage must have secured no ordinary degree of attention, remarked that-- "his honorable friend, who brought in the bill, appeared not to be aware that, if he carried the clause enabling girls to marry at sixteen, he would do an injury to that liberty of which he had always shown himself the friend, and promote domestic tyranny, which he could consider only as little less intolerable than public tyranny. if girls were allowed to marry at sixteen, they would, he conceived, be abridged of that happy freedom of intercourse, which modern custom had introduced between the youth of both sexes; and which was, in his opinion, the best nursery of happy marriages. guardians would, in that case, look on their wards with a jealous eye, from a fear that footmen and those about them might take advantage of their tender years and immature judgment, and persuade them into marriage, as soon as they attained the age of sixteen." it seems somewhat extraordinary that, during the very busy interval which passed between mr. sheridan's first appearance in parliament and his appointment under lord rockingham's administration in , he should so rarely have taken a part in the debates that occurred-- interesting as they were, not only from the importance of the topics discussed, but from the more than usual animation now infused into the warfare of parties, by the last desperate struggles of the ministry and the anticipated triumph of the opposition. among the subjects, upon which he appears to have been rather unaccountably silent, was the renewal of mr. burke's bill for the regulation of the civil list,--an occasion memorable as having brought forth the maiden speech of mr. pitt, and witnessed the first accents of that eloquence which was destined, ere long, to sound, like the shell of misenus, through europe, and call kings and nations to battle by its note. the debate upon the legality of petitions from delegated bodies, in which mr. dunning sustained his high and rare character of a patriot lawyer;--the bold proposal of mr. thomas pitt, that the commons should withhold the supplies, till pledges of amendment in the administration of public affairs should be given;--the bill for the exclusion of excise officers and contractors from parliament, which it was reserved for a whig administration to pass;--these and other great constitutional questions, through which mr. burke and mr. fox fought, side by side, lavishing at every step the inexhaustible ammunition of their intellect, seem to have passed away without once calling into action the powers of their new and brilliant auxiliary, sheridan. the affairs of ireland, too, had assumed at this period, under the auspices of mr. grattan and the example of america, a character of grandeur, as passing as it was bright,--but which will long be remembered with melancholy pride by her sons, and as long recall the memory of that admirable man, to whose patriotism she owed her brief day of freedom, and upon whose name that momentary sunshine of her sad history rests. an opportunity of adverting to the events, which had lately taken place in ireland, was afforded by mr. fox in a motion for the re-commitment of the mutiny bill; and on this subject, perhaps, the silence of mr. sheridan may be accounted for, from his reluctance to share the unpopularity attached by his countrymen to those high notions of the supremacy of england, which, on the great question of the independence of the irish parliament, both mr. fox and mr. burke were known to entertain. [footnote: as the few beautiful sentences spoken by burke on this occasion, in support of his friend's motion, have been somewhat strangely omitted in the professed collection of all his speeches, i shall give them here as they are reported in the parliamentary history:--"mr. burke said, so many and such great revolutions had happened of late, that he was not much surprised to hear the right hon. gentleman (mr. jenkinson) treat the loss of the supremacy of this country over ireland as a matter of very little consequence. thus, one star, and that the brightest ornament of our orrery, having been suffered to be lost, those who were accustomed to inspect and watch our political heaven ought not to wonder that it should be followed by the loss of another.-- so star would follow star, and light light, till all was darkness and eternal night."] even on the subject of the american war, which was now the important point that called forth all the resources of attack and defence on both sides, the co-operation of mr. sheridan appears to have been but rare and casual. the only occasions, indeed, connected with this topic upon which i can trace him as having spoken at any length, were the charges brought forward by mr. fox against the admiralty for their mismanagement of the naval affairs of , and the resolution of censure on his majesty's ministers moved by lord john cavendish. his remarks in the latter debate upon the two different sets of opinions, by which (as by the double soul, imagined in xenophon) the speaking and the voting of mr. rigby were actuated, are very happy:-- "the right hon. gentleman, however, had acted in this day's debate with perfect consistency. he had assured the house that he thought the noble lord ought to resign his office; and yet he would give his vote for his remaining in it. in the same manner he had long declared, that he thought the american war ought to be abandoned; yet had uniformly given his vote for its continuance. he did not mean, however, to insinuate any motives for such conduct;--he believed the right hon. gentleman to have been sincere; he believed that, as a member of parliament, as a privy councillor, as a private gentleman, he had always detested the american war as much as any man; but that he had never been able to persuade the paymaster that it was a bad war; and unfortunately, in whatever character he spoke, it was the paymaster who always voted in that house." the infrequency of mr. sheridan's exertions upon the american question combines with other circumstances to throw some doubts upon an anecdote, which has been, however, communicated to me as coming from an authority worthy in every respect of the most implicit belief. he is said to have received, towards the close of this war, a letter from one of the leading persons of the american government, expressing high admiration of his talents and political principles, and informing him that the sum of twenty thousand pounds had been deposited for him in the hands of a certain banker, as a mark of the value which the american people attached to his services in the cause of liberty. to this mr. s. returned an answer (which, as well as the letter, was seen, it is said, by the person with whom the anecdote originated) full of the most respectful gratitude for the opinion entertained of his services, but begging leave to decline a gift under such circumstances. that this would have been the nature of his answer, had any such proposal occurred, the generally high tone of his political conduct forbids us to feel any doubt,--but, with respect to the credibility of the transaction altogether, it is far less easy to believe that the americans had so much money to give, than that mr. sheridan should have been sufficiently high-minded to refuse it. not only were the occasions very few and select, on which he offered himself to the attention of the house at this period, but, whenever he did speak, it was concisely and unpretendingly, with the manner of a person who came to learn a new road to fame,--not of one who laid claim to notice upon the credit of the glory he brought with him. mr. fox used to say that he considered his conduct in this respect as a most striking proof of his sagacity and good taste;--such rare and unassuming displays of his talents being the only effectual mode he could have adopted, to win on the attention of his audience, and gradually establish himself in their favor. he had, indeed, many difficulties and disadvantages to encounter, of which his own previous reputation was not the least. not only did he risk a perilous comparison between his powers, as a speaker and his fame as a writer, but he had also to contend with that feeling of monopoly, which pervades the more worldly classes of talent, and which would lead politicians to regard as an intruder upon their craft, a man of genius thus aspiring to a station among them, without the usual qualifications of either birth or apprenticeship to entitle him to it. [footnote: there is an anecdote strongly illustrative of this observation, quoted by lord john russell in his able and lively work "on the affairs of europe from the peace of utrecht."--mr. steele (in alluding to sir thomas hanmer's opposition to the commercial treaty in ) said, "i rise to do him honor"--on which many members who had before tried to interrupt him, called out, 'taller, taller;' and as he went down the house, several said, 'it is not so easy a thing to speak in the house:' 'he fancies because he can scribble,' &c. &c.,--slight circumstances, indeed, (adds lord john,) but which show at once the indisposition of the house to the whig party, and the natural envy of mankind, long ago remarked by cicero, towards all who attempt to gain more than one kind of pre-eminence.] in an assembly, too, whose deference for rank and property is such as to render it lucky that these instruments of influence are so often united with honesty and talent, the son of an actor and proprietor of a theatre had, it must be owned, most fearful odds against him, in entering into competition with the sons of lord holland and lord chatham. with the same discretion that led him to obtrude himself but seldom on the house, he never spoke at this period but after careful and even verbal preparation. like most of our great orators at the commencement of their careers, he was in the habit of writing out his speeches before he delivered them; and, though subsequently he scribbled these preparatory sketches upon detached sheets, i find that he began by using for this purpose the same sort of copy books, which he had employed in the first rough draughts of his plays. however ill the affairs of the country were managed by lord north, in the management of parliament few ministers have been more smoothly dexterous; and through the whole course of those infatuated measures, which are now delivered over, without appeal, to the condemnation of history, he was cheered along by as full and triumphant majorities, as ever followed in the wake of ministerial power. at length, however, the spirit of the people, that last and only resource against the venality of parliaments and the obstinacy of kings, was roused from its long and dangerous sleep by the unparalleled exertions of the opposition leaders, and spoke out with a voice, always awfully intelligible, against the men and the measures that had brought england to the brink of ruin. the effect of this popular feeling soon showed itself in the upper regions. the country-gentlemen, those birds of political omen, whose migrations are so portentous of a change of weather, began to flock in numbers to the brightening quarter of opposition; and at last, lord north, after one or two signal defeats (in spite even of which the court for some time clung to him, as the only hope of its baffled, but persevering revenge), resigned the seals of office in the month of march, , and an entirely new administration was formed under the promising auspices of the marquis of rockingham. mr. sheridan, as might be expected, shared in the triumph of his party, by being appointed one of the under secretaries of state; and, no doubt, looked forward to a long and improving tenure of that footing in office which his talents had thus early procured for him. but, however prosperous on the surface the complexion of the ministry might be, its intestine state was such as did not promise a very long existence. whiggism is a sort of political protestantism, and pays a similar tax for the freedom of its creed, in the multiplicity of opinions which that very freedom engenders--while true toryism, like popery, holding her children together by the one common doctrine of the infallibility of the throne, takes care to repress any schism inconvenient to their general interest, and keeps them, at least for all intents and purposes of place-holding, unanimous. between the two branches of opposition that composed the present administration there were some very important, if not essential, differences of opinion. lord shelburne, the pupil and friend of lord chatham, held the same high but unwise opinions, with respect to the recognition of american independence, which "the swan-like end" of that great man has consecrated in our imagination, however much our reason may condemn them. "whenever" said lord shelburne, "the parliament of great britain shall acknowledge the independence of america, from that moment the sun of england is set for ever." with regard to the affairs of india, too, and the punishment of those who were accused of mismanaging them, the views of the noble lord wholly differed from those of mr. fox and his followers--as appeared from the decided part in favor of mr. hastings, which he took in the subsequent measure of the impeachment. in addition to these fertile seeds of disunion, the retention in the cabinet of a person like lord thurlow, whose views of the constitution were all through the wrong end of the telescope, and who did not even affect to conceal his hostility to the principles of his colleagues, seemed such a provision, at starting, for the embarrassment of the ministry, as gave but very little hope of its union or stability. the only speech, of which any record remains as having been delivered by mr. sheridan during his short official career, was upon a motion made by mr. eden, the late secretary for ireland, "to repeal so much of the act of george i. as asserted a right in the king and parliament of great britain to make laws to bind the kingdom of ireland." this motion was intended to perplex the new ministers, who, it was evident from the speech of mr. fox on the subject, had not yet made up their minds to that surrender of the legislative supremacy of great britain, which ireland now, with arms in her hands, demanded. [footnote: mr. fox, in his speech upon the commercial propositions of , acknowledged the reluctance that was felt at this period, in surrendering the power of external or commercial legislation over ireland:--"a power," he said, "which, in their struggles for independence, the irish had imprudently insisted on having abolished, and which he had himself given up in compliance with the strong prejudices of that nation, though with a reluctance that nothing but irresistible necessity could overcome."] mr. sheridan concurred with the honorable secretary in deprecating such a hasty and insidious agitation of the question, but at the same time expressed in a much more unhesitating manner, his opinion of that law of subjection from which ireland now rose to release herself:-- "if he declared himself (he said) so decided an enemy to the principle of the declaratory law in question, which he had always regarded as a tyrannous usurpation in this country, he yet could not but reprobate the motives which influenced the present mover for its repeal--but, if the house divided on it, he should vote with him." the general sense of the house being against the motion, it was withdrawn. but the spirit of the irish nation had advanced too far on its march to be called back even by the most friendly voice. all that now remained for the ministers was to yield, with a confiding frankness, what the rash measures of their predecessors and the weakness of england had put it out of their power with safety to refuse. this policy, so congenial to the disposition of mr. fox, was adopted. his momentary hesitation was succeeded by such a prompt and generous acquiescence in the full demands of the irish parliament, as gave all the grace of a favor to what necessity would, at all events, have extorted--and, in the spirited assertion of the rights of freemen on one side, and the cordial and entire recognition of them on the other, the names of grattan and fox, in that memorable moment, reflected a lustre on each other which associates them in its glory for ever. another occasion upon which mr. sheridan spoke while in office,--though no report of his speech has been preserved--was a motion for a committee to examine into the state of the representation, brought forward by the youthful reformer, mr. william pitt, whose zeal in the cause of freedom was at that time, perhaps, sincere, and who little dreamed of the war he was destined to wage with it afterwards. mr. fox and mr. sheridan spoke strongly in favor of the motion, while, in compliance with the request of the former, mr. burke absented himself from the discussion--giving the cause of reform, for once, a respite from the thunders of his eloquence, like the sleep of jove, in homer, which leaves the greeks for the moment masters of the field. [greek]_sphin chndos opaze, minuntha per, ophr'eati endei zeus. [footnote: "and, while the moment lasts of jove's repose, make victory theirs." cowper.] notwithstanding all this, however, the question was lost by a majority of to . immediately on his accession to office, mr. sheridan received the following letter from his brother charles francis, who had been called to the irish bar in or , but was at this time practising as a special pleader:-- "dublin, march , . "dear dick, "i am much obliged to you for your early intelligence concerning the fate of the ministry, and give you joy on the occasion, notwithstanding your sorrow for the departure of the good opposition. i understand very well what you mean by this sorrow--but as you may be now in a situation in which you may obtain some substantial advantage for yourself, for god's sake improve the opportunity to the utmost, and don't let dreams of empty fame (of which you have had enough in conscience) carry you away from your solid interests. "i return you many thanks for fox's letter. i mean for your intention to make him write one--for as your good intentions always satisfy your conscience, and that you seem to think the carrying them into execution to be a mere trifling ceremony, as well omitted as not, your friends must always take the _will_ for the _deed_. i will forgive you, however, on condition that you will for once in your life consider that though the _will_ alone may perfectly satisfy yourself, your friends would be a little more, gratified if they were sometimes to see it accompanied by the deed--and let me be the first upon whom you try the experiment if the people here are not to share the fate of their patrons, but are suffered to continue in the government of this country, i believe you will have it in your power, as i am certain it will be in your inclination, to fortify my claims upon them by recommendations from your side of the water, in such a manner as to insure to me what i have a right to expect from them, but of which i can have no certainty without that assistance. i wish the present people may continue here, because i certainly have claims upon them, and considering the footing that lord c--- and charles fox are on, a recommendation from the latter would now have every weight,--it would be drawing a bill upon government here, payable at sight, which they dare not protest. so, dear dick, i shall rely upon you that will _really_ be done: and, to confess the truth, unless it be done, and that speedily, i shall be completely ruined, for this damned annuity, payable to my uncle, plays the devil with me. if there is any intention of recalling the people here, i beg you will let me know it as soon as possible, that i may take my measures accordingly,--and i think i may rely upon you also that whoever comes over here as lord l----t, i shall not be forgot among the number of those who shall be recommended to them. "as to our politics here, i send you a newspaper,--read the resolutions of the volunteers, and you will be enabled to form some idea of the spirit which at present pervades this country. a declaration of the independency of our parliament upon yours will _certainly_ pass our house of commons immediately after the recess; government here dare not, cannot oppose it; you will see the volunteers have pledged their lives and fortunes in support of the measure. the grand juries of every county have followed their example, and some of the staunchest friends of government have been, much against their inclinations, compelled to sign the most spirited resolutions. "a call of the house is ordered for the first tuesday after the recess, and circular letters from the speaker worded in this remarkable manner, "that the members do attend on that day as _they tender the rights of ireland_." in short, nothing will satisfy the people but the most unequivocal assertion of the total independence of the irish legislature. this flame has been raised within this six weeks, and is entirely owing either to the insidious design or unpardonable inattention of the late administration, in including, or suffering to be included, the name of ireland in no less than five british statutes passed last sessions. people here were ignorant of this till grattan produced the five acts to the house of commons, one of which eden had been so imprudent as to publish in the dublin gazette. previous to this the general sense of the country was, that the mere question of right should be suffered to sleep, provided the _exercise_ of the power claimed under it should never again be resorted to in a single instance. "the sooner you repeal the th of g. i. the better; for, believe me, nothing short of that can now preserve union and cordiality between the two countries. "i hope my father and you are very good friends by this. i shall not be able to send you the remaining _l_. till october, as i have been disappointed as to the time of payment of the money i expected to receive this month. let me entreat you to write to me shortly a few words. i beg my love to mrs. s. and tom. "i am, dear dick, "your very affectionate brother, "c. f. sheridan." the expectations of the writer of this letter were not disappointed. the influence of mr. sheridan, added to his own claims, procured for him the office of secretary of war in ireland,--a situation, which the greater pliancy of his political principles contrived to render a more permanent benefit to him than any that his whig brother was ever able to secure for himself. the death of the marquis of rockingham broke up this shortlived ministry, which, during the four months of its existence, did more perhaps for the principles of the constitution, than any one administration that england had seen since the revolution. they were betrayed, it is true, into a few awkward overflowings of loyalty, which the rare access of whigs to the throne may at once account for and excuse:--and burke, in particular, has left us a specimen of his taste for extremes, in that burst of optimism with which he described the king's message, as "the best of messages to the best of people from the best of kings." but these first effects of the atmosphere of a court, upon heads unaccustomed to it, are natural and harmless--while the measures that passed during that brief interval, directed against the sources of parliamentary corruption, and confirmatory of the best principles of the constitution, must ever be remembered to the honor of the party from which they emanated. the exclusion of contractors from the house of commons--the disqualification of revenue-officers from voting at elections--the disfranchisement of corrupt voters at cricklade, by which a second precedent [footnote: the first was that of the borough of shoreham in .] was furnished towards that plan of gradual reform, which has, in our own time, been so forcibly recommended by lord john russell--the diminution of the patronage of the crown, by mr. burke's celebrated bill [footnote: this bill, though its circle of retrenchment was, as might be expected, considerably narrowed, when the treasury bench became the centre from which he described it, was yet eminently useful, as an acknowledgment from ministerial authority of the necessity of such occasional curtailments of the royal influence.]--the return to the old constitutional practice [footnote: first departed from in . see burke's powerful exposure of the mischiefs of this innovation, in his "thoughts on the causes of the present discontents."] of making the revenues of the crown pay off their own incumbrances, which salutary principle was again lost in the hands of mr. pitt--the atonement at last made to the violated rights of electors, by the rescinding of the resolutions relative to wilkes--the frank and cordial understanding entered into with ireland, which identifies the memory of mr. fox and this ministry with the only _oasis_ in the whole desert of irish history--so many and such important recognitions of the best principles of whiggism, followed up, as they were, by the resolutions of lord john cavendish at the close of the session, pledging the ministers to a perseverance in the same task of purification and retrenchment, give an aspect to this short period of the annals of the late reign, to which the eye turns for relief from the arbitrary complexion of the rest; and furnish us with, at least, _one_ consoling instance, where the principles professed by statesmen, when in opposition, were retained and sincerely acted upon by them in power. on the death of the marquis of rockingham, lord shelburne, without, as it appears, consulting any of the persons attached to that nobleman, accepted the office of first lord of the treasury; in consequence of which mr. fox, and the greater number of his friends--among whom were mr. burke and mr. sheridan--sent in their resignations; while general conway, the duke of richmond, and one or two other old allies of the party, remained in office. to a disposition so social as that of mr. fox, the frequent interruption and even loss of friendships, which he had to sustain in the course of his political career, must have been a sad alloy to its pleasure and its pride. the fable of the sheep that leaves its fleece on the bramble bush is but too apt an illustration of the fate of him, who thus sees himself stripped of the comforts of friendship by the tenacious and thorny hold of politics. on the present occasion, however, the desertion of his standard by a few who had followed him cordially in his ascent to power, but did not show the same alacrity in accompanying his voluntary fall, was amply made up to him by the ready devotion, with which the rest of the party shared his fortunes. the disinterestedness of sheridan was the more meritorious, if, as there is every reason to believe, he considered the step of resignation at such a moment to be, at least, hasty, if not wholly wrong. in this light it was, indeed, viewed by many judicious persons at the time, and the assurances given by the duke of richmond and general conway, of the continued adherence of the cabinet to the same principles and measures, to which they were pledged at the first formation of the ministry, would seem to confirm the justice of the opinion. so much temper, however, had, during the few months of their union, been fermenting between the two great masses of which the administration was composed, that it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for the rockingham party to rally, with any cordiality, round lord shelburne, as a leader--however they might still have been contented to co-operate with him, had he remained in the humble station which he himself had originally selected. that noble lord, too, who felt that the sacrifice which he had considerately made, in giving up the supremacy of station to lord rockingham, had, so far from being duly appreciated by his colleagues, been repaid only with increased alienation and distrust, could hardly be expected to make a second surrender of his advantages, in favor of persons who had, he thought, so ungraciously requited him for the first. in the mean time the court, to which the rockingham party was odious, had, with its usual policy, hollowed the ground beneath them, so as to render their footing neither agreeable nor safe. the favorite object in that quarter being to compose a ministry of those convenient ingredients, called "king's friends," lord shelburne was but made use of as a temporary instrument, to clear away, in the first plane, the chief obstacles to such an arrangement, and then, in his turn, be sacrificed himself, as soon as a more subservient system could be organized. it was, indeed, only upon a strong representation from his lordship of the impossibility of carrying on his government against such an opposition, without the infusion of fresh and popular talent, that the royal consent was obtained to the appointment of mr. pitt--the memory of whose uncompromising father, as well as the first achievements on his own youthful shield, rendered him no very promising accession to such a scheme of government, as was evidently then contemplated by the court. in this state of affairs, the resignation of mr. fox and his friends was but a prompt and spirited anticipation of what must inevitably have taken place, under circumstances much less redounding to the credit of their independence and disinterestedness. there is little doubt, indeed, that with the great majority of the nation, mr. fox by this step considerably added to his popularity--and, if we were desired to point out the meridian moment of his fame, we should fix it perhaps at this splendid epoch, before the ill-fated coalition had damped the confidence of his friends, or the ascendancy of his great rival had multiplied the number of his enemies. there is an anecdote of mr. burke, connected with this period, the credibility of which must be left to the reader's own judgment. it is said that, immediately upon the retirement of mr. fox, while lord john cavendish (whose resignation was for a short time delayed by the despatch of some official business) was still a minister, mr. burke, with a retrospect to the sweets of office which showed that he had not wholly left hope behind, endeavored to open a negotiation through the medium of lord john, for the purpose of procuring, by some arrangement, either for himself or his son, a tellership then in the possession of a relative of lord orford. it is but fair to add that this curious anecdote rests chiefly upon the authority of the latter nobleman. [footnote: unpublished papers.] the degree of faith it receives will, therefore, depend upon the balance that may be struck in our comparative estimate between the disinterestedness of burke and the veracity of lord orford. at the commencement of the following session that extraordinary coalition was declared, which had the ill-luck attributed to the conjunction of certain planets, and has shed an unfavorable influence over the political world ever since. little is, i believe, known of the private negotiations that led to this ill-assorted union of parties; but, from whichever side the first advances may have come, the affair seems to have been dispatched with the rapidity of a siamese courtship; and while to mr. eden (afterwards lord auckland) is attributed the credit of having gained lord north's consent to the union, mr. burke is generally supposed to have been the person, who sung the "hymen, oh hymenae" in the ears of mr. fox. with that sagacity, which in general directed his political views, mr. sheridan foresaw all the consequences of such a defiance of public opinion, and exerted, it is said, the whole power of his persuasion and reasoning, to turn aside his sanguine and uncalculating friend from a measure so likely to embarrass his future career. unfortunately, however, the advice was not taken,--and a person, who witnessed the close of a conversation, in which sheridan had been making a last effort to convince mr. fox of the imprudence of the step he was about to take, heard the latter, at parting, express his final resolution in the following decisive words:--"it is as fixed as the hanover succession." to the general principle of coalitions, and the expediency and even duty of forming them, in conjunctures that require and justify such a sacrifice of the distinctions of party, no objection, it appears to me, can rationally be made by those who are satisfied with the manner in which the constitution has worked, since the new modification of its machinery introduced at the revolution. the revolution itself was, indeed, brought about by a coalition, in which tories, surrendering their doctrines of submission, arrayed themselves by the side of whigs, in defence of their common liberties. another coalition, less important in its object and effects, but still attended with results most glorious to the country, was that which took place in the year , when, by a union of parties from whose dissension much mischief had flowed, the interests of both king and people were reconciled, and the good genius of england triumphed at home and abroad. on occasions like these, when the public liberty or safety is in peril, it is the duty of every honest statesman to say, with the roman, "_non me impedient privatae offensiones, quo minus pro reipublicae salute etian cum inimicissimo consentiam._" such cases, however, but rarely occur; and they have been in this respect, among others, distinguished from the ordinary occasions, on which the ambition or selfishness of politicians resorts to such unions, that the voice of the people has called aloud for them in the name of the public weal; and that the cause round which they have rallied has been sufficiently general, to merge all party titles in the one undistinguishing name of englishman. by neither of these tests can the junction between lord north and mr. fox be justified. the people at large, so far from calling for this ill- omened alliance, would on the contrary--to use the language of mr. pitt --have "forbid the banns;" and though it is unfair to suppose that the interests of the public did not enter into the calculations of the united leaders, yet, if the real watchword of their union were to be demanded of them in "the palace of truth," there can be little doubt that the answer of each would be, distinctly and unhesitatingly, "ambition." one of the most specious allegations in defence of the measure is, that the extraordinary favor which lord shelburne enjoyed at court, and the arbitrary tendencies known to prevail in that quarter, portended just then such an overflow of royal influence, as it was necessary to counteract by this double embankment of party. in the first place, however, it is by no means so certain that the noble minister at this period did actually enjoy such favor. on the contrary, there is every reason to believe that his possession of the royal confidence did not long survive that important service, to which he was made instrumental, of clearing the cabinet of the whigs; and that, like the bees of virgil, he had left the soul of his own power in the wound which he had been the means of inflicting upon that of others. in the second place, whatever might have been the designs of the court,--and of its encroaching spirit no doubt can be entertained,--lord shelburne had assuredly given no grounds for apprehending, that he would ever, like one of the chiefs of this combination against him, be brought to lend himself precipitately or mischievously to its views. though differing from mr. fox on some important points of policy, and following the example of his friend, lord chatham, in keeping himself independent of whig confederacies, he was not the less attached to the true principles of that party, and, throughout his whole political career, invariably maintained them. this argument, therefore,--the only plausible one in defence of the coalition,--fails in the two chief assumptions on which it is founded. it has been truly said of coalitions, considered abstractedly, that such a union of parties, when the public good requires it, is to be justified on the same grounds on which party itself is vindicated. but the more we feel inclined to acknowledge the utility of party, the more we must dread and deprecate any unnecessary compromise, by which a suspicion of unsoundness may be brought upon the agency of so useful a principle--the more we should discourage, as a matter of policy, any facility in surrendering those badges of opinion, on which the eyes of followers are fondly fixed, and by which their confidence and spirit are chiefly kept alive--the more, too, we must lament that a great popular leader, like mr. fox, should ever have lightly concurred in such a confusion of the boundaries of opinion, and, like that mighty river, the mississippi, whose waters lose their own color in mixing with those of the missouri, have sacrificed the distinctive hue of his own political creed, to this confluence of interests with a party so totally opposed to it. "court and country," says hume, [footnote: essay "on the parties of great britain."] "which are the genuine offspring of the british government, are a kind of mixed parties, and are influenced both by principle and by interest. the heads of the factions are commonly most governed by the latter motive; the inferior members of them by the former." whether this be altogether true or not, it will, at least, without much difficulty be conceded, that the lower we descend in the atmosphere of party, the more quick and inflammable we find the feeling that circulates through it. accordingly, actions and professions, which, in that region of indifference, high life, may be forgotten as soon as done or uttered, become recorded as pledges and standards of conduct, among the lower and more earnest adherents of the cause; and many a question, that has ceased to furnish even a jest in the drawing-rooms of the great, may be still agitated, as of vital importance, among the humbler and less initiated disputants of the party. such being the tenacious nature of partisanship, and such the watch kept upon every movement of the higher political bodies, we can well imagine what a portent it must appear to distant and unprepared observers, when the stars to which they trusted for guidance are seen to "shoot madly from their spheres," and not only lose themselves for the time in another system, but unsettle all calculations with respect to their movements for the future. the steps by which, in general, the principles in such transactions are gradually reconciled to their own inconsistency--the negotiations that precede and soften down the most salient difficulties--the value of the advantages gained, in return for opinions sacrificed--the new points of contact brought out by a change of circumstances, and the abatement or extinction of former differences, by the remission or removal of the causes that provoked them,--all these conciliatory gradations and balancing adjustments, which to those who are in the secret may account for, and more or less justify, the alliance of statesmen who differ in their general views of politics, are with difficulty, if at all, to be explained to the remote multitude of the party, whose habit it is to judge and feel in the gross, and who, as in the case of lord north and mr. fox, can see only the broad and but too intelligible fact, that the leaders for whom both parties had sacrificed so much--those on one side their interest, and those on the other, perhaps, their consciences--had deserted them to patch up a suspicious alliance with each other, the only open and visible motive to which was the spoil that it enabled them to partition between them. if, indeed, in that barter of opinions and interests, which must necessarily take place in coalitions between the partisans of the people and of the throne, the former had any thing like an equality of chance, the mere probability of gaining thus any concessions in favor of freedom might justify to sanguine minds the occasional risk of the compromise. but it is evident that the result of such bargains must generally be to the advantage of the crown--the alluvions of power all naturally tend towards that shore. besides, where there are places as well as principles to be surrendered on one side, there must in return be so much more of principles given up on the other, as will constitute an equivalent to this double sacrifice. the centre of gravity will be sure to lie in that body, which contains within it the source of emoluments and honors, and the other will be forced to revolve implicitly round it. the only occasion at this period on which mr. sheridan seems to have alluded to the coalition, was during a speech of some length on the consideration of the preliminary articles of peace. finding himself obliged to advert to the subject, he chose rather to recriminate on the opposite party for the anomaly of their own alliances, than to vindicate that which his distinguished friend had just formed, and which, in his heart, as has been already stated, he wholly disapproved. the inconsistency of the tory lord advocate (dundas) in connecting himself with the patron of equal representation, mr. pitt, and his support of that full recognition of american independence, against which, under the banners of lord north, he had so obstinately combated, afforded to sheridan's powers of raillery an opportunity of display, of which, there is no doubt, he with his accustomed felicity availed himself. the reporter of the speech, however, has, as usual, contrived, with an art near akin to that of reducing diamonds to charcoal, to turn all the brilliancy of his wit into dull and opake verbiage. it was during this same debate, that he produced that happy retort upon mr. pitt, which, for good-humored point and seasonableness, has seldom, if ever, been equalled. "mr. pitt (say the parliamentary reports) was pointedly severe on the gentlemen who had spoken against the address, and particularly on mr. sheridan. 'no man admired more than he did the abilities of that right honorable gentleman, the elegant sallies of his thought, the gay effusions of his fancy, his dramatic turns and his epigrammatic point; and if they were reserved for the proper stage, they would, no doubt, receive what the honorable gentleman's abilities always did receive, the plaudits of the audience; and it would be his fortune "_sui plausu gaudere theatri_." but this was not the proper scene for the exhibition of those elegancies.' mr. sheridan, in rising to explain, said that 'on the particular sort of personality which the right honorable gentleman had thought proper to make use of, he need not make any comment. the propriety, the taste, the gentlemanly point of it, must have been obvious to the house. but, said mr. sheridan, let me assure the right honorable gentleman, that i do now, and will at any time he chooses to repeat this sort of allusion, meet it with the most sincere good-humor. nay, i will say more--flattered and encouraged by the right honorable gentleman's panegyric on my talents, if ever i again engage in the compositions he alludes to, i maybe tempted to an act of presumption--to attempt an improvement on one of ben jonson's best characters, the character of the angry boy in the alchymist.'" mr. sheridan's connection with the stage, though one of the most permanent sources of his glory, was also a point, upon which, at the commencement of his political career, his pride was most easily awakened and alarmed. he, himself, used to tell of the frequent mortifications which he had suffered, when at school, from taunting allusions to his father's profession--being called by some of his school-fellows "the player-boy," &c. mr. pitt had therefore selected the most sensitive spot for his sarcasm; and the good temper as well as keenness, with which the thrust was returned, must have been felt even through all that pride of youth and talent, in which the new chancellor of the exchequer was then enveloped. there could hardly, indeed, have been a much greater service rendered to a person in the situation of mr. sheridan, than thus affording him an opportunity of silencing, once for all, a battery to which this weak point of his pride was exposed, and by which he might otherwise have been kept in continual alarm. this gentlemanlike retort, combined with the recollection of his duel, tended to place him for the future in perfect security against any indiscreet tamperings with his personal history. [footnote: the following _jeu d'esprit_, written by sheridan himself upon this occurrence, has been found among his manuscripts:-- "advertisement extraordinary. "we hear that, in consequence of a hint, lately given in the house of commons, the play of the alchemist is certainly to be performed by a set of gentlemen for our diversion in a private apartment of buckingham house. "the characters, thus described in the old editions of ben jonson, are to be represented in the following manner--the old practice of men's playing the female parts being adopted. "subtle (_the alchemist_) lord sh--ib--e. face (_the house-keeper_) the lord ch--ll--r. doll common (_their colleague_) the l--d adv--c--te. drugger (_a tobacco-man_) lord eff--ng--m. epicure mammon mr. r--by. tribulation dr. j--nk--s--n. ananias (_a little pastor_) mr. h--ll. kastrill (_the angry boy_) mr. w. p--tt. dame pliant gen. c--nw--y. and surly his ------"] in the administration, that was now forced upon the court by the coalition, mr. sheridan held the office of secretary of the treasury-- the other secretary being mr. richard burke, the brother of the orator. his exertions in the house, while he held this office, were chiefly confined to financial subjects, for which he, perhaps, at this time, acquired the taste, that tempted him afterwards, upon most occasions, to bring his arithmetic into the field against mr. pitt. his defence of the receipt tax,--which, like all other long-lived taxes, was born with difficulty,--appears, as far as we can judge of it from the report, to have been highly amusing. some country-gentleman having recommended a tax upon grave-stones as a substitute for it, sheridan replied that: "such a tax, indeed, was not easily evaded, and could not be deemed oppressive, as it would only be once paid; but so great was the spirit of clamor against the tax on receipts, that he should not wonder if it extended to them; and that it should be asserted, that persons having paid the last debt,--the debt of nature,--government had resolved they should pay a receipt-tax, and have it stamped over their grave. nay, with so extraordinary a degree of inveteracy were some committees in the city, and elsewhere, actuated, that if a receipt-tax of the nature in question was enacted, he should not be greatly surprised if it were soon after published, that such committees had unanimously resolved that they would never be buried, in order to avoid paying the tax; but had determined to lie above ground, or have their ashes consigned to family- urns, in the manner of the ancients." he also took an active share in the discussions relative to the restoration of powell and bembridge to their offices by mr. burke:--a transaction which, without fixing any direct stigma upon that eminent man, subjected him, at least, to the unlucky suspicion of being less scrupulous in his notions of official purity, than became the party which he espoused or the principles of reform that he inculcated. little as the court was disposed, during the late reign, to retain whigs in its service any longer than was absolutely necessary, it must be owned that neither did the latter, in general, take very courtier-like modes of continuing their connection with royalty; but rather chose to meet the hostility of the crown half-way, by some overt act of imprudence or courage, which at once brought the matter to an issue between them. of this hardihood the india bill of mr. fox was a remarkable example--and he was himself fully aware of the risk which he ran in proposing it. "he knew," he said, in his speech upon first bringing forward the question, "that the task he had that day set himself was extremely arduous and difficult; he knew that he had considerable risk in it; but when he took upon himself an office of responsibility, he had made up his mind to the situation and the danger of it." without agreeing with those who impute to mr. fox the extravagant design of investing himself, by means of this bill, with a sort of perpetual whig dictatorship, independent of the will of the crown, it must nevertheless be allowed that, together with the interests of india, which were the main object of this decisive measure, the future interests and influence of his own party were in no small degree provided for; and that a foundation was laid by it for their attainment of a more steady footing in power than, from the indisposition of the court towards them, they had yet been able to accomplish. regarding--as he well might, after so long an experience of tory misrule--a government upon whig principles as essential to the true interests of england, and hopeless of seeing the experiment at all fairly tried, as long as the political existence of the servants of the crown was left dependent upon the caprice or treachery of their master, he would naturally welcome such an accession to the influence of the party as might strengthen their claims to power when out of office, and render their possession of it, when in, more secure and useful. these objects the bill in question would have, no doubt, effected. by turning the pactolus of indian patronage into the territories of whiggism, it would have attracted new swarms of settlers to that region,--the court would have found itself outbid in the market,--and, however the principles of the party might eventually have fared, the party itself would have been so far triumphant. it was indeed, probably, the despair of ever obtaining admission for whiggism, in its unalloyed state, into the councils of the sovereign, that reconciled mr. fox to the rash step of debasing it down to the court standard by the coalition--and, having once gained possession of power by these means, he saw, in the splendid provisions of the india bill, a chance of being able to transmit it as an heir-loom to his party, which, though conscious of the hazard, he was determined to try. if his intention, therefore, was, as his enemies say, to establish a dictatorship in his own person, it was, at the worst, such a dictatorship as the romans sometimes created, for the purpose of averting the plague--and would have been directed merely against that pestilence of toryism, under which the prosperity of england had, he thought, languished so long. it was hardly, however, to be expected of royalty,--even after the double humiliation which it had suffered, in being vanquished by rebels under one branch of the coalition, and browbeaten into acknowledging their independence by the other--that it would tamely submit to such an undisguised invasion of its sanctuary; particularly when the intruders had contrived their operations so ill, as to array the people in hostility against them, as well as the throne. never was there an outcry against a ministry so general and decisive. dismissed insultingly by the king on one side, they had to encounter the indignation of the people on the other; and, though the house of commons, with a fidelity to fallen ministers sufficiently rare, stood by them for a time in a desperate struggle with their successors, the voice of the royal prerogative, like the horn of astolpho, soon scattered the whole body in consternation among their constituents, _"di qua, di la, di su, di giu,"_ and the result was a complete and long-enjoyed triumph to the throne and mr. pitt. though the name of mr. fox is indissolubly connected with this bill, and though he bore it aloft, as fondly as caesar did his own commentaries, through all this troubled sea of opposition, it is to mr. burke that the first daring outline of the plan, as well as the chief materials for filling it up, are to be attributed,--whilst to sir arthur pigot's able hand was entrusted the legal task of drawing the bill. the intense interest which burke took in the affairs of india had led him to lay in such stores of information on the subject, as naturally gave him the lead in all deliberations connected with it. his labors for the select committee, the ninth report of which is pregnant with his mighty mind, may be considered as the source and foundation of this bill--while of the under-plot, which had in view the strengthening of the whig interest, we find the germ in his "thoughts on the present discontents," where, in pointing out the advantage to england of being ruled by such a confederacy, he says, "in one of the most fortunate periods of our history, this country was governed by a connection; i mean the great connection of whigs in the reign of queen anne." burke was, indeed, at this time the actuating spirit of the party--as he must have been of any party to which he attached himself. keeping, as he did, the double engines of his genius and his industry incessantly in play over the minds of his more indolent colleagues, with an intentness of purpose that nothing could divert, and an impetuosity of temper that nothing could resist, it is not wonderful that he should have gained such an entire mastery over their wills, or that the party who obeyed him should so long have exhibited the mark of his rash spirit imprinted upon their measures. the yielding temper of mr. fox, together with his unbounded admiration of burke, led him easily, in the first instance, to acquiesce in the views of his friend, and then the ardor of his own nature, and the self-kindling power of his eloquence, threw an earnestness and fire into his public enforcement of those views, which made even himself forget that they were but adopted from another, and impressed upon his hearers the conviction that they were all, and from the first, his own. we read his speeches in defence of the india bill with a sort of breathless anxiety, which no other political discourses, except those, perhaps, of demosthenes, could produce. the importance of the stake which he risks--the boldness of his plan--the gallantry with which he flings himself into the struggle, and the frankness of personal feeling that breathes throughout--all throw around him an interest, like that which encircles a hero of romance; nor could the most candid autobiography that ever was written exhibit the whole character of the man more transparently through it. the death of this ill-fated ministry was worthy of its birth. originating in a coalition of whigs and tories, which compromised the _principles_ of freedom, it was destroyed by a coalition of king and people, which is even, perhaps, more dangerous to its _practice_. [footnote: "this assumption (says burke) of the tribunitian power by the sovereign was truly alarming. when augustus caesar modestly consented to become the tribune of the people, rome gave up into the hands of that prince the only remaining shield she had to protect her liberty. the tribunitian power in this country, as in ancient rome, was wisely kept distinct and separate from the executive power; in this government it was constitutionally lodged where it was naturally to be lodged, in the house of commons; and to that house the people ought first to carry their complaints, even when they were directed against the measures of the house itself. but now the people were taught to pass by the door of the house of commons and supplicate the throne for the protection of their liberties."--_speech on moving his representation to the king, in june_, .] the conduct, indeed, of all estates and parties, during this short interval, was any thing but laudable. the leaven of the unlucky alliance with lord north was but too visible in many of the measures of the ministry--in the jobbing terms of the loan, the resistance to mr. pitt's plan of retrenchment, and the diminished numbers on the side of parliamentary reform. [footnote: the consequences of this alloy were still more visible in ireland. "the coalition ministry," says mr. hardy, "displayed itself in various employments--but there was no harmony. the old courtiers hated the new, and being more dexterous, were more successful." in stating that lord charlemont was but coldly received by the lord lieutenant, lord northington, mr. hardy adds, "it is to be presumed that some of the old court, who in consequence of the coalition had crept once more into favor, influenced his conduct in this particular."] on the other hand, mr. pitt and his party, in their eagerness for place, did not hesitate to avail themselves of the ambidexterous and unworthy trick of representing the india bill to the people, as a tory plan for the increase of royal influence, and to the king, as a whig conspiracy for the curtailment of it. the king himself, in his arbitrary interference with the deliberations of the lords, and the lords, in the prompt servility with which so many of them obeyed his bidding, gave specimens of their respective branches of the constitution, by no means creditable--while finally the people, by the unanimous outcry with which they rose, in defence of the monopoly of leadenhall street and the sovereign will of the court, proved how little of the "_vox dei_" there may sometimes be in such clamor. mr. sheridan seems to have spoken but once during the discussions on the india bill, and that was on the third reading, when it was carried so triumphantly through the house of commons. the report of his speech is introduced with the usual tantalizing epithets, "witty," "entertaining," &c. &c.; but, as usual, entails disappointment in the perusal--"_at cum intraveris, dii deceque, quam nihil in medio invenies!_" [footnote: pliny] there is only one of the announced pleasantries forthcoming, in any shape, through the speech. mr. scott (the present lord eldon) had, in the course of the debate, indulged in a license of scriptural parody, which he would himself, no doubt, be among the first to stigmatize as blasphemy in others, and had affected to discover the rudiments of the india bill in a chapter of the book of revelations,-- babylon being the east india company, mr. fox and his seven commissioners the beast with the seven heads, and the marks on the hand and forehead, imprinted by the beast upon those around him, meaning, evidently, he said, the peerages, pensions, and places distributed by the minister. in answering this strange sally of forensic wit, mr. sheridan quoted other passages from the same sacred book, which (as the reporter gravely assures us) "told strongly for the bill," and which proved that lord fitz-william and his fellow-commissioners, instead of being the seven heads of the beast, were seven angels "clothed in pure and white linen!" chapter ix. the prince of wales.--financial measures.--mr. pitt's east india bill.-- irish commercial propositions.--plan of the duke of richmond.--sinking fund. the whigs, who had now every reason to be convinced of the aversion with which they were regarded at court, had lately been, in some degree, compensated for this misfortune by the accession to their party of the heir apparent, who had, since the year , been in the enjoyment of a separate establishment, and taken his seat in the house of peers as duke of cornwall. that a young prince, fond of pleasure and impatient of restraint, should have thrown himself into the arms of those who were most likely to be indulgent to his errors, is nothing surprising, either in politics or ethics. but that mature and enlightened statesmen, with the lessons of all history before their eyes, should have been equally ready to embrace such a rash alliance, or should count upon it as any more than a temporary instrument of faction, is, to say the least of it, one of those self-delusions of the wise, which show how vainly the voice of the past may speak amid the loud appeals and temptations of the present. the last prince of wales, it is true, by whom the popular cause was espoused, had left the lesson imperfect, by dying before he came to the throne. but this deficiency has since been amply made up; and future whigs, who may be placed in similar circumstances, will have, at least, one historical warning before their eyes, which ought to be enough to satisfy the most unreflecting and credulous. in some points, the breach that now took place between the prince and the king, bore a close resemblance to that which had disturbed the preceding reign. in both cases, the royal parents were harsh and obstinate--in both cases, money was the chief source of dissension--and, in both cases, the genius, wit, and accomplishments of those with whom the heir apparent connected himself, threw a splendor round the political bond between them, which prevented even themselves from perceiving its looseness and fragility. in the late question of mr. fox's india bill, the prince of wales had voted with his political friends in the first division. but, upon finding afterwards that the king was hostile to the measure, his royal highness took the prudent step (and with mr. fox's full concurrence) of absenting himself entirely from the second discussion, when the bill, as it is known, was finally defeated. this circumstance, occurring thus early in their intercourse, might have proved to each of the parties in this ill-sorted alliance, how difficult it was for them to remain long and creditably united. [footnote: the following sensible remarks upon the first interruption of the political connection between the heir apparent and the opposition, are from an unfinished life of mr. sheridan now in my possession--written by one whose boyhood was passed in the society of the great men whom he undertook to commemorate, and whose station and talents would have given to such a work an authenticity and value, that would have rendered the humble memorial, which i have attempted, unnecessary-- "his royal highness acted upon this occasion by mr. fox's advice and with perfect propriety. at the same time the necessity under which he found himself of so acting may serve as a general warning to princes of the blood in this country, to abstain from connecting themselves with party, and engaging either as active supporters or opponents of the administration of the day. the ties of family, the obligations of their situation, the feelings of the public assuredly will condemn them, at some time or other, as in the present instance to desert their own public acts, to fail in their private professions, and to leave their friends at the very moment, in which service and support are the most imperiously required. "princes are always suspected proselytes to the popular side. conscious of this suspicion, they strive to do it away by exaggerated professions, and by bringing to the party which they espouse more violent opinions and more unmeasured language than any which they find. these mighty promises they soon find it unreasonable, impossible, inconvenient to fulfil. their dereliction of their principles becomes manifest and indefensible, in proportion to the vehemence with which they have pledged themselves always to maintain them, and the contempt and indignation which accompanies their retreat is equivalent to the expectations excited by the boldness and determination of their advance."] on the one side, there was a character to be maintained with the people, which a too complaisant toleration of the errors of royalty might--and, as it happened, _did_ compromise; while, on the other side, there were the obligations of filial duty, which, as in this instance of the india bill, made desertion decorous, at a time when co- operation would have been most friendly and desirable. there was also the perpetual consciousness of being destined to a higher station, in which, while duty would perhaps demand an independence of all party whatever, convenience would certainly dictate a release from the restraints of whiggism. it was most fortunate for mr. sheridan, on the rout of his party that ensued, to find himself safe in his seat for stafford once more, and the following document, connected with his election, is sufficiently curious, in more respects than one, to be laid before the reader: _r. b. sheridan, esq. expenses at the borough of stafford for election, anno_ . burgesses, paid l each................l , yearly expenses since. l s. d. house-rent and taxes ....... servant at s. per week, ... board wages ditto, yearly wages ........ coals, &c. ................. ale tickets ................ half the members' plate .... swearing young burgesses ... subscription to the ........ infirmary ditto clergymen's widows ... ringers .................... --------- ---------- one year ............ multiplied by years . ---------- total expense of six years' parliament, exclusive of expense incurred during the time of election, and your own annual expenses.......................... l , the followers of the coalition had been defeated in almost all directions, and it was computed that no less than of them had been left upon the field,--with no other consolation than what their own wit afforded them, in the title which they bestowed upon themselves of "fox's martyrs." this reduction in the ranks of his enemies, at the very commencement of his career, left an open space for the youthful minister, which was most favorable to the free display of his energies. he had, indeed, been indebted, throughout the whole struggle, full as much to a lucky concurrence of circumstances as to his talents and name for the supremacy to which he so rapidly rose. all the other eminent persons of the day had either deeply entangled themselves in party ties, or taken the gloss off their reputations by some unsuccessful or unpopular measures; and as he was the only man independent enough of the house of commons to be employed by the king as a weapon against it, so was he the only one sufficiently untried in public life, to be able to draw unlimitedly on the confidence of the people, and array them, as he did, in all the enthusiasm of ignorance, on his side. without these two advantages, which he owed to his youth and inexperience, even loftier talents than his would have fallen far short of his triumph. the financial affairs of the country, which the war had considerably deranged, and which none of the ministries that ensued felt sure enough of themselves to attend to, were, of course, among the first and most anxious objects of his administration; and the wisdom of the measures which he brought forward for their amelioration was not only candidly acknowledged by his opponents at the time, but forms at present the least disputable ground, upon which his claim to reputation as a finance-minister rests. having found, on his accession to power, an annual deficiency of several millions in the revenue, he, in the course of two years, raised the income of the country so high as to afford a surplus for the establishment of his sinking fund. nor did his merit lie only in the mere increase of income, but in the generally sound principles of the taxation by which he accomplished it, in the improvements introduced into the collection of the revenue, and the reform effected in the offices connected with it, by the simplification of the mode of keeping public accounts. though mr. sheridan delivered his opinion upon many of the taxes proposed, his objections were rather to the details than the general object of the measures; and it may be reckoned, indeed, a part of the good fortune of the minister, that the financial department of opposition at this time was not assumed by any more adventurous calculator, who might have perplexed him, at least by ingenious cavils, however he might have failed to defeat him by argument. as it was, he had the field almost entirely to himself; for sheridan, though acute, was not industrious enough to be formidable, and mr. fox, from a struggle, perhaps, between candor and party-feeling, absented himself almost entirely from the discussion of the new taxes. [footnote: "he had absented himself," he said, "upon principle; that, though he might not be able to approve of the measures which had been adopted, he did not at the same time think himself authorized to condemn them, or to give them opposition, unless he had been ready to suggest others less distressing to the subject."--_speech on navy bills, &c. &c._] the only questions, in which the angry spirit of the late conflict still survived, were the westminster scrutiny and mr. pitt's east india bill. the conduct of the minister in the former transaction showed that his victory had not brought with it those generous feelings towards the vanquished, which, in the higher order of minds, follows as naturally as the calm after a tempest. there must, indeed, have been something peculiarly harsh and unjust in the proceedings against his great rival on this occasion, which could induce so many of the friends of the minister--then in the fulness of his popularity and power--to leave him in a minority and vote against the continuance of the scrutiny. to this persecution, however, we are indebted for a speech of mr. fox, which is (as he, himself, in his opening, pronounced it would be) one of his best and noblest; and which is reported, too, with such evident fidelity, as well as spirit, that we seem to hear, while we read, the _"demosthenem ipsum"_ uttering it. sheridan had, it appears, written a letter, about this time, to his brother charles, in which, after expressing the feelings of himself and his brother whigs, at the late unconstitutional victory over their party, he added, "but you are all so void of principle, in ireland, that you cannot enter into our situation." charles sheridan, who, in the late changes, had not thought it necessary to pay his principles the compliment of sacrificing his place to them, considered himself, of course, as included in this stigma; and the defence of time-serving politics which he has set up in his answer, if not so eloquent as that of the great roman man master of this art in his letter to lentulus, is, at least, as self-conscious and labored, and betrays altogether a feeling but too worthy of the political meridian from which it issued. "dublin castle, th march, . "my dear dick, "i am much obliged to you for the letter you sent me by orde; i began to think you had forgot i was in existence, but i forgive your past silence on account of your recent kind attention. the new irish administration have come with the olive branch in their hand, and very wisely, i think; the system, the circumstances, and the manners of the two countries are so totally different, that i can assure you nothing could be so absurd as any attempt to extend the party-distinctions which prevail on your side of the water, to this. nothing, i will venture to assert, can possibly preserve the connection between england and ireland, but a permanent government here, acting upon fixed principles, and pursuing systematic measures. for this reason a change of chief governor, ought to be nothing more than a simple transfer of government, and by no means to make any change in that political system respecting this country which england must adopt, let who will be the minister and whichever party may acquire the ascendancy, if she means to preserve ireland as a part of the british empire. "you will say this is a very good plan for people in place, as it tends to secure them against all contingencies, but this, i give you my word, is not my reason for thinking as i do. i must, in the first place, acquaint you that there never can be hereafter in this country any such thing as party connections founded upon political principles; we have obtained all the great objects for which ireland had contended for many years, and there does not now remain one national object of sufficient importance to unite men in the same pursuit. nothing but such objects ever did unite men in this kingdom, and that not from principle, but because the spirit of the people was so far roused with respect to points in which the pride, the interest, the commerce, and the prosperity of the nation at large was so materially concerned, that the house of commons, if they had not the virtue to forward, at least wanted the courage to oppose, the general and determined wish of the whole kingdom; they therefore made a virtue of necessity, joined the standard of a very small popular party; both _ins_ and _outs_ voted equally against government, the latter of course, and the former because each individual thought himself safe in the number who followed his example. "this is the only instance, i believe, in the history of irish politics, where a party ever appeared to act upon public principle, and as the cause of this singular instance has been removed by the attainment of the only objects which could have united men in one pursuit, it is not probable that we shall in future furnish any other example that will do honor to our public spirit. if you reflect an instant, you will perceive that our subordinate situation necessarily prevents the formation of any party among us, like those you have in england, composed of persons acting upon certain principles, and pledged to support each other. i am willing to allow you that your exertions are directed by public spirit; but if those exertions did not lead to _power_, you must acknowledge that it is probable they would not be made, or, if made, that they would not be of much use. the object of a party in england is either to obtain power for themselves, or to take it from those who are in possession of it--they may do this from the purest motives, and with the truest regard for the public good, but still you must allow that power is a very tempting object, the hopes of obtaining it no small incentive to their exertions, and the consequences of success to the individuals of which the party is composed, no small strengthening to the bands which unite them together. now, if you were to expect similar parties to be formed in ireland, you would exact of us more virtue than is necessary for yourselves. from the peculiar situation of this country it is impossible that the exertions of any party here can ever lead to _power_. here then is one very tempting object placed out of our reach, and, with it, all those looked-for consequences to individuals, which, with you, induce them to pledge themselves to each other; so that nothing but poor public spirit would be left to keep our irish party together, and consequently a greater degree of disinterestedness would be necessary in them, than is requisite in one of your english parties. "that no party exertion here can ever lead to power is obvious when you reflect, that we have in fact no _irish government_; all power here being lodged in a branch of the _english_ government, we have no cabinet, no administration of our own, no great offices of state, every office we have is merely ministerial, it confers no power but that of giving advice, which may or may not be followed by the chief governor. as all power, therefore, is lodged solely in the english government, of which the irish is only a branch, it necessarily follows that no exertion of any party here could ever lead to power, unless they overturned the english government in this country, or unless the efforts of such a party in the irish house of commons could overturn the british administration in england, and the leaders of it get into their places; --the first, you will allow, would not be a very wise object, and the latter you must acknowledge to be impossible. "upon the same principle, it would be found very difficult to form a party in this country which should co-operate with any particular party in england, and consent to stand or fall with them. the great leading interests in this kingdom are of course strongly averse to forming any such connections on your side of the water, as it would tend to create a fluctuation in the affairs of this country, that would destroy all their consequence; and, as to the personal friends which a party in england may possibly have in this country, they must in the nature of things be few in number, and consequently could only injure themselves by following the fortunes of a party in england, without being able to render that party the smallest service. and, at all events, to such persons this could be nothing but a losing game. it would be, to refuse to avail themselves of their connections or talents in order to obtain office or honors, and to rest all their pretensions upon the success of a party in another kingdom, to which success they could not in the smallest degree contribute. you will admit that to a party in england, no friends on this side of the water would be worth having who did not possess connections or talents; and if they did possess these, they must of course force themselves into station, let the government of this country be in whose hands it may, and that upon a much more permanent footing than if they were connected with a party in england. what therefore could they gain by such a connection? nothing but the virtue of self-denial, in continuing out of office as long as their friends were so, the chance of coming in when their friends obtained power, and only the chance, for there are interests in this country which must not be offended; and the certainty of going out whenever their friends in england should be dismissed. so that they would exchange the certainty of station upon a permanent footing acquired by their own efforts, connections or talents, for the chance of station upon a most precarious footing, in which they would be placed in the insignificant predicament of doing nothing for themselves, and resting their hopes and ambition upon the labors of others. "in addition to what i have said respecting the consequences of the subordinate situation of this country, you are to take into consideration how peculiarly its inhabitants are circumstanced. two out of three millions are roman catholics--i believe the proportion is still larger--and two-thirds of the remainder are violent rank presbyterians, who have always been, but most particularly of late, strongly averse to all government placed in the hands of the members of the church of england; nine-tenths of the property, the landed property of the country i mean, is in the possession of the latter. you will readily conceive how much these circumstances must give persons of property in this kingdom a leaning towards government; how necessarily they must make them apprehensive for themselves, placed between such potent enemies; and how naturally it must make them look up to english government, in whatever hands it may be, for that strength and support, which the smallness of their numbers prevents their finding among themselves; and consequently you will equally perceive that those political or party principles which create such serious differences among you in england, are matters of small importance to the persons of landed property in this country, when compared with the necessity of their having the constant support of an english government. here, my dear dick, is a very long answer to a very few lines in your postscript. but i could not avoid _boring_ you on the subject, when you say 'that we are all so void of principle that we cannot enter into your situation.' "i have received with the greatest pleasure the accounts of the very considerable figure you have made this sessions in the house of commons. as i have no doubt but that your parliament will be dissolved, god send you success a second time at stafford, and the same to your friend at westminster. i will not forgive you if you do not give me the first intelligence of both those events. i shall say nothing to you on the subject of your english politics, only that i feel myself much more partial to one side of the question than, in my present situation, it would be of any use to me to avow. i am the happiest domestic man in the world, and am in daily expectation of an addition to that happiness, and own that a home, which i never leave without regret, nor return to without delight, has somewhat abated my passion for politics, and that warmth i once felt about public questions. but it has not abated the warmth of my private friendships; it has not abated my regard for fitzpatrick, my anxiety for you, and the warmth of my wishes for the success of your friends, considering them as such. i beg my love to mrs. sheridan and tom, and am, dear dick, "most affectionately yours, c. f. sheridan." with respect to the bill for the better government of india, which mr. pitt substituted for that of his defeated rival, its provisions are now, from long experience, so familiarly known, that it would be superfluous to dwell upon either their merits or defects. [footnote: three of the principal provisions were copied from the propositions of lord north in --in allusion to which mr. powys said of the measure, that "it was the voice of jacob, but the hand of esau."] the two important points in which it differed from the measure of mr. fox were, in leaving the management of their commercial concerns still in the hands of the company, and in making the crown the virtual depositary of indian patronage, [footnote: "mr. pitt's bill continues the form of the company's government, and professes to leave the patronage under certain conditions, and the commerce without condition, in the hands of the company; but places all matters relating to the _civil_ and _military_ government and _revenues_ in the hands of six commissioners, to be nominated and appointed by his majesty, under the title of 'commissioners of the affairs of india,' which board of commissioners is invested with the 'superintendence and control over all the british territorial possessions in the east indies, and over the affairs of the united company of merchants trading thereto.'"-- comparative statement of the two bills, read from his place by mr. sheridan, on the discussion of the declaratory acts in , and afterwards published. in another part of this statement he says, "the present board of control have, under mr. pitt's bill, usurped those very imperial prerogatives from the crown, which were falsely said to have been given to the new board of directors under mr. fox's bill."] instead of suffering it to be diverted into the channels of the whig interest,--never, perhaps, to find its way back again. in which of these directions such an accession of power might, with least mischief to the constitution, be bestowed, having the experience only of the use made of it on one side, we cannot, with any certainty, pretend to determine. one obvious result of this transfer of india to the crown has been that smoothness so remarkable in the movements of the system ever since--that easy and noiseless play of its machinery, which the lubricating contact of influence alone could give, and which was wholly unknown in indian policy, till brought thus by mr. pitt under ministerial control. when we consider the stormy course of eastern politics before that period--the inquiries, the exposures, the arraignments that took place--the constant hunt after indian delinquency, in which ministers joined no less keenly than the opposition--and then compare all this with the tranquillity that has reigned, since the halcyon incubation of the board of control over the waters,--though we may allow the full share that actual reform and a better system of government may claim in this change, there is still but too much of it to be attributed to causes of a less elevated nature,--to the natural abatement of the watchfulness of the minister, over affairs no longer in the hands of others, and to that power of influence, which, both at home and abroad, is the great and ensuring bond of tranquillity, and, like the chain of silence, mentioned in old irish poetry, binds all that come within its reach in the same hushing spell of compromise and repose. it was about this time that, in the course of an altercation with mr. rolle, the member for devonshire, mr. sheridan took the opportunity of disavowing any share in the political satires then circulating, under the titles of "the rolliad" and the "probationary odes." "he was aware," he said, "that the honorable gentlemen had suspected that he was either the author of those compositions, or some way or other concerned in them; but he assured them, upon his honor, he was not--nor had he ever seen a line of them till they were in print in the newspaper." mr. rolle, the hero of the rolliad, was one of those unlucky persons, whose destiny it is to be immortalized by ridicule, and to whom the world owes the same sort of gratitude for the wit of which they were the butts, as the merchants did, in sinbad's story, to those pieces of meat to which diamonds adhered. the chief offence, besides his political obnoxiousness, by which he provoked this satirical warfare, (whose plan of attack was all arranged at a club held at becket's,) was the lead which he took in a sort of conspiracy, formed on the ministerial benches, to interrupt, by coughing, hawking, and other unseemly noises, the speeches of mr. burke. the chief writers of these lively productions were tickell, general fitzpatrick, [footnote: to general fitzpatrick some of the happiest pleasantries are to be attributed; among others, the verses on brooke watson, those on the marquis of graham, and "the liars."] lord john [footnote: lord john townshend, the only survivor, at present, of this confederacy of wits, was the author, in conjunction with tickell, of the admirable satire, entitled "jekyll,"--tickell having contributed only the lines parodied from pope. to the exquisite humor of lord john we owe also the probationary ode for major scott, and the playful parody on _"donae gratus eram libi."_] townshend, richardson, george ellis, and dr. lawrence. [footnote: by doctor lawrence the somewhat ponderous irony of the prosaic department was chiefly managed. in allusion to the personal appearance of this eminent civilian, one of the wits of the day thus parodied a passage of virgil: _"quo tetrior alter non fuit, excepto_ laurentis _corpore turni."_] there were also a few minor contributions from the pens of bate dudley, mr. o'beirne (afterwards bishop of meath), and sheridan's friend, read. in two of the writers, mr. ellis and dr. lawrence, we have a proof of the changeful nature of those atoms, whose concourse for the time constitutes party, and of the volatility with which, like the motes in the sunbeam, described by lucretius, they can _"commutare viam, retroque repulsa reverti nunc huc, nunc illuc, in cunctas denique partes."_ change their light course, as fickle chance may guide, now here, now there, and shoot from side to side. dr. lawrence was afterwards a violent supporter of mr. pitt, and mr. ellis [footnote: it is related that, on one occasion, when mr. ellis was dining with mr. pitt, and embarrassed naturally by the recollection of what he had been guilty of towards his host in the rolliad, some of his brother-wits, to amuse themselves at his expense, endeavored to lead the conversation to the subject of this work, by asking him various questions, as to its authors, &c.,--which mr. pitt overhearing, from the upper end of the table, leaned kindly towards ellis and said, _"immo age, et a prima, dic, hospes, originc nobis."_ the word "hospes," applied to the new convert, was happy, and the "_erroresque tuos_," that follows, was, perhaps, left to be implied.] showed the versatility of his wit, as well as of his politics, by becoming one of the most brilliant contributors to the antijacobin. the rolliad and the antijacobin may, on their respective sides of the question, be considered as models of that style of political satire, [footnote: the following just observations upon the rolliad and probationary odes occur in the manuscript life of sheridan which i have already cited:--"they are, in most instances, specimens of the powers of men, who, giving themselves up to ease and pleasure, neither improved their minds with great industry, nor exerted them with much activity; and have therefore left no very considerable nor durable memorials of the happy and vigorous abilities with which nature had certainly endowed them. the effusions themselves are full of fortunate allusions, ludicrous terms, artful panegyric, and well-aimed satire. the verses are at times far superior to the occasion, and the whole is distinguished by a taste, both in language and matter, perfectly pure and classical; but they are mere occasional productions. they will sleep with the papers of the craftsman, so vaunted, in their own time, but which are never now raked up, except by the curiosity of the historian and the man of literature. "wit, being generally founded upon the manners and characters of its own day, is crowned in that day, beyond all other exertions of the mind, with splendid and immediate success. but there is always something that equalizes. in return, more than any other production, it suffers suddenly and irretrievably from the hand of time. it receives a character the most opposite to its own. from being the most generally understood and perceived, it becomes of all writing the most difficult and the most obscure. satires, whose meaning was open to the multitude, defy the erudition of the scholar, and comedies, of which every line was felt as soon as it was spoken, require the labor of an antiquary to explain them."] whose lightness and vivacity give it the appearance of proceeding rather from the wantonness of wit than of ill-nature, and whose very malice, from the fancy with which it is mixed up, like certain kinds of fireworks, explodes in sparkles. they, however, who are most inclined to forgive, in consideration of its polish and playfulness, the personality in which the writers of both these works indulged, will also readily admit that by no less shining powers can a license so questionable be either assumed or palliated, and that nothing but the lively effervescence of the draught can make us forget the bitterness infused into it. at no time was this truth ever more strikingly exemplified than at present, when a separation seems to have taken place between satire and wit, which leaves the former like the toad, _without_ the "jewel in its head;" and when the hands, into which the weapon of personality has chiefly fallen, have brought upon it a stain and disrepute, that will long keep such writers as those of the rolliad and antijacobin from touching it again. among other important questions, that occupied the attention of mr. sheridan at this period, was the measure brought forward under the title of "irish commercial propositions" for the purpose of regulating and finally adjusting the commercial intercourse between england and ireland. the line taken by him and mr. fox in their opposition to this plan was such as to accord, at once with the prejudices of the english manufacturers and the feelings of the irish patriots,--the former regarding the measure as fatal to their interests, and the latter rejecting with indignation the boon which it offered, as coupled with a condition for the surrender of the legislative independence of their country. in correct views of political economy, the advantage throughout this discussion was wholly on the side of the minister; and, in a speech of mr. jenkinson, we find (advanced, indeed, but incidentally, and treated by mr. fox as no more than amusing theories,) some of those liberal principles of trade which have since been more fully developed, and by which the views of all practical statesmen are, at the present day, directed. the little interest attached by mr. fox to the science of political economy--so remarkably proved by the fact of his never having read the work of adam smith on the subject--is, in some degree, accounted for by the skepticism of the following passage, which occurs in one of his animated speeches on this very question. mr. pitt having asserted, in answer to those who feared the competition of ireland in the market from her low prices of labor, that "great capital would in all cases overbalance cheapness of labor," mr. fox questions the abstract truth of this position, and adds,--"general positions of all kinds ought to be very cautiously admitted; indeed, on subjects so infinitely complex and mutable as politics and commerce, a wise man hesitates at giving too implicit a credit to any general maxim of any denomination." if the surrender of any part of her legislative power could have been expected from ireland in that proud moment, when her new-born independence was but just beginning to smile in her lap, the acceptance of the terms then proffered by the minister, might have averted much of the evils, of which she was afterwards the victim. the proposed plan being, in itself, (as mr. grattan called it,) "an incipient and creeping union," would have prepared the way less violently for the completion of that fated measure, and spared at least the corruption and the blood which were the preliminaries of its perpetration at last. but the pride, so natural and honorable to the irish--had fate but placed them in a situation to assert it with any permanent effect--repelled the idea of being bound even by the commercial regulations of england. the wonderful eloquence of grattan, which, like an eagle guarding her young, rose grandly in defence of the freedom to which itself had given birth, would alone have been sufficient to determine a whole nation to his will. accordingly such demonstrations of resistance were made both by people and parliament, that the commercial propositions were given up by the minister, and this apparition of a union withdrawn from the eyes of ireland for the present--merely to come again, in another shape, with many a "mortal murder on its crown, and push her from her stool." as mr. sheridan took a strong interest in this question, and spoke at some length on every occasion when it was brought before the house, i will, in order to enable the reader to judge of his manner of treating it, give a few passages from his speech on the discussion of that resolution, which stipulated for england a control over the external legislation of ireland:-- "upon this view, it would be an imposition on common sense to pretend that ireland could in future have the exercise of free will or discretion upon any of those subjects of legislation, on which she now stipulated to follow the edicts of great britain; and it was a miserable sophistry to contend, that her being permitted the ceremony of placing those laws upon her own statute-book, as a form of promulgating them, was an argument that it was not the british but the irish statutes that bound the people of ireland. for his part, if he were a member of the irish parliament, he should prefer the measure of enacting by one decisive vote, that all british laws to the purposes stipulated, should have immediate operation in ireland as in great britain; choosing rather to avoid the mockery of enacting without deliberation, and deciding where they had no power to dissent. where fetters were to be worn, it was a wretched ambition to contend for the distinction of fastening our own shackles." * * * * * "all had been delusion, trick, and fallacy: a new scheme of commercial arrangement is proposed to the irish as a boon; and the surrender of their constitution is tacked to it as a mercantile regulation. ireland, newly escaped from harsh trammels and severe discipline, is treated like a high-mettled horse, hard to catch; and the irish secretary is to return to the field, soothing and coaxing him, with a sieve of provender in one hand, but with a bridle in the other, ready to slip over his head while he is snuffling at the food. but this political jockeyship, he was convinced, would not succeed." in defending the policy, as well as generosity of the concessions made to ireland by mr. fox in , he says,-- "fortunately for the peace and future union of the two kingdoms, no such miserable and narrow policy entered into the mind of his right honorable friend; he disdained the injustice of bargaining with ireland on such a subject; nor would ireland have listened to him if he had attempted it. she had not applied to purchase a constitution; and if a tribute or contribution had been demanded in return for what was then granted, those patriotic spirits who were at that time leading the oppressed people of that insulted country to the attainment of their just rights, would have pointed to other modes of acquiring them; would have called to them in the words of camillas, _arma aptare atque ferro non auro patriam et libertatem recuperare_." the following passage is a curious proof of the short-sighted views which prevailed at that period, even among the shrewdest men, on the subject of trade:-- "there was one point, however, in which he most completely agreed with the manufacturers of this country; namely, in their assertion, that if the irish trader should be enabled to meet the british merchant and manufacturer in the british market, the gain of ireland must be the loss of england. [footnote: mr. fox also said, "ireland cannot make a single acquisition but to the proportionate loss of england."] this was a fact not to be controverted on any principle of common sense or reasonable argument. the pomp of general declamation and waste of fine words, which had on so many occasions been employed to disguise and perplex this plain simple truth, or still more fallaciously to endeavor to prove that great britain would find her balance in the irish market, had only tended to show the weakness and inconsistency of the doctrine they were meant to support. the truth of the argument was with the manufacturers; and this formed, in mr. sheridan's mind, a ground of one of the most vehement objections he had to the present plan." it was upon the clamor, raised at this time by the english manufacturers, at the prospect of the privileges about to be granted to the trade of ireland, that tickell, whose wit was always on the watch for such opportunities, wrote the following fragment, found among the papers of mr. sheridan:-- "a vision. "after supping on a few colchester oysters and a small welsh rabbit, i went to bed last tuesday night at a quarter before eleven o'clock. i slept quietly for near two hours, at the expiration of which period, my slumber was indeed greatly disturbed by the oddest train of images i ever experienced. i thought that every individual article of my usual dress and furniture was suddenly gifted with the powers of speech, and all at once united to assail me with clamorous reproaches, for my unpardonable neglect of their common interests, in the great question of surrendering our british commerce to ireland. my hat, my coat, and every button on it, my manchester waistcoat, my silk breeches, my birmingham buckles, my shirt-buttons, my shoes, my stockings, my garters, and what was more troublesome, my night-cap, all joined in a dissonant volley of petitions and remonstrances--which, as i found it impossible to wholly suppress, i thought it most prudent to moderate, by soliciting them to communicate their ideas individually. it was with some difficulty they consented to even this proposal, which they considered as a device to extinguish their general ardor, and to break the force of their united efforts; nor would they by any means accede to it, till i had repeatedly assured them, that as soon as i heard them separately, i would appoint an early hour for receiving them in a joint body. accordingly, having fixed these preliminaries, my night-cap thought proper to slip up immediately over my ears, and disengaging itself from my temples, called upon my waistcoat, who was rather carelessly reclining on a chair, to attend him immediately at the foot of the bed. my sheets and pillow- cases, being all of irish extraction, stuck close to me, however,--which was uncommonly fortunate, for, not only my curtains had drawn off to the foot of the bed, but my blankets also had the audacity to associate themselves with others of the woollen fraternity, at the first outset of this household meeting. both my towels attended as evidences at the bar,--but my pocket-handkerchief, notwithstanding his uncommon forwardness to hold forth the banner of sedition, was thought to be a character of so mixed a complexion, as rendered it more decent for him to reserve his interference till my snuff-box could be heard--which was settled accordingly. "at length, to my inconceivable astonishment, my night-cap, attended as i have mentioned, addressed me in the following terms:--" * * * * * early as was the age at which sheridan had been transplanted from ireland--never to set foot upon his native land again--the feeling of nationality remained with him warmly through life, and he was, to the last, both fond and proud of his country. the zeal, with which he entered, at this period, into irish politics, may be judged of from some letters, addressed to him in the year , by mr. isaac corry, who was at that time a member of the irish opposition, and combated the commercial propositions as vigorously as he afterwards, when chancellor of the exchequer, defended their "consummate flower," the union. a few extracts from these letters will give some idea of the interest attached to this question by the popular party in both countries. the following, dated august , , was written during the adjournment of ten days, that preceded mr. orde's introduction of the propositions:-- "your most welcome letter, after hunting me some days through the country, has at length reached me. i wish you had sent some notes of your most excellent speech; but such as we have must be given to the public--admirable commentary upon mr. pitt's _apology to the people of ireland_, which must also be published in the manner fitting it. the addresses were sent round to all the towns in the kingdom, in order to give currency to the _humbug_. being upon the spot, i have my troops in perfect order, and am ready at a moment's warning for any manoeuvre which may, when we meet in dublin previous to the next sitting, be thought necessary to follow the petitions for postponing. "we hear astonishing accounts of _your_ greatness in particular. paddy will, i suppose, some _beau jour_ be voting you another , , [footnote: alluding to the recent vote of that sum to mr. grattan.] if you go on as you have done. "i send to-day down to my friend, o'neil, who waits for a signal only, and we shall go up together. brownlow is just beside me, and i shall ride over this morning to get him up to consultation in town.... we must get our whig friends in england to engraft a few slips of whiggism here --till that is done, there will be neither constitution for the people nor stability for the government. "charlemont and i were of opinion that we should not make the volunteers speak upon the present business; so i left it out in the resolutions at our late review. they are as tractable as we could desire, and we can manage them completely. we inculcate all moderation--were we to slacken in that, they would instantly step forward." the date of the following letter is august th--two days before mr. orde brought forward the propositions. "we have got the bill entire, sent about by orde. the more it is read, the less it is liked. i made notable use of the clause you sent me before the whole arrived. we had a select meeting to-day of the d. of leinster, charlemont, conolly, grattan, forbes, and myself. we think of moving an address to postpone to-morrow till the th of january, and have also some resolutions ready _pro re nata_, as we don't yet know what shape they will put the business into;--conolly to move. to- morrow morning we settle the address and resolutions, and after that, to-morrow, meet more at large at leinster house. all our troops muster pretty well. mountmorris is here, and to be with us to-morrow morning. we reckon on something like a hundred, and some are sanguine enough to add near a score above it--that is too much. the report of to-night is that orde is not yet ready for us, and will beg a respite of a few days --beresford is not yet arrived, and that is said to be the cause. mornington and poole are come--their muster is as strict as ours. if we divide any thing like a hundred, they will not dare to take a victory over us. adieu, yours most truly, "i. c." the motion for bringing in the bill was carried only by a majority of nineteen, which is thus announced to mr. sheridan by his correspondent:-- "i congratulate with you on minority-against . the business never can go on. they were astonished, and looked the sorriest devils you can imagine. orde's exhibition was pitiful indeed--the support of his party weak and open to attack--the debate on their part really poor. on ours, conolly, o'neill, and the other country gentlemen, strong and of great weight--grattan able and eloquent in an uncommon degree--every body in high spirits, and altogether a force that was irresistible. we divided at nine this morning, on leave to bring in a bill for the settlement. the ground fought upon was the fourth resolution, and the principle of that in the others. the commercial detail did not belong accurately to the debate, though some went over it in a cursory way. grattan, two hours and a half--flood as much--the former brilliant, well attended to, and much admired--the latter tedious from detail; of course, not so well heard, and answered by foster in detail, to refutation. "the attorney general defended the constitutional safety under the fourth-resolution principle. orde mentioned the opposition in england twice in his opening speech, with imputations, or insinuations at least, not very favorable. you were not left undefended. forbes exerted his warm attachment to you with great effect--burgh, the flag-ship of the leinster squadron, gave a well-supported fire pointed against pitt, and covering you. hardy (the bishop of down's friend) in a very elegant speech gave you due honor; and i had the satisfaction of a slight skirmish, which called up the attorney general, &c...." on the th of august mr. orde withdrew his bill, and mr. corry writes-- "i wish you joy a thousand times of our complete victory. orde has offered the bill--moved its being printed for his own justification to the country, and no more of it this session. we have the effects of a complete victory." another question of much less importance, but more calculated to call forth sheridan's various powers, was the plan of the duke of richmond for the fortification of dock-yards, which mr. pitt brought forward (it was said, with much reluctance) in the session of , and which sheridan must have felt the greater pleasure in attacking, from the renegade conduct of its noble author in politics. in speaking of the report of a board of general officers, which had been appointed to examine into the merits of this plan, and of which the duke himself was president, he thus ingeniously plays with the terms of the act in question, and fires off his wit, as it were, _en ricochet_, making it bound lightly from sentence to sentence:-- "yet the noble duke deserved the warmest panegyrics for the striking proofs he had given of his genius as an engineer; which appeared even in the planning and construction of the paper in his hand! the professional ability of the master-general shone as conspicuously there, as it could upon our coasts. he had made it an argument of posts; and conducted his reasoning upon principles of trigonometry, as well as logic. there were certain detached data, like advanced works, to keep the enemy at a distance from the main object in debate. strong provisions covered the flanks of his assertions. his very queries were in casements. no impression, therefore, was to be made on this fortress of sophistry by desultory observations; and it was necessary to sit down before it, and assail it by regular approaches. it was fortunate, however, to observe, that notwithstanding all the skill employed by the noble and literary engineer, his mode of defence on paper was open to the same objection which had been urged against his other fortifications; that if his adversary got possession of one of his posts, it became strength against him, and the means of subduing the whole line of his argument." he also spoke at considerable length, upon the plan brought forward by mr. pitt for the redemption of the national debt--that grand object of the calculator and the financier, and equally likely, it should seem, to be attained by the dreams of the one as by the experiments of the other. mr. pitt himself seemed to dread the suspicion of such a partnership, by the care with which he avoided any acknowledgment to dr. price, whom he had nevertheless personally consulted on the subject, and upon whose visions of compound interest this fabric of finance was founded. in opening the plan of his new sinking fund to the house, mr. pitt, it is well known, pronounced it to be "a firm column, upon which he was proud to flatter himself his name might be inscribed." tycho brahe would have said the same of his astronomy, and des cartes of his physics;--but these baseless columns have long passed away, and the plan of paying debt with borrowed money well deserves to follow them. the delusion, indeed, of which this fund was made the instrument, during the war with france, is now pretty generally acknowledged; and the only question is, whether mr. pitt was so much the dupe of his own juggle, as to persuade himself that thus playing with a debt, from one hand to the other, was paying it--or whether, aware of the inefficacy of his plan for any other purpose than that of keeping up a blind confidence in the money-market, he yet gravely went on, as a sort of high priest of finance, profiting by a miracle in which he did not himself believe, and, in addition to the responsibility of the uses to which he applied the money, incurring that of the fiscal imposture by which he raised it. though, from the prosperous state of the revenue at the time of the institution of this fund, the absurdity was not yet committed of borrowing money to maintain it, we may perceive by the following acute pleasantry of mr. sheridan, (who denied the existence of the alleged surplus of income,) that he already had a keen insight into the fallacy of that plan of redemption afterwards followed:--"at present," he said, "it was clear there was no surplus; and the only means which suggested themselves to him were, a loan of a million for the especial purpose-- for the right honorable gentleman might say, with the person in the comedy, '_if you won't lend me the money, how can i pay you?_'" chapter x. charges against mr. hastings.--commercial treaty with france.--debts of the prince of wales. the calm security into which mr. pitt's administration had settled, after the victory which the tory alliance of king and people had gained for him, left but little to excite the activity of party spirit, or to call forth those grand explosions of eloquence, which a more electric state of the political world produces. the orators of opposition might soon have been reduced, like philoetetes wasting his arrows upon geese at lemnos, [footnote: _"pinnigero, non armigero in corpore tela exerceantur."--accius, ap. ciceron._ lib. vii. ep. .] to expend the armory of their wit upon the grahams and rolles of the treasury bench. but a subject now presented itself--the impeachment of warren hastings-- which, by embodying the cause of a whole country in one individual, and thus combining the extent and grandeur of a national question, with the direct aim and singleness of a personal attack, opened as wide a field for display as the most versatile talents could require, and to mr. sheridan, in particular, afforded one of those precious opportunities, of which, if fortune but rarely offers them to genius, it is genius alone that can fully and triumphantly avail itself. the history of the rise and progress of british power in india--of that strange and rapid vicissitude, by which the ancient empire of the moguls was transferred into the hands of a company of merchants in leadenhall street--furnishes matter perhaps more than any other that could be mentioned, for those strong contrasts and startling associations, to which eloquence and wit often owe their most striking effects. the descendants of a throne, once the loftiest in the world, reduced to stipulate with the servants of traders for subsistence--the dethronement of princes converted into a commercial transaction, and a ledger-account kept of the profits of revolutions--the sanctity of zenanus violated by search-warrants, and the chicaneries of english law transplanted, in their most mischievous luxuriance, into the holy and peaceful shades of the bramins,--such events as these, in which the poetry and the prose of life, its pompous illusions and mean realities, are mingled up so sadly and fantastically together, were of a nature, particularly when recent, to lay hold of the imagination as well as the feelings, and to furnish eloquence with those strong lights and shadows, of which her most animated pictures are composed. it is not wonderful, therefore, that the warm fancy of mr. burke should have been early and strongly excited by the scenes of which india was the theatre, or that they should have (to use his own words) "constantly preyed upon his peace, and by night and day dwelt on his imagination." his imagination, indeed,--as will naturally happen, where this faculty is restrained by a sense of truth--was always most livelily called into play by events of which he had not himself been a witness; and, accordingly, the sufferings of india and the horrors of revolutionary france were the two subjects upon which it has most unrestrainedly indulged itself. in the year he had been a member of the select committee, which was appointed by the house of commons to take the affairs of india into consideration, and through some of whose luminous reports we trace that powerful intellect, which "stamped an image of itself" on every subject that it embraced. though the reign of clive had been sufficiently fertile in enormities, and the treachery practised towards ornichund seemed hardly to admit of any parallel, yet the loftier and more prominent iniquities of mr. hastings's government were supposed to have thrown even these into shadow. against him, therefore, --now rendered a still nobler object of attack by the haughty spirit with which he defied his accusers,--the whole studies and energies of mr. burke's mind were directed. it has already been remarked that to the impetuous zeal, with which burke at this period rushed into indian politics, and to that ascendancy over his party by which he so often compelled them to "swell with their tributary urns his flood," the ill-fated east india bill of mr. fox in a considerable degree owed its origin. in truth, the disposition and talents of this extraordinary man made him at least as dangerous as useful to any party with which he connected himself. liable as he was to be hurried into unsafe extremes, impatient of contradiction, and with a sort of _feudal_ turn of mind, which exacted the unconditional service of his followers, it required, even at that time, but little penetration to foresee the violent schism that ensued some years after, or to pronounce that, whenever he should be unable to command his party, he would desert it. the materials which he had been collecting on the subject of india, and the indignation with which these details of delinquency had filled him, at length burst forth (like that mighty cloud, described by himself as "pouring its whole contents over the plains of the carnatic") in his wonderful speech on the nabob of arcot's debts [footnote: isocrates, in his encomium upon helen, dwells much on the advantage to an orator of speaking upon subjects from which but little eloquence is expected-- [greek: pezi ton phaulon chai tapeinon]. there is little doubt, indeed, that _surprise_ must have considerable share in the pleasure, which we derive from eloquence on such unpromising topics as have inspired three of the most masterly speeches that can be selected from modern oratory--that of burke on the nabob of arcot's debts--of grattan on tithes, and of mr. fox on the westminster scrutiny.]--a speech, whose only rivals perhaps in all the records of oratory, are to be found among three or four others of his own, which, like those poems of petrarch called _sorelle_ from their kindred excellence, may be regarded as sisters in beauty, and equalled only by each other. though the charges against mr. hastings had long been threatened, it was not till the present year that mr. burke brought them formally forward. he had been, indeed, defied to this issue by the friends of the governor-general, whose reliance, however, upon the sympathy and support of the ministry (accorded, as a matter of course, to most state delinquents) was, in this instance, contrary to all calculation, disappointed. mr. pitt, at the commencement of the proceedings, had shown strong indications of an intention to take the cause of the governor-general under his protection. mr. dundas, too, had exhibited one of those convenient changes of opinion, by which such statesmen can accommodate themselves to the passing hue of the treasury-bench, as naturally as the eastern insect does to the color of the leaf on which it feeds. though one of the earliest and most active denouncers of indian mis-government, and even the mover of those strong resolutions in [footnote: in introducing the resolutions he said, that "he was urged to take this step by an account, which had lately arrived from india, of an act of the most flagrant violence and oppression and of the grossest breach of faith, committed by mr. hastings against cheyte sing, the raja of benares."] on which some of the chief charges of the present prosecution were founded, he now, throughout the whole of the opening scenes of the impeachment, did not scruple to stand forth as the warm eulogist of mr. hastings, and to endeavor by a display of the successes of his administration to dazzle away attention from its violence and injustice. this tone, however, did not long continue:--in the midst of the anticipated triumph of mr. hastings, the minister suddenly "changed his hand, and checked his pride." on the occasion of the benares charge, brought forward in the house of commons by mr. fox, a majority was, for the first time, thrown into the scale of the accusation; and the abuse that was in consequence showered upon mr. pitt and mr. dundas, through every channel of the press, by the friends of mr. hastings, showed how wholly unexpected, as well as mortifying, was the desertion. as but little credit was allowed to conviction in this change, it being difficult to believe that a minister should come to the discussion of such a question, so lightly ballasted with opinions of his own as to be thrown from his equilibrium by the first wave of argument he encountered,--various statements and conjectures were, at the time, brought forward to account for it. jealousy of the great and increasing influence of mr. hastings at court was, in general, the motive assigned for the conduct of the minister. it was even believed that a wish expressed by the king, to have his new favorite appointed president of the board of control, was what decided mr. pitt to extinguish, by cooperating with the opposition, every chance of a rivalry, which might prove troublesome, if not dangerous, to his power. there is no doubt that the arraigned ruler of india was honored at this period with the distinguished notice of the court--partly, perhaps, from admiration of his proficiency in that mode of governing, to which all courts are, more or less, instinctively inclined, and partly from a strong distaste to those who were his accusers, which would have been sufficient to recommend any person or measure to which they were opposed. but whether mr. pitt, in the part which he now took, was actuated merely by personal motives, or (as his eulogists represent) by a strong sense of impartiality and justice, he must at all events have considered the whole proceeding, at this moment, as a most seasonable diversion of the attacks of the opposition, from his own person and government to an object so little connected with either. the many restless and powerful spirits now opposed to him would soon have found, or made, some vent for their energies, more likely to endanger the stability of his power;-- and, as an expedient for drawing off some of that perilous lightning, which flashed around him from the lips of a burke, a fox, and a sheridan, the prosecution of a great criminal like mr. hastings furnished as efficient a conductor as could be desired. still, however, notwithstanding the accession of the minister, and the impulse given by the majorities which he commanded, the projected impeachment was but tardy and feeble in its movements, and neither the house nor the public went cordially along with it. great talents, united to great power--even when, as in the instance of mr. hastings, abused-- is a combination before which men are inclined to bow implicitly. the iniquities, too, of indian rulers were of that gigantic kind, which seemed to outgrow censure, and even, in some degree, challenge admiration. in addition to all this, mr. hastings had been successful; and success but too often throws a charm round injustice, like the dazzle of the necromancer's shield in ariosto, before which every one falls _"con gli occhi abbacinati, e senza mente."_ the feelings, therefore, of the public were, at the outset of the prosecution, rather for than against the supposed delinquent. nor was this tendency counteracted by any very partial leaning towards his accusers. mr. fox had hardly yet recovered his defeat on the india bill, or--what had been still more fatal to him--his victory in the coalition. mr. burke, in spite of his great talents and zeal, was by no means popular. there was a tone of dictatorship in his public demeanor against which men naturally rebelled; and the impetuosity and passion with which he flung himself into every favorite subject, showed a want of self- government but little calculated to inspire respect. even his eloquence, various and splendid as it was, failed in general to win or command the attention of his hearers, and, in this great essential of public speaking, must be considered inferior to that ordinary, but practical, kind of oratory, [footnote: "whoever, upon comparison, is deemed by a common audience the greatest orator, ought most certainly to be pronounced such by men of science and erudition."--_hume_, essay .] which reaps its harvest at the moment of delivery, and is afterwards remembered less for itself than its effects. there was a something--which those who have but read him can with difficulty conceive--that marred the impression of his most sublime and glowing displays. in vain did his genius put forth its superb plumage, glittering all over with the hundred eyes of fancy--the gait of the bird was heavy and awkward, and its voice seemed rather to scare than attract. accordingly, many of those masterly discourses, which, in their present form, may proudly challenge comparison with all the written eloquence upon record, were, at the time when they were pronounced, either coldly listened to, or only welcomed as a signal and excuse for not listening at all. to such a length was this indifference carried, that, on the evening when he delivered his great speech on the nabob of arcot's debts, so faint was the impression it produced upon the house, that mr. pitt and lord grenville, as i have heard, not only consulted with each other as to whether it was necessary they should take the trouble of answering it, but decided in the negative. yet doubtless, at the present moment, if lord grenville--master as he is of all the knowledge that belongs to a statesman and a scholar--were asked to point out from the stores of his reading the few models of oratorical composition, to the perusal of which he could most frequently, and with unwearied admiration, return, this slighted and unanswered speech would be among the number. from all these combining circumstances it arose that the prosecution of mr. hastings, even after the accession of the minister, excited but a slight and wavering interest; and, without some extraordinary appeal to the sympathies of the house and the country--some startling touch to the chord of public feeling--it was questionable whether the inquiry would not end as abortively as all the other indian inquests [footnote: namely, the fruitless prosecution of lord clive by general burgoyne, the trifling verdict upon the persons who had imprisoned lord pigot, and the bill of pains and penalties against sir thomas rumbold, finally withdrawn.] that had preceded it. in this state of the proceeding, mr. sheridan brought forward, on the th of february, in the house of commons, the charge relative to the begum princesses of oude, and delivered that celebrated speech, whose effect upon its hearers has no parallel in the annals of ancient or modern eloquence. [footnote: mr. burke declared it to be "the most astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit united, of which there was any record or tradition." mr. fox said, "all that he had ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it, dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapor before the sun,"--and mr. pitt acknowledged "that it surpassed all the eloquence of ancient and modern times, and possessed every thing that genius or art could furnish, to agitate and control the human mind." there were several other tributes, of a less distinguished kind, of which i find the following account in the annual register-- "sir william dolben immediately moved an adjournment of the debate, confessing, that, in the state of mind in which mr. sheridan's speech had left him, it was impossible for him to give a determinate opinion. mr. stanhope seconded the motion. when he had entered the house, he was not ashamed to acknowledge, that his opinion inclined to the side of mr. hastings. but such had been the wonderful efficacy of mr. sheridan's convincing detail of facts, and irresistible eloquence, that he could not but say that his sentiments were materially changed. nothing, indeed, but information almost equal to a miracle, could determine him not to vote for the charge; but he had just felt the influence of such a miracle, and he could not but ardently desire to avoid an immediate decision. mr. mathew montague confessed, that he had felt a similar revolution of sentiment."] when we recollect the men by whom the house of commons was at that day adorned, and the conflict of high passions and interests in which they had been so lately engaged;--when we see them all, of all parties, brought (as mr. pitt expressed it) "under the wand of the enchanter," and only vying with each other in their description of the fascination by which they were bound;--when we call to mind, too, that he, whom the first statesmen of the age thus lauded, had but lately descended among them from a more aerial region of intellect, bringing trophies falsely supposed to be incompatible with political prowess;--it is impossible to imagine a moment of more entire and intoxicating triumph. the only alloy that could mingle with such complete success must be the fear that it was too perfect ever to come again;--that his fame had then reached the meridian point, and from that consummate moment must date its decline. of this remarkable speech there exists no report;--for it would be absurd to dignify with that appellation the meagre and lifeless sketch, the _tenuem sine viribus umbram in faciem aenae,_ which is given in the annual registers and parliamentary debates. its fame, therefore, remains like an empty shrine--a cenotaph still crowned and honored, though the inmate is wanting. mr. sheridan was frequently urged to furnish a report himself, and from his habit of preparing and writing out his speeches, there is little doubt that he could have accomplished such a task without much difficulty. but, whether from indolence or design, he contented himself with leaving to imagination, which, in most cases, he knew, transcends reality, the task of justifying his eulogists, and perpetuating the tradition of their praise. nor, in doing thus, did he act perhaps unwisely for his fame. we may now indulge in dreams of the eloquence that could produce such effects, [footnote: the following anecdote is given as a proof of the irresistible power of this speech in a note upon mr. bisset's history of the reign of george iii.:-- "the late mr. logan, well known for his literary efforts, and author of a most masterly defence of mr. hastings, went that day to the house of commons, prepossessed for the accused and against his accuser. at the expiration of the first hour he said to a friend, 'all this is declamatory assertion without proof:'--when the second was finished, 'this is a most wonderful oration:'--at the close of the third, 'mr. hastings has acted very unjustifiably:'--the fourth, 'mr. hastings is a most atrocious criminal;'--and, at last, 'of all monsters of iniquity the most enormous is warren hastings!'"] as we do of the music of the ancients and the miraculous powers attributed to it, with as little risk of having our fancies chilled by the perusal of the one, as there is of our faith being disenchanted by hearing a single strain of the other. after saying thus much, it may seem a sort of wilful profanation, to turn to the spiritless abstract of this speech, which is to be found in all the professed reports of parliamentary oratory, and which stands, like one of those half-clothed mummies in the sicilian vaults, with, here and there, a fragment of rhetorical drapery, to give an appearance of life to its marrowless frame. there is, however, one passage so strongly marked with the characteristics of mr. sheridan's talent--of his vigorous use of the edge of the blade, with his too frequent display of the glitter of the point--that it may be looked upon as a pretty faithful representation of what he spoke, and claim a place among the authentic specimens of his oratory. adverting to some of those admirers of mr. hastings, who were not so implicit in their partiality as to give unqualified applause to his crimes, but found an excuse for their atrocity in the greatness of his mind, he thus proceeds:-- "to estimate the solidity of such a defence, it would be sufficient merely to consider in what consisted this prepossessing distinction, this captivating characteristic of greatness of mind. is it not solely to be traced in great actions directed to great ends? in them, and them alone, we are to search for true estimable magnanimity. to them only can we justly affix the splendid title and honors of real greatness. there was indeed another species of greatness, which displayed itself in boldly conceiving a bad measure, and undauntedly pursuing it to its accomplishment. but had mr. hastings the merit of exhibiting either of these descriptions of greatness,--even of the latter? he saw nothing great--nothing magnanimous--nothing open--nothing direct in his measures, or in his mind. on the contrary, he had too often pursued the worst objects by the worst means. his course was an eternal deviation from rectitude. he either tyrannized or deceived; and was by turns a dionysius and a scapin. [footnote: the spirit of this observation has been well condensed in the compound name given by the abbe de pradt to napoleon--"jupiter scapin."] as well might the writhing obliquity of the serpent be compared to the swift directness of the arrow, as the duplicity of mr. hastings's ambition to the simple steadiness of genuine magnanimity. in his mind all was shuffling, ambiguous, dark, insidious, and little: nothing simple, nothing unmixed: all affected plainness, and actual dissimulation; a heterogeneous mass of contradictory qualities; with nothing great but his crimes; and even those contrasted by the littleness of his motives, which at once denoted both his baseness and his meanness, and marked him for a traitor and a trickster. nay, in his style and writing there was the same mixture of vicious contrarieties;-- the most grovelling ideas were conveyed in the most inflated language, giving mock consequence to low cavils, and uttering quibbles in heroics; so that his compositions disgusted the mind's taste, as much as his actions excited the soul's abhorrence. indeed this mixture of character seemed, by some unaccountable but inherent quality, to be appropriated, though in inferior degrees, to everything that concerned his employers. he remembered to have heard an honorable and learned gentleman (mr. dundas) remark, that there was something in the first frame and constitution of the company, which extended the sordid principles of their origin over all their successive operations; connecting with their civil policy, and even with their boldest achievements, the meanness of a pedlar and the profligacy of pirates. alike in the political and the military line could be observed _auctioneering ambassadors_ and _trading generals_;--and thus we saw a revolution brought about by _affidavits_; an army employed in _executing an arrest_; a town besieged on _a note of hand_; a prince dethroned for the _balance of an account_. thus it was they exhibited a government, which united the mock majesty of a bloody sceptre, and the little _traffic of a merchant's counting-house_, wielding a truncheon with one hand, and _picking a pocket with the other_." the effect of this speech, added to the line taken by the minister, turned the balance against hastings, and decided the impeachment. congratulations on his success poured in upon mr. sheridan, as may be supposed, from all quarters; and the letters that he received from his own family on the occasion were preserved by him carefully and fondly through life. the following extract from one written by charles sheridan is highly honorable to both brothers:-- "dublin castle, th february, . "my dear dick, "could i for a moment forget you were my brother, i should, merely as an irishman, think myself bound to thank you, for the high credit you have done your country. you may be assured, therefore, that the sense of national pride, which i in common with all your countrymen on this side of the water must feel on this splendid occasion, acquires no small increase of personal satisfaction, when i reflect to whom ireland is indebted, for a display of ability so unequalled, that the honor derived from it seems too extensive to be concentred in an individual, but ought to give, and i am persuaded will give, a new respect for the name of irishman. i have heard and read the accounts of your speech, and of the astonishing impression it made, with tears of exultation--but what will flatter you more--i can solemnly declare it to be a fact, that i have, since the news reached us, seen good honest _irish_ pride, national pride i mean, bring tears into the eyes of many persons, on this occasion, who never saw you. i need not, after what i have stated, assure you, that it is with the most heartfelt satisfaction that i offer you my warmest congratulations...." the following is from his eldest sister, mrs. joseph lefanu:-- " th february, . "my dear brother, "the day before yesterday i received the account of your glorious speech. mr. crauford was so good as to write a more particular and satisfactory one to mr. lefanu than we could have received from the papers. i have watched the first interval of ease from a cruel and almost incessant headache to give vent to my feelings, and tell you how much i rejoice in your success. may it be entire! may the god who fashioned you, and gave you powers to sway the hearts of men and control their wayward wills, be equally favorable to you in all your undertakings, and make your reward here and hereafter! amen, from the bottom of my soul! my affection for you has been ever 'passing the love of women.' adverse circumstances have deprived me of the pleasure of your society, but have had no effect in weakening my regard for you. i know your heart too well to suppose that regard is indifferent to you, and soothingly sweet to me is the idea that in some pause of thought from the important matters that occupy your mind, your earliest friend is sometimes recollected by you. "i know you are much above the little vanity that seeks its gratification in the praises of the million, but you must be pleased with the applause of the discerning,--with the tribute i may say of affection paid to the goodness of your heart. people love your character as much as they admire your talents. my father is, in a degree that i did not expect, gratified with the general attention you have excited here: he seems truly pleased that men should say, 'there goes the father of gaul.' if your fame has shed a ray of brightness over all so distinguished as to be connected with you, i am sure i may say it has infused a ray of gladness into my heart, deprest as it has been with ill health and long confinement...." there is also another letter from this lady, of the same date, to mrs. sheridan, which begins thus enthusiastically:-- "my dear sheri. "nothing but death could keep me silent on such an occasion as this. i wish you joy--i am sure you feel it: 'oh moments worth whole ages past, and all that are to come.' you may laugh at my enthusiasm if you please --i glory in it...." in the month of april following, mr. sheridan opened the seventh charge, which accused hastings of corruption, in receiving bribes and presents. the orator was here again lucky in having a branch of the case allotted to him, which, though by no means so susceptible of the ornaments of eloquence as the former, had the advantage of being equally borne out by testimony, and formed one of the most decided features of the cause. the avidity, indeed, with which hastings exacted presents, and then concealed them as long as there was a chance of his being able to appropriate them to himself, gave a mean and ordinary air to iniquities, whose magnitude would otherwise have rendered them imposing, if not grand. the circumstances, under which the present from cheyte sing was extorted shall be related when i come to speak of the great speech in westminster hall. the other strong cases of corruption, on which mr. sheridan now dwelt, were the sums given by the munny begum (in return for her appointment to a trust for which, it appears, she was unfit), both to hastings himself and his useful agent, middleton. this charge, as far as regards the latter, was never denied--and the suspicious lengths to which the governor-general went, in not only refusing all inquiry into his own share of the transaction, but having his accuser, nuncomar, silenced by an unjust sentence of death, render his acquittal on this charge such a stretch of charity, as nothing but a total ignorance of the evidence and all its bearings can justify. the following passage, with which sheridan wound up his speech on this occasion, is as strong an example as can be adduced of that worst sort of florid style, which prolongs metaphor into allegory, and, instead of giving in a single sentence the essence of many flowers, spreads the flowers themselves, in crude heaps, over a whole paragraph:-- "in conclusion (he observed), that, although within this rank, but infinitely too fruitful wilderness of iniquities--within this dismal and unhallowed labyrinth--it was most natural to cast an eye of indignation and concern over the wide and towering forest of enormities--all rising in the dusky magnificence of guilt; and to fix the dreadfully excited attention upon the huge trunks of revenge, rapine, tyranny, and oppression; yet it became not less necessary to trace out the poisonous weeds, the baleful brushwood, and all the little, creeping, deadly plants, which were, in quantity and extent, if possible, more noxious. the whole range of this far-spreading calamity was sown in the hot-bed of corruption; and had risen, by rapid and mature growth, into every species of illegal and atrocious violence." at the commencement of the proceedings against hastings, an occurrence, immediately connected with them, had brought sheridan and his early friend halhed together, under circumstances as different as well can be imagined from those under which they had parted as boys. the distance, indeed, that had separated them in the interval was hardly greater than the divergence that had taken place in their pursuits; for, while sheridan had been converted into a senator and statesman, the lively halhed had become an east indian judge, and a learned commentator on the gentoo laws. upon the subject, too, on which they now met, their views and interests were wholly opposite,--sheridan being the accuser of hastings, and halhed his friend. the following are the public circumstances that led to their interview. in one of the earliest debates on the charges against the governor- general, major scott having asserted that, when mr. fox was preparing his india bill, overtures of accommodation had been made, by his authority, to mr. hastings, added, that he (major scott) "entertained no doubt that, had mr. hastings then come home, he would have heard nothing of all this calumny, and all these serious accusations." mr. fox, whom this charge evidently took by surprise, replied that he was wholly ignorant of any such overtures, and that "whoever made, or even hinted at such an offer, as coming from him, did it without the smallest shadow of authority." by an explanation, a few days after, from mr. sheridan, it appeared that he was the person who had taken the step alluded to by major scott. his interference, however, he said, was solely founded upon an opinion which he had himself formed with respect to the india bill,-- namely, that it would be wiser, on grounds of expediency, not to make it retrospective in any of its clauses. in consequence of this opinion, he had certainly commissioned a friend to inquire of major scott, whether, if mr. hastings were recalled, he would come home;--but "that there had been the most distant idea of bartering with mr. hastings for his support of the indian bill, he utterly denied." in conclusion, he referred, for the truth of what he had now stated, to major scott, who instantly rising, acknowledged that, from inquiries which he had since made of the gentleman deputed to him by mr. sheridan on the occasion, he was ready to bear testimony to the fairness of the statement just submitted to the house, and to admit his own mistake in the interpretation which he had put on the transaction. it was in relation to this misunderstanding that the interview took place in the year between sheridan and halhed--the other persons present being major scott and doctor parr, from whom i heard the circumstance. the feelings of this venerable scholar towards "iste scotus" (as he calls major scott in his preface to bellendenus) were not, it is well known, of the most favorable kind; and he took the opportunity of this interview to tell that gentleman fully what he thought of him:--"for ten minutes," said the doctor, in describing his aggression, "i poured out upon him hot, scalding abuse--'twas lava, sir!" among the other questions that occupied the attention of mr. sheridan during this session, the most important were the commercial treaty with france, and the debts of the prince of wales. the same erroneous views by which the opposition to the irish commercial propositions was directed, still continued to actuate mr. fox and his friends in their pertinacious resistance to the treaty with france;--a measure which reflects high honor upon the memory of mr. pitt, as one of the first efforts of a sound and liberal policy to break through that system of restriction and interference, which had so long embarrassed the flow of international commerce. the wisdom of leaving trade to find its own way into those channels which the reciprocity of wants established among mankind opens to it, is one of those obvious truths that have lain long on the highways of knowledge, before practical statesmen would condescend to pick them up. it has been shown, indeed, that the sound principles of commerce which have at last forced their way from the pages of thinking men into the councils of legislators, were more than a hundred years since promulgated by sir dudley north; [footnote: mcculloch's lectures on political economy]--and in the querist of bishop berkeley may be found the outlines of all that the best friends not only of free trade but of free religion would recommend to the rulers of ireland at the present day. thus frequently does truth, before the drowsy world is prepared for her, like "the nice morn on the indian steep, from her cabin'd loophole peep." though mr. sheridan spoke frequently in the course of the discussions, he does not appear to have, at any time, encountered the main body of the question, but to have confined himself chiefly to a consideration of the effects which the treaty would have upon the interests of ireland;-- a point which he urged with so much earnestness, as to draw down upon him from one of the speakers the taunting designation of "self-appointed representative of ireland." mr. fox was the most active antagonist of the treaty; and his speeches on the subject may be counted among those feats of prowess, with which the chivalry of genius sometimes adorns the cause of error. in founding, as he did, his chief argument against commercial intercourse upon the "natural enmity" between the two countries, he might have referred, it is true, to high whig authority:--"the late lord oxford told me," says lord bolingbroke, "that my lord somers being pressed, i know not on what occasion or by whom, on the unnecessary and ruinous continuation of the war, instead of giving reasons to show the necessity of it, contented himself to reply that he had been bred up in a hatred to france."--but no authority, however high, can promote a prejudice into a reason, or conciliate any respect for this sort of vague, traditional hostility, which is often obliged to seek its own justification in the very mischiefs which itself produces. if mr. fox ever happened to peruse the praises, which his _antigallican_ sentiments on this occasion procured for him, from the tedious biographer of his rival, mr. gifford, he would have suspected, like phocion, that he must have spoken something unworthy of himself, to have drawn down upon his head a panegyric from such a quarter. another of mr. fox's arguments against entering into commercial relations with france, was the danger lest english merchants, by investing their capital in foreign speculations, should become so entangled with the interests of another country as to render them less jealous than they ought to be of the honor of their own, and less ready to rise in its defence, when wronged or insulted. but, assuredly, a want of pugnacity is not the evil to be dreaded among nations--still less between two, whom the orator had just represented as inspired by a "natural enmity" against each other. he ought rather, upon this assumption, to have welcomed the prospect of a connection, which, by transfusing and blending their commercial interests, and giving each a stake in the prosperity of the other, would not only soften away the animal antipathy attributed to them, but, by enlisting selfishness on the side of peace and amity, afford the best guarantee against wanton warfare, that the wisdom of statesmen or philosophers has yet devised. mr. burke, in affecting to consider the question in an enlarged point of view, fell equally short of its real dimensions; and even descended to the weakness of ridiculing such commercial arrangements, as unworthy altogether of the contemplation of the higher order of statesmen. "the right honorable gentleman," he said, "had talked of the treaty as if it were the affair of two little counting-houses, and not of two great countries. he seemed to consider it as a contention between the sign of the fleur-de-lis, and the sign of the red lion, which house should obtain the best custom. such paltry considerations were below his notice." in such terms could burke, from temper or waywardness of judgment, attempt to depreciate a speech which may be said to have contained the first luminous statement of the principles of commerce, with the most judicious views of their application to details, that had ever, at that period, been presented to the house. the wise and enlightened opinions of mr. pitt, both with respect to trade, and another very different subject of legislation, religion, would have been far more worthy of the imitation of some of his self- styled followers, than those errors which they are so glad to shelter under the sanction of his name. for encroachments upon the property and liberty of the subject, for financial waste and unconstitutional severity, they have the precedent of their great master ever ready on their lips. but, in all that would require wisdom and liberality in his copyists--in the repugnance he felt to restrictions and exclusions, affecting either the worldly commerce of man with man, or the spiritual intercourse of man with his god,--in all this, like the indian that quarrels with his idol, these pretended followers not only dissent from their prototype themselves, but violently denounce, as mischievous, his opinions when adopted by others. in attributing to party feelings the wrong views entertained by the opposition on this question, we should but defend their sagacity at the expense of their candor; and the cordiality, indeed, with which they came forward this year to praise the spirited part taken by the minister in the affairs of holland--even allowing that it would be difficult for whigs not to concur in a measure so national--sufficiently acquits them of any such perverse spirit of party, as would, for the mere sake of opposition, go wrong because the minister was right. to the sincerity of one of their objections to the treaty--namely, that it was a design, on the part of france, to detach england, by the temptation of a mercantile advantage, from her ancient alliance with holland and her other continental connections--mr. burke bore testimony, as far as himself was concerned, by repeating the same opinions, after an interval of ten years, in his testamentary work, the "letters on a regicide peace." the other important question which i have mentioned as engaging, during the session of , the attention of mr. sheridan, was the application to parliament for the payment of the prince of wales's debts. the embarrassments of the heir apparent were but a natural consequence of his situation; and a little more graciousness and promptitude on the part of the king, in interposing to relieve his royal highness from the difficulties under which he labored, would have afforded a chance of detaching him from his new political associates, of which, however the affection of the royal parent may have slumbered, it is strange that his sagacity did not hasten to avail itself. a contrary system, however, was adopted. the haughty indifference both of the monarch and his minister threw the prince entirely on the sympathy of the opposition. mr. pitt identified himself with the obstinacy of the father, while mr. fox and the opposition committed themselves with the irregularities of the son; and the proceedings of both parties were such as might have been expected from their respective connections--the royal mark was but too visible upon each. one evil consequence, that was on the point of resulting from the embarrassed situation in which the prince now found himself, was his acceptance of a loan which the duke of orleans had proffered him, and which would have had the perilous tendency of placing the future sovereign of england in a state of dependence, as creditor, on a prince of france. that the negotiations in this extraordinary transaction had proceeded farther than is generally supposed, will appear from the following letters of the duke of portland to sheridan:-- "sunday noon, dec. "dear sheridan, "since i saw you i have received a confirmation of the intelligence which was the subject of our conversation. the particulars varied in no respect from those i related to you--except in the addition of a pension, which is to take place immediately on the event which entitles the creditors to payment, and is to be granted for life to a nominee of the d. of o----s. the loan was mentioned in a mixed company by two of the frenchwomen and a frenchman (none of whose names i know) in _calonne's_ presence, who interrupted them, by asking, how they came to know any thing of the matter, then set them right in two or three particulars which they had misstated, and afterwards begged them, for god's sake, not to talk of it, because it might be their complete ruin. "i am going to bulstrode--but will return at a moment's notice, if i can be of the least use in getting rid of this odious engagement, or preventing its being entered into, if it should not be yet completed. "yours ever, "p." "dear sheridan, "i think myself much obliged to you for what you have done. i hope i am not too sanguine in looking to a good conclusion of this bad business. i will certainly be in town by two o'clock. "yours ever, "p." "bulstrode, monday, . dec. " a. m." mr. sheridan, who was now high in the confidence of the prince, had twice, in the course of the year , taken occasion to allude publicly to the embarrassments of his royal highness. indeed, the decisive measure which this illustrious person himself had adopted, in reducing his establishment and devoting a part of his income to the discharge of his debts, sufficiently proclaimed the true state of affairs to the public. still, however, the strange policy was persevered in, of adding the discontent of the heir-apparent to the other weapons in the hands of the opposition;--and, as might be expected, they were not tardy in turning it to account. in the spring of , the embarrassed state of his royal highness's affairs was brought formally under the notice of parliament by alderman newenham. during one of the discussions to which the subject gave rise, mr. rolle, the member for devonshire, a strong adherent of the ministry, in deprecating the question about to be agitated, affirmed that "it went immediately to affect our constitution in church and state." in these solemn words it was well understood, that he alluded to a report at that time generally believed, and, indeed, acted upon by many in the etiquette of private life, that a marriage had been solemnized between the prince of wales and mrs. fitzherbert--a lady of the roman catholic persuasion, who, with more danger to her own peace than to that of either church or state, had for some time been the distinguished object of his royal highness's affection. even had an alliance of this description taken place, the provisions of the royal marriage act would have nullified it into a mere ceremony, inefficient, as it was supposed, for any other purpose than that of satisfying the scruples of one of the parties. but that dread of popery, which in england starts at its own shadow, took alarm at the consequences of an intercourse so heterodox; and it became necessary, in the opinion of the prince and his friends, to put an end to the apprehensions that were abroad on the subject. nor can it be denied that, in the minds of those who believed that the marriage had been actually solemnized, [footnote: home tooke, in his insidious pamphlet on the subject, presumed so far on this belief as to call mrs. fitzherbert "her royal highness."] there were, in one point of view, very sufficient grounds of alarm. by the statute of william and mary, commonly called the bill of rights, it is enacted, among other causes of exclusion from the throne, that "every person who shall marry a papist shall be excluded and for ever be incapable to inherit the crown of this realm."--in such cases (adds this truly revolutionary act) "the people of these realms shall be and are hereby absolved of their allegiance." under this act, which was confirmed by the act of settlement, it is evident that the heir-apparent would, by such a marriage as was now attributed to him, have forfeited his right of succession to the throne. from so serious a penalty, however, it was generally supposed, he would have been exempted by the operation of the royal marriage act ( george iii.), which rendered null and void any marriage contracted by any descendant of george ii. without the previous consent of the king, or a twelve months' notice given to the privy council. that this act would have nullified the alleged marriage of the prince of wales there is, of course, no doubt;--but that it would also have exempted him from the forfeiture incurred by marriage with a papist, is a point which, in the minds of many, still remains a question. there are, it is well known, analogous cases in law, where the nullity of an illegal transaction does not do away the penalty attached to it. [footnote: thus, a man, by contracting a second marriage, pending the first marriage, commits a felony; and the crime, according to its legal description, consists in marrying, or contracting a marriage--though what he does is no more a marriage than that of the heir-apparent would be under the circumstances in question. the same principle, it appears, runs through the whole law of entails both in england and scotland, and a variety of cases might be cited, in which, though the act done is void, yet the doing of it creates a forfeiture.] to persons, therefore, who believed that the actual solemnization of the marriage could be proved by witnesses present at the ceremony, this view of the case, which seemed to promise an interruption of the succession, could not fail to suggest some disquieting apprehensions and speculations, which nothing short, it was thought, of a public and authentic disavowal of the marriage altogether would be able effectually to allay. if in politics princes are unsafe allies, in connections of a tenderer nature they are still more perilous partners; and a triumph over a royal lover is dearly bought by the various risks and humiliations which accompany it. not only is a lower standard of constancy applied to persons of that rank, but when once love-affairs are converted into matters of state, there is an end to all the delicacy and mystery that ought to encircle them. the disavowal of a royal marriage in the gazette would have been no novelty in english history; [footnote: see, in ellis's letters of history, vol. iii. the declarations of charles ii. with respect to his marriage with "one mrs. walters," signed by himself and published in the london gazette.] and the disclaimer, on the present occasion, though intrusted to a less official medium, was equally public, strong, and unceremonious. mr. fox, who had not been present in the house of commons when the member for devonshire alluded to the circumstance, took occasion, on the next discussion of the question, and, as he declared, with the immediate authority of the prince, to contradict the report of the marriage in the fullest and most unqualified terms:--it was, he said, "a miserable calumny, a low malicious falsehood, which had been propagated without doors, and made the wanton sport of the vulgar;--a tale, fit only to impose upon the lowest orders, a monstrous invention, a report of a fact which had not the smallest degree of foundation, actually impossible to have happened." to an observation from mr. rolle that "they all knew there was an act of parliament which forbade such a marriage; but that, though it could not be done under the formal sanction of the law, there were ways in which it might have taken place, and in which that law, in the minds of some persons, might have been satisfactorily evaded,"--mr. fox replied, that--"he did not deny the calumny in question merely with regard to certain existing laws, but that he denied it _in toto_, in point of fact as well as of law:--it not only never could have happened legally, but it never did happen in any way whatsoever, and had from the beginning been a base and malicious falsehood." though mr. rolle, from either obstinacy or real distrust, refused, in spite of the repeated calls of mr. sheridan and mr. grey, to declare himself satisfied with this declaration, it was felt by the minister to be at least sufficiently explicit and decisive, to leave him no further pretext in the eyes of the public, for refusing the relief which the situation of the prince required. accordingly a message from the crown on the subject of his royal highness's debts was followed by an addition to his income of l , yearly out of the civil list; an issue of l , from the same source, for the discharge of his debts, and l , on account of the works at carlton house. in the same proportion that this authorized declaration was successful in satisfying the public mind, it must naturally have been painful and humiliating to the person whose honor was involved in it. the immediate consequence of this feeling was a breach between that person and mr. fox, which, notwithstanding the continuance, for so many years after, of the attachment of both to the same illustrious object, remained, it is understood, unreconciled to the last. if, in the first movement of sympathy with the pain excited in that quarter, a retractation of this public disavowal was thought of, the impossibility of finding any creditable medium through which to convey it, must soon have suggested itself to check the intention. some middle course, however, it was thought, might be adopted, which, without going the full length of retracting, might tend at least to unsettle the impression left upon the public, and, in some degree, retrieve that loss of station, which a disclaimer, coming in such an authentic shape, had entailed. to ask mr. fox to discredit his own statement was impossible. an application was, therefore, made to a young member of the party, who was then fast rising into the eminence which he has since so nobly sustained, and whose answer to the proposal is said to have betrayed some of that unaccommodating highmindedness, which, in more than one collision with royalty, has proved him but an unfit adjunct to a court. the reply to his refusal was, "then i must get sheridan to say something;"--and hence, it seems, was the origin of those few dexterously unmeaning compliments, with which the latter, when the motion of alderman newenham was withdrawn, endeavored, without in the least degree weakening the declaration of mr. fox, to restore that equilibrium of temper and self-esteem, which such a sacrifice of gallantry to expediency had naturally disturbed. in alluding to the offer of the prince, through mr. fox, to answer any questions upon the subject of his reported marriage, which it might be thought proper to put to him in the house, mr. sheridan said,--"that no such idea had been pursued, and no such inquiry had been adopted, was a point which did credit to the decorum, the feelings, and the dignity of parliament. but whilst his royal highness's feelings had no doubt been considered on this occasion, he must take the liberty of saying, however some might think it a subordinate consideration, that there was another person entitled, in every delicate and honorable mind, to the same attention; one, whom he would not otherwise venture to describe or allude to, but by saying it was a name, which malice or ignorance alone could attempt to injure, and whose character and conduct claimed and were entitled to the truest respect." end of vol. i. the progressive democracy of james m. cox by charles e. morris secretary to governor cox chapter i the need for a doer there come times in the affairs of men which call for "not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work." such a time is at hand. a great war, the most devastating in history, has been concluded. its moral lesson has been taught by its master minds and learned in penitence, we may hope, by the erring and wrongly willful. but the fruits of victory are ungathered and the beneficence of peace is not yet attained. the call arises for a "doer of the work." two great political parties in the united states, both with splendid accomplishments behind them and both with grave mistakes as well, have attempted to respond to this call, and america, whose proudest boast is that it has always found a man for every great occasion, chooses between them. it is a solemn and serious hour. for it has been america's special fortune that its great teachers and leaders and doers have been found at just the proper time. this knowledge of the certain right decision of our country is, we might almost say, a part of its very fiber abiding with the persistency of a fixed idea, a part of the heritage of the nation, scarcely needing to be taught in the schools, obvious even to the casual student from an alien land. for our historical records glow with the stories of the appearance of _the_ man; and the thought of a friendly destiny seems not easy to banish. time has given so often either the inspired teacher of the word or the doer of the work that there is more than a faith and a hope, nay almost a conviction, that it cannot fail now when the agonized appeal of the world beckons america to complete her high mission to humanity upon which she embarked when she threw her power and might on the scales in war. those who insist that the fulfillment of that mission lies in keeping the solemn promises make in france, accepted by friend and foe alike, for a league of nations to end war, to see that retribution becomes not blind vengeance, to set the tribes of the earth again on their forward journey, present as their leader james monroe cox, governor of ohio. a party of traditions, a party that has directed in every critical period save one since the republic began, has said that he meets the requirements of the time. that party chose him because of his record for doing, because there was an inner conviction that he could enter upon a still larger field with a growing, an ever-expanding capacity. this, too, furnishes a fitter chapter in the history of country and party. for the wise selection of men, even obscure men, has been the tower of our national strength. america had her thomas jefferson to expound for all the world the real underlying truth of her revolution. the equality of rights and duties spread from a dream of philosophers to be the doctrine of warriors for freedom. there was her george washington to hold together the tenuous bands of freedom. she found her james monroe to lay the foundations of the doctrine that stern moral precepts forbid the violation of sovereign rights of the nations. she brought forth her andrew jackson to make the country in his time safe for democracy, and to establish for all time that no single money baron, nor yet any collection of them, is superior to the power of all the people. in later time she had her abraham lincoln, now in the judgment of the succeeding generations but little beneath the savior of men, preserver of the union for its larger duties. she had in this day her woodrow wilson, builder of the newer policy of world union and recognized spokesman of freedom in the death struggle with military autocracy. it is of history that lincoln and wilson both were stricken down with their work incomplete. after lincoln there was no doer of the work to finish his task and the evil of those who perverted the exalted purpose of the civil war continues even unto this day. coming into the arena of national affairs when even america seems to doubt and when the selfish motive of fear threatens to palsy the nation's hand, governor cox became the man to vindicate the statements and the pledges given before all the world. his introduction to the conscience and intellect of the country was a demand that the faith be kept. out of the night of war, the league of nations has long been a supreme issue with governor cox and he was chosen to carry the standard because he had expressed the sentiment most strongly, most clearly and with greatest emphasis. doers have ever been practical men, and such is governor cox. but practicality need not, and does not, imply a lack of vision. there is such a thing as ideality in vision and a practical hand to make good the picture of the mind. the combined qualities are considered as essentials to the adequate man of the times, for a vision of a new world order is the rarest gift of the century, but the man with the dynamic force and the cunning skill to make this new dream come true has been wanting. history--political history--was changed profoundly when president woodrow wilson was stricken. men were slow in rallying to his cause, there were even clouds of doubt, ominous and disturbing, when the party he led to two victories prepared in the late june and the early july days of the year to state its position, its hope and its aspirations. in the state in which governor cox held leadership there was no doubt. his own ohio knew long ago that at the democratic national convention in san francisco its chosen spokesmen would communicate but two mandates on behalf of the vast majority of the people. one was that ohio could do no less than be faithful to its greatest executive and the other was that the nation's faith and honor must be kept stainless. through governor cox that message has been sent to the length and breadth of the land. as seen by him, the appeal to the american people is one which began with the first plea to the world powers for such a concert as would banish the continual threat of war. this plea was made to warring powers when the world war began in and it was renewed at each favorable opportunity during the years when america hoped that the war might be brought to an end before the last great neutral power was drawn into it. heeded by the allies, the voice of reason was rejected by the central empires, and from that hour there came the conviction among the earnest lovers of peace that only the imposition of peace would furnish a new basis for world concord. few men were more downcast than this same man when long and vexatious delays in the united states senate ended at last in the recalcitrant refusal of the masters of the majority to ratify the treaty of versailles. it is but a fair and truthful statement to observe that, although his judgment of the mind of the people told him that the party which went before the country to vindicate the sacrifices of the men in the trenches would have a most compelling issue, he had no wish for such partisan advantage. as a democrat, history will tell that he sought only fair compromise on the treaty, even suggesting any honest settlement that would hasten america's entrance into the league. in his address of acceptance, then, governor cox stepped to the fore with the tersest of utterances as to his position on the league, compressing it all into "i favor going in." if this question is not answered now and affirmatively, governor cox believes that there may be delay until nations once more have borne their crosses on calvary and until further blood and treasure are wasted. and so he says now: "i favor going in." chapter ii cox the man men of great versatility are most difficult to picture comprehensively. perhaps this is the reason that no pen-portrait of theodore roosevelt ever seemed quite complete. there was in every single sketch something that seemed to be left unsaid, a point made by one was certain to be omitted by another. cox is a man after the roosevelt type. they were fast friends and they had many ideas in common. they often exchanged views upon progressive issues and found themselves largely in accord. neither was static in mental processes and their dynamics were often of the same sort. but while governor cox's intimates compare him often with roosevelt, they prefer to liken him to andrew jackson. for cox is the true twentieth century jacksonian, they say. like andrew jackson, governor cox can improvise the organization of a political campaign better than any man of his time, save colonel roosevelt, and the masterful colonel won only when he had great resources at his command. cox seems to have reached back into history and grasped the idea of the manner in which jackson's men worked with resources so small that they had to pass newspapers of their faith from hand to hand. largely, it seems, because no war came along when he was free of family responsibilities governor cox has no martial record. he might have been a soldier of the roosevelt type had he lived in other circumstances but his youth was spent in the drudgery of toil and there was no chance for education in a military academy. still they call him "fighting jimmy," and those who have been through a campaign with him know what they mean. as a boy there was never need to drive him forward to personal combat and in the man the juvenile tendency continued until he was well past the forty-five-year mark of middle age. if one were to inventory his external features there would appear a compact, muscular individual of about five feet six inches in height and of one hundred and seventy pounds in weight, every ounce keyed up to the efficiency of successful performance. motions indicate a man of quick decision, a tendency to suddenness that many older than he have sought to check in his earlier years. it is a proverb among those who know him best that when governor cox makes an instant decision he may be mistaken but that when he thinks it over for a single night he is never wrong. as the years in a varied experience have passed this disposition to think everything over has grown and grown until snap judgments no longer are taken. this may be the reason why men say that he has improved as an executive from year to year and why his later acts and deeds have the rounded out and complete aspect that is lacking in the earlier. the nature of cox himself is for "action," even when it seems to take the form of experiment. in simple justice it must be said that he has never been an adventurer, but he is willing to tackle problems before other would seize hold of them. his first administration, he thinks, was his best, for much more was done, but his last is his best, ohio judgment has decided, because it repressed tendencies to go the wrong way, taking perhaps the gladstone view that a statesman deserves more credit for defeating unwise legislation than for securing the enactment of good. as governor, cox has been willing to risk defeat for principle. a trait of character is told in the story of school and taxation legislation. he was warned that progressive steps would encompass his defeat. if a composite answer could be formed to all the suggestions of this sort, it would be something like this: "there is need for improving our schools. time will vindicate it." something else of character may be learned from the manner in which governor cox redeems pledges. when he was sorely beset by his political foes in , it was represented to him that the liquor interests might be made to do service if licenses were withheld until after the election. and the answer given was something like this: "the pledge was given that the license system shall not be prostituted to partisanship. that pledge will be redeemed." the forebodings of the worldly wise were not disappointed. the liquor interests contributed heavily to the opposition candidate and supported him so well that he won the election. cox hates war even if he made a remarkable record as war governor. but he likes the smoke and fury of political contest, and he thrives on campaigns. he has a fashion of leading his party organization and making it do his will, and like all men or this sort, he has been accused of being dictatorial. yet none denies that he gives a fair hearing and is open to conviction on disputed issues. he has a power of expression in a few words, portraying a whole field of action. tending to go into great detail in public matters, he comes to the heart of an issue with a laconic expression that tells all there is to be told. "i favor going in"--on the league of nations is one. assuring his supporters that the proposal for separate peace with germany was "opening their front lines," he drew a word sketch of a gigantic contest in which he as a general had sensed a rift in the opposition ranks and had broken through a whole army. associates of governor cox say that he is daring because of his strong sense of justice. the question is frequently asked by him as to whether a proposition is fair to all sides. readiness to trust in him as an arbitrator has brought many issues to his desk that are not part of a governor's official duties. disputes between interests and differences among organizations, no less than capital and labor disagreements have been left to his decision. it is an evidence of the trust in the sense of justice in the man. there is a notable habit in him of picking men quickly for tasks. it is not claimed for him that he has never made mistakes in his estimate of men, but they are comparatively rare. governor cox is the only man ever nominated for president who owns wealth--real wealth. his personal fortune is handsome. that was a point of criticism when he began to get acquainted with the country, but it is no longer. the reason is to be found in the fact that he has a natural appeal that makes his associates forget money. nor is the charge ever seriously made that his broad sympathy is affected. when he is best known, the wealth he owns is least often mentioned. they do not refer to a wealthy man whose possessions are an outstanding attribute as "jim" or "jimmy." cox, the man of affairs, is overshadowed by "jimmy cox." as with all powerful leaders, no sketch would be complete if it did not allude to a certain imperiousness that is in the man. this quality has made foes but that was inevitable. one who has risen by his own efforts has had the pushing impulse, of course. it tells something of the cox character that he has become a forceful speaker only in the last ten years. when he first entered public life in his style in speaking lacked force and his manner was hesitating and uncertain. a course of self- discipline and training led to constant improvement, and while there has never been a pretense of oratorical flight, issues and questions are discussed plainly and effectively. there is a penchant for reducing statements to simple and understandable terms and for stating his conviction with a measure of aggressiveness that carries conviction. as a candidate he has always believed that the people are entitled to the fullest information possible and to see and hear those who seek their suffrage. like roosevelt, the more strenuous sports and recreations attract him far more that does the swinging of the golf stick. he is an expert marksman and has astonished military men on the rifle range by what he can do with a gun. his ancestors were squirrel-hunters, and his sure eye was an inheritance from them. the governor likes to rough it in the northern canadian woods, spending at leisure a couple of weeks with only his son, james m. jr., now a boy of , for his companion. he prides himself upon his ability to cook a fish after it is caught, and to plunge in the lake as an evidence of his swimming ability. when in columbus his form of exercise is walking, and younger men of sedentary pursuits find that he can tire them. quitting school at an early age, cox's education has been acquired through much private study. he knows no language except english. his range of reading covers a wide variety of topics, the favorite of which are the political sciences, and outdoor life. he does not lay claim to literary excellence or perfection of style, and is a man of serious bent of mind, speaking only when he thinks he has a message to carry. the name under which he has been known to the country, james middleton cox, seems to be an error which only lately his friends have corrected. in the old family bible the name of james monroe cox appears, indicative of a family admiration. the name which appears signed to all official documents is james m. cox. the middleton seems to have had its origin in a bit of journalistic levity, probably having reference to middletown, ohio, the city in which he got his early training as a newspaper reporter. the governor's family consists of his wife, a little daughter, anne, who is slightly less than a year old, a married daughter, mrs. daniel j. mahoney of dayton, and two sons, james m. jr., and john, age ten. while the governor's devotion to the equal suffrage cause has been of many years' standing, the interests of mrs. cox are of a domestic nature. the time not devoted to her baby daughter is spent in the outdoors, he hobby being her garden. chapter iii why cox is a candidate for president james m. cox is a candidate for president because he hopes to be the instrument of divine providence in a great accomplishment. he knows that the man who secures america's adherence to the league of nations is as certain of a permanent place in the scrolls of fame as those who laid the foundations of freedom or those who preserved it in the days of fiery trial. to a famous correspondent, mr. herbert corey, who put the question, "why do you wish to be president?" the governor has answered: "it affords an opportunity to take hold of a knotty situation (the league) by the back of the neck and seat of the pants and shake a result out of it." the answer rings true to the man. the candidate has called it an issue of supreme faith, elaborating his views in a recent communication to the "christian herald," in which he has said: "'fighting the good fight of faith'--these words from the epistle to timothy might well be our text for this campaign before the american people, which, within the limits of our strength, has been carried to every fireside in this broad land of ours. ours is a fight of faith--faith with a world that accepted our statement of unselfish purpose, faith with fathers and mothers, wives and loved ones, who gave their sons, husbands and brothers to war upon war, faith with those who made sacrifice in homes, faith with those who toiled, faith with the living and faith with the dead. "if there were in this contest nothing but the question of whether one or the other of two editors should sit in the seat of power, nothing but whether one organization or another should taste the sweets of office, we could not insist that there is involved a fight of faith. there is, indeed, an issue between two views of government, one looking forward and the other backward. but temporary control by one side or the other for a brief period of four years is not necessarily a supreme matter of faith. we might try one or we might, in a spirit of experiment, try another. "in speaking of this we would have our personal fortunes forgotten. they are of transient interest to ourselves and we might say of less interest to others. to hold the exalted office of president of the united states, to occupy the place of washington, of jefferson, of lincoln, to be looked to for leadership in public questions, to be the first citizen in this great land is not a trifling but a gigantic ambition, worthy of all honest striving but involving, in the ordinary sense, no supreme issue. so if personal reasons only animated us, we could not muster the temerity to state our case with the ardent zeal that controls us. "but the motives that guide us are of greater import. as leader of a great organization which has had its part in interpreting the aspirations of the american people, and in shaping americanism through the generations we have been invested with a sacred commission, a mandate sanctified by the reckless bravery of our sons and ennobled by the heart impulses of our daughters. through circumstances not of our own choosing we have become the custodians of the honor of the nation, we have been called to fight the good fight of faith. "we as a party willed otherwise. in the face of bigoted denials of our good faith we sought only concord of all our people in the tasks of american in the world. there was glory enough for all and we never advanced the claim that it was a partisan matter until the fact had been established through long and weary months of purposeful misunderstanding and unconscionable intrigue for party advantage by our opponents. there is in this no suggestion of unkind sentiments toward our leading adversaries. we can utter the sentiment voiced on the hill above jerusalem and when america has come to understand we stand ready to blot out a dark chapter of our national life and to pronounce a pardon upon a course of conduct charitably covered by 'they know not what they do.' "there ought to be in this a special appeal to believers in the living faith. its purpose to give to all the universal benefits only a share of which it claims for itself, its conception of the golden rule as the practical basis for dealings with the world, its high plan to save the weak and feeble from the power and will of the mighty--these things, we say, are of the very essence of the true faith. "it is not a subject for marvel then that practically every denominational and interdenominational gathering of religious men that has been held since the versailles covenant was adopted has included an endorsement of that great document. aloof from the contentions of partisans, freed from the bigotry engendered by factionalism, looking upon national questions through the windows of light and truth, the banded followers of the man of nazareth have seen the question that is presented shorn of false claims. in a word, christians, speaking organically, with a voice that could not be misunderstood have stated that they wish the league of nations. "for such a league, for the only league now in existence or which has a fair chance of coming into existence, we are contending. could the question be lifted from the arena of partisanship and could the referendum which we have invoked be by direct ballot, there would be no opposition. unfortunately, our system of government has not provided a choice so direct, nor a manner of expression that would leave so small doubt as to the sentiment of america. we say this from a field of personal experience for like the certain rich young man of biblical story, we, too, have seen the type of uncompromising partisan who 'turned away sorrowfully' for party seemed more important than duty or honor. "it matters little whether we say that we feel deeply for those across the seas in their troubles when we fail to act in their behalf. the successful issue of the war left a duty on our hands, a duty like that which we performed in cuba nearly a generation ago and like that which has been brought close to completion in the philippines. we faced a christian duty toward our associates and even toward the people of enemy lands. it was our obligation to bind up the wounds of the war and to show by example the fulfillment of high ideals voiced by the leaders of the world thought. "there came to us the divine opportunity to act quickly and with high christian purposes. we might with one stroke have become the counselor and friend of all humanity, its guarantor that all the forces of morality would be enlisted upon the side of peace. but the precious moments were wasted in fruitless discussion, in idle bickerings, in invention of fancied situations, purposely forgetting that the great purpose of the league of nations was to band the world together in a great brotherhood against war. we were to lead the nations back to peaceful ways but through our own wavering we actually, by reason or a small coterie of men, we think wrongly advised, have drenched europe and asia with new wars. "the great heart of america has always been right upon this great issue. there has never been a time when associations of men and women, independent of partisanship, have turned from the league proposal. america gave freely in alms to every war-torn nation in the world. she sent her devoted bands of workers to relieve distress. she sent her nurses to heal the sick. she sent her contributions to feed the hungry. she opened her warehouses to clothe the naked. she willingly gave her talent, through private auspices, to help bring life back to normal. her men of finance gave counsel; they offered credit and we applauded. we were touched by the works of associations and individuals to lessen war's terrors and to refound the wrecked civilization. but foolish men, vain men, envious men forbade our government to do in larger form the same sort of acts which, done by private auspices, we applauded as evidence of christian purpose. "and the good that we sought to do was lost in our larger neglect. weak fears that in helping the world, fantastic forebodings that in taking our stand for peace everlasting, imaginary perils that in service we might be surrendering our birthright of independence restrained our more noble impulses. while famine stalked and the world cried to heaven for our help we debated selfish questions. our nation became a silent but effective partner in undermining christian civilization, causing the despairing peoples of europe, friend and enemy alike, to turn in every agony to those who denied the fundamental precepts upon which our society rests. "some one has called this black despair, 'satanism,' the belief that the laws and deeds of god and men are set against the victim. and we, through the perversity of a few men, have been silent enemies of christian faith and allies, indeed, or this newer scourge of mankind. there are happiness and satisfaction in the thought that we have not this fault to bear. it is not strange to us that those who permitted narrow views and ungenerous purpose to thwart our nation in its duty rest uncomfortably under the accusations of the american conscience. if temporary success is to be won at such sacrifice we cannot think it worth the price. "nor can the blame be shifted. so far as was humanly possible, objections were met. reservations stating our complete compliance with the fundamental organic law, needless as they were in a strictly legal sense, were proposed. others were accepted where they seemed to be animated by proper motives, but good faith prevented acceptance of those which proposed to withdraw the pledge in the same document in which it was plighted. as was observed in the address accepting the designation as champion of the party, every boy in our schools knows that war may be declared only by act of congress and that the american constitution rises superior to all treaties. still, every friend of the covenant was ready to acquiesce in proposals that would state these propositions, and more, if that would prove a solution. "failing in this effort, the resolution was formed that the only other method lay in submitting the matter in a solemn referendum to the conscience of america. in that great judgment we now are. men are but instrumentalities of the divine will, worked out, we pray, in the nations. few things are of smaller importance than the temporal fortunes of men; no things of greater importance than the destiny of mankind. willingly would we undergo crushing defeat to save the principle for which we strive, guiltily would we assume power won by appeal to baser motives and selfish fears. "there is in this year, for the causes here outlined, a militancy as of the crusaders, marching over mountains and deserts to wrest the holy places from unworthy hands. there is a sacred fire in the countenances of those who speak the message, there is a joy in proclaiming the tidings, there is a zeal in spreading the word. we are preachers this year of national righteousness, of honor, of faith and of high purpose. "we scorn to think of our mission in ordinary terms. we disdain to look upon the early days of november as a test of rival organizations in their power to muster votes. we have no mind to compete in lavish outlay, we have no purpose to resort to sinister methods of electrical appeal. if we are to be chosen, it is to be because we have won the conscience of the nation, and god helping us, we will appeal to nothing else. "we turn from the external duties of the country to its internal. promises with respect to these matters must of every necessity be in general terms largely because the problems are vast and must adjust themselves to all parts of the country, harmonizing with conditions that vary widely. back of all legislation, back of statute and executive policy worth while, there lies one unvarying hope and purpose--to right wrong, to secure justice and to give equal opportunity. all measures must be tested by these great principles and on them rest securely if at all. "past performances--the record--furnish the best indication of a man's mind, and the executive acts and legislative recommendations of the governor of ohio during the past six years have been studied with great care. that they have won approval is a source of gratification and satisfaction that will endure. we are in this country face to face with gigantic problems. they cannot be left unsolved. that would be blindness. they cannot be considered in the gathering darkness of reaction, they must be viewed in the brightening dawn of a new day. "before us we have the examples of restrained liberties and of unfulfilled desires. it is dangerous to trust reactionary forces with power. it may become a little short of menacing to the stability of our institutions and to the orderly processes of development. it is well to sound a word of warning, calmly but ever seriously. "as has been observed, actions furnish the basis of determination of fitness for further service. what better guarantee of cordial and sound industrial relations between employee and employer than legislation which follows the lines of the ohio workmen's compensation law? under its influence, industrial conditions have improved, life and limb have been conserved, the workmen's families are happy in their security and a new era has dawned for millions of people. it was enacted when legislation of this sort was an experiment in america. if every state in this union had a law of this sort our nation would have solved half of its industrial problems. our courts are free from the vexatious litigation that fosters criticism and they are trusted as never before in history. it has been a factor of no small importance that enabled our state to uphold the sovereignty of the law without repressive measures directed against freedom of speech and pen. "educational activities have been quickened and rural life has been regenerated through modem school legislation. to the boys and girls of our rural districts there are coming schools which will be second to none in our most progressive cities, and one of the reasons for draining of the country districts of population will be checked. it has given an impetus to church and community life that is of greatest importance. "these things are cited not because there is any disposition to urge that there should be encroachment by the federal government on local control. it is the healthful, reasonable individualism of american national life that has enabled the people of this country to think for themselves. we have no will to impair their independence. the central government can assist and give encouragement to state movements if the men called to high positions are in sympathy with progress. a reactionary central government can demonstrate likewise that it has no sympathy with men of vision who ever have difficult tasks in bringing about the taking of forward steps. "the details of these instances, which might be greatly expanded, have been touched in order to form a setting as for a picture. our view is toward to-morrow. the opposition, and i assume that they are sincere in it, stands in the skyline of the setting sun, looking backward, backward to the old days of reaction." chapter iv cox and the league--"i favor going in" "and i do earnestly urge that all the people of this great and enlightened state assemble at their respective places of worship and invoke almighty god to enlighten the rulers of the world to the end that they may see the folly of war and speedily terminate it; that in our homes and about our hearthstones we implore the divine spirit in behalf of the people of the stricken nations, whose miseries are beyond our comprehension-- people who have been plunged into the depths of war through no fault of their own. "and i do further recommend and urge that in all the schools of the state of ohio the afternoon of friday, october nd, , be set aside for exercises, having for their purpose to instill into the minds of children and into their hearts the great blessing that will come to them and to the world when war is no more." the quoted sentences from governor cox's proclamation for a day of prayer on october , , a period at which the horrors of the great world war had but begun, disclose that governor cox is not a recent convert to the central thought and purpose of the conception of the league of nations. through the numerous official proclamations and the many addresses which he made during the period of the war the central thought repeatedly emphasized was that the fruit of war must be an everlasting peace. in accordance with the proclamation of the president, establishing june , , as the "call-to-the- colors" day of the young men of the country, the governor said: "it is probably the most trying hour the world has ever known, and the policies of government, purified and preserved by those who live now, will determine the civilization under which our children and our children's children shall live in the future. what greater guarantee of their peace and happiness can be given them than a democracy that envelops all nations--a democracy sanctified by an endearing memory of what was unselfishly given to make it possible?" in his proclamation calling for a state convention to perfect the organization of an ohio branch of the league to enforce peace, the governor emphasized as the second of its objects "to keep the world safe by a league of nations," and he said that the purpose of the organization would be "to confirm opposition to a premature peace and sustain the determination of our people to fight until prussian militarism is destroyed and the way may be open for securing permanent peace by a league of nations." when hostilities were concluded governor cox had the faith that "this peace brings the dawn of a new day of consecration," and in his official proclamation he said: "a world is reborn. our nation has brought success to a righteous cause. our state has given with full heart to the achievement of the glorious end." in an address in toronto, canada, november, , governor cox said: "we consign to posterity an example and inspiration and idealism as lofty as ever stirred the hearts of men. and then, turning away from the past, we face the sunrise of to-morrow with faith and resolution to make a better world than that of yesterday, and to demonstrate that our heroic defenders have not died in vain. these are dangerous times to permit the inventive genius of man to go unchecked in matters of armament. the unspeakable horrors of the war just ended make us instinctively turn our faces away from the possibility of a half-century from now, if our thought is to be turned intensively to the production of things destructive to home life. with the sea fairly alive with submarines, the air filled with squadrons of flying machines, and the mysteries of nature unfolding before the sustained labor of chemists--cities and states and nations could be quickly depopulated. the prussian conspiracy would not have been possible if the international affairs of the earth had been assigned to a league of nations. the play may seem to be altruistic, if not fantastic, but the skeptic is moved by the idea that nations cannot forget selfishness. if that be true, then the world lacks the fundamental fibers of character to build an enduring civilization." in welcoming the returned soldiers of the th infantry in new york in may, , governor cox said: "if peace is to endure, it must be by means of institutions of government whose strength in the right must inspire public confidence. we solemnly give the pledge of our state that the faith will be kept." economic effects of the defeat of the treaty of peace were discussed by governor cox at henderson, kentucky, in april, . he said: "some of you may not know the effect of the defeat of the treaty. while at mayfield (ky.) i saw an old farmer who told me he was offered twenty and ten dollars for his tobacco before christmas, but was forced to sell at six and three dollars. the tumbling of the foreign exchange and the inability of italy and other continental european countries to purchase their tobacco is the cause of western kentucky farmers losing millions of dollars. this resulted from the republican senate's refusal to ratify the peace treaty. while the republican dictators of the senate set the stage for political triumph, they do not care how much tobacco growers or the people at large suffer. turning to the patriotic issue of the present campaign, he said at the same time: "it will be with infinite pleasure that we shall ask the republican spellbinders if they have kept the faith with the boys who sleep overseas." during all the progress of the early part of the campaign the governor denounced those who "are seeking to set up racial lines and create a prejudice among the foreign elements in our midst." he said: "while other powers are doing everything possible to hold the loose ends of civilization together, these leaders are deliberately conspiring to mislead the great bulk of americans with assertions that are, when analyzed, nothing more than demagoguery of the crudest kind." earlier in the year, in speaking before the jefferson club of marion, indiana, the governor said: "the plot to multiply the woes of mankind, in order that confusion multiplied might be charged to president wilson's insistence on principle and international good faith, is now passing through the process of public thought, and we have confidence in an intelligent verdict. the winning of the war, in less time than the formalizing of peace carries a contrast that needs no comment." during the period for the selection of delegates to the democratic convention at san francisco, governor cox gave a signed interview to the new york times, in which he reviewed the controversy concerning the league of nations and outlined two reservations which he believed would satisfy every reasonable objection. in part, he said: "if public opinion in the country is the same as it is in ohio, then there can be no doubt but that the people want a league of nations because it seems to offer the surest guarantee against war. i am convinced that the san francisco convention will endorse in its vital principles the league adopted at versailles. "there can be no doubt but that some senators have been conscientious in their desire to clarify the provisions of the treaty. two things apparently have disturbed them. first, they wanted to make sure that the league was not to be an alliance, and that its basic purpose was peace and not controversy. second, they wanted the other powers signing the instrument to understand our constitutional limitations beyond which the treaty-making power cannot go. "dealing with these two questions in order, it has always seemed to me that the interpretation of the function of the league might have been stated in these words: "'in giving its assent to this treaty, the senate has in mind the fact that the league of nations which it embodies was devised for the sole purpose of maintaining peace and comity among the nations of the earth and preventing the recurrence of such destructive conflicts as that through which the world has just passed. the co-operation of the united states with the league and its continuance as a member thereof, will naturally depend upon the adherence of the league to that fundamental purpose.' "such a declaration would at least express the view of the united states and justify the course which our nation would unquestionably follow if the basic purpose of the league were at any time distorted. it would also appear to be a simple matter to provide against any misunderstanding in the future and at the same time to meet the objections of those who believe that we might be inviting a controversy over our constitutional rights, by making a senatorial addition on words something like these: "'it will of course be understood that in carrying out the purpose of the league, the government of the united states must at all times act in strict harmony with the terms and intent of the united states constitution, which cannot in any way be altered by the treaty-making power.' "some people doubt the enduring quality of this general international scheme. whether this be true or not, the fact remains that it will justify itself if it does no more than prevent the nations of the earth from arming themselves to the teeth and wasting resource which is necessary to repair the losses of the war. no one contends that it is a perfect document, but it is a step in the right direction. it would put the loose ends of civilization together now and do more toward the restoration of normal conditions in six months' time than can the powers of the earth, acting independently, in ten years' time. the republican senatorial cabal insists that the treaty be americanized. suppose that italy asked that it be italianized-- france that it be frenchized--britain that it be britainized, and so on down the line. the whole thing would result in a perfect travesty. "the important thing now is to enable the world to go to work, but the beginning must not be on the soft sands of an unsound plan. if this question passes to the next administration, there should be no fetich developed over past differences. yet at the same time there must be no surrender of vital principles. it may be necessary if partitions and reparation require changing, to assemble representatives of the people making up the nations of the league, in which event revision may not be so much an affair of diplomats. but i repeat the pressing task is getting started, being careful however that we are starting with an instrument worth while, and not a mere shadow." to an extent to which very few public men favoring the league of nations have gone, governor cox has expressed the firm conviction that the league will enable the people of ireland to bring their contention and claims before a world tribunal. it was his statement before an audience in cincinnati that the league would be the means by which the irish case could be heard in the highest court in the world, and he stated that thus far it had never been heard even in a magistrate's court. sentiments on the question of self-determination were also expressed in his article in the new york times. in this the governor said: "we are a composite people in the united states and the belief of students of government in years past that our democracy would not endure was based entirely upon the idea that we could not build a nation from the blood of many races which had old inherited prejudices. it is very important, particularly at this time when racial impulses and emotions have been stirred world- wide as never before, that we make the utmost effort to prevent division along these lines. in this connection it is well to bear in mind that the armistice which preceded the peace was based upon fourteen cardinal points; one of the most, if not the most, important of which was the right of self-determination. "wars in the past have resulted largely from dispute over territory and imposed restraints of racial aspirations. governmental entities are more apt to last and to live harmoniously with others if groups are bounded by racial homogeneity rather than by the physical characteristics of the earth in the form of mountains, rivers, etc. individual aspiration is a god-given element and distinct ambitions possess the soul of racial unity. in harmony with this theory, the san francisco convention should emphasize the democratic belief in the principle of self-determination in government. our citizens will not deny to any race of people the right to hold the emotions which stirred the founders of our republic." the governor's position on the league was amplified in his address of acceptance at dayton on august th, , in which he said: "we are in a time which calls for straight thinking, straight talking and straight acting. this is no time for wobbling. never in all our history has more been done for government. never was sacrifice more sublime. the most precious things of heart and home were given up in a spirit which guarantees the perpetuity of our institutions--if the faith is kept with those who served and suffered. the altar of our republic is drenched in blood and tears, and he who turns away from the tragedies and obligations of the war, not consecrated to a sense of honor and of duty which resists every base suggestion of personal or political expediency, is unworthy of the esteem of his countrymen. "the men and women who by expressed policy at the san francisco convention charted our course in the open seas of the future sensed the spirit of the hour and phrased it with clarity and courage. it is not necessary to read and reread the democratic platform to know its meaning. it is a document clear in its analysis of conditions and plain in the pledge of service made to the public. it carries honesty of word and intent. proud of the leadership and achievement of the party in war, democracy faces unafraid the problems of peace. indeed, its pronouncement has but to be read along with the platform framed by republican leaders in order that both spirit and purpose as they dominate the opposing organizations may be contrasted. on the one hand we see pride expressed in the nation's glory and a promise of service easily understood. on the other a captious, unhappy spirit and the treatment of subjects vital to the present and the future, in terms that have completely confused the public mind. it was clear that the senatorial oligarchy had been given its own way in the selection of the presidential candidate, but it was surprising that it was able to fasten into the party platform the creed of hate and bitterness and the vacillating policy that possesses it. "in the midst of war the present senatorial cabal, led by senators lodge, penrose and smoot, was formed. superficial evidence of loyalty to the president was deliberate in order that the great rank and file of their party, faithful and patriotic to the very core, might not be offended. but underneath this misleading exterior, conspirators planned and plotted, with bigoted zeal. with victory to our arms they delayed and obstructed the works of peace. if deemed useful to the work in hand no artifice for interfering with our constitutional peace-making authority was rejected. before the country knew, yes, before these men themselves knew the details of the composite plan, formed at the peace table, they declared their opposition to it. before the treaty was submitted to the senate in the manner the constitution provides, they violated every custom and every consideration of decency by presenting a copy of the document, procured unblushingly from enemy hands, and passed it into the printed record of senatorial proceedings. from that hour dated the enterprise of throwing the whole subject into a technical discussion, in order that the public might be confused. the plan has never changed in its objective, but the method has. at the outset there was the careful insistence that there was no desire to interfere with the principle evolved and formalized at versailles. later, it was the form and not the substance that professedly inspired attack. but pretense was futile when proposals later came forth that clearly emasculated the basic principle of the whole peace plan. it is not necessary to recall the details of the controversy in the senate. senator lodge finally crystallized his ideas into what were known as the lodge reservations, and when congress adjourned these reservations held the support of the so-called regular republican leaders. "from that time the processes have been interesting. political expediency in its truest sense dwarfed every consideration either of the public interest or of the maintenance of the honor of a great political party. the exclusive question was how to avoid a rupture in the republican organization. the country received with interest, to say the least, the announcement from chicago, where the national convention was assembled, that a platform plank dealing with the subject of world peace, had been drawn leaving out the lodge reservations, and yet remaining agreeable to all interests, meaning thereby, the lodge reservationists, the mild reservationists and the group of republican senators that openly opposed the league of nations in any form. "as the platform made no definite committal of policy and was, in fact, so artfully phrased as to make almost any deduction possible, it passed through the convention with practical unanimity. senator johnson, however, whose position has been consistent and whose opposition to the league in any shape is well known, withheld his support of the convention's choice until the candidate had stated the meaning of the platform, and announced definitely the policy that would be his, if elected. "the republican candidate has spoken and his utterance calls forth the following approval from senator johnson: "'yesterday in his speech of acceptance senator harding unequivocally took his stand upon the paramount issue in this campaign--the league of nations. the republican party stands committed by its platform. its standard-bearer has now accentuated that platform. there can be no misunderstanding his words.' "senator harding, as the candidate of the party, and senator johnson are as one on this question, and, as the latter expresses it, the republican party is committed both by platform in the abstract and by its candidate in specification. the threatened revolt among leaders of the party is averted, but the minority position as expressed in the senate prevails as that of the party. in short, principle, as avowed in support of the lodge reservations, or of the so-called mild reservations, has been surrendered to expediency. "senator harding makes this new pledge of policy in behalf of his party: "'i promise you formal and effective peace so quickly as a republican congress can pass its declaration for a republican executive to sign.' "this means but one thing--a separate peace with germany! "this would be the most disheartening event in civilization since the russians made their separate peace with germany, and infinitely more unworthy on our part than it was on that of the russians. they were threatened with starvation and revolution had swept their country. our soldiers fought side by side with the allies. so complete was the coalition of strength and purpose that general fochs was given supreme command, and every soldier in the allied cause, no matter what flag he followed, recognized him as his chief. we fought the war together, and now before the thing is through it is proposed to enter into a separate peace with germany! in good faith we pledged our strength with our associates for the enforcement of terms upon offending powers, and now it is suggested that this be withdrawn. suppose germany, recognizing the first break in the allies, proposes something we cannot accept. does senator harding intend to send an army to germany to press her to our terms? certainly the allied army could not be expected to render aid. if, on the other hand, germany should accept the chance we offered of breaking the bond it would be for the express purpose of insuring a german-american alliance, recognizing that the allies--in fact, no nation in good standing--would have anything to do with either of us. "this plan would not only be a piece of bungling diplomacy, but plain, unadulterated dishonesty, as well." "no less an authority than senator lodge said, before the heat of recent controversy, that to make peace except in company with the allies would 'brand us everlastingly with dishonor and bring ruin to us.' "and then after peace is made with germany, senator harding would, he says, 'hopefully approach the nations of europe and of the earth, proposing that understanding which makes us a willing participant in the consecration of nations to a new relationship.' "in short, america, refusing to enter the league of nations (now already established by twenty-nine nations) and bearing and deserving the contempt of the world, would submit an entirely new project. this act would either be regarded as arrant madness or attempted international bossism. "the plain truth is, that the republican leaders, obsessed with a determination to win the presidential election, have attempted to satisfy too many divergent views. inconsistencies, inevitable under the circumstances, rise to haunt them on every hand, and they find themselves arrayed, in public thought at least, against a great principle. more than that, their conduct is opposed to the idealism upon which their party prospered in other days." "illustrating these observations by concrete facts, let it be remembered that those now inveighing against an interest in affairs outside of america, criticised president wilson in unmeasured terms for not resenting the invasion of belgium in . they term the league of nations a military alliance, which, except for their opposition, would envelop our country, when, as a matter of truth, the subject of a league of nations has claimed the best thought of america for years, and the league to enforce peace was presided over by so distinguished a republican as ex-president taft, who, before audiences in every section, advocated the principle and the plan of the present league. they charge experimentation, when we have as historical precedent the monroe doctrine, which is the very essence of article x of the versailles covenant. skeptics viewed monroe's mandate with alarm, predicting recurrent wars in defense of central and south american states, whose guardians they alleged we need not be. and yet not a shot has been fired in almost one hundred years in preserving sovereign rights on this hemisphere. they hypocritically claim that the league of nations will result in our boys being drawn into military service, but they fail to realize that every high-school youngster in the land knows that no treaty can override our constitution, which reserves to congress, and to congress alone, the power to declare war. they preach americanism with a meaning of their own invention, and artfully appeal to a selfish and provincial spirit, forgetting that lincoln fought a war over the purely moral question of slavery, and the mckinley broke the fetters of our boundary lines, spoke the freedom of cuba, and carried the torch of american idealism to the benighted philippines. they lose memory of garfield's prophecy that america, under the blessings of god- given opportunity, would by her moral leadership and co- operation become the messiah among the nations of the earth. "these are fateful times. organized government has a definite duty all over the world. the house of civilization is to be put in order. the supreme issue of the century is before us and the nation that halts and delays is playing with fire. the finest impulses of humanity, rising above national lines, merely seek to make another horrible war impossible. under the old order of international anarchy war came overnight, and the world was on fire before we knew it. it sickens our senses to think of another. we saw one conflict into which modern science brought new forms of destruction in great guns, submarines, airships, and poison gases. it is no secret that our chemists had perfected, when the contest came to a precipitate close, gases so deadly that whole cities could be wiped out, armies destroyed, and the crews of battleships smothered. the public prints are filled with the opinions of military men that in future wars the method, more effective than gases or bombs, will be the employment of the germs of disease, carrying pestilence and destruction. any nation prepared under these conditions, as germany was equipped in , could conquer the world in a year. "it is planned now to make this impossible. a definite plan has been agreed upon. the league of nations is in operation. a very important work, under its control, just completed, was participated in by the hon. elihu root, secretary of state under the roosevelt administration. at a meeting of the council of the league of nations, february , and organizing committee of twelve of the most eminent jurists in the world was selected. the duty of this group was to devise a plan for the establishment of a permanent court of international justice, as a branch of the league. this assignment has been concluded by unanimous action. this augurs well for world progress. the question is whether we shall or shall not join in this practical and humane movement. president wilson, as our representative at the peace table, entered the league in our name, in so far as the executive authority permitted. senator harding, as the republican candidate for the presidency, proposes in plain words that we remain out of it. as the democratic candidate, i favor going in. let us analyze senator harding's plan of making a german-american peace, and then calling for a 'new relationship among nations,' assuming for the purpose of argument only, that the perfidious hand that dealt with germany would possess the power or influence to draw twenty-nine nations away from a plan already at work, and induce them to retrace every step and make a new beginning. this would entail our appointing another commission to assemble with those selected by the other powers. with the versailles instrument discarded, the whole subject of partitions and divisions of territory on new lines would be reopened. the difficulties in this regard, as any fair mind appreciates, would be greater than they were at the peace session, and we must not attempt to convince ourselves that they did not try the genius, patience, and diplomacy of statesmen at that time. history will say that great as was the allied triumph in war, no less a victory was achieved at the peace table. the republican proposal means dishonor, world confusion and delay. it would keep us in permanent company with germany, russia, turkey and mexico. it would entail, in the ultimate, more real injury than the war itself. the democratic position on the question, as expressed in platform is: "'we advocate immediate ratification of the treaty without reservations which would impair its essential integrity, but do no oppose the acceptance of any reservation making clearer or more specific the obligations of the united states to the league associates.' "the first duty of the new administration clearly will be the ratification of the treaty. the matter should be approached without thought of the bitterness of the past. the public verdict will have been rendered, and i am confident that the friends of world peace as it will be promoted by the league, will have in numbers the constitutional requisite to favorable senatorial action. the captious may say that our platform reference to reservations is vague and indefinite. its meaning, in brief, is that we shall state our interpretation of the covenant as a matter of good faith to our associates and as a precaution against any misunderstanding in the future. the point is, that after the people shall have spoken, the league will be in the hands of its friends in the senate, and a safe index as to what they will do is supplied by what reservations they have proposed in the past. "our platform clearly lays no bar against any additions that will be helpful, but it speaks in a firm resolution to stand against anything that disturbs the vital principle. we hear it said that interpretations are unnecessary. that may be true, but they will at least be reassuring to many of our citizens, who feel that in signing the treaty, there should be no mental reservations that are not expressed in plain words, as a matter of good faith to our associates. such interpretations possess the further virtue of supplying a base upon which agreement can be reached, and agreement, without injury to the covenant, is now of pressing importance. it was the desire to get things started, that prompted some members of the senate to vote for the lodge reservations. those who conscientiously voted for them in the final roll calls realized, however, that they acted under duress, in that a politically bigoted minority was exercising the arbitrary power of its position to enforce drastic conditions. happily the voters of the republic, under our system of government, can remedy that situation, and i have the faith that they will, at the election this fall. then organized government will be enabled to combine impulse and facility in the making of better world conditions. the agencies of exchange will automatically adjust themselves to the opportunities of commercial freedom. new life and renewed hope will take hold of every nation. mankind will press a resolute shoulder to the task of readjustment, and a new era will have dawned upon the earth." speaking to the national guardsmen at the national rifle matches at camp perry, ohio, on august , he said: "i recognize that in a sense you are assembled here for the purpose of increasing the efficiency of our military strength, and yet i am convinced that the great mass of our soldiers are united in purpose and prayer, to prevent wars in the future, if it can be honorably done. they know the meaning of modern warfare. there was very little romance in the long hours and the slaughter of the front trench. the thought that must have run through the mind of every solder in the midst of it all, was how such a thing was possible in modern civilization. "the cost to the united states was more than one million dollars an hour for over two years. the total expense of twenty-two billion dollars was almost equal to the total disbursements of the united states government from to . it was sufficient to have run the revolutionary war for more than one thousand years at the rate of expenditure which that war involved. the army expenditures alone, so experts claim, are a near approach to the volume of gold produced in the united sates from the discovery of america up to the outbreak of the european war, and yet the united states spent only about one-eighth of the entire cost of the war, and less than one-fifth of the expenditure of the allied side. "if civilization has not had its lesson, then there is no hope for it. it could not stand such a war again and survive. the genius of man, if that is a happy term in discussing the horrors of conflict, has always made the latest war the most frightful. when we consider the development in the methods of human destruction between and and apply the problem of simple proportion, we are staggered even to think of the possibilities of the sons of men being again brought into combat. "there will always be a national guard in the states, if for no other reason than domestic defense, and the military arm of the federal government will be maintained, but the hope that vast expenditures for armaments are a thing of the past, possesses every home in america, while the common impulse that moves the great mass of people world-wide is inspired by the vision of peace and the settlement of controversy by the arbitrament of reason rather than of force." at the very beginning of his canvass for the presidency governor cox has gone upon the theory that the league of nations needed simple explanation to the people of the country. in his own phrase, he has talked the abc's of the league, finding that the technical discussions had failed to hold the interest of the people. illustrating this policy are two addresses made to state conventions early in august. at wheeling, to the west virginia democratic convention, he said: "we resisted a world-wide menace, and we intend now to establish permanent protection against another menace. we know how easily wars came in the past. we want to make their coming difficult in the future. we have a definite plan; the american people understand it, and after the th of march, , it is our purpose to put it into practical operation, without continuing months of useless discussion. "the platform of our party gives us the opportunity to render moral co-operation in the greatest movement of righteousness in the history of the world, and at the same time to hold our own interests free from peril. our position is plain. the circumstances of the last eighteen months convict the republican leadership of attempted trickery with the american people. under one pretext after another they prevented the readjustment of national conditions. they proposed certain reservations to the league of nations, and then they were abandoned, to be followed by nothing more definite than the announcement of a 'hope' that an entirely new arrangement might be made in world affairs. what method they have in mind, if it is concretely in anyone's mind, the people do not know. no unprejudiced person can deny that the consequence of abandoning the league and attempting an entirely new project, will be prolonged delay. if the voters of the republic, without regard to party, desire action, and prompt action along lines that are now clearly understood, they will render a verdict so overwhelmingly expressive of public indignation that scheming politicians for years to come will not forget. "in the fact of an efficient leadership during the war, and of constructive, progressive, economic service in peace, the republican leaders developed a smoke screen, behind which they seek to gain their objective, the spoils of office. for years the best thought and the humanitarian impulses of civilized countries have been applied to the high purpose of making war practically impossible. the league of nations became the composite agreement, and now the senatorial oligarchy meets it with the absurd plea that it increases the probability of armed conflict. it not only reveals unworthy intent, but a very poor estimate of american intelligence as well." taking the issue to the people, and free from what he termed strait-jacket restrictions, the governor said at columbus, when he talked to the ohio democratic convention: "i carefully reviewed the platform adopted at chicago, and studied its principles, but i know as much about it now as when i started to read it. i gave intensive thought also to the speech made by the republican candidate, the purpose of which was to interpret the meaning of that historic document, and after long and vigilant labor i found two pronouncements. what was the first? the statement that staggered the sensibilities of the civilization of the world, the unthinkable, monstrous proposal, that in the midst of the uncertainty of the hour, a separate peace ought to be made with germany. i want you to go back with me just a year and a half, to the time when victory was son; to the time when our boys maintained their vigils on the banks of the rhine, standing there in solid formation with , , great lads behind them. germany signed the peace document on the dotted line. what has happened in the united states senate to prevent its acceptance by the upper branch of the american congress? i need not recall, because every child knows about it. but the soldiers came back home; they were demobilized; they entered into their several walks of life believing that their victory had been complete, and that the offending powers had been brought to terms. and now, with the armies disbanded, and now, with our military strength no longer holding together, it is proposed by the candidate of the republican party that he will prove false to the boys who stood by when that peace was made. he will destroy the pact and enter into a new covenant. "six hundred thousand french died at verdun defending the slogan, 'they shall not pass.' more than a million english and canadians died on the somme, reforming their ranks, and hurling back the challenge, 'they shall not pass.' they were possessed of the crusading spirit; they were preserving the democracy of the world, the very government of the earth. and now another menace is threatened, and it is proposed that some one, acting in behalf of two millions of soldiers and the one hundred million people of this republic, shall perform a perfectly perfidious act. standing at the head of the hosts of the great army which opposes the hosts of reaction; standing at the head of the hosts of democracy, at the head of the hosts of progress; at the head of the hundreds of thousands of independents of this country, i give to you this assurance: that this dishonorable deed will not be perpetrated--for two very important reasons. first, warren g. harding will not have a chance to do it; and second, i will not insult two million soldiers by doing it myself. "and then proceeding to the second stage of these proceedings, the republican candidate says that after he shall have made a separate peace with germany, he will then assemble the conscience of the civilization of the world and form an entirely new relationship. if, for the sake of argument only, we are to assume that a separate peace with germany were made, i believe that the government of the united states of america would be so unworthy in the eyes of the nations of the world that none of them would have anything to do with us at all. "this one question will remain in the public mind. after all this is the crux of the whole situation. the republican candidate and the reactionaries now in control of the republican party, promise you nothing whatsoever except a proposal which at is best will involve months and probably years of delay. on the other hand, we promise you this, that after the th of march, , with the least amount of conversation possible, we will enter the league of nations of the world. our democratic platform adopted at san francisco gives us full license and opportunity to enter the league upon terms which will need no defense. our position is not unbending; it is not captious. we proclaim that we will accept any conditions that interpret, that call attention to the limitations of our constitution; that serve full notice now upon the powers of the earth that we can go so far and no further. "in other words we have the opportunity of concluding this, the greatest movement for righteousness in all the history of the world, and then the loose ends of civilization will be put together. the opportunity for exchange will have been restored. america will proceed upon an era of prosperity and peace without precedent. "i shall address no audience in america this year without puncturing the smoke screen of hypocrisy and insincerity which has been raised, in order that the reactionaries might creep in behind it and claim their main objective, the spoils of office. that smoke screen now is the statement that the league of nations increases the probabilities of war. it would have been just as absurd to have said to the boys at the time our fathers won their freedom, that if you proclaim your independence you are going to have war, because you will have to fight to retain it. every school boy in ohio understands there are three branches of government, judicial, legislative and executive, and when war has been brought to an end, the head of the executive department, the president of the united states, makes the treaty with the power with which we have been at war, and then we find that limitation of power. the president can go no further. he submits it to the senate for ratification. the president of the united states has very definite power, and there are also very specific powers reserved to the congress of the united states. the congress can do nothing contrary to the constitution; the president can do nothing contrary to the constitution. the constitution provides that war can be declared by congress, and congress only. in order to give point and truth to what the reactionary leaders are now contending for, it would be necessary to change the constitution of the united states. this would require a two-thirds' vote of the house and senate, and then a three-fourths' vote of the states of the union. our machinery was so adjusted that no matter who might be the executive officer of this republic, he did not possess the power to declare war. the power was placed as near to the people as it was possible to place it. it was placed with their representatives in congress. "now--the republican leaders in contending that four or five potentates, four or five distinguished statesmen over seas, sitting in the council of the league of nations, can order our soldiers anywhere, are speaking a deliberate and a willful untruth. presidential proprieties require that i do not characterize it in stronger language. you know it is very hard to please the opposition, although we are under great debt to them for having made the gauge of battle in this campaign. the proposition to disgrace america by making a separate peace with germany was simply opening their front lines. i have already entered that opening with the hosts of democracy around me. "about three months ago a well-meaning republican business man was driving through clark county. his soldier boy was at the wheel, and he looked over into a field and saw a hundred trucks lying there; and he seized upon the circumstance to attack the administration at washington. the son had heard enough of it, and he stopped the car and said: 'father, you have got to stop talking that way. when we were in the front trench we had warm food, no matter whether we were in the midst of hell's fire or not. we had all the ammunition we needed. it was ten times better to have more trucks than we needed than to have fewer trucks than we needed.' and then there is another reason for it all. need we be reminded that the opposition said that it would require secretary baker and president wilson eighteen months to take , soldiers over seas, and, recognizing that it would require in all probability more than , , soldiers to win the war, that the war would then last, under this democratic administration, four times eighteen months. any child in this country can have the facts presented to him and he will have the mentality to grasp these outstanding circumstances: president wilson and secretary baker, at the head of the military forces of the nation did not send , soldiers over in eighteen months' time. they sent , , soldiers over in eighteen months' time, and won the war without the loss of a single troop ship." chapter v how he has dealt with labor troubles no subject furnishes so good an index to the entire record of an executive as the manner in which he has handled the affairs growing out of industrial disputes. touching, as they often do, a zone of disputed claims, and involving, as they often do, the social rights of workers no less than the rights of property, and entailing, as they frequently have, the duty of maintaining public order, the conflicts between capital and labor test to the utmost the abilities of the executive officer of a great industrial state like ohio. within its borders are toilers from every land and every clime. in her cities dwell as laborers men and women from every known country and representative of every race--a modern babel of tongues with a greater variety, were it possible, than those upon whom fell confusion of speech in the ages gone. and the period during which governor cox has held away has been one of profound upheavals. there have been strikes brought forth by "hard times," strikes occasioned by efforts at organization of workers, and strikes whose distant origin lay in the economic overturn incident to war inflation with its topsy-turvy of values and its jumble of the normal status. these conditions, then, supply a complete and ample test of the effectiveness of the policy which has been followed. the results of this policy are told in a brief statement by mr. oscar w. newman, associate justice of the ohio supreme court. he said: "not a soldier was brought to the scene of a single strike (although they were in readiness for emergency); person and property were preserved; and above all, the dignity of the law was maintained." nor has capital been offended by the methods pursued. this fact is attested by statements of those who speak for invested industrial wealth. thus, w. s. thomas, of springfield, says that the policies pursued have made "ohio an oasis in the widespread area of industrial turmoil during and since the great war." there are cited, too, the conclusions reached by thomas j. donnelly, secretary of the ohio federation of labor, who has written: "labor has confidence in james m. cox because the laboring people feel that he understands their needs and is in hearty sympathy with the progressive aspirations of those who earn their bread by the sweat of their brows. as governor, he accomplished more in the interest of the laboring people of ohio and is held in higher esteem by them than any other governor in the state's history. "he has done much to avoid and to settle labor troubles. he believes that more can be accomplished through reason and common sense than through force and intimidation; and whenever called upon to send the militia to deal with striking workmen, he always found a way to prevent violence and preserve order without using soldiers for that purpose. during the big steel strike when violence and disorder were rampant in some states where the right peaceably to assemble had been denied to the striking workers, in ohio, where there were equally as many strikers involved, there was no sign of violence, and the right of workers peaceably to assembled was not interfered with. if his policy had been followed by other public officials throughout the nation, there would be less unrest and the people would have more confidence in the fairness of government authorities." it is only necessary to get a comprehensive view of governor cox's record with respect to labor troubles to tell the plain story of what he has done. he had scarce taken hold as governor in when a strike broke out in the great rubber plants of akron. it seemed to have been fomented by members of the industrial workers of the world, but it drew in its train thousands upon thousands of other workers until the great plants were practically idle. in akron, where a heterogenous collection of industrial workers dwell, idleness was a potent factor in fomenting disorder. the normal course of affairs would have been an attempt to operate the plants with strike breakers under guard, provocative acts upon both sides, and finally, recourse to an armed militia to quell the disorder after the inevitable bloodshed had ensued. although new in executive experience, governor cox took another course. he sent trained and trusted investigators to akron who learned the facts and reported to him accurately upon the situation, including also the grievances of the toilers. at the same time he gave warning to the local authorities that they preserve a strict neutrality in their dealing with the contending forces, and he uttered a solemn warning that the laws must be respected, assuring those of both contending factions that public opinion within the city would speedily ascertain the right and wrong of the controversy. and so it proved to be. but learning there were abuses in the plants that needed correction the governor gave his assent to an investigation by a legislative committee through the helpful publicity of which all interests were induced to redress certain grievances. it gave an object lesson not only to akron but to all the state. it taught even the turbulent element that only harm could come through infraction of the law and through disrespect for rights of person and property. the remainder of the story is that i. w. w. disturbers have more sterile soil in ohio to cultivate than in any of the states about it. a startling comparison two years later at east youngstown, during the administration of governor cox's successor, disclosed by contrast the value of the peaceful plan. through a policy of uncertainty and wavering, a riot was allowed to start and military were needed to put down the disorder, life being lost in the process. the details of the incidents of similar nature to that of akron need not be recounted here, but the invariable policy pursued was the collection of all the facts, so far as possible, by a representative of capital and one of labor. of this course, the simple statement can be made that it was eminently successful. this recital has been made as a preliminary to the narrative of the great steel strike of on which the governor's fame as an administrator in troubled times largely rests. the same policy of investigation and research was pursued. solemn warning was given that freedom of speech and assembly must be respected rigidly but that neither must become the instrument of license nor of subversive speech or conduct. at the time when the situation reached a critical stage the governor issued this statement: "to the mayors of municipalities and county sheriffs of ohio: "i am impressed with the importance of a statement to the mayors and sheriffs as to a policy which should serve as a guide to government, both state and local, in the matter of turbulent conditions which have developed in many communities, from pending industrial disputes. "we have inquiry at the executive office from local officials clearly indicating that no rule of action has been developed in the face of present emergencies and further that none is in prospect. the constitution imposes upon the governor the very definite responsibility of law enforcement. while it is the duty of the mayor of a municipality and the sheriff of the county to execute the laws, the founders of our charter of government gave to the state executive, not only the right to keep vigilant eye on conditions in every community, but his oath imposes the obligation so to do. therefore, in no part of the state must a public officer permit the violation of the law. the mayors and sheriffs seem to have proper concept of their duty in the abstract. the purpose of this statement is to deal with specifications. "the sections of the state which give the greatest concern have large masses of alien residents. thousands of them do not speak the language. they are not familiar with our laws but it is safe to assume that the individual conscience tells every man that violence is both a moral and a legal wrong. "officers of companies whose manufacturing plants are closed by strike or other cause have expressed to me the intention to resume operations. at the same time they have asked for 'protection.' inquiry develops this fact--that some employers believe it the duty of government to transport their employees into and out of the plants in question. this is not a function of government. throughout the years, the policy has been not to make use of soldiers nor policemen to man street cars, for instance, nor in any way to make of them the instruments to bring a strike to an end. if either state or local officers provided safe conveyance of workmen into or out of a manufacturing institution, then government would be making of itself the agent of one of the parties to the dispute. if, however, the plant resumes, and disorder of any sort ensues as the result of employees going into or out of the factory, then that becomes an affair of governmental concern and the mayor of the municipality or the sheriff of the county, as location within or without the municipality largely determines, must suppress violence and arrest those who violate the law. i shall exact this from all local officers. "picketing as we understand it is neither prohibited by law nor condemned by public sentiment, but it must go no further than moral persuasion. organized society cannot continue without government, and government will not live unless the laws are respected. they not only express what experience has taught us, but they are the official mandate of the will of the majority, and after all, that is a fundamental principle in a republic. "all officers must act with care. it will be found that trouble can often be avoided by an open, frank and firm contact of public officers with both the representatives of the employers and employees. no call that i have ever made upon either side of these controversies has ever gone unheeded. "we are in the midst of unprecedented conditions, but if we devote ourselves to the single thought of making government the agency of justice and the instrument of bringing swift punishment to those who violate the laws of this commonwealth, we will pass through the storm safely. "no man must be permitted to define the rules of his individual conduct. the law is supreme. i shall expect its enforcement by local officers. when they have rendered their utmost effort and failed to meet conditions, then the state will act promptly." in every city in ohio, save one, this warning was sufficient, but in canton it became necessary for the governor to remove the mayor. his successor speedily re-established the peace. chapter vi how he has dealt with industrial relations the story of the result of governor cox's treatment of industrial issues is told in his parallel of statements from thomas j. donnelly, secretary of the ohio federation of labor, and w. s. thomas, a leading manufacturer. statement by donnelly: "before ohio had a workmen's compensation law, only twenty per cent of the injured workers, or the widows and children of deceased workers, were paid any compensation or damages. eighty per cent got nothing whatever. when cox was first elected governor, about five per cent of the workers of ohio were covered under an optional workmen's compensation law. his first move as governor was to insist upon the passage of a workmen's compensation law that would benefit all the workers. in this he met with powerful and bitter opposition. but through his determined efforts the opposition was overcome and the law was passed. to-day the ohio state insurance fund is the largest carrier of workmen's compensation insurance, public or private, in the world. more than a million dollars a month is being collected by this fund, all of which is paid out for compensation and medical treatment for the injured workers or the dependents of those who are killed in the course of employment. this law supplied such an urgent need in the state that the employers and the laboring people of ohio now look upon it as an accomplishment that outshines any other achievement in the state's history. "the report of the legislative agents of the ohio state federation of labor show that fifty-six laws in behalf of laboring people were passed during cox's three terms as governor. among these were laws forbidding the exploitation of women and children and limiting their hours of labor, providing for mothers' pensions, providing for safety codes to protect life, limb and health and numerous other beneficent measures." statement by thomas: "his strong sense of right and wrong, and the exercise of an unusual common sense, together with his frankness and courage in expression, have been the controlling factors in his successful relationship with the business interests of the state. "a single example of his wisdom will illustrate this. for years organized labor and organized capital in ohio have met during the sessions of the general assembly in what seemed to be a necessary antagonism. this was evidenced by the opposition of each to the proposed measures of the other. the result was ill feeling and little accomplished for either. it was governor cox's suggestion that these organizations, represented by the state federation of labor and the ohio manufacturers' association, through their executive officers, should meet together and discuss pending legislation relating to the interest of either. finally this plan was adopted, and it is the testimony of those participating tat it did much to avoid misunderstandings, and contributed a great deal towards sane and safe legislation. there is not known any instance of this plan being adopted in any other state of the union. the fruit of this sensible procedure is that there are no laws in ohio that hamper industry, impede business or endanger property interests, and at the same time the state is foremost in legislation that promotes social welfare, gives labor its due, and helps the weak and needy. "a man who has occupied this position without interruption during three administrations would be a failure at the very outstart if he resorted to devious conduct or political duplicity. he has but one master--the people at large. to reach this position he had to have courage, be truthful, exercise sound and practical business judgment, and at the same time have a vision looking to the betterment of the condition of his fellow-man." the cornerstone of the labor legislation is the workmen's compensation law, the story of which is told in the state archives, in the messages to the ohio general assembly. at the beginning of his first term as governor in , governor cox said: "it would certainly be common bad faith not to pass a compulsory workmen's compensation law. no subject was discussed during the last campaign with greater elaboration, and it must be stated to the credit of our citizenship generally that regardless of the differences of opinion existing for many years, the justice of the compulsory feature is now admitted. much of the criticism of the courts has been due to the trials of personal injury cases under the principles of practice which held the fellow-servant rule, and assumption of risk and contributory negligence to be grounds of defense. the layman reaches his conclusion with respect to justice along the lines of common sense, and the practice in personal injury cases has been so sharply in conflict with the plain fundamentals of right, that social unrest has been much contributed to. a second phase of this whole subject which has been noted in the development of the great industrialism of the day has been the inevitable animosity between capital and labor through the ceaseless litigation growing out of these cases. the individual or the corporation that employs on a large scale has taken insurance in liability companies, and, in too many instances, cases which admitted of little difference of opinion have been carried into the courts. the third injustice has been the waste occasioned by the system. the injured workman or the family deprived of its support by accident is not so circumstanced that the case can be contested with the corporation to the court of last resort. the need of funds compels compromise on a base that is not always equitable. human nature many times drives sharp bargains that can hardly be endorsed by the moral scale. in the final analysis the cost of attorney fees is so heavy that the amount which finally accrues in cases of accident is seriously curtailed before it reaches the beneficiary. these three considerations clearly suggest the lifting of this whole operation out of the courts and the sphere of legal disputation. and then there is a broader principle which must be recognized. there is no characteristic of our civilization so marked as the element of interdependence as between social units. we are all dependent upon our fellows in one way or another. some occupations, however, are more hazardous than others and the rule of the past in compelling those engaged in dangerous activities to bear unaided the burden of this great risk, is not right. the workmen's compensation law in this state, which, however, lacks the compulsory feature, has made steady growth in popularity. the heavy decrease in rates clearly indicates economy and efficiency in the administration of the state liability board of awards. the compulsory feature, however, should at once be added. i respectfully but very earnestly urge its adoption amendatory of the present law with such other changes as experience might dictate. "the objective to be sought is the fullest measure of protection to those engaged in dangerous occupations with the least burden of cost to society, because after all the social organization must pay for it. the ultimate result of this law will be the reduction in death and accident because not only the humanitarian but the commercial consideration will suggest the necessity of installing and maintaining with more vigilance modern safety devices. "government as a science must make its improvement along the same practical lines which develop system, simplification, classification of kindred activities, and better administrative direction in the evolution of business. a private or corporate enterprise is compelled to promote in the highest degree both efficiency and economy because its income is subject to the hazards of business. government without this spur of necessity because its revenue is both regular and certain, does not effect reorganizations and combine common activities so readily. one reason, of course, is that new legislation is required and that is not easy at all times. wherever human energies are now being directed toward more efficient public service, we find the consolidation under one administrative unit or bureau of all departments which deal either in direct or different manner with the same general subject. investigation develops many duplications in both labor and expense in the departments of the state. no business institution would continue such a policy and recognizing now the importance of conducting the business of the commonwealth along the same modern and efficient lines of private and corporate operations, there is submitted herewith to your honorable body two recommendations which, in my judgment, are of tremendous importance, namely, the creation of an industrial commission and a department of agriculture. the first named organization would combine every existing department which deals with the relation between capital and labor. it is certainly a logical observation that the department heads clothed with the responsibility of details will find it extremely difficult to rise to the moral vision necessary to construct and conserve policies dealing with big things. besides duplication of service is a waste of both human energy and state funds." in summing up the results of a single year of workmen's compensation law, the governor at the beginning of said: "the humane results of the workmen's compensation law have been so widespread and the wisdom of the people in changing the constitution so as to make this plan compulsory has been so completely demonstrated that manufacturer and employee now join in praise of the act. while the liability insurance companies contend that the state could not administer this trust and that the cost would run into millions of dollars per year, the experience of the first twelve months shows the cost of the administration to be approximately $ , ; and the claims, running far in excess of , in number, have been adjudicated with such promptness as to justify in the fullest measure the soundness of the state plan. the balance in the fund december , , was $ , , . . the number of accidents is diminishing and the cost to the employer is decreasing; so that both lower rates and larger compensation seem assured. as one who passed through the stormy period that led to the passage of this law, i urge upon you the extreme importance of the highest manifestations of vigilance, patriotism and humanity in order that the fundamentals of this beneficent legislation may be preserved. under the pretext of improving the law it can be easily emasculated. ohio assumed the lead in this legislation, and if the fundamental principle is maintained here, the plan, by its demonstrated worth, will be adopted elsewhere. this means the ultimate loss of ill-gotten millions by potential interests that have grown rich from the tears, blood and maimed bodies of our working people. they will not give it up without a continued struggle. your duty to humanity and to your state calls for extreme watchfulness. though he suffered defeat for re-election in , neither the industrial commission law nor the workmen's compensation law nor any other major piece of social legislation was disturbed by his successor. in reviewing four years of the history of the law at his re-accession to power in , he said: "since the adoption of the law there have been , industrial accidents and only seventeen suits have been brought against employers who paid into the state insurance fund. there was but one single verdict rendered by the court against the employer in the list of seventeen and that was for $ . five cases were settled out of court, four were decided in favor of the employer, one was dismissed by the employee, one was dismissed by the court and four are still pending. more than one thousand firms carry their own insurance under state consent, and against these institutions but five suits have been brought. against the employers who have reinsured with the liability insurance companies, eight suits have been instituted, making a total of thirty law suits from all sources. these figures are procured from the official records of the industrial commission." two years later, in , a further chapter is given: "the experience of our state with the compulsory workmen's compensation law bears so vitally on the industrial life of our people that it is deemed proper to report the outstanding features of the situation. the amount of money in the fund held by the state as trustee for the injured workmen and their dependents, as of date, january , , was $ , , . . so carefully measured has been the cost of human justice that employers pay a smaller premium-rate in ohio than elsewhere, and the injured workmen and their dependents are given larger compensation. a dramatic circumstance which bears eloquent testimony in behalf of this law is here recited: not long since a workman was injured in a factory through which runs the boundary line between ohio and pennsylvania. the accident occurred a few feet east of our state, but the poor fellow crawled back onto the soil of ohio because he knew the difference between our law and the law in pennsylvania. as a further evidence of the basic soundness of the law and the character of its administration, i have directed the industrial commission to have an actuarial audit of the fund in its charge, with the imposed condition that the ohio federation of labor, the ohio manufacturers' association and the state auditor be consulted in the employment of the most competent actuary, obtainable outside the state service, to do the work." this, then, is the story, but not all of it. having its genesis in the meetings between labor and capital, there has been worked out by the two an elaborate code of safety rules which have been officially promulgated by the commission and have the binding effect of law. to-day capital and labor will demand of his successor that his heart and mind be in accord with the program carried to fruition in his six years as governor. there are other points in his service, briefly covered here, in these lists: laws pertaining to business a public utilities law providing property re-valuation as a basis for rate making. provision for court appear from the utilities commission decision to the court of final jurisdiction, preventing delay and loss. prohibition against injunction on rate hearing without court investigation. a uniform accounting system applied to utilities. a state banking code with close co-operation with the federal reserve system, bringing all private banks under state supervision. state expenditure on a budget system to reduce cost of government and lessen taxation. a blue-sky act to encourage proper investment and protect against fraudulent securities. labor legislation a state industrial commission with powers to handle all questions affecting capital and labor, with a state mediator as the keystone. complete survey of occupational diseases with recommendation for health and occupational insurance. full switching crew in all railroad yards. strengthening the user in the state of railroad safety appliances. a full crew law. twenty-four foot caboose. reduction of consecutive hours of employment for electric railroad workers. obstruction of fixed signals prohibited. safeguarding of accidents in mines by proper illumination. extra provision for dependents of men killed in mines. increased facilities for mine inspector operation. protection of miners working toward abandoned mines. elimination of sweatshop labor. provision for minimum time pay day. prohibition of contract labor in workhouses. provision for minimum wage and nine-hour working day for women. eight-hour working day on all public contracts. codification of child laws with establishment of child welfare department. compulsory provision for mothers' pensions. verdict by three-fourths jury in civil cases. chapter vii the leader of the state in war--vision in government in peace time theodore roosevelt said that governor cox was among the very foremost of war governors. the utterance was made after he had assessed the things done during the fateful period of hostilities. presenting complicated problems at all time it was no less true that in war there were major, not minor, obstacles to be met and surmounted before ohio might take her traditional place as one of the very militant states of the union. that she did achieve such place attests the zeal and ardor of the governor. ohio presented to the country a complete division, the thirty-seventh, recruited under the personal supervision of governor cox. it led the nation, by long odds, in sale of war saving stamps, an activity stimulated by governor cox. it preserved good order and set an example in spite of many conflicting racial antagonisms within its borders by cultivation of such a spirit as made open or covert disloyalty dangerous to the disloyal. withal there was no untoward incident affecting peaceful alien enemies. in the cities, none led those of ohio in war gardening, and the tractor campaign for ohio farms was adopted and imitated in other states. the governor himself was a dynamo of activity, organizing the first state council of defense and enlisting volunteer aid at no expense to state and country in quickening all war and related activities. every situation affecting the state's power found him ready for the emergency. when an early frost and severe winter in - destroyed much of the seed corn, the governor uncovered instances of profiteering and immediately stopped it by vigorous action. corn in other districts with similar soil and climate was brought in and sold at three dollars a bushel. soldiers of no state were better supplied with all the comforts that could be provided than those of ohio. while the thirty- seventh was in camp in the far south a christmas train was sent to it. special funds were raised for entertainment of both the ohio camps. in a word, every war activity felt the vigilant care and sympathetic help of the governor. during the war time there were few idle men in ohio. through proclamation attention of local authorities was directed to an old law making vagrancy an offense and it was applied rigorously. no less in reconstruction than in was activities his energies were tireless. the governor took the lead in securing legislation to correct the defects found in educational laws and one of the statutes placed upon the books at his suggestion provided for an oath of allegiance on the part of teachers. referring to disclosures in certain cities, he said: "we have had our bitter experiences and love for our children compels us, in common prudence, to protect them." without sympathy for the mischievous spirits who sought to foment trouble in america, the governor clearly expressed his conception of americanization as a voluntary spiritual, and not a compulsory, process. the policy he had in mind was indicated in an address in chicago in march, , in which he said: "there must be no compromise with treason, but the surest death to bolshevism is exposure of the germ of the disease itself to the sunlight of public view. we must protect ourselves against extremes in america. the horrors and tragedies of revolution can be charged to them. if government is assailed, its policy must not become vengeful. our fathers in specifying what human freedom was, and providing guarantees for its preservation, recognized that among the necessary precautions was the protection of individual right against governmental abuses. "if the alien, ignorant of our laws and customs, cows in fear of our government, he is very apt to believe that things are much the same the world over, and he may become and easy convert to the doctrine of resistance. the skies will clear but meanwhile government must be firm, yet judicial, uninfluenced by the emotionalism that breeds extremes. the less government we have, consistent with safety to life and property, the better for both happiness and morals. a policeman on every corner would be a bad index to the citizenship of the community, for it would reflect a foolish concept of conditions by the municipal officers." the vision of governor cox in legislation is best to be studied in the statute book of ohio. the fact is that he was a pioneer in some of this, indeed in a large part of it. through the years he has insisted that government must deal with its problem by evolution lest revolution overtake it. it was this sentiment that led him to deal with the industrial injury matter. when he heard men inveighing against the courts, a discerning eye knew something was wrong and he gave his attention to righting that wrong. his creed, not recently as a candidate, but in the years of his public career, has been expressed in this summary: "our view is toward the sunrise of tomorrow with its progress and its eternal promise of better things." the expression is found so frequently in his state documents that it might properly be set forth in the form of a creed. but there has been more than what the great roosevelt called "lip- service to progress. the forward steps became a part of the laws. in health affairs he asked for the appointment of a commission to study the need for adequate local administration and he urged its adoption before the general assembly so forcefully that ohio to-day has what is universally recognized to be the best system in america. in placing the state department upon a footing commensurate with other institutions of government, case was taken to place it where it cannot be prostituted to partisanship. there has been a growing number of governmental departments under governor cox in which partisanship is utterly forbidden. they include the board of administration, dealing with the wards of the state, the social agencies, the educational, and the fish and game department. an actual census in all the varied public office activities in ohio would disclose that although the democratic party has been in possession of the government for nearly all of the past twelve years, the number of members of the republican party on the public rolls is almost as great as that of the victors. the governor has found that men in the world of business employ, at larger compensation than the state has afforded, the type of men he has most often selected for responsible posts. it is one of the curious effects of progress in government that it has touched and awakened progress in business and in civic life. in social service there has been evolved the cold storage act which has served as a model for proposed national legislation. under its provisions a strict limitation of time is placed upon the storing of food. with this has gone strict legislation against adulteration of food and honest enforcement of the laws. other states have accepted as a model the social agency committee now working in effective co-operation with state departments and bringing into mutual operation all recognized social agencies. one of the greatest steps forward was the establishment of a bureau of juvenile research with dr. l. h. goddard at its head. second to no other reform has been that effected in handling of the prison problem. prisoners now earn their freedom through work in the healthful out-of-doors on highways, in plants for making road material, and on farms. there is a system of compensation to the families for work done as a balance on which to begin life anew. twelve hundred consolidated schools in ohio attest the successful workings of the rural school code which was brought into existence in after careful study and after the state in general meetings had carefully studied the plans. the old one-room school house is giving way in the country to the modern centralized school and community life is being remade. through the raising of the country school to the plane of those of the cities, it will be possible to check the alarming drift to the cities and depopulation of the countryside. governor cox does not believe that the federal government should interfere in the affairs of local communities but he does believe that it "can inventory the possibilities of progressive education, and in helpful manner create an enlarged public interest in this subject." along with the improvement of rural schools has gone a most comprehensive highway programme involving an annual outlay of millions of dollars. gradually as highways are improved they will, under the state policy shaped in , be taken over by the state. the agricultural legislation was in consonance with the other subjects touched. ohio was long a dumping ground for inferior fertilizers, diseased livestock and impure seed. adequate laws have changed all this. still, these are police measures not of necessity a true index of real vision in agricultural matters. the boldest step ever taken was the establishment of pure bred herds of cattle by the state with opportunity afforded through breeding service at institutional farms to extend these pure strains to the small farms. the success attained is reflected in numerous heard of thorough-bred cattle. chapter viii fighting "slush funds" developments of the present campaign have given a peculiar interest to past history with respect to the record of governor cox in dealing with campaign expenditures. the governor's reports, which have been filed under the ohio corrupt practice law, show that he has never been an extravagant spender in campaigns. in his various races for the governor's office in ohio one of the points which he has claimed is the redemption of pledges made to the people. under one of these pledges he advocated and secured the enactment of an anti-lobby law, designed to reduce the evils attendant upon the presence of a legislative lobby. he found upon the statute books of ohio a corrupt practice act and this was strengthened by laws passed during his term. in taking hold as governor in , he demanded and secured a rigid lobby law. of this he said: "conditions not only justify but demand drastic anti-lobby law. any person interesting himself in legislation will not, if his motive and cause be just, object to registering his name, residence and the matters he is espousing, with the secretary of state, or some other authority designated by your body. if his activities be of such nature that he does not care to reveal them in the manner indicated, then the public interest is obviously endangered. it is no more than a prudent safeguard to have it known what influences are at work with respect to legislation. there ought to be no temporizing with this situation." in the first year of his administration he combated an attempt to annul the workmen's compensation law by an improper referendum and vigorously cleaned up the situation by causing the arrest of those who had conspired to falsify names to petitions. the governor followed up his activity for clean administration of the referendum system by comprehensive laws in , since when no abuses have been discovered. what he said to the general assembly gave a further indication of his policy in this respect. he said: "the underlying spirit of the corrupt practice laws in the state and nation is the ascertainment of the influences behind candidates or measures. we can with profit compel a sworn itemized statement when the petition is filed showing all money or things of value paid, given or promised for circulating such petitions." in the campaign of , in which governor cox was re-elected, assertions were made of large improper expenditure of money in defiance of the law. in the following january at the regular session of the general assembly, the governor indicated his position by calling for a special legislative inquiry. the statements he made furnish an interesting background for the developments of the year. at that time he said: "let me lay particular emphasis on the necessity of safeguarding the suffrage thought of the state from the dangers of corrupt influences. the sums of money expended for so-called political purposes are assuming such magnitude as to cause seemingly well- founded alarm, if not to justify the belief that the legitimate purpose of campaigning is being exceeded. unfettered by law, this tendency might result in the waters of our free institutions being poisoned at their very base. reduced to simple terms, the object of a campaign is to inform the voters on every subject that legitimately and germanely joins to the issues and the candidates. any step beyond this, and any project opposed to it in motive, cannot but be regarded as dangerous. human frailties should not be played upon by vast treasures of money advanced by men or movements whose huge disbursements can hardly be looked upon as of patriotic inspiration. it is not necessary to expend large amounts of money for the promotion of a worthy cause, and, inversely, any cause or candidacy having behind it unprecedented financial support is likely to be regarded with suspicion. it may, through legislation, be necessary to restrain irresponsible organizations whose existence and activities are born of a hidden design, conceived by some interest afraid to operate in the open. i recommend that a legislative committee of investigation be appointed with the power to employ counsel, and the authority to summon persons and papers and to swear witnesses in order that it might be known just what organizations have been entering into campaign activities, and how much money they expended and collected--also the names of the contributors. this should extend also to candidates. the facts as adduced will then be a safe guide as to the necessity of strengthening the corrupt practices act, or more rigorously enforcing existing law, or both." the legislative session had hardly concluded before the war with germany broke out and it was deemed unwise at that time to proceed to any agitation on the subject. the functions of the committee were, accordingly never fulfilled. early in the year of , the governor gave warning of the report that huge funds were to be raised in this year for election purposes. at the very outset of his campaign in addressing the members of democratic national committee at columbus, the governor said: "i hope i do violence to no member of this committee when i submit to you this proposal: that we purpose not only to deal with eminent good faith with the electorate of this nation in november with reference to platform pledges, but we mean to let every man and woman understand where every dollar comes from, and for what purpose it is spent. we not only urge that as a matter of high principle, but in order to guarantee the triumph of our cause which deserves to triumph. we do not want the publication of expenditures after the election. there is no point in advising the voters what has been done. we want them to be fully advised of every circumstance with reference to the collection and the disbursement of funds in order that from the circumstances they can gain a correct index, and understand that when the democracy is continued in power in washington, it assumes its responsibility without a single obligation except to the conscience that god has given us. "therefore, gentlemen, let us make up a budget which will carry the full details and information--recounting the legitimate expenses of this campaign, render an accounting daily or weekly, and the source from which it came. and more than that, we shall insist upon the senatorial investigating committee continuing in session until the ballot has been closed in november. you know full well that a campaign fund sufficient in size to stagger the sensibilities of the nation is now being procured by our opponents. if they believe that is correct in principle, god speed them in the enterprise, it will be one of our chief assets in this campaign." this, then is the record. chapter ix the life story born at jacksonburg, ohio, march , , son of gilbert and eliza cox; educated in public schools; reared on farm; worked in printer's office; taught country school; became newspaper reporter; secretary to congressman sorg, d ohio district; bought dayton daily news, , and springfield press republic, , forming news league of ohio; member st and d congress ( - ), d ohio district; governor of ohio; elected in , defeated in , elected in and ; now serving third term; home, trailsend, dayton. the family of cox seems to have had its origin in england in the generations gone, but its americanism is of two centuries in duration. at freeboard, new jersey, lived general james cox, one of the early speakers of the new jersey house of representatives and later a member of congress. tillers of the soil and artisans, the closer forbears attained to no distinction in public life. to ohio the family came sometime in the early years of the last century, and at jacksonburg the paternal grandfather, gilbert cox, established himself. on the ancestral farm of acres, his son, gilbert, jr., lived, and on it james m. cox first saw the light of day. his uncles and aunts, for his father was one of a family of thirteen, were of the people who migrated westward. the youngest of a family of seven children, he learned the routine of tasks of a boy on the farm. in the little one-room country school he attended, his teachers found him an ordinary pupil but with a fondness for newspaper reading. cox's first public job was the humble position of janitor in the united brethren church, and even now his favorite reminiscence is the difficulty he had in making the old wood stove function properly. the thrifty farmers in those days were accustomed to commute part of their dues in cord wood for the church, and often the quality they supplied was not of the best. the boy became a member of the church, a membership which is still retained. at fifteen he left the elementary school to enter the middletown high school, living with his sister, mrs. john q. baker, whose husband was a teacher in the high school and owner of the middletown signal. board was paid in working as a printer's devil until the apprenticeship was served and the county newspaper business was mastered from both the counting room and the editorial side. upon completion of his high school course, the young man passed the county examination and obtained a position as teacher of the school he had in earlier years attended, but a pedagogical career was not to his liking and he returned to work on the signal staff. he became also the local correspondent for the cincinnati enquirer and attracted the attention of the main office by a neat scoop which he landed regarding a railroad wreck. graduating into the reportorial work, he became assistant telegraph and railroad editor of the enquirer. he retired from the newspaper life for a time to become secretary to congressman sorg, remaining in his capacity until his th year, when he purchased the dayton news, giving $ , in notes and beginning with a capital of just $ . the times were hard enough for the young chap with creditors constantly upon him. once his paper was forced to suspend by reason of an unpaid bill, and the opposition paper heralded its death. the struggling publisher retaliated with an "extra" announcing its continuance. then again there were plenty of libel suits for the young editor-publisher, setting out to be a reformer, and the ruling powers in the city strongly disapproved his methods, but the militant editor brought readers and the readers brought advertisers, and the venture became a success. five years from his first venture he bought the springfield press republic and the springfield democrat, combining the two in the evening news. each is now housed in its own modern newspaper building and each is highly prosperous as a business institution, although the owner's supervision has been of a general character. his associates always speak of the "cox luck" in politics, but upon analysis it seems that it consists either of seizing or making the opportunity. in his congressional district, originally democratic, had become republican, but a factional quarrel breaking out in the opposition camps, the governor took the democratic nomination and won out, again riding to victory in the great landslide of . in congress his career afforded him no opportunity to attain to high distinction, but he became a member of the appropriations committee and there became most deeply impressed with the waste in public funds and the unbusinesslike methods of arriving at appropriations. one of his services was the disclosure that the care of civil war veterans in the national soldiers' home at dayton was shattered, and he won the contest for increased allowances. the gratitude of the veterans was expressed in a majority from the home in his re- election in , thus breaking an historical precedent. two years later he became the champion of the constitutional amendments proposed by the fourth constitutional convention of ohio, then sitting, and as such was unanimously nominated by his party for governor, on a platform which demanded a "new order" of things in ohio. as soon as he was nominated he took the platform before the people for the adoption of the constitutional amendments in a special september election. these amendments included one providing for the initiative and referendum of which he had been an advocate for years, and one for the removal of officials failing to enforce the laws, giving the governor the weapon with which he established his law- enforcement record. there was very little to the campaign in that year, the historical republican party splitting in two upon the issue of progressiveness, and he was elected by an enormous plurality. facing the tasks imposed by the new constitution, the governor insisted upon legislative fulfillment of each popular mandate, and in a busy session of three months he accomplished his programme. aside from the legislation suggested by the amendments, his greatest constructive step was the enactment of a budget system, which sought to place the financial affairs of ohio upon a businesslike basis. its worth as a saver of money and promoter of efficiency has never been challenged. the previous ohio fiscal system had grown grossly archaic. appropriations were made by the legislature to the departments in lump sums or in the form of granting all receipts and balances, some of the departments being maintained by the fees from interests they regulated. of the departments having receipts of their own, many had deposits of their own in banks and their own checking accounts, so that their funds never passed through the state treasury or through the hands of the state auditor. other departments got much or little from the legislature, depending upon whether they had a gifted representative to appear for them before the legislative finance committee. institutions vied with each other in providing the best entertainment to these committees as they made their week-end junket trips over the state during legislative sessions. all this was changed in one sweeping stroke in the first administration of governor cox. all receipts of all departments now go into the state treasury and none leave the treasury until it is appropriated in specific sums for specific purposes within specific departments. the state auditor has a check on every expenditure. the ohio budget department is composed of one commissioner appointed by the governor, an assistant and a clerk. all departmental requests for funds desired of the next succeeding legislature are filed with the budget commissioner, to be brought before the governor. he investigates all items, ascertains the reasons for any increases that are asked, and fixes the sums he deems proper. also, he estimates what the state revenues during the next biennium will be and prunes the budget to come within the total of expected revenues. the budget as prepared by the commissioner is submitted to the governor, who frequently makes changes of his own after advising with department heads. the governor then presents the budget to the legislature, which refers it to the finance committees of the two houses. the committees, and, in turn, the legislature, have full authority to make any alterations, increases or decreases, desired, but the spellbinding by department representatives and wire-pulling by lobbyists are reduced to a minimum because the budget commissioner sits as the agent of the governor at all sessions of the finance committees and at all times is prepared to defend the allowance he thinks a department should have. the first budgetary appropriation bill repealed an existing appropriation law. it reduced appropriations aggregating $ , , to $ , , , a saving of $ , . since that time the ohio budget system has effected savings of millions, not, of course, in the sense that expenditures of the state government now are less than in --for they have increased as governmental activities have enlarged--but in the sense that expenditures each year have been vastly less than they would have been without the budget plan of pruning and scaling down demands of existing state departments with a view both to general economy and avoidance of deficits. the ohio budget and consequently its appropriation law classifies expenditures in two divisions: ( ) operating expenses and ( ) capital outlay (or permanent improvements). operating expenses are subdivided into personal service and maintenance. personal service in turn is divided into salaries and wages, and maintenance into supplies, materials, equipment, contract or open order service, and fixed charges and contributions. elasticity of funds within departments is afforded by periodical meetings of a board of control, composed of the governor (who may be and usually is represented by the budget commissioner), the state auditor, the attorney-general, and the chairmen of the two legislative finance committees. if any new need develops within departments, funds for the purpose may be provided by a four-fifths vote of the board of control. effort first is made to transfer the needed funds from one classification to another within the department. if no fund within the department has a surplus, and the need is great enough, relief may be granted by the emergency board, having the same membership as the board of control, which has at its disposal an emergency fund for contingencies arising between legislative sessions. perfection never has been claimed for the ohio system. governor cox himself realizes certain weaknesses in it and is making a fight now for strengthening features, which, however, necessitate a change in the constitution. one defect is that, regardless of probable income, the legislature may increase items in the budget (or rather the appropriation bill based on the budget), and it may make other appropriations in separate bills as it sees fit without regard to prospective revenues. in his message to the general assembly, a republican body, the governor urged submission to the people of an amendment to the constitution providing that the legislature shall have the right to diminish any item in the executive budget by majority vote or to strike out any item: that, however, it shall not be privileged to increase any item or to add a new one unless it makes legislative provision for sufficient revenue to meet the added cost. such an amendment was not submitted. unless it is done by an early legislature, adherents of cox in ohio say it may be undertaken by initiative petition. good roads another notable achievement of governor cox is the advance of the ohio highway system. roads were in deplorable shape when he became governor. there was no hope for rural counties with small tax duplicates, the ones in greatest need of good roads never being able to lift themselves out of the mud except through liberal state aid. one of the governor's first acts was a survey of road conditions. a complete network of , miles of inter-county roads was mapped out. it connected the eighty-eight county seats. of the , miles of inter-county highways, miles, connecting the larger cities, were designated as main market roads. the scheme of financing called for improvement of the main market roads entirely at state expense, which the remainder of the system was to be built on a fifty-fifty basis, the state furnishing half the funds, and the county in which the road lies, the other half. all road improvement under the cox administration has been given such an impetus that the state, county and township programmes to-day call for an expenditure of $ , , annually, including federal aid. popular demand for highway improvement is greater than the state highway department and county commissioners are able to meet. revitalizing the schools as a pupil in a one-room country school and as a teacher, he had first knowledge of the shortcomings and possibilities of the ohio educational system. it was his firm conviction that the country boy and girl should be given the same educational advantages that accrued to those of the city. the purpose of the governor's school programme was to give ohio a co-ordinates system of state, county and district supervision, to require normal or college training of all teachers, and, above all, to pave the way for speedier centralization and consolidation of the one-room district school. results have been beyond the expectations of school men, every breath and opposition to the system has blown away, and it may truthfully be said that it has become an idol of the people of the state. the re-organization has stimulated interest in education in all respects and has made possible a more recent establishment of a state-wide teachers' pensions system and a complete revamping of financial support of schools through a state and county aid plan. salaries of teachers have been increased the last six years from a minimum of $ a month to a statutory minimum of $ a school year. the teacher shortage occasioned by the war will be solved without much delay in ohio, as county and state normal schools report prospective increases in attendance of fifty to one hundred per cent or even greater for next year. the time had come in when the little district school with its narrow curriculum and crude methods of instruction did not meet the needs and purposes of modern industrial and social life in ohio. it had not kept step with rural economic progress. in the whole state it was the one evidence of retardation, an institution of bygone days which had deteriorated instead of having improved. the right of every child to educational opportunities for development to the fullest extent of his possibilities was not recognized by the state in the school system as it existed at that time. governor cox, in his first message to the general assembly in january, , recommended that a complete school survey be made. a survey commission was created. to acquaint school patrons with the object of the survey in progress and to get them to discuss in their own communities the defects and the needs of the schools, november , , was set apart as "school survey day" and a light burned in every school building in the state that night. delegates were appointed to attend a state-wide educational congress the next month, and in january, , the governor called a special session to enact the rural school code. the survey report disclosed that not half of the teachers of the state ever had attended high school, nor had normal training. rural schools were mere stepping stones for young teachers before securing positions in village and city schools, agriculture was scarcely taught, schools were without equipment, three-fourths of the buildings were twenty years old or older, unsanitary, poorly lighted, without ventilation and insufficiently heated. with one stroke the new school code created county supervision districts under the control of county boards, elected by the presidents of village and township boards; provided for county superintendents and supervisors over smaller districts within the county; required academic and professional training of all new teachers henceforth, and gave communities wider powers to centralize and consolidate schools. at present ninety-five per cent of the elementary teachers have had professional training, and high school teachers are required to be college graduates or have equivalent scholastic attainment. the most common faults of class-room instruction have been to a great extent eliminated. standard methods of presentation are being practices in an attempt to give to each child opportunity for development of his possibilities. a great stimulation of public school sentiment is manifested by a closer co-operation and correlation of the school and the home, resulting in boys' and girls' club work, achievement courses, home projects and other school extension and community activities; a growth of the feeling of responsibility to the community on the part of the teacher; an attitude of greater interest and responsibility of the boards of education toward the school; a willingness of the people to vote money for new school plants and enterprises; a growing demand for consolidation and centralization; a better trained class of teachers, increased school attendance, especially in high schools where it has increased from fifty to one hundred per cent. school administration is much more efficient as is demonstrated by a uniform course of study for elementary and high schools, vitalized by its articulation with the industrial activities of the community, county uniformity of textbooks, selection and correlation of textbook material and its adaptation to the varying interests and needs of childhood, uniform system of reports and records, and the like. school centers have been made to coincide with social and business centers. convenient districts have been formed around centers of population. village and surrounding rural districts have been united in accordance with the trend of the community interests and activities. weak districts have been eliminated by the transfer of their territory to other districts, thereby strengthening property valuations. a centralized school in ohio was almost a novelty in . a year ago there were centralized (township) schools and consolidated (embracing several contiguous districts) schools, and the number has been materially swelled during the year. seventy of the eighty-eight counties now have such schools and the trend is toward them throughout the state. one such school replaces, on the average, eight one-room schools. they have brought to the rural pupils trained teachers, well-equipped buildings, courses of study related to the interests of the farm and home by being well-balanced between the cultural and vocational. they have made it possible for the country boy who remains on the farm to obtain a high school education in his own community that is directly related to his needs. scientific agriculture under trained instructors is taught in all of these schools. the possibilities of the farm and of rural life are thus revealed to the boy and he will be equipped with knowledge necessary to the scientific performance of his work. from the farm instead of the law office and the counting room will come those who know what the needs and interests of the farmer are and who will be qualified to represent those interests. while the system still may be said to be in its infancy, the progress of transformation of ohio schools under it has been nothing short of wonderful, and unending results may be expected of it. this extensive legislation had aroused many prejudices particularly, in the rural sections, of which his opponent, congressman frank b. willis, took advantage. the bold challenge of the governor to his opponent was stated by him on the platform in many parts of ohio "which law will you repeal?" the question was never answered, but the tide of opposition to the changes swept governor cox out of office, although he ran many thousands ahead of his associates. in the succeeding sessions of the general assembly popular sentiment began once more to swing to governor cox and two years later he was re-elected by a small plurality. improvement in the various laws was sought during his next term, but the shadow of the world war was already beginning to fall, and the greater part of his efforts were devoted to preparation for ohio's part. in general administration the governor's supporters are fond of saying that he met successfully in his first term a flood, in his second term a war, in his third term reconstruction. the flood story was the one that really introduced him first to the country at large. ohio was hit by a calamity greater than any that had befallen a state. columbus, dayton, marietta, hamilton and other cities were under water for days, many villages were almost washed off the map, and hundreds of lives and untold millions of property were lost. bridges everywhere were washed out and transportation was practically at a standstill. the eyes of the state and country were on the then untried governor cox. he met the situation in a manner that will never be forgotten in ohio. the ohio national guard was called out, stricken communities were placed under martial law, civilian relief armies under the command of mayors and other designated leaders organized everywhere, ohio's motor truck, automobile and other facilities commandeered, and the work of feeding, clothing, cleaning up and rehabilitation carried on from the beginning with astounding efficiency. the new york world at that time said of him: "the man who has dominated the situation in ohio is governor cox. he has been not only chief magistrate and commander-in- chief, but the head of the life-saving service, the greatest provider of food and clothing the state has ever known, the principal health officer, the sanest counselor, the severest disciplinarian, the kindest philanthropist and best reporter. he has performed incredible labors in all these fields, and his illuminating dispatches to the world at the close of the heart- breaking days have given a clearer vision of conditions than could be had from any other source. reared on a farm, educated in the public schools, a printer by trade, a successful publisher and editor of newspapers, a great governor and a reported who gets his story into the first edition, james m. cox excites and is herewith offered assurance of the world's most distinguished consideration." the flood revealed the necessity for conservancy legislation and the measure recommended by the governor was enacted to give local communities the right to protect themselves. the time has gone by when in ohio the major things in the programme of governor cox can be attacked successfully before the people of the state. he does not claim perfection. suggestion as to improvement has found him ready to listen. there is still a short time for him to serve, but the public judgment has been made up, and buckeye citizens, without regard to party affiliation, says that he has been a "good governor." senator north by gertrude atherton _"when, mr. president, a man, however eminent in other pursuits and whatever claims he may have to public confidence, becomes a member of this body, he has much to learn and much to endure. little does he know of what he will have to encounter. he may be well read in public affairs, but he is unaware of the difficulties which must attend and embarrass every effort to render what he may know available and useful. he may be upright in purpose and strong in the belief of his own integrity, but he cannot even dream of the ordeal to which he cannot fail to be exposed; of how much courage he must possess to resist the temptations which must daily beset him; of that sensitive shrinking from undeserved censure which he must learn to control; of the ever recurring contest between a natural desire for public approbation and a sense of public duty; of the load of injustice he must be content to bear even from those who should be his friends; the imputations on his motives; the sneers and sarcasms of ignorance and malice; all the manifold injuries which partisan or private malignity, disappointed of its object, may shower upon his unprotected head. all this, if he would retain his integrity, he must learn to ear unmoved and walk steadily onward in the path of public duty, sustained only by the reflection that time may do him justice; or if not, that his individual hopes and aspirations and even his name among men should be of little account to him when weighed in the balance of a people of whose destiny he is a constituted guardian and defender."_ --william pitt fessenden _in memorial address before the senate, ._ _miss betty madison embarks on the political sea. her discoveries, surprises, and triumphs._ senator north i "if we receive this lady mary montgomery, we shall also have to receive her dreadful husband." "he is said to be quite charming." "he is a representative!" "of course they are all wild animals to you, but one or two have been pointed out to me that looked quite like ordinary gentlemen--really." "possibly. but no person in official life has ever entered my house. i do not feel inclined to break the rule merely because the wife of one of the most objectionable class is an englishwoman with a title. i think it very inconsiderate of lady barnstaple to have given her a letter to us." "lee, never having lived in washington, doubtless fancies, like the rest of the benighted world, that its officials are its aristocracy. the senate of the united states is regarded abroad as a sort of house of peers. one has to come and live in washington to hear of the 'old washingtonians,' the 'cave-dwellers,' as sally calls us; i expected to see a coat of blue mould on each of them when i returned." "really, betty, i do not understand you this morning." mrs. madison moved uneasily and took out her handkerchief. when her daughter's rich southern voice hardened itself to sarcasm, and her brilliant hazel eyes expressed the brain in a state of cold analysis, mrs. madison braced herself for a contest in which she inevitably must surrender with what slow dignity she could command. betty had called her molly since she was fourteen months old, and, sweet and gracious in small matters, invariably pursued her own way when sufficiently roused by the strength of a desire. mrs. madison, however, kept up the fiction of an authority which she thought was due to herself and her ancestors. she continued impatiently,-- "you have been standing before that fireplace for ten minutes with your shoulders thrown back as if you were going to make a speech. it is not a nice attitude for a girl at all, and i wish you would sit down. i hope you don't think that because sally carter crosses her knees and cultivates a brutal frankness of expression you must do the same now that you have dropped all your friends of your own age and become intimate with her. i suppose she is old enough to do as she chooses, and she always was eccentric." "she is only eight years older than i. you forget that i shall be twenty-seven in three months." "well, that is no reason why you should stand before the fireplace like a man. do sit down." "i'd rather stand here till i've said what is necessary--if you don't mind. i am sorry to be obliged to say it, and i can assure you that i have not made up my mind in a moment." "what is it, for heaven's sake?" mrs. madison drew a short breath and readjusted her cushions. in spite of her wealth and exalted position she had known much trouble and grief. her first six children had died in their early youth. her husband, brilliant and charming, had possessed a set of affections too restless and ardent to confine themselves within the domestic limits. his wife had buried him with sorrow, but with a deep sigh of relief that for the future she could mourn him without torment. he had belonged to a collateral branch of a family of which her father had been the heir; consequently the old madison house in washington was hers, as well as a large fortune. harold madison had been free to spend his own inheritance as he listed, and he had left but a fragment. mrs. madison's nerves, never strong, had long since given way to trouble and ill-health, and when her active strong-willed daughter entered her twentieth year, she gladly permitted her to become the mistress of the household and to think for both. betty had been educated by private tutors, then taken abroad for two years, to france, germany, and italy, in order, as she subsequently observed, to make the foreign attache. feel more at ease when he proposed. her winters thereafter until the last two had been spent in washington, where she had been a belle and ranked as a beauty. in the fashionable set it was believed that every attache, in the city had proposed to her, as well as a large proportion of the old beaux and of the youths who pursue the business of society. her summers she spent at her place in the adirondacks, at northern watering-places, or in europe; and the last two years had been passed, with brief intervals of paris and vienna, in england, where she had been presented with distinction and seen much of country life. she had returned with her mother to washington but a month ago, and since then had spent most of her time in her room or on horseback, breaking all her engagements after the first ten days. mrs. madison had awaited the explanation with deep uneasiness. did her daughter, despite the health manifest in her splendid young figure, feel the first chill of some mortal disease? she had not been her gay self for months, and although her complexion was of that magnolia tint which never harbours colour, it seemed to the anxious maternal eye, looking back to six young graves, a shade whiter than it should. or had she fallen in love with an englishman, and hesitated to speak, knowing her mother's love for washington and bare tolerance of the british isles? she looked askance at betty, who stood tapping the front of her habit with her crop and evidently waiting for her mother to express some interest. mrs. madison closed her eyes. betty therefore continued,-- "i see you are afraid i am going to marry an oriental minister or something. i hear that one is looking for an american with a million. well, i am going to do something you will think even worse. i am going in for politics." "you are going to do what?" mrs. madison's voice was nearly inaudible between relief and horrified surprise, but her eyes flew open. "do you mean that you are going to vote?--or run for congress?--but women don't sit in congress, do they?" "of course not. do you know i think it quite shocking that we have lived here in the very brain of the united states all our lives and know less of politics than if we were indians in alaska? i was ashamed of myself, i can assure you, when lord barnstaple asked me so many questions the first time i visited maundrell abbey. he took for granted, as i lived in washington, i must be thoroughly well up in politics, and i was obliged to tell him that although i had occasionally been in the room with one or two senators and cabinet ministers, who happened to be in society first and politics afterward, i didn't know the others by name, had never put my foot in the white house or the capitol, and that no one i knew ever thought of talking politics. he asked me what i had done with myself during all the winters i had spent in washington, and i told him that i had had the usual girls'-good-time,--teas, theatre, germans, dinners, luncheons, calls, calls, calls! i was glad to add that i belonged to several charities and had read a great deal; but that did not seem to interest him. well, i met a good many men like lord barnstaple, men who were in public life. some of them were dull enough, judged by the feminine standard, but even they occasionally said something to remember, and others were delightful. this is the whole point--i can't and won't go back to what i left here two years ago. my day for platitudes and pouring tea for men, who are contemptible enough to make society their profession, is over. i am going to know the real men of my country. it is incredible that there are not men in that senate as well worth talking to as any i met in england. the other day i picked up a bound copy of the congressional record in a book-shop. it was frantically interesting." "it must have been! but, my dear--of course i understand, darling, your desire for a new intellectual occupation; you always were so clever--but you can't, you really can't know these men. they are--they are--politicians. we never have known politicians. they are dreadful people, who have come from low origins and would probably call me 'marm.'" "you are all wrong, molly. i bought a copy of the congressional directory a day or two ago, and have read the biography of every senator. nine-tenths of them are educated men; if only a few attended the big universities, the rest went to the colleges of their state. that is enough for an american of brains. and most of them are lawyers; others served in the war, and several have distinguished records. they cannot be boors, whether they have blue blood in them or not. i'm sick of blue blood, anyway. vienna was the deadliest place i ever visited. what makes london interesting is its red streak of plebeianism;--well, i repeat, i think it really dreadful that we should not know even by name the men who make our laws, who are making history, who may be called upon at any moment to decide our fate among nations. i feel a silly little fool." "i suppose you mean that i am one too. but it always has been my boast, betty, that i never have had a politician in my house. your father knew some, but he never brought them here; he knew the fastidious manner in which i had been brought up; and although i am afraid he kept late hours with a good many of them at chamberlin's and other dreadful places, he always spared me. i suppose this is heredity working out in you." "possibly. but you will admit, will you not, that i am old enough to choose my own life?" "you always have done every single thing you wanted, so i don't see why you talk like that. but if you are going to bring a lot of men to this house who will spit on my carpets and use toothpicks, i beg you will not ask me to receive with you." "of course you will receive with me, molly dear--when i know anybody worth receiving. unfortunately i am not the wife of the president and cannot send out a royal summons. i am hoping that lady mary montgomery will help me. but my first step shall be to pay a daily visit to the senate gallery." "what!" mrs. madison's weary voice flew to its upper register. "i _do_ know something about politics--i remember now--the only women who go to the capitol are lobbyists--dreadful creatures who--who--do all sorts of things. you can't go there; you'll be taken for one." "we none of us are taken very long for what we are not. i shall take leontine with me, and those interested enough to notice me will soon learn what i go for." mrs. madison burst into tears. "you are your father all over again! i've seen it developing for at least three years. at first you were just a hard student, and then the loveliest young girl, only caring to have a good time, and coquetting more bewitchingly than any girl i ever saw. i don't see why you had to change." "time develops all of us, one way or another. i suppose you would like me to be a charming girl flirting bewitchingly when i am forty-five. i am finished with the meaningless things of life. i want to live now, and i intend to." "it will be wildly exciting--the senate gallery every day, and knowing a lot of lank raw-boned yankees with political beards." "i am not expecting to fall in love with any of them. i merely discovered some time since that i had a brain, and they happen to be the impulse that possesses it. you always have prided yourself that i am intellectual, and so i am in the flabby 'well-read' fashion. i feel as if my brain had been a mausoleum for skeletons and mummies; it felt alive for the first time when i began to read the newspapers in england. i want no more memoirs and letters and biographies, nor even of the history that is shut up in calf-skin. i want the life of to-day. i want to feel in the midst of current history. all these men here in washington must be alive to their finger-tips. sally carter admires senator north and senator maxwell immensely." "what does she say about politicians in general?" mrs. madison looked almost distraught. "of course the norths and the maxwells come of good new england families--i never did look down on the north as much as some of us did; after all, nearly three hundred years are very respectable indeed--and if these two men had not been in politics i should have been delighted to receive them. i met senator north once--at bar harbor, while you were with the carters at homburg--and thought him charming; and i had some most interesting chats with his wife, who is much the same sort of invalid that i am. but when i establish a standard i am consistent enough to want to keep to it. i asked you what sally carter says of the others." "oh, she admits that there may be others as _convenable_ as senator north and senator maxwell, and that there is no doubt about there being many bright men in the senate; but she 'does not care to know any more people.' being a good cave-dweller, she is true to her traditions." "people will say you are _passee,_" exclaimed mrs. madison, hopefully. "they will be sure to." her daughter laughed, showing teeth as brilliant as her eyes. then she snatched off her riding-hat and shook down her mane of warm brown hair. her black brows and lashes, like her eyes and mouth, were vivid, but her hair and complexion were soft, without lustre, but very warm. she looked like a flower set on so strongly sapped a stem that her fullness would outlast many women's decline. she had inherited the beauty of her father's branch of the family. mrs. madison was very small and thin; but she carried herself erectly and her delicately cut face was little wrinkled. her eyes were blue, and her hair, which was always carefully rolled, was as white as sea foam. betty would not permit her to wear black, but dressed her in delicate colours, and she looked somewhat like an animated miniature. she dabbed impatiently at her tears. "everybody will cut you--if you go into that dreadful political set." "i am on the verge of cutting everybody myself, so it doesn't matter. positively--i shall not accept an invitation of the old sort this winter. the sooner they drop me the better." mrs. madison wept bitterly. "you will become a notorious woman," she sobbed. "people will talk terribly about you. they will say--all sorts of things i have heard come back to me--these politicians make love to every pretty woman they meet. they are so tired of their old frumps from oshkosh and kalamazoo." "they do not all come from oshkosh and kalamazoo. there are six new england states whose three centuries you have just admitted lift them into the mists of antiquity. there are fourteen southern states, and i need make no defence--" "their gentlemen don't go into politics any more." "you have admitted that senator north and senator maxwell are gentlemen. there is no reason why there should not be many more." "count de bellairs told me that there was a spittoon at every desk in the senate and that he counted eight toothpicks in one hour." "well, i'll reform them. that will be my holy mission. as for spittoons and toothpicks, they are conspicuous in every hotel in the united states. they should be on our coat-of-arms, and the great american novel will be called 'the great american toothpick.' statesmen have cut their teeth on it, and it has been their solace in the great crises of the nation's history. as for spittoons, they were invented for our own southern aristocrats who loved tobacco then as now. they decorate our capitol as a mere matter of form. i don't pretend to hope that ninety representative americans are beau brummels, but there must be a respectable minority of gentlemen--whether self-made or not i don't care. i am going to make a deliberate attempt to know that minority, and shall call on lady mary montgomery this afternoon as the first step. so you are resigned, are you not, molly dear?" "no, i am not! but what can i do? i have spoiled you, and you would be just the same if i hadn't. you are more like the men of the family than the women--they always would have their own way. are they all married?" she added anxiously. "do you mean the ninety senators and the three hundred and fifty-six representatives? i am sure i do not know. don't let that worry you. it is my mind that is on the _qui vive_, not my heart." "you'll hear some old fool make a websterian speech full of periods and rhetoric, and you'll straight-way imagine yourself in love with him. your head will be your worst enemy when you do fall in love." "webster is the greatest master of style this country has produced. i should hate a man who used either 'periods' or rhetoric. i am the concentrated essence of modernism and have no use for 'oratory' or 'eloquence.' some of the little speeches in the record are masterpieces of brevity and pure english, particularly senator north's." "you _are_ modern. if we had a clay, i could understand you--i am too exhausted to discuss the matter further; you _must_ drop it for the present. what will jack emory say?" "i have never given him the least right to say anything." "i almost wish you were safely married to him. he has not made a great success of his life, but he is your equal and his manners are perfect. i shall live in constant fear now of your marrying a horror with a twang and a toothpick." "i promise you i won't do that--and that i never will marry jack emory." ii betty madison had exercised a great deal of self-control in resisting the natural impulse to cultivate a fad and grapple with a problem. only her keen sense of humour saved her. on the sunday following her return, while sauntering home after a long restless tramp about the city, she passed a church which many coloured people were entering. her newly awakened curiosity in all things pertaining to the political life of her country prompted her to follow them and sit through the service. the clergyman was light in colour, and prayed and preached in simpler and better english than she had heard in more pretentious pulpits, but there was nothing noteworthy, in his remarks beyond a supplication to the almighty to deliver the negro from the oppression of the "southern tyrant," followed by an admonition to the negro to improve himself in mind and character if he would hope to compete with the whites; bitter words and violence but weakened his cause. this was sound commonsense, but the reverse of the sensational entertainment betty had half expected, and her eyes wandered from the preacher to his congregation. there were all shades of afro-american colour and all degrees of prosperity represented. coal-black women were there, attired in deep and expensive mourning. "yellow girls" wore smart little tailor costumes. three young girls, evidently of the lower middle class of coloured society, for they were cheaply dressed, had all the little airs and graces and mannerisms of the typical american girl. in one corner a sleek mulatto with a semitic profile sat in the recognized attitude of the banker in church; filling his corner comfortably and setting a worthy example to the less favoured of mammon. but betty's attention suddenly was arrested and held by two men who sat on the opposite side of the aisle, although not together, and apparently were unrelated. there were no others quite like them in the church, but the conviction slowly forced itself into her mind, magnetic for new impressions, that there were many elsewhere. they were men who were descending the fifties, tall, with straight gray hair. one was very slender, and all but distinguished of carriage; the other was heavier, and would have been imposing but for the listless droop of his shoulders. the features of both were finely cut, and their complexions far removed from the reproach of "yellow." they looked like sun-burned gentlemen. for nearly ten minutes betty stared, fascinated, while her mind grappled with the deep significance of all those two sad and patient men expressed. they inherited the shell and the intellect, the aspirations and the possibilities of the gay young planters whose tragic folly had called into being a race of outcasts with all their own capacity for shame and suffering. betty went home and for twenty-four hours fought with the desire to champion the cause of the negro and make him her life-work. but not only did she abominate women with missions; she looked at the subject upon each of its many sides and asked a number of indirect questions of her cousin, jack emory. sincere reflection brought with it the conclusion that her energies in behalf of the negro would be superfluous. the careless planters were dead; she could not harangue their dust. the southerners of the present generation despised and feared the coloured race in its enfranchised state too actively to have more to do with it than they could help; if it was a legal offence for whites and blacks to marry, there was an equally stringent social law which protected the coloured girl from the lust of the white man. therefore, as she could not undo the harm already done, and as a crusade in behalf of the next generation would be meaningless, not to say indelicate, she dismissed the "problem" from her mind. but the image of those two sad and stately reflections of the old school sank indelibly into her memory, and rose to their part in one of the most momentous decisions of her life. iii the montgomerys had come to washington for the first time at the beginning of the previous winter, while the madisons were in england. lady mary had left her note of introduction the day before betty's declaration of independence. betty was anxious to meet the young englishwoman, not only because she possessed the charmed key to political society, but her history as related by certain gossips of authority commanded interest. randolph montgomery, a young californian millionaire, had followed his mother's former ward, lady maundrell, to england, nursing an old and hopeless passion. what passed between him and the beautiful young countess the gossips did not attempt to state, but he left england two days after the tragedy which shelved cecil maundrell into the house of lords, and returned to california accompanied by his mother and lady barnstaple's friend, lady mary montgomery. bets were exchanged freely as to the result of this bold move on the part of a girl too fastidious to marry any of the english parvenus that addressed her, too poor to marry in her own class. the wedding took place a few months later, immediately after mrs. montgomery's death; an event which left lady mary the guest in a foreign country of a young bachelor. from all accounts, the marriage, although a wide deflection from the highest canons of romance, was a successful one, and the montgomerys were living in splendid state in washington. lady mary was approved by even the "old washingtonians"--a thoughtful californian of lineage had given her a letter to miss carter, who in turn had given her a tea--and as her husband was brilliant, accomplished, and of the best blood of louisiana, the little set, tenaciously clinging to its traditional exclusiveness amidst the whirling ever-changing particles of the political maelstrom, found no fault in him beyond his calling. and as he was a man of tact and never mentioned politics in its presence, and as his wife was not at home to the public on the first tuesday of the month, reserving that day for such of her friends as shunned political petticoats, the young couple were taken straight into the bosom of that inner set which the ordinary outsider might search for a very glimpse of in vain. how lady mary stood with the large and heterogeneous political set betty had no means of knowing, and she was curious to ascertain; she could think of no position more trying for an englishwoman of mary gifford's class. as she drove toward the house several hours after announcing her plan of campaign to her mother, she found massachusetts avenue blocked with carriages and recalled suddenly that tuesday was "representatives' day." she gave a little laugh as she imagined mrs. madison's plaintive distaste. and then she felt the tremor and flutter, the pleasurable desire to run away, which had assailed her on the night of her first ball. that was eight years ago, and she had not experienced a moment of nervous trepidation since. "am i about to be re-born?" she thought. "or merely rejuvenated? i certainly do feel young again." she looked about critically as she entered the house. her own home, which was older than the white house, was large and plain, with lofty rooms severely trimmed in the colonial style. there were no portieres, no modern devices of decoration. everything was solid and comfortable, worn, and of a long and honourable descent. the dining-room and large square hall were striking because of the blackness of their oak walls, the many family portraits, and certain old trophies of the chase, as vague in their high dark corners as fading daguerreotypes. so imbued was betty with the idea that anything more elaborate was the sign manifest of too recent fortune, that she had indulged in caustic criticism of the modern palaces of certain new york friends. but although the immediate impression of the montgomery house was of soft luxurious richness, and it was indubitably the home of wealthy people determined to enjoy life, miss madison's dainty nose did not lift itself. "at all events, the money is not laid on with a trowel," she thought. and then she became aware of a curious sensuous longing as she looked again at the dim rich beauty about her, the smothered windows, the suggested power of withdrawal from every vulgar or annoying contact beyond those stately walls. "i should like--i should like--" thought betty, striving to put her vague emotion into words, "to live in this sort of house when i marry." and then her humour flashed up: it was a sense that sat at the heels of every serious thought. "what a combination with the twang and the toothpick! can they really be my fate? of course i might reform both, and cut off his uncle sam beard while he slept." she had taken the wrong direction and entered a room in which there was not even a stray guest. a loud buzz of voices rose and fell at the end of a long hall, and she slowly made her way to the drawing-room, pausing once to watch a footman who was busily sorting visiting-cards into separate packs at a table. she handed him her card, and he slipped it into a pack marked "i street." the drawing-room was thronged with people, and as many of them surrounded the hostess, while constant new-comers pressed forward to shake a patient hand, betty decided to stand apart for a few moments and look at the crowd. she was in a new world, and as eager and curious as if she had been shot from earth to mars. lady mary was quite as handsome as her portraits: a cold blue and white and ashen beauty whose carriage and manifest of race were in curious contrast, lee had told betty, to a nervous manner and the loud voice of one who conceived that social laws had been invented for the middle class. but there was little vivacity in her manner to-day, and her voice was not audible across the large room. she looked tired. it was half-past five o'clock, and doubtless she had been on her feet since three. but she was smiling graciously upon her visitors, and gave each a warmth of welcome which betrayed the wife of the ambitious politician. "her mouth is not so selfish as in her photographs," observed the astute betty. "i suppose in the depths of her soul she hates this, but she does it; and if she loves the man, she must think it well worth while." she turned her attention to the visitors. there were many women superbly dressed, in taste as perfect as her own. she never had seen any of them before, but they had the air of women of importance. the majority looked frigid and bored, a few dignified and easy of manner. the younger women of the same class were more animated, but no less irreproachable in style. there were others, middle-aged and young, with all the native style of the second-class, and still others who were clad in coarse serges, cashmeres, or cheap silks, shapelessly made with the heavy hand of many burdens. these did not detain the hostess in conversation, but gathered in groups, or walked about the room gazing at the many beautiful pictures and ornaments. there were only three or four really vulgar-looking women present, and they were clothed in conspicuous raiment. one, and all but her waist was huge, wore a bodice of transparent gauze; another, also of middle years, had crowned her hard over-coloured face with a large gentian-blue hat turned up in front with a brass buckle. another was in pink silk and heavily powdered. but although these women were offensively loud, they did not suggest any lack of that virtue whose exact proportions so often elude the most earnest seeker after truth. betty turned impulsively to an old woman clad in shabby black who stood besides her gazing earnestly at the crowd. her large bony face was crossed by the lines and wrinkles of long years of care, and her eyes were dim; but her mouth was smiling. "tell me," exclaimed betty, "please--are all these people in politics? i--i--am a stranger, and i should like to know who they are." "well, i can tell you pretty near everything you want to know, i guess," replied the old lady. she had the drawl and twang and accent of rural new england. "i guess you've come here, like myself, jest to see the folks. a few here, like you and me, ar'n't in official life, but the most are, i guess. nearly all the cabinet ladies are here to-day and a good many senators' wives and darters. that there lady in heliotrope and fur is the wife of the secretary of war, and the one in green velvet and chinchilla is mis' senator maxwell. that real stylish handsome girl just behind is her darter, and i guess she has a good many beaux. they're real elegant, ar'n't they? i guess we have good cause to be proud of our ladies." she paused that betty might express her approval, and upon being assured that paris was responsible for many of the gowns present, continued in her monotonous but kindly drawl, "and some of them began life doin' their own work. the president ain't no aristocrat, and most of his friends ain't neither; but i tell you when their wives begin to entertain they do it jest as if they was born to it. i presume if my husband--he was a physician--had gone into politics and had luck, i'd have been jest like those ladies; but as he didn't, i'm still doin' most of my own work and look it. but the lord knows what he's about, i guess. senator maxwell's a swell; they've always been rich, the maxwells, and he married a new york girl, so she didn't have much to learn, i guess. mis' senator shattuc--she's the one in wine colour--was the darter of a big railroad man out west, so i guess she had all the schoolin' and yurrup she wanted. now that real pretty little woman jest speakin' to lady montgomery is mis' senator freeman. they do say as how she was the darter of a baker in chicago and used to run barefoot around the streets, but she looks as well as any of 'em now and she dines at every embassy in washington. her dresses are always described in the _post_: she wears pink and blue mostly. you kin tell by her face that she's got a lot of determination and that she'd git where she had a mind to. i guess she'd dine with queen victoria if she had a mind to." "i feel exactly as if i were at a pantomime," cried betty, delightedly. "even you--" she caught herself up. "i mean i always thought the new england playwrights invented all their characters. who are these plainly dressed women and--and--half-way ones?" "oh, they're representatives' wives mostly," drawled the old lady, who looked puzzled. "they take a day off and call on each other. one or two is senators' wives. some of the senators is rich, but some ar'n't. mis' montgomery's jest as nice to them as to the swells, and she told me to be sure and go into the next room and have a cup of tea. i don't care much about tea excep' for lunch, and she don't have a collation--i presume she can't; too many people'd come, and i guess she has about enough. now, those ladies that don't look exactly as if they was ladies," indicating the large birds of tawdry plumage and striking complexions, "they don't live here. washington ladies don't dress like that. i guess they're the wives of men out west that have made their pile lately and come here to see the sights. first they look at all the public buildin's, and i guess they about walk all over the capitol, and hear a speech or two in the ladies' gallery--from their senators, if they can--and after that they go about in society a bit. you see, washington is a mighty nice place fur people who haven't much show at home--those that live in small towns, fur instance. there is so many public receptions they can go to--the white house, the wednesdays of the cabinet ladies, the thursdays of the senator's wives, and six or seven representatives--mebbe more--who have real elegant houses; and then there is several legations that give public receptions. you can always see in the _post_ who's goin' to receive; and those women can go home and talk fur the rest of their lives about the fine time they had in washington society. amurricans heighst themselves whenever they git a chance. i don't care to do that. my sister--she's a heap younger 'n i am and awful spry--and i come down from the north of new hampshire every winter and keep a boardin'-house in washington so that we can see the world. we don't go home with ten dollars over railroad fare in our pockets, but we don't mind, because the farm keeps us and we've had a real good time. i often sit down up in new hampshire and think of the beautiful houses and dresses and pictures i've seen, and i can always remember that i've shaken hands with the president and his wife and the ladies of the cabinet. they're just as nice as they can be." betty, whose sympathies were quick and keen, winked away a tear. "i'm so glad you enjoy it so much," she exclaimed, "and that there is so much for you here to enjoy. i never thought of it in that way. i'm awfully interested in it all, myself, and i feel deeply indebted to you." "well, you needn't mind that. my sister says i always talk when i can git anybody to listen to me, and i guess i do. where air you from? new york, i guess." "oh, i am a washingtonian. my name is madison." "so? i don't remember seeing it in the society columns." "we are never mentioned in society columns," exclaimed betty, with her first thrill of pride since entering the new world. "but i seldom have passed a winter out of washington, although--i am sorry to say--i never have met any of these people." "you don't say. i ain't curious, but you don't look as if you had to stay to home and do the work. but amurrican girls are so smart they can about look anything they have a mind to." "oh--i am really sorry, but everybody seems to be going, and i haven't spoken to lady mary yet. i'm _so_ much obliged to you." "now, you needn't be, for you're a real nice young lady, and i've enjoyed talkin' to you. likely we'll meet again, but i'd be happy to have you call. here's my card. our house is right near here--in the real fashionable part; and we've several ladies livin' with us that you might like to meet." "oh, thanks! thanks!" betty put the card carefully into her case, shook her new friend warmly by the hand, and went forward. lady mary's tired white face had set into an almost mechanical smile, but as her eyes met betty's they illumined with sudden interest and her hard-worked muscles relaxed. "you are betty madison!" she exclaimed. and as the two girls shook hands they conceived one of those sudden and violent friendships which are so full of interest while they last. "how awfully good of you to call so soon!" continued lady mary, after betty had expatiated upon her long-cherished desire for this meeting. "i hoped you would, although miss carter rather frightened me with her account of your mother's aversion to political people. but they have all been so good to me--all your delightful set." she lowered her voice, which had rung out for a moment in something of its old style, albeit platitudes had worn upon its edges. "i _couldn't_ stand just this--although i must add that many of the official women are charming and have the most stunning manners; but many are the reverse, and unfortunately i can't pick and choose. it seems that when one gets into politics in this country that is the end of nine-tenths of one's personal life; and washington is certainly the headquarters of democracy. here every american really does feel that he is as good as every other american; i wish to heaven he didn't." "washington is a democracy with a kernel of the most exclusive aristocracy," said betty, with a laugh. "some one has said that it is the drawing-room of the republic. it is the hotel drawing-room with a holy of holies opening upon the area. i'm sick of the holy of holies, and i 've never enjoyed a half-hour so much as while i've been looking on here--waiting for you to be disengaged." "oh, this is nothing. you must let me take you to a large evening reception. that is really interesting, for you see so many famous people. can't you dine with me to-morrow? we've a big political dinner on. about fifteen members of a senate and a house committee that are deliberating a very important bill are coming. senator north--he is well worth meeting--is chairman of the senate committee, and my husband, although a new member, stands very high with the chairman of his committee, most of whom are old members of the house. senator ward also will be here. do come, if you have nothing more important on hand. i can easily get another member of the house committee." "come! i'd break twenty engagements to come." betty's eyes sparkled and she lifted her head with a motion peculiar to her when reminded that she was the favoured of the gods. "i suppose there is a good deal of fag about this sort of life to you, but it has all the charm of the undiscovered country for me." "oh, i am deeply interested," said lady mary. the two women were alone now, and the hostess, released after three hours of stereotyped amenities, surrendered herself to the charm of natural intercourse with one of her own sort, and rang for tea. "i always liked politics, and i feel quite sure that my husband will achieve his high ambitions. it interests me greatly to help him." "of course he'll be president!" cried betty, enthusiastic in the warmth of her new friendship and its possibilities. she was surprised by a tilt of the nose and an emphatic shake of the head. "no, indeed!" exclaimed lady mary, "presidents are politicians only. my husband aspires higher than that. to be a senator of the first rank requires very different qualities." "ah! i shall quote that to mol--my mother. she is not predisposed in their favour." "of course there are senators and senators," said lady mary, hastily. "you can't get ninety men of equal ability together, anywhere. there are the six who are admittedly the first,--north, maxwell, ward, march, howard, and eustis,--and about ten who are close behind them. then there is the venerable group to which senator maxwell also belongs; and the younger men of forty-five or so who are not quite broken in yet, and whose enthusiasm is apt to take the wrong direction; and the fire-eaters, populists usually; and the hard-working second-rate men, many of them millionaires (western, as a rule) who are accused of having bought their legislatures to get in, but who do good work on committee, whether or not they came under the delusion that they had bought an honour with nothing beneath it: a man who presumed on his wealth in the senate would fare as badly as a boy at eton who presumed on his title. beyond all, are the nonentities that are in every body. so, you see, it is worth while to aim for the first place and to keep it." "there are certainly all sorts to choose from! i'll never mistrust my instincts again. i am glad i shall meet senator north to-morrow. i suppose he is a courtly person of the old school with a websterian intellect." "i don't know anything about webster; i can't read your history and live in it, too; but certainly there is nothing of the old school about senator north. he is very modern and has a truly republican--or shall i say aristocratic?--simplicity--although no one could dress better--combined with a cold manner to most men and a warm manner to most women." "tell me all about him!" exclaimed betty, sipping her tea. "i never was so happy and excited in my life. i feel as if i was theodosia burr, or nelly custis, or dolly madison come to life. and now i'm going to know an american statesman before his coat has turned to calf-skin. quick! how old is he?" "just sixty, and looks much younger, as most of the senators do. he is a hard worker--he is chairman of one committee and a member of five others; a brilliant debater, the most accomplished legislator in the senate, unyielding in his convictions, and absolutely independent. he is not popular, as it has never occurred to him to conciliate anybody. he is very kind and attentive to his invalid wife and proud of his sons, and he adored a daughter who died four years ago. rumor has it that more than one charming woman has consoled him for domestic afflictions and political trials, but i do not pay much attention to rumours of that sort. how odd that i, an alien, should be instructing a washingtonian in politics and the personalities of her senators; but i quite understand. i do hope mrs. madison will not object to your coming to-morrow night." "i shall come. and go now. i feel a brute to have let you talk so much, but i never have been so interested!" the two women kissed and parted; and lady mary's dreams that night were undisturbed by any vision of herself in the ranks of the fates. iv betty returned home much elated with the success of her visit. she heard the voice of her cousin jack emory in the parlor and went at once to her room to dress. the voice sounded solemn, and so did her mother's; they doubtless were sitting in conference upon her. she selected her evening gown with some care; her cousin was an old story, but he was a very attractive man, and coquetry would hold its own in her, become she never so intellectual. jack emory had been her undeclared lover since his middle teens. somewhere in the same immature interval, just after her first return from europe, she had imagined herself passionately in love with him. but she had a large fortune left her by her maternal grandfather, besides a hundred thousand her father had died too soon to spend, and jack was the son of a virginian who had been a rebel to his death, haughtily refusing to have his disabilities removed, and threatening to shoot any negro in his employ who dared to go to the ballot box. he had left his son but a few thousands out of his large inheritance, and adjured him on his death bed to hold no office under the federal government and to shoot a yankee rather than shake his hand. jack inherited his father's prejudices without his violent temper. he had a contemptuous dislike for the north, a loathing for politics, and adistaste for everybody outside his own diminishing class. love for betty madison had driven him west in the hope of retrieving his fortunes, but he was essentially a gentleman and a scholar; the hustling quality was not in him, and he returned south after two years of unpleasant endeavour and started a small produce farm adjoining an old house on the outskirts of washington, left him by his mother. here he lived with his books, and made enough money to support himself decently. he never had asked betty to marry him, although he knew that his aunt would champion his cause. during the period of betty's maiden passion his pride had caused her as much suffering as her youth and buoyant nature would permit; but as the years slipped by she felt inclined to personify that pride and burn a candle beneath it. even before her mind had awakened, the energy and strength of her character had cured her of love for a man as supine as jack emory. he was charming and well read, all that she could desire in a brother, but as a husband he would be intolerable. as his love cooled she liked him better still, particularly as his loyalty would not permit him to acknowledge even to himself that he could change; but its passing left him with fewer clouds on a rather melancholy spirit, a readier tongue, and a complete recovery from the habits of sighing and of leaving the house abruptly. betty's maid dressed her in a bright blue taffeta, softened with much white lace, and she went slowly down to the hall, rustling her skirts that emory might hear and come out for a word before dinner if he liked. it was a relief to be able to coquet with him without fearing that he would go home and shoot himself; and it helped him to sustain the pleasant fiction that he still was in love with her. he came out at once and raised her hand to his lips, murmuring a compliment as his grandfather might have done. he was only thirty-two, but his face was sallow and lined from trouble and fever. otherwise he was very handsome, with his golden head and intellectual blue eyes, his haughty profile and tall figure, listlessly carried as it was. in spite of the fact that he took pride in dressing well, he always looked a little old-fashioned. when with betty, invariably as smart as paris and new york could make her, he almost appeared as if wearing his father's old clothes. his southern accent and intonation were nearly as broad as a negro's. betty had almost lost hers; she retained just enough to enrich and individualize without a touch of provincialism. she belonged to that small class of americans whose ear-mark is the absence of all americanisms. mr. emory looked perturbed. "there is something i should like to say," he remarked hesitatingly. "there is yet a quarter of an hour before dinner. i think this old hall with its portraits of your grandmothers is a good place to say it in--" "molly has pressed you into service, i see. let us have it out, by all means. please straighten your necktie before you begin. you cannot possibly be impressive while it looks as if it were standing on one leg." "please be serious, betty dear. i am indeed most disturbed. it surely cannot be that you meant what you told your mother this morning,--that you intended to change the whole current of your life in such an unprecedented manner." "great heavens! one would think i was about to go on the stage or enter a convent." "i would rather you did either than soil your mind with the politics of this country. i say nothing about there being no statesmen;--there is not an honest man in politics the length and breadth of the union. the country is a sink of corruption, as far as politics are concerned. every congressman buys his seat or is put in as the agent of some disgraceful trust or syndicate or railroad corporation." betty drew her eyelids together in a fashion that robbed her eyes of their coquetry and fire and made them look unpleasantly judicial. "exactly how much do you know about american politics?" she asked coldly. "i have known you all my life and i never heard you mention them before--" "i never have considered them a fit subject for you to listen to--" "i have been in your library a great many times and i do not recall a copy of the congressional record. you have said often that you despise the newspapers and only read the telegrams; that the only paper you read through is the london _times_. so, i repeat, what do you know about the american politics of to-day?" "what i have told you." "where did you learn it? do you ever go to the senate or the house?" "god forbid! but i am a man, and those things are in the atmosphere; a man's brain accumulates naturally all widely diffused impressions. i've been a great deal in the smoking-cars of railroad-trains, and spent two years in a western state where a man who had taken a fortune out of a mine made no bones of buying a seat in the senate from the legislature, nor the legislature about selling it. it was the most abominable transaction i ever came close to, and had as much to do with my leaving the place as anything else." "and you mean to say that you judge all the old states of the country by a newly settled community of adventurers out west?" "new york and pennsylvania are notorious." "there are bad boys in every school. what i want to know is--can you assert on your knowledge that all the southern and new england states are corrupt and send only small politicians to washington? this is a more serious charge than molly's assertion that they all use toothpicks." "i repeat that i do not believe there is an honest man in that capitol." "do you know this? have you investigated the life of every man in the senate and the house?" "what a good district attorney you would make!" "you are talking a lot of copybook platitudes with which you have allowed your mind to stagnate. but you must convince me, for if what you say is true i shall have nothing to do with politics. let us begin with senator north. how and when did he buy his seat, and what trust does he represent?" "oh, i never have heard anything against north. he is too big a gun in washington--" "you will admit then that _he_ is not corrupt--" "i don't doubt he has his own methods--" "i don't care three cents about your suppositions. i want facts. how about senator maxwell?" "he has been in congress since before i was born. one never hears him discussed." "and his puritanical state has heaped every honour on him that it can think of. tell me the biography of senator ward--all that is too awful to be printed in the congressional directory--" "he is from one of those dreadful north-western states and bound to be corrupt," cried emory, triumphantly. he wished desperately that he had waited and got up his case. he spoke from sincere conviction. "there may be a rag of decency left in the older states, but the west is positively fetid. i give you my word i am speaking the truth, betty dear, and in your own interest. if i have no more details to give you, it is because i promised my father on his death-bed that i would have nothing to do with politics, and i have kept my word to the extent of reading as little about them as possible. but i can assure you that i know as much about them as anybody not in the accursed business. it is in the air--" "there are so many things in the air that they get mixed up. your whole argument is based on air. now, _mon ami_, you turn to to-morrow and study up the record of every man in that senate, as well as the legislative methods of his state. when you know all about it, i shall be delighted to be instructed. but i don't want any more air. now come in to dinner, and if you allude to the subject before molly, i'll leave the table." he bowed over her hand again with his old-fashioned courtesy. "when you issue a command i am bound to obey," he said, "and although you have set me an unpleasant, an obnoxious task, i certainly shall accomplish that also to the best of my ability. you belong to this old house, betty, to this old set; i love to think of you as the last rose on the old southern tree, and you shall not be blighted if i can help it." betty tapped him lightly with her fan. "i belong to the whole country, my dear boy; i am no old cabbage rose on a half-dead bush, but the same vegetable under a new name,--the american beauty rose. do you see the parable? and i've a great many thorns on my long stem. remember that also." v betty, in accordance with a time-honoured habit, was the last to arrive at the dinner-party on the following evening. she had arranged her heavy large-waved hair low on her neck, and the pale green velvet of her gown lifted its dull mahogany hue and the deep southern whiteness of her skin. she did not take a beautiful picture, for her features had the national irregularity, but she seldom entered a room that several men did not turn and stare at her. she carried herself with the air of one used to commanding the homage of men, her lovely colouring was always enhanced by dress, and she radiated magnetism. it was such an alive, warm, buoyant personality that men turned to her as naturally as children do to the maternal woman; even when they did not love her they liked to be near her, for she recalled some vague ideal. she knew her power perfectly, and after one or two memorable lessons had put from her the temptation to give it active exercise. it should be the instrument of unqualified happiness when her hour came; meanwhile she cultivated an impersonal attitude which baffled men unable to propose and tempered the wind to those that could. during the few moments in the drawing-room she could gather only a collective impression of the men who stared at her to-night. there was a general suggestion of weight, in the sculptor's sense, and repose combined with alertness, and they stood very squarely on their feet. betty had only had time to single out one long beard dependent from a visage otherwise shorn, and to observe further that some of the women were charmingly dressed, while others wore light silk afternoon frocks, when dinner was announced. her partner was evidently one of the younger senators, one of those juvenile enthusiasts of forty-five who beat their breasts for some years upon the senate's impassive front. he was extremely good-looking, with a fair strong impatient face, trimmed with a moustache only, and a well-built figure full of nervous energy. he had less repose than most of the men about him, but he suggested the same solidity. he might fail or go wrong, but not because there was any room in his mind for shams. his name was burleigh, but what his section was, betty, as they exchanged amenities and admired the lavish display of flowers, could not determine; he had no accent whatever, and although his voice was deep and sonorous, it had not the peculiar richness of the south. his gray eyes smiled as they met hers, and his manners were charming; but betty, accustomed to grasp the salient points of character in a first interview, fancied that he could be overbearing and truculent. "are they going to talk politics to-night?" she asked, when the platitudes had run their course. "i hope not. i've had enough of politics, all day." "oh, i hoped you would," said betty, in a deeply disappointed tone. he looked amused. "why?" he asked. "oh, i am so interested. that sounds very vague, but i am. when lady mary told me she was dining members of the two committees, i thought it was to talk politics, and--and--settle it amicably or something." betty could look infantile when she chose, and was always ready to cover real ignorance with an exaggerated assumption which inspired doubt. "we have the excessive pleasure of discussing the bill in senator north's comfortable committee room for several hours every few days, and we usually are amiable. we are merely dining out to-night in each other's good company. still, i guess your desire will be more or less gratified. second nature is strong, and one or two will probably get down to it about the middle of dinner." "you are from new england," exclaimed betty, triumphantly. "i have been waiting for you to say 'i reckon' or 'i guess.'" "i was born and educated in maine, but i went west to practise law as soon as i knew enough, and i am senator from one of the middle western states." "ah!" betty gave him a swift side glance. he looked anything but "corrupt," and that truculent note in his voice did not indicate subservience to party bosses. she determined to write to jack emory in the morning and command him to look up senator burleigh's record at once. "i suppose all the senators here to-night are the--big ones?" "oh, no; north and ward are the only two on this committee belonging to the very first rank. the other four here are in that group that is pressing close upon their heels; and myself, who am a new member: i've been here four years only. would you mind telling me who you are? of course american women don't take much interest in politics, but--do you know as little as you pretend?" "i wish i knew more; but i've been abroad for the last two years, and my mother prefers rattlesnakes to politics. which is senator north?" "he is at the head of the table with lady mary, but that rosebush is in the way; you cannot see him." "and which is senator ward?" "over there by mrs. shattuc,--the woman in ivory-white and heliotrope." betty flashed him a glance of renewed interest. "you like women," she exclaimed. "and you must be married, or have sisters." "i like women and i am not married, nor have i any sisters. i particularly like woman's dress. if you'll pardon me, that combination of pale green and white lace and soft stuff is the most stunning thing i've seen for a long while." "law, politics, and woman's dress! how hard you must have worked!" "our strong natural inclinations help us so much!" he gave her an amused glance, and his manner was a trifle patronizing, as of a prominent man used to the admiration of pretty girls. it was evident that he knew nothing of her and her long line of conquests. "senator ward looks half asleep," she remarked abruptly. "he usually does until dinner is two-thirds over. he is chairman of one committee and serving on two others; and all have important bills before them at present. so he is tired." "he doesn't look corrupt." "corrupt? who? ward? who on earth ever said he was corrupt?" "well, i heard his state was." "'corruption' is the father of more platitudes than any word in the american language. there are corrupt men in his state, no doubt, and one of the trusts with which we are ridden at present tried to buy its legislature and put their man in. but ward won his fight without the expenditure of a dollar beyond paying for the band and a few courtesies of that sort. his state is proud of him both as a statesman and a scholar, and he is likely to stay in the senate until he drops in his tracks." "then he comes here with the intention of remaining for life? i think you should all do that." "you are quite right. when a man achieves the honour of being elected honestly to the united states senate,--it is the highest honour in the republic,--he should feel that he is dedicating himself to the service of the country, and should have so arranged his affairs that he can stay there for life." betty's eyes kindled with approval. "oh, i am glad," she said, "i am glad." "glad of what, may i ask?" "oh--" and then she impulsively told him something of her history, of her determination to take up politics as her ruling interest, and of the opposition of her mother and cousin. senator burleigh listened with deep attention, and if he was amused he was too gallant to betray the fact, now that she had honoured him with her confidence. "well," he said, "that is very interesting, very. and you are quite right. you'll do yourself good and us good. mind you stand to your guns. would you mind telling me your name? lady mary never thinks a mere name worth mentioning." "madison--elizabeth madison. i had almost forgotten the elizabeth. i have always been called betty." "ah!" he said, "ah!" he turned and regarded her with a deeper interest. "have you heard of me?" she asked irresistibly. "who has not?" he said gallantly. "and although you are a great deal younger than i,--i am forty-four,--my father, who was in congress before me, was a great friend of your father's. he wears a watch to this day that mr. madison gave him. he always expressed regret that he never met your mother, but she seemed to have an unconquerable aversion to politics." "and they met at chamberlin's!" exclaimed betty, with a delighted laugh. "it will be the last straw--my having gone into dinner with the son of one of papa's hated boon companions. my mother is a lovely intelligent woman," she added hastily, "but she is intensely southern and conservative. her great pride is that she never changes a standard once established." "oh, that's a very safe quality in a woman. but of course you have a right to establish your own, and i am glad it points in our direction. and anything you want to know i'll be glad to tell you. can't i take you up to the senate to-morrow and put you in our private gallery? there ought to be some good debating, for north is going to attack an important bill that is on the calendar." "i will go; but let me meet you there. i must ask you to call in due form first, as my poor mother must not have too many shocks. will you come a week from sunday?--i am going to new york for a few days." "i will, indeed. if i were unselfish, i should let you listen for a few minutes, for they are all talking politics; not bills, however, but the possibility of war with spain. i don't think i shall, though. tell me what you want to know and i will begin our lessons right here." "why should we go to war with spain?" "oh dear! oh dear! where have you been? there is a small island off the coast of florida called cuba. it has many natives, and they are oppressed, tormented, tortured by spain." "i visited cuba once. they are nothing but a lot of negroes and frightfully dirty. why should we go to war about them?" "only about one-third are negroes and there is a large brilliantly educated and travelled upper class. and i see you need instruction in more things than politics,--humanity, for instance. forget that you are a southerner, divorce yourself from traditions, and try to imagine several hundred thousand people--women and children, principally--starving, hopeless, homeless, unspeakably wretched. cannot you feel for them?" "oh, yes! yes!" betty's quick sympathy sent the tears to her eyes, and he looked at her with deepening admiration,--a fact the tears did not prevent her from grasping. "and are we going to war in order to release them?" "ah! i do not know. there is a war feeling growing in the country; there is no doubt of that. but how high it will grow no one can tell. the leading men in congress are indifferent, and won't even listen to recognizing the cubans as belligerents. north will not discuss the subject, and i doubt not is talking over the latest play with lady mary at the present moment." "and you? do you want war?" "i do!" his manner gave sudden rein to its inherent nervousness, and his voice rang out for a moment as if he were angrily haranguing the senate. "of course i want it. every human instinct i have compels me to want it, and i cannot understand the apathy and conservatism which prevents our being at war at the present moment. we have posed as the champions of liberty long enough; it is time we did something." "ah, this is the youthful enthusiasm of the senate," thought betty. "and i have been accustomed to think of forty-five as quite elderly. i feel a mere infant and shall not call myself an old maid till i'm fifty." she smiled approvingly into the senator's illuminated face, and he plunged at once into details, including the entire history of spanish colonial misrule. the history was told in head-lines, so to speak, but it was graphic and convincing. betty nodded encouragingly and asked an occasional intelligent question. she knew the history of spain as thoroughly as he did, but she would not have told him so for the world. it is only the woman with a certain masculine fibre in her brain who ever really understands men, and when these women have coquetry also, they convince the sex born to admire that they are even more feminine than their weaker sisters. when senator burleigh finished, betty thanked him so graciously and earnestly, with such lively pleasure in her limpid hazel eyes, that he raised his glass impulsively and touched it to hers. "you must have a _salon_" he exclaimed. "we need one in washington, and it would do us incalculable good. only you could accomplish it: you not only have beauty and brains--and tact?--but you are so apart that you can pick and choose without fear of giving offence. and you are not _blas?_ of the subject like congressmen's wives, nor has the wild rush and wear and tear of official society chopped up your individuality into a hundred little bits. it would be brutal to mention politics to a woman in political life, and consequently we feel as if no one takes any interest in us unless she has an axe to grind. but you are what we all have been waiting for i feel sure of that! let it be understood that no mere politician, no man who bought his legislature or is under suspicion in regard to any trust, can enter your doors. of course you will have to study the whole question thoroughly; and mind, i am to be your instructor-in-chief." betty laughed and thanked him, wondering how well he understood her. he looked like a man who would waste no time on the study of woman's subtleties: he knew what he wanted, and recognized the desired qualities at once, but by a strong masculine instinct, not by analysis. a few moments later the women went into the drawing-room, and the conversation for the next half-hour was a languid babble of politics, dress, new york, the lady of the white house, and the play. betty thought the women very nice, but less interesting than the men, possibly because they were women. they certainly looked more intelligent than the average one sat with during the trying half-hour after dinner; but their conversation was fragmentary, and they oddly suggested having left their personality at home and taken their shell out to dinner. betty also was interested to observe that their composite expression was a curious mingling of fatigue, unselfishness, and peremptoriness. "what does it mean?" she asked of lady mary, with whom she stood apart for a moment. "oh, they are worked to death,--paying calls, entertaining, receiving people on all sorts of business, and helping their husbands in various ways. they have no time to be selfish,--rich or poor,--and they have acquired the art of disposing of bores and detrimentals in short order. even their own sort they pass on much in the fashion of royalty. how do you like senator burleigh?" "i never learned so much in two hours in my life. my head feels like a beehive." "i never saw him quite so devoted." "i thought you were occupied with senator north." "i was, but my eyes and ears understand each other. he wants to meet you after dinner. he knows all about you." "he has been pointed out to me, but in those days when i was only interested in possible partners for the german. i do not recall him." "that is he, the second one." the men were entering the drawing-room. betty was relieved that the political beard was not on senator north. he wore only a very short moustache on his ugly powerful face. he stood for a few moments talking to his host, and betty, to whom the political beard was immediately presented, gave him an occasional glance of exploration while her companion was assuring her, with neither a twang nor an accent, that he had long looked forward to the pleasure of meeting the famous miss betty madison. senator shattuc was in his late fifties, but it was evident that the cares of congress had not smothered his appreciation of a pretty woman. he had a strong face and an infantile complexion, and his beard sparkled with care. senator ward, who was presented a few moments later, told her that he had envied burleigh throughout the long dinner. betty decided that the senatorial manner certainly was agreeable. the two men fell into conversation with one another, and betty turned her attention to senator north. he was standing alone for the moment, glancing about the room. his attitude was one of absolute repose; he did not look as if he ever had hurried or wasted his energies or lost his self-control in his life. his face was impenetrable; his eyes, black and piercing, were wholly without that limpidity which reveals depths and changes of expression; his mouth was somewhat contemptuous, and betrayed neither tenderness nor humour. if possible, he stood even more squarely on his feet than the other men. he had the powerful thick-set figure which invariably harbours strong passions. "i don't know whether i like him or not," thought betty. "i think i don't--but perhaps i do. he might be made of new england rock, and he looks as if the earth could swallow him before he'd yield an inch. but i can feel his magnetism over here. why have all these men so much magnetism? is that, too, senatorial?" senator north caught her eye at the moment, and turned at once to lady mary. a moment later he had been presented to betty and they stood alone. "i once mended your hoop for you, when you were a little girl, just in front of your house; but i am afraid you have forgotten it." "oh,--i think i do remember it. yes--i do." she evoked the incident out of the mists of childish memories. "was it you? i am afraid i was looking harder at the hoop than at its mender. but--i recall--i thought how kind you were." and then he inquired for her mother, and spoke pleasantly of his own and his wife's acquaintance with mrs. madison at bar harbor. betty wondered afterward why she had thought his face repellent. his eyes defied investigation, but his mouth relaxed into a smile that was very kind, and his voice had almost a caress in it. but at the moment she was too eager to hear him express himself to receive a strong personal impression, and while she was casting about in her mind for a leader, she was obliged to give him her hand. "good-night," she said with a little pout, "i am so sorry." "so am i," he said, smiling, and shaking her hand. "good-night. i shall look forward to meeting you again soon." "miss madison, may i see you to your carriage?" asked senator burleigh. "i have tried to get near you ever since dinner," he said discontentedly, as they walked down the hall, "and now you are going. but you will come to the senate to-morrow? come right up to the door of the senators' gallery at precisely three o'clock and i will meet you there." a few moments later, betty paused on her way to her own room and opened her mother's door softly. "molly," she whispered. "well?" asked a severe voice. "i went in to dinner with the son of one of papa's old chamberlin companions, and he was simply charming. so were all the others, and i never met a man who could shake hands as well as senator north. i had a heavenly time." mrs. madison groaned and turned her face to the wall. "and there wasn't a toothpick, and i didn't hear a twang." "kindly allow me to go to sleep." vi as soon as betty awoke the next morning, she turned her mind to the events of the night before. unlike most occasions eagerly anticipated, it had contained no disappointment; she had, indeed, been pleasurably surprised, for despite her strong common-sense the dark picture of corruption and objectionable toilet accessories had made its impression upon her. she foresaw much amusement in witnessing the unwilling surrender of her mother to even senator shattuc, him of the political beard. as for senator burleigh, she would yield to his magnetism and power of compelling interest in himself, while pronouncing his manners too abrupt and his personality too "western." and if he admired intelligently the old lace which she always wore at her throat and wrists and on her pretty head, she would confess that there might be exceptions even to political rules. but somewhat to betty's surprise it was not of senator burleigh that she thought most, although she had talked with him for two hours and pronounced him charming. she had talked with senator north for exactly six minutes, but she saw his face more distinctly than burleigh's and retained his voice in her ear. he had not paid her a compliment, but his manner had expressed that she interested him and that he thought her worth meeting. for the first time in her life betty felt flattered by the admiration of a man; and she had held her own with more than one of distinction on the other side. even royalty had not fluttered her, but she conceived an eager desire to make this man think well of her. it irritated her to remember that she could have made no mental impression on him whatever. she became uncheerful, and reflected that the subtle flattery in his manner was probably a mere habit; lady mary had intimated that he liked women and had loved several. well, she cared nothing about that; he was thirty years older than herself and married; but she admired him and wished for his good opinion and to hear him talk. doubtless they soon would meet again, and if they were left in conversation for a decent length of time she would ask him to call. she cast about in her mind for a subterfuge which would justify a note, but she could think of none, and was too worldly-wise to evoke a smile from the depths of a man's conceit. her mother refused to bid her good-by when, accompanied by her maid, she started for the capitol at twenty minutes to three. a few moments later she found herself admiring for the first time the big stately building on the hill at the end of pennsylvania avenue. she always had thought washington a beautiful city, with its wide quiet avenues set thick with trees, its graceful parks, each with a statue of some man gratefully remembered by the republic, but she had given little heed to its public buildings and their significance. as she approached the great white capitol, she experienced a sudden thrill of that historical sense which, after its awakening, dominates so actively the large intelligence. the capitol symbolized the greatness of the young nation; all the famous american statesmen after the first group had moved and made their reputations within its walls. all laws affecting the nation came out of it, and the judges of the supreme court sat there. and of its kind there was none other in the civilized world, had been but one other since the world began. the historic building shed an added lustre upon senator burleigh; but it was of senator north that she thought most as she half rose in the victoria and scanned the long sweep. the cleverest of women cannot class with anything like precision the man who has stamped himself into her imagination. betty knew that there were six men in the senate who ranked as equals; their quiet epoch gave them little chance to discover latent genius other than for constructive legislation; nevertheless she arbitrarily conceived the capitol to-day as the great setting for one man only; and the building and the man became one in her imagination henceforth. the truth was that betty, being greatly endowed for loving and finding that all men fell short of her high standard, was forced to seek companionship in an ideal. she had had several loves in history, but had come to the conclusion some years since that dead men were unsatisfactory. since then she had fancied mightily one or two public men on the other side, whom she had never met; but in time they had bored or disappointed her. but here was a conspicuous figure in her own country, appealing to her through the powerful medium of patriotic pride; a man so much alive that he might at any moment hold the destinies of the united states in his hands, and who, owing to his years and impenetrable dignity, was not to be considered from the ordinary view-point of woman. she would coquet with senator burleigh; it was on the cards that she would love him, for he was brilliant, ambitious, and honourable; but senator north was exalted to the vacant pedestal reserved for ideals, and betty settled herself comfortably to his worship; not guessing that he would be under her memory's dust-heap in ten days if senator burleigh captured her heart. the coachman was directed by a policeman to the covered portico of the senate wing. betty had a bare glimpse of corridors apparently interminable, before another policeman put her into the elevator and told her to get off when the boy said "gallery." senator burleigh was waiting for her, and she thought him even manlier and more imposing in his gray tweed than in evening dress. he shook her hand heartily, and assured her in his abrupt dictatorial way that it gave him the greatest pleasure to meet her again. "i'm sorry i haven't time to take you all over the building," he said, "but i have two committee meetings this afternoon. you must come down some morning." his manner was very businesslike, and he seemed a trifle absent as he paused a moment and called her attention to the daub illustrating the electoral commission; but this, betty assumed, was the senatorial manner by day. in a moment he led her to one of the doors in the wall that encloses the senate gallery. "you see this lady," he said peremptorily to the doorkeeper, who rose hastily from his chair. "she is always to be admitted to this gallery. take a good look at her." "yes, sir; member of your family, i presume?" "you can assume that she is my sister. only see that you admit her." "the rules are very strict in regard to this gallery," he added, as he closed the door behind them. "it is only for the families of the senators, but you will like it better than the reserved gallery. send for me if there should be trouble at any time about admittance." "i usually get where i wish! i sha'n't trouble you." "don't you ever think twice about troubling me," he said. "let us go down to the front row." the galleries surrounding the great chamber were almost dark under the flat roof, but the space below was full of light. it looked very sumptuous with its ninety desks and easy-chairs, and a big fire beyond an open door; and very legislative with its president elevated above the senators and the row of clerks beneath him. there were perhaps thirty senators in the room, and they were talking in groups or couples, reading newspapers, or writing letters. one senator was making a speech. "i don't think they are very polite," said betty. "why don't they listen? he seems to be in earnest and speaks very nicely." "oh, he is talking to his constituents, not to the senate--although he would be quite pleased if it would listen to him. he does not amount to much. we listen to each other when it is worth while; but this is a club, miss madison, the most delightful club in the united states. just beyond are the cloakrooms, where we can lounge before the fire and smoke, or lie down and go to sleep. the hard work is in the committee rooms, and it is hard enough to justify all the pleasure we can get out of the other side of the life. now, i'll tell you who these are and something about them." he pointed out one after the other in his quick businesslike way, rattling off biographical details; but betty, feeling that she was getting but a mass of impressions with many heads, interrupted him. "i don't see senator north," she said. "i thought he was going to speak." "he will, later. he is in his committee room now, but he'll go down as soon as a page takes him word that the clerk is about to read the bill whose committee amendments he is sure to object to. now i must go. i shall give myself the pleasure of calling a week from sunday. you must come often, and always come here. and let me give you two pieces of advice: never bow to any senator from up here, and never go to the marble room and send in a card. then you can come every day without attracting attention. good-bye." betty thanked him, and he departed. for the next hour she found the proceedings very dull. the unregarded senator finished his speech and retired behind a newspaper. other members clapped their hands, and the pages scampered down the gangways and carried back documents to the clerk below the vice-president's chair, while their senders made a few remarks meaningless to betty. two or three delivered brief speeches which were equally unintelligible to one not acquainted with current legislation. during one of them a man of imposing appearance entered and was apparently congratulated by almost every one in the room, the senators leaving their seats and coming to the middle aisle, where he stood, to shake him by the hand. betty felt sorry for leontine, who was on the verge of tears, but determined to remain until senator north appeared if she did not leave until it should be time to dress for dinner. he entered finally and went straight to his desk. he looked preoccupied, and began writing at once. in a few moments the clerk commenced to read from a document, and senator north laid aside his pen and listened attentively. so did several other senators. it was a very long document, and betty, who could not understand one word in ten as delivered by the clerk's rumbling monotonous voice, was desperately bored, and was glad her senators had the solace of the cloak-rooms. several did in fact retire to them, but when the clerk sat down and senator north rose, they returned; and betty felt a personal pride in the fact that they were about to listen to the senator whom herself had elected to honour. she had to lean forward and strain her ears to hear him. it was evident that he did not recognize the existence of the gallery, for he did not raise his voice from beginning to end; and yet it was of that strong rich quality that might have carried far. but it neither "rang out like a clarion," nor "thundered imprecation." neither did he utter an impassioned phrase nor waste a word, but he denounced the bill as a party measure, exposed its weak points, riddled it with sarcasm, and piled up damaging evidence of partisan zeal. "this is an honourable body," he concluded, "and few measures go out of it that are open to serious criticism by the self-constituted guardians of legislative virtue, but if this bill goes through the senate we shall invite from the thinking people of the country the same sort of criticism which we now receive from the ignorant. if the high standard of this body is to be maintained, it must be by sound and conservative legislation, not by grovelling to future legislatures." having administered this final slap, he sat down and began writing again, apparently paying no attention to the chairman of the bill, who defended his measure with eloquence and vigour. it was a good speech, but it contained more words than the one that had provoked it and fewer points. senator north replied briefly that the only chance for the bill was for its father to refrain from calling attention to its weak points, then went into the republican cloak-room, presumably to smoke a cigar. betty, whose head ached, went home. vii that evening, as betty was rummaging through a cupboard in the library looking for a seal, she came upon a box of cuban cigars. they could have been her father's only and of his special importation: he had smoked the choicest tobacco that havana had been able to furnish. she knew that many men would prize that box of cigars, carefully packed in lead and ripened by time, and she suddenly determined to send it to senator north. she felt that it would be an acute pleasure to give him something, and as for the cigars they were too good for any one else. she took the box to her room and wrapped it up carefully and badly; but when she came to the note which must accompany it, she paused before the difficulties which mechanically presented themselves. senator north might naturally feel surprise to receive a present from a young woman with whom he had talked exactly six minutes. if she wrote playfully, offering a small tribute at the shrine of statesmanship, he might wonder if she worked slippers for handsome young clergymen and burned candles before the photograph of a popular tenor. she might send them anonymously, but that would not give her the least satisfaction. finally, she reluctantly decided to wait until she met him again and could lead the conversation up to cigars. "perhaps he will see me in the gallery to-morrow," she thought. but although he sat in his comfortable revolving-chair for two hours the next afternoon, he never lifted his eyes to the gallery. she heard several brief and excellent speeches, but went home dissatisfied. on the day after her return from new york, whither she went to perform the duty of bridesmaid; she had a similar experience, twice varied. senator burleigh made a short speech in a voice that was truly magnificent, and following up senator north's attack on the bill unpopular on the republican side of the chamber. he was answered by "blunderbuss" pepper, the new senator who had turned every aristocrat out of office in his aristocratic southern state and filled the vacancies with men of his own humble origin. he was a burly untidy-looking man, and frequently as uncouth in speech, a demagogue and excitable. but the senate, now that three years in that body had toned him down, conceded his ability and took his abuse with the utmost good-nature. betty recalled his biography as sketched by senator burleigh, and noted that almost every senator wheeled about with an expression of lively interest, as his reiterated "mr. president, mr. president," secured him the floor. they were not disappointed, nor was betty. in a few moments he was roaring like a mad bull and hurling invective upon the entire republican party, which "would deprive the south of legitimate representation if it could." he was witty and scored many points, provoking more than one laugh from both sides of the chamber; and when he finished with a parting yell of imprecation, his audience returned to their correspondence and conversation with an indulgent smile. betty wondered what he had been like before the senate had "toned him down." that night she addressed the cigars to jack emory and sent them off at once. "i do believe i came very close to making a fool of myself," she thought. "what on earth made me want to give those cigars to senator north?--to give him anything? what a little ninny he would have thought me!" she puzzled long over this deflection from her usual imperious course with men, but concluding that women having so many silly twists in their brains, it was useless to try to understand them all, dismissed the matter from her mind. viii "how many politicians are coming this afternoon?" asked mrs. madison, at the sunday midday dinner. her voice indicated that all protest had not gone out of her. "senator burleigh and mr. montgomery--and lady mary. not a formidable array." "they are exactly two too many. i have written and asked sally carter to come over and chaperon you in case i do not feel equal to the ordeal at the last moment. i am surprised that she takes your course so quietly, but on the whole am relieved; you need some one respectable to keep you in countenance." "this house reeks with respectability; no one would ever notice the absence of a chaperon. sally is not only quiescent, but sympathetic. she knows that i have got to the end of teas and charities, and she believes in people choosing their own lives. she says she would join a travelling circus if her proclivities happened to point that way." mrs. madison shuddered. "i do not pretend to understand the present generation, and the more i hear of it the less i wish to. as for sally i love her, but i should detest her if i didn't, for she is the worst form of snob: she is so rich and so well born that she thinks she can dress like a servant-girl and affect the manners of a barmaid." "molly! so you were haunting 'pubs' when i supposed you were yawning at home? i hope you did not tell the barmaids your real name." "well, i suppose i should not criticise people that i know nothing about," said mrs. madison, colouring and serious. she changed the subject hastily. "jack, i hope you will stay this afternoon. it would be the greatest comfort to have you in the house." "i will stay, certainly," said emory. he had taken his sunday dinner at the old house in i street for almost a quarter of a century. to-day he had been unusually silent, and had contracted his brows nervously every time betty looked at him. she understood perfectly, and amused herself by turning round upon him several times with abrupt significance. however, she spared him until they had taken mrs. madison to the parlor and gone to the library, where he might smoke his after-dinner cigar. he sat down in front of a window, and the sunlight poured over him, glistening his handsome head and illuminating his skin. betty supposed that some women might fall quite desperately in love with him; and in addition to his beauty he was a noble and high-minded gentleman, whose narrowness was due to the secluded life he chose to lead. "now!" she exclaimed, "come out with it! you've had eleven days, and one can learn a good deal in that time." he bit sharply at the end of his cigar, but answered without hesitation. "it is almost impossible to learn anything in washington to the detriment of the senate. there seems to be a sort of _esprit de corps_ in the entire city. they look politely horrified if you suggest that a senator of the united states, honouring washington with the society of his wives and daughters, is anything that he should not be. i was obliged to go to new york and boston to get the information i wanted, and even now it is far from complete. i don't believe it is possible to arrive at anything like accurate knowledge on the subject." "well, what did you get? washington is a well-ordered community with a high moral tone--it is said to have fewer scandals than any city in the country--and there is no sordid commercial atmosphere to lower it. it is the great city of leisure in everything but legislation and paying calls; so it seems to me that it would be the last place to fondle in its bosom ninety distinguished scoundrels. but go on. what did you learn in boston and new york?" "that a little of everything is represented in the senate,--that is about what it amounts to. there are unquestionably men there who bought their seats from legislatures, and there are men who are agents for trusts, syndicates, and railroad corporations, as well as three party bosses--" "ninety senators leave a large margin for a number of loose fish. what i want to know is, how do the big men stand--north, maxwell, ward, march--and fifteen or twenty others, all the men who are the chairmen of the big committees? the new england men seem to have charge of everything of importance in the house and of a good deal in the senate." "some of the southern and north-western and most of the new england states seem to have honest enough legislatures," said emory, unwillingly. "but that leaves plenty of others. only a few of the western states are above suspicion, and as for new york, pennsylvania, and delaware, they would not waste time defending themselves; and as no senators are better than the people that elect them--" "oh, yes, they are sometimes--look at the senator from delaware. i too have been asking questions for eleven days. it all comes to this: there are millionaireism and corrupting influences in the senate, but that element is in the minority, and the greater number of leading, or able senators are above suspicion. and they seem to have things pretty much all their own way. they could not if the majority in the senate were scoundrels. no corrupt body was ever led by its irreproachable exceptions--" "in another ten years there will be no exceptions. all that are making a desperate stand for honesty to-day will be overwhelmed by the unprincipled element--" "or have forced it to reform. the good in human nature predominates; we are a healthy infant, and do not know the meaning of the word 'decadent;' and we are extraordinarily clever. senator burleigh says that you can always bank on the american people going right in the end. they may not bother for a long time, but when they do wake up they make things hum." "senator burleigh evidently has all the easy-going optimism of this country. but, betty, i am no more reconciled than i was before to your having anything to do with these people. politics have a bad name, whatever the truth of the matter. i think myself our sensational press is largely to blame--" "there is nothing so interesting as the pursuit of truth," said betty, lightly. "reconcile yourself to the sight of me in pursuit of it--" "ah, here you are!" exclaimed a staccato voice. sally carter entered the room, kissed betty, shook hands heartily with emory, and threw herself into a chair. her fortune equalled betty's, but it was her pleasure to wear frocks so old and so dowdy that her friends wondered where they had come from originally. she had been a handsome girl, and her blue eyes were still full of fire, her fair hair abundant, but her face was sallow and lined from many attacks of malarial fever. her manner was breezy and full of energy, and she was not only popular but a very important person indeed. she lived alone with her father in the old house in k street and entertained rarely, but she had strawberry leaves on her coronet, and it was currently reported that when she arrived in england, clad in a rusty black serge and battered turban,--which she certainly slept in at intervals during the day,--she was met in state by the entire ducal family--including a prolific connection--whose ancestor had founded the great house of carter in the british colonies of north america. what their private opinion was of this representative of the american dukedom was never quite clear to the washington mind, but to know sally carter in her own city meant complete social recognition, and not to know her an indifferent success. "senator north tells me that he met you the other day and would like to meet you again," she said to betty, who lifted her head with attention. "i dropped in on my way here for a little call on mrs. north, poor dear! there's a real invalid for you--something the matter with her spine--is liable to paralysis any minute. it must be so cheerful to sit round and anticipate that. why on earth do women let their nerves run away with them, in the first place? nerves in this country are a mixture of climate, selfishness, and stupidity. i could be as nervous as a witch, but i won't. i walk miles every day and don't think about myself. well! i told mr. north all about the bold course of the young lady weary of frivolities, and he seemed much interested, paid you some compliment or other, i've forgotten what. he said he would look out for you in the senate gallery and go up and speak to you--" emory rose with an exclamation of disgust. "i hope you told him to do nothing of the kind." "on the contrary, i told him not to forget, for as betty would sail her little yacht on the political sea, i wanted her to be recognized by the men-of-war, not by the trading-ships and pirates." emory threw away his cigar. "i think i will go in and see my aunt," he said. "all this is most distasteful to me." he left the room, followed by betty's mocking laugh. but miss carter said with a sigh,-- "he can't expect us all to live up to his ideals. it is better not to have any, like my practical self. but i'm afraid he sits out there in his damp old library and dreams of a world in which all the men are sir galahads and all the women madame rolands. he is an ideal himself, if he only knew it; i've always been half in love with him. well, betty, how do you like your new toy? after all, what is even a senate but a toy for a pretty woman? that is really your attitude, only you don't know it. life is serious only for women with babies and bills. as for charities, they were specially invented to give old maids like myself an occupation in life. what--what--should i have done without charities when society palled?" "why did you never marry, sally?" asked betty, abruptly. the question never had occurred to her before, but as she asked it her eyes involuntarily moved to the empty chair before the window. "what on earth should i do with a husband?" asked miss carter, lightly. "i only love men when they are in bronze in the public parks. poor dear old general lathom proposed to me four times, and the only time i felt like accepting him was when i saw his statue unveiled. i couldn't put a man on a pedestal to save my life, but when my grateful country does it i'm all humble adoration. could you idealize a live thing in striped trousers and a frock coat?" "woolen is hopeless," said betty, with an attempt at playfulness. "we must do the best we can with the inner man." "how on earth do you know what a man is like on the inside? idealize is the right word, though. women make a god out of what they cannot understand in a man. if he has a bad temper, they think of him as a 'dominant personality.' if he is unfaithful to his wife, he is romantic in the eyes of a woman who has given no man a chance to be unfaithful to her. if he comes to your dinner with an attack of dyspepsia, you compare him sentimentally with the brutes that eat. _you_ haven't married yet, i notice, and you are on the corner of twenty-seven." "american men don't give you a chance to idealize them," said betty, plaintively. "they tell you all about themselves at once. and although englishmen have more mystery and provoke your curiosity, they don't understand women and don't want to; the women can do the adapting. i never could stand that; and as i can't endure foreigners i'm afraid i shall die an old maid. that's the reason i've gone into politics--" the butler announced that senator burleigh was in the parlor. "what of his inner man?" asked sally. "i never have given it two thoughts. but his outer is all that could be desired." "he would look well in bronze. i understand that his state thinks a lot of him: as you know, i read the _post_ and _star_ through every day to papa. i _have_ to know something of politics." they found senator burleigh talking to mrs. madison, apparently oblivious of her frigid attempt at tolerance and of emory's sullen silence. sally carter's eyes flashed with amusement, and she shook the senator warmly by the hand. "such a very great pleasure!" she announced in her staccato tones. "now the only time i really allow myself pride is when i meet the statesmen of my country. i am sure that is the way you feel, dear cousin molly--is it not? we are such oysters, the few of us who always have lived here, that a whiff from the political world puts new life into us." emory left the room. burleigh looked surprised but gratified, and assured her that it was the greatest possible pleasure as well as an honour to meet miss carter. he appeared to have left his businesslike manner on capitol hill, and he was even less abrupt than on the night of the dinner. only his exuberant vitality seemed out of place in that dark old room, and it was an effort for him to keep his sonorous voice in check. "mrs. madison says she takes no interest in politics," he added, "and fears to be a wet blanket on the conversation. i have been assuring her that on one day of the week politics are non-existent so far as i am concerned." mrs. madison, who had been staring at sally carter, replied with an evident attempt to be agreeable, "of course i always find it interesting to hear people talk about what they understand best." "politics are what i should like to understand least. since i have come to the senate i have endeavoured to forget all i ever knew about them. i rely upon my friends to keep me in office while i am making a desperate attempt to become a fair-minded legislator." he spoke lightly. betty could not determine whether he was posing or telling the simple truth to people who would be glad to take him at his word. there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye; but he looked too impatient for even the milder sort of hypocrisy. mrs. madison thawed visibly. "you younger men should try to restore the old ideals," she said. "ah, madam," he replied, "if you only knew what the censors said about the old ideals when they were alive! if time will be as kind to us, we can swallow our own dose with a reasonable amount of philosophy. john quincy adams arraigned the politics of his day in the bitterest phrases he could create; but to-day we are asked to remember the glorious past and hide our heads." the montgomery's entered the room. randolph, who was as tall as senator burleigh and very slender, looked so distinguished that mrs. madison immediately decided to remember only that his family was as old as her own. he had lost none of the repose he had found during his three years' residence in europe, but the effort to keep it in the house had made his handsome face thin and touched his mouth with cynicism. his hair was still black, and there were no lines about his cool gray eyes. "blessed day of rest!" exclaimed his wife. "i got up just one hour ago. do you know, miss madison, i paid twenty-six calls on thursday, eighteen on friday and twelve on saturday? never marry into political life." senator burleigh, who had been talking to miss carter, turned round quickly. "some women are so manifestly made for it," he said, "that it would be folly for them to attempt to escape their fate." ix a month passed. betty received with lady mary on tuesdays, and under that popular young matron's wing called on a number of women prominent in the official life of the dying administration, whom she received on fridays. they were very polite, and returned her calls promptly; but they did not always remember her name, and her personality and position impressed but a few of these women, overwhelmed with social duties, visiting constituents, and people-with-letters. most of them paid from fifteen to twenty calls on six days out of seven, and had filled their engagement books for the season during its first fortnight. betty was chagrined at first, then amused. moreover, her incomplete success raised the political world somewhat in mrs. madison's estimation; she had expected that her house would be besieged by these temporary beings, eager for a sniff at old washington air. betty realized that she must be content to go slowly this winter, and begin to entertain as soon as the next season opened. lady mary took her to four large receptions, and she was invited to two or three dinners of a semi-official character; for several women not only fancied her, but appreciated the fact that the official were not the highest social honours in the land, and were glad to further her plans. senator burleigh called several times. one day he arrived with a large package of books: bryce's "american commonwealth," a volume containing the constitution and washington's farewell address, and several of the "american statesmen" monographs. "read all these," he said dictatorially. ("he certainly takes me very seriously," thought betty. "doubtless he'll stand me in a corner with my face to the wall if i don't get my lessons properly.") "i want you to acquire the national sense. i don't believe a woman in this country knows the meaning of the phrase. study and think over the characters of the men who created this country: washington and hamilton, particularly. you'll know what i mean when you've read these little volumes; and then i'll bring you some thirty volumes containing the letters and despatches and communications to congress of these two greatest of all americans. i don't know which i admire most. hamilton was the most creative genius of his century, but the very fact that he was a genius of the highest order makes him hopeless as a standard. but all men in public life who desire to attain the highest and most unassailable position analyze the character of washington and ponder over it deeply. there never was a man so free from taint, there never was such complete mental poise, there never was such cold, rarified, unerring judgment. the man seems to us--who live in a turbulent day when the effort to be and to remain high-minded makes the brain ache--to have been nothing less than inspired. and his political wisdom is as sound for to-day as for when he uttered it; although, for the life of me, i cannot help disregarding his admonition to keep hands out of foreign pie, this time. i want the country to go to the rescue of cuba, and i'll turn over every stone i can to that end." betty had listened to him with much interest. "would washington have gone?" she asked. "would he advise it now, supposing he could?" "no, i don't believe he would. washington had a brain of ice, and his ideal of american prosperity was frozen within it. he would fear some possible harm or loss to this country, and the other could be left to the care of an all-merciful providence. i love my country with as sound a patriotism as a man may, and i revere the memory of washington, but i have not a brain of ice, and i think a country, like a man, should think of others besides itself. and the united states has got to that point where almost nothing could hurt it. a few months' patriotic enthusiasm, for that matter, would do it no end of good. if you care to listen, i'll read the farewell address to you." he read it in his sonorous rolling voice, that must have done as much to make him a popular idol in his state as his more distinguished gifts for public life. betty decided that the more senatorial he was the better she liked him. she knew that he was a favourite with men, and had a vague idea that men, when in the exclusive society of their own sex, always told witty anecdotes, but she could not imagine herself making small talk with senator burleigh. her day for small talk, however, she fervently hoped was over. she had seen senator north again but once. lady mary montgomery gave a great evening reception, as magnificent an affair of the sort as betty was likely to see in washington. it was given in honour of a distinguished englishman, who, rumour whispered, had come over in the interests of the general arbitration treaty between the united states and great britain, now at the mercy of the committee on foreign relations. there was another impression, equally alive in washington that lady mary aspired to be the historic link between the two countries. certain it was that the secretary of state, the british ambassador, and the committee on foreign relations dined and called constantly at her house. the distinguished guest had called on her every day since his arrival. betty knew what others divined; for the friends were inseparable, and mary montgomery was very frank with her few intimates. "of course i want the treaty to go through," she had said to betty, only the day before her reception; "and i am quite wild to know what the committee are doing with it. but of course they will say nothing. senator ward kisses my hand and talks shakespeare and socrates to me, and when i use all my eloquence in behalf of a closer relationship between the two greatest nations on earth--for i want an alliance to follow this treaty--he says: _'ma belle dame sans merci,_ the american language shall yet be spoken in the british isles; i promise you that.' he is one of the few americans i cannot understand. he has eyes so heavy that he never looks quite awake, and he is as quick as an italian's blade in retort. he has a large and scholarly intellect, and it is almost impossible to make him serious. you never see him in his chair on the floor of the senate, although he sometimes drifts across the room with a cigar in the hollow of his hand, and he is admittedly one of its leading spirits, and the idol of a western state--of all things! senator north is the reverse of transparent, but sometimes he goes to the point in a manner which leaves nothing to be desired. he is not on the committee of foreign relations, so i asked him point blank the other day if he thought the treaty would go through and if he did not mean to vote for it. he is usually as polite as all men who are successful in politics and like women, but he gave a short and brutal laugh. 'lady mary,' he said, 'when some of my colleagues were cultivating their muscles on the tail of your lion in the winter of , i told them what i thought of them in language which only senatorial courtesy held within bounds. if the committee on foreign relations--for whose members i have the highest respect: they are picked men--should do anything so foolish and so unpatriotic as to report back that treaty in a form to arouse the enthusiasm of the british press, i fear i should disregard senatorial courtesy. but the united states senate does not happen to be composed of idiots, and the president may amuse himself writing treaties, but he does not make them.' "then i asked him if he had no sentiment, if he did not think the spirit of the thing fine: the union of the great english-speaking races; and he replied that he saw no necessity for anything of the sort: we did very well on our separate sides of the water; and as for sentiment, we were like certain people,--much better friends while coquetting than when married. he added that the divorce would be so extremely painful. i asked him what was to prevent another lover's quarrel, if there were no ring and no blessing, and he replied: 'ah that is another question. to keep out of useless wars with the old country and to tie our hands fast to her quarrels are two things, and the one we will do and the other we won't do.' "that is all he would say, but fortunately there is a less conservative element in the senate than his, although i believe they all become saturated with that constitution in time. i can see it growing in senator burleigh." all elements had come to her reception to-night. ambassadors and envoys extraordinary were there in the full splendour of their uniforms. so were generals and admirals; and the women of the eastern legations had come in their native costumes. the portly ladies of the cabinet were as resplendent as their position demanded, and the aristocracy of the senate and the women of fashion were equally fine. other women were there, wives of men important but poor, who walked unabashed in high-neck home-made frocks; and their pretty daughters, were as simple as themselves. one wore a cheese-cloth frock, and another a blue merino. the dames of the plutocracy were there, blazing with converted capital,--westerners for the most part, with hogsheads of money, who had come to the city of open doors to spend it. it was seldom they were in the same room with the old washingtonians, and when they were they sighed; then reminded themselves of recent dinners to people whose names were half the stock in trade of the daily press. sally carter, who regarded them through her lorgnette with much the same impersonal interest as she would accord to actors on the boards, wore a gown of azure satin trimmed with lace whose like was not to be found in the markets of the world. her hair was elaborately dressed, and her thin neck sufficiently covered by a curious old collar of pearls set with tiny miniatures. careless as she was by day, it often suited her to be very smart indeed by night. she looked brilliant; and jack emory, who had been commanded by betty to accept lady mary's invitation, did not leave her side. and she snubbed her more worldly-minded followers and devoted herself to his amusement. all the men wore evening clothes. it seemed to be an unwritten law that the politician should have his dress-suit did his wife wear serge for ever. consequently they presented a more uniformly fine appearance than their women, and most of them held themselves with a certain look of power. their faces were almost invariably keen and strong. few of the younger members of the house were here to-night, only those who had been in it so many years that they were high in political importance. among them the big round form and smooth round head of their present and perhaps most famous speaker were conspicuous: the united states was moving swiftly to the parting of the ways, and there are times when a speaker is a greater man than a president. what few authors washington boasts were there, as well as judges of the supreme court, scholars, architects, scientists, and journalists. and they moved amid great splendour. lady mary had thrown open her ball-room, and the walls looked like a lattice-work of american beauty roses and thorns. great bunches of the same expensive ornament swung from the ceiling, and the piano was covered with a quilt of them deftly woven together. the pale green drawing-room was as lavishly decorated with pink and white orchids and lilies of the valley. lady mary felt that she could vie in extravagance with the most ambitious in her husband's ambitious land. betty was entertaining four senators, the distinguished guest, and the speaker of the house when she caught a glimpse of senator north. she immediately became a trifle absent, and permitted senator shattuc, who liked to tell anecdotes of famous politicians, to take charge of the conversation. while he was thinking her the one woman in washington charming enough to establish a _salon_, she was congratulating herself that she should meet senator north again when she looked her best. she wore a wonderful new gown of mignonette green and ivory white, and many pearls in her warm hair and on her beautiful neck. she looked both regal and girlish, an effect she well knew how to produce. her head was thrown back and her eyes were sparkling with triumph as they met senator north's. he moved toward her at once. "i should be stupid to inquire after your health," he said as he shook her hand. "you are positively radiant. i shall ask instead if you still find time to come up and see us occasionally, and if we improve on acquaintance?" "i go very often indeed, but i have seen you only three times." "i have been north for a week, and in my committee room a good deal since my return." betty was determined not to let slip this opportunity. she resented the platitudes that are kept in stock by even the greatest minds, and wished that he would hold out a peremptory arm and lead her to some quiet corner and talk to her for an hour. but he evidently had a just man's appreciation of the rights of others, for he betrayed no intention to do anything of the kind. his eyes dwelt on her with frank admiration, but washington is the national headquarters of pretty women, and he doubtless contented himself with a passing glimpse of many. and this time betty felt the full force of the man's magnetism. she would have liked to put up a detaining hand and hold him there for the rest of the evening. even were there no chance for conversation, she would have liked to be close beside him. she forgot, that he was an ideal on a pedestal and shot him a challenging glance. "i have hoped that you would come up to the gallery and call on me," she said pointedly. he moved a step closer, then drew back. his face did not change. "i certainly shall when i am so fortunate as to see you up there," he said. "but the fourth of march is not far off, and the pressure accumulates. i am obliged to be in my committee room, as well as in other committee rooms, for the better part of every day. but if i can do anything for you, if there is any one you would care to meet, do not fail to let me know. send word to my room, and if possible i will go to you." betty looked at him helplessly. she wanted to ask him to call at her house on sunday, but felt a sudden diffidence. after all, why should he care to call on her? he had more important things to think of; and doubtless he spent his few leisure hours with some woman far more brilliant than herself. her head came down a trifle and she turned it away. he stood there a moment longer, then said,-- "good-night," and, after a few seconds' hesitation, and with unmistakable emphasis: "remember that it would give me the greatest possible pleasure to do anything for you i could." immediately after, he left the room. when she was alone an hour later, she anathematized herself for a fool. diffidence had no permanent part in her mental constitution. she was sure that if she could talk with him for thirty consecutive minutes she could interest him and attach him to her train. her pride, she felt, was now involved. she should estimate herself a failure unless she compelled senator north to forget the more experienced women of the political world and spend his leisure hours with her. she had been a brilliant success in other spheres, she would not fail in this. but two more weeks passed and she did not see him. he came neither to the floor of the senate within her experience of it, nor to the gallery. nor did he appear to care for society. few of the senators did, for that matter. they did not mind dining out, as they had to dine somewhere, and an agreeable and possibly handsome partner would give zest to any meal; but they were dragged to receptions and escaped as soon as they could. x betty rose suddenly from the breakfast-table and went into the library, carrying a half-read letter. she had felt her face flush and her hand tremble, and escaped from the servants into a room where she could think alone for hours, if she wished. the letter ran as follows:-- the parsonage, st. andrew, virginia. to miss elizabeth madison: dear madam,--i have a communication of a somewhat trying nature to make, and believe me; i would not make it were not my end very near. your father, dear madam, the late harold carter madison, left an illegitimate daughter by a woman whom he loved for many years, an octaroon named cassandra lee. before his death he gave poor cassie a certain sum of money, and made her promise to leave washington and never return. she came here and devoted the few remaining years of her life to the care of her child. i and my wife were the only persons who knew her story, and when she was dying we willingly promised to take the little one. for the last ten years harriet has lived here in the parsonage and has been the only child i have ever known,--a dearly beloved child. she has been carefully educated and is a lady in every sense of the word. i had until the last two years a little school, and she was my chief assistant. but the public school proved more attractive--and doubtless is more thorough--and this passed from me. last year my wife died. now i am going, and very rapidly. i have only just learned the nature of my illness, and i may be dead before you receive this letter. i write to beg you to receive your sister. there is no argument i can use, dear lady, which your own conscience will not dictate. you will not be ashamed of her. she shows not a trace of the taint in her blood. the money your father gave cassie has gone long since, but harriet asks no alms of you, only that you will help her to go somewhere far from those who know that she is not as white as she looks, and to give her a chance to earn her living. she is well fitted to be a governess or companion, and no doubt you could easily place her. but she is lonely and frightened and miserable. be merciful and receive her into your home for a time. "i dare not write this to your mother. she has no cause to feel warmly to harriet. but you are young, and wealthy in your own right. her future rests with you. here in this village she can do absolutely nothing, and after i am buried she will not have enough to keep her for a month. answer to her--she bears my name." i am, dear lady, your humble and obd't servant, abraham walker. p. s. harriet is twenty-three. she has letters in her possession which prove her parentage. betty's first impulse was to take the next train for st. andrew. her heart went out to the lonely girl, deprived of her only protector, wretched under the triple load of poverty, friendlessness, and the curse of race. she remembered vividly those two men in the church whose bearing expressed more forcibly than any words the canker that had blighted their manhood. and this girl bore no visible mark of the wrong that had been done her, and only needed the opportunity to be happy and respected. could duty be more plain? and was she a chosen instrument to right one at least of the great wrongs perpetrated by the brilliant, warm-hearted, reckless men of her race? but in a moment she shuddered and dropped the letter, a wave of horror and disgust rising within her. this girl was her half-sister, and was, light or dark, a negress. betty had seen too much of the world in her twenty-seven years to weep at the discovery of her father's weakness, or to shrink from a woman so unhappy as to be born out of wedlock; but she was southern to her finger-tips: the blacks were a despised, an unspeakably inferior race, and they had been slaves for hundreds of years to the white man. to be sure, she loved the old family servants, and rarely said a harsh word to them, and it was a matter of indifference to her that they had been freed, as she had plenty of money to pay their wages. but that the negro should vote had always seemed to her incredible and monstrous, and she laughed to herself when she met on the streets the smartly dressed coloured folk out for a walk. they seemed farcically unreal, travesties on the people to whom a discriminating almighty had given the world. to her the entire race were first slaves, then servants, entitled to all kindness so long as they kept their place, but to be stepped on the moment they presumed. she recoiled in growing disgust from this girl with the hidden drop of black in her body. but her reasoning faculty was accustomed to work independently of her brain's inherited impressions. she stamped her foot and anathematized herself for a narrow-minded creature whose will was weaker than her prejudices. the girl was blameless, helpless. she might have a mind as good as her own, be as well fitted to enjoy the higher pleasures of life. and she might have a beauty and a temperament which would be her ruin did her natural protectors tell her that she was a pariah, an outcast, that they could have none of her. betty conjured her up, a charming and pathetic vision; but in vain. the repulsion was physical, inherited from generations of proud and intolerant women, and she could not control it. she longed desperately for a confidant and adviser. her mother she could not speak to until she had made up her mind. emory and sally carter would tell her to give the creature an allowance and think no more about her; and the matter went deeper than that. the girl had heart and an educated mind; her demands were subtle and complex. senator burleigh? he would laugh impatiently at her prejudices, and tell her that she ought to go out and live in the free fresh air of the west. they probably would quarrel irremediably. mary montgomery would only stare. betty could hear her exclaim: "but why? what? and you say she is quite white? i do not think that negroes are as nice as white people, of course; but i cannot understand your really tragic aversion." there was only one person to whom it would be a luxury to talk, senator north. she knew that he would not only understand but sympathize with her, and she was sure he would give her wise counsel. she regretted bitterly that she had not been able to make a friend of him, as she had of several of his colleagues. she would have sent for him without hesitation. she glanced at the clock; it pointed to ten minutes past ten. he was doubtless at that moment in his committee room looking over his correspondence. she knew that senators received letters at the rate of a hundred a day, and were early risers in consequence. if only she dared to go to him, if only he were not so desperately busy. but he had intimated that he had leisure moments, had taken the trouble to say that it would give him pleasure to serve her. why should he not? what if he were a senator? was she not a woman? why should she of all women hesitate to demand a half-hour's time of any man? she needed advice, must have it: a decision should be reached in the next twenty-four hours. not for a second did she admit that she was building up an excuse for the long-desired interview with senator north. she was a woman confronted with a solemn problem. her coupe was at the door; she had planned a morning's shopping. she ran upstairs and dressed herself for the street, wondering what order she would give the footman. she changed her mind hurriedly twenty times, but was careful to select the most becoming street-frock she possessed, a gentian blue cloth trimmed with sable. there were three hats to match it, and she tried on each, to the surprise of her maid, who usually found her easy to please. she finally decided upon a small toque which was made to set well back from her face into the heavy waves of her hair. she was too wise to wear a veil, for her complexion was flawless, her forehead low and full, and her hair arranged loosely about it; she wore no fringe. as the footman closed the door of the coupe and she said curtly, "the capitol," she knew that her mind had made itself up in the moment that it had conceived the possibility of a call upon senator north. that point settled, she was calm until she reached the familiar entrance to the senate wing, and rehearsed the coming interview. but her cheeks were hot and her knees were trembling as she left the elevator and hurried down the corridor to the committee room which burleigh, when showing her over the building one morning, had pointed out as senator north's. she never had felt so nervous. she wondered if women felt this sudden terror of the outraged proprieties when hastening to a tryst of which the world must know nothing. and she was overwhelmed with the vivid consciousness that she was actually about to demand the time and attention of one of the busiest and most eminent men in the country. if it had not been for a stubborn and long-tried will, she would have turned and run. a mulatto was sitting before the door. when she asked, with a successful attempt at composure, for senator north, he demanded her card. she happened to have one in her purse, and he went into the room and closed the door, leaving her to be stared at by the strolling sight-seers. the mulatto reopened the door and invited her to enter a large room with a long table, a bookcase, and a number of leather chairs. before he had led her far, senator north appeared within the doorway of an inner room. "i am glad to see you," he said. "i know that you are in trouble or you would not have done me this honour. it is an honour, and as i told you before i shall feel it a privilege to serve you in any way. sit here, by the fire." betty felt so grateful for his effort to put her at her ease, so delighted that he was all her imagination had pictured, and had not snubbed her in what she conceived to be the superior senatorial manner, that she flung herself into the easy-chair and burst into tears. senator north knew women as well as a man can. he let the storm pass, poked the already glowing fire, and lowered two of the window-shades. "i feel so stupid," said betty, calming herself abruptly. "i have no right to take up your time, and i shall say what i have to say and go." "i have practically nothing to do for the next hour. please consider it yours." betty stole a glance at him. he was leaning back in his chair regarding her intently. it was impossible to say whether his eyes had softened or not, but he looked kind and interested. "i never have told you that your father was a great friend of mine," he said. "you really have a claim on me." in spite of the fact that the congressional directory gave him sixty years, he looked anything but fatherly. although there never was the slightest affectation of youth in his dress or manner, he suggested threescore years as little. so strong was his individuality that betty could not imagine him having been at any time other than he was now. he was senator north, that was the rounded fact; years had nothing to do with him. "well, i'm glad you knew papa; it will help you to understand. i--but perhaps you had better read this." she took the clergyman's letter from her muff, and senator north put on a pair of steel-rimmed eyeglasses and read it. when he had finished he put the eyeglasses in his pocket, folded the letter, and handed it to her. he had read the contents with equal deliberation. it seemed impossible that he would act otherwise in any circumstance. "well?" he said, looking keenly at her. "what are you going to do about it?" "i am ashamed to tell you how i have felt. but we southerners feel so strongly on--on--that subject--it is difficult to explain!" "we northerners know exactly how you feel," he said dryly. "we should be singularly obtuse if we did not. however, do not for a moment imagine that i am unsympathetic. we all have our prejudices, and the strongest one is a part of us. and for the matter of that, the average american is no more anxious to marry a woman with negro blood in her than the southerner is, and looks down upon the black from almost as lofty a height. only our prejudice is passive, for he is not the constant source of annoyance and anxiety with us that he is with you." "then you understand how repulsive it is to me to have a sister who is white by accident only, and how torn i am between pity for her and a physical antipathy that i cannot overcome?" "i understand perfectly." "that is why i have come to you--to ask you what i _must_ do. this is the first time i have been confronted by a real problem; my life has been so smooth and my trials so petty. it is too great a problem for me to solve by myself, and i could not think of anybody's advice but yours that--that i would take," she finished, with her first flash of humour. "i fully expect you to take the advice i am going to give you. your duty is plain; you must do all you can for this girl. but by no means receive her into your house until you have made her acquaintance. take the ten o'clock b. & o. to-morrow morning and go to st. andrew; it is about four hours' journey and on the line of the railroad. spend several hours with the girl, and, if she is worth the trouble, bring her back with you and do all you can for her: it would be cruel and heartless to refuse her consolation if she is all this old man describes--and you are not cruel and heartless. and if this drop of black blood is abhorrent to you, think what it must be to her. it is enough to torment a high-strung woman into insanity or suicide. on the other hand, if she is common, or looks as if she had a violent temper, or is conceited and self-sufficient like so many of that hybrid race, settle an income on her and send her to europe: in placing her above temptation you will have done your duty." "but that is the whole point--to be sure that _you_ do the right thing." "i almost hope she will be impossible, so that i can wipe her off the slate at once. otherwise it will be a terrible problem." "it is no problem at all. there is no problem in plain duty. problems exist principally in works of fiction and in the minds of unoccupied women. if you meet each development of every question in the most natural and reasonable manner,--presupposing that you possess that highest attribute of civilization, common-sense,--no question will ever resolve itself into a problem. and difficulties usually disappear as the range of vision contracts. if your house takes fire, you save what you can, not what you have elaborately planned to save in case of fire. train your common-sense and let the windy analysis pertaining to problems alone." "but how can i ever get over the horror of the thing, mr. north?" "you will forget all about it when she has been your daily companion for a few weeks. if she lacked a nose, you would as soon cease to remember it. if this girl is worth liking, you will like her, and soon cease to feel tragic. leave that to her!" "i know that you are right, and of course i shall take your advice. i did not come here to trouble you for nothing. but if i liked her at first and not afterward--" "pack her off to europe. europe will console an american woman for every ill in life. if you take the right attitude in the beginning, it all rests with her after that. you will have but one duty further. if she wishes to marry, you must tell the man the truth, if she will not. don't hesitate on that point a moment. her children are liable to be coal-black. that african blood seems to have a curse on it, and the curse is usually visited on the unoffending." "i will, i will," said betty. she rose, and he rose also and took her hand in both of his. she felt an almost irresistible desire to put her head on his shoulder, for she was tired and depressed. "your attitude in the matter is the important thing to me," he said. "that is why i have spoken so emphatically. you are a child yet, in spite of your twenty-seven years and your admirable intelligence. this is practically your first trial, the first time you have been called upon to make a decision which, either way, is bound to have a strong effect on your character, and to affect still greater decisions you may be called upon to make in the future. you have only one defect; you are not quite serious enough--yet." "i feel very serious just now," said betty, with a sigh; and in truth she did, and her new-found sister was not the only thing that perplexed her. "one of these days you will be a singularly perfect woman," he added, and then he dropped her hand and walked to the door. as he was about to open it, she touched his arm timidly. "will you come and see me on sunday?" she asked. "i shall have been through a good deal between now and then, and i shall want--i shall want to talk to you." "i will come," he said. "not before half-past four. my mother will be asleep then, and my cousin, jack emory, have gone home--there will be so many things i shall want to talk to you about." "i shall be there at half-past four," he said. "good-bye. good-bye." xi betty went home to her room and cried steadily for an hour. she would not analyze the complex source of her emotions, but addressed a bitter reproach to her father's shade; and she reassured herself by frankly admitting that it would give her pleasure to win the approval of senator north. she bathed her eyes and went to her mother's room. the sooner that ordeal was over, she reflected, the better. mrs. madison was reading an amusing novel and looked up with a smile, then pushed the book aside. "have you been crying, darling?" she asked. "what can be the matter?" betty told her story without preamble. her mother's nerves could stand a shock, but not three minutes of uncertainty. mrs. madison listened with more equanimity than betty anticipated. "i suppose i may consider myself fortunate that i have not had one of his brats thrust on me before," she remarked philosophically. "what are we to do about this creature?" "there is only one human thing to do. it is not her fault, and she is very wretched at present. and now that i know the truth i suppose i am as responsible as my father would be if he were alive. i shall go to see her to-morrow, and if she is presentable and seems good i shall bring her to washington. of course i shall not bring her here without your permission--it is your house. let me read you his letter." "do you feel very strongly on the subject?" mrs. madison asked when betty had finished. "oh, i do! i do! i will promise not to bring her to washington at all if she is impossible, but if she is all i feel sure she must be, let me bring her here for a few weeks, until we have decided what to do for her. i know it is a great deal to ask--her presence cannot fail to be hateful to you--" "my dear, i have outlived any feeling of that sort, and i have not put everything on your shoulders all these years to thwart you now, when you feel so deeply. moreover, an old memory came to me while you were reading that letter. when i was a little girl, about eight or ten, i spent an entire summer with aunt mary eager at her home in virginia. she had a house full, and there were five other little girls beside myself. a brook ran across the foot of the plantation, and we were very fond of playing there. directly across was the hut of a freed slave who had a little girl about our own age. the child was a beautiful octaroon. i can see her plainly, with her honey-coloured skin, her immense black eyes, her long straight black hair, and her stiff little white frock tucked to the waist. her mother took the greatest pride in her, and was always changing her clothes. "every day she used to come to the edge of her side of the brook and watch us. we never noticed her, for although we often played with the little black piccaninnies, the yellow child of a freed slave was another matter. one day--i think she had watched us for about a week--she came half-way across the bridge. we stared at each other, but took no notice of her. the next day she walked straight across and up to us, and asked us very nicely if she might play with us. we turned upon her six scarlet scandalized faces, and what we said, in what brutal child language, i do not care to repeat. the child stared at us for a moment as if she were looking into the inferno itself, and i expect she was, poor little soul! then she gave a cry, and tore across the bridge and up the 'pike as hard as she could run. as long as we could see her she was running, and as i never saw her again--we avoided the brook after that--it seemed to me for years as if she must be running still. and for years those flying feet haunted me, and i used to long as i grew older to do penance in some way. i befriended many a poor yellow girl, hoping she might be that child. then life grew too sad for me to remember the sins of my childhood. but i like the idea of making penance at this late day and receiving this girl for a few weeks into my house: it will be a penance, for i do not fancy sitting at the table with a woman with negro blood in her veins, i can assure you. but i shall do it. i believe if i did not i should be haunted again by those little flying feet. there is no chance of this being her daughter, for she would have been too old to attract your father's fancy. but that is not the point. i make one condition. no one must know the truth, not even sally or jack. she must pass for a distant relative, left suddenly destitute." "she would probably be the last to wish the truth known. but you have taken a weight off my mind, molly dear, and i am deeply grateful to you." xii the next day betty left the train a few minutes after two o'clock and walked up the winding street of a small village to the parsonage. she passed a number of cottages picturesquely dilapidated, a store in which a half-dozen men were smoking, and about thirty lounging negroes. on rising ground was a large house, but the village looked forlorn, neglected, almost lifeless. the men in the store came out and stared at her; so did the women from the cottages. and the negroes stood still. doubtless they thought her a wealthy vision; the day was cold, and she wore a brown cloth dress and a sable jacket and toque. "what a life for an intelligent woman!" she thought, glancing about her with deep distaste. "it would be enough to induce melancholia without the 'taint.'" she had made a desperate effort in the last twenty-four hours to overcome her repugnance, but had only succeeded in making sure that she could conceal it. she had recalled her interview with senator north again and again. his indubitable interest gave her courage, and a desire to use the best that was in her. and she had turned her mind more often still to those men in the church and the sentiments they had inspired. the shutters of the parsonage were closed, there was crape on the door. betty turned the knob and entered. a number of people were in a room on the right of the hall. at the head of the room, barely out-lined in the heavy shadows, was a coffin on its trestle. the house smelt musty and damp. betty pushed back the door and let in the bright winter sunlight. some one rose from the group beside the coffin and came slowly forward. betty waited, clinching her hands in her muff, her breath coming shorter. the dark figure in the dark room looked like the shadow of death itself. but it was not superstition that made betty brace herself. in a moment the figure had stepped into the sunlight beside her. betty had imagined the girl handsome; she was not prepared for splendid beauty. harriet walker was far above the ordinary height of woman, and very slender and graceful. her hair and eyes were black, her skin smooth and white, her features aquiline. hauteur should have been her natural expression, but her eyes were dreamy and melancholy, her mouth discontented. betty, in that first rapid survey, detected but two flaws in her beauty: her chin was weak and her hands were coarse. "you are miss madison," she said, with the monotonous inflection of grief. "thank you for coming." "i am your half-sister," said betty, putting out her hand. and then the desire to use the best that was in her overcame the repugnance that made her very knees shake, and she put her arms about the girl and kissed her. "you are mighty kind," said the other. "will you come into my room?" betty followed her into a small room, simpler than any in her own servants' quarter. but it was neat, and there was an attempt at smartness in the bright calico curtains and bedspread. the furniture looked home-made, and there was no carpet on the floor. "poor girl! poor girl!" exclaimed betty, impulsively. "have you ever been happy--here?" "well, i don't reckon i've been very happy, ever; but i've given some happiness and i've been loved and sheltered. that is something to be thankful for in this world." "i am going to take you away," said betty, abruptly. "mr. walker wrote me that you'd be willing to come." "oh, yes, i'll go, i reckon. i told him i would. i want to hold up my head. here i never have, for everybody knows. the white men all round here insulted me until they got tired of trying to make me notice them. one of the young men up on the plantation fell in love with me, and they sent him away and he was drowned at sea. he never knew that i had the black in my blood, and he had asked me to marry him. they did not tell him the truth, for they feared he would then wish to make me his mistress." she spoke without passion, with a deep and settled melancholy, as if her intelligence had forbidden her to combat the inevitable. betty burst into tears. "don't cry," said the other. "i never do--any more. i used to. and if you'll kindly take me away, i know i'll feel as if i were born over. if there is anything in this world to enjoy, be right sure i shall enjoy it. i'm young yet, and i reckon nobody was made to be sad for ever." "you shall be happy," exclaimed betty. "i will see to that. i pledge myself to it. i will make you forget--everything." harriet shook her head. "not everything. somewhere in my body, hidden away, but there, is a black vein, the blood of slaves. i might get to be happy with lots of books and kind people and no one to despise me for what i can't help, but every night i'd remember _that_, and then i reckon i'd feel mighty bad." "you think so now," said betty, soothingly, and longing for consolation herself. "but when you are surrounded by friends who love you for what you are, by all that goes to make life comfortable and--and--gay; it seems terribly soon to speak of it, but i shall take you to all the theatres and buy you beautiful clothes, and i shall settle on you what your father left me: it is only right you should have it and feel independent. you will travel and see all the beautiful things in europe. oh, i know that in time you will forget. when you are away from all that reminds, you cannot fail to forget." harriet, who had followed betty's words with an eager lifting of her heavy eyelids and almost a smile on her mouth, brought her lips together as betty ceased speaking, and held out her hand. "do you see nothing?" she asked. betty took the hand in hers. "what do you mean?" she demanded. "all that--the roughness--will wear off. it will be gone in a month." "there is something there that will never wear off. look right hard at the finger-nails." betty lifted the hand to her face, vaguely recalling observations of her mother when discussing suspicious looking brunettes seen in the north. there was a faint bluish stain at the base of the nails; and she remembered. it was the outward and indelible print of the hidden vein within. the nails are the last stronghold of negro blood. she dropped the hand with an uncontrollable shudder and covered her face with her muff. "i feel so horribly sorry for you," she said hastily. "it seemed to me for the moment as if your trouble were my own." if the girl understood, she made no sign; hers had been a life of self-control, and she had been despised from her birth. "tell me what you wish me to do now," said betty, lifting her head. "when can you leave here? do you wish me to stay with you? is it impossible for you to go to-day?" "i cannot leave him until he is buried. and you couldn't stay here. this is tuesday. i'll go thursday." betty thrust a roll of bills into a drawer. "they are yours by right," she said hurriedly. "go first to richmond and get a handsome black frock; you will be sure to find what you want ready made, and it will be better--on account of the servants--for you to look well when you arrive. spend it all. there is plenty more. buy all sorts of nice things. i will go now. there is a train soon. telegraph when you start for washington and i will meet you. good by, and please be sure that i shall make you happy." harriet walked out to the gate, and betty saw that there were fine lines on her brow and about her mouth. but she was very beautiful, sombre and blighted as she was. she clung to betty for a moment at parting, then went rapidly into the house. when betty reached the street, she restrained an impulse to run, but she walked faster than she had ever walked in her life, persuading herself that she feared to miss her train. she waited three quarters of an hour for it, and there were four dreary hours more before she saw the dome of the capitol. she arrived at home with a splitting headache and an animal craving to lock herself in her room and get into bed. for the time being no mortal interested her, she was exhausted and emotionless. she described the interview briefly to her mother, then sought the solitude she craved. and as she was young and healthy, she soon fell asleep. xiii when she awoke next morning she arose and dressed herself at once: in bed the will loses its control over thought, and she wished to think as little as possible. but her mind reverted to the day before, in spite of her will, and she laughed suddenly and went to her desk and wrote on a slip of paper,-- "every woman writes with one eye on the page and one eye on some man, except the countess hahn-hahn, who has only one eye."--heine. "some day when i know him better i will give him this," she thought, and put the slip into a drawer by itself. the load of care had lifted itself and gone. she had done the right thing, the momentous question was settled for the present, and betty madison had merely to shake her shoulders and enjoy life again. she threw open the window and let in the sun. there had been a rain-storm in the night and then a severe frost. the ice glistened on the naked trees, encasing and jewelling them. a park near by looked as if the crystal age of the world had come. the bronze equestrian statue within that little wood of radiant trees alone defied the ice-storm, as if the dignity of the death it represented rebuked the lavish hand of nature. betty felt happy and elated, and blew a kiss to the beauty about her. she always had had a large fund of the purely animal joy in being alive, but to-day she was fully conscious that the tremulous quality of her gladness was due to the knowledge that she should see senator north within five more days and the light of approval in his eyes. exactly what her feeling for him was she made no attempt to define. she did not care. it was enough that the prospect of seeing him made her happier than she ever had felt before. that might go on indefinitely and she would ask for nothing more. her recent contact with the serious-practical side of life--as distinct from the serious-intellectual which she had cultivated more than once--had terrified her; she wanted the pleasant, thrilling, unformulated part. for the first time one of her ideals had come forth from the mists of fancy and filled her vision as a man; and he was become the strongest influence in her life. as yet he was unaware of this honour, and she doubtless occupied a very small corner of his thought; but he was interested at last, and he was coming to see her. and then he would come again and again, and she would always feel this same glad quiver in her soul. she felt no regret that she could not marry him; the question of marriage but brushed her mind and was dismissed in haste. that was a serious subject, glum indeed, and dark. she was glad that circumstance limited her imagination to the happy present. she felt sixteen, and as if the world were but as old. love and the intellect have little in common. they can jog along side by side and not exchange a comment. "come down and take a walk," cried a staccato voice. sally carter was standing on the sidewalk, her head thrown back. betty nodded, put on her things and ran downstairs. miss carter was wrapped in an old cape, and her turban was on one side, but she looked rosier than usual. "i've been half-way out to chevy chase," she said, "and i was just thinking of paying poor old general lathom a visit. he does look so well in bronze, poor old dear, and all that ice round him will make him seem like an ogre in fairy-land. he wasn't a bit of an ogre, he was downright afraid of me." "i suppose a man really feels as great a fool as he looks when he is proposing to a woman he is not sure of. i wonder why they ever do. after i gave up coquetting, came to the conclusion that it wasn't honest, they proposed just the same." "some women unconsciously establish a habit of being proposed to. i've had very few proposals, and i know several really beautiful women who have had practically none. as i said, it's a habit, and you can't account for it." "i went yesterday to virginia to call on a relative who has just lost her last adopted parent," said betty, abruptly, "and she looked so forlorn that i asked her to visit us for a while. i hope you'll like her." "ah? she must be some relation of mine, too. you and i are third cousins." "don't ask me to straighten it out. the ramifications of southern kinships are beyond me. she is a beauty--very dark and tragic." "that is kind of you--to run the risk of senator burleigh going off at a tangent," said miss carter, sharply. "by the way, you cannot deny that you have given him encouragement; you have neither eyes nor ears for any one else when he is round." "he is usually the most interesting person 'round;' and i have a concentrative mind. but i never intend to marry, and senator burleigh has never even looked as if he wanted to propose. by the way, molly has actually asked him to come to the adirondacks for a few days. can't you and your father come for a month or two? jack has promised to stay with us the whole summer, and we'll be quite a family party." "yes, i will," said miss carter, promptly. "i haven't been in the adirondacks for six years and i should love it." "harriet walker--that's our new cousin--will be with us too, most likely. she looks delicate, and i shall try to persuade her that she needs the pines." "ah! look out for the senator--in the dark pine forests on the mountain." "i don't know why you should be so concerned for me. i usually have kept an admirer as long as i wanted him." "oh, no offence, dear. the dark and tragic lady merely filled my eye at the moment. by the way, mrs. north thinks of going to the lake hotel this summer. isn't that close by your place?" "it is just across the lake. there is your old general. he does look like an ogre, and he's got a patch of green mould on his nose. you ought to take better care of him." "he looks so much better than he did in life that i have no fault to find. the doctor has told mrs. north that the pine forests may do her all the good in the world, prolong her life, and mr. north has written to see if he can get an entire wing for her. i hope he can go too, but he always seems to have so much to do at home in summer. i do like him. he's the only man i know who, i feel positive, never could make a fool of himself." "i am half starved. come home and have your breakfast with me." "i should like to. senator north--" "there is mr. burleigh on horseback--with mr. montgomery. he _will_ look well in bronze--but they only put generals on horseback, don't they? there--he sees me. i am going to ask them to come in to breakfast." "i believe you like him better than you think, my dear. your eyes shine like two suns, and i never saw you look so happy." "the morning is so beautiful and i am so glad that i am alive. i know exactly how much i like mr. burleigh." xiv "do all southerners make such delicious coffee?" asked senator burleigh, as the four sat about the attractive table in the breakfast-room. "the southerners are the only cooks in the united states," announced miss carter. "the real difference between the south and the north is that one enjoys itself getting dyspepsia and the other does not." "there are just six kinds of hot bread on this table," said burleigh, meditatively. "and no pie and no doughnuts. mr. montgomery, you are really a southerner--ar'n't you glad to get back to darky cooks?" "i was until we began on this tariff bill, and now there is not an object you can mention, edible or otherwise, that i don't loathe." "the details of such a bill must be maddening," said betty, sympathetically, "but, after all, it is an honour to be on the ways and means committee. there is compensation in everything." "i don't know. when a man lobbyist tries to find out your weak spot and play on it, you can kick him out of the house, but when they set a woman at you, all you can do is to bow and say: 'my dear madam, it is with the greatest regret i am obliged to inform you that i have sat up every night until three o'clock studying this subject, and that i have made up my mind.' whereupon she talks straight ahead and hints at trouble with certain constituents next year who want free coal and an exorbitant duty on zante currants, raisins, wine, and wool. the whole army of lobbyists have camped on my doorstep ever since we began to draw up this bill. how they find time to camp on any one's else would make an interesting study in ubiquity." "i am afraid some of your ideals have been shattered, and i am afraid you are shattering some of miss madison's," said burleigh, smiling into betty's disgusted face. "i hate the dirty work of politics," said montgomery, gloomily. "of course it doesn't demoralize you so long as you keep your own hands clean, but it is sickening to suspect that you are sitting cheek by jowl in the committee room with a man whose pocket is stuffed with some trust company's shares." "i used to hate it, but i don't see any remedy until we have an educated generation of high-class politicians, and i think that millennium is not far off. as matters stand, there is bound to be a certain percentage of scoundrels and of men too weak to resist a bribe in a great and shifting body like the house. any scoundrel feels that he can slink among the rest unseen. the old members who have been returned term after term since they began to grow stubby beards on their cast-iron chins are an argument against rotation; they have had a chance to acquire the confidence of the public, they are experienced legislators, and they are incorruptible." betty drew a long sigh of relief. "you have cleared up the atmosphere a little," she said. "i thought i was going to learn that the house, at least, was one hideous mass of corruption, praying for burial." "that is what they think of us outside," said montgomery. "we might as well all be gangrene, for we get the credit of it." "i don't like your similes," said miss carter; "i haven't finished my breakfast. mr. burleigh, you've put on your senatorial manner and i like you better without it. i thought you were going to say, 'don't interrupt, please,' or 'would you kindly be quiet until i finish?' at least twice." "i beg pardon humbly. i am flattered to know that you have thought it worth while to listen to any remarks i may have been forced to make in the senate." "i have been twice to the gallery with betty, and both times you were talking like a steam-engine and warning people off the track." it was so apt a description of burleigh's style when on his feet that even he laughed. "i don't like to be interrupted or contradicted," he said, "i frankly admit it." "better not marry an american girl." "some englishwomen have wills of their own," remarked mr. montgomery. "some men are tyrants in public life and slaves at home--to a beautiful woman," remarked senator burleigh. "some men are so clever," said miss carter. "give me another waffle, please." xv betty went to the senate gallery that afternoon for the first time in several days. it was hard work to keep up with the calling frenzy of washington and cultivate one's intellect at the same time. there was no one in the private gallery but an old man with a hayseed beard and horny hands. he sat on the first chair in the front row, but rose politely to let betty pass; and she took off her veil and jacket and gloves and settled herself for a comfortable afternoon. she felt almost as much at home in this family section of the senate gallery as in her own room with a copy of the congressional record in her hand. sometimes save for herself it would be empty, when every other gallery, but the diplomats', of that fine amphitheatre would be nearly full. it was crowded, however, when it was unofficially known that a favourite senator would speak, or an important bill on the calendar provoke a debate. leontine no longer accompanied her mistress; she had threatened to leave unless exempted from political duty. to-day a distinguished senator on the other side of the chamber was attacking with caustic emphasis a republican measure. he was the only man in the senate with a real uncle sam beard. senator shattuc's waved like a golden fan from his powerful jaw; but the democratic appendage opposite was long and narrow, and whisked over the senator's shoulder like the tail of a comet, when he became heated in controversy. it was flying about at a great rate to-day, and betty was watching it with much interest, when a proud voice remarked in her ear,-- "that's my senator, marm. he's powerful eloquent, ain't he?" betty nodded. "he's quite a leader." "i allow he is. he's been leadin' in our state fur twenty years. i allus wanted to hear him speak in congress, and when i called on him last monday--when i come to washington--he told me to come up here to-day and hear him, and he would set me in the senators' gallery. and he did." his voice became a distant humming in betty's ears. senator north had entered and taken his seat. he apparently settled himself to listen to the speech, and he looked as calm and unhurried as usual. "that's north," whispered the old man. "there wuz a lady in here a spell since who pinted a lot of 'em out to me. he looks a little too hard and stern to suit me. i like the kind that slaps you on the back and says 'howdy.' now senator north, he never would: i know plenty that knows him. he's aristocratic; and i don't like his politics, neither. i allus suspicion that politicians ain't all right when they're aristocratic." "he does not happen to be a politician." "hey?" "don't you want to listen to your senator? he is very eloquent." "he's been speakin' fur an hour steady," said the visitor to washington, philosophically. "i kinder thought i'd like to talk to you a spell. hev you seen the new library?" "oh, yes; i live here." "do ye? well, you're lucky. for this city's so grand it's jest a pleasure to walk around. and that library's the most beautiful buildin' i ever saw in all my seventy-two years. i've been twice a day to look at it, and it makes me feel proud to be an amurrican. if paradise is any more beautiful than that there buildin', i do want to go there." betty smiled with the swift sympathy she always felt for genuine simplicity, and the old man's pride in his country's latest achievement was certainly touching. she refrained from telling him that she thought the red and yellow ceilings hideous, and delighted him with the assurance that it was the finest modern building in the world. "what's happened to ye?" he asked sharply, a moment later. "you've straightened up and thrown back your head as if ye owned the hull senate." senator north had wheeled about slowly and glanced up at the private gallery. then he had risen abruptly and gone into the cloak-room. "perhaps i do," said betty. she spoke thickly. it seemed incredible that he was coming up to the gallery at last. she had another humble moment and felt it to be a great honour. but she smiled so brilliantly at the old man that he grinned with delight. "i presume you're the darter of one of these here senators," he said; "one of the rich ones. you look as if ye hed it all your own way in life, and seein' as you're young and pretty, meanin' no offence, i'm glad you hev. is your pa one of the leadin' six?" "my father is dead." she heard the door open and turned her head quickly. it was senator shattuc who had entered. he walked rapidly down the aisle, took a seat in the second row of chairs, and gave her a hearty grip of the hand. "how are you?" he asked. "i was glad to see you were up here. you always look so pleased with the world that it does me good to get a glimpse of you." betty liked senator shattuc, and held him in high esteem, but at that moment she would willingly have set fire to his political beard. she was used to self-control, however, and she chatted pleasantly with him for ten minutes, while her heart seemed to descend to a lower rib, and her brain reiterated that eternal question of woman which must reverberate in the very ears of time himself. he came at last, and senator shattuc amiably got up and let him pass in, then took the chair behind the old man and asked him a few good-natured questions before turning to betty again. "i started to come some time ago," said senator north, "but i was detained in one of the corridors. it is hard to escape being buttonholed. this time it was by a young woman from my state who wants a position in the pension office. if it had been a man i should have ordered him about his business, but of course one of your charming sex in distress is another matter. however, i got rid of her, and here i am." "i knew you were coming. i should have waited for you." now that he was there she subdued her exuberance of spirit; but she permitted her voice to soften and her eyes to express something more than hospitality. he was looking directly into them, and his hard powerful face was bright with pleasure. "it suddenly occurred to me that you might be up here," he said; "and i lost no time finding out." he lowered his voice. "did you go? has it turned out all right?" "yes, i went! i'll tell you all about it on sunday. i never had such a painful experience." "well, i'm glad you had it. you would have felt a great deal worse if you had shirked it. however--yes?" senator shattuc was asking him if he thought the democratic senator was in his usual form. "no," he said, "i don't. what is he wasting his wind for, anyway? we'll pass the bill, and he's all right with his constituents. they know there's no more rabid watch-dog of the treasury in america." "i suspect it does him good to bark at us," said senator shattuc. the old man looked uneasy. "ain't that a great speech?" he asked. the two senators laughed. "well, it's better than some," said shattuc. "and few can make a better when he's got a subject worthy of him," he added kindly. "that's perlite, seein' as you're a republican. i allow as i'll go. good-day, marm. i'll never forgit as how you told me you'd bin all over yurrup and that there ain't no modern buildin' so fine as our new library. good-day to ye, sirs." senator shattuc shook him warmly by the hand. senator north nodded, and betty gave him a smile which she meant to be cordial but was a trifle absent. she wished that senator shattuc would follow him, but he sat down again at once. he, too, felt at home in that gallery, and it had never occurred to him that one senator might be more welcome there than another. senator north's face hardened, and betty, fearing that he would go, said hurriedly,-- "ar'n't you ever going to speak again? i have heard you only once." "i rarely make set speeches, although i not infrequently engage in debate--when some measure comes up that needs airing." "you ought to speak oftener, north," said senator shattuc. "you always wake us up." "you have no business to go to sleep. if i talked when i had nothing to say, you'd soon cease to be waked up. our friend over there has put three of our esteemed colleagues to sleep. he'll clear the galleries in a moment and interfere with norris's record.--i suppose you have never seen that memorable sight," he said to betty: "an entire gallery audience get up and walk out when a certain senator takes the floor?" "how very rude!" "the great american public loves a show, and when the show is not to its taste it has no hesitation in making its displeasure known." "why do you despise the great american public? you never raise your voice so that any one in the second row up here can hear you." "i have no love for the gallery. nor do i talk to constituents. when it is necessary to talk to my colleagues, i do so, and it matters little to me whether the reporters and the public hear me or not. when my constituents are particularly anxious to know what stand i have taken on a certain question, i have the speech printed and send it to them; but as a rule they take my course for granted and let me alone." "but tell me, mr. north," said betty, squaring about and putting her questions so pointedly that he, perforce, must answer them, "would you really not like to make a speech down there that would thrill the nation, as the speeches of clay and webster used to? and you could make a speech like that. _why_ don't you?" "my dear miss madison, if i attempted to thrill the american people by lofty emotions and an impassioned appeal to their higher selves, i should only bring down a storm of ridicule from seven-eighths of the american press. i could survive that, for i should not read it, but my effort would be thrown away. the people to whom it was directed would feel ashamed of what thrill was left in it after it had reached them through the only possible medium. this is the age--in this country--of hard practical sense without any frills, or thrills. it is true that there is a certain amount of sham oratory surviving in the senate, but the very fact that it is sham protects it from the press. the real thing would irritate and alarm the spirits of mediocrity and sensationalism which dominate the press to-day. a sensational speech, one in which a man makes a fool of himself, it delights in, and it encourages him by half a column of head-lines. a speech by a great man, granted that we had one, carried away by lofty patriotism and striving to raise his country, if only for a moment, to his own pure altitude, would make the press feel uneasy and resentful, and it would neutralize every word he uttered by the surest of all acids, ridicule. an american statesman of to-day must be content to legislate quietly, to use his intellect and his patriotism in the committee room, and to keep a sharp eye on the bills brought forward by other committees. as for speeches, those look best in the record which make no appeal to the gallery. there, you cannot say i have not made you a speech!" "well, make me another, and tell me why you even consider the power of the press. i mean, how you bring yourself even to think about it. you have defied public opinion more than once. you have stood up and told your own state that it was wrong and that you would not legislate as it demanded. i am sure you would defy the whole country, if you felt like it." "ah, that is another matter. the hard-headed american respects honest convictions, especially when they are maintained in defiance of self-interest. i never shall lose my state by an unwavering policy, however much i may irritate it for the moment. i could a heterogeneous western state, of course, but not a new england one. we are a conservative, strong-willed race, and we despise the waverer. we are hard because it always has been a hard struggle for survival with us. therefore we know what we want, and we have no desire to change when we get it. there goes the bell for executive session. you and i must go our different ways." xvi "do you dislike her?" asked betty anxiously of her mother on the night of harriet's arrival. "i do not, and yet i feel that i never can love her--could not even if it were not for _that_." "it is that. you never will love her. i cannot say that she has made any impression on me whatever, so far. she seems positively congealed. i suppose she is frightened and worn out, poor thing! she may improve when she is rested and happier." and the next day, as betty drove her about the city and showed her the classic public buildings, the parks, white and glittering under a light fall of snow, the wide avenues in which no one seemed to hurry, and the stately private dwellings, harriet's eyes were wide open with pleasure, and she sat up straight and alert. "and i am really to live in this wonderful city?" she exclaimed. "how long will it be before i shall have seen all the beautiful things inside those buildings? do you mean that i can go through all of them? why, i never even dreamed that i'd really see the world one day. all i prayed for was books, more books. and now i'm living in a house with a right smart library, and you will let me read them all. i don't know which makes me feel most happy." "i will ask my cousin, mr. emory, to take you to all the galleries, and you must go to the white house and shake hands with the president." "oh, i should like to!" she exclaimed. "i should like to! i should indeed feel proud." she flushed suddenly and turned away her head. betty called her attention hastily to a shop window: they had turned into f street. she was determined that the obnoxious subject should never be mentioned between them if she could help it. "i'll take you to new york and show you the shops there," she continued. "new york was invented that woman might appreciate her superiority over man." "i'd love a yellow satin dress trimmed with red and blue beads," said harriet, thoughtfully. betty shuddered. for the moment f street seemed flaunting with old aunty dinah's bandannas. she replied hurriedly,-- "you will have all sorts of new ideas by the time you go out of mourning. i suppose you will wear black for a year." "that makes me think. while i'm in black i can't see your fine friends. i'd like to study. could i afford a teacher?" "you can have a dozen. i've told you that i intend to turn over to you the money father left me. mr. emory will attend to it. you will have about five hundred dollars a month to do what you like with." the girl gasped, then shook her head. "i can't realize that sum," she said. "but i know it's riches, and i wish--i wish _he_ were alive." "if he were you would not have it, for i should not know of you. you will enjoy having a french teacher and a professor of belles lettres. have you any talent for music?" "i can play the banjo--" "i mean for the piano." "i never saw one till yesterday, so i can't say. but i reckon i could play anything." her southern brogue was hardly more marked than jack emory's, but she mispronounced many of her words and dropped the final letters of others: she said "hyah" for "here" and "do'" for "door," and once she had said "done died." betty determined to give special instructions to the professor. senator burleigh and emory dined at the house that evening, and although harriet was shy, and blushed when either of the men spoke to her the deep and tragic novelty of their respectful admiration finally set her somewhat at her ease, and she talked under her breath to emory of the pleasurable impression washington had made on her rural mind. after dinner she went with him to the library, where he showed her his favourite books, and advised her to read them. "will you have a cigarette?" he asked. "betty accuses me of being old-fashioned, but i am modern enough to think that a woman and a cigarette make a charming combination: she looks so companionable." "i've smoked a pipe," said harriet, doubtfully; "but i've never tried a cigarette. i reckon i could, though." he handed her a cigarette, and she smoked with the natural grace which pervaded all her movements. she sank back in the deep chair she had chosen, and puffed out the smoke indolently. "i am so happy," she said. "i reckoned down there that the world was beautiful somewhere, but i never expected to see it. and it is, it is. poor old uncle used to say that nothing amounted to much when you got it, but he didn't know, he didn't know. this room is so big, and the light is so soft, and this chair is so lazy, and the fire is so warm--" she looked at emory with the first impulse of coquetry she had ever experienced; and her eyes were magnificent. "are you, too, happy?" she asked softly. he stood up suddenly and gave a little nervous laugh, darting an embarrasing glance over his shoulder. "i feel uncommonly better than usual," he admitted. xvii betty awoke the next morning with the impression that she was somewhere on the border of a negro camp-meeting. she had passed more than one when driving in the country, and been impressed with the religious frenzy for which the human voice seemed the best possible medium. as she achieved full consciousness, she understood that it was not a chorus of voices that filled her ear, but one,--rich, sonorous, impassioned. it was singing one of the popular methodist hymns with a fervour which not even its typical african drawl and wail could temper. it was some moments before betty realized that the singer was harriet walker, and then she sprang out of bed and flung on her wrapper. "great heaven!" she thought. "how shall we ever be able to keep her secret? a bandanna gown and a voice like a cornfield darky's! i suppose all the servants are listening in the hall." they were,--even the upper servants, who were english,--but they scuttled away as their mistress appeared. she crossed the hall to harriet's room, rapped loudly, and entered. her new sister, still in her nightgown, was enjoying the deep motion of a rocking-chair, hymn-book in hand. she brought her song to a halt as betty appeared, but it was some seconds before the inspired expression in her eyes gave place to human greeting. her face happened to be in shadow, and for the moment betty saw her black. her finely cut features were indistinct, and the ignorant fanaticism of a not remote grandmother looked from her eyes. "harriet!" exclaimed betty. "i don't want to be unkind, but you must not do that again. if you want to keep your secret, never sing a hymn again as long as you live." "ah!" harriet gave a gasp, then a half-sob. "ah! but i love to sing them, honey. i have sung them every sunday all my life, and _he_ loved them. he said i could sing with anybody, he wouldn't except angels. i 'most felt he was listening." "you have a magnificent voice, and you must have it cultivated. but never sing another hymn." "when i go to church i know i'll just shout--without knowing what i'm doing." "then don't go to church," said betty, desperately. "i must! i must! what'll the lode say to me? oh, my po' old uncle!" she was weeping like a passionate child. betty sat down beside her and took her hand. "come," she said, "listen to me. the first time i saw you the deepest impression i received of you was one of fine self-control. doubtless you wept and stormed a good deal before you acquired it--at all the different stages of what was both renunciation and acquisition. the last few days have unsettled you a little because you have found yourself in a new world, minus all your old responsibilities and trials, and the experience has made you feel younger, robbed you of some of your hold on yourself. but that habit of self-control is in your brain,--it is the last to leave us,--and all you have to do is to sit down and think hard and adjust yourself. it is even more important that you make no mistakes now than it was before. fate seldom gives any one two chances to begin life over again. think hard and keep a tight rein on yourself." betty had more than negro hymns in her mind, but she did not care to be explicit. the generalities of the subject were disagreeable enough. harriet had ceased her sobbing and was listening intently. she dried her eyes as betty finished speaking. "you are right, honey," she said. "and i reckon you haven't spoken any too soon, for i was likely to get my head turned. i'll go to church and i _won't_ sing. first i'll tie a string round my neck to remember, and after that it'll be easy. i'm afraid i'm just naturally lazy, and if i didn't watch myself i'd soon forget all the hard lessons i've learned and get to be like some fat ornary old nigger who's got an easy job." betty shuddered. "the white race is not devoid of laziness. if you want a reason for yours, just remember that the southern sun has prevented many a man from becoming great. keep your mind as far away from the other thing as possible." "oh, i think i'll forget it. i felt that way yesterday. but perhaps i'd better not," she added anxiously, as her glance fell on the hymn-book. "no cross, no crown." "you will find crosses enough as you go through life," said betty, dryly. she rose to go, and harriet rose also and drew herself up to her full height. for the moment she looked again the tragic figure of the first day of their acquaintance. "you must have seen by this time how ignorant i am," she said mournfully. "poor old uncle gave me all the schooling he had himself, but i knew even then it wasn't what they have nowadays. and i've had so few books to read. once i found a five-dollar bill, and as he wouldn't take it--the most i could do--i tramped all the way to the nearest town and back, twenty miles, and bought a big basket full of cheap reprints of english standard novels. those and the few old latin books and the bible and the pilgrim's progress are about all i've ever read. i felt like writing you that when i read his letter, and also telling you that i was afraid you wouldn't find me a lady in your sense of the word--" "you are my sister," interrupted betty; "of course you are a lady. dismiss any other idea from your mind. and in a year you will know so much that i shall be afraid of you. i have neglected my books for several years." "you are mighty good, and i'll humbly take all the advice you'll give me." betty went back to her room and sought the warm nest she had left. "she makes me feel old," she thought. "am i to be responsible for the development of her character? i can't send her off to europe yet. there's nothing to do but keep her for at least a year, until she knows something of the world and feels at home in it. meanwhile i suppose i must be her guide and philosopher! i believe that my acquaintance with senator north has made me feel like a child. he is so much wiser in a minute than i could be in a lifetime; and as i have made him the pivot on which the world revolves, no wonder i feel small by contrast. "but after all, i am twenty-seven, and what is more, i have seen a good deal of men," she added abruptly. and in a moment she admitted that she had allowed her heart, full of the youth of unrealities and dreams, to act independently of her more mature intelligence. "and that is the reason i have been so happy," she mused. "there is a facer for the intelligence. as long as i have exercised it i have never felt as if i were walking on air and song." but still her imagination did not wander beyond today's meeting and many like it. he was married, and, independent as she was, she had received that sound training in the conventions from which the mind never wholly recovers. she registered a vow then and there that she would become his friend of friends, the woman to whom he came for all his pleasant hours, in time his confidante. she would devote her thought to the making of herself into the companion he most needed and desired; and she would conceal her love lest he conceive it his duty to avoid her. she wondered if she had betrayed herself, and concluded that she had not. even he could not guess how much of her admiration emanated from frankness and how much from coquetry. she would be careful in the future. "that point settled," she thought, curling down deeper into her bed and preparing for a nap, "i'll anticipate his coming and think about him with all the youthful exuberance i please." xviii betty had invited senator burleigh to dinner on saturday, that he might feel free to call elsewhere on sunday. at four o'clock, when mrs. madison had retired for her nap, she commanded jack emory to take harriet for a long walk and a long ride on the cable cars, and to stop for sally carter. no one else was likely to call, and she retired to her boudoir, a three-cornered room in an angle between the parlor and library, to await senator north. the boudoir was a room that any man might look forward to after a hard day on capitol hill. its easychairs were very soft and deep, its rugs were rosy and delicate, and the walls and windows and doors were hung with one of those old french silk stuffs with a design of royal conventionality and uniformly old rose in colour. all of betty's own books were there, her piano, several handsome pieces of carved oak, and a unique collection of ivory. betty had banished the former girlish simplicity of this room a few days after her introduction to the montgomery house. she had imagined herself greeting senator north in it many times, and had received no other man within its now sacred walls. she wore a white cloth gown today and a blue ribbon in her hair. there was also a touch of blue at the neck, to make her throat look the whiter. otherwise, the long closely fitting gown was without ornament as far down as the hem, which was lightly embroidered in white. she looked tall and lithe, but her figure was round, and did not sway like a reed that a strong wind would beat to the ground, as harriet's did. although that possible descendant of african kings possessed the black splendour of eyes and hair and a marble regularity of feature, betty was the more beautiful woman of the two; for her colour filled and warmed the eye, she seemed typical of womanhood in its highest development, and she was a chosen receptacle of enchantment. moreover, she was more modern and original, and as healthy as had been the fashion for the past generation, harriet looked like an old roman coin come to life, with a blight on her soul and little blood in her thin body. it was not in betty's nature to fear any woman, much less to experience petty jealousy, but it was not without satisfaction she reflected that she and harriet would hardly attract the same sort of man. jack was doing his duty nobly, and he liked vivacious women who amused him, poor soul! as for senator burleigh, he had said politely that she was handsome but looked delicate, and then unquestionably dismissed her from his mind. he and betty had talked politics on the previous evening until mrs. madison had slipped off to bed an hour earlier than usual. betty dismissed them all from her mind and glanced at the clock. it was half-past four. she thrust the poker between the glowing logs, and the flames leaped and sent a quivering glow through the charming room. betty leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, almost holding her breath that she might hear the advancing step of the butler the sooner. in what seemed to her exactly thirty minutes she looked at the clock again. it was twenty-five minutes to five. she nestled down, assuring herself that nobody could be expected to come on the moment, but this time she did not close her eyes; she watched the clock. and the joy imperceptibly died out of her; the hands travelled inexorably round to ten minutes to five; she remembered that she had not seen senator north since wednesday, and that in four days a busy legislator might easily forget the existence of every woman he knew, except perhaps of the woman he loved. within her seemed to rise a tide of bitter memories, the memories of all those women who had sat and waited through dreary hours for man's uncertain coming. she shivered and drew close to the fire and covered her face with her hands. her heart ached for the helpless misery of her sex. but she sprang suddenly to her feet. the butler was coming down the hall. a moment later he had ushered in senator north, and betty forgot the misery of the world, forgot it so completely that there was no violent reaction; she was merely what she had been at half-past four, full of pleasurable excitement held down and watched over by the instinct of caution. "i must apologize humbly for being late," he said, "but on sunday i always sit with my wife until she falls asleep, and to-day she was nearly an hour later than usual. what a room to come into out of a biting wind! thank heaven i was able to get here." betty thought of the sister and cousin she had turned out into the cruel afternoon, and then looked at senator north deep in the chair where she had so often imagined him, and forgot their existence. this was her hour--her first, at least--and visions of pneumonia and possible consumption should not mar it. she sat opposite him in a straight dark high-backed chair, and she was quite aware that she made a delightful picture. "well?" he asked. "what of your visit and its consequences?" betty told the story; and her description of the dilapidated parsonage at the head of the miserable village, the group of silent women about the coffin in the dark room, and her interview with her melancholy relative was as dramatic as she had felt at the time. "i thought i was running from a nightmare when i left the house," she concluded, smiling at him as if to demonstrate that it had left no shadow in her brain; "but now we both feel better. she wants a gown of many colours, and this morning she roused the house at five o'clock singing camp-meeting hymns. but i think she is quick and observant, and will soon cease to be in any danger of betraying herself. but she is a great responsibility, and i really felt old this morning." senator north laughed. "i hope she won't give you any real trouble. if she does, i shall feel more than half responsible. but otherwise she will be an interesting study for you. she is nearly all white; how much of racial lying, and slothfulness, barbarism, and general incapacity that black vein of hers contains will give you food for thought, for she certainly will reveal herself in the course of a year." "you must admit that a nature like that is a great responsibility." "yes, but she alone can work through all the contradictions to the light, and she will do it naturally, under pressure of new experiences, within and without. don't suggest even the word 'problem' to her, and don't look upon her as one, yourself. you have put her in the right conditions. leave her alone and time will do the rest. his work is indubious; never forget that. are you going to marry burleigh?" he added abruptly. she answered vehemently, "no! no!" "i thought not. i know you very little, so far, but i was willing to deny the report." "i often wonder why i don't fall in love with him. he really has every quality i admire. but much as i like him i should not mind if i knew i never should see him again. i have thought a good deal about it and i should like to understand it." she looked at him coaxingly, and he smiled, for he understood women very well; but he gave her the explanation she desired. "the reason is simple enough. the admired qualities, even when they are the component parts of a personality of one who more or less resembles a cherished ideal, never yet inspired love. love is the result of two responsive sparks coming within each other's range of action. their owners may be in certain ways unfitted for one another, but the responsive sparks, rising nature only knows out of what combination of elements, fly straight, and reason sulks. to put it in another way: love is merely the intuitive faculty recognizing in another being the power to give its own lord happiness. it is a faculty that is very active in some people," he added with a laugh, "and when it is overworked it often goes wrong, like any other machinery. that is the reason why men who have loved many women make a mistake in marrying; the intuitive faculty is both dulled and coarsened by that time. they are still susceptible to charm, and that is about all." "have you loved many women?" asked betty, without preamble. he stood up and turned his back to the fire. betty noted again how squarely he planted himself on his feet. "a few," he said bluntly. "not many. i have not overworked my intuitive faculty, if that is what you mean. i was not thinking of myself when i spoke." he stared down at her for a few moments, during which it seemed to betty that the air vibrated between them. her breath began to shorten, and she dropped her eyes, lest their depths reveal the spark which was active enough in her. "will you play for me?" he asked. "i lost a little girl a few years ago who played well, although she was only sixteen. i have disliked the piano ever since, but i should like to hear you play." she played to him for an hour, with tenderness, passion, and brilliancy. a gift had been cultivated by the best masters and hours of patient study. when he thanked her and rose to go and she put her hand in his, her face expressed all the bright earnestness of genuine friendship; there was not a sparkle of coquetry in her eyes. "will you come in often on your way home when you are tired and would like to forget bills and things, and let me play to you? i won't talk--you must get so tired of voices!--and the practice will do me good." "of course i will come. the pleasantest thing in life is a charming woman's face at the close of a busy day. good-bye." when he had gone, betty got into the depths of a chair and covered her eyes with her hand. for the first time she knew out of her own experience that love means a greater want than the satisfaction of the eye and mind. she would have given anything but her inherited ideals of right and wrong if he had come back and taken her in his arms and kissed her; and she loved him with adoration that he did not, that in all probability he never would, that although he had the great passions which stimulate all great brains, the inflexible honour which his state had rewarded and never questioned for thirty-five years must make short work of struggles with the ordinary temptations of man. as soon as a man awakens a woman's passions she begins to idealize him and there is no limit to the virtues he will be made to carry. but let a man be endowed by nature with every noble and elevated attribute she has in her power to bestow, if he lacks sensuality a woman will see him in the clear cold light of reason. betty madison, having something of the intuitive faculty, in addition to that knowledge of man which any girl of twenty-seven who has had much love offered her must possess, made fewer mistakes even in the thick of a throbbing brain than most women make; the great danger she did not foresee until time had accustomed her somewhat to the wonder of being able to love at last, and reason had resumed her place in a singularly clear and logical mind. xix when betty awoke next morning, she made up her mind that she would not suffer so long as she could see him. beyond the present she absolutely refused to look. she had found more on the political sea than she had gone in search of, but if she could have foreseen this tumult that would have overwhelmed a weaker woman, she would not have clung to the shore. for although the ultimate of love was forbidden her, she had come into her kingdom, and was immeasurably happier than the millions of women whose love had run its course and turned cold, or been cast back at them. after all, there were so few people who were really happy, why should she complain because her love could not come to rice and old shoes, instead of being a beautiful secret thing, the more perfect, perhaps, because commonplace, that ogre whose girth increases from year to year, and who sits remorseless in the dwellings of the united, could not breathe upon it? harriet had returned without a cold, and the next morning emory came in and took her to the congressional library, where they had luncheon. he also engaged her masters, and before the week was over she had settled down to steady work. "she has a wonderful mind, i am positive of that," he said to betty. "she has made so much out of so few advantages. i shall take the greatest interest in watching a mind like that unfold. what relation is she to us, anyway? i can't make out, for the life of me. there was cousin amelia--" "for heaven's sake, don't ask me to write up the genealogical tree. didn't i refuse to join the colonial dames because it meant raking over the bones of all my ancestors--whom may the saints rest! most southern relationships amount to no relationship at all, and harriet's is too insignificant to mention." "well, i must say it is angelic in you to take her in and shower blessings on her in this way--" "her father had a great claim on us, but that is a family secret, even from you. mind you take her tomorrow to see the 'declaration of independence' and the portrait of hamilton." the days passed very quickly to the end of the session. it was the short term; congress would adjourn on the fourth of march. although the great official receptions were over, dinners and luncheons crowded each other as closely as before, for washington pays little attention to lent beyond releasing its weary hostesses from weekly reception days, and their callers from an absurd and antiquated custom. betty went frequently to the gallery on capitol hill, and although she sometimes was bored by "business," she seldom heard a dull speech, for the intellectual average of the senate is very high, and its aptitude and the variety of its information unexcelled. harriet accompanied her two or three times, but her mind turned naturally to the past and concerned itself little with the present. she found the history of the roman empire vastly more entertaining than debates on the arbitration treaty. betty had recently met a mrs. fonda, a handsome widow in the vague thirties, who had that fascination of manner and that brilliant talent for politics which went to make up miss madison's ideal of the women with whom tired statesmen spent their leisure hours. she was the daughter of a former distinguished member of the house and the widow of a naval officer, and her life may be said to have been passed in washington with intervals of europe. although the old washingtonians knew her not, her position in the kaleidoscope of official society was always brilliant. she professed to have no party politics, but to be profoundly interested in all great questions affecting the nation. during the early winter she had visited cuba and had announced upon her return that no other subject would command her attention until the united states had exterminated spanish rule in that unhappy island. she occupied one of the smaller houses in massachusetts avenue, and her dining-room seated only ten people with comfort. betty had heard that as many as nine of her country's chosen men had sat about that board at the same time and decided upon matters of state; and she envied her deeply. as mrs. fonda lived with no less than two elderly aunts who wore caps, and was a devout member of st. john's church, mrs. madison, with a sigh, concluded that there was no reason why betty should not go to her house. "i suppose she is no worse than the rest," she added. "i prefer people with husbands, but the more you see of this new life the sooner you may get tired of it." mrs. fonda paid betty marked attention whenever they happened to meet, and upon the last occasion had offered playfully to tell her "all she knew" about politics. "they are engrossing," she added with a sigh, "so engrossing that they have taken the best of my years. a woman should be married and happy, i think, but i have become quite depersonalized. and i really think i have done a little good. you will marry, of course; you are young and so beautiful; but let politics be your second great interest. you will, indeed, never give them up if you let them absorb you for one year, and i am more glad than i can say that you already have gone so far." she then invited betty to a dinner she was giving, and even made an appointment for an hour's "talk" beforehand; but this appointment betty was unable to keep, as her mother fell ill for a day or two, and mrs. fonda's hour occurred while mrs. madison desired to have her hand held. betty went to the dinner, however, and expected brilliant and unusual things. mrs. fonda, who was tall and dark and distinguished looking, and too wise in her unprotected position to annul the attentions of time with those artifices which are rather a pity but quite condonable in the married woman, was handsomely dressed in black net embroidered with gold, and received with an aunt on either side of her. her manner was very fine, and, without any relaxation of the dignity which was an integer of her personality, she made each comer feel the guest of the evening. to betty she was almost affectionate, and surrounded her with the aunts, who looked at her with such kindly and cordial, albeit sadly patient eyes, that betty almost loved them. the dining-room accommodated twelve tonight, and two were not the aunts. betty wondered if they were picking up crumbs in the pantry. she suspected that mrs. fonda was more worldly than she would admit, and that ambition and love of admiration had somewhat to do with her patriotism. there were four members of the senate present, two wives of members who had been unable to come, and three eminent representatives. it was seldom that mrs. fonda's invitations were declined, for no man went to her house with the miserable conviction that he was about to eat his twenty-seventh dinner by the same cook. mrs. fonda had picked up a woman in belgium who was a genius. betty went in with senator burleigh, and they examined the menu together. "by jove," he said, "it's even more gorgeous than usual. and did you ever see so many flowers outside of a conservatory?" the room was a bower of violets and lilies of the valley. the mantelpiece was obliterated, the table looked like a garden, and great bunches of the flowers swung from the ceiling. as what could be seen of the room was green and gold, the effect was very beautiful. the lights were pink, and in this room mrs. fonda defied time and looked so wholly attractive that it was not difficult to fancy her the cause of another war, albeit not its helen. but much to betty's disappointment the conversation, which was always general when that radiant hostess presided, soon wandered from the suffering cuban and fixed itself interminably about a certain measure which had been agitating congress for the last four years. it was a measure which demanded an immense appropriation, and so far senator north had kept it from passing the upper chamber; it was generally understood that it would fare still worse at the hands of the speaker, did it ever reach the house. these two intractable gentlemen had evidently not been bidden to the feast; but three of the senators, betty suddenly observed, were members of the select committee for the measure under discussion. five courses had come and gone, and still the conversation raged along a tiresome bill that happened to be betty's pet abomination, the only subject discussed in the senate that bored her. mrs. fonda, in the brightest, most impersonal way, defended the unpopular measure, pointing out the immense advantage the country at large must derive from the success of the bill, and, while appealing to the statesmen gathered at her board to set her right when she made mistakes,--she couldn't be expected to keep up with every bill while her head was full of cuba,--assailed the weak points in those statesmen's arguments. "i'm bored to death," muttered betty, finally. "i wish i hadn't come. you won't talk to me and i can't eat any more." burleigh turned to her at once. "i've merely been watching her game," he whispered. "now, i'm nearly sure." "what?" asked betty, interested at once. "she has given a dinner a week this winter, and there is a rumour that she is spending the money of the syndicate interested in this much desired appropriation. heretofore, when i have been here, at least, although she has always graciously permitted the subject to come up and has delivered herself of a few trenchant and memorable remarks, this is the first time she has deliberately made it run through an entire dinner; every attempt to turn the conversation has been a sham. she's in the ring for votes, there's no further doubt in my mind on that subject; and she's getting desperate, as it is so near the end of the session." "then she is a lobbyist," said betty, in a tone of deep disgust, and pushing away her plate. "'sh! she is too clever to have got herself called that. she has very successfully made the world believe that the great game alone interests her; there never has been a more subtle woman in washington. during the last two years there has been one of those vague rumours going about that she has lost heavily through certain investments; but one hasn't much time for gossip in washington, and it is only lately that this other rumour has been in the wind. how long she has been doing this sort of thing, of course no one knows." "but do you mean to say these other men don't see through her?" "more than one does, no doubt. if he is against the bill he will be amused, as i am, and probably decline her invitations in the future. if he is for it--and there is a good deal to be said in favour of the bill, only we cannot afford the appropriation at present--he will make her think, as a reward for her excellent dinner, that she has secured his vote. others may be influenced by having it thrashed out in these luxurious surroundings, so different from the chill simplicity of legislative halls. those that she may be able to get in love with her, of course will believe nothing that is said of her, and when she travels from the committees to the more or less indifferent members of both chambers, and gets to work on the nonentities whose convictions can always be readjusted by a clever and pretty woman,--and whose vote is as good as north's or ward's,--you see just how much she can accomplish." "and if i have my _salon_, shall i come under suspicion of being a high-class lobbyist?" "there is not the slightest danger if you are careful to have only first-rate men, and avoid the temptation to make a pet of any bill. besides, as i have told you, your position peculiarly fits you for having a _salon_. no one could question your motive in the beginning, and your tact would protect you always. don't give up the idea, for its success would mean not only the best political society in the country, but a famous _salon_ would tend to draw art and literature to washington. and you are just the one woman who could make it famous; and we'd all help you. north would be sure to, his ambition for washington is so great. he won't put his foot in this house. i never heard him discuss her, but i am convinced that he has seen through her for a long while." the next day betty left a card on mrs. fonda and struck her from her list; but she carefully secluded her discovery from mrs. madison. xx senator north, until the last six days of the session, came twice a week to see her. she played for him, and they talked on many subjects, in which they discovered a common interest, usually avoiding politics, of which he might reasonably be supposed to have enough on capitol hill. he told her a good deal about himself, of his early determination to go into public life, the interest that several distinguished men in his state had taken in him, and of the influence they had had on his mind. "they were almost demi-gods to my youthful enthusiasm," he said, "and doubtless i exaggerated their virtues, estimable as is the record they have left. but the ideals this conception of them set up in my mind i have clung to as closely as i could, and whatever the trials of public life--i will tell you more about them some day--the rewards are great enough if no one can question your sense of public duty, if no accusation of private interest or ignoble motive has ever been able to stand on its feet after the usual nine days' babble." "would you sacrifice yourself absolutely to your country?" asked betty, who kept him to the subject of himself as long as she could. he laughed. "that is not a fair question to ask any man, for an affirmative makes a prig of him and a negative a mere politician. i will therefore generalize freely and tell you that a man who believes himself to be a statesman considers the nation first, as a matter of course. howard, for instance, nearly killed himself at the end of last session over a measure which was of great national importance. he should have been in his bed, and he worked day and night. but although it was touch and go with him afterward, it was no more than he should have done, for almost everything depends on the chairman of a committee; and as howard is a man of enormous personal influence and knows more about the subject than any man in congress, he dared not resign in favour of any one. and yet he is accused of being hand-in-glove with one of the greatest moneyed interests in the country." "is he?" asked betty, pointedly. "those are accusations that it is almost impossible to prove. howard is a rich man, and his wealth is derived from the principal industry of his state, which is unquestionably monopolized by a trust. it would be his duty to look after it in congress in any case, as it is his state's great source of wealth; so it is hard to tell. it does not interfere with his being one of the ablest legislators and hardest workers in the senate--and over matters from which he can derive no possible gain. but the suspicion will lower his position in the history of the senate." "does any one know the truth about the senate? even bryce says it is impossible to get at it, the country is so prone to exaggeration; but estimates that one-fifth of the senate is corrupt." "no one knows. the whole point is this: the senate is the worst place in the world for a weak man, and there are weak men in it. a senatorship is the highest honour to-day in the gift of the republic; therefore ambitious men strive for it. a man no sooner achieves this ambition than he finds himself beset by many temptations. he is tormented by lobbyists who will never let him alone until he has proved himself to be a man of incorruptible character and iron will; and that takes time. he also finds that the senate is a sort of aristocracy, the more so as many of its members are rich men and live well. if he never wanted money before, he wants it then, and if he does not, his wife and daughters do. then, if he is weak, he finds his way into the pocket of some trust company or railroad corporation, and his desire for re-election--to retain his brilliant position--multiplies his shackles; for if he proves himself useful, the trust will buy his legislature--if it happens to be venal--and keep him in his place. but these instances i know must be rare, for i know the personal character of every man in the senate. one senator who is nearing the end of his first term told me the other day that he should not return, for his experience in the senate had given him such a keen desire to be a rich man that he should go into wall street and try to make a fortune. he is honest, but his patriotism is a poor affair. but if the senate makes a weak man weaker, it makes a strong man stronger, owing to the very temptations he must resist from the day he enters, the compromises he is forced to make, and the danger to his convictions from the subtler brains of older men. and the senate is full of strong men. but they don't make picturesque 'copy' for the enterprising press; the weak and the corrupt do, and so much space is given them, as well as so much attention by the comic weeklies,--which are regarded as a sort of current history,--that the average man, who does not do his own thinking, accepts the minority as the type." he talked to her sometimes about his family life. his wife had been a beautiful and accomplished girl, the daughter of a governor of his state, and he had married her when he was twenty-four. she had been a great help to him, both at home and in washington, during those years when he needed help. she had not broken down until after the birth of his daughter, but that was twenty years ago, and she had been an invalid ever since. he spoke of this long period of imperfect happiness in a matter-of-fact way, and betty assumed that by this time he was used to it. he alluded to his wife once as "a very dear old friend," but betty guessed that she was nearly obliterated from his life. of his sons he expected great things, but the larger measure of his affections had been given to his daughter, or it seemed so, now that he had lost her. during the last week of the session she saw him from the senate gallery only, but she consoled herself by admiring the cool deliberation with which he worked his bills through, with populists thundering on either side of him. xxi on thursday she not only witnessed the last moments of the last session of the fifty-fourth congress, but the initial ceremonies of the inauguration of a president of the united states. she had seen the galleries crowded before, but never as they were to-day. even the diplomatists' gallery, usually empty, was full of women and attaches, and the very steps of the other galleries were set thick with people. thousands had stood patiently in the corridors since early morning, and thousands stood there still, or wandered about looking at the statues and painted walls. the senators were all in their seats; most of them would gladly have been in bed, for they had been up all night; and the ambassadors and envoys were brilliant and glittering curves of colour: the effect greatly enhanced by the republican simplicity of the men to whose country they were accredited. the judges of the supreme court, in their flowing silk gowns, alone reminded the spectator that the united states had not sprung full-fledged from nothing, without traditions and without precedent. what little is left of form in the republic was observed. two senators and one representative, the committee appointed to call on the retiring president, who had just signed his last bill in his room close by, entered and announced that mr. cleveland had no further messages for the senate, and extended his congratulations to both houses of congress upon the termination of their labours. the united states had been without a ruler for twenty minutes when the assistant doorkeeper announced the vice-president, two pages drew back the doors, and mr. hobart entered on the arm of a senator and took the seat on the dais beside his predecessor, who still occupied the chair of the presiding officer of the senate. then there was another long wait, during which the people in the galleries gossiped loudly and the senators yawned. finally the president elect and the ex-president, after being formally announced, entered arm in arm. both looked very republican indeed, especially poor mr. cleveland, who toiled along with the gout, leaning what he could of his massive figure upon an umbrella. the women stood up, and with one accord pronounced their president-elect as good-looking as he undoubtedly was strong and amiable and firm and calm and pious. mr. hobart took the oath of office, and after the necessary speeches and the proclamation for an extra session, the new senators were sworn in by the new vice-president, and betty wondered how any man would dare to break so solemn an oath. as soon as the move began toward the platform outside, betty escaped through the crowd and went home. as she drove down the avenue, she heard the stupendous shout of joy, some fifty thousand strong, with which the american public ever greets its new president and the consequent show. be he republican or democrat, it is all one for the day; he is an excuse to gather, to yell, and to gaze. betty turned her head and caught a glimpse of a bareheaded man on his feet, bowing and bowing and bowing, and of a heavy figure with its hat on seated beside him. she speculated upon the sardonic reflections active inside of that hat. she did not expect to see senator north for at least twenty-four hours, but his card was brought to her while she was still at luncheon. she went rapidly to her boudoir, and found him standing with his overcoat on and his hat in his hand. although he had been up all the night before and had not had his full measure of rest for a week, he looked as calm as usual, and there was not a hint of fatigue in his face nor of disorder in his dress. "you deserted us last night," he said, smiling. "i thought perhaps you would sit up and see us through." "i was up there at nine this morning and saw the senate floor littered with papers. it had a very allnight look. have you had luncheon? won't you come in?" "i should be glad to, but i haven't time. i find i must go north to-night, and am on my way home to get a few hours' rest. i wanted to thank you for many pleasant hours--in this room." his eyes moved about slowly and softened somewhat. it is not improbable that he would have liked to throw himself among the cushions of the divan and go to sleep. "well! you might postpone that until we part for life," said betty, lightly. "you forget that congress will convene in extra session on the fifteenth." "yes, but there is no necessity for me to be here until some time in may at earliest. the principal object of the session is the revision of the tariff, and the new bill originates with the ways and means committee. after it has been thrashed out in the house and returned to the committee for amendments, it will be referred to the finance committee of the senate. all that takes time. i am not a member of the finance committee this term, and i shall not return until the debate opens in the senate. as to the arbitration business, ward will look after that. i would not stir if there were a chance of the treaty coming back to the senate in its original form, but there is not. when ward telegraphs me i shall come down and cast my vote." his long speech had given betty time to recover from his first announcement, and her eyes were full of the frank earnestness which had established the desired relation between herself and senator north. "i am glad you are going to have a rest," she said; "that is, if you are." "oh, it is work that sits very lightly on me, and is very congenial: i am going to do all i can to allay this war fever in my own state. it is not too late to appeal to their reason; but it might be at any moment." "well, at all events, you go to the bracing climate of the north. but i am sorry you go so soon. mother cannot stay in washington after the third week in may. i am afraid we shall not meet again until you come to the adirondacks." "ah, the adirondacks!" he said. "yes, i shall see you there. good-bye." he did not smile. there were times when he seemed to turn a key and lock up his features. this was one of them. betty felt as if she were looking at a mask contrived with unusual skill. he shook her warmly by the hand, however. "i forgot to say that i shall be in washington off and on--for a day or so. my wife remains here. it is still too cold for her in the north. good-bye again." he left her, and she did not return to her luncheon. xxii betty, after several long and restless nights, decided that she was not equal to the ordeal of sitting down patiently in washington awaiting the rare and flying visits of senator north. if she could place herself quite beyond the possibility of seeing him before the first of june, she could get through the intervening months with a respectable amount of endurance, but not otherwise. hers was not the nature of the patient watcher, the humble applicant for crumbs. she might put up with slices where she could not get the whole loaf, but her head lifted itself at the notion of crumbs. her heart had not yet begun to ache. she determined that it should not until it was in far more desperate straits than now. when lady mary montgomery, who was tired and wanted a long rest before december, invited her to go to california, she accepted at once; and, a week after the adjournment of congress, went through the formality of obtaining her mother's consent. "well," said mrs. madison, philosophically, "i have lost you for three months at a time before, and i suppose i can stand it again. i think you need a change. you've been nervous lately, and you're thinner than you were. as long as you don't marry i can resign myself quite gracefully to these little partings." "you're a dear, mollyanthus. i only wish you were going with me, but i'll keep a journal for you and post it every night. i am glad you do not dislike harriet. of course if you did i should not go, for it is too soon to turn her adrift." "she is inoffensive enough, poor soul, and so deep in her books that i should not know she was in the house if she didn't come to the table." "make jack take her to the theatre once a week. she has promised me that she will go for a walk every day with sally." "sally says she is convinced harriet is a roman empress reborn, and may astonish washington at any moment," said mrs. madison, anxiously. "do you believe in reincarnation?" "i don't believe or disbelieve anything i don't understand. we none of us can even guess what is latent in harriet--for the matter of that i don't know what is latent in myself. i can only suspect. i don't think harriet will ever go very deep into herself; she has not imagination enough. if circumstances are not too unfavourable, she may slip through life happy and respected, in spite of her tragic appearance: she is so slothful by nature, so much more susceptible to good influences than to bad. all of us possess every good and bad instinct in the whole book of human nature, but few of us have imagination enough to find it out. and the less we know of ourselves the better." "betty, you certainly do need a change. you looked tragic yourself as you said that; and if you became tragic it would mean something. i'm afraid your conscience is tormenting you about mr. burleigh, and perhaps i did not do right in asking him to come to the adirondacks; but probably he would have come to the hotel, anyhow; and if i did have to lose you--" "you'll never get rid of me." and she went to her room to consult with leontine. the night before she left harriet came into her room and said timidly,-- "betty, i sometimes wonder if you have told mr. emory the truth about myself--" "certainly not. why should i tell mr. emory--or anyone else?" "well, he is so kind to me and we have become such friends, i thought perhaps you would think he ought to know." "that is pure nonsense. do you suppose i tell my friends everything i know? no friend is so close as to demand to know more than you choose to tell him." "all right, honey; but i am always afraid he will see my finger-nails when he is helping me with my lessons--" "he is very near-sighted; and i doubt if anyone would notice those faint blue marks unless they were looking for them." "of course they seem the most conspicuous things i've got, to me." "are you happy here, harriet?" asked betty, gently. harriet nodded and looked at her benefactor with glowing eyes. "oh, yes," she said. "yes--yes. it is like heaven, in spite of the hard work they make me do. i'm right down afraid of that old frenchman, and when professor morrow shuts his eyes and groans, 'door--d-o-o-r, miss walker, _not_ d-o-u-g-h,' i could cry. but i'm happy all the same, and i forgot _that_ for a whole week." "well, forget it altogether. and remember to have a thin travelling dress and a lot of summer things made. and of all people do not confide in jack emory or sally carter--or any other southerner." _part ii_ _senator north, miss betty madison, and several other characters in this history go in search of a mountain lake and find an ocean._ i betty never denied that she enjoyed her visit to california, despite the several thousand miles between the atlantic and the pacific coasts, and senator north's rooted aversion to writing letters. she received exactly three brief epistles from him in almost as many months, but in one he said that he missed her even in the north, in another that washington was not washington without her, and in the third that he looked forward with pleasure to the cool adirondacks and herself. and a woman can live on less than that. betty read and re-read these simple and possibly perfunctory statements until they were weighted with love. and although she visited all the wonders of the most wonderful state in the union, and was deeply grateful to them, they never pushed the man from the forefront of her mind for a moment. the egoism of love reduces scenery to a setting and the splendours of sunset to a background. betty thought of him by day and by night, in company and in solitude, but even the agony of longing to which her imagination sometimes rose contained no heartbreak. for the future was all over there, on the far side of the continent; its grave-clothes were deep under lavender and rosemary. to think of him was a luxury and a delight, and would remain so until imagination had been pushed aside by the contradictory details of reality. sometimes she wept pleasurably, but she smiled oftener. and still, although she laid no reins on her imagination, she refused to look beyond the summer among the adirondack pines, the frequent and more frequent hours at the close of busy days. if pressed, she would doubtless have answered that she must bow to circumstance, but that in thought he was wholly hers. ii betty reached her part of the adirondacks late at night. there were two miles between the station and the house, and jack emory and sally carter came to meet her. they told her the recent news of the family as the horses toiled up the steep road cut through the dark and fragrant forest. "aunt is unusually well and seems to enjoy interminable talks with major carter," said emory. "harriet is very much improved; she holds herself regally and sometimes has a colour. she studied until the last minute, and even here is always at her books. i don't say she hasn't intervals of laziness," he added with a laugh, "but she always pulls up; and it is very creditable of her, for she is full of southern indolence. she would like to lie in the sun all day and sleep, i am sure; although she won't admit it." "does she seem any happier? she had suffered too much privation to have become really happy before i left." "i am sure she is--" jack began, but sally interrupted him. "i think she is one of those people who hardly know whether they are happy or not. she seems to me to be in a sort of transition state. one moment she will be gay with the natural gayety of a girl, and the next she will look puzzled, and occasionally tragic. i think there must be a big love affair somewhere in her past." "i am sure there is nothing of the sort. have the norths come?" "mrs. north is here, and the senator brought her, but he had to go back; for that disgraceful tariff bill still hangs on. i believe we are to pay for the very air we breathe: a trust company has bought it up. oh, by the way, you have a new housekeeper;" and both she and emory laughed. "do you mean that old mrs. sawyer has left? she was invaluable." "her son wanted her to keep house for him, and she secured the services of a female from a neighboring village. miss trumbull is forty-odd and unmarried. she has a large bony face, the nondescript colouring of the average american, and a colossal vanity. we amuse ourselves watching her smirk as she passes a looking-glass. but she is an excellent housekeeper, and her vanity would be of no consequence if she would keep her place. the day we arrived she hinted broadly that she wanted to sit at table with us, and one night when john was ill and she had to help wait, she joined in the conversation. she's a good-natured fool, but an objectionable specimen of that 'i'm-as-good-as-you-are' american. i've been waiting for you to come and extinguish her." "i certainly shall extinguish her." "she victimizes poor harriet, whom she seems to think more on her level," said miss carter, not without unction. betty could feel her face flush. "the sooner she puts that idea out of her head the better," she said coldly. "i am surprised that harriet permits a liberty of that sort." "harriet lacks pride, my dear, in spite of her ambition and what nature has done for her outside. she is curiously contradictory. but that lack is one which persons of miss trumbull's sort are quick to detect and turn to their own account. your housekeeper's variety of pride is common and blatant, and demands to be fed, one way or another." mrs. madison had not retired and was awaiting her daughter in the living-room. betty found the household an apparently happy one. the major was a courtly gentleman who told stories of the war. harriet in her soft black mull with a deep colour in her cheeks looked superb, and betty kissed and congratulated her warmly; as senator north had predicted, the physical repulsion had worn away long since. the big room with its matting and cane divans and chairs, heaped with bright cushions, and the pungent fire in the deep chimney--for the evenings were still cold--looked cosey and inviting; no wonder everybody was content. even jack looked less careworn than usual; doubtless the pines, as ever, had routed his malaria. only sally's gayety seemed a little forced, and there was an occasional snap in her eye and dilation of her nostril. when betty had put her mother to bed and talked her to sleep, she went to her own room and opened the window. she could hear the lake murmuring at the foot of the terrace, the everlasting sighing of the pines; but it was very dark: she could hardly see the grim mountains across the water. just below them was a triple row of lights. he should have been behind those lights and he was not. for the moment she hated politics. she closed the window and wrote the following letter:-- dear mr. north,--i am home, you see. don't reply and tell me that the tariff bill surrounds you like a fortress wall. i am going for a walk at five o'clock on saturday morning, and i expect to meet you somewhere in the forest above the north end of the lake. you can reach it by the path on your side. i shall row there. do not labour over an excuse, my friend. i know how you hate to write letters, and you know that i am a tyrant whose orders are always obeyed. betty madison. "that should not worry him," she thought, "and it should bring him." iii as soon as she awoke next morning, she dressed and went downstairs. a woman stood in the lower hall, and from sally's description betty recognized miss trumbull. the woman's large mouth expanded in a smile, which, though correct enough, betrayed the self-satisfaction which pervaded her being. she was youngish-looking, and not as ugly as miss carter's bald description had implied. "good-mornin'," she drawled. "i had a mind to set up for you last night, but i was tired. you like to get up early, don't you? it's just six. miss walker and miss carter don't git up till eight, mr. emory till nine fifteen, and your ma till eleven. the major's uncertain. but i'm real glad you like gittin' up early--" "will you kindly send me a boy?" interrupted betty. "i wish a letter taken to the post-office." the woman came forward and extended her hand. "i'll give it to him," she said. "send the boy to me. i have other orders to give him." as the woman turned away, betty thought she detected a shade of disappointment on her face. "has she that most detestable vulgarity of her class, curiosity?" she thought. "she seems to have observed the family very closely." the boy came, accompanied by miss trumbull, who made a slight but perceptible effort to see the address of the letter as betty handed it to him. "take this at once and bring me back a dollar's worth of stamps; and go also to the village store and bring me some samples of worsted." she thought of several other things she did not want, reflecting that she must in the future herself take to the post-office such letters as she did not wish miss trumbull to inspect and possibly read. the boy went his way, and betty turned to the housekeeper and regarded her sharply. "i'm afraid you will find this a lonely situation," she said. "we are only here for a few months in the summer." "well, of course i like the society of nice people, but i guess i can stand it. poor folks can't pick and choose, and i suppose you wouldn't mind my havin' a friend with me in the winter, would you?" "certainly not," said betty, softening a little. but she did not like the woman, who was not frankly plebeian, but had buttered herself over with a coat of third-rate pretentiousness. and her voice and method of speech were irritating. she had a fat inflection and the longest drawl betty had ever heard. upon every fourth or fifth word she prolonged the drawl, and accomplished the effect of smoothing down her voice with her tongue. capable as she might be, betty wondered if she could stand miss trumbull through the summer. but the position was a very difficult one to fill. even an old couple found it lonely, and a woman with a daughter never had been permitted to remain for two consecutive years. if the woman could be kept in the background, it might be worth while to give her a trial. betty went out of doors and down to the lake. it lay in the cup of a peak, and about it towered higher peaks, black with pine forests, only a path here and there cutting their primeval gloom. betty stepped into a boat and rowed beyond sight of her house and the hotel. then she lay down, pushed a cushion under her head, and drifted. it had been a favourite pastime of hers since childhood, but this morning her mind for the first time opened to the danger of a wild and brooding solitude, still palpitating with the passions which had given it birth, for those whose own were awake. "civilization does wonders for us," she said aloud; she could have raised her voice and been unheard, and she revelled in her solitude. "it makes us really believe that conventions are the only comfortable conditions in the world, certainly indispensable. up here--" "if he and i were here alone for one week," she continued uncompromisingly and aloud to the mountains, "the world would cease to exist as far as we both were concerned. and i wish he were here and the adirondacks adrift in space!" she sat up suddenly after this wish; but although it had flushed her face, she had said the words deliberately and made no haste to unsay them. she looked ahead to the north end of the lake and the dark quiet aisles above. and when she met him there on saturday morning, she must hold down her passion as she would hold down a mad dog. she must look with bright friendly eyes at the man to whose arms her imagination had given her unnumbered times. it seemed to her that she was an independent intellect caught and tangled in a fish-net of traditions. to violate the greatest of social laws was abhorrent to every inherited instinct. her intellect argued that man was born for happiness and was a fool to put it from him. the social laws were arbitrary and had their roots in expediency alone; man and his needs were made before the community. but the laws had been made long before her time, and they were bone of her bone. she knew that he would not be the one to break down the barrier, that he would leave her if she manifested uncontrollable weakness,--not from the highest motives only, but because he had long since ceased to court ruin by folly; his self-control was many years older than herself. doubtless he would never betray himself to her, no matter how much he might love her, unless she so tempted him that passion leaped above reason. and she knew that this was possible. there was no mistaking the temperament of the man. he was virile and sensual, but he had ordered that his passions should be the subjects of his brain; and so no doubt they were. betty had no intention of forcing any such crisis, often as she might toy with the idea in her mind. but for the first time she compelled herself to look beyond the present, beyond the time when she could no longer sit in her boudoir and play to him, and shake him lightly by the hand as he left her. perhaps she could not even get through this summer without betraying the flood that shook her nerves. if the barriers went down she must look into what? she gave her insight its liberty, and turned white. it seemed to her that the lake and the forest disappeared and a blank wall surrounded her. she lay down in the boat and pressed the corner of the cushion against her eyes. a thousand voices in her soul, for generations dumb and forgotten, seemed to awake and describe the agony of women, an agony which survived the mortal part that gave it expression, to live again and again in unwary hearts. she sat up suddenly and took hold of the oars. "that will do for this morning," she said. "it is so true that none of us can stand more than just so much intensity that i suppose if this dear dream of mine went to pieces i should have intervals when life would seem brilliant by contrast with my misery. i might even find mental rest in pouring tea again for attaches. and there is always the pleasure of assuaging hunger. i am ravenous." iv after breakfast--an almost hilarious meal, for emory and sally carter were in the highest spirits and sparred with much vigour--betty and harriet went for a walk. there was a long level path about the lake for a mile or more before they turned into the forest, and betty noted that harriet, although her gait still betrayed indolence, held herself with an air of unmistakable pride. she had improved in other respects; her arrangement of dress and hair no longer looked rural, she not only had ceased to bite her nails, but had put them in vivid order, and the pronunciation of her words was wholly white. "she will be a social success one of these days," thought betty, "or with that voice and beauty she could doubtless win fame and wealth, and have a brilliant and enjoyable life. the tug will come when she wants to marry; but perhaps she won't want to for a long while--or will fall in love with a foreigner who won't mind." she longed to ask harriet if she were happy, if she had forgotten; but she dreaded reviving a distasteful subject. she would be glad never to hear it alluded to again. harriet did not allude to it. she talked of her studies, of the many pleasures she had found in washington, of the kindness of mr. emory and sally carter, and of her delight to see betty again. as she talked, betty decided that the change in her went below the surface. she had regained all the self-control that her sudden change of circumstances had threatened, and something more. it was not hardness, nor was it exactly coldness. it was rather a studied aloofness. "has she decided to shut herself up within herself?" thought betty. "does she think that will make life easier for her?" aloud she said,--"would not you like to go to europe for a year or so? i could easily find a chaperon, and you would enjoy it." "oh, yes, i shall enjoy it. i feel as if i held the world in the hollow of my hand, now that i have got used to gratifying every wish;" and she threw back her head and dilated her nostril. "what _have_ i launched upon the world?" thought betty. "she certainly will even with fate in some way." but she said, "i am glad you and sally get on well. she has her peculiarities." "i reckon i could get on with any one; but she doesn't like me, all the same." "are you sure? why shouldn't she?" "i don't know," replied miss walker, dryly. "women don't always understand each other." sally's name suggested the housekeeper to betty. "i don't want you to be offended with me, harriet," she said hesitatingly, "if i ask you not to be familiar with miss trumbull. you have not had the experience with that type that i have had. you cannot give them an inch. if you treat them consistently as upper servants when they are in your employ, and ignore them if they are not, they will keep their place and give you no annoyance; but treat them with something more than common decency and they leap at once for equality." "well--you must remember that i was not always so fine as i am now, and miss trumbull does not seem so much of an inferior to me as she does to you. to tell you the truth, it does me good to come down off my high horse occasionally. i reckon i'll get over that; sometimes i want to so hard i could step on everybody that is common and second-class. i don't deny i'm as ambitious as i reckon i've got a right to be, but old habits are strong, and i'm lazy, and it's lonesome up here. your mother and major carter talk from morning till night about the south before the war. mr. emory and sally are always together, and talk so much about things i don't understand that i feel in the way. miss trumbull knows the private affairs of most every one in her village, and amuses me with her gossip; that is all." betty pricked up her ears at one of harriet's revelation, and let the painful fact of her hospitality for vulgar gossip pass unnoticed. "do you mean," she asked, "do you think that mr. emory is beginning to care for sally?" "one can never be sure. i am certain he likes and admires her." "oh, yes, he always has done that. but i wish he would fall in love with her. i am nearly sure that she more than likes him." "i am quite sure," said harriet, dryly. "she would marry him about as quickly as he asked her. i knew that the first time i saw them together." "and she certainly would make him happy," said betty, thinking aloud. "she is so bright and amusing and cheerful. she is the only person i know who can always make him laugh, and the more he laughs the better it is for him, poor old chap! and i think he is too old now for the nonsense of ruining his happiness because a woman has more money--harriet!" harriet had one of those mouths that look small in repose, but widen surprisingly with laughter. betty, who had only seen her smile slightly at rare intervals, happened to glance up. harriet's mouth had stretched itself into a grin revealing nearly every tooth in her head. and it was the fatuous grin of the negro, and again betty saw her black. she gasped and covered her face with her hands. "oh, never do that again," she said sharply. "never laugh again as long as you live. oh, poor girl! poor girl!" "i won't ask you what you mean," said harriet, hurriedly. "i reckon i can guess. thank you for one more kindness." and the horror of that grin remained so long with betty that it was some time before she thought to wonder what had caused it. v betty amused herself for the next day or two observing jack emory and sally carter. they unquestionably enjoyed each other's society, and sally at times looked almost pretty again. but at the end of the second day miss madison shook her head. "he is not in love," she thought. "it does not affect him in that way." and she felt more satisfaction in her discovery than she would have anticipated. a woman would have a man go through life with only a skull cap where his surrendered scalp had been. to grow another is an insult to her power and pains her vanity. it occurred to betty that she was not the only observant person in the house. she seemed always stumbling over miss trumbull, who did not appear to listen at doors but was usually as closely within ear-shot as she could get. it was idle to suppose that the woman had any malignant motive in that well-conducted household, and she seemed to be good-natured and even kindly. interest in other people's affairs was evidently, save vanity, her strongest passion. it was the natural result of an empty life and a common mind. but simple or not, it was objectionable. her vanity, her mistress had cause to discover, was more so. on wednesday morning betty returned home from a long tramp, earlier than was her habit, and went to her room. miss trumbull was standing before the mirror trying on one of her hats. "that's real becomin' to me," she drawled, as miss madison entered the room. "i always could wear a hat turned up on one side, and most of your colours would suit me." betty controlled her temper, but the effort hurt her. she would have liked to pour her scorn all over the creature. "you may have the hat," she said. "only do me the favour not to enter my room again unless i send for you. the maid is very neat, and it needs no inspection." the woman's face turned a dark red. "i'm sorry you're mad," she said, "but there's no harm, as i can see, in tryin' on a hat." "it is a matter of personal taste, not of right or wrong. i particularly dislike having my things touched." "oh, of course i won't, then; but i like nice things, and i haven't seen too many of them." again betty relented. "i will leave you a good many at the end of the summer," she said. and the woman thanked her very nicely and went away. "i am glad i was not brutal to her," thought betty. "democracy is a great institution in spite of its nuisances. still, i admire hamilton more than jefferson." when, that night, mrs. madison had a painful seizure, and miss trumbull was sympathetic and efficient, sacrificing every hour of her night's rest, betty was doubly thankful that she had not been brutal. in the morning she gave her a wrap that matched the hat. miss trumbull tried it on at once, and revolved three times before the mirror, then strutted off with such evident delight in her stylish appearance that betty's smile was almost sympathetic. but she dared not be more gracious, and miss trumbull only approached her when it was necessary. on thursday afternoon betty and sally were rowing on the lake when the latter said abruptly,-- "have you noticed anything between jack and harriet?" betty nearly dropped her oars. "what--jack and harriet?" sally nodded. her mouth was set. there was an angry sparkle in her eyes. "yes, yes. they pretend to avoid each other, but they are in love or i never saw two people in love. i suspected it in washington, but i have become sure of it up here. what is the matter? i don't think she is his equal, if she is our thirty-first cousin, for i would bet my last dollar there was a misalliance somewhere--but you look almost horror-struck." "i was, but i can't tell you why. i don't believe it's true, though. she is not jack's style. she hasn't a grain of humour in her." "when a man's imagination is captured by a beauty as perfect as that, he doesn't discover that it is without humour till he has married it. besides, any man can fall in love with any woman; i'm convinced of that. you might as well try to turn this lake upside down as to mate types." "i don't think she would deceive me," exclaimed betty, hopefully. "i cannot tell you all, but i am nearly sure she would never do that." "any woman who has a secret constantly on her mind is bound to become secretive, not to say deceitful in other ways. what is her secret?" she asked abruptly. "has she negro blood in her veins?" "oh, sally!" this time betty did drop the oars, and her face was scarlet as she lunged after them. she was furious at having betrayed harriet's secret, but sally carter had a fashion of going straight for the truth and getting it. "i thought so," said miss carter, dryly. "don't take the trouble to deny it. and don't think for a moment, betty dear, that i am going to embarrass you with further questions. i could never imagine you actuated by any but the highest motives. i should consider the whole thing none of my business if it were not for jack. faugh! how he would hate her if he knew!" "i am afraid he would. i don't believe he is man enough to love her better for her miserable inheritance." "he is a southern gentleman; i should hope he would not. i am by no means without sympathy for her. i pity her deeply, and have ever since i discovered that she loved him. for he must be told." "shall you tell him?" sally did not answer for a moment, and her face flushed deeply. then she said unsteadily: "no; for i could not be sure of my motive. here is my secret. i have loved jack emory ever since i can remember. it is impossible for me to assure myself that i would consider interference in their affairs warrantable if i cared nothing for him. i cannot afford to despise myself for tattling out of petty jealousy. but you are responsible for her. you should tell him." "i will speak to her as soon as we go back. if it is true that they are engaged, and if she refuses to tell him, i shall. but i'd almost rather come out here and drown myself." "so should i." "you're a brick, sally, and i wish to heaven you were going to marry jack to-morrow. that would be a really happy marriage." "so i have thought for years! when he got over his attack of you, i began to hope, although i'd got wrinkles crying about him. i never thought of any other woman in the case." she laughed, with a defiant attempt to recover her old spirits. "and i cannot have the happiness of seeing him one day in bronze, and feeling that he is all mine! for he hasn't even that spark of luck which so often passes for infinitesimal greatness, poor dear!" "how did you guess that she had the taint in her?" asked betty, as they were about to land. "she has not a suggestion of it in her face." "i _felt_ it. so vaguely that i scarcely put it in words to myself until lately. and i never saw such an amount of pink on finger-nails in my life." vi betty went in search of harriet, and found her in a summer-house reading an innocuous french romance which her professor had selected. there was no place near by where miss trumbull might lie concealed, and betty went to the point at once. "harriet," she said, "i am obliged to say something horribly painful--if you want to marry any man you must tell him the truth. it would be a crime not to. the prejudices of--of--southerners are deep and bitter; and--and--oh, it is a terrible thing to have to say--but i must--if you had children they might be black." for a moment betty thought that harriet was dead, she turned so gray and her gaze was so fixed. but she spoke in a moment. "why do you say this to me--now?" "because i fear you and jack--oh, i hope it is not true. the person who thinks you love each other may have been mistaken. but i could not wait to warn you. i should have told you in the beginning that when the time came either you must tell the man or i should; but it was a hateful subject. god knows it is hard to speak now." harriet seemed to have recovered herself. the colour returned slowly to her face, her heavy lids descended. she rose and drew herself up to her full height with the air of complete melancholy which recalled one or two other memorable occasions. but there was a subtle change. the attitude did not seem so natural to her as formerly. "your informant was only half right," she said sadly. "i love him, but he cares nothing for me. he is the best, the kindest of friends. it is no wonder that i love him. i suppose i was bound to love the first man who treated me with affectionate respect. i reckon i'd have fallen in love with uncle if he'd been younger. perhaps--in europe--i may get over it. but he does not love me." betty rose and looked at her steadily. _what_ was in the brain behind those sad reproachful eyes? she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "harriet," she said solemnly, "give me your word of honour that you will not marry him without telling him the truth. it may be that he does not love you, but he might--and if you were without hope you would be unhappy. promise me." down in the depths of those melancholy eyes there was a flash, then harriet lifted her head and spoke with the solemnity of one taking an oath. "i promise," she said. "i will marry no man without telling him the truth." this time her tone carried conviction, and betty, relieved, sought sally carter. "nonsense!" exclaimed miss carter, when betty had related the interview. "he is in love with her, although for some reason or other he is making an elaborate effort to conceal it." "she spoke very convincingly," said betty, who would not admit doubt. "anything with a drop of negro blood in it will lie. it can't help it. i wish the race were exterminated." "i wish the english had left it in africa. they certainly saddled us with an everlasting curse." she was tempted to wish that mr. walker had never discovered her address; but although she did not love harriet, she was grateful still for the opportunity to rescue her from the usual fate of her breed. but assuredly she did not wish her old friend to be sacrificed. again she observed him closely, and came to the conclusion that harriet had spoken the truth. he was gayer than of old, but his health was better and he was in cheerful company, not living his days and nights in his lonely damp old house on the potomac river. he appeared to enjoy talking to harriet, but there was nothing lover-like in his attitude, and he was almost her guardian. true, he was occasionally moody and absent, but a man must retain a few of his old spots; and if he avoided somewhat the cousin whom he had once loved to melancholy, it was doubtless because she found him as uninteresting as she found all men but one, and was not at sufficient pains to conceal her indifference. and then she admitted with a laugh that in the back of her mind she had never acknowledged the possibility of his loving another woman. she but half admitted that she wished to believe no storm was gathering under her roof. she had no desire to handle a tragedy. vii it was saturday morning. betty arose at four, brewed herself a cup of coffee over a spirit lamp, and ate several biscuit with it. she hoped senator north would take the same precaution. healthy animals when hungry cannot take much interest in each other. she dressed herself in airy white with a blue ribbon in her hair. there was no necessity for a hat at that hour in the morning, but she took a white organdie one down to the boat and put it under a seat, lest she be late in returning and the sun freckling. it was faintly dawn as she pulled out into the middle of the lake and rowed toward its northern end. even the trailing thickets on the water's edge looked black, and the dark forest rising on every side seemed to whisper of old deeds of war and heroism, the bravery and the treachery of indian tribes, the mortal jealousies of french and english. every inch of ground about her was historical. these forests had resounded for years with the ugly sounds of battle, and more than once with the shrieks of women and children. to-day the woodpecker tapped, the bluejay cried in those depths unaffrighted; the singing of a mountain stream, the roar of a distant waterfall alone lifted a louder voice to the eternal whisper of the pines. the forest looked calmly down upon this flower of a civilization which no man in its first experience of man would have ventured to forecast, skimming the water to keep tryst with one whose ancestors had hewn a rougher wilderness than this down to a market-place that their inheritor might win the higher honours of the great republic to come. but betty was not thinking of the honours he had won. she was wondering if by so much as a glance he would betray that he cared a little for her. or did he care? in her thought he had been as full of love as herself. but reality was waiting for her there in the forest,--reality after three months of uninterrupted imaginings. perhaps he merely found her agreeable and amusing. but the idea did not start a tear. the uncertainty of his affections and the certainty that she was about to see him again were alike thrilling and gladdening. pleasurable excitement possessed her, and her hands would have trembled but for their tight grip on the oars. he stood watching her as she rowed toward him, and she was sure that she made a charming picture out on that great dark lake below the pines. the forest rose almost straight behind him, but she knew the winding paths which made ascent easy, and many a dry leafy platform where one might sit. a hundred times she had imagined herself in that forest with him; its dim vast solitude had become almost his permanent setting in her fancy. but as the boat grazed the shore, she said hurriedly,-- "get in and let us float about. i am sure it is cold in there. i am so glad to see you again." as her hands were occupied, he took the seat in the stern at once, and she pulled out a few yards, then crossed her oars. "you see, i have obeyed orders," he said, smiling. "fortunately, i am an early riser, particularly in the country." "i thought the change would do you good. it must be hot in washington." "it is frightful." he looked as well as usual, however, and his thin grey clothes became his spare though thickset figure. he was smiling humorously into betty's eyes, but his own were impenetrable. they might harbour the delight of a lover at a precious opportunity, or the amusement of a man of the world. but there was no doubt that he was glad to see her and that he appreciated the picture she made. "i hope i never may see you in anything but white again," he said. "you are a gracious vision to conjure up on stifling afternoons in the senate." betty did not want to talk about herself. "tell me the news," she said. "how is that tariff bill going?" "a story has just leaked out that a stormy scene occurred in the ways and means committee room between our friend montgomery and two members of the committee whose names i won't mention. he openly accused them of accepting bribes from certain trusts. it even is reported that they came to blows, but that is probably an exaggeration. we have had our sensation also. one of our fire-eaters accused--at the top of his voice--the entire senate of bribery and corruption. he is new and will think better of us in time. meanwhile he would amuse us if such things did not affect the dignity of the senate with the outside world. unfortunately we are obliged to accept whomsoever the people select to represent them, and can only possess our souls in patience till time and the senate tone the raw ones down." "is he representative, that man? and those hysterical members of the house, whose speeches make me wonder if humour is really a national quality?" "they are only too representative, unfortunately, but they are more hysterical than the average because they have the opportunity their constituents lack, of shouting in public. the house is america let loose. when a former private citizen belonging to the party out of power gets on his feet in it, he develops a species of hysteria for which there is no parallel in history. he seems to think that the louder he shouts and the more bad rhetoric he uses, the less will his party feel the stings of defeat. some of them tone down and become conscientious and admirable legislators, but these are the few of natural largeness of mind. party spirit, a magnificent thing at its best, warps and withers the little brain in the party out of power. but politics are out of place in this wilderness. there should be redskins and bows and arrows on all sides of us. i used to revel in cooper's yarns, but i suppose you never have read them." betty shook her head. "when can you come up here to stay?" "probably not for a month yet. there will be a good deal more wrangling before the bill goes through. i don't like it in its present shape and don't expect to in its ultimate; neither do a good many of us. but i shall vote for it, because the country needs a high tariff, and anything will be better than nothing for the present. later, the whole matter will be reopened and war waged on the trusts." "sally says they have bought up the atmosphere." "they may be said to have bought up several climates. i have spent a great many hours puzzling over that question, for they have put an end to the old days when young men could go into business with the hope of a progressive future. now they are swallowed up at once, depersonalized, and the whole matter is one of the great questions affecting the future development of the republic." he was not looking at betty; he was staring out on the lake. his eyes and mouth were hard again; he looked like a mere intellect, nothing more. as betty watched him, she experienced a sudden desire to put him back on the pedestal he had occupied in the first days of their acquaintance, and to worship him as an ideal and forget him as a man. that had been a period of intellectual days and quiet nights. and as he looked now, he seemed to ask no more of any woman. but in a moment he had turned to her again with the smile and the peculiar concentration of gaze which made women forget he was a statesman. "not another word of politics," he said. "i did not get up at four in the morning to meet the most charming woman in america and talk politics. do you know that it is over three months since i saw you last?" "you left washington, so, naturally, i left it too." "i wonder, how much you mean? if i were to judge you by myself--your few notes were very interesting. did you enjoy california?" "california was made to enjoy, but i felt very much alone in it." "of course you did. nature is a wicked old matchmaker. you have felt quite as lonely up here since your return." "yes, i have! but i have had a good deal to occupy my mind. sally terrified me by asserting that harriet and my cousin jack emory were in love with each other." "who is harriet?" "oh, you have forgotten! and you made me take her into the bosom of my family." "oh--yes; i had forgotten her name. i hope she is not making trouble for you." "she admitted that she loves him, but insists that he does not love her, and i don't think he does." "probably not. i should as soon think of falling in love with a weeping figure on a tombstone." "what kind of women do you fall in love with?" asked betty, irresistibly. she was sure of herself now. the passions of women are often calmed by the presence of their lover. passion is so largely mental in them that it reaches heights in the imagination that reality seldom justifies and mere propinquity quells. for this reason they often are recklessly unfair to men, who are made on simpler lines. they had floated under the spreading arms of a thicket on the water's edge, and she was a brilliant white figure in the gloom. "i have no recipe," he said, smiling. "certainly not with the women that weep, poor things!" betty wondered what his personal attitude was to the tears of twenty years. she knew from sally that mrs. north had long attacks of depression. but his mind had been occupied; that meant almost everything. and his heart? "do you love anybody now?" she broke out. "is there a woman in your life? some one who makes you happy?" the smile left his lips. it was too much to say that it had been in his eyes, but they changed also. "there is no woman in my life, as you put it. why do you ask?" "because i want to know." they regarded each other squarely. in a moment he said deliberately: "the greatest happiness that i have had in the past few months has been my friendship with you. if i were free, i should make love to you. if you will have the truth, i can conceive of no happiness so great as to be your husband. i have caught myself dreaming of it--and over and over again. but as it is i am not going to make love to you. when the strain becomes too great, i shall leave you. until then--ah, don't!" betty, who had dropped her head when he began to speak, had raised it slowly, and her face concealed nothing. "i, too, love you," she said in a moment. "i love you, love you, love you. if you knew what a relief it is to say it. that is the reason i would not go up into the forest with you just now. i was afraid. i have been with you there too often!" for the first time she saw the muscles of his face relax, and she covered her face with her hands. "i shouldn't have told you," she whispered, "i shouldn't have told you. i have made it harder. you will go away at once." he did not speak for some minutes. then he said,-- "can you do without what we have?" "oh, no!" she said passionately. "oh, no! no!" "nor can i--without the hope and the prospect of an occasional hour with you, of the sympathy and understanding which has grown up between us. i have conquered myself many times, relinquished many hopes, and i think and believe that my self-control is as great as a man's can be. i shall not let myself go with you unless you tempt me beyond endurance; for as i said before, if i find that i am not strong enough, i shall leave you. you are a beautiful and seductive woman, and your power if you chose to exert it would madden any man. will you forget it? will you help me?" she dropped her hands. "yes," she said, "i'd rather suffer anything; i'd rather make myself over than do without you. and i couldn't! i couldn't! every least thing that happens, i want to go straight to you about it. i know that trouble is ahead, although i haven't admitted it before. i want you in every way! in every way! and i can't even have you in that. i never will speak like this again, but i'd like you to know. if you love me, you must know how terrible it is. i am not a child. i am twenty-seven years old." "i know," he replied; and for a few moments he said no more, but looked down into the water. "i am not a believer in people parting because they can't have everything," he continued finally. "it is only the very young who do that. they take the thing tragically; passion and disappointment trample down common-sense. if love is the very best thing in life, it is not the only thing. every time i have seen you i have wanted to take you in my arms, and yet i have enjoyed every moment spent in your presence. the thought of giving you up is intolerable. we both are old enough to control ourselves. and i believe that any habit can be acquired." "and will you never take me in your arms? have i got to go through life without that? i must say everything to-day--i will row out into the middle of the lake if you like, but i must know that." "you can stay here. there are certain things that no man can say, betty, even to the most loved and trusted of women. the only answer that i can make to your question is, that if i find i must leave you, i certainly shall take you in my arms once." "are you sorry i told you i loved you? would it be easier if i had not?" "probably. but i am not sorry! love can give happiness even when one is denied the expression of it." "i never intended to tell you. i was afraid if i did you would leave me at once." "so i should if you were not--you. but i should think myself a fool if i did not make an attempt to achieve the second best. i may fail, but i shall try. and life is made up of compromises." "you are more certain of smashing the trusts," she said with the humour which never bore repression for long. "in dealing with methodical scoundrels you know at least where you are. a man and woman never can be too certain of what five minutes will bring forth. that ends it. we never will discuss the question again until it comes up for the last time--if it does. i do not mean that i shall not tell you again that i love you, for i shall. i have no desire that you shall forget it. i mean that we will not discuss possibilities again, nor give expression to the passionate regret we both must feel. is it a compact?" "i will keep my part in it. i promise to be good. i have prided myself on my intelligence. i am not going to disgrace it by ruining the only happiness i ever shall have. i love you, and i will prove it by making your part as easy as i can, and by giving you all the happiness i am permitted to give you." he leaned toward her for the first time, but he did not touch her. "and i promise you this, my darling," he said softly: "if you ever should be in great trouble and should send for me--as of course you would do--i will take you in my arms then and forget myself. now, change seats with me and i will row you part of the way home; i shall get out a half-mile from the hotel. there really was no reason why you should have made me walk nearly the entire length of the lake." "i had fancied you in this particular part of the forest, and i wanted to find you here." "that is so like a woman," he said humorously. "but all of us make an occasional attempt to realize a dream, i suppose." viii he came over to dinner that night, and betty, who had walked about in a vague dreamy state all day, dressed herself again in white. she woke up suddenly as she came into his presence, and was the life of the dinner. harriet seemed absent of mind and nervous, but emory's spirits were normal, and he was more attentive to sally carter than she to him. but betty's interest in her friends' affairs had dropped to a very low ebb. she was in a new mental world, stranger than that entered by most women, for her hands were empty, but she was happy. she had reflected again--in so far as she had been capable of reflection--that most marriages were prosaic, and that her own high romance, her inestimable happiness in loving and being loved by a man in whom her pride was so great, was a lot to be envied of all women. it was not all the destiny she herself would have chosen, but it compassed a great deal. she would have made him wholly happy, been his whole happiness; marriage between them never would have been prosaic, and she would not have cared if it were; she would have made him forget the deep trials and sorrows of his past and the worries and annoyances of the present. but this was not to be, and there was much she could do for him and would. they talked politics through dinner, and mrs. madison noted with a sigh that betty's interest in the undesirable institution was unabated. she admired senator north, however, and felt pride in his appreciation of her brilliant daughter. she expressed her regret amiably at not being able to meet again mrs. north, who would see none but old friends in these days, and senator north assured her of his wife's agreeable remembrance of her brief acquaintance with mrs. madison. "how wonderfully well people behave whose common secret would set their world by the ears," thought betty. "our worst enemies could detect nothing; and on what there is heaven knows a huge scandal could be built." after dinner she played to him for an hour, while the others, with the exception of mrs. madison, who went to sleep, became absorbed in whist. but she did not see him for a moment alone, and jack rowed him across the lake. she went to her bed, but not to sleep. she hardly cared if she never slept again. night in a measure gave him to her, and to sleep was to forget the wonder that he loved her. it was shortly after midnight that she heard a faint but unmistakable creaking on the tin roof of the veranda. she sat up. some one was about to pass her window. she sprang out of bed, crossed the room softly, and lifted the edge of the curtain. a figure was almost crawling past. it was a woman's figure; the stars gave enough light to define its outlines at close range. she had a shawl over her head, but her angular body was unmistakable. she was miss trumbull. betty dropped the curtain and stared into the darkness. "whom is she watching?" she thought. "whom is she watching?" she went back to bed and listened intently. in half an hour she heard the same sound again. "she is going back to her room," thought betty. "what has she seen?" the next morning she sent for miss trumbull to come to her room. she had no intention of asking her to sit down, but the woman did not wait to be invited. she took a chair and fanned herself with a palm leaf that she picked from the table. "lawsy, but it's hot," she said. "i had a long argument with miss walker yesterday about new york state bein' hotter 'n down south, and she wouldn't believe it. but i usually know what i'm talkin' about, and hotter it is. i near lost my temper, for i guess i know when it's hot--" "what were you doing on the roof of the veranda last night?" asked betty, abruptly. miss trumbull turned the dark ugly red of her embarrassed condition. "i--" she stammered. "i saw you. whom were you watching?" "i warn't watchin' anybody. i was takin' a walk. i couldn't sleep." "you know perfectly well that the roof of a veranda is not intended to be walked on. your curiosity is insufferable. i suppose it has become professional. or are you hoping for blackmail? if so, the hotel is the place for you." this time miss trumbull turned purple. "i like money as well as anybody, i guess," she stuttered; 'but i'd never sell a secret to get it. i ain't low down and despicable if i am poor." "then you admit it is mere curiosity? i would rather you stole." "well, i don't steal, thank heaven. and i don't see any harm in tryin' to know what's goin' on in the world." "read the newspapers and let your neighbours alone, at all events the people in this house. i have twice seen you reading over the addresses of the letters of the outgoing mail. don't you ever do it again. you are a good housekeeper, but if i find you attending to anything but your own business, once more, you go on the moment. that is all i have to say." the woman left the room hurriedly. an hour or two later betty met harriet on the terrace. "i am sorry to appear to be always admonishing you," she said, "but i must ask you to have nothing more to do with miss trumbull." "i don't want to have anything more to do with her, honey. she has taken to arguing with me in that long self-satisfied drawl, and i have 'most got to hate her. i wouldn't mind so much if she was ever right, but she is a downright fool, and i reckon all fools are pretty much alike. and i have a horrible idea that she suspects something. i have seen her staring at my finger-nails two or three times. and i am 'most sure some one has gone through the little trunk i keep my letters in. of course the key is always in my purse, but she may have had one that fits, and the things are not like i left them, i am 'most sure." "she probably envies your finger-nails, and the trunk, doubtless, was upset in travelling. besides, i don't think she's malignant. like most underbred persons, she is curious, and she has cultivated the trait until it has become a disease." "but there's no knowing what she might do if she took a dislike to me. she's not bad-hearted at all, but she could be spiteful, and i can't and won't stand her any longer. i reckon i'd like to go to europe, anyhow. i feel as if every one was guessing my secret. over there you say they don't mind those things, and i'd enjoy being in that kind of a place." "go, by all means. i'll write at once and inquire about a chaperon--" "oh, i don't want to go just yet. september will do. i reckon these mountains are about as cool at this time of the year as anywhere, and they make me feel strong." she added abruptly: "does sally suspect?" betty nodded. "yes, she surprised the truth out of me. i am more sorry--" harriet had gripped her arm with both hands. her face was ghastly. "she knows? she knows?" she gasped. "then she will tell him. oh! why was i ever born?" betty made her sit down and took her head in her arms. harriet was weeping with more passion than she ever had seen her display. "you believe me always, don't you?" she said. "for miss trumbull i cannot answer, but for sally i can--positively. she never would do a mean and ignoble thing." "she loves him!" that is the more reason for not telling him. cannot you understand high-mindedness?" "oh, yes. you are high-minded, and _he_--that is the reason i should die if he found out; for he hates, he loathes deceit. oh, i've grown to hate this country. i love you, but i'd like to forget that it was ever on the map. i wish i was coal black and had been born in africa." "why don't you go there and live, set up a sort of court?" asked betty, seized with an inspiration. "and live among niggers? i despise and abhor niggers! if one put his dirty black paw on me, i'd 'most kill him!" betty turned away her head to conceal a smile; but harriet, who was wholly without humour, continued: "betty, honey, i want you to promise me that if i ever do anything to disappoint you, you'll forgive me. i love you so i couldn't bear to have you despise me." "what have you been doing?" asked betty, anxiously. "nothing, honey," replied harriet, promptly. "i mean if i did." "don't do anything that requires forgiveness. it makes life so much simpler not to. and remember the promise you made me." "oh, i don't reckon i'll ever forget that." ix senator north started for washington that afternoon. betty did not see him again. he did not write, but she hardly expected that he would. he had remarked once that two-thirds of all the trouble in the world came out of letters, and betty, with miss trumbull in mind, was inclined to agree with him. he would not return for a fortnight. on friday, very late, senator burleigh arrived. he was on the finance committee, but had written that he should break his chains for this brief holiday if he never had another. he had sent her two boxes of flowers since her return, and had written her a large number of brief, emphatic, but impersonal letters during her sojourn in california. he looked big and breezy and triumphant as he entered the living-room, and he sprinkled magnetism like a huge watering-pot. betty knew by this time that all men successful in american politics had this qualification, and had come in contact with it so often since her introduction to the senate that it had ceased to have any effect on her except when emanating from one man. "are you not frightfully tired?" she asked. "what a journey!" "anything, even a fourteen hours' train journey, is heaven after washington in hot weather. the asphalt pavements are reeking, and your heels go in when you forget to walk on your toes--and stick. but it is enchanting up here." his eyes dwelt with frank delight on her fresh blue organdie. "oh, washington does not exist," he exclaimed. "i thought constantly of you when we were struggling over that tariff bill in committee, and i wanted to put all the fabrics you like on the free list, as a special compliment to you." "the unwritten history of a committee room! law does not seem like law at all when one knows the makers of it. but you must be starved. if you will follow me blindly down the hall, i promise that you will really be glad you came." miss trumbull had attended personally to the supper, and he did it justice, although he continued to talk to betty and to let his eyes express a more fervent admiration than had been their previous habit. "there's no hope for me," thought betty, when emory had taken him to his room. "he has made up his mind to propose during this visit. if i can only stave it off till the last minute!" as she went up the stair, she met miss trumbull, who was coming down. "your supper was very good," she said kindly. "thank you for sitting up." that was enough for the housekeeper, who appeared to have conceived a worship of the hand that had smitten her. it had seemed to betty in the last few days that she met her admiring eyes whichever way she turned. miss trumbull put out her hand and fumbled at the lace on miss madison's gown. "tell me," she drawled wheedlingly, "that's your beau, ain't it? i guessed he was when those flowers come, and the minute i set eyes on him, i said to myself, 'that's the gentleman for miss madison. my! but you'll make a handsome couple." "oh!" exclaimed betty. "oh!" then she laughed. the woman was too ridiculous for further anger. "good-night," she said, and went on to her room. x betty had organized a picnic for the following day, inviting several acquaintances from the hotel; and they all drove to a favourite spot in the forest. mrs. madison's maid had charge of many cushions, and disposed her tiny mistress--who looked like a wood fairy in lilac mull--comfortably on a bed of pine needles. major carter felt young once more as he grilled steaks at a camp-fire, and harriet enchanted him with her rapt attention while his memory rioted in deeds of war. senator burleigh had never appeared so well, betty thought. there was an out-of-door atmosphere about him at any time; no doubt he had been a mighty wind in the senate more than once during the stormy passage of the tariff bill; but with all out-doors around him he looked nothing less than a mountain king. his large well-knit frame, full of strength and energy, was at its triumphant best in outing tweeds and scotch stockings; his fair handsome face was boyish, despite its almost fierce determination, as he pranced about, intoxicated with the mountain air. "if you ever had spent one summer in washington, you would understand," he said to betty. "this is where i'd like to spend the rest of my life. i'd like to think i'd never see a city or the inside of a house again." "then you'd probably hew down the forest, which would be a loss to the state: you would have to do something with your superfluous energy. and what would you do with your brain? mere reading, when your arm ached from chopping, never would content you." "no, that is the worst of civilization. it either produces discontented savages like myself or goes too far and turns the whole body into brain. i have managed to get a sort of steam-engine into my head which gives me little rest and would wear out my body if i didn't happen to have the constitution of a buffalo. but i doubt if i shall be what north is, sixteen years hence. that man is the best example of equilibrium i have ever seen. his mental activity is enormous, but his control over himself is so absolute that he never wastes an ounce of force. i've seen him look as fresh at the end of a long day of debate as he was when he got on his feet. he never lets go of himself for a moment." that was the only time betty heard senator north's name mentioned during burleigh's visit, for the younger man was much more interested in himself and the object of his holiday. "i think if it hadn't been for this extra session i should have followed you to california," he said abruptly. "i didn't know how much i depended for my entire happiness upon my frequent visits to your house until i came back after the short vacation and found you gone." "it would have been jolly to have had you in california. but you must feel that your time has not been thrown away. are you satisfied with the tariff bill?" "i liked it fairly well as we re-wrote it, but i don't expect to care much about it after it comes out of conference. but there are no politics in the adirondacks, and when a weary senator is looking at a woman in a pale green muslin--" "you look anything but weary. i expect you will tramp over half the adirondacks before you go back. and i am sure you will eat one of those beefsteaks. come, they are ready." but although she managed to seat him between sally carter and an extremely pretty girl, he was at her side again the moment the gay party began to split into couples. "will you come for a walk?" he asked. "i do want to roam about on the old trails the indians made, and to get away from these hideous emblems of modern civilization--sailor hats. thank heaven you don't wear a sailor hat." betty shot a peremptory glance at sally carter, who nodded and started to follow with a small dark attache who had pursued herself and her million for five determined years. he was titled if not noble, a clever operator of a small brain, and a high-priest of teas. he knew the personnel of washington society so thoroughly that he never had been known to waste a solitary moment on a portion-less girl, and he had successfully cultivated every art that could commend him to the imperious favourites of fortune. betty madison had disposed of him in short order, but miss carter, although she refused him periodically, allowed him to hang on, for he amused her and read her favourite authors. they had not walked far when he seized the picturesque opportunity to press his suit, and miss carter, while scolding him soundly, forgot the rapid walkers in front. betty, as she tramped along beside the large swinging presence the forest seemed to embrace as its own, wondered why she did not love him, wondered if she should, had she never met the other man. doubtless, for he possessed all the attributes of the conquering hero, and she would have excavated the ideals of her romantic girlhood, brushed and re-cut their garments, and then deliberately set fire to her imagination. if the responsive spark had held sullenly aloof, awaiting its time, she, knowing nothing of its existence, would soon have ceased to remember the half-conscious labours of the initial stage of her affections, and doubtless would have married this fine specimen of american manhood, and been happy enough. but the responsive spark had struck, and illumined the deepest recesses of her heart in time to burn contempt into any effort of her brain, now or hereafter. the question did assail her--as burleigh talked of his summer outings among the stupendous mountains of his chosen state--could she turn to him in time were she suddenly and permanently separated from the other? she shook her head in resentment at the treasonable thought; but her brain had received every advantage of the higher civilization for twenty-seven years, and worked by itself. she was young and she had much to give; in consequence, much to receive. she could find the highest with one man only, for with him alone would her imagination do its final work. but nature is inexorable. she commands union; and as the years went by and one memory grew dimmer--who knew? but the thought gave her a moment of sadness so profound that she ceased to hear the voice of the man beside her. she had had moments of deep insight before, and again she stared down into the depths where so many women's agonized memories lie buried. she suddenly felt a warm clasp round her hand, and for a second responded to it gratefully, for hers had turned cold. then she realized that she was in the present, and withdrew her hand hurriedly. "forgive me," he said. "i simply couldn't help it. i could in washington, and i felt that i must wait. but up here--i want to marry you. you know that, do you not?" betty glanced over her shoulder. there was to be no interruption. she was mistress of herself at once. "i cannot marry you," she said. "i almost wish i could, but i cannot." he swung into the middle of the path and stood still, looking down upon her squarely. there was nothing of the suppliant in his attitude. he looked unconquerable. "i did not expect to win you in a moment," he said. "i should not have expected it if i had waited another year. i knew from the beginning that it would be hard work, for if a woman does not love at once it takes a long time to teach her what love is. i have tried to make you like me, and i think i have succeeded. that is all i can hope for now. you have been surfeited and satiated with admiration, and you regard all men as having been born to burn incense before you. i love you for that too. i should hate a woman who even had it in her to love a man out of gratitude. you have your world at your feet, and i want mine at my feet. you have won yours without effort, for you were born with the crown and sceptre of fascination, i have to fight for mine. but the same instinct is in us both, the same possibilities on different lines. i am not making you the broken passionate appeal of the usual lover, because so long as i know you do not love me i could not place myself at the mercy of emotion--i have no thought of making a fool of myself. but when i do win you--then--ah! that will be another matter." she shook her head, but smiling, for she never had liked and admired him more. she knew of what passion he was capable, and how absurd he would have looked if lashed by it while her cool eyes looked on. his self-control made him magnificent. "i never shall marry," she said, and then laughed, in spite of herself, at the world-old formula. burleigh laughed also. "there isn't time enough left before chaos comes again to argue with a woman a question which means absolutely nothing. i am going to marry you. i have accomplished everything big i have ever strived for. i never have wanted to marry any other woman, and i want to marry you more than i wanted to become a senator of the united states. nothing could discourage me unless i thought you loved another man, but so far as i can see there is no other suitor in the field. you appear to have refused every proposing man in washington. is there any one on the other side?" he asked anxiously. "no one. i have no suitor beside yourself; but--" "i don't understand that word, any more than i understand the word 'fail,'" he said in his rapid truculent tones. then he added more gently: "i am afraid you think i should be a tyrant, but no one would tyrannize over you, for you are any man's equal, and he never would forget it. i could not love a fool. i want a mate. and i should love you so much that i never should cease atoning for my fractious and other unpleasant qualities--" "you have none! i cannot do less than tell you i think you are one of the finest men this country has produced, and that i am as proud of you as she will be--" "let me interrupt you before you say 'but.' that i have won so high an opinion from you gives me the deepest possible gratification. but i want much more than that. let us go on with our walk. i'll say no more at present." xi he did not allude to the subject again by so much as a tender glance, and betty, who knew the power of man to exasperate, appreciated his consideration. she wondered how deep his actual knowledge of women went, how much of his success with them he owed to the strong manly instincts springing from a subsoil of sound common-sense which had carried him safely past so many of the pitfalls of life. nor did his high spirits wane. he stayed out of doors, in the forest or on the lake, until midnight, and was up again at five in the morning. betty was fond of fresh air and exercise, but she had so much of both during the two days of his visit that she went to bed on the night of his departure with a sense of being drugged with ozone and battered with energy. the next day she did not rise until ten, and was still enjoying the dim seclusion of her room when sally tapped and entered. miss carter looked nervous, and her usually sallow cheeks were flushed. "i've come to say something i'm almost ashamed to say, but i can't help it," she began abruptly. "i'm going away. i can't, i _can't _sit down at the table any longer with _her,_ and treat her as an equal. i writhe every time she calls me 'sally.' i know it's a silly senseless prejudice--no, it isn't. black blood is loathsome, horrible!--and the less there is of it the worse it is. i don't mind the out-and-out negroes. i love the dear old darkies in the country; and even the prosperous coloured people are tolerable so long as they don't presume; but there is something so hideously unnatural, so repulsive, so accursed, in an apparently white person with that hidden evidence in him of slavery and lechery. paugh! it is sickening. they are walking shameless proclamations of lust and crime. i'm sorry for them. if by any surgical process the taint could be extracted, i'd turn philanthropic and devote half my fortune to it; but it can't be, and i'm either not strong-minded enough, or have inherited too many generations of fastidiousness and refinement to bring myself to receive these outcasts as equals. i feel particularly sorry for harriet. she shows her cursed inheritance in more ways than one, but without it, think what she would be,--a high-bred, intellectual, charming woman. she just escapes being that now, but she does escape it. the taint is all through her. and she knows it. in spite of all you've done for her, of all you've made possible for her, she'll be unhappy as long as she lives." "she certainly will be if everybody discovers her secret and is as unjust as you are." betty, like the rest of the world, had no toleration for the weaknesses herself had conquered. "we cannot undo great wrongs, but it is our duty to make life a little less tragic for the victims, if we can." "i can't. i've tried, i've struggled with myself as i've never struggled before, ever since i learned the truth. it sickens me. it makes me feel the weak, contemptible, common clay of which we all are made, and our only chance of happiness is to forget that. but i've said all i've got to say about myself. i'm going, and that is the end of it. i'll wear a mask till the last minute, for i wouldn't hurt the poor thing's feelings for the world. and i'd die sixteen deaths before i'd betray her. but, betty, get rid of her. she wants to go to europe. let her go. keep her there. for as sure as fate her secret will leak out in time. she _breathes_ it. if i felt it, others will, and certainty soon follows suspicion. jack would have felt it long since if he were not blinded and intoxicated by her beauty; but you can't count on men. he'll soon forget her if you send her away in time, and for your own sake as well as his get rid of her. you don't want people avoiding your house!" "she is going. she has no desire to stay, poor thing! of course, i know how you feel. i felt that way myself at first, but i conquered it. others won't, i suppose, and it is best that she should go where such prejudices don't exist. i spoke to her again a day or two ago about it--for your idea that jack loves her has made me nervous, although i can see no evidence of it--and i suggested that she should go at once; but she seems to have made up her mind to september, and i cannot insist without wounding her feelings. i wish jack would go away, but he always is so much better up here than anywhere else that i can't suggest that, either." "well, i'm going now to tell papa he must prepare his mind for bar harbor. say that you forgive me, betty, for i love you." "oh, yes, i forgive you," said betty, with a half laugh, "for a wise man i know once said that our strongest prejudice is a part of us." xii after major carter and sally left, betty had less freedom, for her mother was lonely; moreover, she dared not leave emory and harriet too much together. the danger still might be averted if she did her duty and stood guard. she never had seen jack look so well as he looked this summer. the very gold of his hair seemed brighter, and his blue eyes were often radiant. his beauty was conventional, but betty could imagine its potent effect on a girl of harriet walker's temperament and limited experience. but he had appeared to prefer sally's society to harriet's, and his spirits dropped after her departure. it was only when harriet offered to read to mrs. madison and settled down to three hours' steady work a day, that betty allowed herself liberty after the early morning. from five till eight in the evening and for an hour or two before breakfast she roamed the forest or pulled indolently about the lake. the hours suited her, for the hotel people were little given to early rising; and although they boated industriously by day, they preferred the lower and more fashionable lake, and dined at half-past six. life with her no longer was a smooth sailing on a summer lake. there was a roar below, as if the lake rested lightly on a subterranean ocean; and the very pines seemed to have developed a warning note. harriet looked like a walking fate, nothing less. since sally's abrupt departure she had not smiled, and betty knew that instinct divined and explained the sudden aversion of a girl who did so much to add to the cheerfulness of her friends. emory also looked more like his melancholy self, and wandered about with a volume of pindar and an expression of discontent. did he love harriet? and were her spirits affecting his? since harriet's promise betty felt that she had no right to speak. he had weathered one love affair, he could weather another. when harriet was safe in europe, she would turn matchmaker and marry him to sally carter. betty thought lightly of the disappointments of men, having been the cause of many. so long as jack did not dishonour himself and his house by marriage with a proscribed race, nothing less really mattered. but she played his favourite music and strove to amuse him. she rallied him one day about the change in his spirits since the departure of sally carter, and he admitted that he missed her, that he always felt his best when with her. "not that i love her more than i do you," he added, fearing that he had been impolite. "but she strikes just that chord. she always makes me laugh. she is a sort of sun and warms one up--" "the truth of the matter is that she strikes more chords than you will admit. she's just the one woman you ought to marry. if you'd make up your mind to love her, you'd soon find it surprisingly easy, and wonder why it never had occurred to you before." betty thought she might as well begin at once. he shook his head, and his handsome face flushed. it was not a frank face; he had lived too solitary and introspective a life for frankness; but he met betty's eyes unflinchingly. "she is not in the least the woman for me. she lacks beauty, and i could not stand a woman who was gay--and--and staccato all the time. it is delightful to meet, but would be insufferable to live with." "what is your ideal type?" he rose and raised her hand to his lips with all his old elaborate gallantry. "oh, betty madison! betty madison!" he exclaimed. "that you should live to ask me such a question as that?" "i'd like to box his ears if he did not mean that," thought betty. "i particularly should dislike his attempting to blind me in that way." and herself? she asked this question more than once as she rowed toward the northern end of the lake in the dawn, or in the heavier shadows at the close of the day. could it last? and how long? and did he believe that it could last? or was he, with the practical instinct of a man of the world, merely determined to quaff that fragrant mildly intoxicating wine of mental love-making, until the gods began to grin? she had many moods, but when a woman is sure that her love is returned and is not denied the man's occasional presence, she cannot be unhappy for long, perhaps never wholly so. for while there is love there is hope, and while there is hope tears do not scald. betty dared not let her thought turn for a moment to mrs. north. her will was strong enough to keep her mind on the high plane necessary to her self-respect. she would not even ask herself if he knew how low the sands had dropped in that unhappy life. the horizon of the future was thick with flying mist. only his figure stood there, immovable, always. "and it is remarkable how things do go on and on and on," she thought once. "they become a habit, then a commonplace. it is because they are so mixed up with the other details of life. nothing stands out long by itself. the equilibrium is soon restored, and unless one deliberately starts it into prominence again, it stays in its proper place and swings with the rest." she knew her greatest danger. she had it in her to be one of the most intoxicating women alive. was this man she loved so passionately to go on to the end of his life only guessing what the fates forbade him? the years of the impersonal attitude to men which she had thought it right to assume had made her anticipate the more keenly the freedom which one man would bring her. she frankly admitted the strength of her nature, she almost had admitted it to him; should she always be able to control the strong womanly vanity which would give him something more than a passing glimpse of the woman, making him forget the girl? if she did anything so reprehensible, it would be the last glimpse he would take of her, she reflected with a sigh, she wondered that passion and the spiritual part of love should be so hopelessly entangled. she was ready to live a life of celibacy for his sake; she delighted in his mind, and knew that had it been commonplace she could not have loved him did he have every other gift in the workshop of the gods; she worshipped his strength of character, his independence, his lofty yet practical devotion to an ideal; she loved him for his attitude to his wife, the manly and uncomplaining manner with which he accepted his broken and shadowed home life, when his temperament demanded the very full of domestic happiness, and the heavy labours of his days made its lack more bitter; and she sympathized keenly in his love for and pride in his sons. there was nothing fine about him that she did not appreciate and love him the more exaltedly for; and yet she knew that had he been without strong passions she would have loved him for none of these things. for of such is love between man and woman when they are of the highest types that nature has produced. betty hated the thought of sin as she hated vulgarity, and did not contemplate it for a moment, but if she had roused but the calm affection of this man she would have been as miserable as for the hour, at least, she was happy. xiii betty was determined that saturday and sunday should be her own, free of care. she sent emory to new york to talk over an investment with her man of business, and she provided her mother with eight new novels. as harriet loved the novel only less than she loved the studies which furnished her ambitious mind, betty knew that she would read aloud all day without complaint. miss trumbull, of whom she had seen little of late, and who had looked sullen and haughty since harriet with untactful abruptness had placed her at arm's length, she requested to superintend in person the cleaning of the lower rooms. her mind being at rest, she arose at four on the morning of saturday. she rowed across the lake this time and picked up senator north about a half-mile from the hotel. his hands were full of fishing-tackle. "will you take me fishing?" he said. "can you give me the whole morning? i hear there is better fishing in the lake above, and a farmhouse where we can get breakfast. do you know the way?" she nodded, and he took the oars from her and rowed up the lake. "my wife always sleeps until noon," he said. "we can have seven hours if you will give them to me." "of course i'll give them to you. i may as well admit that i intended to have them. i made an elaborate disposition of my household to that end." they were smiling at each other, and both looked happy and free of desire for anything but seven long hours of pleasant companionship. the morning, bright and full of sound, mated itself with the superficial moods of man, and was not cast for love-making. "well, what have you been doing?" he asked. "i have had you in a permanent and most refreshing vision, floating up and down this lake, or flitting through the forest, in that white frock. i know that burleigh was here--" "i did not wear white for him." "ah! he has looked very vague, not to say mooning, since his return. i am thankful he is not seeing you exactly as i do. how is the lady of the shadows?" "sally's southern gorge rose so high, after she discovered the taint, that she left precipitately. she couldn't sit at the table with even a hidden drop of negro blood." "you southerners will solve the negro problem by inspiring the entire race with an irresistible desire to cut its throat. if a tidal wave would wash ireland out of existence and the blacks in this country would dispose of themselves, how happy we all should be! what else have you been doing?" "i have read the congressional record every day, and the _federalist_ and state papers of hamilton; to say nothing of the monographs in the american statesmen series. mr. burleigh insisted that i must acquire the national sense, and i have acquired it to such an extent that half the time i don't know whether i am living in history or out of it. even the record makes me feel impersonal, and as 'national' as mr. burleigh could wish." "burleigh intends that his state shall be proud of you." betty flushed. "don't prophesy, even in fun. i believe i am superstitious. his idea is that politics are to become a sort of second nature with me before i start my _salon_--why do you smile cynically? don't you think i can have a _salon?_" "you might build up one in the course of ten years if you devoted your whole mind to it and made no mistakes; nothing is impossible. but for a long while you merely will find yourself entertaining a lot of men who want to talk on any subject but politics after they have turned their backs on capitol hill. they will be extremely grateful if you will provide them with some lively music, a reasonable amount of punch, and an unlimited number of pretty and entertaining women. but don't expect them to invite you down the winding ways of their brains to the cupboards where they have hung up their great thoughts for the night. i do not even see them standing in groups of three, their right hands thrust under their coat fronts, gravely muttering at each other. i see them invariably doing their poor best to make some pretty woman forget they could be bores if they were not vigilant." "the pretty women i shall ask will not think them bores. the thing to do at first, of course, is to get them there." "oh, there will be no difficulty about that. why do you want a _salon_? are you ambitious?" betty nodded. "yes, i think i am. at first i only wanted a new experience. now that i have met so many men with careers, i want one too. if i succeed, i shall be the most famous woman in america." "you certainly would be. very well, i will do all i can to help you. it is possible, as i said. and you have many qualifications--" "ah!" betty's face lit up. "if there is war with spain, they will talk of nothing else--don't frown so at me. i'm sure i don't want a war if you don't. those are my politics. here is the water lane between the two lakes. i almost had forgotten it. i hope it isn't overgrown." she spoke lightly, but more truly than she was wholly willing to admit. women see political questions, as they see all life, through the eyes of some man. if he is not their lover, he is a public character for whom they have a pleasing sentiment. senator north pulled into the long winding lane of water in a cleft of the mountains. it was dark and chill here they were in the heart of the forest; they had but to turn their heads to look straight into the long vistas, heavy with silence and shadows. he rowed for some moments without speaking. he felt their profound and picturesque isolation, and had no desire to break the spell of it. she recalled her wish that the adirondacks would swing off into space, but smiled: she was too happy in the mere presence of the man to wish for anything more. he let his eyes meet hers and linger in their depths, and when he smiled at the end of that long communion it was with tenderness. but when he spoke he addressed himself to her mind alone. "no, you must not wish for war with spain. if we ever are placed in a position where patriotism commands war, i shall be the last to oppose it. if england had not behaved with her calm good sense at the time of the venezuela difficulty, but had taken our jingoes seriously and returned their insults, we should have had no alternative but war,--the serious and conservative of the country would have had to suffer from the errors of its fools, as is often the case. but for this war there would be no possible excuse. spain at one time owned nearly two-thirds of the earth's surface. she has lost every inch of it, except the peninsula and a few islands, by her cruelty and stupidity. her manifest destiny is to lose these islands in the same manner and for the same reasons. and brutal and stupid as she is, we have no more right to interfere in her domestic affairs than had europe to interfere in ours when we were torn by a struggle that had a far greater effect on the progress of civilization than the trouble between dissatisfied colonists and decadent spaniards in this petty island. god only knows how many intellects went out on those battlefields in the four years of the civil war, which, had they persisted and developed, would have added to the legislative wisdom of this country. we knew what we were losing, knew that the longer the struggle lasted the longer would our growth as a nation be retarded, and the horrors of our battlefields were quite as ghastly as anything set forth in the reports from cuba. and yet every thinking man among us, young and old, turned cold with apprehension when we were threatened with a european interference which would have dishonoured us. that spain is behaving with wanton brutality would not be to the point, even if the reports were not exaggerated, which they are,--for the matter of that, the cubans are equally brutal when they find the opportunity. the point is that it is none of our business. the cubans have rebelled. they must take the consequences, sustained by the certainty of success in the end. moreover, we not only are on friendly terms with spain, we not only have no personal grievance as a nation against her, but we are a great nation, she is a weak one. we have no moral right, we a lusty young country, to humiliate a proud and ancient kingdom, expose the weaknesses and diseases of her old age to the unpitying eyes of the world. it would be a despicable and a cowardly act, and it horrifies me to think that the united states could be capable of it. for spain i care nothing. the sooner she dies of her own rottenness the better; but let her die a natural death. my concern is for my own country. i don't want her to violate those fundamental principles to whose adherence alone she can hope to reach the highest pitch of development." betty smiled. "mr. burleigh says that washington had a brain of ice, and that his ideal of american prosperity was frozen within it. i suppose he would say the same of you." "i have not a brain of ice. i know that the only hope for this republic is to anchor itself to conservatism. the splits in the democratic party have generated enough policies to run several virile young nations on the rocks. the populist is so eager to help the farmer that he is indifferent to national dishonour. the riff-raff in the house is discouraging. the house ought to be a training-school for the senate. it is a forum for excitable amateurs. the new england senators are almost the only ones with a long--or any--record in the house." "they are bright, most of those representatives--even the woolly ones; as quick as lightning." "oh, yes, they are bright," he said contemptuously. "the average american is bright. if one prefixes no stronger adjective than that to his name, he accomplishes very little in life. don't think me a pessimist," he added, smiling. "all over the country the schools and colleges are instilling the principles of conservatism and practical politics on the old lines, and therein lies hope. i feel sure i shall live to see the republic safely past the dangers that threaten it now. the war with spain is the worst of these. no war finishes without far-reaching results, and the conscience of a country, like the conscience of a man, may be too severely tried. if we whip spain--the 'if,' of course, is a euphemism--we not only shall be tempted to do things that are unconstitutional, but we are more than liable to make a laughing-stock of the monroe doctrine. for reasons i am not going into this beautiful summer morning, with fish waiting to be caught, we are liable to be landed in foreign waters with all europe as our enemy and our second-rate statesmen at home pleading for a new constitution--which would mean a new united states and unimaginable and interminable difficulties. have i said enough to make you understand why i think we owe a higher duty to a country that should and could be greater than it is, than even to two hundred thousand cubans whom we should but starve the faster if we hemmed them in? very well, if you will kindly bait that hook i will see what i can get. the rest of the world may sink, for all i care this morning." they had entered another lake, smaller and even wilder in its surroundings, for there was no sign of habitation. "few people know of this lake, i am told," said senator north, contentedly; "and we are unlikely to see a living soul for hours, except while we are discovering that farmhouse. are you hungry?" "yes, but catch a lot of fish before we go to the farmhouse--i know where it is--for i detest bread and milk and eggs." the fish were abundant, and he had filled his basket at the end of an hour. then they tied up their boat and went in search of the farmhouse. it was a poor affair, but a good-natured woman fried their fish and contributed potatoes they could eat. betty was rattling on in her gayest spirits, when her glance happened to light on a photograph in a straw frame. she half rose to her feet, then sank back in her chair with a frown of annoyance. "what is it?" he asked anxiously. "a photograph of my housekeeper, a woman who is all curiosity where her brain ought to be." "well, it is only her photograph, not herself, and this woman does not know my name. you are not to bother about anything this morning." they went back to the lake. he caught another basket of fish, and then they floated about idly, sometimes silent, sometimes talking in a desultory way about many things that interested them both. betty wondered where he had found time to read and think so much on subjects that belong to the literary wing of the brain and have nothing to do with the vast subjects of politics and statesmanship, of which he was so complete a master. she recalled what her mother had said about her brain being her worst enemy when she fell in love. it certainly made her love this man more profoundly and passionately, for her own was of that high quality which demanded a greater to worship. and if she loved the man it was because his whole virile magnetic being was the outward and visible expression of the mind that informed it. it was almost noon when they parted, pleased with themselves and with life. they agreed to meet again on the following morning. xiv as betty ascended the terrace, she was amazed to see jack emory sitting on the veranda. he threw aside his cigarette and came to meet her. "anderson had gone to the other end of long island--sag harbor," he said; "and as i did not like to follow him into his home on a matter of business, i came back. new york is one vast oven; i could not make up my mind to wait there. i'd rather take the trip again." betty concealed her vexation, and replied that she was sorry he had had a disagreeable journey for nothing, while wondering if her conscience would permit her to absent herself for seven hours on the morrow. but harriet had read one novel through and begun another. it was evident that she had not left mrs. madison's side, and jack had been home for two hours. betty lightly forbade her to tire herself further that day, and after luncheon they all went for a drive. when mrs. madison retired for her nap at four o'clock, betty, who longed for the seclusion of her room and the delight of re-living the morning hours, established herself in the middle of the veranda, with harriet beside her and jack swinging in a hammock at the corner. "thank heaven she wants to go to europe in september," she thought. "if i had to be duenna for six months, i should become a cross old-maid. i'll never forgive sally for deserting me." she could have filled the house with company, but that would have meant late hours and the sacrifice of such solitude as she now could command. she had always disliked the burden of entertaining in summer, never more so than during this, when her loneliest hours were, with the exception of just fifteen others and twenty-one minutes, the happiest she ever had known. jack and harriet manifested not the slightest desire to be together, and betty went to bed at nine o'clock, wondering if she were not boring herself unnecessarily. she was deep in her first sleep when her consciousness struggled toward an unaccustomed sound. she awoke suddenly at the last, and became aware of a low, continuous, but peremptory knocking. she lit a candle at once and opened the door. miss trumbull stood there, her large bony face surrounded by curl-papers that stood out like horns, and an extremely disagreeable expression on her mouth. she wore a grey flannel wrapper and had a stocking tied round her throat. betty reflected that she never had seen a more unattractive figure, but asked her if she were ill--if her throat were ailing-- miss trumbull entered and closed the door behind her. "i'm a christian woman," she announced, "and an unmarried one, and i ain't goin' to stay in a house where there's sech goin's on." "what do you mean?" asked betty coldly, although she felt her lips turn white. "i mean what i say. i'm a christian--" "i do not care in the least about your religious convictions. i want to know what you wish to tell me. there is no necessity to lead up to it." "well--i can't say it. so there! i warn't brought up to talk about sech things. just you come with me and find out for yourself." "you have been prying in the servants' wing, i suppose. do i understand that that is the sort of thing you expect me to do?" "it ain't the servants' wing--where i've been listenin' and watchin' till i've made sure--out of dooty to myself." she lowered her voice and spoke with a hoarse wheeze. "it's the room at the end of the second turning." betty allowed the woman to help her into a wrapper, for her hands were trembling. she followed miss trumbull down the hall, hardly believing she was awake, praying that it might be a bad dream. they turned the second corner, and the housekeeper waved her arm dramatically at harriet's door. "very well," said betty. "go to your room. i prefer to be alone." miss trumbull retired with evident reluctance. betty heard a door close ostentatiously, and inferred that her housekeeper was returning to a point of vantage. but she did not care. she felt steeped in horror and disgust. she wished that she never had felt a throb of love. all love seemed vulgar and abominable, a thing to be shunned for ever by any woman who cared to retain her distinction of mind. she would not meet senator north to-morrow. she did not care if she never saw him again. she would like to go into a convent and not see any man again. she never ceased to be grateful that she was spared hours of musing that might have burnt permanently into her memory. she had not walked up and down the hall for fifteen minutes before the door at the end of the side corridor opened and emory came out. betty did not hesitate. she advanced at once toward him. he did not recoil, he stood rigid for a moment. then he said distinctly,-- "we have been married three months. will you come downstairs for a few moments?" she followed him down the stair, trembling so violently that she could not clutch the banisters, and fearing she should fall forward upon him. but before she had reached the living-room she had made a desperate effort to control herself. she realized the danger of betraying harriet's secret before she had made up her mind what course was best, but she was not capable of grappling with any question until the shock was over. her brain felt stunned. emory lit one of the lamps, and betty turned her back to it. he was very white, and she conceived a sudden and violent dislike to him. she never before had appreciated fully the weakness in that beautiful high-bred intellectual face. it was old-fashioned and dreamy. it had not a suggestion of modern grip and keenness and determination. "i have deceived you, betty," he began mournfully; but she interrupted him. "i am neither your mother nor your sister," she said cuttingly. "i am only your cousin. you were under no obligation to confide in me. i object to being made use of, that is all." "i am coming to that," he replied humbly. "let me tell you the story as best i can. we did not discover that we loved each other until after you left. it had taken me some time to realize it--for--for--i did not think i ever could change. i was almost horrified; but soon i made up my mind it was for the best. i had been lonely and miserable long enough, and i had it in my power to take the loneliness and misery from another. i was almost insanely happy. i wanted to marry at once, but for a few days harriet would not consent. she wanted to be an accomplished woman when she became my wife. then she suggested that we should be married secretly, and the next day we went over into virginia and were married--in a small village. she begged me not to tell you till you came back. when you returned, her courage failed her, for after all you were her benefactor and she had deceived you. she protested that she could not, that she dared not tell you. it has been an extremely disagreeable position to me, for i have felt almost a cad in this house, but i understood her feeling, for you had every reason to be angry and scornful. so we agreed to go to europe in september and write to you from there. she wanted to go at once--soon after you returned; but i must wait till certain money comes in. i cannot live on what you so generously gave her. she would not go without me, and in spite of everything, i am almost ashamed to say, i have been very happy here--" "is that all? i will go to my room now. goodnight." she hurried upstairs, wishing she had a sleeping powder. as she closed the door of her room, the tall sombre figure of harriet rose from a chair and confronted her. betty hastily lit two lamps. she could not endure harriet in a half light,--not while she wore black, at all events. "he has told me," she said briefly, answering the agonized inquiry in those haggard eyes. "i told him nothing." harriet drew a long breath and swayed slightly. "ah!" she said. "ah! thank the lord for that. i hope you will never have to go through what i have in this last half-hour." she seemed to recover herself rapidly, for after she had walked the length of the room twice, she confronted betty with a tightening of the muscles of her face that gave it the expression of resolution which her features always had seemed to demand. "this is wholly my affair now," she said. "it is all between him and me. it would be criminal for you to interfere. when i realised i loved him, i made up my mind to marry him at once. i knew that you would not permit it, and although i hated to deceive you, i made up my mind that i would have my happiness. i intended to tell you when you got back, but after what you said to me that day i was scared you'd tell him. if you do--if you do--i swear before the lord that i'll drown myself in that lake--" "i have no intention of telling him. as you say, it is now your own affair." "it is; it is. and although i may have to pay the price one day, i'll hope and hope till the last minute. i shall not let him return to america, and perhaps he will never guess. somehow it seems as if everything must be right different over there, as if all life would look different." "you will find your point of view quite the same when you get there, for you take yourself with you. i'd like to go to bed now, harriet, if you don't mind. i'm terribly tired." "i'll go. there is only one other thing i want to say. i shall have no children. i vowed long ago that the curse i had been forced to inherit should not poison another generation. your cousin's line will die, undishonoured, with him. the crimes of many men will die in me. no further harm will be done if jack never knows. and i hope and believe he never will. good-night." xv betty slept fitfully, her dreams haunted by miss trumbull's expression of outraged virtue surrounded by curl-papers. she rose at four, almost mechanically, rather glad than otherwise that she had some one with whom to talk over the events of the night. but although she admired senator north the more for his distinguished contrast to jack emory, she felt as if all romance and love had gone out of her. harriet's case was romantic enough in all conscience, and it was hideous. she met miss trumbull in the lower hall. outraged virtue had given way to an expression of self-satisfied importance. "well, i'm real glad they're married," she drawled. "it warn't in human nature not to listen, and i did--i ain't goin' to deny it, but i couldn't have slept a wink if i hadn't. ain't you glad i told you?" "i certainly am not glad that you told me, and i wish i had dismissed you three weeks ago. when i return i shall give you a month's wages and you can go to-day." she hurried down to the lake and unmoored her boat. her conscience was abnormally active this morning, and she reflected that she too was going to a tryst of which the world must know nothing. true, it was kept on the open lake and was as full of daylight as it was of impeccability, but it was not for the world to discover, for all that. she made no attempt to smile as senator north stepped into the boat, and he took the oars without a word and pulled rapidly up the lake. when they were beyond all signs of human habitation, he brought the boat under the spreading limbs of an oak and crossed his oars. "now," he said, "what is it? something very serious indeed has happened." "jack emory and harriet have been married three months." she filled in the statement listlessly and added no comment. "and your conscience is oppressed and miserable because you feel as if you were the author of the catastrophe," he replied. "what have you made up your mind to do?" it was evident that her attitude alone interested him, but he understood her mood perfectly. his voice was friendly and matter-of-fact; there was not a hint of the sympathizing lover about him. "it seems to me that as i did not act at the right time i only should make things worse by interfering now. as she said, it is a matter between her and him." "you are quite right. any other course would be futile and cruel. and remember that you have acted wisely and well from the beginning. you have nothing to reproach yourself for. you brought the girl to your house for a period, because justice and humanity demanded it. the same principles demanded that you should keep her secret--for the matter of that your mother made secrecy one of the conditions of her consent. i had hoped that you would get rid of her before she obeyed the baser instincts of her nature. for she was bound to deceive some man, and her victim is your cousin by chance only. have you noticed in washington--or anywhere in the south--that a negro is always seen with a girl at least one shade whiter than himself? the same instinct to rise, to get closer to the standard of the white man, whom they slavishly admire, is in the women as well as in the men. they are the weaker sex and must submit to circumstance, but they would sacrifice the whole race for marriage with a white man. if you had left this girl to her fate, she would have gone to the devil, for a woman as white as that would have starved rather than marry a negro. if you had given her money and told her to go her way, she would have established herself at once in some first-class hotel where she would be sure to meet men of the upper class. and she would have married the first that asked her and told him nothing. i am sorry that your cousin happens to be the victim, because he is your cousin. but if you will reflect a moment you will see that he is no better, no more honourable or worthy than many other men, one of whom was bound to be victimized. i don't think she would have been attracted to a fool or a cad; i am positive she would have married a gentleman. these women have a morbid craving for the caste they are so close upon belonging to." "i hate men," said betty, viciously. "i am sure you do, and i shall not waste time on their defence. i am concerned only in setting you right with yourself." "i always feel that what you say is true--must be true. i suppose it will take possession of my mind and i shall feel better after a while." "you will feel better after several hours' sleep. i am going to take you home now. go to bed and sleep until noon." "my conscience hurts me. i have spoiled your visit." "i can live on the memory of yesterday for some time, and i shall return in a fortnight." "well, i am glad you were here when it happened. i don't know what i should have done if i couldn't have talked to you about it. i feel a little better--but cross and disagreeable, all the same." "you are a woman of contrasts," he said, smiling. "a machine is not my ideal." he rowed her back to the point where he had boarded the boat, and shook her warmly by the hand. "good-bye," he said. "be sensible and take the only practical view of it. if you care to write to me about anything, i need not say that i shall answer at once." when she reached home, she took his advice and went to bed; and whether or not her mind obeyed his in small matters as in great, she slept soundly for five hours. when she awoke, she felt young and buoyant and untarnished again. she went at once to her mother's room and told the story. mrs. madison listened with horror and consternation. "it cannot be!" she exclaimed. "it cannot be! jack emory? it never could have been permitted. the very fates would interfere. his father will rise from his grave. why, it's monstrous. the woman ought to be hanged. and i thought her buried in her books! i never heard of such deceit." "it was the instinct of self-defence, i suppose." "he too! it never occurred to me to watch him or to warn him; for that such a thing could ever threaten a member of my family never entered my head. what on earth is to be done?" it took betty an hour to persuade her mother that jack must be left to find out the truth for himself; that they had no right, after placing harriet in the way of temptation, to make her more wretched than she was when they had rescued her. but she succeeded, as she always did; and mrs. madison said finally, with her long sigh of surrender,-- "well, perhaps he is paying for some of the sins of his fathers. but i wish he did not happen to be a member of our family. as the thing is done, i suppose i may as well be philosophical about it. it is so much easier to be philosophical now that i have let go my hold on most of the responsibilities of life. as long as nothing happens to you, i can accept everything else with equanimity. what story of her birth and family do you suppose she told him? he must have asked her a good many questions." "heaven knows. she is capable of concocting anything; and you must remember that we had accepted her as a cousin. she could put him off easily, for he had no suspicion to start with. i must now go and have a final delightful interview with miss trumbull." she met her in the hall, and experienced a sudden sense of helplessness in the face of that mighty curiosity. she almost respected it. "i just want to say," drawled miss trumbull, tossing her head, "that i know more'n you think i do. there just ain't nothin' i don't know, i'll tell you, as you've turned me out as if i was a common servant. i know who you meet up the lake and take breakfast in farmhouses with, and i know why miss harriet was so dreadful scared you'd find out--" betty understood then why some people murdered others. her eyes blazed so that the woman quailed. "oh, i ain't so bad as you think," she stammered. "i'd never think any harm of you, and i'd never be so despisable as to take away any woman's character. i'm a christian and i don't want to hurt any one, likewise, i'd never tell him _that_. bad as she's treated me--i who am as good and better'n she is any day--i wouldn't do any woman sech a bad turn as that. only i'm just glad i do know it. when i'm settin' in my poor little parlor waitin' for another position to turn up--six months, mebbe--it'll be a big satisfaction to me to think that i could ruin her if i had a mind to--a big satisfaction." betty went to her room, wrote a cheque for three months' wages and returned with it. "take this and go," she said. "and be kind enough not to look upon the amount as a bribe. the position of housekeeper is not an easy one to find, and i do not wish to think of any one in distress." xvi miss trumbull left that afternoon, and although betty half expected the woman, who had possessed some of the attributes of the villain in the play, to reappear at intervals in the interest of her role, the grave might have closed over her for all the sign she gave. but miss trumbull had done enough, and the fates do not always linger to complete their work. the housekeeper, with all her self-satisfaction, never would have thought of calling herself a fate; but motives are not always commensurate with results. she was only a common fool, and there were thousands like her, but her capacity for harm-doing was as far-reaching as had she had the brain of a genius and the soul of a devil. as emory positively refused to go to europe until money of his own came in, although betty offered to lend him what he needed, and as he was really well only when in the adirondacks, and an abrupt move to one of the hotels would have animated the gossips, it was decided finally that he and his wife should remain where they were until it was time to sail. harriet offered to take charge of the servants until another housekeeper could be found; and as she seemed anxious to do all she could to make amends for deceiving her benefactress, betty let her assume what would have been to herself an onerous responsibility. after a day or two of constraint and awkwardness, the little household settled down to its altered conditions; and in a week everybody looked and acted much as usual, so soon does novelty wear off and do mortals readjust themselves. jack and harriet seemed happy; but the former, at least, was too fastidious to vaunt his affections in even the little public of his lifelong friends. he spent hours swinging in a hammock, reading philosophy and smoking; occasionally he read aloud to his aunt and harriet, and in the afternoon he usually took his wife for a walk. harriet at this period was a curious mixture of humility and pride. she could not demonstrate sufficiently her gratitude to betty, but the very dilation of her nostril indicated gratified ambition. she had held her head high ever since her marriage; since her acknowledgment by the world as a wife, her carriage had been regal. betty gave a luncheon one day to some acquaintances at the hotel, and when she introduced harriet as mrs. emory, she saw her quiver like a blooded horse who has won a doubtful race. as for mrs. madison, she finished by regarding the whole affair in the light of a novel, and argued with betty the possible and probable results. her interest in the plot became so lively that she took to discussing it with harriet; and although the heroine was grateful at first for her interest, there came a time when she looked apprehensive and careworn. finally she begged mrs. madison, tearfully, not to allude to the subject again, and mrs. madison, who was the kindest of women, looked surprised and hurt, but replied that of course she would avoid the subject if harriet wished. "it's just this," said mrs. emory, bluntly; "the subject is so much on your mind that i'm in constant terror you'll begin talking of it before jack." "my dear girl, i never would tell him; for his sake as well as your own, you can rely on me." "i know you would never do it intentionally, ma'am, but i'm scared you'll do it without thinking; you talk of it so much, more than anything. the other night when you began to talk of the crime of miscegenation, i thought i should die." "that was very inconsiderate of me. poor girl, i'll be more careful." but in her secluded impersonal life few romantic interests entered, and although she was too courteous to harp upon a painful subject, it was evident that she avoided it with an effort, and that it dwelt in the forefront of her mind. one evening after betty had been playing some of the old southern melodies, she caught jack's hand in hers, and assured him brokenly that no people on earth were bound together as southerners were, and that he must think of her always as his mother and come to her in the dark and dreadful hours of his life. he pressed her hand, and continued smoking his cigarette; he never had doubted that his aunt loved him as a mother. harriet rose abruptly and left the room. she returned before long, however, and after that night she never left her husband alone with mrs. madison for a moment. xvii betty herself was happy again. she hated the dark places of life, and got away from them and out into the sunshine as quickly as possible. although she was too well disciplined to shirk her duty, she did it as quickly as possible and pushed it to the back of her mind. jack and harriet were married; that was the end of it for the present. let life go on as before. she gave several hours of the day to her mother, the rest to the forest and the lake. when senator north came up again, she was her old gay self, the more attractive perhaps for the faint impression which contact with deep seriousness is bound to leave. if jack and harriet had been safely out of the country, she would have felt like a pagan, especially after the tariff bill passed and senator north came up to stay. "i shouldn't have a care in the world," she said to him one morning, "if i did not know, little as i will permit myself to think of it, that exposure may come any day. there is only a chance that somebody at st. andrew will hear of the marriage and denounce her, but it might happen. if only they were in europe! she told me the other night that she knows she can keep him there, her influence is so great. i hope that is true, but she cannot make him go till he has his own money to go with." "what she means is that he won't leave her. he has her here now and is in no hurry to move. he should be able to rent his farm. it is a very good one." "he has rented it for a year--from september. he gets nothing till then. if pride were not a disease with him, he would let me advance the money, but he is not as sure as he might be of the man who has rented the farm and he will not take any risks, i am sorry for harriet. she has the idea on her mind now that molly will blurt it out, and she has the sort of mind that broods and exaggerates. i sincerely wish they had got off to europe undiscovered and sent the news back by the pilot. i had to speak to molly once or twice myself; i never knew her so garrulous about anything." senator north laughed. "you have a great deal of trouble with your parent," he said. "i fear you have not been firm enough with her in the past. will you come into the next lake? i like the fish better there. you are not to worry about anything, my dear, while we have the adirondacks to imagine ourselves happy in." "ar'n't you really happy?" she asked him quickly. "not wholly so," he replied. "but that is a question we are not to discuss." xviii senator north had been formally invited by mrs. madison for dinner that evening, and betty, who had parted from him just seven hours before, restrained an impulse to run down the terrace as his boat made the landing. emory and harriet were on the veranda, however, and she managed to look stately and more or less indifferent at the head of the steps. there were pillars and vines on either side of her, and bunches of purple wistaria hung above her head. it was a picturesque frame for a picturesque figure in white, and a kindly consideration for senator north's highly trained and exacting eye kept her immovable for nearly five minutes. as he reached the steps, however, self-consciousness suddenly possessed her and she started precipitately to meet him. she wore slippers with high louis quinze heels. one caught in a loosened strand of the mat. her other foot went too far. she made a desperate effort to reach the next step, and fell down the whole flight with one unsupported ankle twisted under her. for a moment the pain was so intense she hardly was aware that senator north had his arm about her shoulders while emory was straightening her out. harriet was screaming frantically. she gave a sharp scream herself as emory touched her ankle, but repressed a second as she heard her mother's voice. mrs. madison stood in the doorway with more amazement than alarm on her face. "betty?" she cried. "nothing can have happened to betty! why, she has not even had a doctor since she was six years old." "it's nothing but a sprained ankle," said emory. "for heaven's sake, keep quiet, harriet," he added impatiently, "and go and get some hot water. let's get her into the house." betty by this time was laughing hysterically. her ankle felt like a hot pincushion, and the unaccustomed experience of pain, combined with harriet's shrieks, delivered with a strong darky accent, and her mother's attitude of disapproval, assaulted her nerves. when they had carried her in and put her foot into a bucket of hot water, she forgot them completely, and while her mother fanned her and senator north forced her to swallow brandy, she felt that all the intensity of life's emotions was circumferenced by a wooden bucket. but when they had carefully extended her on the sofas and emory, who had a farmer's experience with broken bones, announced his intention of examining her ankle at once, betty with remarkable presence of mind asked senator north to hold her hand. this he did with a firmness which fortified her during the painful ordeal, and mrs. madison was not terrified by so much as a moan. "you have pluck!" exclaimed senator north when emory, after much prodding, had announced that it was only a sprain. "you have splendid courage." emory assured her that she was magnificent, and betty felt so proud of herself that she had no desire to undo the accident. in the days that followed, although she suffered considerable pain, she enjoyed herself thoroughly. it was her first experience of being "fussed over," as she expressed it. she never had had so much as a headache, no one within her memory had asked her how she felt, and she had regarded her mother as the centre of the medical universe. now a clever and sympathetic doctor came over every day from the hotel and felt her pulse, and intimated that she was his most important patient. mrs. madison insisted upon bathing her head, emory and harriet treated her like a sovereign whose every wish must be anticipated, even the servants managed to pass the door of her sitting-room a dozen times a day. senator north came over every morning and sat by her couch of many rose-coloured pillows; and not only looked tender and anxious, but suggested that the statesman within him was dead. "it is hard on you, though," she murmured one day, when they happened to be alone for a few moments. "two invalids are more than one man's portion. and no one ever enjoyed the outdoor life as you do." "this room is full of sunshine and fresh air, and i came up here to be with you. i don't know but what i am heartless enough to enjoy seeing such an imperious and insolently healthy person helpless for a time, and to be able to wait on her." "i feel as if the entire order of the universe had been reversed." "it will do you good. i hope you will have every variety of pleasure at least once in your life." "you are laughing at me--but as i am a truthful person i will confide to you that i almost hate the idea of being well again." "of course you do. and as for the real invalids they enjoy themselves thoroughly. the great compensation law is blessed or cursed, whichever way you choose to look at it." "i wonder if you had happened to be unmarried, what price we would have had to pay." "god knows. the compensation law is the most immutable of all the fates." "i have most of the gifts of life,--good looks, wealth, position, brains, and the power of making people like me. so i am not permitted to have the best of all. if i could, i wonder which of the others i'd lose. probably we'd have an accident on our wedding journey, which would reduce my nerves to such a state that i'd be irritable for the rest of my life and lose my good looks and power to make you happy. it's a queer world." he made no reply. "what are you thinking of?" she asked, meeting his eyes. "that you are not to become anything so commonplace as a pessimist. get everything out of the present that is offered you and give no thought to the future. what is it?" he added tenderly, as the blood came into her cheeks and she knit her brows. "i moved my ankle and it hurt me so!" she moved her hand at the same time, and he took it, and held it until her brows relaxed, which was not for some time. the best of women are frauds. betty made that ankle the pivot of her circle for the rest of the summer. when she wanted to see senator north look tender and worried, she puckered her brows and sighed. when she felt the promptings of her newly acquired desire to be "fussed over," she dropped suddenly upon a couch and demanded a cushion for her foot, or asked to be assisted to a hammock. she often laughed at herself; but the new experience was very sweet, and she wondered over life's odd and unexpected sources of pleasure. xix senator burleigh came up for a few days to the hotel before going west, and betty, who had anticipated his visit, invited two of the prettiest girls she knew to assist her to entertain him. they had been at one of the hotels on the lower lake, and came to her for a few days before joining their parents. she showed burleigh every possible attention, permitting him to eat nothing but breakfast at his hotel; but he did not see her alone for a moment. when he left, he felt that he had had three cheerful days among warm and admiring friends, but his satisfaction was far from complete. "betty," said senator north, one morning a fortnight later, "how much do you like burleigh? if you had not met me, do you think you could have loved him?" "i think i could have persuaded myself that i liked him better than i ever could have liked anybody; but it would not have been love." "are you sure?" "oh, yes, i am sure! you know that i am sure. it may be possible to mistake liking for love, but it is not possible to mistake love for anything else. and you cannot even pretend to believe that i do not know what love is." "oh, yes," he said softly, "i think you know." he resumed in a moment: "you are so young--i would leave you in a moment if i thought that you did not really love me, that you were deluding yourself and wasting your life. but i believe that you do; and you are happier than you would be with a man who could give you only the half that you demand. marriage is not everything. i love you well enough to make any sacrifice for you but a foolish one. and i know that there is much less in the average marriage than in the incomplete relation we have established. and there is another marriage that is incomparably worse. i shall never let you go--so long as i can hold you--unless i am satisfied that it is for your good." "if you leave me for any quixotic idea, i'll marry the first man that proposes to me," said betty, lightly. "i am too happy to even consider such a possibility. there are no to-morrows when to-day is flawless--hark! what is that?" they were on the upper lake. over the mountains came the sonorous yet wailing, swinging yet rapt, intonation of the negro at his hymns. "there is a darky camp-meeting somewhere," said senator north, indifferently. "i hope they don't fish." the fervent incantation rose higher. it seemed to fill the forest, so wide was its volume, so splendid its energy. the echoes took it up, the very mountains responded. five hundred voices must have joined in the chorus, and even senator north threw back his head as the columns of the forest seemed to be the pipes of some stupendous organ. as for betty, when the great sound died away in a wail that was hardly separable from the sighing of the pines, she trembled from head to foot and burst into tears. he took hold of the oars, and rowed out of the lake and down to the spot where he was in the habit of landing. she had quite recovered herself by that time, and nodded brightly to him as he handed her the oars and stepped on shore. at the breakfast-table she mentioned casually that there was a negro camp-meeting in the neighborhood, and that she never had heard such magnificent singing. she saw an eager hungry flash leap into harriet's eyes, but they were lowered immediately. harriet had lost much of her satisfied mien in the last few weeks, and of late had looked almost haggard. but she had fallen back into her old habit of reticence, a condition betty always was careful not to disturb. that afternoon, however, she asked betty if she could speak alone with her, and they went out to the summer-house. "i want to go to that camp-meeting," she began abruptly. "betty, i am nearly mad." she began to weep violently, and betty put her arms about her. "is there any new trouble?" she asked. "tell me and i will do all i can to help you. why do you wish to go to this camp-meeting?" "so that i can shout and scream and pray so loud perhaps the lord'll hear me. betty, i don't have one peaceful minute, dreading your mother will tell him, and that if she doesn't that dreadful miss trumbull will. she hated me, and she laughed that dry conceited laugh of hers when she said good-bye to me. what's to prevent her writing to jack any minute? i lost her a good place, and we both insulted her common morbid vanity. what's to prevent her taking her revenge? ever since that thought entered my head it has nearly driven me mad." the same thought had occurred to betty more than once, but she assured harriet as earnestly as she could that there was no possible danger, that the woman was conscientious in her way, and prided herself on being better than her neighbors. "you must put these ideas out of your head," she continued. "any fixed idea soon grows to huge proportions, and dwarfs all the other and more reasonable possibilities. you sail now in a few weeks. keep up your courage till then--" "that's why i want to go to the camp-meeting. i used to go to them regularly every year with uncle, and they always did me good. i'm right down pious by nature, and i loved to shout and go on and feel as if the lord was right there: i could 'most see him. of course i gave up the idea of going to camp-meetings after you made a high-toned lady of me, and i've never sung since you objected that morning; but it's hurt me not to--_it's all there;_ and if it could come out in camp-meeting along with all the rest that's torturing me, i think i'd feel better. you've always been fine and happy, you don't know the relief it is to holler." betty drew a long breath. "but, harriet, i thought you did not like negroes. i don't think any white people are at this camp." "i despise them except when they're full of religion, and then we're all equal. betty, i must go. can you think of an excuse to make to jack? couldn't i pretend to stay at the hotel all day?" "there is no reason to lie about it. nothing would induce him to go to a camp-meeting. but he knows that you are a methodist, and that you were raised in the thick of that religion. i will row you to the next lake to-morrow morning before he is up, and tell him that i am to return for you. i don't approve of it at all. i think it is a horrid thing for you to do, if you want to know the truth, and there are certain tastes you ought to get rid of, not indulge. but if you must go, you must, i suppose." xx she sent a note over to senator north that evening, explaining why she could not meet him in the morning; but as she rowed harriet up the lake, she saw him standing on the accustomed spot. he beckoned peremptorily, and she pulled over to the shore, wondering if he had not received her note. "will you take me with you?" he asked. "i cannot get a boat, and i should like to row for you, if you will let me." he boarded the boat, and betty meekly surrendered the oars. she sat opposite him, harriet in the bow, and he smiled into her puzzled and disapproving eyes. but he talked of impersonal matters until they had entered the upper lake, and explained to harriet the whereabouts of the farmhouse whence she might be directed to the camp. harriet had not parted her lips since she left home. she sprang on shore the moment senator north beached the boat, and almost ran up the path. "well!" he exclaimed. "did you suppose that i should allow you to row through that lane alone? there is no lonelier spot in america; and with the forest full of negroes--were you mad to think of such a thing?" "i never thought about it," said betty, humbly. "i am not very timid." "i never doubted that you would be heroic in any conditions, but that is not the question. you must not take such risks. i shall return with you tonight--" "and harriet!" exclaimed betty, in sudden alarm. "perhaps we should not leave her." "she will be with the crowd. besides, it is her husband's place to look after her. i am concerned about you only. and i certainly shall not permit you to go to a camp-meeting, nor shall i leave you to take care of her. so put her out of your mind for the present." and betty madison, who had been pleased to regard the world as her football, surrendered herself to the new delight of the heavy hand. he re-entered the long water lane in the cleft of the mountain, and she did not speak for some moments, but his eyes held hers and he knew of what she was thinking. "i wonder if you always will do what i tell you," he said at length. she recovered herself as soon as he spoke. "too much power is not good for any man! nothing would induce me to assure you that you held my destiny in your hands, even did you!" his face did not fall. "you are the most spirited woman in america, and nothing becomes you so much as obedience." "nevertheless--" "nevertheless, you always will do exactly what i tell you." "even if you told me to marry another man?" "ah! i never shall tell you to do that. on your head be that responsibility." he did not attempt to speak lightly. his face hardened, and his eyes, which could change in spite of their impenetrable quality, let go their fires for a moment. "of course, if you wanted to go, i should make no protest. but so long as you love me i shall hold you--should, if we ceased to meet. and whatever you do, don't marry some man suddenly in self-defence. no man ever loved a woman more than i love you, but you can trust me." "ah!" she said with her first moment of bitterness, "you _are_ strong. and you believe that if you held out your arms to me now, in the depths of this forest, i would spring to them. i might not stay. i believe, i hope i never should see you alone again; but-" "you are deliberately missing the point," he said gravely. "i am not willing to pay the price of a moment's incomplete happiness. i have lived too long for that. and i should not have ventured even so far on dangerous ground," he added more lightly, "if it were not quite probable that five hundred people are ranging the forest this minute. we are later than we were yesterday, and they are not at their hymns. this evening when we return i shall discuss with you the possible age of the adirondacks, or tell you one of cooper's yarns." she leaned toward him, her breath coming so short for a moment that she could not speak. finally, with what voice she could command she said,-- "then, as we are safe here and you have broken down the reserve for a moment, let me ask you this: do you know how much i love you? do you guess? or do you think it merely a girl's romantic fancy--" "no!" he exclaimed. "no! no!" this time she did not cower before the passion in his face. she looked at him steadily, although her eyes were heavy. "ah!" she said at last. "i am glad you know. it seemed to me a wicked waste of myself that you should not. and if you do--the rest does not matter so much. for the matter of that, life is always making sport of its ultimates. the most perfect dream is the dream that never comes true." he did not answer for a moment, but when he did he had recovered himself completely. "that is true enough," he said. "we who have lived and thought know that. but there never was a man so strong as to choose the dream when reality cast off her shackles and beckoned. imagination we regard as a compensation, not as the supreme gift. the wise never hate it, however, as the failures so often do. for what it gives let us be as thankful as the poet in his garret. if we awake in the morning to find rain when we vividly had anticipated sunshine, it is only the common mind who would regret the compensation of the dream." xxi jack had almost finished his breakfast when betty entered the dining-room. he looked beyond her with the surprised and sulky frown of the neglected husband. "where on earth is harriet?" he asked. "her natural inclination is to lie in bed all day. what induced her--" "she wanted to go to the camp-meeting," said betty, not without apprehension. "you know she always went with her adopted father, who was a methodist clergyman--" "great heaven!" her apprehension was justified. his face was convulsed with disgust. "my wife at a camp-meeting! and you let her go?" "harriet is not sixteen. and when a person has been brought up to a thing, you cannot expect her to change completely in a few months. poor harriet lived in a forsaken village where she had no sort of society; i suppose the camp-meeting was her only excitement. and you know how emotionally religious the--the methodists are--you glare at me so i scalded my throat." "i am sorry, and i am afraid i have been rude. but you must--you must know how distasteful it is for me to think of my wife at a camp-meeting. great heaven!" "it is even worse than my going over to politics, isn't it? don't take it so tragically, my dear. the truth is, i suspect, harriet worries about having deceived molly and me, and the camp-meeting is probably to the methodist what the confessional is to the catholic. both must ease one's mind a lot." "harriet will have to ease her mind in some other way in the future. and it will be some time before i can forget this." "thank heaven i am not married. are you going after her? shall you march her home by the ear?" "i certainly shall not go after her--that is, if she is in no danger. where is this camp-meeting?" "oh, there are five hundred or so of them, and it is near a farmhouse." it was evident that he had forgotten the colour of the camp. "seriously, i would let her alone for to-day. that form of hysteria has to wear itself out. i did not like the idea of her going, and told her so, but i saw what it meant to her, and took her. when you get her over to europe, settle in some old town with a beautiful cathedral and a dozen churches, where the choir boys are ducky little things in scarlet habits and white lace capes, and there are mediaeval religious processions with gorgeous costumes and solemn chants, and the bells ring all day long, and there is a service every five minutes with music, and a blessed relic to kiss in every church. she will be a catholic in less than no time, and look back upon the camp-meeting with a shudder of aristocratic disgust." "i hope so. if you will excuse me i will go out and smoke a cigarette." she said to senator north as they approached the head of the lake that evening, "a tempest is brewing in our matrimonial teapot. he looked ready to divorce her when i told him where she had gone." "i hope he won't divorce her when she gets home. keep them apart if you can. she has developed more than one characteristic of the race to which she is as surely forged as if her fetters were visible. if she has all its religious fanaticism in her, she is quite likely to work up to that point of hysteria where she will proclaim the truth to the world." "ah!" cried betty, sharply. "why did i not think of that? what a poor guardian i am! if i had warned her, she never would have gone--but probably she won't, as we have thought of it. the expected so seldom happens." "don't count too much on that when great crises threaten," he said grimly. "the law of cause and effect does not hide in the realm of the unexpected when intelligent beings go looking for it. to tell you the truth, i have been apprehensive ever since i saw her face this morning. all the intelligence had gone out of it. with her race, religion means the periodical necessity to relapse into barbarism, to act like shouting savages after the year of civilized restraints. i will venture to guess that harriet has forgotten to-day everything she has learned since she entered your family. within that sad, calm, high-bred envelope is--i am afraid--a mind which has the taint of the blood that feeds it." "i have thought that for a long while. poor thing, why was she ever born?" "because sin has a habit of persisting, and is remorseless in its choice of vehicles. i do not see anything of her." they waited almost an hour before she came hurrying down the path. she barely recognized them, but dropped on her seat in the bow and crouched there, sobbing and groaning. it was a cheerless journey through the forest and down the lake, and the element of the grotesque did nothing to relieve it. betty, distracted at first, soon realized that upon her lay the responsibility of averting a tragedy, and she ordered her brain to action. she leaned forward finally and whispered to senator north: "row me to my boat-house and i will ask jack to row you home. he is too courteous to suggest sending a servant if i make a point of his taking you." he nodded. she saw the confidence in his eyes, and even in that hour of supreme anxiety her mind leapt forward to the winning of his approval as the ultimate of her struggle to save the happiness of two human beings who were almost at her mercy. jack was walking on the terrace. betty called to him, and he consented with no marked grace to be boatman. he had taken the oars before he noticed that his wife, whom he was not yet ready to forgive, was being hurried off by his cousin. "mrs. emory is very tired and her head aches," said senator north. "miss madison is anxious to get her into bed. can't you dine with me to-night? it would give me great pleasure, and men are superfluous, i have observed, when women have headaches." and jack, who was not sorry to punish his wife, accepted the invitation and did not return home till midnight. xxii betty took harriet to her own room and put her to bed. she had dinner for both sent upstairs, but harriet would not eat; neither would she speak. she lay in the bed, half on her face, as limp as the newly dead. occasionally she sighed or groaned. betty tried several times to rouse her, but she would not respond. finally she shook her. "you shall listen," she said sternly. "as you seem to have left your common-sense up there with those negroes, you are not to leave this room until you have recovered it--until i give you permission. do you understand?" she had calculated upon striking the slavish chord in the demoralized creature, and her intelligence had acted unerringly. harriet bent her head humbly, and muttered that she would do what she was told. when betty heard jack return, she went out to meet him, locking the door behind her. "harriet is with me for to-night," she said. "she needs constant care, for she is both excited and worn out; and as you still are angry with her--" "oh, i am sorry if she is really ill, and i will do anything i can--" "then leave her with me for to-night. you know nothing about taking care of women." jack, who was sleepy and still sulky, thanked her and went off to his room. she returned to harriet, who finally appeared to sleep. betty took the key from the door and put it in her pocket, then lay down on the sofa to sleep while she could: she anticipated a long and difficult day with harriet. she was awakened suddenly by the noise of a door violently slammed. immediately, she heard the sound of running feet. she looked at the bed. harriet was not there. a draught of cold air struck her, and she saw a curtain flutter. she ran to the window. it was open. she stepped out upon the roof of the veranda, and went rapidly round the corner to emory's room. one of the windows was open. betty looked up at the dark forest behind the lonely house and caught her breath. what should she see? but she went on. a candle burned in the room. harriet sat on a chair in her nightgown, her black hair hanging about her. "i told him," she said, in a hollow but even voice. "i was drunk with religion, and i told him. i didn't come to my senses till i looked up--i was on the floor--and saw his face. he has gone away." "what did he say?" "nothing. not a word." she drew a long sigh. "i'm so tired," she said. "i reckon i'll go to bed." xxiii for four days they had no word from jack emory. harriet slept late on the first day. when she awoke she was an intelligent being again, and strove for the controlled demeanor which she always had seemed to feel was necessary to her self-respect. but more than once she let betty see how nervous and terrified she was. "i am sure he will come back," she said, with the emphasis of unadmitted doubt. "sure! he adores me. of course he would not have married me if he had known, but that is done and cannot be undone. when he realizes that, he will come back, for he loves me. we are bound together and he will return in time." betty, who scarcely left her, gave her what encouragement she could. men were contradictory beings. jack had the fanatical pride and prejudices of his race, but he was in love. it was possible that after a few months of loneliness in his old house he would give way to an uncontrollable longing and send for his wife. she had made inquiries at the railroad station, and ascertained that he had taken a ticket for new york. undoubtedly he had gone on to washington. she reproached herself bitterly for having slept and allowed harriet to escape; but harriet, to whom she did not hesitate to express herself, shook her head. "you could not have stayed awake for twenty-four hours, and i should have found a chance sooner or later. the idea came to me up there while i was shouting and nearly crazy with excitement and the excitement of all those half-mad negroes in that wild forest,--the idea came to me that i must tell him, and i believed that it came straight from the lord. it seemed to me that he was there and told me that was my only hope,--to tell him myself before he found it out from your mother or miss trumbull. the idea never left me for a minute; it possessed me. i was so afraid you wouldn't have waited when i found out i was late,--that they would tell him before i got home. but i wanted to tell him alone. when you ordered me not to leave the room, i felt like i wanted to do anything you told me, but when i found you'd gone to sleep, i felt like i couldn't wait another minute. i crawled out of the window and went to him. and perhaps i did right. i can't think it wasn't an inspiration to confess and be forgiven before he found out for himself." betty was in the living-room with senator north when a letter from jack emory was brought to her. with it, also bearing the washington postmark, was another, directed in an unfamiliar and illiterate hand. betty, cold with apprehension, tore open emory's letter. it read:-- dear betty,--you know, of course, that my wife confessed to me the terrible fact that she has negro blood in her veins. my one impulse when she told me was to get back to my home like a beaten dog to its kennel. i did little thinking on the train; whether i talked to people or whether i was too stupefied to think, i cannot tell you. but here i have done thinking enough. at first i hated, i loathed, i abhorred her. i resolved merely never to see her again, to ask you to send her to europe as quickly as possible, to threaten her with exposure and arrest if she ever returned. but, betty, although i have not yet forgiven her, although the thought of her awful hidden birthmark still fills me with horror and disgust, i know the weakness of man. the marriage is void according to the laws of virginia, and i know that if i returned to her she would insist upon remarriage in a northern state--and i might succumb. and rather than do that, rather than dishonour my blood, rather than do that monstrous wrong, not only to my family but to the south that has my heart's allegiance--as passionate an allegiance as if i had fought and bled on her battlefields--i am going to kill myself. do not for a moment imagine, betty, that i hold you to account. i can guess why you did not warn me in the beginning, why you did not tell me when it was too late. would that i had gone on to the end faithful to my ideal of you! my lonely years in this old house were brightened and made endurable with the mere thought of you. but man was not made to live on shadows, and i loved again, so deeply that i dare not trust myself to live. i send her only one message--she must drop my name. she has no legal title to it according to the laws of virginia; the marriage would be declared void were it known that she had black blood in her. i would spare her shame and exposure, but she shall not bear my name, and it is my dying request that you use any means to make her drop it. good-bye. jack emory. betty thrust the letter into senator north's hand. "read it!" she said. "read it! oh, do you suppose he has--" her glance fell on the other letter and she opened it with heavy fingers. it read:-- mis betty,--marse jack done shot himself. he tole me not to telegraf. yours truly, jim. betty stood staring at senator north as he read jack's letter. when he had finished it, she handed him the other. he read it, then took her cold hands in his. "you must tell her," he said. "it is a terrible trial for you, but you must do it." "ah!" she cried sharply. "i believe you are thinking of me only, not of that poor girl." "my dear," he said, "that poor creature was doomed the moment she entered the world. no amount of sympathy, no amount of help that you or i could give her would alter her fate one jot. for all the women of that accursed cross of black and white there is absolutely no hope--so long as they live in this country, at all events. they almost invariably have intelligence. if they marry negroes, they are humiliated. if they pin their faith to the white man, they become outcasts among the respectable blacks by their own act, as the act of others has made them outcasts among the whites, their one compensation is the inordinate conceit which most of them possess. do not think i am heartless. i have thought long and deeply on the subject. but no legislation can reach them, and the american character will have to be born again before there is any change in the social law. it is one of those terrible facts of life that rise isolated above the so-called problems. if harriet lives through this, she will fall upon other miseries incidental to her breed, as sure as there is life about us, for she has the seeds of many crops within her. so it is true that all my concern is for you. in a way i helped to bring this on you; but you did what was right, and i have no regrets. and you must think of me as always beside you, not only ready to help you, but thinking of you constantly." she forgot harriet for the moment. "oh, i do," she said, "i do! i wonder what strength i would have had through this if you had not been behind me." "you are capable of a great deal, but no woman is strong enough to stand alone long. send for harriet to come here. i don't wish you to be alone with her when she hears this news." betty rang the bell, and sent a servant for harriet. she put emory's letter in her pocket. "i shall not give her that terrible message of his until she quite has got over the shock of his death," she said. "let her be his widow for a little while. then she can go to europe and resume her own name. she soon will be forgotten here." harriet came in a few moments. she barely had sat down since she had risen after a restless night. but she had refused to talk even to betty. as she entered the room and was greeted by one of those silences with which the mind tells its worst news, she fell back against the door, her hands clutching at her gown. betty handed her the servant's letter. she took it with twitching fingers, and read it as if it had been a letter of many pages. then she extended her rigid arms until she looked like a cross. "oh!" she articulated. "oh! oh!" but in a moment she laughed. "i don't feel surprised, somehow," she said sullenly. "i suppose i knew all along he'd do it. every day that i live i'll curse your unjust and murderous race while other people are saying their prayers. may the black race overrun the world and taint every vein of blood upon it. for me, i accept my destiny. i'm a pariah, an outcast. i'll live to do evil, to square accounts with the race that has made me what i am. i'll go back to that camp, and leave it with whatever negro will have me, and when i'm so degraded i don't care for anything, i'll go out and ruin every white man i can. i'll keep the money you gave me, so that i'll be able to do more harm--" "you can go," said betty, "but not yet. you shall go with me first and bury your husband. if you attempt to escape until i give you permission, i shall have you locked up. i shall take two menservants with us. now come upstairs with me and pack your portmanteau." she slipped her hand into senator north's. "good-bye," she said hurriedly. "i shall return friday night. please come over saturday morning." harriet preceded betty upstairs, and obeyed her orders sullenly. betty locked her in her room, and went to break the news to her mother. mrs. madison received it without excitement, remarking among her tears that it was one of the denouements she had imagined, and that on the whole it was the best thing he could have done. she consented to go with her maid to the hotel till friday, and the party left for washington that evening. xxiv they returned late on friday night. as betty had anticipated, harriet's exhausted body had not harboured a violent spirit for long. when they arrived in new york, she bought herself a crape veil reaching to her toes, and when she entered the dilapidated old house where her husband lay dead, she began to weep heavily. her tears scarcely ceased to flow until she had started on her way to the mountains again, and, hot as it was, she never raised her veil during the nine hours' train journey from new york to the lake, except to eat the food that betty forced upon her. mrs. madison had returned, and betty, after telling her those details of the funeral which elderly people always wish to know, went to her room, for she was tired and longed for sleep. but harriet entered almost immediately and sat down. she barely had spoken since monday; but it was evident that she was ready to talk at last, and betty stifled a yawn and sat upon the edge of her bed. harriet was a delicate subject and must be treated with vigilant consideration, except at those times where an almost brutal firmness was necessary. she looked sad and haggard, but very beautiful, and betty reflected that with her voice she might begin life over again, and in a public career forget her brief attempt at happiness. if she failed, it would be because there was so little grip in her; nature had been lavish only with the more brilliant endowments. "betty," she began, "i want to tell you that i'm sorry i said those dreadful words when i learned he was dead. but suspense and the doubt that had begun to work had nearly driven me crazy. i don't mind saying, though, that i wish i had kept on meaning them, that i could do what i said i'd do, for i meant them then--i reckon i did! but i haven't any backbone, my will is a poor miserable weak thing that takes a spurt and then fizzles out. and i'd rather be good than bad. i reckon that has something to do with it. i'd have gone to the bad, i suppose, if you hadn't taken hold of me; i'd have just drifted that way, although i liked teaching sunday-school, and i liked to feel i was good and respectable and could look down on people that were no better than they should be. and now that i've been living with such respectable and high-toned people as you all are, i don't think i could stand niggers and poor white trash again--" "i am sure you will be good," interrupted betty, encouragingly. "and you owe him respect. don't forget that, and make allowances for him." "ah, yes!" her face convulsed, but she calmed herself and went on. "you will never know how i loved him. i was proud enough of the name, but i worshipped him; and he killed himself to get rid of me! oh, yes, i'll make allowances, for i killed him as surely as if i had pulled that trigger--" "put the heavier blame on those that went before you," said betty, with intent to soothe. "you did wrong in deceiving him, but helpless women should be forgiven much that they do, in their desperate battle with circumstance. think of it as a warning, but not as a crime." don't let _anything_ make you morbid. life is full of pleasure. go and look for it, and put the past behind you." harriet shook her head. "i am not you," she said. "i am _i_. and i feel as if there was a heavy hand on my neck pressing me down. if i should live to be a toothless old woman, i should never feel that i had any right to be happy again. heaven knows what i might be tempted to do, but i should laugh at myself for a fool, all the same." the colour rushed over her face, but she continued steadily: "there's something else i must tell you before i can sleep to-night. i've read his letter to you. i knew he'd written it, and down there while you were asleep i took it out of your pocket and read it. it was i who suggested going over to virginia, for i was afraid some newspaper would get hold of it if we were married in washington, where he was so well known. i didn't know there was such a law in virginia. so, you see, the lord was on his side a little. i don't bear his name. i'm as much of an outcast as the vengeance of a wronged man could wish--" "i am sure he thought of you kindly at the last, and i never shall think of you in that--that other way. you must go to europe and begin life over again." harriet rose and kissed betty affectionately. "good-night," she said. "you are just worn out, and i have kept you up. but i felt i wanted to tell you--and that no matter how ungrateful i sometimes appear i always love you; and i'd rather be you than any one in the world, because you're so unlike myself." betty went with her to the door. "go to sleep," she said. "don't lie awake and think." "oh, i will sleep," she said. "don't worry about that." xxv betty slept late on the following morning, but arose as soon as she awoke and dressed herself hurriedly. senator north was an early visitor. doubtless he was waiting for her on the veranda. she ran downstairs, feeling that she could hum a tune. the morning was radiant, and for the last five days it had seemed to her that the atmosphere was as black as harriet's veil. she wanted the fresh air and the sunshine, the lake and the forest again. she wanted to talk for long hours with the one man who she was sure could never do a weak or cowardly act. she wanted to feel that her heavy responsibilities were pushed out of sight, and that she could live her own life for a little. she almost had reached the front door when a man sprang up the steps and through it, closing it behind him. it was john, the butler, and his face was white. "what is it?" she managed to ask him. "what on earth has happened now?" "it's miss walker, miss. they found her three hours ago--on the lake. the coroner's been here. they're bringing her in. i told them to take her in the side door. i hoped we'd get her to her room before you come down. i'll attend to everything, miss." betty heard the slow tramp of feet on the side veranda. it was the most horrid sound she ever had heard, and she wondered if she should cease to hear it as long as she lived. she went into the living-room and covered her face with her hands. she had not cried for jack emory, but she cried passionately now. she felt utterly miserable, and crushed with a sense of failure; as if all the wretchedness and tragedy of the past fortnight were her own making. two lives had almost been given into her keeping, and in spite of her daring and will the unseen forces had conquered. and then she wondered if the water had been very cold, and shivered and drew herself together. and it must have been horribly dark. harriet was afraid of the dark, and always had burned a taper at night. she heard senator north come up the front steps and knock. as no one responded, he opened the door and came into the living-room. "i have just heard that she has drowned herself," he said; and if there was a note of relief in his voice, betty did not hear it. she ran to him and threw herself into his arms and clung to him. "you said you would," she sobbed. "and i never shall be in greater grief than this. i feel as if it were my entire fault, as if i were a terrible failure, as if i had let two lives slip through my hands. oh, poor poor harriet! why are some women ever born? what terrible purpose was she made to live twenty-four wretched years for? you wanted me to become serious. i feel as if i never could smile again." he held her closely, and in that strong warm embrace she was comforted long before she would admit; but he soothed her as if she were a child, and he did not kiss her. _part iii_ _the political sea turns red_ i betty madison arrived in washington two days before christmas, with the sensation of having lived through several life-times since lady mary's car had left the pennsylvania station on the fourteenth of march; she half expected to see several new public buildings, and she found herself wondering if her old friends were much changed. people capable of the deepest and most enduring impressions often receive these impressions upon apparently shallow waters. they feel the blow, but it skims the surface at the moment, to choose its place and sink slowly, surely, into the thinking brain. betty's immediate attitude toward the tragic fact of harriet's death was almost spectacular. she felt herself the central figure in a thrilling and awful drama, its horror stifling for a moment the hope that the man whose footsteps followed closely upon that tramping of heavy feet would fulfil his promise and take her in his arms. and when he did her sense of personal responsibility left her, as well as her clearer comprehension of what had happened to bring about this climax so long and so ardently desired. but she had not seen senator north since the day following the funeral. mrs. madison had announced with emphasis that she had had as much as she could stand and would not remain another day in the adirondacks; she wanted narragansett and the light and agreeable society of many southern friends who did not have frequent tragedies in their families. betty telegraphed for rooms at one of the large hotels at the pier, and thereafter had the satisfaction of seeing her mother gossip contentedly for hours with other ladies of lineage and ante-bellum reminiscences, or sit with even deeper contentment for intermediate hours upon the veranda of the casino. when she herself was bored beyond endurance, she crossed the bay and lunched or dined in newport, where she had many friends; and she spent much time on horseback. when the season was over, they paid a round of visits to country houses, and finished with the few weeks in new york necessary for the replenishment of miss madison's wardrobe. she had hoped to reach washington for the opening of congress, but her mother had been ill, prolonging the last visit a fortnight, and gowns must be consulted upon, fitted and altered did the world itself stand still. and this was the one period of mental rest that betty had experienced since her parting from senator north. she had been much with people during these five months, seeking and finding little solitude, and few had found any change in her beyond a deeper shade of indifference and more infrequent flashes of humour. she permitted men to amuse her if she did not amuse them, to all out-door sports she was faithful, and she read the new books and talked intelligently of the fashions. when the conversation swung with the precision of a pendulum from clothes and love to war with spain, her mind leapt at once to action, and she argued every advocate of war into a state of fury. she had responded heavily to the president's appeal in behalf of the reconcentrados, but her mind was no longer divided. the failure of the belligerency resolutions to reach the attention of the house during the extra session of congress had rekindled the war fever in the country; and the constant chatter about the suffering cuban and the duty of the united states, the black iniquity of the speaker and the timidity of the president, were wearying to the more evenly balanced members of the community. "you say that we need a war," said betty contemptuously one day, "that it will shake us up and do us good. if we had fallen as low as that, no war could lift us, certainly not the act of bullying a small country, of rushing into a war with the absolute certainty of success. but we need no war. american manhood is where it always has been and always will be until we reach that pitch of universal luxury and sloth and vice which extinguished rome. those commercial and financial pursuits should make a man less a man is the very acme of absurdity. if our men were drawn into a righteous war to-morrow or a hundred years hence, they would fight to the glory of their country and their own honour. but if they swagger out to whip a decrepit and wheezy old man, when the excitement is over they will wish that the whole episode could be buried in oblivion. and i would be willing to wager anything you like that if this war does come off, so false is its sentiment that it will not inspire one great patriotic poem, nor even one of merit, and that the only thing you will accomplish will be to drag cuba from the relaxing clutches of one tyrant and fling her to a horde of politicians and greedy capitalists." but, except when politics possessed it, her brain seldom ceased, no matter how crowded her environment, from pondering on the events of the summer, and pondering, it sobered and grew older. she had engaged in a conflict with the unseen forces of life and been conquered. she had been obliged to stand by and see these forces work their will upon a helpless being, who carried in solution the vices of civilizations and men persisting to their logical climax, almost demanding aloud the sacrifice of the victim to death that this portion of themselves might be buried with her. despite her intelligence, nothing else could have given her so clear a realization of the eternal persistence of all acts, of the sequential symmetrical links they forge in the great chain of circumstance. it was this that made her hope more eager that the united states would be guided by its statesmen and not by hysteria, and it was this that made her think deeply and constantly upon her future relation with senator north. the danger was as great as ever. her brain had sobered, but her heart had not. separation and the absence of all communication--they had agreed not to correspond--had strengthened and intensified a love that had been half quiescent so long as its superficial wants were gratified. troubled times were coming when he would need her, would seek her whenever he could, and yet when their meetings must be short and unsatisfactory. when hours are no longer possible, minutes become precious, and the more precious the more dangerous. if she were older, if tragedy and thought had sobered and matured her character, if she were deprived of the protection of the lighter moods of her mind, would not the danger be greater still? the childish remnant upon which she had instinctively relied had gone out of her, she had a deeper and grimmer knowledge of what life would be without the man who had conquered her through her highest ideals and most imperious needs; and of what it would be with him. she had no intention of making a problem out of the matter, constantly as her mind dwelt upon the future. senator north had told her once that problems fled when the time for action began. she supposed that one of two things would happen after her return to washington: great events would absorb his mind and leave him with neither the desire nor the time for more than an occasional friendly hour with her; or after a conscientious attempt to take up their relationship on the old lines and give each other the companionship both needed, all intercourse would abruptly cease. ii "i am going to have my _salon,_ or at all events the beginning of it, at once," said betty to sally carter on the afternoon of her arrival, "and i want you to help me." "i am ready for any change," said miss carter. her appearance was unaltered, and she had spoken of emory's death without emotion. whether she had put the past behind her with the philosophy of her nature, or whether his marriage with a woman for whose breed she had a bitter and fastidious contempt had killed her love before his death, betty could only guess. she made no attempt to learn the truth. sally's inner life was her own; that her outer was unchanged was enough for her friends. "i am going to give a dinner to thirty people on the sixth of january. here is the list. you will see that every man is in official life. there are eight senators, five members of the house, the british ambassador, and the librarian of congress. some of them know my desire for a _salon_ and are ready to help me. i shall talk about it quite freely. in these days you must come out plainly and say what you want. if you wait to be too subtle, the world runs by you. i am determined to have a _salon,_ and a famous one at that. this is an ambitious list, but half-way methods don't appeal to me." "nobody ever accused you of an affinity for the second best, my dear; but you may thank your three stars of luck for providing you with the fortune and position to achieve your ambitions: beauty and brains alone wouldn't do it. senator north," she continued from the list in her hand: "mrs. north is wonderfully improved, by the way; has not been so well in twenty years. senator burleigh: he is out flat-footed against free silver since the failure of the bi-metallic envoys, and his state is furious. senator shattuc is for it, so they probably don't speak. senator ward might be induced to fall in love with lady mary and turn his eloquence on the senate in behalf of a marriage between uncle sam and britannia. there is no knowing what your _salon_ may accomplish, and that would be a sight for the gods. senator maxwell will inveigh in twelve languages against recognizing the belligerency of the cubans. senator french will supply the distinguished literary element. senator march represents the conservative democrat who is too good for the present depraved condition of his state. if you want to immortalize yourself, invent a political broom. senator eustis: he thinks the only fault with the senate is that it is too good-natured and does not say no often enough. who are the representatives? the only speaker, the immortal chairman of the committee on ways and means--don't place me near him, for i've just paid a hideous bill at the custom house and i'd scratch his eyes out. mr. montgomery: he and lady mary are getting almost devoted. trust a clever woman to pinch the memory of any other woman to death. the redoubtable mr. legrand, also of maine, upon whom the shafts of an embittered minority seem to fall so harmlessly; and mr. armstrong--who is he? i thought i knew as much about politics as you, by this time, but i don't recall his name." "i met him at narragansett, and had several talks with him. he is a bryanite, but very gentlemanly, and his convictions were so strong and so unquestionably genuine that he interested me. i want the best of all parties. we can't sit up and agree with each other." "don't let that worry you, darling. mr. north has been contradicting everybody in the senate for twenty years. your devoted burleigh quarrels with everybody but yourself. mr. maxwell snubs everybody who presumes to disagree with him, and french is so superior that i long for some naughty little boys to give him a coat of pink paint. your _salon_ will probably fight like cats. if the war cloud gets any bigger, your mother will go to bed early on _salon_ nights and send for a policeman. i look forward to it with an almost painful joy. i want to go in to dinner with mr. march, by the way. he is the noblest-looking man in congress--looks like what the statues of the founders of the republic would look like if they were decently done. i'll paint the menu cards for you, and i'll wear a new gown i've just paid ninety-three dollars duty on--i certainly shall tear out the eyes of 'the honourable gentleman from maine.'" iii when sally had gone, after an hour of consultation on the various phases of the dinner, betty sat for some moments striving to call up something from the depths of her brain, something that had smitten it disagreeably as it fell, but sunk too quickly, under a torrent of words, to be analyzed at the moment. it had made an extremely unpleasant impression;--painful perhaps would be a better word. in the course of ten minutes she found the sentence which had made the impression: "mrs. north is wonderfully improved, by the way; has not been so well in twenty years." the words seemed to hang themselves up in a row in her mind; they turned scarlet and rattled loudly. betty made no attempt to veil her mental vision; she stared hard at the words and at the impression they had produced. mrs. north was out of danger, and the fact was a bitter disappointment to her. in spite of the resolute expulsion of the very shadow of mrs. north from her thought, her sub-consciousness had conceived and brought forth and nurtured hope. what had made her content to drift, what had made her look with an almost philosophical eye on the future, was the unadmitted certainty that in the natural course of events a woman with a shattered constitution must go her way and leave her husband free. had he thought of this? he must have, she concluded. she was beginning to look facts squarely in the face; it was an old habit with him, older than herself. there never was a more practical brain. for the first time in her life she almost hated herself. she had done and felt many things which she sincerely regretted, but this seemed incomparably the worst. and despite her protest, her bitter self-contempt, the sting of disappointment remained; she could not extract it. she went out and walked several miles, as she always did when nervous and troubled. she came to the conclusion that she was glad to have heard this news to-day. she and senator north were to meet in the evening for the first time in five months. she had looked forward to this meeting with such a mingling of delight and terror that several times she had been on the point of sending him word not to come. but the impression sally's information had made had hardened her. she was so disappointed in herself, so humiliated to find that a mortal may fancy himself treading the upper altitudes, only to discover that the baser forces in the brain are working independently of the will, that she felt in anything but a melting mood. she knew that this mood would pass; she had watched the workings of the brain, its abrupt transitions and its reactions, too long to hope that she suddenly had acquired great and enduring strength. the future had not expelled one jot of its dangers, perhaps had supplemented them, but for the hour she not only was safe from herself, but the necessity to turn him from her door had receded one step. she had intended to receive him in the large and formal environment of the parlor, but in her present mood the boudoir was safe, and she was glad not to disappoint him; she knew that he loved the room. and if her brain had sobered, her femininity would endure unaltered for ever. she wore a charming new gown of white crepe de chine flowing over a blue petticoat, and a twist of blue in her hair. she had written to him from new york when to call, and he had sent a large box of lilies of the valley to greet her. she had arranged them in a bowl, and wore only a spray at her throat. women with beautiful figures seldom care for the erratic lines and curves of the floral decoration. she heard him coming down the corridor and caught her breath, but that was all. she did not tremble nor change colour. when he came in, he took both her hands and looked at her steadily for a moment. they made no attempt at formal greeting, and there was no need of subterfuge of any sort between them. no two mortals ever understood each other better. "i see the change in you," he said. "i expected it. you have given me a great deal, and your last survival of childhood was not the least. the serious element has developed itself, and you look the embodiment of an ideal." he dropped her hands and walked to the end of the room. when he returned and threw himself into a chair, she knew that his face had changed, then been ordered under control. "what shall i talk to you about?" he asked with an almost nervous laugh. "politics? comparatively little happened in the senate before the holidays. the president's message was of peculiar interest to me, inasmuch as it indicated that he is approaching spain in the right way and will succeed in both relieving the cubans and averting war if the fire-eaters will let him alone. the cubans probably will not listen to the offer of autonomy, for it comes several years too late and their confidence in spain has gone forever; but i am hoping that while this country is waiting to see the result, it will come to its senses. the pressure upon us has been intolerable. both houses have been flooded with petitions and memorials by the thousands: from legislatures, chambers of commerce, societies, churches, from associations of every sort, and from perhaps a million citizens. the capitol looks like a paper factory. if autonomy fails soon enough, or if some new chapter of horrors can be concocted by the yellow press, or if the unforeseen happens, war will come. the average congressman and even senator does not resist the determined pressure of his constituents, and to do them justice they have talked themselves into believing that they are as excited as the idle minds at home who are feeling dramatic and calling it sympathy. and the average mind hates to be on the unpopular side. "forgive me if i am bitter," he said, standing up suddenly and looking down on her with a smile, "but a good many of us are, just now. we can't help it. a great and just war would be met unflinchingly and with all pride; but the prospect of this hysterical row between a bull pup and a senile terrier fills us with impatience and disgust. the president must feel that he is expiating all the sins of the human race. the only man in the united states to be envied, so far, is the speaker of the house; it is almost a satisfaction to think that he looks like the monument he is; and for the time being his importance overshadows the president's. if the president can hold on, however, he will negotiate spain out of this hemisphere in less than a year." "i knew you were worried about it," she said softly. "i felt that so keenly that i never lost an opportunity to war against the war. i made enemies right and left, and acquired a reputation for heartlessness." "our minds are much alike," he said, staring down at her and dropping his voice for a moment. "you may have done it for me, but you are as sincere as i am. i have stimulated your mind, that is all. how much you can do here in washington--among the men who legislate--i cannot say. a woman who takes a high and definite stand is always an influence for good; but the women who influence men's votes are not of your type. they are women who sacrifice anything to gain their ends, or those who have educated themselves to play upon the vanity and other petty qualities of men; every peg in their brain is hung with a political trick. the only men who attract you are too strong to vote under the influence of any woman, even if they loved her. if shattuc were not as obstinate as a mule," he added more lightly, "i should ask you to convert him to the principles of sound currency. that is another ugly cloud ahead: there is going to be an attempt made to pass through both houses a concurrent resolution advocating the free and unlimited coinage of silver and to pay the public debt with it. as far as our honour goes, the passing of such a resolution would affect us as deeply as if it were to become a law. we should stand before the world as willing and ready to violate the national honour, ignore our pledges and recklessly impair our credit. i don't think the resolution will pass the house, the republican majority is too strong there, but i am afraid it will pass the senate; although we are in the majority, a good many republicans are western men and silverites. a certain number on both sides of the chamber are voting merely to please their constituents, feeling reasonably sure that the resolution will fail in the house. they appear to care little for the honour of the senate; they certainly have not the backbone to defy their constituents if they do care for it. to the outside world the senate is a unit; every resolution that passes it might come out of one gigantic skull at peace with itself. this one will be passed by a small majority who have not imagination enough to read the works of future historians, nor even to grasp public opinion as unexpressed by their constituents. "there is one fact that the second-rate politician never grasps," he said, walking impatiently up and down; betty had never seen him so restless. "that is, that the true american respects convictions; no matter how many fads he may conceive nor how loud he may clamour for their indulgence, when his mind begins to balance methodically again, he respects the man who told him he was wrong and imperilled his own re-election rather than vote against his convictions. many a senator has lost re-election through yielding to pressure, for elections do not always occur at the height of a popular agitation; and when men have had time to cool off and think, they despise and distrust the waverer. if you will read the biographies in the congressional directory, you will see that with a very few exceptions the new englanders are the only men who come back here--to both houses--term after term. they practically are here for life; and the reason is that they belong to the same hard-headed, clear-thinking, unyielding, and puritanically upright race as the men who elect them to office. they have their faults, but they represent the iron backbone of this country, and in spite of fads and aberrations, and gales in general on the political sea, they will remain the prevailing influence. if i speak seldom in the senate, i certainly make a good many speeches to you. but i want you to understand all i can teach you and to do what you can." "yes," she said, rising abruptly, "i want an object in life, a vital interest. i need it! a year ago i took up politics out of curiosity and ennui; to-day they represent a safeguard as well as a necessity. i cannot write books nor paint pictures; charities bore me and i never shall marry. my heart must go to the wall, and my brain is very active. the more one studies and observes politics the more absorbing they become. but that is only a part of it. i want to be of some use to the country, to accomplish something for the public good; and it will be a form of happiness to think that i am working with you--for i certainly agree with you in all things, whatever the cause. when the time comes that we meet in public only, i can have that much happiness at least; and i always shall know where i can help you--" "the mere fact that you are alive is help enough--and torment enough. i shall go now. we have gotten through this first meeting better than i had hoped." they both laughed a little as they shook hands, for politics had cleared the air. iv he came in again on sunday, but burleigh and other men were there; and as the senate had adjourned until the fifth, there was no excuse for him to call at the late hour when she was sure to be alone; so he dropped in twice to luncheon, and they went for a long walk in rock creek park afterward. on one of these occasions sally carter joined them; and on the other, although but for the occasional passer-by they were alone for two hours in the wild beauty of rocky gorges and winter woods, they talked of war and spain. he left her at the door. on thursday night she was to have her dinner, and in spite of her stormy inner life she felt a pleasurable nervousness as the hour approached; for on its results depended the colour of her future. with love or without it she had to live on, and if she could see the way to serve her country, to preserve some of its higher ideals as well as to win a distinguished position, she had no doubt that in time she should find resignation. all her invitations but one had been accepted: the british ambassador was attending a diplomatic dinner, but would come in later. betty was not altogether regretful, for the question of precedence, with all her personages, was sufficiently complicated. the speaker ranked the senators, but there were eight senators to be disposed of with tact; they might overlook a mistake, but their wives or daughters would not. she had spared no pains to honour her guests. she still scorned the plutocratic multiplication of flowers until they seemed to rattle like the dollars they stood for, but the table looked very beautiful, and the silver and china and crystal had endured through several generations. some of it had been used in the white house in the days when it was an honour to have a president in one's family. her father's wine-cellar had been celebrated, and she had employed connoisseurs in its replenishment ever since the duties of entertaining had devolved upon her. she also had her own _chef,_ and knew with what satisfaction he filled the culinary brain-cells of the patient diner out in washington. all the lower house was softly lit with candles; except her boudoir, which was dark and locked. she wore a gown of apple-green satin which looked simple and was not. mrs. madison was like an exquisite miniature, in satin of a pinkish gray hue, trimmed with much alencon, a collar of diamonds, and a pink spray in her soft white hair. her blue eyes were very bright, and there was a pink colour in her cheeks, but she looked better than she felt. she was, indeed, hot and cold by turns, and she held herself with a majesty of mien which only a tiny woman can accomplish. sally carter was the first to arrive, and looked remarkably well in her black velvet of custom house indignities. the montgomerys followed, and lady mary wore the azure and white in which she appeared harmless and undiplomatic. no one was more than ten minutes late, and at eight o'clock the party was seated about the great round table in the dining-room. senator north sat on betty's right, senator ward on her left. next to that astute diplomatist was the lady in azure and white, whom he admired profoundly and understood thoroughly. she never knew the latter half of his attitude, however. he was a gallant american, and delighted to indulge a pretty woman in her fads and ambitions. mrs. madison achieved resignation between the speaker of the house and senator maxwell, and sally carter was paired with senator march. betty had meditated several hours over the placing of her guests, and had invited as many pretty and charming women as the matrimonial entanglements of her statesmen would permit. fortunately it was early in the year, and a number of wives had tarried behind their husbands. the family portraits on the dark old walls had not looked down upon so brilliant a gathering for half a century, and betty's eyes sparkled and she lifted her head, her nostrils dilating. the light in her inner life burned low, and her brain was luminous with the excitement of the hour. and as he was beside her, there really was no cause for repining. at once the talk was all of war. washington, like the rest of the country, did not rise to its highest pitch of excitement until after the destruction of the _maine_, but no other subject could hold its interest for long. in ordinary conditions politics are barely mentioned when the most political city in the world is in evening dress, but war is a microbe. "i am for it," announced lady mary, "if only to give you a chance to find out whom your friends are." "there is nothing in the history of human nature or of nations to disprove that our friends of to-day may be our enemies of to-morrow," observed senator north. "i believe you hate england." "on the contrary, i am probably the best friend she has in the senate. my mission is to forestall the hate which leads so many ardent but ill-mated couples into the divorce courts." "well, you will see," said lady mary, mysteriously. "i do not doubt it," said senator north, smiling. "and we shall be grateful. if the circumstances ever are reversed, we shall do as much for her." "how much?" "that will depend upon the quality of statesmanship in both houses." "i wish you would explain what you mean by that." lady mary's wide voice was too well trained to sharpen. her cold blue eyes wore the dreamy expression of their most active moments. "i wish i knew whether the statesmen of the future were to be populists or republicans." "well, whatever you mean you have no sentiment." "i have no sentimentalism." lady mary shrugged her shoulders and turned to senator ward. she knew better than to talk politics to him before dinner was two thirds over, but she bent her pretty head to him, and gave him her distinguished attentions while he re-invigorated his weary brain. he smiled encouragingly. "the statesmen of the future will be populists, senator," announced betty's last recruit, a man with a keen sharply cut face and a slightly nasal though not displeasing voice. he was forty and looked thirty. "the populist will have called himself so many things by that time that 'statesman' will do as well as any other," growled the speaker. "'the statesmen's party' would sound well, and would be worthy of the noble pretensions of your leader." "well, they are noble," said armstrong tartly, but glad of the opportunity to talk back to the personage who treated him in the house as a czar treats a minion. "we are the only party that is ready to cling to the constitution as if it were the rock of ages." "well, you've clung so hard you've turned it upside down, and the new inventions and patent improvements you've stuccoed it with will do for the 'statesmen's party,' but not for the united states--madam?" mrs. madison had touched his arm timidly, and asked him if he liked terrapin. her colour was deeper, but she exerted herself to keep the attention of this huge personality whom a poor worm might be tempted to assassinate. senator burleigh's voice rose above the chatter. "who would be a western senator?" he said plaintively. "my colleague and i received a document today, signed by two thousand of our constituents, the entire population of an obscure but determined town, in which we were ordered to acknowledge the belligerency of the cubans at once or expect to be tarred and feathered upon our return. the climate of my state is excellent for consumption, but bad for nerves. doubtless most of these men come of good new england stock, whose relatives 'back east' would never think of doing such a thing; but the intoxicating climate they have been inhaling for half a generation, to say nothing of the raw conditions, makes them want to fight creation." senator maxwell, who had more of the restlessness of youth than the repose of age, threw back his silver head and gave his little irritated laugh. "that is it," he said. "it is the lust of blood that possesses the united states. they don't know it. they call it sympathy; but their blood is aching for a fight, so that they can read the exciting horrors of it in the newspapers. you might as well reason with mad dogs." "i shall not attempt to reason with my kennel," said burleigh. "in the present congested state of the mails this particular memorial has gone astray." "the trials of a senator!" cried sally carter. "petitions and lobbyists, election clouds, fractious and dishonest legislatures, unprincipled bosses and the country gone mad!" "i can give you a list as long as my arm," said senator march, grimly; "and you may believe it or not, but it is all i can do to walk in my committee-room and i haven't a chair to sit on. i live under a snow-storm of petitions, memorials, and resolutions. i expect to see them come flying through the window, and i dream of nothing else." betty had taken part in the general conversation until the last few moments, but as it concentrated on the subject of cuban autonomy and her guests ceased to appeal to her, she fell into conversation with senator north, who she knew would be willing to dispense with politics for a few moments. "you have no idea how i miss jack emory," she said. "he half lived with us, you know, and i am always expecting to meet him in the hall. when i was writing my invitations i caught myself beginning a note, 'dear jack.' it is uncanny." "it is the only revenge the dead have; and doubtless it is this vivid after life of theirs in memory that is at the root of the belief in ghosts. you say that you are going to open your _salon_ every year with a dinner to the original members. it will be interesting to watch the two faces in some of the seats--if you attempt to fill the vacant chairs." betty pressed her handkerchief against her lips, for she knew they had turned white. she was but twenty-eight, and if her _salon_ was the success it promised to be she would sit at the head of this table for twenty-eight years to come, and then have compassed fewer years than the man beside her. she had refused resolutely to permit her thought to dwell on the tragic difference in their ages, a difference that had no meaning now, but would symbolize death and desolation hereafter; but her mind had moments of abrupt insight that no will could conquer, and not long since she had gasped and covered her face with her hands. "that was brutal of me," he said hurriedly. "your dinner is the brilliant success that it deserves to be, and you should be permitted to be entirely happy. there is not a bored face, and if they are all jabbering about the everlasting subject, so much the better for you. it gives your _salon_ its political character at once; you would have had a hard time getting them to begin on bimetallism and the census--perish the thought! ward is now making lady mary think that she is a greater diplomatist than himself. maxwell and the speaker are wrangling across your mother, who looks alarmed; burleigh is flirting desperately with miss alice maxwell, who is purring upon his senatorial vanity; your populist is breaking out into the turgid rhetoric of mr. bryan; french has persuaded that charming english girl that he is the most literary man in america, and miss carter is condoling with march about an ungrateful state. so be happy, my darling, be happy." his voice had dropped suddenly. she made an involuntary movement toward him. "i am," she said below her breath. "i am." she added in a moment, "will you always come to my thursday evenings, no matter what happens?" "always." he had turned slightly, and one hand was on his knee. she slipped hers into it recklessly; they were safe in the crowd, and her hand ached for his. it ached from the grasp it received, for he was a man whose self-control was absolute or non-existent. but she clung to him as long as she dared, and when she withdrew her hand she sought for distraction in her company. it looked as gay and happy as if war had been invented to animate conversation and make a bored people feel dramatic. death was close upon the heels of two of the distinguished men present; but even though the eyes of the soul be raised everlastingly to the world above, they are blind to the portal. the busy member who had incurred miss carter's disapproval and the brilliant librarian of congress were among the liveliest at the feast. it was senator ward at one end of the table and burleigh at the other, who finally started the topic of miss madison's intended _salon_, not only that those unacquainted with her ambition might be enlightened, but that the great intention should receive a concrete form without further delay. a half-hour later, when the women left the table, betty had the satisfaction of knowing that whatever the final result of her venture, her stand was as fully recognized as if she had written a book and found a publisher and critics to advertise her. v betty went to the senate gallery on the following day at the request of armstrong, and heard an exposition of the populist religion by the benevolent-looking bore from nebraska. he was followed by an arraignment of the "gold standard administration" and the republican party, from the leading advocate of bimetallism with-or-without-the-concurrence-of-europe. the utterances of both gentlemen were delivered with the repose and dignity peculiar to their body, and patriotism and the constitution would appear to be their watchword and fetish. burleigh came up to the gallery as the silver senator sat down, and smiled wearily at betty's puzzled comments. "of course they sound well," he replied. "in the first place there is always much to be said on both sides of any question, and a clever speaker can make his side dwarf the other. and of course no party could exist five minutes unless it had some good in it. there are several admirable principles in the populist creed; there are enough windy theories to upset the constitution of which they prate; and, by the way, the more wrong-headed a would-be statesman is the more hysterically does he plead for the constitution. as to the other senator--i sympathize as deeply with the farmer as any man, and i hoped against hope for the success of the bimetallic envoys; but the farmer is of considerably less importance than the national honour; and if a man is not statesman enough to take the national view when he comes to the senate, he had better stay at home and become a party boss." "are you in trouble at home? i saw that you made a speech just before you left." "they are furious, and elections are imminent; but i never have believed that it paid in the end to be a politician, and i propose to hold to that view. if i am not re-elected this time, i will venture to say that i shall be six years later--" "oh, i should be sorry! i should be sorry! your heart is in the senate. how could you settle down contentedly to practise law in a western city for six years?" "i certainly should have very little to offer a woman," he said bitterly. his frank handsome face had lost the expression of gayety which had sat so gracefully upon the determination of its contours; he looked harassed and a trifle cynical. "there is only one thing i hate more than leaving the united states senate--and god knows i love it and its traditions: what that is i feel i now have no right--" "oh, yes, you have; for if i loved you i would live at the north pole with you, and i hate cold weather. i don't want you to put me in that sort of position, both for the sake of your own pride and for our friendship." "that is like you, and i shall take you at your word. perhaps you can imagine what it cost me to come out and declare myself in a state howling for silver, when i knew that to leave washington meant losing my chance with you. for if i am not re-elected i must go out there and stay. i could afford to live here, of course--i hope you know that i have plenty of money--but my political future is there. even if you made it a condition, i should not pull up stakes, for a man who despised himself for abandoning his ambitions and his power for usefulness could not be happy with any woman." "i should not make such a condition. as i said, i willingly would go west with you if i loved you." "would to god you did! what i meant was that in going i lose my chance." betty looked at him and shook her head slowly. "yes!" he said. "yes! yes! i believe, i know that i could win you with time. and now that the future looks dark i want you more than ever." "ah, i wish i could love you," she exclaimed fervently. "i have enough of feminine insight to know that a woman is really happy only when she is making a man happy, and that she is almost ready to bless the troubles which give her the opportunity to console him." she was looking straight down at senator north as she spoke. her voice was impassioned as she finished, and she forgot the man at her side. but he never had suspected that she loved another man. his face flushed and he lowered his head eagerly. "betty!" he said, "betty! come to me and i swear to make you happy. you don't know what love is. you need to be taught. any man can make a woman of feeling love him if he loves her enough and she has no antipathy to him. and there is no reason under heaven why we should not be happy together." there was only one. betty was convinced of that; and for the moment the dull ache in her heart prompted her to wish that she never had seen the man down there listening impassively to remarks on the immigration bill. she wanted to be happy, she was made to be happy, and it was easy to imagine the most exacting woman deeply attached to robert burleigh. what was love that it defied the will? why could not she shake up her brain as one shakes up a misused sofa-cushion and beat it into proper shape? what was love that persisted in spite of the will and the judgment, that came whence no mortal could discover, but an abnormal condition of the brain, a convolution that no human treatment could reach? but she only shook her head at burleigh, although she knew that it would be wisdom to give him her hand in full view of the stragglers in the gallery. "i must go now," she said. "i have calls to pay. come and dine with us to-night. if there is even a chance of our losing you, my mother and i must have all of you that we can, meanwhile." vi "it is just a year ago to-day, betty, that you nearly killed me by announcing your determination to go into politics--or whatever you choose to call it. i put down the date. a great deal has happened since then--poor dear jack! and i often think of that unfortunate creature, too. but you and i are here in this same room, and i wonder if you are glad or sorry that you entered upon this eccentric course." "i have no regrets," said betty, smiling. "and i don't think you have. you like every man that comes here, and while they are talking to you forget that you ever had an ache. as for me--no, i have no regrets, not one. i am glad." "well, i will admit that they are much better than i thought. i must say i never saw a finer set of men than those at your dinner, and i felt proud of my country, although i was nervous once or twice. i almost love mr. burleigh; so i refrain from further criticism. but, betty, there is one thing i feel i must say--" she hesitated and readjusted her cushions nervously. betty looked at her inquiringly, and experienced a slight chill. she stood up suddenly and put her foot on the fender. "it is this," continued mrs. madison, hurriedly. "i think you are too much with senator north. he was here constantly before you left washington, and of course i know you boated with him a great deal last summer. since your return he has been here several times, and you treat him with twice the attention with which you treat any other man. of course i can understand the attraction which a man with a brain like that must have for you, but there is something more important to be considered. you have been the most noticeable girl in washington for years--in our set--and now that you have branched out in this extraordinary manner and are even going to have a _salon_, you'll quickly be the most conspicuous in the other set. mr. north is easily the most conspicuous figure in the senate--a half dozen of your new friends, including that speaker, have told me so--and if this friendship keeps on people will talk, as sure as fate. there is no harm done yet--i sounded sally carter--but there will be. that sort of gossip grows gradually and surely; it is not like a great scandal that blazes up and out and that people get tired of; they will get into the habit of believing all sorts of dreadful things, and they never will acquire the habit of disbelieving them." betty made no reply. she stood staring into the fire. "it would have been more difficult for me to say such a thing to you a year ago; but you seem a good deal older, somehow. i suppose it is being so much with men old enough to be your father, and talking constantly about things that give me the nightmare to think of. and of course you have had two terrible shocks. but you are so buoyant i hope you will get over all that in time. wouldn't you like to go to the riviera, and then to london for the season?" "and desert my _salon?_" asked betty, lightly. "you forget this is the long term. i am praying that summer will come late, so that you can stay on. it never had occurred to me that any one would notice my friendship with mr. north. i hope they will do nothing so silly as to comment on it." "well, they will, if you are not very careful. and there is no position in the world so unenviable as that of a girl who gets herself talked about with a married man. men lose interest in her and raise their eyebrows at the clubs when her name is mentioned, and women gradually drop her. money and position will cover up a good many indiscretions in a married woman or a widow, but the world always has demanded that a girl shall be immaculate; and if she permits society to think she is not, it punishes her for violating one of its pet standards. mr. north can be nothing to you. the day is sure to come when you will want to marry. no woman is really satisfied in any other state." betty turned and looked squarely at her mother, who had lost even the semblance of nervousness in her deep maternal anxiety. "do you believe that i love mr. north?" "yes, i do. and i know that he loves you. there is no mistaking the way a man turns to a woman every time she begins to speak. but on that score i have no fears. i know that you not only must have the high principles of the women of your race, but that you are too much a woman-of-the-world to enter upon a _liaison_, which would mean constant lying, fear, blackmail by servants, and general wretchedness. and i have perfect faith in him. even a scoundrel will hesitate a long while before he makes himself responsible for the future of a girl in your position, and mr. north is not a scoundrel but an honourable gentleman. moreover he knows that a scandal would ruin him in his puritanical state; and he adores his sons, who are prouder of him than if he were ten presidents. but the world can talk and continue to talk, and to act as viciously about an imprudent friendship as about a _liaison_, for it has no means of proving anything and likes to believe the worst. now, i shan't say any more. you are capable of doing your own thinking. only do think--please." betty nodded to her mother, and went to her boudoir and sat there for hours. nothing could have put the ugly practical side of her romance so precisely before her as her mother's black and white statement, full of the little colloquial phrases with which an un-ambitious world expresses itself. even for him, betty reflected, she could not endure vulgar gossip, and wondered how any high-bred woman could for any man. "for what else does civilization mean," she thought, "if those of us that have its highest advantages are not wiser and more fastidious than the mob? and unless a woman is ready to go and live in a cave, she cannot be happy in the loss of the world's regard, for it can make her uncomfortable in quite a thousand little ways. expediency is the root of all morality. it is stupid to be unmoral, and that is the long and the short of it. i would marry him to-morrow if i had to cook for him, if he were dishonoured by his country, if he were smitten suddenly with ill-health and never could walk again. i am willing to go through life alone for his sake, even without seeing him, and after he is dead and gone. i love him absolutely, and if there is another world i must meet him there. but i am not willing to become a social pariah on his account." she never had permitted her mind to linger on the practical aspect of a different relationship, to admit that such a chapter was possible outside of her imagination, but she did so now, deliberately. she knew that what her mother had intimated was true, that the happiness to be got out of it would amount to very little, and that the day would come when she would say that it was not worth the price. there were many times when she was not capable of reasoning coldly on this question, but she had been listening for two hours to senator french on the restriction of immigration, and felt all intellect. her mind turned to harriet. there was a creature foredoomed to destruction by the forces within her, struggling in vain, assisted and guarded in vain. should she, with her inheritance of kindly forces within and without, deliberately readjust her manifest lines into a likeness of harriet walker's? and she knew that even if she hoodwinked the world, the miserable deception of it all, the nervous terrors, not only would wear love down, but shatter her ideals of herself and him. she would be infinitely more miserable than now. it relieved her to have thought that phase out, and she put it aside. but the other? must she give him up? what pleasure could she find in sitting here with him if her mother's apprehensive mind did not leave the room for a moment? what pleasure if a vulgar world were whispering? she reflected with some bitterness that one danger was receding. he had not entered this room since the day of her return. although he had called several times, he had come in the evening, when she always sat with her mother, or in the morning, when mrs. madison again was sure to be present. she knew that he dared not come here, and that it was more than likely he never would call at the old hour again. she realized these two facts suddenly and vividly; her mind worked with a brutal frankness at times. she began to cry heavily, the tears raining on her intellectual mood and obliterating it. if she were not to see him alone again, she might as well ask him to come to the house on thursday evenings only, and to show her no attention in public; if she could not have the old hours again, she wanted nothing less. and she wanted them passionately; those hours came back to her with a poignancy of happiness in memory that the present had not revealed, and the thought that they had gone for ever filled her with a suffocating anguish that was as complete as it was sudden. she implored him under her breath to come to her, then prayed that he would not.... she became conscious that she was in a mood to take any step, were he here, rather than lose him; and the mood terrified her. would the time come when this intolerable pain would kill every inheritance in her brain, its empire the more absolute because it made passion itself insignificant in the more terrible want of the heart? if it did, she would marry burleigh. she made up her mind instantly. she would fight as long as she could, for she passionately desired to live her life alone with the idea of this man; but if she were not strong enough, she would marry and bury herself in the west. nothing but an irrevocable step would affect a permanent mental attitude, and burleigh would give her little time for thought. vii betty went very often to the senate gallery in these days, for it was the only place where one might have relief from the eternal subject of cuba. although the house broke loose under cover of the diplomatic and consular appropriation bill when it was in the committee of the whole and free of the speaker's iron hand, and raged for two days with the vehemence of long-repressed passion, the senate permitted only an occasional spurt from its warlike members, and pursued its even way with the important bills before it. but at teas, dinners, luncheons, and receptions people chattered with amiability or in suavity about the hostile demonstrations at havana against americans, the spanish minister's letter, spain's demand for the recall of consul-general lee, the dying reconcentrados, the exploits of the insurgents, and the general possibilities of war. the old madison house, which had ignored politics for half a century, vibrated with polite excitement on thursday evenings. about a hundred people came to these receptions, which finished with a supper, and it was understood that the free expression of opinion should be the rule; consequently several repressed members of both houses delivered impromptu speeches, in the guise of toasts, before that select audience; much to the amusement of senator north and the speaker of the house. burleigh's was really impassioned and brilliant; and armstrong's, if woolly in its phrasing and populistic in its length, was sufficiently entertaining. as for mrs. madison, she became imbued with the fear that war would be declared in her house. two cabinet ministers had been added to the _salon_, and what they in conjunction with the colossal speaker and senators north and ward might accomplish if they cared to try, was appalling to contemplate. she begged betty to adjourn the _salon_ till peace had come again. but to this betty would not hearken. it was the sun of her week, through whose heavy clouds flickered the pale stars of distractions for which she was beginning to care little. one of life's compensations is that there is always something ahead, some trifling event of interest or pleasure upon which one may fix one's eye and endeavour to forget the dreary tissue of monotony and commonplace between. betty found herself acquiring the habit of casting her eye over the day as soon as she awoke in the morning, and if nothing distracting presented itself, she planned for something as well as she could. she endeavoured to introduce the pleasant english custom of asking a few congenial spirits to come for a cup of afternoon tea. these little informal reunions are among the most delightful episodes of london life, and if established as a custom in washington would be like the greenest of oases in the whirling breathless sandstorms of that social sahara. but even betty madison, strong as she was both in position and personality, met with but a moderate success. when women have from six to twenty-five calls to pay every afternoon of the season, with at least one tea a day besides, they have little time or inclination for pleasant informalities. doubtless miss madison's friends felt that they should be relieved of the additional tax. even the women of the fashionable set, which includes some of the old washingtonians and many newer comers of equally high degree, and which ignores the official set, preserve the same ridiculous fashion of calling in person six days in the week instead of merely leaving cards as in older and more civilized communities. in london, society has learned to combine the maximum of pleasure with the minimum of work. washington society is its antithesis; and although many of the most brilliant men in america are in its official set, and the brightest and most charming women in its fashionable as well as political set, they are, through the exigencies of the old social structure, of little use to each other. betty occasionally managed to capture three or four people who talked delightfully when they felt they had time to indulge in consecutive sentences, but as a rule people came on her reception day only, and many of them walked in at one door of her drawing-room and out at the other. the debate in the senate on the payment of bonds interested her deeply, for she knew that it meant days of uneasiness for senator north, who rarely was absent from his seat. his brief speech on the subject was the finest she had heard him make, and although it was bitter and sarcastic while he was arraigning the adherents of the resolution to pay the government debt in silver, he became impersonal and almost impassioned as he argued in behalf of national honesty. betty never had seen him so close to excitement, and she wondered if he found it a relief to speak out on any subject. but if he ever thought of her down there he made no sign, for he neither raised his eyes to the gallery nor did he pay her a second visit in her select but conspicuous precinct. the resolution passed the senate, and on that evening senator north called at the madison house. it was two weeks since he had called before, and although he had come to her evenings and they had met at several dinners, they had not attempted conversation. the montgomery's and carters had dined at the house, and all were in the parlour when he arrived. after a few minutes he was able to talk apart with betty. they moved gradually toward the end of the room and sat down on a small sofa. "i am glad you came to-night," she said. "it was my impulse to go to you when i heard how the vote had gone." "i knew it," he replied, "and if i could have come straight up here to the old room, i should have hung up the vote with my overcoat in the hall." he looked harassed, and his eyes, while they had lost nothing of their magnetic power, were less calmly penetrating than usual. they looked as if their fires had been unloosed more than once of late and were under indifferent control. "you will not come to that room again!" "no. and i soon shall cease to come here at all except on thursdays." "you almost have done that now. i think i get more satisfaction watching you from the gallery than anything else. you look very calm and senatorial, and you always are standing some one in a corner who is trying to make a speech." "i am relieved to know that i do not inspire the amazement of my colleagues. it is a long while since i have felt calm and senatorial, however. but these are days for alertness of mind, and even the most distracting of women must be shut up in her cupboard and forgotten for a few hours every day." "i think i rather like that." "of course you do. a woman always likes a strong lover. and you have plenty of revenge, if you did but know." "i know," she said; and as she raised her eyes and looked at him steadily, he believed her. "tell me at least that you miss coming to that room--i want to hear you say it." "good god!" betty caught her breath. but when women feel fire between their fingers and are reckless before the swift approach of a greater wretchedness than that possessing them, they are merciless to themselves and the man. "can you stay away?" she whispered. "can you?" "it is the one thing i can do." "do you realize what you are saying?--that you have put me aside for ever? are you willing to admit that it is all over? how am i to live on and on and on? can you fancy me alone next summer in the adirondacks--" "hush! hush! do you wish me to come? answer me honestly, without any feminine subterfuge." "no, i do not." "and i should not come if you did, for i know the price we both should pay better than you do, and only complete happiness could justify such a step. you and i could find happiness in marriage only--we both demand too much! but i also know that the higher faculties of the mind do not always prevail, and i shall not see you alone again." she pushed him further. "you take this philosophically because you have loved before and recovered. you feel sure that no love lasts." "when a man loves as i love you, he has no past. there are no experiences alive in his memory to help him to philosophy. with the entire world the last love is the only love. as for myself, i shall not love again and i shall not recover." "i wore white because i knew you would come tonight," she said softly. "yes, and you would torment me if i went down on my knees and begged for mercy." "senator," said montgomery, approaching them. "i suppose it is some satisfaction to you to know that that resolution cannot pass the house." "i hope you will make a speech on the subject that will look well in the record," said north, with some sarcasm. montgomery laughed. "that is a good suggestion. i wonder if some of our orators ever read themselves over in cold blood. the back numbers of the record ought to be a solemn warning." "unfortunately most people don't know when they have made fools of themselves; that is one reason the world grows wise so slowly. i don't doubt your speech will look well. you've been remarkably sane for a young man of enthusiasms. reserve some of your logic, however, for the greater conflict that is coming. the pressure on the president is becoming very severe, and the worst of it is that a great part of it comes from congressmen of his own party." "one of our populists has christened these 'kickers' 'the reconcentrados;' which is not bad, as there is said to be a kickers' caucus in process of organization. but if the pressure on the president is severe, it is equally so on us, and i suppose the 'kickers' are those who have one knob too few in their backbones. some, however, have got the war bee inside their skulls instead of in their hats, and will be fit subjects for a lunatic asylum if the thing doesn't end soon, one way or another. and they reiterate and reiterate that they don't want war, when they know that any determined step we can take is bound to lead to it. i have no patience with them. they either are fools or are trying to keep on both sides of the fence at once." "politics are very complicated," said senator north, dryly. "how do you and mary manage to live in the same house?" asked betty. "she is all for war." "oh, i think she rather likes the opportunity to argue. and she is so divided between the desire for me to be a good american and the desire that england shall have an excuse to hug us that she could not get into a temper over it if she tried. she has made no attempt to influence my course. heaven knows how much money i've been made to disburse in behalf of the reconcentrados, but i like women to be tender-hearted and would not harden them for the sake of a few dollars, even were they dumped in havana harbor--by the way, i wonder if the _maine_ is all right down there? she has the city under her guns, and they know it--" "oh, for heaven's sake, don't suggest any new horrors," said senator north, rising. "besides, the spaniards are not in the final stages of idiocy. it would be like the new york _journal_ to blow up the _maine_, as it seems to have reached that stage of hysteria which betokens desperation; but the ship is safe as far as the spaniards are concerned." lady mary rose to go; and betty, who was informal with her friends, went out into the hall with her instead of ringing for a servant. senator north remained in the parlor for a few moments to say good-night to mrs. madison and the carters, and betty, although the montgomerys did not linger, waited for him to come out. there was nothing to reflect the light in the dark walls of the large square hall, and it always was shadowy, and provocative to lovers at any time. when he entered it, he looked at her for a moment without speaking, and did not approach her. "you might be the ghost of another betty madison--in that white gown," he said. "was there not a famous one in the days of , and did she not love a british officer--or something of that sort?" "they parted here in this hall--and she lived on and died of old age. such is life. i sleep in her bed, where, i suppose, she suffered much as i do." she came forward and pushed her hand into his. "i am not a ghost," she said. he too believed it to be their last meeting alone, and he raised her hand to his lips and held it there. "i wish we could have stayed on and on in the adirondacks," she said unsteadily. "everything seemed to go well with us there." "people in mid-ocean usually are happy and irresponsible. they would not be if it were anything but an intermediate state. but it is enough to know that on land our troubles are waiting for us." she shivered and drew closer to him. the dangerous fire in her eyes faded. "mine are becoming very great," she said. "all i can do is to distract my mind, to fill up my time." "and i can do nothing to help you! that is the tragedy of a love like ours: the more a man loves a woman he cannot marry the more he must make her suffer--either way; it is simply a choice of methods, and if he really loves her he chooses the least complicated." "it is bad enough." her eyes filled for the first time in his presence since the morning of harriet's death, but her mental temper was very different, and she looked at him steadily through her tears. "_i_ cannot help _you_," she said. "that is the hardest part. you are harassed in many ways, and you are dreading the bitterness of a greater defeat than today. i could be so much to you--so much. and i can be nothing. by that time you will have ceased to come here. i know that you mean not to come again after to-night, except when the house is full of company." he began to answer, but stopped. she felt his heart against her arm, and his lips burnt her hand, his eyes her own. "listen," she said rapidly, "if war should be declared i shall be in the gallery to hear it. i will come straight home and shut myself up in my boudoir--for hours--to be with you in a way--shall i? will--would it mean anything to you?" "of course it would!" his face was fully unmasked, and she moved abruptly to it as to a magnet. in another moment they were in the more certain seclusion of the vestibule, and she was in his arms. they clung together with a passion which despair with ironic compensation made perfect, and their first kiss which was to be their last expressed for a moment the longing of the year of their love and of the years that were to come. that such a moment ever could end was so incredible that when betty suddenly found herself alone she looked about in every direction for him, and then the blood rushed through her in a tide of impotent fury. it was this blind rage that enabled her to go back to the parlor and keep up until the carters went home a few moments later, and her mother had gone to bed. then she went to her boudoir and locked herself in. how she got through that night without sending him an imperious summons she never knew, unless it were that she found some measure of relief in a letter she wrote to him. if she could not see him, he was still her lover, her only intimate friend, and her confessor. she promised not to write again, but she demanded what help he could give her. she sent the letter in the morning, and he replied at once:-- i know. do you think it was necessary to tell me? do you suppose my mind left you for a moment last night, and that i know and love you so little that i failed to imagine and understand in a single particular? if i were less of a man and more of a god, i should go to you and give you the help you need, but i am only strong enough to keep away from you. not in thought, however,--if that is any help. we shall meet in public and speak together. i have no desire to forget you nor that you should forget me. we neither of us shall forget, but we shall live and endure, as the strongest of us always do. you tell me that you are tormented by the thought that you have added to my trials. remember that all other trials sink into insignificance beside this, and yet that this greatest that has come to me in a long life is glorified by the fact of its existence. and if it is almost a relief to know that i shall not see you alone again, it is a satisfaction and a joy to remember that i have kissed you. r.n. viii for a few days betty was almost happy again. she had come so close to the nucleus of love that it had warmed her veins and intoxicated her brain. imagination for a brief moment had given place to reality, and if she felt wiser and older still than after her five months of meditation on the events of the summer, she felt less sober. one great desire of the past year had been fulfilled, and its memory sparkled in her brain, and her heart was lighter. it had been hours before she had ceased to feel the pressure of his arms. she wondered how she could have been so weak as to think of marrying burleigh in self-defence, and she punished him by an indifference of manner which approached frigidity; until one of the evening journals copied a bitter attack upon him from the leading newspaper of his state, when she relented and permitted him to console himself in her presence. and although, as the weeks passed and she saw senator north from the gallery of the senate only, or for a few impersonal moments in the crowd, and the elixir in her veins lost its strength, still she felt that life was sufferable once more. she had endeavoured to put mrs. north from her mind, but more than once she caught herself wishing that some one would mention her name. nobody did in those excited days, and betty had no means of learning whether her sudden good health had been final or temporary. sally carter did not allude to her again. when she and betty met, it was to wrangle on the cuban question, for miss carter was all for war. and then one day the newsboys shrieked in the streets that the _maine_ had been blown up in havana harbor. for a few days congress held its peace, and the country showed a praiseworthy attempt to believe in the theory of accident or to wait for full proof of spanish treachery. the _maine_ was blown up on tuesday, and on thursday night at the madisons' the subject almost was avoided; it was the most peaceful _salon_ betty had held. but it was merely the calm before the storm. the fever was still in the country's blood, which began to flow freely to the brain again as soon as the shock was over. the press could not let pass the most glorious opportunity in its history for head-lines; there were more mass meetings than even the press could grapple with, and all the latent oratorical ability in the country burst into flower. it seemed to betty when she rose in the night and leaned out of her window that she could hear the roar of the great national storm. and it rose and swelled and left the old landmarks behind it. the memory of the gales of the past year, with the intervals of doubt and rest, was insignificant beside this volume of fury pouring out of every state, to concentrate at last, fierce, unreasoning, and irresistible, about the white house and capitol hill. it was not long before the great quiet village on the potomac seemed to epitomize the terrible mood of the country it represented, and the country had made up its mind long before the report of the maine court of inquiry came in. the cry no longer was for the suffering cuban, but for revenge. the senate held down its "kickers" with an iron hand, but one or two of the inferior men managed to shout across the chamber to their constituents. senator north scarcely left his seat. burleigh told betty that he should not allude to the subject in the senate until after the court of inquiry's report, but then, whatever the result, he should speak and ask for war. betty argued with him by the hour, and although he discussed the matter from every side, it was evident that he did it merely for the pleasure of talking to her and that she could not shake his resolution for a moment. it was time for the united states to put an end to the barbarous state of affairs a few miles from her shores, and that was the end of it. he admitted the patriotism of senator north's attitude, but contended that the united states would be more dishonoured if she disregarded this terrible appeal to her humanity. when betty accused him of short-sightedness, he replied that a foretold result required a straight line of succession, and that when great events thickened the line of succession was anything but straight; therefore ultimates could not be foretold. he admitted that senator north had proved himself possessed of the faculty of what herbert spencer calls representativeness more than once, but men as wise and calm in their judgment had been mistaken before. but he and others of his standing were preserving the dignity of the senate, and that was something. ix "if you have this war," said lady mary montgomery to betty, who had come to receive with her on one of her tuesdays, "it will be strictly constitutional if you look at it in the right way. this is a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, and as the people are practically a unit in their howl for war, they have a right to it, and the responsibility is on their shoulders, not on your few statesmen." "that is a real gem of feminine logic, but not only is one wise man of more account than ten thousand fools, but a unit is a unit and has no comparative state. the serious men from one end of the country to the other are doing all they can to quell the excitement; so are the few decent newspapers that we possess. but they are dealing with a mob; an excited mob is always mad, and in this case the keepers are not numerous enough for the lunatics. but no one will question that the intelligent keepers are right and the mob wrong. the average intelligence is always shallow, and in electric climates very excitable. we are dealing to-day no less with a huge mob, even if it is not massed and marching, than were the few sane men of the french revolution. an exciting idea is like a venomous microbe; it bites into the brain, and if circumstances do not occur to expel it, it produces a form of mania. that is the only way i can account for burleigh's attitude; he is one of the few exceptions. there are thousands of men in the united states whose brains could stand any strain, but there are hundreds of thousands who were born to swell a mob. as for 'government by the people,' that phrase should be translated to-day into 'tyranny of the people.' england under a constitutional monarchy is far freer than we are." "well, i am suppressed and will say no more. i suppose i shall have a mob to-day. if anything, people are paying more calls than ever, for they can't stay indoors for twenty-five minutes with no one to talk to. it is getting monotonous. i wish that the president and the senate would begin to play, but they look as impassive as the statues in the parks." the rooms filled quickly. by five o'clock the usual crowd was there, and if it had its dowdy battalion as ever, there was no evidence that the more fortunate had lost their interest in dress, despite the warlike state of their nerves. not that all were for war, by any means. many were clinging to a forlorn hope, but they could talk of nothing else. betty had just listened to the twenty-eighth theory of the cause of the maine's destruction when she turned in response to a familiar drawl. "why, howdy, miss madison, i'm real glad to run across you at last." betty was so taken aback that she mechanically surrendered her hand to the limp pressure of her former housekeeper. but she was not long recovering herself. "miss trumbull, is it not? i was not aware that you were an acquaintance of lady mary montgomery's." "well, i can't say as i know her real intimate yet, but i guess i shall in time, as we're both wives of congressmen." "ah? you are married?" betty experienced a fleeting desire to see the man who had been captivated by miss trumbull. "ye--as. i went out west to visit my sister after i left you and was married before i knew it--to mr. george washington mudd. he's real nice, and smart--my! i expect to be in the white house before i die." "it is among the possibilities, of course. i hope you are happy, and that meanwhile he is able to take care of you comfortably." mrs. mudd glistened with black silk and jet, but the cut of her gown was of the middle west. "well, i guess! he's a lawyer and can make two hundred dollars a month any day. of course i can't set up a house in washington, but i live at the ellsmere, and three or four of us congressional ladies receive together and share carriages. i'll be happy to have you call--the first and third tuesdays; but we always put it in the post." "i have little time for calling. i am very busy in many ways." "well, i'm sorry. you don't look as well as you did up in the mountains; you look real tired, come to examine you. but your dresses are always so swell one sees those first. i always did think you had just the prettiest dresses i ever saw." betty did not turn her back upon the woman; it was a relief to talk on any subject that stood aloof from war. mrs. mudd rambled on. "i suppose you're engaged to senator burleigh by this time? he's our senator, you know, but i don't know as he's likely to be, long. we want silver, and i guess we've got to have it." "i suppose you take quite an interest in politics now," said betty, looking at the woman's large self-satisfied face. so far, matrimony had not been a chastening influence. mrs. mudd looked more conceited than ever. "well, i guess i always knew as much about them as anybody; and now i'm in politics, i guess the president couldn't give me many points. if he don't declare war soon, i'll go up to the white house and tell him what i think of him." "suppose you make a speech from the house gallery. it is congress that declares war, not the president." mrs. mudd's face turned the dull red which betty well remembered. "i guess i know what i'm talking' about. it's the president--" but betty's back was upon her, and betty was listening to the agitated comments of one of the year's debutantes upon the destruction of the maine. "was night ever so welcome before?" thought betty, as she settled herself between the four posts of her great-aunt's bed, a few hours later. "here, at least, not an echo of war can penetrate, and if i think of other things that scald my pillow, it is almost a relief." x on the following evening she went with the montgomerys to the army and navy reception at the white house. lady mary had but to express a wish for a card to any function in washington; and her popularity had much to do with her love for her adopted country. it was the first time betty ever had entered the historic mansion, and as she waited for twenty minutes in the crush of people on the front porch, she reflected that probably it was the last. but when she was in the great east room, which was hung with flags and glittered with uniforms, and was filled with the strains of martial music, she thrilled again with the historical sense, and almost wished there was a prospect of a war which would compel her to patriotic excitement. they remained in the east room for some time before going to shake hands with the president, that the long queue of people patiently crawling to the blue room might have time to wear itself down to a point. as betty stood there eagerly watching the scene, and talking to first one and then another of the army men who came up to speak to her, she became deeply impressed with the fact that this was the calmest function she had attended in washington during the winter. there was no excitement on the faces of these men in uniform, and they said little and hardly mentioned the subject of war. they looked stern and thoughtful; and betty felt proud of them, and wished they were doing themselves honour in a better cause. she went down the long central corridor after a time, past the crowd wedged before the central door, gaping at the receiving party, to a room where she and the montgomerys joined the diminished queue extending from a side entrance to the blue room. she was not surprised to see mrs. mudd in front of her, for although the representative's wife should have received a card for another evening, she was quite capable of forcing her way in without one; as doubtless a good many others had done to-night. she wore her black silk gown and her bonnet, and although most of the women present were in brilliant evening dress, mrs. mudd had several to keep her in countenance. she glanced wearily over her shoulder during the slow progress of the queue, and caught sight of betty. her place was precious, but she left it at once and came down the line. "i'll go in along with you," she said. "george couldn't come and i've felt kinder lonesome ever sense i got here. and we've been three quarters of an hour getting this far. it's terrible tiresome, but as i've found you i guess i can stand the rest of it." betty detected the flicker of malice in her former housekeeper's voice. they were on equal ground for once, and miss madison and mrs. mudd would shake hands with their president within consecutive moments. she smiled with some cynicism, but was too good-natured to snub the native ambition where it could do no harm. "i saw senator north to-day," observed mrs. mudd, "and he looked crosser 'n two sticks. he's mad because they'll have war in spite of him. i call him right down unpatriotic, and so do lots of others." "that disturbs him a great deal. he is much more concerned about the country making a fool of itself." "this country's all right, and we couldn't go wrong if we tried. them that sets themselves up to be so terrible superior are just bad americans, that's the long and the short of it, and they'll find it out at the next elections. if senator north should take a trip out west just now, they'd tar and feather him, and i'd like to be there to see it done. they can't say what they think of his setting on patriotic senators loud enough. and as for the president--" "well, don't criticise the president while you are under his roof. it is bad manners. here we are. will you go in first?" "well, i don't see why i shouldn't. i'll hurry on so they can see your dress; it's just too lovely for anything." betty wore a white embroidered chiffon over green; she shook out the train, which had been over her arm ever since she entered the house. her name was announced in a loud tone, and she entered the pretty flowery blue room with its charmingly dressed receiving party standing before a large group of favoured and critical friends, and facing the inquisitive eyes in the central doorway. the president grasped her hand and said, "how do you do, miss madison?" in so pleased and so cordial a tone that betty for a fleeting moment wondered where she could have met him before. then she smiled, made a comprehensive bow to his wife and the women of the cabinet, and passed on. mrs. mudd, who had shaken hands relentlessly with every weary member of the receiving party, reached the door of exit after her and clutched her by the arm. "say!" she exclaimed with excitement, although her drawl was but half conquered. "where _do_ you s'pose i could have met the president before? i know by the way he said 'mrs. mudd,' he remembered me, but i just can't think, to save my life. my! ain't he fascinating?" betty had laughed aloud. "i am sorry to hurt your vanity," she replied, "but the president is said to have the best manners of any man who has occupied the white house within living memory." "what d'you mean?" cried mrs. mudd, sharply. "d' you mean he didn't know me? i just know he did, so there! and he can pack his clothes in my trunk as soon as he likes." "good heaven!" "oh, that's slang. i forgot you were so terrible superior. but you've got good cause to know i'm virtuous. lands sakes! i guess nobody ever said i warn't." "i don't fancy anybody ever did." they were in the east room again, with the stars and stripes, the moving glitter of gold, the loud hum mingled with the distant strains of martial music. "it's really inspiring," said lady mary. "i wish i could write a war poem." "i hope there is nothing coming to inspire war doggerel; the prospect of a new crop of war stories and war plays is too painful. we were all brought up on the civil war and are resigned to its literature. but life is too short to get used to a new variety." "betty dear, ennui has embittered you, and i must confess that i am a trifle weary of the war before it has begun, myself. randolph, i think i prefer you should vote for peace." "i'm afraid we'll have no peace till we've had war first," said mr. montgomery, grimly. "oh, we're goin' to have war," drawled mrs. mudd. "just don't you worry about that. now don't blush," she said in betty's ear. "senator north's makin' straight for you. i suspicion you like him better 'n burleigh--" betty had turned upon her at last, and the woman tittered nervously and fell back in the crowd. senator north and miss madison shook hands with that absence of emotion which is one of the conditions of a crowded environment, and lady mary suggested they should all go to the conservatory, where it was cooler. betty told senator north of the impression the army and navy men had made on her, and he laughed. "of course they are not excited and say little," he said. "they will do the acting and leave the talking to the private citizens. the only argument in favour of the war and the large standing army which might be its consequence is that several hundred thousand more men would have disciplined brains inside their skulls." "that dreadful housekeeper i had in the adirondacks is here, married to a representative named george washington mudd." "i never heard of him, but i am sorry she has come here to remind you of what i should like to have you forget for a time. i do believe a specimen of every queer fish in the country comes to this pond." they passed one of the bands, and conversation was impossible until they entered the great conservatory with its wide cool walks among the green. it was not crowded, and although there was no seclusion in it at any time, its lights were few and it had a sequestered atmosphere. betty and senator north involuntarily drew closer together. "in a way i am happy now," she said. "it is something to be with you and close to you. i will not think of how much this may lack until i am alone again and there is no limit to my wants." "i feel the reverse of depressed," he said, smiling. "are you quite well? you look a little tired." "i am tired with much thinking; but that is inevitable. one cannot love hopelessly and look one's best. i always despised the heroines of romance who went into a decline, but nature demands some tribute in spite of the strongest will." he held her arm more closely, but he set his lips and did not answer. she spoke again after a moment. "since that night i have not been nearly so unhappy, however. i even feel gay sometimes, and my sense of humour has come back. it would be quite dreadful to go through life without that, but i thought i had lost it." he had turned his eyes and was regarding her intently; but much as she loved them she felt as helpless as ever before their depths. they could pierce and burn, but they never were limpid for a moment. "you do not misunderstand that?" she asked hurriedly. "it does not mean that i love you less, but more, if anything. and i am not resigned! only, i feel as if in some way i had received a little help, as if--i cannot express it." "i understand you perfectly. we are a little closer than we were, and life is not quite so grey." "that is it. and i would supplement your bare statement of the fact, if i dared." "if you do, i certainly shall kiss you right here in the crowd," he said, and they smiled into each other's eyes. there was little need of explanations between them. "that would form a brief diversion for washington. and as for mrs. mudd--by the way, i hope i am not going off. you are the second person who has told me that i am not looking well." "you are improved as far as i am concerned. and if you ever faded, happiness would restore you at once. if happiness never came, perhaps you would not care--would you?" she shrugged her beautiful shoulders and smiled quizzically. "i don't know. _je suis femme_. i think i might always find some measure of consolation in the mirror if it behaved properly." "your sincerity is one of your charms. so walk and eat and live in the world, and think as little as you can." "this conservatory is fearfully draughty," remarked lady mary, close to betty's shoulder. "i don't want to stay all night, do you?" "i am ready," said betty; but she sighed, for she had been almost happy for the hour. xi if the reception at the white house had been calm, betty's _salon_ on the following evening was not. on tuesday the house, after duly relieving its feelings by an hour and a half of war talk, flaming with every variety of patriotism, passed the bill appropriating $ , , for the national defence. on wednesday the bill passed the senate without a word beyond the "ayes" of its members. on the morrow the war department would begin the mobilization of the army; and although the _maine_ court of inquiry had not completed its labours, the new york world, in the interest of curious humanity, had instituted a submarine inquiry of its own and given the result to the country. even senator north regarded war as almost inevitable, although the controvertible proof of explosion from without only involved the spanish by inference. the women who were privileged to attend the now famous _salon_ wore their freshest and most becoming gowns, and most of the senators would have been glad to have frivoled away the evening in compliments, so refreshing was the sight of an attractive face after a long and anxious day. but the eyes of the women sparkled with patriotic fire only. one burst into tears and others threatened hysterics, but got through the evening comfortably. mrs. madison sat on a sofa and fanned herself nervously; senator maxwell and senator north at her request kept close to her side. "they were not so excited during the civil war," she exclaimed, as a shrill voice smote her ear. "i suppose we have developed more nerves or something." "the mind was possessed by the grim fact during the civil war," said senator maxwell. "this is a second-rate thing that appeals to the nerves and not to the soul." betty, who understood the patient longing of her statesmen for variety, had imported for the evening several members of the troupe singing at the metropolitan opera house. conversation consequently was interrupted six or seven times, but it burst forth with increased vigour at the end of every song; and when the polish tenor with mistaken affability sang "the star spangled banner," the women and some of the younger men took it up with such vehemence that mrs. madison put her fingers to her ears. when one girl jumped on a chair and waved her handkerchief, which she had painted red, white, and blue, the unwilling hostess asked senator north if he thought betty would be able to keep her head till the end of the evening, or would be excited to some extraordinary antic. "there is not the least danger," he replied soothingly. "miss madison could manage to look impassive if a cyclone were raging within her. it is a long while since the americans have had a chance to be excited. you must make allowances." betty for some time had suppressed her populist with difficulty. he was one of those americans to whom a keen thin face and a fair education give the superficial appearance of refinement. in a country as democratic as the united states and where schooling and intelligence are so widespread, it is possible for many half-bred men to create a good impression when in an equable frame of mind. but excitement tears their thin coat of gentility in twain, and betty already regretted having invited armstrong to her salon. he had not missed a thursday evening, for he not only appreciated the social advantage of a footing in such a house, but his clever mind enjoyed the conversation there, and the frankly expressed opinions of well-bred people who argued without acerbity and never called each other names. with his slender well-dressed figure and bright fair sharply cut face, he by no means looked an alien, and if he could have corrected the habit of contradicting people up and down--to say nothing of his occasional indulgence in the congressional snort--his manners would have passed muster in any gathering. he was a good specimen of the ambitious american of obscure birth and clever but shallow brain, quick to seize every opportunity for advancement. but politics were his strongest instinct, and exciting crises stifled every other. he was very much excited to-night, for he had, during the afternoon, tried three times to bring in a war resolution, and thrice been extinguished by the speaker. when the tenor started "the star-spangled banner," he braced himself against the wall and sang at the top of his lungs; and the performance seemed to lash his temper rather than relieve it. he twice raised his voice to unburden his mind, and was distracted by betty, who kept him close beside her. finally she attempted to change the subject by chatting of personal matters. "i went to the white house last night," she said, "and was delighted to find that the president had the most charming manners--" "what's a manner?" interrupted armstrong, roughly. "you women are all alike. i suppose you'd turn up your nose at william j. bryan because he ain't what you call a gentleman. but if he were in the white house instead of that milk-and-water puppet of wall street, we'd be shooting those murderers down in cuba as we ought to be. the president and the whole republican party," he shouted, "are a lot of hogs who've chawed so much gold their digestion won't work and their brains are torpid; and there's nothing to do but to kick them into this war--the whole greedy, white-livered, trust-owned, thieving lot of them, including that great immaculate joss up at the white house with his manners. damn his manners! they come too high--" "armstrong," said burleigh soothingly, but with a glint in his eye, "i have an important communication to make to you. will you come out into the hall a moment?" he passed his arm through the populist's, and led him unresistingly away. betty glanced at her mother. mrs. madison was fanning herself with an air of profound satisfaction. as she met her daughter's eyes, she raised her brows, and her whole being breathed the content of the successful prophetess. senator north looked grimly amused. betty turned away hastily. she felt much like laughing, herself. burleigh returned alone. "i took the liberty of telling him to go and not to come again," he said. "that sort of man never apologizes, so you are rid of him." betty smiled and thanked him; then she frowned a little, for she saw several people glance significantly at each other. she knew that washington took it for granted she would marry burleigh. they went in to supper a few moments later, and in that admirable meal the weary statesmen found the solace that woman denied him. and the flowers were fragrant; the candlelight was grateful to tired eyes, and the champagne unrivalled. until the toasts--which in this agitated time had become a necessary feature of the _salon_--the conversation, under the tactful management of betty and several of her friends, and the diverting influence of the great singers, was but a subdued hum about nothing in particular. when at the end of an hour burleigh rose impulsively and proposed the health of the president, even the democrats responded with as much warmth as courtesy. "you manage your belligerents very well," said senator north, when he shook her hand awhile later. "yours has probably been the only amiable supper-room in washington to-night." xii "now!" exclaimed sally carter, who was sobbing hysterically, "i hope they will impeach the president if he delays any longer with the _maine_ report and if he doesn't send a warlike message on top of it. after that speech i don't see why congress should wait for him at all." it was the seventeenth of march, and she and betty were driving home from the capitol after listening to the senator from vermont on the situation in cuba,--to that cold, bare, sober statement of the result of personal investigation, which produced a far deeper and more historical impression than all the impassioned rhetoric which had rent the air since the agitation began. he appeared to have no feeling on the matter, no personal bias; he told what he had seen, and he had seen misery, starvation, and wholesale death. he blamed the spaniards no more than the insurgents, but two hundred thousand people were the victims of both; and the bold yet careful etching he made of the cuban drama burnt itself into the brains of the forty-six senators present and of the eight hundred people in the galleries. "i cannot bring myself to think that death is the worst of all evils," said betty, "and i do not think that we have any right to go to war with spain, no matter what she chooses to do with her own. besides, she is thoroughly frightened now, and i believe would rectify her mistakes in an even greater measure than she has already tried to do, if the president were given time to handle her with tact and diplomacy. if the country would give him a chance to save her pride, war could be averted." "you are heartless! don't argue with me. i hate argument when my emotions feel as if they had dynamite in them. i could sit down on the floor of the senate and scream until war was declared. i hate senator north. he never moved a muscle of his face during that entire terrible recital. he hardly looked interested. he is a heartless brute." "he is not heartless. he fears everlasting complications if we go to war with spain, the expenditure of hundreds of millions, as one result of those complications, and danger to the constitution. the statesman thinks of his own country first--" "i won't listen! i won't! i won't! oh, i never thought i could get so excited about anything. i believe i'm going to have nervous prostration and i sha'n't see you again till war is declared. so there!" the carriage stopped at her house, and she jumped out and ran up the steps. she kept her word, and it was weeks before betty saw her to speak to again. "if intelligent people get into that condition," thought betty, "what can be expected of the fools? and the fools are more dangerous in the united states than elsewhere, because they are just bright enough to think that they know more than the almighty ever knew in his best days." a few days later she was crossing statuary hall on her way back from the house gallery; whither she had gone during an executive session of the senate, when she met senator north. his face illuminated as he saw her, and they both turned spontaneously and went to a bench behind the immortal ones of the republic, who in dust and marble were happier than their inheritors to-day. "i am thinking of coming down here to live, renting a committee room," said betty. "it is the only place where i do not have my opinion asked and where i do not quarrel with my friends. molly is sure i shall be taken for a lobbyist, and if people were not too absorbed to notice me, i think i should engage a companion; but as it is, i believe i am safe enough. i have had this simple brown serge made, on purpose." "there is not the least danger of your motives being misconstrued, and the capitol is swarming with women, all the time. they seem to regard it as a sort of national theatre, where the most exciting denouement may take place any minute. i fancy they have come from all over the country for the satisfaction of being able to say, for the rest of their lives, that they were in at the death. the poor capitol has become a sort of asylum for wandering lunatics." betty laughed. "i feel calmer here than anywhere else, especially now that molly has gone over to the cubans since the publication of that speech. i suspect it has made a good many other converts. i didn't think the tide of excitement in the country could rise any higher, but it appears to have needed that last straw. have you any hope left?" "none whatever. the politicians in both parties are rushing the president off his feet and inflaming the country at the same time. sincere sympathizers with cuba, like burleigh, are holding their peace until the president shall have declared himself, but there is very little patriotism amongst politicians desirous of re-election. if spain was a quick-thinking nation and was not stultified by a mulish obstinacy for which the word 'pride' is a euphemism, or if the president could hypnotize the country for six months, all would be well, but i do not look for a miracle. i have done all i can. i have persuaded my own state to keep quiet, and that has lessened the pressure a little; and i have persuaded no less than eight of our bellicose members to say nothing on the floor of the senate until the president has sent in his message,--that delay is necessary if we are to meet war with any sort of preparation. that is all i can do, for i don't care to speak on the subject again, to bring it up in the senate until it no longer can be held down. but i have said a good deal in the lobby." "i suspect you have! do you mind all the talk about your being unpatriotic, and that sort of thing? i cried for an hour the other day over an article in a new york paper, headed 'a traitor,' and saying the most hideous things about you." "i didn't read it. and don't spoil your eyes over anything sensational american newspapers may say of anybody; let them alone and read the few decent ones. for a public man to worry over such assaults would be a stupid waste of his mental energy; for if he is in the right he consoles himself with the reflection that the traitor of to-day is the patriot of to-morrow. but let politics go to the winds for a little. tell me something about yourself. i have started no less than four times to go to see you--at half-past six in the afternoon--and turned back." "i go there and sit almost every afternoon. this excitement has been a godsend. if the world had been pursuing its even way during the last two months, i don't know what would have happened to me. what am i to do when it is over?" she broke out, for they were almost secluded. "the more i think of the future the more hopeless it seems. if there is war, i'll go as a nurse--" "you will do nothing of the sort. promise me that--instantly. there will be trained nurses without end, and you would run the risk of fever for nothing. promise me." "but i _must_ do something. i have hours that you cannot imagine. ordinarily i keep up very well, for i have character enough to make the best of life, whatever happens; but one can control one's heart with one's will just so long and no longer. when the world is quiet and i am alone at night, if i don't go to sleep at once--it is terrible! do you think i should be afraid of death? if i have got to go through life with this terrible ache in my heart, in my whole body--for when i cry my very fingers cramp--i'd a thousand times rather go to cuba and have done with it." for a moment he only stared at her. then he parted his lips as if to speak, but closed them again so firmly that betty wondered what he was holding back. but his eyes, although they had flashed for a moment and burned still, told her nothing. he did not speak for fully a minute. then he said,-- "death can be met with fortitude by any strong brain, but not a lifetime of miserable invalidism. if you contracted fever down there, you might get rid of it in several years and you might not. meanwhile," he added, smiling, "you would become yellow and wrinkled. so promise me at once that you will not go." "i swear it!" she said with an attempt at gayety. "not even for you will i get yellow and wrinkled--and i adore you! tell me," she went on rapidly and with little further attempt at self-control; "what shall i do next? shall i go abroad? there is no distraction in castles and cathedrals and crooked streets; they must be enjoyed when one is idle and tranquil. i'm tired of pictures. i suppose i've seen about twenty miles of them in my life. as for the old masters they give me nightmares. there is nothing left but society, and i don't like foreigners and should find little novelty in england--and many reminders! the future appalls me. i cannot face it. am i inconsiderate to talk like this when you are so worried? sometimes i feel that i have no right to be even sensible of my individuality when a whole nation is convulsed; it seems almost absurd that there are hundreds of thousands of tragedies within the great one--but there are! there are! and the war will bring oblivion to only those to whom it brings death." she stopped, panting, after the torrent of words. his hand had closed about her arm, and he was bending close above her. his face had flushed deeply, and once more he opened his lips as if to speak, but did not. betty shook suddenly. was the word he would not utter "wait"? there could be no doubt that a word struggled for utterance, and that he held it back. if he did not, betty felt that her love would turn cold. for a great love may be killed by a sudden blow, and there is always some one thing that will kill the greatest. but she wished that his brain would flash its message to hers. the silence between them became so intense and the strain on her eyes so intolerable that she dropped her head and fumbled with her muff. she dared not speak, dared not divert his mind. he was too much the master of his own fate. "don't ever hesitate to speak out through consideration for me, my dear," he said. "the only relief we both have is to speak our thoughts occasionally. and you can tell me nothing of yourself that i do not know already. i never forget that you are tormented. but time will help you. the future which looms with a few dull and insupportable facts is crowded with small details which consume both time and thought, and it is full of little unexpected pleasures. war is very diverting. one's attitude to a war after the first few shocks is as to a great military drama. if by a miracle ours should be averted, then go to england, where you will have men at least to talk to. when plans for the future are futile, live in the present and be careful to make no mistake. it is the only philosophy for those who are not in the favour of circumstance. i am going now. bend your ear closer. i have had so little opportunity to be tender with you, and i have thought of that as much as of anything else." betty inclined her head eagerly, and he whispered to her for a moment, then left her. for a few moments she did not move. the buoyancy of her nature was still considerable, and his last words had thrilled her and made her almost as happy as if he would return in an hour. she rose finally and walked across the hall, her inclination divided between the senate gallery where she might look at him, and her boudoir where she might fling herself on her divan and think of him. as she was moving along slowly, seeing no one, her arm was caught by a bony hand, and a familiar drawl smote her ear. "laws, miss madison, have you gone blind all of a sudden? but you look as if you had two stars in your eyes." "how do you do, mrs. mudd? these are times to make anybody absent-minded." "well, i guess! we're gettin' there and no mistake. now look quick, miss madison--there's my husband, the one that's just got up off that bench. he's been talkin' to a constituent." betty glanced across the hall with some interest: she occasionally had doubted the reality of george washington mudd. a tall stout man in a loose black overcoat, a black slouch hat, and a big cotton umbrella under his arm, was stalking across the hall with his head in the air, as if to sniff at the marble effigies of the great. betty felt young again and gave a delighted laugh. "why, i didn't know there really was anything like that!" she cried. "i thought--" "well, i guess i'd like to know what you mean," exclaimed an infuriate voice; and betty, turning to mrs. mudd's dark red face, recovered herself instantly. "i mean that your husband belongs to a type that our dramatists have thought worthy of preservation and of exercising their finest art upon. i often give writers credit for more creative ability than they possess, for i always am seeing some one in real life whose entire type i had supposed had come straight out of their genius. take yourself, for instance. if i had not met you outside of a book, i should have thought you a triumph of imagination." "well--thanks," drawled mrs. mudd, mollified though doubtful. "i don't claim that george is handsome, but he's the smartest man in our district and he'll make the house sit up yet." she giggled and rolled her eyes. "he was downright jealous because i came home from the reception and raved over the president," she announced. "oh, my!" "perhaps he's a populist," suggested betty. "not much he ain't. he's a good democrat with silver principles." "well, i'm glad you're happy. good-afternoon." "i love the greatest man in america and she loves george washington mudd," thought betty, as she walked down the corridor. "mortals die, but love is imperishable. a half-century hence and where will the love that dwells in every fibre of me now, have gone? will it be dust with my dust, or vigorous with eternal youth in some poor girl who never heard my name?" and then she went home to her boudoir. xiii betty, who had come justly to the conclusion that she knew something of politics after a year's application to the science and several object lessons, made in the following weeks her first acquaintance with the intricacies which sometimes may involve political motives. the president was not given time to exhaust diplomacy with spain, although in his war message he was obliged to state that he had done so. to deal successfully with a proud and mediaeval country required months, not days, and as spain had grudgingly but surely yielded all along the line to the demands of the united states, it is safe to assume that she would have withdrawn peacefully her forces from cuba if her pride could have been saved. sagasta was working in the interests of peace; but a bigoted old country, too indolent to read history, and puzzled at a youthful nation's industry in the cause of humanity, would move so fast and no faster. the president was rushed off his feet and his hand was forced. an honest but delirious country was threatening impeachment and clamouring for war. its representatives were hammering on the doors of the white house and shrieking in congress. a dishonest press was inflaming it and injuring it in the eyes of the world by assaulting the integrity of the executive and of the leading men in both houses; and unscrupulous politicians were extracting every possible party advantage, until it looked as if the democratic party, rent asunder by mr. bryan and his doctrines, would be unified once more. the house, after the president's calm and impersonal message on the _maine_ report, acted like a mutinous school of bad boys who had not been taught the first principles of breeding and dignity; the few gentlemen in it hardly tried to make themselves heard, and even the speaker was powerless to quell a couple of hundred tempers all rampant at once. every conceivable insult was heaped upon the head of the president as he delayed his war message from day to day, hoping against hope, and gaining what time he could to strengthen the navy. it became necessary therefore for the high-class men in the senate, particularly the republicans, to present an unbroken front. whatever the conclusions of the president, they must stand by him. it was their duty as americans first and republicans after; for they had elected him to the high and representative office he filled, they were responsible for him, he had done nothing to forfeit their confidence, and everything, by his wise and conservative course, to win their approval. and it was their duty to their party to uphold him, for internal dissensions in this great crisis would weaken their forces and play them into the hands of the democrats. therefore, senator north and others, who had strenuously and consistently opposed war from any cause, until it became evident that the president had been elbowed into the position of a puppet by his people instead of being permitted to guide them, withdrew their opposition, and when his message finally was forced from his hand, let it be known that they should support it against the powerful faction in the senate which demanded the recognition of cuba as a republic. the message meant war, but a war that no longer could be averted, and there was nothing left for any high-minded statesman and loyal party man to do but to defend the president from those who would usurp his authority and tie his hands, to demonstrate to the world their belief in a statesmanship which was being attacked at every point by those whom his message had disappointed, and to provide against one future embarrassment the more. when betty had trodden the maze this far, she realized the unenviable position of the conservative faction in the senate. north's position was particularly unpleasant. he had stood to the country as the embodiment of its conservative spirit, the spirit which was opposed uncompromisingly to this war. several days before the speech of the senator from vermont exploded the inflamed nervous system of the country, he had made an address which had been copied in every state in the union and been hopefully commented on abroad. in this speech, which was a passionless, impersonal, and judicial argument against interference in the domestic affairs of a friendly nation seeking to put down an insurgent population whose record for butchery and crime equalled her own, as well as a brilliant forecast of the evils, foreign and domestic, which must follow such a war, he demonstrated that if war was declared at this period it would be unjustifiable because it would be the direct result of the accident to the _maine_, which, as the explosion could not be traced to the spanish officials, was not a _casus belli_. prior to that accident no important or considerable number of the american people had clamoured for war, only for according belligerent rights to the cubans, which measure they were not wise enough to see would lead to war. therefore, had the _maine_ incident not occurred, the president would have been given the necessary time for successful diplomacy, despite the frantic efforts of the press and the loud-voiced minority; and it could not be claimed that the present clamour, dating from the fifteenth of february, was honestly in behalf of the suffering cuban. it was for revenge, and it was an utterly unreasonable demand for revenge, as no sane man believed that spain had seized the first opportunity to cut her throat; and until it could be proved that she had done so, it was a case for indemnity, not for war. therefore, if war came at the present juncture it was because the people of the united states had made up their minds they wanted a fight, they would have a fight, they didn't care whether they had an excuse or not. the speech made a profound impression even in the agitated state of the public mind, for bitterly as north might be denounced he always was listened to. the press lashed itself into a fury and wrote head-lines which would have ridden its editors into prison had the country possessed libel laws adequate to protect a noble provision of the constitution. the temperate men in the country had been with north from the beginning, but the excited millions excoriated him the more loudly. he was denounced at public banquets and accused by excited citizens all over the union, except in his own state, of every depravity, from holding an unimaginable number of spanish bonds to taking a ferocious pleasure in the sufferings of the reconcentrados. and in the face of this he must cast his vote for war. a weaker man would have held stubbornly to his position, made notorious by his personality, and a less patriotic have chosen the satisfaction of being consistent to the bitter end and winning some measure of approval from the unthinking. but north was a statesman, and although betty did not see him to speak to for many weeks after the message went to congress, she doubted if he had hesitated a moment in choosing his course. he was a man who made a problem of nothing, who thought and acted promptly on all questions great and small. it was his manifest duty to support his president, who was also the head of his party, and to do what he could to win the sympathy of europe for his country by making its course appear the right and inevitable one. north's position was the logical result of the deliberations and decisions of the year . hamilton, the greatest creative and constructive genius of his century, never so signally proved his far-sighted statesmanship as when he pleaded for an aristocratic republic with a strong centralized government. as he was capable of anything, he doubtless foresaw the tyranny of the people into which ill-considered liberty would degenerate, just as he foresaw the many strong, wise, and even great men who would be born to rule the country wisely if given the necessary power. if the educated men of the country knew that its destinies were wholly in their hands, and that they alone could achieve the highest honours, there is not one of them who would not train himself in the science of government. such men, ruling a country in which liberty did not mean a heterogeneous monarchy, would make the lot of the masses far easier than it is to-day. the fifteen million irish plebeians with which the country is cursed would be harmlessly raising pigs in the country. hamilton, in one of his letters, speaks of democracy as a poison. some twenty years ago an eminent englishman bottled and labelled the poison in its infinite variety, as a warning to the extreme liberals in his own country. we attempted one ideal, and we almost have forgotten what the ideal was. hamilton's could not have fared worse, and there is good reason to believe that educated and thinking men, unhampered by those who talk bad grammar and think not, would have raised our standards far higher than they are, even with men like north patiently and dauntlessly striving to counteract the poison below. at all events, there would be no question of a president's hand being forced. nor would such a class of rulers put a man in the white house whose hand could be forced. although betty knew north would disregard the sneers of the press and of ambitious orators who would declaim while cannon thundered, she also knew that his impassive exterior hid a sense of humiliating defeat, and that the moment in which he was obliged to utter his aye for war would be the bitterest of his life. she fancied that he forgot her in these days, but she was willing to have it so. the intense breathless excitement of that time, when scarcely a senator left his seat from ten in the morning till some late hour of the night, except to snatch a meal; the psychological effect of the silent excited crowds in the galleries and corridors of the capitol and on its lawns and the immensity of its steps; the solemnity and incalculable significance of the approaching crisis, and the complete gravity of the man who possessed her mind, carried her out of herself and merged her personality for a brief while into the great personality of the nation. xiv it was half-past one o'clock in the morning of the nineteenth of april. a thousand people, weary and breathless but intensely silent, were crowded together in the galleries of the senate. they had been there all night, some of them since early afternoon, a few since twelve o'clock. outside, the corridors were so packed with humanity that it was a wonder the six acres of building did not sway. for the first time in hours they were silent and motionless, although they could hear nothing. on the floor of the senate almost every chair was occupied, and every senator was singularly erect; no one was lounging, or whispering, or writing to-night. all faced the vice-president, alone on his dais, much as an army faces its general. every foot of the wide semicircle between the last curve of chairs and the wall was occupied by members of the house of representatives, who stood in a dignified silence with which they had been little acquainted of late. the senate no longer looked like a club. it recalled the description of bryce: "the place seems consecrated to great affairs." the secretary was about to call the roll for the vote which would decide the fate of cuba and alter for ever the position of the united states in the family of nations. betty had been in the gallery all night and a part of the preceding day. when the senate took a recess at half-past six in the evening, she and mary montgomery, while mrs. shattuc guarded their seats, had forced their way down to the restaurant, but had been obliged to content themselves with a few sandwiches bought at the counter. but betty was conscious of neither hunger nor fatigue, although the strain during the last eight hours had been almost insupportable: the brief sharp debates, the prosing of bores, interrupted by angry cries of "vote! vote!" the reiterated announcement of the chairman of the committee on foreign relations that the conferees could not agree, the perpetual nagging of two democrats and one populist, the long trying intervals of debate on matters irrelevant to the great question torturing every mind, during which there was much confusion on the floor: the senators talked constantly in groups except when the chairman of the committee on foreign relations brought in his amended bill;--all this had made up a day trying to the stoutest nerves, and more than one person had fainted and been carried from the galleries. the blood throbbed in betty madison's head from repressed excitement and the long strain on her nerves. but the solemnity of the scene affected her so powerfully that her ego seemed dead, she only was conscious of looking down upon history. it seemed to her that for the first time she fully realized the tremendous issues involved in the calling of that roll of names. the attitude of the american people which she had deprecated and scorned was dignified by the attitude of that historical body below her. even senator north did not interest her. the senate for the time was a unit. it seemed to her an interminable interval between the last echo of the rumbling voice of the clerk who had read the resolution amended by the report of the conferees, and the first raucous exasperated note of the secretary's clerk, after a brief colloquy between senators. this clerk calls the roll of the senate at all times as if he hated every member of it, and to-night he was nervous. betty felt the blood throb in her ears as she counted the sharp decisive "ayes" and "nos," although burleigh, whom she had seen during the recess, had told her there was no doubt of the issue. as the clerk entered the m's, she came to herself with a shock, and simultaneously was possessed by a desire to get out of the gallery before senator north's time came to say "aye." she had heard the roll called many times, she knew there were fourteen m's, and that she would have time to get out of the gallery if she were quick about it. she made so violent an effort to control the excitement raging within her that her brain ached as if a wedge had been driven through it. she whispered hurriedly to mary montgomery, who was leaning breathlessly over the rail and did not hear her, then made her way up to the door as rapidly as she could; even the steps were set thick with people. as she was passed out of the gallery by the doorkeeper, and found herself precipitated upon that pale trembling hollow-eyed crowd wedged together like atoms in a rock, her knees trembled and her courage almost failed her. several caught her by the arms, and asked her how the vote was going; but she only shrugged her shoulders with the instinct of self-defence and pushed her way toward a big policeman. he knew her and put out his hand, thrusting one or two people aside. "this has been too much for you, miss, i reckon," he said. "i'll get you downstairs. keep close behind me." he forced a way through the crowd to the elevator. to attempt to part the compact mass on the staircase would invite disaster. the elevator boy had deserted his post that he might hear the news the sooner, but the policeman pushed betty into the car, and manipulated the ropes himself. on the lower floor was another dense crowd; but he got her to the east door after rescuing her twice, called her carriage and returned to his post, well pleased with his bill. for many moments betty, bruised from elbows, breathless from her passage through that crush in the stagnant air, could not think connectedly. she vaguely recalled mrs. mudd's large face and black silk dress in the diplomats' gallery, which even a cabinet minister might not enter without a permit from a member of the corps. doubtless the doorkeepers had been flung to and fro more than once to-night, like little skiffs in an angry sea. she wondered how she had had sufficient presence of mind to fee the policeman, and hoped she had not given him silver instead of the large bill which had seemed to spring to her fingers at the end of that frightful journey. she leaned out of the open window, wishing it were winter, that the blood might be driven from her head; but there was only the slight chill of a delicious april morning in the air, and the young leaves fluttered gently in the trees. in the afternoon hundreds of boys had sold violets in the streets, and the perfume lingered, floating above the heavier scent of the magnolias in the parks. betty's weary mind pictured washington as it would be a few weeks hence, a great forest of brilliant living green amidst which one had almost to look for the houses and the heroes in the squares. every street was an avenue whose tall trees seemed to cut the sky into blue banners--the word started the rearrangement of her scattered senses; in a few weeks the dust would be flying up to the green from thousands of marching feet. she burst into tears, and they gave her some relief. the carriage stopped at the house a moment later, and she went directly to her boudoir. she took off her hat and pulled down her hair, rubbing her fingers against her burning head. senator north took possession of her mind at once. the senate was no longer a unit to her excited imagination; it seemed to dissolve away and leave one figure standing there beaten and alone. she forgot the passionate efforts of other senators in behalf of peace; to her the fine conservative strength of the senate was personified in one man. and if there were others as pure and unselfish in their ideals, his at least was the master intellect. she wondered if he remembered in this hour of bitter defeat that she had promised to come to this room and give him what she could of herself. that was weeks and weeks ago, and she had not repeated her intention, as she should have done. but he loved her, and was not likely to forget anything she said to him. or would he care if he did remember? must not personal matters seem of small account to-night? or was he too weary to care for anything but sleep? perhaps he had flung himself down on a sofa in the cloak-room, or in his committee room, and forgotten the national disaster while she watched. she had been walking rapidly up and down the room. her thoughts were not yet coherent, and instinct prompted her to get the blood out of her head if she could. a vague sense of danger possessed her, but she was not capable of defining it. suddenly she stopped and held her breath. she had become aware of a recurring footstep on the sidewalk. her window abutted some thirty feet away. she craned her head forward, listening so intently that the blood pounded in her ears. she expected to hear the gate open, the footsteps to grow softer on the path. but they continued to pace the stone flags of the sidewalk. she opened her door, ran down the hall and into the parlor. without an instant's hesitation she flung open a window and leaned out. the light from the street lamp fell full upon her. he could not fail to see her were he there. but he was not. the man pacing up and down before the house was the night watchman. betty closed the window hurriedly and stumbled back into the dark room. the disappointment and reaction were intolerable. she felt the same blind rage with circumstance which had attacked her the night he had kissed and left her. in such crises conventions are non-existent; she might have been primeval woman for all she recalled in that hour of the teachings of the centuries. had he been there, she would have called him in. he was hers, whatever stood between them, and she alone had the right to console him. her mind turned suddenly to his house. he was there, of course; it was absurd to imagine that his cool deliberation would ever forsake him. the moment the senate adjourned he would have put on his hat, walked down to the east door, called a cab and gone home. and he was in his library. why she felt so positive that he was there and not in bed she could not have told, but she saw the light in the long wing. she put her hands to her face suddenly, and moved to the door. she stumbled over a chair, and then noticed the intense darkness of the room. but beyond she saw distinctly the big red brick house of senator north, with the light burning in the wing. was she going to him? she wondered vaguely, for her will seemed to be at the bottom of a pile of struggling thoughts and to have nothing to say in the matter. surely she must. he was a man who stood alone and scorned sympathy or help, but he would be glad of hers because it was hers; there was no possible doubt of that. and in spite of his record he must for the hour feel a bitter and absolute failure. a pebble would bring him to the window. he would come out, and come back here with her. she opened her arms suddenly. the room was so dark she almost could fancy him beside her. would that he were! she had no adequate conception of a morrow. the future was drab and formless. his trouble drew her like a magnet. she trembled at the mere thought of being able to make him forget. and he? if he came out and saw her standing there, he would be more than a man if he resisted the impulse to return with her here and take her in his arms. and he too must be in a state of mind in which to-day dwarfed and blotted out to-morrow. for the moment she stood motionless, almost breathless, realizing so vividly the procession of bitter and apprehensive thoughts in the mind which for so long had possessed and controlled hers that she forgot her intention, even her desire to go to him. it was this moment of insight and abstraction from self that saved her. her own mind seemed to awake suddenly. it was as if her thinking faculty had descended to her heart during the last hours and been made dizzy and dull by the wild hot whirl of emotions there. it climbed suddenly to where it belonged, and set the rested machinery of her brain to work. doubtless his impulse had been to come to her, to the room where he knew she was alone and would receive him if he demanded admittance. he had put the temptation aside, as he had put aside many others; and it had been in her mind, was in her mind still, to make the temptation irresistible. and if he felt a failure to-night, she had it in her power to wreck his life utterly. it was more than possible that in the remaining years of his vigour dwelt his tardy opportunities for historical fame. the great republic had sailed out of her summer sea into foreign waters, stormy, unfriendly, bristling with unimaginable dangers. once more she would need great statesmen, not merely able legislators, and there could be no doubt in the mind of any student of the senate that she would discover them swiftly. north was the greatest of these; and the record of his future, brilliant, glorious perhaps, seemed to unroll itself suddenly in the dark room. betty drew a long hard breath. her cheeks were cool at last, and she wondered if her heart were dead, it felt so cold. what mad impulse nearly had driven her to him to-night, independently of her will; which had slept, worn out, like other faculties, by a day of hunger, excitement, fatigue, and physical pain? the impulse had risen unhindered and uncriticised from her heart, and if it had risen once it could rise again. the days to come would be full of excitement. she fancied that she already heard the roar of cannon, the beating of drums, the sobs of women. and below the racket and its sad accompaniment was always the low indignant mutter of a triumphant people at those who had dared to set themselves above the popular clamour and ask for sanity. the intolerable longing that had become her constant companion would be fed by every device of unpropitious circumstance. again and again she would experience this impulse to go to him, and some night the blood would not recede from her brain in time. she groped her way out of the dark parlor and down the hall, grateful for an excuse to walk slowly. her boudoir was brilliant, and the struggle of the last few moments seemed the more terrible and significant by contrast with the dainty luxurious room. she wondered if she ever should dare to enter the parlor again, and if it always would not look dark to her. she sat down at her desk and wrote a letter. it ran:--dear mr. burleigh,--i will marry you if you still wish it. will you dine with us to-night? betty madison. she was too tired for emotion, but she knew what would come later. nevertheless, she went to the front door and asked the watchman to post the letter. then she went to bed. xv the senate adjourned a few moments after betty left the gallery. there was little conversation in the cloak-room. the senators were very tired, and it surely was a brain of bubbles that could indulge in comment upon the climax of the great finished chapter of the old republic. north put on his hat and overcoat at once and left the capitol. after the close confinement in heated and vitiated air for sixteen hours, the thought of a cab was intolerable: he shook his head at the old darky who owned him and whom he never had been able to dodge during his twenty years' service in washington, plunged his hands into his overcoat pockets, and strode off with an air of aggressive determination which amused him as a fitting anti-climax. the darky grinned and drove home without looking for another fare. his senator not only had paid him by the month for several years, but had supported his family for the last ten. north inhaled the pure cool air, the delicious perfume of violet and magnolia, as betty had done. once he paused and looked up at the wooded heights surrounding the city, then down at the potomac and the great expanse of roofs and leaves. the washington monument, the purest, coldest, most impersonal monument on earth, looked as gray as the sky, but its outlines were as sharp as at noonday. north often watched it from the window of his committee room; he had seen it rosy with the mists of sunset, as dark as granite under stormy skies, as waxen as death. normally, it was white and pure and inspiring, never companionable, but helpful in its cold and lofty beauty. "it _is_ a monument," he thought, to-night, "and to more than washington." he turned into massachusetts avenue and strolled along, in no hurry to find himself between walls again. he was not conscious of physical fatigue, and experienced no longing for bed, but his brain was tired and he enjoyed the absence of enforced companionship and continued alertness, the cool air, the quiet morning in her last sleep. betty, like all brilliant women who love passionately, had over-imagined, in her solitude and excitement. it is true that north had felt the bitterness of defeat, that his mind had dwelt upon the miserable and blasting thought that after years of unquestioned statesmanship and leadership, of hard work and unremitting devotion, his will had had no weight against hysteria and delirium. but both bitterness and the sense of failure had been dismissed in the moment when he had, once for all, accepted the situation; and that had been several days before. since then, he had shoved aside the past, and had given his undivided thought to the present and the future. he had uttered his "aye" almost indifferently; it had been given to the president days since. nevertheless, his brain, tired as it was, did not wander from the great climax in his country's history. to that country at large this climax meant simply a brief and arrogant chastisement of a cruel little nation; the generals would have been quite justified in sending their dress clothes and golf sticks on to havana; but north knew that this officious "police duty" was the noisy prologue to a new united states, possibly to the birth of a new constitution. "is this the grand finale of the people's rule?" he thought. "they have screamed for the moon as they never screamed before, and this time they have got it fairly between their teeth. well, it is a dead old planet; will its decay vitiate their own blood and leave them the half-willing prey of a circumstance they do not dream of now? dewey will take the philippines, of course. he would be an inefficient fool if he did not, and he is the reverse. the spanish in cuba will crumble almost before the world realizes that the war has begun. the united states will find itself sitting open-mouthed with two huge prizes in its lap. it may, in a fit of virtue which would convulse history, give them back, present them, with much good advice and more rhetoric, to their rightful owners. and it may not. these prizes are crusted with gold; and the stars and stripes will look so well in the breeze above that the pride of patriotism may decide they must remain there. and if it does--if it does... the extremists in the senate will grow twenty years in one... with the bit between their teeth and the arrogance of triumph in their blood--" he found himself in front of his own house. he turned slowly and looked intently for a moment toward i street. his face softened, then he jerked out his latchkey, let himself in and went directly to the library. he still had no desire for bed, and threw himself into an easy-chair before the andirons. but it was the first time in several days that he had sat in a luxurious chair, and the room was full of soft warmth. he fell asleep, and although he seemed to awaken immediately, he could only conclude, when the experience which followed was over, that he had been dreaming. he suddenly became aware that a chair beside him was occupied, and he wheeled about sharply. his sense of companionship was justified; a man sat there. north stared at him, more puzzled than surprised, endeavouring to fit the familiar face to some name on his long list of acquaintances, and wondering who in washington could have given a fancy-dress ball that night. his visitor wore his hair in a queue and powdered, a stock of soft lawn, and a dress-coat of plum-coloured cloth cut as in the days of the founders of the republic. although it was some moments before north recognized his visitor, his resentment at this unseasonable intrusion passed quickly; the personality in the chair was so charming, so magnetic, so genial. he was a young man, between thirty and forty, with a long nose, a mobile mouth, dark gray-blue eyes full of fire and humour, and a massive head. it was a face of extraordinary power and intellect, but lit up by a spirit so audacious and impulsive and triumphant that it was like a leaping flame of dazzling brilliancy in some forbidding fortress. he was smiling with a delighted expression of good fellowship; but north experienced a profound conviction that the man was weighing and analyzing him, that he would weigh and analyze everybody with whom he came in contact, and make few mistakes. "who the deuce can he be?" he thought, "and why doesn't he speak?" and then it occurred to him that he had not spoken, himself. he was about to inquire with somewhat perfunctory courtesy in what manner he could serve his visitor, when his glance fell on the man's hands. he sat erect with a slight exclamation and experienced a stiffening at the roots of his hair. the hands under the lace ruffles were the most beautiful that ever had been given to a man, even to as small a man as this. they were white and strong and delicate, with pointed fingers wide apart, and filbert nails. north knew them well, for they were the hands of the man whom he admired above all men in the history of his country. but until to-night he had seen them on canvas only, in the treasury department of the united states. his feeling of terror passed, and he sat forward eagerly. "the little lion," he said caressingly, for the man before him might have been his son, although he had been in his tomb with a bullet in his heart for nearly a century. but he looked so young, so restless, so indomitable, that the years slipped out of the century, and hamilton once more was the most brilliant ornament of a country which had never ceased to need him. "yes," he said brightly, "here i am, sir, and you see me at last. this is that one moment in the lifetime of the few when the spirit burns through the flesh and recognizes another spirit who has lost that dear and necessary medium. i have been with you a great deal in your life, but you never have been able to see me until to-night." he gave his head an impatient toss. "how i have wished i were alive during the last three or four months!" he exclaimed. "not that i could have accomplished what you could not, sir, but it would have been such a satisfaction to have been able to make the effort, and then, when i failed, to tell democracy what i thought of it." north smiled. all sense of the supernatural had left him. his soul and hamilton's were face to face; that was the one glorified fact. "i have been tempted several times lately to wish that we had your aristocratic republic," he said, "and that i were the head and centre of it. i have felt a strong desire to wring the neck of that many-headed nuisance called 'the people,' and proceed as if it were where the god of nations intended those incapable of governing should be and remain without protest." "oh, yes, you are an aristocrat. that is the reason i have enjoyed the society of your mind all these years. you were so like me in many ways when you were my age, and since then i seem to have grown older with you. i died so young. but in you, in the last twenty years, i seem to have lived on. you have built an iron wall all round those terrible fires of your youth, and roofed it over. it is only now and then that a panel melts and the flame leaps out; and the panel is so quickly replaced! i too should have conquered myself like that and made fewer and fewer mistakes." "god knows what i might not have been able to do for my country. i have been mad to leap into the arena often enough." "you are not dead. no man is, whose inspiration lives on. more than one of us would be of shorter stature and shorter gait if we never had had your accomplishment to ponder over. and as to what the nation would have been without you--" "yes!" cried hamilton. "yes! how can any man of ability submit to death without protest, shrug his shoulders cynically, and say that no man's disappearance causes more than a whirl of bubbles on the surface, that the world goes on its old gait undisturbed, and does as well with the new as the old? look at great britain. she hasn't a single great man in all her eleven million square miles to lead her. that is answer enough to a theory which some men are sincere enough in believing. this country always has needed great leaders, and sometimes she has had them and sometimes not. the time is coming when she will need them as she has not done since the days when three or four of us set her on her feet." north stood up suddenly and looked down on hamilton. "what are we coming to?" he asked abruptly. "monarchy?" the guest tapped the toe of his little slipper with the tips of his beautiful fingers. he laughed gayly. "i can see only a little farther ahead than your own far-penetrating brain, sir. what do you think?" "as i walked home tonight, the situation possessed my mind, which by some process of its own seemed to develop link after link in coming events. it seemed to me that i saw a thoroughly disorganized people, unthinkingly but ruthlessly thrusting aside all ideals, and--consequently--in time--ready for anything." hamilton nodded, "if they had begun with my ideal, they would have remained there. now they will leap far behind that--when there is a strong enough man down there in the white house. certain radical changes, departures from their traditions and those of their fathers, will school them for greater changes still. in some great critical moment when a dictator seems necessary they will shrug their shoulders and say, 'why not?'" "i believe you are right, but i doubt if it comes in my time." hamilton shook his head. "every state in europe has its upper lip curled back above its teeth, and who knows, when the leashes snap, what our fate will be, now that we have practically abandoned our policy of non-interference in the affairs of the eastern hemisphere? if all europe is at somebody's throat in the next five years, we shall not escape; be sure of that. then will be the great man's opportunity. you always have despised the office of president. work for it from this day. the reaction from this madness will help you. democrats as well as republicans will turn to you as the one man worthy of the confidence of the entire country." "not if they guessed that i meditated treason, sir. nor should i. i agree with you that your ideal was the best, but there is nothing for me to do but to make the best of the one i've inherited. if i am aristocratic in my preferences, i am also a pretty thoroughgoing american." "yes, yes, i know, sir. you never will meditate what, if premeditated, would be treason. but when the great moment comes, when your patriotism and your statesmanship force you to admit that if the country is to be saved it must be rescued from the people, and that you alone can rescue it, then you will tear the constitution down its middle. this country is past amendments. it must begin over again. and the whole great change must come from one man. the people never could be got to vote for an aristocratic republic. they must be stunned into accepting a monarchy. after the monarchy, then the real, the great republic." the two men looked long into each other's eyes. then north said,-- "i repeat that i never should work nor scheme for the position that such a change might bring me. nevertheless, believing, as i do, that we are on the threshold of a new and entirely different era in this country, if the time should come when i felt that i, as its most highly trained servant, could best serve the united states by taking her destinies entirely into my own hands, i should do so without an instant's hesitation. i have done all i could to preserve the old order for them, and they have called me traitor and gone their own way. now let them take the consequences." hamilton set his mobile lips in a hard line. his eyes looked like steel. "yes," he said harshly, "let them take the consequences. they had their day, they have gone mad with democracy, let them now die of their own poison. the greatest republic the world ever will have known is only in the ante-room of its real history." he stood up suddenly and held out his hand. "good-bye, sir," he said. "we may or may not meet again before you too are forced to abandon your work. but i often shall be close to you, and i believe, i firmly believe, that you will do exactly as i should do if i stood on solid ground to-day." north took the exquisite hand that had written the greatest state papers of the century, and looked wonderingly at its white beauty. it suddenly gave him the grip of an iron vise. north returned the pressure. then the strong hand melted from his, and he stood alone. exactly in what the transition from sleep to waking consisted, north was not able to define. there was a brief sense of change, including a lifting of heavy eyelids. technically he awoke. but he was standing on the hearthrug. and his right hand ached. he shrugged his shoulders. "what difference does it make whether he appeared to my waking eyes or passed through my sleeping brain and sat down with my soul?" he plunged his hands into his pockets and stood thinking for many minutes. he said, half aloud, finally,-- "not in my time, perhaps. but it will come, it will come." xvi when betty awoke at four o'clock in the afternoon, she discovered with some surprise that she had slept soundly for eleven hours. her head was a trifle heavy, but after her bath she felt so fresh again that the previous day and night seemed like a very long and very ugly dream. she reflected that if she had not written to burleigh before she went to bed she certainly should do so now. he still seemed the one safeguard for the future; she had convinced herself that with her capacity for violent emotion and nervous exaltation, her head was not to be trusted. she felt calm enough this afternoon, and she opened with no enthusiasm the note which had arrived from burleigh. she might have drawn some from its superabundant amount, but she frowned and threw it in the fire. then she went to her mother's room and announced her engagement. "my dear!" exclaimed mrs. madison. "well!--i am delighted." then she looked keenly at betty and withheld her congratulations. but she asked no questions, although the edge suddenly left her pleasure and she began to wonder if burleigh were to be congratulated. "he is coming to dinner," betty continued, "and i want you to promise me that you will not leave us alone for a moment, and that you will go with me to new york to-morrow." "i will do anything you like, of course, and i always enjoy new york." "i want to get away from washington, and i want to shop more than anything in life. i hate the thought of everything serious,--the country, the war, everybody and everything, and i feel that if i could spend two weeks with shops and dressmakers i'd be quite happy--almost my old self again." "i wish you were," said mrs. madison, with a sigh. "i wish this country never had had any politics." the instinct of coquetry was deeply rooted in betty madison, but that evening she selected her most unbecoming gown. she was one of those women who never look well in black, and look their worst in it when their complexion shows the tear of secret trouble and broken rest. she had a demi-toilette of black chiffon trimmed with jet and relieved about the neck with pink roses. she cut off the roses; and when arrayed had the satisfaction of seeing herself look thirty-five. for a moment she wavered, and leontine, with tears, begged to be allowed to remove the gown; but betty set her teeth and went downstairs. she had the further satisfaction of seeing a brief flash of surprise and disappointment in burleigh's eyes as he came forward to greet her; and, indeed, the gown seemed to depress the company for the entire evening. betty tried to rattle on gayly, but the painful certainty that she looked thirty-five (perhaps more), and that burleigh saw it, and her mother (who was visibly depressed) saw it, and the butler and the footman (both of whom, she knew through leontine, admired her extravagantly) saw it, dashed her spirits to zero, and she fell into an unreasoning rage with senator north. "i am going to new york to-morrow, and you are not to follow me," she said with a final effort at playfulness. "i have been at such a nervous strain over this wretched war that i must be frivolous and feminine for two whole weeks--and what so serious as being engaged?" burleigh sighed. his spirits were unaccountably low. he had forgotten his country for an entire day, and rushed up to the house ten minutes before the appointed hour, his spirits as high as a boy's on his way to the cricket field. but his apple had turned to ashes in a funereal gown, and there seemed no colour about it anywhere. "of course you want a change," he said, "but i hope you will write to me." "i'll write you a little note every day," she said with sudden contrition. "i know i'll feel--and look ever so much better in a few days." "there!" she thought with a sigh, "i've made this wretched sacrifice for nothing, and i'll never forget how i'm looking at the present moment, to my dying day. i know i'll wear my most distracting gown the next time he comes. well, what difference? i've got to marry him, anyhow." she shook hands cordially with him when he rose to go, an hour later, but she did not leave her mother's side. he did not attempt to smile, but shook hands silently with both and left the room as rapidly as dignity would permit. mrs. madison put her handkerchief to her eyes and burst into tears. "poor dear man!" she exclaimed. "i felt exactly as if we were having our last dinner together before he went off to the war to get killed. i never spent such a dismal evening in my life. and what on earth made you put on that horrid gown? you look a fright--you almost look older than he does." "don't turn the knife round, please. i'm rather sorry, to tell the truth, but i didn't want him to be too overjoyed. i couldn't have stood it." "are you sorry that you have engaged yourself to him?" "no, i am glad--very glad." but she said it without enthusiasm. when she went up to her room, she presented the black gown to leontine and sent her to bed. then she put on a peignoir of pink silk and lace and examined herself in the mirror. she looked fifteen years younger and wholly charming; there was no doubt of it. xvii the next day, before starting for new york, she wrote a note to senator north:-- i am going to marry robert burleigh. on tuesday morning i almost went to your house--to bring you back with me here. i came to my senses in time; but i might not again. i want you to understand. i wish he were not on the winning side. but he is the only man i can even think of marrying. i do not think this much is disloyal to him. but i will not say other things. b. m. burleigh came to the train to see her off, and betty looked so charming in her rich brown travelling frock and little turban, and smiled so gayly upon him, that his heavy spirit lifted its wings and he begged to be allowed to go to new york on saturday. but to this she would not listen, and he was forced to content himself with making elaborate preparations for her comfort in the little drawing-room, and buying a copy of every paper and magazine the newsboy had on sale. "i am sure he will make an ideal husband," said mrs. madison, as she waved her hand to him from the window. "he certainly is very much of a man," admitted betty, "but what on earth are we to do with all these papers? i haven't room to turn round." the excitement in washington, great as it was, had been mostly within doors; in new york it appeared to be entirely in the streets, if one excepted the corridors of the hotels. the population, still pale and nervously talkative, surged up and down the sidewalks. on the morrow the city put forth her hundred thousand flags. the very air seemed to turn to stars and stripes. the madisons went to the waldorf-astoria, and in its refreshing solitudes felt for the first time in months that they must go in search of excitement if they wanted it; none would reach them here. "now that the war is declared, i am sorry;" admitted mrs. madison, "for so many americans will be killed." "instead of cubans. i've done with the war. i won't even regret." for three days betty shopped furiously, or held long consultations with her dressmaker. on sunday, after church, she read to her mother, but refused to discuss her engagement, and on monday she resumed her shopping. she wrote to burleigh immediately after breakfast every morning, then dismissed him from her mind for twenty-four hours. the beautiful spring fabrics were in the shops, and she bought so many things she did not want, even for a trousseau, that she wondered if mrs. mudd would accept a trunk full of "things." she envied mrs. mudd, and would find a contradictory pleasure in making her happy. miss trumbull never had manifested any false pride, and matrimony had altered her little in other ways. at night she slept very well, and if she did not think of burleigh, neither would she think of senator north. she did not open a newspaper. what the country did now had no interest for her; it was marching to its drums, and nothing could stop it. and she would have her fill of politics for the rest of her natural life. as mrs. madison always was content with a novel, she made no complaint at the absence of newspapers, particularly as the fighting had not begun. moreover, betty took her to the theatre every evening, a dissipation which her invalidism endured without a protest. it was on wednesday afternoon that betty, returning to her rooms, met sally carter in a corridor of the hotel. the two girls kissed as if no war had come between them, and miss carter announced that she was going to cuba to nurse the american soldier. "i almost feel conscience-stricken," she remarked, "now that we actually are in for it. i don't think i believed it ever really could happen. it was more like a great drama that was about to take place somewhere on the horizon. but if the american boys have to be shot, i'm going to be there to do what i can." they entered the parlor of mrs. madison's suite, and that good lady, who had read until her eyes ached, welcomed sally with effusion and demanded news of washington. "we haven't seen a paper or a soul," she said. "we have our meals up here, and i feel as if i were a catholic in retreat. it's been a relief in a way, especially after the _salon_, but i should like to know if washington has burned down, or anything." "washington is still there and still excited," said miss carter, dropping into a chair and taking off her hat, which she ran the pin through and flung on the floor. "how it keeps it up is beyond the comprehension of one poor set of nerves. i am now dead to all emotion and longing for work. i'm even sorry i painted my best french handkerchiefs red, white, and blue. if you haven't seen the papers i suppose you don't know that mrs. north is dead. she died suddenly of paralysis on the twenty-second. the strength she got in the adirondacks soon began to leave her by degrees; the doctor--who is mine, you know--told me the other day that it meant nothing but a temporary improvement at any time; but he had hoped that she would live for several years yet. betty, what on earth do you find so interesting in fifth avenue? i hate it, with its sixty different architectures." "but it looks so beautiful with all the flags," said betty, "and the one opposite is really magnificent." it was a half-hour before sally ceased from chattering and went in search of her father. betty had managed to control both her face and her knees, and listened as politely as a person may who longs to strangle the intruder and achieve solitude. the moment sally had gone betty went straight to her room, avoiding her mother's eyes, which turned themselves intently upon her. she did not reappear for dinner, as her mother was made cheerful by the society of the carters; but as sally passed her room on her way to bed, she called her in, and the two girls had a few moments' conversation. xviii "molly," said betty, the next morning, "i should like to go up to the adirondacks alone for a few weeks. would you mind staying here with the colonel and sally for another ten days and then returning with them? sally says she will move into my room and that she and the colonel will take you to the theatre and do everything they can to make you happy. you know the colonel delights to be with you." "i understand, of course, that you are going," said mrs. madison. "i shall not be bored, if that is what you mean. i hope you will telegraph at once, so that the house will be warmed at least a day before you arrive. i suppose you have got to a point in your affairs where you must have solitude, but i wish you had not, and i wish you would go where it is warmer." "oh, i shall be comfortable enough." she added in a moment, "don't think i do not appreciate your consideration, for i do." then she sat down at the desk and wrote a note to burleigh. it was a brief epistle, but she was a long while writing it. her previous notes had been dashed off in ten minutes, and usually related to the play of the previous evening. his replies had been a curious mingling of half-offended pride and a passion which was only restrained by the fear that the lady was not yet ready for it. finally betty concocted the missive to the satisfaction of her mind's diplomatic condition. she had not yet brought herself to begin any of her notes to him formally. "dear robert" was as yet unnatural, and "dear mr. burleigh" absurd; so she ignored the convention. "i suddenly have made up my mind to go to the adirondacks for a month, _quite alone,_" she wrote. "when one is going to take a tremendous step, one needs solitude that one may do a great deal of hard thinking. i don't wonder that some catholic women go into retreat. at all events, washington, 'the world,' even my mother, even you, who always are so kind and considerate, seem impossible to me at present; and if i am to live with some one else for the rest of my life, i must have one uninterrupted month of solitary myself. doubtless that will do me till the end of my time! so would you mind if i asked you not even to write to me? i have enjoyed your notes so much, but i want to feel absolutely alone. don't think this is petty egoism. it goes far deeper than that! if we ever are to understand each other i am sure i need not explain myself further. b. m." "it has a rather heartless ring," she thought with a sigh, "but it will intrigue him, and--who knows? as heaven is my witness, i do not. but i do know this, that unless i get away from them all and fairly inside of myself, whatever i do will seem the wrong thing and i might end by making a dramatic fool of myself." xix the ice was on the lake this time, although it was melting rapidly, but the sun shone all day. she had to wear her furs in the woods, but the greens had never looked so vivid and fresh, and save for an occasional woodchopper and her own servants, there was not a soul to be met in that high solitude. the hotel across the lake would not open for a month. even the birds still lingered in the south. after she had been alone for two days she wondered why, when in trouble before, she had not turned instinctively to solitude in the forest. it is only the shallow mind that dislikes and fears the lonely places of nature: the intellect, no matter what vapours may be sent up from the heart, finds not only solace in retirement, but another form of that companionship of the ego which the deeply religious find in retreat. the intellectual may lack the supreme self-satisfaction of the religious, but they find a keen pleasure in being able to make the very most of the results of years of consistent effort. betty, whether alone by a roaring fire of pine cones in the living-room, or wandering along the edge of the lake in the cold brilliant sunshine, or in the more mysterious depths of the forest, listening to the silence or watching the drops of light fall through the matted treetops, felt more at peace with the world than she had done since her fatal embarkation on the political sea. she put the memory of harriet walker, insistent at first, impatiently aside, and in a day or two that shadow crept back to its grave. for a few days her mind, in its grateful repose, hesitated to grapple with the question which had sent her to the mountains; and on one of them, while thinking idly on the great political questions which had magnetized so much of her thought during the past year, the inspiration for which she had so often longed shot up from the concentrated results of thinking and experience, and revealed in what manner she could be of service to her country. this was, whatever her personal life, to gather about her, once a week, as many bright boys of her own condition as she could find, and interest and educate them in the principles of patriotic statesmanship. with her own burning interest in the subject and her personal fascination, she could accomplish far more than any weary professor could do. she had come up to these fastnesses to decide the future happiness of one or two of three people, and she felt sober enough; but for almost a week she wished that she could live here alone for the rest of her life: she believed that in time she would be serenely content. she had the largest capacity for human happiness, but she guessed that the imagination could be so trained that when far from worldly conditions it could create a world of its own, and would shrink more and more from the practical realities. for imagination has the instinct of a nun in its depths and loves the cloister of a picturesque solitude. it is a fool's paradise, but not inferior to the one which mortals are at liberty to enter and ruin. but betty could not live here alone, she could not ignore her responsibilities in any such primitive fashion; and so long as her heart was alive it would make battle for real and tangible happiness. she had a question to decide which involved not only the heart but the mind: if she made a mistake now, she would be at odds with her higher faculties for the rest of her life. she dreaded the sophistry which sat on either side of the subject; and it was a question whether the very strength of her impulse toward the man she had loved for a year was not the strongest argument in its favour. but she had given her word to another man, and she had the high and almost fanatical sense of honour of the southern race. on the other hand, she had a practical modern brain, and during the last year she had been living in close contact with much hard common-sense. she had imagination, and she knew that she already had made burleigh suffer deeply, and had it in her power to raise that suffering to acuteness; and if that buoyant nature were soured, a useful career might be seriously impaired. on the other hand, she had made a greater man more miserable still, and while he was finding life black enough she had rushed into the camp of the enemy; and his capacity for suffering was far deeper and more enduring than that of the younger man. she tried to put herself as much aside from the question as possible, but she had her rights and they made themselves heard. she knew, had known at once, that she had outraged all she held most dear, in engaging herself to one man when she loved another, and she had begun to wonder--in irresistible flashes--before the news had come which sent her to the mountains, if she should falter at the last moment. but breeding has carried many a woman over the ploughshares of life, and her mind was probably strong enough to go on to the inevitable without theatric climax. at the same time the idea of marriage with one man when she loved another was abhorrent; that it was particularly so since marriage with the other had become possible, she understood perfectly. and although she continued to reason and to argue, she had a lurking suspicion that while she might be strong enough to conquer a desire she might not be able to conquer a physical revolt, and that it would rout her standards and decide the issue. she had made up her mind that she would hesitate for a month and no longer, and she also had determined that she would decide the question for herself and throw none of the responsibility on senator north; she felt the impulse to write to him impersonally more than once. (perhaps her sense of humour also restrained her.) she wondered if it were one year or twenty years since she had gone to him for advice; and she knew that whichever way she decided, the desire for his good opinion would have something to do with it. there are only a certain number of arguments in any brain, and after they have been reiterated a sufficient number of times they pall. from argument betty lapsed naturally into meditation, and the subject of these meditations, tender, regretful, and impassioned, was one man only; and burleigh had no place in them. occasionally she forced him into her mind, but he seemed as anxious to get out as she was to drive him; and after the ice melted and she was able to spend hours on the lake, and rest under spreading oaks, where she had only to shut her eyes to imagine herself companioned, she felt herself unfaithful if she cast a solitary thought to burleigh. at the end of the month she was not tired of solitude, but she was tired of her intellectual attitude. she was human first and mental afterward; and she wanted nothing on earth but to be the wife of the man whom she had loved for a lifetime in a year. the moment she formulated this wish, hesitation fled and she could not wind up her engagement with burleigh rapidly enough. her letter, however, was very sweet and apologetic, and it was also very honest. she knew that unless she told him she loved another man and intended to marry him, he would take the next train for the adirondacks and plead his cause in person. his reply was characteristic. "very well," it ran. "i do not pretend to say i was not prepared after your last letter from new york. and although i could not guess your motive in accepting me, i knew that you did not love me. but if i am not overwhelmed with surprise, the pain is no easier on that account, and will not be until the grass has had time to grow over it a little. and at least it is a relief to know the worst. of course i forgive you. i doubt if any man could feel bitterly toward you. you compel too much love for that. "don't worry about me. i have work enough to do--a state to talk sense into and a nation to which to devote my poor energies. my brain such as it is will be constantly occupied, which is the next best good a man can have." robert burleigh. betty wrote him four pages of enthusiastic friendliness in reply, and paid him the compliment of postponing her letter to senator north until the following day. but on that day she rose with the feeling that the sun never would set. she was as brief as possible, for she knew that he hated long letters. nevertheless, she conveyed an exact impression of her weeks of deliberation and analysis. "i want you to understand," she went on, "that my only wish when i came here for solitary thought was to do the right thing, irrespective of my own wishes in the matter. but it seems to me there is exactly as much to be said on one side as on the other, and it all comes to this: right or wrong, i have decided for you because i love you; and if you no longer can admire me, if you think that i have violated my sense of honour, then at least i shall marry no one else. b. m." and as her imagination was strong she did allow herself to be tortured by doubts during the three days that elapsed before she heard from him. she had hoped he would telegraph, but he did not, and her imagination and her common-sense had a long and indecisive argument which threatened ultimate depression. on the third night, however, a messenger from the hotel opposite brought her a note from senator north. "i don't know that your mental exercise has done you any harm," he had written, "but it certainly was thrown away. you have too much common-sense and too thorough a capacity for loving to do anything so foolish or so outrageous as to marry the wrong man. if you had followed a romantic impulse--induced by nervous excitement--and married him the day you learned that your word might be put to too severe a test, you would have been miserable, and so would burleigh. a mistaken sense of duty has been the cause of quite one fourth of the unhappiness of mankind, and few have been so bigoted as not to acknowledge this when too late. and a broken engagement is a small injustice to a man compared to a lifetime with an unloving wife. burleigh is unhappy now, but it is no lack of admiration which prompts me to say that if he had married you he would have been unhappier still. you could do nothing by halves. "formalities with us would be an affectation unworthy of either, and i have come to you at once. i knew that you would send for me, but i preferred to wait until you wrote that your engagement was broken. what i felt when i received your note announcing it, i leave to your imagination, and i forgot it as quickly as possible. i understood perfectly, but you exaggerated the dangers; for my love for you is so great and so absorbing, so complete in all its parts, that nothing but marriage would satisfy me. i should have preferred a memory to a failure. "if your mother were with you, i should go over to-night. but i shall wait for you at five to-morrow morning where you were in the habit of letting me board your boat. and the day will not be long enough! r. n." betty slept little that night, but felt no lack of freshness the next morning when she rose shortly after four. a broken night meant little to her now, and happiness would have stimulated every faculty if she had not slept for a week. she rowed swiftly across the lake. it was almost june now, and the warmth of summer was in the air, the paler greens among the grim old trees of the forest. the birds had come from the south and were singing to the accompaniment of the pines, the roar of distant cataracts; and yet the world seemed still. the stars were white and faint; the moon was tangled in a treetop on the highest peak. he might have been the only man awake as he stood with the forest behind him, and she recalled her fancy that although her horizon was thick with flying mist his figure stood there, immovable, always. he looked as if he had not moved since he stood there last, but the mist was gone. as he stepped into the boat, she moved back that he might take the oars. "i have on a white frock, and a blue ribbon in my hair," she said nervously, but smiling, "else i could not have forgotten that a year has come and gone." he too was smiling. "i think it is the only year we ever shall want to forget," he said. and he rowed up the lake. the end. transcriber's note: passages in italics are indicated by _underscores_. small caps have been replaced by all caps. american statesmen edited by john t. morse, jr. american statesmen thomas hart benton by theodore roosevelt boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, , by theodore roosevelt. _all rights reserved._ fifth edition. _the riverside press, cambridge, mass., u. s. a._ electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton & company. contents. chapter i. page the young west chapter ii. benton's early life and entry into the senate chapter iii. early years in the senate chapter iv. the election of jackson, and the spoils system chapter v. the struggle with the nullifiers chapter vi. jackson and benton make war on the bank chapter vii. the distribution of the surplus chapter viii. the slave question appears in politics chapter ix. the children's teeth are set on edge chapter x. last days of the jacksonian democracy chapter xi. the president without a party chapter xii. boundary troubles with england chapter xiii. the abolitionists dance to the slave barons' piping chapter xiv. slavery in the new territories chapter xv. the losing fight thomas hart benton. chapter i. the young west. even before the end of the revolutionary war the movement had begun which was to change in form a straggling chain of sea-board republics into a mighty continental nation, the great bulk of whose people would live to the westward of the appalachian mountains. the hardy and restless backwoodsmen, dwelling along the eastern slopes of the alleghanies, were already crossing the mountain-crests and hewing their way into the vast, sombre forests of the mississippi basin; and for the first time english-speaking communities were growing up along waters whose outlet was into the gulf of mexico and not into the atlantic ocean. among these communities kentucky and tennessee were the earliest to form themselves into states; and around them, as a nucleus, other states of the woodland and the prairie were rapidly developed, until, by the close of the second decade in the present century, the region between the great lakes and the gulf was almost solidly filled in, and finally, in , by the admission of missouri, the union held within its borders a political body whose whole territory lay to the west of the mississippi. all the men who founded these states were of much the same type; they were rough frontiersmen, of strong will and adventurous temper, accustomed to the hard, barren, and yet strangely fascinating life of those who dwell as pioneers in the wilderness. moreover, they were nearly all of the same blood. the people of new york and new england were as yet filling out their own territory; it was not till many years afterwards that their stock became the predominant one in the northwestern country. most of the men who founded the new states north of the ohio came originally from the old states south of the potomac; virginia and north carolina were the first of the original thirteen to thrust forth their children in masses, that they might shift for themselves in the then untrodden west. but though these early western pioneers were for the most part of southern stock, they were by no means of the same stamp as the men who then and thereafter formed the ruling caste in the old slave-holding states. they were the mountaineers, the men of the foot-hills and uplands, who lived in what were called the backwater counties. many of them were themselves of northern origin. in striking contrast to the somewhat sluggish and peaceful elements going to make up the rest of its heterogeneous population, pennsylvania also originally held within its boundaries many members of that most fiery and restless race, the scotch-irish. these naturally drew towards the wilder, western parts of the state, settling along the slopes of the numerous inland mountain ridges running parallel to the atlantic coast; and from thence they drifted southward through the long valleys, until they met and mingled with their kinsfolk of virginia and the carolinas, when the movement again trended towards the west. in a generation or two, all, whether their forefathers were english, scotch, irish, or, as was often the case, german and huguenot, were welded into one people; and in a very short time the stern and hard surroundings of their life had hammered this people into a peculiar and characteristically american type, which to this day remains almost unchanged. in their old haunts we still see the same tall, gaunt men, with strongly marked faces and saturnine, resolute eyes; men who may pass half their days in listless idleness, but who are also able to show on occasion the fiercest intensity of purpose and the most sustained energy of action. we see them, moreover, in many places, even across to the pacific coast and down to the rio grande. for after thronging through the gaps and passes of the appalachians, and penetrating the forest region to the outskirts of the treeless country beyond, the whilom mountaineers and woodsmen, the wielders of the axe and rifle, then streamed off far to the west and south and even to the northwest, their lumbering, white-topped wagons being, even to the present moment, a familiar sight to those who travel over the prairies and the great plains; while it is their descendants who, in the saddle instead of afoot, and with rope and revolver instead of axe and rifle, now form the bulk of the reckless horsemen who spend their lives in guarding the wandering cattle herds that graze over the vast, arid plains of the "far west." the method of settlement of these states of the mississippi valley had nothing whatever in common with the way in which california and the australian colonies were suddenly filled up by the promiscuous overflow of a civilized population, which had practically no fear of any resistance from the stunted and scanty native races. it was far more closely akin to the tribe movements of the germanic peoples in time past; to that movement, for example, by which the juttish and low dutch sea-thieves on the coast of britain worked their way inland at the cost of the cymric celts. the early settlers of the territory lying immediately west of the alleghanies were all of the same kind; they were in search of homes, not of riches, and their actions were planned accordingly, except in so far as they were influenced by mere restless love of adventure and excitement. individuals and single families, of course, often started off by themselves; but for the most part the men moved in bands, with their wives and their children, their cattle and their few household goods; each settler being from the necessity of the case also a fighter, ready, and often forced, to do desperate battle in defense of himself and his family. where such a band or little party settled, there would gradually grow up a village or small town; for instance, where those renowned pioneers and heroes of the backwoods, boone and harrod, first formed permanent settlements after they had moved into kentucky, now stand the towns of boonsboro and harrodsburg. the country whither these settlers went was not one into which timid men would willingly venture, and the founders of the west were perforce men of stern stuff, who from the very beginning formed a most warlike race. it is impossible to understand aright the social and political life of the section, unless we keep prominently before our minds that it derived its distinguishing traits largely from the extremely militant character acquired by all the early settlers during the long drawn out warfare in which the first two generations were engaged. the land was already held by powerful indian tribes and confederacies, who waged war after war, of the most ferocious and bloody character, against the men of the border, in the effort to avert their inevitable doom, or at least to stem for the time being the invasion of the swelling tide of white settlement. at the present time, when an indian uprising is a matter chiefly of annoyance, and dangerous only to scattered, outlying settlers, it is difficult to realize the formidable nature of the savage indian wars waged at the end of the last and the beginning of the present centuries. the red nations were then really redoubtable enemies, able to send into the field thousands of well-armed warriors, whose ferocious bravery and skill rendered them quite as formidable antagonists as trained european soldiers would have been. warfare with them did not affect merely outlying farms or hamlets; it meant a complete stoppage of the white movement westward, and great and imminent danger even to the large communities already in existence; a state of things which would have to continue until the armies raised among the pioneers were able, in fair shock of battle, to shatter the strength of their red foes. the victories of wayne and harrison were conditions precedent to the opening of the ohio valley; kentucky was won by a hundred nameless and bloody fights, whose heroes, like shelby and sevier, afterwards rose to prominent rank in civil life; and it was only after a hard-fought campaign and slaughtering victories that the tennesseeans were able to break the power of the great creek confederacy, which was thrust in between them and what were at that time the french and spanish lands lying to the south and southwest. the founders of our western states were valiant warriors as well as hardy pioneers, and from the very first their fighting was not confined to uncivilized foes. it was they who at king's mountain slew gallant ferguson, and completely destroyed his little army; it was from their ranks that most of morgan's men were recruited, when that grizzled old bush-fighter smote tarleton so roughly at the battle of the cowpens. these two blows crippled cornwallis, and were among the chief causes of his final overthrow. at last, during the war of , there was played out the final act in the military drama of which the west had been the stage during the lifetime of a generation. for this war had a twofold aspect: on the sea-board it was regarded as a contest for the rights of our sailors and as a revolt against great britain's domineering insolence; west of the mountains, on the other hand, it was simply a renewal on a large scale of the indian struggles, all the red-skinned peoples joining together in a great and last effort to keep the lands which were being wrested from them; and there great britain's part was chiefly that of ally to the savages, helping them with her gold and with her well-drilled mercenary troops. the battle of the thames is memorable rather because of the defeat and death of tecumseh, than because of the flight of proctor and the capture of his british regulars; and for the opening of the southwest the ferocious fight at the horseshoe bend was almost as important as the far more famous conflict of new orleans. the war of brought out conspicuously the solidarity of interest in the west. the people there were then all pretty much of the same blood; and they made common cause against outsiders in the military field exactly as afterwards they for some time acted together politically. further eastward, on the niagara frontier, the fighting was done by the troops of new york and new england, unassisted by the southern states; and in turn the latter had to shift for themselves when washington was burned and baltimore menaced. it was far otherwise in the regions lying beyond the appalachians. throughout all the fighting in the northwest, where ohio was the state most menaced, the troops of kentucky formed the bulk of the american army, and it was the charge of their mounted riflemen which at a blow won the battle of the thames. again, on that famous january morning, when it seemed as if the fair creole city was already in packenham's grasp, it was the wild soldiery of tennessee who, lolling behind their mud breastworks, peered out through the lifting fog at the scarlet array of the english veterans, as the latter, fresh from their long and unbroken series of victories over the best troops of europe, advanced, for the first time, to meet defeat. this solidarity of interest and feeling on the part of the trans-appalachian communities is a factor often not taken into account in relating the political history of the early part of this century; most modern writers (who keep forgetting that the question of slavery was then not one tenth as absorbing as it afterwards became) apparently deeming that the line of demarkation between north and south was at that period, as it has since in reality become, as strongly defined west of the mountains as east of them. that such was not the case was due to several different causes. the first comers into tennessee and kentucky belonged to the class of so-called poor whites, who owned few or no slaves, and who were far less sectionally southern in their feelings than were the rich planters of the low, alluvial plains towards the coast of the atlantic; and though a slave-owning population quickly followed the first pioneers, yet the latter had imprinted a stamp on the character of the two states which was never wholly effaced,--as witness the tens of thousands of soldiers which both, even the more southern of the two, furnished to the union army in the civil war. if this immigration made kentucky and tennessee, and afterwards missouri, less distinctively southern in character than the south atlantic states, it at the same time, by furnishing the first and for some time the most numerous element in the population of the states north of the ohio, made the latter less characteristically northern than was the case with those lying east of them. up to indiana kept petitioning congress to allow slavery within her borders; illinois, in the early days, felt as hostile towards massachusetts as did missouri. moreover, at first the southern states west of the mountains greatly outweighed the northern, both in numbers and importance. thus several things came about. in the first place, all the communities across the alleghanies originally felt themselves to be closely knit together by ties of blood, sentiment, and interest; they felt that they were, taking them altogether, western as opposed to eastern. in the next place, they were at first southern rather than northern in their feeling. but, in the third place, they were by no means so extremely southern as were the southern atlantic states. this was the way in which they looked at themselves; and this was the way in which at that time others looked at them. in our day kentucky is regarded politically as being simply an integral portion of the solid south; but the greatest of her sons, clay, was known to his own generation, not as a southern statesman, but as "harry of the west." of the two presidents, harrison and taylor, whom the whigs elected, one lived in ohio and one in louisiana; but both were chosen simply as western men, and, as a matter of fact, both were born in virginia. andrew jackson's victory over adams was in some slight sense a triumph of the south over the north, but it was far more a triumph of the west over the east. webster's famous sneer at old zachary taylor was aimed at him as a "frontier colonel;" in other words, though taylor had a large plantation in louisiana, webster, and many others besides, looked upon him as the champion of the rough democracy of the west rather than as the representative of the polished slave-holders of the south. thus, during the first part of this century, the term "western" was as applicable to the states lying south of the ohio as to those lying north of it. moreover, at first the central, or, as they were more usually termed, the border states, were more populous and influential than were those on either side of them, and so largely shaped the general tone of western feeling. while the voters in these states, whether whigs or democrats, accepted as their leaders men like clay in kentucky, benton in missouri, and andrew jackson in tennessee, it could be taken for granted that on the whole they felt for the south against the north, but much more for the west against the east, and most strongly of all for the union as against any section whatsoever. many influences came together to start and keep alive this feeling; but one, more potent than all the others combined, was working steadily, and with ever-increasing power, against it; and when slavery finally brought about a break between the northern and southern states of the west as complete as that in the east, then the democrats of the stamp of jackson and benton disappeared as completely from public life as did the whigs of the stamp of clay. benton's long political career can never be thoroughly understood unless it is kept in mind that he was primarily a western and not a southern statesman; and it owes its especial interest to the fact that during its continuance the west first rose to power, acting as a unit, and to the further fact that it was brought to a close by the same causes which soon afterwards broke up the west exactly as the east was already broken. benton was not one of the few statesmen who have left the indelible marks of their own individuality upon our history; but he was, perhaps, the most typical representative of the statesmanship of the middle west at the time when the latter gave the tone to the political thought of the entire mississippi valley. the political school which he represented came to its fullest development in the so-called border states of kentucky, tennessee, and missouri, and swayed the destinies of the west so long as the states to the north as well as the states to the south were content to accept the leadership of those that lay between them. it came to an end and disappeared from sight when people north of the ohio at last set up their own standard, and when, after some hesitation, the border states threw in their lot with the other side and concluded to follow the southern communities, which they had hitherto led. benton was one of those public men who formulate and express, rather than shape, the thought of the people who stand behind them and whom they represent. a man of strong intellect and keen energy, he was for many years the foremost representative of at least one phase of that thought; being, also, a man of high principle and determined courage, when a younger generation had grown up and the bent of the thought had changed, he declined to change with it, bravely accepting political defeat as the alternative, and going down without flinching a hair's breadth from the ground on which he had always stood. to understand his public actions as well as his political ideas and principles it is, of course, necessary to know at least a little of the men among whom he lived and from whom he sprang: the men who were the first of our people to press out beyond the limits of the thirteen old states; who filled kentucky, tennessee, arkansas, and missouri, and who for so long a time were the dominant class all through the west, until, at last, the flood of northeastern immigration completely swamped their influence north of the ohio, while along the gulf coast the political control slipped from their hands into the grasp of the great planter class. the wood-choppers, game-hunters, and indian-fighters, who first came over the mountains, were only the forerunners of the more regular settlers who followed them; but these last had much the same attributes as their predecessors. for many years after the settlements were firmly rooted, the life of the settlers was still subject to all the perils of the wilderness. above all, the constant warfare in which they were engaged for nearly thirty-five years, and which culminated in the battle of new orleans, left a deep and lasting imprint on their character. their incessant wars were waged almost wholly by the settlers themselves, with comparatively little help from the federal government, and with hardly any regular troops as allies. a backwoods levy, whether raised to meet an indian inroad or to march against the disciplined armies of the british, was merely a force of volunteers, made up from among the full-grown male settlers, who were induced to join either from motives of patriotism, or from love of adventure, or because they felt that their homes and belongings were in danger from which they could only extricate them by their own prowess. every settler thus became more or less of a soldier, was always expert with the rifle, and was taught to rely upon his own skill and courage for his protection. but the military service in which he was from time to time engaged was of such a lawless kind, and was carried on with such utter absence of discipline, that it did not accustom him in the least to habits of self-command, or render him inclined to brook the exercise of authority by an outsider; so that the western people grew up with warlike traditions and habits of thought, accustomed to give free rein to their passions, and to take into their own hands the avenging of real or supposed wrongs, but without any of the love for order and for acting in concert with their fellows which characterize those who have seen service in regular armies. on the contrary, the chief effect of this long-continued and harassing border warfare was to make more marked the sullen and almost defiant self-reliance of the pioneer, and to develop his peculiarly american spirit of individual self-sufficiency, his impatience of outside interference or control, to a degree not known elsewhere, even on this continent. it also gave a distinct military cast to his way of looking at territory which did not belong to him. he stood where he was because he was a conqueror; he had wrested his land by force from its rightful indian lords; he fully intended to repeat the same feat as soon as he should reach the spanish lands lying to the west and southwest; he would have done so in the case of french louisiana if it had not been that the latter was purchased, and was thus saved from being taken by force of arms. this belligerent, or, more properly speaking, piratical way of looking at neighboring territory, was very characteristic of the west, and was at the root of the doctrine of "manifest destiny." all the early settlers, and most of those who came after them, were poor, living narrow lives fraught with great hardship, and varying between toil and half-aimless roving; even when the conditions of their life became easier it was some time before the influence of their old existence ceased to make itself felt in their way of looking at things. the first pioneers were, it is true, soon followed by great slave-owners; and by degrees there grew up a clan of large landed proprietors and stock-raisers, akin to the planter caste which was so all-powerful along the coast; but it was never relatively either so large or so influential as the latter, and was not separated from the rest of the white population by anything like so wide a gap as that which, in the southern atlantic and gulf states, marked the difference between the rich growers of cotton, rice, and sugar, and the squalid "poor whites" or "crackers." the people of the border states were thus mainly composed of small land-owners, scattered throughout the country; they tilled their small farms for themselves, were hewers of their own wood, and drawers of their own water, and for generations remained accustomed to and skillful in the use of the rifle. the pioneers of the middle west were not dwellers in towns; they kept to the open country, where each man could shift for himself without help or hindrance from his neighbors, scorning the irksome restraints and the lack of individual freedom of city life. they built but few cities of any size; the only two really important ones of whose inhabitants they formed any considerable part, st. louis and new orleans, were both founded by the french long before our people came across the mountains into the mississippi valley. their life was essentially a country life, alike for the rich and for the bulk of the population. the few raw frontier towns and squalid, straggling villages were neither seats of superior culture nor yet centres for the distribution of educated thought, as in the north. large tracts of land remained always populated by a class of backwoodsmen differing but little from the first comers. such was the district from which grand, simple old davy crockett went to washington as a whig congressman; and perhaps there was never a quainter figure in our national legislature than that of the grim old rifleman, who shares with daniel boone the honor of standing foremost in the list of our mighty hunters. crockett and his kind had little in common with the men who ruled supreme in the politics of most of the southern states; and even at this day many of their descendants in the wooded mountain land are republicans; for when the middle states had lost the control of the west, and when those who had hitherto followed such leaders as jackson, clay, and benton, drifted with the tide that set so strongly to the south, it was only the men of the type of dogged, stubborn old crockett who dared to make head against it. but, indeed, one of the characteristics of the people with whom we are dealing was the slowness and suspicion with which they received a new idea, and the tenacity with which they clung to one that they had at last adopted. they were above all a people of strong, virile character, certain to make their weight felt either for good or for evil. they had many virtues which can fairly be called great, and their faults were equally strongly marked. they were not a thrifty people, nor one given to long-sustained, drudging work; there were not then, nor are there now, to be found in this land such comfortable, prosperous homes and farms as those which dot all the country where dwell the men of northeastern stock. they were not, as a rule, even ordinarily well educated; the public school formed no such important feature in their life as it did in the life of their fellow-citizens farther north. they had narrow, bitter prejudices and dislikes; the hard and dangerous lives they had led had run their character into a stern and almost forbidding mould. they valued personal prowess very highly, and respected no man who did not possess the strongest capacity for self-help, and who could not shift for himself in any danger. they felt an intense, although perhaps ignorant, pride in and love for their country, and looked upon all the lands hemming in the united states as territory which they or their children should some day inherit; for they were a race of masterful spirit, and accustomed to regard with easy tolerance any but the most flagrant violations of law. they prized highly such qualities as courage, loyalty, truth, and patriotism, but they were, as a whole, poor, and not over-scrupulous of the rights of others, nor yet with the nicest sense of money obligations; so that the history of their state legislation affecting the rights of debtor and creditor, whether public or private, in hard times, is not pleasant reading for an american who is proud of his country. their passions, once roused, were intense, and if they really wished anything they worked for it with indomitable persistency. there was little that was soft or outwardly attractive in their character: it was stern, rude, and hard, like the lives they led; but it was the character of those who were every inch men, and who were americans through to the very heart's core. in their private lives their lawless and arrogant freedom and lack of self-restraint produced much gross licentiousness and barbarous cruelty; and every little frontier community could tell its story of animal savagery as regards the home relations of certain of its members. yet in spite of this they, as a whole, felt the family ties strongly, and in the main had quite a high standard of private morality. many of them, at any rate, were, according to their lights, deeply and sincerely religious; though even their religion showed their strong, coarse-fibred, narrow natures. episcopalianism was the creed of the rich slave-owner, who dwelt along the sea-board; but the western settlers belonged to some one or other of the divisions of the great methodist and baptist churches. they were as savagely in earnest about this as about everything else; meekness, mildness, broad liberality, and gentle tolerance of difference in religious views were not virtues they appreciated. they were always ready to do battle for their faith, and, indeed, had to do it, as it was quite a common amusement for the wilder and more lawless members of the community to try to break up by force the great camp-meetings, which formed so conspicuous a feature in the social and religious life of the country. for even irreligion took the form of active rebellion against god, rather than disbelief in his existence. physically they were, and are, especially in kentucky, the finest members of our race; an examination of the statistics relating to the volunteers in the civil war shows that the natives of no other state, and the men from no foreign country whatsoever, came up to them in bodily development. such a people, in choosing men to represent them in the national councils, would naturally pay small heed to refined, graceful, and cultivated statesmanship; their allegiance would be given to men of abounding vitality, of rugged intellect, and of indomitable will. no better or more characteristic possessor of these attributes could be imagined than thomas benton. chapter ii. benton's early life and entry into the senate. thomas hart benton was born on march , , near hillsborough, in orange county, north carolina,--the same state that fifteen years before, almost to a day, had seen the birth of the great political chief whose most prominent supporter he in after life became. benton, however, came of good colonial stock; and his early surroundings were not characterized by the squalid poverty that marked jackson's, though the difference in the social condition of the two families was of small consequence on the frontier, where caste was, and is, almost unknown, and social equality is not a mere figure of speech--particularly it was not so at that time in the southwest, where there were no servants, except black slaves, and where even what in the north would be called "hired help" was almost an unknown quantity. benton's father, who was a lawyer in good standing at the north carolina bar, died when the boy was very young, leaving him to be brought up by his virginian mother. she was a woman of force, and, for her time, of much education. she herself began the training of her son's mind, studying with him history and biography, while he also, of course, had access to his father's law library. the home in which he was brought up was, for that time and for that part of the country, straightlaced; his mother, though a virginian, had many traits which belonged rather to the descendants of the puritans, and possessed both their strength of character and their austerely religious spirit. although living in a roistering age, among a class peculiarly given to all the coarser kinds of pleasure, and especially to drink and every form of gambling, she nevertheless preserved the most rigid decorum and morality in her own household, frowning especially upon all intemperance, and never permitting a pack of cards to be found within her doors. she was greatly beloved and respected by the son, whose mind she did so much to mould, and she lived to see him become one of the foremost statesmen of the country. young benton was always fond of reading. he began his studies at home, and continued them at a grammar school taught by a young new englander of good ability, a very large proportion of the school-teachers of the country then coming from new england; indeed, school-teachers and peddlers were, on the whole, the chief contributions made by the northeast to the _personnel_ of the new southwest. benton then began a course at chapel hill, the university of north carolina, but broke off before completing it, as his mother decided to move her family westward to the almost unbroken wilderness near nashville, tennessee, where his father had left them a large tract of land. but he was such an insatiable student and reader that he rapidly acquired a very extensive knowledge, not only of law, but of history and even of latin and english literature, and thus became a well-read and cultivated, indeed a learned, man; though his frequent displays of learning and knowledge were sometimes marked by a trace of that self-complacent, amusing pedantry so apt to characterize a really well-educated man who lives in a community in which he believes, and with which he has thoroughly identified himself, but whose members are for the most part below the average in mental cultivation. the bentons founded a little town, named after them, and in which, of course, they took their position as leaders and rich landed proprietors. it lay on the very outskirts of the indian country; indeed, the great war trail of the southern indians led right through the settlement, and they at all times swarmed around it. the change from the still somewhat rude civilization of north carolina to the wildness on the border was far less abrupt and startling then than would be the case under similar circumstances now, and the bentons soon identified themselves completely with the life and interests of the people around them. they even abandoned the episcopalianism of their old home, and became methodists, like their neighbors. young benton himself had his hands full, at first, in attending to his great backwoods farm, tilled by slaves, and in pushing the growth of the settlement by building first a rude log school-house (he himself taught school at one time, while studying law), and a meeting-house of the same primitive construction, then mills, roads, bridges, and so forth. the work hardened and developed him, and he readily enough turned into a regular frontiersman of the better and richer sort. the neighboring town of nashville was a raw, pretentious place, where horse-racing, cock-fighting, gambling, whiskey-drinking, and the various coarse vices which masquerade as pleasures in frontier towns, all throve in rank luxuriance. it was somewhat of a change from benton's early training, but he took to it kindly, and though never a vicious or debauched man, he bore his full share in the savage brawls, the shooting and stabbing affrays, which went to make up one of the leading features in the excessively unattractive social life of the place and epoch. at that time dueling prevailed more or less throughout the united states, and in the south and west to an extent never before or since attained. on the frontier, not only did every man of spirit expect now and then to be called on to engage in a duel, but he also had to make up his mind to take occasional part in bloody street-fights. tennessee, the state where benton then had his home, was famous for the affrays that took place within its borders; and that they were common enough among the people at large may be gathered from the fact that they were of continual occurrence among judges, high state officials, and in the very legislature itself, where senators and assemblymen were always becoming involved in undignified rows and foolish squabbles, apparently without fear of exciting any unfavorable comment, as witness davy crockett's naive account of his early experiences as a backwoods member of the tennessee assembly. like jackson, benton killed his man in a duel. this was much later, in , when he was a citizen of missouri. his opponent was a lawyer named lucas. they fought twice, on bloody island, near st. louis. on the first occasion both were wounded; on the second lucas was killed. the latter came of a truculent family. a recent biographer of his father, judge john r. lucas, remarks, with refreshing unconsciousness of the grotesque humor of the chronicle: "this gentleman was one of the most remarkable men who ever settled west of the mississippi river.... towards the close of his life judge lucas became melancholy and dejected--the result of domestic affliction, for six of his sons met death by violence." one feels curious to know how the other sons died. but the most famous of benton's affrays was that with jackson himself, in . this rose out of a duel of laughable rather than serious character, in which benton's brother was worsted by general carroll, afterwards one of jackson's lieutenants at new orleans. the encounter itself took place between the benton brothers on one side, and on the other, jackson, general coffee, also of new orleans fame, and another friend. the place was a great rambling nashville inn, and the details were so intricate that probably not even the participants themselves knew exactly what had taken place, while all the witnesses impartially contradicted each other and themselves. at any rate, jackson was shot and benton was pitched headlong down-stairs, and all the other combatants were more or less damaged; but it ended in jackson being carried off by his friends, leaving the bentons masters of the field, where they strutted up and down and indulged in a good deal of loud bravado. previous to this benton and jackson had been on the best of terms, and although there was naturally a temporary break in their friendship, yet it proved strong enough in the end to stand even such a violent wrench as that given by this preposterously senseless and almost fatal brawl. they not only became completely reconciled, but eventually even the closest and warmest of personal and political friends; for benton was as generous and forgiving as he was hot-tempered, and jackson's ruder nature was at any rate free from any small meanness or malice. in spite of occasional interludes of this kind, which must have given a rather ferocious fillip to his otherwise monotonous life, benton completed his legal studies, was admitted to the bar, and began to practice as a frontier lawyer at franklin. very soon, however, he for the first time entered the more congenial field of politics, and in served a single term in the lower house of the tennessee legislature. even thus early he made his mark. he had a bill passed introducing the circuit system into the state judiciary, a reform of much importance, especially to the poorer class of litigants; and he also introduced, and had enacted into a law, a bill providing that a slave should have the same right to the full benefit of a jury trial as would a white man suffering under the same accusation. this last measure is noteworthy as foreshadowing the position which benton afterwards took in national politics, where he appeared as a slave-holder, it is true, but as one of the most enlightened and least radical of his class. its passage also showed the tendency of southern opinion at the time, which was undoubtedly in the direction of bettering the condition of the blacks, though the events of the next few years produced such a violent revulsion of feeling concerning the negro race that this current of public opinion was completely reversed. benton, however, was made of sturdy stuff, and as he grew older his views on the question did not alter as did those of most of his colleagues. shortly after he left the legislature the war of broke out, and its events impressed on benton another of what soon became his cardinal principles. the war was brought on by the south and west, the democrats all favoring it, while the federalists, forming the then anti-democratic party, especially in the northeast, opposed it; and finally their more extreme members, at the famous hartford convention, passed resolutions supposed to tend towards the dissolution of the union, and which brought upon the party the bitter condemnation of their antagonists. says benton himself: "at the time of its first appearance the right of secession was repulsed and repudiated by the democracy generally.... the leading language in respect to it south of the potomac was that no state had a right to withdraw from the union, ... and that any attempt to dissolve it, or to obstruct the action of constitutional laws, was treason. if since that time political parties and sectional localities have exchanged attitudes on this question, it cannot alter the question of right." for, having once grasped an idea and made it his own, benton clung to it with unyielding tenacity, no matter whether it was or was not abandoned by the majority of those with whom he had been in the habit of acting. thus early benton's political character became moulded into the shape which it ever afterwards retained. he was a slave-holder, but as advanced as a slave-holder could be; he remained to a certain extent a southerner, but his southernism was of the type prevalent immediately after the revolution, and not of the kind that came to the fore prior to the rebellion. he was much more a westerner in his feelings, and more than all else he was emphatically a union man. like every other hot spirit of the west--and the west was full of little but hot spirits--benton heartily favored the war of . he served as a colonel of volunteers under jackson, but never saw actual fighting, and his short term of soldiership was of no further account than to furnish an excuse to polk, thirty-five years later, for nominating him commanding general in the time of the mexican war,--an incident which, as the nomination was rejected, may be regarded as merely ludicrous, the gross impropriety of the act safely defying criticism. he was of genuine use, however, in calling on and exciting the volunteers to come forward; for he was a fluent speaker, of fine presence, and his pompous self-sufficiency was rather admired than otherwise by the frontiersmen, while his force, energy, and earnestness commanded their respect. he also, when jackson's reckless impetuosity got him into a snarl with the feeble national administration, whose imbecile incapacity to carry on the war became day by day more painfully evident, went to washington, and there finally extricated his chief by dint of threatening that, if "justice" was not done him, tennessee would, in future political contests, be found ranged with the administration's foes. for benton already possessed political influence, and being, like most of his class, anti-federalist, or democratic, in sentiment, was therefore of the same party as the people at washington, and was a man whose representations would have some weight with them. during his stay in tennessee benton's character was greatly influenced by his being thrown into close contact with many of the extraordinary men who then or afterwards made their mark in the strange and picturesque annals of the southwest. jackson even thus early loomed up as the greatest and arch-typical representative of his people and his section. the religious bent of the time was shown in the life of the grand, rugged old methodist, peter cartwright, who, in the far-off backwoods, was a preacher and practical exponent of "muscular christianity" half a century before the day when, under bishop selwyn and charles kingsley, it became a cult among the most highly civilized classes of england. there was david crockett, rifleman and congressman, doomed to a tragic and heroic death in that remarkable conflict of which it was said at the time, that "thermopylæ had its messengers of death, but the alamo had none;" and there was houston, who, after a singular and romantic career, became the greatest of the statesmen and soldiers of texas. it was these men, and their like, who, under the shadow of world-old forests and in the sunlight of the great, lonely plains, wrought out the destinies of a nation and a continent, and who, with their rude war-craft and state-craft, solved problems that, in the importance of their results, dwarf the issues of all european struggles since the day of waterloo as completely as the punic wars in their outcome threw into the shade the consequences of the wars waged at the same time between the different greek monarchies. benton, in his mental training, came much nearer to the statesmen of the sea-board, and was far better bred and better educated, than the rest of the men around him. but he was, and was felt by them to be, thoroughly one of their number, and the most able expounder of their views; and it is just because he is so completely the type of a great and important class, rather than because even of his undoubted and commanding ability as a statesman, that his life and public services will always repay study. his vanity and boastfulness were faults which he shared with almost all his people; and, after all, if they overrated the consequence of their own deeds, the deeds, nevertheless, did possess great importance, and their fault was slight compared to that committed by some of us at the present day, who have gone to the opposite extreme and try to belittle the actions of our fathers. benton was deeply imbued with the masterful, overbearing spirit of the west,--a spirit whose manifestations are not always agreeable, but the possession of which is certainly a most healthy sign of the virile strength of a young community. he thoroughly appreciated that he was helping to shape the future of a country, whose wonderful development is the most important feature in the history of the nineteenth century; the non-appreciation of which fact is in itself sufficient utterly to disqualify any american statesman from rising to the first rank. it was not in tennessee, however, that benton rose to political prominence, for shortly after the close of the war he crossed the mississippi and made his permanent home in the territory of missouri. missouri was then our extreme western outpost, and its citizens possessed the characteristic western traits to an even exaggerated extent. the people were pushing, restless, and hardy; they were lawless and violent to a degree. in spite of the culture and education of some families, society, as a whole, was marked by florid unconventionality and rawness. the general and widespread intemperance of the judges and high officials of state was even more marked than their proclivities for brawling. the lawyers, as usual, furnished the bulk of the politicians; success at the bar depended less upon learning than upon "push" and audacity. the fatal feuds between individuals and families were as frequent and as bloody as among highland clans a century before. the following quotations are taken at random from a work on the bench and bar of missouri, by an ex-judge of its supreme court: "a man by the name of hiram k. turk, and four sons, settled in near warsaw, and a personal difficulty occurred between them and a family of the name of jones, resulting in the death of one or two. the people began to take sides with one or the other, and finally a general outbreak took place, in which many were killed, resulting in a general reign of terror and of violence beyond the power of the law to subdue." the social annals of this pleasant town of warsaw could not normally have been dull; in , for instance, they were enlivened by judge cherry and senator major fighting to the death on one of its principal streets, the latter being slain. the judges themselves were by no means bigoted in their support of law and order. "in those days it was common for people to settle their quarrels during court week.... judge allen took great delight in these exhibitions, and would at any time adjourn his court to witness one.... he (allen) always traveled with a holster of large pistols in front of his saddle, and a knife with a blade at least a foot long." hannibal chollop was no mere creature of fancy; on the contrary, his name was legion, and he flourished rankly in every town throughout the mississippi valley. but, after all, this ruffianism was really not a whit worse in its effects on the national character than was the case with certain of the "universal peace" and "non-resistance" developments in the northeastern states; in fact, it was more healthy. a class of professional non-combatants is as hurtful to the real, healthy growth of a nation as is a class of fire-eaters; for a weakness or folly is nationally as bad as a vice, or worse; and, in the long run, a quaker may be quite as undesirable a citizen as is a duelist. no man who is not willing to bear arms and to fight for his rights can give a good reason why he should be entitled to the privilege of living in a free community. the decline of the militant spirit in the northeast during the first half of this century was much to be regretted. to it is due, more than to any other cause, the undoubted average individual inferiority of the northern compared to the southern troops; at any rate, at the beginning of the great war of the rebellion. the southerners, by their whole mode of living, their habits, and their love of out-door sports, kept up their warlike spirit; while in the north the so-called upper classes developed along the lines of a wealthy and timid bourgeoisie type, measuring everything by a mercantile standard (a peculiarly debasing one if taken purely by itself), and submitting to be ruled in local affairs by low foreign mobs, and in national matters by their arrogant southern kinsmen. the militant spirit of these last certainly stood them in good stead in the civil war. the world has never seen better soldiers than those who followed lee; and their leader will undoubtedly rank as without any exception the very greatest of all the great captains that the english-speaking peoples have brought forth--and this, although the last and chief of his antagonists may himself claim to stand as the full equal of marlborough and wellington. the other western states still kept touch on the old colonial communities of the sea-coast, having a second or alternative outlet through louisiana, newly acquired by the united states, it is true, but which was nevertheless an old settled land. missouri, however, had lost all connection with the sea-coast, and though, through her great river towns, swarming with raftsmen and flat-boatmen, she drove her main and most thriving trade with the other mississippi cities, yet her restless and adventure-loving citizens were already seeking other outlets for their activity, and were establishing trade relations with the mexicans; being thus the earliest among our people to come into active contact with the hispano-indian race from whom we afterwards wrested so large a part of their inheritance. missouri was thrust out beyond the mississippi into the vast plains-country of the far west, and except on the river-front was completely isolated, being flanked on every side by great stretches of level wilderness, inhabited by roaming tribes of warlike indians. thus for the first time the borderers began to number in their ranks plainsmen as well as backwoodsmen. in such a community there were sure to be numbers of men anxious to take part in any enterprise that united the chance of great pecuniary gain with the certainty of even greater personal risk, and both these conditions were fulfilled in the trading expeditions pushed out from missouri across the trackless wastes lying between it and the fringe of mexican settlements on the rio del norte. the route followed by these caravans, which brought back furs and precious metals, soon became famous under the name of the santa fé trail; and the story of the perils, hardships, and gains of the adventurous traders who followed it would make one of the most striking chapters of american history. among such people benton's views and habits of thought became more markedly western and ultra-american than ever, especially in regard to our encroachments upon the territory of neighboring powers. the general feeling in the west upon this last subject afterwards crystallized into what became known as the "manifest destiny" idea, which, reduced to its simplest terms, was: that it was our manifest destiny to swallow up the land of all adjoining nations who were too weak to withstand us; a theory that forthwith obtained immense popularity among all statesmen of easy international morality. it cannot be too often repeated that no one can understand even the domestic, and more especially the foreign, policy of benton and his school without first understanding the surroundings amidst which they had been brought up and the people whose chosen representatives they were. recent historians, for instance, always speak as if our grasping after territory in the southwest was due solely to the desire of the southerners to acquire lands out of which to carve new slave-holding states, and as if it was merely a move in the interests of the slave-power. this is true enough so far as the motives of calhoun, tyler, and the other public leaders of the gulf and southern sea-board states were concerned. but the hearty western support given to the movement was due to entirely different causes, the chief among them being the fact that the westerners honestly believed themselves to be indeed created the heirs of the earth, or at least of so much of it as was known by the name of north america, and were prepared to struggle stoutly for the immediate possession of their heritage. one of benton's earliest public utterances was in regard to a matter which precisely illustrates this feeling. it was while missouri was still a territory, and when benton, then a prominent member of the st. louis bar, had by his force, capacity, and power as a public speaker already become well known among his future constituents. the treaty with spain, by which we secured florida, was then before the senate, which body had to consider it several times, owing to the dull irresolution and sloth of the spanish government in ratifying it. the bounds it gave us were far too narrow to suit the more fiery western spirits, and these cheered benton to the echo when he attacked it in public with fierce vehemence. "the magnificent valley of the mississippi is ours, with all its fountains, springs, and floods; and woe to the statesman who shall undertake to surrender one drop of its water, one inch of its soil to any foreign power." so he said, his words ringing with the boastful confidence so well liked by the masterful men of the west, strong in their youth, and proudly conscious of their strength. the treaty was ratified in the senate, nevertheless, all the old southern states favoring it, and the only votes at any stage recorded against it being of four western senators, coming respectively from ohio, kentucky, tennessee, and louisiana. so that in , at any rate, the desire for territorial aggrandizement at the expense of maine or mexico was common to the west as a whole, both to the free and the slave states, and was not exclusively favored by the southerners. the only effect of benton's speech was to give rise to the idea that he was hostile to the southern and democratic administration at washington, and against this feeling he had to contend in the course of his successful candidacy for the united states senatorship the following year, when missouri was claiming admittance to the union. it was in reference to this matter of admitting missouri that the slavery question for the first time made its appearance in national politics, where it threw everything into confusion and for the moment overshadowed all else; though it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, and did not again come to the front for several years. the northerners, as a whole, desiring to "restrict" the growth of slavery and the slave-power, demanded that missouri, before being admitted as a state, should abolish slavery within her boundaries. the south was equally determined that she should be admitted as a slave state; and for the first time the politicians of the country divided on geographical rather than on party lines, though the division proved but temporary, and was of but little interest except as foreshadowing what was to come a score of years later. even within the territory itself the same contest was carried on with the violence bred by political conflicts in frontier states, there being a very respectable "restriction" party, which favored abolition. benton was himself a slave-holder, and as the question was in no way one between the east and the west, or between the union as a whole and any part of it, he naturally gave full swing to his southern feelings, and entered with tremendous vigor into the contest on the anti-restriction side. so successful were his efforts, and so great was the majority of the missourians who sympathized with him, that the restrictionists were completely routed and succeeded in electing but one delegate to the constitutional convention. in congress the matter was finally settled by the passage of the famous missouri compromise bill, a measure southern in its origin, but approved at the time by many if not most northerners, and disapproved by not a few southerners. benton heartily believed in it, announcing somewhat vaguely that he was "equally opposed to slavery agitation and to slavery extension." by its terms missouri was admitted as a slave state, while slavery was abolished in all the rest of the old province of louisiana lying north and west of it and north of the parallel of ° '. owing to an objectionable clause in its constitution, the admission was not fully completed until , and then only through the instrumentality of henry clay. but benton took his seat immediately, and entered on his thirty years' of service in the united states senate. his appearance in national politics was thus coincident with the appearance of the question which, it is true, almost immediately sank out of sight for a period of fifteen years, but which then reappeared to stay for good and to become of progressively absorbing importance, until, combining itself with the still greater question of national unity, it dwarfed all other issues, cleft the west as well as the east asunder, and, as one of its minor results, brought about the political downfall of benton himself and of his whole school in what were called the border states. before entering the senate, benton did something which well illustrates his peculiar uprightness, and the care which he took to keep his public acts free from the least suspicion of improper influence. when he was at the bar in st. louis, real estate litigation was much the most important branch of legal business. the condition of missouri land-titles was very mixed, since many of them were based upon the thousands of "concessions" of land made by the old french and spanish governments, which had been ratified by congress, but subject to certain conditions which the creole inhabitants, being ignorant and lawless, had generally failed to fulfill. by an act of congress these inchoate claims were to be brought before the united states recorder of land titles; and the missouri bar were divided as to what action should be taken on them, the majority insisting that they should be held void, while benton headed the opposite party, which was averse to forfeiting property on technical grounds, and advocated the confirmation of every honest claim. further and important legislation was needed to provide for these claims. benton, being much the most influential member of the bar who had advocated the confirmation of the claims, and being so able, honest, and energetic, was the favorite counsel of the claimants, and had hundreds of their titles under his professional charge. of course in such cases the compensation of the lawyer depended solely upon his success; and success to benton would have meant wealth. nevertheless, and though his action was greatly to his own pecuniary hurt, the first thing he did when elected senator was to convene his clients, and tell them that henceforth he could have nothing more to do, as their attorney, with the prosecution of their claims, giving as his reason that their success largely depended upon the action of congress, of which he was now himself a member, so that he was bound to consult, not any private interest, but the good of the community as a whole. he even refused to designate his successor in the causes, saying that he was determined not only to be quite unbiased in acting upon the subject of these claims as senator, but not to have, nor to be suspected of having, any personal interest in the fate of any of them. many a modern statesman might most profitably copy his sensitiveness. chapter iii. early years in the senate. when benton took his seat in the united states senate, monroe, the last president of the great house of virginia, was about beginning his second term. he was a courteous, high-bred gentleman, of no especial ability, but well fitted to act as presidential figure-head during the politically quiet years of that era of good feeling which lasted from till . the federalist party, after its conduct during the war, had vanished into well-deserved obscurity, and though influences of various sorts were working most powerfully to split the dominant and all-embracing democracy into factional fragments, these movements had not yet come to a head. the slavery question, it cannot be too often said, was as yet of little or no political consequence. the violent excitement over the admission of missouri had subsided as quickly as it had arisen; and though the compromise bill was of immense importance in itself, and still more as giving a hint of what was to come, it must be remembered that its effect upon general politics, during the years immediately succeeding its passage, was slight. later on, the slavery question became of such paramount consequence, and so completely identified with the movement for the dissolution of the union, that it seems impossible for even the best of recent historians of american politics to understand that such was not the case at this time. one writer of note even goes so far as to state that "from the night of march , , party history is made up without interruption or break of the development of geographical [the context shows this to mean northern and southern] parties." there is very little ground for such a sweeping assertion until a considerable time after the date indicated; indeed, it was more than ten years later before any symptom of the development spoken of became at all marked. until then, parties divided even less on geographical lines than had been the case earlier, during the last years of the existence of the federalists; and what little division there was had no reference to slavery. nor was it till nearly a score of years after the passage of the missouri compromise bill that the separatist spirit began to identify itself for good with the idea of the maintenance of slavery. previously to that there had been outbursts of separatist feeling in different states, but always due to entirely different causes. georgia flared up in hot defiance of the federal government, when the latter rubbed against her on the question of removing the cherokees from within her borders. but her having negro slaves did not affect her feelings in the least, and her attitude was just such as any western state with indians on its frontier is now apt to assume so far as it dares,--such an attitude as arizona, for example, would at this moment take in reference to the apaches, if she were able. slavery was doubtless remotely one of the irritating causes that combined to work south carolina up to a fever heat of insanity over the nullification excitement. but in its immediate origin nullification arose from the outcry against the protective tariff, and it is almost as unfair to ascribe it in any way to the influence of slavery as it would be to assign a similar cause for the virginia and kentucky resolutions of , or to say that the absence of slavery was the reason for the abortively disloyal agitation in new england, which culminated in the hartford convention. the separatist feeling is ingrained in the fibre of our race, and though in itself a most dangerous failing and weakness, is yet merely a perversion and distortion of the defiant and self-reliant independence of spirit which is one of the chief of the race virtues; and slavery was partly the cause and partly merely the occasion of the abnormal growth of the separatist movement in the south. nor was the tariff question so intimately associated with that of slavery as has been commonly asserted. this might be easily guessed from the fact that the originator and chief advocate of a high tariff himself came from a slave state, and drew many of his warmest supporters from among the slave-holding sugar-planters. except in the futile discussion over the proposed panama congress it was not till benton's third senatorial term that slavery became of really great weight in politics. one of the first subjects that attracted benton's attention in the senate was the oregon question, and on this he showed himself at once in his true character as a western man, proud alike of every part of his country, and as desirous of seeing the west extended in a northerly as in a southerly direction. himself a slave-holder, from a slave state, he was one of the earliest and most vehement advocates of the extension of our free territory northwards along the pacific coast. all the country stretching north and south of the oregon river was then held by the united states in joint possession with great britain. but the whole region was still entirely unsettled, and as a matter of fact our british rivals were the only parties in actual occupation. the title to the territory was doubtful, as must always be the case when it rests upon the inaccurate maps of forgotten explorers, or upon the chance landings of stray sailors and traders, especially if the land in dispute is unoccupied and of vast but uncertain extent, of little present value, and far distant from the powers claiming it. the real truth is that such titles are of very little practical value, and are rightly enough disregarded by any nations strong enough to do so. benton's intense americanism, and his pride and confidence in his country and in her unlimited capacity for growth of every sort, gifted him with the power to look much farther into the future, as regarded the expansion of the united states, than did his colleagues; and moreover caused him to consider the question from a much more far-seeing and statesmanlike stand-point. the land belonged to no man, and yet was sure to become very valuable; our title to it was not very good, but was probably better than that of any one else. sooner or later it would be filled with the overflow of our population, and would border on our dominion, and on our dominion alone. it was therefore just, and moreover in the highest degree desirable, that it should be made a part of that dominion at the earliest possible moment. benton introduced a bill to enable the president to terminate the arrangement with great britain and make a definite settlement in our favor; and though the senate refused to pass it, yet he had the satisfaction of bringing the subject prominently before the people, and, moreover, of outlining the way in which it would have to be and was finally settled. in one of his speeches on the matter he said, using rather highflown language, (for he was unfortunately deficient in sense of humor): "upon the people of eastern asia the establishment of a civilized power on the opposite coast of america could not fail to produce great and wonderful benefits. science, liberal principles in government, and the true religion might cast their lights across the intervening sea. the valley of the columbia might become the granary of china and japan, and an outlet to their imprisoned and exuberant population." could he have foreseen how, in the future, the americans of the valley of the columbia would greet the "imprisoned and exuberant population" of china, he would probably have been more doubtful as to the willingness of the latter empire to accept our standard of the true religion and liberal principles of government. in the course of the same speech he for the first time, and by what was then considered a bold flight of imagination, suggested the possibility of sending foreign ministers to the oriental nations, to china, japan, and persia, "and even to the grand turk." better success attended a bill he introduced to establish a trading-road from missouri through the indian country to new mexico, which, after much debate, passed both houses and was signed by president monroe. the road thus marked out and established became, and remained for many years, a great thoroughfare, and among the chief of the channels through which our foreign commerce flowed. until benton secured the enactment of this law, so important to the interests and development of the west, the overland trade with mexico had been carried on by individual effort and at the cost of incalculable hazard, hardship, and risk of life. mexico, with its gold and silver mines, its strange physical features, its population utterly foreign to us in race, religion, speech, and ways of life, and especially because of the glamour of mystery which surrounded it and partly shrouded it from sight, always dazzled and strongly attracted the minds of the southwesterners, occupying much the same place in their thoughts that the spanish main did in the imagination of england during the reign of elizabeth. the young men of the mississippi valley looked upon an expedition with one of the bands of armed traders, who wound their way across indian-haunted wastes, through deep canyons and over lofty mountain passes, to santa fé, chihuahua, and sonora, with the same feelings of eager excitement and longing that were doubtless felt by some of their forefathers more than two centuries previously in regard to the cruises of drake and hawkins. the long wagon trains or pack trains of the traders carried with them all kinds of goods, but especially cotton, and brought back gold and silver bullion, bales of furs and droves of mules; and, moreover, they brought back tales of lawless adventure, of great gains and losses, of fights against indians and mexicans, and of triumphs and privations, which still further inflamed the minds of the western men. where they had already gone as traders, who could on occasion fight, they all hoped on some future day to go as warriors, who would acquire gain by their conquests. these hopes were openly expressed, and with very little more idea of there being any right or wrong in the matter than so many norse vikings might have felt. the southwesterners are credited with altogether too complex motives when it is supposed that they were actuated in regard to the conquest of northern mexico by a desire to provide for additional slave states to offset the growth of the north; their emotions in regard to their neighbor's land were in the main perfectly simple and purely piratical. that the northeast did not share in the greed for new territory felt by the other sections of the country was due partly to the decline in its militant spirit, (a decline on many accounts sincerely to be regretted,) and partly to its geographical situation, since it adjoined canada, an unattractive and already well-settled country, jealously guarded by the might of great britain. another question, on which benton showed himself to be thoroughly a representative of western sentiment, was the removal of the indian tribes. here he took a most active and prominent part in reporting and favoring the bills, and in advocating the treaties, by which the indian tribes of the south and west were forced or induced, (for the latter word was very frequently used as a euphemistic synonym of the former,) to abandon great tracts of territory to the whites and to move farther away from the boundaries of their ever-encroaching civilization. nor was his action wholly limited to the senate, for it was at his instance that general clark, at st. louis, concluded the treaties with the kansas and osage tribes, by which the latter surrendered to the united states all the vast territory which they nominally owned west of missouri and arkansas, except small reserves for themselves. benton, as was to be expected, took the frontier view of the indian question, which, by the way, though often wrong, is much more apt to be right than is the so-called humanitarian or eastern view. but, so far as was compatible with having the indians removed, he always endeavored to have them kindly and humanely treated. there was, of course, much injustice and wrong inevitably attendant upon the indian policy advocated by him, and by the rest of the southern and western statesmen; but it is difficult to see what other course could have been pursued with most of the tribes. in the western states there were then sixty millions of acres of the best land, owned in great tracts by barbarous or half-barbarous indians, who were always troublesome and often dangerous neighbors, and who did not come in any way under the laws of the states in which they lived. the states thus encumbered would evidently never have been satisfied until all their soil was under their own jurisdiction and open to settlement. the cherokees had advanced far on the road toward civilization, and it was undoubtedly a cruel grief and wrong to take them away from their homes; but the only alternative would have been to deprive them of much of their land, and to provide for their gradually becoming citizens of the states in which they were. for a movement of this sort the times were not then, and, unfortunately, are not yet ripe. much maudlin nonsense has been written about the governmental treatment of the indians, especially as regards taking their land. for the simple truth is that they had no possible title to most of the lands we took, not even that of occupancy, and at the most were in possession merely by virtue of having butchered the previous inhabitants. for many of its actions towards them the government does indeed deserve the severest criticism; but it has erred quite as often on the side of too much leniency as on the side of too much severity. from the very nature of things, it was wholly impossible that there should not be much mutual wrong-doing and injury in the intercourse between the indians and ourselves. it was equally out of the question to let them remain as they were, and to bring the bulk of their number up to our standard of civilization with sufficient speed to enable them to accommodate themselves to the changed condition of their surroundings. the policy towards them advocated by benton, which was much the same as, although more humane than, that followed by most other western men who have had practically to face the problem, worked harshly in many instances, and was the cause of a certain amount of temporary suffering. but it was infinitely better for the nation, as a whole, and, in the end, was really more just and merciful, than it would have been to attempt following out any of the visionary schemes which the more impracticable indian enthusiasts are fond of recommending. it was during monroe's last term that henry clay brought in the first protective tariff bill, as distinguished from tariff bills to raise revenue with protection as an incident only. it was passed by a curiously mixed vote, which hardly indicated any one's future position on the tariff excepting that of clay himself; massachusetts, under the lead of webster, joining hands with the southern sea-coast states to oppose it, while tennessee and new york split, and missouri and kentucky, together with most of the north, favored it. benton voted for it, but on the great question of internal improvements he stood out clearly for the views that he ever afterwards held. this was first brought up by the veto, on constitutional grounds, of the cumberland road bill, which had previously passed both houses with singular unanimity, benton's vote being one of the very few recorded against it. in regard to all such matters benton was strongly in favor of a strict construction of the constitution and of guarding the rights of the states, in spite of his devoted attachment to the union. while voting against this bill, and denying the power or the right of the federal government to take charge of improvements which would benefit one state only, benton was nevertheless careful to reserve to himself the right to support measures for improving national rivers or harbors yielding revenues. the trouble is, that however much the two classes of cases may differ in point of expediency, they overlap so completely that it is wholly impossible to draw a hard and fast line between them, and the question of constitutionality, if waived in the one instance, can scarcely with propriety be raised in the other. with the close of monroe's second term the "era of good feeling" came to an end, and the great democratic-republican party split up into several fragments, which gradually crystallized round two centres. but in this process was still incomplete, and the presidential election of that year was a simple scramble between four different candidates,--jackson, adams, clay, and crawford. jackson had the greatest number of votes, but as no one had a majority, the election was thrown into the house of representatives, where the clay men, inasmuch as their candidate was out of the race, went over to adams and elected him. benton at the time, and afterwards in his "thirty years' view," inveighed against this choice as being a violation of what he called the "principle demos krateo"--a barbarous phrase for which he had a great fondness, and which he used and misused on every possible occasion, whether in speaking or writing. he insisted that, as jackson had secured the majority of the electoral vote, it was the duty of the house of representatives to ratify promptly this "choice of the people." the constitution expressly provided that this need not be done. so benton, who on questions of state rights and internal improvements was so pronounced a stickler for a strict construction of the constitution, here coolly assumed the absurd position that the constitution was wrong on this particular point, and should be disregarded, on the ground that there was a struggle "between the theory of the constitution and the democratic principle." his proposition was ridiculous. the "democratic principle" had nothing more to do with the matter than had the law of gravitation. either the constitution was or it was not to be accepted as a serious document, that meant something; in the former case the election of adams was proper in every aspect, in the latter it was unnecessary to have held any election at all. at this period every one was floundering about in efforts to establish political relations, benton not less than others; for he had begun the canvass as a supporter of clay, and had then gone over to crawford. but at the end he had become a jacksonian democrat, and during the rest of his political career he figured as the most prominent representative of the jacksonian democracy in the senate. van buren himself, afterwards jackson's prime favorite and political heir, was a crawford man during this campaign. adams, after his election, which was owing to clay's support, gave clay the position of secretary of state in his cabinet. the affair unquestionably had an unfortunate look, and the jacksonians, especially jackson, at once raised a great hue and cry that there had been a corrupt bargain. benton, much to his credit, refused to join in the outcry, stating that he had good and sufficient reasons--which he gave--to be sure of its falsity; a position which brought him into temporary disfavor with many of his party associates, and which a man who had benton's ambition and bitter partisanship, without having his sturdy pluck, would have hesitated to take. the assault was directed with especial bitterness against clay, whom jackson ever afterwards included in the very large list of individuals whom he hated with the most rancorous and unreasoning virulence. randolph of roanoke, the privileged eccentric of the senate, in one of those long harangues in which he touched upon everybody and everything, except possibly the point at issue, made a rabid onslaught upon the clay-adams coalition as an alliance of "the blackleg and the puritan." clay, who was susceptible enough to the charge of loose living, but who was a man of rigid honor and rather fond than otherwise of fighting, promptly challenged him, and a harmless interchange of shots took place. benton was on the field as the friend of both parties, and his account of the affair is very amusing in its description of the solemn, hair-splitting punctilio with which it is evident that both randolph and many of his contemporaries regarded points of dueling honor, which to us seem either absurd, trivial, or wholly incomprehensible. two tolerably well-defined parties now emerged from the chaos of contending politicians; one was the party of the administration, whose members called themselves national republicans, and later on whigs; the other was the jacksonian democracy. adams's inaugural address and first message outlined the whig policy as favoring a protective tariff, internal improvements, and a free construction of the constitution generally. the jacksonians accordingly took the opposite side on all these points, partly from principle and partly from perversity. in the senate they assailed with turgid eloquence every administration measure, whether it was good or bad, very much of their opposition being purely factious in character. there has never been a time when there was more rabid, objectless, and unscrupulous display of partisanship. benton, little to his credit, was a leader in these purposeless conflicts. the most furious of them took place over the proposed panama mission. this was a scheme that originated in the fertile brain of henry clay, whose americanism was of a type quite as pronounced as benton's, and who was always inclined to drag us into a position of hostility to european powers. the spanish-american states, having succeeded in winning their independence from spain, were desirous of establishing some principle of concert in action among the american republics as a whole, and for this purpose proposed to hold an international congress at panama. clay's fondness for a spirited and spectacular foreign policy made him grasp eagerly at the chance of transforming the united states into the head of an american league of free republics, which would be a kind of cis-atlantic offset to the holy alliance of european despotisms. adams took up the idea, nominated ministers to the panama congress, and gave his reasons for his course in a special message to the senate. the administration men drew the most rosy and impossible pictures of the incalculable benefits which would be derived from the proposed congress; and the jacksonians attacked it with an exaggerated denunciation that was even less justified by the facts. adams's message was properly open to attack on one or two points; notably in reference to its proposals that we should endeavor to get the spanish-american states to introduce religious tolerance within their borders. it was certainly an unhappy suggestion that we should endeavor to remove the mote of religious intolerance from our brother's eye while indignantly resenting the least allusion to the beam of slavery in our own. it was on this very point of slavery that the real opposition hinged. the spanish states had emancipated their comparatively small negro populations, and, as is usually the case with latin nations, did not have a very strong caste feeling against the blacks, some of whom accordingly had risen to high civic and military rank; and they also proposed to admit to their congress the negro republic of hayti. certain of the slave-holders of the south fiercely objected to any such association; and on this occasion benton for once led and voiced the ultra-southern feeling on the subject, announcing in his speech that diplomatic intercourse with hayti should not even be discussed in the senate chamber, and that we could have no association with republics who had "black generals in their armies and mulatto senators in their congresses." but this feeling on the part of the slave-holders against the measure was largely, although not wholly, spurious; and really had less to do with the attitude of the jacksonian democrats than had a mere factious opposition to adams and clay. this was shown by the vote on the confirmation of the ministers, when the senators divided on party and not on sectional lines. the nominations were confirmed, but not till after such a length of time that the ministers were unable to reach panama until after the congress had adjourned. the oregon question again came up during adams's term, the administration favoring the renewal of the joint occupation convention, by which we held the country in common with great britain. there was not much public feeling in the matter; in the east there was none whatever. but benton, when he opposed the renewal, and claimed the whole territory as ours, gave expression to the desires of all the westerners who thought over the subject at all. he was followed by only half a dozen senators, all but one from the west, and from both sides of the ohio--illinois, kentucky, tennessee, mississippi; the northwest and southwest as usual acting together. the vote on the protective tariff law of furnished another illustration of the solidarity of the west. new england had abandoned her free trade position since , and the north went strongly for the new tariff; the southern sea-coast states, except louisiana, opposed it bitterly; and the bill was carried by the support of the western states, both the free and the slave. this tariff bill was the first of the immediate irritating causes which induced south carolina to go into the nullification movement. benton's attitude on the measure was that of a good many other men who, in their public capacities, are obliged to appear as protectionists, but who lack his frankness in stating their reasons. he utterly disbelieved in and was opposed to the principle of the bill, but as it had bid for and secured the interest of missouri by a heavy duty on lead, he felt himself forced to support it; and so he announced his position. he simply went with his state, precisely as did webster, the latter, in following massachusetts' change of front and supporting the tariff of , turning a full and complete somersault. neither the one nor the other was to blame. free traders are apt to look at the tariff from a sentimental stand-point; but it is in reality purely a business matter, and should be decided solely on grounds of expediency. political economists have pretty generally agreed that protection is vicious in theory and harmful in practice; but if the majority of the people in interest wish it, and it affects only themselves, there is no earthly reason why they should not be allowed to try the experiment to their hearts' content. the trouble is that it rarely does affect only themselves; and in the evil was peculiarly aggravated on account of the unequal way in which the proposed law would affect different sections. it purported to benefit the rest of the country, but it undoubtedly worked real injury to the planter states, and there is small ground for wonder that the irritation over it in the region so affected should have been intense. during adams's term benton began his fight for disposing of the public lands to actual settlers at a small cost. it was a move of enormous importance to the whole west; and benton's long and sturdy contest for it, and for the right of preëmption, entitle him to the greatest credit. he never gave up the struggle, although repulsed again and again, and at the best only partially successful; for he had to encounter much opposition, especially from the short-sighted selfishness of many of the northeasterners, who wished to consider the public lands purely as sources of revenue. he utterly opposed the then existing system of selling land to the highest bidder--a most hurtful practice; and objected to the establishment of an arbitrary minimum price, which practically kept all land below a certain value out of the market altogether. he succeeded in establishing the preëmption system, and had the system of renting public mines, etc., abolished; and he struggled for the principle of giving land outright to settlers in certain cases. as a whole, his theory of a liberal system of land distribution was undoubtedly the correct one, and he deserves the greatest credit for having pushed it as he did. chapter iv. the election of jackson, and the spoils system. in the presidential election of jackson and adams were pitted against each other as the only candidates before the people, and jackson won an overwhelming victory. the followers of the two were fast developing respectively into democrats and whigs, and the parties were hardening and taking shape, while the dividing lines were being drawn more clearly and distinctly. but the contest was largely a personal one, and jackson's success was due to his own immense popularity more than to any party principles which he was supposed to represent. almost the entire strength of adams was in the northeast; but it is absolutely wrong to assume, because of this fact, that the election even remotely foreshadowed the way in which party lines would be drawn in the coming sectional antagonism over slavery. adams led jackson in the two slave states of maryland and delaware; and in the free states outside of new england jackson had an even greater lead over adams. east of the alleghanies it may here and there have been taken as in some sort a triumph of the south over the north; but its sectional significance, as far as it had any, really came from its being a victory of the west over the east. infinitely more important than this was the fact that it represented the overwhelmingly successful upheaval of the most extreme democratic elements in the community. until all the presidents, and indeed almost all the men who took the lead in public life, alike in national and in state affairs, had been drawn from what in europe would have been called the "upper classes." they were mainly college-bred men of high social standing, as well educated as any in the community, usually rich or at least well-to-do. their subordinates in office were of much the same material. it was believed, and the belief was acted upon, that public life needed an apprenticeship of training and experience. many of our public men had been able; almost all had been honorable and upright. the change of parties in , when the jeffersonian democracy came in, altered the policy of the government, but not the character of the officials. in that movement, though jefferson had behind him the mass of the people as the rank and file of his party, yet all his captains were still drawn from among the men in the same social position as himself. the revolutionary war had been fought under the leadership of the colonial gentry; and for years after it was over the people, as a whole, felt that their interests could be safely intrusted to and were identical with those of the descendants of their revolutionary leaders. the classes in which were to be found almost all the learning, the talent, the business activity, and the inherited wealth and refinement of the country, had also hitherto contributed much to the body of its rulers. the jacksonian democracy stood for the revolt against these rulers; its leaders, as well as their followers, all came from the mass of the people. the majority of the voters supported jackson because they felt he was one of themselves, and because they understood that his election would mean the complete overthrow of the classes in power and their retirement from the control of the government. there was nothing to be said against the rulers of the day; they had served the country and all its citizens well, and they were dismissed, not because the voters could truthfully allege any wrong-doing whatsoever against them, but solely because, in their purely private and personal feelings and habits of life, they were supposed to differ from the mass of the people. this was such an outrageously absurd feeling that the very men who were actuated by it, or who, like benton, shaped and guided it, were ashamed to confess the true reason of their actions, and tried to cloak it behind an outcry, as vague and senseless as it was clamorous, against "aristocratic corruption" and other shadowy and spectral evils. benton even talked loosely of "retrieving the country from the deplorable condition in which the enlightened classes had sunk it," although the country was perfectly prosperous and in its usual state of quiet, healthy growth. on the other hand, the opponents of jackson indulged in talk almost as wild, and fears even more extravagant than his supporters' hopes; and the root of much of their opposition lay in a concealed but still existent caste antagonism to a man of jackson's birth and bringing up. in fact, neither side, in spite of all their loud talk of american republicanism, had yet mastered enough of its true spirit to be able to see that so long as public officers did their whole duty to all classes alike, it was not in the least the affair of their constituents whether they chose to spend their hours of social relaxation in their shirt-sleeves or in dress coats. the change was a great one; it was not a change of the policy under which the government was managed, as in jefferson's triumph, but of the men who controlled it. the two great democratic victories had little in common; almost as little as had the two great leaders under whose auspices they were respectively won,--and few men were ever more unlike than the scholarly, timid, and shifty doctrinaire, who supplanted the elder adams, and the ignorant, headstrong, and straightforward soldier, who was victor over the younger. that the change was the deliberate choice of the great mass of the people, and that it was one for the worse, was then, and has been ever since, the opinion of most thinking men; certainly the public service then took its first and greatest step in that downward career of progressive debasement and deterioration which has only been checked in our own days. but those who would, off-hand, decry the democratic principle on this account would do well to look at the nearly contemporaneous career of the pet heroes of a trans-atlantic aristocracy before passing judgment. a very charming english historian of our day[ ] has compared wellington with washington; it would have been far juster to have compared him with andrew jackson. both were men of strong, narrow minds and bitter prejudices, with few statesmanlike qualities, who, for brilliant military services, were raised to the highest civil positions in the gift of the state. the feeling among the aristocratic classes of great britain in favor of the iron duke was nearly as strong and quite as unreasonable as was the homage paid by their homelier kinsfolk across the atlantic to old hickory. wellington's military successes were far greater, for he had more chances; but no single feat of his surpassed the remarkable victory won against his ablest lieutenant and choicest troops by a much smaller number of backwoods riflemen under andrew jackson. as a statesman wellington may have done less harm than jackson, for he had less influence; but he has no such great mark to his credit as the old tennessean's attitude toward the nullifiers. if jackson's election is a proof that the majority is not always right, wellington's elevation may be taken as showing that the minority, or a fraction thereof, is in its turn quite as likely to be wrong. [ : justin mccarthy.] this caste antagonism was the distinguishing feature in the election of , and the partially sectional character of the contest was due to the different degree of development the caste spirit had reached in different portions of the union. in new england wealth was quite evenly distributed, and education and intelligence were nearly universal; so there the antagonism was slight, the bulk of the new england vote being given, as usually before and since, in favor of the right candidate. in the middle states, on the contrary, the antagonism was very strong. in the south it was of but little political account as between the whites themselves, they all being knit together by the barbarous bond of a common lordship of race; and here the feeling for jackson was largely derived from the close kinship still felt for the west. in the west itself, where jackson's great strength lay, the people were still too much on the same plane of thought as well as of material prosperity, and the wealthy and cultivated classes were of too limited extent to admit of much caste feeling against the latter; and, accordingly, instead of hostility to them, the western caste spirit took the form of hostility to their far more numerous representatives who had hitherto formed the bulk of the political rulers of the east. new england was not only the most advanced portion of the union, as regards intelligence, culture, and general prosperity, but was also most disagreeably aware of the fact, and was possessed with a self-conscious virtue that was peculiarly irritating to the westerners, who knew that they were looked down upon, and savagely resented it on every occasion; and, besides, new england was apt to meddle in affairs that more nearly concerned other localities. several of benton's speeches, at this time, show this irritation against the northeast, and also incidentally bring out the solidarity of interest felt throughout the west. in a long and able speech, favoring the repeal of the iniquitous "salt tax," or high duty on imported salt (a great hobby of his, in which, after many efforts, he was finally successful), he brought out the latter point very strongly, besides complaining of the disproportionate lightness of the burden imposed upon the northeast by the high tariff, of which he announced himself to be but a moderate adherent. in common with all other western statesmen, he resented keenly the suspicion with which the northeast was then only too apt to regard the west, quoting in one of his speeches with angry resentment a prevalent new england sneer at "the savages beyond the alleghanies." at the time we are speaking of it must be remembered that many even of the most advanced easterners were utterly incapable of appreciating the almost limitless capacity of their country for growth and expansion, being in this respect far behind their western brethren; indeed, many regarded the acquisition of any new territory in the west with alarm and regret, as tending to make the union of such unwieldy size that it would break of its own weight. benton was the leading opponent of a proposal, introduced by senator foot of connecticut, to inquire into the expediency of limiting the sales of public lands to such lands as were then in the market. the limitation would have been most injurious to the entire west, which was thus menaced by the action of a new englander, while benton appeared as the champion of the whole section, north and south alike, in the speech wherein he strenuously and successfully opposed the adoption of the resolution, and at the same time bitterly attacked the quarter of the country from which it came, as having from the earliest years opposed everything that might advance the interests of the people beyond the alleghanies. webster came to the assistance of the mover of the measure in a speech wherein, among other things, he claimed for the north the merit of the passage of the ordinance of , in relation to the northwest territory, and especially of the anti-slavery clause therein contained. but benton here caught him tripping, and in a very good speech showed that he was completely mistaken in his facts. the debate now, however, completely left the point at issue, taking a bitterly sectional turn, and giving rise to the famous controversy between hayne, of south carolina, who for the first time on the floor of the senate announced the doctrine of nullification, and webster, who, in response to his antagonist, voiced the feeling of the union men of the north in that wonderful and magnificent speech known ever since under the name of the "reply to hayne," and the calling forth of which will henceforward be hayne's sole title to fame. benton, though himself a strong union and anti-nullification man, was still too excited over the subject-matter of the bill and the original discussion over it to understand that the debate had ranged off upon matters of infinitely greater importance, and entirely failed to realize that he had listened to the greatest piece of oratory of the century. on the contrary, encouraged by his success earlier in the debate, he actually attempted a kind of reply to webster, attacking him with invective and sarcasm as an alarmist, and taunting him with the memory of the hartford convention, which had been held by members of the federalist party, to which webster himself had once belonged. benton afterwards became convinced that webster's views were by no means those of a mere alarmist, and frankly stated that he had been wrong in his position; but at the time, heated by his original grievance, as a western man, against new england, he failed entirely to understand the true drift of hayne's speech. much of new england's policy to the west was certainly excessively narrow-minded. jackson's administration derives a most unenviable notoriety as being the one under which the "spoils system" became, for the first time, grafted on the civil service of the nation; appointments and removals in the public service being made dependent upon political qualifications, and not, as hitherto, upon merit or capacity. benton, to his honor, always stoutly opposed this system. it is unfair to assert that jackson was the originator of this method of appointment; but he was certainly its foster-father, and more than any one else is responsible for its introduction into the affairs of the national government. despite all the eastern sneers at the "savages" of the west, it was from eastern men that this most effective method of debauching political life came. the jacksonian democrats of the west, when they introduced it into the working of the federal government, simply copied the system which they found already firmly established by their eastern allies in new york and pennsylvania. for many years the course of politics throughout the country had been preparing and foreshadowing the advent of the "spoils system." the greatest single stroke in its favor had been done at the instigation of crawford, when that scheming politician was seeking the presidency, and, to further his ends, he procured the passage by congress of a law limiting the term of service of all public officials to four years, thus turning out of office all the fifty thousand public servants during each presidential term. this law has never been repealed, every low politician being vitally interested in keeping it as it is, and accordingly it is to be found on the statute-books at the present day; and though it has the company of some other very bad measures, it still remains very much the worst of all, as regards both the evil it has done and that which it is still doing. this four years' limitation law was passed without comment or protest, every one voting in its favor, its probable working not being comprehended in the least. says benton, who, with all his colleagues, voted for it: "the object of the law was to pass the disbursing officers every four years under the supervision of the appointing power, for the inspection of their accounts, in order that defaulters might be detected and dropped, while the faithful should be ascertained and continued.... it was found to operate contrary to its intent, and to have become the facile means of getting rid of faithful disbursing officers, instead of retaining them." new york has always had a low political standard, one or the other of its great party and factional organizations, and often both or all of them, being at all times most unlovely bodies of excessively unwholesome moral tone. aaron burr introduced the "spoils system" into her state affairs, and his methods were followed and improved upon by marcy, wright, van buren, and all the "albany regency." in these men found themselves an important constituent portion of the winning party, and immediately, by the help of the only too willing jackson, proceeded to apply their system to affairs at washington. it was about this time that, in the course of a debate in the senate, marcy gave utterance to the now notorious maxim, "to the victors belong the spoils." under adams the non-partisan character of the public service had been guarded with a scrupulous care that could almost be called exaggerated. indeed, adams certainly went altogether too far in his non-partisanship when it came to appointing cabinet and other high officers, his views on such points being not only fantastic, but absolutely wrong. the colorless character of his administration was largely due to his having, in his anxiety to avoid blind and unreasoning adherence to party, committed the only less serious fault of paying too little heed to party; for a healthy party spirit is prerequisite to the performance of effective work in american political life. adams was not elected purely for himself, but also on account of the men and the principles that he was supposed to represent; and when he partly surrounded himself with men of opposite principles, he just so far, though from the best of motives, betrayed his supporters, and rightly forfeited much of their confidence. but, under him, every public servant felt that, so long as he faithfully served the state, his position was secure, no matter what his political opinions might be. with the incoming of the jacksonians all this changed, and terribly for the worse. a perfect reign of terror ensued among the office-holders. in the first month of the new administration more removals took place than during all the previous administrations put together. appointments were made with little or no attention to fitness, or even honesty, but solely because of personal or political services. removals were not made in accordance with any known rule at all; the most frivolous pretexts were sufficient, if advanced by useful politicians who needed places already held by capable incumbents. spying and tale-bearing became prominent features of official life, the meaner office-holders trying to save their own heads by denouncing others. the very best men were unceremoniously and causelessly dismissed; gray-headed clerks, who had been appointed by the earlier presidents,--by washington, the elder adams, and jefferson,--being turned off at an hour's notice, although a quarter of a century's faithful work in the public service had unfitted them to earn their living elsewhere. indeed, it was upon the best and most efficient men that the blow fell heaviest; the spies, tale-bearers, and tricksters often retained their positions. in the public service was, as it always had been, administered purely in the interest of the people; and the man who was styled the especial champion of the people dealt that service the heaviest blow it has ever received. benton himself always took a sound stand on the civil service question, although his partisanship led him at times to defend jackson's course when he must have known well that it was indefensible. he viewed with the greatest alarm and hostility the growth of the "spoils system," and early introduced, as chairman of a special committee, a bill to repeal the harmful four years' limitation act. in discussing this proposed bill afterwards, he wrote, in words that apply as much at this time as they did then: "the expiration of the four years' term came to be considered as the termination and vacation of all the offices on which it fell, and the creation of vacancies to be filled at the option of the president. the bill to remedy this defect gave legal effect to the original intention of the law by confining the vacation of office to actual defaulters. the power of the president to dismiss civil officers was not attempted to be curtailed, but the restraints of responsibility were placed upon its exercise by requiring the cause of dismission to be communicated to congress in each case. the section of the bill to that effect was in these words: _that in all nominations made by the president to the senate, to fill vacancies occasioned by an exercise of the president's power to remove from office, the fact of the removal shall be stated to the senate at the same time that the nomination is made, with a statement of the reasons for which such officer may have been removed._ this was intended to operate as a restraint upon removals without cause." in the "thirty years' view" he again writes, in language which would be appropriate from every advanced civil service reformer of the present day, that is, from every disinterested man who has studied the workings of the "spoils system" with any intelligence:-- i consider "sweeping" removals, as now practiced by both parties, a great political evil in our country, injurious to individuals, to the public service, to the purity of elections, and to the harmony and union of the people. certainly no individual has a right to an office; no one has an estate or property in a public employment; but when a mere ministerial worker in a subordinate station has learned its duties by experience and approved his fidelity by his conduct, it is an injury to the public service to exchange him for a novice whose only title to the place may be a political badge or partisan service. it is exchanging experience for inexperience, tried ability for untried, and destroying the incentive to good conduct by destroying its reward. to the party displaced it is an injury, he having become a proficient in that business, expecting to remain in it during good behavior, and finding it difficult, at an advanced age, and with fixed habits, to begin a new career in some new walk of life. it converts elections into scrambles for office, and degrades the government into an office for rewards and punishments; and divides the people of the union into two adverse parties, each in its turn, and as it becomes dominant, to strip and proscribe the other. benton had now taken the position which he was for many years to hold, as the recognized senatorial leader of a great and well-defined party. until the prominent political chiefs of the nation had either been its presidents, or had been in the cabinets of these presidents. but after jackson's time they were in the senate, and it was on this body that public attention was concentrated. jackson's cabinet itself showed such a falling off, when compared with the cabinets of any of his predecessors, as to justify the caustic criticism that, when he took office, there came in "the millennium of the minnows." in the senate, on the contrary, there were never before or since so many men of commanding intellect and powers. calhoun had been elected as vice-president on the jacksonian ticket, and was thus, in , presiding over the body of which he soon became an active member; webster and clay were already taking their positions as the leaders of the great national republican, or, as it was afterwards called, whig party. when the rupture between calhoun and the jacksonian democrats, and the resignation of the former from the vice-presidency took place, three parties developed in the united states senate. one was composed of the jacksonian democrats, with benton at their head; one was made up of the little band of nullifiers, led by calhoun; and the third included the rather loose array of the whigs, under clay and webster. the feeling of the jacksonians towards calhoun and the nullifiers and towards clay and the clay whigs were largely those of personal animosity; but they had very little of this sentiment towards webster and his associates, their differences with them being on questions of party principle, or else proceeding from merely sectional causes. chapter v. the struggle with the nullifiers. during both jackson's presidential terms he and his adherents were engaged in two great struggles; that with the nullifiers, and that with the bank. although these struggles were in part synchronous, it will be easier to discuss each by itself. the nullification movement in south carolina, during the latter part of the third and early part of the fourth decades in the present century, had nothing to do, except in the most distant way, with slavery. its immediate cause was the high tariff; remotely it sprang from the same feelings which produced the virginia and kentucky resolutions of . certain of the slave states, including those which raised hemp, indigo, and sugar, were high-tariff states; indeed, it was not till towards the close of the presidency of monroe that there had been much sectional feeling over the policy of protection. originally, while we were a purely agricultural and mercantile people, free trade was the only economic policy which occurred to us as possible to be followed, the first tariff bill being passed in . south carolina then was inclined to favor the system, calhoun himself supporting the bill, and, his subsequent denials to the contrary notwithstanding, distinctly advocating the policy of protection to native industries; while massachusetts then and afterwards stoutly opposed its introduction, as hostile to her interests. however, the bill was passed, and massachusetts had to submit to its operation. after new tariff laws were enacted about every four years, and soon the coast slave states, except louisiana, realized that their working was hurtful to the interests of the planters. new england also changed her attitude; and when the protective tariff bill of came up, its opponents and supporters were sharply divided by sectional lines. but these lines were not such as would have divided the states on the question of slavery. the northeast and northwest alike favored the measure, as also did all the southern states west of the alleghanies, and louisiana. it was therefore passed by an overwhelming vote, against the solid opposition of the belt of southern coast states stretching from virginia to mississippi, and including these two. the states that felt themselves harmed by the tariff did something more than record their disapproval by the votes of their representatives in congress. they nearly all, through their legislatures, entered emphatic protests against its adoption, as being most harmful to them and dangerous to the union; and some accompanied their protests with threats as to what would be done if the obnoxious laws should be enforced. they certainly had grounds for discontent. in the tariff, whether it benefited the country as a whole or not, unquestionably harmed the south; and in a federal union it is most unwise to pass laws which shall benefit one part of the community to the hurt of another part, when the latter receives no compensation. the truculent and unyielding attitude of the extreme protectionists was irritating in the extreme; for cooler men than the south carolinians might well have been exasperated at such an utterance as that of henry clay, when he stated that for the sake of the "american system"--by which title he was fond of styling a doctrine already ancient in mediæval times--he would "defy the south, the president and the devil." on the other hand, both the good and the evil effects of the tariff were greatly exaggerated. some harm to the planter states was doubtless caused by it; but their falling back, as compared with the north, in the race for prosperity, was doubtless caused much more by the presence of slavery, as dallas, of pennsylvania, pointed out in the course of some very temperate and moderate remarks in the senate. clay's assertions as to what the tariff had done for the west were equally ill-founded, as benton showed in a good speech, wherein he described picturesquely enough the industries and general condition of his portion of the country, and asserted with truth that its revived prosperity was due to its own resources, entirely independent of federal aid or legislation. he said: "i do not think we are indebted to the high tariff for our fertile lands and our navigable rivers; and i am certain we are indebted to these blessings for the prosperity we enjoy." "in all that comes from the soil the people of the west are rich. they have an abundant supply of food for man and beast, and a large surplus to send abroad. they have the comfortable living which industry creates for itself in a rich soil, but beyond this they are poor.... they have no roads paved or macadamized; no canals or aqueducts; no bridges of stone across the innumerable streams; no edifices dedicated to eternity; no schools for the fine arts; not a public library for which an ordinary scholar would not apologize." then he went on to speak of the commerce of the west and its exports, "the marching myriads of living animals annually taking their departure from the heart of the west, defiling through the gorges of the cumberland, the alleghany, and the appalachian mountains, or traversing the plains of the south, diverging as they march, ... and the flying steamboats and the fleets of floating arks, loaded with the products of the forest, the farm, and the pasture, following the courses of our noble rivers, and bearing their freights to the great city" of new orleans. unfortunately benton would interlard even his best speeches with theories of economics often more or less crude, and, still worse, with a series of classic quotations and allusions; for he was grievously afflicted with the rage for cheap pseudo-classicism that jefferson and his school had borrowed from the french revolutionists. nor could he resist the temptation to drag in allusions to some favorite hobby. the repeal of the salt-tax was an especial favorite of his. he was perfectly right in attacking the tax, and deserves the greatest credit for the persistency which finally won him the victory. but his associates, unless of a humorous turn of mind, must have found his allusions to it rather tiresome, as when, apropos of the commerce of the mississippi, and without any possible excuse for speaking of the iniquity of taxing salt, he suddenly alluded to new orleans as "that great city which revives upon the banks of the mississippi the name of the greatest of the emperors[ ] that ever reigned upon the banks of the tiber, and who eclipsed the glory of his own heroic exploits by giving an order to his legions never to levy a contribution of salt upon a roman citizen!" [ : aurelian.] it must be admitted that the tariff did some harm to the south, and that it was natural for the latter to feel resentment at the way in which it worked. but it must also be remembered that no law can be passed which does not distribute its benefits more or less unequally, and which does not, in all probability, work harm in some cases. moreover, the south was estopped from complaining of one section being harmed by a law that benefited, or was supposed to benefit, the country at large, by her position in regard to the famous embargo and non-intervention acts. these inflicted infinitely more damage and loss in new england than any tariff law could inflict on south carolina, and, moreover, were put into execution on account of a quarrel with england forced on by the west and south contrary to the desire of the east. yet the southerners were fierce in their denunciations of such of the federalists as went to the extreme in opposition to them. even in massachusetts had been obliged to submit with good grace to the workings of a tariff which she deemed hostile to her interests, and which many southerners then advocated. certainly, even if the new tariff laws were ill-advised, unjust, and unequal in their working, yet they did not, in the most remote degree, justify any effort to break up the union; especially the south had no business to complain when she herself had joined in laying heavier burdens on the shoulders of new england. complain she did, however; and soon added threats to complaints, and was evidently ready to add acts to threats. georgia, at first, took the lead in denunciation; but south carolina soon surpassed her, and finally went to the length of advocating and preparing for separation from the union; a step that produced a revulsion of feeling even among her fellow anti-tariff states. the south carolinian statesmen now proclaimed the doctrine of nullification,--that is, proclaimed that if any state deemed a federal law improper, it could proceed to declare that law null and void so far as its own territory was concerned,--and, as a corollary, that it had the right forcibly to prevent execution of this void law within its borders. this was proclaimed, not as an exercise of the right of revolution, which, in the last resort, belongs, of course, to every community and class, but as a constitutional privilege. jefferson was quoted as the father of the idea, and the kentucky resolutions of - , which he drew, were cited as the precedent for the south carolinian action. in both these last assertions the nullifiers were correct. jefferson was the father of nullification, and therefore of secession. he used the word "nullify" in the original draft which he supplied to the kentucky legislature, and though that body struck it out of the resolutions which they passed in , they inserted it in those of the following year. this was done mainly as an unscrupulous party move on jefferson's part, and when his side came into power he became a firm upholder of the union; and, being constitutionally unable to put a proper value on truthfulness, he even denied that his resolutions could be construed to favor nullification--though they could by no possibility be construed to mean anything else. at this time it is not necessary to discuss nullification as a constitutional dogma; it is an absurdity too great to demand serious refutation. the united states has the same right to protect itself from death by nullification, secession, or rebellion, that a man has to protect himself from death by assassination. calhoun's hair-splitting and metaphysical disquisitions on the constitutionality of nullification have now little more practical interest than have the extraordinary arguments and discussions of the school-men of the middle ages. but at the time they were of vital interest, for they were words which it was known south carolina was prepared to back up by deeds. calhoun was vice-president, the second officer in the federal government, and yet also the avowed leader of the most bitter disunionists. his state supported him by an overwhelming majority, although even within its own borders there was an able opposition, headed by the gallant and loyal family of the draytons,--the same family that afterwards furnished the captain of farragut's flag-ship, the glorious old hartford. there was a strong sentiment in the other southern states in his favor; the public men of south carolina made speech after speech goading him on to take even more advanced ground. in washington the current at first seemed to be all setting in favor of the nullifiers; they even counted on jackson's support, as he was a southerner and a states'-rights man. but he was also a strong unionist, and, moreover, at this time, felt very bitterly towards calhoun, with whom he had just had a split, and had in consequence remodeled his cabinet, thrusting out all calhoun's supporters, and adopting van buren as his political heir,--the position which it was hitherto supposed the great carolina separatist occupied. the first man to take up the gauntlet the nullifiers had thrown down was webster, in his famous reply to hayne. he, of course, voiced the sentiment of the whigs, and especially of the northeast, where the high tariff was regarded with peculiar favor, where the union feeling was strong, and where there was a certain antagonism felt towards the south. the jacksonian democrats, whose strength lay in the west, had not yet spoken. they were, for the most part, neither ultra protectionists nor absolute free-traders; jackson's early presidential utterances had given offense to the south by not condemning all high-tariff legislation, but at the same time had declared in favor of a much more moderate degree of protection than suited the whigs. only a few weeks after webster's speech jackson's chance came, and he declared himself in unmistakable terms. it was on the occasion of the jefferson birthday banquet, april , . an effort was then being made to have jefferson's birthday celebrated annually; and the nullifiers, rightly claiming him as their first and chief apostle, attempted to turn this particular feast into a demonstration in favor of nullification. most of the speakers present were actively or passively in favor of the movement, and the toasts proposed strongly savored of the new doctrine. but jackson, benton, and a number of other union men were in attendance also, and when it came to jackson's turn he electrified the audience by proposing: "our federal union; it must be preserved." calhoun at once answered with: "the union; next to our liberty the most dear; may we all remember that it can only be preserved by respecting the rights of the states and distributing equally the benefit and burden of the union." the issue between the president and the vice-president was now complete, and the jacksonian democracy was squarely committed against nullification. jackson had risen to the occasion as only a strong and a great man could rise, and his few, telling words, finely contrasting at every point with calhoun's utterances, rang throughout the whole country, and will last as long as our government. one result, at least, the nullifiers accomplished,--they completely put an end to the jefferson birthday celebrations. the south carolinians had no intention of flinching from the contest which they had provoked, even when they saw that the north and west were united against them, and though the tide began to set the same way in their sister states of the south; north carolina, among the latter, being the first and most pronounced in her support of the president and denunciation of the nullifiers. the men of the palmetto state have always ranked high for hotheaded courage, and they soon showed that they had wills as fiery as that of jackson himself. yet in the latter they had met an antagonist well worthy of any foeman's steel. in declining an invitation to be present at charleston, on july , , the president again defined most clearly his position in favor of the union, and his words had an especial significance because he let it be seen that he was fully determined to back them up by force if necessary. but his letter only had the effect of inflaming still more the minds of the south carolinians. the prime cause of irritation, the tariff, still remained; and in , clay, having entered the senate after a long retirement from politics, put the finishing stroke to their anger by procuring the passage of a new tariff bill, which left the planter states almost as badly off as did the law of . jackson signed this, although not believing that it went far enough in the reduction of duties. in the presidential election of , jackson defeated clay by an enormous majority; van buren was elected vice-president, there being thus a northern man on the ticket. south carolina declined to take part in the election, throwing away her vote. again, it must be kept in mind that the slave question did not shape, or, indeed, enter into this contest at all, directly, although beginning to be present in the background as a source of irritation. in there was ten-fold more feeling in the north against masonry, and secret societies generally, than there was against slavery. benton threw himself in, heart and soul, with the union party, acting as jackson's right-hand man throughout the contest with south carolina, and showing an even more resolute and unflinching front than old hickory himself. no better or trustier ally than the missouri statesman, in a hard fight for a principle, could be desired. he was intensely national in all his habits of thought; he took a deep, personal pride in all his country,--north, south, east, and west. he had been very loath to believe that any movement hostile to the union was really on foot; but once thoroughly convinced of it he chose his own line of action without an instant's hesitation. a fortnight after the presidential election south carolina passed her ordinance of nullification, directed against the tariff laws generally, and against those of and in particular. the ordinance was to take effect on february st; and if meantime the federal government should make any attempt to enforce the laws, the fact of such attempt was to end the continuance of south carolina in the union. jackson promptly issued a proclamation against nullification, composed jointly by himself and the great louisiana jurist and statesman, livingston. it is one of the ablest, as well as one of the most important, of all american state papers. it is hard to see how any american can read it now without feeling his veins thrill. some claim it as being mainly the work of jackson, others as that of livingston; it is great honor for either to have had a hand in its production. in his annual message the president merely referred, in passing, to the nullifiers, expressing his opinion that the action in reducing the duties, which the extinction of the public debt would permit and require, would put an end to the proceedings. as matters grew more threatening, however, south carolina making every preparation for war and apparently not being conciliated in the least by the evident desire in congress to meet her more than half-way on the tariff question, jackson sent a special message to both houses. he had already sent general scott to charleston, and had begun the concentration of certain military and naval forces in or near the state boundaries. he now asked congress to pass a measure to enable him to deal better with possible resistance to the laws. south carolina having complained of the oppressed condition in which she found herself, owing to the working of the tariff, jackson, in his message, with some humor, quoted in reply the last thanksgiving proclamation of her governor, wherein he dilated upon the state's unexampled prosperity and happiness. it must always be kept in mind in describing the attitude of the jacksonian democrats towards the nullifiers that they were all along, especially in the west, hostile to a very high tariff. jackson and benton had always favored a much lower tariff than that established in and hardly changed in . it was no change of front on their part now to advocate a reduction of duties. jackson and benton both felt that there was much ground for south carolina's original complaint, although as strongly opposed to her nullification attitude as any northerner. most of the southern senators and representatives, though opposed to nullification, were almost equally hostile to the high tariff; and very many others were at heart in sympathy with nullification itself. the intensely national and anti-separatist tone of jackson's declaration,--a document that might well have come from washington or lincoln, and that would have reflected high honor on either,--though warmly approved by benton, was very repugnant to many of the southern democrats, and was too much even for certain of the whigs. in fact, it reads like the utterance of some great federalist or republican leader. the feeling in congress, as a whole, was as strong against the tariff as it was against nullification; and jackson had to take this into account, all the more because not only was he in some degree of the same way of thinking, but also many of his followers entertained the sentiment even more earnestly. calhoun introduced a series of nullification resolutions into the senate, and defended them strongly in the prolonged constitutional debate that followed. south carolina meanwhile put off the date at which her decrees were to take effect, so that she might see what congress would do. beyond question, jackson's firmness, and the way in which he was backed up by benton, webster, and their followers, was having some effect. he had openly avowed his intention, if matters went too far, of hanging calhoun "higher than haman." he unquestionably meant to imprison him, as well as the other south carolina leaders, the instant that state came into actual collision with the union; and to the end of his life regretted, and with reason, that he had not done so without waiting for an overt act of resistance. some historians have treated this as if it were an idle threat; but such it certainly was not. jackson undoubtedly fully meant what he said, and would have acted promptly had the provocation occurred, and, moreover, he would have been sustained by the country. he was not the man to weigh minutely what would and what would not fall just on one side or the other of the line defining treason; nor was it the time for too scrupulous adherence to precise wording. had a collision occurred, neither calhoun nor his colleague would ever have been permitted to leave washington; and brave though they were, the fact unquestionably had much influence with them. webster was now acting heartily with benton. he introduced a set of resolutions which showed that in the matters both of the tariff and of nullification his position was much the same as was that of the missourian. unfortunately congress, as a whole, was by no means so stiff-kneed. a certain number of whigs followed webster, and a certain number of democrats clung to benton; but most southerners were very reluctant to allow pressure to be brought to bear on south carolina, and many northerners were as willing to compromise as henry clay himself. in accordance with jackson's recommendations two bills were introduced: one the so-called "force bill," to allow the president to take steps to defend the federal authority in the event of actual collision; and the other a moderate, and, on the whole, proper tariff bill, to reduce protective duties. both were introduced by administration supporters. benton and webster warmly sustained the "force bill," which was bitterly attacked by the nullifiers and by most of the southerners, who really hardly knew what stand to take, the leading opponent being tyler of virginia, whose disunion attitude was almost as clearly marked as that of calhoun himself. the measure was eminently just, and was precisely what the crisis demanded; and the senate finally passed it and sent it to the house. all this time an obstinate struggle was going on over the tariff bill. calhoun and his sympathizers were beginning to see that there was real danger ahead, alike to themselves, their constituents, and their principles, if they followed unswervingly the course they had laid down; and the weak-kneed brethren on the other side, headed by clay, were becoming even more uneasy. calhoun wished to avert collision with the federal government; clay was quite as anxious to avoid an outbreak in the south and to save what he could of the protective system, which was evidently doomed. calhoun was willing to sacrifice some of his constitutional theories in regard to protection; clay was ready greatly to reduce protection itself. each, of them, but especially clay, was prepared to shift his stand somewhat from that of abstract moral right to that of expediency. benton and webster were too resolute and determined in their hostility to any form of yielding to south carolina's insolent defiance to admit any hope of getting them to accept a compromise; but the majority of the members were known to be only too ready to jump at any half-way measure which would patch up the affair for the present, no matter what the sacrifice of principle or how great the risk incurred for the future. accordingly, clay and calhoun met and agreed on a curious bill, in reality recognizing the protective system, but making a great although gradual reduction of duties; and clay introduced this as a "compromise measure." it was substituted in the house for the administration tariff bill, was passed and sent to the senate. it gave south carolina much, but not all, that she demanded. her representatives announced themselves satisfied, and supported it, together with all their southern sympathizers. webster and benton fought it stoutly to the last, but it was passed by a great majority; a few northerners followed webster, and benton received fair support from his missouri colleagues and the maryland senators; the other senators, whigs and democrats alike, voted for the measure. many of the southerners were imbued with separatist principles, although not yet to the extent that calhoun was; others, though union men, did not possess the unflinching will and stern strength of character that enabled benton to stand out against any section of the country, even his own, if it was wrong. silas wright, of new york, a typical northern "dough-face" politician, gave exact expression to the "dough-face" sentiment, which induced northern members to vote for the compromise, when he stated that he was unalterably opposed to the principle of the bill, but that on account of the attitude of south carolina, and of the extreme desire which he had to remove all cause of discontent in that state, and in order to enable her again to become an affectionate member of the union, he would vote for what was satisfactory to her, although repugnant to himself. wright, marcy, and their successors in new york politics, almost up to the present day, certainly carried cringing subserviency to the south to a pitch that was fairly sublime. the "force bill" and the compromise tariff bill passed both houses nearly simultaneously, and were sent up to the president, who signed both on the same day. his signing the compromise bill was a piece of weakness out of keeping with his whole character, and especially out of keeping with his previous course towards the nullifiers. the position assumed by benton and webster, that south carolina should be made to submit first and should have the justice of her claims examined into afterwards, was unquestionably the only proper attitude. benton wrote:-- my objections to this bill, and to its mode of being passed, were deep and abiding, and went far beyond its own obnoxious provisions, and all the transient and temporary considerations connected with it.... a compromise made with a state in arms is a capitulation to that state.... the injury was great then, and a permanent evil example. it remitted the government to the condition of the old confederation, acting upon sovereignties instead of individuals. it violated the feature of our union which discriminated it from all confederacies that ever existed, and which was wisely and patriotically put into the constitution to save it from the fate which had attended all confederacies, ancient and modern.... the framers of our constitution established a union instead of a league--to be sovereign and independent within its sphere, acting upon persons through its own laws and courts, instead of acting on communities through persuasion or force. the effect of this compromise legislation was to destroy this great feature of our union--to bring the general and state governments into conflict--and to substitute a sovereign state for an offending individual as often as a state chose to make the cause of that individual her own. not only was benton's interpretation of the constitution sound, and one that by the course of events has now come to be universally accepted, but his criticisms on the wisdom of the compromise bill were perfectly just. had the anti-nullifiers stood firm, the nullifiers would probably have given way, and if not, would certainly have been crushed. against a solid north and west, with a divided south, even her own people not being unanimous, and with jackson as chief executive, south carolina could not have made even a respectable resistance. a salutary lesson then might very possibly have saved infinite trouble and bloodshed thereafter. but in jackson's case it must be remembered that, so far as his acts depended purely upon his own will and judgment, no fault can be found with him; he erred only in ratifying a compromise agreed to by the vast majority of the representatives of the people in both houses of congress. the battle did not result in a decisive victory for either side. this was shown by the very fact that each party insisted that it had won a signal triumph. calhoun and clay afterwards quarreled in the senate chamber as to which had given up the more in the compromise. south carolina had declared, first, that the tariff was unconstitutional, and therefore to be opposed upon principle; second, that it worked injustice to her interests, and must be abolished forthwith; thirdly, that, if it were not so abolished, she would assert her power to nullify a federal law, and, if necessary, would secede from the union. when her representatives agreed to the compromise bill, they abandoned the first point; the second was decided largely in her favor, though protection was not by any means entirely given up; the third she was allowed to insist upon with impunity, although the other side, by passing the "force bill," showed that in case matters did proceed to extremities they were prepared to act upon the opposite conviction. still, she gained most of that for which she contended, and the victory, as a whole, rested with her. calhoun's purposes seem to have been, in the main, pure; but few criminals have worked as much harm to their country as he did. the plea of good intentions is not one that can be allowed to have much weight in passing historical judgment upon a man whose wrong-headedness and distorted way of looking at things produced, or helped to produce, such incalculable evil; there is a wide political applicability in the remark attributed to a famous texan, to the effect that he might, in the end, pardon a man who shot him on purpose, but that he would surely never forgive one who did so accidentally. without doubt, the honors of the nullification dispute were borne off by benton and webster. the latter's reply to hayne is, perhaps, the greatest single speech of the nineteenth century, and he deserves the highest credit for the stubbornness with which he stood by his colors to the last. there never was any question of webster's courage; on the occasions when he changed front he was actuated by self-interest and ambition, not by timidity. usually he appears as an advocate rather than an earnest believer in the cause he represents; but when it came to be a question of the union, he felt what he said with the whole strength of his nature. an even greater meed of praise attaches to benton for the unswerving fidelity which he showed to the union in this crisis. webster was a high-tariff man, and was backed up by all the sectional antipathies of the northeast in his opposition to the nullifiers; benton, on the contrary, was a believer in a low tariff, or in one for revenue merely, and his sectional antipathies were the other way. yet, even when deserted by his chief, and when he was opposed to every senator from south of the potomac and the ohio, he did not flinch for a moment from his attitude of aggressive loyalty to the national union. he had a singularly strong and upright character; this country has never had a statesman more fearlessly true to his convictions, when great questions were at stake, no matter what might be the cost to himself, or the pressure from outside,--even when, as happened later, his own state was against him. intellectually he cannot for a moment be compared to the great massachusetts senator; but morally he towers much higher. yet, while praising jackson and benton for their behavior towards south carolina, we cannot forget that but a couple of years previously they had not raised their voices even in the mildest rebuke of georgia for conduct which, though not nearly so bad in degree as that of south carolina, was of much the same kind. towards the close of adams's term, georgia had bid defiance to the mandates of the supreme court, and proceeded to settle the indian question within her borders without regard to the authority of the united states, and these matters were still unsettled when jackson became president. unfortunately he let his personal feelings bias him; and, as he took the western and georgian view of the indian question, and, moreover, hated the supreme court because it was largely federalist in its composition, he declined to interfere. david crockett, himself a union man and a nationalist to the backbone, rated jackson savagely, and with justice, for the inconsistency of his conduct in the two cases, accusing him of having, by his harmful leniency to georgia, encouraged south carolina to act as she did, and ridiculing him because, while he smiled at the deeds of the one state, when the like acts were done by the other, "he took up the rod of correction and shook it over her". chapter vi. jackson and benton make war on the bank. if the struggle with the nullifiers showed benton at his best, in the conflict with the bank he exhibited certain qualities which hardly place him in so favorable a light. jackson's attack upon the bank was a move undertaken mainly on his own responsibility, and one which, at first, most of his prominent friends were alarmed to see him undertake. benton alone supported him from the beginning. captain and lieutenant alike intensely appreciated the joy of battle; they cared for a fight because it was a fight, and the certainty of a struggle, such as would have daunted weaker or more timid men, simply offered to them an additional inducement to follow out the course they had planned. benton's thorough-going support was invaluable to jackson. the president sorely needed a friend in the senate who would uphold him through thick and thin, and who yet commanded the respect of all his opponents by his strength, ability, and courage. to be sure, benton's knowledge of financial economics was not always profound; but, on the other hand, a thorough mastery of the laws of finance would have been, in this fight, a very serious disadvantage to any champion of jackson. the rights and wrongs of this matter have been worn threadbare in countless discussions. for much of the hostility of jackson and benton towards the bank, there were excellent grounds; but many of their actions were wholly indefensible and very harmful in their results to the country. an assault upon what benton called "the money power" is apt to be popular in a democratic republic, partly on account of the vague fear with which the poorer and more ignorant voters regard a powerful institution, whose working they do not understand, and partly on account of the jealousy they feel towards those who are better off than themselves. when these feelings are appealed to by men who are intensely in earnest, and who are themselves convinced of the justice and wisdom of their course, they become very formidable factors in any political contest. the struggle first became important when the question of the re-charter of the bank was raised, towards the end of jackson's first term, the present charter still having three years to run. this charter had in it many grave faults; and there might well be a question as to whether it should be renewed. the bank itself, beyond doubt, possessed enormous power; too much power for its own or outsiders' good. its president, biddle, was a man of some ability, but conceited to the last degree, untruthful, and to a certain extent unscrupulous in the use he made of the political influence of the great moneyed institution over which he presided. some of the financial theories on which he managed the bank were wrong; yet, on the whole, it was well conducted, and under its care the monetary condition of the country was quiet and good, infinitely better than it had been before, or than, under the auspices of the jacksonian democracy, it afterwards became. the two great reasons for jackson's success throughout his political career were to be found in the strength of the feeling in his favor among the poorer and least educated classes of voters, and in the ardent support given him by the low politicians, who, by playing on his prejudices and passions, moulded him to their wishes, and who organized and perfected in their own and his interests a great political machine, founded on the "spoils system"; and both the jacksonian rank and file and the jacksonian politicians soon agreed heartily in their opposition to the bank. jackson and benton opposed it for the same reasons that the bulk of their followers did; that is to say, partly from honest and ignorant prejudice and partly from a well-founded feeling of distrust as to some of its actions. the mass of their fellow party-leaders and henchmen assailed it with the cry that it was exerting its influence to debauch politics, while at the same time they really sought to use it as a power in politics on their own side. jackson, in his first annual message in , had hinted that he was opposed to the re-charter of the bank, then a question of the future and not to arise for four or five years. at the same time he had called in question the constitutionality and expediency of the bank's existence, and had criticised as vicious its currency system. the matter of constitutionality had been already decided by the supreme court, the proper tribunal, and was, and had been for years, an accepted fact; it was an absurdity to call it in question. as regards the matter of expediency, certainly the jacksonians failed signally to put anything better in its place. yet it was undeniable that there were grave defects in the currency system. the president's message roused but little interest, and what little it did rouse was among the bank's friends. at once these began to prepare the way for the re-charter by an active and extensive agitation in its favor. the main bank was at philadelphia, but it had branches everywhere, and naturally each branch bank was a centre of opposition to the president's proposed policy. as the friends of the bank were greatly interested, and as the matter did not immediately concern those who afterwards became its foes, the former, for the time, had it all their own way, and the drift of public opinion seemed to be strongly in its favor. benton was almost the only public man of prominence who tried to stem this tide from the beginning. jackson's own party associates were originally largely against him, and so he stood all the more in need of the vigorous support which he received from the missouri senator. indeed, it would be unfair in the matter of the attack on the bank to call benton jackson's follower; he might with more propriety be called the leader in the assault, although of course he could accomplish little compared with what was done by the great popular idol. he had always been hostile to the bank, largely as a matter of jeffersonian tradition, and he had shown his hostility by resolutions introduced in the senate before jackson was elected president. early in he asked leave to introduce a resolution against the re-charter of the bank; his purpose being merely to give formal notice of war against it, and to attempt to stir up a current of feeling counter to that which then seemed to be generally prevailing in its favor. in his speech he carefully avoided laying stress upon any such abstract point as that of constitutionality, and dwelt instead upon the questions that would affect the popular mind; assailing the bank "as having too much power over the people and the government, over business and politics, and as too much disposed to exercise that power to the prejudice of the freedom and equality which should prevail in a republic, to be allowed to exist in our country." the force of such an argument in a popular election will be acknowledged by all practical politicians. but, although benton probably believed what he said, or at any rate most of it, he certainly ought not to have opened the discussion of a great financial measure with a demagogic appeal to caste prejudices. he wished to substitute a gold currency in the place of the existing bank-notes, and was not disturbed at all as to how he would supply the place of the bank, saying: "i am willing to see the charter expire, without providing any substitute for the present bank. i am willing to see the currency of the federal government left to the hard money mentioned and intended in the constitution; ... every species of paper might be left to the state authorities, unrecognized by the federal government!" of the beauties of such a system as the last the country later on received practical demonstration. some of his utterances, however, could be commended to the friends of greenbacks and of dishonest money even at the present day, as when he says: "gold and silver are the best currency for a republic; it suits the men of middle property and the working people best; and if i was going to establish a workingman's party it should be on the basis of hard money--a hard-money party against a paper party." the bank was in philadelphia; much of the stock was held in the east, and a good deal was held abroad, which gave benton a chance to play on sectional feelings, as follows: "to whom is all the power granted? to a company of private individuals, many of them foreigners, and the mass of them residing in a remote and narrow corner of the union, unconnected by any sympathy with the fertile regions of the great valley, in which the natural power of this union--the power of numbers--will be found to reside long before the renewed term of a second charter would expire." among the other sentences occurs the following bit of pure demagogic pyrotechnics: "it [the bank] tends to aggravate the inequality of fortunes; to make the rich richer and the poor poorer; to multiply nabobs and paupers; and to deepen and widen the gulf which separates dives from lazarus. a great moneyed power is favorable to great capitalists, for it is the principle of money to favor money. it is unfavorable to small capitalists, for it is the principle of money to eschew the needy and unfortunate. it is injurious to the laboring classes." altogether it was not a speech to be proud of. the senate refused permission to introduce the resolution by the close vote of twenty-three to twenty. benton lived only a generation after that one which had itself experienced oppression from a king, from an aristocratic legislature and from a foreign power; and so his rant about the undue influence of foreigners in our governmental affairs, and his declamation over the purely supposititious powers that were presumed to be conspiring against the welfare of the poorer classes probably more nearly expressed his real feelings than would be the case with the similar utterances of any leading statesman nowadays. he was an enthusiastic believer in the extreme jeffersonian doctrinaire views as to the will of the majority being always right, and as to the moral perfection of the average voter. like his fellow-statesmen he failed to see the curious absurdity of supporting black slavery, and yet claiming universal suffrage for whites as a divine right, not as a mere matter of expediency resulting on the whole better than any other method. he had not learned that the majority in a democracy has no more right to tyrannize over a minority than, under a different system, the latter would have to oppress the former; and that, if there is a moral principle at stake, the saying that the voice of the people is the voice of god may be quite as untrue, and do quite as much mischief, as the old theory of the divine right of kings. the distinguishing feature of our american governmental system is the freedom of the individual; it is quite as important to prevent his being oppressed by many men as it is to save him from the tyranny of one. this speech on the re-charter showed a great deal of wide reading and much information; but a good part of it was sheer declamation, in the turgid, pompous style that benton, as well as a great many other american public speakers, was apt to mistake for genuine oratory. his subsequent speech on the currency, however, was much better. this was likewise delivered on the occasion of asking leave to present a joint resolution, which leave was refused. the branch draft system was the object of the assault. these branch drafts were for even sums of small denomination, circulating like bank-notes; they were drawn on the parent bank at philadelphia to the order of some officer of the branch bank and were indorsed by the latter to bearer. thus paper was issued at one place which was payable at another and a distant place; and among other results there ensued a constant inflation of credit. they were very mischievous in their workings; they had none of the marks of convertible bank-notes or money, and so long as credit was active there could be no check on the inflation of the currency by them. payment could be voluntarily made at the branch banks whence issued, but if it was refused the owner had only the right to go to philadelphia and sue the directors there. most of these drafts were issued at the most remote and inaccessible branches, the payment of them being, therefore, much delayed by distance and difficulty; nor were the directors liable for excessive issues. they constituted the bulk of all the paper seen in circulation; they were supposed to be equivalent to money, but being bills of exchange they were merely negotiable instruments; they did not have the properties of bank-notes, which are constantly and directly interchangeable with money. in their issue biddle had laid himself open to attack; and in defending them he certainly did not always speak the truth, willfully concealing or coloring facts. moreover, his self-satisfaction and the foolish pride in his own power, which he could not conceal, led him into making imprudent boasts as to the great power the bank could exercise over other local banks, and over the general prosperity of the country, while dilating upon its good conduct in not using this power to the disadvantage of the public. all this was playing into benton's hands. he showed some of the evils of the branch draft system, although apparently not seeing others that were quite as important. he attacked the bank for some real and many imaginary wrongdoings; and quoted biddle himself as an authority for the existence of powers dangerous to the welfare of the state. the advocates of the bank were still in the majority in both houses of congress, and soon began preparations for pushing through a bill for the re-charter. the issue began to become political. webster, clay, and most of the other anti-administration men were for the bank; and so when the convention of the national republicans, who soon afterwards definitely assumed the name of whigs, took place, they declared heartily in its favor, and nominated for the presidency its most enthusiastic supporter, henry clay. the bank itself unquestionably preferred not to be dragged into politics; but clay, thinking he saw a chance for a successful stroke, fastened upon it, and the convention that nominated him made the fight against jackson on the ground that he was hostile to the bank. even had this not already been the case no more certain method of insuring his hostility could have been adopted. still, however, many of jackson's supporters were also advocates of re-charter; and the bill for that purpose commanded the majority in congress. benton took the lead in organizing the opposition, not with the hope of preventing its passage, but "to attack incessantly, assail at all points, display the evil of the institution, rouse the people, and prepare them to sustain the veto." in other words, he was preparing for an appeal to the people, and working to secure an anti-bank majority in the next congress. he instigated and prepared the investigation into the affairs of the bank, which was made in the house, and he led the harassing parliamentary warfare carried on against the re-chartering bill in the senate. he himself seems to have superintended the preparation of the charges which were investigated by the house. a great flurry was made over them, benton and all his friends claiming that they were fully substantiated; but the only real point scored was that against the branch drafts. benton, with the majority of the committee of investigation, had the loosest ideas as to what a bank ought to do, loud though they were in denunciation of what this particular bank was alleged to have done. webster made the great argument in favor of the re-charter bill. benton took the lead in opposition, stating, what was probably true,--that the bill was brought up so long before the charter expired for political reasons, and criticising it as premature; a criticism unfortunately applicable with even greater force to jackson's message. his speech was largely mere talking against time, and he wandered widely from the subject. among other things he invoked the aid of the principle of states'-rights, because the bank then had power to establish branches in any state, whether the latter liked it or not, and free from state taxation. he also appealed to the western members as such, insisting that the bank discriminated against their section of the country in favor of the east; the facts being that the shrewdness and commercial morality of the northeast, particularly of new england, saved them from the evils brought on the westerners by the foolishness with which they abused their credit and the laxness with which they looked on monetary obligations. but in spite of all that benton could do the bill passed both houses, the senate voting in its favor by twenty-eight ayes against twenty nays. jackson, who never feared anything, and was more than ready to accept the fight which was in some measure forced on him, yet which in some degree he had courted, promptly vetoed the bill in a message which stated some truths forcibly and fearlessly, which developed some very queer constitutional and financial theories, and which contained a number of absurdities, evidently put in, not for the benefit of the senate, but to influence voters at the coming presidential election. the leaders of the opposition felt obliged to make a show of trying to pass the bill over the veto in order to get a chance to answer jackson. webster again opened the argument. clay made the fiercest onslaught, assailing the president personally, besides attacking the veto power, and trying to discredit its use. but the presidential power of veto is among the best features of our government, and benton had no difficulty in making a good defense of it; although many of the arguments adduced by him in its favor were entirely unsound, being based on the wholly groundless assumption that the function of the president corresponded to that of the ancient roman tribune of the people, and was supposed to be exercised in the interests of the people to control the legislature--thus willfully overlooking the fact that the legislature also was elected by the people. when on his ultra-democratic hobby benton always rode very loose in the saddle, and with little knowledge of where he was going. clay and benton alike drew all sorts of analogies between the state of affairs in the united states and that formerly prevailing in france, england, and above all in the much-suffering republics of antiquity. benton insisted that the bank had wickedly persuaded the west to get in debt to it so as to have that section in its power, and that the western debt had been created with a view to political engineering; the fact being that the westerners had run into debt purely by their own fault, and that the bank itself was seriously alarmed at the condition of its western branches. the currency being in much worse shape in the west than in the northeast, gold and silver naturally moved towards the latter place; and this result of their own shortcomings was again held up as a grievance of the westerners against the bank. he also read a severe lecture on the interests of party discipline to the democrats who had voted for the re-charter, assuring them that they could not continue to be both for the bank and for jackson. the jacksonian democracy, nominally the party of the multitude, was in reality the nearest approach the united states has ever seen to the "one man power;" and to break with jackson was to break with the democratic party. the alternative of expulsion or of turning a somersault being thus plainly presented to the recalcitrant members, they for the most part chose the latter, and performed the required feat of legislative acrobatics with the most unobtrusive and submissive meekness. the debate concluded with a sharp and undignified interchange of personalities between the missouri and kentucky senators, clay giving benton the lie direct, and the latter retorting in kind. each side, of course, predicted the utter ruin of the country, if the other prevailed. benton said that, if the bank conquered, the result would be the establishment of an oligarchy, and then of a monarchy, and finally the death of the republic by corruption. webster stated as his belief that, if the sentiments of the veto message received general approbation, the constitution could not possibly survive its fiftieth year. webster, however, in that debate, showed to good advantage. benton was no match for him, either as a thinker or as a speaker; but with the real leader of the whig party, henry clay, he never had much cause to fear comparison. all the state banks were of course rabidly in favor of jackson; and the presidential election of was largely fought on the bank issue. in pennsylvania, however, the feeling for the bank was only less strong than that for jackson; and accordingly that boeotian community sapiently cast its electoral votes for the latter, while instructing its senators and representatives to support the former. but the complete and hopeless defeat of clay by jackson sealed the fate of the bank. jackson was not even content to let it die naturally by the lapse of its charter. his attitude towards it so far had been one for which much could be said; indeed, very good grounds can be shown for thinking his veto proper. but of the impropriety of his next step there could be no possible question. congress had passed a resolution declaring its belief in the safety of the united states deposits in the bank; but the president, in the summer of , removed these deposits and placed them in certain state banks. he experienced some difficulty in getting a secretary of the treasury who would take such a step; finally he found one in taney. the bank memorialized congress at once; and the anti-administration majority in the senate forthwith took up the quarrel. they first rejected jackson's nominations for bank directors, and then refused to confirm taney himself. two years later jackson made the latter chief justice of the supreme court, in which position he lived to do even more mischief than he had time or opportunity to accomplish as secretary of the treasury. benton was the administration champion in the senate. opposed to him were webster and clay, as leaders of the whigs, supported for the time being by calhoun. the feeling of clay and calhoun against the president was bitterly personal, and was repaid by his rancorous hatred. but webster, though he was really on most questions even more antagonistic to the ideas of the jacksonian school, always remained personally on good terms with its leaders. clay introduced a resolution directing the return of the deposits; benton opposed it; it passed by a vote of twenty-eight to eighteen, but was lost in the house. clay then introduced a resolution demanding to know from the president whether the paper alleged to have been published by his authority as having been read to the cabinet, in relation to the removal of the deposits, was genuine or not; and, if it was, asking for a copy. benton opposed the motion, which nevertheless passed. but the president refused to accede to the demand. meanwhile the new departure in banking, inaugurated by the president, was working badly. one of the main grounds for removing the deposits was the allegation that they were used to debauch politics. this was never proved against the old united states bank; but under jackson's administration, which corrupted the public service in every way, the deposits became fruitful sources of political reward and bribery. clay then introduced his famous resolution censuring the president for his action, and supported it in a long and fiery speech; a speech which, like most of clay's, was received by his followers at the time with rapture, but in which this generation fails to find the sign of that remarkable ability with which his own contemporaries credited the great kentuckian. he attacked jackson with fierce invective, painting him as an unscrupulous tyrant, who was inaugurating a revolution in the government of the union. but he was outdone by calhoun, who, with continual interludes of complacent references to the good already done by the nullifiers, assailed jackson as one of a band of artful, corrupt, and cunning politicians, and drew a picture even more lurid than clay's of the future of the country, and the danger of impending revolution. webster's speeches were more self-contained in tone. benton was the only jacksonian senator who could contend with the great nullifier and the two great whigs; and he replied at length, and in much the same style as they had spoken. the senate was flooded with petitions in favor of the bank, which were presented with suitable speeches by the leading whigs. benton ridiculed the exaggerated tone of alarm in which these petitions were drawn, and declared that the panic, excitement, and suffering existing in business circles throughout the country were due to the deliberate design of the bank, and afforded a fresh proof that the latter was a dangerous power to the state. the resolution of censure was at last passed by a vote of twenty-six to twenty, and jackson, in a fury, sent in a written protest against it, which the senate refused to receive. the excitement all over the country was intense throughout the struggle. the suffering, which was really caused by the president's act, but which was attributed by his supporters to the machinations of the bank, was very real; even benton admitted this, although contending that it was not a natural result of the policy pursued, but had been artificially excited--or, as he very clumsily phrased it, "though fictitious and forged, yet the distress was real, and did an immensity of damage." neither jackson nor benton yielded an inch to the outside pressure; the latter was the soul of the fight in congress, making over thirty speeches during the struggle. during the debate on receiving the president's protest, benton gave notice of his intention at an early day to move to expunge from the journal the resolution of censure. this idea was entirely his own, and he gave the notice without having consulted anybody. it was, however, a motion after jackson's own heart, as the latter now began to look upon the affair as purely personal to himself. his party accepted this view of the matter with a servile alacrity only surpassed by the way in which its leaders themselves bowed down before the mob; and for the next two years the state elections were concerned purely with personal politics, the main point at issue in the choice for every united states senator being, whether he would or would not support benton's expunging resolution. the whole affair seems to us so puerile that we can hardly understand the importance attached to it by the actors themselves. but the men who happened at that period to be the leaders in public affairs were peculiarly and frankly incapable of separating in their minds matters merely affecting themselves from matters affecting their constituents. each firmly believed that if he was not the whole state, he was at least a most important fraction of it; and this was as plainly seen in webster's colossal egoism and the frank vanity of henry clay as in benton's ponderous self-consciousness and the all-pervading personality of andrew jackson. some of the speeches on the expunging resolution show delicious, although entirely unconscious, humor. if there ever was a wholly irrational state of mind it was that in which the jacksonians perpetually kept themselves. every canvass on jackson's behalf was one of sound, fury, and excitement, of appeal to the passions, prejudices, and feelings, but never the reason, of the people. a speech for him was generally a mere frantic denunciation of whatever and whoever was opposed to him, coupled with fulsome adulation of "the old hero." his supporters rarely indeed spoke to the cool judgment of the country, for the very excellent reason that the cool judgment of the country was apt to be against them. such being the case, it is amusing to read in benton's speech on receiving the protest the following sentences, apparently uttered in solemn good faith, and with sublime unconsciousness of irony:-- to such a community [the american body politic]--in an appeal on a great question of constitutional law to the understandings of such a people--declamation, passion, epithets, opprobrious language, will stand for nothing. they will float harmless and unheeded through the empty air, and strike in vain upon the ear of a sober and dispassionate tribunal. indignation, real or affected; wrath, however hot; fury, however enraged; asseverations, however violent; denunciation, however furious, will avail nothing. facts, inexorable facts, are all that will be attended to; reason, calm and self-possessed, is all that will be listened to. the description of the mass of jacksonian voters as forming "a sober and dispassionate tribunal" is an artistic touch of fancy quite unique, but admirably characteristic of benton, whose statements always rose vigorously to the necessities of the occasion. webster, in an effort to make the best of untoward circumstances, brought in a bill to re-charter the bank for a short period, at the same time doing away with some of the features that were objectionable in the old charter. this bill might have passed, had it not been opposed by the extreme bank men, including clay and calhoun. in the course of the debate over it benton delivered a very elaborate and carefully studied speech in favor of hard money and a currency of the precious metals; a speech which is to this day well worth careful reading. some of his financial theories were crude and confused; but on the main question he was perfectly sound. both he and jackson deserve great credit for having done much to impress the popular mind with the benefit of hard, that is to say honest, money. benton was the strongest hard-money man then in public life, being, indeed, popularly nicknamed "old bullion." he thoroughly appreciated that a metallic currency was of more vital importance to the laboring men and to men of small capital generally than to any of the richer classes. a metallic currency is always surer and safer than a paper currency; where it exists a laboring man dependent on his wages need fear less than any other member of the community the evils of bad banking. benton's idea of the danger to the masses from "the money power" was exaggerated; but in advocating a sound gold currency he took the surest way to overcome any possible dangerous tendency. a craze for "soft," or dishonest, money--a greenback movement, or one for short weight silver dollars--works more to the disadvantage of the whole mass of the people than even to that of the capitalists; it is a move directly in the interests of "the money power," which its loud-mouthed advocates are ostensibly opposing in the interests of democracy. benton continued his speeches. the panic was now subsiding; there had not been time for jackson's ruinous policy of making deposits in numerous state banks, and thereby encouraging wild inflation of credit, to bear fruit and, as it afterwards did, involve the whole country in financial disaster. therefore benton was able to exult greatly over the favorable showing of affairs in the report of the secretary of the treasury. he also procured the passage of a gold currency law, which, however, fixed the ratio of value between gold and silver at sixteen to one; an improper proportion, but one which had prevailed for three centuries in the spanish-american countries, from which he copied it. in consequence of this law gold, long banished, became once more a circulating medium of exchange. the bank of the united states afterwards was turned into the state bank of pennsylvania; it was badly managed and finally became insolvent. the jacksonians accepted its downfall as a vindication of their policy; but in reality it was due to causes not operative at the time of the great struggle between the president and the senate over its continued existence. certainly by no possible financial policy could it have produced such widespread ruin and distress as did the system introduced by jackson. long after the bank controversy had lost all practical bearing it continued to be agitated by the chief parties to it, who still felt sore from the various encounters. jackson assailed it again in his message; a friendly committee of the senate investigated it and reported in its favor, besides going out of their way to rake up charges against jackson and benton. the latter replied in a long speech, and became involved in personalities with the chairman, tyler of virginia. neither side paid attention to any but the partisan aspect of the question, and the discussions were absolutely profitless. the whole matter was threshed over again and again, long after nothing but chaff was left, during the debates on benton's expunging resolution. few now would defend this resolution. the original resolution of censure may have been of doubtful propriety; but it was passed, was entered on the record, and had become a part of the journal of the senate. it would have been perfectly proper to pass another resolution condemning or reversing the original one, and approving the course of the president; but it was in the highest degree improper to set about what was in form falsifying the record. still, benton found plenty of precedents in the annals of other legislative bodies for what he proposed to do, and the country, as a whole, backed him up heartily. he was further stimulated by the knowledge that there was probably no other legislative act in which jackson took such intense interest, or which could so gratify his pride; the mortification to clay and calhoun would be equally great. benton's motion failed more than once, but the complexion of the senate was rapidly changed by the various states substituting democratic for whig or anti-jackson senators. some of the changes were made, as in virginia, by senators refusing to vote for the expunging resolution, as required by the state legislatures, and then resigning their seats, pursuant to a ridiculous theory of the ultra democrats, which, if carried out, would completely nullify the provision for a six year's senatorial term. finally, at the very close of jackson's administration, benton found himself with a fair majority behind him, and made the final move. his speech was of course mainly filled with a highly colored account of the blessings wrought for the american people by andrew jackson, and equally of course the latter was compared at length to a variety of ancient roman worthies. the final scene in the senate had an element of the comic about it. the expungers held a caucus and agreed to sit the session out until the resolution was passed; and with prudent forethought benton, well aware that when hungry and tired his followers might show less inflexibility of purpose, provided in an adjoining committee-room "an ample supply of cold hams, turkeys, rounds of beef, pickles, wines, and cups of hot coffee," wherewith to inspirit the faint-hearted. fortified by the refreshments, the expungers won a complete victory. if the language of jackson's admirers was overdrawn and strained to the last degree in lauding him for every virtue that he had or had not, it must be remembered that his opponents went quite as far wrong on the other side in their denunciations and extravagant prophecies of gloom. webster made a very dignified and forcible speech in closing the argument against the resolution, but calhoun and clay were much less moderate,--the latter drawing a vivid picture of a rapidly approaching reign of lawless military violence, and asserting that his opponents had "extinguished one of the brightest and purest lights that ever burnt at the altar of civil liberty." as a proper finale jackson, to show his appreciation, gave a great dinner to the expungers and their wives, benton sitting at the head of the table. jackson and benton solemnly thought that they were taking part in a great act of justice, and were amusingly unable to see the comic side of their acts. they probably really believed most of their own denunciations of the bank, and very possibly thought that the wickedness of its followers might tempt them to do any desperate deed. at any rate they enjoyed posing alike to themselves and to the public as persons of antique virtue, who had risked both life and reputation in a hazardous but successful attempt to save the liberties of the people from the vast and hostile forces of the aristocratic "money power." the best verdict on the expunging resolution was given by webster when he characterized the whole affair as one which, if it were not regarded as a ruthless violation of a sacred instrument, would appear to be little elevated above the character of a contemptible farce. chapter vii. the distribution of the surplus. benton was supremely self-satisfied with the part he had played in the struggle with the bank. but very few thinking men would now admit that his actions, as a whole, on the occasion in question, were to his credit, although in the matter of the branch drafts he was perfectly right, and in that of the re-charter at least occupied defensible ground. his general views on monetary matters, however, were sound, and on some of the financial questions that shortly arose he occupied a rather lonely pre-eminence of good sense among his fellow senators; such being particularly the case as regards the various mischievous schemes in relation to disposing of the public lands, and of the money drawn from their sale. the revenue derived from all sources, including these sales of public lands, had for some years been much in excess of the governmental expenses, and a surplus had accumulated in the treasury. this surplus worked more damage than any deficit would have done. there were gold mines in the southern states, which had been growing more and more productive; and, as the cost of freighting the bullion was excessive, a bill was introduced to establish branch mints at new orleans and in the gold regions of georgia and north carolina. benton advocated this strongly, as a constitutional right of the south and west, and as greatly in the interest of those two sections; and also as being another move in favor of a hard-money currency as opposed to one of paper. there was strong opposition to the bill; many of the whigs having been carried so far by their heated devotion to the united states bank in its quarrel that they had become paper-money men. but the vote was neither sectional nor partisan in its character. clay led the opposition, while webster supported benton. before this time propositions to distribute among the states the revenue from the public lands had become common; and they were succeeded by propositions to distribute the lands themselves, and then by others to distribute all the surplus revenue. calhoun finally introduced an amendment to the constitution to enable the surplus in the treasury during the next eight years to be distributed among the various states; the estimate being that for the time mentioned there would be about nine millions surplus annually. benton attacked the proposal very ably, showing the viciousness of a scheme which would degrade every state government into the position of a mendicant, and would allow money to be collected from the citizens with one hand in order to be given back to them with the other; and also denying that the surplus would reach anything like the dimensions indicated. he ridiculed the idea of making a constitutional amendment to cover so short a period of time; and stated that he would greatly prefer to see the price paid for public lands by incoming settlers reduced, and what surplus there was expended on strengthening the defenses of the united states against foreign powers. this last proposition was eminently proper. we were then, as always, in our chronic state of utter defenselessness against any hostile attack, and yet were in imminent danger of getting embroiled with at least one great power--france. our danger is always that we shall spend too little, and not too much, in keeping ourselves prepared for foreign war. calhoun's resolution was a total failure, and was never even brought to a vote. benton's proposed method of using the surplus came in with peculiar propriety on account of the conduct of the whigs and nullifiers in joining to oppose the appropriation of three millions of dollars for purposes of defense, which was provided for in the general fortification bill. the house passed this bill by a great majority. it was eminently proper that we should at once take steps to provide for the very possible contingency of a war with france, as the relations with that power were growing more threatening every day; but the opposition of the anti-jackson men to the administration and to all its measures had become so embittered that they were willing to run the risk of seriously damaging the national credit and honor, if they could thereby score a point against their political adversaries. accordingly, under the lead of webster, clay, and calhoun, they defeated the bill in the senate, in spite of all that could be done to save it by benton, who, whatever his faults, was always patriotic. the appropriation had been very irregular in form, and under ordinary circumstances there would have been good justification for inquiring into it before permitting its passage; but under the circumstances its defeat at the moment was most unfortunate. for the president had been pressing france, even to the point of tolerably plain threats, in order to induce or compel her to fulfill the conditions of the recent treaty by which she had bound herself to pay a considerable indemnity, long owing by her to the united states for depredations on our commerce. now she menaced war, avowedly on the ground that we were unprepared to resist her; and this vote in the senate naturally led the french government to suppose that jackson was not sustained by the country in the vigorous position which he had assumed. in speaking on the message of the president which alluded to this state of affairs, benton strongly advocated our standing firmly for our rights, making a good speech, which showed much historical learning. he severely reproached the anti-administration senators for their previous conduct in causing the loss of the defense appropriation bill, and for preferring to do worse than waste the surplus by distributing it among the different states instead of applying it according to the provisions of that wise measure. this brought on a bitter wrangle, in which benton certainly had the best of it. calhoun was in favor of humiliating non-resistance; he never advocated warlike measures when the dignity of the nation was at stake, fond though he was of threatening violence on behalf of slavery or that form of secession known as nullification. benton quoted from speeches in the french chamber of deputies to show that the french were encouraged to take the position that they did on account of the action of the senate, and the disposition shown by a majority among the senators rather to pull down the president in a party struggle than to uphold him in his efforts to save the national honor in a contest with france. a curious feature of his speech was that in which he warned the latter power that, in the event of a conflict, it would have to do with a branch of the same race which, "from the days of agincourt and crecy, of blenheim and ramillies, down to the days of salamanca and waterloo, has always known perfectly well how to deal with the impetuous and fiery courage of the french." this sudden out-cropping of what, in bentonian english, might be called pan-anglo-saxon sentiment was all the more surprising inasmuch as both benton himself and the party to which he belonged were strongly anti-english in their way of looking at our foreign policy, at least so far as north america was concerned. in the end france yielded, though trying to maintain her dignity by stating that she had not done so, and the united states received what was due them. benton strongly opposed the payment by the united states of the private claims of its citizens for damages arising from the french spoliations at the end of the last century. he pointed out that the effort to pay such claims, scores of years after the time of their accruing, rarely benefits any of the parties originally in interest, and can only do real service to dishonest speculators. his speech on this matter would not be bad reading for some of the pension-jobbing congressmen of the present day, and their supporters; but as concerned these french claims he could have been easily answered. in the controversy over the bill introduced by clay, to distribute the revenue derived from the public lands among the states for the next five years, benton showed to great advantage compared both to the introducer of the bill himself, and to webster, his supporter. he had all along taken the view of the land question that would be natural to a far-seeing western statesman desirous of encouraging immigration. he wished the public lands to be sold in small parcels to actual settlers, at prices that would allow any poor man who was thrifty to take up a claim. he had already introduced a bill to sell them at graduated prices, the minimum being established at a dollar and twenty-five cents an acre; but if land remained unsold at this rate for three years it was then to be sold for what it would bring in the market. this bill passed the senate, but failed in the house. in opposing clay's distribution scheme benton again brought forward his plan of using the surplus to provide for the national defenses; and in his speech showed the strongly national turn of his mind, saying:-- in this great system of national defense the whole union is equally interested; for the country, in all that concerns its defenses, is but a unit, and every section is interested in the defense of every other section, and every individual citizen is interested in the defense of the whole population. it is in vain to say that the navy is on the sea, and the fortifications on the sea-board, and that the citizens in the interior states, or in the valley of the mississippi, have no interest in these remote defenses. such an idea is mistaken and delusive; the inhabitant of missouri or of indiana has a direct interest in keeping open the mouths of the rivers, defending the sea-port towns, and preserving a naval force that will protect the produce of his labor in crossing the ocean and arriving safely in foreign markets. benton's patriotism always included the whole country in spite of the strength of his local sympathies. the bill passed the senate by a rather close vote, and went to the house, where it soon become evident that it was doomed to failure. there was another bill, practically of much the same import, before the senate, providing for the distribution of the surplus among the states in proportion to their electoral votes, but omitting the excellent proviso concerning the defenses. to suit the views of calhoun and the sticklers for strict construction generally, the form of this rival bill was changed, so that the "distribution" purported to be a "deposit" merely; the money being nominally only loaned to the states, who pledged their faith to return it when congress should call for it. as it was of course evident that such a loan would never be repaid, the substitution of "deposit" for "distribution" can only be regarded as a verbal change to give the doctrinaires a loop-hole for escape from their previous position; they all took advantage of it, and the bill received overwhelming support, and was passed by both houses. benton, however, stood out against it to the last, and in a very powerful speech foretold the evils which the plan would surely work. he scornfully exposed the way in which some of the members were trying, by a trick of wording, to hide the nature of the bill they were enacting into a law, and thus to seem to justify themselves for the support they were giving it. "it is in name a deposit; in form, a loan; in essence and design, a distribution," said benton. he ridiculed the attitude of the hair-splitting strict constructionists, like calhoun, who had always pretended most scrupulously to respect the exact wording of the constitution, and who had previously refused to vote for distribution on the ground that it was unconstitutional:-- at the commencement of the present session a proposition was made [by calhoun] to amend the constitution, to permit this identical distribution to be made. that proposition is now upon our calendar, for the action of congress. all at once it is discovered that a change of name will do as well as a change of the constitution. strike out the word "distribute" and insert the word "deposit," and incontinently the impediment is removed; the constitutional difficulty is surmounted, and the distribution can be made. he showed that to the states themselves the moneys distributed would either be useless, or else--and much more probably--they would be fruitful sources of corruption and political debauchery. he was quite right. it would have been very much better to have destroyed the surplus than to have distributed it as was actually done. none of the states gained any real benefit by the transaction; most were seriously harmed. at the best, the money was squandered in the rage for public improvements that then possessed the whole people; often it was stolen outright, or never accounted for. in the one case, it was an incentive to extravagance; in the other, it was a corruption fund. yet the popular feeling was strongly in favor of the measure at the time, and benton was almost the only public man of note who dared to resist it. on this occasion, as in the closing act of the struggle with the nullifiers, he showed more backbone than did his great chief; for jackson signed the bill, although criticising it most forcibly and pungently. the success of this measure naturally encouraged the presentation of others. clay attempted to revive his land-money distribution bill, but was defeated, mainly through benton's efforts. three or four other similar schemes, including one of calhoun's, also failed. finally a clause providing for a further "deposit" of surplus moneys with the states was tacked to a bill appropriating money for defenses, thereby loading it down so that it was eventually lost. in the senate the "deposit" amendment was finally struck out, in spite of the opposition of clay, calhoun, and webster. throughout the whole discussion of the distribution of the surplus benton certainly shines by comparison with any one of his three great senatorial rivals. he shows to equally great advantage compared to them in the part taken by him in reference to jackson's so-called specie circulars. the craze for speculation had affected the sales of public lands, which were increasing at an extraordinary rate, nearly twenty-five million dollars' worth being sold in . as a rule, the payments were made in the notes of irresponsible banks, gotten up in many cases by the land speculators themselves. the sales were running up to five millions a month, with prospect of a boundless increase, so that all the public land bade fair to be converted into inconvertible paper. benton had foreseen the evil results attending such a change, and, though well aware that he was opposing powerful interests in his own section of the country, had already tried to put a stop to it by law. in his speech he had stated that the unprecedented increase in the sale of public lands was due to the accommodations received by speculators from worthless banks, whose notes in small denominations would be taken to some distant part of the country, whence it would be a long time before they were returned and presented for payment. the speculators, with paper of which the real value was much below par, could outbid settlers and cultivators who could only offer specie, or notes that were its equivalent. he went on to say that "the effect was equally injurious to every interest concerned--except the banks and the speculators: it was injurious to the treasury, which was filling up with paper; to the new states, which were flooded with paper; and to settlers and cultivators, who were outbid by speculators loaded with this borrowed paper. a return to specie payments for lands was the remedy for all these evils." benton's reasoning was perfectly sound. the effects on settlers, on the new states, and on the government itself were precisely such as he described, and the proposed remedy was the right one. but his bill failed; for the whigs, including even webster, had by this time worked themselves up until they were fairly crazy at the mere mention of paper-money banks. jackson, however, not daunted by the fate of the bill, got benton to draw up a treasury order, and had it issued. this served the same purpose, as it forbade the land-offices to receive anything but gold and silver in payment for land. it was not issued until congress had adjourned, for fear that body might counteract it by a law; and this was precisely what was attempted at the next session, when a joint resolution was passed rescinding the order, and practically endeavoring to impose the worthless paper currency of the states upon the federal government. benton stood almost alone in the fight he made against this resolution, although the right of the matter was so plainly on his side. in his speech he foretold clearly the coming of the great financial crisis that was then near at hand. the resolution, however, amounted to nothing, as it turned out, for it was passed so late in the session that the president, by simply withholding his signature from it, was enabled to prevent it from having effect. chapter viii. the slave question appears in politics. towards the close of jackson's administration, slavery for the first time made its permanent appearance in national politics; although for some years yet it had little or no influence in shaping the course of political movements. in the abolition societies of the north came into prominence; they had been started a couple of years previously. black slavery was such a grossly anachronistic and un-american form of evil, that it is difficult to discuss calmly the efforts to abolish it, and to remember that many of these efforts were calculated to do, and actually did, more harm than good. we are also very apt to forget that it was perfectly possible and reasonable for enlightened and virtuous men, who fully recognized it as an evil, yet to prefer its continuance to having it interfered with in a way that would produce even worse results. black slavery in hayti was characterized by worse abuse than ever was the case in the united states; yet, looking at the condition of that republic now, it may well be questioned whether it would not have been greatly to her benefit in the end to have had slavery continue a century or so longer,--its ultimate extinction being certain,--rather than to have had her attain freedom as she actually did, with the results that have flowed from her action. when an evil of colossal size exists, it is often the case that there is no possible way of dealing with it that will not itself be fraught with baleful results. nor can the ultra-philanthropic method be always, or even often, accepted as the best. if there is one question upon which the philanthropists of the present day, especially the more emotional ones, are agreed, it is that any law restricting chinese immigration is an outrage; yet it seems incredible that any man of even moderate intelligence should not see that no greater calamity could now befall the united states than to have the pacific slope fill up with a mongolian population. the cause of the abolitionists has had such a halo shed round it by the after course of events, which they themselves in reality did very little to shape, that it has been usual to speak of them with absurdly exaggerated praise. their courage, and for the most part their sincerity, cannot be too highly spoken of, but their share in abolishing slavery was far less than has commonly been represented; any single non-abolitionist politician, like lincoln or seward, did more than all the professional abolitionists combined really to bring about its destruction. the abolition societies were only in a very restricted degree the causes of the growing feeling in the north against slavery; they are rather to be regarded as themselves manifestations or accompaniments of that feeling. the anti-slavery outburst in the northern states over the admission of missouri took place a dozen years before there was an abolition society in existence; and the influence of the professional abolitionists upon the growth of the anti-slavery sentiment as often as not merely warped it and twisted it out of proper shape,--as when at one time they showed a strong inclination to adopt disunion views, although it was self-evident that by no possibility could slavery be abolished unless the union was preserved. their tendency towards impracticable methods was well shown in the position they assumed towards him who was not only the greatest american, but also the greatest man, of the nineteenth century; for during all the terrible four years that sad, strong, patient lincoln worked and suffered for the people, he had to dread the influence of the extreme abolitionists only less than that of the copperheads. many of their leaders possessed no good qualities beyond their fearlessness and truth--qualities that were also possessed by the southern fire-eaters. they belonged to that class of men that is always engaged in some agitation or other; only it happened that in this particular agitation they were right. wendell phillips may be taken as a very good type of the whole. his services against slavery prior to the war should always be remembered with gratitude; but after the war, and until the day of his death, his position on almost every public question was either mischievous or ridiculous, and usually both. when the abolitionist movement started it was avowedly designed to be cosmopolitan in character; the originators looked down upon any merely national or patriotic feeling. this again deservedly took away from their influence. in fact, it would have been most unfortunate had the majority of the northerners been from the beginning in hearty accord with the abolitionists; at the best it would have resulted at that time in the disruption of the union and the perpetuation of slavery in the south. but after all is said, the fact remains, that on the main issue the abolitionists were at least working in the right direction. sooner or later, by one means or another, slavery had to go. it is beyond doubt a misfortune that in certain districts the bulk of the population should be composed of densely ignorant negroes, often criminal or vicious in their instincts; but such is the case, and the best, and indeed the only proper course to pursue, is to treat them with precisely the same justice that is meted out to whites. the effort to do so in time immediately past has not resulted so successfully as was hoped and expected; but nevertheless no other way would have worked as well. slavery was chiefly responsible for the streak of coarse and brutal barbarism which ran through the southern character, and which marked the ferocious outcry instantly raised by the whole southern press against the abolitionists. there had been an abortive negro rising in virginia almost at the same time that the abolitionist movement first came into prominence; and this fact added to the rage and terror with which the south regarded the latter. the clamor against the north was deafening; and though it soon subsided for the time being, it never afterwards entirely died away. as has been shown already, there had always been a strong separatist feeling in the south; but hitherto its manifestations had been local and sporadic, never affecting all the states at the same time; for it had never happened that the cause which called forth any particular manifestation was one bearing on the whole south alike. the alien and sedition laws were more fiercely resented in virginia and kentucky than in south carolina; the tariff, which so angered the latter, pleased louisiana; and georgia and alabama alone were affected by the presence of great indian communities within their borders. but slavery was an interest common to the whole south. when it was felt to be in any way menaced, all southerners came together for its protection; and, from the time of the rise of the abolitionists onward, the separatist movement throughout the south began to identify itself with the maintenance of slavery, and gradually to develop greater and greater strength. its growth was furthered and hastened by the actions of the more ambitious and unscrupulous of the southern politicians, who saw that it offered a chance for them to push themselves forward, and who were perfectly willing to wreak almost irreparable harm to the nation if by so doing they could advance their own selfish interests. it was in reference to these politicians that benton quoted with approval a letter from ex-president madison, which ran:-- the danger is not to be concealed, that the sympathy arising from known causes, and the inculcated impression of a permanent incompatibility of interests between the south and the north may put it in the power of popular leaders, aspiring to the highest stations, to unite the south, on some critical occasion, in a course that will end by creating a new theatre of great, though inferior, interest. in pursuing this course the first and most obvious step is nullification, the next secession, and the last a farewell separation. this was a pretty good forecast of the crisis that was precipitated by the greedy and reckless ambition of the secessionist leaders in . the moral difference between benedict arnold on the one hand, and aaron burr or jefferson davis on the other, is precisely the difference that obtains between a politician who sells his vote for money and one who supports a bad measure in consideration of being given some high political position. the abolitionists immediately contrived to bring themselves before the notice of congress in two ways; by the presentation of petitions for the abolition of slavery in the district of columbia, and by sending out to the southern states a shoal of abolition pamphlets, newspapers, and rather ridiculous illustrated cuts. what the precise point of the last proceeding was no one can tell; the circulation of such writings as theirs in the south could not possibly serve any good purpose. but they had a right to send what they wished, and the conduct of many of the southerners in trying to get a federal law passed to prohibit their writings from being carried in the mail was as wrong as it was foolish; while the brutal clamor raised in the south against the whole north as well as against the abolitionists, and the conduct of certain southern legislatures in practically setting prices on the heads of the leaders in the objectionable movement, in turn angered the north and gave the abolitionists ten-fold greater strength than they would otherwise have had. the question first arose upon the presentation of a perfectly proper and respectful petition sent to the senate by a society of pennsylvania quakers, and praying for the abolition of slavery in the district of columbia. the district was solely under the control of congress, and was the property of the nation at large, so that congress was the proper and the only body to which any petition concerning the affairs of the district could be sent; and if the right of petition meant anything, it certainly meant that the people, or any portion thereof, should have the right to petition their representatives in regard to their own affairs. yet certain southern extremists, under the lead of calhoun, were anxious to refuse to receive the paper. benton voted in favor of receiving it, and was followed in his action by a number of other southern senators. he spoke at length on the subject, and quite moderately, even crediting the petitioners, or many of them, with being "good people, aiming at benevolent objects, and endeavoring to ameliorate the condition of one part of the human race, without inflicting calamities on another part," which was going very far indeed for a slave-holding senator of that time. he was of course totally opposed to abolition and the abolitionists, and showed that the only immediate effect of the movement had been to make the lot of the slaves still worse, and for the moment to do away with any chance of intelligently discussing the question of emancipation. for, like many other southerners, he fondly cherished the idea of gradual peaceful emancipation,--an idea which the course of events made wholly visionary, but which, under the circumstances, might well have been realized. he proceeded to give most questionable praise to the north for some acts as outrageous and disgraceful as were ever perpetrated by its citizens, stating that-- their conduct was above all praise, above all thanks, above all gratitude. they had chased off the foreign emissaries, silenced the gabbling tongues of female dupes, and dispersed the assemblages, whether fanatical, visionary, or incendiary, of all that congregated to preach against evils that affected others, not themselves; and to propose remedies to aggravate the disease which they had pretended to cure. they had acted with a noble spirit. they had exerted a vigor beyond all law. they had obeyed the enactments, not of the statute-book, but of the heart. these fervent encomiums were fully warranted by the acts of various northern mobs, that had maltreated abolitionist speakers, broken up anti-slavery meetings, and committed numerous other deeds of lawless violence. but however flattered the northerners of that generation may have been, in feeling that they thoroughly deserved benton's eulogy, it is doubtful if their descendants will take quite the same pride in looking back to it. an amusing incident of the debate was calhoun's attack upon one of the most subservient allies the south ever had in the northern states; he caused to be sent up to the desk and read an abolition paper published in new hampshire, which contained a bitter assault upon franklin pierce, then a member of congress. nominally he took this course to show that there was much greater strength in the abolition movement, and therefore much greater danger to the south, than the northern senators were willing to admit; in reality he seems to have acted partly from wanton malice, partly from overbearing contempt for the truckling allies and apologists of slavery in the north, and partly from a desire not to see the discussion die out, but rather, in spite of his continual profession to the contrary, to see it maintained as a standing subject of irritation. he wished to refuse to receive the petitions, on the ground that they touched a subject that ought not even to be discussed; yet he must have known well that he was acting in the very way most fitted to give rise to discussion,--a fact that was pointed out to him by benton, in a caustic speech. he also took the ground that the question of emancipation affected the states exclusively, and that congress had no more jurisdiction over the subject in the district of columbia than she had in the state of north carolina. this precious contribution to the true interpretation of the constitution was so farcically and palpably false that it is incredible that he should himself have believed what he was saying. he was still smarting from the nullification controversy; he had seceded from his party, and was sore with disappointed ambition; and it seems very improbable that he was honest in his professions of regret at seeing questions come up which would disturb the union. on the contrary, much of the opposition he was continually making to supposititious federal and northern encroachments on the rights of the south must have been merely factious, and it seems likely that, partly from a feeling of revenge and partly with the hope of gratifying his ambition, he was anxious to do all he could to work the south up to the highest pitch of irritation, and keep her there until there was a dissolution of the union. benton evidently thought that this was the case; and in reading the constant threats of nullification and secession which run through all calhoun's speeches, and the innumerable references he makes to the alleged fact that he had come off victorious in his treasonable struggle over the tariff in , it is difficult not to accept benton's view of the matter. he always spoke of calhoun with extreme aversion, and there were probably moments when he was inclined heartily to sympathize with jackson's death-bed regret that he had not hung the south carolina nullifier. doubtless in private life, or as regards any financial matters, calhoun's conduct was always blameless; but it may well be that he has received far more credit for purity of motive in his public conduct than his actions fairly entitle him to. calhoun was also greatly exercised over the circulation of abolition documents in the south. at his request a committee of five was appointed to draft a bill on the subject; he was chairman, and three of the other four members were from the slave states; yet his report was so extreme that only one of the latter would sign it with him. he introduced into it a long argument to the effect that the constitution was a mere compact between sovereign states, and inferentially that nullification and secession were justifiable and constitutional; and then drew a vivid picture of the unspeakable horrors with which, as he contended, the action of the northern abolitionists menaced the south. the bill subjected to penalties any postmaster who should knowingly receive and put into the mail any publication touching slavery, to go into any state which had forbidden by law the circulation of such a publication. in discussing this bill he asserted that congress, in refusing to pass it, would be coöperating with the abolitionists; and then he went on to threaten as usual that in such case nullification or secession would become necessary. benton had become pretty well tired of these threats, his attachment to the union even exceeding his dislike to seeing slavery meddled with; and he headed the list of half a dozen southern senators who joined with the bulk of the northerners in defeating the bill, which was lost by a vote of twenty-five to nineteen. a few of the northern "dough-faces" voted with calhoun. there is a painfully striking contrast between the courage shown by benton, a slave-holder with a slave-holding constituency, in opposing this bill, and the obsequious subserviency to the extreme southern feeling shown on the same occasion by wright, van buren, and buchanan--fit representatives of the sordid and odious political organizations of new york and pennsylvania. several other questions came up towards the end of jackson's administration which were more or less remotely affected by the feeling about slavery. benton succeeded in getting a bill through to extend the boundaries of the state of missouri so as to take in territory lying northwest of her previous limit, the indian title to which was extinguished by treaty. this annexed land lay north of the boundary for slave territory established by the missouri compromise; but benton experienced no difficulty in getting his bill through. it was not, however, in the least a move designed in the interests of the slave power. missouri's feeling was precisely that which would actuate oregon or washington territory to-day, if either wished to annex part of northern idaho. the territories of arkansas and michigan had applied for admission into the union as states; and as one would be a free and the other a slave state, it was deemed proper that they should come in together. benton himself urged the admission of the free state of michigan, while the interests of arkansas were confided to buchanan of pennsylvania. the slavery question entered but little into the matter; although some objections were raised on that score, as well as on account of the irregular manner in which the would-be states had acted in preparing for admission. the real ground of opposition to the admission of the two new states was political, as it was known that they could both be relied upon for democratic majorities at the approaching presidential election. many whigs, therefore, both from the north and the south, opposed it. the final removal of the cherokees from georgia and alabama was brought about in by means of a treaty with those indians. largely through the instrumentality of benton, and in spite of the opposition of clay, calhoun, and webster, this instrument was ratified in the senate by the close vote of thirty-one to fifteen. although new slave territory was thus acquired, the vote on the treaty was factional and not sectional, being equally divided between the northern and the southern states, calhoun and six other southern senators opposing it, chiefly from hostility to the administration. the removal of the indians was probably a necessity; undoubtedly it worked hardship in individual instances, but on the whole it did not in the least retard the civilization of the tribe, which was fully paid for its losses; and moreover, in its new home, continued to make progress in every way until it became involved in the great civil war, and received a setback from which it has not yet recovered. these cherokees were almost the last indians left in any number east of the mississippi, and their removal solved the indian problem so far as the old states were concerned. later on benton went to some trouble to disprove the common statement that we have robbed the original indian occupants of their lands. he showed by actual statistics that up to we had paid to the indians eighty-five millions of dollars for land purchases, which was over five times as much as the united states gave the great napoleon for louisiana; and about three times as much as we paid france, spain, and mexico together for the purchase of louisiana, florida, and california; while the amount of land received in return would not equal any one of these purchases, and was but a fractional part of louisiana or california. we paid the cherokees for their territory exactly as much as we paid the french, at the height of their power, for louisiana; while as to the creek and choctaw nations, we paid each more for their lands than we paid for louisiana and florida combined. the dealings of the government with the indian have often been unwise, and sometimes unjust; but they are very far indeed from being so black as is commonly represented, especially when the tremendous difficulties of the case are taken into account. far more important than any of these matters was the acknowledgment of the independence of texas; and in this, as well as in the troubles with mexico which sprang from it, slavery again played a prominent part, although not nearly so important at first as has commonly been represented. doubtless the slave-holders worked hard to secure additional territory out of which to form new slave states; but texas and california would have been in the end taken by us, had there not been a single slave in the mississippi valley. the greed for the conquest of new lands which characterized the western people had nothing whatever to do with the fact that some of them owned slaves. long before there had been so much as the faintest foreshadowing of the importance which the slavery question was to assume, the west had been eagerly pressing on to territorial conquest, and had been chafing and fretting at the restraint put upon it, and at the limits set to its strivings by the treaties established with foreign powers. the first settlers beyond the alleghanies, and their immediate successors, who moved down along the banks of the ohio, the cumberland, and the tennessee, and thence out to the mississippi itself, were not generally slave-holders; but they were all as anxious to wrest the mississippi valley from the control of the french as their descendants were to overrun the spanish lands lying along the rio grande. in other words, slavery had very little to do with the western aggressions on mexican territory, however it might influence the views of southern statesmen as to lending support to the western schemes. the territorial boundaries of all the great powers originally claiming the soil of the west--france, spain, and the united states--were very ill-defined, there being no actual possession of the lands in dispute, and each power making a great showing on its own map. if the extreme views of any one were admitted, its adversary, for the time being, would have had nothing. thus before the treaty of with spain our nominal boundaries and those of the latter power in the west overlapped each other; and the extreme western men persisted in saying that we had given up some of the territory which belonged to us because we had consented to adopt a middle line of division, and had not insisted upon being allowed the full extent of our claims. benton always took this view of it, insisting that we had given up our rights by the adoption of this treaty. many southerners improved on this idea, and spoke of the desirability of "re-annexing" the territory we had surrendered,--endeavoring by the use of this very inappropriate word to give a color of right to their proceedings. as a matter of fact it was inevitable, as well as in the highest degree desirable for the good of humanity at large, that the american people should ultimately crowd out the mexicans from their sparsely populated northern provinces. but it was quite as desirable that this should not be done in the interests of slavery. american settlers had begun to press into the outlying spanish province of texas before the treaty of was ratified. their numbers went on increasing, and at first the mexican government, having achieved independence of spain, encouraged their incoming. but it soon saw that their presence boded danger, and forbade further immigration; without effect, however, as the settlers and adventurers came thronging in as fast as ever. the americans had brought their slaves with them, and when the mexican government issued a decree liberating all slaves, they refused to be bound by it; and this decree was among the reasons alleged for their revolt. it has been represented as the chief if not the sole cause of the rebellion; but in reality it was not the cause at all; it was merely one of the occasions. long before slavery had been abolished in mexico, and before it had become an exciting question in the united states, the infant colony of texas, when but a few months old, had made an abortive attempt at insurrection. any one who has ever been on the frontier, and who knows anything whatever of the domineering, masterful spirit and bitter race prejudices of the white frontiersmen, will acknowledge at once that it was out of the question that the texans should long continue under mexican rule; and it would have been a great misfortune if they had. it was out of the question to expect them to submit to the mastery of the weaker race, which they were supplanting. whatever might be the pretexts alleged for revolt, the real reasons were to be found in the deeply-marked difference of race, and in the absolute unfitness of the mexicans then to govern themselves, to say nothing of governing others. during the dozen years that the american colony in texas formed part of mexico, the government of the latter went through revolution after revolution,--republic, empire, and military dictatorship following one another in bewildering succession. a state of things like this in the central government, especially when the latter belonged to a race alien in blood, language, religion, and habits of life, would warrant any community in determining to shift for itself. such would probably have been the result even on people as sober and peaceable as the texan settlers were warlike, reckless, and overbearing. but the majority of those who fought for texan independence were not men who had already settled in that territory, but, on the contrary, were adventurers from the states, who had come to help their kinsmen and to win for themselves, by their own prowess, homes on what was then mexican soil. it may as well be frankly admitted that the conduct of the american frontiersmen all through this contest can be justified on no possible plea of international morality or law. still, we cannot judge them by the same standard we should apply to the dealings between highly civilized powers of approximately the same grade of virtue and intelligence. two nations may be contemporaneous so far as mere years go, and yet, for all that, may be existing among surroundings which practically are centuries apart. the nineteenth century on the banks of the thames, the seine, and the rhine, or even of the hudson and the potomac, was one thing; the nineteenth century in the valley of the rio grande was another and quite a different thing. the conquest of texas should properly be classed with conquests like those of the norse sea-rovers. the virtues and faults alike of the texans were those of a barbaric age. they were restless, brave, and eager for adventure, excitement, and plunder; they were warlike, resolute, and enterprising; they had all the marks of a young and hardy race, flushed with the pride of strength and self-confidence. on the other hand they showed again and again the barbaric vies of boastfulness, ignorance, and cruelty; and they were utterly careless of the rights of others, looking upon the possessions of all weaker races as simply their natural prey. a band of settlers entering texas was troubled by no greater scruples of conscience than, a thousand years before, a ship-load of knut's followers might have felt at landing in england; and when they were engaged in warfare with the mexicans they could count with certainty upon assistance from their kinsfolk who had been left behind, and for the same reasons that had enabled rolf's norsemen on the sea-coast of france to rely confidently on scandinavian help in their quarrels with their karling over-lords. the great texan hero, houston, who drank hard and fought hard, who was mighty in battle and crafty in council, with his reckless, boastful courage and his thirst for changes and risks of all kinds, his propensity for private brawling, and his queerly blended impulses for good and evil, might, with very superficial alterations of character, stand as the type of an old-world viking--plus the virtue of a deep and earnestly patriotic attachment to his whole country. indeed his career was as picturesque and romantic as that of harold hardraada himself, and, to boot, was much more important in its results. thus the texan struggle for independence stirred up the greatest sympathy and enthusiasm in the united states. the administration remained nominally neutral, but obviously sympathized with the texans, permitting arms and men to be sent to their help, without hindrance, and indeed doing not a little discreditable bullying in the diplomatic dealing with mexico, which that unfortunate community had her hands too full to resent. still we did not commit a more flagrant breach of neutrality than, for instance, england was at the same time engaged in committing in reference to the civil wars in spain. the victory of san jacinto, in which houston literally annihilated a mexican force twice the strength of his own, virtually decided the contest; and the senate at once passed a resolution recognizing the independence of texas. calhoun wished that body to go farther, and forthwith admit texas as a state into the union; but benton and his colleagues were not prepared to take such a step at so early a date, although intending of course that in the end she should be admitted. there was little opposition to the recognition of texan independence, although a few members of the lower house, headed by adams, voted against it. while a cabinet officer, and afterwards as president, adams had done all that he could to procure by purchase or treaty the very land which was afterwards the cause of our troubles with mexico. much the longest and most elaborate speech in favor of the recognition of texan independence was made by benton, to whom the subject appealed very strongly. he announced emphatically that he spoke as a western senator, voicing the feeling of the west; and he was right. the opposition to the growth of our country on its southwestern frontier was almost confined to the northeast; the west as a whole, free states as well as slave, heartily favored the movement. the settlers of texas had come mainly, it is true, from the slave states; but there were also many who had been born north of the ohio. it was a matter of comment that the guns used at san jacinto had come from cincinnati--and so had some of those who served them. in benton's speech he began by pointing out the impropriety of doing what calhoun had done in attempting to complicate the question of the recognition of texan independence with the admission of texas as a state. he then proceeded to claim for us a good deal more credit than we were entitled to for our efforts to preserve neutrality; drew a very true picture of the commercial bonds that united us to mexico, and of the necessity that they should not be lightly broken; gave a spirited sketch of the course of the war hitherto, condemning without stint the horrible butcheries committed by the mexicans, but touching gingerly on the savage revenge taken by the americans in their turn; and ended by a eulogy of the texans themselves, and their leaders. it was the age of "spread-eagle" speeches, and many of benton's were no exception to the rule. as a people we were yet in a condition of raw, crude immaturity; and our very sensitiveness to foreign criticism--a sensitiveness which we now find it difficult to understand--and the realization of our own awkwardness made us inclined to brag about and exaggerate our deeds. our public speakers and writers acquired the abominable habit of speaking of everything and everybody in the united states in the superlative; and therefore, as we claimed the highest rank for all our fourth-rate men, we put it out of our power to do justice to the really first-rate ones; and on account of our continual exaggerations we were not believed by others, and hardly even believed ourselves, when we presented estimates that were truthful. when every public speaker was declared to be a demosthenes or a cicero, people failed to realize that we actually had, in webster, the greatest orator of the century; and when every general who whipped an indian tribe was likened to napoleon, we left ourselves no words with which properly to characterize the really heroic deeds done from time to time in the grim frontier warfare. all benton's oratory took on this lurid coloring; and in the present matter his final eulogy of the texan warriors was greatly strained, though it would hardly have been in his power to pay too high a tribute to some of the deeds they had done. it was the heroic age of the southwest; though, as with every other heroic age, there were plenty of failings, vices, and weaknesses visible, if the stand-point of observation was only close enough. chapter ix. the children's teeth are set on edge. in his dealings with the bank and his disposal of the deposits jackson ate sour grapes to his heart's content; and now the teeth of his adopted child van buren were to be set on edge. van buren was the first product of what are now called "machine politics" that was put into the presidential chair. he owed his elevation solely to his own dexterous political manipulation, and to the fact that, for his own selfish ends, and knowing perfectly well their folly, he had yet favored or connived at all the actions into which the administration had been led either through jackson's ignorance and violence, or by the crafty unscrupulousness and limited knowledge of the kitchen cabinet. the people at large would never have thought of him for president of their own accord; but he had become jackson's political legatee, partly because he had personally endeared himself to the latter, and partly because the politicians felt that he was a man whom they could trust. the jacksonian democracy was already completely ruled by a machine, of which the most important cogs were the countless office-holders, whom the spoils system had already converted into a band of well-drilled political mercenaries. a political machine can only be brought to a state of high perfection in a party containing very many ignorant and uneducated voters; and the jacksonian democracy held in its ranks the mass of the ignorance of the country. besides this such an organization requires, in order that it may do its most effective work, to have as its leader and figure-head a man who really has a great hold on the people at large, and who yet can be managed by such politicians as possess the requisite adroitness; and jackson fulfilled both these conditions. the famous kitchen cabinet was so called because its members held no official positions, and yet were known to have jackson more under their influence than was the case with his nominal advisers. they stood as the first representatives of a type common enough afterwards, and of which thurlow weed was perhaps the best example. they were men who held no public position, and yet devoted their whole time to politics, and pulled the strings in obedience to which the apparent public leaders moved. jackson liked van buren because the latter had served him both personally and politically--indeed jackson was incapable of distinguishing between a political and a personal service. this liking, however, would not alone have advanced van buren's interests, if the latter, who was himself a master in the new york state machine, had not also succeeded in enlisting the good-will and self-interest of the members of the kitchen cabinet and the other intimate advisers of the president. these first got jackson himself thoroughly committed to van buren, and then used his name and enormous influence with the masses, coupled with their own mastery of machine methods, to bring about the new yorker's nomination. in both these moves they had been helped, and van buren's chances had been immensely improved, by an incident that had seemed at the time very unfortunate for the latter. when he was secretary of state, in carrying on negotiations with great britain relative to the west india trade, he had so far forgotten what was due to the dignity of the nation as to allude disparagingly, while thus communicating with a foreign power, to the course pursued by the previous administration. this extension of party lines into our foreign diplomacy was discreditable to the whole country. the anti-administration men bitterly resented it, and emphasized their resentment by rejecting the nomination of van buren when jackson wished to make him minister to england. their action was perfectly proper, and van buren, by right, should have suffered for his undignified and unpatriotic conduct. but instead of this, and in accordance with the eternal unfitness of things, what really happened was that his rejection by the senate actually helped him; for jackson promptly made the quarrel his own, and the masses blindly followed their idol. benton exultingly and truthfully said that the president's foes had succeeded in breaking a minister only to make a president. van buren faithfully served the mammon of unrighteousness, both in his own state and, later on, at washington; and he had his reward, for he was advanced to the highest offices in the gift of the nation. he had no reason to blame his own conduct for his final downfall; he got just as far along as he could possibly get; he succeeded because of, and not in spite of, his moral shortcomings; if he had always governed his actions by a high moral standard he would probably never have been heard of. still, there is some comfort in reflecting that, exactly as he was made president for no virtue of his own, but simply on account of being jackson's heir, so he was turned out of the office, not for personal failure, but because he was taken as scapegoat, and had the sins of his political fathers visited on his own head. the opposition to the election of van buren was very much disorganized, the whig party not yet having solidified,--indeed it always remained a somewhat fluid body. the election did not have the slightest sectional significance, slavery not entering into it, and both northern and southern states voting without the least reference to the geographical belongings of the candidates. he was the last true jacksonian democrat--union democrat--who became president; the south carolina separatists and many of their fellows refused to vote for him. the democrats who came after him, on the contrary, all had leanings to the separatist element which so soon obtained absolute control of the party, to the fierce indignation of men like benton, houston, and the other old jacksonians, whose sincere devotion to the union will always entitle them to the gratitude of every true american. as far as slavery was concerned, however, the southerners had hitherto had nothing whatever to complain of in van buren's attitude. he was careful to inform them in his inaugural address that he would not sanction any attempt to interfere with the institution, whether by abolishing it in the district of columbia or in any other way distasteful to the south. he also expressed a general hope that he would be able throughout to follow in the footsteps of jackson. he had hardly been elected before the ruinous financial policy to which he had been party, but of which the effects, it must in justice be said, were aggravated by many of the actions of the whigs, began to bear fruit after its kind. the use made of the surplus was bad enough, but the withdrawal of the united states deposits from one responsible bank and their distribution among scores of others, many of which were in the most rickety condition, was a step better calculated than any other to bring about a financial crash. it gave a stimulus to extravagance, and evoked the wildest spirit of speculation that the country had yet seen. the local banks, to whom the custody of the public moneys had been intrusted, used them as funds which they and their customers could hazard for the chance of gain; and the gambling spirit, always existent in the american mercantile community, was galvanized into furious life. the public dues were payable in the paper of these deposit banks and of the countless others that were even more irresponsible. the deposit banks thus became filled up with a motley mass of more or less worthless bank paper, which thus formed the "surplus," of which the distribution had caused congress so much worry. their condition was desperate, as they had been managed with the most reckless disregard for the morrow. many of them had hardly kept as much specie in hand as would amount to one fiftieth of the aggregate of their deposits and other immediate liabilities. the people themselves were of course primarily responsible for the then existing state of affairs; but the government had done all in its power to make matters worse. panics were certain to occur more or less often in so speculative and venturesome a mercantile community, where there was such heedless trust in the future and such recklessness in the use of credit. but the government, by its actions, immensely increased the severity of this particular panic, and became the prime factor in precipitating its advent. benton tried to throw the blame mainly on the bankers and politicians, who, he alleged, had formed an alliance for the overthrow of the administration; but he made the plea more half-heartedly than usual, and probably in his secret soul acknowledged its puerility. the mass of the people were still happy in the belief that all things were working well, and that their show of unexampled prosperity and business activity denoted a permanent and healthy condition. yet all the signs pointed to a general collapse at no distant date; an era of general bank suspensions, of depreciated currency, and of insolvency of the federal treasury was at hand. no one but benton, however, seemed able to read the signs aright, and his foreboding utterances were laughed at or treated with scorn by his fellow statesmen. he recalled the memory of the times of - , when the treasury reports of one year showed a superfluity of revenue of which there was no want, and those of the next showed a deficit which required to be relieved by a loan; and he foretold an infinitely worse result from the inflation of the paper system, saying:-- are we not at this moment, and from the same cause, realizing the first part--the elusive and treacherous part--of this picture? and must not the other, the sad and real sequel, speedily follow? the day of revulsion in its effects may be more or less disastrous; but come it must. the present bloat in the paper system cannot continue; violent contraction must follow enormous expansion; a scene of distress and suffering must ensue--to come of itself out of the present state of things, without being stimulated and helped on by our unwise legislation.... _i_ am one of those who _promised_ gold, not paper; _i did not join in putting down the bank of the united_ _states to put up a wilderness of local banks. i did not join in putting down the currency of a national bank to put up a national paper currency of a thousand local banks._ i did not strike cæsar to make antony master of rome. these last sentences referred to the passage of the act repealing the specie circular and making the notes of the banks receivable in payment of federal dues. the act was most mischievous, and benton's criticisms both of it and of the great whig senator who pressed it were perfectly just; but they apply with quite as much weight to jackson's dealings with the deposits, which benton had defended. benton foresaw the coming of the panic so clearly, and was so particularly uneasy about the immediate effects upon the governmental treasury, that he not only spoke publicly on the matter in the senate, but even broached the subject in the course of a private conversation with the president-elect, to get him to try to make what preparations he could. van buren, cool, skillful, and far-sighted politician though he was, on this occasion showed that he was infected with the common delusion as to the solidity of the country's business prosperity. he was very friendly with benton, and was trying to get him to take a position in his cabinet, which the latter refused, preferring service in the senate; but now he listened with scant courtesy to the warning, and paid no heed to it. benton, an intensely proud man, would not speak again; and everything went on as before. the law distributing the surplus among the states began to take effect; under its operations drafts for millions of dollars were made on the banks containing the deposits, and these banks, already sinking, were utterly unable to honor them. it would have been impossible, under any circumstances, for the president to ward off the blow, but he might at least, by a little forethought and preparation, have saved the government from some galling humiliations. had benton's advice been followed, the moneys called for by the appropriation acts might have been drawn from the banks, and the disbursing officers might have been prevented from depositing in them the sums which they drew from the treasury to provide for their ordinary expenses; thus the government would have been spared the disgrace of being obliged to stop the actual daily payments to the public servants; and the nation would not have seen such a spectacle as its rulers presented when they had not a dollar with which to pay even a day laborer, while at the same time a law was standing on the statute-book providing for the distribution of forty millions of nominal surplus. no effort was made to stave off even so much of the impending disaster as was at that late date preventable; and a few days after van buren's inauguration the country was in the throes of the worst and most widespread financial panic it has ever seen. the distress was fairly appalling both in its intensity and in its universal distribution. all the banks stopped payment, and bankruptcy was universal. bank paper depreciated with frightful rapidity, especially in the west; specie increased in value so that all the coin in the country, down to the lowest denomination, was almost immediately taken out of circulation, being either hoarded, or gathered for shipment abroad as bullion. for small change every kind of device was made use of,--tokens, bank-bills for a few cents each, or brass and iron counters. benton and others pretended to believe that the panic was the result of a deep-laid plot on the part of the rich classes, who controlled the banks, to excite popular hostility against the jacksonian democracy, on account of the caste antagonism which these same richer classes were supposed to feel towards the much-vaunted "party of the people;" and as benton's mental vision was singularly warped in regard to some subjects, it is possible that the belief was not altogether a pretense. it is entirely unnecessary now seriously to discuss the proposition that it would be possible to drag the commercial classes into so widespread and profoundly secret a conspiracy, with such a vague end in view, and with the certainty that they themselves would be, from a business stand-point, the main sufferers. the efforts made by benton and the other jacksonians to stem the tide of public feeling and direct it through the well-worn channel of suspicious fear of, and anger at, the banks, as the true authors of the general wretchedness, were unavailing; the stream swelled into a torrent and ran like a mill-race in the opposite way. the popular clamor against the administration was deafening; and if much of it was based on good grounds, much of it was also unreasonable. but a very few years before the jacksonians had appealed to a senseless public dislike of the so-called "money power," in order to help themselves to victory; and now they had the chagrin of seeing an only less irrational outcry raised against themselves in turn, and used to oust them from their places, with the same effectiveness which had previously attended their own frothy and loud-mouthed declamations. the people were more than ready to listen to any one who could point out, or pretend to point out, the authors of, and the reasons for, the calamities that had befallen them. their condition was pitiable; and this was especially true in the newer and western states, where in many places there was absolutely no money at all in circulation, even the men of means not being able to get enough coin or its equivalent to make the most ordinary purchases. trade was at a complete stand-still; laborers were thrown out of employment and left almost starving; farmers, merchants, mechanics, craftsmen of every sort,--all alike were in the direst distress. they naturally, in seeking relief, turned to the government, it being almost always the case that the existing administration receives more credit if the country is prosperous, and greater blame if it is not, than in either case it is rightfully entitled to. the democracy was now held to strict reckoning, not only for some of its numerous real sins but also for a good many imaginary ones; and the change in the political aspect of many of the commonwealths was astounding. jackson's own home state of tennessee became strongly whig; and van buren had the mortification of seeing new york follow suit; two stinging blows to the president and the ex-president. the distress was a godsend to the whig politicians. they fairly raved in their anger against the administration, and denounced all its acts, good and bad alike, with fluent and incoherent impartiality. indeed, in their speeches, and in the petitions which they circulated and then sent to the president, they used language that was to the last degree absurd in its violence and exaggeration, and drew descriptions of the iniquities of the rulers of the country which were so overwrought as to be merely ridiculous. the speeches about the panic, and in reference to the proposed laws to alleviate it, were remarkable for their inflation, even in that age of windy oratory. van buren, benton, and their associates stood bravely up against the storm of indignation which swept over the whole country, and lost neither head nor nerve. they needed both to extricate themselves with any credit from the position in which they were placed. in deference to the urgent wish of almost all the people an extra session of congress was called especially to deal with the panic. van buren's message to this body was a really statesmanlike document, going exhaustively into the subject of the national finances. the democrats still held the majority in both houses, but there was so large a floating vote, and the margins were so narrow, as to make the administration feel that its hold was precarious. the first thing to be done was to provide for the immediate wants of the government, which had not enough money to pay even its most necessary running expenses. to make this temporary provision two plans were proposed. the fourth instalment of the surplus--ten millions--was due to the states. as there was really no surplus, but a deficit instead, it was proposed to repeal the deposit law so far as it affected their fourth payment; and treasury notes were to be issued to provide for immediate and pressing needs. the whigs frantically attacked the president's proposals, and held him and his party accountable for all the evils of the panic; and in truth it was right enough to hold them so accountable for part; but, after all, the harm was largely due to causes existing throughout the civilized world, and especially to the speculative folly rife among the whole american people. but it is always an easy and a comfortable thing to hold others responsible for what is primarily our own fault. benton did not believe, as a matter of principle, in the issue of treasury notes, but supported the bill for that purpose on account of the sore straits the administration was in, and its dire need of assistance from any source. he treated it as a disagreeable but temporary makeshift, only allowable on the ground of the sternest and most grinding necessity, he stated that he supported the issue only because the treasury notes were made out in such a form that they could not become currency; they were merely loan notes. their chief characteristic was that they bore interest; they were transferable only by indorsement; were payable at a fixed time; were not reissuable, nor of small denominations; and were to be canceled when paid. such being the case he favored their issue, but expressly stated that he only did so on account of the urgency of the governmental wants; and that he disapproved of any such issue until the ordinary resources of taxes and loans had been tried to the utmost and failed. "i distrust, dislike, and would fain eschew this treasury-note resource; i prefer the direct loans of - . i could only bring myself to support this present measure when it was urged that there was not time to carry a loan through in its forms; nor even then would i consent to it until every feature of a currency character had been eradicated from the bill." a sharp struggle took place over the bill brought in by the friends of the administration and advocated by benton, to repeal the obligation to deposit the fourth instalment of the surplus with the states. this scheme of a distribution, thinly disguised under the name of deposit to soothe the feelings of calhoun and the other strict constructionist pundits, had worked nothing but mischief from the start; and now that there was no surplus to distribute, it would seem incredible that there should have been opposition to its partial repeal. yet webster, clay, and their followers strenuously opposed even such repeal. it is possible that their motives were honest, but much more probable that they were actuated by partisan hostility to the administration, or that they believed they would increase their own popularity by favoring a plan that seemingly distributed money as a gift among the states. the bill was finally amended so as to make it imperative to pay this fourth instalment in a couple of years; yet it was not then paid, since on the date appointed the national treasury was bankrupt and the states could therefore never get the money,--which was the only satisfactory incident in the whole proceeding. the financial theories of jackson and benton were crude and vicious, it is true, but webster, clay, and most other public men of the day seem to have held ideas on the subject that were almost, if not quite, as mischievous. the great financial measures advocated by the administration of van buren, and championed with especial zeal by benton, were those providing for an independent treasury and for hard-money payments; that is, providing that the government should receive nothing but gold and silver for its revenues, and that this gold and silver should be kept by its own officers in real, not constructive, treasuries,--in strong buildings, with special officers to hold the keys. the treasury was to be at washington, with branches or sub-treasuries at the principal points of collection and disbursement. these measures, if successful, meant that there would be a total separation of the federal government from all banks; in the political language of the times they became known as those for the divorce of bank and state. hitherto the local banks chosen by jackson to receive the deposits had been actively hostile to biddle's great bank and to its friends; but self-interest now united them all in violent opposition to the new scheme. webster, clay, and the whigs generally fought it bitterly in the senate; but calhoun now left his recent allies and joined with benton in securing its passage. however, it was for the time being defeated in the house of representatives. most of the opposition to it was characterized by sheer loud-mouthed demagogy--cries that the government was too aristocratic to accept the money that was thought good enough for the people, and similar claptrap. benton made a very earnest plea for hard money, and especially denounced the doctrine that it was the government's duty to interfere in any way in private business; for, as usual in times of general distress, a good many people had a vague idea that in some way the government ought to step in and relieve them from the consequences of their own folly. meanwhile the banks had been endeavoring to resume specie payment. those of new york had taken steps in that direction but little more than three months after the suspension. their weaker western neighbors, however, were not yet in condition to follow suit; and the great bank at philadelphia also at first refused to come in with them. but the new york banks persisted in their purpose, resumed payment a year after they had suspended, and eventually the others had to fall into line; the reluctance to do so being of course attributed by benton to "the factious and wicked machinations" of a "powerful combined political and moneyed confederation"--a shadowy and spectral creation of vivid jacksonian imaginations, in the existence of which he persisted in believing. clay, always active as the friend of the banks, introduced a resolution, nominally to quicken the approach of resumption, but really to help out precisely those weak banks which did not deserve help, making the notes of the resuming banks receivable in payment of all dues to the federal government. this was offered after the banks of new york had resumed, and when all the other solvent banks were on the point of resuming also; so its nominal purpose was already accomplished, as benton, in a caustic speech, pointed out. he then tore the resolution to shreds, showing that it would be of especial benefit to the insolvent and unsound banks, and would insure a repetition of the worst evils under which the country was already suffering. he made it clear that the proposition practically was to force the government to receive paper promises to pay from banks that were certain to fail, and therefore to force the government in turn to pay out this worthless paper to its honest creditors. benton's speech was an excellent one, and clay's resolution was defeated. all through this bank controversy, and the other controversies relating to it, benton took the leading part, as mouthpiece of the administration. he heartily supported the suggestion of the president, that a stringent bankrupt law against the banks should be passed. webster stood out as the principal opponent of this measure, basing his objections mainly upon constitutional grounds; that is, questioning the right, rather than the expediency, of the proposed remedy. benton answered him at length in a speech showing an immense amount of careful and painstaking study and a wide range of historical reading and legal knowledge; he replied point by point, and more than held his own with his great antagonist. his speech was an exhaustive study of the history and scope of bankruptcy laws against corporations. benton's capacity for work was at all times immense; he delighted in it for its own sake, and took a most justifiable pride in his wide reading, and especially in his full acquaintance with history, both ancient and modern. he was very fond of illustrating his speeches on american affairs with continual allusions and references to events in foreign countries or in old times, which he considered to be more or less parallel to those he was discussing; and indeed he often dragged in these comparisons when there was no particular need for such a display of his knowledge. he could fairly be called a learned man, for he had studied very many subjects deeply and thoroughly; and though he was too self-conscious and pompous in his utterances not to incur more than the suspicion of pedantry, yet the fact remains that hardly any other man has ever sat in the senate whose range of information was as wide as his. he made another powerful and carefully wrought speech in favor of what he called the act to provide for the divorce of bank and state. this bill, as finally drawn, consisted of two distinct parts, one portion making provision for the keeping of the public moneys in an independent treasury, and the other for the hard-money currency, which was all that the government was to accept in payment of revenue dues. this last provision, however, was struck out, and the bill thereby lost the support of calhoun, who, with webster, clay, and the other whigs, voted against it; but, mainly through benton's efforts, it passed the senate, although by a very slender majority. benton, in his speech, dwelt with especial admiration on the working of the monetary system of france, and held it up as well worthy to be copied by us. most of the points he made were certainly good ones, although he overestimated the beneficent results that would spring from the adoption of the proposed system, believing that it would put an end for the future to all panics and commercial convulsions. in reality it would have removed only one of the many causes which go to produce the latter, leaving the others free to work as before; the people at large, not the government, were mainly to blame, and even with them it was in some respects their misfortune as much as their fault. benton's error, however, was natural; like most other men he was unable fully to realize that hardly any phenomenon, even the most simple, can be said to spring from one cause only, and not from a complex and interwoven tissue of causation--and a panic is one of the least simple and most complex of mercantile phenomena. benton's deep-rooted distrust of and hostility to such banking as then existed in the united states certainly had good grounds for existence. this distrust was shown again when the bill for the re-charter of the district banks came up. the specie basis of many of them had been allowed to become altogether too low; and benton showed himself more keenly alive than any other public man to the danger of such a state of things, and argued strongly that a basis of specie amounting to one third the total of liabilities was the only safe proportion, and should be enforced by law. he made a most forcible argument, using numerous and apt illustrations to show the need of his amendment. nor was the tireless missouri senator satisfied even yet; for he introduced a resolution asking leave to bring in a bill to tax the circulation of banks and bankers, and of all corporations, companies, or individuals, issuing paper currency. one object of the bill was to raise revenue; but even more he aimed at the regulation of the currency by the suppression of small notes; and for this end the tax was proposed to be made heaviest on notes under twenty dollars, and to be annually augmented until it had accomplished its object and they had been driven out of circulation. in advocating his measure he used, as was perhaps unavoidable, some arguments that savored strongly of demagogy; but on the whole he made a strong appeal, using as precedents for the law he wished to see enacted both the then existing banking laws in england and those that had obtained previously in the history of the united states. taken altogether, while the jacksonians, during the period of van buren's presidency, rightly suffered for their previous financial misdeeds, yet so far as their actions at the time were concerned, they showed to greater advantage than the whigs. nor did they waver in their purpose even when the tide of popular feeling changed. the great financial measure of the administration, in which benton was most interested, the independent treasury bill, he succeeded in getting through the senate twice; the first time it was lost in the house of representatives; but on the second occasion, towards the close of van buren's term, firmness and perseverance met their reward. the bill passed the senate by an increased majority, scraped through the house after a bitter contest, and became a law. it developed the system known as that of the sub-treasury, which has proved satisfactory to the present day. it was during van buren's term that biddle's great bank, so long the pivot on which turned the fortunes of political parties, finally tottered to its fall. it was ruined by unwise and reckless management; and benton sang a pæan over its downfall, exulting in its fate as a justification of all that he had said and done. yet there can be little doubt that its mismanagement became gross only after all connection with the national government had ceased; and its end, attributable to causes not originally existent or likely to exist, can hardly be rightly considered in passing judgment upon the actions of the jacksonians in reference to it. chapter x. last days of the jacksonian democracy. the difficulty and duration of a war with an indian tribe depend less upon the numbers of the tribe itself than upon the nature of the ground it inhabits. the two indian tribes that have caused the most irritating and prolonged struggle are the apaches, who live in the vast, waterless, mountainous deserts of arizona and new mexico, and whom we are at this present moment engaged in subduing, and the seminoles, who, from among the impenetrable swamps of florida, bade the whole united states army defiance for seven long years; and this although neither seminoles nor apaches ever brought much force into the field, nor inflicted such defeats upon us as have other indian tribes, like the creeks and sioux. the conflict with the seminoles was one of the legacies left by jackson to van buren; it lasted as long as the revolutionary war, cost thirty millions of dollars, and baffled the efforts of several generals and numerous troops, who had previously shown themselves equal to any in the world. the expense, length, and ill-success of the struggle, and a strong feeling that the seminoles had been wronged, made it a great handle for attack on the administration; and the defense was taken up by benton, who always accepted completely the western estimate of any form of the indian question. as is usually the case in indian wars there had been much wrong done by each side; but in this instance we were the more to blame, although the indians themselves were far from being merely harmless and suffering innocents. the seminoles were being deprived of their lands in pursuance of the general policy of removing all the indians west of the mississippi. they had agreed to go, under pressure, and influenced, probably, by fraudulent representations; but they declined to fulfill their agreement. if they had been treated wisely and firmly they might probably have been allowed to remain without serious injury to the surrounding whites. but no such treatment was attempted, and as a result we were plunged in one of the most harassing indian wars we ever waged. in their gloomy, tangled swamps, and among the unknown and untrodden recesses of the everglades the indians found a secure asylum; and they issued from their haunts to burn and ravage almost all the settled part of florida, fairly depopulating five counties; while the soldiers could rarely overtake them, and when they did, were placed at such a disadvantage that the indians repulsed or cut off detachment after detachment, generally making a merciless and complete slaughter of each. the great seminole leader, osceola, was captured only by deliberate treachery and breach of faith on our part, and the indians were worn out rather than conquered. this was partly owing to their remarkable capacities as bush-fighters, but infinitely more to the nature of their territory. our troops generally fought with great bravery; but there is very little else in the struggle, either as regards its origin or the manner in which it was carried on, to which an american can look back with any satisfaction. we usually group all our indian wars together, in speaking of their justice or injustice; and thereby show flagrant ignorance. the sioux and cheyennes, for instance, have more often been sinning than sinned against; for example, the so-called chivington or sandy creek massacre, in spite of certain most objectionable details, was on the whole as righteous and beneficial a deed as ever took place on the frontier. on the other hand, the most cruel wrongs have been perpetrated by whites upon perfectly peaceable and unoffending tribes like those of california, or the nez perçés. yet the emasculated professional humanitarians mourn as much over one set of indians as over the other--and indeed, on all points connected with indian management, are as untrustworthy and unsafe leaders as would be an equal number of the most brutal white borderers. but the seminole war was one of those where the eastern, or humanitarian view was more nearly correct than was any other; although even here the case was far from being entirely one-sided. benton made an elaborate but not always candid defense of the administration, both as to the origin and as to the prosecution of the war. he attempted to show that the seminoles had agreed to go west, had broken their treaty without any reason, had perpetrated causeless massacres, had followed up their successes with merciless butcheries, which last statement was true; and that osceola had forfeited all claim or right to have a flag of truce protect him. there was a certain justice in his position even on these questions, and when he came to defend the conduct of our soldiers he had the right entirely with him. they were led by the same commander, and belonged to the same regiments, that in canada had shown themselves equal to the famous british infantry; they had to contend with the country, rather than with their enemies, as the sweltering heat, the stagnant lagoons, the quaking morasses, and the dense forests of florida made it almost impossible for an army to carry on a successful campaign. moreover, the seminoles were well armed; and many tribes of north american indians show themselves, when with good weapons and on their own ground, more dangerous antagonists than would be an equal number of the best european troops. indeed, under such conditions they can only be contended with on equal terms if the opposing white force is made up of frontiersmen who are as good woodsmen and riflemen as themselves, and who, moreover, have been drilled by some man like jackson, who knows how to handle them to the best advantage, both in disciplining their lawless courage and in forcing them to act under orders and together,--the lack of which discipline and power of supporting each other has often rendered an assemblage of formidable individual border-fighters a mere disorderly mob when brought into the field. the war dragged on tediously. the troops--regulars, volunteers, and militia alike--fought the indians again and again; there were pitched battles, surprises, ambuscades, and assaults on places of unknown strength; hundreds of soldiers were slain in battle or by treachery, hundreds of settlers were slaughtered in their homes, or as they fled from them; the bloody indian forays reached even to the outskirts of tallahatchee and to within sight of the walls of quaint old st. augustine. little by little, however, the power of the seminoles was broken; their war bands were scattered and driven from the field, hundreds of their number were slain in fight, and five times as many surrendered and were taken west of the mississippi. the white troops marched through florida down to and into the everglades, and crossed it backwards and forwards, from the gulf of mexico to the atlantic ocean; they hunted their foes from morass to morass and from hummock to hummock; they mapped out the whole hitherto unknown country; they established numerous posts; opened hundreds of miles of wagon road; and built very many causeways and bridges. but they could not end the war. the bands of indians broke up and entirely ceased to offer resistance to bodies of armed whites; but as individuals they continued as dangerous to the settlers as ever, prowling out at night like wild beasts from their fastnesses in the dark and fetid swamps, murdering, burning, and ravaging in all the outlying settlements, and destroying every lonely farm-house or homestead. there was but one way in which the war could be finally ended, and that was to have the territory occupied by armed settlers; in other words, to have it won and held exactly as almost all the land of the united states has been in the beginning. benton introduced a bill to bring this about, giving to every such settler a good inheritance in the soil as a reward for his enterprise, toil, and danger; and the war was finished only by the adoption of this method. he supported his bill in a very effective speech, showing that the proposed way was the only one by which a permanent conquest could be effected; he himself had, when young, seen it put into execution in tennessee and kentucky, where the armed settlers, with their homesteads in the soil, formed the vanguard of the white advance: where the rifle-bearing backwoodsmen went forth to fight and to cultivate, living in assemblages of block-houses at first and separating into individual settlements afterwards. the work had to be done with axe, spade, and rifle alike. benton rightly insisted that there was no longer need of a large army in florida:-- why, the men who are there now can find nobody to fight! it is two years since a fight has been had. ten men who will avoid surprises and ambuscades can now go from one end of florida to the other. as warriors, these indians no longer appear; it is only as assassins, as robbers, as incendiaries, that they lurk about. what is now wanted is not an army to fight, but settlers and cultivators to take possession and keep possession; and the armed cultivator is the man for that. the block-house is the first house to be built in an indian country; the stockade the first fence to be put up. within that block-house, or within a hollow square of block-houses, two miles long on each side, two hundred yards apart, and inclosing a good field, safe habitations are to be found for families. cultivation and defense then go hand in hand. the heart of the indian sickens when he hears the crowing of the cock, the barking of the dog, the sound of the axe, and the crack of the rifle. these are the true evidences of the dominion of the white man; these are the proofs that the owner has come and means to stay, and then the indians feel it to be time for them to go. while soldiers alone are in the country they feel their presence to be temporary; that they are mere sojourners in the land, and sooner or later must go away. it is the settler alone, the armed settler, whose presence announces the dominion, the permanent dominion, of the white man. benton's ideas were right, and were acted upon. it is impossible even to subdue an indian tribe by the army alone; the latter can only pave the way for and partially protect the armed settlers who are to hold the soil. benton continued to take a great interest in the disposal of the public lands, as was natural in a senator from the west, where the bulk of these lands lay. he was always a great advocate of a homestead law. during van buren's administration, he succeeded in getting two or three bills on the subject through the senate. one of these allowed lands that had been five years in the market to be reduced in price to a dollar an acre, and if they stood five years longer to go down to seventy-five cents. the bill was greatly to the interest of the western farmer in the newer, although not necessarily the newest, parts of the country. the man who went on the newest land was in turn provided for by the preëmption bill, which secured the privilege of first purchase to the actual settler on any lands to which the indian title had been extinguished; to be paid for at the minimum price of public lands at the time. an effort was made to confine the benefits of this proposed law to citizens of the united states, excluding unnaturalized foreigners from its action. benton, as representing the new states, who desired immigrants of every kind, whether foreign or native, successfully opposed this. he pointed out that there was no question of conferring political rights, which involved the management of the government, and which should not be conferred until the foreigner had become a naturalized citizen; it was merely a question of allowing the alien a right to maintain himself and to support his family. he especially opposed the amendment on account of the class of foreigners it would affect. aliens who wished to take up public lands were not paupers or criminals, and did not belong to the shiftless and squalid foreign mob that drifted into the great cities of the sea-board and the interior; but on the contrary were among our most enterprising, hardy, and thrifty citizens, who had struck out for themselves into the remote parts of the new states and had there begun to bring the wilderness into subjection. such men deserved to be encouraged in every way, and should receive from the preëmption laws the same benefits that would enure to native-born citizens. the third bill introduced, which passed the senate but failed in the house, was one to permit the public lands sold to be immediately taxed by the states in which they lay. originally these lands had been sold upon credit, the total amount not being paid, nor the title passed, until five years after the sale; and during this time it would have been unjust to tax them, as failure in paying the installments to the government would have let the lands revert to the latter; but when the cash system was substituted for credit benton believed that there was no longer reason why the new lands should not bear their share of the state burdens. during van buren's administration the standard of public honesty, which had been lowering with frightful rapidity ever since, with adams, the men of high moral tone had gone out of power, went almost as far down as it could go; although things certainly did not change for the better under tyler and polk. not only was there the most impudent and unblushing rascality among the public servants of the nation, but the people themselves, through their representatives in the state legislatures, went to work to swindle their honest creditors. many states, in the rage for public improvements, had contracted debts which they now refused to pay; in many cases they were unable, or at least so professed themselves, even to pay the annual interest. the debts of the states were largely held abroad; they had been converted into stock and held in shares, which had gone into a great number of hands, and now, of course, became greatly depreciated in value. it is a painful and shameful page in our history; and every man connected with the repudiation of the states' debts ought, if remembered at all, to be remembered only with scorn and contempt. however, time has gradually shrouded from our sight both the names of the leaders in the repudiation and the names of the victims whom they swindled. two alone, one in each class, will always be kept in mind. before jefferson davis took his place among the arch-traitors in our annals he had already long been known as one of the chief repudiators; it was not unnatural that to dishonesty towards the creditors of the public he should afterwards add treachery towards the public itself. the one most prominent victim was described by benton himself: "the reverend sydney smith, of witty memory, but amiable withal, was accustomed to lose all his amiability, but no part of his wit, when he spoke of his pennsylvania bonds--which, in fact, was very often." many of the bond-holders, however, did not manifest their grief by caustic wit, but looked to more substantial relief; and did their best to bring about the assumption of the state debts, in some form, whether open or disguised, by the federal government. the british capitalists united with many american capitalists to work for some such action; and there were plenty of people in the states willing enough to see it done. of course it would have been criminal folly on the part of the federal government to take any such step; and benton determined to meet and check the effort at the very beginning. the london bankers' circular had contained a proposition recommending that the congress of the united states should guarantee, or otherwise provide for, the ultimate payment of the debts which the states had contracted for state or local purposes. benton introduced a series of resolutions declaring utter opposition to the proposal, both on the ground of expediency and on that of constitutionality. the resolutions were perfectly proper in their purpose, but were disfigured by that cheap species of demagogy which consists in denouncing purely supposititious foreign interference, complicated by an allusion to benton's especial pet terror, the inevitable money power. as he put it: "foreign interference and influence are far more dangerous in the invidious intervention of the moneyed power than in the forcible invasions of fleets and armies." an attempt was made directly to reverse the effect of the resolutions by amending them so as to provide that the public land revenue should be divided among the states, to help them in the payment of these debts. both webster and clay supported this amendment, but it was fortunately beaten by a large vote. benton's speech, like the resolutions in support of which he spoke, was right in its purpose, but contained much matter that was beside the mark. he had worked himself into such a condition over the supposititious intrigues of the "money power"--an attack on which is almost always sure to be popular--that he was very certain to discover evidence of their existence on all, even the most unlikely, occasions; and it is difficult to think that he was not himself aware how overdrawn was his prophecy of the probable interference of foreign powers in our affairs, if the resolutions he had presented were not adopted. the tariff had once more begun to give trouble, and the south was again complaining of its workings, aware that she was falling always more to the rear in the race for prosperity, and blindly attributing her failure to everything but the true reason,--the existence of slavery. even benton himself showed a curiously pathetic eagerness to prove both to others and himself that the cause of the increasing disparity in growth, and incompatibility in interest between the two sections, must be due to some temporary and artificial cause, and endeavored to hide from all eyes, even from his own, the fact that the existence of slavery was working, slowly but surely, and with steadily increasing rapidity, to rend in sunder the union which he loved and served with such heartfelt devotion. he tried to prove that the main cause of discontent was to be found in the tariff and other laws, which favored the north at the expense of the south. at the same time he entered an eloquent plea for a warmer feeling between the sections, and pointed out the absolute hopelessness of attempting to better the situation in any way by disunion. the great missourian could look back with fond pride and regret to the condition of the south as it was during and immediately after the colonial days, when it was the seat of wealth, power, high living, and free-handed hospitality, and was filled to overflowing with the abounding life of its eager and turbulent sons. the change for the worse in its relative condition was real and great. he reproved his fellow-southerners for attributing this change to a single cause, the unequal working of the federal government, "which gave all the benefits of the union to the south and all its burdens to the north;" he claimed that it was due to many other causes as well. yet those whom he rebuked were as near right as he was; for the change _was_ due in the main to only one cause--but that cause was slavery. it is almost pitiful to see the strong, stern, self-reliant statesman refusing, with nervous and passionate willfulness, to look the danger in the face, and, instead thereof, trying to persuade himself into the belief that "the remedy lies in the right working of the constitution; in the cessation of unequal legislation; in the reduction of the inordinate expenses of the government; in its return to the simple, limited, and economical machine it was intended to be; and in the revival of fraternal feelings and respect for each other's rights and just complaints." like many another man he thought, or tried to think, that by sweeping the dust from the door-sill he could somehow stave off the whirling rush of the sand-storm. the compromise tariff of had abolished all specific duties, establishing _ad valorem_ ones in their place; and the result had been great uncertainty and injustice in its working. now whether a protective tariff is right or wrong may be open to question; but if it exists at all, it should work as simply and with as much certainty and exactitude as possible; if its interpretation varies, or if it is continually meddled with by congress, great damage ensues. it is in reality of far less importance that a law should be ideally right than that it should be certain and steady in its workings. even supposing that a high tariff is all wrong, it would work infinitely better for the country than would a series of changes between high and low duties. benton strongly advocated a return to specific duties, as being simpler, surer, and better on every account. in commenting on the _ad valorem_ duties, he showed how they had been adopted blindly and without discussion by the frightened, silent multitude of congressmen and senators, who jumped at clay's compromise bill in as giving them a loop-hole of escape from a situation where they would have had to face evil consequences, no matter what stand they took. benton's comment on men of this stamp deserves chronicling, from its justice and biting severity: "it (the compromise act) was passed by the aid of the votes of those--always a considerable _per centum_ in every public body--to whom the name of compromise is an irresistible attraction; amiable men, who would do no wrong of themselves, and without whom the designing could also do but little wrong." he not only devoted himself to the general subject of the tariff in relation to specific duties, but he also took up several prominent abuses. one subject, on which he was never tired of harping with monotonous persistency, was the duty on salt. the idea of making salt free had become one which he was almost as fond of bringing into every discussion, no matter how inappropiate to the matter in hand, as he was of making irrelevant and abusive allusions to his much-enduring and long-suffering hobby, the iniquitous "money power." benton had all the tenacity of a snapping turtle, and was as firm a believer in the policy of "continuous hammering" as grant himself. his tenacity and his pertinacious refusal to abandon any contest, no matter what the odds were against him, and no matter how often he had to return to the charge, formed two of his most invaluable qualities, and when called into play on behalf of such an object as the preservation of the union, cannot receive too high praise at our hands; for they did the country services so great and lasting that they should never be forgotten. it would have been fortunate indeed if clay and webster had possessed the fearless, aggressive courage and iron will of the rugged missourian, who was so often pitted against them in the political arena. but when benton's attention was firmly fixed on the accomplishment of something comparatively trivial, his dogged, stubborn, and unyielding earnestness drew him into making efforts of which the disproportion to the result aimed at was rather droll. nothing could thwart him or turn him aside; and though slow to take up an idea, yet, if it was once in his head, to drive it out was a simply hopeless task. these qualities were of such invaluable use to the state on so many great occasions that we can well afford to treat them merely with a good-humored laugh, when we see them exercised on behalf of such a piece of foolishness as, for example, the expunging resolution. the repeal of the salt tax, then, was a particular favorite in benton's rather numerous stable of hobbies, because it gave free scope for the use of sentimental as well as of economic arguments. he had the right of the question, and was not in the least daunted by his numerous rebuffs and the unvarying ill success of his efforts. speaking in , he stated that he had been urging the repeal for twelve years; and for the purpose of furnishing data with which to compare such a period of time, and without the least suspicion that there was anything out of the way in the comparison, he added, in a solemn parenthesis, that this was two years longer than the siege of troy lasted. in the same speech was a still choicer morsel of eloquence about salt: "the supreme ruler of the universe has done everything to supply his creatures with it; man, the fleeting shadow of an instant, invested with his little brief authority, has done much to deprive them of it." after which he went on to show a really extensive acquaintance with the history of salt taxes and monopolies, and with the uses and physical structure and surroundings of the mineral itself--all which might have taught his hearers that a man may combine much erudition with a total lack of the sense of humor. the salt tax is dragged, neck and heels, into many of benton's speeches much as cooper manages, on all possible occasions, throughout his novels, to show the unlikeness of the bay of naples to the bay of new york--not the only point of resemblance, by the way, between the characters of the missouri statesman and the new york novelist. whether the subject under discussion was the taxation of bank-notes, or the abolition of slavery, made very little difference to benton as to introducing an allusion to the salt monopoly. one of his happy arguments in favor of the repeal, which was addressed to an exceedingly practical and commonplace congress, was that the early christian disciples had been known as the salt of the earth--a biblical metaphor, which benton kindly assured his hearers was very expressive; and added that a salt tax was morally as well as politically wrong, and in fact "was a species of impiety." but in attacking some of the abuses which had developed out of the tariff of benton made a very shrewd and practical speech, without permitting himself to indulge in any such intellectual pranks as accompanied his salt orations. he especially aimed at reducing the drawbacks on sugar, molasses, and one or two other articles. in accordance with our whole clumsy, hap-hazard system of dealing with the tariff we had originally put very high duties on the articles in question, and then had allowed correspondingly heavy drawbacks; and yet, when in , by clay's famous compromise tariff bill, the duties were reduced to a fractional part of what they had previously been, no parallel reduction was made in the drawbacks, although benton (supported by webster) made a vain effort even then, while the compromise bill was on its passage, to have the injustice remedied. as a consequence, the exporters of sugar and rum, instead of drawing back the exact amounts paid into the treasury, drew back several times as much; and the ridiculous result was that certain exporters were paid a naked bounty out of the treasury, and received pay for doing and suffering nothing. in the drawback paid on the exportation of refined sugar exceeded the amount of revenue derived from imported sugar by over twenty thousand dollars. benton showed this clearly, by unimpeachable statistics, and went on to prove that in that year the whole amount of the revenue from brown and clayed sugar, plus the above-mentioned twenty thousand dollars, was paid over to twenty-nine sugar refiners; and that these men thus "drew back" from the treasury what they had never put into it. abuses equally gross existed in relation to various other articles. but in spite of the clear justice of his case benton was able at first to make but little impression on congress; and it was some time before matters were straightened out, as all the protective interests felt obliged to make common cause with each other, no matter what evils might be perpetrated by their taking such action. towards the close of van buren's administration, when he was being assailed on every side, as well for what jackson as for what he himself had done or left undone, one of the chief accusations brought against him was that he had squandered the public money, and that, since adams had been ousted from the presidency, the expenses of running the government had increased out of all proportion to what was proper. there was good ground for their complaint, as the waste and peculation in some of the departments had been very great; but benton, in an elaborate defense of both jackson and van buren, succeeded in showing that at least certain of the accusations were unfounded--although he had to stretch a point or two in trying to make good his claim that the administration was really economical, being reduced to the rather lame expedient of ruling out about two thirds of the expenditures on the ground that they were "extraordinary." the charge of extravagance was one of the least of the charges urged against the jacksonian democrats during the last days of their rule. while they had been in power the character of the public service had deteriorated frightfully, both as regarded its efficiency and infinitely more as regarded its honesty; and under van buren the amount of money stolen by the public officers, compared to the amount handed in to the treasury, was greater than ever before or since. for this the jacksonians were solely and absolutely responsible; they drove out the merit system of making appointments, and introduced the "spoils" system in its place; and under the latter they chose a peculiarly dishonest and incapable set of officers, whose sole recommendation was to be found in the knavish trickery and low cunning that enabled them to manage the ignorant voters who formed the backbone of jackson's party. the statesmen of the democracy in after days forgot the good deeds of the jacksonians; they lost their attachment to the union, and abandoned their championship of hard money; but they never ceased to cling to the worst legacy their predecessors had left them. the engrafting of the "spoils" system on our government was, of all the results of jacksonian rule, the one which was most permanent in its effects. all these causes--the corruption of the public officials, the extravagance of the government, and the widespread distress, which might be regarded as the aftermath of its ruinous financial policy--combined with others that were as little to the discredit of the jacksonians as they were to the credit of the whigs, brought about the overthrow of the former. there was much poetic justice in the fact that the presidential election which decided their fate was conducted on as purely irrational principles, and was as merely one of sound and fury, as had been the case in the election twelve years previously, when they came into power. the whigs, having exhausted their language in denouncing their opponents for nominating a man like andrew jackson, proceeded to look about in their own party to find one who should come as near him as possible in all the attributes that had given him so deep a hold on the people; and they succeeded perfectly when they pitched on the old indian fighter, harrison. "tippecanoe" proved quite as effective a war-cry in bringing about the downfall of the jacksonians as "old hickory" had shown itself to be a dozen years previously in raising them up. general harrison had already shown himself to be a good soldier, and a loyal and honest public servant, although by no means standing in the first rank either as regards war-craft or state-craft; but the mass of his supporters apparently considered the facts, or supposed facts, that he lived in a log-cabin the walls of which were decorated with coon-skins, and that he drank hard cider from a gourd, as being more important than his capacity as a statesman or his past services to the nation. the whigs having thus taken a shaft from the jacksonians' quiver, it was rather amusing to see the latter, in their turn, hold up their hands in horror at the iniquity of what would now be called a "hurrah" canvass; blandly ignoring the fact that it was simply a copy of their own successful proceedings. says benton, with amusing gravity: "the class of inducements addressed to the passions and imaginations of the people was such as history blushes to record," a remark that provokes criticism, when it is remembered that benton had been himself a prominent actor on the jacksonian side in the campaigns of ' and ' , when it was exclusively to "the passions and imaginations of the people" that all arguments were addressed. the democrats did not long remain out of power; and they kept the control of the governmental policy in their hands pretty steadily until the time of the civil war; nevertheless it is true that with the defeat of van buren the jacksonian democracy, as such, lost forever its grip on the direction of national affairs. when, under polk, the democrats came back, they came under the lead of the very men whom the original jacksonians had opposed and kept down. with all their faults, jackson and benton were strong union men, and under them their party was a union party. calhoun and south carolina, and the disunionists in the other southern states were their bitter foes. but the disunion and extreme slavery elements within the democratic ranks were increasing rapidly all the time; and they had obtained complete and final control when the party reappeared as victors after their defeat in . until van buren's overthrow the nationalists had held the upper hand in shaping democratic policy; but after that event the leadership of the party passed completely into the hands of the separatists. the defeat of van buren marks an era in more ways than one. during his administration slavery played a less prominent part in politics than did many other matters; this was never so again. his administration was the last in which this question, or the question springing from it, did not overtop and dwarf in importance all others. again, the presidential election of was the last into which slavery did not enter as a most important, and in fact as the vital and determining factor. in the contest between van buren and harrison it did not have the least influence upon the result. moreover, van buren was the last democratic president who ruled over a union of states; all his successors, up to the time of lincoln's election, merely held sway over a union of sections. the spirit of separation had identified itself with the maintenance of slavery, and the south was rapidly uniting into a compact array of states with interests that were hostile to the north on the point most vitally affecting the welfare of the whole country. no great question involving the existence of slavery was brought before the attention of congress during van buren's term of office; nor was the matter mooted except in the eternal wrangles over receiving the abolitionist petitions. benton kept silent in these discussions, although voting to receive the petitions. as he grew older he continually grew wiser, and better able to do good legislative work on all subjects; but he was not yet able to realize that the slavery question was one which could not be kept down, and which was bound to force itself into the sphere of national politics. he still insisted that it was only dragged before congress by a few fanatics at the north, and that in the south it was made the instrument by which designing and unscrupulous men wished to break up the federal republic. his devotion to the union, ever with him the chief and overmastering thought, made him regard with horror and aversion any man, at the north or at the south, who brought forward a question so fraught with peril to its continuance. he kept trying to delude himself into the belief that the discussion and the danger would alike gradually die away, and the former state of peaceful harmony between the sections, and freedom from disunion excitement, would return. but the time for such an ending already lay in the past; thereafter the outlook was to grow steadily darker year by year. slavery lowered like a thunder-storm on the horizon; and though sometimes it might seem for a moment to break away, yet in reality it had reached that stage when, until the final all-engulfing outburst took place, the clouds were bound for evermore to return after the rain. chapter xi. the president without a party. the whigs in completely overthrew the democrats, and for the first time elected a president and held the majority in both houses of congress. yet, as it turned out, all that they really accomplished was to elect a president without a party, for harrison died when he had hardly more than sat in the presidential chair, and was succeeded by the vice-president, tyler of virginia. harrison was a true whig; he was, when nominated, a prominent member of the whig party, although of course not to be compared with its great leader, henry clay, or with its most mighty intellectual chief and champion in the northeast, daniel webster, whose mutual rivalry had done much to make his nomination possible. tyler, however, could hardly be called a whig at all; on the contrary, he belonged rightfully in the ranks of those extreme democrats who were farthest removed from the whig standard, and who were as much displeased with the union sentiments of the jacksonians as they were with the personal tyranny of jackson himself. he was properly nothing but a dissatisfied democrat, who hated the jacksonians, and had been nominated only because the whig politicians wished to strengthen their ticket and insure its election by bidding for the votes of the discontented in the ranks of their foes. now a chance stroke of death put the presidency in the hands of one who represented this, the smallest, element in the coalition that overthrew van buren. the principles of the whigs were hazily outlined at the best, and the party was never a very creditable organization; indeed, throughout its career, it could be most easily defined as the opposition to the democracy. it was a free constructionist party, believing in giving a liberal interpretation to the doctrines of the constitution; otherwise, its principles were purely economic, as it favored a high tariff, internal improvements, a bank, and kindred schemes; and its leaders, however they might quarrel among themselves, agreed thoroughly in their devout hatred of jackson and all his works. it was on this last point only that tyler came in. his principles had originally been ultra-democratic. he had been an extreme strict constructionist, had belonged to that wing of the democracy which inclined more and more towards separation, and had thus, on several grounds, found himself opposed to jackson, benton, and their followers. indeed, he went into opposition to his original party for reasons akin to those that influenced calhoun; and seward's famous remark about the "ill-starred coalition between whigs and nullifiers" might with certain changes have been applied to the presidential election of quite as well as to the senatorial struggles to which it had reference. tyler, however, had little else in common with calhoun, and least of all his intellect. he has been called a mediocre man; but this is unwarranted flattery. he was a politician of monumental littleness. owing to the nicely-divided condition of parties, and to the sheer accident which threw him into a position of such prominence that it allowed him to hold the balance of power between them, he was enabled to turn politics completely topsy-turvy; but his chief mental and moral attributes were peevishness, fretful obstinacy, inconsistency, incapacity to make up his own mind, and the ability to quibble indefinitely over the most microscopic and hair-splitting plays upon words, together with an inordinate vanity that so blinded him to all outside feeling as to make him really think that he stood a chance to be renominated for the presidency. the whigs, especially in the senate, under henry clay, prepared at once to push through various measures that should undo the work of the jacksonians. clay was boastfully and domineeringly sure of the necessity of applying to actual governmental work the economic theories that formed the chief stock in trade of his party. but it was precisely on these economic theories that tyler split off from the whigs. the result was that very shortly the real leader of the dominant party, backed by almost all his fellow party men in both houses of congress, was at daggers drawn with the nominal whig president, who in his turn was supported only by a "corporal's guard" of followers in the house of representatives, by all the office-holders whom fear of removal reduced to obsequious subserviency, and by a knot of obscure politicians who used him for their own ends, and worked alternately on his vanity and on his fears. the democrats, led by benton, played out their own game, and were the only parties to the three-cornered fight who came out of it with profit. the details now offer rather dry reading, as the economic theories of all the contestants were more or less crude, the results of the conflict indecisive, and the effects upon our history ephemeral. clay began by a heated revival of one of jackson's worst ideas, namely, that when the people elect a president they thereby mark with the seal of their approval any and every measure with which that favored mortal or his advisers may consider themselves identified, and indorse all his and their previous actions. he at once declared that the people had shown, by the size of harrison's majority, that they demanded the repeal of the independent treasury act, and the passage of various other laws in accordance with some of his own favorite hobbies, two out of three voters, as a matter of fact, probably never having given a second thought to any of them. accordingly he proceeded to introduce a whole batch of bills, which he alleged that it was only yielding due respect to the spirit of democracy to pass forthwith. benton, however, even outdid clay in paying homage to what he was pleased to call the "democratic idea." at this time he speaks of the last session of the twenty-sixth congress as being "barren of measures, and necessarily so, as being the last of an administration superseded by the popular voice and soon to expire; and therefore restricted by a sense of propriety, during the brief remainder of its existence, to the details of business and the routine of service." according to this theory an interregnum of some sixteen weeks would intervene between the terms of service of every two presidents. he also speaks of tyler as having, when the legislature of virginia disapproved of a course he wished to follow, resigned his seat "in obedience to the democratic principle," which, according to his views, thus completely nullified the section of the constitution providing for a six years' term of service in the senate. in truth benton, like most other jacksonian and jeffersonian leaders, became both foolish and illogical when he began to talk of the bundle of vague abstractions, which he knew collectively as the "democratic principle." although not so bad as many of his school he had yet gradually worked himself up to a belief that it was almost impious to pay anything but servile heed to the "will of the majority;" and was quite unconscious that to surrender one's own manhood and judgment to a belief in the divine right of kings was only one degree more ignoble, and was not a shadow more logical, and but little more defensible, than it was blindly to deify a majority--not of the whole people, but merely of a small fraction consisting of those who happened to be of a certain sex, to have reached a certain age, to belong to a certain race, and to fulfill some other conditions. in fact there is no natural or divine law in the matter at all; how large a portion of the population should be trusted with the control of the government is a question of expediency merely. in any purely native american community manhood suffrage works infinitely better than would any other system of government, and throughout our country at large, in spite of the large number of ignorant foreign-born or colored voters, it is probably preferable as it stands to any modification of it; but there is no more "natural right" why a white man over twenty-one should vote than there is why a negro woman under eighteen should not. "civil rights" and "personal freedom" are not terms that necessarily imply the right to vote. people make mistakes when governing themselves, exactly as they make mistakes when governing others; all that can be said is, that in the former case their self-interest is on the side of good government, whereas in the latter it always may be, and often must be, the reverse; so that, when any people reaches a certain stage of mental development and of capacity to take care of its own concerns, it is far better that it should itself take the reins. the distinctive features of the american system are its guarantees of personal independence and individual freedom; that is, as far as possible, it guarantees to each man his right to live as he chooses and to regulate his own private affairs as he wishes, without being interfered with or tyrannized over by an individual, or by an oligarchic minority, or by a democratic majority; while, when the interests of the whole community are at stake, it is found best in the long run to let them be managed in accordance with the wishes of the majority of those presumably concerned. clay's flourish of trumpets foreboded trouble and disturbance to the jacksonian camp. at last he stood at the head of a party controlling both branches of the legislative body, and devoted to his behests; and, if a little doubtful about the president, he still believed he could frighten him into doing as he was bid. he had long been in the minority, and had seen his foes ride roughshod over all he most believed in; and now he prepared to pay them back in their own coin and to leave a heavy balance on his side of the reckoning. nor could any jacksonian have shown himself more domineering and influenced by a more insolent disregard for the rights of others than clay did in his hour of triumph. on the other side, benton braced himself with dogged determination for the struggle; for he was one of those men who fight a losing or a winning battle with equal resolution. tyler's first message to congress read like a pretty good whig document. it did not display any especial signs of his former strict construction theories, and gave little hope to the democrats. the leader of the latter, indeed, benton, commented upon both it and its author with rather grandiloquent severity, on account of its latitudinarian bias, and of its recommendation of a bank of some sort. however, the ink with which the message was written could hardly have been dry before the president's mind began to change. he himself probably had very little idea what he intended to do, and so contrived to give the whigs the impression that he would act in accordance with their wishes; but the leaven had already begun working in his mind, and, not having much to work on, soon changed it so completely that he was willing practically to eat his own words. shortly after tyler had sent in his message outlining what legislation he deemed proper, he being by virtue of his position the nominal and titular leader of the whigs, clay, who was their real and very positive chief, and who was, moreover, determined to assert his chieftainship, in his turn laid down a programme for his party to follow, introducing a series of resolutions declaring it necessary to pass a bill to repeal the sub-treasury act, another to establish a bank, another to distribute the proceeds of the public land sales, and one or two more, to which was afterwards added a bankruptcy measure. the sub-treasury bill was first taken up and promptly passed and signed. benton, of course, led the hopeless fight against it, making a long and elaborate speech, insisting that the finances were in excellent shape, as they were, showing the advantages of hard money, and denouncing the bill on account of the extreme suddenness with which it took effect, and because it made no provision for any substitute. he also alluded caustically to the curious and anomalous bank bill, which was then being patched up by the whig leaders so as to get it into some such shape that the president would sign it. the other three important measures, that is, the bank, distribution, and bankruptcy bills, were all passed nearly together; as benton pointed out, they were got through only by a species of bargain and sale, the chief supporters of each agreeing to support the other, so as to get their own pet measure through. "all must go together or fall together. this is the decree out of doors. when the sun dips below the horizon a private congress is held; the fate of the measures is decided; a bundle is tied together; and while one goes ahead as a bait, another is held back as a rod." the bankruptcy bill went through and was signed. it was urged by all the large debtor class, whose ranks had been filled to overflowing by the years of wild speculation and general bank suspension and insolvency. these debtors were quite numerous enough to constitute an important factor in politics, but benton disregarded them nevertheless, and fought the bill as stoutly as he did its companions, alleging that it was a gross outrage on honesty and on the rights of property, and was not a bankrupt law at all, but practically an insolvent law for the abolition of debts at the will of the debtor. he pointed out grave and numerous defects of detail, and gave an exhaustive abstract of bankruptcy legislation in general; the speech gave evidence of the tireless industry and wide range of learning for which benton was preëminently distinguished. the third bill to be taken up and passed was that providing for the distribution of the public lands revenue, and thus indirectly for assuming the debts of the states. tyler, in his message, had characteristically stated that, though it would be wholly unconstitutional for the federal government to assume the debts of the states, yet it would be highly proper for it to give the latter money wherewith to pay them. clay had always been an enthusiastic advocate of a distribution bill; and accordingly one was now passed and signed with the least possible delay. it was an absolutely indefensible measure. the treasury was empty, and loan and tax bills were pending at the very moment, in order to supply money for the actual running of the government. as benton pointed out, congress had been called together (a special session having been summoned by harrison before his death) to raise revenue, and the first thing done was to squander it. the distribution took place when the treasury reports showed a deficit of sixteen millions of dollars. the bill was pushed through mainly by the states which had repudiated their debts in whole or in part; and as these debts were largely owed abroad, many prominent foreign banking-houses and individuals took an active part in lobbying for the bill. benton was emphatically right in his opposition to the measure, but he was very wrong in some of the grounds he took. thus he inveighed vigorously against the foreign capitalists who had come to help push the bill through congress; but he did not have anything to say against the scoundrelly dishonesty displayed by certain states towards their creditors, which had forced these capitalists into the endeavor to protect themselves. he also incidentally condemned the original assumption by the national government of the debts of the states, at the time of the formation of the constitution, which was an absolute necessity; and his constitutional views throughout seem rather strained. but he was right beyond cavil on the main point. it was criminal folly to give the states the impression that they would be allowed to create debts over which congress could have no control, yet which congress in the end would give them the money to pay. to reward a state for repudiating a debt by giving her the wherewithal to pay it was a direct and unequivocal encouragement of dishonesty. in every respect the bill was wholly improper; and benton's attitude towards it and towards similar schemes was incomparably better than the position of clay, webster, and the other whigs. both the bankrupt bill and the distribution bill were repealed very shortly; the latter before it had time to take effect. this was an emphatic indorsement by the public of benton's views, and a humiliating rebuke to the whig authors of the measures. indeed, the whole legislation of the session was almost absolutely fruitless in its results. one feature of the struggle was an attempt by clay, promptly and successfully resisted by benton and calhoun, to institute the hour limit for speeches in the senate. there was a good deal of excuse for clay's motion. the house could cut off debate by the previous question, which the senate could not, and nevertheless had found it necessary to establish the hour limit in addition. of course it is highly undesirable that there should not be proper freedom of debate in congress; but it is quite as hurtful to allow a minority to exercise their privileges improperly. the previous question is often abused and used tyrannically; but on the whole it is a most invaluable aid to legislation. benton, however, waxed hot and wrathful over the proposed change in the senate rules. he, with calhoun and their followers, had been consuming an immense amount of time in speech-making against the whig measures, and in offering amendments; not with any hopes of bettering the bills, but for outside effect, and to annoy their opponents. he gives an amusingly naive account of their course of action, and the reasons for it, substantially as follows:-- the democratic senators acted upon a system, and with a thorough organization and a perfect understanding. being a minority, and able to do nothing, they became assailants, and attacked incessantly; not by formal orations against the whole body of a measure, but by sudden, short, and pungent speeches directed against the vulnerable parts, and pointed by proffered amendments. amendments were continually offered--a great number being prepared every night and placed in suitable hands for use the next day--always commendably calculated to expose an evil and to present a remedy. near forty propositions of amendment were offered to the first fiscal agent bill alone--the yeas and nays were taken upon them seven and thirty times. all the other prominent bills--distribution, bankrupt, fiscal corporation, new tariff act, called revenue--were served the same way; every proposed amendment made an issue. there were but twenty-two of us, but every one was a speaker and effective. the "globe" newspaper was a powerful ally, setting out all we did to the best advantage in strong editorials, and carrying out our speeches, fresh and hot, to the people; and we felt victorious in the midst of unbroken defeats. it is no wonder that such rank filibustering, coupled with the exasperating self-complacency of its originators, should have excited in whig bosoms every desperate emotion short of homicidal mania. clay, to cut off such useless talk, gave notice that he would move to have the time for debate for each individual restricted; remarking very truthfully that he did not believe the people at large would complain of the abridgment of speeches in congress. but the democratic senators, all rather fond of windy orations, fairly foamed at the mouth at what they affected to deem such an infringement of their liberties; and actually took the inexcusable resolution of bidding defiance to the rule if it was adopted, and refusing to obey it, no matter what degree of violence their conduct might bring about,--a resolution that was wholly unpardonable. benton was selected to voice their views upon the matter, which he did in a long, and not very wise speech; while calhoun was quite as emphatic in his threats of what would happen if attempt should be made to enforce the proposed rule. clay was always much bolder in opening a campaign than in carrying it through; and when it came to putting his words into deeds, he wholly lacked the nerve which would have enabled him to contend with two such men as the senators from missouri and south carolina. had he possessed a temperament like that of either of his opponents, he would have gone on and have simply forced acquiescence; for any legislative body can certainly enforce what rules it may choose to make as to the conduct of its own members in addressing it; but his courage failed him, and he withdrew from the contest, leaving the victory with democrats. when the question of the re-charter of the district banks came up, it of course gave benton another chance to attack his favorite foe. he offered a very proper amendment, which was voted down, to prohibit the banks from issuing a currency of small notes, fixing upon twenty dollars as being the lowest limit. this he supported in a strong speech, wherein he once again argued at length in favor of a gold and silver currency, and showed the evil effects of small bank-notes, which might not be, and often were not, redeemable at par. he very properly pointed out that to have a sound currency, especially in all the smaller denominations, was really of greater interest to the working men than to any one else. the great measure of the session, however, and the one that was intended to be the final crown and glory of the whig triumph, was the bill to establish a new national bank. among the political theories to which clay clung most closely, only the belief in a bank ranked higher in his estimation than his devotion to a protective tariff. the establishment of a national bank seemed to him to be the chief object of a whig success; and that it would work immediate and immense benefit to the country was with him an article of faith. with both houses of congress under his control, he at once prepared to push his pet measure through, impatiently brushing aside all resistance. but at the very outset difficulty was feared from the action of the president. tyler could not at first make up his mind what to do; or rather, he made it up in half a dozen different ways every day. his peevishness, vacillation, ambitious vanity, and sheer puzzle-headedness made him incline first to the side of his new friends and present supporters, the whigs, and then to that of his old democratic allies, whose views on the bank, as on most other questions, he had so often openly expressed himself as sharing. but though his mind oscillated like a pendulum, yet each time it swung farther and farther over to the side of the democracy, and it began to look as if he would certainly in the end come to a halt in the camp of the enemies of the whigs; his approach to this destination was merely hastened by clay's overbearing violence and injudicious taunts. however, at first tyler did not dare to come out openly against any and all bank laws, but tried to search round for some compromise measure; and as he could not invent a compromise in fact, he came to the conclusion that one in words would do just as well. he said that his conscience would not permit him to sign a bill to establish a bank that was called a bank, but that he was willing to sign a bill establishing such an institution provided that it was called something else, though it should possess all the properties of a bank. such a proposal opened a wide field for the endless quibbling in which his soul delighted. the secretary of the treasury, in response to a call from the senate, furnished a plan for a bank, having modeled it studiously so as to overcome the president's scruples; and a select committee of the senate at once shaped a bill in accordance with the plans. said benton: "even the title was made ridiculous to please the president, though not so much so as he wished. he objected to the name of bank either in the title or the body of the charter, and proposed to style it 'fiscal institute;' and afterwards the 'fiscal agent,' and finally the 'fiscal corporation.'" such preposterous folly on the president's part was more than the hot-blooded and overbearing kentuckian could stand; and, in spite of his absorbing desire for the success of his measure, and of the vital necessity for conciliating tyler, clay could not bring himself to adopt such a ludicrous title, even though he had seen that the charter provided that the institution, whatever it might be styled in form, should in fact have all the properties of a bank. after a while, however, a compromise title was agreed on, but only a shadow less imbecile than the original one proposed by the president; and it was agreed to call the measure the "fiscal bank" bill. the president vetoed it, but stated that he was ready to approve any similar bill that should be free from the objections he named. clay could not resist reading tyler a lecture on his misconduct, during the course of a speech in the senate; but the whigs generally smothered their resentment, and set about preparing something which the president would sign, and this time concluded that they would humor him to the top of his bent, even by choosing a title as ridiculous as he wished; so they styled their bill one to establish a "fiscal corporation." benton held the title up to well-deserved derision, and showed that, though there had been quite an elaborate effort to disguise the form of the measure, and to make it purport to establish a bank that should have the properties of a treasury, yet that in reality it was simply a revival of the old scheme under another name. the whigs swallowed the sneers of their opponents as best they could, and passed their bill. the president again interposed his veto. an intrigue was going on among a few unimportant congressmen and obscure office-holders to form a new party with tyler at its head; and the latter willingly entered into the plan, his mind, which was not robust at the best, being completely dazzled by his sudden elevation and his wild hopes that he could continue to keep the place which he had reached. he had given the whigs reason to expect that he would sign the bill, and had taken none of his cabinet into his confidence. so, when his veto came in, it raised a perfect whirlwind of wrath and bitter disappointment. his cabinet all resigned, except webster, who stayed to finish the treaty with great britain; and the whigs formally read him out of the party. the democrats looked on with huge enjoyment, and patted tyler on the back, for they could see that he was bringing their foes to ruin; but nevertheless they despised him heartily, and abandoned him wholly when he had served their turn. left without any support among the regulars of either side, and his own proposed third party turning out a still-born abortion, he simply played out his puny part until his term ended, and then dropped noiselessly out of sight. it is only the position he filled, and not in the least his ability, for either good or bad, in filling it, that prevents his name from sinking into merciful oblivion. there was yet one more brief spasm over the bank, however; the president sending in a plan for a "fiscal agent," to be called a board of exchequer. congress contemptuously refused to pay any attention to the proposition, benton showing its utter unworthiness in an excellent speech, one of the best that he made on the whole financial question. largely owing to the cross purposes at which the president and his party were working, the condition of the treasury became very bad. it sought to provide for its immediate wants by the issue of treasury notes, differing from former notes of the kind in that they were made reissuable. benton at once, and very properly, attacked this proceeding. he had a check drawn for a few days' compensation as senator, demanded payment in hard money, and when he was given treasury notes instead, made a most emphatic protest in the senate, which was entirely effectual, the practically compulsory tender of the paper money being forthwith stopped. it was at this time, also, that bills to subsidize steamship lines were first passed, and that the enlarging and abuse of the pension system began, which in our own day threatens to become a really crying evil. benton opposed both sets of measures; and in regard to the pension matter showed that he would not let himself, by any specious plea of exceptional suffering or need for charity, be led into vicious special legislation, sure in the end to bring about the breaking down of some of the most important principles of government. chapter xii. boundary troubles with england. two important controversies with foreign powers became prominent during tyler's presidency; but he had little to do with the settlement of either, beyond successively placing in his cabinet the two great statesmen who dealt with them. webster, while secretary of state, brought certain of the negotiations with england to a close; and later on, calhoun, while holding the same office, took up webster's work and also grappled with--indeed partly caused--the troubles on the mexican border, and turned them to the advantage of the south and slavery. our boundaries were still very ill-defined, except where they were formed by the gulf and the ocean, the great lakes, and the river st. john. even in the northeast, where huge stretches of unbroken forest-land separated the inhabited portions of canada from those of new england, it was not yet decided how much of this wilderness belonged to us and how much to the canadians; and in the vast, unsettled regions of the far west our claims came into direct conflict with those of mexico and of great britain. the ownership of these little known and badly mapped regions could with great difficulty be decided on grounds of absolute and abstract right; the title of each contestant to the land was more or less plausible, and at the same time more or less defective. the matter was sure to be decided in favor of the strongest; and, say what we will about the justice and right of the various claims, the honest truth is, that the comparative might of the different nations, and not the comparative righteousness of their several causes, was the determining factor in the settlement. mexico lost her northern provinces by no law of right, but simply by the law of the longest sword--the same law that gave india to england. in both instances the result was greatly to the benefit of the conquered peoples and of every one else; though there is this wide difference between the two cases: that whereas the english rule in india, while it may last for decades or even for centuries, must eventually come to an end and leave little trace of its existence; on the other hand our conquests from mexico determined for all time the blood, speech, and law of the men who should fill the lands we won. the questions between great britain and ourselves were compromised by each side accepting about half what it claimed, only because neither was willing to push the other to extremities. englishmen like palmerston might hector and ruffle, and americans like benton might swagger and bully; but when it came to be a question of actual fighting each people recognized the power of the other, and preferred to follow the more cautious and peaceful, not to say timid, lead of such statesmen as webster and lord melbourne. had we been no stronger than the sikhs, oregon and washington would at present be british possessions; and if great britain had been as weak as mexico, she would not now hold a foot of territory on the pacific coast. either nation might perhaps have refused to commit a gross and entirely unprovoked and uncalled-for act of aggression; but each, under altered conditions, would have readily found excuses for showing much less regard for the claims of the other than actually was shown. it would be untrue to say that nations have not at times proved themselves capable of acting with great disinterestedness and generosity towards other peoples; but such conduct is not very common at the best, and although it often may be desirable, it certainly is not always so. if the matter in dispute is of great importance, and if there is a doubt as to which side is right, then the strongest party to the controversy is pretty sure to give itself the benefit of that doubt; and international morality will have to take tremendous strides in advance before this ceases to be the case. it is difficult to exaggerate the importance of the treaties and wars by means of which we finally gave definite bounds to our territory beyond the mississippi. contemporary political writers and students, of the lesser sort, are always painfully deficient in the sense of historic perspective; and to such the struggles for the possession of the unknown and dimly outlined western wastes seemed of small consequence compared to similar european contests for territorial aggrandizement. yet, in reality, when we look at the far-reaching nature of the results, the questions as to what kingdom should receive the fealty of holstein or lorraine, of savoy or the dobrudscha, seem of absolutely trivial importance compared to the infinitely more momentous ones as to the future race settlement and national ownership of the then lonely and unpeopled lands of texas, california, and oregon. benton, greatly to the credit of his foresight, and largely in consequence of his strong nationalist feeling, thoroughly appreciated the importance of our geographical extensions. he was the great champion of the west and of western development, and a furious partisan of every movement in the direction of the enlargement of our western boundaries. many of his expressions, when talking of the greatness of our country and of the magnitude of the interests which were being decided, not only were grandiloquent in manner, but also seem exaggerated and overwrought even as regards matter. but when we think of the interests for which he contended, as they were to become, and not as they at the moment were, the appearance of exaggeration is lost, and the intense feeling of his speeches no longer seems out of place or disproportionate to the importance of the subject with which he dealt. without clearly formulating his opinions, even to himself, and while sometimes prone to attribute to his country at the moment a greatness she was not to possess for two or three generations to come, he, nevertheless, had engrained in his very marrow and fibre the knowledge that inevitably, and beyond all doubt, the coming years were to be hers. he knew that, while other nations held the past, and shared with his own the present, yet that to her belonged the still formless and unshaped future. more clearly than almost any other statesman he beheld the grandeur of the nation loom up, vast and shadowy, through the advancing years. he was keenly alive to the need of our having free chance to spread towards the northwest; he very early grasped the idea that in that direction we ought to have room for continental development. in his earliest years, to be sure, when the mississippi seemed a river of the remote western border, when nobody, not even the hardiest trapper, had penetrated the boundless and treeless plains that stretch to the foot-hills of the rockies, and when the boldest thinkers had not dared to suppose that we could ever hold together as a people, when once scattered over so wide a territory, he had stated in a public speech that he considered the mountains to be our natural frontier line to the west, and the barrier beyond which we ought not to pass, and had expressed his trust that on the pacific coast there would grow up a kindred and friendly republic. but very soon, as the seemingly impossible became the actual, he himself changed, and ever afterwards held that we should have, wherever possible, no boundaries but the two oceans. benton's violent and aggressive patriotism undoubtedly led him to assume positions towards foreign powers that were very repugnant to the quiet, peaceable, and order-loving portion of the community, especially when he gave vent to the spirit of jealous antagonism which he felt towards great britain, the power that held sway over the wilderness bordering us on the north. yet the arrogant attitude he assumed was more than justified by the destiny of the great republic; and it would have been well for all america if we had insisted even more than we did upon the extension northward of our boundaries. not only the columbia but also the red river of the north--and the saskatchewan and frazer as well--should lie wholly within our limits, less for our own sake than for the sake of the men who dwell along their banks. columbia, saskatchewan, and manitoba would, as states of the american union, hold positions incomparably more important, grander, and more dignified than they can ever hope to reach either as independent communities or as provincial dependencies of a foreign power that regards them with a kindly tolerance somewhat akin to contemptuous indifference. of course no one would wish to see these, or any other settled communities, now added to our domain by force; we want no unwilling citizens to enter our union; the time to have taken the lands was before settlers came into them. european nations war for the possession of thickly settled districts which, if conquered, will for centuries remain alien and hostile to the conquerors; we, wiser in our generation, have seized the waste solitudes that lay near us, the limitless forests and never ending plains, and the valleys of the great, lonely rivers; and have thrust our own sons into them to take possession; and a score of years after each conquest we see the conquered land teeming with a people that is one with ourselves. benton felt that all the unoccupied land to the northwest was by right our heritage, and he was willing to do battle for it if necessary. he was a perfect type of western american statesmanship in his way of looking at our foreign relations; he was always unwilling to compromise, being of that happy temperament which is absolutely certain that its claims are just and righteous in their entirety, and that it would be wrong to accept anything less than all that is demanded; he was willing to bully if our rights, as he deemed them, were not granted us; and he was perfectly ready to fight if the bullying was unsuccessful. true, he did not consistently carry through all his theories to their logical consequences; but it may well be questioned whether, after all, his original attitude towards great britain was not wiser, looking to its probable remote results, than that which was finally taken by the national government, whose policy was on this point largely shaped by the feeling among the richer and more educated classes of the northeast. these classes have always been more cautious and timid than any others in the union, especially in their way of looking at possible foreign wars, and have never felt much of the spirit which made the west stretch out impatiently for new lands. fortunately they have rarely been able to control our territorial growth. no foot of soil to which we had any title in the northwest should have been given up; we were the people who could use it best, and we ought to have taken it all. the prize was well worth winning, and would warrant a good deal of risk being run. we had even then grown to be so strong that we were almost sure eventually to win in any american contest for continental supremacy. we were near by, our foes far away--for the contest over the columbia would have been settled in canada. we should have had hard fighting to be sure, but sooner or later the result would have been in our favor. there were no better soldiers in the world than the men of balaclava and inkerman, but the victors of buena vista and chapultepec were as good. scott and taylor were not great generals, but they were, at least, the equals of lord raglan; and we did not have in our service any such examples of abnormal military inaptitude as lords lucan and cardigan and their kind. it was of course to be expected that men like benton would bitterly oppose the famous ashburton treaty, which was webster's crowning work while secretary of state, and the only conspicuous success of tyler's administration. the ashburton treaty was essentially a compromise between the extreme claims of the two contestants, as was natural where the claims were based on very unsubstantial grounds and the contestants were of somewhat the same strength. it was most beneficial in its immediate effects; and that it was a perfectly dignified and proper treaty for america to make is best proved by the virulent hostility with which palmerston and his followers assailed it as a "surrender" on the part of england, while englishmen of the same stamp are to this day never tired of lamenting the fact that they have allowed our western boundaries to be pushed so far to the north. but there appears to be much excuse for benton's attitude, when we look at the treaty as one in a chain of incidents, and with regard to its future results. our territorial quarrels with great britain were not like those between most other powers. it was for the interest of the whole western hemisphere that no european nation should have extensive possessions between the atlantic and the pacific; and by right we should have given ourselves the benefit of every doubt in all territorial questions, and have shown ourselves ready to make prompt appeal to the sword whenever it became necessary as a last resort. still, as regards the ashburton treaty itself, it must be admitted that much of benton's opposition was merely factious and partisan, on account of its being a whig measure; and his speeches on the subject contain a number of arguments that are not very creditable to him. some of his remarks referred to a matter which had been already a cause of great excitement during van buren's administration, and on which he had spoken more than once. this was the destruction of the steamer caroline by the british during the abortive canadian insurrection of . much sympathy had been felt for the rebels by the americans along the border, and some of them had employed the caroline in conveying stores to the insurgents; and in revenge a party of british troops surprised and destroyed her one night while she was lying in an american port. this was a gross and flagrant violation of our rights, and was promptly resented by van buren, who had done what he could to maintain order along the border, and had been successful in his efforts. benton had supported the president in preventing a breach of neutrality on our part, and was fiercely indignant when the breach was committed by the other side. reparation was demanded forthwith. the british government at first made evasive replies. after a while a very foolish personage named mcleod, a british subject, who boasted that he had taken part in the affair, ventured into new york and was promptly imprisoned by the state authorities. his boastings, fortunately for him, proved to be totally unfounded, and he was acquitted by the jury before whom he was taken, after a detention of several months in prison. but meanwhile the british government demanded his release--adopting a very different tone with tyler and the whigs from that which they had been using towards van buren, who still could conjure with jackson's terrible name. the united states agreed to release mcleod, but new york refused to deliver him up; and before the question was decided he was acquitted, as said above. it was clearly wrong for a state to interfere in a disagreement between the nation and a foreign power; and on the other hand the federal authorities did not show as much firmness in their dealings with england as they should have shown. benton, true to certain of his states-rights theories and in pursuance of his policy of antagonism to great britain, warmly supported the attitude of new york, alleging that the united states had no right to interfere with her disposal of mcleod; and asserting that while if the citizens of one country committed an outrage upon another it was necessary to apply to the sovereign for redress, yet that if the wrong-doers came into the country which had been aggrieved they might be seized and punished; and he exultingly referred to jackson's conduct at the time of the first seminole war, when he hung off-hand two british subjects whom he accused of inciting the indians against us, great britain not making any protest. the caroline matter was finally settled in the ashburton treaty, the british making a formal but very guarded apology for her destruction,--an apology which did not satisfy benton in the least. it is little to benton's credit, however, that, while thus courting foreign wars, he yet opposed the efforts of the whigs to give us a better navy. our navy was then good of its kind, but altogether too small. benton's opposition to its increase seems to have proceeded partly from mere bitter partisanship, partly from sheer ignorance, and partly from the doctrinaire dread of any kind of standing military or naval force, which he had inherited, with a good many similar ideas, from the jeffersonians. he attacked the whole treaty, article by article, when it came up for ratification in the senate, making an extremely lengthy and elaborate speech, or rather set of speeches, against it. much of his objection, especially to the part compromising the territorial claims of the two governments, was well founded; but much was also factious and groundless. the most important point of all that was in controversy, the ownership of oregon, was left unsettled; but, as will be shown farther on, this was wise. he made this omission a base or pretext for the charge that the treaty was gotten up in the interests of the east,--although with frank lack of logic he also opposed it because it sacrificed the interests of maine,--and that it was detrimental to the south and west; and he did his best to excite sectional feeling against it. he also protested against the omission of all reference to the impressment of american sailors by british vessels; and this was a valid ground of opposition,--although webster had really settled the matter by writing a formal note to the british government, in which he practically gave official notice that any attempt to revive the practice would be repelled by force of arms. benton occupied a much less tenable position when he came to the question of slavery, and inveighed against the treaty because it did not provide for the return of fugitive slaves, or of slaves taken from american coasting vessels when the latter happened to be obliged to put into west indian ports, and because it did contain a provision that we ourselves should keep in commission a squadron on the coast of africa to coöperate with the british in the suppression of the slave-trade. benton's object in attacking the treaty on this point was to excite the south to a degree that would make the senators from that section refuse to join in ratifying it; but the attempt was a flat failure. it is hardly to be supposed that he himself was as indignant over this question as he pretended to be. he must have realized that, so long as we had among ourselves an institution so wholly barbarous and out of date as slavery, just so long we should have to expect foreign powers to treat us rather cavalierly on that one point. whatever we might say among ourselves as to the rights of property or the necessity of preserving the union by refraining from the disturbance of slavery, it was certain that foreign nations would place the manhood and liberty of the slave above the vested interest of the master--all the more readily because they were jealous of the union and anxious to see it break up, and were naturally delighted to take the side of abstract justice and humanity, when to do so was at the expense of outsiders and redounded to their own credit, without causing them the least pecuniary loss or personal inconvenience. the attitude of slave-holders towards freedom in the abstract was grotesque in its lack of logic; but the attitude of many other classes of men, both abroad and at home, towards it was equally full of a grimly unconscious humor. the southern planters, who loudly sympathized with kossuth and the hungarians, were entirely unconscious that their tyranny over their own black bondsmen made their attacks upon austria's despotism absurd; and germans, who were shocked at our holding the blacks in slavery, could not think of freedom in their own country without a shudder. on one night the democrats of the northern states would hold a mass meeting to further the cause of irish freedom, on the next night the same men would break up another meeting held to help along the freeing of the negroes; while the english aristocracy held up its hands in horror at american slavery and set its face like a flint against all efforts to do ireland tardy and incomplete justice. again, in his opposition to the extradition clause of the treaty, benton was certainly wrong. nothing is clearer than that nations ought to combine to prevent criminals from escaping punishment merely by fleeing over an imaginary line; the crime is against all society, and society should unite to punish it. especially is there need of the most stringent extradition laws between countries whose people have the same speech and legal system, as with the united states and great britain. indeed, it is a pity that our extradition laws are not more stringent. but benton saw, or affected to see, in the extradition clause, a menace to political refugees, and based his opposition to it mainly on this ground. he also quoted on his side the inevitable jefferson; for jefferson, or rather the highly idealized conception of what jefferson had been, shared with the "demos krateo principle" the honor of being one of the twin fetiches to which benton, in common with most of his fellow-democrats, especially delighted to bow down. but when he came to the parts of the treaty that defined our northeastern boundary and so much of our northwestern boundary as lay near the great lakes, benton occupied far more defensible ground; and the parts of his speech referring to these questions were very strong indeed. he attempted to show that in the matter of the maine frontier we had surrendered very much more than there was any need of our doing, and that the british claim was unfounded; and there seems now to be good reason for thinking him right, although it must be admitted that in agreeing to the original line in earlier treaties the british had acted entirely under a misapprehension as to where it would go. benton was also able to make a good point against webster for finally agreeing to surrender so much of maine's claim by showing the opposition the latter had made, while in the senate, to a similar but less objectionable clause in a treaty which jackson's administration had then been trying to get through. again webster had, in defending the surrender of certain of our claims along the boundary west of lake superior, stated that the country was not very valuable, as it was useless for agricultural purposes; and benton had taken him up sharply on this point, saying that we wanted the land anyhow, whether it produced corn and potatoes or only furs and lumber. the amounts of territory as to which our claims were compromised were not very large compared to the extent of the pacific coast lands which were still left in dispute; and it was perhaps well that the treaty was ratified; but certainly there is much to be said on benton's side so far as his opposition to the proposed frontier was concerned. however, he was only able to rally eight other senators to his support, and the treaty went through the senate triumphantly. it encountered an even more bitter opposition in parliament, where palmerston headed a series of furious attacks upon it, for reasons the precise opposite of those which benton alleged, arguing that england received much less, instead of much more, than her due, and thereby showing webster's position in a very much better light than that in which it would otherwise have appeared. eventually the british government ratified the treaty. the ashburton treaty did not touch on the oregon matter at all; nor was this dealt with by webster while he was secretary of state. but it came before the senate at that time, and later on calhoun took it up, when filling webster's place in the cabinet, although a final decision was not reached until during polk's presidency. webster did not appreciate the importance of oregon in the least, and moreover came from a section of the country that was not inclined to insist on territorial expansion at the hazard of a war, in which the merchants of the sea-board would be the chief sufferers. calhoun, it is true, came from a peculiarly militant and bellicose state, but on the other hand from a section that was not very anxious to see the free north acquire new territory. so it happened that neither of tyler's two great secretaries felt called upon to insist too vehemently upon going to extremes in defense of our rights, or supposed rights, along the pacific coast; and though in the end the balance was struck pretty evenly between our claims and those of our neighbor, yet it is to be regretted that we did not stand out stiffly for the whole of our demand. our title was certainly not perfect, but it was to the full as good as, or better than, great britain's; and it would have been better in the end had we insisted upon the whole territory being given to us, no matter what price we had to pay. the politico-social line of division between the east and the west had been gradually growing fainter as that between the north and south grew deeper; but on the oregon question it again became prominent. southeastern democrats, like the carolinian mcduffie, spoke as slightingly of the value of oregon, and were as little inclined to risk a war for its possession, as the most peace-loving whigs of new england; while the intense western feeling against giving up any of our rights on the pacific coast was best expressed by the two senators from the slave state of missouri. benton was not restrained in his desire to add to the might of the union by any fear of the possible future effect upon the political power of the slave states. although a slave-holder and the representative of slave-holders, he was fully alive to the evils of slavery, though as yet not seeing clearly how all-important a question it had become. the preservation and extension of the union and obedience to the spirit of democracy were the chief articles of his political creed, and to these he always subordinated all others. when, in speaking of slavery, he made use, as he sometimes did, of expressions that were not far removed from those of men really devoted to the slave interests, it was almost always because he had some ulterior object in view, or for factional ends; for unfortunately his standard of political propriety was not sufficiently high to prevent his trying to make use of any weapon, good or bad, with which to overturn his political foes. in protesting against the ashburton treaty, he outdid even such slavery champions as calhoun in the extravagance of his ideas as to what we should demand of foreign powers in reference to their treatment of our "peculiar institution"; but he seems to have done this merely because thereby he got an additional handle of attack against the whig measures. the same thing was true earlier of his fulmination against clay's proposed panama congress; and even before that, in attacking adams for his supposed part in the treaty whereby we established the line of our spanish frontier, he dragged slavery into the question, not, apparently, because he really particularly wished to see our slave territory extended, but because he thought that he might use the slavery cry to excite in one other section of the country a feeling as strong as that which the west already felt in regard to territorial expansion generally. indeed, his whole conduct throughout the oregon controversy, especially when taken in connection with the fact that he stood out for maine's frontier rights more stoutly than the maine representatives themselves, shows how free from sectional bias was his way of looking at our geographical growth. the territory along the pacific coast lying between california on the south and alaska on the north--"oregon," as it was comprehensively called--had been a source of dispute for some time between the united states and great britain. after some negotiations both had agreed with russia to recognize the line of ° ' as the southern boundary of the latter's possessions; and mexico's undisputed possession of california gave an equally well marked southern limit, at the forty-second parallel. all between was in dispute. the british had trading posts at the mouth of the columbia, which they emphatically asserted to be theirs; we, on the other hand, claimed an absolutely clear title up to the forty-ninth parallel, a couple of hundred miles north of the mouth of the columbia, and asserted that for all the balance of the territory up to the russian possessions our title was at any rate better than that of the british. in a treaty had been made providing for the joint occupation of the territory by the two powers, as neither was willing to give up its claim to the whole, or at the time at all understood the value of the possession, then entirely unpeopled. this treaty of joint occupancy had remained in force ever since. under it the british had built great trading stations, and used the whole country in the interests of certain fur companies. the americans, in spite of some vain efforts, were unable to compete with them in this line; but, what was infinitely more important, had begun, even prior to , to establish actual settlers along the banks of the rivers, some missionaries being the first to come in. as long, however, as the territory remained sparsely settled, and the communication with it chiefly by sea, the hold of great britain gave promise of being the stronger. but the aspect of affairs was totally changed when in a huge caravan of over a thousand americans made the journey overland from the frontiers of missouri, taking with them their wives and their children, their flocks and herds, carrying their long rifles on their shoulders, and their axes and spades in the great canvas-topped wagons. the next year, two thousand more settlers of the same sort in their turn crossed the vast plains, wound their way among the rocky mountains through the pass explored by fremont, benton's son-in-law, and after suffering every kind of hardship and danger, and warding off the attacks of hostile indians, descended the western slope of the great water-shed to join their fellows by the banks of the columbia. when american settlers were once in actual possession of the disputed territory, it became evident that the period of great britain's undisputed sway was over. the government of the united states, meanwhile, was so far from helping these settlers that it on the contrary rather threw obstacles in their way. as usual with us, the individual activity of the citizens themselves, who all acted independently and with that peculiar self-reliance that is the chief american characteristic, outstripped the activity of their representatives, who were obliged all to act together, and who were therefore held back by each other,--our constitution, while giving free scope for individual freedom, wisely providing such checks as to make our governmental system eminently conservative in its workings. tyler's administration did not wish to embroil itself with england; so it refused any aid to the settlers, and declined to give them grants of land, as under the joint occupancy treaty that would have given england offense and cause for complaint. but benton and the other westerners were perfectly willing to offend england, if by so doing they could help america to obtain oregon, and were too rash and headstrong to count the cost of their actions. accordingly, a bill was introduced providing for the settlement of oregon, and giving each settler six hundred and forty acres, and additional land if he had a family; so that every inducement was held out to the emigrants, the west wanting to protect and encourage them by all the means in its power. the laws and jurisdiction of the territory of iowa were to be extended to all the settlers on the pacific coast, who hitherto had governed themselves merely by a system of mutual agreements. the bill was, of course, strongly opposed, especially on account of the clause giving land to the settlers. it passed the senate by a close vote, but failed in the house. naturally benton was one of its chief supporters, and spoke at length in its favor. he seized the kernel of the matter when, in advocating the granting of land, he spoke of immigration as "the only thing which can save the country from the british, acting through their powerful agent, the hudson's bay company." he then blew a lusty note of defiance to great britain herself:-- i think she will take offense, do what we may in relation to this territory. she wants it herself, and means to quarrel for it, if she does not fight for it.... i grant that she will take offense, but that is not the question with me. has she a _right_ to take offense? that is my question! and this being decided in the negative, i neither fear nor calculate consequences.... courage will keep her off, fear will bring her upon us. the assertion of our rights will command her respect; the fear to assert them will bring us her contempt.... neither nations nor individuals ever escaped danger by fearing it. they must face it and defy it. an abandonment of a right for fear of bringing on an attack, instead of keeping it off, will inevitably bring on the outrage that is dreaded. he was right enough in his disposition to resent the hectoring spirit which, at that time, characterized great britain's foreign policy; but he was all wrong in condemning delay, and stating that if things were left as they were time would work against us, and not for us. in this respect calhoun, who opposed the bill, was much wiser. he advocated a policy of "masterly inactivity," foreseeing that time was everything to us, inasmuch as the land was sure in the end to belong to that nation whose people had settled in it, and we alone were able to furnish a constantly increasing stream of immigrants. later on, however, calhoun abandoned this policy, probably mainly influenced by fear of the extension of free territory, and consented to a compromise with great britain. the true course to have pursued would have been to have combined the ideas of both benton and calhoun, and to have gone farther than either; that is, we should have allowed the question to remain unsettled as long as was possible, because every year saw an increasing american population in the coveted lands, and rendered the ultimate decision surer to be for us. when it was impossible to postpone the question longer, we should have insisted upon its being settled entirely in our favor, no matter at what cost. the unsuccessful attempts, made by benton and his supporters, to persuade the senate to pass a resolution, requiring that notice of the termination of the joint occupancy treaty should forthwith be given, were certainly ill-advised. however, even benton was not willing to go to the length to which certain western men went, who insisted upon all or nothing. he had become alarmed and angry over the intrigue for the admission of texas and the proposed forcible taking away of mexican territory. the northwestern democrats wanted all texas and all oregon; the southeastern ones wished all the former and part of the latter. benton then concluded that it would be best to take part of each; for, although no friend to compromises, yet he was unwilling to jeopardize the safety of the union as it was by seeking to make it still larger. accordingly, he sympathized with the effort made by calhoun while secretary of state to get the british to accept the line of ° as the frontier; but the british government then rejected this proposition. in the democrats made their campaign upon the issue of "fifty-four forty or fight;" and polk, when elected, felt obliged to insist upon this campaign boundary. to this, however, great britain naturally would not consent; it was, indeed, idle to expect her to do so, unless things should be kept as they were until a fairly large american population had grown up along the pacific coast, and had thus put her in a position where she could hardly do anything else. polk's administration was neither capable nor warlike, however well disposed to bluster; and the secretary of state, the timid, shifty, and selfish politician, buchanan, naturally fond of facing both ways, was the last man to wish to force a quarrel on a high-spirited and determined antagonist like england. accordingly, he made up his mind to back down and try for the line of °, as proposed by calhoun, when in tyler's cabinet; and the english, for all their affected indifference, had been so much impressed by the warlike demonstrations in the united states, that they in turn were delighted, singing in a much lower key than before the "fifty-four forty" cry had been raised; accordingly they withdrew their former pretensions to the columbia river and accepted the offered compromise. now, however, came the question of getting the treaty through the senate; and buchanan sounded benton, to see if he would undertake this task. benton, worried over the texas matter, was willing to recede somewhat from the very high ground he had taken,--although, of course, he insisted that he had been perfectly consistent throughout, and that the th parallel was the line he had all along been striving for. under his lead the proposal for a treaty on the basis indicated was carried through the senate, and the line in consequence ultimately became our frontier, in spite of the frantic opposition of the northwestern democrats, the latter hurling every sort of charge of bad faith and treachery at their southern associates, who had joined with the whigs in defeating them. benton's speech in support of the proposal was pitched much lower than had been his previous ones; and, a little forgetful of some of his own remarks, he was especially severe upon those members who denounced england and held up a picture of her real or supposed designs to excite and frighten the people into needless opposition to her. in its immediate effects the adoption of the th parallel as the dividing line between the two countries was excellent, and entailed no loss of dignity on either. yet, as there was no particular reason why we should show any generosity in our diplomatic dealings with england, it may well be questioned whether it would not have been better to have left things as they were until we could have taken all. wars are, of course, as a rule to be avoided; but they are far better than certain kinds of peace. every war in which we have been engaged, except the one with mexico, has been justifiable in its origin; and each one, without any exception whatever, has left us better off, taking both moral and material considerations into account, than we should have been if we had not waged it. chapter xiii. the abolitionists dance to the slave barons' piping. in the whig candidate for the presidency, henry clay, was defeated by a mr. polk, the nominee of the democracy. the majorities in several of the states were very small; this was the case, for example in new york, the change in whose electoral vote would have also changed the entire result. up to there were very few political contests in which the dividing lines between right and wrong so nearly coincided with those drawn between the two opposing parties as in that of . the democrats favored the annexation of texas, and the addition of new slave territory to the union; the whigs did not. almost every good element in the country stood behind clay; the vast majority of intelligent, high-minded, upright men supported him. polk was backed by rabid southern fire-eaters and slavery extensionists, who had deified negro bondage and exalted it beyond the union, the constitution, and everything else; by the almost solid foreign vote, still unfit for the duties of american citizenship; by the vicious and criminal classes in all the great cities of the north and in new orleans; by the corrupt politicians, who found ignorance and viciousness tools ready forged to their hands, wherewith to perpetrate the gigantic frauds without which the election would have been lost; and, lastly, he was also backed indirectly but most powerfully by the political abolitionists. these abolitionists had formed themselves into the liberty party, and ran birney for president; and though they polled but little over sixty thousand votes, yet as these were drawn almost entirely from the ranks of clay's supporters, they were primarily responsible for his defeat; for the defections were sufficiently large to turn the scale in certain pivotal and closely contested states, notably new york. their action in this case was wholly evil, alike in its immediate and its remote results; they simply played into the hands of the extreme slavery men like calhoun, and became, for the time being, the willing accomplices of the latter. yet they would have accomplished nothing had it not been for the frauds and outrages perpetrated by the gangs of native and foreign-born ruffians in the great cities, under the leadership of such brutal rowdies as isaiah rynders. these three men, calhoun, birney, and isaiah rynders, may be taken as types of the classes that were chiefly instrumental in the election of polk, and that must, therefore, bear the responsibility for all the evils attendant thereon, including among them the bloody and unrighteous war with mexico. with the purpose of advancing the cause of abstract right, but with the result of sacrificing all that was best, most honest, and most high-principled in national politics, the abolitionists joined hands with northern roughs and southern slavocrats to elect the man who was, excepting tyler, the very smallest of the line of small presidents who came in between jackson and lincoln. owing to a variety of causes, the abolitionists have received an immense amount of hysterical praise, which they do not deserve, and have been credited with deeds done by other men, whom they in reality hampered and opposed rather than aided. after the professed abolitionists formed but a small and comparatively unimportant portion of the forces that were working towards the restriction and ultimate destruction of slavery; and much of what they did was positively harmful to the cause for which they were fighting. those of their number who considered the constitution as a league with death and hell, and who therefore advocated a dissolution of the union, acted as rationally as would anti-polygamists nowadays if, to show their disapproval of mormonism, they should advocate that utah should be allowed to form a separate nation. the only hope of ultimately suppressing slavery lay in the preservation of the union, and every abolitionist who argued or signed a petition for its dissolution was doing as much to perpetuate the evil he complained of as if he had been a slave-holder. the liberty party, in running birney, simply committed a political crime, evil in almost all its consequences; they in no sense paved the way for the republican party, or helped forward the anti-slavery cause, or hurt the existing organizations. their effect on the democracy was _nil_; and all they were able to accomplish with the whigs was to make them put forward for the ensuing campaign a slave-holder from louisiana, with whom they were successful. such were the remote results of their conduct; the immediate evils they produced have already been alluded to. they bore considerable resemblance--except that, after all, they really did have a principle to contend for--to the political prohibitionists of the present day, who go into the third party organizations, and are, not even excepting the saloon-keepers themselves, the most efficient allies on whom intemperance and the liquor traffic can count. anti-slavery men like giddings, who supported clay, were doing a thousand-fold more effective work for the cause they had at heart than all the voters who supported birney; or, to speak more accurately, they were doing all they could to advance the cause, and the others were doing all they could to hold it back. lincoln in occupied more nearly the ground held by clay than that held by birney; and the men who supported the latter in were the prototypes of those who wished to oppose lincoln in , and only worked less hard because they had less chance. the ultra abolitionists discarded expediency, and claimed to act for abstract right, on principle, no matter what the results might be; in consequence they accomplished very little, and that as much for harm as for good, until they ate their words, went counter to their previous course, thereby acknowledging it to be bad, and supported in the republican party the men and principles they had so fiercely condemned. the liberty party was not in any sense the precursor of the republican party, which was based as much on expediency as on abstract right, and was therefore able to accomplish good instead of harm. to say that the extreme abolitionists triumphed in republican success and were causes of it, is as absurd as it would be to call prohibitionists successful if, after countless futile efforts totally to prohibit the liquor traffic, and after savage denunciation of those who try to regulate it, they should then turn round and form a comparatively insignificant portion of a victorious high-license party. many people in speaking of the abolitionists apparently forget that the national government, even under republican rule, would never have meddled with slavery in the various states unless as a war measure, made necessary by the rebellion into which the south was led by a variety of causes, of which slavery was chief, but among which there were others that were also prominent; such as the separatist spirit of certain of the communities and the unscrupulous, treacherous ambition of such men as davis, floyd, and the rest. the abolitionists' political organizations, such as the liberty party, generally produced very little effect either way, and were scarcely thought of during the contests waged for freedom in congress. the men who took a great and effective part in the fight against slavery were the men who remained within their respective parties; like the democrats benton and wilmot, or the whigs seward and stevens. when a new party with more clearly defined principles was formed, they, for the most part, went into it; but, like all other men who have ever had a really great influence, whether for good or bad, on american politics, they did not act independently of parties, but on the contrary kept within party lines,--although, of course, none of them were mere blind and unreasoning partisans. the plea that slavery was a question of principle, on which no compromise could be accepted, might have been made and could still be made on twenty other points,--woman suffrage, for instance. of course, to give women their just rights does not by any means imply that they should necessarily be allowed to vote, any more than the bestowal of the rights of citizenship upon blacks and aliens must of necessity carry with it the same privilege. but there were until lately, and in some states there are now, laws on the statute-book in reference to women that are in principle as unjust, and that are quite as much the remnants of archaic barbarism as was the old slave code; and though it is true that they do not work anything like the evil of the latter, they yet certainly work evil enough. the same laws that in one southern state gave a master a right to whip a slave also allowed him to whip his wife, provided he used a stick no thicker than his little finger; the legal permission to do the latter was even more outrageous than that to do the former, yet no one considered it a ground for wishing a dissolution of the union or for declaring against the existing parties. the folly of voting the liberty ticket in differed in degree, but not at all in kind, from the folly of voting the woman suffrage ticket in . the intrigue for the annexation of texas, and for thereby extending the slave territory of the union, had taken shape towards the close of tyler's term of office, while calhoun was secretary of state. benton, as an aggressive western man, desirous of seeing our territorial possessions extended in any direction, north or south, always hoped that in the end texas might be admitted into the union; but he disliked seeing any premature steps taken, and was no party to the scheme of forcing an immediate annexation in the interests of slavery. such immediate annexation was certain, among other things, to bring us into grave difficulties not only with mexico, but also with england, which was strongly inclined to take much interest of a practical sort in the fate of texas, and would, of course, have done all it could to bring about the abolition of slavery in that state. the southerners, desirous of increasing the slave domain, and always in a state of fierce alarm over the proximity of any free state that might excite a servile insurrection, were impatient to add the lone star republic of the rio grande to the number of their states; the southwesterners fell in with them, influenced, though less strongly, by the same motives, and also by the lust for new lands and by race hatred towards the mexicans and traditional jealousy of great britain; and these latter motives induced many northwesterners to follow suit. by a judicious harping on all these strings jackson himself, whose name was still a mighty power among the masses, was induced to write a letter favoring instant and prompt annexation. this letter was really procured for political purposes. tyler had completely identified himself with the democracy, and especially with its extreme separatist wing, to which calhoun also belonged, and which had grown so as to be already almost able to take the reins. the separatist chiefs were intriguing for the presidency, and were using annexation as a cry that would help them; and, failing in this attempt, many of the leaders were willing to break up the union, and turn the southern states, together with texas, into a slave-holding confederacy. after benton, the great champion of the old-style union democrats was van buren, who was opposed to immediate annexation, sharing the feeling that prevailed throughout the northeast generally; although in certain circles all through the country there were men at work in its favor, largely as a mere matter of jobbery and from base motives, on account of speculations in texan land and scrip, into which various capitalists and adventurers had gone rather extensively. jackson, though a southerner, warmly favored van buren, and was bitterly opposed to separatists; but the latter, by cunningly working on his feelings, without showing their own hands, persuaded him to write the letter mentioned, and promptly used it to destroy the chances of van buren, who was the man they chiefly feared; and though jackson, at last roused to what was going on, immediately announced himself as in favor of van buren's candidacy, it was too late to undo the mischief. benton showed on this, as on many other occasions, much keener political ideas than his great political chief. he was approached by a politician, who himself was either one of those concerned in the presidential intrigues, or else one of their dupes, and who tried to win him over to take the lead on their side, complimenting him upon his former services to the cause of territorial expansion towards the southwest. ordinarily the great missourian was susceptible enough to such flattery; but on this occasion, preoccupied with the idea of an intrigue for the presidency, and indignant that there should be an effort made to implicate him in it, especially as it was mixed up with schemes of stock-jobbing and of disloyalty to the union, he took fire at once, and answered with hot indignation, in words afterwards highly resented by his questioner, "that it was on the part of some an intrigue for the presidency, and a plot to dissolve the union; on the part of others, a texas scrip and land speculation; and that he was against it." the answer was published in the papers, and brought about a total break between benton and the annexation party. he was now thoroughly on the alert, and actively opposed at all points the schemes of those whom he regarded as concerned in or instigating the intrigue. he commented harshly on tyler's annual message, which made a strong plea for annexation, even at the cost of a war both with great britain and mexico; also on calhoun's letter to lord aberdeen, which was certainly a remarkable diplomatic document,--being a thesis on slavery and the benefits resulting from it. tyler's object was to prepare the way for a secret treaty, which should secure the desired object. benton, in the course of some severe strictures on his acts, said, very truly, that it was evidently the intention to keep the whole matter as secret as possible until the treaty was concluded, "and then to force its adoption for the purpose of increasing the area of slave territory, or to make its rejection a cause for the secession of the southern states; and in either event and in all cases to make the question of annexation a controlling one in the nomination of presidential candidates, and also in the election itself." when the treaty proposed by the administration was rejected, and when it became evident that neither tyler nor calhoun, the two most prominent champions of the extreme separatists, had any chance for the democratic nomination, the disunion side of the intrigue was brought to the front in many of the southern states, beginning of course with south carolina. a movement was made for a convention of the southern states, to be held in the interest of the scheme; the key-note being struck in the cry of "texas or disunion!" but this convention was given up, on account of the strong opposition it excited in the so-called "border states,"--an opposition largely stirred up and led by benton. once more the haughty slave leaders of the southeast had found that in the missouri senator they had an opponent whose fearlessness quite equaled their own, and whose stubborn temper and strength of purpose made him at least a match for themselves, in spite of all their dash and fiery impetuosity. it must have sounded strange, indeed, to northern ears, accustomed to the harsh railings and insolent threats of the south carolina senators, to hear one of the latter complaining that benton's tone in the debate was arrogant, overbearing, and dictatorial towards those who were opposed to him. this same senator, mcduffie, had been speaking of the proposed southern meeting at nashville; and benton warned him that such a meeting would never take place, and that he had mistaken the temper of the tennesseans; and also reminded him that general jackson was still alive, and that the south carolinians in particular must needs be careful if they hoped to agree with his followers, whose name was still legion, because he would certainly take the same position towards a disunion movement in the interests of slavery that he had already taken towards a nullification movement in the interests of free trade. "preservation of the federal union is as strong in the old roman's heart now as ever; and while, as a christian, he forgives all that is past (if it were past), yet no old tricks under new names! texas disunion will be to him the same as tariff disunion; and if he detects a texas disunionist nestling into his bed, i say again: woe unto the luckless wight!" boldly and forcibly he went on to paint the real motives of the promoters of the scheme, and the real character of the scheme itself; stating that, though mixed up with various speculative enterprises and with other intrigues, yet disunion was at the bottom of it all, and that already the cry had become, "texas without the union, rather than the union without texas!" "under the pretext of getting texas into the union the scheme is to get the south out of it. a southern confederacy stretching from the atlantic to the californias ... is the cherished vision of disappointed ambition." he bitterly condemned secession, as simply disunion begat by nullification, and went on to speak of his own attitude in apparently opposing the admission of texas, which he had always desired to see become a part of the union, and which he had always insisted rightfully belonged to us, and to have been given away by monroe's treaty with spain. "all that is intended and foreseen. the intrigue for the presidency was the first act in the drama; the dissolution of the union the second. and i, who hate intrigue and love the union, can only speak of the intriguers and disunionists with warmth and indignation. the oldest advocate for the recovery of texas, i must be allowed to speak in just terms of the criminal politicians who prostituted the question of its recovery to their own base purposes, and delayed its success by degrading and disgracing it. a western man, and coming from a state more than any other interested in the recovery of this country, so unaccountably thrown away by the treaty of , i must be allowed to feel indignant at seeing atlantic politicians seizing upon it, and making it a sectional question for the purposes of ambition and disunion. i have spoken warmly of these plotters and intriguers; but i have not permitted their conduct to alter my own, or to relax my zeal for the recovery of the sacrificed country. i have helped to reject the disunion treaty; and that obstacle being removed, i have brought in the bill which will insure the recovery of texas, with peace and honor, and with the union." it is important to remember, in speaking of his afterwards voting to admit texas, that this was what he had all along favored, and that he now opposed it only on account of special circumstances. in both cases he was right; for, slavery or no slavery, it would have been a most unfortunate thing for us, and still worse for the texans, if the latter had been allowed to develop into an independent nation. benton deserves the greatest credit for the way in which he withstood the ignorant popular feeling of his own section in regard to tyler's proposed treaty; and not only did he show himself able to withstand pressure from behind him, but also prompt in resenting threats made by outsiders. when mcduffie told him that the remembrance of his attitude on the bill would, to his harm, meet him on some future day, like the ghost that appeared to brutus at philippi, he answered:-- i can promise the ghost and his backers that if the fight goes against me at this new philippi, with which i am threatened, and the enemies of the american union triumph over me as the enemies of roman liberty triumphed over brutus and cassius, i shall not fall upon my sword, as brutus did, though cassius be killed, and run it through my own body; but i shall save it and save myself for another day and another use,--for the day when the battle of the disunion of these states is to be fought, not with words but with iron, and for the hearts of the traitors who appear in arms against their country. such a stern, defiant, almost prophetic warning did more to help the union cause than volumes of elaborate constitutional argument, and it would have been well for the northern states had they possessed men as capable of uttering it as was the iron westerner. benton always showed at his best when the honor or integrity of the nation was menaced, whether by foes from without or by foes from within. on such occasions his metal always rang true. when there was any question of breaking faith with the union, or of treachery towards it, his figure always loomed up as one of the chief in the ranks of its defenders; and his follies and weaknesses sink out of sight when we think of the tremendous debt which the country owes him for his sorely tried and unswerving loyalty. the treaty alluded to by benton in his speech against the abortive secession movement was the one made with texas while calhoun was secretary of state, and submitted to the senate by tyler, with a message as extraordinary as some of his secretary's utterances. the treaty was preposterously unjust and iniquitous. it provided for the annexation of texas, and also of a very large portion of mexico, to which texas had no possible title, and this without consulting mexico in any way whatever; calhoun advancing the plea that it was necessary to act immediately on account of the danger that texas was in of falling under the control of england, and therefore having slavery abolished within its borders; while tyler blandly announced that we had acquired title to the ceded territory--which belonged to one power and was ceded to us by another--through his signature to the treaty, and that, pending its ratification by the senate, he had dispatched troops to the scene of action to protect the ceded land "from invasion,"--the territory to be thus protected from mexican invasion being then and always having been part and parcel of mexico. benton opposed the ratification of the treaty in a very strong speech, during which he mercilessly assailed both tyler and calhoun. the conduct of the former he dismissed with the contemptuous remark that he had committed "a caper about equal to the mad freaks with which the unfortunate emperor paul, of russia, was accustomed to astonish europe;" and roughly warned him to be careful how he tried to imitate jackson's methods, because in heroic imitations there was no middle ground, and if he failed to fill the rôle of hero he would then perforce find himself playing that of harlequin. calhoun received more attention, for he was far more worthy of a foeman's steel than was his nominal superior, and benton exposed at length the willful exaggeration and the perversion of the truth of which the carolinian had been guilty in trying to raise the alarm of english interference in texas, for the purpose of excusing the haste with which the treaty was carried through. he showed at length the outrage we should inflict upon mexico by seizing "two thousand miles of her territory, without a word of explanation with her, and by virtue of a treaty with texas to which she was no party;" and he conclusively proved, making use of his own extensive acquaintance with history, especially american history, that the old texas, the only territory that the texans themselves or we could claim with any shadow of right, made but a fraction of the territory now "ceded" to us. he laughed at the idea of calling the territory texas, and speaking of its forcible cutting off as re-annexation, "humboldt calls it new mexico, chihuahua, coahuila and nuevo santander; and the civilized world may qualify this _re_-annexation by some odious and terrible epithet ... robbery;" then he went on to draw a biting contrast between our treatment of mexico and our treatment of england. "would we take two thousand miles of canada in the same way? i presume not. and why not? why not treat great britain and mexico alike? why not march up to 'fifty-four forty' as courageously as we march upon the rio grande? because great britain is powerful and mexico weak,--a reason which may fail in policy as much as in morals." also he ridiculed the flurry of fear into which the southern slave-holders affected to be cast by the dread of england's hostility to slavery, when they had just acquiesced in making a treaty with her by which we bound ourselves to help to put down the slave-trade. he then stated his own position, showing why he wished us to have the original texan lands, if we could get them honorably, and without robbing mexico of new territory; and at the same time sneered at calhoun and tyler because they had formerly favored the monroe treaty, by which we abandoned our claims to them:-- we want texas, that is to say, the texas of la salle; and we want it for great natural reasons, obvious as day, and permanent as nature. we want it because it is geographically appurtenant to our division of north america, essential to our political, commercial, and social system, and because it would be detrimental and injurious to us to have it fall into the hands or sink under the domination of any foreign power. for these reasons i was against sacrificing the country when it was thrown away,--and thrown away by those who are now so suddenly possessed of a fury to get it back. for these reasons i am for getting it back whenever it can be done with peace and honor, or even at the price of just war against any intrusive european power; but i am against all disguise and artifice,--against all pretexts,--and especially against weak and groundless pretexts, discreditable to ourselves and offensive to others, too thin and shallow not to be seen through by every beholder, and merely invented to cover unworthy purposes. the treaty was rejected by an overwhelming vote, although buchanan led a few of his timeserving comrades from the north to the support of the extreme southern element. benton then tried, but failed, to get through a bill providing for a joint agreement between mexico, texas, and the united states to settle definitely all boundary questions. meanwhile the presidential election occurred, with the result already mentioned. the separatist and annexationist democrats, the extreme slavery wing of the party, defeated van buren and nominated polk, who was their man; the whigs nominated clay, who was heartily opposed to all the schemes of the disunion and extreme slavery men, and who, if elected, while he might very properly have consented to the admission of texas with its old boundaries, would never have brought on a war nor have attempted to add a vast extent of new slave territory to the union. clay would have been elected, and the slavery disunionists defeated, if in the very nick of time the abolitionists had not stepped in to support the latter, and by their blindness in supporting birney given the triumph to their own most bitter opponents. then the abolitionists, having played their only card, and played it badly, had to sit still and see what evil their acts had produced; they had accomplished just as much as men generally do accomplish when they dance to the tune that their worst foes play. polk's election gave an enormous impulse to the annexation movement, and made it doubly and trebly difficult for any one to withstand it. the extreme disunion and slavery men, of course, hated benton, himself a southwesterner from a slave-holding state, with peculiar venom, on account of his attitude, very justly regarding him as the main obstacle in their path; and the din and outcry raised against all who opposed the schemes of the intriguers was directed with especial fury against the missourian. he was accused of being allied to the whigs, of wishing to break up the democracy, and of many other things. indeed, benton's own people were very largely against him, and it must always be remembered that whereas northeastern statesmen were certain to be on the popular side in taking a stand against the extreme pro-slavery men, benton's position was often just the reverse. with them it was politic to do right; with him it was not; and for this reason the praise awarded the latter should be beyond measure greater than that awarded to the former. still, there can be little question that he was somewhat, even although only slightly, influenced by the storm of which he had to bear the brunt; indeed, he would have been more than human if he had not been; and probably this outside pressure was one among the causes that induced him to accept a compromise in the matter, which took effect just before polk was inaugurated. the house of representatives had passed a resolution giving the consent of congress to the admission of texas as a state, and allowing it the privilege of forming four additional states out of its territory, whenever it should see fit. the line of the missouri compromise, ° ', was run through this new territory, slavery being prohibited in the lands lying north of it, and permissible or not, according to the will of the state seeking admission, in those lying south of it. benton meanwhile had introduced a bill merely providing that negotiations should be entered into with texas for its admission, the proposed treaty or articles of agreement to be submitted to the senate or to congress. he thereby kept the control in the hands of the legislature, which the joint resolution did not; and moreover, as he said in his speech, he wished to provide for due consideration being shown mexico in the arrangement of the boundary, and for the matter being settled by commissioners. neither resolution nor bill could get through by itself; and accordingly it was proposed to combine both into one measure, leaving the president free to choose either plan. to this proposition benton finally consented, it being understood that, as only three days of tyler's term remained, the execution of the act would be left to the incoming president, and that the latter would adopt benton's plans. the friends of the admission of texas assured the doubtful voters that such would be the case. polk himself gave full assurance that he would appoint a commission, as provided by benton's bill, if passed, with the house resolution as an alternative; and mcduffie, calhoun's friend, and the senator from south carolina, announced without reserve that calhoun--for tyler need not be considered in the matter, after it had been committed to the great nullifier--would not have the "audacity" to try to take the settlement of the question away from the president, who was to be inaugurated on the fourth of march. on the strength of these assurances, which, if made good, would, of course, have rendered the "alternative" a merely nominal one, benton supported the measure, which was then passed. contrary to all expectation, calhoun promptly acted upon the legislative clause, and polk made no effort to undo what the former had done. this caused intense chagrin and anger to the bentonians; but they should certainly have taken such a contingency into account, and though they might with much show of reason say that they had been tricked into acting as they had done, yet it is probable that the immense pressure from behind had made benton too eager to follow any way he could find that would take him out of the position into which his conscience had led him. no amount of pressure would have made him deliberately sanction a wrong; but it did render him a little less wary in watching to see that the right was not infringed upon. it was most natural that he should be anxious to find a common ground for himself and his constituents to stand on; but it is to be regretted that this anxiety to find a common ground should have made him willing to trust blindly to vague pledges and promises, which he ought to have known would not be held in the least binding by those on whose behalf they were supposed to be made. acting under this compromise measure texas was admitted, and the foundation for our war with mexico was laid. calhoun, under whom this was done, nevertheless sincerely regretted the war itself, and freely condemned polk's administration for bringing it on; his own position being that he desired to obtain without a war what it was impossible we should get except at the cost of one. benton, who had all along consistently opposed doing a wrong to mexico, attacked the whole war party, and in a strong and bitter speech accused calhoun of being the cause of the contest; showing plainly that, whatever the ex-secretary of state might say in regard to the acts immediately precipitating the conflict, he himself was responsible as being in truth their original cause. while stating his conviction, however, that calhoun was the real author of the war, benton added that he did not believe that war was his object, although an inevitable incident of the course he had pursued. although heartily opposed to the war in its origin, benton very properly believed in prosecuting it with the utmost vigor when once we were fairly in; and it was mainly owing to him that the proposed policy of a "masterly inactivity" was abandoned, and the scheme of pushing straight for the city of mexico adopted in its stead. indeed, it was actually proposed to make him lieutenant-general, and therefore the commander-in-chief of our forces in mexico; but this was defeated in the senate, very fortunately, as it would have been a great outrage upon scott, taylor, and every other soldier with real military training. it seems extraordinary that benton himself should not have seen the absurdity and wrong of such a proposition. the wonderful hardihood and daring shown in the various expeditions against mexico, especially in those whereby her northwest territory was wrested from her, naturally called forth all benton's sympathy; and one of his best speeches was that made to welcome doniphan's victorious volunteers after their return home from their famous march to chihuahua. chapter xiv. slavery in the new territories. hardly was polk elected before it became evident to benton and the other jacksonians that the days of the old union or nationalist democracy were over, and that the separatist and disunion elements within the party had obtained the upper hand. the first sign of the new order of things was the displacement of blair, editor of the "globe," the democratic newspaper organ. blair was a strong unionist, and had been bitterly hostile to calhoun and the nullifiers. he had also opposed tyler, the representative of those states-rights and separatist democrats, who by their hostility to jackson had been temporarily driven into the whig camp, and who, finding themselves in very uncongenial society, and seeing, moreover, that their own principles were gradually coming to the front in the old party, had begun drifting back again into it. polk's chances of election were so precarious that he was most anxious to conciliate the separatists; besides which he at heart sympathized with their views, and had himself been brought forward in the democratic convention to beat the national candidate, van buren. moreover, tyler withdrew from the contest in his favor; in part payment for which help, soon after the election, blair was turned out, and ritchie of virginia, a man whose views suited the new democratic leaders, was put in his place; to the indignation not only of benton, but also of jackson himself, then almost on his death-bed. of course the break between the two wings was as yet by no means complete. polk needed the union democrats, and the latter were still in good party standing. benton himself, as has been seen, was offered the command of all the forces in mexico, but the governmental policy, and the attitude of the party in congress after , were widely different from what they had been while jackson's influence was supreme, or while the power he left behind him was wielded by a knot of union men. from this time the slavery question dwarfed all others, and was the one with which benton, as well as other statesmen, had mainly to deal. he had been very loath to acknowledge that it was ever to become of such overshadowing importance; until late in his life he had not realized that, interwoven with the disunionist movement, it had grown so as to become in reality the one and only question before the people; but, this once thoroughly understood, he henceforth devoted his tremendous energies to the struggle with it. he possessed such phenomenal power of application and of study, and his capacity for and his delight in work were so extraordinary, that he was able at the same time to grapple with many other subjects of importance, and to present them in a way that showed he had thoroughly mastered them both in principle and detail,--as witness his speech in favor of giving the control of the coast survey to the navy; but henceforth the importance of his actions lay in their relation to the slavery extension movements. he had now entered on what may fairly be called the heroic part of his career; for it would be difficult to choose any other word to express our admiration for the unflinching and defiant courage with which, supported only by conscience and by his loving loyalty to the union, he battled for the losing side, although by so doing he jeopardized and eventually ruined his political prospects, being finally, as punishment for his boldness in opposing the dominant faction of the missouri democracy, turned out of the senate, wherein he had passed nearly half his life. indeed, his was one of those natures that show better in defeat than in victory. in his career there were many actions that must command our unqualified admiration; such were his hostility to the nullifiers, wherein, taking into account his geographical location and his refusal to compromise, he did better than any other public man, not even excepting jackson and webster; his belief in honest money; and his attitude towards all questions involving the honor or the maintenance and extension of the union. but in all these matters he was backed more or less heartily by his state, and he had served four terms in the federal senate as the leading champion and representative, not alone of missouri, but also of the entire west. when, however, the slavery question began to enter upon its final stage, benton soon found himself opposed to a large and growing faction of the missouri democracy, which increased so rapidly that it soon became dominant. but he never for an instant yielded his convictions, even when he saw the ground being thus cut from under his feet, fighting for the right as sturdily as ever, facing his fate fearlessly, and going down without a murmur. the contrast between the conduct towards the slavery disunionists of this democrat from a slave-holding state, with a hostile majority at home against him, and the conduct of webster, a whig, enthusiastically backed by his own free state, in the same issue, is a painful one for the latter. indeed, on any moral point, benton need have no cause to fear comparison with any of his great rivals in the political arena. during his career, the united states senate was perhaps the most influential, and certainly the ablest legislative body in the world; and after jackson's presidency came to an end the really great statesmen and political leaders of the country were to be found in it, and not in the executive chair. the period during which the great missourian was so prominent a figure in our politics, and which lasted up to the time of the civil war, might very appropriately be known in our history as the time of the supremacy of the senate. such senators as benton, webster, clay, and calhoun, and later on douglas, seward, and sumner, fairly towered above presidents like the obscure southerners, tyler and polk, or the truckling, timeserving northern politicians, pierce and buchanan. during the long interval coming between the two heroic ages of american history,--the age of washington and franklin, and the age of lincoln and grant,--it was but rarely that the nation gave its greatest gift to its best or its greatest son. benton had come into the senate at the same time that missouri was admitted into the union, with thanks, therefore, to the same measure, the missouri compromise bill. this shut out slavery from all territory north of the line of ° ', and did not make it obligatory even where it was permissible; and the immediate cause of benton's downfall was his courage and persistency in defending the terms of this compromise from the attacks of the southern slavery extensionists and disunionists. the pro-slavery feeling was running ever higher and higher throughout the south; and his stand on this question aroused the most furious anger among a constantly increasing number of his constituents, and made him the target for bitter and savage assaults on the part of his foes, the spirit of hostility against him being carried to such length as finally almost to involve him in an open brawl on the floor of the senate with one of his colleagues, foote, who, like his fellow fire-eaters, found that benton was not a man who could be bullied. indeed, his iron will and magnificent physique both fitted him admirably for such a contest against odds, and he seems to have entered into it with a positive zest. the political abolitionists having put polk in power, their action bore fruit after its kind, and very soon the question had to be faced, as to what should be done with the immense tracts of territory conquered from mexico. benton opposed, as being needless and harmful, the wilmot proviso, which forbade the introduction of slavery into any part of the territory so acquired. he argued, and produced in evidence the laws and constitution of mexico, that the soil of california and mexico was already free, and that as slavery would certainly never be, and indeed could never be, introduced into either territory, the agitation of the question could only result in harm. calhoun and the other extreme slavery leaders welcomed the discussion over this proviso, which led benton to remark that the abolitionists and the nullifiers were necessary to each other,--the two blades of a pair of shears, neither of which could cut until they were joined together. when calhoun introduced his famous resolutions declaring that congress had no power to interfere with slavery in the territories, and therefore no power to prevent the admission of new states except on the condition of their prohibiting slavery within their limits, benton promptly and strongly opposed them as being firebrands needlessly thrown to inflame the passions of the extremists, and, moreover, as being disunionist in tendency. the following is his own account of what then took place: "mr. calhoun said he had expected the support of mr. benton 'as the representative of a slave-holding state.' mr. benton answered that it was impossible that he could have expected such a thing. 'then,' said mr. calhoun, 'i shall know where to find that gentleman.' to which mr. benton said: 'i shall be found in the right place,--on the side of my country and the union.' this answer, given on that day and on the spot, is one of the incidents of his life which mr. benton will wish posterity to remember." we can easily pardon the vanity which wishes and hopes that such an answer, given under such conditions, may be remembered. indeed, benton's attitude throughout all this period should never be forgotten; and the words he spoke in answer to calhoun marked him as the leader among those southerners who held the nation above any section thereof, even their own, and whose courage and self-sacrifice in the cause of the union entitled them to more praise than by right belongs to any equal number of northerners; those southerners who in the civil war furnished farragut, thomas, bristow, and countless others as loyal as they were brave. the effect of benton's teachings and the still remaining influence of his intense personality did more than aught else to keep missouri within the union, when her sister states went out of it. benton always regarded much of the slavery agitation in the south as being political in character, and the result of the schemes of ambitious and unscrupulous leaders. he believed that calhoun had introduced a set of resolutions that were totally uncalled for, simply for the purpose of carrying a question to the slave states on which they could be formed into a unit against the free states; and there is much to be said in support of his view. certainly the resolutions mark the beginning of the first great slavery agitation throughout the southern states, which was engineered and guided for their own ends by politicians like jefferson davis. these resolutions were absolutely inconsistent with many of calhoun's previous declarations; and that fact was also sharply commented on by benton in his speeches and writings. he also criticised with caustic severity calhoun's statements that he wished to save the union by forcing the north to take a position so agreeable to the south as to make the latter willing not to separate. he showed that calhoun's proposed "constitutional" and "peaceable" methods of bringing this about by prohibiting commercial intercourse between the two sections would themselves be flagrant breaches of the constitution and acts of disunion,--all the more so as it was proposed to discriminate in favor of the northwest as against the northeast. calhoun wished to bring about a convention of the southern states, in order to secure the necessary unity of action; and one of the main obstacles to the success of the plan was missouri's refusal to take part in it. great efforts were made to win her over, and to beat down benton; the extreme pro-slavery men honoring him with a hatred more intense than that they harbored towards any northerner. some of calhoun's recent biographers have credited him with being really a union man at heart. it seems absolutely impossible that this could have been the case; and the supposition is certainly not compatible with the belief that he retained his right senses. benton characterizes his system of slavery agitation, very truthfully, as being one "to force issues upon the north under the pretext of self-defense, and to sectionalize the south, preparatory to disunion, through the instrumentality of sectional conventions, composed wholly of delegates from the slave-holding states." when the question of the admission of oregon came up, calhoun attempted to apply to it a dogma wholly at variance with all his former positions on the subject. this was the theory of the self-extension of the slavery part of the constitution to the territories; that is, he held that the exclusion of slavery from any part of the new territory was itself a subversion of the constitution. such a dogma was so monstrous in character, so illogical, so inconsistent with all his former theories, and so absolutely incompatible with the preservation of the union, that it renders it impossible to believe that his asseverations of devotion to the latter were uttered honestly or in good faith. most modern readers will agree with benton that he deliberately worked to bring about secession. meanwhile the missourian had gained an ally of his own stamp in the senate. this was houston, from the new state of texas, who represented in that state, like andrew jackson in tennessee, and benton himself in missouri, the old nationalist democracy, which held the preservation of the union dear above all other things. houston was a man after benton's own heart, and was thoroughly jacksonian in type. he was rough, honest, and fearless, a devoted friend and a vengeful enemy, and he promised that combination of stubborn courage and capacity of devotion to an ideal that renders a man an invaluable ally in a fight against odds for principle. after much discussion and amendment, the oregon bill, containing a radical anti-slavery clause, passed both houses and became a law in spite of the violent opposition of some of the southerners, headed by calhoun, who announced that the great strife between the north and the south was ended, and that the time had come for the south to show that, though she prized the union, yet there were matters which she regarded as of greater importance than its preservation. his ire was most fiercely excited by the action of benton and houston in supporting the bill, and after his return to south carolina he denounced them by name as traitors to the south,--"a denunciation," says benton, "which they took for a distinction; as what he called treason to the south they knew to be allegiance to the union." when it was proposed to extend by bill the constitution of the united states into the territories, with a view to carrying slavery into california, utah, and new mexico, benton was again opposed to calhoun. as a matter of course, too, he was the stoutest opponent of the southern convention and other similar disunion movements that were beginning to take shape throughout the south, instigated by the two rank secession states of south carolina and mississippi. most of the momentous questions springing out of the war with mexico were left by polk as legacies to his successor, when the former went out of office, after an administration that benton criticised with extreme sharpness, although he tried to shield the president by casting the blame for his actions upon his cabinet advisers; characterizing the mexican war as one of "speculation and intrigue," and as the "great blot" of his four years' term of office, and ridiculing the theory that we were acting in self-defense, or that our soil had been invaded. in the democrats nominated cass, a northern pro-slavery politician of moderate abilities, and the whigs put up and elected old zachary taylor, the rough frontier soldier and louisiana slave-holder. the political abolitionists again took a hand in the contest, but this time abandoned their abolition theories, substituting instead thereof the prohibition of slavery in the new territories. they derived much additional importance from their alliance with a disappointed politician in the pivotal state of new york; and in this case, in sharp contrast to the result in , their actions worked good, and not evil. van buren, chagrined and angered by the way he was treated by the regular democrats, organized a revolt against them, and used the banner of the new free soil party as one under which to rally his adherents. this movement was of consequence mainly in new york, and there it soon became little more than a mere fight between the two sections of the democracy. benton himself visited this all-important state to try to patch up matters, but he fortunately failed. the factions proved very nearly equal in strength; and as a consequence the whigs carried the state and the election, and once more held the reins of government. when a louisiana slave-holder was thus installed in the white house, the extreme southern men may have thought that they were sure of him as an ally in their fight against freedom. but, if so, they soon found they had reckoned without their host, for the election of taylor affords a curious, though not solitary, instance in which the american people builded better than they knew in choosing a chief executive. nothing whatever was known of his political theories, and the whigs nominated him simply because he was a successful soldier, likely to take the popular fancy. but once elected he turned out to have the very qualities we then most needed in a president,--a stout heart, shrewd common sense, and thorough-going devotion to the union. although with widely different training from benton, and nominally differing from him in politics, he was yet of the same stamp both in character and principles; both were union southerners, not in the least afraid of openly asserting their opinions, and, if necessary, of making them good by their acts. in his first and only annual message, taylor expressed, upon all the important questions of the day, views that were exactly similar to those advanced before or after by benton himself in the senate; and he used similar emphasis and plainness of speech. he declared the union to be the greatest of blessings, which he would maintain in every way against whatever dangers might threaten it; he advised the admission of california, which wished to come in as a free state; he thought that the territories of utah and new mexico should be left as they were; and he warned the texans, who were blustering about certain alleged rights to new mexican soil, and threatening to take them by force of arms, that this could not be permitted, and that the matter would have to be settled by the judicial authority of the united states. benton heartily indorsed the message. naturally, it was bitterly assailed by the disunionists under calhoun; and even clay, who entirely lacked taylor's backbone, was dissatisfied with it as being too extreme in tone, and conflicting with his proposed compromise measures. these same compromise measures brought the kentucky leader into conflict with benton also, especially on the point of their interfering with the immediate admission of california into the union. this is not the place to discuss clay's proposed compromise, which was not satisfactory to the extreme southerners, and still less so to the unionists and anti-slavery men. it consisted of five different parts, relating to the recovery of fugitive slaves, the suppression of the slave-trade in the district of columbia, the admission of california as a state, and the territorial condition of utah and new mexico. benton opposed it as mixing up incongruous measures; as being unjust to california, inasmuch as it confounded the question of her admission with the general slavery agitation in the united states; and above all as being a concession or capitulation to the spirit of disunion and secession, and therefore a repetition of the error of . benton always desired to meet and check any disunion movement at the very outset, and, if he had had his way, would have carried matters with a high hand whenever it came to dealing with threats of such a proceeding; and therein he was perfectly right. in regard to the proposed compromise he believed in dealing with each question as it arose, beginning with the admission of california, and refusing to have any compromise at all with those who threatened secession. the slavery extensionists endeavored to have the missouri compromise line stretched on to the pacific. benton, avowing his belief that slavery was an evil, opposed this, and gave his reasons why he did not wish to see the line which had been used to divide free and slave soil in the french or louisiana purchase extended into the lands won from mexico. slavery had always existed in louisiana, while it had been long abolished in mexico. "the missouri compromise line, extending to new mexico and california, though astronomically the same as that in louisiana, would be politically directly the opposite. one went through a territory all slave, and made one half free; the other would go through territory all free, and make one half slave." in fact benton, as he grew older, unlike most of his compatriots, gained a clearer insight into the effects of slavery. this was shown in his comments upon calhoun's statement, made in the latter's last speech, in reference to the unequal development of the north and south; which, benton said, was partly owing to the existence of "slavery itself, which he (calhoun) was so anxious to extend." it was in this same speech that calhoun hinted at his plan for a dual executive,--one president from the free and one from the slave states,--a childish proposition, that benton properly treated as a simple absurdity. in his speech against the compromise, benton discussed it, section by section, with great force, and with his usual blunt truthfulness. his main count was the injustice done to california by delaying her admittance, and making it dependent upon other issues; but he made almost as strong a point against the effort to settle the claims of texas to new mexican territory. the texan threats to use force he treated with cavalier indifference, remarking that as long as new mexico was a territory, and therefore belonged to the united states, any controversy with her was a controversy with the federal government, which would know how to play her part by "defending her territory from invasion, and her people from violence,"--a hint that had a salutary effect upon the texans; in fact the disunionists, generally, were not apt to do much more than threaten while a whig like taylor was backed up by a democrat like benton. he also pointed out that it was not necessary, however desirable, to make a compact with texas about the boundaries, as they could always be settled, whether she wished it or not, by a suit before the supreme court; and again intimated that a little show of firmness would remove all danger of a collision. "as to anything that texas or new mexico may do in taking or relinquishing possession, that is all moonshine. new mexico is the property of the united states, and she cannot dispose of herself or any part of herself, nor can texas take her or any part of her." he showed a thorough acquaintance with new mexican geography and history, and alluded to the bills he had already brought in, in and , to establish a divisional line between the territory and texas, on the longitude first of one hundred and then of one hundred and two degrees. he recalled the fact that before the annexation of texas, and in a bill proposing to settle all questions with her, he had inserted a provision forever prohibiting slavery in all parts of the annexed territory lying west of the hundredth degree of longitude. he also took the opportunity of formally stating his opposition to any form of slavery extension, remarking that it was no new idea with him, but dated from the time when in , while a law student in tennessee, he had studied blackstone as edited by the learned virginian, judge tucker, who, in an appendix, treated of, and totally condemned, black slavery in the united states. the very difficulty, or, as he deemed it, the impossibility, of getting rid of the evil, made benton all the more determined in opposing its extension. "the incurability of the evil is the greatest objection to the extension of slavery. if it is wrong for the legislator to inflict an evil which can be cured, how much more to inflict one that is incurable, and against the will of the people who are to endure it forever! i quarrel with no one for deeming slavery a blessing; i deem it an evil, and would neither adopt it nor impose it on others." the solution of the problem of disposing of existent slavery, he confessed, seemed beyond human wisdom; but "there is a wisdom above human, and to that we must look. in the mean time, do not extend the evil." in justification of his position he quoted previous actions of congress, done under the lead of southern men, in refusing again and again, down to , to allow slavery to be introduced into indiana, when that community petitioned for it. he also repudiated strongly the whole spirit in which clay had gotten up his compromise bill, stating that he did not believe in geographical parties; that he knew no north and no south, and utterly rejected any slavery compromises except those to be found in the constitution. altogether it was a great speech, and his opposition was one of the main causes of the defeat of clay's measure. benton's position on the wilmot proviso is worth giving in his own words: "that measure was rejected again as heretofore, and by the votes of those who were opposed to extending slavery into the territories, because it was unnecessary and inoperative,--irritating to the slave states, without benefit to the free states, a mere work of supererogation, of which the fruit was discontent. it was rejected, not on the principle of non-intervention; not on the principle of leaving to the territories to do as they pleased on the question, but because there had been intervention; because mexican law and constitution had intervened, had abolished slavery by law in those dominions; which law would remain in force until repealed by congress. all that the opponents to the extension of slavery had to do, then, was to do nothing. and they did nothing." before california was admitted into the union old zachary taylor had died, leaving behind him a name that will always be remembered among our people. he was neither a great statesman nor yet a great commander; but he was an able and gallant soldier, a loyal and upright public servant, and a most kindly, honest, and truthful man. his death was a greater loss to the country than perhaps the people ever knew. the bill for the admission of california as a free state, heartily sustained by benton, was made a test question by the southern disunionists; but on this occasion they were thoroughly beaten. the great struggle was made over a proposition to limit the southern boundary of the state to the line of ° ', and to extend the missouri line through to the pacific, so as to authorize the existence of slavery in all the territory south of that latitude. this was defeated by a vote of thirty-two to twenty-four. not only benton, but also spruance and wales of delaware, and underwood of kentucky, joined with the representatives from the free states in opposing it. had it not been for the action of these four slave-state senators in leaving their associates, the vote would have been a tie; and their courage and patriotism should be remembered. the bill was then passed by a vote of thirty-four to eighteen, two other southern senators, houston of texas, and bell of tennessee, voting for it, in addition to the four already mentioned. after its passage, ten of the senators who had voted against it, including, of course, jefferson davis, and also benton's own colleague from missouri, atchison, joined in a protest against what had been done, ending with a thinly veiled threat of disunion,--"dissolution of the confederacy," as they styled it. benton stoutly and successfully opposed allowing this protest to be received or entered upon the journal, condemning it, with a frankness that very few of his fellow-senators would have dared to copy, as being sectional and disunion in form, and therefore unfit even for preservation on the records. when the fugitive slave act of was passed, through the help of some northern votes, benton refused to support it; and this was the last act of importance that he performed as united states senator. he had risen and grown steadily all through his long term of service; and during its last period he did greater service to the nation than any of his fellow-senators. compare his stand against the slavery extremists and disunionists, such as calhoun, with the position of webster at the time of his famous seventh of march speech, or with that of clay when he brought in his compromise bill! in fact, as the times grew more troublesome, he grew steadily better able to do good work in them. it is this fact of growth that especially marks his career. no other american statesman, except john quincy adams,--certainly neither of his great contemporaries, webster and clay,--kept doing continually better work throughout his term of public service, or showed himself able to rise to a higher level at the very end than at the beginning. yet such was the case with benton. he always rose to meet a really great emergency; and his services to the nation grew steadily in importance to the very close of his life. whereas webster and clay passed their zenith and fell, he kept rising all the time. chapter xv. the losing fight. benton had now finished his fifth and last term in the united states senate. he had been chosen senator from missouri before she was admitted into the union, and had remained such for thirty years. during all that time the state had been steadily democratic, the large whig minority never being able to get control; but on the question of the extension of slavery the dominant party itself began at this time to break into two factions. hitherto benton had been the undisputed leader of the democracy, but now the pro-slavery and disunionist democrats organized a very powerful opposition to him; while he still received the enthusiastic support of an almost equally numerous body of followers. although the extension of slavery and the preservation of the union were the two chief and vital points on which the factions differed, yet the names by which they designated each other were adopted in consequence of their differing also on a third and only less important one. benton was such a firm believer in hard money, and a currency of gold and silver, as to have received the nickname of "old bullion," and his followers were called "hards;" his opponents were soft money men, in addition to being secessionists and pro-slavery fanatics, and took the name of "softs." the principles of the bentonians were right, and those of their opponents wrong; but for all that the latter gradually gained upon the former. finally, in the midst of benton's fight against the extension of slavery into the territories, the "softs" carried the missouri legislature, and passed a series of resolutions based upon those of calhoun. these were most truculent and disloyal in tone, demanding that slavery be permitted to exist in all the new states to be admitted, and instructing their senators to vote accordingly. these resolutions were presented in the senate by benton's colleague from missouri, atchison, who was rather hostile to him and to every other friend of the union, and later on achieved disreputable notoriety as a leader of the "border ruffians" in the affrays on the soil of kansas. benton at once picked up the glove that had been flung down. he utterly refused to obey the resolutions, denounced them savagely as being treasonable and offensive in the highest degree, asserted that they did not express the true opinions of the voters of the state, and appealed from the missouri legislature to the missouri people. the issue between the two sides was now sharply brought out, and, as this took place towards the end of benton's fifth term, the struggle to command the legislature which should reëlect him or give him a successor was most exciting. benton himself took an active part in the preliminary canvass. neither faction was able to get a majority of the members, and the deadlock was finally broken by the "softs" coming to the support of the whigs, and helping them to elect benton's rival. thus, after serving his state faithfully and ably for thirty years, he was finally turned out of the position which he so worthily filled, because he had committed the crime of standing loyally by the union. but the stout old nationalist was not in the least cast down or even shaken by his defeat. he kept up the fight as bitterly as ever, though now an old man, and in went to congress as a representative union democrat. for thirty years he had been the autocrat of missouri politics, and had at one time wielded throughout his own state a power as great as calhoun possessed in south carolina; greater than webster held in massachusetts, or clay in kentucky. but the tide which had so long flowed in his favor now turned, and for the few remaining years of his life set as steadily against him; yet at no time of his long public career did he stand forth as honorably and prominently as during his last days, when he was showing so stern a front to his victorious foes. his love for work was so great that, when out of the senate, he did not find even his incessant political occupations enough for him. during his contest for the senatorship his hands had been full, for he had spoken again and again throughout the entire state, his carefully prepared speeches showing remarkable power, and filled with scathing denunciation and invective and biting and caustic sarcasm. but so soon as his defeat was assured he turned his attention immediately to literature, setting to work on his great "thirty years' view," of which the first volume was printed during his congressional term, and was quoted on the floor of the house, both by his friends and foes, during the debates in which he was taking part. in , when he was elected to congress as a member of the house, he had supported pierce for the presidency against scott, a good general, but otherwise a wholly absurd and flatulent personage, who was the whig nominee. but it soon became evident that pierce was completely under the control of the secession wing of the party, and benton thereafterwards treated him with contemptuous hostility, despising him, and seeing him exactly as he was,--a small politician, of low capacity and mean surroundings, proud to act as the servile tool of men worse than himself but also stronger and abler. he was ever ready to do any work the slavery leaders set him, and to act as their attorney in arguing in its favor,--to quote benton's phrase, with "undaunted mendacity, moral callosity [and] mental obliquity." his last message to congress in the slavery interest benton spoke of as characteristic, and exemplifying "all the modes of conveying untruths which long ages have invented,--direct assertion, fallacious inference, equivocal phrase, and false innuendo." as he entertained such views of the head of the democratic party, and as this same head was in hearty accord with, and a good representative of the mass of the rank and file politicians of the organization, it is small wonder that benton found himself, on every important question that came up while he was in congress, opposed to the mass of his fellow-democrats. although the great questions to which he devoted himself, while a representative in congress, were those relating to the extension of slavery, yet he also found time to give to certain other subjects, working as usual with indomitable energy, and retaining his marvelous memory to the last. the idea of desponding or giving up, for any cause whatever, simply never entered his head. when his house, containing all the manuscript and papers of the nearly completed second volume of his "thirty years' view," was burned up, he did not delay a minute in recommencing his work, and the very next day spoke in congress as usual. his speeches were showing a steady improvement; they were not masterpieces, even at the last, but in every way, especially in style, they were infinitely superior to those that he had made on his first entrance into public life. of course, a man with his intense pride in his country, and characterized by such a desire to see her become greater and more united in every way, would naturally support the proposal to build a pacific railroad, and accordingly he argued for it at great length and with force and justness, at the same time opposing the propositions to build northern and southern trans-continental roads as substitutes for the proposed central route. he showed the character of the land through which the road would run, and the easiness of the passes across the rockies, and prophesied a rapid increase of states as one of the results attendant upon its building. at the end of his speech he made an elaborate comparison of the courses of trade and commerce at different periods of the world's history, and showed that, as we had reached the pacific coast, we had finally taken a position where our trade with the oriental kingdoms, backed up by our own enormous internal development, rendered us more than ever independent of europe. in another speech he discussed very intelligently, and with his usual complete command of the facts of the case, some of the contemporary indian uprisings in the far west. he attacked our whole indian policy, showing that the corruption of the indian agents, coupled with astute aggressions, were the usual causes of our wars. further, he criticised our regular troops as being unfit to cope with the savages, and advocated the formation of companies of frontier rangers, who should also be settlers, and should receive from the government a bounty in land as part reward for their service. many of his remarks on our indian policy apply quite as well now as they did then, and our regular soldiers are certainly not the proper opponents for the indians; but benton's military views were, as a rule, the reverse of sensible, and we cannot accept his denunciations of the army, and especially of west point, as being worth serious consideration. his belief in the marvelous efficacy of a raw militia, especially as regards war with european powers, was childish, and much of his feeling against the regular army officer was dictated by jealousy. he was, by all the peculiarities of his habits and education, utterly unfitted for military command; and it would have been an evil day for his good fame if polk had succeeded in having him made lieutenant-general of our forces in mexico. his remarks upon our indian policy were not the only ones he made that would bear study even yet. certain of his speeches upon the different land-bounty and pension bills, passed nominally in the interests of veterans, but really through demagogy and the machination of speculators, could be read with profit by not a few congressmen at the present time. one of his utterances was: "i am a friend to old soldiers ... but not to old speculators;" and while favoring proper pension bills he showed the foolishness and criminality of certain others very clearly, together with the fact that, when passed long after the services have been rendered, they always fail to relieve the real sufferers, and work in the interests of unworthy outsiders. but his great speech, and one of the best and greatest that he ever made, was the one in opposition to the kansas-nebraska bill, which was being pushed through congress by the fire-eaters and their northern pro-slavery followers. his own position upon the measure was best expressed by the words he used in commenting on the remarks of a georgian member: "he votes as a southern man, and votes sectionally; i also am a southern man, but vote nationally on national questions." the missouri compromise of had expressly abolished slavery in the territory out of which kansas and nebraska were carved. by the proposed bill this compromise was to be repealed, and the famous doctrine of non-intervention, or "squatter sovereignty," was to take its place, the people of each territory being allowed to choose for themselves whether they did or did not wish slavery. benton attacked the proposal with all the strength of his frank, open nature as "a bungling attempt to smuggle slavery into the territory, and throughout all the country, up to the canada line and out to the rocky mountains." he showed exhaustively the real nature of the original missouri compromise, which, as he said, was forced by the south upon the north, and which the south now proposed to repeal, that it might humiliate the north still further. the compromise of was, he justly contended, right; it was like the original compromises of the constitution, by which the slave states were admitted to the formation of the union; no greater concession of principle was involved in the one case than in the other; and, had either compromise failed, the union would not now be in existence. but the day when compromises had been necessary, or even harmless, had passed. the time had come when the extension of slavery was to be opposed in every constitutional way; and it was an outrage to propose to extend its domain by repealing all that part of a compromise measure which worked against it, when the south had already long taken advantage of such parts of the law as worked in its favor. said benton: "the south divided and took half, and now it will not do to claim the other half." exactly as a proposition to destroy the slavery compromises of the constitution would be an open attempt to destroy the union, so, he said, the attempt to abrogate the compromise of would be a preparation for the same ending. "i have stood upon the missouri compromise for about thirty years, and mean to stand upon it to the end of my life ... [it is] a binding covenant upon both parties, and the more so upon the south, as she imposed it." the squatter sovereignty theories of douglas he treated with deserved ridicule, laughing at the idea that the territories were not the actual property of the nation, to be treated as the latter wished, and having none of the rights of sovereign states; and he condemned even more severely the theory advanced to the effect that congress had no power to legislate on slavery in the territories. thus, he pointed out that to admit any such theories was directly to reverse the principles upon which we had acted for seventy years in regard to the various territories that from time to time grew to such size as entitled them to come into the union as states. after showing that there was no excuse for bringing in the bill on the plea of settling the slavery question, since there was not a foot of territory in the united states where the subject of slavery was not already settled by law, he closed with an earnest appeal against such an attempt to break up the union and outrage the north by forcing slavery into a land where its existence was already forbidden by law. his speech exceeded the hour allotted to it, and he was allowed to go on only by the courtesy of a member from illinois, who, when some of the southerners protested against his being heard farther, gave up part of his own time to the grand old missourian, and asked the house to hear him, if only "as the oldest living man in congress, the only man in congress who was present at the passage of the missouri compromise bill." many a man at the north, ashamed and indignant at seeing the politicians of his own section cower at the crack of the southern whip, felt a glow of sincere gratitude and admiration for the rugged westerner, who so boldly bade defiance to the ruling slave party that held the reins not only in his own section, but also in his own state, and to oppose which was almost certain political death. the gadsden treaty was also strongly opposed and condemned by benton, who considered it to be part of a great scheme or movement in the interests of the slavery disunionists, of which he also believed the kansas-nebraska bill to be the first development,--the "thin end of the wedge." he opposed the acquirement even of the small piece of territory we were actually able to purchase from mexico; and showed good grounds for his belief that the administration, acting as usual only in the interest of the secessionists, had tried to get enough north-mexican territory to form several new states, and had also attempted to purchase cuba, both efforts being for the purpose of enabling the south either to become again dominant in the union or else to set up a separate confederacy of her own. for it must be kept in mind that benton always believed that the southern disunion movements were largely due to conspiracies among ambitious politicians, who used the slavery question as a handle by which to influence the mass of the people. this view has certainly more truth in it than it is now the fashion to admit. his objection to the actual treaty was mainly based on its having been done by the executive without the consent of the legislature, and he also criticised it for the secrecy with which it had been put through. in bringing forward the first objection, however, he was confronted with jefferson's conduct in acquiring louisiana, which he endeavored, not very successfully, to show had nothing in common with the actions of pierce, who, he said, simply demanded a check from the house with which to complete a purchase undertaken on his own responsibility. throughout his congressional term of service, benton acted so as to deserve well of the union as a whole, and most well of missouri in particular. but he could not stem the tide of folly and madness in this state, and was defeated when he was a candidate for reëlection. the whigs had now disappeared from the political arena, and the know-nothings were running through their short and crooked lease of life; they foolishly nominated a third candidate in benton's district, who drew off enough votes from him to enable his pro-slavery democratic competitor to win. no sooner had he lost his seat in congress than benton, indefatigable as ever, set to work to finish his "thirty years' view," and produced the second volume in , the year when he made his last attempt to regain his hold in politics, and to win missouri back to the old union standard. although his own son-in-law, fremont, the daring western explorer, was running as the first presidential candidate ever nominated by the republicans, the old partisan voted for the democrat, buchanan. he did not like buchanan, considering him weak and unsuitable, but the republican party he believed to be entirely too sectional in character for him to give it his support. for governor there was a triangular fight, the know-nothings having nominated one candidate, the secessionist democrats a second, while benton himself ran as the choice of the union democracy. he was now seventy-four years old, but his mind was as vigorous as ever, and his iron will kept up a frame that had hardly even yet begun to give way. during the course of the campaign he traveled throughout the state, going in all twelve hundred miles, and making forty speeches, each one of two or three hours' length. this was a remarkable feat for so old a man; indeed, it has very rarely been paralleled, except by gladstone's recent performances. the vote was quite evenly divided between the three candidates; but benton came in third, and the extreme pro-slavery men carried the day. after this, during the few months of life he yet had left, he did not again mingle in the politics of missouri. but in the days of his defeat at home, the regard and respect in which he was held in the other states, especially at the north, increased steadily; and in the fall of he made by request a lecturing tour in new england, speaking on the danger of the political situation and the imperative necessity of preserving the union, which he now clearly saw to be gravely threatened. he was well received, for the north was learning to respect him, and he had gotten over his early hostility to new england,--a hostility originally shared by the whole west. the new englanders were not yet aware, however, of the importance of the secession movements, and paid little heed to the warnings that were to be so fully justified by the events of the next few years. but benton, in spite of his great age, saw distinctly the changes that were taking place, and the dangers that were impending,--an unusual thing for a man whose active life has already been lived out under widely different conditions. he again turned his attention to literature, and produced another great work, the "abridgment of the debates of congress from to ," in sixteen volumes, besides writing a valuable pamphlet on the dred scott decision, which he severely criticised. the amount of labor all this required was immense, and his health completely gave way; yet he continued working to the very end, dictating the closing portion of the "abridgment" in a whisper as he lay on his death-bed. when he once began to fail his advanced years made him succumb rapidly; and on april , , he died, in the city of washington. as soon as the news reached missouri, a great revulsion of feeling took place, and all classes of the people united to do honor to the memory of the dead statesman, realizing that they had lost a man who towered head and shoulders above both friends and foes. the body was taken to st. louis, and after lying in state was buried in bellefontaine cemetery, more than forty thousand people witnessing the funeral. all the public buildings were draped in mourning; all places of business were closed, and the flags everywhere were at half-mast. thus at the very end the great city of the west at last again paid fit homage to the west's mightiest son. benton's most important writings are those mentioned above. the "thirty years' view" ("a history of the working of the american government for thirty years, from to ") will always be indispensable to every student of american history. it deals with the deeds of both houses of congress, and of some of the higher federal officials during his thirty years' term of service in the senate, and is valuable alike for the original data it contains, and because it is so complete a record of our public life at that time. the book is also remarkable for its courteous and equable tone, even towards bitter personal and political enemies. it shows a vanity on the part of the author that is too frank and free from malice to be anything but amusing; the style is rather ponderous, and the english not always good, for benton began life, and, in fact, largely passed it, in an age of ornate periods, when grandiloquence was considered more essential than grammar. in much of the mississippi valley the people had their own canons of literary taste; indeed, in a recent book by one of benton's admirers, there is a fond allusion to his statement, anent the expunging resolution, that "solitary and alone" he had set the ball in motion,--the pleonasm being evidently looked upon in the light of a rather fine oratorical outburst. "the abridgment of the debates of congress from to " he was only able to bring down to . sixteen volumes were published. it was a compilation needing infinite labor, and is invaluable to the historian. while in the midst of the vast work he also found time to write his "examination of the dred scott case," in so far as it decided the missouri compromise law to be unconstitutional, and asserted the self-extension of the constitution into the territories, carrying slavery with it,--the decision in this case promulgated by judge taney, of unhappy fame, having been the last step taken in the interests of slavery and for the overthrow of freedom. the pamphlet contained nearly two hundred pages, and showed, as was invariably the case with anything benton did, the effects of laborious research and wide historical and legal learning. his summing up was, "that the decision conflicts with the uniform action of all the departments of the federal government from its foundation to the present time, and cannot be accepted as a rule to govern congress and the people, without severing that act and admitting the political supremacy of the court and accepting an altered constitution from its hands, and taking a new and portentous point of departure in the working of the government." he denounced the new party theories of the democracy, which had abandoned the old belief of the founders of the republic, that congress had power to legislate upon slavery in territories, and which had gone on "from the abrogation of the missouri compromise, which saved the union, to squatter sovereignty, which killed the compromise, and thence to the decisions of the supreme court, which kill both." in closing he touched briefly on the history of the pro-slavery agitation. "up to mr. pierce's administration the plan had been defensive, that is to say, to make the secession of the south a measure of self-defense against the abolition encroachments and crusades of the north. in the time of mr. pierce the plan became offensive, that is to say, to commence the expansion of slavery, and the acquisition of territory to spread it over, so as to overpower the north with new slave states, and drive them out of the union.... the rising in the free states, in consequence of the abrogation of the missouri compromise, checked these schemes, and limited the success of the disunionists to the revival of the agitation which enables them to wield the south against the north in all the federal elections and all federal legislation. accidents and events have given the party a strange preëminence,--under jackson's administration proclaimed for treason; since at the head of the government and of the democratic party. the death of harrison, and the accession of tyler, was their first great lift; the election of mr. pierce was their culminating point." this was the last protest of the last of the old jacksonian leaders against that new generation of democrats, whose delight it had become to bow down to strange gods. in his private life benton's relations were of the pleasantest. he was a religious man, although, like his great political chief, he could on occasions swear roundly. he was rigidly moral, and he was too fond of work ever to make social life a business. but he liked small dinners, with just a few intimate friends or noted and brilliant public men, and always shone at such an entertainment. although he had not traveled much, he gave the impression of having done so, by reason of his wide reading, and because he always made a point of knowing all explorers, especially those who had penetrated our great western wilds. his geographical knowledge was wonderful; and his good nature, as well as his delight in work for work's sake, made him of more use than any library of reference, if his friends needed information upon some abstruse matter,--webster himself acknowledging his indebtedness to him on one occasion, and being the authority for the statement that benton knew more political facts than any other man he had ever met, even than john quincy adams, and possessed a wonderful fund of general knowledge. although very gentle in his dealings with those for whom he cared, benton originally was rather quarrelsome and revengeful in character. his personal and political prejudices were bitter, and he denounced his enemies freely in public and from the stump; yet he always declined to take part in joint political debates, on account of the personal discourtesy with which they were usually conducted. he gave his whole time to public life, rarely or never attending to his law practice after he had fairly entered the political field. benton was one of those who were present and escaped death at the time of the terrible accident on board the princeton, during tyler's administration, when the bursting of her great gun killed so many prominent men. benton was saved owing to the fact that, characteristically enough, he had stepped to one side the better to note the marksmanship of the gunner. ex-governor gilmer, of virginia, who had taken his place, was instantly killed. tyler, who was also on board, was likewise saved in consequence of the exhibition of a characteristic trait; for, just as the gun was about to be fired, something occurred in another part of the ship which distracted the attention of the fussy, fidgety president, who accordingly ran off to see what it was, and thus escaped the fatal explosion. the tragic nature of the accident and his own narrow escape made a deep impression upon benton; and it was noticed that ever afterwards he was far more forbearing and forgiving than of old. he became good friends with webster and other political opponents, with whom he had formerly hardly been on speaking terms. calhoun alone he would never forgive. it was not in his nature to do anything by halves; and accordingly, when he once forgave an opponent, he could not do enough to show him that the forgiveness was real. a missourian named wilson, who had been his bitter and malignant political foe for years, finally becoming broken in fortune and desirous of bettering himself by going to california, where benton's influence, through his son-in-law, fremont, was supreme, was persuaded by webster to throw himself on the generosity of his old enemy. the latter not only met him half-way, but helped him with a lavish kindness that would hardly have been warranted by less than a life-long friendship. webster has left on record the fact that, when once they had come to be on good terms with each other, there was no man in the whole senate of whom he would more freely have asked any favor that could properly be granted. he was a most loving father. at his death he left four surviving daughters,--mrs. william carey jones, mrs. sarah benton jacobs, madame susan benton boilleau, and mrs. jessie ann benton fremont, the wife of the great explorer, whose wonderful feats and adventures, ending with the conquest of california, where he became a sort of viceroy in point of power, made him an especial favorite with his father-in-law, who loved daring and hardihood. benton took the keenest delight in fremont's remarkable successes, and was never tired of talking of them, both within and without the senate. he records with very natural pride the fact that it was only the courage and judgment displayed in a trying crisis by his own gifted daughter, fremont's wife, which enabled the adventurous young explorer to prosecute one of the most important of his expeditions, when threatened with fatal interference from jealous governmental superiors. he was an exceptionally devoted husband. his wife was miss elizabeth mcdowell, of virginia, whom he married after he had entered the senate. their life was most happy until , when she was struck by paralysis. from that time till her death in , he never went out to a public place of amusement, spending all his time not occupied with public duties in writing by her bedside. it is scant praise to say that, while mere acquiescence on his part would have enabled him to become rich through government influence, he nevertheless died a poor man. in public, as in private life, he was a man of sensitive purity of character; he would never permit any person connected with him by blood or marriage to accept office under the government, nor would he ever favor any applicant for a government contract on political grounds. during his last years, when his sturdy independence and devotion to the union had caused him the loss of his political influence in his own state and with his own party, he nevertheless stood higher with the country at large than ever before. he was a faithful friend and a bitter foe; he was vain, proud, utterly fearless, and quite unable to comprehend such emotions as are expressed by the terms despondency and yielding. without being a great orator or writer, or even an original thinker, he yet possessed marked ability; and his abounding vitality and marvelous memory, his indomitable energy and industry, and his tenacious persistency and personal courage, all combined to give him a position and influence such as few american statesmen have ever held. his character grew steadily to the very last; he made better speeches and was better able to face new problems when past three score and ten than in his early youth or middle age. he possessed a rich fund of political, legal, and historical learning, and every subject that he ever handled showed the traces of careful and thorough study. he was very courteous, except when provoked; his courage was proof against all fear, and he shrank from no contest, personal or political. he was sometimes narrow-minded, and always wilful and passionate; but he was honest and truthful. at all times and in all places he held every good gift he had completely at the service of the american federal union. index. adams, john quincy: in presidential election of - , - ; makes clay secretary of state, ; and is assailed therefor, ; outlines whig policy in his inaugural, ; on the panama mission, ; in election of , ; preserves purity of civil service, ; on recognition of texas, . "albany regency," the, adopts "spoils system," . arnold, benedict: compared with burr and j. davis, . atchison, protests against admission of california, . benton, town of, founded, . benton, thomas hart:-- local character of his statesmanship, ; birth, ; boyhood and education, _et seq._; religious training, ; fights a duel, ; affray with jackson, ; admitted to the bar, ; in legislature of tennessee, ; on the hartford convention, ; a slave-holder, ; favors war of , , in service, ; befriends jackson, ; associations in tennessee, _et seq._; some traits of character, ; settles in missouri, ; surroundings and influences there, ; speech on treaty with spain concerning florida, ; first position concerning slavery, ; enters u. s. senate, ; honorable financial sacrifice, ; position on the oregon question, - , , - , - , - ; bill to establish a trading road through missouri, ; on the removal of the indians, ; votes for clay's protective tariff bill, ; opposes internal improvements and cumberland road bill, ; condemns election of john q. adams to presidency, ; supports clay, then jackson, ; will not join outcry against adams and clay, ; a leader of the opposition to adams in the senate, ; represents ultra-southern feeling concerning revolted spanish colonies, ; vote on the protective tariff of , , , ; efforts concerning disposal of public land, , , , , ; hostility to the northeastern states, ; in the webster-hayne debate, ; opposes jackson's "spoils system," - ; leader of the jacksonians in the senate, , ; shows that protective tariff has not helped the west, ; urges repeal of the tax on salt, , ; vigorously sustains jackson in the nullification troubles, - ; sustains the force bill, ; opposes clay's compromise measure, - ; remarks on his position at this period, ; campaign against the bank of the united states, , , , ; speech on the currency, , - , ; conflict with clay, ; on the removal of the deposits, ; opposes the resolution of censure against jackson, ; and pushes through his own expunging resolution, - , - ; advocates establishment of mints at the south, ; opposes distribution of surplus, , ; wishes it used for fortifications, , - ; advocates insisting on our claims against france, ; but opposes paying claims of american citizens, ; opposes the so-called specie circulars, ; views concerning southern slavery politicians, ; opposed to the abolitionists, ; criticises calhoun, , ; aids to defeat bill prohibiting circulation of abolition documents through u. s. mails, ; carries bill extending boundaries of missouri, ; urges admission of michigan, ; carries through treaty with cherokees, ; defends governmental treatment of indians, ; condemns treaty establishing southwestern boundary, ; position concerning annexation of texas, - ; hostility to separatist doctrines, ; blames bankers and politicians for financial crisis of , , ; his forebodings of this trouble, - ; demeanor in the crisis, ; supports issue of treasury notes, ; opposes payment of further installment of surplus, ; supports scheme for independent treasury, , ; action concerning resumption by bonds, ; a supporter of the administration in these times, ; his knowledge, ; hostile to paper currency, ; defends administration in matters of seminole war, ; theory for conducting this war, ; advocates; homestead law, ; opposes assumption of state debts by national government, ; explains greater rapidity of progress at north than at south, ; on the tariff of , - ; defends jackson and van buren against charges of squandering public moneys, ; in the harrison campaign, ; holds the democrats for the union, ; feeling concerning slavery about van buren's time, ; leads the democrats in struggle between president tyler and clay, - ; exalts the "democratic idea," ; comments on tyler's first message to congress, ; opposes sub-treasury bill, ; also the bank, distribution and bankruptcy bills, - ; opposes the hour limit for speeches in the senate, - ; speech concerning the district banks and the currency, ; opposes effort to establish a national bank during tyler's administration, - ; opposes new form of treasury notes, ; opposes subsidizing steamship lines, ; also the abuse of the pension system, ; always an advocate of extending the national boundaries, , ; opposes the ashburton treaty, , - ; remarks concerning the caroline imbroglio, ; opposes making an efficient navy, ; references to slavery in speeches on the ashburton treaty, , ; on the oregon question, - ; position concerning annexation of texas in time of polk, - ; opposes the south, ; opposes calhoun's treaty, - ; hoodwinked by the annexationists, ; attacks calhoun and opposes the mexican war, ; offered the command of the army, ; awakes to importance of slavery question, ; his later position concerning it, , - ; contests with pro-slavery senators, , ; opposes calhoun as to power of congress over slavery in territories, - ; and as to admission of oregon, ; criticises polk's administration, ; visits new york in presidential campaign in , ; defends taylor's message, ; opposes clay's compromise, , - ; more antagonism towards calhoun, ; position on the wilmot proviso, ; advocates admission of california as a free state, ; refuses to support fugitive slave act, ; nickname of "old bullion," ; opposition to him in missouri, ; defeated, ; goes to house of representatives, ; begins work on the "thirty years' view," ; supports pierce for presidency, ; but later goes into opposition, ; supports scheme for pacific railroad, ; discusses the indian policy, ; speeches on land-bounty and pension bills, ; opposes kansas-nebraska bill, - ; discusses historically the missouri compromise, ; ridicules squatter sovereignty, ; opposes the gladstone treaty, ; view of southern disunion scheme, ; again defeated in missouri elections, ; returns to labor on "thirty years' view," ; votes for buchanan, ; candidate for governorship, ; stumps the state, ; respected at the north, ; prepares his "abridgment of the debates of congress," ; death, ; value of his works ; criticism of the dred scott case, ; and of the new democratic theories, ; domestic relations, ; extensive knowledge, ; on board the princeton at time of explosion of great gun, ; generous temper, . biddle, nicholas: president of bank of united states, ; his errors, ; his bank goes to pieces, . birney, james g.: abolitionist candidate for presidency, , ; folly of nominating him, , , . blair, francis c., displaced, . buchanan, james: on annexation of texas, ; benton votes for him, . burr, aaron: introduces "spoils system" in new york, ; compared with benedict arnold, . calhoun, john c.: rupture with jackson, resignation from vice-presidency, ; position concerning tariff in , ; position as a nullifier, ; introduces nullification resolutions, ; threatened with hanging, ; arranges compromise with clay, ; subsequent quarrel with clay concerning this, ; his purposes at this time, ; assails jackson, ; opposes webster's bill for rechartering bank, ; on the expunging resolution, ; proposes constitutional amendment for distribution of treasury surplus, ; opposes appropriating treasury surplus for fortifications, ; attack on president pierce, ; his honesty, ; on admission of texas ; in connection with trouble with mexico, ; on the oregon question, ; instrumental in election of polk, ; letter to lord aberdeen, ; assailed by benton as to annexation of texas, , ; action as to legislation about texas, ; relations as to mexican war, ; and the wilmot proviso, ; resolution as to power of congress over slavery in the territories, - ; not a "union man," ; on the admission of oregon, , , ; dislikes taylor's message to congress, . california, admission of, . caroline, affair of the, . cartwright, peter, . cass, lewis: nominated for presidency, . cherokees, treaty for their removal, . clay, henry: introduces his first tariff bill, ; secretary of state under adams, ; assailed therefor, and fights randolph, ; devises the panama mission, ; leader of national republican or whig party, ; defies "the south, the president, and the devil," ; erroneous statement as to effect of tariff in the west, ; angers the nullifiers, ; defeated in presidential election in , ; alarmed at position of calhoun, ; and prepares compromise, ; afterward quarrels about it with calhoun, ; befriends bank of the united states, , , ; effect on his political fortunes, ; introduces resolution for return of deposits, ; also for censuring president jackson, ; opposes webster's bill for rechartering bank, ; on the expunging resolution, ; opposes establishment of mints at the south, ; also appropriating surplus for fortifications, ; in financial crisis of , ; on the sub-treasury bill, , ; on resumption, , ; opposes payment of state debts by national government, ; prepares financial measures upon tyler's accession, , ; construction of a presidential election, ; programme for legislation under tyler, ; attempts to introduce hour-limits for speeches in senate, - ; lectures tyler in the bank debate, ; defeated by polk, ; causes thereof, ; attacks taylor's message to congress, ; proposes compromise of slavery controversy, ; defeated by benton, ; compared with benton, . crawford, william h.: adopts the "spoils system," . crockett, david, , ; berates jackson, . cumberland road, benton votes against bill for, . davis, jefferson: compared with benedict arnold, ; a repudiator, ; and calhoun's resolution as to slavery in the territories, ; protests against admission of california, . drayton, family, loyalty of the family in south carolina, . florida, the treaty securing it to the united states, . foote, senator from mississippi, opposition to his public land scheme by benton and webster, . fremont, john c.: explores rocky mountains, ; benton will not vote for, ; benton's interest in his explorations, . giddings, joshua r., sound policy of, . harrison, wm. henry: election not affected by slavery question, ; death and character, . hartford convention, criticised by benton, , ; causes of, . houston, samuel, : wins victory of san jacinto, ; hates van buren, ; description of, ; votes to admit california, . indian tribes, benton on the removal of, ; criticism on treatment of, , , ; removal of cherokees in , . jackson, andrew: affray with benton, ; befriended by benton at washington, ; in presidential election of , , ; incensed against adams and clay, ; success in election of , ; character of his following, , , ; his opponents, ; his victory compared with jefferson's, ; compared with wellington, ; foster-father of the "spoils system," , ; inferior character of his cabinet, ; relations of his followers with those of clay and calhoun, ; struggles with the bank and the nullifiers, ; expected to support nullification, ; but does not, ; repudiates calhoun and adopts van buren, ; at the jefferson birthday banquet, ; again defines his position, ; signs new tariff bill, ; reelected in , ; issues proclamation against nullification, ; special message on nullification, ; opinion on tariff, ; threatens to hang calhoun, ; signs "force bill," also clay's compromise bill, ; behaves badly in case of georgia, ; attack on u. s. bank, _et seq._; reasons of his political success, ; opposes re-charter of bank in message of , ; vetoes bill for re-charter, ; reelected, ; removes the deposits, ; protests against clay's resolution of censure, ; continued assaults on the bank, ; gives a dinner to the expungers, ; signs bill for distributing treasury surplus, ; issues treasury order concerning payments for public lands, ; kitchen cabinet and "machine politics," , ; liking for van buren, ; his nationalism, ; praised by benton for hanging arbuthnot and ambrister, ; favors annexation of texas, ; and van buren, . jefferson, thomas: character of his following, , ; his victory compared with jackson's, ; his pseudo-classicism, ; quoted as authority for nullification, ; celebration of birthday of, . lee, robert e.: military standing of, . lincoln, abraham: services in anti-slavery cause, . livingston, edward: aids in preparing proclamation against nullification, . lucas, benton's duel with, . madison, james, quoted, . marcy, wm. l., adopts "spoils system," ; cringes to the south, . mcduffie, passage at arms with benton, , ; deceives benton as to taxes, . mcleod, alexander, case of, . missouri, character of its population, ; admission to the union, , ; land titles in, . missouri compromise bill, ; not the beginning of the slavery and anti-slavery divisions in the union, ; benton concerning repeal of, . monroe, james, remarks, , , ; signs bill for trading road, . new orleans, benton's astonishing description of, . oregon, disputed between great britain and the united states, ; benton's remarks concerning, ; comes into notice again in j. q. adams's term, ; final settlement of the matter, - ; neglected in ashburton treaty, , and by calhoun, , and others, ; benton's feeling about, , ; bill for settlement of, ; calhoun on the admission of, - . panama mission, disputes concerning, - . phillips, wendell, estimate of, . pierce, franklin, assailed by calhoun, ; relations with benton, , ; a valuation of, ; benton upon pro-slavery tendencies of, . polk, james k., character of his following, ; and the southwestern boundary, ; elected president, , ; estimate of, ; deceives benton as to texas, ; displaces blair, ; relations with various portions of democratic party, , . randolph, john: duel with clay, . rynders, isaiah, a type, , . seminoles, war with, - . taney, roger b., removes the deposits, ; afterward made chief justice, ; criticised by benton for his opinion in dred scott case, . taylor, zachary, elected president, ; character, , ; message to congress, ; dies, . tyler, john, opposes "force bill," ; estimate of, on his accession, ; his political affiliations, - ; first message to congress, ; conduct concerning bill for establishing a bank, - ; his cabinet resigns, ; identifies himself with the separatist democrats, ; schemes for annexation of texas, , ; assailed by benton, , ; behavior at time of explosion of gun on board the princeton, . van buren, martin, supports crawford for presidency in , ; adopts "spoils system," ; adopted by jackson as his heir, ; vice-president, ; product of "machine politics," ; befriended by jackson, ; sketch of, and causes of his elevation, - ; his inaugural, ; financial crisis and his doings therein, _et seq._, , , ; financial measures, ; has to deal with the seminoles, ; public dishonesty under, ; charged with squandering the public money, ; significance of his defeat, ; slavery question did not arise in his administration, ; champion of old-style union democrats, and opposed to annexation of texas, ; candidate for presidency, , ; and the free soil party, . war of , a cause of the, ; political influence on benton, . warsaw, social habits of the town, . webster, daniel, position of, concerning clay's first tariff bill, ; position on the tariff question in , ; in the debate on foote's resolution concerning sales of public land, , ; leader of national republican, or whig, party, ; aids jackson in nullification troubles, , ; advocates the "force bill," ; resolute in opposition to the south, , , ; remarks as to his services, ; befriends bank of united states, , , , ; personal relations with the jacksonians, ; introduces bill for re-charter of bank, ; on the expunging resolution, ; supports establishment of mints at the south, ; opposes appropriating treasury surplus for fortifications, ; in financial crisis of , ; on sub-treasury scheme, , ; opposes payment of state debt by national government, ; remains in tyler's cabinet, ; negotiates treaty with england, settling boundaries between united states and british possessions, , , ; criticised by benton, - , ; neglects oregon controversy, ; compared with benton on the slavery question, , ; compliments benton's knowledge, ; on friendly terms with benton, . wellington, duke of, compared with washington and jackson, . wilmot proviso, benton's remarks upon, , . wright, silas, adopts "spoils system," ; expresses the "dough face" sentiment at time of nullification troubles, . american statesmen edited by john t. morse, jr. each, mo, cloth, gilt top, $ . ; half morocco, $ . . the set, volumes, half levant, $ . . benjamin franklin. by john t. morse, jr. samuel adams. by james k. hosmer. patrick henry. by moses coit tyler. george washington. by henry cabot lodge. vols. john adams. by john t. morse, jr. alexander hamilton. by henry cabot lodge. gouverneur morris. by theodore roosevelt. john jay. by george pellew. john marshall. by allan b. magruder. thomas jefferson. by john t. morse, jr. james madison. by sydney howard gay. albert gallatin. by john austin stevens. james monroe. by president d. c. gilman. john quincy adams. by john t. morse, jr. john randolph. by henry adams. andrew jackson. by prof. william g. sumner. martin van buren. by edward m. shepard. henry clay. by carl schurz. vols. daniel webster. by henry cabot lodge. john c. calhoun. by dr. h. von holst. thomas hart benton. by theodore roosevelt. lewis cass. by prof. andrew c. mclaughlin. abraham lincoln. by john t. morse, jr. with portrait and map. vols. william h. seward. by thornton k. lothrop. salmon p. chase. by prof. a. b. hart. charles francis adams. by c. f. adams. charles sumner. by moorfield storey. thaddeus stevens. by samuel w. mccall. _critical notices._ _franklin._ he has managed to condense the whole mass of matter gleaned from all sources into his volume without losing in a single sentence the freedom or lightness of his style or giving his book in any part the crowded look of an epitome.--_the independent_ (new york). _samuel adams._ thoroughly appreciative and sympathetic, yet fair and critical.... this biography is a piece of good work--a clear and simple presentation of a noble man and pure patriot; it is written in a spirit of candor and humanity.--_worcester spy._ _henry._ professor tyler has not only made one of the best and most readable of american biographies; he may fairly be said to have reconstructed the life of patrick henry, and to have vindicated the memory of that great man from the unappreciative and injurious estimate which has been placed upon it.--_new york evening post._ _washington._ mr. lodge has written an admirable biography, and one which cannot but confirm the american people in the prevailing estimate concerning the father of his country.--_new york tribune._ _john adams._ a good piece of literary work.... it covers the ground thoroughly, and gives just the sort of simple and succinct account that is wanted.--_new york evening post._ _hamilton._ mr. lodge has done his work with conscientious care, and the biography of hamilton is a book which cannot have too many readers. it is more than a biography; it is a study in the science of government.--_st. paul pioneer press._ _morris._ mr. roosevelt has produced an animated and intensely interesting biographical volume.... mr. roosevelt never loses sight of the picturesque background of politics, war-governments, and diplomacy.--_magazine of american history_ (new york). _jay._ it is an important addition to the admirable series of "american statesmen," and elevates yet higher the character of a man whom all american patriots most delight to honor.--_new york tribune._ _marshall._ well done, with simplicity, clearness, precision, and judgment, and in a spirit of moderation and equity. a valuable addition to the series.--_new york tribune._ _jefferson._ a singularly just, well-proportioned, and interesting sketch of the personal and political career of the author of the declaration of independence.--_boston journal._ _madison._ the execution of the work deserves the highest praise. it is very readable, in a bright and vigorous style, and is marked by unity and consecutiveness of plan.--_the nation_ (new york). _gallatin._ it is one of the most carefully prepared of these very valuable volumes, ... abounding in information not so readily accessible as is that pertaining to men more often treated by the biographer.--_boston correspondent hartford courant._ _monroe._ president gilman has made the most of his hero, without the least hero-worship, and has done full justice to mr. monroe's "relations to the public service during half a century." ... the appendix is peculiarly valuable for its synopsis of monroe's presidential messages, and its extensive bibliography of monroe and the monroe doctrine.--_n. y. christian intelligencer._ _john quincy adams._ that mr. morse's conclusions will in the main be those of posterity we have very little doubt, and he has set an admirable example to his coadjutors in respect of interesting narrative, just proportion, and judicial candor.--_new york evening post._ _randolph._ the book has been to me intensely interesting.... it is rich in new facts and side lights, and is worthy of its place in the already brilliant series of monographs on american statesmen.--prof. moses coit tyler. _jackson._ professor sumner has ... all in all, made the justest long estimate of jackson that has had itself put between the covers of a book.--_new york times._ _van buren._ this absorbing book.... to give any adequate idea of the personal interest of the book, or its intimate bearing on nearly the whole course of our political history, would be equivalent to quoting the larger part of it.--_brooklyn eagle._ _clay._ we have in this life of henry clay a biography of one of the most distinguished of american statesmen, and a political history of the united states for the first half of the nineteenth century. indeed, it is not too much to say that, for the period covered, we have no other book which equals or begins to equal this life of henry clay as an introduction to the study of american politics.--_political science quarterly_ (new york). _webster._ it will be read by students of history; it will be invaluable as a work of reference; it will be an authority as regards matters of fact and criticism; it hits the key-note of webster's durable and ever-growing fame; it is adequate, calm, impartial; it is admirable.--_philadelphia press._ _calhoun._ nothing can exceed the skill with which the political career of the great south carolinian is portrayed in these pages.... the whole discussion in relation to calhoun's position is eminently philosophical and just.--_the dial_ (chicago). _benton._ an interesting addition to our political literature, and will be of great service if it spread an admiration for that austere public morality which was one of the marked characteristics of its chief figure.--_the epoch_ (new york). _cass._ professor mclaughlin has given us one of the most satisfactory volumes in this able and important series.... the early life of cass was devoted to the northwest, and in the transformation which overtook it the work of cass was the work of a national statesman.--_new york times._ _lincoln._ as a life of lincoln it has no competitors; as a political history of the union side during the civil war, it is the most comprehensive, and, in proportion to its range, the most compact.--_harvard graduates' magazine._ _seward._ the public will be grateful for his conscientious efforts to write a popular vindication of one of the ablest, most brilliant, fascinating, energetic, ambitious, and patriotic men in american history.--_new york evening post._ _chase._ his great career as anti-slavery leader, united states senator, governor of ohio, secretary of the treasury, and chief justice of the united states, is described in an adequate and effective manner by professor hart. _charles francis adams._ his wise statesmanship before the civil war, and the masterly ability and consummate diplomatic skill displayed by him while minister to great britain, are judiciously set forth by his eminent son. _sumner._ the majestic devotion of sumner to the highest political ideals before and during his long term of lofty service to freedom in the united states senate is fittingly delineated by mr. storey. _stevens._ thaddeus stevens was unquestionably one of the most conspicuous figures of his time.... the book shows him the eccentric, fiery, and masterful congressional leader that he was.--_city and state_ (philadelphia). houghton, mifflin & co. park st., boston; fifth avenue, new york - wabash ave., chicago * * * * * transcriber's notes: minor typographical errors and inconsistencies have been silently normalized. proofreading team. letters of horace walpole selected and edited by charles duke yonge, m.a. author of "the history of france under the bourbons," "a life of marie antoinette," etc., etc. with portraits and illustrations volume i london t. fisher unwin paternoster square new york: g.p. putnam's sons mdcccxc contents. - . . to montagu, _may_ , .--marriage of the princess of wales--very lively . to the same, _may_ , .--fondness for old stories--reminiscences of eton, etc. . to the same, _march_ , .--wish to travel--superiority of french manners to english in their manner to ladies . to west, _april_ , .--theatres at paris--st. denis--fondness of the french for show, and for gambling--singular signs--the army the only profession for men of gentle birth--splendour of the public buildings . to the same, .--magnificence of versailles--the chartreux relics . to the same, _february_ , .--the carnival--the florentines civil, good-natured, and fond of the english--a curious challenge . to the same, _june_ , .--herculaneum--search should be made for other submerged cities--quotations from statius . to conway, _july_ , .--danger of malaria--roman catholic relics--"admiral hosier's ghost"--contest for the popedom . to the same, _july_ , . to west, _oct._ , .--a florentine wedding--addison's descriptions are borrowed from books--a song of bondelmonti's, with a latin version by gray, and an english one by the writer . to mann, _jan._ , .--debate on pulteney's motion for a committee on papers relating to the war--speeches of pulteney, pitt, sir r. walpole, sir w. george, etc.--smallness of the ministerial majority . to the same, _may_ , .--ranelagh gardens opened--garrick, "a wine-merchant turned player"--defeat of the indemnity bill . to the same, _dec._ , .--debate on disbanding the hanoverian troops--first speech of murray (afterwards earl of mansfield)--_bon mot_ of lord chesterfield . to the same, _feb._ , .--king theodore--handel introduces oratorios . to the same, _july_ , .--battle of dettingen--death of lord wilmington . to the same, _sept._ , .--french actors at clifden--a new roman catholic miracle--lady mary wortley . to the same, _march_ , .--death of his father--matthews and lestock in the mediterranean--thomson's "tancred and sigismunda"--akenside's odes--conundrums in fashion . to the same, _may_ , .--battle of fontenoy--the ballad of the prince of wales . to montagu, _august_ , .--m. de grignan--livy's patavinity--the maréchal de belleisle--whiston prophecies the destruction of the world--the duke of newcastle . to mann, _sept._ , .--invasion of scotland by the young pretender--forces are said to be preparing in france to join him . to the same, _sept._ , .--this and the following letters give a lively account of the progress of the rebellion till the retreat from derby, after which no particular interest attaches to it . to the same, _sept._ , .--defeat of cope . to the same, _oct._ , .--general wade is marching to scotland--violent proclamation of the pretender . to the same, _nov._ , .--gallant resistance of carlisle--mr. pitt attacks the ministry . to the same, _dec._ , .--the rebel army has retreated from derby--expectation of a french invasion . to the same, _april_ , .--battle of culloden . to the same, _aug._ , .--trial of the rebel lords balmerino and kilmarnock . to the same, _oct._ , .--the battle of rancoux . to conway, _oct._ , .--on conway's verses--no scotch_man_ is capable of such delicacy of thought, though a scotchwoman may be--akenside's, armstrong's, and glover's poems . to the same, _june_ , .--he has bought strawberry hill . to the same, _aug._ , .--his mode of life--planting--prophecies of new methods and new discoveries in a future generation . to mann, _may_ , .--rejoicings for the peace--masquerade at ranelagh--meeting of the prince's party and the jacobites--prevalence of drinking and gambling--whitefield . to the same, _march_ , .--earthquake in london--general panic--marriage of casimir, king of poland . to the same, _april_ , .--general panic--sherlock's pastoral letter--predictions of more earthquakes--a general flight from london--epigrams by chute and walpole himself--french translation of milton . to the same, _april_ , .--death of walpole's brother, and of the prince of wales--speech of the young prince--singular sermon on his death . to the same, _june_ , .--changes in the ministry and household--the miss gunnings--extravagance in london--lord harcourt, governor of the prince of wales . to the same, _june_ , .--description of strawberry hill--bill to prevent clandestine marriages . to montagu, _may_ , .--no news from france but what is smuggled--the king's delight at the vote for the hanover troops--_bon mot_ of lord denbigh . to the same, _oct._ , .--victory of the king of prussia at lowositz--singular race--quarrel of the pretender with the pope . to the same, _nov._ , .--ministerial negotiations--loss of minorca--disaster in north america . to the earl of strafford, _july_ , .--the king of prussia's victories--voltaire's "universal history" . to zouch, _august_ , .--his own "royal and noble authors" . to the same, _oct._ , .--his "royal and noble authors"--lord clarendon--sir r. walpole and lord bolingbroke--the duke of leeds . to mann, _oct._ , .--walpole's monument to sir horace's brother--attempted assassination of the king of portugal--courtesy of the duc d'aiguillon to his english prisoners . to zouch, _dec._ , .--a new edition of lucan--comparison of "pharsalea"--criticism on the poet, with the aeneid--helvetius's work, "de l'esprit" . to conway, _jan._ , .--state of the house of commons . to dalrymple, _feb._ , .--robertson's "history of scotland"--comparison of ramsay and reynolds as portrait-painters--sir david's "history of the gowrie conspiracy" . to the same, _july_ , .--writers of history: goodall, hume, robertson--queen christina . to conway, _aug._ , .--the battle of minden--lord g. sackville . to mann, _sept._ , .--admiral boscawen's victory--defeat of the king of prussia--lord g. sackville . to montagu, _oct._ , .--a year of triumphs . to the same, _nov._ , .--french bankruptcy--french epigram . to the same, _jan._ , .--he lives amongst royalty--commotions in ireland . to the same, _jan._ , .--severity of the weather--scarcity in germany--a party at prince edward's--charles townsend's comments on la fontaine . to mann, _feb._ , .--capture of carrickfergus . to dalrymple, _april_ , .--the ballad of "hardyknute"--mr. home's "siege of aquileia"--"tristram shandy"--bishop warburton's praise of it . to the same, _june_ , .--erse poetry--"the dialogues of the dead"--"the complete angler" . to montagu, _sept._ , .--visits in the midland counties--whichnovre--sheffield--the new art of plating--chatsworth--haddon hall--hardwicke--apartments of mary queen of scots--newstead--althorp . to the same, _april_ , .--gentleman's dress--influence of lord bute--ode by lord middlesex--g. selwyn's quotation . to the same, _may_ , .--capture of belleisle--gray's poems--hogarth's vanity . to the same, _may_ , .--intended marriage of the king--battles in germany--capture of pondicherry--burke . to mann, _sept._ , .--arrival of the princess of mecklenburgh--the royal wedding--the queen's appearance and behaviour . to the countess of ailesbury, _sept._ , .--the coronation and subsequent gaieties . to the same, _nov._ , .--a court ball--pamphlets on mr. pitt--a song by gray . to mann, _jan._ , .--death of the czarina elizabeth--the cock-lane ghost--return to england of lady mary wortley . to zouch, _march_ , .--his own "anecdotes of painting"--his picture of the wedding of henry vii.--burnet's comparison of tiberius and charles ii.--addison's "travels" . to mann, _aug._ , .--birth of the prince of wales--the czarina--voltaire's historical criticisms--immense value of the treasures brought over in the _hermione_ . to conway, _sept._ , .--negotiations for peace--christening of the prince of wales . to mann, _oct._ , .--treasures from the havannah--the royal visit to eton--death of lady mary--concealment of her works--voltaire's "universal history" . to the same, _april_ , .--resignation of lord bute--french visitors--walpole and no. . to montagu, _may_ , .--a party at "straberri"--work of his printing press--epigrams--a garden party at esher . to conway, _may_ , .--general character of the french--festivities on the queen's birthday . to the earl of hertford, _dec._ , .--the ordinary way of life in england--wilkes--c. townshend--count lally--lord clive--lord northington--louis le bien aimé--the drama in france . to montagu, _jan._ , .--a new year's party at lady suffolk's--lady temple, poetess laureate to the muses . to mann, _jan._ , .--marriage of the prince of brunswick: his popularity . to the earl of hertford, _feb._ , .--gambling quarrels--mr. conway's speech . to the same, _feb._ , .--account of the debate on the general warrant . to mann, _june_ , .--lord clive--mr. hamilton, ambassador to naples--speech of louis xv. . to the same, _aug._ , .--the king of poland--catherine of russia . to the earl of hertford, _oct._ , .--madame de boufflers' writings--king james's journal list of illustrations. i. horace walpole from an engraving after a sketch by sir thos. lawrence, p.r.a. ii. sir horace mann iii. strawberry hill, from the south-east iv. george montagu v. the library, strawberry hill vi. horace walpole from a picture in the national portrait gallery, by nathaniel hone, r.a. introduction. it is creditable to our english nobility, and a feature in their character that distinguishes them from their fellows of most other nations, that, from the first revival of learning, the study of literature has been extensively cultivated by men of high birth, even by many who did not require literary fame to secure them a lasting remembrance; and they have not contented themselves with showing their appreciation of intellectual excellence by their patronage of humbler scholars, but have themselves afforded examples to other labourers in the hive, taking upon themselves the toils, and earning no small nor undeserved share of the honours of authorship. the very earliest of our poets, chaucer, must have been a man of gentle birth, since he was employed on embassies of importance, and was married to the daughter of a french knight of distinction, and sister of the duchess of lancaster. the long civil wars of the fifteenth century prevented his having any immediate followers; but the sixteenth opened more propitiously. the conqueror of flodden was also "surrey of the deathless lay";[ ] and from his time to the present day there is hardly a break in the long line of authors who have shown their feeling that noble birth and high position are no excuses for idleness, but that the highest rank gains additional illustration when it is shown to be united with brilliant talents worthily exercised. the earliest of our tragic poets was sackville earl of dorset. the preux chevalier of elizabeth's court, the accomplished and high-minded sidney, took up the lyre of surrey: lord st. albans, more generally known by his family name of bacon, "took all learning for his province"; and, though peaceful studies were again for a while rudely interrupted by the "dark deeds of horrid war," the restoration of peace was, as it had been before, a signal for the resumption of their studies by many of the best-born of the land. another earl of dorset displayed his hereditary talent not less than his martial gallantry. lord roscommon well deserved the praises which dryden and pope, after his death, liberally bestowed. the great lord chancellor clarendon devoted his declining years to a work of a grander class, leaving us a history which will endure as long as the language itself; while ladies of the very highest rank, the duchess of newcastle and lady mary wortley montague, vindicated the claims of their sex to share with their brethren the honours of poetical fame. [footnote : "lay of the last minstrel," vi. .] among this noble and accomplished brotherhood the author of these letters is by general consent allowed to be entitled to no low place. horace walpole, born in the autumn of , was the youngest son of that wise minister, sir robert walpole, who, though, as burke afterwards described him, "not a genius of the first class," yet by his adoption of, and resolute adherence to a policy of peace throughout the greater part of his administration, in which he was fortunately assisted by the concurrence of fleury of france, contributed in no slight degree to the permanent establishment of the present dynasty on the throne. he received his education at the greatest of english schools, eton, to which throughout his life he preserved a warm attachment; and where he gave a strong indication of his preference for peaceful studies and his judicious appreciation of intellectual ability, by selecting as his most intimate friend thomas gray, hereafter to achieve a poetical immortality by the bard and the elegy. from eton they both went to cambridge, and, when they quitted the university, in , joined in a travelling tour through france and italy. they continued companions for something more than two years; but at the end of that time they separated, and in the spring of gray returned to england. the cause of their parting was never distinctly avowed; walpole took the blame, if blame there was, on himself; but, in fact, it probably lay in an innate difference of disposition, and consequently of object. walpole being fond of society, and, from his position as the minister's son, naturally courted by many of the chief men in the different cities which they visited; while gray was of a reserved character shunning the notice of strangers, and fixing his attention on more serious subjects than walpole found attractive. in the autumn of the same year walpole himself returned home. he had become a member of parliament at the general election in the summer, and took his seat just in time to bear a part in the fierce contest which terminated in the dissolution of his father's ministry. his maiden speech, almost the only one he ever made, was in defence of the character and policy of his father, who was no longer in the house of commons to defend himself.[ ] and the result of the conflict made no slight impression on his mind; but gave a colour to all his political views. he began almost immediately to come forward as an author: not, however, as-- obliged by hunger and request of friends; for in his circumstances he was independent, and even opulent; but seeking to avenge his father by squibs on mr. pulteney (now lord bath), as having been the leader of the attacks on him, and on the new ministry which had succeeded him. in one respect that age was a happy one for ministers and all connected with them. pensions and preferments were distributed with a lavish hand; and, even while he was a schoolboy, he had received more than one "patent place," as such were called, in the exchequer, to which before his father's resignation others were added, which after a time raised his income to above £ , a year, a fortune which in those times was exceeded by comparatively few, even of those regarded as wealthy. so rich, indeed, was he, that before he was thirty he was able to buy strawberry hill, "a small house near twickenham," as he describes it at first, but which he gradually enlarged and embellished till it grew into something of a baronial castle on a small scale, somewhat as, under the affectionate diligence of a greater man, abbotsford in the present century became one of the lions of the tweed. [footnote : the speech was made march , ; but sir robert had resigned office, and been created earl of orford in the february preceding.] from this time forth literary composition, with the acquisition of antiques and curiosities for the decoration of "strawberry" occupied the greater part of his life. he erected a printing press, publishing not only most of his own writings, but some also of other authors, such as poems of gray, with whom he kept up uninterrupted intercourse. but, in fact, his own works were sufficiently numerous to keep his printers fully employed. he was among the most voluminous writers of a voluminous age. in the course of the next twenty years he published seven volumes of memoirs of the last ten years of the reign of george ii. and the first ten of george iii.; five volumes of a work entitled "royal and noble authors;" several more of "anecdotes of painting;" "the mysterious mother," a tragedy; "the castle of otranto," a romance; and a small volume to which he gave the name of "historic doubts on richard iii." of all these not one is devoid of merit. he more than once explains that the "memoirs" have no claim to the more respectable title of "history"; and he apologises for introducing anecdotes which might be thought inconsistent with what macaulay brands as "a vile phrase," the dignity of history. he excuses this, which he looked on as a new feature in historical composition, on the ground that, if trifles, "they are trifles relating to considerable people; such as all curious people have ever loved to read." "such trifles," he says, "are valued, if relating to any reign one hundred and fifty years ago; and, if his book should live so long, these too might become acceptable." readers of the present day will not think such apology was needed. the value of his "trifles" has been proved in a much shorter time; for there is no subsequent historian of that period who has not been indebted to him for many particulars of which no other trustworthy record existed. walpole had in a great degree a historical mind; and perhaps there are few works which show a keener critical insight into the value of old traditions than the "historic doubts," directed to establish, not, indeed, richard's innocence of the crimes charged against him, but the fact that, with respect to many of them, his guilt has never been proved by any evidence which is not open to the gravest impeachment. his "royal and noble authors," and his "anecdotes of painting" are full of entertainment, not unmixed with instruction. "the mysterious mother" was never performed on the stage, nor is it calculated for representation; since he himself admits that the subject is disgusting. but dramas not intended for representation, and which therefore should perhaps be more fitly called dramatic poems, were a species of composition to which more than one writer of reputation had lately begun to turn their attention; though dramas not designed for the stage seem to most readers defective in their very conception, as lacking the stimulus which the intention of submitting them to the extemporaneous ocular judgement of the public can alone impart. among such works, however, "the mysterious mother" is admitted to rank high for vigorous description and poetic imagery. a greater popularity, which even at the present day has not wholly passed away, since it is still occasionally reprinted, was achieved by "the castle of otranto," which, as he explains it in one of his letters, owed its origin to a dream. novels had been a branch of literature which had slumbered for several years after the death of defoe, but which the genius of fielding and smollett had again brought into fashion. but their tales purported to be pictures of the manners of the day. this was rather the forerunner of mrs. radcliffe's[ ] weird tales of supernatural mystery, which for a time so engrossed the public attention as to lead that "wicked wag," mr. george coleman, to regard them as representatives of the class, and to describe how-- a novel now is nothing more than an old castle and a creaking door; a distant hovel; clanking of chains, a gallery, a light, old armour, and a phantom all in white, and there's a novel. [footnote : "'the castle of otranto' was the father of that marvellous series which once overstocked the circulating library, and closed with mrs. radcliffe."--d'israeli, "curiosities of literature," ii. .] he had published it anonymously as a tale that had been found in the library of an ancient family in the north of england; but it was not indebted solely to the mystery of its authorship for its favourable reception--since, after he acknowledged it as his own work in a second edition, the sale did not fall off. and it deserved success, for, though the day had passed when even the most credulous could place any faith in swords that required a hundred men to lift, and helmets which could only fit the champion whose single strength could wield such a weapon, the style was lively and attractive, and the dialogue was eminently dramatic and sparkling. but the interest of all these works has passed away. the "memoirs" have served their turn as a guide and aid to more regular historians, and the composition which still keeps its author's fame alive is his correspondence with some of his numerous friends, male and female, in england or abroad, which he maintained with an assiduity which showed how pleasurable he found the task, while the care with which he secured the preservation of his letters, begging his correspondents to retain them, in case at any future time he should desire their return, proves that he anticipated the possibility that they might hereafter be found interesting by other readers than to those to whom they were addressed. but he did not suffer either his writings or the enrichment of "strawberry" with antiquarian treasures to engross the whole of his attention. for the first thirty years and more of his public life he was a zealous politician. and it is no slight proof how high was the reputation for sagacity and soundness of judgement which he enjoyed, that in the ministerial difficulties caused by lord chatham's illness, he was consulted by the leaders of more than one section of the whig party, by conway, the duke of bedford, the duke of grafton, lord holland, and others; that his advice more than once influenced their determinations; and that he himself drew more than one of the letters which passed between them. even the king himself was not ignorant of the weight he had in their counsels, and, on one occasion at least, condescended to avail himself of it for a solution of some of the embarrassments with which their negotiations were beset. but after a time his attendance in parliament, which had never been very regular, grew wearisome and distasteful to him. at the general election of he declined to offer himself again as a candidate for lynn, which he had represented for several years. and henceforth his mornings were chiefly occupied with literature; the continuation of his memoirs; discussion of literary subjects with gibbon, voltaire, mason, and others, while his evenings were passed in the society of his friends, a mode of enjoying his time in which he was eminently calculated to shine, since abundant testimony has come down to us from many competent judges of the charm of his conversation; the liveliness of his disposition acting as a most attractive frame to the extent and variety of his information. among his distractions were his visits to france, which for some time were frequent. he had formed a somewhat singular intimacy with a blind old lady, the marquise du deffand, a lady whose character in her youth had been something less than doubtful, since she had been one of the regent duc d'orléans's numerous mistresses; but who had retained in her old age much of the worldly acuteness and lively wit with which she had borne her part in that clever, shameless society. her _salon_ was now the resort of many personages of the highest distinction, even of ladies themselves of the most unstained reputation, such as the duchesse de choiseul; and the rumours or opinions which he heard in their company enabled him to enrich his letters to his friends at home with comments on the conduct of the french parliament, of maupéon, maurepas, turgot, and the king himself, which, in many instances, attest the shrewdness with which he estimated the real bearing of the events which were taking place, and anticipated the possible character of some of those which were not unlikely to ensue. thus, with a mind which, to the end, was so active and so happily constituted as to be able to take an interest in everything around him, and, even when more than seventy years old, to make new friends to replace those who had dropped off, he passed a long, a happy, and far from an useless life. when he was seventy-four he succeeded to his father's peerage, on the death of his elder brother; but he did not long enjoy the title, by which, indeed, he was not very careful to be distinguished, and in the spring of he died, within a few months of his eightieth birthday. a great writer of the last generation, whose studies were of a severer cast, and who, conscious perhaps of his own unfitness to shine at the tea-table of fashionable ladies, was led by that feeling to undervalue the lighter social gifts which formed conspicuous ingredients in walpole's character, has denounced him not only as frivolous in his tastes, but scarcely above mediocrity in his abilities (a sentence to which scott's description of him as "a man of great genius" may be successfully opposed); and is especially severe on what he terms his affectation in disclaiming the compliments bestowed on his learning by some of his friends. the expressed estimate of his acquirements and works which so offended lord macaulay was that "there is nobody so superficial, that, except a little history, a little poetry, a little painting, and some divinity, he knew nothing; he had always lived in the busy world; had always loved pleasure; played loo till two or three in the morning; haunted auctions--in short, did not know so much astronomy as would carry him to knightsbridge; not more physic than a physician; nor, in short, anything that is called science. if it were not that he laid up a little provision in summer, like the ant, he should be as ignorant as the people he lived with."[ ] in lord macaulay's view, walpole was never less sincere than when pronouncing such a judgement on his works. he sees in it nothing but an affectation, fishing for further praises; and, fastening on his account of his ordinary occupations, he pronounces that a man of fifty should be ashamed of playing loo till after midnight. [footnote : letter to mann, feb. , .] in spite, however, of lord macaulay's reproof, something may be said in favour of a man who, after giving his mornings to works which display no little industry as well as talent, unbent his bow in the evening at lively supper-parties, or even at the card-table with fair friends, where the play never degenerated into gambling. and his disparagement of his learning, which lord macaulay ridicules as affectation, a more candid judgement may fairly ascribe to sincere modesty. for it is plain from many other passages in his letters, that he really did undervalue his own writings; and that the feeling which he thus expressed was genuine is to a great extent proved by the patience, if not thankfulness, with which he allowed his friend mann to alter passages in "the mysterious mother," and confessed the alterations to be improvements. it may be added that lord macaulay's disparagement of his judgement and his taste is not altogether consistent with his admission that walpole's writings possessed an "irresistible charm" that "no man who has written so much is so seldom tiresome;" that, even in "the castle of otranto," which he ridicules, "the story never flags for a moment," and, what is more to our present purpose, he adds that "his letters are with reason considered his best performance;" and that those to his friend at florence, sir h. mann, "contain much information concerning the history of that time: the portion of english history of which common readers know the least." of these letters it remains for us now to speak. the value of such _pour servir_, to borrow a french expression, that is to say, to serve as materials to supply the historian of a nation or an age with an acquaintance with events, or persons, or manners, which would be sought for in vain among parliamentary records, or ministerial despatches, has long been recognised.[ ] two thousand years ago, those of the greatest of roman orators and statesmen were carefully preserved; and modern editors do not fear to claim for them a place "among the most valuable of all the remains of roman literature; the specimens which they give of familiar intercourse, and of the public and private manners of society, drawing up for us the curtain from scenes of immense historical interest, and laying open the secret workings, the complications, and schemes of a great revolution period."[ ] such a description is singularly applicable to the letters of walpole; and the care which he took for their preservation shows that he was not without a hope that they also would be regarded as interesting and valuable by future generations. he praises one of his correspondents for his diligence in collecting and publishing a volume of letters belonging to the reigns of james i. and charles i., on the express ground that "nothing gives so just an idea of an age as genuine letters; nay, history waits for its last seal from them." and it is not too much to say that they are superior to journals and diaries as a mine to be worked by the judicious historian; while to the general public they will always be more attractive, from the scope they afford to elegance of style, at which the diary-keeper does not aim; and likewise from their frequently recording curious incidents, fashions, good sayings, and other things which, from their apparently trifling character, the grave diarist would not think worth preserving. [footnote : d'israeli has remarked that "the _gossiping_ of a profound politician, or a vivacious observer, in one of their letters, often by a spontaneous stroke reveals the individual, or by a simple incident unriddles a mysterious event;" and proceeds to quote bolingbroke's estimate of the importance, from this point of view, of "that valuable collection of cardinal d'ossat's memoirs" ("curiosities of literature," iii. p. ).] [footnote : the rev. j.e. yonge, preface to an edition of "cicero's letters."] he, however, was not the first among the moderns to achieve a reputation by his correspondence. in the generation before his birth, a french lady, madame de sévigné, had, with an affectionate industry, found her chief occupation and pleasure in keeping her daughters in the provinces fully acquainted with every event which interested or entertained louis xiv. and his obsequious court; and in the first years of the eighteenth century a noble english lady, whom we have already mentioned, did in like manner devote no small portion of her time to recording, for the amusement and information of her daughter, her sister, and her other friends at home, the various scenes and occurrences that came under her own notice in the foreign countries in which for many years her lot was cast, as the wife of an ambassador. in liveliness of style, lady mary montague is little if at all inferior to her french prototype; while, since she was endowed with far more brilliant talents, and, from her foreign travels, had a wider range of observation, her letters have a far greater interest than could attach to those of a writer, however accomplished and sagacious, whose world was paris, with bounds scarcely extending beyond versailles on one side, and compiègne on the other. to these fair and lively ladies walpole was now to succeed as a third candidate for epistolary fame; though, with his habit of underrating his own talents, he never aspired to equal the gay frenchwoman; (the english lady's correspondence was as yet unknown). there is evident sincerity in his reproof of one of his correspondents who had expressed a most flattering opinion: "you say such extravagant things of my letters, which are nothing but gossiping gazettes, that i cannot bear it; you have undone yourself with me, for you compare them to madame de sévigné's. absolute treason! do you know there is scarcely a book in the world i love so much as her letters?" yet critics who should place him on an equality with her would not be without plausible grounds for their judgement. many circumstances contributed to qualify him in a very special degree for the task which, looking at his letters in that light, he may be said to have undertaken. his birth, as the son of a great minister; his comparative opulence; even the indolent insignificance of his elder brothers, which caused him to be looked upon as his father's representative, and as such to be consulted by those who considered themselves as the heirs of his policy, while the leader of that party in the house of commons, general conway, was his cousin, and the man for whom he ever felt the strongest personal attachment,--were all advantages which fell to the lot of but few. and to these may be added the variety of his tastes, as attested by the variety of his published works. he was a man who observed everything, who took an interest in everything. his correspondents, too, were so various and different as to ensure a variety in his letters. some were politicians, ministers at home, or envoys abroad; some were female leaders of fashion, planning balls and masquerades, summoning him to join an expedition to ranelagh or vauxhall; others were scholars, poets, or critics, inviting comments on gray's poems, on robertson's style, on gibbon's boundless learning; or on the impostures of macpherson and chatterton; others, again, were antiquarians, to whom the helmet of francis, or a pouncet-box of the fair diana, were objects of far greater interest than the intrigues of a secretary of state, or the expedients of a chancellor of the exchequer; and all such subjects are discussed by him with evidently equal willingness, equal clearness, and liveliness. it would not be fair to regard as a deduction from the value of those letters which bear on the politics of the day the necessity of confessing that they are not devoid of partiality--that they are coloured with his own views, both of measures and persons. not only were political prejudices forced upon him by the peculiarities of his position, but it may be doubted whether any one ever has written, or can write, of transactions of national importance which are passing under his own eyes, as it were, with absolute impartiality. it may even be a question whether, if any one did so, it would not detract from his own character, at least as much as it might add to the value of his writings. in one of his letters, byron enumerates among the merits of mitford's "history of greece," "wrath and partiality," explaining that such ingredients make a man write "in earnest." and, in walpole's case, the dislike which he naturally felt towards those who had overthrown his father's administration by what, at a later day, they themselves admitted to have been a factious and blamable opposition, was sharpened by his friendship for his cousin conway. at the same time we may remark in passing that his opinions and prejudices were not so invincible as to blind him to real genius and eminent public services; and the admirers of lord chatham may fairly draw an argument in favour of his policy from walpole's admission of its value in raising the spirit of the people; an admission which, it may be supposed, it must have gone against his grain to make in favour of a follower of pulteney. but from his letters on other topics, on literature and art, no such deduction has to be made. his judgement was generally sound and discriminating. he could appreciate the vast learning and stately grandiloquence of gibbon, and the widely different style of robertson. nor is it greatly to his discredit that his disgust at what he considers hume's needless parade of scepticism and infidelity, which did honour to his heart, blinded him in a great degree to the historian's unsurpassed acuteness and insight, and (to borrow the eulogy of gibbon) "the careless inimitable felicities" of his narrative. he was among the first to recognize the peculiar genius of crabbe, and to detect the impostures of macpherson and chatterton, while doing full justice to "the astonishing prematurity" of the latter's genius. and in matters of art, so independent as well as correct was his taste, that he not only, in one instance, ventured to differ from reynolds, but also proved to be right in his opinion that a work extolled by sir joshua, was but a copy, and a poor one. on his qualifications to be a painter of the way of life, habits, and manners (_quorum pars magna fuit_) of the higher classes in his day, it would be superfluous to dwell. scott, who was by no means a warm admirer of his character, does not hesitate to pronounce him "certainly the best letter-writer in the english language;" and the great poet who, next to scott, holds the highest place in the literary history of the last two centuries, adds his testimony not only to the excellence of his letters, but also to his general ability as that of a high order. "it is the fashion to underrate horace walpole, firstly, because he was a nobleman, and, secondly, because he was a gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of his incomparable letters and of 'the castle of otranto,' he is the 'ultimus romanorum,' the author of 'the mysterious mother,' a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. he is the father of the first romance, and the last tragedy in our language; and surely worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who he may."[ ] [footnote : byron, preface to "marino faliere." but in the last sentence the poet certainly exaggerated his admiration for walpole; since it is sufficiently notorious from his own letters, and from more than one passage in his works, as where he ranks scott as second to shakespeare alone, that he deservedly admired him more than all their contemporaries put together.] and it seems not unnatural to entertain a hope that a selection from a correspondence which extorted such an eulogy from men whose own letters form no small part of the attraction of lockhart's and moore's biographies, will be acceptable to many who, while lacking courage, or perhaps leisure, to grapple with publications in many volumes, may welcome the opportunity thus here afforded them of forming an acquaintance, however partial, with works which, in their entire body, are deservedly reckoned among the masterpieces of our literature.[ ] [footnote : it may be proper to point out that, in some few instances, a letter is not given in its entirety; but, as in familiar correspondence, it must constantly happen that, while the incidents mentioned in one portion of a letter are full of interest, of others--such as marriages, deaths, &c.--the importance is of the most temporary and transitory character. it may be hoped that the liberty taken of leaving out such portions will be regarded as, if not commendable, at the least excusable.] a selection from the letters of horace walpole. _marriage of the princess of wales--very lively._[ ] [footnote : this letter, written before he was nineteen, is worth noticing as a proof how innate was his liveliness of style, since in that respect few of the productions of his maturer age surpasses it. it also shows how strong already was his expectations that his letters would hereafter be regarded as interesting and valuable.] to george montagu, esq.[ ] [footnote : george montagu, esq., of roel, in the county of gloucester, son of brigadier-general edward montagu, and long m.p. for northampton. he was the grandnephew of the first earl of halifax of the montagu family, the statesman and poet, and was the contemporary at eton of walpole and gray. when his cousin, the earl of halifax, was lord-lieutenant of ireland, he was his secretary; and when lord north was chancellor of the exchequer, he occupied the same position with him. he died may , , leaving the bulk of his fortune to lord north. walpole's letters to him, in number, and dating between and , were first published in , "from the originals in the possession of the editor." there was a coolness between walpole and montagu several years before the latter's death, the correspondence dropping very abruptly. the cause is explained by walpole in a letter to cole, dated may , . mr. montagu's brother, edward, was killed at fontenoy. his sister, arabella, was married to a mr. wetenhall--a relation of the wetenhall mentioned in de grammont. "of mr. montagu, it is only remembered that he was a gentleman-like body of the _vieille cour_, and that he was usually attended by his brother john (the little john of walpole's correspondence), who was a midshipman at the age of sixty, and found his chief occupation in carrying about his brother's snuff-box" (_quarterly rev._ for _april_, , p. ).] king's college, _may_ , . dear sir,--unless i were to be married myself, i should despair ever being able to describe a wedding so well as you have done: had i known your talent before, i would have desired an epithalamium. i believe the princess[ ] will have more beauties bestowed on her by the occasional poets, than even a painter would afford her. they will cook up a new pandora, and in the bottom of the box enclose hope, that all they have said is true. a great many, out of excess of good breeding, having heard it was rude to talk latin before women, propose complimenting her in english; which she will be much the better for. i doubt most of them, instead of fearing their compositions should not be understood, should fear they should: they write they don't know what, to be read by they don't know who. you have made me a very unreasonable request, which i will answer with another as extraordinary: you desire i would burn your letters: i desire you would keep mine. i know but of one way of making what i send you useful, which is, by sending you a blank sheet: sure you would not grudge threepence for a halfpenny sheet, when you give as much for one not worth a farthing. you drew this last paragraph on you by your exordium, as you call it, and conclusion. i hope, for the future, our correspondence will run a little more glibly, with dear george, and dear harry [conway]; not as formally as if we were playing a game at chess in spain and portugal; and don horatio was to have the honour of specifying to don georgio, by an epistle, whither he would move. in one point i would have our correspondence like a game at chess; it should last all our lives--but i hear you cry check; adieu! dear george, yours ever. [footnote : augusta, younger daughter of frederic ii., duke of saxe-gotha, married ( th april, ) to frederick, prince of wales, father of george iii. in , i wrote a copy of latin verses, published in the "gratulatio acad. cantab.," on the marriage of frederick, prince of wales.--_walpole_ (_short notes_).] _fondness for old stories--reminiscences of eton, etc._ to george montagu, esq. king's college, _may_ , . dear george,--i agree with you entirely in the pleasure you take in talking over old stories, but can't say but i meet every day with new circumstances, which will be still more pleasure to me to recollect. i think at our age 'tis excess of joy, to think, while we are running over past happinesses, that it is still in our power to enjoy as great. narrations of the greatest actions of other people are tedious in comparison of the serious trifles that every man can call to mind of himself while he was learning those histories. youthful passages of life are the chippings of pitt's diamond, set into little heart-rings with mottoes; the stone itself more worth, the filings more gentle and agreeable.--alexander, at the head of the world, never tasted the true pleasure that boys of his own age have enjoyed at the head of a school. little intrigues, little schemes, and policies engage their thoughts; and, at the same time that they are laying the foundation for their middle age of life, the mimic republic they live in furnishes materials of conversation for their latter age; and old men cannot be said to be children a second time with greater truth from any one cause, than their living over again their childhood in imagination. to reflect on the season when first they felt the titillation of love, the budding passions, and the first dear object of their wishes! how unexperienced they gave credit to all the tales of romantic loves! dear george, were not the playing fields at eton food for all manner of flights? no old maid's gown, though it had been tormented into all the fashions from king james to king george, ever underwent so many transformations as those poor plains have in my idea. at first i was contented with tending a visionary flock, and sighing some pastoral name to the echo of the cascade under the bridge. how happy should i have been to have had a kingdom only for the pleasure of being driven from it, and living disguised in an humble vale! as i got further into virgil and clelia, i found myself transported from arcadia to the garden of italy; and saw windsor castle in no other view than the _capitoli immobile saxum_. i wish a committee of the house of commons may ever seem to be the senate; or a bill appear half so agreeable as a billet-doux. you see how deep you have carried me into old stories; i write of them with pleasure, but shall talk of them with more to you. i can't say i am sorry i was never quite a schoolboy: an expedition against bargemen, or a match at cricket, may be very pretty things to recollect; but, thank my stars, i can remember things that are very near as pretty. the beginning of my roman history was spent in the asylum, or conversing in egeria's hallowed grove; not in thumping and pummelling king amulius's herdsmen. i was sometimes troubled with a rough creature or two from the plough; one, that one should have thought, had worked with his head, as well as his hands, they were both so callous. one of the most agreeable circumstances i can recollect is the triumvirate, composed of yourself, charles, and your sincere friend. _wish to travel--superiority of french manners to english in their manner to ladies._ to george montagu, esq. king's college, _march_ , . dear george,--the first paragraph in my letter must be in answer to the last in yours; though i should be glad to make you the return you ask, by waiting on you myself. 'tis not in my power, from more circumstances than one, which are needless to tell you, to accompany you and lord conway to italy: you add to the pleasure it would give me, by asking it so kindly. you i am infinitely obliged to, as i was capable, my dear george, of making you forget for a minute that you don't propose stirring from the dear place you are now in. poppies indeed are the chief flowers in love nosegays, but they seldom bend towards the lady; at least not till the other flowers have been gathered. prince volscius's boots were made of love-leather, and honour leather; instead of honour, some people's are made of friendship: but since you have been so good to me as to draw on this, i can almost believe you are equipped for travelling farther than rheims. 'tis no little inducement to make me wish myself in france, that i hear gallantry is not left off there; that you may be polite, and not be thought awkward for it. you know the pretty men of the age in england use the women with no more deference than they do their coach-horses, and have not half the regard for them that they have for themselves. the little freedoms you tell me you use take off from formality, by avoiding which ridiculous extreme we are dwindled into the other barbarous one, rusticity. if you had been at paris, i should have inquired about the new spanish ambassadress, who, by the accounts we have thence, at her first audience of the queen, sat down with her at a distance that suited respect and conversation. adieu, dear george, yours most heartily. _theatres at paris--st. denis--fondness of the french for show, and for gambling--singular signs--the army the only profession for men of gentle birth--splendour of the public buildings._ to richard west, esq. paris, _april_ , n.s. .[ ] [footnote : he is here dating according to the french custom. in england the calendar was not rectified by the disuse of the "old style" till .] dear west,--you figure us in a set of pleasures, which, believe me, we do not find; cards and eating are so universal, that they absorb all variation of pleasures. the operas, indeed, are much frequented three times a week; but to me they would be a greater penance than eating maigre: their music resembles a gooseberry tart as much as it does harmony. we have not yet been at the italian playhouse; scarce any one goes there. their best amusement, and which, in some parts, beats ours, is the comedy; three or four of the actors excel any we have: but then to this nobody goes, if it is not one of the fashionable nights; and then they go, be the play good or bad--except on molière's nights, whose pieces they are quite weary of. gray and i have been at the avare to-night: i cannot at all commend their performance of it. last night i was in the place de louis le grand (a regular octagon, uniform, and the houses handsome, though not so large as golden square), to see what they reckoned one of the finest burials that ever was in france. it was the duke de tresmes, governor of paris and marshal of france. it began on foot from his palace to his parish-church, and from thence in coaches to the opposite end of paris, to be interred in the church of the celestins, where is his family-vault. about a week ago we happened to see the grave digging, as we went to see the church, which is old and small, but fuller of fine ancient monuments than any, except st. denis, which we saw on the road, and excels westminster; for the windows are all painted in mosaic, and the tombs as fresh and well preserved as if they were of yesterday. in the celestins' church is a votive column to francis ii., which says, that it is one assurance of his being immortalized, to have had the martyr mary stuart for his wife. after this long digression, i return to the burial, which was a most vile thing. a long procession of flambeaux and friars; no plumes, trophies, banners, led horses, scutcheons, or open chariots; nothing but friars, white, black, and grey, with all their trumpery. this godly ceremony began at nine at night, and did not finish till three this morning; for, each church they passed, they stopped for a hymn and holy water. by the bye, some of these choice monks, who watched the body while it lay in state, fell asleep one night, and let the tapers catch fire of the rich velvet mantle lined with ermine and powdered with gold flower-de-luces, which melted the lead coffin, and burnt off the feet of the deceased before it wakened them. the french love show; but there is a meanness reigns through it all. at the house where i stood to see this procession, the room was hung with crimson damask and gold, and the windows were mended in ten or a dozen places with paper. at dinner they give you three courses; but a third of the dishes is patched up with salads, butter, puff-paste, or some such miscarriage of a dish. none, but germans, wear fine clothes; but their coaches are tawdry enough for the wedding of cupid and psyche. you would laugh extremely at their signs: some live at the y grec, some at venus's toilette, and some at the sucking cat. you would not easily guess their notions of honour: i'll tell you one: it is very dishonourable for any gentleman not to be in the army, or in the king's service as they call it, and it is no dishonour to keep public gaming-houses: there are at least a hundred and fifty people of the first quality in paris who live by it. you may go into their houses at all hours of the night, and find hazard, pharaoh, &c. the men who keep the hazard-table at the duke de gesvres' pay him twelve guineas each night for the privilege. even the princesses of the blood are dirty enough to have shares in the banks kept at their houses. we have seen two or three of them; but they are not young, nor remarkable but for wearing their red of a deeper dye than other women, though all use it extravagantly. the weather is still so bad, that we have not made any excursions to see versailles and the environs, not even walked in the tuileries; but we have seen almost everything else that is worth seeing in paris, though that is very considerable. they beat us vastly in buildings, both in number and magnificence. the tombs of richelieu and mazarin at the sorbonne and the college de quatre nations are wonderfully fine, especially the former. we have seen very little of the people themselves, who are not inclined to be propitious to strangers, especially if they do not play and speak the language readily. there are many english here: lord holdernesse, conway and clinton, and lord george bentinck; mr. brand, offley, frederic, frampton, bonfoy, &c. sir john cotton's son and a mr. vernon of cambridge passed through paris last week. we shall stay here about a fortnight longer, and then go to rheims with mr. conway for two or three months. when you have nothing else to do, we shall be glad to hear from you; and any news. if we did not remember there was such a place as england, we should know nothing of it: the french never mention it, unless it happens to be in one of their proverbs. adieu! yours ever. to-morrow we go to the cid. they have no farces, but _petites pièces_ like our 'devil to pay.' _magnificence of versailles--the chartreux relics._ to richard west, esq. from paris, . dear west,--i should think myself to blame not to try to divert you, when you tell me i can. from the air of your letter you seem to want amusement, that is, you want spirits. i would recommend to you certain little employments that i know of, and that belong to you, but that i imagine bodily exercise is more suitable to your complaint. if you would promise me to read them in the temple garden, i would send you a little packet of plays and pamphlets that we have made up, and intend to dispatch to "dick's"[ ] the first opportunity.--stand by, clear the way, make room for the pompous appearance of versailles le grand!----but no: it fell so short of my idea of it, mine, that i have resigned to gray the office of writing its panegyric. he likes it. they say i am to like it better next sunday; when the sun is to shine, the king is to be fine, the water-works are to play, and the new knights of the holy ghost are to be installed! ever since wednesday, the day we were there, we have done nothing but dispute about it. they say, we did not see it to advantage, that we ran through the apartments, saw the garden _en passant_, and slubbered over trianon. i say, we saw nothing. however, we had time to see that the great front is a lumber of littleness, composed of black brick, stuck full of bad old busts, and fringed with gold rails. the rooms are all small, except the great gallery, which is noble, but totally wainscoted with looking-glass. the garden is littered with statues and fountains, each of which has its tutelary deity. in particular, the elementary god of fire solaces himself in one. in another, enceladus, in lieu of a mountain, is overwhelmed with many waters. there are avenues of water-pots, who disport themselves much in squirting up cascadelins. in short, 'tis a garden for a great child. such was louis quatorze, who is here seen in his proper colours, where he commanded in person, unassisted by his armies and generals, and left to the pursuit of his own puerile ideas of glory. [footnote : a celebrated coffee-house, near the temple gate in fleet street, where quarto poems and pamphlets were taken in.] we saw last week a place of another kind, and which has more the air of what it would be, than anything i have yet met with: it was the convent of the chartreux. all the conveniences, or rather (if there was such a word) all the _adaptments_ are assembled here, that melancholy, meditation, selfish devotion, and despair would require. but yet 'tis pleasing. soften the terms, and mellow the uncouth horror that reigns here, but a little, and 'tis a charming solitude. it stands on a large space of ground, is old and irregular. the chapel is gloomy: behind it, through some dark passages, you pass into a large obscure hall, which looks like a combination-chamber for some hellish council. the large cloister surrounds their burying-ground. the cloisters are very narrow and very long, and let into the cells, which are built like little huts detached from each other. we were carried into one, where lived a middle-aged man not long initiated into the order. he was extremely civil, and called himself dom victor. we have promised to visit him often. their habit is all white: but besides this he was infinitely clean in his person; and his apartment and garden, which he keeps and cultivates without any assistance, was neat to a degree. he has four little rooms, furnished in the prettiest manner, and hung with good prints. one of them is a library, and another a gallery. he has several canary-birds disposed in a pretty manner in breeding-cages. in his garden was a bed of good tulips in bloom, flowers and fruit-trees, and all neatly kept. they are permitted at certain hours to talk to strangers, but never to one another, or to go out of their convent. but what we chiefly went to see was the small cloister, with the history of st. bruno, their founder, painted by le soeur. it consists of twenty-two pictures, the figures a good deal less than life. but sure they are amazing! i don't know what raphael may be in rome, but these pictures excel all i have seen in paris and england. the figure of the dead man who spoke at his burial, contains all the strongest and horridest ideas, of ghastliness, hypocrisy discovered, and the height of damnation, pain and cursing. a benedictine monk, who was there at the same time, said to me of this picture: _c'est une fable, mais on la croyoit autrefois._ another, who showed me relics in one of their churches, expressed as much ridicule for them. the pictures i have been speaking of are ill preserved, and some of the finest heads defaced, which was done at first by a rival of le soeur's. adieu! dear west, take care of your health; and some time or other we will talk over all these things with more pleasure than i have had in seeing them. yours ever. _the carnival--the florentines civil, good-natured, and fond of the english--a curious challenge._ to richard west, esq. florence, _february_ , , n.s. well, west, i have found a little unmasqued moment to write to you; but for this week past i have been so muffled up in my domino, that i have not had the command of my elbows. but what have you been doing all the mornings? could you not write then?--no, then i was masqued too; i have done nothing but slip out of my domino into bed, and out of bed into my domino. the end of the carnival is frantic, bacchanalian; all the morn one makes parties in masque to the shops and coffee-houses, and all the evening to the operas and balls. _then i have danced, good gods! how have i danced!_ the italians are fond to a degree of our country dances: _cold and raw_ they only know by the tune; _blowzybella_ is almost italian, and _buttered peas_ is _pizelli al buro_. there are but three days more; but the two last are to have balls all the morning at the fine unfinished palace of the strozzi; and the tuesday night a masquerade after supper: they sup first, to eat _gras_, and not encroach upon ash-wednesday. what makes masquerading more agreeable here than in england, is the great deference that is showed to the disguised. here they do not catch at those little dirty opportunities of saying any ill-natured thing they know of you, do not abuse you because they may, or talk gross bawdy to a woman of quality. i found the other day, by a play of etheridge's, that we have had a sort of carnival even since the reformation; 'tis in _she would if she could_, they talk of going a-mumming in shrove-tide.-- after talking so much of diversions, i fear you will attribute to them the fondness i own i contract for florence; but it has so many other charms, that i shall not want excuses for my taste. the freedom of the carnival has given me opportunities to make several acquaintances; and if i have not found them refined, learned, polished, like some other cities, yet they are civil, good-natured, and fond of the english. their little partiality for themselves, opposed to the violent vanity of the french, makes them very amiable in my eyes. i can give you a comical instance of their great prejudice about nobility; it happened yesterday. while we were at dinner at mr. mann's, word was brought by his secretary, that a cavalier demanded audience of him upon an affair of honour. gray and i flew behind the curtain of the door. an elderly gentleman, whose attire was not certainly correspondent to the greatness of his birth, entered, and informed the british minister, that one martin, an english painter, had left a challenge for him at his house, for having said martin was no gentleman. he would by no means have spoke of the duel before the transaction of it, but that his honour, his blood, his &c. would never permit him to fight with one who was no cavalier; which was what he came to inquire of his excellency. we laughed loud laughs, but unheard: his fright or his nobility had closed his ears. but mark the sequel: the instant he was gone, my very english curiosity hurried me out of the gate st. gallo; 'twas the place and hour appointed. we had not been driving about above ten minutes, but out popped a little figure, pale but cross, with beard unshaved and hair uncombed, a slouched hat, and a considerable red cloak, in which was wrapped, under his arm, the fatal sword that was to revenge the highly injured mr. martin, painter and defendant. i darted my head out of the coach, just ready to say, "your servant, mr. martin," and talk about the architecture of the triumphal arch that was building there; but he would not know me, and walked off. we left him to wait for an hour, to grow very cold and very valiant the more it grew past the hour of appointment. we were figuring all the poor creature's huddle of thoughts, and confused hopes of victory or fame, of his unfinished pictures, or his situation upon bouncing into the next world. you will think us strange creatures; but 'twas a pleasant sight, as we knew the poor painter was safe. i have thought of it since, and am inclined to believe that nothing but two english could have been capable of such a jaunt. i remember, 'twas reported in london, that the plague was at a house in the city, and all the town went to see it. i have this instant received your letter. lord! i am glad i thought of those parallel passages, since it made you translate them. 'tis excessively near the original; and yet, i don't know, 'tis very easy too.--it snows here a little to-night, but it never lies but on the mountains. adieu! yours ever. p.s.--what is the history of the theatres this winter? _herculaneum--search should be made for other submerged cities--quotations from statius._ to richard west, esq. naples, _june_ , , n.s. dear west,--one hates writing descriptions that are to be found in every book of travels; but we have seen something to-day that i am sure you never read of, and perhaps never heard of. have you ever heard of a subterraneous town? a whole roman town, with all its edifices, remaining under ground? don't fancy the inhabitants buried it there to save it from the goths: they were buried with it themselves; which is a caution we are not told that they ever took. you remember in titus's time there were several cities destroyed by an eruption of vesuvius, attended with an earthquake. well, this was one of them, not very considerable, and then called herculaneum. above it has since been built portici, about three miles from naples, where the king has a villa. this underground city is perhaps one of the noblest curiosities that ever has been discovered. it was found out by chance, about a year and half ago. they began digging, they found statues; they dug further, they found more. since that they have made a very considerable progress, and find continually. you may walk the compass of a mile; but by the misfortune of the modern town being overhead, they are obliged to proceed with great caution, lest they destroy both one and t'other. by this occasion the path is very narrow, just wide enough and high enough for one man to walk upright. they have hollowed, as they found it easiest to work, and have carried their streets not exactly where were the ancient ones, but sometimes before houses, sometimes through them. you would imagine that all the fabrics were crushed together; on the contrary, except some columns, they have found all the edifices standing upright in their proper situation. there is one inside of a temple quite perfect, with the middle arch, two columns, and two pilasters. it is built of brick plastered over, and painted with architecture: almost all the insides of the houses are in the same manner; and, what is very particular, the general ground of all the painting is red. besides this temple, they make out very plainly an amphitheatre: the stairs, of white marble, and the seats are very perfect; the inside was painted in the same colour with the private houses, and great part cased with white marble. they have found among other things some fine statues, some human bones, some rice, medals, and a few paintings extremely fine. these latter are preferred to all the ancient paintings that have ever been discovered. we have not seen them yet, as they are kept in the king's apartment, whither all these curiosities are transplanted; and 'tis difficult to see them--but we shall. i forgot to tell you, that in several places the beams of the houses remain, but burnt to charcoal; so little damaged that they retain visibly the grain of the wood, but upon touching crumble to ashes. what is remarkable, there are no other marks or appearance of fire, but what are visible on these beams. there might certainly be collected great light from this reservoir of antiquities, if a man of learning had the inspection of it; if he directed the working, and would make a journal of the discoveries. but i believe there is no judicious choice made of directors. there is nothing of the kind known in the world; i mean a roman city entire of that age, and that has not been corrupted with modern repairs. besides scrutinising this very carefully, i should be inclined to search for the remains of the other towns that were partners with this in the general ruin.[ ] 'tis certainly an advantage to the learned world, that this has been laid up so long. most of the discoveries in rome were made in a barbarous age, where they only ransacked the ruins in quest of treasure, and had no regard to the form and being of the building; or to any circumstances that might give light into its use and history. i shall finish this long account with a passage which gray has observed in statius, and which directly pictures out this latent city:-- haec ego chalcidicis ad te, marcelle, sonabam littoribus, fractas ubi vestius egerit iras, aemula trinacriis volvens incendia flammis. mira fides! credetne virûm ventura propago, cum segetes iterum, cum jam haec deserta virebunt, infra urbes populosque premi? sylv. lib. iv. epist. . adieu, my dear west! and believe me yours ever. [footnote : it was known from the account of pliny that other towns had been destroyed by the same eruption as herculaneum, and eight years after the date of this letter some fresh excavations led to the discovery of pompeii. matthews, in his "diary of an invalid," describes both, and his account explains why pompeii, though the smaller town, presents more attractions to the scholar or the antiquarian. "on our way home we explored herculaneum, which scarcely repays the labour. this town is filled up with lava, and with a cement caused by the large mixture of water with the shower of earth and ashes which destroyed it; and it is choked up as completely as if molten lead had been poured into it. besides, it is forty feet below the surface, and another town is now built over it.... pompeii, on the contrary, was destroyed by a shower of cinders in which there was a much less quantity of water. it lay for centuries only twelve feet below the surface, and, these cinders being easily removed, the town has been again restored to the light of day" (vol. i. p. ).] _danger of malaria--roman catholic relics--"admiral hosier's ghost"--contest for the popedom._ to the hon. h.s. conway. rÈ di cofano, vulg. radicofani, _july_ , , n.s. you will wonder, my dear hal, to find me on the road from rome: why, intend i did to stay for a new popedom, but the old eminences are cross and obstinate, and will not choose one, the holy ghost does not know when. there is a horrid thing called the malaria, that comes to rome every summer, and kills one, and i did not care for being killed so far from christian burial. we have been jolted to death; my servants let us come without springs to the chaise, and we are wore threadbare: to add to our disasters, i have sprained my ancle, and have brought it along, laid upon a little box of baubles that i have bought for presents in england. perhaps i may pick you out some little trifle there, but don't depend upon it; you are a disagreeable creature, and may be i shall not care for you. though i am so tired in this devil of a place, yet i have taken it into my head, that it is like hamilton's bawn,[ ] and i must write to you. 'tis the top of a black barren mountain, a vile little town at the foot of an old citadel: yet this, know you, was the residence of one of the three kings that went to christ's birthday; his name was alabaster, abarasser, or some such thing; the other two were kings, one of the east, the other of cologn. 'tis this of cofano, who was represented in an ancient painting, found in the palatine mount, now in the possession of dr. mead; he was crowned by augustus. well, but about writing--what do you think i write with? nay, with a pen; there was never a one to be found in the whole circumference _but one_, and that was in the possession of the governor, and had been used time out of mind to write the parole with: i was forced to send to borrow it. it was sent me under the conduct of a serjeant and two swiss, with desire to return it when i should have done with it. 'tis a curiosity, and worthy to be laid up with the relics which we have just been seeing in a small hovel of capucins on the side of the hill, and which were all brought by his majesty from jerusalem. among other things of great sanctity there is a set of gnashing of teeth, the grinders very entire; a bit of the worm that never dies, preserved in spirits; a crow of st. peter's cock, very useful against easter; the crisping and curling, frizzling and frowncing of mary magdalen, which she cut off on growing devout. the good man that showed us all these commodities was got into such a train of calling them the blessed this, and the blessed that, that at last he showed us a bit of the blessed fig-tree that christ cursed. [footnote : hamilton's bawn is an old building near richhill, in the county of armagh, the subject of one of swift's burlesque poems.] florence, _july_ . my dear harry,--we are come hither, and i have received another letter from you with "hosier's ghost."[ ] your last put me in pain for you, when you talked of going to ireland; but now i find your brother and sister go with you, i am not much concerned. should i be? you have but to say, for my feelings are extremely at your service to dispose as you please. let us see: you are to come back to stand for some place; that will be about april. 'tis a sort of thing i should do, too; and then we should see one another, and that would be charming: but it is a sort of thing i have no mind to do; and then we shall not see one another, unless you would come hither--but that you cannot do: nay, i would not have you, for then i shall be gone.--so, there are many _ifs_ that just signify nothing at all. return i must sooner than i shall like. i am happy here to a degree. i'll tell you my situation. i am lodged with mr. mann, the best of creatures. i have a terreno all to myself, with an open gallery on the arno, where i am now writing to you. over against me is the famous gallery: and, on either hand, two fair bridges. is not this charming and cool? the air is so serene, and so secure, that one sleeps with all the windows and doors thrown open to the river, and only covered with a slight gauze to keep away the gnats. lady pomfret has a charming conversation once a week. she has taken a vast palace and a vast garden, which is vastly commode, especially to the cicisbeo-part of mankind, who have free indulgence to wander in pairs about the arbours. you know her daughters: lady sophia is still, nay she must be, the beauty she was: lady charlotte is much improved, and is the cleverest girl in the world; speaks the purest tuscan, like any florentine. the princess craon has a constant pharaoh and supper every night, where one is quite at one's ease. i am going into the country with her and the prince for a little while, to a villa of the great duke's. the people are good-humoured here and easy; and what makes me pleased with them, they are pleased with me. one loves to find people care for one, when they can have no view in it. [footnote : "admiral hosier's ghost" is the title of a ballad by glover on the death of admiral hosier, a distinguished admiral, who had been sent with a squadron to blockade the spanish treasure-ships in porto bello, but was prohibited from attacking them in the harbour. he died in , according to the account that the poet adopted, of mortification at the inaction to which his orders compelled him; but according to another statement, more trustworthy if less poetical, of fever.] you see how glad i am to have reasons for not returning; i wish i had no better. as to "hosier's ghost," i think it very easy, and consequently pretty; but, from the ease, should never have guessed it glover's. i delight in your, "the patriots cry it up, and the courtiers cry it down, and the hawkers cry it up and down," and your laconic history of the king and sir robert, on going to hanover, and turning out the duke of argyle. the epigram, too, you sent me on the same occasion is charming. unless i sent you back news that you and others send me, i can send you none. i have left the conclave, which is the only stirring thing in this part of the world, except the child that the queen of naples is to be delivered of in august. there is no likelihood the conclave will end, unless the messages take effect which 'tis said the imperial and french ministers have sent to their respective courts for leave to quit the corsini for the albani faction: otherwise there will never be a pope. corsini has lost the only one he could have ventured to make pope, and him he designed; 'twas cenci, a relation of the corsini's mistress. the last morning corsini made him rise, stuffed a dish of chocolate down his throat, and would carry him to the scrutiny. the poor old creature went, came back, and died. i am sorry to have lost the sight of the pope's coronation, but i might have staid for seeing it till i had been old enough to be pope myself.[ ] [footnote : the contest was caused by the death of clement xii. the successful candidate was benedict xiv.] harry, what luck the chancellor has! first, indeed, to be in himself so great a man; but then in accident: he is made chief justice and peer, when talbot is made chancellor and peer. talbot dies in a twelvemonth, and leaves him the seals at an age when others are scarce made solicitors:--then marries his son into one of the first families of britain, obtains a patent for a marquisate and eight thousand pounds a year after the duke of kent's death: the duke dies in a fortnight, and leaves them all! people talk of fortune's wheel, that is always rolling: troth, my lord hardwicke has overtaken her wheel, and rolled away with it.... yours ever. _a florentine wedding--addison's descriptions are borrowed from books--a song of bondelmonti's, with a latin version by gray, and an english one by the writer._ to richard west, esq. florence, _oct._ , , n.s. dear west,--t'other night as we (you know who _we_ are) were walking on the charming bridge, just before going to a wedding assembly, we said, "lord, i wish, just as we are got into the room, they would call us out, and say, west is arrived! we would make him dress instantly, and carry him back to the entertainment. how he would stare and wonder at a thousand things, that no longer strike us as odd!" would not you? one agreed that you should have come directly by sea from dover, and be set down at leghorn, without setting foot in any other foreign town, and so land at _us_, in all your first full amaze; for you are to know, that astonishment rubs off violently; we did not cry out lord! half so much at rome as at calais, which to this hour i look upon as one of the most surprising cities in the universe. my dear child, what if you were to take this little sea-jaunt? one would recommend sir john norris's convoy to you, but one should be laughed at now for supposing that he is ever to sail beyond torbay.[ ] the italians take torbay for an english town in the hands of the spaniards, after the fashion of gibraltar, and imagine 'tis a wonderful strong place, by our fleet's having retired from before it so often, and so often returned. [footnote : sir john norris was one of the most gallant and skilful seamen of his time; but an expedition in which he had had the command had lately proved fruitless. he had been instructed to cruise about the bay of biscay, in the hope of intercepting some of the spanish treasure-ships; but the weather had been so uninterruptedly stormy that he had been compelled to return to port without having even seen an enemy. the following lines were addressed to him upon this occasion: homeward, oh! bend thy course; the seas are rough; to the land's end who sails, has sailed enough.] we went to this wedding that i told you of; 'twas a charming feast: a large palace finely illuminated; there were all the beauties, all the jewels, and all the sugar-plums of florence. servants loaded with great chargers full of comfits heap the tables with them, the women fall on with both hands, and stuff their pockets and every creek and corner about them. you would be as much amazed at us as at anything you saw: instead of being deep in the liberal arts, and being in the gallery every morning, as i thought of course to be sure i would be, we are in all the idleness and amusements of the town. for me, i am grown so lazy, and so tired of seeing sights, that, though i have been at florence six months, i have not seen leghorn, pisa, lucca, or pistoia; nay, not so much as one of the great duke's villas. i have contracted so great an aversion to inns and post-chaises, and have so absolutely lost all curiosity, that, except the towns in the straight road to great britain, i shall scarce see a jot more of a foreign land; and trust me, when i return, i will not visit welsh mountains, like mr. williams. after mount cenis, the boccheto, the giogo, radicofani, and the appian way, one has mighty little hunger after travelling. i shall be mighty apt to set up my staff at hyde-park-corner: the alehouseman there at hercules's pillars[ ] was certainly returned from his travels into foreign parts. [footnote : the sign of the hercules' pillars remained in piccadilly till very lately. it was situated on part of the ground now [ ] occupied by the houses of mr. drummond smith and his brother.--miss berry. that is, on the space between hamilton place and apsley house. it was the inn mentioned in fielding's "tom jones," and was notorious as a favourite resort of the marquis of granby.] now i'll answer your questions. i have made no discoveries in ancient or modern arts. mr. addison travelled through the poets, and not through italy; for all his ideas are borrowed from the descriptions, and not from the reality. he saw places as they were, not as they are.[ ] i am very well acquainted with doctor cocchi;[ ] he is a good sort of man, rather than a great man; he is a plain honest creature, with quiet knowledge, but i dare say all the english have told you, he has a very particular understanding: i really don't believe they meant to impose on you, for they thought so. as to bondelmonti, he is much less; he is a low mimic; the brightest cast of his parts attains to the composition of a sonnet: he talks irreligion with english boys, sentiment with my sister [lady walpole], and bad french with any one that will hear him. i will transcribe you a little song that he made t'other day; 'tis pretty enough; gray turned it into latin, and i into english; you will honour him highly by putting it into french, and ashton into greek. here 'tis. spesso amor sotto la forma d'amistà ride, e s'asconde; poi si mischia, e si confonde con lo sdegno e col rancor. in pietade ei si trasforma, par trastullo e par dispetto, ma nel suo diverso aspetto, sempre egli è l'istesso amor. risit amicitiae interdùm velatus amictu, et benè compositâ veste fefeliit amor: mox irae assumpsit cultus faciemque minantem, inque odium versus, versus et in lacrymas: sudentem fuge, nec lacrymanti aut crede furenti; idem est dissimili semper in ore deus. love often in the comely mien of friendship fancies to be seen; soon again he shifts his dress, and wears disdain and rancour's face. to gentle pity then he changes; thro' wantonness, thro' piques he ranges; but in whatever shape he move, he's still himself, and still is love. [footnote : compare letter to zouch, march th, . fielding says ("voyage to lisbon") that addison, in his "travels," is to be looked upon rather as a commentator on the classics, than as a writer of travels.] [footnote : antonio cocchi, a learned physician and author at florence, a particular friend of mr. mann.--walpole. he died in .] see how we trifle! but one can't pass one's youth too amusingly; for one must grow old, and that in england; two most serious circumstances either of which makes people grey in the twinkling of a bed-staff; for know you, there is not a country upon earth where there are so many old fools and so few young ones. now i proceed with my answers. i made but small collections, and have only bought some bronzes and medals, a few busts, and two or three pictures; one of my busts is to be mentioned; 'tis the famous vespasian in touchstone, reckoned the best in rome, except the caracalla of the farnese: i gave but twenty-two pounds for it at cardinal ottoboni's sale. one of my medals is as great a curiosity: 'tis of alexander severus, with the amphitheatre in brass; this reverse is extant on medals of his, but mine is a _medagliuncino_, or small medallion, and the only one with this reverse known in the world: 'twas found by a peasant while i was in rome, and sold by him for sixpence to an antiquarian, to whom i paid for it seven guineas and a half; but to virtuosi 'tis worth any sum. as to tartini's[ ] musical compositions, ask gray; i know but little in music. [footnote : giuseppe tartini, of padua, the celebrated composer of the devil's sonata: in which he attempted to reproduce an air which he dreamt that satan had played to him while he was asleep; but, in his own opinion, he failed so entirely, that he declared that if he had any other means of livelihood he would break his violin and give up music.] but for the academy, i am not of it, but frequently in company with it: 'tis all disjointed. madame ----, who, though a learned lady, has not lost her modesty and character, is extremely scandalised with the other two dames, especially with moll worthless [lady mary wortley], who knows no bounds. she is at rivalry with lady w[alpole] for a certain mr. ----, whom perhaps you knew at oxford. if you did not, i'll tell you: he is a grave young man by temper, and a rich one by constitution; a shallow creature by nature, but a wit by the grace of our women here, whom he deals with as of old with the oxford toasts. he fell into sentiments with my lady w[alpole] and was happy to catch her at platonic love: but as she seldom stops there, the poor man will be frightened out of his senses when she shall break the matter to him; for he never dreamt that her purposes were so naught. lady mary is so far gone, that to get him from the mouth of her antagonist she literally took him out to dance country dances last night at a formal ball, where there was no measure kept in laughing at her old, foul, tawdry, painted, plastered personage. she played at pharaoh two or three times at princess craon's, where she cheats horse and foot. she is really entertaining: i have been reading her works, which she lends out in manuscript, but they are too womanish: i like few of her performances. i forgot to tell you a good answer of lady pomfret to mr. ----, who asked her if she did not approve platonic love? "lord, sir," says she, "i am sure any one that knows me never heard that i had any love but one, and there sit two proofs of it," pointing to her two daughters. so i have given you a sketch of our employments, and answered your questions, and will with pleasure as many more as you have about you. adieu! was ever such a long letter? but 'tis nothing to what i shall have to say to you. i shall scold you for never telling us any news, public or private, no deaths, marriages, or mishaps; no account of new books: oh, you are abominable! i could find it in my heart to hate you, if i did not love you so well; but we will quarrel now, that we may be the better friends when we meet: there is no danger of that, is there? good-night, whether friend or foe! i am most sincerely yours. _debate on pulteney's motion for a committee on papers relating to the war--speeches of pulteney, pitt, sir r. walpole, sir w. george, etc.--smallness of the ministerial majority._ to sir horace mann.[ ] [footnote : sir h. mann was an early friend of walpole; and was minister at florence from - .] [illustration: sir horace mann.] _friday, jan._ , . don't wonder that i missed writing to you yesterday, my constant day: you will pity me when you hear that i was shut up in the house of commons till one in the morning. i came away more dead than alive, and was forced to leave sir r. at supper with my brothers: he was all alive and in spirits.[ ] he says he is younger than me, and indeed i think so, in spite of his forty years more. my head aches to-night, but we rose early; and if i don't write to-night, when shall i find a moment to spare? now you want to know what we did last night; stay, i will tell you presently in its place: it was well, and of infinite consequence--so far i tell you now. [footnote : sir robert wilmot also, in a letter to the duke of devonshire, written on the th, says, "sir robert was to-day observed to be more naturally gay and full of spirits than he has been for some time past."] our recess finished last monday, and never at school did i enjoy holidays so much--but, _les voilà finis jusqu'au printems_! tuesday (for you see i write you an absolute journal) we sat on a scotch election, a double return; their man was hume campbell[ ], lord marchmont's brother, lately made solicitor to the prince, for being as troublesome, as violent, and almost as able as his brother. they made a great point of it, and gained so many of our votes, that at ten at night we were forced to give it up without dividing. sandys, who loves persecution, _even unto death_, moved to punish the sheriff; and as we dared not divide, they ordered him into custody, where by this time, i suppose, sandys has eaten him. [footnote : hume campbell, twin brother of hugh, third earl of marchmont, the friend of pope, and one of his executors. they were sons of alexander, the second earl, who had quarrelled with sir robert walpole at the time of the excise scheme in . sir robert, in consequence, prevented him from being re-elected one of the sixteen representative scotch peers in ; in requital for which, the old earl's two sons became the bitterest opponents of the minister. they were both men of considerable talents; extremely similar in their characters and dispositions, and so much so in their outward appearance, that it was very difficult to know them apart.] on wednesday sir robert godschall, the lord mayor, presented the merchant's petition, signed by three hundred of them, and drawn up by _leonidas_ glover.[ ] this is to be heard next wednesday. this gold-chain came into parliament, cried up for his parts, but proves so dull, one would think he chewed opium. earle says, "i have heard an oyster speak as well twenty times."... [footnote : mr. glover, a london merchant, was the author of a poem entitled "leonidas"; of a tragedy, "boadicea"; and of the ode on "admiral hosier's ghost," which is mentioned in the letter to conway at p. .] on this thursday, of which i was telling you, at three o'clock, mr. pulteney rose up, and moved for a secret committee of twenty-one. this inquisition, this council of ten, was to sit and examine whatever persons and papers they should please, and to meet when and where they pleased. he protested much on its not being intended against _any person_, but merely to give the king advice, and on this foot they fought it till ten at night, when lord perceval blundered out what they had been cloaking with so much art, and declared that he should vote for it as a committee of accusation. sir robert immediately rose, and protested that he should not have spoken, but for what he had heard last; but that now, he must take it to himself. he pourtrayed the malice of the opposition, who, for twenty years, had not been able to touch him, and were now reduced to this infamous shift. he defied them to accuse him, and only desired that if they should, it might be in an open and fair manner; desired no favour, but to be acquainted with his accusation. he spoke of mr. dodington, who had called his administration infamous, as of a person of great self-mortification, who, for sixteen years, had condescended to bear part of the odium. for mr. pulteney, who had just spoken a second time, sir r. said, he had begun the debate with great calmness, but give him his due, he had made amends for it in the end. in short, never was innocence so triumphant! there were several glorious speeches on both sides; mr. pulteney's two, w. pitt's [chatham's] and george grenville's, sir robert's, sir w. yonge's, harry fox's [lord holland's], mr. chute's, and the attorney-general's [sir dudley ryder]. my friend coke [lovel], for the first time, spoke vastly well, and mentioned how great sir robert's character is abroad. sir francis dashwood replied that he had found quite the reverse from mr. coke, and that foreigners always spoke with contempt of the chevalier de walpole. this was going too far, and he was called to order, but got off well enough, by saying, that he knew it was contrary to rule to name any member, but that he only mentioned it as spoken by an impertinent frenchman. but of all speeches, none ever was so full of wit as mr. pulteney's last. he said, "i have heard this committee represented as a most dreadful spectre; it has been likened to all terrible things; it has been likened to the king; to the inquisition; it will be a committee of safety; it is a committee of danger; i don't know what it is to be! one gentleman, i think, called it _a cloud_! (this was the attorney) _a cloud_! i remember hamlet takes lord polonius by the hand shows him _a cloud_, and then asks him if he does not think it is like a whale." well, in short, at eleven at night we divided, and threw out this famous committee by to , the greatest number that ever was in the house, and the greatest number that ever _lost_ a question.[ ] [footnote : lord stanhope ("history of england," i. ) gives a long account of this debate, mainly derived from this letter.] it was a most shocking sight to see the sick and dead brought in on both sides! men on crutches, and sir william gordon from his bed, with a blister on his head, and flannel hanging out from under his wig. i could scarce pity him for his ingratitude. the day before the westminster petition, sir charles wager gave his son a ship, and the next day the father came down and voted against him. the son has since been cast away; but they concealed it from the father, that he might not absent himself. however, as we have our good-natured men too on our side, one of his own countrymen went and told him of it in the house. the old man, who looked like lazarus at his resuscitation, bore it with great resolution, and said, he knew _why_ he was told of it, but when he thought his country in danger, he would not go away. as he is so near death, that it is indifferent to him whether he died two thousand years ago or to-morrow, it is unlucky for him not to have lived when such insensibility would have been a roman virtue. there are no arts, no menaces, which the opposition do not practise. they have threatened one gentleman to have a reversion cut off from his son, unless he will vote with them. to totness there came a letter to the mayor from the prince, and signed by two of his lords, to recommend a candidate in opposition to the solicitor-general [strange]. the mayor sent the letter to sir robert. they have turned the scotch to the best account. there is a young oswald, who had engaged to sir r. but has voted against us. sir r. sent a friend to reproach him; the moment the gentleman who had engaged for him came into the room, oswald said, "you had like to have led me into a fine error! did you not tell me that sir r. would have the majority?" when the debate was over, mr. pulteney owned that he had never heard so fine a debate on our side; and said to sir robert, "well, nobody can do what you can!" "yes," replied sir r., "yonge did better." mr. pulteney answered, "it was fine, but not of that weight with what you said." they all allow it; and now their plan is to persuade sir robert to retire with honour. all that evening there was a report about the town, that he and my uncle [_old_ horace] were to be sent to the tower, and people hired windows in the city to see them pass by--but for this time i believe we shall not exhibit so historical a parade.... sir thomas robinson [long] is at last named to the government of barbadoes; he has long prevented its being asked for, by declaring that he had the promise of it. luckily for him, lord lincoln liked his house, and procured him this government on condition of hiring it. i have mentioned lord perceval's speeches; he has a set who has a rostrum at his house, and harangue there. a gentleman who came thither one evening was refused, but insisting that he was engaged to come, "oh, sir," said the porter, "what are you one of those who play at members of parliament?"... _ranelagh gardens opened--garrick, "a wine-merchant turned player"--defeat of the indemnity bill._ to sir horace mann. downing street, _may_ , . to-day calls itself may the th, as you perceive by the date; but i am writing to you by the fire-side, instead of going to vauxhall. if we have one warm day in seven, "we bless our stars, and think it luxury." and yet we have as much water-works and fresco diversions, as if we lay ten degrees nearer warmth. two nights ago ranelagh-gardens were opened at chelsea; the prince, princess, duke, much nobility, and much mob besides, were there. there is a vast amphitheatre, finely gilt, painted, and illuminated, into which everybody that loves eating, drinking, staring, or crowding, is admitted for twelvepence. the building and disposition of the garden cost sixteen thousand pounds. twice a-week there are to be ridottos, at guinea-tickets, for which you are to have a supper and music. i was there last night, but did not find the joy of it. vauxhall is a little better; for the garden is pleasanter, and one goes by water. our operas are almost over; there were but three-and-forty people last night in the pit and boxes. there is a little simple farce at drury lane, called "miss lucy in town," in which mrs. clive mimics the muscovita admirably, and beard, amorevoli tolerably. but all the run is now after garrick, a wine-merchant, who is turned player, at goodman's fields. he plays all parts, and is a very good mimic. his acting i have seen, and may say to you, who will not tell it again here, i see nothing wonderful in it; but it is heresy to say so: the duke of argyll says, he is superior to betterton. now i talk of players, tell mr. chute, that his friend bracegirdle breakfasted with me this morning. as she went out, and wanted her clogs, she turned to me, and said, "i remember at the playhouse, they used to call mrs. oldfield's chair! mrs. barry's clogs! and mrs. bracegirdle's pattens!" i did, indeed, design the letter of this post for mr. chute; but i have received two such charming long ones from you of the th and th of may (n.s.), that i must answer them, and beg him to excuse me till another post; so must the prince [craon], princess, the grifona, and countess galli. for the princess's letter, i am not sure i shall answer it so soon, for hitherto i have not been able to read above every third word; however, you may thank her as much as if i understood it all. i am very happy that _mes bagatelles_ (for i still insist they were so) pleased. you, my dear child, are very good to be pleased with the snuff-box. i am much obliged to the superior _lumières_ of old sarasin about the indian ink: if she meant the black, i am sorry to say i had it into the bargain with the rest of the japan: for coloured, it is only a curiosity, because it has seldom been brought over. i remember sir hans sloane was the first who ever had any of it, and would on no account give my mother the least morsel of it. she afterwards got a good deal of it from china; and since that, more has come over; but it is even less valuable than the other, for we never could tell how to use it; however, let it make its figure. i am sure you hate me all this time, for chatting about so many trifles, and telling you no politics. i own to you, i am so wearied, so worn with them, that i scarce know how to turn my hand to them; but you shall know all i know. i told you of the meeting at the fountain tavern: pulteney had promised to be there, but was not; nor carteret. as the lords had put off the debate on the indemnity bill,[ ] nothing material passed; but the meeting was very jacobite. yesterday the bill came on, and lord carteret took the lead against it, and about seven in the evening it was flung out by almost two to one, to , and proxies to . to-day we had a motion by the new lord hillsborough (for the father is just dead), and seconded by lord barrington, to examine the lords' votes, to see what was become of the bill; this is the form. the chancellor of the exchequer, and all the new ministry, were with us against it; but they carried it, to . it is to be reported to-morrow, and as we have notice, we may possibly throw it out; else they will hurry on to a breach with the lords. pulteney was not in the house: he was riding the other day, and met the king's coach; endeavouring to turn out of the way, his horse started, flung him, and fell upon him: he is much bruised; but not at all dangerously. on this occasion, there was an epigram fixed to a list, which i will explain to you afterwards: it is not known who wrote it, but it was addressed to him: thy horse does things by halves, like thee: thou, with irresolution, hurt'st friend and foe, thyself and me, the king and constitution. [footnote : a previous letter describes this as a bill "to indemnify all persons who should accuse themselves of any crime, provided they accuse lord orford [sir r.w.]." it was carried in the house of commons by to , but, as this letter mentions, was thrown out by the lords by to . lord stanhope (c. ) describes it as "a bill which broke through the settled forms and safeguards of law, to strike at one obnoxious head."] * * * * * i must tell you an ingenuity of lord raymond, an epitaph on the indemnifying bill--i believe you would guess the author:-- interr'd beneath this marble stone doth lie the bill of indemnity; to show the good for which it was design'd, it died itself to save mankind. * * * * * there has lately been published one of the most impudent things that ever was printed; it is called "the irish register," and is a list of all the unmarried women of any fashion in england, ranked in order, duchesses-dowager, ladies, widows, misses, &c., with their names at length, for the benefit of irish fortune-hunters, or as it is said, for the incorporating and manufacturing of british commodities. miss edwards is the only one printed with a dash, because they have placed her among the widows. i will send you this, "miss lucy in town," and the magazines, by the first opportunity, as i should the other things, but your brother tells me you have had them by another hand. i received the cedrati, for which i have already thanked you: but i have been so much thanked by several people to whom i gave some, that i can very well afford to thank you again.... p.s.--i unseal my letter to tell you what a vast and, probably, final victory we have gained to-day. they moved, that the lords flinging out the bill of indemnity was an obstruction of justice, and might prove fatal to the liberties of this country. we have sat till this moment, seven o'clock, and have rejected this motion by to . the call of the house, which they have kept off from fortnight to fortnight, to keep people in town, was appointed for to-day. the moment the division was over, sir john cotton rose and said, "as i think the inquiry is at an end, you may do what you will with the call." we have put it off for two months. there's a noble postscript! _debate on disbanding the hanoverian troops--first speech of murray (afterwards earl of mansfield)--bon mot of lord chesterfield._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _dec._ , . i shall have quite a partiality for the post of holland; it brought me two letters last week, and two more yesterday, of november th and th; but i find you have your perpetual headaches--how can you say that you shall tire me with talking of them? you may make me suffer by your pains, but i will hear and insist upon your always telling me of your health. do you think i only correspond with you to know the posture of the spaniards or the _épuisements_ of the princess! i am anxious, too, to know how poor mr. whithed does, and mr. chute's gout. i shall look upon our sea-captains with as much horror as the king of naples can, if they bring gouts, fits, and headaches. you will have had a letter from me by this time, to give up sending the dominichin by a man-of-war, and to propose its coming in a dutch ship. i believe that will be safe. we have had another great day in the house on the army in flanders, which the opposition were for disbanding; but we carried it by a hundred and twenty. murray spoke for the first time, with the greatest applause; pitt answered him with all his force and art of language, but on an ill-founded argument. in all appearances, they will be great rivals. shippen was in great rage at murray's apostacy; if anything can really change his principles, possibly this competition may. to-morrow we shall have a tougher battle on the sixteen thousand hanoverians. _hanover_ is the word given out for this winter: there is a most bold pamphlet come out, said to be lord marchmont's, which affirms that in every treaty made since the accession of this family, england has been sacrificed to the interests of hanover, and consequently insinuates the incompatibility of the two. lord chesterfield says "that if we have a mind effectually to prevent the pretender from ever obtaining this crown, we should make him elector of hanover, for the people of england will never fetch another king from thence." adieu! my dear child. i am sensible that i write you short letters, but i write you all i know. i don't know how it is, but _the wonderful_ seems worn out. in this our day, we have no rabbit-women--no elopements--no epic poems, finer than milton's--no contest about harlequins and polly peachems. jansen[ ] has won no more estates, and the duchess of queensberry has grown as tame as her neighbours. whist has spread an universal opium over the whole nation; it makes courtiers and patriots sit down to the same pack of cards. the only thing extraordinary, and which yet did not seem to surprise anybody, was the barbarina's being attacked by four men masqued, the other night, as she came out of the opera house, who would have forced her away; but she screamed, and the guard came. nobody knows who set them on, and i believe nobody inquired. [footnote : h. jansen, a celebrated gamester, who cheated the duke of bedford of an immense sum: pope hints at that affair in this line, or when a duke to jansen punts at white's.] the austrians in flanders have separated from our troops a little out of humour, because it was impracticable for them to march without any preparatory provision for their reception. they will probably march in two months, if no peace prevents it. adieu! _king theodore--handel introduces oratorios._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _feb._ , . i write to you in the greatest hurry in the world, but write i will. besides, i must wish you joy: you are warriors; nay, conquerors[ ]; two things quite novel in this war, for hitherto it has been armies without fighting, and deaths without killing. we talk of this battle as of a comet; "have you heard of _the_ battle?" it is so strange a thing, that numbers imagine you may go and see it at charing cross. indeed, our officers, who are going to flanders, don't quite like it; they are afraid it should grow the fashion to fight, and that a pair of colours should no longer be a sinecure. i am quite unhappy about poor mr. chute: besides, it is cruel to find that abstinence is not a drug. if mortification ever ceases to be a medicine, or virtue to be a passport to carnivals in the other world, who will be a self-tormentor any longer--not, my child, that i am one; but, tell me, is he quite recovered? [footnote : this alludes to an engagement, which took place on the th of february, near bologna, between the spaniards under m. de gages, and the austrians under general traun, in which the latter were successful.] i thank you for king theodore's declaration,[ ] and wish him success with all my soul. i hate the genoese; they make a commonwealth the most devilish of all tyrannies! [footnote : with regard to corsica, of which he had declared himself king. by this declaration, which was dated january , theodore recalled, under pain of confiscation of their estates, all the corsicans in foreign service, except that of the queen of hungary, and the grand duke of tuscany. (see vol. ii. p. .)] we have every now and then motions for disbanding hessians and hanoverians,[ ] alias mercenaries; but they come to nothing. to-day the party have declared that they have done for this session; so you will hear little more but of fine equipages for flanders: our troops are actually marched, and the officers begin to follow them--i hope they know whither! you know in the last war in spain, lord peterborough[ ] rode galloping about to inquire for his army. [footnote : the employment of hessian and hanoverian troops in this war was not only the subject of frequent complaints in parliament, but was also the cause of very general dissatisfaction in the country, where it was commonly regarded as one of the numerous instances in which the ministers sacrificed the interests of england from an unworthy desire to maintain their places by humouring the king's preference for his native land.] [footnote : lord peterborough is celebrated by pope as taming the genius of the arid plain almost as quickly as he conquered spain: not that he did conquer spain; but by an extraordinary combination of hardihood and skill he took barcelona, which had defied all previous attacks; and, in the confidence inspired by this important success, he offered archduke charles to escort him to madrid, so that he might be crowned king of spain in that capital. but the archduke, under the advice of some of his own countrymen, who were jealous of his influence, rejected the plan.] but to come to more _real_ contests; handel has set up an oratorio against the operas, and succeeds. he has hired all the goddesses from farces and the singers of _roast beef_[ ] from between the acts at both theatres, with a man with one note in his voice, and a girl without ever an one; and so they sing, and make brave hallelujahs; and the good company encore the recitative, if it happens to have any cadence like what they call a tune. i was much diverted the other night at the opera; two gentlewomen sat before my sister, and not knowing her, discoursed at their ease. says one, "lord! how fine mr. w. is!" "yes," replied the other, with a tone of saying sentences, "some men love to be particularly so, your _petit-maîtres_--but they are not always the brightest of their sex."--do thank me for this period! i am sure you will enjoy it as much as we did. [footnote : it was customary at this time for the galleries to call for a ballad called "the roast beef of old england" between the acts, or before or after the play.--walpole.] i shall be very glad of my things, and approve entirely of your precautions; sir r. will be quite happy, for there is no telling you how impatient he is for his dominchin. adieu! _battle of dettingen--death of lord wilmington._ to sir horace mann. houghton, _july_ , . i hear no particular news here, and i don't pretend to send you the common news; for as i must have it first from london, you will have it from thence sooner in the papers than in my letters. there have been great rejoicings for the victory; which i am convinced is very considerable by the pains the jacobites take to persuade it is not. my lord carteret's hanoverian articles have much offended; his express has been burlesqued a thousand ways. by all the letters that arrive, the loss of the french turns out more considerable than by the first accounts: they have dressed up the battle into a victory for themselves--i hope they will always have such! by their not having declared war with us, one should think they intended a peace. it is allowed that our fine horse did us no honour: the victory was gained by the foot. two of their princes of the blood, the prince de dombes, and the count d'eu his brother, were wounded, and several of their first nobility. our prisoners turn out but seventy-two officers, besides the private men; and by the printed catalogue, i don't think many of great family. marshal noailles' mortal wound is quite vanished, and duc d'aremberg's shrunk to a very slight one. the king's glory remains in its first bloom. lord wilmington is dead.[ ] i believe the civil battle for his post will be tough. now we shall see what service lord carteret's hanoverians will do him. you don't think the crisis unlucky for him, do you? if you wanted a treasury, should you choose to have been in arlington street, or driving by the battle of dettingen? you may imagine our court wishes for mr. pelham. i don't know any one who wishes for lord bath but himself--i believe that is a pretty substantial wish. [footnote : formerly sir spencer compton, and successor of sir r. walpole at the treasury. he was succeeded by mr. pelham, a brother of the duke of newcastle.] i have got the life of king theodore, but i don't know how to convey it--i will inquire for some way. we are quite alone. you never saw anything so unlike as being here five months out of place, to the congresses of a fortnight in place; but you know the "justum et tenacem propositi virum"[ ] can amuse himself without the "civium ardor!" as i have not so much dignity of character to fill up my time, i could like a little more company. with all this leisure, you may imagine that i might as well be writing an ode or so upon the victory; but as i cannot build upon the laureate's[ ] place till i know whether lord carteret or mr. pelham will carry the treasury, i have bounded my compliments to a slender collection of quotations against i should have any occasion for them. here are some fine lines from lord halifax's[ ] poem on the battle of the boyne-- the king leads on, the king does all inflame, the king;--and carries millions in the name. [footnote : a quotation from horace, odes iii. .] [footnote : the poet laureate was colley cibber.] [footnote : the celebrated chancellor of the exchequer, charles montagu, was raised to the peerage as earl of halifax. in conjunction with prior, he wrote the "country and city mouse," in ridicule of dryden's "hind and panther."] then follows a simile about a deluge, which you may imagine; but the next lines are very good: so on the foe the firm battalions prest, and he, like the tenth wave, drove on the rest. fierce, gallant, young, he shot through ev'ry place, urging their flight, and hurrying on the chase, he hung upon their rear, or lighten'd in their face. the next are a magnificent compliment, and, as far as verse goes, to be sure very applicable. stop, stop! brave prince, allay that generous flame; enough is given to england and to fame. remember, sir, you in the centre stand; europe's divided interests you command, all their designs uniting in your hand. down from your throne descends the golden chain which does the fabric of our world sustain, that once dissolved by any fatal stroke, the scheme of all our happiness is broke. adieu! my dear sir; pray for peace! _french actors at clifden--a new roman catholic miracle--lady mary wortley._ to sir horace mann. houghton, _sept._ , . my letters are now at their _ne plus ultra_ of nothingness; so you may hope they will grow better again. i shall certainly go to town soon, for my patience is worn out. yesterday, the weather grew cold; i put on _a new_ waistcoat for its being winter's birthday--the season i am forced to love; for summer has no charms for me when i pass it in the country. we are expecting another battle, and a congress at the same time. ministers seem to be flocking to aix la chapelle: and, what will much surprise you, unless you have lived long enough not to be surprised, is, that lord bolingbroke has hobbled the same way too--you will suppose, as a minister for france; i tell you, no. my uncle [_old_ horace], who is here, was yesterday stumping along the gallery with a very political march: my lord asked him whither he was going. oh, said i, to aix la chapelle. you ask me about the marrying princesses. i know not a tittle. princess louisa seems to be going, her clothes are bought; but marrying our daughters makes no conversation. for either of the other two, all thoughts seem to be dropped of it. the senate of sweden design themselves to choose a wife for their man of lubeck. the city, and our supreme governors, the mob, are very angry that there is a troop of french players at clifden. one of them was lately impertinent to a countryman, who thrashed him. his royal highness sent angrily to know the cause. the fellow replied, "he thought to have pleased his highness in beating one of them, who had tried to kill his father and had wounded his brother." this was not easy to answer. i delight in prince craon's exact intelligence! for his satisfaction, i can tell him that numbers, even here, would believe any story full as absurd as that of the king and my lord stair; or that very one, if anybody will write it over. our faith in politics will match any neapolitan's in religion. a political missionary will make more converts in a county progress than a jesuit in the whole empire of china, and will produce more preposterous miracles. sir watkin williams, at the last welsh races, convinced the whole principality (by reading a letter that affirmed it), that the king was not within two miles of the battle of dettingen. we are not good at hitting off anti-miracles, the only way of defending one's own religion. i have read an admirable story of the duke of buckingham, who, when james ii. sent a priest to him to persuade him to turn papist, and was plied by him with miracles, told the doctor, that if miracles were proofs of a religion, the protestant cause was as well supplied as theirs. we have lately had a very extraordinary one near my estate in the country. a very holy man, as you might be, doctor, was travelling on foot, and was benighted. he came to the cottage of a poor dowager, who had nothing in the house for herself and daughter but a couple of eggs and a slice of bacon. however, as she was a pious widow, she made the good man welcome. in the morning, at taking leave, the saint made her over to god for payment, and prayed that whatever she should do as soon as he was gone she might continue to do all day. this was a very unlimited request, and, unless the saint was a prophet too, might not have been very pleasant retribution. the good woman, who minded her affairs, and was not to be put out of her way, went about her business. she had a piece of coarse cloth to make a couple of shifts for herself and child. she no sooner began to measure it but the yard fell a-measuring, and there was no stopping it. it was sunset before the good woman had time to take breath. she was almost stifled, for she was up to her ears in ten thousand yards of cloth. she could have afforded to have sold lady mary wortley a clean shift, of the usual coarseness she wears, for a groat halfpenny. i wish you would tell the princess this story. madame riccardi, or the little countess d'elbenino, will doat on it. i don't think it will be out of pandolfini's way, if you tell it to the little albizzi. you see i have not forgot the tone of my florentine acquaintance. i know i should have translated it to them: you remember what admirable work i used to make of such stories in broken italian. i have heard old churchill tell bussy english puns out of jest-books: particularly a reply about eating hare, which he translated, "j'ai mon ventre plein de poil." adieu! _death of his father--matthews and lestock in the mediterranean--thomson's "tancred and sigismunda"--akenside's odes--conundrums in fashion._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _march_ , . i begged your brother to tell you what it was impossible for me to tell you. you share nearly in our common loss! don't expect me to enter at all upon the subject. after the melancholy two months that i have passed, and in my situation, you will not wonder i shun a conversation which could not be bounded by a letter--a letter that would grow into a panegyric, or a piece of moral; improper for me to write upon, and too distressful for us both!--a death is only to be felt, never to be talked over by those it touches! i had yesterday your letter of three sheets: i began to flatter myself that the storm was blown over, but i tremble to think of the danger you are in! a danger, in which even the protection of the great friend you have lost could have been of no service to you. how ridiculous it seems for me to renew protestations of my friendship for you, at an instant when my father is just dead, and the spaniards just bursting into tuscany! how empty a charm would my name have, when all my interest and significance are buried in my father's grave! all hopes of present peace, the only thing that could save you, seem vanished. we expect every day to hear of the french declaration of war against holland. the new elector of bavaria is french, like his father; and the king of spain is not dead. i don't know how to talk to you. i have not even a belief that the spaniards will spare tuscany. my dear child, what will become of you? whither will you retire till a peace restores you to your ministry? for upon that distant view alone i repose! we are every day nearer confusion. the king is in as bad humour as a monarch can be; he wants to go abroad, and is detained by the mediterranean affair; the inquiry into which was moved by a major selwyn, a dirty pensioner, half-turned patriot, by the court being overstocked with votes. this inquiry takes up the whole time of the house of commons, but i don't see what conclusion it can have. my confinement has kept me from being there, except the first day; and all i know of what is yet come out is, as it was stated by a scotch member the other day, "that there had been one (matthews)[ ] with a bad head, another (lestock) with a worse heart, and four (the captains of the inactive ships) with na heart at all." among the numerous visits of form that i have received, one was from my lord sandys: as we two could only converse upon general topics, we fell upon this of the mediterranean, and i made _him_ allow, "that, to be sure, there is not so bad a court of justice in the world as the house of commons; and how hard it is upon any man to have his cause tried there!"... [footnote : admiral matthews, an officer of great courage and skill, was commander-in-chief of the mediterranean fleet. lestock, his second in command, was also a skilful officer; but the two were on bad terms, and when, in february, , matthews attacked the spanish fleet, lestock disobeyed his signals, and by his misconduct deprived matthews of a splendid victory, which was clearly within his grasp. court-martials were held on the conduct of both officers; but the admiralty was determined to crush matthews, as being a member of the house of commons and belonging to the party of opposition, and the consequence was that, though lestock's misconduct was clearly proved, he was acquitted, and matthews was sentenced to be cashiered, and declared incapable of any further employment in his majesty's service. the whole is perhaps the most disgraceful transaction in the history of the navy or of the country. (see the editor's "history of the british navy," i. - .)] the town flocks to a new play of thomson's called "tancred and sigismunda:" it is very dull; i have read it. i cannot bear modern poetry; these refiners of the purity of the stage, and of the incorrectness of english verse, are most wofully insipid. i had rather have written the most absurd lines in lee, than "leonidas" or "the seasons;" as i had rather be put into the round-house for a wrong-headed quarrel, than sup quietly at eight o'clock with my grandmother. there is another of these tame genius's, a mr. akenside, who writes odes: in one he has lately published, he says, "light the tapers, urge the fire."[ ] had not you rather make gods "jostle in the dark," than light the candles for fear they should break their heads? one russel, a mimic, has a puppet-show to ridicule operas; i hear, very dull, not to mention its being twenty years too late: it consists of three acts, with foolish italian songs burlesqued in italian. [footnote : walpole's quotation, however, is incorrect; the poet wrote: urge the warm bowl, and ruddy fire.] there is a very good quarrel on foot between two duchesses: she of queensberry sent to invite lady emily lenox to a ball: her grace of richmond, who is wonderfully cautious since lady caroline's elopement [with mr. fox], sent word, "she could not determine." the other sent again the same night: the same answer. the queensberry then sent word, that she had made up her company, and desired to be excused from having lady emily's: but at the bottom of the card wrote, "too great a trust." you know how mad she is, and how capable of such a stroke. there is no declaration of war come out from the other duchess; but, i believe it will be made a national quarrel of the whole illegitimate royal family. it is the present fashion to make conundrums: there are books of them printed, and produced at all assemblies: they are full silly enough to be made a fashion. i will tell you the most renowned: "why is my uncle horace like two people conversing?--because he is both teller and auditor." this was winnington's.... i will take the first opportunity to send dr. cocchi his translated book; i have not yet seen it myself. adieu! my dearest child! i write with a house full of relations, and must conclude. heaven preserve you and tuscany. _battle of fontenoy--the ballad of the prince of wales._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _may_ , . i stayed till to-day, to be able to give you some account of the battle of tournay: the outlines you will have heard already. we don't allow it to be a victory on the french side: but that is, just as a woman is not called _mrs._ till she is married, though she may have had half-a-dozen natural children. in short, we remained upon the field of battle three hours; i fear, too many of us remain there still! without palliating, it is certainly a heavy stroke. we never lost near so many officers. i pity the duke [of cumberland], for it is almost the first battle of consequence that we ever lost. by the letters arrived to-day, we find that tournay still holds out. there are certainly killed sir james campbell, general ponsonby, colonel carpenter, colonel douglas, young ross, colonel montagu, gee, berkeley, and kellet. mr. vanburgh is since dead. most of the young men of quality in the guards are wounded. i have had the vast fortune to have nobody hurt, for whom i was in the least interested. mr. conway, in particular, has highly distinguished himself; he and lord petersham, who is slightly wounded, are most commended; though none behaved ill but the dutch horse. there has been but very little consternation here: the king minded it so little, that being set out for hanover, and blown back into harwich roads since the news came, he could not be persuaded to return, but sailed yesterday with the fair wind. i believe you will have the _gazette_ sent to-night; but lest it should not be printed time enough, here is a list of the numbers, as it came over this morning: british foot killed. ditto horse ditto. ditto foot wounded. ditto horse ditto. ditto foot missing. ditto horse ditto. hanoverian foot killed. ditto horse ditto. ditto foot wounded. ditto horse ditto. ditto horse and foot missing. dutch killed and wounded. ditto missing. so the whole _hors de combat_ is above seven thousand three hundred. the french own the loss of three thousand; i don't believe many more, for it was a most rash and desperate perseverance on our side. the duke behaved very bravely and humanely; but this will not have advanced the peace. however coolly the duke may have behaved, and coldly his father, at least his brother [the prince of wales] has outdone both. he not only went to the play the night the news came, but in two days made a ballad. it is in imitation of the regent's style, and has miscarried in nothing but the language, the thoughts, and the poetry. did not i tell you in my last that he was going to act paris in congreve's "masque"? the song is addressed to the goddesses. i. venez, mes chères déesses, venez calmer mon chagrin; aidez, mes belles princesses, a le noyer dans le vin. poussons cette douce ivresse jusqu'au milieu de la nuit, et n'écoutons que la tendresse d'un charmant vis-à-vis. ii. quand le chagrin me dévore, vite à table je me mets, loin des objets que j'abhorre, avec joie j'y trouve la paix. peu d'amis, restes d'un naufrage je rassemble autour de moi, et je me ris de l'étalage qu'a chez lui toujours un roi. iii. que m'importe, que l'europe ait un, ou plusieurs tyrans? prions seulement calliope, qu'elle inspire nos vers, nos chants laissons mars et toute la gloire; livrons nous tous à l'amour; que bacchus nous donne à boire; a ces deux faisons la cour. iv. passons ainsi notre vie, sans rêver à ce qui suit; avec ma chère sylvie le tems trop vîte me fuit. mais si, par un malheur extrême, je perdois cet objet charmant, oui, cette compagnie même ne me tiendroit un moment. v. me livrant à ma tristesse, toujours plein de mon chagrin, je n'aurois plus d'allégresse pour mettre bathurst en train: ainsi pour vous tenir en joie invoquez toujours les dieux, qu'elle vive et qu'elle soit avec nous toujours heureuse! adieu! i am in great hurry. _m. de grignan--livy's patavinity--the marÉchal de belleisle--whiston prophecies the destruction of the world--the duke of newcastle._ to george montagu, esq. [_august_ , .] dear george,--i cannot help thinking you laugh at me when you say such very civil things of my letters, and yet, coming from you, i would fain not have it all flattery: so much the more, as, from a little elf, i've had a high opinion of myself, though sickly, slender, and not large of limb. with this modest prepossession, you may be sure i like to have you commend me, whom, after i have done with myself, i admire of all men living. i only beg that you will commend me no more: it is very ruinous; and praise, like other debts, ceases to be due on being paid. one comfort indeed is, that it is as seldom paid as other debts. i have been very fortunate lately: i have met with an extreme good print of m. de grignan;[ ] i am persuaded, very like; and then it has his _touffe ébourifée_; i don't, indeed, know what that was, but i am sure it is in the print. none of the critics could ever make out what livy's patavinity is; though they are all confident it is in his writings. i have heard within these few days what, for your sake, i wish i could have told you sooner--that there is in belleisle's suite the abbé perrin, who published madame sévigné's letters, and who has the originals in his hands. how one should have liked to have known him! the marshal[ ] was privately in london last friday. he is entertained to-day at hampton court by the duke of grafton. don't you believe it was to settle the binding the scarlet thread in the window, when the french shall come in unto the land to possess it? i don't at all wonder at any shrewd observations the marshal has made on our situation. the bringing him here at all--the sending him away now--in short, the whole series of our conduct convinces me, that we shall soon see as silent a change as that in "the rehearsal," of king usher and king physician. it may well be so, when the disposition of the drama is in the hands of the duke of newcastle--those hands that are always groping and sprawling, and fluttering, and hurrying on the rest of his precipitate person. but there is no describing him but as m. courcelle, a french prisoner, did t'other day: "je ne scais pas," dit il, "je ne scaurois m'exprimer, mais il a un certain tatillonage." if one could conceive a dead body hung in chains, always wanting to be hung somewhere else, one should have a comparative idea of him. [footnote : m. de grignan son-in-law to mme. de sévigné, the greater part of whose letters are to his wife.] [footnote : the maréchal de belleisle and his younger brother, the comte de belleisle, were the grandsons of fouquet, the finance minister treated with such cruelty and injustice by louis xiv. the parisians nicknamed the two brothers "imagination" and "common sense." the marshal was joined with the marshal de broglie in the disastrous expedition against prague in the winter of ; when, though they succeeded in taking and occupying the city for a time, they were afterwards forced to evacuate it; and though belleisle conducted the retreat with great courage and skill, the army, which had numbered fifty thousand men when it crossed the rhine, scarcely exceeded twelve thousand when it regained the french territory. (see the editor's "history of france under the bourbons," c. xxv.)] for my own part, i comfort myself with the humane reflection of the irishman in the ship that was on fire--i am but a passenger! if i were not so indolent, i think i should rather put in practice the late duchess of bolton's geographical resolution of going to china, when whiston told her the world would be burnt in three years. have you any philosophy? tell me what you think. it is quite the fashion to talk of the french coming here. nobody sees it in any other light but as a thing to be talked of, not to be precautioned against. don't you remember a report of the plague being in the city, and everybody went to the house where it was to see it? you see i laugh about it, for i would not for the world be so unenglished as to do otherwise. i am persuaded that when count saxe,[ ] with ten thousand men, is within a day's march of london, people will be hiring windows at charing-cross and cheapside to see them pass by. 'tis our characteristic to take dangers for sights, and evils for curiosities. [footnote : the great maréchal saxe, commander-in-chief of the french army in flanders during the war of the austrian succession.] adieu! dear george: i am laying in scraps of cato against it may be necessary to take leave of one's correspondents _à la romaine_, and before the play itself is suppressed by a _lettre de cachet_ to the book-sellers. p.s.--lord! 'tis the first of august,[ ] , a holiday that is going to be turned out of the almanack! [footnote : august was the anniversary of the accession of george i.] _invasion of scotland by the young pretender--forces are said to be preparing in france to join him._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _sept._ , . it would have been inexcusable in me, in our present circumstances, and after all i have promised you, not to have written to you for this last month, if i had been in london; but i have been at mount edgecumbe, and so constantly upon the road, that i neither received your letters, had time to write, or knew what to write. i came back last night, and found three packets from you, which i have no time to answer, and but just time to read. the confusion i have found, and the danger we are in, prevent my talking of anything else. the young pretender, at the head of three thousand men, has got a march on general cope, who is not eighteen hundred strong; and when the last accounts came away, was fifty miles nearer edinburgh than cope, and by this time is there. the clans will not rise for the government: the dukes of argyll and athol are come post to town, not having been able to raise a man. the young duke of gordon sent for his uncle, and told him he must arm their clan. "they are in arms."--"they must march against the rebels."--"they will wait on the prince of wales." the duke flew in a passion; his uncle pulled out a pistol, and told him it was in vain to dispute. lord loudon, lord fortrose, and lord panmure have been very zealous, and have raised some men; but i look upon scotland as gone! i think of what king william said to duke hamilton, when he was extolling scotland: "my lord, i only wish it was a hundred thousand miles off, and that you was king of it!" there are two manifestoes published, signed charles prince, regent for his father, king of scotland, england, france, and ireland. by one, he promises to preserve everybody in their just rights; and orders all persons who have public monies in their hands to bring it to him; and by the other dissolves the union between england and scotland. but all this is not the worst! notice came yesterday, that there are ten thousand men, thirty transports, and ten men-of-war at dunkirk. against this force we have--i don't know what--scarce fears! three thousand dutch we hope are by this time landed in scotland; three more are coming hither. we have sent for ten regiments from flanders, which may be here in a week, and we have fifteen men-of-war in the downs. i am grieved to tell you all this; but when it is so, how can i avoid telling you? your brother is just come in, who says he has written to you--i have not time to expiate. my lady o[rford] is arrived; i hear she says, only to endeavour to get a certain allowance. her mother has sent to offer her the use of her house. she is a poor weak woman. i can say nothing to marquis ricardi, nor think of him; only tell him that i will when i have time. my sister [lady maria walpole] has married herself, that is, declared she will, to young churchill. it is a foolish match; but i have nothing to do with it. adieu! my dear sir; excuse my haste, but you must imagine that one is not much at leisure to write long letters--hope if you can! _this and the following letters give a lively account of the progress of the rebellion till the retreat from derby, after which no particular interest attaches to it._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _sept._ , . one really don't know what to write to you: the accounts from scotland vary perpetually, and at best are never very certain. i was just going to tell you that the rebels are in england; but my uncle [_old_ horace] is this moment come in, and says, that an express came last night with an account of their being at edinburgh to the number of five thousand. this sounds great, to have walked through a kingdom, and taken possession of the capital! but this capital is an open town; and the castle impregnable, and in our possession. there never was so extraordinary a sort of rebellion! one can't tell what assurances of support they may have from the jacobites in england, or from the french; but nothing of either sort has yet appeared--and if there does not, never was so desperate an enterprise. one can hardly believe that the english are more disaffected than the scotch; and among the latter, no persons of property have joined them: both nations seem to profess a neutrality. their money is all gone, and they subsist merely by levying contributions. but, sure, banditti can never conquer a kingdom! on the other hand, what cannot any number of men do, who meet no opposition? they have hitherto taken no place but open towns, nor have they any artillery for a siege but one-pounders. three battalions of dutch are landed at gravesend, and are ordered to lancashire: we expect every moment to hear that the rest are got to scotland; none of our own are come yet. lord granville and his faction persist in persuading the king, that it is an affair of no consequence; and for the duke of newcastle, he is glad when the rebels make any progress, in order to confute lord granville's assertions. the best of our situation is, our strength at sea: the channel is well guarded, and twelve men-of-war more are arrived from rowley. vernon, that simple noisy creature, has hit upon a scheme that is of great service; he has laid folkstone cutters all round the coast, which are continually relieved, and bring constant notice of everything that stirs. i just now hear that the duke of bedford declares that he will be amused no longer, but will ask the king's leave to raise a regiment. the duke of montagu has a troop of horse ready, and the duke of devonshire is raising men in derbyshire. the yorkshiremen, headed by the archbishop [herring] and lord malton, meet the gentlemen of the county the day after to-morrow, to defend that part of england. unless we have more ill fortune than is conceivable, or the general supineness continues, it is impossible but we must get over this. you desire me to send you news: i confine myself to tell you nothing but what you may depend upon; and leave you in a fright rather than deceive you. i confess my own apprehensions are not near so strong as they were; and if we get over this, i shall believe that we never can be hurt; for we never can be more exposed to danger. whatever disaffection there is to the present family, it plainly does not proceed from love to the other. my lady o[rford] makes little progress in popularity. neither the protection of my lady pomfret's prudery, nor of my lady townshend's libertinism, do her any service. the women stare at her, think her ugly, awkward, and disagreeable; and what is worse, the men think so too. for the height of mortification, the king has declared publicly to the ministry, that he has been told of the great civilities which he was said to show to her at hanover; that he protests he showed her only the common civilities due to any english lady that comes thither; that he never intended to take any particular notice of her; nor had, nor would let my lady yarmouth. in fact, my lady yarmouth peremptorily refused to carry her to court here; and when she did go with my lady pomfret, the king but just spoke to her. she declares her intention of staying in england, and protests against all lawsuits and violences; and says she only asks articles of separation, and to have her allowance settled by any two arbitrators chosen by my brother and herself. i have met her twice at my lady townshend's, just as i used at florence. she dresses english and plays at whist. i forgot to tell a _bon-mot_ of leheup on her first coming over; he was asked if he would not go and see her? he replied, "no, i never visit modest women." adieu! my dear child! i flatter myself you will collect hopes from this letter. _defeat of cope._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _sept._ , . i can't doubt but the joy of the jacobites has reached florence before this letter. your two or three irish priests, i forget their names, will have set out to take possession of abbey lands here. i feel for what you will feel, and for the insulting things that will be said to you upon the battle we lost in scotland; but all this is nothing to what it prefaces. the express came hither on tuesday morning, but the papists knew it on sunday night. cope lay in face of the rebels all friday; he scarce two thousand strong, they vastly superior, though we don't know their numbers. the military people say that he should have attacked them. however, we are sadly convinced that they are not such raw ragamuffins as they were represented. the rotation that has been established in that country, to give all the highlanders the benefit of serving in the independent companies, has trained and disciplined them. macdonald (i suppose, he from naples), who is reckoned a very experienced able officer, is said to have commanded them, and to be dangerously wounded. one does not hear the boy's personal valour cried up; by which i conclude he was not in the action. our dragoons most shamefully fled without striking a blow, and are with cope, who escaped in a boat to berwick. i pity poor him, who with no shining abilities, and no experience, and no force, was sent to fight for a crown! he never saw a battle but that of dettingen, where he got his red ribbon: churchill, whose led-captain he was, and my lord harrington, had pushed him up to his misfortune. we have lost all our artillery, five hundred men taken--and _three_ killed, and several officers, as you will see in the papers. this defeat has frightened everybody but those it rejoices, and those it should frighten most; but my lord granville still buoys up the king's spirits, and persuades him it is nothing. he uses his ministers as ill as possible, and discourages everybody that would risk their lives and fortunes with him. marshal wade is marching against the rebels; but the king will not let him take above eight thousand men; so that if they come into england, another battle, with no advantage on our side, may determine our fate. indeed, they don't seem so unwise as to risk their cause upon so precarious an event; but rather to design to establish themselves in scotland, till they can be supported from france, and be set up with taking edinburgh castle, where there is to the value of a million, and which they would make a stronghold. it is scarcely victualled for a month, and must surely fall into their hands. our coasts are greatly guarded, and london kept in awe by the arrival of the guards. i don't believe what i have been told this morning, that more troops are sent for from flanders, and aid asked of denmark. prince charles has called a parliament in scotland for the th of october; ours does not meet till the th, so that even in the show of liberty and laws they are beforehand with us. with all this, we hear of no men of quality or fortune having joined him but lord elcho, whom you have seen at florence; and the duke of peith, a silly race horsing boy, who is said to be killed in this battle. but i gather no confidence from hence: my father always said, "if you see them come again, they will begin by their lowest people; their chiefs will not appear till the end." his prophecies verify every day! the town is still empty; on this point only the english act contrary to their custom, for they don't throng to see a parliament, though it is likely to grow a curiosity!... _general wade is marching to scotland--violent proclamation of the pretender._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _oct._ , . i had been almost as long without any of your letters as you had without mine; but yesterday i received one, dated the th of this month, n.s. the rebels have not left their camp near edinburgh, and, i suppose, will not now, unless to retreat into the highlands. general wade was to march yesterday from doncaster for scotland. by their not advancing, i conclude that either the boy and his council could not prevail on the highlanders to leave their own country, or that they were not strong enough, and still wait for foreign assistance, which, in a new declaration, he intimates that he still expects. one only ship, i believe, a spanish one, is got to them with arms, and lord john drummond and some people of quality on board. we don't hear that the younger boy is of the number. four ships sailed from corunna; the one that got to scotland, one taken by a privateer of bristol, and one lost on the irish coast; the fourth is not heard of. at edinburgh and thereabouts they commit the most horrid barbarities. we last night expected as bad here: information was given of an intended insurrection and massacre by the papists; all the guards were ordered out, and the tower shut up at seven. i cannot be surprised at anything, considering the supineness of the ministry--nobody has yet been taken up! the parliament met on thursday. i don't think, considering the crisis, that the house was very full. indeed, many of the scotch members cannot come if they would. the young pretender had published a declaration, threatening to confiscate the estates of the scotch that should come to parliament, and making it treason for the english. the only points that have been before the house, the address and the suspension of the habeas corpus, met with obstructions from the jacobites. by this we may expect what spirit they will show hereafter. with all this, i am far from thinking that they are so confident and sanguine as their friends at rome. i blame the chutes extremely for cockading themselves: why take a part, when they are only travelling? i should certainly retire to florence on this occasion. you may imagine how little i like our situation; but i don't despair. the little use they made, or could make of their victory; their not having marched into england; their miscarriage at the castle of edinburgh; the arrival of our forces, and the non-arrival of any french or spanish, make me conceive great hopes of getting over this ugly business. but it is still an affair wherein the chance of battles, or perhaps of one battle, may decide. i write you but short letters, considering the circumstances of the time; but i hate to send you paragraphs only to contradict them again: i still less choose to forge events; and, indeed, am glad i have so few to tell you. my lady o[rford] has forced herself upon her mother, who receives her very coolly: she talks highly of her demands, and quietly of her methods: the fruitlessness of either will, i hope, soon send her back--i am sorry it must be to you! you mention holdisworth:[ ] he has had the confidence to come and visit me within these ten days; and (i suppose, from the overflowing of his joy) talked a great deal and quick--with as little sense as when he was more tedious. [footnote : a nonjuror, who travelled with mr. george pitt.--walpole.] since i wrote this, i hear the countess [of orford] has told her mother, that she thinks her husband the best of our family, and me the worst--nobody so bad, except you! i don't wonder at my being so ill with her; but what have you done? or is it, that we are worse than anybody, because we know more of her than anybody does? adieu! _gallant resistance of carlisle--mr. pitt attacks the ministry._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _nov._ , . for these two days we have been expecting news of a battle. wade marched last saturday from newcastle, and must have got up with the rebels if they stayed for him, though the roads are exceedingly bad and great quantities of snow have fallen. but last night there was some notice of a body of rebels being advanced to penryth. we were put into great spirits by an heroic letter from the mayor of carlisle, who had fired on the rebels and made them retire; he concluded with saying, "and so i think the town of carlisle has done his majesty more service than the great city of edinburgh, or than all scotland together." but this hero, who was grown the whole fashion for four-and-twenty hours, had chosen to stop all other letters. the king spoke of him at his _levée_ with great encomiums; lord stair said, "yes, sir, mr. patterson has behaved very bravely." the duke of bedford interrupted him; "my lord, his name is not _paterson_; that is a scotch name; his name is _patinson_." but, alack! the next day the rebels returned, having placed the women and children of the country in waggons in front of their army, and forcing the peasants to fix the scaling-ladders. the great mr. pattinson, or patterson (for now his name may be which one pleases), instantly surrendered the town, and agreed to pay two thousand pounds to save it from pillage. well! then we were assured that the citadel could hold out seven or eight days; but did not so many hours. on mustering the militia, there were not found above four men in a company; and for two companies, which the ministry, on a report of lord albemarle, who said they were to be sent from wade's army, thought were there, and did not know were not there, there was nothing but two of invalids. colonel durand, the governor, fled, because he would not sign the capitulation, by which the garrison, it is said, has sworn never to bear arms against the house of stuart. the colonel sent two expresses, one to wade, and another to ligonier at preston; but the latter was playing at whist with lord harrington at petersham. such is our diligence and attention! all my hopes are in wade, who was so sensible of the ignorance of our governors, that he refused to accept the command, till they consented that he should be subject to no kind of orders from hence. the rebels are reckoned up at thirteen thousand; wade marches with about twelve; but if they come southward, the other army will probably be to fight them; the duke is to command it, and sets out next week with another brigade of guards, the ligonier under him. there are great apprehensions for chester from the flintshire-men, who are ready to rise. a quartermaster, first sent to carlisle, was seized and carried to wade; he behaved most insolently; and being asked by the general, how many the rebels were, replied, "enough to beat any army you have in england." a mackintosh has been taken, who reduces their formidability, by being sent to raise two clans, and with orders, if they would not rise, at least to give out they had risen, for that three clans would leave the pretender, unless joined by those two. five hundred new rebels are arrived at perth, where our prisoners are kept. i had this morning a subscription-book brought me for our parish; lord granville had refused to subscribe. this is in the style of his friend lord bath, who has absented himself whenever any act of authority was to be executed against the rebels. five scotch lords are going to raise regiments _à l'angloise_! resident in london, while the rebels were in scotland; they are to receive military emoluments for their neutrality! the _fox_ man-of-war of guns is lost off dunbar. one beavor, the captain, has done us notable service: the pretender sent to commend his zeal and activity, and to tell him, that if he would return to his allegiance, he should soon have a flag. beavor replied, "he never treated with any but principals; that if the pretender would come on board him, he would talk with him." i must now tell you of our great vernon: without once complaining to the ministry, he has written to sir john philipps, a distinguished jacobite, to complain of want of provisions; yet they do not venture to recall him! yesterday they had another baiting from pitt, who is ravenous for the place of secretary at war: they would give it him; but as a preliminary, he insists on a declaration of our having nothing to do with the continent. he mustered his forces, but did not notify his intention; only at two o'clock lyttelton said at the treasury, that there would be business at the house. the motion was, to augment our naval force, which, pitt said, was the only method of putting an end to the rebellion. ships built a year hence to suppress an army of highlanders, now marching through england! my uncle [_old_ horace] attacked him, and congratulated his country on the wisdom of the modern young men; and said he had a son of two-and-twenty, who, he did not doubt, would come over wiser than any of them. pitt was provoked, and retorted on his negotiations and _grey-headed_ experience. at those words, my uncle, as if he had been at bartholomew fair, snatched off his wig, and showed his grey hairs, which made the _august senate_ laugh, and put pitt out, who, after laughing himself, diverted his venom upon mr. pelham. upon the question, pitt's party amounted but to thirty-six: in short, he has nothing left but his words, and his haughtiness, and his lytteltons, and his grenvilles. adieu! _the rebel army has retreated from derby--expectation of a french invasion._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _dec._ , . i am glad i did not write to you last post as i intended; i should have sent you an account that would have alarmed you, and the danger would have been over before the letter had crossed the sea. the duke, from some strange want of intelligence, lay last week for four-and-twenty hours under arms at stone, in staffordshire, expecting the rebels every moment, while they were marching in all haste to derby. the news of this threw the town into great consternation; but his royal highness repaired his mistake, and got to northampton, between the highlanders and london. they got nine thousand pounds at derby, and had the books brought to them, and obliged everybody to give them what they had subscribed against them. then they retreated a few miles, but returned again to derby, got ten thousand pounds more, plundered the town, and burnt a house of the countess of exeter. they are gone again, and go back to leake, in staffordshire, but miserably harassed, and, it is said, have left all their cannon behind them, and twenty waggons of sick. the duke has sent general hawley with the dragoons to harass them in their retreat, and despatched mr. conway to marshal wade, to hasten his march upon the back of them. they must either go to north wales, where they will probably all perish, or to scotland, with great loss. we dread them no longer. we are threatened with great preparations for a french invasion, but the coast is exceedingly guarded; and for the people, the spirit against the rebels increases every day. though they have marched thus into the heart of the kingdom, there has not been the least symptom of a rising, nor even in the great towns of which they possessed themselves. they have got no recruits since their first entry into england, excepting one gentleman in lancashire, one hundred and fifty common men, and two parsons, at manchester, and a physician from york. but here in london, the aversion to them is amazing: on some thoughts of the king's going to an encampment at finchley,[ ] the weavers not only offered him a thousand men, but the whole body of the law formed themselves into a little army, under the command of lord chief justice willes, and were to have done duty at st. james's, to guard the royal family in the king's absence. [footnote : the troops which were being collected for the duke of cumberland, as soon as he should arrive from the continent, to march with against the pretender, were in the meantime encamped on finchley common near london. the march of the guards to the camp is the subject of one of hogarth's best pictures.] but the greatest demonstration of loyalty appeared on the prisoners being brought to town from the soleil prize: the young man is certainly mr. radcliffe's son; but the mob, persuaded of his being the youngest pretender, could scarcely be restrained from tearing him to pieces all the way on the road, and at his arrival. he said he had heard of english mobs, but could not conceive they were so dreadful, and wished he had been shot at the battle of dettingen, where he had been engaged. the father, whom they call lord derwentwater, said, on entering the tower, that he had never expected to arrive there alive. for the young man, he must only be treated as a french captive; for the father, it is sufficient to produce him at the old bailey, and prove that he is the individual person condemned for the last rebellion, and so to tyburn. we begin to take up people, but it is with as much caution and timidity as women of quality begin to pawn their jewels; we have not ventured upon any great stone yet! the provost of edinburgh is in custody of a messenger; and the other day they seized an odd man, who goes by the name of count st. germain. he has been here these two years, and will not tell who he is, or whence, but professes that he does not go by his right name. he sings, plays on the violin wonderfully, composes, is mad, and not very sensible. he is called an italian, a spaniard, a pole; a somebody that married a great fortune in mexico, and ran away with her jewels to constantinople; a priest, a fiddler, a vast nobleman. the prince of wales has had unsatiated curiosity about him, but in vain. however, nothing has been made out against him;[ ] he is released; and, what convinces me that he is not a gentleman, stays here, and talks of his being taken up for a spy. [footnote : in the beginning of the year , on rumours of a great armament at brest, one virette, a swiss, who had been a kind of toad-eater to this st. germain, was denounced to lord holdernesse for a spy; but mr. stanley going pretty surlily to his lordship, on his suspecting a friend of his, virette was declared innocent, and the penitent secretary of state made him the _amende honorable_ of a dinner in form. about the same time, a spy of ours was seized at brest, but, not happening to be acquainted with mr. stanley, was broken upon the wheel.--walpole.] i think these accounts, upon which you may depend, must raise your spirits, and figure in mr. chute's loyal journal.--but you don't get my letters: i have sent you eleven since i came to town; how many of these have you received? adieu! _battle of culloden._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _april_ , . you have bid me for some time to send you good news--well! i think i will. how good would you have it? must it be a total victory over the rebels; with not only the boy, that is here, killed, but the other, that is not here, too; their whole army put to the sword, besides an infinite number of prisoners; all the jacobite estates in england confiscated, and all those in scotland--what would you have done with them?--or could you be content with something much under this? how much will you abate? will you compound for lord john drummond, taken by accident? or for three presbyterian parsons, who have very poor livings, stoutly refusing to pay a large contribution to the rebels? come, i will deal as well with you as i can, and for once, but not to make a practice of it, will let you have a victory! my friend, lord bury, arrived this morning from the duke, though the news was got here before him; for, with all our victory, it was not thought safe to send him through the heart of scotland; so he was shipped at inverness, within an hour after the duke entered the town, kept beating at sea five days, and then put on shore at north berwick, from whence he came post in less than three days to london; but with a fever upon him, for which he had been twice blooded but the day before the battle; but he is young, and high in spirits, and i flatter myself will not suffer from this kindness of the duke: the king has immediately ordered him a thousand pound, and i hear will make him his own aide-de-camp. my dear mr. chute, i beg your pardon; i have forgot you have the gout, and consequently not the same patience to wait for the battle, with which i, knowing the particulars, postpone it. on the th, the duke, by forced marches, came up with the rebels, a little on this side inverness--by the way, the battle is not christened yet; i only know that neither prestonpans nor falkirk are to be godfathers. the rebels, who fled from him after their victory, and durst not attack him, when so much exposed to them at his passage of the spey, now stood him, they seven thousand, he ten. they broke through barril's regiment, and killed lord robert kerr, a handsome young gentleman, who was cut to pieces with above thirty wounds; but they were soon repulsed, and fled; the whole engagement not lasting above a quarter of an hour. the young pretender escaped; mr. conway says, he hears, wounded: he certainly was in the rear. they have lost above a thousand men in the engagement and pursuit; and six hundred were already taken; among which latter are their french ambassador and earl kilmarnock. the duke of perth and lord ogilvie are said to be slain; lord elcho was in a salivation, and not there. except lord robert kerr, we lost nobody of note: sir robert rich's eldest son has lost his hand, and about a hundred and thirty private men fell. the defeat is reckoned total, and the dispersion general; and all their artillery is taken. it is a brave young duke! the town is all blazing round me, as i write, with fireworks and illuminations: i have some inclination to wrap up half a dozen sky-rockets, to make you drink the duke's health. mr. dodington, on the first report, came out with a very pretty illumination; so pretty, that i believe he had it by him, ready for _any_ occasion.... _trial of the rebel lords balmerino and kilmarnock._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _aug._ , . i am this moment come from the conclusion of the greatest and most melancholy scene i ever yet saw! you will easily guess it was the trials of the rebel lords. as it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine: a coronation is a puppet-show, and all the splendour of it idle; but this sight at once feasted one's eyes and engaged all one's passions. it began last monday; three parts of westminster hall were inclosed with galleries, and hung with scarlet; and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency, except in the one point of leaving the prisoners at the bar, amidst the idle curiosity of some crowd, and even with the witnesses who had sworn against them, while the lords adjourned to their own house to consult. no part of the royal family was there, which was a proper regard to the unhappy men, who were become their victims. one hundred and thirty-nine lords were present, and made a noble sight on their benches _frequent and full_! the chancellor [hardwicke] was lord high steward; but though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curiously searching for occasion to bow to the minister [mr. pelham] that is no peer, and consequently applying to the other ministers, in a manner, for their orders; and not even ready at the ceremonial. to the prisoners he was peevish; and instead of keeping up to the humane dignity of the law of england, whose character it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and almost scolded at any offer they made towards defence. i had armed myself with all the resolution i could, with the thought of their crimes and of the danger past, and was assisted by the sight of the marquis of lothian in weepers for his son who fell at culloden--but the first appearance of the prisoners shocked me! their behaviour melted me! lord kilmarnock and lord cromartie are both past forty, but look younger. lord kilmarnock is tall and slender, with an extreme fine person: his behaviour a most just mixture between dignity and submission; if in anything to be reprehended, a little affected, and his hair too exactly dressed for a man in his situation; but when i say it is not to find fault with him, but to show how little fault there was to be found. lord cromartie is an indifferent figure, appeared much dejected, and rather sullen: he dropped a few tears the first day, and swooned as soon as he got back to his cell. for lord balmerino, he is the most natural brave old fellow i ever saw: the highest intrepidity, even to indifference. at the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man; at the intervals of form, with carelessness and humour. he pressed extremely to have his wife, his pretty peggy, with him in the tower. lady cromartie only sees her husband through the grate, not choosing to be shut up with him, as she thinks she can serve him better by her intercession without: she is big with child and very handsome: so are their daughters. when they were to be brought from the tower in separate coaches, there was some dispute in which the axe must go--old balmerino cried, "come, come, put it with me." at the bar, he plays with his fingers upon the axe, while he talks with the gentleman-gaoler; and one day somebody coming up to listen, he took the blade and held it like a fan between their faces. during the trial, a little boy was near him, but not tall enough to see; he made room for the child and placed him near himself. when the trial began, the two earls pleaded guilty; balmerino not guilty, saying he could prove his not being at the taking of the castle of carlisle, as was laid in the indictment. then the king's counsel opened, and serjeant skinner pronounced the most absurd speech imaginable; and mentioned the duke of perth, "who," said he, "i see by the papers is dead." then some witnesses were examined, whom afterwards the old hero shook cordially by the hand. the lords withdrew to their house, and returning, demanded of the judges, whether one point not being proved, though all the rest were, the indictment was false? to which they unanimously answered in the negative. then the lord high steward asked the peers severally, whether lord balmerino was guilty! all said, "guilty upon honour," and then adjourned, the prisoner having begged pardon for giving them so much trouble. while the lords were withdrawn, the solicitor-general murray (brother of the pretender's minister) officiously and insolently went up to lord balmerino, and asked him, how he could give the lords so much trouble, when his solicitor had informed him that his plea could be of no use to him? balmerino asked the bystanders who this person was? and being told he said, "oh, mr. murray! i am extremely glad to see you; i have been with several of your relations; the good lady, your mother, was of great use to us at perth." are not you charmed with this speech? how just it was! as he went away, he said, "they call me jacobite; i am no more a jacobite than any that tried me: but if the great mogul had set up his standard, i should have followed it, for i could not starve." the worst of his case is, that after the battle of dumblain, having a company in the duke of argyll's regiment, he deserted with it to the rebels, and has since been pardoned. lord kilmarnock is a presbyterian, with four earldoms in him, but so poor since lord wilmington's stopping a pension that my father had given him, that he often wanted a dinner. lord cromartie was receiver of the rents of the king's second son in scotland, which, it was understood, he should not account for; and by that means had six-hundred a-year from the government: lord elibank, a very prating, impertinent jacobite, was bound for him in nine thousand pounds, for which the duke is determined to sue him. when the peers were going to vote, lord foley withdrew, as too well a wisher; lord moray, as nephew of lord balmerino--and lord stair,--as, i believe, uncle to his great-grandfather. lord windsor, very affectedly, said, "i am sorry i must say, _guilty upon my honour_." lord stamford would not answer to the name of _henry_, having been christened _harry_--what a great way of thinking on such an occasion! i was diverted too with old norsa, the father of my brother's concubine, an old jew that kept a tavern; my brother [orford], as auditor of the exchequer, has a gallery along one whole side of the court; i said, "i really feel for the prisoners!" old issachar replied, "feel for them! pray, if they had succeeded, what would have become of _all us_?" when my lady townsend heard her husband vote, she said, "i always knew _my_ lord was _guilty_, but i never thought he would own it _upon his honour_." lord balmerino said, that one of his reasons for pleading _not guilty_, was that so many ladies might not be disappointed of their show. on wednesday they were again brought to westminster hall, to receive sentence; and being asked what they had to say, lord kilmarnock, with a very fine voice, read a very fine speech, confessing the extent of his crime, but offering his principles as some alleviation, having his eldest son (his second unluckily with him), in the duke's army, _fighting for the liberties of his country at culloden, where his unhappy father was in arms to destroy them_. he insisted much on his tenderness to the english prisoners, which some deny, and say that he was the man who proposed their being put to death, when general stapleton urged that _he_ was come to fight, but not to butcher; and that if they acted any such barbarity, he would leave them with all his men. he very artfully mentioned van hoey's letter, and said how much he would scorn to owe his life to such intercession.[ ] lord cromartie spoke much shorter, and so low, that he was not heard but by those who sat very near him; but they prefer his speech to the other. he mentioned his misfortune in having drawn in his eldest son, who is prisoner with him; and concluded with saying, "if no part of this bitter cup must pass from me, not mine, o god, but thy will be done!" if he had pleaded _not guilty_, there was ready to be produced against him a paper signed with his own hand, for putting the english prisoners to death. [footnote : in a subsequent letter walpole attributes lord kilmarnock's complicity in the rebellion partly to the influence of his mother, the countess of errol, and partly to his extreme poverty. he says: "i don't know whether i told you that the man at the tennis-court protests that he has known him dine with the man that sells pamphlets at storey's gate; 'and,' says he, 'he would often have been glad if i would have taken him home to dinner.' he was certainly so poor, that in one of his wife's intercepted letters she tells him she has plagued their steward for a fortnight for money, and can get but three shillings." one cannot help remembering, _ibit eo quo vis qui zonam perdidit_. and afterwards, in relating his execution, he mentions a report that the duke of cumberland charging him (certainly on misinformation) with having promoted the adoption of "a resolution taken the day before the battle of culloden" to put the english prisoners to death, "decided this unhappy man's fate" by preventing his obtaining a pardon.] lord leicester went up to the duke of newcastle, and said, "i never heard so great an orator as lord kilmarnock? if i was your grace i would pardon him, and make him _paymaster_."[ ] [footnote : "_i would make him paymaster._" the paymaster at this time was mr. pitt.] that morning a paper had been sent to the lieutenant of the tower for the prisoners; he gave it to lord cornwallis, the governor, who carried it to the house of lords. it was a plea for the prisoners, objecting that the late act for regulating the trials of rebels did not take place till after their crime was committed. the lords very tenderly and rightly sent this plea to them, of which, as you have seen, the two earls did not make use; but old balmerino did, and demanded council on it. the high steward, almost in a passion, told him, that when he had been offered council, he did not accept it. do but think on the ridicule of sending them the plea, and then denying them council on it! the duke of newcastle, who never let slip an opportunity of being absurd, took it up as a ministerial point, in defence of his creature the chancellor [hardwicke]; but lord granville moved, according to order, to adjourn to debate in the chamber of parliament, where the duke of bedford and many others spoke warmly for their having council; and it was granted. i said _their_, because the plea would have saved them all, and affected nine rebels who had been hanged that very morning; particularly one morgan, a poetical lawyer. lord balmerino asked for forester and wilbraham; the latter a very able lawyer in the house of commons, who, the chancellor said privately, he was sure would as soon be hanged as plead such a cause. but he came as council to-day (the third day), when lord balmerino gave up his plea as invalid, and submitted, without any speech. the high steward [hardwicke] then made his, very long and very poor, with only one or two good passages; and then pronounced sentence! great intercession is made for the two earls: duke hamilton, who has never been at court, designs to kiss the king's hand, and ask lord kilmarnock's life. the king is much inclined to some mercy; but the duke, who has not so much of caesar after a victory, as in gaining it, is for the utmost severity. it was lately proposed in the city to present him with the freedom of some company; one of the aldermen said aloud, "then let it be of the _butchers_!"[ ] the scotch and his royal highness are not at all guarded in their expressions of each other. when he went to edinburgh, in his pursuit of the rebels, they would not admit his guards, alleging that it was contrary to their privileges; but they rode in, sword in hand; and the duke, very justly incensed, refused to see any of the magistrates. he came with the utmost expedition to town, in order for flanders; but found that the court of vienna had already sent prince charles thither, without the least notification, at which both king and duke are greatly offended. when the latter waited on his brother, the prince carried him into a room that hangs over the wall of st. james's park, and stood there with his arm about his neck, to charm the gazing mob. [footnote : "the duke," says sir walter scott, "was received with all the honours due to conquest; and all the incorporated bodies of the capital, from the guild brethren to the butchers, desired the acceptance of the freedom of their craft, or corporation." billy the butcher was one of his by-names.] murray, the pretender's secretary, has made ample confessions: the earl of traquair, and mr. barry, a physician, are apprehended, and more warrants are out; so much for rebels! your friend, lord sandwich, is instantly going ambassador to holland, to pray the dutch to build more ships. i have received yours of july th, but you see have no more room left, only to say, that i conceive a good idea of my eagle, though the seal is a bad one. adieu! p.s.--i have not room to say anything to the tesi till next post; but, unless she will sing gratis, would advise her to drop this thought. _the battle of rancoux._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _oct._ , . you will have been alarmed with the news of another battle lost in flanders, where we have no kings of sardinia. we make light of it; do not allow it to be a battle, but call it "the action near liege." then we have whittled down our loss extremely, and will not allow a man more than three hundred and fifty english slain out of the four thousand. the whole of it, as it appears to me, is, that we gave up eight battalions to avoid fighting; as at newmarket people pay their forfeit when they foresee they should lose the race; though, if the whole army had fought, and we had lost the day, one might have hoped to have come off for eight battalions. then they tell you that the french had four-and-twenty-pounders, and that they must beat us by the superiority of their cannon; so that to me it is grown a paradox, to war with a nation who have a mathematical certainty of beating you; or else it is still a stranger paradox, why you cannot have as large cannon as the french.[ ] this loss was balanced by a pompous account of the triumphs of our invasion of bretagne; which, in plain terms, i think, is reduced to burning two or three villages and reimbarking: at least, two or three of the transports are returned with this history, and know not what is become of lestock and the rest of the invasion. the young pretender is landed in france, with thirty scotch, but in such a wretched condition that his highland highness had no breeches. [footnote : marshal saxe had inspired his army with confidence that a day of battle was sure to be a day of victory, as was shown by the theatrical company which accompanied the camp. after the performance on the evening of october th the leading actress announced that there would be no performance on the morrow, because there was to be a battle, but on the th the company would have the honour of presenting "the village clock." (see the editor's "france under the bourbons," iii. .)] i have received yours of the th of last month, with the capitulation of genoa, and the kind conduct of the austrians to us their allies, so extremely like their behaviour whenever they are fortunate. pray, by the way, has there been any talk of my cousin, the commodore, being blameable in letting slip some spanish ships?--don't mention it as from me, but there are whispers of court-martial on him. they are all the fashion now; if you miss a post to me, i will have you tried by a court-martial. cope is come off most gloriously, his courage ascertained, and even his conduct, which everybody had given up, justified. folkes and lascelles, two of his generals, are come off too; but not so happily in the opinion of the world. oglethorpe's sentence is not yet public, but it is believed not to be favourable. he was always a bully, and is now tried for cowardice. some little dash of the same sort is likely to mingle with the judgment on _il furibondo_ matthews; though his party rises again a little, and lestock's acquittal begins to pass for a party affair. in short, we are a wretched people, and have seen our best days! i must have lost a letter, if you really told me of the sale of the duke of modena's pictures, as you think you did; for when mr. chute told it me, it struck me as quite new. they are out of town, good souls; and i shall not see them this fortnight; for i am here only for two or three days, to inquire after the battle, in which not one of my friends were. adieu! _on conway's verses--no scotch_man_ is capable of such delicacy of thought, though a scotchwoman may be--akenside's, armstrong's, and glover's poems._ to the hon. h.s. conway. windsor, _oct._ , . well, harry, scotland is the last place on earth i should have thought of for turning anybody poet: but i begin to forgive it half its treasons in favour of your verses, for i suppose you don't think i am the dupe of the highland story that you tell me: the only use i shall make of it is to commend the lines to you, as if they really were a scotchman's. there is a melancholy harmony in them that is charming, and a delicacy in the thoughts that no scotchman is capable of, though a _scotchwoman_ might inspire it.[ ] i beg, both for cynthia's sake and my own, that you would continue your de tristibus till i have an opportunity of seeing your muse, and she of rewarding her: _reprens la musette, berger amoureux_! if cynthia has ever travelled ten miles in fairy-land, she must be wondrous content with the person and qualifications of her knight, who in future story will be read of thus: elmedorus was tall and perfectly well made, his face oval, and features regularly handsome, but not effeminate; his complexion sentimentally brown, with not much colour; his teeth fine, and forehead agreeably low, round which his black hair curled naturally and beautifully. his eyes were black too, but had nothing of fierce or insolent; on the contrary, a certain melancholy swimmingness, that described hopeless love rather than a natural amorous languish. his exploits in war, where he always fought by the side of the renowned paladine william of england, have endeared his memory to all admirers of true chivalry, as the mournful elegies which he poured out among the desert rocks of caledonia in honour of the peerless lady and his heart's idol, the incomparable cynthia, will for ever preserve his name in the flowery annals of poesy. [footnote : walpole could not foresee the genius of burns, that before his own death was to shed such glory on scotland. his compliment to a scotchwoman was an allusion to lady aylesbury (_née_ miss caroline campbell), whom conway married after her husband's death, which took place a few months after the date of this letter. lady aylesbury was no poetess, but his estimate of what might be accomplished by scotch ladies was afterwards fully borne out by lady anne lindsay, the authoress of "auld gray," and lady nairn.] what a pity it is i was not born in the golden age of louis the fourteenth, when it was not only the fashion to write folios, but to read them too! or rather, it is a pity the same fashion don't subsist now, when one need not be at the trouble of invention, nor of turning the whole roman history into romance for want of proper heroes. your campaign in scotland, rolled out and well be-epitheted, would make a pompous work, and make one's fortune; at sixpence a number, one should have all the damsels within the liberties for subscribers: whereas now, if one has a mind to be read, one must write metaphysical poems in blank verse, which, though i own to be still easier, have not half the imagination of romances, and are dull without any agreeable absurdity. only think of the gravity of this wise age, that have exploded "cleopatra and pharamond," and approve "the pleasures of the imagination," "the art of preserving health," and "leonidas!" i beg the age's pardon: it has done approving these poems, and has forgot them. adieu! dear harry. thank you seriously for the poem. i am going to town for the birthday, and shall return hither till the parliament meets; i suppose there is no doubt of our meeting then. yours ever. p.s.--now you are at stirling, if you should meet with drummond's history of the five king jameses, pray look it over. i have lately read it, and like it much. it is wrote in imitation of livy; the style masculine, and the whole very sensible; only he ascribes the misfortunes of one reign to the then king's loving architecture and in trim gardens taking pleasure. _he has bought strawberry hill._ to the hon. h.s. conway. twickenham, _june_ , . you perceive by my date that i am got into a new camp, and have left my tub at windsor. it is a little plaything-house that i got out of mrs. chenevix's shop, and is the prettiest bauble you ever saw. it is set in enamelled meadows, with filigree hedges: a small euphrates through the piece is told, and little finches wave their wings in gold. two delightful roads, that you would call dusty, supply me continually with coaches and chaises: barges as solemn as barons of the exchequer move under my window; richmond hill and ham walks bound my prospect; but, thank god! the thames is between me and the duchess of queensberry. dowagers as plenty as flounders inhabit all around, and pope's ghost is just now skimming under my window by a most poetical moonlight. i have about land enough to keep such a farm as noah's, when he set up in the ark with a pair of each kind; but my cottage is rather cleaner than i believe his was after they had been cooped up together forty days. the chenevixes had tricked it out for themselves: up two pair of stairs is what they call mr. chenevix's library, furnished with three maps, one shelf, a bust of sir isaac newton, and a lame telescope without any glasses. lord john sackville _predecessed_ me here, and instituted certain games called _cricketalia_, which have been celebrated this very evening in honour of him in a neighbouring meadow. you will think i have removed my philosophy from windsor with my tea-things hither; for i am writing to you in all this tranquillity, while a parliament is bursting about my ears. you know it is going to be dissolved: i am told, you are taken care of, though i don't know where, nor whether anybody that chooses you will quarrel with me because he does choose you, as that little bug the marquis of rockingham did; one of the calamities of my life which i have bore as abominably well as i do most about which i don't care. they say the prince has taken up two hundred thousand pounds, to carry elections which he won't carry:--he had much better have saved it to buy the parliament after it is chosen. a new set of peers are in embryo, to add more dignity to the silence of the house of lords. i made no remarks on your campaign, because, as you say, you do nothing at all; which, though very proper nutriment for a thinking head, does not do quite so well to write upon. if any one of you can but contrive to be shot upon your post, it is all we desire, shall look upon it as a great curiosity, and will take care to set up a monument to the person so slain; as we are doing by vote to captain cornewall, who was killed at the beginning of the action in the mediterranean four years ago. in the present dearth of glory, he is canonized; though, poor man! he had been tried twice the year before for cowardice. i could tell you much election news, none else; though not being thoroughly attentive to so important a subject, as to be sure one ought to be, i might now and then mistake, and give you a candidate for durham in place of one for southampton, or name the returning officer instead of the candidate. in general, i believe, it is much as usual--those sold in detail that afterwards will be sold in the representation--the ministers bribing jacobites to choose friends of their own--the name of well-wishers to the present establishment, and patriots outbidding ministers that they may make the better market of their own patriotism:--in short, all england, under some name or other, is just now to be bought and sold; though, whenever we become posterity and forefathers, we shall be in high repute for wisdom and virtue. my great-great-grandchildren will figure me with a white beard down to my girdle; and mr. pitt's will believe him unspotted enough to have walked over nine hundred hot ploughshares, without hurting the sole of his foot. how merry my ghost will be, and shake its ears to hear itself quoted as a person of consummate prudence! adieu, dear harry! yours ever. _his mode of life--planting--prophecies of new methods and new discoveries in a future generation._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _aug._ , . dear harry,--whatever you may think, a campaign at twickenham furnishes as little matter for a letter as an abortive one in flanders. i can't say indeed that my generals wear black wigs, but they have long full-bottomed hoods which cover as little entertainment to the full. [illustration: strawberry hill, from the south east.] there's general my lady castlecomer, and general my lady dowager ferris! why, do you think i can extract more out of them than you can out of hawley or honeywood? your old women dress, go to the duke's levée, see that the soldiers cock their hats right, sleep after dinner, and soak with their led-captains till bed-time, and tell a thousand lies of what they never did in their youth. change hats for head-clothes, the rounds for visits, and led-captains for toad-eaters, and the life is the very same. in short, these are the people i live in the midst of, though not with; and it is for want of more important histories that i have wrote to you seldom; not, i give you my word, from the least negligence. my present and sole occupation is planting, in which i have made great progress and talked very learnedly with the nurserymen, except that now and then a lettuce run to seed overturns all my botany, as i have more than once taken it for a curious west indian flowering shrub. then the deliberation with which trees grow, is extremely inconvenient to my natural impatience. i lament living in so barbarous an age, when we are come to so little perfection in gardening. i am persuaded that a hundred and fifty years hence it will be as common to remove oaks a hundred and fifty years old, as it is now to transplant tulip roots.[ ] i have even begun a treatise or panegyric on the great discoveries made by posterity in all arts and sciences, wherein i shall particularly descant on the great and cheap convenience of making trout-rivers--one of the improvements which mrs. kerwood wondered mr. hedges would not make at his country-house, but which was not then quite so common as it will be. i shall talk of a secret for roasting a wild boar and a whole pack of hounds alive, without hurting them, so that the whole chase may be brought up to table; and for this secret, the duke of newcastle's grandson, if he can ever get a son, is to give a hundred thousand pounds. then the delightfulness of having whole groves of humming-birds, tame tigers taught to fetch and carry, pocket spying-glasses to see all that is doing in china, with a thousand other toys, which we now look upon as impracticable, and which pert posterity would laugh in one's face for staring at, while they are offering rewards for perfecting discoveries, of the principles of which we have not the least conception! if ever this book should come forth, i must expect to have all the learned in arms against me, who measure all knowledge backward: some of them have discovered symptoms of all arts in homer; and pineda,[ ] had so much faith in the accomplishments of his ancestors, that he believed adam understood all sciences but politics. but as these great champions for our forefathers are dead, and boileau not alive to hitch me into a verse with perrault, i am determined to admire the learning of posterity, especially being convinced that half our present knowledge sprung from discovering the errors of what had formerly been called so. i don't think i shall ever make any great discoveries myself, and therefore shall be content to propose them to my descendants, like my lord bacon,[ ] who, as dr. shaw says very prettily in his preface to boyle, "had the art of inventing arts:" or rather like a marquis of worcester, of whom i have seen a little book which he calls "a century of inventions,"[ ] where he has set down a hundred machines to do impossibilities with, and not a single direction how to make the machines themselves. [footnote : it is worth noting that these predictions that "it will be common to remove oaks a hundred and fifty years old" has been verified many years since; at least, if not in the case of oaks, in that of large elms and ashtrees. in mr. paxton offered to a committee of the house of commons to undertake to remove the large elm which was standing on the ground proposed for the crystal palace of the exhibition of , and his master, the duke of devonshire, has since that time removed many trees of very large size from one part of his grounds to another; and similarly the "making of trout rivers" has been carried out in many places, even in our most distant colonies, by mr. buckland's method of raising the young fish from roe in boxes and distributing them in places where they were needed.] [footnote : pineda was a spanish jesuit of the seventeenth century, and a voluminous writer.] [footnote : it is a singular thing that this most eminent man should be so constantly spoken of by a title which he never had. his first title in the peerage was baron verulam; his second, on a subsequent promotion, was viscount st. albans; yet the error is as old as dryden, and is defended by lord macaulay in a sentence of pre-eminent absurdity: "posterity has felt that the greatest of english philosophers could derive no accession of dignity from any title which power could bestow, and, in defiance of letters-patent, has obstinately refused to degrade francis bacon into viscount st. albans." but, without stopping to discuss the propriety of representing a britiph peerage, honestly earned, and, in his case as lord chancellor, necessarily conferred, as a "degradation," the mistake made is not that of continuing to call him francis bacon, a name by which at one time he was known, but that of calling him "lord bacon," a title by which he was never known for a single moment in his lifetime; while, if a great philosopher was really "degraded" by a peerage, it is hard to see how the degradation would have been lessened by the title being lord bacon, which it was not, rather than viscount st. albans, which it was.] [footnote : the "biographie universelle" (art. _newcomen_) says of the marquis: "longtemps avant lui [neucomen] on avait remarqué la grande force expansive de la vapeur, et on avait imaginé de l'employer comme puissance. on trouve déja cetté application proposée et même executée dans un ouvrage publié en , par le marquis de worcester, sous le titre bizarre, 'a century of inventions.'"] if i happen to be less punctual in my correspondence than i intend to be, you must conclude i am writing my book, which being designed for a panegyric, will cost me a great deal of trouble. the dedication with your leave, shall be addressed to your son that is coming, or, with lady ailesbury's leave, to your ninth son, who will be unborn nearer to the time i am writing of; always provided that she does not bring three at once, like my lady berkeley. well! i have here set you the example of writing nonsense when one has nothing to say, and shall take it ill if you don't keep up the correspondence on the same foot. adieu! _rejoicings for the peace--masquerade at ranelagh--meeting of the princes party and the jacobites--prevalence of drinking and gambling--whitefield._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _may_ , . i am come hither for a few days, to repose myself after a torrent of diversions, and am writing to you in my charming bow-window with a tranquillity and satisfaction which, i fear, i am grown old enough to prefer to the hurry of amusements, in which the whole world has lived for this last week. we have at last celebrated the peace, and that as much in extremes as we generally do everything, whether we have reason to be glad or sorry, pleased or angry. last tuesday it was proclaimed: the king did not go to st. paul's, but at night the whole town was illuminated. the next day was what was called "a jubilee-masquerade in the venetian manner" at ranelagh: it had nothing venetian in it, but was by far the best understood and the prettiest spectacle i ever saw: nothing in a fairy tale ever surpassed it. one of the proprietors, who is a german, and belongs to court, had got my lady yarmouth to persuade the king to order it. it began at three o'clock, and, about five, people of fashion began to go. when you entered, you found the whole garden filled with masks and spread with tents, which remained all night _very commodely_. in one quarter, was a may-pole dressed with garlands, and people dancing round it to a tabor and pipe and rustic music, all masqued, as were all the various bands of music that were disposed in different parts of the garden; some like huntsmen with french horns, some like peasants, and a troop of harlequins and scaramouches in the little open temple on the mount. on the canal was a sort of gondola, adorned with flags and streamers, and filled with music, rowing about. all round the outside of the amphitheatre were shops, filled with dresden china, japan, &c., and all the shopkeepers in mask. the amphitheatre was illuminated; and in the middle was a circular bower, composed of all kinds of firs in tubs, from twenty to thirty feet high: under them orange-trees, with small lamps in each orange, and below them all sorts of the finest auriculas in pots; and festoons of natural flowers hanging from tree to tree. between the arches too were firs, and smaller ones in the balconies above. there were booths for tea and wine, gaming-tables and dancing, and about two thousand persons. in short, it pleased me more than anything i ever saw. it is to be once more, and probably finer as to dresses, as there has since been a subscription masquerade, and people will go in their rich habits. the next day were the fireworks, which by no means answered the expense, the length of preparation, and the expectation that had been raised; indeed, for a week before, the town was like a country fair, the streets filled from morning to night, scaffolds building wherever you could or could not see, and coaches arriving from every corner of the kingdom. this hurry and lively scene, with the sight of the immense crowd in the park and on every house, the guards, and the machine itself, which was very beautiful, was all that was worth seeing. the rockets, and whatever was thrown up into the air, succeeded mighty well; but the wheels, and all that was to compose the principal part, were pitiful and ill-conducted, with no changes of coloured fires and shapes: the illumination was mean, and lighted so slowly that scarce anybody had patience to wait the finishing; and then, what contributed to the awkwardness of the whole, was the right pavilion catching fire, and being burnt down in the middle of the show. the king, the duke, and princess emily saw it from the library, with their courts: the prince and princess, with their children, from lady middlesex's; no place being provided for them, nor any invitation given to the library. the lords and commons had galleries built for them and the chief citizens along the rails of the mall: the lords had four tickets a-piece, and each commoner, at first, but two, till the speaker bounced and obtained a third. very little mischief was done, and but two persons killed: at paris, there were forty killed and near three hundred wounded, by a dispute between the french and italians in the management, who, quarrelling for precedence in lighting the fires, both lighted at once and blew up the whole. our mob was extremely tranquil, and very unlike those i remember in my father's time, when it was a measure in the opposition to work up everything to mischief, the excise and the french players, the convention and the gin act. we are as much now in the opposite extreme, and in general so pleased with the peace, that i could not help being struck with a passage i read lately in pasquier, an old french author, who says, "that in the time of francis i. the french used to call their creditors 'des anglois,' from the facility with which the english gave credit to them in all treaties, though they had broken so many." on saturday we had a serenta at the opera-house, called peace in europe, but it was a wretched performance. on monday there was a subscription masquerade, much fuller than that of last year, but not so agreeable or so various in dresses. the king was well disguised in an old-fashioned english habit, and much pleased with somebody who desired him to hold their cup as they were drinking tea. the duke had a dress of the same kind, but was so immensely corpulent that he looked like cacofogo, the drunken captain, in "rule a wife and have a wife." the duchess of richmond was a lady mayoress in the time of james i.; and lord delawarr, queen elizabeth's porter, from a picture in the guard-chamber at kensington: they were admirable masks. lord rochford, miss evelyn, miss bishop, lady stafford, and mrs. pitt, were in vast beauty; particularly the last, who had a red veil, which made her look gloriously handsome. i forgot lady kildare. mr. conway was the duke in "don quixote," and the finest figure i ever saw. miss chudleigh was iphigenia, but so naked that you would have taken her for andromeda; and lady betty smithson [seymour] had such a pyramid of baubles upon her head, that she was exactly the princess of babylon in grammont. you will conclude that, after all these diversions, people begin to think of going out of town--no such matter: the parliament continues sitting, and will till the middle of june; lord egmont told us we should sit till michaelmas. there are many private bills, no public ones of any fame. we were to have had some chastisement for oxford, where, besides the late riots, the famous dr. king,[ ] the pretender's great agent, made a most violent speech at the opening of the ratcliffe library. the ministry denounced judgment, but, in their old style, have grown frightened, and dropped it. however, this menace gave occasion to a meeting and union between the prince's party and the jacobites which lord egmont has been labouring all the winter. they met at the st. alban's tavern, near pall mall, last monday morning, a hundred and twelve lords and commoners. the duke of beaufort opened the assembly with a panegyric on the stand that had been made this winter against so corrupt an administration, and hoped it would continue, and desired harmony. lord egmont seconded this strongly, and begged they would come up to parliament early next winter. lord oxford spoke next; and then potter with great humour, and to the great abashment of the jacobites, said he was very glad to see this union, and from thence hoped, that if another attack like the last rebellion should be made on the royal family, they would all stand by them. no reply was made to this. then sir watkyn williams spoke, sir francis dashwood,[ ] and tom pitt, and the meeting broke up. i don't know what this coalition may produce: it will require time with no better heads than compose it at present, though the great mr. dodington had carried to the conference the assistance of his. in france a very favourable event has happened for us, the disgrace of maurepas,[ ] one of our bitterest enemies, and the greatest promoter of their marine. just at the beginning of the war, in a very critical period, he had obtained a very large sum for that service, but which one of the other factions, lest he should gain glory and credit by it, got to be suddenly given away to the king of prussia. [footnote : dr. king was principal of st. mary's hall, oxford, and one of the chief supports of the jacobite party after .] [footnote : chancellor of the exchequer in , through the influence of the earl of bute. he was the owner of medmenham abbey, on the thames, and as such, the president of the profligate club whose doings were made notorious by the proceedings against wilkes, and who, in compliment to him, called themselves the franciscans.] [footnote : the comte de maurepas was the grandson of the chancellor of france, m. de pontchartrain. when only fourteen years old louis had made him secretary of state for the marine, as a consolation to his grandfather for his dismissal; and he continued in office till the accession of louis xvi., when he was appointed prime minister. he was not a man of any statesmanlike ability; but lacretelle ascribes to him "les graces d'un esprit aimable et frivole qui avait le don d'amuser un vieillard toujours porté à un elegant badinage" (ii. ); and in a subsequent letter speaks of him as a man of very lively powers of conversation.] sir charles williams[ ] is appointed envoy to this last king: here is an epigram which he has just sent over on lord egmont's opposition to the mutiny bill: why has lord egmont 'gainst this bill so much declamatory skill so tediously exerted? the reason's plain: but t'other day he mutinied himself for pay, and he has twice deserted. [footnote : sir charles hanbury williams had represented monmouth in parliament, but in was sent as ambassador to berlin, and from thence to st. petersburg. he was more celebrated in the fashionable world as the author of lyrical odes of a lively character.] i must tell you a _bon-mot_ that was made the other night at the serenata of "peace in europe" by wall,[ ] who is much in fashion, and a kind of gondomar. grossatesta, the modenese minister, a very low fellow, with all the jackpuddinghood of an italian, asked, "mais qui est ce qui représente mon maître?" wall replied, "mais, mon dieu! l'abbé, ne sçavez vous pas que ce n'est pas un opéra boufon?" and here is another _bon-mot_ of my lady townshend: we were talking of methodists; somebody said, "pray, madam, is it true that whitfield[ ] has _recanted_?" "no, sir, he has only _canted_." [footnote : general wall was the spanish ambassador, as gondomar had been in the reign of james i.] [footnote : whitefield, while an undergraduate at oxford, joined wesley, who had recently founded a sect which soon became known as the methodists. but, after a time, whitefield, who was of a less moderate temper than wesley, adopted the views known as calvinistic, and, breaking off from the wesleyans, established a sect more rigid and less friendly to the church.] if you ever think of returning to england, as i hope it will be long first, you must prepare yourself with methodism. i really believe that by that time it will be necessary: this sect increases as fast as almost ever any religious nonsense did. lady fanny shirley has chosen this way of bestowing the dregs of her beauty; and mr. lyttelton is very near making the same sacrifice of the dregs of all those various characters that he has worn. the methodists love your big sinners, as proper subjects to work upon--and indeed they have a plentiful harvest--i think what you call flagrancy was never more in fashion. drinking is at the highest wine-mark; and gaming joined with it so violent, that at the last newmarket meeting, in the rapidity of both, a bank-bill was thrown down, and nobody immediately claiming it, they agreed to give it to a man that was standing by.... _earthquake in london--general panic--marriage of casimir, king of poland._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _march_ , . portents and prodigies are grown so frequent, that they have lost their name. my text is not literally true; but as far as earthquakes go towards lowering the price of wonderful commodities, to be sure we are overstocked. we have had a second, much more violent than the first; and you must not be surprised if by next post you hear of a burning mountain sprung up in smithfield. in the night between wednesday and thursday last (exactly a month since the first shock), the earth had a shivering fit between one and two; but so slight that, if no more had followed, i don't believe it would have been noticed. i had been awake, and had scarce dozed again--on a sudden i felt my bolster lift up my head; i thought somebody was getting from under my bed, but soon found it was a strong earthquake, that lasted near half a minute, with a violent vibration and great roaring. i rang my bell; my servant came in, frightened out of his senses: in an instant we heard all the windows in the neighbourhood flung up. i got up and found people running into the streets, but saw no mischief done: there has been some; two old houses flung down, several chimneys, and much chinaware. the bells rung in several houses. admiral knowles, who has lived long in jamaica, and felt seven there, says this was more violent than any of them: francesco prefers it to the dreadful one at leghorn. the wise say,[ ] that if we have not rain soon, we shall certainly have more. several people are going out of town, for it has nowhere reached above ten miles from london: they say, they are not frightened, but that it is such fine weather, "lord! one can't help going into the country!" the only visible effect it has had, was on the ridotto, at which, being the following night, there were but four hundred people. a parson, who came into white's the morning of earthquake the first, and heard bets laid on whether it was an earthquake or the blowing up of powder mills, went away exceedingly scandalized, and said, "i protest, they are such an impious set of people, that i believe if the last trumpet was to sound, they would bet puppet-show against judgment." if we get any nearer still to the torrid zone, i shall pique myself on sending you a present of cedrati and orange-flower water: i am already planning a _terreno_ for strawberry hill. [footnote : in an earlier letter walpole mentions that sir i. newton had foretold a great alteration in the english climate in .] the middlesex election is carried against the court: the prince, in a green frock (and i won't swear, but in a scotch plaid waistcoat), sat under the park-wall in his chair, and hallooed the voters on to brentford. the jacobites are so transported, that they are opening subscriptions for all boroughs that shall be vacant--this is wise! they will spend their money to carry a few more seats in a parliament where they will never have the majority, and so have none to carry the general elections. the omen, however, is bad for westminster; the high bailiff went to vote for the opposition. i now jump to another topic; i find all this letter will be detached scraps; i can't at all contrive to hide the seams: but i don't care. i began my letter merely to tell you of the earthquake, and i don't pique myself upon doing any more than telling you what you would be glad to have told you. i told you too how pleased i was with the triumphs of another old beauty, our friend the princess. do you know, i have found a history that has great resemblance to hers; that is, that will be very like hers, if hers is but like it. i will tell it you in as few words as i can. madame la maréchale l'hôpital was the daughter of a seamstress; a young gentleman fell in love with her, and was going to be married to her, but the match was broken off. an old fermier-general, who had retired into the province where this happened, hearing the story, had a curiosity to see the victim; he liked her, married her, died, and left her enough not to care for her inconstant. she came to paris, where the maréchal de l'hôpital married her for her riches. after the maréchal's death, casimir, the abdicated king of poland, who was retired into france, fell in love with the maréchale, and privately married her. if the event ever happens, i shall certainly travel to nancy, to hear her talk of _ma belle fille la reine de france_. what pains my lady pomfret would take to prove that an abdicated king's wife did not take place of an english countess; and how the princess herself would grow still fonder of the pretender for the similitude of his fortune with that of _le roi mon mari_! her daughter, mirepoix, was frightened the other night, with mrs. nugent's calling out, _un voleur! un voleur_! the ambassadress had heard so much of robbing, that she did not doubt but _dans ce pais cy_, they robbed in the middle of an assembly. it turned out to be a _thief in the candle_! good night! general panic--sherlock's pastoral letter--predictions of more earthquakes--a general flight from london--epigrams by chute and walpole himself--french translation of milton. to sir horace mann. arlington street, _april_ , . you will not wonder so much at our earthquakes as at the effects they have had. all the women in town have taken them up upon the foot of _judgments_; and the clergy, who have had no windfalls of a long season, have driven horse and foot into this opinion. there has been a shower of sermons and exhortations: seeker, the jesuitical bishop of oxford, began the mode. he heard the women were all going out of town to avoid the next shock; and so, for fear of losing his easter offerings, he set himself to advise them to await god's good pleasure in fear and trembling. but what is more astonishing, sherlock, who has much better sense, and much less of the popish confessor, has been running a race with him for the old ladies, and has written a pastoral letter, of which ten thousand were sold in two days; and fifty thousand have been subscribed for, since the two first editions. i told you the women talked of going out of town: several families are literally gone, and many more going to-day and to-morrow; for what adds to the absurdity, is, that the second shock having happened exactly a month after the former, it prevails that there will be a third on thursday next, another month, which is to swallow up london. i am almost ready to burn my letter now i have begun it, lest you should think i am laughing at you: but it is so true, that arthur of white's told me last night, that he should put off the last ridotto, which was to be on thursday, because he hears nobody would come to it. i have advised several, who are going to keep their next earthquake in the country, to take the bark for it, as it is so periodic.[ ] dick leveson and mr. rigby, who had supped and stayed late at bedford house the other night, knocked at several doors, and in a watchman's voice cried, "past four o'clock, and a dreadful earthquake!"... [footnote : "i remember," says addison, in the th _tatler_, "when our whole island was shaken with an earthquake some years ago, that there was an impudent mountebank who sold pills, which, as he told the country people, were 'very good against an earthquake.'"] this frantic terror prevails so much, that within these three days seven hundred and thirty coaches have been counted passing hyde park corner, with whole parties removing into the country. here is a good advertisement which i cut out of the papers to-day:-- "on monday next will be published (price _d._) a true and exact list of all the nobility and gentry who have left, or shall leave, this place through fear of another earthquake." several women have made earthquake gowns; that is, warm gowns to sit out of doors all to-night. these are of the more courageous. one woman, still more heroic, is come to town on purpose: she says, all her friends are in london, and she will not survive them. but what will you think of lady catherine pelham, lady frances arundel, and lord and lady galway, who go this evening to an inn ten miles out of town, where they are to play at brag till five in the morning, and then come back--i suppose, to look for the bones of their husbands and families under the rubbish. the prophet of all this (next to the bishop of london) is a trooper of lord delawar's, who was yesterday sent to bedlam. his _colonel_ sent to the man's wife, and asked her if her husband had ever been disordered before. she cried, "oh dear! my lord, he is not mad now; if your _lordship_ would but get any _sensible_ man to examine him, you would find he is quite in his right mind."... i shall now go and show you mr. chute in a different light from heraldry, and in one in which i believe you never saw him. he will shine as usual; but, as a little more severely than his good-nature is accustomed to, i must tell you that he was provoked by the most impertinent usage. it is an epigram on lady caroline petersham, whose present fame, by the way, is coupled with young harry vane. who is this? her face has beauty, we must all confess, but beauty on the brink of ugliness: her mouth's a rabbit feeding on a rose; with eyes--ten times too good for such a nose! her blooming cheeks--what paint could ever draw 'em? that paint, for which no mortal ever saw 'em. air without shape--of royal race divine-- 'tis emily--oh! fie!--'tis caroline. do but think of my beginning a third sheet! but as the parliament is rising, and i shall probably not write you a tolerably long letter again these eight months, i will lay in a stock of merit with you to last me so long. mr. chute has set me too upon making epigrams; but as i have not his art mine is almost a copy of verses: the story he told me, and is literally true, of an old lady bingley: celia now had completed some thirty campaigns, and for new generations was hammering chains; when whetting those terrible weapons, her eyes, to jenny, her handmaid, in anger she cries, "careless creature! did mortal e'er see such a glass! who that saw me in this, could e'er guess what i was! much you mind what i say! pray how oft have i bid you provide me a new one? how oft have i chid you?" "lord, madam!" cried jane, "you're so hard to be pleased! i am sure every glassman in town i have teased: i have hunted each shop from pall mall to cheapside: both miss carpenter's man, and miss banks's i've tried." "don't tell me of those girls!--all i know, to my cost, is, the looking-glass art must be certainly lost! one used to have mirrors so smooth and so bright, they did one's eyes justice, they heightened one's white, and fresh roses diffused o'er one's bloom--but, alas! in the glasses made now, one detests one's own face; they pucker one's cheeks up and furrow one's brow, and one's skin looks as yellow as that of miss howe!" after an epigram that seems to have found out the longitude, i shall tell you but one more, and that wondrous short. it is said to be made by a cow. you must not wonder; we tell as many strange stories as baker and livy: a warm winter, a dry spring, a hot summer, a new king. though the sting is very epigrammatic, the whole of the distich has more of the truth than becomes prophecy; that is, it is false, for the spring is wet and cold. there is come from france a madame bocage,[ ] who has translated milton: my lord chesterfield prefers the copy to the original; but that is not uncommon for him to do, who is the patron of bad authors and bad actors. she has written a play too, which was damned, and worthy my lord's approbation. you would be more diverted with a mrs. holman, whose passion is keeping an assembly, and inviting literally everybody to it. she goes to the drawing-room to watch for sneezes; whips out a curtsey, and then sends next morning to know how your cold does, and to desire your company next thursday. [footnote : madame du boccage published a poem in imitation of milton, and another founded on gesner's "death of abel." she also translated pope's "temple of fame;" but her principal work was "la columbiade." it was at the house of this lady, at paris, in , that johnson was annoyed at her footman's taking the sugar in his fingers and throwing it into his coffee. "i was going," says the doctor, "to put it aside, but hearing it was made on purpose for me, i e'en tasted tom's fingers." she died in .] mr. whithed has taken my lord pembroke's house at whitehall; a glorious situation, but as madly built as my lord himself was. he has bought some delightful pictures too, of claude, caspar and good masters, to the amount of four hundred pounds. good night! i have nothing more to tell you, but that i have lately seen a sir william boothby, who saw you about a year ago, and adores you, as all the english you receive ought to do. he is much in my favour. _death of walpole's brother, and of the prince of wales--speech of the young prince--singular sermon on his death._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _april_ , . how shall i begin a letter that will--that must--give you as much pain as i feel myself? i must interrupt the story of the prince's death, to tell you of _two_ more, much more important, god knows! to you and me! one i had prepared you for--but how will you be shocked to hear that our poor mr. whithed is dead as well as my brother!... i now must mention my own misfortune. tuesday, wednesday, and thursday mornings, the physicians and _all the family of painful death_ (to alter gray's phrase), were persuaded and persuaded me, that the bark, which took great place, would save my brother's life--but he relapsed at three o'clock on thursday, and died last night. he ordered to be drawn and executed his will with the greatest tranquillity and satisfaction on saturday morning. his spoils are prodigious--not to his own family! indeed i think his son the most ruined young man in england. my loss, i fear, may be considerable, which is not the only motive of my concern, though, as you know, i had much to forgive, before i could regret: but indeed i do regret. it is no small addition to my concern, to fear or foresee that houghton and all the remains of my father's glory will be pulled to pieces! the widow-countess immediately marries--not richcourt, but shirley, and triumphs in advancing her son's ruin by enjoying her own estate, and tearing away great part of his. now i will divert your private grief by talking to you of what is called the public. the king and princess are grown as fond as if they had never been of different parties, or rather as people who always had been of different. she discountenances all opposition, and he _all ambition_. prince george, who, with his two eldest brothers, is to be lodged at st. james's, is speedily to be created prince of wales. ayscough, his tutor, is to be removed with her entire inclination as well as with everybody's approbation. they talk of a regency to be established (in case of a minority) by authority of parliament, even this session, with the princess at the head of it. she and dr. lee, the only one she consults of the late cabal, very sensibly burned the late prince's papers the moment he was dead. lord egmont, by seven o'clock the next morning, summoned (not very decently) the faction to his house: all was whisper! at last he hinted something of taking the princess and her children under their protection, and something of the necessity of harmony. no answer was made to the former proposal. somebody said, it was very likely indeed they should agree now, when the prince could never bring it about; and so everybody went away to take care of himself. the imposthumation is supposed to have proceeded, not from his fall last year, but from a blow with a tennis-ball some years ago. the grief for the dead brother is affectedly displayed. they cried about an elegy,[ ] and added, "oh, that it were but his brother!" on 'change they said, "oh, that it were but the butcher[ ]!" [footnote : the elegy alluded to, was probably the effusion of some jacobite royalist. that faction could not forgive the duke of cumberland his excesses or successes in scotland; and, not contented with branding the parliamentary government of the country as usurpation, indulged in frequent unfeeling and scurrilous personalities on every branch of the reigning family: here lies fred, who was alive and is dead: had it been his father, i had much rather; had it been his brother, still better than another; had it been his sister, no one would have missed her; had it been the whole generation, still better for the nation: but since 'tis only fred, who was alive and is dead-- there's no more to be said. walpole's _memoirs of george ii._] [footnote : a name given to the duke of cumberland for his severities to his prisoners after the battle of culloden.] the houses sit, but no business will be done till after the holidays. anstruther's affair will go on, but not with much spirit. one wants to see faces about again! dick lyttelton, one of the patriot officers, had collected depositions on oath against the duke for his behaviour in scotland, but i suppose he will now throw his papers into hamlet's grave? prince george, who has a most amiable countenance, behaved excessively well on his father's death. when they told him of it, he turned pale, and laid his hand on his breast. ayscough said, "i am afraid, sir, you are not well!"--he replied, "i feel something here, just as i did when i saw the two workmen fall from the scaffold at kew." prince edward is a very plain boy, with strange loose eyes, but was much the favourite. he is a sayer of things! two men were heard lamenting the death in leicester fields: one said, "he has left a great many small children!"--"ay," replied the other, "and what is worse, they belong to our parish!" but the most extraordinary reflections on his death were set forth in a sermon at mayfair chapel. "he had no great parts (pray mind, this was the parson said so, not i), but he had great virtues; indeed, they degenerated into vices: he was very generous, but i hear his generosity has ruined a great many people: and then his condescension was such, that he kept very bad company." adieu! my dear child; i have tried, you see, to blend so much public history with our private griefs, as may help to interrupt your too great attention to the calamities in the former part of my letter. you will, with the properest good-nature in the world, break the news to the poor girl, whom i pity, though i never saw. miss nicoll is, i am told, extremely to be pitied too; but so is everybody that knew whithed! bear it yourself as well as you can! _changes in the ministry and household--the miss gunnings--extravagance in london--lord harcourt, governor of the prince of wales._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _june_ , . i send my letter as usual from the secretary's office, but of what secretary i don't know. lord sandwich last week received his dismission, on which the duke of bedford resigned the next day, and lord trentham with him, both breaking with old gower, who is entirely in the hands of the pelhams, and made to declare his quarrel with lord sandwich (who gave away his daughter to colonel waldegrave) the foundation of detaching himself from the bedfords. your friend lord fane comforts lord sandwich with an annuity of a thousand a-year--scarcely for his handsome behaviour to his sister; lord hartington is to be master of the horse, and lord albemarle groom of the stole; lord granville[ ] is actually lord president, and, by all outward and visible signs, something more--in short, if he don't overshoot himself, the pelhams have; the king's favour to him is visible, and so much credited, that all the incense is offered to him. it is believed that impresario holdernesse will succeed the bedford in the foreign seals, and lord halifax in those for the plantations. if the former does, you will have ample instructions to negotiate for singers and dancers! here is an epigram made upon his directorship: [footnote : lord granville, known as lord carteret during the lifetime of his mother, was a statesman of the very highest ability, and was regarded with special favour by the king for his power of conversing in german, then a very rare accomplishment.] that secrecy will now prevail in politics, is certain; since holdernesse, who gets the seals, was bred behind the curtain. the admirals rowley and boscawen are brought into the admiralty under lord anson, who is advanced to the head of the board. seamen are tractable fishes! especially it will be boscawen's case, whose name in cornish signifies obstinacy, and who brings along with him a good quantity of resentment to anson. in short, the whole present system is equally formed for duration! since i began my letter, lord holdernesse has kissed hands for the seals. it is said that lord halifax is to be made easy, by the plantations being put under the board of trade. lord granville comes into power as boisterously as ever, and dashes at everything. his lieutenants already beat up for volunteers; but he disclaims all connexions with lord bath, who, he says, forced him upon the famous ministry of twenty-four hours, and by which he says he paid all his debts to him. this will soon grow a turbulent scene--it is not unpleasant to sit upon the beach and see it; but few people have the curiosity to step out to the sight. you, who knew england in other times, will find it difficult, to conceive what an indifference reigns with regard to ministers and their squabbles. the two miss gunnings,[ ] and a late extravagant dinner at white's, are twenty times more the subject of conversation than the two brothers [newcastle and pelham] and lord granville. these are two irish girls, of no fortune, who are declared the handsomest women alive. i think their being two so handsome and both such perfect figures is their chief excellence, for singly i have seen much handsomer women than either; however, they can't walk in the park or go to vauxhall, but such mobs follow them that they are generally driven away. the dinner was a folly of seven young men, who bespoke it to the utmost extent of expense: one article was a tart made of duke cherries from a hot-house; and another, that they tasted but one glass out of each bottle of champagne. the bill of fare is got into print, and with good people has produced the apprehension of another earthquake. your friend st. leger was at the head of these luxurious heroes--he is the hero of all fashion. i never saw more dashing vivacity and absurdity, with some flashes of parts. he had a cause the other day for ducking a sharper, and was going to swear: the judge said to him, "i see, sir, you are very ready to take an oath." "yes, my lord," replied st. leger, "my father was a judge." [footnote : one of the miss gunnings had singular fortune. she was married to two dukes--the duke of hamilton, and, after his death, the duke of argyll. she refused a third, the duke of bridgewater; and she was the mother of four--two dukes of hamilton and two dukes of argyll. her sister married the earl of coventry. in his "memoirs of george iii." walpole mentions that they were so poor while in dublin that they could not have been presented to the lord-lieutenant if peg woffington, the celebrated actress, had not lent them some clothes.] we have been overwhelmed with lamentable cambridge and oxford dirges on the prince's death: there is but one tolerable copy; it is by a young lord stormont, a nephew of murray, who is much commended. you may imagine what incense is offered to stone by the people of christchurch: they have hooked in, too, poor lord harcourt, and call him _harcourt the wise_! his wisdom has already disgusted the young prince; "sir, pray hold up your head. sir, for god's sake, turn out your toes!" such are mentor's precepts! i am glad you receive my letters; as i knew i had been punctual, it mortified me that you should think me remiss. thank you for the transcript from _bubb[ ] de tristibus_! i will keep your secret, though i am persuaded that a man who had composed such a funeral oration on his master and himself fully intended that its flowers should not bloom and wither in obscurity. [footnote : bubb means mr. bubb doddington, afterwards lord melcombe, who had written mr. mann a letter of most extravagant lamentation on the death of the prince of wales. he was member for winchelsea, and left behind him a diary, which was published some years after his death, and which throws a good deal of light on the political intrigues of the day.] we have already begun to sell the pictures that had not found place at houghton: the sale gives no great encouragement to proceed (though i fear it must come to that!); the large pictures were thrown away; the whole-length vandykes went for a song! i am mortified now at having printed the catalogue. gideon the jew, and blakiston the independent grocer, have been the chief purchasers of the pictures sold already--there, if you love moralizing! adieu! i have no more articles to-day for my literary gazette. _description of strawberry hill--bill to prevent clandestine marriages._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _june_ , . i could not rest any longer with the thought of your having no idea of a place of which you hear so much, and therefore desired mr. bentley to draw you as much idea of it as the post would be persuaded to carry from twickenham to florence. the enclosed enchanted little landscape, then, is strawberry hill; and i will try to explain so much of it to you as will help to let you know whereabouts we are when we are talking to you; for it is uncomfortable in so intimate a correspondence as ours not to be exactly master of every spot where one another is writing, or reading, or sauntering. this view of the castle is what i have just finished, and is the only side that will be at all regular. directly before it is an open grove, through which you see a field, which is bounded by a serpentine wood of all kind of trees, and flowering shrubs, and flowers. the lawn before the house is situated on the top of a small hill, from whence to the left you see the town and church of twickenham encircling a turn of the river, that looks exactly like a seaport in miniature. the opposite shore is a most delicious meadow, bounded by richmond hill, which loses itself in the noble woods of the park to the end of the prospect on the right, where is another turn of the river, and the suburbs of kingston as luckily placed as twickenham is on the left: and a natural terrace on the brow of my hill, with meadows of my own down to the river, commands both extremities. is not this a tolerable prospect? you must figure that all this is perpetually enlivened by a navigation of boats and barges, and by a road below my terrace, with coaches, post-chaises, waggons, and horsemen constantly in motion, and the fields speckled with cows, horses, and sheep. now you shall walk into the house. the bow-window below leads into a little parlour hung with a stone-colour gothic paper and jackson's venetian prints, which i could never endure while they pretended, infamous as they are, to be after titian, &c., but when i gave them this air of barbarous bas-reliefs, they succeeded to a miracle: it is impossible at first sight not to conclude that they contain the history of attila or tottila, done about the very aera. from hence, under two gloomy arches, you come to the hall and staircase, which it is impossible to describe to you, as it is the most particular and chief beauty of the castle. imagine the walls covered with (i call it paper, but it is really paper painted in perspective to represent) gothic fretwork: the lightest gothic balustrade to the staircase, adorned with antelopes (our supporters) bearing shields; lean windows fattened with rich saints in painted glass, and a vestibule open with three arches on the landing-place, and niches full of trophies of old coats of mail, indian shields made of rhinoceros's hides, broadswords, quivers, longbows, arrows, and spears--all _supposed_ to be taken by sir terry robsart in the holy wars. but as none of this regards the enclosed drawing, i will pass to that. the room on the ground-floor nearest to you is a bedchamber, hung with yellow paper and prints, framed in a new manner, invented by lord cardigan; that is, with black and white borders printed. over this is mr. chute's bedchamber, hung with red in the same manner. the bow-window room one pair of stairs is not yet finished; but in the tower beyond it is the charming closet where i am now writing to you. it is hung with green paper and water-colour pictures; has two windows; the one in the drawing looks to the garden, the other to the beautiful prospect; and the top of each glutted with the richest painted glass of the arms of england, crimson roses, and twenty other pieces of green, purple, and historic bits. i must tell you, by the way, that the castle, when finished, will have two-and-thirty windows enriched with painted glass. in this closet, which is mr. chute's college of arms, are two presses with books of heraldry and antiquities, madame sévigné's letters, and any french books that relate to her and her acquaintance. out of this closet is the room where we always live, hung with a blue and white paper in stripes adorned with festoons, and a thousand plump chairs, couches, and luxurious settees covered with linen of the same pattern, and with a bow-window commanding the prospect, and gloomed with limes that shade half each window, already darkened with painted glass in chiaroscuro, set in deep blue glass. under this room is a cool little hall, where we generally dine, hung with paper to imitate dutch tiles. i have described so much, that you will begin to think that all the accounts i used to give you of the diminutiveness of our habitation were fabulous; but it is really incredible how small most of the rooms are. the only two good chambers i shall have are not yet built: they will be an eating-room and a library, each twenty by thirty, and the latter fifteen feet high. for the rest of the house i could send it you in this letter as easily as the drawing, only that i should have nowhere to live till the return of the post. the chinese summer-house, which you may distinguish in the distant landscape, belongs to my lord radnor. we pique ourselves upon nothing but simplicity, and have no carvings, gildings, paintings, inlayings, or tawdry businesses. you will not be sorry, i believe, by this time to have done with strawberry hill, and to hear a little news. the end of a very dreaming session has been extremely enlivened by an accidental bill which has opened great quarrels, and those not unlikely to be attended with interesting circumstances. a bill to prevent clandestine marriages,[ ] so drawn by the judges as to clog all matrimony in general, was inadvertently espoused by the chancellor; and having been strongly attacked in the house of commons by nugent, the speaker, mr. fox, and others, the last went very great lengths of severity on the whole body of the law, and on its chieftain in particular, which, however, at the last reading, he softened and explained off extremely. this did not appease: but on the return of the bill to the house of lords, where our amendments were to be read, the chancellor in the most personal terms harangued against fox, and concluded with saying that "he despised his scurrility as much as his adulation and recantation." as christian charity is not one of the oaths taken by privy-counsellors, and as it is not the most eminent virtue in either of the champions, this quarrel is not likely to be soon reconciled. there are natures whose disposition it is to patch up political breaches, but whether they will succeed, or try to succeed in healing this, can i tell you? [footnote : these clandestine marriages were often called "fleet marriages." lord stanhope, describing this act, states that "there was ever ready a band of degraded and outcast clergymen, prisoners for debt or for crime, who hovered about the verge of the fleet prison soliciting customers, and plying, like porters, for employment.... one of these wretches, named keith, had gained a kind of pre-eminence in infamy. on being told there was a scheme on foot to stop his lucrative traffic, he declared, with many oaths, he would still be revenged of the bishops, that he would buy a piece of ground and outbury them!" ("history of england," c. ).] the match for lord granville, which i announced to you, is not concluded: the flames are cooled in that quarter as well as in others. i begin a new sheet to you, which does not match with the other, for i have no more of the same paper here. dr. cameron is executed, and died with the greatest firmness. his parting with his wife the night before was heroic and tender: he let her stay till the last moment, when being aware that the gates of the tower would be locked, he told her so; she fell at his feet in agonies: he said, "madam, this was not what you promised me," and embracing her, forced her to retire: then with the same coolness looked at the window till her coach was out of sight, after which he turned about and wept. his only concern seemed to be at the ignominy of tyburn: he was not disturbed at the dresser for his body, or at the fire to burn his bowels.[ ] the crowd was so great, that a friend who attended him could not get away, but was forced to stay and behold the execution; but what will you say to the minister or priest that accompanied him? the wretch, after taking leave, went into a landau, where, not content with seeing the doctor hanged, he let down the top of the landau for the better convenience of seeing him embowelled! i cannot tell you positively that what i hinted of this cameron being commissioned from prussia was true, but so it is believed. adieu! my dear child; i think this is a very tolerable letter for summer! [footnote : "the populace," says smollett, "though not very subject to tender emotions, were moved to compassion, and even to tears, by his behaviour at the place of execution; and many sincere well-wishers of the present establishment thought that the sacrifice of this victim, at such a juncture, could not redound either to its honour or security."] [illustration: george montagu.] _no news from france but what is smuggled--the king's delight at the vote for the hanover troops--bon mot of lord denbigh._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _may_ , . nothing will be more agreeable to me than to see you at strawberry hill; the weather does not seem to be of my mind, and will not invite you. i believe the french have taken the sun. among other captures, i hear the king has taken another english mistress, a mrs. pope, who took her degrees in gallantry some years ago. she went to versailles with the famous mrs. quon: the king took notice of them; he was told they were not so rigid as _all_ other english women are--mind, i don't give you any part of this history for authentic; you know we can have no news from france but what we run.[ ] i have rambled so that i forgot what i intended to say; if ever we can have spring, it must be soon: i propose to expect you any day you please after sunday se'nnight, the th: let me know your resolution, and pray tell me in what magazine is the strawberry ballad? i should have proposed an earlier day to you, but next week the prince of nassau is to breakfast at strawberry hill, and i know your aversion to clashing with grandeur. [footnote : "during the winter england was stirred with constantly recurring alarms of a french invasion.... addresses were moved in both houses entreating or empowering the king to summon over for our defence some of his hanoverian troops, and also some of hired hessians--an ignominious vote, but carried by large majorities" (lord stanhope, "history of england," c. ).] as i have already told you one mob story of a king, i will tell you another: _they say_, that the night the hanover troops were voted, _he_ sent schutz for his german cook, and said, "get me a very good supper; get me all de varieties; i don't mind expense." i tremble lest his hanoverians should be encamped at hounslow; strawberry would become an inn; all the misses would breakfast there, to go and see the camp! my lord denbigh is going to marry a fortune, i forget her name; my lord gower asked him how long the honey-moon would last? he replied, "don't tell me of the honey-moon; it is harvest moon with me." adieu! _victory of the king of prussia at lowositz--singular race--quarrel of the pretender with the pope._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . lentulus (i am going to tell you no old roman tale; he is the king of prussia's aid-de-camp) arrived yesterday, with ample confirmation of the victory in bohemia.[ ]--are not you glad that we have got a victory that we can at least call _cousin_? between six and seven thousand austrians were killed: eight prussian squadrons sustained the _acharnement_, which is said to have been extreme, of thirty-two squadrons of austrians: the pursuit lasted from friday noon till monday morning; both our countrymen, brown and keith, performed wonders--we seem to flourish much when transplanted to germany--but germans don't make good manure here! the prussian king writes that both brown and piccolomini are too strongly intrenched to be attacked. his majesty ran _to_ this victory; not _à la_ molwitz. he affirms having found in the king of poland's cabinet ample justification of his treatment of saxony--should not one query whether he had not these proofs in his hands antecedent to the cabinet? the dauphiness[ ] is said to have flung herself at the king of france's feet and begged his protection for her father; that he promised "qu'il le rendroit au centuple au roi de prusse." [footnote : on the st of the month frederic ii. had defeated the austrian general, marshal brown, at lowositz. it was the first battle of the seven years' war, and was of great political importance as leading to the capture of dresden and of laying all saxony at the mercy of the conqueror. "_À la_ molwitz" is an allusion to the first battle in the war of the austrian succession, april , , in which frederic showed that he was not what voltaire and mr. pitt called "a heaven-born general;" since on the repulse of his cavalry he gave up all for lost, and rode from the field, to learn at night that, after his flight, his second in command, the veteran marshal schwerin, had rallied the broken squadrons, and had obtained a decisive victory.] [footnote : the dauphiness was the daughter of augustus, king of poland and elector of saxony.] peace is made between the courts of kensington and kew:[ ] lord bute, who had no visible employment at the latter, and yet whose office was certainly no _sinecure_, is to be groom of the stole to the prince of wales; which satisfies. the rest of the family will be named before the birthday--but i don't know how, as soon as one wound is closed, another breaks out! mr. fox, extremely discontent at having no power, no confidence, no favour (all entirely engrossed by the old monopolist), has asked leave to resign. it is not yet granted. if mr. pitt will--or can, accept the seals, probably mr. fox will be indulged,--if mr. pitt will not, why then, it is impossible to tell you what will happen. whatever happens on such an emergency, with the parliament so near, with no time for considering measures, with so bad a past, and so much worse a future, there certainly is no duration or good in prospect. unless the king of prussia will take our affairs at home as well as abroad to nurse, i see no possible recovery for us--and you may believe, when a doctor like him is necessary, i should be full as willing to die of the distemper. [footnote : "the courts of kensington and kew"--in other words, of the king and the prince of wales and his mother, to whom george ii. was not very friendly. a scandal, which had no foundation, imputed to the princess undue intimacy with the earl of bute, who, however, did stand high in her good graces, and who probably was indebted to them for his appointment in the next reign to the office of prime minister, for which he had no qualification whatever.] well! and so you think we are undone!--not at all; if folly and extravagance are symptoms of a nation's being at the height of their glory, as after-observers pretend that they are forerunners of its ruin, we never were in a more flourishing situation. my lord rockingham and my nephew lord orford have made a match of five hundred pounds, between five turkeys and five geese, to run from norwich to london. don't you believe in the transmigration of souls? and are not you convinced that this race is between marquis sardanapalus and earl heliogabalus? and don't you pity the poor asiatics and italians who comforted themselves on their resurrection with their being geese and turkeys? here's another symptom of our glory! the irish speaker mr. ponsonby has been _reposing_ himself at _newmarket_: george selwyn, seeing him toss about bank-bills at the hazard-table said, "how easily the speaker passes the money-bills!" you, who live at florence among vulgar vices and tame slavery, will stare at these accounts. pray be acquainted with your own country, while it is in its lustre. in a regular monarchy the folly of the prince gives the tone; in a downright tyranny, folly dares give itself no airs; it is in a wanton overgrown commonwealth that whim and debauchery intrigue best together. ask me which of these governments i prefer--oh! the last--only i fear it is the least durable. i have not yet thanked you for your letter of september th, with the accounts of the genoese treaty and of the pretender's quarrel with the pope--it is a squabble worthy a stuart. were he, here, as absolute as any stuart ever wished to be, who knows with all his bigotry but he might favour us with a reformation and the downfall of the mass? the ambition of making a duke of york vice-chancellor of holy church would be as good a reason for breaking with holy church, as harry the eighth's was for quarrelling with it, because it would not excuse him from going to bed to his sister after it had given him leave. i wish i could tell you that your brother mends! indeed i don't think he does: nor do i know what to say to him; i have exhausted both arguments and entreaties, and yet if i thought either would avail, i would gladly recommence them. adieu! _ministerial negotiations--loss of minorca--disaster in north america._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _nov._ , . i desired your brother last week to tell you that it was in vain for me to write while everything was in such confusion. the chaos is just as far from being dispersed now; i only write to tell you what has been its motions. one of the popes, i think, said soon after his accession, he did not think it had been so easy to govern. what would he have thought of such a nation as this, engaged in a formidable war, without any government at all, literally, for above a fortnight! the foreign ministers have not attempted to transact any business since yesterday fortnight. for god's sake, what do other countries say of us?--but hear the progress of our interministerium. when mr. fox had declared his determination of resigning, great offers were sent to mr. pitt; his demands were much greater, accompanied with a total exclusion of the duke of newcastle. some of the latter's friends would have persuaded him, as the house of commons is at his devotion, to have undertaken the government against both pitt and fox; but fears preponderated. yesterday se'nnight his grace declared his resolution of retiring, with all that satisfaction of mind which must attend a man whom not one man of sense will trust any longer. the king sent for mr. fox, and bid him try if mr. pitt would join him. the latter, without any hesitation, refused. in this perplexity the king ordered the duke of devonshire to try to compose some ministry for him, and sent him to pitt, to try to accommodate with fox. pitt, with a list of terms a little modified, was ready to engage, but on condition that fox should have no employment in the cabinet. upon this plan negotiations have been carrying on for this week. mr. pitt and mr. legge, whose whole party consists of from twelve to sixteen persons, exclusive of leicester house (of that presently), concluded they were entering on the government as secretary of state and chancellor of the exchequer: but there is so great unwillingness to give it up totally into their hands, that all manner of expedients have been projected to get rid of their proposals, or to limit their power. thus the case stands at this instant: the parliament has been put off for a fortnight, to gain time; the lord knows whether that will suffice to bring on any sort of temper! in the meantime the government stands still; pray heaven the war may too! you will wonder how fifteen or sixteen persons can be of such importance. in the first place, their importance has been conferred on them, and has been notified to the nation by these concessions and messages; next, minorca[ ] is gone; oswego gone;[ ] the nation is in a ferment; some very great indiscretions in delivering a hanoverian soldier from prison by a warrant from the secretary of state have raised great difficulties; instructions from counties, boroughs, especially from the city of london, in the style of , and really in the spirit of and , have raised a great flame; and lastly, the countenance of leicester house, which mr. pitt is supposed to have, and which mr. legge thinks he has, all these tell pitt that he may command such numbers without doors as may make the majorities within the house tremble. [footnote : minorca had been taken by the duc de richelieu; admiral byng, after an indecisive action with the french fleet, having adopted the idea that he should not be able to save it, for which, as is too well known, he was condemned to death by a court-martial.] [footnote : "_oswego gone._" "a detachment of the enemy was defeated by colonel broadstreet on the river onondaga; on the other hand, the small forts of ontario and oswego were reduced by the french" (lord stanhope, "history of england," c. ).] leicester house[ ] is by some thought inclined to more pacific measures. lord bute's being established groom of the stole has satisfied. they seem more occupied in disobliging all their new court than in disturbing the king's. lord huntingdon, the new master of the horse to the prince, and lord pembroke, one of his lords, have not been spoken to. alas! if the present storms should blow over, what seeds for new! you must guess at the sense of this paragraph, which it is difficult, at least improper, to explain to you; though you could not go into a coffee-house here where it would not be interpreted to you. one would think all those little politicians had been reading the memoirs of the minority of louis xiv. [footnote : leicester house was the london residence of the young prince of wales.] there has been another great difficulty: the season obliging all camps to break up, the poor hanoverians have been forced to continue soaking in theirs. the county magistrates have been advised that they are not obliged by law to billet foreigners on public-houses, and have refused. transports were yesterday ordered to carry away the hanoverians! there are eight thousand men taken from america; for i am sure we can spare none from hence. the negligence and dilatoriness of the ministers at home, the wickedness of our west indian governors, and the little-minded quarrels of the regulars and irregular forces, have reduced our affairs in that part of the world to a most deplorable state. oswego, of ten times more importance even than minorca, is so annihilated that we cannot learn the particulars. my dear sir, what a present and future picture have i given you! the details are infinite, and what i have neither time, nor, for many reasons, the imprudence to send by the post: your good sense will but too well lead you to develop them. the crisis is most melancholy and alarming. i remember two or three years ago i wished for more active times, and for events to furnish our correspondence. i think i could write you a letter almost as big as my lord clarendon's history. what a bold man is he who shall undertake the administration! how much shall we be obliged to him! how mad is he, whoever is ambitious of it! adieu! _the king of prussia's victories--voltaire's "universal history."_ to the earl of strafford. strawberry hill, _july_ , . my dear lord,--it is well i have not obeyed you sooner, as i have often been going to do: what a heap of lies and contradictions i should have sent you! what joint ministries and sole ministries! what acceptances and resignations!--viziers and bowstrings never succeeded one another quicker. luckily i have stayed till we have got an administration that will last a little more than for ever. there is such content and harmony in it, that i don't know whether it is not as perfect as a plan which i formed for charles stanhope, after he had plagued me for two days for news. i told him the duke of newcastle was to take orders, and have the reversion of the bishopric of winchester; that mr. pitt was to have a regiment, and go over to the duke; and mr. fox to be chamberlain to the princess, in the room of sir william irby. of all the new system i believe the happiest is offley; though in great humility he says he only takes the bedchamber _to accommodate_. next to him in joy is the earl of holdernesse--who has not got the garter. my lord waldegrave has; and the garter by this time i believe has got fifty spots. had i written sooner, i should have told your lordship, too, of the king of prussia's triumphs[ ]--but they are addled too! i hoped to have had a few bricks from prague to send you towards building mr. bentley's design, but i fear none will come from thence this summer. thank god, the happiness of the menagerie does not depend upon administrations or victories! the happiest of beings in this part of the world is my lady suffolk: i really think her acquisition and conclusion of her law-suit will lengthen her life ten years. you may be sure i am not so satisfied, as lady mary [coke] has left sudbroke. [footnote : on the th of may frederic defeated the austrian army under prince charles of lorraine and marshal brown in the battle of prague. brown was killed, as also was the prussian marshal, schwerin; indeed, the king lost eighteen thousand men--nearly as many as had fallen on the side of the enemy; and the austrian disaster was more than retrieved by the great victory of kolin, gained by marshal daun, june th, to which walpole probably alludes when he says frederic's "triumphs are addled."] are your charming lawns burnt up like our humble hills? is your sweet river as low as our deserted thames?--i am wishing for a handful or two of those floods that drowned me last year all the way from wentworth castle. i beg my best compliments to my lady, and my best wishes that every pheasant egg and peacock egg may produce as many colours as a harlequin-jacket. _tuesday, july th._ luckily, my good lord, my conscience had saved its distance. i had writ the above last night, when i received the honour of your kind letter this morning. you had, as i did not doubt, received accounts of all our strange histories. for that of the pretty countess [of coventry], i fear there is too much truth in all you have heard: but you don't seem to know that lord corydon and captain corydon his brother have been most abominable. i don't care to write scandal; but when i see you, i will tell you how much the chits deserve to be whipped. our favourite general [conway] is at his camp: lady ailesbury don't go to him these three weeks. i expect the pleasure of seeing her and miss rich and fred. campbell here soon for a few days. i don't wonder your lordship likes st. philippe better than torcy:[ ] except a few passages interesting to englishmen, there cannot be a more dry narration than the latter. there is an addition of seven volumes of universal history to voltaire's works, which i think will charm you: i almost like it the best of his works. it is what you have seen extended, and the memoirs of louis xiv. _refondues_ in it. he is a little tiresome with contradicting la beaumelle and voltaire, one remains with scarce a fixed idea about that time. i wish they would produce their authorities and proofs; without which, i am grown to believe neither. from mistakes in the english part, i suppose there are great ones in the more distant histories; yet altogether it is a fine work. he is, as one might believe, worst informed on the present times.--he says eight hundred persons were put to death for the last rebellion--i don't believe a quarter of the number were: and he makes the first lord derwentwater--who, poor man! was in no such high-spirited mood--bring his son, who by the way was not above a year and a half old, upon the scaffold to be sprinkled with his blood.--however, he is in the right to expect to be believed: for he believes all the romances in lord anson's voyage, and how admiral almanzor made one man-of-war box the ears of the whole empire of china!--i know nothing else new but a new edition of dr. young's works. if your lordship thinks like me, who hold that even in his most frantic rhapsodies there are innumerable fine things, you will like to have this edition. adieu, once more, my best lord! [footnote : torcy had been secretary of state in the time of louis xiv., and was the diplomatist who arranged the details of the first partition treaty with william iii.] _his own "royal and noble authors."_ to the rev. henry zouch.[ ] [footnote : mr. zouch was the squire and vicar of sandhill, in yorkshire.] strawberry hill, _august_ , . sir,--i have received, with much pleasure and surprise, the favour of your remarks upon my catalogue; and whenever i have the opportunity of being better known to you, i shall endeavour to express my gratitude for the trouble you have given yourself in contributing to perfect a work, which, notwithstanding your obliging expressions, i fear you found very little worthy the attention of so much good sense and knowledge, sir, as you possess. i am extremely thankful for all the information you have given me; i had already met with a few of the same lights as i have received, sir, from you, as i shall mention in their place. the very curious accounts of lord fairfax were entirely new and most acceptable to me. if i decline making use of one or two of your hints, i believe i can explain my reasons to your satisfaction. i will, with your leave, go regularly through your letter. as caxton[ ] laboured in the monastery of westminster, it is not at all unlikely that he should wear the habit, nor, considering how vague our knowledge of that age is, impossible but he might enter the order. [footnote : mr. zouch had expressed a doubt whether a portrait of a man in a clerical garb could possibly be meant for caxton, and mr. cole and three of walpole's literary correspondents suggested that it was probably a portrait of jehan de jeonville, provost of paris.] i have met with henry's institution of a christian, and shall give you an account of it in my next edition. in that, too, i shall mention, that lord cobham's allegiance professed at his death to richard ii., probably means to richard and his right heirs whom he had abandoned for the house of lancaster. as the article is printed off, it is too late to say anything more about his works. in all the old books of genealogy you will find, sir, that young richard duke of york was solemnly married to a child of his own age, anne mowbray, the heiress of norfolk, who died young as well as he. the article of the duke of somerset is printed off too; besides, i should imagine the letter you mention not to be of his own composition, for, though not illiterate, he certainly could not write anything like classic latin. i may, too, possibly have inclusively mentioned the very letter; i have not ascham's book, to see from what copy the letter was taken, but probably from one of those which i have said is in bennet library. the catalogue of lord brooke's works is taken from the volume of his works; such pieces of his as i found doubted, particularly the tragedy of cicero, i have taken notice of as doubtful. in my next edition you will see, sir, a note on lord herbert, who, besides being with the king at york, had offended the peers by a speech in his majesty's defence. mr. wolseley's preface i shall mention, from your information. lord rochester's letters to his son are letters to a child, bidding him mind his book and his grandmother. i had already been told, sir, what you tell me of marchmont needham. matthew clifford i have altered to martin, as you prescribed; the blunder was my own, as well as a more considerable one, that of lord sandwich's death--which was occasioned by my supposing, at first, that the translation of barba was made by the second earl, whose death i had marked in the list, and forgot to alter, after i had writ the account of the father. i shall take care to set this right, as the second volume is not yet begun to be printed. lord halifax's maxims i have already marked down, as i shall lord dorset's share in pompey. the account of the duke of wharton's death i had from a very good hand--captain willoughby; who, in the convent where the duke died, saw a picture of him in the habit. if it was a bernardine convent, the gentleman might confound them; but, considering that there is no life of the duke but bookseller's trash, it is much more likely that they mistook. i have no doubts about lord belhaven's speeches; but unless i could verify their being published by himself, it were contrary to my rule to insert them. if you look, sir, into lord clarendon's account of montrose's death, you will perceive that there is no probability of the book of his actions being composed by himself. i will consult sir james ware's book on lord totness's translation; and i will mention the earl of cork's memoirs. lord leppington is the earl of monmouth, in whose article i have taken notice of his romulus and tarquin. lord berkeley's book i have actually got, and shall give him an article. there is one more passage, sir, in your letter, which i cannot answer, without putting you to new trouble--a liberty which all your indulgence cannot justify me in taking; else i would beg to know on what authority you attribute to laurence earl of rochester[ ] the famous preface to his father's history, which i have always heard ascribed to atterbury, smallridge, and aldridge.[ ] the knowledge of this would be an additional favour; it would be a much greater, sir, if coming this way, you would ever let me have the honour of seeing a gentleman to whom i am so much obliged. [footnote : the earl of rochester was the second son of the earl of clarendon. he was lord treasurer under james ii., but was dismissed because he refused to change his religion (macaulay's "history of england," c. ).] [footnote : atterbury was the celebrated bishop of rochester, smallridge was bishop of bristol, and aldridge (usually written aldrich) was dean of christchurch, oxford, equally well known for his treatise on logic and his five reasons for drinking-- good wine, a friend, or being dry; or lest you should be by and by, or any other reason why--] _his "royal and noble authors"--lord clarendon--sir r. walpole and lord bolingbroke--the duke of leeds._ to the rev. henry zouch. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . sir,--every letter i receive from you is a new obligation, bringing me new information: but, sure, my catalogue was not worthy of giving you so much trouble. lord fortescue is quite new to me; i have sent him to the press. lord dorset's[ ] poem it will be unnecessary to mention separately, as i have already said that his works are to be found among those of the minor poets. [footnote : lord dorset, lord chamberlain under charles ii., author of the celebrated ballad "to all you ladies now on land," and patron of dryden and other literary men, was honourably mentioned as such by macaulay in c. of his "history," and also for his refusal, as lord-lieutenant of essex, to comply with some of james's illegal orders.] i don't wonder, sir, that you prefer lord clarendon to polybius[ ]; nor can two authors well be more unlike: the _former_ wrote a general history in a most obscure and almost unintelligible style; the _latter_, a portion of private history, in the noblest style in the world. whoever made the comparison, i will do them the justice to believe that they understood bad greek better than their own language in its elevation. for dr. jortin's[ ] erasmus, which i have very nearly finished, it has given me a good opinion of the author, and he has given me a very bad one of his subject. by the doctor's labour and impartiality, erasmus appears a begging parasite, who had parts enough to discover truth, and not courage enough to profess it: whose vanity made him always writing; yet his writings ought to have cured his vanity, as they were the most abject things in the world. _good erasmus's honest mean_ was alternate time-serving. i never had thought much about him, and now heartily despise him. [footnote : "_you prefer lord clarendon to polybius._" it is hard to understand this sentence. lord clarendon did _not_ write a general history, but an account of a single event, "the great rebellion." it was polybius who wrote a "universal history," of which, however, only five books have been preserved, the most interesting portion of which is a narrative of hannibal's invasion of italy and march over the alps in the second punic war.] [footnote : dr. jortin was archdeacon of london; and, among other works, had recently published a life of the celebrated erasmus, the mention of whom by pope, which walpole presently quotes, is not very unfairly interpreted by walpole.] when i speak my opinion to you, sir, about what i dare say you care as little for as i do, (for what is the merit of a mere man of letters?) it is but fit i should answer you as sincerely on a question about which you are so good as to interest yourself. that my father's life is likely to be written, i have no grounds for believing. i mean i know nobody that thinks of it. for, myself, i certainly shall not, for many reasons, which you must have the patience to hear. a reason to me myself is, that i think too highly of him, and too meanly of myself, to presume i am equal to the task. they who do not agree with me in the former part of my position, will undoubtedly allow the latter part. in the next place, the very truths that i should relate would be so much imputed to partiality, that he would lose of his due praise by the suspicion of my prejudice. in the next place, i was born too late in his life to be acquainted with him in the active part of it. then i was at school, at the university, abroad, and returned not till the last moments of his administration. what i know of him i could only learn from his own mouth in the last three years of his life; when, to my shame, i was so idle, and young, and thoughtless, that i by no means profited of his leisure as i might have done; and, indeed, i have too much impartiality in my nature to care, if i could, to give the world a history, collected solely from the person himself of whom i should write. with the utmost veneration for his truth, i can easily conceive, that a man who had lived a life of party, and who had undergone such persecution from party, should have had greater bias than he himself could be sensible of. the last, and that a reason which must be admitted, if all the others are not--his papers are lost. between the confusion of his affairs, and the indifference of my elder brother to things of that sort, they were either lost, burnt, or what we rather think, were stolen by a favourite servant of my brother, who proved a great rogue, and was dismissed in my brother's life; and the papers were not discovered to be missing till after my brother's death. thus, sir, i should want vouchers for many things i could say of much importance. i have another personal reason that discourages me from attempting this task, or any other, besides the great reluctance that i have to being a voluminous author. though i am by no means the learned man you are so good as to call me in compliment; though, on the contrary, nothing can be more superficial than my knowledge, or more trifling than my reading,--yet, i have so much strained my eyes, that it is often painful to me to read even a newspaper by daylight. in short, sir, having led a very dissipated life, in all the hurry of the world of pleasure, i scarce ever read but by candlelight, after i have come home late at nights. as my eyes have never had the least inflammation or humour, i am assured i may still recover them by care and repose. i own i prefer my eyes to anything i could ever read, much more to anything i could write. however, after all i have said, perhaps i may now and then, by degrees, throw together some short anecdotes of my father's private life and particular story, and leave his public history to more proper and more able hands, if such will undertake it. before i finish on this chapter, i can assure you he did forgive my lord bolingbroke[ ]--his nature was forgiving: after all was over, and he had nothing to fear or disguise, i can say with truth, that there were not _three_ men of whom he ever dropped a word with rancour. what i meant of the clergy not forgiving lord bolingbroke, alluded not to his doctrines, but to the direct attack and war he made on the whole body. and now, sir, i will confess my own weakness to you. i do not think so highly of that writer, as i seem to do in my book; but i thought it would be imputed to prejudice in me, if i appeared to undervalue an author of whom so many persons of sense still think highly. my being sir robert walpole's son warped me to praise, instead of censuring lord bolingbroke. with regard to the duke of leeds,[ ] i think you have misconstrued the decency of my expression. i said, _burnet_[ ] _had treated him severely_; that is, i chose that burnet should say so, rather than myself. i have never praised where my heart condemned. little attentions, perhaps, to worthy descendants, were excusable in a work of so extensive a nature, and that approached so near to these times. i may, perhaps, have an opportunity, at one day or other of showing you some passages suppressed on these motives, which yet i do not intend to destroy. [footnote : sir r. walpole was so far from having any personal quarrel with bolingbroke, that he took off so much of his outlawry as banished him, though he would not allow him to take his seat in the house of peers.] [footnote : this celebrated statesman was originally sir thomas osborne. on the dissolution of the cabal ministry he was raised to the peerage as earl of danby, and was appointed lord treasurer. an attempt to impeach him, which was prompted by louis xiv., was baffled by charles. under william iii. he was appointed president of the council, being the recognised leader of the tory section of the ministry; and in the course of the reign he was twice promoted--first to be marquis of carmarthen, and subsequently to be duke of leeds.] [footnote : burnet, the bishop of salisbury, to whose "memoirs of his own time" all subsequent historians are greatly indebted. he accompanied william to england as his chaplain.] crew,[ ] bishop of durham, was as abject a tool as possible. i would be very certain he is an author before i should think him worth mentioning. if ever you should touch on lord willoughby's sermon, i should be obliged for a hint of it. i actually have a printed copy of verses by his son, on the marriage of the princess royal; but they are so ridiculously unlike measure, and the man was so mad and so poor, that i determined not to mention him. [footnote : crew was bishop of durham. he is branded by macaulay (c. ) as "mean, vain, and cowardly." he accepted a seat on james's ecclesiastical commission, and when "some of his friends represented to him the risk which he ran by sitting on an illegal tribunal, he was not ashamed to answer that he could not live out of the royal smile."] if these details, sir, which i should have thought interesting to no mortal but myself, should happen to amuse you, i shall be glad; if they do not, you will learn not to question a man who thinks it his duty to satisfy the curiosity of men of sense and honour, and who, being of too little consequence to have secrets, is not ambitious of the less consequence of appearing to have any. p.s.--i must ask you one question, but to be answered entirely at your leisure. i have a play in rhyme called "saul," said to be written by a peer. i guess lord orrery. if ever you happen to find out, be so good to tell me. _walpole's monument to sir horace's brother--attempted assassination of the king of portugal--courtesy of the duc d'aiguillon to his english prisoners._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . it is a very melancholy present i send you here, my dear sir; yet, considering the misfortune that has befallen us, perhaps the most agreeable i could send you. you will not think it the bitterest tear you have shed when you drop one over this plan of an urn inscribed with the name of your dear brother, and with the testimonial of my eternal affection to him! this little monument is at last placed over the pew of your family at linton [in kent], and i doubt whether any tomb was ever erected that spoke so much truth of the departed, and flowed from so much sincere friendship in the living. the thought was my own, adopted from the antique columbaria, and applied to gothic. the execution of the design was mr. bentley's, who alone, of all mankind, could unite the grace of grecian architecture and the irregular lightness and solemnity of gothic. kent and many of our builders sought this, but have never found it. mr. chute, who has as much taste as mr. bentley, thinks this little sketch a perfect model. the soffite is more beautiful than anything of either style separate. there is a little error in the inscription; it should be _horatius walpole posuit_. the urn is of marble, richly polished; the rest of stone. on the whole, i think there is simplicity and decency, with a degree of ornament that destroys neither. what do you say in italy on the assassination of the king of portugal?[ ] do you believe that portuguese subjects lift their hand against a monarch for gallantry? do you believe that when a slave murders an absolute prince, he goes a walking with his wife the next morning and murders her too? do you believe the dead king is alive? and that the jesuits are as _wrongfully_ suspected of this assassination as they have been of many others they have committed? if you do believe this, and all this, you are not very near turning protestants. it is scarce talked of here, and to save trouble, we admit just what the portuguese minister is ordered to publish. the king of portugal murdered, throws us two hundred years back--the king of prussia _not_ murdered, carries us two hundred years forward again. [footnote : the duke of aveiro was offended with the king of portugal for interfering to prevent his son's marriage, and, in revenge, he plotted his assassination. he procured the co-operation of some other nobles, especially the marquis and marchioness of tavora, and also of some of the chief jesuits in the country, who promised absolution to any assassin. the attempt was made on september rd, when the king was fired at and severely wounded. the conspirators were all convicted and executed, and the jesuits were expelled from the country.] another king, i know, has had a little blow: the prince de soubise has beat some isenbourgs and obergs, and is going to be elector of hanover this winter. there has been a great sickness among our troops in the other german army; the duke of marlborough has been in great danger, and some officers are dead. lord frederick cavendish is returned from france. he confirms and adds to the amiable accounts we had received of the duc d'aiguillon's[ ] behaviour to our prisoners. you yourself, the pattern of attentions and tenderness, could not refine on what he has done both in good-nature and good-breeding: he even forbad any ringing of bells or rejoicings wherever they passed--but how your representative blood will curdle when you hear of the absurdity of one of your countrymen: the night after the massacre at st. cas, the duc d'aiguillon gave a magnificent supper of eighty covers to our prisoners--a colonel lambert got up at the bottom of the table, and asking for a bumper, called out to the duc, "my lord duke, here's the roy de franse!" you must put all the english you can crowd into the accent. _my lord duke_ was so confounded at this preposterous compliment, which it was impossible for him to return, that he absolutely sank back into his chair and could not utter a syllable: our own people did not seem to feel more. [footnote : the duc d'aiguillon was governor of brittany when the disastrous attempt of the duke of marlborough on st. cast was repulsed. but he did not get much credit for the defeat. lacretelle mentions that: "les bretons qui le considérent comme leur tyran prétendent qu'il l'était tenu caché pendant le combat" (iii. ). he was subsequently prosecuted on charges of peculation and subornation, which the parliament declared to be fully established, but mme. de barri persuaded louis to cancel their resolution.] you will read and hear that we have another expedition sailing, somewhither in the west indies. hobson, the commander, has in his whole life had but one stroke of a palsy, so possibly may retain half of his understanding at least. there is a great tranquillity at home, but i should think not promising duration. the disgust in the army on the late frantic measures will furnish some warmth probably to parliament--and if the french should think of returning our visits, should you wonder? there are even rumours of some stirring among your little neighbours at albano--keep your eye on them--if you could discover anything in time, it would do you great credit. _apropos_ to _them_, i will send you an epigram that i made the other day on mr. chute's asking why taylor the oculist called himself chevalier?[ ] [footnote : walpole was proud of the epigram, for the week before he had sent it to lady hervey. it was-- why taylor the quack calls himself chevalier 'tis not easy a reason to render, unless blinding eyes that he thinks to make clear demonstrates he's but a _pretender_. le chevalier was the name commonly given in courtesy by both parties to prince charles edward in . colonel talbot says: "'well, i never thought to have been so much indebted to the pretend--' 'to the prince,' said waverley, smiling. 'to the chevalier,' said the colonel; 'it is a good travelling name which we may both freely use'" ("waverley," c. ).] _a new edition of lucan--comparison of "pharsalea"--criticism on the poet, with the aeneid--helvetius's work, "de l'esprit."_ to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, _dec._ , . sir,--i have desired mr. whiston to convey to you the second edition of my catalogue, not so complete as it might have been, if great part had not been printed before i received your remarks, but yet more correct than the first sketch with which i troubled you. indeed, a thing of this slight and idle nature does not deserve to have much more pains employed upon it. i am just undertaking an edition of lucan, my friend mr. bentley having in his possession his father's notes and emendations on the first seven books. perhaps a partiality for the original author concurs a little with this circumstance of the notes, to make me fond of printing, at strawberry hill, the works of a man who, alone of all the classics, was thought to breathe too brave and honest a spirit for the perusal of the dauphin and the french. i don't think that a good or bad taste in poetry is of so serious a nature, that i should be afraid of owning too, that, with that great judge corneille, and with that, perhaps, _no_ judge heinsius, i prefer lucan to virgil. to speak fairly, i prefer great sense, to poetry with little sense. there are hemistichs in lucan that go to one's soul and one's heart;--for a mere epic poem, a fabulous tissue of uninteresting battles that don't teach one even to fight, i know nothing more tedious. the poetic images, the versification and language of the aeneid are delightful; but take the story by itself, and can anything be more silly and unaffecting? there are a few gods without power, heroes without character, heaven-directed wars without justice, inventions without probability, and a hero who betrays one woman with a kingdom that he might have had, to force himself upon another woman and another kingdom to which he had no pretensions, and all this to show his obedience to the gods! in short, i have always admired his numbers so much, and his meaning so little, that i think i should like virgil better if i understood him less. have you seen, sir, a book which has made some noise--"helvetius de l'esprit"[ ]? the author is so good and moral a man, that i grieve he should have published a system of as relaxed morality as can well be imagined: 'tis a large quarto, and in general a very superficial one. his philosophy may be new in france, but it greatly exhausted here. he tries to imitate montesquieu,[ ] and has heaped common-places upon common-places, which supply or overwhelm his reasoning; yet he has often wit, happy allusions, and sometimes writes finely: there is merit enough to give an obscure man fame; flimsiness enough to depreciate a great man. after his book was licensed, they forced him to retract it by a most abject recantation. then why print this work? if zeal for his system pushed him to propagate it, did not he consider that a recantation would hurt his cause more than his arguments could support it? [footnote : helvetius was the son of the french king's physician. his book was condemned by the parliament of paris as derogatory to the nature of man.] [footnote : montesquieu was president of the parliament of bordeaux. he was a voluminous writer, his most celebrated work being his "l'esprit des lois." burke described him as "a genius not born in every country, or every time: with a herculean robustness of mind; and nerves not to be broken by labour."] we are promised lord clarendon in february from oxford, but i hear shall have the surreptitious edition from holland much sooner. you see, sir, i am a sceptic as well as helvetius, but of a more moderate complexion. there is no harm in telling mankind that there is not so much divinity in the aeneid as they imagine; but, even if i thought so, i would not preach that virtue and friendship are mere names, and resolvable into self-interest; because there are numbers that would remember the grounds of the principle, and forget what was to be engrafted on it. adieu! _state of the house of commons._ to the hon. h.s. conway. arlington street, _jan._ , . i hope the treaty of sluys[ ] advances rapidly. considering that your own court is as new to you as monsieur de bareil and his, you cannot be very well entertained: the joys of a dutch fishing town and the incidents of a cartel will not compose a very agreeable history. in the mean time you do not lose much; though the parliament is met, no politics are come to town; one may describe the house of commons like the price of stocks--debates, nothing done. votes, under par. patriots, no price. oratory, books shut. love and war are as much at a stand; neither the duchess of hamilton, nor the expeditions are gone off yet. prince edward has asked to go to quebec, and has been refused. if i was sure they would refuse me, i would ask to go thither too. i should not dislike about as much laurel as i could stick in my window at christmas. [footnote : treaty of sluys. conway was engaged at sluys negotiating with the french envoy, m. de bareil, for an exchange of prisoners.] we are next week to have a serenata at the opera-house for the king of prussia's birthday; it is to begin, "viva georgio, e frederigo viva!" it will, i own, divert me to see my lord temple whispering _for_ this alliance, on the same bench on which i have so often seen him whisper _against_ all germany. the new opera pleases universally, and i hope will yet hold up its head. since vanneschi is cunning enough to make us sing _the roast beef of old germany_, i am persuaded it will revive; politics are the only hot-bed for keeping such a tender plant as italian music alive in england. you are so thoughtless about your dress, that i cannot help giving you a little warning against your return. remember, everybody that comes from abroad is _censé_ to come from france, and whatever they wear at their first reappearance immediately grows the fashion. now if, as is very likely, you should through inadvertence change hats with a master of a dutch smack, offley will be upon the watch, will conclude you took your pattern from m. de bareil, and in a week's time we shall all be equipped like dutch skippers. you see i speak very disinterestedly; for, as i never wear a hat myself, it is indifferent to me what sort of hat i don't wear. adieu! i hope nothing in this letter, if it is opened, will affect _the conferences_, nor hasten our rupture with holland. lest it should, i send it to lord holdernesse's office; concluding, like lady betty waldegrave, that the government never suspect what they send under their own covers. _robertson's "history of scotland"--comparison of ramsay and reynolds as portrait-painters--sir david's "history of the gowrie conspiracy."_ to sir david dalrymple. strawberry hill, _feb._ , . i think, sir, i have perceived enough of the amiable benignity of your mind, to be sure that you will like to hear the praises of your friend.[ ] indeed, there is but one opinion about mr. robertson's "history [of scotland]." i don't remember any other work that ever met universal approbation. since the romans and the greeks, who have _now_ an exclusive charter for being the best writers in every kind, he is the historian that pleases me best; and though what he has been so indulgent as to say of me ought to shut my mouth, i own i have been unmeasured in my commendations. i have forfeited my own modesty rather than not do justice to him. i did send him my opinion some time ago, and hope he received it. i can add, with the strictest truth, that he is regarded here as one of the greatest men that this island has produced. i say _island_, but you know, sir, that i am disposed to say _scotland_. i have discovered another very agreeable writer among your countrymen, and in a profession where i did not look for an author; it is mr. ramsay, the painter, whose pieces being anonymous, have been overlooked. he has a great deal of genuine wit, and a very just manner of reasoning. in his own walk, he has great merit. he and mr. reynolds are our favourite painters, and two of the very best we ever had. indeed, the number of good has been very small, considering the numbers there are. a very few years ago there were computed two thousand portrait-painters in london; i do not exaggerate the computation, but diminish it; though i think it must have been exaggerated. mr. reynolds and mr. ramsay can scarce be rivals; their manners are so different. the former is bold, and has a kind of tempestuous colouring, yet with dignity and grace; the latter is all delicacy. mr. reynolds seldom succeeds in women; mr. ramsay is formed to paint them. [footnote : sir david was himself a historical writer of some importance. macaulay was greatly indebted to his "memoirs of great britain and ireland from the restoration to the battle of la hogue." the secret history and object of the strange attempt on james vi. (afterwards james i. of england) have been discussed by many writers, but without any of them succeeding in any very clear or certain elucidation of the transaction.] i fear i neglected, sir, to thank you for your present of the history of the "conspiracy of the gowries"; but i shall never forget all the obligations i have to you. i don't doubt but in scotland you approve what is liked here almost as much as mr. robertson's history; i mean the marriage of colonel campbell and the duchess of hamilton. if her fortune is singular, so is her merit. such uncommon noise as her beauty made has not at all impaired the modesty of her behaviour. adieu! _writers of history: goodall, hume, robertson--queen christina._ to sir david dalrymple. strawberry hill, _july_ , . you will repent, sir, i fear, having drawn such a correspondent upon yourself. an author flattered and encouraged is not easily shaken off again; but if the interests of my book did not engage me to trouble you, while you are so good as to write me the most entertaining letters in the world, it is very natural for me to lay snares to inveigle more of them. however, sir, excuse me this once, and i will be more modest for the future in trespassing on your kindness. yet, before i break out on my new wants, it will be but decent, sir, to answer some particulars of your letter. i have lately read mr. goodall's[ ] book. there is certainly ingenuity in parts of his defence; but i believe one seldom thinks a defence _ingenious_ without meaning that it is unsatisfactory. his work left me fully convinced of what he endeavoured to disprove; and showed me, that the piece you mention is not the only one that he has written against moderation. [footnote : mr. goodall had published an essay on the letters put forward as written by queen mary to bothwell, branding them as forgeries. the question of their genuineness has been examined with great acuteness by more than one subsequent writer, and the arguments against their genuineness are certainly very strong.] i have lately got lord cromerty's "vindication of the legitimacy of king robert [the third]," and his "synopsis apocalyptica," and thank you much, sir, for the notice of any of his pieces. but if you expect that his works should lessen my esteem for the writers of scotland, you will please to recollect, that the letter which paints lord cromerty's pieces in so ridiculous a light, is more than a counterbalance in favour of the writers of your country; and of all men living, sir, you are the last who will destroy my partiality for scotland. there is another point, sir, on which, with all your address, you will persuade me as little. can i think that we want writers of history while mr. hume and mr. robertson are living? it is a truth, and not a compliment, that i never heard objections made to mr. hume's history without endeavouring to convince the persons who found fault with it, of its great merit and beauty; and for what i saw of mr. robertson's work, it is one of the purest styles, and of the greatest impartiality, that i ever read. it is impossible for me to recommend a subject to him; because i cannot judge of what materials he can obtain. his present performance will undoubtedly make him so well known and esteemed, that he will have credit to obtain many new lights for a future history; but surely those relating to his own country will always lie most open to him. this is much my way of thinking with regard to myself. though the life of christina[ ] is a pleasing and a most uncommon subject, yet, totally unacquainted as i am with sweden and its language, how could i flatter myself with saying anything new of her? and when original letters and authentic papers shall hereafter appear, may not they contradict half one should relate on the authority of what is already published? for though memoirs _written_ nearest to the time are likely to be the truest, those _published_ nearest to it are generally the falsest. [footnote : queen christina of sweden was the daughter and heiress of the great gustavus adolphus. after a time she abdicated the throne and lived for some time in paris, where she acted in one respect as if still possessed of royal authority, actually causing her equerry, monaldeschi, to be hung in one of her sitting-rooms.] but, indeed, sir, i am now making you only civil excuses; the real one is, i have no kind of intention of continuing to write. i could not expect to succeed again with so much luck,--indeed, i think it so,--as i have done; it would mortify me more now, after a little success, to be despised, than it would have done before; and if i could please as much as i should wish to do, i think one should dread being a voluminous author. my own idleness, too, bids me desist. if i continued, i should certainly take more pains than i did in my catalogue; the trouble would not only be more than i care to encounter, but would probably destroy what i believe the only merit of my last work, the ease. if i could incite you to tread in steps which i perceive you don't condemn, and for which it is evident you are so well qualified, from your knowledge, the grace, facility, and humour of your expression and manner, i shall have done a real service, where i expected at best to amuse. _the battle of minden--lord g. sackville._ to the hon. h.s. conway. arlington street, _aug._ , . i am here in the most unpleasant way in the world, attending poor mrs. leneve's death-bed, a spectator of all the horrors of tedious suffering and clear sense, and with no one soul to speak to--but i will not tire you with a description of what has quite worn me out. probably by this time you have seen the duke of richmond or fitzroy--but lest you should not, i will tell you all i can learn, and a wonderful history it is. admiral byng was not more unpopular than lord george sackville.[ ] i should scruple repeating his story if betty and the waiters at arthur's did not talk of it publicly, and thrust prince ferdinand's orders into one's hand. [footnote : lord george was brought to court-martial for disobedience of orders, and most deservedly cashiered--a sentence which was, not very becomingly, oveilooked some years afterwards, when, having changed his name to germaine on succeeding to a large fortune, and having become a member of the house of commons, he was made a secretary of state by lord north.] you have heard, i suppose, of the violent animosities that have reigned for the whole campaign between him and lord granby--in which some other warm persons have been very warm too. in the heat of the battle, the prince, finding thirty-six squadrons of french coming down upon our army, sent ligonier to order our thirty-two squadrons, under lord george, to advance. during that transaction, the french appeared to waver; and prince ferdinand, willing, as it is supposed, to give the honour to the british horse of terminating the day, sent fitzroy to bid lord george bring up only the british cavalry. ligonier had but just delivered his message, when fitzroy came with his.--lord george said, "this can't be so--would he have me break the line? here is some mistake." fitzroy replied, he had not argued upon the orders, but those were the orders. "well!" said lord george, "but i want a guide." fitzroy said, he would be his guide. lord george, "where is the prince?" fitzroy, "i left him at the head of the left wing, i don't know where he is now." lord george said he would go seek him, and have this explained. smith then asked fitzroy to repeat the orders to him; which being done, smith went and whispered lord george, who says he then bid smith carry up the cavalry. smith is come, and says he is ready to answer anybody any question. lord george says, prince ferdinand's behaviour to him has been most infamous, has asked leave to resign his command, and to come over, which is granted. prince ferdinand's behaviour is summed up in the enclosed extraordinary paper: which you will doubt as i did, but which is certainly genuine. i doubted, because, in the military, i thought direct disobedience of orders was punished with an immediate arrest, and because the last paragraph seemed to me very foolish. the going out of the way to compliment lord granby with what he would have done, seems to take off a little from the compliments paid to those that have done something; but, in short, prince ferdinand or lord george, one of them, is most outrageously in the wrong, and the latter has much the least chance of being thought in the right. the particulars i tell you, i collected from the most _accurate_ authorities.--i make no comments on lord george, it would look like a little dirty court to you; and the best compliment i can make you, is to think, as i do, that you will be the last man to enjoy this revenge. you will be sorry for poor m'kinsey and lady betty, who have lost their only child at turin. adieu! _admiral boscawen's victory--defeat of the king of prussia--lord g. sackville._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _sept._ , . with your unathletic constitution i think you will have a greater weight of glory to represent than you can bear. you will be as _épuisé_ as princess craon with all the triumphs over niagara, ticonderoga, crown-point, and such a parcel of long names. you will ruin yourself in french horns, to exceed those of marshal botta, who has certainly found out a pleasant way of announcing victories. besides, _all_ the west indies, which we have taken by a panic, there is admiral boscawen has demolished the toulon squadron, and has made _you_ viceroy of the mediterranean. i really believe the french will come hither now, for they can be safe nowhere else. if the king of prussia should be totally undone in germany,[ ] we can afford to give him an appanage, as a younger son of england, of some hundred thousand miles on the ohio. sure universal monarchy was never so put to shame as that of france! what a figure do they make! they seem to have no ministers, no generals, no soldiers! if anything could be more ridiculous than their behaviour in the field, it would be in the cabinet! their invasion appears not to have been designed against us, but against their own people, who, they fear, will mutiny, and to quiet whom they disperse expresses, with accounts of the progress of their arms in england. they actually have established posts, to whom people are directed to send their letters for their friends _in england_. if, therefore, you hear that the french have established themselves at exeter or at norwich, don't be alarmed, nor undeceive the poor women who are writing to their husbands for english baubles. [footnote : frederic the great had sustained a severe defeat at hochkirch in october, , and a still more terrible one in august of this year from marshals laudon and soltikof at kunersdorf. it seemed so irreparable that for a moment he even contemplated putting an end to his life; but he was saved from the worst consequences of the blow by jealousies which sprang up between the austrian and russian commanders, and preventing them from profiting by their victory as they might have done.] we have lost another princess, lady elizabeth.[ ] she died of an inflammation in her bowels in two days. her figure was so very unfortunate, that it would have been difficult for her to be happy, but her parts and application were extraordinary. i saw her act in "cato" at eight years old, (when she could not stand alone, but was forced to lean against the side-scene,) better than any of her brothers and sisters. she had been so unhealthy, that at that age she had not been taught to read, but had learned the part of lucia by hearing the others study their parts. she went to her father and mother, and begged she might act. they put her off as gently as they could--she desired leave to repeat her part, and when she did, it was with so much sense, that there was no denying her. [footnote : second daughter of frederick, prince of wales.--walpole.] i receive yours of august . to all your alarms for the king of prussia i subscribe. with little brandenburgh he could not exhaust all the forces of bohemia, hungary, austria, muscovy, siberia, tartary, sweden, &c., &c., &c.--but not to politicize too much, i believe the world will come to be fought for somewhere between the north of germany and the back of canada, between count daun and sir william johnson.[ ] [footnote : our general in america--walpole.] you guessed right about the king of spain; he is dead, and the queen dowager may once more have an opportunity of embroiling the little of europe that remains unembroiled. thank you, my dear sir, for the herculaneum and caserta that you are sending me. i wish the watch may arrive safe, to show you that i am not insensible to all your attentions for me, but endeavour, at a great distance, to imitate you in the execution of commissions. i would keep this letter back for a post, that i might have but one trouble of sending you quebec too; but when one has taken so many places, it is not worth while to wait for one more. lord george sackville, the hero of all conversation, if one can be so for not being a hero, is arrived. he immediately applied for a court-martial, but was told it was impossible now, as the officers necessary are in germany. this was in writing from lord holdernesse--but lord ligonier in words was more squab--"if he wanted a court-martial, he might go seek it in germany." all that could be taken from him, is, his regiment, above two thousand pounds a year: commander in germany at ten pounds a day, between three and four thousand pounds: lieutenant-general of the ordnance, one thousand five hundred pounds: a fort, three hundred pounds. he remains with a patent place in ireland of one thousand two hundred pounds, and about two thousand pounds a year of his own and wife's. with his parts and ambition it cannot end here; he calls himself ruined, but when the parliament meets, he will probably attempt some sort of revenge. they attribute, i don't know with what grounds, a sensible kind of plan to the french; that de la clue was to have pushed for ireland, thurot for scotland, and the brest fleet for england--but before they lay such great plans, they should take care of proper persons to execute them.[ ] [footnote : de la clue and the french were this year making unusual efforts to establish a naval superiority over us, which they never had done, and never will do. as is mentioned in this letter, one powerful fleet was placed under de la clue, another under conflans, and a strong squadron under commodore thurot. de la clue, however, for many weeks kept close in toulon, resisting every endeavour of boscawen to tempt him out, till the english admiral was compelled to retire to gibraltar for the repair of some of his ships. de la clue, not knowing which way he had gone, thought he could steal through the straits to join conflans, according to his original orders. but boscawen caught him off cape lagos, and gave him a decisive defeat, capturing five sail of the line, and among them the flagship _l'océan_ ( ). before the end of the year hawke almost destroyed the fleet of conflans, capturing five and driving the rest on shore; while thurot, who at first had a gleam of success, making one or two descents on the northern coast of ireland, and even capturing carrickfergus, had, in the end, worse fortune than either of his superior officers, being overtaken at the mouth of belfast lough by captain elliott with a squadron of nearly equal force, when the whole of the french squadron was taken and he himself was killed (the editor's "history of the british navy," c. ).] i cannot help smiling at the great objects of our letters. we never converse on a less topic than a kingdom. we are a kind of citizens of the world, and battles and revolutions are the common incidents of our neighbourhood. but that is and must be the case of distant correspondences: kings and empresses that we never saw, are the only persons we can be acquainted with in common. we can have no more familiarity than the _daily advertiser_ would have if it wrote to the _florentine gazette_. adieu! my compliments to any monarch that lives within five hundred miles of you. _a year of triumphs._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . your pictures shall be sent as soon as any of us go to london, but i think that will not be till the parliament meets. can we easily leave the remains of such a year as this? it is still all gold.[ ] i have not dined or gone to bed by a fire till the day before yesterday. instead of the glorious and ever-memorable year , as the newspapers call it, i call it this ever-warm and victorious year. we have not had more conquest than fine weather: one would think we had plundered east and west indies of sunshine. our bells are worn threadbare with ringing for victories. i believe it will require ten votes of the house of commons before people will believe it is the duke of newcastle that has done this, and not mr. pitt. one thing is very fatiguing--all the world is made knights or generals. adieu! i don't know a word of news less than the conquest of america. adieu! yours ever. [footnote : the immediate cause of this exultation was the battle (september th) and subsequent capture of quebec. on the other side of the world colonel forde had inflicted severe defeats on the french and dutch, and had taken masulipatam; and besides these triumphs there were our naval successes mentioned in the last letter, and the battle of minden.] p.s.--you shall hear from me again if we take mexico or china before christmas. nd p.s.--i had sealed my letter, but break it open again, having forgot to tell you that mr. cowslade has the pictures of lord and lady cutts, and is willing to sell them. _french bankruptcy--french epigram._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _nov._ , . your pictures will set out on saturday; i give you notice, that you may inquire for them. i did not intend to be here these three days, but my lord bath taking the trouble to send a man and horse to ask me to dinner yesterday, i did not know how to refuse; and besides, as mr. bentley said to me, "you know he was an old friend of your father." the town is empty, but is coming to dress itself for saturday. my lady coventry showed george selwyn her clothes; they are blue, with spots of silver, of the size of a shilling, and a silver trimming, and cost--my lord will know what. she asked george how he liked them; he replied, "why, you will be change for a guinea." i find nothing talked of but the french bankruptcy;[ ] sir robert brown, i hear--and am glad to hear--will be a great sufferer. they put gravely into the article of bankrupts in the newspaper, "louis le petit, of the city of paris, peace-breaker, dealer, and chapman;" it would have been still better if they had said, "louis bourbon of petty france." we don't know what is become of their monsieur thurot, of whom we had still a little mind to be afraid. i should think he would do like sir thomas hanmer, make a faint effort, beg pardon of the scotch for their disappointment, and retire. here are some pretty verses just arrived. pourquoi le baton à soubise, puisque chevert est le vainqueur?[ ] c'est de la cour une méprise, ou bien le but de la faveur. je ne vois rien là qui m'étonne, repond aussitot un railleur; c'est à l'aveugle qu'on le donne, et non pas au conducteur. [footnote : in m. bertin was finance minister--the fourth who had held that office in four years; and among his expedients for raising money he had been compelled to have recourse to the measure of stopping the payment of the interest on a large portion of the national debt.] [footnote : "_chevert est le vainqueur._" he was one of the most brilliant officers in the french army. it was he who, under the orders of saxe, surprised prague in , and it was to him that maréchal d'estrées was principally indebted for his victory of hastenbeck.] lady meadows has left nine thousand pounds in reversion after her husband to lord sandwich's daughter. _apropos_ to my lady meadows's maiden name, a name i believe you have sometimes heard; i was diverted t'other day with a story of a lady of that name,[ ] and a lord, whose initial is no farther from hers than he himself is sometimes supposed to be. her postillion, a lad of sixteen, said, "i am not such a child but i can guess something: whenever my lord lyttelton comes to my lady, she orders the porter to let in nobody else, and then they call for a pen and ink, and say they are going to write history." is not this _finesse_ so like him? do you know that i am persuaded, now he is parted, that he will forget he is married, and propose himself in form to some woman or other. [footnote : mrs. montagu was the foundress of "the blue-stocking club." she was the authoress of three "dialogues of the dead," to which walpole is alluding here, and which she published with some others by lord lyttelton.] when do you come? if it is not soon, you will find a new town. i stared to-day at piccadilly like a country squire; there are twenty new stone houses: at first i concluded that all the grooms, that used to live there, had got estates, and built palaces. one young gentleman, who was getting an estate, but was so indiscreet as to step out of his way to rob a comrade, is convicted, and to be transported; in short, one of the waiters at arthur's. george selwyn says, "what a horrid idea he will give of us to the people in newgate!" i was still more surprised t'other day, than at seeing piccadilly, by receiving a letter from the north of ireland from a clergyman, with violent encomiums on my "catalogue of noble authors"--and this when i thought it quite forgot. it puts me in mind of the queen[ ] that sunk at charing cross and rose at queenhithe. [footnote : queen eleanor, wife of edward i., who erected the cross at charing, and others at the different places where her body had stopped on the way from the north to westminster.] mr. chute has got his commission to inquire about your cutts, but he thinks the lady is not your grandmother. you are very ungenerous to hoard tales from me of your ancestry: what relation have i spared? if your grandfathers were knaves, will your bottling up their bad blood mend it? do you only take a cup of it now and then by yourself, and then come down to your parson, and boast of it, as if it was pure old metheglin? i sat last night with the mater gracchorum--oh! 'tis a mater jagorum; if her descendants taste any of her black blood, they surely will make as wry faces at it as the servant in don john does when the ghost decants a corpse. good night! i am just returning to strawberry, to husband my two last days and to avoid all the pomp of the birthday. oh! i had forgot, there is a miss wynne coming forth, that is to be handsomer than my lady coventry; but i have known one threatened with such every summer for these seven years, and they are always addled by winter! _he lives amongst royalty--commotions in ireland._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _jan._ , . you must not wonder i have not written to you a long time; a person of my consequence! i am now almost ready to say, _we_, instead of _i_. in short, i live amongst royalty--considering the plenty, that is no great wonder. all the world lives with them, and they with all the world. princes and princesses open shops, in every corner of the town, and the whole town deals with them. as i have gone to one, i chose to frequent all, that i might not be particular, and seem to have views; and yet it went so much against me, that i came to town on purpose a month ago for the duke's levée, and had engaged brand to go with me--and then could not bring myself to it. at last, i went to him and princess emily yesterday. it was well i had not flattered myself with being still in my bloom; i am grown so old since they saw me, that neither of them knew me. when they were told, he just spoke to me (i forgive him; he is not out of my debt, even with that): she was exceedingly gracious, and commended strawberry to the skies. to-night, i was asked to their party at norfolk house. these parties are wonderfully select and dignified: one might sooner be a knight of malta than qualified for them; i don't know how the duchess of devonshire, mr. fox, and i, were forgiven some of our ancestors. there were two tables at loo, two at whist, and a quadrille. i was commanded to the duke's loo; he was sat down: not to make him wait, i threw my hat upon the marble table, and broke four pieces off a great crystal chandelier. i stick to my etiquette, and treat them with great respect; not as i do my friend, the duke of york. but don't let us talk any more of princes. my lucan appears to-morrow; i must say it is a noble volume. shall i send it to you--or won't you come and fetch it? there is nothing new of public, but the violent commotions in ireland,[ ] whither the duke of bedford still persists in going. aeolus to quell a storm! [footnote : "in reports that a legislative union was contemplated led to some furious protestant riots in dublin. the chancellor and some of the bishops were violently attacked. a judge in a law case warned the roman catholics that 'the laws did not presume a papist to exist in the kingdom'; nor could they breathe without the connivance of the government" (lecky, "history of england," ii. ). gray, in a letter to dr. wharton, mentions that they forced their way into the house of lords, and "placed an old woman on the throne, and called for pipes and tobacco." he especially mentions the bishops of killaloe and waterford as exposed to ardent ill-treatment, and concludes: "the notion that had possessed the crowd was that an union was to be voted between the two nations, and they should have no more parliaments in dublin."] i am in great concern for my old friend, poor lady harry beauclerc; her lord dropped down dead two nights ago, as he was sitting with her and all their children. admiral boscawen is dead by this time. mrs. osborn[ ] and i are not much afflicted: lady jane coke too is dead, exceedingly rich; i have not heard her will yet. [footnote : boscawen had been a member of the court martial which had found admiral byng guilty. mrs. osborn was byng's sister.] if you don't come to town soon, i give you warning, i will be a lord of the bedchamber, or a gentleman usher. if you will, i will be nothing but what i have been so many years--my own and yours ever. _severity of the weather--scarcity in germany--a party at prince edward's--charles townsend's comments on la fontaine._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _jan._ , . how do you contrive to exist on your mountain in this rude season? sure you must be become a snowball! as i was not in england in forty-one, i had no notion of such cold. the streets are abandoned; nothing appears in them: the thames is almost as solid. then think what a campaign must be in such a season! our army was under arms for fourteen hours on the twenty-third, expecting the french; and several of the men were frozen when they should have dismounted. what milksops the marlboroughs and turennes, the blakes and the van tromps appear now, who whipped into winter quarters and into port, the moment their noses looked blue. sir cloudesley shovel said that an admiral would deserve to be broke, who kept great ships out after the end of september, and to be shot if after october. there is hawke in the bay weathering _this_ winter, after conquering in a storm. for my part, i scarce venture to make a campaign in the opera-house; for if i once begin to freeze, i shall be frozen through in a moment. i am amazed, with such weather, such ravages, and distress, that there is anything left in germany, but money; for thither, half the treasure of europe goes: england, france, russia, and all the empress can squeeze from italy and hungary, all is sent thither, and yet the wretched people have not subsistence. a pound of bread sells at dresden for eleven-pence. we are going to send many more troops thither; and it is so much the fashion to raise regiments, that i wish there were such a neutral kind of beings in england as abbés,[ ] that one might have an excuse for not growing military mad, when one has turned the heroic corner of one's age. i am ashamed of being a young rake, when my seniors are covering their grey toupees with helmets and feathers, and accoutering their pot-bellies with cuirasses and martial masquerade habits. yet rake i am, and abominably so, for a person that begins to wrinkle reverendly. i have sat up twice this week till between two and three with the duchess of grafton, at loo, who, by the way, has got a pam-child this morning, and on saturday night i supped with prince edward at my lady rochford's, and we stayed till half an hour past three. my favour with that highness continues, or rather increases. he makes everybody make suppers for him to meet me, for i still hold out against going to court. in short, if he were twenty years older, or i could make myself twenty years younger, i might carry him to campden house, and be as impertinent as ever my lady churchill was; but, as i dread being ridiculous, i shall give my lord bute no uneasiness. my lady maynard, who divides the favour of this tiny court with me, supped with us. did you know she sings french ballads very prettily? lord rochford played on the guitar, and the prince sung; there were my two nieces, and lord waldegrave, lord huntingdon, and mr. morrison the groom, and the evening was pleasant; but i had a much more agreeable supper last night at mrs. clive's, with miss west, my niece cholmondeley, and murphy, the writing actor, who is very good company, and two or three more. mrs. cholmondeley is very lively; you know how entertaining the clive is, and miss west is an absolute original. [footnote : french chroniclers remark that the title abbé had long since ceased in france to denote the possession of any ecclesiastical preferment, but had become a courteous denomination of unemployed ecclesiastics; and they compare it to the use of the term "esquire" in england.] there is nothing new, but a very dull pamphlet written by lord bath, and his chaplain douglas, called a "letter to two great men." it is a plan for the peace, and much adopted by the city, and much admired by all who are too humble to judge for themselves. i was much diverted the other morning with another volume on birds by edwards, who has published four or five. the poor man, who is grown very old and devout, begs god to take from him the love of natural philosophy; and having observed some heterodox proceedings among bantam cocks, he proposes that all schools of girls and boys should be promiscuous, lest, if separated, they should learn wayward passions. but what struck me most were his dedications, the last was to god; this is to lord bute, as if he was determined to make his fortune in one world or the other. pray read fontaine's fable of the lion grown old; don't it put you in mind of anything? no! not when his shaggy majesty has borne the insults of the tiger and the horse, &c., and the ass comes last, kicks out his only remaining fang, and asks for a blue bridle? _apropos_, i will tell you the turn charles townshend gave to this fable. "my lord," said he, "has quite mistaken the thing; he soars too high at first: people often miscarry by not preceding by degrees; he went and at once asked for my _lord_ carlisle's garter--if he would have been contented to ask first for my _lady_ carlisle's garter, i don't know but he would have obtained it!" adieu! _capture of carrickfergus._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _feb._ , . the next time you see marshal botta, and are to act king of great britain, france, and ireland, you must abate about a hundredth thousandth part of the dignity of your crown. you are no more monarch of _all_ ireland, than king o'neil, or king macdermoch is. louis xv. is sovereign of france, navarre, and carrickfergus. you will be mistaken if you think the peace is made, and that we cede this hibernian town, in order to recover minorca, or to keep quebec and louisbourg. to be sure, it is natural you should think so: how should so victorious and heroic a nation cease to enjoy any of its possessions, but to save christian blood? oh! i know you will suppose there has been another insurrection, and that it is king john of bedford, and not king george of brunswick, that has lost this town. why, i own you are a great politician, and see things in a moment--and no wonder, considering how long you have been employed in negotiations; but for once all your sagacity is mistaken. indeed, considering the total destruction of the maritime force of france, and that the great mechanics and mathematicians of this age have not invented a flying bridge to fling over the sea and land from the coast of france to the north of ireland, it was not easy to conceive how the french should conquer carrickfergus--and yet they have. but how i run on! not reflecting that by this time the old pretender must have hobbled through florence on his way to ireland, to take possession of this scrap of his recovered domains; but i may as well tell you at once, for to be sure you and the loyal body of english in tuscany will slip over all this exordium to come to the account of so extraordinary a revolution. well, here it is. last week monsieur thurot--oh! now you are _au fait_!--monsieur thurot, as i was saying, landed last week in the isle of islay, the capital province belonging to a great scotch king, who is so good as generally to pass the winter with his friends here in london. monsieur thurot had three ships, the crews of which burnt two ships belonging to king george, and a house belonging to his friend the king of argyll--pray don't mistake; by _his friend_, i mean king george's, not thurot's friend. when they had finished this campaign, they sailed to carrickfergus, a poorish town, situate in the heart of the protestant cantons. they immediately made a moderate demand of about twenty articles of provisions, promising to pay for them; for you know it is the way of modern invasions to make them cost as much as possible to oneself, and as little to those one invades. if this was not complied with, they threatened to burn the town, and then march to belfast, which is much richer. we were sensible of this civil proceeding, and not to be behindhand, agreed to it; but somehow or other this capitulation was broken; on which a detachment (the whole invasion consists of one thousand men) attack the place. we shut the gates, but after the battle of quebec, it is impossible that so great a people should attend to such trifles as locks and bolts, accordingly there were none--and as if there were no gates neither, the two armies fired through them--if this is a blunder, remember i am describing an _irish_ war. i forgot to give you the numbers of the irish army. it consisted of four companies--indeed they consisted but of seventy-two men, under lieut.-colonel jennings, a wonderful brave man--too brave, in short, to be very judicious. unluckily our ammunition was soon spent, for it is not above a year that there have been any apprehensions for ireland, and as all that part of the country are most protestantly loyal, it was not thought necessary to arm people who would fight till they die for their religion. when the artillery was silenced, the garrison thought the best way of saving the town was by flinging it at the heads of the besiegers; according they poured volleys of brickbats at the french, whose commander, monsieur flobert, was mortally knocked down, and his troops began to give way. however, general jennings thought it most prudent to retreat to the castle, and the french again advanced. four or five raw recruits still bravely kept the gates, when the garrison, finding no more gunpowder in the castle than they had had in the town, and not near so good a brick-kiln, sent to desire to surrender. general thurot accordingly made them prisoners of war, and plundered the town. _the ballad of "hardyknute"--mr. home's "siege of aquileia"--"tristram shandy"--bishop warburton's praise of it._ to sir david dalrymple. strawberry hill, _april_ , . sir,--as i have very little at present to trouble you with myself, i should have deferred writing till a better opportunity, if it were not to satisfy the curiosity of a friend; a friend whom you, sir, will be glad to have made curious, as you originally pointed him out as a likely person to be charmed with the old irish poetry you sent me. it is mr. gray, who is an enthusiast about those poems, and begs me to put the following queries to you; which i will do in his own words, and i may say truly, _poeta loquitur_. "i am so charmed with the two specimens of erse poetry, that i cannot help giving you the trouble to inquire a little farther about them, and should wish to see a few lines of the original, that i may form some slight idea of the language, the measure, and the rhythm. "is there anything known of the author or authors, and of what antiquity are they supposed to be? "is there any more to be had of equal beauty, or at all approaching to it? "i have been often told, that the poem called hardykanute[ ] (which i always admired and still admire) was the work of somebody that lived a few years ago. this i do not at all believe, though it has evidently been retouched in places by some modern hand; but, however, i am authorised by this report to ask, whether the two poems in question are certainly antique and genuine. i make this inquiry in quality of an antiquary, and am not otherwise concerned about it; for if i were sure that any one now living in scotland had written them, to divert himself and laugh at the credulity of the world, i would undertake a journey into the highlands only for the pleasure of seeing him." [footnote : "hardyknute" was an especial favourite of sir w. scott. in his "life of mr. lockhart" he mentions having found in one of his books a mention that "he was taught 'hardyknute' by heart before he could read the ballad itself; it was the first poem he ever learnt, the last he should ever forget" (c. ). and in the very last year of his life, while at malta, in a discussion on ballads in general, "he greatly lamented his friend mr. frere's heresy in not esteeming highly enough that of 'hardyknute.' he admitted that it was not a veritable old ballad, but 'just old enough,' and a noble imitation of the best style." in fact, it was the composition of a lady, mrs. hachet, of wardlaw.] you see, sir, how easily you may make our greatest southern bard travel northward to visit a brother. the young translator has nothing to do but to own a forgery, and mr. gray is ready to pack up his lyre, saddle pegasus, and set out directly. but seriously, he, mr. mason, my lord lyttelton, and one or two more, whose taste the world allows, are in love with your erse elegies: i cannot say in general they are so much admired--but mr. gray alone is worth satisfying. the "siege of aquileia," of which you ask, pleased less than mr. home's other plays.[ ] in my own opinion, "douglas" far exceeds both the other. mr. home seems to have a beautiful talent for painting genuine nature and the manners of his country. there was so little of nature in the manners of both greeks and romans, that i do not wonder at his success being less brilliant when he tried those subjects; and, to say the truth, one is a little weary of them. at present, nothing is talked of, nothing admired, but what i cannot help calling a very insipid and tedious performance: it is a kind of novel, called "the life and opinions of tristram shandy;"[ ] the great humour of which consists in the whole narration always going backwards. i can conceive a man saying that it would be droll to write a book in that manner, but have no notion of his persevering in executing it. it makes one smile two or three times at the beginning, but in recompense makes one yawn for two hours. the characters are tolerably kept up, but the humour is for ever attempted and missed. the best thing in it is a sermon, oddly coupled with a good deal of coarseness, and both the composition of a clergyman. the man's head, indeed, was a little turned before, now topsy-turvy with his success and fame. dodsley has given him six hundred and fifty pounds for the second edition and two more volumes (which i suppose will reach backwards to his great-great-grandfather); lord fauconberg, a donative of one hundred and sixty pounds a-year; and bishop warburton[ ] gave him a purse of gold and this compliment (which happened to be a contradiction), "that it was quite an original composition, and in the true cervantic vein:" the only copy that ever was an original, except in painting, where they all pretend to be so. warburton, however, not content with this, recommended the book to the bench of bishops, and told them mr. sterne, the author, was the english rabelais. they had never heard of such a writer. adieu! [footnote : "_mr. home's other plays._" mr. home was a presbyterian minister. his first play was "the tragedy of douglas," which d'israeli describes as a drama which, "by awakening the piety of domestic affections with the nobler passions, would elevate and purify the mind;" and proceeds, with no little indignation, to relate how nearly it cost the author dear. the "glasgow divines, with the monastic spirit of the darkest ages, published a paper, which i abridge for the contemplation of the reader, who may wonder to see such a composition written in the eighteenth century: 'on wednesday, february , , the presbytery of glasgow came to the following resolution: they, having seen a printed paper intituled an admonition and exhortation of the reverend presbytery of edinburgh, which, among other evils prevailing, observed the following _melancholy_ but _notorious_ facts, that one who is a minister of the church of scotland did _himself_ write and compose _a stage play_, intituled 'the tragedy of douglas,' and got it to be acted at the theatre of edinburgh; and that he, with several other ministers of the church, were present, and _some_ of them _oftener than once_, at the acting of the said play before a numerous audience. the presbytery being _deeply affected_ with this new and strange appearance, do publish these sentiments,'" &c., &c.--sentiments with which i will not disgust the reader.] [footnote : walpole's criticism is worth preserving as a singular proof how far prejudice can obscure the judgement of a generally shrewd observer, and it is the more remarkable since he selects as its especial fault the failure of the author's attempts at humour; while all other critics, from macaulay to thackeray, agree in placing it among those works in which the humour is most conspicuous and most attractive. even johnson, when boswell once, thinking perhaps that his "illustrious friend" might be offended with its occasional coarseness, pronounced sterne to be "a dull fellow," was at once met with, "why no, sir."] [footnote : bishop warburton was bishop of gloucester, a prelate whose vast learning was in some degree tarnished by unepiscopal violence of temper. he was a voluminous author; his most important work being an essay on "the divine legation of moses." in one of his letters to garrick he praises "tristram shandy" highly, priding himself on having recommended it to all the best company in town.] _erse poetry--"the dialogues of the dead"--"the complete angler."_ to sir david dalrymple. _june_ , . i am obliged to you, sir, for the volume of erse poetry: all of it has merit; but i am sorry not to see in it the six descriptions of night with which you favoured me before, and which i like as much as any of the pieces. i can, however, by no means agree with the publisher, that they seem to be parts of an heroic poem; nothing to me can be more unlike. i should as soon take all the epitaphs in westminster abbey, and say it was an epic poem on the history of england. the greatest part are evidently elegies; and though i should not expect a bard to write by the rules of aristotle, i would not, on the other hand, give to any work a title that must convey so different an idea to every common reader. i could wish, too, that the authenticity had been more largely stated. a man who knows dr. blair's character will undoubtedly take his word; but the gross of mankind, considering how much it is the fashion to be sceptical in reading, will demand proofs, not assertions. i am glad to find, sir, that we agree so much on "the dialogues of the dead;"[ ] indeed, there are very few that differ from us. it is well for the author, that none of his critics have undertaken to ruin his book by improving it, as you have done in the lively little specimen you sent me. dr. brown has writ a dull dialogue, called "pericles and aristides," which will have a different effect from what yours would have. one of the most objectionable passages in lord lyttelton's book is, in my opinion, his apologising for the _moderate_ government of augustus. a man who had exhausted tyranny in the most lawless and unjustifiable excesses is to be excused, because, out of weariness or policy, he grows less sanguinary at last! [footnote : "the dialogues of the dead" were by lord lyttelton. in an earlier letter walpole pronounces them "not very lively or striking."] there is a little book coming out, that will amuse you. it is a new edition of isaac walton's "complete angler,"[ ] full of anecdotes and historic notes. it is published by mr. hawkins,[ ] a very worthy gentleman in my neighbourhood, but who, i could wish, did not think angling so very _innocent_ an amusement. we cannot live without destroying animals, but shall we torture them for our sport--sport in their destruction? i met a rough officer at his house t'other day, who said he knew such a person was turning methodist; for, in the middle of conversation, he rose, and opened the window to let out a moth. i told him i did not know that the methodists had any principle so good, and that i, who am certainly not on the point of becoming one, always did so too. one of the bravest and best men i ever knew, sir charles wager, i have often heard declare he never killed a fly willingly. it is a comfortable reflection to me, that all the victories of last year have been gained since the suppression of the bear garden and prize-fighting; as it is plain, and nothing else would have made it so, that our valour did not singly and solely depend upon these two universities. adieu! [footnote : "the complete angler" is one of those rare books which retain its popularity years after its publication--not for the value of its practical instructions to fishermen, for in this point of view it is valueless (walton himself being only a worm or livebait fisherman, and the chapters on fly-fishing being by cotton), but for its healthy tone and love of country scenery and simple country amusements which are seldom more attractively displayed.] [footnote : afterwards sir john hawkins, the executor and biographer of dr. johnson.] _visits in the midland counties--whichnovre--sheffield--the new art of plating--chatsworth--haddon hall--hardwicke--apartments of mary queen of scots--newstead--althorp._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _sept._ , . i was disappointed at your not being at home as i returned from my expedition. my tour has been extremely agreeable. i set out with winning a good deal at loo at ragley; the duke of grafton was not so successful, and had some high words with pam. i went from thence to offley's at whichnovre[ ], the individual manor of the flitch of bacon, which has been growing rusty for these thirty years in his hall. i don't wonder; i have no notion that one could keep in good humour with one's wife for a year and a day, unless one was to live on the very spot, which is one of the sweetest scenes i ever saw. it is the brink of a high hill; the trent wriggles through at the foot; lichfield and twenty other churches and mansions decorate the view. mr. anson has bought an estate [shugborough] close by, whence my lord used to cast many a wishful eye, though without the least pretensions even to a bit of lard. [footnote : the manor of whichnovre, near lichfield, is held (like the better-known dunmow, in essex) on the singular custom of the lord of the manor "keeping ready, all times of the year but lent, one bacon-flyke hanging in his hall, to be given to every man or woman who demanded it a year and a day after marriage, upon their swearing that they would not have changed for none other, fairer nor fouler, richer nor poorer, nor for no other descended of great lineage sleeping nor waking at no time."] i saw lichfield cathedral, which has been rich, but my friend lord brooke and his soldiery treated poor st. chad[ ] with so little ceremony, that it is in a most naked condition. in a niche at the very summit they have crowded a statue of charles the second, with a special pair of shoe-strings, big enough for a weathercock. as i went to lord strafford's i passed through sheffield, which is one of the foulest towns in england in the most charming situation; there are two-and-twenty thousand inhabitants making knives and scissors: they remit eleven thousand pounds a week to london. one man there has discovered the art of plating copper with silver; i bought a pair of candlesticks for two guineas that are quite pretty. lord strafford has erected the little gothic building, which i got mr. bentley to draw; i took the idea from chichester cross. it stands on a high bank in the menagerie, between a pond and a vale, totally bowered over with oaks. i went with the straffords to chatsworth and stayed there four days; there were lady mary coke, lord besborough and his daughters, lord thomond, mr. boufoy, the duke, the old duchess, and two of his brothers. would you believe that nothing was ever better humoured than the ancient grace? she stayed every evening till it was dark in the skittle-ground, keeping the score; and one night, that the servants had a ball for lady dorothy's birthday, we fetched the fiddler into the drawing-room, and the dowager herself danced with us! i never was more disappointed than at chatsworth,[ ] which, ever since i was born, i have condemned. it is a glorious situation; the vale rich in corn and verdure, vast woods hang down the hills, which are green to the top, and the immense rocks only serve to dignify the prospect. the river runs before the door, and serpentises more than you can conceive in the vale. the duke is widening it, and will make it the middle of his park; but i don't approve an idea they are going to execute, of a fine bridge with statues under a noble cliff. if they will have a bridge (which by the way will crowd the scene), it should be composed of rude fragments, such as the giant of the peak would step upon, that he might not be wetshod. the expense of the works now carrying on will amount to forty thousand pounds. a heavy quadrangle of stables is part of the plan, is very cumbrous, and standing higher than the house, is ready to overwhelm it. the principal front of the house is beautiful, and executed with the neatness of wrought plate; the inside is most sumptuous, but did not please me; the heathen gods, goddesses, christian virtues, and allegoric gentlefolks, are crowded into every room, as if mrs. holman had been in heaven and invited everybody she saw. the great apartment is first; painted ceilings, inlaid floors, and unpainted wainscots make every room _sombre_. the tapestries are fine, but not fine enough, and there are few portraits. the chapel is charming. the great _jet d'eau_ i like, nor would i remove it; whatever is magnificent of the kind in the time it was done, i would retain, else all gardens and houses wear a tiresome resemblance. i except that absurdity of a cascade tumbling down marble steps, which reduces the steps to be of no use at all. i saw haddon, an abandoned old castle of the rutlands, in a romantic situation, but which never could have composed a tolerable dwelling. the duke sent lord john [cavendish] with me to hardwicke, where i was again disappointed; but i will not take relations from others; they either don't see for themselves, or can't see for me. how i had been promised that i should be charmed with hardwicke,[ ] and told that the devonshires ought to have established there! never was i less charmed in my life. the house is not gothic, but of that betweenity, that intervened when gothic declined and paladian was creeping in--rather, this is totally naked of either. it has vast chambers--aye, vast, such as the nobility of that time delighted in, and did not know how to furnish. the great apartment is exactly what it was when the queen of scots was kept there. her council-chamber, the council-chamber of a poor woman, who had only two secretaries, a gentleman-usher, an apothecary, a confessor, and three maids, is so outrageously spacious, that you would take it for king david's, who thought, contrary to all modern experience, that in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom. at the upper end is the state, with a long table, covered with a sumptuous cloth, embroidered and embossed with gold,--at least what was gold; so are all the tables. round the top of the chamber runs a monstrous frieze, ten or twelve feet deep, representing stag-hunting in miserable plastered relief. the next is her dressing-room, hung with patch-work on black velvet; then her state bedchamber. the bed has been rich beyond description, and now hangs in costly golden tatters. the hangings, part of which they say her majesty worked, are composed of figures as large as life, sewed and embroidered on black velvet, white satin, &c., and represent the virtues that were necessary for her, or that she was forced to have, as patience and temperance, &c. the fire-screens are particular; pieces of yellow velvet, fringed with gold, hang on a cross-bar of wood, which is fixed on the top of a single stick, that rises from the foot. the only furniture which has any appearance of taste are the table and cabinets, which are all of oak, richly carved. there is a private chamber within, where she lay, her arms and style over the door; the arras hangs over all the doors; the gallery is sixty yards long, covered with bad tapestry, and wretched pictures of mary herself, elizabeth in a gown of sea-monsters, lord darnley, james the fifth and his queen, curious, and a whole history of kings of england, not worth sixpence a-piece. there is an original of old bess of hardwicke herself, who built the house. her estates were then reckoned at sixty thousand pounds a-year, and now let for two hundred thousand pounds. lord john cavendish told me, that the tradition in the family is, that it had been prophesied to her that she should never die as long as she was building; and that at last she died in a hard frost, when the labourers could not work. there is a fine bank of old oaks in the park over a lake; nothing else pleased me there. however, i was so diverted with this old beldam and her magnificence, that i made this epitaph for her:-- four times the nuptial bed she warm'd, and every time so well perform'd, that when death spoil'd each husband's billing, he left the widow every shilling. fond was the dame, but not dejected; five stately mansions she erected with more than royal pomp, to vary the prison of her captive mary. when hardwicke's towers shall bow their head, nor mass be more in worksop said; when bolsover's fair fame shall tend like olcotes, to its mouldering end; when chatsworth tastes no ca'ndish bounties, let fame forget this costly countess. [footnote : scott alludes to lord brooke's violation of st. chad's cathedral in "marmion," whose tomb was levelled when fanatic brooke the fair cathedral stormed and took, but thanks to heaven and good st. chad a guerdon meet the spoiler had (c. vi. ). and the poet adds in a note that lord brooke himself, "who commanded the assailants, was shot with a musket-ball through the visor of his helmet; and the royalists remarked that he was killed by a shot fired from st. chad's cathedral on st. chad's day, and received his wound in the very eye with which, he had said, he hoped to see the ruin of all the cathedrals in england."] [footnote : "_disappointed with chatsworth._" in a letter, however, to lord strafford three days afterwards he says: "chatsworth surpassed his expectations; there is such richness and variety of prospect."] [footnote : hardwicke was one of what home calls "the gentleman's houses," to which the unfortunate queen was removed between the times of her detention at tutbury and fotheringay. it is not mentioned by burton.] as i returned, i saw newstead[ ] and althorpe: i like both. the former is the very abbey. the great east window of the church remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it; a private chapel quite perfect. the park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned; the present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thousand pounds of which have been cut near the house. in recompense he has built two baby forts, to pay his country in castles for the damage done to the navy, and planted a handful of scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old family liveries for a public day. in the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals; the refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full of byrons; the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for them by a venetian tailor. althorpe has several very fine pictures by the best italian hands, and a gallery of all one's acquaintance by vandyke and lely. i wonder you never saw it; it is but six miles from northampton. well, good night; i have writ you such a volume, that you see i am forced to page it. the duke [of cumberland] has had a stroke of the palsy, but is quite recovered, except in some letters, which he cannot pronounce; and it is still visible in the contraction of one side of his mouth. my compliments to your family. [footnote : newstead, since walpole's time immortalised as the seat of the illustrious byron. evelyn had compared it, for its situation, to fontainebleau, and particularly extolled "the front of a glorious abbey church" and its "brave woods and streams;" and byron himself has given an elaborate description of it under the name of "norman abbey," not overlooking its woods: it stood embosomed in a happy valley crowned by high woodlands, where the druid-oak stood like caractacus in act to rally his host, with broad arms, 'gainst the thunderstroke-- nor the streams: before the mansion lay a lucid lake broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed by a river, which its softened way did take in currents through the calmer waters spread around-- nor the abbey front: a glorious remnant of the gothic pile while yet the church was rome's, stood half apart in a grand arch, which once screened many an angle. ("don juan," xiii. - .)] _gentleman's dress--influence of lord bute--ode by lord middlesex--g. selwyn's quotation._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _april_ , . you are a very mule; one offers you a handsome stall and manger in berkeley square, and you will not accept it. i have chosen your coat, a claret colour, to suit the complexion of the country you are going to visit; but i have fixed nothing about the lace. barrett had none of gauze, but what were as broad as the irish channel. your tailor found a very reputable one at another place, but i would not determine rashly; it will be two or three-and-twenty shillings the yard; you might have a very substantial real lace, which would wear like your buffet, for twenty. the second order of gauzes are frippery, none above twelve shillings, and those tarnished, for the species is out of fashion. you will have time to sit in judgment upon these important points; for hamilton your secretary told me at the opera two nights ago, that he had taken a house near bushy, and hoped to be in my neighbourhood for four months. i was last night at your plump countess's, who is so shrunk, that she does not seem to be composed of above a dozen hassocs. lord guildford rejoiced mightily over your preferment. the duchess of argyle was playing there, not knowing that the great pam was just dead, to wit, her brother-in-law. he was abroad in the morning, was seized with a palpitation after dinner and was dead before the surgeon could arrive. there's the crown of scotland too fallen upon my lord bute's head![ ] poor lord edgecumbe is still alive, and may be so for some days; the physicians, who no longer ago than friday se'nnight persisted that he had no dropsy, in order to prevent his having ward, on monday last proposed that ward should be called in, and at length they owned they thought the mortification begun. it is not clear it is yet; at times he is in his senses, and entirely so, composed, clear, and rational; talks of his death, and but yesterday, after such a conversation with his brother, asked for a pencil to amuse himself with drawing. what parts, genius, and agreeableness thrown away at a hazard table, and not permitted the chance of being saved by the villainy of physicians! [footnote : lord bute used his influence in favour of scotchmen with so little moderation that he raised a prejudice against the whole nation, which found a vent in wilkes's _north briton_ and churchill's bitter and powerful satire, "the prophecy of famine."] you will be pleased with the anacreontic, written by lord middlesex upon sir harry bellendine: i have not seen anything so antique for ages; it has all the fire, poetry, and simplicity of horace. ye sons of bacchus, come and join in solemn dirge, while tapers shine around the grape-embossed shrine of honest harry bellendine. pour the rich juice of bourdeaux's wine, mix'd with your falling tears of brine, in full libation o'er the shrine of honest harry bellendine. your brows let ivy chaplets twine, while you push round the sparkling wine, and let your table be the shrine of honest harry bellendine. he died in his vocation, of a high fever, after the celebration of some orgies. though but six hours in his senses, he gave a proof of his usual good humour, making it his last request to the sister tuftons to be reconciled; which they are. his pretty villa, in my neighbourhood, i fancy he has left to the new lord lorn. i must tell you an admirable _bon mot_ of george selwyn, though not a new one; when there was a malicious report that the eldest tufton was to marry dr. duncan, selwyn said, "how often will she repeat that line of shakspeare, wake duncan with this knocking--would thou couldst!" i enclose the receipt from your lawyer. adieu! _capture of belleisle--gray's poems--hogarth's vanity._ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _may_ , . we have lost a young genius, sir william williams; an express from belleisle, arrived this morning, brings nothing but his death. he was shot very unnecessarily, riding too near a battery; in sum, he is a sacrifice to his own rashness, and to ours. for what are we taking belleisle?[ ] i rejoiced at the little loss we had on landing; for the glory, i leave it the common council. i am very willing to leave london to them too, and do pass half the week at strawberry, where my two passions, lilacs and nightingales, are in full bloom. i spent sunday as if it were apollo's birthday; gray and mason were with me, and we listened to the nightingales till one o'clock in the morning. gray has translated two noble incantations from the lord knows who, a danish gray, who lived the lord knows when. they are to be enchased in a history of english bards, which mason and he are writing; but of which the former has not written a word yet, and of which the latter, if he rides pegasus at his usual footpace, will finish the first page two years hence. [footnote : belleisle was of no value to us to keep; but pitt sent an expedition against it, that in any future treaty of peace he might be able to exchange it for minorca.] but the true frantic oestus resides at present with mr. hogarth; i went t'other morning to see a portrait he is painting of mr. fox. hogarth told me he had promised, if mr. fox would sit as he liked, to make as good a picture as vandyke or rubens could. i was silent--"why now," said he, "you think this very vain, but why should not one speak truth?" this _truth_ was uttered in the face of his own sigismonda, which is exactly a maudlin street-walker, tearing off the trinkets that her keeper had given her, to fling at his head. she has her father's picture in a bracelet on her arm, and her fingers are bloody with the heart, as if she had just bought a sheep's pluck in st. james's market. as i was going, hogarth put on a very grave face, and said, "mr. walpole, i want to speak to you." i sat down, and said, i was ready to receive his commands. for shortness, i will mark this wonderful dialogue by initial letters. h. i am told you are going to entertain the town with something in our way. w. not very soon, mr. hogarth. h. i wish you would let me have it, to correct; i should be very sorry to have you expose yourself to censure; we painters must know more of those things than other people. w. do you think nobody understands painting but painters? h. oh! so far from it, there's reynolds, who certainly has genius; why, but t'other day he offered a hundred pounds for a picture, that i would not hang in my cellar; and indeed, to say truth, i have generally found, that persons who had studied painting least were the best judges of it; but what i particularly wished to say to you was about sir james thornhill (you know he married sir james's daughter): i would not have you say anything against him; there was a book published some time ago, abusing him, and it gave great offence. he was the first that attempted _history_ in england, and, i assure you, some germans have said that he was a very great painter. w. my work will go no lower than the year one thousand seven hundred, and i really have not considered whether sir j. thornhill will come within my plan or not; if he does, i fear you and i shall not agree upon his merits. h. i wish you would let me correct it; besides, i am writing something of the same kind myself; i should be sorry we should clash. w. i believe it is not much known what my work is, very few persons have seen it. h. why, it is a critical history of painting, is not it? w. no, it is an antiquarian history of it in england; i bought mr. vertue's mss., and, i believe, the work will not give much offence; besides, if it does, i cannot help it; when i publish anything, i give it to the world to think of it as they please. h. oh! if it is an antiquarian work, we shall not clash; mine is a critical work; i don't know whether i shall ever publish it. it is rather an apology for painters. i think it is owing to the good sense of the english that they have not painted better. w. my dear mr. hogarth, i must take my leave of you, you now grow too wild--and i left him. if i had stayed, there remained nothing but for him to bite me. i give you my honour this conversation is literal, and, perhaps, as long as you have known englishmen and painters, you never met with anything so distracted. i had consecrated a line to his genius (i mean, for wit) in my preface; i shall not erase it; but i hope nobody will ask me if he is not mad. adieu! _intended marriage of the king--battles in germany--capture of pondicherry--burke._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _july_ , . for my part, i believe mademoiselle scudéri[ ] drew the plan of this year. it is all royal marriages, coronations, and victories; they come tumbling so over one another from distant parts of the globe, that it looks just like the handywork of a lady romance writer, whom it costs nothing but a little false geography to make the great mogul in love with a princess of mecklenburgh, and defeat two marshals of france[ ] as he rides post on an elephant to his nuptials. i don't know where i am. i had scarce found mecklenburg strelitz with a magnifying-glass before i am whisked to pondicherry--well, i take it, and raze it. i begin to grow acquainted with colonel coote,[ ] and figure him packing up chests of diamonds, and sending them to his wife against the king's wedding--thunder go to the tower guns, and behold, broglie and soubise are totally defeated; if the mob have not much stronger heads and quicker conceptions than i have, they will conclude my lord granby is become nabob. how the deuce in two days can one digest all this? why is not pondicherry in westphalia? i don't know how the romans did, but i cannot support two victories every week. well, but you will want to know the particulars. broglie and soubise united, attacked our army on the th, but were repulsed; the next day, the prince mahomet alli cawn--no, no, i mean prince ferdinand, returned the attack, and the french threw down their arms and fled, run over my lord harcourt, who was going to fetch the new queen; in short, i don't know how it was, but mr. conway is safe, and i am as happy as mr. pitt himself. we have only lost a lieutenant-colonel keith; colonel marlay and harry townshend are wounded. [footnote : mdlle. scudéri and her brother were writers of romances of enormous length, and, in their time, of great popularity (see d'israeli's account of them, "curiosities of literature," i. ).] [footnote : "_defeat two french marshals_"--they were maréchal de broglie and the prince de soubise. the action, which, however, was of but little importance, is called by lacretelle "le combat de fillingshausen."] [footnote : colonel eyre coote, the best soldier next to clive himself that india had yet seen, had defeated the french governor, count lally, at wandewash in january, ; and the capture of pondicherry was one important fruit of the victory.] i could beat myself for not having a flag ready to display on my round tower, and guns mounted on all my battlements. instead of that, i have been foolishly trying on my new pictures upon my gallery. however, the oratory of our lady of strawberry shall be dedicated next year on the anniversary of mr. conway's safety. think with his intrepidity, and delicacy of honour wounded, what i had to apprehend; you shall absolutely be here on the sixteenth of next july. mr. hamilton tells me your king does not set out for his new dominions till the day after the coronation; if you will come to it, i can give you a very good place for the procession; where, is a profound secret, because, if known, i should be teased to death, and none but my first friends shall be admitted. i dined with your secretary [single-speech hamilton] yesterday; there were garrick and a young mr. burke[ ]--who wrote a book in the style of lord bolingbroke, that was much admired. he is a sensible man, but has not worn off his authorism yet, and thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. he will know better one of these days. i like hamilton's little marly; we walked in the great _allée_, and drank tea in the arbour of treillage; they talked of shakspeare and booth, of swift and my lord bath, and i was thinking of madame sévigné. good night--i have a dozen other letters to write; i must tell my friends how happy i am--not as an englishman, but as a cousin. [footnote : mr. burke's book was "a vindication of natural society," and was regarded as a very successful imitation of the style of lord bolingbroke.] _arrival of the princess of mecklenburgh--the royal wedding--the queen's appearance and behaviour._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _sept._ , . when we least expected the queen, she came, after being ten days at sea, but without sickness for above half-an-hour. she was gay the whole voyage, sung to her harpsichord, and left the door of her cabin open. they made the coast of suffolk last saturday, and on monday morning she landed at harwich; so prosperously has his majesty's chief eunuch, as they have made the tripoline ambassador call lord anson, executed his commission. she lay that night at your old friend lord abercorn's, at witham [in essex]; and, if she judged by her host, must have thought she was coming to reign in the realm of taciturnity. she arrived at st. james's a quarter after three on tuesday the th. when she first saw the palace she turned pale: the duchess of hamilton smiled. "my dear duchess," said the princess, "_you_ may laugh; you have been married twice; but it is no joke to me." is this a bad proof of her sense? on the journey they wanted her to curl her toupet. "no, indeed," said she, "i think it looks as well as those of the ladies who have been sent for me: if the king would have me wear a periwig, i will; otherwise i shall let myself alone." the duke of york gave her his hand at the garden-gate: her lips trembled, but she jumped out with spirit. in the garden the king met her; she would have fallen at his feet; he prevented and embraced her, and led her into the apartments, where she was received by the princess of wales and lady augusta: these three princesses only dined with the king. at ten the procession went to chapel, preceded by unmarried daughters of peers, and peeresses in plenty. the new princess was led by the duke of york and prince william; the archbishop married them; the king talked to her the whole time with great good humour, and the duke of cumberland gave her away. she is not tall, nor a beauty; pale, and very thin; but looks sensible; and is genteel. her hair is darkish and fine; her forehead low, her nose very well, except the nostrils spreading too wide; her mouth has the same fault, but her teeth are good. she talks a good deal, and french tolerably; possesses herself, is frank, but with great respect to the king. after the ceremony, the whole company came into the drawing-room for about ten minutes, but nobody was presented that night. the queen was in white and silver; an endless mantle of violet-coloured velvet, lined with ermine, and attempted to be fastened on her shoulder by a bunch of large pearls, dragged itself and almost the rest of her clothes halfway down her waist. on her head was a beautiful little tiara of diamonds; a diamond necklace, and a stomacher of diamonds, worth three score thousand pounds, which she is to wear at the coronation too. her train was borne by the ten bridesmaids, lady sarah lenox,[ ] lady caroline russell, lady caroline montagu, lady harriot bentinck, lady anne hamilton, lady essex kerr (daughters of dukes of richmond, bedford, manchester, portland, hamilton, and roxburgh); and four daughters of the earls of albemarle, brook, harcourt, and ilchester--lady elizabeth keppel, louisa greville, elizabeth harcourt, and susan fox strangways: their heads crowned with diamonds, and in robes of white and silver. lady caroline russell is extremely handsome; lady elizabeth keppel very pretty; but with neither features nor air, nothing ever looked so charming as lady sarah lenox; she has all the glow of beauty peculiar to her family. as supper was not ready, the queen sat down, sung, and played on the harpsichord to the royal family, who all supped with her in private. they talked of the different german dialects; the king asked if the hanoverian was not pure--"oh, no, sir," said the queen; "it is the worst of all."--she will not be unpopular. [footnote : lady sarah lennox, in an account of a theatrical performance at holland house in a previous letter, is described by walpole as "more beautiful than you can conceive." the king himself admired her so greatly that he is believed to have had serious thoughts of choosing her to be his queen. she afterwards married major g. napier, and became the mother of sir william and sir charles napier.] the duke of cumberland told the king that himself and lady augusta were sleepy. the queen was very averse to leave the company, and at last articled that nobody should accompany her but the princess of wales and her own two german women, and that nobody should be admitted afterwards but the king--they did not retire till between two and three. the next morning the king had a levée. he said to lord hardwicke, "it is a very fine day:" that old gossip replied, "yes, sir, and it was a very fine night." lord bute had told the king that lord orford had betted his having a child before sir james lowther, who had been married the night before to lord bute's eldest daughter; the king told lord orford he should be glad to go his halves. the bet was made with mr. rigby. somebody asked the latter how he could be so bad a courtier as to bet against the king? he replied, "not at all a bad courtier; i betted lord bute's daughter against him." after the king's levee there was a drawing-room; the queen stood under the throne: the women were presented to her by the duchess of hamilton, and then the men by the duke of manchester; but as she knew nobody, she was not to speak. at night there was a ball, drawing-rooms yesterday and to-day, and then a cessation of ceremony till the coronation, except next monday, when she is to receive the address of the lord mayor and aldermen, sitting on the throne attended by the bridesmaids. a ridiculous circumstance happened yesterday; lord westmoreland, not very young nor clear-sighted, mistook lady sarah lenox for the queen, kneeled to her, and would have kissed her hand if she had not prevented him. people think that a chancellor of oxford was naturally attracted by the blood of stuart. it is as comical to see kitty dashwood, the famous old beauty of the oxfordshire jacobites, living in the palace as duenna to the queen. she and mrs. boughton, lord lyttelton's ancient delia, are revived again in a young court that never heard of them. there, i think, you could not have had a more circumstantial account of a royal wedding from the heralds' office. adieu! yours to serve you, horace sandford. mecklenburgh king-at-arms. _the coronation and subsequent gaieties._ to the countess of ailesbury. strawberry hill, _sept._ , . you are a mean, mercenary woman. if you did not want histories of weddings and coronations, and had not jobs to be executed about muslins, and a bit of china, and counterband goods, one should never hear of you. when you don't want a body, you can frisk about with greffiers and burgomasters, and be as merry in a dyke as my lady frog herself. the moment your curiosity is agog, or your cambric seized, you recollect a good cousin in england, and, as folks said two hundred years ago, begin to write "upon the knees of your heart." well! i am a sweet-tempered creature, i forgive you. [illustration: the library, strawberry hill] my heraldry was much more offended at the coronation with the ladies that did walk, than with those that walked out of their place; yet i was not so _perilously_ angry as my lady cowper, who refused to set a foot with my lady macclesfield; and when she was at last obliged to associate with her, set out on a round trot, as if she designed to prove the antiquity of her family by marching as lustily as a maid of honour of queen gwiniver. it was in truth a brave sight. the sea of heads in palace-yard, the guards, horse and foot, the scaffolds, balconies, and procession exceeded imagination. the hall, when once illuminated, was noble; but they suffered the whole parade to return into it in the dark, that his majesty might be surprised with the quickness with which the sconces catched fire. the champion acted well; the other paladins had neither the grace nor alertness of rinaldo. lord effingham and the duke of bedford were but untoward knights errant; and lord talbot had not much more dignity than the figure of general monk in the abbey. the habit of the peers is unbecoming to the last degree; but the peeresses made amends for all defects. your daughter richmond, lady kildare, and lady pembroke were as handsome as the graces. lady rochford, lady holdernesse, and lady lyttelton looked exceedingly well in that their day; and for those of the day before, the duchess of queensbury, lady westmoreland and lady albemarle were surprising. lady harrington was noble at a distance, and so covered with diamonds, that you would have thought she had bid somebody or other, like falstaff, _rob me the exchequer_. lady northampton was very magnificent too, and looked prettier than i have seen her of late. lady spencer and lady bolingbroke were not the worst figures there. the duchess of ancaster [mistress of the robes] marched alone after the queen with much majesty; and there were two new scotch peeresses that pleased everybody, lady sutherland and lady dunmore. _per contra_, were lady p----, who had put a wig on, and old e----, who had scratched hers off; lady s----, the dowager e----, and a lady say and sele, with her tresses coal-black, and her hair coal-white. well! it was all delightful, but not half so charming as its being over. the gabble one heard about it for six weeks before, and the fatigue of the day, could not well be compensated by a mere puppet-show; for puppet-show it was, though it cost a million. the queen is so gay that we shall not want sights; she has been at the opera, the beggar's opera and the rehearsal, and two nights ago carried the king to ranelagh. some of the peeresses were so fond of their robes, that they graciously exhibited themselves for a whole day before to all the company their servants could invite to see them. a maid from richmond begged leave to stay in town because the duchess of montrose was only to be seen from two to four. the heralds were so ignorant of their business, that, though pensioned for nothing but to register lords and ladies, and what belongs to them, they advertised in the newspaper for the christian names and places of abode of the peeresses. the king complained of such omissions and of the want of precedent; lord effingham, the earl marshal, told him, it was true there had been great neglect in that office, but he had now taken such care of registering directions, that _next coronation_ would be conducted with the greatest order imaginable. the king was so diverted with this _flattering_ speech that he made the earl repeat it several times. on this occasion one saw to how high-water-mark extravagance is risen in england. at the coronation of george ii. my mother gave forty guineas for a dining-room, scaffold, and bedchamber. an exactly parallel apartment, only with rather a worse view, was this time set at three hundred and fifty guineas--a tolerable rise in thirty-three years! the platform from st. margaret's roundhouse to the church-door, which formerly let for forty pounds, went this time for two thousand four hundred pounds. still more was given for the inside of the abbey. the prebends would like a coronation every year. the king paid nine thousand pounds for the hire of jewels; indeed, last time, it cost my father fourteen hundred to bejewel my lady orford. _a court ball--pamphlets on mr. pitt--a song by gray._ to the countess of ailesbury. arlington street, _nov._ , . dear madam,--you are so bad and so good, that i don't know how to treat you. you give me every mark of kindness but letting me hear from you. you send me charming drawings the moment i trouble you with a commission, and you give lady cecilia [johnston] commissions for trifles of my writing, in the most obliging manner. i have taken the latter off her hands. the fugitive pieces, and the "catalogue of royal and noble authors" shall be conveyed to you directly. lady cecilia and i agree how we lament the charming suppers there, every time we pass the corner of warwick street! we have a little comfort for your sake and our own, in believing that the campaign is at an end, at least for this year--but they tell us, it is to recommence here or in ireland. you have nothing to do with that. our politics, i think, will soon be as warm as our war. charles townshend is to be lieutenant-general to mr. pitt. the duke of bedford is privy seal; lord thomond, cofferer; lord george cavendish, comptroller. diversions, you know, madam, are never at high-water mark before christmas; yet operas flourish pretty well: those on tuesdays are removed to mondays, because the queen likes the burlettas, and the king cannot go on tuesdays, his post-days. on those nights we have the middle front box, railed in, where lady mary [coke] and i sit in triste state like a lord mayor and lady mayoress. the night before last there was a private ball at court, which began at half an hour after six, lasted till one, and finished without a supper. the king danced the whole time with the queen,--lady augusta with her four younger brothers. the other performers were: the two duchesses of ancaster and hamilton, who danced little; lady effingham and lady egremont, who danced much; the six maids of honour; lady susan stewart, as attending lady augusta; and lady caroline russel, and lady jane stuart, the only women not of the family. lady northumberland is at bath; lady weymouth lies in; lady bolingbroke was there in waiting, but in black gloves, so did not dance. the men, besides the royals, were lords march and eglintoun, of the bedchamber; lord cantelupe, vice-chamberlain; lord huntingdon; and four strangers, lord mandeville, lord northampton, lord suffolk, and lord grey. no sitters-by, but the princess, the duchess of bedford, and lady bute. if it had not been for this ball, i don't know how i should have furnished a decent letter. pamphlets on mr. pitt[ ] are the whole conversation, and none of them worth sending cross the water: at least i, who am said to write some of them, think so; by which you may perceive i am not much flattered with the imputation. there must be new personages, at least, before i write on any side.--mr. pitt and the duke of newcastle! i should as soon think of informing the world that miss chudleigh is no vestal. you will like better to see some words which mr. gray has writ, at miss speed's request, to an old air of geminiani; the thought is from the french. i. thyrsis, when we parted, swore ere the spring he would return. ah! what means yon violet flower, and the bud that decks the thorn! 'twas the lark that upward sprung, 'twas the nightingale that sung. ii. idle notes! untimely green! why this unavailing haste! western gales and skies serene speak not always winter past. cease my doubts, my fears to move; spare the honour of my love. adieu, madam, your most faithful servant. [footnote : mr. pitt had lately resigned the office of secretary of state, on being outvoted in the cabinet, which rejected his proposal to declare war against spain; and he had accepted a pension of £ , a year and a peerage for his wife--acts which walpole condemns in more than one letter, and which provoked comments in many quarters.] _death of the czarina elizabeth--the cock-lane ghost--return to england of lady mary wortley._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _jan._ , . i wish you joy, sir minister; the czarina [elizabeth] is dead. as _we conquered america in germany_,[ ] i hope we shall overrun spain by this burial at petersburg. yet, don't let us plume ourselves too fast; nothing is so like a queen as a king, nothing so like a predecessor as a successor. the favourites of the prince royal of prussia, who had suffered so much for him, were wofully disappointed, when he became the present glorious monarch; they found the english maxim true, that the king never dies; that is, the dignity and passions of the crown never die. we were not much less defeated of our hopes on the decease of philip v. the grand duke[ ] [peter iii.] has been proclaimed czar at the army in pomerania; he may love conquest like that army, or not know it is conquering, like his aunt. however, we cannot suffer more by this event. i would part with the empress queen, on no better a prospect. [footnote : "_we conquered america in germany._" this is a quotation from a boastful speech of mr. pitt's on the conquest of canada.] [footnote : the grand duke (peter iii.) was married, for his misfortune, to catharine, a princess of anhalt-zerbzt, whose lover, count orloff, murdered him before the end of the summer, at his wife's command; and in august she assumed the government, and was crowned with all due solemnity as czarina or empress. walpole had some reason for saying that "nothing was so like a predecessor as a successor," since in character elizabeth closely resembled catharine.] we have not yet taken the galleons, nor destroyed the spanish fleet. nor have they enslaved portugal, nor you made a triumphant entry into naples. my dear sir, you see how lucky you were not to go thither; you don't envy sir james grey, do you? pray don't make any categorical demands to marshal botta,[ ] and be obliged to retire to leghorn, because they are not answered. we want allies; preserve us our friend the great duke of tuscany. i like your answer to botta exceedingly, but i fear the court of vienna is shame-proof. the apostolic and religious empress is not a whit a better christian, not a jot less a woman, than the late russian empress, who gave such proofs of her being a _woman_. [footnote : marshal botta was the commander-in-chief in tuscany.] we have a mighty expedition on the point of sailing; the destination not disclosed. the german war loses ground daily; however, all is still in embryo. my subsequent letters are not likely to be so barren, and indecisive. i write more to prove there is nothing, than to tell you anything. you were mistaken, i believe, about the graftons; they do not remove from turin, till george pitt arrives to occupy their house there. i am really anxious about the fate of my letter to the duchess [of grafton]; i should be hurt if it had miscarried; she would have reason to think me very ungrateful. i have given your letter to mr. t[homas] pitt; he has been very unfortunate since his arrival--has lost his favourite sister in child-bed. lord tavistock, i hear, has written accounts of you that give me much pleasure. i am ashamed to tell you that we are again dipped into an egregious scene of folly. the reigning fashion is a ghost[ ]--a ghost, that would not pass muster in the paltriest convent in the apennine. it only knocks and scratches; does not pretend to appear or to speak. the clergy give it their benediction; and all the world, whether believers or infidels, go to hear it. i, in which number you may guess, go to-morrow; for it is as much the mode to visit the ghost as the prince of mecklenburgh, who is just arrived. i have not seen him yet, though i have left my name for him. but i will tell you who is come too--lady mary wortley.[ ] i went last night to visit her; i give you my honour, and you who know her, would credit me without it, the following is a faithful description. i found her in a little miserable bedchamber of a ready-furnished house, with two tallow candles, and a bureau covered with pots and pans. on her head, in full of all accounts, she had an old black-laced hood, wrapped entirely round, so as to conceal all hair or want of hair. no handkerchief, but up to her chin a kind of horseman's riding-coat, calling itself a pet-en-l'air, made of a dark green (green i think it had been) brocade, with coloured and silver flowers, and lined with furs; boddice laced, a foul dimity petticoat sprig'd, velvet muffeteens on her arms, grey stockings and slippers. her face less changed in twenty years than i could have imagined; i told her so, and she was not so tolerable twenty years ago that she needed have taken it for flattery, but she did, and literally gave me a box on the ear. she is very lively, all her senses perfect, her languages as imperfect as ever, her avarice greater. she entertained me at first with nothing but the dearness of provisions at helvoet. with nothing but an italian, a french, and a prussian, all men servants, and something she calls an _old_ secretary, but whose age till he appears will be doubtful; she receives all the world, who go to homage her as queen mother,[ ] and crams them into this kennel. the duchess of hamilton, who came in just after me, was so astonished and diverted, that she could not speak to her for laughing. she says that she has left all her clothes at venice. i really pity lady bute; what will the progress be of such a commencement! [footnote : it was known as the cock-lane ghost. a girl in that lane asserted that she was nightly visited by a ghost, who could reveal a murder, and who gave her tokens of his (or its) presence by knocks and scratches, which were audible to others in the room besides herself; and at last she went so far as to declare that the ghost had promised to attend a witness, who might be selected, into the vault under the church of st. john's, clerkenwell, where the body of the supposed victim was buried. her story caused such excitement, that at last dr. johnson, dr. douglas (afterwards bishop of salisbury), and one or two other gentlemen, undertook an investigation of the affair, which proved beyond all doubt that it was a trick, though they could not discover how it was performed, nor could they make the girl confess; and johnson wrote an account of their investigations and verdict, which was published in _the gentleman's magazine_ and the newspapers of the day (boswell's "life of johnson," ann. ).] [footnote : lady mary wortley was a daughter of the duke of kingston and wife of mr. wortley, our ambassador at constantinople. she was the most accomplished lady of the eighteenth century. christian europe is indebted to her for the introduction of the practice of inoculation for the smallpox, of which she heard during her residence in turkey, and of the efficacy of which she was so convinced that she caused her own children to be inoculated; and, by publishing its success in their case, she led to its general adoption. it saved innumerable lives in the eighteenth century, and was, in fact, the parent of the vaccination which has superseded it, and which is merely inoculation with matter derived from another source, the cow. she was also an authoress of considerable repute for lyric odes and _vers de société_, &c., and, above all, for her letters, most of which are to her daughter, lady bute (as mme. de sévigné's are to her daughter, mme. de grignan), and which are in no respect inferior to those of the french lady in sprightly wit, while in the variety of their subjects they are far superior, as giving the account of turkish scenery and manners, and also of those of other countries which her husband visited on various diplomatic missions, while mme. de sévigné's are for the greater part confined to the gossip of the coteries of paris. her works occupy five volumes; but what we have is but a small part of what we might have had. d'israeli points out that "we have lost much valuable literature by the illiberal or malignant descendants of learned and ingenious persons. many of lady mary wortley montague's letters have been destroyed, i am informed, by her daughters, who imagined that the family honours were lowered by the addition of those of literature. some of her best letters, recently published, were found buried in an old trunk. it would have mortified her ladyship's daughter to have heard that her mother was the sévigné of britain" ("curiosities of literature," i. ); and, as will be seen in a subsequent letter (no. ), walpole corroborates d'israeli. lady mary was at one time a friend and correspondent of pope, who afterwards, for some unknown reason, quarrelled with her, and made her the subject of some of the most disgraceful libels that ever proceeded from even his pen.] [footnote : she was mother of lady bute, wife of the prime minister.--walpole.] the king of france has avowed a natural son,[ ] and given him the estate which came from marshal belleisle, with the title of comte de gisors. the mother i think is called matignon or maquignon. madame pompadour was the bathsheba that introduced this abishag. adieu, my dear sir! [footnote : this was a false report.--walpole.] _his own "anecdotes of painting"--his picture of the wedding of henry vii.--burnet's comparison of tiberius and charles ii.--addison's "travels."_ to the rev. henry zouch. arlington street, _march_ , . i am glad you are pleased, sir, with my "anecdotes of painting;" but i doubt you praise me too much: it was an easy task when i had the materials collected, and i would not have the labours of forty years, which was vertue's case, depreciated in compliment to the work of four months, which is almost my whole merit. style is become, in a manner, a mechanical affair, and if to much ancient lore our antiquaries would add a little modern reading, to polish their language and correct their prejudices, i do not see why books of antiquities should not be made as amusing as writings on any other subject. if tom hearne had lived in the world, he might have writ an agreeable history of dancing; at least, i am sure that many modern volumes are read for no reason but for their being penned in the dialect of the age. i am much beholden to you, dear sir, for your remarks; they shall have their due place whenever the work proceeds to a second edition, for that the nature of it as a record will ensure to it. a few of your notes demand a present answer: the bishop of imola pronounced the nuptial benediction at the marriage of henry vii., which made me suppose him the person represented.[ ] [footnote : in a previous letter walpole mentions that vertue (the engraver) had disputed the subject of this picture, because the face of the king did not resemble other pictures of him; but walpole was convinced of the correctness of his description of it, because it does resemble the face on henry's shillings, "which are more authentic than pictures."] burnet, who was more a judge of characters than statues, mentions the resemblance between tiberius and charles ii.; but, as far as countenances went, there could not be a more ridiculous prepossession; charles had a long face, with very strong lines, and a narrowish brow; tiberius a very square face, and flat forehead, with features rather delicate in proportion. i have examined this imaginary likeness, and see no kind of foundation for it. it is like mr. addison's travels,[ ] of which it was so truly said, he might have composed them without stirring out of england. there are a kind of naturalists who have sorted out the qualities of the mind, and allotted particular turns of features and complexions to them. it would be much easier to prove that every form has been endowed with every vice. one has heard much of the vigour of burnet himself; yet i dare to say, he did not think himself like charles ii. [footnote : it is fielding who, in his "voyage to lisbon," gave this character to addison's "travels."] i am grieved, sir, to hear that your eyes suffer; take care of them; nothing can replace the satisfaction they afford: one should hoard them, as the only friend that will not be tired of one when one grows old, and when one should least choose to depend on others for entertainment. i most sincerely wish you happiness and health in that and every other instance. _birth of the prince of wales--the czarina--voltaire's historical criticisms--immense value of the treasures brought over in the "hermione."_ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _aug._ , . a prince of wales [george iv.] was born this morning; the prospect of your old neighbour [the pretender] at rome does not improve; the house of hanover will have numbers in its own family sufficient to defend their crown--unless they marry a princess of anhalt zerbst. what a shocking tragedy that has proved already! there is a manifesto arrived to-day that makes one shudder! this northern athaliah, who has the modesty not to name her murdered _husband_ in that light, calls him _her neighbour_; and, as if all the world were savages, like russians, pretends that he died suddenly of a distemper that never was expeditious; mocks heaven with pretensions to charity and piety; and heaps the additional inhumanity on the man she has dethroned and assassinated, of imputing his death to a judgment from providence. in short, it is the language of usurpation and blood, counselled and apologised for by clergymen! it is brunehault[ ] and an archbishop! [footnote : brunehault (in modern english histories called brunhild) was the wife of sigebert, king of austrasia (that district of france which lies between the meuse and the rhine) and son of clotaire i. the "biographie universelle" says of her: "this princess, attractive by her beauty, her wit, and her carriage, had the misfortune to possess a great ascendency over her husband, and to have lost sight of the fact that even sovereigns cannot always avenge themselves with impunity." her sister, galswith, the wife of chilperic, king of neustria, between the loire and the meuse, had been assassinated by fredegonde, and brunehault, determined to avenge her, induced sigebert to make war on chilperic, who had married fredegonde. he gained a victory; but fredegonde contrived to have him also assassinated, and brunehault became fredegonde's prisoner. but murovée, son of chilperic, fell in love with her, and married her, and escaping from rouen, fled into austrasia. at last, in , fredegonde died, and brunehault subdued the greater part of neustria, and ruled with great but unscrupulous energy. she encouraged st. augustine in his mission to england; she built hospitals and churches, earning by her zeal in such works a letter of panegyric from pope gregory the great. but, old as she was, she at the same time gave herself up to a life of outrageous license. it was not, however, her dissolute life which proved fatal to her, but the design which she showed to erect a firm monarchy in austrasia and neustria, by putting down the overgrown power of the nobles. they raised an army to attack her; she was defeated, and with four of her great-grandchildren, the sons of her grandson, king theodoric, who had been left to her guardianship, fell into the hands of the nobles, who put her to death with every circumstance of cruelty and indignity. (see kitchin's "history of france," i. .)] i have seen mr. keith's first despatch; in general, my account was tolerably correct; but he does not mention ivan. the conspiracy advanced by one of the gang being seized, though for another crime; they thought themselves discovered. orloff, one of them, hurried to the czarina, and told her she had no time to lose. she was ready for anything; nay, marched herself at the head of fourteen thousand men and a train of artillery against her husband, but not being the only alecto in muscovy, she had been aided by a princess daschkaw, a nymph under twenty, and sister to the czar's mistress. it was not the latter, as i told you, but the chancellor's wife, who offered up the order of st. catherine. i do not know how my lord buckingham [the english minister at st. petersburg] feels, but unless to conjure up a tempest against this fury of the north, nothing could bribe me to set my foot in her dominions. had she been priestess of the scythian diana, she would have sacrificed her brother by choice. it seems she does not degenerate; her mother was ambitious and passionate for intrigues; she went to paris, and dabbled in politics with all her might. the world had been civilising itself till one began to doubt whether ancient histories were not ancient legends. voltaire had unpoisoned half the victims to the church and to ambition. oh! there never was such a man as borgia[ ]; the league seemed a romance. for the honour of poor historians, the assassinations of the kings of france and portugal, majesties still living in spite of damien and the jesuits, and the dethronement and murder of the czar, have restored some credibility to the annals of former ages. tacitus recovers his character by the edition of petersburg. [footnote : borgia, the father, was pope sextus vi.; caesar borgia was the son--both equally infamous for their crimes, and especially their murders by poison.] we expect the definitive courier from paris every day. now it is said that they ask time to send to spain. what? to ask leave to desert them! the spaniards, not so expeditious in usurpation as the muscovites, have made no progress in portugal. their absurd manifestoes appeared too soon. the czarina and princess daschkaw stay till the stroke is struck. really, my dear sir, your italy is growing unfashionably innocent,--if you don't take care, the archbishop of novgorod will deserve, by his crimes, to be at the head of the _christian_ church.[ ] i fear my friend, good benedict, infected you all with his virtues. [footnote : that is, pope benedict xiv.] you see how this russian revolution has seized every cell in my head--a prince of wales is passed over in a line, the peace in another line. i have not even told you that the treasure of the _hermione_,[ ] reckoned eight hundred thousand pounds, passed the end of my street this morning in one-and-twenty waggons. of the havannah i could tell you nothing if i would; people grow impatient at not hearing from thence. adieu! [footnote : in august, , sir g. pocock took havannah, the capital of cuba. in september commodore cornish and colonel draper took manilla, the principal of the philippine islands; and the treasures found in manilla alone exceeded the sum here mentioned by walpole, and yet did not equal those brought home from the havannah, as walpole mentions in a subsequent letter.] you see i am a punctual correspondent when empresses commit murders. _negotiations for peace--christening of the prince of wales._ to the hon. h.s. conway. strawberry hill, _sept._ , . nondum laurus erat, longoque decentia crine tempora cingebat de quâlibet arbore phoebus.[ ] [footnote : the quotation is from ovid, met. i. .] this is a hint to you, that as phoebus, who was certainly your superior, could take up with a chestnut garland, or any crown he found, you must have the humility to be content without laurels, when none are to be had: you have hunted far and near for them, and taken true pains to the last in that old nursery-garden germany, and by the way have made me shudder with your last journal: but you must be easy with _quâlibet_ other _arbore_; you must come home to your own plantations. the duke of bedford is gone in a fury to make peace,[ ] for he cannot be even pacific with temper; and by this time i suppose the duke de nivernois is unpacking his portion of olive _dans la rue de suffolk street_. i say, i suppose--for i do not, like my friends at arthur's, whip into my post-chaise to see every novelty. my two sovereigns, the duchess of grafton and lady mary coke, are arrived, and yet i have seen neither polly nor lucy. the former, i hear, is entirely french; the latter as absolutely english. [footnote : "on the th of september the duke of bedford embarked as ambassador from england; on the th the duc de nivernois landed as ambassador from france. of these two noblemen, bedford, though well versed in affairs, was perhaps by his hasty temper in some degree disqualified for the profession of a temple or a gondomar; and nivernois was only celebrated for his graceful manners and his pretty songs" (lord stanhope, "history of england," c. ).] well! but if you insist on not doffing your cuirass, you may find an opportunity of wearing it. the storm thickens. the city of london are ready to hoist their standard; treason is the bon-ton at that end of the town; seditious papers pasted up at every corner: nay, my neighbourhood is not unfashionable; we have had them at brentford and kingston. the peace is the cry;[ ] but to make weight, they throw in all the abusive ingredients they can collect. they talk of your friend the duke of devonshire's resigning; and, for the duke of newcastle, it puts him so much in mind of the end of queen anne's time, that i believe he hopes to be minister again for another forty years. [footnote : "_the peace is the cry._" this was the peace of paris, not absolutely concluded till february of the next year. the conditions in our favour were so inadequate to our successes in the war, that the treaty caused general indignation; so great, indeed, that lord bute, the prime minister, was afraid to face the meeting of parliament, and resigned his office, in which he was succeeded by mr. george grenville. it was the subject of severe, but not undeserved comment in the celebrated _north briton_, no. , by wilkes.] in the mean time, there are but dark news from the havannah; the _gazette_, who would not fib for the world, says, we have lost but four officers; the world, who is not quite so scrupulous, says, our loss is heavy.--but what shocking notice to those who have _harry conways_ there! the _gazette_ breaks off with saying, that they were to storm the next day! upon the whole, it is regarded as a preparative to worse news. our next monarch [george iv.] was christened last night, george augustus frederick; the princess, the duke of cumberland, and duke of mecklenburgh, sponsors; the ceremony performed by the bishop of london. the queen's bed, magnificent, and they say in taste, was placed in the great drawing-room: though she is not to see company in form, yet it looks as if they had intended people should have been there, as all who presented themselves were admitted, which were very few, for it had not been notified; i suppose to prevent too great a crowd: all i have heard named, besides those in waiting, were the duchess of queensberry, lady dalkeith, mrs. grenville, and about four more ladies. _treasures from the havannah--the royal visit to eton--death of lady mary--concealment of her works--voltaire's "universal history."_ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . i am now only the peace in your debt, for here is the havannah. here it is, following despair and accompanied by glory, riches, and twelve ships-of-the-line; not all in person, for four are destroyed. the booty--that is an undignified term--i should say, the plunder, or the spoils, which is a more classic word for such heroes as we are, amounts to at least a million and a half. lord albemarle's share will be about £ , . i wish i knew how much that makes in _talents_ or _great sesterces_. what to me is better than all, we have lost but sixteen hundred men; _but_, alas! most of the sick recovered! what an affecting object my lady albemarle would make in a triumph, surrounded by her three victorious sons; for she had three at stake! my friend lady hervey,[ ] too, is greatly happy; her son augustus distinguished himself particularly, brought home the news, and on his way took a rich french ship going to newfoundland with military stores. i do not surely mean to detract from him, who set all this spirit on float, but you see we can conquer, though mr. pitt is at his plough. [footnote : lady hervey, the widow of pope's lord fanny and sporus, had been the beautiful "molly lepel," celebrated by lord chesterfield. had i hanover, bremen, and verden and likewise the duchy of zell, i would part with them all for a farden, compared with sweet molly lepel. three of her sons succeeded to the earldom of bristol.] the express arrived while the duke de nivernois was at dinner with lord bute. the world says, that the joy of the company showed itself with too little politeness--i hope not; i would not exult to a single man, and a minister of peace; it should be in the face of europe, if i assumed that dominion which the french used to arrogate; nor do i believe it happened; all the company are not so charmed with the event. they are not quite convinced that it will facilitate the pacification, nor am i clear it will. the city of london will not lower their hopes, and views, and expectations, on this acquisition. well, if we can steer wisely between insolence from success and impatience for peace, we may secure our safety and tranquillity for many years. but they are _not_ yet arrived, nor hear i anything that tells me the peace will certainly be made. france _wants_ peace; i question if she _wishes_ it. how his catholic royalty will take this, one cannot guess. my good friend, we are not at table with monsieur de nivernois, so we may smile at this consequence of the family-compact. twelve ships-of-the-line and the havannah!--it becomes people who cannot keep their own, to divide the world between them! your nephew foote has made a charming figure; the king and queen went from windsor to see eton; he is captain of the oppidans, and made a speech to them with great applause. it was in english, which was right; why should we talk latin to our kings rather than russ or iroquois? is this a season for being ashamed of our country? dr. barnard, the master, is the pitt of masters, and has raised the school to the most flourishing state it ever knew. lady mary wortley[ ] has left twenty-one large volumes in prose and verse, in manuscript; nineteen are fallen to lady bute, and will not see the light in haste. the other two lady mary in her passage gave to somebody in holland, and at her death expressed great anxiety to have them published. her family are in terrors lest they should be, and have tried to get them: hitherto the man is inflexible. though i do not doubt but they are an olio of lies and scandal, i should like to see them. she had parts, and had seen much. truth is often at bottom of such compositions, and places itself here and there without the intention of the mother. i dare say in general, these works are like madame del pozzo's _memoires_. lady mary had more wit, and something more delicacy; their manners and morals were a good deal more alike. [footnote : in a note to this letter, subsequently added by walpole, he reduces this statement to seventeen, saying: "it was true that lady mary did leave seventeen volumes of her works and memories. she gave her letters from constantinople to mr. sowden, minister of the english church at rotterdam, who published them; and, the day before she died, she gave him those seventeen volumes, with injunctions to publish them too; but in two days the man had a crown living from lord bute, and lady bute had the seventeen volumes."] there is a lad, a waiter at st. james's coffee-house, of thirteen years old, who says he does not wonder we beat the french, for he himself could thrash monsieur de nivernois. this duke is so thin and small, that when minister at berlin, at a time that france was not in favour there, the king of prussia said, if his eyes were a little older, he should want a glass to see the embassador. i do not admire this bon-mot. voltaire is continuing his "universal history"; he showed the duke of grafton a chapter, to which the title is, _les anglois vainqueurs dans les quatres parties du monde_. there have been minutes in the course of our correspondence when you and i did not expect to see this chapter. it is bigger by a quarter than our predecessors the romans had any pretensions to, and larger than i hope our descendants will see written of them, for conquest, unless by necessity, as ours has been, is an odious glory; witness my hand h. walpole. p.s.--i recollect that my last letter was a little melancholy; this, to be sure, has a grain or two of national vanity; why, i must own i am a miserable philosopher; the weather of the hour does affect me. i cannot here, at a distance from the world and unconcerned in it, help feeling a little satisfaction when my country is successful; yet, tasting its honours and elated with them, i heartily, seriously wish they had their _quietus_. what is the fame of men compared to their happiness? who gives a nation peace, gives tranquillity to all. how many must be wretched, before one can be renowned! a hero bets the lives and fortunes of thousands, whom he has no right to game with: but alas! caesars have little regard to their fish and counters! _resignation of lord bute--french visitors--walpole and no. ._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _april_ , . the papers have told you all the formal changes; the real one consists solely in lord bute being out of office, for, having recovered his fright, he is still as much minister as ever, and consequently does not find his unpopularity decrease. on the contrary, i think his situation more dangerous than ever: he has done enough to terrify his friends, and encourage his enemies, and has acquired no new strength; rather has lost strength, by the disappearance of mr. fox from the scene. his deputies, too, will not long care to stand all the risk for him, when they perceive, as they must already, that they have neither credit nor confidence. indeed the new administration is a general joke, and will scarce want a violent death to put an end to it. lord bute is very blamable for embarking the king so deep in measures that may have so serious a termination. the longer the court can stand its ground, the more firmly will the opposition be united, and the more inflamed. i have ever thought this would be a turbulent reign, and nothing has happened to make me alter my opinion. mr. fox's exit has been very unpleasant. he would not venture to accept the treasury, which lord bute would have bequeathed to him; and could not obtain an earldom, for which he thought he had stipulated; but some of the negotiators asserting that he had engaged to resign the paymaster's place, which he vehemently denies, he has been forced to take up with a barony, and has broken with his associates--i do not say friends, for with the chief of _them_[ ] he had quarrelled when he embarked in the new system. he meets with little pity, and yet has found as much ingratitude as he had had power of doing service. [footnote : "_the chief of them._" walpole himself explains in a note that he means the dukes of cumberland and devonshire.] i am glad you are going to have a great duke; it will amuse you, and a new court will make florence lively, the only beauty it wants. you divert me with my friend the duke of modena's conscientious match: if the duchess had outlived him, she would not have been so scrupulous. but, for hymen's sake, who is that madame simonetti? i trust, not that old painted, gaming, debauched countess from milan, whom i saw at the fair of reggio! i surprise myself with being able to write two pages of pure english; i do nothing but deal in broken french. the two nations are crossing over and figuring-in. we have had a count d'usson and his wife these six weeks; and last saturday arrived a madame de boufflers, _sçavante, galante_, a great friend of the prince of conti, and a passionate admirer _de nous autres anglois_. i am forced to live much with _tout ça_, as they are perpetually at my lady hervey's; and as my lord hertford goes ambassador to paris, where i shall certainly make him a visit next year--don't you think i shall be computing how far it is to florence? there is coming, too, a marquis de fleury,[ ] who is to be consigned to me, as a political relation, _vû l'amitié entre le cardinal son oncle et feu monsieur mon père_. however, as my cousin fleury is not above six-and-twenty, i had much rather be excused from such a commission as showing the tombs and the lions, and the king and queen, and my lord bute, and the waxwork, to a boy. all this breaks in upon my plan of withdrawing by little and little from the world, for i hate to tire it with an old lean face, and which promises to be an old lean face for thirty years longer, for i am as well again as ever. the duc de nivernois called here the other day in his way from hampton court; but, as the most sensible french never have eyes to see anything, unless they see it every day and see it in fashion, i cannot say he flattered me much, or was much struck with strawberry. when i carried him into the cabinet, which i have told you is formed upon the idea of a catholic chapel, he pulled off his hat, but perceiving his error, he said, "_ce n'est pas une chapelle pourtant_," and seemed a little displeased. [footnote : cardinal fleury, prime minister of france from to . pope celebrated his love of peace-- peace is my dear delight, not fleury's more; and by his resolute maintenance of peace during the first seven years of his administration he had so revived the resources and restored the power of his country, that when the question of going to war with france was discussed in the council of vienna the veteran prince eugene warned the ministers that his wise and prudent administration had been so beneficial to his country that the empire was no longer a match for it.] my poor niece [lady waldegrave] does not forget her lord, though by this time i suppose the world has. she has taken a house here, at twickenham, to be near me. madame de boufflers has heard so much of her beauty, that she told me she should be glad to peep through a grate anywhere to get a glimpse of her,--but at present it would not answer. i never saw so great an alteration in so short a period; but she is too young not to recover her beauty, only dimmed by grief that must be temporary. adieu! my dear sir. _monday, may nd_, arlington street. the plot thickens: mr. wilkes is sent to the tower for the last _north briton_;[ ] a paper whose fame must have reached you. it said lord bute had made the king utter a gross falsehood in his last speech. this hero is as bad a fellow as ever hero was, abominable in private life, dull in parliament, but, they say, very entertaining in a room, and certainly no bad writer, besides having had the honour of contributing a great deal to lord bute's fall. wilkes fought lord talbot in the autumn, whom he had abused; and lately in calais, when the prince de croy, the governor, asked how far the liberty of the press extended in england, replied, i cannot tell, but i am trying to know. i don't believe this will be the only paragraph i shall send you on this affair. [footnote : the celebrated no. which attacked the speech with which the king had opened parliament; asserting that it was the speech not of the king, but of the ministers; and that as such he had a right to criticise it, and to denounce its panegyric of the late speech as founded on falsehood.] _a party at "straberri"--work of his printing press--epigrams--a garden party at esher._ to george montagu, esq. strawberry hill, _may_ , . "on vient de nous donner une très jolie fête au château de straberri: tout étoit tapissé de narcisses, de tulipes, et de lilacs; des cors de chasse, des clarionettes; des petits vers galants faits par des fées, et qui se trouvoient sous la presse; des fruits à la glace, du thé, du caffé, des biscuits, et force hot-rolls."--this is not the beginning of a letter to you, but of one that i might suppose sets out to-night for paris, or rather, which i do not suppose will set out thither; for though the narrative is circumstantially true, i don't believe the actors were pleased enough with the scene, to give so favourable an account of it. the french do not come hither to see. _À l'anglaise_ happened to be the word in fashion; and half a dozen of the most fashionable people have been the dupes of it. i take for granted that their next mode will be _à l'iroquaise_, that they may be under no obligation of realising their pretensions. madame de boufflers[ ] i think will die a martyr to a taste, which she fancied she had, and finds she has not. never having stirred ten miles from paris, and having only rolled in an easy coach from one hotel to another on a gliding pavement, she is already worn out with being hurried from morning till night from one sight to another. she rises every morning so fatigued with the toils of the preceding day, that she has not strength, if she had inclination, to observe the least, or the finest thing she sees! she came hither to-day to a great breakfast i made for her, with her eyes a foot deep in her head, her hands dangling, and scarce able to support her knitting-bag. she had been yesterday to see a ship launched, and went from greenwich by water to ranelagh. madame dusson, who is dutch-built, and whose muscles are pleasure-proof, came with her; there were besides, lady mary coke, lord and lady holdernesse, the duke and duchess of grafton, lord hertford, lord villiers, offley, messieurs de fleury, d'eon,[ ] et duclos.[ ] the latter is author of the life of louis onze; dresses like a dissenting minister, which i suppose is the livery of a _bel esprit_, and is much more impetuous than agreeable. we breakfasted in the great parlour, and i had filled the hall and large cloister by turns with french horns and clarionettes. as the french ladies had never seen a printing-house, i carried them into mine; they found something ready set, and desiring to see what it was, it proved as follows:-- the press speaks-- for madame de boufflers. the graceful fair, who loves to know, nor dreads the north's inclement snow; who bids her polish'd accent wear the british diction's harsher air; shall read her praise in every clime where types can speak or poets rhyme. for madame dusson. feign not an ignorance of what i speak; you could not miss my meaning were it greek: 'tis the same language belgium utter'd first, the same which from admiring gallia burst. true sentiment a like expression pours; each country says the same to eyes like yours. [footnote : boswell records mr. beauclerk's account of his introduction of this lady to johnson: "when mme. de boufflers was first in england she was desirous to see johnson. i accordingly went with her to his chambers in the temple, where she was entertained with his conversation for some time. when our visit was over, she and i left him, and were got into inner temple lane, when, all at once, i heard a noise like thunder. this was occasioned by johnson, who, it seems, upon a little recollection, had taken it into his head that he ought to have done the honours of his literary residence to a foreign lady of quality, and, eager to show himself a man of gallantry, was hurrying down the staircase in evident agitation. he overtook us before we reached the temple gate, and brushing in between me and mme. de boufflers, seized her hand and conducted her to her coach. his dress was a rusty brown morning suit, a pair of old shoes by way of slippers, a little shrivelled wig sticking on the top of his head, and the sleeves of his shirt and the knees of his breeches hanging loose. a considerable crowd of people gathered round, and were not a little struck by this singular appearance" (vol. ii., ann. .)] [footnote : this gentleman was at this time secretary to the duc de nivernois. for many years he dressed in woman's clothes, and the question of his sex was made the subject of many wagers and trials both in england and france.] [footnote : m. duclos was an author of good repute as a novelist, and one of the contributors to the "dictionnaire de l'academie."] you will comprehend that the first speaks english, and that the second does not; that the second is handsome, and the first not; and that the second was born in holland. this little gentilesse pleased, and atoned for the popery of my house, which was not serious enough for madame de boufflers, who is montmorency, _et du sang du premier chrétien_; and too serious for madame dusson, who is a dutch calvinist. the latter's husband was not here, nor drumgold, who have both got fevers, nor the duc de nivernois, who dined at claremont. the gallery is not advanced enough to give them any idea at all, as they are not apt to go out of their way for one; but the cabinet, and the glory of yellow glass at top, which had a charming sun for a foil, did surmount their indifference, especially as they were animated by the duchess of grafton, who had never happened to be here before, and who perfectly entered into the air of enchantment and fairyism, which is the tone of the place, and was peculiarly so to-day--_apropos_, when do you design to come hither? let me know, that i may have no measures to interfere with receiving you and your grandsons. before lord bute ran away, he made mr. bentley[ ] a commissioner of the lottery; i don't know whether a single or a double one: the latter, which i hope it is, is two hundred a-year. [footnote : mr. bentley, who was an occasional correspondent of walpole, was a son of the great master of trinity college, cambridge.] _thursday th_. i am ashamed of myself to have nothing but a journal of pleasures to send you; i never passed a more agreeable day than yesterday. miss pelham gave the french an entertainment at esher;[ ] but they have been so feasted and amused, that none of them were well enough, or reposed enough, to come, but nivernois and madame dusson. the rest of the company were, the graftons, lady rockingham, lord and lady pembroke, lord and lady holdernesse, lord villiers, count woronzow the russian minister, lady sondes, mr. and miss mary pelham, lady mary coke, mrs. anne pitt, and mr. shelley. the day was delightful, the scene transporting; the trees, lawns, concaves, all in the perfection in which the ghost of kent[ ] would joy to see them. at twelve we made the tour of the farm in eight chaises and calashes, horsemen, and footmen, setting out like a picture of wouverman's. my lot fell in the lap of mrs. anne pitt, which i could have excused, as she was not at all in the style of the day, romantic, but political. we had a magnificent dinner, cloaked in the modesty of earthenware; french horns and hautboys on the lawn. we walked to the belvidere on the summit of the hill, where a theatrical storm only served to heighten the beauty of the landscape, a rainbow on a dark cloud falling precisely behind the tower of a neighbouring church, between another tower and the building at claremont. monsieur de nivernois, who had been absorbed all day, and lagging behind, translating my verses, was delivered of his version, and of some more lines which he wrote on miss pelham in the belvidere, while we drank tea and coffee. from thence we passed into the wood, and the ladies formed a circle on chairs before the mouth of the cave, which was overhung to a vast height with woodbines, lilacs, and laburnums, and dignified by the tall shapely cypresses. on the descent of the hill were placed the french horns; the abigails, servants, and neighbours wandering below by the river; in short, it was parnassus, as watteau would have painted it. here we had a rural syllabub, and part of the company returned to town; but were replaced by giardini and onofrio, who with nivernois on the violin, and lord pembroke on the bass, accompanied miss pelham, lady rockingham, and the duchess of grafton, who sang. this little concert lasted till past ten; then there were minuets, and as we had seven couple left, it concluded with a country dance. i blush again, for i danced, but was kept in countenance by nivernois, who has one wrinkle more than i have. a quarter after twelve they sat down to supper, and i came home by a charming moonlight. i am going to dine in town, and to a great ball with fireworks at miss chudleigh's, but i return hither on sunday, to bid adieu to this abominable arcadian life; for really when one is not young, one ought to do nothing but _s'ennuyer_; i will try, but i always go about it awkwardly. adieu! [footnote : "_esher._" claremont, at esher, now the property of the queen, and residence of the duchess of albany, at this time belonged to the duke of newcastle, miss pelham's uncle.] [footnote : kent was the great landscape gardener of the last generation.] p.s.--i enclose a copy of both the english and french verses. À madame de boufflers. boufflers, qu'embellissent les graces, et qui plairoit sans le vouloir, elle à qui l'amour du sçavoir fit braver le nord et les glaces; boufflers se plait en nos vergers, et veut à nos sons étrangers plier sa voix enchanteresse. répétons son nom mille fois, sur tous les coeurs boufflers aura des droits, par tout où la rime et la presse a l'amour prêteront leur voix. À madame d'usson. ne feignez point, iris, de ne pas nous entendre; ce que vous inspirez, en grec doit se comprendre. on vous l'a dit d'abord en hollandois, et dans un langage plus tendre paris vous l'a répété mille fois. c'est de nos coeurs l'expression sincere; en tout climat, iris, à toute heure, en tous lieux, par tout où brilleront vos yeux, vous apprendrez combien ils sçavent plaire. _general character of the french--festivities on the queen's birthday._ to the hon. h.s. conway. arlington street, _may_ , . you have now seen the celebrated madame de boufflers. i dare say you could in that short time perceive that she is agreeable, but i dare say too that you will agree with me that vivacity[ ] is by no means the _partage_ of the french--bating the _étourderie_ of the _mousquetaires_ and of a high-dried _petit-maítre_ or two, they appear to me more lifeless than germans. i cannot comprehend how they came by the character of a lively people. charles townshend has more _sal volatile_ in him than the whole nation. their king is taciturnity itself, mirepoix was a walking mummy, nivernois has about as much life as a sick favourite child, and m. dusson is a good-humoured country gentleman, who has been drunk the day before, and is upon his good behaviour. if i have the gout next year, and am thoroughly humbled by it again, i will go to paris, that i may be upon a level with them: at present, i am _trop fou_ to keep them company. mind, i do not insist that, to have spirits, a nation should be as frantic as poor fanny pelham, as absurd as the duchess of queensberry, or as dashing as the virgin chudleigh.[ ] oh, that you had been at her ball t'other night! history could never describe it and keep its countenance. the queen's real birthday, you know, is not kept: this maid of honour kept it--nay, while the court is in mourning, expected people to be out of mourning; the queen's family really was so, lady northumberland having desired leave for them. a scaffold was erected in hyde-park for fireworks. to show the illuminations without to more advantage, the company were received in an apartment totally dark, where they remained for two hours.--if they gave rise to any more birthdays, who could help it? the fireworks were fine, and succeeded well. on each side of the court were two large scaffolds for the virgin's tradespeople. when the fireworks ceased, a large scene was lighted in the court, representing their majesties; on each side of which were six obelisks, painted with emblems, and illuminated; mottoes beneath in latin and english: . for the prince of wales, a ship, _multorum spes_. . for the princess dowager, a bird of paradise, and _two_ little ones, _meos ad sidera tollo_. people smiled. . duke of york, a temple, _virtuti et honori_. . princess augusta, a bird of paradise, _non habet parem_--unluckily this was translated, _i have no peer_. people laughed out, considering where this was exhibited. . the three younger princes, an orange tree, _promittit et dat_. . the two younger princesses, the flower crown-imperial. i forget the latin: the translation was silly enough, _bashful in youth, graceful in age_. the lady of the house made many apologies for the poorness of the performance, which she said was only oil-paper, painted by one of her servants; but it really was fine and pretty. the duke of kingston was in a frock, _comme chez lui_. behind the house was a cenotaph for the princess elizabeth, a kind of illuminated cradle; the motto, _all the honours the dead can receive_. this burying-ground was a strange codicil to a festival; and, what was more strange, about one in the morning, this sarcophagus burst out into crackers and guns. the margrave of anspach began the ball with the virgin. the supper was most sumptuous. [footnote : in a subsequent letter he represents mme. de boufflers as giving them the same character, saying, "dans ce pays-ci c'est un effort perpetuel pour sedivertir."] [footnote : miss chudleigh, who had been one of the princess dowager's maids of honour, married mr. hervey, afterwards earl of bristol, but, having taken a dislike to him, she procured a divorce, and afterwards married the duke of kingston; but, after his death, his heirs, on the ground of some informality in the divorce, prosecuted her for bigamy, and she was convicted.] you ask, when do i propose to be at park-place. i ask, shall not you come to the duke of richmond's masquerade, which is the th of june? i cannot well be with you till towards the end of that month. the enclosed is a letter which i wish you to read attentively, to give me your opinion upon it, and return it. it is from a sensible friend of mine in scotland [sir david dalrymple], who has lately corresponded with me on the enclosed subjects, which i little understand; but i promised to communicate his ideas to george grenville, if he would state them--are they practicable? i wish much that something could be done for those brave soldiers and sailors, who will all come to the gallows, unless some timely provision can be made for them.--the former part of his letter relates to a grievance he complains of, that men who have _not_ served are admitted into garrisons, and then into our hospitals, which were designed for meritorious sufferers. adieu! _the ordinary way of life in england--wilkes--c. townshend--count lally--lord clive--lord northington--louis le bien aimÉ--the drama in france._ to the earl of hertford. arlington street, _dec._ , you are sensible, my dear lord, that any amusement from my letters must depend upon times and seasons. we are a very absurd nation (though the french are so good at present as to think us a very wise one, only because they, themselves, are now a very weak one); but then that absurdity depends upon the almanac. posterity, who will know nothing of our intervals, will conclude that this age was a succession of events. i could tell them that we know as well when an event, as when easter, will happen. do but recollect these last ten years. the beginning of october, one is certain that everybody will be at newmarket, and the duke of cumberland will lose, and shafto win, two or three thousand pounds. after that, while people are preparing to come to town for the winter, the ministry is suddenly changed, and all the world comes to learn how it happened, a fortnight sooner than they intended; and fully persuaded that the new arrangement cannot last a month. the parliament opens; everybody is bribed; and the new establishment is perceived to be composed of adamant. november passes, with two or three self-murders, and a new play. christmas arrives; everybody goes out of town; and a riot happens in one of the theatres. the parliament meets again; taxes are warmly opposed; and some citizen makes his fortune by a subscription. the opposition languishes; balls and assemblies begin; some master and miss begin to get together, are talked of, and give occasion to forty more matches being invented; an unexpected debate starts up at the end of the session, that makes more noise than anything that was designed to make a noise, and subsides again in a new peerage or two. ranelagh opens and vauxhall; one produces scandal, and t'other a drunken quarrel. people separate, some to tunbridge, and some to all the horse-races in england; and so the year comes again to october. i dare to prophesy, that if you keep this letter, you will find that my future correspondence will be but an illustration of this text; at least, it is an excuse for my having very little to tell you at present, and was the reason of my not writing to you last week. [illustration: horace walpole. _from a picture in the national portrait gallery, by nathaniel hone, r.a._] before the parliament adjourned, there was nothing but a trifling debate in an empty house, occasioned by a motion from the ministry, to order another physician and surgeon to attend wilkes:[ ] it was carried by about seventy to thirty, and was only memorable by producing mr. charles townshend, who, having sat silent through the question of privilege, found himself interested in the defence of dr. brocklesby![ ] charles ridiculed lord north extremely, and had warm words with george grenville. i do not look upon this as productive of consequential speaking for the opposition; on the contrary, i should expect him sooner in place, if the ministry could be fools enough to restore weight to him, and could be ignorant that he can never hurt them so much as by being with them. wilkes refused to see heberden and hawkins, whom the house commissioned to visit him; and to laugh at us more, sent for two scotchmen, duncan and middleton. well! but since that, he is gone off himself: however, as i did in d'eon's case, i can now only ask news of him from you, not tell you any; for you have got him. i do not believe you will invite him, and make so much of him, as the duke of bedford did. both sides pretend joy at his being gone; and for once i can believe both. you will be diverted, as i was, at the cordial esteem the ministers have for one another; lord waldegrave told my niece [lady waldegrave], this morning, that he had offered a shilling, to receive a hundred pounds when sandwich shall lose his head! what a good opinion they have of one another! _apropos_ to losing heads, is lally[ ] beheaded? [footnote : wilkes had been wounded in a duel, and alleged his wound as a sufficient reason for not attending in his place in the house of commons when summoned. dr. brocklesby, a physician of considerable eminence, reported that he was unable to attend; but the house of commons, as if they distrusted his report, appointed two other physicians to examine the patient, drs. heberden and hawkins.] [footnote : dr. brocklesby is mentioned by boswell as an especial friend of johnson; having even offered him an annuity of £ to relieve him from the necessity of writing to increase his income.] [footnote : count lally, of an irish family, his father or grandfather having been among those who, after the capitulation of limerick, accompanied the gallant sarsfield to france, had been the french governor in india; but, having failed in an attempt on madras, and having been afterwards defeated at wandewash by colonel coote, was recalled in disgrace, and brought to trial on a number of ridiculously false charges, convicted, and executed; his real offence being that by a somewhat intemperate zeal for the reformation of abuses, and the punishment of corruption which he detested, he had made a great number of personal enemies. he was the father of count lally tollendal, who was a prominent character in the french revolution.] the east india company have come to an unanimous resolution of not paying lord clive the three hundred thousand pounds, which the ministry had promised him in lieu of his nabobical annuity. just after the bargain was made, his old rustic of a father was at the king's levée; the king asked where his son was; he replied, "sire, he is coming to town, and then your majesty will have another vote." if you like these franknesses, i can tell you another. the chancellor [northington] is a chosen governor of st. bartholomew's hospital: a smart gentleman, who was sent with the staff, carried it in the evening, when the chancellor happened to be drunk. "well, mr. bartlemy," said his lordship, snuffing, "what have you to say?" the man, who had prepared a formal harangue, was transported to have so fair opportunity given him of uttering it, and with much dapper gesticulation congratulated his lordship on his health, and the nation on enjoying such great abilities. the chancellor stopped him short, crying, "by god, it is a lie! i have neither health nor abilities; my bad health has destroyed my abilities."[ ] the late chancellor [hardwicke] is much better. [footnote : lord northington had been a very hard liver. he was a martyr to the gout; and one afternoon, as he was going downstairs out of his court, he was heard to say to himself, "d--- these legs! if i had known they were to carry a lord chancellor, i would have taken better care of them;" and it was to relieve himself of the labours of the court of chancery that he co-operated with mr. pitt in the discreditable intrigue which in the summer of compelled the resignation of lord rockingham, mr. pitt having promised him the office of president of the council in the new ministry which he intended to form.] the last time the king was at drury-lane, the play given out for the next night was "all in the wrong:" the galleries clapped, and then cried out, "let _us_ be all in the right! wilkes and liberty!" when the king comes to a theatre, or goes out, or goes to the house, there is not a single applause; to the queen there is a little: in short, _louis le bien aimé_[ ] is not french at present for king george. [footnote : "le bien aimé" was a designation conferred on louis xv. by the people in their joy at his recovery from an illness which had threatened his life at metz in . louis himself was surprised, and asked what he had done to deserve such a title; and, in truth, it was a question hard to answer; but it was an expression of praise for his leaving the capital to accompany his army in the campaign.] i read, last night, your new french play, "le comte de warwic,"[ ] which we hear has succeeded much. i must say, it does but confirm the cheap idea i have of you french: not to mention the preposterous perversion of history in so known a story, the queen's ridiculous preference of old warwick to a young king; the omission of the only thing she ever said or did in her whole life worth recording, which was thinking herself too low for his wife, and too high for his mistress; the romantic honour bestowed on two such savages as edward and warwick: besides these, and forty such glaring absurdities, there is but one scene that has any merit, that between edward and warwick in the third act. indeed, indeed, i don't honour the modern french: it is making your son but a slender compliment, with his knowledge, for them to say it is extraordinary. the best proof i think they give of their taste, is liking you all three. i rejoice that your little boy is recovered. your brother has been at park-place this week, and stays a week longer: his hill is too high to be drowned. [footnote : "le comte de warwic" was by la harpe, who was only twenty-three years of age. the answer here attributed to elizabeth woodville has been attributed to others also; and especially to mdlle. de montmorency, afterwards princesse de condé, when pursued by the solicitations of henry iv.] thank you for your kindness to mr. selwyn: if he had too much impatience, i am sure it proceeded only from his great esteem for you. i will endeavour to learn what you desire; and will answer, in another letter, that and some other passages in your last. dr. hunter is very good, and calls on me sometimes. you may guess whether we talk you over or not. adieu! _a new year's party at lady suffolk's--lady temple poetess laureate to the muses_ to george montagu, esq. arlington street, _jan._ , . it is an age, i own, since i wrote to you: but except politics, what was there to send you? and for politics, the present are too contemptible to be recorded by anybody but journalists, gazetteers, and such historians! the ordinary of newgate, or mr. ----, who write for their monthly half-crown, and who are indifferent whether lord bute, lord melcombe, or maclean [the highwayman], is their hero, may swear they find diamonds on dunghills; but you will excuse _me_, if i let our correspondence lie dormant rather than deal in such trash. i am forced to send lord hertford and sir horace mann such garbage, because they are out of england, and the sea softens and makes palatable any potion, as it does claret; but unless i can divert _you_, i had rather wait till we can laugh together; the best employment for friends, who do not mean to pick one another's pocket, nor make a property of either's frankness. instead of politics, therefore, i shall amuse you to-day with a fairy tale. i was desired to be at my lady suffolk's on new-year's morn, where i found lady temple and others. on the toilet miss hotham spied a small round box. she seized it with all the eagerness and curiosity of eleven years. in it was wrapped up a heart-diamond ring, and a paper in which, in a hand as small as buckinger's[ ] who used to write the lord's prayer in the compass of a silver penny, were the following lines:-- sent by a sylph, unheard, unseen, a new-year's gift from mab our queen: but tell it not, for if you do, you will be pinch'd all black and blue. consider well, what a disgrace, to show abroad your mottled face: then seal your lips, put on the ring, and sometimes think of ob. the king. [footnote : buckinger was a dwarf born without hands or feet.] you will eagerly guess that lady temple was the poetess, and that we were delighted with the gentleness of the thought and execution. the child, you may imagine, was less transported with the poetry than the present. her attention, however, was hurried backwards and forwards from the ring to a new coat, that she had been trying on when sent for down; impatient to revisit her coat, and to show the ring to her maid, she whisked upstairs; when she came down again, she found a letter sealed, and lying on the floor--new exclamations! lady suffolk bade her open it: here it is:-- your tongue, too nimble for your sense, is guilty of a high offence; hath introduced unkind debate, and topsy-turvy turn'd our state. in gallantry i sent the ring, the token of a love-sick king: under fair mab's auspicious name from me the trifling present came. you blabb'd the news in suffolk's ear; the tattling zephyrs brought it here; as mab was indolently laid under a poppy's spreading shade. the jealous queen started in rage; she kick'd her crown, and beat her page: "bring me my magic wand," she cries; "under that primrose, there it lies; i'll change the silly, saucy chit, into a flea, a louse, a nit, a worm, a grasshopper, a rat, an owl, a monkey, hedgehog, bat. but hold, why not by fairy art transform the wretch into-- ixion once a cloud embraced, by jove and jealousy well placed; what sport to see proud oberon stare, and flirt it with a _pet en l'air_!" then thrice she stamp'd the trembling ground, and thrice she waved her wand around; when i, endow'd with greater skill, and less inclined to do you ill, mutter'd some words, withheld her arm, and kindly stopp'd the unfinish'd charm. but though not changed to owl or bat, or something more indelicate; yet, as your tongue has run too fast, your boasted beauty must not last. no more shall frolic cupid lie in ambuscade in either eye, from thence to aim his keenest dart to captivate each youthful heart: no more shall envious misses pine at charms now flown, that once were thine no more, since you so ill behave, shall injured oberon be your slave. there is one word which i could wish had not been there though it is prettily excused afterwards. the next day my lady suffolk desired i would write her a patent for appointing lady temple poet laureate to the fairies. i was excessively out of order with a pain in my stomach, which i had had for ten days, and was fitter to write verses like a poet laureate, than for making one; however, i was going home to dinner alone, and at six i sent her some lines, which you ought to have seen how sick i was, to excuse; but first i must tell you my tale methodically. the next morning by nine o'clock miss hotham (she must forgive me twenty years hence for saying she was eleven, for i recollect she is but ten), arrived at lady temple's, her face and neck all spotted with saffron, and limping. "oh, madam!" said she, "i am undone for ever if you do not assist me!" "lord, child," cried my lady temple, "what is the matter?" thinking she had hurt herself, or lost the ring, and that she was stolen out before her aunt was up. "oh, madam," said the girl, "nobody but you can assist me!" my lady temple protests the child acted her part so well as to deceive her. "what can i do for you?" "dear madam, take this load from my back; nobody but you can." lady temple turned her round, and upon her back was tied a child's waggon. in it were three tiny purses of blue velvet; in one of them a silver cup, in another a crown of laurel, and in the third four new silver pennies, with the patent, signed at top, "oberon imperator;" and two sheets of warrants strung together with blue silk according to form; and at top an office seal of wax and a chaplet of cut paper on it. the warrants were these:-- from the royal mews: a waggon with the draught horses, delivered by command without fee. from the lord chamberlain's office: a warrant with the royal sign manual, delivered by command without fee, being first entered in the office books. from the lord steward's office: a butt of sack, delivered without fee or gratuity, with an order for returning the cask for the use of the office, by command. from the great wardrobe: three velvet bags, delivered without fee, by command. from the treasurer of the household's office: a year's salary paid free from land-tax, poundage, or any other deduction whatever by command. from the jewel office: a silver butt, a silver cup, a wreath of bays, by command without fee. then came the patent: by these presents be it known, to all who bend before our throne, fays and fairies, elves and sprites, beauteous dames and gallant knights, that we, oberon the grand, emperor of fairy land, king of moonshine, prince of dreams, lord of aganippe's streams, baron of the dimpled isles that lie in pretty maiden's smiles, arch-treasurer of all the graces dispersed through fifty lovely faces, sovereign of the slipper's order, with all the rites thereon that border, defender of the sylphic faith, declare--and thus your monarch saith: whereas there is a noble dame, whom mortals countess temple name, to whom ourself did erst impart the choicest secrets of our art, taught her to tune the harmonious line to our own melody divine, taught her the graceful negligence, which, scorning art and veiling sense, achieves that conquest o'er the heart sense seldom gains, and never art: this lady, 'tis our royal will our laureate's vacant seat should fill; a chaplet of immortal bays shall crown her brow and guard her lays, of nectar sack an acorn cup be at her board each year filled up; and as each quarter feast comes round a silver penny shall be found within the compass of her shoe-- and so we bid you all adieu! given at our palace of cowslip castle, the shortest night of the year. oberon. and underneath, hothamina. how shall i tell you the greatest curiosity of the story? the whole plan and execution of the second act was laid and adjusted by my lady suffolk herself and will. chetwynd, master of the mint, lord bolingbroke's oroonoko-chetwynd;[ ] he fourscore, she past seventy-six; and, what is more, much worse than i was, for added to her deafness, she has been confined these three weeks with the gout in her eyes, and was actually then in misery, and had been without sleep. what spirits, and cleverness, and imagination, at that age, and under those afflicting circumstances! you reconnoitre her old court knowledge, how charmingly she has applied it! do you wonder i pass so many hours and evenings with her? alas! i had like to have lost her this morning! they had poulticed her feet to draw the gout downwards, and began to succeed yesterday, but to-day it flew up into her head, and she was almost in convulsions with the agony, and screamed dreadfully; proof enough how ill she was, for her patience and good breeding makes her for ever sink and conceal what she feels. this evening the gout has been driven back to her foot, and i trust she is out of danger. her loss will be irreparable to me at twickenham, where she is by far the most rational and agreeable company i have. [footnote : oroonoko-chetwynd, m.p. for plymouth. he was called oroonoko and sometimes "black will," from his dark complexion.] i don't tell you that the hereditary prince [of brunswick][ ] is still expected and not arrived. a royal wedding would be a flat episode after a _real_ fairy tale, though the bridegroom is a hero. i have not seen your brother general yet, but have called on him, when come you yourself? never mind the town and its filthy politics; we can go to the gallery at strawberry--stay, i don't know whether we can or not, my hill is almost drowned, i don't know how your mountain is--well, we can take a boat, and always be gay there; i wish we may be so at seventy-six and eighty! i abominate politics more and more; we had glories, and would not keep them: well! content, that there was an end of blood; then perks prerogative its ass's ears up; we are always to be saving our liberties, and then staking them again! 'tis wearisome! i hate the discussion, and yet one cannot always sit at a gaming-table and never make a bet. i wish for nothing, i care not a straw for the inns or the outs; i determine never to think of them, yet the contagion catches one; can you tell anything that will prevent infection? well then, here i swear,--no, i won't swear, one always breaks one's oath. oh, that i had been born to love a court like sir william breton! i should have lived and died with the comfort of thinking that courts there will be to all eternity, and the liberty of my country would never once have ruffled my smile, or spoiled my bow. i envy sir william. good night! [footnote : the duke of brunswick, who was mortally wounded in at the battle of jena. he had come, as is mentioned in the next letter, to marry the king's sister.] _marriage of the prince of brunswick: his popularity._ to sir horace mann. arlington street, _jan._ , . shall i tell you of all our crowds, and balls, and embroideries? don't i grow too old to describe drawing-rooms? surely i do, when i find myself too old to go into them. i forswore puppet-shows at the last coronation, and have kept my word to myself. however, being bound by a prior vow, to keep up the acquaintance between you and your own country, i will show you, what by the way i have not seen myself, the prince of brunswick. he arrived at somerset house last friday evening; at chelmsford a quaker walked into the room, _did_ pull off his hat, and said, "friend, my religion forbids me to fight, but i honour those that fight well." the prince, though he does not speak english, understands it enough to be pleased with the compliment. he received another, very flattering. as he went next morning to st. james's, he spied in the crowd one of elliot's light-horse and kissed his hand to the man. "what!" said the populace, "does he know you?" "yes," replied the man; "he once led me into a scrape, which nothing but himself could have brought me out of again." you may guess how much this added to the prince's popularity, which was at high-water mark before. when he had visited the king and queen, he went to the princess dowager at leicester house, and saw his mistress. he is very _galant_, and professes great satisfaction in his fortune, for he had not even seen her picture. he carries his good-breeding so far as to declare he would have returned unmarried, if she had not pleased him. he has had levées and dinners at somerset house; to the latter, company was named for him. on monday evening they were married by the archbishop in the great drawing-room, with little ceremony; supped, and lay at leicester house. yesterday morning was a drawing-room at st. james's, and a ball at night; both repeated to-day, for the queen's birthday. on thursday they go to the play; on friday the queen gives them a ball and dinner at her house; on saturday they dine with the princess at kew, and return for the opera; and on wednesday--why, they make their bow and curtsy, and sail. the prince has pleased everybody; his manner is thought sensible and engaging; his person slim, genteel, and handsome enough; that is, not at all handsome, but martial, agreeably weather-worn. i should be able to swear to all this on saturday, when i intend to see him; but, alas! the post departs on friday, and, however material my testimony may be, he must want it. _gambling quarrels--mr. conway's speech._ to the earl of hertford. arlington street, _feb._ , . you have, i hope, long before this, my dear lord, received the immense letter that i sent you by old monin. it explained much, and announced most part of which has already happened; for you will observe that when i tell you anything very positively, it is on good intelligence. i have another much bigger secret for you, but that will be delivered to you by word of mouth. i am not a little impatient for the long letter you promised me. in the mean time thank you for the account you give me of the king's extreme civility to you. it is like yourself to dwell on that, and to say little of m. de chaulnes's dirtv behaviour; but monsieur and madame de guerchy have told your brother and me all the particulars. i was but too good a prophet when i warned you to expect new extravagances from the duc de chaulnes's son. some weeks ago he lost five hundred pounds to one virette, an equivocal being, that you remember here. paolucci, the modenese minister, who is not in the odour of honesty, was of the party. the duc de pecquigny said to the latter, "monsieur, ne jouez plus avec lui, si vous n'êtes pas de moitié." so far was very well. on saturday, at the maccaroni club (which is composed of all the travelled young men who wear long curls and spying glasses), they played again: the duc lost, but not much. in the passage at the opera, the duc saw mr. stuart talking to virette, and told the former that virette was a coquin, a fripon, &c., &c. virette retired, saying only, "voilà un fou." the duc then desired lord tavistock to come and see him fight virette, but the marquis desired to be excused. after the opera, virette went to the duc's lodgings, but found him gone to make his complaint to monsieur de guerchy, whither he followed him; and farther this deponent knoweth not. i pity the count [de guerchy], who is one of the best-natured amiable men in the world, for having this absurd boy upon his hands! well! now for a little politics. the cider bill has not answered to the minority, though they ran the ministry hard; but last friday was extraordinary. george grenville was pushed upon some navy bills. i don't understand a syllable, you know, of money and accounts; but whatever was the matter, he was driven from entrenchment to entrenchment by baker and charles townshend. after that affair was over, and many gone away, sir w. meredith moved for the depositions on which the warrant against wilkes had been granted. the ministers complained of the motion being made so late in the day; called it a surprise; and rigby moved to adjourn, which was carried but by to . had a surprise been intended, you may imagine the minority would have been better provided with numbers; but it certainly had not been concerted: however, a majority, shrunk to thirteen, frightened them out of the small senses they possess. heaven, earth, and the treasury, were moved to recover their ground to-day, when the question was renewed. for about two hours the debate hobbled on very lamely, when on a sudden your brother rose, and made such a speech[ ]--but i wish anybody was to give you the account except me, whom you will think partial: but you will hear enough of it, to confirm anything i can say. imagine fire, rapidity, argument, knowledge, wit, ridicule, grace, spirit; all pouring like a torrent, but without clashing. imagine the house in a tumult of continued applause, imagine the ministers thunderstruck; lawyers abashed and almost blushing, for it was on their quibbles and evasions he fell most heavily, at the same time answering a whole session of arguments on the side of the court. no, it was _unique_; you can neither conceive it, nor the exclamations it occasioned. ellis, the forlorn hope, ellis presented himself in the gap, till the ministers could recover themselves, when on a sudden lord george sackville _led up the blues_; spoke with as much warmth as your brother had, and with great force continued the attack which he had begun. did not i tell you he would take this part? i was made privy to it; but this is far from all you are to expect. lord north in vain rumbled about his mustard-bowl, and endeavoured alone to outroar a whole party: him and forrester, charles townshend took up, but less well than usual. his jealousy of your brother's success, which was very evident, did not help him to shine. there were several other speeches, and, upon the whole, it was a capital debate; but plutus is so much more persuasive an orator than your brother or lord george, that we divided but against . lord strange, who had agreed to the question, did not dare to vote for it, and declared off; and george townshend, who had actually voted for it on friday, now voted against us. well! upon the whole, i heartily wish this administration may last: both their characters and abilities are so contemptible, that i am sure we can be in no danger from prerogative when trusted to such hands! [footnote : walpole must have exaggerated the merits of this speech; for conway was never remarkable for eloquence. indeed, walpole himself, in his "memoirs of george ii.," quotes mr. hutchinson, the prime serjeant in ireland, contrasting him with lord g. sackville, "lord george having parts, but no integrity; conway integrity, but no parts: and now they were governed by one who had neither." and walpole's comment on this comparison is: "there was more wit than truth in this description. conway's parts, though not brilliant, were solid" (vol. ii. p. ). in his "life of pitt" lord stanhope describes him as "a man who, in the course of a long public life, had shown little vigour or decision, but who was much respected for his honourable character and moderate counsels" (c. ).] before i have done with charles townshend, i must tell you one of his admirable _bon mots_. miss draycote, the great fortune, is grown very fat; he says her _tonnage_ is become equal to her _poundage_. _account of the debate on the general warrant._ to the earl of hertford. arlington street, _wednesday, feb._ , . my dear lord,--you ought to be witness to the fatigue i am suffering, before you can estimate the merit i have in being writing to you at this moment. cast up eleven hours in the house of commons on monday, and above seventeen hours yesterday,--ay, seventeen at length,--and then you may guess if i am tired! nay, you must add seventeen hours that i may possibly be there on friday, and then calculate if i am weary. in short, yesterday was the longest day ever known in the house of commons--why, on the westminster election at the end of my father's reign, i was at home by six. on alexander murray's affair, i believe, by five--on the militia, twenty people, i think, sat till six, but then they were only among themselves, no heat, no noise, no roaring. it was half an hour after seven this morning before i was at home. think of that, and then brag of your french parliaments! what is ten times greater, leonidas and the spartan _minority_ did not make such a stand at thermopylae, as we did. do you know, we had like to have been the _majority_? xerxes[ ] is frightened out of his senses; sysigambis[ ] has sent an express to luton to forbid phraates[ ] coming to town to-morrow; norton's[ ] impudence has forsaken him; bishop warburton is at this moment reinstating mr. pitt's name in the dedication to his sermons, which he had expunged for sandwich's; and sandwich himself is--at paris, perhaps, by this time, for the first thing that i expect to hear to-morrow is, that he is gone off. [footnote : "_xerxes, sysigambis, phraates._" these names contain allusions to one of mdlle. scudéri's novels, which, as d'israeli remarks, are "representations of what passed at the court of france"; but in this letter the scene of action is transferred to england. xerxes is george iii.; sysigambis, the princess dowager; and phraates is lord bute.] [footnote : sir fletcher norton, the speaker.] now are you mortally angry with me for trifling with you, and not telling you at once the particulars of this _almost-revolution_? you may be angry, but i shall take my own time, and shall give myself what airs i please both to you, my lord ambassador, and to you, my lord secretary of state, who will, i suppose, open this letter--if you have courage enough left. in the first place, i assume all the impertinence of a prophet,--aye, of that great curiosity, a prophet, who really prophesied before the event, and whose predictions have been accomplished. have i, or have i not, announced to you the unexpected blows that would be given to the administration?--come, i will lay aside my dignity, and satisfy your impatience. there's moderation. we sat all monday hearing evidence against mr. wood,[ ] that dirty wretch webb, and the messengers, for their illegal proceedings against mr. wilkes. at midnight, mr. grenville offered us to adjourn or proceed. mr. pitt humbly begged not to eat or sleep till so great a point should be decided. on a division, in which though many said _aye_ to adjourning, nobody would go out for fear of losing their seats, it was carried by to , for proceeding--and then--half the house went away. the ministers representing the indecency of this, and fitzherbert saying that many were within call, stanley observed, that after voting against adjournment, a third part had adjourned themselves, when, instead of being within _call_, they ought to have been within _hearing_; this was unanswerable, and we adjourned. [footnote : mr. wood and mr. webb were the under-secretary of state and the solicitor of the treasury; and, as such, the officers chiefly responsible for the _form_ of the warrant complained of.] yesterday we fell to again. it was one in the morning before the evidence was closed. carrington, the messenger, was alone examined for seven hours. this old man, the cleverest of all ministerial terriers, was pleased with recounting his achievements, yet perfectly guarded and betraying nothing. however, the _arcana imperii_ have been wofully laid open. i have heard garrick, and other players, give themselves airs of fatigue after a long part--think of the speaker, nay, think of the clerks taking most correct minutes for sixteen hours, and reading them over to every witness; and then let me hear of fatigue! do you know, not only my lord temple,[ ]--who you may swear never budged as spectator,--but old will chetwynd, now past eighty, and who had walked to the house, did not stir a single moment out of his place, from three in the afternoon till the division at seven in the morning. nay, we had _patriotesses_, too, who stayed out the whole: lady rockingham and lady sondes the first day; both again the second day, with miss mary pelham, mrs. fitzroy, and the duchess of richmond, as patriot as any of us. lady mary coke, mrs. george pitt, and lady pembroke, came after the opera, but i think did not stay above seven or eight hours at most. [footnote : lord temple was mr. pitt's brother-in-law, a restless and impracticable intriguer. he had some such especial power of influencing mr. pitt--who, it is supposed, must have been under some pecuniary obligation to him--that he was able the next year to prevent his accepting the office of prime minister when the king pressed it on him.] at one, sir w. meredith moved a resolution of the illegality of the warrant, and opened it well. he was seconded by old darlington's brother, a convert to us. mr. wood, who had shone the preceding day by great modesty, decency, and ingenuity, forfeited these merits a good deal by starting up, (according to a ministerial plan,) and very arrogantly, and repeatedly in the night, demanding justice and a previous acquittal, and telling the house he scorned to accept being merely _excused_; to which mr. pitt replied, that if he disdained to be _excused_, he would deserve to be _censured_. mr. charles yorke (who, with his family, have come roundly to us for support against the duke of bedford on the marriage bill) proposed to adjourn. grenville and the ministry would have agreed to adjourn the debate on the great question itself, but declared they would push this acquittal. this they announced haughtily enough--for as yet, they did not doubt of their strength. lord frederick campbell was the most impetuous of all, so little he foresaw how much _wiser_ it would be to follow your brother. pitt made a short speech, excellently argumentative, and not bombast, nor tedious, nor deviating from the question. he was supported by your brother, and charles townshend, and lord george; the two last of whom are strangely firm, now they are got under the cannon of your brother:--charles, who, as he must be extraordinary, is now so in romantic nicety of honour. his father, who is dying, or dead, at bath, and from whom he hopes two thousand a year, has sent for him. he has refused to go--lest his _steadiness_ should be questioned. at a quarter after four we divided. _our_ cry was so loud, that both we and the ministers thought we had carried it. it is not to be painted, the dismay of the latter--in good truth not without reason, for _we_ were , they but . your experience can tell you, that a majority of _but_ ten is a defeat. amidst a great defection from them, was even a white staff, lord charles spencer--now you know still more of what i told you was preparing for them! crest-fallen, the ministers then proposed simply to discharge the complaint; but the plumes which they had dropped, pitt soon placed in his own beaver. he broke out on liberty, and, indeed, on whatever he pleased, uninterrupted. rigby sat feeling the vice-treasureship slipping from under him. nugent was not less pensive--lord strange, though not interested, did not like it. everybody was too much taken up with his own concerns, or too much daunted, to give the least disturbance to the pindaric. grenville, however, dropped a few words, which did but heighten the flame. pitt, with less modesty than ever he showed, pronounced a panegyric on his own administration, and from thence broke out on the _dismission of officers_. this increased the roar from us. grenville replied, and very finely, very pathetically, very animated. he painted wilkes and faction, and, with very little truth, denied the charge of menaces to officers. at that moment, general a'court walked up the house--think what an impression such an incident must make, when passions, hopes, and fears, were all afloat--think, too, how your brother and i, had we been ungenerous, could have added to these sensations! there was a man not so delicate. colonel barré rose--and this attended with a striking circumstance; sir edward deering, one of _our_ noisy fools, called out, "_mr._ barré."[ ] the latter seized the thought with admirable quickness, and said to the speaker, who, in pointing to him, had called him _colonel_, "i beg your pardon, sir, you have pointed to me by a title i have no right to," and then made a very artful and pathetic speech on his own services and dismission; with nothing bad but an awkward attempt towards an excuse to mr. pitt for his former behaviour. lord north, who will not lose his _bellow_, though he may lose his place, endeavoured to roar up the courage of his comrades, but it would not do--the house grew tired, and we again divided at seven for adjournment; some of our people were gone, and we remained but , they ; however, you will allow our affairs are mended, when we say, _but_ . _we_ then came away, and left the ministers to satisfy wood, webb, and themselves, as well as they could. it was eight this morning before i was in bed; and considering that, this is no very short letter. mr. pitt bore the fatigue with his usual spirit--and even old onslow, the late speaker, was sitting up, anxious for the event. [footnote : mr. barré had lately been dismissed from the office of adjutant-general, on account of some of his votes in parliament. in he was appointed clerk of the rolls, a place worth above £ , a year, by mr. pitt, who, with extraordinary disinterestedness, forbore from taking it himself, that he might relieve the nation from a pension of similar amount which had been improperly conferred on the colonel by lord rockingham.] on friday we are to have the great question, which would prevent my writing; and to-morrow i dine with guerchy, at the duke of grafton's, besides twenty other engagements. to-day i have shut myself up; for with writing this, and taking notes yesterday all day, and all night, i have not an eye left to see out of--nay, for once in my life, i shall go to bed at ten o'clock.... adieu! pray tell mr. hume that i am ashamed to be thus writing the history of england, when he is with you! _lord clive--mr. hamilton, ambassador to naples--speech of louis xv._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _june_ , . your red riband is certainly postponed. there was but one vacant, which was promised to general draper, who, when he thought he felt the sword dubbing his shoulder, was told that my lord clive could not conquer the indies a second time without being a knight of the bath. this, however, i think will be but a short parenthesis, for i expect that _heaven-born hero_[ ] to return from whence he came, instead of bringing hither all the mogul's pearls and rubies. yet, before that happens there will probably be other vacancies to content both draper and you. [footnote : "that _heaven-born hero_" had been lord chatham's description of lord clive.] you have a new neighbour coming to you, mr. william hamilton,[ ] one of the king's equerries, who succeeds sir james gray at naples. hamilton is a friend of mine, is son of lady archibald, and was aide-de-camp to mr. conway. he is picture-mad, and will ruin himself in virtù-land. his wife is as musical as he is connoisseur, but she is dying of an asthma. [footnote : mr. w. hamilton, afterwards sir william, was the husband of the celebrated lady hamilton.] i have never heard of the present[ ] you mention of the box of essences. the secrets of that prison-house do not easily transpire, and the merit of any offering is generally assumed, i believe, by the officiating priests. [footnote : a present from sir horace, i believe, to the queen.--walpole.] lord tavistock is to be married to-morrow to lady elizabeth keppel, lord albemarle's sister. i love to tell you an anecdote of any of our old acquaintance, and i have now a delightful one, relating, yet indirectly, to one of them. you know, to be sure, that madame de craon's daughter, madame de boufflers, has the greatest power with king stanislaus. our old friend the princess de craon goes seldom to luneville for this reason, not enduring to see her daughter on that throne which she so long filled with absolute empire. but madame de boufflers, who, from his majesty's age, cannot occupy _all_ the places in the palace that her mother filled, indemnifies herself with his majesty's chancellor. one day the lively old monarch said, "regardez, quel joli petit pied, et la belle jambe! mon chancellier vous dira le reste." you know this is the form when a king of france says a few words to his parliament, and then refers them to his chancellor. i expect to hear a great deal soon of the princess, for mr. churchill and my sister are going to settle at nancy for some time. adieu! _the king of poland--catherine of russia._ to sir horace mann. strawberry hill, _aug._ , . i am afraid it is some thousands of days since i wrote to you; but woe is me! how could i help it? summer will be summer, and peace peace. it is not the fashion to be married, or die in the former, nor to kill or be killed in the latter; and pray recollect if those are not the sources of correspondence. you may perhaps put in a caveat against my plea of peace, and quote turks island[ ] upon me; why, to be sure the parenthesis is a little hostile, but we are like a good wife, and can wink at what we don't like to see; besides, the french, like a sensible husband, that has made a slip, have promised us a new topknot, so we have kissed and are very good friends. [footnote : turk's island, called also tortuga, is a small island near st. domingo, of which a french squadron had dispossessed some british settlers; but the french government disavowed the act, and compensated the settlers.] the duke of york returned very abruptly. the town talks of remittances stopped; but as i know nothing of the matter, and you are not only a minister but have the honour of his good graces, i do not pretend to tell you what to be sure you know better than i do. old sir john barnard is dead, which he had been to the world for some time; and mr. legge. the latter, who was heartily in the minority, said cheerfully just before he died, "that he was going to the majority." let us talk a little of the north. count poniatowski, with whom i was acquainted when he was here, is king of poland, and calls himself stanislaus the second. this is the sole instance, i believe, upon record, of a second of a name being on the throne while the first was living without having contributed to dethrone him.[ ] old stanislaus lives to see a line of successors, like macbeth in the cave of the witches. so much for poland; don't let us go farther north; we shall find there alecto herself. i have almost wept for poor ivan! i shall soon begin to believe that richard iii. murdered as many folks as the lancastrian historians say he did. i expect that this fury will poison her son next, lest semiramis should have the bloody honour of having been more unnatural. as voltaire has unpoisoned so many persons of former ages, methinks he ought to do as much for the present time, and assure posterity that there never was such a lamb as catherine ii., and that, so far from assassinating her own husband and czar ivan,[ ] she wept over every chicken that she had for dinner. how crimes, like fashions, flit from clime to clime! murder reigns under the pole, while you, who are in the very town where catherine de' medici was born, and within a stone's throw of rome, where borgia and his holy father sent cardinals to the other world by hecatombs, are surprised to hear that there is such an instrument as a stiletto. the papal is now a mere gouty chair, and the good old souls don't even waddle out of it to get a bastard. [footnote : the first was stanislaus leczinski, father of the queen of france. he had been driven from poland by peter the great after the overthrow of charles xii. of sweden (_v. infra_, letter ).] [footnote : ivan, the czar who had been deposed by the former czarina, elizabeth, had recently been murdered, while trying to escape from the confinement in which he had been so long detained.] well, good night! i have no more monarchs to chat over; all the rest are the most catholic or most christian, or most something or other that is divine; and you know one can never talk long about folks that are only excellent. one can say no more about stanislaus _the first_ than that he is the best of beings. i mean, unless they do not deserve it, and then their flatterers can hold forth upon their virtues by the hour. _madame de boufflers' writings--king james's journal._ to the earl of hertford. strawberry hill, _oct._ , . my dear lord,--though i wrote to you but a few days ago, i must trouble you with another line now. dr. blanchard, a cambridge divine, and who has a good paternal estate in yorkshire, is on his travels, which he performs as a gentleman; and, therefore, wishes not to have his profession noticed. he is very desirous of paying his respects to you, and of being countenanced by you while he stays at paris. it will much oblige a particular friend of mine, and consequently me, if you will favour him with your attention. everybody experiences your goodness, but in the present case i wish to attribute it a little to my request. i asked you about two books, ascribed to madame de boufflers. if they are hers, i should be glad to know where she found, that oliver cromwell took orders and went over to holland to fight the dutch. as she has been on the spot where he reigned (which is generally very strong evidence), her countrymen will believe her in spite of our teeth; and voltaire, who loves all anecdotes that never happened, _because_ they prove the manners of the times, will hurry it into the first history he publishes. i, therefore, enter my caveat against it; not as interested for oliver's character, but to save the world from one more fable. i know madame de boufflers will attribute this scruple to my partiality to cromwell (and, to be sure, if we must be ridden, there is some satisfaction when the man knows how to ride). i remember one night at the duke of grafton's, a bust of cromwell was produced: madame de boufflers, without uttering a syllable, gave me the most speaking look imaginable, as much as to say, "is it possible you can admire this man!" _apropos_: i am sorry to say the reports do not cease about the separation, and yet i have heard nothing that confirms it. i once begged you to send me a book in three volumes, called "essais sur les moeurs;" forgive me if i put you in mind of it, and request you to send me that, or any other new book. i am wofully in want of reading, and sick to death of all our political stuff, which, as the parliament is happily at the distance of three months, i would fain forget till i cannot help hearing of it. i am reduced to guicciardin, and though the evenings are so long, i cannot get through one of his periods between dinner and supper. they tell me mr. hume has had sight of king james's journal;[ ] i wish i could see all the trifling passages that he will not deign to admit into history. i do not love great folks till they have pulled off their buskins and put on their slippers, because i do not care sixpence for what they would be thought, but for what they are. [footnote : this journal is understood to have been destroyed in the course of the french revolution, but it had not only been previously seen by hume, as walpole mentions here, but mr. fox had also had access to it, and had made some notes or extracts from it, which were subsequently communicated to lord macaulay when he carried out the design of writing a "history of the revolution of ," which mr. fox had contemplated.] mr. elliot brings us woful accounts of the french ladies, of the decency of their conversation, and the nastiness of their behaviour. nobody is dead, married, or gone mad, since my last. adieu!... end of vol. i. narrative of the life of david crockett, of the state of tennessee. i leave this rule for others when i'm dead, be always sure you're right--then go ahead! the author. written by himself. sixth edition. philadelphia. e. l. carey and a. hart. baltimore: carey, hart & co. . entered according to the act of congress, in the year , by david crockett, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of columbia. stereotyped by l. johnson, philadelphia. preface. fashion is a thing i care mighty little about, except when it happens to run just exactly according to my own notion; and i was mighty nigh sending out my book without any preface at all, until a notion struck me, that perhaps it was necessary to explain a little the reason why and wherefore i had written it. most of authors seek fame, but i seek for justice,--a holier impulse than ever entered into the ambitious struggles of the votaries of that _fickle_, _flirting_ goddess. a publication has been made to the world, which has done me much injustice; and the catchpenny errors which it contains, have been already too long sanctioned by my silence. i don't know the author of the book--and indeed i don't want to know him; for after he has taken such a liberty with my name, and made such an effort to hold me up to publick ridicule, he cannot calculate on any thing but my displeasure. if he had been content to have written his opinions about me, however contemptuous they might have been, i should have had less reason to complain. but when he professes to give my narrative (as he often does) in my own language, and then puts into my mouth such language as would disgrace even an outlandish african, he must himself be sensible of the injustice he has done me, and the trick he has played off on the publick. i have met with hundreds, if not with thousands of people, who have formed their opinions of my appearance, habits, language, and every thing else from that deceptive work. they have almost in every instance expressed the most profound astonishment at finding me in human shape, and with the _countenance_, _appearance_, and _common feelings_ of a human being. it is to correct all these false notions, and to do justice to myself, that i have written. it is certain that the writer of the book alluded to has gathered up many imperfect scraps of information concerning me, as in parts of his work there is some little semblance of truth. but i ask him, if this notice should ever reach his eye, how would he have liked it, if i had treated _him_ so?--if i had put together such a bundle of ridiculous stuff, and headed it with _his_ name, and sent it out upon the world without ever even condescending to ask _his_ permission? to these questions, all upright men must give the same answer. it was wrong; and the desire to make money by it, is no apology for such injustice to a fellow man. but i let him pass; as my wish is greatly more to vindicate myself, than to condemn him. in the following pages i have endeavoured to give the reader a plain, honest, homespun account of my state in life, and some few of the difficulties which have attended me along its journey, down to this time. i am perfectly aware, that i have related many small and, as i fear, uninteresting circumstances; but if so, my apology is, that it was rendered necessary by a desire to link the different periods of my life together, as they have passed, from my childhood onward, and thereby to enable the reader to select such parts of it as he may relish most, if, indeed, there is any thing in it which may suit his palate. i have also been operated on by another consideration. it is this:--i know, that obscure as i am, my name is making a considerable deal of fuss in the world. i can't tell why it is, nor in what it is to end. go where i will, everybody seems anxious to get a peep at me; and it would be hard to tell which would have the advantage, if i, and the "government," and "black hawk," and a great eternal big caravan of _wild varments_ were all to be showed at the same time in four different parts of any of the big cities in the nation. i am not so sure that i shouldn't get the most custom of any of the crew. there must therefore be something in me, or about me, that attracts attention, which is even mysterious to myself. i can't understand it, and i therefore put all the facts down, leaving the reader free to take his choice of them. on the subject of my style, it is bad enough, in all conscience, to please critics, if that is what they are after. they are a sort of vermin, though, that i sha'n't even so much as stop to brush off. if they want to work on my book, just let them go ahead; and after they are done, they had better blot out all their criticisms, than to know what opinion i would express of _them_, and by what sort of a curious name i would call _them_, if i was standing near them, and looking over their shoulders. they will, at most, have only their trouble for their pay. but i rather expect i shall have them on my side. but i don't know of any thing in my book to be criticised on by honourable men. is it on my spelling?--that's not my trade. is it on my grammar?--i hadn't time to learn it, and make no pretensions to it. is it on the order and arrangement of my book?--i never wrote one before, and never read very many; and, of course, know mighty little about that. will it be on the authorship of the book?--this i claim, and i'll hang on to it, like a wax plaster. the whole book is my own, and every sentiment and sentence in it. i would not be such a fool, or knave either, as to deny that i have had it hastily run over by a friend or so, and that some little alterations have been made in the spelling and grammar; and i am not so sure that it is not the worse of even that, for i despise this way of spelling contrary to nature. and as for grammar, it's pretty much a thing of nothing at last, after all the fuss that's made about it. in some places, i wouldn't suffer either the spelling, or grammar, or any thing else to be touch'd; and therefore it will be found in my own way. but if any body complains that i have had it looked over, i can only say to him, her, or them--as the case may be--that while critics were learning grammar, and learning to spell, i, and "doctor jackson, l.l.d." were fighting in the wars; and if our books, and messages, and proclamations, and cabinet writings, and so forth, and so on, should need a little looking over, and a little correcting of the spelling and the grammar to make them fit for use, its just nobody's business. big men have more important matters to attend to than crossing their _t_'s--, and dotting their _i_'s--, and such like small things. but the "government's" name is to the proclamation, and my name's to the book; and if i didn't write the book, the "government" didn't write the proclamation, which no man _dares to deny_! but just read for yourself, and my ears for a heel tap, if before you get through you don't say, with many a good-natured smile and hearty laugh, "this is truly the very thing itself--the exact image of its author, david crockett." washington city, february st, . narrative of the life of david crockett. chapter i. as the public seem to feel some interest in the history of an individual so humble as i am, and as that history can be so well known to no person living as to myself, i have, after so long a time, and under many pressing solicitations from my friends and acquaintances, at last determined to put my own hand to it, and lay before the world a narrative on which they may at least rely as being true. and seeking no ornament or colouring for a plain, simple tale of truth, i throw aside all hypocritical and fawning apologies, and, according to my own maxim, just "_go ahead_." where i am not known, i might, perhaps, gain some little credit by having thrown around this volume some of the flowers of learning; but where i am known, the vile cheatery would soon be detected, and like the foolish jackdaw, that with a _borrowed_ tail attempted to play the peacock, i should be justly robbed of my pilfered ornaments, and sent forth to strut without a tail for the balance of my time. i shall commence my book with what little i have learned of the history of my father, as all _great men_ rest many, if not most, of their hopes on their noble ancestry. mine was poor, but i hope honest, and even that is as much as many a man can say. but to my subject. my father's name was john crockett, and he was of irish descent. he was either born in ireland or on a passage from that country to america across the atlantic. he was by profession a farmer, and spent the early part of his life in the state of pennsylvania. the name of my mother was rebecca hawkins. she was an american woman, born in the state of maryland, between york and baltimore. it is likely i may have heard where they were married, but if so, i have forgotten. it is, however, certain that they were, or else the public would never have been troubled with the history of david crockett, their son. i have an imperfect recollection of the part which i have understood my father took in the revolutionary war. i personally know nothing about it, for it happened to be a little before my day; but from himself, and many others who were well acquainted with its troubles and afflictions, i have learned that he was a soldier in the revolutionary war, and took part in that bloody struggle. he fought, according to my information, in the battle at kings mountain against the british and tories, and in some other engagements of which my remembrance is too imperfect to enable me to speak with any certainty. at some time, though i cannot say certainly when, my father, as i have understood, lived in lincoln county, in the state of north carolina. how long, i don't know. but when he removed from there, he settled in that district of country which is now embraced in the east division of tennessee, though it was not then erected into a state. he settled there under dangerous circumstances, both to himself and his family, as the country was full of indians, who were at that time very troublesome. by the creeks, my grandfather and grandmother crockett were both murdered, in their own house, and on the very spot of ground where rogersville, in hawkins county, now stands. at the same time, the indians wounded joseph crockett, a brother to my father, by a ball, which broke his arm; and took james a prisoner, who was still a younger brother than joseph, and who, from natural defects, was less able to make his escape, as he was both deaf and dumb. he remained with them for seventeen years and nine months, when he was discovered and recollected by my father and his eldest brother, william crockett; and was purchased by them from an indian trader, at a price which i do not now remember; but so it was, that he was delivered up to them, and they returned him to his relatives. he now lives in cumberland county, in the state of kentucky, though i have not seen him for many years. my father and mother had six sons and three daughters. i was the fifth son. what a pity i hadn't been the seventh! for then i might have been, by _common consent_, called _doctor_, as a heap of people get to be great men. but, like many of them, i stood no chance to become great in any other way than by accident. as my father was very poor, and living as he did _far back in the back woods_, he had neither the means nor the opportunity to give me, or any of the rest of his children, any learning. but before i get on the subject of my own troubles, and a great many very funny things that have happened to me, like all other historians and biographers, i should not only inform the public that i was born, myself, as well as other folks, but that this important event took place, according to the best information i have received on the subject, on the th of august, in the year ; whether by day or night, i believe i never heard, but if i did i, have forgotten. i suppose, however, it is not very material to my present purpose, nor to the world, as the more important fact is well attested, that i was born; and, indeed, it might be inferred, from my present size and appearance, that i was pretty _well born_, though i have never yet attached myself to that numerous and worthy society. at that time my father lived at the mouth of lime stone, on the nola-chucky river; and for the purpose not only of showing what sort of a man i now am, but also to show how soon i began to be a _sort of a little man_, i have endeavoured to take the _back track_ of life, in order to fix on the first thing that i can remember. but even then, as now, so many things were happening, that as major jack downing would say, they are all in "a pretty considerable of a snarl," and i find it "kinder hard" to fix on that thing, among them all, which really happened first. but i think it likely, i have hit on the outside line of my recollection; as one thing happened at which i was so badly scared, that it seems to me i could not have forgotten it, if it had happened a little time only after i was born. therefore it furnishes me with no certain evidence of my age at the time; but i know one thing very well, and that is, that when it happened, i had no knowledge of the use of breeches, for i had never had any nor worn any. but the circumstance was this: my four elder brothers, and a well-grown boy of about fifteen years old, by the name of campbell, and myself, were all playing on the river's side; when all the rest of them got into my father's canoe, and put out to amuse themselves on the water, leaving me on the shore alone. just a little distance below them, there was a fall in the river, which went slap-right straight down. my brothers, though they were little fellows, had been used to paddling the canoe, and could have carried it safely anywhere about there; but this fellow campbell wouldn't let them have the paddle, but, fool like, undertook to manage it himself. i reckon he had never seen a water craft before; and it went just any way but the way he wanted it. there he paddled, and paddled, and paddled--all the while going wrong,--until,--in a short time, here they were all going, straight forward, stern foremost, right plump to the falls; and if they had only had a fair shake, they would have gone over as slick as a whistle. it was'ent this, though, that scared me; for i was so infernal mad that they had left me on the shore, that i had as soon have seen them all go over the falls a bit, as any other way. but their danger was seen by a man by the name of kendall, but i'll be shot if it was amos; for i believe i would know him yet if i was to see him. this man kendall was working in a field on the bank, and knowing there was no time to lose, he started full tilt, and here he come like a cane brake afire; and as he ran, he threw off his coat, and then his jacket, and then his shirt, for i know when he got to the water he had nothing on but his breeches. but seeing him in such a hurry, and tearing off his clothes as he went, i had no doubt but that the devil or something else was after him--and close on him, too--as he was running within an inch of his life. this alarmed me, and i screamed out like a young painter. but kendall didn't stop for this. he went ahead with all might, and as full bent on saving the boys, as amos was on moving the deposites. when he came to the water he plunged in, and where it was too deep to wade he would swim, and where it was shallow enough he went bolting on; and by such exertion as i never saw at any other time in my life, he reached the canoe, when it was within twenty or thirty feet of the falls; and so great was the suck, and so swift the current, that poor kendall had a hard time of it to stop them at last, as amos will to stop the mouths of the people about his stockjobbing. but he hung on to the canoe, till he got it stop'd, and then draw'd it out of danger. when they got out, i found the boys were more scared than i had been, and the only thing that comforted me was, the belief that it was a punishment on them for leaving me on shore. shortly after this, my father removed, and settled in the same county, about ten miles above greenville. there another circumstance happened, which made a lasting impression on my memory, though i was but a small child. joseph hawkins, who was a brother to my mother, was in the woods hunting for deer. he was passing near a thicket of brush, in which one of our neighbours was gathering some grapes, as it was in the fall of the year, and the grape season. the body of the man was hid by the brush, and it was only as he would raise his hand to pull the bunches, that any part of him could be seen. it was a likely place for deer; and my uncle, having no suspicion that it was any human being, but supposing the raising of the hand to be the occasional twitch of a deer's ear, fired at the lump, and as the devil would have it, unfortunately shot the man through the body. i saw my father draw a silk handkerchief through the bullet hole, and entirely through his body; yet after a while he got well, as little as any one would have thought it. what become of him, or whether he is dead or alive, i don't know; but i reckon he did'ent fancy the business of gathering grapes in an out-of-the-way thicket soon again. the next move my father made was to the mouth of cove creek, where he and a man by the name of thomas galbreath undertook to build a mill in partnership. they went on very well with their work until it was nigh done, when there came the second epistle to noah's fresh, and away went their mill, shot, lock, and barrel. i remember the water rose so high, that it got up into the house we lived in, and my father moved us out of it, to keep us from being drowned. i was now about seven or eight years old, and have a pretty distinct recollection of every thing that was going on. from his bad luck in that business, and being ready to wash out from mill building, my father again removed, and this time settled in jefferson county, now in the state of tennessee; where he opened a tavern on the road from abbingdon to knoxville. his tavern was on a small scale, as he was poor; and the principal accommodations which he kept, were for the waggoners who travelled the road. here i remained with him until i was twelve years old; and about that time, you may guess, if you belong to yankee land, or reckon, if like me you belong to the back-woods, that i began to make up my acquaintance with hard times, and a plenty of them. an old dutchman, by the name of jacob siler, who was moving from knox county to rockbridge, in the state of virginia, in passing, made a stop at my father's house. he had a large stock of cattle, that he was carrying on with him; and i suppose made some proposition to my father to hire some one to assist him. being hard run every way, and having no thought, as i believe, that i was cut out for a congressman or the like, young as i was, and as little as i knew about travelling, or being from home, he hired me to the old dutchman, to go four hundred miles on foot, with a perfect stranger that i never had seen until the evening before. i set out with a heavy heart, it is true, but i went ahead, until we arrived at the place, which was three miles from what is called the natural bridge, and made a stop at the house of a mr. hartley, who was father-in-law to mr. siler, who had hired me. my dutch master was very kind to me, and gave me five or six dollars, being pleased, as he said, with my services. this, however, i think was a bait for me, as he persuaded me to stay with him, and not return any more to my father. i had been taught so many lessons of obedience by my father, that i at first supposed i was bound to obey this man, or at least i was afraid openly to disobey him; and i therefore staid with him, and tried to put on a look of perfect contentment until i got the family all to believe i was fully satisfied. i had been there about four or five weeks, when one day myself and two other boys were playing on the road-side, some distance from the house. there came along three waggons. one belonged to an old man by the name of dunn, and the others to two of his sons. they had each of them a good team, and were all bound for knoxville. they had been in the habit of stopping at my father's as they passed the road, and i knew them. i made myself known to the old gentleman, and informed him of my situation; i expressed a wish to get back to my father and mother, if they could fix any plan for me to do so. they told me that they would stay that night at a tavern seven miles from there, and that if i could get to them before day the next morning, they would take me home; and if i was pursued, they would protect me. this was a sunday evening; i went back to the good old dutchman's house, and as good fortune would have it, he and the family were out on a visit. i gathered my clothes, and what little money i had, and put them all together under the head of my bed. i went to bed early that night, but sleep seemed to be a stranger to me. for though i was a wild boy, yet i dearly loved my father and mother, and their images appeared to be so deeply fixed in my mind, that i could not sleep for thinking of them. and then the fear that when i should attempt to go out, i should be discovered and called to a halt, filled me with anxiety; and between my childish love of home, on the one hand, and the fears of which i have spoken, on the other, i felt mighty queer. but so it was, about three hours before day in the morning i got up to make my start. when i got out, i found it was snowing fast, and that the snow was then on the ground about eight inches deep. i had not even the advantage of moonlight, and the whole sky was hid by the falling snow, so that i had to guess at my way to the big road, which was about a half mile from the house. i however pushed ahead and soon got to it, and then pursued it, in the direction to the waggons. i could not have pursued the road if i had not guided myself by the opening it made between the timber, as the snow was too deep to leave any part of it to be known by either seeing or feeling. before i overtook the waggons, the earth was covered about as deep as my knees; and my tracks filled so briskly after me, that by daylight, my dutch master could have seen no trace which i left. i got to the place about an hour before day. i found the waggoners already stirring, and engaged in feeding and preparing their horses for a start. mr. dunn took me in and treated me with great kindness. my heart was more deeply impressed by meeting with such a friend, and "at such a time," than by wading the snow-storm by night, or all the other sufferings which my mind had endured. i warmed myself by the fire, for i was very cold, and after an early breakfast, we set out on our journey. the thoughts of home now began to take the entire possession of my mind, and i almost numbered the sluggish turns of the wheels, and much more certainly the miles of our travel, which appeared to me to count mighty slow. i continued with my kind protectors, until we got to the house of a mr. john cole, on roanoke, when my impatience became so great, that i determined to set out on foot and go ahead by myself, as i could travel twice as fast in that way as the waggons could. mr. dunn seemed very sorry to part with me, and used many arguments to prevent me from leaving him. but home, poor as it was, again rushed on my memory, and it seemed ten times as dear to me as it ever had before. the reason was, that my parents were there, and all that i had been accustomed to in the hours of childhood and infancy was there; and there my anxious little heart panted also to be. we remained at mr. coles that night, and early in the morning i felt that i couldn't stay; so, taking leave of my friends the waggoners, i went forward on foot, until i was fortunately overtaken by a gentleman, who was returning from market, to which he had been with a drove of horses. he had a led horse, with a bridle and saddle on him, and he kindly offered to let me get on his horse and ride him. i did so, and was glad of the chance, for i was tired, and was, moreover, near the first crossing of roanoke, which i would have been compelled to wade, cold as the water was, if i had not fortunately met this good man. i travelled with him in this way, without any thing turning up worth recording, until we got within fifteen miles of my father's house. there we parted, and he went on to kentucky and i trudged on homeward, which place i reached that evening. the name of this kind gentleman i have entirely forgotten, and i am sorry for it; for it deserves a high place in my little book. a remembrance of his kindness to a little straggling boy, and a stranger to him, has however a resting place in my heart, and there it will remain as long as i live. chapter ii. having gotten home, as i have just related, i remained with my father until the next fall, at which time he took it into his head to send me to a little country school, which was kept in the neighbourhood by a man whose name was benjamin kitchen; though i believe he was no way connected with the cabinet. i went four days, and had just began to learn my letters a little, when i had an unfortunate falling out with one of the scholars,--a boy much larger and older than myself. i knew well enough that though the school-house might do for a still hunt, it wouldn't do for _a drive_, and so i concluded to wait until i could get him out, and then i was determined to give him salt and vinegar. i waited till in the evening, and when the larger scholars were spelling, i slip'd out, and going some distance along his road, i lay by the way-side in the bushes, waiting for him to come along. after a while he and his company came on sure enough, and i pitched out from the bushes and set on him like a wild cat. i scratched his face all to a flitter jig, and soon made him cry out for quarters in good earnest. the fight being over, i went on home, and the next morning was started again to school; but do you think i went? no, indeed. i was very clear of it; for i expected the master would lick me up, as bad as i had the boy. so, instead of going to the school-house, i laid out in the woods all day until in the evening the scholars were dismissed, and my brothers, who were also going to school, came along, returning home. i wanted to conceal this whole business from my father, and i therefore persuaded them not to tell on me, which they agreed to. things went on in this way for several days; i starting with them to school in the morning, and returning with them in the evening, but lying out in the woods all day. at last, however, the master wrote a note to my father, inquiring why i was not sent to school. when he read this note, he called me up, and i knew very well that i was in a devil of a hobble, for my father had been taking a few _horns_, and was in a good condition to make the fur fly. he called on me to know why i had not been at school? i told him i was afraid to go, and that the master would whip me; for i knew quite well if i was turned over to this old kitchen, i should be cooked up to a cracklin, in little or no time. but i soon found that i was not to expect a much better fate at home; for my father told me, in a very angry manner, that he would whip me an eternal sight worse than the master, if i didn't start immediately to the school. i tried again to beg off; but nothing would do, but to go to the school. finding me rather too slow about starting, he gathered about a two year old hickory, and broke after me. i put out with all my might, and soon we were both up to the top of our speed. we had a tolerable tough race for about a mile; but mind me, not on the school-house road, for i was trying to get as far the t'other way as possible. and i yet believe, if my father and the schoolmaster could both have levied on me about that time, i should never have been called on to sit in the councils of the nation, for i think they would have used me up. but fortunately for me, about this time, i saw just before me a hill, over which i made headway, like a young steamboat. as soon as i had passed over it, i turned to one side, and hid myself in the bushes. here i waited until the old gentleman passed by, puffing and blowing, as tho' his steam was high enough to burst his boilers. i waited until he gave up the hunt, and passed back again: i then cut out, and went to the house of an acquaintance a few miles off, who was just about to start with a drove. his name was jesse cheek, and i hired myself to go with him, determining not to return home, as home and the school-house had both become too hot for me. i had an elder brother, who also hired to go with the same drove. we set out and went on through abbingdon, and the county seat of withe county, in the state of virginia; and then through lynchburgh, by orange court-house, and charlottesville, passing through what was called chester gap, on to a town called front royal, where my employer sold out his drove to a man by the name of vanmetre; and i was started homeward again, in company with a brother of the first owner of the drove, with one horse between us; having left my brother to come on with the balance of the company. i traveled on with my new comrade about three days' journey; but much to his discredit, as i then thought, and still think, he took care all the time to ride, but never to tie; at last i told him to go ahead, and i would come when i got ready. he gave me four dollars to bear my expenses upwards of four hundred miles, and then cut out and left me. i purchased some provisions, and went on slowly, until at length i fell in with a waggoner, with whom i was disposed to scrape up a hasty acquaintance. i inquired where he lived, and where he was going, and all about his affairs. he informed me that he lived in greenville, tennessee, and was on his way to a place called gerardstown, fifteen miles below winchester. he also said, that after he should make his journey to that place, he would immediately return to tennessee. his name was adam myers, and a jolly good fellow he seemed to be. on a little reflection, i determined to turn back and go with him, which i did; and we journeyed on slowly as waggons commonly do, but merrily enough. i often thought of home, and, indeed, wished bad enough to be there; but, when i thought of the school-house, and kitchen, my master, and the race with my father, and the big hickory he carried, and of the fierceness of the storm of wrath that i had left him in, i was afraid to venture back; for i knew my father's nature so well, that i was certain his anger would hang on to him like a turkle does to a fisherman's toe, and that, if i went back in a hurry, he would give me the devil in three or four ways but i and the waggoner had traveled two days, when we met my brother, who, i before stated, i had left behind when the drove was sold out. he persuaded me to go home, but i refused. he pressed me hard, and brought up a great many mighty strong arguments to induce me to turn back again. he pictured the pleasure of meeting my mother, and my sisters, who all loved me dearly, and told me what uneasiness they had already suffered about me. i could not help shedding tears, which i did not often do, and my affections all pointed back to those dearest friends, and as i thought, nearly the only ones i had in the world; but then the promised whipping--that was the thing. it came right slap down on every thought of home; and i finally determined that make or break, hit or miss, i would just hang on to my journey, and go ahead with the waggoner. my brother was much grieved at our parting, but he went his way, and so did i. we went on until at last we got to gerardstown, where the waggoner tried to get a back load, but he could not without going to alexandria. he engaged to go there, and i concluded that i would wait until he returned. i set in to work for a man by the name of john gray, at twenty-five cents per day. my labour, however, was light, such as ploughing in some small grain, in which i succeeded in pleasing the old man very well. i continued working for him until the waggoner got back, and for a good long time afterwards, as he continued to run his team back and forward, hauling to and from baltimore. in the next spring, from the proceeds of my daily labour, small as it was, i was able to get me some decent clothes, and concluded i would make a trip with the waggoner to baltimore, and see what sort of a place that was, and what sort of folks lived there. i gave him the balance of what money i had for safe keeping, which, as well as i recollect, was about seven dollars. we got on well enough until we came near ellicott's mills. our load consisted of flour, in barrels. here i got into the waggon for the purpose of changing my clothing, not thinking that i was in any danger; but while i was in there we were met by some wheel-barrow men, who were working on the road, and the horses took a scare and away they went, like they had seen a ghost. they made a sudden wheel around, and broke the waggon tongue slap, short off, as a pipe-stem; and snap went both of the axletrees at the same time, and of all devlish flouncing about of flour barrels that ever was seen, i reckon this took the beat. even _a rat_ would have stood a bad chance in a _straight_ race among them, and not much better in a crooked one; for he would have been in a good way to be ground up as fine as ginger by their rolling over him. but this proved to me, that if a fellow is born to be hung, he will never be drowned; and, further, that if he is born for a seat in congress, even flour barrels can't make a mash of him. all these dangers i escaped unhurt, though, like most of the office-holders of these times, for a while i was afraid to say my soul was my own; for i didn't know how soon i should be knocked into a cocked hat, and get my walking papers for another country. we put our load into another waggon, and hauled ours to a workman's shop in baltimore, having delivered the flour, and there we intended to remain two or three days, which time was necessary to repair the runaway waggon. while i was there, i went, one day, down to the wharf, and was much delighted to see the big ships, and their sails all flying; for i had never seen any such things before, and, indeed, i didn't believe there were any such things in all nature. after a short time my curiosity induced me to step aboard of one, where i was met by the captain, who asked me if i didn't wish to take a voyage to london? i told him i did, for by this time i had become pretty well weaned from home, and i cared but little where i was, or where i went, or what become of me. he said he wanted just such a boy as i was, which i was glad to hear. i told him i would go and get my clothes, and go with him. he enquired about my parents, where they lived, and all about them. i let him know that they lived in tennessee, many hundred miles off. we soon agreed about my intended voyage, and i went back to my friend, the waggoner, and informed him that i was going to london, and wanted my money and my clothes. he refused to let me have either, and swore that he would confine me, and take me back to tennessee. i took it to heart very much, but he kept so close and constant a watch over me, that i found it impossible to escape from him, until he had started homeward, and made several days' journey on the road. he was, during this time, very ill to me, and threatened me with his waggon whip on several occasions. at length i resolved to leave him at all hazards; and so, before day, one morning, i got my clothes out of his waggon, and cut out, on foot, without a farthing of money to bear my expenses. for all other friends having failed, i determined then to throw myself on providence, and see how that would use me. i had gone, however, only a few miles when i came up with another waggoner, and such was my situation, that i felt more than ever the necessity of endeavouring to find a friend. i therefore concluded i would seek for one in him. he was going westwardly, and very kindly enquired of me where i was travelling? my youthful resolution, which had brooked almost every thing else, rather gave way at this enquiry; for it brought the loneliness of my situation, and every thing else that was calculated to oppress me, directly to view. my first answer to his question was in a sprinkle of tears, for if the world had been given to me, i could not, at that moment, have helped crying. as soon as the storm of feeling was over, i told him how i had been treated by the waggoner but a little before, who kept what little money i had, and left me without a copper to buy even a morsel of food. he became exceedingly angry, and swore that he would make the other waggoner give up my money, pronouncing him a scoundrel, and many other hard names. i told him i was afraid to see him, for he had threatened me with his waggon whip, and i believed he would injure me. but my new friend was a very large, stout-looking man, and as resolute as a tiger. he bid me not to be afraid, still swearing he would have my money, or whip it out of the wretch who had it. we turned and went back about two miles, when we reached the place where he was. i went reluctantly; but i depended on my friend for protection. when we got there, i had but little to say; but approaching the waggoner, my friend said to him, "you damn'd rascal, you have treated this boy badly." to which he replied, it was my fault. he was then asked, if he did not get seven dollars of my money, which he confessed. it was then demanded of him; but he declared most solemnly, that he had not that amount in the world; that he had spent my money, and intended paying it back to me when we got to tennessee. i then felt reconciled, and persuaded my friend to let him alone, and we returned to his waggon, geared up, and started. his name i shall never forget while my memory lasts; it was henry myers. he lived in pennsylvania, and i found him what he professed to be, a faithful friend and a clever fellow. we traveled together for several days, but at length i concluded to endeavour to make my way homeward; and for that purpose set out again on foot, and alone. but one thing i must not omit. the last night i staid with mr. myers, was at a place where several other waggoners also staid. he told them, before we parted, that i was a poor little straggling boy, and how i had been treated; and that i was without money, though i had a long journey before me, through a land of strangers, where it was not even a wilderness. they were good enough to contribute a sort of money-purse, and presented me with three dollars. on this amount i travelled as far as montgomery court-house, in the state of virginia, where it gave out. i set in to work for a man by the name of james caldwell, a month, for five dollars, which was about a shilling a day. when this time was out, i bound myself to a man by the name of elijah griffith, by trade a hatter, agreeing to work for him four years. i remained with him about eighteen months, when he found himself so involved in debt, that he broke up, and left the country. for this time i had received nothing, and was, of course, left without money, and with but very few clothes, and them very indifferent ones. i, however, set in again, and worked about as i could catch employment, until i got a little money, and some clothing; and once more cut out for home. when i reached new river, at the mouth of a small stream, called little river, the white caps were flying so, that i couldn't get any body to attempt to put me across. i argued the case as well as i could, but they told me there was great danger of being capsized, and drowned, if i attempted to cross. i told them if i could get a canoe i would venture, caps or no caps. they tried to persuade me out of it; but finding they could not, they agreed i might take a canoe, and so i did, and put off. i tied my clothes to the rope of the canoe, to have them safe, whatever might happen. but i found it a mighty ticklish business, i tell you. when i got out fairly on the river, i would have given the world, if it had belonged to me, to have been back on shore. but there was no time to lose now, so i just determined to do the best i could, and the devil take the hindmost. i turned the canoe across the waves, to do which, i had to turn it nearly up the river, as the wind came from that way; and i went about two miles before i could land. when i struck land, my canoe was about half full of water, and i was as wet as a drowned rat. but i was so much rejoiced, that i scarcely felt the cold, though my clothes were frozen on me; and in this situation, i had to go above three miles, before i could find any house, or fire to warm at. i, however, made out to get to one at last, and then i thought i would warm the inside a little, as well as the outside, that there might be no grumbling. so i took "a leetle of the creater,"--that warmer of the cold, and cooler of the hot,--and it made me feel so good that i concluded it was like the negro's rabbit, "good any way." i passed on until i arrived in sullivan county, in the state of tennessee, and there i met with my brother, who had gone with me when i started from home with the cattle drove. i staid with him a few weeks, and then went on to my father's, which place i reached late in the evening. several waggons were there for the night, and considerable company about the house. i enquired if i could stay all night, for i did not intend to make myself known, until i saw whether any of the family would find me out. i was told that i could stay, and went in, but had mighty little to say to any body. i had been gone so long, and had grown so much, that the family did not at first know me. and another, and perhaps a stronger reason was, they had no thought or expectation of me, for they all had long given me up for finally lost. after a while, we were all called to supper. i went with the rest. we had sat down to the table and begun to eat, when my eldest sister recollected me: she sprung up, ran and seized me around the neck, and exclaimed, "here is my lost brother." my feelings at this time it would be vain and foolish for me to attempt to describe. i had often thought i felt before, and i suppose i had, but sure i am, i never had felt as i then did. the joy of my sisters and my mother, and, indeed, of all the family, was such that it humbled me, and made me sorry that i hadn't submitted to a hundred whippings, sooner than cause so much affliction as they had suffered on my account. i found the family had never heard a word of me from the time my brother left me. i was now almost _fifteen_ years old; and my increased age and size, together with the joy of my father, occasioned by my unexpected return, i was sure would secure me against my long dreaded whipping; and so they did. but it will be a source of astonishment to many, who reflect that i am now a member of the american congress,--the most enlightened body of men in the world,--that at so advanced an age, the age of fifteen, i did not know the first letter in the book. chapter iii. i had remained for some short time at home with my father, when he informed me that he owed a man, whose name was abraham wilson, the sum of thirty-six dollars, and that if i would set in and work out the note, so as to lift it for him, he would discharge me from his service, and i might go free. i agreed to do this, and went immediately to the man who held my father's note, and contracted with him to work six months for it. i set in, and worked with all my might, not losing a single day in the six months. when my time was out, i got my father's note, and then declined working with the man any longer, though he wanted to hire me mighty bad. the reason was, it was a place where a heap of bad company met to drink and gamble, and i wanted to get away from them, for i know'd very well if i staid there, i should get a bad name, as nobody could be respectable that would live there. i therefore returned to my father, and gave him up his paper, which seemed to please him mightily, for though he was poor, he was an honest man, and always tried mighty hard to pay off his debts. i next went to the house of an honest old quaker, by the name of john kennedy, who had removed from north carolina, and proposed to hire myself to him, at two shillings a day. he agreed to take me a week on trial; at the end of which he appeared pleased with my work, and informed me that he held a note on my father for forty dollars, and that he would give me that note if i would work for him six months. i was certain enough that i should never get any part of the note; but then i remembered it was my father that owed it, and i concluded it was my duty as a child to help him along, and ease his lot as much as i could. i told the quaker i would take him up at his offer, and immediately went to work. i never visited my father's house during the whole time of this engagement, though he lived only fifteen miles off. but when it was finished, and i had got the note, i borrowed one of my employer's horses, and, on a sunday evening, went to pay my parents a visit. some time after i got there, i pulled out the note and handed it to my father, who supposed mr. kennedy had sent it for collection. the old man looked mighty sorry, and said to me he had not the money to pay it, and didn't know what he should do. i then told him i had paid it for him, and it was then his own; that it was not presented for collection, but as a present from me. at this, he shed a heap of tears; and as soon as he got a little over it, he said he was sorry he couldn't give me any thing, but he was not able, he was too poor. the next day, i went back to my old friend, the quaker, and set in to work for him for some clothes; for i had now worked a year without getting any money at all, and my clothes were nearly all worn out, and what few i had left were mighty indifferent. i worked in this way for about two months; and in that time a young woman from north carolina, who was the quaker's niece, came on a visit to his house. and now i am just getting on a part of my history that i know i never can forget. for though i have heard people talk about hard loving, yet i reckon no poor devil in this world was ever cursed with such hard love as mine has always been, when it came on me. i soon found myself head over heels in love with this girl, whose name the public could make no use of; and i thought that if all the hills about there were pure chink, and all belonged to me, i would give them if i could just talk to her as i wanted to; but i was afraid to begin, for when i would think of saying any thing to her, my heart would begin to flutter like a duck in a puddle; and if i tried to outdo it and speak, it would get right smack up in my throat, and choak me like a cold potatoe. it bore on my mind in this way, till at last i concluded i must die if i didn't broach the subject; and so i determined to begin and hang on a trying to speak, till my heart would get out of my throat one way or t'other. and so one day at it i went, and after several trials i could say a little. i told her how well i loved her; that she was the darling object of my soul and body; and i must have her, or else i should pine down to nothing, and just die away with the consumption. i found my talk was not disagreeable to her; but she was an honest girl, and didn't want to deceive nobody. she told me she was engaged to her cousin, a son of the old quaker. this news was worse to me than war, pestilence, or famine; but still i knowed i could not help myself. i saw quick enough my cake was dough, and i tried to cool off as fast as possible; but i had hardly safety pipes enough, as my love was so hot as mighty nigh to burst my boilers. but i didn't press my claims any more, seeing there was no chance to do any thing. i began now to think, that all my misfortunes growed out of my want of learning. i had never been to school but four days, as the reader has already seen, and did not yet know a letter. i thought i would try to go to school some; and as the quaker had a married son, who was living about a mile and a half from him, and keeping a school, i proposed to him that i would go to school four days in the week, and work for him the other two, to pay my board and schooling. he agreed i might come on those terms; and so at it i went, learning and working back and forwards, until i had been with him nigh on to six months. in this time i learned to read a little in my primer, to write my own name, and to cypher some in the three first rules in figures. and this was all the schooling i ever had in my life, up to this day. i should have continued longer, if it hadn't been that i concluded i couldn't do any longer without a wife; and so i cut out to hunt me one. i found a family of very pretty little girls that i had known when very young. they had lived in the same neighborhood with me, and i had thought very well of them. i made an offer to one of them, whose name is nobody's business, no more than the quaker girl's was, and i found she took it very well. i still continued paying my respects to her, until i got to love her as bad as i had the quaker's niece; and i would have agreed to fight a whole regiment of wild cats if she would only have said she would have me. several months passed in this way, during all of which time she continued very kind and friendly. at last, the son of the old quaker and my first girl had concluded to bring their matter to a close, and my little queen and myself were called on to wait on them. we went on the day, and performed our duty as attendants. this made me worse than ever; and after it was over, i pressed my claim very hard on her, but she would still give me a sort of an evasive answer. however, i gave her mighty little peace, till she told me at last she would have me. i thought this was glorification enough, even without spectacles. i was then about eighteen years old. we fixed the time to be married; and i thought if that day come, i should be the happiest man in the created world, or in the moon, or any where else. i had by this time got to be mighty fond of the rifle, and had bought a capital one. i most generally carried her with me whereever i went, and though i had got back to the old quaker's to live, who was a very particular man, i would sometimes slip out and attend the shooting matches, where they shot for beef; i always tried, though, to keep it a secret from him. he had at the same time a bound boy living with him, who i had gotten into almost as great a notion of the girls as myself. he was about my own age, and was deeply smitten with the sister to my intended wife. i know'd it was in vain to try to get the leave of the old man for my young associate to go with me on any of my courting frolics; but i thought i could fix a plan to have him along, which would not injure the quaker, as we had no notion that he should ever know it. we commonly slept up-stairs, and at the gable end of the house there was a window. so one sunday, when the old man and his family were all gone to meeting, we went out and cut a long pole, and, taking it to the house, we set it up on end in the corner, reaching up the chimney as high as the window. after this we would go up-stairs to bed, and then putting on our sunday clothes, would go out at the window, and climb down the pole, take a horse apiece, and ride about ten miles to where his sweetheart lived, and the girl i claimed as my wife. i was always mighty careful to be back before day, so as to escape being found out; and in this way i continued my attentions very closely until a few days before i was to be married, or at least thought i was, for i had no fear that any thing was about to go wrong. just now i heard of a shooting-match in the neighbourhood, right between where i lived and my girl's house; and i determined to kill two birds with one stone,--to go to the shooting match first, and then to see her. i therefore made the quaker believe i was going to hunt for deer, as they were pretty plenty about in those parts; but, instead of hunting them, i went straight on to the shooting-match, where i joined in with a partner, and we put in several shots for the beef. i was mighty lucky, and when the match was over i had won the whole beef. this was on a saturday, and my success had put me in the finest humour in the world. so i sold my part of the beef for five dollars in the real grit, for i believe that was before bank-notes was invented; at least, i had never heard of any. i now started on to ask for my wife; for, though the next thursday was our wedding day, i had never said a word to her parents about it. i had always dreaded the undertaking so bad, that i had put the evil hour off as long as possible; and, indeed, i calculated they knowed me so well, they wouldn't raise any objection to having me for their son-in-law. i had a great deal better opinion of myself, i found, than other people had of me; but i moved on with a light heart, and my five dollars jingling in my pocket, thinking all the time there was but few greater men in the world than myself. in this flow of good humour i went ahead, till i got within about two miles of the place, when i concluded i would stop awhile at the house of the girl's uncle; where i might enquire about the family, and so forth, and so on. i was indeed just about ready to consider her uncle, my uncle; and her affairs, my affairs. when i went in, tho', i found her sister there. i asked how all was at home? in a minute i found from her countenance something was wrong. she looked mortified, and didn't answer as quick as i thought she ought, being it was her _brother-in-law_ talking to her. however, i asked her again. she then burst into tears, and told me her sister was going to deceive me; and that she was to be married to another man the next day. this was as sudden to me as a clap of thunder of a bright sunshiny day. it was the cap-stone of all the afflictions i had ever met with; and it seemed to me, that it was more than any human creature could endure. it struck me perfectly speechless for some time, and made me feel so weak, that i thought i should sink down. i however recovered from my shock after a little, and rose and started without any ceremony, or even bidding any body good-bye. the young woman followed me out to the gate, and entreated me to go on to her father's, and said she would go with me. she said the young man, who was going to marry her sister, had got his license, and had asked for her; but she assured me her father and mother both preferred me to him; and that she had no doubt but that, if i would go on, i could break off the match. but i found i could go no further. my heart was bruised, and my spirits were broken down; so i bid her farewell, and turned my lonesome and miserable steps back again homeward, concluding that i was only born for hardships, misery, and disappointment. i now began to think, that in making me, it was entirely forgotten to make my mate; that i was born odd, and should always remain so, and that nobody would have me. but all these reflections did not satisfy my mind, for i had no peace day nor night for several weeks. my appetite failed me, and i grew daily worse and worse. they all thought i was sick; and so i was. and it was the worst kind of sickness,--a sickness of the heart, and all the tender parts, produced by disappointed love. chapter iv. i continued in this down-spirited situation for a good long time, until one day i took my rifle and started a hunting. while out, i made a call at the house of a dutch widow, who had a daughter that was well enough as to smartness, but she was as ugly as a stone fence. she was, however, quite talkative, and soon begun to laugh at me about my disappointment. she seemed disposed, though, to comfort me as much as she could; and, for that purpose, told me to keep in good heart, that "there was as good fish in the sea as had ever been caught out of it." i doubted this very much; but whether or not, i was certain that she was not one of them, for she was so homely that it almost give me a pain in the eyes to look at her. but i couldn't help thinking, that she had intended what she had said as a banter for me to court her!!!--the last thing in creation i could have thought of doing. i felt little inclined to talk on the subject, it is true; but, to pass off the time, i told her i thought i was born odd, and that no fellow to me could be found. she protested against this, and said if i would come to their reaping, which was not far off, she would show me one of the prettiest little girls there i had ever seen. she added that the one who had deceived me was nothing to be compared with her. i didn't believe a word of all this, for i had thought that such a piece of flesh and blood as she was had never been manufactured, and never would again. i agreed with her, though, that the little varment had treated me so bad, that i ought to forget her, and yet i couldn't do it. i concluded the best way to accomplish it was to cut out again, and see if i could find any other that would answer me; and so i told the dutch girl i would be at the reaping, and would bring as many as i could with me. i employed my time pretty generally in giving information of it, as far as i could, until the day came; and i then offered to work for my old friend, the quaker, two days, if he would let his bound boy go with me one to the reaping. he refused, and reproved me pretty considerable roughly for my proposition; and said, if he was in my place he wouldn't go; that there would be a great deal of bad company there; and that i had been so good a boy, he would be sorry for me to get a bad name. but i knowed my promise to the dutch girl, and i was resolved to fulfil it; so i shouldered my rifle, and started by myself. when i got to the place, i found a large company of men and women, and among them an old irish woman, who had a great deal to say. i soon found out from my dutch girl, that this old lady was the mother of the little girl she had promised me, though i had not yet seen her. she was in an out-house with some other youngsters, and had not yet made her appearance. her mamma, however, was no way bashful. she came up to me, and began to praise my red cheeks, and said she had a sweetheart for me. i had no doubt she had been told what i come for, and all about it. in the evening i was introduced to her daughter, and i must confess, i was plaguy well pleased with her from the word go. she had a good countenance, and was very pretty, and i was full bent on making up an acquaintance with her. it was not long before the dancing commenced, and i asked her to join me in a reel. she very readily consented to do so; and after we had finished our dance, i took a seat alongside of her, and entered into a talk. i found her very interesting; while i was setting by her, making as good a use of my time as i could, her mother came to us, and very jocularly called me her son-in-law. this rather confused me, but i looked on it as a joke of the old lady, and tried to turn it off as well as i could; but i took care to pay as much attention to her through the evening as i could. i went on the old saying, of salting the cow to catch the calf. i soon become so much pleased with this little girl, that i began to think the dutch girl had told me the truth, when she said there was still good fish in the sea. we continued our frolic till near day, when we joined in some plays, calculated to amuse youngsters. i had not often spent a more agreeable night. in the morning, however, we all had to part; and i found my mind had become much better reconciled than it had been for a long time. i went home to the quaker's, and made a bargain to work with his son for a low-priced horse. he was the first one i had ever owned, and i was to work six months for him. i had been engaged very closely five or six weeks, when this little girl run in my mind so, that i concluded i must go and see her, and find out what sort of people they were at home. i mounted my horse and away i went to where she lived, and when i got there i found her father a very clever old man, and the old woman as talkative as ever. she wanted badly to find out all about me, and as i thought to see how i would do for her girl. i had not yet seen her about, and i began to feel some anxiety to know where she was. in a short time, however, my impatience was relieved, as she arrived at home from a meeting to which she had been. there was a young man with her, who i soon found was disposed to set up claim to her, as he was so attentive to her that i could hardly get to slip in a word edgeways. i began to think i was barking up the wrong tree again; but i was determined to stand up to my rack, fodder or no fodder. and so, to know her mind a little on the subject, i began to talk about starting, as i knowed she would then show some sign, from which i could understand which way the wind blowed. it was then near night, and my distance was fifteen miles home. at this my little girl soon began to indicate to the other gentleman that his room would be the better part of his company. at length she left him, and came to me, and insisted mighty hard that i should not go that evening; and, indeed, from all her actions and the attempts she made to get rid of him, i saw that she preferred me all holler. but it wasn't long before i found trouble enough in another quarter. her mother was deeply enlisted for my rival, and i had to fight against her influence as well as his. but the girl herself was the prize i was fighting for; and as she welcomed me, i was determined to lay siege to her, let what would happen. i commenced a close courtship, having cornered her from her old beau; while he set off, looking on, like a poor man at a country frolic, and all the time almost gritting his teeth with pure disappointment. but he didn't dare to attempt any thing more, for now i had gotten a start, and i looked at him every once in a while as fierce as a wild-cat. i staid with her until monday morning, and then i put out for home. it was about two weeks after this that i was sent for to engage in a wolf hunt, where a great number of men were to meet, with their dogs and guns, and where the best sort of sport was expected. i went as large as life, but i had to hunt in strange woods, and in a part of the country which was very thinly inhabited. while i was out it clouded up, and i began to get scared; and in a little while i was so much so, that i didn't know which way home was, nor any thing about it. i set out the way i thought it was, but it turned out with me, as it always does with a lost man, i was wrong, and took exactly the contrary direction from the right one. and for the information of young hunters, i will just say, in this place, that whenever a fellow gets bad lost, the way home is just the way he don't think it is. this rule will hit nine times out of ten. i went ahead, though, about six or seven miles, when i found night was coming on fast; but at this distressing time i saw a little woman streaking it along through the woods like all wrath, and so i cut on too, for i was determined i wouldn't lose sight of her that night any more. i run on till she saw me, and she stopped; for she was as glad to see me as i was to see her, as she was lost as well as me. when i came up to her, who should she be but my little girl, that i had been paying my respects to. she had been out hunting her father's horses, and had missed her way, and had no knowledge where she was, or how far it was to any house, or what way would take us there. she had been travelling all day, and was mighty tired; and i would have taken her up, and toated her, if it hadn't been that i wanted her just where i could see her all the time, for i thought she looked sweeter than sugar; and by this time i loved her almost well enough to eat her. at last i came to a path, that i know'd must go somewhere, and so we followed it, till we came to a house, at about dark. here we staid all night. i set up all night courting; and in the morning we parted. she went to her home, from which we were distant about seven miles, and i to mine, which was ten miles off. i now turned in to work again; and it was about four weeks before i went back to see her. i continued to go occasionally, until i had worked long enough to pay for my horse, by putting in my gun with my work, to the man i had purchased from; and then i began to count whether i was to be deceived again or not. at our next meeting we set the day for our wedding; and i went to my father's, and made arrangements for an infair, and returned to ask her parents for her. when i got there, the old lady appeared to be mighty wrathy; and when i broached the subject, she looked at me as savage as a meat axe. the old man appeared quite willing, and treated me very clever. but i hadn't been there long, before the old woman as good as ordered me out of her house. i thought i would put her in mind of old times, and see how that would go with her. i told her she had called me her son-in-law before i had attempted to call her my mother-in-law and i thought she ought to cool off. but her irish was up too high to do any thing with her, and so i quit trying. all i cared for was, to have her daughter on my side, which i knowed was the case then; but how soon some other fellow might knock my nose out of joint again, i couldn't tell. i however felt rather insulted at the old lady, and i thought i wouldn't get married in her house. and so i told her girl, that i would come the next thursday, and bring a horse, bridle, and saddle for her, and she must be ready to go. her mother declared i shouldn't have her; but i know'd i should, if somebody else didn't get her before thursday. i then started, bidding them good day, and went by the house of a justice of the peace, who lived on the way to my father's, and made a bargain with him to marry me. when thursday came, all necessary arrangements were made at my father's to receive my wife; and so i took my eldest brother and his wife, and another brother, and a single sister that i had, and two other young men with me, and cut out to her father's house to get her. we went on, until we got within two miles of the place, where we met a large company that had heard of the wedding, and were waiting. some of that company went on with my brother and sister, and the young man i had picked out to wait on me. when they got there, they found the old lady as wrathy as ever. however the old man filled their bottle, and the young men returned in a hurry. i then went on with my company, and when i arrived i never pretended to dismount from my horse, but rode up to the door, and asked the girl if she was ready; and she said she was. i then told her to light on the horse i was leading; and she did so. her father, though, had gone out to the gate, and when i started he commenced persuading me to stay and marry there; that he was entirely willing to the match, and that his wife, like most women, had entirely too much tongue; but that i oughtn't to mind her. i told him if she would ask me to stay and marry at her house, i would do so. with that he sent for her, and after they had talked for some time out by themselves, she came to me and looked at me mighty good, and asked my pardon for what she had said, and invited me stay. she said it was the first child she had ever had to marry; and she couldn't bear to see her go off in that way; that if i would light, she would do the best she could for us. i couldn't stand every thing, and so i agreed, and we got down, and went in. i sent off then for my parson, and got married in a short time; for i was afraid to wait long, for fear of another defeat. we had as good treatment as could be expected; and that night all went on well. the next day we cut out for my father's, where we met a large company of people, that had been waiting a day and a night for our arrival. we passed the time quite merrily, until the company broke up; and having gotten my wife, i thought i was completely made up, and needed nothing more in the whole world. but i soon found this was all a mistake--for now having a wife, i wanted every thing else; and, worse than all, i had nothing to give for it. i remained a few days at my father's, and then went back to my new father-in-law's; where, to my surprise, i found my old irish mother in the finest humour in the world. she gave us two likely cows and calves, which, though it was a small marriage-portion, was still better than i had expected, and, indeed, it was about all i ever got. i rented a small farm and cabin, and went to work; but i had much trouble to find out a plan to get any thing to put in my house. at this time, my good old friend the quaker came forward to my assistance, and gave me an order to a store for fifteen dollars' worth of such things as my little wife might choose. with this, we fixed up pretty grand, as we thought, and allowed to get on very well. my wife had a good wheel, and knowed exactly how to use it. she was also a good weaver, as most of the irish are, whether men or women; and being very industrious with her wheel, she had, in little or no time, a fine web of cloth, ready to make up; and she was good at that too, and at almost any thing else that a woman could do. we worked on for some years, renting ground, and paying high rent, until i found it wan't the thing it was cracked up to be; and that i couldn't make a fortune at it just at all. so i concluded to quit it, and cut out for some new country. in this time we had two sons, and i found i was better at increasing my family than my fortune. it was therefore the more necessary that i should hunt some better place to get along; and as i knowed i would have to move at some time, i thought it was better to do it before my family got too large, that i might have less to carry. the duck and elk river country was just beginning to settle, and i determined to try that. i had now one old horse, and a couple of two year old colts. they were both broke to the halter, and my father-in-law proposed, that, if i went, he would go with me, and take one horse to help me move. so we all fixed up, and i packed my two colts with as many of my things as they could bear; and away we went across the mountains. we got on well enough, and arrived safely in lincoln county, on the head of the mulberry fork of elk river. i found this a very rich country, and so new, that game, of different sorts, was very plenty. it was here that i began to distinguish myself as a hunter, and to lay the foundation for all my future greatness; but mighty little did i know of what sort it was going to be. of deer and smaller game i killed abundance; but the bear had been much hunted in those parts before, and were not so plenty as i could have wished. i lived here in the years and ' , to the best of my recollection, and then i moved to franklin county, and settled on beans creek, where i remained till after the close of the last war. chapter v. i was living ten miles below winchester when the creek war commenced; and as military men are making so much fuss in the world at this time, i must give an account of the part i took in the defence of the country. if it should make me president, why i can't help it; such things will sometimes happen; and my pluck is, never "to seek, nor decline office." it is true, i had a little rather not; but yet, if the government can't get on without taking another president from tennessee, to finish the work of "retrenchment and reform," why, then, i reckon i must go in for it. but i must begin about the war, and leave the other matter for the people to begin on. the creek indians had commenced their open hostilities by a most bloody butchery at fort mimms. there had been no war among us for so long, that but few, who were not too old to bear arms, knew any thing about the business. i, for one, had often thought about war, and had often heard it described; and i did verily believe in my own mind, that i couldn't fight in that way at all; but my after experience convinced me that this was all a notion. for when i heard of the mischief which was done at the fort, i instantly felt like going, and i had none of the dread of dying that i expected to feel. in a few days a general meeting of the militia was called for the purpose of raising volunteers; and when the day arrived for that meeting, my wife, who had heard me say i meant to go to the war, began to beg me not to turn out. she said she was a stranger in the parts where we lived, had no connexions living near her, and that she and our little children would be left in a lonesome and unhappy situation if i went away. it was mighty hard to go against such arguments as these; but my countrymen had been murdered, and i knew that the next thing would be, that the indians would be scalping the women and children all about there, if we didn't put a stop to it. i reasoned the case with her as well as i could, and told her, that if every man would wait till his wife got willing for him to go to war, there would be no fighting done, until we would all be killed in our own houses; that i was as able to go as any man in the world; and that i believed it was a duty i owed to my country. whether she was satisfied with this reasoning or not, she did not tell me; but seeing i was bent on it, all she did was to cry a little, and turn about to her work. the truth is, my dander was up, and nothing but war could bring it right again. i went to winchester, where the muster was to be, and a great many people had collected, for there was as much fuss among the people about the war as there is now about moving the deposites. when the men were paraded, a lawyer by the name of jones addressed us, and closed by turning out himself, and enquiring, at the same time, who among us felt like we could fight indians? this was the same mr. jones who afterwards served in congress, from the state of tennessee. he informed us he wished to raise a company, and that then the men should meet and elect their own officers. i believe i was about the second or third man that step'd out; but on marching up and down the regiment a few times, we found we had a large company. we volunteered for sixty days, as it was supposed our services would not be longer wanted. a day or two after this we met and elected mr. jones our captain, and also elected our other officers. we then received orders to start on the next monday week; before which time, i had fixed as well as i could to go, and my wife had equip'd me as well as she was able for the camp. the time arrived; i took a parting farewell of my wife and my little boys, mounted my horse, and set sail, to join my company. expecting to be gone only a short time, i took no more clothing with me than i supposed would be necessary, so that if i got into an indian battle, i might not be pestered with any unnecessary plunder, to prevent my having a fair shake with them. we all met and went ahead, till we passed huntsville, and camped at a large spring called beaty's spring. here we staid for several days, in which time the troops began to collect from all quarters. at last we mustered about thirteen hundred strong, all mounted volunteers, and all determined to fight, judging from myself, for i felt wolfish all over. i verily believe the whole army was of the real grit. our captain didn't want any other sort; and to try them he several times told his men, that if any of them wanted to go back home, they might do so at any time, before they were regularly mustered into the service. but he had the honour to command all his men from first to last, as not one of them left him. gen'l. jackson had not yet left nashville with his old foot volunteers, that had gone with him to natchez in , the year before. while we remained at the spring, a major gibson came, and wanted some volunteers to go with him across the tennessee river and into the creek nation, to find out the movements of the indians. he came to my captain, and asked for two of his best woods-men, and such as were best with a rifle. the captain pointed me out to him, and said he would be security that i would go as far as the major would himself, or any other man. i willingly engaged to go with him, and asked him to let me choose my own mate to go with me, which he said i might do. i chose a young man by the name of george russell, a son of old major russell, of tennessee. i called him up, but major gibson said he thought he hadn't beard enough to please him,--he wanted men, and not boys. i must confess i was a little nettled at this; for i know'd george russell, and i know'd there was no mistake in him; and i didn't think that courage ought to be measured by the beard, for fear a goat would have the preference over a man. i told the major he was on the wrong scent; that russell could go as far as he could, and i must have him along. he saw i was a little wrathy, and said i had the best chance of knowing, and agreed that it should be as i wanted it. he told us to be ready early in the morning for a start; and so we were. we took our camp equipage, mounted our horses, and, thirteen in number, including the major, we cut out. we went on, and crossed the tennessee river at a place called ditto's landing; and then traveled about seven miles further, and took up camp for the night. here a man by the name of john haynes overtook us. he had been an indian trader in that part of the nation, and was well acquainted with it. he went with us as a pilot. the next morning, however, major gibson and myself concluded we should separate and take different directions to see what discoveries we could make; so he took seven of the men, and i five, making thirteen in all, including myself. he was to go by the house of a cherokee indian, named dick brown, and i was to go by dick's father's; and getting all the information we could, we were to meet that evening where the roads came together, fifteen miles the other side of brown's. at old mr. brown's i got a half blood cherokee to agree to go with me, whose name was jack thompson. he was not then ready to start, but was to fix that evening, and overtake us at the fork road where i was to meet major gibson. i know'd it wouldn't be safe to camp right at the road; and so i told jack, that when he got to the fork he must holler like an owl, and i would answer him in the same way; for i know'd it would be night before he got there. i and my men then started, and went on to the place of meeting, but major gibson was not there. we waited till almost dark, but still he didn't come. we then left the indian trace a little distance, and turning into the head of a hollow, we struck up camp. it was about ten o'clock at night, when i heard my owl, and i answered him. jack soon found us, and we determined to rest there during the night. we staid also next morning till after breakfast: but in vain, for the major didn't still come. i told the men we had set out to hunt a fight, and i wouldn't go back in that way; that we must go ahead, and see what the red men were at. we started, and went to a cherokee town about twenty miles off; and after a short stay there, we pushed on to the house of a man by the name of radcliff. he was a white man, but had married a creek woman, and lived just in the edge of the creek nation. he had two sons, large likely fellows, and a great deal of potatoes and corn, and, indeed, almost every thing else to go on; so we fed our horses and got dinner with him, and seemed to be doing mighty well. but he was bad scared all the time. he told us there had been ten painted warriors at his house only an hour before, and if we were discovered there, they would kill us, and his family with us. i replied to him, that my business was to hunt for just such fellows as he had described, and i was determined not to go back until i had done it. our dinner being over, we saddled up our horses, and made ready to start. but some of my small company i found were disposed to return. i told them, if we were to go back then, we should never hear the last of it; and i was determined to go ahead. i knowed some of them would go with me, and that the rest were afraid to go back by themselves; and so we pushed on to the camp of some of the friendly creeks, which was distant about eight miles. the moon was about the full, and the night was clear; we therefore had the benefit of her light from night to morning, and i knew if we were placed in such danger as to make a retreat necessary, we could travel by night as well as in the day time. we had not gone very far, when we met two negroes, well mounted on indian ponies, and each with a good rifle. they had been taken from their owners by the indians, and were running away from them, and trying to get back to their masters again. they were brothers, both very large and likely, and could talk indian as well as english. one of them i sent on to ditto's landing, the other i took back with me. it was after dark when we got to the camp, where we found about forty men, women, and children. they had bows and arrows, and i turned in to shooting with their boys by a pine light. in this way we amused ourselves very well for a while; but at last the negro, who had been talking to the indians, came to me and told me they were very much alarmed, for the "red sticks," as they called the war party of the creeks, would come and find us there; and, if so, we should all be killed. i directed him to tell them that i would watch, and if one would come that night, i would carry the skin of his head home to make me a mockasin. when he made this communication, the indians laughed aloud. at about ten o'clock at night we all concluded to try to sleep a little; but that our horses might be ready for use, as the treasurer said of the drafts on the united states' bank, on certain "contingences," we tied them up with our saddles on them, and every thing to our hand, if in the night our quarters should get uncomfortable. we lay down with our guns in our arms, and i had just gotten into a dose of sleep, when i heard the sharpest scream that ever escaped the throat of a human creature. it was more like a wrathy painter than any thing else. the negro understood it, and he sprang to me; for tho' i heard the noise well enough, yet i wasn't wide awake enough to get up. so the negro caught me, and said the red sticks was coming. i rose quicker then, and asked what was the matter? our negro had gone and talked with the indian who had just fetched the scream, as he come into camp, and learned from him, that the war party had been crossing the coosa river all day at the ten islands; and were going on to meet jackson, and this indian had come as a runner. this news very much alarmed the friendly indians in camp, and they were all off in a few minutes. i felt bound to make this intelligence known as soon as possible to the army we had left at the landing; and so we all mounted our horses, and put out in a long lope to make our way back to that place. we were about sixty-five miles off. we went on to the same cherokee town we had visited on our way out, having first called at radcliff's, who was off with his family; and at the town we found large fires burning, but not a single indian was to be seen. they were all gone. these circumstances were calculated to lay our dander a little, as it appeared we must be in great danger; though we could easily have licked any force of not more than five to one. but we expected the whole nation would be on us, and against such fearful odds we were not so rampant for a fight. we therefore staid only a short time in the light of the fires about the town, preferring the light of the moon and the shade of the woods. we pushed on till we got again to old mr. brown's, which was still about thirty miles from where we had left the main army. when we got there, the chickens were just at the first crowing for day. we fed our horses, got a morsel to eat ourselves, and again cut out. about ten o'clock in the morning we reached the camp, and i reported to col. coffee the news. he didn't seem to mind my report a bit, and this raised my dander higher than ever; but i knowed i had to be on my best behaviour, and so i kept it all to myself; though i was so mad that i was burning inside like a tar-kiln, and i wonder that the smoke hadn't been pouring out of me at all points. major gibson hadn't yet returned, and we all began to think he was killed; and that night they put out a double guard. the next day the major got in, and brought a worse tale than i had, though he stated the same facts, so far as i went. this seemed to put our colonel all in a fidget; and it convinced me, clearly, of one of the hateful ways of the world. when i made my report, it wasn't believed, because i was no officer; i was no great man, but just a poor soldier. but when the same thing was reported by major gibson!! why, then, it was all as true as preaching, and the colonel believed it every word. he, therefore, ordered breastworks to be thrown up, near a quarter of a mile long, and sent an express to fayetteville, where general jackson and his troops was, requesting them to push on like the very mischief, for fear we should all be cooked up to a cracklin before they could get there. old hickory-face made a forced march on getting the news; and on the next day, he and his men got into camp, with their feet all blistered from the effects of their swift journey. the volunteers, therefore, stood guard altogether, to let them rest. chapter vi. about eight hundred of the volunteers, and of that number i was one, were now sent back, crossing the tennessee river, and on through huntsville, so as to cross the river again at another place, and to get on the indians in another direction. after we passed huntsville, we struck on the river at the muscle shoals, and at a place on them called melton's bluff. this river is here about two miles wide, and a rough bottom; so much so, indeed, in many places, as to be dangerous; and in fording it this time, we left several of the horses belonging to our men, with their feet fast in the crevices of the rocks. the men, whose horses were thus left, went ahead on foot. we pushed on till we got to what was called the black warrior's town, which stood near the very spot where tuscaloosa now stands, which is the seat of government for the state of alabama. this indian town was a large one; but when we arrived we found the indians had all left it. there was a large field of corn standing out, and a pretty good supply in some cribs. there was also a fine quantity of dried beans, which were very acceptable to us; and without delay we secured them as well as the corn, and then burned the town to ashes; after which we left the place. in the field where we gathered the corn we saw plenty of fresh indian tracks, and we had no doubt they had been scared off by our arrival. we then went on to meet the main army at the fork road, where i was first to have met major gibson. we got that evening as far back as the encampment we had made the night before we reached the black warrior's town, which we had just destroyed. the next day we were entirely out of meat. i went to col. coffee, who was then in command of us, and asked his leave to hunt as we marched. he gave me leave, but told me to take mighty good care of myself. i turned aside to hunt, and had not gone far when i found a deer that had just been killed and skinned, and his flesh was still warm and smoking. from this i was sure that the indian who had killed it had been gone only a very few minutes; and though i was never much in favour of one hunter stealing from another, yet meat was so scarce in camp, that i thought i must go in for it. so i just took up the deer on my horse before me, and carried it on till night. i could have sold it for almost any price i would have asked; but this wasn't my rule, neither in peace nor war. whenever i had any thing, and saw a fellow being suffering, i was more anxious to relieve him than to benefit myself. and this is one of the true secrets of my being a poor man to this day. but it is my way; and while it has often left me with an empty purse, which is as near the devil as any thing else i have seen, yet it has never left my heart empty of consolations which money couldn't buy,--the consolations of having sometimes fed the hungry and covered the naked. i gave all my deer away, except a small part i kept for myself, and just sufficient to make a good supper for my mess; for meat was getting to be a rarity to us all. we had to live mostly on parched corn. the next day we marched on, and at night took up camp near a large cane brake. while here, i told my mess i would again try for some meat; so i took my rifle and cut out, but hadn't gone far, when i discovered a large gang of hogs. i shot one of them down in his tracks, and the rest broke directly towards the camp. in a few minutes, the guns began to roar, as bad as if the whole army had been in an indian battle; and the hogs to squeal as bad as the pig did, when the devil turned barber. i shouldered my hog, and went on to the camp; and when i got there i found they had killed a good many of the hogs, and a fine fat cow into the bargain, that had broke out of the cane brake. we did very well that night, and the next morning marched on to a cherokee town, where our officers stop'd, and gave the inhabitants an order on uncle sam for their cow, and the hogs we had killed. the next day we met the main army, having had, as we thought, hard times, and a plenty of them, though we had yet seen hardly the beginning of trouble. after our meeting we went on to radcliff's, where i had been before while out as a spy; and when we got there, we found he had hid all his provisions. we also got into the secret, that he was the very rascal who had sent the runner to the indian camp, with the news that the "red sticks" were crossing at the ten islands; and that his object was to scare me and my men away, and send us back with a false alarm. to make some atonement for this, we took the old scroundrell's two big sons with us, and made them serve in the war. we then marched to a place, which we called camp wills; and here it was that captain cannon was promoted to a colonel, and colonel coffee to a general. we then marched to the ten islands, on the coosa river, where we established a fort; and our spy companies were sent out. they soon made prisoners of bob catala and his warriors, and, in a few days afterwards, we heard of some indians in a town about eight miles off. so we mounted our horses, and put out for that town, under the direction of two friendly creeks we had taken for pilots. we had also a cherokee colonel, dick brown, and some of his men with us. when we got near the town we divided; one of our pilots going with each division. and so we passed on each side of the town, keeping near to it, until our lines met on the far side. we then closed up at both ends, so as to surround it completely; and then we sent captain hammond's company of rangers to bring on the affray. he had advanced near the town, when the indians saw him, and they raised the yell, and came running at him like so many red devils. the main army was now formed in a hollow square around the town, and they pursued hammond till they came in reach of us. we then gave them a fire, and they returned it, and then ran back into their town. we began to close on the town by making our files closer and closer, and the indians soon saw they were our property. so most of them wanted us to take them prisoners; and their squaws and all would run and take hold of any of us they could, and give themselves up. i saw seven squaws have hold of one man, which made me think of the scriptures. so i hollered out the scriptures was fulfilling; that there was seven women holding to one man's coat tail. but i believe it was a hunting-shirt all the time. we took them all prisoners that came out to us in this way; but i saw some warriors run into a house, until i counted forty-six of them. we pursued them until we got near the house, when we saw a squaw sitting in the door, and she placed her feet against the bow she had in her hand, and then took an arrow, and, raising her feet, she drew with all her might, and let fly at us, and she killed a man, whose name, i believe, was moore. he was a lieutenant, and his death so enraged us all, that she was fired on, and had at least twenty balls blown through her. this was the first man i ever saw killed with a bow and arrow. we now shot them like dogs; and then set the house on fire, and burned it up with the forty-six warriors in it. i recollect seeing a boy who was shot down near the house. his arm and thigh was broken, and he was so near the burning house that the grease was stewing out of him. in this situation he was still trying to crawl along; but not a murmur escaped him, though he was only about twelve years old. so sullen is the indian, when his dander is up, that he had sooner die than make a noise, or ask for quarters. the number that we took prisoners, being added to the number we killed, amounted to one hundred and eighty-six; though i don't remember the exact number of either. we had five of our men killed. we then returned to our camp, at which our fort was erected, and known by the name of fort strother. no provisions had yet reached us, and we had now been for several days on half rations. however we went back to our indian town on the next day, when many of the carcasses of the indians were still to be seen. they looked very awful, for the burning had not entirely consumed them, but given them a very terrible appearance, at least what remained of them. it was, somehow or other, found out that the house had a potatoe cellar under it, and an immediate examination was made, for we were all as hungry as wolves. we found a fine chance of potatoes in it, and hunger compelled us to eat them, though i had a little rather not, if i could have helped it, for the oil of the indians we had burned up on the day before had run down on them, and they looked like they had been stewed with fat meat. we then again returned to the army, and remained there for several days almost starving, as all our beef was gone. we commenced eating the beef-hides, and continued to eat every scrap we could lay our hands on. at length an indian came to our guard one night, and hollered, and said he wanted to see "captain jackson." he was conducted to the general's markee, into which he entered, and in a few minutes we received orders to prepare for marching. in an hour we were all ready, and took up the line of march. we crossed the coosa river, and went on in the direction to fort taladega. when we arrived near the place, we met eleven hundred painted warriors, the very choice of the creek nation. they had encamped near the fort, and had informed the friendly indians who were in it, that if they didn't come out, and fight with them against the whites, they would take their fort and all their ammunition and provision. the friendly party asked three days to consider of it, and agreed that if on the third day they didn't come out ready to fight with them, they might take their fort. thus they put them off. they then immediately started their runner to general jackson, and he and the army pushed over, as i have just before stated. the camp of warriors had their spies out, and discovered us coming, some time before we got to the fort. they then went to the friendly indians, and told them captain jackson was coming, and had a great many fine horses, and blankets, and guns, and every thing else; and if they would come out and help to whip him, and to take his plunder, it should all be divided with those in the fort. they promised that when jackson came, they would then come out and help to whip him. it was about an hour by sun in the morning, when we got near the fort. we were piloted by friendly indians, and divided as we had done on a former occasion, so as to go to the right and left of the fort, and, consequently, of the warriors who were camped near it. our lines marched on, as before, till they met in front, and then closed in the rear, forming again into a hollow square. we then sent on old major russell, with his spy company, to bring on the battle; capt. evans' company went also. when they got near the fort, the top of it was lined with the friendly indians, crying out as loud as they could roar, "how-dy-do, brother, how-dy-do?" they kept this up till major russel had passed by the fort, and was moving on towards the warriors. they were all painted as red as scarlet, and were just as naked as they were born. they had concealed themselves under the bank of a branch, that ran partly around the fort, in the manner of a half moon. russel was going right into their circle, for he couldn't see them, while the indians on the top of the fort were trying every plan to show him his danger. but he couldn't understand them. at last, two of them jumped from it, and ran, and took his horse by the bridle, and pointing to where they were, told him there were thousands of them lying under the bank. this brought them to a halt, and about this moment the indians fired on them, and came rushing forth like a cloud of egyptian locusts, and screaming like all the young devils had been turned loose, with the old devil of all at their head. russel's company quit their horses, and took into the fort, and their horses ran up to our line, which was then in full view. the warriors then came yelling on, meeting us, and continued till they were within shot of us, when we fired and killed a considerable number of them. they then broke like a gang of steers, and ran across to our other line, where they were again fired on; and so we kept them running from one line to the other, constantly under a heavy fire, until we had killed upwards of four hundred of them. they fought with guns, and also with their bows and arrows; but at length they made their escape through a part of our line, which was made up of drafted militia, which broke ranks, and they passed. we lost fifteen of our men, as brave fellows as ever lived or died. we buried them all in one grave, and started back to our fort; but before we got there, two more of our men died of wounds they had received; making our total loss seventeen good fellows in that battle. we now remained at the fort a few days, but no provision came yet, and we were all likely to perish. the weather also began to get very cold; and our clothes were nearly worn out, and horses getting very feeble and poor. our officers proposed to gen'l. jackson to let us return home and get fresh horses, and fresh clothing, so as to be better prepared for another campaign; for our sixty days had long been out, and that was the time we entered for. but the general took "the responsibility" on himself, and refused. we were, however, determined to go, as i am to put back the deposites, _if i can_. with this, the general issued his orders against it, as he has against the bank. but we began to fix for a start, as provisions were too scarce; just as clay, and webster, and myself are preparing to fix bank matters, on account of the scarcity of money. the general went and placed his cannon on a bridge we had to cross, and ordered out his regulars and drafted men to keep us from crossing; just as he has planted his globe and k. c. to alarm the bank men, while his regulars and militia in congress are to act as artillery men. but when the militia started to guard the bridge, they would holler back to us to bring their knapsacks along when we come, for they wanted to go as bad as we did; just as many a good fellow now wants his political knapsack brought along, that if, when we come to vote, he sees he has a _fair shake to go_, he may join in and help us to take back the deposites. we got ready and moved on till we came near the bridge, where the general's men were all strung along on both sides, just like the office-holders are now, to keep us from getting along to the help of the country and the people. but we all had our flints ready picked, and our guns ready primed, that if we were fired on we might fight our way through, or all die together; just as we are now determined to save the country from ready ruin, or to sink down with it. when we came still nearer the bridge we heard the guards cocking their guns, and we did the same; just as we have had it in congress, while the "government" regulars and the people's volunteers have all been setting their political triggers. but, after all, we marched boldly on, and not a gun was fired, nor a life lost; just as i hope it will be again, that we shall not be afraid of the general's globe, nor his k. c., nor his regulars, nor their trigger snapping; but just march boldly over the executive bridge, and take the deposites back where the law placed them, and where they ought to be. when we had passed, no further attempt was made to stop us; but the general said, we were "the damned'st volunteers he had ever seen in his life; that we would volunteer and go out and fight, and then at our pleasure would _volunteer_ and go home again, in spite of the devil." but we went on; and near huntsville we met a reinforcement who were going on to join the army. it consisted of a regiment of volunteers, and was under the command of some one whose name i can't remember. they were sixty-day volunteers. we got home pretty safely, and in a short time we had procured fresh horses and a supply of clothing better suited for the season; and then we returned to fort deposite, where our officers held a sort of a "_national convention_" on the subject of a message they had received from general jackson,--demanding that on our return we should serve out _six months_. we had already served three months instead of two, which was the time we had volunteered for. on the next morning the officers reported to us the conclusions they had come to; and told us, if any of us felt bound to go on and serve out the six months, we could do so; but that they intended to go back home. i knowed if i went back home i couldn't rest, for i felt it my duty to be out; and when out was, somehow or other, always delighted to be in the very thickest of the danger. a few of us, therefore, determined to push on and join the army. the number i do not recollect, but it was very small. when we got out there, i joined major russel's company of spies. before we reached the place, general jackson had started. we went on likewise, and overtook him at a place where we established a fort, called fort williams, and leaving men to guard it, we went ahead; intending to go to a place called the horse-shoe bend of the talapoosa river. when we came near that place, we began to find indian sign plenty, and we struck up camp for the night. about two hours before day, we heard our guard firing, and we were all up in little or no time. we mended up our camp fires, and then fell back in the dark, expecting to see the indians pouring in; and intending, when they should do so, to shoot them by the light of our own fires. but it happened that they did not rush in as we had expected, but commenced a fire on us as we were. we were encamped in a hollow square, and we not only returned the fire, but continued to shoot as well as we could in the dark, till day broke, when the indians disappeared. the only guide we had in shooting was to notice the flash of their guns, and then shoot as directly at the place as we could guess. in this scrape we had four men killed, and several wounded; but whether we killed any of the indians or not we never could tell, for it is their custom always to carry off their dead, if they can possibly do so. we buried ours, and then made a large log heap over them, and set it on fire, so that the place of their deposite might not be known to the savages, who, we knew, would seek for them, that they might scalp them. we made some horse litters for our wounded, and took up a retreat. we moved on till we came to a large creek which we had to cross; and about half of our men had crossed, when the indians commenced firing on our left wing, and they kept it up very warmly. we had left major russel and his brother at the camp we had moved from that morning, to see what discovery they could make as to the movements of the indians; and about this time, while a warm fire was kept up on our left, as i have just stated, the major came up in our rear, and was closely pursued by a large number of indians, who immediately commenced a fire on our artillery men. they hid themselves behind a large log, and could kill one of our men almost every shot, they being in open ground and exposed. the worst of all was, two of our colonels just at this trying moment left their men, and by _a forced march_, crossed the creek out of the reach of the fire. their names, at this late day, would do the world no good, and my object is history alone, and not the slightest interference with character. an opportunity was now afforded for governor carroll to distinguish himself, and on this occasion he did so, by greater bravery than i ever saw any other man display. in truth, i believe, as firmly as i do that general jackson is president, that if it hadn't been for carroll, we should all have been genteely licked that time, for we were in a devil of a fix; part of our men on one side of the creek, and part on the other, and the indians all the time pouring it on us, as hot as fresh mustard to a sore shin. i will not say exactly that the old general was whip'd; but i will say, that if we escaped it at all, it was like old henry snider going to heaven, "mita tam tite squeeze." i think he would confess himself, that he was nearer whip'd this time than he was at any other, for i know that all the world couldn't make him acknowledge that he was _pointedly_ whip'd. i know i was mighty glad when it was over, and the savages quit us, for i had begun to think there was one behind every tree in the woods. we buried our dead, the number of whom i have also forgotten; and again made horse litters to carry our wounded, and so we put out, and returned to fort williams, from which place we had started. in the mean time, my horse had got crippled, and was unfit for service, and as another reinforcement had arrived, i thought they could get along without me for a short time; so i got a furlough and went home, for we had had hard times again on this hunt, and i began to feel as though i had done indian fighting enough for one time. i remained at home until after the army had returned to the horse-shoe bend, and fought the battle there. but not being with them at that time, of course no history of that fight can be expected of me. chapter vii. soon after this, an army was to be raised to go to pensacola, and i determined to go again with them, for i wanted a small taste of british fighting, and i supposed they would be there. here again the entreaties of my wife were thrown in the way of my going, but all in vain; for i always had a way of just going ahead, at whatever i had a mind to. one of my neighbours, hearing i had determined to go, came to me, and offered me a hundred dollars to go in his place as a substitute, as he had been drafted. i told him i was better raised than to hire myself out to be shot at; but that i would go, and he should go too, and in that way the government would have the services of us both. but we didn't call general jackson "the government" in those days, though we used to go and fight under him in the war. i fixed up, and joined old major russel again; but we couldn't start with the main army, but followed on, in a little time, after them. in a day or two, we had a hundred and thirty men in our company; and we went over and crossed the muscle shoals at the same place where i had crossed when first out, and when we burned the black warriors' town. we passed through the choctaw and chickesaw nations, on to fort stephens, and from thence to what is called the cut-off, at the junction of the tom-bigby with the alabama river. this place is near the old fort mimms, where the indians committed the great butchery at the commencement of the war. we were here about two days behind the main army, who had left their horses at the cut-off, and taken it on foot; and they did this because there was no chance for forage between there and pensacola. we did the same, leaving men enough to take care of our horses, and cut out on foot for that place. it was about eighty miles off; but in good heart we shouldered our guns, blankets, and provisions, and trudged merrily on. about twelve o'clock the second day, we reached the encampment of the main army, which was situated on a hill, overlooking the city of pensacola. my commander, major russel, was a great favourite with gen'l. jackson, and our arrival was hailed with great applause, though we were a little after the feast; for they had taken the town and fort before we got there. that evening we went down into the town, and could see the british fleet lying in sight of the place. we got some liquor, and took a "horn" or so, and went back to the camp. we remained there that night, and in the morning we marched back towards the cut-off. we pursued this direction till we reached old fort mimms, where we remained two or three days. it was here that major russel was promoted from his command, which was only that of a captain of spies, to the command of a major in the line. he had been known long before at home as old major russel, and so we all continued to call him in the army. a major childs, from east tennessee, also commanded a battalion, and his and the one russel was now appointed to command, composed a regiment, which, by agreement with general jackson, was to quit his army and go to the south, to kill up the indians on the scamby river. general jackson and the main army set out the next morning for new orleans, and a colonel blue took command of the regiment which i have before described. we remained, however, a few days after the general's departure, and then started also on our route. as it gave rise to so much war and bloodshed, it may not be improper here to give a little description of fort mimms, and the manner in which the indian war commenced. the fort was built right in the middle of a large old field, and in it the people had been forted so long and so quietly, that they didn't apprehend any danger at all, and had, therefore, become quite careless. a small negro boy, whose business it was to bring up the calves at milking time, had been out for that purpose, and on coming back, he said he saw a great many indians. at this the inhabitants took the alarm, and closed their gates and placed out their guards, which they continued for a few days. but finding that no attack was made, they concluded the little negro had lied; and again threw their gates open, and set all their hands out to work their fields. the same boy was out again on the same errand, when, returning in great haste and alarm, he informed them that he had seen the indians as thick as trees in the woods. he was not believed, but was tucked up to receive a flogging for the supposed lie; and was actually getting badly licked at the very moment when the indians came in a troop, loaded with rails, with which they stop'd all the port-holes of the fort on one side except the bastion; and then they fell in to cutting down the picketing. those inside the fort had only the bastion to shoot from, as all the other holes were spiked up; and they shot several of the indians, while engaged in cutting. but as fast as one would fall, another would seize up the axe and chop away, until they succeeded in cutting down enough of the picketing to admit them to enter. they then began to rush through, and continued until they were all in. they immediately commenced scalping, without regard to age or sex; having forced the inhabitants up to one side of the fort, where they carried on the work of death as a butcher would in a slaughter pen. the scene was particularly described to me by a young man who was in the fort when it happened, and subsequently went on with us to pensacola. he said that he saw his father, and mother, his four sisters, and the same number of brothers, all butchered in the most shocking manner, and that he made his escape by running over the heads of the crowd, who were against the fort wall, to the top of the fort, and then jumping off, and taking to the woods. he was closely pursued by several indians, until he came to a small byo, across which there was a log. he knew the log was hollow on the under side, so he slip'd under the log and hid himself. he said he heard the indians walk over him several times back and forward. he remained, nevertheless, still till night, when he came out, and finished his escape. the name of this young man has entirely escaped my recollection, though his tale greatly excited my feelings. but to return to my subject. the regiment marched from where gen'l. jackson had left us to fort montgomery, which was distant from fort mimms about a mile and a half, and there we remained for some days. here we supplied ourselves pretty well with beef, by killing wild cattle which had formerly belonged to the people who perished in the fort, but had gone wild after their massacre. when we marched from fort montgomery, we went some distance back towards pensacola; then we turned to the left, and passed through a poor piny country, till we reached the scamby river, near which we encamped. we had about one thousand men, and as a part of that number, one hundred and eighty-six chickesaw and choctaw indians with us. that evening a boat landed from pensacola, bringing many articles that were both good and necessary; such as sugar and coffee, and liquors of all kinds. the same evening, the indians we had along proposed to cross the river, and the officers thinking it might be well for them to do so, consented; and major russell went with them, taking sixteen white men, of which number i was one. we camped on the opposite bank that night, and early in the morning we set out. we had not gone far before we came to a place where the whole country was covered with water, and looked like a sea. we didn't stop for this, tho', but just put in like so many spaniels, and waded on, sometimes up to our armpits, until we reached the pine hills, which made our distance through the water about a mile and a half. here we struck up a fire to warm ourselves, for it was cold, and we were chilled through by being so long in the water. we again moved on, keeping our spies out; two to our left near the bank of the river, two straight before us, and two others on our right. we had gone in this way about six miles up the river, when our spies on the left came to us leaping the brush like so many old bucks, and informed us that they had discovered a camp of creek indians, and that we must kill them. here we paused for a few minutes, and the prophets pow-wowed over their men awhile, and then got out their paint, and painted them, all according to their custom when going into battle. they then brought their paint to old major russell, and said to him, that as he was an officer, he must be painted too. he agreed, and they painted him just as they had done themselves. we let the indians understand that we white men would first fire on the camp, and then fall back, so as to give the indians a chance to rush in and scalp them. the chickasaws marched on our left hand, and the choctaws on our right, and we moved on till we got in hearing of the camp, where the indians were employed in beating up what they called chainy briar root. on this they mostly subsisted. on a nearer approach we found they were on an island, and that we could not get to them. while we were chatting about this matter, we heard some guns fired, and in a very short time after a keen whoop, which satisfied us, that whereever it was, there was war on a small scale. with that we all broke, like quarter horses, for the firing; and when we got there we found it was our two front spies, who related to us the following story:--as they were moving on, they had met with two creeks who were out hunting their horses; as they approached each other, there was a large cluster of green bay bushes exactly between them, so that they were within a few feet of meeting before either was discovered. our spies walked up to them, and speaking in the shawnee tongue, informed them that general jackson was at pensacola, and they were making their escape, and wanted to know where they could get something to eat. the creeks told them that nine miles up the conaker, the river they were then on, there was a large camp of creeks, and they had cattle and plenty to eat; and further, that their own camp was on an island about a mile off, and just below the mouth of the conaker. they held their conversation and struck up a fire, and smoked together, and shook hands, and parted. one of the creeks had a gun, the other had none; and as soon as they had parted, our choctaws turned round and shot down the one that had the gun, and the other attempted to run off. they snapped several times at him, but the gun still missing fire, they took after him, and overtaking him, one of them struck him over the head with his gun, and followed up his blows till he killed him. the gun was broken in the combat, and they then fired off the gun of the creek they had killed, and raised the war-whoop. when we reached them, they had cut off the heads of both the indians; and each of those indians with us would walk up to one of the heads, and taking his war club would strike on it. this was done by every one of them; and when they had got done, i took one of their clubs, and walked up as they had done, and struck it on the head also. at this they all gathered round me, and patting me on the shoulder, would call me "warrior--warrior." they scalped the heads, and then we moved on a short distance to where we found a trace leading in towards the river. we took this trace and pursued it, till we came to where a spaniard had been killed and scalped, together with a woman, who we supposed to be his wife, and also four children. i began to feel mighty ticklish along about this time, for i knowed if there was no danger then, there had been; and i felt exactly like there still was. we, however, went on till we struck the river, and then continued down it till we came opposite to the indian camp, where we found they were still beating their roots. it was now late in the evening, and they were in a thick cane brake. we had some few friendly creeks with us, who said they could decoy them. so we all hid behind trees and logs, while the attempt was made. the indians would not agree that we should fire, but pick'd out some of their best gunners, and placed them near the river. our creeks went down to the river's side, and hailed the camp in the creek language. we heard an answer, and an indian man started down towards the river, but didn't come in sight. he went back and again commenced beating his roots, and sent a squaw. she came down, and talked with our creeks until dark came on. they told her they wanted her to bring them a canoe. to which she replied, that their canoe was on our side; that two of their men had gone out to hunt their horses and hadn't yet returned. they were the same two we had killed. the canoe was found, and forty of our picked indian warriors were crossed over to take the camp. there was at last only one man in it, and he escaped; and they took two squaws, and ten children, but killed none of them, of course. we had run nearly out of provisions, and major russell had determined to go up the conaker to the camp we had heard of from the indians we had killed. i was one that he selected to go down the river that night for provisions, with the canoe, to where we had left our regiment. i took with me a man by the name of john guess, and one of the friendly creeks, and cut out. it was very dark, and the river was so full that it overflowed the banks and the adjacent low bottoms. this rendered it very difficult to keep the channel, and particularly as the river was very crooked. at about ten o'clock at night we reached the camp, and were to return by morning to major russell, with provisions for his trip up the river; but on informing colonel blue of this arrangement, he vetoed it as quick as general jackson did the bank bill; and said, if major russell didn't come back the next day, it would be bad times for him. i found we were not to go up the conaker to the indian camp, and a man of my company offered to go up in my place to inform major russell. i let him go; and they reached the major, as i was told, about sunrise in the morning, who immediately returned with those who were with him to the regiment, and joined us where we crossed the river, as hereafter stated. the next morning we all fixed up, and marched down the scamby to a place called miller's landing, where we swam our horses across, and sent on two companies down on the side of the bay opposite to pensacola, where the indians had fled when the main army first marched to that place. one was the company of captain william russell, a son of the old major, and the other was commanded by a captain trimble. they went on, and had a little skirmish with the indians. they killed some, and took all the balance prisoners, though i don't remember the numbers. we again met those companies in a day or two, and sent the prisoners they had taken on to fort montgomery, in charge of some of our indians. i did hear, that after they left us, the indians killed and scalped all the prisoners, and i never heard the report contradicted. i cannot positively say it was true, but i think it entirely probable, for it is very much like the indian character. chapter viii. when we made a move from the point where we met the companies, we set out for chatahachy, the place for which we had started when we left fort montgomery. at the start we had taken only twenty days' rations of flour, and eight days' rations of beef; and it was now thirty-four days before we reached that place. we were, therefore, in extreme suffering for want of something to eat, and exhausted with our exposure and the fatigues of our journey. i remember well, that i had not myself tasted bread but twice in nineteen days. i had bought a pretty good supply of coffee from the boat that had reached us from pensacola, on the scamby, and on that we chiefly subsisted. at length, one night our spies came in, and informed us they had found holm's village on the chatahachy river; and we made an immediate push for that place. we traveled all night, expecting to get something to eat when we got there. we arrived about sunrise, and near the place prepared for battle. we were all so furious, that even the certainty of a pretty hard fight could not have restrained us. we made a furious charge on the town, but to our great mortification and surprise, there wasn't a human being in it. the indians had all run off and left it. we burned the town, however; but, melancholy to tell, we found no provision whatever. we then turned about, and went back to the camp we had left the night before, as nearly starved as any set of poor fellows ever were in the world. we staid there only a little while, when we divided our regiment; and major childs, with his men, went back the way we had come for a considerable distance, and then turned to baton rouge, where they joined general jackson and the main army on their return from orleans. major russell and his men struck for fort decatur, on the talapoosa river. some of our friendly indians, who knew the country, went on ahead of us, as we had no trail except the one they made to follow. with them we sent some of our ablest horses and men, to get us some provisions, to prevent us from absolutely starving to death. as the army marched, i hunted every day, and would kill every hawk, bird, and squirrel that i could find. others did the same; and it was a rule with us, that when we stop'd at night, the hunters would throw all they killed in a pile, and then we would make a general division among all the men. one evening i came in, having killed nothing that day. i had a very sick man in my mess, and i wanted something for him to eat, even if i starved myself. so i went to the fire of a captain cowen, who commanded my company after the promotion of major russell, and informed him that i was on the hunt of something for a sick man to eat. i knowed the captain was as bad off as the rest of us, but i found him broiling a turkey's gizzard. he said he had divided the turkey out among the sick, that major smiley had killed it, and that nothing else had been killed that day. i immediately went to smiley's fire, where i found him broiling another gizzard. i told him, that it was the first turkey i had ever seen have two gizzards. but so it was, i got nothing for my sick man. and now seeing that every fellow must shift for himself, i determined that in the morning, i would come up missing; so i took my mess and cut out to go ahead of the army. we know'd that nothing more could happen to us if we went than if we staid, for it looked like it was to be starvation any way; we therefore determined to go on the old saying, root hog or die. we passed two camps, at which our men, that had gone on before us, had killed indians. at one they had killed nine, and at the other three. about daylight we came to a small river, which i thought was the scamby; but we continued on for three days, killing little or nothing to eat; till, at last, we all began to get nearly ready to give up the ghost, and lie down and die; for we had no prospect of provision, and we knew we couldn't go much further without it. we came to a large prairie, that was about six miles across it, and in this i saw a trail which i knowed was made by bear, deer, and turkeys. we went on through it till we came to a large creek, and the low grounds were all set over with wild rye, looking as green as a wheat field. we here made a halt, unsaddled our horses, and turned them loose to graze. one of my companions, a mr. vanzant, and myself, then went up the low grounds to hunt. we had gone some distance, finding nothing; when at last, i found a squirrel; which i shot, but he got into a hole in the tree. the game was small, but necessity is not very particular; so i thought i must have him, and i climbed that tree thirty feet high, without a limb, and pulled him out of his hole. i shouldn't relate such small matters, only to show what lengths a hungry man will go to, to get something to eat. i soon killed two other squirrels, and fired at a large hawk. at this a large gang of turkeys rose from the cane brake, and flew across the creek to where my friend was, who had just before crossed it. he soon fired on a large gobler, and i heard it fall. by this time my gun was loaded again, and i saw one sitting on my side of the creek, which had flew over when he fired; so i blazed away, and down i brought him. i gathered him up, and a fine turkey he was. i now began to think we had struck a breeze of luck, and almost forgot our past sufferings, in the prospect of once more having something to eat. i raised the shout, and my comrade came to me, and we went on to our camp with the game we had killed. while we were gone, two of our mess had been out, and each of them had found a bee tree. we turned into cooking some of our game, but we had neither salt nor bread. just at this moment, on looking down the creek, we saw our men, who had gone on before us for provisions, coming to us. they came up, and measured out to each man a cupfull of flower. with this, we thickened our soup, when our turkey was cooked, and our friends took dinner with us, and then went on. we now took our tomahawks, and went and cut our bee-trees, out of which we got a fine chance of honey; though we had been starving so long that we feared to eat much at a time, till, like the irish by hanging, we got used to it again. we rested that night without moving our camp; and the next morning myself and vanzant again turned out to hunt. we had not gone far, before i wounded a fine buck very badly; and while pursuing him, i was walking on a large tree that had fallen down, when from the top of it, a large bear broke out and ran off. i had no dogs, and i was sorry enough for it; for of all the hunting i ever did, i have always delighted most in bear hunting. soon after this, i killed a large buck; and we had just gotten him to camp, when our poor starved army came up. they told us, that to lessen their sufferings as much as possible, captain william russell had had his horse led up to be shot for them to eat, just at the moment that they saw our men returning, who had carried on the flour. we were now about fourteen miles from fort decatur, and we gave away all our meat, and honey, and went on with the rest of the army. when we got there, they could give us only one ration of meat, but not a mouthful of bread. i immediately got a canoe, and taking my gun, crossed over the river, and went to the big warrior's town. i had a large hat, and i offered an indian a silver dollar for my hat full of corn. he told me that his corn was all "_shuestea_," which in english means, it was all gone. but he showed me where an indian lived, who, he said, had corn. i went to him, and made the same offer. he could talk a little broken english, and said to me, "you got any powder? you got bullet?" i told him i had. he then said, "me swap my corn, for powder and bullet." i took out about ten bullets, and showed him; and he proposed to give me a hat full of corn for them. i took him up, mighty quick. i then offered to give him ten charges of powder for another hat full of corn. to this he agreed very willingly. so i took off my hunting-shirt, and tied up my corn; and though it had cost me very little of my powder and lead, yet i wouldn't have taken fifty silver dollars for it. i returned to the camp, and the next morning we started for the hickory ground, which was thirty miles off. it was here that general jackson met the indians, and made peace with the body of the nation. we got nothing to eat at this place, and we had yet to go forty-nine miles, over a rough and wilderness country, to fort williams. parched corn, and but little even of that, was our daily subsistence. when we reached fort williams, we got one ration of pork and one of flour, which was our only hope until we could reach fort strother. the horses were now giving out, and i remember to have seen thirteen good horses left in one day, the saddles and bridles being thrown away. it was thirty-nine miles to fort strother, and we had to pass directly by fort talladego, where we first had the big indian battle with the eleven hundred painted warriors. we went through the old battle ground, and it looked like a great gourd patch; the sculls of the indians who were killed still lay scattered all about, and many of their frames were still perfect, as the bones had not separated. but about five miles before we got to this battle ground, i struck a trail, which i followed until it led me to one of their towns. here i swap'd some more of my powder and bullets for a little corn. i pursued on, by myself, till some time after night, when i came up with the rest of the army. that night my company and myself did pretty well, as i divided out my corn among them. the next morning we met the east tennessee troops, who were on their road to mobile, and my youngest brother was with them. they had plenty of corn and provisions, and they gave me what i wanted for myself and my horse. i remained with them that night, though my company went across the coosa river to the fort, where they also had the good fortune to find plenty of provisions. next morning, i took leave of my brother and all my old neighbours, for there were a good many of them with him, and crossed over to my men at the fort. here i had enough to go on, and after remaining a few days, cut out for home. nothing more, worthy of the reader's attention, transpired till i was safely landed at home once more with my wife and children. i found them all well and doing well; and though i was only a rough sort of a backwoodsman, they seemed mighty glad to see me, however little the quality folks might suppose it. for i do reckon we love as hard in the backwood country, as any people in the whole creation. but i had been home only a few days, when we received orders to start again, and go on to the black warrior and cahawba rivers, to see if there was no indians there. i know'd well enough there was none, and i wasn't willing to trust my craw any more where there was neither any fighting to do, nor any thing to go on; and so i agreed to give a young man, who wanted to go, the balance of my wages if he would serve out my time, which was about a month. he did so, and when they returned, sure enough they hadn't seen an indian any more than if they had been all the time chopping wood in my clearing. this closed my career as a warrior, and i am glad of it, for i like life now a heap better than i did then; and i am glad all over that i lived to see these times, which i should not have done if i had kept fooling along in war, and got used up at it. when i say i am glad, i just mean i am glad i am alive, for there is a confounded heap of things i an't glad of at all. i an't glad, for example, that the "government" moved the deposites, and if my military glory should take such a turn as to make me president after the general's time, i'll move them back; yes, i, the "government," will "take the responsibility," and move them back again. if i don't, i wish i may be shot. but i am glad that i am now through war matters, and i reckon the reader is too, for they have no fun in them at all; and less if he had had to pass through them first, and then to write them afterwards. but for the dullness of their narrative, i must try to make amends by relating some of the curious things that happened to me in private life, and when _forced_ to become a public man, as i shall have to be again, if ever i consent to take the presidential chair. chapter ix. i continued at home now, working my farm for two years, as the war finally closed soon after i quit the service. the battle at new orleans had already been fought, and treaties were made with the indians which put a stop to their hostilities. but in this time, i met with the hardest trial which ever falls to the lot of man. death, that cruel leveller of all distinctions,--to whom the prayers and tears of husbands, and of even helpless infancy, are addressed in vain,--entered my humble cottage, and tore from my children an affectionate good mother, and from me a tender and loving wife. it is a scene long gone by, and one which it would be supposed i had almost forgotten; yet when i turn my memory back on it, it seems as but the work of yesterday. it was the doing of the almighty, whose ways are always right, though we sometimes think they fall heavily on us; and as painful as is even yet the remembrance of her sufferings, and the loss sustained by my little children and myself, yet i have no wish to lift up the voice of complaint. i was left with three children; the two oldest were sons, the youngest a daughter, and, at that time, a mere infant. it appeared to me, at that moment, that my situation was the worst in the world. i couldn't bear the thought of scattering my children, and so i got my youngest brother, who was also married, and his family to live with me. they took as good care of my children as they well could, but yet it wasn't all like the care of a mother. and though their company was to me in every respect like that of a brother and sister, yet it fell far short of being like that of a wife. so i came to the conclusion it wouldn't do, but that i must have another wife. there lived in the neighbourhood, a widow lady whose husband had been killed in the war. she had two children, a son and daughter, and both quite small, like my own. i began to think, that as we were both in the same situation, it might be that we could do something for each other; and i therefore began to hint a little around the matter, as we were once and a while together. she was a good industrious woman, and owned a snug little farm, and lived quite comfortable. i soon began to pay my respects to her in real good earnest; but i was as sly about it as a fox when he is going to rob a hen-roost. i found that my company wasn't at all disagreeable to her; and i thought i could treat her children with so much friendship as to make her a good stepmother to mine, and in this i wan't mistaken, as we soon bargained, and got married, and then went ahead. in a great deal of peace we raised our first crop of children, and they are all married and doing well. but we had a second crop together; and i shall notice them as i go along, as my wife and myself both had a hand in them, and they therefore belong to the history of my second marriage. the next fall after this marriage, three of my neighbours and myself determined to explore a new country. their names were robinson, frazier, and rich. we set out for the creek country, crossing the tennessee river; and after having made a day's travel, we stop'd at the house of one of my old acquaintances, who had settled there after the war. resting here a day, frazier turned out to hunt, being a great hunter; but he got badly bit by a very poisonous snake, and so we left him and went on. we passed through a large rich valley, called jones's valley, where several other families had settled, and continued our course till we came near to the place where tuscaloosa now stands. here we camped, as there were no inhabitants, and hobbled out our horses for the night. about two hours before day, we heard the bells on our horses going back the way we had come, as they had started to leave us. as soon as it was daylight, i started in pursuit of them on foot, and carrying my rifle, which was a very heavy one. i went ahead the whole day, wading creeks and swamps, and climbing mountains; but i couldn't overtake our horses, though i could hear of them at every house they passed. i at last found i couldn't catch up with them, and so i gave up the hunt, and turned back to the last house i had passed, and staid there till morning. from the best calculation we could make, i had walked over fifty miles that day; and the next morning i was so sore, and fatigued, that i felt like i couldn't walk any more. but i was anxious to get back to where i had left my company, and so i started and went on, but mighty slowly, till after the middle of the day. i now began to feel mighty sick, and had a dreadful head-ache. my rifle was so heavy, and i felt so weak, that i lay down by the side of the trace, in a perfect wilderness too, to see if i wouldn't get better. in a short time some indians came along. they had some ripe melons, and wanted me to eat some, but i was so sick i couldn't. they then signed to me, that i would die, and be buried; a thing i was confoundedly afraid of myself. but i asked them how near it was to any house? by their signs, again, they made me understand it was a mile and a half. i got up to go; but when i rose, i reeled about like a cow with the blind staggers, or a fellow who had taken too many "horns." one of the indians proposed to go with me, and carry my gun. i gave him half a dollar, and accepted his offer. we got to the house, by which time i was pretty far gone, but was kindly received, and got on to a bed. the woman did all she could for me with her warm teas, but i still continued bad enough, with a high fever, and generally out of my senses. the next day two of my neighbours were passing the road, and heard of my situation, and came to where i was. they were going nearly the route i had intended to go, to look at the country; and so they took me first on one of their horses, and then on the other, till they got me back to where i had left my company. i expected i would get better, and be able to go on with them, but, instead of this, i got worse and worse; and when we got there, i wan't able to sit up at all. i thought now the jig was mighty nigh up with me, but i determined to keep a stiff upper lip. they carried me to a house, and each of my comrades bought him a horse, and they all set out together, leaving me behind. i knew but little that was going on for about two weeks; but the family treated me with every possible kindness in their power, and i shall always feel thankful to them. the man's name was jesse jones. at the end of two weeks i began to mend without the help of a doctor, or of any doctor's means. in this time, however, as they told me, i was speechless for five days, and they had no thought that i would ever speak again,--in congress or any where else. and so the woman, who had a bottle of batesman's draps, thought if they killed me, i would only die any how, and so she would try it with me. she gave me the whole bottle, which throwed me into a sweat that continued on me all night; when at last i seemed to make up, and spoke, and asked her for a drink of water. this almost alarmed her, for she was looking every minute for me to die. she gave me the water, and, from that time, i began slowly to mend, and so kept on till i was able at last to walk about a little. i might easily have been mistaken for one of the kitchen cabinet, i looked so much like a ghost. i have been particular in giving a history of this sickness, not because i believe it will interest any body much now, nor, indeed, do i _certainly_ know that it ever will. but if i should be forced to take the "white house," then it will be good history; and every one will look on it as important. and i can't, for my life, help laughing now, to think, that when all my folks get around me, wanting good fat offices, how so many of them will say, "what a good thing it was that that kind woman had the bottle of draps, that saved president crockett's life,--the second greatest and best"!!!!! good, says i, my noble fellow! you take the post office; or the navy; or the war office; or may-be the treasury. but if i give him the treasury, there's no devil if i don't make him agree first to fetch back them deposites. and if it's even the post office, i'll make him promise to keep his money 'counts without any figuring, as that throws the whole concern heels over head in debt, in little or no time. but when i got so i could travel a little, i got a waggoner who was passing along to hawl me to where he lived, which was about twenty miles from my house. i still mended as we went along, and when we got to his stopping place, i hired one of his horses, and went on home. i was so pale, and so much reduced, that my face looked like it had been half soled with brown paper. when i got there, it was to the utter astonishment of my wife; for she supposed i was dead. my neighbours who had started with me had returned and took my horse home, which they had found with their's; and they reported that they had seen men who had helped to bury me; and who saw me draw my last breath. i know'd this was a whapper of a lie, as soon as i heard it. my wife had hired a man, and sent him out to see what had become of my money and other things; but i had missed the man as i went in, and he didn't return until some time after i got home, as he went all the way to where i lay sick, before he heard that i was still in the land of the living and a-kicking. the place on which i lived was sickly, and i was determined to leave it. i therefore set out the next fall to look at the country which had been purchased of the chickasaw tribe of indians. i went on to a place called shoal creek, about eighty miles from where i lived, and here again i got sick. i took the ague and fever, which i supposed was brought on me by camping out. i remained here for some time, as i was unable to go farther; and in that time, i became so well pleased with the country about there, that i resolved to settle in it. it was just only a little distance in the purchase, and no order had been established there; but i thought i could get along without order as well as any body else. and so i moved and settled myself down on the head of shoal creek. we remained here some two or three years, without any law at all; and so many bad characters began to flock in upon us, that we found it necessary to set up a sort of temporary government of our own. i don't mean that we made any president, and called him the "government," but we met and made what we called a corporation; and i reckon we called _it_ wrong, for it wa'n't a bank, and hadn't any deposites; and now they call the bank a corporation. but be this as it may, we lived in the back-woods, and didn't profess to know much, and no doubt used many wrong words. but we met, and appointed magistrates and constables to keep order. we didn't fix any laws for them, tho'; for we supposed they would know law enough, whoever they might be; and so we left it to themselves to fix the laws. i was appointed one of the magistrates; and when a man owed a debt, and wouldn't pay it, i and my constable ordered our warrant, and then he would take the man, and bring him before me for trial. i would give judgment against him, and then an order of an execution would easily scare the debt out of him. if any one was charged with marking his neighbour's hogs, or with stealing any thing, which happened pretty often in those days,--i would have him taken, and if there was tolerable grounds for the charge, i would have him well whip'd and cleared. we kept this up till our legislature added us to the white settlements in giles county; and appointed magistrates by law, to organize matters in the parts where i lived. they appointed nearly every man a magistrate who had belonged to our corporation. i was then, of course, made a squire according to law; though now the honour rested more heavily on me than before. for, at first, whenever i told my constable, says i--"catch that fellow, and bring him up for trial"--away he went, and the fellow must come, dead or alive; for we considered this a good warrant, though it was only in verbal writings. but after i was appointed by the assembly, they told me, my warrants must be in real writing, and signed; and that i must keep a book, and write my proceedings in it. this was a hard business on me, for i could just barely write my own name; but to do this, and write the warrants too, was at least a huckleberry over my persimmon. i had a pretty well informed constable, however; and he aided me very much in this business. indeed i had so much confidence in him, that i told him, when we should happen to be out anywhere, and see that a warrant was necessary, and would have a good effect, he need'nt take the trouble to come all the way to me to get one, but he could just fill out one; and then on the trial i could correct the whole business if he had committed any error. in this way i got on pretty well, till by care and attention i improved my handwriting in such manner as to be able to prepare my warrants, and keep my record book, without much difficulty. my judgments were never appealed from, and if they had been they would have stuck like wax, as i gave my decisions on the principles of common justice and honesty between man and man, and relied on natural born sense, and not on law, learning to guide me; for i had never read a page in a law book in all my life. chapter x. about the time we were getting under good headway in our new government, a capt. matthews came to me and told me he was a candidate for the office of colonel of a regiment, and that i must run for first major in the same regiment. i objected to this, telling him that i thought i had done my share of fighting, and that i wanted nothing to do with military appointments. he still insisted, until at last i agreed, and of course had every reason to calculate on his support in my election. he was an early settler in that country, and made rather more corn than the rest of us; and knowing it would afford him a good opportunity to electioneer a little, he made a great corn husking, and a great frolic, and gave a general treat, asking every body over the whole country. myself and my family were, of course, invited. when i got there, i found a very large collection of people, and some friend of mine soon informed me that the captain's son was going to offer against me for the office of major, which he had seemed so anxious for me to get. i cared nothing about the office, but it put my dander up high enough to see, that after he had pressed me so hard to offer, he was countenancing, if not encouraging, a secret plan to beat me. i took the old gentleman out, and asked him about it. he told me it was true his son was going to run as a candidate, and that he hated worse to run against me than any man in the county. i told him his son need give himself no uneasiness about that; that i shouldn't run against him for major, but against his daddy for colonel. he took me by the hand, and we went into the company. he then made a speech, and informed the people that i was his opponent. i mounted up for a speech too. i told the people the cause of my opposing him, remarking that as i had the whole family to run against any way, i was determined to levy on the head of the mess. when the time for the election came, his son was opposed by another man for major; and he and his daddy were both badly beaten. i just now began to take a rise, as in a little time i was asked to offer for the legislature in the counties of lawrence and heckman. i offered my name in the month of february, and started about the first of march with a drove of horses to the lower part of the state of north carolina. this was in the year , and i was gone upwards of three months. i returned, and set out electioneering, which was a bran-fire new business to me. it now became necessary that i should tell the people something about the government, and an eternal sight of other things that i knowed nothing more about than i did about latin, and law, and such things as that. i have said before that in those days none of us called gen'l. jackson the government, nor did he seem in as fair a way to become so as i do now; but i knowed so little about it, that if any one had told me he was "the government," i should have believed it, for i had never read even a newspaper in my life, or any thing else, on the subject. but over all my difficulties, it seems to me i was born for luck, though it would be hard for any one to guess what sort. i will, however, explain that hereafter. i went first into heckman county, to see what i could do among the people as a candidate. here they told me that they wanted to move their town nearer to the centre of the county, and i must come out in favour of it. there's no devil if i knowed what this meant, or how the town was to be moved; and so i kept dark, going on the identical same plan that i now find is called "_non-committal_." about this time there was a great squirrel hunt on duck river, which was among my people. they were to hunt two days: then to meet and count the scalps, and have a big barbecue, and what might be called a tip-top country frolic. the dinner, and a general treat, was all to be paid for by the party having taken the fewest scalps. i joined one side, taking the place of one of the hunters, and got a gun ready for the hunt. i killed a great many squirrels, and when we counted scalps, my party was victorious. the company had every thing to eat and drink that could be furnished in so new a country, and much fun and good humour prevailed. but before the regular frolic commenced, i mean the dancing, i was called on to make a speech as a candidate; which was a business i was as ignorant of as an outlandish negro. a public document i had never seen, nor did i know there were such things; and how to begin i couldn't tell. i made many apologies, and tried to get off, for i know'd i had a man to run against who could speak prime, and i know'd, too, that i wa'n't able to shuffle and cut with him. he was there, and knowing my ignorance as well as i did myself, he also urged me to make a speech. the truth is, he thought my being a candidate was a mere matter of sport; and didn't think, for a moment, that he was in any danger from an ignorant back-woods bear hunter. but i found i couldn't get off, and so i determined just to go ahead, and leave it to chance what i should say. i got up and told the people, i reckoned they know'd what i come for, but if not, i could tell them. i had come for their votes, and if they didn't watch mighty close, i'd get them too. but the worst of all was, that i couldn't tell them any thing about government. i tried to speak about something, and i cared very little what, until i choaked up as bad as if my mouth had been jam'd and cram'd chock full of dry mush. there the people stood, listening all the while, with their eyes, mouths and ear all open, to catch every word i would speak. at last i told them i was like a fellow i had heard of not long before. he was beating on the head of an empty barrel near the road-side, when a traveler, who was passing along, asked him what he was doing that for? the fellow replied, that there was some cider in that barrel a few days before, and he was trying to see if there was any then, but if there was he couldn't get at it. i told them that there had been a little bit of a speech in me a while ago, but i believed i couldn't get it out. they all roared out in a mighty laugh, and i told some other anecdotes, equally amusing to them, and believing i had them in a first-rate way, i quit and got down, thanking the people for their attention. but i took care to remark that i was as dry as a powder horn, and that i thought it was time for us all to wet our whistles a little; and so i put off to the liquor stand, and was followed by the greater part of the crowd. i felt certain this was necessary, for i knowed my competitor could open government matters to them as easy as he pleased. he had, however, mighty few left to hear him, as i continued with the crowd, now and then taking a horn, and telling good humoured stories, till he was done speaking. i found i was good for the votes at the hunt, and when we broke up, i went on to the town of vernon, which was the same they wanted me to move. here they pressed me again on the subject, and i found i could get either party by agreeing with them. but i told them i didn't know whether it would be right or not, and so couldn't promise either way. their court commenced on the next monday, as the barbacue was on a saturday, and the candidates for governor and for congress, as well as my competitor and myself, all attended. the thought of having to make a speech made my knees feel mighty weak, and set my heart to fluttering almost as bad as my first love scrape with the quaker's niece. but as good luck would have it, these big candidates spoke nearly all day, and when they quit, the people were worn out with fatigue, which afforded me a good apology for not discussing the government. but i listened mighty close to them, and was learning pretty fast about political matters. when they were all done, i got up and told some laughable story, and quit. i found i was safe in those parts, and so i went home, and didn't go back again till after the election was over. but to cut this matter short, i was elected, doubling my competitor, and nine votes over. a short time after this, i was in pulaski, where i met with colonel polk, now a member of congress from tennessee. he was at that time a member elected to the legislature, as well as myself; and in a large company he said to me, "well, colonel, i suppose we shall have a radical change of the judiciary at the next session of the legislature." "very likely, sir," says i, and i put out quicker, for i was afraid some one would ask me what the judiciary was; and if i knowed i wish i may be shot. i don't indeed believe i had ever before heard that there was any such thing in all nature; but still i was not willing that the people there should know how ignorant i was about it. when the time for meeting of the legislature arrived, i went on, and before i had been there long, i could have told what the judiciary was, and what the government was too; and many other things that i had known nothing about before. about this time i met with a very severe misfortune, which i may be pardoned for naming, as it made a great change in my circumstances, and kept me back very much in the world. i had built an extensive grist mill, and powder mill, all connected together, and also a large distillery. they had cost me upwards of three thousand dollars, more than i was worth in the world. the first news that i heard after i got to the legislature, was, that my mills were--not blown up sky high, as you would guess, by my powder establishment,--but swept away all to smash by a large fresh, that came soon after i left home. i had, of course, to stop my distillery, as my grinding was broken up; and, indeed, i may say, that the misfortune just made a complete mash of me. i had some likely negroes, and a good stock of almost every thing about me, and, best of all, i had an honest wife. she didn't advise me, as is too fashionable, to smuggle up this, and that, and t'other, to go on at home; but she told me, says she, "just pay up, as long as you have a bit's worth in the world; and then every body will be satisfied, and we will scuffle for more." this was just such talk as i wanted to hear, for a man's wife can hold him devlish uneasy, if she begins to scold, and fret, and perplex him, at a time when he has a full load for a rail-road car on his mind already. and so, you see, i determined not to break full handed, but thought it better to keep a good conscience with an empty purse, than to get a bad opinion of myself, with a full one. i therefore gave up all i had, and took a bran-fire new start. chapter xi. having returned from the legislature, i determined to make another move, and so i took my eldest son with me, and a young man by the name of abram henry, and cut out for the obion. i selected a spot when i got there, where i determined to settle; and the nearest house to it was seven miles, the next nearest was fifteen, and so on to twenty. it was a complete wilderness, and full of indians who were hunting. game was plenty of almost every kind, which suited me exactly, as i was always fond of hunting. the house which was nearest me, and which, as i have already stated, was seven miles off, and on the different side of the obion river, belonged to a man by the name of owens; and i started to go there. i had taken one horse along, to pack our provision, and when i got to the water i hobbled him out to graze, until i got back; as there was no boat to cross the river in, and it was so high that it had overflowed all the bottoms and low country near it. we now took water like so many beavers, notwithstanding it was mighty cold, and waded on. the water would sometimes be up to our necks, and at others not so deep; but i went, of course, before, and carried a pole, with which i would feel along before me, to see how deep it was, and to guard against falling into a slough, as there was many in our way. when i would come to one, i would take out my tomahawk and cut a small tree across it, and then go ahead again. frequently my little son would have to swim, even where myself and the young man could wade; but we worked on till at last we got to the channel of the river, which made it about half a mile we had waded from where we took water. i saw a large tree that had fallen into the river from the other side, but it didn't reach across. one stood on the same bank where we were, that i thought i could fall, so as to reach the other; and so at it we went with my tomahawk, cutting away till we got it down; and, as good luck would have it, it fell right, and made us a way that we could pass. when we got over this, it was still a sea of water as far as our eyes could reach. we took into it again, and went ahead, for about a mile, hardly ever seeing a single spot of land, and sometimes very deep. at last we come in sight of land, which was a very pleasing thing; and when we got out, we went but a little way, before we came in sight of the house, which was more pleasing than ever; for we were wet all over, and mighty cold. i felt mighty sorry when i would look at my little boy, and see him shaking like he had the worst sort of an ague, for there was no time for fever then. as we got near to the house, we saw mr. owens and several men that were with him, just starting away. they saw us, and stop'd, but looked much astonished until we got up to them, and i made myself known. the men who were with him were the owners of a boat which was the first that ever went that far up the obion river; and some hands he had hired to carry it about a hundred miles still further up, by water, tho' it was only about thirty by land, as the river is very crooked. they all turned back to the house with me, where i found mrs. owens, a fine, friendly old woman; and her kindness to my little boy did me ten times as much good as any thing she could have done for me, if she had tried her best. the old gentleman set out his bottle to us, and i concluded that if a horn wasn't good then, there was no use for its invention. so i swig'd off about a half pint, and the young man was by no means bashful in such a case; he took a strong pull at it too. i then gave my boy some, and in a little time we felt pretty well. we dried ourselves by the fire, and were asked to go on board of the boat that evening. i agreed to do so, but left my son with the old lady, and myself and my young man went to the boat with mr. owens and the others. the boat was loaded with whiskey, flour, sugar, coffee, salt, castings, and other articles suitable for the country; and they were to receive five hundred dollars to land the load at m'lemore's bluff, beside the profit they could make on their load. this was merely to show that boats could get up to that point. we staid all night with them, and had a high night of it, as i took steam enough to drive out all the cold that was in me, and about three times as much more. in the morning we concluded to go on with the boat to where a great _harricane_ had crossed the river, and blowed all the timber down into it. when we got there, we found the river was falling fast, and concluded we couldn't get through the timber without more rise; so we drop'd down opposite mr. owens' again, where they determined to wait for more water. the next day it rained rip-roriously, and the river rose pretty considerable, but not enough yet. and so i got the boatsmen all to go out with me to where i was going to settle, and we slap'd up a cabin in little or no time. i got from the boat four barrels of meal, and one of salt, and about ten gallons of whiskey. to pay for these, i agreed to go with the boat up the river to their landing place. i got also a large middling of bacon, and killed a fine deer, and left them for my young man and my little boy, who were to stay at my cabin till i got back; which i expected would be in six or seven days. we cut out, and moved up to the harricane, where we stop'd for the night. in the morning i started about daylight, intending to kill a deer, as i had no thought they would get the boat through the timber that day. i had gone but a little way before i killed a fine buck, and started to go back to the boat; but on the way i came on the tracks of a large gang of elks, and so i took after them. i had followed them only a little distance when i saw them, and directly after i saw two large bucks. i shot one down, and the other wouldn't leave him; so i loaded my gun, and shot him down too. i hung them up, and went ahead again after my elks. i pursued on till after the middle of the day before i saw them again; but they took the hint before i got in shooting distance, and run off. i still pushed on till late in the evening, when i found i was about four miles from where i had left the boat, and as hungry as a wolf, for i hadn't eaten a bite that day. i started down the edge of the river low grounds, giving out the pursuit of my elks, and hadn't gone hardly any distance at all, before i saw two more bucks, very large fellows too. i took a blizzard at one of them, and up he tumbled. the other ran off a few jumps and stop'd; and stood there till i loaded again, and fired at him. i knock'd his trotters from under him, and then i hung them both up. i pushed on again; and about sunset i saw three other bucks. i down'd with one of them, and the other two ran off. i hung this one up also, having now killed six that day. i then pushed on till i got to the harricane, and at the lower edge of it, about where i expected the boat was. here i hollered as hard as i could roar, but could get no answer. i fired off my gun, and the men on the boat fired one too; but quite contrary to my expectation, they had got through the timber, and were about two miles above me. it was now dark, and i had to crawl through the fallen timber the best way i could; and if the reader don't know it was bad enough, i am sure i do. for the vines and briers had grown all through it, and so thick, that a good fat coon couldn't much more than get along. i got through at last, and went on near to where i had killed my last deer, and once more fired off my gun, which was again answered from the boat, which was still a little above me. i moved on as fast as i could, but soon came to water, and not knowing how deep it was, i halted and hollered till they came to me with a skiff. i now got to the boat, without further difficulty; but the briers had worked on me at such a rate, that i felt like i wanted sewing up, all over. i took a pretty stiff horn, which soon made me feel much better; but i was so tired that i could hardly work my jaws to eat. in the morning, myself and a young man started and brought in the first buck i had killed; and after breakfast we went and brought in the last one. the boat then started, but we again went and got the two i had killed just as i turned down the river in the evening; and we then pushed on and o'ertook the boat, leaving the other two hanging in the woods, as we had now as much as we wanted. we got up the river very well, but quite slowly; and we landed, on the eleventh day, at the place the load was to be delivered at. they here gave me their skiff, and myself and a young man by the name of flavius harris, who had determined to go and live with me, cut out down the river for my cabin, which we reached safely enough. we turned in and cleared a field, and planted our corn; but it was so late in the spring, we had no time to make rails, and therefore we put no fence around our field. there was no stock, however, nor any thing else to disturb our corn, except the wild _varments_, and the old serpent himself, with a fence to help him, couldn't keep them out. i made corn enough to do me, and during that spring i killed ten bears, and a great abundance of deer. but in all this time, we saw the face of no white person in that country, except mr. owens' family, and a very few passengers, who went out there, looking at the country. indians, though, were still plenty enough. having laid by my crap, i went home, which was a distance of about a hundred and fifty miles; and when i got there, i was met by an order to attend a call-session of our legislature. i attended it, and served out my time, and then returned, and took my family and what little plunder i had, and moved to where i had built my cabin, and made my crap. i gathered my corn, and then set out for my fall's hunt. this was in the last of october, . i found bear very plenty, and, indeed, all sorts of game and wild varments, except buffalo. there was none of them. i hunted on till christmass, having supplied my family very well all along with wild meat, at which time my powder gave out; and i had none either to fire christmass guns, which is very common in that country, or to hunt with. i had a brother-in-law who had now moved out and settled about six miles west of me, on the opposite side of rutherford's fork of the obion river, and he had brought me a keg of powder, but i had never gotten it home. there had just been another of noah's freshes, and the low grounds were flooded all over with water. i know'd the stream was at least a mile wide which i would have to cross, as the water was from hill to hill, and yet i determined to go on over in some way or other, so as to get my powder. i told this to my wife, and she immediately opposed it with all her might. i still insisted, telling her we had no powder for christmass, and, worse than all, we were out of meat. she said, we had as well starve as for me to freeze to death or to get drowned, and one or the other was certain if i attempted to go. but i didn't believe the half of this; and so i took my woolen wrappers, and a pair of mockasins, and put them on, and tied up some dry clothes and a pair of shoes and stockings, and started. but i didn't before know how much any body could suffer and not die. this, and some of my other experiments in water, learned me something about it, and i therefore relate them. the snow was about four inches deep when i started; and when i got to the water, which was only about a quarter of a mile off, it look'd like an ocean. i put in, and waded on till i come to the channel, where i crossed that on a high log. i then took water again, having my gun and all my hunting tools along, and waded till i came to a deep slough, that was wider than the river itself. i had crossed it often on a log; but, behold, when i got there, no log was to be seen. i knowed of an island in the slough, and a sapling stood on it close to the side of that log, which was now entirely under water. i knowed further, that the water was about eight or ten feet deep under the log, and i judged it to be about three feet deep over it. after studying a little what i should do, i determined to cut a forked sapling, which stood near me, so as to lodge it against the one that stood on the island, in which i succeeded very well. i then cut me a pole, and crawled along on my sapling till i got to the one it was lodged against, which was about six feet above the water. i then felt about with my pole till i found the log, which was just about as deep under the water as i had judged. i then crawled back and got my gun, which i had left at the stump of the sapling i had cut, and again made my way to the place of lodgement, and then climb'd down the other sapling so as to get on the log. i then felt my way along with my feet, in the water, about waist deep, but it was a mighty ticklish business. however, i got over, and by this time i had very little feeling in my feet and legs, as i had been all the time in the water, except what time i was crossing the high log over the river, and climbing my lodged sapling. i went but a short distance before i came to another slough, over which there was a log, but it was floating on the water. i thought i could walk it, and so i mounted on it; but when i had got about the middle of the deep water, somehow or somehow else, it turned over, and in i went up to my head i waded out of this deep water, and went ahead till i came to the high-land, where i stop'd to pull off my wet clothes, and put on the others, which i had held up with my gun, above the water, when i fell in. i got them on, but my flesh had no feeling in it, i was so cold. i tied up the wet ones, and hung them up in a bush. i now thought i would run, so as to warm myself a little, but i couldn't raise a trot for some time; indeed, i couldn't step more than half the length of my foot. after a while i got better, and went on five miles to the house of my brother-in-law, having not even smelt fire from the time i started. i got there late in the evening, and he was much astonished at seeing me at such a time. i staid all night, and the next morning was most piercing cold, and so they persuaded me not to go home that day. i agreed, and turned out and killed him two deer; but the weather still got worse and colder, instead of better. i staid that night, and in the morning they still insisted i couldn't get home. i knowed the water would be frozen over, but not hard enough to bear me, and so i agreed to stay that day. i went out hunting again, and pursued a big _he-bear_ all day, but didn't kill him. the next morning was bitter cold, but i knowed my family was without meat, and i determined to get home to them, or die a-trying. i took my keg of powder, and all my hunting tools, and cut out. when i got to the water, it was a sheet of ice as far as i could see. i put on to it, but hadn't got far before it broke through with me; and so i took out my tomahawk, and broke my way along before me for a considerable distance. at last i got to where the ice would bear me for a short distance, and i mounted on it, and went ahead; but it soon broke in again, and i had to wade on till i came to my floating log. i found it so tight this time, that i know'd it couldn't give me another fall, as it was frozen in with the ice. i crossed over it without much difficulty, and worked along till i got to my lodged sapling, and my log under the water. the swiftness of the current prevented the water from freezing over it, and so i had to wade, just as i did when i crossed it before. when i got to my sapling, i left my gun and climbed out with my powder keg first, and then went back and got my gun. by this time i was nearly frozen to death, but i saw all along before me, where the ice had been fresh broke, and i thought it must be a bear straggling about in the water. i, therefore, fresh primed my gun, and, cold as i was, i was determined to make war on him, if we met. but i followed the trail till it led me home, and i then found it had been made by my young man that lived with me, who had been sent by my distressed wife to see, if he could, what had become of me, for they all believed that i was dead. when i got home i was'nt quite dead, but mighty nigh it; but i had my powder, and that was what i went for. chapter xii. that night there fell a heavy rain, and it turned to a sleet. in the morning all hands turned out hunting. my young man, and a brother-in-law who had lately settled close by me, went down the river to hunt for turkeys; but i was for larger game. i told them, i had dreamed the night before of having a hard fight with a big black nigger, and i knowed it was a sign that i was to have a battle with a bear; for in a bear country, i never know'd such a dream to fail. so i started to go up above the harricane, determined to have a bear. i had two pretty good dogs, and an old hound, all of which i took along. i had gone about six miles up the river, and it was then about four miles across to the main obion; so i determined to strike across to that, as i had found nothing yet to kill. i got on to the river, and turned down it; but the sleet was still getting worse and worse. the bushes were all bent down, and locked together with ice, so that it was almost impossible to get along. in a little time my dogs started a large gang of old turkey goblers, and i killed two of them, of the biggest sort. i shouldered them up, and moved on, until i got through the harricane, when i was so tired that i laid my goblers down to rest, as they were confounded heavy, and i was mighty tired. while i was resting, my old hound went to a log, and smelt it awhile, and then raised his eyes toward the sky, and cried out. away he went, and my other dogs with him, and i shouldered up my turkeys again, and followed on as hard as i could drive. they were soon out of sight, and in a very little time i heard them begin to bark. when i got to them, they were barking up a tree, but there was no game there. i concluded it had been a turkey, and that it had flew away. when they saw me coming, away they went again; and, after a little time, began to bark as before. when i got near them, i found they were barking up the wrong tree again, as there was no game there. they served me in this way three or four times, until i was so infernal mad, that i determined, if i could get near enough, to shoot the old hound at least. with this intention i pushed on the harder, till i came to the edge of an open parara, and looking on before my dogs, i saw in and about the biggest bear that ever was seen in america. he looked, at the distance he was from me, like a large black bull. my dogs were afraid to attack him, and that was the reason they had stop'd so often, that i might overtake them. they were now almost up with him, and i took my goblers from my back and hung them up in a sapling, and broke like a quarter horse after my bear, for the sight of him had put new springs in me. i soon got near to them, but they were just getting into a roaring thicket, and so i couldn't run through it, but had to pick my way along, and had close work even at that. in a little time i saw the bear climbing up a large black oak-tree, and i crawled on till i got within about eighty yards of him. he was setting with his breast to me; and so i put fresh priming in my gun, and fired at him. at this he raised one of his paws and snorted loudly. i loaded again as quick as i could, and fired as near the same place in his breast as possible. at the crack of my gun here he came tumbling down; and the moment he touched the ground, i heard one of my best dogs cry out. i took my tomahawk in one hand, and my big butcher-knife in the other, and run up within four or five paces of him, at which he let my dog go, and fixed his eyes on me. i got back in all sorts of a hurry, for i know'd if he got hold of me, he would hug me altogether too close for comfort. i went to my gun and hastily loaded her again, and shot him the third time, which killed him good. i now began to think about getting him home, but i didn't know how far it was. so i left him and started; and in order to find him again, i would blaze a sapling every little distance, which would show me the way back. i continued this till i got within about a mile of home, for there i know'd very well where i was, and that i could easily find the way back to my blazes. when i got home, i took my brother-in-law, and my young man, and four horses, and went back. we got there just before dark, and struck up a fire, and commenced butchering my bear. it was some time in the night before we finished it; and i can assert, on my honour, that i believe he would have weighed six hundred pounds. it was the second largest i ever saw. i killed one, a few years after, that weighed six hundred and seventeen pounds. i now felt fully compensated for my sufferings in going after my powder; and well satisfied that a dog might sometimes be doing a good business, even when he seemed to be _barking up the wrong tree_. we got our meat home, and i had the pleasure to know that we now had plenty, and that of the best; and i continued through the winter to supply my family abundantly with bear-meat and venison from the woods. chapter xiii. i had on hand a great many skins, and so, in the month of february, i packed a horse with them, and taking my eldest son along with me, cut out for a little town called jackson, situated about forty miles off. we got there well enough, and i sold my skins, and bought me some coffee, and sugar, powder, lead, and salt. i packed them all up in readiness for a start, which i intended to make early the next morning. morning came, but i concluded, before i started, i would go and take a horn with some of my old fellow-soldiers that i had met with at jackson. i did so; and while we were engaged in this, i met with three candidates for the legislature; a doctor butler, who was, by marriage, a nephew to general jackson, a major lynn, and a mr. mcever, all first-rate men. we all took a horn together, and some person present said to me, "crockett, you must offer for the legislature." i told him i lived at least forty miles from any white settlement, and had no thought of becoming a candidate at that time. so we all parted, and i and my little boy went on home. it was about a week or two after this, that a man came to my house, and told me i was a candidate. i told him not so. but he took out a newspaper from his pocket, and show'd me where i was announced. i said to my wife that this was all a burlesque on me, but i was determined to make it cost the man who had put it there at least the value of the printing, and of the fun he wanted at my expense. so i hired a young man to work in my place on my farm, and turned out myself electioneering. i hadn't been out long, before i found the people began to talk very much about the bear hunter, the man from the cane; and the three gentlemen, who i have already named, soon found it necessary to enter into an agreement to have a sort of caucus at their march court, to determine which of them was the strongest, and the other two was to withdraw and support him. as the court came on, each one of them spread himself, to secure the nomination; but it fell on dr. butler, and the rest backed out. the doctor was a clever fellow, and i have often said he was the most talented man i ever run against for any office. his being related to gen'l. jackson also helped him on very much; but i was in for it, and i was determined to push ahead and go through, or stick. their meeting was held in madison county, which was the strongest in the representative district, which was composed of eleven counties, and they seemed bent on having the member from there. at this time col. alexander was a candidate for congress, and attending one of his public meetings one day, i walked to where he was treating the people, and he gave me an introduction to several of his acquaintances, and informed them that i was out electioneering. in a little time my competitor, doctor butler, came along; he passed by without noticing me, and i suppose, indeed, he did not recognise me. but i hailed him, as i was for all sorts of fun; and when he turned to me, i said to him, "well, doctor, i suppose they have weighed you out to me; but i should like to know why they fixed your election for _march_ instead of _august_? this is," said i, "a branfire new way of doing business, if a caucus is to make a representative for the people!" he now discovered who i was, and cried out, "d--n it, crockett, is that you?"--"be sure it is," said i, "but i don't want it understood that i have come electioneering. i have just crept out of the cane, to see what discoveries i could make among the white folks." i told him that when i set out electioneering, i would go prepared to put every man on as good footing when i left him as i found him on. i would therefore have me a large buckskin hunting-shirt made, with a couple of pockets holding about a peck each; and that in one i would carry a great big twist of tobacco, and in the other my bottle of liquor; for i knowed when i met a man and offered him a dram, he would throw out his quid of tobacco to take one, and after he had taken his horn, i would out with my twist and give him another chaw. and in this way he would not be worse off than when i found him; and i would be sure to leave him in a first-rate good humour. he said i could beat him electioneering all hollow. i told him i would give him better evidence of that before august, notwithstanding he had many advantages over me, and particularly in the way of money; but i told him that i would go on the products of the country; that i had industrious children, and the best of coon dogs, and they would hunt every night till midnight to support my election; and when the coon fur wa'n't good, i would myself go a wolfing, and shoot down a wolf, and skin his head, and his scalp would be good to me for three dollars, in our state treasury money; and in this way i would get along on the big string. he stood like he was both amused and astonished, and the whole crowd was in a roar of laughter. from this place i returned home, leaving the people in a first-rate way; and i was sure i would do a good business among them. at any rate, i was determined to stand up to my lick-log, salt or no salt. in a short time there came out two other candidates, a mr. shaw and a mr. brown. we all ran the race through; and when the election was over, it turned out that i beat them all by a majority of two hundred and forty-seven votes, and was again returned as a member of the legislature from a new region of the country, without losing a session. this reminded me of the old saying--"a fool for luck, and a poor man for children." i now served two years in that body from my new district, which was the years and ' . at the session of , i had a small trial of my independence, and whether i would forsake principle for party, or for the purpose of following after big men. the term of col. john williams had expired, who was a senator in congress from the state of tennessee. he was a candidate for another election, and was opposed by pleasant m. miller, esq., who, it was believed, would not be able to beat the colonel. some two or three others were spoken of, but it was at last concluded that the only man who could beat him was the present "government," general jackson. so, a few days before the election was to come on, he was sent for to come and run for the senate. he was then in nomination for the presidency; but sure enough he came, and did run as the opponent of colonel williams, and beat him too, but not by my vote. the vote was, for jackson, _thirty-five_; for williams, _twenty-five_. i thought the colonel had honestly discharged his duty, and even the mighty name of jackson couldn't make me vote against him. but voting against the old chief was found a mighty up-hill business to all of them except myself. i never would, nor never did, acknowledge i had voted wrong; and i am more certain now that i was right than ever. i told the people it was the best vote i ever gave; that i had supported the public interest, and cleared my conscience in giving it, instead of gratifying the private ambition of a man. i let the people know as early as then, that i wouldn't take a collar around my neck with the letters engraved on it, my dog. andrew jackson. during these two sessions of the legislature, nothing else turned up which i think it worth while to mention; and, indeed, i am fearful that i am too particular about many small matters; but if so, my apology is, that i want the world to understand my true history, and how i worked along to rise from a cane-brake to my present station in life. col. alexander was the representative in congress of the district i lived in, and his vote on the tariff law of gave a mighty heap of dissatisfaction to his people. they therefore began to talk pretty strong of running me for congress against him. at last i was called on by a good many to be a candidate. i told the people that i couldn't stand that; it was a step above my knowledge, and i know'd nothing about congress matters. however, i was obliged to agree to run, and myself and two other gentlemen came out. but providence was a little against two of us this hunt, for it was the year that cotton brought twenty-five dollars a hundred; and so colonel alexander would get up and tell the people, it was all the good effect of this tariff law; that it had raised the price of their cotton, and that it would raise the price of every thing else they made to sell. i might as well have sung _salms_ over a dead horse, as to try to make the people believe otherwise; for they knowed their cotton had raised, sure enough, and if the colonel hadn't done it, they didn't know what had. so he rather made a mash of me this time, as he beat me exactly _two_ votes, as they counted the polls, though i have always believed that many other things had been as fairly done as that same count. he went on, and served out his term, and at the end of it cotton was down to _six_ or _eight_ dollars a hundred again; and i concluded i would try him once more, and see how it would go with cotton at the common price, and so i became a candidate. chapter xiv. but the reader, i expect, would have no objection to know a little about my employment during the two years while my competitor was in congress. in this space i had some pretty tuff times, and will relate some few things that happened to me. so here goes, as the boy said when he run by himself. in the fall of , i concluded i would build two large boats, and load them with pipe staves for market. so i went down to the lake, which was about twenty-five miles from where i lived, and hired some hands to assist me, and went to work; some at boat building, and others to getting staves. i worked on with my hands till the bears got fat, and then i turned out to hunting, to lay in a supply of meat. i soon killed and salted down as many as were necessary for my family; but about this time one of my old neighbours, who had settled down on the lake about twenty-five miles from me, came to my house and told me he wanted me to go down and kill some bears about in his parts. he said they were extremely fat, and very plenty. i know'd that when they were fat, they were easily taken, for a fat bear can't run fast or long. but i asked a bear no favours, no way, further than civility, for i now had _eight_ large dogs, and as fierce as painters; so that a bear stood no chance at all to get away from them. so i went home with him, and then went on down towards the mississippi, and commenced hunting. we were out two weeks, and in that time killed fifteen bears. having now supplied my friend with plenty of meat, i engaged occasionally again with my hands in our boat building, and getting staves. but i at length couldn't stand it any longer without another hunt. so i concluded to take my little son, and cross over the lake, and take a hunt there. we got over, and that evening turned out and killed three bears, in little or no time. the next morning we drove up four forks, and made a sort of scaffold, on which we salted up our meat, so as to have it out of the reach of the wolves, for as soon as we would leave our camp, they would take possession. we had just eat our breakfast, when a company of hunters came to our camp, who had fourteen dogs, but all so poor, that when they would bark they would almost have to lean up against a tree and take a rest. i told them their dogs couldn't run in smell of a bear, and they had better stay at my camp, and feed them on the bones i had cut out of my meat. i left them there, and cut out; but i hadn't gone far, when my dogs took a first-rate start after a very large fat old _he-bear_, which run right plump towards my camp. i pursued on, but my other hunters had heard my dogs coming, and met them, and killed the bear before i got up with him. i gave him to them, and cut out again for a creek called big clover, which wa'n't very far off. just as i got there, and was entering a cane brake, my dogs all broke and went ahead, and, in a little time, they raised a fuss in the cane, and seemed to be going every way. i listened a while, and found my dogs was in two companies, and that both was in a snorting fight. i sent my little son to one, and i broke for t'other. i got to mine first, and found my dogs had a two-year-old bear down, a-wooling away on him; so i just took out my big butcher, and went up and slap'd it into him, and killed him without shooting. there was five of the dogs in my company. in a short time, i heard my little son fire at his bear; when i went to him he had killed it too. he had two dogs in his team. just at this moment we heard my other dog barking a short distance off, and all the rest immediately broke to him. we pushed on too, and when we got there, we found he had still a larger bear than either of them we had killed, treed by himself. we killed that one also, which made three we had killed in less than half an hour. we turned in and butchered them, and then started to hunt for water, and a good place to camp. but we had no sooner started, than our dogs took a start after another one, and away they went like a thunder-gust, and was out of hearing in a minute. we followed the way they had gone for some time, but at length we gave up the hope of finding them, and turned back. as we were going back, i came to where a poor fellow was grubbing, and he looked like the very picture of hard times. i asked him what he was doing away there in the woods by himself? he said he was grubbing for a man who intended to settle there; and the reason why he did it was, that he had no meat for his family, and he was working for a little. i was mighty sorry for the poor fellow, for it was not only a hard, but a very slow way to get meat for a hungry family; so i told him if he would go with me, i would give him more meat than he could get by grubbing in a month. i intended to supply him with meat, and also to get him to assist my little boy in packing in and salting up my bears. he had never seen a bear killed in his life. i told him i had six killed then, and my dogs were hard after another. he went off to his little cabin, which was a short distance in the brush, and his wife was very anxious he should go with me. so we started and went to where i had left my three bears, and made a camp. we then gathered my meat and salted, and scaffled it, as i had done the other. night now came on, but no word from my dogs yet. i afterwards found they had treed the bear about five miles off, near to a man's house, and had barked at it the whole enduring night. poor fellows! many a time they looked for me, and wondered why i didn't come, for they knowed there was no mistake in me, and i know'd they were as good as ever fluttered. in the morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, the man took his gun and went to them, and shot the bear, and killed it. my dogs, however, wouldn't have any thing to say to this stranger; so they left him, and came early in the morning back to me. we got our breakfast, and cut out again; and we killed four large and very fat bears that day. we hunted out the week, and in that time we killed seventeen, all of them first-rate. when we closed our hunt, i gave the man over a thousand weight of fine fat bear-meat, which pleased him mightily, and made him feel as rich as a jew. i saw him the next fall, and he told me he had plenty of meat to do him the whole year from his week's hunt. my son and me now went home. this was the week between christmass and new-year that we made this hunt. when i got home, one of my neighbours was out of meat, and wanted me to go back, and let him go with me, to take another hunt. i couldn't refuse; but i told him i was afraid the bear had taken to house by that time, for after they get very fat in the fall and early part of the winter, they go into their holes, in large hollow trees, or into hollow logs, or their cane-houses, or the harricanes; and lie there till spring, like frozen snakes. and one thing about this will seem mighty strange to many people. from about the first of january to about the last of april, these varments lie in their holes altogether. in all that time they have no food to eat; and yet when they come out, they are not an ounce lighter than when they went to house. i don't know the cause of this, and still i know it is a fact; and i leave it for others who have more learning than myself to account for it. they have not a particle of food with them, but they just lie and suck the bottom of their paw all the time. i have killed many of them in their trees, which enables me to speak positively on this subject. however, my neighbour, whose name was mcdaniel, and my little son and me, went on down to the lake to my second camp, where i had killed my seventeen bears the week before, and turned out to hunting. but we hunted hard all day without getting a single start. we had carried but little provisions with us, and the next morning was entirely out of meat. i sent my son about three miles off, to the house of an old friend, to get some. the old gentleman was much pleased to hear i was hunting in those parts, for the year before the bears had killed a great many of his hogs. he was that day killing his bacon hogs, and so he gave my son some meat, and sent word to me that i must come in to his house that evening, that he would have plenty of feed for my dogs, and some accommodations for ourselves; but before my son got back, we had gone out hunting, and in a large cane brake my dogs found a big bear in a cane-house, which he had fixed for his winter-quarters, as they sometimes do. when my lead dog found him, and raised the yell, all the rest broke to him, but none of them entered his house until we got up. i encouraged my dogs, and they knowed me so well, that i could have made them seize the old serpent himself, with all his horns and heads, and cloven foot and ugliness into the bargain, if he would only have come to light, so that they could have seen him. they bulged in, and in an instant the bear followed them out, and i told my friend to shoot him, as he was mighty wrathy to kill a bear. he did so, and killed him prime. we carried him to our camp, by which time my son had returned; and after we got our dinners we packed up, and cut for the house of my old friend, whose name was davidson. we got there, and staid with him that night; and the next morning, having salted up our meat, we left it with him, and started to take a hunt between the obion lake and the red-foot lake; as there had been a dreadful harricane, which passed between them, and i was sure there must be a heap of bears in the fallen timber. we had gone about five miles without seeing any sign at all; but at length we got on some high cany ridges, and, as we rode along, i saw a hole in a large black oak, and on examining more closely, i discovered that a bear had clomb the tree. i could see his tracks going up, but none coming down, and so i was sure he was in there. a person who is acquainted with bear-hunting, can tell easy enough when the varment is in the hollow; for as they go up they don't slip a bit, but as they come down they make long scratches with their nails. my friend was a little ahead of me, but i called him back, and told him there was a bear in that tree, and i must have him out. so we lit from our horses, and i found a small tree which i thought i could fall so as to lodge against my bear tree, and we fell to work chopping it with our tomahawks. i intended, when we lodged the tree against the other, to let my little son go up, and look into the hole, for he could climb like a squirrel. we had chop'd on a little time and stop'd to rest, when i heard my dogs barking mighty severe at some distance from us, and i told my friend i knowed they had a bear; for it is the nature of a dog, when he finds you are hunting bears, to hunt for nothing else; he becomes fond of the meat, and considers other game as "not worth a notice," as old johnson said of the devil. we concluded to leave our tree a bit, and went to my dogs, and when we got there, sure enough they had an eternal great big fat bear up a tree, just ready for shooting. my friend again petitioned me for liberty to shoot this one also. i had a little rather not, as the bear was so big, but i couldn't refuse; and so he blazed away, and down came the old fellow like some great log had fell. i now missed one of my dogs, the same that i before spoke of as having treed the bear by himself sometime before, when i had started the three in the cane break. i told my friend that my missing dog had a bear somewhere, just as sure as fate; so i left them to butcher the one we had just killed, and i went up on a piece of high ground to listen for my dog. i heard him barking with all his might some distance off, and i pushed ahead for him. my other dogs hearing him broke to him, and when i got there, sure enough again he had another bear ready treed; if he hadn't, i wish i may be shot. i fired on him, and brought him down; and then went back, and help'd finish butchering the one at which i had left my friend. we then packed both to our tree where we had left my boy. by this time, the little fellow had cut the tree down that we intended to lodge, but it fell the wrong way; he had then feather'd in on the big tree, to cut that, and had found that it was nothing but a shell on the outside, and all doted in the middle, as too many of our big men are in these days, having only an outside appearance. my friend and my son cut away on it, and i went off about a hundred yards with my dogs to keep them from running under the tree when it should fall. on looking back at the hole, i saw the bear's head out of it, looking down at them as they were cutting. i hollered to them to look up, and they did so; and mcdaniel catched up his gun, but by this time the bear was out, and coming down the tree. he fired at it, and as soon as it touch'd ground the dogs were all round it, and they had a roll-and-tumble fight to the foot of the hill, where they stop'd him. i ran up, and putting my gun against the bear, fired and killed him. we now had three, and so we made our scaffold and salted them up. chapter xv. in the morning i left my son at the camp, and we started on towards the harricane; and when we had went about a mile, we started a very large bear, but we got along mighty slow on account of the cracks in the earth occasioned by the earthquakes. we, however, made out to keep in hearing of the dogs for about three miles, and then we come to the harricane. here we had to quit our horses, as old nick himself couldn't have got through it without sneaking it along in the form that he put on, to make a fool of our old grandmother eve. by this time several of my dogs had got tired and come back; but we went ahead on foot for some little time in the harricane, when we met a bear coming straight to us, and not more than twenty or thirty yards off. i started my tired dogs after him, and mcdaniel pursued them, and i went on to where my other dogs were. i had seen the track of the bear they were after, and i knowed he was a screamer. i followed on to about the middle of the harricane; but my dogs pursued him so close, that they made him climb an old stump about twenty feet high. i got in shooting distance of him and fired, but i was all over in such a flutter from fatigue and running, that i couldn't hold steady; but, however, i broke his shoulder, and he fell. i run up and loaded my gun as quick as possible, and shot him again and killed him. when i went to take out my knife to butcher him, i found i had lost it in coming through the harricane. the vines and briers was so thick that i would sometimes have to get down and crawl like a varment to get through at all; and a vine had, as i supposed, caught in the handle and pulled it out. while i was standing and studying what to do, my friend came to me. he had followed my trail through the harricane, and had found my knife, which was mighty good news to me; as a hunter hates the worst in the world to lose a good dog, or any part of his hunting-tools. i now left mcdaniel to butcher the bear, and i went after our horses, and brought them as near as the nature of case would allow. i then took our bags, and went back to where he was; and when we had skin'd the bear, we fleeced off the fat and carried it to our horses at several loads. we then packed it up on our horses, and had a heavy pack of it on each one. we now started and went on till about sunset, when i concluded we must be near our camp; so i hollered and my son answered me, and we moved on in the direction to the camp. we had gone but a little way when i heard my dogs make a warm start again; and i jumped down from my horse and gave him up to my friend, and told him i would follow them. he went on to the camp, and i went ahead after my dogs with all my might for a considerable distance, till at last night came on. the woods were very rough and hilly, and all covered over with cane. i now was compel'd to move on more slowly; and was frequently falling over logs, and into the cracks made by the earthquakes, so that i was very much afraid i would break my gun. however i went on about three miles, when i came to a good big creek, which i waded. it was very cold, and the creek was about knee-deep; but i felt no great inconvenience from it just then, as i was all over wet with sweat from running, and i felt hot enough. after i got over this creek and out of the cane, which was very thick on all our creeks, i listened for my dogs. i found they had either treed or brought the bear to a stop, as they continued barking in the same place. i pushed on as near in the direction to the noise as i could, till i found the hill was too steep for me to climb, and so i backed and went down the creek some distance till i came to a hollow, and then took up that, till i come to a place where i could climb up the hill. it was mighty dark, and was difficult to see my way or any thing else. when i got up the hill, i found i had passed the dogs; and so i turned and went to them. i found, when i got there, they had treed the bear in a large forked poplar, and it was setting in the fork. i could see the lump, but not plain enough to shoot with any certainty, as there was no moonlight; and so i set in to hunting for some dry brush to make me a light; but i could find none, though i could find that the ground was torn mightily to pieces by the cracks. at last i thought i could shoot by guess, and kill him; so i pointed as near the lump as i could, and fired away. but the bear didn't come he only clomb up higher, and got out on a limb, which helped me to see him better. i now loaded up again and fired, but this time he didn't move at all. i commenced loading for a third fire, but the first thing i knowed, the bear was down among my dogs, and they were fighting all around me. i had my big butcher in my belt, and i had a pair of dressed buckskin breeches on. so i took out my knife, and stood, determined, if he should get hold of me, to defend myself in the best way i could. i stood there for some time, and could now and then see a white dog i had, but the rest of them, and the bear, which were dark coloured, i couldn't see at all, it was so miserable dark. they still fought around me, and sometimes within three feet of me; but, at last, the bear got down into one of the cracks, that the earthquakes had made in the ground, about four feet deep, and i could tell the biting end of him by the hollering of my dogs. so i took my gun and pushed the muzzle of it about, till i thought i had it against the main part of his body, and fired; but it happened to be only the fleshy part of his foreleg. with this, he jumped out of the crack, and he and the dogs had another hard fight around me, as before. at last, however, they forced him back into the crack again, as he was when i had shot. i had laid down my gun in the dark, and i now began to hunt for it; and, while hunting, i got hold of a pole, and i concluded i would punch him awhile with that. i did so, and when i would punch him, the dogs would jump in on him, when he would bite them badly, and they would jump out again. i concluded, as he would take punching so patiently, it might be that he would lie still enough for me to get down in the crack, and feel slowly along till i could find the right place to give him a dig with my butcher. so i got down, and my dogs got in before him and kept his head towards them, till i got along easily up to him; and placing my hand on his rump, felt for his shoulder, just behind which i intended to stick him. i made a lounge with my long knife, and fortunately stuck him right through the heart; at which he just sank down, and i crawled out in a hurry. in a little time my dogs all come out too, and seemed satisfied, which was the way they always had of telling me that they had finished him. i suffered very much that night with cold, as my leather breeches, and every thing else i had on, was wet and frozen. but i managed to get my bear out of this crack after several hard trials, and so i butchered him, and laid down to try to sleep. but my fire was very bad, and i couldn't find any thing that would burn well to make it any better; and i concluded i should freeze, if i didn't warm myself in some way by exercise. so i got up, and hollered a while, and then i would just jump up and down with all my might, and throw myself into all sorts of motions. but all this wouldn't do; for my blood was now getting cold, and the chills coming all over me. i was so tired, too, that i could hardly walk; but i thought i would do the best i could to save my life, and then, if i died, nobody would be to blame. so i went to a tree about two feet through, and not a limb on it for thirty feet, and i would climb up it to the limbs, and then lock my arms together around it, and slide down to the bottom again. this would make the insides of my legs and arms feel mighty warm and good. i continued this till daylight in the morning, and how often i clomb up my tree and slid down i don't know, but i reckon at least a hundred times. in the morning i got my bear hung up so as to be safe, and then set out to hunt for my camp. i found it after a while, and mcdaniel and my son were very much rejoiced to see me get back, for they were about to give me up for lost. we got our breakfasts, and then secured our meat by building a high scaffold, and covering it over. we had no fear of its spoiling, for the weather was so cold that it couldn't. we now started after my other bear, which had caused me so much trouble and suffering; and before we got him, we got a start after another, and took him also. we went on to the creek i had crossed the night before and camped, and then went to where my bear was, that i had killed in the crack. when we examined the place, mcdaniel said he wouldn't have gone into it, as i did, for all the bears in the woods. we took the meat down to our camp and salted it, and also the last one we had killed; intending, in the morning, to make a hunt in the harricane again. we prepared for resting that night, and i can assure the reader i was in need of it. we had laid down by our fire, and about ten o'clock there came a most terrible earthquake, which shook the earth so, that we were rocked about like we had been in a cradle. we were very much alarmed; for though we were accustomed to feel earthquakes, we were now right in the region which had been torn to pieces by them in , and we thought it might take a notion and swallow us up, like the big fish did jonah. in the morning we packed up and moved to the harricane, where we made another camp, and turned out that evening and killed a very large bear, which made _eight_ we had now killed in this hunt. the next morning we entered the harricane again, and in little or no time my dogs were in full cry. we pursued them, and soon came to a thick cane-brake, in which they had stop'd their bear. we got up close to him, as the cane was so thick that we couldn't see more than a few feet. here i made my friend hold the cane a little open with his gun till i shot the bear, which was a mighty large one. i killed him dead in his tracks. we got him out and butchered him, and in a little time started another and killed him, which now made _ten_ we had killed; and we know'd we couldn't pack any more home, as we had only five horses along; therefore we returned to the camp and salted up all our meat, to be ready for a start homeward next morning. the morning came, and we packed our horses with the meat, and had as much as they could possibly carry, and sure enough cut out for home. it was about thirty miles, and we reached home the second day. i had now accommodated my neighbour with meat enough to do him, and had killed in all, up to that time, fifty-eight bears, during the fall and winter. as soon as the time come for them to quit their houses and come out again in the spring, i took a notion to hunt a little more, and in about one month i killed forty-seven more, which made one hundred and five bears i had killed in less than one year from that time. chapter xvi. having now closed my hunting for that winter, i returned to my hands, who were engaged about my boats and staves, and made ready for a trip down the river. i had two boats and about thirty thousand staves, and so i loaded with them, and set out for new orleans. i got out of the obion river, in which i had loaded my boats, very well; but when i got into the mississippi, i found all my hands were bad scared, and in fact i believe i was scared a little the worst of any; for i had never been down the river, and i soon discovered that my pilot was as ignorant of the business as myself. i hadn't gone far before i determined to lash the two boats together; we did so, but it made them so heavy and obstinate, that it was next akin to impossible to do any thing at all with them, or to guide them right in the river. that evening we fell in company with some ohio boats; and about night we tried to land, but we could not. the ohio men hollered to us to go on and run all night. we took their advice, though we had a good deal rather not; but we couldn't do any other way. in a short distance we got into what is called the "_devil's elbow_;" and if any place in the wide creation has its own proper name, i thought it was this. here we had about the hardest work that i ever was engaged in, in my life, to keep out of danger; and even then we were in it all the while. we twice attempted to land at wood-yards, which we could see, but couldn't reach. the people would run out with lights, and try to instruct us how to get to shore; but all in vain. our boats were so heavy that we couldn't take them much any way, except the way they wanted to go, and just the way the current would carry them. at last we quit trying to land, and concluded just to go ahead as well as we could, for we found we couldn't do any better. some time in the night i was down in the cabin of one of the boats, sitting by the fire, thinking on what a hobble we had got into; and how much better bear-hunting was on hard land, than floating along on the water, when a fellow had to go ahead whether he was exactly willing or not. the hatchway into the cabin came slap down, right through the top of the boat; and it was the only way out except a small hole in the side, which we had used for putting our arms through to dip up water before we lashed the boats together. we were now floating sideways, and the boat i was in was the hindmost as we went. all at once i heard the hands begin to run over the top of the boat in great confusion, and pull with all their might; and the first thing i know'd after this we went broadside full tilt against the head of an island where a large raft of drift timber had lodged. the nature of such a place would be, as every body knows, to suck the boats down, and turn them right under this raft; and the uppermost boat would, of course, be suck'd down and go under first. as soon as we struck, i bulged for my hatchway, as the boat was turning under sure enough. but when i got to it, the water was pouring thro' in a current as large as the hole would let it, and as strong as the weight of the river could force it. i found i couldn't get out here, for the boat was now turned down in such a way, that it was steeper than a house-top. i now thought of the hole in the side, and made my way in a hurry for that. with difficulty i got to it, and when i got there, i found it was too small for me to get out by my own dower, and i began to think that i was in a worse box than ever. but i put my arms through and hollered as loud as i could roar, as the boat i was in hadn't yet quite filled with water up to my head, and the hands who were next to the raft, seeing my arms out, and hearing me holler, seized them, and began to pull. i told them i was sinking, and to pull my arms off, or force me through, for now i know'd well enough it was neck or nothing, come out or sink. by a violent effort they jerked me through; but i was in a pretty pickle when i got through. i had been sitting without any clothing over my shirt: this was torn off, and i was literally skin'd like a rabbit. i was, however, well pleased to get out in any way, even without shirt or hide; as before i could straighten myself on the boat next to the raft, the one they pull'd me out of went entirely under, and i have never seen it any more to this day. we all escaped on to the raft, where we were compelled to sit all night, about a mile from land on either side. four of my company were bareheaded, and three bare-footed; and of that number i was one. i reckon i looked like a pretty cracklin ever to get to congress!!! we had now lost all our loading; and every particle of our clothing, except what little we had on; but over all this, while i was setting there, in the night, floating about on the drift, i felt happier and better off than i ever had in my life before, for i had just made such a marvellous escape, that i had forgot almost every thing else in that; and so i felt prime. in the morning about sunrise, we saw a boat coming down, and we hailed her. they sent a large skiff, and took us all on board, and carried us down as far as memphis. here i met with a friend, that i never can forget as long as i am able to go ahead at any thing; it was a major winchester, a merchant of that place: he let us all have hats, and shoes, and some little money to go upon, and so we all parted. a young man and myself concluded to go on down to natchez, to see if we could hear any thing of our boats; for we supposed they would float out from the raft, and keep on down the river. we got on a boat at memphis, that was going down, and so cut out. our largest boat, we were informed, had been seen about fifty miles below where we stove, and an attempt had been made to land her, but without success, as she was as hard-headed as ever. this was the last of my boats, and of my boating; for it went so badly with me, along at the first, that i hadn't much mind to try it any more. i now returned home again, and as the next august was the congressional election, i began to turn my attention a little to that matter, as it was beginning to be talked of a good deal among the people. chapter xvii. i have, heretofore, informed the reader that i had determined to run this race to see what effect _the price of cotton_ could have again on it. i now had col. alexander to run against once more, and also general william arnold. i had difficulties enough to fight against this time, as every one will suppose; for i had no money, and a very bad prospect, so far as i know'd, of getting any to help me along. i had, however, a good friend, who sent for me to come and see him. i went, and he was good enough to offer me some money to help me out. i borrowed as much as i thought i needed at the start, and went ahead. my friend also had a good deal of business about over the district at the different courts; and if he now and then slip'd in a good word for me, it is nobody's business. we frequently met at different places, and, as he thought i needed, he would occasionally hand me a little more cash; so i was able to buy a little of "the _creature_," to put my friends in a good humour, as well as the other gentlemen, for they all treat in that country; not to get elected, of course--for that would be against the law; but just, as i before said, to make themselves and their friends feel their keeping a little. nobody ever did know how i got money to get along on, till after the election was over, and i had beat my competitors twenty-seven hundred and forty-eight votes. even the price of cotton couldn't save my friend aleck this time. my rich friend, who had been so good to me in the way of money, now sent for me, and loaned me a hundred dollars, and told me to go ahead; that that amount would bear my expenses to congress, and i must then shift for myself. i came on to washington, and draw'd two hundred and fifty dollars, and purchased with it a check on the bank at nashville, and enclosed it to my friend; and i may say, in truth, i sent this money with a mighty good will, for i reckon nobody in this world loves a friend better than me, or remembers a kindness longer. i have now given the close of the election, but i have skip'd entirely over the canvass, of which i will say a very few things in this place; as i know very well how to tell the truth, but not much about placing them in book order, so as to please critics. col. alexander was a very clever fellow, and principal surveyor at that time; so much for one of the men i had to run against. my other competitor was a major-general in the militia, and an attorney-general at the law, and quite a smart, clever man also; and so it will be seen i had war work as well as law trick, to stand up under. taking both together, they make a pretty considerable of a load for any one man to carry. but for war claims, i consider myself behind no man except "the government," and mighty little, if any, behind him; but this the people will have to determine hereafter, as i reckon it won't do to quit the work of "reform and retrenchment" yet for a spell. but my two competitors seemed some little afraid of the influence of each other, but not to think me in their way at all. they, therefore, were generally working against each other, while i was going ahead for myself, and mixing among the people in the best way i could. i was as cunning as a little red fox, and wouldn't risk my tail in a "committal" trap. i found the sign was good, almost everywhere i went. on one occasion, while we were in the eastern counties of the district, it happened that we all had to make a speech, and it fell on me to make the first one. i did so after my manner, and it turned pretty much on the old saying, "a short horse is soon curried," as i spoke not very long. colonel alexander followed me, and then general arnold come on. the general took much pains to reply to alexander, but didn't so much as let on that there was any such candidate as myself at all. he had been speaking for a considerable time, when a large flock of guinea-fowls came very near to where he was, and set up the most unmerciful chattering that ever was heard, for they are a noisy little brute any way. they so confused the general, that he made a stop, and requested that they might be driven away. i let him finish his speech, and then walking up to him, said aloud, "well, colonel, you are the first man i ever saw that understood the language of fowls." i told him that he had not had the politeness to name me in his speech, and that when my little friends, the guinea-fowls, had come up and began to holler "crockett, crockett, crockett," he had been ungenerous enough to stop, and drive _them_ all away. this raised a universal shout among the people for me, and the general seemed mighty bad plagued. but he got more plagued than this at the polls in august, as i have stated before. this election was in , and i can say, on my conscience, that i was, without disguise, the friend and supporter of general jackson, upon his principles as he laid them down, and as "_i understood them_," before his election as president. during my two first sessions in congress, mr. adams was president, and i worked along with what was called the jackson party pretty well. i was re-elected to congress, in , by an overwhelming majority; and soon after the commencement of this second term, i saw, or thought i did, that it was expected of me that i was to bow to the name of andrew jackson, and follow him in all his motions, and mindings, and turnings, even at the expense of my conscience and judgment. such a thing was new to me, and a total stranger to my principles. i know'd well enough, though, that if i didn't "hurra" for his name, the hue and cry was to be raised against me, and i was to be sacrificed, if possible. his famous, or rather i should say his in-_famous_, indian bill was brought forward, and i opposed it from the purest motives in the world. several of my colleagues got around me, and told me how well they loved me, and that i was ruining myself. they said this was a favourite measure of the president, and i ought to go for it. i told them i believed it was a wicked, unjust measure, and that i should go against it, let the cost to myself be what it might; that i was willing to go with general jackson in every thing that i believed was honest and right; but, further than this, i wouldn't go for him, or any other man in the whole creation; that i would sooner be honestly and politically d--nd, than hypocritically immortalized. i had been elected by a majority of three thousand five hundred and eighty-five votes, and i believed they were honest men, and wouldn't want me to vote for any unjust notion, to please jackson or any one else; at any rate, i was of age, and was determined to trust them. i voted against this indian bill, and my conscience yet tells me that i gave a good honest vote, and one that i believe will not make me ashamed in the day of judgment. i served out my term, and though many amusing things happened, i am not disposed to swell my narrative by inserting them. when it closed, and i returned home, i found the storm had raised against me sure enough; and it was echoed from side to side, and from end to end of my district, that i had turned against jackson. this was considered the unpardonable sin. i was hunted down like a wild varment, and in this hunt every little newspaper in the district, and every little pin-hook lawyer was engaged. indeed, they were ready to print any and every thing that the ingenuity of man could invent against me. each editor was furnished with the journals of congress from head-quarters; and hunted out every vote i had missed in four sessions, whether from sickness or not, no matter, and each one was charged against me at _eight_ dollars. in all i had missed about _seventy_ votes, which they made amount to five hundred and sixty dollars; and they contended i had swindled the government out of this sum, as i had received my pay, as other members do. i was now again a candidate in , while all the attempts were making against me; and every one of these little papers kept up a constant war on me, fighting with every scurrilous report they could catch. over all i should have been elected, if it hadn't been, that but a few weeks before the election, the little four-pence-ha'penny limbs of the law fell on a plan to defeat me, which had the desired effect. they agreed to spread out over the district, and make appointments for me to speak, almost everywhere, to clear up the jackson question. they would give me no notice of these appointments, and the people would meet in great crowds to hear what excuse crockett had to make for quitting jackson. but instead of crockett's being there, this small-fry of lawyers would be there, with their saddle-bags full of the little newspapers and their journals of congress; and would get up and speak, and read their scurrilous attacks on me, and would then tell the people that i was afraid to attend; and in this way would turn many against me. all this intrigue was kept a profound secret from me, till it was too late to counteract it; and when the election came, i had a majority in seventeen counties, putting all their votes together, but the eighteenth beat me; and so i was left out of congress during those two years. the people of my district were induced, by these tricks, to take a stay on me for that time; but they have since found out that they were imposed on, and on re-considering my case, have reversed that decision; which, as the dutchman said, "is as fair a ding as eber was." when i last declared myself a candidate, i knew that the district would be divided by the legislature before the election would come on; and i moreover knew, that from the geographical situation of the country, the county of madison, which was very strong, and which was the county that had given the majority that had beat me in the former race, should be left off from my district. but when the legislature met, as i have been informed, and i have no doubt of the fact, mr. fitzgerald, my competitor, went up, and informed his friends in that body, that if madison county was left off, he wouldn't run; for "that crockett could beat jackson himself in those parts, in any way they could fix it." the liberal legislature you know, of course, gave him that county; and it is too clear to admit of dispute, that it was done to make a mash of me. in order to make my district in this way, they had to form the southern district of a string of counties around three sides of mine, or very nearly so. had my old district been properly divided, it would have made two nice ones, in convenient nice form. but as it is, they are certainly the most unreasonably laid off of any in the state, or perhaps in the nation, or even in the te-total creation. however, when the election came on, the people of the district, and of madison county among the rest, seemed disposed to prove to mr. fitzgerald and the jackson legislature, that they were not to be transferred like hogs, and horses, and cattle in the market; and they determined that i shouldn't be broke down, though i had to carry jackson, and the enemies of the bank, and the legislative works all at once. i had mr. fitzgerald, it is true, for my open competitor, but he was helped along by all his little lawyers again, headed by old black hawk, as he is sometimes called, (alias) adam huntsman, with all his talents for writing "_chronicles_," and such like foolish stuff. but one good thing was, and i must record it, the papers in the district were now beginning to say "fair play a little," and they would publish on both sides of the question. the contest was a warm one, and the battle well-fought; but i gained the day, and the jackson horse was left a little behind. when the polls were compared, it turned out i had beat fitz just two hundred and two votes, having made a mash of all their intrigues. after all this, the reader will perceive that i am now here in congress, this th day of january, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four; and that, what is more agreeable to my feelings as a freeman, i am at liberty to vote as my conscience and judgment dictates to be right, without the yoke of any party on me, or the driver at my heels, with his whip in hand, commanding me to ge-wo-haw, just at his pleasure. look at my arms, you will find no party hand-cuff on them! look at my neck, you will not find there any collar, with the engraving my dog. andrew jackson. but you will find me standing up to my rack, as the people's faithful representative, and the public's most obedient, very humble servant, david crockett. the end. chesnut street, march, . new works lately published, and preparing for publication, by e. l. carey & a. hart, philad. and carey, hart & co. baltimore, and for sale by all booksellers. in two volumes, mo. constance; by mrs. a. t. thomson, author of the life of henry viii. "one of the most touching and exquisitely natural tales that many seasons have produced. it developes an intimate knowledge of the human heart, and a remarkable power in the delineation of character."--_atlas._ "this novel, in its sketches of english country society, is most successful; its portraits are very happy, its scenes very amusing."--_spectator._ "a picture of real life, drawn with equal truth, gaiety and feeling--the three graces of fiction."--_literary gazette._ "the dramatic ability displayed in the management of this story is of the very highest order."--_atlas._ in one volume, mo. carwell; by mrs. sheridan, author of "aims and ends." "a story which for minute fidelity to truth, for high tragic conception, both of plot and character, has few equals in modern fiction." "but everywhere you see that rarest of all literary beauties, a beautiful mind--an intimate persuasion of the fine and great truths of the human heart--a delicate and quick perception of the lovely and the honest--an intellect that profits by experience, and a disposition which that experience cannot corrupt."--_the author of pelham._ in one volume, mo. the gentleman in black. "it is very clever and very entertaining--replete with pleasantry and humour: quite as imaginative as any german diablerie, and far more amusing than most productions of its class. it is a very whimsical and well devised jeu d'esprit."--_literary gazette._ new works published by in two volumes, mo. traits and stories of the irish peasantry. third series. "this work has been most extravagantly praised by the english critics: and several extracts from it have been extensively published in our newspapers. it is altogether a better work than any of the kind which has yet appeared--replete with humour, both broad and delicate--and with occasional touches of pathos, which have not been excelled by any writer of the present day. an edinburgh critic says that 'neither miss edgeworth, nor the author of the o'hara tales, could have written any thing more powerful than this.'"--_baltimore american._ "there seems to be a strong unanimity of opinion in favour of the new british work entitled 'traits and stories of the irish peasantry.' the work is proclaimed in the british journals, and pronounced by readers in our country, to be equal in racy humour and graphic delineation, to the very best sketches that have appeared of irish character, life, and manners."--_national gazette._ in two volumes, mo. the affianced one; by the author of "gertrude." "evidently the production of a woman of taste and refinement. it abounds with lively sketches of society, and sparkling anecdote."--_belle assemblee._ in one volume, vo. memoirs of vidocq, the celebrated agent of the french police. this is a most entertaining work. vidocq stood long and deservedly at the head of the french police. it is well written, and is full of anecdote. in three volumes, mo. peter simple; or, adventures of a midshipman. complete. by the author of the "king's own," "naval officer," &c. "the quiet humour which pervades the work is irresistibly amusing, and the fund of anecdote and description which it contains, entertaining. the humour sometimes approaches to downright burlesque, and the incident to extravagance, if not improbability; but, altogether, as a book of amusement, it is excellent."--_baltimore gazette._ in two volumes, mo. the fair of may fair. by the author of "pin money," &c. "mrs. gore certainly stands at the head of the female novelists of the day. but we subjoin the opinion of mr. bulwer."--_u. s. gazette._ "she is the consummator of that undefinable species of wit, which we should call (if we did not know the word might be deemed offensive, in which sense we do not mean it) the _slang_ of good society. "but few people ever painted, with so felicitous a hand, the scenery of worldly life, without any apparent satire. she brings before you the hollowness, the manoeuvres, and the intrigues of the world, with the brilliancy of sarcasm, but with the quiet of simple narrative. her men and women, in her graver tales, are of a noble and costly clay; their objects are great; their minds are large, their passions intense and pure. the walks upon the stage of the world of fashion, and her characters, have grown dwarfed as if by enchantment. the air of frivolity has blighted their stature; their colours are pale and languid; they have no generous ambition; they are _little people!_ they are fine people! this it is that makes her novel of our social life so natural, and so clear a transcript of the original."--_the author of pelham._ in two volumes, mo. the invisible gentleman. by the author of "chartley," "the fatalist," etc. etc. "it is a novel which may be termed the whimsically supernatural."--_athenæum._ "the present narrative is one of the most entertaining fictions we have met with for a long time; the idea is very original, and brought into play with a lively air of truth, which gives a dramatic reality even to the supernatural."--_literary gazette._ "the adventures follow each other with delightful rapidity and variety; occasionally there is a deep and thrilling touch of pathos, which we feel not a bit the less acutely, because the trouble and wo of the parties have originated in the familiar and somewhat laughable act of pulling an ear."--_court magazine._ in two volumes, mo. mothers and daughters. "the best novel of the season--a faithful, exact, and withal spirited picture of the aristocracy of this country--an admirable description of what is called high life, and full of a more enlarged knowledge of human nature."--_spectator._ "a very lively and amusing panorama of actual life."--_lit. gazette._ "a very interesting work, full of well-described scenes and characters, and altogether deserving of being classed with the first-rate novels of the day."--_courier._ "it would be difficult to lay down such a book until every chapter has been perused. elegance and force of style--highly but faithfully drawn pictures of society--are merits scarcely secondary to those we have enumerated: and they are equally displayed throughout. 'mothers and daughters' must find its way rapidly into every circle."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ in one volume, mo. a subaltern in america; comprising his narrative of the campaigns of the british army at baltimore, washington, etc. during the late war. "the subaltern is a man of sense, acuteness, and good feeling, who writes with spirit and good taste.--considering that he is an englishman and an english officer writing about america, his book is tolerably fair--and makes fewer insulting comments upon things which he did not understand, than has been customary with that kind of authors. "the 'subaltern' is nevertheless a very agreeable, well written book, and we are glad to see it republished here. no doubt an american would have written some portions of it differently, but we can profit, we trust, by observing how opposite accounts can be fairly given of the same transactions, and learn something of the trouble in which history is written." _baltimore american._ "the subaltern in america.--under this title, messrs. carey, hart & co. have recently published a work in one volume, comprising a full narrative of the campaigns of the british army, at baltimore, washington, new orleans, &c. during the late war. the incidents of the war, as related in the american papers, are probably familiar to most persons, through that channel. yet the ends of truth, and the means of forming a just judgment, may require that one should hear the statement of the adverse party, as well as that most favourable to our side of the question. there is, moreover, two ways of telling even the truth. they who feel an interest in the details of this important struggle between kindred nations, have, in the book before us, an opportunity of hearing them, as shaped out by one of the adverse party. the 'subaltern' bore an active share in the several campaigns, of which he professes to give an account; and if his narrations are somewhat partial to his own side of the question, it is but the indulgence of a very common foible, which may be the more readily excused, as the means of correction are at hand."--_baltimore patriot._ in two volumes, mo. pin money; by mrs. charles gore, authoress of "hungarian tales," "polish tales," etc. "her writings have that originality which wit gives to reality, and wit is the great characteristic of her pages."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ "light spirited and clever, the characters are drawn with truth and vigour. keen in observation, lively in detail, and with a peculiar and piquant style, mrs. charles gore gives to the novel that charm which makes the fascination of the best french memoir writers."--_london literary gazette._ in one volume, mo. legends and tales of ireland by samuel lover. e. l. carey and a. hart in two volumes, mo. the man-of-war's-man; by the author of "tom cringle's log." "no stories of adventures are more exciting than those of seamen. the author of tom cringle's log is the most popular writer of that class, and those sketches collected not long since into a volume by the same publishers, in this city, were universally read. a large edition was soon exhausted. the present is, we believe, an earlier production, and has many of the same merits."--_baltimore gazette._ "messrs. carey & hart have published, in two volumes, 'the man-of-war's-man.' the success which attended the publication of 'tom cringle's log,' might well induce its ingenious author to undertake a continuous narrative, having for the subject of illustration the manners and customs of seamen. the work now before us is of the kind, well imagined, and executed with all the tact and clearness that distinguished the 'log book' of master cringle, with the advantages of a more regular plot and interesting denouement."--_u. s. gazette._ "nobody needs be told what sort of a book tom cringle can write--that humorous and most admirable of sailors! we may just remark that the reader will find in the present volume the same power of description and knowledge of the world--the same stirring adventures, phrases, dialects, and incidents which rendered his last work so extravagantly popular. the printing is uncommonly good for a novel." in one volume, vo. the american flower garden directory, containing practical directions for the culture of plants in the hot-house, garden-house, flower-garden, and rooms or parlours, for every month in the year; with a description of the plants most desirable in each, the nature of the soil and situation best adapted to their growth, the proper season for transplanting, &c.; instructions for erecting a hot-house, green-house, and laying out a flower-garden. also, table of soils most congenial to the plants contained in the work. the whole adapted to either large or small gardens, with lists of annuals, bienniels, and ornamental shrubs, contents, a general index, and a frontispiece of camellia fimbriata. by hibbert and buist, exotic nurserymen and florists. in two volumes, mo. jacob faithful; by the author of peter simple, &c. &c. in two vols. mo. first love, a novel. "its style is elegant, and its information that of a lady of amiable feelings and motives, who well understands her sex."--_spectator._ "the whole of the story, but particularly the dawning of that early dawning of life's morning, first love, and the subsequent progress of that passion, are indeed delightfully sketched."--_morning post._ in two volumes, mo. traits and stories of the irish peasantry first series. "admirable--truly, intensely irish: never were the outrageous whimsicalities of that strange, wild, imaginative people so characteristically described; nor amidst all the fun, frolic, and folly, is there any dearth of poetry, pathos, and passion. the author's a jewel."--_glasgow journal._ "to those who have a relish for a few tit-bits of rale irish story-telling,--whether partaking of the tender or the facetious, or the grotesque,--let them purchase these characteristic sketches."--_sheffield iris._ "the sister country has never furnished such sterling genius, such irresistibly humorous, yet faithful sketches of character among the lower ranks of patlanders, as are to be met with in the pages of these delightful volumes."--_bristol journal._ "this is a capital book, full of fun and humour, and most characteristically irish."--_new monthly magazine._ "neither miss edgeworth, nor the author of the o'hara tales, could have written any thing more powerful than this."--_edinburgh literary gazette._ "we do not hesitate to say, that for a minute and accurate sketching of the character, manners, and language of the lower orders of the irish, no book was ever published at all equal to this."--_spectator._ in two volumes, mo. traits and stories of the irish peasantry. second series. "traits and stories of irish peasantry.--the whole story is one of that mirth-inspiring nature, that those who read it without hearty laughter must be either miserable or very imperturbable."--_metropolitan, edited by t. campbell._ "there is strength, vigour--and above all--truth, in every story, in every sentence, every line he writes. the statesman ought to read such books as these; they would tell him more of the true state of the country than he has ever heard from the lips of her orators, or the despatches of the 'castle hacks.' we wish mr. carlton would send forth a cheap edition, that 'traits and stories' of irish peasants might be in the hands of people as well as peers."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ in two volumes, mo. the staff-officer. or, the soldier of fortune. a tale of real life. "the web of life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not, and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues." by oliver moore. "we are prepared to admit that our extracts do not do justice to the work: the writer's power is in discriminating _female_ character; but as he judiciously makes it develope itself by incident, to illustrate this would require scenes and pages to be transferred to our columns. as a whole, this novel will be read with interest: it is light and pleasant; with many very natural scenes, many excellent and well-drawn characters, and without one line or word of affectation or pretence."--_athenæum._ "this is a most entertaining work: it is written with great spirit, elegance, and candour. the delineation of character (particularly that of many distinguished individuals officially connected with ireland during the pitt administration) is skilfully and vividly drawn; and the multifarious incidents--several of which are of a highly _piquant_ description--are given with a tact and delicacy creditable to the judgment and talent of the author. we can say with truth, that we have fairly gone through this tale of real life without being cloyed or wearied for a single moment; but that it excited, and kept up, an interest in our minds which few volumes designed for mere amusement have been able to inspire."--_brighton herald._ in two volumes, mo. the naval officer; or, scenes and adventures in the life of frank mildmay. by the author of "peter simple," "the king's own," etc. "this is the most seaman-like composition that has yet issued from the press. we recommend it to all who 'live at home at ease,' and need scarcely say, that no man-of-wars man should remain an hour without it."--_atlas._ the following beautiful and judicious compliment to the genius of captain marryatt, author of the naval officer, is from the pen of mr. bulwer, who, it will be acknowledged, is no inexperienced or unobserving critic: "far remote from the eastern and the voluptuous--from the visionary and refining--from the pale colouring of drawing-room life, and the subtle delicacies of female sentiment and wit, the genius of captain marryatt embodies itself in the humour, the energy, the robust and masculine vigour of bustling and actual existence; it has been braced by the sea breezes; it walks abroad in the mart of busy men, with a firm step and a cheerful and healthy air. not, indeed, that he is void of a certain sentiment, and an intuition into the more hidden sources of mental interest; but these are not his forte, or his appropriate element. he is best in a rich and various humour--rich, for there is nothing poor or threadbare in his materials. his characters are not, as scott's, after all, mere delineations of one oddity, uttering the same eternal phraseology, from the 'prodigious' of dominie sampson, to 'provant' of major dalgetty--a laughable, but somewhat poor invention: they are formed of compound and complex characteristics, and evince no trifling knowledge of the metaphysics of social life." in two volumes, mo. the contrast a novel. by earl mulgrave, author of "matilda," "yes and no," etc. "'yes and no' contained the best _tableaux_ of actual--human--english society in the nineteenth century, of any novel we know of. the same characteristics that distinguished the most agreeable novel are equally remarkable in its successors."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ "'contrast' cannot fail to prove interesting."--_court journal._ "these volumes possess the rather uncommon merit of a very interesting story. the design is to paint a man whose strong feelings are curbed by an over-fastidiousness--what the french so happily term un-homme difficile."--_london literary gazette._ "messrs. carey and hart have republished, in two neat volumes, earl mulgrave's novel of the 'contrast,' which has been so favourably received in england. it is said to be one of the best novels of the kind, that has issued from the press for years."--_philadelphia inquirer._ "'pelham,' and 'yes and no,' are perhaps the only paintings of the present time which are drawn with the accuracy of knowledge, and the vivacity of talent. were we to be asked by a foreigner to recommend those novels which, founded on truth, gave the most just delineation of the higher classes in england, it is to the above mentioned works we should refer. _the present volumes, however, are an infinite improvement on their predecessor._"--_london literary gazette._ in one volume, vo. memoirs of marshal ney, compiled from papers in the possession of his family. the work has been put together under the direction and management of the duke of elchingen, marshal ney's second son, who has affixed his signature to every sheet sent to press. "they may be regarded as the ney papers, connected together by an interesting biography; the anecdotes with which they are interspersed have plainly been collected with great pains from all the early friends of that illustrious warrior."--_blackwood's magazine._ "the memoirs before us are founded upon the papers and documents which he left behind him at his death, consisting of anecdotic and biographical fragments, accounts of his divers missions and campaigns, and the substance of many extraordinary secrets intrusted to him as a general and a statesman. all these materials throw great light upon the history of the french empire, as the details given in the memoirs possess the strongest interest."--_pennsylvania inquirer._ in one volume, mo. conversations on vegetable physiology; comprehending the elements of botany, with their application to agriculture. by the author of "conversations on chemistry," &c. &c. adapted to the use of schools by j. l. blake, a. m. third american edition, with coloured plates. in preparation, the gift; a christmas and new year's present, for . edited by miss leslie, author of "pencil sketches," &c. the publishers have the promise of articles from many of the most popular authors of the day. the illustrations are in the hands of some of the most eminent engravers, and no expense will be spared to render the work in every respect equal to the foreign productions of the same class. mathematics for practical men; being a common-place book of principles, theorems, rules and tables, in various departments of pure and mixed mathematics, with their applications; especially to the pursuits of surveyors, architects, mechanics, and civil engineers. with numerous engravings. by olinthus gregory, ll.d., f.r.a.s. second edition, corrected and improved. "only let men awake, and fix their eyes, one while on the nature of things, another while on the application of them to the use and service of mankind."--_lord bacon._ in one volume, mo. colman's broad grins. a new edition, with additions. "'this is a little volume of the comic,' which we recollect to have laughed over many a time, in our boyish days, and since. it is old standard fun,--a comic classic."--_baltimore gazette._ english editions. price - / cents each number. cuvier's animal kingdom; now in course of publication in london. the animal kingdom, arranged according to its organization, serving as a foundation for the natural history of animals, and an introduction to comparative anatomy, with figures designed and coloured after nature. the crustacea, arachnides insecta, by latreille, translated from the latest french edition, with additional notes and illustrations, by nearly five hundred additional plates, to be completed in thirty-six monthly numbers, at - / cents each. six numbers have already been received. the attention of the public is particularly requested to this work, as it is, without question, by far the cheapest and most beautiful edition of the "animal kingdom" of cuvier that has yet appeared. landscape and portrait illustrations of the waverley novels. new edition; containing one hundred and twenty superb engravings. the above work is complete in _twenty-four_ numbers, and supplied at the moderate price of _seventy-five cents per number_. the former edition sold at _double the price_. illustrations of the poetical works of sir walter scott; now in course of publication in england; to be complete in _twelve_ monthly numbers, four of which have already appeared. price cents each. finden's landscape illustrations of the life and works of lord byron. price cents per number. to be completed in numbers, of which have already appeared. each number contains five highly-finished engravings. a whisper to a newly-married pair. "hail, wedded love! by gracious heaven design'd, at once the source and glory of mankind." "we solicit the attention of our readers to this publication, as one, though small, of infinite value."--_baltimore minerva._ "'the whisper' is fully deserving the compliments bestowed upon it, and we join heartily in recommending it to our friends, whether married or single--for much useful instruction may be gathered from its pages."--_lady's book._ "the work contains some original suggestions that are just, and many excellent quotations; some of her hints to the ladies should have been _whispered_ in a tone too low to be overheard by the men."--_daily chronicle._ in one volume, mo. principles of the art of modern horsemanship for ladies and gentlemen, in which all the late improvements are applied to practice. translated from the french, by daniel j. desmond. the art of horsemanship.--this is the title of a neat little work translated from the french of mr. lebeaud, by daniel j. desmond, esq. of this city, and just published by carey & hart. it gives full and explicit directions for breaking and managing a horse, and goes into detail on the proper mode of mounting, the posture in the saddle, the treatment of the animal under exercise, &c. an appendix is added, containing instructions for the _ladies_, in mounting and dismounting. the philadelphia public are under obligations to mr. desmond for this translation. we have long needed a manual of horsemanship, to correct the inelegant habits in which many of our riders indulge, and to produce uniformity in the art of equitation. we see daily in our streets, mounted men, who totter in their seats as if suffering under an ague-fit; others who whip, spur, and rant, as if charging an enemy in battle; and again others, of slovenly habits, with cramped knees, and toes projecting outwards, who occupy a position utterly devoid of every thing like ease, grace, or beauty. these things are discreditable to our community, and earnestly do we hope, that this book will have many attentive readers.--_philadelphia gazette._ in one volume, mo two hundred receipts in domestic french cookery. by miss leslie, author of the "seventy-five receipts." price cents. "'the receipts by miss leslie,' published by carey and hart of philadelphia, has been much praised, and we think deservedly. the selection of subjects made by the accomplished writer is of a most tempting and tasteful description, and we must do her the justice to say, that she has treated them in such an eloquent and forcible manner, as to raise in the minds of all dispassionate readers the most tender and pleasurable associations. we commend her to the careful perusal and respect of all thrifty housewives."--_new york mirror._ in one volume, mo. the painter's and colourman's complete guide; being a practical treatise on the preparation of colours, and their application to the different kinds of painting; in which is particularly described the whole art of house painting. by p. f. tingry, professor of chymistry, natural history, and mineralogy, in the academy of geneva. first american, from the third london edition, corrected and considerably improved by a practical chymist. in one volume, mo. the family dyer and scourer; being a complete treatise on the arts of dying and cleaning every article of dress, whether made of wool, cotton, silk, flax, or hair; also bed and window furniture, carpets, hearth-rugs, counterpanes, bonnets, feathers, &c. by william tucker, dyer and scourer in the metropolis. elements of morality for the instruction of youth. with scriptural references. translated by a. bolmar, and e. k. price half bound. price cents. in one volume, mo. picture of philadelphia; or a brief account of the various institutions and public objects in this metropolis, forming a guide for strangers, accompanied by a new plan of the city. in a neat pocket volume. in one volume, mo. the horse in all his varieties and uses; his breeding, rearing, and management, whether in labour or rest; with rules occasionally interspersed, for his preservation from disease. by john lawrence, author of "the history of the horse," etc. "independently of the practical value of the book, and it is really and extensively valuable, it is one of the most amusing the reader will meet with in a thousand, complete and unique, embracing every possible subject that can be connected with the horse."--_monthly magazine._ chesnut street, october, . new works published and preparing for publication, by e. l. carey & a. hart, philad. in two volumes, mo. the rouÃ� by the author of the "oxonians." in one volume, vo. a treatise on lesser surgery; or the minor surgical operations. by bourgery, d. m. p. author of "a complete treatise on human anatomy, comprising operative medicine," translated from the french, with notes, and an appendix; by william c. roberts and jas. b. kissam. in two volumes, mo. manners of the day. a novel. in one volume, mo. magendie's formulary. a new edition, revised and corrected. in two volumes, mo. tales of the munster festivals. by the author of the "collegians." in two volumes, mo. travels in various parts of peru; including a year's residence in potosi. by edmund temple, kt. of the royal and distinguished order of charles iii. "these travels in peru will long maintain their reputation for the accuracy of detail, the spirit of the style, and the utility of the information they contain. the professional matter is very valuable."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ "there is much to instruct, and a great deal to amuse. amid the details of personal adventures, there is a great deal of shrewd and strong observation."--_london monthly magazine._ "we have met with no volumes of travels in that country with which, upon the whole, we have been so much pleased as the one before us."--_baltimore gazette._ "this is an instructive and entertaining work."--_national gazette._ "this book is one of the most entertaining that has been issued from the press for some time."--_pennsylvania inquirer._ in two volumes, mo. sydenham; or, memoirs of a man of the world. "a new novel of fashionable life, under the title of 'sydenham, or memoirs of a man of the world,' will shortly be given to the public. it exhibits the history of a young man of rank and fortune, who, being of a decidedly satirical turn, resolves to gratify his favourite penchant to ascertain the internal state of fashionable society, and minutely to observe human nature under every variety of shade and circumstance. among other characters with whom he comes in contact, is the celebrated brummel, who figures under the name of beaumont: this gentleman arrests his peculiar attention, and serves him for a complete study. the work is, moreover, illustrative of those sets or circles in the world of ton which have never been depicted in the pages of fiction, and respecting which so much curiosity has long been felt."--_new monthly magazine._ "each of these volumes is in fact a separate work--each in a different style and spirit--each aspiring to a different fame in composition. 'sydenham' is a capital work, which, without the trouble of puffing, must make a great stir in the upper and political circles."--_london lit. gaz._ "sydenham is well written, and contains much pleasant and some severe satire. the present whig ministers in england are handled without gloves, and a number of distinguished personages occupy more conspicuous places than they would have been likely to choose, had the matter been referred to themselves."--_courier._ "the work before us is one of the most powerful of its class; it bears intrinsic evidence of a new writer. the portrait of brummel, the 'arch dandy,' is excellent; and all the scenes in which he is engaged are managed with skill and tact. there is, in fact, sufficient material in this book for three or four novels."--_new monthly magazine._ "all the personages are of course real, though under fictitious names; these pages are, in reality, memoirs of the intrigues of the times, full of keen observation, graphic sketches of character, biting sarcasm, one page of which would make the fortune of a pamphlet."--_london gazette._ in two volumes, mo. records of travels in turkey, greece, &c. in the years , , and ; and of a cruise in the black sea, with the captain pasha. by adolphus slade, esq. "one of the most valuable and interesting works which has yet been placed in our hands, on the domestic state of turkey."--_monthly review._ "we do not know when we have met with two volumes more amusing--they are full of highly entertaining and curious matter."--_court jour._ "the work before us supplies the best description of this remarkable nation."--_courier._ "one of the most amusing and interesting of oriental travellers, none having ever equalled him in a thorough knowledge of the true state of society, and the true character of the turks."--_spectator._ "we can warmly recommend this book for perusal, it is not only very amusing but very valuable."--_metropolitan._ "we can assure our readers that no records of travels in modern times, with which we are acquainted, presents so many features of general attraction as the volumes before us."--_london monthly review._ "mr. slade has produced, without any trace of pretension, one of the most sensible and agreeable books of travel we have ever had the pleasure to peruse."--_united service journal._ in two volumes, mo. legends of the rhine. by t. c. grattan, esq. author of "high-ways and by-ways." "we are well content to pass an hour once more with the lively and entertaining author of 'high-ways and by-ways." the hour has not yet gone by, and we have not completed the perusal of the two volumes; but the tales we have observed are worthy the repute in which the writer is held, and are even of a higher order--more chaste in language and perfect in style."--_boston traveller._ "messrs. carey and hart have just issued 'legends of the rhine,' by the author of 'high-ways and by-ways.' to those who recollect mr. grattan's former writings, (and who among novel readers does not?) it is only necessary to say, that the present 'legends' are, in no respect, inferior to their predecessors. the traditions which he has here wrought into shape are all said to have an existence among the dwellers near the mighty river; and it is certain they are full of romantic interest. the 'legends' are twelve in number, and, though not equal in all respects, there is no one of them that does not possess a strong claim to admiration."--_saturday courier._ "few sets of stories, published within the last ten years, have been more popular than those called 'high-ways and by-ways.' the author of these, after having produced two or three successful works of a different sort, has given us two volumes of tales, with the title 'legends of the rhine,' which are to be published to-morrow, we understand, by carey and hart. the author professes, seriously, to have founded his narratives on traditions yet extant among those who live near the banks of the great german river; and many of them end so tragically that we can hardly suspect the writer of having invented them for his own amusement or that of his readers. they are all interesting, though not all skilfully framed; and each of them contains pages that may be placed in a competition with the most shining passages of any other living novel writer." in two volumes, mo. stanley buxton; or, the schoolfellows. by john galt, esq., author of "annals of the parish," "lawrie todd," "eben erskine," etc. "while guile is guiltless, and life's business play, friendships are formed that never know decay." "oh, that all novels were like this piece of admirable fiction."--_spectator._ "we must say this work is in mr. galt's best style, the volume before us contains samples of his tastes and of his powers."--_bulwer's new monthly magazine._ "mr. galt's new novel is on our table, and we regret we have not space to go further into the arcana of 'stanley buxton,' in which the author has aimed at painting natural feelings in situations not common, and with much success. some of his descriptions are also deserving of special praise. two episodes in the second volume add to the general interest, and further recommend the work to public favour."--_london literary gazette._ "we find in this work the force of conception, and the full execution which distinguish the 'annals of the parish,' and 'lawrie todd.'"--_sun._ "the new novel, 'stanley buxton,' just published by carey and hart, may be called one of the very best of mr. galt's productions."--_daily chronicle._ "in 'stanley buxton' there is the same delightful freshness, the same striking originality of purpose, the same easy and flowing, yet racy and spirited manner which characterized the 'annals of the parish.'"--_saturday courier._ "for touching the heart, for keen knowledge of nature, and for quiet and beautiful descriptions, like the still life in a painter's sketch, galt possesses a vision and a power, that are not often surpassed, except by bulwer. the author of 'stanley buxton' is infinitely superior to d'israeli, whose imagination is as excursive and capricious as the wing of a sea-fowl."--_chronicle._ "mr. galt is a writer so well known and so deservedly admired, that the announcement of a new novel from his pen is sufficient to awaken general curiosity."--_gazette._ in two volumes, mo. fitz george. a novel. "smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, youth without honour, age without respect."--_byron._ "there are scenes in it which must awaken attention and interest; it is evidently written by a powerful and accustomed hand."--_athenæum._ "fitz george is a production of great talent."--_weekly despatch._ "if all novels were like this, they would soon be in the hands of philosophers as well as fashionables."--_true sun._ "should a library be formed in buckingham palace, these volumes should have a shelf in it to themselves."--_bell's new weekly messenger._ "the whole book abounds with the most stirring interest."--_national omnibus._ in two volumes, mo. our island. comprising _forgery, a tale_; _and_, _the lunatic, a tale_. "there is a great share of talent in these pages, which have also the merit of being laid chiefly among scenes new to a large portion of our readers."--_literary gazette._ "_the lunatic._--this is indeed an excellent tale--well told--with variety of incidents and character, and with much humour. not to speak in disparagement of the first tale, we must confess that we have been highly pleased with the second, and we think our readers' time will be amply repaid by a perusal of both."--_london monthly magazine._ "this work is of a generally interesting character, and we feel it our duty to encourage the publication of such productions as these tales, since they point attention to errors of legislation."--_weekly despatch._ in two volumes, mo. peter simple; or, adventures of a midshipman. by the author of "the king's own." in two volumes, mo. tom cringle's log. "the scenes are chiefly nautical, and we can safely say, that no author of the present day, not even excepting our own cooper, has surpassed him in his element."--_u. s. gazette._ "the sketches are not only replete with entertainment, but useful, as affording an accurate and vivid description of scenery, and of life and manners in the west indies."--_boston traveller._ "we think none who have read this work will deny that the author is the best nautical writer who has yet appeared. he is not smollett, he is not cooper; but he is far superior to them both."--_boston transcript._ "the scenes are chiefly nautical, and are described in a style of beauty and interest never surpassed by any writer."--_baltimore gazette._ "the author has been justly compared with cooper, and many of his sketches are in fact equal to any from the pen of our celebrated countryman."--_saturday evening post._ in two volumes, mo. tom cringle's log. second series. in three volumes, mo. tom cringle's log. first and second series. a new edition complete. in one volume, vo. _hall on the loss of blood._ researches principally relative to the morbid and curative effects of loss of blood. by marshall hall, m.d., f.r.s.e., &c. &c. "it will be seen that we have been much pleased with dr. hall's work generally; we think it is calculated to do much good in placing the subject of the due institution of blood-letting on a practical basis. dr. hall has subjoined a plan of a register of cases of blood-letting, which would be a most useful record, if properly kept; and we cannot recommend such a detail of facts, to practitioners, in too high terms."--_american journal of medical sciences, no. xi._ "it is not for us to say how large may have been the number of sufferers, but we know some have perished from direct exhaustion complicated with reaction, who might have been saved, if the principles and practice of our author had been known and understood."--_n. a. med. and surg. journal, no. xx. for october, ._ in one volume, vo. _teale on neuralgic diseases._ a treatise on neuralgic diseases, dependent upon irritation of the spinal marrow and ganglia of the sympathetic nerve. by thomas pridgin teale. member of the royal college of surgeons in london, of the royal medical society of edinburgh, senior surgeon to the leeds public dispensary. price cents. "it is a source of genuine gratification to meet with a work of this character, when it is so often our lot to be obliged to labour hard to winnow a few grains of information from the great mass of dullness, ignorance, and misstatement with which we are beset, and cannot too highly recommend it to the attention of the profession."--_american journal of the medical sciences, no. x._ in one volume, vo. select speeches of john sergeant of pennsylvania. select medico-chirurgical transactions. a collection of the most valuable memoirs read to the medico-chirurgical societies of london and edinburgh; the association of fellows and licentiates of the king and queen's college of physicians in ireland; the royal academy of medicine of paris; the royal societies of london and edinburgh; the royal academy of turin; the medical and anatomical societies of paris, &c. &c. &c. edited by isaac hays, m.d. in one volume, vo. a practical compendium of midwifery: being the course of lectures on midwifery, and on the diseases of women and infants, delivered at st. bartholemew's hospital. by the late robert gooch, m.d. "as it abounds, however, in valuable and original suggestions, it will be found a useful book of reference."--_drake's western journal._ in one volume, vo. an account of some of the most important diseases peculiar to women; by robert gooch, m.d. "in this volume dr. gooch has made a valuable contribution to practical medicine. it is the result of the observation and experience of a strong, sagacious, and disciplined mind."--_transylvania journal of medicine._ "this work, which is now for the first time presented to the profession in the united states, comes to them with high claims to their notice."--_drake's western journal._ in two volumes, mo frescatis; or, scenes in paris. in one volume, mo. colman's broad grins. a new edition, with additions. in one volume, mo. the groom's oracle, and pocket stable directory. in which the management of horses generally, as to health, dieting, and exercise, is considered, in a series of familiar dialogues between two grooms engaged in training horses to their work, as well for the road as the chase and turf. by john hinds, v.s., author of the "veterinary surgeon." embellished with an elegant frontispiece, by s. alken. first american, from the second london edition. with considerable additions, and an appendix, including the receipt book of john hinds, v.s. "this enlarged edition of the 'groom's oracle' contains a good number of new points connected with training prime horses; and the owners of working cattle, also, will find their profit in consulting the practical remarks that are applicable to their teams; on the principle that _health preserved_ is better than _disease removed_." "the groom's oracle, by j. hinds, is among the most valuable of our recent publications; it ought to be in the possession of every gentleman, who either has in possession, or has a chance of possessing, the noble animal to whose proper treatment the author has directed his enlightened researches."--_taunton courier, ._ reflections on every day in the week, with occasional thoughts. by catharine talbot. neatly done up in paper with gilt edges. price cents. "catherine talbot's _reflections on every day of the week_ have been published, in a neat and popular form, by messrs. carey and hart. they are simple, and applicable to every reader, and distinguished not less by eloquent thought, than by sound and correct judgment. the little work will be read by no one without profit."--_saturday evening post._ in one volume, vo. _tate on hysteria._ a treatise on "hysteria." by george tate, m.d. "as public journalists, we take this occasion to return him our hearty thanks for the pains he has taken to shed a new light on an obscure and much-neglected topic."--_north amer. med. and surg. journ. no. xix._ in one volume, mo. a subaltern in america; comprising his narrative of the campaigns of the british army at baltimore, washington, etc. during the late war. in two volumes, mo. nights-at-mess. in two volumes, vo. nature displayed in her mode of teaching language to man; being a new and infallible method of acquiring languages with unparalleled rapidity; deduced from the analysis of the human mind, and consequently suited to every capacity; adapted to the french, by n. g. dufief. to which is prefixed a development of the author's plan of tuition: differing entirely from every other; so powerful in its operation and so very economical, that a liberal education can be afforded even to the poorest of mankind. eighth edition, enlarged and improved. in two volumes, vo. dufief's spanish nature displayed. in two volumes, vo. a new universal and pronouncing dictionary of the french and english languages. containing above _fifty thousand_ terms and names not to be found in the dictionaries of boyer, perry, nugent, &c. &c.; to which is added a vast fund of other information equally beneficial and instructive. by n. g. dufief. a new edition, revised and corrected by the author. in one volume, mo. _the surgeon-dentist's manual._ the surgeon-dentist's anatomical and physiological manual. by g. wait. member of the royal college of surgeons in london, &c. &c. "the work cannot fail, we think, to answer well the purpose for which it was designed, of a manual for the practical dentist; and in the notes will be found many useful hints respecting the diseases of these structures."--_boston med. and surg. journ. ._ manual of surgical operations. containing the new method of operating devised by lisfranc. followed by two synoptic tables of natural and instrumental labours. by j. coster, m.d. and p. of the university of turin. "dr. john d. godman, lecturer on anatomy, in this city, a gentleman of distinguished professional and literary talents, having translated this small, but valuable volume, for the benefit of the students who may honour our university by their attendance, i shall merely refer to that work. i have more pleasure in recommending, inasmuch as a short system of operative surgery has been a desideratum."--_gibson's surgery, vol. ii. page ._ in one volume, vo. _saissy on the ear._ diseases of the internal ear. by j. a. saissy. member of the royal academy of sciences, literature, and arts in lyons, fellow of the medical society of the same city, and of the medical societies of bordeaux, orleans, marseilles, &c. honoured with a premium by the medical society of bordeaux, and since enlarged by the author. translated from the french by nathan r. smith, professor of surgery in the university of maryland, with a supplement on diseases of the external ear, by the translator. froissart and his times. by the late barry st. leger. * * * * * transcriber notes obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected. the following are as in the original: major russell and major russel are used interchangeably in the book. page original: and the trick he has played off on the publick. page its versus it's original: use, its just nobody's business. big men page (scroundrell's) original: old scroundrell's two big sons with us, and made page flower is old english for flour original: man a cupfull of flower. with this, we thickened page bran-fire and branfire original: this is," said i, "a branfire new way of doing - clearly not hypenated in this line. the following changes have been made: page original: bioagraphers, i should not only inform the public replacement: biographers, i should not only inform the public page original: and years all open, to catch every word i would replacement: and ears all open, to catch every word i would page original: where i stop'd to pull of my wet clothes, and put replacement: where i stop'd to pull off my wet clothes, and put page original: and mistatement with which we are beset, replacement: and misstatement with which we are beset, the true story of my parliamentary struggle. by charles bradlaugh. [illustration] london: freethought publishing company, , stonecutter street, e.c. . price sixpence london: printed by annie besant and charles bradlaugh, , stonecutter street, e.c. so much misapprehension and misrepresentation prevails as to what has really taken place in the house of commons with reference to my parliamentary struggle, that i reprint the report of the second select committee and the evidence taken before such committee, together with my three speeches at the bar and the resolutions of the house: these together giving the actual facts. _ordered_,--[tuesday, th may ]:--that mr. bradlaugh, the member for northampton, having claimed at the table of this house to make an affirmation or declaration instead of the oath prescribed by law, founding his claim upon the terms of the act & vict. c. , and the evidence amendment acts of and , and stating that he had been permitted to affirm in courts of justice by virtue of the said evidence amendment acts: and it having been referred to a select committee to consider and report their opinion whether persons entitled, under the provisions of the evidence amendment act, , and the evidence amendment act, , to make a solemn declaration instead of an oath in courts of justice, may be admitted to make an affirmation or declaration instead of an oath in this house, in pursuance of the acts & vict. c. , and & vict. c. ; and the said committee having reported that in their opinion such persons cannot be admitted to make an affirmation or declaration, instead of an oath in pursuance of the said acts: and mr. bradlaugh having since come to the table of the house for the purpose of taking the oath prescribed by the & vict. c. , and the & vict. c. , and objection having been made to his taking the said oath, it be referred to a select committee to inquire into and consider the facts and circumstances under which mr. bradlaugh claims to have the oath prescribed by the & vict. c. , and & vict. c. , administered to him in this house, and also as to the law applicable to such claim under such circumstances, and as to the right and jurisdiction of this house to refuse to allow the said form of the oath to be administered to him, and to report thereon to the house, together with their opinion thereon. _ordered_,--[friday, th may ]:--that the committee do consist of twenty-three members. committee nominated of-- mr. whitbread. sir john holker. mr. john bright. lord henry lennox. mr. massey. mr. staveley hill. sir henry jackson. mr. attorney general. mr. solicitor general. sir gabriel goldney. mr. grantham. mr. pemberton. mr. watkin williams. mr. walpole. mr. hopwood. mr. beresford hope. major nolan. mr. chaplin. mr. serjeant simon. mr. secretary childers. mr. trevelyan. sir richard cross. mr. gibson. that the committee have power to send for persons, papers, and records. that five be the quorum of the committee. report. the select committee appointed to inquire into and consider the facts and circumstances under which mr. bradlaugh claims to have the oath prescribed by the & vict., c. , and and vict., c. , administered to him in this house; and also as to the law applicable to such claim under such circumstances; and as to the right and jurisdiction of this house to refuse to allow the said form of the oath to be administered to him; and to report thereon to the house, together with their opinion thereon:--have agreed to the following report:-- in pursuance of the terms of the reference to your committee, they have inquired into and considered ( ) the facts and circumstances under which mr. bradlaugh claims to have the oath prescribed by the parliamentary oaths act, , and the promissory oaths act, , administered to him in the house, ( ) the law applicable to such claim under such circumstances, and ( ) the right and jurisdiction of the house to refuse to allow the form of the said oath to be administered to him. in order to carry out such inquiry and consideration, your committee thought it right to examine sir t. erskine may as a witness before them. mr. bradlaugh applied to be permitted to make a statement to your committee, and the application was granted. after such statement had been made by mr. bradlaugh, he submitted himself for examination, and was examined by any members of your committee who desired to put questions to him. under the circumstances appearing in the evidence and in the appendix to this report, your committee admitted in evidence a letter written by mr. bradlaugh to certain newspapers, dated th may, . all the evidence taken by your committee appears in the appendix to this report. _facts of the case._ the facts and circumstances under which mr. bradlaugh claimed to take and subscribe the oath are as follow: on monday, the rd of may, mr. bradlaugh came to the table of the house and claimed to be allowed to affirm, as a person for the time being by law permitted to make a solemn affirmation instead of taking an oath; and on being asked by the clerk upon what grounds he claimed to make an affirmation, he said that he did so by virtue of the evidence amendment acts, and . whereupon mr. speaker informed mr. bradlaugh, "that if he desired to address the house in explanation of his claim, he might be permitted to do so." in accordance with mr. speaker's intimation, mr. bradlaugh stated shortly that he relied on the evidence further amendment act, , and the evidence amendment act, , adding, "i have repeatedly, for nine years past, made an affirmation in the highest courts of jurisdiction in this realm; i am ready to make such a declaration or affirmation." thereupon mr. speaker acquainted the house that mr. bradlaugh having made such claim, he did not consider himself justified in determining it; and having grave doubts on the construction of the acts above stated, he desired to refer the matter to the judgment of the house. thereupon a select committee was appointed to consider and report their opinion whether persons entitled, under the provisions of the evidence amendment acts, and , to make a solemn declaration instead of an oath in courts of justice, might be admitted to make an affirmation or declaration instead of an oath, in pursuance of the acts & vict. c. , and & vict. c. ; and on the th of may the committee reported that, in their opinion, persons so entitled could not be admitted to make such affirmation or declaration instead of an oath in the house of commons. on the day after the receipt of this report, mr. bradlaugh presented himself at the table of the house to take and subscribe the oath; and was proceeding to do so, when sir henry drummond wolff, one of the members for portsmouth, objected thereto, and mr. bradlaugh having been ordered to withdraw, sir h. d. wolff moved, "that, in the opinion of the house, mr. bradlaugh, the member for northampton, ought not to be allowed to take the oath which he then required to be administered to him, in consequence of his having previously claimed to make an affirmation or declaration instead of the oath prescribed by law, founding his claim upon the terms of the act & vict. c. , and the evidence amendment acts of and ; and on the ground that under the provisions of those acts the presiding judge at a trial has been satisfied that the taking of an oath would have no binding effects on his conscience." this motion was superseded by an amendment appointing your committee. _the law applicable to mr. bradlaugh's claim._ your committee have been furnished by sir t. erskine may with a list of precedents which illustrate the jurisdiction and proceedings of the house in regard to the taking of oaths. these precedents, and others which mr. bradlaugh placed before your committee as bearing on the case, will be found in the appendix to this report. they may generally be divided into three classes: first, cases of refusal to take the oath; secondly, claims to make an affirmation, instead of taking the oath; and, thirdly, claims to omit a portion of the oath of abjuration. among them there is no precedent of any member coming to the table to take and subscribe the oath, who has not been allowed to do so, nor of any member coming to the table and intimating expressly, or by necessary implication, that an oath would not, as an oath, be binding on his conscience. the present case is, therefore, one of first impression. now there is not only a _prima facie_ right, but it is the duty of every member who has been duly elected to take and subscribe the oath, or to affirm according to the statute. no instance has been brought to the attention of your committee in which any inquiry has been made into the moral, religious, or political opinion of the person who was desirous to take any promissory oath, or of any objection being made to his taking such oath. it would be impossible to foresee the evils which might arise if a contrary practice were sanctioned. but the question remains whether, if a member when about to take the oath should voluntarily make statements as to the binding effect of the oath on his conscience, it is not within the power of the house to take such statements into consideration, and determine whether such member would, if he went through the form of taking the oath, be duly taking it within the provisions of the statute. in the present instance, when mr. bradlaugh claimed under the parliamentary oaths acts his right to affirm, and also stated that he had on several occasions been permitted in a court of justice to affirm, and had affirmed under the evidence amendment acts, and , he thereby in effect informed the house that on such occasions a judge of such court had been satisfied that an oath would have no binding effect upon his conscience. your committee did not think it right to accept this implication as conclusive without permitting mr. bradlaugh an opportunity of making a statement to, and giving evidence before, them. nothing that has come before your committee has affected or altered their views as to the effect of that which occurred when mr. bradlaugh claimed to affirm, as above stated. _as to the right and jurisdiction of the house._ as to the right and jurisdiction of the house to refuse to allow the form of the oath prescribed to be taken by duly elected members to be taken by them, your committee are of opinion that there is and must be an inherent power in the house to require that the law by which the proceedings of the house and of its members in reference to the taking of the parliamentary oath is regulated, be duly observed. but this does not imply that there is any power in the house to interrogate any member desirous to take the oath of allegiance upon any subject in connection with his religious belief, or as to the extent the oath will bind his conscience; or that there is any power in the house to hear any evidence in relation to such matters. and your committee are of opinion that by and in making the claim to affirm, mr. bradlaugh voluntarily brought to the notice of the house that on several occasions he had been permitted in a court of justice to affirm, under the evidence amendment acts, and , in order to enable him to do which a judge of the court must have been satisfied that an oath was not binding upon mr. bradlaugh's conscience; and, as he stated he had acted upon such decisions by repeatedly making the affirmation in courts of justice; and, as above stated, nothing has appeared before your committee to cause them to think mr. bradlaugh dissented from the correctness of such decisions, your committee are of opinion that, under the circumstances, the compliance by mr. bradlaugh with the form used when an oath is taken would not be the taking of an oath within the true meaning of the statutes vict. c. . and & vict. c. ; and, therefore, that the house can, and in the opinion of your committee ought, to prevent mr. bradlaugh going through this form. but your committee desire to point out to your honorable house the position in which mr. bradlaugh will be placed if he is not allowed either to take the oath or to affirm. if the house of commons prevent a duly elected member from taking the oath or affirming, there is no power of reviewing or reversing that decision, however erroneous it may be in point of law. but it appears to your committee that if a member should make and subscribe the affirmation in place of taking and subscribing the oath, it would be possible, by means of an action brought in the high court of justice, to test his legal right to make such affirmation. the committee appointed to inquire into the law relating to the right of certain persons to affirm in effect recorded that mr. bradlaugh was not entitled by law to make the affirmation. but, from the fact that this report was carried by the vote of the chairman, thus showing a great division of opinion amongst the members of that committee, the state of the law upon the subject cannot be regarded as satisfactorily determined. under these circumstances it appears to your committee that mr. bradlaugh should have an opportunity of having his statutory rights determined beyond doubt by being allowed to take the only step by which the legality of his making an affirmation can be brought for decision before the high court of justice. the house, by an exercise of its powers, can, doubtless, prevent mr. bradlaugh from obtaining such judicial decision; but your committee deprecate that course. your committee accordingly recommend that should mr. bradlaugh again seek to make and subscribe the affirmation he be not prevented from so doing. _ june, ._ list of witnesses. _wednesday, nd june, ._ sir thomas erskine may, k.c.b. mr. charles bradlaugh, m.p. _monday, th june, ._ mr. charles bradlaugh, m.p. minutes of evidence. _wednesday, nd june, ._ members present: mr. attorney general. mr. john bright. mr. childers. sir richard cross. mr. gibson. sir gabriel goldney. mr. grantham. mr. staveley hill. sir john holker. mr. beresford hope. mr. hopwood. sir henry jackson. lord henry lennox. mr. massey. major nolan. mr. pemberton. mr. serjeant simon. mr. solicitor general. mr. trevelyan. mr. walpole. mr. whitbread. mr. watkin williams. the right honorable spencer horatio walpole in the chair. sir thomas erskine may, k.c.b.; examined. . chairman: you are the clerk of the house of commons?--i am. . you, i believe, are perfectly acquainted with what took place when mr. bradlaugh came to the table of the house, and proposed to make his affirmation instead of taking the oath?--yes, i was personally present on that day. . will you have the kindness to state to the committee exactly what took place on that occasion, in order that we may have the facts upon our proceedings?--i will read what occurred, mainly from the votes and proceedings of the house, in which an accurate and authentic record of the proceedings of that day will be found. it appears that on monday the rd of may, , "mr. bradlaugh, returned as one of the members for the borough of northampton, came to the table and delivered the following statement in writing to the clerk: 'to the right honorable the speaker of the house of commons. i, the undersigned charles bradlaugh, beg respectfully to claim to be allowed to affirm, as a person for the time being by law permitted to make a solemn affirmation or declaration, instead of taking an oath. (signed) charles bradlaugh.' and being asked by the clerk upon what grounds he claimed to make an affirmation, he answered: by virtue of the evidence amendment acts, and . whereupon the clerk reported to mr. speaker, that mr. bradlaugh, member for the borough of northampton, claimed to make an affirmation or declaration instead of taking the oath prescribed by law, in virtue of the provisions of the evidence amendment acts, and . mr. speaker thereupon informed mr. bradlaugh that if he desired to address the house in explanation of his claim he might be permitted to do so. mr. bradlaugh addressed the house in accordance with mr. speaker's intimation, and then he was directed to withdraw." the committee will observe that there is no entry in the votes of the words used by mr. bradlaugh; it is not customary on such occasions to make an entry of the observations made, which are considered to be part of the debates of the house, which are not recorded in the votes and proceedings; and there was no shorthand writer authorised by the house to take notes, and therefore there could have been no authentic record upon which one could rely. . have you any reason to believe that something was said upon that occasion by mr. bradlaugh other than what appeared upon the votes?--mr. bradlaugh's observations were very short. he repeated that he relied upon the evidence further amendment act, , and the evidence amendment act, , adding, "i have repeatedly, for nine years past, made an affirmation in the highest courts of jurisdiction in this realm; i am ready to make such a declaration or affirmation." substantially those were the words which he addressed to the speaker. . what took place after that?--whereupon mr. speaker addressed the house as follows: "i have now formally to acquaint the house that mr. bradlaugh, member for the borough of northampton, claims to make an affirmation or declaration instead of the oath prescribed by law. he founds this claim upon the terms of the th clause of the act and vict., c. , and the evidence amendment acts, and . i have not considered myself justified in determining this claim myself, having grave doubts on the construction of the acts above stated, but desire to refer the matter to the judgment of the house." . that is substantially all that took place upon that occasion?--i presume the committee will scarcely desire that i should proceed through all the subsequent votes of the house in regard to the appointment of the committees. . there is nothing beyond what you have stated which is material for the committee to consider?--no, nothing besides what happened on that day in reference to this matter. . you are, of course, acquainted with the terms of the reference to this committee.--yes. . what were the proceedings which took place after the report of the former committee?--the report of the committee was ordered to lie upon the table, and no further proceedings were taken upon it; it lies upon the table at present. . mr. gibson: on what day was it laid upon the table?--on the th of may, the day on which the house assembled for business. . mr. attorney general: i think some of the members of the committee would like to have some account of what took place in the interval between the time when mr. bradlaugh claimed to make the affirmation, and the time when he appeared at the table to take the oath?--mr. bradlaugh presented himself at the table to be sworn on the st of may, the day after the receipt of the report from the committee; and if the committee would desire it, i can read from the minutes what took place upon that occasion. "mr. bradlaugh, returned as one of the members for the borough of northampton, came to the table to take and subscribe the oath, and the clerk was proceeding to administer the same to him, when sir henry drummond wolff, member for portsmouth, rose to take objection thereto, and submit a motion to the house; whereupon mr. speaker directed mr. bradlaugh to withdraw." and then, as the committee are aware, several proceedings occurred, which extended over some days: the committee will scarcely desire them to be read. . chairman: those proceedings are really stated in the order of reference to this committee?--yes. . mr. gibson: at what date did this parliament meet for the first time?--on thursday, the th of april. . and on what day did mr. bradlaugh claim to make the affirmation?--on monday, the rd of may. . the swearing of members had been going on in the meantime, had it not?--the swearing of members began on friday, the th of april. . you are acquainted with mr. bradlaugh's appearance; are you yourself aware whether he had been in the house during the swearing of members on any of the intervening days?--he had been about the house, unquestionably. . mr. serjeant simon: mr. bradlaugh was present, i believe, and voted when the speaker was elected?--yes; none of the members had then been sworn. . chairman: since this committee has been appointed have you made a search into the journals of the house for any precedents which bear upon the question before the committee?--yes, i directed the clerk of the journals to make a search for every precedent which would tend to illustrate the jurisdiction and proceedings of the house in regard to the taking of oaths. . what is the result of the search?--the result of that search is the paper which is upon the table to-day, and in the hands of all the members of the committee. . i see that one of those is a precedent of a member disabled for having sat in the house without taking the oath; then there is a precedent of a member being admitted to sit without taking the oath of allegiance and supremacy; then there are precedents of members being discharged for declining to take the oath; then there is a precedent of a member, being a quaker, refusing to take the oath; then there is a precedent of a member expelled for absconding, and not taking the oath; then there is a precedent of a member refusing to take the oath of supremacy; then there is a precedent of a member, being a quaker, claiming to make an affirmation; then there are precedents of members omitting the words in the oath of abjuration, "on the true faith of a christian;" and lastly, the precedent of a member stating that he had a conscientious objection to take the oath. i should like to ask whether there is any precedent amongst those of a member coming to the table and stating that he was ready to take the oath, and any objection being taken to him in consequence of that statement?--no, there is no precedent to that effect, unless it might be argued that the case of mr. o'connell, in , was, to a certain extent, analogous. he claimed, as the committee are aware, to take the oath recently provided by the catholic relief act, and which, he contended, was the oath that he was entitled to take; it was a question of law whether that was the oath which he could take. . in that case he refused to take the old oath, and he offered to take the new oath under the catholic relief act?--that is so. . and the house refused, i believe, to allow him to take that oath?--that was the case. i may state briefly that these precedents may generally be divided into three classes: first, cases of refusal to take the oath; secondly, claims to make an affirmation instead of taking the oath; and thirdly, claims to omit a portion of the oath of abjuration. with one or two exceptional cases, those three classes comprehend all the cases which have been laid before the committee. . mr. bradlaugh (through the committee): i should like to ask upon that whether the case of daniel o'connell was not a case of absolute refusal by the member to take the oath required by law?--i think the best way will be, perhaps, to read the precedent from this paper, and then any inference can be drawn from it. it is at page . "precedent of member refusing to take the oath of supremacy; daniel o'connell, esq., professing the roman catholic religion, returned knight of the shire for the county of clare, being introduced in the usual manner, for the purpose of taking his seat, produced at the table a certificate of his having been sworn before two of the deputies appointed by the lord stewart, whereupon the clerk tendered to him the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration; upon which mr. o'connell stated that he was ready to take the oaths of allegiance and abjuration, but that he could not take the oath of supremacy, and claimed the privilege of being allowed to take the oath set forth in the act passed in the present session of parliament 'for the relief of his majesty's roman catholic subjects'; whereupon the clerk having stated the matter to mr. speaker, mr. speaker informed mr. o'connell that, according to his interpretation of the law, it was incumbent upon mr. o'connell to take the oaths of allegiance, supremacy and abjuration, and that the provisions of the new act applied only to members returned after the commencement of the said act, except in so far as regarded the repeal of the declaration against transubstantiation; and that mr. o'connell must withdraw unless he were prepared to take the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration. whereupon mr. o'connell withdrew. motion, that mr. o'connell be called back and heard at the table. debate arising, a member stated that he was requested by mr. o'connell to desire that he might be heard. debate adjourned. resolved, that mr. o'connell, the member for clare, be heard at the bar, by himself, his counsel or agents, in respect of his claim to sit and vote in parliament without taking the oath of supremacy. mr. o'connell was called in and heard accordingly: and being withdrawn; resolved, that it is the opinion of this house that mr. o'connell, having been returned a member of this house before the commencement of the act passed in this session of parliament 'for the relief of his majesty's roman catholic subjects,' is not entitled to sit or vote in this house unless he first take the oath of supremacy. ordered, that mr. o'connell do attend the house this day, and that mr. speaker do then communicate to him the said resolution, and ask him whether he will take the oath of supremacy. and the house being informed that mr. o'connell attended at the door, he was called to the bar, and mr. speaker communicated to him the resolution of the house of yesterday, and the order thereon, as followeth." then the resolution and the order are repeated. "and then mr. speaker, pursuant to the said order, asked mr. o'connell whether he would take the said oath of supremacy? whereupon mr. o'connell requested to see the said oath, which being shown to him accordingly, mr. o'connell stated that the said oath contained one proposition which he knew to be false, and another proposition which he believed to be untrue; and that he therefore refused to take the said oath of supremacy. and then mr. o'connell was directed to withdraw, and he withdrew accordingly;" and then a new writ was ordered. . mr. john bright: were those oaths separate oaths?--yes, they were three separate oaths. . and they require three separate acts in taking them?--yes. . mr. attorney general: i think the result is that the house first determined that the oath of supremacy which ought to be taken by mr. o'connell was the old oath, and not the oath under the catholic relief act?--clearly. . and having determined that it was the old oath that required to be taken, mr. o'connell refused to take it?--certainly. . mr. bradlaugh (through the committee): have you searched for any precedent affecting the taking of the oath by a member alleged to be disqualified or ineligible; has your attention been called to the case of john horne tooke, in volume of parliamentary history, in the year , commencing at page ?--not in respect of any question relating to oaths: it is not amongst these precedents. . as a fact, was mr. john horne tooke's capacity to sit in the house challenged in this case?--yes, as being in holy orders, but not in relation to any question of taking the oath. . the next question that i have to ask is whether your attention has been called to the case of the alleged ineligibility of francis bacon, the king's attorney general, in , cited in the commons journal, volume i., pp. and ?--no, my attention has not been directed to any questions of incapacity: it has been confined to questions arising out of the taking of the oaths prescribed by law. . there is one other question that i should like to ask, and that is whether your attention has been called to any case in which the house has discussed and dealt with the election of a member, before that committee was sworn?--with regard to the jews, that would apply to baron rothschild and to alderman salomons. . i do not mean a case of a member refusing to be sworn, but a case in which the house has dealt with the election before the member had been sworn; has your attention been called to that?--no. . there is one case, the case of john wilkes; the cases of o'donovan rossa and mitchell were cases of legal disability; has your attention been called to any case in which the house has dealt with the election of a member before he was sworn except for statutory disability?--sir john leedes sat in the house without having taken the oath, and therefore he had clearly vacated his seat, and a new writ was issued. . i mean a case in which the member has not been sworn, and in which there has been a discussion upon his eligibility outside the precedents which you have handed in; i refer to the case of john wilkes, which is to be found in commons journals, p. , and cavendish's parliamentary debates, volume i., extending over many hundred pages, commencing at . may i ask sir erskine may whether the practice has not been that when a member appears to take the oaths within the limited time, all other business is immediately to cease and not to be resumed until he has sworn and has subscribed the roll?--that was the old practice, but it has been superseded by a recent standing order under the parliamentary oaths act of , and the rule is now different; members can be sworn until the commencement of public business and afterwards; but no debate or business may be interrupted for that purpose. . that is not quite the question that i wish to put; the question that i wish to put is whether it is not now and has not always been the practice of the house that within a limited time, whatever that time may be, if a member appears to take the oaths all other business is immediately to cease and not to be resumed until he has been sworn and has subscribed the roll?--that was the old practice, when the oaths were required to be taken before four o'clock, but it has since been altered. this is the present standing order under which the oaths are administered, and this order was made in pursuance of the parliamentary oaths act of : "that members may take and subscribe the oath required by law at any time during the sitting of the house before the orders of the day and notices of motions have been entered upon, or after they have been disposed of, but no debate or business shall be interrupted for that purpose." . then i again repeat my question, whether the practice has not been that a member so appearing under the standing order just read to take the oath, all other business is immediately to cease and not to be resumed until he has been sworn and has subscribed the roll?--i have already stated that such was the old practice, which has been distinctly and specifically superseded by the last standing order, which is now in force. . is that the standing order which you have just read?--yes, that is the standing order now in force. . of course it will be a matter for argument whether it has altered it or not, but is there any other order altering this practice except the one which you have just read?--there is no other standing order, and that standing order was made, as i have already stated, in pursuance of the parliamentary oaths act of , which authorised the house to make regulations with regard to the swearing of members. . but except so far as it may have been altered by the standing order which you have just read, was the practice that a member appearing to take the oath all other business was to cease, and not to be resumed until he had sworn and subscribed the roll?--yes, certainly. . mr. attorney general: the present standing order is dated the th april, , is it not?--it is. . mr. bradlaugh (through the committee): are you aware that the house has refused to make any inquiry as to what is consistent, or what is not consistent with the oath of allegiance taken by a member?--i presume that the reference must be to a case which arose in debate. that i do not consider, in any way, in point in the present inquiry, but the question was this: "in one case an attempt was made to obtain from a member who was about to bring forward a motion, a repudiation of statements made elsewhere, which were alleged to be at variance with the oath he had taken; but the speaker stated that it was no part of his duty to determine what was consistent with that oath, and that the terms of the motion were not in violation of any rules of the house." that was a point of order, and had no reference whatever to the taking of the oath. . mr. attorney general: what was the motion?--it is in the th volume of "hansard's debates," rd series, page . it is at page of my book, in a note. . mr. john bright: in what year?--on the th march, ; there is merely an incidental reference to it. . mr. bradlaugh (through the committee): are you aware of any precedent for the dealing by the house with the election of any member not disqualified by statute or common law, until after that member had sat and been sworn?--my attention has not been directed to any precedent bearing upon that precise point, but i apprehend that the fact of whether the member had been sworn or not would not interfere with any proceedings. for example, under an election petition, if a member's seat were contested, under the old system, the matter would have proceeded in the usual way, without reference to the question of whether the member had taken the oath or not. . but in such a case the member would have been sworn, and would have sat until the question was decided?--not necessarily; under the terms of the question i assume that he had not taken his seat. . are there not very numerous cases in which with a petition against a member for alleged statutory disqualification that member has been sworn and has sat until the decision?--unquestionably; there can be no doubt about it; it frequently happens. . then i ask whether there is any precedent whatever for the house dealing with a member's election or his right to sit, except in cases of absolute statutory disqualification, until that member has taken his seat and the oaths?--so far as i understand the question, i should say that whether the member has been sworn, or not, the matter of his disqualification, or of his right to sit would be open to the decision of the house. . i am not arguing the point at the moment; i am only trying to get at the fact. if you have not looked for it, of course i cannot have it; but is there, so far as you know, any precedent of such a thing ever having happened?--i know of none; but i have not searched for any such precedent. . mr. attorney general: it would not appear, would it?--i hardly know how it would appear; unless one's attention were specifically drawn to any case, there would be no means of discovering it. . mr. bradlaugh (through the committee): i will ask whether that question was not raised in the case of wilkes, and whether it was not in the consideration of that case fully discussed, and whether the house did not resolve that any such dealing with a member was subversive of the rights of the whole body of electors of this kingdom?--i do not understand how that case has any bearing upon the present question. . there are three cases: one of expulsion, two of election annulled, and then ultimate reversal of the whole of that and expungment by the house?--yes, but that has no bearing upon the present case. of course, i am familiar with the case of wilkes, but not in connection with any matter arising out of the administration of oaths, which is the special matter referred to this committee. . have you had your attention called to the journal of the house of commons, vol. i., page , in which sir francis bacon, the king's attorney general, having sworn to his qualification, which was challenged, the house said, "their oath, their own consciences to look into, not we to examine it?"--that case is not one of the precedents that we have collected. mr. bradlaugh: they are entered extremely curiously, and one can only take the decision. it begins on page , "eligibility of the attorney general," and it does not show there that it is sir francis bacon: but i have learnt that by looking up the other records; and there being then a statutory declaration which lasted until a few years ago for all counsel, solicitors, and practising men of the law, it was objected that the king's attorney general could not sit; it appears that he had to swear to his qualification, and the question of his oath and of his disqualification, being attorney general, were put, and the house said, "their oath, their own consciences to look into, not we to examine it," and they left him in the house, resolving that no future attorney general should sit in it. chairman: that was the case which was raised as to whether the law officers of the crown, who had for certain purposes seats in the house of lords, had seats in the house of commons. mr. bradlaugh: not quite that. there was an obsolete statute of the th edward iii., which was only repealed eight or nine years ago, but which does not seem to have been attended to, by which all practising barristers and solicitors were disqualified for sitting for counties. . mr. beresford hope: wilkes's precedent being expunged, is it still legible in the journal, and could it be produced for historical information?--certainly. . major nolan: with regard to the evidence about o'connell, i think you stated that an act was passed to enable o'connell and his co-religionists to sit in parliament?--not to enable o'connell to sit in parliament, but to enable roman catholics to sit in parliament. . o'connell was not allowed to take advantage of that act until he was re-elected?--no, because he had been elected prior to the passing of the act, and the act was clearly prospective. . was the wording of that particular statute the reason why he was not allowed to take advantage of that act?--certainly; distinctly. . would it be possible for the present or any future parliament to pass an act which would enable a man who had been elected previous to the passing of the act to sit in the house?--it is not for me to say what act of parliament might be agreed to by parliament, but that is quite a distinct case. in that case mr. o'connell had actually been elected when the catholic relief act was passed, and there was a clause in the act which made its operation prospective, and therefore distinctly, and, i believe, intentionally, excluding mr. o'connell from the benefits of the act. . then he was only prevented from taking advantage of that act owing to the particular wording of that particular clause, and not owing to anything inherent in the house of commons?--yes; the decision was founded upon a literal construction of the words of the recent statute. . mr. whitbread: the case of mr. o'connell was this: that he declined to take the oath which was required of members of parliament elected at the time that he was elected, and that he requested to be allowed to take another form of oath; he was ordered to withdraw, and the house considered his case; is there anything that you have found in the journals or in the debates to indicate that if mr. o'connell had been willing to take the oath required of him by the house, the house would have objected to his so taking it?--certainly not; they put it to him whether he would take the oath of supremacy, and upon the face of the journal, it would seem that if he had taken that oath, he would have been admitted. . mr. bradlaugh (through the committee): after john archdale had claimed to affirm, did not the house absolutely order him to attend in his place for the purpose of being sworn, and tender the oaths to him?--mr. archdale was ordered to attend, and the house being informed that mr. archdale attended according to order, his letter to mr. speaker was read. that letter is printed at full length among the precedents. "and the several statutes qualifying persons to come into and sit and vote in this house were read, viz., of the car. ii., will. and mariæ, and & will. and mariæ. and then the said mr. archdale was called in, and he came into the middle of the house, almost to the table; and mr. speaker, by direction of the house, asked him whether he had taken the oaths, or would take the oaths, appointed to qualify himself to be a member of this house; to which he answered, that in regard to a principle of his religion he had not taken the oaths, nor could take them; and then he withdrew, and a new writ was ordered." . mr. serjeant simon: with reference to what the honorable member for bedford has put to you just now, mr. o'connell refused to take the oath of supremacy on the ground that it contained matter which he knew to be untrue, and other matter which he believed to be untrue?--yes, he so stated. . thereupon he withdrew; but is there any precedent among the journals to show that a member stating beforehand that what was contained in the oath was untrue, or a matter of unbelief to him, has been allowed to take the oath under such circumstances?--no, this is the only precedent, so far as i know, of that particular character. the others are cases of absolute refusal to take the oath, or a desire to make an affirmation instead of an oath, or to leave out certain words of the oath. . but is there any precedent where, as in the case of mr. o'connell, a member coming to the table of the house, has made a statement such as mr. o'connell made, that the oath contains matter which he knows to be untrue, or believes to be untrue, and has been allowed to take the oath afterwards?--there is no case to be found, so far as i know; certainly there is none in any of these precedents. . mr. secretary childers: is the precedent in mr. o'connell's case this; that on the th may mr. o'connell said that he could not take the oath of supremacy, and that, nevertheless, on the th, he was asked whether he would take the oath of supremacy, although he had previously informed the house that he was unable to take it?--yes, because he had been heard, in the interval, upon his claim to take the new oath, under the recent catholic relief act. . but was not that a precedent for a member who had already stated that he could not take a certain oath, nevertheless being afterwards asked by the house whether he would take it?--it so appears on the face of the precedents. . i will put that question again more clearly; is it not the case that, as appears on page of the paper which you have placed before us, mr. o'connell on the th may said, that he could not take the oath of supremacy?--yes. . and that, nevertheless, on the th of may it was ordered that mr. speaker do communicate to him the resolution passed on the same day, and ask him whether he would take the oath of supremacy?--it was so. . although the house was aware that mr. o'connell had said that he could not take it?--yes; but as i observed before, in the interval he had been heard upon the question of his right to take the new oath; and that, i think, accounts for the fact that the question was repeated to him as to whether, after the decision of the house had been communicated, he still persisted in refusing to take the oath of supremacy. . mr. watkin williams: was not mr. o'connell's objection to taking the oath of supremacy an objection to the truth of the matter sworn to?--yes, certainly; and it was an oath which no roman catholic could take. . it was the truth of the matter which he was asked to pledge his oath to that he objected to, and he did not express any disbelief in the binding character of the oath itself?--no. every roman catholic objected to take the oath of supremacy; in fact, the oath of supremacy was expressly designed to exclude them from parliament. . mr. attorney general: and in consequence of the objection a new form of oath was put in the catholic relief bill?--certainly, because the oath of supremacy was intended to exclude roman catholics, and did exclude them, and was known to exclude them. . mr. watkin williams: it was not his inability to take the oath, but his inability to pledge himself to the truth of what he was asked to swear to?--certainly. . mr. staveley hill: i gather from you that the house never asked o'connell to take the oath after his giving the grounds of recusancy?--yes, that is so. . mr. serjeant simon: it appears that the speaker first asked him whether he would take the oath of supremacy, and then he says, no, and gives those reasons?--yes. . mr. pemberton: in addition to mr. o'connell's having been heard after he had at first declined to take the oath, was there not some further discussion in the house in which other members took part?--certainly; those debates will all be found in hansard. . sir gabriel goldney: his refusal to take the oath in the first instance was accompanied by a claim at the same time to take the new oath?--clearly. . it was a refusal to take the oath accompanied by a claim for a new one; afterwards he was allowed to be heard upon that point, and then it was that the house, having decided that he could not be admitted on the new oath, he was asked if he chose to take the old oath, which he refused to do?--that is a correct statement of the case. . mr. hopwood: with regard to the point of the standing orders as to which mr. bradlaugh has asked, as i understand you, under the old practice, as pointed out in hatsell, and as we know it existed, the occasion of a member coming to be sworn caused all other business to cease?--yes. . and then as you say, a standing order was passed that particular times more appropriate should be allotted for taking those oaths?--yes. . but even though that may be so at the time of taking an oath, no other business can go on?--clearly not; it is the sole business that is transacted at the moment. . no other business can be interposed, and nothing else can be proceeded with but the oath of the member?--certainly not; it is the business of the moment, and no other business can interpose. . mr. gibson: you have been asked by several honorable members about o'connell's case; in your opinion, is there the slightest analogy between the facts and circumstances in o'connell's case and those of the case now before the committee?--i see none myself, but i would rather leave such questions for the determination of the committee. i have stated the case in print, and of course the points of difference are matters of argument. . so far as you know, is there any precedent for permitting a member of the house of commons to take the oath after he has stated in the house expressly, or by necessary implication, that it will have no binding effect upon his conscience?--there is no such case on record, so far as i have had the means of ascertaining. mr. charles bradlaugh, a member of the house; examined: . chairman: you were in the room, i think, when sir thomas erskine may gave that part of his evidence as to a matter which was not on the votes and proceedings?--yes, but which took place upon the occasion of my first coming to offer to affirm. . is that accurately and fully stated?--it is accurately and fully stated. i shall have to ask the indulgence of the committee if in any of the points which i press there seems to be any undueness in the pressing of them, because, as far as i can see, this is the first occasion on which such a matter has arisen. in the reference which the committee have to deal with, i claim to be sworn and take my seat by virtue of my due return, a return untainted by illegality of any description, and in pursuance of the statute of the th of richard ii., which puts upon me the duty of coming here to be sworn and do my duty under penalty of fine and imprisonment. i do not know whether the committee wish that i should read the statute. it is the second statute of richard ii.; it is on page of the revised statutes, vol. i.; it is a statute of the year . i submit that although a member may not sit and vote until he has taken the oaths, he is entitled to all the other privileges of a member, and is otherwise regarded both by the house and the laws as qualified to serve, until some other disqualification has been shown to exist; and i quote in support of that sir thomas erskine may's book, p. , that there is nothing in what i did in asking to affirm which in any way disqualified me from taking the oath. the evidence that that is so is found in the case of archdale, on page of the precedents handed in by sir thomas erskine may, where, after john archdale had claimed to affirm, he was called into the house, and mr. speaker, by direction of the house, asked him if he would take the oaths; that i have never at any time refused to take the oath of allegiance provided by statute to be taken by members; that all i did was, believing as i then did, that i had the right to affirm, to claim to affirm, and i was then absolutely silent as to the oath; that i did not refuse to take it, nor have i then or since expressed any mental reservation, or stated that the appointed oath of allegiance would not be binding upon me; that, on the contrary, i say, and have said, that the essential part of the oath is in the fullest and most complete degree binding upon my honor and conscience, and that the repeating of words of asseveration does not in the slightest degree weaken the binding effect of the oath of allegiance upon me. i may say, that if it would be more convenient for any member of the committee to ask me any question upon my statement as i go on, it will not interrupt me at all. . i think the committee would rather hear you through.--i submit that according to law the house of commons has neither the right nor the jurisdiction to refuse to allow the said form of oath to be administered to me, there being no legal disqualification on my part of which the house can or ought to take notice, and there being on my part an express demand to take the oath, this demand being unaccompanied by, and free from, any reservation or limitation. i submit that there is no case in which the oath of allegiance has been refused to any member respectfully and unreservedly tendering himself to be sworn. i submit that any member properly presenting himself to be sworn, and not refusing to be sworn, is entitled to be sworn, and to take his seat without interruption, and that the discussion of any disqualification or ineligibility must in such case, according to the practice and precedent of parliament, take place after the member has taken his seat; and i quote in support of that john horne tooke's case, which came before the house in . it was alleged that john horne tooke was ineligible because he was an ordained clergyman of the church of england. there he was allowed to take the oaths first, and after he had taken the oaths earl temple rose and said (i am quoting from page of the parliamentary history, volume ), that he observed a gentleman who had just retired from the table after having taken the oaths whom he conceived to be incapable of having a seat in the house in consequence of his having taken priest's orders, and been inducted into a living. earl temple agreed he would wait to see if a petition were presented against him, and if not he should move a resolution upon the subject; and ultimately a resolution was moved that john horne tooke was ineligible. the house allowed john horne tooke to sit, but declared clergymen for the future to be ineligible for sitting. i rely upon that as showing that the proper course to be pursued, supposing that any member should think that i am ineligible, is to wait until i have been sworn and have taken my seat, and then to challenge it; and that this is clear, because if it were not so it would be possible for the first members sworn or for a majority of that , that is, for members to hinder the swearing of all members coming later to the table without any remedy on the part of the members aggrieved; and i submit, with great respect for the evidence of sir thomas erskine may, that he has misapprehended the force of the standing order that he read to you. hatsell's precedents, volume ii., page , declares distinctly that when a member appears to take the oaths within a limited time, all other business is immediately to cease, and not to be resumed until he has been sworn and has subscribed the roll; and with great submission to sir thomas erskine may, there is no word in the standing order which he quoted as altering and changing that practice, which does so alter and change it. all that the standing order does is to specify the time and the manner in which the members might come to the table to be sworn, which had not been hitherto specified; but it does not in any way deal with what was to happen when they did come to the table to be sworn. and if the committee would permit me respectfully to submit, it would be most dangerous to the house if it were not so. the first batch of members called over by the clerk of the house are sworn, and they may then, if the contention raised upon the standing order quoted by sir thomas erskine may be correct, prevent every other member being sworn, if there be more than . they may fulfil all the duties of a house of commons, and do what they please, without any remedy, as the matter stands; every election might be declared null and void, and every one sent back to their constituencies one after another. i submit also that the case of the attorney general, sir francis bacon, volume i. of the commons journal, page , is also a precedent in the same direction. i am obliged to tell the committee that i cannot quote it with the same reliance that i can put upon horne tooke's case, for the notes seem to have been taken, i will not say irregularly, but they do not seem to convey the whole of what took place, and therefore i can only deal with the result. sir h. hobart is quoted as being "the only attorney that hath been in this house;" and then there arises a discussion, some of which does not seem to me to be material, as to whether the then attorney general could sit or not, and i find in the returns that the attorney general at that date was sir francis bacon, who, three days after this discussion, elected to sit for the university of cambridge, and although i have not the legal evidence, because the returns are incomplete for that year, as he elected to sit for the university of cambridge, the probability is that he had also been returned for a county. there was then a statute of the th edward iii., which has only recently been repealed, which made a practising man of the law absolutely ineligible; and it also appears that there was some oath of qualification, of which i have not been able to find the words, which was then taken by a member coming to the table; and it appears here that the oath was alleged in the course of the discussion, and two things were said which i press upon the attention of the committee; one, that the precedents to disable a member ought to be shown on the side of those who seek to disable (it is not written so lengthily as that; the words are, "the precedents to disable him ought to be showed on the other side"), and the other is, "their oath, their own consciences to look unto, not we to examine it," which meant, as i submit, that the house did not constitute itself into an inquisition to look behind a man coming to take the oath, but that, subject to his being dealt with by law if he had taken it improperly, or subject to a legal disqualification being made clear to the house, they assumed his oath to be properly taken. i submit that even members absolutely petitioned against and alleged to be disqualified or ineligible by law, are always allowed to be sworn when they come to the table to be sworn and to sit pending the decision of the petition. the only cases which i have found of absolute legal disqualification in which the member's election was annulled before he had entered the house, are the cases of mitchell and o'donovan rossa (both of whom were away), and the case of john wilkes, who was physically incapacitated from taking the oath from the act that he was in the custody of the law at the time, and those who held him would not have permitted him to come to the table to be sworn. those are the only cases even with an allegation of an absolute disqualification in the case of o'donovan rossa and mitchell, and of a disqualification alleged, but not admitted, and not legal, not statutory, in the case of wilkes, that i have been able to find; and in wilkes's case the house has solemnly decided that it did wrong there, and i submit that it ought not to do it again. but here the return is not questioned. it is not pretended that there has been a single circumstance of illegality connected with the election, the sole point being, am i qualified to sit? if i am qualified to sit, i have the duty to take the oath, and the house has neither the right nor the jurisdiction to refuse the oath to me, nor to interrupt me in the taking of it. if my qualification or eligibility to sit is to be discussed, the precedent for the proper mode of discussing that qualification is in horne tooke's case, and rightly so, because then i have the opportunity from my place in the house of defending myself, and of correcting any misstatements that may possibly be urged by members who may be too anxious that i should not sit, supposing in any other house of commons it should happen, and it then gives the member attacked fair play. while i admit entirely that the house has a full and most complete right to expel any sitting member, and this in its own discretion, and for any reasons in its wisdom sufficient, i submit that it has never done this without first calling upon the member to be heard in his own defence, and that that cannot possibly happen until the member is sworn and is sitting. i submit that while the house has the right to annul the election of a person absolutely disqualified by law, it has never, except in one case, that of john wilkes, claimed the right to interfere, and in that case it ultimately expunged from its proceedings the whole of its hostile resolutions, as being subversive of the rights of the whole body of electors of this kingdom. i quote on that the commons journal, vol. , rd of may . i do not think that i should be right in troubling the committee with the very strong arguments used time after time by edmund burke, thomas pitt, and others; but i want to point out this, that in addition to the charge on which john wilkes was expelled from the house (and i am not questioning his original expulsion), there were also charges introduced against john wilkes for his publications outside the house. that will be found in st cavendish, page and page , and they are charges far exceeding anything (if i may judge from the reports which have even been put in) in relation to any supposed publications of my own. none of those charges were ultimately considered by the house to justify the interference of the house with the choice of the constituency. to use the words of mr. thomas pitt, on page of cavendish, words endorsed by the house itself, "nothing but a positive law can enable you to circumscribe the electors in their choice of a representative, however, indiscreet they may be in their choice." i consider now on what grounds is it claimed that the house of commons has the right and jurisdiction, following the words of reference, to refuse to allow me to take and subscribe the oath? is it for a disqualification or ineligibility existing prior to my election and continuing down to the time of my election--i mean a disqualification or ineligibility created by statute or existing at common law? no such disqualification is even pretended. is it for a disqualification or ineligibility of like legal character arising since my election? no such disqualification is pretended. is it for conduct not amounting to absolute disqualification legally, but conduct for which the house has in its discretion exercised its rights and jurisdictions by expelling a member? it must be this, or it is nothing. if there is neither legal disqualification prior to my election, nor legal disqualification subsequent to my election, then there must be such conduct not amounting to absolute legal disqualification as would, were i a sitting member, justify the house in using its discretion to expel a member. but if that conduct be prior to the election, then i submit that the constituency is the sole and sovereign judge of the fitness of the candidate, such candidate not being legally disqualified, and that where the chosen and duly returned candidate is ready to perform his duties, this house has neither the right nor the jurisdiction to revoke the decision of the constituency; and that in the only case in which the house did so interfere it afterwards solemnly recorded that its conduct was illegal, as being subversive of the rights of the whole body of the electors of this kingdom. if the complaint against me is for conduct arising since my election, then i submit that even if such matters justify my expulsion as a member, the point could only be raised after i had been heard in my place against the resolution, and that the matter could not arise until i have taken the oath and become entitled to speak, sit, and vote. manifestly this must be so, as otherwise it would always be in the power of a majority to exclude from coming to take his seat any member to whom they might have an objection; and although such a thing is, luckily, not probable now, there have been times, even in the history of the house of commons, when a majority, even of election committees, as i read in the records of the house, have sought by mere prejudice to exclude members. it is, therefore, the more necessary that at any rate a member should have the right to be heard in his own defence. i submit that there is no precedent whatever for preventing a member from taking his seat and the oath, on the ground of conduct not amounting to absolute legal disqualification. there is no such precedent to be found at all, and i have searched very carefully indeed. i put the question to sir erskine may lest anything should have escaped me, and i say absolutely there is no precedent. then i submit that it would not be consistent with the dignity of the house to examine any statement made by any member outside the house, as to any of its procedure, and that in fact the house has firmly refused to allow a member to be challenged as to whether or not some of his extra-parliamentary utterances were inconsistent with his oath of allegiance; and here i should like the committee to come to a decision, because it would alter and abridge my argument. if the committee thought (i will put a suppositious case) that, say there were some document that they thought they had the right to take into consideration here, then while i should object to that, i should like to have the opportunity of addressing the committee as to that. so far as the evidence has gone, i have not heard of any, except the mere statement in the house, only i judged from a question put by an honorable and learned member that something was passing in his mind (which, by the way, did not seem to me to be the fact) justifying a question put to sir thomas erskine may as to whether the oath could be administered to a man who had done something either actually or by implication repudiating the effect of that oath. i have heard nothing in the evidence, so far as it has gone, giving the slightest color or warranty for such a question. if there are any facts to be dealt with by this committee other than that, then i should like to know the facts, and to argue upon them; but it would be only wasting the time of the committee to address argument to any point which the committee would not think it right to consider; and i should be glad if, before going further into my statement, the committee thought it right to intimate to me their view upon that. the committee deliberated. . chairman: i think the committee would like to understand from you the kind of objection that you are anticipating before you proceed with your argument; as i understood you, you took this kind of objection: "i wish to know whether the committee are going into any proceedings external to the proceedings which took place in the house, or will entertain the consideration of those questions," and that if they did so you would wish to be heard upon that point; i understood you also to say that beyond that general question as to any proceedings which may have taken place as part of the transaction in any other place than the house itself, you wish to know whether the committee would take such matter into their consideration; am i right in supposing that to be the character of your objection?--not quite. practically my question is this: will this committee take any facts into consideration other than those of which i have heard evidence given, and those which have been stated by myself in the course of my argument? if so, i should like to know, because i understood the permission of the committee to be that i should address them at the close of the case before their deliberations, and i should submit with all respect that the committee would not take one matter of fact into their consideration to influence them in their deliberations which i had not the opportunity of addressing them upon. if they have finished, and if there are no facts except those which i have heard to be dealt with, it enables me to turn out and eliminate a portion of the argument which i have prepared. the committee deliberated. . chairman: the committee have considered the matter which you have submitted to them, and they request me to inform you that members of the committee do propose, after your statement is concluded, to ask some questions of you; but i have to inform you, at the same time, that you will be invited, and are invited, to state any objections that you may entertain to any such questions when put, and that you shall have a full opportunity of addressing the committee after they have heard your answers to the questions so put?--that will enable me to eliminate a portion of my argument. i wish to submit to the committee one observation on the precedent of daniel o'connell, and that is that, as a matter of fact, the evidence of sir thomas erskine may shows that he misapprehended that precedent. it was a refusal by daniel o'connell to take the oaths by law required of a member at the date of his election. between the date of his election and the date of his refusal the law had changed, but it had not changed (so the house interpreted the statute, or so the statute ran, i do not know which) at the date of his election. so that i submit that daniel o'connell's case is a case of a member refusing to take the oath by law required; and i further submit that the parliamentary debates will show that the words which appear as being used by mr. o'connell on the th of may, sufficiently expressed his reason for refusing to take the oath of supremacy some days at least before the house asked him again to take it. then i have only two other matters which i should wish to submit to the committee. one is that i have, neither directly nor indirectly, obtruded upon the house, since i have been a member, any of my utterances or publications upon any subject whatever; that there is no precedent, except in the case of john wilkes, for any reference on the part of any opposing member to such publications by any member prior to the taking of his seat; and that the ultimate decision of the house in john wilkes's case is directly against the introduction by any member hostile to me of any such matter as a reason for my not being allowed to take my seat. finally, i most respectfully submit that i have grave matter of complaint that my privileges as a member of the house of commons have been seriously infringed, and that the rights of the electors, my constituents, have been ignored in the attacks made upon me without previous notice to me; attacks to which i had no opportunity of making a dignified reply; attacks which, if the newspaper reports be accurate, were in many instances based upon absolute misapprehension or misquotation of my publications, and in one instance at any rate, based upon the most extreme misrepresentation of my conduct. i thank the committee for listening to me, and i regret if my want of knowledge of the forms of the house has involved my saying anything in a manner in which the committee would prefer that i should not have said it. . that is all you wish to state at present?--that is all i wish to state at present upon the evidence as taken by the committee. if fresh evidence should be taken, i should ask the permission of the committee to have the right of addressing them upon that. . the committee will now proceed to examine you.--before any question is put to me, will you, sir, tell me when is the proper time to object to any question which i may think i have the right to object to? . when the question is put, before answering it?-- mr. attorney general: you will understand that i am not in any sense cross-examining you, but merely to clear up what took place in the house. i am entirely in the hands of the committee. . we know from the proceedings of the house that you did at the table of the house make a claim, in the first instance, to make affirmation instead of taking the oath?--yes. . and we understand that you did so on the ground that you were a person entitled to make affirmation within the terms of the evidence amendment acts of and ?--that was then my impression of the law, and that was the claim which i made. . and i presume, of course, that at the time when you made that claim you founded it upon the belief that you were entitled to make affirmation in the house of commons?--i made that claim solely upon my belief that the law entitled me to make it. . then as regards your power to give evidence under the evidence amendment acts in courts both civil and criminal, you of course put it before the house of commons, as a fact, that you were a person entitled in those courts to make affirmation?--yes. . and i presume that you were acquainted with the terms of those acts, the subject interesting you?--quite. . were you aware that if you yourself were called as a witness, it would be necessary before you were allowed to make affirmation in a court, either civil or criminal, under the acts of and , that two things should be established; first, that you yourself objected to take the oath, or that your right to take it was objected to by some one else; and then, secondly, that the judge would be required to satisfy himself that the taking of an oath by you would have no binding effect upon your conscience?--no, that is not my interpretation of the statute, nor do i think it has always been (although i think it has sometimes been) the interpretation of the judge or other presiding officer dealing with it. . would you kindly explain your own view as to the sense in which you read the statute of , which says that the judge must satisfy himself that the oath is not binding upon the conscience of the person wishing to affirm, the words being, "if any person called to give evidence in any court of justice, whether in a civil or criminal proceeding, shall object to take an oath, or shall be objected to as incompetent to take an oath, such person shall, if the presiding judge is satisfied that an oath would have no binding effect on his conscience, make the following promise and declaration"?--my interpretation is that upon certain answers being given by the witness, the judge is bound to take his affirmation, even supposing that the judge himself should not be of opinion that the oath is not binding upon him; and it has been decided so by the court of queen's bench. in the case of _ex parte_ lennard _v._ woolrych, a man tendered his affirmation at the westminster police court, and the magistrate asked him (i am repeating from memory, but repeating perfectly accurately the substance of what appears in the affidavits filed in the court of queen's bench), "why do you object?" he said, "i am an atheist." the magistrate refused to allow him to give evidence upon affirmation, and the court held that upon hearing that answer there was enough under the act, and that the magistrate was bound to take the man's evidence, and issued a mandamus to compel him. . you will not suppose that i am arguing with you, but as i understand that case the witness who tendered himself having said he was an atheist, the court held that the magistrate was bound to draw the inference from that assertion that the oath was not binding, and therefore to let him make the affirmation?--that is so. whether the presiding officer did draw the inference or not, the court held that he was bound to. . then i do not think that there is much difference between us; but i assume that when you come to the table of the house of commons, and asked leave to make affirmation instead of taking the oath, you were a person, as i understand it, who, if you had gone into a court of justice and made the same request, would have been held by the presiding judge to be one upon whom the oath would have no binding effect?--i did think so when i applied to affirm. i do not think so since the report of your committee, for your committee has reported that the two oaths are entirely different. . it is a question for you: do you draw any distinction between the binding effect upon your conscience of the assertory oath, as it is called, and the promissory oath?--most certainly i do. the testimony oath is not binding upon my conscience, because there is another form which the law has provided which i may take, which is more consonant with my feelings. the promissory oath is and will be binding upon my conscience if i take it, because the law, as interpreted by your committee, says that it is the form which i am to take, and the statute requires me to take it. . pray do not answer this question unless you like: am i to understand you that the binding effect upon your conscience of the oath depends upon whether there is an alternative method of taking that which is to you equivalent to the oath?--no, most certainly not. any form that i went through, any oath that i took, i should regard as binding upon my conscience in the fullest degree. i would go through no form, i would take no oath, unless i meant it to be so binding. . pray object if you do not wish to answer this question: by virtue of what do you regard that assertion which you make within the oath as binding?--i have not caught your question, if you will pardon me for saying so. . by virtue of what portion of what is contained in the oath do you feel that your conscience is bound; is it by the mere fact that you repeat the words therein contained, or is it by that which is contained in the form of the oath?--those words, "i do swear that i will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law," are to me, binding in the most full and complete and thorough degree on my conscience. . if you read a promise out of any book or paper, and said, "i promise so to do," is there more binding effect in those words that you have read than in the mere ordinary assertion of a promise?--yes, because this reading is by law, and by the decision of your committee intended to be the form in which i pledge my allegiance as a member. . then if it were a form sanctioned by law, as in the case of an affirmation, is there any more effect upon your mind if you take it in the form of what we call an oath than if you took it simply by words of affirmation or promise?--if the form sanctioned by law ran "i affirm," or "i declare and affirm," or "i solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that i will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law," that would be equally binding upon my conscience. . do you attach any express or particular meaning to the words "i swear"?--the meaning that i attach to them is that they are a pledge upon my conscience to the truth of the declaration which i am making. . but a pledge given, may i ask, to whom?--a pledge given to the properly constituted authorities, whomsoever they may be, who are entitled to receive it from me. . do you attribute any more meaning to those words than a pledge to human beings around you?--i attach no more meaning to those words than i do to a pledge to human beings authorised by law to take such a pledge from me under similar solemn circumstances. . but the solemn circumstances, i suppose, are the mere mundane circumstances?--the statutory circumstances. i meant "solemn" simply in the sense of being the statutory circumstances; i meant to distinguish between that and mere conversation. . i think we understand from your answers that you do not attribute any more weight to the use of the words "i swear," and to the words "so help me god," than you would to an ordinary promise if it were given under the same circumstances as those under which you gave that promise in the house of commons?--i conceive myself entitled by law to distinguish, and i beg therefore to object to so much of the question as deals with the words "so help me god," my objection being founded on the case of miller _v._ salomons, in the th jurist, and the case of the lancaster and carlisle railway company _v._ heaton in the th jurist, new series. . i presume by that answer you mean that "so help me, god" is no part of the oath or promise, but merely the form in which it is taken?--that is so; it is merely a form of asseveration. . will you confine yourself, then, to the words "i swear"?--i will. . do you attribute any greater weight or any meaning to the words "i swear," and to the fact of kissing the book, beyond the words of ordinary promise?--not beyond the words of ordinary promise made under statutory obligation. . then what greater weight do you attach to a promise made under statutory obligation than to an ordinary promise?--i would prefer not making any promise that i did not intend to keep; but the law has attached a weight to statutory promises, and a penalty and disgrace on the breaking of them. . that is a consequence resulting from human action; you do not attribute any other weight to such a promise beyond what results from such penalties?--i object to that question. . i will now go to another point. how lately is it that you have claimed a right to affirm in a court of law?--in a superior court or in an inferior court? . in any court where you have taken an oath?--recently in an inferior court, within a few days. . how lately prior to your claim in the house of commons?--prior to my claim in the house of commons, about months. . you had made a claim on several occasions, i suppose, prior to the period which you have just mentioned?--yes. . what steps, if any, were taken by the judge on such occasions to arrive at the conclusion that the oath would have no binding effect:--on the last occasion, by mr. justice lindley, none. i presume he thought my claim to affirm well founded, and he simply bowed his head, and the clerk administered the affirmation after looking to him. . i suppose you made a claim to affirm?--when the clerk brought the testament to the witness-box i said, "i desire to affirm," and the clerk looked at mr. justice lindley, who just bowed his head (he happened to be the presiding judge), and i did affirm. . had you reason to think that mr. justice lindley was acquainted with any previous applications by you to affirm?--i should think it possible, because the claim to affirm has been the subject of considerable litigation by myself in the courts. . upon any occasion upon which the judge did make inquiry, what was the nature of the inquiry?--the present lord justice brett, whom i remember distinctly challenging me upon it when he was mr. justice brett, said: "why do you claim, mr. bradlaugh?" and i perfectly remember my answer, but i am just thinking whether i am not entitled to say this: that happened seven years ago; i do not intend to imply that there is any change or anything since, but i think i am entitled to say to this committee that it is hardly within the limits of their reference to inquire into something that happened in a law court between myself and a judge seven years ago. . i should not have asked the question, but you have stated in the house of commons yourself, in order to support your claim to make affirmation, that you have frequently been permitted to affirm?--that is so. . and i think you gave the last nine or ten years?--yes, and mr. justice brett's question came within that time. i hope you will not consider that i am putting the objection unfairly. what i want to put is this: that the conversation which took place on the occasion of my having affirmed (and i repeat that i have affirmed before different judges) being more or less informal, ought not to be the subject of inquiry by this committee. the fact is of record. those were all at _nisi prius_. . it was before a judge who would have to administer an oath?--quite so. . if you state that you really entertain an objection to the question, i do not wish to press it myself personally?--i have no objection to answering, except that i have purposely tried to keep out of this discussion any question of my views; otherwise i am quite in the hands of the committee, and if the committee are disposed to press the question i will give the answer, having made my objection. . i do not wish to go into the views generally entertained by you, except so far as expressed by you that the testimony oath had no binding effect upon your conscience?--my answer applied to the assertory or testimony oath. . i am asking you what you stated when a testimony oath was being administered to you; but if you desire not to answer the question, so far as i, an individual member of the committee, am concerned, i do not wish to put it to you?--i take the objection. . mr. gibson: can you recall whether within any time since your right to affirm was first recognised in courts of justice, you have taken the oath?--never; that is to say, the oath as a witness. . have you ever taken any oath since your right to affirm was first admitted in courts of justice?--it only has been my right to affirm as a witness that has been admitted in a court of justice; i have under cover of that act, but i think illegally, affirmed as foreman of a special jury, but i have considerable doubt whether the act covered my affirmation as a juryman. . with that knowledge now present to your mind, is it the fact that the oath which you seek to take at the table of the house is, if you are permitted to take it, the first oath that you will have taken since you were permitted to affirm in courts of justice?--it is the first occasion upon which there has been any reason for my taking or not taking the oath of allegiance since i have been permitted to affirm. . or any other form of oath?--my memory is not quite clear upon that; i am not sure. there was a case in which i took evidence as a commissioner from america, and i am not at all sure whether the completion of that commission was before or after the passing of the affirmation act. . but since the passing of the act?--i cannot quite pledge my mind as to that; but except in that case in which i was a commissioner for taking some evidence in relation to an american process, in which i may have done so, i certainly have not. . then am i to understand that you seek now to take this oath with exactly the same meaning in your mind as you would take the affirmation?--which affirmation? . the affirmation which you originally sought to take at the table of the house, the promissory affirmation?--i seek to take the oath of allegiance just as i should seek to take the affirmation of allegiance. . and do you attach in your mind no different meaning to the word "swear" than you would to the word "affirm?"--the law does not. . do you, in your own mind, attach any difference to the sanction?--i object that the question put to me asks me to make a distinguishment which the law does not make. . i do not wish to press anything to which you object; do you desire to tell the committee that, in your own mind, there is no distinction drawn when you use the word "affirm" and when you use the word "swear"?--to me, on the statute they have the same meaning; that is, they are a pledge that what i put after those words is binding upon me in the most complete degree. . i suppose you are aware of all the ordinary definitions of an oath contained in the law books?--i am afraid that would be saying more than i have any right to say. i am fairly well read, but not sufficiently to say that i know them all. . you know a great many of them, i suppose?--i have learnt a few. . you said to my honorable and learned friend, the attorney general, that you regarded the word "swear" as a pledge given to a properly constituted authority, and that that was the meaning you attached to the word "swear"; what do you mean by the "properly constituted authority" that you referred to in that answer?--whatever may be the authority established by statute for the purpose of taking such an oath. . a human authority?--all authorities established by statute for the taking of oaths are human authorities any authority outside a statute is illegal, and any person administering such an oath is indictable. . you are aware of the meaning of the expression "sanction of an oath"; what do you consider would be the sanction of the oath if you took it?--i am not sure that i apprehend the meaning that is in your mind when you use the words "sanction of an oath." . i will read the definition which is contained in mr. baron martin's judgment in the case of miller _v._ salomon's, where it refers to the case of omichund _v._ barker, as reported in the "law journal": "the doctrine laid down by the lord chancellor (hardwicke) (omichund _v._ barker), and all the other judges, was that the essence of an oath was an appeal to a supreme being in whose existence the person taking the oath believed, and whom he also believed to be a rewarder of truth and an avenger of falsehood, and that the form of taking an oath was a mere outward act, and not essential to the oath which might be administered to all persons according to their own peculiar religious opinions, and in such manner as most affected their consciences." you have listened to that statement?--yes; and i have also read the judgment of the court of error in the following year, in which they say that the essential words of the oath are those without the appeal, and that the words "so help me, god" are words of asseveration, the manner of taking the oath; but the words preceding them are, it appears to me, an essential part of the oath; and in the case of the lancaster and carlisle railway company _v._ heaton, it was held that the oath was completely taken without the addition of that appeal. . i am not at all upon the words "so help me, god," which are the words referred to in the last case to which you referred. i am now upon what contains a promise that an oath is being taken when a man uses the word "swear"; do you object to the definition which i have read?--i object to that definition as overruled by the court of error in its final decision in error, confirmed by a subsequent decision of lord campbell in the lancaster and carlisle railway company _v._ heaton, when it was held that the appeal was not a part of the oath. . chairman: in both those cases i think the judges in holding that view had reference simply to the words "so help me, god"?--simply to the words "so help me, god." . i think we are a little misunderstanding each other?--i hope not; i want to be candid with the committee. . mr. gibson: i am not at all on the words which that case went on of "so help me, god," but i am on what must be the essential distinction between an oath and an affirmation; what, i ask you now, do you conceive to be the essential distinction between an oath and an affirmation?--following the judgment of the court of error, repeated in the other judgment which i quoted, i regard the essential words of the oath as beginning with "i swear," and ending with "according to law." i submit that it is no part of my duty to draw any distinction, if distinction exists, between the value of that and the value of an affirmation, because the statute has declared that they both have the same value. . do you consider that the taking of an oath implies in the person taking it the existence of a belief in god, and that he will reward and punish us according to our deserts?--that depends upon the form of the oath; and since the decision you quoted very many forms of oath have been entirely changed by the legislature. . do you consider that if you use the word "swear," you appeal to a god?--i consider that i take an oath which is binding upon my honor and conscience. . without any reference to god?--i consider that i take an oath which is binding upon my honor and conscience. . and supposing that you break that oath, what what would be the consequences which you consider would result to you?--i am not aware that the statute has provided that i shall declare my opinion upon those consequences. . am i to understand that you decline to answer?--i am objecting that the question is one which would not be put in a court of law, and therefore, much more, should not be put here. . in answer to the attorney general, and in your statement also, you used the words "essential part of the oath," and the words of the oath are, "i do swear that i will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law;" do you consider that all the words there present to your mind are equally definite and clear meaning?--i consider that the whole of those words are essential; i hold them to be essential, and i submit myself to the construction which the court has put upon them. . is there any word in the oath in the statute which does not convey to your mind any clear and definite meaning?--there is no word in that which does not convey to me a clear and definite meaning. . and do you regard the words at the end of it, "so help me, god," as conveying any definite meaning, or merely as a useless addendum to the promise?--i object that this committee will not ask me my opinion upon those words, because they have been held by the highest court of law in this realm, subject to appeal, to be no necessary part of the oath. . sir henry jackson: if your counsel were here i should put to him this question, which do not answer if you object; i will treat you as if you were your own counsel; i understand your view to be that the act of or the act of , gives you two alternative methods of taking your seat, the one of affirmation and the other of oath, and that it is open to you to take whichever of the two you prefer; you prefer the affirmation, but it having been decided not to be competent for you to make the affirmation, you now propose to take the oath?--that is exactly my construction. . now i will tell you my doubt, and perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what you say upon it. it occurs to me that these two alternatives are what lawyers call true alternatives; that is to say, that each excludes the other, and that the committee having decided (perhaps you will say erroneously) that you cannot affirm, you have by your claim to affirm excluded yourself from the alternative claim to take the oath; are not the two mutually exclusive?--no; the house of commons decided that, fortunately for me, and that saves me the trouble of thinking on it for myself. when john archdale applied to affirm, the house held that he could not affirm, and they ordered him to take the oath. . was that under the statute which regulates the present procedure?--no, but it was under the claim of a man who thought that he had alternative courses, and who refused to take the oath. . that is the answer which you give to my doubt?--i am not sure whether i have answered fully. . you do not condescend to any argument upon the statute, but you think that the one alternative is not exclusive of the other?--i thought then, and subject to the report of the committee against me, which i presume binds me, i should still think that i have the right to affirm, and if there were any way in which i thought i could legally raise the question, i should try to do so. . but on the hypothesis that the decision of the committee was right, have you anything except the archdale precedent, from which you would argue that these two acts of parliament do not create two mutually exclusive alternatives?--i should simply reply that if that be so, and you told me that i did not come within the one, i must come within the other. . mr. staveley hill: i wish to ask you one question with reference to what took place before lord justice brett (then mr. justice brett), and, of course, if you think proper, you will take the objection as you did to what the attorney general asked you: when mr. justice brett admitted you to affirm, what steps did he take with a view to satisfy himself that an oath would not be binding upon your conscience?--he put to me the question, "why?" and i gave to him three words as an answer, and these three words apparently satisfied him, and he directed the clerk to allow me to affirm. he put no question to me as to whether the oath was binding upon me or not. . have you any objection to tell the committee what those three words were?--the question put by mr. justice brett was, "why?" i object to tell the answer, because it would be an inquiry into a man's religious opinions, and sir george grey, in introducing the parliamentary oaths act in , under which i claim, said, "we will make no inquiry into any man's religious opinions; let the constituencies be the judges of that." . but those three words, whatever they were, satisfied mr. justice brett that an oath would not be binding upon your conscience?--i cannot say that, but they satisfied him sufficiently that he gave the clerk directions to allow me to affirm. . when did that take place?--about eight years ago, speaking roughly; it may be six or seven years, but i am not certain about the time. . was it reported in the newspapers, and is it generally known?--i am not sure; there have been cases reported. . mr. pemberton: i wish to ask whether, since you were returned as a member of this house, and since the report of the last committee, you authorised the publication of a letter which appeared in the newspapers of the st of may in reference to the proceedings which have taken place on this matter?--i ask that the question may not be put to me, because i say that the house has already decided that they will not put any inquiry to a member as to what happens outside the house to determine what was consistent with the oath, or not. . of course i do not press the question more than to remind you that it had reference to proceedings which have taken place in this house, and in a committee of this house?--many things i have read (i do not know whether they are accurate or inaccurate), speeches made by members referring to proceedings in this house, and to that committee in relation to this matter. to put it roughly, i should submit that this committee should not examine me as to extra-parliamentary utterances in reply to extra-parliamentary utterances. for example, one honorable member, sir henry drummond wolff, made a speech at chichester---- . lord henry lennox: not at chichester?--the papers said so; they may be very likely wrong, only it shows still more, i submit, the force of the objection that extra-parliamentary publications in reply to extra-parliamentary utterances should not be the subject of questions before this committee. . mr. pemberton: i will only again point out that it was not in reply to an extra-parliamentary utterance, but had reference to proceedings in this house?--that assumes what would be passing in the mind of the writer and what he had in view in assuming it, and i decline to discuss any subject of that kind. . i am to take it that you decline to answer the question?--no, i object to answer it. if the committee think that i ought to answer it i will answer it. i do not take a legal objection. you quite understand that if the committee think i ought to answer it, i will answer it at once. the committee deliberated. chairman: the committee have come unanimously to the conclusion that the question put by the honorable member for east kent ought to be answered; but, in arriving at that conclusion, i am requested to inform you what i will now read: "that the committee think mr. bradlaugh should answer the question put to him by mr. pemberton, on the ground that it refers to matters written by him directly in relation to the question involved in the order of reference to the committee, and for the purpose of expressing his views on such questions since the claim was made by him to make the affirmation, and before the appointment of the committee." . mr. pemberton: i wish to ask whether, since you were returned as a member of this house, and since the report of the last committee, you authorised the publication of a letter which appeared in the newspapers of the st may, in reference to the proceedings which have taken place on this matter, such letter being signed in your name?--i think one of the members of the committee has a copy, which i handed to him; i have not seen the print; and as i sent to all the newspapers a lithographed copy, i prefer, for greater accuracy, to ask him to return it to me. i hold in my hand a copy which i have no doubt is the same. . chairman: do you object to that letter being put in?--the moment the committee decided that i ought to answer that question, i had no reserve in saying that i left myself in the hands of the committee on it. i shall take the liberty of wishing to address a word or two to the committee presently upon it. (_the letter was handed in._) . mr. watkin williams: do you propose to take the oath in the form given in the statute of , which i will read to you: "i., a. b., do swear that i will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law. so help me, god?"--i do, that being the form in the statute. . if you are permitted to take that oath, do you intend the committee to understand and believe that it will be binding upon your conscience as an oath?--yes. . in taking such oath, do you consider yourself as appealing to some supreme being as a witness that you are speaking the truth?--i submit that having said that i regard the oath as binding upon my conscience, this committee has neither the right nor the duty to further interrogate my conscience. . sir richard cross: you know of course that in taking the oath in the form prescribed by the statute, and according to the custom of taking oaths, you will have to kiss the testament: do you attach the smallest weight to the kissing of that book?--i attach the weight attached by the law to the whole of the formula. . do you attach the smallest weight to the kissing of the book; do you think that the kissing of that book adds in the slightest degree to the weight upon your conscience of the words which you have already spoken without kissing the book?--the law has said that the whole of that is to be complete; i have not the right, therefore, to form an opinion, or to formulate an opinion as to how much of that i would leave out had i any choice in the matter. . then do you attach any further importance to the word "swear" in the oath itself, and to the fact of the kissing of the book than if the word "swear" were written "affirm," and no kissing of the book were required?--i have already said that i attach to the complete affirmation the most complete binding effect on my conscience. if i were allowed a preference, i would and still prefer the affirmation. the law says that the oath is the form, and i shall regard that form as in all its respects binding upon my conscience. . do you look upon the kissing of that particular book as adding any more sanction than the kissing of any other book?--i decline to do that which the law has not done; the law has not split up the formula into parts, and expressed an opinion upon each part separately, and i deny the right of the committee to ask me to do that which the law has not done. . i will ask you one other question; do not answer it unless you like?--i will not. . do you think that the fact of the kissing of that book has any relation to an appeal to a supreme being, that you will, before him, perform the oath which you have taken?--the law has not required me, in any case, to express an opinion as to that by itself. as to the whole oath i have expressed an opinion. . as regards the kissing of that book, would you look upon that, so far as your conscience is concerned, as an idle form?--the law has not required me to look upon it by itself, and i dispute the right of the committee to divide the oath into parts, and to take one part by itself without the other. i have already answered that the whole of the oath when taken by me, and if taken by me, will be binding upon my conscience. . but still you consider that a certain part of that oath, which the statute imposes upon you the necessity to take, is an idle, and empty, and meaningless form?--i have never said so at any time. . but do you consider it so?--most certainly i do not consider the most considerable portion of it an idle and empty form. . some portion of it, i said?--i consider no portion of the essential oath an idle and empty form. . that is to say, that you would take the oath because the statute says you must do so in order to take your seat?--that is not so. i take the oath because the statute says that i must do so, intending to be bound in my honor and conscience by the oath i take. every member takes the oath because he must do so in order to take his seat, and he could not take it without it. . but you do not think that the forms of the oath, as settled by law, adds anything to the binding of your conscience further than saying "i solemnly affirm"?--your question presumes a form of thought which i have not enunciated. . mr. john bright: do i understand you aright that you have never said that the oath, as you propose to take it, is less binding upon your conscience than it is supposed to be on the consciences of other men?--i have never said so; and in , when i stood for election, there being then no form of affirmation possible for me, i had gravely considered the question. . it is within your knowledge that some men, and not a few men, who do not absolutely refuse to take an oath, still greatly prefer to make an affirmation?--if it would not be impertinent to say it, many members of the house have told me so since this question has been pending. . chairman: i think you said, when i informed you that the committee thought that the letter should be put in, that it was a subject upon which you wished to make an observation?--i wish just to make the slightest observation upon that, and upon one or two points that arose in questions that have been put to me. if the committee would allow me to think for a moment i believe i can compress it within very slight limits. . sir gabriel goldney: your statement to mr. justice brett, i understood, you would think over?--no, that my answer did not apply to. if the committee think that i ought to answer that question in the same way, the question as to the three words, or rather four words, that i answered to mr. justice brett, i am quite in the hands of the committee, and i should not decline to answer them. . mr. staveley hill: the reason why i asked you what they were, and where they were to be found if you did not answer the question, was on purpose that one might look for them, because it must be a matter of public notoriety what the words were?--i should think it very possible. i have taken my objection, and if there is even a thought in the committee that i had better answer the question, i should not object to do so. . chairman: what are the observations which you wish to offer in consequence of your examination?--as the house will now have before it the statement, i ask the committee in examining it to take it complete, not to separate one or two words in it and to take those without the countervailing words, and to remember that in this letter i declare that the oath, if i take it, would bind me, and i now repeat that in the most distinct and formal manner; that the oath of allegiance, viz.: "i do swear that i will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law," will, when i take it, be most fully, completely, and unreservedly binding upon my honor and conscience; and i crave leave to refer to the unanimous judgment of the full court of the exchequer chamber, in the case of miller _v._ salomons, th jurist, page , and to the case of the lancaster and carlisle railway company _v._ heaton, th jurist, new series, page , for the distinguishment between the words of asseveration and the essential words of an oath. but i also desire to add, and i do this most solemnly and unreservedly, that the taking and subscribing, or repeating of those words of asseveration, will in no degree weaken the binding effect of the oath on my conscience. i should like, finally, simply to submit to the committee, and especially to the honorable and learned gentleman on the left of the chairman, that there has not been from the beginning to the end of this matter, any declaration, either distinct or implied, that the oath if taken by me would be less binding upon me than upon him; and i do submit to this committee that this house has never sought to inquire or to distinguish in any fashion as to the religious views of its members, except so far as any of them have found themselves obliged by their conscience to refuse to comply with some form that the house has put before them. on the contrary, in the lords' protest on the discussion of the promissory oaths municipal bill, lord holland and other lords put it in the most distinct fashion that no sort of inquisition and no sort of inquiry ought to be tolerated involving any examination of a man's theological views. lord holland added, in words better than i can command: "that there is no tribunal which he knows competent to make that examination, and that the purely secular and political duties called upon to be performed were not such as to entitle that examination to be made." i thank the committee for having listened to me, and i submit myself to their decision. . chairman: you mentioned some precedents which you thought might usefully be added to the list of precedents which we have already had: could you conveniently add those cases?--yes, i will do so. _monday, th june ._ members present: mr. attorney general. mr. john bright. mr. secretary childers. mr. chaplin. sir richard cross. mr. gibson. mr. grantham. mr. staveley hill. sir john holker. mr. beresford hope. mr. hopwood. lord henry lennox. sir henry jackson. mr. massey. major nolan. mr. pemberton. mr. serjeant simon. mr. solicitor general. mr. trevelyan. mr. walpole. the right honorable spencer horatio walpole, in the chair. mr. charles bradlaugh, a member of the house; further examined. . chairman: there was some reference, i think, made to you by mr. whitbread, with regard to which you desire to make some observations?--there was a point urged by mr. whitbread upon the first committee. i do not know whether i should be in order in referring to it. i thought it had been sufficiently covered by what i had said, until i reflected upon it, and then i thought it had not. i wish to submit to this committee that it ought not to consider that i claimed to affirm because i regarded the oath as not binding upon my conscience, under the spirit of the evidence further amendment act, , for that statute runs: "if any one shall object to take an oath, or be objected to as incompetent to take an oath;" and that it is quite possible (perhaps wrongly, and undoubtedly wrongly, as the committee have so decided) that i might claim to affirm, objecting to take the oath, and that the committee have not on the evidence here either the right or the duty to assume anything more as against me in dealing with it now. that is all i wish to put before the committee. appendix. appendix no. . precedents relative to parliamentary oaths. precedent of a member disabled for having sat in the house without taking the oath. sir john leedes hath been in the house and not taken the oath. sir john leedes not to come into the house till further order. sir e. coke: that by the law sir j. leedes is disabled to serve this parliament, and therefore ought to be discharged, and a new writ. mr. pawlett, accordant. sir j. strangways: can pretend no ignorance, for a member of the house last parliament. mr. crew, for sir j. leedes: no question but he is incapable. . he is to be punished. _resolved_, sir j. leedes incapable of being a member of this house, as if never returned. mr. hackwyll: to have him removed; a writ for a new choice; and to punish him, by sending him to the tower. sir g. moore: to have no question made, but where it is questioned. mr. secretary: the fault great, especially because of last parliament. to order, he shall be discharged now, and to serve no more this parliament. sir j. leedes, brought to the bar, confesseth he was of the house last meeting in parliament; and that he hath sit this parliament in the house, and hath not taken his oath. mr. t. fanshaw: that he must be punished as one that hath come into the house, not being chosen. sir e. sandes: to pay the serjeant his fees, and no further punishment; because, but negligence, no presumption, and is willing to take the oath. mr. chidley: to have an order to disable him for this parliament. a warrant for a new writ in his room. precedent of a member admitted to sit without taking the oaths of allegiance and supremacy. _ordered_, that william ayres, esquire, being legally elected and returned a member of this house, his election being returned and remitted of record, shall be admitted to sit in this house, without taking the oaths of supremacy and allegiance. _ordered_, that an ordinance be brought in by mr. lisle, to-morrow morning, for repealing that clause in the act of * * that no person be admitted to sit as a member of this house, before he hath taken the oath of allegiance and supremacy. _ordered_, that all and every the sheriffs of the respective counties in england and wales do henceforth execute their several places and offices of sheriffs of their several and respective counties, according to the duty of their said office, without taking the oaths of allegiance and supremacy. precedent of a member discharged for declining to take the oaths. the house being informed, that sir henry mounson attended, according to the order on saturday last; _resolved_, that he be called in, and tendered the oaths and declaration directed to be taken, made, repeated, and subscribed by the members of the house. he was called in accordingly; and came up to the table: and mr. speaker acquainted him, that the house had taken notice that he had been about the town a considerable time; but yet did not attend the service of the house: and that he had directions to tender him the oaths and the declarations. whereupon, sir henry mounson said: that he was sorry that for some reasons he could not comply to qualify himself to sit in the house: but that those reasons would no way incline him to disturb the government; and that he submitted himself to the house. and then withdrew. _resolved_, that sir henry mounson be discharged from being a member of the house. new writ ordered. precedent of a member discharged for declining to take the oaths. the house being informed, that the lord fanshaw attended at the door, according to the order of saturday last. _resolved_, that he be called in, and tendered the oaths and declaration, directed to be taken, made, repeated, and subscribed by the members of the house. he was called in accordingly; and came up to the table: and mr. speaker acquainted him, that the house had taken notice that he had been about the town a considerable time; but yet did not attend the service of the house; and that he had direction to tender him the oaths and declaration. whereupon the lord fanshaw said, that it was true, he had been about town a great while indeed; but had been in the country, if his health would have permitted him; but that he had been in a strict course of physick, and was in the same condition still of physick and diet; but, however, that since he was absent there was an act of parliament passed for taking the oaths; and he was not qualified to sit in the house, in regard he was not satisfied to take the oaths; and therefore he could not appear. and then withdrew. _resolved_, that the lord fanshaw be discharged from being a member of the house. and there being a petition in, touching the election, the granting a new writ was respited. precedent of a member committed to the tower for declining to take the oaths. the house being acquainted, that mr. cholmly attended according to their order of tuesday last; he was called in, and came up to the table: and mr speaker, by the direction of the house, acquainted him to this effect, viz., that the house had taken notice of his being absent from their service a considerable time, and that now he was come he was to tender him, and accordingly did tender him, the oaths of allegiance and supremacy appointed to be taken by the members of the house, according to an act of this present parliament. to which mr. cholmly replied, that as to his absence, both when he was in the country and since he came to town, he had been infirm and lame, and had been under the doctor's hands, and could not as yet recover himself. and that he had endeavored to qualify himself to be a sitting member of the house, by taking the oaths, as the house expects, but that he could not as yet do it: and therefore humbly submitted himself to the house; and that he did it not out of any wilful humor. upon which he was commanded to withdraw. and being withdrawn accordingly; _resolved_, that francis cholmly, esquire, a member of this house, for his contempt in refusing to take the oaths, * *, be committed prisoner to the tower of london. _ordered_, that the serjeant-at-arms attending this house do take into his custody the said mr. cholmly, and convey him to the tower: and that mr. speaker do issue his warrant for that purpose. precedent of a member, being a quaker, refusing to take the oath. house called over, and the name of john archdale, esquire, a burgess for the borough of chipping wicomb, in the county of bucks, being called over a second time: mr. speaker acquainted the house that mr. archdale had been with him this morning, and delivered him a letter sealed, which mr. speaker presented to the house. and the same was opened and read, and is as followeth, viz.:-- "london, the rd of the th month, called january - . "sir. "upon the call of the house it will appear that i am duly chosen and returned to serve in parliament for the borough of chipping wycomb, in the county of bucks; and, therefore, i request of thee to acquaint the honorable house of commons the reason i have not as yet appeared, which is, that the burgesses being voluntarily inclined to elect me, i did not oppose their inclinations, believing that my declarations of fidelity, etc., might, in this case, as in others, where the law requires an oath, be accepted, i am, therefore, ready to execute my trust if the house think fit to admit of me thereupon; which i do humbly submit to their wisdom and justice; and shall acquiesce with what they will be pleased to determine therein: this being all at present, i remain, "thy real and obliged friend, "john archdale." day appointed for considering the contents of the said letter. mr. archdale ordered to attend. the house being informed, that mr. archdale attended according to order; his letter to mr. speaker was again read; and the several statutes qualifying persons to come into and sit and vote in this house were read, viz., of the car. ii., will. and mariæ, and and will. and mariæ. and then the said mr. archdale was called in, and he came into the middle of the house, almost to the table; and mr. speaker, by direction of the house, asked him whether he had taken the oaths or would take the oaths, appointed to qualify himself to be a member of this house; to which he answered, that in regard to a principle of his religion he had not taken the oaths, nor could take them. and then he withdrew. a new writ ordered. precedent of a member expelled for absconding, and not taking the oaths. the house was called over according to order. and the names of such as made default to appear were taken down. _ordered_, that the names of such as made default be now called over. and they were called over accordingly. and several of them appeared, and others were excused upon account of their being ill, some in the country, some in town; and others upon account of their being in the country upon extraordinary occasions; and some as being upon the road. upon calling over the names of * * lewis price, esquire, * * they were not excused. several members sent for. _ordered_, that lewis price, esquire, be sent for, in custody of the serjeant-at-arms attending this house. the serjeant-at-arms being called upon to give the house an account of what he had done in relation to lewis pryse, esquire, who was, the th of august last, ordered to be sent for in custody, for not attending the service of the house; he acquainted the house, that the messenger he sent to bring up mr. pryse, had been at his house at gargathen, but that he was not there; nor could the messenger have any intelligence where he was. _ordered_, that lewis pryse, esquire, do surrender himself into the custody of the serjeant-at-arms attending this house, by this day month at the farthest, upon pain of occurring the farther displeasure of this house, and of being proceeded against with the utmost severity. the order of the nd of february last being read requiring lewis pryse, esquire, to surrender himself into the custody of the serjeant-at-arms attending this house by that day month at farthest; the serjeant was called upon to know whether he had heard from the said mr. pryse, and he acquainted the house, that he had not heard from him. mr. speaker acquainted the house, that he had received a letter from the said mr. pryse, and he delivered the same to the clerk to be read; and the same was read accordingly, and is as follows, viz.: "sir, "'tis with pleasure that i embrace every opportunity of returning you my acknowledgments for the good offices you have done me, as often as the case of my unavoidable absence has come under debate in the house. the repeated experience i have had of your friendship in this point, encourages me to hope for the continuance of them, which i shall not offer to desire longer than the reasonableness of my case shall appear to deserve them. "i beg leave once more to represent it to you; and through your assistance to the honorable house; whose displeasure as it is a very sensible affliction to me, i should be glad by any means in my power to remove. that as it is impracticable for me to attend by the time appointed, because of a very severe fit of the gout which i am now afflicted with, and thereby give satisfaction to the house in the method they have insisted on; i hope they will accept of such as is in my power, and give me a favorable hearing when i represent to them, that i was chose knight of the shire of cardigan when i was at miles distant from it, and had been absent thence for ten months before the time of my election; which i was so far from seeking, that i never asked a vote for it, and was chose even against my inclinations. "i know not how far a man is obliged to stand to the choice a county makes of him. sure i am that i have reason to complain of a force that has administered the occasion of my disobliging the honorable house, by an absence caused by infirmities, under which i labored at the time of my choice, and which have continued upon me ever since with the greatest severity, and with little or no intermission. "in these circumstances i would fain hope that the honorable house will rather blame the country's choice than him who has been unwillingly forced into a post, and lies under the misfortune (for i flatter myself 'twill not be thought a crime) of not being able to attend the business of it; and will therefore lay aside their displeasure, and remit the sentence ordered against me. "and i am the rather encouraged to hope this, because mr. prynne, in his comment on the fourth book of sir edward coke's institutes, shows, from various records, that incurable distempers have been constantly allowed by the house for a just excuse of non-attendance; and upon debates in such cases, no other punishment has been inflicted than excusing the service of the member, and ordering a new writ for electing a person duly qualified, and capable of attending the business of the house. this being the course of parliamentary proceedings in such cases as mine, which i have now truly represented to you, and can produce hundreds of witnesses to confirm, i hope that the unhappy incapacity i am under of attending the service of the house, will be thought to deserve no severer treatment than has been usual in the like cases; and that my ready submission to the honorable house's pleasure in this point, will be a means to restore me to their favorable opinion, and engage you to promote the request of "your most obliged and obedient humble servant, "le pryse. "aberllefenny, th february, . "i know not how far the house in their last order about me, might be influenced by any report of the messenger who came down to my house; but to prevent misrepresentation i think it proper to assure you, that within three days after a very dangerous fit of the gout suffered me to come downstairs, i came from thence hither to my father-in-law's, eighteen miles in my way to london. but the motion of even so small a journey brought another fit upon me immediately, with which i have been laid up here ever since, and not having been yet so much as able to return to my own house." then the journal of the * day of may, , in the case of mr. cholmondley was read. (house interrupted--conference.) the house resumed the consideration of the matter relating to mr. pryse. _resolved_, that lewis pryse, esquire, a member of this house, having been sent for in custody of the serjeant-at-arms attending this house, the th day of august last, for not attending the service of this house, and having never qualified himself as a member of this house, by taking the oaths at the table, be forthwith brought up in custody. the messenger gives the house an account of what he had done pursuant to the order of the house. _resolved_, that lewis pryse, esquire, a member of this house, having been sent for in custody of the serjeant-at-arms attending this house, the th day of august last, for not attending the service of this house, and having never qualified himself as a member of this house by taking the oaths at the table; and having been on the nd of february last summoned to surrender himself into custody of the serjeant-at-arms, upon pain of being proceeded against with the utmost severity, and he having absconded, and peremptorily refused to surrender himself into custody, be, for the same contempt, expelled this house. precedent of a member refusing to take the oath of supremacy. daniel o'connell, esq., professing the roman catholic religion, returned knight of the shire for the county of clare, being introduced in the usual manner, for the purpose of taking his seat, produced at the table a certificate of his having been sworn before two of the deputies appointed by the lord steward, whereupon the clerk tendered to him the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration; upon which mr. o'connell stated, that he was ready to take the oaths of allegiance and abjuration, but that he could not take the oath of supremacy, and claimed the privilege of being allowed to take the oath set forth in the act passed in the present session of parliament "for the relief of his majesty's roman catholic subjects;" whereupon the clerk having stated the matter to mr. speaker, mr. speaker informed mr. o'connell that, according to his interpretation of the law, it was incumbent on mr. o'connell to take the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration, and that the provisions of the new act applied only to members returned after the commencement of the said act, except in so far as regarded the repeal of the declaration against transubstantiation; and that mr. o'connell must withdraw unless he were prepared to take the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration. whereupon mr. o'connell withdrew. motion, that mr. o'connell be called back and heard at the table. debate arising. a member stated that he was requested by mr. o'connell to desire that he might be heard. debate adjourned. _resolved_, that mr. o'connell, the member for clare, be heard at the bar, by himself, his counsel or agents, in respect of his claim to sit and vote in parliament without taking the oath of supremacy. mr. o'connell was called in, and heard accordingly: and being withdrawn; _resolved_, that it is the opinion of this house, that mr. o'connell having been returned a member of this house before the commencement of the act passed in this session of parliament "for the relief of his majesty's roman catholic subjects," is not entitled to sit or vote in this house unless he first take the oath of supremacy. _ordered_, that mr. o'connell do attend the house this day, and that mr. speaker do then communicate to him the said resolution, and ask him whether he will take the oath of supremacy. and the house being informed that mr. o'connell attended at the door, he was called to the bar, and mr. speaker communicated to him the resolution of the house of yesterday, and the order thereupon, as followeth:-- _resolved_, that it is the opinion of this house, that mr. o'connell having been returned a member of this house before the commencement of the act passed in this session of parliament, "for the relief of his majesty's roman catholic subjects," is not entitled to sit or vote in this house unless he first take the oath of supremacy. _ordered_, that mr. o'connell do attend the house this day, and that mr. speaker do then communicate to him the said resolution, and ask him whether he will take the oath of supremacy. and then mr. speaker, pursuant to the said order, asked mr. o'connell whether he would take the said oath of supremacy? whereupon mr. o'connell requested to see the said oath, which being shown to him accordingly, mr. o'connell stated that the said oath contained one proposition which he knew to be false, and another proposition which he believed to be untrue; and that he therefore refused to take the said oath of supremacy. and then mr. o'connell was directed to withdraw; and he withdrew accordingly. _ordered_, that mr. speaker do issue his warrant to the clerk of the crown in ireland to make out (subject to the provisions of an act passed in this session of parliament, intituled, "an act to amend certain acts of the parliament of ireland relative to the election of members to serve in parliament, and to regulate the qualification of persons to vote at the election of knights of the shire of ireland") a new writ for the electing of a knight of the shire to serve in this present parliament for the county of clare, in the room of daniel o'connell, esq., who, having been returned a member of this house before the commencement of an act passed in this session of parliament "for the relief of his majesty's roman catholic subjects," has refused to qualify himself to sit and vote as a member of this house, by taking the oath of supremacy. precedent of a member being a quaker, claiming to make an affirmation. several members attended at the table to take the oaths; and joseph pease, esquire, returned for the southern division of the county of durham, having stated that, being one of the people called quakers, he claimed the privilege of making an affirmation, instead of taking the oaths; whereupon he was desired by mr. speaker to retire until the sense of the house could be taken upon his claim; and he retired accordingly. _ordered_, that a select committee be appointed to search the journals of the house, and to report to the house such precedents, and such acts or parts of acts of parliament as relate to the right of the people called quakers to take their seats in parliament, and to the privilege conferred upon them to make their solemn affirmation in courts of justice, and other places where by law an oath is allowed, authorised, or required to be taken. report:-- _resolved_, that it appears to this house, that joseph pease is entitled to take his seat upon making his solemn affirmation and declaration to the effect of the oaths directed to be taken at the table of this house. * * * * * the counsel and agents in the case of the coleraine election, being returned to the bar, the clerk appointed to attend the said committee delivered into the house a reduced list; and the same was called over, and is as follows:-- * * * * * and the members of the committee being as usual, come to the table to be sworn, and joseph pease, esquire, a quaker, being one of the said members, mr. speaker submitted to the house whether mr. pease was capable of serving on the said election committee without having been sworn. * * * * * and the house being unanimously of opinion, that mr. pease was capable of serving on the said committee; the rest of the committee were sworn, and mr. pease made his solemn affirmation, as follows: * * * * * precedent of a member omitting the words in the oath of abjuration "on the true faith of a christian." the baron lionel nathan de rothschild, returned as one of the members for the city of london, came to the table to be sworn; and being asked by the clerk what oath he wished to take, the protestant or the roman catholic oath, he replied, "i desire to be sworn upon the old testament." whereupon the clerk having stated the matter to mr. speaker, mr. speaker directed baron rothschild to withdraw. [debate on question relative to the matter adjourned.] _ordered_, that baron lionel nathan de rothschild, one of the members for the city of london, having demanded to be sworn on the old testament, be called to the table, and that mr. speaker do ask him why he has demanded to be sworn in that form. whereupon baron lionel nathan de rothschild, having come to the table, was asked by mr. speaker-- "baron de rothschild, you have demanded to be sworn on the old testament, and i am directed by the house to ask you why you have demanded to be sworn in that form?" to which baron lionel nathan de rothschild replied: "because that is the form of swearing that i declare to be most binding on my conscience." and then mr. speaker directed him to withdraw. _ordered_, that baron lionel nathan de rothschild, one of the members for the city of london, having presented himself at the table of the house, and having previously to taking the oaths, requested to be sworn on the old testament (being the form which he has declared at the table to be most binding on his conscience), the clerk be directed to swear him on the old testament accordingly. the baron lionel nathan de rothschild, having come to the table, mr. speaker acquainted him that the house had made the following order: "that baron lionel nathan de rothschild, one of the members for the city of london, having presented himself at the table of the house, and having previously to taking the oaths, requested to be sworn on the old testament (being the form which he has declared at the table to be most binding on his conscience), the clerk be directed to swear him on the old testament accordingly." whereupon the clerk handed to him the old testament, and tendered him the oaths; and he accordingly took the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, repeating the same after the clerk; the clerk then proceeded to administer the oath of abjuration, which the baron de rothschild repeated after the clerk so far as the words "upon the true faith of a christian," but upon the clerk reading those words, the baron de rothschild said, "i omit those words as not binding on my conscience;" he then concluded with the words "so help me, god" (the clerk not having read those words to him), and kissed the said testament:--whereupon he was directed to withdraw. question for a new writ negatived. _resolved_, that the baron lionel nathan de rothschild is not entitled to vote in this house, or to sit in this house during any debate, until he shall take the oath of abjuration in the form appointed by law. _resolved_, that this house will, at the earliest opportunity in the next session of parliament, take into its serious consideration the form of the oath of abjuration, with a view to relieve her majesty's subjects professing the jewish religion. [the house refuses to hear petitioners by counsel in favour of a resolution admitting baron lionel de rothschild.] [_see_ case of david salomons, esq., july, , _infra._] bill to provide for the relief of her majesty's subjects professing the jewish religion. brought from the lords, th july. royal assent, rd july, . [oaths bill passed: by the lords with amendments; lords' amendments disagreed to; lords insist, and assign reasons.] _resolved_, that this house does not consider it necessary to examine the reasons offered by the lords for insisting upon the exclusion of jews from parliament, as by a bill of the present session, intituled, "an act to provide for the relief of her majesty's subjects professing the jewish religion," their lordships have provided means for the admission of persons professing the jewish religion to seats in the legislature. _resolved_, that this house doth not insist upon its disagreement with the lords in their amendments to the said bill. baron lionel nathan de rothschild, returned as one of the members for the city of london, came to the table to be sworn; and stated that, being a person professing the jewish religion, he entertained a conscientious objection to take the oath which, by an act passed in the present session, has been substituted for the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration, in the form therein required. whereupon the clerk reported the matter to mr. speaker, who desired baron lionel nathan de rothschild to withdraw, and he withdrew accordingly. _resolved_, that it appears to this house that baron lionel nathan de rothschild, a person professing the jewish religion, being otherwise entitled to sit and vote in this house, is prevented from so sitting and voting by his conscientious objection to take the oath which, by an act passed in the present session of parliament, has been substituted for the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration, in the form therein required. _resolved_, that any person professing the jewish religion may henceforth, in taking the oath prescribed in an act of the present session of parliament to entitle him to sit and vote in this house, omit the words "and i make this declaration upon the true faith of a christian." baron lionel nathan de rothschild having again come to the table, desired to be sworn on the old testament, as being binding on his conscience. whereupon the clerk reported the matter to mr. speaker, who then desired the clerk to swear him upon the old testament. baron lionel nathan de rothschild was sworn accordingly, and subscribed the oath at the table. [_see_ case of baron mayer amschel de rothschild, th feb., , _infra._] parliament dissolved, rd april, ; met, st may, . baron lionel nathan de rothschild, member for the city of london, came to the table to be sworn, and stated that being a person professing the jewish religion, he had a conscientious objection to take the oath in the form required by the act vict. c. . the clerk having reported the circumstance to mr. speaker, baron lionel nathan de rothschild was directed to withdraw, and he withdrew accordingly. _resolved_, that it appears to this house that baron lionel nathan de rothschild, a person professing the jewish religion, being otherwise entitled to sit and vote in this house, is prevented from so sitting and voting by his conscientious objection to take the oath, which by an act passed in the nd year of her majesty has been substituted for the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration in the form therein required. _resolved_, that any person professing the jewish religion may henceforth in taking the oath prescribed in an act passed in the twenty-second year of her majesty to entitle him to sit and vote in this house, omit the words "and i make this declaration upon the true faith of a christian." whereupon baron lionel nathan de rothschild, alderman david salomons, and baron mayer amschel de rothschild, being members professing the jewish religion, having come to the table, were sworn upon the old testament, and took the oath, omitting the words "and i make this declaration upon the true faith of a christian," and subscribed the same. precedent of a member omitting the words in the oath of abjuration, "on the true faith of a christian." david salomons, esq., returned as one of the members for the borough of greenwich, came to the table to be sworn; and being tendered the new testament by the clerk, stated that he desired to be sworn on the old testament: whereupon the clerk reported the matter to mr. speaker, and mr. speaker asked him why he desired to be sworn on the old testament; he answered, because he considered it binding on his conscience; mr. speaker then desired the clerk to swear him upon the old testament; the clerk handed to him the old testament, and tendered him the oaths; and he took the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, repeating the same after the clerk. the clerk then proceeded to administer the oath of abjuration, which mr. salomons read as far as the words "upon the true faith of a christian," which he omitted, concluding with the words "so help me, god". and the clerk having reported to mr. speaker that mr. salomons had omitted to repeat the words "upon the true faith of a christian," mr. speaker desired mr. salomons to withdraw. he thereupon retired from the table and sat down upon one of the lower benches, upon which mr. speaker informed him that, not having taken the oath of abjuration in the form prescribed by the act of parliament, and in the form in which the house had upon a former occasion expressed its opinion that it ought to be taken, he could not be allowed to remain in the house, but must withdraw. and he withdrew accordingly. motion for new writ withdrawn. the house resumed the further proceedings. mr. alderman salomons entered the house, and took his seat within the bar: whereupon mr. speaker said that he saw that a member had taken his seat without having taken the oaths required by law; and that he must therefore desire that the honorable member do withdraw. mr. alderman salomons continued in the seat within the bar. _ordered_ (after debate), that mr. alderman salomons do now withdraw. whereupon mr. speaker stated that the honorable member for greenwich had heard the decision of the house, and hoped that the honorable member was prepared to obey it. mr. alderman salomons continuing to sit in his seat, mr. speaker directed the serjeant-at-arms to remove him below the bar. whereupon mr. serjeant-at-arms having placed his hand on mr. alderman salomons, he was conducted below the bar. [the house refuses to hear petitioners by counsel at the bar of the house in defence of their right to elect their own representative.] _resolved_ (after debate), that david salomons, esq., is not entitled to vote in this house, or to sit in this house, during any debate, until he shall take the oath of abjuration in the form appointed by law. precedent of a member stating that he had a conscientious objection to take the oath. baron mayer amschel de rothschild, returned for the town and port of hythe, came to the table to be sworn, and stated that, being a person professing the jewish religion, he entertained a conscientious objection to take the oath, which by an act passed in the last session has been substituted for the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration, in the form therein required. whereupon the clerk reported the matter to mr. speaker, who desired baron mayer amschel de rothschild to withdraw; and he withdrew accordingly. _resolved_, that it appears to this house that baron mayer amschel de rothschild, a person professing the jewish religion, being otherwise entitled to sit and vote in this house, is prevented from so sitting and voting by his conscientious objection to take the oath, which by an act passed in the last session of parliament has been substituted for the oaths of allegiance, supremacy, and abjuration in the form therein required. _resolved_, that any person professing the jewish religion may henceforth, in taking the oath prescribed in an act of the last session of parliament to entitle him to sit and vote in this house, omit the words "and i make this declaration upon the true faith of a christian." baron mayer amschel de rothschild, being again come to the table, desired to be sworn on the old testament as binding on his conscience. whereupon the clerk reported the matter to mr. speaker, who then desired the clerk to swear him upon the old testament. baron mayer amschel de rothschild was sworn accordingly, and subscribed the oath at the table. appendix no. . paper handed in by mr. bradlaugh, nd june, . precedents relating to parliamentary oaths. case of attorney general sir francis bacon, commons journals, vol. , page , th april, , continued from page , th april. eligibility of the attorney general to sit in parliament. by edward iii., , no practising barrister could be knight of the shire. page .--"the precedents to disable him ought to be showed on the other side." page .--"their oath their own consciences to look unto, not we to examine it." at that date each member had to make oath that he was duly qualified. . question whether he shall for this parliament remain of the house or not:--_resolved_, he shall. . question.--whether any attorney general shall after this parliament serve as a member of this house:--_resolved_, no. case of john wilkes, esquire, commons journal, , page , rd may, . the house was moved, that the entry in the journal of the house, of the th day of february, , of the resolution, "that john wilkes, esquire, having been in this session of parliament expelled this house, was and is incapable of being elected a member to serve in this present parliament," might be read, and the same being read accordingly; a motion was made, and the question being put, that the said resolution be expunged from the journals of this house, as being subversive of the rights of the whole body of electors of this kingdom. the house divided. the yeas went forth. tellers for the yeas, sir philip jennings clarke and mr. byng, . tellers for the noes, mr. john st. john and sir william augustus cunynghame, , so it was resolved in the affirmative. and the same was expunged by the clerk at the table, accordingly. _ordered_, that all declarations, orders, and resolutions of this house, respecting the election of john wilkes, esquire, for the county of middlesex, as a void election, the true and legal election of henry lawes luttrell, esquire, into parliament for the said county, and the incapacity of john wilkes, esquire, to be elected a member to serve in the said parliament, be expunged from the journals of this house as being subversive of the rights of the whole body of electors of this kingdom. by cavendish's parliamentary debates, vol. i., page , th november, , it appears that _inter alia_ were used to justify the original and subsequently expunged resolutions--first, "the copy of the record of the proceedings, on an information in the court of king's bench, against john wilkes, esquire, for blasphemy"--page ; "three obscene and impious libels"; "an impious libel with intent to blaspheme the almighty god." case of mr. john horne tooke, parliamentary history, vol. , page , th february, . mr. john horne tooke took the oaths and his seat for old sarum. he was introduced by sir francis burdett and mr. wilson. this being done, earl temple rose and said, he had observed a gentleman who had just retired from the table, after having taken the oaths, whom he conceived to be incapable of a seat in that house, in consequence of his having taken priest's orders and been inducted into a living. he would wait the allotted time of fourteen days to see whether there was any petition presented against his return; if not he should then move that the return for old sarum be taken into consideration. page , th march, .--earl temple moved that mr. boucher, deputy registrar of salisbury, be called in to prove that mr. horne tooke, being a priest in orders, was not eligible to a seat in that house. after debate, in which mr. john horne tooke spoke--amendment and division--motion agreed to (page ),--select committee appointed (page ). two reports given, pages to , were made, giving all the cases of "any of the clergy" returned to parliament. th may, .--earl temple moved (pages to ), "that mr. speaker do issue his warrant to the clerk of the crown in great britain, to make out a new writ for the election of a burgess to serve in this present parliament for the borough of old sarum, in the county of wilts, in the room of the rev. john horne tooke, who being at the time of his election in priest's orders, was and is incapable of sitting in this house." a debate took place in which mr. john horne tooke spoke (pp. to ), division, and the motion negatived. jurist, vol. , page .--exchequer chamber; error from the court of exchequer: coram, lord campbell, chief justice, and coleridge, cresswell, wightman, williams, and crompton, j. one judgment by lord chief justice campbell for the whole court. lord campbell (page ).--the words "so help me, god," are words of asseveration, and of the manner of taking the oath; but the words preceding them are, it appears to me, an essential part of the oath. fisher's digest, vol. , page .--by a private act, no person appointed to act as tithe valuer shall be capable of acting until he shall have taken and subscribed an oath in the words following: "i, a. b., do swear that i will faithfully, etc., execute, etc.; so help me, god." held, that the oath had nevertheless been properly administered according to the statute, for the words omitted were no part of the oath, but only an indication of the manner of administering it. lancaster and carlisle railway company _v._ heaton, el. & bl., ; jur., n. s., ; l. j., q. b., . appendix no. . paper handed in by mr. bradlaugh, nd june, . statement on the oath question by mr. bradlaugh. , circus road, st. john's wood, london, n.w., th may, . when elected as one of the burgesses to represent northampton in the house of commons, i believed that i had the legal right to make affirmation of allegiance in lieu of taking the oath, as provided by section of the parliamentary oaths act, . while i considered that i had this legal right, it was then clearly my moral duty to make the affirmation. the oath, although to me including words of idle and meaningless character, was, and is, regarded by a large number of my fellow countrymen as an appeal to deity to take cognizance of their swearing. it would have been an act of hypocrisy to voluntarily take this form if any other had been open to me, or to take it without protest, as though it meant in my mouth any such appeal. i, therefore, quietly and privately notified the clerk of the house of my desire to affirm. his view of the law and practice differing from my own, and no similar case having theretofore arisen, it became necessary that i should tender myself to affirm in a more formal manner, and this i did at a season deemed convenient by those in charge of the business of the house. in tendering my affirmation, i was careful when called on by the speaker to state my objection, to do nothing more than put in the fewest possible words my contention that the parliamentary oaths act, , gave the right to affirm in parliament to every person for the time being by law permitted to make an affirmation in lieu of taking an oath, and that i was such a person, and therefore claimed to affirm. the speaker neither refusing, nor accepting my affirmation, referred the matter to the house, which appointed a select committee to report whether persons entitled to affirm under the evidence amendment acts, and , were, under section of the parliamentary oaths act, , also entitled to affirm as members of parliament. this committee, by the casting-vote of its chairman, has decided that i am not entitled to affirm. two courses are open to me, one of appeal to the house against the decision of the committee; the other, of present compliance with the ceremony, while doing my best to prevent the further maintenance of a form which many other members of the house think as objectionable as i do, but which habit, and the fear of exciting prejudice, has induced them to submit to. to appeal to the house against the decision of the committee would be ungracious, and would certainly involve great delay of public business. i was present at the deliberations of the committee, and while naturally i cannot be expected to bow submissively to the statements and arguments of my opponents, i am bound to say that they were calmly and fairly urged. i think them unreasonable; but the fact that they included a legal argument from an earnest liberal deprives them even of a purely party character. if i appealed to the house against the committee, i, of course, might rely on the fact that the attorney general, the solicitor general, sir henry jackson, q.c., watkin williams, q.c., and mr. serjeant simon are reported in the _times_ to have interpreted the law as i do; and i might add that the right honorable john bright and mr. whitbread are in the same journal arrayed in favor of allowing me to affirm. but even then the decision of the house may endorse that of the committee, and should it be in my favor it could only, judging from what has already taken place, be after a bitter party debate, in which the government specially and the liberals generally would be sought to be burdened with my anti-theological views, and with promoting my return to parliament. as a matter of fact, the liberals of england have never in any way promoted my return to parliament. the much-attacked action of mr. adam had relation only to the second seat, and in no way related to the one for which i was fighting. in , the only action of mr. gladstone and of mr. bright was to write letters in favor of my competitors; and since i do not believe that either of these gentlemen has directly or indirectly interfered in any way in connection with my parliamentary candidature. the majority of the electors of northampton had determined to return me before the recent union in that borough, and while pleased to aid their fellow liberals in winning the two seats, my constituents would have at any rate returned me had no union taken place. my duty to my constituents is to fulfil the mandate they have given me, and if to do this i have to submit to a form less solemn to me than the affirmation i would have reverently made, so much the worse for those who force me to repeat words which i have scores of times declared are to me sounds conveying no clear and definite meaning. i am sorry for the earnest believers who see words sacred to them used as a meaningless addendum to a promise, but i cannot permit their less sincere co-religionists to use an idle form in order to prevent me from doing my duty to those who have chosen me to speak for them in parliament. i shall, taking the oath, regard myself as bound, not by the letter of its words, but by the spirit which the affirmation would have conveyed had i been permitted to use it. so soon as i am able, i shall take such steps as may be consistent with parliamentary business to put an end to the present doubtful and unfortunate state of the law and practice on oaths and affirmations. only four cases have arisen of refusal to take the oath except, of course, those cases purely political in their character; two of those cases are those of the quakers john archdale and joseph pease. the religion of these men forbade them to swear at all, and they nobly refused. the sect to which they belonged was outlawed, insulted and imprisoned; they were firm, and one of that sect sat on the very committee, a member of her majesty's privy council, and a member of the actual cabinet. i thank him gratefully that, valuing right so highly, he cast his vote so nobly for one for whom i am afraid he has but scant sympathy. no such religious scruple prevents me from taking the oath as prevented john archdale and joseph pease. in the case of baron rothschild and alderman salomons the words "upon the true faith of a christian" were the obstacle. to-day the oath contains no such words. the committee report that i may not affirm, and protesting against a decision which seems to me alike against the letter of the law and the spirit of modern legislation, i comply with the forms of the house. charles bradlaugh. mr. bradlaugh's speeches. mr. bradlaugh's first speech at the bar of the house of commons, delivered june rd, . sir,--i have to ask the indulgence of every member of this house while, in a position unexampled in the history of this house, i try to give one or two reasons why the resolution which you have read to me should not be enforced. if it were not unbecoming i should appeal to the traditions of the house against the house itself, and i should point out that in none of its records, so far as my poor reading goes, is there any case in which this house has judged one of its members in his absence, and taken away from that member the constitutional right he has (hear, hear). there have been members against whom absolute legal disqualification has been urged. no such legal disqualification is ventured to be urged by any member of this house against myself. but even those members have been heard in their places; those members have been listened to before the decision was taken against them; and i ask that this house to myself shall not be less just than it has always been to every one of its members (hear, hear). do you tell me i am unfit to sit amongst you? (hear, hear, and order, order.) the more reason, then, that this house should show the generosity which judges show to a criminal, and allow every word he has to say to be heard. but i stand here, sir, as no criminal. i stand here as the chosen of a constituency of this country, with my duty to that constituency to do. i stand here, sir--if it will not be considered impertinent to put it so--with the most profound respect for this house, of which i yet hope and mean to form a part, and on whose traditions i should not wish to cast one shadow of reproach. i stand here returned duly; no petition against my return; no impeachment of that return. i stand here returned duly, ready to fulfil every form that this house requires, ready to fulfil every form that the law permits this house to require, ready to do every duty that the law makes incumbent upon me. i will not in this presence argue whether this house has or has not the right to set its decision against the law, because i should imagine that even the rashest of those who spoke against me would hardly be prepared to put in the mouth of one whom they consider too advanced in politics an arguments so dangerous as that might become. i speak within the limits of the law, asking for no favor from this house for myself or for my constituents, but asking the merest justice which has always been accorded to a member of the house (hear, hear, and order.) i have to ask indulgence lest the memory of some hard words which have been spoken in my absence should seem to give to what i say a tone of defiance, which it is far from my wish should be there at all; and i am the more eased because although there were words spoken which i had always been taught english gentlemen never said in the absence of an antagonist without notice to him, yet there were also generous and brave words said for one who is at present, i am afraid, a source of trouble and discomfort and hindrance to business. i measure the generous words against the others, and i will only make one appeal through you, sir, which is, that if the reports be correct that the introduction of other names came with mine in the heat of passion and the warmth of debate, the gentleman who used those words, if such there were, will remember that he was wanting in chivalry, because, while i can answer for myself, and am able to answer for myself, nothing justified the introduction of any other name beside my own to make a prejudice against me (cheers and cries of question and order.) i fear lest the strength of this house, judicially exercised as i understand it to be--with infrequency of judicial exercise--that the strength of this house makes it forget our relative positions. at present i am pleading at its bar for justice. by right it is there i should plead. [the hon. member pointed to the seats.] it is that right i claim in the name of those who sent me here. no legal disqualification before my election, or it might have been made the ground of petition. no legal disqualification since my election--not even pretended. it is said: "you might have taken the oath as other members did." i could not help when i read that, sir, trying to put myself in the place of each member who said it. i imagined a member of some form of faith who found in the oath words which seemed to him to clash with his faith, but still words which he thought he might utter, but which he would prefer not to utter if there were any other form which the law provided him, and i asked myself whether each of those members would not then have taken the form which was most consonant with his honor and his conscience. if i have not misread, some hon. members seem to think that i have neither honor nor conscience. is there not some proof to the contrary in the fact that i did not go through the form, believing that there was another right open to me? (hear, hear, and order.) is that not some proof that i have honor and conscience? of the gentlemen who are now about to measure themselves against the rights of the constituencies of england i ask what justification had they for that measurement? they have said that i thrust my opinions on the house. i hold here, sir, the evidence of sir thomas erskine may, and i can find no word of any opinion of mine thrust upon the house at all. i have read--it may be that the reports misrepresent--that the cry of "atheist" has been raised from that side. [the hon. member pointed to the opposition side.] no word of all mine before the committee put in any terms those theological or anti-theological opinions in evidence before the house. i am no more ashamed of my own opinions, which i did not choose, opinions into which i have grown, than any member of this house is ashamed of his; and much as i value the right to sit here, and much as i believe that the justice of this house will accord it to me before the struggle is finished, i would rather relinquish it for ever than it should be thought that by any shadow of hypocrisy i had tried to gain a feigned entrance here by pretending to be what i am not (cheers, and cries of order.) on the report of the committee as it stands, on the evidence before the house, what is the objection to either my affirming or taking the oath? it is said i have no legal right to affirm. i will suppose that to be so. it is the first time that the house has made itself a court of law from which there may be no appeal, and deprived a citizen of his constitutional right of appeal to a court of law to make out what the statute means in dealing with him. there is no case in which this house has overridden everything, and put one of its members where he had no chance of battling for his right at all. take the oath. it is possible that some of the lawyers, who have disagreed among themselves even upon that (the opposition) side of the house, may be right, and that i may be wrong in the construction i have put upon the oath, but no such objection can come. there is no precedent--there is, i submit respectfully, no right--in this house to stand between me and the oath which the law provides for me to take, which the statute, under penalty even upon members of this house themselves if they put me out from my just return, gives me the right to take. what kind of a conflict is provoked here if this resolution be enforced? not a grave conflict in a court of law, where the judges exclude passion, where they only deal with facts and evidence. i do not mean that these gentlemen do not deal with facts; but, if i am any judge of my own life's story, there have been many things which i can hardly reckon in the category of facts put against myself. i don't mean that they are not right, for hon. members may know more of myself than i do myself; but, judging myself as i know myself, some of the members who have attacked me so glibly during the last few days must have been extraordinarily misinformed, or must have exceedingly misapprehended the matters they alleged. it has been said that i have paraded and flaunted some obnoxious opinions. i appeal to your justice, sir, and to that of the members of this house, to say whether my manner has not been as respectful as that of man could be--whether in each case i have not withdrawn when you told me. if i now come here with even the appearance of self-assertion, it is because i would not be a recreant and a coward to the constituency that sent me to represent them; and i mean to be as members have been in the best history of this assembly. i ask the house, in dealing with my rights, to remember how they are acting. it is perfectly true that by a majority they may decide against me now. what are you to do then? are you going to declare the seat vacant? first, i tell you that you have not the right. the moment i am there--[the hon. member pointed inside the house]--i admit the right of the house, of its own good will and pleasure, to expel me. as yet i am not under your jurisdiction. as yet i am under the protection of the law. a return sent me to this house, and i ask you, sir, as the guardian of the liberties of this house, to give effect to that return. the law says you should, and that this house should. and naturally so; because, if it were not so, any time a majority of members might exclude anyone they pleased. what has been alleged against me? politics? are views on politics urged as a reason why a member should not sit here? pamphlets have been read--i won't say with accuracy, because i will not libel any of the hon. members who read them; but, surely, if they are grounds for disqualification they are grounds for indictment to be proved against me in a proper fashion. there is no case in all the records of this house in which you have ransacked what a man has written and said in his past life and then challenged him with it here. my theology? it would be impertinent in me, after the utterances of men so widely disagreeing from me that have been made on the side of religious liberty during the past two nights--it would be impertinent in me to add one word save this. it is said that you may deal with me because i am isolated. i could not help hearing the ring of that word in the lobby as i sat outside last night. but is that a reason, that, because i stand alone the house are to do against me what they would not do if i had , men at my back? (cries of oh). that is a bad argument which provokes a reply inconsistent with the dignity of this house and which i should be sorry to give. i have not yet used--i hope no passion may tempt me to be using--any words that would seem to savor of even a desire to enter into conflict with this house. i have always taught, preached, and believed the supremacy of parliament, and it is not because for a moment the judgment of one chamber of parliament should be hostile to me that i am going to deny the ideas i have always held; but i submit that one chamber of parliament--even its grandest chamber, as i have always held this to be--had no right to override the law. the law gives me the right to sign that roll, to take and subscribe the oath, and to take my seat there [pointing to the benches]. i admit that the moment i am in the house, without any reason but your own good will, you can send me away. that is your right. you have full control over your members, but you cannot send me away until i have been heard in my place, not a suppliant as i am now, but with the rightful audience that each member has always had. there is one phase of my appeal which i am loth indeed to make. i presume you will declare the seat vacant. what do you send me back to northampton to say? i said before, and i trust i may say again, that this assembly was one in which any man might well be proud to sit--prouder i that i have not some of your traditions and am not of your families, but am of the people, the people that sent me here to speak for them. do you mean that i am to go back to northampton as to a court, to appeal against you? that i am to ask the constituency to array themselves against this house? i hope not. if it is to be, it must be. if this house arrays itself against an isolated man--its huge power against one citizen--if it must be, then the battle must be too. but it is not with the constituency of northampton alone--hon. members need not mistake--that you will come into conflict if this appeal is to go forward, if the house of commons is to override the statute law to get rid of even the vilest of members. had you alleged against me even more than against one man whose name was mentioned in this house last night, i should still have held that the house cannot supersede the rights of the people. but not as much is alleged against me as was alleged against that man, in whose case the house itself said that its conduct had been subversive of the rights of the people. i beg you, for your own sakes, don't put yourselves in that position. i have no desire to wrestle with you for justice. i admit that i have used hard words in my short life, giving men the right in return to say hard things of me; but is it not better that i should have the right to say them to your faces? if they are within the law, let the law deal with me fairly and properly; but if they are without the law, not unfairly, as i submit you are doing now. you have the power to send me back, but in appealing to northampton i must appeal to a tribunal higher than yours--not to courts of law, for i hope the days of conflict between the assembly which makes the law and the tribunals which administer it are passed. it must be a bad day for england and for great britain, if we are to be brought again to the time when the judges and those who make the law for the judges are in rash strife as to what they mean. but there is a court to which i shall appeal--the court of public opinion, which will have to express itself. you say it is against me. possibly; but if it be so, is it against me rightly or wrongly? i am ready to admit, if you please, for the sake of argument, that every opinion i hold is wrong and deserves punishment. let the law punish it. if you say the law cannot, then you admit that you have no right, and i appeal to public opinion against the iniquity of a decision which overrides the law and denies me justice. i beg your pardon, sir, and that of the house too, if in this warmth there seems to lack respect for its dignity; and as i shall have, if your decision be against me, to come to that table when your decision is given, i beg you, before the step is taken in which we may both lose our dignity--mine is not much, but yours is that of the commons of england--i beg you, before the gauntlet is fatally thrown--i beg you, not in any sort of menace, not in any sort of boast, but as one man against six hundred, to give me that justice which on the other side of this hall the judges would give me were i pleading there before them (loud cheers and cries of order, amid which mr. bradlaugh again bowed and retired). mr. bradlaugh's second speech at the bar of the house of commons, delivered april th, . mr. speaker,--i have again to ask the indulgence of the house while i submit to it a few words in favor of my claim to do that which the law requires me to do. perhaps the house will pardon me if i supply an omission, i feel unintentionally made, on the part of the hon. member for chatham in some words which have just fallen from him. i understood him to say that he would use a formal statement made by me to the committee against what the chancellor of the duchy had said i had said. i am sure the hon. and learned member for chatham, who has evidently read the proceedings of the committee with care, would, if he had thought it fair, have stated to the house that the statement only came from me after an objection made by me--a positive objection on the ground that it related to matters outside this house, and that the house in the course of its history had never inquired into such matters; but i can hardly understand what the member for chatham meant when he said that he contrasted what i did say with what the chancellor of the duchy said i said, for it is not a matter of memory, it is on the proceedings of this house, that being examined formally before the committee, i stated: "that the essential part of the oath is in the fullest and most complete degree binding upon my honor and conscience, and that the repeating of the words of asseveration does not in the slightest degree weaken the binding of the allegiance on me." i say now i would not go through any form--much as i value the right to sit in this house, much as i desire and believe that this house will accord me that right--that i did not mean to be binding upon me without mental reservation, without equivocation. i would go through no form unless it were fully and completely and thoroughly binding upon me as to what it expressed or promised. mine has been no easy position for the last twelve months. i have been elected by the free votes of a free constituency. my return is untainted. there is no charge of bribery (cheers), no charge of corruption, nor of inducing men to come drunken to the polling booth. i come here with a pure untainted return--not won by accident. for thirteen long years have i fought for this right--through five contested elections, including this. it is now proposed to prevent me from fulfilling the duty my constituents have placed upon me. you have force--on my side is the law. the hon. and learned member for plymouth spoke the truth when he said he did not ask the house to treat the matter as a question of law, but the constituencies ask me to treat it as a question of law. i, for them, ask you to treat it as a question of law. i could understand the feeling that seems to have been manifested were i some great and powerful personage. i could understand it had i a huge influence behind me. i am only one of the people, and you propose to teach them that on a mere technical question you will put a barrier in the way of my doing my duty which you have never put in the way of anyone else. the question is, has my return on the th of april, , anything whatever to impeach it? there is no legal disqualification involved. if there were it could be raised by petition. the hon. member for plymouth says the dignity of this house is in question. do you mean that i can injure the dignity of this house? this house which has stood unrivalled for centuries? this house supreme among the assemblies of the world? this house, which represents the traditions of liberty? i should not have so libelled you. how is the dignity of this house to be hurt? if what happened before the th of april is less than a legal disqualification, it is a matter for the judgment of the constituency and not for you. the constituency has judged me; it has elected me. i stand here with no legal disqualification upon me. the right of the constituency to return me is an unimpeachable right. i know some gentlemen make light of constituencies; yet without the constituencies you are nothing. it is from them you derive your whole and sole authority. the hon. and learned member for plymouth treats lightly the legal question. it is dangerous to make light of the law--dangerous because if you are only going to rely on your strength of force to override the law, you give a bad lesson to men whose morality you impeach as to what should be their duty if emergence ever came (hear, hear). always outside the house i have advocated strenuous obedience to the law, and it is under that law that i claim my right. it is said by the right hon. baronet who interposes between me and my duty that this house has passed some resolution. first, i submit that that resolution does not affect the return of the th april. the conditions are entirely different, there is nothing since the date of that return. i submit next that if it did affect it the resolution was illegal from the beginning. in the words of george grenville, spoken in this house in , i say if your resolution goes in the teeth of the law--if against the statute--your resolution is null and void. no word have i uttered outside these walls which has been lacking in respect to the house. i believe the house will do me justice, and i ask it to look at what it is i claim. i claim to do that which the law says i must. frankly, i would rather have affirmed. when i came to the table of the house i deemed that i had a legal right to do it. the courts have decided against me, and i am bound by their decision. i have the legal right to do what i propose to do. no resolution of yours can take away that legal right. you may act illegally and hinder me, and unfortunately i have no appeal against you. "unfortunately" perhaps i should not say. perhaps it is better that the chamber which makes the law should never be in conflict with the courts which administer the laws that the chamber makes. i think the word "unfortunately" was not the word i ought to have used in this argument. but the force that you invoke against the law to-day may to-morrow be used against you, and the use will be justified by your example. it is a fact that i have no remedy if you rely on your force. i can only be driven into a contest, wearying even to a strong man well supported, ruinous and killing to one man standing by himself--a contest in which if i succeed it will be injurious to you as well as to me. injurious to me because i can only win by lessening your repute which i desire to maintain. the only court i have the power of appealing to is the court of public opinion, which i have no doubt in the end will do me justice. the hon. member for plymouth said i had the manliness on a former occasion to make an avowal of opinions to this house. i did nothing of the kind. i have never, directly or indirectly, said one word about my opinions, and this house has no right to inquire what opinions i may hold outside its walls, the only right is that which the statute gives you; my opinions there is no right to inquire into. i shelter myself under the laws of my country. this is a political assembly, met to decide on the policy of the nation, and not on the religious opinions of the citizens (cheers). while i had the honor of occupying a seat in the house when questions were raised which touched upon religious matters, i abstained from uttering one word. i did not desire to say one word which might hurt the feelings of even the most tender (hear). but it is said, why not have taken the oath quietly? i did not take it then because i thought i had the right to do something else, and i have paid the penalty. i have been plunged in litigation fostered by men who had not the courage to put themselves forward (loud cheers below the gangway). i, a penniless man, should have been ruined if it had not been that the men in workshop, pit, and factory had enabled me to fight this battle (interruption). i am sorry that hon. members cannot have patience with one pleading as i plead here. it is no light stake, even if you put it on the lowest personal grounds, to risk the ambition of a life on such an issue. it is a right ambition to desire to take part in the councils of the nation, if you bring no store of wisdom with you, and can only learn from the great intellects that we have (hear, hear). what will you inquire into? the right hon. baronet would inquire into my opinions. will you inquire into my conduct, or is it only my opinions you will try here? the hon. member for plymouth frankly puts it opinions. if opinions, why not conduct? why not examine into members' conduct when they come to the table, and see if there be no members in whose way you can put a barrier? (hear, hear.) are members, whose conduct may be obnoxious, to vote my exclusion because to them my opinions are obnoxious? as to any obnoxious views supposed to be held by me, there is no duty imposed upon me to say a word. the right hon. baronet has said there has been no word of recantation. you have no right to ask me for any recantation. since the th april you have no right to ask me for anything. if you have a legal disqualification, petition, lay it before the judges. when you ask me to make a statement, you are guilty of impertinence to me, of treason to the traditions of this house, and of impeachment of the liberties of the people. my difficulty is that those who have made the most bitter attacks upon me only made them when i was not here to deal with them. one hon. and gallant member recently told his constituents that this would be made a party question, but that the conservative members had not the courage to speak out against me. i should have thought, from reading "hansard," not that they wanted courage, but that they had cultivated a reticence that was more just. i wish to say a word or two on the attempt which has been made to put on the government of the day complicity in my views. the liberal party has never aided me in any way to this house. (oh, from the opposition.) never. i have fought by myself. i have fought by my own hand. i have been hindered in every way that it was possible to hinder me, and it is only by the help of the people, by the pence of toilers in mine and factory, that i am here to-day, after these five struggles right through thirteen years. i have won my way with them, for i have won their hearts, and now i come to you. will you send me back from here? then how? you have the right, but it is the right of force, and not of law. when i am once seated on these benches, then i am under your jurisdiction. at present i am under the protection of the writ from those who sent me here. i do not want to quote what has happened before, but if there be one lesson which the house has recorded more solemnly than another, it is that there should be no interference with the judgment of a constituency in sending a man to this house against whom there is no statutory disqualification. let me appeal to the generosity of the house as well as to its strength. it has traditions of liberty on both sides. i do not complain that members on that (the conservative) side try to keep me out. they act according to their lights, and think my poor services may be injurious to them. (cries of no.) then why not let me in? (cheers.) it must be either a political or a religious question. i must apologise to the house for trespassing upon its patience. i apologise because i know how generous in its listening it has been from the time of my first speech in it till now. but i ask you now, do not plunge with me into a struggle i would shun. the law gives me no remedy if the house decides against me. do not mock at the constituencies. if you place yourselves above the law, you leave me no course save lawless agitation instead of reasonable pleading. it is easy to begin such a strife, but none knows how it would end. i have no court, no tribunal to appeal to; you have the strength of your votes at the moment. you think i am an obnoxious man, and that i have no one on my side. if that be so, then the more reason that this house, grand in the strength of its centuries of liberty, should have now that generosity in dealing with one who to-morrow may be forced into a struggle for public opinion against it (cheers). mr. bradlaugh's third speech at the bar of the house of commons, delivered february th, . sir,--in addressing the house for the third time from this position, i feel the exceeding difficulty of dealing fairly with myself without dealing unfairly with the house. if i were to follow the hon. member who has just sat down into his errors of law, of history, and of memory, into his reckless misconceptions as to what are the views i hold and write about, i should only be giving pain to numbers of members here, and departing from that mandate with which my constituents have trusted me. it is--i say it with all respect--not true that i done anything more with reference to the succession than maintain the right of parliament, meaning by parliament both houses, to control it; and any member who pretends that i done anything else, either does it, not having read what i have written, or heard what i have said, or having forgotten entirely what i have written or said, and being extremely careless in representing my views to the house. i regret that the hon. member should have imported into the discussion some fact supposed to have occurred in a police-court since i stood here before. i can only give the house my positive assurance that the hon. member is perfectly inaccurate in his representation of what took place. it is exceedingly painful to bandy words in this way. the hon. member was good enough to say he did not hear--he could not well have heard, for the magistrate did not refuse my affirmation at all. i happened to have been before sir j. ingham before, and he knew me, and knew the particular form of affirmation, and when the clerk read it to me no discussion took place on the subject. i hope the house will forgive me for contradicting such a small thing, but small things are sometimes much used. they have been used to work my ruin since i stood here before, and i regret that the shame of reticence did not at least keep it from this house, that the hon. member thought it his duty, by a common informer, to attempt to drive me into the bankruptcy court, and outside this house has boasted that the question would be solved in that way. it may be a brave boast, it may be consonant with piety from the hon. member's point of view, but i believe that every other gentleman's sense of piety would revolt against the notion of driving a single man into bankruptcy, and then canvassing for subscriptions--(hear, hear)--for the "bold and vigorous, and patriotic and noble conduct," as the advertisement said, which consisted in hurrying in a cab to find the common informer to issue a writ against me. i dismiss that, however. i ask the house to pardon me for having wasted its time on this poor thing. i do not hope, i dare not think, that any word i may say here will win one vote; and i would have let this go silently against me, were it not that i owe a duty to the constituency that has twice entrusted me with its suffrages, a duty to every constituency right through the land in time to come--(hear, hear)--whose representative may be challenged as northampton's has been. (hear, hear, and no.) some gentlemen say "no," but where is the challenge to stop? (hear.) it is not simply theology, it is politics too (hear, hear). it is not simply theology that is brought before the house, but the wild imaginings of some member who, with the nightmare of panic upon him, and a wild imagining of the french revolution clothed in terrors of which i know nothing, comes here to tell you of mighty russia successful, and of the unfortunate united states with its presidents assassinated because of religious and political opinions. panic of that kind is not evidence as to my opinions. if this house intends to try me for my opinions, let it do it reasonably, and at least have the evidence before it. i would show you how unfair it is to trust to memory of words. the hon. member was good enough to tell the house that i had declared to a committee of the house that certain words were meaningless. i hold in my hand the report of the committee and the minutes of evidence, and no such words exist in any declaration of mine. (hear, hear. mr. newdegate shook his head.) the hon. member does not believe me. i cannot make more than facts. i cannot make the comprehension which should distinguish when prejudice has determined that nothing shall be right that is put. the only way in which it can be pretended that anything of the kind in reference to the oath can be brought in is by taking my letter of the th of may, written outside the house, which does not contain a specific declaration the hon. member has put into it, which letter i protested ought not to be brought before the committee at all, which i never volunteered to the committee--(opposition laughter)--which i objected to the committee having before them. (oh, and laughter from the opposition.) the gentlemen who laugh, laugh because the laugh is the only answer that could be given. no reason can be given in reply, no facts can be quoted; and i ask hon. members who laugh to remember that i am pleading as though a quasi-criminal at this bar, and that i have a right to an audience from them, and i appeal to the house at least to give me a silent hearing. judges do that. if you are unfit to be judges, then do not judge (hear, hear). it shows, at least, the difficulty of dealing with a question like this, when those who are to judge have come to a judgment already, not upon any facts, but upon what they think ought to be the facts. i ask the house to deal legally and fairly with me. legally you are bound to deal; fairly, as an assembly of english gentlemen, you ought to deal with me, even if you have differences with me, even if you think my opinions so obnoxious, even if you think that the politics with which you identify me in your minds are dangerous to you (oh, oh). if i am not dangerous, why not let me speak there? (pointing to the seat he occupied last session.) if there is no danger, why strain the law? if there is no danger, why disobey the law? it is put by the hon. gentleman who spoke last that there are certain words of the oath which the courts of law have declared essential, the courts of law have declared the exact opposite. so far as a decision has been given, the very report of the committee shows that the highest court of judicature in this realm has decided the words are not essential to the oath at all. i ask the house to deal with me with some semblance and show of legality and fairness, and first i say that they ought not to go behind my election of the th of april, , and that the house ought to reject the resolution moved by the right hon. gentleman, because it deals with matters which antedate my election, and because the house has nothing to do with me before the th of april, . that is the return of which the clerk at the table has the certificate. that is my only authority for being here. if i did aught before that rendered me unworthy to sit here, why did the house let me sit here from the nd of july to the th of march? if what i did entitles the house not to receive me, why has not the house had the courage of its opinions and vacated the seat? either the seat is mine in law, and in law i claim it from you, or i am unworthy to hold it, and then why not vacate the seat and let the constituency express its opinion again? but my return is unimpeached, it is unimpeachable, and there has been no petition against me. the hon. member who went into back alleys for common informers could not find a petitioner to present a petition against it. if i speak with temper--(opposition laughter)--the house, i trust, will pardon me. i have read within the last few days words spoken, not by members of no consequence, but by members occupying high position in this house, which make me wonder if this is the house of commons to which i aspired so much. i have read that one right hon. member, the member for whitehaven--(laughter from the ministerial side)--was prompted to say to his constituents that i was kicked down stairs last session, and that he hoped i should be again. if it were true that i was kicked downstairs i would ask members of the house of commons on whom the shame, on whom the disgrace, on whom the stigma? i dare not apply this, but history will when i have mouldered, and you too, and our passions are quite gone. but it is not quite true that i was kicked downstairs, and it is a dangerous thing to say that i was, for it means that hon. members who should rely on law rely on force. it is a dangerous provocation to conflict to throw to the people. if i had been as wicked in my thought as some members are reported to have been in their speech, this quarrel, not of my provoking, would assume a future to make us all ashamed. i beg this house to believe, and i trust, sir, that you at least will believe me, that i have tried as much as man might to keep the dignity of this house. i submitted last session, and the session before, to have had things said against me without one word of reply, because having had your good counsel, i felt it might provoke discussion upon matters which this house would willingly not have speech upon, and that i had far better rest under some slight stigma than occupy the house with my personality. i appeal to the recollection of every member of the house whether from the moment of my entering into it i did not utterly disregard everything that took place prior to my coming into it, and direct myself to the business for which my constituents sent me here. the most extraordinary statements are made as to my views, statements as inaccurate as those which have fallen, no doubt unconsciously, from the hon. member who has last addressed the house. one noble lord in a great london gathering convoked against me, a gathering which was not as successful as some that have taken place in my favor, denounced me as a socialist. i do not happen to be one. i happen to think that socialists are the most unwise and illogical people you can happen to meet. but the noble lord knew that i ought to be something (laughter). i am a red rag to a wild conservative bull, and it must rush at me and call me socialist. i ask this house to be more fair and just. if i am to be tried, at least let me be tried for the opinions i hold and the views i express. why, there are members who have soiled their tongues with words about social relations and marriage for which i have no proper reply in this house, as unfortunately the forms of the house do not permit me to use the only fitting answer, and perhaps it is as well. but i ask the house, do not let this be the kind of weapon with which a return is met. deal with me as the law directs, and in no other way. it is said "you have brought this upon yourself" (hear, hear). one baronet who has spoken of me with a kindness more than i deserve, in the very borough which i represent said i had brought it upon myself, because when i originally came to the house i flaunted and most ostentatiously put my opinion upon the house (hear, hear). well, not one word of that is true. not a shadow of it is true. i hold in my hand the sworn evidence of sir erskine may. i do not ask gentlemen to take my word, for it is clear they will not, but that of their own officer. and when the right hon. baronet said i claimed under the statute, and drew an inference from it, he knows that my claim contained no such words until the clerk at the table of the house challenged me as to the law under which i claimed. i do not quarrel with him, but i submit that the clerk of the house had no right to put that question to me. i submit that the house had nothing whatever to do with it--that it certainly is no ostentatious flaunting by me. i submit, that at any rate, that it is prior to the th of april, , and the house had no right to revive it against me. i ask the house to try and deal with me with some show of fairness. they will find when i was before the committee, instead of obtruding my opinions, i said i had never directly or indirectly obtruded upon the house any of my utterances or publications upon any subject whatever, and when pressed by one of the members sitting on that (the opposition) side of the house as to certain opinions i was supposed to hold, by asking me particular words i was supposed to have used in a judicial proceeding, i said that if the committee wished i would answer, but that i objected to answer, because i had carefully refrained from saying any word which would bring my opinions before the house. i ask, therefore, the house whether it is not monstrously unfair to say that i have obtruded any opinions here when i have expressly, carefully, and thoroughly kept them from the house? but it is said by the right hon. baronet that it would be a profanation to allow me to take the oath, and that the house would be no party to such a profanation (opposition cheers). does the house mean that it is a party to each oath taken? (hear.) there was a time when most clearly it was not so a party. there was a time when the oath was not even taken in the presence of members at all. but does the house mean it is a party now? was it a party the session before last? was it a party when mr. hall walked up to that table, cheered by members on the other side who knew his seat was won by deliberate bribery? (loud opposition cries of order.) bribery sought to be concealed by the most corrupt perjury. did the house join in it? (renewed cries of order.) if the house did not join in it, why did you cheer so that the words of the oath were drowned? but was the house a party when john stuart mill sat in this house? (hear, no.) a member who is, i think, now within the walls of the house--the hon. member for greenwich--in addressing his constituents, said that mr. bradlaugh's opinions were hardly more objectionable than those of some other members of the house. if the hon. member knew that, then he was a party to the profanation of the oath: but perhaps they were on his own side, and he did not feel the profanation so acutely (hear, hear, and laughter). but it is said, "our real objection is that you have declared that the oath is not binding upon you" (hear, hear, from mr. alderman fowler). that is exactly the opposite of what i did declare. the hon. member whose voice i hear now, i unfortunately heard on the rd of august; and heard so that i shall never forget it. (mr. bradlaugh here looked towards alderman fowler and paused.) the hon. member admits that is the point--that i have declared the oath is not binding upon my conscience; but, unfortunately, all the print goes the other way. i am asked by the committee who sat as to whether the oath is binding, and on page i reply: "any form that i went through, any oath that i took, i shall regard as binding upon my conscience in the fullest degree, and i would go through no form and take no oath unless i meant it to be so binding." again, i am asked as to the word "swear." i say: "i consider when i take an oath it is binding upon my honor and upon my conscience"; and with reference to the words of asseveration to which the hon. member for north warwickshire referred, he would at least have been more generous towards myself, if generosity be possible with him, if he had said: "i desire to add--and i do this most solemnly and unreservedly--that the taking, and subscribing, and repeating these words of asseveration will in no degree weaken the binding effect of the oath upon my conscience." i say here, sir, before you, with all the solemnity man can command, that i know the words of the oath the statute requires me to take, that i am ready to take that oath according to law, and that i will not take an oath without intending it to be binding upon me, and that if i do take the oath it will be binding upon my honor and conscience. (conservative cries of "oh! oh!") members of the house who are ignorant of what is honor and conscience----(loud cries of "order," "oh, oh," and "withdraw," from the opposition.) if members will allow me to finish my sentence----(cries of "withdraw.") members of this house who are ignorant of what is----(renewed cries from the opposition of "withdraw.") these (mr. bradlaugh pointing to the opposition benches) are my judges. members of this house who are ignorant of what is the honor and conscience of the man who stands before them--("oh," and laughter from the opposition)--have a right to shout "withdraw;" but they must beware lest a greater voice outside--("oh, oh," and laughter from the opposition)--at the ballot-box, where it has a right to express it, may not only say "withdraw," but make withdraw all those who infringe the constitutional rights of the nation, as they seek to infringe them now. if i knew any kind of word which might convince members whom i desire to convince that i would take no pledge that i did not mean to be binding, i would use that form of words. but i have found myself so harshly judged, so unfairly dealt with, that one feels a difficulty in understanding whether any form of words, however often repeated, would convey any kind of conviction to some minds. i presume that this house will repeat its vote of april th. what then? will it have the courage of its opinions, and vacate my seat? (hear, hear.) if it does not, this house leaves me in an unfair position before the law. i am bound to come to this table, and will come to this table, as long as the mandate of my constituents sends me here, unless the house vacates the seat. if my seat be vacated, it is my duty to bow to the house, and appeal to my constituents again; and then the verdict rests with them. but to take away part of the right, and deal with it in this fashion, leaving me with the full legal responsibility and no kind of legal authority, i submit is not generous. well, will this house repeat its vote of th may? will it substitute force for law? at present the law is on my side (no, no, and hear, hear). if not, let me sit and sue me (hear, hear). if not, try by petition. if not, bring an action. but shouting "no" won't decide the law, even with the united wisdom of the members of this house who shout it. i know that no man is a good advocate for a great principle unless he himself be worthy of the principle he advocates, and i have felt acutely the judgment properly passed upon me by many members of this house, who, knowing their superiority to me, say how unworthy i am that this question should be fought in my person. i admit i am unworthy, but it is not my fault that i have this fight to make. i remind you of the words of one of the greatest statesmen who sat in this house more than a hundred years ago, that whenever an infringement of the constitutional right was attempted, it was always attempted in the person of some obnoxious man (hear, hear). i ask the house for a moment to carry its mind to the rd of august last. i do that because either i do not understand what took place then, or my memory has failed me, as the memory of other hon. members sometimes does, or things happened without my consciousness. i thought i had stood aside until parliament had dealt with the pressing business of the nation. i thought that had been recognised by this house. i thought i only came saying at the very door of the house that i was ready to obey its lawful orders, and i thought i was then seized by force while saying it. my memory may not serve me well on that, but i think it does. there were plenty of witnesses to the scene. i saw one hon. member climb on to a pedestal to see how fourteen men could struggle with one. it was hardly generous, hardly brave, hardly worthy of the great house of commons, that those sending out to the whole world lessons of freedom, liberty, and law, should so infringe and so stamp them under foot. i had no remedy in any court, or i would have taken it. with all respect to you, sir, and the officers of this house, if there had been any possibility of trying at law against the mighty privilege of this house, i would have appealed to that possibility. let me now, before i finish, ask the ear of the house for one moment. it is said it is the oath and not the man; but others, more frank, say it is the man and not the oath. is it the oath and not the man? i am ready to stand aside, say for four or five weeks, without coming to that table, if the house within that time, or within such time as its great needs might demand, would discuss whether an affirmation bill should pass or not. i want to obey the law, and i tell you how i might meet the house still further, if the house will pardon me for seeming to advise it. hon. members have said that would be a bradlaugh relief bill (hear, hear). bradlaugh is more proud than you are (hear, hear). let the bill pass without applying to elections that have taken place previously, and i will undertake not to claim my seat, and when the bill has passed i will apply for the chiltern hundreds (cheers.) i have no fear. if i am not fit for my constituents, they shall dismiss me, but you never shall. the grave alone shall make me yield (hear, hear, and "oh"). _a cardinal's broken oath._ a letter to his eminence henry edward, cardinal-archbishop of westminster. by charles bradlaugh. [eighth thousand.] [illustration] london: freethought publishing company , fleet street, e.c. . price one penny. london: printed by annie besant and charles bradlaugh. , fleet street, e.c. to his eminence henry edward, cardinal-archbishop of westminster. three times your eminence has--through the pages of the _nineteenth century_--personally and publicly interfered and used the weight of your ecclesiastical position against me in the parliamentary struggle in which i am engaged, although you are neither voter in the borough for which i am returned to sit, nor even co-citizen in the state to which i belong. your personal position is that of a law-breaker, one who has deserted his sworn allegiance and thus forfeited his citizenship, one who is tolerated by english forbearance, but is liable to indictment for misdemeanor as "member of a society of the church of rome." more than once, when the question of my admission to the house of commons has been under discussion in that house, have i seen you busy in the lobby closely attended by the devout and sober philip callan, or some other equally appropriate parliamentary henchman. misrepresenting what had taken place in the house of commons when i took my seat on affirmation in july, , your eminence wrote in the _nineteenth century_ for august, , that which you were pleased to entitule "an englishman's protest" against my being allowed to sit in the commons' house, to which the vote of a free constituency had duly returned me. in that protest you blundered alike in your law and in your history. you gave the tudor parliamentary oath saxon and norman antiquity. you spoke of john horne tooke as having had the door of the house shut against him by a by-vote, no such by-vote having been carried, and the statute which disabled clergymen in the future not affecting john horne tooke's seat in that parliament. you declared that in the french revolution the french voted out the supreme being; there is no record of any such vote. in march, , when the house had expelled me for my disobedience of its orders in complying with the law, and taking my seat, you again used the _nineteenth century_. this time for a second protest, intended to prevent my re-election. you, in both your articles, reminded the bigots that i might be indicted for blasphemy. your advice has since been followed. persecution is a "two-edged sword," and i return the warning you offer to lord sherbrooke. when i was in paris some time since, and was challenged to express an opinion as to the enforcement of the law against the religious orders in france, i, not to the pleasure of many of my friends, spoke out very freely that in matters of religion i would use the law against none; but your persecuting spirit may provoke intemperate men even farther than you dream. in this country, by the th george iv., cap. , secs. and , , and , you are criminally indictable, cardinal-archbishop of westminster. you only reside here without police challenge by the merciful forbearance of the community. and yet you parade in political contest your illegal position as "a member of a religious order of the church of rome," and have the audacity to invoke outlawry and legal penalty against me. last month, in solemn state, you, in defiance of the law, in a personal and official visit to the borough of northampton itself, sought to weaken the confidence of my constituents; and you were not ashamed, in order to injure me, to pretend friendship with men who have for years constantly and repeatedly used the strongest and foulest abuse of your present church. an amiable but ignorant conservative mayor, chief magistrate of the borough, but innocent of statutes, was misled into parading his official robe and office while you openly broke the law in his presence. in the current number of the _nineteenth century_ you fire your last shot, and are coarse in latin as well as in the vulgar tongue. perhaps the frequenting philip callan has spoiled your manners. it else seems impossible that one who was once a cultured scholar and a refined gentleman could confuse with legitimate argument the abuse of his opponents as "cattle." but who are you, henry edward manning, that you should throw stones at me, and should so parade your desire to protect the house of commons from contamination? at least, first take out of it the drunkard and the dissolute of your own church. you know them well enough. is it the oath alone which stirs you? your tenderness on swearing comes very late in life. when you took orders as a deacon of the english church, in presence of your bishop, you swore "so help me, god," that you did from your "heart abhor, detest and abjure," and, with your hand on the "holy gospels," you declared "that no foreign prince, person, prelate, state, or potentate hath, or ought to have, any jurisdiction, power, superiority, pre-eminence, or authority, ecclesiastical or spiritual, within this realm." you may now well write of men "whom no oath can bind." the oath you took you have broken; and yet it was because you had, in the very church itself, taken this oath, that you for many years held more than one profitable preferment in the established church of england. you indulge in inuendoes against my character in order to do me mischief, and viciously insinuate as though my life had in it justification for good men's abhorrence. in this you are very cowardly as well as very false. then, to move the timid, you suggest "the fear of eternal punishment," as associated with a broken oath. have you any such fear? or have you been personally conveniently absolved from the "eternal" consequences of your perjury? have you since sworn another oath before another bishop of another church, or made some solemn vow to rome, in lieu of, and in contradiction to, the one you so took in presence of your bishop, when, "in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost," that bishop of the church by law established in this country accepted your oath, and gave you authority as a deacon in the church you have since forsaken. i do not blame you so much that you are forsworn: there are, as you truly say, "some men whom no oath can bind;" and it has often been the habit of the cardinals of your church to take an oath and break it when profit came with breach; but your remembrance of your own perjury might at least keep you reticent in very shame. instead of this, you thrust yourself impudently into a purely political contest, and shout as if the oath were to you the most sacred institution possible. you say "there are happily some men who believe in god and fear him." do you do either? you, who declared, "so help me, god" that no foreign "prelate ... ought to have any jurisdiction or authority ecclesiastical or spiritual within this realm." and you--who in spite of your declaration on oath have courted and won, intrigued for and obtained, the archbishop's authority and the cardinal's hat from the pope of rome--you rebuke lord sherbrooke for using the words "sin and shame" in connexion with oath-taking; do you hold now that there was no sin and no shame in your broken oath? none either in the rash taking or the wilful breaking? have you no personal shame that you have broken your oath? or do the pride and pomp of your ecclesiastical position outbribe your conscience? you talk of the people understanding the words "so help me, god." how do you understand them of your broken oath? do they mean to you: "may god desert and forsake me as i deserted and forsook the queen's supremacy, to which i so solemnly swore allegiance"? you speak of men being kept to their allegiance by the oath "which binds them to their sovereign." you say such men may be tempted by ambition or covetousness unless they are bound by "the higher and more sacred responsibility" involved in the "recognition of the lawgiver in the oath." was the rector of lavington and graffham covetous of an archbishopric that he broke his oath? was the archdeacon of chichester ambitious of the cardinal's hat that he became so readily forsworn? lord archbishop of westminster, had you, when you were apostate, remained a poor and simple priest in poverty and self-denial, although your oath would have still been broken, yet you might have taunted others more profited by their perjuries. but you, who have derived profit, pride, and pomp from your false swearing--you, who sign yourself "henry edward, cardinal-archbishop" by favor of the very authority you abjured in the name of god--it is in the highest degree indecent and indecorous for you to parade yourself as a defender of the sanctity of the oath. as a prince-prelate of the church of rome you have no right to meddle with the question of the english parliamentary oath. your church has been the foe of liberty through the world, and i am honored by your personal assailment. but you presume too much on the indifference of the age when, in this free england, you so recklessly exhibit as weapons in an election contest the outward signs of the authority the vatican claims, but shall never again exercise, in britain. charles bradlaugh. northampton and the house of commons. correspondence between charles bradlaugh, m.p., and the right hon. sir stafford northcote, m.p. [illustration] london freethought publishing company, , fleet street e.c. . price twopence. london: printed by annie besant and charles bradlaugh, , fleet street, e.c. northampton and the house of commons. , circus road, st. john's wood, london, n.w., _march st, _. to the right hon. sir stafford h. northcote, m.p., g.c.b. sir,--if, on either of the occasions when recently moving against me in the house of commons, you had accorded or claimed for me opportunity of speech in self-defence, i might have been spared the need for this letter. apparently your view is that a member unfortunate enough to have the majority of the house against him need not have even the semblance of fairness shown him--that you, being strong, need not be troubled with scruples, and that the mere fact that the member is, like yourself, the chosen member of a constituency does not entitle him to the smallest courtesy or consideration. you have taught me, sir, many lessons during the past four years. some of these i trust to remember and profit by in the future. you have taught me that a temporary majority of the house may, year after year, exclude any member of parliament from his seat, although he has strictly obeyed every standing order--and this without vacating that seat--that it may so exclude the member although he has been a decent and orderly member of the house, attending regularly for months to all its duties, and one against whom no charge or pretence of parliamentary misconduct was made whilst he so served in it. you have taught me, sir, that the leader of a great party may sit silent, and acquiesce in it by his support, while the law-abiding electors of a great constituency are called "mob," "dregs," and "scum"--that such a leader may permit his followers to openly accuse two of the highest judges of our country of having judicially decided unfairly from corrupt party motives--that he may even, without dishonor, keep silence whilst it is suggested that the whole judicial bench is so corrupt that it will be ready to decide unjustly at the bidding of a government--and that the first law officer of the crown is ready to be fraudulently collusive with myself. did you believe these things, sir, when they were stated and loudly cheered by those who sit around you on your side of the house? if yes, i am glad that your experience of humanity has been less fortunate than my own. i have regarded our judges as at least striving to be just and independent. you seem to think it nothing that the highest judges should, in your presence, be charged with judging unjustly from favoritism for the government of the day. you have encouraged and practised deliberate violation of the law, and, to cover this law-breaking, you have connived at, and been party to, the basest insinuations against those whose duty it is to judicially pronounce on matters of legal dispute. you have, without rebuke, permitted your followers to declare that if the high court of judicature declared the law to be in my favor, that then they and you still intended to defy and disobey the law. the first resolution you moved against me, on the th february, was worse than futile, for it forbade me to do that which i had already done, and which you well knew that i had so done, in order to compel the submission to the judgment of a competent tribunal of the legality of my act. the ridiculous form of your resolution arose because you--having bargained with me in writing through mr. winn that i should come to the table immediately after questions, and not before--intended to interpose ere i could reach the table. this would have been a dishonest trick had you succeeded; it became contemptibly ridiculous when you failed; but it is a lesson to me that i must be careful, indeed, when english gentlemen of name and family make treaties with me. your second resolution, on february th, was a spiteful, paltry, and cowardly insult to myself and to my constituents, for it was pressed by you despite that my colleague offered for me the express undertaking that you pretended you wished to secure, and was still pressed by you though mr. burt offered for me that i would at once personally give such undertaking. these two resolutions, utterly illegal and dangerous to parliamentary repute, you have renewed on thursday, the st, although you had heard read by mr. speaker an undertaking from me to the house that i would not attempt to take my seat until the judicial interpreters of the law had given formal judgment. and they are very cowardly and inexcusable resolutions, spiteful in excess of any ever passed in previous years. they exclude me, not only from the house, but from the reading-room, library, tea-room, dining-rooms, and exterior lobbies, though there is not the faintest suggestion that i have used my right to go to those places to enable me to disturb the house. if i had not taken the precaution to anticipate your malice, i should actually have been hindered by force from going to the proper officer to obtain the certificate of my return. yours is a mean and spiteful act, sir, unworthy an english gentleman. and i admit that you have inconvenienced me, for you have deprived me of access to the library of the house, and you may thus put me to some expense and annoyance in the procurement of law books and parliamentary records in the litigation in which i am involved in defending the rights of my constituents. it is too much that, in , a duly-elected and properly-qualified burgess of parliament should be shut outside by such votes. to repeat to you words signed, in september, , by your own ancestor, sir john northcote, m.p. for the county of devon: "we who have been duly chosen to be members of the parliament, have an undoubted right to meet, sit, and vote in parliament," and "no part of the representative body are trusted to consent to anything in the nation's behalf if the whole have not their free liberty of debating and voting in the matters propounded." to continue the language of your sturdy ancestor, you have "now declared that the people's choice cannot give a man a right to sit in parliament, but the right must be derived from _your_ gracious will and pleasure." you reply that you have the force on your side; but sir john northcote declared that: "the violent exclusion of any of the people's deputies from doing their duties and executing their trust freely in parliament doth change the state of the people from freedom into a mere slavery;" and if you tell me that the majority of the present members of the house are with you in what you do, i recall sir john northcote's protest: "that all such chosen members for parliament as shall take upon them to approve of the forcible exclusion of other chosen members, or shall sit, vote, and act by the name of the parliament of england while, to their knowledge, any of the chosen members are so by force shut out, we say such ought to be reputed betrayers of the liberties of england." you cannot now pretend with any hope that sane men will believe you, that you desire "to prevent the profanation of the oath." in you prevented the second reading of the affirmation bill, introduced by my colleague, mr. labouchere, under the pretext that such a measure ought to be introduced by the government. in , after you yourself had said the matter should be dealt with by legislation, you prevented the government from introducing it. in your friends blocked the affirmation measure again proposed by my colleague, and in you exerted every influence to defeat, and successfully defeated, the affirmation bill brought forward by the government. if you had really believed the oath profaned by me, you would have been one of the first to aid in removing the possible profanation by substituting the right of affirmation. in ulster you took credit for keeping an atheist out of parliament, but it was not my atheism you kept out, for i actually sat with you day by day, speaking, voting, and serving, from the beginning of july, , until the end of march, . and, during the whole of that time, my care was to be at least as good and loyal a member of that house as any sitting within its walls. i do not plead my conduct there, whilst using all my right, as anything on my behalf, for i at most could do no more than my duty; but at least i have the right to say that it was never suggested that i was other than a good working member of the house, strict in my attendance at and during every one of its sittings. it cannot be pretended that i used my right of speech to force upon the house one word which did not relate to the business then being dealt with, or that in any fashion i obtruded upon what should be a purely political assembly any views of mine on matters of religion. you have permitted in public my conduct to be misstated in your presence, and utterances in parliament to be attributed to me which are none of mine, and you have done this because you hoped that, by exciting religious and social prejudice against me, you might weaken the government, and crawl back into office. to injure the liberal party, you have allowed words which you pretend are sacred to be used as party cries, and you have made hundreds of thousands examine into and declare in favor of my opinions and expressions on religious questions who but for you might perhaps have never even known my name. you have allied yourself at westminster with men whom you denounced in ireland as "traitors and disloyal," in order that, with their help, you might insult an english constituency; and you have succeeded in bringing parliamentary government into contempt by parading the house of commons as the chief law-breaking assembly in the world. in four years against me you have done your worst to destroy me; with your own purse you have helped the various projects to ruin me; and you have so failed that clergymen and nonconformist ministers have been driven to support me from very indignation against the injury you have done to the cause of religion. your conservative associations have flooded the country with leaflets containing garbled and misleading extracts from my speeches and writings, and have thus excited the curiosity of many whom i could have never reached. these, procuring my works, and finding that my words have been distorted and taken out of context, give a favor to me that i should perhaps have never otherwise won. few believe that you are moved by religious motives. mr. newdegate is regarded as sincere, though his sanity is doubted; but when men recollect the past and even present lives of many of those around you, whose tongues so loudly declare their piety, they come, not unnaturally, to the conclusion that he is the worst infidel who trails the banner of his church in the mire of political warfare, and permits the votes of the drunken, the dissolute, the dishonest, and the disloyal to be canvassed by his whips so that they may be counted on the side which he parades as that of the pure and the holy. on the th february, , i told you and your majority: "if i am not fit for my constituents, they shall dismiss me, but you never shall." i have gone since voluntarily to my constituents--to those from whom you presented a petition with , mock signatures upon it. the answer has come at the ballot-box. my constituents bid me resist you, and i will. they trust me to defeat you, and i will. the law is on my side, and you fear its pronouncement. you kept me from the possibility of obtaining a decision as long as you could, but on the th february i broke through your barriers. then you fruitlessly tried to erase all trace of my voting, and when you found that i beat you on this by adding a new vote as you rubbed out the vote before, then, in malicious spite, you shut me out of the tea-room, dining-room, cloak-room, and library. for shame, sir stafford northcote! this was worthy of "o'donnell," but not of the leader of a great party. you wear knightly orders. you should be above a knave's spitefulness. my turn is coming. you have won sympathy for me throughout the land; you have made northampton men stand by me closer than ever; you are now awaking the country to stand by northampton. mr. justice stephen says that the appeal is to the constituencies, and i appeal. in the name of justice, by the hope of liberty, in memory of english struggles for freedom, i appeal, and i hear the answer growing as you shall hear it, too, on the day when, from my place in the house, i move: "that all the resolutions respecting charles bradlaugh, member for northampton, hindering him from obeying the law, and punishing him for having obeyed the law, be expunged from the journals of this house as being subversive of the rights of the whole body of electors of this kingdom." charles bradlaugh. * * * * * , st. james' place, s.w. _march th, ._ sir,--there are some points in the letter you have addressed to me which i am unwilling to pass over in silence lest i should be taken to admit your assertions. in the first place, it is necessary that i should point out to you that the action of the house of commons with respect to yourself has not been arbitrary or capricious, but has been founded on principles deliberately adopted by a large majority of its members of various political opinions, to which principles they have steadily adhered, and which they have always been prepared to justify. in the second place it should be clearly understood that in all the steps which we have taken with respect to yourself, including some which we took with the greatest reluctance, we were acting on the defensive, in consequence of your repeated attempts to override or to evade the repeated decisions of the house of commons. the brief history of your case is this. you were duly elected member for northampton at the general election of . on presenting yourself to take your seat you tendered an affirmation instead of an oath, and supported your claim to affirm by reference to the fact that you had been permitted to do so in a court of law under the evidence amendment acts of and . that claim at once, and necessarily, brought under the notice of the house that you must either yourself have objected in a court of law to take an oath, or must have been objected to as incompetent to do so, and that the presiding judge must have been satisfied that the taking of an oath would have no binding effect upon your conscience. that being so, a committee was appointed by the house to consider whether the evidence amendment acts were applicable to the case of a member of the house of commons desiring to take his seat and to comply with the necessary conditions. it was held by the committee that they were not so applicable, and this finding of the committee was subsequently confirmed by the judgment of the court of appeal. upon being refused permission to affirm, you immediately came to the table of the house and offered to take the oath. this proceeding was objected to, and the majority of the house (still, as theretofore, composed of members of different shades of politics) refused to allow you to go through the form of taking an oath, which, by the hypothesis on which your original claim to affirm was founded, as well as by the evidence afforded by a letter of your own, they held you to be incompetent really to take, and which they considered it would be a profanation to allow you to pretend to take. that was the ground taken by the house on the rd june, , and it is the ground which it has maintained ever since. you have, since the adoption of that resolution, made various attempts to force the house to admit you to a seat, while still maintaining its objection; and those attempts have, on more than one occasion, led to scenes of a very indecent and disorderly character. in its anxiety to prevent the recurrence of such scenes, the house has felt itself obliged to adopt measures of rigid exclusion, which it would gladly have avoided. i do not think it necessary to enter into the details of these scenes. i am, however, obliged to take notice of your allegation that my action on the th february involved a breach of an arrangement previously made through mr. winn. the arrangement which i authorised mr. winn to make in my name, and which he did make in a letter to mr. labouchere, was as follows: "if mr. bradlaugh will write you a letter to the effect that he will not go up to the table to take the oath, nor make any other move with regard to his seat until monday, february th, and will do so on that day, say immediately after questions, i am quite sure that sir stafford will neither move anything himself respecting mr. bradlaugh's seat, nor employ anyone else to do so, _previous to that day_." the meaning of this is perfectly obvious, and it was in strict conformity with it that i myself abstained, and urged my friends to abstain, from taking any step whatever in relation to mr. bradlaugh until the day named. when, upon that day, you came forward in defiance of the speaker's repeated calls to order, and began to go through the form of taking the oath, i had no option but to support the chair, and to support also the repeatedly pronounced resolutions of the house in former sessions. i do not take notice of other passages in your letter reflecting on the course of the majority, and more particularly of myself. but i will add, in conclusion, what your letter does not show, that your exclusion from the precincts of the house is terminable at any moment when you may be willing to undertake not to disturb the proceedings of the house. the inconveniences of which you complain are inconveniences which you might, if you chose, put an end to to-morrow. i have the honor to remain, your obedient servant, stafford h. northcote. c. bradlaugh, esq., m.p. * * * * * , circus road, st. john's wood, london, n.w., _march th, _. to the right hon. sir stafford northcote, bart, m.p. sir,--in reply to your favor of the th instant, in which you say that the house held me to be incompetent to take the oath, will you permit me to answer: . that the question of competence or incompetence to take the oath is one of law, fit only for the decision of a judicial tribunal, to which tribunal i have always desired and endeavored to refer such question. . that if the "principle deliberately adopted" by a large majority of the members of the house of commons had been that they desired to prevent "a profanation of the oath," then they ought, during the sessions of -- , to have gladly facilitated the passage of the affirmation bill, which would have prevented the necessity for the fulfilling by me of that which you describe as profanation, but which i contend is the duty imposed on me by law. in your very temperate historic narrative, you omit the fact that when the house passed its resolution of the rd june, , it had before it my declaration, made three weeks earlier, in answer to question of the second select committee: "any form that i went through, any oath that i took, i should regard as binding upon my conscience in the fullest degree. i would go through no form, i would take no oath, unless i meant it to be so binding." and as you refer to my letter of the th may, printed in the report of that committee, it is also fair to recall my answer thereon on the same day to question : "i ask the committee in examining it to take it complete, not to separate one or two words in it and to take those without the countervailing words, and to remember that in this letter i declare that the oath, if i take it, would bind me, and i now repeat that in the most distinct and formal manner; that the oath of allegiance, viz.: 'i do swear that i will be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law,' will, when i take it, be most fully, completely, and unreservedly binding upon my honor and conscience; and i crave leave to refer to the unanimous judgment of the full court of the exchequer chamber, in the case of miller _v._ salomons, th jurist, page , and to the case of the lancaster and carlisle railway company _v._ heaton, th jurist, new series, page , for the distinguishment between the words of asseveration and the essential words of an oath. but i also desire to add, and i do this most solemnly and unreservedly, that the taking and subscribing, or repeating of those words of asseveration, will in no degree weaken the binding effect of the oath on my conscience." in your reference to my attempts to take the seat to which i am by law entitled, you have omitted to state that on the th april, , you personally advised me to wait for legislation, and that when i did so wait, your friends of the majority and yourself prevented such legislation. in recalling the arrangement made by mr. winn on your behalf, you have omitted his most explicit and latest letter: "nostell priory, wakefield, "january th, . "dear mr. labouchere,--on the distinct understanding and agreement that mr. bradlaugh does not come to the table to take the oath, or adopt any other course with reference to his seat in the house of commons, until immediately after questions on monday, the th of february next, and that he will on that day and time come to the table, as he has intimated his intention of doing, i am prepared to say that sir stafford northcote will not previous to monday the th make any motion hostile to mr. bradlaugh, nor support any motion coming from any of our independent friends on the subject. "i am, yours very truly, "row. winn. "h. labouchere, esq., m.p." my charge against you is that, despite this agreement, you had gone down to the house with a resolution prepared beforehand, and by its wording showing that it was intended to be moved before i should be able to get near the table to which you had made me specifically agree then to come. you conclude by saying that i can put an end to any personal inconvenience by undertaking not to disturb the proceedings of the house. i gave such an undertaking last year in express words; it is printed in the journals of the house, and you did not accept it. immediately before you moved your resolution of st february, you heard mr. speaker read my undertaking to do nothing until a legal decision was obtained. this you refused, and i have no reason to suppose that any second offer from me would be accepted. if what you really desire is that, if the law decides in my favor, i shall none the less join in your insult to my constituents by refusing to try to serve in the parliament to which they have lawfully returned me, i can only say that i will never give such an undertaking. i have the honor to be, sir, your most obedient servant, c. bradlaugh. the latest constitutional struggle: a register of events _which have occurred since april nd, ._ by w. mawer. "no, not an oath.... swear priests, and cowards, and men cautelous, old feeble carrions and such suffering souls that welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain the even virtue of our enterprise, nor the insuppressive metal of our spirits, to think that or our cause or our performance did need an oath."--_julius cæsar_, act ii., scene . [illustration] london: freethought publishing company , fleet street, e.c. . price twopence. london: printed by annie besant and charles bradlaugh, , fleet street e.c. the latest constitutional struggle. . april nd.--after twelve years' fight and three repulses, mr. charles bradlaugh is elected member of parliament for northampton. the polling was as follows:-- labouchere (l.) , bradlaugh (r.) , phipps (c.) , merewether (c.) , the _weekly dispatch_ said: mr. bradlaugh's achievement of the position he has been aiming at so long and so zealously is a notable sign of the times. whatever his critics may think of him, he will enter parliament as the representative of a vastly larger constituency than the whole electorate or the whole population of northampton. the _birmingham daily mail_: mr. bradlaugh holds extreme views on some subjects, but he will none the less be a useful man in parliament, his unflinching courage in the exposure of abuses being unquestionable. the _standard_: mr. bradlaugh, now that he has got to the house of commons, is not likely to efface himself in speechless obscurity. the _southampton times_: the most signal and portentous triumph is that which has been achieved by mr. bradlaugh. his election shows what the unity of the liberal party must have been. the _christian world_: his contributions to the discussions of the house may not be without value. during the election mr. samuel morley telegraphed to mr. labouchere as follows: i strongly urge necessity of united effort in all sections of liberal party, and the sinking of minor and personal questions, with many of which i deeply sympathise, in order to prevent the return, in so pronounced a constituency as northampton, of even one conservative. april th.--mr. s. morley, speaking at bristol said, respecting his telegram to northampton: he made no reference to candidates, nor did the friend who wrote the telegram go into detail, but he advised union. those who had known him all his life would believe that he viewed with the intensest repugnance the supposed opinions, both social and religious, of one of the candidates. afterwards, writing to the _record_, mr. morley said he deeply regretted his telegram. the _weekly dispatch_, commenting on mr. morley's conduct, said: let the bigots who have taken him to task for his temporary aberration from the path of pharisaism make what they can of his pitiful excuse. other people can only regret that a man so useful in many ways, both as a politician and a philanthropist, should show himself so narrow-minded. the _edinburgh evening news_: in their disappointment, the defeated party have eagerly caught at the election of mr. bradlaugh as supplying the most pungent taunt that can be thrown at their victorious opponents. the _sheffield telegraph_: bradlaugh is an m.p. ... the bellowing blasphemer of northampton. mr. bradlaugh announces that he considers he is legally entitled to avail himself of the freethinkers' affirmation, and that there is some reason to hope that other members will join him in that course. april th.--_sheffield independent's_ "london correspondent" says: tenets which constitute the religious faith of mr. bradlaugh are understood to constitute an insuperable difficulty in the way of his being sworn a member of "the faithful commons." april th.--parliament opens. may rd.--at the table of the house mr. bradlaugh handed in a written paper to the clerk of the house; on this were written the words: "to the right honorable the speaker of the house of commons. i, the undersigned charles bradlaugh, beg respectfully to claim to be allowed to affirm, as a person for the time being by law permitted to make a solemn affirmation or declaration, instead of taking an oath. charles bradlaugh." asked if he desired to state anything to the house, mr. bradlaugh said: i have to submit that the parliamentary oaths act, , gives the right to affirm to every person for the time being permitted by law to make affirmation. i am such a person; and under the evidence amendment act, , and the evidence amendment act, , i have repeatedly, for nine years past, affirmed in the highest courts of jurisdiction in this realm. i am ready to make the declaration or affirmation of allegiance. at the request of the speaker mr. bradlaugh then withdrew, in order that the house might consider the claim, and lord f. cavendish, urging that it would be manifestly inconvenient that when any hon. member had applied to take his seat in the house, any unnecessary delay should intervene, moved the appointment of a committee of inquiry which should lay before the house the material on which the house itself should found its decision. sir stafford northcote seconded. several other members spoke, and mr. beresford hope said that the grievance of one man was very little compared with a great principle; at present the house of commons was only a half-hatched chicken. the committee was then agreed to. may th.--appointment of committee carried by votes against , after a two hours' debate. may th.--the committee report: "that in the opinion of the committee, persons entitled under the provisions of 'the evidence amendment act, ,' and 'the evidence amendment act, ,' to make a solemn declaration instead of an oath in courts of justice, can not be admitted to make an affirmation or declaration instead of an oath in the house of commons, in persuance of the acts and vict., c. , and and vict., c. ." the draft report, proposed by the attorney-general, was to the effect that "persons so admitted," etc., _may be_ admitted, etc. this was lost by the casting vote of the chairman (mr. walpole), the other members of the committee voting as follows. ayes: mr. whitbread, mr. john bright, mr. massey, mr. sergeant simon, sir henry jackson, mr. attorney general, mr. solicitor-general, mr. watkin williams. noes: sir john holker, lord henry lennox, mr. staveley hill, mr. grantham, mr. pemberton, mr. hopwood, mr. beresford hope, mr. henry chaplin. mr. bradlaugh makes a public statement of his position with regard to the oath. he considered he had a legal right to choose between the alternatives of making an affirmation or taking the oath, and he felt it clearly his moral duty, in that case, to make an affirmation. the oath included words which, to him, were meaningless, and it would have been an act of hypocrisy to voluntarily take this form if any other had been open to him. he should, taking the oath, regard himself as bound not by the letter of its words, but by the spirit which the affirmation would have conveyed, had he been allowed to make it, and as soon as he might be able he should take steps to put an end to the present doubtful and unfortunate state of the law and practice on oaths and affirmations. may st.--amid a tumult of cries from the conservative benches mr. bradlaugh goes to the table for the purpose of being sworn. sir h. d. wolff objecting, the speaker requested mr. bradlaugh to withdraw. he (the speaker) was bound to say he knew of no instance in which a member who had offered to take the oath in the usual form was not allowed by the house to do so. sir h. d. wolff then moved that mr. bradlaugh should not be allowed to take the oath, alleging against mr. bradlaugh his repute as an atheist, and his authorship of "the impeachment of the house of brunswick." mr. alderman fowler seconded the motion, stating that he held in his hand a petition praying the house not to alter the law and the custom of the realm for the purpose of admitting an atheist to parliament. mr. gladstone, in the course of replying, said: "it was not in consequence of any regulation enforced by the authority of this house--of a single branch of the legislature, however complete that authority may be over the members of this house, that the hon. member for northampton presents himself to take the oath at the table. he presents himself in pursuance of a statutory obligation to take the oath in order that he may fulfil the duty with which, as we are given to understand, in a regular and formal manner, his constituents have entrusted him. that statutory obligation implied a statutory right." he moved that it be referred to a select committee to consider and report for the information of the house whether the house has any right to prevent a duly-elected member, who is willing to take the oath, from doing so. a long debate ensued, characterised by the fierceness with which mr. bradlaugh's admission to parliament was opposed. mr. john bright, however, asked if the house were entitled thus to obstruct what he called the right of a member to take his seat on account of his religious belief, because it happened that his belief or no belief had been openly professed, what reason was there that any member of the house should not be questioned as to his beliefs, and if the answer were not satisfactory that the house should not be at liberty to object to his taking his seat? after two or three adjournments of the debate the premier's amendment was virtually withdrawn, and a motion by the attorney-general was carried to the effect that a committee should be appointed to report whether it was competent to the house to prevent mr. bradlaugh, by resolution, from taking the oath. may th.--committee nominated--twenty-three members. mr. labouchere gives notice to ask leave to bring in a bill to amend the law of parliamentary oaths, to provide that any member may, if he desire, make a solemn affirmation in lieu of taking the oath. june nd.--mr. bradlaugh gives evidence before select committee, in the course of which he said: "i have never at any time refused to take the oath of allegiance provided by statute to be taken by members; all i did was, believing as i then did that i had the right to affirm, to claim to affirm, and i was then absolutely silent as to the oath; that i did not refuse to take it, nor have i then or since expressed any mental reservation, or stated that the appointed oath of allegiance would not be binding upon me; that, on the contrary, i say, and have said, that the essential part of the oath is in the fullest and most complete degree binding upon my honor and conscience, and that the repeating of words of asseveration does not in the slightest degree weaken the binding effect of the oath of allegiance upon me." [it had been persistently represented that mr. bradlaugh had refused to take the oath.] "any form that i went through, any oath that i took, i should regard as binding upon my conscience in the fullest degree." june th.--the committee report that the compliance by mr. bradlaugh with the form used when an oath is taken would not be the taking of the oath within the true meaning of the statutes; that if a member make and subscribe the affirmation in place of taking the oath it is possible by means of an action in the high court of justice, to test his legal right to do so; and that the committee recommend that should mr. bradlaugh again seek to make and subscribe the affirmation he be not prevented from so doing. (majority in favor of his being allowed to affirm--four.) june st.--mr. labouchere moved in the house of commons that mr. bradlaugh be admitted to make an affirmation instead of taking the oath, seconded by mr. m'laren. sir h. giffard moved a resolution seeking to debar mr. bradlaugh from both oath and affirmation. alderman fowler seconded, a man who did not believe in a god was not likely to be a man of high moral character. the majority of the people were opposed to an atheist being admitted to parliament. many other members spoke. general burnaby said the making of the affirmation by mr. bradlaugh would pollute the oath. mr. palmer said mr. bradlaugh had a legal right with which the house had no power to interfere. the attorney-general said he had come to the conclusion that mr. bradlaugh could not take the oath, chiefly on the consideration that he was a person entitled to affirm. mr. john bright said it was certainly open to any member to propose to take either oath or affirmation; probably if mr. bradlaugh had had any suspicion that the affirmation would have been refused him, he would have taken the oath as other members take it--very much, he was afraid, as a matter of form. debate adjourned. june nd.--mr. gladstone said that the house, by agreeing to the amendment, would probably be entering on the commencement of a long, embarrassing, and a difficult controversy, not perhaps so much within as beyond the limits of the house, perhaps with the result of ultimate defeat of the house. the more he looked at the case the stronger appeared the arguments which went to prove that in the essence of the law and the constitution the house had no jurisdiction. in interfering between a member and what he considered his statutory duty, the house might find itself in conflict with either the courts of law or the constituency of northampton. no doubt an action could not be brought against the house, but he was not so clear that an action could not be brought against the servants of the house. he was still less willing to face a conflict with the constituency. the house had commonly been successful in its controversies with the crown or house of lords, but very different was the issue of its one lamentable conflict with a constituency.--sir henry tyler, with execrable taste, dragged in the name of a lady with whom mr. bradlaugh is associated in business. at last, by a majority of --the numbers voting being and --another triumph against liberty was scored. the _christian world_ regretted that some nonconformists helped to swell the tory majority. the _jewish world_ held it as a reproach to judaism, that members of their community should have gone over to the party which once strove to detain them in bondage. in , mr. newdegate protested against the idea "that they should have sitting in the house, an individual who regarded our redeemer as an impostor," and yet baron de worms voted with mr. newdegate for the exclusion of a man with whose tenets he disagreed. the _whitehall review_ headed an article "god _v._ bradlaugh," and said the majority had "protected god from insult." june rd.--mr. bradlaugh again claimed at the table of the house of commons to take the oath, and the speaker having informed him of the resolution passed the previous evening, requested his withdrawal. mr. bradlaugh thereupon asked to be heard, and after some debate the demand was complied with. mr. bradlaugh spoke from the bar of the house, asking no favor, but claiming his right, and warning hon. members against a conflict with public opinion. mr. labouchere moved, and mr. macdonald seconded, the rescindment of the resolution of the nd, which was lost on division. mr. bradlaugh was then recalled and requested to withdraw from the house. standing by the table, he said: "i respectfully refuse to obey the order of the house, because the order is against the law." the raging of the bigots and tories recommenced. mr. gladstone declined to help them out of the pit into which they had leapt: "those who were responsible for the decision might carry it out as they chose." after a sharp discussion mr. bradlaugh was, on the motion of sir stafford northcote, "committed to the clock tower." in the division the numbers were for and against, the radicals having left the house. june th.--on the motion of sir stafford northcote, mr. bradlaugh is released from custody, "not upon apology, or reparation, or promise not to repeat his offence, but with the full knowledge and clear recollection of his announcement that the offence would be repeated _toties quoties_ till his object was effected." june th.--mr. labouchere gives notice of motion to rescind the resolution of the nd, and government agreed to give an early day for the discussion of the same. june th.--baron de ferrieres announced his intention to move that the seat for northampton be declared vacant, and that a bill be brought in providing for the substitution of an affirmation for the oath at the option of members. mr. wyndham (conservative) asked mr. gladstone whether the government would bring in a bill to remove all doubts as to the legal right of members to make a solemn affirmation. mr. gladstone said the government did not propose to do so, and gave notice for thursday ( st july) to move as a standing order that members-elect be allowed, subject to any liability by statute, to affirm at their choice. mr. labouchere then said he would not proceed with his motion. on another motion, however, by the same member, leave was given to bring in a bill for the amendment of the parliamentary oaths and affirmations, which was read a first time. july st.--after a futile attempt made by mr. gorst to show that mr. gladstone's resolution was a disorderly one, the premier, in moving it said, in the course of an extremely fair speech, that the allegation of members that mr. bradlaugh had thrust his opinions upon the house was untrue. his (mr. bradlaugh's) reference to the acts under which he claimed to affirm had only been named in answer to a question from the clerk of the house. sir erskine may, in his evidence before the recent committee, stated that mr. bradlaugh simply claimed to affirm. sir stafford northcote admitted that when mr. bradlaugh was called upon to affirm he was not disrespectful, but firm. he opposed the resolution as humiliating to the house. several members protested against any course for facilitating the admission of mr. bradlaugh. general burnaby stated that in order to obtain "authoritative" opinions on the matter he had obtained letters or telegrams from the moravian body, the bishop of london, the roman catholic archbishop of ossory, the bishop of ratho, the archbishop of dublin, the bishop of galway, and the bishop of argyle and the isles, and the secretary of the pope of rome, all of whom expressed themselves in the strongest terms against the admission of an atheist into parliament. mr. spurgeon, who was unfortunately from home, had expressed his opinion strongly adverse to it, and the chief rabbi--(loud laughter)--although refusing to interfere with political questions, felt very deeply on the subject. (laughter, and cries of "the sultan," and "shah.") when the house divided the numbers were for, and against. july nd.--mr. bradlaugh takes the affirmation of allegiance, and his seat. * * * * * during the struggle several hundreds of indignation meetings were held in london and the provinces, and petitions, letters, telegrams, etc., in immense numbers, poured in upon the government and the house, in favor of mr. bradlaugh's rights. * * * * * july nd.--mr. bradlaugh gives his first vote, and was thereupon served with a writ to recover against him a penalty of £ for having voted and sat without having made and subscribed the oath, the plaintiff being one henry lewis clarke, who, as subsequently appeared, was merely the tool of the actual common informer, charles newdigate newdegate, m.p. this writ was ready so quickly that, if not issued actually before mr. bradlaugh had taken his seat, it must have been prepared beforehand. july th.--mr. norwood asks the first lord of the treasury whether, considering the government declined to introduce a bill to amend the oaths act, it would instruct the law officers of the crown to defend the junior member for northampton against the suit of the common informer. mr. callan asked whether the government would remit the penalty. mr. gladstone said no application had been received for remission of the penalties, and that his reply to mr. norwood must be in the negative. july th.--read first time in the house of commons, a bill "to incapacitate from sitting in parliament any person who has by deliberate public speaking, or by published writing, systematically avowed his disbelief in the existence of a supreme being." it was prepared and introduced by sir eardley wilmot, mr. alderman fowler and mr. hicks. owing to an informality the bill could not come on for second reading. the rev. canon abney, of derby, speaks of mr. bradlaugh as "the apostle of filth, impurity, and blasphemy." july th.--parliament indemnifies lord byron against an action, he having sat and voted without being sworn. july th.--sir eardley wilmot gives notice of moving that it is repugnant to the constitution for an atheist to become a member of "this honorable house." he afterwards postponed his motion. at a meeting of the dumfries town council, a member said: "if the law courts should decide that it was legal for an atheist to sit in the house of commons, he should feel it is duty to give notice of petition to parliament to have the law altered; he would not allow mr. bradlaugh to go into a hundred acre field beside cattle, let alone the house of commons." the rev. chas. voysey writes, that he feels disgraced by the people of northampton electing mr. bradlaugh, and declares that "most of the speeches in the bradlaugh case in favor of his exclusion, strike me as singularly good, wholesome and creditable." he repeats the myth of mr. bradlaugh forcing his objections to the oath upon the house. july st.--sir john hay, m.p., speaking about mr. bradlaugh at new galloway, made a most infamous, cowardly, and uncalled for attack on mrs. besant. the _scotsman_ refused to print the remarks, as "the language was so coarse that it could hardly have dropped from a yahoo." aug. st.--the _nineteenth century_ prints "an englishman's protest," written by cardinal manning, personally directed against mr. bradlaugh. aug. th.--mr. bradlaugh gives notice that early next session he will call attention to perpetual pensions. sept. th.--parliament prorogued. hansard credits mr. bradlaugh with about twenty speeches during the session. (mr. newdegate told the licensed victuallers that mr. bradlaugh "had made one speech, and proved himself a second or third-rate speaker.") . jan. th.--parliament reopens. mr. bradlaugh renews his notice as to perpetual pensions. great interest in the question throughout the kingdom. jan. th.--mr. bradlaugh makes a speech in the house of commons against coercion in ireland. jan. st.--mr. newdegate, speaking in the house, described northampton as an "oasis in the midland counties." feb. th.--mr. bradlaugh makes a speech against the second reading of the coercion bill, and concluded by moving that it be read that day six months. feb. th.--date of motion for inquiry into perpetual pensions fixed for march th. (when the day arrived mr. bradlaugh, on an appeal from mr. gladstone, allowed the motion to be postponed, in order to allow supply to be taken. petitions had been presented to the house, with , signatures in favor of the motion.) feb. th.--mr. dawson, m.p. for carlow, said that irish members were much indebted to mr. bradlaugh for what he had done on the coercion bill. feb. th.--mr. bradlaugh made final speech against third reading of the coercion bill. march th.--the case of clarke _v._ bradlaugh heard by mr. justice mathew. march th.--mr. bradlaugh brought before the house the case of the imprisoned maoris. march th.--judgment in the case given, which was for the plaintiff, that he was entitled to recover the penalty, subject to appeal. mr. bradlaugh gave notice of appeal. mr. gorst gave notice to move that mr. speaker issue his warrant for new writ for the borough of nottingham [!]. march th.--upon mr. bradlaugh rising to present petitions against perpetual pensions, signed by over , persons, mr. gorst rose to order, on the ground that the seat for northampton was vacant. after discussion the speaker called upon mr. bradlaugh to proceed with the presentation of his petitions. march th.--at request of mr. gladstone, mr. bradlaugh postponed his motion for enquiry into perpetual pensions. march rd.--mr. bradlaugh moved the court of appeal to expedite the hearing of his appeal, and also to expedite the trial of the issues in fact. the court gave the appeal priority over other cases. march th.--mr. bradlaugh made his last speech in the house against flogging in the army. march th.--appeal heard. march st.--judgment given against the defendant. plaintiff not yet entitled to execution, but seat vacated, mr. bradlaugh undertaking not to appeal so far as the affirmation was concerned. mr. bradlaugh again seeks the suffrages of the electors of northampton. april th.--the tories serve notice on the mayor not to accept mr. bradlaugh's nomination, which the mayor disregarded. mr. edward corbett nominated by tories. april th.--mr. bradlaugh re-elected by , votes to corbett , . april th.--mr. bradlaugh, accompanied by mr. labouchere and mr. burt, came to the table of the house, and, "the book" having been handed to him, was about to take the oath when sir stafford northcote interposing, he was requested to withdraw, in order that the house might consider the new conditions under which the oath was proposed to be taken. mr. bradlaugh withdrew to the bar of the house, and sir stafford northcote moved that he be not allowed to go through the form of taking the oath. mr. davey moved and mr. labouchere seconded an amendment to the effect that where a person who had been duly elected presented himself at the table to take the oath he ought not to be prevented from doing so by anything extraneous to the transaction. other members spoke, and mr. bright regretted "the almost violent temper with which some hon. gentlemen came to the consideration of the question." mr. bradlaugh, speaking at the bar, claimed that his return was untainted, that it had not been brought about by the liberal party, but by the help of the people, by the pence of toilers in mine and factory. he begged the house not to plunge into a struggle with him, which he would shun. strife was easy to begin, but none knew where it would end. there was no legal disqualification upon him, and they had no right to impose a disqualification which was less than legal. mr. gladstone made a lengthy and fine speech in favor of mr. bradlaugh, the text of which was mr. bradlaugh's own words given above as to imposition of a new disqualification; on a division, however, the bigots again had it. mr. bradlaugh again stepped to the table, and demanded the administration of the oath, refusing to obey the speaker's order to withdraw. sir stafford northcote asked the prime minister whether he proposed to offer the house any counsel. mr. gladstone said he should leave it to the majority to carry out the effects of their vote. eventually the speaker called upon the sergeant-at-arms to remove mr. bradlaugh, who during the debate had been standing at the table. mr. bradlaugh withdrawing with the sergeant three times to the bar, as often returned to the table. after further passages at arms between mr. gladstone and sir stafford northcote, the house adjourned. april th.--mr. bradlaugh again found at the table of the house claiming to be allowed to take the oath. at the bidding of the speaker the sergeant-at-arms again caused mr. bradlaugh to withdraw to the bar, where he remained during the discussion which followed. mr. labouchere asked the prime minister whether he would give him reasonable facilities to introduce his affirmation bill, if so mr. bradlaugh would not interfere with the resolution passed last night. mr. gladstone said the giving facility for that purpose, meant the postponement of very serious and very urgent business, and he had no assurance as to the disposition of the house. he could not see his way to consent if it was to be an opposed bill. after further discussion, however, mr. gladstone said it might be possible to test the feeling of the house by one or more morning sittings. april th.--mr. gladstone announces the intention of the government of bringing in a bill amending the parliamentary oaths act. may nd.--the attorney-general moved that the house resolve itself into committee with a view of his asking leave to introduce the bill. debate on motion adjourned to the th with the view of fixing the time on the th, when the discussion should be resumed. mr. maciver gave notice to ask the prime minister whether he was prepared to reconsider his decision of last session, and will introduce "a short measure" for the partial disfranchisement of northampton. (the question was never put.) may th.--further obstruction of the bigots. may th.--after . a.m. the government proposed a morning sitting for that day (tuesday), to discuss the introduction of their bill. further obstruction, wrath, and bitterness, and the government abandoned the intention to hold a morning sitting. at the afternoon sitting a resolution was arrived at, which authorised the sergeant-at-arms to prevent mr. bradlaugh from entering the house. lord selborne (lord chancellor) in reply to a letter relative to mr. bradlaugh and the oath, says equal justice is due to christian and infidel; he saw no possibility of refusing to afford by legislation to all who scruple to take the oath, the same option in parliament as they have in courts of law, to make an affirmation. may th.--mr. newdegate formally blocked the bill, of which mr. labouchere gave notice, for indemnifying mr. bradlaugh against penalties for having sat and voted on affirmation. june th and th.--the common informer's action tried at _nisi prius_ before mr. justice grove. verdict against mr. bradlaugh for penalty and costs.--_rule nisi_ for new trial afterwards, granted by justices grove and lindley; this rule was made absolute by justices denman and hawkins, but was set aside by lords justices brett, cotton and holker. * * * * * mr. bradlaugh appeals to the country. the country answers. * * * * * aug. rd.--mr. bradlaugh, acting on his right to enter the house of commons, is seized at the door of the house by fourteen men, police and ushers (inspector denning said ten), and roughly hustled out into palace yard, mr. bradlaugh protesting against such treatment as illegal. "in the passage leading out to the yard mr. bradlaugh's coat was torn down on the right side; his waistcoat was also pulled open, and otherwise his toilet was much disarranged. the members flocked down the stairs on the heels of the struggling party, but no pause was made until mr. bradlaugh was placed outside the precincts and in palace yard."--_times._ alderman fowler was heard to call, "kick him out." this he afterwards denied, but there is evidence that he did so. (mr. bradlaugh suffered the rupture of the small muscles of both his arms, and erysipelas ensued). many thousands of people went up to the house with petitions, urging the house to do justice to northampton and mr. bradlaugh. in the house mr. labouchere moved a resolution condemning, as an interference with the privilege of members, the action of the authorities in expelling mr. bradlaugh from the lobby. this was rejected by votes against , and a motion of sir henry holland, declaring the approval of the house of the course taken by the speaker, was agreed to without controversy. at a crowded meeting at the hall of science the same evening mr. bradlaugh stated that he had told inspector denning in palace yard that he could come back with force enough to gain admittance, but that he had no right to risk the lives and liberties of his supporters. aug. th.--the _times_ declares, in an article favorable on the whole to mr. bradlaugh's claims, that the house of commons was yesterday the real sufferer in dignity, authority, and repute. it says: "the question contains within itself the baleful germ of a grave constitutional contest between the house of commons and any constituency in the land;" and "such a conflict can but have one conclusion, as all history shows." the _daily news_, in a similar article, concludes thus: "sooner or later it will be generally acknowledged that mr. bradlaugh's exclusion was one of the most high-handed acts of which any legislative body has ever been guilty." the following unique paragraph from _the rock_ is worth preserving in its original form: "the question now is whether the christian people of this realm will quietly allow clamorous groups of infidels, radicals, and seditionists, by organised clamor, bluster, and menace, to overawe the legislature, and by exhibitions of violence--not at all unlikely, if permitted to develop into outrage and riot--to cause an organic and vital change to be made in our constitution and laws, in order that brazen-faced atheism might display itself within the walls of the british parliament." mr. e. d. girdlestone writes: "if the present cabinet does not secure your admission to the house in some way or other, i can only wish they may soon be turned out of office. i don't know what more i can do than say, 'go on! and go in!'" aug. th.--mr. bradlaugh's application at westminster police court for summons against inspector, for having assaulted him at the house of commons on the rd inst., refused. mr. bradlaugh confined to the house with severe erysipelas in both arms, resulting from the injuries inflicted. attended by drs. ramskill and palfrey. the latter, on august th, ordered his immediate removal from town, to prevent yet more dangerous complications. aug. th.--mr. bradlaugh went to worthing to recruit his health. outside the station there, weary and exhausted, both arms in a sling, he was rudely stared at by a clergyman, who, having satisfied himself as to mr. bradlaugh's identity, walked away saying loudly: "there's bradlaugh; i hope they'll make it warm for him yet." the _northern star_ (a tory paper) suggested that mr. bradlaugh was malingering--"simply carrying on the showman business." aug. th.--sir henry tyler, in the house of commons, attempts to discredit the south kensington department for allowing science and art classes at the hall of science. mr. mundella gives those classes great credit. aug. th.--parliament prorogued. further appeal to england. . jan. th.--the earl of derby, in a speech at the liverpool reform club, says: "for my part i utterly disbelieve in the value of political oaths.... i should hope that if mr. bradlaugh again offers to take the oath, as he did last year, there will be no further attempt to prevent him." feb. th.--reopening of parliament. mr. bradlaugh again attended at the table to take the oath, and sir erskine may, the clerk of the house, was about to administer the same when sir stafford northcote, interposing, moved that mr. bradlaugh be not allowed to go through the form. sir w. harcourt, in moving the previous question, said the government held the view that the house had no right to interpose between a duly-elected member and the oath. mr. bradlaugh, addressing the house from the bar for the third time, begged the house to deal with him with some semblance and show of legality and fairness. he concluded: "i want to obey the law, and i tell you how i might meet the house still further, if the house will pardon me for seeming to advise it. hon. members had said that an affirmation bill would be a bradlaugh relief bill. bradlaugh is more proud than you are. let the bill pass without applying to elections that have taken place previously, and i will undertake not to claim my seat, and when the bill has passed i will apply for the chiltern hundreds. i have no fear. if i am not fit for my constituents they shall dismiss me, but you never shall. the grave alone shall make me yield." when a division was taken there were for the previous question , against . mr. samuel morley voted with the majority against the government. sir stafford northcote's motion was then agreed to without a division. feb. th.--mr. labouchere, in committee of the whole house, proposed for leave to bring in a bill to amend the law of parliamentary oaths and affirmations. the bill was afterwards formally blocked by mr. molloy. feb. th.--mr. labouchere asked the attorney-general whether the resolution of feb. th had not vacated the seat. sir henry james answered that it had not. feb. th.--mr. gladstone writes mr. bradlaugh that the government have no measure to propose with respect to his seat. feb. st.--mr. bradlaugh of himself takes and subscribes the oath, and takes his seat. feb. nd.--mr bradlaugh expelled the house of commons. mar. nd--re-elected for northampton. for bradlaugh, , ; for corbett, , . mar. th.--on the motion of sir stafford northcote, the house reaffirms its motion of the th feb., mr. gladstone supporting an amendment moved by mr. marjoribanks, by which the house would have declared the desirability of legislation, for the purpose of giving members an option between oath and affirmation. mar. th.--lord redesdale introduces in the house of lords a bill, requiring every peer and every member of the house of commons before taking the oath or making the affirmation, to declare and affirm his belief in almighty god. the bill, introduced "from a sense of what was due to almighty god," was afterwards withdrawn "in deference to lord salisbury." to this date, petitions with , signatures had been presented against mr. bradlaugh being allowed to take his seat; while in favor of the same , , with , signatures, had been presented. mr. labouchere's affirmation bill blocked by earl percy. jan. th.--mr. justice field gave judgment that the privileges of the house of commons prevented mr. bradlaugh from obtaining any redress for the assault upon him on august rd, . feb. th.--great demonstration in trafalgar square; from eighty to one hundred thousand people present. (_evening standard_ says , ; _daily news_, , an hour before the meeting.) mr. adams, chairman; rev. w. sharman, jos. arch, and mr. bradlaugh, speakers. opening of parliament. (mr. gladstone at cannes.) government give notice for to-morrow for leave to introduce bill to amend the oaths act, . sir r. cross gives notice of opposition on second reading of same. mr. bradlaugh consents, with the approval of his constituents, expressed on the th inst., to await the fate of the measure. feb. th.--sharp succession of frantic speeches in the house of commons by mr. newdegate, alderman fowler, mr. warton, mr. henry chaplin, mr. onslow, mr. grantham, mr. beresford hope, lord h. lennox, lord c. hamilton, mr. a. balfour, mr. ashmead bartlett, and mr. a. o'connor. divisions: from two to three to one for government. the marquis of hartington consents to adjourn the motion for bill until monday at twelve. feb. th.--the _observer_ says that when conservatives ask liberals whether they really mean to alter the law for the purpose of admitting mr. bradlaugh, it is fair for liberals in turn to ask conservatives whether they really mean to maintain an admitted abuse and injustice for the mere purpose of excluding mr. bradlaugh. feb. th.--first reading of bill carried on division by votes to ; second reading formally fixed for that night week. feb. th.--_daily news_ says bill will be carried by large majorities, and will be regarded by the house and the country as the appropriate settlement of an unfortunate controversy. the _times_ says the leaders of the opposition will not succeed in finally preventing the bill from becoming law. its real concern is that mr. bradlaugh has been substantially in the right; that he has been unjustly excluded from taking the seat which belongs to him. the _morning advertiser_ thinks the government may yet find it difficult to persuade the house to adopt the bill. the _morning post_ justifies the irregular opposition to the first reading of the bill, and thinks notice of the measure should have been given in the queen's speech. no measure had created more excitement or raised more indignation in the country, which desired to see it rejected by a decisive majority. march th.--appeal case bradlaugh _v._ clarke part heard before the house of lords. march th.--case concluded; judgment deferred. march th.--action for maintenance--bradlaugh _v._ newdegate--tried before lord coleridge and a special jury. henry lewis clarke, the common informer, swore that he had not the means to pay the costs, and would not have brought the action if he had not been indemnified by mr. newdegate. case adjourned for argument of legal points. march th.--maintenance action argued; four counsel appearing for mr. newdegate. lord coleridge reserved judgment. march th.--the solicitors to the treasury compelled mr. bradlaugh to pay the costs of the house of commons in the action against the deputy sergeant-at-arms. transcribers' notes page , : variable spelling of chipping wicomb/wycomb as in the original page : . added after "brought up in custody" page : " added after 'concluding with the words "so help me, god' page : " removed after ' l. j., q. b., .' page : aseembly corrected to assembly after "may say again, that this" page : extra the removed from "lay it before the the judges" page : " added after 'the man who stands before them--(' page (a cardinal's broken oath page ): . added after e.c page (a cardinal's broken oath page ): inuendoes as in the original page (northampton and the house of commons page ): , corrected to . after "personally give such undertaking" page (northampton and the house of commons page ): . added after "sitting within its walls" page (northampton and the house of commons page ): " corrected to ' after "heirs and successors, according to law," page (diary of the northampton struggle page ): . added after '"persons so admitted," etc' page (diary of the northampton struggle page ): v. italicised for consistency after "the case of clarke" page (diary of the northampton struggle page ): v. italicised for consistency after "appeal case bradlaugh" and after "action for maintenance--bradlaugh" general: variable spelling of serjeant-at-arms/sergeant-at-arms as in the original general: there are several words, which would normally have been spelt with a "u" in british english, which have been spelt without in the original text e.g. humor, endeavored, savor. these spellings have been preserved. general: variable spelling of lewis price/pryse as in the original from workhouse to westminster [illustration: will crooks, m.p. _photo: g. dendry._] from workhouse to westminster the life story of will crooks, m.p. by george haw with introduction by g. k. chesterton four full-page plates cassell and company, limited london, new york, toronto and melbourne mcmix first edition _february _. reprinted _march, june and august _. _january and november ._ all rights reserved to mrs. will crooks this slight record of her husband's career is dedicated by the author preface this record of the career of a man whom i have known intimately in his public and private life for over a dozen years can claim at least one distinction. it is the first biography of a working man who has deliberately chosen to remain in the ranks of working men as well as in their service. from the day in the early 'nineties when he was called upon to decide between a prospective partnership in a prosperous business and the hard, joyless life of a labour representative, with poverty for his lot and slander for his reward, he has adhered to the principle he then laid down, consistently refusing ever since the many invitations received from various quarters to come up higher. there have been endless biographies of men who have risen from the ranks of labour and then deserted those ranks for wealthy circles. will crooks, in his own words, has not risen from the ranks; he is still in the ranks, standing four-square with the working classes against monopoly and privilege. this book would have been an autobiography rather than a biography could i have had my way. nor was i alone in urging crooks to write the story of his life, as strenuous in its poverty as it has been in its public service. he always argued that that was not in his way at all--that, in fact, he did not believe in men sitting down to write about themselves any more than he believed in men getting up to talk about themselves. so i have done the next best thing. since the interpretation depends upon the interpreter, i have tried, in writing this account of his life, to make him the narrator as often as i could. most of the incidents in his career i have given in his own words, mainly from personal talks we have had together during our years of friendship, sometimes by our own firesides, sometimes amid the stress of public life, sometimes during long walks in the streets of london. nor do any of the incidents lose in detail or in verity by reason of many of those cherished conversations having taken place long before either of us ever dreamed they would afterwards be pieced together in book form. not to crooks alone am i indebted for help in compiling this book. i owe much to members of his family, to my wife, and to other friends of his. george haw. contents page introduction xiii chapter i. earliest years in a one-roomed home chapter ii. as a child in the workhouse chapter iii. schools and schoolmasters chapter iv. round the haunts of his boyhood chapter v. in training for a craftsman chapter vi. tramping the country for work chapter vii. one of london's unemployed chapter viii. the college at the dock gates chapter ix. from the cheering multitude to a sorrow-laden home chapter x. a labour member's wages chapter xi. on the london county council chapter xii. two of his monuments chapter xiii. the task of his life begins chapter xiv. the man who fed the poor chapter xv. turning workhouse children into useful citizens chapter xvi. on the metropolitan asylums board chapter xvii. a bad boys' advocate chapter xviii. proud of the poor chapter xix. the first working-man mayor in london chapter xx. the king's dinner--and others chapter xxi. the man who paid old-age pensions chapter xxii. election to parliament chapter xxiii. advent of the political labour party chapter xxiv. the living wage for men and women chapter xxv. free trade in the name of the poor chapter xxvi. preparing for the unemployed act chapter xxvii. agitation in the house of commons chapter xxviii. the queen intervenes chapter xxix. home life and some engagements chapter xxx. colonising england chapter xxxi. the revival of bumbledom chapter xxxii. appeal to the people chapter xxxiii. "the happy warrior" index * * * * * list of plates will crooks, m.p. _frontispiece_ the crooks family _facing p._ will crooks addressing an open-air meeting at woolwich " mr. and mrs. will crooks " introduction mr. will crooks, as i know him in his own house at poplar and in that other house at westminster, always seems to me to be something far greater than a labour member of parliament. he stands out as the supreme type of the english working classes, who have chosen him as one of their representatives. representative government, a mystical institution, is said to have originated in some of the monastic orders. in any case, it is evident that the character of it is symbolic, and that it is subject to all the advantages and all the disadvantages of a symbol. just exactly as a religious ritual may for a time represent a real emotion, and then for a time cease to represent anything, so representative government may for a time represent the people, and for a time cease to represent anything. but the peculiar difficulties attaching to the thing called representative government have not been fully appreciated. the great difficulty of representative governments is simply this: that the representative is supposed to discharge two quite definite and distinct functions. there is in his position the idea of being a picture or copy of the thing he represents. there is also the idea of being an instrument of the thing he represents, or a message from the thing he represents. the first is like the shadow a man throws on the wall; the second is like the stone that he throws over the wall. in the first sense, it is supposed that the representative is like the thing he represents. in the second case it is only supposed that the representative is useful to the thing he represents. in the first case, a parliamentary representative is used strictly as a parliamentary representative. in the second case a parliamentary representative is used as a weapon. he is used as a missile. he is used as something to be merely thrown against the enemy; and those who merely throw something against the enemy do not ask especially that the thing they throw shall be a particular copy of themselves. to send one's challenge is not to send one's photograph. when ajax hurled a stone at his enemy, it was not a stone carved in the image of ajax. when a modern general causes a cannon-ball to be fired, he is not understood to indicate that the contours of the cannon-ball represent in any exact way the curves of his own person. in short, we can in modern representative politics use a politician as a missile without using him, in the fullest sense of the word, as a symbol. in this sense most of our representatives in modern representative government are merely used as missiles. mr. balfour is a missile. mr. balfour is hurled at the heads of his enemies like a boomerang or a javelin. he is flung by the great mass of mediocre tory squires. he is flung, not because he is at all like them, for that he obviously is not. he is flung because he is a particularly bright and sharp missile; that is to say, because he is so very unlike the men who fling him. here, then, is the primary paradox of representative government. men elect a representative half because he is like themselves and half because he is not like themselves. they elect a representative half because he represents them and half because he misrepresents them. they choose mr. balfour (let us say) half because he does what they would do and half because he does what they could never do at all. we are told that the labour movement will be an exception to all previous rules. the labour movement has been no exception to this previous rule. the labour members, as a class, are not representatives, but missiles. poor men elect them, not because they are like poor men, but because they are likely to damage rich men: an excellent reason. labour members are the exceptions among labour men. as i have said, they are weapons, missiles, things thrown. working-men are not at all like mr. keir hardie. if it comes to likeness, working-men are rather more like the duke of devonshire. but they throw mr. keir hardie at the duke of devonshire, knowing that he is so curiously shaped as to hurt anything at which he is thrown. unless this is thoroughly understood, great injustice will necessarily be done to the labour movement; for it is obvious on the face of it that labour members do not represent the average of labouring men. a man like mr. j. r. macdonald no more suggests a battersea workman than he suggests a bedouin or a russian grand duke. these men are not the representatives of the democracy, but the weapons of the democracy. they are intended only to fulfil the second of those functions in the delegate which i have already defined. they are the instruments of the people. they are not the images of the people. they are fanatics for the things about which the people are good-humouredly convinced. they are philosophers about the things which are to the people an easy and commonplace religion. in a word, they are not representatives; they are not even ambassadors. they are declarations of war. such being the problem, we must reconcile ourselves to finding many of the labour members men of a definite and even pedantic class; men whose austere and lucid tone, whose elaborate economic explanations smack of something very different from the actual streets of london. this economic knowledge may be very necessary. it may remind us of our duties; but it does not remind us of the walworth road. it may enable a man to speak for the proletarians, but it does not enable a man to speak with them. now, if a man has a good rough-and-ready knowledge of the mechanics of battersea and the labourers of poplar; if the same man has a good rough-and-ready knowledge of the men in the house of commons (a vastly inferior company); he will come out of both those experiences with one quite square and solid conviction, a conviction the grounds of which, though they may be difficult to define verbally, are as unshakable as the ground. he will come out with the conviction that there is really only one modern labour member who represents, who symbolises, or who even remotely suggests the real labouring men of london; and that is mr. will crooks. mr. crooks alone fulfils both the functions of the representative. he is a representative who, like mr. keir hardie and the others, fights, cleaves a way, does something that only a man of talent could do, expresses the inexpressible, sacrifices himself. but also, unlike mr. keir hardie, and the rest, he is a representative who represents. he is a picture as well as a projectile; he is the stone carved in the image of ajax. he is really like the people for whom he stands. a man can realise this fact, merely as a fact, without implying any disrespect, for instance, to the scotch ideality of mr. keir hardie, or the scotch strenuousness of mr. john burns. they are expressive of the english democracy, but not typical of it. the first characteristic of mr. crooks, which must strike anyone who has ever had to do with him, even for ten minutes, is this immense fact of the absolute and isolated genuineness of his connection with the working classes. to all the other labour leaders we listen with respect on labour matters, because they have been elected by labourers. to him alone we should listen if he had never been elected at all. of him alone it can be said that if we did not accept him as a representative, we should still accept him as a type. i need not dwell, and indeed i feel no desire to dwell, on those qualities in mr. crooks which express just now the popular qualities of the populace. i feel more interest in the unpopular qualities of the populace. the greatness of mr. crooks lies not in the fact that he expresses the claims of the populace, which twenty dons at oxford would be ready to express; it is that he expresses the populace: its strong tragedy and its strong farce. he is not a demagogue. he is not even a democrat. he is a demos; he is the real king. and his chief characteristic, as i have suggested, is that he represents especially those popular good qualities which are unpopular in modern discussion. will crooks is to the ordinary london omnibus conductor or cabman exactly what robert burns was to the ordinary puritanical but passionate peasant of the scotch lowlands. he is the journeyman of genius. all that is good in them is better in him; but it is the same thing. walt whitman has perfectly expressed this attitude of the average towards the fine type. "they see themselves in him. they hardly know themselves, they are so grown." in numberless points mr. crooks thus completes and glorifies the common character of the poor man. take, for instance, the deep matter of humour: humour in which the english poor are certainly pre-eminent among all classes of the nation and all nations of the world. by all politicians, including labour politicians, humour is only introduced exceptionally and elaborately; by all politicians the comic anecdote is led up to with dextrous prefaces and deep intonations, as if it were something altogether unique and separate. all politicians take their own humour very seriously. mr. crooks recalls the real life of the streets in nothing so much as in the fact that humour is a constant condition. he and the poor exist in a normal atmosphere of amiable irony. if anything, they have to make an effort to become verbally serious: something of the same kind of earnest that it costs an ordinary member of parliament to become witty. anyone who has heard mr. crooks talk knows that his permanent mood is humorous. he is never without a story, but his face and his mind are humorous before he has even thought of the story. he lives, so to speak, in a state of expectant reminiscence. the man who said that "brevity was the soul of wit" told a lie; nobody minds how long wit goes on so long as it is wit. mr. crooks belongs to that strong old school of english humour in which dickens was supreme; that school which some moderns have called dull because it could go on for a long time being interesting. i have merely taken this case of popular humour as one out of a hundred. a similar case of mr. crooks's popular sympathy might be found in his pathos, which is equally uncompromising and direct. even his political faults, if they are faults, against which so much criticism has for a time been raised, have still this pervading quality, that they are essentially the popular faults. this instinct for a prompt and practical and hand-to-mouth benevolence, this instinct for giving a very good time to those who have had a very bad time, this is the very soul of that immense and astonishing altruism at which all social reformers have stood thunderstruck: the kindness of the poor to the poor. this attitude may or may not be the great vice of the governors; there is no doubt that it is the great virtue of the people. the charity of poor men to poor men has always been spontaneous, irregular, individual, liable therefore in its nature to some faults of confusion or of favouritism. it is the misfortune of mr. crooks that alone among modern philanthropists and social reformers he has really been the typical poor man giving to poor men. this quality which has been seen and condemned in him is simply the quality which is the common and working morality of the london streets. you may like it; you may dislike it. but if you dislike it you are simply disliking the english people. you have seen english people perhaps for a moment in omnibuses, in streets on saturday nights, in third-class carriages, or even in bank holiday waggonettes. you have not yet seen the english people in politics. it has not yet entered politics. liberals do not represent it; tories do not represent it; labour members, on the whole, represent it rather less than tories or liberals. when it enters politics it will bring with it a trail of all the things that politicians detest; prejudices (as against hospitals), superstitions (as about funerals), a thirst for respectability passing that of the middle classes, a faith in the family which will knock to pieces half the socialism of europe. if ever that people enters politics it will sweep away most of our revolutionists as mere pedants. it will be able to point only to one figure, powerful, pathetic, humorous, and very humble, who bore in any way upon his face the sign and star of its authority. g. k. chesterton. from workhouse to westminster chapter i earliest years in a one-roomed home difference between "will" and "william"--early memories--crying for bread--an aspersion resented--a prophecy that has been fulfilled--will earns his first half-sovereign. will crooks! in the little one-roomed home where he was born at no. , shirbutt street, down by the docks at poplar, it was the earnest desire of all whom it concerned that he should be known to the world as william crooks. the desire found practical expression in the register of trinity congregational church in east india dock road close by. thither, within a few weeks of his birth, in the year , he was carried with modest ceremony and solemnly christened by a name which everybody ever since has refused to give to him. for somehow "william crooks" does not sound like the man at all. looking at it gives you no suggestion of the good-humoured, hard-headed labour man, known as familiarly to his colleagues in the house of commons as he is to the great world of wage-earners outside by the shorter and more expressive name of will crooks. born in poverty, the third of seven children, will crooks, who is blessed with keen powers of observation and a good memory, can carry his mind back to the days before he was put into breeches. "i remember before my fourth year was out," i have heard him tell, "something of the public rejoicings on the declaration of peace after the crimean war. the following year was also memorable to me as the time i witnessed troops of soldiers marching to the east india docks on the outbreak of the mutiny." those were days of want and sorrow, as were many days that followed, in the little one-roomed home in east london. his father was a ship's stoker, who lost an arm by the starting of the engines one day when he was oiling the machinery as his vessel lay in the thames. "my very earliest recollections are associated with mother dressing father's arm day after day. i was only three years old at the time, but i know that all our privations dated from the day of this accident to my father, because he was forced to give up his work. "it must have been with the aid of some good friends that at last my father got an old horse, hoping to earn a little by leading and carting; but nothing came of this small venture, and in time the horse had to be sold to pay the rent. almost the only work of any kind that father, being thus disabled, could get to do was an odd job as watchman. "those were very lean years indeed, and i don't know what we should have done but for mother. she used to toil with the needle far into the night and often all night long, slaving as hard as any poor sweated woman i have ever known, and i have known hundreds of such poor creatures. many a time as a lad have i helped mother to carry the clothes she had made to houndsditch. there were no trams running then, and the 'bus fare from poplar to aldgate was fourpence, a sum we never dared think of spending on a ride. "my elder brother was as clever with the needle as many a woman, and often he would stay up all through the night with mother, helping her to make oil-skin coats." one night, as the mother worked alone, young will woke up in the little orange-box bedstead by the wall where he slept with a younger brother. silently he watched her plying the needle at the table until he noticed tears trickling down her cheeks. "what are you crying for, mother?" "never mind, will, my boy. you go to sleep." "but you must be crying about something, mother." and then, in a doleful tone, she said, "it's through wondering where the next meal is coming from, my boy." the little chap pretended to go to sleep soon after; but now and again he would peep cautiously over the side of the box at his mother silently crying over her work at the table. and he puzzled his young head as to what it all meant. "my mother crying because she can't get bread for us! why can't she get bread? i saw plenty of bread in the shops yesterday. do all mothers have to cry before they can get bread for their children?" it was the first incident that made him think. there was one morning, the morning after a christmas day of all times in the year, when his mother refused to let him or the others get up, even when she left the house. it was not until she returned after what seemed a long time, bringing with her a portion of a loaf, that she allowed them to get out of bed. "it was many years afterwards before i learnt the reason for her strange conduct that boxing day morning. then i found out that she had made a vow that her children should never get up unless there was some breakfast for them. "we were so poor that we children never got a drop of tea for months together. it used to be bread and treacle for breakfast, bread and treacle for dinner, bread and treacle for tea, washed down with a cup of cold water. sometimes there was a little variation in the form of dripping. at other times the variety was secured by there being neither treacle nor dripping. the very bread was so scarce that mother could not afford to allow the three eldest, of whom i was one, more than three slices apiece at a meal, while the four youngest got two and a half slices. whenever we could afford to buy tea or butter, it was only in ounces. once my brother and i were sent to buy a whole quarter of a pound of butter--it turned out that auntie was coming to tea--and on the way we speculated seriously whether mother was going to open a shop." perhaps the first occasion upon which crooks as a lad showed something of that spirited resentment at aspersions on the poor which ultimately led him into public life was one that arose in a cobbler's shop. he was about eight years old, when his father sent him back with a pair of boots that had been repaired to ask that a little more be done to them for the money. "i don't know what he wants for his ninepence," said the cobbler, referring to the lad's father; "but, there!"--throwing the boots to his man--"put another patch on. he's only a poor beggar." there was an angry cry from the other side, of the counter. "my father's not a poor beggar!" shouted the boy. "he's as good a man as you, and only wants what he has paid for." if the boy thought much of the father the father thought much of the boy. it had often been his boast that "our will will do things some day." one little fancy of the old man's was brought to my notice the morning after crooks was first returned to parliament for woolwich. his elder brother told me then of a little incident that took place over forty-five years before. "we children were playing in the home together when young will said something which made the dad look up surprised. and i heard him say to mother, 'that lad'll live to be either lord mayor of london or a member of parliament.'" the poverty deepened and darkened in the little one-roomed home during will's boyhood. it soon became impossible even to spend an odd ninepence on boot repairs. the mother met this emergency as she met nearly all the others. she became the family cobbler, as she had all along been the family tailor. often would she go on her knees, hammer in hand, mending the boots. the children could not remember the time when she did not make all their clothes. "god only knows, god only will know, how my mother worked and wept," says crooks. "with it all she brought up seven of us to be decent and useful men and women. she was everything to us. i owe to her what little schooling i got, for, though she could neither read nor write herself, she would often remark that that should never be said of any of her children. i owe to her wise training that i have been a teetotaller all my life. i owe it to her that i was saved from becoming a little wastrel of the streets, for, as a christian woman, she kept me at the sunday school and took me regularly to the congregational church where i had been baptised. "i can picture her now as i used to see her when i awoke in the night making oil-skin coats by candle-light in our single room. youngster though i was, i meant it from the very bottom of my heart when i used to whisper to myself, as i peeped at her from the little box-bedstead by the wall, 'wait till i'm a man! won't i work for my mother when i'm a man!'" he thought he was a man at thirteen, when he could bring home to her proudly five shillings every week, his wages in the blacksmith's shop. there came a memorable saturday night when, having worked overtime all the week and earned an extra five shillings, he was paid his first half-sovereign. he threw on his coat and cap excitedly and ran all the way home from limehouse causeway, the half-sovereign clenched tightly in his hand, until he burst breathlessly into the little room, exclaiming: "mother, mother, i've earned half a sovereign, all of it myself, and it's yours, all yours, every bit yours!" chapter ii as a child in the workhouse with an idiot boy in the workhouse--life in the poor law school at sutton--at home once more--a fashionable knock for the casual ward--a bread riot. but we must go back a few years--to the evil day when, the father being a cripple, the family have to enter the workhouse. the mother had before this been forced to ask for parish relief. for a time the guardians paid her two or three shillings a week and gave her a little bread. suddenly these scanty supplies were stopped. the mother was told to come before the board and bring her children. six of them, clinging timidly to her skirt, were taken into the terrible presence. the chairman singled out will, then eight years of age, and, pointing his finger at him, remarked solemnly: "it's time that boy was getting his own living." "he is at work, sir," was the mother's timid apology. "he gets up at a quarter to five every morning and goes round with the milkman for sixpence a week." "can't he earn more than that?" "well, sir, the milkman says he's a very willing boy and always punctual, but he's so little that he doesn't think he can pay him more than sixpence yet." and the little boy looked furtively at the great man in the great chair, never dreaming that the time would come when he would occupy that chair himself, and that almost the first order he would issue from it would be one putting an end to the bad practice of making mothers drag their young children before the board. on that unhappy afternoon the guardians, firm in their resolve not to renew the out-relief, offered to take the children into the workhouse. the mother said 'no' at first, marching them all bravely home again. stern want forced her to yield at last. the day came when she saw the five youngest, including will, taken from home to the big poorhouse down by the millwall docks. the crippled father was admitted into the house at the same time. they were put into a bare room like a vault, the father and two sons, while the three sisters were taken they knew not where. there the lads and their dad spent the night and the next day until the doctor saw them and passed them into the main workhouse building. then will lost sight of his father, though he was permitted to remain with his young brother and share with him the same bed. in the dormitory was an idiot boy, who used to ramble in his talk all through the night, keeping the others awake. sometimes will succeeded in coaxing his young brother off to sleep, but as for himself, he would lie awake for hours listening to the strange talk of the idiot boy, and thinking of his mother. often in the night the idiot boy would cry out for his own mother, leaving will wondering who she was and where she was, and whether the plaintive cry of her imbecile child ever reached her ears in the night's stillness. the lad was ravenously hungry all the time he spent in the workhouse. he often felt at times as though he could eat leather; yet every morning, when the "skilly" was served for breakfast, he could not touch it. morning after morning, spurred on by hunger, he forced the spoon into his mouth, but the stomach revolted, and he always felt as though the first spoonful would turn him sick. somehow his father, away in the men's ward, got to know that young will, who he knew could relish dry crusts at home with the best of them, was not able to eat the fare provided in the workhouse. the men occasionally got suet pudding, and one dinner-time the old man secretly smuggled his portion into his pocket. in the afternoon he made over to the children's quarters, hoping to hand it to will. the pudding was produced, the lad's hungry eyes lighted up, when, behold! it was snatched away, almost from his very grasp. the burly figure of the labour master interposed between father and son. this was a breach of discipline not to be tolerated in the workhouse. "but the boy's hungry, and this is what i've saved from my own dinner," argued the father (all in vain). "you don't know how that boy likes suet pudding." for two or three weeks the crooks children were kept in the workhouse, before being taken away in an omnibus with other boys and girls to the poor law school at sutton. then came the most agonising experience of all to will. they parted him from his young brother. in the great hall of the school he would strain his eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of the lone little fellow among the other lads, but he never set eyes on him again until the afternoon they went home together. "every day i spent in that school is burnt into my soul," he has often declared since. he could not sleep at night nor play with the other boys, haunted as he was by the strange dread that he must have committed some unknown crime to be taken from home, torn from his young brother, and made a little captive in what seemed a fearful prison. the nights seemed endless, and were always awful. he whispered his fears on the fourth day to another poplar boy who was there. "ah! you just wait until sunday," said the other lad. "every sunday's like a fortnight." when sunday did come it proved to be one lasting agony. he thought time could not be made more terrible to children anywhere. they had dinner at twelve and tea at six, confined during the yawning interval in the dull day-room with nothing to do but to look at the clock, and then out of the window, and then back at the clock again. during the week, after school hours, he hung about in abject misery all the time. from the day he went in to the day he left he never smiled. one afternoon he was loitering in the playground as the matron showed some visitors round. "who is that sad-faced boy?" he heard one of them ask. "oh, he's one of the new-comers," the matron answered. "he'll soon get over it." the new-comer said to himself, "i wonder whether you would soon get over it if you had been taken from your mother and parted from a young brother?" how long he stayed in the workhouse school he has never been able to tell. it could not have been very long in point of time, but to the sensitive lad it seemed an age. an indescribable burden was lifted from his shoulders when one day at dinner someone called him by his name. he sprang to his feet. "go to the tailor's shop after dinner and get your own clothes." "what for, sir?" "you are going home!" his heart leapt up. the boys crowded round him, wishing they were in his place. poor miserable lads, he parted from them with feelings of the deepest pity. at the gate he met his young brother and sisters again, and they were taken back to poplar, to be welcomed with open arms by their mother. she had worked harder than ever to add to the family income in order to justify her in going before the guardians to ask that her children be restored to her own keeping. not until thirty-three years later could he command the courage to enter that same workhouse school again. many changes for the good had been made, but the sight of the same hall, with the same peculiar odour, brought back the same old feeling of utter friendlessness and despair. and he saw in imagination a sad-faced boy sitting on the form, straining his eyes in the vain search for his young brother. the mother had moved to a cheaper room when the children returned home from the workhouse school. it was in a small house in the high street, next door to the entrance to the casual ward, with the main workhouse building in the rear. this was will's home for the rest of his boyhood. there, with the workhouse surrounding him as it were, he got daily glimpses of the misery that hovers round the poor law. men and women would sit for hours huddled on the pavement in front of his home waiting for the casual ward to open. will came bounding out of the house in the dull dawn to go to work as an errand boy one morning, when he kicked violently against a bundle of rags on the pavement. there was a cry of pain in a woman's voice, and the lad pulled up sharp, filled with remorse: "i'm _so_ sorry, missus; i am really. i didn't see you." "all right, kiddie. i saw you couldn't help it. i'm used to being kicked about the streets." but the lad could not forget it. and when he came home at dinner-time, "oh, mother," he said, "i kicked a poor woman outside our door this morning, and i wouldn't have done it for anything, had i known." sometimes a poor wayfarer would knock at the door, mistaking it for the entrance to the casual ward. in answer to a series of sharp raps one night will raced to the door with the mother of another family who rented the front room. she got there first and opened it, to find a tramp on the step. "is this the casual ward?" "the casual ward!" cried the woman in disgust, turning away and leaving will to direct him. "that's a nice fashionable kind of knock to come with asking for the casual ward!" it was from this house that he saw a bread riot in the winter of , when he got the first of many impressions he was to receive of what a winter of bad trade means to a district of casual labour like poplar. hundreds of men used to wait outside the workhouse gates for a -lb. loaf each. the baker's waggon drove up with the bread one afternoon while they waited. the ravenous crowd would not let it pass into the workhouse yard. they seized the bread, frantically struggling with each other. almost as fiercely they tore the bread to pieces when they got it and devoured it on the spot. sights like these of his childhood, with the shuddering memories of his own dark days in the workhouse and the workhouse school, made him register a vow, little chap though he was at the time, that when he grew up to be a man he would do all he could to make better and brighter the lot of the inmates, especially that of the boys and girls. some children's dreams come true, and this was one of them. chapter iii schools and schoolmasters the school of life--borrowed magazines--reading dickens--crooks's humour and story-telling faculty--discovering scott--declaiming shakespeare--books that influenced him. little education of the ordinary kind came into will's life as a lad. we have seen that he turned out before five o'clock every morning at eight years of age to take milk round for a wage of sixpence a week. soon after coming out of the workhouse he got a job as errand boy at a grocer's at two shillings a week. at eleven he was in a blacksmith's shop, where he stayed until at fourteen he was apprenticed to the trade of cooper. "in a sense, my training for becoming a servant of the people has been better than a university training," he tells you. "my university has been the common people--the common people whom christ loved, and loved so well that he needs must make so many of us. the man trained as i have been amid the poor streets and homes of london, who knows where the shoe pinches and where there are no shoes at all, has more practical knowledge of the needs and sufferings of the people than the man who has been to the recognised universities. "i am the last to despise education. i have felt the need of more education all my life. but i do protest against the idea that only those who have been through the universities or public schools are fit to be the nation's rulers and servants. legislation by the intellectuals is the last thing we want. see to what extremes it sometimes leads. there was a case under the workmen's compensation act when eight leading lawyers argued for hours whether a well thirty feet deep was a building thirty feet high. finally they decided solemnly that it was not. that was legislation by the intellectuals being carried out by the intellectuals." he once complained in the house of commons that mr. balfour--then prime minister--was using a dead language in answering a labour member's question. he had asked whether the aliens bill would take precedence over redistribution. mr. balfour replied that the two things were not at all _in pari materia_. "will the right hon. gentleman please speak in english?" pleaded the questioner. "it is well known both inside and outside this house that i do not know latin." mr. balfour said that what he meant to convey was that you could not compare resolutions with a bill, because a bill involved a number of different stages, while the other dealt with the matter as one substantive question. "a very loose translation," remarked a member, amid the laughter of the house. crooks was learning life at the time other lads are usually learning latin. and his knowledge of life, carrying with it an unbounded sympathy with suffering, an intense love of truth and justice, has proved more useful to him and to the class he serves than any knowledge of a dead language would. yet it was a pleasure to him to go down to oxford in the early part of to speak on the need for university men taking up social work. it was a greater pleasure to receive on his return the following letter from one in authority at christ church college:-- i am writing a line thanking you again for your kindness in coming and speaking here on saturday. from all sides i hear nothing but commendation of your speech. there was a considerable number of our men present, and as i surveyed them i was glad to see that some who are really thinking about things were impressed. crooks always tells you that his best "schoolmaster" was his mother, the righteous working woman who could not read a line or write a word. she and one of her boys spent nearly three hours one evening preparing a letter to a far-away sister, the mother painfully composing the sentences, the lad painfully writing them down. the glorious epistle was at last complete, the first great triumph of a combined intellectual effort between mother and son. proudly they held the letter to the candle-light to dry the ink, when the flame caught it, and behold! the work of three laborious hours destroyed in three seconds. it was more than they could bear. mother and son sat down and cried together. [illustration: the crooks family. (_will is the second child from the right, looking over his father's left shoulder._)] "i have nothing but praise for my other schoolmaster," says crooks. "i mean the schoolmaster at the old george green schools in east india dock road. they were elementary schools then, and we paid a penny a week, though even that small sum for all of us meant a sacrifice for mother. the schoolmaster there was essentially a kind man. he had me under his teaching in the sunday school as well as in the day school. during the few years i was with him prior to my workhouse days i learnt much that has been of service to me ever since." neither books nor papers found their way into shirbutt street. the first paper he remembers reading was _the british workman_, brought occasionally to the little house in high street just after the workhouse days. then came a short spell of penny dreadfuls, from among which "alone in a pirate's lair" stands out in memory riotous and reeking to this day. though the mother could not read herself, she encouraged her children by borrowing occasional magazines and inviting them to read the contents to her and her neighbours. "i was about ten or eleven when _the leisure hour_ and _the sunday at home_ were started, and mother and the neighbours used to get these and ask us boys to read the stories to them. "i owe something to an old man who went round the poor people's houses selling books. from him i got some of dickens's novels. i suddenly found myself in a new and delightful world. having been in the workhouse myself, how i revelled in oliver twist! how i laughed at bumble and the gentleman in the white waistcoat! i have seen that white waistcoat, pompous and truculent, administering the poor law many times since. "after the unceasing hunger i experienced in the workhouse, you can guess how i sympathised with oliver in his demand for more. i thought that a delightful touch in one of our l.c.c. day schools the other day. the teacher asked a class what books they liked best. "'oliver twist,' came one little chap's answer. "'why?' "'because he asked for more.'" this early reading of dickens may have helped to develop his own quaint, rich humour. will crooks often reminds one of charles dickens. he knows the londoner of to-day, his oddities, whimsicalities, his trials, humours, and sorrows, as thoroughly as dickens knew the londoner of fifty years ago. many a time i have journeyed with him down to his home in east london, after he had finished a hard day's work in parliament or on the london county council, possibly having been defeated on some public question in a way that would make many men despair; and yet how easily he has put aside all the worries and work, and made the journey delightful by his unfailing fund of cockney anecdotes. he is one of the rare story-tellers you meet with in a lifetime. the charm, too, of all his stories is that they never relate to what he has read, but always to what he has heard or observed himself. some unknown friend at yarmouth, who doubtless had heard him speak, seems to have been impressed by this ready way he has of taking his illustrations from the common things around him. under the initials a. h. s. he sent the following "limerick" to _london opinion_:-- we smile when he's funny, or witty, we yawn when he's wise: more's the pity, for this best of the "crooks" draws from life, not from books, when he pleads for the people or city. after dickens the lad discovered scott. "it was an event in my life when, in an old scotch magazine, i read a fascinating criticism of 'ivanhoe.' nothing would satisfy me until i had got the book; and then scott took a front place among my favourite authors. "i was in my teens then, reading everything i could lay hands on. i used to follow closely public events in the newspapers. not long ago i met a man in a car with whom i remonstrated for some rude behaviour to the passengers. he looked at me in amazement when i called him by his name. "'why,' he said, 'you must be that boy will crooks i knew long ago. do you know what i remember about you? i can see you now tossing your apron off in the dinner-hour and squatting down in the workshop with a paper in your hand.'" crooks was still an apprentice when, as he describes it, the great literary event of his life occurred. "on my way home from work one saturday afternoon i was lucky enough to pick up homer's 'iliad' for twopence at an old bookstall. after dinner i took it upstairs--we were able to afford an upstairs room by that time--and read it lying on the bed. what a revelation it was to me! pictures of romance and beauty i had never dreamed of suddenly opened up before my eyes. i was transported from the east end to an enchanted land. it was a rare luxury to a working lad like me just home from work to find myself suddenly among the heroes and nymphs and gods of ancient greece." the lad's imagination was also fired by "the pilgrim's progress." "i often think of that splendid passage describing the passing over the river and the entry into heaven of christian and faithful. i can sympathise with arnold of rugby when he said, 'i never dare trust myself to read that passage aloud.'" while in the blacksmith's shop he learnt many portions of shakespeare, with a decided preference for hamlet. often in the little forge the men would say, "give us a bit of shakespeare, will." the lad, nothing loath, would declaim before them, more often than not in a mock heroic strain that greatly delighted his grimy workmates. like many other members of the labour party, he was greatly influenced in his youth by the principles of "unto this last" and "alton locke." later in life he was set thinking seriously by a course of university lectures on political economy delivered in poplar by mr. g. armitage smith. quietly he began building up a little library of his own, supplemented in later years by an occasional autograph copy from authors whose friendship he had made. father dolling, for instance, sent him a copy of his "ten years in a portsmouth slum," inscribed:-- will crooks.--the story of a kind of trying to do in a different way what he is doing.--with the author's best christmas wishes, . in the flyleaf of this book crooks keeps the following letter, received after his election to parliament from the author's sister:-- dear mr. crooks,--i have just seen the papers, and must send you a word of congratulation on your success. if, as i believe, the blessed dead are allowed to watch over and help us, i am sure my dear brother is thinking of you and praying that in your new sphere of usefulness you may be helped to do god's will.--truly yours, geraldine dolling. the book that he values most to-day is a pleasant little story for boys called "joe the giant killer." it was given to him by the author, dr. chandler, bishop of bloemfontein, when rector of poplar. the reason he values it so is because the printed dedication reads:-- "_to_ will crooks, l.c.c. _in memory of many years of delightful comradeship in poplar._" when, after the big victory in woolwich, crooks was able to add m.p. as well as l.c.c. after his name, there came among hundreds of other congratulations a cabled cheer from south africa. it was signed "chandler." chapter iv round the haunts of his boyhood proud of his birthplace--famous residents at blackwall--memories of nelson's flagship--stealing a body from a gibbet--a waterman who remembered dickens. of many interesting days spent with crooks in poplar, one stands out as the day on which he showed me some of the haunts of his boyhood. poplar is always picturesque with the glimpses it gives of ships' masts rising out of the docks above the roofs of houses. with crooks as guide, this rambling district of dockland, foolishly imagined by many people to be wholly a centre of squalor, becomes as romantic as a mediæval town. it was not always grey and poor, as so many parts of it are to-day, though even these are not without their quaint and pleasant places. we wended through several of its grey streets, making for the river at blackwall. everywhere women and children, as well as men, whom we passed greeted crooks cheerily. "can you wonder so many of our people take to drink?" and he pointed to the shabby little houses, all let out in tenements, in the street where he was born. "look at the homes they are forced to live in! the men can't invite their mates round, so they meet at 'the spotted dog' of an evening. during the day the women often drift to the same place. the boys and girls cannot do their courting in these overcrowded homes. they make love in the streets, and soon they too begin to haunt the public-houses." he changed his tone when we entered the famous old high street that runs between the west india docks and blackwall. he pointed out the house where he spent many years of his boyhood after his parents moved from shirbutt street. the old home is associated with his errand-boy experiences. in those days he finished work at midnight on saturdays, and knowing that his parents would be in bed, he often lingered in the high street into the early hours of sunday, playing with other lads who, like himself, had just finished work. as we continued our way down the high street together, he surprised me by his wonderful knowledge of the neighbourhood. here was a poplar man proud of poplar. he told me that the now silent high street was at one time a sort of sailors' fair-ground, like the old ratcliff highway. it was there, he said, that poplar had its beginning, according to the historian stow. there shipwrights and other marine men built large houses for themselves, with small ones around for seamen. not for these people alone were the houses built. worthy citizens of london lived down there. sir john de poultney, four times lord mayor, lived in a quaint old house in coldharbour, at blackwall, that stood until recently. this same house once formed the home of the discoverer, sebastian cabot. it was there that cabot made friends with sir thomas spert, vice-admiral of england, who also had a house at poplar, and promised cabot a good ship of the government's for a voyage of discovery. and, later still, sir walter raleigh is said to have been the tenant, and of course legend credits him with having smoked one of his earliest pipes there. gone are the old houses now, with the old traditions, the old gaiety, the old mad enthusiasm for the sea. in his day the blackwall seaman was a dare-devil, efficient man, eagerly coveted by shipowners and captains alike. never did a ship sail from blackwall during crooks's schooldays without most of the boys staying away from school, regardless of results to their skins the next morning, in order to join in the farewell cheering from the foreshore. the welcome home to the blackwall ships was something to remember. it was always a bitter disappointment to the boys, since it robbed them of an opportunity of playing truant, if a ship came home and docked during the night, having come up, as the old tide-master used to say, and brought her own news. little remains to suggest the sea in poplar high street to-day. the old highway has lost its old glory. the old folks have forsaken the old homesteads. of the few old buildings that remain, nearly every one has been cut up into small shops and tenements. one or two general dealers still pose as ships' outfitters, and an occasional shop remains as a marine store, as though in a final feeble struggle to preserve the old traditions. crooks recollected well the period that costermongers thronged this riverside highway. they came about the time seamen were deserting it, so that the street for some time lost nothing of its noise or bustle. the day came when they, too, departed, seeking a more profitable field in chrisp street, on the northern side of east india dock road, where to this day they still hold carnival. that they carried away something of the seafaring character of their former highway is borne out by the nautical turn they give to some of their remarks. "here," cried a fish-dealer of their number the other day, holding aloft a haddock, "wot price this 'ere 'addick?" "tuppence," suggested a woman bystander. "wot! tuppence! 'ow would you like to get a ship, an' go out to sea an' fish for 'addicks to sell for tuppence in foggy weather like this?" as we passed down that portion of the high street that skirts the recreation ground, crooks pointed out the quaint old church of st. matthias. he told me it was the oldest church in poplar, built as a chapel-of-ease to the mother church of east london, st. dunstan's. then it was that all the parishes that now go to make up the teeming tower hamlets were comprised in stepney. as the port of london in those days was confined to the pool and lower reaches and to the riverside hamlets of the east end, that was why people born at sea were often entered as having been born in the parish of stepney. st. matthias' church afterwards became the chapel of the old east india company. poplar people sometimes call it that to this day. the company's almshouses were near, and the chapel ministered to the aged almoners alone. according to tradition, the teak pillars in the church served as masts in vessels of the spanish armada. upon the ceiling is the coat-of-arms of the original east india company. adjoining the church is the picturesque vicarage, where crooks pointed out the coat-of-arms adopted by the united company a hundred years later on the amalgamation with the new east india company. this chapel contains a monument to the memory of george green, who stands out as poplar's worthiest philanthropist. schools, churches, and charities in poplar to-day testify to his generosity. he was one of the owners of the famous blackwall shipbuilding yard, that turned out some of the sturdiest of the wooden walls of england. they were proud in the shipyard of the _venerable_ and the _theseus_, the former lord duncan's flagship at the battle of camperdown, the latter at one time nelson's flagship, in the cockpit of which his arm was amputated. the people of old poplar had at times unpleasant things to tolerate. sometimes the pirates hung at execution dock, higher up the river, would be brought down, still on their gibbets, and suspended for a long period at a place near blackwall point, as a warning to all seafarers entering the port of london. one of the old east india company pensioners used to tell crooks's father how one of the bodies hanging on a gibbet was stolen during the night, under romantic circumstances. an old waterman at the stairs was startled at a late hour by a young and ladylike girl coming ashore in a boat and asking him to lend a hand with her father, who, she said, was dead drunk in the bottom of the skiff. a youth was with her, and the waterman assisted them to carry the supposed drunken man to a carriage which was waiting. not until the pirate's body was missing in the morning did the old waterman know the truth. we reached the river ourselves from the blackwall end of the high street, while crooks was giving me these entertaining glimpses into the past of his native poplar. the sight of blackwall causeway and the river crowded with craft instantly reminded him of the last mutiny in the thames, of which he has gruesome recollections, associated with bad dreams as a lad, caused by the knowledge that dead seamen lay in the building adjoining his home. it was here at blackwall point that the crew of the peruvian frigate mutinied in . he relates graphically how the eleven men who were shot dead on the ship were brought ashore and laid in the mortuary next his mother's house by the casual ward. the old watermen at the head of the causeway, waiting to row people across to the greenwich side, welcomed crooks with a cheerful word as we approached. they were soon full of talk. the eldest told how he went to sea as a boy in the famous wooden ships turned out of blackwall yard. his aged companion remembered the stage coaches coming down from london to blackwall. he was proud also of a memory of queen victoria's visit to the neighbourhood to see a chinese junk. the two ancient watermen soon overflowed with reminiscences. one remembered his grandfather telling how king george the fourth would come down to see the ships built at blackwall, and how on one occasion a sailor who had come ashore and got drunk took a pint of ale to his majesty in a pewter and asked him to drink to the army and navy. "ah!" exclaimed the other, fetching a sigh; "but don't you remember that old yarmouth fisherman who used to bring his smack round here from the roads and sell herrings out of it on this very causeway?" "remember! what do _you_ think? that was the old man who would never keep farthings. in the evening, when he'd got a handful in the course of the day's trade, he would pitch them in the river for the boys to find." "likely enough," interposed crooks. "i mudlarked about here myself as a lad." the eldest of the ancient watermen would have it that this old boy from yarmouth was the original of mr. peggotty, and that it was at blackwall dickens first made his acquaintance. he said he had often seen dickens himself about those parts. we ventured a doubt. "why, bless my life!" he cried; "ain't i talked to him at the causeway here many a time?" this, of course, was unanswerable, so we asked what dickens did when there. the ancient waterman thought a moment. "what did dickens do?" he ruminated. "now, let me see. what _did_ dickens do? i know: dickens used to go afloat!" the other declared that dickens did more than that: he would often go into the fishing-smack. we immediately assumed that it was the fishing-smack of the old yarmouth salt that was meant. we were wrong. it was another "fishing smack," one of the quaint old taverns by the river still standing in coldharbour. chapter v in training for a craftsman three years in a smithy--provoking a carman--apprenticeship--winning a nickname--activity of an idle apprentice--"not dead, but drunk"--a boisterous celebration--the workman's pride in his work. the three years in the blacksmith's shop in limehouse causeway, that commenced at the age of eleven after the errand-boy period, were years of hard work and long hours. the lad's working day began at six in the morning and often did not close until eight at night. working overtime meant ten and twelve midnight before the day's work was done. he was paid for the overtime at the rate of a penny an hour. he was kept hard at it all the time. once, in the excitement of a general election, in the days of the old hustings, he stole away from the forge for an hour. the smith had returned in his absence, and inquired angrily where he had been. "only to see the state of the poll." "_you'll_ know the state of the poll on saturday, young fellow." he did. a shilling was taken from his week's wages. it was a heavy blow. it delayed a promised pair of new trousers. the need for a new pair was constantly being brought to his notice in a more or less personal way. the biggest affront came from a tall boy at a shop he passed on the way home. "hi!" this youth would call after him. "look at the kid wot's put his legs too far frew his trowsis!" nevertheless, the little chap in the short trousers was immensely proud to be at work. he would blacken his face before leaving for home so as to look like a working man. many a long day's search had he before getting that job. he spent hours one morning in calling at nearly all the shops in the two miles' length of commercial road between poplar and the city. but nobody wanted so small a boy. on his way back, not yet wholly disheartened, he turned down limehouse causeway and peeped in at the smithy. "can you blow the bellows, little 'un?" he was asked. couldn't he; you just try him! they tried him for an hour, then told him he was just the boy they wanted. they got a lot of smiths' work in connection with the fitting out of small vessels in limehouse basin and the west india docks. the first job at which will assisted was on board the barque _violet_. the causeway where the smithy stood was so narrow that carts could not pass each other. two carmen driving in opposite directions met just outside the smithy door one afternoon. neither would give way, and they filled the air with lurid fancies. young will came out of the smithy and took the part of the one whom he believed to have the right on his side. seizing the bridle of the other driver's horse, he commenced to back the cart down the lane. the man's flow of language increased as he tried to get at the lad with his whip. will dodged first to one side and then to the other, then under the horse's nose, eluding the lash every time. at last he got the cart backed right out of the lane, allowing the other driver to pass in triumph. the enraged carman sprang down and chased the lad back into the smithy. will had just time to spring behind the big bellows out of sight before the other appeared foaming at the door. with many oaths the man swore he would have vengeance on the boy some day, come what would. some years afterwards crooks found himself at work in the same yard as his burly enemy, but time, which had made little difference to the man, had transformed the boy out of all recognition. crooks asked him if he remembered the event. "yes; and if i came across that youngster to-day i'd break every bone in his body." "i don't think you would, jack," crooks replied, preparing to take off his coat. then the carman understood. in his third year at the smithy will was getting six shillings a week, with something more than a penny an hour for overtime. small though the wages were, they were very welcome at home; and it meant a great deal to his mother when she sacrificed more than half this amount in the lad's best interest. she was as determined that her boys should learn a trade as that they should learn to read and write. she took will away from the smithy and his six shillings a week, when she found he was not to be taught the business but to be merely a smiths' labourer, and she apprenticed him to the trade of cooper at a weekly wage of half a crown. "the sacrifice of a few shillings a week," says crooks, "which mother made in order that i should learn a trade was only one of the many things she did for me as a boy for which i have blessed her memory in manhood many times. i really don't know now how she managed to feed us all, after losing my three-and-six a week. i know that she always put up a good dinner in a handkerchief for me to take to work. it may have got smaller towards the end of the week, like many of the men's. i remember one monday dinner-time flopping down on a saw-tub and opening my handkerchief as the foreman passed. "'that looks a good meal to begin the week on,' he said. 'i see how it is;-- it's monday plenty, tuesday some, wednesday a little, thursday none, don't worry about friday, you get your money on saturday.'" among the workmen was a thinker and reformer far ahead of his times. it was dangerous in those days for workmen to give expression to advanced views, and as he was a married man he made no display of his opinions. he seems to have seen promise in young will, for he talked to him freely on social and political matters, encouraging him to read by lending him books and papers, and inspiring him with an enthusiasm for the teaching of john bright. so much so, that at home will was nicknamed young john bright. an uncle, looking in on the eve of the general election of , said jokingly, "now, young john bright, tell us all about what is going to happen." nothing loath, will delivered a long speech on the political situation, and foretold, among other things, that the liberals would sweep the country, and that one of their first acts would be to disestablish the church of ireland. the prophecy, needless to say, was fulfilled. will was one of half-a-dozen apprentices in the coopering establishment. while still the youngest among them he made his mark by acting as spokesman in a sudden emergency. the lads thought they had a grievance under the piece-rate system. they went in a body to the head of the firm, the eldest primed with a well-rehearsed speech stating their case. if will saved the situation, he began by nearly bringing disaster upon it. it happened that the spokesman's father was an undertaker in stepney, and that on sundays the lad, with becoming gravity, frequently walked as a mute at funerals. just as the solemn procession of aggrieved apprentices was about to enter the office, the employer's wondering eye upon them through the window, will called out in a stage whisper: "now, joe, put on your best sunday face!" the fearful tension was broken. all the boys burst into laughter. the lads tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get outside the passage. when the head of the firm opened his door will alone remained. "what's all this about, crooks?" the youngest apprentice thereupon briefly ran over the lads' grievances, and on being asked why the deputation fled in laughter, he explained the meaning of the sunday face. the employer laughed as boisterously as his boys. he told crooks to go back to work, promising that the lads should have fair play. that very day he issued orders placing the apprentices under better conditions. one of the lads, with an unconquerable liking for lying in bed, had not turned up by nine o'clock on a certain morning. the other apprentices stole out with a barrow and went to his house with the object of wheeling him to work. half an hour later the lad rushed into the cooperage panting and dishevelled, his clothes torn, his hat missing. "done 'em!" he gasped, after the manner of alfred jingle. "i rushed out o' the back door, got over the wall, over the next wall, fell on a flower-bed, man came out (such langwidge!), climbed his wall afore he could ketch me, landed clean on a dog kennel, dog tore me clothes, got over another wall--into the street at last--boys caught sight o' me, howling chase with barrow, woman let me run through her house, over another wall. done 'em!" something more than laziness explained the occasional absence of others from work. certain of the men would be missing for two or three days. during an unusually long absence of one of the older coopers, the men and lads rigged up a dummy figure, dressing it in whatever clothes of their own they could spare. they placed the dummy in an improvised coffin by the side of their missing comrade's bench, with an imitation tombstone at the head, bearing the inscription, "not dead, but drunk." the morning came when the delinquent turned up. a deep silence fell over the workshop as he entered. men and apprentices alike suddenly appeared to be absorbed in work. the late-comer pretended not to see the effigy by his bench. with quiet deliberation he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and lighted the furnace-fire. no one spoke. the old man brought two handfuls of shavings and piled them on the fire until it roared again. then suddenly he seized the dummy figure and hurled it on the flames. everybody sprang forward to snatch his garments from the fire. one rescued his coat, another his vest, another his cap, another his muffler, another his pair of boots, the old man belabouring each in turn. "ah!" he cried with a chuckle, as the singed garments were dragged away. "i knew that would find you all out." quaint and boisterous customs were observed when an apprentice was out of his time. the greater part of the day was given up by men and boys alike to revelry and horse-play. the ceremonies began at about eleven o'clock in the morning, to be kept up for the rest of the day. first, the apprentice was seized and put into a hot barrel. round him stood some fifty men and boys checking every attempt he made to get out, tapping him with hammers on the head and fingers and shoulders every time he made an effort to escape. when his clothes--the last he was to wear as an apprentice--had been singed in the barrel out of all further use, he would be dragged out and tossed in the air by about a dozen of the strongest men. only once did the employer try to stop these boisterous interludes. he never tried again. the men laid hold of him, and for about five minutes treated him to a vigorous tossing. it then became the bruised and singed apprentice's privilege to pay for bread and cheese and drink. in the afternoon the men turned the yard into an imitation fair. flags and bunting were put up and side shows were improvised. one feature was to persuade the fattest men to walk the tight-rope. on the whole, will had a happy time as an apprentice, working hard and laughing hard, more than once threatened with dismissal because his spirit of fun led him into mischief. he became a good craftsman, and to this day boasts of being as skilful at his own trade as any man. he attributes this to the old spirit of craftsmanship that held good in his day. one incident during his apprenticeship helped to make him take a pride in what he made with his own hands. an old workman in the shop, after finishing a piece of work, set it in the middle of the floor and walked round it admiringly several times. "'pon my honour, one would think you'd made a thousand-horse-power engine," said the apprentice. "never you mind, sonny," replied the old workman. "whether it's a thousand-horse-power engine or not, _i made it myself_!" "that is the spirit i want to see revived among workmen to-day," crooks told the labour co-partnership association in , relating the incident at their annual exhibition at the crystal palace. he went on to say: i want to see workmen proud of what they make with their own hands. that is impossible in many workshops to-day because of the soulless way in which they are conducted. many workmen have got the idea they only exist for what other people can get out of them. i blame employers as much as workmen for this state of things. there are in the country some excellent employers. unfortunately, they are becoming fewer. the individual employer is going out, and the limited liability company coming in, having as its one object the making of profit, utterly regardless of the bodies or souls of the men or women from whom the profit is wrung. the result of running works and factories for company dividends only has destroyed the old school of masters and men, both of whom had a pride in their work, both of whom stamped their work with the mark of their own individuality. to get back to a better state of things workmen must become their own masters, and the co-partnership association is showing men the way. it is teaching them to live and work with and for each other. i want men who groan under the injustice of so much in our industrial system to understand that they can do much for themselves. by combination and co-operation they can run businesses of their own. but they must first take to the water before they can swim. it means discipline, but trade unionism has meant discipline. the administrative capacity of workmen can be developed to an enormous extent yet. how are we going to train our men and women workers to take on the responsibilities of regulating their own lot in a better manner? trade unionists are now learning that instead of spending money on strikes it is better to spend it in starting workshops of their own. the time has come when labour leaders and others might well cease talking to the workers about their power and begin talking to them about their responsibilities. the day after this speech he received the following letter from george jacob holyoake, a few months before that veteran co-operator passed away:-- "against my will i was prevented from being present at the crystal palace, but that does not disqualify me from expressing my thanks for the wise and practical speech you made--in every way admirable." chapter vi tramping the country for work marriage--dismissed as an agitator--home broken up--"on the road"--timely help at burton--finding work at liverpool--bereavement--back in london--a second tramp to liverpool--feelings of an "out-of-work." on a grey morning in the december of two young people came out of st. thomas's church, bethnal green, man and wife. both were only nineteen years of age. the husband was will crooks; his wife the daughter of an east london shipwright named south. they set up their home in poplar, near the coopering yard where will was employed. at first they had to be content with apartments; then came a small tenement; soon after a little house of their own. it was fair and pleasant sailing for the first two or three years. he got a journeyman's full wages the first week he was out of his apprenticeship. it seemed as though he were to have an unbroken run of good fortune. the bright hopes soon collapsed. good craftsmanship and trade unionism, blended as they were in crooks, made him rebel against certain conditions of his work. finally he refused to use inferior timber on a job, and objected to excessive overtime. although the youngest among them, he addressed the workmen on the subject. a few days afterwards he was dismissed. he took his notice lightly enough, confident that as master of his trade he could soon secure work again. it was not to be. every shop and yard in london was closed to him. word had gone round that he was an agitator. try as he did, he could not break through the barrier that had been raised against him. wherever he applied, whether in rotherhithe, battersea, hackney, or clerkenwell, he was known as the young fellow who would not work with shoddy material and talked other men into the same view. the experience was the same at every place of call. "what's your name?" "crooks." "of poplar?" "that's me." "we don't want anyone." from several of these places he heard afterwards that the instant he was gone other men were taken on. since london was a closed door to him, he turned his back upon it, and set out tramping the country in search of work. with a fully-paid-up trade union card, he knew he could count on an occasional half-crown to help him on the way at those towns where his society had branches. his home had to be broken up. his wife with their child went to her mother's, there to await for weary weeks the result of her husband's first quest into the country. the only piece of good news came from liverpool. not until he reached that city did he get a job. he tramped into liverpool from burton-on-trent. never in his life, either before or since, did a silver coin mean so much to him as the half-crown given by a member of his own trade to help him on the road as he set out from burton for liverpool. twenty-nine years later crooks was speaking at a meeting of co-operators in burton when he recognised his former benefactor on the platform. he told the audience of his last visit to their town, remarking how on that occasion no one but this man offered him hospitality, whereas now, if he lived to be a hundred and fifty years of age, he would not be able to accept all the invitations he had received from friends and would-be friends to spend week-ends with them. his regret was, he told the meeting, that those good people did not begin to ask him earlier and that they did not think of asking other poor men in a similar plight to his when he first entered burton. by the time he dragged himself into liverpool he was without a sole to his boots. the journey was completed on the uppers of his boots, with the aid of string, a device he had learnt from friendly tramps on the road. having got what looked like a promising job, he invited his wife to join him with their child, enclosing the fare from his first week's wages. this work in liverpool had not been obtained without much weary searching. a good friend to the young fellow in his distress was the y.m.c.a. in that city. nearly thirty years later he addressed a crowded public meeting in the large hall of the liverpool y.m.c.a. he had an enthusiastic welcome when he rose to speak. i am very grateful to you for your kind welcome of me to-night. this hall has carried my memory back to when i first visited liverpool. i was then looking for work, knowing what it was to want a meal many a day. i don't know what i should have done without the many kindnesses i met with from liverpool people, and from none more hearty and truly helpful than i received here in this building. but liverpool is associated with one of the saddest memories in his life. this is how he refers to it:-- "my wife joined me, bringing our little girl, a bonny child of whom we were immensely proud. the little one pined from the day it reached liverpool and died within a month. i thought my wife would have followed the child to the grave within a day or two. i never saw her so much affected in all my life. she pleaded to be taken away from that place. 'anywhere,' she said, 'only let's get away.' so we buried our little girl in liverpool one rainy saturday afternoon, and came back to london to seek work the same night." it was the most miserable railway journey of his life. if anything, the misery was increased when as the dull dawn crept over london he and his wife stepped out of the train and walked the seven miles of silent streets between euston and poplar. no better fortune awaited them in london. the young husband sought work with no success. news reached him that his trade was thriving again in liverpool, so he set out to tramp there a second time. "it is a weird experience, this, of wandering through england in search of a job," he says. "you keep your heart up so long as you have something in your stomach, but when hunger steals upon you, then you despair. footsore and listless at the same time, you simply lose all interest in the future. "i have always been drawn towards canon liddon since reading an address of his in which he said that the roughest tramp upon the road was, in his eyes, one who might come to be numbered among those favoured by christ, and that the most brilliant and distinguished guest he had ever met had no higher possibility than that. "nothing wearies one more than walking about hunting for employment which is not to be had. it is far harder than real work. the uncertainty, the despair, when you reach a place only to discover that your journey is fruitless, are frightful. i've known a man say, 'which way shall i go to-day?' having no earthly idea which way to take, he tosses up a button. if the button comes down on one side he treks east; if on the other, he treks west. "you can imagine the feeling when, after walking your boots off, a man says to you, as he jingles sovereigns in his pocket, 'why don't you work?' that is what happened to me as i scoured the country between london and liverpool, asking all the way for any kind of work to help me along." i remember crooks recalling his experience at a dinner-party given by the hon. maud stanley at her westminster house. crooks was then a fellow-member with miss stanley of the metropolitan asylums board, and she invited us on that occasion to meet her friend professor wyckoff, the american author, who wrote "the workers." in "the workers" the author tells the story of how for a time he turned his back upon his usual well-to-do haunts in order to find out what earning one's own living by tramping from place to place doing manual work was actually like. crooks, who, perhaps unconsciously to himself, had become the chief entertainer at table, showed mr. wyckoff in a moment that, realistic though his experiences had been, he could not possibly enter into the feelings of the real out-of-work who had nothing but sixpence between him and starvation. however hard up mr. wyckoff might have been at times, he always had the consolation that if the worst came to the worst, funds awaited him at home. the ordinary workman tramping the country, said crooks, had no such feeling of a sure foundation somewhere, and it was only when you felt--as he had often felt when tramping for work--the utter hopelessness and loneliness of things, made doubly worse by the knowledge that wife and children were suffering too, that you could enter fully into the feelings of an out-of-work. evidently mr. wyckoff had not thought of this view before, but it seemed to me to mark the all-important difference between the amateur and the real sufferer. there are some things no man can play at, and the game mr. wyckoff, with the best intentions in the world, and with a good deal of self-imposed suffering, tried to play was one of them. there are some experiences of life which no one can ever have for the seeking only. they come; they can never be commanded. chapter vii one of london's unemployed a casual labourer at the docks--a typical day's tramping for work in london--demoralising effects of being out of a job--emptying the cupboard for a starving family--work found at last--doing the "railway tavern" a bad turn. in liverpool again the prospect was not what he had been led to believe. an odd job here and an odd job there still left him in want. at last, in response to the earnest entreaties of his wife, whom nothing could persuade to revisit liverpool, he returned to take his chance again in london. this time crooks determined to try to find work outside his own trade. he went down to the docks, where, by the aid of a friendly foreman, he got occasional jobs as a casual labourer. the sight of so many other poor fellows struggling at the dock gates proved more than he could bear. he turned away from the eager mass of men one morning, resolved never to join in the demoralising scrimmage again. with a trade of his own he felt he had no right to take a job for which so many men, more helpless than himself, were daily striving. the morning he turned away finally from the docks was the very one on which his friend the foreman had promised him a job if he turned up at the gates by noon. the piteous appeals of the hundreds of other men for the half-dozen places offered so affected him that he hung back and sat down out of sight. he saw the foreman scan the crowd, looking for him, and then engage the number of men he wanted and go inside. crooks went off to seek work in other quarters. one typical day of tramping for work in london he described to me thus:-- "i first went down to the river-side at shadwell. no work was to be had there. then i called at another place in limehouse. no hands wanted. so i looked in at home and got two slices of bread in paper and walked eight miles to a cooper's yard in tottenham. all in vain. i dragged myself back to clerkenwell. still no luck. then i turned towards home in despair. by the time i reached stepney i was dead beat, so i called at a friend's in commercial road for a little rest. they gave me some irish stew and twopence to ride home. i managed to walk home and gave the twopence to my wife. she needed it badly. "that year i know i walked london until my limbs ached again. i remember returning home once by way of tidal basin, and turning into the victoria docks so utterly exhausted that i sank down on a coil of rope and slept for hours. "another day i tramped as far as beckton, again to no purpose. i must have expressed keen disappointment in my face, for the good fellows in the cooperage there made a collection for me, and i came home that night with one and sevenpence. "there are few things more demoralising to a man than to have a long spell of unemployment with day after day of fruitless searching for work. it turns scores of decent men into loafers. many a confirmed loafer to-day is simply what he is because our present social system takes no account of a man being out of work. no one cares whether he gets a job or goes to the dogs. if he goes to the dogs the nation is the loser in a double sense. it has lost a worker, and therefore a wealth-maker. secondly, it has to spend public money in maintaining him or his family in some kind of way, whether in workhouse, infirmary, prison or asylum. "a man who is out of work for long nearly always degenerates. for example, if a decent fellow falls out in october and fails to get a job say by march, he loses his anxiety to work. the exposure, the insufficient food, his half-starved condition, have such a deteriorating effect upon him that he becomes indifferent whether he gets work or not. he thus passes from the unemployed state to the unemployable state. it ought to be a duty of the nation to see that a man does not become degenerate." in his own unemployed days, he awoke every morning with the half-suppressed prayer: "god help me to-day. where shall i look for work to-day? where can i earn a bob?" actual starvation was only kept away by occasional help from his own and his wife's people and by the few shillings out-of-work pay which his trade union allowed him every week. even in those days he was never so hard up as not to be ready to help others in greater privation. he was out one morning when he met a man whom he knew slightly near his own house. he could see that he looked ill and that he wanted to speak. so he went up to him and said: "well, mate, what's amiss?" with tears in his eyes the man told his tale--his tale of starvation. he was afraid or ashamed to ask for relief, and there had been no food in his house for over twenty-four hours. crooks told the man to go home, promising to come to him presently. he himself went back to his own home and told his wife. "let's see what we've got," she said. all she found was a portion of a packet of cocoa and a loaf of bread. she made a large jug of cocoa and gave her out-of-work husband that and the loaf to take round to the other man's family. "it's all we have in the house," she said; "but we've had our breakfast, and they haven't." work came at last in an unexpected way. he was returning home after another empty day when he hailed a carman and asked for a lift. "all right, mate, jump up," was the response. as they sat chatting side by side, the carman learnt that his companion was seeking work. "what's yer trade?" he inquired. "a cooper." "why, the guv'nor wants a cooper." so instead of dropping off at poplar, crooks accompanied the carman to the works, and he who had tramped the country and london so long in search of a job was at last driven triumphantly to work in a conveyance, "like a lord mayor or a judge," as he afterwards described it. on the first pay day, glad at heart, he was about to start for home. the men stopped him. "we always go to 'the railway tavern' on saturdays. a decent chap keeps the 'railway.' come and join us." "not me." "won't the missus let you?" "no, she won't." throughout the next week he was mercilessly "chipped" in the workshop and referred to as the man whose missus was waiting for him at the other end. at the close of the next week he was asked after pay-time-- "did the missus meet you last week?" "yes, and she'll meet me this week too." "come along, old chap, no kid, have a parting glass." "no, i can part without the glass." at the end of the third week a fellow-workman whispered: "what time are you going home, will?" "same time." "let me leave with you, will you?" "certainly. your missus been at you?" "yes; the fact is, will, i stayed drinking down here until i'd blown eight bob last week. it meant my two little girls had to go without their promised pairs of new boots." "all right, jim; i'll give you a whistle when it's time to go." at the end of six weeks the "railway" was without a customer from that shop. that work was a stepping-stone to another and a better job at wandsworth. his new employer urged him to leave poplar and take a house near the works. "but suppose you pay me off when the busy time passes?" said crooks. "i shan't do that," was the answer. "i like your work too well." the day came when crooks was offered work nearer poplar. when he handed in his notice the wandsworth employer became wrathful. "never mind, i'll come back here when i'm out of work again," said crooks good-naturedly. "will you? i can promise you there'll be no more work for you here. leaving me like this!" "oh, yes, there will. you haven't kept me on for love, you know. i like you, and i'll come here for another job directly i'm out of work again." it was not to be. crooks was never out of work again in his life. years later he found himself sitting next to his old wandsworth employer at a public dinner. "you never came back to claim that job," said the good-natured old man. "i will when i'm out of work--as i promised." "ah! you don't know how often i wished you would come back. you may have talked to the men a good deal about the rights of labour, but i never knew the rights of employers to be observed so honourably. you seemed to keep the men more sober and the work up to a higher level of efficiency than i had ever known before. that's why i wanted you to come and live near, thinking to make sure of you. that's why i was so angry when you handed in your notice." chapter viii the college at the dock gates commending himself to his employers--"crooks's college"--his style of teaching--specimens of his humour--admonitions against drink and betting. with regular work well assured, crooks was able to give more time and study to public affairs and to the labour movement. for an unbroken period of ten years he held a good position in a large coopering establishment in east london, where he was held in high esteem by men and masters alike, the latter more than once intimating to him they would make it worth his while to remain in their service all his life. crooks was always proud of the good standing he held in his employers' eyes. he knew it was due solely to his skill as a workman, for it certainly did not tell in his favour that he was beginning to be known more widely than ever as a labour agitator. this, as a term of derision, used to be applied to all labour leaders in the 'eighties and long afterwards. certain writers and speakers who wished to be particularly derisive would refer to them as paid agitators. even to this day an occasional echo of the cry reaches the ears. the offenders belong to the same school as the lady who withdrew her money from the bank after the general election of because so many labour members had been returned. it was during these years of regular work that crooks founded his famous college. he began a series of sunday morning labour meetings outside the east india dock gates, which have been continued ever since. the place in association with these sunday meetings came to be known among poplar workmen as crooks's college. many a useful lesson has he driven home to his working class audiences at his college at the dock gates. he generally leads off with some little humorous fancy. "if you fellows only have a quid a week, don't despise your share in the country's government. you needn't go the length of the cockney taxpayer who rowed out to a man-o'-war at portsmouth. "'ship ahoy!' he shouts. 'ship ahoy!' "at last he makes someone hear. "'is the captain aboard?' says he. "'what d'yer want with the captain?' asks a bluejacket. "'feller,' says the taxpayer, big-like, 'just tell your captain that one of the owners of this 'ere ship wants to come aboard, and look slippy about it.' "the captain invites him on the deck, and he goes round the ship sniffing at this and complaining about that until the ship's carpenter gets riled. "'don't you know that i have a share in this ship, feller?' says the taxpayer. "'oh, have yer?' says the carpenter, handing him a chip. 'you just take your share then, and get over the side double quick, or i shall be under the necessity of showing you the way.'" when the east end was suffering from one of the water famines that used to be fairly common before the supply was taken over by a public authority, he never tired of calling the attention of his dock gate meetings to the fact that the company went on charging the same rates, whether there was water or not. "when i got home last night, my wife said, 'will, the water's come on at last; but just look at it--it's not fit to drink!' so i went to the tap and saw a lot of little things swimming about in the water. the wife was alarmed, and asked what we should do. 'my dear,' i replied, 'for goodness sake don't say anything about it to anybody. if this gets to the ears of the company they might charge us for the fish as well as for the water.'" never was instruction at college imparted with so many human touches and humorous sallies. he noticed that many of the men slunk away when the public-houses opened. he made it a practice to commence his own address a few minutes before the public-houses threw open their doors. in this way he kept most of the men about him. the waverers among them were shamed into staying by little thrusts like these:-- "some of you chaps imagine you can only be men by taking the gargle. if you could see yourselves sometimes after you've been indulging you would jolly soon change your opinion. perhaps you've heard of the man who asked for a ticket at the railway junction. "'what station?' asked the booking clerk. "'what stations have you got?' he stammered, clinging to the ledge for support. "but even that chap was not so bad as the railway guard who went home a bit elevated. he saw the cat lying on the hearthrug, and chucked it in the oven, slamming the door and yelling, 'take yer seats for nottingham.' "i've heard men say they only take it because the doctor orders it. one of these chaps was caught having secret nips of whiskey. 'bless yer heart!' he says. 'don't yer know i has ter take it for me health? i suffers wiv tape worms.' "one of the chief reasons some of you chaps booze is because you are too sociable-like in standing treat. a rattling boozer was once screwed up to the point of signing the pledge. he writes his name, puts his hand in his pocket, and asks how much? "'nothing to pay,' says the young lady, smiling. "'what? nothing to pay?' he repeats in amazement. 'do i get it for nothing? do you mean to say that i, a working man, am offered something for nothing?' "'nothing to pay,' repeats the young lady. "'well, 'pon my honour, this is the first time i've ever got anything for nothing. come and have a drink.'" "some of you fellows who live on the isle of dogs have seen the allotment system started there. i asked one of the publicans of the neighbourhood why he complained about the allotments. 'why,' said he, 'the men used to come in and have a gargle on saturday afternoons, but now they go and dig clay.' "but ask the men's wives what they say about the allotments, and you will hear a different story. the men now have time not only to cultivate their plots, but to look after their families. "how many of our poor women who give way to drink can trace their descent to the neglect of the men who married them. it may be hard to be burdened with a drunken wife, but often enough a good deal of the fault is on the side of the husband because of his early neglect. he should have strengthened her. he should have shared her sorrows as well as her joys. we ought not to leave a woman to bear all her own burdens. many a young wife breaks down because of early neglect at a time when she ought to be built up, when it would be real manliness on the husband's part to put up with a little trouble for her sake. "some of you giggle when you see a man nursing a baby in long clothes. what is there to giggle at? i carried a baby in long clothes up the stairs of shadwell station the other day, because i saw it was too much for the poor mother who was struggling along. "'here,' i said, 'hand it over; i'm used to that sort of job.' "my wife heard of it before i got home, and she said to those who told her, 'well, if the woman didn't thank him, i shall when he comes home.' "perhaps you thought i looked a fool clambering up the stairs with a baby in long clothes. i don't think so. i satisfied myself by doing what evidently wanted doing." he hurried away from his college by the dock gates one sunday morning to keep an appointment to address the isle of dogs progressive club. he found less than a dozen men in the lecture hall, while the bar and the billiard room were crowded. he walked out without a word and sat down in the club garden. "this is all right. i'm enjoying myself perfectly here," he told the bewildered secretary. "if they prefer to play at billiards and to drink beer, let them. i am quite content to enjoy this garden." in ten minutes time not a man remained in the bar or billiard room. the lecture hall was filled. "we deserve your reproach, will," shouted someone from the audience when at last he stepped on to the platform. if he was severe on drink he was more severe on betting. "many a man here," he told one of his sunday morning audiences at the dock gates, "can tell me the pedigree of half-a-dozen race-horses. it shows you can think if you like. but that kind of thinking is what i call thinking off-side." crooks had a hundred happy illustrations for urging upon his working-class hearers the duty of citizenship and co-operation. "we chaps are like the old lady's cow that gave a good pail of milk regular, but often kicked it over. we have built up trade unions and friendly societies and co-operative societies that stand for the best working class organisations in the world. but we have a weakness for kicking the pail over. how? because we are constantly spoiling our own good work by allowing other classes to do all the governing of the country. "it reminds me of a group of boys i saw coming home from a football match. "'how did yer get on?' they were asked by other lads in the street. "'won.' "'how many?' "'seven to nothing.' "'been playing a blind school?'" and then crooks would go on: "well, we workers have been the blind school, and we have been allowing other classes to score goals against us all the time. if we haven't been blind we've certainly been blindfold. tear the bandage off your eyes. be men." behind all his banter there was a serious message in all his sunday morning addresses. "labour may be the new force by which god is going to help forward the regeneration of the world," he told his hearers. "heaven knows we need a little more earnestness in our national life to-day, and if the best-born cannot give it, the so-called base-born may. we common people have done it before. who knows but what it is god's will that we should do it again? we can all afford to laugh at that dear lady, bless her, who could not bear the idea that some of the apostles were fishermen, and who solemnly asked her minister whether there was not some authority for believing that they were owners of smacks. "we working men are gaining power. let us see that we also gain knowledge to use the power, not to abuse it. parliament is supposed to protect the weak against the strong. it doesn't pan out like that. after all these years of popular education, isn't it about time we taught the dialectical champions in the house of commons that the people are the creators of parliament, and that we demand as its creators that parliament should be at the service of the people and all the people, instead of at the service of the powerful and the wealthy? "but don't think that parliament and municipality can do everything. they are not going to make the world perfect. what they can do and what we should insist on their doing is to make it easier to do right and more difficult to do wrong. they can deal with those 'who turn aside the needy from judgment and take away the right of the poor of my people,' but they cannot make good men and good women. that must depend upon ourselves." that college at the dock gates can point to some notable achievements. the blackwall tunnel, which has its entrance at the very spot where the meetings take place, was one of the earliest things the college agitated for. between the dock wall and the tunnel is a large municipal gymnasium and recreation ground, the scheme for which was first unfolded by crooks at the college, when the ground was a waste and the children were without play-places. crooks's college began the campaign for a free library. the well-equipped public library that now stands in the high street was its first achievement. the college founded the poplar labour league, which first introduced crooks to public life. crooks's college first created the demand for a technical institute for poplar. the institute is now an accomplished fact, comprising the best municipal school of marine engineering in the country. crooks's college started the campaign for the footway tunnel under the thames between the isle of dogs and greenwich, which now serves the daily convenience of thousands of work-people. crooks's college began that policy of humane treatment of workhouse inmates which had a great deal to do with improved administration of the poor law all over the country. crooks's college was the originator of the farm colony system in this country. crooks's college stood out for the welfare of poor law children. crooks's college broke down the corrupt practices on three of the old municipal authorities in poplar. and perhaps the greatest occasion in the history of the college at the dock gates was that sunday morning in june, , that followed the opening of the local government board inquiry into the administration of the guardians. for the week previously the press and the local municipal alliance had done their best to poison the mind of poplar against its long-trusted labour man. how would the college fare now? the attendance at the dock gates that morning was one of the largest on record. thousands of ratepayers were there, and when crooks walked through their ranks to the little portable rostrum he had one of the great receptions of his life. he urged them not to be discouraged because their cause seemed to be under a cloud, but to strengthen his hands in maintaining the integrity of public life and to possess themselves in quietness, confident that before long the accused would become the accusers. chapter ix from the cheering multitude to a sorrow-laden home the dock strike of --"our dock strike baby"--at the point of death--discouraging a missioner--before a house of lords committee--entrance upon public life--a widower with six children--second marriage. the great dock strike of nearly brought crooks to his grave. much of the brunt and burden of that famous struggle fell upon his shoulders. months before, he had prepared the way by his dock gate meetings. when at last the disorganised bands of dock and river-side labourers startled the industrial world by standing together as one man for better conditions of work and a minimum wage of sixpence an hour, will crooks was one of the half-dozen labour leaders who directed the campaign to its historic triumph. seldom, while the strike lasted, did he take his clothes off. he worked at his own trade during the day and gave nearly the whole of the night to the strikers. the outdoor meetings he addressed kept him going up to midnight. the early morning hours saw him lending a hand at the organising offices and relief stations until the dawn called him to his ordinary daily work again. there were times when he gave both day and night to the dockers, preferring to lose time at his own work rather than miss an opportunity of lending a hand to his less fortunate fellows. sometimes he would accompany the men in their demonstrations through the city and the west-end. those daily marches of the dock labourers opened london's eyes. the orderliness of the ragged battalions, headed by "the man in the straw hat," who was afterwards to take a seat in the cabinet--john burns--was as impressive as their numbers. they were forbidden to use bands of music in the city streets, so the men conceived the ingenious device of whistling. it had a curious effect, some fifty thousand men whistling the "marseillaise" all the way from aldgate to temple bar. when crooks did get home for an hour or two in the evening it was not to rest, but to sit by the bedside of his ailing wife and tend the youngest of his children. ill though his wife was, little though she saw of him during the strike, she urged him from her sick bed to keep on helping the dockers. "don't mind me, will," she told him, when he would peep in anxiously after many hours' absence. "i shall be all right if you can only pull those poor dockers through." he came in one night after nearly two days' absence, having arranged to spend the whole of that evening by her bedside. she had just given birth to a son--"our dock strike baby," as he came to be called for long afterwards, now a promising apprentice in a thames shipbuilding yard. she was very happy at the good news he brought of the progress of the strike. she was happier still at the prospect of his being spared for his first evening at home. presently the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard in the street. something important had happened. the men wanted will crooks. would he come again? he looked at his wife. she must decide. "go, will," she said. "never let it be said your wife kept you from helping those in need." the reaction came after the victory. when the dockers in their thousands were back at work rejoicing at having won their sixpence an hour, crooks lay at the point of death in the london hospital in whitechapel road. it was the first time he had been ill in his life. friends feared this first illness was to be his last. not until after a struggle of thirteen weeks could he be pronounced out of danger. he is fond of telling this incident that occurred in the hospital:-- "when i was approaching convalescence, and naturally fairly happy at the thought of soon being able to get out and return home, a missioner, as i think he was called, came to see me as i lay in bed in the hospital. he said to me quite bluntly, 'are you not a miserable sinner?' "i said: 'no; i may be a sinner, but i am not a miserable one just now.' "the missioner left my side in disgust, and then returned and asked to be allowed to send me a testament. i consented, and received in a day or two one marked in several places with red ink, apparently intended to impress upon me what a depraved and miserable creature i was. "the missioner called again, and questioned me as to whether i had read the marked passages and what i thought of them. "i told him that, as applied to me, they were not true. "i shall never forget the look i received, and i expect i was given up as a lost man. "a few minutes after he had left my ward a patient from another ward came to see me, and said:-- "'i say, twenty-five, that's the way to get rid of them.' "i said, 'what have _you_ done to get rid of him?' "'oh,' he answered. 'the missioner said, "are you not a miserable sinner?" and i said "yes"; and then he said, "thank god for that," and went away.'" soon after crooks came out of the hospital he made his first appearance in a public capacity in parliament. he was invited on july th, , to give evidence before the committee of the house of lords on the infant life insurance bill. it was seriously argued at the time that working class parents deliberately neglected their children for the sake of the insurance money. the bill actually proposed that the insurance money be kept out of the hands of the parents altogether and paid to the undertaker. the offending clause disappeared after crooks's evidence. the _evening news_, which headed its report of the day's proceedings "a working man shows the weak points in the new bill," summarised what crooks told the committee thus:-- a journeyman cooper from poplar, evidently a thoroughly straightforward and independent working-man of more than average intelligence and facility of expression, gave evidence yesterday before the committee of the house of lords, presided over by the bishop of peterborough. he said he objected to the provision in the bill for the payment of insurance money to the undertaker. it was not merely to cover the actual expenses of burial that the working man insured his child, but to provide "black" and to meet other unavoidable expenses. if insurance were abolished workmen would be obliged to fall back on the old practice of "friendly leads," which generally led to drinking at public-houses. he knew thousands of families of working people, and was perfectly certain that there was not among them one mother lacking maternal affection. there was no sacrifice the poor would not make for their children, and it would be felt as a great reproach to say that a child had not been properly cared for. in other cases bad mothers would be bad mothers under any circumstances, and it was for the criminal law to find them out; but if there was one bad in a thousand he did not see why nine hundred and ninety-nine respectable persons should be punished. to stop child insurance, witness said in reply to lord norton, would punish honest parents and do no good whatever. it was about this time that the working people of poplar began to urge him to go into public life. they elected him a member of the poplar board of trustees, in regard to which he had recently unearthed a notorious scandal. then he was made a library commissioner in recognition of the prominent part he had taken in persuading poplar to adopt the act. soon afterwards he was returned as one of the two poplar representatives to the london county council. the cloud that had hung over his home all through the dock strike was to grow yet darker. he had not been on the county council many weeks when his wife died. she had barely recovered from the illness that kept her bedfast during the exciting days of the strike. then there came the three anxious worrying months as her husband lay between life and death in the hospital. the worry wore her out, and a brave god-fearing woman of the people went down to her grave commanding her husband to work on. thus, at the commencement of his public career and while still in his thirties, crooks found himself a widower with six children on his hands, the youngest a baby. among the many letters of sympathy that poured in upon him, that which got nearest to his heart came from one whose acquaintance he had but recently made, who described himself as "a fellow sufferer under a like bereavement." the writer was lord rosebery, then chairman of the london county council. all that first year of crooks's public life was gone through while he was bearing heavy burdens at home. his new duties as london county councillor, the many urgent calls to help the labour movement in other quarters, now that he was beginning to be known far beyond the bounds of poplar, kept him away from home often until a late hour. all this added greatly to his domestic cares, since he had to be both mother and father to his children. the eldest daughter, fourteen years of age, managed bravely; but many a night he turned away from addressing the cheering multitude of a crowded, glittering hall and went to a cheerless home to find the youngest children crying. he would help to wash them, to mend their clothes, and to cook for them. a year's experience convinced him that neither he nor the children could go on in that way. his aged mother rendered all the help her growing infirmities would allow. the old lady, with her married children's aid, now lived in modest comfort in a little house off the high street. there lodged with her a young nurse engaged at a neighbouring institution, whose maiden name was elizabeth lake, a native of gloucestershire. crooks laid his case before her. she consented to become his wife and bring up his children. they were married in poplar parish church in . the union has been a singularly happy one. mrs. crooks has done more than bring up the children. she has guided and inspired her husband in all his public life. so much so, that when some eight years later he laid down his robes of office after a successful year as mayor of poplar, he stated publicly in acknowledging a presentation to himself and the mayoress:-- "without my wife's aid i would have been of little use in my public work. whenever i return home troubled or anxious, or defeated on some pet scheme, i never have from my wife anything but cheering and encouraging words. she it is who has made my public life possible. she it is who deserves your thanks far more than i." chapter x a labour member's wages the will crooks wages fund formed--the poplar labour league--crooks's election to the london county council--friends outside the labour movement--money no substitute for personal service--refusing highly-paid posts--offer of a house rent-free for life declined--not risen from the ranks. how came it that a working man like crooks was able to give his whole time to public work? it was simply because his fellow workmen wished it. they went to him in deputation in the early 'nineties, and said to him in effect:-- "look here, crooks. you can be more useful to us in public life than at the workman's bench. we want you to stand for the london county council and some of the local bodies. give up your work and we'll raise for you from among ourselves an amount equal to your present wages." to which crooks replied:-- "all right, mates, since you wish it. but understand! as soon as you tire of me, no grumbling behind my back. come forward and say so plainly, and i'll go back to the bench at once." so the will crooks wages fund was formed by the poplar labour league. the first treasurer was the rev. h. a. kennedy, of all hallows', blackwall. afterwards the then rector of poplar (dr. chandler) was invited by the working men to become treasurer of the fund, and he held the office until called away to a colonial bishopric. we have seen how the poplar labour league came into being. it was one of the first achievements of crooks's college by the dock gates. originally it was named the poplar labour election committee. its first executive consisted of the rev. h. a. kennedy and local representatives of the london trades council, the engine drivers' and firemen's union, the watermen's society, the dockers' union, the philanthropic coopers' society, the east london plumbers' union, the federated trade and labour unions, and the gasworkers' union. the league was one of the pioneers of labour representation in this country. long before the british labour party organised the present system of paying its members of parliament, this little league in poplar for an unbroken period of a dozen years had shown how men from the ranks of labour could be maintained in public life. the league had a motto: "the aim of every workman, whatever his task, whether he labours with axe, chisel, or lathe, loom or last, hammer or pen, hands or head, should be the ideal, the best, the perfect." the league was successful from the start. its earliest effort was put forth at the london county council election of . the result of that effort can be judged from the following remarks in the league's first annual report:-- the return of will crooks to the london county council marks an epoch in the life of industrial poplar. from time immemorial this hive of industry has been represented by employers of labour and wealthy capitalists. their record is now broken. labour has awakened to a sense of its duty. we hope the awakening will be permanent, and that worthy representatives may be found to fill the vacancies on the various administrative and legislative bodies. we suggest to all working men's societies that wherever and whenever it is possible they should subscribe to the labour member's wages fund, for be it remembered that our member is a representative of all classes and not of one particular individual class; and so long as he retains our confidence it is our duty to support him to our utmost ability. the response of the trade societies and workmen and friends generally was such that within a few months the league by a unanimous vote decided to raise the labour member's wages from £ to £ s. a week to meet his travelling expenses. for the first seven or eight years of his public life that was absolutely the only source of crooks's income. the league remained faithful to its early pledge all the time. through good and ill report, through all the changes and dissensions which such an organisation was bound to cause, the league never once faltered in its support of crooks. regularly at its annual meetings the league passed a vote of thanks to "our representative on the l.c.c. for his untiring devotion to labour's cause and his perseverance in initiating social reform so beneficial to the working classes. they further desire to record their perfect confidence in him and congratulate him on the success of his work." many trade societies other than those on the original list became subscribers to the wages fund through their local branches. among them were the amalgamated society of engineers, the stevedores' labour protection league, the london saddle and harness makers' society, the postmen's federation, the london carmen's trade union, the friendly society of ironfounders, the municipal employees' association, and the amalgamated society of railway servants. certain admirers of crooks outside the labour movement also sent subscriptions to the league for the wages fund. canon and mrs. barnett and dr. clifford were occasional subscribers; so were mrs. bernard shaw, mr. cyril jackson, mrs. ruth homan, mr. g. w. e. russell, mr. sidney webb, sir melville beachcroft, canon scott holland, mr. fred butler, the editors of two or three london newspapers, and both conservative and liberal members of parliament. occasionally working men in distant parts of the country who had heard crooks speak or watched his public work would send in their mite, generally anonymously. one such contribution, sent during the woolwich by-election, consisted of four penny stamps, stuck on a torn piece of dirty paper, on which were written the words:-- will you please except four stamps toward the expens of will crooks election and may god bless him in being successful in winning the seat for labour from a working man. that was all. crooks keeps the stamps and the note to this day. this may be the proper place to make public another fact bearing on his financial position. many people have sent cheques to him direct, some of these marked for his own personal use, some for helping the poor as he thought best, others containing nothing beyond a brief note without name or address like the following:-- this is sent by a well-wisher, who believes that you are an honest, straightforward fellow with a large heart for those less fortunate than yourself. every sum received in this way crooks has given to the poor. he has neither taken a penny for his own personal use nor allowed a penny to pass into the coffers of the labour league. in one distressful winter over £ was thus sent to him and his wife. with the co-operation of a local committee, the whole of this sum was spent in employing out-of-work women and girls in making garments for their needy neighbours. by these means dozens of families were saved from the workhouse. crooks discourages those who give money only. "give part of yourself rather than part of your wealth," he tells them. he has little sympathy with people who give money and then run away. a person once called at his house during a bad winter and offered him £ . "i am anxious about the poor people, mr. crooks," said the visitor, "so i've brought down this money for you to help them." "have you?" was the response. "but what are _you_ going to do?" "oh, i'm going to the south of france. i cannot bear england in the winter." "then i advise you to take the five hundred pounds with you." "do you refuse it?" "absolutely. it is cowardly for a man like you to offer five hundred pounds and then run away. you ought to do more than give it; you ought to spend it. come down and see that the proper people get it. it is not so hard to raise five hundred pounds for the poor as it is to distribute it properly among the poor." the labour league did more than send crooks to the london county council. it secured representation on the local poor law and municipal bodies. it promoted social life as well as public life among the working classes of poplar. by entertainments, lectures, and excursions it carried brightness and pleasure into the lives of the workmen, their wives, and children. at christmas time it acted as a kind of santa claus to the poorest children of the district. it established a loan and thrift society, which soon had an annual turnover of £ , . throughout it all the league never for a moment deserted its labour member. crooks in his turn remained faithful to the league in face of several alluring offers. the one that tempted him most came from his own trade. before he quitted the workshop for public life a future managership had been hinted at. he had not been on the county council more than a few months when a vacancy in his former workshop occurred. at once he was approached and urged to give up the l.c.c. the post offered him carried with it a salary of £ . he had six children to bring up. there was the uncertainty as to the labour league being able to keep up the wages fund. he pondered over the matter carefully. his decision changed the current of his life. a manager, no matter how sympathetic, could not have remained long in the labour movement. besides, in this case there were hints of a future partnership. then it was that he decided calmly and deliberately to give his life not to money-making, but to the service of the people. he deliberately chose to remain a poor man in the service of poor men. having been made to bear so much of the care of this world, he determined that he would know nothing of the deceitfulness of riches. nothing has ever shaken him from that decision. from various quarters since then other good offers have come his way. one of them, a government post, must be regarded as a singular tribute to his worth, since the offer came from a conservative cabinet minister. the manager of a large firm engaged in carrying out public works to the value of over a million sterling, gave me at the time a frank opinion of crooks from the employers' standpoint. "i can't help liking that chap crooks. but it's a pity he's on what i call the wrong side. he's been negotiating with our firm until he has compelled us to pay our men several thousand pounds a year extra in wages. and a lot of thanks they give him for it! i overhear them sometimes talking at work. they say he wouldn't have got them more money if he hadn't been getting something out of it himself. now if crooks would only place his ability on the employers' side he could earn a thousand a year easily." for ten years after he entered public life crooks was content with the same five-roomed house in northumberland street where the deputation of working men found him when they came to invite him to stand for the county council. when he did move it was into a neighbouring street, gough street, where the upgrown family had the advantage of an additional room. that remains his home to this day. one of his ardent admirers in poplar, a well-to-do man, on learning he was moving from northumberland street, offered him a house of his own rent free. it was a large and pleasant house in east india dock road, boasting a garden front and back. the owner implored him to take it for the rest of his life, "as a small tribute from one who appreciates the splendid public services you have rendered to poplar." "it would never do for me to live in such a house," was crooks's reply in thanking the well-wisher. "my friends among the working people would fear i was deserting their class, and would not come to me as freely as they come now. my enemies would say, 'look at that fellow crooks; he's making his pile out of us.' a labour man like me must leave no opening for his enemies." we have seen, then, that the only source of crooks's income during the first years of his public life was the £ s. a week paid by the poplar labour league. after six or seven years this salary was increased to £ in view of his greatly widened sphere of public service. this payment was stopped in , when crooks joined the official labour party in the house of commons. then he received the usual payment of £ a year, given to each member of that party by the trade unionists of the country. a small additional sum has since been voted to him annually by the poplar league and the woolwich labour representation association to meet the out-of-pocket expenses inseparable from a member of parliament's life. in addition he has received an occasional fee for a public address. let these simple facts, then, be the answer to those people who, surprised at the amount of public work he carries out, keep asking suspiciously how he does it. crooks himself never hesitates to speak out, either in public or private, as to his financial position. "how do i do it?" crooks repeats to his working class audiences. "as a pioneer of paid labour representation i have been confronted with this question through the whole of my public career. all well and good; but why is the question not put to other politicians and public men? you working men have been the worst offenders. you never think of asking the question of such men seeking public positions as monopolists, food adulterators, scamping contractors, property sweaters, bogus company promoters, and others who fleece you at every turn. you never dream of asking it of young untried men fresh from the universities, who in many cases are only after the spoils of office. you are inclined to regard all these people as gentlemen. but let a man from your own ranks offer to serve you in public life, and always there are a crowd of objectors, generally thickest at public-house bars, who want to know where the labour man gets his money from? talk about the fierce light that beats upon a throne, what is it to the fierce light turned upon a labour representative? "how often, as i go about, do i hear of people saying sneeringly: 'look at that fellow crooks. who is he? he's only one of us, who has risen from the ranks.' you just tell these people that will crooks has not risen from the ranks; he is still in the ranks, standing four-square with the working classes against monopoly and privilege." chapter xi on the london county council the labour bench at the l.c.c.--its first party meeting--the programme--crooks's first speech in the county hall--the trade union wages principle adopted--one of the master-builders of the new london--retrospect--chairman of the public control committee--keeping an eye on the coal sack--the end of baby-farming in london. when crooks entered the london county council in he was a stranger to almost all outside the little circle of labour men sent up from other divisions. as a pioneer in labour representation in london he had more than the usual amount of suspicion and opposition to surmount. in those days a labour representative was often subjected to fierce personal attacks both from the class he represented and from the better-off classes whose domains for the first time working-men were entering. his every word and act were under a double microscope. he had to be a spartan in endurance and a saint in character. "imagine," he once said to me during his early days on the council, at the time when one of its members, a peer, was associated with a notorious case in the high court, "imagine what an outcry there would have been up and down the land if that councillor, instead of belonging to the house of lords, had been a labour representative." the labour bench at the county council set the standard for sound and steady municipal administration to the labour party of the entire country. john burns sat at one end of the bench, will crooks at the other. between them sat, at different times, men like will steadman, secretary of the parliamentary committee of the trades union congress and m.p. for stepney and later for central finsbury; j. ramsay macdonald, secretary of the labour party and m.p. for leicester; isaac mitchell, then secretary of the general federation of trade unions; h. r. taylor, of the bricklayers' society, at one time mayor of camberwell; c. w. bowerman, of the london society of compositors and m.p. for deptford; george dew, of the carpenters' and joiners' society and secretary of the workmen's cheap trains association; harry gosling, of the watermen's and lightermen's society; and w. sanders, of the fabian society and independent labour party. crooks took the minutes of the first party meeting of the labour bench, and he holds the document to this day. the meeting was held at the offices of the dockers' union in the mile end road on april th, , a few weeks after the election which first made a l.c.c. labour party possible. a line of policy was laid down that looks quite modest to-day, now that it has become an integral part of ordinary l.c.c. administration. at the time it was regarded by people outside the labour movement as rank revolution. in the dull and dingy room in mile end this little band of labour men declared for direct employment of labour and municipal workshops. the l.c.c. works department, the first of its kind in the country, was the result. they agreed on a minimum wage of sixpence an hour for labourers and ninepence for artisans, with a maximum working week of fifty-four hours. in many l.c.c. departments higher wages were afterwards secured, and in others an eight-hour day was introduced. they demanded a system of retiring pensions for workmen as for officials. this, too, in certain departments soon became practical politics on the county council. a few days later crooks was making his first speech at the county hall. he took part in the debate on the fair wages clause, the final form of which was settled on the principle he laid down. up to the birth of the london county council, which was only three years old when crooks joined it, municipal bodies knew nothing of fair wages clauses in contracts. the london county council set an example which has since been followed by public authorities all over the kingdom. this triumph for labour was not won without a keen struggle. all kinds of proposals were discussed with a view to defining a fair wage. it looked as though the labour bench were in danger of losing the day, when the situation was saved by what john burns afterwards told crooks was a happy inspiration. the county council was about to adopt what the labour bench regarded as an unsatisfactory resolution. crooks hastily wrote out an amendment which ultimately formed the basis of a settlement. he showed it to burns, as leader of the labour party, and the latter immediately got up and moved it. the words are worth repeating, since they supplied the foundation for a fair wages clause destined to become famous:-- that all contractors be compelled to sign a declaration that they pay the trade union rate of wages and observe the hours of labour and conditions recognised by the london trade unions, and that the hours of labour be inserted in and form part of the contract by way of schedule, and that penalties be enforced for any breach of agreement. before long this was the only proposal before the council. the original motion was withdrawn, while amendment after amendment directed against the proposal crooks had prepared was thrown out. moderate and progressive members got up to say that to enforce trade union wages was to fly in the face of political economy. it was this remark that drew from crooks his maiden speech. how little he was known then may be judged from the fact that the _daily chronicle's_ report the next day referred to him as mr. brooks. thus:-- mr. brooks said that political economy never took humanity into account, but unless humanity was considered there could be no justice to the worker. no contractor had ever been ruined by paying trade union rates of wages. the best wages had always meant the best workmen. trade unions were anxious that the surplus labour of the country should be employed, and they only asked the council to fix a minimum rate of wages. the sooner the council employed men direct the better. in the name of humanity and christianity he appealed to the council to adopt trade union rates of wages. the day this report appeared crooks received the following letter from "marxian," of the _labour leader_, his friend george samuel:-- my dear crooks,--are you the mr. brooks of to-day's _chronicle_ report? if so, permit me to congratulate you on your speech. it struck the one true note in all the weary debate. the awakened consciousness of man has already interfered pretty considerably with the economic "law of population" and must interfere even more drastically with the economic "law of supply and demand." both laws are for semi-brutes and not for men. to say that supply and demand shall settle wages is brutal. you may not be a very learned man, friend crooks, but at any rate you are not weighted with that false learning which slays the heart to feed the head. the fair wages debate went on from week to week at the county hall, not wearily, as crooks's correspondent suggests, but with much spirit and party feeling. finally lord rosebery, as chairman, advised the council to hold a special meeting to settle the question. before that meeting took place the chairman invited crooks to discuss the matter with him with a view to arriving at a compromise likely to commend itself to the majority. crooks refused to withdraw his claim for trade union wages, and after the two had had a long informal talk on the question, lord rosebery accepted the labour member's view. when the special meeting assembled the late lord farrer (then sir thomas farrer) carried an amendment to the trade union motion. by this amendment the word "london" was deleted from the motion, and it was made to read that contractors should "pay the trade union rate of wages and observe the hours of labour and conditions recognised by the trade unions _in the place or places where the contract is executed_." it will be seen, then, that the principle of trade union wages as laid down by crooks remained intact. on this principle the l.c.c. fair wages clause was established. it stipulates that the "rates of pay are to be not less nor the hours of labour more than those recognised by associations of employers and trade unions and in practice obtained." it provides further that "where in any trade there is no trade union, the council shall fix the rates of wages and the hours of labour." the labour councillor for poplar was soon on the warpath again. he called the council's attention to the low wages paid to some of the park attendants. he instanced the man in charge of red lion square, who was receiving no more than thirteen shillings a week. "the man's not worth more," shouted a member. "he's got a wooden leg." "yes, but he hasn't got a wooden stomach," came the retort from the labour bench. and the man with the wooden leg, as well as other park attendants, had their wages brought up to the living standard. crooks soon became a good all-round municipal administrator, as well as a labour representative. he had stated in his first election address:-- as a workman i should seek especially to represent the interests of the working classes who form three-fourths of the ratepayers of poplar, while giving every attention to the general work of the london county council and to the general interests of poplar. i am heartily in favour of what is known as the london programme--of home rule for london, as enjoyed by other municipalities; of the relief of the present ratepayers by taxing the owner as well as the occupier; and of the equalisation of rates throughout london for the relief of the poorer districts. i am in favour of municipal ownership or control of water, tramways, markets, docks, lighting, parks, and the police. i would support all measures which would help to raise the standard of life for the poor, especially in the way of better housing and a strict enforcement of the public health acts. crooks, in fact, became one of the master-builders of the new london which the l.c.c. created. in face of heavy opposition he was one of that strenuous band of stalwarts who in the 'nineties raised london out of the chaos and darkness that reigned before the county council was called into being, and gave the capital for the first time a sense of civic unity. in later years the claims of parliament turned much of his energy into other useful channels. but to this day he still remains a member of the london county council, and though now so much engrossed in national politics, he is none the less proud of his record in the service of london. he never looks back to the strenuous 'nineties on the county council without being thankful. "i believe we put new life into the municipal politics of the whole country in those days," he tells you. "the london county council showed the people of england what great powers for good lay in the hands of municipalities. we became a terror to all the monopolists who had fattened on london for generations. we struck at slum-owners, ground landlords, the music-hall offenders, food adulterators, and those who robbed the poor by unjust weights. we swept the tramway and water companies out of london, and by substituting public control gave the people better and cheaper services. we broke down the contractors' ring and started our own works department, the worst abused but the most successful and the most daring municipal undertaking of the last quarter of a century. "they were glorious days. that ten years' struggle between the people and the monopolists was a strife of giants. the victory we gained in london was a victory for progressive municipal government all over the country. "we on the labour bench were in the front of the battle all the time. while the big campaigns were going on we were not neglecting the smaller duties. we carried the county council right into the working-man's home. we not only protected poor tenants from house-spoilers and extortionate water companies, we gave a helping hand to the housewife. we saw that the coal sacks were of proper size, that the lamp oil was good, the dustbin emptied regularly, that the bakers' bread was of proper weight, that the milk came from wholesome dairies and healthy cows, that the coster in the street and the tradesman in the shop gave good weight in everything they sold." for several years crooks was a member and at one time chairman of the public control committee of the london county council. it was this committee that looked after these numerous small duties bearing so important a relation to the working-man's home. crooks kept a keen eye on the coal sack. it was found that all over london coal was being delivered in sacks too small to hold the prescribed weight. there was consternation among the offending dealers when the county council began to pounce down upon them. in reference to this matter crooks tells a quaint story. during one of the l.c.c. elections he heard a couple of lads in heated altercation. "the county council! don't you talk to me about them people," one of them cried. "they oughter be all at the bottom of the sea. they nearly ruined my pore ole dad." "that's bad. how was it?" "afore the county council was heard of a two-hundredweight sack didn't have to be no bigger 'n that"--holding his hand on a level with his chest--"but now they have to be this size"--and his hand went above his head. "nearly ruined the pore ole man," he added. "he ain't got over it yet." the public control committee did more than ensure proper weight; it saw to it that dealers did not deliver coal inferior in quality to that described on the ticket. it recovered damages from a merchant who misrepresented the quality of his coals. when the case was reported to the l.c.c. one of the older members, to whom this kind of thing was wholly a new exercise of public duty, declared that he supposed the council would next be insisting that the workman's sunday joint consisted of nothing but good meat. "and why not?" asked crooks, who followed him in the debate. "if the man pays for fresh meat and receives bad meat, and is too poor to take action himself, it is the duty of the public authority to see that he gets justice." there is no more ardent believer than crooks in ruskin's dictum that when a people apologises for its pitiful criminalities and endures its false weights and its adulterated food, the end is not far off. one at least of the pitiful criminalities of our modern civilisation--baby-farming--was dealt a blow during his chairmanship of the public control committee from which it is not likely ever to recover. he represented the l.c.c. before the committee of the house of commons which considered the infant life protection bill promoted by the council. that was before his own parliamentary career began. day after day the labour man strove with barristers and members of parliament in the commons committee room to safeguard infants of misfortune from cruelty and neglect. his advocacy prevailed. the bill was passed. baby-farming as then existing in london came to an end. chapter xii two of his monuments testimony from sir john mcdougall and lord welby--declining the vice-chairmanship of the l.c.c.--how crooks lost his overcoat--work on the technical education board--the blackwall tunnel--chairman of the bridges committee. from the first, crooks has shared the representation of poplar on the london county council with sir john mcdougall. the retired merchant was at the top of the poll in , while the labour man found himself elected as the second member with a thousand majority over the two moderate candidates. at every l.c.c. election since crooks has headed the poll. two such men, of course, differ in their public policy widely. this notwithstanding, sir john paid his labour colleague a striking tribute during the parliamentary by-election in woolwich. sir john was chairman of the london county council at the time. this is what he wrote to the woolwich electors a few days before the poll:-- mr. crooks has been my colleague on the london county council for the last twelve years, and during the whole of that time he has worked with great zeal and ability for the good of london.... his zeal is great, and his wisdom is as great as his zeal. i doubt whether anyone in london has done so much as he in all the measures which tend to the uplifting and the good of the people. lord welby, another of his colleagues on the county council, seized the same opportunity to tell the electors what he thought of their labour candidate. the two opinions, coming from men who had often opposed his policy, and whose walks of life lay so widely apart from his own, form no small tribute to the worth of his municipal work. said lord welby:-- mr. crooks's knowledge, his experience, his courage, his readiness of humour, his good temper, and, above all, his devotion to the work he has undertaken have made him one of the most useful, as well as one of the most popular, members of the london county council. his devotion was shown by his attendance. for thirteen years in succession he never missed a single council meeting. until parliament began to claim his time his record of attendance every year, both at council and committee meetings, stood among the half-dozen highest. after such a long unbroken service, it was bitter to be kept at home by an illness one tuesday, the day the l.c.c. meets. only one other councillor--sir william collins--had kept pace with him during those thirteen years. crooks wrote to his friendly rival from a sick bed:-- "to-day you go ahead in this long and pleasant competition between us. i cannot help thinking that after all it is a case of the survival of the fittest, for i cannot leave my room." "i hate to win under such conditions," said sir william in his cheering reply. at one time the progressive party proposed to nominate him as vice-chairman, a position entitling the holder to the l.c.c. chairmanship in the year following. the honour was declined. he believed he could be more useful as an independent member. so the sequel proved. as a member of the parks committee he never wearied in working for more open spaces and children's play-places in the poorer parts of london. it had long been a grievance to the working classes of london that nearly all the parks lay in the west end and the suburbs. since the poor districts were now too thickly covered with houses ever to permit of spacious parks being provided in their midst, crooks was one of the most earnest in pleading that the council should make amends by rescuing every vacant plot of land that remained and converting it into a recreation ground, no matter how small. his strenuous plea secured for the east-end alone three splendid open spaces. these are the bromley recreation ground, the tunnel gardens at poplar, and the island gardens that take their name from the isle of dogs. to visit any one of these, and see therein children playing and tired people finding rest, is to feel deeply what a benign influence has fallen over these poor neighbourhoods. crooks obtained this recreation ground for bromley at the cost of his overcoat. the open space was formed out of something like a morass by the banks of the lea. it lay hidden away in that labyrinth of sterile streets stretching southwards from bow bridge to the spot where the lesser river loses itself in the thames. he had persuaded a party of his county council colleagues to go with him to the neighbourhood. they all left their overcoats in the private omnibus that took them down from the county hall, while he showed them over the unwholesome little waste, as it then was, and pointed out its possibilities as a recreation ground. when they returned they learnt that one of the overcoats had been stolen. "i see it's not mine," said lord monkswell, pointing to his astrachan. "nor mine," added the hon. lionel holland, then m.p. for the division, as he picked up one lined with fur. "no," said crooks; "people about here daren't wear overcoats like those. if there's one missing, it's bound to be mine worse luck." he laughed at the loss then and many times afterwards, though he had a private reason for lamenting it; it was a recent gift from half a dozen working-men admirers. he laughed because he found he was able to make use of the incident in his long agitation on the l.c.c. to get the waste reclaimed. whenever his colleagues inquired where was this mysterious outlandish place he was so anxious to convert into a recreation ground, he would make reply:-- "it's the place where they preferred my coat to lord monkswell's." it came to be so well known on the county council as the place where crooks lost his overcoat, that when finally he got a definite proposal to buy the ground brought forward there was nothing but a good-natured acquiescence from every member. on the formation of the l.c.c. technical education board, he pleaded the cause of good craftsmanship with some effect. he carried a resolution conferring special facilities for technical instruction upon working-class districts. long after he retired from the board he received from a working-man's son a little proof of the practical results of his efforts. it came in the following letter:-- you will probably remember how some years ago you pleaded my case on the l.c.c., and how, through your influence, i was enabled to complete my studies in naval architecture at greenwich college. i am sure you will be glad to know that i have now passed my final examination and have just been admitted a member of the royal corps of naval constructors. my official appointment is that of assistant constructor in one of the principal government dockyards, where i have been on probation for the last twelve months or more. the final examinations were held last july in london and occupied more than three weeks, with an exam, almost daily. i feel that i owe you a debt of gratitude for pleading my cause at the time. my father had spent his all on me while i was at the college, and he being a toolsmith with seven children, you can well understand that what he had by him he could ill afford on me. my father and the others of the family desire to join with me in this letter of thanks and gratitude to you. mention has already been made of how crooks and the poplar labour league originated at the dock gate meetings the scheme for a technical institute for his native borough. so many times was this project delayed that he often told his poplar audiences he feared he would go down to posterity as the man who talked of an institute that never came. it was not until the early part of that the institute was opened. there is a reference to it in the annual report of the poplar labour league for that year:-- some years ago the league mooted the idea of a technical institute for poplar. mr. crooks took it up and carried it to official quarters, never letting the subject drop, until it stands at last an accomplished fact. a school of marine engineering and nautical academy has recently been opened in poplar. a handsome building has been erected in high street, and in it will be taught seamanship and navigation, marine engineering and naval architecture and propulsion, general mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, pattern making, carpentry and woodwork, and theoretical and practical chemistry, physics, and mechanics. nothing more appropriate could have been built in poplar. it is mainly due to the tireless efforts of mr. crooks that it exists, and it will stand as a monument to him. but poplar boasts a greater monument to its labour councillor. he was on the l.c.c. bridges committee during the making of blackwall tunnel. in its day the largest subaqueous tunnel in the world, its construction involved years of anxious labour. the tunnel carries vehicular and passenger traffic under the thames between poplar and greenwich, five miles below the nearest bridge, that at the tower. before it was made the two million londoners living east of the bridges were without any public means of crossing the river. to build an ordinary bridge was impossible with so many ships passing night and day to and from the london pool. it was decided to take the traffic under the thames by descending roadways leading to a tunnel some seventy feet below high-water mark. from the time he joined the council to that day in may, , when the king as prince of wales went down to poplar to open the tunnel, on behalf of queen victoria, crooks was among the keenest of the public men engaged in carrying that great engineering feat through. he made himself so thoroughly master of the details that he was in great demand all over london as a lecturer on the tunnel. the chief engineers on the works who heard the lecture congratulated him on the way he made intelligible and interesting the complicated system by which the tunnel was bored through the clay within a foot or two of the river bed. so satisfied were his fellow county councillors with the practical work he did at blackwall that on its completion they elected him chairman of the bridges committee. in that capacity he steered through the council and through a committee of the house of commons two other schemes for tunnels under the thames, one for foot passengers only between greenwich and the isle of dogs, and the other for general traffic between shadwell and rotherhithe, designed on a larger scale than the tunnel at blackwall. interest in these schemes, however, can never be so great as it was in the blackwall experiment, the first of its kind attempted. in the special blackwall tunnel number issued by the _municipal journal_, crooks figures among those described as "the men who made the tunnel." following sketches and portraits of sir alexander binnie (then the l.c.c. engineer, who designed the tunnel), of sir weetman pearson, m.p. (the contractor who executed the work), of sir william bull, m.p. (who was then chairman of the bridges committee), is a reference to other members of the committee who took a prominent part in the work. the first place after the chairman is given to crooks. the _municipal journal_ says:-- mr. will crooks, more than any other man, has made londoners acquainted with the tunnel. his popular lecture on blackwall tunnel has been given in all parts of london to all kinds of audiences, and everywhere the clear, picturesque description mr. crooks has given, aided by the lantern and his own genial wit, has made intelligible to londoners, old, young, rich, and poor, what is, after all, a somewhat dry and difficult subject. this only goes to show how closely mr. crooks himself has been identified with the construction of the tunnel. as one of the representatives of the poplar district, he has turned his membership of the bridges committee to good account by giving to the tunnel his special attention. no councillor has been so frequent a visitor to the various works, and it is doubtful whether any outsider went so many times into the compressed air. the workmen had just cause to bless the poplar county councillor. it was owing to mr. crooks's efforts that a revised schedule of wages was adopted. the result of this was that the contractors paid an additional £ , in wages. with all his zeal for the workmen, mr. crooks never once came in conflict with either the contractors or the engineers. men and masters at blackwall have all held the worthy labour councillor in the highest regard, and both are sorry that their long and cheerful connection must now be severed. the same number of the _municipal journal_ contained an article by crooks himself, entitled, "a labour view of the blackwall tunnel." the article displayed with what tact and modesty the labour member had safeguarded the interests of his own class without neglecting the interests of the people of london. it bore out the statement made in his first speech to the council, that no contractor ever lost by paying the trade union rate of wages. chapter xiii the task of his life begins elected to the poplar board of guardians--bumbledom in power--prison preferred to workhouse--poverty treated like crime. six months after his return to the london county council, poplar elected crooks to the board of guardians. when he took his seat as a member in the very board-room where thirty years before he clung timorously to his mother's skirt he knew that the task of his life had begun. he and his friend george lansbury were elected together--the only labour men on a board of twenty-four. they were the firstfruits of the reduced qualification for guardians introduced by mr. (afterwards lord) ritchie, at that time president of the local government board. to crooks belongs much of the credit for this welcome change. he felt keenly that working-men and women could never become guardians of the poor so long as the £ property qualification remained. he persuaded the poplar trustees, of whom he was one, to ask the local government board to make it possible for workpeople to become guardians. mr. ritchie, ever sympathetic towards the east-end, a division of which he was then representing in parliament, met this request from poplar by lowering the qualification to £ . his successor at the local government board, sir henry fowler, abolished the property qualification altogether. at the time of crooks's election the dissatisfaction felt by ratepayers with the old guardians was deep and bitter. the local government board has evidence in its possession that poor people of the district were saying at the time that if you wanted out-relief you must move into such and such a street, where rents were collected by someone who had influence with the board. inside the workhouse crooks found a state of things that seems incredible to-day. bumbledom held sway over paupers and guardians alike. there were guardians who had never been inside the workhouse once. when crooks attempted to enter as a guardian he found that the master had power to shut the gate upon him. without the master's permission, except on the regular house committee days, guardians had no legal right inside the workhouse at all. the two labour men raised such a hubbub over this anomaly that sir henry fowler issued an order giving a guardian the right to enter the workhouse at any reasonable hour. as a result there began, not only in poplar but all over the country, a marked improvement in the treatment of old people in workhouses. here was a distinct score at the first venture. with the right of admission established, crooks made full use of it. he found most of the officers hostile. so much so, that during a fire that broke out in the workhouse bakery, bringing the brigade engines round, one of the officers exclaimed, in the presence of the others when the fire was at its height:-- "the only thing wanting now is that crooks and lansbury should be put on the top of it." the cheers with which this remark was received were soon to give way to grave concern. it was clear the two labour men meant to put an end to many things. several of the officers were summarily suspended by crooks one morning when he appeared on the scene unexpectedly. a woman inmate had contrived to escape from the workhouse. she came round to his house and knocked him up. in consequence of an alarming story she told him respecting the conditions under which a fellow inmate had died in her arms that very night, crooks hurried round to the institution and suspended certain of the officers on the spot. the officers whom crooks had suspended were dismissed by the board. nor were they by any means the last to be dismissed or to take their departure, for other scandals were brought to light. "we found the condition of things in the house almost revolting," crooks stated in evidence before the local government board inquiry of . "the place was dirty. the stores were empty. the inmates had not sufficient clothes, and many were without boots to their feet. the food was so bad that the wash-tubs overflowed with what the poor people could not eat. it was almost heart-breaking to go round the place and hear the complaints and see the tears of the aged men and women. "'poverty's no crime, but here it's treated like crime,' they used to say. "many of them defied the regulations on purpose to be charged before a magistrate, declaring that prison was better than the workhouse. "one day i went into the dining-room and found women sitting on the long forms, some sullen, some crying. in front of each was a basin of what was alleged to be broth. they called it greasy water, and that was exactly what it looked and tasted like. they said they had to go out and wash blankets on that. i appealed to the master to give them something to eat, as they said they would sooner go to prison than commence work on that. those women, like the men, were continually contriving to get sent to prison in order to escape the workhouse. after a few heated words between the master and me he gave them some food, and none of them went to prison that day. "a few weeks later i was in the workhouse when these same women were creating a fearful uproar. "'ah, there you are,' said the master, meeting me. 'go and look at your angels now! a nice lot they are to stick up for!' "i went to the dining-room. there was a dead silence the moment i entered. "'i am right down ashamed of you,' i said. 'when you were treated like animals, no wonder you behaved like animals. now that mr. lansbury and i have got you treated like human beings, we expect you to behave like human beings.' "they said not a word, and later in the day the ringleaders, without any prompting, came to me and expressed their regret. from that day to this no such scene among the workhouse women has ever been repeated. "the staple diet when i joined the board was skilly. i have seen the old people, when this stuff was put before them, picking out black specks from the oatmeal. these were caused by rats, which had the undisturbed run of the oatmeal bin. no attempt was made to cleanse the oatmeal before it was prepared for the old people. "whenever one went into the men's dining-room there were quarrels about the food. i have had to protect old and weak men against stronger men, who would steal what was eatable of their dinners. there was no discipline. the able-bodied men's dining-room on sundays gave one as near an approach to hell as anything on this earth. it was everybody for himself and the devil take the hindmost. if a fellow could fight he got as much as he wanted. if he could not, he got nothing. fights, followed by prosecutions at the police courts, were common. the men boasted that prison had no worse terrors than that place. they were absolutely beyond control. they wandered about all over the place, creating all kinds of discord, and even threatening to murder the officers. two labour masters nearly lost their lives in trying to control them. "the inmates were badly clothed as well as badly fed. not one of them had a change of clothing. their under-clothes were worn to rags. if they washed them they had to borrow from each other in the interval. "the inmates' clothes were not only scanty, they were filthy. on one occasion the whole of the workhouse linen was returned by the laundry people because it was so over-run with vermin that they would not wash it. "one of the inmates--a woman--who was doing hard work at scrubbing every day, asked me whether she couldn't have a pair of boots. "'surely,' i said, putting her off for the time, 'nobody here goes without boots?' "a second and a third time when i came across her scrubbing the floors she pleaded for boots. she raised her skirt from the wet stone floor, and showed two sloppy pieces of canvas on her feet, and that was all she had in the way of boots." crooks went on to relate that he walked along the corridor and saw a female officer. "there's a woman over there who has asked me three times to get her a pair of boots," he said. she drew her skirt round her and said, "oh, why do you worry about these people; they are not our class." "worry about them!" crooks rejoined. "what do you mean by our class? we are here to see these people properly clothed. i do not want to quarrel, but that woman must have a pair of boots to-day." chapter xiv the man who fed the poor chairman of the poplar board of guardians--bumbledom dethroned--paupers' garb abolished--two presidents of the local government board approve crooks's policy. this, then, was the state of the workhouse when crooks went on the board. it was soon evident that a strong man had arrived. he whom some of the guardians at first described as "a ranter from the labour mob" soon proved himself the best administrator among them. within five years of his election he was made chairman. the board insisted on his retaining the chair for ten consecutive years. during that time he wrought out of the shame and degradation he found in the workhouse a system of order and decency and humane administration that for a long time made the poplar union a model among poor law authorities, and one frequently recommended by the local government board. of course he made enemies. some of the old guardians whom he had turned out of public life nursed their resentment in secret. others joined them, including contractors who had fared lavishly under the old _régime_. presently a municipal alliance was formed, and though it could do nothing against crooks at the poll, since the ratepayers would persist in placing him at the top, it found other methods of attacking him, of which more hereafter. one of the first things he aimed at was a change in the character both of officers and of guardians. he saw no hope for the poor under the old rulers. at each succeeding election his opposition brought about the defeat of the worst of them. the officers could not be dealt with so publicly. some of the officers in the infirmary, addicted to drunkenness, were able to defy the guardians for an obvious reason. it was one of their duties to take whisky and champagne into the infirmary for the delectation of some of the guardians, whom a billiard table often detained into the early hours. crooks and lansbury raised such indignation in the district as to make it impossible for this state of things to continue. in the master and matron resigned. gradually the old school of workhouse officials who had run the place as they liked were weeded out. a more intelligent, more sympathetic, better disciplined staff grew up in their place. bumbledom was dethroned. the sick were nursed better. the inmates were clothed better. all, both old and young, were fed better. the tell-tale pauper's garb disappeared altogether. when the old people walked out they were no longer branded by their dress. they wore simple, homely garments. they all rejoiced in the change save a few like the old woman crooks came across one afternoon on her day out. she was looking clean and comfortable, and he asked how she liked the new clothes. "not at all, mr. crooks. nobody thinks you come from the workhouse now, so they don't give you anything." his greatest reform had reference to the food. "skilly" went the way of "greasy water." good plain wholesome meals appeared on the tables. "and became more expensive," say the critics. "yes," crooks retorts; "but to economise on the stomachs of the poor is false economy. if it's only cheapness you want, why don't you set up the lethal chamber for the old people? that would be the cheapest thing of all." let us see what he actually gave these people to eat, since for feeding the poor he was afterwards called to the bar of public opinion. first he developed the system of bread-baking in the workhouse, in order to get better and cheaper bread than was being supplied under contract from outside. under the direction of one or two skilled bakers, the work provided many of the inmates with pleasant and useful occupation. they made all the bread required in the workhouse for both officers and inmates, all the bread required in the children's schools, all the loaves given away as out-relief. instead of being likened to india-rubber, as it used to be in the old days, the bread now came to be described by the _daily mail_ as equal to what could be obtained in the best restaurants in the west-end. yet they were making this bread in the workhouse cheaper than it was possible to buy ordinary bread outside. and then, for the benefit of the infirm old folk, crooks persuaded the guardians to substitute butter for margarine, and fresh meat for the cheap stale stuff so often supplied. he held out for milk that had not been skimmed, and for tea and coffee that had not been adulterated. he even risked his reputation by allowing the aged women to put sugar in their tea themselves, and the old men to smoke an occasional pipe of tobacco. rumours of this new way of feeding the workhouse poor reached the austere local government board. first it sent down its inspectors, and then the president himself appeared in person. and mr. chaplin saw that it was good, and told other boards to do likewise. he issued a circular to the guardians of the country recommending all that poplar had introduced. more, he proposed that for deserving old people over sixty-four years of age "the supply of tobacco, dry tea, and sugar be made compulsory." this humane order of things, you may be sure, did not commend itself to all guardian boards; and when later there came further instructions from headquarters that ailing inmates might be allowed "medical comforts," the revolt materialised. a deputation of guardians went to whitehall to try to argue the president into a harder heart. crooks and lansbury were there to uphold the new system. mr. walter long had succeeded mr. chaplin then. he listened patiently to ingenious speeches in which honourable gentlemen tried to show that it was from no lack of love for the poor they had not carried out the new dietary scale, but---- "gentlemen," mr. long interrupted at last, "am i to understand you do not desire to feed your poor people properly?" then all with one accord began to make excuse. it was the difficulty of book-keeping, they said. it appeared they were prepared to stint the poor rather than add to the book-keeping. from that day an improved dietary scale was introduced into our workhouses. the man who fed the poor in poplar saw the workhouse poor of the kingdom better fed in consequence. what kind of food was it that poplar dared to give to the poor? those "luxuries for paupers" down at poplar, about which the world was to hear so much, what were they? a working-man had appeared, and after years of unwearied well-doing had got rid of "skilly" and "greasy water," substituting, with the approval of two presidents of the local government board, the following simple articles of food. observe the list carefully, for the kinds and quantities of food here set out were precisely those supplied to the able-bodied inmates during the outcry that arose over "paupers' luxuries" at the time of the local government board inquiry in . the list is the official return of the food supplied in one week to each inmate. a man's diet for a week. (cost, s. d.) breakfasts bread ½ lbs. butter ½ ozs. coffee pints. dinners mutton ½ ozs. beef ½ ozs. bacon ozs. irish stew pint. boiled pork ½ ozs. bread ozs. potatoes and greens ½ lbs. suppers bread ½ lbs. butter ½ ozs. tea pints. a woman's diet for a week. (cost, s.) breakfasts bread - / lbs. butter ½ ozs. coffee pints. dinners mutton ozs. beef ozs. bacon ozs. irish stew pint. boiled pork ozs. bread ¾ lbs. potatoes and greens lbs. suppers bread - / lbs. butter ½ ozs. tea pints. when you read down that list and think of the scare headlines that appeared in london daily papers during the inquiry--"splendid paupers," "luxuries for paupers," "a pauper's paradise"--you may well ask, are we living in bountiful england? or have we fallen upon an england of meagre diet and mean men, an england that whines like a miser when called upon to feed on homely fare its broken-down veterans of industry? dickens is dead, else would he have shown us bumble reincarnated in the editors of certain london newspapers. chapter xv turning workhouse children into useful citizens a home for little "ins-and-outs"--technical education for workhouse children--a good report for the forest gate schools--trophies won by scholars--the children's pat-a-cakes. after he had fed the old people and clothed the old people, and in other ways brought into their darkened lives a little good cheer, crooks turned his care upon the workhouse children. the guardians' school at forest gate lay four miles from the union buildings at poplar. with five or six hundred children always under training in the school there still remained varying batches of neglected little people in the workhouse. the greater number of these belonged to parents who came into the house for short periods only. these little "ins-and-outs" were getting no schooling and no training save the training that fitted them for pauperism. what to do with them had long been a perplexing problem. if they were sent to forest gate one day their parents in the workhouse could demand them back the next day and take their discharge, even though they and their children turned up at the gates for re-admission within the next twenty-four hours. when crooks proposed the simple expedient of sending these children to the surrounding day-schools everybody seemed amazed. the idea had never been heard of before. the london school board of the day did not take kindly to it at all. it poured cold water on the project at first. the neighbouring schools were nearly all full, and the board thought it would hear no more of the matter by suggesting that if the guardians could find vacant places they were at liberty of course to send the children. crooks framed an answering letter that it was the school board's duty to find the places, and that, come what would, the guardians were determined to send the children to the day schools. soon places were found for all. the little people who, through neglect and idleness in the workhouse, had been getting steeped in pauperism, were now dressed in non-institution clothes, and they went to and from the neighbouring schools, playing on the way like any other children. that was the beginning of a system destined to have a far-reaching effect on poor law children all over the country. other unions, faced with the same problem, seeing how well it had been dealt with at poplar, went and did likewise. the labour guardian did not rest there. the children were a great deal better for coming in daily contact with the outside world, but much of the good work was undone by their having to spend every night in the workhouse. he wanted to keep them away altogether from its contaminating influence. he persuaded the guardians to purchase a large dwelling house about a quarter of a mile away from the workhouse. this became a real home for the children. there they are brought up and regularly sent to the public day schools outside, entirely free from workhouse surroundings. so long as the mark of the workhouse clings to children, so long, says crooks, will children cling to the workhouse. that is what makes him so keen in getting rid of the institution dress and of everything else likely to brand a child. he helped to banish all that suggested pauperism from the forest gate school. the children were educated and grew up, not like workhouse children, as before, but like the children of working parents. with what result? marked out in their childhood as being "from the workhouse," they often bore the stamp all their life and ended up as workhouse inmates in their manhood and womanhood. under the new system, they were made to feel like ordinary working-class children. they grew up like them, becoming ordinary working-men and working-women themselves; so that the poor law knew them no longer. "if i can't appeal to your moral sense, let me appeal to your pocket," crooks once remarked at a guildhall poor law conference. "surely it is far cheaper to be generous in training poor law children to take their place in life as useful citizens than it is to give the children a niggardly training and a branded career. this latter way soon lands them in the workhouse again, to be kept out of the rates for the rest of their lives." how far the principle was carried out at forest gate may be judged from the report made by mr. dugard, h.m. inspector of schools, after one of his visits. thus:-- there is very little (if any) of the institution mark among the children.... both boys' and girls' schools are in a highly satisfactory state, showing increased efficiency, with increased intelligence on the part of the children.... they compare very favourably with the best elementary schools. in all that related to games and healthful recreation crooks agreed in giving the scholars the fullest facilities. the lads were encouraged to send their football and cricket teams to play other schools. the girls developed under drill and gymnastic training, and became proficient swimmers. in fact, the scholars at forest gate began to count for something. they learnt to trust each other and to rely upon themselves. they grew in hope and courage. they learnt to walk honourably before all men. in consequence, thousands of them have become merged in the great working world outside, self-respecting men and women. i met crooks looking elated one evening, and he told me he had just come from the poor law schools' swimming competition at westminster baths. "there were three trophies," he said. "the first, the london shield, was for boys. poplar won that with marks, five more than the next best. the second, the portsmouth shield, was for girls, with a portsmouth school competing. our poplar girls won that with marks, the two next schools getting only each. the third trophy, the whitehall shield, for the school as a whole with the highest number of marks, was also won by poplar. i feel as pleased as though i'd done it myself." the best administration in an out-of-date building is always hampered. forest gate belonged to the old order of poor law schools known as barrack buildings. although the guardians made the very best of the school, there were structural defects that hindered the work seriously. it was therefore decided to build cottage homes at shenfield in essex, where a special effort is being made to train the girls as well as the boys in rural pursuits in order to keep them out of the overcrowded cities. the parliamentary committee on poor law schools that sat in invited crooks to give evidence. many of the things he urged were included in the committee's recommendations. among them was the extension of the full benefit of the education act and the technical education acts to all poor law children. "the wine and spirit dues that provide the technical education grants," he told the committee, "might be said to belong to poor law children by right, because it is always being urged that it is owing to drunken parents that these children get into the workhouse. i don't believe it, but there is the claim." at that time the poor law schools received no benefits in the way of scholarships or technical education grants. it was largely due to his advocacy that the scholars were at last given the same opportunities as other children. one of the great moments of his life was when he opened a letter from the headmaster at the hunslet poor law school, telling him that "in consequence of what you have done, one of our boys has just taken a county scholarship--the first poor law child to benefit under the technical education acts." crooks would like to go much further. until poor law children are taken entirely away from the control of guardians he will never be satisfied. why should the authority that looks after workhouses for the old and infirm be entrusted with the task of training the young? the two duties lie as far apart as east from west. he would place these children wholly under the education authority. no matter where, he is always ready to put in a word for poor law children on the least opportunity. it was news to his colleagues on the london county council when, in the course of a debate in the summer of , he told of his own experience in a poor law school. he seems to have made a deep impression by his speech on that occasion, judging by the following comment made shortly afterwards by the _municipal journal_;-- those who heard mr. crooks's speech in the council chamber, when the subject of the training of poor law children came up on a side issue, will not readily forget it. one of the daily papers, in its admiration the next day, declared it to be the best speech heard at the council. be that as it may, the speech, coming spontaneously with the pent-up indignation of a soul that had suffered sorely from a pernicious system, was a marvellous one, producing a marvellous effect. councillors in the front benches turned round and visitors in the gallery stretched forward to catch a glimpse of the short dark figure on the labour bench pleading so powerfully for the children of the poor. nor had he been in the house of commons long before his voice was heard there on behalf of workhouse children. speaking in a debate in on the various methods of dealing with these children, he said:-- at one time there was no stronger advocate of boarding-out than myself. it is an ideal system in theory, but its success by practical application has yet to be proved. many requests are made by country people to be allowed to adopt children on charitable grounds, but when inquiries come to be made into the incomes of these people the guardians generally find it is hoped to make a profit out of the children. i have visited a village where a widow boarded four children--two more than the law allows. for these children she was paid sixteen shillings a week. she lived in a district where the labourer's wages were only eleven shillings. in regard to another case i personally investigated, i asked how the boy was getting on. "oh, all right; but he is growing so big and eats such a lot that i wish you would take him away and send me a smaller boy." the boarded-out children, so far from losing the pauper taint, are more frequently known by the name of the union from which they come than by their own names. in fact, in some villages, i found "boarding-out" a staple industry. boarding-out is all right in good homes; the difficulty is to find good homes. not long after he made this speech, there was an outcry in a section of the press over "an amazing example of extravagance" at poplar. it appeared in the form of a letter from a correspondent. the correspondent--who turned out to be a member of a firm of contractors--waxed virtuously indignant over the guardians' tenders because they included, he alleged, supplies of luxuries for paupers. the so-called luxuries for the most part proved to be medical comforts ordered by the doctor for the ailing. among the other items was cwt. of pat-a-cake biscuits, and these were singled out specially as a specimen of how the workhouse inmates were pampered. i met crooks in the lobby of the house of commons at the time of the outcry, and asked what he thought of it all. "perfectly true," he said. "we in poplar are guilty of the great crime of inviting tenders for the supply of a few pat-a-cakes; but our horrified critics are in error in assuming that the pat-a-cakes are for the workhouse inmates. they are for the children. we order cwt. for the half-year, which i believe works out at the rate of a cake for each child about once a week. there's extravagance for you! isn't it scandalous? just imagine our kiddies in the workhouse school getting a whole pat-a-cake to eat! "that's not the worst of it. those youngsters of ours, not content with getting an occasional pat-a-cake, have actually been overheard to sing the nursery rhyme on the subject. we shall be having a local government board inspector sent down to stop it if it leaks out. you should hear the little ones holding forth! pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, bake me a cake as fast as you can! prick it, and pat it, and mark it with t, and put it in the oven for tommy and me. "the youngsters lie awake at nights, wondering when their turn will come again to have a farthing pat-a-cake. one of the little girls came running up to me in the playground the other day, exclaiming: 'oh, mr. crooks, what do you think? i had a pat-a-cake for tea last sunday. they promised it to us the day before, and i was so pleased when i went to bed that night that i nearly forgot to go to sleep.'" chapter xvi on the metropolitan asylums board mr. chaplin's humane circular to poor law guardians--crooks appointed a member of the metropolitan asylums board--chairman of the children's committee--his knack of getting his own way--reorganising the labour conditions of the board's workmen. we have seen that the policy of poor law reform which crooks was carrying out at poplar won the good-will of the local government board. soon after mr. henry chaplin took his seat in lord salisbury's cabinet of he sent for crooks, and the two spent a whole morning discussing the weak points in our poor law system. mr. chaplin made many notes during the conversation, and at parting good-naturedly remarked that crooks had given him enough work to occupy the next two or three years. shortly afterwards, the minister and the labour man made a personal investigation of poplar and other east-end workhouses and infirmaries. the visit to each institution was a surprise one. when the two men entered the children's ward of the mile end workhouse, they found the nurses absent and the children screaming. in about half a minute crooks had all the children laughing. "what's the secret of your magic?" asked the president of the local government board. "it comes natural when you are used to them," said crooks. as already shown, mr. chaplin declared emphatically for the poplar policy. his notable circular to poor law guardians, for which as president of the local government board he will perhaps be best remembered, gave the support of the government of the day to that policy of humane administration of the poor law which crooks had established at poplar. it laid down three principles which the labour man had urged upon the president at their first meeting:-- . children to be entirely removed from association with the workhouse and workhouse surroundings. . old people of good character who have relatives or friends outside not to be forced into the workhouse, but to be given adequate out-relief. . old people in the workhouse of good behaviour to be provided with additional comforts. mr. chaplin further showed his confidence in the labour chairman of the poplar guardians by inviting him to become one of the local government board's representatives on the metropolitan asylums board. the work meant a heavy addition to crooks's public duties, with the london county council and the poplar guardians demanding so much of his time. there was no hesitation, however, in accepting the new office when he found it afforded further opportunities to serve the afflicted poor and help neglected children. mr. chaplin's successor at the local government board, mr. walter long, twice re-nominated crooks to the same position. although the asylums board comes but little before public notice, except in times of epidemic, it has far-reaching powers. it is the largest hospital authority that any country can show. it has fourteen infectious disease hospitals with accommodation for nearly seven thousand people. it maintains six thousand imbecile patients in four asylums. it looks after the welfare of several hundred boys on a thames training-ship, and of some two thousand children in various homes. the members, or "managers," as they are called, are all nominated either by london boards of guardians or by the local government board. an indirectly elected body is the last that expects to see a representative of labour. imagine, therefore, the amazement of this somewhat select company when, in may, , a labour man walked into their midst as the nominee of a conservative cabinet minister. he was eyed at first with suspicion. the suspicion soon changed to curiosity. the labour man never spoke. the managers expected a torrent of loud criticism, and here was immovable silence. for the first five months crooks never opened his mouth at the board meetings. "what's your game?" asked a friendly member in an aside one afternoon. "i'm learning the business," was the quiet reply. "this is an old established board with notions of its own, and it's not going to be dictated to by new-comers. but you wait, my friend, and you'll find before long i'll be getting my own way in everything here." so it proved. during the two or three years that he was chairman of the children's committee and of a special committee that reorganised the hours and wages of the board's large staff, he never lost a single recommendation he brought before the board. "how is it, mr. crooks, that whatever you ask this board for you always get?" he was once asked by sir edwin galsworthy, for many years the board's chairman. crooks returned the sally that it was because he was always right. his real secret was--convert the whole of your committee. a majority vote in committee never satisfied him. nothing short of the support of every single member would suffice. many times in committee has he adjourned the discussion rather than snatch a bare majority. "let's take it home with us," he would say jocularly from the chair. "perhaps after a week's thought you'll all come back converted to my view. if not, then you must come better prepared to convince me that i am wrong than you are now." the difficult and delicate work of reorganising the labour conditions of the board's workmen and attendants was at last brought to a triumph. he came out of the chair with the goodwill of the whole staff and of the entire board of managers. his colleagues included large employers of labour, eminent medical men, and retired army and navy officers. all agreed that he had settled for them labour difficulties which had created nothing but confusion and perplexity before. working on his invariable rule that it pays best in every department of work to observe fair conditions, he scored a signal success on the very body where before his coming labour members were regarded as revolutionaries. as at blackwall tunnel, he gained his points without losing the trust or friendship of the employers of labour. the task put his administrative ability to a test which only able statesmen can stand. the rare faculty he has of obtaining the maximum of reform out of existing agencies carried him safely over every shoal. crooks is every inch an englishman as well as every inch a labour member. he applies his labour principles on typical english lines; hence his success among all bodies of englishmen, no matter what their party or class. few men have higher ideals or feel more deeply the injustice of much in our present-day social system, but crooks recognises that the only way to get reform is to put your hand to the plough with things as they are, and not wait for the millennium before getting to work. he sees the crooked things of this life as keenly as anyone, but because the things cannot be put wholly straight in his own day he does not hold aloof. he does what he can in the living present to put them as nearly straight as existing machinery makes possible, trusting that the next or some succeeding generation will continue the work until the things are put perfectly straight at last. chapter xvii a bad boys' advocate efforts on behalf of diseased and mentally-deficient children--altering the law in six weeks--establishing remand homes for first offenders--london's vagrant child-life--reformatory and industrial schools--the boy who sat on the fence--theft of a donkey and barrow--lads who want mothering. soon the call of the children reached his ears again. he had barely finished reorganising the labour conditions on the asylums board when he undertook a great task in the interests of the two thousand children who had just been placed under the board's care. these children were all sufferers from some physical or mental trouble, and it was because they required special treatment that a parliamentary committee had recommended that they be transferred from the london guardians to the asylums board. a comprehensive scheme had to be framed by the board for looking after its new charges. crooks gave three hard years to these children's well-being. during that time, as chairman of the children's committee, he wrought some remarkable changes in the lot of the diseased and mentally-deficient little people handed over to the board's keeping. new homes were set up in the country and at the seaside for the afflicted and convalescent children. the little people's meals were made pleasant, their clothes deprived of the institutional taint. they were free to be merry, and their laughter was better medicine than the doctor's. the sad lot of the mentally-deficient children, some of them little better than imbeciles, appealed greatly to the strong, clear-brained labour man from poplar. there were three or four hundred of these, all from london workhouses, the sight of whom so often reminded crooks of the idiot boy who slept in his dormitory when he, as a child, was an inmate at poplar. the asylums board was not allowed to keep these mentally-deficient boys and girls after sixteen years of age. the children had thus to be sent away only half trained, often direct to the workhouse again, from which they never emerged unless to be taken to an institution more hopeless still. crooks conceived the idea that if the board kept these luckless little people until they completed their twenty-first year it might be possible to give them such a training as would enable them to look after themselves outside, and live useful lives, instead of being a life-burden to the state and of no use to anyone. the local government board agreed, and the managers now train these youthful charges till they reach manhood and womanhood. the experiment has already justified itself. many a youth and maid who would have been left in mental darkness all their lives have by this longer period of training gained a glimmering of light. their limited intelligence has been sufficiently developed to enable them to assist at earning their own living and to look after themselves. other children under the board's care might be said to suffer from an excess rather than from a lack of intelligence. on the asylums board they are known as remand children. in the police courts they are known as first offenders. they consist of boys and girls who, having been charged before a magistrate with offences which render them liable to be sent to an industrial or a reformatory school, get remanded for inquiries. at one time, pending the inquiries, these youthful offenders used to be detained in prison. when crooks joined the asylums board they had been transferred to the workhouse. the influence for evil was little better in the one place than in the other. the one introduced them to criminality, the other to pauperism. "these children want keeping as far as possible from both prison and workhouse," argued crooks with his colleagues. "we ought to put them in small homes and give them school-time and playtime, like other children, until their cases come before the magistrate again." so two or three dwelling-houses were taken in different quarters of london and adapted as remand homes. crooks headed a deputation from the asylums board to the london magistrates at bow street to urge them in future to commit all remand children to the homes. the magistrates were sympathetic enough, but showed it was their duty to carry out the law, and that the law clearly laid it down that youthful offenders under remand must be sent to the workhouse. "we'll alter the law, then," was crooks's reply. "for i'm determined these youngsters shall no longer be sent to the workhouse." in the record time of six weeks the law was altered. it sounds miraculous to those who know the ways of whitehall. crooks's resource proved more than equal to red-tapeism. first the asylums board wrote to the home office. then the home office sent the usual evasive reply. the correspondence would have gone on indefinitely had not crooks waited on the home secretary in person. as the labour man expected, mr. ritchie knew nothing about the matter, the home office officials having settled it without consulting the secretary of state. always willing to co-operate in anything that promised to keep children away from the workhouse, mr. ritchie asked crooks what he had to suggest. the visitor pointed out that the juvenile offenders' bill was at that very moment before parliament, and that the insertion in that measure of an additional clause of half a dozen lines only would keep remand children away from the workhouse for all time. the home secretary seized the idea at once, and crooks's suggestion became law the following month. the first of the remand homes was opened at pentonville road for the convenience of children charged at the police courts of north london and the east-end. sometimes as many as fifty young offenders, boys and girls, can be seen there at the same time. instead of loafing about the workhouse, as before, and becoming inured to pauper surroundings, they are now taught as in a day school. they have play in the open air and recreation indoors in the way of games and books. moreover, the girls are taught to sew and knit, the boys instructed in manual work. though seldom there more than a fortnight before being taken back to the police court, they go away cleaner, better informed, not without hope. and the magistrates now feel justified in sending about per cent. of them back to their parents. a visit to this remand home at pentonville will teach you disquieting truths about the vagrant child-life of london. these wayward youngsters tell their tales with startling frankness. that bright-faced lad of twelve--why is he here? "stealing," he answers us. "what did you steal?" "some stockings outside a shop." "why?" "to get money for sweets." "where did you sell the stockings?" "in a pub." "have you ever stolen before?" "yes." "how often?" "a good many times, but never been caught before." two of the oldest lads approached, and we questioned them. "i was took up for begging," said no. . "but i weren't begging--on'y looking for work." "where?" "at king's cross--me and him," pointing to his neighbour. "we was offering to carry people's bags when the copper come and took us up." the teacher explained that boys soliciting passengers around the big railway stations were becoming such a nuisance that the police sometimes had to take them into custody. "we didn't get hold of a man's arm and say, 'give us threepence,' as the copper said," the youthful informant went on. "we was on'y looking for work." "how long have you been looking for this kind of work?" "we goes an' looks for it every day," said no. (in shirt sleeves, like his pal). "and sometimes we makes half a crown, and sometimes three shillings a day, carrying gentlemen's bags. i've been a-doing of it five months. it pays better than reg'lar work, where i used to make ten shillings a week." no. could not forget his grievance against the police. "puts us in the cell all night," he interposed, "and gives us coffee and two thick slices of bread for supper. and takes us in a bumpy ole van to the police court in the morning along of a lot of others. then we was sent here, where we has to write and read--just like going back to school again." another lad was there for "stopping out all night," according to his own rendering. when we asked "why?" the answer came prompt enough, "'cos i likes it." "how many nights did you stay out?" "me and them," indicating others higher up the room, "we slept behind the fire station four nights and then went home." "what happened then?" "mother said nofink, but she got a stick----" he paused sufficiently long for us to take the sequel for granted, then added quietly:-- "so i stopped out the next night." "and then?" "then the copper came." yes, they need "homes," indeed, these wayward youngsters, ensnared by the temptations of london's streets. some are here for gambling in the gutter, many for playing truant, some for sleeping out, and others for felony. generally they are sent home if it be a first offence, or to a reformatory if the case be a bad one. there are girls here, too. what of them? "me and my sister was taken up by the police for sleeping on a doorstep," said one sad-eyed little maid in a blue frock. "why on a doorstep?" "father left us, and when mother died the landlord turned us out." true enough, and the sisters will be sent to a girls' home shortly. that is the best that can be done for the girls, especially the large number that are brought away from houses of ill-repute. the boys who get committed to reformatories still find themselves under crooks's eye. while the asylums board looks after them when under remand, the london county council becomes responsible once the lads are committed. this dual control crooks is trying to get rid of, in the hope that the duty will be given wholly into the hands of one authority. for several years he was a member and at one time chairman of the l.c.c. committee that looks after the industrial and reformatory schools. the committee meets at feltham, where is the largest of the institutions under its charge. it was rare for crooks to be absent during his membership of the committee. he and colonel rotton, who was also chairman for a period, could generally make the lads on arrival understand them without much parleying. every lad, on being committed to the school by a magistrate, had to appear before the committee. here are some characteristic dialogues:-- "well, my boy, what are you here for?" "burglary." the burglar was nine years of age. "well, you can't be a burglar here, but you can be a good lad. everyone can be a good lad here if he likes. if he doesn't like we make him. what will you do?" "i fink i'll like, sir." generally the lads do not admit their offence so readily. they are not always so frank as you find them in the remand homes. most of them, when before the committee, find excuses, like the boy who was caught with others stealing in a railway goods yard. "please, sir, it weren't me at all." "we always get the wrong boy. what are you supposed to be here for?" "fieving, sir. but i didn't do it. i were on'y sitting on the fence." "then let this be a lesson to you. never sit on the fence. do you know the ten commandments?" "no, sir." "can you say the lord's prayer?" "no; we wasn't taught it at the school wot i used to go to." "but you didn't go to school." "the boy wot did go told me." "well, we'll see to it that you do go to school now." another new-comer excused himself more ingeniously:--"me and my mate we found a donkey and barrer at covent garden. we saw a man's name on the barrer, and fought if we went off wif the donkey we would git a shilling the next day for taking it back to him. but a copper stopped us as we was leading the donkey over waterloo bridge. so we hadn't a chance to take it back, as we was going to." "very well, you must stay with us until you learn that donkeys in barrows are not necessarily lost." crooks believed in giving the boys plenty of play and plenty of work. nearly all their offences he believed to be due to excess of vitality. they had never had a chance of working it off in a proper way before. besides, many of the lads needed mothering. it was always his regret that he could not persuade his colleagues on the committee to adopt a system he found in vogue in the moss hill industrial school in glasgow. when visiting that institution he was agreeably surprised to find about a dozen "mothers" on the staff. if a lad tore his coat or pulled off a button, he knew which particular "mother" to run to in order to be patched up. "i have always said, and shall always continue to say," he states, "that reformatory schools ought to be made a state charge entirely. if there is any part of the community that can be called a national debt, it is this class of poor, misguided lads who, if they were properly cared for, would soon become a valuable national asset." chapter xviii proud of the poor the handy man of poplar--peacemaker among his neighbours--piloting the author of "in his steps" through the slums--difference between a street arab and a prince--object lesson for a professor of political economy--how the poor help the poor. during these years the saying grew up among his neighbours that nothing happens in poplar without someone running to will crooks about it. his little house at , northumberland street, to the north of east india dock road, was the gathering ground of all kinds of deputations and of troubled individuals seeking advice on every subject under the sun. he was a court of appeal in family troubles as well as on public questions. a small girl came to the door one night with the announcement: "if you please, father's took to drink again, and mother says will mr. crooks come round and give him a good hiding?" appeals like that of an old labourer who could neither read nor write became common. the old man stood sobbing on the step without a word when crooks's youngest daughter opened the door. instinct told her it was her father that was wanted, and she called him. "well, old charley, what's the matter now?" when crooks recognised his caller. "she's turned me out again," came the words between sobs. "if you would on'y go and speak to her, mr. crooks, and put in a word for me! she ain't half a bad wife, you know. it's on'y her temper and me as don't agree." he invited the aggrieved husband inside, going off himself alone, to return in half an hour with the news that the road was now clear. about a month later in the main road he was hailed from over the way. the old labourer came hobbling towards him. "ah, mr. crooks, i don't know what yer said to my ole woman that night, but she's bin a perfect angel since." what crooks had said was simple enough. on reaching the court he found the good wife gossiping. "here's mr. crooks!" cried the little company of women as he approached. he spoke no word, but with a mysterious air beckoned the aggressive wife aside. "heard the news about your old man?" he asked with a long face. assuming the worst, she immediately began to weep into her apron. "it's my fault, mr. crooks," she whimpered. "he often threatened to drown hisself, but i never thought he'd go and do it!" and then again, amid broken sobs:--"i've al'ays bin a good wife to him, mr. crooks." "yes, i know you have; and he knows it, too. he's often told me what a splendid wife you are. but you shouldn't cheek him so. you take my advice and coax him a little; coax him, and then you'll find you can do what you like with him afterwards. why, bless you, if it hadn't been for some of us he might have drowned himself to-night. now you just give him a good supper, like a sensible woman, when we send him home, and begin coaxing him from this very night. and, mind, not a word about this to anyone, for fear you excite him again." when again he met the old labourer it was evident the good relations were growing. "give her a treat last saturday afternoon, mr. crooks--a fair knock-out. took her for a 'bus ride to ludgit circis, and showed her the thames embankmint. never seen anyfink so fine in all her life. nearly made her faint. when she got home she dropped into a chair and said, 'i feel i could die now, charlie, after that.'" "and you?" "i said, 'if you talk like that i'll go for mr. crooks again.' that fetched her round, 'pon me honour." the good people of poplar expect crooks to meet all their needs. it was not very inspiring to be knocked up in the middle of the night and find a carman groaning at the door. "oh, will, i'm that bad with the spasms!" "why don't you go to the doctor?" "i've bin to him and he ain't done me no good. i thought as how if you'd come along with me he'd be sure to give me the right stuff." later in the same week the man's wife arrived breathless in the early morning. "would mr. crooks come at once?" "what's happened now?" "dick took a drop too much at the 'ship' last night, and when he come in, me having gone to bed, he mistook the paraffin oil bottle for his medicine. two whole spoonfuls he took, mr. crooks, and we've only found it out this morning. he says he must see you now afore he dies." curious ideas are held as to what crooks's duties are. one irate citizen declared to his mates that he was done with will crooks for ever. he was appealed to for the reason. "why," said he, "there's our sink bin stopped up nigh on three weeks, and he ain't bin round yet!" all who labour and are poor in poplar look upon crooks as the unfailing friend. the coal-man crying coals in the street all in vain, one morning hails him in passing:-- "wot's wrong with people this morning, mr. crooks? one would think i was selling tombstones!" another day it is the chimney-sweep who stops him. "talk about the county council's schools in poplar, mr. crooks; i calls it a scandal, i does." "what's the matter?" "sending their chimbleys up to bethnal green to be swept instead of employing local labour!" the callers at his house were in no sense confined to his neighbours. one day it would be c. b. fry, the cricketer, another day g. k. chesterton the critic--neither of them for the first time; and again george r. sims, beerbohm tree, lord and lady denbigh, miss gertrude tuckwell, father adderley, bernard shaw, earl carrington, and the rev. charles sheldon from the united states--to mention but a few of the men and women of widely different walks of life who are pleased to number him among their friends. mr. sheldon called soon after the great boom of "in his steps." on several occasions crooks piloted him through the slums of the east end. while looking round a typical court the american minister asked one of the women when they had seen a parson there. the answer came, "we ain't seen no parson down here since we lived here, fifteen years." "i don't wonder that people are bad," remarked mr. sheldon to crooks. "the wonder is that people are so good as they are." before returning to america mr. sheldon sent crooks a parting note, ending, "i shall always remember you as you stand, 'in the thick of it,' for the rights of little children and brother men." outsiders who visit crooks find him precisely the same man as his neighbours find him. he has personal friends in the peers' house as well as in the poor's house, but his manner changes not in the company of either. this characteristic trait in crooks led mr. chesterton, in his book on "charles dickens," into an instructive comparison:-- the english democracy is the most humorous democracy in the world. the scotch democracy is the most dignified, while the whole _abandon_ and satiric genius of the english populace come from its being quite undignified in every way. a comparison of the two types might be found, for instance, by putting a scotch labour leader like mr. keir hardie alongside an english labour leader like mr. will crooks. both are good men, honest and responsible and compassionate, but we can feel that the scotchman carries himself seriously and universally, the englishman personally and with an obstinate humour. mr. keir hardie wishes to hold up his head as man, mr. crooks wishes to follow his nose as crooks. mr. keir hardie is very like a poor man in walter scott. mr. crooks is very like a poor man in dickens. a little incident bears out mr. chesterton to the letter. while crooks was showing a party of titled people at their request round some of the dark corners of poplar he was greeted as usual by all the children playing in the streets. seizing the blackest of them he presented the youngster to one of the ladies of the party, a well-known peeress. "if this little chap," said he, "was as clean as i could wash him and as well dressed as you could dress him, what difference would there be between him and a little prince?" after the party had finished their round of inspection somebody suggested tea. "it's no use looking for swell tea shops in poplar," said crooks. "but if you care to come with me, my wife will just be getting tea ready for the children coming home from school, and no doubt we can find a corner for you at the same table." and straightway he led them to northumberland street and into his own house without warning, where they shared with the children at the deal table in the kitchen. sometimes for whole weeks together in the black days of distress he could never finish his breakfast without being called to the door to advise an out-of-work man or some sorrow-laden woman, or to deal with some case of starvation that brooked no delay. of course he often defied the laws of political economy. that is sometimes the only way to prevent people dying from want. a learned professor of political economy, whose name i am not at liberty to mention, was converted to some part at least of crooks's view in a single morning. the professor called on him during a winter of hard times, and crooks showed him how some of his neighbours were living. "hunger we can sometimes stand, 'cos we gets used to it," they heard from one woman, surrounded in her bare tenement by lean and shivering babies; "but to be frozen with cold on the top of the hunger--that's the thing that makes yer squirm, guv'nor--ain't it, mr. crooks?" then the labour man led the professor to a slum court. on the muddy ground in the far corner a woman sat weeping. "she ain't been living here long, mr. crooks," volunteered another woman from her doorstep. "her husband's no work, and this morning she were a-sending her four children to school without a bite, so i calls 'em in here, and shared out wot we was having for breakfast." "and what was that?" asked the professor. the woman seemed to resent the question from a well-dressed stranger. "it weren't ham and eggs," she said, curtly. "tell my friend here what you gave them, mrs. b----" crooks requested. "well, it's just like this here, mr. crooks," she said apologetically. "my man's out of work hisself, and we on'y had one loaf, so i cuts it up between her children and mine." "why is she crying now?" "she ain't been used to it like some of us, and it's all along of her wondering where the children's next meal is a-coming from." as the two men came away, "i'm proud of the poor," said crooks. "and i declare it's a dirty insult for outsiders to say that these people are degraded by the feeble efforts i make as a guardian to give bread to the hungry. it's nothing to what they do for each other. that woman sharing her last loaf with another woman's children is typical of what you'll find in every street and corner of poplar where the pinch of hunger is felt." the professor walked on silently. "what are we to do for them?" resumed the labour man. "sometimes people as badly off as these we have just seen come to my house in the early morning, begging me as a guardian to give their children bread before they send them to school. sometimes they bring their children with them as though to prove by their hungry eyes the truth of what they tell me. "and i say to them, 'you shouldn't come to me; you should go to the relieving officer.'" "and they reply, 'but what are you guardians for? we've been to the mayor, and he refers us to the guardians. we go to the guardians, and they refer us to the relieving officer. we go to the relieving officer, and he tells us to attend the relief committee. we inquire about the relief committee, and find it doesn't meet for two or three days. meanwhile, what are our children to do for bread?' "do you think," crooks went on to ask the professor, "that i can finish my own breakfast, or that any other man could with a spark of feeling in him, after being called to the door to listen to these pleadings morning after morning? do you think, after these daily experiences, that i care how the outside public and the press attack us because we as guardians dare to spend public money in saving these people from starvation? "what is a board of guardians to do, with its awful responsibilities and its awful obligations, during such distressful winters as poplar sometimes witnesses? remember, we guardians live among the poor. we are not carriage folk who can return to the west end and talk about the poor over dinners of a dozen courses. what else can we do but try to keep the bodies and souls of these poor people together in times of trade depression and cold weather?" chapter xix the first working-man mayor in london elected mayor of poplar--"no better than a working-man"--shouted down at the mansion house--the lord mayor defends him--refusing a salary--slums and fair rent courts--fighting the public-house interests--crying not for the moon, but for the sun. in november, , crooks was chosen to be mayor of poplar. in this, as in all his public offices, he was not the seeker, but the sought-after. of the many public positions he has filled, not one has come of his own seeking. it has always been at the earnest solicitation of others that he has gone into office. moreover, the request in every instance but one has come from working-men. the proposal to put him forward for mayor was made to him before he had been a member of the poplar borough council many months. the labour party was barely half a dozen strong on the council, so that even with the support of the progressives it was extremely doubtful whether he could command a majority of votes. this he pointed out in reply to his party's entreaties. since his arguments were all unavailing, he agreed at last to be nominated, making one very emphatic condition. that condition was, that were he elected there should be no talk of paying the mayor a salary. any of the london borough councils can vote a salary to the mayor, and in some of the boroughs £ and £ a year was being paid. crooks felt he could better retain the confidence of his neighbours, and better meet the criticisms of opponents, by refusing a mayoral grant entirely. besides making this the condition of his nomination, he influenced the borough council, some few days before the mayor was to be elected, to pass a resolution declining to pay a salary. on the night the new mayor was elected there were some curious scenes both inside and outside the municipal buildings. to be mayor in coronation year seemed to be the desire of half the public men in the kingdom. there were several aspirants in poplar, and when the number was reduced to two, crooks's name was one of them. twice amid the greatest tension in the crowded council chamber the voting on the two names resulted in a tie. twice the retiring mayor appealed to the council to come to a decision without his casting vote. since nothing would alter the equality of the votes, the mayor finally hit upon the device of writing both names on separate slips of paper and drawing one at random from a covered bowl. meanwhile, the tension had become too much for some burly working-men in the public gallery. they could be heard blubbering. when you looked up you saw them mopping their grimy faces with red-spotted handkerchiefs or the ends of their scarfs. these men, with many of their mates, had crowded into the council chamber on their way home from the engineering yards and railway goods sidings in millwall and from all the neighbouring docks. those who could not get inside formed a dense crowd in the streets below. as the news was brought out from time to time, how two ballots had been taken and the votes were still equal, a silence strange and solemn fell upon the massed crowds surging round the municipal buildings in the lamp-lighted streets. soon the silence gave way to a roar of working-men's voices. "crooks has got it!" "our will's made mayor!" "god bless the mayor!" among that rough-jacketed company could be seen men falling on each other's necks. and as they streamed homeward in all directions the streets of poplar echoed with the cry that lingered far into the night, "will crooks is mayor!" he was the first labour mayor in london. as such he did not make the mistake of trying to fill the office like the ordinary middle-class man. he faced all the world essentially as a working-man mayor. he showed how well a workman can carry out the administrative and ceremonial duties inseparable from the office. in doing that he dispelled for ever the old illusion that only men of means can become mayors. "what d'yer think?" he overheard a tradesman's wife ask another in disgust. "they've made that common fellow crooks mayor! and he no better than a working-man." "quite right, madam," he interposed, raising his hat as she turned round, crimson, and recognised him. "no better than a working-man!" it was evident, too, that at first certain of the other metropolitan mayors thought him a common fellow, far beneath their notice. the first occasion that saw him in their midst was a conference of mayors at the mansion house. it was convened by the lord mayor to consider arrangements for the coronation dinner to the poor. crooks listened for an hour to all kinds of suggestions put forward by men who knew little about the poor before rising at last to make a proposal of his own. the instant he rose there was a howl of disapproval. "sit down--sit down!" "who are you?" "we want none of your opinions." "sit down--sit down!" the wrath of some of these funny little functionaries at the idea of a labour man daring to address them was something he laughed at for a long time after. several of them had lost their heads entirely at being invited to discuss a matter which so closely concerned the king and queen. the very presence of a labour man at such an august gathering was felt to be an insult. they drowned his voice each time he attempted to speak, until it began to dawn upon them that instead of gaining favour with the lord mayor, who was in the chair, they were incurring his displeasure. "gentlemen," he cried, "i protest against this conduct. i call upon _my friend_, mr. crooks, to speak." you should have seen their faces then! they had forgotten that the lord mayor (sir joseph dimsdale) and crooks had been colleagues together for years on the county council. having got a hearing, the labour man spoke evidently very much to the point. sir thomas lipton, who represented the king at that and the subsequent conferences, declared afterwards that the one mayor in london who seemed to know what was wanted was the working-man mayor of poplar. at any rate, the final arrangements for the king's dinner were left to a small sub-committee, of which crooks was unanimously elected one by the body that first tried to howl him down. the illusion that working-men cannot make mayors died hard. it lingered last in the columns of the _times_. crooks had been in office several months when that journal called public attention to the fact that the mayor of poplar lived in a house "only rated at £ a year." from this circumstance the _times_ drew the rash conclusion that a man so poor could not necessarily fill the office of mayor properly. after this, nobody could be surprised at the wild mis-statements that followed. the _times_ went on to say that before crooks's election the labour party of poplar seemed to think his income of £ s. a week insufficient for the mayoralty, and that they started a movement "in favour of paying future mayors of the borough a salary at the rate of from £ to £ , a year." how completely the facts tell a different story has already appeared. what movement there was in poplar for paying a salary originated with the previous mayor, mr. r. h. green, a large employer of labour. mr. green did not wish for a salary himself, being a man of means; he was only anxious that his colleagues should understand that he favoured the principle. his successor, the labour man, was equally anxious his colleagues should understand that he did not favour payment. the real facts were placed before the _times_, but although its original mis-statements were copied into several other newspapers and led the _st. james's gazette_ to publish a foolish leader on the subject, the _times_ offered neither an explanation as to how it fell into its culpable error nor an apology for its amazing exhibition of bad taste. in reality, his position as mayor was strengthened by his refusal to take a salary. he stated in an interview in the _daily telegraph_ towards the end of his year of office:-- i have only had to do what i have done in every other position i have held--let people understand that i have nothing to give away. since my position has become generally known people have let me alone, except when i get an appeal like this one--to support a football club as a lover of british sports and pastimes. nobody seems to think the worse of me for refusing. to the last, however, he was not forgiven by many people for daring to be poor. a worthy lady at a church sewing-party in a london suburb became very indignant at the mention of the name of the labour mayor of poplar. one of the members present--to whom i am indebted for the incident--happened to make an incidental reference to crooks. "it's a shame, i say, to let such people be made important," cried the good lady with much feeling, stopping for a moment her work of making garments for the church bazaar. "look how they interfere with business. my husband used to get fifteen per cent. from his poplar property before they made that man crooks mayor. now, what with being compelled to spend so much on repairs and new drains, it's as much as he can do to get ten per cent." when crooks heard of the incident, he said he had little doubt the husband was an ordinary decent man who invested in poor property, because, as house investment agencies sometimes state in their advertisements, it pays better than any other kind. "probably he is one of that large class who leave the collection of the rents and all control to agents. that is why slum property has paid so well in the past. it has been neglected. nothing has been spent on ordinary repairs. whatever expense we as a municipal council may put the owners to in order to make their property healthy, is strictly regulated by law. we cannot go beyond the letter of the law. the reason why investors in slum property have reaped such a rich harvest in the past is because neither they nor the local authorities have carried out the law. "no man with ordinary sentiment can own slum property and collect his own rents. a flint-hearted agent generally has control. i know such a one well. if the tenant does not pay up by saturday he waits and watches round the corner on sunday morning. as soon as he sees the wife turn out to buy a piece of meat or a few vegetables from a coster's stall for sunday's dinner, he pounces down on her and demands her few pence on account. "it's so easy to run away from responsibility by simply saying, 'this is a mere investment, and i am not concerned with the tenants.' "a very wealthy man who owns a lot of small houses in poplar had his attention called to the hardship inflicted by the heavy increase in rents. he was told that a widow whose rent had just been doubled would have to seek parish relief if the new demand were enforced. 'my dear good fellow,' said the owner, 'i leave these matters to my agent. i don't want the woman's money. look here,' pulling a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket. 'why should i care about the woman's rent? i leave these trifles to my agent, and never interfere.' "can you wonder that so many of our people are driven to drink and immorality?" crooks went on after telling this incident. "sweated as they are for rent in this way, they begin to live in an unholy state of overcrowding. house speculators, jewish and english, gamble with the people's homes. nearly every time a house changes hands the rent is raised. the overcrowding is thus made worse than ever. the family living in three rooms takes two. the family in two rooms pushes its furniture closer together and goes into one. "surely something should be done by the state to prevent this gambling with poor people's rents. i would like to see fair rent courts, where the rents could be fixed in fair proportion to the value of the house. something of the kind has been done in ireland; why not in england? "one thing is certain: the more crowded the home is, the more convenient becomes the public-house, with its welcome light and deceptive cheerfulness tempting the wretched. of course, in theory it is easy to argue that the poorer the man the more reason there is that he should not place in the publican's till the money that ought to be spent on food. i fear few of us would retain the moral courage to resist if we had to eat, live, and sleep in the same room, sometimes in the company of a corpse for several days." property owners were not alone in their opposition to the labour mayor. the publicans almost in a body were ranged against him. nor was this only because of his uncompromising attack on the drink interests as such. it was mainly because he insisted on public-houses being rated on the same principle as the grocer's shop or the working-man's dwelling-house. for several years before his mayoralty he had been chairman of the poplar assessment committee. he found that while small tradesmen and householders were rated to the full market value of their shops and dwellings, public-houses were very much under-assessed. he therefore persuaded the committee, in face of all that the publicans said and threatened, to raise their assessments to the proper scale. the publicans brought the whole strength of their organisation against him, briefing counsel in appeals and subsidising opposition candidates at the local elections. this kind of thing had no fears for crooks. his policy prevailed. sorely though the problem of housing vexed him, he rarely came away from a slum visit without some instance of quaint humour. on one occasion he was called into a tenement when the woman told him to mind the hole in the floor. "why don't you ask the landlord to repair it?" he asked. "i did tell him about it," she answered in despair, "but he only said, 'what! the floor fallen in? why, you must have been walking on it!'" he feels keenly that we are allowing the english working-class home to be broken up by the gambling of speculators. by the time the gamblers are finished, it will be found they have broken more than the poor man's home. it will be found they have broken the english race. the cost to the municipality of preventing the existence of slums is small, he maintains, compared with the cost to the poor law authority of dealing with the human wreckage that slums create. he brought out this fact in a striking way in a paper he read before the central poor law conference at the guildhall. his subject was "pauperism and overcrowding." he estimated from a study of the official returns that overcrowding and insanitation in the homes of the poor threw an additional expenditure on the poor law every year in london of about £ , . he obtained this figure by estimating the number of people forced into workhouse infirmaries or requiring the outside attendance of the parish doctor owing to sickness solely caused by slumdom. as regards the inmates of public asylums, he showed that london was involved in a still heavier yearly outlay. the number of such inmates per thousand inhabitants of london varied from . in the healthy districts to . in the overcrowded districts. the mean rate was . . the numbers above this mean rate were all found in the slum quarters. by adding them up he arrived at a total of , people who were forced into asylums as the results of ill-housing. it cost london £ , a year to maintain this number in asylums. he further argued that an additional sum of half a million sterling must be put down as representing the cost of providing the necessary asylum accommodation for these , inmates, the creation of our slums. "so if the public refuse to spend a few hundreds on improving the homes and conditions of the poor, they are compelled to spend tens of thousands after the slums have robbed their denizens of health and reason. i know some of the poor do not live the cleanest and best lives. they live down to their environment. and if we don't improve the environment, then, apart from all the higher considerations, we are penalised for our neglect by having to pay for their care and keep in asylums and infirmaries. "we labour men are sometimes accused of crying for the moon. no; we are crying for the sun, and before we are finished we mean to get a little more sun into the homes and hearts of the people." chapter xx the king's dinner--and others a dinner to the labour mayor--the mayoress--the king's twenty-five thousand guests--the prince and princess of wales at poplar--organising a coronation treat for children--a little girl's thanks--at the lord mayor's banquet in a blue serge suit--the mayor of poplar's carriage at st. paul's--a testimonial on quitting office. since the labour mayor was debarred by what he called his "chronic want of wealth" from entertaining at his own expense, the poplar labour league decided to entertain him at a dinner on their own part by way of commemorating his election. directly the project was talked about, friends of his of all classes expressed a wish to attend. the dinner was given on january th, . an old chartist was in the chair, mr. nathan robinson, one of the mayor's colleagues on the london county council. lord monkswell sat at the same table with stevedores and gas-workers. some of the mayor's fellow-workers on the asylums board fraternised with some of the mayor's fellow-workers on the labour league. nearly every trade and every church in poplar were represented. dean lawless of the roman catholics, the rev. mr. nairn of the presbyterians, and father dolling of the anglicans, sat at meat together for the first time in their lives, drawn by the engaging personality of the labour mayor. "i must just write a word of congratulation on our dinner of saturday," wrote dolling from st. saviour's clergy house a couple of days later. "i think it was just splendid. it is given to few men to gain the respect, confidence, and esteem--i might say the affection--of friends and foes, colleagues and opponents. god grant you strength and perseverance." the same spirit breathed through a letter from the roman catholic dean:--"god bless you and god speed you; and also your gentle wife, the mayoress." mrs. crooks, by the way, filled the office of mayoress with a quiet dignity and grace that won everyone's regard. as her husband stood primarily as a working-man mayor, she too as mayoress made no pretence at being other than a working-man's wife. she could be seen cleaning her own doorstep as housewife in the morning and taking part in some public function as mayoress in the afternoon. the day the appointment was announced a journalist from an evening paper went down to poplar, hoping evidently to find the new mayoress greatly elated. he seemed surprised to find her so busy in the kitchen preparing the children's dinner that she had barely time to grant him the interview he sought. "why should you think it would make any difference to us?" she asked him, with natural simplicity. "dad will just be the same plain and cheery will crooks that he has always been. of course, we'll do our best as mayor and mayoress, but it will simply be as ordinary working-people." with perfect self-possession and a modest, dignified bearing, which remained the same when she was receiving the prince and princess of wales as when attending a conference of working women, mrs. crooks carried out her duties as mayoress of poplar and won good opinions on every hand. the unbounded pride of the poor in their mayor was something to remember. for the first time they became conscious of a personal tie between themselves and a public office that previously had always seemed far removed from them. they followed him admiringly. they hovered about his door until the mayoress despaired of keeping the step clean. if they could obtain a momentary glimpse of him in his robes and chain, or better still, pass a few words with him, it was something to boast of. speculation as to where he kept the mayoral chain reached the length of one wild suggestion that he put it under his pillow at night. on the sunday morning that the mayor and council went in state to the parish church, nearly all poplar turned out to honour the occasion. the streets were lined with spectators as for a royal pageant. work-people alone would have filled the spacious church of all saints four or five times over could they have obtained admission. even the children at the poor law school at forest gate, four miles away, joined in the chorus of congratulations. "the boys and girls here have toasted your election as mayor with cheers that you might almost have heard at poplar," wrote the superintendent. "we all feel that in a way we have some share in your new dignity." coronation year was a busy year for the london mayors. crooks, who had a great share in organising the king's dinner to the poor of the whole of london, carried through the local arrangements in poplar for feeding twenty-five thousand without a hitch. it is notorious that the deplorable muddle which marked the dinner arrangements in some of the west end boroughs brought a royal request to the mayors for an explanation. the king had made known his intention to visit poplar during the dinner. it is known how his illness prevented him from leaving buckingham palace on the memorable saturday. the prince and princess of wales, on behalf of the king, attended the two or three centres he had arranged to visit. much to the consternation of metropolitan mayors in wealthier districts, who were competing among themselves to secure the royal visitors, the prince and princess went to poplar. the king's guests, we have seen, numbered twenty-five thousand in poplar alone. of these, three thousand dined under a great awning in the tunnel gardens, one of the open spaces crooks had secured for the borough. the mayor passed among the motley throng like a benediction, receiving the good-natured chaff of the men and their wives concerning his gold-laced hat and scarlet robe. only one of the three thousand, a steward, was inclined to be cantankerous, though not in the mayor's hearing. pointing to crooks with a carving-knife he said to his companion:-- "i wonder he ain't ashamed of himself. why couldn't we have had a gentleman for mayor like morton? i've been a sheriff's officer myself, and i call it a disgrace to poplar." he changed his tone when the prince and princess of wales arrived and were formally received by the mayor and mayoress, before going round the tables, chatting and joking with crooks. "well, that takes the cake!" said the ex-sheriff's officer in amazement. "there's the prince of wales talking to that fellow crooks just as though he was talking to a gentleman!" later on the mayors of other london boroughs, chiefly out of their own private purses, gave a special coronation treat to the children. it looked as though the children of poplar, in the absence of a wealthy mayor, would receive no such favours. crooks met the need by a public appeal. nearly £ was subscribed, chiefly by local employers and residents, enabling the mayor to entertain about eight thousand children. some five thousand were divided among four garden parties. infants to the number of three thousand were entertained at their own schools. all the crippled children in the borough were taken in brakes to epping forest for the day. a couple of days later crooks received through the post an unsigned letter in a child's large round hand-writing. this is what it said:-- all the little boys and girls in our school want to thank you for the very nice party we had in honour of the king's coronation. some of us had chocolate and very nice medals, and all the school had cakes, lemonade, fruit, sweets, and a little medal. we had sports in the playground and prizes for those who won the races. and we all enjoyed it very much. please accept the best thanks from the children of the infants' school, wade street. he tells many amusing stories about the mayoralty. an ardent admirer chased him over half of poplar one night, following him from the town hall to a chapel bazaar and from the bazaar to a labour meeting, guarding carefully under his arm a brown paper parcel. at last he saw his chance of getting a private word with the mayor. "pardon me, will, but i've just heard as how you've been asked to dine at the mansion house with all the other mayors. and i thought i'd like to offer to lend you my ole dress suit. i couldn't abear the thought of our mayor not looking as good as the other blokes. 'tain't much to speak of, will"--unfolding the parcel--"but perhaps your missus can touch it up a bit." crooks did not go to the city banquet on that occasion. it was not until three years later that, on the invitation of lord mayor pounds, he attended the ninth of november banquet at the guildhall. then he turned up in his blue serge suit, which, in a way, made him one of the most conspicuous figures present, since all the other guests were in court dress, uniform, or ordinary evening dress. a crowded company in the reception room broke out into rounds of applause when the labour man in his plain attire walked down the room after being announced. he was received in the most cordial way by the lord mayor and lady mayoress. he had an amusing experience in connection with a state service at st. paul's, to which he was invited as mayor of poplar. "i took train to the city, and was walking towards the cathedral when a cabman from my own district accosted me. "'i say, mr. crooks, let me give you a lift up to the cathedral, so that i can get a chance to see what's going.' "'all right,' said i; and i got into his cab, and was driven up with as much dignity as the cab and horse could command. "the cabman then rode away and took up his position in waiting. the service over, all the titled people crowded out, and there was an eager demand for carriages. a stout policeman at the door called out the names. "'the duke of ----'s carriage.' 'the mayor of westminster's carriage.' 'lady ----'s carriage.' and so on, as each swell conveyance rolled up. then, when the policeman learnt who i was, he yelled, 'the mayor of poplar's carriage.' "up drove my cabby with his growler. "'take that thing away!' shouted the policeman. 'make room for the mayor of poplar's carriage.' "'who yer getting at?' said cabby mischievously. 'this _is_ the mayor of poplar's carriage.' "'all right, constable,' i said, as i went down the steps; 'that's my cab.' "the policeman immediately began to apologise. cabby said he wouldn't have missed the fun for fifty quid." at the coronation ceremony at the abbey, to which all the london mayors were invited, crooks asked to be exempt from wearing court dress. the king sent him the exemption he asked for. "i attended the abbey in my mayoral robes, and when the ceremony was over i escaped from the crowd as quickly as i could, and was going to a house near by to take off my robes. i found myself in dean's yard, which was quiet and almost deserted, save for a few youngsters. "'i say, tom, here's the king,' i heard one of them remark as i approached. "'that ain't the king,' said a second youngster; 'that's the dook of connort.' "'garn! he ain't no royalty!' said another of the lads. and looking up into my face, he asked, 'who is yer, guv'nor?' "the question was more than i could stand, and i had to hurry away laughing heartily." his year of office was pronounced by opponents and supporters to be a triumphant success. from the very first the labour mayor proved that he knew his duties. he had not been in office long before he obtained a gift of £ , for the building of three additional public libraries for poplar. as an administrator he brought about many changes in the borough council's methods of doing work, introducing into the municipal life of poplar something of the business-like methods of the l.c.c. how far his efforts succeeded is shown by the presentation made to him and mrs. crooks at the close of the mayoral year. all parties on the borough council combined in a gift of silver plate to the mayoress, and an illuminated address to the mayor. "had we only known what a good mayor you would have made, mr. crooks," said one of the conservative members, "we should never have opposed your election." in thanking his colleagues on behalf of himself and his wife, crooks closed his speech with these words:--"we are as poor now as when we began, but money cannot buy the satisfaction we possess. we have had opportunities of being useful, and we have done the best we could with our opportunities. as i have lived, so i hope to end my days--a servant of the people." chapter xxi the man who paid old age pensions address to the national committee on old age pensions--paying pensions through the poor law--a walk from west to east--the living pension and the living wage--scientific starvation under bumbledom--defending the living pension at the l.g.b. inquiry--poplar "a shining light." with several other labour leaders, crooks was invited to join the national committee on old age pensions that arose out of mr. charles booth's conferences at browning hall. mr. richard seddon, on his last visit to england, described at one of the conferences the new zealand experiment. it was news to all the members of the committee to hear crooks unfold the details of a scheme differing largely both from mr. booth's and mr. seddon's. it was one that had been forced upon him after much reflection and experience. "for two or three generations the working classes of this country have been asked to vote for doodle or foodle and old age pensions. the elector of to-day, like his father and grandfather before him, is still waiting for the fulfilment of the promise. it seems a vain hope. he, too, like those before him, may die of old age still waiting, perhaps ending his days in the workhouse. "now i for one have got tired of waiting. i've commenced to pay pensions already. i maintain that it is both lawful, and right to pay pensions through the poor law. and i intend to go on paying them, and to urge others to pay them, until liberal and conservative politicians cease deluding the people by promises and establish a state system." he put forward his scheme before many other assemblies. to the argument that this is only a system of "glorified out-relief," he makes answer, "so are most pensions. at the risk of outraging the feelings of economists, i hold that out-relief to the poor is no more degrading than out-relief to the rich. we hear no talk of endangering the independence of cabinet ministers or of civil servants when they are paid old age pensions. "it is argued the poor have the workhouse provided for them. true; but was it not ruskin who pointed out that-- the poor seem to have a prejudice against the workhouse which the rich have not; for, of course, everyone who takes a pension from government goes into the workhouse on a grand scale; only the workhouses for the rich do not involve the idea of work, and should be called playhouses. but the poor like to die independently, it appears. perhaps, if we make the playhouses pretty and pleasant enough, or give them their pensions at home, their minds might be reconciled to the conditions. "look down as you may on these veterans of almost endless toil, but don't forget they have made our country what it is. they have fought in the industrial army for british supremacy in the commercial world and obtained it. the least their country can do is to honour their old age." the twofold character of crooks's poor law policy has already appeared. while he wants to make life in the workhouse less like life in prison, he is also anxious that all worn-out old men and women, who have friends to look after them, should be kept as far from the workhouse as possible. "to do that means the granting of a pension. call it outdoor relief if you like, but at the same time call the right honourable gerald balfour's and lord eversley's pensions outdoor relief. "at any rate, relief must be on a more generous scale than it usually is if you are going to keep honourable old people out of the workhouse. failing that, out-relief has a tendency to perpetuate sweating. mr. chaplin was not alone in deprecating inadequate out-relief. the aged poor commission, of which the king was a member, reporting in , called attention to the ill-effects of inadequate out-door grants and suggested that the amounts be increased." in one of our many walks together about the streets of london, i remember with what animation and depth of feeling he discussed this subject. we began somewhere in westminster with the intention of taking a 'bus at charing cross. we found ourselves still walking eastward as we passed temple bar, and then agreed to mount a 'bus at ludgate circus. we were still on our feet as we went through st. paul's churchyard, so decided to walk on to the bank. but he forgot everything but the poor again until we stopped our walk for a moment at aldgate church. before a 'bus could arrive he was deep in the subject again, and almost mechanically resumed walking. and so, on through whitechapel and stepney and limehouse into poplar, he discoursed earnestly all the way on the need for poor people's pensions. "since i prefer to call out-relief a pension," he said, "i'm going to see that it is a real pension, and not a dole. inadequate out-relief gives the sweater his opportunity. a sympathetic half-crown a week to a worn-out old woman making shirts at ninepence the dozen has the effect of dragging the struggling young widow with a family of children down to accepting the same price. it sometimes takes a whole week to earn one-and-six, so little wonder that the pinch of hunger sends many a young widow to the devil. we may preach that the wages of sin is death, but life isn't worth living at all to many people. an unknown hell has no more terrors to them than an awful earth. "how would i stop this? i would stop it by making it impossible for the old woman to be the unconscious instrument in encompassing the ruin of the young woman. the old woman cannot live on a half-crown dole from the guardians; so to make a shilling or two more she undercuts the young woman, and the sweater gets them both at reduced wages. now if the old woman deserves help at all, the help ought to be sufficient to keep her without the necessity of falling into the sweater's net and dragging others with her. the help must be a pension on which she can live. it ought not to be a dole on which she starves." "then you stand for the living pension as well as for the living wage?" "precisely. but nearly all pension schemes, like most out-relief systems, fix the allowance at a starvation figure. sums of four or five shillings won't save old people from hardship. for example, we have in the poplar workhouse old pensioners who received as much as six shillings a week. they found they couldn't live outside on that, and so had no alternative but the house. only the other day there was another six-shilling pensioner admitted to the house. he had struggled on outside in his one room, selling and pawning his few things bit by bit to eke out a living until he hadn't a stick left. so, although receiving a pension of six shillings a week, he was forced into the workhouse." "do you find the same thing happening in regard to old people assisted by a friendly society or a trade union?" "occasionally we do," answered crooks. "the other day, for instance, a superannuated trade unionist came before the board, an old man blunt in speech and not without independence. "'we understand you have a pension of six shillings a week,' says the chairman. "'that's all right, guv'nor. but how could you pay three shillings a week out of that for the rent of our one room and then you and the wife live on the rest?' "take another case," resumed crooks as we crossed commercial road. "a fine-looking old woman enters the relief committee room, scrupulously clean but poorly clad--a splendid specimen of a self-respecting honourable old english woman. "'now, my good woman, what can we do for you?' "'well, sir, we've nothing left in the world, and i've come to see if you can assist us?' "'where's your husband?' "'he's ill in bed to-day. he's turned seventy-three. i'm seventy-five myself. we've been living on his club money until now. he had six months' full pay and six months' half-pay. that's as much as the club allows. now we've got nothing. he worked up to a little more than a year ago; at seventy-three he can't work any longer.' "'we are very sorry,' says the chairman, 'but the poor law practice is to ask old people like you to come into the workhouse.' "'anything but that, sir,' pleads the old lady tearfully. 'both of us over seventy; we should feel it so much now after working all our lives. we can look after ourselves outside if you can give us a little help.' "here, then, you have an honest, hard-working old couple still faced with nothing but the workhouse, although they have been thrifty and done everything which the political promoters of old-age pensions say ought to be done. we made full inquiries, and for a time at least we thought we would meet their wishes and let them live outside. we gave them six shillings a week, and watched the case carefully. we saw that to eke out existence, one by one their articles of furniture were going. struggle and strive as they did on their six shillings a week, they would have been compelled to come into the house ultimately after a few further stages of this system of scientific starvation if we hadn't found outside help for them from another quarter." "you want, then, to base out-relief, like an old-age pension, on the living wage principle?" "no other plan will work. no other plan is just," he said in his earnest way. "the out-relief ought to be the pension. there are a lot of old people receiving out-relief grants of three or four shillings. what is the result? they toil and struggle and pine outside on an amount which barely keeps body and soul together. they reach the workhouse at last, as a rule, through the infirmary. that means they break down and have to get medical orders for admission. it has been proved that thirty per cent. of the people in poor law infirmaries are suffering ailments of some kind or other due to want of proper nourishment. "that is what i mean when i say that the present poor law, as bumbledom would administer it, has nothing better to prescribe than scientific starvation to old people who refuse the house. if one is foolish enough to grow old without being artful enough to get rich, this world is the wrong place to be in. "when old age comes to working people, both thrifty and unthrifty have in most instances to turn to one of two things--precarious charity or the poor law. charity is a splendid exercise for many people, but no law or custom exists compelling its practice. now the poor law can be enforced; only it has been used to terrorise the poor. the state sets up a system to save old people from starvation, and then allows it to be used to perpetuate starvation. "it won't do. so long as we have this system, i'm going to make not the worst use of it, but the best use of it. and i believe in paying old-age pensions through the poor law. the poor law ought not to degrade any more than the rich law degrades under which ministers and officers of the state receive their pensions. why do i say pay pensions through the poor law? because it is here. it is something to begin with at once. it is the thin edge of the wedge of a system of universal old-age pensions, free and adequate." pending the adoption of some national system, he practises in poplar the policy he urges in public, that of paying a living pension through the poor law. his policy received unexpected endorsement in a letter sent to him by an old woman of eighty-three in a provincial town. she wrote to him in the summer of at the time others were attacking him for his policy. your noble efforts on behalf of penniless old people like me i see are being condemned in some of the papers. they can't know the facts. i was managing very comfortably until the liberator crash took away my income. i started a small school and maintained myself until i was seventy. after that i was no good for work. what i should have done i don't know had it not been for a few friends who, like yourself, believe in out-relief grants of sufficient amount to keep a person living; and they persuaded the guardians to help me. i thank you for the fight you are making on behalf of hundreds of helpless old people like myself. may the king soon call you sir will crooks. he was examined at some length on his living pension policy at the local government board inquiry into the poplar guardians' administration. he admitted that old people over sixty receiving out-relief in poplar were costing the borough a sixpenny rate. "i say it is wicked to compel us," he stated in evidence, "to maintain out of our local rates these old people who ought to be a charge--as i have said hundreds of times, and repeat--for the whole metropolis or for the nation rather than the locality. these industrial veterans are thrust upon us in poplar to maintain, notwithstanding that most of the wealth they created has been enjoyed by people who live elsewhere, and thus escape their share of the burden of maintaining their old workers in old age. but because this unjust state of things exists, are we, with a full sense of our responsibility, to tell these broken-down old workers that we refuse to bear the burden ourselves, and that they must do the best they can?" then followed a rapid fire of questions and answers between himself and the legal representative of the poplar municipal alliance. _q._--is not that rather a dangerous doctrine? if local authorities generally allowed their sympathies to carry them into acts not contemplated by their constitution and their powers, what do you think the general result would be? _a._--it _is_ contemplated by our constitution. we are here to relieve distress. we are created for that purpose. _q._--do you say there is any machinery or power in the poor law which authorises you to give allowances which are, in fact, old age pensions to these people? _a._--it allows us to give out-door relief. you can call it what you like.... we cannot refuse to give people help and assistance in old age. _q._--i am not quarrelling for a moment with the proposition in the abstract; i am quarrelling with your method of carrying it out in your local machinery. _a._--tell me what you would do--leave them to starve on the streets? _q._--i suggest, is it not a dangerous doctrine for local authorities to exceed their statutory powers? _a._--i assure you we have never done anything of the kind, and i challenge you to prove it. _q._--i ask you to show me any authority for a grant continuously of, say, ten shillings a week to these old people? _a._--the local government board issued an order dealing with the matter. the inspector:--you rely on mr. chaplin's circular? _a._--yes, with regard to the treatment of the aged and deserving poor. that circular reads:-- it has been felt that persons who have habitually led decent and deserving lives should, if they require relief in their old age, receive different treatment from those whose previous habits and character have been unsatisfactory, and who have failed to exercise thrift in bringing up their families or otherwise. the local government board consider that aged and deserving persons should not be urged to enter the workhouse at all unless there is some cause which renders such a course necessary, such as infirmity of mind or body, the absence of house accommodation, or of a suitable person to care for them, or some similar cause; but think they should be relieved by giving adequate outdoor relief. the board are happy to think it is commonly the practice of boards of guardians to grant outdoor relief in such cases, but they are afraid that too frequently such relief is not adequate in amount. they are desirous of pressing upon the boards of guardians that such relief should, when granted, be always adequate. that is our authority for what we are doing.... for once in a way one can say this inquiry at least will be an enlightening one. _q._--i hope it will, mr. crooks. _a._--i am sure it will. _q._--to other places than poplar? _a._--i hope so indeed. poplar will be a shining light in the days to come. chapter xxii election to parliament labour candidate for woolwich--lord charles beresford describes crooks as a fair and square opponent--how the election fund was raised--crooks recommended by john burns as "wise on poor law"--half-loaf and whole loaf--"greatest by-election victory of modern times." on the morning of february th, , the press stated that considerable excitement was created in london on the previous day by the announcement that lord charles beresford had been offered the command of the channel squadron, and that he was about to resign his parliamentary seat in woolwich. a few days later the genial admiral, from a public platform, was bidding good-bye to his constituents and introducing to them the conservative candidate in the person of mr. geoffrey drage. he took occasion to throw out the warning that the opposition candidate was a strong man, whom he knew to be a fair and square opponent. the reference was to crooks. he had been adopted as labour candidate some few weeks previously. the invitation sent to him by the woolwich labour representation association was a unanimous one. it surprised him to receive it, since his association with woolwich--on the other side of the thames two miles below poplar--was a very slight one. when he accepted the invitation it was believed there would be at least two years to prepare for the general election. the labour candidate had barely made his _début_ before the by-election was announced. nobody but the little band of labour men in the constituency believed in crooks's chances. the honours had fallen so easily hitherto to the conservatives. lord charles beresford got the seat without a contest. sir edwin hughes before him was returned unopposed in , while for sixteen years previously he held the seat by majorities averaging more than two thousand. the majority at the previous contest (which took place in ) reached , . faced with this formidable figure, crooks entered upon the contest with all his usual zeal and good humour. there was first the difficulty of the election expenses. the labour association quickly raised £ from among its members. it soon became evident, however, that before the labour party could get in touch with the sixteen thousand voters on the register and meet the returning officer's fees, a sum four or five times as large as that would be needed. an appeal to the public was sent out by the association, signed by s. h. grinling, m.a. (chairman), w. barefoot (treasurer), and a. hall (secretary). the appeal was taken up by the _daily news_, which opened a woolwich election fund. in about a fortnight that paper raised £ , . contributions poured in from all classes, in every part of the kingdom, accompanied by a chorus of well-wishes of which any public man might indeed be proud. as from day to day the amounts were acknowledged in the _daily news_, one saw side by side with the modest two shillings from "four workers" £ from lord portsmouth. among the shillings and sixpences from working women and girls appeared £ from lady trevelyan, and a list of subscriptions from father adderley, containing one "from a lady in lieu of a new hat." the day "two chalfont lads" sent "a bob each," two sums of £ were acknowledged from the right hon. sydney buxton and mr. george cadbury. the authors of "the heart of the empire," with a gift of £ , shared the same spirit with "a leominster working-man," who forwarded three shillings, and "four working men of cirencester," who sent four shillings between them. dr. clifford, the rev. stopford brooke, and canon scott holland swelled the list, together with old labour members of parliament like mr. t. burt and mr. h. broadhurst. "a fellow worker of mr. crooks on the asylums board" was responsible for £ , while colleagues of his on the london county council contributed about £ between them. from porchester square came a substantial cheque with an unsigned note written in the third person, to this effect:-- the lady who sends the enclosed is nearly eighty-four, and therefore cannot offer any help in person, but she most heartily wishes mr. crooks success in his brave fight, as she has for a long time past desired to see more labour representatives in the house of commons. the campaign went on merrily. the magnetic personality of the labour candidate drew to his side every progressive section in the constituency. it was not only that working-men threw themselves into the fight with herculean energy, but the temperance societies and the churches of nearly every denomination became enthusiastic in his support. they seemed to share the same estimate of the candidate as mr. keir hardie, who wrote to the electors describing crooks as "a first-class fighting man, and the best of good fellows, who would, if returned, bring credit and honour to the constituency." mr. john burns went down to woolwich to pay his tribute in person. with the labour candidate he addressed a mass meeting of over five thousand electors in the drill hall, while crowds surged outside the doors, delaying the tram traffic in the streets. mr. burns fell into glowing periods in his eulogy of his old colleague:-- woolwich has in mr. crooks a man who not only carries a banner which typifies a cause, but honours the army for which he works. by his tolerance and sweet-tempered geniality, he has united the progressive forces of woolwich as they have never been united before. in securing what is possible to-day, mr. crooks never forgets his ideal, but with a brotherly love and christian charity pursues the line of least resistance in a way which labour has not always shown. before sitting down, mr. burns took occasion to tell his five thousand hearers that among other reasons why he was there to commend their candidate was because crooks was "wise on poor law." as the contest developed, crooks found that much the same kind of thing was being said against him as he had heard during his mayoralty in poplar. he told one of his public meetings:-- "lovely ladies are already going about with lovely stories. as they canvass for my opponent they tell the elector or his wife that the rates will go up if a labour candidate is elected. they say that because he is a poor man he will have to be paid a salary of £ a year out of the rates. you tell these alluring ladies that will crooks has been in public life for fourteen years, and has never had a penny from the rates all the time. tell them further that if he remains in public life another fifty years, he will still never have a penny from the rates." evidently those good ladies had not read his election address. there he stated:-- "i have no desire to enter parliament unless it be for the opportunities it may afford me of continuing and extending my life's work. if i can further the well-being of my country by assisting in the developing of a nation of self-respecting men and women, whose children shall be educated and physically and mentally fitted to face their responsibilities and duties, i shall be content. "i therefore ask those of you who believe that the greatness of our empire rests on the happiness and prosperity of its people to consider carefully the importance of the present election. "i am of opinion that a strong labour party in the house of commons, comprised of men who know the sufferings and share the aspirations of all grades of workmen, is certain to exercise greater influence for good than the academic student." as the day of the poll (march th) drew near, confident hopes of victory began to be entertained by many outside the labour party. the most telling election cry used by his supporters was innocently supplied by the opposition candidate, mr. drage, a gentleman who at one time sat with crooks on the asylums board. at one of his public meetings early in the campaign, mr. drage attempted to justify certain low wages paid in the woolwich arsenal by remarking that half a loaf was better than no bread. the labour party seized upon the words at once. "no half-loaf policy for us; we want the whole loaf," was their immediate retort. from that moment the loaf became the feature of the fight. as free trade and protection were also to the front, the loaf had a double significance. crooks's supporters carried about the streets, on the end of poles, loaves and half-loaves to represent the rival policies. "f. c. g.," in one of his _westminster gazette_ cartoons, represented crooks standing firm and solid on the whole loaf, while his opponent balanced himself with some temerity on a tottering half-loaf. polling day dawned hopefully. sunshine illumined the streets, while the labour candidate's carriages filled them. for once a labour man out-classed a conservative in the number and style of his conveyances. friends of crooks sent four-in-hands, motor cars, two-horse carriages, traps, drags, vans, coal-carts, and donkey shays. the bakers of the district had made thousands of miniature loaves about the size of walnuts, which were in evidence everywhere. with stalks through them, these loaves were sold in the streets and shops for a penny. men wore them in their buttonholes, boys in their caps, and women on their dresses as a symbol of the labour man's policy of the whole loaf. victory had been hoped for, but victory such as that achieved was beyond the wildest dreams. a conservative majority of was turned by crooks into a labour majority of --"the greatest by-election victory of modern times," as the _speaker_ described it. the actual poll was:-- crooks (labour) drage (conservative) ---- majority [illustration: will crooks addressing an open-air meeting in beresford square during the woolwich bye-election in .] to the little company of supporters of both parties assembled in the counting room of the town hall, crooks turned after the declaration of the result, and proposed the usual vote of thanks to the returning officer. he added:-- "may i say, now that i am elected member for woolwich, that it will be my aim and desire to serve all sections of the people of woolwich, including, of course, those who voted for mr. drage, as well as those who voted for me. so far as mr. drage and myself are concerned, we shall still retain the same friendship we have had for years." in seconding the vote, mr. drage congratulated mr. crooks on the great victory he had won, and assured him that their friendship had not been shaken by the campaign. a roar from the streets told that the news had reached the waiting crowds. the new member with his wife and a few friends passed out of the town hall into the midst of the multitude. it was only by the aid of the police, who opened a passage through the serried ranks, that crooks was able to reach the market square by the arsenal gates, where it had been arranged he should speak. it was then nigh on midnight, but when he mounted a cart he looked out on a sea of faces in the glare of improvised torches and the street lamps such as had never been witnessed at that hour in woolwich before. amid the exuberant joy of this multitude, it was in vain he tried to speak. one sentence only, sharp and clear, broke in between the cheering:-- "to-night woolwich has sent a message of love and hope to labour all over the country." not another word could be heard. finally he gave up the attempt to speak. the crowd was content to roll out its cheers. these increased in volume when someone from the dark mass passed up a large bouquet of flowers to mrs. crooks. so the curtain fell on a great fight. mrs. crooks, with her presentation bouquet, the happiest woman in england. the crowd of workers, who felt that a workers' battle had been won and a new hope arisen. and the new member of parliament, very tired, cheery, undisturbed, desirous only that the efforts of those who had assisted should be gratefully acknowledged and no undue credit given to the vigorous and magnetic personality who had focussed all the enthusiasm and driven it forward into an unprecedented victory. chapter xxiii advent of the political labour party congratulations--a letter from bishop talbot--bar-parlour opinion--the press on the victory--the birth of a party--an opponent of the south african war. before crooks went down to the house of commons on the following day, he had a busy morning opening telegrams to the number of two or three hundred. mr. john burns, mr. keir hardie, mr. david shackleton, wired their congratulations from the house of commons. other messages came from trade unions and groups of working-men and working-women in various parts of the country. among them were telegrams from dockers at middlesbrough, coopers at birmingham, postmen in london, engineers at newcastle, and cycle-makers at coventry. these well-wishes from the ranks of labour poured in simultaneously with congratulations from sir henry campbell-bannerman, the hon. maud stanley, lord tweedmouth, mr. beerbohm tree, and many ministers of religion. the late sir wilfrid lawson, as was his wont dropped into verse. he wired from carlisle:-- hurrah! the future brighter looks; we worry on by hooks and crooks. oh, what a heavy, heavy blow last night you struck on jingo joe! from the bishop's house, kennington, s.e., dr. talbot wrote:-- i wish, as one to whom, as its bishop, the affairs of woolwich are of great interest, to offer you my sincere good wishes for your parliamentary course. i am aware that by so writing at this moment i may risk misunderstanding and seem to "worship the rising sun," and that you may not care for words when there were not deeds in support. but i venture to risk this: and to trust you to take as genuine what is genuinely said. i think you are the man to do this. i cannot but feel and i desire to express great satisfaction that the needs and interests of labour should have their representative in one who has given such proof of desire to work and suffer for the welfare of his fellow-men as you have done. all that i have heard of you commands my admiration and respect. it will be a great pleasure to find there are occasions when we may co-operate for the public welfare in woolwich. had the bishop of bloemfontein--chandler--been in england, i might have asked him for an introduction to you; as it is, may our common friendship for him serve the purpose. you will come into parliament with great power from your character and experience, and as the representative by such a majority of such a place. may you seek, and may god almighty give you, the wisdom and strength to use rightly this great position. to turn from the bishop to the bar-parlour will help us to preserve the balance of things human. while dr. talbot was sending his blessing from the bishop's house, there came a chorus of good-wishes from nearly every public-house in woolwich. this was all the more remarkable because crooks had made the constituency hold its sides with laughter over the innumerable stories he told during the campaign against beer-drinkers. those who laughed the loudest were the drinkers themselves, admitting while so doing they had never heard a teetotaler put the case against them so well before. it was a great delight to crooks to learn that even the regular tipplers were saying among themselves that "although that chap crooks don't spare us blokes, he's the man for our money." one conversation reported to him from a public-house a few days after the election was certainly quaint and amusing. the narrator was the best of mimics. he told how the subject of the election was introduced by "a long thin man with a sheeny nose," who had just come in. "well," began the new-comer, without any preliminary, "i've read 'the fifteen decisive battles of the world,' but i tell you woolwich licks the lot." "what about napoleon bonaparty?" ventured one of the company. "bonaparty? what did bony do? why, ten years after wellington won waterloo things was back worse than they was before." "i thought bill adams won the battle of waterloo," called out a voice from the corner bench. "you shouldn't think; it might hurt yer head." "d'yer reckon as crooks is bigger nor bony was?" inquired the first questioner. "certainly i do," said the long thin one, severely. "what did bony do? why, he made men fight for him. but what did crooks do? why, he taught men to fight for themselves and their families. see? bony built his house on the sands, and the tide of humanity has washed it away. now crooks taught us men to build our own house, and nothing can destroy it while we stick together." to the new member there came in due time congratulatory messages from europe, america, south africa, and australia. children also sent him their well-wishes--children are always writing to crooks--one letter being signed by a whole family of them in plumstead with their ages set out like stepping-stones after each signature. this "little household," as they called themselves, told him how eagerly they had "watched the papers," and how glad they were he had won. one only of the many letters that poured in sounded a despondent note. it was signed by two desolate old women who lived together in poplar. "we have just heard," they wrote, "you have been elected member for woolwich. does this mean you are going to leave poplar? if so, please give up parliament, for who have we to look to for help if you go away?" some of his supporters were anxious to serve him in a practical way. the workers at a tailoring establishment in woolwich asked him to allow them to make him a suit of clothes "as a thank-offering for the splendid victory." when a fortnight later they sent the suit it was with an expression of "regret that it is not like our esteem--warranted not to wear out." the press all over the country was profoundly impressed by the result. the liberal papers for the most part were too eager to hail it as a blow at the conservative government to see its true significance. the conservative papers, in attempting to lessen its effect on their own party, got nearer to the real meaning that lay behind the victory. as the _times_ put it:-- the result ... means that the questions bound up with the existence of an organised labour party which have been hitherto regarded as chimerical are coming to the front in practical politics. the _pall mall gazette_ also got near the mark:-- mr. crooks's return is first and most obviously an indication of the growing strength of the idea of an organised labour party, such as under the name of socialism is so potent a force in continental politics. for woolwich was the first manifestation to the public of the birth of the political labour party. the election came within a few weeks of the famous newcastle conference of the labour representation committee, whose delegates represented over a million organised workmen in the country. that was the conference which decided on the absolute independence of the labour party. almost the first duty of its secretary, mr. j. r. macdonald, on his return from newcastle was to issue an appeal "to everyone in london interested in the formation of a labour party in the house of commons to go to woolwich to help mr. crooks." the best explanation of the striking labour triumph was given by crooks himself in the _daily news_:-- "the workman is learning after years of unfulfilled pledges and broken promises of the usual party stamp that before he can get anything like justice he must transfer his faith from 'gentlemen' candidates to labour candidates. the workman has seen how the 'gentlemen' of england have treated him in the last few years--taxed his bread, his sugar, his tea; tampered with his children's education, attacked his trade unions, made light of the unemployed problem, and shirked old-age pensions. "what the workman has done in woolwich, you will find he will do in other towns." his prophecy was fulfilled within three years. the general election of saw labour men for the first time returned for two or three dozen constituencies, some with the greatest majorities known to political history. as the amazing results poured in from day to day, with their three and five and even six thousand majorities, a prominent public man declared at the time:--"this is the party that was born at woolwich." one significant phase of the woolwich by-election was emphasised by the _speaker_. here, in a district where the majority of workers earn their daily bread in the government arsenal, a man was elected who had bitterly opposed the south african war, which from the material standpoint had brought a period of prosperity to woolwich without parallel. the _speaker_ went on to say:-- mr. crooks was among the sturdiest and most outspoken opponents of the war and its objects, and a man who survived that ordeal may be trusted to stand to his colours in the next emergency. he was a conspicuous member of what was called the "pro-boer" party. he was one of the orators at the famous trafalgar square meeting that the jingoes broke up. in the pages of the same weekly journal the new member for woolwich wrote an article on the labour party. "the labour party," he said, "is quite a natural result of the failure of rich people legislating for the poor. the one hope of the workman is a strong labour party.... the labour member has nothing but his service to give in return for support. perhaps he is dependent on his fellows for his maintenance until payment of members is secured. the continued selection of rich men for working-class constituencies is a perversion of representation, and quite as absurd as it would be to attempt to run a labour candidate for the aristocratic west-end division of st. george's, hanover square." chapter xxiv the living wage for men and women crooks's maiden speech--a welcome from the treasury bench--demand for a fair wage in government workshops--advocating the payment of members and the enfranchisement of women--crooks's hold upon the house. a fortnight after his election to parliament, crooks made his maiden speech. he called attention to the fact that the government was allowing portions of the national workshops at woolwich arsenal to remain idle while it was giving work that could be done in them to outside contractors. "i do not know how it appears to other hon. members," he told the house, "but it seems to me that every department of a government which claims to be a business government ought to have the right to make the first use of all the resources which the nation has placed at its disposal before considering outside contractors.... the contractors have fairly good representation in this house, and many things are to be said in their favour; but the government has no right to use the money of the nation in building machinery and then to allow it to stand idle in the interests of outside firms, no matter who they are or what influence they may have." in the opening words of his reply, the minister for war (mr. brodrick) said he was sure that whatever their opinion as to the views of the hon. member (mr. crooks), all sections of the house would welcome his appearance in debate on a subject on which he was so fully informed. the same day crooks called the attention of the house to the low wages paid to labourers in the national workshops. "i maintain that it is not cheap for the government to pay men s. per week, although other employers may be able to get them for that amount. if the men had more money they would be able to get better house accommodation, and the ratepayers would be saved the substantial sums now paid under the poor law for medical orders for people brought up in over-crowded homes. the president of the local government board knows that in consequence of over-crowding in london, hundreds of such medical orders go to people living under unhealthy conditions, impossible to avoid when the family depends on this weekly wage of s. paid to government employees. such earnings are barely sufficient for food, let alone shelter. an order has been issued by the local government board instructing guardians to feed the inmates of workhouses properly. the minimum scale laid down for persons in workhouses is of a character that no man with a family can approach if he is only earning s. a week. what i urge is that the men in the employment of the state should have a local government board existence, if nothing else--that the men in the national workshops should no longer have to live on a lower food scale than that prescribed for workhouses." before he had been in parliament a month, he got an opportunity to introduce a proposal in favour of the payment of members. the house was well filled when he rose to move the following motion:-- that, in the opinion of this house, it is desirable and expedient that, in order to give constituencies a full and free choice in the selection of parliamentary candidates, the charges now made by the returning officer to the candidates should be chargeable to public funds, and that all members of the house of commons should receive from the state a reasonable stipend during their parliamentary life. he addressed the house at some length on this motion. here is a summary of his speech:-- there was a good deal of talk about there being absolute equality in this country, but there was, as every member knew, only one way of getting into the house, and that was by spending substantial sums of money. a considerable sum of money was spent in securing his election, but he did not have to find a farthing of it. the cash was subscribed openly and freely. but he had often heard it asked when a poor man was standing: "who is finding your money?" only the other day he saw the following advertisement in the _yorkshire post_:-- m.p.--a gentleman, thirty, holding a responsible position in london, desirous of entering parliament, wishes to meet with an affectionate and wealthy lady, view matrimony. genuine. highest credentials. it might be suggested that men would go into the house of commons simply to make a living out of it. but was there not in the present house more than one member who made a pretty good thing out of the privilege of being able to attach the magic letters "m.p." to their names? however that might be, he ventured to assert that the administrative capacity of this country had never yet been properly tapped. it was said a man needed to be trained for political life. yes, but where? was it at the university? was it by taking a double first at oxford or cambridge that he would turn out a great law-maker, or was it by constant contact with humanity? he had seen in the press an observation to the effect that it was all very well for labour to have its representatives in parliament, but what did they know of those great historic and important questions which so vitally affected the interests and welfare of the nation? his answer to that was that it was infinitely more important to the average industrial worker of this country that the conditions of life should be bettered, and that an opportunity should be given for men to enter the house who knew what he wanted. he was one of those who believed that practical knowledge of working men would prove exceedingly helpful in the deliberations of the house. there were too many academically-trained men and too few practical men engaged in the government of the country. he had been in touch with working-men for years and years; he had sat with them on administrative bodies, and his experience was that one touch of nature was worth infinitely more than all the academic training oxford or cambridge could give. the speech was listened to with sympathetic interest, frequently producing laughter and cheers. the motion, however, was talked out by the government's supporters. in his election address crooks had shown that he wanted women to have the vote. it was with much satisfaction, therefore, that he introduced the women's enfranchisement bill prepared by the independent labour party. the second reading not having been reached when the session closed, the bill fell through. similar measures which have his support have been introduced since. he hopes they will be brought forward regularly until a woman's right to the franchise is recognised. he gave in the _review of reviews_ his reasons for introducing the bill that bore his name:-- "it is because in all my public work i aim at making the people self-reliant, able to think and act for themselves, that i want women to have the power and the responsibility that the possession of the vote gives. it is by this rather than by any consideration of how their votes would be used that i ask for woman's suffrage. at the same time i believe that the cause of progress has nothing to fear from this reform. we entrust to women as teachers and as mothers the all-important work of educating the future citizens. how absurd, then, to hesitate to give to women the rights of a citizen. as regards the women of the working-class, i point out constantly that all the many social questions that are pressing for settlement affect these women as much as, if not more than, they affect their husbands. we must give women a share in settling such questions." he went on, in the course of further remarks in the same magazine, to lay great stress on the importance of organisation and of agitation in order to secure the vote for women. there should be local workers in every constituency. every member of the house of commons should have strong pressure brought to bear upon him. no woman, he urged, should work for any candidate who is not a supporter of women's franchise. if the candidate put forward by her own political party cannot support this, she should work for the candidate who can, no matter to what party he belonged. "if women are in earnest on this question," he added, "they must prove it by putting principle before party, and making the enfranchisement of their sex the first object of all their political work." on political platforms he often mentioned an incident that arose in connection with a protest he made against the low wages paid to women in the government's victualling yard at deptford. "it's starvation," he told one of the responsible officials, "to pay widows with families s. a week." "but it's constant," said the amazed official. "so, you see," crooks adds in telling the incident, "that government officials think starvation's all right so long as it's constant. do you think this system of constant starvation would be tolerated for a day if women had the vote?" before mr. balfour's government came to an end, crooks had become one of the popular speakers of the house. he brought into parliament a lively conversational style rarely found in that assembly. his quaint witticisms, his telling illustrations from the every-day life of the people, together with his downright sincerity, his tolerance and restraint, won him the good-will of both sides of the house. whether pleading for underfed school children, for the unemployed, or speaking against the taxation of the people's food, he was generally admitted to be bright and forceful. he never spoke without bringing a new point of view to the debate. "jehu junior," writing in _vanity fair_, said of him:-- his tact and common-sense served him as well in the house as they had done in settling labour disputes at poplar. by never debating any subject but those on which he has special knowledge, and by his perfect good temper and modesty, he became one of the men whose politics arouse no personal animosity on the "other side." of him and the other labour men in that parliament--the small band of stalwarts who were reinforced so strongly at the general election of --mr. john morley, addressing his own constituents at montrose, said:-- will anybody, who has watched the life of the house of commons, say that in moderation of demeanour, in decency of manners, in self-respect, in freedom from swagger and assumption, these men have shown themselves inferior to men sitting by their side who have had all the opportunities of wealth, education, and culture? if i were leaving the house of commons to-morrow, and were called upon to adjudicate a prize, i would impartially give the prize for good manners, for self-respect, for moderation of statement, for respect for the audience they addressed in the house of commons, to the dozen labour men whom we have had the pleasure of having among us rather than to a dozen gentlemen i could name if i liked. from the other side of the house came the testimony of sir john gorst. the ex-conservative minister brought out his book, "the children of the nation"--wherein he argues that it is the duty of the state to see that the nation's children are well fed, well housed, and well clothed--with the following dedication:--"to the labour members of the house of commons in token of my belief that they are animated by a genuine desire to ameliorate the condition of the people." chapter xxv free trade in the name of the poor m.p.'s investments and their votes--a lecture from a lady of title--urged to give up some of his public work--defending free trade throughout the country--ridiculing tariff reform at birmingham--a brush with mr. chamberlain--real "little englanders." "show me where a man has his money invested and i will tell you how he will vote." such was crooks's way of summing up the house of commons before he had been a member many months. someone had expressed surprise to him that both liberal and conservative members should have combined to support the proposed electric trust for london when the l.c.c. was promoting a municipal scheme. "the first lesson one learns in parliament," he replied, "is that the two great parties generally forget their political differences when the just claims of the people threaten their pockets." it amused him to find that many members preferred the smoking room and the terrace to the house. it was on the terrace he overheard a conservative member ask a liberal:-- "are you in favour of this bill?" "i think i am," came the halting reply. "that's all right, then; i'm against it. we needn't go up to vote--we'll pair." and crooks left those british legislators smoking on the terrace, since it was too much trouble to them to go inside and vote. it was on the terrace one afternoon that a party of titled ladies, taking tea, sought his acquaintance. they immediately began to lecture him on his duty to the poor. "i think you are supremely stupid to bother about the poor as you do, mr. crooks," said one of the dames from behind her fan. "i am told they are always coming to your house to consult you about their troubles. if they came to my house i should order them away." "i'm sure you would, madam." "and if those dreadful people were only like me they wouldn't listen to what you tell them." "i'm sure they wouldn't, madam." "you needn't be sarcastic, mr. crooks. i would send them to the poor law officers or the charity organisation people." and then, as another honourable member joined the party, the good lady turned to him: "i'm just teaching mr. crooks his place." "indeed," said the labour man, "i thought i was teaching you yours." it was more agreeable to him when accosted by one of the policemen on duty in the house. "well, mr. crooks, how's poplar?" "you know poplar?" "yes, i used to be stationed that way. i well remember your dock gate meetings. i liked the poplar people better than the west enders. you take it from me, mr. crooks, there's far more respect for law and order in poplar than there is in the west end." he still kept his college by the dock gates going, notwithstanding his election to parliament. indeed, he was still as much the servant of poplar as of woolwich. parliament, of course, added enormously to his work. friends urged him to give up several of his public posts. he was advised to retire from the asylums board, and doubtless would have done so but for a powerful appeal sent to him not to desert the board's children. he wanted to resign from the poplar board of guardians, of which he had then been chairman for half a dozen successive years; but all parties in the borough pleaded with him to remain, and the conservatives and liberals withdrew their candidates in his ward in order that he might be returned unopposed. he was showered with requests to remain for the sake of the poor. at last he agreed, on the understanding that he should give less time to the work. this was perhaps an unwise decision, for owing to the slackening of his personal vigilance the administration was besmirched by irregularities which of course laid the chairman's poor law policy open to the attacks of his opponents. the only post he gave up was that on the poplar borough council. the labour league would not hear of his resigning from the london county council, and within a year of his election to parliament, poplar re-elected him to the l.c.c. with a majority of over , . the demands made upon him to address public meetings in other parts of the country became terrific after woolwich. i found him one afternoon turning over the pages of his engagement book with a worried look. "i'm just wondering whether i can do it," he said. "i find i'm booked to speak at thirteen different meetings at different places within the next fortnight, and i've just got a pressing appeal to speak at another within the same time." the appeals came from the churches, from temperance societies, from adult sunday schools, from p.s.a.'s, as well as from labour organisations. the labour party, which was then organising for its great political triumph of , had his first consideration always. he addressed labour meetings all over the country, nearly always with an audience of three or four thousand. he was at glasgow, birmingham, leicester, plymouth, liverpool, exeter, darlington, ipswich, chatham, newcastle, blackburn, barnard castle, huddersfield, edinburgh, cardiff, all within a few months. everywhere he turned mr. chamberlain's tariff proposals into ridicule. he made his great birmingham audience laugh the loudest. he told that and other audiences:-- mr. chamberlain has shown you two loaves, the free trade loaf and the protection loaf. "there's hardly any difference between them," he tells you. "why make all this fuss?" let him take the two loaves down a birmingham court and ask a poor woman with children to cut them up. she'll soon tell him the difference between the solid free trade loaf and the spongy protectionist loaf. you trust the mother of a family to know the difference between good bread and blown-out pastry. "ah, but we must make sacrifices in the interest of the empire," says mr. chamberlain. let him come down our way and talk like that in poplar. i tried it the other day. "times is awful bad just now, mr. crooks," said one of a party of women who stopped me on my way to the house of commons. "yes," i said, "but don't you know the new kind of comfort the imperialists have found for you? they say you belong to an empire on which the sun never sets. it's so filling, isn't it, when you're hungry?" "an empire on which the sun never sets!" cried one of the women, pointing towards her slum tenement. "what's the good of talking to us like that? why, the sun never rises on our court!" "that may be," i say, "but you've got to pay more for your bread and your meat, all in the interests of the empire. you've got to learn to make sacrifices for the empire." "look here, will," says the eldest among them; "i've known you since you was in petticoats, and you've never deceived me yet. wot's the use of talking to us about sacrifices when we can't make both ends meet as it is?" "both ends meet!" exclaimed one of the women. "we think we are lucky if we can get one end meat and the other end bread." "wot's it all about, mr. crooks?" asked another. "here's bread gone up a ha'penny a loaf. and sugar and tea's gone up. and the children say they don't get so many sweets for a farthing now as they used to." "and," i added, "meat's likely to go up too--all in the interests of the empire. twopence a pound more for colonial mutton." "what!" they cried in a body. "twopence more for mutton!" "haven't you heard?" i went on. "the tariff reformers have a great scheme to bind the empire together by letting the colonies charge us more for our food. if you don't agree with them they'll call you little englanders." "that's just it," said one of the women. "if i'm to pay another twopence a pound for meat my children will soon be little englanders!" then turning suddenly from his anecdotal style, crooks would go on to ask his audience how a worthy imperial race was to be built up on a lack of food? the empire begins in the workman's kitchen. the imposition of new duties on food imports, though no more than a penny or twopence, means to many a poor housewife the difference between having and going without. i know one large family where the recent addition of a half-penny on the loaf robbed the children of a slice of bread a day. do you know what that means? have you ever lived in a family where the slices have to be counted, and where every child could eat twice as much as its allowance? i belonged to such a family as a child, and when a clergyman came round once and found my mother crying over an empty cupboard, he said: "ah, well; god sends the bread for all the mouths." "that's all very fine," my mother said; "but he seems to send the mouths to our house and the bread to yours." the policy of preference came in for his banter equally with that of protection. under any scheme of preference, the relation of this country, with its large imports, to our colonies, which take comparatively few of our exports, he used to say reminded him of a boxing-match between a thin man and a fat man. after the first round or two the fat man stops and says: "this ain't fair; you've got more to strike at than i have." "very well, then," says the thin man, "let's chalk my size out on your body, and all blows outside the chalk mark don't count." mr. chamberlain seems to have heard how crooks was riddling with ridicule his protection and preference policies up and down the country. at any rate, the ex-minister began his favourite policy of retaliation. at some of his public meetings he supported his argument by representing crooks as having said at leith that the poor of this country were worse off than the poor of any other country. as soon as crooks heard of this he wrote to mr. chamberlain:-- sir,--i do not for a moment think you deliberately misquoted the words i used at leith, but whoever sent you the information is absolutely without excuse for the blunder. for what i said i have said in twenty different parts of the kingdom to tens of thousands of our fellow-countrymen--viz. "that even if, as mr. chamberlain suggests, the colonies do desire preference, it is no reason why the poor of great britain should pay more for their bread to help those colonies which have no poor, or certainly no poverty compared with the poverty we have in this country." this, as you will note, makes a very great difference in the reading of your quotation of what i really did say. i am, yours truly, will crooks. in reply mr. chamberlain sent a tardy apology, thus:-- sir,--i have your letter of december th, and in reply i beg to say that the statement which you say you have repeatedly used is in no sense inconsistent with the statement which you were reported to have made at leith, and which referred not to the colonies but to foreign countries. unfortunately, i have only the extract which was sent to me and not the whole speech, and of course if you deny having used the words which i quoted i most readily accept your contradiction. i am, yours faithfully, joseph chamberlain. a fallacy very popular with protectionists was neatly dealt with by crooks at a meeting of the london county council. one of the moderate members asked whether an assurance could be given that certain tramway materials would be of british manufacture. the reply was that since the council worked under free trade conditions, no such assurance could be given. "will not trade union conditions be observed?" inquired another moderate member. "yes." "do you call that acting on a free trade basis?" "some members," interposed crooks, "seem to identify trade union conditions with protection." "quite right too," shouted the moderate. "yes," came crooks's retort; "but the one kind of protection is the protection of the workers against the sweater, and the other kind is the protection of the sweater against the workers." chapter xxvi preparing for the unemployed act principles for dealing with unemployed--twenty-four per cent. of poplar's wage-earners out of work--folly of stone-breaking and oakum-picking--public warning by crooks and canon barnett--how crooks used a gift of £ , . crooks's three years in mr. balfour's parliament had a remarkable triumph in the unemployed act. no one needs reminding that the measure was introduced by the government; but as the sequel will show, it is doubtful whether it would have seen the light, and it is certain it would never have been passed but for his untiring advocacy. this was so far recognised at the time that one of the bitterest opponents of the measure, sir william chance, a stern disciple of the charity organisation society, described it as "a poplar bill framed to meet poplar's needs." so it was. for poplar's needs just then were the needs of the unemployed. and the unemployed's needs were the same all the country over. the bill was introduced about the time the poplar guardians took a census of the unemployed in typical working-class streets in the district, revealing over twenty-four per cent. of the wage-earners out of work. the bill was based on the principle which had guided crooks in all his dealings with the unemployed. the only sound way to help an unemployed man, he maintains, is by work rather than by relief. the condition he imposes on the provision of such work is that it must be useful. he will have nothing to do with "works" provided only as "relief." work that is not useful can never relieve. his agitation in parliament put the crown on fifteen years of laborious striving to make the state admit a duty to its unemployed citizens. as far back as september, , he was appealing in the _daily chronicle_ to the board of trade and the thames conservancy to help in allaying the threatened distress of the coming winter by reclaiming foreshores. his appeal was taken up at the time by other papers, which complimented him upon the practical common-sense character of his proposals. somewhere in the archives of the board of trade that scheme of his doubtless lies buried to this day. he is still confident it will be carried out some time. he is fond of saying that it takes parliament seven years to grasp a new idea and seven more to carry it out. compressed into a few lines in his own words, the story of his effort runs in this way:--"it was in the november of that in consequence of what i had been saying at public meetings and in the press, i was urged to lay the scheme before mr. mundella, who was president of the board of trade at the time. there was great suffering that winter, and the local government board advised all the local authorities to put in hand as much public work as possible. well and good, i said, but let the government do the same. i pointed out that under the foreshores act of the board of trade had power to reclaim land. again, under an act of the thames conservancy could reclaim miles of foreshore in and below london. i showed that this was just the kind of work to absorb unskilled labour, and supplied examples of the success of reclaiming land on the banks of the forth and the tay and on the lincolnshire coast." as his poor law duties crowded heavily upon him he had opportunities as a guardian of carrying out in his own district his guiding principle in regard to the provision of useful work. he found the usual "task" work going on in the workhouse. he saw its degrading uselessness and abolished it. in place of oakum-picking and stone-breaking he substituted useful and profitable work like clothes-making, laundry work, bread-baking, wood-chopping, painting, and cleaning. for every ton of oakum picked in the workhouse the ratepayers were involved in an expenditure of £ . the guardians were often glad to get rid of the oakum when picked by returning it free to the firm supplying it. at the best they got s. d. per ton for it. to a man like crooks, holding firmly to ruskin's theory that the employment of persons on a useless business cannot relieve ultimate distress, all work of that kind was wicked as well as wasteful. he told his own board so very plainly in . it was a bitter winter. river and docks were frozen for weeks, closing the door against work to half the men in poplar. the guardians were besieged by starving families. well-nigh in despair the board arranged that the relieving officers should send the out-of-work men to break stones at three stoneyards specially opened in different parts of the district. "it's a mistake," he argued. "you are putting men to break stones which nobody wants. you are wasting men and money by inventing work which is utterly useless. plenty of useful work can be found with care and organisation." after six disastrous weeks the guardians admitted he was right. only the worst class of men went into the stoneyards. he showed that this work of breaking stones was costing £ s. d. per yard, whereas the work could be done outside at trade union rate of wages for s. d. per yard. when the stoneyards were closed and it became known to the loafers thriving under the system that crooks was responsible, they threatened his life. these men knew they had been sent to the stoneyard simply to justify the guardians in paying them wages. they grumbled and idled most of the time. self-respecting men out of work refused to mix with them. some time later crooks joined with canon barnett, george lansbury, and others in a letter to the _times_ and the press generally, uttering a note of warning to municipal authorities against "made work" for the unemployed. this joint letter stated:-- made work tends to be regarded as a source of relief rather than of earnings. it is often as tempting to the idler as it is repugnant to the self-respecting workman.... we would therefore submit that the municipalities which may decide to take part in meeting present needs could best do so by leaving distinctively "relief" duties to guardians and other agencies; by starting and carrying on, as good employers, works which have a definite public advantage, and by requiring of each worker the best work during a continuous period under thorough supervision. the most successful scheme for relieving distress with which crooks was associated in the severe winters of the early 'nineties was one on which a dozen years later the unemployed act was based. it represented co-operation between a committee of citizens and the local authorities. the committee was formed in the first instance as a relief committee by the rector of poplar. when crooks joined at the rector's request and found himself sitting among none but parsons, representing every denomination in the district, he told them their first duty was to widen their ranks. "you will never do anything so long as your committee is confined to gentlemen like these," he told the clerical chairman. "what you need is to get hold of trade union secretaries and the secretaries of the friendly and temperance societies and members of working men's clubs. they will soon discriminate between the waster and the deserving man. the waster is always boasting that parsons are so easily deceived." besides the labour men, representatives of other classes were invited to join the committee. the bishop of london and canon scott holland backed up the committee's appeal to the public for funds, and about £ , was raised to meet poplar's needs. it was amusing to see how often the working men members had to undeceive the parsons. one good vicar tearfully brought forward several cases which the labour men proved had been manufactured for him by professional cadgers. "i have never known a distress committee to equal that one," was crooks's verdict. it taught him that a shilling given to an unemployed man for work done was better than a sovereign given simply as charity. ever since he has steadily worked for the unemployed under that conviction. he changed that committee from a relief committee into a committee for providing work. in its second winter he received an offer for the unemployed of £ , from mr. a. f. hills, of the thames ironworks, on condition that he should raise a similar sum. he took the offer at once to the poplar district board, the precursor of the borough council. they agreed to vote another £ , , and to put men to work on repaving roads and lime-whiting courts and alleys. so far was the local authority satisfied with the way the work was done that, after spending mr. hills's £ , in wages and the second £ , they themselves had promised, they voted another £ , during the prevalence of the distress. meanwhile, crooks had brought about co-operation between the rector's distress committee and the local authority. the committee went on as usual investigating the condition of families, with the great advantage of now being able to offer a job rather than relief to the out-of-work husband. "when we came to starving families, as we did very often, we fed them up until the man was able to go to work. as soon as a man was able to work we sent him to the local authority. if he failed to turn up for the work, but came round later for relief, he got this answer: 'we can't afford to play the fool in this business. if you won't turn up to work you can't be in distress. all we can do for you now is to put you at the bottom of our list. when we reach your name again we'll give you one more chance. if you don't take the work then, don't come here any more.' "of course, the cost of the labour to the district board was somewhat higher than it would have been in the hands of skilled road-makers. you must always allow for a loss due to the want of experience (as well as the want of food) when you engage unemployed men. but remember we had a free gift of £ , from mr. hills, which more than met the extra expense, so that the ratepayers lost nothing. on the other hand, the community got something that it needed. how much better, then, to pay this little difference in price by employing out-of-work men on public works than by giving them relief under the guise of stone-breaking, which costs the community over £ per ton when it can be done in the open market for s. d. a ton." the winter that witnessed this scheme was described as "a red-letter one in the history of the unemployed difficulty in the east end of london." the words appear in the report of the poplar district board. in summing up what had been done, the board further stated that "on every ground much good has been accomplished and a valuable lesson learned." the board also thanked the local relief committee and mr. hills and crooks personally for their co-operation. the lesson that had been learned saw fruit in the unemployed act a dozen years later. chapter xxvii agitation in the house of commons how the workless man degenerates--pleading the cause of the unemployed in the house--creation of the central unemployed committee--feeding the starving out of the rates--"would a hen bring 'em off?"--a letter from the prime minister--crooks's rejoinder. the interval was one of unwearied agitation. of all his other pressing public duties he gave first place to this of urging the state to deal with the unemployed. "this unemployed question is a terrible worry, crooks," said a conservative member, walking with him out of the house of commons into palace yard one evening. "yes," crooks replied as the other stepped into his motor car, "it is a terrible worry when you have it for breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper." it was the beginning of the winter of . he had spent the afternoon in one of his interminable battles in parliament urging that preparations should be made to act wisely instead of waiting until panic-stricken, and that the usual wild schemes for helping the unemployed would once again result in waste and demoralisation. "i stood for a minute or two interested in the hurry and scurry of people hastening to clubland, to dinner parties, and to theatres," he afterwards remarked when recalling the incident. "then, turning my back on the west end, i wended my way eastward. yes, a terrible worry the unemployed, and yet how few people seemed to realise it. never-ending lines of conveyances, long queues of pleasure-seekers thronging the theatre doors, all the externals of my surroundings pointed to everything but unemployment. but straight in front of me was my home in poplar, and i knew that in a few more minutes i should be hearing a tale of some family's misery, considering myself a lucky man if i spent a few minutes indoors without someone calling to ask, 'can you help to get me a job?' "truly to some of us the unemployed are a terrible worry, not only in december, january, and february, but summer and winter, night and day, all the year round. but more terrible than the unemployed themselves is the heart-breaking carelessness of the british public, which, generous to a fault, will not make up its mind until stirred by sensational appeals. "'oh, but,' some of my political opponents say to me, 'the unemployed are generally such a shiftless, good-for-nothing class. what good can you expect to do with such men? i quite sympathise with your keenness, but they are a very worthless, thankless lot, and you are wasting a lot of time over them.' "well, suppose we allow that as a class the unemployed retain a large measure of original sin. i know other classes possessing the same weakness, but neither class prejudices nor racial hatreds interest me very much. so, for the sake of argument, we will say that the unemployed are very imperfect. this is one of the reasons why my labour colleagues and i want to press home the importance of england making a praiseworthy effort to grapple with the problem. we see how quickly a workless man deteriorates. a person out of work in october, unless promptly dealt with, is in danger of becoming by the following march that social wreck known as a loafer. and i object to loafers at both ends of the scale, whether in park lane or in poplar." in the issue of _vanity fair_ containing "spy's" popular cartoon of crooks, the labour member himself had an article on the unemployed. "if _vanity fair_ will train the rich, the labour men will guide the poor," he wrote. further: "old england is as dear to the labour man with poverty for his birthright as to the hereditary legislator with a county for a heritage. but wealth, and the carelessness that wealth often induces, are blind to the causes which heap misery and discontent upon the people from generation to generation. to the wealthy the whole business is a social phenomenon, but to us it is a permanent terror. "and so, whatever our differences may appear to be, our labour hopes are concentrating upon sound practical methods by which the conditions and opportunities of the people shall be improved. "you who read this are invited to remember that organised work is the first step which will separate the workman from demoralising charity, his wife from the pawnshop, and his children from the streets. sentiment and sympathy need no longer be the prey of the fawning cadger, or the victim of hypocritical distress. "to keep england in the forefront of the nations of the earth we must begin in the homes of our people, there to raise a truly imperial and patriotic race of good, healthy, honest men and women. the task is admittedly a difficult one, for social reconstruction is as much moral as economic, but helping hands stretch out in every direction. the one great need is to change a national apathy into keen, sympathetic, well-balanced criticism." his agitation for the unemployed in the house of commons, which formed the main part of his parliamentary life for a couple of years, began with the opening of the session of . he seconded mr. keir hardie's amendment to the address, regretting, "in view of distress arising from lack of employment," that no proposal was made for helping out-of-work men. crooks began his speech by declaring that mere relief schemes encouraged the loafer. he knew well both the loafer and the man who was born tired. the wife of one such got up early and wakened her husband in time for work. "is it raining?" the man asked from the folds of the bedclothes. "no." "does it look like raining?" "no." "oh, i wish it was sunday." with a sudden change of tone and manner, crooks then went on to tell the house that if an able-bodied man out of a job was driven into the workhouse, he generally remained a workhouse inmate for the rest of his life. it degraded and demoralised him. it took away his muscle to stand up and fight for himself. if the local government board would permit guardians to take land, this man could be put to useful work. even able-bodied men of the "in-and-out" type would be better for being put to work on the land under powers of compulsory detention. of course, these men should be allowed to go out if they really desired to look for other work. what they should not be allowed to do was to drag their wives and children about the country, vagrants bringing up more vagrants. employment on farm colonies would quickly get rid of the tramp difficulty. such men, trained in useful agricultural work, if they felt they had little chance in this country, would then have some equipment for the colonies. a country like canada, for instance, had no use for men who had simply been loafing about english towns, but would very quickly find work for men who had had a little training and discipline on the land. it would be better for the whole community that something of this sort should be done than that we should go on with the present system of doles and relief, whose effects, like idleness, only demoralised. the appeal to the house on that occasion fell on deaf ears. the winter of was made memorable to him by the creation of the central unemployed committee. for several years he had urged that the poor law unions of london should be empowered to form a central committee to deal with the unemployed on well-organised lines. with the several unions acting separately, confusion and waste followed on well-meaning efforts. the genuine unemployed received little real help. few public men took his scheme for a central organisation seriously at first. he was well-nigh worn out with his failures when unexpectedly the then president of the local government board came to his aid. crooks, with several other members of parliament, had waited upon mr. long in deputation. the result was the calling together of the famous unemployed conference at the local government board on october th, . to that conference the poplar guardians sent crooks and lansbury, armed with a series of carefully-thought-out proposals. some of them found a ready acceptance on the part of mr. long. others were adopted by the succeeding government. since those poplar proposals have already figured prominently in unemployed schemes and promise to appear in projects yet to be framed, the substance of them is here set out:-- . the president of the local government board to combine the london unions for the purpose of dealing with the unemployed and the unemployable. . such central authority to take over the control of all able-bodied inmates in london workhouses. . farm colonies to be established by the central authority for providing work. . local distress committees to be also set up, consisting of members of borough councils and boards of guardians, to work on the lines already laid down by the mansion house and the poplar distress committees. . the cost to these local committees of dealing with urgent need occasioned by want of work to be a charge on the whole of london or on the national exchequer, instead of being a charge on the locality, "always provided that the payment given be for work done on lines similar to those adopted by the mansion house and the poplar distress committees." . rural district councils to be asked to supply the local government board with information when labourers are wanted on the land, such information to be sent to the local distress committees. . parliament to take in hand the question of afforestation, the reclamation of foreshores, and the building of sea walls along the coast where the tide threatens encroachment. almost immediately after the whitehall conference mr. long formed a central unemployed committee for london, personally arranging that crooks and lansbury should become members. he also advised the formation of local distress committees by the poor law and municipal authorities. while crooks was calling the nation's attention in parliament and at public meetings throughout the country to the wasteful and disorganised way in which we met these recurring periods of distress, he was making reasonable use of the local machinery at his hands. little could be done through the newly-formed committees in the way of providing work during that winter. want was felt keenly all over the east end. distress brooded over west ham, for instance, like a black cloud. to such a plight was that district reduced owing to lack of work that the _daily telegraph_ and the _daily news_ between them raised £ , for relief. west ham's neighbour, poplar, was in an equally bad plight, but there the guardians made an attempt to deal with the distress themselves. they grappled boldly with a terrible state of things. the newspaper funds, by bringing bread to west ham, saved that district, according to the testimony of the local police superintendent, from serious rioting. poplar, too, said the _daily mail_ at the time, was only saved from a series of bread riots by the promptness of will crooks. he talked into calmness a lean and clamorous crowd of starving men who swarmed into the guardians' offices one day. he promised that their claims should be considered and their cases investigated, and advised them to go away quietly. poplar fed its starving poor, and in doing so the guardians did not hesitate to raise the rate for the time being by fourpence. in no single case, however, was money given to families where the out-of-work husband was under sixty years of age. all they got was a few shillings' worth of food, just enough to keep body and soul together until the husband found work again. had food not been given in this way, scores of families would have been forced into the workhouse, where the cost of their keep would have been four or five times greater. in the following winter, in face of similar distress, the same policy was followed. it was mainly for thus feeding the starving that the poplar board was afterwards so violently attacked. but, given the like distress, crooks stoutly maintains he will apply the same remedy. "the poor law is entrusted to us to prevent starvation," he holds. "my dead friend and neighbour dolling used to say that 'the law that safeguards the poor is always in the hands of those who do not put it into force.' so long as i live that shall not be said of poplar." with all the pressing claims of poplar and his daily duties in parliament, together with the calls made upon his time by the london county council and the asylums board, he was yet constant in his attendance at the guildhall meetings of the central unemployed committee. he and lansbury spared themselves in nothing on that committee. they believed that on its success depended the future of state-aid for the unemployed. they believed that such a crisis as they were grappling with in poplar in the winter of would never recur once they got the state to recognise its duty to assist in organising useful work for hard times. "the lesson of all our work on mr. long's unemployed committee was this," he told me. "the only way to deal properly with the unemployed in winter is to make your preparations in summer. the test of the central unemployed committee will be the character of its organisation in good times. only by being well organised when there is little distress will it prove a success when times are bad. it is far harder to organise useful work for the unemployed through public bodies than it is to raise money for their relief." crooks himself had seen the dark shadows of that winter creeping up ominously in the previous summer. before parliament adjourned in august he uttered a warning note in the house of commons. he asked the prime minister whether the various government departments could not do something to prepare for the exceptional needs. mr. balfour's reply was to the effect that inquiries would be made. "ah, those inquiries!" said crooks, recalling the promise at a public meeting in woolwich. "i've seen a good many inquiries and royal commissions in my time, and they always remind me of the east ender who went down petticoat lane on market day. he saw on a barrow some hard-boiled eggs which had been dyed various colours, evidently for children. he'd seen nothing like them before. "'wot kind of eggs is them?' says he. "'them? them's pheasants' eggs,' says the coster. "'would a hen bring 'em off?' "'rather!' "'how much for a sitting?' "'eighteenpence and half yer luck.' "a month or two later the same man was down that way again. the coster saw him. "'ain't you the bloke as bought them pheasants' eggs?' "'yes.' "'how'd yer get on?' "'well,' he says mournful like, 'that old hen sat and sat and sat until i'm blowed if she didn't cook them pheasants' eggs at last.' "and," added crooks, "i have never known a royal commission or a government inquiry yet that didn't sit and sit and sit until its report was cooked by the time it had done with it." as the distress deepened with the approach of winter, the poplar guardians pressed for an autumn session of parliament. they wrote to the government welcoming mr. long's scheme of distress committees, but doubting their efficacy unless power was granted to raise a halfpenny rate for providing the unemployed with work. as chairman of the board, crooks himself wrote a long letter to the prime minister on november st. he supplied official figures, showing the exceptional distress then prevailing, and pointed out that the guardians' request for an autumn session was supported by fifty-six other poor law unions and no fewer than eighty municipalities throughout the country. to that letter mr. balfour sent the following reply:-- , downing street, whitehall, s.w. _november th, ._ dear mr. crooks,-- i am well aware that in many parts of the metropolis--and more particularly, i fear, in the district in which as a guardian you are immediately concerned--much temporary distress prevails at the present moment. how best to deal with the situation thus created has, as you know, been the subject of most anxious consideration on the part of the president of the local government board; and mr. walter long has established a scheme--now, i understand, in actual working--which will have the effect of organising and generalising methods which local experience has already proved to be useful, thereby greatly increasing both their economy and their efficiency. you are, i gather, of opinion that this by itself is not sufficient, and you suggest that a special session of parliament is required to meet the emergency. i would venture, however, to make two remarks on this project. in the first place, i think we ought to wait and see how far the new machinery fulfils the hope of its designers; and, in the second place, i think we should abstain from basing exaggerated hopes upon anything which may be immediately accomplished by parliamentary debates. these are invaluable for the purpose of criticising legislative proposals or executive action. they may educate the public mind. they may prepare the way for a constructive policy. they can hardly, however, frame one. and, so far as i can judge, an abstract discussion upon the general situation would not only be of little present value to those whom it is intended to benefit, but it would do them a positive injury. organised effort would be paralysed till the decision of parliament was known; and between the beginning of our debates and the moment when their result could be embodied in a working shape much preventable suffering would inevitably have occurred. yours very truly, arthur james balfour. in his reply on behalf of the guardians, crooks said: "from a purely academic standpoint your argument is doubtless correct; but while mr. long's scheme does, in a general way, show a departure in the direction of making london a unit for dealing with the unemployed, yet it has no power to enforce contributions from anyone. thus all poor parts, where work-people are aggregated, have to bear abnormal burdens which should be shared, if not by the nation, then at least by the metropolis. "the position in this district has reached a stage where something immediate has to be done, and the only course open to the guardians is to meet the numerous applications made to them by grants of out-door relief. the total amount of out-door relief now being granted by the guardians exceeds £ per week, and is borne entirely by local rates, which already stand at s. in the £, and will considerably increase by the addition of this extra relief. "if the public were assured that the problem would be seriously taken up by his majesty's government at an early date, funds might be forthcoming to bridge over the present period of anxiety. "the guardians desire to emphasise the fact that this question of dealing with the unemployed has been several times before parliament, and if the government really desire to grapple with this great evil, they could, in a short time, with the expert advice at the disposal of the government, set in operation a great deal of work useful to the nation. the guardians, therefore, sincerely hope that their previous representations will be acted upon, and that you will give an assurance that the matter shall be laid before parliament at the earliest possible moment." chapter xxviii the queen intervenes a breakdown from overwork--health permanently impaired--appointment of a royal commission on the poor law--saving the unemployed bill--need of money to work the bill--mrs. crooks heads the women's march to whitehall--mr. balfour's sympathetic but unsatisfactory reply--queen alexandra's intervention--a vote of money in the new parliament. the labour and anxiety, the long arduous days and the sleepless nights crooks endured that winter for the unemployed, culminated in a sudden and serious illness. the attack was short, but dangerous. his doctor reported that unless a change took place within a few hours it would be a case for confinement to bed for at least three months. fortunately, the welcome change came. a few days before he took to his bed he got a severe shaking by a fall while jumping off a 'bus in the strand. that was not the cause of his illness, however. the real cause, as his medical man declared, was nervous breakdown due to overwork. his overwork had all been in the direction of trying to get work for the unemployed. he fretted himself into a worse condition during the first few days of his illness. every night, instead of sleeping, he was mentally putting hosts of unemployed men to work. the sympathy and affection shown during his illness by his neighbours at poplar affected him deeply. all day long callers of all sorts and conditions were making inquiries and leaving messages of good-will. labourers, mechanics, widows, children, tradesmen, public men, officials, free church ministers, anglican clergymen, roman catholic priests, and sisters of the poor were among those who came to the door once the news leaked out that the man from their midst, whom they had so often delighted to honour, lay sick and in danger. their sympathy was intensified by the knowledge that mrs. crooks herself had not wholly recovered from a serious operation that had kept her for weeks in hospital. that breakdown shattered him for life. he has never been the same in health since, and knows he can never be the same again. sometimes for weeks together he endures agonising nervous pains, deprived of sleep and rest, yet all the time steadily refusing to slacken his labours for those whom he is fond of calling "the people at our end of the town." as soon as he was able to get out again in the new year ( ), he took up the case for the unemployed, if not with all his former zeal, certainly with all the zeal he could then command. towards the end of january he had so far recovered as to be able to attend the liverpool conference of the labour representation committee. he was then in a position to make public for the first time that the king's speech at the opening of parliament in the following month would in all likelihood promise an unemployed bill. on his motion the conference decided: that the policy of the labour party in parliament relating to unemployment should be to secure fuller powers for the local authorities to acquire and use land, to re-organise the local administrative machinery for dealing with poverty and unemployment, to bring pressure on the government to put the recommendations of the afforestation committee into effect, to undertake forthwith, through the board of trade, the reclamation of foreshores, and to create a labour ministry. his forecast of the king's speech proved correct. an unemployed bill was promised. it was introduced on april th by mr. gerald balfour, who had succeeded mr. long at the local government board. the bill confirmed mr. long's scheme of distress committees in london, and provided for the formation of similar bodies in provincial towns. it granted the principle of state aid by permitting the cost of organisation, including the provision of farm colonies, to be charged to the rates, leaving it to voluntary subscriptions to provide a fund for paying the men's wages. that session was made memorable to crooks in another sense. a royal commission on the poor law was appointed, and although it was little faith he had in commissions generally, he believed that, whatever came of the recommendations of this one, it would help the people of england to see, while its investigations were going on, something of the cruelty and folly of a system which had been ruthlessly thrust upon the voteless labouring people by the middle class individualists who came into power after the reform act of . his fellow guardian, george lansbury, was appointed a member of the commission--a notable compliment to poplar, which for a dozen years had striven to make this soulless system humane and helpful. although the unemployed bill passed second reading with a majority of , the session dragged wearily on with little prospect of its getting through the committee stage and becoming law. when august dawned and the house found itself within a week of adjournment, everyone but crooks despaired of getting the measure through. the prime minister told the house there was no time for the bill. several of crooks's labour colleagues declared the bill to be too meagre a thing to fight for. "i admit its faults and shortcomings as readily as anyone," he argued with his party; "but it contains the germ of a great principle--state recognition of the need and state aid in carrying out the organisation." almost alone he fought for the bill in the last days of the session. he urged the government to save the unemployed from foolish and useless rioting by holding out to them the hope which the passing of the bill would convey. by a dramatic coincidence, on the very afternoon he was thus warning the government the police were charging a crowd of desperate unemployed in manchester. "the prime minister urges the plea that there is no time," crooks went on to tell the house. "what would the business men of this house think, when they went down to their offices to-morrow, if they were told by the manager that grouse-shooting would begin on the twelfth and that therefore business would have to be suspended? does the government prefer grouse-shooting to finding work for honest men? was this bill of theirs only introduced to kill time--to wait until the birds were big enough to be shot? i don't want to stop your holidays. go and kill your grouse and your partridges. but are you going to put dead birds before living men? "there was the day on which the eton and harrow match was played. what will the unemployed say when they hear that the government could not find time to discuss this bill because ministers wished to see two schools play cricket? do you think the working man gets a day off to see his sons play cricket in the public parks? unlike many hon. members of this house, workmen do not live by dividends. they have nothing to sell but their labour. when out of work a little help often saves them from ruin and pauperism. they are only asking to be given an opportunity to fulfil the divine curse by earning their living in the sweat of their brow." his appeal went home. the following day the government sprang a surprise on the house. the bill would be taken that week. it was passed within a few days. "h. w. m.," in his parliamentary sketch in the _daily news_ of august th, referring to what he called "the strange story of the passing of the unemployed bill," said: at the end of last week its chances seemed to have disappeared. to-day it has passed committee, and monday will see it through the commons. the member chiefly responsible for this issue is mr. crooks, who has shown undoubted subtleness as a parliamentary tactician. in his final speech on the bill, crooks argued that even the loafer would become a better man by being given, not the charity that demoralised, but a day's work for a day's pay. such a man, by being put on a farm colony for a few months, would be turned into a good citizen. he stood for discipline in labour as the government stood for discipline in the army and navy. he wanted to preserve the manhood of the nation rather than to see it degraded, as it was by the present system of despising an unemployed man. the type of men who hung idle about all our large towns was the type that filled the workhouses and prisons. take them in their early stages of unemployment, put them under proper discipline on the land, and he was prepared to prophesy they would become useful citizens. it was a loss to the nation that men and women should be going about without the common necessaries owing to being out of work. so the bill went through, and people of all classes agree with his old friend, mr. a. f. hills, a large employer, who wrote to him a letter on the subject, ending with the words: "i believe that generations yet unborn will in the years to come rise up and call you blessed." in the opinion of many people well able to gauge the distress and discontent of the country, the act came just in time to prevent serious disorders in the large towns. for the winter that immediately followed found the unemployed in a worse plight than ever. promptly the distress committees formed under the act got to work. the london committees found themselves at first stranded for funds. the weak point in the act was that which allowed only the expense of organisation to be made a public charge. the committees found themselves asking, what was the use of organising work for the unemployed when there were no means of paying wages? it looked as though public subscriptions were not to be forthcoming. was the act, so hardly won, to fail on its first trial? again poplar fought the cause of the poor for the whole country. this time the workless men's wives took action. the women of poplar met in the town hall, mrs. crooks in the chair, with the object of urging parliament to vote money to the distress committees set up under the new act. mrs. crooks, as reported in the _times_, said: they were endeavouring to enlist the help and sympathy of those in high places to give some little time to the consideration of the claims of the wives and children of men who were willing to work, but who were unable to find the wherewithal to feed those near and dear to them. the queen had more than once shown her desire to help. was it, then, too much to expect that their wealthy sisters would use their influence with their all-too-powerful husbands to appeal, with the women of poplar, to the king and government to call parliament together with a view to passing estimates to enable work to be undertaken--work that would give them their daily bread? theirs was a cry for national defence, and parliament must see to it. the meeting decided to petition the king to instruct the prime minister to call parliament together. in acknowledging a vote of thanks to his wife for taking the chair, crooks said the mothers and sisters had remained too long indoors, suffering in silence. if the king could see that meeting it would make him realise what unemployment meant to the wives and mothers of his industrial army, and he would no doubt do something to ensure that they should not lack the sustenance needed to bring up strong daughters and strong sons as faithful and loyal citizens. they had got the machinery, and they had got certain powers, but they needed funds. they had got an organisation that could gather up all the information as to useful work that needed doing--work that would be profitable and inspiring to the men who did it, instead of being degrading, like the foolish and useless and expensive task-work which was all the poor law had to offer. [illustration: mr. & mrs. will crooks _photo: g. dendry._] about a month later took place the memorable women's march to whitehall. the day, november th, was truly a tragic and historic one in the social life of london. headed by mrs. crooks and the then mayoress of poplar (mrs. dalton), some six thousand poor women gathered on the thames embankment, near charing cross bridge, and marched to the offices of the local government board in order to back up their appeal to the premier to aid their out-of-work husbands and brothers. the women came not only from poplar, where the march had been organised by george lansbury, but from edmonton, paddington, west ham, woolwich, and southwark. some carried infants in arms; others had children dragging at their skirts. "work for our men--bread for our children." so ran the appeal on the banner that floated above the southwark contingent, led by mrs. herbert stead. the embankment was deep in mud, and, as the women trudged bravely through it--those carrying babies unable to save their skirts from dragging in the road--the scene was one that filled you with an indignant shame. even those other women in motors and carriages, who had driven down to see the sight out of curiosity, sank back into their cushions aghast, sickened, ashamed at this spectacle of their sisters' plight. in whitehall the processionists told off a dozen of their number to form the deputation to mr. balfour. the women were accompanied into the local government board offices by crooks and lansbury and two or three other men from the central workers' unemployed committee. the object of the visit was explained by lansbury, and then a working woman from poplar read the women's memorial. the memorial spoke of the misery, degradation, and desperation of the women which had driven them to determine to bear their lot in silence no longer. they thought that parliament should make it impossible for unscrupulous employers to grind the faces of the poor. the government had gone to the aid of the tenantry of ireland. the plight of the poor in london was worse. if war were threatened, ways would be found for raising money. the country was faced with a worse evil than war in the presence of starving citizens. in the name of their country, their homes, and their children, they appealed to the prime minister not to send them empty away. several of the workless men's wives who, it had been arranged, should speak broke down; so mrs. crooks explained they had not come to utter words only; they had come as englishwomen, driven to despair, in the hope that the premier, as the chief minister of the king, would no longer leave them in a worse condition than that of his dogs and horses. mr. balfour was sympathetic, but had nothing to suggest. he saw no hope of parliament voting money. the deputation came away sullen and disappointed. for the time it looked as though the women's march had been in vain. but, before a week passed, another woman spoke. the need was met by queen alexandra. on november th her majesty issued her famous appeal: "i appeal to all charitably disposed people in the empire, both men and women, to assist me in alleviating the suffering of the poor starving unemployed during this winter. for this purpose i head the list with £ , ." before the winter was over the public, in response to this appeal, subscribed £ , --a sum that proved sufficient that winter to keep distress committees going in london and elsewhere during the time of greatest privation. the needs of the next winter were provided for by the state. the new liberal government had not been in office many months before it voted £ , to the distress committees appointed under the unemployed act. poplar had done its work. the women had marched to victory. chapter xxix home life and some engagements crooks becomes a grandfather--a glimpse of his home life--mr. g. r. sims on "a morning with will crooks"--crooks's daily post-bag--sample letters--speaking at religious and temperance meetings--on adult sunday schools--on the licensing bill--a homily to free churchmen. by this time crooks had moved from northumberland street to gough street, a few minutes' walk away. the change was from a five-roomed house to a six-roomed house, "with exactly three and a half feet more space for a garden at the back," as he jocularly described it. his two eldest daughters had both married, and his eldest son, who was doing well at the same trade his father learnt--that of cooper--had also settled down to married life in poplar. this son had the pleasure one day of telephoning to his father at the county council offices, just after the latter had passed his fiftieth birthday, "you became a grandfather this morning. cheer up!" another daughter qualified at the cheltenham training college as a school teacher. the youngest daughter elected to be "mother's right hand at home." the youngest son was apprenticed in a thames shipbuilding yard. of his children he would often remark, during the controversy over religious education in schools, that they seemed to disprove the theories of both contending parties. one of his daughters and a son, who were educated in board schools, became communicating members of the church of england, while two daughters educated in church of england schools afterwards became nonconformists. a glimpse of his home life was given in the "celebrities at home" series, published in the _world_. the writer described gough street as a row of tiny houses so much alike that the only difference between one and another was the number on the door. but if you did not know mr. crooks's number, you could guess his house by waiting at the corner of the street. because, between half-past nine and half-past ten, the door-knocker of no. will beat a tattoo twelve or twenty times to the hour, when all the other knockers are silent. for this is the hour when mr. crooks is at home and receives his visitors, while he takes his breakfast in a spasmodic and interrupted manner--bad, one feels sure, for his digestion. they are not social callers. they come because they want something--an order for free medicine or for an artificial limb, for advice as to a likely quarter to get work, for a hundred and one needs of poor people who have no resources of their own. they are pleasant rooms in which the labour member finds the best happiness of his life. they are not large. they are not handsomely furnished, for a labour member has no need of luxury; but to mr. crooks every little adornment in them has its own story to tell and its own pleasant memory. on one of the walls are two oil paintings of ships in distress--"good or bad," says mr. crooks, "i'm no judge," but they are valuable to him, because they were painted by a man down on his luck, as a thanksgiving for a good turn done to him by the only friend he had. "bless you," says mr. crooks, "they all bring me little things, and i can't refuse them. see that champagne glass on the piano? that was given me by a poor old lady i used to look after a bit. that wine glass on the other side came from another old friend. someone will bring me a china shepherd, another a vase or candlestick, or a comic pig. it's pleasant, you know!"... mr. crooks is one of the pleasantest and most interesting men to visit. if you take him at the right time--half-past nine o'clock--it means an early journey from the west!--he will sit you down to a plate of porridge and give you more information about the life of the working-classes in the course of an hour than the most laborious reading of blue-books will do in a lifetime. the visitor must be prepared for interruptions. in a corner of the breakfast-room is a member of the family who likes to have his say. it is a poll-parrot--"as cunning as a barge-load of monkeys," says his owner affectionately. he has a peculiar habit of cracking invisible filbert-nuts at the back of his throat, rather disconcerting to a stranger; and although he dotes on mr. crooks, it is a little game of his to snub the labour member by depreciatory remarks and scornful whistles of derision. but he always has an affectionate "goo'-bye, will!" for his master when he puts on his hat in the morning. to mrs. crooks he is always courteous. "goo'-morning, mother!" he says, when the lady comes down to breakfast, and thrusts his beak out for a kiss. then he calls "tilly! tilly!" in a shrill voice, like an elderly landlady, and is not satisfied till mrs. crooks's pretty, black-eyed daughter has given him his morning greeting. "he has his little prejudices, like the rest of us," says mr. crooks. "he can't abide babies, and squawks at them fearfully." mr. george r. sims gave a sketch of "a morning with will crooks" in the _daily chronicle_ of may nd, . he suggested that if , gough street--crooks's castle, as he called it--had a brass plate on the door, the most appropriate device to be inscribed upon it would be, "inquire within upon everything." it was twenty minutes past ten when i arrived. at half-past ten we were due at the relieving office. but before we started, some three or four pathetic narratives had found their way into the little hall for mr. crooks to mark, learn, and inwardly digest. i appreciated the situation, and expressed sympathy. "it is depressing," said the people's m.p., "but, after all, somebody's got to listen and somebody's got to help." we went out into the street. in the hundred yards that we walked to our destination six sad riddles of life were submitted to mr. crooks for solution. the broad-shouldered, black-bearded, smiling politician of the people had a cheery word of advice for all applicants, and scarcely had these pavement consultations ended before we were seated in the relieving office listening to tales of woe told by a procession of poor petitioners with whom the world had gone woefully wrong. the committee of relief were generous and sympathetic. poplar has a reputation for generosity in this matter. it struck me that at times the committee might have impressed a little more earnestly upon the recipients of out-relief the other side of the situation; but i am bound to admit that undeserving cases--cases which had a history of drink and thriftlessness--were dismissed with no illusions.... we went to the workhouse at the dinner hour. a comfortable place certainly, and the dinner probably better than a good many of the inmates had been accustomed to when they were earning their own living.... a pleasant hour with mr. and mrs. crooks and their daughters at the castle, a stroll in the little garden which is mrs. crooks's delight, a short interview with tommy the tortoise, and it is time for the member for woolwich to start for westminster and take his place in the national assembly. he takes up a leather case containing some sixty or seventy letters to be answered, and we go out into the street, which is happily bathed in sunshine. we get on the top of an omnibus, and i listen to the merry stories merrily told until we arrive at aldgate station and bid each other good-bye. i have spent a most interesting and instructive morning with a typical englishman, a man who has laboured with skill and used his brains as well as his hands to good purpose--a man who has fought his way up from boyhood, a man whose heart is as big as his shoulders are broad. beyond his sterling common sense and his sympathy with suffering, will crooks has one golden quality in a tribune of the people. he has a sense of humour. it does your eyes good to see him smile. and he has a laugh that makes you feel the sunshine even when the north wind blows. sometimes the labour man has nearly a hundred letters a day to deal with. first attention is always given to those from people seeking counsel or help in poplar and woolwich. an old man of ninety-four asks him to visit him for old times' sake. a widow has lost her property--will mr. crooks see her righted? a sick woman wants to know how she can get into a convalescent home. an anxious father asks him to speak to a wayward son, because "the lad sets such store by what you say, mr. crooks." again, it is a distracted mother who writes, maybe about a son or a daughter who has run away or fallen into trouble. amusing letters come sometimes, varying the note of sorrow sounded in so many of the others. this, for instance, from a sympathetic frenchman, who evidently imagines that a place called poplar must be studded with trees of that name and surrounded by open fields. "i see," wrote this sympathiser from across the channel, "that you are doing much for the unemployed, and i have pleasure in sending you enclosed cheque for them. i would suggest, in view of the importance of the poor children having pure milk, that the money be spent in putting unemployed men to work in cleaning out the ponds in the fields and lanes of poplar where the cattle drink." while crooks is essentially a home-loving man, counting it one of his chief joys to have an evening free or a week-end to call his own, he regards it as a duty to speak at religious and temperance meetings, and on behalf of other movements not necessarily allied with the labour party. one day finds him with the bishop of london at the mansion house meeting of the united temperance council. another day he is speaking with the president of the baptist union, the rev. john wilson, one of his best supporters in woolwich, at the union's annual gathering. another day he is congratulating canon hensley henson, at the annual meeting of the london wesleyan mission, on having "six of his parishioners on the platform"--a reference to the presence of half a dozen members of parliament, canon henson being rector of the house of commons. after addressing the baptist union on a second occasion, a letter came to him from the secretary, the rev. j. h. shakespeare:-- on behalf of the council of the baptist union and on my own behalf i beg to thank you most warmly for the magnificent services you rendered to us last tuesday night. it was delightful to hear you. i personally was very curious to see you managing a dense crowd of men. it does not seem to me that there is any reason why you should ever stop drawing from the rich and endless resources of your eloquence and wit and your wise sayings. i feel very deeply indebted to you for having kept your engagement under such trying circumstances, and i hope you were not too fatigued afterwards. a different letter was one from his old friend the hon. and rev. j. g. adderley, announcing his call to birmingham:-- alas! i leave dear old london on november nd. thank you for all you have been to me during my time here. i have known you now fifteen years. the many occasions on which he addressed working men at adult sunday schools in different parts of the country forced him to this conclusion, to which he gave public expression:-- the adult school movement has, i do sincerely believe, done more to make men understand that brotherhood is not merely a word, but a real living thing, than any other movement of recent days. men under the influence of adult schools now begin to see that their whole life on earth does not consist merely in eating, drinking, and working and going to a place of worship, but in taking a living part in god's work personally--in a word, in striving for some of christ's ideals on earth as in heaven. he assisted at conducting something like an adult school in poplar. besides the sunday morning meetings at the dock gates, the labour league, in conjunction with the rector of poplar, carry on a winter series of addresses at the town hall on sunday afternoons, to which crooks and his friend, mr. fred butler, give a good deal of their time. of these town hall meetings he wrote in the article he contributed to the volume of essays on "christianity and the working classes":-- the meetings are always crowded with working-men and their wives and working girls and lads. the rector or myself takes the chair--often we are both on the platform together. the gatherings are not religious in the orthodox sense, nor is any attempt made to teach religion, but i venture to say they have as much influence for good on the work-people of poplar as many of the churches. we nearly always begin with music by singers or players who give their services, and then we have a "talk," generally by a public man, on social questions, on education, on books, and authors, and citizenship. some of our speakers take biblical subjects. thus every week we get together a good company of work-people who ordinarily attend no place of worship on sunday; and if nothing more, we keep them out of the public-house, we make them think for themselves, we awaken some sense of citizenship. the presence of the rector has convinced many, who were formerly hostile to all parsons, anglican and nonconformist, that the churches and labour can work in harmony. without pretending to be this, that, or the other, our gatherings have made for the love of one's neighbour, and therefore for the cause of christ. nearly every p.s.a. and adult school and men's sunday meeting in london wanted him. he would be at the whitefield tabernacle one sunday, at the leysian mission another, at dr. clifford's church another. the demands made upon him by temperance bodies redoubled after the introduction of the licensing bill of , of which he was an uncompromising opponent. in nearly all his temperance addresses, full as they were of his humorous fancies, he denounced the practice, followed by so many temperance reformers, of making cheap jests at the men or women whom drink has degraded. "we who can overcome temptation should be the last to make light of those who have failed to overcome temptation. rather should we use our greater power to assist them." what he said from public platforms he did not hesitate to repeat on the floor of the house of commons. speaking after mr. balfour, in one of the debates on the licensing bill, he said:-- "i wish to take the opportunity, while the prime minister is in the house, to say a few words on the question of temptation, because the impression left on my mind by the remarks of the right hon. gentleman is that every man who indulges in drink is capable of taking care of himself and of overcoming the drink habit by his own efforts. i hold that there are thousands of our fellow-men and women who cannot resist temptation when the opportunity to drink is put in their way. no doubt if everyone had the moral fibre of the prime minister there would be little need for a measure of temperance reform. those hon. members who attend prayers at the opening of the proceedings of this house listen to the words, 'lead us not into temptation.' i ask the prime minister whether he has ever thought that the thousands of people in our asylums through drink are there because they are capable of looking after themselves? no; it is because temptation has been too much for them. does not that involve an obligation on the state to take temptation out of their way?" the national free church council invited him to address their annual gathering in . the council met in birmingham in march, and the president (the rev. j. scott lidgett), in introducing crooks, said the invitation to him had not been given lightly. it was a deliberate recognition of the claim that labour had upon the thought, energy, and prayer of the free churches. then, turning to crooks, he clasped his hand. "thus," said the president, "labour and the free churches are joined in their endeavour to solve some of the great human problems." "the world," said crooks in his opening remarks, "could be divided into two classes--some willing to work and the rest willing to let them." he went on to ask the representatives of the churches to put it out of their heads that the workman who did not go to a place of worship was a man utterly without religion. such a man often had greater faith and more works to his credit than many regular worshippers. shortly afterwards the free church council asked him to the banquet given at the hotel cecil in celebration of the return of nearly two hundred free churchmen to the house of commons. "you free churchmen," he said in his after-dinner speech, "have to come out of yourselves a great deal more in the future than you have in by-gone days. you cannot live for sunday alone. you have to live for all the seven days of the week, and we expect you to come out and take a share of the work of social reorganisation. you are all of you, or the majority of you, a little bit ashamed of south africa, and some of you wish you had got your tongues loose two or three years ago instead of now. you can imagine how i feel about this. a few of us at that time had to take our lives in our hands because we dared to say that that was a wicked war. remember, the empire does not consist in yelling about the union jack; the empire begins in the workman's kitchen.... "i have been told plenty of times that our men and women are not god-fearing. aren't they? i know the stories they tell you parsons sometimes; but down at the bottom of their hearts is a deep religious feeling which some of us would be better for having. why can i always get the truth from the poor, who so often deceive you parsons? why, because they feel i am a brother, and they have a doubt about you. you have got to wear that doubt off. you have got to make the humblest of our brothers and sisters understand that you do really care for them, that you intend to use the parliamentary machine to abolish sweating and slumdom. we have got to promote industry in such a way that every honest worker may find useful work to do. we have to deal with the shirker whether he wears a top hat or hobnail boots." chapter xxx colonising england signs of progress--a crown farm cut up into small holdings--the colony experiment at laindon--how it was killed by the local government board--the hollesley bay farm--a minister for labour wanted. after nearly twenty years of hard public service, crooks saw some of the things for which he had striven so strenuously adopted as part of the policy of two successive governments. woolwich re-elected him at the general election with over nine thousand votes, some three or four hundred more than it gave him at the famous by-election three years before. he saw the new government back up the unemployed act. he saw the poor law commission at work. he saw the appointment of another commission to consider the question of coast erosion and the reclamation of foreshores, which makes him believe there is still a chance for the scheme he laid before the board of trade in . meanwhile, he believes he has done something practical in parliament for the unemployed in another direction. he discovered that of the , acres of agricultural crown lands, about , had been lying idle for many years. thereupon he promptly reminded sir henry campbell-bannerman's government, in the early days of its first session, that at the general election they had talked about the need for colonising england. here, he told the house, was a chance to give effect to the promise. cut up the idle land into small holdings, and it would let at once. make better use of the other land by dividing it into smaller farms. further, why not try a scheme of afforestation on some portion of these crown lands, which, after all, were the lands of the people? he exacted a promise from the government that the question of giving the board of agriculture some control of crown lands, instead of leaving them in the hands of the department of woods and forests, would be considered. something was done sooner than he expected. the president of the local government board (mr. john burns) informed the house that a scheme of afforestation would be started on crown lands the succeeding year. moreover, lord carrington, whose encouragement of small holdings on his own estates crooks had commended in the commons, was added to the commission of woods and forests in his capacity as president of the board of agriculture. a start was immediately made by cutting up into small parcels a crown farm of acres at burwell in cambridgeshire. this quiet little reform crooks hails as affording further means of solving the problem of unemployment. "whatever may be said to the contrary," is his way of putting it, "i maintain that even the town wastrel takes more kindly to the land than to anything else. of course, i know that before he can be made of any use on the land he must be trained; but then it is well known that i favour farm colonies for training him." since he entered parliament he had seen farm colonies for the unemployed become realities. his own board of guardians was the pioneer of the modern farm colony in this country. for nearly a dozen years the guardians pleaded with the local government board to be allowed to take a farm. consent was at last obtained in , when the guardians had an offer of acres at laindon, in essex, rent free for three years. the offer was made by mr. joseph fels, a london manufacturer, who had been favourably impressed by a system he had seen in philadelphia, whereby unemployed men were put to cultivate vacant land. at first the guardians' experiment was confined to able-bodied men from the workhouse. its scope was widened with the coming of winter. the poplar unemployed committee, which had the mayor at its head and crooks and lansbury among its members, agreed on the suggestion of these latter to send a number of out-of-work men to this farm, meeting the expenses by a public appeal. the need for giving out-of-work men proper training on the land was being urged at the same time by mr. john burns. that winter, as chairman of the unemployed conference called by the london county council, mr. burns and canon escreet, the vice-chairman, signed a report urging that every opportunity should be taken to provide such training on the land as would fit the workers for efficient labour. the report went on:-- efforts in this direction are already made in the case of emigrants to the colonies, but it does not seem altogether reasonable that special efforts should be made which would have the effect of providing the colonies with specially trained labour if no efforts in this direction are made on behalf of the home country. it is not suggested that training for colonial life should not be provided, but merely that the needs of the united kingdom should be equally borne in mind. "i've seen wastrels," says crooks, "who were going from bad to worse in our back streets in poplar regain health and strength when sent to our farm at laindon, and as they felt their muscles strengthening turn to work like men. i have seen many a decent unemployed man tided over hard times by being sent to work on our farm. the result of our first winter's experiment was that twenty-five of the men emigrated to canada, the better for the training we had given them on the land. a dozen obtained work on their own account. and then, as the winter passed and trade got better, we began to discharge the men gradually. over one hundred of the discharged men have never asked for relief from the guardians since. if we had taken them into the workhouse at the time of their destitution, as the poor law prescribes, the greater part of them would have become permanent charges on the rates for the rest of their lives." this promising experiment was killed by the local government board. the local government board refused to allow the farm to be continued except as a branch workhouse. mr. fels, at the end of the three years' trial, wrote to the guardians:-- i desire to emphasise that my offer of the farm in the first instance was not for the purpose of establishing a branch workhouse, and in that way perpetuating stone yards, oakum picking, and corn grinding, and other useless tasks, which seems to be all the local government board want to do. on the contrary, i hoped that your board would be allowed to try to re-establish men who were down on their luck. i never for one moment dreamed that your board would be forced by the local government board to keep men on one hundred acres of land, it being obvious to me then, as now, that neither men nor staff could have a chance in such conditions. although the local government board has stifled this experiment, i am convinced that some such poor law reform is bound to come. the poplar experiment certainly satisfied mr. long when he was at the local government board. he expressly stated, when suggesting the formation of his central unemployed committee, that farm colonies represented one means by which the committee could assist men out of work. one of the first things the committee did was to take the hollesley bay farm, where both crooks and lansbury as active members of the committee helped to develop the work. mr. fels again assisted, this time building a number of cottages with a view to drafting off some of the colonists into a position of independence, joined by their wives and families from london. the hope is entertained that some proportion of them may become small holders. hollesley bay farm, which had been an agricultural training college for the sons of rich men going to the colonies, thus became a centre for training poor men to colonise their own country. all these practical schemes for helping the unemployed and saving the cities from recurring periods of distress, which crooks had done so much to set going, lend colour to his claim that the time has come for the addition to all future cabinets of a new member to be styled the minister for labour. for nearly twenty years we have seen this labouring man, content with his three or four pounds a week, in a working-man's house in a working-man's neighbourhood, devising and carrying out social measures for the well-being of the nation that ought rightly to have come from the government. "the first thing a labour minister would do," he says, "would be to take over the labour department and other more or less allied departments of the board of trade. the present labour returns of the board of trade are no good to anybody. i would have the labour minister obtain from all the local authorities a statement of what they regard as useful public works for their own districts. as soon as a spell of bad trade set in in any particular district our minister of industry would turn up the suggestions that had reached him from the affected quarter and make a national grant towards starting the local works. "then again i should leave to his department rather than to the local government board the duty of controlling farm colonies. i want to see the government responsible for three separate kinds of labour colonies. first i want a farm colony for the habitual able-bodied pauper. he needs to have his muscles hardened and to be trained to work. the tasks set such a man in the workhouse are wasteful, and do him no good. you might have a combination of poor law unions interested in such a colony. the second class of farm colony would be for habitual tramps. these men need to be kept entirely separate from able-bodied paupers. the third class would be voluntary colonies, to which unemployed men could be sent and trained in market gardening and farming. "in fact, the practical work a minister of labour could do is endless. he could settle differences between masters and men before a strike was thought of. to him could be referred disputes as to machinery, questions as to safeguards, matters affecting hours, meal-times, overtime, and women's work. he would be the most useful minister in the cabinet." chapter xxxi the revival of bumbledom crooks's poor law policy attacked--how a local government board inquiry was conducted--crooks's mistake in remaining chairman of the board of guardians--the inspector's report--why the poor die rather than go to poplar workhouse. it is easy to understand that the humane spirit crooks had infused into poor law administration, and the fact of his having made the state recognise a duty to the unemployed, was not acceptable to the old order of poor law administrators, nor to some of the officials of the local government board. when crooks entered upon poor law work he found it bound hand and foot by red tape. the men elected by the people did not rule at all. they were little more than the servants of paid officials, whether in the person of bumble in the workhouse or of bumble at the local government board. we have seen how he fought against bumble administration, and how successive presidents of the local government board lent him their support. mr. ritchie, at the request of poplar, reduced the qualification for guardians. sir henry fowler abolished it, and, again at poplar's request, deprived workhouse masters of the power to refuse admission to guardians. mr. henry chaplin ordered "workhouse comforts" and "adequate out-relief." mr. walter long improved the dietary scale and formed the central unemployed committee. mr. gerald balfour passed the unemployed act. all these reforms were more or less unwelcome to bumbledom. one can understand how impatiently those who stood for the old harsh order of things waited for an opportunity to break into revolt. their opportunity came in june, , at the local government board inquiry into poplar's poor law administration. crooks, who was still chairman, courted the fullest and most open investigation. directly he heard that the poplar municipal alliance was making charges against the guardians to the local government board, he appealed for a public inquiry. on the opening day of the public inquiry at poplar crooks and his colleague george lansbury felt it to be their duty to protest against its being conducted by an inspector who, they alleged, had his verdict in his pocket. they wished to make no reflection upon the inspector's personal integrity, but they declared then and afterwards that it appeared to them to be "quite unjust to appoint so extreme an opponent of their policy to conduct the inquiry." for fifteen out of the twenty days that the inquiry lasted the inspector allowed the municipal alliance practically to direct the proceedings. they did their best to discredit crooks's poor law policy on account of the malpractices of some of his colleagues, of which, up to then, owing to the pressure of his other public duties, he had been ignorant. the inspector, whose knowledge might have taught him how far from true many of the innuendoes were, made no attempt to stop them. he appeared to think it quite right to allow statements to go forth to the public that paupers were being fed on all kinds of delicacies, and that serviettes, pocket handkerchiefs, and outfits for girls going to service were for the use of the ordinary inmates of the workhouse. the public did not know at the time that the "linen collars for workhouse inmates," blazoned forth in the press as an example of poplar's extravagance, were simply what were supplied to the boys in the school, that they too, like the girls, might go out into the world no longer branded, but self-respecting. all through the inquiry the public was given to understand that poplar was an example of what happens under labour administration. since the two most prominent guardians, crooks and lansbury, were known everywhere as labour leaders, the whole board was wrongly supposed to consist of their followers. in reality, out of a board of twenty-four members only ten were labour representatives, and not half of these socialists. the majority of the guardians were conservatives and liberals. the policy of crooks and lansbury did to a large extent dominate the board, due no doubt to their ability and personal magnetism. but between the _policy_ of these two men and the _administration_ of certain of their colleagues lay a gulf that neither the inspector nor the press seemed to see at the time. these two were held responsible for certain faults of administration committed by individual members of the board belonging to the liberal and conservative parties. they were actually held up to reproach and ridicule for faults and follies committed by colleagues who had bitterly opposed their policy at every step. the inquiry taught crooks his mistake in consenting to remain chairman of the board after his election to parliament. we have seen that his consent to remain was given reluctantly, and on the understanding that he should devote less time to the work. he little thought that some of those who pressed him to stay would take advantage of his relaxed attention to bring discredit on the board's administration. he therefore seized an early opportunity in the succeeding year of resigning the office, informing the board by word of mouth, and the people of poplar by circular letter, that in doing so, owing to the press of other public duties, he did not propose to abandon in the smallest way any part of that policy of poor law reform to which the best years of his public life had been devoted. he also publicly declared in poplar repeatedly that he would do his best to expose and turn out of public life any person guilty of corruption, and even while the inquiry was going on he appealed to the inspector more than once to order a prosecution of suspected guardians and contractors. after the dust and din caused by the municipal alliance had died down, that body found itself largely discredited in poplar. one of its members wrote to the press:-- over this inquiry we have already made many enemies.... it would be difficult to define what the alliance set out to do, but the methods employed in doing it were, to say the least, unworthy.... i did not think, when we embarked on this expensive trip, that we were going to attempt to cover with ridicule men who, it must be admitted, have devoted a considerable portion of their time to the affairs of the union, and are now proved to have been thoroughly honest in their policy. the alliance was to receive a heavier blow from the poplar people. to them an insult to crooks was an insult to poplar. the borough council elections followed soon after the inquiry, the alliance throwing all its weight into the local campaign. in nearly all the other london boroughs the progressives and labour men were badly beaten. in poplar the labour party went back larger in numbers and backed by a stronger vote of the electors than they had ever had before. lansbury defeated the chairman of the alliance. "that," said crooks at the time, in an interview in one of the daily papers, "is the answer of the people of poplar to the slanders and misrepresentations levelled against me. the people of poplar know the truth about my policy, whatever may have been the shortcomings of some of my colleagues; the people of london do not know--they only have the yellow press version." again, when a few weeks later the triennial election for the london county council took place, the people of poplar stood by their labour member. progressive and labour seats fell all over london in march, , but crooks was re-elected for poplar at the top of the poll with , votes, though the alliance strained every nerve to oust him. then it was that his outside accusers began to suspect they had been misled. here was a prophet in his own country indeed--accused and slandered outside, but trusted and honoured by his neighbours. and when a month later the election of guardians took place, and poplar, put to a third test, declared more emphatically than ever for the crooks policy by defeating about two-thirds of the alliance candidates and electing an increased number of labour men, the eyes of the public were opened. but the revival of bumbledom was not yet at an end. the local government board inspector's report came out three and a half months after the inquiry closed. the unusual course was followed of publishing it before the evidence. when the evidence did appear it disproved many of the inspector's conclusions. the inspector was bound to say there was no reflection upon the "personal integrity of mr. crooks and mr. lansbury." while deprecating the standard of comfort in the workhouse, the inspector made no reference to the doctor's statement that he did not think the inmates were too well fed or clad. rather, he tried to undermine crooks's policy by remarks of this kind:-- mr. crooks in his evidence admitted that the dietary in the workhouse was better than could be obtained by the independent labourer in the borough with a wife and two children to keep who received anything under s. a week. the evidence gives a different version. what crooks said (page ) was:-- "a man with s. a week with a wife and two children can only just keep himself in decency. when he gets below that he gets below the local government board diet.... the men in the workhouse get a bare subsistence, and no man outside ought to be paid wages less than enable him to get that kind of living. what you have to prove is that we are giving the people in the workhouse such luxury as a man in ordinary work at from thirty to forty shillings a week could not get at home. but what he" [the legal representative of the municipal alliance] "does not say is that we are dealing with the very aged in the workhouse--the able-bodied, as you know, are exceedingly limited in number--but he does not appreciate for a moment that after all a man's liberty is worth something. liberty has not fallen in value. it is a priceless something. a man will die for it. and our people will die--a good many of them--rather than go into the workhouse." it happened that the people of poplar were dying for it about that very time. while the local government board was harassing crooks for his efforts to save the poor from starvation, another department of the state was in correspondence with the guardians over two cases of people who had died from starvation in poplar. this was the home office. it is a theory of the british constitution that no person in the kingdom should die of starvation. yet in london alone forty-eight people died of starvation in the winter of - . whitechapel, which gives no out-relief, and is held up as a model by the inspector who conducted the poplar inquiry, had ten deaths from starvation within its borders during the year. poplar, where the guardians are said to be too generous in their treatment of the poor, was unable, with all its zeal, to prevent two people dying from want of food. one of the victims was a child whose father refused to go into poplar workhouse--this so-called "palace of luxury"--because he thought he might still be able to earn a trifle outside. out-relief in the way of food was given to the value of s. d. a week, but that not being enough for a family of five, the youngest defied the british constitution by quietly slipping into the grave--"died of asthenia and bronchitis," was the coroner's verdict, "due to mother's want of food, accelerated by want of proper clothing." shortly afterwards a married labourer in old ford, faced with starvation, refused to apply to the poplar guardians because it had become common talk among the poor of the district that the local government board would no longer allow the guardians to assist people outside the workhouse. and one morning this unemployed man had to run to the nearest doctor's because one of his children was "took queer." what followed was told by the doctor in evidence a few days later at the poplar coroner's court. he related how he was knocked up in the early morning, and how, when he went to the house, he found no sign of food, no fire, and, lying on some scanty bedding, a girl-child, who had been dead about an hour. death, he added, was due to exhaustion from want of sufficient food. he was so shocked with the poverty of the home that he gave the parents five shillings out of his own pocket, and sent them something to eat. chapter xxxii appeal to the people crooks appeals to the public--"this insult to the poor"--resentment all over the country--a voice from the hungry 'forties--cheering letters--a government department's blunder--poplar's appeal to crooks. the day after the report of the local government board inspector was published, crooks sent his decision upon it to the press. he wrote from the house of commons, where, as he stated in his letter, "the unfairness and injustice of the report in its bearings on my poor law policy are so far recognised that to-day i have been told by members of all parties that the report is not only wicked but brutal." he further stated in his letter to the press:-- "will you permit me to make it public through your columns that i accept the challenge thrown down in the local government board report? against all its strictures i intend to maintain my stand on that policy of humanising the poor law, to which i have given the greater part of my life. and in doing so i propose to appeal from the local government board to the public. "if the public upholds this insult to the poor i shall be painfully surprised. after twenty days of a searching inquiry, and after twice twenty pages of a strained attack on mr. lansbury and myself, there is nothing to show that we have done anything against the actual orders and regulations of the very board that now rises in mock-heroic wrath to slay us. our only crime is that we have humanised a system framed in , when the voteless working classes were dragooned by a middle-class majority.... "my present duty is clear. the public may remember that at mr. chaplin's request i went as a nominee of the local government board on the metropolitan asylums board. it may remember that i was co-opted on the central unemployed body on the suggestion of mr. walter long. now that the local government board, under the new government, has seen fit to attack me and my labour colleagues, and to flout the poor as i venture to say they have never been flouted by that department before, i can no longer hold those two positions. i propose to resign. nor until its attitude towards the poor and the unemployed changes will i ever consent to represent the local government board on any public body again. i prefer to represent the people.... "the faults of administration at poplar, so grossly magnified in this report, are common to all such bodies, and poplar will do its best to avoid them. but the policy will not change. by that we stand or fall." the reason for that policy was briefly explained in a special report issued by the poplar guardians and signed by crooks as chairman. it formed part of the board's reply to the inspector's report. thus:-- this policy was never put in force with the idea that it would lead to a reduction in rates or in the number applying for relief. no one imagines that decent treatment of the poor will choke off applicants in the manner that harsh treatment will, but we claim that under the act of elizabeth, the poor (not merely the destitute, but the poor) are entitled to come to society in time of need. the state provides all kinds of services for the community, such as roads, sewers, light, police, army, navy, education, etc., and we all enjoy those privileges. the state pensions its well-paid cabinet ministers and officials; and we claim that the poor, whose charter is the rd of elizabeth, instead of being penalised when needing help, should receive such help in an ungrudging measure and in a manner which would most effectively preserve their self-respect. finally, we would again repeat that our pauperism is due to our poverty, that our policy is based on the claims recognised by statute as the due right of the poor. we neither palliate nor excuse any lapses either on the part of members or officers of the board, but we claim that as a board we have carried out our duties as efficiently and as economically as we were able, that we have never given indiscriminate relief either in or out of the workhouse, and in the main have usefully tried to do our duty both to the poor, who have our first claim, and to the ratepayers. we have never ceased to urge for the past ten years that the poor are a metropolitan charge, that unemployment is a national question, that the poor law should be reformed. we are glad to know that our work, despite this present attack, has been successful, and that the poor of poplar are better cared for, and not only the poor of poplar, but the poor of the united kingdom generally, as a result of our effort. his appeal to the public won an inspiring response. bumbledom was against him, but the people were with him. while a section of the press was attacking him, it was so far ignorant of what the people of england were thinking as to know nothing at all of the tremendous meetings he was addressing all over the country. his meetings in poplar and woolwich, where he was supported with rousing enthusiasm, were the largest he had ever had in those boroughs. at chesterfield he addressed an open-air meeting of nearly twenty thousand midland miners, when his reference to his poor law policy was cheered to the echo. the cleveland miners were equally enthusiastic when he went up to their annual gathering. it was the same at public meetings in newcastle, burton, huddersfield, rossendale, stockport, batley, sunderland, penarth--the man who had stood out against one of bumbledom's fiercest onslaughts had the good-will and confidence of the working people of england. at his indoor meetings there were rarely fewer than two thousand people present. often he had audiences of four and five thousand. it looked as though a recurrence of his old illness would prevent him from keeping an appointment to speak on his poor law policy at bradford. such was the strength of the appeal sent to him, however, that he determined to risk it. he had to be helped by his wife on the journey, and when at the meeting it was found he was unable to stand there was a unanimous call that he be allowed to keep his chair while speaking. seated in the middle of the platform, he held an audience of two or three thousand people for upwards of an hour. the response he wrung from the crowded hall moved him deeply. bumbledom never had a worse hour. of course his first public meeting after the publication of the local government board's report took place at the dock gates in poplar. "we never had a better meeting," he wrote to me the next day. "the audience backed me to a man and woman--and, by the way, we never had so many women present before. it did me good." at some of his provincial meetings there were people who well-nigh worshipped him. old men in particular who had known the hungry 'forties would come up to him after the meeting and say:-- "let me shake you by the hand, mr. crooks. we read about it in the papers, but the papers don't understand. we've been through it, and know. don't be down-hearted, mr. crooks. god bless you!" at a small country town a bed had been reserved for him at the little hotel outside the railway station. he arrived about midnight, and found the place in darkness. he knocked loudly for some time. at last a man's voice was heard from the railway line. "is that mr. crooks? lord love yer, we knew you'd be late, and gone again early in the morning, and so that i shouldn't miss seeing you i told the hotel-keeper to go to bed and let me have the keys, so that you couldn't get in without me shaking you by the hand." his first public meeting in woolwich after the local government board inquiry drew an audience of over five thousand people to the drill hall. his colleague lansbury shared in the inspiring reception and addressed the meeting. crooks told the audience it was no wonder that lansbury and he got angry at times over our iniquitous poor law system. such was the injustice of the rating system in london that poplar--which was spending out of the rates per head of population less than half what west-end districts like kensington and marylebone were spending--appeared to outsiders to be extravagant. if those west-end boroughs had poplar's poor to look after, their rates, instead of being about s., would be about s. in the pound. the poor of poplar were london's poor; yet the cost of looking after them was borne mainly by the people of poplar. london was the only city in the world where those who grew rich on the labour of the poor were able to segregate themselves in favoured quarters, and escape their obligation to help the aged poor unable to work longer. he went on to show the iniquities of our poor law system from a national standpoint. about £ , , a year was raised in the name of the poor law. of this only £ , , had any connection with the poor law at all. and how were the fourteen millions spent? the poor got seven and a half millions, while the remaining six and a half millions were spent in administrative charges. that meant that every s. given to the poor out of the rates cost the ratepayers another s. d. to give it. no wonder that bumbledom became nervous when guardians urged that the poor rather than officials should receive more of this money raised for the poor. the local government board inspector, when deploring that poplar's expenditure on the poor had gone up during the last ten years, might have added that during the same period the cost of collecting rates in the city had gone up from £ , to £ , . it seemed to be all right when officials got the money, but all wrong when the poor got it. "i believe in being a true guardian of the poor, and not merely a guardian of the poor rate. we in poplar have preferred to save the lives of the poor rather than the rates. even then we have administered with remarkable economy; for poplar's rates would not be high if london as a whole paid its proper share towards maintaining london's poor. we in poplar, however, have not allowed an unjust rating system to prevent us from doing our duty to broken-down old people, to the starving and to the unemployed. we agree with carlyle that 'to believe practically, that the poor and luckless are here only as a nuisance to be abraded and abated, and in some permissible manner made away with, and swept out of sight, is not an amiable faith. to say to the poor: ye shall eat the bread of affliction and drink the water of affliction and be very miserable while here, requires not so much a stretch of heroic faculty in any sense as due toughness of bowels.'" from stockport, where he had been addressing one of a series of public meetings in the midlands, he wrote:-- "how good the people are! whenever i mention poplar, it is truly inspiring to hear the magnificent response. last night the moment the word passed my lips an audience of two thousand cheered like one man. it sometimes overwhelms me almost. who am i to deserve it?... "i am sometimes told that i affect to despise my critics. you know better, of course. but, really, after such experiences as these, i can't help laughing at them when i think of their ponderous official pronouncements against my policy and of the equally ponderous lectures read to me by certain sections of the press and the church. when will the press and the church, and 'all who are put in authority over us,' come to learn what the mind of the people really is, and begin to interpret it rightly? i know the heart of the people to be true. that is why i laugh and go on my way confident that the little piece of well-doing i have aimed at on behalf of the poor and the unemployed will in the end put to 'silence the ignorance of foolish men.'" if his meetings were inspiring, the same can be said of his correspondence. public men, in various parts of the country, including guardians, wrote to congratulate him on the brave stand he had made against the forces of bumbledom. from other quarters he had many encouraging letters. canon scott holland wrote: "you know how your friends feel for you in this cruel trouble. we need not tell you how we trust you, and believe in you, and stand by you." "you have made many lives happier and better by your work on behalf of the poor," wrote a high official from a central poor law establishment. "i thought it might be a comfort to you to know we feel indignant that you have been rudely assailed." it was encouraging also to receive a note from a prominent woolwich conservative. the writer commenced by saying that although he was a political opponent, and would continue to be so, he had the greatest respect for crooks personally, and wished to assure him that he did not agree with the attacks that had been made on his poor law policy. "cheer up," came a message from the rev. a. tildsley, pastor of the poplar and bromley tabernacle. "don't get off your high pedestal to go down to your opponents' level. leave the mud alone. the sun shines daily, and will soon dry it. then it will drop off itself. all good men have to pay the price. this is not your first baptism of fire in defence of the poor." from the oxford house settlement, bethnal green, the rev. h. s. woolcombe wrote:--"i am perfectly certain that this attack cannot do you any permanent harm, and that you and lansbury are both men too big to let it abate your courage and determination to go on with your work." letters came to him from abroad long after the inquiry. unknown friends in america, france, and other countries sent him sympathetic letters. he told one of his woolwich meetings--according to the report in the labour party's weekly newspaper, the _woolwich pioneer_:-- he had had a few letters that were not sympathetic (laughter, and a voice, "rub it in for robb"). well, he had rubbed it in as well as he could. mr. robb [the legal representative of the alliance at the inquiry] was not a bad chap at all. a man must earn his money, and mr. robb had earned his very well. he (mr. crooks) had not a word to say against anybody. some mud had been thrown, but it would easily brush off. after all, there still remained the obligation to look after those who were unable to look after themselves, and to give to the poor and little children left to their care and mercy the best of their ability and service. they were proud that god had given them the opportunity to do the work they had done. and they were not ashamed. it is noteworthy that when the local government board was investigating the guardians' contracts something was brought to light which even the inspector records to the credit of poplar. he found that some years previously the guardians, recognising that the system of dealing with contracts by poor law authorities was a faulty one, liable to abuse, had appealed to the local government board to establish a central authority for dealing with all poor law contracts in london, thus removing from the local guardians the temptation towards favouritism and loose administration. that appeal was disregarded, though it is understood the local government board will shortly be compelled to carry out poplar's suggestion, because of the demoralisation which the loose system has created. had the appeal been heeded at the time--originated as it was by the labour members at poplar--much of the corruption brought to light in several poor law unions in respect to contracts could never have taken place. the local government board's own loose system, therefore, has been indirectly responsible for corruption on poor law bodies. this fact doubtless influenced canon barnett to pass very severe strictures on the local government board's gross neglect of duty. "the inspectors of the local government board," he stated in the _daily news_, "hold inquiries into scandals for which they are themselves largely responsible. why did they not discover and report these matters years ago? we ought to have independent inquiries, in which the inspectors are subjected to examination, for it is their perfunctory inspection which has allowed the growth of such evil." defeated over the inquiry the local government board carried out a minute analysis of the guardians' accounts. the ordinary local government board audit occupies only three days. in the case of poplar, it was on this occasion extended over three months. every item was carefully examined in accounts representing an expenditure of over a quarter of a million sterling. on the whole of this sum, the auditor, after his three months' investigation, only found half a dozen trifling items that he could question. these represented a few shillings for "guardians' and other persons' teas," and about £ in respect to excessive fares under the head of travelling expenses. these items were surcharged to the individual guardians responsible, of whom crooks, needless to say, was not one. indeed, he as chairman assisted the auditor in bringing to light what he considered the excessive fares which had been charged by some of his colleagues on the board. the surcharge for the teas revealed bumbledom at its worst. the "other persons' teas" referred to included the occasional afternoon cup offered to the ladies of the brabazon society on their visiting days. bumbledom, which connives at guardians' six-course dinners at five shillings per head in other unions, proved itself to be so far embittered against poplar that it actually objected to a cup of tea and a lunch biscuit to lady visitors belonging to a society which has given thousands of pounds from the private purses of its members for brightening our workhouses. it happened that these ladies were presenting their yearly report on poplar workhouse about the same time the local government board attack took place. these good women are not influenced by the local government board or by municipal alliances or by the party differences among the guardians. their opinion is that of a quiet body of independent, intelligent women. in their report on poplar workhouse they say:-- during the year forty-six meetings have been held, and at each some part of the house has been visited. the year has been singularly free from complaints, all the inmates seeming happy and contented. the nurses in charge are kindness itself, and are uniformly good-tempered and active. the whole house is kept beautifully clean, and each ward is a picture of cosiness and comfort. every useful aid is procured for the infirm, to help them to move about easily. the sick are kindly tended, and the little children's health and comfort carefully supervised. observe, in connection with this three months' audit, that not a penny was surcharged in respect to the out-relief grants. notwithstanding all the wild charges that had been made, not a single case could be found where crooks's policy of helping the poor could be proved to be illegal. after all the hubbub, a three months' scrutiny under the eye of a capable government auditor proved that poplar had simply been carrying out the law relating to the poor. the local government board was badly beaten in its attempt to discredit crooks's policy. finally, it was argued on the board's behalf, as though in a last grasp at a straw, that the decrease in the amount of out-relief during the year of the inquiry was in itself a justification of the local government board's action. everybody outside the board knows differently. the year referred to ( ) was the most prosperous this country has ever experienced. if anything, the industries of poplar shared in that prosperity to a larger extent than other parts of the country. the primary cause of the decrease was not the inquiry, but the lessening of want brought about by an extraordinary trade revival. "give us," crooks has repeatedly stated in public, "the same terrible state of things that we had in some of the previous winters, and i shall apply the same remedy again. the law is there for the sake of the poor, not for the sake of officials. my policy is not a haphazard one. it is the outcome of years of experience. it is fundamentally sound, and will one day become a national policy." crooks had indeed played a part for the poor of the whole nation. before the echoes of the bumbledom agitation had died away the very government which allowed one of its departments to be made an instrument in that agitation was promising to carry out the very reforms for which crooks had striven and suffered--old age pensions, amendment of the poor law, and equalisation of london rates. the government, however, shirked a discussion of the poplar report in the house of commons. the labour party, backed by conservative members, pressed the prime minister for an opportunity to discuss the report. mr. keir hardie and crooks pointed out that, as the report stood, an injustice was done to a popularly elected body, the effect of which would be to deter other boards of guardians from carrying out the poor law in a humane spirit. they further maintained that the country was now without guidance as to how to treat poor people out of work and in need of food. but the government had learnt by this time that a departmental blunder had been committed by associating the poor law policy of crooks with the faulty administration of some of his colleagues. the prime minister got out of the difficulty by informing the house that the report was not made by the local government board, but to that board by one of their officers, "and," he added, "i don't understand that it is proposed to call in question any action of my right hon. friend the president in regard to the report." indeed, the president of the local government board assured a friend of crooks in a conversation in the lobby that there had been a misunderstanding somewhere. he sought an early opportunity of giving crooks a similar assurance. it was said of crooks in poplar about that time that he was going to leave the neighbourhood never to return. working-men came round to him in solemn deputation, and women and children stopped him in the street, in order to hear from his own lips that the bodeful rumour bore no meaning. the rumour, which never had the smallest basis of truth, reached the workhouse, where he had not been seen for two or three weeks, weighed down as he was by a hundred public attacks, his own wearing illness and a heavy domestic trouble. but one afternoon he found time to go and see the inmates again. and old men hobbled towards him and clutched his arm and hand as they broke down in their efforts to tell him what was in their hearts. when he entered the women's wards there was a chorus of almost tearful appeals. "say it isn't true, mr. crooks." "don't go away and leave us, mr. crooks." sitting alone at the end of a bench was one old dame talking to herself in that vague, mumbling way common to many old women in our workhouses. as she rambled on in her talk she took up the cry:-- "don't leave us, mr. crooks. for over seventy years i worked hard, mr. crooks, ever since i was eight years of age. brought up a family of ten--two boys died in the wars, one drowned at sea. all the others left me long ago, and i don't know where they are. and my man was buried in 'eighty-nine--buried near the brickfields where we worked together thirty years before. and i kept myself outside for fifteen years, a lone old woman; and you helped me, mr. crooks, until i couldn't look after myself any longer, and then you made me comfortable here. so now i count the days between your coming to see us to cheer us up. so please don't leave us, mr. crooks. don't--don't leave us, mr. crooks." chapter xxxiii "the happy warrior" a cheerful invalid and his neighbours--the starving children in the schools--public confidence in crooks--left smiling. shortly afterwards he was laid low for two or three weeks, the victim of his old enemy, muscular rheumatism. "some of my ancestors must have been aristocrats," he used to tell his visitors good-naturedly from his sick bed in explanation of his recurring complaint. as usual, the knocker at no. , gough street, knew no rest during his illness. hundreds of people called to leave sympathetic little messages of goodwill. from woolwich came a telegram from a party of children. an old bedridden man laboriously penned a letter, brought round by his aged wife, to say that mr. crooks might like to know that an "ole bloke as is pegging out fast" was thinking of him all day, and hoping he would soon get well. this message cheered the invalid greatly, and he sent back a reply that renewed the old man's youth for weeks. for crooks never lost his cheerfulness when lying bandaged in bed. he used to banter his wife and daughters, and his labour colleagues in parliament who came to visit him, until they had to hold their sides with laughter. his cheery doctor used to store up good stories for the invalid's delectation; but he always had to admit that crooks could cap them all with better ones. once back at work again, crooks threw all the time and energy he could spare from parliament and his labour meetings into a campaign for feeding starving school children. perhaps the best instance of the people's trust in him was supplied by what happened in consequence of a powerful plea for hungry children he made on the london county council. the moderates were then in power, and he pleaded with them to persist no longer in their policy of refusing to exercise their powers under the necessitous school children's act, which enables them to spend public money on food for starving scholars. it was nigh on midnight before he got an opportunity of raising the question, and then--according to the _daily mail_, which had often been one of his bitterest opponents--he "electrified his sleepy colleagues as he expressed the agony of hungry children and the despair of parents unable to satisfy their cravings. the speech was spoken without a single note; it came from his heart. when mr. crooks sat down, exhausted by the effort--he was far from well--there was a moment of dead silence. then there broke out the applause which relieved the tension. there was scarcely a dry eye in the council chamber." in the course of his speech to the council crooks said:-- there are no hard-hearted men and there are no hard-hearted women; there are only men and women ignorant of the need. only the other day a teacher in one of our schools showed me a letter from a mother of three fatherless girls. it ran:-- dear teacher,--will you allow my little girls to come home at half-past three? i shall have earned sixpence by then, and shall be able to give them something warm to eat. they have had nothing all day. here are we, satisfied after a good dinner. yet i know that this very night hundreds of little children have gone to bed with nothing but a cup of cold water for their supper, and that in the morning they will have nothing but water for their breakfasts. what do you expect them to become? what sort of citizens of this great empire city will they make? i have seen the poor as they live, and i tell you that, much as they may forgive you for many things, they will never forgive you for neglecting the children--the children stunted in body and mind for want of food, old before their time, with the souls, not of children, but of old men and women. a nation which neglects its children is damned. you are neglecting london's hungry children by leaving the provision of meals to private subscriptions which all over london have failed to meet the little people's need. you never talk of running the army and navy and the defence of the empire generally by means of private subscriptions and charitable doles. yet the thing that is of greater importance at the present moment than the army and navy to us, as an imperial people, is that the children who are going to inherit the responsibility of the government of our vast empire should be properly fed and clothed _now_. what have you to say to facts like these? a woman, early the other morning, as soon as the shutters were down, entered a pawnbroker's shop, and took from under her shawl, in a shamefaced manner, a small bundle. the pawnbroker's assistant unrolled the bundle, and there, clean washed and scarcely dry, was the woman's chemise. she had taken it off her body, washed and partly dried it, and to the pawnbroker's assistant she said: "for the love of god, lend me sixpence on this." "i cannot," said the assistant. "it's not worth it." "then give me threepence," pleaded the woman. "i must give my children a mouthful before they go to school this morning." you object to feed the children because it would increase the rates. yes, it would increase the rates by a farthing. but indirectly you are increasing the rates to a far greater extent by starving the children. by neglecting them now you will be compelled to feed and shelter them later in life in workhouses and infirmaries. i appeal to you to rise to a sense of your responsibilities, and see that these children are fed. if it meant that i should be driven out of public life by feeding starving children out of the rates, i should feed them out of the rates. i should then have done my duty. the appeal moved the council deeply, but on a party vote he was defeated, many of the councillors who voted against him crowding round him afterwards to assure him of their individual sympathy. the sequel came the day after his speech was reported in the press. from all parts of london he and his wife had cheques and postal orders showered upon them from people in all walks of life, from little children to old people. nearly £ in all came to hand, together with huge parcels of boots and clothing, every donor leaving it entirely in crooks's hands as to how the money and the things were distributed, so long as the needy children got them. this is just the kind of thing that he deprecates, but, public bodies having failed to meet the need, he and his wife set to work, and did their best to meet it in their own neighbourhood. with the aid of a few friends they got in touch with some of the poorest schools in the east end, and soon thousands of hungry school children were fed and hundreds of the naked clothed. crooks gave the london county council no rest on this subject. he went on agitating until the moderate majority in the succeeding winter at last gave in and agreed to make the feeding of necessitous scholars a public charge. thus we leave him, still in the ranks fighting. we must part from him with a smile, since that is how he likes best to leave both friend and enemy. and those who heard him speak in the winter of at the city temple smile every time they think of the occasion--a mass meeting of the london federation of pleasant sunday afternoon brotherhoods. no written word can adequately describe the hilarious effect of crooks's speech. without the man behind them, the words alone convey little, as i many times have been made to feel keenly while writing this narrative. indeed, one of mr. crooks's colleagues in parliament, a staid, dull man of much wealth, accosted him in the house one afternoon with the remark: "how is it, mr. crooks, that when i repeat your stories to my constituents, they never laugh?" at the city temple crooks told his great audience how delighted he had been to observe the growth of the religious and civic spirit among the working classes since this movement for sunday afternoon meetings began. "at the meetings in the early days," he said, "you know how you used to be troubled with the irrelevant questioner. i was present once when the speaker, after narrating his experiences abroad, was asked whether he was in favour of compulsory vaccination! another time a man got up, and after reading out a list of parsons who had been sentenced asked me what i had to say to that? "'a bad lot,' i answered, 'but it doesn't shake my faith in christianity any more than to-day's fog shakes my faith in the sun." "on another occasion a man asked me what i meant by condemning betting, seeing that the aristocracy backed horses. "'but the aristocracy know no better. you do. so set them an example.' "then there was the heckler who wanted to know whether i objected to a man leaving money for the propagation of atheism. "'if he likes to do it, let him,' i answered. 'he's sure to regret it as soon as he is dead.' "and that reminds me," continued crooks, "of what happened at the last county council election. a local undertaker, who had always supported me before, stopped me in the street to say he was going to vote on the other side this time. "''tain't as i don't believe in you, mr. crooks. i likes you as well as ever i did; but men in our calling must keep an eye on the party that best helps business, you know!' "i told him i did not understand. "'why,' said the undertaker, 'i could make a decent living when the death rate was per , . i can even get along nicely when it's ; but since you've bin on the move, mr. crooks, i can't make a living nohow, with a death rate no more'n .'" index a adult sunday schools, , afforestation for unemployed, b baby-farming in london, balfour, mr. arthur, , , baptist union, crooks addresses the, barnett, canon, , beresford, lord charles, , bishop of london, the, blackwall tunnel, crooks and the, - boarding-out children, borough councillor, crooks as a, , - , brabazon society and poplar workhouse, brotherhoods, men's, burns, mr. john, , , , , , c campbell-bannerman, sir h., , canada and the unemployed, , central unemployed committee, , chamberlain, mr. joseph, , chandler, bishop, , chaplin, mr. henry, , , chesterton, mr. g. k., , children correspondents of crooks, , children, poor law, , children, starving school, christianity and the working classes, churches and labour, city temple speech, "college" at the dock gates, crooks's, , collins, sir william, coronation festivities at poplar, - craftsmanship, need of, crooks, mrs., will's mother; his tributes to, , , , crooks, mrs., will crooks's second wife, , , crooks, will: born in a one-roomed home, ; taken into the workhouse, ; sent to a poor law school, ; an errand-boy, , ; at george green schools, ; at sunday school, ; books of his youth, ; at work in a smithy, ; apprenticed to coopering, ; nicknamed "young john bright," ; first marriage, ; dismissed as an agitator, ; out of work, , ; tramping experiences, ; finds work at liverpool, , ; his child's death there, ; gets work as a dock labourer, ; his "college" at the dock gates, - ; his part in the great dock strike, ; a dangerous illness, ; death of his first wife, ; his second marriage, ; the will crooks wages fund formed, ; his election to the london county council, ; declines a partnership, ; refuses a rent-free house, ; his work on the l.c.c., - ; helps to formulate the fair wage clause, ; is chosen chairman of the public control committee, ; declines the vice-chairmanship of the l.c.c., ; secures open spaces for poplar, ; his overcoat stolen, ; pleads the cause of good craftsmanship, ; the blackwall tunnel one of his monuments, ; is chosen chairman of the bridges committee, ; becomes a guardian for poplar, ; is elected chairman of the board, ; changes the composition of the board and of its staff, ; abolishes the pauper's garb, ; reforms the workhouse, - ; sends poor law children to board schools, ; provides a home for them, ; his work on the metropolitan asylums board, - ; a peace-maker among the poor, ; chosen mayor of poplar, ; organises the king's dinner to the poor at poplar, ; receives the prince and princess of wales, ; raises funds for a coronation treat to children, ; his policy of paying old age pensions through the poor law, - ; his first election for woolwich, - ; his maiden speech, ; advocates the payment of members, ; introduces a women's enfranchisement bill, ; retires from the poplar borough council, ; up and down the country, ; ridicules protection and preference, - ; his efforts for the unemployed, - ; advocates the provision of useful work, ; his activity as a member of the poplar distress committee, - ; his scheme for a central unemployed committee adopted by mr. walter long, ; his appeal to mr. balfour for rating powers for providing work, - ; overwork and illness, - ; secures the passing of the unemployed bill, - ; his children, - ; his home life described by the _world_, ; his morning's work sketched by mr. g. r. sims, - ; his many-sided activity, - ; his temperance work, ; his relations with the free churches, - ; his schemes for colonising england, - ; defends the poplar board of guardians at the local government inquiry ( ), ; sees his mistake in having remained chairman of the board, ; his reply to the inspector's report, ; appeals to the public in defence of his policy, ; receives letters of encouragement, ; is assured by mr. john burns that there had been a misunderstanding, ; is besought not to leave poplar, crown lands and small holdings, d _daily news_ woolwich election fund, deaths from starvation, dickens, charles, references to, , , , dock strike, the great, - dolling, father, , , drage, mr. geoffrey, , e east india company, the, , f fair rent courts advocated by crooks, fair wage clause in the l.c.c.'s contracts, farm colonies, , , , feeding necessitous scholars, - first offenders, children as, foreshore reclamation, free church council, crooks and the, free trade defended by crooks, , frenchman, a, on poplar, fry, mr. c. b., g general election of , george the fourth at blackwall, gorst, sir john, government employees' wages, guardians, _see_ poplar board of guardians guildhall poor law conference, h hardie, mr. keir, , hills, mr. a. f., , , hollesley bay farm colony, holyoake, george jacob, hungry 'forties, the, i illness of crooks, , j juvenile offenders' bill, k king's coronation dinner to the poor, , ; his majesty's visit to poplar as prince of wales, l labour co-partnership, labour representation committee, the, , laindon farm colony, lansbury, george, , , , , , , , lawson, sir wilfrid, libraries for poplar secured by crooks, , licensing bill of , liddon, canon, little englanders, local government board inquiry at poplar, , , - london county council, - , long, mr. walter, , , m mansion house scene, a, mcdougall, sir john, metropolitan asylums board, minister for labour wanted, monkswell, lord, , morley, mr. john, m.p.'s investments, crooks on, o oakum-picking, cost of, old age pensions, - open spaces for poplar secured by crooks, - p parliament, crooks's speeches in, , , , , , , , payment of members, peruvian frigate mutiny, the, pirates hung at blackwall, political economy, crooks on, , poor law, pensions paid through the, poor law commission, poor law schools, parliamentary committee on, poplar, a walk round, with crooks, - poplar board of guardians, crooks and the, - , - , - , - poplar labour league, , poplar municipal alliance, the, , _and ff._ poplar workhouse, will crooks an inmate of, - ; _see also_ poplar board of guardians prince of wales, the, and crooks, q queen alexandra and the unemployed, r reformatory schools, remand homes, ritchie, lord, , rosebery, lord, , s school of marine engineering at poplar, crooks and the, scientific starvation, sheldon, rev. charles, sims, mr. george r., , slums as investments, small holdings, south african war, crooks's opposition to, , _speaker_, the, on the woolwich by-election, , stanley, the hon. maud, stone-breaking condemned by crooks, sutton poor law school, crooks an inmate of the, - sweated women, , , t talbot, bishop, technical education board, the, technical education for workhouse children, trade unionism and protection, trade unionist, crooks as a, , tree, mr. beerbohm-, u unemployed act, , , unemployment schemes, , , v _vanity fair_ on crooks, , w wages fund, the will crooks, watermen, old, at poplar, welby, lord, women's enfranchisement, women's march to whitehall, the, women's wages, , woolwich by-election, woolwich labour association, workmen's drinking habits, crooks on, wyckoff, professor, printed by cassell & company, limited, la belle sauvage, london, e.c. . . books by george haw. christianity and the working classes. edited by george haw, with contributions by will crooks, canon barnett, dr. horton, and others. no room to live. the story of overcrowded london. to-day's work. a popular treatise on local government. the englishman's castle. a survey of the people's housing conditions in town and country. religious doubts of the democracy. edited by george haw, with contributions by g. k. chesterton, george w. e. russell, professor moulton, and others. britain's homes. a study of the housing problem. slow burn by henry still _the problems of space were multiple enough without the opinions and treachery of senator mckelvie--who really put the "fat into the fire". all kevin had to do was get it out...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, october . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "tell 'em to look sharp, bert. this pickup's got to be good." kevin morrow gulped the last of his coffee and felt its bitter acid gurgle around his stomach. he stared moodily through the plastic port where the spangled skirt of stars glittered against the black satin of endless night and a familiar curve of the space station swung ponderously around its hub. four space-suited tugmen floated languidly outside the rim. beyond them the gleaming black and white moonship tugged gently at her mooring lines, as though anxious to be off. bert alexander radioed quiet instructions to the tugmen. "why the hell couldn't he stay down there and mind his own business?" kevin growled. "mckelvie's been after our hide ever since we got the appropriation, and now this." he slapped the flimsy radio-gram. he looked up as the control room hatch opened. jones came in from the astronomy section. "morning, commander," he said. "you guys had breakfast yet? mess closes in minutes." kevin shook his head. "we're not hungry," bert filled in. "you think you've got nerves?" jones chuckled. "i just looked in on mark. he's sleeping like a baby. you wouldn't think the biggest day of his life is three hours away." "mckelvie's coming up to kibitz," morrow said. "mckelvie!" "the one and only," bert said. "here, read all about it." he handed over the morning facsimile torn off the machine when the station hurtled over new england at , miles an hour. the upper half of the sheet bore a picture of the white-maned senator. clearly etched on his face were the lines of too many half-rigged elections, too many compromises. beneath the picture were quotes from his speech the night before. "as chairman of your congressional watchdog committee," the senator had said, "i'll see that there's no more waste and corruption on this space project. for three years they've been building a rocket--the moon rocket, they call it--out there at the space station. "i haven't seen that rocket," the senator had continued. "all i've seen is five billion of your tax dollars flying into the vacuum of space. they tell me a man named mark kramer is going to fly out in that rocket and circle the moon. "but he will fail," mckelvie had promised. "if god had intended man to fly to the moon, he would have given us wings to do it. tomorrow i shall fly out to this space station, even at the risk of my life. i'll report the waste and corruption out there, and i'll report the failure of the moon rocket." jones crumpled the paper and aimed at the waste basket. "pardon me while i vomit," he said. "we've been there," kevin sighed deeply. "i suppose max gordon will be happy." "he'll wear a hole in his tongue on mckelvie's boots," bert said bitterly. "is it that bad?" "how else would he get a first class spaceman's badge?" morrow said. "he can't add two and two. but if stool pigeons had wings, he'd fly like a jet. we can't move up here without mckelvie knowing and howling about it. "don't worry," jones said, "if the moon rocket makes it, public opinion will take care of the senator." "if he doesn't take care of us first," kevin said darkly. "he'll be aboard in minutes." * * * * * dawn touched the high sierras as the station whirled in from the pacific, miles high. "bert. get me a radar fix on white sands." morrow huddled over the small computer, feeding in radar information as it came from his assistant. "rocket away!" blared a radio speaker on the bulkhead. the same message carried to the four space-suited tugmen floating beyond the rim of the wheel, linked with life-lines. jones watched interestedly out the port. "there she is!" he yelled. sunlight caught the ascending rocket, held it in a splash of light. the intercept technique was routine now, a matter of timing, but for a moment kevin succumbed to the frightening optical illusion that the rocket was approaching apex far below the station. then, slowly, the slender cylinder matched velocity and pulled into the orbit, crept to its destination. with deceptive ease, the four human tugs attached magnetic shoes and guided the projectile into the space station hub with short, expert blasts of heavy rocket pistols. "take over bert," morrow directed, "i guess i'm the official greeter." he hurried out of the control room, through a short connecting tube and emerged floating in the central space surrounding the hub where artificial gravity fell to zero. air pressure was normal to transfer passengers without space suits. the connecting lock clanked open. the rocket pilot stepped out. "he got sick," the pilot whispered to kevin. "i swabbed him off, but he's hoppin' mad." the senator's mop of white hair appeared in the port. kevin braced to absorb a tirade, but mckelvie's deep scowl changed to an expression of bliss as he floated weightless into the tiny room. "why, this is wonderful!" he sputtered. he waved his arms like a bird and kicked experimentally with a foot. "grab him!" kevin shouted. "he's gone happy with it." the pilot was too late. mckelvie's body sailed gracefully through the air and his head smacked the bulkhead. his eyes glazed in a frozen expression of carefree happiness. kevin swore. "now he'll accuse us of a plot against his life. help me get him to sick bay." the two men guided the weightless form into a tube connecting with the outer ring. as they pushed outward, mckelvie's weight increased until they carried him the last feet into the dispensary compartment. max gordon burst wild-eyed into the room. "what have you done to the senator?" he shouted. "why didn't you tell me he was coming up?" morrow made sure mckelvie was receiving full medical attention before he turned to the junior officer. "he went space happy and bumped his head," kevin said curtly, "and there was no more reason to notify you than the rest of the crew." he walked away. gordon bent solicitously over his unconscious patron. kevin found anderson in the passageway. "i ordered them to start fueling moonbeam," bert said. "good. is mark awake?" "eating breakfast. the psycho's giving him a clinical chat." "i wish it were over." morrow brushed back his hair. "you've really got the jitters, huh chief?" morrow turned angrily and then tried to laugh. "i'd sell my job for a nickel right now, bert. this will be touch and go, without having the worst enemy of space flight aboard. if this ship fails, it's more than a rocket or the death of a man. it'll set the whole program back years." "i know," bert answered, "but he'll make it." footsteps sounded in the tube outside the cabin. mark kramer walked in. "hi, chief," he grinned, "moonbeam ready to go?" "the techs are out now and fuel's aboard. how about you? shouldn't you get some rest?" "that's all i've had since they shipped me out here." kramer laughed. "it'll be a snap. after all, i'll never make over two gees and pick up mph to leave you guys behind. then i play ring around the rosy, take a look at luna's off side and come home. just like that." "just like that," kevin whispered meditatively. the moon rocket, floating there outside the station's rim was ugly, designed never to touch a planet's atmosphere, but it was the most beautiful thing man had ever built, assembled in space from individual fragments boosted laboriously from the earth's surface. another clatter of footsteps approached the hatch. max gordon entered and stood at attention as senator mckelvie made a dignified entrance. the senator wore an adhesive patch on his high forehead. he turned to kramer. "young man," he rumbled, "are you the fool risking your life in that--that thing out there? you must know it'll never reach the moon. i know it'll never--" kramer's face paled slightly and he moved swiftly between the two men. without using force, he backed the senator and gordon through the hatch and slammed it behind him. anger was a knot of green snakes in his belly. "i want to talk to that pilot," mckelvie said belligerently. "i'm sorry, senator. the best psychiatrists on earth worked eight months to condition kramer for this flight. he must not be emotionally disturbed. you can't talk to him." "you forbid...?" mckelvie exploded, but morrow intercepted smoothly. "gordon. i'm sure the senator would like a tour of the station. will you escort him?" mckelvie's face reddened and max opened his mouth to object. "gordon!" morrow said sharply. max closed his mouth and guided the grumbling congressman up the tube. * * * * * "twenty minutes to blastoff," bert reported. "right," kevin acknowledged absently. he studied taped data moving in by radio facsimile from the mammoth electronic computer on earth. "our orbit's true," he said with satisfaction and wiped a sweaty palm on his trousers. "get the time check, bert." beeps from the naval observatory synchronized with the space station chronometer. "alert kramer." "he's leaving the airlock now," bert said. from the intercom, morrow listened to periodic reports from crew members as mckelvie and gordon progressed in their tour. "mr. morrow?" "right." "this is adams in section m. the senator and gordon have been in the line chamber for minutes." "boot 'em out," kevin said crisply. "blastoff in minutes." "that machinery controls the safety lines," bert said. kevin looked up with a puzzled frown, but turned back to watch kramer creeping along a mooring line to the moon ship. a group of tugmen helped the space-suited figure into the rocket, dogged shut the hatch and cleared back to the station rim. "station to kramer," on the radio, "are you ready?" "all set," came the steady voice, "give me the word." "all right. five minutes." kevin turned to the intercom. "release safety lines." in the weightlessness of space the cables retained their normal rigid line from the rim of the station to the rocket. they had been under no strain. their shape would not change until they were reeled in. "two minutes," morrow warned. tension grew as anderson began the slow second count. the hatch opened. mckelvie and gordon entered the control room. no one noticed it. "five ... four ... three ... two ... one ..." a gout of white fire jabbed from the stern of the rocket. slowly the ship moved forward. morrow watched tensely, hands gripping a safety rail. then his face froze in a mask of disbelief and horror. "the lines!" he shouted. "the safety lines fouled!" he fell sprawling as the space station lurched heavily, tipped upward like a giant platter under the inexorable pull of the moon rocket. kevin scrambled back to the viewport, the shriek of tortured metal in his ears. horror-stricken, he saw the taut cables that had failed to release. then a huge section of nylon, aluminum and rubber ripped out of the station wall, was visible a second in the rocket glare, and vanished. escaping air whistled through the crippled structure. pressure dropped alarmingly before the series of automatic airlocks clattered reassuringly shut. kevin's hand was bleeding. he staggered with the frightening new motion of the space station. gordon and the senator had collapsed against a bulkhead. mckelvie's pale face twisted with fear and amazement. blood streaked down the pink curve of his forehead. individual station reports trickled through the intercom. miraculously, the bulk of the station had escaped damage. "line chamber's gone," adams reported. "other bulkheads holding, but something must have jammed the line machines. they ripped right out." "get repair crews in to patch leaks," morrow shouted. he turned frantically to the radio. "station to moonbeam. kramer! are you all right?" he waited an agonizing minute, then a scratchy voice came through. "kramer, here. what the hell happened? something gave me a terrific yaw, but the gyro pulled me back on course. fuel consumption high. otherwise i'm okay." "you ripped out part of the station," kevin yelled. "you're towing extra mass. release the safety lines if you can." the faint answer came back, garbled by static. another disaster halted a new try to reach him. with a howling rumble, the massive gyroscope case in the bulkhead split open. the heavy wheel, spinning at , revolutions per minute, slowly and majestically crawled out of its gimbals; the gyroscope that stabilized the entire structure remained in its plane of revolution, but ripped out of its moorings when the station was forcibly tilted. spinning like a giant top, the gyro walked slowly across the deck. mckelvie and gordon scrambled out of its way. "it'll go through!" bert shouted. kevin leaped to a chest of emergency patches. the wheel ripped through the magnesium shell like a knife in soft cheese. a gaping rent opened to the raw emptiness of space, but morrow was there with the patch. before decompression could explode the four creatures of blood and bone, the patch slapped in place, sealed by the remaining air pressure. trembling violently, kevin staggered to a chair and collapsed. silence rang in his ears. anderson gripped the edge of a table to keep from falling. kevin turned slowly to mckelvie and gordon. "come here," he said tonelessly. "now see here, young man--" the senator blustered. "i said come here!" the two men obeyed. the commander's voice held a new edge of steel. "you were the last to leave the line control room," he said. "_did you touch that machinery?_" gordon's face was the color of paste. his mouth worked like a suffocating fish. mckelvie recovered his bluster. "i'm a united states senator," he stuttered, "i'll not be threatened...." "i'm not threatening you," kevin said, "but if you fouled that machinery to assure your prediction about the rocket, i'll see that you hang. do you realize that gyroscope was the only control we had over the motion of this space station? whatever it does now is the result of the moon rocket's pull. we may not live to see that rocket again." as though verifying morrow's words, the lights dimmed momentarily and returned to normal brilliance. a frightened voice came from the squawkbox. "hey, chief! this is power control. we've lost the sun!" anderson looked out the port, studied the slowly wheeling stars. "mother of god," he breathed. "we're flopping ... like a flapjack over a stove." and the power mirrors were on only one face of the space station, mirrors that collected the sun's radiation and converted it to power. now they were collecting nothing but the twinkling of the stars. the vital light would return as the station continued its new, awkward rotation, but would the intermittent exposure be sufficient to sustain power? "shut down everything but emergency equipment," morrow directed. "when we get back on the sun, soak every bit of juice you can into those batteries." he turned to gordon and mckelvie. "won't it be interesting if we freeze to death, or suffocate when the air machines stop?" worry replaced anger as he turned abruptly away from them. "we've got a lot of work to do, bert," he said crisply. "see if you can get white sands." "it's over the horizon, i'll try south africa." anderson worked with the voice radio but static obliterated reception. "here comes a morse transmission," he said at last. morrow read slowly as tape fed out of the translator: "radar shows moon rocket in proper trajectory. where are you?" the first impulse was to dash to the viewport and peer out. but that would be no help in determining position. "radar, bert," he whispered. anderson verniered in the scope, measuring true distance to earth's surface. he read the figure, swore violently, and readjusted the instrument. "it can't be," he muttered at last. "this says we're miles out." " miles outside our orbit?" morrow said calmly. "i was afraid of that. that tug from the moonbeam not only cart-wheeled us, it yanked us out." he snatched a sheet of graph paper out of a desk drawer and penciled a point. "give me a reading every seconds." points began to connect in a curve. and the curve was something new. "get jones from astronomy," kevin said at last. "he can help us plot and maybe predict." when the astronomer arrived minutes later, the space station was miles above the earth, still shearing into space on an ascending curve. "get a quick look at this, jones," kevin spoke rapidly. "see if you can tell where it will be two hours from now." the astronomer studied the curve intently as it continued to grow under kevin's pencil. "it may be an outward spiral," he said haltingly, "or it could be a ... parabola." "no!" bert protested. "that would throw us into space. we couldn't--" "we couldn't get back," kevin finished grimly. "there'd better be an alternative." "it could be an ellipse," jones said. "it must be an ellipse," bert said eagerly. "the moonbeam couldn't have given us mph velocity." abruptly the lights went out. the radar scope faded from green to black. morrow swore a string of violent oaths, realizing in the same instant that anger was useless when the power mirrors lost the sun. he bellowed into the intercom, but the speaker was dead. already bert was racing down the tube to the power compartment. minutes later, the intercom dial flickered red. morrow yelled again. "you've got to keep power to this radar set for the next half-hour. everything else can stop, even the air machines, but _we've got to find out where we're going_." the space station turned again. power resumed and kevin picked up the plot. "we're miles out!" he breathed. "but it's flattening," jones cried. "the curve's flattening!" bert loped back into the control room. jones snatched the pencil from his superior. "here," he said quickly, "i can see it now. here's the curve. it's an ellipse all right." "it'll carry us out miles," bert gasped. "no one's ever been out that far." "all right," morrow said. "that crisis is past. the next question is where are we when we come back on nadir. bert, tell the crew what's going on. jones, you can help me. we've got to pick up white sands and get a fuel rocket up here to push." "good lord, look at that!" jones breathed. he stared out the port. the earth, a dazzling huge globe filling most of the heavens, swam slowly past the plastic window. it was the first time they had been able to see more than a convex segment of oceans and continents. kevin looked, soberly, and turned to the radio. the power did not fail in the next crazy rotation of the station. "there's the west coast." kevin pointed. "in a few minutes i can get white sands, i hope." jones had taken over the radar plot. at last his pencil reached a peak and the curve started down. the station had reached the limit of its wild plunge into space. "good," kevin muttered. "see if you can extrapolate that curve and get us an approximation where we'll cut in over the other side." the astronomer figured rapidly and abstractedly. "may i remind you young man," mckelvie's voice boomed, "you have a united states senator aboard. if anything happens--" "if anything happens, it happens to all of us," kevin answered coldly. "when you're ready to tell me what _did_ happen, i'm ready to listen." silence. "white sands, this is station i. come in please." kevin tried to keep his voice calm, but the lives of men rode on it, on his ability to project his words through the crazy hash of static lacing this part of space from the multitude of radio stars. a power rocket with extra fuel was the only instrument that could return the space station to its normal orbit. that rocket must come from white sands. white sands did not answer. he tried again, turned as an exclamation of dismay burst from the astronomer. morrow bent to look at the plotting board. jones had sketched a circle of the earth, placing it in the heart of the ellipse the space station was drawing around it. from miles out, the line curved down and down, and down.... but it did not meet the point where the station had departed from its orbit miles above earth's surface. the line came down and around to kiss the earth--almost. "i hope it's wrong," jones said huskily. "if i'm right, we'll come in miles above the surface." "it can't!" morrow shouted in frustration. "we'll hit stratosphere. it'll burn us--just long enough so we'll feel the agony before we die." jones rechecked his figures and shook his head. the line was still the same. each seconds it was supported by a new radar range. the astronomer's lightning fingers worked out a new problem. "we have about minutes to do something about it," he said. "we'll be over the atlantic or england when it happens." "station i, this is...." the beautiful, wonderful voice burst loud and clear from the radio and then vanished in a blurb of static. "oh god!" kevin breathed. it was a prayer. "we hear you," he shouted, procedure gone with the desperate need to communicate with home. "come in white sands. please come in!" faintly now the voice blurred in and out, lost altogether for vital moments: "... your plot. altiac computer ... your orbit ... rocket on standby ... as you pass." "yes!" kevin shouted, gripping the short wave set with white fingers, trying to project his words into the microphone, across the dwindling thousands of miles of space. "yes. send the rocket!" "can they do it?" jones asked. "the rocket, i mean." "i don't know," kevin said. "they're all pre-set, mass produced now, and fuel is adjusted to come into the old orbit. they can be rigged, i think, if there's enough time." * * * * * the coast of california loomed below them now, a brown fringe holding back the dazzling flood of the pacific. they were miles above the earth, dropping sharply on the down leg of the ellipse. at their present speed, the station appeared to be plunging directly at the earth. the globe was frighteningly larger each time it wobbled across the viewport. "shall i call away the tugmen?" bert asked tensely. "i can't ask them to do it," kevin said. "with this crazy orbit, it's too dangerous. i'm going out." he slipped into his space gear. "i'm going with you," bert said. kevin smiled his gratitude. in the airlock the men armed themselves with three heavy rocket pistols each. morrow ordered other tugmen into suits for standby. "i wish i could do this alone, bert," he said soberly. "but i'm glad you're coming along. if we miss, there won't be a second chance." they knew approximately when they would pass over the rocket launching base, but this time it would be different. the space station would pass at miles altitude and with a new velocity. no one could be sure the feeder rocket would make it. unless maximum fuel had been adjusted carefully, it might orbit out of reach below them. rescue fuel would take the place of a pilot. * * * * * anderson and morrow floated clear of the huge wheel, turning lazily in the deceptive luxury of zero gravity. the familiar sensation of exhilaration threatened to wipe out the urgency they must bring to bear on their lone chance for survival. they could see the jagged hole where the moonbeam had yanked out a section of the structure. an unintelligible buzz of voice murmured in the radios. unconsciously kevin tried to squeeze the earphones against his ears, but his heavily-gloved hands met only the rigid globe of his helmet. "you get it, bert?" "no." "this is jones," a new voice loud and clear. "earth says seconds to blastoff." "rocket away!" like a tiny, clear bell the words emerged from static. bert and kevin gyrated their bodies so they could stare directly at the passing panorama of earth below. they had seen it hundreds of times, but now more miles of altitude gave the illusion they were studying a familiar landmark through the small end of a telescope. "there it is!" bert shouted. a pinpoint of flame, that was it, with no apparent motion as it rose almost vertically toward them. then a black dot in an infinitesimal circle of flame--the rocket silhouetted against its own fire ... as big as a dime ... as big as a dollar.... ... as big as a basketball, the circle of flame soared up toward them. "it's still firing!" kevin yelled. "it'll overshoot us." as he spoke, the fire died, but the tiny bar of the rocket, black against the luminous surface of earth, crawled rapidly up into their sector of starlit blackness. then it was above earth's horizon, nearly to the space station's orbit, crawling slowly along, almost to them--a beautiful long cylinder of metal, symbol of home and a civilization sending power to help them to safety. hope flashed through kevin's mind that he was wrong, that the giant computer and the careful hands of technicians had matched the ship to their orbit after all. but he was right. it passed them, angling slowly upward not yards away. instantly the two men rode the rocket blast of their pistols to the nose of the huge projectile. but it carried velocity imparted by rockets that had fired a fraction of a minute too long. clinging to the metal with magnetic shoes, morrow and anderson pressed the triggers of the pistols, held them down, trying to push the cylinder down and back. bert's heavy breathing rasped in the radio as he unconsciously used the futile force of his muscles in the agonizing effort to move the ship. their pistols gave out almost simultaneously. both reached for another. thin streams of propulsive gas altered the course of the rocket, slightly, but the space station was smaller now, angling imperceptibly away and down as the rocket pressed outward into a new, higher orbit. the rocket pistols were not enough. "get the hell back here!" jones' voice blared in their ears. "you can't do it. you're miles away now and angling up. don't be dead heroes!" the last words were high and frantic. "we've got to!" morrow answered. "there's no other way." "we can't do the impossible, chief," bert gasped. a group of tiny figures broke away from the rim of the space station. the tugmen were coming to help. then kevin grasped the hideous truth. there were not enough rocket pistols to bring the men to the full ship and return _with any reserve to guide the projectile_. "get back!" he shouted. "save the pistols. we're coming in." behind them their only chance for life continued serenely upward into a new orbit. there, miles above the earth, it would revolve forever with more fuel in its tanks than it needed. fuel that would have saved the lives of desperate men. by leaving it, morrow and anderson had bought perhaps more minutes of life before the space station became a huge meteor riding its fiery path to death in the the upper reaches of the atmosphere. both suffered the guilt of enormous betrayal. the fact that they could have done no more did not erase it. frantically, kevin flipped over in his mind the possible tools that still could be brought to bear to lift the space station above its flaming destruction. but his tools were the stone axe of a primitive man trying to hack his way out of a forest fire. * * * * * eager hands pulled them back into the station. for a moment there were the reassuring sounds as their helmets were unscrewed. then the familiar smells and shape of the structure that had been home for so long. now that haven was about to destroy itself. then morrow remembered the earth rocket that had brought senator mckelvie to the great white sausage in space. that rocket still contained a small quantity of fuel. if fired at the precise moment, that fuel, anchored with the rocket in the hub socket, might be enough to lift the entire station. he shouted instructions and men raced to obey. kevin, himself, raced into the nearest tube. there was no sound, but ahead of him the hatch was open to the discharge chamber. he leaped into the zero gravity room. mckelvie was crawling through the connecting port into the feeder rocket. kevin sprawled headlong into gordon. the recoil threw them apart, but gordon recovered balance first. he had a gun. "get back," he snarled. "we're going down." he laughed sharply, near hysteria. "we're going down to tell the world how you fried--through error and mismanagement." "you messed up those lines," kevin said. it didn't matter now. he only hoped to hold gordon long enough for diversionary help to come out of the tube. "yes," gordon leered. "we fixed the lines. the senator wasn't sure we should, but i helped him over his squeamishness, and now we'll crack the whip when we get back home." "you won't make it," kevin said. "we're still more than miles high. the glide pattern in that rocket is built to take you down from miles." mckelvie's head appeared in the hatch. he was desperately afraid. "you said you could fly this thing, gordon. can you?" max nodded his head rapidly, like a schoolboy asked to recite a lesson he has not studied. kevin was against the bulkhead. now he pushed himself slowly forward. "stay back or i'll shoot?" gordon screamed. instead, he leaped backward through the hatch. hampered by his original slow motion, kevin could not move faster until he reached another solid surface. the hatch slammed shut before his grasping fingers touched it. a wrenching tug jostled the space station structure. the rocket was gone, and with it the power that might have saved all of them. morrow ran again. he had not stopped running since the beginning of this nightmare. he tumbled over bert and jones in the tube. they scrambled after him back to the control room. the three men watched through the port. "if he doesn't hit the atmosphere too quick, too hard ..." kevin whispered. his fists were clenched. he felt no malice at this moment. he did not wish them death. there was no sound in the radio. the plummeting projectile was a tiny black dot, vanishing below and behind them. when the end came, it was a mote of orange red, then a dazzling smear of white fire as the rocket ripped into the atmosphere at nearly , miles an hour. "they're dead!" jones voice choked with disbelief. kevin nodded, but it was a flashing thing that lost meaning for him in the same instant. he knew that unless a miracle happened, ninety men in his command would meet the same fate. * * * * * like a perpetual motion machine, his brain kept reaching for something that could save his space station, his own people, the iron-nerved spacemen who knew they were near death but kept their vital posts, waiting for him to find a way. stories do not end unhappily--that thought kept cluttering his brain--a muddy optimism blanking out vital things that might be done. "what's the altitude jones?" " now. leveling a bit." "enough?" it was a stupid question and kevin knew it. jones shook his head. "we might be lucky," he said. "we'll hit it about miles up. the top isn't a smooth surface, it billows and dips. but," he added, almost a whisper, "we'll penetrate to about miles before...." "how much time?" kevin asked sharply. a tiny chain of hope linked feebly. "about minutes." "bert, order all hands into space suits--emergency!" while the order was being carried out, kevin summoned the tugmen. "how many loaded pistols do we have?" "six," the chief answered. "all right. get this quick. anchor yourselves inside the hub. aim those pistols at the earth and fire until they're exhausted." the chief stared incredulously. "i know it's crazy," kevin snapped. "it's not enough, but if it alters our orbit feet, it'll help." the tugmen ran out. bert, kevin and jones scrambled into space suits. morrow called for reports. "all hands," he intoned steadily, "open all ports. repeat. open all ports. do not question. follow directions closely." ten seconds later, a whoosh of escaping air signaled obedience. "now!" kevin shouted, "grab every loose object within reach. throw it at the earth. desks, books, tools, anything. throw them down with every ounce of strength you've got!" it was insane. everything was insane. it couldn't possibly be enough.... but space around the hurtling station blossomed with every conceivable flying object that man has ever taken with him to a lonely outpost. a pair of shoes went tumbling into darkness, and behind it the plastic framed photograph of someone's wife and children. jones knew his superior had not gone berserk. he bent anxiously over the radar scope. it was not a matter of jettisoning weight. every action has an equal reaction, and the force each man gave to a thrown object was as effective in its diminuitive way as the exhaust from a rocket. "read it!" morrow shouted. "read it!" " miles," jones cried. "i need more readings to tell if it helped." there was no sound in the radio circuit, save that of men breathing, waiting to hear death sentences. jones' heavily-gloved hands moved the pencil clumsily over the graph paper. he drew a tangent to a new curve. "it helped," he said tonelessly, "we'll go in at miles, penetrate to ...." "not enough," kevin said. "close all ports. repeat. close all ports!" an unheard sigh breathed through the mammoth, complex doughnut as automatic machinery gave new breath to airless spaces. it might never be needed again to sustain human life. but the presence of air delivered one final hope to morrow's frantic brain. "two three oh miles," jones said. "air control," kevin barked into the mike, "how much pressure can you get in minutes?" "air control, aye," came the answer, and a pause while the chief calculated. "about pounds with everything on the line." "get it on! and hang on to your hats," kevin yelled. the station dropped another miles, slanting in sharply toward the planet's envelope of gas that could sustain life--or take it away. morrow turned to anderson. "bert. there are four tubes leading into the hub. get men and open the outer airlocks. then standby the four inner locks. when i give the signal, open those locks, fast. you may have to pull to help the machinery--you'll be fighting three times normal air pressure." bert ran out. nothing now but to wait. five minutes passed. ten. "we're at miles," jones said. far below the earth wheeled by, its apparent motion exaggerated as the space station swooped lower. " miles." kevin's throat was parched, his lips dry. increasing air pressure squeezed the space suits tighter around his flesh. a horror of claustrophobia gripped him and he knew every man was suffering the same torture. " miles." "almost there," bert breathed, unaware that his words were audible. then a new force gripped them, at first the touch of a caressing finger tip dragging back, ever so slightly. kevin staggered as inertia tugged him forward. "we're in the air!" he shouted. "bert. standby the airlocks!" "airlocks ready!" the finger was a hand, now, a huge hand of tenuous gases, pressing, pressing, but the station still ripped through its death medium at a staggering , miles an hour. jones pointed. morrow's eyes followed his indicating finger to the thermocouple dial. the dial said ° f. while he watched it moved to , quickly to °. * * * * * five seconds more. a blinding pain of tension stabbed kevin behind the eyes. but through the flashing colors of agony, he counted, slowly, deliberately.... "now!" he shouted. "open airlocks, bert. now!" air rushed out through the converging spokes of the great wheel, poured out under tremendous pressure, into the open cup of the space station hub, and there the force of three atmospheres spurted into space through the mammoth improvised rocket nozzle. kevin felt the motion. every man of the crew felt the surge as the intricate mass of metal and nylon leaped upward. that was all. morrow watched the temperature gauge. it climbed to °, to ° ... ... .... "the temperature is at degrees," he announced huskily over the radio circuit. "if it goes higher, there's nothing we can do." the needle quivered at , moved to , and held.... two minutes, three.... the needle stepped back, one degree. "we're moving out," kevin whispered. "we're moving out!" the cheer, then, was a ringing, deafening roar in the earphones. jones thumped kevin madly on the back and leaped in a grotesque dance of joy. * * * * * morrow leaned back in the control chair, pressed tired fingers to his temples. he could not remember when he had slept. the first rocket from white sands had brought power to adjust the orbit. this one was on the mark. the next three brought the senate investigating committee. but that didn't matter, really. kevin was happy, and he was waiting. the control room door banged open. mark kramer's grin was like a flash of warm sunlight. "hi, commander," he said, "wait'll you see the marvelous pictures i got." outside the moonbeam rode gently at anchor, tethered with new safety lines.